Most of Vox’s network shut down at 2 AM, but the broadcast floor of Studio 666 always held a faint hum—like the building itself was still awake, still watching, still waiting for someone to entertain it.
And tonight, someone was.
Y/N slumped into Vox’s massive director’s chair, spinning lazily in a circle while the giant monitors blinked in standby mode. Their shift had technically ended thirty minutes ago, but paperwork, half-finished edits, and the silence of an empty studio kept them lingering.
They kicked their legs, letting the oversized chair roll back on its axis.
“God, he really sits in this thing like a king,” Y/N muttered to themselves. “Feels like a throne.”
The screens on the far wall flickered.
Static crawled across the monitors like frost, climbing in jagged lines. A faint electric buzz prickled the air—subtle enough that Y/N chalked it up to faulty wiring. Again.
Then—
Vzzzp.
A tall, glitching hologram manifested behind the chair, arms folded, screen-face glowing in soft static-blue.
“Funny,” Vox drawled smoothly, leaning one elbow on the chair’s back. “I don’t recall giving you permission to get comfortable.”
Y/N yelped, nearly launching out of the chair.
Vox’s grin sharpened. “Aww. Jumpier than usual tonight, sweetheart?”
Y/N twisted around. “Don’t sneak up on people like that!”
“Please,” Vox scoffed, stepping closer, his image sharpening into full clarity. “If you’re going to sit in my chair, at least act the part. A real host doesn’t spook that easily.”
They stuck their tongue out at him—an action which earned them a sharp, amused hum.
“Oh? Bold tonight,” Vox purred. “Careful. I might take that personally.”
“Maybe you should. You scared me half to death.”
“Oh, trust me,” he said, voice lowering wickedly, “if I wanted to scare you half to death, you wouldn’t be sitting here complaining about it.”
Before Y/N could respond, a glimmer of mischief crossed Vox’s screen. He leaned in, fingers appearing from the hologram projection—solidifying just enough to interact.
“You know,” Vox continued casually, “there’s a rule about sitting in a boss’s chair without permission.”
Y/N snorted. “What rule?”
“This one.”
Two electric, static-soft fingers jabbed lightly into Y/N’s sides.
Y/N squeaked—a sharp, involuntary sound that made Vox’s grin explode across his screen.
“Oh,” he said delightedly. “Well that’s interesting.”
“Vox—!” Y/N twisted away, hands flying to cover their sides. “Don’t—!”
His eyes brightened, pixelated pupils widening like a camera zooming in.
“Don’t what? This?”
He poked again—firmer this time, quick and precise. The tiniest spark of static followed the touch, just enough to tickle without burning.
Y/N dissolved into startled laughter. “Vox! Cut it out!”
“Absolutely not,” Vox snorted, looping a partially-solid arm around the back of the chair to keep it from rolling away. “You sit in my chair, you deal with the consequences.”
“It was ONE TIME!”
“And it’s adorable,” he teased, leaning fully over them now. “Which is very inconvenient for you.”
He used both hands this time—quick little skittering motions along their ribs, infused with barely-there static. Not painful. Just enough to make Y/N twist and laugh helplessly, gripping the armrests to stay upright.
“V-Vox! Knock—pffft—knock it off!”
“Nope,” he replied, clearly thrilled. “This is far more entertaining than whatever you were doing before.”
His head tilted, analyzing their reaction like a director reviewing a shot.
“Look at that. Such animated expressions,” he mused. “Honestly, you’re wasted behind the camera.”
Y/N managed to swat at him, though their hand passed harmlessly through part of his projection.
He laughed full-bodied static at that.
“Oh sweetheart, if you’re going to fight back, you’ll need better aim.”
Another scribbling motion at their hips. Another squeak from Y/N. Another delighted glitch ripple across Vox’s face.
Finally, he stepped back—purely because he wanted to, not because Y/N had escaped.
The hologram leaned casually against the console, arms crossed, amusement radiating off him like neon heat.
“Next time,” he purred, “try asking before you sit in the king’s seat.”
Y/N glared at him, breathless and pink-cheeked. “You’re insufferable.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Vox smirked, tapping his screen cheek with a finger. “But you’re the one who keeps staying after hours.”
Y/N rolled their eyes, standing. “I’m going home.”
“Mhm. Sure.” Vox’s voice dropped lower. “And tomorrow? Same time?”
They hesitated.
He caught it instantly.
The grin that spread across his static screen was slow. Satisfied. Predatory in the most playful way.
“Great,” Vox said. “I’ll bring better jokes.”
“And I’m stealing your chair again.”
“Oh good,” he chuckled, flickering out of view except for the lingering echo of static.
“Give me something fun to punish you for.”
Happy Thanksgiving today yall get a three story special hope you enjoy
Vox had been avoiding him.
Avoiding eye contact.
Avoiding conversations.
Avoiding the King of Hell like a condemned prisoner ducking a guillotine.
Reasonable, considering the last time Lucifer saw him, Vox had him chained in angelic restraints, siphoning his power into the Divine Eradicator like some overclocked battery.
Vox had smirked the whole time.
Lucifer remembered every second.
And Vox had barely gotten his body back—his systems still glitching after Valentino ripped his head off like a faulty toy in episode 8. His body wasn’t even finished calibrating yet.
Lucifer found him in an abandoned hallway of the partially ruined hotel, running self-diagnostics and muttering at his own chest panel.
Perfect.
