Good morning to the best writer in this fandom! Might I interest you in my humble request? Your portrayal of Vox is so astonishing that canon Vox can only wish to be as corrupted as the Vox you're showing us, that's why I've been wondering about something regarding him in particular. Desperate, yearning Vox, the impatient, dry humping, coming in pants one, all because reader is somehow immune for his hypnosis abilities and he can barely handle it. For the plot, of course.
Whether you decide to write it or not, I wish you all the best!
. 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ ♡ 𖥻 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑻𝒀 𝑷𝑳𝑬𝑨𝑺𝑬 : when sex with your boss is no different that putting a dog out of its misery. vox x reader ﾉ masterlist
( cw ᝰ.ᐟ✧ minors dni :: gender neutral reader :: dry humping / grinding :: coming in pants :: power dynamics :: mild choking :: under-negotiated kink :: semi-public sex / office sex :: humiliation kink :: yearning :: vox being somewhat pathetic & desesperated :: reader is a little mean )
notes : oh nonnie, this request was such a little treat— you’re so kind! thank you for thinking so, you got me giggling and kicking my feet; this also was the perfect excuse to finish an old draft after months of side-tracking my requests, hopefully is what you expected!
vox thinks of kissing you often.
after you put some report over his desk as he sits down, and you're hovering just a little too close. almost face to face. it would be simple to close the gap, just a matter of a few, bare inches. hardly any space at all. he thinks of kissing you as you step away, brush some imaginary dirt from his sleeve with a laugh. he thinks of kissing you as you wave him goodbye with a barely-there smile.
sometimes, vox really hates you. it's just the way you make him want you. that's all—
"sir?"
the glow across his screen stutters in a brief wash of static before settling again, and only then does he realize you've been standing there talking while he's done nothing except stare at your mouth for the past thirty seconds like a fucking idiot.
( he feels like he's going to do something he regrets. )
you blink at him, brows pinching a little but otherwise even, like this is a totally normal thursday. "velvette sent the quarterly reports?"
"hm," vox hums, not sounding like he really cares either way. he glances at the stack sitting directly in front of him, then waves a hand dismissively. "yeah, yeah, leave 'em there."
"and then?"
"and then what?" vox says flatly, trying so hard to just focus on the folders and not the the way your lips draw south. it makes him feel so—bad and out of control. like the rupturing of rules has unmoored something in his body that primarily registers as waves of burning heat between his legs. he really hates it. he really hates you. "you want a medal for delivering paperwork?"
"i want you to stop asking for things you don’t care about, sir." you walk closer to set your own tablet down on his desk and vox has to physically stop himself from following the movement.
"don't get hysterical on me, now," vox leans back in his chair, grin stretching sharp across his face. "you got a lotta confidence for someone working under me."
"i'm trying to understand why you dragged me up here just to waste my time." you realese a big, laborious sigh.
"waste your—" vox laughs once, loud and humorless, mood seemingly lightened somewhat by the breezy tone of your voice. "you think your time's that valuable?"
"you keep requesting me specifically, so apparently someone does."
"oh, fuck you."
it should feel like winning, getting under your skin, but instead there's something brutal and desperate budding in his chest. he feels like a cornered animal. he feels like he's about to do something he'll regret.
"what is your problem lately?"
"my problem?" the sound of vox's chair creaking as he gets up is enough to make you jump. the realization freeze you for a moment, gasping. "you wanna know what my problem is?"
"sir—"
before you can step back, vox reaches across the desk and grabs your jaw with one hand, long fingers pressing into your cheeks as he tilts your face toward him, the hypnotic rings flare violently across his eye, yanking you closer over the desk.
"just—" vox growls, frustrated enough to sound breathless and distorted. "for once, just fucking—"
vox panics all over again and you must see it in his eyes, because your frown shifts from anified annoyance to something soft, warm, pitying. vox fucking hates you.
he's an open wound on the floor, you could crawl inside it, you could become adhered to him as he coagulates. instead, you wrench your face sideways in his grip.
"vox," is all you say. no honorific, no jokes. you can't even muster the thickness of warning. it's like you're just saying his name, because you like the way it feels on your tongue. "i thought we already established this doesn't work on me," you add, a concession like death.
his face doesn't light up or anything, its not what he wants. not really. you know this. his grip loosens, fingers falling away from your face while embarrassment burns hot under his skin so fast it almost feels like anger instead. fuck. fucking hell.
"whatever. forget it." he mutters and he drops back into his chair with upturned eyes like miserable puddles of topaz, rainwater warmed with a street lamp. "you can go."
he's so used to knowing everything, to be able to control everyone around him at a glance. you want to be kind to him– he doesn't know what to do with that. he doesn't know what to do with any of it, only that if he makes any decision at all, you may shrink away from him, from this.
he can't even deal with that horror right now because you start rounding his desk, the sound of your footsteps against the floor seems absurdly loud in the sudden quiet. he snaps with a feeling like his insides have just gotten caught on a fisherman's hook.
"what exactly do you need from me so badly that you keep trying that?"
"what," his shoulder tense, predatory instinct kicks in automatically. "what the hell are you doing?"
"i won't do anything." you stop directly in front of him, close enough that he has to tilt his head back slightly from his chair. vox suddenly feels very aware of how large you seem standing over him like this. "i just asked you a question, sir."
you say that— i won't do anything. it's cute because he doesn't get it— that you're not worried about him doing something to you. not like you're worried you might do something to him.
"i don't need—" he starts, scoffing. "what kind of—"
"you do," you say, reaching out and putting your hand on the side of his casing, stomach lurching at the slip of softness of your palm. his eyes widen and flash. "you've been acting insane for months now, so explain it to me."
a spill of teal across his screen. he blushes so easily it's going to keep him up at night. "you think you're real funny right now?"
"no." your voice softens. "i think you are pathetic."
vox sputters immediately, offended. "excuse me? watch your fuckin'—"
your hand closes around the front of his throat at the same time your thigh slides between his legs like a knife through butter, forcing them apart as you wedge yourself closer, nearly seated in his lap now. the position pins him effortlessly against the chair, and he can feel the heat of you through the expensive fabric of his slacks.
"holy fuck. shit. christ." vox swallows, watching you with wide, excited eyes. you raise trace a finger over the exposed arch of his throat, feeling the throb of his pulse underneath.
"now," you murmur, letting your eyes go lidded. "try again."
"wh—" vox's throat clicks underneath your hand, dry. "what?"
talking is challenging because he's still so hard, it's depriving his brain of blood. you're so warm against him and you smell so fucking good and there's just never been a moment in all the time he's known you when he didn't want you in his mouth. under his skin.
and maybe he should assert some dominance if he wasn’t more focused on pressing his hot clothed length against your thigh.
"what would hypnotizing me even accomplish?" you press, and so does your hand. "you want me quieter? more obedient? nicer to you?"
velvette's love potion has never work on him before but he imagines this is what it's like to be drugged. he's dizzy, swaying on the spot but he doesn't care because all he can think about is your hands around his throat and the way your knee bumps his growing erection whether you mean for it to or not and how easy it would be to tilt his head forward and—
"i just—" his voice cracks into static. he feels so hot he's surprised the building hasn't lost power yet. his hands grip the arms of the chair hard enough to crack. "you never— fuck—"
vox doesn't whimper, though it's a close thing. his vision flickers, fragmenting, and he doesn't know if his eyelids fluttered or if his entire display just glitched. either way, he can't help but buck upwards, chasing that delicious friction like his life depends on it.
"i what?" you insist.
vox swallows, hips shuddering at each lascivious, harsh roll of his hips, as though he aimed to have his cock inside your cunt regardless of the fabric that separated the pair of you. the commotion is but a mute, irrelevant thing as vox rock back and forth shamelessly, trying to rub the head of his cock against your knee even as he feels the ache of his own erection, where an honest-to-god wet spot is forming.
he can feel how smeary-wet he is, and vox feels like a fucking teenager all over again. everything slick, messy. this is so foul and should be nothing compare to all the things he does on a daily basis, but it already feels like too much, like the pleasure is building towards some unhinged, explosive ending.
it almost hurt, how much he wants you.
"you have any idea," his thighs are so tense he's scared he's going to cramp. "you keep— nobody ignores me like this."
you tilt your head slightly. you lighten your grip, just slightly—enough that vox doesn't have to force his himself to speak. "so this is about your ego?"
"no— yes— maybe—" vox doesn't know what he's babbling. he might agree to anything you say, actually. his brain is clouded, his body tilting forward towards the flame like a moth drawn to its own demise. his cock throbs, and he doesn't want to touch it, but he wants you to touch it, that's for sure. he wants to be sitting against you right now, head lolling back against your shoulder, legs spread so you can jack him off, all careful and tender.
he shouldn't think of you like this. all soft and round, all warm under his touch. he gets flashbulb images— the column of your throat, the curve of your thighs, the dips between your knuckles.
your hands.
( your hands your hands your hands. how they would feel against him, everywhere, anywhere. he imagines begging— you'd be too nice to press, grip, pull as hard as he needs. )
"it's always been this way, hasn't it?," you hum. vox does whimper this time—the sound of a prey animal ready to throw itself into your maw and thank you for the honor.
"n-not like— not in a weird way," vox manages, panting. he's staring up at you, dizzying static playing through his eyes as he struggles to focus. "i mean, obviously in a weird way, but not—"
you tighten your hand around vox's throat, and the words cut off. it's mostly a testament to vox's willingness to humor you, or else he's just very horny to care. it's not like he needs to breathe.
"you're really very pathetic, love box."
eventually vox finds a particularly maddening back-and-forth thrust that rips the pitchiest, most frenzied cries out of his throat. all the while you do nothing. regardless, he's gasping in a rather overwhelmed sort of way as you adjust your thigh, hitching his hips against you with every movement.
"ah—" vox gasps, his vocals are fritzing out on occasion. there’s a trail of red trickling from the corner of his mouth. "oh, fuck—i wanna—"
sparks are flickering up his spine. vox is sure your thigh is getting damp with his wetness, the grind growing more slick, making him squirm and grind down harder, suddenly desperate and oversensitive. you slide your leg forward, pressing his length against you, and moans out loud as the sudden stimulation makes his hips jump.
"—touch you," vox finally says. "just let me—"
"no," you hiss, low and pitying, and slap his hand away like he's an annoying fly where they hover against your waist. "you don't deserved it after all you put me through"
"c'mon," vox says, the words practically dragged out of his throat loud. to no one. to the you that lives inside him. "you're so—oh fuck—i've had fantasies about this—i hate you, you don't know what it's like, you don't know what you look like—"
"beggars can't be choosers, vox."
"fu-uck," vox cries, trying and failing to grind his hips into the motion when you press your knee harsher into his crotch for a firmer grind. "at least touch my dick! oh, god, touch my dick—it hurts but i'm so fuckin' hard—"
"at some point," you muse absentmindedly, drawing back in a slow glide that sends vox scrabbling, "you're going to realize what the only answer i'm going to give you is."
it doesn't even makes sense, in the context of him listening to you of all people. it should be the other way around, it should be vox making you beg and cry and making you want this. he'd felt you beneath him, once. moving together, pushing toward something fast and hot. would you like touching him the way he likes touching you? yould you want more and more and more like him?
and just like that, vox's hands snaps to the armrests again, clawing and gripping for dear life as his face flush, fizzing over with static.
he buries it in your chest, and he's so grateful you don't shove him off. he feels so good here, like this. god, he wants to smother himself in it. in you. he imagines burying his face against every part of your body, he imagines the weight of you on top of him, your thighs squeezing him, your hands holding on.
your hands your hands your hands.
"aw, sweetheart," a hand lands on his head, petting over the hard casing, and tickles up one of his antennae. it's condescending; it's the firts time you call him that, "i will give it to you, though, you're pretty proficient at humping—it's gonna make me think you're a bit of a slut for me, sir."
( vox knows you're making fun of him, but he also can't help the way it turns him on. fucking condescending. he wants you to call him sweetheart forever. he wants to drown in it. )
"fuck you," vox pants againts your clothed chest. it's not as good, but he's so close that it doesn't matter, hips kicking into the air blatantly and shamelessly. he can't let this go, he can't, he can't— "fuck you, asshole, fuck, fuck, oh, please—fuck—doll—"
"no?" you ask. "you are not?" your voice is quiet, raspy as your dainty hand roughly rubs at his dick print, back and forth, back and forth. you might really kill him. he might die here with you smiling up at him every time he twitches to life underneath your fingertips and he'd die happy.
vox keens, tilting and shaking his head back against the chair frantically. palming him harder and faster, you smooth a finger over the outline of your his leaky tip and watch as precum seeps through material– and earning yourself petulant moans and whines from vox. pretty sounds that just barely escape through gritted teeth. your face is so close—so close, vox wants it—he needs it—
he wants you to be looking at him with more than an unreadable expression but with the same pathetic, maddening hunger he feels for you.
like a hibernating beast waking up ravenous to storm and devouring everything in sight, a mandate lurches to attention inside of vox, beyond logic, beyond self preservation. to make you really look at him. he braces himself with a single hand on your thigh and reaches for the bow tie with the other one, ripping open his shirt. he must look like an animal but there's sweat beaded on his sternum and he wants—
"or are you going to prove me right?"
and vox comes just like that, damp with sweat and gasping with frustration and humping your thigh as you stare down at him, imagining you're straddling his thigh with your arms thrown round his neck. it's not the thought of you spread wide over his slacks that sends him over the edge, but the thought of you looking down at him there to see it. staring, wanting, unable to resist.
it's not a screaming orgasm—not like the one he most certainly would have had on any other circunstances—but it's certainly up there with his best ones.
