Oh yes, please! I’m a total Disney girly — this was absolutely unavoidable. 🏰🦌✨

It took me a whole week to write 😭 Idk how many version I have...But this is the best.

I also wrote a poeam. What do you guys do to me ? I have never written something, only in school. I love it!

As the princess of his heart I Alastor x Reader I Princess and the Frog AU

Word Count: ~5.7k

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

New Orleans, 1920s

Tiana had already told Alastor about her several times. “She is… special,” the hardworking restaurant owner had said with a warm smile. “Y/N — everyone calls her N/N — is the daughter of Big Daddy La Bouff. You know, the richest man in all of New Orleans.”

Alastor, the charismatic radio host with the velvety voice, had rolled his eyes internally. He knew the type — spoiled, rich princesses who thought the world revolved around them. Arrogant, superficial, probably unbearable.

“Tiana, chère, I don’t know if—” “She’s coming by this afternoon to help me,” Tiana interrupted him with a knowing grin. “Just stay for lunch. Please? I think you two will be… surprised.”

And so Alastor now sat at a small table in Tiana’s Palace, drinking coffee and waiting for the inevitable disappointment.

Then he heard her.

“TIANA!”

The door flew open, and a whirlwind in pink and white burst inside. The girl — no, the young woman — shone like the sun itself, as if someone had poured liquid gold and summer mornings into human form.

Her dress was unmistakably expensive, perfectly tailored, adorned with pearls and lace that sparkled in the light like captured stars. But it wasn’t the dress that stole Alastor’s breath.

It was her smile.

Real. Radiant.

Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, a few strands having come loose and framing her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled with pure, unfiltered joy for life.

Alastor’s heart did something strange. It skipped a beat.

“N/N!” Tiana came out of the kitchen and opened her arms.

Y/N — N/N — ran to her friend and hugged her tightly, as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, even though it had probably only been days.

Alastor could hear her laughter — bright, melodic.

“I brought you the flowers you wanted! And Daddy says if you need — ANYTHING — I should just tell him!” She clapped her hands excitedly, and Alastor noticed the small dimples appearing in her cheeks.

“Oh, and I found a new recipe for beignets! Can we try it? Please, please, please?”

Tiana laughed. “N/N, you have to breathe.”

“Who can breathe when it’s about food?”

N/N spun around — and then she saw Alastor.

Their eyes met.

The world held its breath.

Alastor felt it — that electric moment when two gazes meet and something irreversible happens. Her eyes widened, her lips parted slightly in surprise.

“Oh!” Her hand flew to her chest. “Oh my goodness! You’re Alastor! The radio host!”

And then she ran to his table—

“I listen to your show EVERY night!”

She stopped so close in front of him that he could smell her perfume — roses and something sweet.

“The story last week about the street musician? I cried! I really cried! Daddy had to give me a handkerchief, and then another one, and then I just cried all over his jacket!”

Alastor stood up — automatically, his mother had taught him manners — and suddenly found himself far too close to her.

Close enough to see that her eyes weren’t just one color, but a thousand — with golden flecks dancing in the light. Close enough to count the freckles on her nose. Close enough to be completely, hopelessly lost.

“Miss… La Bouff, I presume?” His voice sounded rougher than intended.

“Oh please, call me N/N!” She beamed at him, and God, that smile should have been illegal.

“Tiana has told me so much about you! She says you have the best humor and the most interesting views! Would you stay for lunch? Please? I would LOVE to hear more about your work!”

No trace of condescension. No forced politeness. Just… pure, unfiltered enthusiasm.

And then she touched his arm.

Just lightly, just for a moment, her fingers barely more than a whisper against his suit.

But Alastor felt it like a lightning strike, like fire racing through his veins.

“I…” he blinked, tried to collect his thoughts, “yes, of course.”

“Wonderful!” N/N spun back to Tiana, and Alastor immediately missed her closeness, the warmth she radiated.

“Then let’s cook! What are we making today?”

“WE?” Tiana raised an eyebrow, but her smile was knowing.

“Nonsense! It’s fun!” N/N tied an apron around herself. “Besides, friends help each other.”

Alastor sat back down. His hands trembled slightly. His heart refused to return to a normal rhythm.

What the hell had just happened?

The observation begins

In the following hours, Alastor observed something that overturned all his prejudices — and changed his heart in a way he didn’t understand.

N/N — this rich, spoiled princess — stood in the kitchen and… worked. Really worked.

Her perfectly manicured hands cut vegetables — a bit clumsily, but with such concentration that the tip of her tongue peeked out between her lips.

Alastor watched, fascinated, as she bit her lower lip when she focused. How her eyes narrowed. How a small crease appeared between her eyebrows.

“No, no, sweetheart, like this,” Tiana gently corrected her cutting technique, taking N/N’s hands in hers. “Otherwise you’ll cut your finger.”

“Oh! Of course! Thank you, Tiana!” N/N beamed — completely without ego, without shame for not knowing something.

She laughed at herself, bright and free. “I’m hopeless in the kitchen, aren’t I?”

“Practice makes perfect,” Tiana smiled.

“Then I’ll practice every day! Until I can cook just as well as you!” N/N swore it with her hand raised, so serious, so determined, that Alastor had to smile.

She meant it. She meant everything seriously.

Then the first guests arrived.

Alastor watched as N/N immediately jumped up. “I’ll help serve!”

“N/N, you really don’t have to—”

But she was already gone, balancing plates — a bit wobbly, her tongue again between her lips in concentration — toward an elderly couple.

Alastor watched every movement.

How she brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. How her hands held the plates — carefully, as if they were precious.

“Good afternoon! Welcome to Tiana’s Palace!” Her smile was radiant, real.

She spoke to the woman as if she were an old friend. No artificial politeness. Just genuine, warm interest.

Alastor felt something tighten in his chest.

Something dangerous. Something wonderful.

He watched as N/N went from table to table. How she remembered names. How she asked about children and grandchildren. How she laughed at jokes — really laughed, threw her head back, placed her hand on her heart.

“That’s Miss La Bouff?” one guest asked in disbelief. “Big Daddy’s daughter?” “She’s helping here? Voluntarily?” “She’s so… nice. Really nice.”

Alastor had to agree with his instincts.

She was real.

In a world full of masks and lies and people pretending to be someone they weren’t — she was real.

And that… That was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

A Father’s Love

In the late afternoon, Big Daddy La Bouff himself stopped by — a large, imposing man in an expensive suit who nonetheless radiated a warmth that filled the entire room.

“N/N, baby! There you are!” His voice boomed through the restaurant.

“Daddy!”

Alastor watched as N/N’s entire face transformed. How she glowed, brighter than the sun. How she ran to her father and threw herself into his arms like a little girl.

Big Daddy caught her, spun her around, laughing deep and warm.

And Alastor’s heart…

It ached for that love. For that connection. For someone who would look at him the way Big Daddy looked at his daughter — as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

Alastor noticed the flour stains on N/N’s dress — a dress that probably cost more than he earned in a month. The sweat on her forehead. Her messy hair.

And how Big Daddy didn’t seem to care at all.

He saw only his daughter.

Happy. Laughing. Alive.

“Working hard again, sweetheart?” He kissed her forehead, brushed a strand of hair from her face with such tenderness.

“I’m helping Tiana! Isn’t it wonderful? We have twenty more guests today than last week!”

“That’s my girl.” Big Daddy looked at Tiana, his smile warm. “Tiana, my dear, if you need anything—”

“I know, Big Daddy, thank you,” Tiana smiled.

Big Daddy noticed Alastor.

His eyes narrowed — not hostile, but assessing. Weighing.

“And who is this young man?”

“Oh! Daddy, this is Alastor! The radio host!”

N/N beamed, and her hand — her hand found Alastor’s arm, touched it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Alastor’s skin burned beneath her touch.

“Alastor…” Big Daddy studied him from head to toe.

Alastor felt seen through. Analyzed. Measured.

“I listen to your show. Good work, young man.”

He extended his hand.

Alastor shook it — impressed by the firmness of the grip, but also by the warmth in the man’s eyes.

“N/N, sweetheart, don’t you want to come home? You look tired.”

“Oh nonsense! I’m full of energy!”

But then she yawned — small, sweet, her hand flying to her mouth.

Big Daddy laughed, deep and loving.

“Come on, my little whirlwind. Let Tiana rest.”

“But—”

“N/N,” Tiana stepped up to her, hugged her tightly. “You were incredible today. Thank you. For everything.”

“That goes without saying!” N/N beamed, then turned to Alastor.

And her gaze met his with an intensity that stole his breath.

“It was SO wonderful meeting you, Alastor.”

His name on her lips — like a caress, like music.

“Will you come back soon? Please?”

Her eyes were hopeful, anxious, expectant.

As if his answer mattered. As if she cared.

“I… think so,” he said, his voice rougher than intended.

“Wonderful!”

And then she smiled at him — radiant, happy — and Alastor felt his heart explode in his chest.

With one last wave, she spun away, her Daddy at her side.

Alastor stood there, staring at the door long after she had gone.

“She’s something special, isn’t she?” Tiana’s voice was soft, knowing.

“She is…” Alastor searched for words, found none that were enough. “…not what I expected.”

“She’s better.” Tiana smiled, stepping beside him.

“N/N has a heart of gold. Her Daddy gave her everything — money, education, everything — but he also taught her that true beauty comes from within. That kindness matters more than wealth.”

Alastor couldn’t speak.

His heart was too full.

The Invitation That Changed Everything

It was Thursday evening. The restaurant was closed, the last guests had gone.

But Alastor, Tiana, and N/N were still sitting together at a table, eating leftover beignets.

N/N sat across from Alastor — so close that their knees almost touched.

Every time she moved, every time her leg brushed his — just for a second — Alastor felt electricity race through his veins.

“Alastor,” N/N nervously turned her glass, her fingers tapping against it — a nervous tick Alastor had learned to recognize.

She always did it when she was unsure.

“I… I wanted to ask you something.”

His heart leapt.

“Yes?” His voice sounded calmer than he felt.

“There’s a garden party at our house next week.”

She bit her lower lip — that damn gesture that drove him crazy every time.

“Daddy is inviting half the city — music, food, dancing, the whole… society.”

She said “society” with a faint undertone of disdain that made Alastor take notice.

“And I…” She looked up at him, and her eyes were full of hope and fear at the same time. “Would you… come as my guest?”

The world seemed to stop.

Alastor heard his own heart pounding in his ears.

“Not as Daddy’s guest or as part of society,” she continued, her words coming faster, desperate. “As my guest. My personal guest. I would be very happy if you came. If you spent time with me.”

Tiana coughed not-so-subtly into her fist and stood up.

They were alone.

Alastor stared at N/N.

Her face was flushed, her hands trembling slightly around the glass.

“N/N,” his voice was gentle, careful, “do you know what people will say? If they see you with me? A man like me—”

“A man like you?” Her voice suddenly became firmer, more passionate.

She leaned forward.

“You mean a talented, intelligent, kind man? A man who tells the most beautiful stories and makes people cry and laugh? A man who comes here every day, not because he has to, but because he wants to? A man who talks to Mrs. Henderson about her grandson even though he really doesn’t have time? A man who—”

“—of mixed heritage,” he interrupted quietly. “In a society that doesn’t… accept that.”

“Does. Not. Matter.”

Each word emphasized.

She stood up and stepped toward him.

Stood in front of him, and he had to look up at her — and in that moment, she was majestic.

“Alastor, I don’t care what people say. I have never cared what society thinks.”

Her hand — trembling — rested against his cheek.

Alastor stopped breathing.

“Daddy taught me that a person’s character is what matters. Not their money. Not their skin color. Not where they come from or who their parents were.”

Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone.

“And your character, Alastor… is beautiful. You are beautiful. Inside and out.”

“N/N…” his voice broke.

“Please come.” Her eyes shone.

“For me. I want you there. I want to dance with you. I want…” She faltered, blushed deeper. “I want to spend time with you. Is that… is that too much to ask?”

How could he say no?

“Yes.”

The word came out like a breath, barely audible.

“I’ll come.”

Her smile could have lit up the entire city.

And then she threw herself into his arms.

Alastor caught her and for a moment, he held her.

Felt how perfectly she fit into his arms. How her head fit exactly beneath his chin. How her heart beat against his — fast, wild, in the same desperate rhythm.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining.

“I should go,” she said breathlessly. “Daddy’s waiting. But I’m looking forward to next week.”

“So am I,” Alastor said honestly.

She left the restaurant, and Alastor simply sat there, his heart racing, his hands trembling.

Tiana came back from the kitchen, grinning broadly.

“Well?”

“I’m an idiot,” Alastor muttered.

“A lovestruck idiot,” Tiana corrected.

And Alastor couldn’t disagree.

The Garden Party — The Moment That Changed Everything

The La Bouff estate was… there were no words.

Hundreds of guests in elegant dresses and tailored suits. A jazz band played on a raised stage—the music drifting through the warm night air. Tables overflowing with food, champagne in crystal glasses. Lanterns hung from the trees like captured stars, casting golden light over everything.

Alastor felt out of place.

His suit was good—the best he owned, the one he had specially cleaned for this evening.

“Isn’t that the radio host? The… mixed one?”

“What is he doing here?”

“Did N/N really invite him? Big Daddy should step in.”

Alastor felt his jaw tighten. He should leave. This was a mistake. He didn’t belong here. He—

Then he saw her.

And the entire world ceased to exist.

N/N stood on the veranda of the estate, surrounded by people, yet completely alone in his vision.

There were no words. No language ever created could describe her in that moment.

Her dress was like liquid gold, like captured sunlight. It clung to her curves, falling in soft waves to the floor. The neckline was tasteful, but it revealed enough of her neck, her shoulders, the curve of her chest that Alastor’s mouth went dry.

Her hair was pinned up—but a few loose strands had escaped, framing her face, and all Alastor could think was: I want to bury my hands in it. I want to kiss her until neither of us can breathe.

But it wasn’t the dress. Not the hair. Not the flawless, radiant beauty.

It was her face when her eyes found him.

The way it lit up. The way her entire being seemed to change. The way she glowed—just for him—as if he were the only thing that existed among hundreds of people.

“Alastor!”

She came down the steps. Her dress swirled around her legs. Her heels clicked against the stone.

“You came!” She reached him and, without hesitation, took his hands. Both of them. Held them tight. “Oh, I’m so happy! I was afraid you might change your mind, but you’re here!”

“I promised,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

“Yes.” Her smile was radiant, genuine, reaching her eyes. “You did. And you keep your promises.”

“Always.”

“Alastor,” she whispered, stepping closer, her voice meant only for him, “people are staring—”

“Let them stare.” He said it loudly enough for a few nearby people to hear. “I’m here with you. Why shouldn’t they stare?”

N/N’s eyes filled with tears. She laughed—bright, free. “Come. I want to show you the garden.”

She slipped her arm through his and led him away from the crowd. Deeper into the garden, where there were fewer lanterns, where they could be alone.

She showed him everything. The roses. The pond with the goldfish. The pavilion overgrown with jasmine, its scent filling the air.

Alastor’s heart skipped a beat.

She sat down on a bench beneath the pavilion. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, painting patterns across her face, her dress, making her look like something out of a fairy tale.

She was the most beautiful woman Alastor had ever seen.

“This is where I first met Tiana,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on the pond. “We were both five. She came with her mama, who cooked for us. And I was so lonely. Every child who played with me did it only because Daddy was rich. Because of the toys I had. Because of the sweets I could share.”

She smiled—wistful.

“But Tiana… she looked at me and said, ‘Do you want to play tag with me?’ Not ‘Miss La Bouff’ or ‘can we use your dolls.’ Just—do you want to play.” A tear slid down her cheek, glistening in the moonlight. “She became my best friend. My sister.”

“She’s a good friend,” Alastor said gently, sitting beside her.

“The best.” N/N looked at him, her eyes shining. “And she likes you, you know? She says you have a good heart.”

“Different,” he laughed bitterly. “That’s a nice way of saying—”

“Wonderful.” She interrupted him, her hand finding his, weaving her fingers through his. “Different in a wonderful way. Alastor, why do you think so poorly of yourself?”

The question caught him off guard.

“I…” He searched for words, found none that fit. “I’m not good, N/N. I’ve done things—”

“Everyone has done things.” She turned toward him, her knees touching his, her hand gripping his tighter. “Everyone has made mistakes. Regretted decisions.”

Her free hand lifted, touched his face.

“But you are more than enough. You are wonderful, Alastor.” Her voice broke. “You are kind. You tell stories that touch hearts. You see me…” Tears now flowed freely down her cheeks, “You see me. Not my money. Not my name. Just me. N/N.”

“How could I not?” Alastor whispered, turning his face into her palm, pressing a gentle kiss there. Her skin was soft, warm. “You are everything real in a world full of lies.”

“Alastor…” His name, like a prayer.

She moved closer—so close he could feel her breath on his lips, sweet and warm.

“You are something special,” Alastor whispered, his hands framing her face, wiping away her tears. “You are the best thing I have ever seen. You are sunlight in human form.”

“Then kiss me,” she whispered, her eyes dropping to his lips. “Please, Alastor. Here. Now. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“Here? Where everyone can see us?”