The soft click of Lucifer’s heels made Vox jolt violently.
“Oh—fantastic,” Vox hissed, static rippling down his screen-face. “What do you want?”
Lucifer smiled sweetly.
Too sweetly.
“Closure.”
Vox froze.
Lucifer strolled forward, hands folded casually behind his back—like he wasn’t radiating celestial magic strong enough to rattle wiring. “You know, my memory’s been fuzzy since that little incident,” he said lightly. “I just wanted to ask—”
He leaned in.
“Exactly how many volts you drained out of me?”
Vox stiffened. “Lucifer—it was just business—”
“Oh? Business?” Lucifer echoed in a whimsical, musical tone. “Is that what we call kidnapping now?”
“It wasn’t personal—!”
Lucifer chuckled. A dangerous, angelic chuckle.
“Oh Mr Tv Head Man”
He tapped a finger to Vox’s chest panel.
Vox seized up—glitching from throat to hips.
“…I take everything personally.”
Before Vox could retreat, Lucifer snapped his fingers.
Golden cuffs of celestial magic wrapped around Vox’s wrists, yanking them effortlessly above his head.
Vox yelped. “LUCIFER—NO—NO, NO—THIS ISN’T—”
“Oh hush.” Lucifer circled him like a lion examining a defective toy. “You had me chained to a table like a science experiment. You drained me until I couldn’t stand. You aimed a weapon at Heaven through my power.”
He smiled wider.
“Did you really think there wouldn’t be consequences?”
Vox tried to regain composure, straightening. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”
Lucifer blinked.
Then laughed.
“Oh darling, no. That would be too easy.”
He stepped closer and tapped Vox’s ribs with a single glowing finger.
Vox exploded into static.
A harsh glitch burst cracked through his speakers as he flinched violently.
Lucifer’s expression sharpened with delight.
“Oh my,” he cooed. “You’re reactive.”
“Don’t,” Vox warned, already glitching. “Lucifer—don’t you DARE—”
“Funny,” Lucifer said, wiggling his fingers with wicked glee, “that’s exactly what I told you while you were draining me.”
Before Vox could protest again, Lucifer slid his fingers under the connection seams along Vox’s ribs.
Electric chaos erupted.
Vox arched forward, laughter bursting out of him in garbled, static-choked crackles.
“S-Sto—HAHA—stop—!—Lucifer—!”
“Oh, you don’t get to tell me what to do,” Lucifer purred, dancing his fingers mercilessly along the wiring channels. “Not after plugging me into that ridiculous angelic toy of yours.”
Vox bucked uselessly against the magical hold, his legs giving out under him as laughter scrambled out of his speakers.
Golden magic held him upright.
Lucifer tsk’d. “Look at you. All that ego. All that power. And you fall apart the moment someone finds your wiring.”
“It’s—hah—ngh—NOT—funny—!”
Lucifer leaned in close.
“It’s hilarious.”
He traced glowing fingertips across Vox’s stomach panel—right where the main power cable reconnected.
Vox shrieked.
A full digitized, system-overloaded shriek.
Lucifer pressed a hand to his heart. “Ah, music.”
He danced his fingers up and down Vox’s sides, making the TV demon thrash and sputter.
“This is for the angelic metal,” Lucifer said.
A poke to Vox’s hips.
Vox’s whole system lit up like a glitch bomb.
“This is for draining my energy.”
A scribble up the ribs.
Vox screamed-laughed.
“And this—” Lucifer whispered, placing both hands at Vox’s sides, “is for making my daughter watch.”
Vox practically convulsed as Lucifer unleashed the cruelest, most playful tickle attack yet—an overload of celestial magic and fingers tapping at every sensitive seam.
The TV demon crumbled in a storm of static, laughter, and fractured threats.
“LUCI—HHAHA—STOP—STOP—!—I’M GONNA CRASH—!”
“Oh relax,” Lucifer said cheerfully. “If you crash, I’ll just reboot you.”
He kept going until Vox’s legs shook, his screen-face flickered uncontrollably, and his voice devolved into breathy, glitching wheezes.
Finally, Lucifer released the spell.
Vox collapsed to his knees, supporting himself with shaking arms, static fizzing off him like smoke.
Lucifer crouched beside him, patting his shoulder.
“There,” he said warmly. “We’re even.”
Vox looked up, screen flickering desperately.
“We’re—NOT—done.”
“Oh, I sincerely hope not.” Lucifer winked. “Retribution is much more fun when it becomes a cycle.”
But it was not prepared for the war now echoing through its halls.
For two days, Lucifer had been smug.
Too smug.
Walking around with a swing in his step, humming obnoxiously cheerful little jingles. His wings were perked high. His halo glowed like it had been polished out of pettiness alone.
Every time Alastor entered a room, Lucifer smirked.
Every. Single. Time.
Alastor pretended not to notice.
He did notice.
He noticed every twitch of Lucifer’s feathers, every victorious little sparkle in his eyes, every time he mouthed the word squeak when he thought Alastor wasn’t looking.
And Alastor—ever patient, ever composed—waited.
Plotted.
Prepared.
By day three, the perfect opportunity arrived.
Lucifer wandered through the east wing, humming cheerfully, flipping through a notebook labeled:
“Operation: Further Humble the Radio Demon (Working Title)”
He was so absorbed in his own greatness that he barely noticed the hotel was unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
No static.
No distant monologuing.
No cane tapping.