"fuck," he says, very quietly, so maybe he doesn't say it at all. vox doesn't know because his eyes are closed and his head is thrown back and the blood is pounding in his ears and so it feels like he's drowning.
vox's claws are digging into your thigh like he couldn't stay upright otherwise— his hips won't stop twitching, working back and forth in tiny, minute motions, like he's trying to shake more out or just hump your leg like a dog. there's nothing left—but the phantom of the pressure is still there.
you slide your fingers along his neck before cupping the side of his screen. then, before he can recover enough to start talking again, you lean forward and press a brief kiss against the corner of his screen.
"you're such a fucking tease," he makes a gutted sound, though there's no real venom behind it. vox squirms and writhes in place, squint his eyes halfway open and meet your gaze as he finally shudders to completion.
you pull back before he can chase it.
one smooth movement and you're off his lap, straightening to your full height. your clothes are mostly intact save for the shallow scratches dragged across your trousers where his claws had caught. beneath them, a darker patch stains the fabric slightly from his own fluids, which makes vox's stomach lurch so powerfully he whites out for a second, vision nothing but static.
"velvette wants the reports finalized tonight," you say calmly, reaching for your tablet atop the desk. vox is still trying to process the fact that you're talking about work.
"what—" vox coughs once, voice rough and wrecked. "you're just gonna—"
"hm."
"after that?"
"you finished, didn't you?" vox groans dramatically, throwing his head back against the chair as you step around the desk, "i'll tell ethan to bring you a change of clothes," you add.
vox hates how quickly panic sparks in his chest at the sight of you leaving. after months of wanting and wanting and wanting, now that he's finally had a taste of your attention, the thought of losing it again feels unbearable.
"you're seriously leaving?" he blurts before he can stop himself.
you pause by the door. you look at him properly then, and vox doesn't dwell in the way his entire body immediately perks up under the attention like a dog.
"yes, vox." that small smile appears again. vox swears his nonexistent heart stutters. "and next time you want my attention, try asking normally first."
the door slides shut behind you.
and vox stays there alone in the silence, slumped in his chair with your warmth still lingering against him and that stupid little forehead kiss looping through his mind like corrupted footage.
your breath catches when kiri’s fingers latch onto your jaw and pull your lips from katsuki’s. he turns your head to him, leaning in and licking across your lips before slipping his tongue in your mouth. you moan into him, squeaking when katsuki starts to pepper kisses along your neck, pressing in closer, and grazing his teeth against your heated skin.
“mmngh.” you squirm between them.
“‘s wrong?” kiri chuckles, kissing down your jaw.
you tilt your head back, giving them more space as moans slip free from your parted lips. they’re lips meet over your throat, making you groan that you can’t see. they laugh into each others mouths, each hooking a leg over yours as they spread you out on the bed between them.
“bet you’re leaking in your sweats.” kirishima pulls back, grinning at katsuki.
his face heats all the way to the tips of his ears. “shut up.” he buries his face back into your neck to suck and nibble.
kirishima takes your lips again, rubbing the inside of your thigh, humming when his hand meets katsuki’s over your panties. you melt between them, each drag of their fingers setting your body alight. katsuki hooks his fingers into the cotton and pulls them to the side, kirishima wastes no time in sliding his fingers through your slick.
“mmm!” your hips jerk forward.
“so wet already.” katsuki coos, trailing his fingers next to kiri’s.
katsuki circles your clit while kirishima prods at your entrance, dipping the tip of his finger in and pulling out just to hear your gasps and whimpers. katsuki pinches your clit the same time kiri slides a long finger into you, your head falling back in the process.
“how’s it feel?” kirishima pulls his finger out just to slip two in. “hm?”
“good!” you gasp. “so good.”
katsuki swirls around your clit faster and kiri answers by fingering you to the same rhythm. kirishima leans over and presses his lips to katsuki’s again, both of them getting lost in ea h other as you get lost in them. you’re grinding against their hands, thighs twitching and toes curling as they work you up.
they pull back from each other, strings of spit still connecting them as they look down at the wet mess they’ve turned you into. the sounds of your wetness reach your ears and you face burns but you’re too far gone to care.
“fuck! faster! please!” your tummy twists as you feel it coming.
“yeah? already baby?” kirishima looks at you.
“barely even started.” katsuki chuckles, fingers moving even faster.
your pleasure snaps, thighs desperately trying to clamp around their hands as they keep you spread. they work you through it, never slowing, their fingers only switching spots. katsuki slips two fingers into you already curling them perfectly while kirishima taps your clit.
Welcome to my ted talk ^^/ Today's topic is: Who's more babygirl between Sol and Crowe?
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Okay, so after thinking about this a lot, I came to the conclusion that both LIs are babygirls, however, only Crowe was born and died as THE true babygirl
AND BEFORE SOL FANS THROW ROCKS AT ME, HEAR ME OUT FIRST, YOU'RE GOING TO GET MY POINT I PROMISE (TT)
The thing is: Sol, as my other two associated fellows Luo Binghe and Pierrot, only shows his babygirl side to one person alone — the MC. Like, he's a true menace to the others since he really doesn't gaf about his reputation. But with pumpkin? His soulmate? It's a whole different story. He's pretty much of an opportunistic and very willing to use his babygirl charm to fall on MC's good graces. And it's working ^^
Crowe, on the other side, doesn't need to put such an act. He's genuinely nice with everyone. Of course, he still have a special care towards MC, because they (we) are his starlight or, as he says, his deity. He's charmingly sensitive and adorable, maybe a bit dense, but even this is part of his charm. Crowe is a true green flag and a soft boy, really. PLUS, I feel that a lot of people forget that his background mostly certainly isn't a happy one either (TT)
In short, Sol is a part-time babygirl, since he only acts that way to only one person alone.
While Crowe is a full-time babygirl. No breaks. He's just built that way lol
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That's all folks, thank you for attending my ted talk.
Hello, I saw that your requests are open and I got an idea for you! I’ve been contemplating if I wanna write it but after seeing your writing I think you’d like it a lot more.
So the idea is Alastor x Lucifer’s Daughter reader (cause this only works if she’s blonde, she could be either an angel or hell born. You can decide that!). Alastor and her are in a secret relationship, after a night of passion Angel Dust walks into Alastor’s room to ask him something. When going in he sees a head of blonde hair, and automatically assumes it’s Charlie. So this spirals into Angel Dust thinking Charlie is cheating on Vaggie and who knows what else. So he either tells Vaggor or Lucifer (or both?!) out of guilt for know. But unknown to everyone it’s actually Charlie’s sister, then BOOM big reveal.
Idk I’ve had this idea for a while, I just don’t have the time to write it. Hope you like this suggestion.
Have a great day 🫶
I love this. Sorry it took me so long hon, I hope this suffices. ALSO WENT BRAIN FART WHEN IT CAME TO TITLING TS
Oh Shit
Alastor x Lucifer’s Daughter Reader
| Mature Themes | MDNI | Smut |
The hotel had settled into one of those rare, almost peaceful rhythms that followed chaos, and in that fragile calm Alastor found himself alone in the kitchen, a soft hum rolling from his throat. The recent confrontation with Vox had passed, and with Charlie and Vaggie finally taking a well-earned evening to themselves, while everyone else did what they normally did. Husker was tending the bar while Nifty cleaned and chatted with Baxter. Angel came back after a bit of convincing and began catching up with Cherri in the lobby and Lucifer was up in his room conjuring up another special rubber duck. Leaving the responsibility of the hotel into the hands of two individuals who approached duty in entirely different ways.
Alastor began to stir his coffee absentmindedly, the dark liquid swirling as his thoughts drifted, because they had a consistent habit of circling back to the same person. Charlie's younger sister, Y/n.
At first, he didn't even know she existed, another Morningstar hidden somewhere beyond his awareness, and he had assumed that if she did exist, she would be nothing more than a reflection of what he already knew— either Charlie’s relentless optimism or Lucifer’s theatrical ego. Yet the moment she had stepped through those doors, that assumption had unraveled almost instantly.
She had not resembled Charlie in the ways that mattered most, nor did she carry Lucifer’s overwhelming presence, and instead there was something undeniably reminiscent of Lilith in her—something quieter, more composed, a kind of elegance that did not need to announce itself to be felt, something uniquely herself. Her hair, though still golden, seemed softer, as if she was floating in water, and she held herself with a posture that spoke not of arrogance, but of certainty, as though she had learned long ago that strength did not require spectacle. She was kind, yes, but not naive, understanding Hell in a way Charlie was still learning to, and she carried the weight of her family, acting as the unseen thread that kept them from unraveling entirely.
Alastor had noticed everything, because noticing was what he did best, and it was in those small observations that something far more inconvenient had begun to take root. He did not know when it had happened, nor could he pinpoint the exact moment that his interest had shifted into something deeper, something far less manageable, and yet there it was, undeniable in the way his attention lingered just a second too long whenever she entered a room, or in the way he had begun, quite unconsciously, to adjust his behavior in her presence.
He poured another cup of coffee, this one prepared with far more care than his own, adding a precise spoonful of sugar, a splash of her preferred creamer, and just the faintest dusting of cinnamon, remembering how she made hers to the best of his recollection, and then he set it on a tray alongside a small arrangement of fruit and a warm pastry, a quiet satisfaction settled over him.
By the time he stepped into the lobby, the soft ticking of the clock confirmed what he already suspected—it was nearing noon, and she had likely been awake for hours without so much as a proper meal. His eyes found her easily, moving back and forth behind the front desk with a kind of controlled urgency, greeting guests with a polite smile while simultaneously managing ledgers and keys, her focus split yet unwavering.
There were only two demons left waiting, and as she handed over the final key with a courteous nod, her composure slipped just slightly, a quiet sigh escaping her as she ran a hand through her hair, gathering it up before letting it fall again. She sank into the chair behind the desk, reaching for her glasses and slipping them on as she leaned over the papers, absently biting the end of her pen as she reviewed the numbers.
“Good morning, my dear!” Alastor’s voice cut smoothly through the moment, bright and warm, and she startled just enough to look up at him with mild surprise.
“Oh—Alastor, morning! Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” she said, straightening slightly before her gaze shifted to the tray in his hands, curiosity flickering into something softer. “Can I help—oh! Is that for me?”
“Why, yes,” he replied, the faintest hint of pride threading through his tone as he set it down before her.
Her expression lit almost immediately as she lifted the cup, inhaling the scent with a pleased hum. “This smells amazing, thank you. How did you know I liked my coffee like this?”
“One picks up a few things here and there,” he said smoothly, though his smile sharpened just a touch as he added, “I also brought your favorite.”
Her eyes widened as she looked at the plate, delight breaking through in a way that was entirely unguarded. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did,” he confirmed, and the soft laugh that followed from him felt almost… lighter than usual.
“Well, golly, thank you, Alastor,” she said, her gratitude genuine as she reached for the pastry, though the moment was interrupted by another guest approaching the desk.
“Oh—here—” she began, already moving to stand, but he was quicker.
“No, my dear,” he said, stepping in with effortless ease. “Focus on those ledgers. I’ll handle this.”
She hesitated, shaking her head lightly. “No, no, I can’t possibly—”
“Come now, darling, indulge me,” he insisted, a playful lilt slipping into his voice, and after a brief pause, she relented with a small nod.
“Alright,” she conceded, settling back into her chair as she turned her attention to the papers once more.
He handled the check-in with practiced charm, his presence filling the space in a way that made the interaction seem almost theatrical, and by the time he returned to her side, she had already begun reorganizing the ledgers into neat stacks.
“Thank you,” she said without looking up, though the curve of her smile gave her away.
“Darling, it’s a shame you work so tirelessly,” he remarked, leaning casually against the desk. “Don't you fear that you’re working yourself to the bone?”
“Oh, stars no,” she replied lightly, signing off on a document before setting it aside. “I like to keep busy.”
“But a royal princess of Hell shouldn’t be running about like some overworked secretary,” he countered, and that earned him a look.
She raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips.
“Whhaaat?” he drawled, feigning innocence.
“You know I’m in charge when Charlie and her girlfriend are gone,” she said, tapping the pen lightly against the desk.
“My dear, you are still Hell’s royalty.”
She laughed at that, pointing at him with mock accusation. “You say that I’m royalty, but remind me again how you treat my dad? Because last I checked, you spend most of your time teasing him or challenging him.”
“Well, my dear, that’s entirely different,” he replied smoothly, though there was a brief hitch in his tone that he could not quite mask.
“Oh yeah? What’s the difference?” she pressed, leaning forward slightly, her gaze sharp with amusement.
He opened his mouth to respond, the words forming and then faltering in a way that was… unfamiliar, and for a fleeting moment, the ever-composed Radio Demon found himself caught in something he could not immediately charm his way out of.
“Well, you, I—” he began, only to pause, the sentence slipping through his grasp entirely.
Her grin widened, satisfaction dancing in her eyes as she leaned back in her chair. “Wow. The all mighty Radio Demon… speechless?”
His composure returned as swiftly as it had faltered, his ever-present smile slipping neatly back into place as though it had never wavered at all, and gave a soft, amused hum as he straightened. “Perish the thought, my dear. I was merely deciding which point to address first.”
She chuckled immediately, the sound light and knowing as she leaned back slightly in her chair. “Uh-huh. Sure you were.”
The teasing did not linger long, however, because she turned her attention back to the papers in front of her, signing the last line with a small flourish before setting the pen down with quiet satisfaction. “Aaand done.”
She gathered the stack, already shifting to stand, but he was there again, just as he had been before, effortlessly inserting himself into the moment. “Allow me.”
“Oh—thank you,” she said, handing them over without protest this time, her trust in him coming easily.
He glanced over the pages briefly, before giving a small nod, and with a subtle flicker of shadow curling at his feet, the stack vanished from his hands, slipping away into the unseen.
“Thank you again,” she said warmly, brushing her hands together as if clearing the last remnants of work from them. “And thanks for the breakfast.”
