ADZEY

The memory of that night still makes you shudder. Valentino's face, euphoric and hungry. The way he'd tried to offer your blood to others like you were a commodity to be shared. Angel's fierce protection. And Husk—

You shake your head, pushing away the thought of how gentle his claws had been as he'd bandaged your hand. How careful. How his rough voice had softened when he—

"Don't," you tell your reflection firmly. "Don't read into shit."

Your reflection doesn't argue, but the snakes on your head seem skeptical.

You throw the used bandages in the trash and head out into your room. It's become more lived-in—some clothes draped over a chair, courtesy of what Angel called his 'continued fashion interventions', a few books borrowed from Charlie's collection on the nightstand, a small polaroid of You with Fat Nuggets that Angel had insisted you needed. Little touches that make it feel less like a hotel room and more like... well, not home. But something.

A yawn catches you off-guard, jaw cracking with the force of it. You'd slept in later than usual, the exhaustion of everything catching up with you.

Your stomach growls, reminding you that sleep isn't the only thing you'd been catching up on.

The lobby is bathed in the red-tinted light that passes for daytime in Hell. It filters through the windows in shades of crimson and amber, making everything look like it's perpetually sunset. You've almost gotten used to it—the way the light never quite feels natural, never quite feels right.

Charlie is nowhere to be seen, probably off on one of her redemption missions or meetings with her father. Alastor is absent—you've been unsettled by his permanent smile and the way he seems to materialize from no where. Angel is probably still asleep, he'd stumbled in around 4 AM from what you assume was some kind of party, looking exhausted in a way that made your chest ache, you didn't know how he did it.

The bar is empty. No Husk wiping down glasses with that perpetual look of resignation. No gravelly voice offering unsolicited advice or cynical observations about the nature of Hell and its inhabitants.

You're surprised by how disappointed you feel.

The couch in the lounge area looks inviting though—plush and worn in that comfortable way that suggests years of use. You settle into it, tucking your legs underneath you, and stare at the television across from you.

It's an older model, boxy and outdated, but it seems to work. The remote sits on the coffee table, and you pick it up, turning it over in your hands.

What kind of programs does Hell have?

The question is absurd enough to make you laugh—a soft, sound that echoes in the empty lobby. But you're curious now, in that morbid way you've become curious about everything in this hotel. You press the power button.

The TV flickers to life, and you start flipping through channels. The options are... exactly what you'd expect from Hell, which is to say disturbing, bizarre, and occasionally incomprehensible.

A cooking show where the ingredients are screaming. News coverage of an Overlord turf war delivered with the enthusiasm of a sports broadcast. Something that looks like a nature documentary about Hell's various fauna, except the narrator keeps getting eaten by the subjects. A musical number featuring demons singing about tax evasion.

And then you land on a channel that makes you stop.

The logo flashes across the screen in campy blue and red.

"Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?"

It's clearly a talk show—the kind that thrives on drama and confrontation. The set is gaudy, all lime green and leopard print, and the host is a pigeon-esque demon with too-white teeth and an expression that suggests she feeds on chaos.

"Welcome back, sinners!" the host announces, her voice saccharine and sharp. "Today we have a VERY special episode. Trevor is here to tell his brother Marcus that yes, he DID sleep with Marcus's sister, and NO, he doesn't feel bad about it!"

The audience—filled with demons of various shapes and sizes—erupts in jeers and cheers.

You should change the channel. This is trashy and ridiculous and you have no stake in Trevor's poor life choices.

But you don't change the channel.

You watch as Trevor—a lizard demon with a very regrettable looking goatee—struts onto stage while Marcus—a larger, angrier-looking demon—lunges at him, held back by security. The sister in question is also there, looking simultaneously defiant and embarrassed.

It's a trainwreck. It's awful. You can't look away.

"Oh, you're watching this garbage?"

The voice makes you jump, and you turn to find Husk emerging from the hallway that leads to the rooms. He's carrying two bowls of something that's steaming and smells surprisingly good, and there's a dish towel thrown over his shoulder.

"I—I was just—" You fumble for an explanation, feeling caught. "I didn't know what else was on?"

