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Lucifer Morningstar strolled through the corridors of the Hazbin Hotel, his polished shoes clicking against the cracked marble floors. The place was a chaotic mess as always. Vaggie’s spear propped against a wall, Husk nursing a bottle at the bar downstairs, and the faint echo of Angel Dust’s laughter from somewhere in the distance. He’d popped in unannounced, hoping to surprise Charlie with some father-daughter time, maybe discuss her latest redemption schemes. But the hotel felt unusually quiet tonight, save for the occasional creak of the old building settling into Hell’s eternal red night.
As he approached the upper floors, a sound caught his ear. Low, rhythmic, intimate.
It was coming from one of the rooms down the hall, muffled but unmistakable. Lucifer paused, eyes narrowing. Curiosity piqued, he moved closer.
A voice came—smooth, crackling with static, undeniably Alastor’s. “That’s it... such a good girl. Taking it so well for me.”
Lucifer’s blood ran cold. Then boiled.
Good girl? That slimy, grinning bastard. The sounds intensified, followed by breathy moans that twisted like a knife in his gut. They sounded... familiar. Too familiar. High-pitched, almost whimpering, with that innocent lilt that could only belong to—
Charlie.
His Charlie. His little girl, the light of his infernal life, the one pure thing he’d managed to create in this godforsaken pit.
The moans grew louder, turning into gasps, and Lucifer’s mind reeled with unwanted images: Alastor’s clawed hands at her hips, that eternal smile leering down as he—he—
—corrupted her.
“Good girl,” the Radio Demon purred again through the door, his voice laced with that mocking radio filter, and Charlie’s voice responded with a muffled cry of pleasure.
Jealousy surged through Lucifer like hellfire, hot and possessive, clenching his fists until his nails drew blood from his palms. How dare that overlord lay a finger on her? Charlie was his. His daughter, his legacy, the one soul in Hell he would raze kingdoms to protect.
But Alastor... that deer-eared freak with his outdated charm and fucked up grin.
He pressed a hand against the wall, his breath ragged, torn between bursting in and ripping Alastor’s antlers off or slinking away like the fallen king he was. The sounds continued behind the door, steady and teasing, each one echoing in his ears like a taunt.
“Mmm, yes, just like that,” Alastor murmured, and the responding moan sent a shiver of rage down Lucifer’s spine.
Lucifer’s wings twitched beneath his coat, itching to unfurl, but he forced them down. He couldn’t stop this. Not without admitting his own failures as a father, not without facing the fact that Charlie had grown into her own woman—demonic desires and all. The jealousy gnawed at him, an ache that bordered on something darker, forbidden even in Hell. She was his to protect, to cherish, and yet here she was, moaning for someone else.
With a frustrated growl, he turned on his heel and stalked away, the sounds burning into his memory. Alastor would pay for this someday, but tonight... tonight, Lucifer could only seethe in silence, his heart twisted.
The room was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of antique radio lamps and the soft crimson haze that always seemed to cling to Alastor’s personal quarters. Charlie knelt on the plush rug before him, her cheeks flushed, golden hair slightly mussed from where his clawed fingers had tangled in it moments ago. Her usual bright optimism was softened now, vulnerable, eyes wide and shining up at him with that familiar mix of trust and yearning.
Alastor lounged in his high-backed chair like a king on a throne of shadows, legs crossed, one polished shoe resting lightly against her thigh. His eternal grin stretched wider, static humming faintly in the air around them.
“Look at you, my dear,” he purred, voice crackling like an old broadcast, smooth and insidious. One long finger traced the curve of her jaw, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to meet his glowing eyes. “So eager to please. So very... obedient. It’s almost touching.”
Charlie swallowed, a small whimper escaping her. “Alastor... I—I just want to make things better. For everyone. For the hotel. For—”
“For yourself?” he finished, amusement dripping from every syllable. He leaned forward slightly, the tips of his antlers casting jagged shadows across her face. “Come now, Charlie. We’ve danced around this long enough. You don’t have to hide it from me.”
Her lower lip trembled. She always did that when the truth got too close, when someone actually saw past the sunshine smiles and redemption speeches to the quiet ache underneath.