“No trouble at all, my dear,” he replied, tilting his head slightly as he regarded her. “It is truly a wonder how this place would manage without you.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I’m sure it would’ve been fine.”
“Hm, I rather doubt that,” he countered, his tone edged with quiet amusement. “You’ve seen how they handle things. It’s always in disarray until you show up.”
“Don’t let Vaggie hear you say that,” she warned, though her smile betrayed her.
“Awh, but where’s the fun in that?” he said, grin sharpening just a touch. “It’s quite entertaining watching her get angry. Like a little bird puffing up its feathers.”
That earned him a laugh, brighter this time, and she gave his shoulder a playful shove. “You’re terrible.”
“And yet, here I am, still invited to stay,” he replied smoothly, clearly unbothered as they both shared the moment of easy laughter.
“Well,” she began, her tone softening just slightly as she glanced toward the entrance before looking back at him, “Charlie and Vaggie should be back soon, which means we finally get a bit of a break again.”
“Seems so,” he agreed, though his attention remained fixed on her.
“Will I see you around more?” she asked, her smile returning.
“Yes, my dear,” he said without hesitation. “I intend on staying.”
“I’m glad,” she admitted, her gaze dropping for just a moment before lifting again to meet his.
There was a pause then, one that stretched just long enough to feel significant, as though something unspoken hovered between them, waiting for one of them to give it shape.
“Al—”
“Darling—”
They both stopped at the same time, and then, just as quickly, both of them laughed, the tension easing into something lighter.
“You go ahead,” she said, gesturing slightly.
“No, no, it’s quite alright, darling. You first.”
“Well,” she began, shifting her weight slightly as she gathered her thoughts, “I was wondering if you’d like to—”
“HEY, Y/N!”
The interruption came loud and sudden, cutting clean through the moment like a record scratch, and both of them turned as Angel Dust’s voice echoed across the lobby.
“Sorry to bother ya, doll,” Angel called, leaning dramatically over the banister from the upper level, one arm draped over it as if he’d been waiting for the exact worst moment to interrupt. “But I need help with one of the events we got comin’ up, and by ‘help’ I mean I have absolutely no idea what I’m doin’ and if I mess it up again I think Vagina's gonna actually kill me this time.”
She blinked, caught halfway between surprise and a laugh. “Oh! Um—”
Alastor’s gaze slid back to her, curiosity flickering behind his smile. “What were you going to say, my dear?”
She hesitated for just a second, then shook her head lightly. “Nothing, never mind… what were you gonna say?”
“I believe it slipped my mind,” he replied smoothly, though the faint narrowing of his eyes suggested otherwise.
“Yeah? Well then… catch up later?” she offered, hopeful but easygoing.
“Of course,” he said, inclining his head.
“Y/N!” Angel shouted again, this time louder and far more teasing. “C’mon, sugar, don’t make me come down there and drag ya away from Loverboy! I ain’t interruptin’ a moment, am I? ‘Cause if I am, I’d love ta see what Mr. Strawberry Virgin is capable of!”
Alastor’s eye twitched—just slightly, but noticeably—his smile tightening at the edges as his gaze flicked upward toward Angel.
“Oh, you are most certainly making it worse,” he muttered under his breath, though the irritation was carefully wrapped in his usual charm.
“Well, my dear,” he said a moment later, smoothing himself back into composure as he gestured lightly toward Angel’s direction, “your adoring public awaits.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, looks like it.”
“See you later,” she added, stepping back as she turned to go.
“Indeed,” he replied, his voice softer now, though the smile remained.
She gave him one last look, a small, lingering smile that said more than either of them had managed to, before heading off toward Angel.
After that morning, something shifted between them, though neither of them spoke of it aloud. It was not sudden, nor dramatic, and perhaps that was what made it so dangerous. It settled quietly, in the spaces between glances and lingering pauses, in the way conversations stretched longer than necessary and excuses to remain near one another became easier to invent.
The hotel itself had grown busier as more sinners cautiously wandered through its doors, curious about Charlie’s impossible dream and even more curious about whether redemption could truly exist in a place like Hell. That meant more paperwork, more guests, more endless responsibilities for Y/N to manage, and yet somehow, despite how full her days became, she always seemed to find herself crossing paths with Alastor.
At first, she told herself it was coincidence.
The hotel was not exactly small, but it was not impossible to run into someone repeatedly when both of them occupied its halls so often. Still, coincidence became a harder excuse to believe when she found herself deliberately choosing routes she knew he favored, or carrying books she did not immediately need simply because she knew he often passed through the library wing around that hour.
And perhaps, once or twice, she may have “accidentally” dropped them.
It happened one afternoon near the grand staircase, sunlight from the stained windows casting warm, fractured colors over the red carpet as she turned the corner carrying a stack of ledgers and two books she absolutely did not need at that moment. She heard the familiar sound first—that old-fashioned static hum, faint beneath the sound of footsteps—and before she even saw him, her heart had already betrayed her.
She turned too quickly.
The books slipped.
Papers scattered dramatically across the floor like they had been waiting for their moment.
“Oh my gosh—” she gasped, crouching immediately. “I am so, so sorry!”
Alastor stood before her, one brow lifting slightly, though amusement danced openly in his crimson eyes. “Are you alright, my dear? I didn’t see you there.”
She looked up at him from where she knelt among the disaster she had very much caused herself and offered what she hoped was a believable smile. “Oh, I’m fine. Just clumsy, apparently.”
He extended a hand to help her up, and she took it, trying very hard not to think about how warm his palm felt against hers, how his fingers curled around hers with a firmness that made her stomach twist pleasantly.
“No apologies needed, my dear,” he said smoothly as he helped her to her feet. “Accidents happen.”
“Oh—” she breathed, suddenly remembering the papers at their feet as she bent quickly again. “My papers—”
She barely reached for them before he stopped her.
“Allow me, mon chérie.”
The words alone were enough to make her pause.
Usually, Alastor would simply use his shadows, letting them slither forward to retrieve whatever was needed with eerie elegance, but this time he crouched himself, long fingers gathering the papers one by one, picking up each book by hand instead. There was something strangely intimate about it, something small and unnecessary that somehow meant far too much.
She stood there, watching the sleeves of his shirt rolled just slightly past his wrists, exposing more of his forearms than usual, and her traitorous gaze lingered.
She had noticed before, of course.
It was impossible not to.
For all his polished suits and charming theatrics, there was strength beneath him, quiet and obvious once one paid attention. His hands were elegant but sharp, claws curling at the tips of long fingers, veins faintly visible when his grip tightened around his cane or a teacup. When his sleeves rolled up, even just slightly, the definition in his arms became clearer—lean muscle beneath old-fashioned fabric, controlled and restrained.
She had never expected the Radio Demon to be… toned.
And yet.
God, he was.
“Here we are,” he said, standing again and offering the papers back to her.
“Oh—heavens, thank you,” she said softly, reaching for them.
Her fingertips brushed his.
It was brief. Barely anything.
But it felt like everything.
Her breath caught, and she looked down immediately, suddenly fascinated by the top page of a ledger she had already memorized. Heat climbed into her face, and she hated how obvious it probably was.
Alastor chuckled quietly, low and warm in a way that made her chest tighten.
“Shall I accompany you to wherever you were going?”
She looked up too fast. “Oh—yes. Yes, I’d like that.”
He offered his arm with practiced elegance, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she took it.
They walked slowly through the halls together, their pace unhurried, conversation flowing easily into the kind of quiet comfort that had become increasingly common between them.
And the question, though unspoken, remained between them.
Why didn’t they just say it?
For Y/N, it was complicated in ways she hated admitting even to herself.
Part of her insisted it would be unprofessional. She was Charlie’s sister, part of the reason this hotel functioned at all when everyone else was too distracted or emotionally compromised to keep it standing. Alastor was… Alastor. Powerful, unpredictable, dangerous in ways most people wisely kept their distance from. Getting involved with him felt like stepping willingly into fire and deciding not to mind the burn.
But honesty demanded more than that.
The truth was simpler and far less noble.
She wanted him.
Not just his attention, not just his company—him.
She noticed the details she should not have been noticing. The way his hands flexed when he adjusted his gloves. The sharpness of his smile when he was amused. The way he could command an entire room without ever raising his voice, how people shifted around him instinctively, how power seemed to cling to him like perfume.
She knew exactly what he was.
She knew he was dangerous.
She knew he had killed and would kill again.
And somehow, none of that frightened her.
If anything, it fascinated her.
There was strength in him, terrifying and beautiful, and she was not naive enough to mistake him for harmless. She did not want harmless. She wanted honesty, even when it came wrapped in sharp teeth and shadows.
And Alastor…
Alastor did not speak because he believed he should not.
It was absurd, really.
He, of all people, should not have been hesitating over morality, and yet with her, he found himself doing exactly that. There was something untouched about her—not innocence in the foolish sense, because she understood Hell better than most, but a kind of goodness that had survived despite it.
He did not want to be the thing that stained it.
The feelings he had for her were not simple admiration anymore, nor were they the polished affection he allowed himself to show. They were darker, sharper, threaded with want in ways he had not anticipated and did not entirely trust.
When she looked away shyly.
When she bit her lip while concentrating.
When she laughed and leaned too close without realizing what it did to him.
He found himself thinking things he had no business thinking.
He wanted to trace the shape of her mouth with his thumb.
He wanted to know if her lips tasted as sinful as they looked.
He wanted, and wanting was rare enough for him to feel like weakness.
So he kept it hidden behind smiles and manners and perfectly measured distance.
Because surely she did not feel the same.
Surely the flushed cheeks and nervous glances were simple curiosity, admiration perhaps, but not desire.
Never desire.
He did not know she watched him just as closely.
Did not know she noticed when his voice dropped lower just for her, or when his gaze lingered too long before he turned away. He did not know she replayed every touch, every accidental brush of fingers, every “darling” spoken in that velvet voice that made her heart stumble like a fool.
So they continued like that for a while.
Closer.
Always closer.
Longer conversations in the kitchen late at night over coffee neither of them needed. Walks through empty hallways after everyone else had gone to bed. Quiet laughter in the lobby while the rest of Hell carried on around them.
They learned each other in pieces.
She learned he preferred old music on quiet mornings and hated being interrupted during radio hour unless she was the one doing it.
He learned she talked to herself while organizing paperwork and always hummed under her breath when she thought no one was listening.
She learned he always noticed when she skipped meals.
He learned exactly how to make her laugh when she was trying too hard to be serious.
And every time they crossed paths, every glance held a little longer than it should have, every touch lingered just enough to leave them both wondering how much longer they could keep pretending this was all it was.
It continued like that for far longer than either of them cared to admit.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks folded quietly into months, and somehow they remained balanced on that invisible line between friendship and something far more dangerous. They made excuses for it, of course. There was always work to be done at the hotel, always another task, another ledger, another guest, another reason to linger in each other’s company without anyone questioning it.
If Y/N was helping reorganize supplies in the kitchen, somehow Alastor would appear with commentary no one asked for and coffee she definitely needed.
If Alastor was in the lounge reviewing some mysterious business of his own, somehow Y/N would find herself walking in with papers she absolutely could have handled elsewhere.
It became routine.
Comfortable.
Dangerously natural.
And because they were both so good at appearances, no one suspected the truth.
Most of the others simply assumed Alastor tolerated her because she was easier than Charlie, less forceful than Vaggie, less chaotic than Angel, and significantly less likely to threaten him with holy weaponry. They noticed how well the two worked together, how smoothly they moved around each other, how quickly they adjusted when guests arrived.
One moment they would be leaning close over the front desk, voices low, smiling over some private joke or quiet conversation, and the next, the second someone entered the room, they snapped effortlessly back into professionalism.
Y/N would straighten, polite and poised.
Alastor would step back, grin sharp and composed.
And whatever softness had been there disappeared beneath polished manners and practiced charm.
It was almost suspicious in how unsuspicious it looked.
Charlie, thankfully, was too busy trying to save souls and keep the hotel from collapsing emotionally to notice much beyond “Oh wow, you two work so well together!”
Vaggie noticed more, but wisely chose not to comment.
Husk noticed everything and said nothing unless he was drunk enough to be brave.
Angel noticed and absolutely wanted details.
Which was exactly why Y/N found herself cornered at the party.
Charlie and Vaggie had returned, and with them came celebration. A proper party had been thrown for the recent progress some of the hotel guests had made, complete with food, drinks, music, and enough decorations to make the entire lobby look like it had been attacked by festive confetti.
For once, Y/N was not responsible for making sure everything ran smoothly.
Charlie was hosting.
Vaggie was supervising.
Lucifer had appeared briefly, somehow turned a punch bowl into a dramatic speech opportunity, and vanished again.
Which left Y/N standing near the bar with Angel Dust, Husk, and Niffty, who was currently being physically restrained by Angel from launching herself across the room with what looked suspiciously like a sewing needle.
“HEY,” Niffty protested, wriggling in his hold, “if he keeps chewing with his mouth open, I should legally be allowed to stab him!”
“Sweetheart, I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs,” Angel said, holding her at arm’s length, “but Charlie said no murder at the celebration, so unfortunately we gotta wait till tomorrow.”
Y/N laughed into her drink while Husk looked deeply unsurprised by all of it.
Angel turned toward her, one hand on his chest like he was about to deliver life-changing wisdom.
“Sooo, dollface,” he said, narrowing his eyes playfully, “you got your eye on anyone at this little disaster of a party?”
She nearly choked on her drink.
“What?”
“Oh, don’t gimme that innocent act,” Angel said with a grin. “I know that face. That’s the ‘I wanna climb somebody like furniture’ face.”
“Angel!” she hissed, horrified and laughing at the same time.
Husk snorted into his glass.
She rolled her eyes, trying and failing to hide her smile. “Wellllll… kinda. I mean—yes. But it’s complicated.”
Angel gasped like she had just confessed to murder.
