Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Angel really shouldn’t have been outside.

The studio door clicked shut behind him with that sharp, unforgiving snap that always reminded him of cuffs locking in place. Cold air slapped against his face in a clean, sobering burst — the sort of cold that shouldn’t exist in Hell but did anyway, because this place always found new ways to be wrong.

And then he saw it.

Snow.

Thin strands of pale static drifted down like white noise shaken loose from the Vees’ signal towers. The flakes glimmered in neon pinks, purples, and sickly blues as they passed through the glow of the V-shaped sign looming overhead.

Angel inhaled slowly. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to feel anything.

But he did.

Snow.

He hadn’t expected to see it again in this lifetime or the next.

He lifted a shaking hand — not from cold, but from exhaustion — and let one of the flakes melt on his glove. It fizzled into nothing. Maybe it really was static, atmospheric interference, whatever bullshit excuse Valentino would come up with later.

But Angel remembered real snow. Mortal snow. The kind that landed on your lashes and melted into your coat and stung your fingers and—

A voice tightened in his memory.

“Snow’s just frozen water fallin’ from the sky,” Husk had grumbled.

“It melts. It disappears. Kinda like most things that look pretty.”

Angel swallowed hard. His breath fogged the air.

He hadn’t thought about that day in months.

He let himself fall into it.

Back into that early memory from the Hazbin Hotel days, when Alastor had just moved in with Niffty and Husk in his entourage.

Angel had been smoking on the front steps — back when smoking still felt like something he chose to do, or at least thought he chose to, instead of something forced on him to “look brand-consistent.”

The air was surprisingly cold, his breath puffing out in little white clouds. Then the first flakes started falling, drifting down as silently as sugar dust.

Angel squinted up at them.

“Oh great. Hell’s got dandruff.”

Beside him, a gravelly voice replied:

“Hate t’ break it to ya,” Husk muttered, “but that ain’t natural dandruff. That’s just someone with too much power and boredom messin’ with the climate again.”

Angel blinked. “And why would they — whoever they are — do that? Tryin’ to summon Santa?”

Husk snorted. “If it does, I’m robbin’ the bastard.”

The snowfall picked up, gentle but steady. Angel watched it paint the cracked pavement in a patchy, glowing blanket. For a moment, he forgot to keep up the performance — the smirk, the flirt, the dramatic hair flip.

He just watched.

It felt… peaceful.

Something he didn’t trust.

He crouched down, touched one of the growing snow patches, and felt the cold seep through his glove. A memory, uninvited and unwelcome, pierced the back of his skull — a winter in his hometown, walking home after a long night of “family business,” snow muffling the city noise. The only time he’d ever known quiet.

He shook it off.

“Hey, Husky.” His voice came out softer than he intended. “You ever seen real snow? Y’know… before all this hell crap?”

Husk didn’t answer for a moment. He just stared out over the street, lighting a cigarette of his own and taking a long, slow drag.

“…Yeah,” he finally said as he exhaled. “Once or twice.”

Angel glanced at him. Husk looked different that day — less hunched, less bitter, his eyes reflecting the falling snow like tiny watery embers.

“What’d ya think of it?” Angel asked.

Husk huffed, the cigarette burning low between his fingers.

“Cold. Wet. Overrated. Snow’s just frozen water fallin’ from the sky.”

Then, more grumpily, in a low mumble:

“It melts. It disappears. Kinda like most things that look pretty.”

Angel laughed — a real laugh. It surprised him; startled him, even.

Husk didn’t look over, but his ear twitched as if he’d noticed.

Then, quietly, “But…” Husk continued, flicking ash into the snow. The tiny spark hissed and vanished.

“It changes things. Even if it’s temporary. Makes the world quiet. Clean. Even if just for a minute.”

Angel stared at him, raising one eyebrow. “Damn, Husky,” he said with a low whistle. “Didn’t know you had poetry in ya.”

Husk’s feathers bristled. “I don’t. And if you tell anyone I said that, I’m drownin’ you in the slush.”

Angel laughed again, imagining Husk shoving him into the tiny patch of snow by their feet.

“That’s fair.”

They stood together in the cold glow, neither admitting they enjoyed the company.

It became a memory Angel tucked away in the few places he still allowed warmth.

A sharp crunch in the snow jolted Angel out of the past.

He spun, defensive instinct surging through him — but instead of Valentino or a goon, he saw a tall, irritated hellhound in a black hoodie wrapped too tightly around herself.

“Jeez, princess! You tryin’ to give me a heart attack? I’m fragile.”

She scowled like his entire existence was a personal inconvenience.

“Wow. Didn’t expect the porn mascot to be monologuing like a sad anime character.”

Angel let out an indignant huff.

“The hell you doin’ out here anyway?” she asked. “It’s freezing.”

Angel blinked. “I’m takin’ a break. What’s your excuse? Sneakin’ out for some edgy winter-aesthetic photos?”

“My excuse,” the teen said flatly, sticking a cigarette in her mouth, “is that my dad is inside negotiating a job with a client who won’t stop hitting on me. So now I’m out here enjoying the part of Hell where people don’t suck.”

She lit the cigarette with a soft swoosh after multiple failed attempts  of her beaten up lighter .

“Sweetheart,” Angel muttered, “you’re still talkin’ to me.”

She huffed a smoky laugh despite herself. “Yeah. I guess as long as you’re not trying to hit on me like that creep inside, I can endure your presence.”

She stepped closer, watching the snow fall past the neon signs. She held out the cigarette pack in offering, but Angel declined with a polite shake of his head — smoking had started making him nauseous these days.

Her breath curled in front of her, both from the cold and the smoke.

“…Pretty, though,” she muttered.

Angel smirked. “Naww, thanks, honey.”

“I meant the snow. Not you. Don’t get weird.”

A laugh escaped both of them — a real, tired sound.

They stood in silence for a minute, one smoking, the other hiding from his job, the soft static fall filling the space between them.

Then the hellhound spoke again.

“You look like shit.”

Angel laughed — hollow, but real. “Yeah. Been hearin’ that a lot lately.”

“You okay?” she asked, letting the lit cigarette dance between her fingers, trying to sound casual but not quite pulling it off.

He could lie. He almost did.

But something about the quiet, and the snow, and the fact that she was a total stranger who didn’t seem like the type to pity him — it loosened something in his chest.

“I was thinkin’ about someone,” he confessed.

Her ear flicked. “A friend?”

“…Yeah,” Angel whispered. “A good one.”

She nodded, waiting.

“He used to say somethin’ about snow… somethin’ about how it changes things. Even if it don’t last long.” Angel’s voice wavered. “Just for a minute… it makes things quiet. Clean. Like maybe the world ain’t as ugly as it seems.”

A moment passed as she studied him.

“That sounds… kinda corny, dude.”

“Yeah,” Angel said, eyes stinging. “He was. Even though he’d deny it.”

Snow drifted into his hair, settling lightly.

The tall hellhound shuffled her feet — uncomfortable with emotions, but unwilling to leave.

“…Don’t you think,” she said slowly, “that he’d want you to remember the whole quote? Not just the part that hurts?”

Angel blinked, surprised.

She didn’t look at him — just stared ahead, arms crossed, tail flicking.

Angel breathed slowly.

“He’d probably tell me to ‘quit mopin’ already,’” Angel said, imitating Husk’s gravelly tone with uncanny accuracy.

She snorted. “Sounds like a guy who knew you well.”

Angel smiled faintly. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

Another pause.

“You miss him?” she asked out of the blue.

Angel didn’t answer at first. His throat tightened. He hadn’t said they weren’t seeing each other anymore — but something in his tone must’ve given it away.

“…More than I should,” he managed.

The teenage hellhound didn’t push. She just muttered, “For what it’s worth… you’re a good guy. You deserve some good friends.”

Angel stiffened — because those words hit a wound he kept buried.

Then, quietly, “Thanks, kid.”

She grimaced like she’d bitten something sour. “Don’t call me kid.”

“Well, I don’t got any other name for ya, do I?”

As if on cue, a large, loud Imp kicked open the door and barreled outside.

“Looney! There you are, sweetie — we got a job to do! Let’s go!”

“Ugh.” ‘Looney’ flattened her ears and flicked the nearly finished cigarette into the snow, where it died with a hiss. “Comin’, Dad.”

To Angel’s raised brows, she quickly added, “Adopted.”

“Well, was nice talkin’ to ya, Looney.”

She flicked her ear. “It’s Loona. And yeah — likewise. Try callin’ your boyfriend.”

Angel was too stunned to answer before she trotted toward the street, where her adoptive Imp dad waited in a beat-up van, honking without rhythm.

And just like that, he was alone again.

Snow drifted down around Angel Dust, settling in soft static lines against his shadow as he methodically fumbled with his phone. He hadn't replied to any text or call from anyone for weeks now. Not since… 

Angel closed his eyes, trying to get rid of that memory.

For the first time in months, the world felt quiet again.

Just for a minute.

Just long enough.

Chapter Text

Sir Pentious had never been more tightly wound in his entire snakelike existence than he was right now — which was saying something, considering he once spent three months coiled around a death ray waiting for it to “dramatically activate.”
Today, however, was worse.
Today was Heaven’s Christmas Tradition Day, and he was determined — absolutely, undeniably, catastrophically determined — to make the best impression possible.
“Act angelic,” he muttered to himself as he slithered down the pristine hallway. “Act pure. Act serene. No explosions. No mad cackling. No calling anyone ‘foolish,’ Pentious, you promised yourself that one specifically—”
“Good morning, Pentious!”
“GAHH” He jolted so hard he almost shed his skin. Emily floated alongside him, hands clasped in her usual bright smile. She wore a garland of tinsel around her waist like a belt, somehow making it look fashionable and holy at the same time.
“A-Ah! Miss Emily!” Pentious straightened, trying to look ethereal instead of like a nervous Victorian inventor about to be caught stealing Christmas cookies. “I am prepared! Utterly prepared! I shall participate in your serene, gentle, completely non-competitive heavenly festivities!”
Emily blinked. “Uh… good! That’s… great?”
He saluted with both hands. She decided not to question it.

The first tradition of the day was simple: join the choir in a peaceful carol.
At least, it was supposed to be.
Pentious sat among rows of soft-voiced angels, trying to mimic their effortless elegance. Their notes floated like warm light. Their faces were serene.
Pentious inhaled.
He opened his mouth.
And what came out was…
Victorian. Steampunk. Operatic.
Grand and booming, with a dramatic vibrato that made the halos in the room rattle.
“I— WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMASSSSS-” he belted, sweeping his hairlike, serpentine hood like a stage cape.
Someone shrieked as the organ pipes began to rattle from sheer decibel force.
Several angels dropped their sheet music.
Emily, bless her, put a calming hand on his shoulder. “Pentious, sweetie — maybe… inside voice?”
He froze. “I… have one of those?”

Next was gingerbread building. Easy, peaceful, relaxing.
Emily showed him a simple house. Cute little chimney. Gumdrop walkway.
Pentious stared at it thoughtfully.
“…Your houses lack defensive structures.,” he observed.
“That’s… on purpose.”
He nodded slowly.
Then he got to work.
It began as a house. Truly, it did. But somehow, through the alchemy of chaotic good intentions, it evolved into a towering, multi-spired gingerbread fortress with rotating peppermint gears, taffy hydraulics, and a licorice-fueled energy core.
A gingerbread death ray rose proudly from the top like a star.
Emily massaged her temples. “Pentious… what… is that?”
He puffed out his chest. “An architectural marvel! A marvel of sugar-based engineering! A symbol of peace through theoretical superior confectionery firepower!”
“It’s— it’s pointing at the tree.”
“Oh. Well… yes.”
With a snap of a gumdrop, the entire creation rotated, tracking the nearest moving angel.
Emily placed a gentle hand on his arm before it could escalate. “Pentious, remember: calm traditions.”
He drooped slightly. “Oh. Right. Of course.”
She gave him a warm smile. “It’s very… impressive, though.”
He perked right back up.

By midday, Pentious was spiraling.
“Everyone is so calm!” he whispered hoarsely. “So peaceful! So— so well-behaved! Where are the competitive villain banquets? The annual ‘Who Can Build the Most Dangerous Tree’ contest? The holiday hostage exchanges?!”
Emily choked on the mention of the later holiday tradition from hell. “The what?!”
His eyes shimmered pathetically. “I do not belong here, do I?”
Her expression softened. “Pentious…”
“I’ve tried to be serene! I tried to sing softly! I tried to build a normal gingerbread— well, I tried! But everything I make turns into… me.”
He curled slightly, the tip of his tail trembling.
“What if Heaven decides I’m not good enough for this?”
Emily approached gently, like calming a frightened animal — except the animal was an overdramatic Victorian snake inventor trying very hard not to cry peppermint tears.
“Pentious,” she said softly, “traditions aren’t about matching. They’re about sharing.”
He blinked.
“You don’t have to be like us. You’re already trying. And honestly?”
She smiled warmly.
“I like your traditions. They’re chaotic, and weird, and way too big… but they’re you.”
Pentious swallowed hard, throat tightening. “You… really think so?”
“I do,” she said. “And I bet Heaven will too. Christmas is big enough for all kinds of hearts.”
His eyes shimmered again — but this time with warmth.
“…Even serpentine ones?” he whispered.
Emily laughed. “Especially serpentine ones.”

That evening, Heaven’s Christmas tree glowed with soft white lights — and, next to it, stood Pentious’s towering gingerbread death ray, now gently re-purposed by Emily into a harmless, spinning decoration.
Angels gathered to admire both.
Not matching.
But beautiful together.
Pentious stood beside Emily, hands clasped behind his back, eyes a little watery in that “if you mention emotions I will perish” way.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “For letting my madness… coexist with your serenity.”
She smiled and nudged him. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without you now.”
His tail curled happily.

