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Alastor was having an excellent morning.
The Hazbin Hotel rang with the soft crackle of magic and the low hum of a phonograph as he glided through the halls, cane tapping in a jaunty rhythm that matched his mood. Garlands unfurled at his command—deep evergreen, thick and lush—curling themselves neatly along banisters and doorframes. Ornaments followed, floating obediently behind him in a slow, elegant orbit before snapping precisely into place.
Perfection required momentum.
He turned a corner and flicked his wrist. The chandeliers bloomed with warm, golden light, bulbs glowing like captured fireflies rather than the vulgar blinking nonsense modern decorations favored. Tasteful. Refined. Civilized.
“Al—! Oh! That’s beautiful!” Charlie’s voice chimed from behind him, breathless with excitement.
“Of course it is, my dear,” Alastor replied smoothly, not even turning around. “I do have standards.”
Charlie skipped up beside him anyway, nearly tripping over a box of ornaments she was dragging along. Her enthusiasm was… infectious. Alastor would never say such a thing aloud, of course, but if anyone else in this establishment understood the importance of spectacle, it was the princess of Hell herself.
She popped open the box. “Okay, okay—should we do the lobby tree first, or the staircase?”
“The tree,” Alastor said immediately. “Always the tree. One must establish a focal point before indulging in excess.”
Charlie beamed. “I knew you’d say that!”
He hummed, pleased, and with a snap of his fingers the lobby transformed. A towering Christmas tree surged up from the floorboards as if Hell itself had grown sentimental—tall, full, and perfectly symmetrical. Its branches settled with a dignified shiver, needles glossy and dark.
From the corner of his eye, Alastor noticed movement—or rather, the lack of it.
Husk was slumped at the bar, nursing something strong and decidedly unseasonal, hat pulled low over his eyes.
“Bah,” Alastor called cheerfully. “Try not to look so alive, my good man. You’re ruining the ambiance.”
Husk didn’t even lift his head. “It’s too early for this crap.”
“Incorrect!” Alastor chirped. “It is precisely the right time for this 'crap".”
Angel Dust groaned from the couch nearby, half-buried in a blanket and very clearly hungover. “Can ya keep it down, Radio Boy? Some of us are sufferin’.”
Alastor’s grin widened, sharp and delighted. “Suffering is the cornerstone of the holiday spirit, my dear fellow!”
Charlie snorted, covering her mouth as she laughed, and Alastor felt a pleasant little spark of triumph. Yes. This was going exactly as it should.
And then—inevitably—his attention drifted.
She was sitting on the far end of the couch, curled comfortably into the cushions, a mug of hot chocolate cradled between her hands. Steam curled up toward her face. He’d made it himself—rich, warm, just the way she liked it. She wore one of those sweaters he found inexplicably charming, watching him with quiet amusement and unmistakable fondness.
Alastor’s smile softened. Only slightly. Enough that no one else would notice.
Fiancée, he corrected privately, as he always did. The word felt right—weighty, reverent. Far more accurate than the flimsy little title everyone else insisted on using. Girlfriend. How dreadfully insufficient. She meant far more than that.
He wouldn’t say it aloud. Not yet. The word overwhelmed her, and Alastor—despite all evidence to the contrary—was nothing if not attentive where she was concerned.
Their eyes met. She smiled at him, small and warm, and something settled in his chest.
For a moment, the hotel didn’t feel like Hell at all.
Charlie nudged him. “You good, Al?”
“Never better,” he replied smoothly, turning back to the tree. With a flourish, he sent ornaments spiraling into place—deep reds, golds, antique glass that caught the light just so. No tacky plastic. No garish colors. This was Christmas done properly.
His steps carried him to her before he could overthink it.
“My dear,” he said, voice bright, almost buoyant, bowing just slightly as he extended a gloved hand toward her. “I find myself in dire need of a dance partner.”
She lifted a brow, unimpressed in the way only she could be, a smile tugging at her mouth. “There’s no music.”
“Details,” Alastor waved off pleasantly. “Entirely inconsequential details.”
She rolled her eyes, giggling as she set the mug aside and placed her hand in his. The moment their fingers touched, something in him sparked—satisfaction, relief, delight all tangled together.
“Oh, splendid!” he said, and promptly yanked her up from the couch.
She squeaked in surprise as he spun her once, laughter spilling free before he drew her toward a small clearing in the lobby, away from the tree and the scattered boxes of decorations. His hand settled confidently at her waist, the other guiding her with practiced ease.
Alastor loved to dance.
More than that—he loved dancing with her.
There was no music, but it hardly mattered. He hummed softly under his breath, an old tune, slow and warm. Their steps were unhurried. Gentle. He led without effort, turning her beneath his arm, spinning her in languid circles before drawing her back in close.
She followed easily, trusting him completely, movements relaxed as she swayed with him. Soon enough, she tucked herself against his chest, cheek pressed just beneath his collarbone. Her hum joined his, quiet and content.
“This lighting,” Alastor murmured, guiding them in a slow turn, “is particularly inspired this year.” He pressed a brief kiss to the crown of her head. “If I do say so myself.”
She smiled, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his coat.
“And the tree—ah, the tree is flawless,” he continued, spinning her once more, slower this time, before drawing her back. Another kiss to her hair. “I’ve truly outdone myself.”
They swayed. His thumb traced idle, affectionate circles at her waist.
“I find,” he went on thoughtfully, voice lowering just a touch, “that the hotel feels… brighter with you here.” A kiss, gentle and lingering. “Quite the improvement.”
Her hum deepened, content, and Alastor’s smile softened in a way no one else would ever be allowed to see. Around them, Hell remained Hell—hungover demons, grumbling souls, half-finished decorations—but in this small pocket of warmth, none of it mattered.
She was warm. She was real. She was his.
Alastor slowed their movement first—just enough that she noticed.
His hand at her waist stilled, fingers tightening once before he snapped them sharply. The sound cut clean through the warm quiet of the lobby.
She blinked, pulling her head back slightly from his chest, confusion flickering across her face as she glanced around. The lights were the same. The tree still glowed. Nothing seemed different.
He smiled.
Not the wide, showman’s grin he wore for the rest of the hotel—this one was smaller. Knowing. He tipped his head upward, just a subtle tilt, and murmured, “Go on, darling.”
She followed his gaze.
Floating just above them, pristine and unmistakable, hung a sprig of mistletoe.
She burst into laughter immediately, the sound bright and fond as she shook her head. “Oh my god,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You are so corny.”
Alastor shrugged, utterly unashamed, leaning in closer until their noses were nearly brushing. If he’d had the presence of mind to care, he might have noticed the faint, traitorous sway of his tail behind him, betraying exactly how pleased he was with himself.
“I prefer traditional,” he replied smoothly. “Besides—rules are rules.”
She sighed then, the sound soft and happy, arms sliding easily up around his neck. Her fingers laced together behind him as she smiled up at his face. “Well?” she said fondly. “Go wild.”
He did not need to be told twice.
In one fluid motion, Alastor dipped her backward, deep and dramatic, holding her securely inches from the floor as if she weighed nothing at all. Her breath hitched, a surprised laugh dying on her lips just as his mouth captured hers.
The kiss was anything but restrained.
It was confident, claiming, utterly unapologetic—his hand firm at her back, the other braced beneath her shoulders as he poured every unspoken affection into the press of his lips against hers. Slow at first, then deeper, lingering like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
For a brief, treacherous moment, Hell ceased to exist.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against hers, grin bright and victorious.
“See?” he murmured, voice low and pleased. “Perfect.”