“Oh my God, there is tea. Spill immediately.”
“How so?” Husk asked, far less dramatic, leaning against the bar with all the exhausted wisdom of a man who had seen too much.
Before she could answer, Baxter approached, drink in hand, looking exactly like a man trying very hard to survive social interaction.
He set his glass down carefully. “Hi, Y/N.”
She smiled warmly. “Hi. Enjoying yourself?”
He gave a small shrug. “Could be worse. I think I’m going to go back to my lab.”
She immediately pointed at him.
“Nuh-uh, mister. You are going to stay here and enjoy this party and let loose because you deserve it.”
He sighed the sigh of a man who knew resistance was futile. “Alright. Alright.”
Before he could retreat, Niffty appeared like a summoned demon.
“Come dance with me, smart boy!”
She grabbed his hand with terrifying speed, and Baxter barely had time to look vaguely alarmed before she dragged him toward the dance floor.
Y/N laughed, shaking her head as she watched him disappear into the chaos.
Then she sighed and turned back to Angel and Husk.
“It’s difficult,” she admitted more quietly. “I do like someone here, but… it’s complicated.”
Angel leaned forward immediately. “Complicated how? Are they married? Evil? Ugly? Please say not ugly, I can’t support that.”
She laughed. “No, none of those.”
“Well, evil ain’t exactly a dealbreaker around here,” Angel added with a shrug.
“It’s just…” she hesitated, glancing down at her glass. “There’s tension. I can tell there is. I know I’m not imagining it, but with my position at the hotel, and everything else, I just…”
Husk took a slow drink before cutting in.
“Fuck that.”
She blinked.
He shrugged. “We ain’t alive just to work. If you want something, take the shot. If you lose, you lose. Hell’s already a gamble anyway. But there’s always a chance you win big.”
Angel stared at him, then smirked.
“Whoa. Whiskers. Didn’t know you were secretly a romance novel.”
Before she could stop him, the music shifted, louder now, one of Angel’s favorites judging by the immediate chaos in his expression.
“Oh, hell yeah! I love this song!”
He grabbed her wrist.
“Come on, Y/N, shake that ass with me.”
“Angel—!”
He grabbed Husk with the other hand.
“Wait, no—”
Husk’s drink hit the bar with a loud clink as Angel physically dragged both of them toward the dance floor.
“I am too old for this,” Husk muttered.
“You’re already dead, baby, age is fake!”
And just like that, Y/N was laughing helplessly as Angel pulled them into the center of the crowd, music pounding around them, while across the room, the man she wanted more than she should was still watching.
The music carried on for hours, loud and bright and impossible to ignore, and for once Y/N allowed herself to stop thinking about schedules and responsibilities and simply exist inside the moment.
Angel had made sure of that.
There had been no graceful escape from the dance floor once he had dragged her there, no polite excuse that would have let her slip away unnoticed. He spun her beneath the lights, laughing, while Husk stood nearby looking like a man enduring a personal punishment from the universe.
“At least pretend you’re having fun, Whiskers,” Angel shouted over the music, swaying with far too much confidence.
“I’d rather get hit by a truck,” Husk replied, though the slight curve of amusement at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“See? That’s the spirit!”
Y/N laughed so hard she nearly lost her footing, grabbing Angel’s arm to steady herself as he dipped her dramatically for absolutely no reason.
“You are ridiculous.”
“And gorgeous, don’t forget gorgeous,” he said with a wink before immediately spinning away to flirt with Husk.
The party was warm and alive around her, full of movement and laughter and too many overlapping voices. Charlie had somehow convinced half the guests to join a celebratory dance circle. Vaggie was pretending not to enjoy herself while very clearly enjoying herself. Niffty and Baxter were still an unlikely pair on the dance floor, with Niffty moving like she had consumed pure chaos and Baxter looking like he was trying to calculate how he had ended up there.
Lucifer had reappeared at some point, performed what could only be described as an aggressively unnecessary musical number near the punch bowl, and vanished again like some sort of dramatic cryptid.
And through all of it, Y/N laughed.
She danced.
She let herself breathe.
But every so often, even in the middle of it all, her eyes found him.
Alastor remained mostly at the edges of the celebration, where he preferred to be. He stood with Charlie for a while, speaking quietly with that composed smile of his, observing rather than participating, like a man watching a stage production rather than attending a party.
And every time she looked, somehow, he was already looking back.
Never obvious.
Never enough for anyone else to notice.
But enough.
Always enough.
It made her pulse jump every single time.
Hours passed like that, until the energy of the party softened from wild celebration into something looser, warmer, quieter. The music still played, but conversations had become slower, drinks had been refilled too many times, and the night had settled into that late-hour haze where everyone was tired but no one wanted to admit it.
Y/N stood near the edge of the dance floor again, catching her breath, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she let her gaze wander across the room.
Charlie was laughing at something Vaggie had said.
Angel was absolutely standing on furniture.
Husk had given up trying to stop him.
Niffty was threatening someone with a fork.
Everything felt normal.
Everything except—
Her eyes searched instinctively.
And then she found him.
Across the room, Alastor stood near the lobby entrance, his posture as elegant and composed as ever, speaking briefly with Charlie. She watched as he gave a small nod, the kind that signaled departure rather than conversation, and something in her chest tightened.
He was leaving.
She straightened without thinking.
Her gaze flicked around the room again, at the party still going strong, at Angel shouting something inappropriate across the room, at Charlie glowing with happiness, and then back to Alastor.
Before she could overthink it, she turned toward Angel.
“Hey, Angel,” she said, stepping closer.
He leaned against her. “What's up doll?”
She rolled her eyes fondly. “I think I’m getting a bit tired.”
It was a lie, and judging by the way one of his brows lifted, he knew it.
“I think I’m gonna go rest in my room now.”
“Awh, okay, dollface,” he said, suspicious but mercifully not pushing. “Go get your beauty sleep. Though honestly, unfair advantage, you’re already hot.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“See you tomorrow, babe.”
She smiled, squeezing his arm lightly before stepping away. “See you tomorrow.”
She waved a general goodnight to the others, slipping through the crowd with practiced ease, but before she could reach the stairs, Charlie caught her.
“Hey! Y/N, leaving?”
She turned, smiling softly at her sister. “Yeah, sorry, Charles. I’m really tired.”
Charlie’s expression immediately softened with understanding as she stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.
“Awh, I get it. You and Alastor have both been working so hard lately. Thank you for coming and helping and just… being here.”
Y/N hugged her back tightly, warmth settling in her chest at the familiar comfort of her sister.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “You know I love you.”
Charlie smiled against her shoulder. “I love you too. Now go rest.”
Y/N pulled back slightly, brushing a hand over Charlie’s arm before asking, as casually as she could manage, “Did Alastor go to rest as well?”
Charlie nodded easily, completely unaware of how carefully Y/N had tried to sound normal.
“Yeah. You know him, he’s not really into modern parties like these.”
Y/N laughed softly. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Charlie smiled. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Char.”
She leaned forward and kissed her sister on the cheek before finally turning toward the grand staircase.
Her heels clicked softly against the steps as she climbed, the music from downstairs fading a little more with each floor. The warmth of the party lingered on her skin, but something else pulled stronger now, quieter and far more dangerous.
Because she wasn’t tired.
Not even a little.
As Y/N made her way into the elevator, the laughter and music from the party softened behind her, muffled by the closing doors until it became nothing more than a distant pulse beneath the quiet. The moment she was alone, her carefully calm expression slipped, and she pressed one hand against her chest as if that could steady the frantic beat of her heart.
She was not tired.
She knew that. Angel probably knew it too, judging by the look he had given her before letting her go. If Husk had noticed, he had been merciful enough to keep his mouth shut, and Charlie, sweet Charlie, had believed her easily because she had no reason not to. Y/N had kissed her sister goodnight and climbed those stairs like someone simply heading to bed, but now that the elevator carried her upward, there was no use pretending with herself anymore.
She was following Alastor.
The realization should have embarrassed her enough to make her turn around. It should have made her press the button back down, return to the party, grab a drink, dance with Angel, and forget the way Alastor had looked at her across the room as if he had been waiting for her to make a choice. Instead, she stood there as the elevator rose, watching the floor numbers change, and tried to convince herself that she had a perfectly reasonable excuse.
Their rooms were on opposite sides of the hotel floor, which made this entire idea more ridiculous the longer she thought about it. Between her room and his were several others—Angel’s, Niffty’s, Husk’s, Cherri’s, Baxter’s—and the more she pictured that long stretch of hallway, the more obvious it became that no one with sense would believe she had simply wandered that way by accident.
But everyone was downstairs.
That helped.
If anyone did see her, she could say she needed something from Angel’s room, or that she had promised to check on something for Niffty, or that Baxter had left some notes she needed to return. The excuses formed too quickly, one after another, and she knew that made them worse. Innocent people did not prepare so many lies before stepping out of an elevator.
When the doors opened, she hesitated only a second before stepping onto the floor.
The hallway was quieter than she expected, almost too quiet after the warmth and noise of the party below. The lamps along the walls cast low amber light over the patterned carpet, and the shadows stretched long and soft in the corners. From somewhere far beneath her, the music still thumped faintly, distant enough to feel like it belonged to another world entirely.
She walked at first.
Then she walked faster.
Then, when she glanced down the hall and saw no sign of him, she quickened her pace even more.
The first stretch of hallway was still believable. If anyone had appeared, she could have smiled and said she was going to speak with Angel. That excuse held until she passed Angel’s door, her eyes flicking toward it as if the painted wood itself were judging her.
She should have stopped there.
She knew she should have stopped there.
Her room was already far behind her now, and each step forward made her excuse thinner. Still, she kept going, gripping the edge of her skirt lightly as her pulse climbed higher. Maybe he had already reached his room. Maybe she had missed him. Maybe this was for the best, and she could turn around before making an absolute fool of herself.
But then she thought of the way he had watched her all night.
The way his smile had softened when their eyes met.
The way he had said, “I intend on staying,” like the words meant more than they should.
Her feet moved faster before her pride could stop them.
By the time she reached the bend in the hall that led toward his side of the floor, nerves had turned her careful pace into something almost like running. She turned the corner too sharply, glancing over her shoulder as if she might catch sight of his shadow moving along the wall, some dark curl of magic slipping through the dim light. Nothing moved behind her except the faint sway of the curtains near the windows.
For one terrible moment, disappointment struck her so strongly that she nearly stopped.
She had missed him.
Of course she had missed him.
She exhaled sharply, frustrated with herself, and turned forward again while still moving too quickly.
Then she collided with something solid.
The impact stole a breath from her, and she stumbled backward, papers that were not even in her hands somehow feeling like they should have scattered for dramatic effect. Before she could fall, a firm hand caught her arm, fingers curling around her with careful strength, and another hand steadied her at the waist just long enough to bring her upright.
She looked up.
Alastor stood directly in front of her, crimson eyes bright beneath the low hallway light, his smile already in place as if he had been waiting there all along.
Her heart nearly stopped.
“Oh, I—” she stammered, eyes widening as she tried to step back without looking like she was fleeing. “I, uh… I didn’t see you there, Alastor. I—”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” he said smoothly, though his voice carried the faintest crackle of static beneath the amusement. “I have come to understand that you possess an awful habit of running into people in hallways.”
His brow arched with elegant accusation, and she felt heat rush up her neck.
“That is not—”
“I must say, darling,” he continued, leaning just slightly on his cane as his grin sharpened, “I didn’t know I had acquired quite the little stalker.”
Her mouth fell open. “Hey, I wasn’t stalking you.”
“No?” he asked, tilting his head with exaggerated curiosity.
“No,” she insisted, though the word came out much less convincing than she wanted.
He bent slightly to her level, not enough to crowd her fully, but enough that the space between them felt suddenly charged. His gaze swept over her face with infuriating patience, as though he had all the time in Hell to enjoy watching her struggle.
“Then enlighten me, my dear,” he said. “What are you doing all the way over here in front of my room, on the opposite side of your own room?”
“I…” She swallowed, her mind scrambling through every excuse she had prepared, only to find all of them useless under his stare. “I, um…”
“Go on,” he encouraged, his smile widening by the smallest degree. “I am listening you have my full attention.”
“I was just looking for you to…” She paused, immediately regretting every decision that had led to this hallway. “To talk about the hotel ledgers.”
“The ledgers,” he repeated, voice smooth enough to be dangerous.
“Yes,” she said too quickly. “The hotel ledgers. I wanted to ask if you gave them to me.”
Alastor’s smile did not move, but his eyes gleamed with barely contained laughter.
“Darling,” he said gently, “I have already done that, if you recall. Three days ago.”
She closed her eyes for half a second.
Of course.
Of course he had.
“O-oh,” she said, opening her eyes again with a strained little smile. “Right. Well, I guess… goodnight.”
She turned to leave, ready to preserve whatever dignity remained by walking away as quickly as possible, but his voice stopped her before she made it two steps.
“Did you truly follow me all this way just to talk about the hotel?”
Her shoulders tensed.
She did not turn around at first. She could feel his gaze on her back, patient and sharp, and somehow that was worse than if he had laughed outright.
“I…” she began.
The lie was right there.
All she had to do was say yes.
“Y-yes,” she said, not looking at him.
“Oh, really?” he asked, and the amusement in his voice deepened.
“Yes,” she repeated, quieter this time.
The hall fell silent for a moment, save for the faraway beat of music below them and the faint static hum that always seemed to linger near him.
“So,” Alastor said at last, his tone becoming softer, “you weren’t looking at me all night tonight?”
That made her turn around.
Her embarrassment flared into something defensive, and she pointed at him before she could stop herself. “Hey, you were looking at me too.”
“I was,” he admitted without hesitation.
The honesty knocked the breath from her.
She blinked at him, suddenly robbed of the righteous indignation she had been holding onto. “You were?”