Chapter Text

The outside of the hotel looked like winter had exploded on it.
Garlands hung from every window, bright red bows dangled from the roofline, and Charlie stood in the middle of it all like a one-woman decorating tornado—fingers freezing, breath puffing out in little clouds as she tried to attach yet another string of lights to the balcony rail, dangerously balancing on its edge.
“Okay, Vaggie—left! No, I mean—wait, your left! No, the other—”
“I swear to-! Charlie, if you make me go left to go right one more time, I’m putting these lights in the trash!” Vaggie snapped, balancing on a stack of crates below and glaring up at the princess.
Charlie grinned sheepishly. “Sorry! Sorry. They just need to go… you know… left-ish.”
“Left-ish is not a direction.” Vaggie called back from below, arms now crossed, looking both lovingly supportive and deeply concerned for Charlie’s balance. “Also please don’t fall.”
Charlie giggled and jumped back down to the snow. “I’m fiiine. Just a few more lights and it’s perfect.”
“It’s already blinding,” Husk muttered from his spot leaning against the doorframe, sipping something suspiciously steaming. “If one of those bulbs explodes in my face, I’m suing.”
Charlie overheard this commentary completely and instead cheerfully addressed him in her typical Charlie-manner.
“You’re welcome to help, you know!”
Husk took a slow sip. “Nah.”
Before she could respond, a sudden burst of shimmering gold light appeared beside her, swirling dramatically, overly theatrical—of course—and then fading to reveal the King of Hell himself.
Lucifer dusted off his shoulders as though he’d arrived from somewhere terribly important, then smiled a little too broadly.
“My dearest starlight!” he announced. “I have come to check on your festive progress! Surely you could use a touch of royal assistance, yes?”
Vaggie sighed, already smelling the chaos that was sure to follow the other fallen angel wherever he went. “Here we go.”
Charlie beamed. “Hi Dad! And we’re almost done—just hanging the last of the lights before the big decorations tomorrow.”
Her words puffed a soft fog in the cold. Lucifer blinked… then frowned.
“You’re freezing.”
She shrugged. “A little! But it’s fine—”
“No, no, no, absolutely not,” Lucifer said, dramatically offended on her behalf. “I refuse to let my daughter turn into an icicle in front of my eyes and let her hands fall off!”
Husk snorted. “Pretty sure that’s not how anatomy works.”
Lucifer, being too deeply hyperfocused on his daughter's wellbeing, ignored the cat demon's commentary.
Charlie laughed, cheeks pink—partly from the cold, partly from how ridiculous her father was being- then winced slightly as she rubbed her hands together. The skin was pink from the cold. He wasn't wrong about her turning into an icicle.
Lucifer noticed instantly.
“Oh absolutely not. Let me see those.”
Before Charlie could protest, Lucifer gently took her hands in his. His expression softened.
“These ARE freezing,” he murmured, brows knitting in concern. “Charlie, why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want to stop decorating! I’m okay, really—”
But Lucifer wasn’t listening. Already he was shrugging off his coat and sliding his long sleeves over her hands—pulling them in until only her fingertips peeked out.
Just like when she was little.
Well, except now she wasn't so little anymore and Lucifer may or may not had to magically size up his coat for his adult daughter to properly fit into it like she used to as a child.
Charlie blinked. “Dad…”
“Hush. I am being comforting,” Lucifer insisted. “Let me have this.”
She slipped her hands deeper into the warm fabric—into the memory.
Lucifer kept one hand on her shoulder, awkward but earnest, like he was trying very hard not to do it wrong.
“You used to warm your hands in my sleeves whenever you’d get too cold playing outside,” he said quietly. “Do you… remember?”
Charlie sniffed a little, maybe from the cold, maybe from the memory, eyes soft. “Yeah. I do.”
Husk squinted. “Should we… leave?”
Vaggie elbowed him not very subtly. “Yes.”
Both retreated inside, giving the father-daughter moment some space.
“You’ve grown so much,” he murmured. “But you will always be my little starlight. And it is my duty to keep your hands from becoming icicles.”
Charlie snorted. “That’s a weird way to say ‘I love you.’”
Lucifer cleared his throat, suddenly fidgety. “I—ah—know I haven’t been the most… accessible parent, but… I’d like to do better. “
Charlie’s smile wobbled with emotion as she leaned against him. “You’re doing great already.”
They stood together in the falling snow, lights twinkling around them, warmth spreading between them despite the cold.
“You wanna help putting up the last of the lights?” Charlie asked after a minute of silence.
“Do I?” Lucifer grinned. “Absolutely!”
Which is how, ten minutes later, Vaggie came back outside to find Lucifer hanging upside down from the balcony rail, trapped in a strand of lights like a glittering holiday spiderweb, while Charlie laughed so hard she almost fell into the snow.
“How” Charlie gasped, wiping tears of laughter. “How did… how did that even happen—”
“I don’t know,” Lucifer said, voice tangled and muffled. “But I blame Whiskers.”
Vaggie was shouting something about “for the love of Hell, stop moving or you’ll electrocute yourself!”
Husk was taking pictures.
And through it all, Lucifer—wrapped in wire, glowing bulbs stuck in his hair—looked down at Charlie and said, completely unashamed:
“I did this for you.”
Charlie wiped a tear. “I know, Dad. I know.”
And her hands stayed warm the whole time.

Chapter Text

The IMP office had seen some strange shit, but this?
This was new.
Stolas had been pacing for ten agonizing minutes, talons clacking on the cracked floorboards, feathers drifting like confetti after a parade. The air hummed with nervous energy, flickering faintly every time he wrung his hands.
Blitzø finally snapped.
“OH MY FUCKING SATAN, will you sit your fancy-feathered ass down?! You’re moulting all over my rug!”
Stolas froze mid-step, feathery coat half-flared, a handful of feathers spiraling tragically to the ground.
“…Sorry. I’m just—” He swallowed hard, eyes dropping. “—this is important.”
Blitzø had a snarky comeback primed and loaded, but the look on Stolas’s face—
It punched the wind right out of him.
The owl wasn’t glowing.
Wasn’t posing.
Wasn’t doing the horny eyes.
He just looked… small. Almost fragile, like someone had taken the shine off him.
Blitzø exhaled, flopping into his chair. “Alright. What’s going on, Feather-Daddy Issues?”
Stolas inhaled deeply, then pulled out something from beneath his robes:
A small key, faintly shimmering, glowing like the dying breath of a star.
“My daughter’s gift for hellmas,” he murmured. “I hid it before I was banished. Somewhere in the castle only I knew. It’s deeply personal, and I… I want her to have it. Even now.”
Blitzø blinked, processing.
“Okay. So? Go get it?”
Stolas winced—dramatically, pathetically, like a parakeet offended by its reflection.
“I am banned, Blitzy. Stella’s turned the place into an armed fortress.
Every ward, every curse, every deranged relative is on high alert. If I get within a mile, the entire Goetia court will try to vaporize me.”
Loona, filing her claws in the corner, didn’t even look up.
“Sounds like a you problem, not an us problem.”
Stolas surged forward, grabbing Blitzø’s hands in a death grip like a Victorian widow begging a soldier not to go to war.
“I’m begging you. Please retrieve it for me. It’s for Via.”
Blitzø groaned, head hitting his desk.
The Sad Dad Card.
His one weakness.
Emotionally compromised. AGAIN.
“God DAMN it, why do you always pull the ‘sad dad’ thing?” He stood abruptly, tail flicking. “Millie! Moxxie! Loona! Family meeting! We got a job.
Loona didn’t ”even bother to look up. “No we don’t.”
“Yes we do.”
“No we don’t.”
“YES WE DO, LOONA.”
Stolas blinked hopefully. “So… you’ll help?”
Blitzø threw up his hands.
“Yeah yeah, fine. We’ll do your stupid little Christmas miracle heist.”

An hour later the lights in the office were dimmed and Blitzø had rolled out a stained whiteboard with childlike lettering:
MISSION OBJECTIVES
1. Break into Goetia Castle without dying
2. Find Stolas’s Secret Sentimental Whatever
3. Don’t get caught
4. Maybe piss off Stella (BONUS POINTS)

Blitzø slapped his riding crop—(reason for it being in the office undetermined, probably kinky)—against the board.
“Alright assholes, this is a stealth mission—”
The entire team laughed.
Blitzø glared. “Shut up! Listen. First we infiltrate using—”
Loona sighed already rolling her eyes “Let me guess. Stupid disguises.”
Blitzø grinned wide. “STUPID DISGUISES!!”

→ Goetia Castle — Midnight ←

The blizzard shrieked like a banshee, snow whipping across the sky. Shadows stretched long over the frozen courtyard, moonlight catching the gilded towers of the Goetia estate.
Three imps and a hellhound approached through the storm dressed like absolute clowns.
Millie in a perfectly crisp butler uniform making her look too overdressed even for this place.
Moxxie for whatever fucking reason wearing a sexy maid outfit that was clearly meant to be worn by a succubus.
Blitzø sportet an obviously fake falcon mask (“Gotta blend in with them birds, fuck off Moxxie!”) and tuxedo.
Loona: just a hoodie. No disguise. She refused. And oddly enough the blended in the most.
The castle gates loomed above them, humming with magic and the silent threat of aristocratic judgment.
Moxxie gulped. “Sir… this place is crawling with patrols. We need a plan.”
“I GOT ONE,” Blitzø announced confidently.
He kicked the gate.
The massive purple metal didn’t budge.
He tried again. The gate simply glowed brighter in annoyance.
He kicked it a third time—before pulling out a Glock 19.
“Sir, I thought this was a quiet operation?”
“Don’t worry, Mox! It’s got a silencer!”
He fired.
The bullet pinged off the enchanted surface and ricocheted back toward his head.
“OH SHIT—!” Blitzø ducked with a yelp, just barely dodging the accelerated projectile.
“OW! FUCK! Okay. Maybe Plan B.”
Millie’s eyes lit with murder-happy enthusiasm. “Plan B is always violence!”
She hauled out her cartoonishly large axe proudly declaring “It’s Millie time!” (Once again trying to establish it as her catchphrase)
One swing, and a massive gash ripped through the gate, screeching like metal in pain.
Moxxie stared at her, hopelessly in love. Before he could even open his mouth to say anything complementing his unhinged wife, Blitzø shoved him aside, squeezing through the opening first. “Good job, Mills!”
For reasons unknown to Satan himself, no guards came running at the noise they had caused.
The imps exchanged glances, shrugged, and slipped inside.

Inside the castle the air was cold, still, suffocatingly royal. Velvet tapestries hung from the walls, depicting constellations and Goetia ancestors with obnoxiously smug faces.
They made it only halfway down the hall before spotting two patrolling imps marching in eerie synchronization.
The team dove behind a massive tapestry.
Loona whispered, “Every guard here looks like they pay taxes. I hate it.”
As soon as the guards passed, Moxxie pulled out the glowing key Stolas had handed them along with a waydescription.
“The hidden room should be in the west wing. This way!”
Surprisingly, they got far. Only one guard pair had to be “silenced” by Blitzø.
“They’re just unconscious” Blitzø hissed at Moxxies disgruntled glance. “Probably. Might get fired tho. Definitely fired.”
They reached an almost invisible door concealed behind a tapestry of star formation charts that Stolas had described prior in greta detial.
The key pulsed brighter as they approached.
Even more so as they slid it into the lock. It clicked softly.
The door swung open.
Inside was a small room filled with wards and a pedestal holding multiple strange Items. Most noticeable a wooden crescent-moon box glowing faintly with enchantment.
Blitzø approached, slow, cautious.
“This the thing?”
Moxxie nodded. “Matches Stolas’s description.”
Blitzø reached out—
FWOOSH!
A flame glyph blazed under his foot.
“Oh RIGHT,” Blitzø shrieked, “the fucking SECURITY SYSTEM—!”
Stolas DID mention it. However, IMP’s collective singular braincell simply forgot.
Sirens wailed, Bright red light flooded the hall, armored guards started flooding the corridors.
“WHY ARE THESE FUCKERS SO QUICK?!” Blitzø hollered.
Loona, apparently the only one focused enough, snatched the gift, dragging IMP out of the room.
“Maybe because it’s a demon aristocrat castle!”
Moxxie dodged a blazing curse bolt. “Sir! Either we retreat or we escalate!”
Blitzø lit three sticks of dynamite at once.
“Fuck Stealth. We escalate!”
Millie cheered. “YEEHAW!”
Chaos erupted.
Blitzø skidded into a grand hallway lined with columns so tall they scraped the arched ceiling.
The alarms hadn’t even finished their first full wail before he made a very reasonable decision:
“Okay, team!” he shouted, pointing dramatically. “New plan: DESTROY EVERYTHING SUPPORTING THIS BITCH!”
Moxxie shrieked, “THAT IS NOT A PLAN—!”
Too late.
Millie was already charging at a marble column thicker than a tree trunk, screaming like a banshee on Black Friday.
She swung her axe—
CRACK!
The entire pillar split down the middle like a rotten tooth.
A chandelier the size of a minivan groaned above them.
Loona looked up, ears flattened in distress. “Yeah, that can’t be good..”
Blitzø kicked another column for good measure, yelling, “WAKE UP AND CHOOSE VIOLENCE, GORGEOUS!”
Another crack.
Another ominous creak.
The chandelier began to wobble like it regretted every life choice that led it here.
A pair of Goetia nobles, probably some cousins of Stella or something, peeked out from behind a door, horrified.
“Oh dearest—”
“What are they doing to the structural integrity—?!”
Loona strolled past them, shoved the door shut, then shoved a decorative suit of armor in front of it.
“Wrong place, wrong time, feather dorks.”
And then the chandelier came crashing down.
Glass exploded. Fireworks of sharp shards burst in every direction.
The blast slammed a dozen guards, that were moving towards them into the walls.
When the smoke cleared, the imps responsible for the chaos stood in the wreckage, triumphant and also extremely singed.
Blitzø dusted soot off his tux. “Kids, what did we learn?”
Millie raised her hand. “Destroyin’ architecture is FUN!”
Moxxie, twitching: “We learned NOTHING and I want to GO HOME.”
For once, Blitz seemed to agree with his employee. They sprinted onward, towards the slashed gate they sneaked in from— but the collapsing hallway triggered a chain reaction.
Cracks raced up the walls.
Beams snapped.
A distant tower groaned ominously.
Loona kicked open another door. “Hurry up! The whole foundation’s going spaghetti!”
Another guard tried to block their way—
Millie clotheslined him while Blitzø threw a grenade at the same time.
The hallway behind them collapsed in a majestic, multi-million-dollar avalanche of rubble.
Moxxie stared, slack-jawed. “Stolas is 100% losing the castle in the divorce.”
Blitzø shrugged. “Eh, he wasn’t using it anyway.”
One final support pillar cracked, split, and folded like a kicked-over Jenga tower.
The entire left wing tilted five degrees.
Loona grabbed Blitzø by his tail. “MOVE YOUR STUPID ASS!”
Tables flipped. Luxurious furniture flew in arcs of flaming debris.
Somewhere in the castle Stella’s shriek rattled the remaining chandeliers: “YOU FILTHY LITTLE RATS!”
To which Loona muttered out “Great. Divorcezilla. Looks like we got noticed.”
Said Lady of the castle appeared above them, feathers flaring like a spiked crown of fury, launching spell after spell in a stream of vicious sparks.
“YOU WILL REGRET EVER BEING BORN-!”
Blitzø laughed maniacally, interrupting whatever british sounding fuck she was about to say. “RETREAT!!”
A swarm of Goetia guards dive-bombed them like deranged pigeons.
Millie body-slammed one out a window.
Moxxie somehow got tangled in a tapestry but managed to perform perfectly executed shots from his unfortunate position.
Blitzø sprinted toward a stained-glass window.
“FOLLOW ME!”
“Blitz—WAIT—!” Moxxie yelped, as Milly grabbed him, ripping off the entire Tapestry and swung him over her shoulders like a sack of sad potatoes.
The larger imp jumped through the glass with no second thought whatsoever.
The rest followed because survival instincts are no match for peer pressure.
They fell three stories—
Landed in a hedge shaped like a giant phallus—
Scrambled out screaming—
And bolted into the night.
“MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE!”
Blitzø ripped open a portal just as Stella’s last spell singed his tail.

Stolas was pacing in the beat up office again when the portal appered and three imps and a hellhound tumbled through it, in a heap of soot, snow, and trauma.
“YOU GOT IT?” he gasped.
Loona held up the crescent box.
Despite still being tangled in the ripped up piece of tapestry, Moxxie declared proudly, “Mission accomplished, sir!”
Stolas nearly collapsed in relief.
“Thank you. Oh—thank you.”
Blitzø brushed debris off his horns. “Yeah, yeah. Tell your crazy ex to take a Valium or some shit.”

The others drifted off to lick their wounds and argue over who caused the most structural damage (Millie won). Blitzø lingered, nursing a singed tail and pretending he wasn’t waiting for Stolas to say something corny.
Stolas turned the crescent box over in his hands, eyes soft and distant.
“…Thank you, Blitzy,” he said quietly. “Truly. You didn’t have to do this.”
“Yeah well,” Blitzø muttered, kicking at a loose floorboard, “your sad-dad eyes are like a fucking cheat code.”
Silence. Comfortable. Weird.
Stolas looked at him — really looked at him — with an expression Blitzø didn’t quite know how to fight off.
“Blitzy?” Stolas asked gently. “Would you… like to spend the holiday with us? With Via and me? Only if you want to. And perhaps Loona too, if she doesn’t find the idea too terribly cringe. I would… very much like it.”
Blitzø choked on absolutely nothing.
“You’re asking me to—like—hang out? Like a… family?”
Stolas’s feathers fluffed nervously. “If that’s what you wish to call it.”
Blitzø stared at the floor.
At his hands.
At Stolas.
“…Loona might come,” he grumbled. “If there’s food. And if I bribe her. And if she doesn’t have to hug anyone.”
Stolas smiled softly.
“That should be manageable.”
Blitzø rolled his eyes so hard they nearly escaped his skull.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But if you make me sit through any cringe aristocrat holiday rituals, I’m burning something down.”
Stolas laughed his signature owlish giggle. “I will accept the risk.”