Lucifer paused.
“…Alastor?”
Nothing.
He shrugged and continued walking.
Then—
CLICK.
The hallway lights snapped off.
All of them.
Lucifer froze.
“…What the—”
A familiar, velvety voice slid through the darkness like a knife dipped in honey.
“Well, well, well…
If it isn’t my favorite little feathered nuisance.”
Lucifer yelped.
“ALASTOR?!” His wings puffed instantly. “Wh-where are you?! Show yourself!”
A radio crackle echoed right behind him.
“Right here.”
Lucifer spun—too late.
Something coiled around his ankle.
“…Is that a—”
YANK.
Lucifer was dragged—gracefully but definitely undignified—straight into a shadowy room.
The door slammed shut.
Lucifer blinked rapidly until the lights flickered on, revealing—
Oh no.
The hotel ballroom.
Empty.
Silent.
Except for Alastor standing calmly in the center, cane twirling, smile sharp and wicked.
Lucifer pointed accusingly. “YOU SET A TRAP FOR ME—!”
Alastor bowed slightly. “Why, of course. Would you expect anything less?”
Lucifer’s wings twitched. “This is unfair!”
“Unfair?” Alastor purred. “You ambushed me with a feather, old sport. A feather. I am simply returning the favor… with interest.”
Lucifer backed up.
Alastor followed, slow and precise.
“Now, now,” he said sweetly, “don’t make this harder for yourself.”
“I-I’m warning you!” Lucifer squawked. “I will fight! I will— I will—”
Alastor lunged.
Lucifer screamed.
Alastor had him pinned in seconds, one hand around Lucifer’s wrists, the other hovering threateningly near his ribs.
Lucifer thrashed like a startled flamingo.
“HOW ARE YOU SO STRONG—?!”
Alastor chuckled. “Old sport… you weigh as much as a disgruntled pillow.”
“That’s RUDE!”
“Oh, hush.”
His fingers wiggled once.
Lucifer shrieked.
“No—NONONO WAIT— ALASTOR DON’T—!”
Alastor did.
He dug mercilessly into Lucifer’s sides, and the Lightbringer’s laughter exploded into the ballroom.
“AHAHA—NOHOHO—!!! STOP YOU— YOU MONSTER!!”
Alastor looked delighted. Positively radiant.
“Oh, this is lovely. Such unhinged joy! You should laugh more often.”
Lucifer tried to roll away.
Alastor caught him and continued the attack.
Fingers at his ribs—
Lucifer kicked the floor so hard he spun in a circle.
Fingers at his stomach—
Lucifer’s halo flickered like a dying lamp.
Fingers creeping toward his underarms—
Lucifer ascended three inches into the air.
“NOHOHO NOT THERE—!! ALASTOR PLEASE—!!”
“Ohhh?” Alastor crooned. “Is this a sensitive area?”
“I’LL MURDER YOU—!!”
Alastor raised a brow. “That’s not very neighborly.”
Then he went for it.
Lucifer shrieked. A full-blown, glass-shaking, holy-sounding, echoing squeal that rattled the chandeliers.
Alastor’s grin practically split his face.
“There it is,” he whispered triumphantly. “My revenge.”
Lucifer was laughing so hard tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, wings spasming uncontrollably.
“AHAHA—ALASTOHOHOR—!! I’M— I’M GONNA—!!”
“Die? Ascend? Explode?” Alastor teased. “Do be specific.”
Lucifer could not be specific.
He couldn’t even breathe.
Alastor finally relented, letting the angel collapse onto the ballroom floor in a trembling, giggling heap.
The Radio Demon crouched beside him, straightening his tie.
“Any final words?”
Lucifer hiccup-laughed. “I—I hate— you—so—much—”
Alastor patted his cheek.
“No, you don’t.”
Lucifer groaned, rolling onto his side.
“…Maybe not.”
“Good.” Alastor stood tall, offering his cane like a hand. “Because this war isn’t over.”
Lucifer glared through the remaining giggles.
“Oh it is ON, old sport.”
Somewhere down the hall, Husk heard the faint sound of angelic laughter and groaned into his drink.
I will be working on part four of the alastor x Lucifer fic just switching it up a bit you decide and the highest vote will be the next and let me know if you like having the option and I’ll do it more 😘😘😘
And obsessively circled items on a whiteboard he absolutely stole from one of Charlie’s meetings. The board currently read:
“PHASE TWO: OPERATION FEATHERSTORM.”
Underneath were diagrams of wings, arrows, and a poorly drawn Alastor with a giant X through his midsection.
Lucifer stood in front of it now, arms folded, wearing an expression that could only be described as dramatically vengeful.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “He thinks he can embarrass me? Humiliate me? Steal the element of surprise?” His feathers puffed. “We’ll just see about that.”
A soft knock sounded at his door.
Lucifer spun around so fast his halo nearly flew off.
“Who goes there?!”
A very confused Nifty peeked in. “Um… you accidentally borrowed my Swiffer again.”
Lucifer blinked, looked to his side, and realized the object he’d been using as a pointer was, in fact, Nifty’s Swiffer Duster.
“…Right. Sorry.”
He handed it back, closed the door, and immediately resumed evil plotting.
He had watched the Radio Demon strut around the hotel all day, smug and composed, humming like a smug little Christmas ornament who thought he’d won.
But Lucifer remembered the moment Alastor had nearly cracked the day before—just a flicker, barely visible—but Lucifer saw it.
