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Charlie and Alastor had never intended to fall for each other. In fact, if anyone had told them a year ago that they’d be sneaking glances, swapping secret jokes, and tripping over each other to cover their tracks, they’d have laughed and laughed—and then pointed them to the nearest psychiatric ward.
It had started simple enough. Vaggie and Charlie had broken up, which was sad but not catastrophic. They’d both realized it wasn’t working, and instead of dragging it out into bitterness, they parted ways with fond smiles and teary hugs, agreeing to stay best friends. Vaggie, fiercely loyal as ever, never left her side. Their bond only strengthened with time.
Alastor, of course, had found the whole ordeal amusing, poking fun at Charlie’s ‘baffling optimism’ that even her heartbreak could be sweetened by friendship. But in the months that followed, he became something of a constant fixture. Charlie’s unfaltering persistence to convince him of her goals had morphed into a comfortable sort of companionship. They enjoyed singing together, cracking jokes, and falling into spirited debates over the silliest topics.
He’d bombard her with vintage radio dramas filled with grisly twists and macabre endings, forcing her to guess the conclusion before the final act. In retaliation, she’d counter with her own bafflingly wholesome fairy tales, where the villains were misunderstood and love always triumphed. It was nonsense. It was ridiculous. And it was fun.
Sometimes, their dueling stories would escalate into full-blown performances. Alastor would narrate his tales with gleeful malice, voice slipping into silky, ominous tones as he described grisly betrayals and dramatic deaths. Charlie would stubbornly counter with theatrical gestures and voices of her own, spinning tales where the wicked king only wanted a friend, or the dark sorceress was really just lonely and misunderstood.
They’d end up arguing over each other’s plots like children fighting over a game, Alastor gleefully weaving in more tragedy just to watch Charlie huff and pout, while she countered by injecting absurdly wholesome resolutions into his bleakest scenarios. More often than not, they’d end up doubled over with laughter, both stubbornly trying to outdo the other until their stories became impossible messes of melodrama and saccharine sweetness.
Late-night chats over tea became a ritual as well—though not exactly by choice at first. It all started when Alastor found Charlie in the kitchen one evening, cradling a steaming mug with a blissful look on her face.
She was always there at the end of a long day, curled up at the counter with her tea, sipping away like it was the elixir of life itself. It didn’t matter if the day had been chaotic, exhausting, or downright awful; she’d be there, smile soft and content, nursing a cup of whatever strange blend she’d decided to try that night.
Of course, that made Alastor snort. “What an absurd notion. Surely there are better ways to unwind than sipping glorified leaf water.”
But Charlie had insisted. And insisted. And insisted. Eventually, she started dragging him into her little ritual, arriving at his room every night with an assortment of tea blends, eyes bright with excitement and arms full of boxes and jars like a deranged herbalist. Her eyes bright with excitement as she insisted he try each one. Alastor would grumble, scoff, and pretend to be above her frivolous hobby—yet somehow, he’d always end up requesting “that minty one” the very next night.
Mainly because it was Charlie’s idea, and the way her eyes lit up when he made even the slightest concession to her whims was almost… hypnotic. He would never admit it, of course, but he indulged her purely to see that sparkle in her eyes. The way she’d smile, so earnestly pleased with herself, was both endearing and infuriating.
They shared a fondness for vintage music, their tastes overlapping in surprising ways. On quiet evenings, Alastor would invite Charlie to his radio broadcasts—a recent habit he’d acquired. Despite the dissonant screams and chaotic nonsense that often filtered through the airwaves, Charlie had grown fond of watching Alastor be in his element. The way he took to his craft with the glee of a maestro conducting madness was a spectacle in itself.
She’d settle herself beside him, humming softly whenever he played songs from his collection, her clear, lilting voice threading itself through the eerie ambiance like a gentle breeze cutting through a storm. Alastor would occasionally join her, their melodies blending seamlessly as his smooth, jazzy vibrato filled the room like smoke curling from a fire. Whenever he caught her singing along, he’d chuckle and prod her into a duet.
Charlie, always determined to broaden their shared experiences, took to singing with him to classics she figured he’d appreciate—songs closer to his time, pieces that captured the elegance and charm he reveled in. Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald. But their favorite quickly became “Something Stupid.”