"Uh-huh." He sets one bowl down on the coffee table in front of you, then settles into the other end of the couch with his own. "Sure. That's why you look so invested in whether Trevor's gonna survive the next five minutes."

You look back at the screen where Trevor is indeed being chased around the stage by an increasingly irate Marcus. "I mean... it's like watching a car crash. I can't help it."

Husk snorts, and it might be the closest thing to a laugh you've heard from him. "Fair enough. Hell's daytime TV is seventy percent car crashes and thirty percent commercials for products that'll definitely kill you. Again."

You pick up the bowl he'd set down, peering at the contents. It's some kind of stew—thick and hearty, with chunks of vegetables and meat that you're choosing not to identify too closely. It smells incredible.

"Wait." You look at Husk, genuinely surprised. "You can cook?"

He pauses mid-bite, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah? And?"

"I just—I thought you just drank?" The words come out before you can stop them, and you immediately wish you could take them back when his expression flattens.

"I'm the bartender. Not just some drunk." He takes another bite, but there's less edge to his voice than there might have been for anyone else. "Though I can see why you'd think that, considering how much time I spend behind the bar with a bottle."

"I didn't mean—"

"Relax. I know what you meant." He settles back into the couch, wings tucked in behind him and you notice how he's angled toward you rather than away. A small thing, but deliberate. "Used to run my own place, back before I fucked it all up. Had to know how to do everything—pour drinks, cook food, manage staff. The whole deal."

"What happened?" You ask it quietly, not sure if you're overstepping.

Husk is silent for a moment, his tail flicking across the floor, weighing whether to answer. A few months ago, he would've shut you down with a gruff comment and changed the subject. But now...

"Made a deal I shouldn't have." His voice is matter-of-fact, but there's old pain buried underneath. "Tale as old as time down here." He glances at you, and something in his expression softens. "But somebody's gotta make sure you eat."

The deflection is obvious, but you let him have it. The fact that he answered at all, that he shared even that much, feels significant.

"Well, thank you. For cooking, I mean." You take another bite of the stew, and it really is delicious. "This is amazing."

"It's just stew." But you catch the tiniest hint of a smirk in his expression, a small smile that he quickly hides behind another bite. "Eat up before it gets cold."

You eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the TV providing background noise as Trevor's situation devolves further. The sister is now also yelling, something about how Trevor had promised her a ring, and Marcus looks like he's considering murder.

"She's too good for both of those chumps," Husk observes, gesturing at the screen with his spoon.

"Agreed. She should just leave and let them fight it out."

"Right? But nah, she's gonna stick around for the drama. They always do on these shows." He shakes his head, but there's amusement in his eyes rather than just cynicism. "People love a trainwreck. Makes 'em feel better about their own shit."

As you continue eating, Husk provides a running commentary on the show that's somehow more entertaining than the actual content. His observations are dry and cynical, yes, but there's a humor to them that you're learning to recognize—the way he'll say something devastating and then glance at you to see if you caught the joke.

"Oh, here we go," he mutters as a new character is brought onto the stage—apparently Marcus and the sister's mother. "Mom's gonna take Trevor's side. Watch."

Sure enough, the mother immediately starts berating Marcus for being too controlling and insists that Trevor is a "nice boy who made a mistake."

"Called it," Husk says, sounding satisfied.

"How did you know?" you ask, genuinely curious.

"Thirty years behind a bar, you learn to read people. Body language, tone, all that shit." He leans back slightly, more relaxed than you usually see him. "And this stuff—" he waves at the TV, "—it's all the same. Humans, demons, doesn't matter. Everyone's predictable once you know what to look for."

"Am I predictable?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

Husk turns to look at you, really look at you, and something in his expression shifts. "No," he says after a moment, and there's something almost... soft in his voice. "You're not. Thought you would be, when you first showed up. Figured you'd either break or get corrupted within a week." He pauses. "But you're still here. Still you. That's..." He trails off, like he's not sure how to finish.

"That's what?" you prompt gently.

"Rare," he finally says. "Down here, that's real fucking rare."

