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Alastor had always considered Valentine’s Day to be the most desperate display of mortal folly.
A holiday built on the fragile bones of longing, a spectacle of manufactured affection polished until it resembled something real. Love had always been an illusion, and never more so than on this day—where desperation masqueraded as devotion, and hearts were tossed about like cheap trinkets, fragile and easily discarded.
It wasn’t just the insipid décor that set his teeth on edge, though the abundance of lace-trimmed nonsense and blinding shades of pink certainly didn’t help. No, what truly unsettled him was the expectation—a suffocating thing, thick as cheap perfume, clinging to the air with relentless persistence. It was inescapable, a siren song for the lonely and the hopeless, whispering hollow promises of something lasting, something real, though it had no intention of delivering such things. And yet, they all fell for it. They always had. The same way moths flung themselves into candle flames, convinced that this time, this moment, this love would not burn them.
Pitiful creatures swaddled themselves in the fantasy of romance, clinging to the illusion of meaning, grasping desperately for something they had never truly possessed. They clutched their offerings of stale chocolates and borrowed poetry, convincing themselves that these flimsy gestures could somehow fill the emptiness gnawing at their hollow little hearts. As if a single night of rehearsed affections, of wilting roses and trembling confessions, could mend the fractures in their souls, could patch the gaping wounds they refused to acknowledge. As if love had ever been so simple. As if love had ever been kind. The audacity of it all.
And yet, despite Alastor’s rather vocal distaste for the affair, the hotel had been positively drenched in it. Suffused with it. Swallowed whole by it, as if the very walls had succumbed to the delusion. The celebration bled into every available space, seeping into the floorboards like spilled wine, something sickly and overripe, too sweet to be palatable. It did not matter how little he cared for it—romance had a way of forcing itself upon the unwilling.
And there was no escaping it.
Everywhere he turned, the hotel reeked of affection, as if the very foundation had been infected with sentimentality. What had once been a haven of relative sanity had been transformed into something unrecognizable—a love-struck monstrosity, all velvet and excess, drowning in its own indulgence.
Silk banners draped from the balconies, gaudy and excessive, embroidered with saccharine phrases that made Alastor want to set fire to the lot of them. Paper hearts swung lazily from the ceiling, offensively oversized, each one swaying like a dying breath whenever some poor fool brushed past. The scent of roses and spiced wine curled through the air, cloying and indulgent, the kind of forced decadence that soured on the tongue.
Beyond the lounge, the grand ballroom pulsed with syrupy warmth, the kind that turned stomachs and softened spines. The guests moved in languid, predictable circles, as if they had been placed on some invisible track, their affections just as preordained, just as stale. Someone had charmed the gramophone into playing an unbearably slow melody, all breathy longing and delicate strings, the kind of tune meant to stir something deep and sentimental.
Alastor had never heard a song so thoroughly devoid of entertainment.
He sat in his usual chair, legs crossed, fingers curled around the stem of his untouched drink, watching the evening unfold with the air of someone witnessing a particularly dull tragedy. His grip tightened slightly when a pair of demons nearby let out a lovesick sigh in unison.
Disgusting.
But worse than all of it, worse than the candied atmosphere, the dewy-eyed longing, the sheer, obnoxiously maudlin display of romance—
Lucifer was watching him.
Not staring. No, Lucifer never stared—that would imply effort.
He was simply looking, in that lazy, insufferably entertained way of his, like a man who had already figured out the punchline and was simply waiting for everyone else to catch up. He studied Alastor the way one might observe a particularly amusing puzzle, one he had no real urgency to solve—just idly toying with the pieces, waiting to see how long it would take before they fell apart on their own.
Seated across from him, dressed in a crisp red waistcoat lined with gold, Lucifer was the very picture of unbothered amusement. He lounged with the ease of someone who had never known discomfort, one arm draped casually over the armrest, his wine swirling lazily in the other hand. The movement was deliberate, almost mocking in its lack of urgency, as though he were savoring something far more entertaining than the drink itself.
The smirk tugging at his lips was just shy of a grin.
A little too pleased. A little too knowing.
Alastor ignored him.
Or at least, he tried.