It started as a joke. The two of them trading verses like a dare, eyes gleaming with playful defiance. Alastor’s voice slid over the lyrics with a honeyed smoothness, leaning into the absurdly romantic lines with all the dramatic exaggeration he could muster. Charlie, bright and earnest, sang her part with an almost oblivious sweetness, her voice weaving effortlessly with his.
They performed for no audience but each other, laughing between lines and throwing in ridiculous flourishes just to make the other crack. Alastor would bow dramatically, hand over his chest, while Charlie would swoon with mock elegance, both of them fully aware of the irony in singing such an unabashedly saccharine song.
But the more they sang it, the more it stopped feeling like a joke. When Charlie swayed to the rhythm, eyes half-closed as she lost herself in the music, Alastor would watch her with a curious sort of fascination. His smile softened, gaze lingering on her with a warmth he’d never quite admit to. The music became their own private language, a dance of melodies and shared glances that spoke of fondness neither dared to name.
It was ridiculous. It was sweet. And for all their banter and denial, it was beginning to feel dangerously real.
Their chemistry was undeniable, even if their morals clashed like dueling swords. They bantered like old friends, their debates sharp and sparkling, each one pushing the other’s buttons with all the enthusiasm of two performers vying for the spotlight. Alastor’s dark humor clashed against Charlie’s relentless optimism like fire meeting ice, their conversations a constant dance of wit and stubbornness. And somehow, through all the bickering and jabs, a strange sort of intimacy had blossomed—one built on challenge, intrigue, and the thrill of someone who dared to push back.
Somewhere along the line, that invisible boundary between friendship and something more had blurred into utter nonsense.
And when Charlie kissed him for the first time—out of frustration, out of affection, out of sheer reckless impulse—Alastor had blinked, absolutely flabbergasted for all of five seconds.
Then his grin exploded into something wicked and gleeful, eyes glittering with delight and a touch of smug amusement. “Well, well, Princess! I had no idea you were so starved for affection! If you wanted a taste of me that badly, you could have simply asked! What’s next? Pinning me to the nearest wall and demanding satisfaction? Whispering sweet nothings in my ear until I melt into a puddle of devoted affection? Should I prepare my swooning faint now or later?”
Charlie groaned, cheeks blazing red, and kissed him again anyway, if only to shut him up.
Whatever game they’d been playing, it had spiraled into something far more intense when his only response was to teleport them to her bed, his grin sharp and eyes gleaming with wicked intent as Alastor’s lips trailed along her neck, his laughter a low, wicked rumble against Charlie's skin, the night blurring into heated kisses and tangled limbs—until nothing else mattered at all.
But now came the hard part.
Charlie didn’t want anyone to know. Not because she was ashamed—absolutely not. It was just... she wasn’t ready for everyone’s reactions. Vaggie would hit her with that sharp, exasperated glare that screamed “Really? Him?” and probably launch into a full lecture on Alastor’s ‘many, many, many, irredeemable flaws.’ Angel Dust would be worse—he’d never shut up about it, grill her for details with the enthusiasm of a gossip columnist hunting for scandal, and wouldn’t hesitate to start a betting pool with Husk.
And her father… well, Charlie didn’t even want to imagine Lucifer’s reaction. It was bad enough he barely approved of her hotel, her friends, her relentless optimism for redeeming sinners. Throwing her relationship with Alastor into the mix was like tossing fireworks into a bonfire. The idea of her dad trying to turn Alastor into a decorative stain on the carpet gave her a migraine.
So, their secret romance became a clumsy, ridiculous game of don’t-get-caught. What should have been a simple matter of discretion quickly spiraled into over-the-top scheming and stealth that neither—well, she was particularly good at. It was harder than both expected however, mostly because they kept making it difficult.
Angel Dust was the worst. The spider demon seemed to have some kind of sixth sense for sniffing out drama, and he zeroed in on their weird tension like a shark scenting blood.
“Geez, Smiles, ya been hoverin’ ‘round the Princess like some creepy stalker lately,” Angel drawled one morning, lounging at the lobby like he’d been waiting all day to stir trouble. His smirk was practically painted on, eyes gleaming with shameless delight. “Always whisperin’ all close-like, smilin’ like you’re tryna sweet-talk her into somethin’. What’s the deal? Finally decide ya wanna see what that tongue of yours can do besides run your mouth?”
