Break My Chains

by Mis_BUBBLES

Summary:

He was raised to kill a king. Trained in silence. Forged in shadows. His mission was clear, until the man he was meant to destroy became the one person he couldn’t bring himself to hurt.

Now, caught between a duty he cannot refuse and a love he never meant to find, Alastor walks a blade’s edge. War brews on the horizon, Heaven watches from above, and deep beneath it all, the strings of an unseen master still tug at his soul.

In a hotel built on hope and haunted by secrets, one wrong step could tip Hell into ruin. And this time, love might not be strong enough to save them.

Notes:

Greetings, sinners, saints, and every soul in between, welcome to Break My Chains!
I’ll be honest: this story is my baby. I’ve poured blood, sweat, and tears into every chapter, and believe me, there will be tears. Consider yourself warned.

The entire story is already written; I just need to go through and edit. That means you can expect at least one chapter per week, maybe even two if I can find a little extra time between work and school.

I truly hope you enjoy this story as much as I do. So, without further ado, here’s Chapter One: I’m In Hell.

Enjoy, dear readers and I’ll see you at the end!

Chapter 1: I'm In Hell

The swamp was still, eerily so. The hour before dawn cast the Louisiana bayou in a bruised palette of shadow and fog. Mist clung low over the dark water like breath on glass, curling between cypress trees and moss-draped branches. The frogs had long since gone silent. Even the crickets held their tongues, as if the land itself knew better than to whisper while he passed.

 

Alastor walked alone, his boots sinking into the damp earth, one footfall after another carving a trail of silence through the underbrush. He carried a body over his shoulder, one arm looped beneath its knees, the other clutched firm around lifeless shoulders. The sheet it was wrapped in was already beginning to dampen, stained where old blood had seeped through.

 

The power under his skin burned. It groaned within his ribs like a thousand fists pounding to be let out. Each soul he consumed had added to that ever-swelling tide, a chorus of voices he could no longer tell apart. He’d felt the limit weeks ago, his body stretched thin, skin flushed and hot, like parchment held too close to flame. And yet still… he took more.

 

Because the voice that owned him said he must.

 

He reached the water's edge and knelt, breath catching in his throat, not from the weight, but from the effort of not collapsing. He eased the body to the ground, fingers trembling as they unwrapped the sheet. The naked corpse stared up with cloudy, half-lidded eyes, jaw slack. He had burned the man’s clothes hours ago. No trace. No evidence. Just another shadow for the swamp to swallow.

 

With a hard shove, he rolled the body into the dark waters. It sank without ceremony. A faint ripple, the slither of motion, and the gators would have their feast.

 

Alastor sat back on his heels, heart pounding, not from exertion but from the roiling energy threatening to break free of him. It itched at his throat, flared behind his eyes, his vision blurred at the edges. The air around him shimmered faintly, like heat rising from asphalt.

 

Then a sharp tingling at his neck. The shackle snapped to life with an invisible, unbearable pulse.

 

His breath caught.

 

Behind him, the trees seemed to lean away, as if unwilling to bear witness. A shadow coalesced across the bank, short, seemingly unimposing. Alastor didn’t need to turn to know who it was. He felt him, like a hook buried behind his ribs tugging taut.

 

Alastor didn’t look up, he stayed kneeling, fists curled into the mud, jaw clenched tight as the collar around his throat sparked to life. The pressure was subtle, but unyielding, like a wire tightening beneath the skin. A phantom heartbeat that wasn't his throbbed against his pulse.

 

“I did what you asked,” he rasped, voice low and hoarse.

 

No answer came at first, then a quiet chuckle, cool, mildly amused.

 

“Of course you did,” said the figure behind him. The voice was smooth, distant, detached. Like silk over a blade. “But you’re leaking. How many more before you burst, I wonder?”

 

Alastor didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Not with the heat boiling behind his sternum, not with the weight of that presence coiled around him like smoke.

 

The man stepped forward. Not that Alastor heard the movement, he simply knew. The world contracted with him, breathless and sharp, the way prey feels the predator before the strike.

 

“You’re nearing the edge,” the voice continued, soft now, almost fond. “One more soul might be all it takes.”

 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, knuckles whitening in the muck. He could feel it, the truth behind the words. That burn beneath his skin wasn’t fading.

 

“You’ve reached your limit,” the figure murmured, voice still soft but now laced with something heavier, command. “A mortal vessel can only hold so much. The flesh fractures. The soul strains.”

 

Alastor stayed silent, though his breath hitched.

 

“You’ve done well,” the figure went on. “But this form...” A pause. “This shell was always meant to be temporary.”

 

Something twisted in Alastor’s gut.

 

“I’m still alive,” he said finally, the words slow, uncertain.

 

“Yes.” The voice smiled in his ear. “And that is the problem.”

 

Alastor flinched as the pain surged again, sharp and sudden, blooming across his chest like fire behind bone. He curled forward slightly, gritting his teeth. The power inside him, too much now, was pressing outward, clawing for space. There was none left.

 

“Once your soul is free,” the figure continued, “you will grow unbound. No limit. No flesh to contain you.”

 

Alastor’s lips parted, but he said nothing. The mist around the riverbank seemed to close in, as though the world itself recoiled from what was being spoken. His hands shook. His throat burned.

 

He would have to die. That was what this meant.

 

He had always known it might come to this. But now, here, kneeling in the mud, his body aching, trembling, alive; the idea of dying still scared him.

 

“I…”

Alastor stopped. Instead, he looked up slowly.

 

The fog behind him glowed faintly with the first hints of dawn. His cognac-colored eyes locked onto the silhouette behind him, not all of it visible, not all of it right, but familiar.

 

He didn’t speak, just looked; a question lingering in the curve of his brow, the parting of his lips. Fear, uncertainty, flicker of hope, maybe; that this wasn’t what he thought it was.

 

The figure tilted his head, almost fond. Then… he was gone, and in his place like a breath of wind, a faint, cruel laugh unraveling like thread into the fog.

 

A rustling followed. Subtle at first, twigs snapping, wet leaves shifting, but it grew louder, closer. The unmistakable snuffling of hounds.

 

Alastor’s heart seized. He turned sharply, breath catching in his throat.

 

Beyond the veil of mist, shadows moved; dogs, two, maybe three. Thick-bodied, low-slung, their noses pressed to the damp earth. Hunters not far behind.

 

He looked back but the riverbank was empty. Not even a footprint remained, no sign of the thing that had been there moments before.

 

But then one of the dogs barked, sharp, alert, ears perked high and all hell broke loose.

 

Alastor didn’t wait, he lunged forward, breaking into a sprint, crashing through the underbrush with desperate speed. Branches slapped at his face, snagged his sleeves. Mud sucked at his boots. His lungs burned with every breath, the searing power inside him growing hotter with every step.

 

The dogs howled.

 

A single gunshot cracked the morning.

 

Pain bloomed instantly. The bullet grazed his hip, tearing into flesh and muscle with a vicious hiss. Alastor stumbled, cried out and hit the ground hard. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and slick. He gritted his teeth and forced himself upright, panic pushing past pain.

 

But the hounds were already on him.

 

The first one lunged, burying its teeth in his arm. The weight, the force of it knocked him back down. He screamed, wrenching his body to the side, trying to shake it off. But the second dog sank its jaws deep into his thigh. He thrashed wildly, kicking, punching, trying to pry the monsters off as they tore at him.

 

The magic in his veins surged. Shadow licked the edges of his vision, tendrils coiling from his fingertips. He reached inward, clawing for it, ready to unleash the storm but it was too late.

 

Another shot rang out.

 

The world snapped into stillness. A white-hot pain bloomed between his eyes and then it all went dark.

 

His body collapsed, blood pooling in the soil beneath him, soaking into the roots and rot of the bayou. The dogs fell silent. The only motion left was the steam curling from the wound in his forehead.

 

In the final flicker of awareness, just before everything unraveled, Alastor had one last thought.

 

Maybe this is it. Maybe… it’s finally over.

 

But even as the thought came, it was chased by a deeper certainty.

 

I could never be that lucky.

 

---

 

There was no pain. That was the first thing Alastor noticed. No ache in his hip. No burning in his chest. No gnawing pressure of power clawing behind his ribs.

 

He opened his eyes.

 

The world was… wrong.

 

He sat up slowly, pushing himself upright with cautious hands. The ground beneath him was dry and cracked, blackened earth split like sunbaked clay. A red haze clung low over the landscape, thick and hazy with distant heat.

 

He looked around.

 

Desolate waste stretched for miles in every direction. Craggy rock formations loomed like broken teeth, casting long shadows in the ruddy light. And far in the distance, past the ridges and dust, there was a glowing city.

 

He moved to stand and froze. He was naked; the clothes he’d worn in life, bloodstained and torn, hadn’t come with him. Nothing had; no boots, no shirt, not even his underwear.

 

He rose slowly, brushing off grit and ash from his palms. The ground was warm beneath his hooves.

 

Hooves?

 

He stared down. His feet, once calloused and scarred from years in the swamp, were now split and black, the smooth sheen of polished deer hooves catching dull light.

 

His breath caught in his throat.

 

He raised a hand, examining it with suspicion. Still his hands. Still long fingers but sharper now, the nails were darkened to a deep, bruised red at the tips. His skin, once bronze from the southern sun, now bore a muted, ashen tan, like something left too long in shadow.

 

He reached up, combing shaky fingers through his hair only to stop with a jolt.

 

His fingers snagged on two small, sleek black antlers. They curled from his crown, elegant and strange. He moved to feel them better, and his hand brushed something soft, velvety. It twitched at his touch.

 

An ear, long, downturned, deer-like. Covered in silky red and black fur.

 

His breath caught again. He turned slowly, trying to see over his shoulder.

 

There at the base of his spine, a tail. Thick, fluffy, red with black tips, like the embers of a dying fire. It swayed slightly with his movement, an unconscious twitch betraying a part of him he hadn’t even known was there.

 

His chest rose and fell, slow and shallow. He lifted one hand to his mouth. His teeth felt different, sharper, predatory.

 

Alastor took a slow breath, letting the heavy Hell-air settle into his lungs.

 

He flexed his fingers and the shadows came. They rose from his back like twin wings of smoke, curling at his sides, nuzzling against his arms, his waist, his face.  They came easier now that his power wasn’t tearing at him from the inside. He smiled, not his usual smile, sharp and gleaming, but something smaller. Something softer.

 

He reached out, and the shadows twirled through his fingers like streamers in the wind, flickering with the playfulness of a memory. They brushed along his bare skin, looped between his legs, swirled upward into the haze above him.  

 

This was how it used to be. Before the blood, before the burn of others' lives inside him, before the chain was snapped around his soul.

 

He dropped to a knee, fingers sweeping the dust, and the shadows followed, painting the ground in wide, sweeping circles, dancing like they had when he was small, before he’d sold away his freedom.

 

The shadows spiraled upward again, elegant against the muted sky, painting phantom patterns he didn’t fully control, didn’t need to. They knew what he wanted.  

 

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

 

This, he thought. This is what it was meant to feel like.

 

But then it came, his voice like a whisper on the wind.

 

You forget yourself.

 

Alastor stiffened.

 

The warmth in his chest turned cold. The shadows stopped mid-spiral, hovering uncertainly, as if sensing the shift.

 

There is no freedom for you. You are mine, little deer.

 

The words slid through his thoughts like a knife through silk.

 

Playtime is over. Go forth. Devour, become stronger. But show your true strength to no one.

Alastor’s hands dropped to his sides. The shadows recoiled, not from fear, but obedience.

 

His eyes, once alight with wonder, dimmed. He stood alone again, bare beneath the red sky, the dust curling around his hooves. The joy he’d just tasted now felt like a cruel joke. A chain pulled tight.

 

And so, Alastor turned toward the distant city. He pulled the shadows in close and they clung to him like silk spun from smoke, fluid, living, obedient.

 

Alastor had shaped them into a long, sweeping cloak, the edges dissolving into soft tendrils as he walked. It covered him well enough. At a glance, one might assume it was velvet, deep red or black depending on how the light hit it. But it moved, too fluid, too responsive, clinging protectively when a breeze kicked up, flaring open when he turned. It was alive. Just like everything else here.

 

---

 

Pentagram City loomed ahead and it was loud.

 

The moment he stepped onto its paved streets, the noise slammed into him, a cacophony of pulsing bass, demonic howls, metal grinding, glass shattering, gunfire in the distance. Voices shouted over one another in dozens of tongues. Laughter, sharp and guttural, rang from windowsills and rooftops.

 

The streets were chaos.

 

Neon signs flickered over crumbling brick, burning words in red, purple, and acid green into the fog. Smog and sulfur choked the air. Fights broke out on the sidewalks, blades drawn, fists flying, only to fizzle out minutes later.

 

No one looked fully human. They were twisted things. Some elegant, others monstrous. Limbs elongated or clawed, mouths stretched too wide, eyes glowing, skin marked with feathers, fur or scales. Animal and human intertwined in ways that made Alastor's stomach twist with a fascination bordering on disgust.

 

And then there were the imps. Short, quick, red-skinned things with curled black-and-white horns, jagged teeth, and barbed tails that darted between the crowd. Some carried weapons. Others carried drinks. One carried what looked like a severed leg, munching on it like a turkey drumstick.

 

In the alleys, bodies sprawled in heaps, throats slit, bellies open, limbs broken at grotesque angles. But they twitched, groaned, cursed.  They were alive. Here, death was more of an inconvenience than a finale.

 

A window shattered above him. A figure crashed down onto a nearby awning with a scream of laughter, trailing blood and broken glass. Somewhere to his left, someone was moaning, too rhythmic, too loud to mistake for pain. Two figures tangled in a corner, oblivious to the street brawl happening inches away.

 

Alastor walked slowly, calmly, his eyes flicking from scene to scene. The shadows of his cloak trailed behind him like lazy serpents.

 

He made no effort to interfere. But a flicker of disgust crossed his face more than once. Not because of the violence. Not even the debauchery. But because this was what Hell had made of itself. A playground of carnality and chaos; no purpose, no order, just endless noise and indulgence.

 

He kept walking, cloak whispering against the filth-slick streets.

 

He heard the brute before he saw him. Heavy footsteps, wet chuckle, the sound of something cracking, bone maybe, or stone underfoot.

 

“You look a little lost, sweetheart,” a voice crooned behind him, thick and slurred like spit in gravel.

 

Alastor didn’t pause. He turned slowly, eyes lidded, a faint smile curling at his lips.

 

The sinner loomed over him easily nine and a half feet of bulging, uneven muscle. His skin was an oozing patchwork of burns and boils, his horns gnarled and twisted like snapped tree limbs. His tongue lolled from one corner of his mouth, slick and barbed. He smelled of sweat, meat, and cheap sex.

 

The crowd noticed. Several nearby demons paused to watch, some with grins, others with hungry eyes. Whispers bloomed and wagers were made.

 

The brute stepped closer, dragging a filthy claw along his exposed gut. “Pretty little fawn like you, all by yourself in my part of the city?” he sneered. “Why don’t you ditch the sheet and let me show you how things work down here?”

 

Alastor’s smile widened, but not kindly. He tilted his head slightly, the motion smooth and disinterested, like a man regarding a puddle that had spoken.

 

“Oh, dear,” he said, voice velvet and sharp. “You couldn’t afford the pleasure of my disgust, let alone my time.”

 

The crowd howled. Laughter, gasps, somewhere behind them a bottle shattered fallowed be applause.

 

The brute’s face twisted. “What did you just say to me?”

 

“I said,” Alastor continued, brushing an imaginary speck from the shoulder of his shadowed cloak, “that you have the scent and stature of a particularly overripe garbage heap and the intellect to match.”

 

The larger demon’s nostrils flared. His claws flexed. Someone in the crowd began chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Others joined in. A small demon with spider legs was already scaling a lamppost for a better view.

 

“You little bitch!” the sinner roared, lunging forward.

 

He reached out, grabbing for Alastor’s arm, and that’s when the shadows moved.

 

The lower hem of Alastor’s cloak shattered into a dozen lashing tendrils, shadows turning solid in an instant, slamming into the larger demon’s arm and chest with enough force to crack ribs. One tendril wrapped around the brute’s wrist and squeezed until the bone inside gave a satisfying pop.

 

The sinner screamed.

 

The crowd fell silent.

 

Alastor’s head rose, his eyes now black as pitch, no trace of the warm red left. His antlers stretched upward, curling longer, sharper, casting broken shadows across the street. His soft smile had twisted into something far less kind.

 

“If you ever touch me again,” he said, voice low and clear and full of a cutting delight, “I’ll peel your skin from your bones and feed it to you, one nerve at a time.”

 

The crowd was frozen, no laughter now, only held breath.

 

The demon was on his knees, gasping, his broken wrist still bound by shadow.

 

Alastor took a step forward. The shadows lifted the brute’s chin just enough for Alastor to look him in the eye.

 

“Go on,” he whispered. “Try it.”

 

The sinner whimpered and then he ran.

 

The shadows released him the instant he turned, letting him scramble backward in the dirt like a kicked dog.

 

The crowd parted without a word.

 

Alastor straightened, antlers shrinking, eyes slowly bleeding back into red. The shadows settled around his feet again like silk. He turned back toward the city’s heart without so much as a glance behind him.

 

---

 

It didn’t take long for Alastor to adapt.

 

The first few days in Hell, Alastor kept to himself. He moved through Pentagram City like a shadow behind glass, observing more than acting. He spoke rarely. When he did, it was with a polite smile and a voice too smooth to invite suspicion but too sharp to ignore.

 

No confrontations followed the first. The threat of what had happened in the street, that singular, scathing display of power, was enough. When he entered a shop, voices dropped, eyes avoided his and doors opened without question.

 

It was during that time he found the tailor. A respectable enough little hell spawn with six arms and an eye for detail. They trembled when he entered, but he offered no malice, just a sketch, clean fabric, and an unsettlingly precise measurement of what he wanted.

 

By the next night, the red pinstripe suit was ready. A coat, long and flared at the bottom, with dark lapels and piping. A bright shirt beneath, gloves, polished boots, the bowtie, black with a red center.

 

But it wasn’t until he found the tower that his legend began to stir.

 

It stood on the outskirts of the city, squat and rusted, an old radio station long forgotten by any who cared for quality. The call sign had peeled off in strips, the antenna half-collapsed, the airwaves full of static and drunk giggling. Inside, a crew of filthy, half-mad sinners huddled around dusty equipment, pressing random buttons and howling into cracked microphones.

 

It was unforgivable.

 

Alastor stood in the doorway of the broadcast room, arms folded neatly behind his back, watching as one demon accidentally shocked himself trying to twist the tuning dial.

 

“…what is this disgrace?” he murmured aloud.

 

No one noticed him at first, until his shadows brushed against the wall, flicking switches and dimming lights.

 

Then, slowly, the heads turned.

 

“Oi,” grunted the largest of them, a three-eyed brute with slime-caked overalls. “This is our tower, pal. Beat it.”

 

Alastor smiled pleasantly.

 

“Oh, no no no, this is an insult to all things civil and sonorous,” he said, stepping further inside. “What you have here is a crime against radio.”

 

Another demon squinted at him. “Who the fuck are you?”

 

Alastor tilted his head, the faint hum of static rising around him like a breath before a storm.

 

“I’m your replacement.”

 

It didn’t take long after that. The floor was soon slick with shadows. Screams echoed off the tower walls, swallowed as quickly as they came. Alastor didn’t kill them, he relocated them. Hurled from the tower into the filthy streets below, dazed and left to wonder what had just happened.

 

By nightfall, the radio tower belonged to him.

 

The rooms had been cleared. The equipment, what wasn’t broken, was polished, fixed, and lovingly rearranged. The airwaves buzzed with potential, no longer clogged with nonsense but waiting for a voice worthy of them.

 

Alastor sat in the high-backed chair before the broadcast desk, fingers gliding lovingly over the dials and switches, the old-style microphone glowing faintly in the gloom.

 

Music hummed in the background, jazz, of course, his favorite.

 

He adjusted the mic, leaned in, and grinned.

 

“Good evening, Hell,” he purred, his voice a rich, transatlantic drawl that rolled like velvet across the soundwaves. “You’ve been simply awful tonight and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

He flipped a switch, and laughter rang through the streets like a song no one could forget.

 

The Radio Demon had arrived.

 

Chapter 2: Radio King

Notes:

“Well hey there, my darling little sinners! Gather round, gather round, have I got a tale for ya this evening!

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been buzzing with anticipation to share this next chapter. That’s right, tonight we take a peek behind the curtain to see just how the infamous Radio Demon earned his name, and oh, what a show it is!

So go on, get comfy, grab your snacks, and settle in, sugarplums, because it’s time for Chapter Two: Radio King! You won’t wanna miss a beat!”

In life, the radio had been the only thing that brought him true joy, those quiet hours behind the mic, spinning stories, threading melodies, sending his voice out into the dark. It had been the one place where he felt powerful and free. So, when he awoke in Hell with a command still burning in the back of his mind ‘grow stronger’ he chose to do it the only way that didn’t destroy what little of himself he still cherished.

 

His master hadn’t given him but one rule and an objective, then he was gone.

 

Alastor could have gone the obvious route, pick fights, stage battles; let Hell know exactly what kind of monster he could be. But that would draw attention, attention he couldn’t afford. Neither Heaven nor Hell could know what he truly was. They couldn’t see what lurked beneath the static grin and polished words.

 

So, he built his tower. He revived his show and he performed.

 

Each episode a broadcast of slaughter, an overlord silenced, a demon erased. The sounds were unmistakable: screams, static, a sharp, clean break. He made it entertaining, cryptic, teasing. His audience assumed it was angelic steel doing the killing; true death delivered through some mysterious, divine artifact. And that suited him just fine. Because the truth was far crueler.

 

He didn’t kill them with weapons. He devoured them. Drank down their souls. Erased them from existence and fed on the energy left behind. Their power became his, and no one knew.

 

Tonight, the tower hummed with anticipation. The old dials were lit, the airwaves tuned just right, jazz playing softly beneath the crackle of static and shadow. Alastor sat in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, eyes fixed on the glowing microphone before him like a stage light.

 

He flipped a switch.

 

“Good evening, Hell,” he said, smooth and easy, like honey laced with arsenic. “And welcome to the latest broadcast of your new favorite voice in this wretched, wonderful little corner of eternity.”

 

Soft piano trilled behind his words. The shadows on the walls seemed to lean closer.

 

“I know, I know, you’ve been so faithful to your local Overlords. What would you ever do without their contracts and their charming little rackets? But I do hope you’ll forgive me for being so bold, my dear listeners, when I say…”

 

He gestured to the corner.

 

“...it's time for something better.”

 

The spotlight of a single shadow curled toward the far wall, where the Overlord sat slumped and bound in cruel, living black cords. Even gagged, he radiated fury.

 

Alastor rose from his seat and strolled over, slow and theatrical.

 

“This specimen, for example, has ruled this district for what… three centuries?” he said cheerfully, addressing the audience through the mic. “A tyrant. A parasite. A bore.”

 

He crouched beside the bound demon, his hand reaching to pull away the gag.

 

“Say hello to your adoring public.”

 

The Overlord snarled. “You fucking worm, you think this city’ll bow to you?! You’re nothing! Nothing but a sick little freak with a microphone and a god complex!”

 

“Ah-ah,” Alastor purred, placing a finger lightly over the demon’s lips. “Let’s keep it radio friendly, shall we?”

 

He turned to the mic, delighted. “See? Not just an empty threat, folks! He’s very real, very loud, and…”

 

He reached into the shadows with a flick of his wrist. They slithered forward like snakes with glass teeth.

 

“…very fun to play with.”

 

The shadows pierced and a scream tore from the Overlord’s throat, raw and rasping. It crackled through the mic, over the soft backdrop of jazzy swing, echoing out across the city like a banshee wail draped in melody.

 

Listeners froze in brothels, in bars, in alleyways. Radios across Hell lit up with chaos.

 

Alastor leaned back, adjusting the levels with calm fingers. “Oops. A bit of feedback. He’s so enthusiastic.”

 

The next voice was the Overlord’s again, ragged now, panting, blood spitting from his lips. “I’ll tear you apart, I’ll—gods above, make it stop!”

 

“Mm-mm,” Alastor cooed. “Wrong gods, darling.”

 

More shadows, more screams; they rose and fell with the beat of the music, each torment exquisitely timed, crafted like a solo in a symphony of pain. It wasn’t just violence. It was entertainment.

 

Alastor returned to the mic as the demon sobbed and choked behind him.

 

“You see, dear listeners, in life I was a man of certain... tastes. I hunted monsters. I silenced tyrants. And now, well…” he chuckled, tapping the mic, “…now I get to broadcast it all to you.”

 

He snapped his fingers.

 

The shadows surged, this time, not to kill, but to drag. The Overlord’s shrieking, twitching form was hoisted up to the rafters where he hung like a grotesque ornament, still alive, still screaming, his voice becoming the new background to Alastor’s show.

 

“And there you have it,” Alastor said, voice velvet-smooth as the music swelled. “Tonight’s program will be accompanied by the live suffering of a has-been. Tune in every hour on the hour for more shrieks, sobs, and soothing swing.”

 

Across Hell, no one laughed, no one dared. They just listened.

 

---

 

At first, it was just odd.

 

A new voice drifting across the airwaves, crisp, theatrical, like something plucked from a century long buried. The broadcasts came without introduction, no name, no face, just music, commentary, and the occasional blood-curdling scream punctuated by laughter far too delighted to be faked.

 

It echoed out from old radios, repurposed speaker poles, even rusted vending machines that hadn't worked in decades. And Hell, for all its noise, began to listen.

 

Pentagram City sat at the heart of the Pride Ring; the only place sinners could manifest. It was vast, bloated, divided into districts like tumors on the same corrupted beast. The Doomsday District, the Entertainment Sector, the Industrial Blight to name a few; each ruled by a different Overlord, each jealously guarding their territory, contracts, and vices.

 

But one by one, those names started to vanish.

 

A soul-broker from the Doomsday District, gone without warning. A sadistic showrunner from the Entertainment Sector, missing from his throne. An iron-fisted smog baron from the Industrial wastes, no body, no sign of escape.

 

And then, days later, their voices. Screaming through the static. Begging.

 

The broadcasts never gave a name. Only that smooth, elegant voice spinning tales and teasing anecdotes with impeccable timing… while someone wept in the background, or choked on blood, or laughed until they broke.

 

Soon, they started calling him the Radio Demon. Because it was the only thing they could call him.

 

He didn’t tear through territory like other would-be tyrants. He didn’t make demands. He spoke and Hell listened.

 

Some whispered wild theories.

 

“He’s a fallen angel.”

“He was born in the soundwaves.”

“He’s a weapon from another realm sent to reset the power structure.”

 

And more than a few muttered the name Lucifer.

 

Because the King of Hell had not been seen in over ten centuries. Not in the streets. Not at the palace. Not even during Exterminations. No one knew why. His absence had become fact, like the sky being red or the rivers full of screams.

 

But now? Now someone was cleaning house. Someone was striking down Overlords like a viper from the shadows. Someone was rewriting fear itself.

 

And that voice… that voice sounded too collected, too ancient, too powerful. It couldn’t be a sinner. Could it?

 

No one knew for sure. No one dared investigate. Because every time another Overlord disappeared… The city braced and the radios began to play.

 

It didn’t take long for fear to turn into speculation.

 

As more Overlords vanished, swallowed by shadow and static, Hell’s streets began to change. Their districts, once ruled with iron claws and blood-soaked contracts, fell into chaos. Turf wars erupted. Lesser demons fought to seize scraps of territory left behind.

 

But none of them lasted. Because every few days, like clockwork, a new broadcast aired and someone else screamed.

 

At first, it was easy to imagine the Radio Demon as a myth. A ghost in the wires. A voice without a body. Safer that way.

 

But Hell doesn't stay ignorant for long. Especially when powers on the table. A pattern formed.

 

He always struck just before a shift in influence, swooping in quietly, claiming territory with absence. Just silence where an Overlord once stood, and laughter and screams on the airwaves by midnight.

 

But soon, someone recognized him. A sinner; thin, tall, wrapped in shadows, dressed in crimson pinstripes with a wide, glinting smile and a pair of antlers curling delicately from his head.

 

The voice, his voice, sounded awfully familiar.

 

The rumors exploded.

 

“That’s him.”

“That’s the Radio Demon, I've seen him.”

“He was in the Industrial District two days before Krogg vanished.”

“Red coat. Deer ears. Talks like an old-timey host. Real polite, until someone looks at him wrong.”

 

The name Alastor surfaced only in murmurs, usually by those who knew of him in life. Rare, scattered. But the connection between that voice and that face grew harder to ignore.

 

Some laughed.

 

“He’s too pretty to be the one doing all this.”

“He’s just a poser, riding the myth.”

“It’s not him. He’s not strong enough.”

 

And then they disappeared too. The legend spread.

 

He didn’t scream or announce himself. He didn’t take interviews. He didn’t claim the title. Hell simply gave it to him.

 

The Radio Demon.

 

The smiling red shadow walking untouched through districts ruled by warlords, untouched by gangs, unbothered by sin.

 

By the time the screaming on the airwaves faded to a background chorus and Hell’s radios stopped buzzing with new names, a strange stillness settled over the Pride Ring.

 

Not peace, Hell never truly rested. But the frenzied scrambles for power, the desperate brawls over the ashes of fallen Overlords, had begun to slow. Territory disputes cooled. Alliances shifted. Order, of a sort, re-emerged.

 

Not because someone claimed the throne. But because someone behind the curtain made sure no one could.

 

Alastor didn’t take territory. He didn’t need to. All of Hell feared him already. His presence was a threat. His voice, a weapon. And his name? It echoed in places even kings once feared to tread.

 

So instead of building an empire… He built a board and he placed his pieces carefully.

 

He made deals. Not for souls, he had no need for such vulgar currency. He traded in favors. Debts left to rot until the perfect moment to collect. Most didn’t even know they’d signed anything until the leash tugged tight.

 

One of the first was a newly-arrived sinner with a jaw full of teeth and a screen for a face, loud, brash, irritatingly obsessed with flash.

 

Vox.

 

The demon had a taste for chaos, a flair for the dramatic, and a hunger for recognition. He just lacked focus.

 

Alastor saw it immediately. So, he whispered, coached, nudged.

 

Not with direct commands, but with opportunities. Tools. A little recognition here. A business contact there. Encouragement when Vox succeeded, eerie silence when he failed.

 

Bit by bit, he molded him. Until one day, Vox woke up and found himself in charge of the Entertainment District.

 

He never even realized it wasn’t his own idea.

 

Alastor smiled and moved to the next piece.

 

Some were spared the game entirely. Rosie, for instance, an old soul, elegant and tasteful, who carried herself with dignity. She’d been here longer than him, and Alastor had no interest in removing her. She wasn’t a threat. She was… pleasant.

 

They became fast friends. Tea on Wednesdays. Jazz critiques. Occasionally, a mutual exchange of information; always polite.

 

Zestial and Carmilla were another matter.

 

Older, yes. But not so refined. Still, they were useful, anchors in the shifting tides of power. Too sharp to kill. Too known to ignore. Alastor left them where they stood, occasionally offering a hand to “help” stabilize their corners when things got too volatile.

 

Every district, every stronghold, began to move in rhythm like a symphony with an invisible conductor.

 

Some rose. Some fell. But always at the perfect tempo.

 

No one questioned the harmony. No one saw the strings. But they danced. Every district moved in rhythm, a subtle choreography of chaos and control. And Hell, ever hungry for spectacle, saw balance returning, not knowing who was balancing it.

 

Alastor saw it too. He could feel the pieces slotting into place. But it didn’t bring him peace.

 

In the quiet of his tower, where the red light of the microphone glowed like a watchful eye, Alastor sat still, fingers steepled in front of him.

 

This was not victory. This was obedience.

 

Every Overlord slain. Every pawn elevated. Every whispered deal.

 

It had started with a voice.

 

Devour. Become stronger.

 

A command, not a choice, and it pulled, every day, every hour, like something ancient clawing at the hollow of his ribs. He could play at civility. Host his show. Laugh and smile and pour himself into a facsimile of the life he once loved.

 

But the chain remained, he could feel it, always, tethered to something far above him. Something cold. Watching.

 

He didn’t rise to power because he wanted it. He rose because he was built to, because it was necessary.

 

And in that silence between broadcasts, Alastor sometimes allowed himself to wonder what would have become of him… if he had never made the deal?

 

If the shadows had only ever been his?

 

But those were dangerous thoughts and he still had work to do.

Notes:

What’d ya think of that? Our darling Alastor sure has an eye for strategy and flair, doesn’t he? But how long can this stretch of peace really last for our lovely little deer?

Stay tuned for more next week!

Also, if anyone’s interested, I’ve put together a little Spotify playlist for this fic:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6F3VMNXS7Uevzo9i1ZJXu3?si=04f917d10dae4f87

Not all of the songs will make perfect sense until later chapters, but most of them match the general vibe. Fair warning though, if you get musical genre whiplash easily, maybe sit this one out. My music taste bounces around a lot.

Anyway, until next time, my dears, I bid you adieu.

Chapter 3: Sharpening The Blade

Eight decades. That’s how long it had been since Alastor first stepped foot in Hell. Since the city screamed his name and choked it back in the same breath.

 

In that time, not a single soul had risen to challenge his influence. Not because he sat on a throne, he never claimed one. He didn’t need to, his presence alone ruled. The hierarchy shifted when he wanted it to, not through proclamation but through manipulation. Every corner of the Pride Ring danced to a rhythm only he could hear.

 

And all the while, he fed, quietly, constantly. He didn't need the chaos of battle to devour. But when the annual Extermination came, it made things… easier.

 

The angelic cleansing tore through the streets like divine wildfire, and most sinners scattered or cowered, knowing that only angelic steel could truly kill. That only the wrath of Heaven could obliterate a soul beyond repair.

 

But Alastor? Alastor didn’t need Heaven’s blade, he was the blade.

 

Hidden beneath the sound of screams and holy light, he moved through the chaos like a ghost. No one questioned when a sinner didn’t regenerate; it was the Extermination, after all. No one suspected that a fellow sinner had done the work. He made sure of it.

 

A sudden pressure bloomed at his throat; sharp, pulsing, familiar.

 

His breath hitched. He straightened mid-stride, blood on his gloves, eyes scanning the burning skyline.

 

He knew that sensation. He’d felt it a hundredtimes before.

 

Then the world convulsed around him. One moment: smoke, screams, the tang of scorched iron. The next: blinding white. No transition, just absence.

 

The street vanished, sound died, heat flattened into sterile stillness.

 

He stood on a flawless, pale surface that stretched in every direction, smooth and polished like marble, but with no texture, no variance, no flaws. The horizon was an unbroken wash of cold, blinding brilliance. Not light, exactly, but a pressure that hummed in his bones and seared behind his eyes.

 

Empty and endless.

 

Only one thing existed in this place beyond him. At the far edge of the horizon, or perhaps only a few paces away, stood a figure.  Waiting.

 

Alastor’s gaze dropped. His shoulders stayed square, spine taut with the kind of tension that came from long familiarity with pain, but he bowed his head.

 

“Master,” he said, voice quiet.

 

Not out of respect but survival.

 

He knew better than to meet that gaze too boldly. He had learned, more than once, that defiance only earned him pain. The kind that bent bones and broke minds. So, even as something inside him bristled, even as his fingers twitched with the urge to reach for his power, he stilled them. He submitted.

 

The figure stepped forward, smaller in stature, by nearly a head. Alastor dwarfed him in frame and presence in almost any other context.

 

But here, he might as well have towered.

 

He began to circle Alastor, slow and deliberate, hands folded neatly behind his back. A leisurely predator examining a show beast.

 

“Eighty years,” he said lightly, like he was commenting on the weather. “Eighty years since I sent you below. Told you to grow. To watch. To remain in the shadows.”

 

He stopped behind Alastor, his voice brushing against the back of his neck.

 

“And yet… you’ve been quite the spectacle, haven’t you?”

 

Alastor’s fingers curled at his sides.

 

“I’ve remained hidden,” he said, carefully. “No one knows the truth. Not about my strength. Not about my abilities. I’ve kept it buried.”

 

The man’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

 

“Oh, my little deer,” he sighed.

 

Then he was in front of him again, faster than thought.

 

He barely reached Alastor’s chest, but the power radiating off him made the taller demon feel like a child caught in the act. It wasn’t size that mattered here.

 

“You’ve been naughty.”

 

He smiled, softly, chidingly; like a parent catching a child sneaking candy before dinner.

 

“I gave you slack on your leash,” he said, stepping closer. “A little room. A little autonomy. I even allowed you a voice. And what did you do with it?”

 

Alastor didn’t answer.

 

So, he leaned in just slightly, and though he had to look up to meet Alastor’s eyes, he still made the moment feel like a reprimand from above.

 

“You broadcast.”

 

His tone darkened, not louder, just colder.

 

“You announced your kills. You turned their deaths into a performance. Made art of their suffering. Painted your power across the airwaves and dared the world to listen.”

 

Alastor’s jaw tensed. “No one knows how I did it. They think it’s tricks. Angelic steel. Smoke and…”

 

The man’s hand rose, not with force, but terrifying calm, and caught Alastor’s chin. The touch wasn’t rough but it was firm, controlling.

 

Even with the height difference, even with Alastor looking down into that pale, pristine face, it felt like the floor dropped out beneath him.

 

“Do you think ambiguity excuses disobedience?” He asked. “Do you think a clever illusion hides you from me?”

 

Alastor didn’t answer.

 

The moment hung sharp between them, until the man gently released his chin and stepped back, as if handling something delicate. Something expensive.

 

He drifted along a slow arc behind Alastor, steps soundless, hands clasped with practiced grace. His tone was calm, pleasant even, but Alastor felt the threat nestled beneath each syllable like barbed wire beneath silk.

 

His ears pinned flat against his skull. The shadows around his boots twitched anxiously.

 

His master was angry.

 

He didn’t yell, he never needed to. But Alastor could feel it, the weight in the air, the way the pressure curled around his ribs like a tightening snare. He’d felt it before. Knew what it meant.

 

He stayed still, perfectly straight. But his shoulders drew ever so slightly inward, a subtle, instinctive brace against the blow that hadn’t come… yet.

 

His master circled him with that same lazy stroll, like a man admiring the polish of a blade he might no longer trust to cut.

 

“You made yourself into a spectacle,” he said, voice still smooth. “A legend. A myth. A creature of whispered awe and broadcast terror.”

 

He passed directly behind Alastor’s back, close enough to touch. Alastor didn’t flinch but his hands tightened even further at his sides.

 

The man stopped once more in front of him, too close, looking up into his face.

 

“A name that climbs too high.”

 

Alastor’s breath caught.

 

He wanted to speak, to explain; to plead that his strength was still hidden, that his secrets were still buried, that no one knew what he truly was.

 

But he didn’t. Because it wouldn’t matter.

 

The smile returned, small, controlled. Like a man watching a candle just before he snuffs it out.

 

“But what’s done is done.”

 

He exhaled gently, as if forgiving some minor trespass, though Alastor knew better than to mistake it for mercy.

 

“The past cannot be rewritten. And besides…”

 

He tilted his head slightly, almost fond.

 

“I’m curious.”

 

Alastor’s throat tightened.

 

“I want to see,” the man continued, stepping back just enough to speak, arms folding behind him. “All this time feasting behind the scenes. Quiet little massacres. Gluttony in the dark. Has it dulled your edge?”

 

He paced again, more purposeful now.

 

“I want to measure the difference,” he said. “The power you’ve amassed since your... manifestation.”

 

There was no warning. No shift in tone. No change in posture. Just motion.

 

Alastor was thrown backward by the first strike, a brutal blow to the chest that launched him across the blinding floor. His boots tore shallow scars into the seamless white as he skidded to a halt. Pain bloomed through his ribs.

 

But he didn’t stay down. He lunged, snarling, shadows bursting behind him like wings torn from darkness.

 

His coat flared, his claws gleamed and the air screamed with the force of his charge.

 

He struck; a slash aimed at the throat. Another at the ribs. A spiraling flourish of shadows following like fangs, his magic blooming outward in a lethal dance of beauty and precision. The arena echoed with crackling static, with phantom voices, with power.

 

The figure across from him didn’t flinch.

 

The strikes passed harmlessly near him, or twisted at the last moment, diverted by invisible force. The contract coiled inside Alastor’s chest like a serpent, binding every movement at the last instant.

 

He could perform. But he could never land the killing blow.

 

Still, he pressed harder. Shadows erupted like a sea in storm, spikes, spears, barbed coils all crashing down. His antlers grew with his magic, his body a blur of crimson rage and carved elegance.

 

If not for the bond between them, if not for the leash pulling him just shy, his enemy would be dead.

 

But the figure only smiled, amused.

 

“You’ve grown strong,” the man said, “I can see it. Feel it.”

 

He stepped lightly aside as another shadowed swipe sailed past him, leaving deep gouges in the floor.

 

“But your form…” he clicked his tongue, almost fond. “Soft. Sloppy. You’ve been feeding well in Hell, haven’t you? Picking off Overlords like ripened fruit. All muscle. No discipline.”

 

He vanished in a blur and reappeared behind Alastor. A hard strike drove into Alastor’s side. The demon twisted midair, shadows catching him before he could collapse. He snarled, rebounded, and launched again, spinning low, slashing upward with both clawed hands and a shrieking wave of radio-borne noise.

 

The man sidestepped effortlessly. He let the static dance past him, eyes gleaming with

 delight.

 

“There it is,” he said, as Alastor’s latest assault struck nothing but air. “The creature I’ve cultivated.”

 

He approached, hands still folded behind his back, his movements unhurried.

 

“You were designed to be a weapon,” he said. “A vicious, dangerous thing. And what have you become in my absence?”

 

Another blow. Alastor deflected it barely, his arm nearly giving under the force.

 

“You’ve grown comfortable,” the figure continued. “Relying on power alone. Raw strength. No finesse. No focus. I taught you better than that.”

 

He stepped closer, until he stood just beneath Alastor’s chin, the top of his head barely reaching the hollow of the taller demon’s throat.

 

Still, it was Alastor who seemed smaller.

 

“You were supposed to be sharper than this.”

 

Another strike came, lightning-fast, Alastor countered, spun, then deflected. He twisted through a series of vicious, high-speed attacks, artful and relentless. Every piece of him screamed with magic. With restrained, devastating potential.

 

He looked like a god of death in motion. And yet the figure remained untouched every time.

 

The contract refused to let it end. But Alastor showed him. Showed him what he could be if freed.

 

The figure let the silence sit for a moment after Alastor’s final attack fizzled out. His breathing was rough, blood on his lip, shadows curling at his feet like feral dogs.

 

Then, soft clapping.

 

The figure approached slowly, eyes alight with something between satisfaction and calculation.

 

“You’re where you should be,” he said, voice low and sure. “In strength, at least.”

 

He came to a stop just in front of Alastor, looking up into his bloodied face with quiet intensity.

 

“But my absence has made you soft.”

 

Alastor felt the words settle in his chest like iron weights.

 

“You’ve grown accustomed to easy prey. Grown careless. Sloppy. You rely too heavily on power alone.”

 

He tilted his head slightly, smile thinning into something harder.

 

“That won’t do.”

 

A pause.

 

“There can be no chance, not even a whisper of a chance, that you’ll fail me when the moment comes.”

 

He stepped even closer, shadowless in the sterile light of the realm.

 

“I’ll retrain you,” he said, as though it were already underway. “Piece by piece. Until every strike, every breath, every thought is perfect.”

 

His voice dropped to a near whisper, velvet-wrapped steel.

 

“I cannot afford for my weapon to falter.”

 

The figure’s smile didn’t falter.

 

“As much as I enjoy watching you flail against your limits,” he said, “we mustn’t forget why I made you.”

 

Alastor stiffened. Of course he hadn’t forgotten. How could he? It was the first thing he’d been told. The truth carved into his soul from the moment the leash was wrapped around his throat. The reason he’d been shaped like this, trained like this.

 

To kill the King of Hell. To kill Lucifer Morningstar.

 

His hands clenched at his sides, blood cooling on his fingertips. The weight of that name still landed like stone, even after all this time.

 

“I remember,” he said, voice low.

 

The man smiled faintly, eyes sharpening behind the softness.

 

“But then,” Alastor went on, “so much time has passed...”

 

He lifted his gaze, searching the blinding white. “I’ve spent decades gathering information. Listening. Watching. No one has seen hide nor hair of him. Not in a hundred years. Not in ten centuries. He’s vanished. Not even a whisper of his shadow.”

 

He hesitated.

 

“If he never shows himself... how am I supposed to…”

 

The figure chuckled. Like a parent indulging a confused child.

 

“You don’t need to worry about how,” he said, stepping closer, his voice smooth and slow. “That part isn’t your concern.”

 

Alastor’s brows drew in, but he said nothing.

 

The figure reached out, brushing a bit of dried blood from Alastor’s cheek. A familiar gesture, intimate, degrading.

 

“Things are already in motion,” he said. “The king will reveal himself again. Sooner than you think.”

 

He turned away once more, voice soft and final.

 

“You’ll stay here,” he said softly. “Until I’m satisfied with your progress.”

 

Alastor froze. The words landed with slow, crushing finality. His heart gave a single, violent beat, then another and then it began to drop, like it had nowhere left to be but lower.

 

“No...” Alastor breathed, almost before he realized he was speaking. “You—please, I’ve shown you what I can do. I’ll do more. I’ll improve.”

 

He took a step forward. Just one.

 

“I just... not here. Don’t cage me here. I can train in Hell. I can disappear, blend in, obey but not like this.”

 

His voice cracked, just slightly, beneath the careful control.

 

But the man only smiled.

 

“Asking for freedom,” he said, like a father indulging a child who didn’t yet understand how the world worked. “You’ve forgotten your place.”

 

Alastor’s eyes widened. “Please… just let me out.”

 

He wasn’t shouting but the fear in his voice made it echo like a scream.

 

The figure stepped closer, reached up and gently, mockingly, brushed Alastor’s cheek again with the back of his hand.

 

“Disobedient dogs,” he said, voice still smooth, still quiet, “don’t deserve to run free.”

 

The words coiled in Alastor’s ears like poison. His shadows curled close, trembling against his spine. His hands, once braced to fight, now twitched with barely-contained dread.

 

“Please,” Alastor said again, quieter now. “Not here. Not like this.”

 

The figure gave him a look of soft condescension, head tilted, smile thin and kind in the most horrible way.

 

“This isn’t punishment,” he said gently. “It’s mercy.”

 

Alastor flinched.

 

“You disobeyed,” the man continued, stepping back. “You forgot who you serve. You sought attention, when your place was in the shadows.”

 

He clasped his hands behind his back, beginning to turn, already preparing to leave.

 

“I’m giving you time,” he said, like a gift. “Time to reflect. To remember what I made you to be.”

 

Alastor’s voice cracked. “Please, don’t leave me here…”

 

But the figure was already walking away.

 

“You’ll remain,” he said, without turning back. “Until I am satisfied.”

 

The light didn’t change. The air didn’t shift. But Alastor’s heart began to pound like a trapped thing in his chest.

 

No doors, no time, no sounds but his own breath.

 

The figure vanished into the white.

 

Alastor was alone and he would be, until the next time the light shifted. Until the next blow fell. Until the leash yanked tight again.

 

Until he was perfect.

 

---

 

The fires of Extermination Day had finally begun to die. Smoke clung to the skyline, thick and oily, curling between buildings like it didn’t know how to leave. The streets, scorched, gutted, smeared with blood both fresh and ancient, were slowly beginning to fill again.

 

Demons crawled out from their holes, blinking against the light.

 

The scent of fear hadn’t quite lifted, but something worse had settled in its place: opportunity.

 

Sinners scrabbled for scraps of territory newly abandoned by the dead. Gangs reformed, old rivalries reignited. The usual chaos returned, but sharper, more desperate.

 

But even as the weeks passed… something felt off.

 

The streets were loud again, violent and filthy. But the airwaves were silent.

 

No sarcasm woven through late-night jazz. No blood-curdling screams masked behind a trumpet solo. No crackle of static before a velvet-smooth voice cut through the noise like a scalpel through flesh.

 

The Radio Demon was gone.

 

At first, most assumed the obvious, he’d fallen during the Extermination. Perhaps the angels had finally pierced his defenses. Perhaps some fool had gotten lucky. Perhaps he’d simply outlived his usefulness and vanished, like so many powerful things eventually did.

 

Some celebrated.

 

Others scrambled to fill the void he left behind.

 

But not everyone believed the myth had burned.

 

In the Entertainment District, Vox sat at the peak of his tower, flicking through empty frequencies. Nothing but static and dead air.

 

“Guy doesn’t just disappear,” he muttered, claws drumming against the edge of the console.

 

In Cannibal Town, Rosie poured herself a cup of steaming tea, staring out the parlor window with a thoughtful frown.

 

She stirred slowly.

 

“He wouldn’t leave,” she murmured. “Not like this.”

 

Meanwhile in the palace there was silence. No servants. No guards. No visitors.

 

Lucifer had dismissed them centuries ago, perhaps longer. He couldn’t remember the exact moment the echo of his own footsteps had become preferable to conversation, but once it began, the solitude only deepened.

 

The grand halls of Pride’s upper sanctum remained immaculate, not from care, but from stillness. The dust didn’t settle here, didn’t dare. It was too hollow, too pristine. A mausoleum, masquerading as a throne.

 

He hadn’t used the throne in centuries. It sat alone in its vaulted chamber, framed by tapestries no one looked at anymore.

 

Lucifer had chosen a smaller room instead. Somewhere far from the grand chambers and ceremonial archways. A modest, high-ceilinged space with a single stained-glass window and a cracked marble floor. Piled high in one corner were mountains, literal mountains, of rubber ducks.

 

All different. All crafted by hand.

 

Some were gilded, others grotesque. Some had extra wings. Some were stitched like patchwork golems. One had a crown of thorns. Another had his face carved into the bill.

 

He’d made each one carefully, obsessively. Because it gave him something to do. Because otherwise… he would have to feel.

 

Lilith had left a long time ago. Not abruptly, she’d simply… cooled.

 

She stopped laughing at his jokes. Stopped talking at dinner. Started speaking to him like he was a business partner, or a guest.

 

Their differences, once just cracks in a shared vision, widened with time. She wanted to rule Hell one way, he another. Neither of them willing to bend.

 

But he hadn’t expected her to take Charlie. That had been the real wound.

 

She didn’t take her physically; he wasn’t so easily defied. But she took her in spirit. Kept her close. Made sure visits to him were rare, short, uncomfortable.

 

And when Charlie did visit him, she never stayed long. Always smiling, always polite but already drifting by the time she said hello.

 

Lucifer had watched his daughter become a stranger.

 

And then one day, without warning Lilith was just gone.

 

No farewell, no grand betrayal, just absence, complete and clean. Her aura vanished from Hell entirely, and none of the Sins had an explanation. Not that he’d asked. He hadn’t had the strength to ask. He’d collapsed in on himself like a dying star. The last of his hope leaving with her.

 

Charlie remained but she was grown and though she tried to reach him, it was awkward, halting. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t… good company.

 

So, he stayed hidden. He built his ducks one after another.

 

He made them talk to each other. He lined them up like council members and spoke for them in silly voices. He made battle ducks, orchestra ducks, a duck with a little frown that looked exactly like Lilith on a bad day.

 

But no duck ever filled the silence.

 

There had been something else once.

 

Not companionship, exactly. Just... noise.

 

A voice, faint, grainy, distant, like it came from the farthest corner of Hell.

 

An old radio, half-buried beneath the duck piles now, used to turn on by itself. Lucifer couldn’t recall when the broadcasts had started. He’d been too deep in his own thoughts, too lost in the cold spiral of memory and grief.

 

But at some point, they’d become a kind of routine. A strange, static-laced voice humming through the marble room. Never asking for attention, never demanding engagement. Just... existing. A presence at the edge of perception. Part song, part story, part whisper.

 

He never listened closely. But he noticed when it stopped.

 

He wasn’t sure when it had stopped, only that it had. The silence hadn’t descended all at once. It had crept in, the way light fades at dusk: too gradual to name, until it’s already night.

 

He’d kicked a pile of ducks the other day and seen the radio beneath them, dusty, crooked, its little dial frozen in place.

 

He hadn’t touched it. But after she disappeared… so did it.

 

And now, there was just the silence.

 

And the ducks.

 

And the throne he no longer sat on.

 

And the ache, deep, quiet, and endless, of ten centuries spent shrinking into the space she’d left behind.

Notes:

Well, well, well! Greetings and salutations, my dazzling deviants and beloved readers tuning in from the depths of dear old Perdition and beyond! How has your week been, hmm? Hopefully smoother than our poor Alastor’s, bless his little heart, the fella just can’t seem to catch a break, can he?

And as for our regal Lucifer? Ahh, the poor dear, left high and dry by his darling wife centuries ago, only for the dame to vanish altogether! A heartbreakin’ tale of abandonment and ruin, folks, one fit for the most tragic of operas! A shattered family, a kingdom in disarray... but I digress!

If you’d be so kind, don’t forget to tap that ‘like’ and scribble a comment below, it keeps this ol’ heart warm and the content comin’. And remember, my marvelous little sinners... keep your horns polished and your wits sharper still.

Until next time, this is your host, signing off!

Chapter 4: Return To Hell

He’d lost track of time. There was no sun here, no night, no ticking clocks or drifting shadows to mark the hours.

 

Just white. Bright, endless, unbearable white.

 

It pressed in from every direction, blinding and blank, sterile and cold. The polished floor stretched on forever, seamless, reflecting nothing. The air didn’t shift, the light didn’t flicker. There was no breeze, no scent, no echo.

 

Just silence and Alastor.

 

He couldn’t remember when he’d last spoken or moved. Sometimes he stood, sometimes he sat with his back against the nothing-floor, sometimes he paced. But always, the silence followed, tightening like wire around his skull.

 

There were moments when his ears rang from it, as though even his body couldn’t comprehend the absence of sound. He imagined noises sometimes, footsteps, whispers, the faint hum of static. But they never lasted.

 

They weren’t real. Nothing here was, except for him.

 

His master came. Sometimes often. Sometimes… not.

 

He would appear without warning, always pristine, always smiling, and the white would become a stage once more.

 

The training was brutal. Hand-to-hand, no magic or only magic, sometimes both. Sometimes drills so repetitive Alastor could feel his mind peeling away from his body. Sometimes he’d be thrown, beaten, choked, broken until he couldn’t stand, only for the figure to drag him upright and start again.

 

Sometimes, he brought others. Damned souls plucked from Hell, dropped into the endless cage like offerings.

 

Alastor was told to devour them, absorb their strength, fold their essence into his own.

 

He told himself it was necessary. That resisting would only prolong his imprisonment. That this was how he survived. But each time he drew one in, each time he pulled a writhing, screaming soul and felt it tear apart inside him… He lost something.

 

And yet the training, the violence, the commands, they were better than the silence. Because the silence between? That was worse.

 

It wasn’t just quiet. It was a pressure, a slow, suffocating weight that coiled around his thoughts and squeezed until he could hardly think, until he started mouthing old radio jingles or talking to the stains on his coat just to hear his own voice.

 

He tried not to count the days. Because there were no days. Just the endless light, the endless floor, and the certainty that, eventually, he would return.

 

Sometimes, Alastor found himself waiting eagerly. Because the pain, at least, meant something was happening.

 

Because the silence was eating him alive.

 

Eventually the silence broke like a bone snapping.

 

No warning, no hum of arrival, just a ripple in the air, a subtle shimmer and then he was there again. Pristine as ever, calm and composed. As if he hadn’t left Alastor alone for days. Or weeks. Or longer.

 

“On your feet. No magic.”

 

Alastor obeyed.

 

Muscles screaming, joints stiff from disuse, he rose. His coat hung from his frame in tatters, his boots cracked and faded from constant movement over endless white.

 

He didn’t ask what they were doing. He already knew.

 

The figure gave no countdown. No stance or signal, he just attacked. A blur of pale limbs and crackling power.

 

Alastor ducked the first blow. Spun low, narrowly evading a kick that seared the air with trailing energy. He moved with a precision honed in blood and silence, shoulders tight, feet gliding, every motion stripped of waste.

 

He struck back. Open-handed, sharp, a jab to the solar plexus, a sweep for the leg.

 

Neither landed.

 

They couldn’t.

 

The contract coiled inside him like barbed wire, tugging every blow off course at the last second. The leash didn’t let him touch the one who held it.

 

And his master had no such restriction.

 

A backhand caught Alastor across the jaw, followed by a pulse of raw force that slammed into his chest like a battering ram.

 

He staggered then pivoted. Used the momentum to slide beneath the next strike and lash out with a vicious elbow aimed at the ribs, it veered off, skimmed harmlessly by.

 

Another blow came, this time, a whip of magic laced across the man’s fingertips, trailing like lightning.

 

It struck.

 

Alastor’s shoulder jerked back with the force of it, seared through his nerves. He gritted his teeth, forced himself forward, and launched into a rapid flurry of kicks and palm strikes, targeting throat, gut and knee.

 

None of it connected.

 

But the form?

 

Flawless.

 

Grace and aggression combined into a brutal, elegant rhythm. He fought like a dancer with a vendetta, every movement poised to kill, if only he’d been allowed.

 

He was fast, much faster than he looked. His height disguised it, made people assume he’d be slower. But when the openings came, he was on them.

 

And yet, every opening meant nothing. Because every opening ended in pain. A crackling shock to the spine. A magical impact to the ribs. A knee driven into his stomach so hard it lifted him off the ground.

 

He hit the floor, bounced, rolled.

 

But he got up.

 

Always.

 

The figure said nothing as he circled again, one hand behind his back, the other already aglow with faint energy.

 

The blows kept coming, sharp, calculated, punishing.

 

Alastor moved like a man possessed.

 

He twisted low beneath a glowing strike that shattered the air behind him. Rolled over his shoulder and came up in a tight arc, launching a flurry of palm strikes and knee jabs. His coat snapped behind him, tattered and stained, his skin gleaming with sweat.

 

None of it landed. But it was close; it would if only the collar wasn’t restricting him.

 

And that made the man smile.

 

“Yes,” he said smoothly, dodging another flurry. “Faster. Again.”

 

A sweep of magic arced toward Alastor’s ribs. He spun beneath it, using the momentum to slide behind, one arm snapping up for a blow that barely missed the figure’s neck.

 

“You're lethal. Even without your magic.”

 

A flash of white light cracked across the floor, Alastor was forced to leap, land on one hand, and twist mid-air into a springing kick that the figure caught with a casual block.

 

Alastor landed, stumbled, and lunged again. His movements were a dance now, elegant, terrifying. Precision honed through agony. Grace sculpted by force. He struck with every ounce of fury the silence had planted in him.

 

And the man welcomed it.

 

“This is what I need from you,” he said, voice calm despite the storm around him. “A monster. Efficient. Unyielding.”

 

He raised a hand and unleashed a burst of force that sent Alastor sprawling across the floor, scraping along the polished white surface in a trail of blood and grit.

 

Alastor snarled. He rose again, breathless, bloody but smiling.

 

He charged; no hesitation, no fear, the only thing that mattered was his next move.

 

The figure met him, their clash cracking the silence apart like shattered porcelain. Blow for blow, step for step. Magic clashing against muscle, and still Alastor moved, fluid, brutal, relentless.

 

“Yes,” the man breathed, ducking beneath a wild upward slash of Alastor’s clawed fingers. “Yes. That’s it.”

 

Alastor struck again. His body a blur of muscle and rage, his eyes burning red with fury.

 

And the man laughed soft and delighted.

 

“You’re becoming exactly what I need.”

 

He dodged another strike, sent a palm glowing with power into Alastor’s chest.

 

“You’ll kill him beautifully.”

 

Another strike, Alastor barely blocked.

 

“You’ll cut him down like the weapon I made you to be.”

 

A final burst of magic flared and Alastor was slammed to the ground, pinned beneath a crushing weight of light.

 

He gasped, arms trembling, face pressed to the cold white floor.

 

The figure stood over him, expression calm and satisfied.

 

“You’re almost ready.”

 

His master leaned back, rising to his full height with a slow, fluid grace.

 

The light had faded. But the weight hadn’t.

 

Alastor lay crushed beneath it, face against the cold floor, limbs splayed where the last blow had thrown him. The white pressed into him like a living thing, as if gravity had tripled and wrapped its hands around his spine.

 

He couldn’t move, not because his body had failed, though it ached in every joint, every fractured rib, but because the fight was over.

 

The rage had cooled, burned out like a match snuffed in a vacuum. It left behind the quieter, heavier thing that always followed.

 

Fear.

 

Not of pain.

 

Of silence.

 

Of being left here again, alone in the brightness, in the humless, weightless void, for hours or days or weeks or months with only his thoughts for company and the ghost of his master’s smile echoing in his mind.

 

So, he didn’t resist. He let the weight hold him down. He went slack, submissive, like a hound presenting its throat.

 

Not out of loyalty. Out of hope.

 

Please, he thought. Let this be enough.

 

Above him, the man stood motionless.

 

“You’ve improved faster than I expected.”

 

Alastor’s breath hitched. He didn’t dare speak.

 

“Six and a half years,” the figure went on, stepping slowly around him. “And already so close to perfect.”

 

His footsteps made no sound. Only the soft cadence of his voice broke the suffocating stillness.

 

“Powerful. Fast. Lethal.”

 

He stopped at Alastor’s side.

 

“A monster forged in blood and pain.”

 

The man crouched slightly, still composed, still smiling in that quiet, unreadable way.

 

“For one purpose.”

 

Alastor stared forward, eyes unfocused, the sting of sweat and blood blurring his vision.

 

“You were made to kill a king.”

 

He leaned in, just enough to let his words settle behind Alastor’s ear.

 

“And soon… the pieces will be in place.”

 

“Soon,” the man said again, tone light, as though discussing weather or clockwork. “But not yet.”

 

Just like that, the final sliver of hope, fragile and flickering, was ripped away.

 

The weight vanished with him, pressure lifting like the presence of a god stepping off the world.

 

And with that final step… The command was complete.

 

The silence returned, but so did his shadows.

 

Freed from their forced dormancy, they spilled out of Alastor like breath returning to lungs. They rose from his back and shoulders, coiling around his broken frame, not as weapons, but as comfort. They moved with the familiarity of old friends, of pieces of him that had been held underwater for far too long.

 

He didn’t rise, he curled in on himself. One hand against his chest, the other wrapping around his knees.

 

His coat pooled around him in tatters. The blood on his face had dried. His antlers were chipped. One eye refused to open.

 

But it was the silence that undid him. No voice, no footsteps, no music, just the quiet, and the knowledge that, soon, he would be released.

 

Soon, he’d walk Hell again. But it wouldn’t be freedom. It never had been.

 

A tremor passed through him, and his carefully-guarded smile, his ever-present shield, cracked.

 

His face twisted and Alastor broke down. There was no screaming, no spectacle, just a shuddering breath. Shoulders shaking beneath the embrace of his own magic. The shadows clung tighter, holding him like a grieving thing, like they didn’t know how else to help.

 

Tears, hot, unwanted, silent, slipped down his bruised cheek. He pressed his face into his arm and cried.

 

 For the silence. For the pain. For the weight of six and a half years of this place eating him from the inside out. For every moment he thought maybe, just maybe, this would be the last time he was left alone. And for the fact that it never was.

 

There was no telling how long he lay there with his shadows cradling him like a child, while his master’s voice faded from the air like smoke: “Soon. But not yet.”

 

---

 

It felt like a long time.

 

Too long.

 

Time didn’t move here, only he did. The figure who came and went like a phantom through the sterile white. The one who trained him, broke him, honed him and now, after what might have been months, or centuries, he returned.

 

Alastor didn’t rise at first.

 

He stayed where he was, curled into himself, shadows draped like a child's blanket over his aching frame. He’d stopped hoping a long time ago.

 

But still… something fluttered in his chest when he felt that presence again. Even after everything. Even after all the pain.

 

He pushed himself upright, slow, wary; eyes dull, limbs trembling.

 

His master stood there, immaculate as always. Not a hair out of place. He observed Alastor for a long moment, quiet, unreadable.

 

Then he smiled.

 

“On your feet, my little deer.”

 

Alastor obeyed without thought. Muscle memory. Fear and something else, something hesitant and shaking, curled in his gut like a bird too broken to fly.

 

The man circled once, appraising him like he always did. But this time, he didn’t strike. He didn’t summon magic. He just spoke.

 

“You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?”

 

Alastor flinched. His eyes flicked upward, cautious. Daring to hope.

 

“You’ve done well,” the figure continued, voice smooth and fond. “Seven years…”

 

He paused, smiling as if recalling a fond anniversary.

 

“Seven years since I brought you here. And already, so close to perfect.”

 

He stopped in front of Alastor. Reached out and gently, almost tenderly, brushed a lock of hair from his face.

 

“You’ve made me proud.”

 

Alastor’s throat tightened. He hated the way those words made his chest ache. Hated that he needed to hear them. That part of him still ached for them.

 

“You’ve become something useful,” the man whispered. “Fast. Powerful. A monster worthy of the task I gave you.”

 

He smiled wider.

 

“And now…”

 

Alastor held his breath.

 

“You’ve earned a reward.”

 

The weight of the silence that followed nearly crushed him.

 

“I’m sending you back,” the man said.

 

Alastor staggered where he stood; not visibly, but inside, his heart reeled.

 

He didn’t know what scared him more, the idea of never leaving, or the fact that he finally might.

 

“But don’t get ahead of yourself,” the figure chided, voice still soft, almost playful. “There’s still work to be done.”

 

Alastor didn’t speak. He barely breathed.

 

“You’ll have a name this time,” the man said. “A target.”

 

He stepped closer again.

 

“Charlie Morningstar.”

 

“You’ll find her,” his master said, gentle and firm. “Lucifer’s daughter. Sweet. Idealistic. The perfect bait.”

 

Alastor’s eyes widened, just slightly.