But Lucifer had a way of making himself impossible to ignore.
He swirled his wine, the deep red catching the candlelight as he lounged with the kind of infuriating ease that made Alastor’s teeth itch. That damnably smug expression never wavered, his gaze sharp, knowing—like a cat watching a bird that hadn’t realized it was already in its jaws.
“You know,” he mused, voice low, smooth, just amused enough to be insufferable, “for someone who claims to loathe all this… you haven’t taken your eyes off it all night.”
Alastor let out a bright, biting laugh, tilting his head. “Oh, please. I’m simply admiring the train wreck. There’s nothing more entertaining than watching demons trip over their own desperate affections. Why, it’s almost poetic.” He gestured grandly toward the dance floor, where some poor fool was currently fumbling a confession, their hands wringing a bouquet like a lifeline. “Look at them! Making absolute fools of themselves! It’s charming, really.”
Lucifer exhaled a quiet hum, tilting his head just slightly. Something about the way he was looking at him changed.
Not obviously. Not enough to set off alarms. But just enough that Alastor noticed.
“Hmm.” Lucifer took another slow sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving Alastor’s.
Alastor frowned. “What?”
Lucifer smirked. “Oh, nothing.”
Alastor’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Lucifer shrugged. “Just an observation.”
Alastor’s grin didn’t waver, but something in his posture tensed. “Observation?”
Lucifer hummed. “Mmm.” He set his glass down, resting his chin in his palm, his smirk turning lazy, insufferable. “You talk about romance like someone who’s never had to deal with it.” He tilted his head. “Not in any real way, that is.”
Alastor scoffed, waving a hand. “Oh, please. As if I’d waste my time on such trivial nonsense.”
Lucifer made a low, amused sound. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. But there’s something missing in the way you talk about it. Something… detached . ” He leaned forward slightly, his smirk widening just a fraction. “You sound like an observer. Like someone who’s read about it, seen it, laughed at it, but never actually…” He flicked his fingers lazily, “participated. ”
Alastor’s grin remained steady, though his fingers twitched ever so slightly where they rested on the arm of his chair. Of course, Lucifer noticed.
His smirk grew, impossibly self-satisfied.
“Oh,” he hummed, the word stretching out, almost tasting it. “Oh, this is good.”
Alastor’s brow furrowed, the edges of his grin twitching. “Good? What do you mean—”
Lucifer’s chuckle was quiet, almost patronizing, as he shook his head. “Well, that explains so much.”
Alastor’s gaze sharpened. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Lucifer leaned back, his posture utterly relaxed, while his eyes practically sparkled with amusement. “You’ve never been kissed, have you?”
Alastor barked a laugh, too loud, too quick. “Ridiculous. Of course, I have.”
Lucifer didn’t even blink. He just watched him, that infuriatingly smug expression not budging.
Alastor waved a hand, trying to brush it off. “Absurd. To think I, of all people, have gone without a kiss—preposterous.”
Lucifer stayed silent.
Just watched.
Alastor’s grin twitched, but he refused to let it slip. “Well? What’s with the staring? Spit it out already.”
Lucifer hummed, tapping his fingers lightly against his knee. “I see.”
And Alastor hated the way he said that.
Like he’d figured something out. Like he’d won something. Like this entire conversation had just confirmed a suspicion he had no right to be entertaining in the first place.
His fingers curled against the arm of his chair. “You see what?” he snapped.
Lucifer grinned. “You weren’t lying. Not entirely.” His head tilted, amusement curling at the edges of his smirk like smoke. “You’ve been kissed. But never properly.”
The satisfaction in his voice was unbearable—like he’d known the answer before he even asked, like this was just confirmation of something he’d already suspected. Worse still, he looked thoroughly entertained by the revelation.
Alastor opened his mouth, ready to fire back with something sharp—something dismissive, something to wipe that insufferable expression off Lucifer’s face—
And then Lucifer leaned in.
Not much. Just enough.
The air between them thickened, pressing in like a held breath, something warm, something waiting. Alastor, despite himself, felt the way the space had changed—smaller, heavier, charged with something he refused to name.