Your chest feels tight, and you're not sure what to say to that, so you focus on the TV instead. The host is now trying to moderate what's devolved into a four-way shouting match. Someone throws a chair. The audience loves it.

"The chair throw is such a cliché," you observe, trying to lighten the moment.

Husk seems grateful for the out. "It's a power move.'" His tone is back to deadpan, but you catch the hint of amusement in his eyes. "Also, people eat that shit up."

"Speaking from experience there, Husker ?" You deadpan, raising a brow.

"Once. Different circumstances though. Guy was trying to rob the bar and wouldn't take no for an answer." He shrugs. "Chair worked better than words. He left. Problem solved."

You shouldn't find that as funny as you do, but something about the casual way he says it—like throwing chairs is just part of problem-solving—makes you giggle. The sound surprises both of you.

Husk glances at you, and his expression does something you've never seen before—it softens completely, just for a second, before he catches himself. "You should do that more often."

"Laugh at violence?"

"Just laugh in general." He's looking at the TV again, but his voice is quieter. "You've been walking around here like you're waiting for the next disaster. I get it, I do. But..." He pauses, like he's trying to find the right words. "You're allowed to have moments that aren't complete bullshit."

The observation should sting, but coming from him—from Husk, who's been exactly where you are, who understands—it doesn't. It feels like permission.

"Is this one of them?" you ask softly. "A moment that doesn't suck?"

He's quiet for a beat, then: "Yeah. I guess it is." And there's something in his voice that makes your heart do a complicated flutter.

On screen, Trevor has been cornered by Marcus and is now pleading for his life while the mother tries to intervene and the sister just looks done with everyone. The host is narrating the chaos like it's a boxing match.

"Ten bucks says Trevor cries," Husk says.

"I'm not taking that bet. He's definitely going to cry."

"Smart girl."

Trevor does indeed cry, big theatrical tears that might or might not be genuine. The audience eats it up, and the host capitalizes on the moment by bringing out another revelation—apparently Trevor also owes Marcus money.

"Oh, this guy's an idiot," you breathe.

"Complete fucking moron," Husk agrees. "Never sleep with your lender's sister. That's like, rule three of not getting killed."

"What's rule one?"

"Don't gamble with shit you can't afford to lose." His expression darkens slightly, and you wonder if he's not just speaking hypothetically. "Rule two is don't make deals with Overlords unless you're real fucking sure you understand the terms."

The reminder makes your good mood deflate slightly. You think about Valentino, the club, about the contract he'd tried to get you to sign that first day. Your fingers start scratching over the lines across the tips.

Husk finishes his stew and sets the bowl on the coffee table, leaning back into the couch.

Your fingers continue to drift at the healing cuts, tracing the faint lines without thinking. You're not really aware you're doing it until Husk speaks.

"Stop picking at those."

Your hand freezes mid-motion. "I'm not—"

"You are. You've been messing with them since you sat down." His tone is matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. "Lemme see."

Before you can respond, he reaches over and gently takes your hand in his paw. His touch is careful—deliberately so—and you can feel the softness of his fur against your skin. The claws that tipped his fingers are cool and smooth, and he holds your hand like it's something fragile.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice quieter than usual, almost careful. "Me touching you?"

The question catches you off-guard. You figure, given his response to when you'd asked him, most demons in Hell wouldn't ask permission for anything—they'd take, they'd demand, they'd assume. But Husk is asking, genuinely asking, and waiting for your answer.

It reminds you that despite his gruff exterior and cynical worldview, despite all his talk about being a fuck-up and a drunk, he's actually kind. More than that—he's considerate in a way that makes your chest feel warm.

"Yeah," you say softly. "It's okay."

He nods, something that might be relief crossing his face, and turns your hand over, examining the healing cuts with a critical eye. His thumb brushes across your fingertips, so gentle you barely feel it, checking the scar tissue.

"Healing clean," he observes. "No infection, no complications. Should be completely gone in another week or so."

"That's good."

"It is." But he doesn't let go of your hand. Instead, he keeps it cradled in his paw, his thumb now resting against your palm. His claws are so careful, moving with barely a brush, so he won't accidentally hurt you. "You've been picking at them. Don't think I haven't noticed."

