Baby’s First Overlord Meeting (aka Vox Gets Rattled)
Based on a few requests and comments readers left about Alastor and Carmine!Reader bringing Dahlia to an Overlord Meeting
A/N: Also, requests are still open. Just please, send them through my inbox or DM me. If you send them as a comment on stories, I'll lose track of them, knowing me.
This new floor Dahlia was on was shiny, making her happy instantly.
Dahlia likes shiny.
Mama and Papa stood above her as always, conversing in hushed tones. Mama gestured with her hands, pointing towards the table in front of them and then back at Dahlia. Papa is pretending not to listen to Mama, but is actually listening very hard while smiling like always.
Dahlia decides this is the perfect time to do some crawling.
Her hands make little slap sounds. The floor doesn't smell like the hotel. Instead, it smelled more like polish and old power and something bitter that tickles Dahlia's nose. The room is bigger than most rooms she's been in, with the ceiling very far away, and the lights hum like they’re annoyed to be here.
Suddenly, new voices are coming into the room.
Too many. Loud. Sharp. Some of them feel bad in Dahlia's chest, like when Mama frowns at someone who deserves it. Some feel buzzy. Some feel itchy. It's enough to get her to stop crawling.
She blinks up at the many legs moving about until stopping abruptly in front of her.
Everyone stops talking. The room freezes the way prey freezes when it realizes it is no longer the most dangerous thing in the room.
The first new person to verbally acknowledge her presence is a blue face that looks down at her. He was tall, his face square, with bright eyes. Buzzing sound.
Vox.
Dahlia doesn't know his name, but she knows he's too loud and colorful. He made her feel like the way she did whenever she would stare at lights too long. She frowns at him and the feelings he was giving her.
Vox stares back, more confused than anything else.
“Is that,” he says slowly, “a baby?”
No one answers.
Another voice laughs. High. Scratchy. Smells like perfume and rot and something wrong.
Valentino crouches slightly, heart-shaped sunglasses slipping down his nose. “Well, I’ll be damned, who let a little lamb into the slaughterhouse?”
Dahlia doesn't like this one either. It was enough to make her bare her gums at him. She possessed no teeth just yet. Just gums. But it was still enough to have the giant moth man lean back instinctively.
A woman with sharp pink energy and too many bracelets tilts her head, eyes widening as though knowing who Dahlia was. “Didn't you hear?” Velvette mutters. “That’s their kid.”
The room inhales as one, knowing what she meant.
Heavy footsteps approached her next.
Instantly sensing the warmth, Dahlia turns to the sound.
Abuela!
Carmilla Carmine looks at Dahlia, and her face softens just a little.
“Mi niña hermosa,” Abuela says calmly, like the room isn't full of monsters who could end worlds and manipulate souls. “How did you get here?”
Dahlia squeals. She crawls toward Abuela, hands slapping happily.
A couple of Overlords scramble out of the way while Abuela kneels despite the room full of power. She opens her arms, and Dahlia climbs into them.
Safe.
Behind Abuela, a tall, thin shape shifts in the shadows.
Zestial. Old. Ancient. Kind in a way that feels like time itself.
“Ah,” he croons softly. “The littlest Carmine has visited where titans tread.”
Dahlia reached out to pat his sleeve. It makes a crinkly sound. She likes it.
“That kid could probably kill us all,” Velvette mutters while on her phone, no doubt already thinking about how this incident will trend online.
“She could,” Abuela agrees pleasantly. “If she wished.”
Dahlia squirms down and crawls again as her nose takes in new smells. New, but familiar; like gun oil and leather and flowers pressed into steel.
Clara and Odette.
Aunties!
Clara crouches immediately, grinning. Odette spreads her arms wide.
“There she is,” Odette coos. “Up to trouble already?”
Dahlia giggles and grabs Clara’s bootlace. Then she gets distracted by a laugh that rings out after hers. This laugh was sharp, cheerful, edged with teeth.
Rosie.
“Oh! Look at her,” Rosie says warmly, stepping forward like this is a tea party and not another Overlord summit. “Sweet thing wandered into the lion's den, didn’t you?”
Rosie kneels and offers Dahlia a finger.
Dahlia inspects it.
CHOMP!
Rosie beams. “What an affectionate little bite! I love her.”
Vox scoffs. “You people are ridiculous. It’s just a—”
The lights flicker. Static crawls up the walls. Shadows form into a familiar shape.
Papa!
Alastor’s presence blooms like a radio crescendo, smile bright and sharp as always, as he steps forward.
“My, my,” Papa says pleasantly. “I seen you've all been acquainted with my little star.”
Dahlia squeals. She crawls toward him at top speed. Papa scoops her up effortlessly, tucking her against his chest. He smiles wider.
Mama’s footsteps follow.
Y/N Carmine steps into the crowd, eyes sweeping, knives sheathed but very real.
Mama takes Dahlia from Papa, holding her close, one hand firm at her back.
Dahlia relaxes instantly.
Mama presses a kiss to her hair. “You can’t crawl away from Mama and Papa like that, mi cielo.”
Dahlia doesn't know what that means. She only knows Mama smells like home.
Papa laughs softly. “Though I must say she is handling everything surprisingly well.”
Y/N nestled Dahlia against her hip in a custom carrier made of reinforced leather and enchanted steel (courtesy of Carmine Industries). The baby sucked thoughtfully on one end of a rattle Alastor handed her that looked suspiciously like it had once been a ceremonial dagger.
Several Overlords had opinions about this. Some fearful. Some amused. Some were deeply unsettled. They were just smart enough not to voice their thoughts.
Unfortunately, Vox had never been accused of being smart.
His screen flickered as he leaned back to fully take in the situation, smug grin stretching across static-lit features. “Wow,” he drawled, voice echoing through hidden speakers. “So I guess the rumors are true. You really did go begging Lucifer, so you can have yourselves a brat of your own. Way to go soft!”
A few heads turned. The room tensed.
Alastor’s smile didn't change, but the static beneath it sharpened. Y/N’s eyes flicked toward Vox. As always, she presented herself as calm, measured, with just a hint of lethality to subtly warn what she could do if things were taken too far.
Vox continued, regardless, because of course he did.
“Just saying,” he went on, waving a hand dismissively, “It's hard to believe that the Radio Demon and Carmilla's little blade are using their combined power to -what- play house? What’s next? PTA meetings? Coaching Little League?”
Alastor tilted his head, his grin scowling.
Y/N shifted her weight, already stepping forward. “Say one more word about my family and I—”
Neither of them got the chance to finish.
Because Dahlia, who had been quietly observing Vox with wide, curious eyes, suddenly made a decision.
She pulled the rattle from her mouth.
Gripped it with both tiny hands.
And threw it.
Hard.
The rattle cut through the air like a bullet.
There was a crack; a sharp, metallic sound followed by a burst of sparks and static as it struck Vox squarely in the screen.
Dead center.
Perfect aim.
Vox yelped as his image glitched violently. “OW!! WHAT THE—?!”
The rattle bounced once on the floor and rolled to a stop.
Silence.
Absolute, dead silence.
Dahlia blinked. Then she squealed, delighted with herself, and slapped her hands together.
Y/N froze. Then, very slowly, she turned her head and looked down at her daughter.
Alastor stared as well.
Carmilla’s lips twitched.
A random Overlord, watching from the back of the room, let out a strangled noise. “HOLY SHIT!”
Rosie covers her mouth. “Oh my.”