“Indeed,” he said, stepping closer with slow, measured ease. “In fact, perhaps I was waiting for you to follow me.”
Her eyes widened. “You knew I was following you?”
A low chuckle rolled from him, warm and old-fashioned, threaded with radio static. “My dear, I knew before the elevator doors opened.”
Her face burned. “You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And you let me keep going?”
“Naturally.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, his voice lowering just enough that the word seemed to settle directly beneath her ribs, “I wanted you to.”
She stared at him, the answer striking through every nervous excuse she had built for herself. The hallway suddenly felt smaller, the distance between them impossibly thin.
“Why?” she asked again, but this time her voice was softer.
Alastor’s smile remained, yet there was something different beneath it now, something less performative and far more dangerous because it felt honest.
“Because I have grown rather tired of pretending there is nothing happening between us,” he said. “I am tired of pretending I do not notice every stolen glance, every little excuse, every delightful accident in a hallway where you just so happen to fall directly into my path.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
His eyes flicked over her face, studying every reaction.
“And stranger still,” he continued, “I find that I do not hate it. I do not hate this feeling of wanting to be near you, of wanting your attention, of wanting…” He paused, jaw tightening slightly, as though the next word required more honesty than he was accustomed to giving. “More.”
Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.
“Alastor…”
“Of course,” he went on, his tone sharpening again with a touch of teasing to shield the vulnerability beneath it, “I assume you feel the same. Otherwise, how else would you explain all those times you have ‘accidentally’ bumped into me in the halls?”
The way he said accidentally made her groan softly, covering part of her face with one hand.
“You knew?”
“My dear,” he said, delighted, “you are many things, but subtle is not one of them.”
“Oh, heavens,” she muttered. “I want the floor to open up and swallow me.”
“No need for such dramatics. That is usually my department.”
“I feel embarrassed,” she admitted, dropping her hand and looking away.
“Don’t be.”
“Easy for you to say,” she said, her voice smaller now. “You’re never embarrassed.”
“Not publicly,” he replied. “Privately, I make a point of being offended by the entire concept.”
Despite herself, she laughed, and his expression softened just slightly at the sound.
“I find it refreshing,” he added.
She looked back at him. “Refreshing?”
“Yes,” he said, the word carrying something almost fond. “You want what you want and try very badly to pretend otherwise. It is terribly entertaining.”
She narrowed her eyes, though the heat in her face had not faded. “That sounds like an insult.”
“It was a compliment wrapped in excellent manners.”
“That does sound like you.”
“High praise, I’m sure.”
The quiet stretched again, warmer this time, and she felt the tension between them shift into something that no longer felt like it could be ignored. The teasing had led them there, but it was not enough to carry them through the rest of it. Not anymore.
She took a slow breath.
“Alastor, I…” She hesitated, fingers curling nervously at her sides. “I like you.”
His gaze did not leave hers. “Do you now?”
“Yes,” she said, forcing herself not to look away this time. “And you don’t have to feel the same if you don’t, but I… I really like you. I am attracted to you, and I know that sounds terrible to say out loud because of everything and because of who we are here, but I can’t keep pretending I only want to talk about ledgers.”
Something flickered in his eyes, quick and bright.
She rushed on before fear could silence her.
“I like when you’re near me. I like when you call my name, even though I pretend not to. I like when you help me, and I like when you tease me, and I like when you look at me like you’ve already figured out what I’m thinking.” Her voice lowered as the honesty settled into her. “I know what you are, Alastor. I know how you got down here. I’m not confused about that. I’m not pretending you’re harmless, and I don’t think you’re safe just because you’re charming.”
His smile went very still.
“But I don’t want harmless and I don’t wan’t anyone else,” she admitted. “I want you.”
For once, he did not answer immediately.
The silence should have scared her, but it did not. His hand still hovered near his cane, his posture composed, yet something in him had changed, as though the words had reached beneath the surface of him and found a place he had not meant to expose.
Then he stepped closer.
“I feel the same,” he said.
Her breath caught.
“And believe me, my dear, I have tried to reason my way around it,” he continued, his voice quieter now, more intimate without losing that unmistakable Alastor cadence. “I have called it curiosity, inconvenience, entertainment, even irritation on particularly stubborn evenings. None of those names were correct.”
She listened without moving.
“I am not a sentimental creature,” he said, his smile returning faintly, though it was not sharp this time. “I do not enjoy being pulled toward someone without my permission, and I certainly do not enjoy realizing that someone has become a thought I return to without invitation. Yet there you are, again and again, turning up in my mind as if you own the place.”
Her lips parted, but she could not think of anything to say.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, and the movement was so small that anyone else might have missed it.
She did not.
“I admire your mind,” he said. “Your stubbornness, your composure, your terribly inconvenient compassion. I admire the way you hold that family of yours together with both hands and still make room for everyone else’s burdens. I admire the way you look at Hell and do not flinch from what it is.”
His voice dipped lower.
“And, since we are apparently being honest, I would be lying if I said my admiration ended there.”
The hallway seemed to still around them.
She could hear the faint crackle of his static, softer than usual, as if even that part of him had drawn closer.
“You are beautiful, Y/N,” he said, and her name in his voice felt more intimate than any endearment. “Not merely in the way people expect princesses to be beautiful, not in some polished, distant, untouchable sense. You are beautiful in ways that are terribly distracting.”
She swallowed.
“Distracting?”
“Agonizingly,” he said, with enough theatrical irritation that she almost smiled.
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“I had my reasons.”
“Such as?”
“For one,” he said, tilting his head, “I was under the impression that corrupting a Morningstar princess no… corrupting you… might cause unnecessary family tension.”
She gave him a look. “You torment my father for entertainment.”
“Yes, but that is different. It’s hilarious to torment him.”
A laugh slipped from her before she could stop it, and he looked pleased with himself.
“Besides,” he continued, more softly, “I did not think you looked at me the same way.”
Her expression gentled.
“You didn’t?”
“No,” he said. “I thought you were curious. Perhaps fond. Perhaps foolishly trusting. I did not think you were standing there looking at me with the same…” His words slowed, his eyes sharpening with restrained heat. “The same hunger I was trying so carefully to hide.”
Her breath trembled.
There it was.
The truth underneath all the manners, all the teasing, all the careful distance.
She moved before she could lose her courage.
He had only begun to say her name when she reached for him, fingers brushing the front of his coat, and rose onto her toes to kiss him.
For the first second, Alastor went completely still.
Not shocked in the simple sense, not startled like someone unprepared for affection, but still in the way a predator became still when the world changed around him. His smile vanished against her mouth, his breath catching in a quiet, almost inaudible crackle of static, and then his hand came up to her waist.
He did not shove her away.
He drew her closer, dropping his cane to the floor as it melted into the shadows.
The kiss deepened slowly, not rushed, not careless, but filled with all the restraint they had been choking down for more than a year. His fingers tightened at her side, careful enough not to hurt, firm enough to make her feel exactly how much control he was holding back. Her hands slid higher, one curling into the lapel of his coat while the other found his shoulder, and the warmth of him beneath the fabric made her dizzy.
He tasted faintly of black coffee and something darker, something sharp and sweet as smoke.
When he angled his head, she followed without thinking.
The motion pulled a soft sound from her throat, and Alastor’s grip flexed in response, his static flaring briefly through the air like a radio catching fire before he forced it back under control. The shadows at the edges of the hall stirred, stretching along the floorboards, curling toward them as though drawn by his restraint fraying at the seams.
He broke the kiss first, but only barely.
Their faces remained close, his forehead nearly touching hers, his smile returning in a slower, more dangerous curve.
“Well,” he murmured, voice roughened by something far less polished than usual, “that was certainly one way to interrupt a confession.”
Her face warmed instantly, but she did not step back. “You were taking too long.”
His eyes gleamed. “Impatient little thing.”
“You were the one who said you were tired of pretending.”
“So I did,” he said, thumb brushing once at her waist. “And here I thought I was being rather eloquent.”
“You were,” she admitted, her voice softening. “I just didn’t want to wait anymore either. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that.”
For a moment, the amusement in him gave way to something quieter. His hand rose slowly, giving her every chance to move away, and when she did not, his fingers brushed beneath her chin, tilting her face toward him.
“My dear,” he said, “you should be very certain before you invite me closer.”
She held his gaze. “I am.”
His smile sharpened, but his eyes searched hers with unexpected seriousness.
“Y/N,” he said, and there was no teasing in the way he said her name now. “I am many terrible things.”
“I know.”
“I am possessive.”
“I know.”
“I do not share well.”
“I assumed.”
“I have a dreadful habit of making enemies.”
“You already had those.”
A brief laugh crackled from him, surprised and delighted despite himself.
“And what if I tell you,” he said, leaning closer, “that I have thought about kissing you far more often than a gentleman ought to admit?”
Her pulse jumped. “Then I would say I’ve thought about it too.”
His gaze flicked to her mouth again.
“How scandalous.”
She smiled, braver now. “Are you judging me?”
“Admiring you, actually.”
Alastor leaned in to kiss Y/N once more, and this time, neither pulled away, even as their breaths came in heavy pants. He held her close, his grip firm and unyielding. She didn't know exactly when she ended up pressed against the wall, but suddenly he hoisted her up, pinning her there as she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. Their mouths crashed together in a heated makeout, his claws tilting her head back, sending shivers down her spine. He bit her lower lip sharply before trailing his teeth downward, nipping and biting along her jaw and neck. Y/N threw her head back with a gasp as he latched onto her collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
He surged back up to claim her lips again, and she retaliated by biting his lip, her tongue flicking along the bottom edge. A deep groan rumbled from his chest, and Alastor fisted a hand in the hair at the back of her scalp, deepening the kiss with raw hunger. Without breaking contact, he maneuvered them toward the door of his room, kicking it open with a forceful thud before slamming it shut behind them. The kiss turned even more desperate, tongues tangling as hands roamed.
"I need you," Y/N whispered against his mouth, her voice breathless. "Please, I need you Alastor."
Alastor growled low in his throat, the sound primal. "Fuck," he snarled, the vulgarity slipping out as he slammed her back against the now-closed door. His claws tore through her dress in one swift motion, fabric shredding like paper, and she responded in kind, ripping at his shirt and coat until buttons scattered across the floor.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," his voice rough with desire, before capturing her mouth again. He scooped her up effortlessly, carrying her to the bed and lowering them both onto the mattress, his body covering hers. Their kisses didn't stop as he settled on top, pinning her down.
"You don't know how long I've wanted this, wanted you," he murmured, nipping at her neck and collarbone, sucking marks into her skin. "How long I've craved the taste of your lips, your skin. How many times you occupied my mind.”
Y/N moaned, her brows furrowing in pleasure as his teeth grazed sensitive spots. He kissed her deeply once more, then pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
"You tell me if you don't want this ok? Say the word and I’ll stop you Y/n."
She nodded quickly, heart pounding.
"Say yes," he commanded, his voice a velvet whisper.
"Yes," she breathed. " I'll tell you if I want to stop."
'Good girl," Alastor purred, rewarding her with another searing kiss. His mouth trailed lower, lips brushing over her exposed skin until he reached her panties—crimson red lace that hugged her hips. "Was this for me, darling?" he asked, a teasing edge to his tone.
Y/N blushed fiercely, turning her head away in embarrassment.
He chuckled darkly, tracing a claw along the edge. "Red looks absolutely divine on you, darling. It's a shame..." With a flick of his wrist, he ripped the panties off, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the room. "Such a shame I won't be able to see it on you for much longer."
His lips pressed to her lower stomach, then right above her clit, drawing a sharp gasp from her. She tried to close her legs instinctively, but Alastor forced them open with strong hands, his grip unyielding. He teased her folds with his tongue, light licks that skirted her entrance and circled her clit without mercy, edging her closer to the brink only to pull back. A mischievous glint sparked in his red eyes as he watched her squirm—he thrived on it, on seeing her break, crumble, and beg beneath him.
Y/N's hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the friction he denied her. "Alastor, please," she whimpered, fingers twisting in the sheets.
"Not yet," he murmured against her thigh, nipping the soft flesh before soothing it with a slow lick. His tongue delved deeper now, parting her slick lips to lap at her entrance, tasting her arousal. He sucked her clit into his mouth, flicking it with precise strokes that made her thighs tremble. But every time her breaths hitched and her body tensed toward release, he withdrew, blowing cool air over her heated core to heighten the torment.
"You're so wet for me already," he murmured, smirking as he looked up at her heated face, using a claw to stroke her inner thigh, dangerously close to where she ached. "But I want to hear you beg properly, mon ange. Tell me how badly you want me. How badly you need this as much as I do."
Her cheeks burned, but the denial was too much. "Please, Alastor... I need it. I need you. Fuck me, make me yours."
A satisfied rumble vibrated through him as he shed the remnants of his clothes, his hard cock springing free—thick, veined, and throbbing with need. He positioned himself between her legs, the tip nudging her entrance, coating himself in her wetness. "That's my good girl," he praised, thrusting in slowly at first, inch by inch, stretching her around his girth. Y/N cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled her completely.
He didn't give her time to adjust, pulling back only to slam forward again, setting a punishing rhythm. His hips snapped against hers, cock driving deep with each thrust, hitting that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. Alastor's mouth found her neck, biting down as he fucked her harder, groans escaping him despite his usual composure. "Fuck, you feel perfect Y/n," he grunted, one hand pinning her wrist above her head while the other gripped her hip, controlling every movement.
Y/N arched beneath him, moans spilling freely as pleasure coiled tight in her core. He released her wrist to slide a hand between them, thumb circling her clit in time with his thrusts, pushing her toward the edge once more. This time, he didn't stop—his pace quickened, cock pounding into her relentlessly until she shattered, pussy clenching around him in waves of ecstasy.