 

“She will lead us to him. And when the king finally shows himself... when the time is just right…”

 

The man leaned in, his voice warm and low, like a father praising a child for good behavior.

 

“You’ll finish what you were made for.”

 

He let the words hang there. Then, as he turned to leave, he paused, just for a moment, and said over his shoulder, light as air, “Oh… and Alastor?”

 

The sound of his name stopped the demon cold.

 

“Try to keep a low profile this time, would you?” A chuckle followed. “Well… as low as someone like you can manage.”

 

His tone was casual, amused even but beneath the silken tone, Alastor felt the leash tighten, not physically, but in memory. A cold echo of seven years carved from silence, pain, and solitude.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a promise.

 

Then, with a flicker of light, he was gone.

 

But this time, the silence left behind was different. Because this time... there was an exit… and an order.

 

Alastor stood alone. Hope and dread warring behind his crimson eyes.

 

The white cracked and Alastor stepped through. From blinding stillness into screaming chaos.

 

The first thing that hit him was the sound.

 

It slammed into him like a wave, high-pitched shrieks, guttural howls, the crackle of burning buildings and the thunder of collapsing stone. Gun fire and panic split the air. The annual Extermination was in full swing, and Hell’s streets were painted in blood and fire.

 

He blinked rapidly, eyes wide and struggling to adjust. The crimson gloom of Pentagram City blurred before him, outlines swimming in motion, too sharp, too vivid, too much.

 

His ears pinned flat against his head.

 

A chorus of sinners screamed as angelic fire tore through them in spears of light. The air stank of ozone and scorched flesh.

 

Then a flicker of motion above. A shriek of divine steel.

 

Alastor moved without thinking, pure instinct.

 

A tendril of shadow lashed upward from his back like a whip, coiling mid-air and slamming into the Exorcist dropping down on him. The angel’s body arced away in a blaze of wings and sparks, crashing through a crumbling billboard with a shriek.

 

Alastor stood still for a breath, then another. Everything was so loud. So bright. So... alive.

 

His hands trembled at his sides.

 

Like mist curling away from a blade, his body sank into shadow. He vanished into the cracks of the street, reappearing high on the side of a nearby building, climbing through the dim alcoves and forgotten crawlspaces until he emerged into quieter ruin, an abandoned block, already ravaged.

 

The buildings were hollowed out, the streets were red with blood, and the screams were distant now, still present, but muffled, manageable.

 

He crouched on the edge of a shattered balcony, breathing hard. Slowly, he steadied himself.

 

The stink of Hell, oil, copper, ash, and rot, filled his lungs and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel alone.

 

Not free, never that. But no longer trapped in silence.

 

He let himself have that moment. A small mercy.

 

He looked out over the burning skyline, the flickering neon, the chaos.

 

And then the mask slid into place.

 

He rose to his full height, back straightening, shadows coiling smoothly behind him. His lips curled into a sharp, theatrical grin. The tension melted from his limbs, replaced by a predator’s ease, the kind that spoke in velvet and smiled with fangs.

 

The Radio Demon was back.

 

And he had a job to do.

Notes:

Ah, greetings once more, my lovely little sinners! Goodness gracious, what a time we’ve had. Our poor baby Alastor, locked away, tormented, twisted, but still grinning, still standing! It’s a wonder he didn’t lose his marbles, though one might argue he never had all of them to begin with. Heh heh!

But rejoice! His master has finally unclipped his leash, and wouldn’t you know it, he’s been tasked with cozying up to our dear Charlie. Oh, the possibilities! So many secrets, so little trust.

Now, brace yourselves, dolls, because we’re jumping forward in time. That’s right, next we find ourselves deep in the happenings of episode five, and you may just catch a certain Radio Demon and a certain Morningstar sharing the stage. Not quite fireworks, mind you; no, no, this is more of a low burn. Icy smiles, veiled insults, oh-so-civil barbs sharp enough to draw blood. Alastor poking the bear, and Lucifer watching with that celestial little scowl of his. Delicious, no?

So until next time, do leave a like or a comment if you’re enjoying our descent; your support is the lifeblood of this little program. Ta-ta for now, my darlings! And remember: the real show is just beginning...

Chapter 5: Welcome Lucifer, To The Hazbin Hotel!

Notes:

Alrighty now, my darling little sinners, it’s time to really get down to business! And oh, do we have a treat for you tonight! Now, just a smidge of a reminder, we’re skipping ahead a touch, jumping past a few pages and landing squarely in the midst of episode five… with, of course, a devilish little creative twist or two, courtesy of yours truly.

That’s right, the Morningstar himself has finally strutted into the picture, and let’s just say… he’s not exactly rolling out the red carpet for our dear sweet Charlie’s chosen hotelier. No sir, no ma’am! Lucifer’s got opinions, and they're sharper than a pitchfork!

So grab your popcorn, clutch your pearls, and settle in, folks, because the sparks are about to fly, and the drama? Well, it’s hotter than Hell’s front porch at high noon!

“Charlie!” Lucifer boomed, sweeping his daughter into a rib-crushing hug.

 

“Hi, Dad…” Charlie managed, peeling herself out of his grasp and taking a small step back.

 

“Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!” she gestured with a sweeping motion toward the motley crew of residents: Angel, Niffty, Husk, and Sir Pentious, all doing their best to look pleasantly presentable.

 

Lucifer didn’t even glance at them.

 

Instead, he was instantly bewitched by Keykey, the little cyclops cat twining between his boots. He stooped to give it a scratch behind the ear before turning his attention to the flying goat twins, Razzle and Dazzle.

 

“Razzle! Dazzle! Have you been taking care of my little girl?” His voice pitched higher than it had any right to be. “You better be!” he snarled suddenly, his tone swinging into something darker.

 

Only after fussing over the pets did he finally look around the hotel, and the look on his face, despite his best efforts, was one of thinly veiled disgust.

 

Alastor’s eye twitched, this was the reason he was here?

 

He watched in silence, posture straight, expression carved from cool marble as Lucifer turned to Charlie. And that’s when the performance shifted.

 

His whole body seemed to still. His eyes locked on hers and didn’t look away. The smile faltered, turning from jovial to soft, then uncertain. A thousand things flickered across his face; longing, guilt, and something more desperate, hope maybe.

 

Pathetic, Alastor thought. This will be easier than I expected.

 

Lucifer moved toward her like a man approaching a ghost, like she might evaporate if he dared to touch her. Charlie stood frozen in place, arms half-crossed, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to run or melt.

 

Alastor materialized in front of Lucifer like fog sliding into a room, graceful and precise. “Your Majesty,” he said, with a flourish of a bow, just shallow enough to insult, just dramatic enough to pass as genuine.

 

Lucifer blinked, clearly trying to place him.

 

The voice, something about it, the cadence, the crispness softened by static edges, triggered a flicker of recognition. A phantom memory of distant hums, of grainy stories drifting from under mountains of ducks.

 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Alastor went on, straightening to his full, imposing height. “I’m Alastor, host of this fine establishment.” He gave Lucifer a bright, pointed smile. “You really should be proud. Our dear Charlie is quite the remarkable young woman; driven, stubborn, ambitious. All traits she got from her mother, I’m sure.”

 

Lucifer’s eyes sharpened instantly.

 

The tension was small, almost imperceptible, a subtle shift of the jaw, the sudden stillness in his shoulders, but Alastor saw it. A crackle of heat just under the surface. He watched Lucifer bristle, his whole frame going rigid with barely contained wrath.

 

Good.

 

Alastor grinned down at him, a full foot or more taller and far more practiced in the art of provocation. He let the silence stretch just long enough to let the insult breathe.

 

Lucifer didn’t rise to it, not with words at least but his eyes narrowed. Not in wounded pride, but in calculation.

 

Ah, Alastor thought. Not entirely stupid, then.

 

Charlie moved before the moment could spark into flame.

 

She stepped sharply between them, one hand on Lucifer’s arm, the other gesturing toward the lounge. “Come meet the others,” she said quickly, already steering him away.

 

Lucifer let her lead him, his glare lingering on Alastor a half-second longer than necessary. Thinly veiled suspicion coloring his red and golden eyes.

 

Alastor watched them go, that grin still sitting easy on his lips.

 

Let the king glare. He’d already found a crack in the porcelain.

 

Then the doors flew open again.

 

“Alastor!”

 

Alastor turned with a grin, ears perking up at once. “Mimzy, my dear!” he greeted, extending his arms like a stage magician welcoming a favored guest.

 

“I heard you were hiding out in this rat trap and thought I’d drop in for old time’s sake,” she said, throwing her arms around him in a hug.

 

“But of course. Everyone’s welcome here,” he replied smoothly.

 

Charlie trotted up, thrilled. “Oh, how lovely! You two know each other?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Mimzy said proudly. “Me and this tall glass of misery go way back. Ran in the same circles when we were alive.”

 

That’s when she caught sight of Lucifer, gasping and curtsying with alarmed politeness. “Your Majesty,” she said smoothly, glaring at Alastor. “You didn’t tell me royalty was here.”

 

Lucifer nodded awkwardly. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

 

“Speaking of charm,” Alastor cut in, voice syrupy and dangerous, “Charlie and I were just about to show His Majesty around the hotel.”  He let the words ‘His Majesty’ drip from his tongue with pointed derision, making them sound more like a sneer than a title.

 

Lucifer bristled. “I think we’ll manage just fine on our own.”

 

“Oh, nonsense,” Alastor said, blithely steamrolling over him. “Charlie and I built this place together. It’s only fitting we show it off together.” He winked at Charlie.

 

He turned to Mimzy, “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable at the bar, my dear? I’ll find you later.”

 

Lucifer followed his daughter through the winding halls of the hotel, footsteps echoing against the aged marble floors, though he barely registered the architecture.

 

Charlie was speaking; clearly, confidently, like she had practiced this tour a dozen times before. She gestured toward various rooms explaining all of her renovation plans to him and explaining the different ways she hoped to help sinners get redeemed.

 

Lucifer nodded when he was supposed to, smiled once or twice, but his mind was far from the peeling paint and earnest dreams around him. It kept circling back to him.

 

Alastor trailed behind them like a shadow that thought itself charming. He wasn’t saying much anymore, letting Charlie lead, but Lucifer felt his presence in every room they entered, felt the way the man’s gaze lingered on his daughter with a familiarity that made Lucifer’s jaw tighten.

 

‘Host of this fine establishment.’ Mentor. Partner. Indispensable.

 

He’d said it with that smile. That smug, too-smooth grin that radiated pride and mockery in equal measure. And the bow, shallow enough to border on insult. The jab about Charlie’s mother. The way he had stood there, unbothered by Lucifer’s presence. Not even a flicker of fear. That was what gnawed at him.

 

Alastor hadn’t been trying to impress him. He’d been baiting him.

 

Lucifer caught himself walking slower than Charlie and Vaggie, his arms crossed tight over his chest, pretending to study the mural on the hallway ceiling.

 

Who the hell is he, really?

 

He looked like he must have died fairly young, not like that was a real good estimator for age down here but that easy confidence almost arrogance was infuriating. And there was something old in his eyes, not in years, but in weight. In knowledge. Lucifer didn’t like it. Didn’t trust it.

 

They reached the garden, where Charlie explained how the rooftop would be transformed into a healing sanctuary, her eyes lit with that fire Lucifer remembered from her childhood. He tried to focus on her, to really see her, but every time Alastor shifted, every time he nodded like he’d heard this pitch before, Lucifer’s teeth ground tighter.

 

And then, just like that, it ended.

 

Alastor glanced at the fading crimson light through the glass and gave a polite clap of his hands. “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he said, all charm again. “Plenty of time for long-winded discussions about plumbing and wallpaper later.”

 

He winked at Charlie. Nodded once at Lucifer, completely ignored Vaggie and vanished down the corridor like a satisfied cat.

 

Lucifer exhaled only once the man was gone.

 

“Well?” Charlie asked, arms crossed over her chest. “What did you think?”

 

Lucifer hesitated. For once, the words didn’t come easily. He should say he was proud. That it was a bold vision. That he admired her tenacity.

 

But all that came out was, “I don’t trust him.”

 

Charlie’s entire expression dropped.

 

“Seriously?”

 

Lucifer winced at the tone in her voice. Not just hurt, disappointed.

 

“You meet him for five seconds and already decide he’s a villain? Alastor’s the only reason this place isn’t in complete ruin right now!”

 

Lucifer lifted his hands. “I didn’t say he hasn’t helped. I said I don’t trust him.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye he just barley registered Vaggie retreating into the corridor assumedly to give them privacy.

 

“God, you never listen.” She turned from him, pacing a step away, arms clenching tighter around her torso. “You show up after years of all but completely ignoring me and immediately start casting judgment like you know anything. At least Alastor’s been here. At least he’s helping, even if he thinks it’s stupid.”

 

Lucifer flinched. The guilt landed sharp and fast. He swallowed it.

 

“I’m not saying he’s done anything wrong,” he said softly. “But people like him don’t show their hand right away. He’s too smooth, too charming. And he was watching you. Not like a friend. Like someone measuring the worth of a thing.”

 

Charlie turned to glare at him, eyes shining. “Maybe you just don’t like that someone else knows me better than you do.”

 

That hurt more than he’d admit.

 

Lucifer looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the ache under her anger. The years they’d lost. The times he hadn’t shown up. She wasn’t just defending Alastor. She was defending the part of herself that still needed someone to believe in her.

 

Lucifer sighed. “I’m not asking you to get rid of him. Just… let me be cautious. Give me time.”

 

Charlie didn’t speak right away. But she didn’t storm off either. That was something.

 

Still, as she turned away and led him deeper into the hotel, Lucifer couldn’t shake the image of Alastor’s smile. Too wide, too polished and behind it, something unreadable.

 

I'll give him a chance, Lucifer told himself.

 

But he would be watching. Very, very closely.

Chapter 6: Mimzy's Mistep

Notes:

Well well well, would you look at that, two chapters in one day? Oh my, what have we done to deserve such decadence?

That’s right, my lovely little sinners, I'm feeling generous! Seeing as the last chapter and this one are a tad on the shorter side, I thought, why not serve ‘em both piping hot, back to back? Consider it my little gift to you, wrapped in sin and stitched with sass.

So fluff your pillows, pour yourself something wicked, and prepare your unworthy eyeballs for the glorious descent into Chapter 6. No waiting, no whining, just pure, unfiltered chaos.

And now, without further ado... let the devilry commence!

The tension between Lucifer and Charlie still hung heavy in the air, unsaid words like smoke that wouldn’t clear.

 

They were making their way back toward the front of the hotel when the floor trembled. Just once. A short, sharp boom that made the hanging lights sway.

 

Lucifer paused mid-step.

 

Charlie blinked. “What was that?”

 

Another explosion ripped through the silence, louder this time. The glass window at the end of the hallway shattered inward with a thunderous crash, a screaming storm of fire and splinters.

 

Lucifer and Charlie sprinted into the main lobby. The rest of the hotel occupants where in various stages of taking cover as bombs were thrown through the shattered windows.

 

“Where is she?” someone bellowed from outside. “Send her out, or we burn it all!”

 

Alastor stepped forward slowly, brushing past Charlie without looking at her. His coat hung open, boots clicking softly across the marble floor as he moved through the swirling ash. Light from the fires caught in his eyes, eyes that where now mostly black save for the glowing red radio dials in the middle.

 

“Leave it to me. It’s time I remind everyone why I am here,” Alastor said, his voice too quiet to carry, yet it did.

 

Lucifer stopped. Not because he obeyed, but because something about Alastor’s tone made his skin crawl.

 

Outside, the sinners were screaming demands, hurling threats, throwing stones and cherry bombs, rattling the very bones of the old building.

 

“We want Mimzy! Bring her out!”

 

“No more running, Bitch!”

 

“I SAID OUT!”

 

They were met with silence.

 

Then Alastor emerged. He walked out onto the front steps alone, head tilted, gaze sweeping the group like he was measuring each of their lives.

 

He was growing, his body stretched in unnatural ways, shoulders widening, arms elongating, bones shifting beneath the skin like tectonic plates. His once-human frame expanded into something monstrous, his spine arcing as tendrils of pure darkness sprouted from his back and lashed through the air like serpents hungry for blood.

 

He stepped onto the lawn; what had once been a quaint garden now a battlefield littered with cackling sinners armed with corrupted magic and makeshift bombs.

 

They didn’t get far. The first was grabbed by a tendril mid-sprint, hoisted screaming into the air before being torn in two and tossed aside like rags. The others charged, hurling bombs and sharpened steel, but Alastor moved with terrible grace. His massive limbs crashed down with the weight of a mountain, and each strike left ruin in its wake, craters in the earth, splintered pavement, bodies flung into trees with wet cracks.

 

The tendrils danced, elegant and grotesque, plucking enemies off their feet, crushing throats, snapping spines.

 

And all the while, Alastor was smiling.

 

This wasn’t just defense. It was a demonstration. A message.

 

This place is under my protection.

 

Some of them tried to flee, but not fast enough. Alastor looked at them, and their own shadows came alive pulling them into the dark never to be seen again.

 

Inside the hotel, the occupants had gathered near the broken windows. Nifty looked on in excited glee while Sir Pentious looked as though he might throw up, it wasn’t too long ago that he was the enemy at their door and he was just now realizing just how easy Alastor had gone on him.

 

Lucifer stood beside Charlie, jaw clenched, heart hammering. Because this wasn’t the strength of a normal sinner. This was something else.

 

Alastor turned slowly, fire and shadow still coiling around him like sentient things. His face was his, but wasn’t. His eyes glowed dimly, no longer the color of wine but deep, bottomless wells of red-black light.

 

The moment his gaze swept over the guests, they all flinched, every one of them. Even Lucifer.

 

But Alastor didn’t speak.

 

He just shrunk, all at once, as though pulled back into himself. The shadows peeled off him like old skin.  In seconds, he was just a man again. Standing in the middle of a ruined courtyard.

 

The courtyard stank of blood and burned stone. The air was still thick with smoke and magic, Alastor’s magic, the kind that clung to the walls long after the danger had passed. No one spoke. No one moved.

 

Alastor stood in the ruined doorway, his breath steady again, hands smooth at his sides. His coat fluttered around his legs as he turned slowly toward Mimzy.

 

She had been hiding behind a column, cheeks streaked with soot, eyes wide with something between fear and defiance. A single cut ran down her jawline, shallow but sharp. She didn't dare approach.

 

“Mimzy.”

 

Alastor’s voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. The girl flinched anyway.

 

“You used me,” he said. His voice was soft. Deadly. “You brought that filth to my door so I’d clean it up.”

 

“I—I didn’t mean to…”

 

“Don’t insult me. I should’ve known,” he said, quietly. “You don’t come to me unless you’re already in over your head.”

 

“I didn’t have a choice,” she snapped, though her voice cracked halfway through. “They would’ve…”

 

“You had a choice.” Alastor’s tone didn’t rise, but something behind it turned colder than ice. “You came here, to my hotel, knowing they’d follow. You put every soul in this building at risk because you thought I’d clean up the mess for you.”

 

“I didn’t know they’d…”

 

He stepped toward her, just once, just a single stride, but it silenced her instantly.

 

“You knew enough,” he said. “You always do.”

 

Mimzy’s lips trembled. “I—I just thought…”

 

“You didn’t think,” Alastor snapped, and for a heartbeat, the shadows around his shoulders shifted again, whispering at the edges of his shape. Mimzy took a step back without realizing it.

 

He stared at her for a long, silent moment.

 

“You’re leaving,” he said flatly. “Now.”

 

Mimzy’s shoulders dropped. “Alastor, come on…”

 

“No.”

 

She opened her mouth again, but this time no words came.

 

Alastor turned from her like she no longer existed.

 

“Charlie will pack you something for the road,” he said as he walked away. “Be gone before the blood dries.”

 

The silence afterward was suffocating. Alastor didn’t look at the others. He simply walked back inside, stepping through blood and rubble like it was rainwater. The crowd parted as he passed, some grateful, some horrified.

 

Lucifer stared, stunned.

 

Beside him, Charlie exhaled slowly.

 

“That’s why you keep him around?” Lucifer asked, voice low, careful.

 

She glanced down at him. “He protected everyone.”

 

“He butchered them.”

 

She turned to him, jaw set. “They would’ve butchered us first.”

 

“He’s dangerous,” Lucifer said. “That wasn’t defense. That was indulgence.”

 

Charlie didn’t argue. Not because she agreed, but because she didn’t have the words. She wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. But she had seen something today she couldn’t unsee.

 

And Alastor, as he disappeared down the corridor toward his room, didn’t look back once.

 

---

 

The lobby had quieted, burn marks, cracks, blood smudged along the entryway like paint gone wild. Nifty was already beginning to sweep up glass. Husker had draped a tarp over a broken window.

 

And standing at the edge of it all, arms crossed and brooding, was Lucifer. He watched as Charlie moved through the wreckage, taking in the damage with an unsettling calm.

 

She hadn’t spoken a word since Mimzy left.

 

Finally, he broke the silence. “You’re really okay with this?”

 

Charlie turned to face him; her arms were folded over her chest. “He protected the hotel. That’s all I need to know.”

 

“He tore people apart.”

 

“They were trying to kill us,” she snapped, her voice a little too quick. “I won’t apologize for being grateful he stopped them.”

 

Lucifer’s eyes flicked to the edges of the lobby, narrowing slightly. Strange, twisted shapes flitted in and out of the shadows like marionettes cut from the void. They crept along the walls, quietly picking up debris, straightening overturned chairs, mending cracks with unnatural precision.

 

They hadn’t been here before. They had simply... appeared after Alastor had vanished.

 

They weren’t hell born. They weren’t sinners. They were something else entirely.

 

They reminded him of Razzle and Dazzle, in a way; conjured things sustained by magic. But unlike Razzle and Dazzle, who were toys given life by his own divine magic, these things were darker. They pulsed with a strange, unsettling energy, their forms flickering and twisting like nightmares given flesh.

 

Lucifer’s thoughts tangled, his confusion tightening into a knot in his chest. What exactly were they? And how could a sinner, albeit a strong one, create them?

 

But then he looked at Charlie again, standing there so still, her chin set, her hands clenched. The questions clawing at his mind, about the creatures, about Alastor, faded beneath his deeper, more pressing concern.

 

Lucifer ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not asking you to apologize. I’m asking you to be careful.”

 

“I am careful.”

 

“No, Charlie. You’re idealistic. That’s not the same thing.”

 

She met his gaze squarely. “You don’t know him.”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth to argue, to say she didn’t either, but the words caught in his throat. He stared at her, standing there in her soot-streaked clothes, fierce and resolute and full of fire.

 

He saw her mother in her then. And something else too, something that made his chest ache.

 

He exhaled. “You’re right.”

 

She blinked, surprised.

 

“I don’t know him,” Lucifer said quietly. “And maybe you don’t either. But… that’s not really what this is about.”

 

He looked away, ashamed of how small his voice felt. “I’m just worried about you.”

 

Her shoulders relaxed.

 

“I know,” she said softly. She stepped closer, touched his arm. “But you don’t need to worry so much.”

 

“You’re still my daughter.”

 

“And I always will be.” She smiled. “But I’m not a child anymore.”

 

Lucifer nodded slowly, the weight of years pressing down on him.

 

“I want you to stay,” Charlie said suddenly. “Here. At the hotel. There’s room. And it’ll give us time, to get closer. For you to see what I’m building.”

 

He hesitated.

 

She added, “Maybe this dream could be good for you too.”

 

Lucifer looked at her for a long, quiet moment. Then, finally, he smiled.

 

“I’ll stay.”

Notes:

Well hot dog, what a display that was! Our darling Alastor got to let loose; just a smidge, just a taste, and oh, wasn’t it delicious? But of course, every showstopper’s got its price, and it looks like that little outburst may’ve tickled the royal suspicions of a certain Morningstar.

That’s right, folks, His Royal Highness himself is watching, and not with idle eyes. But hey! Suspicious curiosit, is still curiosity. And that, my sweet sinners, is how the best stories begin.

So I must ask: what will dear old Lucifer learn about our beloved Radio Demon? What secrets lie behind that ever smiling face and velvet voice?

Stick around to find out! Until next time, my devilish darlings…”

Chapter 7: Savory vs Sweet

Notes:

Well, well, well! Hello again, my lovely little sinners, and welcome back to the show! Things’ve been a touch too grim in recent chapters, haven’t they? Shadows creeping, tempers flaring! So how's about we turn down the doom and turn up the heat, in the kitchen, that is! That’s right, folks! Tonight we bring you a sizzling spectacle as our favorite bickering duo, Alastor and Lucifer, go spatula to spatula in a devilishly divine cooking competition! Will it be sinfully scrumptious or a recipe for disaster? Stay tuned, and let the culinary chaos commence!

Alastor sauntered into the Hotel’s kitchen, his cane tapping a merry rhythm against the floor, though his usual grin faltered into something sharper as the air hit him, a saccharine cloud of syrup and sugar thick enough to make his teeth ache.

 

At the stove, Lucifer stood with his back turned, dressed impeccably as always, his white-and-red ringmaster coat fluttering slightly as he flipped a pancake.

 

Lucifer glanced over his shoulder, his voice edged and annoyed. “Can’t you see I’m busy, Alastor? Go loiter elsewhere.”

 

Alastor’s brows arched in feigned surprise. “Loiter? Oh, no, your majesty. I merely came to prepare myself a proper breakfast, but instead I find you crafting... diabetes on a plate.”

 

Lucifer turned fully; his glare sharp enough to cut. “Not everyone wants to choke on swamp water and spices for breakfast. Some of us enjoy a touch of indulgence.”

 

“A touch?” Alastor sniffed dramatically. “There’s enough syrup in those pancakes to drown a small child.”

 

Their words crackled like static between them, the tension thick and layered with long-standing irritation.

 

Lucifer, cheeks flushing with annoyance, snapped, “Try one. I’ll even make you a less sweet version if you’re so delicate. Or are you too afraid it’ll awaken a hidden love of sugar?”

 

Alastor’s smile thinned, his antlers casting elongated shadows as he tilted his head with a predatory grace. “Oh, I’ll sample your saccharine fluff. But let’s make this worthwhile.” He extended his hand, swirling with elegant, lazy tendrils of shadowy magic. “I’ll taste your creation… if you agree to try my homemade jambalaya. Sweet for savory. A fair exchange.”

Lucifer’s brows drew together, his eyes narrowing as he eyed the twisting magic. His lips curled faintly. “I’m not foolish enough to shake on a deal when you’ve got that... thing going on. I’m not about to sell my soul over pancakes.”

 

The accusation hit deeper than intended. Alastor’s ears pinned back, not in anger but in palpable offense. His usual grin faltered into a sneer of disdain. The shadows curled tighter, but his voice, though sharp, carried more wounded pride than fury.

 

“Little King,” he said, the transatlantic lilt undercut by dry sarcasm, “why does everyone always assume I’m after their soul? I deal in favors, not servitude. Souls are messy, tedious things. I have no use for them. The assumption is... insulting.”

 

Lucifer stared at him, blinking slowly, as if trying to decide whether Alastor was joking. His voice, when it came, was flat with disbelief. “You don’t deal in souls?”

 

Alastor’s sneer deepened into a crooked smile, though it carried a faintly haughty air. “Indeed not. Unlike every other petty tyrant in this wretched place, I have no desire to bind anyone’s soul. What would I do with it? Clean my floors? Fetch my tea? Please. I prefer... more creative arrangements.”

 

Lucifer let out a short, incredulous laugh, but it was tinged with frustration. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard. Every other Overlord in Hell makes pacts, claims souls. It’s practically the currency down here. And you expect me to believe you’re above it?”

 

Alastor’s expression sharpened, and his voice dropped into a velvety purr with just a hint of condescension. “Slaves bore me. Deals for favors? Now, that... has charm. Leverage. Flexibility.”

 

Lucifer’s brow furrowed deeper, the tension between them mounting as disbelief warred with exasperation. “You’re saying you’ve never once... taken a soul? Not even once?”

Alastor’s smile returned, but this time it was all teeth, sharp and glinting. “Not one. Souls are finite. Favors? Favors can be repaid, renegotiated... exploited indefinitely. And really, isn’t that more... fun?”

 

Lucifer’s brow furrowed; skepticism thick in his voice. “Then what about Niffty and Husk? Everyone assumes you own their souls. Why else would they stick around the hotel, doing your bidding?”

 

Alastor let out a low chuckle, genuinely amused this time. The shadows flickering around his hand dispersed like smoke, and his antlers cast sinuous lines across the kitchen walls as he leaned back, draping one arm theatrically over the counter.

 

“Oh, dear Niffty,” he drawled, voice smoothing into something almost fond. “I assure you; I have no contract with her. No soul bound in chains. The girl simply... likes me. She’s fond of my company, my flair. She does me favors out of courtesy, not compulsion.”

 

Lucifer’s disbelief only deepened. “And Husk? You expect me to believe that grumpy, feathered drunk is here on courtesy?”

 

Alastor’s grin turned sharp, sly amusement curling his lip. “Ah, Husk is a different matter. No soul-binding there either, but his... enthusiasm for gambling has earned him a rather extensive ledger of favors owed.” He twirled his cane idly, shadows briefly rippling across its length. “You see, while I don’t own his soul, the number of markers I hold over him is... well, let’s just say it’s close enough to make him very cooperative indeed.”

 

Lucifer’s mouth twitched, as though trying to decide whether to laugh or scowl. “So, he’s practically indentured.”

 

“Practically, yes,” Alastor agreed, voice light as he gave a faux-apologetic shrug. “But technically? He’s a free man. It’s just that walking away without repaying his debts would... complicate matters for him.”

 

Lucifer shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Only you would build a kingdom on debts and favors instead of outright contracts.”

 

Alastor’s smile widened, baring his sharp, glinting teeth. “Why settle for ownership when influence is so much more... pliable?”

 

For a brief moment, they stood in silence, Lucifer, disbelieving yet begrudgingly intrigued; Alastor, basking in the quiet satisfaction of having unsettled the King of Hell himself.

 

Lucifer’s lips tightened; his brows drawn in a line of frustration as Alastor’s smirking explanation lingered in the air. For a moment, he said nothing, his mind whirring. No contracts. No soul-bound minions. The infamous Radio Demon had somehow carved out his place through sheer influence and debts, nothing more.

 

That... was intriguing. Dangerous, even. It was unthinkable. In all his billions of years presiding over Hell, Lucifer had never encountered an Overlord who’d climbed so high without binding souls. The thought tugged at his mind, a low hum of curiosity threading through his usual irritation.

 

But outwardly, he gave a dismissive snort. “You’re insufferable, Alastor. No magic. No soul tricks. No deals. You want me to try your swamp stew, fine. But you’re trying this pancake. That was the original offer.”

 

Alastor’s expression relaxed into something almost approving, though the amused sneer never quite left his face. “Ah, how generous of you, Majesty,” he murmured, as he accepted the plated pancake Lucifer had already prepared; less sweet, drizzled with only a hint of honey, and adorned with a modest sprinkle of fruit.

 

Lucifer’s glare lingered, but the corners of his mouth twitched with something that might almost have been a reluctant smirk. He was still turning over the implications of Alastor’s revelations in his mind, but for now, he gestured with a vague wave. “Eat. And no complaints.”

 

With exaggerated precision, Alastor cut a small, dainty bite from the edge of the pancake, balancing it neatly on his fork. He lifted it to his lips, pausing dramatically before finally tasting the offering.

 

For a moment, his face remained unreadable, lips twitching faintly, nose wrinkling. Then he sighed, his voice carrying a reluctant lilt of approval. “As far as pastries go... it’s not bad. Still far too sweet for breakfast, but I suppose one must concede that it’s palatable.”

 

Lucifer’s smirk deepened, arms folding loosely over his chest. “That’s practically a compliment coming from you.”

 

Alastor’s grin returned, sly and self-satisfied. “Don’t let it go to your head, Majesty. You’ll be trying my jambalaya soon enough, and then we’ll see how far your taste buds can stretch.”

 

Lucifer lingered in the kitchen longer than he’d intended, absent-mindedly forking bites of his own pancake onto his tongue. The sugary, fluffy confection, once a proud testament to his culinary prowess, now felt oddly muted as his mind whirled with thoughts of Alastor.

 

He watched, pretending disinterest, as Alastor set about preparing his jambalaya with practiced ease. The Radio Demon moved like a conductor, orchestrating a chaotic symphony of spice jars, bubbling broth, and simmering meat. Each motion was precise yet fluid.

 

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed slightly, following the elegant swirl of a wooden spoon through the pot, the rising steam thick with Cajun spices and something... otherworldly. But it wasn’t magic, just skill.

 

No soul contracts? The thought echoed, hollow and incredulous in his mind. Just favors and debts?

 

It was... unthinkable. In Hell, power was currency, and souls were the coin of the realm. Every Overlord he’d ever known bartered, threatened, and bound others to their will with iron-clad contracts. Yet here was Alastor, openly claiming, almost flaunting, that he didn’t play by those rules. And the more Lucifer considered it, the more it gnawed at him.

 

This wasn’t just about Alastor’s motivations for helping at the hotel, which were already murky at best. There was something deeper, something coiled and hidden beneath that constant smile and transatlantic charm.

 

Why did Alastor do what he did? Why help Charlie? Why show interest in the hotel’s success? Why carve out a reputation in Hell without the typical tools of control?

 

Lucifer chewed absently on a bite of pancake; his tongue almost numb to the syrupy sweetness. His thoughts spiraled tighter, suspicion and intrigue intertwining like twin snakes in his mind.

 

Across the kitchen, Alastor hummed a low, contented tune under his breath as he stirred the pot, the scent of rich spices filling the room.

 

The kitchen was filled with nothing but the soft bubbling of the jambalaya and the faint clink of Alastor’s spoon against the pot. Lucifer’s mind churned, a tempest of half-formed theories and questions with no clear answers. The more he watched, the less he understood. And the more he didn’t understand... the more he needed to.

 

A clatter jolted Lucifer from his spiraling thoughts, his fork slipping from his fingers with a soft clink against the plate. He blinked down to find a steaming bowl of jambalaya placed neatly before him, the rich aroma of spices and slow-cooked meat rising like a challenge.

Alastor stood there, leaning slightly forward, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips. “Lost in thought, your Majesty?” he drawled, his voice syrupy-smooth but edged with mischief.

 

Lucifer’s brow furrowed as he straightened slightly, scowling at both the interruption and his own lapse. “Just... analyzing.”

 

“Ah,” Alastor mused, stepping back with a theatrical sweep of his hand. “Well, consider this a distraction from your... analysis. Taste and judge.”

 

Lucifer eyed the steaming bowl with wary suspicion, though the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “I suppose if it’s as revolting as the swamp metaphors, I’ll be forced to destroy the entire kitchen.”

 

Alastor’s laugh was low and warm, though it crackled faintly with static. “But of course, little King. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

 

Lucifer hesitated for a heartbeat longer, then finally, with a resigned huff, scooped up a careful spoonful of Alastor’s jambalaya. The rich aroma of simmered spices and slow-cooked meat swirled around him, sharp and savory, a stark contrast to the sugary haze that had filled the kitchen before.

 

The first bite hit his tongue like a punch of flavor; complex layers of heat and spice, the perfect balance of savory richness and a smoky undertone that lingered just enough to entice another bite.

 

Before he could even think to contain himself, a low, almost indecent moan of appreciation slipped past his lips. His fork clattered against the bowl as he instinctively scooped up another bite, his composure cracking for the briefest of moments.

 

Then, realization dawned. His spine stiffened, cheeks flushed faintly gold, and he cleared his throat loudly, trying to recover his regal bearing. “It’s... acceptable,” he said, his voice pitched a little too high before dropping into a forced nonchalance. “For something that looks like it was dredged from the bayou.”

 

Alastor’s grin widened to something positively wicked, his ears flicking forward and casting sinuous shadows across the counter as he leaned in just a bit. “Oh, but it tastes so much better than it looks, doesn’t it, your Majesty?” His voice dripped with honeyed amusement, the faint static crackle underlining his teasing tone.

 

Lucifer shot him a withering glare, but Alastor was already circling him like a shark scenting blood in the water.

 

“A king reduced to moans over a simple bowl of stew,” Alastor murmured, his voice pitched just low enough to make Lucifer’s cheeks turn a deeper shade of gold. “I must say, it’s quite... unseemly.”

 

Lucifer scowled deeper, but he was already shoveling another spoonful into his mouth, muttering something under his breath about “spices being addictive” as if that could somehow explain away his lapse.

 

Alastor, of course, wasn’t about to let him off the hook. “Mmm. So glad my humble offering meets your approval. Perhaps I should start calling you my royal taste tester?”

 

Lucifer’s eyes flashed, his cheeks flushed from the combined embarrassment and irritation. Without thinking, he grabbed the nearest utensil, the one from his own plate, and hurled it across the kitchen in a petulant, childish fit.

 

“Oh, go to Hell, you smug bastard!” he snapped, his voice pitched high with frustration.

 

But the chucked silverware never stood a chance. Alastor’s body dissolved into a swirl of shadows before it could even come close. The utensil clattered harmlessly against the counter where the Radio Demon had just been, vanishing into thin air with a faint crackle of static and a trailing echo of laughter.

 

From the lingering shadow, Alastor’s teasing voice drifted, smooth and full of mirth: “Enjoy the meal, little king.”

 

And then he was gone.

 

Lucifer stood there, fuming and glaring at the empty space where Alastor had been. He flipped the fading shadow a sharp, exasperated middle finger, muttering under his breath about the “insufferable prick” and “damned show-offs.” But despite himself, despite his frustration and the residual blush still warming his cheeks, the corner of his mouth twitched upward with reluctant amusement.

 

With a long-suffering sigh, he fetched himself a clean spoon from the drawer and returned to the bowl of jambalaya, scooping up another generous bite. “Smug bastard or not,” he muttered to no one in particular, “he can cook.”

 

And he finished the bowl, savoring every last bite, the rich flavors lingering on his tongue far longer than the irritation in his mind.

Notes:

Now would ya look at that, folks, no soul contracts? Why, that’s downright unheard of in these parts! Scandalous! Shocking! Positively unholy! And would you believe it, poor Lucifer just can’t wrap his pretty little head around the whole ordeal. Bless his bewildered royal heart! What in Hell is going on, you ask? Stick around, sinners, 'cause this mystery’s just getting warmed up!

Chapter 8: Domestic Chaos

Notes:

Welcome back, my darling little sinners! Pull up a chair, and let’s dive headfirst into a slice of that sweet, sinful domestic bliss, shall we? Ah yes, the chaos takes a coffee break but don’t get too cozy, folks. In this house, peace is just the calm before the next delightful storm!

Lucifer sat at the kitchen island, spoon dangling idly from his fingers, the bowl in front of him scraped nearly clean. Only a smear of thick, spiced broth clung to the bottom, one last trace of defeat.

 

He'd eaten slowly, savoring every bite once Alastor left, indulging in the rich flavors without the irritation of the demon’s smug commentary. But now the silence felt accusatory. The kitchen looked like it had been looted by culinary pirates. Pots stacked precariously in the sink. Flour dusted across the counters like fresh snow. A jar of cayenne lay on its side, abandoned mid-chaos. There was even sugar in the butter dish. Why was there sugar in the butter dish?

 

And then, the door creaked open.

 

Charlie stumbled, yawning so wide it nearly cracked her jaw. Her golden hair stuck out in half a dozen directions, pillow-creased and frizzy, pajamas askew and slippers dragging.

 

Vaggie followed close behind, hoodie zipped halfway and eyes already locked on the coffee pot like a heat-seeking missile. She didn’t say a word. Just trudged to the machine and got to work.

 

Charlie blinked hard. Her nose twitched. She paused mid-step, sniffed the air again, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

 

Then she looked around.

 

Her gaze tracked over the open spice jars, the sink full of pans, the flour-dusted counter, the lonely stack of pancakes with one halfhearted bite taken out and finally landed on Lucifer, sitting very still at the island, as if hoping he could become invisible by sheer willpower.

 

Her brows lifted.

 

Lucifer averted his gaze, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling.

 

Charlie blinked once more, then smiled, slow, wicked, and far too awake for someone who had just emerged from sleep.

 

She padded over and dropped into the stool across from him, propping her chin on her hands. “Sooo,” she purred, voice still scratchy with sleep, “how was it?”

 

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “How was what?”

 

Charlie laughed, rubbing her face. “Don’t even try, Dad. I know that smell anywhere.” She pointed toward the lingering warmth in the air. “That was Alastor’s jambalaya.”

 

Vaggie slid into the seat beside her, two steaming mugs in hand. She set one in front of Charlie, light, sweet, just how she liked it, then took a long sip of her own without acknowledging the chaos around them. Her priorities were in order.

 

Charlie gave her a quick kiss on the cheek in thanks, then turned back to her father with renewed interest. “So?” she asked, eyes gleaming. “What happened in here?”

 

Lucifer gave a low, dismissive scoff and looked away, but the tips of his ears were already going yellow. “Nothing of note.”

 

Charlie leaned in a little. “Uh-huh. So, all this flour and spice just decided to redecorate the kitchen on its own?”

 

Lucifer crossed his arms. “There may have been a disagreement.”

 

“Mmhm,” Charlie said, clearly unconvinced. “And that sad little pancake over there? What happened, did it fight back?”

 

Lucifer’s scowl deepened. “He sabotaged the sweetness just to spite me.”

 

Vaggie blinked at the pancake. “That tracks.”

 

Charlie grinned, now fully awake and thoroughly entertained. “So let me get this straight. You had a cook-off with Alastor?”

 

Lucifer rubbed his temple. “It wasn’t technically a cook-off.”

 

Charlie gave him a look.

 

He sighed heavily. “Fine. It was... an exchange. I made him try a proper breakfast. He made me try his... swamp sludge.”

 

“And you ate the swamp sludge,” Charlie said, looking far too smug for Lucifer’s comfort.

 

“I did not lose,” he snapped.

 

Charlie cackled. “Dad. You licked the bowl clean.”

 

Vaggie took another sip of coffee, nodding in mock solemnity. “Rookie mistake. Never challenge the deer to a cook-off. You’ll never live it down.”

 

Lucifer groaned, dropping his head to the counter with a muffled thump. “This is harassment.”

 

Charlie beamed, wrapping both hands around her mug.

 

Just as Lucifer lifted his head from the counter, regretting it instantly, the kitchen door banged open again.

 

“Gooood mooorning, all!” Niffty practically sang, whirling into the room like a caffeinated hurricane. Her dress was spotless, her hair perfectly curled, apron crisply tied. She looked like she’d already been up for hours and judging by the glint in her enormous eye, she had.

 

Angel Dust followed behind her, very much not singing. His hair was mussed, his jacket half-buttoned, and he trudged like a man betrayed by his own alarm clock. His eyes squinted against the kitchen lights like they were plotting against him.

 

“Kill me,” he muttered, bee-lining for the coffee pot. “Or at least lemme die with caffeine in my veins.”

 

“Hi Angel,” Charlie chirped, too chipper. “Rough morning?”

 

“Sugarplum, the only thing rougher than wakin’ up this early is my voice after a double shift at the club.” He grabbed a mug and poured himself a full cup of coffee, black and scalding, without blinking. “Why does it smell like spicy sex in here?”

 

Niffty, meanwhile, had hopped gracefully onto the counter, her single eye scanning the kitchen battlefield with increasing dismay. Her gaze locked onto the sink, the disarrayed spice rack, and then finally the near-clean bowl in front of Lucifer.

 

Her face twisted into sheer betrayal.

 

“YOU GUYS ATE ALL THE JAMBALAYA?!” she cried, throwing both hands in the air. “Without me?!”

 

Lucifer flinched.

 

“I love Alastor’s jambalaya!” Niffty huffed, hopping down and grabbing a sponge with violent determination. “You didn’t even save me a bite! That’s just rude!”

 

Without further preamble, she dove into cleaning. Pots clanged. Water sloshed. The dishrag moved like it had its own vengeance to settle.

 

Charlie winced. “Sorry, Niffty. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing…”

 

“She can’t hear you,” Vaggie muttered, sipping her coffee. “She’s entered the Cleaning Zone.”

 

Charlie turned to her, smiling sheepishly. “Maybe Al’ll make you some later if you ask really nicely!”

 

Niffty perked up mid-scrub, her voice dreamy and scheming all at once. “You really think he would? I could deep-clean his microphone stand again…”

 

“Just don’t polish it with floor wax this time,” Angel called over his shoulder, plopping into a chair beside the abandoned pancakes.

 

Niffty pouted. “That was an experiment.”

 

Lucifer, meanwhile, sat frozen at the island, eyes slowly widening as the kitchen filled around him.

 

Noise. Movement. Bickering. Coffee. Clatter. A demon scrubbing his breakfast dishes with murder in her eye and a spider slurping down his rejected pancake like it was perfectly acceptable.

 

He stared, trying to breathe evenly. His fingers flexed just once on the countertop. A vein in his temple pulsed.

 

Charlie noticed.

 

“You okay, Dad?”

 

He blinked slowly, the storm of chaos swirling on all sides. “Is this… normal?”

 

Charlie sipped her coffee, completely unfazed. “Pretty much.”

 

Lucifer ran a hand down his face. “I’m in hell.”

 

“You built hell.”

 

“Not this part,” he muttered. “This part built itself while I wasn’t looking.”

 

Angel, halfway through a bite, gestured with his fork. “Welcome to the family breakfast club, your majesty. Population: zero privacy.”

 

“Now shut up and pass the syrup,” Niffty chimed from the sink. “You’re getting crumbs on my freshly disinfected counter.”

 

Lucifer groaned softly, resting his forehead on the cool surface of the island again.

 

Charlie just smiled and leaned across the counter, chin in her hand. “Admit it,” she said. “You kind of missed this.”

 

Lucifer muttered something unintelligible into the granite.

 

Charlie took it as a yes.

 

Lucifer rested his chin on one hand, the din of morning chaos swirling around him like smoke.

 

He watched Niffty flit between surfaces with machine-like precision, muttering about grease spots and “irresponsible pot storage.” Angel was lounging with both legs propped on the adjacent chair, chewing lazily through another syrup-drenched pancake like he was being paid to do it slowly. Charlie and Vaggie sat shoulder-to-shoulder, sipping coffee and chatting quietly between Charlie’s increasingly theatrical giggles and Vaggie’s fond eye-rolls.

 

It was loud. It was cluttered. It was, at moments, alarmingly inefficient.

 

And yet… Lucifer smiled.

 

It was small and subdued, but real.

 

Maybe… maybe he had missed being around people. Not the aristocrats, not the sycophants and soulless ladder-climbers that once filled his halls. But this… this was different. Less performance, more presence. This was messy and flawed and loud and alive.

 

He’d grown used to silence over the years. Long stretches of cold marble and echoing thoughts. Self-imposed solitude had a comforting edge to it, numbness in exchange for peace.

 

But now, sitting in this imperfect kitchen surrounded by burnt sugar, disheveled demons, and his daughter’s bright, content smile… it didn’t feel so overwhelming anymore.

 

It felt like a reprieve.

 

Lucifer’s gaze flicked toward Charlie, who was now animatedly retelling some half-baked story about Vaggie chasing a rat out of the laundry chute. Her laughter was bright, unrestrained, and wholly infectious.

 

For the first time in longer than he could say, Lucifer allowed himself to feel the warmth of it. The simple pleasure of being here. Being present in the moment.

 

Still, he noticed something and that something made him glance toward the kitchen door.

 

“…Where are the other two?” he asked aloud, interrupting mid-story.

 

Angel looked up, blinking. “Husk? Please. That old cat doesn’t crawl outta bed until noon unless you bribe him with poker chips or someone opens a bottle of whiskey too close to his door.”

 

Lucifer grunted. “Figures.”

 

“And Pentious?” Angel gestured vaguely with his fork. “Still in his room, I think. Probably building something. Tinkering with wires or gears or, I dunno a plasma-powered megatoasters.”

 

Charlie leaned in with a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “Hopefully nothing that’ll blow out the east wing again.”

 

Vaggie groaned. “I still have nightmares about the bubble machine incident.”

 

“I told you it would’ve worked if I hadn’t added the glitter!” Niffty chirped from the sink.

 

“No one asked you to add the glitter!” Vaggie shot back.

 

Angel took another slow bite of pancake. “See? This is why I drink.”

 

Lucifer exhaled softly, the corners of his mouth curling again.

 

It was ridiculous. Undignified. Completely beneath him.

 

And maybe… just maybe… exactly what he needed.

 

Angel finished the last of his pancakes with a dramatic slurp of syrup, then pushed his plate aside with flair. “Well, that was surprisingly edible,” he muttered, standing with a stretch that cracked every joint in his spine like popcorn.

 

He handed off his empty mug and plate to Niffty, who snatched them mid-air with a gleeful “Thank you!” already halfway through drying a spatula.

 

With a long-suffering sigh, Angel adjusted his jacket and slung a casual wave over his shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll see you all around. Gotta get to work. Can’t be late… again.” His tone was breezy, but the edge underneath was unmistakable.

 

Charlie’s smile faltered. “Be safe, Angel,” she said softly.

 

He paused in the doorway, giving her a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Aren’t I always?” Then he was gone.

 

The door swung closed behind him with a muted click.

 

The energy in the room shifted.

 

Niffty continued scrubbing. Vaggie leaned back in her chair with a quiet sigh. Charlie sat still for a moment, staring at her mug like it held answers she didn’t want to read.

 

Lucifer noticed.

 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her, quietly, the lightness draining from her face as if someone had pulled a string too tight.

 

Finally, he cleared his throat gently. “What’s wrong?”

 

Charlie blinked up at him, caught off guard. “Oh. Nothing, I…” She paused. Then her shoulders slumped, and she gave a small, tired shrug. “It’s Angel.”

 

Lucifer tilted his head. “His ‘work’?”

 

Charlie nodded slowly. “Yeah. He’s still… doing what he has to, I guess. Valentino still owns his soul. I can’t exactly… fix that.” Her voice strained with quiet guilt.

 

Lucifer frowned. “You’ve tried?”

 

“Too hard,” Charlie admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “A few weeks ago I—I overstepped. I thought I could negotiate with Valentino. Get Angel a bit more time away, ya know.”

 

She looked down into her coffee, voice small. “I just made things worse. Got Angel in trouble. He was scared. And mad. And… hurt that I didn’t ask him first.”

 

Lucifer was quiet for a beat.

 

Then, surprisingly gentle, “Your heart’s in the right place. But kindness without caution is just another form of recklessness.”

 

Charlie let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Yeah… You’re right. I should have thought it through more.”

 

Lucifer’s lips twitched upward. But it faded just as quickly as it came.

Charlie sighed. “I just wanted to help. That’s why I started this place. For people like him. People who want to change, or escape, or just live without being dragged down by the worst parts of this place. But sometimes… I don’t know. Maybe I’m still just getting in the way.”

 

Lucifer stared at her for a long moment.

 

Then, quietly but firmly, he said, “No. You’re not in the way. You’re just… still learning where the lines are.”

 

Charlie blinked at him.

 

He held her gaze, more serious than he’d been all morning. “Helping someone doesn’t mean fixing everything for them. Sometimes it means standing back and giving them the space to fight. To choose. To fail.”

 

Her expression wavered. “But what if they get hurt?”

 

Lucifer’s eyes softened. “Then you be there when they do. And you don’t stop being there.”

 

Charlie swallowed hard and gave a small nod, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away and offered a quiet, grateful smile.

 

“Thanks, Dad.”

 

Lucifer reached across the island and gently tapped her mug with his fingertip. “Anytime, duckling.”

 

Later that day, the hotel lobby thrummed with the soft rhythm of life.

Behind the bar, Husk polished glasses with methodical efficiency, the occasional clink of glass against wood punctuating the soft murmur of voices and the creak of floorboards. Bottles of whiskey and aged liquor lined the shelves behind him, gleaming in the afternoon light that filtered through the dusty windows.

 

On the floor in front of the bar, Charlie sat cross-legged in a nest of paper. Colorful markers, highlighters, and half-sketched floor plans surrounded her in a chaotic semi-circle. One paper was titled "Bingo Night" while another was a rainbow-hued event flyer labeled “Trust Fall Tuesdays.”

 

Vaggie lounged in a nearby chair, legs crossed, coffee in hand. She glanced down at the latest addition to Charlie’s ever-growing pile, something involving emotional healing via karaoke duels, and sighed.

 

“No glitter cannons during therapy groups, babe. We’ve been over this.”

 

Charlie pouted, tapping the edge of her marker against her lip. “But they’d be biodegradable this time!”

 

“Still a fire hazard,” Vaggie replied dryly, but her tone held affection as she leaned over to help reorganize a few of the more reasonable plans.

 

Every so often, Niffty zipped through the room in a blur, first chasing a bug with a rolled-up napkin, then carrying an armful of warm laundry to fold in a place she absolutely should not be folding laundry. At one point she zipped past and muttered, “Kill the bug, fold the socks, clean the floor, kill the bug; where’d it go?!”

 

Lucifer was perched on a barstool nearby, idly spinning it with one foot. His long fingers drummed against the counter as he watched it all; the mess, the movement, the mildly concerning craft pile taking over the floor. His eyes flicked between his daughter, her girlfriend, the fluttering maid, and the grumbling cat behind the bar. Chaos in motion.

 

And yet… it was oddly peaceful.

 

The clicking of polished boots on wood stairs broke the lull.

 

Alastor swept into the room, all polished red and sly smiles, coat flaring as he walked with his usual theatrical glide. The moment he entered, the faint crackle of static followed behind him like a loyal pet.

 

Charlie looked up from her sprawl of drawings. “Hi, Alastor!” she chirped, marker cap wedged between her teeth. “Hey, do you think we could maybe play something a little more modern on the hotel radios tonight?”

 

Alastor paused mid-stride, as though she’d thrown a cold wet rag at his face.

 

He blinked once, slowly. “Modern?” he said, voice already coated in scandalized offense. “You mean that... synthetic catastrophe of noise that passes for music these days? That rhythmic howling disguised as art? That—”

 

“Please?” Charlie said, locking eyes with him and tilting her head, deploying the full force of her sparkly, pleading gaze.

 

Alastor made a strained noise like a kettle boiling over. He turned slightly, shoulders stiff. “If I must surrender the sanctity of sound…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing as if the weight of all musical history pressed down upon him. “Then I demand one concession.”

 

Charlie perked up. “Anything!”

 

“I choose the songs,” he said sternly, raising a gloved finger. “But... you may choose the decade they come from.”

 

Charlie lit up like a Christmas tree. “Really?! Oh, awesome! I pick the 1980s!”

 

Alastor’s smile thinned to something haunted. “So be it,” he said, like a man accepting his final meal. “But you’re getting synthesizers and theatrical melodrama. No screaming into microphones about... post-traumatic clubbing experiences.”

 

Charlie beamed. “Thanks, Al!”

 

Alastor gave her a shallow, exasperated bow, then strolled toward the bar.

 

Husk, still cleaning glasses, slid a full whiskey toward him without looking. “Usual.”

 

Alastor caught it neatly and raised the glass. “As always, my fuzzy barkeep.”

 

Lucifer, still perched nearby, turned slowly on his stool and muttered just loud enough to be heard, “You’re all mad.”

 

Husk grunted. “Took you this long to notice?”

 

Alastor watched the activity of the hotel with the pleased air of a man surveying a particularly entertaining stage play. He sipped his whiskey, elbows resting on the bar, legs crossed at the ankle like he had all the time in the world.

 

“A truly delightful little production,” he said casually, eyes following Charlie as she animatedly gestured at Vaggie over a drawing involving foam pits and trust exercises. “All this effort for redemption. Rehabilitation. It’s very... quaint. Like building sandcastles during a hurricane.”

 

Lucifer's gaze snapped to him, golden eyes narrowing.

 

“Careful,” he said, voice calm but cold, “you’re skating close to insult.”

 

Alastor turned his head, grin untouched. “Oh? Was it something I said?”

 

Lucifer leaned forward slightly, his tone deceptively mild. “You’re speaking of my daughter’s dream. Whatever my own opinions on it may be... I won’t have it mocked.”

 

Alastor's smile only grew sharper. “I assure you, I meant no offense to dear Charlie. She’s a lovely soul. Utterly sincere.” He took another sip of his drink before adding, “It’s her audience I doubt.”

 

Lucifer’s expression darkened, the edges of his pupils narrowing. “You think the sinners of this hotel are incapable of change?”

 

“I think they’re entertaining,” Alastor said lightly, swirling his glass. “But let’s not pretend most of them didn’t earn their place here in spectacular fashion. Some may polish the surface, but what’s underneath?” He clicked his tongue. “Well. That’s where the rot usually lives, isn’t it?”

 

A flicker of red bled into Lucifer’s golden eyes.

 

“I’ve destroyed beings for less,” he said quietly.

 

“Oh, I know,” Alastor said, utterly unfazed. “The King of Hell. A terrifying title. Full of weight. Gravitas.” He leaned a little closer, still smiling. “And yet here you sit, on a barstool, amid the misfits and dust, defending a dream you claim not to believe in. For her.”

 

Lucifer’s fingers curled against the bar. “Say what you mean, Alastor.”

 

“All right.” Alastor’s tone remained easy, casual, but there was steel beneath it. “You can glower and flash your kingly fury all you like, but it won’t win you any points when she’s watching.”

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

Alastor’s voice dipped, his grin tilting sly. “Disapproval cuts deeper than divine wrath, doesn’t it? Especially from someone you love.”

 

Lucifer stiffened.

 

The red in his eyes flared just a shade brighter; rage, yes, but something else flickered behind it. A flare of something unacknowledged. Something that felt far too much like respect.

 

Because here Alastor stood, no bow, no groveling, no fear. He stared down the King of Hell not out of arrogance, but indifference. Like Lucifer’s status meant nothing to him. Like he wasn’t impressed.

 

Like he wasn’t afraid to get burned.

 

And damn it all… somewhere deep, buried in the part of Lucifer that still ached for the fight, for challenge, for someone who didn’t tread on eggshells; he liked it.

 

Even if he'd rather be torn apart than say so.

 

Lucifer leaned in, his voice velvet and venom. “Keep talking, Radio Demon. And I’ll show you what happens to bold little monsters who mistake my patience for leniency.”

 

Alastor’s grin never faltered. “And I’ll remind you what happens when fathers slip too far into threats while their daughters sit just over their shoulders.”

 

Lucifer’s breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

 

Behind them, Charlie laughed at something Vaggie said, completely unaware of the knives being sharpened in smiles at the bar.

 

Lucifer’s glare didn’t lessen but he said nothing more.

 

 “Thought so.”

 

Alastor drained the last of his whiskey with a satisfied hum, setting the glass down with a crisp clink. He straightened, rolled his shoulders, and with a practiced flourish, adjusted the cuffs of his coat.

 

“Well,” he announced, voice lifting into that familiar showman’s cadence, “this has been delightful! But alas, duty calls and chaos beckons. I’ll return in time for the evening broadcast. Do try not to burn the place down before then.”

 

Charlie glanced up from her rainbow-stickered planning page, bright-eyed. “Bye, Al! Have a good day!”

 

He dipped into a dramatic bow, one hand over his heart, the other sweeping wide. “And you as well, my radiant little bell. May your group therapy be only mildly traumatizing!”

 

With that, he turned on his heel and began his exit, humming a jaunty, old-time tune that crackled faintly with static.

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

The sudden tonal shift, Alastor’s entire departure, as if the last five minutes hadn’t been laced with venom and veiled threats, threw him completely off balance. His mind, still simmering in righteous fury, stumbled to recalibrate.

 

He watched the deer stride toward the door with infuriating grace. Smug bastard.

 

Before he could stop himself, the words were out of his mouth.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

The question hung there, weighty and stupid.

 

Alastor paused mid-step, looking back over his shoulder. That ever-present smile widened just a touch.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said, voice all honey and teeth.

 

And with a wink, he swept out of the room, humming louder now as the door creaked shut behind him.

 

Lucifer stared after him for a long, slow moment, expression unreadable.

 

Husk looked up from behind the bar, unimpressed. “What the hell was that about?”

 

Lucifer didn’t answer. He just stared at the closed door, brows furrowed, jaw tight, one red flicker still smoldering in the gold of his eyes.

 

What the fuck was that?

 

He didn’t know if he was furious, insulted… or strangely exhilarated.

 

And that was probably the most disturbing part of all.

 

Notes:

Well now, would ya take a gander at that, folks! Looks like ol’ Lucifer is settlin’ right into the chaos like a cat in a sunbeam but mercy me, is our darling Radio Demon givin’ him a real run for his money! Why, it’s twists and turns, smoke and static, and our royal highness can’t quite tell if he’s dancin’ or bein’ danced around! Stay tuned, my lovelies, things are only just heatin’ up!

Chapter 9: Dancing Pigs

Notes:

Things are startin’ to heat up in this one, folks, oh yes indeed! What happens when pride meets pride on the dance floor? Why, fireworks, darling! Something dazzling, something dangerous, something downright delicious! So grab your partner, hold on tight, and let’s dive headlong into the spectacle!

Lucifer wandered the dimly lit halls of the Hazbin Hotel, the gentle clicking of his heeled boots echoing off the walls. He was lost in thought, mind occupied by images from the day before, images that were so peculiar, he still questioned their authenticity.

 

He paused by an ornate archway, peering quietly into the hall beyond. Alastor was there, a striking silhouette in the hazy lamplight, bending gracefully down towards something scuttling on the floor. Lucifer watched silently as the Radio Demon gently scooped up the small form; Fat Nuggets, Angel Dust’s mischievous little hell-pig. The animal squirmed briefly before settling into Alastor’s slender arms, his tiny horned head nestling into the demon’s coat.

 

"My, my," Alastor chided softly, a rare gentleness audible in his vintage-radio voice, "how did you manage to slip out, you troublesome little porker? Angel really should be more vigilant."

 

Lucifer raised a surprised brow, witnessing a tenderness that starkly contrasted the ruthless display from just a few weeks prior. Lucifer’s lips curled into an amused smirk, but just as quickly, Alastor stiffened. His large pointed ears twitched, and he turned slightly, sharp crimson eyes locking instantly onto Lucifer.

 

“Well, well,” he drawled in his usual silky voice, laced with mockery. “Spying on me, Your Majesty? I didn’t know voyeurism was one of your pastimes.”

 

Lucifer stepped from the shadows, brow twitching. “Don’t flatter yourself, Radio Demon. I was making sure the hallway hadn’t suddenly caught fire… again.”

 

Alastor chuckled, the sound light but sharp. “And here I thought you were drawn in by the allure of small, adorable animals and tender displays of affection. Imagine my disappointment.”

 

“Ha ha as if anyone would be drawn in by you,” Lucifer snapped, though his eyes were still fixed on the pig with something like confusion.

 

Alastor's grin widened dangerously, those sharp yellow teeth flashing like a warning sign. "Careful, little king," he purred mockingly, stepping closer, Fat Nuggets still comfortably nestled against him. "I may start thinking you're jealous of the affection. Shall I fetch you your own emotional support piggy?"

 

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, a hiss sliding through his sharp teeth. "Your wit is about as amusing as your sense of fashion."

 

Alastor tilted his head, unfazed. "Oh, the sting! Truly, my wounded heart may never recover," he drawled dramatically, placing the back of his gloved hand theatrically against his forehead before thrusting Fat Nuggets towards Lucifer, almost catching him off-guard. "Well, since you're already here offering your royal critique, you might as well return this delinquent back to Angel. Make yourself useful."

 

Lucifer awkwardly caught the squirming piglet, glaring indignantly up at Alastor who looked distinctly pleased with himself. "I'm not your errand boy," Lucifer spat, though his tone carried more embarrassment than venom.

 

"Oh, I know," Alastor replied cheerfully, his crimson gaze glinting mischievously. He stepped past Lucifer with effortless elegance, his coat whispering around him like shadowy wings. "But even kings must contribute something, hmm?"

 

Lucifer watched him go, irritation and reluctant amusement battling inside him. He glanced down at Fat Nuggets, who squealed contentedly in his arms, and sighed.

 

“Damn it all, Alastor,” Lucifer muttered, heading towards Angel's quarters. "I'll get you back for this."

 

From down the hall came the faint, static-filled echo of Alastor's laughter, fading away like a distant radio transmission.

 

Now, as he walked alone, Lucifer reflected on that moment. Perhaps Charlie was onto something after all. If someone as notoriously volatile and powerful as Alastor could display even a shred of genuine kindness, however sarcastically cloaked, then perhaps there was a faint glimmer of hope hidden somewhere within this chaotic hellscape.

 

As Lucifer stepped into the hotel lobby, he barely had time to register the faded wallpaper before being assaulted by a blur of blonde hair, red ribbon, and terminal optimism.

 

“Good morning, Dad!” Charlie sang out, practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re just in time!”

 

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “In time for what? An impromptu raid? Another explosion?”

 

Charlie giggled. “Nooo, silly, it’s our weekly mandatory group rehabilitation exercise!”

 

Lucifer looked like he might spontaneously combust. “Mandatory and group? That already sounds like a punishment.”

 

“And boring,” came Alastor’s voice from across the room; drawling, already aggrieved, even before being told what kind. “Marvelous. Just what I needed to round out my morning of not caring.”

 

“Oh, come on!” Charlie clasped her hands together pleadingly. “This is a great opportunity for everyone to bond! Especially you two,” she pointed between Lucifer and Alastor, “who already have a shared interest!”

 

Lucifer scoffed. “I can’t imagine what that might be. Passive-aggressive commentary?”

 

“Dancing!” Charlie beamed.

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

“No,” Lucifer said flatly.

 

“Absolutely not,” Alastor echoed, standing up from where he’d been lounging on a piano bench, arms crossed. “I don’t dance with royalty. It’s a moral stance.”

 

“Oh, stop being dramatic,” Charlie huffed, then softened her tone. “This could be a really good chance for you two to work on your rhythm and communication... maybe even some mutual trust?”

 

Lucifer looked like she’d just asked him to marry a goose.

