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The building was dead quiet at this hour.

Most of Vox’s network shut down at 2 AM, but the broadcast floor of Studio 666 always held a faint hum—like the building itself was still awake, still watching, still waiting for someone to entertain it.

And tonight, someone was.

Y/N slumped into Vox’s massive director’s chair, spinning lazily in a circle while the giant monitors blinked in standby mode. Their shift had technically ended thirty minutes ago, but paperwork, half-finished edits, and the silence of an empty studio kept them lingering.

They kicked their legs, letting the oversized chair roll back on its axis.

“God, he really sits in this thing like a king,” Y/N muttered to themselves. “Feels like a throne.”

The screens on the far wall flickered.

Static crawled across the monitors like frost, climbing in jagged lines. A faint electric buzz prickled the air—subtle enough that Y/N chalked it up to faulty wiring. Again.

Then—

Vzzzp.

A tall, glitching hologram manifested behind the chair, arms folded, screen-face glowing in soft static-blue.

“Funny,” Vox drawled smoothly, leaning one elbow on the chair’s back. “I don’t recall giving you permission to get comfortable.”

Y/N yelped, nearly launching out of the chair.

Vox’s grin sharpened. “Aww. Jumpier than usual tonight, sweetheart?”

Y/N twisted around. “Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

“Please,” Vox scoffed, stepping closer, his image sharpening into full clarity. “If you’re going to sit in my chair, at least act the part. A real host doesn’t spook that easily.”

They stuck their tongue out at him—an action which earned them a sharp, amused hum.

“Oh? Bold tonight,” Vox purred. “Careful. I might take that personally.”

“Maybe you should. You scared me half to death.”

“Oh, trust me,” he said, voice lowering wickedly, “if I wanted to scare you half to death, you wouldn’t be sitting here complaining about it.”

Before Y/N could respond, a glimmer of mischief crossed Vox’s screen. He leaned in, fingers appearing from the hologram projection—solidifying just enough to interact.

“You know,” Vox continued casually, “there’s a rule about sitting in a boss’s chair without permission.”

Y/N snorted. “What rule?”

“This one.”

Two electric, static-soft fingers jabbed lightly into Y/N’s sides.

Y/N squeaked—a sharp, involuntary sound that made Vox’s grin explode across his screen.

“Oh,” he said delightedly. “Well that’s interesting.”

“Vox—!” Y/N twisted away, hands flying to cover their sides. “Don’t—!”

His eyes brightened, pixelated pupils widening like a camera zooming in.

“Don’t what? This?”

He poked again—firmer this time, quick and precise. The tiniest spark of static followed the touch, just enough to tickle without burning.

Y/N dissolved into startled laughter. “Vox! Cut it out!”

“Absolutely not,” Vox snorted, looping a partially-solid arm around the back of the chair to keep it from rolling away. “You sit in my chair, you deal with the consequences.”

“It was ONE TIME!”

“And it’s adorable,” he teased, leaning fully over them now. “Which is very inconvenient for you.”

He used both hands this time—quick little skittering motions along their ribs, infused with barely-there static. Not painful. Just enough to make Y/N twist and laugh helplessly, gripping the armrests to stay upright.

“V-Vox! Knock—pffft—knock it off!”

“Nope,” he replied, clearly thrilled. “This is far more entertaining than whatever you were doing before.”

His head tilted, analyzing their reaction like a director reviewing a shot.

“Look at that. Such animated expressions,” he mused. “Honestly, you’re wasted behind the camera.”

Y/N managed to swat at him, though their hand passed harmlessly through part of his projection.

He laughed full-bodied static at that.

“Oh sweetheart, if you’re going to fight back, you’ll need better aim.”

Another scribbling motion at their hips. Another squeak from Y/N. Another delighted glitch ripple across Vox’s face.

Finally, he stepped back—purely because he wanted to, not because Y/N had escaped.

The hologram leaned casually against the console, arms crossed, amusement radiating off him like neon heat.

“Next time,” he purred, “try asking before you sit in the king’s seat.”

Y/N glared at him, breathless and pink-cheeked. “You’re insufferable.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Vox smirked, tapping his screen cheek with a finger. “But you’re the one who keeps staying after hours.”