“I. Don’t. Care.” Each word emphasized, passionate, desperate. “Kiss me, Alastor. Show me that I’m not the only one who feels this. Show me that you—”

He kissed her.

Pulled her to him—not gently, not carefully, but desperately, hungrily, as if she were air and he were drowning.

She tasted of champagne and sugar and something sweet, something undefinable—something that was only her. Her lips were soft, warm, perfect against his.

N/N moaned—a small, surprised sound that went straight into Alastor’s soul—and opened her mouth beneath his.

Alastor’s hands slid from her face to her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. He could feel her heart against his—wild, fast, beating in the same desperate rhythm.

When they finally pulled apart—both breathless—Alastor rested his forehead against hers.

“I love you,” N/N whispered. “I know it’s too soon, I know I should wait, but I can’t lie. I love you, Alastor. With all my heart.”

“N/N… I…” He took a deep breath, his hands trembling as they held her face.

He kissed her forehead.

“I love you, N/N. So much. So damn much it sometimes hurts to look at you. You are my first thought in the morning and my last before I sleep. You are in every story I tell. In every song I hear. You are—” He laughed, disbelieving, blissfully happy. “You are everything.”

“Then never stop,” she whispered, kissing him again. “Never stop loving me.”

“Never,” he promised against her lips. “Until my last breath. And beyond that. Forever, N/N. I love you forever.”

They kissed again—deeper, more passionate.

The Radio Poem — The Night He Said Her Name

Two weeks later, Alastor sat in his radio studio. His hands trembled as he arranged the notes in front of him. He had made a decision—one that would change everything.

“Thirty seconds, Alastor,” his technician called.

Alastor nodded, took a deep breath. His hands were slick with sweat. His heart a wild animal in his chest.

The red light came on.

“Good evening, my dear listeners.” His voice—professional, smooth, familiar. “This is Alastor speaking, and you’re listening to WDSU, the heart of New Orleans.”

At the La Bouff estate, N/N sat in her room with Tiana. They had spent the evening together. The radio was on—N/N never missed his show.

“Tonight,” Alastor continued, and his voice… changed. Became softer, more emotional, “I would like to share something personal with you.”

N/N froze, looking up at the radio. Her heart began to race.

“There are moments in life when you meet someone who changes everything.” His voice was rough, full of feeling. “Someone who shows you what it truly means to live. To love. To hope. For me… that someone is a young woman.”

“Oh my God,” N/N whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.

“She is the daughter of the richest man in New Orleans, yet she spends her days helping her best friend at the restaurant. She wears dresses that cost more than my monthly salary, yet she kneels in the dirt to help a crying child.”

Tears began to stream down N/N’s cheeks.

“She could have any man in this city—anyone. Any rich, handsome, perfect man. But she…” his voice broke, “she chose me.”

“Alastor…” N/N sobbed softly.

“A radio host of mixed heritage. With a dark past. With an uncertain future. But she saw past all of that. She saw my heart. And she loved it anyway. No—not anyway. She loved it.”

Tiana placed a hand on N/N’s shoulder, tears shining in her own eyes.

His voice dropped to a whisper—intimate, as if he were speaking only to her.

“So tonight I want to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. N/N—and I know you’re listening—this is for you.”

He cleared his throat, and his voice became poetry:

N/N, my light in the darkness, you came into my life like dawn after the storm. With a smile that drives away shadows, and a heart that does not fear even my scars. For a long time, I believed I did not deserve love. But you truly saw me— behind masks, fear, and guilt. And you found something I myself believed I had lost. You stand up for me without hesitation, without shame, while I still often hide behind my microphone. But today I borrow your courage and say out loud what my heart has long known: I love you, N/N La Bouff. You are my home, my peace, my today and tomorrow. Not because you are perfect— but because you are real. I love your small gestures, your laughter, your warmth, the way you make the world brighter without even realizing it. And if you want me— with all my flaws and my past— then meet me tonight at Tiana’s restaurant. Because I have a question. The most important of my life. Come to me. And let me show you how a man kneels when he gives away his entire heart— forever.

Silence in the studio. Alastor’s hands trembled violently. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure it could be heard through the microphone.

“N/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I love you. With every part of me. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you every single day. Come to me. Please. I’m waiting for you where it all began.”

At the La Bouff estate, N/N jumped to her feet, tears pouring endlessly down her face. She sobbed.

“Go!” Tiana cried, laughing and crying at the same time. “Go to him! Hurry!”

“But I—I’m—I look terrible—”

“You look beautiful!” Tiana shoved her toward the door. “Go! He’s waiting!”

N/N ran. Her feet carried her through the garden, across the streets of New Orleans. Her hair came loose from its style, falling over her shoulders. Her simple house dress fluttered behind her.

People turned, stared.

But she didn’t care.

She had to get to him.

Now. Immediately. Her heart wouldn’t survive waiting.

The Proposal – Where It All Began

Alastor stood in front of Tiana’s Palace. The restaurant was closed.

His hands were slick with sweat. His heart a wild, desperate thing in his chest.

What if she didn’t come? What if he had risked too much? What if—

“ALASTOR!”

He turned around.

N/N was running down the street, her hair flying wildly behind her, tears glistening on her cheeks in the light of the streetlamps. She was the most beautiful, chaotic, wonderful sight he had ever seen.

She threw herself into his arms with such force that they nearly fell over. He caught her, spun her around, held her so tightly he was afraid he might break her—but he couldn’t let go.

“You idiot!” she sobbed against his chest, her fists pounding playfully against him. “You wonderful, romantic, impossible, perfect idiot! How could you say that on the radio? The entire city was listening! I cried! I’m still crying!”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard!” She looked up at him, her face wet with tears but glowing—so glowing. “The poem—Alastor, the poem was—I can’t—I have no words!”

“Then you don’t need any,” he whispered, wiping away her tears. “Say it to me again. To my face. Without a microphone. Just you and me.”

Alastor lifted his hands, framed her face, gently wiped away her tears—but new ones came.

“I love you, N/N La Bouff,” his voice was steady, clear, without doubt. “I love you so much that sometimes I forget to breathe. You are my everything. My morning. My reason. My—”

“Yes,” she interrupted him.

He blinked. “I haven’t even asked yet—”

“Yes!” She laughed through her tears, happy. “Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer is yes! Today, tomorrow, forever—YES!”

“N/N…” He laughed, disbelieving, overjoyed. “Let me at least do it properly.”

And he sank down onto one knee. Right there, on the sidewalk in front of Tiana’s Palace. Where it had all begun.

N/N’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God—”

“N/N La Bouff,” he began, pulling a small box from his jacket pocket. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold it. “I’m not rich. I can’t offer you a life of luxury like your Daddy can. I have an uncertain future.”

He opened the box, revealing a simple silver ring with a small but perfectly cut diamond.

“But I can give you my heart. My soul. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every story I tell—it will be about you. Every moment of my life.”

His voice broke, tears burning in his own eyes now.

“I can promise to love you every day. To fight for you. To hold you when you cry and laugh with you when you’re happy. To hold your hand when we’re old and gray and still tell you stories. To wake up every morning and think: how did I get this lucky?”

Tears streamed endlessly down N/N’s face. She sobbed, laughed, trembled.

“Alastor…” his name was a sob, a caress, a prayer.

“N/N La Bouff, my light, my muse, my love, my everything—will you be my wife?” His voice broke completely. “Will you walk through this crazy, wonderful world with me, hand in hand, heart to heart, soul to soul? Will you let me love you every day of my life?”

“Yes!” She dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands clutching his, the ring forgotten between them. “Yes, yes, yes! A million times yes! Forever yes!”

His hands shook violently. But he slid it on—perfectly, when he placed it on her finger.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” she whispered back. “So much.”

And then they kissed—both on their knees on the sidewalk, beneath the star-filled sky of New Orleans, in front of the restaurant.

The kiss was long, deep, desperate. Full of promises and future. Full of a love so strong it overwhelmed them both. They both cried, both laughed, held onto each other as if the world would end if they let go.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, they heard something.

Applause. Cheers. Whistles.

They looked up. The street was full of people—neighbors, passersby. All clapping, cheering, crying.

And there, in the doorway of Tiana’s Palace, stood Tiana and Big Daddy La Bouff—both crying, both glowing.

“That’s my daughter!” Big Daddy shouted, his voice thick with emotion but full of pride. “That’s my little N/N! And her future husband!”

N/N laughed, burying her face against Alastor’s shoulder.

“Come,” he whispered, helping her to her feet, “let’s go to them.”

Hand in hand, they walked toward Tiana and Big Daddy.

“Daddy,” N/N hugged her father tightly, sobbing into his chest, “he proposed to me.”

“I know, baby. I was listening.” Big Daddy kissed her forehead, held her close.

He looked at Alastor, reached out—not for a handshake, but to pull him into an embrace.

“Welcome to the family, my son,” Big Daddy whispered, his voice choked. “You’ve made my daughter happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen her. Take care of her.”

“With my life,” Alastor promised, his own voice breaking.

“I knew it,” Tiana said, grinning as she wiped away her tears. “I knew from the very first day that you two were meant for each other.”

“Thank you,” N/N said, hugging her best friend tightly. “Thank you for introducing us. Thank you for everything. Without you, we would never—”

“Nonsense,” Tiana smiled. “You two would have found each other anyway. Some love is fate.”

Later That Night – Just the Two of Them

Hours later, Alastor and N/N sat alone on the steps of Tiana’s Palace. Big Daddy and Tiana had gone home, the crowd had dispersed.

“I still can’t believe it,” N/N whispered, studying the ring on her finger. It sparkled in the moonlight. “We’re getting married.”

“Already regretting it?” Alastor teased, kissing her cheek.

“Never.” She turned toward him. “Alastor, I fell in love with you the moment I saw you for the first time. Here. At that table. You were drinking coffee and looked so lonely. And I thought: I want to make him smile.”

“Me too,” he admitted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Well, maybe not in the very first moment. But when I watched you helping everyone, the way you laughed, the way you simply… were. The way you spoke to everyone as if they mattered. The way you sang while cooking—terribly off-key, by the way—”

“Hey!” She punched him playfully.

“—but so full of joy that my heart hurt. That’s when I knew.”

“You fell harder than I did,” she observed, smiling knowingly.

“So much harder, chère.” He pulled her close, his head resting against hers. “You fell into me like a summer rain—fast, sudden, wonderful. But I… I fell into you the way the Mississippi flows into the Gulf of Mexico. Slowly, a little more each day, unstoppable, eternal.”

“That was very poetic,” she murmured.

“I’m a radio host. Words are my craft.”

“And stealing my heart?”

“That,” he kissed her, soft and tender, “was a happy accident.”

She cuddled closer, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her. They fit together like two puzzle pieces—perfect, as if they had been made for each other.

“Alastor?”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me a story. Our story. How it continues.”

He smiled, his voice slipping into the familiar, velvety rhythm of his radio show.

“Once upon a time, there was a radio host and his wonderful fiancée…”

“They were married in a small garden, surrounded by friends and family. Tiana was the maid of honor, glowing and crying at the same time. Big Daddy walked his daughter down the aisle with tears in his eyes and a pride in his chest so big it nearly burst.”

N/N sighed happily, snuggling closer.

“And when the priest said, ‘You may kiss the bride,’ the radio host kissed his wife as if it were the first and last time. As if she were air and he were drowning. As if she were everything.”

“And then?” N/N whispered, her eyes growing heavy.

“And then they lived in a small house—not as big as the La Bouff estate, but big enough for two. Later for three, when a child came. A little girl with her eyes and his smile. Then another one. Then maybe another.”

“Three children?” she laughed softly.

“At least. Maybe four.” He grinned. “All with your good heart.”

“And then?”

“And then he loved her a little more every day. Every day he found new reasons to fall in love with her. The way she scrunched her nose when folding laundry. The way she spoke to their children—with the same kindness she showed everyone. The way she grew older, lines forming around her eyes, gray in her hair, but still herself. Still laughing. Still loving.”

His voice grew softer, more emotional.

“And if one day—in many, many years—one of them went, then the other would know: We had something real. Something that endured time. Something not even death could take away. Because true love never dies.”

N/N cried—quietly.

“That’s a beautiful story,” she murmured, her eyes closing.

“It’s our story, chère. And I can’t wait to live it with you. Every day. Every moment.”

She fell asleep in his arms, right there on the steps, beneath the stars.

And Alastor? Alastor held her, kissed her hair, and thanked the universe for the day Tiana had asked him to stay. For the day a whirlwind in pink had burst into his life.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

Autor's Note:

How are we feeling after this?

Princess and the frog wasn't my fav Disney movie. It is so sad they don't draw anymore!!

Would you like some other Disney AU story's ?

I would love to explore my fav Movies!

More Alastor?

Looking for a complet romance to read and stay in bed this week-end?

Today I posted the finaly chapter of my appleradio fanfic!

Hope you like it !

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65071282/chapters/167331757

Oh Yes. I'll do.

This took me nearly 2 weeks. Maybe you saw that I didin't uploded much. I really put everything here. I made thos super long version, it feelt right. I hope everybody is happy with it.

I let some things open for maybe a part 3.

As the princess of his heart I Alastor x Reader I Princess and the Frog AU Part 2

Word Count: ~6.6k

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

The Wedding – The Most Beautiful Day

The garden of the La Bouff estate had been transformed into a dream.

It was June 15, 1929, a perfect Saturday, with the sun shining warmly from the sky and a gentle breeze carrying the scent of jasmine and roses through the air.

White roses climbed around the pillars of the pergola, where Alastor Hartfelt waited — the man who had never believed he would live to see this day.

Friends. Family. People from every walk of life in New Orleans — from the richest to the poorest — because N/N had insisted that everyone who loved her and Alastor was welcome.

Tiana stood ready as a bridesmaid in a beautiful peach-colored dress, her eyes already moist with emotion.

Alastor stood beneath the pergola in his finest suit — tailor-made, a gift from Big Daddy, who had said, “My son-in-law will look perfect on the most beautiful day of his life.”

His hands trembled with anticipation.

Beside him stood his best man — an older colleague from the radio.

The music began — a gentle string quartet playing a melody Alastor himself had composed. For her. Only for her. He had worked on it for weeks.

And then he saw her.

N/N appeared at the end of the aisle, on Big Daddy’s arm, and Alastor’s world ceased to exist.

Her dress was made of cream-colored lace and silk, flowing and elegant, but not overdone. The skirt fell in soft waves to the ground, the lace embroidered with tiny pearls that sparkled in the sunlight like captured stars. The neckline was modest but beautiful, showing the curve of her neck.

Her hair was pinned up in an intricate style — but of course, a few strands had already escaped and fell in soft waves over her shoulders. A veil of delicate tulle covered her face, but Alastor could see her.

But what truly took Alastor’s breath away was her face.

She shone like the sun itself. Her cheeks were rosy, her gold-flecked eyes gleamed with happiness. Tears were already running down her cheeks, but her smile was so wide, so genuine, so completely N/N.

She walked slowly down the aisle in time with the music, Big Daddy at her side. The large man tried bravely to smile, his head held high, but his eyes were damp.

That was his bride.

His N/N.

The love of his life.

When they reached him, Big Daddy stopped.

He looked at his daughter and lifted her veil. His hands trembled slightly.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Just like your mama.”

N/N sobbed softly. “Daddy…”

He kissed her forehead as if he were seeing her for the last time as his little girl.

“You are my greatest pride,” his voice broke. “Be happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

“I am, Daddy,” N/N whispered back, her voice shaking. “With him, I’m the happiest girl in the world.”

Big Daddy turned to Alastor.

His eyes — usually so warm and friendly — became serious. Assessing.

“Alastor Hartfelt,” he spoke loudly enough for the front rows to hear, “I am entrusting you with the most precious thing I have ever had. My daughter.”

He stepped closer, his voice only for Alastor:

“Protect her. Love her. Honor her. Every day. Every moment. Make her happy, or you will answer to me.”

The words were half joking, half serious.

“With every breath,” Alastor promised, his voice firm despite the tears. “Until my last day. And beyond. She is my everything, sir. She always will be.”

Big Daddy studied him for a long moment.

Then he nodded slowly, satisfied.

And placed N/N’s hand into Alastor’s.

The moment their fingers intertwined felt like coming home.

Big Daddy stepped back and sat down next to Tiana, who handed him a handkerchief. Both were crying.

The priest smiled warmly.

“My dear friends,” he began, his voice clear and strong, “we are gathered here today to unite two people in holy matrimony. Alastor Hartfelt and N/N La Bouff have chosen to share their lives, in good times and in bad, in wealth and in poverty, in health and in sickness.”

Alastor barely listened.

He saw only her.

Her eyes, which never left his. Her smile, growing softer, more tender, more loving with every spoken word. The way her fingers held onto his.

“Marriage is a sacred bond,” the priest continued. “It binds not only two people, but two souls. It is a promise that must be renewed every day. With patience. With forgiveness. With love.”

He turned to Alastor.

“Alastor Hartfelt, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love and honor her, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Alastor took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

The word came without hesitation, loud enough for everyone to hear.

As if it were the simplest truth he had ever spoken.