Zestial’s four eyes gleam faintly. “Remarkable velocity.”
Vox’s screen sputtered back to life, flickering, and decidedly less smug. “Did—did that baby just—”
Alastor burst into laughter. Not polite laughter. Not restrained amusement. Full-bodied, delighted, radio-static-laced laughter that echoed off the chamber walls.
“Oh!” he said brightly, clapping once. “Marvelous arm! Exceptional follow-through! Perhaps we really should consider her taking up Little League!”
Y/N exhaled, then laughed too. She kissed the top of Dahlia’s head. “Mi amor, we don't throw things at Overlords.”
Dahlia gurgled as though defending her actions.
Y/N smirked and replied. “You're right, unless they deserve it.”
Carmilla leaned back, utterly satisfied. “She’s got Carmine aim,” she claimed. “And the Radio Demon temperament. A dangerous combination."
Vox sputtered. “You can’t just—this is ridiculous! She’s a BABY!”
Alastor’s grin tightened, eyes glowing. “Yes,” he said pleasantly, but also possessing a subtle aura of threat. “And she’s already demonstrated better judgment than you.”
The shadows behind him curled, amused.
Y/N met Vox’s gaze, eyes cold. “You were saying something about us growing soft? Playing house?”
Dahlia babbled happily and reached for another object in her carrier.
Vox leaned back, hands up. “Nope. Nope. Point taken.”
The meeting finally started shortly after.
No one made another comment.
And Dahlia Carmine fell asleep to the sound of powerful demons speaking much more politely than before. All while one tiny rattle-shaped dent was now permanently etched into Overlord history.
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The floor was warm, not hot, just warm enough to feel nice on Dahlia’s belly as she wriggled forward, little hands pressing into the plush carpet. It smelled funny down here; warm and sweet and dusty and oh!—sharp and clean enough to make her nose scrunch. Mama once said it was because of something called "cleaning spray." Dahlia didn’t know what that was, but she liked the color of the bottle it came from. It looked bright and happy, and probably very chewable (Mama wouldn't let her confirm that last part, though).
Dahlia's horns wobbled as she crawled, wings twitching at her back. One day, she'll put them to great use, but for now, she'll continue to master crawling. After all, crawling was hard work. Crawling was important work. Mama said the world was full of things, and Dahlia had made it her mission to find all of the things!
Shadows moved at the edges of the room, but Dahlia didn’t mind. She learned very early that shadows were friends. Papa’s shadow was the best kind, curling when she laughed, moving when she moved. Sometimes it would even wave at her, being the first to greet her whenever she woke up. Papa said it was polite like that.
Dahlia finally reached the big open space full of noise and colors. It was called the lobby. She paused, blinking her big eyes as lights flickered above her. Somewhere, something clinked. Somewhere else, someone laughed.
Then there was a voice: tall and sparkly and sounded like mischief.
“Hey, little terror!”
Dahlia tipped sideways and looked up.
Angel Dust.
He was very pink. Very tall. Very fuzzy. He was sitting on the couch, doing something with a shiny cloth and a small mirror. Dahlia didn't trust the mirror. It showed another baby, and Dahlia was certain there was only supposed to be one of her.
“Ba—ba!” she gurgled indignantly, reaching up toward her reflection as though needing to teach it a lesson.
Angel leaned down, eyes softening. “Well, ain’t you just the cutest little menace.” He dangled a glittering ribbon in front of her face. “Whaddaya think, huh? Wanna try?”
Dahlia's attention then went to the shiny fabric, and she grabbed it hard.
Angel blinked in surprise. “Wow, okay! That’s quite the grip.”
Dahlia squealed triumphantly in agreement.
Angel laughed. “Ohhh yeah. You’re definitely theirs.” He gently tugged the ribbon back. “Strong little claws. They're teachin’ you early, huh?”
Dahlia didn’t know what teachin’ was, but she liked his voice. She chewed the ribbon once before Angel very carefully took it away. “Alright, alright. No sparkles for the baby assassin.”
Baby assassin sounded important. She liked that title right away!
Dahlia bid him a baby version of adieu (pretty much a little giggle as she stared him down for a couple of seconds) and crawled on. The air changed again as she found herself somewhere else. It was warm and delicious now. Sweet. Something baking! It was enough to get Dahlia’s tummy to do a little flip of excitement as she realized she was now in the kitchen.
Charlie was there, humming softly, sliding a tray into the oven. She turned and gasped quietly. “Oh! Dahlia!”
Dahlia smiled. Big, gummy, super happy.
Charlie knelt immediately. She held something round and brown just out of reach, but close enough for Dahlia to realize how yummy it looked. “Want a cookie?”
She wanted everything. She crawled faster, little hands slapping the tile during her excitement, her wings flapping quickly in hopes they'd help get her to the sweet-smelling circle in Charlie's hand faster. “Teeee, tee!” she squealed, laughter bubbling out of her chest.
Charlie laughed with her, eyes bright. “You’re unstoppable. Look at you go! You’re so fast!” She didn’t give Dahlia the cookie, but she let her smell it, which was almost as good.
Then her attention was on a sudden shadow that appeared and loomed next to her.
She froze momentarily.
Papa?
No, this shadow came with a low voice. Scratchy and grumpy, too.
“Hey, kid.”
Husk.
She turned her head, seeing him standing there with a mug that smelled bitter and strong. Dahlia stared at it.
Mug.
The mug was interesting, with its big, funny shapes plastered on it. Mama and Papa had a lot of those.
“Don’t touch,” Husk muttered when he noticed her crawling his way, then sighed when she reached anyway. “Figures.”
Dahlia tapped the mug gently, cooing softly at the warmth.
Husk went very still, then he snorted. “Yeah. You’ve got guts...just like them.” He crouched, scratching behind one of her ears.
Dahlia giggled and reached up to touch his face.
Soft.
Husk stilled at her touch, but then he gently patted her head. “You’re alright, kid. Just…don’t grow up too fast.”
Dahlia didn’t know what that meant. She smiled at him anyway before resuming her crawling.
As she made her way down the hall, something zoomed past her.
“Oh! Oh oh oh—careful!”
Niffty.
She was everywhere, just like Dahlia tried to be; knees on the floor, duster flying, giant eye sparkling. “The little speedster!” she squeaked. “You’re gonna knock something over!”
Dahlia laughed when she played-cleaned her with the duster. She batted at it in playful retaliation.
Niffty gasped dramatically. “Attacking already?! Oh no!” Then she laughed too, letting Dahlia grab the feathers. “You’re gonna be trouble, I can tell.”
Dahlia liked trouble; it always meant fun.
Suddenly, there was a hum.
The hum. It was low and vibratory, and made Dahlia feel safe instantly. The shadows around her shifted, curling inward. Dahlia sat herself up, lifting her head as the shadows disappeared and formed red.
Papa!
Alastor crouched beside her, smile soft in a way it only ever was for her. His shadow wrapped around her like a blanket, looping in gentle shapes. “My little star,” he murmured. “Out adventuring without supervision?”
Dahlia lifted her arms. He didn’t hesitate, immediately scooping her up carefully, holding her like she was the most precious thing in all of Hell as he stood back up with her. Dahlia nuzzled into his coat, feeling the hum of his voice through her tiny body.
“There we are. Far safer up here.”
Footsteps approached, making Dahlia lift her head off her father's shoulder.
Mama!