Lucifer’s voice dipped, smooth as sin. “Tell me, sweetheart.”
His smirk sharpened—wolfish, knowing.
“Would you like to learn?”
♡♡♡♡♡
Alastor’s grin remained in place, but there was something wrong with the air.
A shift, subtle but undeniable, like the moment before a radio crackles to life–all tension, all anticipation, a hum waiting to turn into something louder. The ballroom’s gilded warmth still clung to him, the ghosts of laughter and clinking glasses lingering at the edges of his senses, but here, within the small pocket of space where only he and Lucifer existed, something had changed.
Lucifer, as always, had noticed before he did.
Lucifer lounged, utterly unhurried, his fingers resting lightly against the stem of his glass, the wine within catching the dim light like a secret waiting to be spilled. He wasn’t watching Alastor so much as studying him—the way a composer listens for the first, imperceptible cracks in an overture, waiting to see if the performance will unfold as expected, or if an unexpected note might make it all the more entertaining.
Alastor knew this game. He had played it before.
And yet.
He lifted his chin, the edges of his grin sharpening. “And if I did?” The words came out crisp, poised, the verbal equivalent of a hand resting on the hilt of a knife–not yet a threat, but ready to be.
Lucifer smiled, too knowing. “Then we take this conversation somewhere more… private.”
Something in Alastor went still. Not a freeze, not hesitation, but a moment’s pause, like a phonograph needle lifting before it drops onto a new record. A transition. A shift in tone.
Lucifer rose from his seat and extended a hand—not a command, not a demand, but an inevitability.
Alastor should have laughed.
He should have scoffed, made a quip about Lucifer’s unshakable confidence, turned on his heel, and walked away.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his fingers ghosted against Lucifer’s, the barest brush of contact—a hesitation, a choice waiting to be made. And, of course, Lucifer noticed. Lucifer always noticed. His fingers curled around Alastor’s, not tightly, not possessively, just enough to make a point. Enough to make it clear that if Alastor wanted out, he’d have to be the one to pull away.
He didn’t.
Which was, quite frankly, annoying.
He could already see the smugness brewing behind Lucifer’s lashes, could feel the inevitability of some insufferable remark waiting to drop like the last note of a well-timed crescendo.
Still, he rose, rolling his shoulders as if he had made the choice, as if his feet hadn’t already decided to move the second Lucifer extended that damnably confident hand. His fingers, still tangled with Lucifer’s, twitched—as if they, too, were pretending they weren’t holding on.
And so they walked, moving in tandem—no, gliding, because of course Lucifer wouldn’t do something as mundane as walk—slipping away from the golden glow of the lounge into something softer, quieter, infinitely more dangerous.
The shift was subtle at first, creeping in like a low note in a song, something felt before it was heard. The lounge had been a stage, all grandeur and artificial warmth, built for spectacle. But here, in the dim corridors of the hotel, the world changed. The lighting softened, gold-dusted sconces casting lazy shadows against deep crimson wallpaper. The hush deepened, as though the very bones of the building had taken notice, as though the air itself had grown expectant.
Lucifer moved as though the path had already been laid out for him, every step falling into place like it had been waiting for him to take it. He wasn’t leading, wasn’t following—just there, with the quiet certainty of someone who expected the world to shape itself around him.
And Alastor, without meaning to, matched him.
The hotel’s warmth dulled as they left the lounge behind, the distant murmur of conversation fading with every step. Here, the light was softer, the sconces burning lower, their golden glow licking against the walls. Shadows stretched long in the quiet, pooling in the corners, settling at the edges of the moment like a waiting breath.
Lucifer didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
The corridor stretched long before them, narrowing toward a single door at the very end. Dark wood, polished smooth, brass handle gleaming beneath the low light. It didn’t need embellishments to mark its importance. It had presence, a weight that suggested whatever lay beyond was meant only for those who were let in.
Lucifer’s fingers slipped from Alastor’s as they approached. Not abrupt. Not dismissive. Just a shift—effortless, inevitable, like something already decided.
He reached for the handle and pushed the door open.
And then, without looking back, he stepped inside.
He didn’t have to check if Alastor would follow.