Y/N rolled their eyes, standing. “I’m going home.”

“Mhm. Sure.” Vox’s voice dropped lower. “And tomorrow? Same time?”

They hesitated.

He caught it instantly.

The grin that spread across his static screen was slow. Satisfied. Predatory in the most playful way.

“Great,” Vox said. “I’ll bring better jokes.”

“And I’m stealing your chair again.”

“Oh good,” he chuckled, flickering out of view except for the lingering echo of static. “Give me something fun to punish you for.”

Happy Thanksgiving today yall get a three story special hope you enjoy

Vox had been avoiding him. Avoiding eye contact. Avoiding conversations. Avoiding the King of Hell like a condemned prisoner ducking a guillotine.

Reasonable, considering the last time Lucifer saw him, Vox had him chained in angelic restraints, siphoning his power into the Divine Eradicator like some overclocked battery.

Vox had smirked the whole time. Lucifer remembered every second.

And Vox had barely gotten his body back—his systems still glitching after Valentino ripped his head off like a faulty toy in episode 8. His body wasn’t even finished calibrating yet.

Lucifer found him in an abandoned hallway of the partially ruined hotel, running self-diagnostics and muttering at his own chest panel.

Perfect.

The soft click of Lucifer’s heels made Vox jolt violently.

“Oh—fantastic,” Vox hissed, static rippling down his screen-face. “What do you want?”

Lucifer smiled sweetly. Too sweetly.

“Closure.”

Vox froze.

Lucifer strolled forward, hands folded casually behind his back—like he wasn’t radiating celestial magic strong enough to rattle wiring. “You know, my memory’s been fuzzy since that little incident,” he said lightly. “I just wanted to ask—”

He leaned in.

“Exactly how many volts you drained out of me?”

Vox stiffened. “Lucifer—it was just business—”

“Oh? Business?” Lucifer echoed in a whimsical, musical tone. “Is that what we call kidnapping now?”

“It wasn’t personal—!”

Lucifer chuckled. A dangerous, angelic chuckle.

“Oh Mr Tv Head Man” He tapped a finger to Vox’s chest panel.

Vox seized up—glitching from throat to hips.

“…I take everything personally.”

Before Vox could retreat, Lucifer snapped his fingers.

Golden cuffs of celestial magic wrapped around Vox’s wrists, yanking them effortlessly above his head.

Vox yelped. “LUCIFER—NO—NO, NO—THIS ISN’T—”

“Oh hush.” Lucifer circled him like a lion examining a defective toy. “You had me chained to a table like a science experiment. You drained me until I couldn’t stand. You aimed a weapon at Heaven through my power.”

He smiled wider.

“Did you really think there wouldn’t be consequences?”

Vox tried to regain composure, straightening. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”

Lucifer blinked. Then laughed.

“Oh darling, no. That would be too easy.” He stepped closer and tapped Vox’s ribs with a single glowing finger.

Vox exploded into static.

A harsh glitch burst cracked through his speakers as he flinched violently.

Lucifer’s expression sharpened with delight.

“Oh my,” he cooed. “You’re reactive.”

“Don’t,” Vox warned, already glitching. “Lucifer—don’t you DARE—”

“Funny,” Lucifer said, wiggling his fingers with wicked glee, “that’s exactly what I told you while you were draining me.”

Before Vox could protest again, Lucifer slid his fingers under the connection seams along Vox’s ribs.

Electric chaos erupted.

Vox arched forward, laughter bursting out of him in garbled, static-choked crackles.

“S-Sto—HAHA—stop—!—Lucifer—!”

“Oh, you don’t get to tell me what to do,” Lucifer purred, dancing his fingers mercilessly along the wiring channels. “Not after plugging me into that ridiculous angelic toy of yours.”

“It—was—BUSINESS—!”

“And this,” Lucifer countered, tickling faster, “is revenge.”

Vox bucked uselessly against the magical hold, his legs giving out under him as laughter scrambled out of his speakers.

Golden magic held him upright.

Lucifer tsk’d. “Look at you. All that ego. All that power. And you fall apart the moment someone finds your wiring.”

“It’s—hah—ngh—NOT—funny—!”