Chapter Text

The snow started sometime after sunrise.
Soft at first. Harmless.
It thickened steadily until the world outside vanished behind a curtain of white. By lunchtime, the hotel doors rattled under the wind. Someone (almost certainly Frank the Egg Boi) had forgotten to close several lobby windows, so half the ground floor had been snowed in and frozen.
Charlie kept trying to be positive while Vaggie wrestled with the windows, swearing in Spanish when they refused to budge even an inch.
By mid-afternoon the forecast was clear:
No one was going anywhere.
Especially not downstairs.
Which meant the entire staff and every resident were trapped together on the upper floors.
Inside.
All day.
With no escape.
For most places, that would inspire boredom.
At the Hazbin Hotel, it meant instant, weaponized chaos.

“Trapped.” Angel Dust stood dramatically at a frost-covered window, hands on hips. “Like a beautiful swan in a gilded cage.”
Husk didn’t even look up from the deck of cards he shuffled, fingers restless now that he was cut off from his bar.
“You’re a pigeon in a casino bathroom,” he muttered.
Angel blew him a kiss.
“Flattery gets you everywhere, daddy.”
Husk’s ears went flat. Whether in annoyance or embarrassment was unclear. He shuffled faster.
Niffty zipped past, arms full of blankets, scarves, and—was that a spatula?
“I FOUND THINGS!” she chirped. “Everyone was cold, so I collected fabrics! I also cleaned the attic! And the basement! And the elevator shaft! And—”
Angel flinched “Girl, when do you sleep?”
“I don’t!” she said cheerfully, as she stared at him without blinking.
Angel took a slow step back. “Okay then.”
Right then, Cherri kicked the door open with a bag that rattled ominously.
“PARTY SUPPLIES!”
“Are those explosives?” Charlie squeaked.
Cherri grinned. “Define explosives.”
Vaggie dragged a hand down her face. “No.”
“Too late!” the cyclope announced, dumping everything onto the table.
Fireworks. Confetti. Spray paint. A blowtorch. And, inexplicably, a rubber duck.
Angel clapped his hands like a delighted child.
“This is why you’re my best friend.”
“Damn right I am!”
The newest resident of the Hotel, Baxter, stood rigidly near the doorway, arms folded, eyes twitching as he surveyed the scene. He had been at the hotel less than a week and already regretted some of his afterlife choices.
“This degree of disorder,” he said carefully, “is… typical?”
Husk lounged beside him, drinking straight from a bottle he’d smuggled up during the evacuation.
“Unfortunately.”
Niffty darted past and threw a violently colorful scarf over Baxter’s shoulders before he could protest.
“For warmth, Smart Boy!”
Baxter stared down at the clashing fabric.
“…Thank you?” he said, though Niffty had already vanished in a blur.
Cherri pointed at him.
“You! Nerd! You and Pentious were partners!”
The anglerfish stiffened. “LAB partners. As I clearly stated before you blew up my laboratory.”
“Yeah, yeah, details. We’re stuck here for a while, so entertain us. Got any juicy stories?”
“No.”
“No to having fun or no to storytelling?”
“Both.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“What if I say pretty please?”
“No.”
Cherri turned to Husk.
“Get him drunk.”
The bartender snorted. “He doesn’t drink.”
“What? Seriously?”
“I do not ingest ethanol,” Baxter sniffed. “It is inefficient and biologically unnecessary.”
Angel muttered to Husk, “Translation: he’s no fun.”
Cherri cracked her knuckles.
“Okay. New plan. We get him drunk without alcohol.”
Baxter’s fins twitched. “That is scientifically impossible.”
Cherri smiled far too wide.
“You haven’t met me.”

To stave off boredoom (and keep Cherri from interrogating Baxter), Charlie suggested snow-themed indoor fun.
Niffty began making snowflakes from toilet paper.
Cherri used glitter, glue, and a blowtorch.
Angel made “snow angels” by lying dramatically on the carpet and demanding compliments.
Baxter attempted to remain dignified.
He failed.
Because Niffty kept appearing inches from his face:
“Do you want cocoa?”
“Do you like marshmallows?”
“What’s your favorite soup?”
“Favorite animal?”
When she paused long enough to inhale, Baxter muttered, “No, no, bierduppe , geese.”
Angel nearly stopped breathing from laughter.
Then Cherri slammed down a tray in front of him.
“You can’t drink. Fine. We’ll loosen you up another way.”
Baxter peered at it.
“What is that?”
“SUGAR.”
Pure candy. Syrup. Frosting. Marshmallows. Sprinkles.
A biochemical atrocity.
Angel howled.
“He’s gonna go full gremlin.”
Husk stood. “I’m not babysitting this.”
Baxter sniffed.
“I am unaffected by such childish treats.”
“Oh yeah?” Cherri said. “Prove it them. Scientifically.”
The mad scientist should have known better.
But the mad scientist was also mad.

Thirty minutes later, the inevitable sugar rush had Baxter vibrating like a power line.
He spoke three languages at once (Old Victorian English, Latin and for some reason also german?), wrote formulas on the wall and loudly insisted he could disprove gravity if someone would “just hold still and let me push them off the balcony.”
Angel filmed every second.
“This is the best day of my afterlife!”
Eventually, teams formed:

Those who had succumbed to the Madness:
Cherri, Angel, Niffty and sugar-high Baxter

And those who tried to keep their Sanity:
Husk, Vaggie, Charlie

The upper floor became a battlefield as snowball substitutes were crafted from flour, leftover sugarr, socks and glitter.
Cherri dove behind furniture, screaming war cries.
Niffty used the ventilation system like a gremlin sniper.
Angel attacked Husk with pillows, laughing.
Baxter, glowing with bioluminescent mania, launched himself at anything that moved.
As Husk got buried under cushions Angel, his assailant, peeked over, smirking.
“You okay down there?”
A flat , muffled voice answeared “Ask me again when I can breathe.”
The Spider reached out one of his four arms and offered his hand, still laughing.
Husk took it.

Later, when the storm still howled outside but the sugar crash had settled, they curled around the fireplace.
Cherri sprawled across one couch like she owned it.
Niffty quietly stitched a fatal tear in Baxter’s lab coat.
He allowed it, grumbling under his breath, fins twitching whenever she got too close.
Angel sat next to Husk, wrapped in a ridiculously fluffy pink blanket.
Vaggie and Charlie shared another.
Warmth filled the room.
For a rare moment, no one fought.
No one shouted.
Just crackling fire, blankets, soft breathing as the storm continued to rage outside.
Finally, Cherri yawned, breaking the silence.
“Hey Scienve guy… tell me something about Pentious.”
Baxter sipped the hot tea Niffty had given him—after insisting he didn’t want it. His bioluminescent lure glowed lazily in the firelight.
“He once attempted to weaponize snowmen.”
Everyone stared.
“…Why?” Angel asked finally.
Baxter shrugged “Because I encouraged him.”
Cherri’s eye gleamed.
“Oh my god. I’m gonna ask him to do that again when he gets back.”
Angel frowned.
“Pentious? Good luck. He’s in Heaven.”
Obviously not dicouraged by this mater of fact in the least, she grinned like a lit fuse,
“Well then I guess I’ll just have to hurry up and join him up there."
After all, wasn't that the whole point of the hotel?

Chapter Text

Velvette never invited anyone over.
Her apartment was immaculate, curated, sharp — a studio of glass and neon and polished floors that reflected her own silhouette back at her: perfect, untouchable, and alone.
She liked it that way.
No softness. No warmth.
Except the pile of plush slippers Valentino gifted her on occasion hidden under her bed — but only one other person knew about those.
So when the doorbell rang just past midnight, Velvette’s first emotion was offense.
Someone dared intrude on her solitude.
She padded across the floor in ridiculous, fluffy fox slippers — vicious teeth, jeweled eyes — absurd and adorable, but she wore them with the confidence of a queen.
She flung the door open with a venomous snarl ready on her lips.
It died there.
One of her Models stood in the hallway.
Melissa.
Shivering.
Mascara smeared.
Hair disheveled.
An oversized cloak covering her silhouette, hands clutched to her chest like she was afraid to let go.
Velvette stared.
Melissa stared back.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
Them Velvette’s eyes narrowed “Are you lost?”
Melissa swallowed. Her voice came out small, cracked.
“No. I… I didn’t know where else to go.”
Velvette hated how that sentence lodged itself somewhere under her ribs.
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“You could’ve gone to literally anyone else,” Velvette purred.
“Manager. Tailor. A bar. A ditch.”
Melissa looked down, embarrassed.
“I know.”
Velvette let the silence stretch. Delicious. Uncomfortable.
Then she stepped aside, lazy and regal.
“Fine. Come in before you ruin the hallway with your tragic energy.”
Melissa slipped inside.
The apartment swallowed her in soft pink and electric blue. Every surface gleamed.
Velvette flicked her fingers, and the lights shifted warmer. She pretended that was for the aesthetic. Not for Melissa.
“So,” Velvette said, pacing.
“What catastrophe compelled you to invade my personal space?”
Melissa opened the cloak.
The gown she wore underneath was ruined.
Wine stains. Torn seams. Something that looked suspiciously like teeth marks.
A full wardrobe catastrophe.
Velvette blinked.
“Darling, what happened? Did someone maul you?”
Melissa flushed. “There was… a party.”
“There was a battlefield,” Velvette corrected.
“It was an accident.”
“A massacre.”
“I tripped.”
“Onto a rabid animal?”
Melissa’s cheeks flushed.
“I have a photoshoot tomorrow. I panicked. I thought maybe you could—”
“Snap you a new dress?” Velvette finished sweetly.
“Yes, yes. Everyone wants something from me. Very predictable.”
Melissa flinched.
Velvette loved that.
Then Melissa whispered: “That’s… not the only reason I’m here.”
Velvette’s pulse stumbled.
She kept her face neutral.
“Is that so?”
Melissa nodded once. Eyes shining, vulnerable.
Velvette hated vulnerability. It made her teeth ache.
She turned away.
“Don’t be sentimental at me. I’ll break out in hives.”
“I just—” Melissa swallowed. “I wanted to see you.”
Velvette froze.
Oh. Ew.
How inconvenient.
She could have snapped her fingers and replaced the dress. Effortless. Instant. Making her unexpected visitor leave in just a minute.
Instead, Velvette stalked to her workroom.
“You’re lucky I’m in a charitable mood,” she tossed over her shoulder.
She wasn’t.
She was curious.
She gathered pins. Thread. A measuring tape. A thimble. Some random fabrics that seemed firting. Returned to find Melissa standing in the center of the room like a scolded child.
Velvette set the tools down with cold precision.
“Strip,” she said.
The taler demoness sputtered. “Excuse me?!”
“The dress is ruined,” Velvette said.
“I need to fit a new one. Unless you plan to model burlap.”
Melissa hesitated only a second before stepping out of the torn gown.
Velvette didn’t watch.
…Except she did.
From the corner of her eye.
She clicked her tongue.
“Stand still. Don’t breathe. Don’t think. It ruins the line.”
Melissa stood perfectly still.
Velvette stepped closer.
She could have used magic.
Instead, she slid her hands along Melissa’s waist, measuring, marking fabric, adjusting pins.
Her fingers brushed bare skin.
A caress disguised as work.
Melissa shivered.
Vel smirked.
“Cold?” she murmured.
“You're colder.” Melissa whispered back.
Velvette’s pulse tripped again.
She didn’t answer.
She was too focused on her work to bother with an answear.
But her palms remained against Melissa’s waist, thumbs brushing the curve of bone.
Minutes stretched.
Pins clicked. Thread tugged. The room grew warm. Close.
Melissa finally broke the silence. “You didn’t have to open the door.”
Velvette didn’t look up.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”
“You didn’t have to touch me. You could have snapped a dress into existence.”
Vel’s voice turned into a sharp, low growl.
“Are you accusing me of something, darling?”
Melissa smiled, a tiny dangerous thing.
“Just wondering why.”
Velvette met her eyes.
And for a moment — a long, electric moment — she couldn’t think of a single answer that didn’t sound like a confession.
So she chose cruelty.
“Maybe I enjoy watching you suffer,” Vel said sweetly.
“You’re very pretty when you’re desperate.”
Melissa flushed.
“You’re awful.”
“Yes,” Velvette agreed, stepping closer.
“And you came to me anyway.”
She pinned the last seam, brushing the skin just barely with the pointy needle head.
Melissa’s fingers curled in the hem of Vel’s shirt without meaning to.
A tiny, desperate clutch.
Their bodies were almost touching.
Velvette’s hand hovered at her waist.
She could have snapped away the distance.
Instead she leaned in.
Their breaths mingled.
She could taste the moment.
She could taste a ‘yes’.
Her thoughts were a mess of hunger and contempt and want.
She wanted to ruin Melissa.
To own her.
To make the girl cry and come back tomorrow anyway.
Lips inches apart.
Then —

BZZT. BZZT. BZZT.

“Which FUCKER-?!,” Velvette hissed.
Her phone lit up with frantic messages from the studio.
Urgent. Tomorrow. Crisis.
She groaned, head tipping back.
Melissa stepped back slowly.
Velvette hated how cold the room suddenly felt.
“I should go,” Melissa whispered.
Velvette didn’t say no.
She didn’t say yes.
She simply walked her to the door.
Melissa paused in the threshold.
“Vel?”
Velvette didn’t turn.
“What.”
“…Thank you. For letting me in.”
Velvette’s voice turned velvet-smooth.
“Don’t make a habit of it.”
Even without turning to face the girl, she could hear Melissa's smile in her voice..
“Too late.”
Door closed.
Silence.
Velvette leaned against it, eyes shut, heart racing.
Then she whispered to the empty room: “…Pathetic.”
She didn’t specify who she meant.
She didn’t have to.

Chapter Text

Lucifer had stopped showing up to the council meetings the 7 deadly sins were summoned to.
That was a problem.
There were whispers, concerns, and frantic infernal schedules piling up — and the other Sins were… well… not thrilled. Scheduling meetings in Hell was already a nightmare. Scheduling meetings without Pride was practically impossible.
He didn’t answer phone calls. He didn’t respond to texts. He did not react when someone tried to magically ping him. The usual ego-driven monologues were gone. The ceaseless aura that usually radiated from his seat at the council hall was replaced by a dusty rubber duckie holding up a “Brb”-sign.
No one knew if he was sulking, busy, depressed, distracted… or all of the above.
And, well, the Hellmas holidays were coming up anyway. So a plan was born.
Not a good plan, necessarily.
But a plan:
The remaining six sins would buy him presents!
More specifically: they would bribe him back.
Gifts were traditional. Bribes were traditional-er.
No one was proud of the idea.