Alastor, annoyed.
That was the goal. That was the victory.
Lucifer chose the hallway near the kitchen. Narrow walls. Limited escape routes. Excellent acoustics for evil laughter.
He crouched behind a large fallen poster of Charlie’s “HOTEL RULES,” which had been taken down after accidental fire damage. It made an adequate hiding spot.
He waited.
Wings fluffed.
Fingers twitched.
He held his weapon of choice—one single, perfectly selected feather plucked from his own wing.
“Come on,” he hissed. “Follow your routine. You go for tea at 3:15 every day. Be predictable. I believe in you.”
And then—
Static.
Light footsteps.
A hum, smooth and vintage, drifting lazily down the hall.
Lucifer grinned.
“Showtime.”
As soon as Alastor stepped past his hiding spot, Lucifer launched himself out with the speed of a holy missile.
“HA!”
Alastor flinched—actually flinched—eyes widening as Lucifer practically pounced onto his back.
“LUCIFER—?!”
“Oh don’t ‘Lucifer?!’ me!” the angel crowed triumphantly, wrapping arms around Alastor’s shoulders. “THIS is justice!”
Before Alastor could wiggle free, Lucifer dragged the feather down the side of his neck.
The reaction was instant.
Alastor jerked so hard his cane clattered to the floor.
“E-EXCUSE ME—?!”
His voice pitch-cracked so violently it squeaked out like a broken radio dial.
Lucifer gasped dramatically. “Oh? Was that a noise, Alastor? A sound of WEAKNESS?”
Alastor’s ears went pink.
“I assure you, old sport—”
Lucifer dragged the feather over his collarbone.
Alastor squeaked like a malfunctioning record player.
“AHA! ADMIT IT!” Lucifer cackled, now gleefully scratching at Alastor’s ribs with both hands. “YOU’RE TICKLISH TOO!”
“This—THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS—!” Alastor choked out, twisting helplessly as static crackled uncontrollably. “STOP—THAT—!”
“Ohhh no,” Lucifer purred darkly, “you started this war. Now face the consequences.”
He fluttered his wings for maximum intimidation.
Alastor, absolutely losing composure, grabbed onto the wall for support.
“L-Lucifer—!!”
Lucifer grinned so wide it was almost feral.
“Yes. Say my name.”
He wiggled fingers under Alastor’s arm.
Alastor yelled—a glitchy radio shriek—and nearly collapsed.
Lucifer froze.
Then whispered—
“…Oh. That’s a good spot.”
Alastor sputtered, flustered beyond belief. “DON’T YOU DARE—!”
Lucifer dared.
He attacked.
It happened fast.
Alastor spun, grabbed Lucifer’s wrists, and pinned him against the doorframe with a breathless snarl of flustered indignation.
“Ohhh no, old sport,” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “Two can play at that game.”
Lucifer’s wings flattened.
“…Wait—”
Alastor leaned in.
“This. Means. WAR.”
Lucifer squeaked.
Charlie walked by moments later, noticing her father crumpled in a laughing heap on the floor while Alastor stood over him, slightly ruffled and significantly pinker than usual.
Charlie stared.
“…Should I even ask?”
Lucifer wheezed, “He—he SQUEAKS—”
Alastor kicked the fallen Swiffer Duster at Lucifer. “You will say nothing.”
“The First Ambush (and the First Victory)” part 2 of the rivalry continues
For the next three days, an unspoken tension simmered through the Hazbin Hotel.
To everyone else, it felt like normal Hell-chaos—random static bursts, sudden feathers drifting through the halls, odd thumps echoing from distant rooms. Nothing too strange.
But to Lucifer and Alastor?
It was war.
A petty, childish, gloriously stupid war.
And today, the first ambush was about to happen.
Lucifer hid behind the half-open door of the hotel’s library, wings tucked tight, face determined with the seriousness of a general preparing for battle.
“Alright,” he whispered to himself. “I know his patterns. I’ve observed. I’ve studied. I’ve taken notes.”
He had. There was a literal notebook in his hand titled:
Lucifer whipped around—too fast—and smacked himself in the face with his own wing.
Alastor stood in the hall, cane in hand, smile polite but tight, as though he were trying not to laugh. Static flickered faintly around his antlers.
“Oh, just… reading,” Lucifer said, shoving the notebook behind his back.
“In the hallway?”
“Yes. Ventilation is… better.”
Alastor’s grin widened. “Is that so?”
Lucifer’s wings shivered.
He had two options:
Initiate attack now.
Run away like a coward.
Lucifer considered.
He lunged.
It would’ve been majestic—graceful, divine, a perfect tactical strike—
—if Lucifer had not forgotten one crucial thing:
He was still weak.
His wings, which were supposed to flare dramatically, instead flapped once like dying curtains. His legs wobbled. His halo flickered like a bad bulb.
He stumbled forward and grabbed at Alastor’s coat—
—and missed.
Spectacularly.
He ended up face-first in Alastor’s chest, arms around him in what looked suspiciously like a hug.
They both froze.
“…Lucifer,” Alastor said slowly, “if you desired an embrace, you only had to ask.”
Lucifer made a noise so offended it could’ve curdled holy water.
“That was a tactical maneuver!”
“It was adorable.”
Lucifer sputtered. “S-shut up—!”
Alastor didn’t.
Instead, he wrapped an arm around Lucifer’s back in a deceptively gentle gesture.