Alastor’s smile stiffened for half a second before returning with all the intensity of a knife’s edge. “It’s called manners, you debauched arachnid,” he replied, his voice lilting and sweet, like syrup hiding poison. “A concept entirely foreign to you, I’m sure.”
Angel snickered, undeterred. “Manners, huh? Sure, sure. Guess you’re just keepin’ her company outta the goodness of your rotten little heart, huh? Nothin’ to do with wantin’ her to, oh, I dunno—crawl all over ya and moan your name, right?” His grin widened, dripping with innuendo he clearly expected to be miles off target. “Ain’t no way you’re hangin’ around her that much without tryin’ to get somethin’ outta it. What’s next? You gonna serenade her outside her window or somethin’?”
Alastor’s smile twitched again, but his voice remained calm, if a little too tight. “I would suggest seeking a more productive use of your time, Angel. Such as plucking the cobwebs from your hollow skull.”
Angel cackled, already sauntering away with a wink tossed over his shoulder. “Sure, sure. Just sayin’, Daddy-o. If ya keep makin’ eyes at her like that, someone’s bound to catch ya. Hell, maybe that’s the plan, huh? Little scandal to spice up your life? Gotta admit, I’m rootin’ for ya. You two’d be adorable. And by adorable, I mean a freakin’ disaster.”
But the real nightmare was Vaggie. The fallen angel knew Charlie better than anyone, and she could practically smell her nerves. Charlie’s habit of babbling whenever she was anxious didn’t help matters.
“Are you okay?” Vaggie asked one evening, arms crossed and brow furrowed with suspicion. “You’re twitchier than Angel after five shots of espresso.”
“Who, me? I’m fine! Just, uh, yeah! Really caffeinated! Yup! Tons of coffee. So much coffee. Like, wow, probably too much coffee. Gotta cut back! Haha…” Charlie’s laugh came out like a dying duck’s wheeze.
Vaggie continued to glare at her for a moment longer, eye narrowed like she was trying to see straight through Charlie’s skull. And then, almost miraculously, her expression softened into reluctant acceptance.
“Alright...” Vaggie said slowly, though her gaze still looked skeptical. “If you say you’re fine, then I guess you’re fine. But seriously, Charlie, cut back on the coffee. I don’t want you getting palpitations.”
“Oh! Absolutely! Definitely! I’ll switch to decaf! Or... energy drinks! You know, like the ones Angel brought last time or... hey maybe alcohol? Wonder if Husk has anything mild ahaha...” Charlie babbled, nodding with the eagerness of someone narrowly escaping execution.
Vaggie shook her head, muttering something under her breath about ‘ridiculous caffeine addiction’ before wandering off, apparently satisfied by Charlie’s bizarre performance.
Then one afternoon, an imp trudged through the lobby, his arms practically engulfed by the most extravagant bouquet of roses the hotel had ever seen. The flowers were bright red, lush, dethorned, and arranged with such pristine precision that even Niffty paused mid-dusting to ogle at the display.
“Delivery for Miss Charlotte Morningstar,” the demon drawled, voice flat and unamused. “From a, uh, secret admirer.”
Charlie blinked, her eyes widening as the bouquet was shoved into her arms. She staggered back a step, swamped by petals and perfume.
“Oh—oh wow! This is… this is a lot of roses,” Charlie laughed nervously, her cheeks instantly going pink. “Um, thank you?”
The imp grunted and shuffled away, looking relieved to be free of the floral monstrosity.
Vaggie’s eye narrowed suspiciously as she approached. “A secret admirer?” she repeated as she plucked a small, elegantly embossed card from between the flowers and read aloud, her tone dripping with skepticism:
“To the loveliest princess in Hell—whose kindness and charm surpass even the most exquisite of these roses. I do hope their beauty pleases you, my dear. And if not… perhaps I shall simply have to offer myself instead. With deepest, most shameless admiration, your devoted admirer.”