Lucifer leaned in close.

“It’s hilarious.”

He traced glowing fingertips across Vox’s stomach panel—right where the main power cable reconnected.

Vox shrieked.

A full digitized, system-overloaded shriek.

Lucifer pressed a hand to his heart. “Ah, music.”

He danced his fingers up and down Vox’s sides, making the TV demon thrash and sputter.

“This is for the angelic metal,” Lucifer said.

A poke to Vox’s hips. Vox’s whole system lit up like a glitch bomb.

“This is for draining my energy.”

A scribble up the ribs. Vox screamed-laughed.

“And this—” Lucifer whispered, placing both hands at Vox’s sides, “is for making my daughter watch.”

Vox practically convulsed as Lucifer unleashed the cruelest, most playful tickle attack yet—an overload of celestial magic and fingers tapping at every sensitive seam.

The TV demon crumbled in a storm of static, laughter, and fractured threats.

“LUCI—HHAHA—STOP—STOP—!—I’M GONNA CRASH—!”

“Oh relax,” Lucifer said cheerfully. “If you crash, I’ll just reboot you.”

He kept going until Vox’s legs shook, his screen-face flickered uncontrollably, and his voice devolved into breathy, glitching wheezes.

Finally, Lucifer released the spell.

Vox collapsed to his knees, supporting himself with shaking arms, static fizzing off him like smoke.

Lucifer crouched beside him, patting his shoulder.

“There,” he said warmly. “We’re even.”

Vox looked up, screen flickering desperately.

“We’re—NOT—done.”

“Oh, I sincerely hope not.” Lucifer winked. “Retribution is much more fun when it becomes a cycle.”

He stood, humming lightly as he walked away.

Behind him, Vox sputtered:

“I’M GONNA—HRRK—DESTROY YOUR ENTIRE—NETWORK—”

Lucifer called back over his shoulder:

The Hazbin Hotel had survived many things.

Angel attacks.

Overlord tantrums.

Charlie’s experimental vegan breakfast casseroles.

But it was not prepared for the war now echoing through its halls.

For two days, Lucifer had been smug.

Too smug.

Walking around with a swing in his step, humming obnoxiously cheerful little jingles. His wings were perked high. His halo glowed like it had been polished out of pettiness alone.

Every time Alastor entered a room, Lucifer smirked.

Every. Single. Time.

Alastor pretended not to notice.

He did notice.

He noticed every twitch of Lucifer’s feathers, every victorious little sparkle in his eyes, every time he mouthed the word squeak when he thought Alastor wasn’t looking.

And Alastor—ever patient, ever composed—waited.

Plotted.

Prepared.

By day three, the perfect opportunity arrived.

Lucifer wandered through the east wing, humming cheerfully, flipping through a notebook labeled:

“Operation: Further Humble the Radio Demon (Working Title)”

He was so absorbed in his own greatness that he barely noticed the hotel was unusually quiet.

Too quiet.

No static.

No distant monologuing.

No cane tapping.

Lucifer paused.

“…Alastor?”

Nothing.

He shrugged and continued walking.

Then—

CLICK.

The hallway lights snapped off.

All of them.

Lucifer froze.

“…What the—”

A familiar, velvety voice slid through the darkness like a knife dipped in honey.

“Well, well, well… If it isn’t my favorite little feathered nuisance.”

Lucifer yelped.

“ALASTOR?!” His wings puffed instantly. “Wh-where are you?! Show yourself!”

A radio crackle echoed right behind him.

“Right here.”

Lucifer spun—too late.

Something coiled around his ankle.

“…Is that a—”

YANK.

Lucifer was dragged—gracefully but definitely undignified—straight into a shadowy room.

The door slammed shut.

Lucifer blinked rapidly until the lights flickered on, revealing—

Oh no.

The hotel ballroom.

Empty.

Silent.

Except for Alastor standing calmly in the center, cane twirling, smile sharp and wicked.

Lucifer pointed accusingly. “YOU SET A TRAP FOR ME—!”

Alastor bowed slightly. “Why, of course. Would you expect anything less?”

Lucifer’s wings twitched. “This is unfair!”