You feel caught. "I wasn't—"

"Doll, I've been watching you mess with those cuts dont deny it." His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them—warmth, understanding, maybe even concern. It's such a departure from the closed-off bartender you first met. "It's okay to be stressed. Hell is stressful. But take it out on something other than yourself, yeah?"

You realize, with a start, that this whole "inspection" was actually just him stopping you from hurting yourself. That he'd noticed a habit starting to form that you weren't even aware of and found a way to intervene that wouldn't embarrass you or make you feel bad.

"You're sneaky," you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"I'm practical." But there's a hint of a smile on his face too, barely there but real. "And it works." His claw starts moving in small, absent circles against your palm, and you're not sure he's even aware he's doing it. "You gotta be easier on yourself. You made a mistake. A bad one, yeah, but you're here now and beating yourself up about it doesn't change shit."

"That's very wise," you say, trying to keep your voice light despite the emotion welling up.

"Nah, that's just experience. I've spent enough years beating myself up to know it doesn't help." He glances at the TV, then back at you. "But you? You're different. You're still... I don't know. Soft, I guess. Not in a bad way," he adds quickly. "Just means Hell hasn't made you hard yet. Hasn't turned you into something you're not."

"You say that like it's a good thing."

"It is. Trust me, doll. It is." His voice is rough with sincerity, and his claws tighten just slightly around yours—protective, warm. "And I'd like to think it can stay that way. So stop picking at your damn cuts and let them heal."

Your throat feels tight suddenly, emotion welling up in a way that feels disproportionate to the moment.

"Okay," you manage, and your voice comes out smaller than intended.

"Good." He doesn't let go, and you don't pull away. His thumb continues those small circles, soothing and steady. "Now, you wanna watch another trainwreck or you wanna find something else?"

On the TV, the show has reached its inevitable conclusion—Trevor is being escorted off stage by security while Marcus is being physically restrained and the sister is crying into her mother's shoulder. The host is promising more drama after the commercial break.

Husk's claw is still moving in small, absent circles against your palm. There's something almost... content in his expression.

"Is there more than one episode?"

"There are eight seasons of this garbage. Hell's entertainment industry is nothing if not prolific." He shifts slightly, getting more comfortable, and you realize he's moved closer. Not obviously, not in a way that feels invasive, just... closer. "Fair warning though, it doesn't get better. It actually gets worse. Season three has a cult subplot."

You laugh, and it feels easy. Natural. "A cult subplot? In a talkshow about family drama?"

"Hey, it's Hell. Everything's gotta have a cult subplot eventually. That or a demon possession arc, but that's basically the same thing down here." He's looking at you rather than the TV, and there's warmth in his yellow eyes that you've never seen him direct at anyone. "You sure you wanna commit to this trainwreck?"

"We've got time, right?"

His expression softens even more, if that's possible. "Yeah, sweetness, We've got time." And the way he says it—not bitter, not resigned, just accepting—makes it sound almost like a promise.

The next episode starts with a new set of dramatics—this time involving a love triangle between three imps who all work at the same company. Husk keeps up his commentary, but it's different now. Less sharp, less cynical-for-the-sake-of-it. When he makes a joke, he glances at you first to see if you'll laugh. When you do laugh, his smile lingers a little longer.

Your hand is still in his, and he shows no signs of letting go. If anything, he seems to be holding on a little tighter. His claws are so careful, never pressing too hard, and the warmth of his fur is surprisingly soothing. You trace the pattern of black and white with your eyes, noticing details you hadn't before—the way the colors swirl together, the places where the fur is slightly longer, the old scars hidden beneath.

"You got questions," Husk observes without looking away from the TV. "I can tell. You get this look when you're trying to figure out if it's okay to ask something."

"What look?"

"This little furrow right here—" he reaches over and gently taps the space between your eyebrows, "—and your snakes get all twitchy. It's cute. Don't tell anyone I said that."

You feel your face warm—can you still blush with pink skin? Apparently yes, because Husk's smile widens slightly.