He already knew.
Alastor lingered at the threshold—not hesitating, not really, but aware in a way that hadn’t settled until now. His fingers hovered briefly at his sides, his body recognizing the weight of the moment before his mind caught up.
Stepping inside meant something.
And so, with a practiced ease he didn’t quite feel, he did.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And just like that, the world narrowed.
♡♡♡♡♡
The atmosphere in Lucifer’s room was different from the rest of the hotel. Warmer, but not in the cloying, saccharine way of the ballroom. No, this was a curated kind of warmth, like a whiskey left to breathe, deep and rich, lingering at the edges rather than pressing in. A fire burned low in the hearth, its flickering glow catching against dark wood and deep crimson fabric, illuminating a space meant to be inhabited, not just admired. There was no needless extravagance, no ostentation—everything had purpose, designed for comfort, for indulgence, for whoever Lucifer deemed worthy of crossing this threshold.
Alastor let his gaze wander—not because he needed to take in his surroundings, but because looking at Lucifer felt dangerous. Eye contact with that smirk was a losing game, and Alastor had never been a man who enjoyed losing.
Lucifer, of course, looked infuriatingly entertained. He crossed the room and settled against the edge of his work desk like he had personally orchestrated the entire evening. Which, frankly, felt insulting.
Alastor exhaled slowly, letting his grin stretch wide. “Well,” he mused, keeping his voice light, “if you’re expecting some grand seduction, I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Lucifer chuckled. “Oh, sweetheart. Are you having second thoughts?”
Alastor scoffed, tilting his head, teeth flashing in something too sharp to be a real smile. “I never have second thoughts.”
Lucifer’s smirk deepened.
“Good.”
He stepped forward, closing the space between them with the kind of certainty that needed no haste.
He didn’t touch him immediately. He let the moment simmer, stretching it just long enough to make sure Alastor felt it—felt him, close enough that the air between them thickened, that the warmth of his presence settled against Alastor’s skin. There was no hesitation in Alastor’s posture, no true resistance, but there was awareness.
Lucifer then reached out—not to seize, not to take, but to trace. The backs of his fingers skimmed along the sharp line of Alastor’s jaw, slow and purposeful, as though mapping out something he already knew by heart. A ghost of a caress, fleeting yet impossibly intimate.
Alastor didn’t pull away. He should have. He should have laughed, should have twisted the moment into something meaningless, but instead—his breath came just a fraction too slow.
Lucifer felt it.
His smirk curled, unbearably smug, like he’d been expecting exactly this reaction. His fingers lingered, just to be insufferable, his touch featherlight but insistent, coaxing the tension in Alastor’s jaw to unwind.
And then—soft as a whisper, inevitable as gravity—
Lucifer leaned in and kissed him.
Not deep. Not immediately.
The first press of lips was light, a breath of contact, just enough to tease, to make Alastor register the softness of it. Lucifer pulled back only slightly, his breath warm against Alastor’s mouth, waiting. Testing.
Alastor didn’t pull away.
Lucifer smirked and kissed him again, deeper this time, with a slowness that was far more indulgent than instructional. His lips moved with intent, tilting just slightly, coaxing Alastor’s mouth to part, to yield—and damn it all, Alastor let him.
A warmth curled low in his stomach, creeping in like something slow-burning, something he hadn’t prepared for. His fingers twitched at his sides, resisting the instinct to grab, to hold, to ground himself—until Lucifer sucked lightly at his lower lip, teasing, coaxing, and a sharp exhale slipped past Alastor’s throat before he could bite it back.
Lucifer chuckled against his mouth. That slow, indulgent sound that said I knew it.
That should have snapped Alastor back to himself. Should have made him rip away, scoff, sneer—anything to wrestle back control.
But he didn’t.
His hands found Lucifer’s waist. Not gripping, not pulling—just there, like he had forgotten to think about what he was doing.
Lucifer didn’t push him further. He didn’t have to.
Lucifer tilted his head and deepened the kiss, guiding him into it, pulling him deeper with every slow, measured movement. He kissed like he had all the time in the world, like he was savoring something sweet and rare, lips moving with a quiet control that left no room for misinterpretation. He coaxed, he played, he claimed, letting Alastor feel it—feel the press, the slide, the slow, decadent rhythm that made resistance seem absurd.