“Unfair?” Alastor purred. “You ambushed me with a feather, old sport. A feather. I am simply returning the favor… with interest.”

Lucifer backed up.

Alastor followed, slow and precise.

“Now, now,” he said sweetly, “don’t make this harder for yourself.”

“I-I’m warning you!” Lucifer squawked. “I will fight! I will— I will—”

Alastor lunged.

Lucifer screamed.

Alastor had him pinned in seconds, one hand around Lucifer’s wrists, the other hovering threateningly near his ribs.

Lucifer thrashed like a startled flamingo.

“HOW ARE YOU SO STRONG—?!”

Alastor chuckled. “Old sport… you weigh as much as a disgruntled pillow.”

“That’s RUDE!”

“Oh, hush.”

His fingers wiggled once.

Lucifer shrieked.

“No—NONONO WAIT— ALASTOR DON’T—!”

Alastor did.

He dug mercilessly into Lucifer’s sides, and the Lightbringer’s laughter exploded into the ballroom.

“AHAHA—NOHOHO—!!! STOP YOU— YOU MONSTER!!”

Alastor looked delighted. Positively radiant.

“Oh, this is lovely. Such unhinged joy! You should laugh more often.”

Lucifer tried to roll away.

Alastor caught him and continued the attack.

Fingers at his ribs— Lucifer kicked the floor so hard he spun in a circle.

Fingers at his stomach— Lucifer’s halo flickered like a dying lamp.

Fingers creeping toward his underarms— Lucifer ascended three inches into the air.

“NOHOHO NOT THERE—!! ALASTOR PLEASE—!!”

“Ohhh?” Alastor crooned. “Is this a sensitive area?”

“I’LL MURDER YOU—!!”

Alastor raised a brow. “That’s not very neighborly.”

Then he went for it.

Lucifer shrieked. A full-blown, glass-shaking, holy-sounding, echoing squeal that rattled the chandeliers.

Alastor’s grin practically split his face.

“There it is,” he whispered triumphantly. “My revenge.”

Lucifer was laughing so hard tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, wings spasming uncontrollably.

“AHAHA—ALASTOHOHOR—!! I’M— I’M GONNA—!!”

“Die? Ascend? Explode?” Alastor teased. “Do be specific.”

Lucifer could not be specific.

He couldn’t even breathe.

Alastor finally relented, letting the angel collapse onto the ballroom floor in a trembling, giggling heap.

The Radio Demon crouched beside him, straightening his tie.

“Any final words?”

Lucifer hiccup-laughed. “I—I hate— you—so—much—”

Alastor patted his cheek.

“No, you don’t.”

Lucifer groaned, rolling onto his side.

“…Maybe not.”

“Good.” Alastor stood tall, offering his cane like a hand. “Because this war isn’t over.”

Lucifer glared through the remaining giggles.

“Oh it is ON, old sport.”

Somewhere down the hall, Husk heard the faint sound of angelic laughter and groaned into his drink.

For the next twenty-four hours, Lucifer planned.

And plotted.

And obsessively circled items on a whiteboard he absolutely stole from one of Charlie’s meetings. The board currently read:

“PHASE TWO: OPERATION FEATHERSTORM.”

Underneath were diagrams of wings, arrows, and a poorly drawn Alastor with a giant X through his midsection.

Lucifer stood in front of it now, arms folded, wearing an expression that could only be described as dramatically vengeful.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “He thinks he can embarrass me? Humiliate me? Steal the element of surprise?” His feathers puffed. “We’ll just see about that.”

A soft knock sounded at his door.

Lucifer spun around so fast his halo nearly flew off.

“Who goes there?!”

A very confused Nifty peeked in. “Um… you accidentally borrowed my Swiffer again.”

Lucifer blinked, looked to his side, and realized the object he’d been using as a pointer was, in fact, Nifty’s Swiffer Duster.

“…Right. Sorry.”

He handed it back, closed the door, and immediately resumed evil plotting.

He had watched the Radio Demon strut around the hotel all day, smug and composed, humming like a smug little Christmas ornament who thought he’d won.

But Lucifer remembered the moment Alastor had nearly cracked the day before—just a flicker, barely visible—but Lucifer saw it.