“And N/N La Bouff,” the priest smiled warmly, “do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love and honor him, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“Yes!”

Her voice was bright, full of joy, and she laughed through her tears.

“The rings, please.”

The best man handed Alastor a small silver ring — simple, but beautiful.

Alastor took N/N’s hand, trembling, and slid the ring onto her finger.

“With this ring, I pledge my devotion to you,” he whispered, loud enough for her, only for her. “My heart. My soul. Everything I am.”

N/N sobbed softly with happiness and then took his ring.

She slid it onto his finger, her hands so gentle, so loving.

“With this ring, I pledge my devotion to you,” her voice trembled. “My heart. My soul. Everything I am and ever will be.”

The priest smiled, tears in his own eyes.

“Then I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

He paused and grinned:

“You may kiss the bride, Alastor.”

Alastor did not hesitate.

He pulled N/N close, his hands framing her face, wiping away her tears.

And kissed her.

It was not a dramatic kiss. Not a passionate, hungry kiss like the first time.

It was a promise.

Gentle. Tender. Deep.

The guests erupted into applause, cheers, whistles.

But Alastor and N/N heard none of it.

They were lost in this moment. In this kiss. In this love so vast it swallowed everything else.

When they finally parted, Alastor looked at her.

“Hello, Mrs. Hartfelt,” his heart so full it threatened to burst.

“Hello, Mr. Hartfelt,” N/N grinned back.

The Celebration – Dance and Joy

The wedding celebration took place in the garden, beneath pavilions of white fabric decorated with strings of lights.

Tables were overflowing with food. Tiana had insisted on coordinating the catering, and she had done it perfectly.

A jazz band played — lively, cheerful music that made people want to dance.

But first: the first dance.

Alastor led N/N onto the small dance floor.

The band began to play a slow, romantic melody.

Alastor placed his hand on N/N’s waist, holding her other hand firmly.

They fit together perfectly.

“Are you nervous?” N/N smiled.

“Always,” Alastor grinned. “You’ve made me nervous since the day you stormed into Tiana’s restaurant.”

“Good nervous?”

“The best kind of nervous.”

They danced slowly, turning, their gaze never leaving each other.

“I love you, Mrs. Hartfelt,” Alastor whispered.

“I love you, Mr. Hartfelt,” N/N whispered back.

The guests watched them, all touched by the obvious, overwhelming love between the two.

When the music ended, Alastor kissed N/N once more and the crowd cheered.

Then Big Daddy stepped onto the dance floor.

“May I have the next dance with my daughter?” His voice was rough.

“Of course, sir.” Alastor stepped back.

Big Daddy took N/N into his arms — this large, imposing man and his little daughter — and danced with her.

────୨ৎ────

The celebration lasted late into the night.

There was laughter, dancing, eating, drinking.

Alastor gave a speech — his radio voice perfect for the moment:

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends, family. N/N…”

He turned to her, his eyes full of love:

“You have changed my life. I was a man who did not believe he deserved love. That he deserved happiness. And then you came — like a whirlwind, loud and bright and impossible to ignore. You showed me what it means to live. To truly live. With a whole heart. You are my light in the darkness. My reason to smile. My everything. And I promise you here, in front of all these people — I will try every day to be the man you deserve.”

The crowd applauded, many in tears.

N/N stood up, walked to him, and kissed him in front of everyone.

“You already are the man I deserve,” she whispered. “Because you see my heart. And that’s all that matters.”

The First Night – Just the Two of Them

The small house they had rented — modest, but their own — was on a quiet street in the French Quarter.

Two bedrooms, a small living room, a kitchen. Not much, but perfect for them.

Big Daddy had offered to buy them a larger house, but Alastor had refused.

“We’re starting our life together,” he had said. “In something we earned ourselves.”

N/N had squeezed his arm, proud of him.

The house was filled with candlelight and the scent of jasmine that N/N had placed everywhere.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Hartfelt,” Alastor said as he opened the door.

He lifted her up and carried her over the threshold.

“Tradition,” he explained as he gently set her down.

“I love your traditions,” she kissed him, soft and playful.

They stumbled through the house, laughing, kissing.

N/N tried to take off her shoes, stumbled, almost fell. Alastor caught her, and they laughed so hard that tears came to their eyes.

The night was magical.

Real.

────୨ৎ────

Later, when the candles had burned low and they lay together in bed — entwined, close, heart to heart — N/N whispered:

“Alastor?”

“Hmm?” His fingers lazily traced patterns on her shoulder.

“Will you promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“No matter what happens,” she lifted her head, looked at him, her eyes serious and so full of love it took his breath away, “no matter what darkness comes, what challenges, what struggles — never forget that I love you. That I will always love you. That you are worthy of being loved.”

Alastor’s heart tightened.

“N/N…”

“Promise me,” her voice broke. “Please. Whatever happens, wherever you go — remember that you are loved. That you are good. That you are worthy.”

“I promise,” he pulled her closer, kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “I will never forget. Never. You showed me who I can be. Who I am. And I will never forget that.”

The First Years – A New Life

The first two years of their marriage were beautifully chaotic.

Alastor worked long hours at the radio studio. His show grew more and more popular, his stories reached more people, his voice became a familiar sound in the homes of New Orleans.

But no matter how late it was — he always came home to N/N.

She waited for him, often with food she had cooked.

“I tried to make jambalaya,” she proudly presented a pot.

Alastor tasted it carefully.

“It is—”

“Terrible, I know,” N/N sighed. “Why can’t I cook like Tiana?”

“Practice,” Alastor smiled, pulling her into his arms. “And besides, I don’t love you for your cooking skills.”

“Then why?”

“Because you are you. Because you light up every room you walk into. Because your heart is so big that it overwhelms me sometimes.”

They kissed, the food forgotten.

N/N continued working at Tiana’s restaurant — not because she needed the money, but because she loved it.

She loved the people. The stories. The sense of community.

Alastor often stopped by for lunch, just to see her.

“There’s your husband,” Tiana grinned every time Alastor walked through the door.

N/N lit up, ran to him, kissed him — openly, without shame, in front of everyone.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“I was only gone for three hours,” Alastor laughed.

“Three hours too long.”

They were in love — hopelessly, completely, absolutely.

People on the street knew them. The couple who walked hand in hand through the French Quarter. Who sat on their porch every evening watching the stars.

They visited Big Daddy every Friday night for dinner. Grand meals where Big Daddy told stories from his youth and N/N and Alastor laughed until their sides hurt.

“You two should start thinking about children,” Big Daddy said one evening.

N/N blushed. Alastor cleared his throat.

“We… are thinking about it,” N/N admitted.

“Good,” Big Daddy grinned. “I want grandchildren. Lots of them.”

And then, two years after their wedding, everything changed.

The First Miracle – 1931

Alastor came home — tired from a long day at the studio.

The house smelled like something burnt.

“N/N?” he called.

“In the kitchen!”

He found her standing at the stove, stirring a pot, tears running down her cheeks.

Alastor’s heart sank.

“Chère, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“I… tried to make soup, but…” She pointed at the burnt pot. “I can’t even make soup! How am I supposed to—”

She sobbed.

Alastor immediately pulled her into his arms.

“Hey, hey, it’s just soup. That’s not important.”

N/N looked up at him, her gold-flecked eyes full of tears, but also… something else.

“Alastor,” she took his hand and gently placed it on her stomach. “We’re having a baby.”

The world held its breath.

Alastor stared at her — disbelieving, overwhelmed, his thoughts racing.

“A… baby?”

“Our baby,” she laughed through her tears. “You’re going to be a father, Alastor. I’m pregnant.”

“But… when… how long…”

“Two months. I wasn’t sure, so I went to the doctor, and he confirmed it, and I wanted to tell you right away, but then I wanted to cook something special, but I ruined it, and—”

He kissed her.

Cut off her rush of words with a deep, passionate kiss that said everything words could not.

When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers.

“A baby,” he whispered, his voice full of awe. “We’re having a baby.”

“Are you happy?” N/N asked anxiously.

“Happy?” Alastor laughed — loud, free, overwhelmed. “Chère, I am more than happy. I… don’t have words. You…”

His voice broke.

N/N ran her fingers through his hair, crying quietly with happiness.

“We’re going to be good parents,” she whispered.

Alastor cupped her face in his hands.

“You will be an incredible mother. And I… will do my best. Every day. For you. For our child.”

They held each other for a long time, the burnt soup forgotten.

The Pregnancy – Nine Months of Change

N/N’s pregnancy was… a roller coaster.

The first three months were the worst.

Morning sickness — which really lasted all day.

Alastor often woke to find N/N in the bathroom, pale, vomiting.

“I hate this,” she groaned.

“I know, chère,” he held her hair back, gently rubbing her back. “But it will get better. The doctor said so.”

“The doctor is a liar.”

Alastor couldn’t help but laugh.

He brought her ginger tea, crackers, anything that might help.

He read her stories to distract her.

By the fourth month, it got better.

The nausea faded, and N/N’s belly began to grow.

Alastor was fascinated.

Every evening he placed his hands on her stomach, feeling for movement.

“When will the baby kick?” he asked.

“Soon,” N/N smiled. “Be patient.”

And then, one evening, as they sat together on the porch, it happened.

N/N gasped, grabbed Alastor’s hand, and placed it on her belly.

“There! Do you feel that?”

A small kick.

Alastor’s eyes widened.

“That’s our baby.”

Alastor broke into tears.

He cried openly, his hand pressed firmly to her stomach, feeling his child.

“Hello, little one,” he whispered.

N/N cried too, happy.

The months passed.

N/N’s belly grew — round and beautiful.

Alastor couldn’t stop touching it, kissing it, speaking to the baby.

“You’re spoiling the child,” N/N teased.

“I can’t help it,” Alastor kissed her belly. “Our baby deserves to be spoiled.”

He read stories to the baby — classic fairy tales, adventure stories, even newspaper articles.

“The baby must be well informed,” he explained seriously.

N/N laughed, loving him more than ever.

They prepared the nursery — the second bedroom, small but cozy.

They painted the walls a soft yellow.

Alastor built a cradle — with his own hands, painstakingly, over weeks.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was made with love.

Big Daddy bought enough baby clothes for twins.

“I couldn’t decide!” he defended himself.

The Birth – Marguerite Rose Hartfelt

It was May 3rd, 1932.

A warm spring morning.

Alastor was making breakfast when N/N walked into the kitchen, pale, her hand on her stomach.

“Alastor.”

Her voice was calm, but tense.

“The contractions have started.”

Alastor dropped the spatula.

“What? Now? But it’s too early! You still have two weeks!”

“Babies don’t follow schedules,” N/N smiled weakly. “We need to—”

A contraction tore through her. She gasped, gripping the table.

Alastor was at her side instantly.

“Okay, okay, we… we need to get the midwife. And Tiana. And your father. And—”

“Alastor.” N/N took his face in her hands. “Breathe. I need you calm.”

“I am calm!” His voice was three octaves higher than usual.

N/N laughed despite the pain.

“Liar.”

The next hours were chaos.

The midwife arrived — an older, experienced woman.

Tiana came and took command, constantly sending Alastor away to fetch things.

“More towels!”

“Hot water!”

“No, Alastor, you cannot go in there right now!”

Big Daddy arrived and sat with Alastor in the living room.

Both men listened to the sounds from the bedroom — N/N’s cries, the midwife’s instructions.

“She’ll make it,” Big Daddy placed a hand on Alastor’s shoulder. “She’s strong. Like her mother.”

Alastor couldn’t speak. He prayed — for the first time in years, he truly prayed.

Please, let her be okay. Let the baby be okay. Please.

Hours passed.

And then — a cry.

Not N/N.

A baby.

Alastor jumped to his feet.

Tiana came out of the bedroom, tears on her cheeks, a huge smile on her face.

“Congratulations, Alastor. You have a daughter.”

“A… daughter?” Alastor’s voice broke.

“A beautiful, healthy daughter. And N/N is fine. She’s tired, but she’s okay.”

Alastor rushed into the bedroom.

N/N lay in bed, exhausted, sweaty, her hair a mess.

But she was glowing.

In her arms, she held a small bundle wrapped in a white blanket.

“Alastor,” her voice was a whisper, tired but happy. “Come.”

Alastor approached slowly, as if he were dreaming.

N/N pulled back the blanket.

And Alastor saw his child.

Small, with a hint of dark hair on her head.

Her skin was a beautiful blend of Alastor’s darker tone and N/N’s lighter one.

And then she opened her eyes.

Gold-flecked.

Like her mother’s.

“Oh…” Alastor’s voice broke completely. Tears ran down his face. “Oh, she is…”

“Do you want to hold her?”

“I… what if I drop her? What if—”

“You won’t drop her.” N/N smiled and gently placed the baby into his arms.

Alastor held his daughter.

For the first time.

She was so light. So fragile. So unbelievably precious.

“Hello, little one,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

The baby — his daughter — yawned and nestled into his arms.

“She likes you,” N/N smiled.

“How could she not?” Big Daddy stood in the doorway, tears in his eyes. “He’s her father.”

“We talked about names,” N/N said softly. “Remember?”

“Marguerite,” Alastor nodded, looking down at his daughter. “Marguerite Rose. After the heroine in my favorite story. And Rose, after your mother.”

“She’s perfect.” Alastor kissed his daughter’s forehead. “Welcome to the world, Marguerite.”

The First Years with Marguerite

Marguerite — or “Maggie,” as Alastor lovingly called her — changed their lives completely.

At three months, Marguerite began making sounds.

“Ba… ba… ba…”

“She’s saying Papa!” Alastor was convinced.

“She’s just making noises, Alastor.”

“No, no, she’s saying Papa. I know it.”

At six months, Marguerite learned to roll over.

Alastor celebrated as if she had won a marathon.

He wrote it down in the diary he kept about Marguerite:

“November 3rd, 1929 — Marguerite rolled over for the first time today. N/N and I applauded. She laughed. My heart could burst.”

At one year, Marguerite began to walk.

Wobbly, unsure, often falling.

But she always stood back up.

“That’s my girl,” Alastor clapped.

Marguerite laughed, ran toward him, and fell into his arms.

“Papa!”

Her first word.

Alastor cried.

“N/N! Did you hear that? She said Papa!”

“I heard it,” N/N smiled, rolling her eyes, but her heart was full of love.

Marguerite was a happy child.

Always laughing, always curious, always in motion.

She loved music — she danced, wiggled her little bottom, clapped her hands.

She loved stories — every evening she climbed into Alastor’s lap, her small hand on his chest, and whispered, “Story, Papa.”

And Alastor — who could never say no to his little princess — told her stories.

Marguerite usually fell asleep before the story ended, her thumb in her mouth, her head on Alastor’s shoulder.

And Alastor simply sat there, holding her.

The Second Miracle – Colette Marie Hartfelt

Marguerite was three years old when N/N shared the news with Alastor.

They were sitting at breakfast, Marguerite spreading jam on everything except her bread.

“Alastor,” N/N began carefully.

“Hmm?” He was reading the newspaper while simultaneously helping Marguerite drink her milk.

“I’m pregnant.”

Alastor choked on his coffee.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Alastor stood up, walked around the table, and pulled N/N into his arms.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He kissed her — deep, passionate, happy.

“We’re having another baby,” he laughed. “Our family is growing.”

“Are you happy?”

“Am I happy?” Alastor repeated in disbelief. “Chère, I’m overjoyed. Marguerite is getting a sibling. We’re having another child. How could I not be happy?”

The pregnancy was easier than the first time.

N/N knew what to expect.

She had less nausea, more energy.

Marguerite was fascinated by her mama’s growing belly.

“Baby in there?” she asked, poking N/N’s stomach.

“Yes, sweetheart. Your little brother or little sister.”

“I want sister!”

And she got her wish.

On October 12th, 1935, after a shorter but more intense labor, Colette Marie Hartfelt was born.

She was smaller than Marguerite had been.

With lighter skin — closer to N/N’s tone — and the same hair.

And when she opened her eyes: gold-flecked.

“Another beautiful daughter,” Alastor whispered, holding her.

“Colette,” N/N smiled tiredly. “Colette Marie. Marie after your mother.”

Alastor looked up, surprised, touched.

“You… want to name her after my mother?”

“Of course. She was important to you. She should be part of our family, even if she’s no longer here.”

Alastor kissed N/N, tears in his eyes.

“Thank you, chère.”

────୨ৎ────

Marguerite met her sister with wide, astonished eyes.

“Baby sister,” she whispered in awe.

“Yes,” Alastor crouched down so Marguerite could see. “This is Colette. Your little sister.”

“She so small!”

“You were that small once, too.”

“Can I hold?”

They helped Marguerite sit down and carefully placed Colette in her arms.

Marguerite was so serious, so careful.

“Hello, Colette,” she whispered.

Alastor and N/N exchanged a look — full of love, full of pride.

Their family was growing.

And it was beautiful.

Having two children was… different.

More chaotic.

Louder.

More wonderful.

Colette was a quieter baby than Marguerite.

She slept better, cried less, observed more.

“She’s a thinker,” N/N often said.

Marguerite loved her little sister immediately and completely.

She wanted to help — with everything.