"I was just wondering... how long have you been here? In Hell, I mean."

The smile fades a bit, but he doesn't pull away or shut down like he might have before. "Long enough to have regrets. Long enough to have known better and still fuck up anyway." He pauses, considering. "Decades, at this point. Lost count somewhere around year thirty."

"Do you..." you hesitate, not sure if you should push. "Do you ever think about redemption? About Charlie's plan?"

Husk is quiet for a long moment, his thumb still drawing those circles on your palm. "Honestly? I think Charlie's plan is a long shot. Most sinners down here don't want to change—they want power, or pleasure, or both. They're here because they chose those things over everything else."

"Do you want to change?"

"I want to be better than I am. Whether that means redemption or just... being less of a piece of shit? I don't know." His voice drops lower. "But being around you ... it ... makes me remember what it was like to give a damn about more then my next drink."

"Oh ... I ... Thank you," you whisper.

"Don't mention it." He squeezes your hand gently. "And I mean that literally. Tell Angel about this and I'll deny everything."

You laugh despite yourself. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Good." But he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. Makes him look younger, less weary. "Now pay attention, this is where the love triangle gets really messy. Imp number two is about to confess their feelings at the worst possible time."

On screen, the love triangle has devolved into a fistfight, and the host is beside herself with glee. The audience is chanting something obscene. The whole thing is ridiculous and trashy and exactly the kind of distraction you need.

You settle deeper into the couch, hyper-aware of Husk's warmth beside you, of his hand still holding yours with such careful gentleness. The snakes on your head curl contentedly, swaying in slow, peaceful patterns.

You glance sideways, studying the pattern on his wings, which have drooped into a move relaxed position behind him, you wonder for half a second if they would be soft like his fur.

The front doors of the hotel open with enough force to make both you and Husk jump. Angel Dust stumbles in, looking worse for wear than usual. His makeup is smeared, his clothes are disheveled.

"Well, that was a shit show," Angel announces to no one in particular, making a beeline for the bar.

Husk immediately lets go of your hand—so quickly you almost feel the loss like a physical thing—and stands up. "The fuck happened to you?"

"Oh, you know. Everyone." Angel's voice is aggressively cheerful. He reaches for a bottle behind the bar, and Husk lets him, which tells you more about the situation than words could.

You stand up too, uncertain. "Are you okay?"

Angel looks at you, and for just a moment, the mask drops. He looks exhausted. Hurt. But then the smile is back, sharp and brittle. "I'm fantastic, Toots. Just another day in paradise."

"Angel—" you start.

"I'm fine. Really. Just need a drink and maybe twelve hours of sleep." He pours himself something that's probably too strong and knocks it back. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

But you are worrying. You can't help it. This is Angel, who'd protected you from Valentino, who'd intervened on your behalf.

Husk moves around the bar, taking the bottle from Angel's hand before he can pour a second drink. "Come on. We should all turn in."

"I said I'm fine—"

"Don't make me drag you, because we both know I will." There's steel in Husk's voice, the kind that says this isn't up for negotiation.

Angel looks like he might argue, but then his shoulders slump. "Yeah, okay. Fine."

Angel heads toward the stairs before glancing back at you. "Sorry for ruining your date, toots."

"It wasn't—we weren't—" you stammer, but he's already gone, and you're left standing in the lobby with the TV still playing its trashy drama in the background.

You sink back onto the couch, Husk had already left for the night and now your feeling the absence of Husk's warmth, of his hand holding yours. The bowl of stew sits on the coffee table, half-finished and cooling. On TV, someone is throwing another chair.

The moment is broken, but the memory of it remains—Husk's gentle touch, his careful claws, the way he'd made you laugh and then held your hand like it mattered.

The air in Charlie’s private chambers crackled with a nervous energy that was entirely self-generated. For a week, she had existed in a state of frantic, ecstatic preparation. Emily’s phone call, bursting with celestial glee, had been a validation she’d dreamed of but never truly believed would come. Heaven was taking her seriously. They were sending a Speaker.