Except Mammon.
Mammon adored it. Mainly because he came up with it in the first place.
The sin of Greed did not even bother to step outside his mansion.
He didn’t shop.
He just transferred money.
He sat in his gold pool, his centipede-like body lazily draped upon an inflatable dollar sign, sunglasses on, phone in hand.
“Send him the usual,” he told the nearest imp assistant.
The assistant blinked. “Sir, the usual is—”
“Double it,” Mammon snapped. “Make it look generous. And write a note. So he knows I send it.”
The assistant scribbled it down.
“Let the note get straight to the point, i dunno, something like ‘Come back to the meetings. This is a bribe.’ maybe?’” The assistant stared.
“Sir. That… that is very direct.”
Mammon shrugged and drank from a goblet shaped like his own head.
“What? He’s Pride. He likes honesty. And gold. And attention. It’s perfect.”
A beat.
“Also add a ribbon or something to make it look holiday-themed.’”
The assistant scribbled down everything.
Mammon waved his hand.
“And throw in a coupon for thirty percent off at my casinos. Can’t have him thinking I’m going soft.”
Then he stretched, basking.
“Bribe accomplished. I am AMAZING.”
He never left the pool.
It was the most Mammon approach imaginable.

Beelzebub on the other hand actually LOVED gift shopping.
She loved Hellmas.
She loved lights and glitter and the excuse to hang sparkly decorations EVERYWHERE.
And Bee did not walk.
She floated.
She buzzed happily through the mall, wings fluttering, smelling candy and perfume and cinnamon. Tex walked beside her, large and calm, occasionally holding her hand so she didn’t zip off into orbit.
“Okay babe,” she said, hands on hips, “we’re looking for a gift for Lucy. Something fun. Something sweet. Something tasty and enjoyable.”
“You want to get him drunk,” Vortex translated.
Bee gasped dramatically in mock offense.
“I would never! …at least not ONLY drunk.”
She dragged him into a stall that sold glowing bottles. Sparkling liquids in impossible colors: neon pink, deep violet, swirling gold.
“What’s his flavor?” The hellhound asked, watching her inspect shelves.
Bee tapped her chin.
“I dunno actually. Pride is rich. Rich people always like expensive alcohol, right? But he’s also dramatic. So I need something that screams ‘Drama-Bitch!’’”
She tasted everything the liquor store had to offer. “For research!” she insisted.
She found a bottle that looked like a golden galaxy in glass. Kinda like angel's blood… or Honey! Yeah, she liked that last one better. It was Perfect.
Then her gaze locked on something else at the candy store on the opposite side “Oh. My. Satan!”— Peeps! Or rather the Hell-equivalent of them which was actually a pretty good rip-off from the stuff the living had. Or so she was told.
Those overly sugary yellow bird marshmallow things.
And if one squinted hard enough, they ALMOST looked like ducklings. Per-fucking-fect!
Her eyes sparkled.
“It’s so CUTE!” Bee squealed.
“You sure these are gonna be a good gift for the big boss-man?” Tex questioned cautiously as he glanced at the yellow sugar-abominations.
“Oh, i'm VERY sure!” Bee insisted as she buzzed over to purchase the whole stock of Peeps the shop had to offer.
Tex lifted it all carefully.
With their gift shopping now out of the way, they decided to do some more ‘fun-shopping’. Well, Bee decided. Tex just followed loyaly. Bought her drinks. Held her bags. Listened while she talked a mile a minute.
She got him a matching scarf. He got her sunglasses. They were both delighted.
At some point they shared a cute kiss in front of a tower of gingerbread demons.
To them, hellmas tasted like honey.

Asmodeus? Well, he shopped like he performed:
with flair, rhythm, and DRAMA baby!
So when the Sin of Lust arrived, the mall practically changed color. It became brighter. Warmer. Louder. Fizz hung off Ozzie’s arm like a spark-covered ornament.
Now that he basically came out publicly at Mammon's stupid talent show, about him and Fizz being a thing, they didn't even bother being subtle about their relationship anymore.
“I want to buy EVERYTHING!” the hyperactive imp squealed.
“You always do, doll.”
Fizz climbed onto Asmodeus’ shoulders, balancing effortlessly as he held up a pink sequined coat.
“This one looks HOT.”
“Maybe on you, but not the guy we're shopping for, sugar.” with a wink he added “Do buy one for yourself tho. I wanna see you in that thing.”
Fizz giggled and leaned down, pecking a quick kiss on one of Asmodeus' three faces, upside-down, circus-style, one hand on Ozzie’s forehead.
Soft, warm, affectionate… but there was always that spark. That ~buzz~
Other demons stared. Some swooned. Several looked away in embarrassment.
Asmodeus and Fizz didn’t care.
Because of course they didn't give a single flying fuck about what others might think.
“What do you even buy for that guy then?” Fizz hummed, again perched on his shoulder. “I mean — what do you give someone who pretty much already has everything?”
Asmodeus pursed his lips.
“You give him something he didn’t know he wanted.”
They walked past jewelry, fashion, demonic tech… nothing clicked.
But they wouldn't miss any opportunity to try on ridiculous clothing. Furs, Glitter capes, Feather boas, Sunglasses with literal flames, the list was endless.
And every time Fizz posed, Ozzie clapped.
Every time Ozzie winked, Fizz melted.
But they just couldn't find what they came for.
Until they passed a random stall with mock-souveniers.
Fizz froze.
“Oz.”
Asmodeus followed his gaze.
It was a sweater.
A big holiday sweater.
Red and black and sparkly.
It said “II got banned from heaven and all i got was this stupid shirt” in bold lletters.
It wasn't even a shirt.
And Lucifer would absolutely HATE it.
Which meant Asmodeus wanted it immediately.
He bought it.
Fizzy bought another sweater from the same stall, a black and white striped one with the lettering “Ghost-Zombie Jesus”. None of them could find the context for that weird phrasing, but it was weird, and freaky and just fit their vibe.
They giggled like the most unhinged pair of gremlins down in hell.

Leviathan didn’t like malls.
Too many people. Too many shiny things. Too much noise. Too much watching.
She had two heads to glare with.
Both heads glared a lot.
She didn’t know what to buy for Lucifer. Everything seemed stupid. Inadequate. Unworthy. Not enough. He had everything. He was everything.
Levi hated that. She hated how beautiful Lucifer was. How charismatic. How powerful. How adored. She hated how envious she felt, but of course she would never admit to that, not even a little.
She slithered through shops, buying nothing.
Until she found the aquarium.
It was enormous.
Filled with rare creatures.
Things that sparkled, swam, flowed. Levi felt herself relax. This was her kind of ambiente.
There, in the center tank, was a creature she had never seen:
A sleek, enormous fish of impossible color, scales like mother-of-pearl, eyes iridescent.
The sign read:
>“Only one in existence.”<
Her hearts clenched.
She wanted it.
She imagined Lucifer wanting it too.
And that made her only want it more - for herself!
She approached the tank, two heads whispering:
“He would like it.”
“I would like it more!”
“He would not even appreciate it the way i do.”
“He’ll brag about it later.”
“Or just forget about it.”
She really wanted it for herself tho.
In the end, she bought the entire aquarium.
Not just the fish.
The tank. The installation. The staff. The feeding schedule. The décor. The maintenance contract.
Everything.
Not for Lucifer. For herself.
She felt like she deserved a little something.
Now that she owned the entire aquarium, she would just pick something from the gift shop she didn't feel too attached to and send it to him. Maybe also a ticket to visit HER new aquarium somedays?
Didn't he also have a daughter? Kids loved aquariums, right? So maybe two tickets?
That would probably be enough, right?

Meanwhile Belphegor slept through most of the shopping expedition that Bee basically dragged her into.
She had curled up in a giant pile of winter scarves in the second store they entered.
She snored softly, while every so often, someone tripped over her.
She did not notice or care.
When she finally woke, it was because Bee dropped a cinnamon sugar donut on her face. She blinked, sat up, and ate it without speaking.
Bee buzzed.
“Bel! You have to pick something at some point!”
She yawned.
“I already did.”
She held up a plushie. Of herself.
It was soft and fluffy.
“He can nap on it,” Belphegor added.
It was… actually pretty damn sweet.
Bee paused in visible confusion.
“Oh, well, okay then. I honestly didn't expect you to find something this quickly.” she admitted and scratched behind her ear before freezing as realization hit.
“But wait, where did you find a plush modelled after yourself? I didn't see anyone selling those?”
“Oh, I asked that nice lady over there if she takes custom orders.” She nodded towards the direction of a short, chubby demoness cowering behind a counter of hells version of “build-a-bear”. When she noticed the two deadly sins glancing in her direction her face turned an embarrassed shade of red before she hid behind one of the Hellhound-plushies she was just stitching together.
“Naww, i think that sweet thing got a crush on you, Bel!” Bee couldn't help to tease her shopping-companion.
But Belphegor had already collapsed back into the scarves and fell asleep again, Gift chosen.
“Alright, you take a nap, i'll see if they can do a Tex-Plushie too!”

Because Yogirt, had some kind of “family emergency” he had to attend to, Satan was left to do his gift-shopping without his little emotional support imp-hybrid. Under the premise that he would not let his voice raise above his “inside voice” - which was already booming to most sane creatures living in hell.
And because Satan was Satan, he arrived at the mall on horseback.
No one knew where he found a horse in Hell that managed to support his size. Or why the dragon-like being with the wingspan of a passenger aircraft would rather choose to travel by hoof.
No one asked. The horse was on fire, snorting smoke, yee-hawing like a demon banshee. Maybe that's why he chose the horse? That was Wrath for you.
He slid off the saddle, boots hitting the polished mall floor with a thunderclap.
He wore a long coat, spurs, a ring of (maybe decorative?) revolvers on his belt.
The Sin exhaled sharply, leaving a trail of smoke from his nostrils.
He did not WANT to be here or do this ridiculous shopping quest the other Sins have basically forced upon him.
Who cared if Pride showed up or not anyway? Satan did a GREAT job of replacing him in court just recently. He had been here even before that golden angel fell. HE should be the rightful ruler of hell! HE should -
No. Nope. Deep breaths. That's what Yogirt would tell him to do right now.
The hybrid imp was already having a hard time leaving Satan's side to attend to his own private drama because he had reasonable doubts about the giant demon's self regulation in this environment.
No need to prove him right by going on a rampage the second he arrived here.
Today was a Turquoise-day, Not a Ruby-Day! - he reminded himself. Yes, he would be fine. And relaxed. SO fucking relaxed!
“Alright,” he growled to no one in particular, making a pair of sucubi that were strolling around the mall nearby, flinch. “Find something that could pass as a gift. Be quick. Get out of here. Before noon.”
He let his gaze wander across the stalls and different shops.
Soap? Ehh.
Kitchen utensils? Lucifer probably wasn't much of a cook.
Candles? Just thinking about the amount of candles they wasted trying to summon Pride to one of their meetings drove Satan MAD again.
‘Nope. Calm down.’ He told himself as he let his gaze wander to find something that would help him calm down.
A hat shop.
But not just any hats
F E D O R A S.
Oversized. Ridiculous. The kind you’d wear if you wanted every demon in a five-mile radius to know you thought you were better than them.
And also, one of Satan's secret guilty pleasures.
It was just so tricky to find a hat that would A) fit his size and B) complied with his impressive set of horns. Usually Yogirt would place a custom order for him. Requesting hats with subtle holes so they can easily be slipped past his horns.
But today was not about Satan, it was about Lucifer. Reluctantly so.
Well, Satan never saw anyone who would say no to a nice big hat! Lucifer was wearing a hat all the time, so he would probably agree. Maybe that was the one thing they could both agree on? MaBe bond over hats one day?
Satan swaggered up to the counter of the shop and slammed both hands down.
“I need the biggest, gaudiest, most ego-inflatin’ hat you got.”
The clerk trembled.
“W-we have a… special piece. But it’s cursed.”
Satan leaned in slowly, eyes flashing red.
“Everything I own is cursed. Go get it.”
They brought it from the back room, the poor imp carrying it visibly struggling.
It was enormous.
A fedora the size of a small boat.
Black, shimmering, rim wide enough to block out the sun.
Oh yes, that one would do!
Satan didn’t haggle.
He didn’t ask if there was a discount.
He simply slapped a flaming credit card on the counter. Added some extra for service tip.
Something about being generous from time to time reflecting positively on his karma points or some shit that Yogirt would always yap about stuck with him.
Man, he kinda missed the guy chewing his ear off.
BUT! He did it! He went to the mall and actually got a gift for the Sin of pride without incinerating everyone!
This went surprisingly well.

Chapter Text

Husk always shuffled cards the same way.
It was a habit, muscle memory, ritual. When the world was too loud or too annoying— Cherri’s explosions from down the street, Vaggie and Charlie trying to reorganize the hotel lobby again, that new guy, rambling about science — he leaned into the familiar whisper of paper on paper. Cards snapping, gliding, flipping.
It was grounding.
Mechanical.
Predictable.
Tonight was cold. Not that Hell had weather, technically, but the lobby felt drafty and someone had left the windows cracked after decorating earlier. Probably Nifty — she was everywhere at once, like ADHD with legs.
Husk sat at the bar, wings tucked lazily, a half-finished bottle of something he pretended was alcoholic next to him. His cards rippled like a heartbeat between his hands.
He didn’t notice Angel walk in at first — not until the fifth shuffle, when a shadow stretched across the bar and a familiar voice said, low and casual:
“You’re really good at that.”
Husk didn’t look up. “I know.”
Angel chuckled and slid onto the stool next to him. He wore something sparkly. He always wore something sparkly. It wasn’t even a holiday outfit — just Thursday, apparently.
“Teach me?”
Husk’s wings twitched. “Teach you what?”
“That flourish thing you do,” Angel said, motioning. “With the cards. All sexy and smooth, like a casino ad.”
Husk scowled. “It ain’t sexy. It’s just shuffling, dumbass.”
Angel propped his chin on his hand and grinned wide “Maybe not. But it looks cool. And I wanna learn.”
Husk shuffled again, more aggressively this time. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
“Nope.”
Angel leaned forward, now grinning wide enough to show his fangs
“C’mon. Humor me.”
There existed maybe a thousand reasons why Husk could've said no.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he let the cards settle on the bar and sighed. “Fine. Come around here. I can’t teach over your shoulder from that angle.”
Angel’s grin brightened like a stage light, and he practically bounced off the stool, circling behind the bar with a casual little sway of hips. Husk tried very hard not to notice.
He failed.
Angel slid in beside him, close enough to smell cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, that Husk pretended he couldn't smell.
“Okay, what first?” Angel asked like an overly motivated boy-scout.
Husk handed him half the deck. “First? You hold ’em like this.” He showed him how to angle the fingers holding the deck.
Angel tried to imitate Husk's grip to which the cards immediately slipped and scattered over the bar like snowflakes.
Husk exhaled through his nose.
Angel laughed.
“Don’t judge me. I got big hands. They’re slippery.”
“They ain’t slippery. You’re just clumsy.”
Angel leaned into him, elbow nudging his ribs.
“You wound me.”
Husk gathered the cards back up, fussing with the corners. Angel watched his hands.
Husk’s hands were rough — scarred, furred, knuckles heavy. Angel’s were smoothly gloved, elegant, long-fingered. They shouldn’t have looked right together.
But when Husk set the deck back in Angel’s grip, their fingers brushed.
Just for a second.
Just some innocent contact.
Husk pulled back fast, as id he vurnt himself. “There. Try again.”
Angel did. It was awkward, clumsy — charming, somehow. He bit his lip in concentration. Husk stared at the countertop instead of his mouth. “Okay,” Angel said. “Like this?”
“Not like that. You’re bendin’ the spine. Cards ain’t meant for stranglin’.”
Angel huffed, kinky reply ready on his lips, but he swallowed it. He was too focused on actually getting that trick right.“Show me again?”
Husk reached again.
His hands closed over Angel’s — guiding, adjusting grip.
They were close. Really close.
Angel’s perfume mixed with the dusty scent of old carpet and warm bourbon. Husk could feel the heat of Angel’s body along his side. His wings pressed tight to his back to keep from brushing him.
He didn’t say anything. Angel didn’t either.
Suprisingly the silence wasn’t awkward.
Until Husk cleared his throat.
“You hold the edges, here and here. Then you let the cards slide off your thumb. Like rain.”
Angel tested the motion. Cards cascaded into a messy pile again.
“Rain!” Angel declared triumphantly.
Husk snorted despite himself.
“Almost. Your fingers are still too stiff. Relax.”
Angel fluttered lashes. “I can relax. Baby, I can relax so hard—”
“Not like that,” Husk muttered, ears flattening. He was actually suprised it took Angel this long to make some naughty remark. “Just… stop thinkin’ so much.”
Angel tried again. The cards spilled again after he almost had it last try. He groaned, dramatic.
“Okay, fine. Come here. Fix me.”
The words were innocent.
They didn’t feel innocent.
Husk slid in closer. His hands found Angel’s again. Rough curling over smooth. Steady guiding shaky.
Angel’s voice softened in a way that didn’t match anything he usually put on stage.
“You’re really patient, you know that?”
“I ain’t patient,” Husk corrected. “I’m bored.”
But that wasn’t true, and Angel knew it. Husk could feel that knowing in the quiet between them.
Angel’s fingers trembled slightly in his grip.
Husk didn’t mention it.
He adjusted the angle, thumb to thumb, palm to palm. The contact lingered longer than necessary.
The cards fluttered perfectly this time, cascading in a neat arc.
Angel gasped.
“Oh! I did it! Look at me! I’m amazing.”
“It ain’t that impressive,” Husk grumbled.
But he was smiling.
Like a teacher whose student finally cracked a formula.
“Teach me another!” the spider eagerly requested.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
Angel leaned in, shoulder bumping his.
“Naw, common! Pleaseeee?”
Husk rolled his eyes.
“Alright, alright. Before you start chewing my ear off. One more. Then you let me drink in peace.”
“Deal!”
He would never admit he was actually having fun.