“I help Mama!” she announced, trying to feed Colette.

“I put baby to bed!”

She tried.

Always.

And Alastor and N/N loved her for it.

As Colette grew older, her personality emerged.

She was shy — hiding behind Marguerite’s legs when strangers came.

She was gentle — petting animals with such tenderness.

Marguerite and Colette were inseparable.

They played together — tea parties with dolls, hide-and-seek in the garden, inventing stories.

“I’m the princess!” Marguerite declared.

“Me too!” Colette said.

“Okay, we’re both princesses. And Papa is the dragon.”

“I’m a dragon?” Alastor raised an eyebrow.

“A good dragon!” Marguerite assured him.

“A dragon who tells stories!” Colette added.

Alastor laughed and played along.

He roared, chased them through the garden, caught them, tickled them until they squealed with laughter.

N/N watched from the porch, her heart so full.

This was her family.

The Third Gift – Vivienne Grace Hartfelt (1938)

“Alastor, I need to tell you something.”

It was a summer evening.

Marguerite and Colette were playing in the garden.

Alastor and N/N sat on the porch, drinking lemonade.

“What is it, chère?”

N/N smiled and took his hand.

“We’re having another baby.”

Alastor blinked.

“A third?”

“A third.”

He laughed — loud, surprised, happy.

“Our trio will be complete.”

“Are you sure you can handle three children?” N/N teased.

“With you, I can handle anything.”

He kissed her, gentle and loving.

────୨ৎ────

Marguerite and Colette were excited.

“Another sister!” Marguerite prayed.

“Or a brother,” Alastor added.

“No, a sister!” both girls insisted.

And once again, they got their wish.

On April 3rd, 1939, Vivienne Grace Hartfelt was born.

A calm birth, quicker than the other two.

Vivienne was… different.

She had Alastor’s darker skin and N/N’s eye color.

But there was something old in her gaze.

As if she understood more than a newborn should.

“She is wise,” Big Daddy said as he held his youngest granddaughter. “I can see it. She will be something special.”

Vivienne hardly ever cried.

She observed.

Listened.

Learned.

When Marguerite and Colette met her, it was love at first sight.

“Our baby sister!” Marguerite proudly declared.

Colette, usually shy, carefully touched Vivienne’s hand.

“Hello, Vivienne,” she whispered.

“And I’m Marguerite!”

Vivienne blinked, seeming to study them.

Then she smiled — small, but real.

And the girls squealed with joy.

Alastor stood at the edge, watching his three daughters and his wife.

His heart was so full.

Three beautiful, perfect daughters.

And a woman he loved more than he had ever thought possible.

How had he deserved this happiness?

“Alastor,” N/N called to him. “Come. Hold your daughter.”

He took Vivienne into his arms.

So small. So perfect.

“Hello, Vivienne Grace,” he whispered. “Welcome to our crazy, wonderful family.”

Life with Three Daughters – The Wonderful, Chaotic Years

The Hartfelt house was never quiet.

From the moment Marguerite woke in the morning until Vivienne fell asleep at night, the house was filled with life.

Marguerite Grows Up

Marguerite grew into a beautiful young woman. At sixteen, she had N/N’s features — gold-flecked eyes, full hair, a smile that lit up rooms. But she had Alastor’s mind — clever, witty, charming.

On Sundays, they all sat together at the kitchen table while Marguerite talked about her plans and Colette sat quietly beside her, sometimes holding her big sister’s hand. Vivienne scribbled in her notebook and listened to every word.

“Papa, I’m going out with friends tonight.”

“Which friends?” Alastor set his newspaper aside, his full attention now on his eldest.

“Just people from school.”

“Boys?”

“A few, yes.”

Colette giggled softly into her hand. “Papa’s getting nervous,” she whispered to Vivienne.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed — not angry, but protective. “What time will you be back?”

“Papa…”

“What time, Marguerite Rose?”

“10 o’clock?”

“8 o’clock.”

“Papa! That’s not fair!” Marguerite crossed her arms, exactly the way Alastor did when he was stubborn.

N/N intervened, placing a hand on Alastor’s arm and giving Marguerite a knowing look. “9 o’clock is a compromise.”

Marguerite sighed, but walked over to her father and kissed his forehead. “Fine. 9 o’clock. But only because I love you.”

“We love you too,” Alastor murmured, his voice softer.

When she left, all three stood at the window — Alastor in the middle, N/N at his side, Colette and Vivienne in front of them.

“She’ll find a good man,” Colette said quietly. “Someone like Papa.”

“No one is like Papa,” Vivienne countered, and Alastor laughed despite his worries.

“You have to let her go,” N/N said gently, her fingers intertwined with his.

“She’s too young.”

“You were young once too.”

The whole family laughed, and the tension melted away.

N/N kissed his cheek. “She’s smart. We raised her well. She’ll make good choices.”

And she did.

Marguerite had suitors — many of them — but she didn’t rush. On evenings when she returned from dates, her sisters often waited for her, slipping into her room in their pajamas.

“So? Was he nice?” Colette asked eagerly.

“He was fine,” Marguerite shrugged. “But he didn’t laugh like Papa. And he didn’t look at me like… well.”

“Like Papa looks at Mama,” Vivienne finished the sentence.

“Exactly.”

The three sisters curled up together on Marguerite’s bed, just as they had when they were little.

“I won’t get married until I find someone who looks at me the way Papa looks at Mama,” Marguerite said firmly.

“Me too,” Colette agreed.

“I’m going to write books,” Vivienne declared. “About love like yours.”

────୨ৎ────

Marguerite wanted to become a nurse — to help people, the way she had helped during the Depression.

When the acceptance letter arrived, she didn’t run to her parents alone. She gathered her sisters first, all three hand in hand, before rushing into the kitchen.

“I got in!” Marguerite shouted.

N/N hugged her first, then Alastor, then the whole family in one big group embrace.

“I’m proud of you,” Alastor said, his voice thick with emotion.

“Really, Papa?”

“So proud. You will save lives. Give hope. That’s all a father could ever wish for his child.”

Marguerite hugged him tightly, her sisters pressing in close to both of them.

“Thank you for believing in me.”

“Always. In all of you.”

Colette Finds Her Voice

Colette remained shy, but she grew into her music. At fifteen, she played in churches, at weddings, at events. Her music was transcendent. It touched hearts. People cried when she played.

And her family was always there. Marguerite sat in the front row, smiling proudly. Vivienne listened with her eyes closed, absorbing every note. N/N held Alastor’s hand, both parents glowing with pride.

“You have a gift, little bird,” Big Daddy often said when the whole family gathered after performances.

“I only play what I feel,” Colette replied softly.

She began composing too, her own pieces. Gentle. Dreamlike. Full of emotion.

On one special Sunday, when the whole family sat together at dinner — grandparents, aunts, uncles, everyone united — Colette stood up.

“I… I composed something,” she said shyly.

Marguerite immediately took her hand, squeezing it encouragingly. “Play it for us.”

“This is for Mama and Papa,” she sat at the piano, her fingers trembling slightly. “For our family.”

The melody filled the room — a story of love, gratitude, togetherness. Every note spoke of shared Sunday breakfasts, of kisses before bedtime, of hands held through difficult times.

N/N cried quietly. Alastor held her hand, his own eyes damp. Marguerite wrapped an arm around Vivienne as both listened to their sister turning her heart into music.

When she finished, there was a moment of silence. Then they all hugged Colette at once — a warm, tight family embrace.

“It’s perfect, Colette. Absolutely perfect,” Alastor whispered.

────୨ৎ────

Colette had an admirer too — a boy named Thomas, also a musician. He played the violin. They met in the orchestra and played duets together.

“Papa, can Thomas come to dinner?” Colette asked one day while the family peeled potatoes together — a Sunday tradition.

Marguerite grinned. “Oh, Thomas. The cute violinist?”

Colette blushed. “Marguerite!”

Vivienne looked up. “Is Papa going to interrogate him like Marguerite’s dates?”

Alastor stiffened, his peeler pausing mid-motion. “A… boy?”

“He’s nice, Papa. And he respects me.”

N/N smiled, exchanging a look with Marguerite. “Of course he can come, darling.”

Thomas came — nervous, polite, sincere. Marguerite helped in the kitchen and winked encouragingly at Colette. Vivienne observed Thomas with her clever eyes, quietly assessing him.

Alastor grilled him at dinner.

“What are your intentions with my daughter?”

“Alastor!” N/N warned, but she was smiling.

“It’s a fair question!”

Thomas swallowed and looked at Colette, who nodded at him encouragingly. “Sir, I… I like Colette very much. She is talented, kind, beautiful. I would like to get to know her better. With your permission.”

“And you can play the violin?” Vivienne suddenly asked.

“Yes, I—”

“Play something with Colette. Then we’ll know if you’re good enough.”

“Vivienne!” Colette was shocked, but the whole family laughed.

Thomas and Colette played after dinner — a duet, beautiful and harmonious. Alastor watched the way Thomas looked at Colette while they played. With respect. With admiration. With love.

“He’s good for her,” Alastor finally admitted later that night, when he and N/N were alone.

“He is,” N/N smiled. “He sees her. Truly sees her.”

“Like I see you.”

“Exactly.”

“Our girls are growing up.”

“But they will always be our girls.”

Vivienne – The Philosopher

Vivienne was ten years old, but she spoke like an adult. She read philosophy, psychology, literature. She asked questions that Alastor sometimes couldn’t answer.

On a rainy afternoon, they were all sitting in the living room. Marguerite was studying for her exams, Colette was quietly practicing the piano, N/N was knitting, and Alastor was reading aloud.

“Papa, do you believe in fate?” Vivienne suddenly asked, looking up from her book.

Everyone paused. These moments were special in their family — when Vivienne asked one of her big questions.

“I’m not sure, darling. Why?”

“Because I think some things are meant to be. Like you and Mama. You were meant for each other.”

Marguerite smiled. “I think so too.”

“Me too,” Colette agreed, her fingers resting on the piano keys.

“Maybe you’re right,” Alastor said, glancing at N/N, who smiled back at him.

“I’ve also been thinking about hell,” Vivienne continued.

The atmosphere shifted. Alastor stiffened.

“...Hell?”

“Vivienne, that’s a heavy topic,” Marguerite said gently, setting her book aside.

“Yes. In the Bible. Is it real? And if so, who goes there? Is it fair?”

Those were heavy questions for a ten-year-old.

N/N came over and sat beside Vivienne, brushing her hair back. “What made you think about that, sweetheart?”

“I just think. About good and evil. About forgiveness.”

Alastor moved closer too, and now the whole family gathered around Vivienne. “I don’t know, Vivienne. I believe that good people are rewarded. One way or another.”

“Even if they’ve made mistakes?”

“Especially then. Redemption is possible. Always.”

“For everyone?” she asked.

“For everyone who truly wants to change,” N/N said softly.

Marguerite placed a hand on Vivienne’s shoulder. “You think so deeply, little sister. But that’s what makes you special.”

“And we’re always here to talk about anything,” Colette added.

Vivienne looked at her family — all around her, all loving, all present.

“I hope you’re right, Papa. About redemption.”

Something in her tone — serious, almost sad — unsettled Alastor. But N/N took his hand, and Marguerite and Colette moved closer to Vivienne.

“No matter what happens,” N/N said quietly, “we have each other. Always.”

“Always,” they all repeated together.

And in that moment, in the warm light of the living room, surrounded by the people they loved most, everything felt right.

Vivienne was an old soul. She thought about things other children didn’t. But she wasn’t alone with her thoughts. She had her sisters. Her parents. Her family.

And that was all that mattered.

Marguerite’s Wedding

Marguerite was twenty-six when she met James.

A doctor — kind, intelligent, with a smile that lit up rooms.

He looked at her the way Alastor looked at N/N.

“He’s the one,” Marguerite told her parents.

“Are you sure?” Alastor asked.

“As sure as you were about Mama.”

Alastor couldn’t argue with that.

The wedding took place in the garden of the La Bouff estate.

Just like Alastor and N/N’s wedding so many years before.

Marguerite was breathtaking in her white dress.

Alastor walked her down the aisle — tears streaming down his face.

“You are so beautiful, Maggie.”

“Thank you, Papa. For everything. For your love. For your example. You showed me what true love is.”

“Be happy.”

“I will be. I promise.”

He handed her to James and whispered, “Protect her. Or I will find you.”

James nodded seriously. “I will, sir. With my life.”

The ceremony was beautiful.

Colette played the piano — the piece she had composed for her family.

Vivienne read a poem — one she had written herself, about love and family.

When Marguerite and James kissed, everyone cheered.

Alastor held N/N, both of them crying with happiness.

Their first daughter.

Married.

Happy.

Colette’s Wedding

Two years later, Colette married Thomas.

A more intimate wedding — in a small church, only family and close friends.

Colette was nervous.

“What if I trip? What if I forget my vows?”

“You won’t,” N/N assured her. “And even if you do, it’s okay. That makes it real.”

Alastor walked her down the aisle.

“My little bird,” he whispered. “You are flying now. But always come back home.”

“Always, Papa.”

The ceremony was gentle, full of music.

Thomas and Colette played a duet — violin and piano.

It was magical.

Not a single dry eye in the room.

Vivienne — The One Who Chose Differently

Vivienne never married.

She had admirers — many of them.

But none of them felt right.

“I think I’m not made for marriage,” she said at thirty.

“That’s okay,” N/N assured her. “Happiness comes in many forms.”

Vivienne became a teacher — teaching literature and philosophy.

She touched young minds, opened them to new ideas.

“You make a difference,” Alastor often said.

“I hope so.”

“You do. I am so proud of you.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

She lived in a small house not far from her parents.

Visited often, bringing books, stories, company.

Grandchildren — The Circle Closes

Marguerite and James had three children.

Colette and Thomas had two.

Big Daddy lived to see it — his great-grandchildren.

He was old now, in his eighties, but his spirit was still strong.

“Five great-grandchildren,” he laughed, holding the youngest baby. “I am blessed.”

He passed peacefully in his sleep in 1958.

Surrounded by love.

His last words were to N/N:

“I’m proud of you, baby. So proud. You lived a beautiful life. Built a beautiful family. I love you.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

She held his hand as he went.

The funeral was enormous — hundreds came.

Big Daddy had touched so many lives.

Alastor held N/N as she cried.

“He was the best man I ever knew,” she whispered.

“He was. And he loved you more than anything.”

“I will miss him so much.”

“I know, chère. I know.”

The Golden Years

The years passed.

Alastor and N/N aged — gray hair, wrinkles, slower steps.

But their love?

It only grew stronger.

Every morning, Alastor woke up, saw N/N beside him — older, but still her — and thanked the universe.

“Good morning, my beautiful.”

“I am old and wrinkled, Alastor.”

“You are perfect.”

He meant it.

She had wrinkles around her eyes — laugh lines from years of smiling.

Gray streaks in her hair — signs of a life well lived.

But in his eyes?

She was still the woman who had burst into Tiana’s restaurant.

Radiant. Beautiful. His.

They sat on their porch every evening, hand in hand, watching the stars.

“Do you remember when we met?” N/N often asked.

“How could I forget? You turned my life upside down.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Not a single moment.”

He kissed her — gentle, tender, full of decades of love.

“I love you, N/N Hartfelt. Today. Tomorrow. Forever.”

“Forever,” she repeated.

The Beginning of the End — N/N’s Illness

N/N was seventy-one when she became ill.

Cancer.

Advanced.

Incurable.

“How long?” Alastor asked the doctor, his voice hollow.

“Months. Maybe a year, if we’re lucky.”

Alastor broke.

Not physically.

But inside.

How could he live without her?

How could he breathe, exist, without her?

But he didn’t show it.

Not to her.

For her, he was strong.

“We fight,” he said, taking her hand.

“Alastor—”

“We fight. Every day. Together.”

They fought.

Chemotherapy. Radiation. Treatments that made her sick, weakened her.

But N/N still smiled.

“I have you,” she whispered. “As long as I have you, I can endure anything.”

Alastor never left her side.

He held her hand through the nausea.

Wiped away her tears.

Read her stories.

Their daughters came — often, with the grandchildren.

The house was full again with laughter, with life.

“I am so happy,” N/N often whispered. “So blessed.”

“You are the strongest woman I know,” Alastor said.

“I am only strong because you are beside me.”

The Last Dance

It was spring — April, the month they had fallen in love so many years ago.

N/N was weak, in bed most of the time.

But she still smiled.

On a warm evening, the window open, the scent of jasmine filling the room.

N/N opened her eyes.

“Alastor?”

“I’m here, chère.” He held her hand, always.

“Dance with me.”

“N/N, you can’t—”

“Please.” Her eyes — those beautiful, gold-speckled eyes, now clouded with pain — begged him. “One last time.”

How could he say no?

He carefully helped her out of bed.

She was so light in his arms, so fragile, as if a strong wind could carry her away.

But as he held her, as they began to move slowly — without music, only the beating of their hearts as rhythm — she was herself again.

His N/N.

Young. Alive. Radiant.

“I love you,” she whispered against his chest. “So much. Never forget that. No matter what happens, where you go — I love you. Always.”