“Your father,” Alastor continued, almost gently, “has always been... absent, hasn’t he? Wrapped up in his rubber ducks and his melancholy. Calling only when it suited him. Leaving you to chase approval that never quite arrived.” His claw dragged lightly down the column of her throat, not quite threatening, but close enough to make her pulse jump. “Poor little princess. Starved for attention. For guidance. For someone to tell her she’s doing well.”
Charlie’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into the touch, chasing the praise like a flower turning toward poisoned light.
“And here I am,” Alastor murmured, sliding his hand into her hair again, gripping just firmly enough to make her gasp. “The Radio Demon himself, paying attention. Supporting your little dreams. Telling you exactly what you need to hear.” He tugged her closer until her cheek rested against his thigh. “Good girl.”
She shuddered.
“You respond so beautifully to approval, don’t you?” he observed, delighted. “A few kind words, a touch of structure, and you’re putty in my hands. How tragic that your dear papa never learned the trick. He could have had you wrapped around his finger ages ago—loyal, devoted, desperate to earn his pride.”
Charlie’s face burned with shame and something hotter, needier. “That’s not—I love my dad. I just... he doesn’t…”
“Hush now, dear.” Alastor pressed a single finger to her lips. “No need to defend him. Not here. Not with me.” He slid that finger into her mouth, letting her tongue curl instinctively around it as he watched with predatory patience. “You can admit it. You crave a father who sees you. Who guides you. Who rewards you when you’re good... and corrects you when you’re not.”
He withdrew his finger slowly, trailing saliva across her bottom lip.
“And tonight, you’ve been very good indeed.”
With deliberate slowness, he guided her head lower, until her lips brushed against his tip. Charlie hesitated only a heartbeat, long enough for doubt to flicker, before parting her lips obediently, taking him in with a soft, eager sound that vibrated straight through him.
Alastor exhaled through his grin, static popping like applause. One hand stayed tangled in her hair, controlling the rhythm he set: slow, deep, languid. The other stroked her cheek almost tenderly.
“That’s it,” he crooned. “Let it all out, darling. Let Daddy’s little girl show how much she appreciates the attention she’s finally getting.”
The word—Daddy—landed like a brand. Charlie moaned around him, the sound muffled and desperate, her hips shifting restlessly against nothing as she hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper.
Alastor watched it all with gleaming satisfaction, hips rolling in lazy counterpoint to her efforts. He could feel her trembling, could smell the slick arousal pooling between her thighs. Every whimper, every eager suck, fed the twisted thrill of it: taking the Princess of Hell, unraveling her piece by piece.
After all, what better way to twist a daddy’s girl than to become the father she never quite had?
With a flick of his wrist, he pulled her off him and stood, leaving her mouth empty and aching.
Shadows stretched long and antler-sharp across the rug like a cage.
Charlie’s hands rested on her thighs. Her eyes, wide and wet, tracked his every movement.
Alastor circled her slowly, shoes clicking with measured menace. The sound of static had dropped to a low, intimate hiss, the kind that crawled inside the skull and stayed there.
He studied her for a long moment, letting the silence press down until she began to fidget—tiny shifts of weight, the soft clench of her thighs.
“You’re shaking,” he observed, almost fondly. “Is it fear? Or anticipation?”
“Both?” she whispered, voice cracking on the single word.
Alastor’s grin stretched impossibly wider. “Honest. How refreshing.” His finger slid under her chin, tilting it up. “Tell me again why you’re here, Charlie.”
Her lashes fluttered. “Because… because you see me.”
“Louder.”
“Because you see me,” she repeated, stronger this time, though the words still trembled at the edges. “Because you tell me what to do. Because when I’m good you say so, and when I’m not—”
“I correct you,” he finished for her, thumb stroking the frantic pulse beneath her skin. “And you like being corrected, don’t you?”
A flush crawled up her neck, bright even in Hell’s dim light. “Yes.”
“Yes…?” He tilted his head, waiting.
Her breath hitched. The word stuck for only a heartbeat before she forced it out, soft and mortified and unbearably needy:
“Yes, Daddy.”