Alastor followed soon after, burying himself deep with a final, guttural "Fuck!"' as he came, spilling hot cum inside her.
Alastor rose from their tangled embrace, his body still humming with the aftershocks of release. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep, lingering kiss, her pussy still tender and quivering around the warmth of his cum filling her. She shivered beneath him, oversensitive, as his tongue teased her breasts with deliberate strokes. He pulled away slowly, his gaze trailing hungrily over her—from the rapid rise and fall of her breasts to the slick trail of his seed leaking from her entrance, pooling between her thighs.
"Alastor..?" she murmured, her voice a soft plea that ignited fresh hunger in him.
That sound, that vulnerability, made him crave more. In one fluid motion, he flipped her onto her knees, her ass presented to him like an offering. He pressed forward, kissing the nape of her neck as his cock slid back into her soaked heat from behind, her walls gripping him tightly despite the recent flooding.
She gasped, a sharp moan escaping her lips. "O-oh my stars... A-Alastor? W-what are you-..."
His hand settled firmly on her waist, guiding them both upright into a kneeling position, her back arched against his chest. He thrust slowly at first, savoring the way she yielded to him. "You're such a pretty thing, my dear," he purred, eyes locked on her reflection in the dim light, drinking in her flushed form. 'You're doing so well for me, darling.'
His other hand roamed to her breast, fingers capturing her nipple and pinching it with precise pressure, rolling it until she arched further. He bit down on her shoulder, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a distinct mark, branding her as his. Tears pricked her eyes from the exquisite overload, spilling over as pleasure bordered on pain. "Alastor, i-it feels so good," she moaned, voice breaking. "Please, keep going."
"Oh, tell me, darling—what do you want? Hmmm?" His tone was velvet command, hips rolling deeper.
"I-I... I want you to keep going, please. More. Deeper."
He smirked against her skin, adjusting his angle to plunge even further, the head of his cock nudging her deepest spots. "Oh? Like this, darling?"
She threw her head back with a throaty moan, hair tousled wildly, mascara streaked in dark rivulets down her cheeks, lipstick smeared across her swollen lips. "Oh! Oh, right there—right! Yes, please, mmm!"
He chuckled, the sound rich and approving, vibrating through her core. "You're such a pretty little mess for me, darling. My pretty little mess—so perfect. You're taking me so well.”
She gasped and moaned, her body clenching rhythmically around his relentless length.
"There you go, sweetheart. Take me nice and deep. There it is, my pretty little pet."
She twisted to glance at him over her shoulder, and his eyes caught the subtle bulge reforming in her lower abdomen with each thrust, his thick shaft outlined beneath her skin. His gaze sharpened, glinting with raw desire as his smile stretched wider, teeth grazing his lower lip. He flattened his palm over the bulge, pressing firmly to feel his own movement inside her.
She gasped, head snapping down to stare. "Oh my god, Alastor, please—it's sensitive. I don't think I can—"
"Ah ah ah, look at me. You can and you will my sweet girl," His free hand gripped her neck, fingers curling to tilt her face back to his, holding her gaze captive. "I want to see that pretty little face when you fall apart for me. Make me proud darling."
Tears streamed freely now, her body trembling. "A-Alastor, I can't—it's too much!"
"You can take it, sweetheart. Look how good you are right now. Just one more, give me one more, sweet girl. You can do it. Can't you, mon chérie?' She nodded eagerly, and he surged forward, pounding into her with increased ferocity, hips snapping against her ass in sharp, wet impacts.
"A-Alastor!" she cried.
"Are you close? Do you want release? Oh my poor girl."
"Y-yes, please! I'm s-so close..."
He groaned, thrusts growing erratic as his own peak built. "Me too, darling. Cum with me."
She nodded, lost in the haze.
"When I count down, you cum. If you cum before I tell you to, I'll stop immediately. Do you understand?"
She nodded again. '5...'
She whined, body quaking.
"4..."
Panting heavily, her eyes drifted down to their joined bodies, fixated on the bulge pulsing with his invasions.
He seized her chin. "Ah ah ah, don't look away from me.'"
Two fingers thrust into her mouth, swirling over her tongue, making her suck them greedily before he dragged them downward to her swollen clit, circling it with her own saliva as lubricant.
Utterly overstimulated, cock-drunk and dazed, she met his eyes with desperate, glassy need.
"5... 4..." He counted, groaning as her pussy fluttered wildly.
"3..."
The tension coiled unbearably; she whined and moaned. "A-Alastor..."
"2..."
His hand on her throat drew her closer, lips brushing hers.
"1. Cum, pet. Cum for me. Come undone for me."
Her body seized in spasms, walls milking him fiercely as ecstasy ripped through her. "A-Alastor!" she moaned, but he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, muffling her squeals and screams as he grunted, cock throbbing to unleash more of his cum deep inside. Excess seed spilled out, trickling down her thighs in hot, sticky paths as they shuddered together in shared release.
They collapsed together in a heap of limbs and sweat-slicked skin, chests heaving with soft pants that filled the quiet room. Alastor's cock slipped free from her pulsing pussy, more of his thick cum oozing out to join the mess already coating her inner thighs.
Y/N lay there beside him, her body pleasantly heavy, her heartbeat still slowly settling back into place as she stared up at the ceiling, trying to process the fact that this had happened at all.
That it had been him.
That it had been them.
Alastor beside her, quieter than usual, one arm still loosely around her waist for a brief lingering moment before he slowly pulled away.
And then he got up.
Without a word.
She blinked.
At first, she thought nothing of it. Maybe he was simply adjusting, grabbing something, stretching, anything normal. But as the seconds passed and the warmth beside her disappeared completely, something cold and awful began to creep into her chest.
Her eyes followed him, wide and uncertain.
Was he leaving?
The thought hit harder than it should have.
This was his room. Of course it was his room. She was the one in his bed, in his space, wrapped in sheets that smelled like him, but still her mind raced with panic before logic could catch it.
Did he regret it?
Did he not enjoy it?
Was he already done with the entire thing?
Was this not what she had let herself believe it was?
Her throat tightened.
She had known Alastor was not overly affectionate in public. He was not the type to drape himself over someone or perform softness for an audience, and she had never expected that from him. But this… this sudden silence, this distance right after… it made every insecurity rush forward all at once.
Had she misunderstood everything?
Had this only been desire for him?
A moment.
A fling.
Had she been foolish enough to think it meant more?
She pulled the blanket up quickly to her chest, then higher, until it sat at her neck, as though covering herself might somehow stop the ache building behind her ribs. Suddenly, she felt too exposed, too open, too aware of herself in a room that moments ago had felt safe.
Her eyes stung.
She hated that.
Hated how quickly tears threatened, how vulnerable it made her feel.
Did she do something wrong?
Was this a mistake to him?
The first tear slipped free before she could stop it, and she pressed her lips together hard, frustrated with herself even as more followed.
She was just beginning to spiral into the worst possible version of every thought when the bathroom door opened.
Alastor stepped back into the room, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled slightly, holding a warm cloth in one hand and looking entirely unprepared for the sight of her quietly crying in his bed.
His expression shifted instantly.
The smile remained, because it always did, but his brows furrowed sharply as he crossed the room without hesitation.
“Darling,” he said, his voice softer now, concern threading beneath the familiar warmth, “why are you crying? Did you not enjoy yourself? Are you in pain?”
He sat beside her immediately, setting the cloth aside for a moment as one hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye to catch a tear.
She looked up at him, startled.
“Oh—I…” Her voice broke embarrassingly on the first attempt, and she shook her head. “I just thought you left. I thought…”
Understanding crossed his face almost immediately.
And then he chuckled—not mocking, never cruel, but warm and quiet, the kind of laugh that eased rather than embarrassed.
“No, my dear,” he murmured, wiping away another tear. “I simply went to fetch something to clean you up. I was not abandoning you in the slightest.”
She let out a shaky laugh despite herself, still sniffling. “I thought maybe… maybe you were done. Or regretted it. Or that maybe this was just…”
She couldn’t quite finish it.
His expression softened in a way few people ever got to see.
“Oh, mon cœur,” he said quietly, leaning closer, his forehead nearly brushing hers. “No.”
Just that.
No.
Simple, certain, immediate.
The kind of answer that left no room for doubt.
“I—I can clean up,” she tried, still flustered, reaching slightly for the cloth.
He stopped her gently.
“No, darling. Let me take care of you.”
There was no room to argue in the way he said it—not forceful, but firm in that calm, assured way he had when he had already decided something.
Carefully, he helped her settle back against the pillows, his touch deliberate and respectful as he cleaned her up with surprising tenderness, far gentler than most people would ever expect from the Radio Demon.
She watched him quietly the whole time.
There was something deeply intimate in it, somehow more vulnerable than everything before. No performance. No teasing. Just him, taking care of her because he wanted to.
When he finished, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
“You did very well Y/n,” he murmured.
The praise made warmth rise in her face all over again, but this time it was softer, safer.
She smiled faintly.
He set everything aside and returned to bed, pulling the blankets around them before drawing her back against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
This time, when he wrapped an arm around her and settled beside her, she let herself relax completely.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
She listened to the steady sound of him breathing, to the faint static hum that always seemed quieter when he was like this, and for the first time all night, the anxious ache in her chest disappeared.
She looked up at him.
Then she laughed softly.
He glanced down at her, one brow lifting.
“Now,” he said, voice low and amused, “what has my cheeky little minx laughing to herself?”
She smiled against his chest.
“Just… I feel so happy.”
The honesty of it made her blush a little, but she meant it. Entirely.
He chuckled softly, fingers tracing absent patterns against her back.
“I feel the same way, my dear.”
She let the silence settle again for a moment before the question she had been holding finally slipped free.
“…Was this a one-time thing?”
His hand stilled.
She hesitated.
“Will you…?”
She did not even know how to finish it.
Will you stay?
Will you still want me tomorrow?
Will this matter in the morning?
But he understood anyway.
He leaned back slightly, just enough to look at her properly, and whatever teasing might have lived in him before was gone now. What remained was something quieter. More honest.
“If you are implying that we simply pretend none of this happened,” he said, voice low and steady, “then no.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“No, I cannot do that. I do not want to do that.”
She searched his face, and for once there was no performance to hide behind.
Only truth.
“I am not especially skilled at these sorts of declarations,” he admitted, the faintest trace of frustration crossing his features, as though he disliked not having perfect words for once. “But I shall attempt clarity.”
His fingers brushed lightly over hers where their hands rested between them.
“I want you to be mine.”
Her breath caught.
“And I want to be yours,” he continued. “Entirely. In all the ways that matter.”
His gaze held hers, steady and unwavering.
“I want you to belong to me, and I want the privilege of belonging to you in return. I do not think I could let you go after this even if I tried, and truthfully, I have no desire to try.”
Her chest ached with how sincere he sounded.
“Not only have you seen me in such a state,” he said, quieter now, “but I have given this part of myself to you. I cannot stand the thought of you with someone else. I do not want distance. I do not want pretending. I want this. I want us.”
Her eyes stung again, but for an entirely different reason.
“I feel the same,” she whispered. “I do.”
He kissed her temple softly.
“But?” he asked after a moment, because he knew her well enough to hear the hesitation she had not spoken.
She sighed.
“But…”
He leaned back just enough to look at her.
“But?” he repeated, gentler this time.
She bit her lip, suddenly far less confident.
“I don’t want to tell my sister. Or my dad.”
He blinked once.
Then, very calmly, he asked, “Why not, my dear?”
He studied her for a moment after she admitted it, his expression quieter now, the teasing softened by something more attentive. His fingers still traced slow circles against the back of her hand beneath the blankets, grounding her while he let the silence sit long enough for her to speak honestly.
“Are you…” he began carefully, his voice lower than before, “ashamed?”
The question made her head lift immediately.
“No,” she said, almost too quickly, shaking her head against the pillow. “No, not at all. Never that.”
Her answer came with enough certainty that he believed it before she even continued, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.
“I’m not ashamed of this,” she said more softly, turning slightly so she could look at him properly. “Or of you. That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” he asked.
She sighed, the weight of it returning now that she had to put it into words.
“It’s my family,” she admitted. “It’s Charlie… and my dad… and honestly Vaggie too, because if she gets stressed, Charlie gets stressed, and then everyone gets stressed and somehow I end up in the middle trying to fix it.”
That earned the faintest amused hum from him, but he stayed quiet, letting her continue.
She pulled the blanket a little higher around herself, not out of discomfort this time, but because talking about this made her feel strangely vulnerable.
“I know you and my dad don’t exactly…” she searched for the right word, then gave him a look, “…get along very well.”
Alastor’s mouth twitched.
“A tragic misunderstanding between gentlemen, truly.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You antagonize him for sport.”
“Only because he makes it so entertaining.”
She slapped his shoulder lightly, and he gave a low laugh, the sound warm against the quiet room.
“I’m serious,” she said, though she was smiling despite herself. “You know how protective he is of me. I’m the youngest. He already acts like I’m still twelve sometimes, and if he finds out I’m with you, I swear he might literally have a heart attack.”
Alastor tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Now, I know he is your father, my dear,” he said, voice full of false consideration, “but I would absolutely love to see him attempt that.”
She smacked his shoulder again, harder this time.
“Alastor!”
He laughed properly then, the sound crackling softly with static, and pulled her a little closer when she tried to glare at him.
“I’m trying to be serious and you’re planning my father’s dramatic death scene.”
“I assure you, I am picturing it with great affection.”
“You’re terrible.”
“And yet, still adored.”
She huffed, but the smile stayed.
Then it faded again as the real worry returned.
“I just… I don’t want this to become another problem for Charlie,” she said quietly. “She already carries so much with the hotel, with Heaven, with trying to prove redemption works. This place means everything to her. What if she thinks I’m making things harder? What if she thinks I’m risking everything by… by being with you?”
That made him still.