“I could never forget.” His voice broke. “You are my everything, N/N. My sunshine. My love. My life. My all.”

“Then promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Live. After me. Live. Tell our story. Love our daughters. Our grandchildren. Be happy. For me.”

Tears ran down his face.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. You are the strongest man I know.”

“Only because you were beside me.”

“And I will always be beside you. Maybe not here,” she touched his chest, over his heart, “but here. Always.”

They kept dancing, slowly, tenderly, while the sun set and the stars came out.

“Do you remember our first Christmas?” N/N whispered.

“How could I forget? The girls woke us at five in the morning.”

“And you muttered how much you missed sleep.”

“But I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

“Neither would I.” She smiled. “We had a good life, Alastor.”

“The best life.”

“No regrets?”

“Only one.”

“What?”

“That we don’t have more time.”

N/N cried and laughed at the same time.

“That’s not your fault. That’s no one’s fault.”

“I know. But it feels unfair.”

“Life is sometimes unfair. But we had decades. Three beautiful daughters. Grandchildren. Love. So much love. That’s more than most people ever have.”

She was right.

He knew it.

But it didn’t make the goodbye easier.

“Wait for me,” Alastor whispered. “Wherever you go after this — wait for me. Because I will find you. I will always find you.”

“I promise,” he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “I will wait for you. Forever, if I must. I will wait, and when I see you again, I will take you into my arms and never let you go.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

She smiled — tired, but real.

“Good. Because I couldn’t be without you. Not truly. Wherever I go, you are with me. In my heart.”

“And you in mine.”

They danced until N/N was too tired, too weak.

Alastor laid her back in bed, tucked her in, kissed her forehead.

“Sleep now, chère.”

“Will you stay?”

“Always.”

He held her hand, watched her sleep.

Her chest rose and fell — slow, shallow.

Their daughters came — Marguerite, Colette, Vivienne.

All held their mother, whispered love, said goodbye.

“I love you, Mama,” Marguerite cried.

“Thank you for everything,” Colette sobbed.

“Until we meet again,” Vivienne whispered.

She looked at Alastor.

Smiled.

“I will see you again, my love.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Forever.”

She took one last breath.

And went.

Peaceful. Loved. Complete.

~ END ~

True love never ends. It waits. It finds you again. No matter where. No matter when. In this life or the next. Forever.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

Thanks to all the People how asked for a seacond part <3

@yamiyugixpatricia @brunomarzbootylicker @sam-san-sam

More Alastor?

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Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

XI. The Realization

It didn’t start with a big moment.

But with the little things.

With the way N/N woke up in the morning and looked at him—so completely, so lovingly. Alastor realized that, for the first time in years, he was truly happy to wake up again.

With the evenings on the balcony of the Hazbin Hotel, when hell was making its noise all around them and they just sat there together. Their shoulders touching, their hands intertwined. Just cuddling together.

With the jasmine.

N/N had managed to find a small pot of jasmine somewhere—he didn’t want to know where; in hell, there were no logical answers to such questions—and had placed it on the balcony. Every morning she sat next to it, her hands wrapped around her coffee cup, and looked out over the city.

Alastor watched her.

He was good at observing people. Decades of practice. The radio demon noticed the little things—how her gaze always drifted upward, through the eternal red of Hell into the sky. How N/N smiled when she caught his eye, but that other smile—the quiet one she kept to herself—only appeared when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Alastor was always watching. N/N is his wife.

She misses it, he thought. The light. The silence. The sky. Her parents.

And then, a few days later at breakfast, when N/N laughed at something Angel Dust had said—and the laughter was so genuine, so whole—the thought struck him like a silent chord:

N/N doesn’t belong here. She’s an angel.

Alastor let that thought sink in. He mulled it over and over.

And then, quietly and unprompted, came the second one:

Neither do I. We belong together.

Alastor still said nothing. But he stopped pushing the thought away.

In the days that followed, he noticed even more.

How N/N treated the hotel guests—every single one, with the same warmth, without reservation. How she helped Charlie without being asked. How, in the evenings, when everyone had settled down, she took his hand and simply held it, for no reason, without cause. At first, Alastor assumed it was normal. After all, they’re married.

Over time, the emotionally cold Radio Demon began to pay attention again to the warmth of his wife. N/N.

He was no longer used to allowing himself to feel things. Since N/N’s death, something inside him had changed, something that N/N was setting right again. Hell had trained him well to bury his feelings behind charm and radio static. But his wife—his wife—is bringing him back to his senses.

There was something in his chest when N/N held his hand. Something warm. Something that felt like—

Peace.

Is that what she stands for? Alastor thought. Not just for me. But for this. For this feeling.

And then, very slowly, the thought came to him, like the sunrise:

I want to give N/N that. Not just here. I want to give it to her properly. The sky. The light. The jasmine without the red light shining on it.

I want to go home with her.

XII. The Conversation

Alastor found N/N right where he knew he would find her.

On the balcony next to the jasmine pot. Her gaze directed upward, toward the sky.

N/N’s angelic form shone brighter than hell was allowed to.

Gently, Alastor sat down next to his wife. Without a word, and for a while they just sat there—shoulder to shoulder, his warmth against hers, the silence of the night all around them.

“I’ve been thinking,” the Radio Demon finally began.

“When don’t you?” N/N teased softly, without lowering her gaze, and nudged her husband lightly in the side. “About us.” A brief pause. “About you.”

Now she looked at him.

Alastor held her gaze.

“You look up every night,” Alastor continued. “You think I don’t notice. But I notice everything about you, my love.” A small smile played on his lips. “I’ve spent fifty-nine years watching you. How you look in every situation. I haven’t missed a single gesture of yours.”

N/N swallowed. A blush spread across her angelic face as she looked at her demonic husband.

“You miss it,” he continued. “Heaven. Your parents. The light.” Alastor swallowed hard. “And you don’t tell me because you think it would hurt me.”

“Alastor—” N/N raised her hand and rested it on Alastor’s broad shoulder.

“You stayed here,” he said. His voice softened. Softer than anything Hell had ever known. “For me. You left Heaven and came to Hell. N/N, you stayed even though you look up every night.” Alastor lifted her hand from his shoulder and held it in his own. “And I love you so much for that, that no language can do it justice.”

“Then why does that sound like a ‘but’?” N/N whispered reverently.

“Because I want to take you home,” Alastor whispered back.

N/N froze. Her eyes glazed over.

“I want to go there,” Alastor said simply. “With you. I want to wake up in the morning and see light instead of red. I want to sit in a garden with jasmine.” He nodded toward the small pot next to her. “Real jasmine. With real sunlight shining on it.” His thumbs stroked her knuckles. “I want to see Big Daddy again. I want to give you what you deserve. What we deserve.”

N/N looked at him for a long time. She thought deeply about his words. Until the thought occurred to her. “But your sins—”

“It’s mine to bear and mine to make amends for.” Alastor met her gaze, calm, steady, with that quiet resolve that N/N had always loved about him. “I know what I’ve done. I know why I’m here. And I’m ready to face it—truly face it—and do good in its place.”

“Alastor.” N/N looked at him in a way that made him almost want to say nothing more, just to hold that look a little longer. That sweet, caring look she’d used to raise their children. “You don’t have to do this for me.”

“I’m not doing it for you.” Alastor lifted her hand to his lips. Kissed it gently. “I’m doing it with you.” A small smile against her skin. “That makes all the difference.”

N/N laughed softly—that shaky laugh that lay somewhere between joy and overwhelm.

“How?” she asked then, as the laughter faded. “How do you plan to start?”

Her husband looked at her. Then he leaned back, intertwined his fingers with hers, and gazed at the night sky of Hell—as if he could already see through to what lay beyond.

“With the truth,” he said simply.

XIII. The Mission

What followed was no drama.

Instead, it was an Alastor who behaved differently—focused, precise, with that calm determination that N/N had always loved about him. A more powerful version of himself.

The Radio Demon sought out the souls to whom he owed a debt. Apologies never crossed his lips. He had punished people and sinners justly. But now he used his power differently. He stood between the weak and their attackers. His name alone made most people recoil—his reputation quickly spread fear and terror. Now he used it to give others space, to protect others.

N/N watched him do this.

Sometimes from the side, sometimes from farther away. Always silently. Always with that loving expression.

“You’re looking at me,” Alastor remarked one evening as they walked side by side through the hotel corridors.

“Am I?” She smiled innocently and hooked her arm through his.

“You have that look.” He slowed his pace until he came to a stop, then turned to face her. “The one you get when you think I’m doing something remarkable.” A gentle smile spread across his fearless face.

“Maybe I am.” N/N bit her lower lip and blushed.

“It’s the least I can do,” the Radio Demon chuckled at his angel.

“Alastor.” N/N held his gaze. “You know you don’t have to impress me, right? I’ve been impressed for a long time. I was already impressed fifty-nine years ago.” A brief pause. “I was impressed this morning when you explained to the little demon downstairs how to boil water. So patiently. As if you had nothing better to do.”

Alastor blinked. “That’s a very low bar,” he observed.

“No,” N/N said softly. “That’s love. You melt over the little things.” She began to gush.

Alastor looked at her tenderly. Then, without warning, he pulled her close and simply held her—his arms around her, her head against his chest, the radio static so muffled it almost sounded like a heartbeat.

“I’ll take you home,” he murmured into her hair.

“I’m already home,” she said. “Wherever you are.” And she wrapped her arms around his body.

A pause.

“But a garden with real sunlight,” she added softly, “would be nicer.”

He laughed. Softly, warmly, genuinely.

“Patience, chère.”

XIV. The Light

Alastor woke up. N/N was lying in his arms. Her hair spread across his pillow, her breathing steady. He gazed at her—as he had done every morning since she’d been with him. Just as he had in their former life. As if every morning were a small miracle.

Alastor gently kissed her forehead.

And then he felt it.

A warmth. Not the oppressive heat of hell. Something else. Something he had almost forgotten.

The sunlight.

It began in his chest—a golden pulsation that spread like ink in water. More and more with every heartbeat. Carefully, Alastor raised his hands and watched as the claws retracted. How his skin changed color. How the horns slowly, almost tenderly, disappeared.

“Alastor?” N/N murmured sleepily and turned toward her husband.

N/N’s voice. She was awake, looking at him—her E/C eyes grew wider until she was fully awake.

“You—” She sat up. “Alastor, you—” Carefully, N/N raised her angelic hands and touched Alastor.

“I know,” he murmured softly. He held his hands out in front of him in amazement. Different. Brighter. The hands of an angel, not his own.

The light in the room changed. It grew warmer.

The golden liquid spread over Alastor. His demonic features faded away and became more heavenly.

Voices—as gentle as an angelic choir—spoke to him.

“Alastor Hartfelt. You are redeemed.”

The former Radio Demon closed his eyes.

“N/N.” He reached out his hand toward her. “Come with me.”

Her fingers found his immediately. As always. Just like from the very beginning. And they intertwined.

“Always,” N/N whispered with a broad smile.

XV. Homecoming

The golden gates lay before them.

Saying goodbye at the Hazbin Hotel was hard.

Charlie cried with joy and held them back from leaving. Lucifer was glad that Alastor was finally gone. Husk and Niffty weren’t quite sure how to react. Meanwhile, the others were just being themselves.

Alastor opened his eyes and recognized the gates immediately—even though he had never seen them. N/N had described them to him a hundred times, on a hundred evenings, and he had remembered every word.

Just like that, he thought. Just as she said.

“You’re back.” A voice, familiar from stories, rang out.

Big Daddy.

He stood there just as N/N had described him—tall, warm, with the smile of a man who’d spent his life welcoming people. Next to him was N/N’s mother, who was already crying before N/N ran to her.

Alastor stopped.

Big Daddy stepped toward him. Looked at him—long and hard, with the eyes of a father.

Then he held out his hand.

“Welcome back, son.” Big Daddy’s broad smile felt so unfamiliar after all these years.

Son.

Alastor took his hand. Shook it. And Big Daddy—that tall, warm-hearted man—pulled him into an embrace without another word.

Alastor let it happen. He closed his eyes briefly.

“She waited for you every day,” Big Daddy murmured into the embrace. “So did I.”

N/N and her parents’ house was small. Cozy. With a garden.

Jasmine grew along the facade, lush and unchecked. In the middle of the garden stood a crooked apple tree.

Alastor stopped in front of the garden gate.

N/N stepped up beside him. She looked at him.

“Do you recognize it?” she asked softly, leaning gently over the fence.

“You told me about it.” He looked at the apple tree—the crooked, cracked bark where bees were swarming, the branch where a swing used to hang. “A hundred times,” Alastor said, his voice growing softer.

“I wanted you to know about it before you saw it,” N/N said dreamily, playing with her hair as she looked at her husband.

Alastor looked back at her. Then he reached out and gently placed his hand on her cheek.

“I pictured it every night,” he said softly. “In hell, when it grew quiet. I’d close my eyes and imagine what it looked like here.”

“And?”

“More beautiful than I thought.” He smiled. “But that’s not because of the garden. "

N/N blushed.

After fifty-nine years and everything that had happened in between, she still blushed when he spoke to her like that.

He loved it.

They sat on their porch, coffee cups in their hands, their shoulders gently touching.

The light from the sky fell warmly and goldenly on everything.

Alastor took a sip. He looked out toward the garden and fell silent.

After a moment, he said softly, “This is how I imagined it.”

“What?” N/N leaned forward slightly toward him, clutching her teacup.

“In the morning. With you.” He turned the cup in his hands. “All these years—that’s the image I’ve held onto. You and me. A porch. Coffee.” A brief pause. “No war. No hell. Just that.”

N/N rested her head on his shoulder.

“Do you remember what I told you?” she asked softly. “Back then, in our garden. When you woke up that morning and asked what the best part of the day was?”

“You said: the moment before everyone wakes up. Just us.” Alastor’s smile softened.

“Just us,” she repeated. “Still.”

Alastor gently wrapped his arm around N/N, pulling her closer. The jasmine smelled of everything he’d missed for years.

“I’ll never take this for granted,” he murmured into her H/C hair. “Not a single morning.”

“Good,” she said. “Me neither.”

They sat like that until the light changed and, somewhere in the house, N/N’s mother called out that breakfast was ready, and Alastor—this man who had spent centuries in hell—stood up, took his wife’s hand, and led her inside.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

XVI. Forever

Eternity looked like this:

Morning coffee on the porch. Walks through gardens that never stopped blooming. Dinner at Tiana’s—loud, loving, and way too much food. Nights when they talked until the light changed—about everything, about nothing, about the little wonders of everyday life.

And always, always: his hand in hers.

“Do you know what I missed the most?” N/N asked one evening. They were lying in the grass under the crooked apple tree, their hands intertwined.

“What?”

“Your voice. Not the voice on the radio. Your real one.” N/N turned her head and looked at him. “The way you speak when we’re alone and you’re not performing. That quiet, gentle feeling that spreads through me then.”

“You described it,” he said. “In your letters.”

Alastor rolled onto his side, resting his head on his hand. He gazed at her.

“N/N,” Alastor began.

“Hmm?” N/N looked at him.

“I love you more than I’ve ever been able to express.” He just said it. Without embellishment. “That’s not an exaggeration or romantic nonsense. It’s a fact.”

She smiled—that smile he knew so well. The real one. The one just for him.

“I know,” she said. “I love you, too. More than words can say.”

“More than the radio?” Alastor teased his wife.

“Oh, definitely more than the radio,” N/N rolled her eyes.

They both laughed. The scent of jasmine filled the air. The light was golden.

And somewhere, in the gentle stillness of eternity, two souls sat beneath a crooked apple tree, waiting for their three daughters.

They held hands.

Laughed.

Loved.

And they had finally, finally come home.

Together.

Forever.

~ THE END ~

“Love is stronger than sin. Stronger than death. Stronger than heaven and hell combined. No matter where you are—I’ll be there too. Forever.”💕

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

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˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

I. The Light

N/N opened her eyes.

At first, there was only the light.

Warm, golden, infinite – like a summer morning stretched across years, as if someone had forgotten to turn time. She blinked, slowly, and waited for the pain to come. The grinding pain in her joints that had greeted her every morning in recent years, the heavy creaking in her hip, the numbness in her fingers.

Nothing.

She lifted a hand. Examined it. The skin was smooth, the knuckles soft, no protruding veins, no brown age spots. Twenty. She looked twenty again.

She stood up. The ground was – she didn't know how to describe it. Firm enough to stand on, warm enough to walk barefoot, and yet so constituted that she felt weightless.

"Where...?" Her voice broke.

"Welcome, my dearest." A voice rang out.

The voice hit N/N before she recognized it. Gentle. Loving. A sound that opened a door deep inside her that she had kept locked for decades.

N/N turned around.

Her mother.

Young. Radiant. Her hair in the same curly bun she had always worn, her eyes bright, her smile wide. She was exactly as N/N remembered her – not sick, not tired, not old. Simply... her.

"Mama?" N/N's voice broke on the single word.

"Yes, baby." Her mother opened her arms. "I'm here."

And then she ran. Ran like a child, threw herself into her mother's arms, and for a long, long time they said nothing at all. N/N cried into the familiar scent of vanilla and fresh laundry, and her mother held her tight, saying over and over: "I missed you. I missed you so much."