 

“I’m trusting him not to knife me mid-spin,” he muttered.

 

“Tempting,” Alastor replied sweetly. “But alas, it would ruin the floor.”

 

Before either of them could weasel out of it, Charlie looped an arm through each of theirs and began leading them down the hallway. “C’mon, we’re using the old ballroom today! It’s not completely falling apart!”

 

It was, in fact, mostly falling apart. One chandelier dangled like a crooked halo above the center, casting fractured light across peeling wallpaper and stacks of forgotten furniture. But Charlie’s enthusiasm seemed to fill in the cracks.

 

Inside, the hotel’s eclectic residents had already gathered. Husk was half-asleep with a flask dangling from his fingers. Nifty was darting between chairs sweeping up dust bunnies and chasing down roaches. Sir Pentious nervously watched her flit around like the little cyclops might try to stab him next. And Angel Dust, draped across a chair near the cracked mirror, raised a perfectly manicured brow.

 

Charlie clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, everyone! Today’s activity is…” she paused dramatically, “a dance class!”

 

A collective groan rose from the room.

 

“Dancing teaches rhythm, coordination, and trust!” Charlie insisted, unfazed. “And to start us off…” she grinned, “we’ll have a demonstration from our two most experienced dancers, Dad and Alastor!”

 

“Excuse me?” Angel Dust shot up, putting a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I dance every night, thank you very much.”

 

Charlie turned red. “Oh! Uh—I mean, yes, Angel, you’re a very talented dancer but this is, um, more of a…” she paused, fumbling for words, “structured ballroom sort of thing. Less pole, more posture?”

 

Angel huffed and flopped dramatically back into his chair. “Fine. But I better see some real technique from these two geezers.”

 

Lucifer groaned. “Charlie, I’m begging you. I’d rather oversee a war tribunal.”

 

“Nope!” Charlie chirped, handing Husk a phonograph needle. “Let’s set the mood!”

 

With a reluctant flick, the needle dropped onto the spinning record, and the ballroom filled with the nostalgic crackle of vintage swing music.

 

The chatter dulled, all eyes turning toward the mismatched pair now stepping into the center of the floor.

 

Lucifer rolled his shoulders like a man walking into a duel. Alastor strolled forward with theatrical ease, stopping only inches away and offering a hand with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

 

Lucifer narrowed his eyes but took it. “Don’t step on me.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Alastor purred, already placing a hand at Lucifer’s waist and guiding their joined hands upward.

 

Lucifer blinked. “Excuse you, you’re leading?”

 

Alastor’s smile curled. “Naturally. I am taller.”

 

Lucifer let out a dry laugh. “That’s not how this works.”

 

“Too late,” Alastor said, and before Lucifer could protest again, he swept them into the first few steps of a surprisingly elegant, fast-paced routine.

 

Lucifer stumbled, only slightly, then caught up, matching Alastor step for step. His eyes narrowed. “You smug bastard.”

 

“Language, Your Majesty.”

 

“Let go,” Lucifer hissed.

 

“You first,” Alastor shot back.

 

But before he could rip the lead back, Alastor swept them into an elegant spin.

 

What should have been a clumsy clash of egos became, somehow, something mesmerizing.

 

Each time Lucifer resisted, Alastor countered, each challenge spun into the next motion, each moment of control slipping seamlessly into another. The tension remained, taut and electric, but the execution was flawless. It was like watching two dueling swordsmen who happened to be dancing, every movement graceful, every step precise, every power play disguised as choreography.

 

Lucifer shifted their center of gravity in a dramatic turn, Alastor pivoted into it with an elegant slide. Alastor tightened his grip to redirect their spin, Lucifer responded with a sudden drop of his own, forcing Alastor to compensate with a flick of his wrist and a lean so smooth it could’ve been rehearsed.

 

The room watched in stunned silence, the pair gliding across the ballroom like something out of a dream; beautiful, impossible, and unrelentingly sharp.

 

Then, just as the music began to swell to its final bars, Alastor dipped Lucifer low, far lower than expected, and Lucifer let out a bark of laughter, surprised and breathless.

 

Their faces were close. Too close.

 

Lucifer’s chest rose and fell with exhilaration. Alastor’s eyes, for once, weren’t hiding behind a smile, they were the smile, warm and open and painfully real.

 

For a breathless moment, they just stared at each other. Ridiculous, genuine grins on both their faces.

 

“Well damn,” Angel Dust piped up, voice loud and leering. “If I knew dancing got that steamy, I’d have worn fewer clothes!”

 

The spell shattered.

 

Alastor blinked as if waking from a trance, and promptly, unceremoniously, let go of Lucifer’s waist.

 

Lucifer yelped and stumbled, barely catching himself before his ass met the cracked floor.

 

“Charming,” he muttered, straightening his coat with as much dignity as he could gather. “Truly.”

 

Alastor cleared his throat, smile snapping back into place like a mask slamming shut. “Apologies. I seem to have lost my grip.”

 

“Oh, I noticed.”

 

Charlie clapped, utterly oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. “That was amazing! You two were incredible! That’s exactly what I was hoping for!”

 

She turned to the rest of the group, giddy and breathless. “Okay! Now everyone else, pair up! I’ll walk you through the basics and then you’ll try it yourselves!”

 

Around the room came a mix of groans, curses, and reluctant shuffles. Sir Pentious looked horrified to be paired up with Nifty. While Angel swaggered up to Husk with a flirtatious wink, “Looks like it’s you and me pussy cat.”

 

Lucifer, still catching his breath, muttered to Alastor without looking at him, “If you ever dip me like that again…”

 

Alastor’s grin sharpened, and his voice dipped low and teasing. “Was my dancing so good you’re expecting another so soon?”

 

Lucifer’s jaw tensed, his mouth working uselessly for a second. “I–I’m not–That’s not what I meant!” he snapped, flustered. His words tangled together as his cheeks flushed, utterly failing to come up with a dignified retort.

 

Alastor’s smile only widened; his eyes gleaming with wicked delight.

 

The music started again. The lesson began. But somewhere beneath the clatter of feet and awkward spins, the memory of that almost-moment hung heavy in the air.

 

And neither of them said a word about it.

 

Later that evening…

 

The tower was quiet.

 

Below, the city groaned and bled, restless as ever. But here, wrapped in old wood, rusted gears, and silence softened by dust, Alastor sat still.

 

The low glow of vacuum tubes lit the space like embers in a long-dead fire. Radios lined the walls like relics, their needles flicking sporadically, unsure of which frequency they were meant to chase. None of them were playing. For once, the air held no music.

 

Only static.

 

Alastor sat in the chair at the heart of it all, elbows braced on his knees, hands hanging limp.

 

Something was wrong. Or perhaps not wrong, just... different. Unfamiliar.

 

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the echo still reverberating through his chest; the feel of Lucifer’s laughter blooming beneath his palm.

 

It hadn’t been part of the plan. The dance had started as a performance, as most things did. Something light. Ridiculous. Beneath him, really. A bit of forced choreography to placate Charlie and keep the rabble entertained.

 

But Lucifer had laughed and smiled up at him and something unspoken shifted. Alastor had felt heat. Not the usual thrill of dominance or spectacle. Not the satisfaction of control. It was warmer. Stranger. Softer.

 

And that... frightened him.

 

He stood abruptly, pushing away from the chair, pacing toward the wide tower window. Outside, Hell gleamed in twisted metal and flickering neon, the illusion of order painted over chaos.

 

He stared out at it, hoping the world would distract him.

 

It didn’t.

 

His reflection in the glass was haunted, eyes wide and uncertain, a crease between his brows.

 

It wasn’t the aesthetic that disturbed him. He could appreciate beauty, form, symmetry, elegance. He understood allure in the same way one admired a finely-tuned instrument or a well-crafted trap.

 

But attraction? That particular ache, that pull beneath the skin?

 

That was rare.

 

Distant.

 

Something he’d observed in others like a scientist studying a flame behind glass.

 

He wasn’t drawn to people. Not like that. Not often. Not really.

 

And yet… something about Lucifer had bypassed that barrier entirely. Not because of his looks, but because of the feeling that clung to him. The thrill of his laughter. The openness in his expression. The weight of him in Alastor’s arms, not struggling or pretending, but simply being there.

 

That was what caught him off guard.

 

Not lust or fantasy, something quieter, stranger. It wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t even want in the usual sense. It was… gravity.

 

Something born the moment Lucifer smiled at him, not a mask, not a bluff, but something real. And Alastor didn’t know what to do with real.

 

It didn’t help that Lucifer looked like him.

 

Same jaw. Same voice in certain tones. Same hellfire eyes that seemed to see through him. The resemblance was enough to make Alastor's stomach twist.

 

But the similarities ended there.

 

Where he had been cold and calculating, all biting cruelty and clipped commands, Lucifer was… infuriatingly open. He wore his emotions with pride. He laughed without apology, argued with flair, and offered kindness like it cost him nothing.

 

He was warm. And warmth was something Alastor had been taught to fear. Taught to hate.

 

He curled his fingers slowly into a fist, knuckles pale.

 

It was dangerous, this pull. This impossible curiosity. He'd spent so long wrapping barbed wire around his emotions that the idea of feeling anything now was as foreign as it was repellent.

 

And yet…

 

There had been a moment, mid-dance, where it didn’t feel like performance. Where the world fell away and all that remained was Lucifer’s body in sync with his, that genuine laugh, that spark of joy neither of them could quite fake.

 

A moment where he felt...

 

He swallowed hard.

 

"...This can’t happen," he whispered.

 

He turned from the window, storming back to his seat like the floor might crack beneath him if he stood still too long. The radios sputtered quietly, sensing his unease but offering no comfort.

 

The memory returned unbidden; Lucifer’s eyes, surprised and delighted during the dip. That weight in Alastor’s arms. That smile that had reached his eyes, just before the moment shattered.

 

It had planted something. A seed.

 

All he knew was in that moment he hadn’t wanted to let go and that thought pissed him off more than it should.

Notes:

Oh boy, oh my, folks, is our dear Alastor catchin’ feelings already? I do believe he might be! But let’s not forget, our poor deer is wound tighter than a phonograph spring when it comes to matters of the heart; emotionally repressed and twice as stubborn! So the question is, how’s he gonna handle gettin’ closer than he ever intended? Stick around, my curious little sinners, the plot’s thickening faster than molasses in January!

Chapter 10: It's Just A Cup

Notes:

Well now, gather ‘round, gather ‘round, my devilish darlings and infernal imps! This is your host with the most, and do I have a treat for you today!

That’s right, I had myself a little free time; no contracts to sign, no souls to collect, so I’ve been cookin’ up a storm in the story kitchen! This week, you’re gonna eat good, my lovely little sinners, because I’m servin’ up not one, not two, but a whole slew of sizzling chapters hotter than Hell’s furnace!

So grab your popcorn, polish those pitchforks, and brace yourselves for a bumpy emotional ride, because we are diving headfirst into the glorious trainwreck that is the emotional constipation of our favorite Hellish duo! Oh yes, it’s drama, it’s denial, it’s demonic dysfunction at its finest!

Stay tuned, stay sinful, and as always, I'll be watchin' from the shadows.

The hotel was still in the throes of sleep, draped in the kind of heavy, cloying silence that only comes with early morning fog. The lights in the bar flickered a dull amber as Lucifer slouched on a stool, one elbow on the counter, the other nursing a chipped pottery mug. The blue glaze had dulled with age, the yellow duck painted on its side smudged by years of affectionate use. In clumsy letters, the words “Hell’s Best Dad” curved beneath the duck, half-faded but still legible.

 

Husk, already up for once and grumbling to himself, didn’t ask questions. He just poured a generous splash of something amber into Lucifer’s coffee, sliding it back without a word.

 

Lucifer took a sip, then sighed. “Mornings are a personal attack,” he muttered.

 

The bar door creaked open.

 

Alastor entered in a swish of long red coat and cane-tap. His antlers scraped the doorframe as he passed through, not that he noticed. His expression was distant, no theatrics, no showboating grin, his attention somewhere else entirely.

 

Lucifer barely acknowledged him.

 

Alastor passed behind the barstool, his coat flaring slightly as he turned to head toward the far end, and the edge of his sleeve brushed the mug.

 

It toppled. The sound of shattering ceramic rang like a gunshot.

 

Lucifer stared at the floor. The pieces of the mug lay like a tiny crime scene. The duck’s painted face had split down the middle.

 

“…You absolute asshole,” Lucifer growled, voice shaking just enough to betray something deeper. “Do you ever watch where you’re going?”

 

Alastor paused mid-step. His gaze slid lazily toward the floor, then to the spilled coffee and broken pieces, and finally to Lucifer. A smirk touched his lips, detached, bemused, practiced.

 

“Ah. My sincerest condolences, your majesty. Perhaps next time don’t leave priceless heirlooms near the edge of a counter?” His tone dripped with dandyish mockery, his usual theatricality coming back like armor.

 

Lucifer rose slowly; his small frame coiled with tension. “That mug was all I had left of when she still looked at me like I was someone worth loving.”

 

Alastor quirked a brow, but said nothing.

 

“It was Charlie’s,” Lucifer went on. “She made it when she was a little girl. Before everything fell apart. Before her mother left. Before I….”

 

Alastor turned, clearly bored now, a chuckle on the edge of his tongue.

 

Lucifer didn’t let him escape.

 

“But of course you wouldn’t get it,” he snapped. “You don’t feel anything, do you? You don’t love anyone but yourself.”

 

The amusement vanished.

 

Gone.

 

Alastor froze mid-pivot. His fingers tightened around his cane, just a twitch. When he turned back, the smile was still there, but it had soured, baring more teeth than charm.

 

“Careful now,” he said, voice velvet over something jagged. “You’re wandering into territory you don’t have the faintest understanding of.”

 

Lucifer snorted, not backing down. “What? Did I strike a nerve?”

 

And then, without ceremony, the mask dropped. Alastor’s grin died.

 

"You have no idea what loss feels like," he said. Not shouted. Said. With the sharpness of a blade unsheathed in a quiet room. "So don’t presume to educate me on the subject."

 

Lucifer reeled, not physically, but the fire behind his eyes flickered, unsure of what it had just run into.

 

And then Alastor was gone. One blink, and he was simply no longer there. No swirl of shadows, no flash of magic. Just gone.

 

Lucifer stood among the wreckage of coffee and ceramic, the echo of that last, cutting line still hanging in the air.

 

Behind the bar, Husk muttered, “Well, shit.”

 

Lucifer was still staring at the broken pieces when Husk finally set the glass down and leaned both elbows on the bar.

 

“…You done throwing a tantrum, princess?” he asked without looking up.

 

Lucifer shot him a glare, still simmering. “Don’t start with me.”

 

“I’m already started,” Husk muttered, fishing a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it with a flick of his claw. “Hell of a way to start the morning. You screaming about a mug, Alastor looking like he was about two seconds from snapping your spine.”

 

Lucifer crossed his arms, but said nothing.

 

Husk exhaled smoke and finally looked up, one golden eye narrowing. “Look, I ain’t defending the guy. He’s a prick. Grinning little freak thinks he’s cleverer than God and twice as dramatic.”

 

Lucifer grunted. “I’m aware.”

 

“But.” Husk tapped ash into a clean glass. “There’s somethin’ off under all that showmanship. I don’t know what he’s been through, and frankly, I don’t wanna know. But I know what trauma looks like.”

 

Lucifer glanced at him then, brow slightly furrowed.

 

“Don’t matter how pretty the suit is. People don’t look like that unless they’ve seen some serious shit.” Husk nodded toward the spot where Alastor had vanished. “You don’t carry that much power around for no reason. Not without it eating at you.”

 

Lucifer shifted uncomfortably.

 

Husk sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “So yeah. He’s an asshole. But he’s got ghosts. Might be wise to stop pokin’ them just to hear yourself talk.”

 

Lucifer looked back down at the broken mug. A jagged piece lay near his boot, the duck’s beady eye still intact.

 

“…She was five when she gave it to me,” he said quietly. “Told me I was the hero of Hell.”

 

Husk didn’t respond to that. Just took another drag.

 

After a beat, he muttered, “Heroes don’t usually end up here.”

 

Lucifer’s smile was brittle.

 

“No,” he agreed. “They don’t.”

 

The quiet stretched, not awkward, just heavy, until the soft clatter of heeled shoes broke it.

 

“Good morning!” Charlie chirped as she skipped into the bar, ponytail bouncing, her voice practically tripping over itself with cheer. “Isn’t it a beautiful day? I had the weirdest dream that Niffty turned the lobby into a…”

 

She stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes fell on the floor. The coffee puddle. The broken shards. The painted duck. Her smile faltered.

 

“...Oh.”

 

Lucifer didn’t look at her.

 

Charlie stepped closer, her voice gentling. “Is that…?”

 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “It was.”

 

She knelt without hesitation, gathering the pieces with careful fingers, trying not to cut herself. “I remember this. I gave it to you for your birthday. I used too much blue glaze and it cracked in the kiln, but you said it was perfect.”

 

Lucifer swallowed hard. “It was.”

 

Charlie’s hands stilled.

 

She looked up at him, and her smile faded completely. “What happened?”

 

Lucifer let out a long, slow breath. “Alastor happened.”

 

Charlie blinked, then glanced at Husk.

 

Husk raised both paws in surrender. “Don’t look at me. I just pour drinks and occasionally drop truth bombs.”

 

Charlie gave a soft laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She turned back to the broken mug in her hands.

 

“I can fix this,” she said, trying to sound hopeful. “We’ve got some ceramic glue somewhere, or—”

 

“Charlie.” Lucifer’s voice was low.

 

She looked up again.

 

He finally met her eyes, and for a moment, he didn’t look like the King of Hell. He just looked like a tired, lonely father who hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed a piece of the past until it was gone.

 

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s just a mug.”

 

Charlie gave a soft, sad smile.

 

“No, it wasn’t.”

 

She stood and gently placed the largest piece, the one with the duck, on the bar.

 

“I’ll still try,” she said, squeezing his arm. “It deserves a second chance.”

 

Lucifer nodded; throat too tight to reply.

 

Behind the bar, Husk grunted. “Guess we all do.”

 

Charlie left taking the broken pieces with her, promising to do what she could, and left behind only a kiss to his cheek and a lingering echo of warmth.

 

Now the bar was quiet again. Lucifer sat alone, hunched in his stool, cane resting across his lap, hands curled around the faint ring left by the mug’s base on the counter. The smell of coffee and whiskey still lingered in the air like a ghost that didn’t know when to leave.

 

He stared at the spot where the mug had fallen. He could see it clearly in his mind; the crooked little duck, the uneven glaze, the way she’d held it behind her back before yelling "Surprise!" with a grin that could’ve lit up Heaven itself.

 

That mug had survived marital wars, infernos, even a drunken Mammon trying to juggle it once. But not him.

 

His hand slowly tightened into a fist. It wasn’t about the mug. Not really. It was about everything that had come after it. The silence. The distance. The missed birthdays, the unanswered messages, the way she looked at him now like he was a stranger borrowing her father’s face.

 

How had it gotten this bad? He felt the burn of it behind his eyes, that pressure that always came right before the tears, but nothing fell. They never did. Not anymore.

 

And then, like smoke curling into an open window, Alastor’s words came back to him.

 

“You have no idea what loss feels like.”

 

At the time, it had felt like posturing. A low blow to end an argument. But now…

 

Lucifer sat up a little straighter, brows drawing together. That hadn’t sounded like performance.

 

It hadn’t sounded like anything Alastor ever said, really. There had been no lilt, no theatricality. Just a flat, quiet weight. Like something pulled from the deepest part of himself and thrown out into the light before it could be stopped.

 

Loss.

 

Lucifer had known plenty of it. Had caused plenty of it. But that… that had sounded different.

 

He found himself thinking back, trying to remember if Alastor had ever spoken of family, of friends, of anything that could be considered a tether to a world before Hell.

 

Nothing came to mind.

 

Always that grin. Always those eyes that watched without blinking. Always the feeling that whatever was looking out of him was part actor, part predator.

 

But for one moment this morning, the act had slipped. What could a creature like him have lost? Lucifer didn’t have an answer. But, he wanted to know.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Uh oh! A priceless gift, shattered! A slumbering storm, stirred! Prideful tempers, clashing like titans in the pit! And would you look at that, confusing, curious feelings? Mercy me, Lucifer’s gone and wedged that golden foot of his right into the fiery furnace, hasn’t he?

And what of our darling Radio Demon, hm? Alastor, ever the picture of poise and panache, lets that polished mask slip, just for a moment. And oh, what a moment it is! A glimmer of grief, a flicker of something broken just beneath that wicked little smile. But what kind of loss are we seeing in those crimson eyes, my fiends? Is it freedom he mourns? Control? Or, dare I say it, something far more personal?

You’ll just have to stick around to find out, won’t you? As always, thank you, my sweet sinners, for tuning in and turning the page. If you’re enjoying the madness, leave a like or drop a comment, it does wonders for this cold, dead heart of mine. Until next time, ta-ta!

Chapter 11: Wrong Place Wrong Time

Notes:

Alright sinners, buckle up, Alastor’s got feelings, and that spells doom for the scum of Hell! Let’s see what happens when our favorite Radio Demon has himself a little crash-out, shall we?

Alastor walked fast.

 

His cane clicked against the cobbled sidewalk of Pentagram City, boots striding with a rhythm sharper than usual. His coat flared behind him like a crimson warning. There was no smile now. No tilt to his head. Just narrowed eyes and silence like a held breath ready to snap.

 

How dare he?

 

Lucifer Morningstar, self-appointed king of anything, wagging his tongue like he knew a single damn thing about pain. About loss. About what it was like to be broken open and reshaped into something useful for someone else's war.

 

Alastor’s jaw clenched; sharp teeth bared in the flickering neon reflection of a shop window as he passed.

 

And worse still… Worse than Lucifer’s pompous accusations, worse than his self-righteous moralizing, was the fact that Alastor had let it get to him. That, even for just a breath, he had snapped. Dropped the smile. Let the anger speak.

 

What was it about that smug little peacock that wormed past his armor so easily?

 

He needed air. Space. Somewhere to bleed this poison out without witnesses. The alley he turned into was narrow and dim… perfect. But not empty. Voices echoed ahead, harsh and guttural.

 

“…I said hand it over, Tweetie.”

 

“Aw, what’s the matter, feathers? Can’t talk?”

 

A small bird-like demoness was backed into the wall, trembling under the looming forms of three burly sinners. Their suits were cheap, their grins cheaper. One of them reached for her satchel.

 

Alastor's footsteps were silent as he approached.

 

“Now now, gentlemen,” he said brightly, the radio-slick charm sliding effortlessly into place as if nothing had ever cracked. “Isn’t it a bit early in the day for pest control?”

 

The sinners turned. Recognition flashed, then fear. Too late. Alastor smiled wide. His shadows were already crawling. What followed wasn’t a fight. It was a purge.

 

He moved like smoke and wrath, shadows lashing out like wild things with teeth. One sinner’s arm cracked backward, another screamed as the alley darkened, reality folding in on itself. Blood splattered the walls like paint, and the bird demoness shrieked, stumbling away, wings fluttering in panic.

 

She fled.

 

Alastor didn’t watch her go.

 

His grin never faltered as he loomed over the barely-conscious heap of sinners, bloodied and broken, gasping for breath they no longer deserved.

 

He raised one hand, and the alley rippled.

 

A tear opened in the air; jagged, black, and wrong. It yawned like a mouth. Alastor dragged them in.

 

To the sinners, it was a cold, colorless void, darkness stretching in all directions. But to Alastor, it felt like an extension of himself, a place made entirely of his own power. It was a comfort and a weapon, and to those trapped within it, an inescapable prison.

 

For the sinners, there was no light save for the glowing red eyes of Alastor as he watched them. He could see perfectly well here, despite the darkness. And as those glowing red eyes drew closer, more appeared, hundreds of them, scattered in the dark like distant embers. Jagged, glowing smiles followed, wide and warped and brimming with silent laughter. The shadows themselves seemed to breathe, shifting and circling like wolves in tall grass. Each flicker of crimson revealed twisted outlines, faces too long, limbs too many, all teeth and no mercy.

 

Terror thickened the air like smoke. The sinners screamed, but the void swallowed sound. The only reply was the flicker of another grin, another pair of eyes blinking into being, closer now.

 

The pocket dimension was a cold, colorless void. A place of silence and shadow. The sinners whimpered now, crawling, crying, begging.

 

Alastor didn’t need to lift a finger. He merely watched, calm and composed, as the smiling shadows circling the trio descended all at once, responding to his unspoken will. They slithered across the void like living ink, coiling around the sinners with hungry intent. Their screams rose, sharp and ragged, then choked off as the shadows wrapped tighter, siphoning the very essence from their bodies.

 

Their souls were torn free, dragged into the dark and devoured, feeding Alastor’s ever-growing reservoir of power.

 

He gazed down at them with something almost resembling pity.

“You were simply in the wrong place,” he murmured, voice soft… almost gentle.

“And I… well, I needed to vent.”

 

The bodies sank slowly into the darkness, fully absorbed by the living realm of shadow, leaving no trace behind. Alastor stood alone in the void, the smiling shades drifting around him like contented pets, their jagged grins now soft with satisfaction.

 

He ran a lazy hand along one of their semi-corporeal forms, feeling the warmth of his own magic hum against his skin as his fingers slipped through it. They pressed in closer, purring in voiceless delight, shadows born of him, sustained by him.

 

He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the quiet. Then, with practiced ease, he pulled his smile back into place.

 

But it was the other smile, the one carved carefully onto his face like a mask. The one that said everything was fine when it absolutely wasn’t. The one that fooled the world into thinking he was in control, untouched, unaffected.

 

With a flick of his wrist the tear in the fabric of reality sealed behind him like it had never been there.

 

Alastor stood in the silence, the blood gone, the sinners gone; no sign they had ever existed at all. Only the residue of power lingered, crackling faintly beneath his skin, strengthening his every cell.

 

He straightened his coat, adjusted his monocle, but his hands were shaking, only slightly, just enough to feel.

 

The souls still pulsed faintly inside him. Not with voice or thought, but with weight. The residual heat of their fear and violence and lives extinguished completely.

 

He didn’t regret it.

 

Not exactly.

 

They were bottom-feeders, cruel for the sake of it. They deserved retribution. Deserved punishment.

 

But now… they were gone. Not just dead. Not just damned.

 

Gone.

 

No Hell. No Heaven. No endless cycle. No chance, however infinitesimal, for change, or redemption, or suffering, or peace. Their entire existences reduced to fuel in his veins. Nothing more than kindling for a fire he hadn’t asked to carry.

 

That was the cost of his power. Total obliteration. And they were part of him now.

 

Alastor tilted his head back, looking up toward the smog-choked sky of Pentagram City, and let the smile hold.

 

Better they think he enjoyed it.

 

Better no one ask why the air suddenly felt heavier, or why, behind the grin, his eyes held no joy.

 

He turned on his heel, cane tapping the ground, and melted into the morning haze.

 

Sinners shouted over broken music, violence bubbling beneath the surface of every conversation. Life in Hell, such as it was, trudged on.

 

Alastor moved through it like a ghost. The smile stayed in place, of course. He nodded politely to a snarling butcher demon, tipped his hat to a swarm of gossiping succubi. None of them mattered.

 

He walked with no destination, cane tapping aimlessly against cracked pavement. The energy from the souls he’d just devoured still buzzed through him; hot, sharp, restless, but it would settle. It always did. Just the latest additions to his ever-growing stockpile, more fuel tossed into the furnace of what he was. Soon they’d quiet, like all the others, buried deep beneath layers of stolen strength and half-forgotten screams.

 

But it didn’t matter. None of it did.

 

These streets, these people, these meaningless days of pretending. He wasn’t here for redemption. He wasn’t here for amusement, not really. Not for friendship, or mischief, or some kind of twisted community.

 

He was here because he was told to be. A weapon on a leash. A scalpel tucked neatly in the pocket of something dangerous and cruel.

 

He paused beside a boarded-up storefront, looking at his reflection in the fractured window. The glass distorted his features; stretching the smile wider, making his eyes seem hollow and vast.

 

For a moment, he stared into it, as if searching for something. Nothing stared back. His fingers twitched around his cane.

 

If only he would move.

 

His master.

 

Alastor felt his lip twitch; not the smile, something beneath it. A grimace, perhaps. A flicker of impatience.

 

How much longer was he expected to play the fool in this opera. He was ready. So why was everything still standing?

 

“Just say the word…” he murmured, to no one. “And I’ll bring the curtain down.”

 

The city didn’t answer.

 

So, Alastor moved on, disappearing deeper into the streets with only the sound of his footsteps to mark his passing; a wolf among wolves, waiting for the howling to begin.

Notes:

Well folks, it seems our darling deer’s got a bit of a problem with those pesky feelings, not exactly his forte, eh? But hey, at least he blew off a little steam… even if it didn’t do much for that guilt and grief bubbling beneath the static.

I’ll be back before you know it with another thrilling installment! Until then, keep your wits sharp, your shadows close, and don’t forget to watch out for the eyes in the dark. This is your host signing off, ta-ta for now, my lovely little sinners!

Chapter 12: Catscipades

Notes:

Hello, hello, my sweet sinners! I’m simply thrilled to bring you this next chapter, it’s one of my absolute favorites (and trust me, that ending? Chef’s kiss!). So settle in, get cozy, and prepare for a healthy dose of mischief and mayhem, because it turns out… dear old Lucifer hasn’t the faintest idea how to deal with people!

The morning light slanted lazily through the grimy windows of the Hazbin Hotel lounge, gilding the air with a dusty glow. Lucifer lounged in a corner booth, chin resting on one hand as he absently stirred cream into his coffee. Across from him, Charlie was already halfway through a grapefruit, humming softly as she carved neat little segments.

 

“So,” she said, nudging her plate forward with a grin, “did you finally sleep last night or are you running on ego again?”

 

Lucifer raised an eyebrow but smirked. “Darling, ego runs smoother than caffeine. But no,” he sat up straighter, the smirk fading slightly, “I’ve just been... thinking.”

 

Charlie leaned in, curious. “About?”

 

He hesitated. “Alastor.”

 

That name hung between them like smoke.

 

“I haven’t seen much of him since... the mug thing.” Lucifer’s fingers tightened slightly around the handle of his cup. “He’s been around, I know. But he hasn’t said a word to me. Not a quip, not a jab, not even one of those insufferably smug ‘Your Majesty’s.” He paused, tilting his head. “He’s not avoiding me exactly. He’s just... slipping by.”

 

Charlie set her fork down gently. “That’s... kind of his thing.”

 

Lucifer looked at her, brows raised.

 

“I mean,” she said, hands folding in front of her like a schoolteacher trying to explain a complicated equation, “he’s always here, but he’s never really here, you know? I don’t think he likes being seen. Not really at least.”

 

Lucifer frowned. “You let him stay in your hotel and you don’t know what he wants?”

 

“I don’t know a whole lot about him,” she said after a beat. “No one does, really. Most of Hell just thinks he’s some old-timey cannibal with a flair for radio static and show tunes. But ever since he showed up here, he’s been... helpful. Kind of. In his own way.”

 

Lucifer arched an eyebrow.

 

“…and he hasn’t hurt anyone here. Not even close. He helped Angel get clean. He fixed the radio system when it blew. He even got Sir Pentious to stop hiding explosives in the bathroom cabinets.”

 

Lucifer blinked. “...Wait, what?”

 

“Long story,” she said, brushing it off. “The point is, Alastor’s done more for this place than most, just... in his own weird, unsettling, deeply terrifying way.”

 

Lucifer leaned back, squinting at the ceiling like it might cough up answers. “But why? What does he get out of it?”

 

Charlie shrugged, her voice softening. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does. He’s never said. Honestly, I think he likes the idea of helping. Or maybe it’s all a game to him. But one thing I do know…”

 

Lucifer looked at her.

 

“It’s like he’s watching everything through a window,” Charlie continued, her voice softening. “Close enough to reach through the glass if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. And I don’t know if he’s afraid, or just... doesn’t know how to be any other way.”

 

That last part hung in the air for a moment.

 

Lucifer’s gaze dropped to his cup, where the cream spiraled in lazy clouds. “Well. Now I’m intrigued.”

 

Charlie smiled gently. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe if someone just talked to him, without trying to figure him out like a puzzle, he’d let the window open. Even just a crack.”

 

Later that morning…

 

The hotel walls creaked as Lucifer helped Charlie tug moth-bitten curtains from a rod. Dust exploded into the air, and they both coughed, laughing despite it.

 

“This place really is a disaster,” Charlie said, dragging the fabric into a heap. “I don’t even know why I bother.”

 

Lucifer wiped his gloved hands on his coat. “Because you’re stubborn. And possibly allergic to giving up.”

 

She beamed at that. And for a little while, they worked in a comfortable silence; Lucifer pretending to scrub the edges of a windowsill while mostly just enjoying being near her.

 

But his thoughts wouldn’t stop wandering.

 

Alastor.

 

He hadn’t spoken to the man since their… “mug incident.” Not out of pride, or anger, though Lucifer had both in abundance, but because… he didn’t know how.

 

He’d struck something. A nerve, deep and raw. He hadn’t meant to but how was he supposed to know.

 

And now? Now the damn deer demon flitted through the hotel like a ghost, always just out of reach. Never hostile, never rude, but never present either. Lucifer had tried to think of a dozen ways to approach him again, but each one dissolved into awkward silence in his mind.

 

What would I even say?

 

“Hey, sorry I accidentally scraped open a wound in your psyche, want to grab coffee?”

 

“Apologies for implying you were emotionally constipated! I was projecting!”

 

“Do you like... jazz?”

 

Lucifer groaned and flopped onto the edge of a dusty couch, his shoulders slumping.

 

Charlie looked over. “You okay?”

 

“Peachy,” he muttered. “Just remembering I’m terrible at people.”

 

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You’re not terrible.”

 

“I am. You’re just too kind to say it.” He smiled at her, then stared out the half-cleaned window. “I make a fool of myself every time I open my mouth. And now? I’ve possibly permanently pissed of your creepiest, hotel guest into avoiding me. Which, frankly, is impressive.”

 

Charlie blinked. “Alastor?”

 

Lucifer didn’t answer, because just then, like some conjured spirit, Alastor strode past the open doorway, humming a low, lilting tune. He didn’t look in. Just kept walking, cane tapping lightly, coat swishing with every step. Lucifer leaned to watch him go.

 

Then he noticed that he was leaving. Down the hall, down the stairs. Out.

 

Charlie tilted her head. “Something wrong?”

 

“No,” Lucifer said quickly. “I just… forgot something. Outside. Very important.”

 

And then he was gone, down the hall, down the stairs and out the door after him.

 

Lucifer stepped into the street and watched Alastor’s retreating figure disappear into the crowd, the red of his coat sharp even in the dim light.

 

He hesitated. He could just call out. Say something. Walk beside him, like a normal person. Ask questions. Start again.

 

His stomach twisted. Nope.

 

With a flick of magic, his form shimmered and shrank, bones rearranging, fur blossoming from skin. A sleek white cat now sat in Lucifer’s place, tail flicking, ears twitching, eyes narrowed in focus.

 

Not the most dignified approach, but it was stealthy. And, more importantly, he wouldn’t have to say anything.

 

The cat stretched once, lightly, then slinked after Alastor, soundless on the cobblestones.

 

Lucifer crouched low beside a suspiciously sticky lamppost, a very pristine, very out-of-place white cat in a sea of dirty cobblestones and careless stomping feet.

 

Across the street, Alastor walked casually into what looked like the least hellish building in the district; a squat, bland office block with flickering fluorescent lights and peeling “Maintenance in Progress” signs.

 

Lucifer twitched his whiskers.

 

This is it? This is where the big scary overlords convene? No obsidian throne? No blood fountain? Not even a damned skull mug?

 

With a puff of shimmering light, he shifted forms, cat into dove. Elegant, crisp, and not at all suspicious, despite glowing faintly with celestial light.

 

He fluttered up to the nearest window ledge.

 

The meeting space could’ve belonged to an accounting firm; beige carpet, scuffed table, disposable coffee cups. Someone had brought pastries, still in the box.

 

Lucifer sighed through his beak.

 

Hell is dying of aesthetic neglect.

 

He scanned the room until he spotted Alastor, calm, poised, seated at the end of the table like he owned it. Or would, after a minor strategic massacre.

 

Most of the others were unrecognizable to Lucifer, just names he probably should’ve remembered from centuries of ignoring Hell’s political scene. But one in particular caught his attention: a tall demon with a television for a head.

 

And that guy... was pining.

 

Lucifer squinted.

 

TV-boy’s whole metaphorical heart was in his eye screen. Every glance at Alastor was dripping with a kind of dreamy longing that made Lucifer's feathers puff up in secondhand embarrassment.

 

And something else. A weird little zing in his chest, brief, irritating. Jealousy?

 

Lucifer blinked. No. Absolutely not. Ridiculous.

 

The sensation fizzled as quickly as it came, and he shook it off with a muttered coo of denial.

 

Then TV-boy opened his mouth. Alastor turned his head, that sharp smile spreading slow as oil.

 

Lucifer leaned in. He couldn’t hear, but he could feel the burn. Alastor barely moved his mouth, just a few words, and TV-boy wilted like a bouquet at a cremation.

 

Lucifer tried not to look smug. He failed.

 

That’s one point for deer boy. And probably minus five for the lovesick flatscreen.

 

Back in cat form, Lucifer hit the street running, literally, as Alastor and a tall, elegantly dressed woman exited the building and started walking together.

 

Lucifer darted across the road and instantly regretted it.

 

Sinners of all shapes and grotesque sizes clogged the walkways. Giant boots stomped inches from his tail. A three-headed mime tripped over him, cursed in silence, and spilled a tray of glowing meatballs.

 

Lucifer zig-zagged, barely avoiding a falling couch that had been tossed out a window, then slipped between an imp juggler’s legs and rebounded off a passing centaur’s shin.

 

He flattened himself against a wall, breathing heavily, just in time to catch up with the pair.

 

Alastor and the woman, who spoke with the confidence of someone used to being obeyed and adored, were deep in conversation as they headed toward Cannibal Town.

 

“—and I said, ‘If she brings another cursed tea set into my district, I will personally mail her spleen to her ex-wife,’” the woman was saying as she adjusted her wide-brimmed hat.

 

Alastor chuckled. “You always had such a poetic way of setting boundaries, dear Rosie.”

 

Rosie smirked. “Please. I don’t set boundaries. I build polite little fences out of jawbones.”

 

Lucifer’s ears perked. Rosie. That was her name.

 

They turned a corner.

 

“I heard about your little spat with... Vox?” Rosie mused.

 

“Mm. His affections are loud, but unfortunately one-sided,” Alastor replied with a hum.

 

They disappeared into a door marked Emporium – Tea, Treats, and Teeth.

 

Lucifer perched on a stack of crates across the street, tail flicking.

 

He wanted to follow. He really wanted to follow.

 

But even he had limits. That place practically screamed “weird Victorian trap.”

 

So, he waited.

 

After what felt like forever, Alastor emerged alone, carrying a neatly tied parcel.

 

Lucifer dropped to the ground and trotted after him.

 

The final stop was a butcher shop tucked between two shuttered boutiques. Lucifer hunkered low under a bench as Alastor entered.

 

From inside, there was muffled arguing. A loud thunk. A strangled “please.”

 

Lucifer poked his head around the corner.

 

Alastor emerged moments later, parcel still intact, smile untouched.

 

Lucifer blinked at the still-trembling butcher behind the counter, then resumed his quiet pursuit.

 

As the sky turned purply-red, Alastor strolled back toward the hotel like a man with nowhere to be and all the time in the world. Lucifer followed, quiet, almost ghost-like.

 

But his thoughts were racing. The jealousy. The easy charm. The glimpses of kindness that didn’t match the rumors.

 

The way Alastor had smiled, still guarded, but genuine, at Rosie. The way he’d handled that butcher without killing him. The strange, elegant loneliness wrapped in static and theater.

 

Who are you, Alastor? And why do I suddenly want to know so badly?

 

He licked a paw, paused. What the fuck am I doing?

 

Lucifer was deep in stealth mode.

 

Well... As stealthy as one can be when one is a magical glowing white cat with a tendency to mutter under his breath every time someone almost steps on him.

 

Alastor moved at a leisurely pace through the winding streets, his paper-wrapped parcel swinging gently at his side, his hum low and tuneful like an old phonograph. The sort of sound that didn’t belong in a place like this.

 

Lucifer darted from crate to lamppost to alley, always just far enough back. He was getting good at this; dodging hooves, boots, and the occasional drunken centipede demon without losing his target.

 

King of Hell, he thought smugly, slinking beneath a rusted newsstand, master of espionage. Eat your heart out, Heaven.

 

And then… Alastor turned a corner.

 

Lucifer zipped after him, but the alley was empty.

 

Lucifer stopped dead. Looked left. Looked right.

 

Nothing. No humming. No cane-tapping. Just a flickering streetlamp and the distant sound of someone being set on fire (probably recreationally).

 

He skittered forward. No red coat. No deer demon.

 

Lucifer’s ears flicked in mild panic. Had he gone into a building? Slipped into the shadows?

 

No. No way. I had him. I…

 

“Now, now,” came a voice right behind him, soft and amused. “Are we lost, little kitty?”

 

Lucifer's fur puffed up like a pompom. He whipped around and found himself scooped off the ground in a pair of black-gloved hands.

 

Alastor smiled down at him with all the innocent menace of a wolf dressed for afternoon tea.

 

“Well, this is a surprise,” he said, cradling Lucifer like one might a very expensive handbag that occasionally bit people. “His Majesty, the King of Hell... sneaking through alleyways in a fursuit.”

 

Lucifer hissed once, half-hearted and indignant.

 

Alastor’s grin widened. “Careful. Keep doing that and I might forget you’re housebroken.”

 

Lucifer made a small, strangled chirp of frustration and gave him the most baleful glare a cat could possibly manage.

 

“Aw, don’t pout,” Alastor cooed, tilting his head. He leaned in, eyes glinting. “What were you hoping to see, hmm?”

 

Lucifer squirmed in his arms, humiliated, but also… sort of frozen. He hadn't prepared for this outcome. His plan had been: spy → collect intel → maybe talk to him later. Not… get caught red handed practically stalking the guy.

 

Alastor chuckled, adjusting his hold so Lucifer was balanced more comfortably in his arms.

 

“Well, you’re in luck, dear king. I’m headed back to the hotel myself. Shall I carry you the rest of the way?”

 

Lucifer clawed gently at the lapel of Alastor’s coat.

 

“Claws in,” Alastor warned playfully. “Or I start calling you Snowball.”

 

Lucifer yowled.

 

And then, pop.

 

A golden shimmer bloomed in the air like sunlight exploding through stained glass, and in a flash of divine energy and absolutely zero forethought, Lucifer reverted back to his true form.

 

Still in Alastor’s arms.

 

There was a brief, horrifying moment where gravity seemed to give up. Alastor’s eyes widened as the full weight of a fully grown man in a tailored white suit dropped into his arms with all the grace of a grand piano.

 

“Oh shit!”

 

Alastor stumbled, cane clattering to the ground, but before they could tumble to the cobblestones, a shadowy tentacle slithered from behind him, bracing against the wall with a slick, practiced snap.

 

They didn’t fall. They just... stopped.

 

Lucifer was currently cradled against Alastor’s chest like a particularly confused bride, legs instinctively wrapped around the Radio Demon’s waist from the jolt of trying not to fall. One hand was gripping his shoulder. The other clung to his lapel.

 

They stared at each other.

 

Lucifer’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.

 

Alastor raised one amused brow. “Well. This is more forward than I expected from you, Your Majesty.”

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

A violent golden blush ignited across his cheeks and nose like holy fire. “I—I didn’t mean—That was—I didn't realize I was…”

 

Alastor, lips twitching, looked far too pleased. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt. I’m flattered.”

 

Lucifer made a sound between a squeak and a wheeze and immediately began flailing out of his grasp. “Put me—let go—I can stand!”

 

“Are you sure? You seem very attached.” Alastor’s grin only widened.

 

Lucifer practically launched himself out of his arms, stumbling back, brushing off his coat as if it were on fire. “This—This never happened.”

 

“Mm, of course. A shared delusion,” Alastor said, stooping to retrieve his cane, not even out of breath. “You transformed in my arms and wrapped yourself around me out of pure strategy.”

 

Lucifer looked like he wanted to dig a hole and crawl into the molten core of Hell.

 

“Good night,” he snapped, voice about two octaves higher than usual, and turned so fast his coat flared dramatically behind him.

 

Alastor gave him a dainty wave. “Sweet dreams, Snowball.”

 

Lucifer did not look back. But the blush stayed all the way to the hotel steps.

 

Notes:

Oh my stars, rereading this had me squealing and kicking my feet all over again! What a treat! Lucifer really oughta think things through next time, poor devil walked face-first into that one, didn’t he?

And as for our darling Alastor, he’s right back to that charming, sarcastic self of his, with all those wayward emotions tucked ever-so-neatly back into that precariously overflowing bottle. One of these days, it’s gonna pop, folks. But not today… not yet.

Tune in next time for more mischief, mayhem, and maybe, just maybe, a dash of consequence. If you adored this chapter as much as I do, drop a like and leave a comment. Until next time, my lovely little sinners, ta-ta!

Chapter 13: You're Grounded

Notes:

Hello, hello, my darling little devils! Remember those consequences I warned you about? Well, ding ding! They’ve finally arrived!

That’s right, the bickering brats of Hell are about to get themselves a good old-fashioned time out! So grab your popcorn and pull up a seat because the drama’s hot, the tempers are hotter, and someone’s about to get grounded!

Lucifer stood outside the heavy door of Charlie’s office, arms folded, brow furrowed.

 

She’d summoned him.

 

Charlie never summoned him. If she wanted to talk, she’d track him down wherever he was, usually while balancing three clipboards and a box of donuts.

 

But today? She’d sent Husk to fetch him, with a note. That was never a good sign.

 

He adjusted his collar, straightened his spine, and pushed open the door.

 

“Charlie, is something…”

 

He stopped dead.

 

Charlie sat behind her desk, elbows on the surface, hands clasped under her chin in a very ‘I’ve had enough of everyone’s nonsense’ pose.

 

Standing behind her, like a looming red exclamation point, was Alastor.

 

Lucifer’s stomach did something deeply unpleasant.

 

“Sit,” Charlie said, not unkindly, but firmly.

 

Lucifer slid into the chair with all the grace of a man attending his own funeral.

 

“So,” she began, fingers laced on her desk, “you remember yesterday, when I encouraged you to try getting to know Alastor?”

 

Lucifer hesitated. “Yes...?”

 

“That didn’t mean spend an entire day disguised as a cat tailing him across the city.”

 

“I would describe it more as... cautious observation.”

 

Charlie raised her brows.

 

“You hid in a trash can.”

 

Alastor made a soft, amused noise in his throat.

 

Lucifer clenched his jaw and looked away. “I was blending in,” he crossed his arms, muttering. “I’ve done worse for recon.”

 

Alastor, still blessedly silent, let out a faint, entirely unnecessary chuckle.

 

Lucifer shot him a glare so sharp it could skin angels.

 

Charlie sighed. “Honestly, Dad, this is childish. You two are acting like bickering kids.”

 

“I’ve barely said anything,” Lucifer said indignantly, then immediately turned to Alastor and snapped, “And you! You could’ve said something if you knew I was fallowing you!”

 

Alastor blinked innocently, all wide eyes and faux humility. “Oh, but Your Majesty, you looked like you were having so much fun dodging the rabble to keep up.”

 

Lucifer’s entire body twitched with secondhand embarrassment.

 

“Enough!” Charlie said, standing up.

 

“I’ve decided to treat you exactly how you're behaving,” she announced. “Like misbehaving toddlers.”

 

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “Charlie…”

 

“Nope. You don’t get to ‘Charlie’ me out of this. You're both spending the day together.”

 

Lucifer sputtered. “I—what?”

 

In one swift movement, she grabbed Lucifer’s wrist in one hand and Alastor’s in the other.

 

Both men froze.

 

There was a soft, golden glow. A subtle warmth beneath the skin.

 

When she released them, thin, delicate golden bracelets shimmered into place on their wrists.

 

“What the—?” Lucifer started.

 

“If you try to get more than thirty feet apart,” Charlie said calmly, stepping back behind her desk, a golden tether glowed faintly between the two men for a moment before fading. “It won’t let you separate.”

 

Lucifer looked horrified. “You leashed me?!”

 

“It’s not a leash. It’s a learning opportunity.” She sat back down. “Unless you want to keep acting like misbehaving teenagers, in which case I can make the tether visible to everyone. With glitter.”

 

“You’re spending the day together,” Charlie went on. “No magic tricks. No disguises. No vanishing acts.”

 

“But…”

 

“No ‘buts.’ Go. Bond. Learn something. Or at the very least, don’t try to kill each other.”

 

Alastor was visibly tense now, his usual affable demeanor cracking. “Forgive me,” he said, his tone still civil but notably strained, “I do not see why I am also being punished here.”

 

Charlie didn’t even blink. “You are included for being a smug tattletale. You only told me about this because you knew it would upset dad.”

 

Alastor opened his mouth. Closed it. His smile turned brittle.

 

Lucifer slouched in his chair, arms folded, openly pouting.

 

“I expect both of you to make the most of this,” Charlie continued cheerfully. “A whole day. No cheating. No murder. And no turning into anything else.”

 

Alastor glanced down at the bracelet. “This feels wildly inappropriate.”

 

Charlie smiled beatifically. “Welcome to consequences.”

 

Lucifer looked at Alastor. “So. Breakfast?”

 

Alastor gave him a look that could curdle blood. “Try not to eat loudly.”

 

They left the office under Charlie’s watchful eye.

 

“Play nice!” she called sweetly.

 

Lucifer muttered under his breath, “This is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

 

“I assure you,” Alastor said, stalking down the hall beside him, “I haven’t even begun.”

 

The dining room was unusually quiet for a morning in Hell. Only a few half-burnt pastries sat on a tray near the coffee machine, and someone (probably Husk) had left a bottle of rum next to the sugar bowl.

 

Lucifer sat at the far end of the long table, glowering into a mug of something not quite coffee. Alastor sat across from him, elegantly carving into a plate of runny eggs, roasted ham, and seared mushrooms with an air of quiet irritation.

 

The proximity tether was nowhere in sight. But they could both feel it. A subtle hum in the back of the mind, like an invisible thread keeping them loosely tied together. It was only noticeable when they tried to pull too far apart.

 

Which Lucifer had accidentally done four times already. The last attempt to escape for a refill had yanked him back so fast he nearly faceplanted into the table.

 

They hadn’t spoken a word since sitting down.

 

Angel Dust sashayed into the room in full morning glory: fuzzy robe, fluffy slippers, and an iced latte that probably had more whipped cream than coffee.

 

He made it three steps before slowing, frowning slightly. Then stopped altogether.

 

“…Huh.”

 

His head tilted. Lucifer. Alastor. Sitting together. Not arguing. Not snarling. Not even bantering. Just… sharing air.

 

Angel blinked. “Did I miss a memo or is this a prank?”

 

Lucifer’s head didn’t lift. “It’s breakfast.”

 

“Together?” Angel said, still staring. “Voluntarily?”

 

Alastor offered a cool, “Apparently.”

 

Angel grinned and sauntered over. “This feels suspicious. Are we sure one of you isn’t dead and being Weekend-at-Bernie’d by the other?”

 

“No,” Lucifer said flatly. “We’re alive. Unfortunately.”

 

Angel plopped into the seat beside Lucifer, propping his chin on both hands and giving them both a sugar-sweet smile laced with gleeful menace.

 

“So, what changed, huh? Did we have a little breakthrough in therapy? Kiss under moonlight? Wake up tangled in bed sheets and regrets?”

 

Lucifer choked on his coffee.

 

“WHAT—NO—!”

 

Alastor blinked. Then stiffened, shoulders drawing taut as violin strings.

 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, tone clipped. “I don’t engage in such vulgar entanglements.”

 

Angel perked up, delighted by the reaction. “Relax, deer boy, it’s just a joke. Unless... it isn’t?” He raised both eyebrows. “You two didn’t really get all hot and tangled, did you?”

 

Lucifer’s hands flailed in front of him like he was trying to physically swat the words away. “Absolutely not! There has been no touching. No sharing. No tangling!”

 

He was glowing again, bright, unmistakable gold blooming across his cheeks and ears.

 

Angel smirked, then turned toward Alastor, giving him a slow once-over.

 

“Well, if he isn’t interested…” Angel said, voice dropping into a soft purr, “I’d be more than happy to help you unwind, sugarhorns.”

 

Lucifer sputtered like a dying engine. “Angel!!”

 

Alastor, very visibly affronted now, cleared his throat and straightened his tie. “Your... generosity is noted. And declined.”

 

Angel gave a theatrical sigh. “Figures. The hot ones are always emotionally repressed or murderously asexual.”

 

“I am neither,” Alastor snapped, then paused. “...Well. Arguably.”

 

Lucifer slumped into his seat and muttered, “I’m living in a nightmare.”

 

Angel beamed, thoroughly pleased. “You’re welcome.”

 

Lucifer sat back in his chair and sighed long and low. “I’m going to smother him with a throw pillow.”

 

Alastor didn’t look up from his meal. “Get in line.”

Notes:

Oh ho ho! Would you look at that, dear sweet Charlie whipped out her best mom voice, and now Hell’s most prideful beasts are all tied up in one beautifully awkward package!

Now, I know this chapter was a wee bit on the short side, but never fear, my sinful sweethearts, the next one is coming post haste! So strap in tight, because next time, we’re diving headfirst into a full day of forced proximity between the two most stubborn souls in all of Hell.

What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 14: A day Together

Notes:

Hello again, my lovely little sinners! As promised, I didn’t leave you stewing in suspense, oh no, the time has come!

Pride and sarcasm, locked in for a full day of togetherness? Delicious. Let’s see what happens when Lucifer starts to catch a glimpse of the real Alastor, the one lurking just beneath that ever-present Cheshire grin.

Lucifer trudged down the front steps of the hotel stumbling along as he struggled to keep up with Alastor’s much longer stride. He tugged lightly at the golden bracelet on his wrist, and sighed for the eleventh time in five minutes.

 

Up ahead, Alastor strode purposefully, humming a jaunty tune under his breath. The tether between them stayed invisible, so long as Lucifer kept up.

 

“I’m still waiting,” Lucifer said, crossing his arms as he walked. “Where exactly are you dragging me?”

 

Alastor didn’t slow down. “I have a meeting.”

 

Lucifer squinted. “With whom? You never go to meetings outside the Overlord meeting yesterday.”

 

“Incorrect. I simply never invite you.”

 

Lucifer scoffed, but followed anyway, partly because he was stubborn, partly because he had to. The two walked in irritated silence for several blocks, through twisting alleys and side streets, until they arrived at an old storefront squeezed between an old tailor and a half-collapsed bakery.

 

The sign above the door read, in peeling letters: “WIGGET & SONS – Oddities, Antiquities, & Occasional Explosives.”

 

Lucifer raised a brow. “This... explains nothing.”

 

Alastor didn’t answer. He simply flung the door open with theatrical flair, the little bell above it ringing in panicked protest.

 

Inside, the shop was a chaotic mix of trinkets, dusty crates, and a faint smell of sulfur. Behind the counter stood a thin, anxious demon with four eyes and a twitchy tail who immediately paled upon seeing them.

 

“Alastor!” the shopkeeper squeaked. “Oh, what a surprise!”

 

Alastor grinned, stepping inside like he owned the place. “Hello, Wigget. I’ve come to collect.”

 

Wigget blinked. “Collect what, exactly?”

 

“The favor,” Alastor said, tilting his head. “You remember. You swore to render a service to me upon request in exchange for not having your spleen sold to a taxidermist.”

 

Wigget made a panicked noise. “Oh. That favor. Yes. Right. Of course. Anything you need, Mr. Alastor, sir.”

 

Lucifer watched this exchange with cautious interest. The tension in the room was almost comical, Alastor looming, Wigget sweating through his fur, and Lucifer standing to the side looking completely out of place in his pristine white clothes and oversized hat.

 

Wigget nodded vigorously. “What is it? Money? Blood? Weapons?”

 

Alastor smiled wider. “A vintage ceiling fan motor and a sturdy set of reclaimed floorboards. Preferably not cursed.”

 

Lucifer blinked. “...What?”

 

Wigget froze. “Wait… seriously?”

 

Alastor nodded. “I’ve heard you’ve had some... extra inventory lying around. Consider this your contribution to my little hotel project.”

 

Lucifer’s jaw slackened ever so slightly. “You’re using a perfectly good contractual favor... for renovation materials?”

 

Alastor didn’t look at him, only watched as Wigget scrambled into the back to fetch the goods.

 

Lucifer stared at him. “You could’ve asked for literally anything. Power. wealth. A mob hit. A new jazz organ made of human teeth. And you asked for floorboards?”

 

Alastor turned to him at last, eyes bright, smile unreadable.

 

“Well,” he said smoothly, “I do live there. It wouldn’t do for the place to collapse under us, would it?”

 

Lucifer didn’t answer. He just looked at him with the same kind of squinty suspicion he used when someone offered him something for free and insisted there were “no strings attached.”

 

Alastor hummed and straightened his tie. “Besides,” he added idly, “Charlie would be devastated if the lounge ceiling fell on that awful jukebox. I’d hate to see her cry.”

 

Lucifer blinked. And for a moment, he wasn’t sure if Alastor was lying. Which made him more suspicious.

 

Wigget returned dragging a cart loaded with exactly what Alastor had asked for. The floorboards were solid. The motor even had a little bow on it.

 

Lucifer folded his arms. “This is weird.”

 

Alastor gestured toward the cart. “Grab one end, would you?”

 

“I’m not your butler.”

 

“No,” Alastor said, voice lilting with amusement, “but you're stuck with me, so you might as well be useful.”

 

The golden tether gave a light tug, just to prove his point. Lucifer groaned and helped carry the floorboards anyway.

 

When they got back to the Hotel the lobby was unusually peaceful.

 

Light filtered through the cracked windows, illuminating floating dust and casting long amber streaks across the patched-up floor. A faint hum of magic vibrated in the air, not menacing, just... active. Quietly industrious.

 

Lucifer sat in one of the threadbare armchairs, arms crossed, chin tilted downward in what might have looked like meditation. But really, he was watching Alastor.

 

Across the room, the Radio Demon sat nestled in one of the high-backed chairs like it had been designed just for him. He wasn’t doing anything particularly interesting, just reading. One leg crossed over the other. Spine perfectly straight. A book balanced on his knee, pages turning with idle flicks of gloved fingers. The light haloed his sharp features, catching on the smooth curve of his antlers and the pale stripe of his cheekbone.

 

His expression was calm, composed. Quiet. Lucifer’s eyes trailed the line of his jaw.

 

He's...

 

He caught himself and immediately sat up straighter.

 

No. Absolutely not.

 

He scoffed under his breath and dragged his gaze away.

 

He's manipulative. Smug. A control freak. Utterly infuriating. He smiles like he’s always five steps ahead and hasn’t decided whether he’s going to kill you or offer you tea.

 

Lucifer stared down at his own hands, his fingers flexing absently.

 

And he’s dangerous. There is no universe in which it is safe, smart, or remotely advisable to find that attractive.

 

He glanced up again, just in time to see Alastor glance toward the hallway, his profile catching the light. A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but it wasn’t one of his usual theatrical grins. It was... softer. Absentminded.

 

Lucifer looked away again quickly.

 

But then there was that moment in the butcher shop, he thought, jaw tightening. He could have made a spectacle. Could have taken what he wanted by force. But he didn’t. He just... asked. Threatened, sure, but restrained himself.

 

And earlier, when he called in that favor.

 

He could’ve used that debt for anything. Power, information, control. But instead... floorboards. For the hotel. For Charlie.

 

Lucifer frowned.

 

Why?

 

He wanted to believe it was all part of some long con. A play for influence. An ego trip, maybe.

 

But that didn’t explain the shadow puppets still silently working in the hallway, laying each board with care. Or the way Alastor hadn’t bragged, hadn’t even explained his actions. Just summoned help, took a seat, and started reading.

 

Lucifer folded his arms tighter across his chest.

 

There’s something under the mask. Something... else. I’ve seen it. A few times. That flicker of hesitation when Angel implied we—

 

He shut that thought down immediately.

 

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. I don’t like him.

 

He glanced up again. Alastor still hadn’t moved. Still reading. Still composed. Still...

 

Beautiful, if Lucifer was being honest with himself.

 

He dragged a hand down his face and muttered, “I am not attracted to the Radio Demon,” under his breath.

 

The golden tether on his wrist gave a gentle pulse, almost like it heard him. Lucifer glared at it. He slouched back in the chair with a growl and stared at the ceiling, willing his thoughts to behave.

 

They didn’t.

 

Later in the afternoon Charlie gathered everybody up and marched them all outside.

 

The back gardens of the hotel had once been... something. No one could agree on what. Overgrown hedges had swallowed the walkways, gnarled vines choked the iron fences, and the “flower beds” were mostly just suspicious mounds of dirt that occasionally hissed if you got too close.

 

But Charlie had declared it was “Garden Restoration Day!” with all the enthusiasm of someone who had not accounted for everyone’s personalities, and so now the team was knee-deep in mud, arguments, and wilting seedlings.

 

“Nifty!” Vaggie snapped, dodging a flying trowel. “Stop trying to mop the dirt!”

 

“But it’s dirty!” Nifty squeaked, brandishing a sudsy sponge. “It’s literally in the name!”

 

Charlie sighed, gently but loudly, from her post by the supply cart, flipping through a worn garden design manual. “Try to just focus on the weeds for now, okay?”

 

Meanwhile, Angel was leaning dramatically against a spade, sunglasses on, shirt tied at the midriff. “This is manual labor and I’m not even getting hazard pay.”

 

At the far end of the garden, Lucifer and Alastor knelt side by side, mostly due to the tether, attempting to lay out flower placements in what might someday be a winding path.

 

“I’m telling you, symmetry is the bane of good garden design,” Alastor said, jabbing his trowel into the dirt. “It looks clinical. Staged.”

 

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “And chaos is not a style. You’ve placed three fire lilies beside the corpse blooms. It looks like a funeral collided with a birthday party.”

 

“That sounds festive.”

 

“It sounds chaotic,” Lucifer said, brushing dirt off his sleeves. “These beds need flow. Harmony. The illusion of natural growth within a carefully controlled structure.”

 

Alastor snorted. “How delightfully ironic coming from you.”

 

Lucifer ignored him. “And we are not using those awful iron benches you keep suggesting.”

 

“They’re vintage.”

 

“They’re tetanus traps.”

 

“You lack imagination.”

 

“You lack taste.”

 

Charlie peeked over the shrubbery. “Looking good, you two!”

 

Lucifer and Alastor immediately straightened and said in unison: “Thank you, dear.”

 

A beat. Then they returned to their bickering at once.

 

Time passed in a flurry of dirt, debate, and the occasional stray worm (Nifty’s fault). Eventually, most of the flowers had been planted, though half of them were still crooked thanks to an earlier skirmish over the spacing grid.

 

Charlie clapped her hands. “Alright, team! Let’s take a step back and admire what we’ve got so far!”

 

Everyone did.

 

The beds looked decent, if slightly chaotic. Some flowers were already beginning to perk up in the evening light, but many still sagged from transplant shock, their petals curled and colors dull.

 

Lucifer stood, brushed off his hands, and sighed. “Well. I suppose there’s only one thing left to do.”

 

He simply raised one hand. Gold flared from his fingers, curling into the air like smoke and light. The magic rolled out in a wave, gentle, warm, almost musical. It touched each flower one by one. And then, they began to bloom.

 

Color erupted across the garden like a sunrise. Every flower burst into life at once, glass orchids unfurled with crystalline petals that shimmered like stained glass, chiming faintly as they shifted. Devil's trumpet bloomed wide with black-edged velvet bells that seemed to whisper as they opened. Bone-fern curled out its tendrils in elegant coils tipped with crimson spores. Blood roses unfolded with petals sharp as razors, glowing faintly from within like dying embers.

 

Even the ground itself seemed to drink in the magic, blister-thistle bristling with glimmering needles and fiery orange-yellow moss crept into perfect spirals underfoot, luminous with soft bioluminescence.

 

There were gasps behind him. Charlie clapped. Nifty dropped her sponge. Angel fanned himself dramatically.

 

Alastor stood at the edge of the flowerbeds; his eyes wide.  The chaotic splattering of barley alive blooms had become, in a single breath, something beautiful. He turned slowly, taking it in. The curling paths, the glowing blooms. The garden felt like it was humming. Like it was breathing. And then his eyes found him.

 

Lucifer stood with one hand still half-raised, gold fading from his fingertips. The evening light caught in his hair, in the crimson accents of his coat, in the quiet pride that curved his lips, not smug or mocking, just satisfied.

 

He was smiling, contentedly, and he looked so painfully beautiful in that moment that Alastor’s breath caught. Just for a beat. His heart stumbled. And for half a second, he forgot how to smile.

 

Their eyes met.

 

Lucifer blinked, and something flickered in his expression, quiet, surprised. His gaze sharpened ever so slightly. But he didn’t say a word. He just tilted his head and grinned with that familiar spark in his eye.

 

Alastor’s expression snapped back into place, his usual cocky grin sliding over his features like a mask being fitted into place.

 

“Well,” he drawled, voice returning to its usual melodic purr. “If that wasn’t the most obnoxiously grandiose floral display I’ve ever seen...”

 

Lucifer smirked, easy and smooth. “Jealous?”

 

Alastor didn’t answer.

 

The moment passed quickly. Behind them, Charlie was gushing. Nifty was trying to organize the dream-shade moss into a checkerboard. Angel had declared it the “most romantic hell garden I’ve ever seen” and had already picked a thorned blossom to wear in his hair.

 

Charlie stood back, hands on her hips, beaming. “Okay! I think that’s officially a wrap on garden duty!”

