Deal with the Devil.

by AikooHell

Summary:

When Vox leaves them alone for atleast mere minutes, it was enough for Alastor to resume the course of his plan, a deal with the devil himself, and using its right words to manipulate Lucifer by his daughter, it was enough.

 

There is anything more perfect than break three deals, and add an extra one for power?

Lucifer would refuse to do any deal with anyone, even worse with THIS, mortal, infuriating and evil mortal, atleast it is for a good cause, protect and help his daughter, Charlie, right?

 

However both will discover this will add more to their lives than they planned.

Notes:

Each chapter will be described by different POVs, Alastor, Lucifer, Alastor, Lucifer, and keep going on.

Good Reading!

Chapter 1: Brave or Naive.

 

 

Before lifting the Angel Glass, where Lucifer was stuck, the dumb and petulant Vox left for a brief moment to answer Valentino's scandalous call on him, and Alastor could thank Val for that, it was perfect for his plan to keep going.

He wanted power, but mainly, be free, free of Rosie's deal, free of those chains and things that kept him down from having fun, from having what he wanted at the start of all his slaughters and distorced justice.

 

— So, your majesty, since you're limited by your lack of cleverness and chains in your wings by heaven, I have been thinking. — He'd start, his smile deepening its intent as Lucifer's eyes filled with hate.

— Say who is tied to a chair, does he had any trouble trapping you? — the radio hissed slightly at the reminder of his own weakness and wound. 

— Atleast I didn't fall for someone pretending to be my daughter. — He coughed the insult, and resumed his talk. — So, what I was saying, you have something I need, and I can give you something you want.

 

His eyes gleamed dangerous, while Lucifer's bored expression turned a bit more attentious, even if pretending not to.

 

— I propose a deal, so I can protect your daughter, and believe me, I can hurt her, psychologicaly and physically, since we have an pending deal. — those word made Lucifer's eyes sharpen, and it only fueled Alastor's smile brighter. — I don't want to, believe me, short king, so, I'll be your Executioner, your act where heaven has chained you down, and also be your eyes where you don't want to be.

— And? its not like I'm dumb, okay? It's obvious there's something more.

— I didn't finish! well, once I'm free from my own chains, your giving me your power, I know you can't literally do this, but you can lend me, by a mean any cannibal can absorb.

 

Both sides of the mutual stare deepened, as if a conscentual knowledge.

Blood and flesh, the resource of strength of many strong Cannibals.

 

Both knew Angelic Blood and Flesh was even stronger, had even serious side-effects.

— Wait, you're really that power hungry? Y'know, I'm no regular angel.

Alastor gave him a little frown and moved the chair a bit closer to the angel glass.

— Already Doubting me, Luci? — those nickname made Lucifer's lips going bitter, as if venom was tossed at him, and he rejected it.

 

but, it was all for Charlie.

— Are you going to let Vox do all of this with your little girl and do nothing? what father are you?

 

And even if Lucifer was trying to deny it, Alastor had the right, and the voice, he needed his daughter's approval, the only family that lasted him, seriously, pathetic, but perfect.

— Fine.

— Do we have a deal?

 

Alastor's shadow perked and entered through the glass, offering its hand to the stuck Morningstar.

 

— Deal.

 

---

~

 

This day was going in so great, he was free from Rosie, free from Vox, and was back from being the most powerful Overlord, since Rosie also fixed his staff.

though, there was an interest on stay on that hotel of "redemption."

 

He still had his wound, and someone with a deal so much interesting to leave behind.

He walked through the corridor of the left tower, watching and smilling wider by the sight of "No Alastors Allowed" plate infront of the silly bedroom.

— Knock Knock, Short Majesty! — He'd say while knocking and entering by his shadow form with no consent, his eyes wandering around the place and already finding Lucifer, with his back to the door, his wings revealed as if to cover himself.

 

— I'm busy.

— Too bad, I'm seeing there's something here in my interest. — He'd say already fiddling and intruding the king's personal space, seeing him healing himself on markings the machine Vox trapped him in, and there was golden blood leaking from each wound no healed yet.

— What? 

 

He didn't look up, the tone of annoyance present.

 

— Our deal was, remind me again? — Alastor did something he usually would hate, but for the king's reaction, it was worth it.