Not offended.
Just listening.
“She trusts you,” he said after a moment.
“I know.”
“She trusts me enough to let me stay despite every reason she should not.”
“I know that too.”
“But?”
She exhaled slowly.
“But Charlie sees the best in people. She believes in people so much it hurts sometimes. And I’m scared that if this goes wrong, she’ll feel like she failed somehow. Or worse, she’ll think I’m choosing something selfish over her dream.”
She looked down at their joined hands.
“And my dad…” she laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Lucifer will absolutely explode. He’ll probably try to challenge you to something ridiculous. Or cry. Or both.”
“Likely both,” Alastor agreed.
She groaned and buried part of her face against his shoulder.
“I’m not scared because this happened too fast,” she admitted into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m scared because I don’t know how they’ll react, and I hate the idea of hurting them. Especially Charlie.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then his hand moved gently to the back of her head, fingers threading lightly through her hair as he held her there.
When he spoke, his voice had lost almost all of its usual theatrical edge.
“For what it is worth,” he said quietly, “I understand.”
She looked up at him again.
He gave a small sigh, as though even admitting that much was unusual.
“Your father and I are… well, let us generously call it a spirited dynamic,” he said. “And your sister’s opinion matters more than I think either of us would like to admit. I understand why you are hesitant.”
She searched his face, relieved that he wasn’t offended.
“I just don’t want you to think I’m hiding you because I’m ashamed.”
“I do not,” he said immediately. “Had that been the case, we would be having a very different conversation.”
That made her smile faintly.
He brushed his thumb over her cheek.
“I know the difference between shame and fear, darling. You are afraid of hurting people you love. That is not something I would ever hold against you.”
The words loosened something in her chest she had been holding tight all night.
“Really?”
“Really.”
She let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“Please,” she said softly. “Just until I figure out how to… tell them. I just need a little time.”
He nodded once, calm and certain.
“Darling,” he said, “you are not alone in this.”
His hand slid down to lace with hers again.
“You do not have to carry every reaction, every consequence, every difficult conversation by yourself simply because you are accustomed to doing so. If your father wishes to glare at someone, I assure you I am more than capable of surviving it. If Vaggie decides I am the source of all evil, well, that would hardly be new territory.”
She laughed softly.
“And Charlie?”
At that, his expression gentled.
“Charlie loves you,” he said. “That will matter more than her surprise. She may worry. She may ask far too many questions. She may make an emotional speech that lasts twenty minutes.”
“She absolutely will.”
“Undoubtedly. But she loves you. Start there.”
Y/N smiled, warmth spreading through her again.
“Thank you, Alastor.”
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead, slow and lingering.
“Of course, princess.”
His voice was softer there, almost reverent.
“Whenever you are ready.”
And for the first time since the worry had begun, she believed that maybe this did not have to be terrifying.
Maybe it could simply be theirs, for a little while longer.
At least, that was what Y/N thought would happen.
She thought keeping their relationship private would mean nothing more than a little discretion, a few careful glances, and the occasional decision not to stand too close when someone else was in the room. She thought secrecy would be simple because they had already spent months pretending there was nothing between them, and surely continuing that performance would be easy now that they both knew the truth.
Instead, somehow, they became worse at it.
Not because they were obvious.
Because they were too careful.
Before, Y/N and Alastor had been seen together constantly. They had worked side by side at the front desk, shared low conversations over ledgers, crossed paths in the halls with familiar ease, and lingered near one another just long enough for everyone to accept it as normal. The hotel had grown used to the sight of them functioning like a well-polished machine, with Y/N handling the warmth and diplomacy, and Alastor sweeping in with charm, spectacle, or intimidation whenever needed.
Now, they avoided each other so thoroughly that it became suspicious.
If Y/N entered the lobby, Alastor happened to be leaving it.
If Alastor appeared in the kitchen, Y/N suddenly remembered something important in Charlie’s office.
If someone mentioned needing them both for a task, they somehow split the work so quickly and professionally that they barely had to exchange more than two sentences in front of anyone.
At first, no one said anything.
Then everyone started noticing.
Angel noticed first, of course, because Angel noticed everything that smelled remotely like drama.
Husk noticed next, because Husk had been watching Alastor with the sharp suspicion of a brother who did not trust men, demons, deals, smiles, or anyone who carried a microphone cane like a weapon.
Vaggie noticed because she noticed any shift in the hotel’s balance.
And Charlie noticed because it was her sister.
That was the dangerous part.
Charlie might have been distracted by guests, redemption plans, paperwork, and every emotional crisis that passed through the front doors, but she knew Y/N too well not to see when something was off.
It happened one afternoon when Y/N was in the lobby pretending to reorganize a stack of pamphlets that had already been reorganized twice. Alastor had entered from the hall, paused when he saw her, smiled politely in that public, distant way that made her stomach twist with amusement and longing, then turned neatly toward the bar as if they were nothing more than coworkers sharing space.
Y/N did not even look at him for more than a second.
That was her mistake.
Charlie’s eyes narrowed.
Not angrily. Never angrily.
Curiously.
Worriedly.
Very, very persistently.
“Hey,” Charlie said, coming up beside her with that careful tone she used when she was trying not to sound like she was prying. “Are you okay?”
Y/N looked up too quickly. “Yes. Why?”
Charlie blinked. “Because you answered that like I asked if you committed a crime.”
“I didn’t commit a crime.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“I know.”
Charlie stared at her.
Y/N stared back.
Then Charlie slowly glanced toward the bar, where Alastor stood beside Husk with his usual smile, saying something that made Husk look like he wanted to pour whiskey directly into his own eyes.
Charlie looked back at her sister.
“Did you and Alastor fight?”
Y/N nearly dropped the pamphlets.
“What? No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because you two have been acting… weird.”
Y/N forced a laugh that sounded, even to her own ears, painfully unconvincing. “Weird how?”
Charlie shifted closer, lowering her voice. “You used to work together all the time. You talked all the time. You would do that thing where you both smiled at each other like you knew something everyone else didn’t, which was a little concerning because it was Alastor, but still kind of nice, and now you barely look at each other.”
Y/N’s cheeks warmed. “We are just busy.”
Charlie’s expression softened, but her concern only deepened. “Y/N.”
That single use of her name nearly broke her.
Her sister knew her too well. Charlie could hear the lie beneath the words, could see the stiffness in her shoulders and the way she kept pretending to fix the pamphlet display to avoid looking anywhere near the bar.
“Did he say something to you?” Charlie asked gently. “Did he upset you?”
“No,” Y/N said immediately, too firmly this time. “No, he didn’t.”
Charlie frowned. “Then why are you acting like this?”
“I’m not acting like anything.”
“You are. You’re doing the thing where you pretend everything is fine because you think it’ll make everyone else feel better.”
Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Of all the times for Charlie to be painfully correct.
Before Charlie could press further, Vaggie called from across the room.
“Charlie! Can you come here for a second? We’ve got a problem with the new guest forms.”
Y/N had never been so grateful for paperwork in her life.
Charlie glanced toward Vaggie, then back at her sister, eyes still narrowed with loving suspicion.
“This is not over.”
Y/N smiled weakly. “I figured.”
Charlie pointed at her gently before stepping away. “We are talking later.”
“Of course,” Y/N said, knowing full well she would avoid that conversation with the skill of a fugitive.
Charlie left, but not without looking back once more.
Y/N exhaled slowly once her sister was gone, only to glance toward the bar and find Alastor already watching her over the rim of his coffee cup, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.
She gave him the smallest glare.
He smiled wider.
Across the room, Husk saw the look and immediately looked exhausted.
Angel leaned against the bar beside him, following his gaze with delighted interest.
“Somethin’ happen between those two?” Angel murmured.
Husk grunted. “Probably.”
“You think Smiles did somethin’?”
“I always think he did somethin’.”
Angel’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as he watched Y/N disappear toward the hall. “If he hurt her, I’ll kill him.”
Husk gave him a dry look.
“What?” Angel said. “I’ll try.”
“You’ll die.”
“Yeah, but I’ll die with great hair and moral superiority.”
Husk sighed into his drink. “Nobody ask him anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s batshit crazy.”
Angel paused, considering that, then nodded. “Fair.”
And so the hotel formed its own quiet theory.
Something had happened.
Y/N and Alastor had fallen out.
Alastor had said something cruel.
Y/N was keeping professional because that was what she always did.
No one questioned Alastor because no one with survival instincts volunteered to interrogate the Radio Demon about his personal affairs. No one questioned Y/N because they assumed if she wanted to talk, she would, and if she didn’t, they should give her space.
None of them knew that every night, when the hotel quieted and the guests drifted away to their rooms, Y/N and Alastor stopped pretending.
They slipped through the halls like secrets.
Some nights, she went to him, wrapped in a robe and soft nerves, crossing the distance between their rooms with her heart beating wildly despite how many times she had done it already. Other nights, his shadows curled beneath her door, a silent invitation that made her smile before she even stood. He would appear moments later with that gentlemanly poise of his, offering his hand as if he had not been aching to touch her all day.
Behind closed doors, the distance they kept in public disappeared completely.
The politeness remained, in its own strange way, because Alastor was always Alastor, but it became something warmer, something intimate and devoted. He touched her like she was precious and dangerous all at once, like he wanted to savor every reaction but also keep control of himself with careful discipline. She learned the shape of his restraint and the moments when it began to crack. He learned the exact softness in her voice that meant she trusted him completely.
Their nights were full of passion, but not only passion.
There was laughter, too.
Quiet teasing beneath blankets. Whispered conversations in the dark. Her fingers tracing idle patterns over his chest while his hand rested possessively at her waist. His voice, lower and less polished after midnight, murmuring things he would never say where anyone else could hear.
And every time he returned with water, warm cloths, or one of his carefully prepared little aftercare rituals, she felt that first fear become more distant.
He did not leave her.
He stayed.
Every time.
Sometimes secrecy made them reckless in smaller ways.
When the hotel was distracted, Alastor would catch her in a quiet hallway, his hand closing lightly around her wrist before drawing her into the shadow of an alcove. The kiss would be brief, controlled, and maddening, leaving her breathless while he straightened as if nothing had happened.
Other times, she would be the one to pull him into a storage closet under the excuse of needing help finding extra towels, only for him to emerge several minutes later with his bow tie slightly crooked and his smile far too satisfied.
Y/N always fixed his collar before they stepped out.
“You look smug,” she would whisper.
“I look handsome,” he would reply.
“You look like you’re going to get us caught.”
“My dear, if I intended to be caught, the entire hotel would already know.”
She would glare at him, and he would kiss the corner of her mouth just to make the glare fail.
There were moments when his shadows became bold little traitors as well.
Once, while she stood at the front desk speaking with a guest, something cool and dark flicked lightly against her backside, quick enough that no one else noticed. Her spine straightened at once, her face heating as she fought to keep her polite smile in place.
Across the lobby, Alastor stood by the fireplace, one hand resting elegantly atop his cane, wearing the most innocent expression she had ever seen on the face of a demon who was absolutely guilty.
She finished with the guest, waited until they walked away, then turned her head just enough to mouth, “Behave.”
His grin sharpened.
The shadow at his feet waved.
She nearly laughed and hated him for it.
But she had her own methods of revenge.
A folded note appeared in his coat pocket one afternoon, delivered so smoothly that even he did not notice until later. He found it while speaking with Charlie, his fingers brushing the paper tucked neatly inside his inner pocket. He did not open it then, of course. He was far too controlled for that.
But curiosity gnawed.
When he finally stepped away, he unfolded it in the privacy of a side hall.
Inside was a simple line written in her careful handwriting.
Thinking of you.
Tucked behind it was a small Polaroid.
Y/N, wearing something delicate and sinful beneath one of her robes, looking into the camera with a mischievous glint in her eye that made the air around him crackle.
For a moment, Alastor went very still.
The static around him sharpened.
His grip on the photograph tightened just enough that he had to consciously loosen it before he creased the edge.
Then he looked up.
Down the hall, Y/N passed by with a clipboard in hand, perfectly composed, the picture of royal professionalism. She glanced at him only once, just long enough to see the color rising faintly beneath his smile and the dangerous flicker in his eyes.
She smiled sweetly.
He nearly growled.
Later, when he found her alone, he leaned down close enough that his voice brushed her ear.
“Cruel little thing.”
She kept her eyes on the papers in front of her. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“I ought to punish you for such wicked behavior.”
Her pen paused.
“Maybe later,” she murmured.
His smile froze for half a second.
Then widened.
“You are going to be the death of me, darling.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
“You underestimate your talents.”
But it was not all desire and stolen touches.
Some of the best moments were the quiet ones.
Alastor made her dinner more often than she expected, though he always pretended it was nothing. He would roll up his sleeves, move through the kitchen with precise confidence, and make dishes rich with spice and warmth while she sat at the counter watching him work. He enjoyed having an audience, but with her, it was different. Her attention did not feel like applause. It felt like being seen.
“You’re staring again,” he said one evening, slicing vegetables with terrifying skill.
“You’re showing off.”
“I am always showing off. The difference is that you appreciate it.”
“I do,” she admitted, resting her chin on her hand. “Especially the sleeves.”
His knife paused for the smallest fraction of a second.
She smiled.
“Careful, princess,” he said, voice low. “I am handling sharp objects.”
“I trust you.”
That made him look at her.
Not sharply.
Softly.
And for a moment, neither of them teased.
Another night, he endured one of her movies.
Endured was the word he used, at least.
Y/N had convinced him to sit with her on the couch in her room, the lights dim, an old blanket draped over both their laps. He had complained about the television, the remote, the sound quality, the pacing, the modern dialogue, and the “deeply uninspired lack of musical accompaniment.”
And yet he stayed.
He stayed through the entire thing, one arm around her shoulders, fingers lightly playing with the ends of her hair while she leaned against him.