 

Cheers (and tired groans) came from across the yard, Angel slumped dramatically over a bench, Vaggie trying to pry a trowel out of Nifty’s cleaning-frenzied grip, Husk already halfway to disappearing with a bottle.

 

Charlie turned toward Lucifer and Alastor, still standing near the now fully-bloomed blood-roses.

 

She smiled warmly, but there was something sly behind it. “So. How was your day?”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth to immediately snark something, but paused.

 

He looked out over the garden. At the pulsing glow of the moss under the benches. The strange, elegant shapes of the blooms twisting skyward. The quiet flicker of Alastor’s shadow puppets still fussing over some tiny unnecessary adjustment to the brick edging.

 

And he thought about: the bickering, the ridiculous tether, the flowers, the favor, the look. He hesitated.

 

“It was…”

 

“An educational experience,” Alastor cut in, voice bright and saccharine as ever. “A masterclass in boundary testing, forced civility, and truly horrid bench aesthetics.”

 

Lucifer snorted despite himself.

 

Charlie grinned. “But it wasn’t all bad, right?”

 

Alastor tilted his head. The smile didn’t falter. But something in his voice dropped slightly; his pitch, his cadence. Less performative. Still polite. But lower. Sharper.

 

“Don’t do something like that again.”

 

Charlie blinked. “What?”

 

“The tether,” Alastor said, still smiling. “Forcing closeness, even with the best of intentions... is not your choice to make.”

 

It wasn’t a threat. But it was definitely a warning.

 

Charlie’s smile faded a touch. “I... I just wanted to help you two get along.”

 

“I know,” Alastor said gently. “And now you know not to do it that way.”

 

Lucifer watched him with a sideways glance, surprised by the shift in tone; by how the smile never cracked, and yet something real had been said.

 

Charlie nodded slowly, the weight of it settling in. “Okay. I won’t.”

 

Before her words had fully left her lips, a jagged ribbon of shadow coiled up from Alastor’s wrist, slicing through the golden tether like a knife through silk. The tether snapped audibly, a sharp pulse of displaced magic rippling through the garden.

 

Charlie staggered back; her hand still raised as if reaching for them. “How did you…?”

 

But Alastor didn’t wait for the question to form. His body blurred into shadow, folding in on itself like smoke caught in a windless room. A ripple spread where he had stood, and he was gone.

 

Lucifer remained frozen, silent; his eyes wide with stunned bafflement. His mind immediately began to work, calculating, puzzling through how a mere sinner could overpower Charlie’s magic. It made no sense, Charlie's magic was celestial in nature, rooted in something that should be impossible for any sinner to override.

 

Then, with a jarring lurch, his thoughts screeched to a halt. Alastor could have broken the tether at any time.

 

He could have cut himself free hours ago, from the very moment Charlie had imposed the punishment. He could have ignored it, laughed it off, but he hadn’t. He’d endured it. He’d humored Charlie’s lesson, enduring the discomfort and the awkwardness of being magically bound to Lucifer.

 

The realization settled like lead in Lucifer’s chest.

 

Why?

 

Lucifer blinked once at the spot he’d vanished from, then turned to find Charlie still standing nearby. The others had already filtered back inside, voices trailing into the distance; Angel laughing, Vaggie muttering, Nifty still fussing over whether or not to polish a carnivorous fern.

 

Charlie stayed quiet. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

 

“I pushed too hard,” she said softly, hugging her elbows. “Didn’t I?”

 

Lucifer tilted his head. “You?”

 

She glanced up, guilt prickling at the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset him. Or you. I just… thought if I got you in the same space long enough, you might stop bickering at each other. Maybe even cooperate for once.”

 

Lucifer stepped closer and touched her shoulder.

 

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “you tied me to the Radio Demon. Of course it was a bit much.”

 

Charlie winced.

 

“But,” he added quickly, “it wasn’t all bad.”

 

She blinked, surprised.

 

He glanced toward the blooming garden, twisted, radiant, oddly serene beneath the hellish sky.

 

“I saw a side of him I wasn’t expecting,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Not just the smiles and static. Real things. Small moments.”

 

He gave a faint smile of his own. “Turns out he has a surprising eye for flooring when he’s not being insufferable.”

 

Charlie looked up at him with cautious hope. “So… you’re not mad?”

 

“Oh, I’m definitely still going to find a way to get back at you for this,” Lucifer said, eyes glinting. “But no. I’m not mad.”

 

She smiled again, smaller now, softer. “I really did just want to help.”

 

“I know.”

 

He slipped his arm around her shoulders, and they stood like that for a while, watching the strange and stunning chaos they’d cultivated together.

 

Lucifer stared at the blood-roses still glowing faintly in the fading light, and thought of a smile; soft, surprised, not meant to be seen.

 

There’s more to him, he thought again.

 

And for the first time, he didn’t push the thought away.

 

Notes:

Well, well, well; would you look at that! Seems our dear Luci is starting to admit that maybe, just maybe, he’s the tiniest bit smitten with our favorite Radio Demon.

That sharp edge of suspicion? Why, it’s melting right into genuine curiosity as he catches glimpses of a side to Alastor that makes absolutely no sense when stacked against his grisly reputation. Intriguing, isn’t it?

So what do you think, my darling degenerates? What could be in store now that the tides, and the feelings, are shifting? Stay tuned to find out! Ta-ta for now!

Chapter 15: Broken and Beautiful

Notes:

Well hey there, ladies and gents, sinners and saints! Step right up and lend me your ears, 'cause have I got a treat for you tonight! If you're a fan of tender glances, blossoming affections, and just the right sprinkle of musical mischief, then by golly, you're in the right place!

So fluff those pillows, snuggle under your favorite blanket, and fire up whatever contraption you fancy readin’ on, ’cause this next chapter’s about to sweep you off your feet and waltz you straight into the feels!

The halls of the hotel were quiet, dimly lit by flickering lamps and the faint ambient glow of Hell’s eternal dusk. Most of the residents had long since gone to bed, or passed out wherever they’d dropped. The usual chaos had finally ebbed, leaving only echoes and dust.

 

Lucifer walked alone. His steps were slow, thoughtful, hands in his pockets, his coat trailing lightly behind him. The building creaked around him like it was exhaling, settling into its bones for the night.

 

And then he heard it; a piano, soft, fragile, distant.

 

It wasn’t the raucous, jazzy chaos Alastor usually favored. No, this was something else entirely.

 

Lucifer followed the sound, curiosity drawing him down the corridor like a thread. The melody guided him through the quiet like a scent on the air, aching and lonely, each note lingering just a little too long, like it didn’t want to leave.

 

He paused outside the grand double doors of the ballroom. They were slightly ajar.

 

Inside, the shadows danced across the crumbling wallpaper, and the dim light from the cracked skylight spilled across the dusty floor in silvery pools. The old grand piano, half-polished, slightly out of tune, sat at the far end of the room.

 

Alastor was there. His back was to the door, the long lines of his coat spilling around him like blood-red velvet. His fingers moved gracefully across the ivory keys, coaxing a melody that didn’t quite belong in Hell. It was mournful, lilting. Gentle in a way that didn't seem possible for someone like him.

 

Lucifer didn’t move. He just watched and listened. And when the final note rang out, trembling and tender in the air, Alastor’s shoulders stiffened slightly, one of his ears twitched, swiveling in Lucifer’s direction.

 

He turned and their eyes met.

 

For a flicker of a moment, Alastor’s expression darkened, just a flash of irritation at being spied on again. But it passed quickly, replaced by a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

 

“You’re developing a habit, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “At this rate, I’ll start charging for tickets.”

 

Lucifer stepped inside, slow and careful. “I wasn’t trying to spy.”

 

Alastor tilted his head but said nothing.

 

Lucifer stopped a few paces away from the piano, gaze flicking briefly over it before settling back on Alastor. “You play beautifully.”

 

Alastor raised a brow. “Flattery? So late in the evening?”

 

Lucifer ignored the jab. “What piece was that? I didn’t recognize it.”

 

There was a pause. Alastor’s fingers hovered over the keys, motionless.

 

“I composed it,” he said finally, voice low. “A very long time ago.”

 

Lucifer’s expression softened. There was a silence, not the awkward kind, but the heavy, meaningful kind, filled with too much left unsaid.

 

Lucifer took a breath.

 

Then quieter, “I wanted to apologize.”

 

Alastor blinked, surprised.

 

Lucifer looked at the floor for a moment, then back at him. “For the spying and the other day. The mug incident. I said something I shouldn’t have.”

 

Alastor didn’t respond, but his hands slowly fell to his lap, resting there.

 

“It was unfair of me to assume,” Lucifer continued, “that you’ve never had someone in your life to love. That you couldn’t understand what that’s like.”

 

His voice was sincere, none of the haughty bravado or playful sarcasm. Just honesty.

 

“It was cruel. And I’m sorry.”

 

The silence that followed was deep.

 

Then Alastor gave a slow exhale, his smile shifting, not brighter, but truer.

 

“I appreciate that,” he said simply. Then added, “I shouldn’t have broken the mug. It really was unintentional. And... apparently priceless.”

 

Lucifer huffed a quiet laugh. “One of a kind.”

 

Alastor raised a brow. “Then I regret it entirely.”

 

They stood there, the music still lingering in the air, something tentative and fragile stretching between them, no golden tether, no magical obligations, just... understanding.

 

Lucifer glanced at the piano again. “You really are full of surprises.”

 

“I prefer it that way,” Alastor replied.

 

Lucifer hesitated, then took a few slow steps toward the piano instead of the exit.

 

Alastor’s gaze tracked him, puzzled but curious.

 

Lucifer stopped beside the instrument and glanced at the keys. “Would you be interested,” he said, voice low but steady, “in playing a duet?”

 

Alastor blinked. He studied Lucifer for a moment, searching for sarcasm, mockery, or ulterior motive. But there was none. Just an honest offer, lingering in the space between them.

 

A soft smile touched the corner of Alastor’s mouth. “...Yes. That would be nice.”

 

Lucifer returned the smile, then, with a flick of golden flame curling up his forearm, he summoned something into his waiting hand.

 

A fiddle; glowing gold, humming faintly with divine resonance.

 

Alastor stared at it. Then he made a sound. A choked sound. And then he burst out laughing.

 

Not a polite chuckle, not a dry smirk, full-body laughter. His shoulders shook, hands clutching the sides of the piano as he let out a wheezing, delighted, utterly unhinged laugh that echoed through the ballroom.

 

Lucifer stared at him, bewildered. “What,” he asked flatly, “is so funny?”

 

Alastor gasped for air, trying to compose himself, and failed spectacularly. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still giggling uncontrollably. “It’s—oh—it’s nothing—only that­—” he snorted again, then wheezed, “—there’s a song.”

 

Lucifer frowned. “A song.”

 

Alastor finally managed to rein himself in, sitting up straight and still smiling like he’d been given the best joke in centuries. “Yes. A human song. Very famous, at least in certain circles. It’s about how the devil, you, ostensibly, loses a golden fiddle to a fiddle-playing boy from Georgia.”

 

Lucifer blinked slowly. “...Pardon?”

 

“I swear, it’s real,” Alastor said, already reaching for his microphone staff. “You’ve never heard of it?”

 

Lucifer, still holding the golden fiddle, gave him a bewildered look that said clearly no, and also what fresh hell are you talking about?

 

Alastor was grinning now. With a quick flourish, he struck the head of the mic and fed in a thread of static. The speakers crackled, then cleared, and then the unmistakable twang of fast-paced fiddle filled the ballroom, followed by a deep Southern drawl.

 

"The devil went down to Georgia, he was lookin' for a soul to steal..."

 

Lucifer’s expression slowly transformed from confusion to absolute disbelief.

 

He looked down at the fiddle in his hands.

 

Then back at Alastor.

 

“...They made a song about me losing a fiddle contest to a human child?”

 

Alastor cackled. “Oh, it gets better. Wait until the breakdown!”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth. Closed it. Then shook his head slowly. “Humans are deeply unserious creatures.”

 

The fiddle continued to blaze through the speakers, impossibly fast, wild and chaotic.

 

Lucifer’s fingers twitched against the strings.

 

The last frenzied stroke of the fiddle on the recording faded, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

 

Lucifer stood still for a beat, the golden fiddle resting lightly in his hand. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between affronted dignity and grudging amusement. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Well. I see why you laughed.”

 

Alastor, still chuckling under his breath, gave a theatrical bow from his seat at the piano. “Told you it was real. Humans have no shame but every now and then, they have taste.”

 

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed as he turned the fiddle over in his hand. “So, is this the part where I challenge some poor farm boy to a rematch?”

 

Alastor’s grin sharpened. “Tempting. But I’m right here, and considerably more interesting.”

 

Lucifer gave him a look, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You think you can keep up with me, little deer?”

 

Alastor’s fingers froze briefly on the keys. His smile slipped, just a hair, and his long ears drew back, a twitch of discomfort betraying him before he could catch it.

 

But Lucifer noticed.

 

“Don’t call me that,” he said softly.

 

Lucifer blinked, the teasing fading from his face. He studied Alastor for a moment longer than necessary, and wondered, what happened to make that name cut so deep? What sort of past pain could turn a harmless jibe into a wound?

 

But he didn’t ask.

 

He knew better than to press. Whatever that landmine was, stepping on it twice wouldn’t win him anything.

 

“I won’t,” he said simply. “I’m sorry.”

 

Alastor gave a short nod, already smoothing the moment over, his grin snapping back into place with practiced ease. “Splendid. Now, about this duet, hmm?” His fingers rippled across the keys in a playful glissando.

 

Lucifer let the matter drop, though a sliver of thought lingered at the back of his mind. Still, he mirrored Alastor’s shift, stepping in beside the piano with golden fiddle in hand.

 

“Alright then,” he said, returning to his usual velvet drawl. “So what are we playing?”

 

Alastor huffed, “Well I was going to suggest something refined, Moonlight Sonata, perhaps, but I fear you’d get bored halfway through and set the piano on fire.”

 

Lucifer gave a theatrical gasp. “I’ll have you know I’m very refined.”

 

“Mm, yes,” Alastor drawled. “Right up until you open your mouth.”

 

“I’m not the one who cackled like a lunatic over a fiddle joke.”

 

“You summoned the joke,” Alastor countered, tapping a key for emphasis.

 

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Fine. Something dramatic. I vote Danse Macabre.”

 

Alastor made a face. “Too obvious. I’d rather die again than play what every two-bit horror show uses for their bumpers.”

 

Lucifer smirked. “And yet you are a two-bit horror show.”

 

Alastor gasped. “You take that back.”

 

“Make me.”

 

They glared.

 

Then both cracked a smile, almost at the same time.

 

“What about a tango?” Alastor offered, lifting a brow. “Something full of tension. Passion. Mutual disdain.”

 

Lucifer hummed thoughtfully. “Libertango?”

 

“I was thinking Roxanne, but your taste isn’t entirely hopeless.”

 

“Oh, you’d love that one, wouldn’t you? Overwrought and tragic.”

 

“Says the man who monologues like a Shakespearean ghost.”

 

Lucifer chuckled, sliding the bow along the strings in a smooth, teasing glissando. “Fine. Tango it is. But I get to lead.”

 

Alastor’s eyes gleamed as his fingers settled over the keys. “Darling,” he purred, “we both know that’s not going to happen.”

 

Their eyes locked, amusement dancing between them like flame and static.

 

The first notes hit like a match struck in darkness, Alastor’s fingers gliding across the keys in a rolling tide of chords while Lucifer answered with a sultry, drawn-out stroke of his bow. The tango began slow, each measure crackling with tension as the two demons sized each other up in sound rather than word.

 

But the tension didn’t last.

 

Lucifer arched a brow as Alastor slipped in a jazzy little trill that absolutely did not belong there.

 

Alastor just grinned, daring him.

 

Lucifer narrowed his eyes, then shot back with a sudden run of notes, swift and teasing, bending the tempo just slightly off-kilter.

 

“Oh-ho,” Alastor chuckled under his breath, “so that’s how we’re playing it.”

 

“What?” Lucifer said, lips curving. “I thought you liked improvisation.”

 

“Only when I’m doing it.”

 

Their laughter rang out, layered over the music, light and unguarded. Alastor leaned into the rhythm, his playing flourishing into something wild and playful, syncopated and sharp. Lucifer met him note for note, fierce and fluid, the fiddle’s golden voice soaring above the piano in perfect harmony.

 

Neither of them missed a beat.

 

They weren’t competing anymore. There were no claws hidden in their notes, no subtle jabs woven into the tempo. Just two artists playing for the sheer joy of it. The kind of joy that burned bright and childlike, unspoiled by pride or politics.

 

Lucifer laughed as Alastor threw in a ridiculous little flourish that clearly didn’t belong, something that sounded suspiciously like a bar from Sing Sing Sing.

 

“You menace,” Lucifer accused, his bow dancing to keep up.

 

Alastor’s grin was manic, delighted. “You’re the one who set the tempo, Snowball.”

 

Lucifer’s face flushed instantly, a flicker of gold blooming across his cheeks before he forced it back down at the reminder of his less than dignified reconnaissance mission.

 

But despite the momentary embarrassment his heart was pounding, not from exertion, but exhilaration. His fingers moved without thought, guided by instinct and centuries of practice, but also by something simpler. He enjoyed this. This moment. This madness. This duet with a man he’d once considered a threat, then a nuisance, and now… perhaps something else entirely.

 

They hit the final crescendo with theatrical flair, Lucifer spinning the fiddle for no reason other than showmanship, Alastor rising to his feet at the piano to hammer out the last triumphant chords. The ballroom rang with their final note, echoing high into the rafters like thunder.

 

Silence followed.

 

Then, slowly, both of them began to laugh. Not the mocking kind. Not even the wicked kind. Just laughter free, genuine, glowing with the simple wonder of having created something together.

 

Alastor leaned on the piano, shaking his head. “Well. That was unexpected.”

 

Lucifer, cheeks faintly flushed, ran a hand through his tousled hair and chuckled. “You’re not half bad for a corpse in pinstripes.”

 

“And you,” Alastor replied, breathless with mirth, “are almost tolerable when you’re not being insufferable.”

 

Their laughter slowly faded, the echoes trailing off like embers in the hush of the ballroom. But the warmth lingered, settled between them like a shared flame. Just a moment suspended in the afterglow of something beautiful.

 

Alastor returned to the bench, fingers resting lightly on the keys. “One more?” he asked, voice softer now, the grin tugging at his mouth more genuine than smug.

 

Lucifer glanced at the fiddle still cradled in his hands, golden light humming faintly through the strings. He nodded. “One more.”

 

Alastor played the first notes simple, slow. A lullaby disguised as a waltz. The kind of song that didn’t need to impress, only to exist. Each chord was careful but unafraid, like a confession whispered between old souls.

 

Lucifer followed, his bow gliding gently across the strings, his music lighter this time, more introspective, like moonlight on still water. Their melodies folded into each other seamlessly, tender and unhurried.

 

It wasn’t grand or dramatic or meant for an audience. It was music for the sake of it. A conversation in a language older than pride. Every note a shared breath. Every pause a moment of wordless trust.

 

When the final chord drifted into silence, neither of them spoke right away.

 

Then Lucifer lowered the bow and looked over at Alastor, the flicker of a smile still playing at the corners of his lips.

 

“Goodnight, Alastor,” he said, voice low and clear. “Thank you.”

 

Alastor blinked at him, the rare sincerity hanging in the air like a held note. He gave a small nod, just once, and let the smile soften on his face.

 

“Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

 

Lucifer returned to his room and closed the door with a soft click, the worn latch settling into place.

 

The room was quiet. A single lamp burned low in the corner, casting long shadows across velvet drapes and polished marble. The hum of the ballroom’s music still rang faintly in his bones, like a ghost that refused to leave.

 

He stood there for a moment, coat still on, fiddle still in hand. Then, with care, he set the glowing instrument down on the small table beside his armchair. It pulsed gently, a dim divine shimmer across its strings, as if echoing the joy it had just created.

 

He stared at it.

 

Then at his hand, still tingling from the bow, from the keys, from laughter. From the music. From him.

 

From that moment when Alastor had met his eyes mid-duet and hadn’t looked away.

 

Lucifer sank into the armchair, crossing one leg over the other, his head resting back against the plush cushion. His coat crinkled faintly, the room enveloping him in hush and amber glow.

 

Today had started as a punishment, a sentence of forced civility with a man he barely tolerated.

 

And now?

 

Now his chest hummed quietly, an ember nestled behind his sternum. A low, glowing warmth that wasn’t pride or triumph or even amusement.

 

He thought of the favor Alastor had spent, just to get floorboards for the hotel.

 

Of the silent, smiling shadows piecing them together like puppets with a purpose.

 

Of the garden, where their eyes had met and for a moment something genuine passed between them.

 

He thought of that smile. The one that wasn’t smug or crooked or biting.

 

He thought of the way Alastor had flinched when called “little deer.” And the way he’d recovered, redirected, held the moment with care even as he ran from it.

 

The music tonight had been playful, but then it had turned soft. Vulnerable. There’d been no performance in that second duet. Just the kind of honesty that words couldn’t hold.

 

He exhaled slowly and stared up at the ceiling.

 

He hated admitting things to himself. Especially soft things. Especially when they had teeth.

 

But the truth had already begun to uncoil inside him like ivy, winding through ribs and lungs and spine.

 

I think I’m falling for him.

 

Not all at once. No thunderbolt. Just genuine moments. Tiny acts of kindness.

 

The way Alastor had respected the tether, even when he’d hated it.

 

The way he had never shied away from him, not once.

 

No fear, no groveling, no attempt to placate. Just sharp wit, unwavering eyes, and a maddening refusal to be impressed by his title.

 

He hadn’t flattered. He hadn’t fawned.

 

He’d challenged him.

 

Again and again. And somehow, that had made Lucifer feel not diminished… but seen.

 

Respected, even if only because Alastor refused to pretend he was anything less than his equal.

 

Lucifer smiled; small, quiet, maybe a little helpless.

 

Of all the souls in Hell.

 

And yet… it made a strange, impossible kind of sense.

 

He ran a hand through his hair and stood, moving across the room to extinguish the lamp. Shadows washed over the room, warm and velvet-soft.

 

“I’m doomed,” he muttered, voice low as he slipped beneath the covers.

 

But he was still smiling. And somewhere, echoing faintly through the walls, he swore he could still hear the distant echo of piano keys in the dark.

Notes:

Well now, wasn’t that just the cat’s pajamas? A pinch of tenderness, a sprinkle of sass, and a whole heap of heartache wrapped in the sweet, slow burn of two beautifully broken souls inchin’ closer to somethin’ real. Ah, love... it gets me every time.

Now, between you and me, I may’ve slipped in a wee bit of projection with that ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’ nod, because the very first time I laid eyes on ol’ Luci pullin’ out that golden fiddle, I darn near cackled myself off the couch! So naturally, I had to weave that little gem right into the tale.

But alas, the hour grows late, and your arguably unhinged host must take their leave. So for now, this is your ever-devoted, possibly-a-little-mad narrator signing off with a wink and a wave. Until next time, my dears, ta-ta!

Chapter 16: Feelings, What Feelings

Notes:

Good eeeevenin’, my little hellspawn and devilish darlings! When last we tuned in, our beloved King and his emotionally constipated, antlered companion shared a private concert that hit all the right notes, maybe even a few unexpected ones, eh?

But now the sun’s risin’ over the smog once more, and His Majesty’s beauty sleep may’ve been cut short by a touch of good ol’ fashioned emotional turmoil. Strange, isn’t it, how a single duet can echo louder than it ought to? Let’s lean in close and see just how our favorite royal devil plans to brush off those lingering chords.

The sun never really rose in Hell, but the dim, sourceless glow of morning filtered through the hotel’s dusty windows all the same. Lucifer lay sprawled across his bed in a disheveled mess of sheets, hair mussed, vest draped half-on, half-off like he’d collapsed mid-dramatic exit and never got back up.

 

He hadn’t slept.

 

Or rather, he’d tried, with every intention of drifting off, but his mind had staged a mutiny somewhere around four a.m., looping the previous night like an old reel-to-reel projector gone haywire.

 

That damn melody.

 

He could still hear the tail end of it, soft and fragile, ghosting through his head like cigarette smoke. And Alastor’s voice, quiet for once, without the smug lilt or radio static. That rare, real version of him had been just close enough to touch. Close enough to stir something Lucifer hadn’t felt in... centuries, maybe.

 

He pressed the heel of his hand into his brow and groaned.

 

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered aloud, voice hoarse with sleep deprivation. “I do not have a crush on the Radio Demon.”

 

His own voice didn’t sound convincing.

 

The blanket twisted around his legs as he sat up, rubbing at his face. His eyes burned. The room around him remained exactly as he’d left it, books stacked unevenly on the nightstand, coat discarded over the velvet chair, golden fiddle propped carefully against the wall like a relic of something far more intimate than he was ready to name.

 

His gaze snagged on it and stuck.

 

He remembered the way Alastor had laughed when he saw it. How real that laughter had sounded. Unrestrained. Joyous. Human, in a way Alastor almost never allowed himself to be. And then... the way his ears had flattened when Lucifer called him “little deer.” That soft, quiet correction.

 

‘Don’t call me that.’

 

There was weight behind it. A memory. A scar.

 

Lucifer flopped back into the pillows with a grunt and stared at the cracked ceiling.

 

Why did it matter? Why did he matter? Alastor was dangerous. Arrogant. Impossible. And yet...

 

And yet, for one flickering moment, he’d looked like he needed someone to stay.

 

Lucifer threw an arm over his face.

 

“I’m losing my mind.”

 

There was a knock at the door. Three polite taps.

 

Lucifer didn’t move. “If it’s about a meeting, I’m already declining.”

 

The door creaked open anyway.

 

Charlie’s voice floated in. “Dad? You alive in there?”

 

“Debatable,” he mumbled from under his arm.

 

She peeked in, her brows lifting at the mess of sheets and tangled royal pride. “Rough night?”

 

Lucifer exhaled. “You could say that.”

 

She stepped into the room with soft, careful steps, carrying a steaming mug in both hands. “It’s nearly noon,” she said, her tone light but edged with worry. “Figured I’d check in since you’re usually up by now, rattling around, reorganizing things no one asked you to touch.”

 

Lucifer cracked one eye open. “How thoughtful.”

 

Charlie smiled and crossed to his bedside, offering the mug. “I brought coffee. Extra cream, two sugars. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

 

He took it with a quiet grunt of appreciation and sat up slowly, cradling it between his hands like it might keep his soul from slipping out.

 

Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, watching him with that kind of quiet patience that was somehow harder to deal with than any lecture. “Do you… want to talk about it? Whatever’s keeping you up?”

 

Lucifer shook his head gently, gaze fixed on the swirling steam. “Not just yet.”

 

She didn’t push. Just nodded, brushing a bit of lint from her pajama sleeve. “Okay. When you’re ready.”

 

He glanced at her, something faintly warm flickering behind the exhaustion in his eyes. “Thank you, duckling.”

 

“Anytime,” she said softly.

 

Charlie lingered a moment longer at the door, arms folded loosely. “Can I ask you something?”

 

Lucifer sipped his coffee, eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep deprivation but more alert now. “You’re going to anyway.”

 

She smiled. “How’s it been? You know… staying here. With us.”

 

Lucifer let out a slow breath and leaned back against the headboard. For a long moment, he just stared at the rising steam curling from his mug.

 

“…It’s been enlightening,” he said at last. “A bit unnerving, if I’m honest. This place is chaotic in ways I didn’t think possible, and I built Hell.”

 

Charlie smiled faintly but didn’t interrupt.

 

He glanced at her, voice softening. “But it’s also been… good. Being near you again. Not from a distance. Actually seeing you. Talking to you. Learning who you’ve become.”

 

Her expression turned still, listening with quiet intent.

 

“I didn’t expect much, truth be told,” he admitted. “I thought this whole hotel was a doomed experiment; naive, sentimental, absurd. But…”

 

He paused, brows furrowing slightly as he chose his next words with care.

 

“But the people here… despite their flaws, despite everything they’ve done… they’re trying. And more importantly, they’re trying because of you.”

 

Charlie’s breath hitched, just slightly.

 

Lucifer looked away, eyes distant. “I still don’t know if redemption is possible. Maybe it isn’t. But if it is… if there’s even a sliver of hope for it…” He met her gaze again, something quiet and sincere in his voice. “Then I believe you’re the one who’ll prove it.”

 

Charlie stared at him, blinking fast.

 

Lucifer offered a small, tired smile. “You’re doing something remarkable here, Charlotte. Whether or not it succeeds the way you hope… I’m proud of you. Truly.”

 

There was silence for a beat, heavy with emotion.

 

Then Charlie surged forward and hugged him tightly.

 

Lucifer blinked, startled for half a second, then wrapped his arms around her in return, resting his chin lightly atop her head.

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered. “Even if you do keep judging my decorating choices.”

 

He chuckled low in his throat. “The drapes do clash with the wallpaper.”

 

Charlie laughed into his chest. “Shut up, Dad.”

 

She gave his side one last squeeze before pulling back, her hands lingering just long enough to straighten the lapel of his rumpled shirt.

 

“So,” she said, the mischief already creeping back into her voice, “you ready to come downstairs and face the chaos? Or are you planning to spend the rest of the day brooding dramatically in bed like a sad vampire?”

 

Lucifer gave a huff of amusement, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Tempting. But I do have a reputation to maintain.”

 

He stretched, joints popping, and let out a long, exaggerated yawn. “Though I’d argue I’ve earned at least one wasted morning. Especially after last night…”

 

His voice trailed off, the memory of that duet flickering briefly behind his eyes. The look Alastor gave him when the music turned soft. The silence afterward. The warmth. The confusion.

 

He blinked it away.

 

Lucifer sighed, dragging himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Fine. Yes. I ought to at least pretend I’m being productive.”

 

Charlie grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

 

He rolled his shoulders and reached for his coat, grimacing slightly at the tangle it had become. “Though if Pentious starts another breakfast fire or Angel tries to convert the lobby into a second dressing room, I’m going back to bed.”

 

“Deal,” Charlie said brightly, already heading for the door. “But fair warning, Niffty’s reorganizing the pantry again, and Vaggie confiscated three glitter bombs from Pentious before breakfast.”

 

Lucifer groaned. “Why is that somehow the least alarming part of your sentence?”

 

Charlie just laughed, swinging the door open. “Come on, slowpoke. The hotel waits for no king.”

 

Lucifer stood and snapped his fingers, magic rippling over him in a shimmer of gold as it mostly neatened his rumpled clothes and pillow mused hair. He shrugged on his coat with practiced ease, the ache of sleeplessness still lingering in his limbs, but dulled now by something gentler. A quiet, content warmth he so rarely allowed himself to feel.

 

He followed her out the door, the weight in his chest a little lighter than it had been.

 

Down stairs the scent hit first, spiced, savory, something sizzling in butter. Garlic? Onion? Whatever it was, it clung to the air like temptation wrapped in smoke.

 

Charlie perked up at his side. “Oh good! Smells like someone’s already started lunch.”

 

Lucifer grunted. “If there’s not more coffee, I’ll start a war.”

 

Charlie just grinned and pushed open the kitchen door. “Relax. There’s always coffee.”

 

But Lucifer stopped in the doorway like he’d hit a wall.

 

Inside, Alastor stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to the elbow, red shirt fitted snug around his shoulders, top buttons undone just enough to show the tan line of his collarbone. His signature coat was nowhere to be seen. His usually loose hair was tied back into a neat, short ponytail, the loose strands framing his cheekbones as he leaned over the counter, a chef’s knife flashing in rhythmic slices through a stack of bell peppers.

 

“I swear to the Pit, Niffty,” he said, not looking up, “if you take one more jar before I’m done with it, I’ll enchant the dust to come back every time you wipe it away."

 

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Niffty chirped as she zipped past him, clutching a jar of thyme and a whisk. “You’re hoarding all the good spices, and your labels are inconsistent! ‘Ghost Pepper’ should not be filed under ‘M’ for murderous intent!”

 

Alastor’s eye twitched. “It’s a thematic choice. Put the paprika down!”

 

“I will when you learn to use a spice rack like a normal person!”

 

The knife thunked a little louder than necessary into the cutting board.

 

Lucifer’s feet slowed to a halt, breath hitching slightly as his brain slammed the emergency brakes. The Radio Demon, the infamous terror of Hell, was standing barefoot on the tile, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, cooking like some damned domestic fantasy, and Lucifer’s entire nervous system lit up in protest.

 

The golden blush rose fast, up his throat, over his ears, blooming hot across his cheeks.

 

For a moment he couldn’t move.

 

Alastor glanced up, hearing the door creak. His gaze caught Lucifer’s and held.

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

Alastor tilted his head ever so slightly, brow creasing just a little in confusion. His eyes briefly scanned Lucifer’s stunned, blushing face but he said nothing.

 

And then Charlie, entirely oblivious to her father’s full-body meltdown, strode in behind him with a cheerful wave.

 

“Hey, Al! Finally found Dad, he was hibernating upstairs. Everything smells amazing, by the way!”

 

That snapped Alastor out of it. His attention slid smoothly to her, voice resuming its usual carefree cadence.

 

“Why thank you, my dear. Just a little midday sustenance. I figured I’d get ahead of the lunch rush before someone tries to microwave dry noodles again.”

 

“That was one time!” Niffty called from behind a cabinet. “And it worked!”

 

“Niffty dear, we had to replace the microwave because it caught fire.”

 

Lucifer finally managed to inhale again.

 

Alastor shot him a sideways look, the smile curling wicked at the edges. “And good morning, Your Majesty. Or is it good afternoon by now? Hard to tell, considering some of us have been up since dawn…”

 

Lucifer found his voice, though it came out rough and defensive. “I was not sleeping the day away.”

 

“No?” Alastor said lightly, returning to his chopping. “The messy hair and crumpled collar suggest otherwise.”

 

Lucifer instinctively tried to smooth both. “I was… conserving energy. Kings are allowed to rest.”

 

Alastor made a soft, thoughtful noise. “Ah, of course. Forgive me. I’ll be sure to file your breakfast under diplomatic absence.”

 

Charlie poured herself a cup of coffee, humming as she reached for the sugar. “This is already the best conversation I’ve heard all morning.”

 

Lucifer, now armed with coffee and desperately avoiding another direct glance at Alastor’s forearms, muttered, “This place is going to be the death of me.”

 

From the stove, Alastor chuckled. “Then at least you’ll go out well-fed.”

 

Lucifer finally pulled himself together long enough to slump into one of the stools at the kitchen island. Charlie plopped down beside him, already mid-sip from her coffee, her expression bright with her usual too-much-energy optimism.

 

Lucifer, on the other hand, wrapped both hands around his freshly poured mug of coffee, too sweet, as usual, but caffeinated enough to excuse the crime. He took a slow sip and tried very hard not to look in the direction of the stove.

 

Charlie swung her feet idly beneath her stool as she chattered. “I was thinking we could finish clearing the old back hallway today. The one with all the boarded-up windows and the creepy painting that Angel swears watches him.”

 

“Because it does,” came Angel’s voice faintly from the hallway.

 

Charlie grinned and kept going. “If we can get that cleared out, I think it could be a good space for group sessions, or maybe another rec room. What do you think, Alastor? You’re good at figuring out weird spaces.”

 

Alastor didn’t glance away from his chopping, but his tone was as pleasant as ever. “Ah, yes. Nothing invigorates the soul quite like converting ghost-haunted hallways into emotionally supportive therapy dens. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Charlie giggled and made a note on her ever-present clipboard. “Perfect.”

 

Lucifer tried to listen. He really did. But his gaze kept drifting, unbidden, back to the man at the stove. Alastor moved with fluid precision, slicing vegetables with the sort of confidence that came from too much practice. His sleeves were still rolled up, forearms flexing subtly with each motion, the knife glinting as it rocked against the cutting board. A thin sheen of steam curled up from the pan beside him, catching in the low light like breath on cold glass.

 

Lucifer’s thoughts wandered somewhere he absolutely didn’t give them permission to go.

 

That shirt fit a little too well.

 

And the ponytail… unfair.

 

A soft sound escaped him before he could catch it, a hum, not quite a sigh, and he blinked hard, snapping his gaze away.

 

Get a grip, Morningstar.

 

But just as he reached for another sip of his coffee, a blur of motion zipped past.

 

“Dirty cup!” Niffty announced triumphantly, reaching for his half-finished mug.

 

Lucifer recoiled like she’d tried to yank his actual soul out. “I’m not done with that!” he barked, snatching the mug back with both hands and cradling it to his chest like a holy relic.

 

Niffty pouted, arms full of utensils. “It looked abandoned!”

 

“I was holding it.”

 

From the stove, Alastor chuckled, low and rich and deeply unfair.

 

Lucifer’s traitorous heart skipped a beat.

 

“I’d keep a sharp eye on that mug if I were you,” Alastor drawled, amusement curling in his tone. “Niffty’s cleaning instincts are rather... aggressive. I’ve lost three spatulas and a whisk that way.”

 

Lucifer didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t. His chest felt tight, the sound of that laugh still echoing in his ears like the ending note of a favorite song. The blush that had only just begun to fade returned in full force, blooming hot under his collar.

 

In a desperate bid for recovery, he downed the rest of his coffee in one long, scalding gulp and stood abruptly from his seat. “I-I need to head to the palace today,” he announced, his voice louder than necessary. “I’ll be out for a while.”

 

Charlie blinked. “Oh. Are you sure you don’t want to eat something first?”

 

“Yes,” Alastor chimed in lightly, flipping something in the pan. “We wouldn’t want our dear king collapsing from lack of sustenance. Think of the headlines.”

 

Lucifer’s eye twitched. “I’ll survive.”

 

“Doubtful,” Alastor said under his breath, but with a grin.

 

Charlie smiled warmly. “At least take a sandwich for the road?”

 

Lucifer paused, defeated. “...Fine.”

 

Alastor reached for a plate. “Ham and provolone it is.”

 

Lucifer tried not to watch his hands.

 

Tried not to notice how easily he moved around the kitchen.

 

Tried not to think anything at all.

 

He failed.

 

Lucifer had just managed to collect what remained of his dignity when Alastor turned away from the stove, holding a plate in one hand with an elegant flourish.

 

“Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, and with a theatrical little bow, set the sandwich down on the counter in front of him.

 

Lucifer opened his mouth to reply, but Alastor leaned forward slightly as he did, one hand braced against the countertop, just enough to tip his torso toward Lucifer.

 

The movement was casual. Unassuming.

 

But the open collar of his shirt dipped with him, and Lucifer’s brain promptly shut off.

 

The top buttons were still undone, just enough to reveal the fine slope of his collarbones, the faint line of his sternum, and a tantalizing flash of olive skin that should not have been so distracting. Lucifer’s eyes caught on it before he could stop himself, just for a heartbeat too long, just long enough to imagine how warm that skin might be under his hand.

 

He yanked his gaze away so fast it nearly gave him whiplash and immediately took a huge bite of the sandwich like it had personally offended him.

 

It was perfect.

 

The bread had the exact right softness-to-crunch ratio. The ham was smoky and tender, sliced just thick enough to bite into without dragging. The cheese was slightly melted, the mustard tangy but not overwhelming. A whisper of something spicy lingered just under the surface. It was disgusting how good it was.

 

Lucifer managed not to moan. Barely.

 

He cleared his throat instead and muttered, “...Thanks.”

 

Alastor just hummed, turning back to the stove like he hadn’t just ruined Lucifer’s morning with one stretch and a sandwich.

 

Lucifer took another bite, smaller this time, more composed, and stepped over to Charlie, who was still sipping coffee with a pleased smile like she was watching her two best employees finally get along.

 

“I’ll be back later,” he said, brushing a quick kiss to her forehead.

 

“Try not to overwork yourself,” she said sweetly.

 

“No promises,” he muttered, and with that, turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen.

 

The moment he stepped past the threshold, he exhaled, sharp and shaky, and picked up his pace. The sandwich stayed firmly in hand, now missing two desperate bites.

 

By the time he pushed through the front doors of the hotel, the air outside felt marginally less oppressive than the one inside.

 

Teleporting would’ve been faster.

 

But Lucifer didn’t want fast.

 

He wanted clarity.

 

With a soft exhale, he stepped into the street, looked skyward, and let the golden light of his power shimmer across his back. His wings unfurled with a sharp snap, and with one powerful beat, he launched into the sky.

 

He needed wind. Space. Anything to cool the heat still burning under his skin.

 

And maybe, if he flew long enough, he could stop thinking about sandwiches, ponytails, and the way Alastor’s voice sounded when he laughed.

 

Lucifer soared upward, wings slicing through the thick Hellish air until the rooftops of Pentagram City were little more than jagged teeth in the haze below.

 

He leveled off once he was high enough, the wind whipping through his hair and tugging at his coat like impatient hands. The sting of cold air against his cheeks helped. A little. The blush that had burned so hot only minutes ago had begun to ease, cooled by altitude and speed.

 

He took another bite of the sandwich, smaller now, but still warm, the bread slightly crisped at the edges. It was criminal how good it was. Every bite just reminded him of him, of how Alastor moved through a kitchen like he belonged there. Confident, precise, focused. Like he'd done it a hundred times before.

 

Lucifer growled under his breath and finished the last bite with a snap.

 

Then, without warning, he tucked his wings and dived.

 

The rush hit instantly.

 

Air tore past him as the ground surged up, weightlessness curling in his stomach like a punch. His eyes watered. The wind roared in his ears. For a few precious seconds, there was no sound but the scream of air and no thought but pull up.

 

His wings snapped open again, catching the wind hard, slowing him with a jolt that sent his whole body shuddering. He gritted his teeth, breath ragged as he beat his wings again and rose higher.

 

It helped. Slightly. But not enough.

 

Because the second his mind cleared, it filled again, with him.

 

With the shape of that damn smirk, the kind that meant trouble. With the faint shadow of dimples carved into a rare, real smile. With the soft, warm tan of his skin and the way his sleeves hugged his forearms. With the way the light caught the curve of his throat. With the sharp red of his eyes, every time they met Lucifer’s own.

 

Lucifer groaned and climbed higher.

 

This is absurd, he thought bitterly. I am the King of Hell. I should not be brought low by a sandwich and an annoyingly charming deer demon who can’t file spices properly.

 

He dove again. Just to make the thoughts stop for one damned minute. The wind screamed past him, and the ground blurred.

 

Lucifer closed his eyes.

 

This isn’t happening, he told himself.

 

But his heart disagreed.

 

And deep down, so did the part of him that remembered every single detail.

 

Lucifer touched down on the obsidian landing terrace with a flutter of white and red feathers and a sigh that carried all the weariness of an emotionally-compromised immortal. His wings vanished in a shimmer of golden light as his boots met polished stone.

 

The palace was quiet. Still as empty as it had been for centuries.

 

His footsteps echoed down the vast, marbled corridor like the tap of guilt trying not to be noticed.

 

He didn’t stop.

 

Didn’t glance at the empty throne room or the library that hadn’t been touched in years. Just kept walking, one hand trailing absentmindedly along the wall, until he reached the door tucked at the far end of the west wing, his sanctuary, his hoard, his chaos.

 

The workshop.

 

He flicked his fingers, and the ornate lock clicked open with a soft hiss.

 

The door creaked open.

 

It was just as he’d left it, work bench a cluttered mess of tools and paint and the ducks, every size, every color. Some glowed faintly with unstable magic. Some had tiny battle armor. One had antlers. Another sported a monocle and a top hat. A few hovered two inches off the table and buzzed ominously if looked at for too long.

 

Lucifer stepped inside with the reverence of a man returning to the one place no one could mock him. Not out loud, anyway.

 

He took a deep breath and muttered to himself, “Right. Let’s get started.”

 

He shed his coat, draping it carefully over a wrought-iron stool, and rolled up his sleeves. The air was cooler in here, dry with dust and old magic, and it smelled faintly of ozone, solder, and lavender oil for reasons he no longer remembered.

 

He crossed to the nearest workbench, crammed with odds and ends, half-finished enchantments, tools, springs, paintbrushes, springs again, and a row of miniature tea sets with suspiciously blinking eyes.

 

“Right,” he said again, to no one.

 

And then he began.

 

He started by stacking all the duck prototypes by height. Then color. Then existential threat level.

 

After that, he moved on to sorting his wrenches by metal density, his screwdrivers by length then width, and his chalks by “how likely they are to summon a demon through improper sigil alignment.”

 

It wasn’t just busywork. It was comfort. Familiar. Mindless enough to let him think, or better, not think, if he worked fast enough.

 

Every now and then, he caught himself drifting, hand hovering over a drawer, mind slipping back to red eyes, tan skin, that laugh, the stretch of fabric at his collar…

 

“No,” he muttered, yanking open the next drawer with more force than necessary. “No distractions. Just tools. Just focus.”

 

He started sorting through paint jars and a few brushes and adding them to a satchel to take back to the hotel. He also packed a small carving chisel, a smoothing file, and a brass-handled awl with a chipped grip he refused to replace.

 

Next, he moved through the duck mounds with careful, practiced steps, selecting only a few of his favorites: the monocled one, naturally, and a tiny black one with flaming red eyes that honked in minor chords. He placed them gently in the satchel, nestled among the brushes and tools.

 

He was in the middle of trying to track down his favorite shade of shimmery gold paint when the air shifted.

 

A faint static hum crackled to life in the far corner of the workshop, curling like smoke through the silence. It started soft, almost like background interference… until it sharpened into a voice.

 

His voice.

 

“Gooooood eeevening, Hell!”

 

The familiar velvety purr slid from the old radio like silk laced with barbed wire. Lucifer froze, brush still in hand.

 

“And what a deliciously dismal night it is! Murder rates are up, hope is down, and yet another turf war has erupted near 9th Circle Avenue, this time over someone’s great-aunt’s soul. If you must raze the streets, do remember to donate any spare body parts to Rosie’s Emporium in Cannibal Town. Waste not, want not as they say!”

 

Lucifer blinked slowly, the sound of that voice rippling through his ribs like a struck tuning fork.

 

Alastor’s magic always did this, flipped every radio in Hell to his frequency, whether you wanted it or not. It was obnoxious. It was presumptuous. It was…

 

Lucifer turned toward the noise.

 

Muffled. Warped. Distant.

 

The source was somewhere under the far duck mound, buried, the way he’d buried a thousand inconvenient little things over the years.

 

With sudden urgency, he strode toward the pile, tossing ducks over his shoulder, each one squeaking or flashing or trying to bite his fingers on the way down.

 

The voice got clearer.

 

“Now, before we dive into tonight’s main course, sit back, relax, and let this next track kiss your ears. You’ve earned it.”

 

A low, sultry jazz number crackled to life, soft brass, slow piano, the faint hiss of vinyl underneath.

 

And then, finally, there it was.

 

A worn, old wooden radio, its finish chipped, one knob missing, speaker grill slightly dented from an experiment gone wrong ages ago. But the voice pouring from it now was unmistakable.

 

Lucifer stared at it.

 

Alastor’s voice, low and laced with amusement, seemed to wrap around him.

 

He carried the radio carefully to his workbench, setting it down like something fragile, something sacred, and lowered himself into his chair.

 

The jazz swelled, soft and slow.

 

Lucifer rested his elbows on the table and laced his fingers beneath his chin, watching the old radio like it might blink back.

 

Alastor wasn’t speaking now, but the presence was still there. Thick in the air. Comforting and maddening all at once.

 

And Lucifer, in the quiet of his workshop surrounded by enchanted rubber ducks, finally let the truth slip past the barricade he’d been patching together all night and all morning.

 

He was doomed.

 

Completely, utterly doomed.

 

He had a crush.

 

A massive, ridiculous, absolutely unspeakable crush on that irritating, insufferable, dangerous, brilliant, beautiful deer demon.

 

Lucifer groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

 

“I’m an idiot.”

 

The jazz continued.

 

Smooth. Hypnotic. Intimate.

 

He sat like that for a long moment before reaching silently into his satchel and adding the radio to his growing pile of things to take back to the hotel.

 

Of course he was taking it. Of course he was.

 

He was so completely, unforgivably screwed.

Notes:

Well, well, well, would ya look at that? A certain royal someone’s got a little spark flickerin’ behind those golden eyes. What would the papers say, hmm? But now that the curtain’s been tugged back just a smidge, the question is… what’s our illustrious King of Hell gonna do about it? ‘Cause if there’s one demon who don’t make things easy, it’s our dear Radio fiend. Slippery as static and just as hard to hold.

But I suppose, as always, you’ll have to stay tuned to see what unfolds next. If you’ve been enjoyin’ the show so far, don’t be shy, leave a like or a comment, won’t ya? It feeds this poor, cursed soul more than brimstone and black coffee ever could.

Until next time, my darling deviants, this is your ever-faithful host, signing off. Ta taaa!

Chapter 17: I'm Doomed

Notes:

Well hello, hello, my lovely little sinners! Did ya miss me? It’s been a teensy bit longer than usual since our last chat, and for that, I do tip my hat in apology. Yours truly has had quite the whirlwind of a week, house-sitting for a dear friend, surviving a touch of tomfoolery at the ol’ workplace, and ringing in another trip ‘round the sun just yesterday! Yes indeed, your favorite voice from the void had a birthday bash of sorts; confetti, cake, and chaos included.

But fret not, darlings, I’ve returned at last to grace your eyes with another tantalizin’ tale. So without further ado, sit back, relax, and enjoy chapter 17 of our devilishly delightful drama!

Lucifer stood in the center of his workshop, staring down at the worn wooden radio nestled among a carefully packed satchel of brushes, tools, and ducks. The soft strains of jazz still played from the speaker, smooth and inviting, a quiet reminder of everything he now knew and wasn’t even remotely prepared to deal with.

 

He sighed, long and low, and ran a hand down his face.

 

The admission had settled in his chest like molten lead: a crush. A real one. Not fleeting admiration, not mild curiosity, but something that curled and sparked and stayed.

 

He slung the satchel over his shoulder, giving the radio one last glance before dimming it with a flick of his fingers. The voice faded into silence, but the echo of it lingered.

 

He made his way outside.

 

The Hellscape sky had darkened into deep purples and bruised reds, a haze of sulfur clouds glowing faintly in the distance. City lights shimmered like dying stars across the horizon.

 

He could’ve portaled back in an instant. But he didn’t.

 

With a soft rustle of fabric, his wings unfurled white and red and luminous in the evening gloom, and with one heavy beat, he took to the sky.

 

The cool air cut across his cheeks as he rose higher, the city shrinking beneath him. The satchel tugged at his shoulder, warm against his side. Somewhere below, the muffled sounds of another distant explosion, likely the turf war Alastor had mentioned, echoed like a heartbeat in the bones of Hell.

 

He flew toward the hotel.

 

But his mind wouldn’t quiet.

 

What now? it whispered. What the hell do you even do with this, Lucifer?

 

It wasn’t just the crush. That was bad enough. But it was him.

 

Alastor.

 

Charming. Dangerous. Sharp. Unpredictable. A predator wrapped in pinstripes and waltzes and cruel humor. And yet… and yet, he’d been kind. Thoughtful, even, in his own way. Protective. And when he laughed, really laughed…

 

Lucifer groaned, dragging a hand through his wind-tossed hair.

 

He couldn’t afford this.

 

He’d already ruined one relationship. The only one he’d ever had, and that had ended in abandonment, and millennia of guilt. He still didn’t fully understand what went wrong, only that he’d clearly done something wrong. Something unforgivable. Something unfixable.

 

And now here he was, falling into another emotional abyss with no map, no plan, and no idea what to do about it.

 

What if you mess this up too? his thoughts hissed. What if he doesn't feel the same? Or worse, what if he does, and you destroy him the same way?

 

He dove sharply, trying to shake the storm inside.

 

The wind rushed past him, biting and cold. It helped. Slightly.

 

Lucifer spotted the hotel rising from the smog below, weathered, uneven, and unmistakably dated. Cracks lined the outer walls, and grime dulled the once-bright signage. At the top, jutting awkwardly from one side, Alastor’s radio tower blinked with a faint, ominous light.

 

For a fleeting moment, Lucifer wondered what Alastor must look like up there, perched behind the microphone with that casual grin in place, addressing all of Hell like it was his own personal stage. He shook the thought away and angled downward, descending through the haze to land on the front steps of the hotel.

 

---

 

High above the hotel, nestled at the peak of its tallest point, sat Alastor’s broadcast tower.

 

The room was a strange patchwork of old-world charm and arcane engineering. Warm brass and polished wood mingled with enchanted wiring and antique sound equipment, each dial and switch humming with subtle, ever-present magic. A tangle of microphones and meters lit the space in a faint glow, flickering in time with the beat of the city’s unrest.

 

It was quiet now.

 

Or at least, quiet in the way Alastor liked it, his voice no longer filling the airwaves, letting the rich lull of jazz spill out uninterrupted across the airwaves of Hell.

 

He leaned back in his creaking leather chair, one arm draped lazily over the side, legs crossed at the ankle. The amber light of the room haloed around him as he sipped from a steaming mug, black chicory coffee, bitter and strong, and let the music play.

 

The view from here was unparalleled. The hotel’s design had ensured that the tower’s perch gave a clear, panoramic vantage of the sprawling chaos below. Pentagram City stretched into the gloom like a fractured jewel, glittering in flickers of neon and fire.

 

It was during this quiet moment, between thoughts, between sips, that something caught his eye.

 

A flash of white and crimson streaked across the thick sky, fast and sharp.

 

Alastor’s gaze narrowed, his usual grin relaxing into something softer, more curious.

 

Lucifer.

 

Even at this distance, he was unmistakable, graceful in a way that wasn’t fair, gilded by light that had no right to still shimmer so brightly in a place like this. His wings, massive and blinding in the dimming gloom, caught what little light remained like a falling star. Crimson shimmered at their tips, bleeding into the white in a way that made them look like they were dipped in sunrise.

 

Alastor didn’t realize he was leaning forward until the coffee in his cup sloshed slightly.

 

He should’ve looked away.

 

Should’ve smirked, made some biting comment to himself, gone back to tracking the movements of ridiculous turf wars or mocking some poor sinners in block 19.

 

But he didn’t.

 

He watched.

 

And as Lucifer drew closer, wings arcing wide as he began to descend toward the hotel below, only one thought flitted through Alastor’s mind, unbidden, startling in its sincerity:

 

Beautiful.

 

The jazz on the radio shifted into a slow, romantic croon.

 

Alastor blinked, as if startled out of a dream.

 

That wasn’t what he’d queued.

 

The notes curled through the tower like incense, thick and bittersweet. The sort of song played in smoke-laced parlors and dimly lit lounges, dripping with affection and soft, unspoken longing.

 

He hadn’t touched the console.

 

Hadn’t commanded the tower’s magic to pull this track.

 

And yet… there it was.

 

A song that didn’t belong in his rotation.

 

But it was a reflection. A mirror turned inward.

 

Because his magic, traitorous thing that it was, always knew the truth before he’d admit it himself.

 

Alastor’s jaw tensed.

 

He didn’t stop the music.

 

The show was still live. Millions of radios across Hell were tuned in, listening, laughing, swaying, simmering in the afterglow of his latest monologue. None of them would think twice about the romantic ballad that followed. It was just ambiance to them.

 

He stood and paced over to the window, rigid as a post, fingers twitching at his sides.

 

Outside, the sprawl of Hell glittered with its usual carnage. The hotel glowed warmly below. And somewhere inside it, Lucifer, divine, irritating, infuriating Lucifer, was likely back in his room, oblivious to the quiet chaos he left trailing in his wake.

 

Alastor grit his teeth.

 

He’d watched his descent. The arc of those gleaming wings. The way the light caught in the strands of his hair.

 

He hadn’t meant to admire it.

 

He hadn’t meant to feel anything at all.

 

But the longer he was around Lucifer, the harder it became to keep his internal order intact. The longer he lingered in his orbit, the more something ugly twisted in his chest, warm and sharp and guilty.

 

Affection was dangerous.

 

Want was worse.

 

He couldn’t afford it. Not with him. Not with the king of Hell. Not when he’d spent years building his every move around deception and distance and that one inevitable truth still waiting to crack open.

 

So he stood there, silently fuming, as the song played on.

 

Letting it crawl over his nerves like acid.

 

The mask stayed in place. The grin fixed. The posture impeccable.

 

Because he was a professional.

 

A performer.

 

And even as his magic betrayed him, even as his stomach churned and his thoughts rebelled, he had an audience to entertain.

 

The lights on the console flickered in rhythm with the song’s final notes, and Alastor raised the microphone to his lips, smile wide and unshaken.

 

But his eyes were hard.

 

His voice, when it returned, was smooth as ever, every bit the grinning phantom of Hell.

 

And if his laugh came a touch too sharp at the edges?

 

No one would notice.

 

---

 

Lucifer landed on the hotel’s front steps with all the subtlety of a thief in the night.

 

The satchel was clutched tightly to his side, wings already vanishing in a shimmer of light as he slipped through the door and into the hall. His steps were swift but silent, careful to avoid creaking floorboards or curious eyes. He moved like a shadow, quick, quiet, and absolutely, catastrophically flustered.

 

He made it to his room undisturbed.

 

Thank the stars.

 

As soon as the door shut behind him with a quiet click, he exhaled, long, shaky, and half-exasperated with himself.

 

He crossed the room in quick strides and set the satchel down. From it, he carefully pulled the old wooden radio out and placed it gently on his bedside table. His fingers lingered on the dial for a second, hovering.

 

Lucifer flicked the dial.

 

A brief hiss of static gave way to the fading notes of a romantic song that had clearly been playing for some time now, dreamy, crooning, soft around the edges.

 

His heart did that inconvenient little flutter again.

 

But the song was already ending, the final note tapering off just as the familiar voice slid back into place.

 

“And it seems the turf war down on 9th Circle Avenue is still going strong. Honestly, it’s almost inspiring how much blood can be spilled over one decrepit soul. I do hope someone remembered to film the carnage, hell’s finest slapstick, really.”

 

Lucifer raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

 

Alastor continued, his tone velvet-smooth and confidently theatrical. “In lighter news, or perhaps darker, depending on your sensibilities, our friends at I.M.P., that enterprising little imp-run venture, are now offering a mid-month discount. That’s right! Have a nuisance up in the living world? A lingering grudge? A mother-in-law with opinions? I.M.P. guarantees swift, stylish revenge, for a price, of course.”

 

Lucifer let out a quiet breath, amused despite himself.

 

But something in Alastor’s tone tugged at him.

 

Barely there, so subtle most wouldn’t catch it, but he did. A thread of tension pulled taut beneath the smooth performance. Just beneath the charm, the ease, there was something sharper.

 

He frowned faintly.

 

The man who’d teased him in the kitchen, who’d smiled in the shadow of a bright afternoon, this wasn’t quite the same voice.

 

Still, he listened.

 

And as the show wound down, Alastor’s voice took on that final familiar cadence, that flourish he always saved for his curtain call.

 

“And so the curtain falls, for now. This has been your nightly delight, curated and controlled by yours truly. But don’t worry… you’ll hear from me again. You always do.”

 

The click of the mic cut out, and soft instrumental jazz took its place, low and smooth, curling through the room like smoke.

 

Lucifer rose from the bed with a quiet exhale. The day still clung to his skin, wind-tossed and warm from his flight, the echo of Alastor’s voice still humming behind his ribs.

 

He stripped off his clothes slowly, piece by piece, coat, shirt, the layers of royalty folded neatly and set aside until only bare skin remained. Then, seated before the vanity, he ran a brush through his windswept hair, taming it back into order with calm, practiced strokes. The bristles clicked rhythmically through gold strands, and with every pass, the tension in his shoulders eased just a little more.

 

The music played on.

 

Warm. Easy. Familiar.

 

Lucifer moved back to the bed and slipped beneath the covers, drawing them up to his chest as he glanced once more at the old radio resting on the nightstand.

 

The soft golden light from its dial flickered gently.

 

He left it on.

 

The smooth jazz lulled the room into stillness, and with it, his thoughts began to quiet.

 

He smiled to himself, small, genuine, unguarded, and let his eyes fall closed as the music carried him off into sleep.

Notes:

Well, well, well! Would ya look at that, our sweet little king is fallin’ fast, catchin’ feelings quicker than a jazz tempo on a Saturday night! Ain’t that just the cutest thing this side of the underworld? But ah, on the flip side, our darling deer is diggin’ in those hooves, stubborn as ever, tryin’ to outrun the inevitable. Spoiler alert, sugarplum: love’s got longer legs than you!

That’s the end of this little interlude, my dears. But something’s stirrin’ in the wings, I can feel it. So keep your ears sharp and your radios hot. We’ll be back before you can say “star-crossed.” Until next time, this is your ever-faithful host, signin’ off. Toodle-oo!

Chapter 18: Trust The Soul Beside You!

Notes:

Well goodevenin’, my darling devils and delightful dames! Tonight I bring you yet another heartwarming attempt at team building, courtesy of our ever-optimistic Charlie! What could possibly go wrong, eh? Tune in for a chapter featuring one very uncomfortable deer, and a certain king who’s just gently pining away like a schoolboy with a crush. So grab your popcorn and let’s see just how delightfully awkward this gets!

Lucifer entered the dining room, fingers still combing through his hair, expecting little more than a cup of heavily sweetened coffee and a quiet corner to process his budding existential romantic crisis.

 

What he got instead was a crowd, and a poster. A truly ridiculous, painfully cheerful poster hanging crookedly above the buffet table, painted in blinding gold and bubblegum pink.

 

In large, aggressive lettering, it read:

 

“TEAM-BUILDING: TRUST THE SOULS BESIDE YOU!”
“Today we build bridges of camaraderie! Emotional vulnerability is welcome!” – C.M.”

 

Lucifer stared. “I need caffeine,” he muttered.

 

Charlie stood nearby, practically vibrating with excitement, while Vaggie stood beside her looking like she was already halfway through plotting an escape route.

 

“Good morning, Dad!” Charlie beamed as Lucifer approached. “You’re just in time!”

 

“For what,” Lucifer asked, rubbing his temple, “exactly?”

 

“Today’s group activity! Trust-building!” she announced proudly, gesturing to the poster like it was the final word in divine revelation. “Everyone’s going to be paired up to do various exercises that will deepen empathy, build communication, and foster emotional resilience!”

 

Vaggie muttered, “And chaos.”

 

“We’re using my official trust exercise list!” Charlie added, lifting a clipboard decorated with glitter skull stickers.

 

Lucifer blinked slowly. “...Is this because of the tether thing the other day?”

 

Charlie gave him a sheepish look. “Maybe a little?”

 

Before he could answer, she clapped her hands. “Alright! Pairs are as follows!”

 

Lucifer waited for the inevitable blow.

 

“Lucifer and... Sir Pentious!”

 

Lucifer visibly sagged. “Of course.”

 

“Alastor and Angel Dust!”

 

There was a pause.

 

Angel let out a scandalized gasp of delight. “Oh, honey, you’re mine for the next hour!”

 

Alastor, to his credit, didn’t scream. He merely looked as if he were staring into the abyss and the abyss had just offered him a couples massage.

 

“Absolutely not,” he said calmly.

 

Charlie beamed. “No tradesies!”

 

“Divine punishment,” Alastor muttered under his breath as Angel wrapped one arm around his shoulders with inappropriate enthusiasm.

 

Elsewhere, Husk groaned as Nifty practically latched onto his arm, sparkling with excitement. “We’re gonna do so much cleaning while we talk about our feelings!”

 

“I’m going to fake a coma,” Husk muttered.

 

Lucifer sighed and turned to his unfortunate companion, Sir Pentious, who stood proudly with a crumpled blueprint poking out of one sleeve and a suspicious ticking noise coming from his back.

 

“Let us crush this endeavor, my liege!” Sir Pentious declared, twirling his tail and nearly knocking over a decorative sconce.

 

Lucifer’s smile was strained. “Let’s... yes. Let’s do that.”

 

Despite his efforts to focus, Lucifer’s eyes kept drifting across the room.

 

Angel was prattling on with gleeful abandon, his hands moving constantly, his flirtation shameless and loud. Alastor stood stiffly beside him, the muscles in his jaw tight, expression carved in permanent long-suffering politeness.

 

Lucifer smirked. But then he watched a little longer.

 

Alastor wasn't snarling. Wasn’t snapping. He just looked incredibly uncomfortable. And... patient?

 

He’s trying, Lucifer realized. For Charlie’s sake.

 

The thought made something twist in his chest.

 

Angel brushed a hand against Alastor’s arm. Alastor pulled away.

 

Lucifer cleared his throat and turned back to Sir Pentious, who was attempting to explain a theoretical bonding device made of magnets and unresolved trauma.

 

“Fascinating,” Lucifer said absently.

 

But his eyes kept drifting back to him.

 

And Lucifer knew, today was going to be a very long day.

 

Charlie stood at the front of the ballroom with her glittery clipboard in hand and the kind of energy usually reserved for over-caffeinated camp counselors.

 

“Alright everyone!” she chirped. “Time for our first official Trust The Souls Beside You exercise: Mirror Movement!”

 

Groans echoed through the room.

 

Lucifer blinked. “Please tell me that’s not what it sounds like.”

 

“Oh, it is,” Charlie said with far too much glee. “One partner moves slowly, and the other has to match their movements exactly, like a mirror. It teaches trust, observation, and respect for each other’s space.”

 

“Space is the first thing we don’t have,” Husk grumbled, trying and failing to peel Nifty off his arm.

 

“Pair up!” Charlie called.

 

Lucifer sighed and turned to Sir Pentious, who was already puffing up his chest and striking an elaborate pose with one clawed hand over his heart and the other raised toward the ceiling.

 

“This will be glorious!” Pentious declared.

 

Lucifer bit back a sigh. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

 

Across the room, Angel had already plastered himself to Alastor’s side. “Ooooh, baby, we’re gonna be so synchronized. Like those Olympic swimmers. But hotter.”

 

Alastor’s smile was sharp. “If you touch me, I will replace your arms with mannequin parts.”