He kneeled, infront of the morningstar, and seeing the wound on his right hand, he grabbed the wrist with caution, just to lick the blood and the open mark with prestine hunger.

— W-wai-wha- hold- you?- hey?? — Lucifer's silly expression and shocked one was worth it, but also knowing it was part of their deal, Alastor would even see a mark of blush, light yellow, just like the men's blood. Which was so full of flavour, Alastor favorite meal could even change.

— Now, may you give me your other hand, your Majesty?

— Are you flirting with me? because I'm married.

That caught Alastor off-guard.

— W-what- no? — His smile weakened for a prickle of second, and Lucifer's smile opened in a sassy way, making him also, by the surprise, blush, but he didn't care, since it quickly ended when he licked the other wound clean once again.

 

Alastor's wound seemed to heal slowly, by each and each sip of golden, delicate blood from this fallen seraphim, and as he stood up, and prepared to leave, he remembered the other part of the deal.

— Your majesty.

— Yea-?

— Who's your first... target?

 

Silence between them for a few seconds, and Lucifer eyes sharpened as he looked at the other man with hate.

— Kill Vox.

 

Alastor's smile widened, his eyes clicking and his shadow growing behind him, and before he vanished, he answered.

 

— With Pleasure.

 

Chapter 2: Loathing.

Summary:

Vox and Alastor had their final encounter, one which Alastor came with a sweet talk of "In the name of the Devil" thing, and it was a Hit!
VoxTec(WeNeedToChangeThisNameAsSoonAsPossible) Enterprises now wanted to know more, and what's better than hear it from the king itself! But not only that, Charlie was curious, everyone was curious, what? Alastor doing favors to someone he hated as much as the King of Hell, fallen angel daddy (labeled by Killjoy herself) ?!

Such a hassle for someone who just wanted to be respected, and alone, and with his daughter.

Notes:

Descriptions of Flesh, Hurt, violence and blood!

Lucifer still felt like he was stumbling through a storm of unfinished business.

 

First the deal with that Bambi-something nuisance, then Lilith calling back only to refuse speaking to him directly—apparently saying things to their daughter she wouldn’t repeat to him. Were they still married? Not? Yes? Maybe?

His head spun around the question, but all he truly felt was the unmistakable scent of trouble approaching.

 

He woke up tangled around the oversized duck plush he had started sleeping with (no one needed to know that), slowly sitting up with a groan while the reality of the last month—and especially the last two days—crashed down on him like a wave.

 

A deal.

A call.

Silence.

And Lilith avoiding him.

 

Great. Just great.

 

Grumpy, he snapped himself into clothes and grabbed his cane, already preparing mentally for a day of being annoyed by the entire population of Hell—except Charlie. He tried to be grumpy with her, once, and failed miserably.

 

Speaking of Charlie…

 

Time to be a good father.

…It sounded better in his mind. Like a catchphrase. Too late now.

 

He teleported with flair.

 

— Charlie! Need help with something, dear, honey—oh.

 

He blinked.

Not Charlie.

Her girlfriend.

 

Right. Vaggi.

He really should memorize name tags more often.

 

He flashed her an overly friendly smile, immediately abandoning all attempts at being grumpy.

 

— Oh! Hey, it’s Charlie’s girlfriend! Seen Charlie anywhere?

 

Vaggie turned to him after directing a guest toward his room, pointing toward the elevator.

 

— I’m sorry, no, but—

 

She didn’t get to finish.

 

Because suddenly he was swallowed whole by a swarm of guests, interviewers, random sinners, and at least three of Charlie’s friends. Vaggie was gone from sight, lost in the sea of voices barking nonsense at him.

 

— How can I become a Royal Executioner? — croaked an ugly, fishlike man with a rotten-egg-smelling microphone.

 

— How much does Alastor get paid? — asked a robotic-sounding insect woman who clearly did not know how interviewing worked.

 

— Is it true the position is granted only in the name of the Devil? Only to Overlords?

 

Everyone talked at once. Chaos.

 

Then:

 

— King, WHAT THE FUCK?! Why did Alastor say he killed Vox for YOU?! —

He recognized that cat face from somewhere, certainly one of Charlie's friends? Hell was too small sometimes.