The Speakers. The very name sent a shiver of awe through her. They weren't just angels; they were the Voice, the Scribes, the direct messengers of a God who had long since delegated the bureaucratic minutiae of Creation. They were the ones who delivered divine edicts, who recorded the cosmic balance, who were, for all intents and purposes, the face of Heaven's executive branch. And one was coming here. To her hotel.

She had rehearsed her greeting a thousand times. She had cleaned, she had reorganized, she had even tried to bribe Niffty into not leaving a trail of glitter and bug corpses in her wake. Now, the moment was here. A soft, golden light began to emanate from the center of the room, coalescing into a shimmering, vertical oval. The air hummed with a frequency that was both serene and immensely powerful, a sound that felt like the universe itself taking a deep, calming breath.

Charlie smoothed down her red suit, took a steadying breath, and put on her most professional, welcoming smile.

The portal flared, and then you stepped through.

And Charlie’s meticulously constructed composure shattered into a billion, blushing pieces.

You were… colossal. Twice her height, at the very least. The divine form of a Speaker was not built for the cramped scale of Hell or the mortal realm; it was built for the grand halls of the Silver City. Your presence filled the room, not with intimidation, but with an overwhelming, tangible warmth. And you were… gorgeous. It wasn't a worldly beauty, not something that could be captured in a photograph or a painting. It was ethereal. Your features were a masterpiece of gentle light and soft grace, your eyes holding the depth of a starry nebula, shining with an inner luminescence that spoke of eons of cosmic love. Your very form seemed to be woven from light and harmony, a living symphony of divine creation.

Charlie’s brain short-circuited. Her professional smile melted into a stunned, slack-jawed gape. Her bisexual panic, a beast she usually kept on a tight leash, roared to life, setting her cheeks ablaze and turning her tongue into a useless lump of flesh.

You, however, seemed utterly unbothered by her reaction. A beatific, patient smile graced your lips as you took in the room, and then your gaze settled on the stunned Princess of Hell. Without a hint of condescension, you gracefully crouched down, your knees bending until your luminous eyes were level with hers. The movement was so fluid, so gentle, it made Charlie’s heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Charlotte Morningstar," your voice was everything she imagined starlight would sound like—sweet, melodic, and resonating with a kindness that felt like a physical embrace. "It is an honor to finally meet you in person. Your dedication has created ripples that reached the highest thrones."

Charlie’s mind was a screaming void. All she could process was the sheer, breathtaking loveliness of your face so close to hers, the divine light in your eyes, the scent of ozone and lilies that seemed to emanate from you. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled, "Oh! Uh! Hi! Welcome! To Hell! I mean, to the hotel! In Hell! Which is my hotel! Which you're in!"

She swallowed hard, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. Get it together, Morningstar! You are a princess! A businesswoman! A—a bisexual disaster!

"It is an honor to finally meet you, daughter of Lucifer. Your dedication has echoed all the way to the Silver City."

"The—the honor is! All mine! Really! Wow, you're… tall. And… shiny. In a good way! A very good, holy way!" She clutched her hands to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. She needed backup. She needed a distraction. She needed someone who wasn't currently contemplating the softness of an angelic being's hair.

"I—I just realized! I must fetch the hotel's host! Yes! Alastor! He's… crucial! To the project! His insights! Very… insightful!" she stammered, pointing a thumb over her shoulder towards the door. "Would you… mind…?"

The words tumbled out in a frantic, high-pitched rush. You simply nodded, your smile never wavering. "Of course, my dear. Take your time."

The term of endearment, so effortlessly given, was the final blow. Charlie let out a squeak that was half-acknowledgment, half-mortal embarrassment, and then she turned and dashed from the room as if the hounds of Hell were at her heels—which, in a way, they were, in the form of her own gay panic.

She skidded into the hotel's main lobby, her chest heaving. Her eyes scanned the room wildly before landing on her target. Alastor was, as he often was, holding court at the hotel bar. He was leaning casually against the counter, his microphone staff propped beside him, verbally poking and prodding a grumpy Husk while Angel Dust, perched on a nearby stool, provided a running commentary of lewd interruptions.