Alastor inhaled sharply through his nose.
Too much.
Too warm.
Too—oh.
Lucifer’s fingers skimmed lower, gliding over the curve of Alastor’s spine, light enough to tease, firm enough to be felt. Not a hold, not a command—just a touch with purpose, a quiet reminder of just how close they had become.
And Alastor wasn’t pulling away.
His touch lingered, fingertips mapping the space between them—or what little of it remained. His movements were slow, unhurried, as if testing the weight of the moment, letting it settle between them before shifting just a fraction closer.
And then—heat.
Lucifer’s knee slotted between his legs, pressing just enough to make Alastor register it, just enough to sink into that space, where sensation blurred into something dangerously tangible. His breath hitched, a reflex he couldn’t quite smother. His fingers curled tighter in Lucifer’s waistcoat, grip firm, reflexive—like grounding himself might somehow keep him from slipping further.
Lucifer pulled back, just slightly, his lips brushing Alastor’s as he exhaled a laugh, soft and wicked.
“Now, darling,” he murmured, amused, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Alastor should have shoved him off. Should have laughed, deflected, lied.
But then Lucifer kissed him again.
Slow and sure, lips moving with a confidence that made it impossible not to follow. There was no rush, no clashing of mouths, no thoughtless hunger—just a steady kind of indulgence, like he was showing Alastor something, drawing him in, guiding him step by step.
It was infuriating.
Alastor clenched his fingers against Lucifer’s waistcoat, forcing himself to match him, to learn the rhythm—but just as he thought he had it, Lucifer pulled away.
Alastor let out a sharp breath, eyes flashing open. “What—”
Lucifer smirked, lips just barely apart, breath warm against Alastor’s mouth. He looked perfectly at ease, perfectly unaffected, while Alastor was left reeling from the loss of contact.
“You’re thinking too much,” Lucifer murmured, tilting his head, studying him like something to be shaped, something to be broken in just right.
Alastor stiffened. “I don’t—”
A thumb pressed lightly against his bottom lip, shutting him up before he could finish.
“Don’t fight it, darling,” Lucifer said, his voice smug. “You’re tense—relax.”
Alastor’s brow twitched. Oh, he should bite him.
Almost did, too. Would have been satisfying, would have been worth it, if only to see how coaxing Lucifer sounded with his damn thumb in his mouth.
Instead, he settled for glaring, jaw tight.
Lucifer smirked, as if he knew.
Alastor almost snapped at him, almost bared his teeth, almost turned this whole thing into a game again—
But then, Lucifer kissed him. Again.
Slower this time. Guiding. Not forceful, not rushed, just leading him into it, showing him what to do without saying a word. His lips parted slightly—just enough. An invitation. A command.
And Alastor—damn it all—followed.
Their mouths fit together in a slow, teasing press, lips brushing, parting, sealing again—deeper this time, warmer, slicker. Lucifer hummed in approval, shifting forward, pressing just enough that Alastor felt it—the heat of him, the weight of him, the unbearable arrogance radiating off his very existence.
And then, again, he pulled away.
Alastor made a frustrated sound before he could stop himself. Fucking asshole.
Lucifer grinned, positively delighted. “Good.” His thumb brushed over Alastor’s jaw, soothing, mockingly indulgent. “You want more now.”
Alastor pointedly ignored the heat creeping up his neck. “Oh, spare me the commentary,” he snarled.
Lucifer laughed—warm, wicked, insufferably pleased. “But I like teaching you.” His lips hovered just over Alastor’s again, close enough to taunt, to tease, but refusing to give. “Try again.”
Alastor bristled, fingers twitching like they had half a mind to strangle him—except Lucifer was waiting, watching him with obnoxious, expectant patience, and fuck, he was not about to let him win.
So this time, Alastor leaned in.
He kissed Lucifer, mirroring the way Lucifer had kissed him—pressing, parting, the barest graze of tongue before retreating. And he felt the way Lucifer’s breath hitched, the way his fingers twitched against his waist—so fleeting it would’ve been easy to miss, but Alastor caught it.