 

Gods above—he was so tired.

And it was barely morning.

 

Before he could even attempt an annoyed answer, a familiar shadow slid beside him, silencing the crowd like a switch had been flipped.

 

Alastor.

 

— Oh, please, — the Radio Demon purred. — Our Majesty deserves respect. Aren’t you all terrified he’ll add you to his list next? I could use new voices for my radio. Much happier than sinners who don’t know their place.

 

…Defending him?

 

For a second—just one—Lucifer almost felt grateful.

Then the feeling died. Quickly. Violently. Like everything else involving that deer bastard.

 

Alastor turned to him with a mocking smile that practically spelled I’m enjoying this.

 

— My, Your Majesty, must I protect you already? And I only just became your servant~

 

Lucifer shot him a venomous look.

 

— Well, fuck you. I didn’t need protection. And what is all this about—?

 

— Dad! What the fuck?! —

Charlie came barreling toward them, breathless, panicked, questions firing one after another.

— Did you really kill Vox?! Or make Alastor do it?! Did he hurt you more before that?! Why is everyone talking about it?! And why is Alastor following orders—

 

Ah.

So THAT was it.

 

— Breathe, honey, breathe — Vaggie murmured, trying to calm her.

 

Lucifer raised a hand.

 

— Well, u—

 

— Dear Charlie, your father was only protecting you, — Alastor cut in smoothly, his tone a blend of playful mockery and something suspiciously close to sincerity. — Vox had crossed lines—hurt you, disrespected your king, nearly killed those you love. Give the old man a break. It was a mutually beneficial deal! He helped me with… let’s call it self-care. Now I’m his Executioner. Nothing to fret about! 

 

Self-care?

That was one way to put it.

 

Lucifer forced a smile.

 

— Nothing to worry about, sweetheart. He’s not dead-dead, right, Bambi? I mean—haha—he wouldn’t.

 

Silence.

 

Okay, yes, of course he would.

 

Lucifer cleared his throat loudly.

 

— ANYWAYS. Since no one needs my help, I’ll—Oho! Hunk! Do you have any apple drink?

 

Before Charlie could interrogate him further, he hastily fled to the counter, seating himself and babbling nonsense at the cat demon. Not dealing with more shit today. No thank you.

 

Unfortunately, someone followed.

 

— Oh, Luci, I was just thrilled earlier—how can our king be so funny, ha, haha!

 

Lucifer glared at the man leaning on the bar beside him.

 

— Oh yeah? I can teach you more than being funny.

 

It came out too flirtish.

Disgusting.

He corrected:

 

— Like how to be charismatic, duh? Or better at literally anything else—

 

Alastor’s grin widened.

 

The bartender placed a drink in front of Lucifer.

 

— Here. Whiskey, apple juice, lemon drops and—

 

Lucifer interrupted.

 

— Thanks, Whiskers.

 

— Husk.

 

He ignored the correction, staring at the drink.

Apple slice.

White sparkles.

Lemon coiled like a snake.

Golden-red, shimmering like blood.

 

Lilith loved apple-flavored things.

 

He missed her.

Every second.

Every breath.

 

And she wouldn’t even speak to him.

 

His chest tightened.

He drank harder.

 

Alastor snickered.

 

— Never pictured you as an alcoholic.

 

— And you don’t drink. Why?

 

— Dignity.

 

— Never pictured you as weak.

 

That got him.

Lucifer smirked.

 

— Bet you can’t outdrink me.

 

Alastor’s eyebrows rose. Ego hit.

 

— A bet, then. Though it seems unfair… I’m just a sinner while you’re a Fallen Angel.

 

— Two of yours equals one of mine. Fair?

 

— I won’t carry Mr. Lonely if he gets drunk.

 

— Fuck you.

 

And from that point, it spiraled deliciously downhill.

 

Hisker(or something like that) muttered something like, “This is worse than when I drink,” but no one cared.

 

They insulted each other while drinking nonstop.

 

— You can’t handle being weaker.

 

— You can’t handle being LEFT by your wife.

 

Lucifer gasped.

 

— You didn’t just— A sinner that looks like a Bambi! You’re not even scary! Bet you borrowed your powers!

 

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, temper sparking.