Lucifer blinked.
“…what are you—”
SQUEAK.
Alastor squeezed just below Lucifer’s ribs.
Lucifer jumped so violently his hat flew off like a frisbee.
A sound escaped him—something between a hiccup and a dying trumpet.
Alastor lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Oh HO! What delightful acoustics!”
“DON’T YOU DA—ahahAHA—!!” Lucifer dissolved into helpless laughter as Alastor sunk both hands into his sides with devastating precision.
What Lucifer intended to be an ambush had become a slaughter.
His legs buckled instantly.
Alastor simply caught him, guiding him toward the library wall so he didn’t slide to the floor.
“Tsk tsk,” Alastor teased as Lucifer squirmed, giggling breathlessly. “Poor form, old sport! Charging in without a plan? No misdirection? No strategy? You disappoint me!”
Lucifer tried to retort, but all that came out was—
“STOHOHOP—YOu—yoU CHEHEATED—!!”
“Cheated?” Alastor gasped dramatically. “Perish the thought! You threw yourself into my arms. I merely responded!”
Lucifer wheezed.
Alastor continued his delicate torture, fingertips spidering up under Lucifer’s arms, earning a squeal so high-pitched that two nearby books fell off their shelves.
“Oh, excellent resonance! Try that again, would you?”
Lucifer kicked weakly. “ALASTORRR—!!”
Alastor chuckled, finally easing up and letting Lucifer slide down the wall into a breathless, flustered heap on the floor.
Lucifer’s wings twitched wildly behind him, fluff puffed in indignation.
Alastor crouched elegantly to his level, tilting Lucifer’s chin up with his cane.
“First blood is mine,” he purred.
Lucifer glared up at him, cheeks glowing pink.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“…No. I don’t.”
Alastor smirked, tapping his cane once on the floor.
“You’ll need to try harder, Lightbringer. Much harder.”
Lucifer’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh, I will,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.
A spark pulsed off his fingertips—tiny, but promising.
Alastor’s smile sharpened.
“Good. I would hate for this war to be boring.”
And somewhere else in the hotel, Charlie paused mid-conversation, blinking.
“Is anyone else hearing… squeaking?”
Husk groaned into his drink. “Oh god. They’ve started again.”
(thank you thank you thankyou all!!! so much for the love and support from my last fic im so glad yall liked it it make me ecstatic that its loved this is and abel x redeemed sinner reader tickle fic i hope you all enjoy)😘😘😘😘
Abel had always been everything Adam refused to be.
Where Adam was hard and unyielding, Abel was gentle. Thoughtful. Soft in ways Heaven rarely celebrated. He could be timid at times, yes—but every ounce of bravery he had, he spent on the people who needed it most. On hope. On the belief that Heaven and Hell didn’t have to be enemies. That change, redemption, and compassion weren’t weaknesses.
Y/N embodied that belief.
A sinner redeemed. Someone Abel should have, by all heavenly standards, kept at arm’s length. But he couldn’t. He didn’t even try anymore. Every time Y/N smiled at him, every time they sought him out for comfort or conversation, he felt something warm and overwhelming bloom inside of him.
And lately, whenever they sat together, Abel found himself watching them more than the world around him.
Today was no different.
They sat side by side in the Garden of Eden, the true one—untouched, untouched by time or human hands since the Fall. Eden was peaceful in a way that felt impossible for both Heaven and Hell. Holy light filtered through enormous fruit trees, gilding the air with golden dust. Flowers glowed faintly where they grew, and a gentle breeze stirred the leaves, humming a lullaby older than the Earth itself.
Y/N sat with legs tucked beneath them, eyes wide in quiet wonder. They looked like Eden had been made just for them.
Abel didn’t look at the scenery.
He looked at them.
Y/N’s awe made him ache. How could someone so pure-hearted have ever been condemned? How had Hell claimed them when Heaven should have held them tight?
His breath caught as they turned their head and their eyes met his. There was a softness there—an unspoken warmth—that pulled his heart forward even before he consciously leaned in.
“Abel…?” Y/N whispered, voice barely above the rustling leaves.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
He closed the distance slowly, giving them time to pull away. They didn’t. Their breath hitched softly. Abel’s hand trembled as it hovered near their cheek. His heart thundered like it was trying to escape his ribs.
He leaned in—
“ABEL!”
The spell shattered like glass dropped on marble.
Lute stormed into the garden with sharp, echoing footsteps. Her face was twisted in disgust, wings drawn high with righteous fury.
Abel whipped around, startled. Y/N flinched as if struck.
Lute’s eyes narrowed. “Your father would be horrified by you.”
Her voice was venom in silk.
“Getting close to a sinner? Touching one? Adam would be disgusted by the sight alone.”
Y/N froze, their posture curling inward. Shame—old, familiar, suffocating—washed over their features as they dropped their gaze to the grass. The brightness in their eyes dimmed instantly, replaced with that wounded look Abel hated more than anything.
Something inside Abel broke.
He stood up—slowly, deliberately—and turned toward Lute with a steadiness she had never seen in him. His wings unfurled in a sharp, protective arc as he stepped between Lute and Y/N.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. His voice trembled with anger he rarely allowed himself to show. “Don’t you ever speak to them like that.”
Lute scoffed. “I’m reminding you of your bloodline. Your father’s legacy—"
“I am not my father!”