Y/N stood beside them, eyes soft, hands warm as she brushed Dahlia’s hair with a gentle finger. “Mi amorcita,” she cooed. “Were you exploring the hotel?”
Dahlia yawned as her answer. Her big adventure made her very tired.
Mama took her gently from Papa's arms, holding her close. Papa’s shadow wrapped around both of them, warm and protective.
“Good,” Mama whispered. "Just remember: Mama and Papa are always here.”
Dahlia felt it then, not in her words, but in her warmth and sound and safety.
The hotel was big and loud. It was full of funny smells and friendly shadows and voices that laughed when they didn't yell.
And Mama and Papa were home.
Dahlia’s eyes fluttered shut, tiny hand clutching Mama’s shirt, little body cradled against her as her little wings curled inward.
Parenting isn't easy with a newborn we need to see the late night feedings, crazy diaper changes and the sleep deprived radio demon daddy and bat assassin mommy
Welcome to parenthood its ganna be a wild ride 😈
Parenting, especially parenting in Hell, is not for the faint of heart!
Alastor and Y/N's suite was quiet, a rare, negotiated silence that came after hours of careful routines, protective wards, and a mutual agreement between two demons that sleep was now a precious, fragile thing. Y/N lay on her side, one arm draped over Alastor’s chest, breathing slow and even. Alastor stared at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded, listening not to the city outside, but to the soft, rhythmic breathing of his wife and the even softer sound coming from the bassinet near the bed.
For once, everything was…calm. It was enough for Alastor to allow himself the dangerous thought that perhaps—just perhaps—they had survived the night.
Then came the scream that tore through the room like a blade.
It wasn't a cry or a whimper.
It was a summons.
Y/N was upright instantly, years of survival overriding exhaustion. “Mijita...” she murmured, already reaching out, heart thudding.
Dahlia arched in the bassinet like a tiny demon possessed, her little face scrunched in incandescent fury. Her wail sharpened, vibrating the air. The lights flickered. A framed photograph rattled on the wall.
Alastor’s normally ironclad smile twitched. “Oh…my,” he uttered faintly, swinging his legs over the bed. His shadow peeled itself off the wall behind him, stretching, restless. Nervous.
He had faced exorcists without blinking, had laughed while demons screamed, and had torn apart overlords with a bow and a broadcast smile. None of that prepared him for the sound his daughter made when she was displeased.
Y/N scooped Dahlia up with practiced hands, pressing her close. “Shh, shh, corazón. Mamá’s here.”
Dahlia responded by stiffening her entire tiny body and letting out another shriek. This one was louder, angrier, making her mother wince as the baby’s surprisingly strong fingers latched onto her shirt like a vice.
“Okay,” Y/N said quickly, spinning in place and bouncing. “Okay, okay, shh, shh, shh...”
Alastor approached cautiously, as if nearing a volatile explosive. “Now, darling,” he said gently, “let’s not escalate—”
Dahlia’s fist shot out and smacked him square in the chest. It didn’t necessarily hurt, but Alastor staggered back anyway, more shocked than injured, eyes wide. Y/N let out a startled laugh despite her exhaustion.
“…the audacity,” Alastor whispered as he stared at their daughter, awe dawning slowly.
Y/N slowly placed her back into the bassinet as she began to calm down slightly. Alastor's shadow crept forward, forming into dark tendrils that hovered near, swaying in a gentle rhythm meant to soothe. Dahlia hissed at them immediately, swatted at them with impeccable timing, little hand connecting again and again. The tendrils recoiled like chastened pets.
Y/N gasped. “She just—did you see that?”
Alastor’s grin returned, strained but genuine. “Oh, I saw it. Perfect form. Excellent reaction time.” He leaned closer inside the bassinet, voice dropping with pure admiration. “This child could dismantle small governments.”
Dahlia redirected her fury at him, scream peaking as she landed another kick, this one catching him in the face.
Alastor hissed and clutched his cheek. “Impudent little terror!”
Dahlia paused, blinked at him, and yanked a fistful of his hair.
Alastor froze. “….I love her,” he said weakly with fatherly adoration.
Y/N somehow managed to pick her up again and cradle her properly, rocking side to side. Alastor crouched beside them, reaching out carefully to stroke Dahlia’s head. They leaned in together, kissing Dahlia’s cheeks at the same time. For a brief, miraculous second, she stilled as a small, grudging coo escaped her.
Both parents froze.
“A ceasefire,” Alastor whispered.
Then Dahlia kicked him again.
Y/N snorted. “She’s lethal.”
Alastor laughed quietly, rubbing his side. “Yes, utterly lethal.”
The next several minutes dissolved into chaos. Y/N hadn’t moved, standing in the middle of the suite, swaying gently, Dahlia pressed to her shoulder, one hand patting her back on instinct while the other clutched a bottle that had long since gone cold.
“Drink,” Y/N murmured hoarsely. “Mija, please. Mamá is begging you.”
Dahlia responded by blowing a spit bubble and slapping the bottle away with startling accuracy.
Across the room, Alastor sat slumped in an armchair, hair mussed in a way no one in Hell had ever lived to see. His radio static flickered faintly with each slow blink. “She’s toying with us at this point.”
Y/N shot him a look. “She’s hungry.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But selectively.”
Alastor rose and approached cautiously. “Now, sweetheart,” he said, voice gentle, coaxing, negotiating, “this formula is prepared to exact specifications—”
Dahlia latched onto the bottle mid-sentence.
Alastor didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. “I did it,” he claimed.
Y/N’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Don’t jinx it.”
Too late.
Dahlia unlatched, frowned deeply, and let out a tiny, offended grunt. The bottle was rejected.
Alastor sank back against the chair. “I’ve negotiated with Overlords more reasonable than her.”
The diaper change happened twenty minutes later. Y/N laid Dahlia carefully on the changing table, moving with the precise, lethal focus she usually reserved for assassinations.
“Okay,” she muttered, preparing herself. “We can do this.”
Alastor hovered nearby, holding wipes, a diaper, powder; his shadow extended helpfully, though it eyed the situation with visible suspicion.
The moment the diaper came off, all hell broke loose.
Literally.
Dahlia shrieked in delight and kicked as something warm arced through the air.
Y/N yelped, twisting out of the way. “¡Madre de Dios! ¡¿Cómo?!”
Alastor froze as the projectile splattered against his sleeve.
He stared at it. “….Is that—?” He didn't even want to finish his question.
“Yes,” Y/N said flatly.
There was a long pause. Alastor looked at his sleeve. Looked at Dahlia, who gurgled happily. Looked back at his sleeve.
His eye twitched. “This,” he whispered, “is new.”
Y/N snorted, grabbing wipes with ruthless efficiency to clean both her daughter and her husband. “Welcome to parenthood, cariño.”
By the time the diaper was secured—slightly crooked, but intact—both of them were sweating.
Alastor leaned against the wall, steadying himself. “I fear we may not live to reach the Terrible Twos.”
Y/N lifted Dahlia back into her arms, pressing a kiss to her soft hair. “We will. Barely.”
They collapsed together on the bed afterward, Dahlia finally content, bottle half-finished and clutched triumphantly in her tiny hands. Y/N’s head tipped onto Alastor’s shoulder. His arm wrapped around both of them automatically.
For a moment, neither spoke.
“I haven’t slept in…I don’t know how long,” Y/N mumbled after a while, voice thick.
Alastor’s smile was faint, tired, real. “Sleep appears to be a concept now. A memory. I regret taking her for granted.”