 

— Says the king desperate for attention because his FAMILY treated him like a disease.

 

Lucifer slammed his glass down.

 

— I was NOT neglected!

 

— Really?

 

Alastor looked him up and down, laughed at how short he was, and Lucifer nearly exploded.

 

Husk slammed his hands on the counter.

 

— LEAVE. I’m closing. I don’t care where—just get out.

 

Fine.

Lucifer was tired anyway.

 

— Look, Al—Whiskers is kicking us out. Even he’s tired of your pathetic attempts to be stronger.

 

Alastor suddenly sobered. A fraction.

 

— Yes…

Perhaps I’m done with this too. It’s getting boring.

 

He turned to go.

Lucifer grabbed his coat.

 

— No. You finish things with me. That’s an order.

 

Alastor paused.

 

— Where, sir?

 

The bar was empty.

 

— My room. Go—

 

Lucifer didn’t finish.

The world blinked.

 

He was on his bed.

 

Ah. Soft.

Comfortable.

Duck décor welcoming him like old friends.

 

He sprawled on the mattress.

 

— Yes… that’s better…

 

Silence.

 

Then:

 

— What exactly must I finish, Lucifer?

 

Oh. Right.

What was the point again?

He had actually enjoyed the bastard’s company—NOT that he’d say it.

 

— Oh yeah—no. Nevermind.

 

But Alastor didn’t leave.

 

Lucifer frowned.

Why was he still here?

 

— So I must take my part of the deal.

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

— What deal—

 

— You ordered me to finish things. So you must uphold your side as well.

 

Lucifer groaned. Unfortunately, he had ordered that.

 

He sat at the edge of the bed.

They stared at each other—hatred, exhaustion, something else.

 

He wasn’t expecting Alastor to move.

 

But he did.

 

He walked closer, slow, precise, a predator savoring the moment.

 

— If you’ll excuse me.

 

His hands rested on Lucifer’s shoulders.

Cold.

Steady.

 

Before Lucifer could react, Alastor’s face was at his neck—breath warm, almost intimate in a way Lucifer despised.

 

— I must rely on Your Majesty’s regeneration. Since there’s no wound.

 

Lucifer’s eyes widened.

 

— Wait—

 

Pain.

 

Sharp.

Immediate.

Violent.

 

Alastor’s fangs sank in, breaking skin, tearing through it with surgeon precision and feral hunger. Flesh parted under the pressure, nerves sparking, a deep ache shooting down Lucifer’s spine.

 

He hissed sharply, gripping the sheets.

Warm blood spilled over his collarbone.

 

It hurt—real pain, not playful or symbolic.

A raw, burning sting that forced his eyes shut.

 

But beneath the pain there was something else—

an involuntary shiver,

a sense of being touched for the first time in years,

a reminder of absence, of loneliness, of how long it had been since Lilith—

 

No.

NO.

Not this man.

Not him.

 

Alastor pulled back only to drag his tongue—slowly—along the torn skin.

 

Lucifer’s breath caught.

The slick, deliberate motion cleaned blood while savoring it.

It stung.

It burned.

It felt… too real.

 

Alastor murmured:

 

— Angelic flesh tastes exactly as I imagined.

 

Lucifer stiffened.

 

— What?

 

The taller man smiled—dark and satisfied.

 

— You might become my favorite meal, Your Highness.

 

Did Alastor knew how that sounded like?

 

Lucifer glared, but said nothing.

Words didn’t form.

Too much alcohol.

Too much sensation.

 

Alastor stepped back.

 

— That’s all. Correct?

 

Lucifer nodded, breath shaky.

 

The hatred was still there—sharp and familiar.

But beneath it, something shifted.

Not softer.

Not warmer.

Just… clearer.

 

Like they had glimpsed something in each other neither wanted to acknowledge.

 

Oh fuck.

Chapter 3: Bitter Aftertaste

Summary:

Side effects, really strong, but you've been warned, Alastor!

The morning after consuming the flesh and blood of a fallen seraph tasted…
wrong.

Not unpleasant.
Not painful.
Just wrong — as if every nerve inside his body had been dipped in molten gold and left to throb on its own.