Alastor, annoyed.

That was the goal. That was the victory.

Lucifer chose the hallway near the kitchen. Narrow walls. Limited escape routes. Excellent acoustics for evil laughter.

He crouched behind a large fallen poster of Charlie’s “HOTEL RULES,” which had been taken down after accidental fire damage. It made an adequate hiding spot.

He waited.

Wings fluffed.

Fingers twitched.

He held his weapon of choice—one single, perfectly selected feather plucked from his own wing.

“Come on,” he hissed. “Follow your routine. You go for tea at 3:15 every day. Be predictable. I believe in you.”

And then—

Static.

Light footsteps.

A hum, smooth and vintage, drifting lazily down the hall.

Lucifer grinned.

“Showtime.”

As soon as Alastor stepped past his hiding spot, Lucifer launched himself out with the speed of a holy missile.

“HA!”

Alastor flinched—actually flinched—eyes widening as Lucifer practically pounced onto his back.

“LUCIFER—?!”

“Oh don’t ‘Lucifer?!’ me!” the angel crowed triumphantly, wrapping arms around Alastor’s shoulders. “THIS is justice!”

Before Alastor could wiggle free, Lucifer dragged the feather down the side of his neck.

The reaction was instant.

Alastor jerked so hard his cane clattered to the floor.

“E-EXCUSE ME—?!”

His voice pitch-cracked so violently it squeaked out like a broken radio dial.

Lucifer gasped dramatically. “Oh? Was that a noise, Alastor? A sound of WEAKNESS?”

Alastor’s ears went pink.

“I assure you, old sport—”

Lucifer dragged the feather over his collarbone.

Alastor squeaked like a malfunctioning record player.

“AHA! ADMIT IT!” Lucifer cackled, now gleefully scratching at Alastor’s ribs with both hands. “YOU’RE TICKLISH TOO!”

“This—THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS—!” Alastor choked out, twisting helplessly as static crackled uncontrollably. “STOP—THAT—!”

“Ohhh no,” Lucifer purred darkly, “you started this war. Now face the consequences.”

He fluttered his wings for maximum intimidation.

Alastor, absolutely losing composure, grabbed onto the wall for support.

“L-Lucifer—!!”

Lucifer grinned so wide it was almost feral.

“Yes. Say my name.” He wiggled fingers under Alastor’s arm.

Alastor yelled—a glitchy radio shriek—and nearly collapsed.

Lucifer froze.

Then whispered—

“…Oh. That’s a good spot.”

Alastor sputtered, flustered beyond belief. “DON’T YOU DARE—!”

Lucifer dared.

He attacked.

It happened fast.

Alastor spun, grabbed Lucifer’s wrists, and pinned him against the doorframe with a breathless snarl of flustered indignation.

“Ohhh no, old sport,” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “Two can play at that game.”

Lucifer’s wings flattened.

“…Wait—”

Alastor leaned in.

“This. Means. WAR.”

Lucifer squeaked.

Charlie walked by moments later, noticing her father crumpled in a laughing heap on the floor while Alastor stood over him, slightly ruffled and significantly pinker than usual.

Charlie stared.

“…Should I even ask?”

Lucifer wheezed, “He—he SQUEAKS—”

Alastor kicked the fallen Swiffer Duster at Lucifer. “You will say nothing.”

For the next three days, an unspoken tension simmered through the Hazbin Hotel.

To everyone else, it felt like normal Hell-chaos—random static bursts, sudden feathers drifting through the halls, odd thumps echoing from distant rooms. Nothing too strange.

But to Lucifer and Alastor?

It was war.

A petty, childish, gloriously stupid war.

And today, the first ambush was about to happen.

Lucifer hid behind the half-open door of the hotel’s library, wings tucked tight, face determined with the seriousness of a general preparing for battle.

“Alright,” he whispered to himself. “I know his patterns. I’ve observed. I’ve studied. I’ve taken notes.”

He had. There was a literal notebook in his hand titled:

“Operation: Make the Radio Demon Flinch Again.”

Inside were bullet points like:

Avoid direct frontal attack

He’s faster than he looks

Distraction is key

Ribs = promising

Probably ticklish under arms? Must test

Lucifer nodded proudly. “Yes. Brilliant. Foolproof.”