Lucifer let out a pleased hum, deep in his throat, vibrating against Alastor’s mouth. “Better.”
And then he deepened it.
His tongue traced along the seam of Alastor’s lips, coaxing them apart, tasting him with the kind of control that made Alastor ache before he even realized it was happening. His hands skimmed lower, settling at the dip of Alastor’s waist, holding him there, not pushing, just letting him feel it.
Alastor gasped softly, and Lucifer took it—caught it against his lips, swallowed it down like something stolen.
“Open your mouth more,” he murmured, words a low invitation, breath warming Alastor’s kiss-damp skin. “Let me in, sweetheart.”
Alastor obeyed before he could think better of it.
And Lucifer rewarded him.
This time, Lucifer kissed him properly—slow, thorough, drinking him in like he had all the time in the world. His tongue slid against Alastor’s, tasting him, like this was something he planned to enjoy for as long as he pleased.
Alastor’s stomach tightened, heat spiking low and deep, his fingers clenching at the fabric of Lucifer’s waistcoat before he could stop himself. He felt the shift in his own body—the way his hips edged forward, chasing friction before he’d even realized what he was doing.
Lucifer smirked against his lips, breaking the kiss just enough to murmur, “Oh, sweetheart…”
His hands flexed at Alastor’s waist, a slow slide of his palms, fingertips brushing just beneath the hem of his vest. He dipped lower, his mouth tracing along Alastor’s jaw, dragging warmth down to the pulse at his throat—where he paused, breath fanning over sensitive skin, lingering just long enough to make Alastor notice.
He shuddered. His breath caught—too sharp, too quick—though he tried to smooth it over with something more controlled. But Lucifer was too close, his mouth too warm, his hands right where they shouldn’t be, and he was noticing. Of course he was noticing.
Lucifer didn’t comment. Not with words.
Instead, he pressed a kiss just beneath Alastor’s jaw, the heat of it sinking into his skin. Then another. And another, his lips moving with a kind of purposeful ease, tracing along the curve of his throat like he was following an unseen path only he could read.
He wasn’t just kissing him. He was savoring. Lips parting just slightly, lingering longer each time, breath warm where it traced over damp skin. Each press of his mouth was a quiet claim, something left behind even as he moved lower, a slow unraveling of space between them. He kissed like he meant for Alastor to carry the sensation with him, to feel it long after he pulled away.
And Alastor did—felt the way those lips parted against his throat, the slow, teasing graze of teeth that followed, the heat curling at the base of his spine as his body betrayed him with another shallow, stuttering inhale.
Lucifer hummed. His fingers skimmed along Alastor’s sides, teasing over fabric, pressing just enough to make Alastor aware of the touch without trapping him. It was a steady, languid exploration, a slow escalation designed to draw something out of him.
And, hell, it was working.
Lucifer lifted his head, his lips hovering just above Alastor’s, not quite kissing him yet. “You’re breathing too fast, darling,” he murmured, his voice like silk and smoke, thick with amusement. “Let go.”
Alastor’s fingers twitched against his lapels. “I am relaxed,” he said, voice still sharp, but not as steady as he wanted it to be.
Lucifer’s smirk deepened. “Then prove it.”
He kissed him again, but this time, it was slower—no longer a test, no longer just coaxing him along. This was deeper, warmer, his lips parting against Alastor’s with an ease that made the breath catch in his throat.
Alastor tried to match him, but Lucifer wasn’t rushing—he was dragging it out, lingering, his tongue sweeping over Alastor’s with a slowness that demanded he follow. There was no hiding behind instinct, no thoughtless motion to fall back on. Lucifer made him feel every second of it.
And then, Lucifer pulled back, just slightly, his mouth brushing over Alastor’s as he murmured, “Slower.”
Alastor almost bit him.
A growl bubbled up, sharp and indignant, but Lucifer caught his mouth again, cutting off his protest before it could take shape. He tilted his head just so, guiding the kiss into something fluid, languid—something that forced Alastor to follow his pace.