Chapter Text

Blitzø didn’t usually get nostalgic.
Sentimentality was for suckers and idiots who didn’t have a business to run and a bunch of idiots to herd.
But Blitzø also had a box labeled “HOLIDAY SH*T” in thick, angry marker. He dropped it on the table in the I.M.P. office and dust puffed out everywhere.
Loona didn’t bother looking up from her phone and just scrunched up her nose.
Moxxie winced from where he sat surrounded by tiny appointment logs and schedules while Millie was knitting something minitaure-sized with weapons incorporated. There was a tiny axe charm on the end.
“Alright, minions,” Blitzø announced, hands on his hips, cape of tinsel around his neck, “this year, we are having a f*cking FAMILY HOLIDAY EXTRAVAGANZA.”
Loona snorted. “Gross.”
Moxxie, without looking up, said, “We really don’t have time for this, Sir. Between clients, winter traffic, and… you know…” He gestured gently toward Millie’s stomach, where their future murder-baby was kicking.
Millie smiled glowing sunshine as she stabbed a knitting needle through her yarn like she was skewering a demon.
“Exactly!” Blitzø shouted. “FAMILY! That’s why we’re doing this! All of us! Together!”
He pointed dramatically at Loona.
She still didn’t look up. “…no.”
Blitzø ignored that
“We’re gonna decorate. We’re gonna eat. We’re gonna wear stupid hats. We’re gonna pretend we don’t all hate each other sometimes—”
“We don’t hate each other,” Moxxie protested.
Loona shrugged. “Speak for yourself.”
Blitzø continued, louder, “—and we’re gonna have fun! Got it? FUN. Dammit.”
Silence.
Only a faint scritch scritch of Millie’s knitting.
Blitzø grinned painfully wide.
“I’ll… take that as enthusiasm.”

Later, Blitzø dragged the box to his office. He opened the lid and saw glittery ornaments, old ribbons, knotted lights. They smelled like dust, old sugar, and faint memories.
He almost felt like he was ten again.

The circus tent was alive with color. There were strings of mismatched lights, paper stars, cheap tinsel. Blitzo, tiny and wide-eyed, ran with Fizzarolli under a snowfall of glitter.
His mom swept through the ring in a red coat trimmed with faux fur, spotlight catching her horns. Everyone adored her, it was hard NOT to.
Barbie — little, bright, loud — clung to her brother's arm.
“We’re gonna put the star on the tree!” she announced.
Fizz bounced, like an hyperactive kangaroo. “No, I’m doing it! Blitzo sucks at climbing!”
“I do not!”
“You fell off the tent once.”
“I was pushed!”
“You tripped on your own tail.”
They all laughed.
It was chaos. It was warm.
It felt like everything would always be okay.
And then the memory got pushed aside by the sick green shine of hellfire.
Screams.
Smoke.

Blitzø snapped back to the present forcefully pushing said memory aside.
The office was quiet.
Only the hum of the vending machine.
He dragged a hand down his face.
“Okay. Fun. Fun. Family. Don’t think about fire. Great.”

Using his “Boss-privileges” (“There is no such thing, Sir” Moxxie had claimed) Blitzø forced everyone into decorating.
Loona sat on the couch, tossing ornaments at the wall halfheartedly.
Moxxie was “strategically planning” where each item should go, which involved a lot of tiny notes and arguing with Blitzø about symmetry.
Millie was assembling a wreath shaped like a skull.
Blitzø hung crooked lights while muttering.
“We’re gonna have a good time. We’re gonna have such a good time. We’re gonna have a f*cking good time if it kills me. Or all of you.”
Loona didn’t look up.
“Already feels like death, thanks.”
A snappy reply lingered on Blitzø's tongue, but darting his eyes to his adoptive daughter, he inhaled deeply before “So let’s do this one badly together then.”
She huffed — amused grin ghosting her mouth, which she tried real hard to hide, but Blitzø was sure he saw it- and put down her phone.
“Fine. But if anyone tries to sing, I will commit homicide.”
“That’s the spirit, Looney!”

He remembered the long tables of food. His mom and the performers gathered around. Cheap decorations, ripped tablecloths, pie with too much salt.
Everyone laughing.
Fizzarolli did juggling tricks with apples.
Barbie, hair in messy curls, was stringing lights and complaining that nobody let her juggle fire yet.
His mom told stories with wild hand gestures.
Blitzo ate until his stomach hurt, warmth filling him that had nothing to do with food.
He could still hear his mother’s voice.
“Family is who shows up.”
The way they all sat close, sharing food and stupid stories.
His father wasn’t there. He never was.
But they didn’t need him.
His mother’s laugh filled the whole night.
The flames had taken her not long after.

Blitzø blinked that memory away as always. “Fucking ghosts,” he muttered.
As the day approached, nobody looked excited but at least the Decorations went up.
He made Moxxie hang mistletoe, which resulted in a twenty-minute lecture about professionalism until Millie distracted him with a kiss.
Loona spent the entire day pretending she was not emotionally attached to any of this, and managed to hide away somewhere, avoiding getting involved in any more decorating.
Blitzø kept himself busy.
If he kept moving, he didn’t have to think.
At some point he stared at the empty sign-up sheet for activities.
He forced a grin that cracked.
“Okay. Fine. I do everything myself. Again. That’s fine. Totally used to it. No one ever helps Blitzø, nope, never—”
He kicked a still unpiacked box of decorations. “DAMMIT.”
His voice echoed through the office.
Something jingled at his feet.
A small, battered ornament had escaped the kicked box of decorations — circus colors still faint under scorch marks.
He picked it up.
Fizz had painted it once.
Barbie had glued glitter on the edges.
His mom had hung it every year.
Bad memories started to creep in once again.
He didn't know why he still held on to this piece.
A tiny knock behind him grabbed his attention and made him turn his eyes away from the ornament.
Millie.
“Blitz, sugar… we appreciate all the effort. We do. Ah’m just… tired. And Moxxie’s fussin’ and my back hurts and I don’t wanna ruin this for ya.”
Moxxie looked guilty.
Loona peeked from the hallway.
Blitzø felt shoulders slump.
“I didn't want to rile you up Mills” he said. “just…wanted something good. Something that feels like… I dunno. A family thing. Stupid i know.”
Loona crossed her arms.
“…you already have that, dipshit.”
Blitzø looked at her. At some point during the day she had changed and now wore an ugly holiday sweater that said “PISS OFF” in sparkly letters.
“We’re here. That’s family. We didn’t leave.”
He choked out a laugh.
“Wow. Emotion. From Loona. World’s ending.”
She rolled her eyes harder. “Don't make me regret getting the snacks for this stupid holiday party.“
Half the snacks in question were stolen from corporate parties they’d assassinated at earlier in the week.

There was glitter on everything.
Nothing matched.
The table was crooked.
The decorations lopsided.
The food that wasn't stolen was a mess — burnt, undercooked, or both.
Millie and Moxxie sang off-key musical duettes together. Loona sat with a mug of cocoa that obviously contained more than just one generous shot of Rum, occasionally kicking Moxxie’s chair just to see him jump.
Then — the door rattled.
Everyone froze.
Loona growled, “If it’s a client, I swear to Satan—”
The door swung open.
“Blitzy!” Stolas stood in the doorway, feathers dusted with frost, carrying a ridiculous gift bag.
“I heard there was a holiday gathering,” he said with genuine excitement. “I hoped I might join.”
Blitz opened his mouth to yell, or flirt, or make some terrible joke.
But what came out was:
“Yeah. Sure. Come in.”
Stolas did, handing Blitz a present.
“It’s nothing extravagant,” he said, which was a lie. “Just something that made me think of you.”

In his mind, Blitzø saw himself as a kid — climbing a ladder with the star for the crooked tree.
Fizz yelled encouragement.
Barbie clapped.
His mom watched, as he balanced at the top. “Don’t fall, honey.”
Back then, he didn’t.

Now, in the office, he climbed a stool to put a star on their own crooked, ridiculous tree.
It wobbled.
Stolas, who towered above anyone else and could have easily put on the star himself, lifted him gently from behind to steady him.
“Easy now,” Stolas murmured, voice soft.
Blitzø rolled his eyes in mock offense. “Don’t get weird.”
“Never, Blitzy.”
He put the star on the tree.
The group cheered.

The evening went on.
The music played.
They ate.
They laughed.
Even Loona stayed the whole time.
Blitzø sat down on the couch eventually, plate in lap, stomach full.
The Ghosts of Those Past Winters still lingered — smoke, laughter, circus lights — but they didn’t hurt the same way.
He wasn’t alone anymore.
Stolas sat beside him, feathers brushing his shoulder.
Millie dozed against Moxxie’s chest.
Loona leaned on the armrest, eyes closed.
“Family is who shows up.”
He wasn’t sure if he’d heard it or remembered it.
Either way, it felt true.

Chapter Text

The Hotel's kitchen belonged to Niffty today.
Technically, it belonged to everyone every day, but when Niffty declared it “HER DAY,” all the hotel residents instinctively gave her a wide berth. Not because they were afraid, exactly but because Niffty had a level of energy that no one wanted to stand between.
And right now “her” kitchen looked like a battlefield explosion.
Flour dust floated in the air like snow, coating the tiles, the counters, and half the ceiling. Every surface was occupied: bowls, spoons, whisks, and a questionable number of sharp knives gleaming in the warm light. Someone had put on an old swing record, and Niffty hummed right along, hips swaying, apron fluttering.
With a final dramatic hop, Niffty landed on the counter, hands on her hips, apron tied around her tiny waist like she was the general of this battlefield of sugar and spice.
A whisk spun between her fingers like a dagger.
A smile stretched across her face.
The oven light glowed like the eye of Sauron.
Everyone else stayed upstairs.
It was baking day.
Her favorite.

Niffty had planned this for weeks.
She had made lists.
And charts.
And color-coded recipe cards sorted by personality traits, dietary preferences, and the exact emotional profile of each resident.
Snooping?
No!
Observing.
Helping.
Housekeeping with heart.
She lined the recipe cards up on the counter in a neat row before clapping her tiny hands.
“Time to bake! Time to bake! Time to bake!”
She moved so fast she might as well have teleported.

The first card on her neat little line of recipe cards read:

CHARLIE — Apple Cinnamon Tart

Charlie loved cinnamon. She even put a sprinkle into her hot cocoa sometimes. Niffty had noticed — Niffty noticed everything. Always had, always would.
She sliced apples with the precision of a surgeon, each piece perfectly thin and even. The slices landed in the pan with delicate little pats, mixing with butter, sugar, and more cinnamon than most mortals could handle. The warm smell hit instantly, like a hug.
She rolled out the dough with quick, practiced strokes, sprinkling flour like fairy dust. The dough puffed beautifully under her rolling pin. With a tiny cookie cutter, she made star shapes and laid them carefully across the top in a symmetrical pattern. Cinnamon dusted her hair and apron like glitter.

And just like that, the tart was assembled — ready for the oven. But not quite yet.
Everyone’s treats had to bake together so they could all be served warm and fresh at the same time.

The second card read:
Vaggie — Lemon Squares
Niffty zested lemons with almost alarming enthusiasm, the bright curls of peel flying everywhere like confetti. She wisked sugar, butter, and flour into a velvety batter so yellow and glossy it looked like sunshine poured into a bowl..

One bowl over, she se the next recipe:
Angel Dust — Vanilla Cream Puffs
Angel had a sweet tooth bigger than his entire personality. Niffty whipped cream until it was fluffy and cloudlike, adding a hint of vanilla so fragrant the whole kitchen sighed.
She piped the cream into the pastries with dramatic flair, adding a tiny heart on each one. Just for fun.
Just for him.

She spun on her toes and snatched up the next card.
Husk — Rum Balls
These required a delicate hand. Niffty melted chocolate in a double boiler, stirring slowly until it was silky, then swirled in rum with a hum — a soft jazz tune from Alastor’s radio.
She rolled each ball between her palms until perfectly round.

Speaking of Alastor—
Niffty approached the single blank card like it was a puzzle box containing a demon. The only blank card.
She’d have to improvise.
“Old-fashioned,” she murmured. “Complicated. A little spicy. A little sweet. Very… strange.”
So she made a fruitcake.
A perfect fruitcake.
Dark, dense, rich, packed with candied fruits soaked in spiced syrup from a forgotten era. She folded the mixture with reverence, like she was handling a relic, before smoothing it into the pan.
Yes. That felt right.

For Cherri Bomb’s treat she chose Cherry Cheesecake Bites!
These were the most fun. Cheesecake filling dyed pink, spooned onto cookie bases, topped with sparkling sugar that crackled and popped like tiny edible explosives.
Cherri would be delighted.

Frank, Sir Pentious’s last remaining egg boy, was round, bouncy, and oddly endearing. He deserved something comforting.
And definitely no eggs. That would be… awkward.
So Banana bread it was!
Warm, rich, with chocolate melted down to draw a tiny chibi Pentious face on top. Frank would love it.

She tossed her hair and whizzed into the next recipe.
She read the next ones aloud with quick little gasps of delight:

For Baxter, she crafted honey cakes shaped like plump geese. Simply because he mentioned a while ago he liked geese when she pinned him with dozens of questions.
The goose cakes even had tiny almond-slice wings and sugar eyes.
Very scientific.

Rooster’s cornbread muffins were simple, comforting, and surprisingly warm.

Finally, the ultimate bad boys (aka. Lucifer’s) treat: duck-shaped pastries stuffed with apple compote.
His adoration for ducks was… hard to miss, on all accounts. And apples. And being dramatic. So this was perfect!
She glazed them with apple jelly for a glossy shine, like they’d waddled right out of a fancy pond.
Finally, she could put all her creations (except Husks Rum Balls) into the oven for the final finish and serve!