Then the floor creaked behind him.

Lucifer stiffened.

“…Old sport. What exactly are you doing?”

Lucifer whipped around—too fast—and smacked himself in the face with his own wing.

Alastor stood in the hall, cane in hand, smile polite but tight, as though he were trying not to laugh. Static flickered faintly around his antlers.

“Oh, just… reading,” Lucifer said, shoving the notebook behind his back.

“In the hallway?”

“Yes. Ventilation is… better.”

Alastor’s grin widened. “Is that so?”

Lucifer’s wings shivered.

He had two options:

Initiate attack now.

Run away like a coward.

Lucifer considered.

He lunged.

It would’ve been majestic—graceful, divine, a perfect tactical strike—

—if Lucifer had not forgotten one crucial thing:

He was still weak.

His wings, which were supposed to flare dramatically, instead flapped once like dying curtains. His legs wobbled. His halo flickered like a bad bulb.

He stumbled forward and grabbed at Alastor’s coat—

—and missed.

Spectacularly.

He ended up face-first in Alastor’s chest, arms around him in what looked suspiciously like a hug.

They both froze.

“…Lucifer,” Alastor said slowly, “if you desired an embrace, you only had to ask.”

Lucifer made a noise so offended it could’ve curdled holy water.

“That was a tactical maneuver!”

“It was adorable.”

Lucifer sputtered. “S-shut up—!”

Alastor didn’t.

Instead, he wrapped an arm around Lucifer’s back in a deceptively gentle gesture.

Lucifer blinked.

“…what are you—”

SQUEAK.

Alastor squeezed just below Lucifer’s ribs.

Lucifer jumped so violently his hat flew off like a frisbee.

A sound escaped him—something between a hiccup and a dying trumpet.

Alastor lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Oh HO! What delightful acoustics!”

“DON’T YOU DA—ahahAHA—!!” Lucifer dissolved into helpless laughter as Alastor sunk both hands into his sides with devastating precision.

What Lucifer intended to be an ambush had become a slaughter.

His legs buckled instantly.

Alastor simply caught him, guiding him toward the library wall so he didn’t slide to the floor.

“Tsk tsk,” Alastor teased as Lucifer squirmed, giggling breathlessly. “Poor form, old sport! Charging in without a plan? No misdirection? No strategy? You disappoint me!”

Lucifer tried to retort, but all that came out was—

“STOHOHOP—YOu—yoU CHEHEATED—!!”

“Cheated?” Alastor gasped dramatically. “Perish the thought! You threw yourself into my arms. I merely responded!”

Lucifer wheezed.

Alastor continued his delicate torture, fingertips spidering up under Lucifer’s arms, earning a squeal so high-pitched that two nearby books fell off their shelves.

“Oh, excellent resonance! Try that again, would you?”

Lucifer kicked weakly. “ALASTORRR—!!”

Alastor chuckled, finally easing up and letting Lucifer slide down the wall into a breathless, flustered heap on the floor.

Lucifer’s wings twitched wildly behind him, fluff puffed in indignation.

Alastor crouched elegantly to his level, tilting Lucifer’s chin up with his cane.

“First blood is mine,” he purred.

Lucifer glared up at him, cheeks glowing pink.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“…No. I don’t.”

Alastor smirked, tapping his cane once on the floor.

“You’ll need to try harder, Lightbringer. Much harder.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, I will,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.

A spark pulsed off his fingertips—tiny, but promising.

Alastor’s smile sharpened.

“Good. I would hate for this war to be boring.”

And somewhere else in the hotel, Charlie paused mid-conversation, blinking.

“Is anyone else hearing… squeaking?”

Husk groaned into his drink. “Oh god. They’ve started again.”

(thank you thank you thankyou all!!! so much for the love and support from my last fic im so glad yall liked it it make me ecstatic that its loved this is and abel x redeemed sinner reader tickle fic i hope you all enjoy)😘😘😘😘

(tickle fic please enjoy)

spoilers season 2 please dont read if you havent watched this is my first story hope its ok please enjoy not a tickle fic but i accept ideas for that too😊