Finally, N/N stepped back. Looked around.

Everything was golden. Vast and beautiful.

The buildings stretched gently over hills that N/N couldn't say whether they truly existed or were just the thought of hills. Gardens so lush that they couldn't decide between seasons and simply bloomed everything at once. People greeting each other with smiles. No noise. No rush. No burden.

It was everything one could imagine when thinking of Heaven.

It was perfect.

And yet – N/N noticed it only after one heartbeat, after two, three – something was missing. Something whose absence was so fundamental that at first she couldn't name it, like not finding a word you've always known.

"Mama." She turned around. "Where is Alastor?"

II. 59 Years

Her mother hesitated.

Only for a second. A fraction of a breath. But N/N had known this woman since birth, and one second was enough.

"He... he's not here yet, baby."

"What?" N/N's stomach clenched. "But he must – he was with me when I –" She broke off. Tried to grasp the memory. Alastor's hand in hers. His voice saying her name, over and over. The crying of their daughters somewhere in the background. "He was with me. He held me. He –"

"Maybe he just needs more time," her mother said quietly.

"How much time?" N/N looked around hastily.

No answer.

So N/N waited at Heaven's gate where St. Peter allowed her to stay. Together they waited for him.

A week. A month. She stood at the golden gates and watched every soul that arrived – curious, disoriented, overwhelmed. She saw old men, young women, children who had gone too soon. Saw people who cried, people who laughed, people who simply stood and absorbed the silence within them.

She didn't see Alastor.

"Alastor Hartfelt," she asked St. Peter on the morning of the sixteenth day. "Has he arrived?"

"I'll check that, please wait." A pause. "No, I'm sorry."

"Could you check again? Please?" N/N pleaded with the angel.

"I have checked, N/N. He's not here." St. Peter looked down at her with pity.

"But he should –" She swallowed. "He was a good man. He loved his family. He visited the neighbors every Sunday when they were sick. He –"

"I'm sorry." St. Peter interrupted.

She returned the next day. And the day after. And every day following.

The years passed as years pass in Heaven – without cold, without darkness, without the physical markers that meant time in the world of the living. And yet N/N felt every single one of them. Each year burned itself as a new weight into her chest.

Her mother and father watched N/N. Big Daddy told his wife about Alastor. Besides waiting, the three also spent many good days together, but again and again N/N felt the stabbing absence of her beloved husband.

Five years: She began to imagine how he would arrive. What he would say. Whether he would find her immediately or if they would have to meet at the gates.

Twenty years: She found a garden that looked like her own. Jasmine. Wisteria. The old apple tree with the crooked bark. She sat there every morning and spoke to him – there where they had first kissed. She told him what Heaven was like. What she dreamed. That she was waiting for him.

Fifty-nine years: N/N sat at the gates and still waited.

She had stopped asking. Not because she had stopped believing, but because each denial cost her something she no longer wanted to give.

Instead, she just waited silently. Watching. Hoping.

III. The Truth

It was an angel she had never seen before.

He approached her hesitantly, with the expression of someone carrying something heavy and not knowing where to put it. He looked around several times.

"N/N," he whispered. His face was full of fear.

"Yes?" N/N hesitantly regarded the hand on her arm.

"I... I shouldn't tell you this. It's against regulations. If they find out that I –" He exhaled. "But I see you sitting in front of the gate. Every day for fifty-nine years. And I can't watch this anymore."

N/N's heart began to hammer against her ribs. A feeling she had almost forgotten. "What? What do you know?" Excitedly, N/N grabbed the angel by the shoulders.

The angel stepped closer. Lowered his voice to a whisper. "Your husband. Alastor Hartfelt." A pause that felt like the moment before a fall. "He's not in Heaven."

The world stopped existing. N/N couldn't grasp it. She had unconsciously already suspected it, but never wanted to believe it.

"Where is he?" Her voice trembled.

The angel briefly closed his eyes. "In Hell."

N/N stared motionlessly into space. The word didn't land – it bounced off, as incomprehensible things bounce before the brain begins to process them. And then, slowly, like ice water sliding under the skin: Hell.

"He arrived there... shortly after he died," the angel said. "I don't know why. I only know that he's there."

"Fifty-nine years," N/N whispered.

"Yes." The angel confirmed.

"He was in Hell for fifty-nine years." Not a question. A statement. The words formed individually within her, like shards assembling into a picture. "While I was here. While I sat at these gates waiting for him – he sat down there."

The angel didn't answer.

"Alone." Tears formed in N/N's eyes.

"I'm sorry." The angel looked into her eyes with pity, freed himself from her grip.

He disappeared.

N/N sat there. A minute. Ten. An hour.

Then she stood up, turned away from the gate.

IV. The Preparation

The next weeks N/N spent listening.

She had learned for years to be invisible – to sit at the gate, to wait quietly, not to stand out. Now she used this ability differently. She listened when angels spoke to each other. Watched which doors opened and which remained closed. And she cultivated her friendship with St. Peter more carefully than ever before.

It wasn't betrayal. That's what she told herself. It was love.

"Peter," N/N began one evening, when it was quiet before the gates and the old angel seemed tired in his familiar way. "I have a question. A theoretical one."

"You've been asking me theoretical questions for fifty-nine years, N/N." He looked at her sideways, but not unkindly.

"Hell." She spoke it calmly, as if it were an ordinary word. "The angels sometimes go down there, don't they? There are... operations."

St. Peter became quieter. His eyes widened. "Where did you hear about that?"

"I hear much when I wait." She held his gaze. "An annual extermination."

St. Peter was silent for a long time. Then, with the tone of a man who knows he has already said too much by saying nothing: "These aren't excursions, N/N. This is war. The Exorcists kill demons. Thousands."

The word hit her like a stone in water. Thousands. And Alastor was one of them.

"When?" she asked quietly.

"N/N –" St. Peter wanted to begin, but was immediately interrupted.

"When, Peter." N/N's voice was unusually hard.

He looked at her. In his eyes was the knowledge that he had given her more than he should have, and the weakness of a man who has watched someone suffer for too long. "Soon," he finally said. "Very soon."

N/N thanked him. Went home to her parents, sat in the garden with the jasmine, and thought.

Her mother found her there when Heaven's golden brightness transitioned into its evening light. "N/N. What happened?"

"I have to do something." She turned around. "And I need both of you not to stand in my way."

Big Daddy, who had been standing in the doorway listening, stepped forward. "What are you planning?"

She told them. Factually, calmly, with the determination of a woman who had already decided and was only explaining. When she was finished, her mother was silent. Her father too.

Then Big Daddy said, "You know we can't stop you."

"I know." N/N's head hung.

"And you know that Hell is not a place where –" her mother began.

"I know that too." She stood up, went to her, placed a hand on her cheek. "But he's there alone. For fifty-nine years. And they'll kill him if I do nothing."

Her mother swallowed. Tears stood in her eyes that she didn't let fall. "Then come back," she only said. "Promise me that."

"I promise."

She stole an Exorcist uniform in the night, shortly before the hosts gathered. Watched how they moved, how they flew, what formation they held. She had had fifty-nine years to study the angels. She knew their patterns better than most of them knew themselves.

On the morning of the extermination, N/N stood among thousands of white wings and waited. Not for Alastor. Not this time.

This time for the portal.

V. Hell

N/N crossed through the portal and Hell hit her like a fist.

The heat first – not the dry heat of summer, but something heavy, oppressive, that settled in the lungs like smoke. Then the color. Everything was bathed in red, a sick, pulsing red that had nothing to do with warmth. Buildings twisting into bizarre shapes. Signs that flickered. Everywhere noise – screams, explosions, the crashing of something falling.

She blinked. Swallowed.

Alastor lives here, she thought. Fifty-nine years.

Then she set herself in motion.

The Exorcists around her dispersed into their formations, drew their weapons, threw themselves into battles that had already begun. N/N flew with them, kept her distance, searched. Her eyes glided over faces, over figures, over the chaotic streets of a city that felt like an open wound.

Minutes passed. Half an hour. An hour.

She searched and found nothing. Panic began to work its way through her ribs – not loud, but steady, like water seeping into a crack.

And then she heard it.

Radio static.

In the middle of the noise of the extermination – in the middle of screams and explosions and the crashing of holy weapons – a crackling. Quiet. Almost nothing. But N/N knew this sound like her own heartbeat.

She froze mid-flight.

There. An intersection, three streets away. A figure in the middle of battle – tall, slender, with a cane that moved like a conductor's baton and thereby did things no cane should do. Tentacles of shadow. Yellow eyes glowing through the smoke. Radio static emanating from him like breath.

N/N landed without thinking.

Her feet touched Hell's ground, and she ran.

"ALASTOR!" N/N screamed.

The figure froze.

Alastor turned around in the middle of battle. That was dangerous, N/N knew, but she couldn't stop – couldn't slow down, because her body after fifty-nine years finally knew where it needed to go.

His eyes met hers. Yellow. Glowing. Foreign and familiar at once.

And then – before either of them could speak – an Exorcist landed no more than three meters away. Saw N/N. Saw Alastor. Wanted to throw himself at him.

Alastor was faster.

He moved with a precision N/N didn't know in him – cold, absolute, without hesitation. His tentacles shot forward, seized the Exorcist, hurled him into a wall. Then he grabbed N/N's wrist.

"Come." His voice. After fifty-nine years she heard his voice. "Now."

They ran.

Through alleys, over rooftops, away from battle and away from noise, deeper into the side streets until the screams grew quieter and finally faded to a distant rumble. Alastor pulled her behind him, and N/N let him, because her legs ran and her heart pounded and she still couldn't believe that the hand holding her was real.

Finally – a building. Old. Abandoned. Peeling walls, missing windows, the smell of ash.

Alastor pushed the door open. "In."

They stormed inside. He closed the door, locked it, turned around.

And for the first time in fifty-nine years, they faced each other.

He was changed. The antlers. The yellow glowing eyes. The sharp teeth. N/N had prepared herself for this – had told herself that Alastor will be different, don't be startled.

But underneath it was Alastor. The broad chin. The posture, always upright. The way he tilted his head slightly to the side, as if he had to categorize something he didn't yet understand.

"N/N." His mouth formed her name, barely audible. Disbelieving.

And she broke down. Not in the physical sense – she was still standing – but something inside her that she had held together for fifty-nine years gave way. Like a thread that snaps.

"Yes," she said. Tears came before she finished speaking. "It's me. I'm here."

"You can't –" Alastor took a step toward her, stopped, as if he couldn't believe she was real. His hands lifted halfway. "You're in Heaven. How –"

"I've been looking for you." She walked toward him until she was close enough to touch him, and then she did – placed her hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes. "Fifty-nine years I waited. And then I found out where you are. So I came."

"But –" He swallowed. "Hell, chère. Do you know what –"

"I know exactly what it is." She didn't lower her hand. "And I'm still here."

Alastor opened his eyes. Looked at her – long, as if he wanted to memorize every feature. Then his hands gripped her shoulders, first hesitantly, then firmer, as if he was afraid she would dissolve into air.

"You came to Hell," he whispered. His voice broke on the last word. "For me."

"For you," she said. "Always for you."

VIII. The Night of Telling

Outside, the battle continued to rage and then grew quieter and then stopped. Inside, in the abandoned building with the peeling walls, the hours passed differently.

Alastor and N/N sat side by side, their hands clasped together, fingers intertwined like two puzzle pieces that had never stopped belonging together. No one spoke first, because no one knew where to begin with fifty-nine years.

Finally N/N asked: "How was it?"

Alastor was silent for a while. The radio static around him pulsed, calm, rhythmic. Then: "Hell is... Hell." He laughed briefly, without humor. "That sounds banal. But it's the most precise description. Everyone fights. For power, for souls, for territory. Everyone is lost – everyone believes they're the only one for whom being lost matters."

"How did you –" N/N searched for the right words. "How did you end up here? I don't understand it. You were a good person."

Alastor didn't answer immediately. "I did things," he finally said. "In my life. Things I never told you about. Things one isn't proud of." He turned his head, met her gaze. "I didn't keep them from you because I wanted to deceive you. But because I hoped the good I did alongside them weighed more."

"Didn't it?" N/N tilted her head.

"Obviously not." A brief, bitter smile. "Or the scale wasn't what I thought."

N/N was silent. Then she laid her head on his shoulder. "It doesn't matter."

"Chère –" Alastor gently stroked her head. His heart beat again after all these years.

"No. Listen to me." She lifted her head, looked at him. "I've had 59 years to think about everything. About every mistake we made, every harsh word, every evening we passed by each other tired. And at the end of thinking, it's always the same: I know you. I know your core. And whatever you did – you're not just that."

He looked at his wife, long, and what stood in his face was too complex for a single name.

"You were always the smartest thing that ever happened to me," Alastor chuckled quietly and pulled his wife to him again.

"Learned from you," N/N grinned.

This time Alastor laughed – a laugh that interrupted the radio static for a moment. N/N recognized it immediately. That laugh. That hadn't changed.

N/N leaned back, let the silence breathe between them for a moment before she spoke. "You know... I wasn't alone."

Alastor looked at her.

"Mama was there." She smiled, and in that smile lay something soft that had accumulated in her for years. "Exactly as I remembered her. Young. Loud. With that knot in her hair that never sits right." N/N paused briefly. "And Papa."

Alastor became very still.

"He waited for me," N/N continued quietly. "I think he knew I would come. He was just... there. Like he always was." She swallowed. "He told me about you. What he thought of you. What he never told you because men of his generation didn't say those things." N/N looked at Alastor. "That he was glad you were the one who loved me."

Alastor's jaw worked. He briefly turned his gaze away.

"We had good days, the three of us. Many of them." N/N leaned her head on his shoulder. "Walks. Dinners in the garden. Mama still cooked too long. Papa still pretended not to notice." A quiet laugh. "But no matter how beautiful the days were – in the evening there was always this stabbing. The absence. You." She gripped his hand tighter. "Heaven is perfect, Alastor. Really. And I still wasn't complete."

He squeezed her hand. Said nothing. Sometimes saying nothing was the loudest thing.

After a while, Alastor told about Hell. About Vox, who hated him, "for the simple reason that power doesn't tolerate other power, and I never gave him what he wanted." About Rosie, the cannibal, whom he called his friend. "She reminds me of you, chère. The way she enters a room as if it belongs to her, and then still offers tea."

"What did you tell her about me?" N/N cuddled against his shoulder curiously.

"Everything." He said it without hesitation. "How we met. The wedding. The girls. The garden with the jasmine. The way you always cook too long because you forget while talking that the stove is still on."

N/N laughed and cried at the same time. "You didn't forget that."

"Forget." Alastor looked at her. His yellow eyes – unfamiliar, familiar, a contradiction that dissolved the longer she looked – were warm in a way that neither Heaven nor Hell had ever defined. "I could never forget you, N/N. Not a piece of it. Every day down here I thought of you. Every morning. Every evening. You weren't hidden in Heaven – you were with me, as well as I could hold you."

"I talked to you too," N/N confessed quietly. "Every morning in the garden that looked like our garden."

Alastor raised his head. "The one with the jasmine?"

"And the crooked apple tree." N/N nodded. "I told you everything. Every day. Small things, big things. Whether the jasmine bloomed. What Mama made for dinner. That Papa still pretended to like gardening even though he hated it." She laughed briefly. "I told you about every sunrise. Because you always loved them."

Alastor was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly: "I heard them."

N/N looked at him.

"Not really," he corrected himself immediately – but his voice had a sound that told her he himself wasn't sure. "Only sometimes. In quiet moments, when Hell became silent for a heartbeat. Then there was... something. Like static. Like radio on a frequency you can't quite tune in." He looked at her. "Maybe that was you."

N/N swallowed.

"Maybe that was always you," he said.

IX. The Morning

When the silence outside was complete, N/N and Alastor still sat intertwined in their hiding place. The light in Hell had changed – from deep red to something that, with much goodwill, one could call morning.

"What do we do now?" N/N asked.

Alastor didn't answer immediately. He regarded their hands – his large, demonic ones, her small, human, heavenly ones – still intertwined.

"I don't know," the Radio Demon finally admitted.

"I can't leave without you. Not again." N/N said it calmly. Not as a plea. As a statement. Tears rose in her eyes. "Fifty-nine years proved to me that I can – I was there, I functioned and inhabited Heaven as well as I could. But I don't want to anymore. I don't want to be where you're not anymore." Now the tears ran quietly down her cheeks.

"N/N." He turned to her, wiped away her tears. In his face stood the struggle between what he wanted to give her and what he thought was right. "You belong in Heaven. You earned that. Everything there – the peace, the gardens –"

"Are worth nothing without you in them." N/N interrupted him. "I inhabited the most beautiful place in the universe for fifty-nine years, and it felt like a waiting room. That's not peace. That's impatience in beautiful disguise."

Alastor was silent.

"And besides," N/N added, quieter, "there's something else."

"What?" Alastor tilted his head.

"You told me about the hotel. About Charlie. About the idea that demons can be redeemed." She paused. "What if that's not a ridiculous idea? What if that's the reason we're sitting here now?"