Dahlia shifted on his chest, tiny fingers grabbing at his shirt.
He stilled instantly. “She’s holding on,” he said softly.
Y/N smiled, eyes closing. “She doesn’t want us to leave.”
“Good,” Alastor replied, his finger lightly stroking one of Dahlia’s little horns. “We weren’t planning on it.”
They lay there in the dim light, utterly spent. Alastor broke the silence this time, voice barely above a whisper. “I hereby declare…that we are completely at her mercy.”
Y/N smiled tiredly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The city outside still screamed. Hell still burned.
But inside the Hazbin Hotel, two exhausted monsters sat in the dark, cradling something fragile and fierce.
Two of Hell’s deadliest beings sat guard over her, humbled and undone.
now that Alastor and Carmine reader are parents, we need her playing with the baby while she’s in her bat form!
like she flies around her and does peekaboo while hiding behind her wings, etc.
Dahlia lay sprawled on the rug in the sitting room of her parents' suite, her tiny limbs splayed, eyes fixed on the ceiling with rapt attention.
Because above her...was a bat, a very small, very round bat with glossy black wings and bright, intelligent eyes that flitted lazily through the air, looping and gliding with exaggerated care.
“Eeeee!” Dahlia squealed, flailing her little hands in her mother's direction.
Bat-Y/N chirped back and swooped lower, deliberately slow, wings fluttering just enough to stir Dahlia’s hair. She looped once around the chandelier, then dipped down again, hovering upside-down just out of reach.
Dahlia giggled herself breathless, arms reaching up. Y/N chirped warmly and drifted closer, letting Dahlia’s fingers brush her soft fur for just a second before darting away again.
From the doorway, Alastor leaned against the frame, watching with an expression that could only be described as ruined. “Oh, this is painfully adorable. Absolutely criminal!”
Y/N landed on the edge of the armchair and folded her wings neatly around herself, head tilting as she watched Dahlia crawl toward her with determined little grunts. The baby stopped inches away, staring.
Y/N stared back. Then she hid her face behind her wings.
Dahlia cooed questionably, possibly wondering what her mother was doing, maybe even wondering where she had gone.
Suddenly, Y/N's wings opened wide as she squeaked playfully loudly.
Peekaboo!
Dahlia shrieked with laughter and promptly fell onto her back.
Y/N chirped in triumph as she scuttled closer, climbing onto Dahlia’s tummy and settling there lightly, wings tucked, warm and fuzzy. Dahlia froze, eyes wide, then surprisingly gently placed a hand on Y/N’s back, who practically purred at her touch. A real, content little purr that vibrated faintly against Dahlia’s chest.
Alastor made a sound that might’ve been a choked laugh as he dramatically clutched his chest. “My heart, completely obliterated.”
Y/N lifted her head and chirped at him pointedly.
“Oh, hush,” he replied, his teasing carrying a note of fondness. “You know how precious you two are.”
Before she could retort again, Dahlia leaned closer, pressing her forehead against Y/N’s tiny bat head.
“Mama...” she said softly.
Y/N and Alastor paused at what she said, then each smiled. Y/N unfolded one wing just enough to wrap it around Dahlia like a little blanket. She and Dahlia stayed cuddling on the rug for several minutes—no movement, no tricks—just warmth and quiet comfort. Eventually, Dahlia’s eyelids drooped, the peace making her content enough for a nap.
Y/N looked up, then nodded. She lifted off gently, circling once before landing on Alastor’s antlers, hanging upside down with practiced ease. He started to move towards their daughter, ready to place her in her crib for a proper rest.
But then, as though sensing her mother's disappearing presence while she slept, Dahlia whined softly in protest. Y/N chirped reassuringly and fluttered back down, shifting mid-air—bat form melting away into her usual shape just in time to scoop Dahlia into her arms.
“Mi chiquita hermosa,” she murmured softly. “Mama’s here.”
Dahlia cuddled in instantly, returning to a peaceful slumber.
Alastor watched them both, eyes warm, smile impossibly soft.
Bat or demon. Assassin or mother.
Y/N Carmine entertained her child the same way she did everything else: with powerful devotion.
A/N: If y'all want me to write out other character reactions to the new baby, let me know in the form of a request! FOR NOW, however, I wanted to write out Carmilla's reaction as the "final" one for the main baby arc saga, so I can focus on other requests I need to get to. I think I only have a few more, so y'all are more than welcome to send me more if you wish to!
Definitely send me requests revolving around Alastor and Carmine!Reader being parents!
Previous Chapter: Absolutely Nobody Was Prepared for This
When Carmilla picked her head up from what she was working on, she immediately sensed something was off the moment Y/N stepped into her office. Not wrong or bad, just...different.
She noticed it in the way her daughter slowly moved towards her. It was very much like how she used to when she was younger, fearing interrupting her work. A hand rested against Y/N's chest, as if steadying herself. Her fingers were splayed, almost as if she were holding something precious. And then Carmilla noticed the weight her eyes were carrying. It was something...important, yet fragile. Something that would cause great damage if handled carelessly.
It was all enough to get Carmilla to push her paperwork aside to give Y/N her undivided attention.
"Mija, is everything all right?"
Y/N didn't answer right away, needing a moment to swallow nervously before grounding herself some more with the familiarity of her mother's office: the faint smell of iron polish and ink on paper, the sight of shelves lined with ledgers, contracts, and weapons - all of it a testament to decades of careful planning, fierce protection, and survival. It was enough to calm Y/N down so she could begin with her news.
"I need you to listen, and to please not interrupt until I finish,"
Carmilla’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, her focus sharpening, as if she were reading a battlefield. Regardless, she nodded in compliance.
Y/N inhaled, the quiet tremor of fear threading through her chest. Her voice, when it came, was low, like speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile reality she held in her hands. “Something has changed. Alastor—” She choked briefly, swallowed, and tried again. “Alastor and I… have a child.”
Silence fell. Heavy, complete.
Carmilla did not speak or move from her seat. She simply regarded her daughter with the same intensity she had reserved for contracts penned in blood, for assassins waiting in the shadows, for negotiations where life itself hung in the balance.
“Explain,"
Y/N’s hands trembled, her hair fell into her face as she looked down at the floor, then back up, letting the words come slowly but surely. “Alastor did something with… Lucifer. He made a deal. I—I didn’t know until after.”
Carmilla’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, a muscle that had not relaxed in decades as she stood up from her seat on instinct. “Did he force this on you?” Her voice was quiet now, but razor-sharp.
“No,” Y/N said immediately, just as fiercely. “Never! He would rather sell his soul than take my choice from me.” Then, unexpectedly, she laughed softly, a humorless, slightly relieved sound. "Alastor did this because he knew this was what I wanted… even though I gave up the very idea of it a long time ago.”
Carmilla’s expression faltered, a crack in her usual armor. “You… gave up?”
Y/N nodded. “I did. I thought…I thought that part of me died along with everything else. But Alastor wouldn’t let me stay without hope. He did this because he loves me, and because he believed in what I couldn’t anymore.”
Carmilla blinked, her hands tightening slightly at her side. Then… something shifted. Her eyes softened as she came to her daughter, cupped her face, and had her thumbs brush beneath tear-bright eyes. It was a gesture she offered no one else outside the family, a quiet, unguarded intimacy forged through blood, fire, and trust.
“Look at me,” Carmilla said, a warmth crept into her voice. “You are not foolish, not weak, or selfish for wanting this. You've earned this after surviving for so long."