Lucifer hummed—smug, pleased, infuriatingly satisfied—when Alastor finally gave in, the tension in his jaw unwinding whether he liked it or not. Their lips moved together in a slow, luxurious press, parting and meeting, a steady rhythm that was all Lucifer’s doing. Wine lingered on his tongue, something dark and decadent, curling into the spaces between them like it belonged there.
And this time, when Lucifer parted his lips just slightly, Alastor mirrored him without hesitation.
A hum of approval vibrated against his mouth. Lucifer’s tongue brushed against his, slow and teasing, guiding without force, teaching through sensation alone.
It wasn’t just kissing anymore. It was pulling, unraveling, something low and smoldering. The kind of heat that didn’t just sit in his gut—it spread, curling through him in slow, insistent waves, leaving no room for thought, only feeling.
Lucifer shifted, tilting his head, lips grazing, dragging before he bit down just enough to make Alastor’s breath catch. Then, a slow pull, sucking lightly at his bottom lip, tasting him like he meant to leave something behind.
A sound slipped free—soft, unformed, but unmistakable. Something he couldn’t take back.
Lucifer’s smirk pressed against his skin, wicked and knowing.
“There we go,” he murmured, breath curling against Alastor’s lips like a brand. “Now you’re feeling it.”
Alastor was feeling it.
Too much. Too hot. And frankly, he resented every second of it.
His hands twitched against Lucifer’s chest, caught between instincts—one urging him to push the bastard off just to prove he could, the other betraying him entirely, clenching in the fabric like he needed to hold on.
Alastor felt it—his own undoing, unraveling thread by thread. His grip had tightened in Lucifer’s waistcoat before he’d even noticed, breath coming quicker, lips parting without thought, chasing a kiss that hadn’t even been given yet.
Lucifer didn’t have to say anything. Alastor already knew that he knew.
The kiss deepened, slow and thorough, and damn it, he wasn’t just keeping up—he was giving in. He could feel the shift, the moment it turned from something stolen to something he offered.
Heat pooled low in his stomach, curling tight, his thoughts dissolving with every pass of Lucifer’s mouth over his own. There was no quick remark, no easy deflection—just this, just feeling, just the awful, undeniable truth of it:
He wasn’t resisting anymore.
He was responding.
He was learning.
Which, of course, was the exact moment Lucifer decided to pull away.
Alastor’s breath hitched in protest, a small, almost-voiced sound escaping before he could catch himself. He blinked, dazed for a second, as Lucifer eased back just enough to drink in the sight of him—flushed, breathless, lips swollen from too many kisses.
Lucifer smirked, that damn smug expression settling comfortably on his face. “Well,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over Alastor’s kiss-bitten lower lip, voice dripping with satisfaction. “I’d say that was a successful lesson.”
Alastor’s brow furrowed, still a bit dazed, like his mind hadn’t quite caught up with the moment. Then—realization hit him.
His eyes widened.
His spine straightened.
And suddenly, the heat wasn’t just from lingering arousal.
It was something worse. Something sharper.
Something like mortification.
Lucifer grinned. “Congratulations, darling. You know how to kiss now.”
Alastor gawked at him.
Then scowled, eyes narrowing to slits. “You—”
Lucifer pulled back completely, looking like he’d won some grand victory. “You can always come to me for a refresher, of course,” he added, the casual air of it making Alastor want to throttle him. “Wouldn’t want you to forget.”
Alastor’s expression twitched—part outrage, part something far too dangerous to name.
Lucifer caught it.
He knew.
And the worst part? He was loving every damn second of it.
Alastor’s lips parted, ready to throw out a scathing remark—but then he saw it. That damn smirk. The one Lucifer wore when he was too pleased with himself, when he knew he had already won. And in that moment, something in Alastor snapped.
With a quick, dismissive scoff, he spun on his heel, cutting off his words before they could escape. He moved toward the door, not sparing Lucifer another second of his time. He yanked the door open. “Go to hell,” he snarled.
Lucifer’s laugh followed him, low and far too satisfied, like he was reveling in his own smugness.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He tipped his head back, utterly thrilled with himself.
“We’re already there.”
And the door slammed shut behind Alastor.