Alastor’s eyes flared crimson, pupils narrowing to slits of predatory delight.
He released her chin only to slide both hands into her hair, gripping at the roots and tipping her head back until the long column of her neck arched beautifully.
“That’s right,” he purred, static popping like distant gunfire. “And Daddy’s going to make sure his little girl understands exactly where she belongs tonight.”
He forced her up, and walked her backward until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. He pushed, she fell, landing on the crimson sheets with a small, startled sound.
Alastor didn’t follow immediately. Instead he stood at the foot of the bed, loosening his bow tie with one languid hand while the other gestured—a lazy flick of claws—and thin black tendrils of shadow rose from the floor like living ropes. They coiled around her wrists, her ankles, spreading her arms above her head and her legs apart until she was stretched taut, exposed, trembling.
Charlie tested the bonds once, instinctively, then went still when they tightened in warning.
“Good girl,” he said, the praise immediate and syrup-sweet. “See? You learn so quickly when someone actually bothers to teach you.”
He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her spread thighs. One clawed finger traced a slow, maddening line from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, down her stomach, pausing just above the sensitive leaking bundle of nerves.
“Beg,” he ordered softly.
Charlie’s lips parted on a shaky exhale. “Please…”
“Please what, princess?”
“Please—Daddy,” her voice cracked. “Please, I need—”
“Need?” He arched a brow, grin razor-sharp. “What does my needy little girl need?”
“You,” she choked out. “Your hands. Your voice. Your—your rules. Anything. Just don’t stop. Don’t leave me alone with it.”
The confession hung between them, raw and humiliating and perfect.
Alastor leaned down until his mouth hovered a hairsbreadth from hers. “I won’t leave you,” he promised, voice velvet over broken glass. “Not tonight. Not ever, if you keep being this sweet for me.”
Then he kissed her slow, devouring—while one hand finally slid between her thighs.
Charlie arched into the touch with a groan of relief, hips jerking up. The shadows held her down, forcing her to take only what he gave, at the pace he set.
He pulled back just enough to watch her face as he worked her—slow circles, then firmer strokes, then two long fingers sliding inside, curling and pressing relentlessly.
“Look at you,” he crooned against her ear, static fizzing along her skin. “Soaking my hand already. So desperate for structure. For discipline. For someone to finally take the reins your father was too busy dropping.”
The mention of Lucifer made her whimper, a fresh wave of slick coating his fingers.
“There it is,” Alastor murmured, delighted. “That little twist of guilt and want. Delicious.”
He sped up, thumb finding her clit with cruel precision, driving her higher while the shadows kept her spread and helpless.
“Say it again,” he commanded. “Who’s making you feel this good?”
“You,” she gasped.
“Wrong.”
“Daddy,” she corrected instantly, voice breaking. “Daddy—please—please let me—”
“Not yet.” He slowed, cruelly, until she was writhing, tears slipping down her temples. “You come when I say. You speak when I say. You exist for me right now, don’t you?”
“Yes—yes, Daddy, yes—”
He rewarded her with a sudden, hard thrust of his fingers, curling them just right.
“Then come,” he ordered, voice low and final. “Come for Daddy, princess. Show me how grateful you are that I bothered to claim what no one else would.”
Charlie shattered with a cry that echoed through the room—sharp, helpless, utterly owned.
Alastor didn’t stop. He worked her through it, drawing it out until she was oversensitive and shaking, pleading incoherently.
Only then did he withdraw, licking his fingers clean with slow, deliberate enjoyment while she watched, dazed and wrecked.
He leaned over her again, brushing sweat-damp hair from her forehead with surprising gentleness.
“Such a good girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “My good girl.”
Charlie turned her face into his palm, trembling, seeking.
And Alastor smiled—wide, sharp, victorious—knowing he’d only just begun tightening the leash.
The shadows released her wrists and ankles. She didn’t move. She simply curled toward him, seeking warmth, seeking approval.
Alastor gathered her against his chest without hesitation, claws carding gently through her hair.
“Rest now,” he whispered, voice a soothing crackle. “Daddy’s got you.”
And for once, she believed it.