Y/N broke then as a sob escaped, sharp and aching. “I made peace with never being a mother,” she whispered. “I told myself it was punishment. That it was Hell reminding me of who I was.”
“No,” Carmilla murmured. “It was Hell lying.” She pressed her forehead to Y/N’s. “You were always meant to love fiercely. That was never your sin.”
Y/N’s hands clutched at her mother’s sleeve like a frightened child. “I’m scared.”
“As you should be,” Carmilla replied softly. “Anything worth protecting is terrifying.”
Y/N nodded in understanding, tears spilling freely. “She will be,” she whispered.
Carmilla’s breath caught—just once—but Y/N felt it. Something deep and wild stirred behind her mother’s eyes. “She,” Carmilla whispered, voice trembling with awe, “Una nieta.”
Y/N laughed softly through the tears, a sound half broken, half ecstatic. “Sí, mamá. Her name's Dahlia.” She exhaled, the weight of impossible hope in her arms. “Would you like to meet her?”
Carmilla studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she huffed—almost like a warrior catching her breath after a long battle.
She nodded.
---------------
The office door opened softly.
Alastor stepped inside without his usual theatrical flourish, the radio-static hush around him muted to a respectful hum. His long arms were cradled carefully, admiringly, around a small bundle wrapped in deep red fabric embroidered with fine black thread. Y/N followed just behind him, one hand resting lightly at his back, grounding him as much as steadying herself.
Carmilla turned, and for the first time in decades, Hell’s most feared weapons dealer forgot how to breathe.
The child was small, smaller than Carmilla expected. She seemed impossibly delicate against Alastor’s tall, angular frame, her tiny horns curled just above a head of dark hair, and her gray skin held a warm undertone beneath Hell’s glow. Then there were her eyes, half-lidded with sleep, that flickered open just long enough to reveal white irises framed by red sclera and narrow black pupils.
Somehow, miraculously, she had the Carmine eyes.
“Oh,” Carmilla whispered.
Alastor stopped a respectful distance away. His smile was soft, proud, dangerously sincere. “Madam Carmine,” he started as he slowly, carefully, lifted up the baby in his arms so Carmilla could have a better view. “May I present...our daughter!”
Y/N’s fingers curled into Alastor’s back. “Mamá,” she said quietly. “This is Dahlia.”
The baby stirred at the sound of Y/N’s voice, making a small, disgruntled noise before settling again, one tiny hand slipping free of the blanket. Her fingers flexed in a clumsy, instinctive way.
Carmilla approached slowly, as if the air itself might shatter if she moved too fast. When she stopped in front of them, she didn't reach out right away. Instead, she studied Dahlia with the same intensity she once reserved for weapons prototypes and battlefield schematics, except that her eyes shone with something softer.
“She’s real,” Carmilla said, almost to herself.
Y/N let out a shaky laugh. “She is.”
Carmilla finally lifted her hands. “May I?”
Alastor’s grip tightened instinctively for a fraction of a second, then he relaxed and carefully transferred Dahlia into Carmilla’s arms, every movement precise, deliberate. When the child was settled, Carmilla stiffened slightly, surprised by the weight. It wasn't heavy, but it was definitely important.
Dahlia shifted again, nose scrunching as if offended by the unfamiliar scent of gun oil and iron and power. Then she calmed down enough for one of her small hands to latch onto Carmilla’s finger with surprising strength.
It was enough to freeze Carmilla and cause her breath to hitch.
“Strong grip,” she noted, voice barely steady.
Alastor’s smile sharpened with pride. “Runs in the family.”
Carmilla shot him a look that would have killed lesser demons before she looked back down at her granddaughter.
Her granddaughter.
“Hola, pequeña,” Carmilla whispered, brushing her thumb gently along Dahlia’s cheek. “Soy tu abuela.”
Dahlia yawned, wide and ungraceful, then settled against Carmilla’s chest as if she belonged there.
Carmilla swallowed hard. “She has your eyes,” she said to Y/N. “I know that's not possible, but she does.”
Y/N simply smiled through fresh tears in response.
Carmilla straightened slightly, squaring her shoulders as steel returned to her spine even as her arms cradled something infinitely more dangerous than any weapon she’d ever built. “No one will touch her,” she declared. “Anyone who even thinks about it will cease to exist.”
Alastor’s grin widened, sharp and delighted. “Ah, splendid! We were hoping you’d say that.”
Y/N rolled her eyes fondly and leaned into his side.
Carmilla glanced between them; her daughter, finally allowing herself joy, while the Radio Demon looked disturbingly domestic.
“She is Carmine,” Carmilla said, returning her attention to her granddaughter. “Maybe not in blood, but in name. In protection.”
Her gaze lifted to Alastor, eyes blazing. “And if you fail her—”
“I won’t,” Alastor replied simply.
No jokes this time or even static. Just truth.
Carmilla studied him for a long moment, then nodded. She looked back down at Dahlia once again, her expression softening into something almost unrecognizable.
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Human and Modern au (possibly college but no specific age)
Alastor dresses old and Vintage (pretty much his human outfit just in modern times) while everyone dresses well ''normal'' (like example Vox wears hoodies jeans) i saw this in a mini comic once and found it hilarious
Carmine read dresses very dark ballet (cause Carmilla is based off dance)
Everyone gets so confused how they could be together cause there total opposites in personality and style ect ect
I can see it them being high school sweethearts and married already everyone finding out are just shocked
The start of the fall term at Pentagram U always came with its usual chaos: freshmen getting lost, professors already tired, and the quad packed with caffeine-addicted upperclassmen clinging to summer’s last scraps. Charlie, the sweet dean's daughter, had gathered everyone at their usual table, brightly colored flyers spread out in front of her like a defensive ward against entropy.
“So!” Charlie beamed, clapping her hands together. “New term, final term for some of us, which means new beginnings! But, to start, how was everyone’s summer?”
Angel sprawled across two chairs and groaned dramatically. “Traumatic. I worked retail. And not even at that cute boutique I wanted to work at. Instead, it was at the fuckin' Gap!”
Husk took a long sip from his scalding coffee. “Worked nights at the bar. It did fuck-all to my paycheck.”
Vaggi muttered something about internships and migraines, finding some solace in Charlie's shoulder.
Then there was Alastor and Y/N.
The couple sat side by side like a living contradiction that somehow made sense:
Alastor, dressed impeccably as always, looked like he stepped out of an old photograph and into a more modern nightmare full of graphic tees, hoodies, and ripped jeans. His white dress shirt was pressed to perfection under his red-striped waistcoat, tiny gold buttons catching the sunlight. A red tie matched with the ensemble, secured with a gold clip. Complementing it were brownish-black slacks and white dress shoes with black tips polished within an inch of their lives. And as always, he wore his small oval glasses perched neatly on his nose, curly dark hair carefully styled.
Y/N, meanwhile, was all sharp edges and elegance, just like any Carmine woman. She wore a black frilled blouse tucked into a tea-length skirt, complete with floral lace tights, and pointed-toe buckle boots that clicked with authority when she moved her feet. Her hair was styled in a very deliberate new-wave mess, with dark lipstick perfectly intact, and a choker snug at her throat as the finishing touch.
As always, the pair were holding hands while they each did different tasks at the table. In this case, she was reading the latest horror novel she was into while he was listening to/picking songs he planned to broadcast on his next radio show.
Charlie smiled wider at them. “You two haven’t said much yet! Please, tell us, how was your summer?”