Alastor regarded her with the expression he always had when she said something that surprised him, but that he considered self-evident in the next breath.

"You're crazy," he laughed.

"Learned from you." N/N grinned, knowing that the Radio Demon would also give the whole thing a chance for himself.

He looked at her. A long moment. Then he pulled her closer, pressed his lips to hers, and his radio static became completely silent for a heartbeat.

"Then welcome to Hell, my dearest."

X. Epilogue — Together

They found a way. As the Hartfelts had always found a way.

Charlie – the Princess of Hell, taller than N/N had expected, more enthusiastic than anyone in Hell had a right to be – opened the Hazbin Hotel with a hug and without hesitation. "Family is family," she said. "Wherever it comes from."

N/N and Alastor shared a room.

The first time in fifty-nine years. The first time N/N fell asleep in a bed and knew that the person next to her would still be there when she woke up.

In the darkness, while Hell outside had its own rhythm, they lay side by side and held each other's hands like before – like back then, in the small house with the crooked apple tree and the jasmine under the window.

"Is this real?" N/N whispered.

"If it's a dream," he murmured, "then don't wake me up."

She smiled. Laid her head on his shoulder. Felt the familiar warmth, the changed scent – wood smoke instead of aftershave, but underneath still him, still her Alastor – and the radio static that pulsed quietly like a second heart.

"I love you," she said.

He didn't answer immediately. Not because he had no answer, but because he seemed to absorb every sound from her, as if he wanted to lose it nowhere.

"I love you," Alastor finally said. "Forever."

"Forever."

Together, both fell peacefully asleep.

And for the first time in fifty-nine years – in Heaven or Hell, through every boundary that had been between them – both were at peace.

Because peace wasn't a place.

Peace was a person. And they had each other.

As it should always be.

~ THE END ~

"True love knows no boundaries. Not in life or in death. Not in Heaven or in Hell. Not through time and space."

"Wherever you are – I will find you. Forever." ~from Alastor to reader

Separated by Worlds. United by Love.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 🪷 ⋆˚࿔ 𐂂

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

Autor's Note:

After such a long time! I hope you all like the (final) part of this series. Idk if I do a Special Part or something where Alastor becomes redeemed and they all got together as a family with there daugthers.

So let me know if you want this, and also let your own idea here!

More Alastor?

Overviewpage

TAGS

Okay you know how alastor was a radio host when he was alive I feel like he would have a journalist that was part of his radio station that would always get the best stores for his radio broadcast and they were basically best friends we even knew that alastor was a killer type close often helping him hide the bodies and when we eventually land in hell alastor you know strong as fuck and becoming the radio demon but he practically abandoned us in hell saying we were nothing but a street rat kinda similar to vox and alastor relationship but instead of obsessing over al we actually do mange to climb up the racks as well just differently because lucifer found us and saw our usefulness and made us his right-hand man after we gained his trust which took a while but we did manage to do it in the end basically being the guy that could get information on anybody even on overlords because that was our job in our past life we just still had it and not many knew about us only the sins and Charlie because we worked behind the scenes and when lucifer finally went to Charlie hotel it surprised alastor to see that we were still alive let alone being lucifer loyal right hand only ever hearing stories and alastor basically tries to become buddy buddy to us after all this time but we would just try to ignore him i mean we we polite but we never brought up the past simply being polite while also spending most our time with lucifer since we were actually friends much to alastor annoyance and I feel like al would try to make be think bad about lucifer but it never worked since i gently cared about lucifer so instead he would make sure we were always working where he was since he was the hotel host i feel like he would have the power to ask Charlie to change my schedule and of course Charlie would do it trusting alastor for whatever reason and is it okay if you make them non-binary and thanks for listening and sorry if this long as hell

Ofc!

The idea is great! I could do a secound part where Y/N is more open and not so cold. Becoming clear about feelings and stuff. Maybe Aastor and Y/N stick together more in a plaonic way. I mean it would make sense about his cannon sexuality.

Any way, thanks for the request and now read! I am so happy to offer this to you!

Frequencies from the Ashes I Alastor x non-binary!Reader

Word Count: ~5.6k

𐂂 𖤐 𐂂 𖤐 𐂂 𖤐 𐂂

𐂂 𖤐 𐂂 𖤐 𐂂 𖤐 𐂂

Pov: Y/N

Part I – New Orleans, 1933

It's an art, being invisible.

Not literally. But in the sense that you can walk through a room, and afterwards nobody remembers your face, but everyone remembers the feeling of being watched. I'd perfected that since childhood. I never stood in the center. I always stood beside it, where you could see everything without being seen.

Alastor had hired me for exactly that reason.

"You have a talent," he'd said, on my first day at the station, with the wide smile the whole city knew. "For people. For information. For finding out things others would kill for."

"Kill is an interesting word."

He'd looked at me. Sharp, brief, weighing.

"Yes," he'd said. "It is."

That was the beginning.

────୨ৎ────

I worked for his radio station for three years, but the word employee never quite fit. It was something harder to name. I wasn't his assistant, not his colleague, not his staff. I was what existed between all those categories and didn't care about any of them.

I brought him information. That was the core of it.

Names nobody said out loud. Connections that officially didn't exist. Conversations held behind closed doors by people who were certain nobody was listening. I knew the right people in the city – not because I liked them, but because I'd observed them long enough to know what they wanted and what they feared. In most cases it was the same thing. Money. Power. Image.

Alastor broadcast what he wanted to broadcast. With charm, with that radio smile, with a voice New Orleans loved like an old melody.

What New Orleans didn't know: he didn't broadcast everything.

Some things he kept for himself.

The bodies, for example.

I'd known for a long time. You notice it in small things, when you've learned to pay attention to small things. The evenings he showed up to work later than announced. The times his shoes were clean but his cuffs weren't. The way he'd sometimes pause and stare into the middle distance, as if locking something away inside himself.

I didn't ask him, figured it out myself. As always.

I was good at knowing things and still leaving them alone.

Until the evening in October.

He stood at the edge of the city park, looking down at something I'd rather not have seen. I was there by coincidence – or coincidentally enough that neither of us asked questions. I stood there, assessed the situation, assessed him. The body.

Then I picked up the shovel. I mean, if I'm already here, might as well make it fun.

"You're insane," he'd said.

"Both of us," I answered.

He'd laughed. Really laughed, briefly, genuinely, in a way I'd only rarely hear from him again. That was the moment we actually became friends – not coworkers, not people-who-knew-about-each-other, but really, in the only way that counted for someone like Alastor:

He trusted me with something that could destroy him.

And I dug.

────୨ৎ────

In the following years we became a well-oiled system. A system that killed people.

He delivered the broadcast, the voice, the presence. I delivered the information, the connections, the silence afterwards. I knew who to call to make a name disappear. I knew which official would accept a certain sum and which preferred information instead. I knew how to tell a story so that afterwards everyone believed they'd always known it.

Alastor was good at reading people. I was better at reading systems.

Together we were hard to beat.

We also found a language for the other part – for the evenings with shovels and air that was too warm. No explanations, no justifications. I helped because I thought it right to uphold our agreement, and he upheld his end by never demanding anything from me I wasn't willing to give.

It wasn't a normal friendship.

But it was something real.

Part II – Arrival

Dying is strange, when I think about it.

You have all the time in the world to look back, and still none of the thoughts make complete sense. I remember light, then none, then a red that was too bright to be the sky.

My first thought: Ah. So really.

And when I landed on the ground of reality, my second: Of course.

Hell looks like a city that actively hates itself. Sky like curdled blood. Noise from all directions simultaneously, and nobody seems bothered by it because it's normal background here. Screams of the dying.

I looked for Alastor.

Instead I found his reputation.

Had I mentioned? Alastor was shot. Tragic. I kept living, well – until just now.

You heard the Radio Demon everywhere before you saw him – in the fearful whispering of souls who'd already encountered him, in the reverent murmuring of souls who hadn't yet. He'd built power from nothing, fast, brutal, and with a smile that all the reports consistently mentioned. Overlords eliminated. Territories claimed. Contracts paid for with souls.

So he'd landed well.

I finally found him in an alley south of the main district. The static was the first sign – a soft crackling in the air, like interference between stations. Then the smell of ozone.

Then I saw him.

Bigger somehow, or denser, with a presence that occupied physical space in a way people didn't. The eyes were red. The antlers surprised me briefly.

"Al." My voice was calmer than expected. "I'm glad I–"

"Ah." He turned around. The smile was wide, wider than in New Orleans, too wide for a normal mouth. His eyes moved briefly over me, sorted me. "You."

"Yeah. Is everything–"

"You look," he said with the radio voice, which sounded even more theatrical here than it ever had, "like a stray that wandered into the wrong alley."

I said nothing.

"I have no use for strays here," he said. Not cruelly – that would have almost hurt less. Casually. As if it wasn't a decision that carried weight.

"Alastor–"

"This isn't New Orleans." He was already half-turned away. The words came over his shoulder. "Different rules here."

And then he was gone. Not walked away – simply no longer there, vanished into his shadow.

I stood in that alley for a long time.

Long enough to run through all the reasonable reactions. Anger, grief, the urge to follow him and say something that would change the situation.

None of them really came.

What came instead was this: clarity.

Alastor had decided who I was. Stray. No use.

Fine.

Then I would decide who I was. Again.

Part III – The Rise

I started small.

Hell has an order – you don't realize that immediately because the chaos is so convincing. But chaos always has structure if you look long enough, and I'd learned to look long.

Overlords, their territories. Souls who traded or had to serve. Alliances that were more fragile than they appeared. Secrets the powerful had to protect at any cost.

That was my craft. Always had been.

I sat in bars that smelled of cheap whiskey and old debts, let conversations flow around me. I learned names, connected information, built, quietly and methodically, a network of knowledge that was no territory and no army, but in Hell actually more valuable than either.

Nobody noticed me.

That was the point.

────୨ৎ────

Lucifer Morningstar found me on a Tuesday.

Or I found him. That was hard to tell apart afterwards.

He stood in a back room in the south of the city and looked like someone who'd had a very long and very frustrating meeting behind him. Shorter than expected, but with something tired in his eyes. Something lonely.

His eyes found me immediately, which was remarkable, because I'd spent years practicing not being found by eyes.

"You're the person everyone talks about," he said.

"I'm the person nobody talks about," I corrected. "That's the point."

He said nothing. But smiled, thinly.

"Sit down."

────୨ৎ────

The first year with Lucifer was the hardest.

He tested me. Not covertly, not with fake traps – I respected that, because it was honest. Lucifer planted false information to see if I'd pass it on. Gave me tasks where failure would have had costly consequences.

I didn't fail.

Once I was wrong. I sat across from him and explained exactly where the error in thinking had been and what I'd do differently next time. He listened without interrupting.

"Most people lie to me when they've made mistakes," he'd said.

"That would be pointless," I replied.

"Yes." Lucifer leaned back in the armchair. "But they do it anyway."

I looked at him. "I won't lie to you. That's the only thing I can promise you."

────୨ৎ────

Trust grows slowly when it's real.

There was no defined moment when I became his right hand – it happened in steps that only formed a picture in hindsight. Extended tasks. Longer conversations. An evening when he asked what I thought about a particular situation and then actually listened.

What I did for him was exactly what I'd done for Alastor – just for different purposes.

I observed the Overlords. Quietly, invisibly, from positions nobody considered threatening because nobody knew I was there. I gathered what they protected, what they feared, where their power had cracks. Which alliances were stable and which would break under light pressure.

I passed everything on to Lucifer. Without detour, without filtering, with my own assessment attached, which he listened to and sometimes adopted, sometimes didn't. Either was fine.

Only the sins knew about me. That was his decision, and it was the right one. I worked in the background – visible to those who needed to know, invisible to everyone else. Charlie found out about me when Lucifer told her, which surprised me.

"Dad said you're the most reliable person in Hell," she beamed, when we met for the first time.

"That's a low bar."

She laughed so loudly and suddenly it seemed to echo through the room.

"I like you," she declared.

"That was fast."

"Doesn't matter." She shrugged with a wide grin on her face.

────୨ৎ────

What surprised me most about Lucifer was that he was good.

That sounds naive. But I'd learned to read people, and what I read in him wasn't evil, wasn't indifference either – but someone who was fighting under the weight of his own history. Who had made mistakes and couldn't, or wouldn't, forget them.

Who loved his daughter so much it paralyzed him.

He had bad days. On those he was harder, more jagged, wrapped in a heaviness he couldn't shake off. He'd sometimes come by, sit down, not talk.

I let him sit, without asking questions.

At some point he asked: "Why do you never ask what's wrong?"

"Because you'll say it when you want to."

Lucifer thought about it. "Most people ask anyway."

"I know. It annoys you." I gave him a sideways grin.

"Yes," he said.

We kept sitting in silence, and at some point the heaviness was a little lighter.

Part IV – The Hazbin Hotel

When Lucifer announced he was visiting Charlie's hotel, I was coming along.

He said it casually, but I knew him well enough to hear the nervousness underneath. Charlie's hotel meant Charlie. Charlie meant all the things he wanted to do better and simultaneously didn't know how.

"She'll be glad you're coming," I said, placing my hands on his shoulders.

"Probably," the king said with a slightly trembling voice. "And what do I say then?"

"The truth." I didn't need long to think about it.

Lucifer looked at me uncertainly. "That's not helpful advice."

"It's the only advice that works. Because the truth always works."

────୨ৎ────

The hotel was exactly what I'd expected: a mirror image of Charlie. Loud, colorful, chaotic in its own way. Something was happening everywhere simultaneously.

Charlie saw us and beamed.

She hugged Lucifer with a force that visibly surprised him – he returned the hug awkwardly, too stiff, then right. I watched it, said nothing.

Then Charlie looked at me. "You're really here." As if that was still a surprise, even though she'd known.

"Mostly."

She shook my hand with both of hers. "I'm really glad. Dad has said so much–"

The static started.

Subtle. Almost imperceptible. But I knew it, and my nervous system knew it too, somewhere below the level of consciousness.

I turned around slowly.

Alastor was standing behind us.

Walking stick, antlers, the theatrical smile – all there, all exactly as expected. He let his gaze move through the room, methodical, registering: Lucifer – brief freeze of the smile, then wide again, but colder – Charlie, the other residents –

And then me.

The smile didn't move. But his eyes did. A small shift, barely visible if you didn't know how to look.

"Mon Dieu," he said very quietly.

"Alastor," I offered as a greeting.

A pause that lasted a moment too long.

"You're alive," he said. Half statement, half something I couldn't name yet.

"That's relative."

The smile changed. Smaller, brief, and underneath – relief. Real, unperformed relief, visible for a fraction of a second before he packed it away again.

Then he looked past me to Lucifer. The smile went wide and cold again. But it looked more like he was gritting his teeth.

"Lucifer." The name sounded like an apology you said because you had to.

"Alastor." Lucifer's tone was that of a person who had noticed an insect and wanted to kill it.

So I took a small step to the side, away from the line of fire between the two of them.

The next hour was politeness as full-contact sport.

I watched Alastor and Lucifer and drank the tea Husk had wordlessly placed in front of me, with an expression that said I see it, but I'm not commenting on it.

He'd given me a brief nod. That was probably something like sympathy.

Towards evening, when Lucifer and Charlie had sunk into a conversation that was officially about the hotel and actually about fifty other things simultaneously, I stood in the hallway. Listening to conversations behind the doors.

Alastor appeared beside me, as he always had – soundlessly, out of his shadow.

"Lucifer's right hand," he said without preamble. The title hung in the air.

"Yes." Arms crossed, I leaned against the wall.

"I wouldn't have expected that," Alastor said casually, inspecting his cane-microphone.

"I know."

"How long–"

"A few years." I looked at him. "You had informants." I grinned at him wickedly.

"They were obviously wrong." He looked at me, almost defeated.

"Yeah." I kept grinning.

He was quiet. The cane turned slightly in his hand. "You spy for him."

"I do my job." The grin left my face.

"For him," it came with emphasis.

"I've always done my job for someone," I said calmly. "Used to be for you," I hissed.

That landed. He didn't show it, but I saw it.

"The Overlords don't know you exist," he said. It sounded like a statement, but the tone had something probing to it.

"No." I left it at that. He didn't need to know how much I already knew about him.

He studied me with an expression that wavered between calculation and something more genuine. "He's using you."

"We use each other. That's called collaboration." I rubbed salt into his obvious wound. Serves him right.

"He is–" the Radio Demon began.

"Alastor," it came sharply from me.

He stopped.

"I know what you're going to say," I said. "I'll tell you before you say it: I know him. You barely know him. That's a relevant difference."

Silence.

The static was louder than usual.

"You've gotten more direct," Alastor grinned broadly.

"I had time to practice." I replied, grinning too.

He looked at me, and beneath the theatrical smile something was briefly visible that I knew from New Orleans – the expression he had when he was really looking at someone instead of categorizing them.

"How are you?" he asked then. Just like that.

I studied him for a moment.

"Good, and you?" I played along with the small talk. Pushed off the wall and walked down the hallway with Alastor. The conversation behind the door wasn't interesting anyway.

"Excellent, as always. Thank you for asking." He looked at me, satisfied.