After hours of frantic, joyful chaos, the entire counter was covered in trays of beautiful baked goods.
Steam curled into the air.
The kitchen smelled like a sugar bomb had detonated.
Flour coated the floor like a crime scene chalk outline.
Niffty clapped her hands. “Done! Done-done-done-done-done!”
She spun so fast her skirt became a blur of red and white.
Time to feed her little monsters.

Charlie was the first to arrive, drawn like a moth to baked goods.
“Oh my gosh, Niffty! These are adorable!” she squealed, biting into an apple-cinnamon star. “They taste Amazing!”
Niffty clasped her hands behind her back, rocking on her heels. “I wanted them to taste like YOU! Warm and sweet and always trying too hard!”
“Uh… what?”
Vaggie approached right behind her girlfriend, sniffing cautiously.
Lemon tartness hit her nose.
“Oh.” She blinked. “These are really good.”
Niffty leaned in. “Sharp and punchy! Just like your attitude!”
“…Thanks?”

Angel grabbed three cream puffs without waiting for permission, already stuffing his face.
“I ain’t sayin’ these’re good,” he said with his mouth full, “but I might fight someone for the last one.”
“That’s high praise!” Niffty chirped.
Husk tried pretending he didn’t care, but after one rum truffle, he grunted, “They’re fine.”
Niffty patted his arm. “I put extra rum so you’d let your guard down emotionally!”
He choked, to which Angel patted his back with his free hand — the other three still clutching a cream puff each.

The kitchen door slammed open.
Cherri Bomb burst in next, boots squeaking across the flour-slick tiles.
“Woah, Smells like a bakery exploded in here!”
Niffty appeared next to her like a jump cut.
“It DID!” she chirped.
Cherri flinched from the sudden appearance and then blinked. One singular eye staring into another. “Are you… breathing flour right now?”
“Yes!”
“Okay,” Cherri said, unsure how else to react. “Neat.”
Before she could ask anything else, Niffty shoved a tray into her arms.
“Cherry cheesecake bites! For YOU!”
Cherri stared.
“…holy shit. They’re adorable.”
Niffty clasped her hands and leaned forward, inches away.
“It POPS when you bite it.”
This earned a grin from Cherri “Now that’s my kinda dessert.”
She bit into one and the juice burst down her chin like a tiny explosion.
“Holy shit, these slap.”
Niffty beamed and spun away, another tray in hand, before anyone could stop her.

It was Frank's turn, who has just waddled in after Cherri, attracted by all the noise.
“Here!” Niffty presented the banana bread proudly. The little chocolate chibi Pentious made him gasp — then immediately burst into tears. Happy tears. Maybe? He seemed to appreciate the gesture.

More footsteps approached the filling kitchen from the hall.
“Smart Boy!” She happily greeted the next arrival with an excited gasp.
“I heard you required assistance?” Baxter approached, eyes narrowing, clearly trying to figure out what kind of “assistance” was required.
Well… “I need you to try these!”
She shoved the plate of honey cakes into his hands.
He stared at the content of the plate.
“These geese don't seem anatomically accurate.” he noted.
“Probably not! But they’re cute!”
He did not disagree, he took one and inspected it like a scientific marvel.
They were almost too cute to eat them…
But after a while of consideration he took a bite. And beamed.

The kitchen door nudged open.
Someone shuffled in quietly.
Rooster.
Red feathers, sleepy eyes. He had been in the hotel longer than almost anyone. Charlie forgot him sometimes. Everyone did, really. Well, except Niffty. She noticed everything and everyone. But he was there. Always there.
Niffty thrust a cornbread muffin into his hands.
“For being the emotional support farm animal!”
“Uhhh” he looked VERY startled. Whether because someone actually noticed him for a change, or because of the comparison to a farm animal was unclear. “…thank you, I guess?”
Then, very cautiously, as if he was afraid Nifty would skewer and cook him next, he nodded and walked out. Slowly.

Next Lucifer (The ultimate BAD BOII) sauntered in, smelling the air dramatically.
“Something smells divine,” he declared.
The Maid arrived like a hurricane and shoved the pastries toward the king of hell.
Shaped like little ducks.
Filled with apple compote.
Glazed golden.
He gasped. “Ducks!”
“And apples!”
She bounced up and down, delighted.
“Eat eat eat EAT!”
Lucifer took a dignified bite.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
And- “Oh these are EXQUISITE.” another bite.
He grabbed the entire tray and walked away without shame.

There was only one tray left.
The one blank card.
One dessert untouched: a small, perfect fruitcake.
She waited.
And right on cue, footsteps tapped the floor.
Alastor strolled in, humming, cane tapping in rhythm.
“Well! What’s all this delightful commotion I hear?”
Niffty vanished in a cloud of flour and reappeared beside him, holding his plate eye wide in excitement.
“For you!”
Alastor’s smile flickered. “How curious. I do not recall sharing my culinary preferences with you.”
Niffty leaned in.
“You didn’t need to.”
Her voice was sing-song sweet.
“I see everything.”
There was a brief, electric pause.
Then Alastor laughed.
“My, my. Charming as always aren't you?”
He took the plate and cut a slice.
Static prickled in the air.
He ate.
He chewed.
He swallowed.
Then raised his brows.
“Niffty, dear… What an attentive hostess you are.”

Later, when the desserts were consumed and the kitchen was empty again, Niffty tidied every surface with frightening precision. She cleaned until everything sparkled. She washed knives. She stacked bowls.
She worked until every crumb was gone.
Then she stood on her toes, stretched out her arms, and sighed happily.
On the counter, only one thing remained:
The blank recipe card.
She wrote in careful pink letters:
Fruitcake.
She added a little heart.
“Perfect,” she said giggling. “Just perfect.”
A light clicked off.
Darkness.
Then her voice, cheerful in the shadows: “Time for bed!”

Chapter Text

Storms were a bit of a rarity in Hell, but IF they occurred, they did so with a fierce intensity. And this one hit hard.
The resulting blackout hit the hotel with a sudden, stomach-dropping thunk — every light snapping off at once, plunging the hallways into a suffocating dark.
Vaggiɇ froze for half a heartbeat, then hissed, “Oh, come on,” before instinct took over.
Flashlight in hand, she swept the beam down the third-floor corridor.
Her job now: make sure every resident was safe, calm, and not accidentally setting anything on fire.

She started with Husk. One of the more… reasonable residents around.
She knocked once before pushing the door open.
“Everyone okay in here?”
Husk looked exhausted, wings hunched, clearly trying to soothe a panicked Fat Nuggets who was squealing into his arms. The little demon pig wore a festive sweater that was clearly knitted with a lot of love (probably Niffty's piece of work), trembling like he’d seen the face of God.
“Lights go out one damn time and this guy thinks the world’s ending,” Husk grumbled, rocking Fat Nuggets like a baby.
Poor scared thing squealed louder in terror as a green lightning illuminated the stormysky outside the hotel's window.
Vaggiɇ’s expression softened. “It’s just a power outage and a little storm. You’re safe in here. Both of you.”
Fat Nuggets oinked pitifully.
“See?” Husk muttered, petting him. “The scary lady said we’re fine.”
She rolled her eye and moved on to the next door, which was…

Her steps slowed in front of Angel’s door.
Then stopped.
For a long moment, she stared at the handle, her chest tightening. The room behind it was dark, quiet, painfully empty. He wasn’t here — he’d left after what the Vees had done to him. Hopefully only temporarily. He would surely return at some point. Right? Maybe not for her, but Fat Nuggets? Cherri? … Husk? They missed him terribly, anyone with working eyes (or, eye, singular) could see that clearly.
Her throat clenched.
She then moved on quickly.

On to the newest resident; Cherri’s room was always dimmed a little blackout or not, for the “ambiente”.
Vaggiɇ peeked inside.
Cherri was curled up in bed, her one eye closed, a little sleep mask askew on her forehead. The room had soft, orange ambient lighting — always kept low for her eye sensitivity.
Good. Peaceful. One less resident she had to worry about.
Vaggiɇ backed out silently, careful not to wake her.

Soft noises from the laboratory attracted her to check in there next.
She knocked. “Baxter? Everything alr—?”
The door cracked open, and she blinked against unexpected brightness.
Baxter was hunched over a desk, muttering to a poor critter strapped to an elaborate contraption. His anglerfish lure cast warm yellow light across the room.
Niffty hopped excitedly around him cheering in her unhinged Niffty-Way, “Yes!! Test subject A is responding! Look at him wiggle!”
Vaggiɇ stared. “…Did either of you notice the power’s out?”
“No,” Baxter said without looking up.
“Not at all!” Niffty chirped along.
Well, the two little Freaks were busy doing… whatever.
Not bothered by the storm and the lack of electricity in the slightest.
Fair enough.
She left them to it.

With most of the residents accounted for, Vaggiɇ headed toward the hall leading to Charlie, Lucifer, and (unfortunately) Alastor. Rooster also remained unaccounted for.
She was halfway down the corridor when a piercing shriek ripped through the quiet.
Her heart lurched. “Charlie!”
She sprinted.
Said demoness was pressed against the wall near a window, trembling, shoulders shaking. She pointed outside with wide eyes.
“V–Vaggi—someone climbed in—someone just climbed in—through the window—third floor—!”
Vaggiɇ immediately stepped in front of her, blade already pointes into the dark at an invisible threat.
“Did you see who?”
“No! It was just— a figure—like a shadow—” Charlie’s breathing quickened. “There was no ladder, Vaggi! Who climbs into windows on the third floor!?”
“A burglar,” Vaggiɇ said bluntly.
Charlie gasped. “Or a ghost!”
“What?!” Vaggiɇ spun around, perplexed “Charlie, what—?”
But Charlie was spiraling fast.
“What if ghosts CAN exist in Hell? What if someone came back? What if we’re being haunted?! What if—”
She gasped horrified.
“What if it’s Adam?”
Her voice cracked.
“He died here in hell! Right in front of the hotel! He hated us. He hated me. He would have reason to come back and haunt—”
“HEY—hey, look at me,” Vaggiɇ snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts, grabbing her shoulders. “Babe. Breathe.”
Charlie gulped air.
“If ghosts were real in Hell,” Vaggiɇ said gently but firmly, “we would’ve met hundreds by now. Just from the exterminations the past few years! Don’t do this to yourself.”
Charlie swallowed. “But what if—”
“It wasn’t Adam.” she said in a matter of fact way.
Even though deep down, the name sent a cold prickling down Vaggiɇ’s spine.
She REALLY hoped she was right and that jerk didn't decide to haunt them from the beyond or whatever came after Heaven and hell.
“But we’re going to find out who it was,” Vaggiɇ continued, lifting her girlfriends chin. “Together.”
Charlie nodded shakily.

They continued to move slowly through the corridor, like ghost hunters in a cheap horror movie.
Charlie clung to Vaggiɇ’s arm.
Vaggiɇ glared at every shifting shadow like she could stab it.
Every creak of the floorboards made Charlie squeak.
Every draft made Vaggiɇ tighten her grip.
“W-What if it IS a ghost?” Charlie whispered.
“It’s not a ghost.”
“What if it’s Adam’s ghost?”
“It’s definitely not Adam. That self absorbed prick would have announced himself by name and title by now.”
A loud thump echoed down the hall.
Charlie shrieked.
Vaggiɇ swore.
They rounded the corner, flashlight beam quivering, Vaggiɇ’s blade pointing dangerously—
And cornered the “ghost.”

“MIMZY?!!”
The little showgirl was halfway through rummaging a hallway drawer, her sequined dress sparkling even in the dim light.
“Eeeek!” Mimzy squealed, jumping. “Don’t sneak up on a lady like that!”
Vaggiɇ pointed. “You were the one crawling in through the window!!”
Mimzy huffed. “Well, the front door is so boring.”
Charlie blinked. “You… broke in during a blackout?? Why??”
“To reconcile with my dear deer friend, of course!” Mimzy declared dramatically. “I simply MUST speak to Alastor again—”
Vaggiɇ squinted. “Then why is there a fork… and a candleholder… and is that Husk’s wallet sticking out of your pocket?”
Mimzy froze, caught in the a t of blatant robbery.
“….No?”
Vaggiɇ took a step forward.
Mimzy screeched, dove headfirst through the open window, and vanished into the stormy night.
They stared at the empty window frame.
Then at each other.
Then burst into laughter — tired, hysterical, relieved laughter.

“That was—” Charlie wheezed, wiping her eyes,
“—kind of like a… horror date?”
Vaggiɇ snorted. “If our dates involve hunting burglars, I’m worried about us.”
Charlie brightened. “Ooh! What if we made a horror escape room for the residents? Like! A spooky challenge!”
Vaggiɇ groaned softly, already smiling.
“How is that supposed to help sinners redeem themselves?”
Charlie grabbed her hands excitedly.
“I don’t know! But it would be fun!”
Vaggiɇ looked at her — really looked — at the giddy spark in her eyes, no longer haunted by the fear of imaginary ghosts.
And melted.
“…Okay,” she sighed lovingly.
“Let’s plan an escape room.”
Charlie squealed and hugged her tight.

Chapter Text

Velvette hated winter.
She hated chapped lips, hated static hair, hated how dry air made her holographic screens flicker, and most of all, she hated seasonal advertising.
But seasonal advertising paid disgustingly well — and nothing boosted revenues like “The Vee`s™ Holiday Cocoa™”, a sickeningly sweet powder she did not drink but absolutely loved marketing.
Vox stood beside her on set, arms crossed, screens humming like an annoying as fuck insect.
“This line better sell,” he muttered.
Velvette didn’t look at him.
She sipped her bitter espresso and said sweetly:
“It will. Because I touched it. And because you didn’t touch it.”
Vox glared. She smirked. The world was balanced.
The studio buzzed with fake snow, warm lighting, and the artificial cheer Velvette manufactured by the gallon.
She was already annoyed — which is why she did not have the emotional stability required to witness what happened next.
Melissa walked in.
Dressed in a soft white sweater that clung to her in exactly the right places, hair brushed into glossy waves, cheeks rosy from the cold.
Her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of “The Vee`s™ Holiday Cocoa™” (that she was supposed to advertise) like she’d stepped out of a winter romance novel.
Vel’s pulse jumped.
Her world tilted half a degree to the left.
Vox noticed immediately.
“Oh,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “You picked HER again?”
Velvette snapped: “She photographs well and is popular with the audience. Don’t read into it.”
Melissa visibly had to choke down a smile, as if she was indeed reading into it.
“Good morning” she said way too cheerful for this godforsaken hour.
Velvette didn’t let her voice soften. She refused. “You’re late.”
“I’m five minutes early.”
“Late for impressing me.Velvette hissed back
Melissa blinked, flustered. Vox choked on a laugh. Velvette elbowed him so hard, he had to audibly gasp for air. Good.