By the time Vaggie finished reading out loud, Charlie’s face was scarlet, and Alastor, who had conveniently been loitering nearby, was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
“What a terribly forward admirer you seem to have, my dear,” Alastor remarked cheerfully, eyes sparkling with glee. “And quite the romantic, too! Though I must say, their prose could use a little work. A bit flowery, don’t you think?”
Charlie knew that grin. She knew that tone. And she definitely knew that smug little glint in his eyes that said, clear as day: I sent those roses and I am going to enjoy every second of this.
She shot him a flustered glare, Vaggie busy trying to decode a hidden message in the note to notice his grin widen. “They’re… nice. I like them.” She stumbled over her words, fumbling with the bouquet as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands. “Um. Roses are my favorite.”
“Oh! They are?” Alastor’s grin turned almost gleeful. “Why, how fortunate! It’s almost as if your secret admirer knew that.”
Charlie gave him a look that was meant to be scolding but ended up just being embarrassed. She knew it was him. He knew she knew it was him. But the whole charade was so absurd that she couldn’t help but feel flattered. And even though his grin was downright infuriating, she couldn’t help but beam at him, her heart doing all sorts of embarrassing flips.
“This is so romantic!” Niffty squealed, suddenly appearing at Charlie’s side with the speed and enthusiasm of a caffeinated squirrel. “It’s like one of those novels I’ve been reading! You know, the ones where the dashing, mysterious gentleman sends gifts to the lovely heroine from afar, and she has no idea who he is but totally falls for him anyway! Isn’t it just like that?!”
“Uh… I don't really know,” Charlie managed, laughing awkwardly as Niffty all but threw herself at the bouquet to inhale the scent of the roses.
Vaggie, still not entirely convinced, continued to eye the bouquet as if it might explode at any moment. “It’s… nice,” she admitted reluctantly, her voice softening just a bit. “Weird, but nice. Just don’t go letting some creep lead you on, okay? Especially with what they wrote in that note.” She shudders.
Charlie giggled and nodded, her fingers brushing over the petals as her eyes darted to Alastor’s smug face. It was silly, excessive, and the note was so ridiculous that her cheeks still felt like they were on fire. But she couldn’t deny the thrill bubbling under her skin, the warmth of being spoiled even if Alastor’s methods were utterly absurd. Her chest flutter in the most embarrassing, wonderful way.
When she caught his eye, she mouthed a simple, thank you.
Alastor’s grin softened just enough to make her stomach flip, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker, smoother, that made her breath hitch. His gaze swept over her slowly, deliberately, a subtle tilt of his head paired with a wink that promised far more than just flowers. It was a silent invitation, bold and teasing. They both knew he'd be waiting for her later, anticipation coiling sweetly in her stomach.
“Oh, it was my pleasure, my dear,” he replied smoothly, voice low enough that only she could hear. “After all, a princess deserves to be properly adored.”
Charlie’s blush deepened, but her smile only grew. And as she hugged the bouquet to her chest, her heart drumming madly, she caught the way his grin shifted—how his gaze lingered on her, on her lips, just a moment too long before he slipped away, his exit as dramatic as ever.
Thankfully, Niffty and Vaggie were far too distracted to notice the exchange.
“That’s how it always starts in the novels!” Niffty squealed, practically vibrating with excitement. “A handsome duke sends flowers, then the heroine is swept away to his lavish estate where they fall madly, passionately in love!”
“Niffty, Charlie is not about to be dragged off to some creepy duke’s mansion,” Vaggie snapped, rolling her eye. “And she’s definitely not about to fall for some random admirer. Whoever sent those roses probably just wants something from her.”
“Yeah! Like her heart!” Niffty gushed, clutching her own hands to her chest with all the melodrama of a particularly bad soap opera. “Or her hand in marriage! Maybe even her bo—”
“Enough!” Vaggie groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You read way too many of those trashy books.”
Charlie barely heard them. Her mind was too wrapped up in Alastor’s parting glance, the promise in his eyes, the thrill of their game. And as she carried the bouquet off to her room, her smile refused to fade.
It was a mess. A hilarious, heart-pounding mess. And it was theirs. The stolen glances, the playful banter, the smug little games Alastor played just to see her blush. The thrill of keeping it all secret only made it sweeter. They were tangled up in something ridiculous and perfect, and Charlie wouldn’t change a thing.