Y/N hummed in confusion, looking up from her book and realizing all eyes were on her and Alastor. That's when she decided to so casually drop the big news:
“Hmm? Oh, we got married.”
Silence. Actual, physical silence. Somewhere across the courtyard, a tray clattered to the ground. Angel froze mid-slouch while Husk slowly lowered his cup.
“….You what?” Angel said faintly.
Alastor smiled as he saw everyone's shocked expressions directed at him and Y/N, slipping his headphones off and letting them rest around his neck. He didn't smile his polite, academic smile. Instead, he gave his thrilled one.
“Ah! I'm guessing you told them," he said brightly to Y/N, who confirmed this with a smug nod that made him smile even bigger, if that were even possible. "Yes, I'd say we had quite the productive summer, wouldn’t you agree...my wife?”
Charlie’s jaw dropped when she heard him say that. “W—WIFE?! SO THEN IT'S TRUE?!”
Vaggi blinked. “You’re actually married now?”
Y/N nodded calmly, as though she was confirming something like a food order. “Since July.”
Angel shot to his feet, seeming to be the most offended. “EXCUSE ME?! YOU GOT MARRIED WITHOUT TELLING ME?! I DIDN’T EVEN GET TO HELP YOU PICK A DRESS! THIS IS A FUCKIN' CRIME!”
Y/N sipped her coffee before continuing. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment situation, really. But still very romantic. Minimal explosions.”
Husk stared with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Minimal? Why were there even-?”
Alastor clasped his hands together fondly as he recalled that special day. “We were visiting a charming little cathedral ruin on the far edge of the city that Y/N was dying to see. Turns out, it was still in business, and we figured...what the heck! It was officiated by someone who owed Carmilla a few favors. And my darling Y/N wore black, naturally.”
Angel clutched his chest. “Black. Of course she did. I’m gonna pass out.”
Charlie finally found her voice. “You—wait—how long -- were you even engaged?”
Y/N and Alastor exchanged a look, actually thinking about this.
“Technically?” Y/N said slowly. “We were engaged for, like, five hours-ish. That was how long it took us to get everything prepared, anyway.”
Charlie squeaked.
Vaggi said nothing, simply rubbed her temples, needing a moment to process this.
Angel, in contrast, couldn't stay quiet, leaning over the table, eyes big. “Okay, but why? You’re twenty-two. You’re both about to graduate. You could’ve waited.”
Y/N shrugged, slipping off her left lace glove to fully reveal the black gold wedding band she wore, the rubies surrounding it sparkling as she whispered fondly, “When you know, you know.”
Alastor nodded, adjusting his own ring that he revealed with her. “And frankly, the world is terribly unpredictable. Why delay joy?”
There it was. The thing that made it click. As always, it was enough to soften Charlie’s expression. “You…really love each other.”
Angel gagged. “Ugh. Don’t make it weird.”
Y/N reached over and straightened Alastor’s tie with unconscious intimacy. “I've known it since we were fifteen," she said, smiling sweetly at him like he was the only one she saw. "He keeps things interesting, reminds me to enjoy life instead of just surviving it.”
Alastor’s composure faltered just slightly as he similarly looked at her. “And she...” he started carefully, “keeps me grounded, as grounded as I can be, anyway. She centers me, makes the chaos…meaningful.”
Angel stared between them. “I hate that this is actually kinda beautiful.”
Husk snorted. “Yeah. Figures the weirdest couple here would be the most stable.”
Charlie smiled so hard it almost hurt. “I’m really happy for you. Congratulations!”
Y/N turned her genuine smile to her. “Thank you.”
Angel crossed his arms. “I’m still offended.”
But the pair paid him no mind, or anyone else for that matter, now back in their own private, bizarre Heaven just meant for the two of them.
Alastor leaned closer to Y/N, voice dropping just for her in French. “Mon coeur. Ma belle femme.”
She squeezed his hand as she responded in Spanish. “Cariño mio. Mi marido.”
Around them, the student union buzzed back to life, confusion giving way to reluctant acceptance.
Because, of course, they eloped.
Of course, they wore black and red.
Of course, no one saw it coming.
And, of course, somehow, against every aesthetic rule, social expectation, and ounce of logic, it made perfect sense.
Carmine!Reader as a bat was on my mind once again, and I just had to write something up for her! And I thought...her exploring the swamp side of Alastor's room! Yes, please!
This is too cute and fluffy, and Y/N is a mischievously adorable bat for majority of this story, just a heads up!
The moment they decided to move in together, Y/N knew that the first thing she needed to do was inspect the swamp in Alastor's (and now also her) suite. And the best way to do so was in her other form. Her best one!
The moment she transformed into Bat-Y/N, she immediately fluttered around the upper beams of the suite, still riding the satisfaction of finally being settled in, until she drifted through the thin veil where Alastor’s study gave way to something… wetter.
Warmer.
Alive.
Her wings stilled as she really admired how the bayou breathed. Soft green light filtered up from the water, fireflies hovering like suspended embers. Cypress roots coiled through shallow pools. Moss swayed gently, though there was no wind.
Bat-Y/N squeaked, absolutely delighted. She swooped lower, skimming the surface of the water, her reflection rippling back at her: a tiny, sleek creature with wide red eyes and velvet wings, perfectly at home in the dark.
She chirped softly.
Oh, this is mine now.
She landed on a gnarled root and tilted her head, listening. The swamp responded; frogs croaked in polite acknowledgement, insects hummed approval, and something unseen splashed deeper into the murky water.
Behind her, static crackled fondly, announcing a beloved presence.
Alastor stood at the threshold where carpet met mud, hands folded behind his back, smiling with a kind of indulgent pride usually reserved for his partner.
“Well, your verdict, my dear?” he asked lightly.
Bat-Y/N fluttered up to him, hovering at eye level. She circled his antlers once, twice, before landing squarely between them, claws curling comfortably against familiar bone.
She chirped again, clearly happy.
His smile widened. “I thought you’d approve. After all, the bayou did insist on staying. It would’ve been rude to evict it.”
She stretched her wings, nearly brushing his ears. One wingtip dragged gently along one of the black tips, earning a pleased twitch he didn’t bother hiding. Bat-Y/N nuzzled them without shame.
Alastor chuckled, low and fond. “Ah-ah. Careful, darling. That’s a privilege you’ve earned.”
She squeaked smugly and took off again, this time darting deeper into the swamp side of the suite. She perched on a hanging lantern, dipped her claws into the water, and chased fireflies with reckless joy. All the while, Alastor followed at a leisurely pace, watching her claim the space in the quiet ways that mattered most: by existing in it freely.
“You know,” he said, conversational, “most would find a swamp in their bedroom… inconvenient.”
Bat-Y/N landed on his shoulder and chirped directly at him.
He laughed. “Yes, yes. Perfectly practical. Excellent for spying, ambushes, possibly dramatic entrances.”
She fluffed herself proudly.
Alastor reached up, letting her crawl down his arm so he could cradle her gently in his palm. She settled immediately, small and warm and content, wings folding in.
“I suppose this makes it official.”
--------------------------------------
In the upcoming days, Alastor noticed the changes.
The bayou felt…curated. Where once the swamp had been a tasteful chaos of roots, water, and drifting green light, there were now choices.
Intent.
Aesthetic.