The TV Headed Demon hovered behind one of the too many cameras in the studio while Velvette stalked the set like a mean-spirited fairy godmother in stilettos.
Melissa posed beautifully.
Too beautifully.
Vox stepped closer to her, offering direction:
“Chin up. More smile. And hold the cocoa like you actually enjoy being dead and in hell.”
Velvette cut in immediately: “Back up, toaster. She doesn’t need your input. You’ll taint it with your cheap aesthetic.”
Vox raised a brow. “Protective, aren’t we?”
Melissa hid a smile behind the mug.
Velvette glared at both of them with a feral hiss. “She is my fucking property. And I would like this advertisement to be successful. That’s it.”
The shooting continued, with the witchy demon calling the directions while Vox sulked in the corner like the mentally infantile child he was.
Melissa brought the mug to her lips for the product shot, steam curling around her face.
Velvette watched every move of those way too soft lips like a hawk stalking prey.
And then—
The Model hissed softly.
“Ow—too hot.”
Vox stepped forward. Too quickly.
“Hey, Don’t act like a pussy and—”
“Touch her,” Velvette intercepted him so fast it was almost supernatural. “and I will pour boiling cocoa down your fucking vents.” Voice pure poison
Vox jerked back, startled. Melissa stared.
A feral part of her wanted to check on the other girl. Wanted her thumbs to brush the bare skin above Melissa’s collar.
But that would have been A) pathetic and B) way too obvious.
Vox didn’t need to know what she thought of this specific model of hers other than the need to know basics to continue to work professionally. He would find some annoying way to use this information for the Vee’s Approval Rating and go public with her…
…her ‘what’ exactly? It certainly wasn’t a relationship. Ew. The idea alone was enough to almost make her barf. Velvette wasn’t one for relationships. Nope. Definitely not. Never.
She snapped her thoughts away like she’d been burned.
“We are losing daylight,” she barked into the studio.
“Back into position. And this time don’t injure yourself like a toddler with a sippy cup.”
Melissa lowered her lashes in embarrassment — or something deeper.
Vox watched all of it with predatory curiosity.
Every time Melissa smiled shyly into the mug, Velvette felt something sharp twist in her ribs.
Every time Vox complimented her form, Velvette wanted to stab him with a “The Vee`s™ Sexy Candy Cane™” (Valentino's great marketing gag that somehow was disgustingly successful)
And when Melissa giggled — actually giggled — at one of Vox’s comments, Velvette nearly shut the entire shoot down.

During a short break, Melissa found Velvette pacing behind the set, wrapped in irritation and static glitter.
“I made you some hot cocoa,” Melissa said shyly, offering a mug. “Thought you needed something warm.”
Velvette stared at it like it was radioactive.
“You trying to give me cavities?” she scoffed.
“It’s unsweetened,” Melissa murmured. “Just how you like it.”
Velvette froze.
The spying bastard Vox did not.
He slid around a pillar with the grace of a smug heron.
“Well isn’t that interesting,” Vox said.
“Since when do your models know your beverage preferences?”
Melissa stiffened.
Velvette smoothly stepped between them, blocking his line of sight to her.
“She paid attention during the past 5 years working for me. Shocking, I know,” Velvette sneered. “It’s called competence. Try it sometime.”
Vox smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
He walked away, but he was smirking like a demon who absolutely smelled a secret.

It took another couple hours of endless shoots until they finally finished for the day and the crew left the studio.
The lights dim.
Fake snow settling on the props.
Melissa rubbing her hands together against the cold. As much as her suggestive white sweater complimented her figure, it didn’t do much in regards to keeping her warm.
Velvette hated how instantly she noticed.
“You’re freezing,” Velvette snapped in annoyance.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering like a chihuahua in a meat locker.”
Melissa rolled her eyes.
Without warning Velvette stepped closer — much too close — and draped her own designer coat over Melissa’s shoulders.
“Can't have you getting sick and miss tomorrow's follow up shooting.”
Melissa’s breath caught.
“This look expensive,” she whispered.
“Don’t spill anything on it.”
“You’re sweet.”
“I’m territorial,” Velvette corrected, low. “Don’t confuse the two.”
Melissa stepped closer.
“So which am I? A possession?”
Velvette’s breath faltered.
“I haven’t decided,” she murmured.
Melissa’s smile came slow. Dangerous.
“Maybe I could help you decide.”
Velvette leaned in — too hungry, too close, too obvious —
their breaths mingling, warmth blooming between them—
And then—
A screen flickering to life.
Vox’s stupid face appeared in the corner of the studio.
“Oh don’t stop,” he drawled.
“I’m only here for tomorrow’s schedule. Carry on.”
Velvette shrieked like a banshee and threw a mug at his screen.
Melissa, pale in shock, but still the reasonable one, pulling Velvette back by the wrist before she destroyed something more expensive.
Vox retreated with one final ominous laugh, smug as sin.
Oh that would be very problematic tomorrow.
Velvette fumed.
Melissa only added oil into the fire by whispering “You’re cute when you’re homicidal.”
Velvette turned to her sharply.“Say that again.”
“Cute.”
“Say it again and I’ll ruin you.”
Melissa stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “Promise?”
Velvette grabbed her by the chin.
Not gentle.
Not soft.
“Don’t tempt me, darling. I bite.”
Melissa shivered — delighted.
The distance between them sizzled.
Not a kiss.
Just tension.
Electric. Violent. Addictive.
Velvette snarled like a threat: “You’re mine. But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it and ruin your career.”
A wicked smile spread across her model’s face. “I like it when you talk to me like that.”
Velvette’s heart slammed against her ribcage.
Fuck.
She hated how much she loved this.

Chapter Text

What began as a harmless snowball fight should have stayed harmless.
It had started innocently enough.
Niffty shrieked with delight as she hurled a snowball twice the size of her head at Baxter, who yelped and ducked behind a decorative ice sculpture of a goose he had absolutely no reason to be standing near.
“DIRECT HIT!” Angel Dust crowed from the hotel steps, already packing another snowball with alarming speed. “Ten outta ten, perfect form!”
Cherri Bomb cackled and lobbed one toward Angel in retaliation. “Eat snow, legs!”
Frank the egg boi tried to participate by rolling himself downhill, hit a snowbank, and immediately got stuck upside-down.
“I regret nothing,” Frank declared.
Snow flew. Laughter echoed. It was chaotic, fun, and completely unthreatening.
Which was, of course, the problem.
From the hotel balcony, Alastor watched with polite interest, hands folded behind his back, smile sharp as ever.
“Well now,” he hummed. “That simply won’t do.”
Beside him, Lucifer leaned over the railing, eyes gleaming. “You’re thinking it too, aren’t you?”
“A waste of potential,” Alastor agreed cheerfully.
Below them, Angel shrieked as Baxter accidentally tripped and sent a snow wave cascading into Cherri’s boots.
Lucifer clapped his hands once. The sound echoed like thunder.
“ALRIGHT!” he announced. “That’s enough amateur hour.”
The laughter below stuttered to a halt.
Cherri looked up, snowball still mid-windup “Oh shit.”
Alastor vanished in a red flicker and reappeared beside the snow-covered courtyard with theatrical flair.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and… egg,” he said brightly. “It seems this delightful skirmish has outgrown its humble origins.”
Husk, who had been minding his own business by the entrance doorway with a drink, felt a hand settle on his shoulder.
“Absolutely not” he said immediately.
Alastor ignored him.
“Huskers, my good man,” Alastor continued, already tugging him forward, “you shall serve as my lieutenant.”
“I did not sign up for this,” Husk growled, cat ears flattening in annoyance.
“But you’re so good at looking miserable under pressure,” Alastor replied, producing a clipboard from nowhere. “Now—rules.”
Lucifer landed dramatically in the snow opposite him, wings flaring just a little for emphasis.
“Agreed!” Lucifer said. “I call Supreme Commander of the Eastern Snowfront.”
Alastor smiled wider. “Charming. I shall take the Western Drift.”
Angel stared between them. “Is this… is this a coup?”
Cherri grinned and cracked her knuckles. “I’m into it.”
Lucifer snapped his fingers, conjuring a massive, glowing snow map in midair. “Rule one: no magic enhancement of snowballs.”
Alastor raised a finger. “Ah, but illusions are not enhancements, merely presentations.”
Lucifer squinted. “Twisting the rules already, aren't we?”
Husk tried to leave.
A snow wall slammed up in front of him.
“Sit,” Alastor said pleasantly.
Meanwhile, Lucifer scanned the crowd. “I need a lieutenant as well.” His gaze landed on Vaggie, who had been watching from the steps with her arms crossed, ready to intervene if things should escalate.
“No,” she said immediately.
“Come now,” Lucifer said, strolling over. “You’re tactical, disciplined, excellent under fire—”
“No.”
“And my future daughter-in-law.”
Vaggie froze. “I’m sorry, what?”
Lucifer blinked. “You know. Charlie’s girlfriend. Future daughter in law?” He waved a hand. “Assuming you survive the holidays.”
A strangled noise ecaped her, face going red. Then pink. Then redder.
“I- I am NOT- at least not YET- But also” She sputtered, gripping her spear. “You- that’s- ”
Lucifer smiled brightly. “So you’re in?”
Five seconds passed.
Vaggie turned sharply, marched into the snow, and snatched a snowball from the ground. “Where do you need me, Sir?”
Lucifer pumped a fist. “YES.”
Alastor laughed delightedly. “Oh, this is shaping up beautifully.”

The courtyard became a battlefield.
Snow trenches formed. Strategic barricades rose. Frank was declared “neutral medical personnel” and immediately violated neutrality by pelting Baxter, who has joined Alastor's side of the war, tagging along with Niffty.
“TRAITOR!” the angler fish cried out scandalized.
Husk was forced to oversee supply lines—which meant making snowballs for Alastor’s side while muttering curses.
Angel somehow ended up on both teams, changing scarves mid-fight.
“IT’S CALLED ESPIONAGE!” he yelled as Cherri, who has joined Lucifers side, threw a glittery snowball against his chest.
Lucifer narrated everything at full volume.
“CHARLIE'S GIRLFRIEND GO LEFT- NO, YOUR OTHER LEFT- EXCELLENT THROW! PINK LADY, DUCK!”
Alastor countered with smooth, radio-host commentary.
“Oh dear, it seems Team Morningstar has forgotten subsection three, clause B: snowball ricochet is allowed.”
A perfectly angled shot bounced off a pillar and hit Lucifer square in the back of the head.
Lucifer gasped. “FOUL.”
“Loophole,” Alastor sang.
The air crackled—not with magic, but with ego.
Snowballs flew faster. Harder. The ground shook as barricades grew taller.

Charlie stepped out onto the balcony, cocoa mug in hand, cinnamon generously added. It was such a beautiful snowy day. The decorations hung perfectly, illuminating everything in that perfect, golden Holiday Light on the freshly fallen snow that was-
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“WHY,” she said carefully, “is my hotel courtyard a war zone.”
Nobody heard her.
Lucifer and Alastor faced off in the center, both holding snowballs the size of bowling balls.
“Yield,” Lucifer demanded.
“Never,” Alastor replied sweetly.
Charlie set down her mug.
“HEY!”
The word rang out—bright, firm, and unmistakably princess.
Everything stopped.
Snowballs froze mid-air. Husk sagged with relief. Angel slowly lowered his four snowball-loaded arms.
Charlie marched down the steps, boots crunching through snow.
“This was supposed to be FUN,” she said, hands on her hips. “Not… whatever this is.”
Lucifer looked sheepish. Alastor tilted his head.
“But my dear—”
“No,” Charlie said, smiling but dangerously. “Snowball fight’s over. Treaty signed. Everyone shakes hands. Or wings. Or… whatever.”
There was a pause.
“Starlight, please don't make me shake that deer's-”
“DAD.” Charlie interrupted him.
Reluctantly Lucifer extended a hand.
Alastor took it, grin unwavering, but deer ears flattened agains his hair, clearly signaling his dissatisfaction regarding this outcome.
“Until next year,” Alastor hummed ominously.
Lucifer smirked. “I’ll bring better maps.”
Charlie clapped her hands. “Great! Now everyone inside. Hot cocoa’s ready.”
A cheer went up.
Husk escaped with a sigh of relief.
Vaggie avoided eye contact with Charlie entirely, face still red.

Chapter Text

Alastor had always maintained a healthy distrust of modern inventions.
Televisions, for instance, were an insult. Telephones were tolerable only when one could hear the voice on the other end, not stare at it. And cameras—especially cameras—were an abomination. They stole pieces of time, flattened moments into still images, and worst of all, demanded cooperation.
So when Alastor stepped into the hotel lobby that morning and saw Charlie Morningstar wrestling a tripod through the double doors like an overly optimistic pack mule, he immediately knew something had gone catastrophically wrong.
She was humming.
That was always the first warning sign.
“Good morning, everyone!” Charlie announced brightly, nearly tripping over the rug. “Today we’re doing happy hotel holiday photos!”
Alastor stopped dead.
Happy.
Hotel.
Holiday.
Photos.
Four words that should never have been allowed to coexist.
He smiled anyway, wide, sharp, polite. “My dear, whatever could you possibly mean?”
Charlie beamed. “Group pictures! Candids! Festive memories!” She clapped her hands together. “I want us to look back at this season and remember how far we’ve come.”
Alastor’s eyes narrowed.
Memories were supposed to be fleeting. Slippery. Meant to haunt, not decorate mantels.
Before Charlie could turn the camera in his direction, Alastor did the only sensible thing.
He disappeared.
Not dramatically, no smoke, no flair. He simply stepped backward, melting into the space between moments, reappearing behind one of the lobby pillars like he’d always belonged there.
Unfortunately, chaos did not pause in his absence.
“Oh! Angel, honey, maybe turn a little-”
Angel Dust struck a pose so scandalous it physically bent the air around him. One leg was kicked up against the banister, multiple hands arranged with expert precision.
*Click*
“You’re welcome,” he said, winking at the camera. “Put me on the cover.”
“That’s not what this is,” Vaggie snapped.
She stood exactly where Charlie had placed her, posture straight, expression neutral, arms folded neatly behind her back like a military recruit. She looked like she was enduring a hostage situation with admirable professionalism.
*Click*
The princess of Hell scanned the room for her next victim.
Husk was slouched in a chair nearby, nursing a drink despite it being barely noon. And when Charlie turned the camera toward him, he lifted his head just long enough to scowl.
“If you expect me to smile, princess, you’re delusional.”
“That’s okay!” Charlie chirped. “Just be yourself!”
*Click*
The resulting photo would later depict Husk looking like he was contemplating arson.
The newest resident, Baxter lingered near the edges of the room, peering suspiciously through his tinted goggles every time Charlie lifted the camera.
“Is this necessary?” he muttered. “Visual documentation is rarely accurate and often deeply unflattering.”
Ahh, finally a sensible soul Alastor could somewhat agree with.
Charlie smiled apologetically. “Just one?”
Baxter ducked behind a couch, but not fast enough to escape the sniper-like photograph.
*Click*
Another victim, immortalized in photographic film. Alastor watched all of this from behind his pillar with immense satisfaction. So far, not a single lens had been turned on him.
Then Niffty arrived.
She burst into the lobby like a fired cannonball.
“PICTURES!” she squealed, spinning in place. “I LOVE PICTURES!”
“Alright! That's the spirit! Now just… Stand still for just one second?” Charlie pleaded.
Niffty did not. Like the glorious queen of chaos that she was.
She climbed the furniture. She leapt through the frame mid-spin. She appeared behind people where she absolutely had not been a moment ago.
The camera clicked several times.
When Charlie checked the photos, she frowned.
The images did not depict a demon maid.
They depicted… something else.
A blur of motion. Too many limbs. A smile that stretched far beyond what anatomy allowed.
“…Is that me?” Niffty asked, delighted.
Hesitating, Charlie answeared “Yes?”
Satisfied, Niffty scuttled off, humming brightly, Baxter following her, apparently attempting to sneak off in hopes no one would try to take his picture again.
Alastor snorted softly.
Then the doors on the other side of the room slammed open.
“HELLOOOO, SINNERS!”
Lucifer Morningstar swept into the lobby wearing a sweater so aggressively cheerful it bordered on psychological warfare. Rubber ducks. Santa hats. Tiny jingle bells.
This eyesore and the booming, annoyingly cheerful voice made Alastor's deer-like ears flatten backwards in annoyance.
Charlie stared at her fathers eyesore of a holliday sweater. “Dad… that’s— wow.”
“I KNOW.” Lucifer struck a pose. “Take my picture.”
Before Charlie could respond, Cherri Bomb leaned over her shoulder.
“Needs sparkle.”
“No, wait! Cherri-!”
Just as the camera clicked, the glitter bomb detonated.
A tidal wave of shimmering, cursed particles coated the camera lens, the tripod, and Charlie herself.
“Oh no!” Charlie cried. “The lens!”
“Worth it,” Cherri said proudly, looking at the picture the camera had captured, which contained way more glitter than King of Hell.