 

“Ohhh, we’re doing foreplay threats now, I love it.”

 

Meanwhile, Charlie paired off with Vaggie, who looked slightly less homicidal than usual.

 

“Alright!” Charlie clapped. “Round one: Leads Angel, Pentious and Nifty! Mirrors, Alastor, Dad and Husk! GO!”

 

The pairs lined up; Husk was already copying Nifty’s aggressive mop-strokes with stoic resignation.

 

Lucifer tried to focus on Pentious, who was currently doing a complicated serpentine wave that resembled interpretive dance... or possibly a seizure.

 

But his eyes kept drifting to the other pair.

 

Angel, predictably, was having the time of his life, swaying his hips and throwing in flourishes that clearly had nothing to do with the exercise. Alastor, to his credit, matched every movement, down to the tilted head and cocked hip, with rigid, perfect mimicry.

 

But there was a tightness in his jaw. A stiffness in his smile.

 

Lucifer couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop noticing the way Alastor was so utterly in control of his body. The sharp precision of every motion. The patience. The restraint.

 

He’s doing this because Charlie asked him to.

 

Lucifer frowned. He looked back at Pentious, who was now mid-monologue about the elegance of tail articulation, then casually raised one hand to mirror him.

 

Charlie called for a partner switch. “Now Switch!”

 

Lucifer immediately turned back, just in time to see Alastor lift one arm, slow and fluid, fingers spread delicately. Angel followed, slightly off-tempo but committed. The motion shifted into something graceful, almost balletic, as Alastor let the music of the room guide his limbs.

 

Lucifer’s breath caught. It was beautiful, but wrong, because the movements weren’t for Angel, not really. Angel laughed and teased, but Alastor’s eyes barely looked at him. His posture was distant, detached.

 

He doesn’t want to be here.

 

Lucifer watched as Alastor turned slightly in his motion, and their eyes locked across the ballroom. Just for a second, Lucifer’s breath hitched.

 

Alastor blinked, then finished the motion, seamlessly.

 

Charlie clapped. “Great job, everyone! One more round!”

 

Lucifer barely heard her. Because suddenly, Sir Pentious was mid-spin, and his tail caught Lucifer in the ribs. Lucifer stumbled, caught himself, looked up, and Alastor was still looking.

 

Charlie, unfazed by the growing chaos, bounced on the balls of her feet as she addressed the exhausted crowd.

 

“Alright, my brave little redemption warriors! One more trust exercise before lunch!”

 

Collective groaning.

 

“This one’s called ‘Lean on Me!’” Charlie beamed. “You and your partner will stand back-to-back, arms linked and try to sit down together without falling! It’s all about balance, communication, and support!”

 

Lucifer looked toward Sir Pentious.

 

Sir Pentious was eyeing the floor like he’d just been told to defuse a bomb.

 

“I have a very sensitive sssspine,” he muttered. “Rattling it could result in arson!”

 

Lucifer sighed.

 

Across the room, Angel was positively thrilled.

 

“Ooooh, Alastor, baby! This is the one! You and me, back-to-back, real close, feelin’ that tension. You ready to catch me when I fall?”

 

Alastor’s expression was deadpan. “I’m more likely to let gravity do its job.”

 

Charlie clapped her hands. “Positions, everyone!”

 

With a grumble, Alastor reluctantly turned his back to Angel. Their shoulders touched. Angel wiggled. Alastor flinched.

 

Lucifer, half-focused, was trying to angle Pentious into the right stance without getting tail-whipped again.

 

“And… go!” Charlie called.

 

Around the room, pairs began the delicate process of slowly sinking down, back-to-back. Husk and Nifty, toppled almost instantly.

 

Lucifer and Pentious made it halfway down before Pentious’s tail got tangled in his own feet, causing both of them to collapse in a heap.

 

“My dignity!” Pentious shrieked.

 

But Lucifer wasn’t paying attention to him. Because Angel and Alastor hadn’t moved.

 

Angel was smirking. “C’mon, deer boy. Don’t be shy.”

 

Alastor’s eye twitched, then, with a graceful, almost imperceptible shift of weight, he dropped. Dead weight.

 

Angel let out a squawk as he was pulled down like a collapsing puppet, tumbling backward with Alastor into a perfect seated position.

 

Alastor landed with his legs crossed neatly, posture perfect, arms folded.

 

Angel? Sprawled sideways, one leg in the air, the other bent halfway under him.

 

The room howled.

 

Alastor gave a polite nod, deadpan. “I trust no one… but physics, at least, is consistent.”

 

Angel sat up, huffing. “Okay. Rude.”

 

Charlie clapped so hard the glitter on her clipboard puffed into the air. “That was amazing!”

 

Lucifer couldn’t help it. He laughed a full chuckle escaping before he could swallow it down.

 

Alastor glanced over at him. His expression softened for a beat, only a beat, but enough.

 

Lucifer looked away, smiling just slightly to himself. And maybe, he started to wonder what it would feel like to fall into someone and not hit the ground.

 

Alastor’s smile lingered a moment too long after Lucifer looked away. It faded only when the room erupted into movement once more, Vaggie pulling Charlie toward the corner to debrief, Angel bouncing off to harass Husk, Sir Pentious narrating his tail’s betrayal with tragic flourish.

 

The Radio Demon stood, still as a tuning fork just shy of resonance.

 

Then, with deliberate care, he shook the softness from his expression. The faint smile that had dared to warm his features was scrubbed clean, replaced by the more familiar, neutral grin, razor-thin and immaculately controlled. His eyes narrowed, the faintest twitch of disapproval tightening the skin around them.

 

Fool, he thought. Letting the mask slip. What are you hoping to gain from that?

 

He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, straightened his bow tie, and approached Charlie, who was still chattering with Vaggie, glowingly proud, already full of momentum for whatever came next.

 

“That went so well, didn’t it?” she beamed. “I think even Dad was having fun! And Angel… oh, Alastor, I know that must’ve been a lot, but you handled it great. I'm already thinking of ways we can build on this for tomorrow, maybe something more collaborative, maybe…"

 

Alastor cleared his throat gently.

 

She paused, mid-rush, and turned toward him.

 

“I’d appreciate,” he said with a smooth, polite lilt, “not being paired with Angel Dust again. Once was quite enough.”

 

Charlie blinked, surprised. “Oh! Of course, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

 

She glanced back down at her clipboard, suddenly fidgeting with the edge. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time. Maybe... Husk? Or Niffty? Or even Vaggie?” She rattled off the names quickly, almost too quickly, and conspicuously skipped over one very specific name.

 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed just slightly, catching the omission.

 

He smiled, pleasant, amused. “My dear, there’s no need to tiptoe around it.”

 

Charlie glanced up, caught.

 

“I assure you,” Alastor continued, “anyone is preferable to the overly provocative spider. Including your father.”

 

She hesitated, searching his expression. “You sure?”

 

“Positively,” he said, crisp and certain.

 

That seemed to ease her, and she nodded, relaxing back into her usual brightness.

 

“Well, if you’re sure…” she began, but he gently cut in.

 

“Though if I may,” Alastor said smoothly, folding his hands over the handle of his cane, “you might consider pairing Angel Dust with Husk. The two of them have a rather obvious... rapport. Even if they’re both entirely oblivious to it.”

 

Charlie frowned. She glanced across the ballroom where Angel was tossing a mop at Husk’s head. “I mean, I know they bicker a lot, but, wait. Are you saying they like each other?”

 

Alastor gave her a sidelong look, one brow arching. “My dear, you run a hotel for the damned and can’t spot unresolved pining when it’s right in front of you?”

 

She looked back toward the pair with visible confusion. “I thought they hated each other. Or at least Husk hated Angel.”

 

“Mm. Precisely.”

 

Charlie squinted, gears turning but not quite clicking. “...I guess I’ll keep an eye out.”

 

“Do,” Alastor said with a pleased hum.

 

Before she could dwell further, Charlie brightened again, clipboard back in hand. “Okay! So! I had a few more ideas for upcoming activities. Some are more physical, some are trust-fall adjacent, and I was thinking we could even, maybe, do a scavenger hunt in the hotel? Or a role-reversal challenge! You know, where everyone swaps responsibilities for a day? I was thinking maybe you could be the bartender, and Husk could try hosting, or maybe…"

 

Charlie’s voice faded out as Alastor’s ears twitched, ever so slightly, in Lucifer’s direction.

 

He didn’t have to turn. The subtle, echoing click of heeled leather boots against wood was already imprinted on his senses. The cadence was unmistakable. Measured. Confident. Fading slowly as Lucifer exited the ballroom.

 

Alastor tracked each step, attention narrowing like a camera lens even as Charlie kept speaking beside him. The soft, trailing resonance of Lucifer’s presence drifted like the fading tail end of a broadcast frequency, and still it pulled at something low and sharp in Alastor’s chest.

 

“…so what do you think?” Charlie asked brightly.

 

Alastor blinked.

 

He turned to her, smile perfectly in place, not a beat missed.

 

“I think,” he said smoothly, “you have an admirable talent for optimism, and I look forward to seeing what chaos your next brilliant plan brings.”

 

Charlie beamed. “Aw, thanks!”

 

He inclined his head again, fingers lightly resting atop his cane.

 

And not once did he look toward the door.

 

But his ears remained tilted, just so, in the direction of those receding footsteps.

 

 

 

Notes:

Ahhh, Alastor, Alastor, Alastor… the poor buck wants our dear Luci somethin’ fierce, but heaven forbid he just say it! And Lucifer, sweet little devil that he is, is fallin’ harder than a flapper in heels on a slick dance floor. Folks, he is down so bad for that emotionally constipated deer, it’s practically a tragedy in the makin’. Now tell me, my darling readers, will one of ‘em finally take the leap? Or are we doomed to an eternity of longin’ glances and silent pinin’? Only time will tell! Until next time, my dears, keep your radios tuned and your hearts ready. Ta-ta!

Chapter 19: When Angels Fall

Notes:

Ah, good morning, my darling deviants! Gather ‘round your radios and pour yourself a stiff drink, ‘cause do I have a treat for you today! This chapter, hoo boy, it’s a real humdinger, a knockout, a razzle-dazzler that’s got yours truly downright giddy with excitement. So don’t touch that dial, sugarplums, ‘cause we’re diving headfirst into the drama, the decadence, and the delicious chaos, right now!

Lucifer’s footsteps had grown faint now, no longer sharp, just soft echoes against wood and velvet halls, fading deeper into the hotel’s winding heart.

 

Alastor stood perfectly still.

 

He tracked every beat. Every fall of leather on wood. A slow, steady rhythm.

 

And then... silence. The sound vanished, gone from his hearing.

 

His jaw tightened. His grip on his cane shifted.

 

Let it go.

 

He had no business indulging. No reason to chase something he hadn’t even meant to want. What would he say? What would he gain?

 

It was foolish. Reckless.

 

But the silence left in those footsteps gnawed at him.

 

Despite everything, despite every logical thought clawing against the inside of his skull, he found himself turning toward the empty hallway.

 

Charlie was still chattering behind him, already running through a new list of activities with Vaggie. Blissfully unaware of the storm flickering behind his eyes.

 

Alastor straightened his posture, smoothed his coat, and turned toward her with his usual theatrical charm.

 

“If you’ll excuse me, my dear,” he said with a flourish, “a sudden... curiosity compels me.”

 

Charlie barely glanced up from her glitter-covered clipboard. “Okay! See you at lunch!”

 

He spun lightly on his heel, and strode toward the silence.

 

The footsteps were gone. But he followed them anyway.

 

The echo of Charlie’s voice faded behind him, swallowed by the hush of the hallway.

 

Alastor moved like smoke. His cane tapped only when he allowed it, each step deliberate, each breath quiet. His ears stood tall, flicking subtly, once to the left, then to the right, as if his very bones could still catch the fading resonance of Lucifer’s presence if he just listened hard enough.

 

But there was only silence.

 

Still, he pressed on.

 

The hotel halls were a patchwork of shadows and dim light. Velvet runners muffled his steps. Chandeliers overhead swayed gently, their crystal pendants whispering like glass ghosts. Doorways yawned to his left and right, some open, some shut tight. He passed them without pause, his attention locked on some invisible thread, some fading scent of tension still lingering in the air.

 

His ears flicked again.

 

There.

 

A sound, faint, so faint he almost missed it.

 

The barest whisper of movement across a textured surface. Not stone. Not leather. Not cloth. Something finer, softer. Rhythmic in a way that tugged at his instincts but didn’t fit any sound he knew.

 

He paused mid-step, tilting his head just slightly, ears swiveling forward, straining to pinpoint it.

 

Scratch... whisper... drag... whisper...

 

It didn’t repeat like footsteps. It flowed.

 

Whatever it was, it was enough. A breadcrumb in the stillness. A pulse of proof that he was close.

 

And so, he followed. Down the corridor, deeper into the quiet hum of the hotel’s forgotten corners, he moved with purpose now. No longer drifting. No longer hunting.

 

Tracking.

 

That strange, whispering scrape, delicate and persistent. As though someone were gently carving intention into silence. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew who it must be. Every fiber of him was certain.

 

He turned a corner, footsteps light as breath, the hotel growing quieter with each step. The usual bustle and distant chatter fell away until all that remained was that soft, repeating rhythm.

 

Alastor slowed.

 

Let his hand trail along the wallpaper, fingers tapping once, twice.

 

He stopped, just short of the next hall. The sound was closer now, barely around the bend.

 

He could turn back. He should turn back.

 

This wasn’t the plan.

 

He was supposed to observe, manipulate, maneuver. Get close to Lucifer, yes, but with purpose. Gain his trust. Dismantle his defenses. Weaken him from within.

 

That’s all this is.

 

He repeated the thought firmly. But the words rang hollow in his mind. They crumbled too easily against the memory of that glance. That smile, so bright and open. The strange flutter he’d felt at the sound of Lucifer’s laughter.

 

He clicked his tongue quietly in annoyance. Ridiculous. Sentimental. Dangerous.

 

But despite that the sound drew him onward.

 

He turned another corner, footsteps soft as mist, breath held without meaning to. The further he went, the more the hotel seemed to still around him. No voices. No distant footsteps. Only that sound.

 

He followed it like a thread through the dark. His ears twitched forward, alert and focused.

 

Until he saw a light in the dark.

 

A door, slightly ajar.

 

Warm light filtered through the narrow gap, casting a sliver of gold across the hallway’s shadowed floor. The sound was louder here, not loud, exactly, but clearer. A rhythmic stroke across a textured surface.

 

Alastor paused in the hallway. It was quiet here. Far from the laughter and shouting of the earlier activities.

 

He stepped closer. The room inside had once been a guest suite, long since abandoned. Dust hung thick in the corners, cobwebs gathering in the ornate trim. But the center of the room had been cleared, the light filtering through broken blinds in soft crimson beams.

 

And there was Lucifer. Back turned, sleeves rolled to the elbow, coat discarded across a chair, paintbrush poised in one elegant hand.

 

He moved with a kind of slow, practiced grace; each stroke of the brush sweeping in delicate arcs across a massive canvas propped against the wall. His hair caught the light, a pale halo around his head, and for a moment, Alastor forgot to breathe.

 

The painting itself was raw and devastating. A storm of color; fiery reds, golden light, and deep abyssal shadow. At its center, a white-winged figure, angelic and falling, spiraled downward in a burst of light. Feathers scorched, wings breaking apart mid-flight, a fragile body cradled close to his chest, a woman, her form ethereal, protected in his arms from the inferno.

 

Alastor stared; Lucifer, the fall, the grief, it was beautiful and terrible all at once. He didn’t mean to speak. But the words slipped out before he could catch them.

 

“You’re very talented.”

 

Lucifer startled, nearly dropping the brush. He spun around, eyes wide, chest rising with a sharp breath. “Alastor! How long…?”

 

“Long enough,” Alastor said softly, stepping into the room, his usual theatrical air tempered by something quieter.

 

Lucifer flushed faintly, immediately setting the brush down and reaching for a cloth, trying to collect himself. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

 

“You left the door open,” Alastor said, voice gentle. “Or perhaps... part of you wanted to be seen.”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. He turned slightly, one arm folding protectively across his chest as he looked back toward the canvas.

 

Alastor approached it, gaze drifting across the scene again. “The color work is exquisite. The composition, painfully honest. You captured the moment of descent with... restraint. But the agony still bleeds through.”

 

Lucifer didn’t respond. His jaw was tight. His eyes stayed on the figures in the painting; soft and luminous in the heart of chaos.

 

And before Lucifer could retreat behind words or pride or any carefully practiced mask, Alastor spoke again; quietly, sincerely.

 

“It must have hurt,” he said.

 

Lucifer’s breath caught.

 

Alastor’s voice was calm, but his eyes held something else; empathy, not pity. Understanding born of long-silenced grief.

 

“To fall so far. To lose so much. And still be expected to carry the weight of all of it like it was a crown.”

 

Lucifer blinked rapidly, mouth slightly open, lips parting to speak, but no words came.

 

Alastor didn’t press him. He just stood beside him, in the silence, as afternoon light bathed the broken room in dull light.

 

Lucifer stood before the painting: his fall rendered in sweeping color, wings scorched and broken, the fragile body of Lilith cradled close to his chest. He stared at it, silent for a long time.

 

He hadn’t come here with any intention of finishing it.

 

The painting had been started ages ago, just another way to keep his hands busy when his thoughts grew too loud, a habit more than a goal. He'd come to touch up a corner or add another stroke, not because it needed it, but because he did.

 

A quiet distraction. A ritual to numb the chaos of his mind.

 

But now, like a shadow given shape, the man at the center of all his current turmoil had appeared beside him. Not to scorn. Not to gloat. Not even to comfort.

 

Just to see.

 

Lucifer glanced at him sidelong. Alastor wasn’t looking at the painting anymore, he was looking at him, with an expression that made something twist low in Lucifer’s chest.

 

No one had ever said that before. ‘That it must have hurt.’

 

Not the angels who turned their backs. Not the demons who whispered behind his throne. Not even those who claimed to love him. They spoke of his fall like it was a punchline. A well-earned punishment. Even he believed it sometimes.

 

But Alastor had looked at it, at him, and seen pain. And not flinched from it.

 

Lucifer's throat bobbed. He said nothing. Just stood there, in the hush of afternoon, with the weight of memory pressing in and Alastor’s quiet presence at his side.

 

Alastor watched him, arms crossed loosely, for once making no sound. No smirk. No hum of static. Just stillness.

 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Lucifer said softly.

 

Alastor tilted his head, listening.

 

“I didn’t want…” Lucifer swallowed. “I never meant to create suffering. I just wanted to give them freedom. A choice.”

 

He stared hard at the painting, voice tightening. “What was the point of beauty, of paradise, if it was forced? If obedience was the only option?”

 

He laughed bitterly. “So, I showed them. I opened the door.”

 

He raised a hand, gesturing faintly to the star falling from heaven, his own face barely discernible in the golden blaze. “And they walked through it.”

 

His hand fell to his side.

 

“And then they ruined everything.”

 

His voice dropped lower.

 

“They killed. They stole. They hated. They chose selfishness and cruelty and fear. And when Heaven needed someone to blame… they pointed at me. Fallen, devil, evil…. monster”

 

He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Sometimes I wonder if they were right.”

 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed.

 

Lucifer went on, his voice quieter now. “They call me the King of Hell. The Devil. The reason evil exists. That humanity’s fall from grace began with mine. That every war, every act of violence, every terrible choice was my doing.”

 

He looked down at his hands, like there was blood there that no one else saw.

 

“And if that’s true… then what does that make me?”

 

The room was quiet again. Lucifer didn’t look at Alastor. He was braced for silence. Or mockery. Or worse… agreement.

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Lucifer blinked and looked up at Alastor.

 

Alastor’s voice was quiet, sharp as a needle. “That’s bullshit.”

 

He stepped closer, carefully, no theatrics now.

 

“You didn’t make sin,” he said. “You gave them the choice. What they did with it after, that was them.”

 

Lucifer started to speak, but Alastor raised a hand.

 

“You offered them something pure,” he went on. “Freedom. Autonomy. You broke the system that demanded perfection and handed them the terrifying, beautiful burden of deciding for themselves.”

 

Alastor’s gaze didn’t waver.

 

“They chose wrong. Not because you failed, but because they did.”

 

Lucifer’s lips parted slightly; breath caught somewhere in his throat.

 

Alastor shook his head once, firm. “You didn’t bring sin into the world, Lucifer. You brought truth. And humanity showed who they really were when no one was looking over their shoulder.”

 

Lucifer looked away, blinking hard, jaw working slightly.

 

“You are not a monster, not evil,” Alastor said gently, “I’ve met the Devil and he does not exist in this room.”

 

The words rang in Lucifer’s chest like a bell struck off-center, resonant, but jarring.

 

Because Lucifer had never worn that title with pride. Devil was the name given to him after the Fall. A curse spat through trembling lips. A label forged in bitterness and fear; one meant to strip him of who he had once been.

 

It was not a title he claimed. It was a brand burned into him for a single act of defiance, one born not of hatred, but of love. Of hope.

 

He tried to offer them freedom.

 

And for that, they gave him Devil.

 

A name that made children weep and zealots sharpen blades. A name that came with horns, fire, and a reputation steeped in everything he never meant to be.

 

And yet, here stood Alastor. A man steeped in violence and shadows. A predator among predators. And he looked at Lucifer without flinching, without malice and said no.

 

Said someone else deserved that name.

 

Not him.

 

Lucifer closed his eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, he let that truth settle.

 

His breath trembled on the way out.

 

“Thank you,” he said softly.

 

Lucifer looked up at Alastor; open, unguarded. There was no crown here. Just a man who had carried the weight of the world’s blame for eons, finally seen.

 

And Alastor was staring back at him like he was seeing a miracle and a curse in the same breath.

 

Neither of them spoke.

 

Lucifer took a half step forward, drawn in, like gravity had realigned itself and was quietly telling him closer.

 

He stopped just shy of Alastor, barely inches between them.

 

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said anything like that to me before,” Lucifer whispered. “Not without some kind of catch.”

 

Alastor’s breath hitched.

 

Lucifer was looking at him like he trusted him.

 

And Alastor, against all logic, against every sharp survival instinct buried in his bones, wanted to believe it was ok.

 

He didn’t move.

 

Lucifer did.

 

Slowly, gently, his hand came to rest against Alastor’s chest, just over his heart, not pushing, not pulling. Just being there. And when he leaned in, it was soft, hesitant. A question.

 

And Alastor answered. Their lips met, no fanfare, no fire, just a slow, intimate press of mouths in a room thick with memory and paint. A surrender to something unnamed. Something old and new at once. Neither of them deepened it. Neither of them rushed it. It was just there, unperformed, unbearably tender.

 

Lucifer’s hand lingered at his chest. Alastor’s hovered at Lucifer’s waist, ghosting the space between contact and flight.

 

But then Alastor’s eyes flew wide. He stepped back quickly, breaking the contact like the floor had opened beneath him.

 

Lucifer blinked, startled, lips parting. “Alastor…?”

 

But Alastor was already retreating, hands raised slightly as if not to ward off Lucifer, but himself.

 

“I…” His voice was rougher than usual. His smile not quite right. “I shouldn’t have….”

 

Lucifer took a step toward him.

 

Alastor flinched back.

 

“Don’t,” he said, too fast, not angry, afraid.

 

The pull in his chest was still there, clawing at him with something gentle and terrifying, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

 

“I have to…” He backed toward the door. “I need to think.”

 

And then he was gone.

 

Lucifer stood alone, heart pounding, paint drying on the canvas behind him.

 

And he whispered, to no one, “…So do I.”

 

---

 

The door slammed shut behind Alastor.

 

Alastor stood with his back pressed to it, breathing like he’d just run a marathon through fire. His hands gripped the doorknob as though it could keep him tethered to something. Anything.

 

The room was immaculate, orderly, exactly as he liked it. Not a speck of dust. Every book precisely aligned. Not a curtain out of place.

 

And yet everything inside him was chaos.

 

He staggered forward, shrugging off his coat with trembling fingers. It slid to the floor in a heap.

 

He sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers raking back through his hair as if trying to dig the moment out of his skull.

 

The kiss. Lucifer’s lips on his. That look in his eyes, open, unafraid, tender.

 

And Alastor had let him. He’d leaned in. He’d wanted it. It wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t manipulation. There was no performance in it. No game to be played. It had been real. And that… that was the part that terrified him.

 

He was meant to be a weapon. A perfectly honed spear guided by another man’s will. Trained from the moment his powers first stirred to one day bring down the King of Hell. That was his purpose. That was the only thing that made the pain worth it; the training, the blood, the souls he’d consumed to grow strong enough.

 

He was never meant to feel anything. And yet here he was, heart pounding, hands shaking, with the ghost of Lucifer’s breath still clinging to his mouth.

 

How had he gotten this close? How had Lucifer, of all people, slipped past the barbed-wire defenses, the careful walls of wit and charm and static, and nestled himself right into the softest, most fragile part of Alastor’s chest?

 

He curled forward; hands clasped at the back of his neck like he could hold himself together through sheer pressure.

 

He shouldn’t have gone to that room.

 

Shouldn’t have listened to that story. Shouldn’t have understood it.

 

Shouldn’t have felt that pang of kinship, of being born into a role instead of a life.

 

Shouldn’t have looked at Lucifer and seen not a king, not an enemy, but a man. A man who fell for love. Who still painted his guilt. Who carried his sorrow like a shadow.

 

Alastor grit his teeth.

 

This could not happen.

 

This feeling, this pull, whatever it was, it was dangerous. It was wrong, and it was real, that was the worst part.

 

He sat there in the silence, the shadows curling around him, the walls suddenly too tight, the air too heavy.

 

He’d kissed the King of Hell, and the King of Hell had kissed him back.

Notes:

Well now, hoo-wee, wasn’t that a doozy, dolls? First kisses, always a knock-out, always a crowd pleaser! But wouldn’t ya know it, our favorite emotionally constipated deer went and got himself spooked, skittering off and leavin’ poor ol’ Lucifer lookin’ like he just got hit by a runaway trolley of feelings. And with tensions risin’, secrets brewin’, and hearts on the line, the real question is, how in the blazes will our darling Radio Demon handle this uncharted emotional territory?

Stick around, sugars, ‘cause you know the static’s only just begun!

Now before I sign off and vanish into the velvet night, a little housekeepin’: I may be off the airwaves next week, as I’ll be out and about at the fabulous GalaxyCon! That’s right, your favorite cursed broadcaster is hittin’ the road. It ain’t set in stone, but if I get swept up in the convention chaos, updates may take a wee little pause.

Until then, my darlings, I hope you positively devoured this chapter, and I do hope to see you back here real soon. Until next time, this is your host with the most signing off, ta ta for now!

Chapter 20: Please, Just Talk To Me

Notes:

Hi everybody, I'm breaking character for this one.

First off, I apologize for the delay! I had planned to start posting again yesterday since I got back from GalaxyCon on Monday, but fate had other plans. I came home to a very sick pup, so I ended up spending all of Monday night and half of Tuesday at the vet. Thankfully, it’s not life-threatening, and my boy is on the mend now with some meds and lots of rest.

As for the con, I had an amazing time! 10/10 would recommend meeting the Hazbin cast if you ever get the chance. Blake was especially sweet, pure golden retriever energy, I swear.

Anyway, with all that said, here’s Chapter 20! I hope you all enjoy it!

Lucifer didn’t bother turning on the lights when he entered his room. The soft glow bleeding in from the hallway was enough to navigate by; enough to stumble his way inside, shedding his coat first, then his shirt, then the rest. Each piece of clothing landed where it fell, forgotten, forming a trail across the floor like breadcrumbs he had no intention of following back.

 

He dropped onto the bed with a heavy exhale, more a groan than a sigh, frustration and melancholy knotted tight in his chest. The mattress gave a soft creak beneath him, but it was the only acknowledgment he received.

 

Three days.

 

Three damn days.

 

Not a word. Not a glimpse. Not a flick of a red ear around a corner. Alastor had vanished like smoke into the rafters, taking his theatrics and his fucking unsettling quiet with him. Not even a chirpy confrontation in the hallway or a smug aside in passing. Nothing.

 

Lucifer ran a hand over his face, fingers dragging across his eyes like they could scrub away the ache gathering behind them. He turned his head toward the radio perched on the nightstand. Old, wooden, and lovingly restored.

 

He remembered finding it again. Just after everything had started to shift. After the deer had wormed his way into Lucifer’s days with that awful grin and those infuriatingly perceptive eyes.

 

Lucifer had dusted it off. Repaired it. Polished it. Replaced the knob. Worked on it until it gleamed again.

 

Because some stupid, stubborn part of him had wanted something in his room that reminded him of Alastor.

 

And now, here he was, lying naked on rumpled sheets, waiting for it to come alive.

 

The only proof he had that Alastor hadn’t fled the hotel entirely were those nightly broadcasts. The show still went on. Static crackling to life around the same time each evening. A jaunty opening jingle, a bright voice painting Hell’s horrors in vivid hues of charm and menace.

 

Lucifer had listened to each one since the kiss, clinging to the sound like it was the last tether to something he didn’t want to name.

 

He shifted onto his side, the sheets cool against his skin, the room too quiet.

 

What was he expecting? A follow-up? A confrontation? A sheepish knock on the door and a muttered apology?

 

No. That wasn’t Alastor. That wasn’t either of them, really.

 

Still, he waited. Because as much as he hated the ache in his chest, hated the limbo of this radio silence, he hated the idea of never hearing that voice again more.

 

He rolled onto his side, dragging a pillow close and tucking it beneath his chin. His eyes stayed fixed on the old wooden radio atop the nightstand, worn smooth with age, lovingly restored to its former glory.

 

Right on time, it crackled to life.

 

Lucifer’s chest rose with a quiet breath as the lights inside the radio glowed warm, golden-orange like firelight behind stained glass. The soft hum of static gave way to a bright, bouncing jingle; upbeat, theatrical, just a hair too cheery for a place like Hell.

 

Then came the voice.

 

“Oh-hoho~! Good evening, my darling denizens of the damned! It’s a marvelous night for mischief, mayhem, and a touch of murder, wouldn’t you agree? You’re tuned in, as always, to your favorite frequency for frightful fun; I’m your ever-charming host, and tonight, we have quite the delicious program ahead…”

 

Lucifer said nothing. Just held the pillow a little tighter.

 

He wasn’t really listening.

 

Not to the words, anyway.

 

He let the sound of Alastor’s voice wash over him, rich, warm, and brimming with that ever-present theatrical lilt. It danced between charm and menace, spun clever commentary from carnage, folded morbid jokes into hellish headlines like ribbon into cake batter. Occasionally, a cryptic phrase would slip past his lips, some hidden meaning tucked behind honeyed cadence, but Lucifer barely registered them.

 

He just listened.

 

Because that voice was all he had.

 

There had been something there. He hadn’t imagined it. The lingering glances. The softened edges to Alastor’s words when no one else was around. The way his hand had hovered, just barely not touching, like the restraint cost him something. Those almost moments, the ones that had felt like maybe, maybe, if he leaned in just a little closer…

 

And then he had. And Alastor had run.

 

Not stormed out in anger. Not recoiled in disgust.

 

But fled.

 

Like he was afraid.

 

Lucifer tightened his grip on the pillow. He wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… confused. Hurting. Caught in a limbo of silence he didn’t know how to break.

 

He just wanted to ask. To talk. To know what had gone wrong, if anything had. If he’d pushed too far, he’d back off. If it had all been a mistake, he’d let it go. He could handle rejection. He’d weathered worse.

 

But he couldn’t handle this.

 

This uncertainty. This vanishing act. This… absence.

 

And none of it could be fixed if the elusive bastard didn’t show his face.

 

The sound of Alastor’s voice had softened now, drifting into one of his usual monologues, something about a turf war gone sour in the western districts, laced with dark humor and casual gore. Lucifer barely heard it.

 

His eyes fluttered closed as that voice wove through the room, steady and bright, warm in ways its speaker would never admit. Like a lullaby in a language only the damned could understand.

 

It anchored him. Not to peace. Not to comfort. But to something real.

 

And in that soft, flickering light, with the pillow clutched tight to his chest and a heart too full of questions, Lucifer finally fell asleep.

 

The next morning Lucifer descended the stairs slowly, bare feet whispering across worn carpet. His hair was a tousled mess, still damp from a quick rinse. A baggy black t-shirt, threadbare from age, and a pair of faded shorts hung loose on his frame. He hadn’t bothered with his usual layers of elegance and poise. What was the point?

 

He was too tired. Too raw.

 

He entered the dining room out of habit more than hunger, intending only to scavenge coffee and escape again before anyone could ask why the King of Hell looked like he’d been dragged backwards through his own regrets.

 

But the moment he stepped through the doorway, he froze.

 

Alastor was there.

 

Seated comfortably at the table like nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn’t vanished for three whole days without a trace.

 

He was smiling pleasantly, one leg crossed over the other, cup of coffee in hand as he chatted with Charlie. Her laughter rang out bright and easy, her clipboard resting against the edge of the table.

 

“I really must apologize again for the sudden disappearance, my dear,” Alastor said, voice smooth and unapologetically charming. “Overlord business, you know how it is, can’t always send a calling card when Hell itself comes knocking.”

 

Charlie waved a hand. “It’s fine! Really! I’m just glad everything’s okay. Things have been quiet here; well, quiet-ish, but you know how the hotel gets.”

 

Lucifer stood like stone in the doorway, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

 

He looked… fine.

 

Unbothered.

 

Like three days hadn’t passed in silence. Like they hadn’t kissed. Like nothing had ever happened at all.

 

Lucifer’s throat tightened. He opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what he was going to say, only that he had to say something.

 

But then Alastor’s ears twitched. Just barely. The only sign he’d noticed Lucifer’s arrival.

 

And without turning, without missing a beat, he set his half-full coffee down on the table, offered Charlie a polite “Excuse me,” and vanished into shadows with the faintest crackle of static.

 

Lucifer stared at the empty space where he’d been, mouth still open, hands trembling faintly at his sides.

 

And then, as if nothing were amiss at all, Charlie turned toward him with a bright, oblivious smile.

 

“Good morning, dad! We’ve got pancakes, eggs, and toast if you’re hungry. Oh! And I think Husk put extra cinnamon in the coffee!”

 

She gave him a little finger wave and bounced off toward the kitchen, humming to herself.

 

Lucifer remained in the doorway, still half-asleep, half-broken, and fully stunned.

 

A hundred thoughts collided in his mind, none of them coherent. Fragments, half-formed questions, what-ifs, memories, instincts, each one clamoring for attention, each more useless than the last.

 

But above all of it, loud and clear like a punch to the face, was one unfiltered reaction: What the actual fuck.

 

He stood in the dining room like he’d been hit by a truck.

 

Three days of silence. Three days of aching and wondering and waiting. And now Alastor just… appears. Sitting there like nothing happened, chatting over coffee like he hadn’t torn a hole in Lucifer’s chest and crawled inside.

 

And then… disappeared.

 

Lucifer blinked hard, like that might force reality to line up better than it was. When it didn’t, he walked forward on autopilot, feet moving like they were made of someone else’s intentions.

 

He reached the table.

 

Alastor’s chair was still slightly askew, still warm from his absence. Without quite thinking about it, Lucifer eased into it, spine curling slightly as he rested his forearms on the table.

 

His gaze drifted to the mug that sat there.

 

Pink ceramic. Chunky. A bit ridiculous.

 

The words “Oh Deer” were scrawled across it in bold, black letters.

 

Lucifer stared at it for a moment. His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace, then he picked it up, held it to his nose, and gave it a curious sniff.

 

Still warm.

 

He took a sip. And immediately flinched.

 

“Ugh, God,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Bitter. Sharp. Like it had barely been sweetened, just a smidge of honey, maybe, and the faintest splash of milk to cut the edge.

 

Of course that’s how he took it.

 

Strong. Barely softened. Masked in presentation but unmistakably bold underneath.

 

Lucifer stared down at the coffee, then slowly set the mug back down, fingers tracing the words on the side as though it might somehow explain anything.

 

“Well,” he murmured to the empty room, “at least now I know how you take your coffee.”

 

It wasn’t much.

 

But it was something.

 

And right now, Lucifer would take anything.

 

Lucifer stared at the half empty mug for a moment longer before tipping back the rest of its contents in one long, determined swallow.

 

Bitter to the very last drop.

 

It wasn’t pleasant, but it did the job. The lingering edge of sleep was scraped from his thoughts, replaced by the sharp bite of over-steeped roast and not nearly enough honey.

 

He set the mug gently on the table, fingers lingering briefly on the rim. Someone would come for it. Nifty, maybe. Or perhaps Alastor himself, if he ever reappeared for more than two goddamn minutes.

 

Lucifer didn’t hold his breath.

 

With a sigh, he pushed himself up and made the slow trek back to his room. He dressed mechanically: slacks, shirt, vest, coat, crisp, and neat. One step at a time until he looked like himself again.

 

Even if he didn’t feel like himself.

 

Once dressed, he headed straight for the bar.

 

The hotel was waking up around him, distant voices, movement in the halls, but Lucifer paid them no mind. His focus was singular. After the past three days and this morning, he needed something far stronger than bitter coffee.

 

The bar was dim, cool, and mercifully quiet.

 

Husk was behind the counter, grumbling under his breath as he polished a row of glasses that didn’t really need it. Angel was already perched on one of the stools, nursing something aggressively fruity and painfully pink, complete with a paper umbrella and way too much garnish.

 

Lucifer dropped into a stool at the end of the bar, arms folding atop the counter as he rested his head down with a soft thud.

 

“Something strong,” he muttered, “and sweet.”

 

Husk gave a grunt of acknowledgment and didn’t ask questions.

 

Angel, of course, did.

 

He swiveled in his stool, leaned on the bar with a grin, and raised one perfectly manicured brow.

 

“Well damn, who crawled in your bed and didn’t finish the job?”

 

Lucifer groaned softly into the bar.

 

Angel took a sip of his drink, then added with a wink, “'Cause if you’re feelin’ lonely, babe, I do make house calls.”

 

Lucifer’s head lifted just enough to fix him with a dry, exhausted glare. “Angel, I swear to every celestial body above and below, if you finish that thought I will set your eyebrows on fire.”

 

Angel let out a laugh, not the least bit deterred. “Alright, alright! Just sayin’, a good fuck’s worked wonders for my mood more than once.”

 

Lucifer sighed and dropped his head back down. “My mood is not the result of a lack of dick.”

 

Angel snorted. “Then it must be serious.”

 

“Husk,” Lucifer groaned, voice muffled in his arms, “Please save me from this walking hormone.”

 

Husk slid a glass toward him without a word.

 

Lucifer didn’t even look up. Just reached for the drink and took a slow, steady sip.

 

Strong. Sweet.

 

Exactly what he asked for.

 

Lucifer was halfway through his second sip when the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears, light, confident, with that faint edge of static that made the hairs on the back of his neck stir.

 

He didn’t have to look up.

 

But he did.

 

Alastor strode into the bar like he’d never vanished. Composed, dapper, his expression perfectly pleasant. In one hand, he carried his ever-faithful “Oh Deer” mug, steam curling softly from within.

 

Without a word, he placed it gently on the bar.

 

Husk gave a low grunt, muttered something under his breath, and reached for a bottle hidden beneath the counter, dark, unlabeled, rare. He uncorked it and poured a healthy measure into the coffee without comment.

 

Alastor lifted the mug, sniffed, and offered a crisp, “Much obliged,” with a faint tip of his head. His smile was as smooth as ever, but his eyes flicked with something sharper, quieter.

 

Angel perked up immediately. “Heyyy, look who finally decided to show face!” he teased, swiveling toward Alastor with his usual cheeky grin. “You been off gallivanting, or what? ‘Cause with how quiet you were around here, I was startin’ to think you got yourself laid and didn’t survive it.”

 

Lucifer tensed.

 

Alastor turned slightly toward Angel, smile firmly in place, eyes hooded.

 

“Ah, no,” he said smoothly, voice light but measured. “I assure you, my time away was far less theatrical than that. Just a bit of business across the circles. One can’t be holed up in a hotel all the time, now can one?”

 

Angel raised an eyebrow. “Shame. I had a much more exciting theory.”

 

“I’m quite sure you did,” Alastor replied with a polite nod, not missing a beat. “Though I do encourage you to keep those theories to yourself. Some images are best left unpainted.”

 

Angel let out a bark of laughter. “Okay, damn! Fine, mister sensitive.”

 

Alastor gave a soft chuckle, clearly signaling the end of that topic. “Perish the thought.”

 

Lucifer, two seats down, was rapidly falling apart.

 

He sat frozen, drink forgotten, mouth parting in a valiant attempt to speak. His throat was dry. His mind was racing. This was it. The first real chance to say something, to get clarity, to understand.

 

He turned, tried to speak. “Alas—”

 

But Alastor’s ears twitched at the sound, and before Lucifer could finish the name, Alastor pivoted smoothly to face him.

 

“Your Majesty,” he said warmly, voice laced with that particular shine he wore when performing for an audience. “How lovely to see you up and about. I must say, your more casual attire earlier made quite the impression. Very… vulnerable chic.”

 

Lucifer’s brain short-circuited a second time.

 

Before he could recover, Alastor lifted his mug in a mock toast.

 

“But alas, I must be off, things to see, souls to torment, you understand.”

 

And with that, he turned, coat flaring slightly, and disappeared into the nearest shadowed doorway in a soft crackle of static.

 

Gone. Again.

 

Angel took a slow sip of his drink.

 

“...Oof. He is so weird.”

 

Lucifer, jaw tight and eyes blank, reached silently for Husk’s bottle.

 

Husk didn’t stop him.

 

And that’s how the rest of the day went.

 

Alastor didn’t disappear again.

 

No, he was very much present.

 

All throughout the hotel, all day long.

 

He returned to his usual routines like they had never been interrupted; assisting Charlie with welcoming new arrivals, helping Nifty reach high shelves, offering his signature grin to unsuspecting sinners right before politely informing them of the gruesome consequences of stepping out of line.

 

He spoke, he joked, he laughed.

 

He was exactly what he always had been.

 

To everyone else. But not to Lucifer.

 

It was subtle, so subtle that no one else seemed to notice, but Lucifer did. Of course he did. The angle of Alastor’s shoulders when they crossed paths in the hallway. The way his voice never quite softened the way it used to when addressing him. The polite distance he left between them now, carefully measured, never breached. The fleeting glances, too fast to catch unless you were waiting for them, followed by an immediate, practiced smile.

 

He didn’t ignore Lucifer.

 

No, that would’ve been obvious.

 

He answered when spoken to. Briefly. Cordially. But never let the conversation grow roots. Never lingered. Always had somewhere to be, something to do. The rhythm of his movements was tighter, more efficient. The corners of his presence sharper.

 

And it hurt.

 

Lucifer tried not to let it show. He told himself it was fine. That maybe it was just the chaos of the hotel, the press of duties, the overlapping tasks of the day.

 

But deep down, he knew.

 

This was distance.

 

Carefully crafted. Drenched in charm. Carried out behind that ever-present smile.

 

He tried, several times, to catch him alone.

 

A moment by the elevator. A quiet turn in the hall. Once, even in the back of the library when Alastor was shelving a book for some reason Lucifer didn’t believe for a second.

 

But every time, just when Lucifer got close enough to speak, to ask, Alastor was already on the move again.

 

Like a breeze slipping past a closing window.

 

Lucifer stood in the shadow of those absences, heart caught in his throat, unable to voice the ache building behind his sternum.

 

Because it wasn’t rejection.

 

Not exactly.

 

It was avoidance. The quiet kind. The kind that only mattered when something had mattered.

 

And it left Lucifer feeling hollow.

 

Because he remembered that look. The way Alastor had stared at him after the kiss. Like he’d seen something that terrified him. Like he’d wanted something he didn’t believe he could have.

 

Now, all Lucifer got was distance in a thousand paper-cut glances.

 

And none of the words he needed.

Notes:

Aaaaaand return to character!

Well folks, would ya look at that, Alastor’s at it again! Runnin’ from his feelings like the devil’s on his heels, leavin’ poor Lucifer lookin’ like a lost lamb in a thunderstorm. Oh, the scandal! The heartbreak! The audacity!

Still, one has to wonder... how long can our sweet little devil keep waiting with stars in his eyes? And just how long can that slippery stag keep up his disappearing act before fate, and feelings, catch up to him?

Stay tuned, my darlings, for the next thrilling installment of emotional chaos and unresolved sexual tension! You won’t wanna miss it!

Chapter 21: Deer In The Headlights

Notes:

Well hello again, my devilish darlings! Didn’t expect to hear from me so soon, did ya? I already dropped a chapter on your doorstep earlier today, but what can I say? Guilt’s a powerful motivator, and I figured it was high time I made up for last week’s little delay.

So I put on my spats, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work! That’s right, devils, I’ve got a couple more chapters comin’ at ya in quick succession. Consider it a little treat for your patience and a promise that things are about to get real interesting.

Pour yourself a drink, fluff those pillows, and settle in close, the drama’s heating up and the best is yet to come!

Charlie sat cross-legged on the couch in her office, half buried in spreadsheets and song lyric drafts when Lucifer knocked softly and stepped inside.

 

“Hey, Dad,” she said brightly. “What’s up?”

 

He hovered in the doorway for a beat longer than necessary, then closed the door behind him. “Can we talk?”

 

Charlie blinked, sitting up a little straighter. “Sure. Is everything okay?”

 

Lucifer hesitated, then crossed the room and took the chair opposite her desk. He folded his hands, stared down at them, then up at her with an expression she didn’t see often from him, worried, vulnerable.

 

“I need to ask you something about Alastor.”

 

Charlie’s smile faltered just slightly. “Okay... What about him?”

 

“You haven’t noticed anything... off?”

 

She frowned. “Not really? He’s been the same with me. Still helpful. Still annoyingly cryptic. Why?”

 

Lucifer was quiet for a moment.

 

Then, softly, “he hasn’t looked me in the eye since he came back.”

 

Charlie tilted her head.

 

“He won’t speak to me unless it’s necessary,” Lucifer went on. “And even then, it’s polite. Distant, like... like we’re strangers again. Like none of it happened.”

 

Charlie’s brows furrowed gently. “None of what happened?”

 

Lucifer hesitated.

 

“The kiss.”

 

Charlie blinked.

 

Lucifer looked down again, voice low. “It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t... It just happened. And then he looked terrified and left. For days.”

 

Charlie’s expression softened, her hands folding together in her lap.

 

“And now he’s back like nothing happened. And he’s avoiding me. Not obviously, but I feel it.”

 

She was quiet for a long moment.

 

 “Did you tell him how you felt?”

 

Lucifer let out a short, bitter laugh. “I think the kiss said it for me.”

 

Charlie smiled gently. “Maybe. Or maybe it said how you felt in the moment. But not what you wanted after.”

 

Lucifer frowned. “What I wanted after was for him to stay.”

 

Charlie stood and walked around the desk, perching beside him on the arm of the chair like she had when she was small.

 

“Dad,” she said softly, “he’s complicated. More than he lets on. You know that.”

 

“I do,” Lucifer murmured. “But I thought... maybe he’d let me in. Even just a little.”

 

Charlie tilted her head. “Do you think he’s avoiding you because he doesn’t care?”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth. Closed it.

 

She continued, gently, “Or could it be because he does care, and it scares him?”

 

Lucifer didn’t answer.

 

Charlie placed a hand over his. “You’re not wrong for feeling this, and he’s not wrong for not being ready.”

 

Lucifer swallowed; his throat tight. “So, what do I do?”

 

Charlie smiled. “You wait. You give him space. And when he’s ready to stop pretending none of it happened… you show him it mattered to you.”

 

Lucifer looked at her, eyes shining with something he didn’t want to name.

 

“Thank you,” he said softly.

 

Charlie squeezed his hand. “Anytime, Dad.”

 

---

 

The lights were dim in the corridor, casting long, moody shadows against the faded wallpaper. The hotel had gone quiet for the night, most doors were shut, most voices stilled.

 

Lucifer tried to be patient, he really did, but when one week turned into two and then three, he couldn’t take it anymore.

 

“Alastor.”

 

The name echoed sharp and low across the hall.

 

Alastor froze mid-step.

 

Lucifer stood at the other end of the corridor, eyes bright and unreadable in the low light. He didn’t shout. He just stood there, blocking the way.

 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

 

Alastor’s smile appeared instantly; too wide, too smooth. “Avoiding? Me? Why, that’s…”

 

“Don’t,” Lucifer cut in, voice low and steady. “Not this time.”

 

Alastor's mask twitched.

 

Lucifer took a slow step forward. “You left. Without a word. And then you came back and started pretending nothing happened.”

 

Another step. Alastor didn't move.

 

“We kissed, Alastor.”

 

Alastor’s hands clenched at his sides, fingers twitching.

 

“And I know you felt something.”

 

He looked away his ears pinned so tight against his head they were barely distinguishable from his hair.

 

Lucifer stepped closer. “You’re running from something. From me. And I want to know why.”

 

Alastor still didn’t answer. The air in the corridor thickened, heavy with things unsaid. Then, just for a moment, the shadows behind him deepened, pooling unnaturally at his feet.

 

Lucifer’s breath hitched. “Don’t you dare.”

Alastor began to sink, the dark curling up his legs like smoke. His form flickered, twitching with static.

 

“Alastor!”

 

Lucifer surged forward, his wings and tail bursting into form, horns ablaze with celestial fire. His hand seized Alastor's arm just as the shadows tried to consume him. The air cracked with power as divine light met churning darkness.

 

Alastor snarled his shadows writhed and surged back, fighting the grip that held him. The corridor dimmed around them, light and void pushing against each other in a pulsing, silent war.

 

“Let. Me. Go,” Alastor hissed, voice cold and sharp enough to cut glass. His magic flared like teeth in the dark, pressing hard against the light that held him.

 

Lucifer’s grip only tightened. The flame between his horns blazed brighter, casting deep, furious gold against the walls. “No.”

 

“You don’t get to run from this. Not again.”

 

The heat in his voice scorched the air.

 

“You wouldn't be avoiding me like this if you didn’t feel something too.” Lucifer’s voice rose, sharp with conviction, pain buried beneath it. “You’ve been twisting yourself in knots to keep from being alone with me. You disappear the second I get too close.”

 

His wings flexed behind him, but his voice faltered, just slightly. The anger gave way, cracking under the weight of something more vulnerable.

 

“If I pushed too far, too fast, if you don’t feel the same, I’ll back off, alright? Just say it. I don’t want to pressure you into something you don’t want.”

 

He swallowed hard, breath catching.

 

“But don’t keep treating me like a stranger. Please.”

 

His hand shook where it still held Alastor’s arm, though his grip never loosened.

 

“I don’t want to be someone you run from.”

 

The words landed softly, aching, desperate.

 

And just like that, the fight went out of Alastor.

 

The shadows that had coiled around him like armor shrank away, fading into the corners of the hall until only Lucifer’s golden fire remained, casting long, lonely shadows on the walls.

 

“I’m terrified.”

 

The words escaped Alastor like something long-stifled finally cracking loose.

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

Alastor’s eyes darted to his face, then away again, like even looking at him too long might burn. “Terrified to want this. To feel this.”

 

His voice was soft, bitter. “I don’t know how to hold something gentle without breaking it.”

 

Lucifer’s expression cracked, the remnants of his anger fading like smoke in the wake of something more fragile.

 

Alastor looked down. “I’ve spent so long convincing myself I don’t need anything, anyone. That feelings are dangerous. That they make you weak. That if you care, you lose.”

 

He shook his head. “And then you came along. And I… you. You got in. Past everything. And now I don’t know what to do with this.”

 

Lucifer stood there, still holding Alastor’s arm but now his grip loosened, just a bit.

 

“You don’t have to run.”

 

Alastor flinched, a barely perceptible jerk of his shoulders.

 

Lucifer's wings folded in, horns fading, the flame between them snuffing out. His tail uncoiled and vanished into the soft hum of stillness. The golden firelight that had filled the hallway dimmed, leaving behind only the warmth of his presence.

 

Slowly, carefully, he lifted his other hand and placed it on Alastor’s opposite arm, holding him now with both hands, lightly, like he might startle if he moved too quickly.

 

 “It’s okay to want this. To want me.”

 

Alastor stared at him, throat working around a hard swallow. The light caught in his eyes, glinting off something unspoken and raw.

 

“I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m not asking you to be ready. I’m just asking you to stop hiding.”

 

Alastor’s voice cracked when he spoke. “What if I hurt you?”

 

Lucifer’s smile was soft and sad and unflinching. “Then we deal with it. Together.”

 

Alastor’s knees buckled beneath him, the weight of everything crashing down like a tide he could no longer hold back.

 

Lucifer moved with him instantly, his hands never leaving Alastor’s arms. He sank to the floor with him, knees meeting the worn carpet without hesitation, his grip still light but steady.

 

 Alastor’s hands trembled where they hovered between them, suspended by Lucifer’s hold, his fingers curling into tight fists in a desperate attempt to hide the shake. The shadows he so often commanded to his will wavered around him, uncertain and unsteady, mirroring the way his voice shook when he finally spoke.

 

“I’m not good for you,” he whispered, words crumbling as they left his lips. “I’m not... I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin you.”

 

They knelt together on the floor, Lucifer’s hands still resting gently on Alastor’s arms, a quiet, unyielding anchor.

 

Lucifer’s voice, when it came, was low and steady, threading through the cracks in Alastor’s composure like warmth through frost.

 

“You don’t get to decide that,” he said softly. “I decide who’s good enough for me. And I’ve decided I want you.”

 

Alastor’s breath hitched, his eyes squeezing shut. His fingers, still clenched into tight fists between them, trembled despite his best efforts to stay composed.

 

He didn’t pull away when Lucifer shifted his grip, one hand moving slowly, carefully, from his arm to his shoulder.

 

For a long, heavy moment, Alastor stayed folded into himself, like the very idea of being wanted without condition was too fragile to hold.

 

The air between them settled, fragile but no longer frayed. Alastor’s head tipped forward, his forehead pressing lightly against Lucifer’s as though seeking something solid to anchor himself to. His breath trembled in the narrow space between them, but he didn’t move away.

 

Lucifer let his own breath slow, steady, until it matched the rhythm of the fragile, tentative connection they’d finally allowed themselves.

 

“Stay,” he whispered.

 

Alastor’s voice, cracked and raw, barely audible. “I’ll try.”

 

Lucifer closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the weight of those words. “That’s enough,” he murmured. “For now, that’s enough.”

 

---

 

The next day the dining room was the same chaotic mess it always was. Husk muttering into his coffee, Nifty reorganizing the sugar packets again, and Sir Pentious arguing with the toaster like it owed him rent.

 

But something was different. To anyone else, it was imperceptible. But to them, to Lucifer and Alastor, it was seismic.

 

Lucifer sat at the far end of the table, coffee in hand, his posture casual… but his gaze kept drifting.

 

And Alastor, who normally kept his distance like a polite wall of static, was sitting just a few chairs away. Close. Not right beside him, but closer than usual.

 

He didn’t look at Lucifer, not directly. But every time Lucifer shifted, Alastor’s ears would twitch in his direction, just slightly.

 

Charlie, seated beside Angel, was trying very hard not to smile. But her eyes kept darting between the two of them with the subtlety of a neon sign that read “I know.”

 

Finally, she couldn’t help herself. She leaned toward Lucifer with her brightest smile. “Sleep well, Dad?”

 

Lucifer didn’t look up. “Fine.”

 

“Dream about anyone interesting?”

 

Alastor’s coffee cup paused mid-sip.

 

Lucifer blinked slowly over the top of his paper.

 

Angel leaned dramatically across the table. “Oh my god, just say it, princess.”

 

Charlie gasped. “I didn’t say anything!”

 

“You don’t have to,” Angel said, grinning like the embodiment of chaos he was. “You’re glowing. They’re glowing. It’s like watching two brooding theater kids fall in love during finals week.”

 

Lucifer rolled his eyes and folded his paper. “You’re imagining things.”

 

Angel pointed. “You’ve looked at him like eight times since breakfast started. And he’s doing that thing where he pretends not to notice but his stupid deer ears twitch every time you breathe too loud.”

 

Alastor blinked once. Then set his cup down with theatrical care.

 

“My dear Angel,” he said smoothly, “how very astute of you.”

 

Angel beamed. “I am very observant.”

 

“And yet,” Alastor continued, “you’ve failed to notice your own not-so-subtle pining for Husk.”

 

Husk immediately spat out his coffee.

 

Angel choked. “What?!”

 

Charlie slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a snort.

 

Alastor simply sipped his coffee again, calm and cool. “Your commentary is a mirror, Angel. Reflective and highly revealing.”

 

Angel’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

 

“You! I do not pine!”

 

“You gaze at him like a poet stares at a dying flower.”

 

“I… That is weirdly romantic, and also, shut up!”

 

Husk groaned. “Can I please just drink my coffee without being the center of a goddamn romcom?”

 

Charlie finally burst into a laugh. “You two are the worst.”

 

Lucifer tried not to smile.

 

But across the table, Alastor’s eyes flicked to him for half a second, just long enough to catch the glint of amusement there.

 

A few days later…

 

It started small. Charlie “accidentally” assigning Lucifer and Alastor to every shared task. Organizing the library? Together. Repainting the hallway? Together. Sorting the cutlery drawer? Together.

 

Lucifer had said nothing at first.

 

Alastor had held his usual bord smile.

 

But when Angel started humming love songs every single time they were in the same room? It got personal.

 

Lucifer opened the fridge.

 

Inside, a post-it note stuck to the milk read:

“Just like your feelings for him, repressed, but still there 💕 —A”

 

Lucifer stared.

 

Alastor passed behind him, glanced at the note, and said dryly, “At least it’s not spoiled.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Lucifer muttered, closing the door a little too hard.

 

Across the room, Charlie tried to look innocent while casually rearranging cookies into a heart shape.

 

Angel walked by whistling “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” for the third time in an hour.

 

Lucifer groaned.

 

Alastor adjusted his gloves with all the patience of a man on the brink. “I caught them hiding behind the bookshelf this morning with a camera and a bucket of glitter.”

 

Lucifer paused. “...Do I want to know what the glitter was for?”

 

“No,” Alastor said grimly.

 

Later that evening, Lucifer paced. “This is intolerable.”

 

Alastor lounged in the guest chair, legs crossed, eyes glinting with devilish calculation. “They’ve underestimated us.”

 

Lucifer stopped mid-stride. “You want to retaliate?”

 

Alastor’s smile was all teeth. “Oh, darling. I want to out-meddle them.”

 

Lucifer arched a brow. “What, make them the victims of romantic sabotage?”

 

Alastor steepled his fingers. “Precisely. Charlie and Vaggie, predictably solid, but fluster easily. Angel and Husk, chaotic energy and barely suppressed longing. The groundwork is already there.”

 

Lucifer grinned. “You’re serious.”

 

“I am always serious about theatrical irony,” Alastor purred.

 

They both paused, very pleased with themselves.

 

Then Lucifer added, “You realize that teaming up like this is exactly what they were trying to get us to do?”

 

Alastor’s grin widened. “Yes. But this way we win.”

 

Lucifer laughed, actually laughed, and leaned against the desk. “God help them.”

 

Alastor tilted his head. “Shall we call it Operation Heartfelt Interference?”

 

Lucifer smirked. “Operation Matchmaker’s Revenge.”

 

They clinked coffee cups. It was war.

Notes:

Ladies and gents, devils and angels, stop the presses! Sound the alarms! Grab your hats and hold onto your hearts because at long, long last… they’ve done it!

That’s right, my darling deviants, our beloved King and that sweet, stubborn deer have finally stepped into the spotlight of love! The feelings are out, the tension’s cracked wide open, and the dance has truly begun, and oh, what a delightful waltz it promises to be!

But don’t get too cozy, folks! Just when things start heating up, in sashays a brand new threat, romantic meddling in its most mischievous form! With hearts on the line and chaos around the corner, one thing’s for sure: it’s gonna be one hell of a ride!

So stay tuned, sugarcubes. The sparks are flyin’, and we’re just gettin’ started!

Chapter 22: Love Is A Battlefield

Notes:

Alrighty, my darling night owls, this’ll be the last one I tuck under your pillow tonight, but fret not, it’s a doozy! A sweet little gem wrapped in velvet and tied with heartstrings.

Love is in the air, my dears, can you feel it? New romances are blooming, tender confessions are being whispered in the dark, and just beneath it all… simmering secrets and desperate resolutions begin to stir. It's a dance of devotion and danger, and I promise, you won’t want to miss a step.

So strap in, settle down, and steal a smooch if you’ve got someone close. Chapter 22 is comin’ at ya hot off the presses!

Angel sashayed into the room. “Alright, who’s the lucky devil dining with, oh.”

 

He stopped mid-strut.

 

Husk followed, took one look at the candlelit table, the glittering wine glasses, the offensively romantic plate of spaghetti, and froze. “...You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

 

Angel’s eyes swept the room, no one else. Just the two of them. Soft music played. A single meatball shimmered in the center of the plate like the world’s most suspicious pearl.

 

Then he saw the note on the table:

“Love is war. Enjoy the battlefield. – L & A”

 

Angel burst out laughing.

 

“Oh, they did NOT!”

 

Husk groaned and rubbed his face. “I hate everything.”

 

Angel was already sliding into the chair. “Come on, grumpy pants. Sit down. Free wine, free food, me. It’s basically your birthday.”

 

Husk muttered something that sounded like “kill me,” but sat anyway.

 

The candlelight flickered, the spaghetti steamed, and somehow the conversation flowed.

 

Angel cracked jokes that Husk didn’t completely hate. Husk grumbled through two glasses of wine, then admitted, out loud, that Angel had “decent taste in cigars.” They shared the meatball. It wasn’t even sarcastic. There was a weird, actual moment.

 

By the time dessert came, lava cake, Angel was twirling Husk’s tail idly around his finger and Husk didn’t even swat him away.

 

Lucifer leaned slightly forward. “Is he purring?”

 

Alastor squinted. “I… he is. That’s purring.”

 

Lucifer blinked. “They’re holding hands.”

 

Alastor’s mouth opened slightly, then shut again. “That wasn’t supposed to work.”

 

Lucifer chuckled. “Well, it did. We may have just orchestrated an actual first date.”

 

Alastor crossed his arms. “Ridiculous. They have no foundation. No emotional groundwork. It’s all chaos and poor decision-making.”

 

Lucifer grinned. “Isn’t that how half of Hell’s marriages start?”

 

Alastor’s ears twitched.

 

Then Angel leaned over the table and kissed Husk, a soft, tender kiss.

 

Lucifer let out a low whistle. “Huh. Guess they're official now.”

 

There was a long silence, Alastor’s eye twitched.

 

Lucifer turned to him, smug. “Should we congratulate ourselves? Our meddling brought love into the world.”

 

But Alastor didn’t answer. He was staring at the couple through the glass, expression unreadable, except for the very faint crease between his brows.

 

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “...You okay?”

 

Alastor abruptly turned. “I’m leaving.”

 

Lucifer blinked. “Wait, what? Where…?”

 

Alastor was already storming out of the room in a whirl of crimson coat and muttered static. He marched toward his room like a man escaping something on fire, namely, his own emotions.

 

Lucifer was close behind, unrelenting but composed, each step quiet and sharp with purpose.

 

“Alastor,” he called, again.

 

No answer.

 

“You’re angry because they beat us to it.”

 

That stopped him. Alastor turned slowly, eyes sharp, lips tight. “They made it seem so… simple, easy even.”

 

Lucifer smirked, taking a step closer. “Isn’t it?” he said, softly, seriously, “you’re not mad at them. You’re mad at yourself. Because you want that to be us.”

 

The last words hung between them like a challenge and a promise.

 

Something snapped, Alastor surged forward, fists clutching Lucifer’s shirt, and kissed him. It was hungry, electric, like something long-caged breaking loose.

 

Lucifer inhaled sharply through his nose, reacting instantly, hands sliding to Alastor’s waist, pulling him close with a sure, steady grip.

 

Alastor pressed in harder, almost frantically, his lips moving with a need he didn’t know how to name. His body was burning; hot, alive, flushed. Every nerve in him felt overstimulated.  He felt Lucifer’s mouth part against his, felt the subtle tilt of the other man’s head guiding them into rhythm, deepening it. Alastor’s breath caught.

 

His hands twitched at Lucifer’s collar. Then, without thinking, he pulled, desperate, instinctual. His fingers dug into the lapels of Lucifer’s coat, needing more, something solid to cling to while the rest of him spun. A soft, low sound escaped him, one he didn’t recognize. Want bloomed hot in his stomach, and that’s when his mind caught up with his body and he froze.

 

The heat, the instinct; the way his body moved without his permission, responding with raw urgency he didn’t know he was capable of. Alastor gasped and wrenched himself back, breath ragged, eyes wide. He stumbled until his back hit the wall, chest heaving, face flushed deep crimson. His fingers twitched at his sides like they didn’t know what to do without gripping Lucifer.

 

Lucifer froze, lips parted, golden eyes searching him.

 

Alastor couldn’t meet his gaze.

 

“I…” he rasped. “That was... I didn’t expect to…”

 

Lucifer tilted his head slightly, voice low. “You’ve never done that before.”

 

A beat.

 

Alastor gave the tiniest nod.

 

Lucifer’s expression softened immediately; gentle, steady, safe. “It’s okay.”

 

Alastor blinked.

 

“It’s okay to be new to this,” Lucifer said. “To be unsure. You’re allowed to want it. You’re allowed to not know what to do with it. And you’re allowed to not be ready.”

 

Alastor stared at him, still breathless, heart thundering in his chest.

 

“I’m not going to push you,” Lucifer continued. “Not tonight. Not ever. Not until you want to. Truly.”

 

The tension in Alastor’s shoulders eased, not fully, but enough. He nodded slowly, still pressed against the door, breathing starting to settle.

 

Lucifer stepped back, not away, just giving him room, and offered a smile so soft it made something tug painfully in Alastor’s chest.