Alastor woke standing upright, because of course he did — he refused to collapse like some dramatic damsel — but the room spun in a pleasantly disorienting spiral. His vision pixelated for a second, the world glitching like an old radio tuning itself.

His throat burned.
His skin burned.
His bones burned.

It wasn’t agony.
It was fever. Radiant. Divine. Unwelcome.

He pressed a hand to his now healed chest, feeling the odd warmth leaking under his ribs like sunlight trying to escape a coffin.

— Hm. Side effects, — he murmured, voice steady even as spots bloomed in the corners of his eyes.
— Fascinating. —  He said, his tone annoyed and rough.

He straightened his tie, fixed his grin, and stepped into the hallway.

Even suffering a celestial fever, he walked the Hazbin Hotel as though he owned it — spine straight, shoes tapping their cheerful rhythm, the static echo following behind him like a loyal dog.

 

Downstairs, Husk was slumped on the bar, staring at an untouched glass of something cheap and hopeless.

Perfect target.

Alastor approached with the slow, theatrical cadence of someone choosing violence for breakfast.

 

— Why, Husk! What a delight to see you sulking at this gorgeous hour.
His grin twitched wider.
— Missing the spider already?

 

Husk groaned and rolled his eyes with the exhaustion of a man who has prayed for death and been denied repeatedly.

 

— Don’t start, Al. I’m not in the mood.

— Oh, but you never are, — Alastor sang. — You look dreadful. Is that heartbreak? Abandonment issues? Chronic inadequacy?

— Leave. Me. Alone.

 

Alastor laughed — loud, rich, and just sharp enough to annoy the dead.

He turned away only when something in his own body twisted — a flare of heat crawling up his spine. He inhaled deeply and hid the moment behind a mischievous hum.

Fascinating indeed.

 

He continued his stroll until he found Vaggie trying to organize schedules, papers, and demons who didn’t respect her authority in equal measure.

She noticed him immediately — that muscle under her eye twitching like a trapped insect.

 

— What do you want? — she snapped.

— To brighten your day, of course! — Alastor chimed.

He leaned forward, voice dropping into a teasing whisper:
— You seem so stressed, my dear. Should I fetch a therapist for you, or shall I simply continue being the cause?

Vaggie’s wings flared in irritation.

— I swear to God, one day I’m going to—

— Kill me? — he finished cheerfully. — Oh, please try. It might be the most fun I’ve had all week.

 

Another pulse of heat.
Another sharp twist under his skin.
He maintained his smile perfectly, though the fever coiled around his ribs like a living thing.

 

He needed distraction.
Or amusement.
Preferably both.

 

And right on cue — the bell at the front entrance chimed.

 

Lucifer Morningstar entered the hotel with all the smug, radiant confidence of someone who had never once known humility or shame.

Alastor felt his grin stretch, sharp and hungry.

 

Ah.
There he was.

 

The source of his symptoms.
The cause of this golden sickness.
The one being in Hell more entertaining to irritate than everyone else combined.

 

Alastor stepped forward, posture impeccable despite the faint tremor in his hands.

 

— Why, if it isn’t His Radiant Highness, — he purred.
— How lovely of you to grace us common sinners with your presence.

 

Lucifer paused, eyes flicking toward him with a faint lift of amusement.

 

— And good morning to you too, Boring Radio.

Alastor’s smile sharpened.

 

— Feeling particularly holy today? You’re glowing.
He leaned in, voice dropping.
— Or perhaps it’s just… infectious.

 

Lucifer raised a brow.

Alastor’s fever spiked — gold burning behind his eyes — but he kept his grin, steady and razor-bright.

He would not let Lucifer see him falter.

Besides…
there was something thrilling about suffering because of him.

Something addictive.

In making this man suffer.

 

Lucifer stepped closer.
And Alastor’s smile widened in direct proportion to how violently his insides twisted.

He refused to let it show.

— You seem lively today, — Lucifer remarked lightly, folding his hands behind his back.

— Oh, merely delighted by the scenery, — Alastor replied, inclining his head with exaggerated politeness. — Hell is such a dreary place until someone pompous walks in wearing enough gold to blind an archbishop.

Lucifer blinked.

— …Are you calling me pompous?

— Merely observant, dear. Pompousness is far too gentle a word for you.

The air tightened between them.