The photo shoot was then halted as Charlie scrambled for cleaning supplies, muttering about scratches and ruined film.
Alastor emerged from hiding, confident the danger had passed.
That was when Charlie returned.
She was holding a different camera now.
Something old. Square. Heavy. Analog.
“Oh!” she said when she spotted him. “Alastor! I thought of you!”
Never a good sentence.
She held it up. “It’s a vintage Polaroid! I figured you might be more comfortable with something from your era!”
From ‘his era’?
The smile on his face froze so hard it might have cracked.
“Why, my dear,” he said carefully, static crackling faintly beneath his voice, “that is incredibly… thoughtful.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Absolutely not.”
He vanished again.

She chased him down for the rest of the day, all other possible victims ignored or forgotten.
The hallway.
The stairwell.
The roof.
Each time, she got closer.
“Just one picture!”
“No!”
“It’s for the memories!”
“I prefer auditory ones!”
Finally, he backed himself into the lobby piano.
Charlie approached slowly, camera clutched to her chest.
“I don’t need you to pose dramatically,” she said gently. “Just stand there and smile.”
“No.”
She raised the camera to a dangerous degree, holding it like a loaded gun. To the Radio-Demon it might as well have been one.
“No one has taken a picture of YOU yet.” he suddenly shot out.
That stopped her mid movement. “Huh.” Her brow furrowed in deep thought. “That's true.”
“Well now,” he said, stepping forward with exaggerated charm, “that simply won’t do.”
He took the Polaroid from her hands with practiced care. “Allow me.”
Charlie froze. “Wait— really?”
“But of course,” Alastor said. “A hostess must be remembered.
If it meant taking the lens away from him he wouldn't mind holding this accursed object. One might call it a -ugh- “Christmas Miracle” or whatever.
Charlie seemed to be completely on board with this idea, her previous mission to terrorize Alastor now completely forgotten.
She posed cutely in front of the camera and as if right on cue Razzle, the remaining goat demon, immediately bounded into frame.
Lucifer leaned in, still proudly wearing that disgrace of a holliday sweater. “Family picture?”
The word shifted the air.
Charlie’s smile softened.
“It’s been a while,” Lucifer said quietly. “Last one we took… your mother was still here...”
Silence settled.
Alastor hated silence.
He cleared his throat loudly. “Well!” he barked cheerfully, interrupting the Morningstars’ little trip down memory lane. “No sense letting nostalgia ruin a perfectly dreadful photograph!”
He raised the camera. “Everyone say—redemption!”
*Click*
Charlie laughed.
“Wait!” she said, suddenly gasping. “Another one. Vaggie—come on.”
Her girlfriend, who had been lingering around at the edge of the room, froze. “Oh, I thought you were taking family photos?”
Before she could close her mouth after finishing that sentence, Charlie had already grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her into the frame.
Alastor snapped another picture
*Click*
Just as the picture slid out of the aperture, Lucifer just had to mention out loud “Besides, as my future daughter in law you basically are part of the family already.”
As much as Alastor rebelled against cameras, he just HAD to take another picture, beautifully depicting the pair of girlfriends whose faces had turned a deep, velvety red, rivaling the shade of his own coat.

Later, the lobby had emptied and everyone was attending to their own private matter.
That's when the doors creaked open again…
Rooster stepped inside, decked out in cheerful Christmas gear, having prepared for the previously announced happy hotel holiday photos
“…Guys?”
No one answered.
He sighed.
Maybe next time someone would remember him.

Chapter Text

Husk hated Secret Santa.
Hated it with the fiery passion of a thousand losing hands and a hangover that wouldn’t quit.
He hated the way Charlie had announced it with far too much cheer, clapping her hands together like she was about to unleash joy upon the world instead of mild psychological warfare. He hated the stupid little slips of paper. He hated the glitter. He especially hated that Angel Dust had somehow convinced everyone that “rules were for cowards” and that gifts could be “emotional.”
That was never a good sign.
“Alright, everybody!” Charlie chirped, standing in the lobby beside the impressively decorated tree that Niffty had unleashed all her pent up creative energy upon. “You all know the drill! Anonymous gifts, lots of fun, no killing each other!”
“Wow,” Husk muttered into his bottle. “She’s askin’ a lot this year.”
Angel Dust flopped dramatically over the back of the couch beside him, pink legs dangling, grin sharp and bright. “Aww, c’mon, Huskie! You’re tellin’ me you ain’t excited to spread a little holiday cheer?”
“I’m tellin’ you,” Husk replied flatly, “that the most creative thing I expect to unpack is a pair of stupid socks.”
Angel gasped. “First of all, socks are a classic. Second—” He leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “—what if you get somethin’ really nice?”
Husk snorted. “From this lot? Doubt it.”
Angel’s grin faltered for half a second, too quick to call attention to, but Husk caught it anyway. He always did. Then Angel straightened, tossing a hand dramatically. “Suit yourself, grumpy. I, for one, am thrilled. I'll put actual thought into my gift.”
“Yeah?” Husk said, taking a swig. “Poor bastard.”

Husk didn’t care who he got.
He told himself that while Charlie passed around the hat, while Niffty squealed and nearly fell into it, while Alastor smiled like he knew everyone’s secrets already. Husk reached in, grabbed a slip, unfolded it.
Angel Dust.
Of course.
Husk stared at the name for a long moment.
“Figures,” he muttered.
Angel, across the room, was practically vibrating with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Ooo, I hope I got someone fun!”
Husk folded the slip and shoved it into his pocket like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t immediately knot something in his chest.
Angel cared about things. Way too much. Pretended it was all jokes and glitter and sex appeal, but Husk had seen the cracks. Seen the way Angel lingered on compliments, the way his voice softened when he thought no one was listening.
Secret Santa was Angel’s kind of nightmare. Or dream. Probably both.
Husk drained his bottle and sighed. “Great.”

Angel cared too much.
He always did.
From the moment Charlie announced Secret Santa, his brain went into overdrive. He loved gift-giving, loved the thought of someone opening something and realizing they’d been seen. He loved the surprise, the build-up, the moment where something small meant something big.
He just… wished it didn’t hurt so much when it didn’t work out.
He’d gotten Husk.
Angel stared at the slip like it might explode.
Husk. The grumpy, gruff, perpetually unimpressed bartender who pretended nothing fazed him. Who rolled his eyes at sentiment and scoffed at sincerity. Who had, more than once, silently handed Angel a drink and let him talk himself raw without interrupting.
Angel chewed on his lower lip.
“What do you even get a guy like that?” he murmured.
Something practical would be easy. Something jokey would be safe.
But Angel didn’t want safe.
He wanted right.

The days leading up to the exchange were… weird.
Angel hovered more than usual, watching Husk from the bar, from the couch, from the hallway. Husk noticed. Pretended not to.
“Stop starin’,” Husk grumbled one night, polishing a glass.
Angel jumped. “I wasn’t starin’!”
“You were blinkin’ less.”
“Maybe I’m admirin’ the craftsmanship,” Angel shot back, gesturing vaguely at Husk. “Real rugged aesthetic you got goin’ on.”
Husk rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of color under his fur. “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet,” Angel said lightly, “you tolerate me.”
The cat didn’t respond.
Because yeah. He did.

The night of the exchange arrived with more fanfare than Husk thought was necessary.
Everyone gathered in the lobby, gifts piled under the tree, some wrapped neatly, others… not.
The entire lobby looked like Christmas had thrown up and then exploded. Tinsel hung from the ceiling fan. Charlie had gone way too hard on the decorations—paper snowflakes, fairy lights, and the massive tree bending slightly to the side from the weight of all the decorations hung on it.
“Okay!” Charlie clapped her hands together, beaming. “Everyone ready? Remember—no peeking, no fighting, and no murder!”
“Define ‘murder,’” Cherri Bomb said cheerfully, sitting cross-legged near the tree.
Alastor smiled in a really unsettling way. Why did he even participate? He hated stuff like this even more than Husk did…?
Husk sighed into his glass.
“Let’s start!” Charlie chirped “Vaggie, you’re first!”
Vaggie stepped forward, holding a neatly wrapped box. “Uh, Niffty. I got you.”
Surprised, Niffty gasped like she’d been shot. “ME?! Oh my goodness, oh my goodness—”
She tore into the wrapping with alarming speed, revealing a pristine sewing kit: sharp scissors, colorful thread spools, new needles, measuring tape, everything meticulously organized.
“Ohhh!” Niffty clutched it to her chest. “Vaggie! These are professional grade! Do you know how long it’s been since I had needles that weren’t bent?!”
Vaggie smiled, clearly pleased. “I… noticed you complaining.”
Niffty zipped forward and hugged her legs like a gremlin. “I’ll treasure them forever!”
Angel stage-whispered towards Husk “That’s adorable and mildly threatening.”
The cat's ear twitched “Yeah, don't know about adorable. Putting sharp stuff into Niffties hands might not be very smart. Before he could complain ny further, Charlie already shouted “Next!”
“Oh! Oh, let me!” Niffty bounced in excitement, before grabbing a lumpy, misshapen package from underneath the tree and shoved it into the arms of a very startled angler fish “This one's for you, Smart Boy!”
Baxter adjusted his glasses nervously as he inspected the package handed to him as if it was another specimen on his table. He opened it carefully.
Inside was a hand-sewn pillow shaped like a goose.
“It’s …staring at me rather judgementally,” Baxter said, squinting. The goose pillow had sewn in button eyes and indeed an expression of eternal judgment.
“I made it myself!” Niffty said proudly puffing out her chest a bit. “There might be a needle still stuck in it somewhere though.”
“…I love it,” Baxter said, genuinely touched.
He quickly coughed, probably to cover up his little slip in eccentric personality and stood up, following Niffties example of the gifted ome being the next one to hand out their gift by pulling a heavy metal box covered in warning labels from beneath the tree. “Cherri Bomb.”
The room went silent.
Cherri’s eye lit up like a child on Christmas morning—which, technically, it kinda was?
“Oh?” she purred. “That’s a big box.”
Baxter opened it proudly to present the inside, which consisted of…a DIY bomb kit.
Neatly organized vials, wires, instructions, and an alarming amount of chemicals.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” Cherri yelled. “THIS IS AMAZING!”
Charlie’s smile froze. “Baxter… those labels say—”
“Oh!” the mad Scientist looked up brightly. “Yes, some of the ingredients are highly volatile. And I added a few radioactive components for flair.”
The room erupted.
“YOU WHAT?!” Vaggie yelled.
Cherri hugged Baxter so hard he squeaked. “BEST. GIFT. EVER.”
Husk muttered, “We’re gonna die.”

“Cherri?” Charlie said, desperately trying to divert attention away from the highly dangerous bomb kit, so Vaggie could remove it carefully when no one was looking. “Who did you pull?”
Cherri's singular eye sparkled with excitement “You!”
Surprised Charlie pointed at herself “Me?”
She was handed a glittery box, and when she carefully opened it, she almost expected a glitter bomb to blow into her face, but instead found a…Book? She inspected it closer. No, not a book, a handmade photo album filled with pictures of the hotel crew, doodles, and notes like ‘You’re doing great, boss!’.
Charlie burst into tears instantly. “Oh my gosh- Cherri- this is-”
Cherri, clearly getting a bit uncomfortable with all the emotions directed at her, rubbed the back of her neck. “Well, uhh y'know Angie helped me with the brainstorming and finding pictures.”
Upon being the new center of attention Angel simply winked to Cherri, his oldest Partner in crime.

Wiping away the last tear of joy, Charlie went next, holding a small, slightly lopsided package tied with far too much ribbon. “Okay—Frank,” she said, smiling nervously, “this one’s for you.” Frank accepted it with a happy little “Oh boy! Oh boy!” and opened it to reveal a tiny plush version of Sir Pentious, complete with crooked felt goggles and a stitched-on grin that was just a little off. Charlie laughed nervously, clearly a bit embarrassed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I, um- Niffty taught me how to sew so I could make it myself. Which is also why most of her sewing needles are now… broken. Or bent. Or mysteriously missing.” Niffty grimly in the background, earning a sympathetic pat on the shoulder from Baxter.
The Egg Boi stared at the plush in his for a long moment, then hugged it tightly to his chest and started bawling his eyes out.
“I uhh- I’ll take that as a win,” Charlie laughed nervously, unsure how she could stop the egg from crying.

After going through half a box of tissues, Frank finally calmed down enough to pick up his gift with one hand. Still holding the Pentious plushie tightly in his other hand.
“I got Vaggie.” he sniffed and handed her a small, sticky package.
Inside was a sleek combat knife with a red ribbon tied around the handle.
“O-oh!” Vaggie blinked, clearly not having expected much. “Frank… this is actually really nice.”
“I respect your stabby energy.” Frank saluted, which didn't look near as fierce as intended, considering he was still crying, still holding on to a plushie and was an egg.

Okay, soooo, next we have…?” Charlie looked through the round.
Lucifer and Alastor stood at the same time.
“Oh?” Alastor chuckled. “It seems we’ve pulled each other.”
Lucifer’s grin widened. “How festive.”
They exchanged gifts.
Alastor opened his first. Inside was a rubber duck, closely resembling a deer (Duck-deer? Deer-Duck? Duer?) which actually looked kinda cute, were it not for the normal sized Arrow pierced right through its front head.
“How… adorable."Alastors wide stretched grin started breaking up around the edges.
Lucifer opened his gift at the same time. It was a thick book titled:
“How to Be a Good Fatherfigure - for Dummies!”
The King of hell laughed loudly- provocative.
“At least i have an actual daughter and-”
Husk groaned while the two most powerful entities in the room started to bicker again like an old married couple. “I hate everything about this event.”

As Charlie and Vaggie tried to break them up, Angel Dust bounced on his heels. “Okay, okay! Guess it’s us, huh, Huskie?”
Husk grunted, looking around. They were the only two left, so they must have pulled each other's names. “Yeah, seems that way.”
Angel went first, handing Husk a small, carefully wrapped box. “Don’t freak out. It ain’t, like, a big deal or anything.”
Husk opened it.
Inside was a vintage lighter, cleaned, polished, engraved with a tiny ace of spades.
Husk froze.
“It’s-” Angel rubbed the back of his neck. “I noticed yours was busted. And you like old stuff. So. Yeah.”
Husk stared at it longer than he meant to.
“…Thanks,” he said sincerely.
Angel grinned widely, showing both rows of sharp teeth. “You’re welcome.”
Husk stood slowly. “I… got you somethin’ too. Obviously”
Angel’s eyes lit up.
Husk handed him a soft, neatly wrapped bundle.
Angel tore it open—and stopped.
Two matching sweatshirts. One oversized and cozy, white with soft pink stitching stitching. The other one looked the same, except… tinier.
Angel picked up the smaller one. “…Is this-?”
“For Fat Nuggets,” Husk said gruffly. “Figured you’d wanna match.”
The Spider gasped.
Husk crossed his arms. “Don’t get weird about it.”
Too late.
He didn’t answer, instead, he pulled the tiny sweatshirt on Fat Nuggets who had been curled up in Angel's lap the whole evening and the bigger one on himself.
“This is SO fucking cute!”
Fat Nuggets squeaked happily as if celebrating their matching outfits as well.
Angel laughed, then sniffed. “You act like you don’t care.”
Husk muttered, “I don’t.”
Angel smiled softly. “You’re a terrible liar.”