 

A shaky silence stretched between them before Alastor finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Lucifer blinked. “For what?”

 

“For that.” Alastor gestured vaguely toward the space between them. His fingers trembled slightly, then clenched into fists at his sides. “I didn’t mean to… to lose control like that. I didn’t plan it. It just… happened.”

 

Lucifer’s brow furrowed, but his voice remained gentle. “You don’t have to apologize for wanting something.”

 

Alastor blinked at him, startled.

 

Lucifer’s voice lowered into something intimate, almost reverent. “You don’t have to know everything right away. You don’t even have to want everything right away. I’m not here to demand anything from you, Alastor. I’m here because I care. Because I want you. Not a performance. Not some version of you that knows all the right steps.” A pause. “Just you.”

 

For a moment, Alastor looked as though he might shatter under the weight of it. His lips parted, then closed again, and something unspoken passed behind his eyes. Slowly, he nodded.

 

Then, in a breath quieter than anything that had come before: “You’re the first.”

 

Lucifer blinked. “What?”

 

Alastor hesitated, the words dragging up like thorns. “You’re the first person I’ve ever felt this way about. The first person I’ve ever kissed. I never saw the appeal in... any of it. Not when I was alive. I never had the time. Or the opportunity. And after I died…” he gave a weak, humorless chuckle “…Hell made it even less appealing. The kinds of creatures that came sniffing around...” His nose crinkled in distaste. “They only made my aversion worse. You’re the exception. The only one.”

 

Lucifer’s expression flickered with something like shock, then softened into something deep and painfully fond. “Your first kiss?” he echoed, almost in awe.

 

Alastor looked away, embarrassed. “Yes. I know, it’s absurd. I just… never wanted it. Not until you.”

 

Lucifer’s heart squeezed, but it was the quiet bitterness in Alastor’s voice that struck deeper than the confession. And something else gnawed at him, a detail tucked in like an afterthought.

 

“You said... after you died,” Lucifer said softly. “Can I ask... how old were you, when it happened?” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “You don’t have to tell me. But if you want to... I’m listening.”

 

Alastor was quiet for a long moment. His jaw worked. Then, without a word, he reached up and swept back his bangs.

 

The skin beneath was smooth except for the scar, an almost perfect circle at the center of his forehead, the skin around it slightly discolored.

 

“Hunting accident,” he said flatly. “I was thirty-two.”

 

Lucifer stared at the mark, his breath catching. That wasn’t just young, it was unfinished. Alastor hadn’t even lived half a mortal life.

 

Slowly, Lucifer lifted a hand. He cupped Alastor’s cheek, thumb brushing gently across the curve of his skin, careful not to touch the scar but anchoring him all the same.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “You didn’t deserve that.”

 

To his surprise, Alastor leaned into the touch. Just slightly. Just enough. His eyes dropped, lashes low, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, but certain.

 

“That’s not true,” he murmured. “I do deserve it. My place here. I wouldn’t be in Hell if I didn’t.”

 

Lucifer’s heart sank. “Alastor…”

 

Alastor didn’t move. “It’s the truth,” he said quietly. “Maybe not all of it, but enough.”

 

Lucifer held his gaze for a long moment, thumb still brushing slow and soothing along his cheek. “I don’t know everything you did in life,” he admitted. “Maybe I never will. But I do know this, people make mistakes. All of them. Even the best ones.”

 

His hand didn’t falter, and his voice dropped to something more tender, more mournful.

 

“I’m sad you died so young, Alastor,” he said. “Because it means you never got the chance to grow past whatever you did. You never got the chance to change. Or to choose something different. Even if you had wanted to.”

 

Alastor's expression wavered, just barely. But it was enough. Enough to show something was cracking beneath the surface, something ancient and starved and never once tended to.

 

Slowly, Alastor lifted his own hand and laid it over Lucifer’s, fingers curling gently around his. His touch was steady now, calmer, as if the act of speaking had drawn something quiet and resolute to the surface.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly. “What’s done is done.”

 

Lucifer’s brow furrowed, but Alastor pressed on, voice steady but quiet. “If I hadn’t died when I did... If I’d had the chance to be anything different... I might’ve missed this.” His thumb traced slowly over Lucifer’s knuckles. “I never would have ended up here. I never would have met you.”

 

Lucifer's breath caught.

 

Alastor tilted his face just slightly, just enough to press a soft, deliberate kiss to the inside of Lucifer’s wrist. It was gentle, but the intimacy of it left Lucifer stunned, like his heart had stuttered mid-beat.

 

Then, without a word, Alastor lowered their hands, releasing them from the moment with graceful finality.

 

Lucifer blinked, his cheeks flushing with molten gold, butterflies swooping wild and giddy through his chest and belly. His lips parted in surprise, but no sound came out, just a breathless exhale, too full of wonder to shape into words.

 

Alastor, for his part, seemed oddly composed again. But his eyes... his eyes gave him away. There was a flicker there, soft, shy, honest.

 

And Lucifer, glowing brighter by the second, was helpless to do anything but smile.

 

They didn’t say anything as they resumed their walk through the quiet corridors of the hotel, climbing steadily toward the top floor. The silence between them wasn’t strained now, but comfortable, a kind of hush reserved for moments too delicate to break with words. They walked shoulder to shoulder, footsteps soft on the plush carpet, and every so often, their hands would brush. Light, fleeting touches. Each one sent a tiny ripple through Lucifer’s chest, like the aftershock of a bell still ringing.

 

By the time they reached Alastor’s door, Lucifer’s heart was fluttering again, hopeful, bashful, full.

 

He paused, hands tucked behind his back, eyes tipped up toward Alastor’s face. “Would it be alright,” he asked, almost shyly, “if I got a hug and a kiss goodnight?”

 

Alastor huffed a laugh, his lips quirking into a fond smirk. “You don’t have to ask every time, mon cœur,” he murmured. “I told you, I’m not going to run again.”

 

Lucifer lit up like dawn, golden blush rising bright in his cheeks as he moved in without hesitation, wrapping his arms tight around Alastor’s waist. The suddenness of it made Alastor grunt softly, more in surprise than discomfort, but he chuckled again and let his arms fold around Lucifer in return.

 

He held him close; head bowed until his nose pressed into Lucifer’s hair. He breathed in, lavender, smoke, and something innately Lucifer. Something warm and clean and his. His hold was gentle but firm, cradling. Protecting.

 

But inside, his heart twisted tight.

 

He had never meant to want this. Never planned for him.

 

And now? Now, somehow, some way, he would have to find a way to protect him, not from other demons, not from Heaven or Hell, but from the blade that still hung, silent and waiting, between them. From himself. From his master.

 

Lucifer stirred slightly in his arms, and Alastor loosened his grip just enough for the smaller man to lean back and look up at him. Their eyes met, Lucifer’s golden gaze soft and earnest, his lips parted with a small breath.

 

He tilted his chin, just a touch, and pressed a chaste, featherlight kiss to Alastor’s lips.

 

Alastor let him.

 

The contact was brief, but tender, and Alastor’s arms tightened in response, just a little, just enough to hold onto the moment a second longer.

 

When they finally pulled apart, it was with shared smiles and quiet hearts.

 

“Goodnight, Alastor,” Lucifer whispered.

 

“Goodnight, mon roi,” Alastor murmured back.

 

Lucifer turned and drifted toward his own door down the hall, casting one last look over his shoulder; warm, glowing, content. And Alastor, left standing in the gentle hush of the hallway, let the smile linger on his face even as the weight in his chest pressed harder.

 

He had promised not to run.

 

But in the silence that followed, he feared he might already be running out of time.

 

The door to Alastor’s room shut behind him with a quiet click.

 

The rich red wallpaper, polished floors, and gaslight sconces flickered as he stepped further into the room, but something shifted as he walked. It was subtle, seamless. The light changed first; warm lamplight giving way to dusky twilight, shadows growing longer, cooler.

 

The air thickened, not unpleasant, but heavy with moisture. The faint scent of magnolia and wet earth replaced old smoke and linen.

 

He kept walking.

 

The velvet drapes faded to long, tattered mosquito netting. The gleaming hardwood softened into creaky, weathered planks beneath his boots. The walls vanished altogether, replaced by trees.

 

Cypress, draped in moss; fireflies blinking through mist. The hotel had vanished behind him, and he hadn’t so much as opened a door. Now he stood at the edge of a quiet, still bayou, his sanctuary and his prison.

 

The house emerged ahead, perched above the water on stilts; narrow, old, familiar. Wooden shutters, porch swing swaying in the phantom wind. It was a place that remembered him, even when he wished it wouldn’t.

 

He stepped onto the porch, boots thudding softly against the planks, and sank into the rocking chair that always waited. It creaked, slow and rhythmic, the only sound besides the chirping cicadas and distant hoot of an owl.

 

He folded his arms tight across his chest, rocked once, and then stilled, the silence stretched.

 

The kiss replayed again behind his eyes, Lucifer’s lips on his, the wild, instinctive way his body had moved on its own, full of want that confused and thrilled and frightened him all at once.

 

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, fingers splayed over a heart that still hadn’t slowed. He hadn’t just wanted Lucifer in that moment. He’d needed him. Wanted to be near him, touch him, know him. The thought terrified him, not because it was wrong, but because it felt so right.

 

And he didn’t know how to carry something like that. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered into the dark.

Notes:

Well well well, would ya look at that, seems there’s more than one romance takin’ root in this hotel for the damned! Ain’t that just the sweetest little surprise? Why, love’s bloomin’ like wildflowers in a graveyard, and I for one am absolutely here for it.

But mercy me, things sure got hotter than Hell itself for a tick, didn’t they? Passions flared, hearts raced, and our sweet, bashful little deer found himself caught in the fire of his own desire. Poor thing nearly bolted, but not this time, no sir.

Because he made a promise, didn’t he? To his King. And secrets or no, danger be damned, he’s found something worth holdin’ onto. And this time? He’s not runnin’.

So for now, my darling deviants, I bid you goodnight and sweet, scandalous dreams. Until next time...

Chapter 23: Jealous Serpent In A Lonly Swamp

Notes:

Good evening once again, my darlings. I do hope you’re surviving this delightfully infernal night with your wits intact and your hearts aflutter.

Now then, wasn’t that last chapter simply dripping with deliciously sweet connections? Mmm, positively decadent! But the night is young, and the air is thick with anticipation, so gather 'round, won’t you?

It's time we dive headfirst into the aftermath, into more tantalizin’ shenanigans and breathtakingly intimate interludes.

So, without further ado, and with a wink and a wicked little grin, I present to you…

Chapter twenty-three.

Enjoy!

Alastor emerged from his suite at precisely 8:00 a.m., coat buttoned, hair combed, smile in place. He descended the staircase with his usual theatrical poise, greeting staff and residents with calm charm, but his eyes flickered, just slightly, as if afraid of catching a certain golden gaze.

 

Lucifer noticed, of course he did. He sat in the lounge, draped in one of the armchairs, long fingers laced under his chin. He didn’t comment. Just offered a simple, “Morning.”

 

Alastor inclined his head. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

 

No tension, no blush, just tight professionalism, like the kiss had been part of a particularly vivid dream.

 

Lucifer didn’t push. Mercifully, he let Alastor pretend nothing had happened.

 

For now.

 

Alastor paused mid-buttoning his gloves, hesitating only a moment. “I have a meeting this morning. Overlord affairs, reports, numbers, it’ll be excruciatingly dull.”

 

Lucifer arched an eyebrow. “And you’re telling me this... why?”

 

Alastor’s smile twitched. “Because I could use a second pair of eyes and ears. Preferably ones capable of burning someone to ash should they start monologuing.”

 

Lucifer grinned. “Tempting.”

 

Alastor glanced sidelong at him. “You’d have to remain... discreet.”

 

Lucifer only smirked wider. In a breath of light and heat, the King of Hell was gone, replaced by an elegant serpent; pure white scales edged in soft iridescence, a pale pink belly, golden eyes narrowed with mischief.

 

“Really leaning into the Garden of Eden aesthetic,” Alastor murmured dryly, watching as Lucifer slithered up his arm.

 

Lucifer flicked his tongue. “Nothing is more discreet, or if necessary, threating, than an eight-foot serpent with big teeth.”

 

But his mouth didn’t move. The words were inside Alastor’s head. Alastor stiffened, his pulse quickening. Telepathy? He hadn’t even realized Lucifer could do that. For a split second, Alastor’s thoughts raced wildly. Does that mean Lucifer could read my mind?

 

Lucifer’s voice whispered again in his mind, smooth and amused: “Don’t panic, love. It only works one way and only if I’m touching you.”

 

Alastor exhaled, a laugh hitching in his throat, the tension slipping away just slightly. “Charming,” he murmured, trying to recover his composure.

 

Lucifer only snickered, flicking his tongue again, smug and utterly at ease. He coiled comfortably around Alastor’s torso, part of him hidden inside the folds of the coat, the rest curling lightly around the back of his neck like a living scarf. His chin rested lazily near Alastor’s collarbone.

 

Alastor straightened his tie and muttered, “Try not to hiss at anyone unless they deserve it.”

 

---

 

The meeting was, as promised, mind-numbingly dull.

 

Each Overlord took turns standing to present quarterly summaries: shifts in territory control, population fluctuations, adjustments to sin-taxation zones. One demon spent ten minutes explaining the decline in recreational arson due to “overregulation.”

 

Alastor nodded politely, took notes, and occasionally tilted his head just enough to keep Lucifer’s hidden weight balanced on his shoulders.

 

Lucifer, meanwhile, nestled in against him, warm and mostly still, except for when he entered the room.

 

The TV demon. He took a seat two chairs down and immediately started sneaking glances at Alastor. His screen flickered with animated blushes, exaggerated cartoon hearts, and once, briefly, a stick-figure doodle of him and Alastor holding hands.

 

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. The serpent around Alastor’s neck tensed slightly.

 

Alastor said nothing, showed nothing. But one hand drifted up to casually adjust his lapel, grazing against the coils curled there in quiet reassurance.

 

Lucifer still wanted to bite something.

 

Soon enough the meeting ended and as the room began to empty, Alastor offered Rosie a parting smile and a nod, but his eyes were already fixed elsewhere.

 

Lucifer, nestled invisibly beneath the folds of his coat, followed the motion of his gaze and found the source instantly.

 

The TV demon lingered by the opposite wall, pretending to check the brightness settings on his screen, but his attention was unmistakable. His flickering eyes trailed Alastor’s every step like static-charged longing. When Alastor veered toward Valentino, Vox’s shoulders stiffened. His screen momentarily glitched, just a flicker of digital jealousy.

 

Lucifer, unseen and unseeable, smirked faintly.

 

“He’s watching you like you’re his favorite lost broadcast,” he mused through the telepathic link.

 

Alastor made no reply, but Lucifer felt it, a hum of amusement, the shift in his chest as he walked with theatrical calm toward the moth demon.

 

“Valentino,” Alastor greeted, voice warm and syrup-slick. “Might I borrow a moment of your time? Just the two of us.”

 

Valentino’s grin spread slow and salacious, his antennae twitching with interest. “Mmm, how could I say no to that, sweetheart?”

 

Alastor’s smile faltered, only slightly, only for a second. The curve of it stiffened, the corners pulled just a fraction too tight. His eyes narrowed in a way that might be mistaken for focus by the untrained eye, but to the few who knew him well, it was unmistakable, a flicker of disgust.

 

Lucifer’s forked tongue flicked against the air as jealousy coiled hot in his belly. Valentino’s voice, the look he gave, the too-familiar tone, it all scraped across his nerves.

 

He tensed, every inch of him going taut. A hiss of outrage nearly slipped past his teeth, barely suppressed.

 

Then, as Alastor and Valentino turned a corner and disappeared from Vox’s view, Lucifer’s attention sharpened.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

 

Alastor didn’t answer aloud. Instead, he ran a steady hand down the front of his coat, slow and casual, brushing the shape of the hidden serpent nestled tightly beneath his lapel.

 

Lucifer exhaled softly, comforted despite himself.

 

They reached a dim alcove, well away from prying eyes. The moment they stopped, Valentino turned to face him, grinning.

 

“Well, well, pulling me aside like this? You’re gonna make a girl blush,” Val purred, smoothing his lapels and leaning in. “What’s the matter, cherry pie? Got tired of playing host and decided to finally have a little fun?”

 

He reached out to touch Alastor’s collar.

 

The smile that spread across Alastor’s face was thin. Almost pitying. “Don’t,” he said softly, voice laced with something far colder than his usual cheer.

 

Valentino paused but only briefly. “Oh come on,” he murmured. “You and I, we’d look real good pressed together. I always figured it was just a matter of time.”

 

Beneath the coat, Lucifer’s coils tightened further. He didn’t speak. But Alastor felt the way his body curled tighter around his ribs, like a storm winding itself taut.

 

With a steadying hand, Alastor smoothed over his coat again, fingers brushing gently across the serpent’s concealed form. “Easy now,” he murmured under his breath, whether to Val or to Lucifer, it was unclear.

 

Then louder, “I didn’t pull you aside to entertain your fantasies, Valentino.”

 

The moth demon tilted his head, his grin slipping. “Then what?”

 

Alastor pulled a crisp, aged parchment from inside his coat and let it unfurl between them. Blood-red ink shimmered faintly across its surface.

 

“To remind you of a favor,” Alastor said. “A contract. Made years ago.”

 

Valentino blinked at the document, at the elegant loops of his own signature at the bottom. “...What is this?”

 

“A deal,” Alastor replied. “You wanted power. I gave you introductions, Vox and Velvet where instrumental in your rise to power where the not? Your empire bloomed, and in exchange, you agreed to owe me one favor of my choosing, at a time of my choosing.”

 

Val scoffed. “That? That was ages ago. You’re really digging that back up?”

 

“I am.”

 

“And what, exactly, do you want?”

 

Alastor’s smile returned, this time wide and razor-sharp.

 

“I want Anthony’s soul contract.”

 

The smirk fell from Valentino’s face. “Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me.”

 

“You can’t be serious.” The moth demon’s wings flared. “That little whore signed with me. He’s mine.”

 

Alastor’s eyes flashed. “Not anymore.”

 

Valentino snarled and lunged, sloppy, undisciplined, furious.

 

Alastor didn’t move much. With one fluid twist of his wrist, the shadows in the room surged, catching Valentino mid-strike and slamming him into the floor with a crack.

 

Before the moth demon could gather himself, Alastor closed the distance and slammed a single heel down on his chest, pinning him like the insect he is.

 

“I believe you’ll find,” Alastor said, adjusting his monocle, “that the favor owed is one of my choosing. Any favor. Any time.”

 

His claw tapped the bottom edge.

 

“And failure to comply?” His smile widened, voice like honey-dipped arsenic. “Permanent extermination.”

 

Valentino’s eyes went wide.

 

“You can’t be serious!”

 

“Oh, but I am.”

 

Valentino writhed under Alastor’s heel, wings snapping uselessly as he twisted against the tendrils holding his arms down.

 

“You slimy little rat!” he hissed. “You think you can waltz in here and take what’s mine?!”

 

Alastor tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting red through his monocle. “No, no. You gave me the means to do this, darling. Years ago, remember? You were so eager back then. So hungry.”

 

“You smug son of a—nggh!” Val twisted harder, one of his sleeves ripping as he strained. “I made my empire myself! I bled for it! You think some crusty old contract gives you the right?”

 

“I don’t think,” Alastor interrupted, calm and bright as a butcher’s blade. “I know.”

 

He leaned a little heavier onto Valantino’s  chest, and the shadows tightened, not enough to crush, but enough to remind.

 

Val’s breath hitched.

 

“You could refuse, of course,” Alastor mused, brushing dust from his coat sleeve. “Defy the contract. Break your word. Take your chances with what happens next.”

 

Val’s eyes narrowed.

 

Alastor leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something cool and poisonous. “But I imagine permanent erasure isn’t quite the finale you had in mind, now is it?”

 

There was a beat of silence. Val’s jaw clenched.

 

Then, finally, he spat, “Fine. Fine! You smug bastard! take it!”

 

With a flick of his hand, the shadows loosened just enough for the moth demon to reach into the folds of his coat and yank out a compact, glowing scroll bound in red velvet.

 

He threw it at Alastor’s chest like it burned him.

 

“There. His contract. You’ve got what you want. Happy now?”

 

Alastor caught it effortlessly, inspecting the crimson seal with a look of idle satisfaction. “Delighted.”

 

Val glared, panting, wings twitching with impotent rage.

 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, radio man.”

 

Alastor folded the scroll neatly into his coat. “I’m not playing at all.”

 

With a snap of his fingers, the shadows hoisted Valentino off the floor then vanished, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground.

 

The moth demon landed hard, coughing and swearing under his breath.

 

Alastor adjusted his bowtie and turned on his heel, pausing just long enough to cast one last glance over his shoulder.

 

“Do be careful, Valentino,” he said pleasantly. “Retaliation would be a poor move on your part.”

 

He walked away without looking back, his coat swaying. Beneath the fabric, Lucifer remained curled and quiet, but not without satisfaction.

 

He whispered in Alastor’s mind, a note of admiration in his voice.

 

“You’re terrifying when you want to be.”

 

Alastor smiled faintly, fingertips brushing once more over the hidden coils beneath his coat.

 

“I know.”

 

Alastor was halfway down the front steps when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

 

“Wait… Alastor!”

 

The TV demon grabbed Alastor’s coat, screen flickering with what he probably thought was an adorably flustered expression.

 

“I was wondering if maybe you wanted to, I don’t know... talk. Or grab a drink, or something.” His voice was casual, teasing, too familiar. “I mean, you’ve been so distant lately, I figured maybe you just needed a little… attention.”

 

Alastor’s smile thinned. “I appreciate the sentiment, but…”

 

Before he could finish, a soft, sinuous shape uncoiled from beneath his collar. Lucifer rose from the front of Alastor’s coat, his head lifting high and graceful between them. Golden eyes gleamed, a low, rumbling hiss vibrated through the air.

 

The TV demon froze.

 

Lucifer’s tail still coiled loosely around Alastor’s middle, anchoring him as he reared, sleek and beautiful and visibly unamused.

 

Alastor sighed. “You’re doing the thing.”

 

Lucifer’s tongue flicked out lazily. “I’m doing a thing.”

 

The TV demon took an instinctive step back.

 

Lucifer’s voice slid into Alastor’s mind, low and smug. “Tell your admirer he can find someone else’s coat tail to cling to.”

 

Alastor, not missing a beat, smiled pleasantly. “As you can see, I’m otherwise engaged.”

 

The TV demon blinked. “Is that... the King of…”

 

Lucifer let out another, more pointed hiss. The demon turned and walked away very quickly.

 

Alastor waited until he disappeared, then let out a long, slow breath. “Dramatic, aren’t we?”

 

Lucifer lowered himself until his head rested once more near Alastor’s throat. “Possessive,” he corrected. “You’ll get used to it.”

 

Alastor’s smile returned; slight, crooked, and deeply entertained. “I just might.”

 

Soon enough they ascended the front steps of the hotel together, the elegant serpent nestled against Alastor’s shoulders, offering a perfect picture of casual mischief. Easy banter passed between them as they climbed, the kind of playful, sarcastic exchanges they had mastered. Alastor teased Lucifer about showing off, while Lucifer retaliated with whispers in his mind about how devilishly tempting, he looked while threatening the moth.

 

As they crossed the threshold into the hotel lobby, the familiar chatter of the rest of the hotel crew greeted them. Lucifer expected Alastor to pause, to let him slither down and resume his humanoid form. But instead, Alastor’s pace picked up.

 

On a velvet chaise near the front desk, Angel Dust lounged sideways, one leg draped dramatically over the armrest, a cigarette balanced between his fingers and a tabloid magazine spread across his lap.

 

He looked up just in time to see a crimson ribbon-tied scroll land squarely on his chest.

 

Angel blinked.

 

“The hell…?”

 

He sat up, brushing ash from his jacket, and stared at the scroll like it had personally offended him. Carefully, he untied the ribbon and unrolled it, eyes scanning the infernal script.

 

His cigarette dropped from his mouth.

 

“The fuck…” Angel’s voice cracked. “THE FUCK?!”

 

He scrambled to his feet, holding the glowing contract like it was going to explode. “Al?! What the hell did you do?!”

 

Alastor didn’t answer. He didn’t even look back. His boots tapped cleanly against the polished floor as he climbed the stairs, coat flaring behind him like a curtain on closing night.

 

Angel shouted after him. “Are you outta your fuckin’ mind?! You stole this from Val?! You… wait, did you KILL him?! Did you…”

 

His voice echoed up the stairs, unanswered.

 

“You’re going to make quite the reputation for yourself,” Lucifer murmured into his mind, his tone rich with amusement. “That was… surprisingly kind.”

 

Alastor didn’t reply at first.

 

Instead, he reached up with one gloved hand and brushed his fingers slowly beneath Lucifer’s chin, trailing down the warm scales of his throat and neck in a soft, absent stroke.

 

Lucifer’s eyes fluttered half-closed at the touch.

 

Then, in a voice laced with distant humor, Alastor replied aloud, “don’t get used to it.”

 

Alastor didn’t slow. His boots clicked against the steps, his long strides became brisk, almost hurried, carrying them up the grand staircase, his steps echoing sharply off the old wood floors.

 

Lucifer’s golden eyes narrowed, his voice slipping into Alastor’s mind again with a note of confusion. “Alastor… what are you doing? Where are we going?”

 

There was no answer, just the determined, silent tension in Alastor’s frame as he climbed higher and higher, passing floor after floor. His hands remained steady at his sides, but his shoulders betrayed him, tightening as though he were bracing for something he couldn’t quite face.

 

They reached the top floor, where few people ever ventured. Alastor finally slowed, approaching a door at the very end of the corridor, his room, locked and enchanted against intrusion. With a flick of his wrist, he unlocked it and stepped inside.

 

Alastor loosened his bow tie and slipped off his coat, carefully folding it over a chair. His hands were steady, but his shoulders… weren’t.

 

Lucifer slithered down from Alastor’s shoulders with all the elegance of silk, coiling once around the back of the chair before shifting; his true form reassembling in a quiet ripple of magic and gold.

 

When he stood upright again, he smoothed his sleeves and gave the room a slow, curious glance.

 

“This is your room?” he asked, mildly surprised.

 

It was lovely; refined, classic, tailored. Much like Alastor himself. But Lucifer expected more performance. More of the Radio Demon.

 

Alastor didn’t answer. He simply moved to the back of the room, and the world changed around him.

 

The plush hotel carpeting gave way to worn, creaking planks. The gas lamps dimmed, replaced by amber dusk filtering through dense tree canopies. The walls melted into moss-draped cypress, their roots winding through thick, black water. The scent of damp earth and sweet decay curled through the air.

 

Lucifer followed slowly, awestruck.

 

By the time they reached the porch of a small wooden house on stilts, half-hidden among the trees, they were no longer in the hotel. At least not in any way that mattered.

 

Lucifer stepped to the edge of the porch, taking in the still bayou, the lazy hum of insects, the golden light filtering through the moss. “Where are we?” he asked quietly.

 

Alastor stood beside him, gaze on the water. “Where I was born.”

 

Lucifer turned to look at him, but said nothing.

 

“I made this place,” Alastor said softly. “Recreated it. As best I could remember.”

 

Lucifer’s gaze swept the porch again. “It’s beautiful.”

 

Alastor’s expression didn’t change.

 

“It wasn’t always.”

 

A pause…

 

“My mother raised me here. Sweet woman. Loud voice. Soft hands. She’d sing to the swamp spirits and dare them to talk back.”

 

Lucifer smiled faintly.

 

Alastor’s eyes darkened. “My father… was another matter. He had a temper. Always did. But by the end, it got worse, drunker, meaner.”

 

He paused. “One day… he came at me. I don’t remember what started it. I just remember her stepping in front of me. A flash of silver. She had a knife.”

 

Lucifer’s breath caught.

 

“She stabbed him in the stomach. He shoved her when it hit, hard, just reflex, I think. She fell back and hit her head on the chopping block. They both died, right there. He bled out, she didn’t get back up. I was eight.”

 

Lucifer turned to him slowly. Silence settled over the bayou.

 

Alastor looked at him.

 

“I built this place to remember her,” he said. “But he’s always here, too. Every time I hear the frogs fall quiet. Every time the wind picks up and the swing creaks just wrong.” Alastor took a deep breath leaning back against the porch railing. “I’ve never let anyone in here before. Not once.”

 

Lucifer glanced sideways at him.

 

“It was always mine,” Alastor said. “Private. Safe.”

 

He finally looked at Lucifer, something naked flickering behind his eyes.

 

“But I wanted you to see it.”

 

Lucifer didn’t smile. Didn’t speak right away. Just took a slow breath and turned to face the bayou, letting the moment settle like dew on the air.

 

“…Thank you,” he said finally, softly. “For trusting me with this.”

 

Alastor’s throat bobbed.

 

Lucifer leaned against the railing, gaze sweeping the trees, the hanging moss, the still black water.

 

“I haven’t seen Earth since I fell,” he said after a pause. “You brought it to life.”

 

He looked at Alastor, golden eyes warm. “And you brought me here.”

 

Alastor opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed hard.

 

“I wanted you to see something real,” he said.

 

Lucifer’s smile was soft, genuine. “You’ve already shown me more than anyone else ever has.”

 

His gaze lingered on the trees, their branches bowed with moss, the stillness of the water broken only by the distant croak of frogs. A soft breeze stirred the air, warm and humid, carrying the scent of cypress and damp earth.

 

A pair of butterflies drifted past him, bright little things, orange and black, dancing lazy loops in the air. He blinked at them, caught off guard by the sudden, delicate beauty. One brushed his shoulder, and he laughed under his breath, barely more than an exhale.

 

The smile that bloomed across Lucifer’s face wasn’t the practiced, sharp-edged grin of Hell’s King. It was bright. Unrestrained. The kind of smile usually only seen on children catching their first glimpse of something magical. It didn’t belong in Hell, and yet, somehow, impossibly, it existed here anyway.

 

“Beautiful,” he said, voice quiet, aching.

 

Alastor forgot to breathe.

 

He stared, transfixed, as if the world had narrowed to that one impossible moment. That smile. That light. And all he could think, stunned and breathless, was that it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

 

Something warm and painful bloomed in his chest.

 

“You’re welcome to come back anytime,” Alastor said, voice gentler than he meant it to be.

 

Lucifer turned to him, startled. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

 

Alastor extended a hand and lifted a single finger. One of the butterflies flitted closer and landed delicately. He watched it for a moment, then looked at Lucifer.

 

“I’m sure,” he said. “If you ever want to see a little piece of Earth… you can always come here.”

 

Lucifer turned toward him fully now, the words sinking in. Silence settled over the bayou.

 

And for a long moment, they just stood there, two immortal beings in the hush of a bitter sweet memory, the water still beneath them, the wind a lullaby.

Notes:

Ohh, my stars and garters, my darlings… my poor heart just can’t take it! Our dear, sweet Radio Demon is finally startin’ to peel back those crimson layers. Just a little… but oh, what a tremendous little that was.

Can you even imagine? Orphaned so young… the poor dear. And now, to bring the King himself into his most personal of sanctuaries? A place steeped in bittersweet memory and old ghosts? Why, it’s enough to rot your teeth from the sweetness alone, isn’t it?

But alas, I do ramble when I'm feeling sentimental.

That’s all I’ve got for you tonight, kittens. If this chapter made your heart flutter or ache just a touch, go on, leave a comment or tap that little kudos button. It truly makes my whole wicked day.

Goodnight, my darlings… sleep sweet, and don’t let the shadows bite!

Chapter 24: Start The Clock

Notes:

Ah, hello again, my darling devils and charming saints! It’s your ever-dashing host, back once more to deliver another delectable chapter straight to your eager eyes! Now, I do hope you didn’t think for a moment that I’d forget about our dear Charlie’s little jaunt to Heaven and the rather dramatic extermination that follows... I may have toyed a tad with the timeline, but rest assured, my darlings, it’s all still right on track. So buckle up, because here it comes, ready or not!

Charlie darted through the main hall, half-dressed in a smart crimson blazer and tugging at a suitcase that refused to roll straight. “Vaggie, where’s the folder? The one with the presentation slides? Oh my God, I swear if Angel turned it into a coaster again—”

 

“It’s by the front desk,” Vaggie answered, already strapping a travel pack over her shoulder. “I made a copy. And backups. Don’t worry, babe we’ve got this.”

 

Lucifer stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking paler than usual, his cane clutched tightly in one hand. His expression was unreadable, except in the way his eyes refused to leave Charlie for even a second.

 

At his side, Alastor materialized from an inky shadow, offering a steaming mug of chicory coffee. “Don’t suppose I could interest Your Majesty in a mild sedative disguised as caffeine?”

 

Lucifer didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the shimmering tear in reality that now hovered in the hotel’s entryway, a perfect oval of gold-edged light. A portal.

 

“They gave me permission to open it exactly twice,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone. “Once to send her. Once to bring her back. Only at the gates. Only at the appointed time. They haven’t let me breach Heaven’s border since the day I fell.”

 

Alastor hummed, sipping his own drink. “Then it’s a historic occasion… or an exceptionally well-dressed trap.”

 

Lucifer shot him a look.

 

“I’m kidding,” Alastor added with a smirk. “Mostly.”

 

Charlie stopped at the threshold of the portal, her hand laced tightly in Vaggie’s. She turned back. Her smile was radiant but trembled at the edges. “We’ll be okay.”

 

Lucifer walked toward her slowly, every step feeling like it cost him a century. He stopped just short of touching her. “They didn’t want to listen,” he said quietly. “I had to beg. Pull strings. Cash in debts I haven’t dared speak of in millennia. This meeting is nothing more than a courtesy they resent giving.”

 

Charlie reached out and took his hand. “Then I’ll make it worth it.”

 

Lucifer exhaled. He touched her cheek, once, like it might be the last time. “One day,” he said softly, “you’re going to change everything.”

 

“I hope so,” she whispered.

 

And then, with Vaggie by her side, Charlie stepped through the light.

 

The portal closed behind them.

 

Lucifer stood frozen, staring at the place the gate had been, as if he could will it open again just by glaring hard enough.

 

“Stop,” Alastor said brightly, appearing beside him with a jaunty flick of his cane. “You’re scaring the wallpaper.”

 

Lucifer didn’t even blink.

 

Alastor’s smile remained fixed in place, but his eyes flicked, just once, toward the lingering shimmer in the air. He could feel the residual magic clinging to it.  He hated how familiar it was.

 

“Come now,” he said lightly, looping an arm through Lucifer’s and steering him down the hallway before the King could object. “Let’s not start gnawing on our nails. You know how unregal that looks.”

 

Lucifer let himself be led, only half aware of it.

 

In the lobby, Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb were waiting with what might have been a party… or a trap. Possibly both.

 

“Yo, Lulu!” Angel threw confetti in Lucifer’s face. “Congrats on being a dad who lets go! That’s like, what, step six in the pamphlet?”

 

Lucifer did not laugh.

 

“Step seven is panic drinking,” Cherri added, handing him a cocktail that glowed ominously.

 

Lucifer took it anyway. Drank deeply. Didn’t comment on the aftertaste of battery acid and glitter.

 

Alastor lounged beside the fireplace, watching them with that same easy grin. “Isn’t this fun?” he said brightly. “A toast to reckless hope and poor decision-making!”

 

He laughed when nobody else did. But only for a moment.

 

Later, in the parlor, Husk dealt cards with the bored lethargy of someone deeply regretting saying yes to anything.

 

Lucifer sat stiffly at the table, holding his hand of cards like they might stab him. Alastor watched him too closely, too long.

 

“You’re cheating,” Lucifer muttered finally.

 

“I am,” Husk said. “You gonna do something about it?”

 

Lucifer folded. Alastor smirked. “Good instincts. Fold before you lose anything you can’t get back.”

 

The line earned him a sharp glance, but also distracted Lucifer long enough to forget the clock for five minutes. Alastor considered that a win.

 

By early afternoon, Sir Pentious had been roped into an “impromptu science fair,” during which he launched a remote-controlled, blimp into the rafters. It exploded with a rain of glitter.

 

“I fail to see how this helps!” Lucifer shouted over the mess.

 

Alastor shouted back: “You aren’t pacing anymore, are you?”

 

Lucifer glared. But again, he wasn’t pacing.

 

---

 

It was sometime past dusk when Lucifer finally retreated to the library, silent and exhausted, sinking into a worn velvet chair like it might swallow him whole. The others had gone, or passed out, or been bribed into cleaning up.

 

Even the fire in the library burned quieter now, its light flickering gently across polished wood and worn bookshelves.

 

Lucifer sat hunched in an old chair, staring into the flames. He hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour. His drink sat untouched, the glass slick with condensation from his fingers.

 

Behind him, Alastor stood by the tall window, posture deceptively relaxed, arms folded behind his back. The crimson of his eyes was dimmer than usual, like a lantern half-turned down.

 

“I hate this,” Lucifer muttered. “Waiting. Not knowing.”

 

Alastor didn’t respond immediately. When he did, it was with careful casualness. “You’re not alone in that.”

 

Lucifer turned to look at him, searching his face for something. “You’ve been quiet. Too quiet.”

 

“Unusual, I know,” Alastor said with a tight smile. “But even I have my limits.”

 

Lucifer looked away first, exhaling hard. “You’re worried too.”

 

Alastor’s smile faded into something smaller. “Yes.”

 

That single word hung between them, unadorned and unmasked. No shadows to hide behind. No radio static. Just honesty, as much as he was allowed to give.

 

“You’re not the type to worry,” Lucifer said.

 

“I’ve seen reasons to make exceptions,” Alastor replied.

 

Lucifer blinked at that, caught off-guard by the admission, but oddly comforted. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

 

“Because if I let it show,” Alastor said softly, “you might fall apart. And we can’t have that, can we?”

 

Lucifer gave a breath of laughter; more exhale than mirth. “I suppose not.”

 

---

 

The next morning the hotel was unusually still. No early morning laughter. No clattering dishes. No poorly timed explosions from Sir Pentious’s latest “invention.” Just a hush, tense, heavy, waiting.

 

Heaven had told him nine am. So, here he stood at eight fifty-nine desperately waiting for that final minute to tick by so he could get his daughter back.

 

Lucifer stood in the center of the lobby, cane in one hand, the other hovering just above the floor as he drew the portal open. Gold light tore through the air like a wound healing in reverse, slow and precise.

 

The portal opened exactly on time.

 

Charlie stumbled through it with a gasp, one hand clutching at her chest, eyes wide and unseeing. Vaggie came immediately after, arms catching her as Charlie nearly collapsed against her.

 

Lucifer’s composure shattered. “Charlie!” he was at her side in an instant, hands hovering, uncertain where to touch without breaking her further. “What happened? Are you hurt? Did they, did they lay a hand on you?”

 

Charlie didn’t respond. She was pacing now, erratic, one hand pulling through her hair in tight loops. Her mouth moved constantly, muttering beneath her breath.

 

“They said—we can’t—it’s not enough time—not enough, not enough, how are we supposed to— months— months, it’s not…”

 

Vaggie gripped her shoulders, trying to meet her gaze. “Charlie. Breathe. You have to breathe.”

 

By now, the noise had drawn the rest of the hotel out. Angel leaned over the banister with wide eyes, Husk came out half-dressed with a drink still in hand, Niffty wrung her hands and whispered prayers to gods no one believed in anymore. Even Pentious appeared, his expression unusually solemn. The room held its breath.

 

Charlie froze in place, eyes glazed but focused on the middle distance.

 

“They moved the extermination,” she said. Her voice was too steady, too numb. “It’s not a year anymore.”

 

Silence.

 

“We only have two months.”

 

A ripple of gasps, curses, and panicked voices swept through the crowd, but Charlie was already turning. Already retreating. She shook off Vaggie’s hand, muttered something no one caught, and disappeared up the stairs with quick, stiff steps.

 

No one moved to follow her. Except Alastor. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at anyone. Just melted away from the crowd like he was part of the shadows themselves, his eyes lingering on the final place the portal had shimmered.

 

Lucifer didn’t stop him; couldn’t. He just stood there, surrounded by chaos, and for the first time in centuries, felt powerless.

 

Angel was the first to speak. “Two months?” he said, voice hollow. “That’s not enough time to fix any of us.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Husk.

 

“We’re all gonna die,” Cherri said flatly. “Again.”

 

Lucifer didn’t listen. His eyes were still on the staircase, where his daughter had vanished. He didn’t even notice the blood he’d drawn in his palm, his fist clenched tight around the end of his cane.

 

Upstairs the floorboards groaned beneath the weight of Charlie’s frantic steps, a rhythm of rising panic. He didn’t wait for permission. He slipped through the door with the ease of habit and the entitlement of someone who had long since decided boundaries didn’t apply to him.

 

“Lovely décor,” Alastor said cheerfully, arms folded behind his head. “The tension really ties the room together.”

 

Charlie spun around, eyes flashing. “Get out!”

 

Alastor raised a brow. “My dear, if I fled every time someone shouted at me, I’d never get anything done.”

 

“I’m not in the mood for your games.”

 

“And yet,” he said, stretching like a lounging cat, “here I am. And here you are. Spiraling.”

 

She opened her mouth to argue but stopped. The tension in her frame shifted, less fury, more grief. She clenched her fists. “Why are you even here?”

 

Alastor tilted his head, watching her with that unsettling smile. “To listen. Or provoke. Whichever gets you talking first.”

 

She folded, not dramatically; no sobs, no screams, just a slow collapse into the desk chair, hands clutched tight in her lap.

 

“Adam,” she said. “He’s the one who changed it. He stood there smiling while he said it. Two months. Said it like it was a gift. And then he said…” her voice dropped, “He said he’s coming here first.”

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened ever so slightly. “Good.”

 

Charlie blinked. “Good?”

 

“If he’s coming here,” Alastor said, sitting up, “then you have a chance to fight. To make a statement.”

 

“I can’t fight angels, Alastor!” she cried. “I don’t even know if they can be hurt let alone killed! And even if they can, there’s only eight of us.”

 

She was pacing again, frantic. “Dad can’t get involved. Heaven will wipe this place out and call it righteous.”

 

Alastor watched her with something between amusement and patience. Then, lightly, “angels can be killed.”

 

Charlie stopped cold. “What?”

 

“They bleed. They scream. They die.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

 

Alastor smiled; teeth gleaming. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

There was a beat of tense silence.

 

“…What do you want?”

 

Alastor said nothing. He didn’t need to. He was already working the angle. He shouldn’t. He knew that. Lucifer would skin him alive if he found out. He could practically hear the King’s voice now; you took advantage of her. But Alastor wasn’t wired for resistance. Opportunity was sacred.

 

He let the pause stretch, just long enough for the idea to take root. Then, casually, he leaned forward. “One favor. That’s all. No harm required. One favor, of my choosing. And I’ll tell you how.”

 

Charlie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

 

“And I promise,” he said, sweet as poison, “you won’t have to.”

 

He meant it.

 

She hesitated, then extended her hand.

 

“Oh and no telling your dad about this little deal either, he might overreact!”

 

His heart stuttered once. Guilt twisted somewhere deep in his chest. But he took her hand anyway.

 

“Deal,” she said a determined expression falling over her face.

 

The magic flared bright, curling around their arms like ink in water, dark, binding.

 

Too late to back out now.

 

“Angelic steel,” he said. “Only thing that’ll kill them. Otherwise, they recover. Eventually.”

 

Charlie exhaled. But she didn’t fall apart this time.

 

“I know where to get some,” she said. “Carmilla. She stockpiles weapons after every extermination. I’ll send Vaggie to negotiate.”

 

Smart girl.

 

He stood, smoothing his coat. “Then you and I,” he said lightly, “are going to Cannibal Town.”

 

Charlie blinked. “Cannibal… why?”

 

“They’re strong. Fierce. Always starving for a good meal. And they’ll listen to Rosie.” A pause. “She’ll listen to you.”

 

Charlie hesitated. “You think I can convince them to join us?”

 

“I think,” Alastor said gently, “that if anyone can make even cannibals believe in redemption… it’s you.”

 

She looked at him for a long moment, searching.

 

He smiled wider, hoping she didn’t notice how it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

Notes:

Oh, Alastor, being such a good boyfriend to our dear sweet king, cleverly keeping him distracted from his spiraling worry, all the while, his own little heart is being tugged by worries of its own, how ever does he do it, my darlings? But wait! What’s this? He dares to go behind his back gasp! What could he possibly need from our darling princess? Ah, you’ll have to stay tuned to find out, won’t you? Until next time, my dears, don’t forget to drop a comment or a like if you’re enjoying this wild ride, I do so adore hearing from you. Goodnight, my precious ones!

Chapter 25: I've Got A Plan

Notes:

Ah, hello my darlings! It’s your favorite voice from the airwaves, back again with another tantalizing chapter just for you! Things are starting to heat up, aren’t they, my dears? The clock is ticking, and oh, the tension is thick in the air. But fear not, our sweet Charlie has some powerful friends backing her up. So, without further ado, let’s dive right in, shall we? Stay tuned, you won’t want to miss what’s coming next!

Angel was pacing near the front desk, muttering about backup plans that involved very little planning and a lot of running. Husk had stationed himself behind the bar and was halfway into a bottle of something vile and orange. Niffty was furiously scrubbing invisible stains off the wall, and even Sir Pentious, uncharacteristically subdued, was slithering in tight, agitated loops muttering "six months, six months" under his breath like a broken toy.

 

Lucifer stood at the foot of the stairs, arms folded tight across his chest, gaze locked on the landing above, where Charlie had vanished only an hour before. He hadn’t moved since. His knuckles were white around his cane.

 

Charlie descended the stairs with steady steps, the tremble gone from her hands, her jaw set with something fierce. Her eyes still shimmered with fear, but it was clear now, a weaponized sort of fear. The kind that doesn’t freeze but moves.

 

Alastor followed close behind, a pleased, practiced smile curving his lips. But Lucifer’s eyes narrowed.

 

The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and his shoulders, usually so fluid and loose, were just a little too stiff.

 

Guilt?

 

Lucifer’s gut twisted, but he let it go. Not now, not with Charlie like this.

 

“Everyone,” Charlie said, raising her voice just enough to cut through the chaos.

 

They turned, one by one, the noise falling away.

 

“We have a plan,” she said.

 

Lucifer blinked. She sounded... sure.

 

Charlie swallowed hard. “This isn’t what I wanted. Any of this.” Her voice trembled, but didn’t break. “But I made a promise. I promised to protect the people in this hotel. All of you.”

 

She looked around, meeting eyes, some frightened, some hardened. “And I’m not about to back out now.”

 

A beat. Then she straightened. “Vaggie, I need you to go to Carmilla Carmine. Convince her to give us access to her stockpile. We need angelic steel. Enough to fight.”

 

Vaggie nodded sharply, her posture tense. “I’ll leave right away.”

 

Charlie turned back to the rest of the lobby. “Alastor and I are going to Cannibal Town. We’re going to speak to Rosie. If anyone can rally the kind of support we need, it’s her. But we’ll have to convince the cannibals it’s worth the risk.”

 

There was a stir of unease, murmurs of disbelief. Charlie took a deep breath.

 

“It’s not going to be easy. But it’s what we have.”

 

Lucifer finally moved, stepping forward. His voice was low, barely holding back the tremble. “Are you sure?”

 

She nodded. “We don’t have time to wait.”

 

He looked at her, not as the King of Hell, just a father. A father who knew he couldn’t fight with her.

 

“I’m not allowed to interfere,” he said quietly, just to her. “If they attack only the sinners… I can’t touch them. I’m not even supposed to be near the angelic legions when they arrive. If something happens to you…”

 

He stopped. He couldn’t say the rest.

 

“I might not be able to get to you in time.”

 

Charlie’s face softened, her strength flickering.

 

Before the silence could stretch, Alastor stepped forward, unusually subdued. “Your Majesty,” he said seriously. “I give you my word, I will do everything in my power to keeping her safe.”

 

Lucifer looked at him, sharply. And something in Alastor’s face, behind the grin, beneath the polished calm, meant it.

 

“I’ll bring her back to you,” Alastor said. “Even if it kills me.”

 

Lucifer stared at him for a long moment. He believed him.

 

Charlie touched her father’s hand. “We’ll be careful.”

 

He squeezed her fingers, just once.

 

“I’ll hold you to that.”

 

---

 

It was a patchwork of old-world decadence and predatory charm. Gas lamps flickered overhead, casting a warm amber glow on cracked cobblestone streets. Velvet drapes hung in doorways, hiding who, or what, might be watching. Music drifted in strange syncopated rhythms from deep within the twisting alleyways, interrupted only by the occasional echo of maniacal laughter or the wet snap of teeth.

 

Charlie walked close to Alastor’s side; her heels clicked against the stones a little too fast.

 

Alastor, on the other hand, strolled like he was on holiday. He waved to passersby, many of whom looked half-starved and fully dangerous, and was met with cheerful nods or curious grins in return.

 

“This place is…” Charlie began.

 

“Charming?” Alastor offered.

 

“I was going to say interesting.”

 

He chuckled, delighted. “That too.”

 

They stopped outside a tall building that resembled an opera house dragged through a funeral parlor. The scent of roses and dried blood clung to the red velvet curtains lining the entry.

 

A tall, statuesque figure stepped out to greet them, arms open wide.

 

“Alastor!” Rosie called, beaming. “You devil, you’re late.”

 

Alastor bowed low, one hand over his chest. “My sincerest apologies, darling. It’s difficult dragging royalty anywhere on time.”

 

Rosie’s sharp eyes flicked to Charlie, and she immediately softened. “And you must be the Princess.”

 

Charlie blinked. “You… know who I am?”

 

“Of course, dear.” Rosie swept forward, took both of Charlie’s hands in her own and gave them a gentle squeeze. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself. Everyone down here loves a girl with ambition. Come in, come in.”

 

They followed her into a grand parlor with plush seating, velvet walls, and just enough bone-work in the chandeliers to make Charlie question her sanity.

 

Rosie gestured for them to sit, pouring drinks with a practiced elegance. “So. What brings you to my little corner of Hell?”

 

Charlie hesitated, suddenly tongue-tied. Her fingers twisted in her lap. “I… well, I—we came because…”

 

Alastor cut in smoothly. “We’re here for a favor.”

 

Rosie raised an eyebrow, but sipped her wine. “That so?”

 

Charlie gathered herself, sat up straighter.

 

“There’s an early extermination coming,” she said, voice tight but steady. “Two months from now. Adam said he’s coming for my hotel first.”

 

Rosie stilled.

 

“…Well,” she murmured. “That’s troubling.”

 

“We’re building a resistance,” Charlie continued. “We have weapons, or will soon, at least. But we need people. Allies. And I was hoping… that maybe the citizens of Cannibal Town might be willing to help.”

 

Rosie set her glass down with care. “An early extermination changes things. But you’re asking a lot, darling. My people are fierce, yes, but they’re also independent. They follow no one they don’t respect.”

 

Charlie looked down. “I understand.”

 

Rosie tilted her head. “But you have heart. And courage. That counts.”

 

She stood, elegant and commanding. “We’ll have a town meeting. Tonight. I’ll gather everyone. You’ll have the floor.”

 

Charlie’s eyes widened. “Tonight?”

 

“If you want them to fight beside you,” Rosie said gently, “you’ll have to make them want it.”

 

Alastor, watching from the velvet lounge chair, smiled just a little.

 

Charlie nodded slowly, the weight of it all settling on her shoulders, but she didn’t shrink from it.

 

“Then I’ll convince them.”

 

Alastor’s grin stretched just a touch wider as he rose to his feet. “Splendid,” he said, clapping his hands together with theatrical delight. “What a marvelous turn of events! A town meeting, a rousing speech, potential violence; why, it’s practically a holiday!”

 

Rosie chuckled and shook her head fondly. “I’ll start making the preparations. I suggest you two get a bit of rest while you can. Tonight will be… spirited.” With a graceful nod, she turned and swept from the room, heels clicking like a metronome behind the curtain’s fall.

 

Charlie remained in her chair, shoulders sagging the moment Rosie was out of sight. The fierce composure that had carried her this far seemed to crumble into the cushions. Her hands twisted in her lap, fingers anxious and uncertain.

 

“What if I blow it?” she murmured. “They don’t know me. Why would they trust me? What if they just… laugh me out of the room?”

 

Alastor tilted his head, the brightness in his smile softening, not dimming, but focusing.

 

“My dear, you’re the Princess of Hell and one of the only souls in this wretched place still brave enough to believe in something better. You’ve already done more than most ever would.” His voice lowered a fraction; more velvet than razzle-dazzle now. “They’ll see that.”

 

Charlie nodded, though her jaw was tight. Alastor watched her a moment longer, then added, almost as an afterthought, “But do be cautious around Susan.”

 

Charlie looked up. “…Susan?”

 

“Yes, regrettably. Mean-spirited creature. Thinks belligerence is the same thing as backbone.” He sniffed disdainfully. “She’s survived four exterminations by sheer spite and the rest through dumb luck, and has made it her personal mission to challenge everything. Once tried to eat my leg over a disagreement about jazz.”

 

Charlie blinked. “…What?”

 

Alastor waved a hand. “She didn’t succeed, obviously. But the bite radius was impressive.”

 

Charlie couldn’t help it, a breath of laughter escaped her lips, light and nervous but genuine.

 

“Just stay calm, speak plainly, and whatever you do, don’t let her bait you. If she thinks you’re rattled, she’ll turn the whole room against you just to watch you squirm. No grace, no tact, and absolutely no appreciation for a good melody.”

 

Charlie drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Right. Don’t let Susan get to me.”

 

“Precisely,” Alastor said, resettling into his seat with a satisfied sigh. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll dazzle the rest of them.”

 

---

 

Lucifer hadn’t moved in hours.

 

He stood alone in the empty lobby, the quiet pressing in like a weight.

 

The others had drifted off, some to prepare, others simply to escape the tension, but he remained, fixed in place like a statue carved from guilt and fire. The only movement was the slow clench and unclench of his fists, each twitch betraying the storm beneath his skin.

 

His daughter, his little girl, his duckling, was out there preparing for war. And he was here. Powerless. Forbidden. Useless.

 

His cane tapped against the floor once, twice, before he gripped it so tightly it cracked beneath his hand. A thin fracture webbed along the polished shaft, mirrored only by the fissure he felt splintering through the center of his chest.

 

She was brave. Brilliant. More than he’d ever dared hope she’d become.

 

But she was also young at least as far as immortals where concerned. And for the first time in her life, she was stepping onto a battlefield he couldn’t follow her into. Couldn’t guard her from. Couldn’t wrench her away from if things went wrong.

 

Lucifer sank into the nearest chair, his hands trembling as he pressed his palms to his eyes.

 

She was walking a road he had once carved into the world with hope and defiance.

 

And he could do nothing.

 

Not interfere. Not shield her. Not pull her from the fire he saw licking at her heels.

 

She wanted to redeem the damned. To build a haven for souls Heaven had long since condemned. To challenge the natural order, Heaven’s order. Just as he had, once.

 

And look where that had left him.

 

She had hope in her eyes. A vision. A dream.

 

Just like he once had.

 

He had thought himself righteous, noble, even. Offering humanity the gift of knowledge, of free will. Of light.

 

He hadn’t known what it would cost.

 

He hadn’t known that in handing them fire, he would also spark the first sins. Hadn’t known Heaven would turn on him, cast him down, strip him of everything.

 

He had believed, truly, that he was doing something good.

 

And he had paid the price with eternity in darkness.

 

Now, despite all that… she was willing to fight anyway.

 

To defy Heaven not out of anger or pride, but out of mercy. Out of love. For sinners, for souls Heaven had long since abandoned.

 

She was everything good that remained in him, and she was carrying that goodness straight toward the fire.

 

He’d thought his punishment was the worst fate imaginable.

 

But the thought of Charlie facing something worse, of being unmade, erased, lost…

 

He leaned forward, hands covering his face, breath shallow.

 

Until the front doors creaked open on their hinges and the world lurched back into motion.

 

Lucifer flinched, head snapping up as the sound of footsteps and shifting weight filled the lobby. The stillness shattered, replaced by the thud of crates being set down, the low rumble of voices, and the metallic clink of weapons inside their sealed containers.

 

Vaggie was the first through the doors.

 

Behind her came a small convoy of thick-set sinners, all muscle and sweat and tattooed menace. They moved with a practiced efficiency, each carrying reinforced crates marked with glowing seals and scorched warnings. The air around them smelled faintly of gun powder and cold steel.

 

Vaggie moved among them with easy authority, gesturing calmly. “Over there by the stairs, thank you. Be careful with that one, it’s loaded. That stack can go against the far wall, yes, just like that.”

 

They obeyed without complaint. Not because she commanded them, but because Carmilla Carmine had sent them, and no one wanted to make that favor look bad.

 

The sinners finished their work quickly, nodding to Vaggie as they passed her on the way out. A few gave Lucifer wide-eyed glances, but none dared speak to him.

 

The door thudded shut behind the last of them.

 

Lucifer barely had time to process it.

 

Because just as the lobby began to settle into uneasy quiet, the front doors flew open again, and this time, the silence didn’t just break. It shattered.

 

Charlie came striding in like a spark to dry tinder, her eyes wide and bright with the afterglow of battle not yet fought, but already burning. Beside her walked Alastor, hands clasped behind his back, smiling like the devil he was, his coat hem trailing behind him like the start of a parade.

 

And behind them, the chaos.

 

Dozens of demons spilled in through the doorway. Grinning, sharp-toothed, wide-eyed, ragged at the edges and loud as hell. Cannibals, all of them. Some still slick with blood, some dressed to the nines in tattered formalwear, others dragging crates, makeshift weapons, or even musical instruments.

 

The lobby exploded with noise, laughter, shouting, the thud of boots on hardwood. Someone started humming what might’ve been a drinking song. Someone else tossed a severed hand onto the counter like a calling card.

 

Lucifer stood frozen in the middle of it all, the building hum of tension in his chest rising to a full-body scream. He couldn’t hear himself think over the swell of movement, of momentum.

 

The future was no longer approaching.

 

It had just kicked in the damn doors.

 

Notes:

Oh, Alastor, the ever-present mentor, guiding our young Morningstar to her full potential, like a master at his craft. But alas, Lucifer watches helplessly as history repeats itself, his little girl following in his footsteps, defying Heaven’s will. And all he can do is watch, oh, the poor dear. Anyway, if you're enjoying the show so far, don’t be shy, leave a comment or hit that kudos button! I simply adore seeing what my darling readers have to say. Until next time, my dears!

Chapter 26: Emotional Support Gators

Notes:

Well, hello there, my lovelies! Now, I wasn’t planning on dropping a chapter today, but lo and behold, the spirit of AO3 possessed my mortal frame, and here we are! That’s right, this chapter has come earlier than expected. I do hope you’re all positively tingling with excitement for a little fluffy Bayou fun!

The hotel was buzzing.

 

Not the usual low hum of conversations and creaking floorboards, but a full-blown swarm of noise, motion, life. The front doors hadn’t even fully shut behind Charlie and Alastor before the chaos unfurled, dozens, maybe hundreds, of cannibals spilling into the lobby like water through a cracked dam.

 

Lucifer stood just to the side of the front desk, statuesque and silent, one hand loosely gripping the curved handle of his cracked cane. A wild-eyed demon with bark-like skin darted past him, followed closely by a cackling trio dragging some kind of makeshift training dummy. Someone else screamed in delight, and another body hit the floor with a thud.

 

He barely blinked.

 

Charlie was in the thick of it, radiant with purpose as she directed the madness, assigning rooms, pointing newcomers down twisting corridors, answering questions with exhausted but resolute cheer. Alastor moved through the chaos with that usual unsettling ease, his voice cutting through the din like a violin string, sharp, precise, unbothered.

 

Lucifer wanted to go to her. To help. To be useful. But his legs wouldn’t move.

 

Too many voices. Too many eyes. Too many bodies pressing in from all sides. Every step forward seemed to vanish before he could take it, swallowed by the ever-churning tide of sinners, all of them loud and hungry and alive in the way only damned souls could be, desperate for purpose, or blood, or both.

 

Lucifer’s breath hitched, quiet and tight. He took a step back. Then another.

 

They wouldn’t notice. Charlie was occupied. Alastor was laughing at something an eyeless man had said. No one saw him weaving his way out, threading through the crowd like smoke, silent and slithering.

 

His heart was pounding.

 

The moment his foot hit the bottom stair, something in him uncoiled. He climbed quickly, hand grazing the railing for balance, and didn’t stop until he reached the third-floor landing.

 

There, finally, quiet.

 

The sound of the crowd below became a low murmur, muffled by thick velvet carpet and time-worn walls. He exhaled slowly, pressed a palm to his chest. His cane leaned against the banister as he rubbed his eyes with shaking fingers.

 

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

For eons after the Fall, he’d thrived in Hell’s chaos, held court in firelit palaces, danced with monsters, ruled with a grin that dared anyone to challenge it. But that was before Lilith left. Before the centuries of silence. Before he traded dominion for distance.

 

He hadn’t been around this many people in a long, long time.

 

Not since he’d stopped playing god and started hiding from the noise of his own crown.

 

For a moment he thought the worst of it was over.

 

But his hands were still trembling.

 

He slid down against the wall, cane clattering softly to the floor beside him. Gaslight pooled along the hallway carpet, warm and dim, but it did nothing to soothe the cold beneath his skin. His breath came in shallow pulls. Each one tight. Controlled. Barely.

 

He wanted to help Charlie.

 

God, he wanted to help. But like this? With his hands shaking and his pulse thudding behind his eyes like a war drum?

 

He’d only get in the way.

 

He pressed his palms to the floor, willing the tremors to stop. Willed his mind to stop racing. But it kept spinning, snagging on half-finished thoughts and phantom sensations: laughter too close, footsteps behind him, someone yelling his name, no, not his name, not really, just noise, noise, noise…

 

He screwed his eyes shut.

 

And then, like a thread catching on cloth, a memory.

 

Alastor’s voice. Quiet. Uncharacteristically soft.

 

“If you ever want to see a little piece of Earth… you can always come here.”

 

The bayou.

 

Still and green and safe.

 

The thought curled around his mind like a balm. Damp air and creaking wood, cicadas and soft, slow silence. Not Hell. Not this.

 

He forced himself to move. Shaky fingers braced against the wall as he pushed to his feet. One step, then another. Toward the top floor. Toward his room.

 

Lucifer stood outside the door before he realized he’d even made it there. The ornate wood loomed tall and final in the flickering light, its edges humming faintly with magic. He stared at it, frozen.

 

Alastor had said he could return. That the place was open to him.

 

But… did he mean it?

 

Would he mind that Lucifer hadn’t asked first?

 

Would it bother him that he came here when Alastor wasn’t beside him?

 

Was the invitation only valid if Alastor led him in again, or was it truly open? A gift freely given?

 

The questions spiraled, looping tighter and tighter. Doubt gnawed at him, each what-if stacking atop the next like a deck of frayed cards.

 

But the bayou called to him.

 

And right now, Lucifer didn’t have the strength to deny that call.

 

He reached out with a trembling hand, fingers brushing the door handle.

 

There was a hum beneath the surface, faint but unmistakable. Alastor’s magic, laced into the wood like a whisper of shadow and static. Cool, charged, and strangely alive. It pulsed once against his palm, a low thrum that reverberated up his wrist, and Lucifer’s breath caught.

 

A ward.

 

Of course there was a ward.

 

What if it didn’t let him through? What if this had been a mistake?

 

His mind spun again. What if he’d misunderstood the offer? What if Alastor hadn’t meant it so literally, what if it had just been a kindness in the moment, not an open invitation?

 

But then he remembered the look on Alastor’s face when he’d said it. The softness. The sincerity.

 

“If you ever want to see a little piece of Earth… you can always come here.”

 

He took a breath. Then another. And slowly, he turned the handle.

 

The latch clicked softly, and the door creaked open.

 

No resistance.

 

No spark of rejection. No sting of denied entry.

 

Just… welcome.

 

Lucifer stepped forward.

 

The hum of magic wrapped around him, curling cool and quiet over his frame like mist, but it didn’t push him back. It bent, parted, and let him pass.

 

His shoulders sagged with relief. And before he could talk himself out of it, before doubt could sink its claws back in, he turned and shut the door behind him.

 

The elegant room greeted him like a held breath.

 

Dark wood. Clean lines. Warm, flickering firelight dancing across the floor. He hadn’t noticed all of it last time, not really, but now, with the chaos of the hotel far below, he took it in more fully.

 

Bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with old texts and neatly arranged artifacts, some glowing faintly with magical residue. A broad, ornate desk sat beneath the tall windows, cluttered with half-repaired radio parts and scattered diagrams. And off to one side, tucked into a carved nook like a secret, was a bed, generous and high, blanketed in rich maroon sheets and a pile of plush pillows, the entire thing veiled in thick, dark canopy curtains.

 

And behind it all, the hearth.

 

Its fire was soft. Steady.

 

The air in the room pulsed gently with the residue of Alastor’s presence, not oppressive, not overwhelming. Just… there. Like the scent of someone familiar on a coat long after they’ve gone.

 

Lucifer didn’t linger long.

 

Drawn forward, he followed the subtle pull of magic, the same thread that had wrapped around him at the door. It wound deeper into the room, toward the far corner where the very fabric of space seemed thinner.

 

And as he stepped forward… The world began to change.

 

The walls softened, melted into the cypress and moss of memory. The air grew heavier, more humid, rich with the scent of damp wood and blooming things. The firelight gave way to twilight gold as trees overtook the ceiling. The floor dipped to worn porch boards beneath his feet.

 

Birdsong filtered through the hanging vines. The croak of frogs answered from somewhere out in the water. A breeze stirred the reeds, gentle and warm.

 

Lucifer stepped onto the porch of the bayou and let Alastor’s room vanish behind him.

 

Finally, finally, he exhaled.

 

Lucifer took a deep breath.