At some point, she looked up and found him watching her instead of the screen.
“You’re not paying attention,” she whispered.
“I am paying attention to the only thing in the room worth watching.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “That was smooth.”
“I am a professional.”
“You hated the movie.”
“Passionately.”
“But you stayed.”
He pressed a kiss to her hair. “You wanted me here.”
That was answer enough.
Sometimes they danced on the rooftop where no one could see them.
The hotel lights glowed below, the sky above Hell burning in deep reds and violets, and Alastor would summon old music from somewhere unseen, a soft crackling melody drifting through the night air. He led with graceful confidence, one hand at her waist, the other holding hers, guiding her in slow steps across the rooftop as the wind tugged gently at her hair.
There was no audience there.
No performance.
Only them.
“You know,” she murmured one night, her cheek near his shoulder, “you are much softer than you want people to think.”
“Careful, my dear,” he said. “Such accusations could ruin my reputation.”
“Your reputation survived cannibalism. It can survive dancing with me.”
A quiet laugh moved through him. “Fair point.”
On other nights, he let himself rest in ways no one else would believe.
He would lay with his head in her lap while she sat against the pillows, fingers gently combing through his hair. The first time she touched near his ears, he had gone utterly still, every muscle in him tense as if he did not know whether to lean in or vanish into static.
She had paused immediately.
“Is this okay?”
He had not answered right away.
Then, quietly, almost reluctantly, he said, “Continue.”
So she did.
She never pushed him.
That was what undid him more than anything.
She never demanded confessions. Never forced him to explain old wounds or hidden fears. Never asked him to become softer than he could bear to be. She simply made room for him, and when he chose to speak, she listened.
Some nights, he told her strange little stories from his life before Hell, carefully selected and polished, amusing enough to keep the sharp parts hidden. Other nights, when the hour was late and his guard was lower, the stories became quieter. Less funny. More real.
He would speak of hunger without naming it too plainly. Of loneliness disguised as ambition. Of power and survival and the strange comfort of being feared because fear was easier to understand than love.
Y/N never flinched.
She never interrupted to soften him into something he was not.
She only listened, her hand moving through his hair, her voice gentle when she finally spoke.
“You don’t have to make it sound pretty for me.”
He had gone still at that.
Then, after a long silence, he closed his eyes.
“No,” he said softly. “I suppose I don’t.”
And that was the thing between them.
She was not trying to redeem him.
He was not trying to dim her.
She was fresh air to him, not because she was innocent, but because she did not fear the parts of him that were not. She looked at him fully, with clear eyes and steady hands, and somehow made him feel both known and wanted.
And he was fresh air to her, not because he was safe in the simple sense, but because he saw the weight she carried and did not ask her to pretend it was light. He made space for her sharpness, her desire, her exhaustion, her stubbornness. He did not treat her like a fragile princess or Charlie’s little sister.
He treated her like Y/N.
For months, they lived in that hidden world.
In public, they were distant enough to keep people guessing.
In private, they belonged to each other completely.
Every night, every secret kiss, every shared meal, every rooftop dance, every quiet confession stitched them together a little more tightly, until secrecy no longer felt like a game.
BRO THE ANGLE AND LIGHTING IS SO BAD AND MY SMILE IS AWKWARD AF but Christian was the one holding my phone and I was so nervous so I wasn’t going to tell him how to hold it 😭😭😭 BUT I MET HIM AND HE’S SUCH A SWEETHEART! He was like, “Are you enjoying it here so far?” And I was like, “Yeah! I mean, it’s a lot of waiting around but it’s so worth it,” and he was like, “Don’t worry, I’ll sign this real slow for you.” Scnejslfrwks I almost passed away. He complimented my phone case and held my arm too!!! I also met Amir and he was so sweet and was wearing a silly shirt lol. My feet are sore from all the waiting around and unfortunately the $45 card pack with demon Vox sold out before I got there but 10/10 experience
*hii, so like I'm basing this off of the vanilla version so uhh yeah! Also, I don't really write very often so excuse me if some things don't make sense or etc :)*
Some things;
• I wrote that he lives in a apartment, (I don't think there was any mention that he lives in a HOUSE in the game so uhh yeah.)
• Sol already has been stalking MC(sneaking into their apartment, etc)
• Sol doesn't know that MC is the one stalking him
• I guess not really 'stalking' but breaking in, istg I might make a pt2 I guess hehe
Imagining Sol being stalked is kinda complicated—for once, the stalker has met his match—you are not the helpless victim anymore.
Sol takes pleasure in watching. He likes to be the one in control—even by just observing—Sol tries to memorize everything about you, it's overwhelming and obsessive—but what would happen if the odds were even?
Sol treats his home as his very very very private sanctuary, but it's not that simple. Just thinking that someone invade such a personal place for him just makes his blood boil.
Ofc not when it's you, but he is probably more protective of his home then any normal person.
The reason for this is because his house is where he keeps all of your stuff.
Also, another thought—Sol's apartment is probably real secure, like I'm talking double—triple—and more locks on his door. The locks on his windows are probably re-enforced somehow, and etc.
He really likes to draw. He can't stop drawing you, since you are the most prominent and important thought on his mind.
In his sketchbook, on a piece of paper, on a receipt...So he takes pride in seeing you all over his house because you are literally drawn on every wall.
He has lots pictures of you, he's stole your clothes and things, a copy of your apartment key and probably a jar with some of your hair inside, +HIS SHRINE.
So, no. Sol doesn't really one anyone to see this, this is only for him, you are only for him.
When he arrived in his apartment one day—turning on the dim light, the smell of yesterday's coffee and energy drinks he chugged still lingering in the air—he notices the small gap of light coming from his window, his window is 3 inches opened.
He is freaking out—he barely opens his windows, and this sets off alarm bells in his head, so he spends an hour obsessively and aggressively checking every door lock, every window, every opening and ends up breaking the lock on his balcony door.
He went though his stuff and couldn't find his hoodie, the special hoodie he uses when stalking you... Some of his things are missing, objects moved around, etcetera.
Hes livid and scared. He didn't react to it like how a normal person would. Calling the police was 100% not an option(not that he thought of that anyways) , due to the...extracurricular activities he himself engages in. But he is scared. If someone could break in his home—
What about yours?
—He's already done it multiple times–your apartment is really easy to break into.
What if whoever broke into his house wanted something from you, something with you.
And he spirals for the next 30 minutes, he won't let anybody hurt you, or look at you, or be infatuated with you like him.
11:30 PM
You were laying in bed, scrolling through your phone when you felt like you were being watched.
You heard some sounds outside—the normal person would feel scared—but at this point, you felt excited knowing who it was.
You pretended like nothing was wrong, you didn't look towards the window to often, continued to doomscrolling, but you couldn't fight the small smile on your face.
Sol stayed till 4 AM the next day—making sure nobody was around. Sol is paranoid, You can't protect yourself, he will gladly do it for you.
At school, Sol was more protective, more paranoid, more serious. He was closer to you, eyes darting around every corner...and noticeably more tired.
He was slouched more than usual, spacing out more, sluggish and he looked like he didn't get a wink of sleep (he didn't).
You and Hyugo were really worried. (You know why he is like this though.)
But while Hyugo was lecturing him about "beauty sleep" and how he "should become a foodie like me" Sol only continued zoning out, staring at you.
You pull a condom out of its wrapper to propose to Pierrot to have sex.
Pierrot: “My dear…? Why are you taking out a balloon? Do you want me to make you a cute flower? I’m very good with my hands.”
*he assumes it’s one of those balloons clowns use...*
You: “No, Pierrot, it’s for—”
*stares at his very practical hands*
Pierrot: *quickly blows into the condom, shaping it into a cute little dog*
You: o.o
Pierrot: *show off his creation, very proud of it*
“Tadaaan!”
- Lucifer does that motherly thing where he checks on every single brother before he goes to bed, stands there for like two minutes just to thoroughly make sure they’re okay.
- Mammon is quite literally the most unserious person ever. But as soon as someone else makes fun of his brothers? He’s on demon time. Expect him to be on the news.
- Levi is the gift giver of the family. He prefers giving gifts over receiving them, he just gets so excited to see his brothers’ reactions to things he especially chose for them.
- Satan likes company, more than he would like to admit. He likes to be near at least one of his brothers. They don’t even need to talk or hangout, he just likes the presence. Thats why he’s always in the common room, insisting everyone is being too loud and he’s trying to read, but he never leaves.
- Asmo will actually start crying if one of his brothers aren’t taking care of themselves. He gives Lucifer, Levi and Belphie eye cream because they constantly have eyebags from their bad sleep schedule. He does Mammon’s makeup whenever he has a modelling gig. He gives Beel products to help with his sore joints from working out. And he gives Satan hand cream, as he gets paper cuts and dry hands easily.
- Beel makes sure all of his brother’s are eating and drinking properly. Every so often, one of them is so focused on something they forget to eat, so he brings them food and doesn’t leave till they finish it. Out of all the brothers, Beel visits Lucifer in his office the most, just to remind him to take a break and drink some water.
- Belphie won’t admit it, but he makes sure none of his brothers have any nightmares. Like, seriously. Ever since he found out that Lucifer has constant nightmares, he swore to himself he’d make sure they all had happy dreams from then on.
1. It happens the first time by accident. You’re talking, Vox is listening – and at some point it’s just quiet. You turn around. He’s asleep. You don’t know why your heart feels so warm.
2. Vox fights it every time. He wants to listen, he really does. But your voice is so familiar, so calm, that his body simply gives up. Your voice always wins.
3. His screen dims slowly while you talk – like a sunset in slow motion. You’ve learned to watch it. You know exactly when he’s almost gone.
4. The quieter you get, the faster Vox falls asleep. As if your voice is a frequency he’s tuned into. Loud keeps him awake. Gentle pulls him under.
5. Vox lies with his head in your lap while you talk. That just sort of happened at some point and neither of you ever questioned it. You sometimes play with his antennae. Vox falls asleep like he’s never been at home anywhere else.
6. „You’re not listening to me at all” you say once, half teasing. Vox mumbles, already halfway gone: „Yes I am. Don’t stop.” Then he falls asleep. You don’t stop.
7. You’ve started talking about things on purpose that don’t interest him – fashion, gossip, little things. Vox falls asleep fastest that way. You find it secretly endearing.
8. Sometimes you kiss him softly when he’s fallen asleep – and his screen lights up briefly with warmth, completely unconscious, as if something in him answers even in sleep.
9. Vox doesn’t snore. But he hums quietly, a barely audible static, like a radio station just before sleep. You find it more soothing than any music.
10. When you stop talking, Vox wakes up. Every time. He doesn’t need the silence – he needs you. You tested it. You stopped talking. Vox opened his eyes. You started again. He closed his eyes and slept.
11. His hand searches for yours, even before he’s fully asleep – searching, half-conscious. When you take it, his entire body relaxes at once.
12. You save the things you really want to say for these moments. When Vox is half asleep, he listens differently. Softer. Without calculation. Once you said very quietly: „I think I love you.” Vox murmured: „I know.” The next morning he acted like he didn’t remember anything. You smiled and said nothing.
13. Vox pulls you closer, just before he fully falls asleep. Unconsciously, firmly, as if he wants to make sure you’re still there when he wakes up.
14. „Don’t stop talking” is the last thing he sometimes says – already halfway gone, his voice deep and rough. So you keep talking. About nothing. About everything. Until his breathing feels steady and his screen is dark and warm.
15. You sometimes whisper things you would never say during the day. How much you like him. How good he looks when he’s this peaceful. How glad you are that he only sleeps like this with you. Vox can’t hear it anymore. Or maybe just a little?
16. When Vox wakes up, the first thing he does is check if you’re still there. Always. Without exception. You’re always there.
17. Vox has never told you that he loves these evenings. But he clears his calendar when you’re coming. He got a blanket – for you, for these evenings – and acted like it was a purely practical decision.
18. You know you talk him to sleep when he’s overworked. You know that Vox knows it. Neither of you talks about it. It’s your little quiet thing – that belongs only to you.
19. Once you fall asleep yourself, mid-sentence. Vox is still awake. He lies completely still so he doesn’t wake you. He watches you for a long time. Then he whispers softly „You keep talking in your sleep too. Of course you do.” Wraps his arms around you and cuddles you into him.
20. It’s the most intimate thing you sometimes share – not kisses, not big words. Just this: your voice, his closed eyes, the silence after. You talk, he sleeps, and somewhere in between lies everything you never say to each other directly. 🖤
⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆
Autors Note:
Oh I hope it will look good. I am traveling at the moment and try my best to feed you.
Next week will be normal again, I hope so. Means I work on the request.
Sol isn't unhygienic, or not in the way some might think he is when you really think about it.
I just don't think Sol would be the type of person who would pamper themselves, have 'self care' days (nothing wrong w that dw), etc.
I do believe that Sol stays hygienic because of you.
How else would he get you to love him back if he smelled like wet socks and looked like he didn't shower for 3 weeks? Yeah, no thank you.
So I think he showers everyday, or twice a day. Has atleast, a toothbrush, soap, deodorant and some perfume—done.
But, since Sol is very vigorously obsessed with you most of the time, he does tend to lose himself sometimes—maybe he wears the same hoodie for 3 days, contradicting myself but yes, if Sol is currently holed up and locked tf in with whatever (drawing or gooning to you) he probably goes atleast 4-5 days without showering (as long as there is no skool)
LMFAO I lowkey think the entirety of Sol's bathroom is 3 in 1 shampoo, a razor, toothbrush and a mirror lol. Maybe a printed picture of you idk. 🫠
But still, he needs to keep his appearance up. No question on that.
SO! In conclusion: Shower with Sol daily to ensure he stays clean.
This was supposed be part of a slightly longer fic/headcanon but uhh I kinda side tracked, ts is so short, thx for readinggg 😩