"Of course." I smiled and rolled my eyes.

Part V – Program Disruption

Lucifer stayed a few days. I stayed because Charlie needed me, but also because some things here deserved attention. Alastor.

The dynamic between Lucifer and Alastor in a shared room was – interesting.

They rarely ignored each other directly. That would have been too obvious. Instead they talked past each other, in conversations officially directed at Charlie or the other hotel guests, but with a subtext so loud that I sometimes wondered whether the others heard it too.

The mugs.

Lucifer placed the Deer Season mug on the kitchen table, visible from practically every angle.

Alastor held his Duck Season mug in his hand.

Nobody commented.

I drank my coffee from a plain white mug and let them do their thing. Men.

────୨ৎ────

The attempts came subtly.

At breakfast, casually: "They say the First Revolution would have gone smoother without Lucifer's involvement."

"People say many things," I replied, not looking at Alastor.

"This one is well documented," the Radio Demon continued.

"By whom?" I asked, disinterested.

Pause.

"That's–" Alastor faltered.

"The most relevant part," I said. "Exactly."

He quickly changed the subject.

Two days later, in the hallway: "He takes more than he gives, you know. That's his pattern."

"That sounds...like a description of you." I grinned broadly, ready to push his buttons.

"I'm worried," he then breathed, in a different tone.

"No," I said pleasantly. "You're worried about your influence. That's not the same thing."

I left him standing with that.

────୨ৎ────

Then the schedule changes.

Charlie came one morning with a restructured work program that routed my paths through the hotel along routes where Alastor was demonstrably present, and shifted my tasks into rooms where he was regularly found as well.

"Alastor said it would be more efficient," Charlie said.

"I believe you," I said, but rolled my eyes when she turned away.

I let it run for three days. Watched how he behaved when I passed him on schedule. The satisfaction he poorly concealed. The small, plausible pretexts for conversations he initiated when I was nearby.

On the third evening I sat down at the bar.

Alastor looked like he hadn't expected that.

"You know that I know," I said.

The smile stayed exactly in place. Too exactly. "I don't know what you're–"

"Alastor."

Silence.

The static shifted its frequency.

"You've gotten smarter," he said finally, approvingly.

"I was always smart. You stopped noticing." I leaned back slightly. "What do you want?"

"What do you mean–"

"What do you really want. No embellishment. Direct."

The Radio Demon was quiet.

That was unusual. Alastor didn't go quiet out of embarrassment; he did it out of calculation. This looked different.

"In New Orleans," he began finally, each word measured with the care of someone unsure they're taking the right path, "you were the only person I trusted."

"I know." I tapped impatiently with my fingers on the wood.

"Not strategically. It wasn't–" He paused. "It wasn't because you were useful, even though that was also true. It was just like that."

"I know that too."

"And I–" He didn't finish the sentence.

"You sent me away," I said for him. Calmly, without charge. "That happened. I'm not here for revenge."

"Why not?" came almost surprised from Alastor.

I thought about it. "Because it wouldn't achieve anything. And because I have no interest anymore in things that don't achieve anything."

He looked at me. "And Lucifer?"

I answered directly. "He's my friend. Not because he's powerful. Not strategically. Because I know him and he knows me, because that grew over years of honest collaboration." I looked at him. "That doesn't change. Not through rumors. Not through shifted schedules. Not through you."

"He's not what you think he is," Alastor said through gritted teeth.

"I don't think anything. I know. That's the difference between us."

Silence.

"You're not afraid of me," he observed, half fascinated.

"Nope." I grabbed a few of the nuts.

"You were never afraid of me."

"No." I stood up. "That was one of the reasons we were friends."

I left him sitting alone.

The static stayed in the hallway a little while, then faded.

Part VI – Same Frequency, Different Station

Lucifer stood at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall. Coffee cup in hand, looking at me with an expression that was half amused and half careful attention.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

"Yes." I said curtly. Ready to disappear.

Lucifer handed me the coffee. I took it and we went to his room.

We sat for a while in the silence of the room, while somewhere in the hotel Charlie laughed.

"He told Charlie to change the schedules," I said after a while.

"I knew it." He looked pleased, then uncomfortably sheepish. "Do you want to go home?"

"No," came out surprisingly fast from me.

"Because of Charlie?" the king pressed.

"Because of Charlie. And because I'm not finished here yet." I held the cup with both hands. "I don't leave things unfinished."

I pressed my hands so hard against the cup I felt like it was about to shatter.

Lucifer nodded. Understood without me having to explain more. That was one of his best qualities.

"He'll try again," he said then.

"Probably."

"And?"

"And I'll deal with it." I looked at Lucifer. "That's my job."

The king looked at me for a moment. "Not for me. For yourself."

I was quiet briefly.

"For me too," I said finally, with resolve.

He smiled. Slim and genuine.

Part VII – Interference

The following weeks were quiet. Almost suspiciously quiet.

Alastor left the schedules alone. No casual comments at breakfast, no hallway conversations with intent. He was simply there – present, polite, with the smile that was always there and revealed nothing.

I observed this with the attention I gave to everything I found interesting.

Something was different.

I couldn't say exactly what. It wasn't a big difference, not a dramatic break. Just a small hesitation sometimes when he saw me. The way he'd occasionally start to say something and then leave it. The static that had grown quieter – not gone, but dampened, as if someone had moved the transmitter to a calmer frequency.

I let it run.

The actual beginning started on a Wednesday, with a small thing.

I was sitting in the kitchen, late evening, with a notebook full of information I was evaluating for Lucifer. The hotel was quiet – as far as that was possible. Somewhere above me someone shuffled through the hallway, and Husk's bar was still faintly lit.

Alastor appeared in the doorway.

He saw me, then the notebook, then me again.

"Still working?" he asked.

"Don't I always?"

He came in. Without invitation, naturally – that wouldn't have been Alastor. He sat down in the chair across from me, placed the Duck Season mug on the table, and went quiet.

I glanced at him briefly. Then kept writing.

We stayed like that for a while. He drank his tea, I worked. The static ran in the background like a clock you'd gotten used to.

"What's in Sector Seven?" he asked at some point, without inflection, like he was talking about the weather.

I briefly stopped writing. "Why do you want to know?"

"I've heard reports. Movements that don't make sense."

"Then stop listening to reports and look for yourself."

"I could." He turned the mug in his hands. "Or you could tell me what you know."

"I'll tell you that it's not your area. And that you know that," I answered, without looking up.

Silence.

"You won't give me any information."

"No."

"Even though it would help me."

"Even though it would help you." I closed the notebook and looked at him. "That's not personal. Those are boundaries. They exist now. I don't work for you anymore, after all."

He studied me with the expression he had when he was categorizing something that resisted his usual categories.

"You used to share everything," he said.

"I used to work for you," I hissed, biting my cheek.

"And if I–" the Radio Demon began.

"Alastor."

He stopped.

I leaned slightly forward. "I'm telling you this once, so it doesn't need to be said again: I don't share information that belongs to Lucifer. Not with you, not with anyone. That's not an invitation to discussion."

The static briefly shifted its frequency. Grew louder–

Then he nodded. "Understood."

I looked at him. He meant it – you could see that.

"Good." I opened the notebook again.

Alastor stayed seated.

That surprised me for a moment, but I allowed it.

At some point, just before I stood up, he said without warning: "In New Orleans I would have had the Sector Seven report in three days."

"Two," I corrected automatically.

He laughed. Briefly, unexpectedly, in a way I recognized.

I stood up and left before he could see that one corner of my mouth had pulled upward.

Part VIII – Static on a New Frequency

It developed slowly. Very slowly. In a way I didn't want to admit to myself, until it was too obvious to ignore.

Alastor would sometimes sit in the kitchen in the evenings when I was working. Not always, not on schedule – just sometimes. He didn't talk much. He drank his coffee, I did what I did, and the static ran in the background like a station you hadn't switched off.

Once he brought, without comment, a second cup of coffee when he got his own, and placed it next to my notebook.

I looked at the cup, then at him.

He'd already sat back down and acted as if nothing had happened.

"I didn't ask for that," I said.

"I know." He drank his coffee.

Me mine.

We kept quiet.

────୨ৎ────

The problem was this: I still knew him.

That should have stopped being a problem. I'd had enough time for it to stop. Years, to be exact, in which Alastor had been nothing but a name appearing in reports, an Overlord among Overlords, someone whose movements I only tracked for professional reasons and no others.

But I knew the way he held himself when he was thinking. I knew the difference between the smile he had for the public and the smaller, more genuine one he showed when he actually found something funny. I knew the static and how it changed depending on his mood.

The knowledge was simply still there. Stored, uninvited, useful in a way I hadn't needed.

That annoyed me and drove me absolutely mad.

────୨ৎ────

"You're annoyed," Lucifer observed one evening. We were sitting in his room, me with my notes, him with a duck hat prototype he'd pulled out again for unclear reasons.

"I always am."

"More than usual." He looked at me over the brim of the hat. "It's because of Alastor."

God, that little king looks ridiculous.

"It's because of an overlap between old knowledge and the current situation that I find inefficient."

Lucifer put the hat down. "That's the same thing."

I said nothing.

"What's he doing?" he asked then, as neutrally as possible.

"Nothing." I put my pen down. "That's exactly the problem. He's not doing anything. He just sits there, drinks his coffee, sometimes brings me one, and–" I stopped.

Lucifer looked at me.

"He brings you coffee," he pressed, more to himself.

"That's not–"

"He brings you coffee without being asked." He made that his final conclusion.

"That's not relevant information."

"Alastor," said Lucifer in a tone that wavered between amusement and contempt, "brings another person something without being asked. That's the most relevant information of the month."

"You're exaggerating." I waved it off, wanting nothing to do with this situation, even though I was probably the center of it.

"I never do." He picked up his duck hat.

I gave him a look that made clear the hat was pretty excessive.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, amused, apparently not caring about my look.

"Nothing. I just wanted to say it out loud."

"And now that you've said it out loud?"

I thought about it. "Now I know it annoys me even more."

Lucifer laughed. Briefly and genuinely. "I don't offer advice where I don't have a qualified opinion."

"Since when does that stop you?"

"Today." He put the duck hat on my head. "Because I think you need to figure this one out yourself."

I looked at him. "That's the most useless sentence you've ever said."

"Thank you." He grinned broadly.

────୨ৎ────

I found Alastor the next afternoon on the rooftop terrace.

He stood at the railing, looking down at Pentagram City, his cane leaning against the railing, the antlers against the red sky. He didn't hear me coming – or acted like it. With Alastor that was sometimes hard to tell.

I leaned against the railing beside him.

We stood for a while without saying anything. The city beneath us was loud, garish, and completely indifferent to everything that was or wasn't happening on this terrace.

"You stopped planting information about Lucifer," I said finally.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He turned his head toward me. "Because it didn't work. And because–...because you were right. It wasn't productive."

I looked at him from the side. "So you admit it." A smile played around my lips.

"I admit things when they're obvious." He glanced at me briefly. "That was obvious."

I turned back to the city. "What do you want now?"

"I already told you that."

"Say it again. Clearer."

He was quiet for a moment. The static ran steadily, without frequency shifts near me.

"I don't want to pretend New Orleans didn't happen," he said. "Neither part of it. I want–" Alastor searched for words, and I let him search, because it was important that he found them himself. "Something new. With you. A fresh start."

"I believe you."

"That doesn't sound optimistic."

"It's not." I let a short pause sit. "It's a statement."

Alastor looked at me, and then, slowly, the smile spread – not the radio smile, not the theatrical one for the public, but the smaller one I knew.

"You're still unbearably direct."

"I know." I pushed off the railing. "Always was." I smiled at him.

Epilogue: Fresh Start, First Attempt

The next few days were strangely uneventful.

No big event, no defined line being crossed. Alastor was simply... there. More than before, but different too. He appeared in rooms I was in with plausible pretexts that I didn't comment on, because we both knew they were pretexts and neither of us wanted to spend the energy pretending otherwise.

I let it run.

With the restriction I'd set for myself: No information belonging to Lucifer passes on. No loyalty that shifts. No nostalgia used as a compass.

Everything else was negotiable.

I was sitting in the hotel library – which actually existed, tucked behind a door with a sign claiming Storage Room, which was a lie, but apparently bothered nobody.

Alastor appeared.

He saw the book next to my notebook and his smile changed in the way that meant he wanted to say something.

I got there first. "Don't."

"I haven't even–"

"You're making the face."

"I'm not making a face."

"You always make a face before you offer an opinion nobody asked for." I looked at him. "What's wrong with the book?"

He sat down, with the dignity of someone who planned everything. "Nothing's wrong with it. It's just–" He glanced at the title. "A strange choice."

"It's research."

"For Lucifer?"

"For me."

He raised an eyebrow. "You read books about demonology for relaxation."

"I read books about demonology because I live in Hell and knowledge is useful." I leaned back. "Besides, what do you read?"

Pause.

"That's irrelevant."

"Alastor."

He looked away. "Cookbooks."

I stared at him.

"I enjoy cooking," he said, with dignity.

"You cook." The word pressed through my barely-contained laughter.

"Excellently, even."

"In Hell." I focused.

"The ingredients are unconventional, but the principle stays the same." He looked at me, slightly defensive. "That doesn't need commenting on."

"I'm not commenting." I commented with my barely-suppressed laughter.

"You're commenting by laughing," he said, irritated.

"I'm just sitting here." I pressed my lips together.

Alastor crossed his arms, turned away. But stayed seated.

────୨ৎ────

Two days later a plate appeared on the kitchen table.

I looked at Alastor.

"Seriously?" I asked, but the demon waved me toward the chair with a hand gesture.

So I sat down, eyeing the plate with suspicion.

It smelled good. Shockingly good for a kitchen in Hell.

I ate it.

Alastor watched me. The small smile was immediately there.

"Don't say a word," I said when I was done.

"I'm not saying anything." He grinned, satisfied.

I pointed at him. "That was good," I admitted.

"Of course." He sat down, completely pleased with himself, in a way I'd only seen too often in New Orleans. "Would you like to know what was in it?"

"No."

"The ingredients were–"

"I said no."

"–completely harmless, in the sense that none of it was alive."

I looked at him. "That's a low bar."

I pushed the plate aside. Picked up my notebook. Pretended to work.

He poured himself tea and pretended not to be reading my expression.

We sat like that for a while.

"There could also be cookbooks in the library," I said finally, without looking up. "Next to the demonology. I checked again today. The 'storage room' has space."

Silence.

"That wasn't an offer," I added, when he said nothing.

────୨ৎ────

Charlie noticed first, naturally.

She had eyes that saw people before people saw themselves, and an enthusiasm for interpersonal developments that was well-intentioned and occasionally exhausting.

She found me in the hallway in the afternoon.

"You and Alastor," she said, in the tone of someone making an observation that's actually a question, that's actually an invitation to talk about it.

"Me and Alastor what?"

"You had breakfast together this morning."

"We were both in the kitchen. That's not shared breakfast."

"He cooked for you."

"He produced excess that I happened to benefit from." I shrugged.

Charlie looked at me with her mother's expression, the one she had sometimes when she knew exactly that someone was talking nonsense and still stayed polite about it.

"That's nice," she said then simply. No analysis, no curious follow-up questions.

I looked at her.

"Don't tell your father," I leaned down to her, warning.

"He probably already knows."

"Even so." I insisted.

She smiled. "Promise." And walked on, with the energy of someone who had three things planned simultaneously.

He probably already knows.

I pushed the thought away with the professionalism of years of practice and went back to work.

────୨ৎ────

"Deer Season," Alastor said two evenings later, tapping at Lucifer's mug standing on the kitchen table.

"Leave the mug alone."

"I'm not touching it. I'm...observing."

"Your observing has a tone."

"Tones don't have tones."

"Yours does. You're tapping the mug." I glanced at him briefly. "It stays where it is."

"This is the communal kitchen, things tend to disappear here."

"Alastor."

He raised his hands slightly. Innocent. The Duck Season mug sat on his side of the table.

"You're both grown, powerful beings and you're having a mug war." I rubbed my temple, annoyed.

"It's not a–"

"It's definitely a mug war." I leaned back. "I don't want to know how it started."

"It was–" Alastor began.

"I really don't want to know." I stopped the demon.

────୨ৎ────

It wasn't a return to New Orleans.

That stayed true, every day, as a verified equation that held.

But it wasn't the alley anymore either.

It was somewhere between the two, unfinished, unnamed, with boundaries I knew clearly and he knew and that we both – surprisingly – respected.

I still didn't know exactly what it was.

But that evening, when Alastor appeared in the library with a cookbook under his arm, sat down in an armchair three shelves away from my things, and simply read, without saying a word, without an agenda I'd need to read –

I thought:

That's enough for now. But someday I'll want more.

𐂂 𖤐 𐂂 𖤐 𐂂 𖤐 𐂂

More Alastor ?

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At first, I thought I'd do 35 chapters, but now I'm writing the 42nd... and I don't know if I will add more. I'm aiming for 45, I think... If you're looking for a love story, a few twists, and lots of hugs, kiss, cuddle and tenderness. A little attempt at humor. Go take a look.

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