 

The scent of wet earth and swamp flowers filled his lungs rich and sweet. A breeze stirred the hanging moss, soft and warm, rustling through his hair with the gentleness of a lover’s touch. He stepped forward and leaned against the porch railing, the worn wood solid beneath his palms as he tilted his head back.

 

The sky above was a masterpiece, painted in the golds and pinks and deep violets of early dusk. Birds wheeled high overhead in lazy spirals, their calls echoing faintly across the still water. Everything around him pulsed with that slow, contented rhythm of a world untouched by Hell.

 

Lucifer smiled.

 

The last traces of his earlier panic had ebbed away, carried off on the wind and drowned in the steady chorus of frogs and cicadas. His chest no longer felt like it was trying to cave in on itself. His hands, he realized, had stopped shaking.

 

If he didn’t know any better, he could almost believe it was real.

 

That he was standing on a porch somewhere in the mortal world, the air thick with life and memory, surrounded by a swamp that had never known fire or brimstone.

 

But he did know better.

 

And the thought tugged at something deep inside him, a quiet ache, a longing that never really left.

 

Still… he was grateful.

 

Even if it wasn’t real, even if this bayou was a recreation stitched together from memory and magic and grief, it was close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to breathe in.

 

And that was more than he’d had in a very long time.

 

Still, it was more real than any illusion he’d ever seen.

 

 It was easy to let himself believe that it was truly earth, truly that beautiful lush garden of a world his father had created.

 

Lucifer let his eyes slip closed and rested his elbows on the railing, the soft hush of the bayou washing over him.

 

“Thank you, Alastor,” he whispered, not expecting an answer.

 

Just grateful that the door had been open.

 

The stillness had settled in his bones now, warm and grounding.

 

Lucifer let out a soft sigh and stretched, arms rising above his head in a languid arc as his spine gave a satisfying crack. The tension that had gripped him so fiercely only minutes ago had all but vanished, replaced by something quieter. Peaceful. Curious.

 

His gaze drifted toward the small wooden house behind him; the one Alastor had recreated with such precision. Curiosity tugged at him. Gently, he stepped away from the porch railing and crossed to the door. His fingers hovered over the handle for a moment before he pressed it open and slipped inside.

 

But the moment he crossed the threshold, the world around him shifted.

 

The smell of swamp water vanished. The hum of insects dulled.

 

And with startling swiftness, the bayou faded, replaced once again by the elegant, fire-warmed interior of Alastor’s hotel room.

 

Lucifer stopped mid-step, blinking in the sudden change.

 

“…Ah.”

 

So it wasn’t meant to be seen.

 

He stood still for a moment, then quietly backed out the door, letting the swamp reform around him like a dream snapping back into place.

 

Back on the porch, he glanced over his shoulder at the cabin’s closed door, thoughtful. Why leave it out? Why create so much, so vividly, and leave that part unfinished?

 

Maybe the memories inside were too painful. Or too fragmented. Maybe they weren’t worth reliving.

 

Or maybe… maybe Alastor simply didn’t want to give the house that kind of power over him.

 

Lucifer didn’t blame him.

 

Whatever the reason, there was nothing to be found inside. So, he turned away from the porch and stepped down into the yard.

 

The ground was soft beneath his shoes, damp with recent rain but firm enough to hold his weight. Ferns brushed against his calves. The river in the near distance gleamed like molten glass, its surface broken now and then by a fish or the flick of a frog’s leg. Lightning bugs blinked lazily in the underbrush. Overhead, the sky burned with deepening color, twilight descending slow and gold.

 

Lucifer turned in a slow circle, eyes wide.

 

“How far does this go?” he murmured.

 

Just how big had Alastor made it?

 

Had he built an entire world in here?

 

A ripple of magic shimmered at his shoulders. With practiced ease, Lucifer unfurled his wings, broad and bright, catching the dying light in their gilded edges. The air shifted around him as he crouched, then leapt into the sky with a single beat.

 

The wind greeted him like an old friend, curling through his hair and rustling his coat as he climbed higher and higher, banking gently above the trees. The bayou spread beneath him, lush and endless, veiled in twilight mist and mystery.

 

Lucifer’s eyes lit with wonder.

 

He was going to see it all, every inch of this impossible little piece of Earth that existed only here, only for them.

 

For once, he wasn’t looking down at Hell.

 

He was flying homeward, even if home wasn’t real.

 

Even if it was just memory.

 

---

 

The door to his suite closed behind him with a soft click, sealing out the day.

 

Alastor exhaled and rolled his shoulders, the weight of hours spent wrangling half-mad cannibals easing just slightly with the silence. The coat came off first, draped neatly over the chair by the fire, followed by his bow tie, then the careful untucking of his shirt. His shoes he left by the door with a soft thud.

 

Alone at last.

 

He stepped deeper into the room, stretching the stiffness from his spine with a low groan that cracked through his back and ribs. The familiar red and maroon tones of his suite darkened with each step, bleeding slowly into shadow and mossy green as the space around him transformed.

 

Carpet gave way to warped wood planks. Firelight dimmed, overtaken by moonlight filtered through heavy trees. The warm scent of wine and smoke turned to cypress, wet bark, and river mud.

 

The bayou welcomed him back.

 

Evening had fully settled here. The sky overhead was indigo, dusted with stars. The full moon hung heavy and bright, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface. Lightning bugs blinked lazily in the tall grass. A gentle breeze rustled the trees, carrying the distant songs of frogs and birds.

 

Alastor stepped down from the porch, hooves sinking slightly into the damp earth as he moved toward the riverbank.

 

And that’s when he felt it.

 

A flicker. A spark. One star shining in the otherwise shadowed weave of his magic.

 

Lucifer.

 

His presence was unmistakable, brighter, warmer than anything else in this realm. He hung somewhere high above, drifting like a lazy satellite across Alastor’s personal night sky.

 

Alastor’s grin softened.

 

He didn’t look up. Didn’t try to track him. If Lucifer was flying, he was probably just… existing. Breathing again. And Alastor wasn’t about to interrupt that. Not tonight.

 

Instead, he waded into the water.

 

Cool river lapped against his legs as he stepped deeper, the mud squelching softly around his hooves. The chill soaked quickly through his slacks, but he didn’t care. He welcomed it. This was his place, after all. His memory. His magic. It clung to his skin like old affection.

 

Waist-deep now, Alastor let out a low hum and slapped the surface of the water once. Twice.

 

Thwack. Thwack.

 

Ripples spread outward, disturbing the quiet. The frogs fell silent. Something rustled in the reeds.

 

Alastor tilted his head, eyes gleaming under the moonlight.

 

“Come now, my dears,” he murmured. “It’s been a long day. Come keep me company.”

 

More movement.

 

The slow, swirling wake of something large beneath the surface.

 

The water stilled in response to his touch.

 

Then, movement.

 

Two long shadows broke the surface from opposite directions, gliding through the black water with the slow, deliberate grace of creatures that feared nothing. Only their massive heads, thick ridged backs, and whip-like tails were visible above the waterline, slicing silent wakes through the moonlit river.

 

Alastor smiled fondly, crouching just slightly as he tapped the water again with his fingers, softer now, coaxing. Inviting.

 

“Come on, my lovelies,” he murmured, his voice low and sweet. “Don’t make me beg.”

 

The great beasts continued their slow, steady approach, twin titans of muscle and scale moving unerringly toward him. They were close now. Just a few more feet and…

 

A sudden rush of air.

 

Alastor’s ears twitched, flicking sharply at the sound of massive wings cutting through the sky.

 

He looked up just in time to see a streak of white and red plummeting from above.

 

“Wh—!”

 

Before he could react, Lucifer’s arms were around him, and with a single powerful beat of his wings, they were airborne.

 

Alastor flailed, legs kicking wildly as river water sprayed in their wake. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Put me down!”

 

Lucifer’s grip only tightened around his waist, his expression drawn and furious. “What am I doing?! What the hell were you doing just standing there while two literal dinosaurs swam right at you?!”

 

“They are not dinosaurs!” Alastor snapped back, clinging around Lucifer’s neck in a full-body death grip. He adjusted his hold just enough to lean back and glare up at the angel. At this angle, Alastor’s back was toward the ground, while Lucifer hovered above him, wings stretched wide against the moonlit sky.

 

“You stupid angel,” Alastor growled. “Put me down this instant. They’re not going to eat me.”

 

Lucifer didn’t budge. If anything, his arms tightened just a little more. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

 

“I wasn’t drowning,” Alastor hissed. “I was bonding.”

 

“With prehistoric apex predators?!”

 

“They’re my pets, you melodramatic flaming pigeon!”

 

Lucifer let out a sharp exhale through his nose, muttering something under his breath that might’ve been a prayer, or a curse.

 

But he relented.

 

With a beat of his wings, he began to descend, gliding smoothly down through the trees. His expression remained tight as he gently set Alastor back on solid ground, noticeably far from the riverbank.

 

Alastor wobbled for a second, then smoothed down his soaked shirt with exaggerated dignity.

 

“I was fine,” he said with a sniff. “You owe them an apology.”

 

Lucifer stood there, momentarily dumbfounded, his chest rising and falling with uneven breath. The front of his coat, vest, and pants were soaked, swamp water and mud soaking into the pristine white fabric like a stain of his own panic.

 

He didn’t even notice.

 

All he saw was Alastor, muttering indignantly as he turned on his heel and began trotting back toward the riverbank with sharp, purposeful strides.

 

“Alastor, wait…” Lucifer called, starting after him.

 

But Alastor wasn’t listening.

 

Lucifer broke into a jog, struggling to keep pace. His legs were shorter, and Alastor’s long, clipped stride wasn’t helping. Each time Lucifer gained ground, Alastor surged just ahead again, his pace brisk and annoyingly determined.

 

“Alastor!” he snapped.

 

No response.

 

With a frustrated grunt, Lucifer unfurled his wings again, not soaring, just lifting himself a few feet off the ground to cover the distance. He was almost on him, hand outstretched, fingers poised to grab his shoulder and yank him back again…

 

Alastor’s ears twitched. Both of them.

 

He didn’t even turn around.

 

“If you lift me off the ground one more time,” he said flatly, “I will throw you out of my room.”

 

Lucifer jerked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire, barely stopping himself inches from contact.

 

By then, they were already at the river’s edge.

 

Alastor stepped into the water without hesitation, trousers darkening again as he waded out. He didn’t spare Lucifer a glance, the river swallowing him slowly as he moved deeper, until his shirt floated gently around his midriff, clinging to the motion of the current.

 

Lucifer paced on the bank, wings flaring and folding with agitation. “Alastor, seriously, you are insane. This is insane. This is not a thing normal people do!”

 

Alastor huffed, hands dipping below the surface as he stepped back further. “Calm down, dear,” he said breezily. “They won’t bite. Not me, at least.”

 

He smiled, teasing, wicked, as his fingers brushed something smooth and ridged beneath the surface. A moment later, a broad, scaly snout pressed gently into his palm.

 

Alastor’s grin widened.

 

“Oh, hello there,” he cooed, scratching just beneath the water. He turned his head toward Lucifer’s panicked pacing and added, “Honestly, you're being very dramatic.”

 

“I’m dramatic?! You’re bathing with monsters! Big ones! With teeth!”

 

Alastor chuckled, stepping sideways through the water. Then he crouched, letting the river rise up to his collarbones. From the murky depths, he lifted one of the massive gators, hands pressed beneath its jaw and chest. The beast rose with lazy, trusting ease, its heavy head resting in Alastor’s grip.

 

He ran a hand gently over its bony nose and scratched between its eyes.

 

The gator let out a deep, low hissing grunt, content, pleased, almost… purring.

 

Alastor glanced up.

 

Lucifer stood slack-jawed on the shore, his soaked coat dripping, his face frozen somewhere between horror and disbelief.

 

“See?” Alastor said cheerfully. “No danger at all.”

 

As if on cue, the second gator surfaced beside him with a massive bump, nudging into his side like a dog seeking attention.

 

Alastor laughed and gave its brow a fond pat. “Jealous already?”

 

Lucifer sputtered. “You’re petting it?!”

 

Alastor just beamed. “I told you, they’re friends.”

 

Lucifer stood frozen on the bank, staring at the scene before him.

 

His partner, his very dignified, very theatrical partner, was currently half-submerged in swamp water, affectionately stroking the nose of a massive lizard like it was an overgrown puppy. Another drifted lazily nearby, brushing against Alastor’s side like it wanted attention too.

 

Lucifer’s panic had no room left to breathe.

 

It faded, slowly, like mist under morning sun, morphing into something softer. Stranger.

 

Curiosity.

 

“…If they aren’t dinosaurs,” he called, cautiously, “then what are they?”

 

Alastor laughed, a bright, genuine sound that bounced off the water. “You’re not entirely wrong,” he said, running a hand down the length of one gator’s ridged back as it circled him. “They’re descendants. Sort of a modern continuation. Real dinosaurs died out long ago.”

 

The two gators glided in lazy patterns around him, bumping their snouts into his chest and arms with casual familiarity. Alastor rubbed along their scaley flanks, utterly unbothered, even pleased.

 

Lucifer absorbed that easily. “Hm. Makes sense.” He hesitated. Then, more tentatively, “Can I… pet them too?”

 

Alastor turned toward him, a wide grin splitting across his face. “Of course you can,” he said, delighted. “Come in, dear.”

 

Lucifer looked down at himself, his coat was already ruined, the fine white fabric stained with dark water and muck. With a sigh, he shrugged it off, followed by his vest, then stepped out of his boots, leaving them all on the mossy riverbank.

 

He took a couple tentative steps forward letting his wings furl back into obscurity.

 

The water met his legs cold and murky, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Just unfamiliar.

 

He waded forward, cautious steps sinking into the soft mud beneath his feet until he was within arm’s reach of Alastor. Alastor stretched out a hand toward him, and Lucifer took it.

 

Before he could question anything else, Alastor yanked.

 

Lucifer yelped as he was pulled forward, splat, right into Alastor’s chest, soaked shirt to soaked shirt.

 

He looked up, wide-eyed, cheeks puffed in affront. “Really?”

 

Alastor’s grin widened, unrepentant.

 

Lucifer didn’t pull away. Not when those hands, firm and unhurried, settled on his waist and gently turned him. He let himself be guided, back now to Alastor’s front, the taller demon’s chest a warm, solid pressure against his spine. The water crept up to his ribs, just shy of his heart, lapping quietly at their arms.

 

Then Alastor’s hands slid slowly down his arms.

 

From elbows to wrists, knuckles to fingers, smooth and deliberate. Their skin barely touched beneath the surface, but it didn’t matter. Every point of contact burned in Lucifer’s mind like a brand. The intimacy of the position, the quiet certainty of Alastor’s movements, it twisted in his stomach like butterflies made of molten gold.

 

His breath hitched.

 

He felt suspended, caught between stillness and sensation, his pulse echoing in his ears. His cheeks flushed again, hotter than before.

 

Desire stirred low in his belly, soft and surprising.

 

God, he was glad Alastor couldn’t see his face right now.

 

The nearest gator glided into reach, its bony snout breaking the water like a drifting log. Alastor’s voice was soft behind him, low and encouraging.

 

“Go on,” he murmured. “Nice and slow.”

 

Lucifer’s fingers met the gator’s snout. It didn’t flinch. Just blinked one slow eye and hummed out a low, contented rasp of breath.

 

Lucifer exhaled.

 

All at once, the fluttering ache in his chest gave way to wonder.

 

The gator glided slowly beneath his palm, its ridged scales warm and worn like river stone. Lucifer blinked, startled by the gentleness of it. Without thinking, he reached with his other hand, and the great reptile turned toward him, brushing into his chest with a curious grunt.

 

He laughed.

 

Bright and sudden, the sound caught even him by surprise.

 

Gone was the tension. The embarrassment. The heat that had clung to him like steam.

 

In its place was a grin, wide and brilliant, as he ran both hands along the creature’s massive snout and down to the broad ridges of its cheeks.

 

“It’s so real,” he murmured, voice caught somewhere between awe and delight.

 

Tilting his head back, Lucifer looked up, and found Alastor watching him.

 

The Radio Demon’s expression had softened, stripped of its usual affectation. His smile was quiet now, genuine, tinged with something unmistakably affectionate.

 

Lucifer’s chest swelled at the sight.

 

Even here, in a conjured bayou made of memory and magic, surrounded by ancient reptiles and muck and moonlight, somehow, impossibly, he felt closer to life than he had in centuries.

 

Notes:

Oh, isn’t Lucifer just the most adorable little thing you ever did see, my loves? Why, the poor darling’s been out of the mortal world loop for quite some time, so of course he’d mistake an alligator for some ferocious dinosaur of old! I simply adore that he gets to experience our Earth all over again, and all thanks to our clever, ever-charming Radio Demon.

Now, don’t be shy, leave a comment or tap that kudos button! I absolutely adore hearing from my darling readers. Until next time, my dears, keep those spirits high and your hearts ready for the next chapter’s delight!

Chapter 27: Goodnight Kiss

Notes:

Hellooo and a good evenin’ to ya, my loves! Now I won’t keep ya with a long-winded intro tonight, no sir, no ma’am, I’ll just say this:

There might be a little spice sprinkled into this chapter... oh, nothin’ too wild, maybe about a 2.5 on the pepper scale, just enough to make you blush and lean in closer.

So without further ado, enjoy the chapter!

Back on dry land, the night air wrapped around them like a velvet shawl, cool, damp, and thick with the scent of moss and river water.

 

Lucifer plopped onto the porch bench with a heavy, squelching thud, dripping from head to toe. His soaked shirt clung to him in unflattering places, his hair was plastered to his temples, and his pants had taken on an unfortunate brownish hue.

 

He didn’t seem to care in the slightest.

 

Alastor joined him a moment later with a satisfied sigh, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles. He pulled off his gloves, one at a time, and began wringing out the ends of his sleeves. Water dribbled to the porch floor in little patters.

 

Lucifer was already talking.

 

“I saw everything,” he said, practically vibrating as he twisted his coat over the porch rail. “Before I saw you, I mean, before I caught you doing your gator-wrangling routine, I flew the whole thing. The whole realm. Alastor, it’s massive!”

 

He beamed, hands gesturing wildly despite how damp they still were. “The air changes when you go higher, did you know that? You can feel the pressure shift. And the water, it moves like real water! It even gets colder in the shade. And the animals, there are so many, I saw owls and snakes and something that might have been a rabbit with antlers?”

 

Alastor chuckled softly but said nothing, just reached down and began wringing out the hem of his soaked shirt.

 

“And the sky!” Lucifer continued, leaning forward, golden eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I watched it shift from afternoon to twilight like I was really outside. The color gradient was perfect, the way it moved behind the clouds, and there were stars when the sun finally dropped, not just a few, but hundreds. Thousands.”

 

Alastor’s smile grew quietly as he listened, his chest warm in a way he hadn’t expected.

 

He had built this place for himself. A fragment of memory made manifest, equal parts haven and haunting. It wasn’t meant to impress anyone. Wasn’t meant to matter to anyone else.

 

But now Lucifer was here.

 

Lucifer was thrilled.

 

“You even built in wind,” Lucifer went on, eyes still flicking to the dark treetops like he expected to see another marvel bloom from the shadows. “And not just directional wind, it has depth. It cuts through your coat if you go too high, and the trees respond. Do you know how long it’s been since I felt wind like that? Since I’ve…”

 

He stopped abruptly, blinked, then gave a sheepish shrug.

 

Alastor tilted his head, his voice low and light. “Since you’ve felt real Earth.”

 

Lucifer didn’t answer right away.

 

But he didn’t have to.

 

His expression was enough, bright and wistful and reverent all at once, like someone remembering the shape of a melody they thought they’d forgotten.

 

Alastor leaned back against the porch rail, fingers steepled loosely in his lap, and let the moment stretch.

 

He didn’t need praise. Didn’t need acknowledgement.

 

But watching Lucifer shine like this, surrounded by the echoes of his own past, soaking wet and smiling like a fool…

 

It might’ve been the proudest he’d felt in years.

 

Lucifer’s animated gestures slowed, his words tapering off as he leaned back against the bench, eyes still trained on the swaying branches beyond the porch.

 

The quiet settled between them, not heavy, but thoughtful.

 

Then, softly, he asked, “How’s Charlie?”

 

The question came like an afterthought, but the guilt laced beneath it was unmistakable.

 

Alastor glanced over, watching the flicker of tension return to Lucifer’s brow.

 

“I should’ve been there,” Lucifer said, voice low. “Helping. With the cannibals, with the crowd. With… everything. I saw how chaotic it was when I left. But it just…” He exhaled hard through his nose, fingers laced tightly together in his lap. “It hit me all at once. I didn’t want to fall apart in front of everyone. I didn’t want to… hurt anyone.”

 

His jaw clenched.

 

Alastor didn’t interrupt. He let the words come.

 

Lucifer looked down at his hands. “I wanted to be the one beside her. The one holding it together.” He gave a hollow laugh. “But I couldn’t even hold myself together.”

 

Alastor leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his voice calm and certain.

 

“She’s fine.”

 

Lucifer looked at him.

 

“She’s tougher than people give her credit for,” Alastor said. “Even with that sunny optimism and slightly obnoxious friendliness. She’s settling into the role well, still learning, of course, but holding her ground. You’d be proud.”

 

Lucifer nodded slowly, a breath catching faintly in his throat.

 

“Thank you,” he said. “For being there. For helping her. Even when I couldn’t.”

 

Alastor’s expression softened, the usual glint of performance fading from his eyes. “Of course.”

 

There was a pause. Then, more gently, “She loves you, you know. She noticed you weren’t there. She was worried. But there was so much happening, too many moving pieces. She couldn’t spare the time to come find you.”

 

Lucifer swallowed, a tight ache rising in his chest.

 

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s what makes it worse. She would have, if she could.”

 

Alastor tilted his head, studying him. “And you would’ve stayed, if you could.”

 

Lucifer gave a small, tired smile. “We’re both too stubborn for our own good.”

 

Alastor chuckled under his breath. “That does seem to run in the family.”

 

They sat there for a moment in silence again, the hum of insects and the distant croak of frogs filling the space where words didn’t need to be.

 

Lucifer leaned his head back, eyes half-lidded as he let the guilt begin to ebb.

 

She was okay.

 

He could still be there for her. Just… maybe not all at once.

 

Alastor sat back, resting his hands behind him on the porch rail, his voice tipping toward amusement.

 

“Besides,” he said casually, “the cannibals may look like a feral pack of blood-soaked lunatics at first glance, but really, they’re probably the most refined group of sinners in all of Hell.”

 

Lucifer blinked at him.

 

Alastor grinned. “Terrible table manners, sure. Gruesome appetites? Absolutely. But give them a proper setting, decent lighting, a touch of lace, perhaps a string quartet, and they’ll debate philosophy and etiquette like it’s afternoon tea.”

 

Lucifer snorted. “You’re joking.”

 

“I am not,” Alastor said with mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Rosie herself hosts formal salons once a week. There’s wine. Finger sandwiches. A lot of crimson velvet. Occasionally, someone gets eaten, but only if they’re unbearably rude.”

 

Lucifer laughed, the sound low and genuine. “Hell’s most cultured cannibals. Who would’ve thought?”

 

Alastor shrugged, the grin lingering on his face. “Never judge a book by its bloodstains.”

 

Lucifer shook his head, still chuckling softly, the tension from earlier continuing to melt from his frame.

 

Alastor gave him a sidelong glance. “Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to Rosie properly,” he said. “She’s direct but fair, and I think you’ll like her. More importantly, she’s good at controlling the more… excitable elements. You can ease back into things without diving straight into the mob.”

 

Lucifer looked at him, surprised. “You planned that?”

 

Alastor’s smile turned sly. “Let’s just say I had a feeling my dear king might need a quieter point of reentry.”

 

Lucifer’s expression softened, touched by the subtle gesture.

 

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

 

Alastor gave a small, respectful nod. “You’re welcome.”

 

They sat in companionable silence once more, their clothes still damp, the night stretching on around them, soft and slow and real enough, for now.

 

Lucifer leaned back, arms draped over the porch bench, but his fingers tapped restlessly against the wood. He was quiet now, too quiet, eyes darting once toward the cabin behind them.

 

Alastor noticed, of course. He always noticed.

 

Lucifer cleared his throat, casually at first. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

 

Alastor’s eyes flicked toward him, one brow lifted. “You can always ask. Whether I answer is a different matter.”

 

Lucifer smiled faintly, then looked down at his hands, suddenly unsure what to do with them. He twisted his fingers in the hem of his shirt for a beat before glancing toward the shadowed doorway again.

 

“It’s just…” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “When I first got here, I tried to go inside the house. The rest of the bayou, it’s so vivid, so alive, but the moment I stepped through the door, it all… fell away. Back to your room.”

 

Alastor’s smile didn’t vanish, not completely.

 

But it changed.

 

A flicker.

 

Gone in the space between breaths.

 

“There’s no inside to remember,” he said lightly. Too lightly. “Nothing worth recreating.”

 

Lucifer turned to him fully now, his fidgeting stilled. “Alastor…”

 

“It’s fine,” Alastor said, and this time his smile stayed, but it was smaller. Fainter. “Some things are better left behind, don’t you think?”

 

Lucifer studied him, searching the subtle lines in his face for something more. But Alastor didn’t flinch. Didn’t elaborate.

 

Just sat there with the same polite posture, the same calm expression, hands folded neatly in his lap like he wasn’t pressing a memory down beneath his heel.

 

Lucifer nodded slowly, accepting the boundary.

 

But the ache behind Alastor’s smile didn’t go unnoticed.

 

“…Yeah,” Lucifer said quietly, eyes drifting back out to the trees. “I get that.”

 

They sat like that for a while, no longer buzzing with laughter, but not uncomfortable either.

 

Just present.

 

Lucifer let the quiet linger for a moment longer, then exhaled softly.

 

“It’s gotten pretty late,” he murmured.

 

With a casual flick of his fingers, a soft whoosh of golden magic rolled over them both. The dampness vanished at once, clothes drying, hair smoothing, skin warmed as if they'd never stepped foot in the river. The faint scent of swamp water gave way to something clean and calm.

 

Alastor glanced down at himself, brows lifting slightly at the sudden return to crispness. He didn’t comment, only offered a small, appreciative nod. “Thank you.”

 

They walked together toward the cabin door. As Lucifer reached for the handle, the night sounds of the bayou began to fade, cicadas falling silent, wind stilling in the trees. The cypress-lined porch melted away as the door swung open, and by the time they stepped across the threshold, the entire world had changed.

 

The bayou dissolved like mist behind them.

 

In its place: polished floors, warm firelight, shelves of books and relics, and the steady, comforting hearth of Alastor’s suite.

 

They crossed the room in quiet tandem, footsteps soft against the floor. As they reached the door leading out to the hallway, Lucifer slowed.

 

Then stopped.

 

He hovered at the threshold, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe, his gaze cast low. His fingers fidgeted, brushing over one another like he was counting seconds.

 

He lingered, his hands twisting idly in front of him, fingertips brushing each other in a quiet, anxious rhythm. He didn’t quite meet Alastor’s eyes.

 

Alastor had already told him once, that he didn’t have to ask every time, but the newness of it all, the delicate balancing act of navigating Alastor’s guarded heart, made Lucifer feel it was safer to ask anyway.

 

“Hey…” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Would it be alright if I… got a goodnight kiss?”

 

A faint golden blush dusted his cheeks, bright even in the low light.

 

Alastor tilted his head, just slightly.

 

Then he stepped forward.

 

He reached out with one careful hand, lifting Lucifer’s chin with a touch so gentle it barely registered. His eyes searched Lucifer’s face for just a heartbeat… and then he leaned in.

 

The kiss was soft.

 

Barely there.

 

A brush of lips, fleeting and tender, the kind of kiss that said I’m here rather than I want. Hesitant, maybe, but honest.

 

Alastor pulled back just enough to see him, Lucifer’s golden eyes wide, the blush on his cheeks now full and unmistakable. His own face carried the faintest trace of pink across his cheekbones, subtle but real beneath the careful lines of control.

 

“Goodnight, Your Majesty,” Alastor said, voice quiet, fond.

 

Lucifer blinked once, lips parted.

 

“I—uh—goodnight,” he stammered, tripping over the word like a stone in his path.

 

He turned, quickly, and disappeared through the door before the warmth in his face could betray him further.

 

Alastor stood for a moment longer, smiling faintly to himself.

 

Then, quietly, he closed the door.

 

Lucifer didn’t stop walking until he was around the corner and halfway down the hall.

 

His boots thudded softly against the floor, fast and purposeful. His cheeks were still flushed, blazing, really, and he refused to look at any portraits lining the corridor, as if even the paintings might be smirking at him.

 

He reached his door, swung it open, and slipped inside in one smooth motion.

 

With a long exhale, Lucifer leaned back against the door, letting it click shut behind him. The quiet of his room wrapped around him like a blanket, dimly lit, softly humming with residual magic.

 

One hand drifted up to his face, fingers brushing gently over his lips, the ghost of that kiss still lingering there.

 

And unfortunately, so did the heat that had first sparked hours ago, back in the bayou, when Alastor’s chest had pressed against his back, when those long, careful fingers had ghosted over his arms to guide his hands along the rough hide of the alligator.

 

It had been nothing. Innocent. Gentle.

And yet…

 

Lucifer groaned quietly as the warmth that had lain dormant all evening reignited into a blaze, curling low in his belly and making the front of his pants uncomfortably tight. He pressed the heel of his hand to his face, as if he could smother the thought before it formed fully.

 

“Oh, for the love of… really?” he muttered under his breath. “I am older than literal existence. I saw the very first dawn and the creation of every living thing, and yet my own body betrays me over a… over a goodnight peck?”

 

He stripped out of his coat, his shirt, his trousers with brisk, irritated movements, each layer falling to the floor with a dull thump until he was finally free. The blessed relief of freeing his traitorous cock drew another muffled groan from him. He crawled beneath the covers, willing the cool sheets to soothe his overheated skin, but there was no mercy.

 

“Pathetic,” he whispered to himself, curling on his side. “Absolutely pathetic. It has been… well, it’s been a long time, yes, but still. You’d think millennia of self-control would mean something…”

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, determined to think of anything else, anything but…

 

But his mind betrayed him instantly.

Alastor’s laugh, rich and unguarded.

The soft press of his chest against Lucifer’s back.

The whisper-light brush of his fingers over Lucifer’s arms as he guided him to pet the gator.
The faint, ticklish warmth of his breath by his ear when he’d chuckled at Lucifer’s awestruck reaction.

 

Lucifer’s thighs pressed together under the sheets, his cock twitching insistently. He buried his face in the pillow with a strangled noise, somewhere between exasperation and desperate resignation.

 

He was the King of Hell.

He was ancient, powerful, terrifying.

 

And yet tonight, he was utterly at the mercy of a smile, a laugh, a touch, and a kiss so soft it barely existed.

 

Lucifer rolled onto his back with a groan, dragging the sheets up to his hips as though the thin fabric could shield him from his own thoughts. His cock lay heavy against his stomach, the arousal sharp and insistent now, fed by memory and irritation in equal measure.

 

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, voice low and ragged.

 

And yet his hand drifted down anyway.

 

Not yet touching. Just resting against the swell of his hip, fingers twitching, jaw clenched tight as he tried one last time to push the images from his mind.

 

He failed. Spectacularly.

 

That mischievous smile.

Those ruby-red eyes, gleaming with wicked delight.

The quick wit, the laughter that danced on every word, the teasing way he always seemed to know exactly what to say to rattle him…

The warmth of his chest against Lucifer’s back, firm and real, the way his breath had tickled Lucifer’s ear, and then, finally, the kiss.

So brief. So unbearably gentle.

The press of Alastor’s lips like a promise he hadn’t even meant to make.

 

Lucifer hissed through his teeth as his cock twitched again, and this time, he let his hand wrap around it.

 

“Damn you,” he whispered, breath catching. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

 

But he let it happen anyway. Let the fantasy take shape like smoke curling through his mind.

 

What would it be like, to have Alastor in bed? Not the guarded, clever showman the world saw, but the man beneath the mask. No shadows between them. Just heat. Just want.

 

He imagined those long fingers curling around his wrists, pinning him down just so.

 

He imagined the weight of him, the way their bodies might fit together, all sharp angles and slow, deliberate friction.

 

He imagined Alastor’s voice, not booming from a radio speaker, but low and close and intimate, whispering things that would make even him blush.

 

Lucifer’s breath came faster, shallow now as he stroked himself with slow, steady movements. He let himself sink into it, into the ache, the want, the fantasy of Alastor crawling over him, lips at his throat, hand in his hair, voice rough with need.

 

His other hand clenched in the sheets as his hips bucked up instinctively, chasing the imagined touch, the ghost of pressure, the delicious thrill of what if…

 

“Alastor,” he breathed, almost a gasp, head tipped back against the pillow.

 

And the fantasy didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

 

It twisted, shifted, under his skin, wild and insatiable.

 

One moment, it was Alastor above him, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed deep crimson, mouth parted in a quiet gasp as Lucifer arched up beneath him. And then it was Lucifer pressing Alastor down into the mattress, one knee between his legs, his hands braced on either side of that beautiful face.

 

The scene flipped again, seamless, senseless. Alastor’s laughter breathless as Lucifer gripped his hips, grinding into him with slow, devastating force. Then Alastor was the one gasping, whining beneath him, ruby eyes half-lidded, voice caught between a plea and a moan.

 

Lucifer’s hand moved faster now, hips rising to meet his grip as the pressure coiled low in his spine, molten and pulsing. His breath hitched, fast, shallow. His chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm, and small, desperate sounds began slipping past his lips, moans, whines, the occasional breathless “fuck.”

 

He couldn’t stop the images. Didn’t want to.

 

Alastor’s fingers digging into his shoulders.

Alastor’s legs wrapping around his waist.

Alastor’s voice, wrecked and trembling, saying his name like a prayer.

 

“Lucifer…”

 

That did it.

 

A bolt of heat ripped through him like lightning, his whole body seizing with it, mouth falling open on a guttural, low moan that echoed into the pillows. He came hard, his hips jerking up as white fire tore through him, sweeping his thoughts into a single, blazing point of release.

 

He gasped for air, chest heaving, heart pounding so fast it almost hurt.

 

His hand stilled.

 

The only sound in the room was his own ragged breathing, the rustle of sheets beneath his trembling form.

 

Lucifer lay there for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling, dazed and stunned and completely, absolutely wrecked.

 

“…I am never going to survive this,” he muttered to no one.

 

 

Notes:

“Woo-wee! What a chapter, my darlings! Fantasies runnin’ wild for our beloved little king, mercy me, how ever will he face that oh-so-chaste love of his when next they meet? With flushed cheeks and flutterin’ nerves, I imagine…

But ah-ah-ah! You’ll just have to tune in next time to see how that little dilemma unfolds, won’t you?

In the meantime, my darling sinners, if this chapter tickled your fancy or stirred a little somethin’ in your soul, drop a comment or smack that kudos button like it owes you rent. Every bit of love keeps the ol’ creative gears turnin’!

Sleep tight, and until next time…

Goodnight, my loves!”

Chapter 28: Auntie Rosies Here To Help

Notes:

Well helloooo again, my darling sinners, It is I, your most devoted and ever-gracious host, back on the air to bestow upon you the next installment of our delicious tale.

And boy, is this chapter a cute one! Our dear little king is just all kinds of flustered, bless his royal heart, while Alastor, ever the picture of poise, remains as smooth as satin and twice as smug.

But don’t you worry your sweet little heads, my dears, because help is on the horizon! That ever-lovable, ever-stylish Rosie is comin’ in hot, armed with warmth, charm, and advice so sharp it could cut a diamond.

So without further ado, hold onto your pearls and prepare to swoon...

I present to you… Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Enjoy!

Morning crept in slowly, dull light filtering through the curtains and casting long, lazy beams across the room. Lucifer didn’t notice.

 

He was sprawled across the bed like he’d been dropped there from a great height, face-down, limbs tangled in the sheets. His tail hung off the edge like a heavy ribbon of velvet, twitching faintly in sleep. All six of his wings had unfurled sometime during the night, stretched wide across the mattress in a mess of feathers and folded grace, one of them twitching whenever he shifted in his dreams.

 

He was utterly, blissfully unconscious.

 

Until…

 

Knock knock knock.

 

Lucifer bolted upright with a startled snort, wings flaring open like sails in a storm. Feathers fluffed, tail lashing wildly, he blinked into the morning light, completely disoriented as his brain sputtered into gear.

 

“Whuh—what—door?” he mumbled.

 

Another knock.

 

He scrambled upright, staggering toward the side of the bed as his wings flapped once, twice, before he remembered to vanish them, tail included. With all the grace of a startled cat, he fumbled into the nearest pair of pants, loose and low-slung on his hips, and stumbled to the door.

 

He tugged it open with a muttered, “Alright, alright, I’m coming…”

 

And froze.

 

It wasn’t Charlie.

 

It was Alastor.

 

The Radio Demon stood in the hall, chipper as ever, one hand raised in greeting, his smile already halfway formed. “Good mor—”

 

SLAM.

 

The door shut with a sharp crack.

 

Lucifer stood frozen behind it, heart hammering, a bright blush exploding across his face like wildfire.

 

Nope. Absolutely not. He was not ready.

 

There was silence on the other side of the door.

 

Lucifer inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled again.

 

And opened the door.

 

Alastor’s smile hadn’t moved. “—orning!”

 

SLAM.

 

Lucifer groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “What are you doing, you absolute disaster of a man,” he muttered to himself, voice somewhere between a whine and a prayer. “You’re the King of Hell. Pull it together.”

 

He stood there, breathing like he’d just run a marathon, then, inhaling deeply, he pulled the door open one more time.

 

Alastor, still there. Still smiling. Unfazed.

 

“May I speak now?” he asked, voice droll. “Or should I prepare for a third door to the face?”

 

Lucifer flushed even deeper. “Y-you may speak,” he mumbled, stepping slightly aside, but not enough to actually invite him in.

 

Alastor’s smile ticked a fraction wider. “Excellent. I see now where Charlie gets it.”

 

Lucifer blinked. “Gets what?”

 

“Oh, the slamming. And the dramatics.” Alastor waved a hand in the air with a flourish. “Very endearing.”

 

Lucifer gave him a flat look, face still burning. “Why are you here this early?”

 

Alastor blinked once, very slowly. “Your Majesty, it’s half past nine.”

 

Lucifer flinched like he’d been slapped. “Oh.”

 

“And,” Alastor added with polite amusement, “I told you last night, I’d be introducing you to Rosie today. Surely you remember that?”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth. Then closed it. He did remember.

 

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Right. That.”

 

Alastor tilted his head, watching him with far too much interest. “Should I give you a moment to compose yourself, or are you planning to greet Rosie in your current ensemble?”

 

Lucifer looked down at himself. Shirtless. Bedhead. Blush still blazing.

 

He closed the door again, this time gently, with a faint groan.

 

“Ten minutes,” he called through the wood.

 

Alastor chuckled softly. “Take your time, Your Majesty.”

 

Alastor stood motionless for a beat longer.

 

A breath escaped him, quiet and uneven, and his posture shifted ever so slightly from its usual impeccable poise. His shoulders relaxed. His brows knit faintly. And against his will, a faint blush bloomed high across his cheekbones.

 

Because damn.

 

He had been prepared for many things this morning. An awkward conversation. Maybe some lingering tension from the night before. A bit of over-the-top royal dramatics.

 

He had not been prepared for a half-naked Lucifer to fling the door open with his hair still ruffled from sleep, and those loose pants riding low enough on his hips to be one wrong move away from scandal.

 

The smooth planes of his pale chest. The way the morning light kissed the edges of pale skin and tangled blond hair. The flash of confusion and panic in his eyes. The breathless stammer.

 

It was…

 

Infuriating.

 

Absolutely, annoyingly, irrevocably perfect.

 

And it was stirring something.

 

Something low and tight in his stomach, winding like a violin string pulled a hair too taut. It wasn’t just lust, though that, admittedly, was crawling through him now with a slow burn he’d rarely entertained. No. It was longing. Interest. Curiosity, yes, but more than that.

 

Desire.

 

Desire not just to look, but to touch. To taste. To know.

 

Alastor blinked hard and straightened his coat, smoothing a gloved hand over his chest with unnecessary precision.

 

Ridiculous.

 

He was better than this. He was composed. He was in control.

 

Alastor remained where he stood, hands folded behind his back, gaze fixed idly on the hallway across from him.

 

He did not fidget. He did not pace.

 

But the burn beneath his skin lingered.

 

Lucifer’s image had branded itself behind his eyes, mussed hair, flushed cheeks, those infuriatingly loose pants hanging low enough to show the carved V of his hips. It wasn’t the first time Alastor had admired beauty, he was a creature of aesthetics, after all, but this was different.

 

This was personal.

 

The flutter in his stomach was an unwelcome guest, one he hadn’t felt since… well, never, if he was being honest.

 

And it was utterly unacceptable.

 

He drew in a slow breath and exhaled through his nose. One beat. Two.

 

Focus.

 

With practiced ease, he reached inward, wrapping the strange, twisting sensation in velvet and locking it neatly away. His spine straightened, his smile returned, smooth and sharp and unbothered, and the moment passed. Mostly.

 

By the time the door opened again, Alastor was once more the picture of elegance and ease.

 

Lucifer stepped out, newly dressed in his usual white suit, crisp and tailored and completely restored to his haughty, frustratingly composed self. His ridiculous hat perched on his head with all the arrogance of a crown. Not a single hair out of place.

 

A pity, really.

 

Alastor turned, letting his smile tilt just enough to carry a teasing edge.

 

“Well, well,” he said lightly. “Back from the dead, are we? I wasn’t sure you’d ever open the door again.”

 

Lucifer scowled, though the color still clung faintly to his cheeks. “Don’t start.”

 

Alastor chuckled. “Too late.”

 

He let his eyes flick briefly over Lucifer’s form, this time without lingering, and folded his arms behind his back once more.

 

“Are you ready, Your Majesty? I do believe you have a formal introduction to make. Rosie’s quite looking forward to meeting the man bold enough to stroll into Cannibal Town in a white suit.”

 

Lucifer lifted a brow. “What, not everyone wears their finest when meeting the head of a ravenous murder collective?”

 

“Oh, they do,” Alastor said, eyes twinkling. “But most of them are wearing it for the last time.”

 

Lucifer sighed. “Lovely.”

 

Alastor offered his arm with a theatrical flourish. “Shall we?”

 

Lucifer followed Alastor through the quiet back corridors of the hotel, the soft click of their shoes muffled by worn rugs and aged tile. They didn’t take the main stairwell. Didn’t pass the lounge or the dining hall or the crowded common spaces currently buzzing with the morning rush of preparations and nerves. Instead, Alastor led him down a narrow, half-forgotten hall that spilled into the staff wing, then slipped out a side door marked only by ivy and old rust.

 

Lucifer tilted his head, curious. “Shortcut?”

 

Alastor didn’t look back, but his voice came light. “A detour.”

 

And then the gardens opened around them.

 

The moment he stepped out, Lucifer breathed easier.

 

The air was warm and carried the scent of blooming flowers and turned earth. Dew still clung to the leaves, and somewhere nearby, the soft trickle of water whispered from a hidden fountain.

 

Lucifer glanced at Alastor’s back.

 

The other demon walked with easy confidence, hands tucked behind him, whistling faintly to himself. He hadn’t said it outright, he never did, but Lucifer knew.

 

He knew Alastor had taken them this way deliberately.

 

Knew he was sparing him the eyes, the whispers, the weight of too many bodies in too little space. The same overwhelming chaos that had sent him spiraling just the day before.

 

And that quiet kindness, wrapped up in Alastor’s usual theatrics and flourishes, made Lucifer’s chest ache.

 

A soft blush crept across his cheeks for the third time that morning, and he sighed through his nose, just loud enough for the sound to vanish on the breeze.

 

Thoughtful bastard.

 

They walked in silence for a while, the peace between them easy and companionable, before Lucifer broke it with a question that had been nibbling at the edges of his thoughts since last night.

 

“Why wasn’t Rosie at the hotel?” he asked, casting a glance toward Alastor. “I thought she was the leader of the… ah… delightful little meat-eating collective.”

 

Alastor chuckled low in his throat, eyes glinting. “Oh, she is. But she’s also a very clever woman who knows when to seize the opportunity for a vacation.”

 

Lucifer blinked. “A vacation?”

 

“Indeed,” Alastor said, the corner of his mouth quirking. “She’s been leading that lot for decades. And while they’re loyal, they’re also loud, gory, and utterly exhausting. So when Charlie proposed a partnership, Rosie very graciously offered her people and stepped back.”

 

He glanced sideways at Lucifer, amusement dancing behind his eyes. “She’s letting Charlie take the reins for now. Intervening only when absolutely necessary.”

 

“Huh.” Lucifer considered that. “That’s… unexpectedly generous.”

 

Alastor’s smile softened, just a hair. “Rosie’s many things. Cruel, sharp, a touch theatrical, but she believes in potential. And she sees something in Charlie that reminds her of herself, back when she was new to power and hadn’t yet drowned in it.”

 

Lucifer looked down, the sunlight catching the brim of his hat as he walked.

 

He thought about Charlie. About the weight she carried, and the way she still smiled under it. About how close she’d come to breaking… and how she hadn’t.

 

And he thought, maybe Rosie had the right idea.

 

They moved through the garden path in easy silence, just shy of brushing shoulders, close enough that the warmth of Alastor’s presence nudged at Lucifer’s senses like a persistent hum.

 

Lucifer tried not to look, truly he did, but his eyes kept flicking sideways of their own accord, stealing glances at the deer beside him. Alastor’s expression was unreadable as ever, a picture of calm charm, and somehow that only made it worse. Lucifer’s mind betrayed him, teetering on the edge of dangerous imaginings. He swallowed thickly, gaze darting away just in time to pretend he hadn’t been staring.

 

Focus. Focus on anything else.

 

Mercifully, the path spilled into one of the narrower city streets that twisted toward Cannibal Town, already pulsing with movement. Sinners crowded every corner, peddling, arguing, stumbling through the morning with the kind of half-feral energy only Hell could conjure.

 

And then they saw him.

 

The change was subtle at first. A few heads turning. A sudden stillness in the crowd.

 

Then the ripple began.

 

Eyes widened. Conversations died mid-sentence. Sinners froze in place, or worse, tripped over themselves in their desperate scramble to get out of the way. Some darted into alleys. Others ducked behind carts or crates. More than one simply turned and ran.

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

At first, he thought it was him. The King of Hell, after all, still carried some weight in his name, some remnants of divinity clinging to his presence like stubborn perfume. He adjusted his hat, suddenly self-conscious, and prepared to weather the looks.

 

But no one was looking at him.

 

Every stare. Every whisper. Every tremor of fear… was aimed at the man beside him.

 

At Alastor.

 

Lucifer slowed half a step, turning just enough to observe without being obvious.

 

A pair of sinners on the corner were whispering frantically to each other, eyes wide as saucers. One made a sharp, slashing gesture across their throat. The other hissed something that sounded like “That’s him, the Radio Demon, don’t look directly at him…” before dragging their companion around the corner.

 

Another demon tripped over his own feet and collapsed into a fruit cart, sending overripe produce bouncing across the street. He scrambled up, didn’t even glance at Lucifer, only cast a terrified look at Alastor before bolting in the opposite direction.

 

Lucifer lifted a brow.

 

Alastor hadn’t changed at all. Still walking with that same calm, measured gait, hands folded behind his back, a little hum curling from his lips like a private melody. If he noticed the chaos forming around them, he gave no sign.

 

It was eerie.

 

And impressive.

 

Lucifer watched a little longer, gaze flicking to another sinner pressing their back against the wall and whispering in awe, “Who’s the idiot walking next to him?”

 

Lucifer exhaled a quiet snort and looked up at the man in question.

 

Alastor, oblivious, or pretending to be, tilted his head toward a patch of blooming nightshade growing through the cracks in a nearby wall, seemingly more interested in flora than fear.

 

Lucifer gave a dry chuckle and said, “Your reputation must really be something if the entire street’s ready to piss themselves at the sight of you.”

 

Alastor blinked, as if just now realizing they weren’t alone.

 

He smiled. “Hmm? Oh, that? Yes, well. I suppose I am a bit of a local legend.”

 

Lucifer gave him a look. “A legend doesn’t make a cart vendor scream and run like he saw death itself.”

 

“Oh, but I am worse than death,” Alastor replied pleasantly, flashing a grin full of teeth. “Death is predictable.”

 

Lucifer shook his head with a quiet laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

 

Worse than death, he thought, watching another group of demons scurry into a side alley just to avoid passing too close. And here he was, walking beside him in broad daylight.

 

Their journey didn’t last much longer.

 

The streets twisted tighter, the buildings leaning in like gossiping old women, shadows thickening around their feet as they crossed into a part of the city that pulsed with a different sort of energy, older, darker, but no less alive. Signs hung from wrought iron poles, some scrawled in elegant black or gold calligraphy, others in bright crimson ink that probably wasn’t paint.

 

Alastor came to a stop in front of a crooked townhouse wedged between two crumbling towers. Vines with razor-edged leaves crawled up the walls. The shutters were painted a cheerful lilac. A skull-shaped wind chime rattled faintly in the breeze.

 

Lucifer tilted his head. “Charming.”

 

Alastor smiled. “You’ll like her.”

 

He stepped forward and gave the door two polite, perfectly measured knocks.

 

They didn’t wait long.

 

The door flew open with a dramatic flourish, revealing a woman dressed in a whirlwind of lace, velvet, and flour-dusted apron. Her curls were piled high, her lips painted black, and her arms were already flinging themselves into gestured welcome.

 

“Darlings!” Rosie sang, the sound rich and round and deeply theatrical. “You’re just in time, I’ve brewed a fresh batch of tea and I found the most delightful knuckles at market this morning, you simply must try one!”

 

Before Lucifer could get a word in, she’d seized him by the shoulders, gentle but firm, and bustled him inside like a long-lost nephew finally come to visit.

 

“Such a lovely face!” she cooed. “No wonder Alastor’s been so twitchy lately. You’ve got a presence, my dear.”

 

Lucifer sputtered, caught somewhere between embarrassment and a very specific brand of fear, and managed to flash Alastor a half-panicked look over his shoulder.

 

Alastor merely stepped in behind them, all smiles. “Rosie, allow me to formally introduce…”

 

“Oh hush, I know who he is,” Rosie interrupted breezily. “You think I don’t keep tabs on the royal comings and goings? Please. Sit, both of you!”

 

The parlor was both elegant and unhinged, crimson drapes, polished bone furniture, lace doilies, and an unsettling number of antique dolls watching from the mantle. A silver tray was already waiting on the low table: delicate porcelain teacups, a matching pot, and an assortment of finger foods that Lucifer very quickly realized were literal.

 

As in, fingers.

 

Delicately arranged. Lightly crisped.

 

One even had a dainty ring still on it.

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

Rosie beamed at him. “Go on, try one! They’re smoked!”

 

He smiled with all the poise of a man standing on a trapdoor and waved the offer away. “Ah, thank you, but I’m not… currently hungry.”

 

Rosie pouted but poured him a cup of tea anyway, her hands flitting between sugar and cream and tiny clinking spoons. “Well, more for me.”

 

Lucifer accepted the cup with a polite, if slightly strained, “Thank you.”

 

The tea smelled floral. He sipped it cautiously.

 

Alastor took his own seat beside him with the air of someone settling in for a delightful show.

 

“So,” she purred, plucking a sugar cube between two elegant fingers and plopping it into her tea, “you’ll never guess who turned up armless at the butchers’ market last week.”

 

Alastor perked up immediately, his eyes lighting with the gleam of good, messy rumor. “Mm, don’t tell me, it wasn’t Gertie again?”

 

“Oh, it was!” Rosie laughed, delighted. “Apparently her fourth husband finally snapped. Snatched her machete and lopped off both arms while she was in the middle of gutting his mistress. The scandal.”

 

“Oh, how deliciously dramatic,” Alastor chuckled. “Though honestly, if you’re going to take four husbands, you really must prepare for at least one retaliatory amputation. Comes with the territory.”

 

Rosie cackled. “I said the same! And her poor neighbor, still traumatized. You know he was out there trying to mow his lawn and caught an arm mid-arc? Hit him right in the chest. Left a bruise the shape of a wedding band.”

 

“Oh, marvelous,” Alastor said, sipping his tea with glee.

 

As the two of them bantered back and forth, laughter floating through the blood-red parlor like songbirds on caffeine, Lucifer sat stiffly beside Alastor on the love seat.

 

Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. Thigh to goddamn thigh.

 

The thing was cursed. Surely.

 

There were other chairs. Rosie had plenty of chairs. But no, he and Alastor had been herded to the small, velvet monstrosity built for two and just wide enough to be dangerous.

 

And now, with the bustle of the street gone, the noise replaced by warm lighting and idle gossip, Lucifer was acutely aware of just how close Alastor was sitting.

 

Too close.

 

The scent of him. The heat of him. The sound of his voice in that smooth, amused register.

 

And Lucifer’s brain, damnable traitor that it was, chose now to play back every single vivid second of the night before. Alastor’s smile. His laugh. His touch. The way his fingers had ghosted over Lucifer’s arms in the bayou. The kiss.

 

The fantasy.

 

Lucifer shifted in place, trying to angle himself ever so slightly away without it being obvious, but the damned loveseat offered no escape. He cleared his throat.

 

The heat was rising in his face before he could stop it.

 

He stared intently at the tea in his lap, willing the blush not to climb, not to show, but it was too late.

 

“Darling,” Rosie said suddenly, cutting her story off mid-sentence.

 

Lucifer jerked upright. “What? I—I mean, yes?”

 

Rosie tilted her head, her expression shifting from amusement to something gentler. “Are you alright? You’ve gone quite... yellow?”

 

Lucifer spluttered. “What? I’m not… yellow, I mean. I’m perfectly, fine. This tea is… very warm.”

 

Rosie’s gaze flicked from Lucifer’s burning cheeks to Alastor’s calm, unreadable smile and back again.

 

Her eyes narrowed just slightly in dawning understanding.

 

She set her cup down with a delicate clink, folded her hands neatly, and said in her most polite, most unyielding hostess tone, “Alastor, dear. Would you be so kind as to give us a moment?”

 

Alastor raised a brow, clearly catching the shift in the air, but offered no protest.

 

“Of course,” he said, rising with practiced grace. “I’ll just, admire the bone work in the foyer. I’ve always loved your filigree molding.”

 

Rosie gave him a tight, pleasant smile. “Don’t touch anything.”

 

He tipped his head in a theatrical bow and disappeared through the door, the edge of his smile lingering like a shadow in the room.

 

The moment he was gone, Rosie turned back to Lucifer with the slow precision of a woman about to pull a confession out with sugar and steel.

 

Rosie watched him with narrowed eyes and a catlike smile, one hand still wrapped daintily around her teacup. Lucifer, meanwhile, was doing everything in his power not to make eye contact. Or move. Or breathe too loudly.

 

He sat stiff and silent on the edge of the love seat, as if he could disappear into the cushions through sheer force of will.

 

“So,” Rosie drawled after a long, telling sip, “How long’s it been going on?”

 

Lucifer blinked, startled. “What?”

 

“You and Alastor,” she said, utterly unbothered. “Something’s changed. He’s different. Lighter. Still a nightmare, of course, but… happier. I noticed it weeks ago. And now here you are, sitting in my parlor, blushing like a virgin in a confessional.”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed. “We’re… figuring it out.”

 

“Mmhmm.” She leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming with fond mischief. “Figuring it out, are we? And what exactly did you figure out last night, dear?”

 

Lucifer made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and stared into his tea like he wished he could drown in it.

 

“Because I’ve known Alastor a long time,” Rosie continued, her tone growing just a touch gentler beneath the teasing. “And I know he’s never shown that kind of interest in anyone. Ever. He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t look. So imagine my surprise when he started showing up to brunch with this subtle little shine in his eyes. And now I find you here, all flustered and glowing and refusing to sit still.”

 

Lucifer groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s… not what you think.”

 

Rosie raised a brow, but said nothing.

 

Lucifer hesitated, then pressed on, his voice lower now, tight with shame. “We haven’t done anything. I mean, physically. He hasn’t shown any interest in that sort of thing, and I respect that. We’ve kissed, a couple of times. That’s all.”

 

Rosie blinked. “Really? Just a kissing?”

 

“Yes!” he said, maybe a little too quickly. “It’s still new between us. I don’t even know if it’ll become… that kind of relationship. I don’t want to pressure him.”

 

Rosie tilted her head, watching him more closely now. “Then why, sweet thing, are you burning up like someone caught with their hand in the cookie jar?”

 

Lucifer visibly flinched. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He flushed brighter, gold blooming across his face and ears as he sank slightly deeper into the cushions.

 

Rosie set her teacup down with a soft clink. “Darling,” she said gently, “it’s alright. You can tell me.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Lucifer confessed, “I… imagined him. Last night.”

 

Rosie’s eyes widened slightly.

 

Lucifer pressed forward before she could say anything. “I didn’t mean to. It just… happened. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And I—” He swallowed. “I pleasured myself. And I imagined him. And now I don’t know what to do because I know he may never want that kind of intimacy. And it feels wrong, thinking about him like that when he hasn’t asked for it. When he might never want it. And I…”

 

He stopped. Shoulders tense. Ashamed.

 

Rosie reached out, one hand landing gently on his knee. Her voice softened into something warm and maternal.

 

“Oh, honey. First of all, take a breath. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

He glanced up at her, uncertain.

 

“You didn’t act on it. You didn’t push anything on him. You had a feeling. A fantasy. And that’s human, well. Hellian. You get my point.” Her smile softened. “You’re allowed to want him. You’re allowed to feel. The fact that you’re worried about disrespecting his boundaries tells me everything I need to know.”

 

Lucifer exhaled shakily, the tightness in his chest loosening just a bit.

 

Rosie gave his knee a light pat. “You care about him. Deeply. That’s obvious. And if he cares about you too, and I know he does, you’ll be able to talk about this. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but you’ll get there.”

 

Lucifer let out a slow breath and nodded, the knot in his chest easing more than he expected. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “That actually… makes me feel a lot better.”

 

Rosie beamed, warm and satisfied, before slipping easily back into her signature mischief. “Of course it does. You’re always welcome to come to me for advice, sugar. Especially with Alastor.” She leaned in with a wink. “I know how complex he can be.”

 

Lucifer barked out a genuine laugh, hand over his face again, but this time from amusement rather than mortification.

 

“Saints help me, I think you might be the only person in Hell who says that like it’s a compliment.”

 

“Oh, it is,” Rosie said breezily, straightening her skirts. “But it also means you’re going to need someone in your corner when he starts talking in riddles and emotionally tap-dancing around vulnerability.”

 

Lucifer chuckled again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

They shared a smile, soft and conspiratorial.

 

“Now then,” Rosie said, standing and smoothing her gloves, “ready for me to bring your Radio Demon back in?”

 

Lucifer exhaled and squared his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said with a small, steady smile. “I’m ready.”

 

The parlor door creaked open.

 

Lucifer glanced up just in time to see Alastor step lightly back into the room, his smile perfectly pleasant, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

 

“Have we cleared the air?” he asked, eyes flicking between them with casual interest, too casual.

 

Rosie offered him a sweet smile, all innocence and good manners. “We have.”

 

Lucifer cleared his throat, shifting slightly on the love seat, only to immediately regret it as Alastor moved to sit down beside him again… closer this time.

 

Not dramatically. Nothing anyone else would think twice about.

 

But Lucifer felt it.

 

The warmth of his presence. The subtle lean of his shoulder toward Lucifer’s. The gentle brush of fabric against fabric as they settled side by side once more. It wasn’t inappropriate. It wasn’t even overt.

 

But it was intentional.

 

Lucifer blushed. Just faintly. Just enough for Rosie to catch it from across the room.

 

She didn’t say a word.

 

Just gave a knowing smile over the rim of her teacup.

 

“Well now,” she said, as if none of the emotional carnage had just occurred. “Let’s talk shop for a moment, shall we? As much as I’m enjoying playing hostess, I imagine there will come a point where my particular brand of assistance might be needed.”

 

Alastor’s tone was smooth. “You’ve already been generous lending your people.”

 

Rosie waved a hand. “Oh, please. I consider it a vacation. But should the tides turn, and things get… messier, I’ll be there. I trust Charlie to lead, but I won’t leave her unprotected if it comes to that.”

 

Lucifer nodded. “She’s doing well. Better than I expected. But it’s… a lot. All at once. Integrating myself now, after being absent…”

 

Rosie gave him a pointed look. “You’re her father. She wants you there. Don’t tiptoe around her like you’re waiting for permission. Just show up. Listen when she speaks. Let her lean on you. That’s what she needs.”

 

Lucifer exhaled slowly and nodded. “You’re right.”

 

“Of course I’m right,” Rosie said brightly. “I always am.”

 

They talked a little longer, about the state of Cannibal Town, supply lines, what sinners were more likely to flee versus fight. Rosie’s insights were sharp and seasoned, her advice wrapped in velvet but backed by steel. She didn’t coddle.

 

Eventually, the conversation wound to a natural close. Rosie stood with a rustle of her skirts and gestured them toward the door with a gracious sweep.

 

“Well, I suppose I should let you two get on with your day. Plans to make. Armies to wrangle. Sexual tension to awkwardly ignore.”

 

Lucifer choked.

 

Rosie only laughed. “My door’s always open, darlings. You’re welcome any time.”

 

Lucifer met her eyes and, despite the teasing, offered a genuine smile. “Thank you. Really.”

 

Rosie softened. “Of course, sugar.”

 

They made their way to the door, Alastor giving a courtly bow and Lucifer trailing just behind.

 

As they stepped out into the street once more, the hush of the parlor faded, replaced by distant noise and the ever-present buzz of the city.

 

Lucifer exhaled slowly, the last of the tension leaving his shoulders as they began the walk back to the hotel. Alastor walked beside him, hands tucked neatly behind his back, his expression unreadable.

 

They didn’t speak for the first few paces.

 

Then, without looking over, Lucifer muttered, “...You were right.”

 

Alastor blinked, casting a sidelong glance his way. “Oh?”

 

Lucifer sighed. “I did like her.”

 

Alastor’s grin blossomed slow and smug, sharp with satisfaction but tinged with real warmth. “Mmm. I knew you would.”

 

Lucifer gave him a narrow look. “Don’t get smug.”

 

Alastor hummed. “Too late.”

 

Lucifer huffed a laugh and shook his head, but didn’t argue further.

 

They continued walking, shoulder to shoulder, the distance between them comfortable now. Unspoken things hung in the air between them, warm, tentative, and waiting.

 

But for the moment, neither of them rushed to fill it.

 

And for once, the silence felt just right.

Notes:

Like father, like daughter, am I right? Slammin’ doors in the poor Radio Demon’s face, what a morning, my darlings! But don’t you fret, our dear Alastor handled it like a true gentleman, letting his beloved king gather the nerve to come say hello.

And then, of course... there’s Rosie.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be on the receiving end of that woman’s signature brand of doting care. Wouldn’t you, sugar?

But alas, that’s all for now.

If you enjoyed this chapter, drop me a little comment, I adore hearing from you, truly, it lights up my day like a neon sign in a blackout. And if that feels like too much, just smack that kudos button, won’t you? It keeps this cold, dead heart of mine beatin’ just a little while longer.

Until next time, my darlings...

Chapter 29: Easing Into Things

Notes:

Well hello, hello, my darling sinners, it’s your ever-faithful host crackling back through the airwaves! Can you believe it’s been an entire week since our last rendezvous? Shocking, I know! I must extend my sincerest apologies, for I’ve grown you sweet creatures quite accustomed to a steady rhythm of two chapters a week at the least. But never fear! Fortune smiles upon us, an extra day off work has fallen into my lap, and I fully intend to make it up to you in spades.

So, without further ado, sit back, adjust that dial, and prepare yourselves for tonight’s tantalizing tale. I do hope you enjoy this next chapter, my loves, after all, it’s been simmering just for you.

The kitchen smelled like chaos and bacon.

 

It had been a week since the visit to Rosie’s, and somehow, against every rational expectation, the hotel had survived. No casualties. No public meltdowns. No cannibal uprising. Charlie had officially dubbed it a win.

 

And this morning, in a twist of fate no one had predicted, breakfast duty had fallen to Lucifer, Alastor, and Angel Dust.

 

Lucifer stood at the stovetop, sleeves rolled, methodically folding massive quantities of scrambled eggs in a cast iron pan big enough to seat a sinner. His face was calm, focused, save for the faint crinkle of irritation between his brows.

 

That crinkle deepened when Angel Dust popped up beside him with a tray full of fruit and absolutely no respect for personal space.

 

“You know,” Angel said, voice syrup-slick and mischief-laced, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say this little domestic scene is straight outta one of those old sitcoms. Next thing you know, Al’s gonna be wearing an apron that says ‘Kiss the Cook’ and you’re gonna start calling each other sweety.”

 

Lucifer didn’t look away from the eggs. “Do you want to be stabbed with a spatula?”

 

“Ooh,” Angel grinned, sharp teeth flashing, “so spicy in the morning, Your Majesty. Tell me, is that a Lucifer thing… or just a boyfriend thing?”

 

The eggs sizzled. So did Lucifer’s patience.

 

Across the kitchen, Alastor didn’t even glance up from his own array of bubbling pots, but his smile twitched just a hair wider.

 

“I must admit,” he called, voice light, “you’ve a real talent for pestering, Angel dear. Almost admirable, in a cockroach-under-the-floorboards sort of way.”

 

Angel batted his upper lashes and leaned against the prep counter, crossing one leg over the other with dramatic flair. “You wound me. All this culinary chemistry going on and I’m just trying to keep things interesting. Wouldn’t want the new power couple to get too comfortable.”

 

Lucifer sighed, setting the eggs aside and moving to the towering pile of biscuits that needed arranging on trays. “Do you ever stop talking?”

 

Angel tapped a gloved finger to his chin, thoughtfully. “Mmm… nope.”