He paused at the threshold, his staff resting lightly against his shoulder, his eyes gleaming as he took it in. A length of cypress root now bore a neat string of bones—small ones, polished smooth and arranged by size. Someone had threaded them with red twine and tiny brass charms that chimed softly whenever the swamp breathed. Fireflies clustered deliberately around reflective surfaces: broken glass smoothed by water, a cracked compact mirror wedged into a tree hollow, a scattering of coins embedded into the mud like offerings. And there, perched proudly atop a mossy stump, sat a demon skull wearing what appeared to be a flower crown that included thorns and shiny bottle caps.
Alastor’s smile stretched slowly and delighted, knowing exactly who was behind all this.
From deeper in the bayou came the soft flutter-flutter of wings. Bat-Y/N zipped into view, a bundle of glittering nonsense clutched in her claws: rings, a broken watch face, something that might’ve once been a bullet casing. She hovered, spotted him, and froze. Then she chirped, sharp and clearly pleased with herself. She swooped down and landed on his antlers without ceremony, immediately beginning to tuck the newest treasures between the ridges like decorations on a very patient Christmas tree.
Alastor chuckled. “My dear, I did wonder where my cufflinks had gone.”
Bat-Y/N paused, then looked down at him. Then deliberately shoved a cufflink deeper into place and patted it with one claw.
Mine now.
He laughed outright. “Of course. By all means. Make yourself at home.”
She fluttered down again, this time dragging him by the sleeve of his coat toward a low-hanging branch where several shiny objects had been carefully arranged by color. Reds together. Silvers together. One very fancy knife embedded blade-first into the wood like a centerpiece.
Alastor leaned in, inspecting it with squinting eyes while adjusting his monocle to better examine the insignia on the handle. “Is that Carmilla’s work?”
Bat-Y/N chirped smugly, confirming that indeed it was.
“Ah. A family heirloom, then.” He nodded approvingly. “Excellent taste.”
She zipped off again, this time emerging with a length of black ribbon she tied (he assumed when she was in her regular form) into a bow around a hanging lantern. The lantern immediately flickered brighter, as if flattered.
The bayou, Alastor realized, was responding to her. Where she perched, the moss thickened. Where she lingered, the fireflies gathered. The swamp itself seemed to lean toward her, content to be shaped by small claws and quiet authority.
“You’ve turned my humble monstrosity into a nest,” he observed fondly.
Bat-Y/N returned to him, landing on his shoulder. She pressed her tiny forehead against his jaw, wings wrapping slightly around his neck.
Alastor lifted a hand, letting her crawl into his palm again. She curled there instantly, warm and satisfied, a faint glitter of stolen shine clinging to her fur.
----------------------
Alastor hadn’t meant to look for her. That was the lie he told himself as he stepped into the bayou half of his suite the following day. The swamp greeted him with its usual low hum; frogs crooning, fireflies flickering like dying stars. But there was a subtle absence that tugged at him.
No flutter. No chirp. No tiny claws rearranging his belongings with impunity.
“Y/N?” he called lightly, tone amused, unconcerned, knowing she was there already, having made it a habit to head straight there after she was back from an assignment.
The bayou answered with a ripple of water and the creak of old wood. He moved deeper, eyes scanning instinctively upward. The cypress trees rose tall and skeletal, their branches knotted like grasping fingers. Decorations still hung where she’d left them—bones chiming faintly, ribbons stirring in a nonexistent breeze.
Then he saw her. High above, nestled in the crook of a cypress branch, was a small dark shape curled in on itself.
Bat-Y/N slept. Her wings were wrapped around her like a cloak, membranes tucked neatly, claws latched gently into the bark. Her tiny chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths. A few shiny trinkets—coins, a ring, a brass button—had been tucked into the hollow beside her like a dragon’s hoard scaled down to something unbearably precious.
Alastor stopped dead. The world seemed to hush around him, the bayou holding its breath. His smile melted into something unguarded as he tipped his head back, watching her sleep. One of her ears flicked as she shifted, letting out a faint, contented squeak before settling again. A wing twitched, instinctively tightening.
She trusted this place. Trusted him. The realization struck deeper than any blade.
Alastor lifted a hand, fingers glowing faintly as he coaxed the branch to grow just a little sturdier, a little broader so it would support without waking her. The tree obeyed instantly, reshaping itself to cradle her more securely.
He stayed there longer than he meant to. Just watching, listening. The Radio Demon, feared and revered, was reduced to a quiet sentinel beneath a sleeping bat.
“You make a nest in my swamp, claim my antlers, steal my cufflinks… and then you dare to look so peaceful.” A smile tugged at his mouth, soft and in love. “Absolutely unforgivable.”
As if hearing him, Bat-Y/N stirred. One eye cracked open, bleary and unfocused. She peered down, recognition dawning slowly. She chirped, sleepily affectionate and entirely unconcerned.
Before he could react, she loosened her grip and fluttered down—clumsy with drowsiness—landing squarely on his shoulder. She crawled up his neck, nestled beneath his chin, and promptly went back to sleep.
Alastor froze. Then, carefully, he adjusted his coat to block the bayou’s chill and lifted a hand to shield her tiny form. “As always, you’ve decided I'm the branch for you,” he murmured, voice warm with wonder.
He turned back toward the study, steps slow, deliberate, as he carried his sleeping terror like the most sacred thing Hell had ever entrusted to him.
--------------------
Night settled gently over the bayou half of the suite, thick and warm, the kind of darkness that didn’t threaten so much as listen. The swamp breathed. Water lapped softly against the wooden walkways Alastor had conjured long ago, moss glowing faintly with bioluminescent life. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, tiny gold sparks suspended like half-forgotten wishes.
Y/N lay stretched along one of the broad cypress roots near the water’s edge, boots discarded, sleeves rolled up. She’d returned to her usual form not long after her bat nap, hair loose, skin still warm from the swamp air. One hand trailed idly through the water, stirring slow ripples.
Alastor sat behind her, back against the tree trunk, legs bent so she could lean comfortably between them.
Soon, she was done with the water, and her head rested against his chest, just below his chin. Easily, naturally, like she’d always belonged there. His arms circled her waist, hands splayed possessively over her stomach. For once, the radio static was gone.
There was only breathing, just frogs and cicadas. Just them.
Fireflies blinked in and out around them, drifting close. One settled briefly on Y/N’s knuckle. She smiled softly, careful not to move too fast. “Look,” she murmured. “They like it here.”
Alastor followed her gaze, expression uncharacteristically gentle. “They have excellent taste,” he replied. “Clearly, they know a sanctuary when they see one.”
She laughed quietly, tilting her head back to look at him. The glow caught in her eyes, reflecting gold. “You made all this. And now I’m in it with you.”
His grip tightened just a fraction. “Correction: I made it, you claimed it.”
She hummed, satisfied, and shifted closer, fitting herself more snugly against him. One of her hands found his sleeve, fingers curling there, anchoring. Alastor rested his chin atop her head, antlers framing the firefly-lit sky. His ears twitched faintly as her fingers absently traced patterns on his arm. Contentment flicked through him quietly, dangerously, undeniably.
“You know,” he said after a moment, voice low, almost thoughtful, “there are very few beings in Hell I'd allow to see me like this.”
She smiled without opening her eyes and hummed. “Like what?”
“Still. Unarmed. Happy.”
Her hand stilled. Then she turned, just enough to press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over where his heart shouldn’t have been beating, but absolutely was. “You don’t have to be anything else with me,” she said softly.
Something in him loosened. Something ancient and long forgotten. His arm drew her closer, holding her like the world might dare to take her away if he didn’t.