"…and I simply fail to see the artistic merit in such… graphic depictions, my effeminate fellow! Where is the tension? The suspense? It's all so dreadfully straightforward!"

"Ugh, fuck off, Smiles. Some of us appreciate a lack of subtext," Angel groaned.

"Alastor!" Charlie gasped, stumbling up to him and clutching his coat sleeve.

The Radio Demon’s head swiveled towards her, his static-filled grin widening at her disheveled state. "Why, Charlotte! You look as if you've seen a ghost! Or perhaps a particularly vibrant tax audit?"

"No! It's—it's the Speaker! She's here! And she's… she's…" Charlie flailed her hands, searching for the words. "She's so tall! And beautiful! And her voice! Alastor, I can't do it. I can't form a coherent sentence. You have to come. You have to. You love a spectacle, and this is the biggest one we've ever had! Please, you need to be the calm, collected one while I… malfunction!"

Alastor’s eyes glinted with pure, unadulterated amusement. The idea of the ever-optimistic Princess of Hell being rendered a stuttering mess by a heavenly envoy was entertainment of the highest order. It was a delightful twist in the otherwise predictable narrative of redemption.

"An angelic bureaucrat has you reduced to a stammering schoolgirl? Oh, this is simply too delightful to miss!" he chuckled, the sound crackling like an old record. "My, my. How utterly fascinating. Very well, my dear! Let us not keep our celestial guest waiting! Lead the way!"

He followed a still-flustered Charlie back to her chambers, his gait a confident swagger. This was going to be a riot. He would observe, he would comment with his trademark sly wit, and he would thoroughly enjoy watching Charlie squirm. He pushed the door open, his signature grin plastered firmly in place.

"Now then," he announced, his voice a blare of static charm. "Let's have a look at this divine dignitary who has so—"

His words died in his throat.

His gaze traveled up. And up. And up.

He had expected an angel. Perhaps one with a gleaming halo and pristine robes. He had not expected a being of such sheer, monumental scale and ethereal presence. You were not just beautiful; you were a force of nature, a creature of light whose very existence seemed to mock the shadows he so cherished. Your divine gorgeousness was an objective fact, a radiance that appealed to any being with eyes, be they sinner or saint, and against his will, Alastor felt the impact.

Charlie, seeing his confident entrance falter, felt a small, vindicated thrill amidst her own panic. "A-Alastor, this is the Speaker, sent from Heaven. Speaker, this is Alastor, the host of the hotel. His… influence has been… um… instrumental."

You turned your gaze from Charlie to the new arrival. That same, patient smile returned. Once again, you gracefully crouched down, the immense, luminous form of you folding to bring your face to his level. Your eyes, vast and kind, met his.

"And you must be Alastor," you said, and your voice was a balm, a hymn, the sweetest, most angelic sound he had ever been subjected to. It washed over him, and for a single, horrifying, involuntary moment, his body betrayed him.

His sharp, red deer ears, which were usually perked in alert amusement, gave a sudden, noticeable twitch. Then, as if weighed down by the sheer weight of your gentle tone, they slowly, slowly lowered, pressing back against his hair in a subconscious display of… something. His smile, that permanent, razor-sharp fixture, became strained at the edges, a subtle wobble betraying his shock. The tip of his thin, demonic tail gave a frantic, twitching flick behind him.

He was still standing, still smiling, but the foundation of his composure had developed a hairline fracture. "Indeed I am!" he managed, his radio filter flickering for a split second. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. We so rarely get visitors of such… stature."

The meeting proceeded, though it was a study in contrasts. Charlie was an open book of flustered enthusiasm, tripping over her words and gesturing wildly. Alastor, meanwhile, was a masterclass in subtle disintegration. He contributed, his words still clever and laced with double meanings, but his ears remained stubbornly lowered, and his tail never quite stilled. He was hyper-aware of your presence, of the way the very air seemed to purify around you. Charlie, noticing his subdued state and the tell-tale signs of his own awe, began to feel a camaraderie in their shared, silent crisis.

Finally, the business was concluded. Promises of cooperation were made, channels of communication were established. You rose to your full, magnificent height, the golden portal shimmering back into existence behind you.