 

The banter continued, light and fast. Alastor was manning the “special dietary requests” section; an assortment of heavily seasoned, lightly charred meats best not asked about. He handled it with the same unnerving ease he did everything else, humming some old jazz tune as he plated everything up with surgical precision.

 

Lucifer, ever the reluctant multitasker, alternated between eggs, biscuits, and keeping Angel from taste-testing everything in arm’s reach. Their movements flowed around each other more easily than they used to, passing bowls, swapping utensils, brushing shoulders without flinching. Alastor and Lucifer had fallen into a rhythm lately, one neither of them acknowledged outright but both seemed to… rely on.

 

“You know,” Angel said, sidling up to Alastor’s side with a sway of his hips and a glint in his eyes, “I’ve always had a thing for a man who knows his way around a kitchen.”

 

He leaned in, one of his top arms lightly draping across Alastor’s shoulder like it belonged there, his voice low and playful. “Confident hands. Sharp knives. Bit of a control freak. Kinda sexy, not gonna lie.”

 

Alastor didn’t even pause in his stirring, but the corner of his eye twitched.

 

“Angel,” he said coolly, “get back on task and out of my personal spa—”

 

He didn’t get to finish.

 

Lucifer appeared between them without a sound, sliding smoothly into the narrow space like a curtain being drawn. He was shorter than both of them, but the force of his presence made the air tighten.

 

“Back. Off.” His voice was low, precise, and brooked no argument.

 

Angel blinked, then immediately stepped back, hands raised, grin spreading like wildfire. “Damn, short king,” he said, clearly delighted. “Didn’t realize we were the territorial type.”

 

Lucifer didn’t respond; just glared.

 

Angel clicked his tongue. “Alastor, babe, you must’ve done something right. You actually managed to snatch the most wanted bachelor in Hell before anybody else had a shot. Color me impressed.”

 

Lucifer’s blush flared, a soft gold blooming up his neck as he turned back toward the biscuits. “Shut up and get back to work.”

 

Angel’s grin widened. “Oh, I will. Don’t worry, Daddy, your secret’s safe with me.”

 

Lucifer groaned softly under his breath.

 

Alastor, unbothered, kept tending to his blood-dark sauce with expert precision. Without looking away from the pan, he leaned sideways just slightly and pressed a warm, gentle kiss into the top of Lucifer’s hair. A soft nuzzle, brief but lingering.

 

Lucifer stilled.

 

Then he all but melted into Alastor’s side, leaning back for a beat like the tension had been cut from him with a knife. Just for a second. Just enough to feel it.

 

Then, silently, he pulled away again and returned to chopping chives like nothing had happened.

 

Angel witnessed the entire exchange and let out an exaggerated groan.

 

“You two are disgustingly cute,” he muttered, turning back to his bacon. “Never stop.”

 

Lucifer didn’t say anything, but the smile tugging at the edge of his mouth was hard to miss.

 

---

 

With the final serving platter arranged and the kitchen filled with the warm, mingling scents of a feast, they set to work gathering the trays, chafing dishes, and ornate platters, ready to parade their morning’s efforts down to the ballroom.

 

Gone were the dust-covered chandeliers and faded silk runners, Charlie and Vaggie had worked through the night that first evening, transforming the cavernous space into something functional, if not exactly elegant. The long, mismatched banquet tables stretched in two parallel lines across the center of the room, now groaning under the sheer weight of food.

 

Stacks of golden biscuits, heaps of scrambled eggs, platters of crispy bacon, sausages, some normal, some… decidedly not, lined the center of each table in gleaming trays. There were pancakes dusted with powdered sugar, bowls of butter and jams, jugs of juice, and more than one tray of meat that steamed suspiciously red in color. At the far end, a corner table held an intimidating row of heavy-brewed coffee pots, each one gently hissing as they kept their contents piping hot.

 

The air was thick with the smell of grease, sugar, and roasted meat.

 

Alastor adjusted the placement of a gravy boat, while Angel set down the last bowl of fruit and Lucifer placed the final tray of hash browns like a chess piece. They stood for a brief moment side by side, surveying their work in silence.

 

“It’s a masterpiece,” Angel declared, fanning himself dramatically with one of his hands. “I mean, really. Look at it. Breakfast fit for kings. Or cannibals. Or… you know. Both.”

 

Lucifer nodded once, arms folded. “Surprisingly, no one died during prep.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Alastor murmured, brushing invisible crumbs from his vest. “You’ve no idea how close I came to committing unspeakable violence over those biscuits.”

 

“Truly, Hell trembles when the gravy clumps,” Angel said, solemn.

 

Lucifer sighed and turned toward the ballroom doors, just in time to hear the unmistakable rumble of chaos.

 

The first group of new arrivals burst in like a storm front. They were loud, already arguing with one another, bumping shoulders, laughing in ways that always sounded just a little too sharp.

 

“Breakfast!” one of them crowed, charging forward with a tray already in hand.

 

The buffet lines were immediately swarmed. Plates clattered, chairs screeched, and the once-pristine arrangement of food was quickly transformed into the satisfying mess of community hunger. Still, everything moved with a kind of natural rhythm, bodies flowing around each other, voices raised in greeting or banter, coffee being poured like lifeblood.

 

Near the far end, a few cannibals congregated around the section Alastor had curated, eyes lighting up at the trays of blood sausage, offal hash, and something vaguely heart-shaped swimming in a peppery broth. One of them, a wiry demoness with bone piercings along her jaw, lifted a steaming chunk and grinned at Alastor with genuine delight.

 

“Whoever made this,” she called, “you’re a bloody saint.”

 

Alastor inclined his head modestly. “I do what I can.”

 

Angel made a face. “You do too much, but sure.”

 

Lucifer stepped back from the main table, watching the room begin to fill, more sinners filtering in, some still bleary from sleep, others wide-eyed and ready for the day. The chaos was loud but contained. Organized, in its own weird way.

 

And Charlie was there too, weaving between tables with Vaggie at her side, directing newcomers toward seats, greeting them with tired but radiant smiles. For a moment, she caught Lucifer’s eye from across the room and gave him a small nod. He returned it.

 

He let out a slow breath.

 

It was… A lot, but not as overwhelming as it had been that first night.

 

Angel had disappeared into the crowd, but not far. Lucifer spotted him weaving between tables with practiced ease, tray in one hand and the other already slinking around Husk’s shoulders as he flopped dramatically into the seat beside him. Husk grunted but didn’t shove him off, which was as good as a cuddle invitation by his standards. Angel leaned in, nuzzling against his side with the kind of shameless affection that made the older demon grumble into his coffee.

 

Lucifer watched them for a moment, surprised at how natural it looked.

 

Despite all his earlier teasing, Angel hadn’t seriously flirted with anyone in earnest since the two of them had become a thing. Pestering, yes. Provoking, always. But not pursuing.

 

Not anymore.

 

Lucifer watched Angel nuzzle into Husk’s side, all affectionate limbs and smug little grins. Husk gave a half-hearted grumble, tail flicking, but didn’t shove him off, or maybe couldn’t be bothered to. Either way, it looked… settled. Not performative. Not like the bait Angel had dangled earlier in the kitchen.

 

Lucifer’s expression softened for a moment.

 

Then he turned away.

 

He stepped back from the buffet line, weaving carefully between milling sinners, steam rising from their plates and conversations buzzing like low static around him. Someone jostled him with an elbow and muttered an apology. Someone else offered him a cinnamon roll with far too much enthusiasm. He declined with a polite shake of the head and kept moving.

 

The room was brighter now, morning light spilling in through tall windows and cutting soft beams across the floor. Near one of those windows, nestled just outside the chaos, sat a smaller round table, a moment of calm in the center of the storm.

 

Charlie was there, gesturing animatedly with her fork, her plate already half-finished and her expression bright with determination. Vaggie sat beside her, arms crossed but clearly listening, her coffee untouched but warming her hands. Across from them sat Alastor, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, a plate of precise, horrifyingly red delicacies in front of him. He smiled as he listened, head tilted, occasionally chiming in with a remark that made Charlie roll her eyes or Vaggie scowl in amusement.

 

Lucifer felt the tension in his spine ease at the sight of them, his daughter steady and speaking with purpose, Vaggie keeping her usual sharp watch, Alastor calm and engaged but not theatrical, not today.

 

They didn’t notice him at first.

 

And for just a moment, he lingered a few steps away, watching.

 

Then, quietly, he approached.

 

Lucifer slipped into the empty seat beside Alastor without a word, exhaling softly as he settled in. The soft clatter of plates and hum of voices provided a comfortable buffer, a living, breathing backdrop to the little island of quiet they shared at the window.

 

Charlie looked up immediately, her fork paused midair.

 

“Dad,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips, “you’re not eating?”

 

Lucifer glanced down at the bare space in front of him, suddenly aware of how conspicuous it was.

 

“I… was going to wait,” he said, a little sheepish. “Let the crowd thin out first.”

 

Vaggie gave him a skeptical look. Charlie frowned slightly, concern just brushing the edges of her tone.

 

“You sure?”

 

“I’ll be fine,” he started to say.

 

But before the words were finished, Alastor lifted one hand with a casual flick of his fingers.

 

There was a soft shimmer in the air, a ripple of static and shadow, and suddenly, a plate materialized in front of Lucifer.

 

A tall stack of pancakes, glistening with syrup and powdered sugar, nestled beside a neat helping of sliced fruit. A steaming mug of coffee appeared alongside it, the scent rich and dark, laced with something warm and sweet, hazelnut and cinnamon, with far too much sugar and cream. Exactly the way he liked it.

 

Lucifer blinked down at the offering, dumbfounded.

 

He reached for the mug, lifting it with both hands like it might disappear if he moved too fast. He took a sip. Paused. Took another.

 

It was perfect.

 

“…How did you…?” he began, turning slightly in his seat, eyes wide.

 

Alastor didn’t look up from his own plate, but the corner of his mouth curled with quiet satisfaction.

 

“I pay attention,” he said simply. “You’re terribly easy to read.”

 

Lucifer flushed instantly, a bright golden blush blooming across his cheeks. “I—I wasn’t—I’m not…”

 

Alastor finally looked at him, one brow raised in amused disbelief.

 

Lucifer gave up the protest with a tiny, flustered huff. “Thank you,” he said softly, ducking his head. “Really.”

 

Alastor’s smile softened just a touch before he turned back to his food, expression composed but smug.

 

Across the table, Charlie beamed so brightly it was a wonder the sunlight didn’t get jealous.

 

She took a bite of her eggs and whispered to Vaggie, who nodded in silent agreement, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

 

Lucifer tried to focus on his pancakes.

 

But it was hard to concentrate with his heart fluttering like it had wings of its own.

Notes:

Man oh man, do I simply adore tossing our dear Alastor into the kitchen; clattering pans, sizzling skillets, and that ever-mischievous grin. And this time? Why, our beloved duo is shoulder-to-shoulder, stirring up something positively scrumptious! Isn’t that just the bee’s knees?

But of course, I couldn’t resist sprinkling in a dash of drama, courtesy of our favorite flirtatious spider, Angel Dust. A wink here, a quip there… oh, the sparks do fly! Still, fear not, for this chapter is but a cozy slice of domestic bliss, a sweet reprieve before the storm. Soon, my dears, things are going to get downright serious. Are you ready? You’d best be!

Until then, if this little morsel delighted you, do drop a comment or tap that kudos button, I positively live for them. For now, I bid you goodnight, my loves. Until next time...

Chapter 30: Shadows In Empty Castles

Notes:

hello there, my loves, didn’t I promise you a little something extra this week? And you know me, I always aim to deliver! Last we tuned in, we were treated to a bit of domestic morning fluff, soft as a cloud and sweet as sugar. Adorable, wasn’t it? Why, even Alastor himself can be quite the tender darling when the mood strikes—who would’ve thought?

But enough chatter over the airwaves! Let’s wind up the gramophone, spark the lights, and set this show rolling. Sit back, relax, and enjoy, my darling sinners…

Charlie gave her father one last fond glance before straightening in her seat, the notebook in her lap flipping open with a crisp flick of her pen.

 

“Alright,” she said, businesslike now but still smiling, “so I’ve been working on a task list for today. We’ve got more arrivals expected, Rosie sent word this morning, so we’ll need to finish clearing the west wing for extra housing. Vaggie and I will handle coordinating the room assignments.”

 

She scribbled something quickly, then looked up.

 

“Angel said he’d oversee the training hall rotations; he and Cherri should be able to keep the more violent guests busy for a few hours.” She glanced at Vaggie, who gave a small nod of agreement. “But we’ll also need to reinforce the eastern stairwell. The support beams are still cracked from that imp that tried to use it as a grappling course.”

 

Lucifer winced. “The one with the chainsaw?”

 

“Yeah. Him.”

 

Charlie turned her gaze toward Alastor. “If you don’t mind, I was hoping you could take charge of…”

 

“I’m afraid I’ll be away from the hotel today,” Alastor said smoothly, cutting in with a pleasant tone but an air of finality.

 

Vaggie’s brow twitched. “Away?”

 

Her voice was flat, but the sharpness behind it was unmistakable.

 

She leaned forward. “You’re seriously bailing today? With everything going on?”

 

Alastor didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice. “It’s not a matter of choice. There’s a personal matter I must tend to. It won’t take long.”

 

“And what,” Vaggie snapped, eyes narrowing, “could possibly be more important than preparing for a battle?”

 

The table went quiet.

 

Lucifer didn’t speak, but he turned slightly in his seat, watching Alastor carefully. Even Charlie had stilled, her pen hovering over the page, expression soft but puzzled.

 

Alastor held their gazes calmly, unreadable as ever, though his fingers briefly tightened around the edge of his plate before he set his fork down with deliberate care.

 

“It’s nothing that requires concern,” he said, voice light. “Just a small errand. Unrelated to the hotel, but time-sensitive.”

 

He met Charlie’s eyes last, and his smile gentled. “I’ll return before nightfall.”

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

Vaggie opened her mouth to argue, but Charlie reached over and placed a hand lightly over hers.

 

“It’s fine,” she said softly, her tone balancing authority and grace. “If Alastor has other business, we’ll manage. There’s enough of us here to keep things going.”

 

Vaggie frowned, but relented, her shoulders tense.

 

Alastor offered Charlie a nod of gratitude, then turned back to his mostly-finished plate, as if the moment hadn’t happened.

 

Lucifer watched him a second longer before glancing down at his coffee.

 

Something about the way Alastor avoided the specifics bothered him. Not enough to push; not yet. But the feeling lodged like a splinter behind his ribs.

 

Charlie exhaled softly and turned the page of her notebook. “Okay. Then let’s go over what still needs to be done…”

 

By the time they’d all cleared their plates and wrapped up the day’s assignments, the crowd in the ballroom had doubled in size. Charlie was back to flipping pages in her notebook and giving cheerful instructions to a group of newly arrived sinners. Vaggie was already halfway across the room, pointing someone toward the training wing with sharp, clipped words.

 

Alastor stood from his chair with fluid grace, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his waistcoat.

 

“I’ll return before nightfall,” he said lightly, directing the words only to Charlie. “Try not to let the place collapse while I’m away.”

 

Charlie smiled, still scribbling. “No promises.”

 

He offered her a jaunty half-bow.

 

To Vaggie, he said nothing.

 

Not a glance. Not a word. He simply turned and made his way toward the doors, staff tapping lightly on the ballroom floor.

 

But as he passed behind Lucifer’s chair, his hand drifted out, fingers brushing across one shoulder in a touch so fleeting it could almost be missed. Affection masked in nonchalance.

 

And in that same breath, a thread of shadow slipped from his fingertips, small and quick as a trick of the light. It glided down the length of Lucifer’s back, unseen, unremarkable, and merged with the king’s own shadow upon the floor. Two tiny red eyes blinked once, then vanished into the dark as it settled.

 

By the time the fleeting contact had concluded, the deed was done. Alastor never paused, never faltered. He simply continued toward the ballroom doors as though nothing at all had happened.

 

Lucifer hesitated for only a moment, then quietly excused himself and followed after him.

 

The corridor outside was calm, hushed in the way only old hallways could be. The din of the dining hall was muffled behind thick wooden doors, and the ambient warmth of morning had begun to fade into cooler stillness.

 

Lucifer caught up with him halfway down the corridor.

 

“Alastor.”

 

The demon didn’t slow, but his head tilted just slightly. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

 

 “Where are you going?”

 

Alastor didn’t stop walking. “Out.”

 

Lucifer gave an exasperated sigh. “That’s not an answer.”

 

“No,” Alastor said, “but it’s the one I’m offering.”

 

Lucifer frowned. He quickened his pace until they walked side by side. “Alastor, if something’s going on, if something’s wrong…”

 

“It’s not,” Alastor cut in, gently but firmly. He slowed now, just enough for their footsteps to fall into rhythm.

 

“I’m not keeping secrets to spite you,” he said after a beat. “And I’m not vanishing into the woods to make mischief.”

 

He glanced sideways, something softer flickering behind his eyes. “It’s important. That’s all I can say. If it weren’t… I’d still be at your side.”

 

Lucifer’s jaw worked, as if trying to decide between insisting and letting it go.

 

In the end, he nodded. Just once.

 

“Be safe.”

 

That was all he said.

 

Alastor stopped walking. For a moment, he just looked at Lucifer, head slightly bowed, eyes searching.

 

Then he leaned in and pressed a feather-light kiss to Lucifer’s forehead.

 

“You have nothing to worry about,” he said quietly, with the faintest curl of a smile. “I’m quite good at taking care of myself.”

 

Lucifer closed his eyes briefly at the touch, then opened them to watch him go.

 

Alastor turned, his coat flaring slightly as he resumed his pace, and disappeared around the corner without another word.

 

Lucifer stood alone in the empty hall, heart drumming quietly beneath his ribs.

 

He didn’t know where Alastor was going.

 

But he had the feeling it wasn’t a simple errand.

 

---

 

The moment he turned the corner and slipped out of sight from the hotel, Alastor’s smile faded.

He paused, only for a breath, and reached inward with a flick of thought. The thread he’d left behind responded at once.

 

Through its tiny, hidden eyes, he glimpsed the ballroom hallway from the floor. Crimson-tinged vision blinked upward to find Lucifer still standing exactly where Alastor had left him, alone now, gaze cast down the corridor with a furrowed brow. His expression was unreadable, but something about the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, suggested concern.

 

Then the ballroom doors creaked open behind him.

 

Charlie and Vaggie stepped out mid-conversation, and Lucifer straightened immediately. The moment his daughter appeared, the worry vanished, smoothed into effortless poise. He greeted them with a smile and fell into step beside her, all trace of hesitation gone.

 

Satisfied, Alastor let the connection fade.

 

The air around him warped, and he sank seamlessly into the shadows, his body stretching, dissolving into ink and teeth, into flickering shapes and twitching, tendril-thin wisps of movement. His form unraveled across the alley wall like a film reel played too fast, until he was no longer walking, no longer visible.

 

He slipped between cracks in the cobblestone, between beams of light, unseen and unheard. A ripple across glass. A whisper on the far edge of hearing. A blink of darkness darting from windowpane to rusted pipe, darting faster, deeper, across the cityscape like a phantom unspooling.

 

Hell didn’t notice.

 

Hell never noticed him when he moved like this.

 

Pentagram City spread wide and ugly beneath him, twisting towers, alleyways like open wounds, neon lights humming with desperate energy. He passed overhead, gliding along rooftops, a smear of black across the skyline.

 

Demons shouted in the streets. Someone screamed in laughter, or terror. A fight broke out three stories below. He didn’t slow.

 

Time lost its shape like this. Buildings blurred. Streets warped beneath him. The city thinned and began to fall away behind him, replaced by darker, quieter terrain, charred earth and volcanic rock giving way to something colder. Older.

 

And then, finally he stopped.

 

A shape loomed on the horizon, rising like a memory carved from obsidian and starfire.

 

Lucifer’s palace.

 

It stood tall and monolithic, its edges gleaming with celestial precision, unmarred by time or ash. Spires curled like blades toward the blood-red sky, draped in ribbons of gold and silver that pulsed with latent, long-dormant power. Even from a distance, the structure hummed, not with life, but with divinity. A low, thrumming vibration that tugged at the bones if you stood too close for too long.

 

The wards were ancient.

 

They crackled faintly with restrained violence, woven together in sigils no one dared unweave. Divine architecture crafted by the Morningstar himself in the first centuries of his descent, before time dulled him. Before loneliness softened him.

 

Alastor reformed just beyond the palace grounds, stepping out of the shadows with silent, fluid grace.

 

He stood still for a moment.

 

He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. Straightened his coat.

 

Alastor stopped just shy of the palace gates.

 

He didn’t approach carelessly, no one with sense ever did. Instead, he stood motionless in the scorched, quiet space before the threshold, letting the looming weight of the place settle over him like an old, heavy coat.

 

Then, slowly, he lifted one hand, palm open, fingers splayed.

 

His shadow stirred before his feet, stretching unnaturally across the cracked ground. It lengthened and split into thinner tendrils, dark and whispering, twisting upward like smoke caught in reverse. They reached forward, unseen by mortal eyes but pulsing with intent, sliding toward the palace like silent fingertips brushing a veil.

 

And then, the wards struck.

 

A sharp, deafening crack tore through the air, and divine fire lanced downward like a blade of pure will. The sky shimmered where it struck, rippling with golden light, unforgiving, holy, ancient. The sigils woven into the palace's skin came alive with purpose, no longer dormant but awakened in fury.

 

The shadows reeled back.

 

But Alastor was ready.

 

With a whip of his hand and a twist of thought, he raised a barrier of his own, not light, but dense, clinging darkness. It wasn’t just magic. It was him. A net of his own design, born from blood and silence and the patient understanding of how to survive things meant to destroy.

 

The divine energy slammed into it like a meteor.

 

It hissed and sparked, light and shadow snarling against each other in a violent burst that scorched the air. The scent of ozone filled his nose. His barrier cracked, but didn’t break.

 

His smile was gone now, replaced by something harder, focused.

 

He pressed forward.

 

The shadow tendrils reformed and slithered under the lattice of light, slipping between the wards' threads, seeking flaws in the weave. It wasn’t about overpowering them. That would be suicide. No, he moved like water. Like something that didn’t fight head-on but wore away resistance from the inside.

 

He found a weak point.

 

Small. Tightly wound. But there.

 

He whispered something, words not made for sound, but shaped in thought, and drove his will into the gap. His magic pressed against the fold, not striking, but slipping. Sliding. Sinking.

 

The wards trembled.

 

Then, like a lock reluctantly turning, there was a shift.

 

A breach. No larger than a doorway.

 

Just enough.

 

Alastor exhaled slowly.

 

Then stepped forward, slipping through the veil of power as it strained to close behind him, brushing against his coat with angry, searing heat that refused to touch skin.

 

The moment he was through, the breach sealed again with a soundless snap.

 

Alastor straightened, adjusted his cuffs, and resumed walking, each step careful, measured, respectful.

 

He didn’t stop to admire the gilded archways or the murals carved in ancient celestial script. He didn’t marvel at the towering stained-glass windows or the vaulted ceilings painted in colors not found in mortal memory.

 

He kept moving.

 

He’d never been inside the palace before.

 

Its layout was foreign, its halls winding and grand, each corridor a seamless blend of reverence and intimidation. But he moved like he belonged, coat whispering around his legs, footsteps silent against the polished obsidian floor veined with ancient gold.

 

The main hall stretched out ahead of him, lined with old statues and flickering lamps that burned without flame. At the end, massive double doors flanked by twin winged guardians sculpted in white stone, faces serene, eyes blindfolded, was the throne room.

 

He pushed the doors open with a quiet creak and stepped inside.

 

The chamber was vast, quiet, and cold.

 

Lucifer’s throne sat high atop a long staircase, empty now, but still heavy with presence. The air here buzzed with residual power, millennia of rulership compressed into silence and space.

 

Alastor didn’t look up at it.

 

Instead, he stepped into the center of the room and raised both hands.

 

His shadow responded instantly.

 

It surged out around him, inky black spilled across marble, rippling, shivering, then splitting. Tendrils peeled upward, taking form. Eyes blinked open in the dark. Shapes emerged: tall, spindly things with limbs like broken sticks and mouths full of too many teeth. Silent, patient, obedient.

 

Six of them stood in a loose circle around him, swaying in place like reeds in a storm that hadn’t arrived yet.

 

Alastor gave no spoken order.

 

He didn’t need to.

 

The creatures bowed their heads in eerie synchronicity, then scattered. Melting into cracks in the floor, into shadows cast by nothing, into the seams between light and space.

 

Alastor let his hands fall back to his sides.

 

He stood alone once more, in the heart of the Morningstar’s domain, surrounded by celestial artistry, hellfire-touched stone, and ancient silence.

 

But he didn’t care about any of that.

 

He needed knowledge. Secrets buried where only a being like the King would dare house them.

 

He needed to know if it was possible to sever a soul contract, his contract.

 

He didn’t know if the answer existed.

 

But if it did… it would be here.

 

And he would find it.

Notes:

Oh-ho-ho, my darling sinners, have we got a twist tonight! Our cunning stag has slipped ever so slyly into the king’s palace, not for wicked schemes, mind you, but in search of long-buried answers. Now the question remains… will he uncover what he seeks? And tell me, dear readers, will our dear Alastor finally snap those chains that bind him?

One step closer to freedom, or one step closer to ruin? Ah, that is the question! Stay tuned, my darling sinners, the story is only just beginning. Until next time, my loves, I bid you a most enchanting goodnight...

Chapter 31: Nothing But Silance And Old Tombs

Notes:

Hello once again, my darling sinners! I promised you an extra chapter this week, and I do aim to please. When last we tuned in, our beloved Alastor had slipped through the shadows, infiltrating none other than Lucifer’s grand castle in search of a way to break his chains. And tonight we discover: will fortune smile upon him, or will he be left wanting? Stay tuned, my loves… for the answer lies just ahead.

The throne room was silent, but Alastor was not alone.

 

He felt them, his shadows, moving through the palace like blood through veins. Each one a whisper of himself, a sliver of his will unfurling through the dark. He saw through their hollow eyes, felt their weightless bodies as they slid beneath locked doors, behind ancient tapestries, through keyholes and forgotten crawlspaces.

 

They crept across marble floors and coiled around columns, slipped between iron grates and scaled shelves taller than trees.

 

He didn’t need to speak to them.

 

They were him.

 

And he could see everything.

 

Most of the rooms were useless.

 

One shadow passed through a gallery of old relics. Another slithered into a long-abandoned music hall with broken instruments and crumbling notes scrawled in fading script. A third found a corridor that led only to warded sleeping chambers, sealed and untouched.

 

But then, Alastor paused.

One of them had found something… different.

 

The air there wasn’t stale like the rest of the castle. It felt newer somehow, alive in a way the rest of the place had long since forgotten. The shadow lingered just outside the threshold of a door half-cracked open, and through its hollow gaze, Alastor could already feel it; magic. Gentle, familiar. A touch of creation, not destruction.

 

He honed in on that thread of awareness, casting his mind through the shadow’s eyes and willing it silently into the room beyond.

 

Lucifer’s workshop.

 

It was dim, the only illumination coming from the distant crimson light of Hell’s sky filtering through a massive, arched window. But the space breathed with quiet purpose. It was tidy. Lived-in. Not at all the grand, chaotic mess Alastor might’ve expected from the King of Hell.

 

A long workbench stretched beneath the window, neatly arranged with delicate tools, vibrant paints, carving knives, and half-finished projects of unknown intent, each placed with meticulous care. Above it hung labeled shelves with curiosities sorted by color, size, or arcane function. On one wall, towering shelves were lined with what had to be hundreds of rubber ducks, absurd in number, yes, but arranged with such symmetrical precision it almost made sense. Almost.

 

Another wall bore framed portraits. One of Charlie as a toddler, gap-toothed and beaming. Another of a small, seemingly happy family.

 

It was a royal family portrait. Ostentatious and perfectly posed. And yet…

 

Lucifer stood in a dazzling suit of white and red, trimmed in gold filigree so fine it practically gleamed, even in the dimness. A crown of the same gold rested on his head, its base coiled by a delicate golden snake with garnet eyes. Regal, radiant, yet his expression was soft.

 

Relaxed. Even happy.

 

Not looking out at the viewer, but down. Down at the little girl in front of him, no taller than his knee, with a gap-toothed grin and arms flung wide like she was about to launch herself into the world. His hand rested protectively on her shoulder.

 

Charlie.

 

Alastor’s lips curled slightly, fondness tugging at the corners of his mouth. He could feel Lucifer’s joy radiating from the canvas, honest and unguarded. The kind of warmth that couldn’t be faked.

 

But then his gaze shifted.

 

Beside Lucifer stood the Queen of Hell, Lilith.

 

Tall and striking in a floor-length gown of rich royal purple. Her blonde hair tumbled in perfect waves down her back, catching glints of imaginary light. Two long, arcing horns curled from her crown in an elegant sweep over her head. A small smile played on her lips, measured, posed, picture-perfect.

 

But her eyes…

 

There was a tightness there, subtle but unmistakable. The kind that only someone well-versed in masks could recognize. A quiet edge of resentment, or perhaps disappointment, tucked neatly behind the paint.

 

Still, she stood beside him. Arm to arm. Family.

 

Alastor’s faint smile faltered.

 

The echo of Lucifer’s happiness in that portrait softened him. But the sight of Lilith beside him, once so close, curled cold fingers around his ribs. Not because of who she was. But because of what she wasn’t.

 

She had hurt Lucifer, yes.

 

But she had walked away.

 

Alastor would not be so lucky.

 

If he couldn’t find a way to sever the contract, to break the leash looped so tightly around his throat… then someday, he wouldn’t just walk away.

 

He would destroy him.

 

And Lucifer’s smile, so warm, so bright, would be gone forever.

 

With a soft hum under his breath, Alastor withdrew, letting the shadow dissolve into the wall and slip away down the corridor to continue its search.

 

He pulled his focus back, the tether of his will stretching wide once more as he reconnected with the others. They came rushing back to him like wind through leaves, silent, scattered, many still exploring useless halls and crumbling chambers.

 

But one felt different.

 

He narrowed his focus, homing in.

 

A feeling of resistance, subtle but ancient, brushed along the edges of the shadow’s senses like a wire stretched taut. It wasn’t a ward, at least, not in the traditional sense. There were no runes carved into the stone, no traps springing to life. But the air here thrummed with something… cautious. As if the space itself were waiting to be disturbed.

 

Alastor’s breath hitched.

 

He turned sharply on his heel and began walking without hesitation, moving through the palace like he’d always known the way, like instinct, was guiding his steps.

 

He passed through two empty wings, down a winding staircase draped in velvet dust, until the air began to shift. Denser. Cooler. Each step brought him deeper, beneath the grand halls and carved murals, down into the palace’s foundations.

 

There, tucked behind a door with no marking and no handle, his shadow pulsed against the stone like a heartbeat.

 

He reached out.

 

The moment his fingertips brushed the wall, the shadows swelled around the door, pressing in with coiling tendrils of dark. And slowly, resisting like a dying breath, it gave way.

 

The door dissolved into smoke.

 

Beyond it was a library.

 

Not the kind built for show. There were no wide windows or decorative shelves here. No gilded ladders or pristine bindings.

 

This room was buried. Forgotten.

 

Stacks of tomes and scrolls leaned against cracked stone. The walls were etched with faded sigils, some still faintly glowing, others long dead. The air was thick with age and sealed power, and dust floated in lazy, golden motes, undisturbed for centuries.

 

Alastor stepped inside.

 

Something in his chest clenched tight; hope, fear, desperation held carefully behind the mask of stillness.

 

His eyes scanned the room, and his shadows followed behind him like hounds, fanning out among the shelves.

 

Somewhere in this place… was the answer.

 

Or the beginning of it, he hoped.

 

---

 

Hours passed.

 

The shadows stretched across the library floor, silent and tireless. Alastor moved among the shelves like a phantom, fingers trailing over crumbling scrolls, brittle parchment, and tomes whose spines had long since lost their names.

 

His magic flickered behind his eyes, letting him read faster, deeper, scanning entire volumes in seconds, translating languages long dead, deciphering scripts stitched with divine shorthand and infernal obfuscation.

 

He absorbed everything.

 

Every binding oath. Every clause and countermeasure. Every account of how soul contracts were made, why they worked, what they took.

 

One scroll in particular drew him in, a thick roll of parchment bound in serpent-hide, barely intact, the ink faded almost to invisibility. It was written in a dialect he barely recognized, an archaic tongue the King must’ve used in the early centuries after his fall, when he still ruled openly, when he cared enough to study the tools of damnation like a scholar instead of a king.

 

It was meticulous. Painstaking. Personal.

 

Alastor spent over an hour with it, unraveling word after word until his eyes stung and the shadows around him pulsed with the slow crawl of his mounting frustration.

 

But it wasn’t what he needed.

 

None of it was.

 

There was nothing about breaking a contract. Only how to bind. How to strengthen. How to ensure obedience. Nothing about undoing what had already been sealed in blood and will.

 

He read until his vision blurred, until the words swam on the page and began to mock him.

 

And then, he snapped the scroll shut and rose to his feet with a suddenness that rattled the shelves.

 

The shadows still scattered throughout the room froze.

 

For a beat, the room was utterly still.

 

Then they shuddered, a deep tremor across the stone, and collapsed inward, dissolving into a pool of black at his feet.

 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed.

 

He clenched his fists, and the shadows exploded.

 

They burst outward with a crack of raw, bitter fury, slamming against the shelves and curling up the walls like fire given form. The whole chamber trembled, dust spiraling into the air as ancient tomes fell from their resting places and landed with dull, forgotten thuds.

 

“Damn this place,” he snarled, voice low, ragged.

 

His breath came faster now, shallow and uneven. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging sharply as he turned away from the chaos.

 

“Damn the contract. Damn the deal. Damn him.”

 

His voice rose with each word, spitting venom into the silence.

 

“Damn my master and every twisted promise he ever made. Damn the chains I begged to wear. Damn the moment I asked for them.”

 

He turned back toward the wrecked scroll on the floor, the one his King had written, his teeth bared now in something more raw than rage.

 

“And damn you,” he whispered. “For being kind. For being good. For seeing me.”

 

The next words came unbidden, hissed through clenched teeth, ripped from the fragile scaffolding holding his composure together.

 

“Damn you for making me feel. For making me care. For making me…”

 

His voice cracked.

 

He shut his mouth fast, jaw locked.

 

The silence that followed was thick and echoing, broken only by the low crackle of dissipating magic fading into the stones.

 

Alastor stood alone in the heart of the Morningstar’s hidden library, shaking with quiet fury, lips pressed into a tight line.

 

He didn’t finish the sentence.

 

But he didn’t need to.

 

He knew.

 

He’d fallen.

 

And it terrified him more than the contract ever had.

 

The silence of the library pressed in around him.

 

No light. No windows. No indication of how long he'd been sunk in this sea of dust and lost languages. The air was still stale, heavy with the scent of old parchment and forgotten ambition. His magic had cooled, but the tension in his chest had not.

 

Alastor reached for it again, that sliver of himself left behind like a marker, small and hidden.

 

The shadow blinked open, red eyes glimmering to life inside the deeper silhouette of another.

 

And in a breath, the world shifted.

 

The library fell away, replaced with open air and motion and color. Through the sentinel’s eyes, Alastor saw the training grounds awash in evening light, Hell’s own diluted dusk streaked across the sky like spilled wine and ash.

 

Torches blazed in a broad ring. Charlie was front and center, trying valiantly to restore order as Angel Dust clung dramatically to a wooden pole while Cherri shouted encouragements that would get someone maimed. Recruits darted to and fro in scattered formation.

 

Lucifer followed a few steps behind his daughter, smiling faintly. His arms were tucked loosely behind his back, coat off, sleeves rolled just past his elbows. He looked calm.

 

But Alastor saw it.

 

The tension in his shoulders. Subtle. Nearly imperceptible. But present.

 

Too many people.

 

Too many voices.

 

The King was hiding it well, years of practice smoothing out the weight in his spine, softening the tight set of his mouth. But it was there. Beneath the gold of his eyes. In the slow way he tracked every movement, every potential threat.

 

Then Charlie turned, calling to him. Something firm but fond. Lucifer blinked, as if pulled from a fog, and followed without hesitation.

 

He helped herd the chaos back into structure, spoke with purpose, gestured with calm authority, even laughed when Angel tried to climb on his back like a makeshift horse.

 

The smile that curved Lucifer’s lips then was genuine.

 

Beautiful, even.

 

But when the moment passed, and the others looked away, Alastor saw him glance up at the hellish sky. The false dusk stretching thin overhead. And frown.

 

A quiet, tired frown.

 

That’s when Alastor remembered.

 

He had promised to be back before nightfall.

 

His expression tensed. He looked around the buried chamber once more, at the chaos left in his wake. Scrolls scattered like leaves. Shelves knocked askew. Old tomes half-unraveled and strewn across the floor in his earlier storm of rage.

 

He sighed. A long, tight breath. Resigned.

 

One snap of his fingers.

 

The shadows at his feet rippled to life, and the chamber was no longer silent. Dozens of slim shadow-creatures emerged from the cracks, obedient and tireless. They began moving immediately, righting shelves, dusting the soot, tucking scrolls back into place with reverent precision.

 

He watched them for only a moment.

 

Then turned on his heel.

 

By the time they were finished, no trace would remain of his presence here. Not a footprint. Not a whisper of the outburst. Not a single page out of place.

 

As if he’d never come at all.

Notes:

Ahhh, poor Alastor, how the fates do conspire against our cunning stag! And if that weren’t enough, he’s gone and given his king a touch of worry besides. Tsk, tsk, what tangled webs we weave, eh my darlings?

But tell me, what do you think? Will our dear Alastor ever slip free of his master’s leash, or is he doomed to remain bound forevermore? Ahhh, but that answer, my loves, lies in the chapters yet to come, and I assure you, there is plenty more in store.

So, until then, good morning, good evening, or goodnight, whichever hour finds you tuning in. Rest assured, I’ll be waiting right here on the airwaves, ready to greet you again real soon.

Chapter 32: Sleeping Angel

Notes:

Good evening, my dears, and welcome back once more to our little broadcast. Tonight, prepare yourselves for something heartbreakingly soft, yet gut-wrenchingly tragic. For though our Alastor promised to return before nightfall… the fates had other plans. His failure is one he shoulders alone, a heavy weight of helplessness pressing down, as desperation turns once again to bitter failure.

The palace let him go more easily this time.

 

Alastor slipped through the wards like smoke through a crack, their celestial weave parting with less resistance now that he’d mapped their rhythm, like knowing the pattern of a lock rather than forcing the mechanism. Still, they bristled as he passed, crackling faintly with divine warning, reminding him this was never a place built for him.

 

By the time he reached the hotel, night had swallowed the city whole.

 

The streets were quiet. Hell’s usual chaos muted by the late hour.

 

He stepped up onto the weather-worn front steps just as the last echo of life disappeared behind a closing door. The lobby was empty, its energy hollowed out after a long day. Dim sconces flickered on the walls, casting golden light across dust-flecked air. Somewhere, faintly, a floorboard creaked, but no voices followed it.

 

The hotel was sleeping.

 

And so, it seemed, was the King.

 

Alastor reached out and immediately felt the echo of the little shadow he'd left behind, still curled where it had been all day. He turned toward its pulse, moving silently through the empty hallways like a ghost.

 

The doors to one of the private lounges stood slightly ajar.

 

He nudged it open.

 

The room was dark but for the gentle crackle of firelight dancing in the hearth. The flames cast long, languid shadows along the velvet drapes and polished wood, painting the lounge in amber and crimson.

 

And there, laid across the longest couch, like something from a half-remembered dream, was Lucifer.

 

His six great wings spilled over the side, red and white feathers scattered across the carpet like fallen petals. His tail lay coiled over his legs, the spade-tip flicking every now and then against his belly, betraying the stirrings of sleep. His upper torso was turned toward the couch’s back, head resting on one arm, the other curled close to his chest, fingers barely twitching in his slumber.

 

Alastor stilled.

 

The tension that had threaded his steps all the way back from the palace bled away in an instant. The fury. The despair. The aching void of the library.

 

All that remained was this moment.

 

The firelight.

 

And him.

 

The King looked… soft. Unarmored. Not in posture, but in essence. The strain Alastor had glimpsed earlier, behind the King’s controlled smile, was gone now. His expression was calm. Not blank. Not hardened. Just… resting.

 

Peaceful.

 

Alastor's throat tightened.

 

He stepped farther into the room, circling the couch with quiet reverence. As he approached, he pulled the tiny shadow from its hiding place, dissolving it back into himself with a whisper of magic.

 

He looked down at Lucifer, at the man who wielded the weight of a kingdom, yet slept here without walls or wards to guard him. He should’ve been furious. He was, in part, how could he be so careless? What if it had been someone else who found him like this?

 

His hand twitched.

 

Almost without realizing it, he reached out.

 

His knuckles brushed the edge of one of those massive wings, just a feather-light touch.

 

The feathers shivered. The wing twitched instinctively. But the man did not stir.

 

Alastor stood still, hand lowering back to his side, eyes drinking in the picture before him.

 

How was he supposed to protect this man?

 

This King, who let himself sleep alone in a room with the door half-open. Who laughed too freely. Who looked at Alastor like he wasn’t afraid. Like he trusted him.

 

Alastor’s gaze dropped, his voice silent inside his head.

 

How am I supposed to protect you, he thought, when the blade at your throat… is me?

 

The fire cracked softly in the hearth.

 

Alastor lingered only a moment longer, eyes tracing the gentle rise and fall of Lucifer’s breathing, the occasional flick of his tail, the soft rustle of feathers shifting in the warmth of the fire.

 

Then, with practiced care, he moved closer.

 

He crouched slowly beside the couch, taking a breath before reaching out again, first to curl one arm beneath Lucifer’s knees, the other around his back, trying to find the least disruptive hold. But the wings… the wings were another matter.

 

Massive and delicate, even when at rest, they spilled like silk across the floor. Any wrong movement might tug a muscle or jostle a joint. They were beautiful, yes, but utterly in the way.

 

Alastor narrowed his eyes, focusing.

 

Thin, whispering tendrils of dark magic unfurled from his back, curving gently beneath each wing, lifting them as though caught in a slow current. They cradled the feathers without pulling, without disturbing their natural bend, and slowly raised them out of the way, supporting their weight like extra arms so they wouldn’t drag or catch underfoot.

 

With that, Alastor lifted the King.

 

Lucifer stirred slightly, his brow twitching faintly, but he didn’t wake. Instead, he sighed. A soft, sleepy thing. And as his body settled into Alastor’s arms, his head nestled against the taller demon’s chest, his breath brushing faintly against his collar.

 

Then, quieter still, a sound escaped him.

 

Just a contented, tiny hum of comfort.

 

Alastor froze mid-step.

 

That sound, so innocent, so unthinking, twisted something sharp behind his ribs. The same place where guilt always lived. The same place where his feelings for this foolish, trusting King had rooted themselves like stubborn vines.

 

He swallowed hard.

 

And kept moving.

 

The fire faded behind him as he stepped into the dim hallway, shadows still holding the wings aloft as he ascended the grand staircase with practiced, silent steps. Most of the hotel slept now, save for the odd lamp still burning here or there. But no voices called out. No guests stirred.

 

Only the creak of old wood beneath his feet.

 

And the slow, steady weight of the man in his arms.

 

He carried Lucifer all the way to the top floor, passing the silent guest suites and pausing only once in front of the King’s door.

 

And then moving on.

 

No matter how gently he might step, no matter how precisely he could wield his magic, Lucifer’s wards would know.

 

They would react.

 

He couldn’t risk it.

 

Not when the warmth of the King's breath still ghosted across his collarbone, gentle and relaxed in a restful sleep.

 

So he turned, crossing to his own quarters instead. With a quiet push, he nudged open the door, and the familiar creak of old hinges whispered him inside.

 

He shifted slightly to adjust his grip, wings still suspended by his magic, and crossed the threshold with all the care of someone carrying something fragile.

 

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

 

Alastor crossed the room without a sound, the weight in his arms growing no heavier, though the ache in his chest did.

 

He paused at the edge of the bed, shadows still lifting the wings with slow, reverent steadiness. Gently, he lowered Lucifer to the mattress, careful not to jostle him as he arranged his limbs into a more comfortable sprawl. The King shifted only faintly, a small sigh leaving his lips as his body settled into the soft give of the mattress.

 

Alastor knelt beside the bed, adjusting the wings next.

 

One by one, he eased them into place, fan-like, elegant, curling with just enough space so that none of the joints were pinned or crushed. The shadows unraveled from beneath them once the feathers were safely spread across the bed’s width, pooling at the edges like spilled ink before slipping silently back into his form.

 

Next were the boots.

 

He unlaced them slowly, gently pulling them free. One, then the other. The spade of the tail flicked once more behind him before curling close again.

 

Alastor sat quietly at the edge of the bed, one long leg crossed over the other, his fingers resting lightly on his knee. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its gentle glow casting amber shadows across the room. He studied Lucifer’s face, peaceful in sleep, unguarded in a way the King of Hell rarely allowed himself to be. His golden hair had fallen slightly into his eyes, mussed by sleep and dreams.

 

Alastor leaned forward, brushing the tousled strands gently aside. His fingertips barely grazed the soft skin of Lucifer’s temple as he swept the golden bangs back. Lucifer stirred, just faintly, not waking, but instinctively leaning into the touch with a contented hum, his brow relaxing as though soothed by the contact.

 

Alastor’s expression softened… and then withdrew.

 

He slowly pulled his hand back, and almost immediately, a small crease formed between Lucifer’s brows, a subtle frown of protest before he shifted deeper into the plush pillow beneath his head, the moment lost to slumber once more.

 

A breath hitched in Alastor’s throat as his earlier frustrations, his hollow, wasted trip to the castle, the answers he hadn’t found, came crawling back in like an unwelcome chill. The firelight dimmed. Shadows around the room flickered and stirred with agitation, their edges twitching like restless fingers.

 

He stood slowly, exhaling as if to dispel the ache building beneath his ribs.

 

With deliberate care, he pulled the maroon covers up over Lucifer’s sleeping form, tucking them just enough to hold without confining. He smoothed the blanket with a quiet precision, like a man desperate to control something, anything.

 

The firelight caught along the planes of Lucifer’s face, dancing over high cheekbones and lashes spun of gold, brushing soft warmth across a brow for once unburdened by crown or duty. It was such a fragile sight. So terribly mortal. So beautiful it hurt.

 

Alastor leaned down.

 

And pressed the gentlest kiss to his temple.

 

His lips barely touched skin, but it was enough.

 

Enough to feel the warmth of him. Enough to let the affection unspoken bleed through his bones and out in that one, trembling moment of contact.

 

He lingered there, breath caught, just a heartbeat, and then straightened.

 

The shadows around him did not settle.

They roiled.

Twisting and thickening with every beat of his heart, drawn like smoke to the storm churning just beneath his skin. They pulsed in time with emotions he refused to voice, helplessness, frustration, that gnawing, maddening anger at how little control he truly had. Over his life. Over the past. Over himself.

 

His body remained still, composed, silent as ever. But the shadows betrayed him.

 

They surged behind his back and bled into the corners of the room, stretching long and black across the walls, clinging to the firelight like oil on water.

 

He turned without a word, walking calmly toward the rear of the room. Each step steady. Measured. Contradictory.

 

The rich red velvet curtains and wood floor dissolved into swampland. Cypress trees rose up like skeletal sentinels, moss dripping from their arms. The air thickened, warm and damp, scented with brine and rot and blooming night flowers. The hum of insects filled the space between shadows.

 

The bayou welcomed him like an old friend.

 

And he stepped into it without hesitation.

 

Here, he could fall apart.

 

Here, the grief and fury, the exhaustion and fear, could bleed freely from him without disturbing the King sleeping in his bed. Without echoing down the halls of the hotel and into the ears of its fragile, ever-hopeful residents.

 

He needed to disappear.

 

To vent. To breathe. To unravel.

 

And here, in this echo of a world he’d built with nothing but will and memory, he could do that.

 

The Bayou settled into full form around him. Trees stretched high and skeletal above, their moss-covered limbs tangled like twisted prayers. Crickets buzzed in the underbrush. Frogs croaked somewhere far off. The waters whispered secrets he didn’t care to hear.

 

But he continued forward, silent, until he was certain.

Until the whispers of his room fully disappeared, until the King’s warmth and breath were safely unreachable on the other side of that veil.

 

Only then did he let go.

 

His frame elongated, bones stretching and twisting with fluid, unnatural grace. His smile was the first thing to vanish. His monocle cracked and shattered, dissolving like smoke. His antlers burst forth from his crown, towering, sharp, magnificent things, each one twisting like the branches of the cypress trees around him. His eyes, those glinting crimson irises, turned black, pure black, as if all the stars had gone out behind them.

 

The shadows followed suit.

 

They erupted from his back in a frenzy, no longer elegant tendrils but jagged, lashing things, violent and volatile, seething with rage and pain and too much power that had never been asked for. They whipped through the Bayou, tearing gouges in the bark of trees, splitting the still waters with snarls and howls of raw, unspoken torment.

 

And then he screamed.

 

A sound not meant for any living thing to hear. A sound of grief that had no shape, no language, just fury, just anguish, just decades of being used and twisted and chained behind a smile he refused take off. It ripped from his throat like fire and thunder, echoing across the swamp until even the frogs fell silent.

 

He screamed again.

And again.

 

His body cracked under the weight of it, claws digging into the damp soil, shoulders heaving, jaw clenched so tight it could have snapped. The shadows danced around him like demons gone mad, thrashing in time with his heartbreak.

 

He dropped to his knees in the muck, clawed hands curling into the wet earth. He panted like a beast, wild and broken, the edges of his silhouette twitching and distorting in time with the flickering light of his conjured moon.

 

No one would see him here.

 

No one would hear.

 

And for once, he allowed himself to feel, not filtered, not suppressed, not for anyone else’s benefit.

 

Just… feel.

 

 

Notes:

Ahhh, my darling sinners, wasn’t that just the sweetest thing you ever did see? Our poor Alastor, so utterly, hopelessly in love with his Angel… and yet, that very love makes the sting of failure all the more bitter. How long, I wonder, must our dear stag suffer alone beneath the weight of his chains?

Stay tuned, my loves, for the answer lies ahead, and oh, what a tale it promises to be. Until then, I would simply adore hearing your thoughts, so don’t be shy. And with that, I bid thee goodnight…

Chapter 33: Lean On Me

Notes:

Good evening, my darling sinners! I must confess, the day quite swept me away, I was busier than a bee in a hornet’s nest and nearly forgot to bring you tonight’s broadcast. But never fear! At the very last minute, your faithful host remembered, and here we are. So without further ado, lean in close and enjoy this latest chapter…

Warmth.

 

That was the first thing he registered.

 

Thick, comforting warmth cocooned around him, soft blanket, plush mattress, the gentle smell of cedar and smoke and something darker beneath it. Familiar.

 

His body curled tighter into the bedding instinctively, clinging to the comfort like a cat reluctant to wake.

 

For a few lingering seconds, Lucifer allowed himself the indulgence.

 

But then…

 

Pillow?

 

His brow knit faintly.

 

He didn’t remember falling asleep with a pillow. In fact… he didn’t remember going to bed at all.

 

There had been the fire. The couch. He’d been in the lounge.

 

And now…

 

He shifted, fingertips brushing the edge of the blanket. It was tucked around him. Tucked, as if someone had taken the time to wrap him up. The sheets beneath him were smooth and unfamiliar. Not silk like his own, cotton, sturdy, and warmed by his own body heat.

 

His eyes cracked open.

 

And at once, he knew.

 

This was Alastor’s room.

 

The space was neat, shadow-drenched and silent, the dim flicker of a dying fire cast soft gold across the dark wood floor. The tall window let in a sliver of Hell’s eternal dusk, deep, purpling red. Not yet morning.

 

Lucifer sat up in an instant, the covers falling from his chest.

 

His tail flicked behind him, agitated.

 

His eyes flicked around the room.

 

No sign of Alastor.

 

But the signs of him were everywhere. His coat hung over the back of a nearby chair. His shoes rested just inside the door. A faint, lingering pulse of familiar magic clung to the corners of the room like the echo of a song, unseen but felt, subtle and static in the air.

 

Lucifer swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting the cool wood.

 

For a moment, he just… sat there.

 

Taking it in.

 

The weight of what it meant.

 

Alastor had carried him here.

 

Alastor had tucked him in.

 

And now he was gone.

 

Lucifer stood, brushing sleep-heavy hair back from his brow. A glance out the window confirmed it wasn’t quite dawn, though the strange light of Hell made it hard to be exact.

 

Where would he go at this hour?

 

The answer came almost immediately.

 

The bayou.

 

Of course.

 

He exhaled slowly.

 

Then, with a flicker of thought, he pulled his power inward.

 

His wings folded back into nothing, feather and sinew unraveling into clean light that vanished beneath his skin. His tail shimmered, curled once, and disappeared in a thread of golden magic. In a blink, the visible markers of his celestial nature were gone.

 

As he moved deeper into the room, the floor beneath his feet softened.

 

The boards gave way to earth.

 

The walls dimmed, faded, dissolved.

 

The air thickened, damp and buzzing with the low drone of insects and the chirr of unseen life.

 

The light shifted from golden fire light to soft, moss-filtered twilight.

 

By the time Lucifer passed the halfway point, Alastor’s room was no longer there at all.

 

And he was standing on the sagging porch of a weather-worn wooden house.

 

Alastor’s childhood home.

 

It rose behind him like a memory too stubborn to rot, its slanted roof and gray wood quietly decaying in the hush of the swamp. The steps beneath Lucifer creaked as he adjusted his weight, glancing around the clearing.

 

Still no sign of Alastor.

 

But then, just past the edge of the porch, in a patch of soft, mossy mud, he saw them, shallow, split indentations.

 

Hoofprints.

 

Lucifer moved to the edge of the steps, crouching slightly to examine them. The tracks led away from the house, curving toward the distant sound of running water. He stood, eyes narrowing, then followed the trail, his pace quiet, precise, and swift.

 

The hoofprints led him down a narrow, winding path thick with vines and damp earth, the sound of the river growing louder with each step. A warm breeze stirred the moss overhead, carrying with it the faint scent of churned mud and something sharper, burned ozone, cracked stone.

 

Lucifer slowed.

 

The ground changed beneath him.

 

The soft, spongey moss turned to ragged, torn earth, deep gouges clawed into the soil, some wide enough to swallow a man whole. Trees stood snapped and twisted, their trunks bent in unnatural angles, bark flayed from their sides. Stones that had once marked the edge of the riverbank now lay shattered in jagged piles, half-submerged in water gone red with reflected light.

 

It was as if a storm had raged through here.

 

Not wind. Not rain.

 

Something else.

 

Something furious.

 

The hoofprints were gone, lost in the chaos, in the churning mess of overturned roots and cracked earth. There was no trail now. No direction. Just destruction.

 

Lucifer stood still for a long moment, scanning the scene.

 

Then he cupped a hand to his mouth, voice firm.

 

“Alastor?”

 

Only the insects answered.

 

He turned slightly, searching the trees, his voice stronger this time, threaded with just a hint of worry.

 

“Alastor! Are you here?”

 

The bayou remained quiet.

 

Too quiet.

 

The hum of life had dulled beneath the weight of scorched magic. Something inside Lucifer twisted.

 

Please, he thought. Let him answer.

 

The silence stretched.

 

Lucifer stood rooted at the edge of the riverbank, eyes sweeping the broken landscape, jaw set tight.

 

No answer.

 

Only the wind, sighing through broken reeds.

 

Only the hiss of water lapping against splintered stone.

 

His chest tightened.

 

“Alastor!” he called again, louder this time, a thread of something raw slipping into his voice. “Please!”

 

And finally, a voice.

 

Echoing from everywhere and nowhere, low and distant and hollow as a grave.

 

“I wish to be alone.”

 

Lucifer turned sharply, eyes scanning the shadows.

 

“Where are you?” he demanded, but the sound had no anchor, no direction. It was as though the very darkness of the bayou spoke with Alastor’s voice.

 

“Are you hurt?” he pressed, the words strained with worry now. “Alastor, talk to me, are you alright?”

 

Another pause.

 

Then, softer, more measured, “I’m fine.”

 

A lie, and they both knew it.

 

“I just need to be alone.”

 

The words settled like mist across the shattered clearing, but they brought no peace with them.

 

Lucifer stood still for a long moment, fingers curled at his sides. Then he took a slow step forward, voice gentler now but no less firm.

 

“Well, I’m not leaving,” he said to the darkness. “Not until I see you.”

 

For a long moment nothing happened and Lucifer feared that Alastor had slipped away and simply left.

 

But then the shadows in front of him stirred.

 

Like smoke drawn upward, they coalesced into shape, tall, lean, familiar. Antlers emerged first, sharp against the shifting crimson haze of dawn, and then the rest of him. There he stood, as if he’d been there all along, waiting. Watching.

 

Alastor stepped from the last wisp of darkness with his usual poised grace. That ever-present smile curled his lips, eyes bright with something unreadable.

 

“See?” he said lightly, spreading his hands. “Perfectly fine. No need to worry.”

 

Lucifer didn’t answer right away.

 

His eyes swept over Alastor, then drifted past him, to the deep gouges in the earth. The shattered stones. The snapped and scorched trees. All of it still humming faintly with the residue of his magic.

 

He looked back at the man standing before him, smiling like nothing was wrong.

 

Like he hadn’t just torn the world apart to keep himself from breaking.

 

Lucifer’s voice was soft, edged with disbelief.

 

“You call this fine?”

 

Alastor’s smile didn’t waver, but his ears twitched, just slightly. A near-invisible flick downward that betrayed what the rest of his expression fought to hide. His posture stiffened, spine held a touch too straight, shoulders too square.

 

“I said I’m fine,” he replied evenly, voice still light. “Just… releasing a bit of frustration, that’s all. Nothing you need to worry about.”

 

It wasn’t a lie.

 

Not exactly.

 

But it wasn’t the truth either.

 

Lucifer’s eyes searched his face, skeptical and soft all at once. He took a slow step forward, then another, and reached out, gently curling his fingers around Alastor’s hand before the man could vanish into shadow again.

 

The contact was light, but deliberate. A tether.

 

“I was worried,” Lucifer said quietly. “When you didn’t come back.”

 

Alastor glanced down at their joined hands, then away.

 

“I apologize,” he said, with a touch of guilt threading into his tone. “I lost track of time.”

 

No elaboration. No detail.

 

Lucifer’s jaw flexed slightly, but he didn’t let go.

 

Instead, his grip tightened, just a little.

 

Just enough to hold on.

 

“If something happened,” he said, “if you need help… I’m here, Alastor.”

 

For a moment, Alastor didn’t speak.

 

His gaze drifted toward the ruined riverbank, the shattered stone and splintered trees, the clawed-up earth and the tangled roots still trembling faintly with the aftermath of his fury.

 

Then, slowly, his ears drooped, fully this time. His shoulders slumped by a fraction, and the tight coil of his posture unraveled just enough to show the frayed threads beneath.

 

His fingers twitched in Lucifer’s grasp, but he didn’t pull away.

 

“It’s my problem,” he said, voice quieter now. Strained. “Mine to deal with.”

 

A beat.

 

“I am okay,” he added, but the words hung in the air like smoke, obvious and fragile and false.

 

Lucifer didn’t argue. He could see it, how hard Alastor was trying, how carefully he held his crumbling composure like glass between his teeth.

 

So instead of pushing, he stepped in closer, until they stood nearly chest to chest in the red-tinted haze of early morning.

 

And he wrapped his arms around him.

 

Just warmth. Steady and quiet.

 

His voice was low against Alastor’s chest. “If you need help… when you’re ready… I’ll be there. You just have to ask.”

 

Alastor stood frozen for a moment, tense as if his body didn’t quite know how to accept it.

 

But then he let himself breathe.

 

He closed his eyes, and his arms came up slowly, one around Lucifer’s waist, the other resting lightly between his shoulder blades.

 

“I know,” he whispered.

 

The moment lingered, soft and still, until Alastor, true to form, broke it.

 

He cleared his throat lightly, then tilted his head just enough to look down at the smaller man in his arms. His ears lifted slightly, regaining some of their usual perk.

 

“You know,” he said, voice dry and tone abruptly more composed, “you really shouldn’t fall asleep so carelessly in public spaces. Sprawled out like a half-dressed sacrifice in front of a fire, no less. Anyone could’ve wandered in.”

 

Lucifer blinked, startled by the pivot.

 

Then he pulled back just enough to level the taller man with a flat, unimpressed look.

 

“A half-dressed sacrifice?”

 

Alastor shrugged one shoulder, expression deceptively innocent.

 

“You were certainly displayed like one.”

 

Lucifer scoffed, indignant. “It was a private lounge. I wasn't expecting company!”

 

“Precisely the problem,” Alastor replied with a pointed arch of his brow. “The unexpected does tend to arrive when least wanted.”

 

“Oh, please,” Lucifer huffed, tail flicking back into visibility as he straightened his jacket. “Someone would have to be an absolute fool to try and attack the King of Hell.”

 

He tossed his hair with practiced flair. “I may be small, but I’m also dangerous.”

 

Alastor gave a short, amused chuckle.

 

“Yes,” he said. “You are.”

 

But behind the mirth, a flicker of unease remained in his gaze.

 

And Lucifer saw it.

 

He didn’t push.

 

Instead, he reached up to brush a stray leaf from Alastor’s shoulder, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary.

 

“Next time,” he said lightly, “you could always just wake me, you know. I wouldn’t have minded.”

 

Alastor’s smile twitched, smaller, but softer.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Then Alastor’s smile turned sly.

 

“I must say,” he drawled, brushing invisible dust from Lucifer’s sleeve with mock delicacy, “you were very cute curled up like that, like a kitten before the hearth. All soft and quiet.”

 

Lucifer stiffened. “I am not cute.”

 

“Oh, I beg to differ.” Alastor’s grin widened, wickedly delighted. “Especially with your wings all fluffed up and your little tail curled close, absolutely precious.”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth to protest again, but Alastor wasn’t finished.

 

“And really,” Alastor added with a tilt of his head, “what kind of monster would’ve dared wake up the poor little Snowball when he was sleeping so peacefully?”

 

Lucifer’s entire expression shifted, from affronted, to flustered, to mortified in the span of a breath.

 

“Oh, come on, not that nickname again!”

 

Alastor’s grin spread wider, teeth gleaming. “You know, for someone trying to spy on me, you could’ve picked a form just a touch less conspicuous. A celestial-white cat, shimmering like morning frost? In Hell?” He raised a brow. “Not exactly the height of subtlety.”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth, then closed it again.

 

“…I was going for intimidating,” he muttered, clearly floundering.

 

“You were glowing,” Alastor said flatly. “I thought someone had left a particularly snippy lawn ornament in my path.”

 

Lucifer groaned. “I hate you.”

 

Alastor leaned in, delight dancing in his eyes. “Mm, no you don’t. You just hate being reminded that I scooped you up and carried you around like an overwrought designer handbag.”

 

Lucifer dragged a hand down his face, ears yellow. “You didn’t have to carry me.”

 

“You hissed at a car.”

 

“It almost hit me!”

 

“You weren’t even on the road.”

 

Lucifer huffed, but his tail gave an involuntary flick. “You’re insufferable.”

 

Alastor pressed a kiss to his temple, all warmth and wicked fondness. “Just for you, ma petite boule de neige (my little snowball).”

 

Lucifer groaned again, more resigned this time, but didn’t move away.

 

“Saying it in another language doesn’t make it any better.”

 

Alastor chuckled gaze lifted toward the pale, shifting glow on the horizon, The bayou’s slow imitation of morning creeping over the horizon.

 

“We should head back,” he said softly. “The hotel will be waking soon… and I suspect Angel may try to deep-fry something that shouldn’t be.”

 

Lucifer nodded, then hesitated. The warmth of sleep had long since left his skin, but something else burned there now, embarrassment, edged with confusion.

 

He glanced sideways at Alastor. “Wait. You… you didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?”

 

There was a pause. Alastor tilted his head, ever so slightly, but didn’t lie.

 

“No,” he admitted, smooth as anything. “I didn’t.”

 

Lucifer stopped walking for a beat. “You should’ve woken me,” he said, flustered now. “I would’ve— I mean, you could’ve taken your own bed. I was just…”

 

“Asleep,” Alastor interrupted gently. “Comfortably. Peacefully.” He offered a half-smile, not teasing for once. “You needed the rest more than I did. I know how much has been weighing on you this week.”

 

Lucifer opened his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to thank him, but nothing quite came out. Instead, he gave a quiet exhale and stepped closer.

 

He slid his hand into Alastor’s, twining their fingers together as he leaned gently into his side.

 

A silent thank you. A quiet reassurance.

 

Together, they walked back toward the waking day.

Notes:

Oh-ho-ho, my darling sinners, would you look at that! When Alastor lets those grand emotions loose, he can make a downright glorious mess, can’t he? Not that he’d ever let his beloved king witness anything more than the chaotic aftermath of those wayward feelings. Tell me, when will our darling deer finally let down those iron-clad walls, hmm?

And Lucifer, bless his heart, all flustered from waking to find he’d been carried into Alastor’s own bed; allowed to rest there while the Radio Demon himself stayed awake through the night. Simply too adorable for words, am I right?

That’s all for tonight, my loves. If this little scene warmed your heart, do leave a comment or tap that kudos to let me know. Goodnight, until next time...

Notes:

My poor, sweet baby. All that power, and still, even in death, he can’t escape his chains. At least now, unleashed upon Hell, he can have a little fun between the tortured screams.

And with that, my dears, I’ll leave you with this link to some artwork for this chapter: https://www.tumblr.com/misbubbles98/786079425411350528/alastor-has-been-chained-since-he-was-a-child?source=share

 

There’s also artwork for future chapters already up on my Tumblr, but be warned, there may be spoilers!