The entire garden echoed with his shout. Birds startled into the sky. Light pulsed like a heartbeat through the trees.
Abel’s hands balled into fists. He stepped forward until Lute instinctively backed up.
“My father ruled through cruelty. Fear. Judgment.” His voice wavered, but not from uncertainty—from conviction. “I refuse to be like him.”
He glanced back at Y/N—small, folded in, trying to disappear.
“And I will never let anyone make them feel unworthy again. Not even you.”
Lute’s expression twisted in outrage. “This is a mistake you’ll regret.”
“No,” Abel said firmly. “The only mistake is listening to you.”
She stormed out of Eden in a swirl of feathers and fury.
As soon as she was gone, Abel rushed back to Y/N and knelt before them. Gently, he placed a hand under their chin and lifted, urging their eyes to meet his.
“Hey,” he whispered, voice breaking into tenderness. “Don’t listen to her. You are not filthy. You are not unworthy. You’re…”
He swallowed hard.
“You’re everything good I’ve ever known.”
Y/N’s lips trembled. “But she’s right. I’m—”
“No.” Abel cupped their face with both hands. “You’re not what she called you. You’re kind and brave and so, so important to me.”
Y/N didn’t lift their head. Their shoulders were shaking. It made something in Abel twist painfully.
He had to fix this. He had to.
So he thought of the one thing that always brought light back into Y/N’s eyes. Something gentle. Familiar. Safe.
His smile turned mischievous—a rare spark that only Y/N ever saw.
“Well,” he said softly, “if my words aren’t cheering you up…”
Y/N blinked, confused. “Abel…?”
He wiggled his fingers.
“Then I guess,” he said, leaning closer,
“…I’ll just have to use… emergency measures.”
Y/N gasped, realizing too late.
“Abel—no—!”
He pounced.
His hands slid to their sides, scribbling playfully, and Y/N burst into startled laughter, falling back into the soft Eden grass. Abel followed, hovering over them, gently but persistently tickling until their tears of sadness melted into breathless giggles.
“Ab—Abel! S-stop—!” they squeaked, half laughing, half breathless.
“Never,” he beamed. “Not until I see that smile again.”
Y/N squirmed, kicking lightly, laughter spilling uncontrollably. Abel eased up whenever they needed air, then resumed with feather-light teases along their ribs or pokes beneath their arm, each time earning another burst of joyful sound he cherished more than heavenly choirs.
The garden filled with laughter—pure and untainted.
When Y/N finally collapsed back, breathless and smiling, Abel rested above them, bracing himself with hands on either side of their head. He looked down at them with so much affection it glowed brighter than the Eden light.
“See?” he whispered. “Much better.”
Y/N’s cheeks were pink. “You’re impossible…”
Abel grinned softly. “Only for you.”
He leaned closer, heartbeat steady now, resolved.
“Who cares what my father would think?” he murmured. “Who cares what anyone says?”
His forehead rested gently against theirs.
“I choose you. I always will.”
And then he kissed them—slow, tender, full of everything he’d been holding back for far too long.
(author note - hope you enjoyed he was just like a teddy bear i couldn't resist and don't for get you're amazing and that i am open to any request)
After Vox was finally defeated, and after Charlie, her friends, Emily, and even the overlords joined forces to stop the angelic weapon from obliterating Heaven and Hell alike, the Hazbin Hotel had begun to flourish in a way none of them could’ve imagined. Peace—even the Hell-version of it—settled over the halls like warm morning light.
And for the first time in years, Alastor was free from his chains.
He remained at the hotel, his presence no longer looming but… oddly domestic. Helpful. Curious. A bit too interested in the blender in the hotel kitchen—but otherwise harmless.
Lucifer, however, had not recovered quite as quickly.
Though freed, the fallen angel was still weakened from being drained nearly dry. He spent most of his time in the quieter corners of the hotel, occasionally helping Charlie with small tasks, trying to regain his strength bit by bit. He put on a proud face, but anyone with eyes could see he wasn’t at full power.
Alastor certainly noticed.
And unfortunately for Lucifer, the Radio Demon had also noticed something else—something he had learned during his miserable captivity beneath Vox:
Lucifer was extremely ticklish.
A fact Alastor had filed away with wicked care.
A new game.
A harmless one, of course—he had no intention of hurting the weakened angel. But entertainment? After all he had endured, Alastor felt he was due at least a little mischief.
And Lucifer, well… Lucifer had made himself the perfect target.
The hotel’s quiet that afternoon, sunlight (or as close as Hell gets to it) spilling into the lounge where Lucifer sat on the velvet couch. His wings were drooped, his hair slightly mussed from exhaustion, eyes half-lidded as he read a book Charlie insisted would “lift his spirits.”
Alastor appeared beside him without sound, without warning—of course.
“Afternoon, old sport,” he chimed cheerfully, cane tapping once on the polished floorboards.
Lucifer didn’t look up. “Alastor. Please tell me you’re not here to ask me to judge another chili cook-off. I told you—”
“Oh, nothing of the sort!” Alastor beamed. “I was simply checking in on you. You look simply dreadful.”
Lucifer muttered something unangelic under his breath.
That was when Alastor’s grin stretched—just slightly wider.
Perfect.
Lucifer barely reacted when Alastor sat beside him. He was too tired, and—more importantly—he didn’t consider Alastor a physical threat anymore. That was his first mistake.
The second was when he shifted to get comfortable, lifting his arm just enough to expose a vulnerable sliver of his side.