"It has been a true blessing to meet you both," you said, your voice once again washing over them like a warm wave. You crouched one last time, a final, intimate gesture. You looked at Charlie, then at Alastor, your expression filled with boundless affection.

"You are doing wonderful work here, my dears," you said softly.

And then you did the unthinkable.

You reached out a hand, glowing with a soft, inner light, and gently cupped Alastor’s cheek. Your touch was not searing or painful, as holy things often were to demons. It was impossibly warm, gentle, and sent a jolt of something entirely foreign straight through his core. It was a touch of pure, unconditional grace.

"Have faith," you whispered, your thumb stroking his cheekbone for a fleeting second.

Then you stood, offered one last beatific smile, and stepped back through the portal, which vanished with a soft pop, leaving behind only the scent of ozone and lilies.

Silence.

Charlie, still pink-cheeked but recovering, turned to Alastor, a teasing grin finally finding its way to her lips. "Wow, Alastor, I didn't know you could—"

She stopped.

Alastor was frozen. Utterly, completely petrified. His ears, which had been lowered, were now standing at rigid, perfect attention. His tail was frozen mid-twitch. His smile was still plastered on his face, but it was a hollow, motionless mask. Every line of his body was locked in place. The only sign of life was a faint, dark flush that was creeping up from his collar, staining the grey skin of his neck and the tips of his ears a tell-tale crimson.

He looked like a statue, a monument to stunned silence.

"Alastor?" Charlie tried again, her voice gentle.

The use of his name seemed to break the spell. His head snapped towards her, the movement sharp and sudden. The frozen smile tightened, the radio static around him crackling with a sharp, defensive burst of noise.

"Not. A. Word," he bit out, his voice dangerously low and devoid of its usual playful static. Before she could even form a response, he dissolved into a pool of shadow and static, vanishing from the room entirely.

Human or not, Alastor is still charming, elegant, and eccentric, but gentler and more approachable. He likes to dress impeccably, speak politely, and make you smile with those small gestures that seem straight out of another era.

He's flirtatious, seductive, and knows exactly what he's doing. Even if you manage to unnerve him or make him lose his composure inside, he always maintains his charming facade.

His dates are little gems: walks through New Orleans, cafes with live jazz, nights dancing under the bar lights and his smile shining amidst old melodies.

His jealousy is… rare. Not aggressive, but passive-aggressive. He never loses his composure around you. If something or someone makes him uncomfortable, he leans closer, puts his arm around you, or makes a comment in his playful tone, without erasing his smile. He never raises his voice, but you can read that spark of "mine" in his eyes.

Sometimes, some nights, he just doesn't come home. He shows up at dawn with flowers, kisses, and a perfect breakfast to make it up to you. He says he's been hunting. You don't know exactly what that means, and you'd rather not ask. When hunting season comes, he warns you not to wait up for him; he doesn't want you to stay up all night for him.

When you visit him at his radio studio, he welcomes you with open arms. The atmosphere there is surprisingly wholesome; everyone respects him and even seems to adore him. One day you bring him his forgotten lunch, and you realize how much everyone loves his voice… and how much you love him.

Oh, and in case you didn't know: the poor guy is nearsighted. He always needs his glasses, although sometimes he forgets where he put them. "Alastor, are you okay?" "Darling, I lost my glasses." "Love, they're hanging off your shirt."

At night, he loves to be the big spoon, cuddling you from behind while you sleep. His warmth, his voice whispering old songs, his calm breathing… it's as if the world has stopped.

He has a cabin on the bayou. He won't let you in unless he's there. He says it's for security. (Spoiler alert: he keeps some very strange things there—voodoo books, antiques… and maybe some mementos from his victims.)

He doesn't like children. He's never said so directly, but you can tell. Still, he's occasionally hinted that if they were to have one, he'd want a girl.

And the most adorable (and slightly cheeky) thing: whether you're engaged or married, he never takes off his ring. He proudly flaunts it. Sometimes he doesn't even need to speak to do so; all it takes is that golden gleam on his left hand to remind everyone that you're his… and he's completely yours.