Fireflies continued their slow dance, lighting their silhouettes in brief, glowing pulses—monster and monster, tangled together in something achingly tender.
Alastor closed his eyes. If Hell insisted on existing, he supposed this was an acceptable way to endure it.
hey there! i discovered your alastor x carmine!reader series not too long ago and fell in love!!
but now i feel like we didn't get enough of their early dating days when they were secretly dating (secret relationship is one of my favorite tropes!). so can i request them sneaking around and being cute privately and trying to hide it in public even though its obvious theyre a thing lol
They’ve been doing this for weeks now. Carefully, quietly, deliberately unspoken. No declarations, witnesses, or grand gestures that might ripple through Hell’s rumor mill and land squarely in Carmilla’s lap. Just glances held a second too long, fingers brushing when they pass weapons or paperwork, Alastor’s voice dipping just for her when no one else is listening, while Y/N’s eyes softened only when she thinks no one is looking. Secret rendezvous on secluded rooftops of abandoned buildings, “running into” each other at cafes, and deciding to share a table together, because might as well!
Threatening or even killing those who might pose a risk to their secret being revealed.
And now...
The Overlord meeting is minutes away. They should be preparing; straightening collars, polishing smiles into weapons, donning the personas that make lesser demons tremble. Instead, the moment their eyes meet across the grand marble corridor, it’s already over. No words, just a shared, reckless understanding.
Y/N turns first, boots clicking with purposeful calm as she heads for a side passage few bother to notice. Alastor follows without hesitation, staff conjured away, grin restrained only by sheer force of will. There's no touching, not yet, but the heat between them hums louder than any radio frequency.
They slip through the door like conspirators. The room before them is dim and forgotten, lit only by a single flickering bulb. Dust clings to the air. Old blood stains the floor—history soaked into the walls. The door clicks shut behind them, and with it goes the weight of titles, contracts, and expectations.
For a moment, they simply stand there with no means to wear armor, to give a performance, or give excuses.
They simply...want.
Alastor moves first, slowly, deliberately, like he’s approaching something sacred, something that might vanish if he approaches wrong. His hand rises to her cheek, thumb brushing her skin with a certainty that makes her breath hitch.
“You look… appetizing,” he murmured, voice low, eyes gleaming.
She glanced up at him, leans into his touch as if pulled by gravity, lips curving. “Careful. Compliments like that might get you stabbed.”
He smiled wider. “Promises, promises.”
The kiss crashes into place like falling stars finally allowed to collide. It’s desperate but controlled, fire contained in iron. His other hand finds her waist, pulling her flush against him as though the distance itself offends him. Her back meets the wall with a soft thud, and she doesn’t protest or even pretend she wants to.
Her hands slide into his hair, fingers curling, grounding him. He makes a sound, low and fractured. It's one he would never allow the world to hear, breathed straight into her mouth like a confession. His lips are feverish, greedy, as though he’s trying to memorize her, prove she exists beyond stolen moments and dark corners. Alastor made a pleased, muffled sound against her lips, hands sliding to her hips with shameless familiarity.
“Al—” she started breathlessly.
He cut her off with another kiss, deeper this time, hungry but restrained enough to stay dangerous rather than reckless.
They break only because lungs demand it. Foreheads press together while uneven, shared breaths mingle. Both of them are undone in the quiet aftermath.
Alastor lets out a soft laugh full of disbelief, dangerous, threaded with static. “We’re going to be late.”
Y/N smirks, eyes dark and shining, fingers still tangled in his hair as she tugs him back in for a kiss he doesn’t even try to resist. “They can wait.”
His grin sharpens, affection blazing bright beneath the thrill. “Let them wonder why.”
The grand chamber of the Overlords gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, light refracting across marble floors like fractured egos trapped in glass. Every seat was occupied, every presence carefully calibrated—power pressed outward like a threat, a promise, a dare. This was a room designed to eat the unprepared alive as conversations hummed in low, predatory currents. Deals were whispered, grudges simmered. Eyes tracked movement with the precision of loaded weapons.
And then, inevitably, the doors opened.
Alastor and Y/N entered.
Immediately, all eyes fell on them. Not just because they arrived late. But because they didn’t look like two demons arriving long after everyone else did. Instead, they looked like survivors of something intimate and catastrophic.
Alastor walked with his usual confident stride, his staff tucked behind his back. Anyone who knew him, however, could see the cracks. His hair, always immaculate, was just slightly mussed, as though fingers had been threaded through it shamelessly. His bowtie sat crooked by a single, damning inch. For the Radio Demon, it was practically a confession.
Y/N followed at his side, chin lifted, posture flawless at first glance. The heels of her boots clicked with practiced authority. But trained eyes caught the truth immediately; her lipstick was smudged, not messy or careless, but softened at the corners, like it had been kissed into submission. The fabric of her dress bore the faintest impression of hands—wrinkled where someone had held her there, pressed her there, refused to let go.
Rosie noticed first, gaze flicking from Y/N’s mouth to Alastor’s bowtie and back again. She doesn’t smirk...she grins, like she’s found fresh gossip to discuss over tea.
Vox froze mid-speech. His screen flickered once, glitching as his gaze snapped between them. Confusion rippled across his expression, quickly followed by irritation, fury, confusion, then finally unease. Something had happened. Something important. And he hadn’t seen it coming.
Carmilla lifted her eyes. Her stare sharpened just for a second before smoothing into cool composure. An eyebrow arched, subtle and knowing. If she noticed the smudge, the tie, the proximity, she didn’t comment. Instead, she simply offered the faintest hint of a smile that ghosted her lips. Approval, or at least amusement.
Alastor cleared his throat. “Good morning,” his voice clipped and formal, yet beneath it hummed the faintest, irrepressible static of amusement.
Y/N nodded once, carefully, brushing her fingers down the skirt of her dress, attempting a cool, professional air. “Morning,” she said evenly.
Alastor moved to his seat, and every movement seemed slightly off. Hands lingered on his staff longer than usual. The precise rhythm of his stride—a tempo that usually unnerved lesser demons—was now… distracted. Dangerous, yes, but… distracted. Y/N settled into a chair beside him, knees pressed together, fingers fidgeting subtly as though fighting a gravity of its own.
She stole a glance at Alastor, catching his sharp grin; the only signal that said we just did something terribly delightful and no one in this room can ever know.
The rest of the room caught up fast.
Zeezi leaned toward Maestro, lips barely moving. “Yeah,” she mumbled to him. “That happened.”
Maestro didn’t look away from the pair. “Oh, without question.”
Velvette whispered something to Vox, who scoffed, arms crossing, eyes never leaving Alastor.
Y/N's sister Clara—always precise, always watchful—would have seen the smudge. Her other sister, Odette—the little threat-collector—would have clocked the faint scent of Alastor’s cologne still clinging to her.
Alastor leaned forward slightly, voice smooth, authoritative: “Shall we begin?”
The meeting proceeded. Discussions of territory, influence, and trade were carried out with the usual barbed precision. Alastor traded quips and razor-edged laughter with fellow Overlords. Y/N contributed points with calm authority that rivaled her mother's.
But beneath the surface…
Every glance, every shared smirk between them was a live wire. Alastor’s hand brushed against hers once under the table. A spark of static ran up their arms. Her fingers twitched, reflexive. A predator and a hunter, the Radio Demon and the Carmine blade, seated side by side, just trying to act like nothing had happened.