A faint ringing in Alastor’s ears made the edges of his vision blur, but he smoothed his posture, lifting his chin.

He would not let a little celestial blood poisoning inconvenience him.

Lucifer crossed his arms.

— You’re awfully chatty today, Radio.

— Why, thank you!
His grin glitched at the edges.
— I try my best to brighten this hotel with the warmth of my personality. Your own radiance is simply… toxic.

Lucifer’s expression twitched.

Alastor’s fever spiked—heat wrapped around his lungs like molten barbed wire—but he refused to acknowledge it.

— Tell me, — Alastor crooned, — does it ever get tiring? Being so blindingly self-absorbed?

— Says the walking ego trip.

— Ah, but I have modesty, — he smiled sweetly, — a concept you clearly haven’t been introduced to.

Lucifer opened his mouth to retort—
But Charlie’s voice cut in.

— Dad? Can I talk to you… privately?

He turned.
And the second he saw her face—her weak smile, the sadness behind her eyes—his entire posture softened.

Just as Alastor expected.
Weakness in the form of paternal instinct.
Predictable.

 

Lucifer followed her without a word, leaving Alastor leaning his staff against his shoulder, tapping it idly.
He waited.
Patiently, beautifully patient.

 

When they returned, Lucifer’s face was… wrong.

 

Shadowed.
Tense.
Hollowed out by something heavy.

 

His eyes lacked their usual bite.
His shoulders looked weighted.

 

Alastor’s smile curled.
He stepped forward, humming with polite venom:

— Oh my, your Majesty… You look as though someone reminded you of the consequences of your own existence.
He tilted his head.
— Should I fetch tissues? Or a harp to play your tragedy?

Lucifer froze.

Then his expression cracked.

Not sadness.
Not exhaustion.

Rage.

Violent, suffocating, divine rage.

 

Alastor blinked once as Lucifer’s aura snapped like a whip—
and then the Morningstar changed.

His eyes turned bright red, no pupils in sight and only danger arising.

his horns grown, fully showing.

Angelic white and red wings now showing themselves as if they could snap anything by their force.

 

The room vibrated.
The walls trembled.
Light bent around him.

 

Alastor felt his breath hitch—
not from fear.
Never fear.

But the fever inside him erupted.

Lucifer’s angelic energy hit him like a tidal wave of molten light, ripping through the golden contamination already simmering in his veins.

 

His knees weakened.
The temperature of his blood spiked so sharply he nearly dropped his cane.

Oh.
Oh.

So he had been hiding more symptoms than he realized.

 

Lucifer stepped toward him, wings unfurled, shadows and celestial fire writhing behind him.

— You don’t get to mock me today, — Lucifer snarled, voice layered, distorted, vibrating through the floorboards.
— Not after what I just heard.

 

Alastor forced his grin back into place, though his skin simmered with agony.

 

— Temper, temper… — he rasped softly. — Losing composure doesn’t suit a king.

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, golden light searing against Alastor’s skin.

And then—

 

The full force of Lucifer’s corrupted-angelic aura crashed over him.

 

Alastor’s bones felt like glass.
His skin like burning parchment.
His stomach twisted, throat tightening as though the light itself was peeling his insides raw.

The fever roared.

He staggered—staggered—and caught himself on his cane, fingers trembling.

Lucifer froze, expression breaking into something sharp and suspicious.

— …What’s wrong with you?

Alastor laughed.

It came out strained.
Thin.
Cracked.

 

His smile pulled too wide, desperate to hide the trembling in his jaw.

 

— Why… nothing at all, your Majesty.
He wiped a thin line of blood from the corner of his lip with two fingers.

 

Lucifer’s expression darkened.

 

And Alastor’s fever burned hotter.

Chapter 4: Sick and Find.

Summary:

Now knowing Alastor's sick, Lucifer is forced to treat him for the sake of his daughter and his need for a distraction.

He just didn't knew that was going to be unbearable, In many ways.

Notes:

Mentions of depression and self-hate.
I'll keep trying to do 1 chap each day, but I can't garantee you anything!

He was absolutely not in the mood for this.

 

Of all the wretched, miserable days Hell could offer him, today had the audacity to be the worst.
Lilith’s words still echoed in his skull—sharp, cold, final.