Alastor’s eyes flicked toward it like a shark scenting blood.
“Tell me,” Alastor purred softly, leaning in just enough to make Lucifer glance at him, “Charlie mentioned you were… more sensitive these days.”
Lucifer blinked. “Sensitive? To what?”
“Ohhh,” Alastor mused, twirling his cane, “to touch.”
Lucifer froze. “Alastor—don’t.”
But it was already too late.
The Radio Demon’s fingers shot forward with supernatural quickness, scribbling across Lucifer’s ribs.
The reaction was immediate.
Lucifer yelped—actually yelped—and nearly shot off the couch, wings flaring wide as he clamped his arms down, twisting away from the sudden attack.
His wiggle of fingers chased along Lucifer’s sides, a gentle but relentless flurry that had the fallen angel gasping, snorting, and desperately trying to wriggle out of reach despite being too weak to teleport, fly, or even fully stand.
“Oh, this is marvelous!” Alastor laughed. “And here I thought you were regaining your strength!”
Lucifer squealed—an actual undignified squeal—when Alastor skittered fingertips beneath one lowered wing.
“NOHOHO—NOT THE WIHINGS—!!”
“Oh yes, the wings indeed!”
Lucifer curled in on himself, face red, laughter spilling out in bright, helpless bursts as Alastor continued his “research.”
Eventually—after several minutes of delightful torment—Alastor lifted his hands, letting Lucifer collapse back onto the couch in a breathless, giggling heap.
The angel wheezed, hair in wild disarray, wings twitching with the phantom aftershocks of laughter.
“You—” Lucifer gasped between breaths, “you absolute menace—”
“Oh, don’t pout,” Alastor said sweetly, patting his shoulder. “It’s good for you. Laughter is an excellent remedy for fatigue.”
Lucifer glared at him with all the ferocity of a wet kitten.
“If you ever tell Charlie—”
“My lips are sealed,” Alastor promised, still grinning wide. “Unless, of course… I get bored again.”
Lucifer immediately shielded his sides.
Alastor’s grin widened.
“Oh, this will be fun.”
Lucifer remained sprawled on the velvet couch, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, wings still trembling from their ticklish assault. His glare could’ve curdled milk, though his flushed cheeks and poorly-hidden smile ruined the effect.
Alastor, meanwhile, stood prim and unbothered, cane resting politely against his shoulder as if he had not just reduced the fallen ruler of Hell to helpless giggles.
“Are you done?” Lucifer wheezed.
“For now,” Alastor hummed. “But do keep in mind: rivalries are built on consistency.”
Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “Rivalries? This is not a rivalry. This is harassment.”
“Oh, I beg to differ!” Alastor chirped. “I find it fascinating that even drained of your divinity, you still have enough dramatic flair to be amusing. Why, one might say you’re more entertaining now than ever before!”
Lucifer sat up sharply, offended. “I am still an overlord-level being—even if temporarily weakened. And I am fully capable of defending myself.”
Alastor’s ear twitched.
His grin widened.
“Oh? Then by all means, my dear Lightbringer.
Show me.”
Lucifer stood—wobbling only slightly—and faced Alastor with a renewed spark in his eyes.
“Very well,” he declared dramatically, wings flaring as though he were about to deliver a sermon from on high. “If it is rivalry you wish, then you shall have one. Titans clashing. Legends opposing—”
Alastor reached forward and flicked his forehead.
Lucifer yelped.
Not hurt—just offended on a cosmic level.
“You—!!”
“Oh good grief,” Alastor sighed. “Are you going to lecture me into submission, or will you actually attempt something useful?”
Lucifer gritted his teeth… then smirked.
“Oh, I’ll attempt something.”
In a flash, Lucifer lunged—not to strike, but to grab Alastor’s coat lapels. His fingers slipped, brushed the fabric, then—
Contact. Barely.
But it was enough for him to feel it.
The faintest, tiniest flinch from the Radio Demon.
Lucifer froze.
Alastor froze.
A single spark snapped between them.
“…oh,” Lucifer whispered, wonder blooming across his face.
“Oh I see.”
Alastor’s smile cracked.
“Don’t you dare.”
But Lucifer dared.
Lucifer’s wings snapped forward. Not aggressively—more like a sweeping, dramatic curtain flourish as he lunged again, hands shooting toward Alastor’s sides.
Alastor dodged—mostly. Lucifer still managed a quick, experimental poke to his ribs.
And Alastor jumped.
Actually jumped like a startled cat.
“Ah—! Ahem.” He straightened his coat violently. “That was merely—reflex.”
Lucifer’s grin turned wicked, halo flickering like a broken lightbulb.
“Oh, really? Then you won’t mind if I—”
“Lucifer—”
“—test that theory—”
“Lucifer, don’t you—”
“—AGAIN!”
He struck—not with grace, not with strength, but with sheer petty enthusiasm.
Fingers scribbled briefly at Alastor’s sides, quick and unrefined, but oh what a reaction he got:
Alastor choked on a static burst, flinched hard, and shoved Lucifer back with a stammer that bordered on undignified.
“I— that is— ENOUGH.”
Lucifer laughed.
A full, bright, ringing sound he hadn’t made in ages.
“Oh this is delightful.
You’re ticklish too!”
“I am NOT,” Alastor snapped, smoothing his coat as if that could erase the truth. “That was simply… surprise.”
“Yes, yes, keep lying to yourself.”
They stood inches apart, glaring, sparks practically flying between demon and fallen angel.
“You realize this means war,” Alastor said calmly.
Lucifer smiled sweetly. “Oh, it always means war.”
“Then prepare yourself, dear boy—because I do not lose.”
Lucifer raised a brow. “Neither do I.”
Their glares deepened.
Their smirks sharpened.
Their shoulders tensed—
And then Charlie walked past the lounge doorway, smiled brightly, and said:
“Oh good! You two are finally bonding!”
Both immediately turned away like guilty schoolchildren.
“Yes, dear, we’re… bonding,” Lucifer said, wings twitching as he tried to act normal.
“Positively inseparable!” Alastor added through clenched teeth.
Charlie gave them an approving thumbs up and continued on her way.
Silence.
Then—at the exact same time—
Alastor twitched a finger toward Lucifer’s side.
Lucifer flexed a wing toward Alastor’s ribs.
Both froze.
Both glared.
The rivalry had begun.
And neither intended to lose.
(author note)- hope you liked it please request stuff if you have ideas or constructive criticism
spoilers season 2 please dont read if you havent watched this is my first story hope its ok please enjoy not a tickle fic but i accept ideas for that too😊
Lucifer’s room in the hotel was usually the brightest place in the building — all warm jazz hues, polished ivory trim, and the faint smell of candied smoke.
Tonight, it felt dimmer.
When Charlie and Vaggie left to gather proper treatment supplies, she had asked Y/N — almost begged — to keep an eye on him. Lucifer had insisted he didn’t need it, that he just needed “a moment to regain the theatrics,” but Charlie had seen right through him.
Y/N had too.
They stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind them. Lucifer sat on the edge of his massive, velvet-covered bed, shoulders slumped, cane abandoned at his feet. The angelic-metal burns glowed faintly along his wrists like cruel reminders of where he’d been.
He heard Y/N before he saw them.
“No need to tiptoe,” he rasped, voice hollow around the edges. “I’m not… particularly frightening at the moment.”
Y/N moved closer, hands tucked into their sleeves. “I’m not here to be scared of you. I’m here because Charlie asked me to keep you company.”
Lucifer turned his head, offering a crooked attempt at a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“And you agreed? Brave soul. Or terribly bored.”
Y/N sat beside him on the bed — not too close, but close enough that he didn’t look so alone against the big, ornate pillows. “I agreed because you’re my friend. And because no one should be alone after what you went through.”
Lucifer blinked at that word.
Friend.
He seemed almost startled by it.
“You… consider me that?” he asked, voice softer than Y/N had ever heard it.
Y/N shrugged lightly. “Yeah. You’ve done a lot for me — and for everyone here. Doesn’t matter if you hide it behind jokes and theatrics.”
Lucifer looked away sharply, throat tightening as another wave of weakness hit him. He swallowed hard, trying to straighten his posture — failing, wincing.
“Don’t sit up,” Y/N murmured, gently touching his arm. “You’re exhausted.”
“I am not—” He cut himself off with a quiet hiss, shoulders trembling as his remaining strength buckled. “Okay… perhaps a bit.”
Y/N slowly guided him back until he was resting against the headboard. Lucifer let them — the Devil, King of Hell, letting someone help him because he no longer had the energy to pretend he didn’t need it.
His eyes closed as Y/N laid a cool cloth across his forehead.
He exhaled, just once, shaky but relieved.
“You’re very good at this,” he said faintly. “Caretaking. Not exactly a Hellish specialty.”
“I’ve had practice,” Y/N said with a small smile. “Plus, you’re not the worst patient.”
“Mmm, give it a moment.”
Despite the exhaustion weighing him down, Y/N saw the tiny spark of humor return to his features. They relaxed a little too — the quiet of the room settling into something softer.
For a while, neither spoke.
Lucifer’s breathing evened out, though he still gripped one of the pillows like grounding himself. Y/N stayed close, letting the room be calm for him — no crowds, no expectations, no threats.
Just a friend.
After several minutes, Lucifer cracked one eye open.
“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured. “I’m sure this is dreadfully dull. Me… lying here like a misplaced marionette.”
“Lucifer,” Y/N said gently, “you just got rescued from a psychopath who trapped you with Heaven’s torture metal. I don’t think ‘dull’ is the word I’d use.”
Lucifer huffed a quiet laugh — tired, but real.
Y/N continued, voice softening. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone tonight.”
Lucifer hesitated… then nodded, letting some unseen tension finally loosen. His hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing the blanket near theirs. Not reaching — just making sure he knew someone was there.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Y/N smiled. “Anytime. Friends look out for each other.”
The devil’s eyes softened, glowing faintly even through the exhaustion.
“Then I’m… fortunate,” he said. “To have you.”
Y/N pulled a blanket up around his shoulders, tucking it gently so it wouldn’t brush the burned skin. Lucifer let out another small breath — less pained, more at peace — and relaxed fully for the first time since returning.
They stayed with him as he drifted toward sleep, the neon lights outside casting soft, warm patterns across the room.
And when Lucifer finally slipped into rest, he did so knowing someone safe, someone steady, someone who genuinely cared was sitting right beside him.
A friend — exactly when he needed one most.
-gabriella azzolini
hope you enjoyed please leave ideas i do tk stuff too so feel free to coment ideas or leave suggestions in my dms aswell
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