 

“I never want to see him again.
He disgusts me.
Charlie, stay away from him.”

 

 

Lilith had never spoken like that.
Not once.
Not even in their worst fights.

 

It left a crack in him he couldn’t tune out.
Not while Charlie watched him with those soft, terrified eyes; not while his own chest twisted like something had snapped loose inside.

 

And just when he thought the day couldn't sink lower—

He had this.

 

Alastor.

 

The bastard sprawled across the foot of his bed, half-conscious from fever, trembling like he’d swallowed a small star.

 

Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

— Of course, — he muttered. — It couldn’t be anyone else. No, no… the one day I’m emotionally bankrupt, exhausted, and very seriously considering throwing myself off the balcony for dramatic effect—
He gestured sharply at the Radiodemon.
— This clown decides celestial poisoning is the activity of the afternoon.

 

He was supposed to be resting in Charlie’s room.
Or Vaggie’s.
Or literally anyone else’s.

 

But no.

 

Alastor had outright refused help from every person in the hotel except him.

 

Not because he wanted Lucifer, of course—God forbid.
But because the deal could force "Deer man" to get treated.

 

And Charlie would die in worry if he left with no one atleast assuring he's fine.

 

“If I am to fall ill because of your blood,” he’d hissed earlier, “then you will be the one forced to deal with it.”

 

Charming.

Truly.

 

Lucifer glared down at him, arms crossed.

 

— You couldn’t have picked a worse time, you know.

Alastor cracked open one burning red eye, lips curling faintly.

— Always a pleasure to ruin your day, your Majesty.

 

Lucifer clenched his jaw.

 

— I am two seconds from taping your mouth shut.

— Just so you know, I am the ace of all cards, if you get me, so good luck~

 

His left eyelid twitched.

Enough.

 

He grabbed the demon by the shoulders—Alastor hissed but didn’t resist, too weak to put up much of a fight—and forced him up the mattress.

— Lie. Down.

— Oh? Taking me to bed? you don't really respect other people's boundaries, do you—
He cut himself off with a sharp gasp, body twisting as Lucifer pushed him properly into the pillows.

 

Lucifer paused.

 

Not because he cared.

 

But because the sound—
That strained mix of pain and reluctant relief—
sent a prickle down his spine.

 

Alastor was burning.
His skin radiated heat like an oven opened too fast.

 

Lucifer grabbed the damp cloth he’d prepared, muttering curses under his breath the whole time.

— You are the absolute worst, — he said, lifting the cloth above Alastor’s forehead. — Do you know that? The worst. Of all the demons in Hell, of all the miserable creatures to babysit today—

He pressed the cold cloth to Alastor’s burning skin.

And Alastor moaned.

Not a scream.
Not a hiss.
A low, breathy sound torn straight from the center of his chest—
half agony, half relief.

Lucifer froze.

Because that sound was dangerous.

Alastor’s eyes fluttered closed, ears trembling, jaw tightening as he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

— Hhh—ah… fuck… — he choked out, shoulders arching just slightly.

 

Lucifer swallowed.

 

Hard.

 

— …You’re doing that on purpose, — he accused.

— I assure you… — Alastor panted, curling weakly into the touch as Lucifer tried to remove the cloth, only for his fingers to grasp at Lucifer’s wrist—desperate, trembling—
— I absolutely am not.

 

Lucifer glared down at him.

His heart throbbed once—annoyingly like human.
Alastor's grip on his wrist tightened.

Lilith’s voice still rang in his skull.
Charlie’s sadness.
His own anger.

And now this fever-ridden menace lying in his bed, moaning at the first touch of cold water like Lucifer had blessed him personally.

Lucifer exhaled slowly, defeated.

— …I hate my life.

Alastor managed a weak laugh that broke halfway through.

Lucifer pressed the cloth to his forehead again.

This time Alastor shivered—eyes rolling slightly—and Lucifer was forced to look away before he said something deeply regrettable.

 

---

 

Lucifer had lived through centuries of calamity, bloodshed, apocalypses mild and severe, and yet nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the particular hell of having Alastor sick in his bedroom.

 

He sat beside the bed, arms crossed, tail flicking in small, irritated lashes against the floor, pretending the faint tremor in his hands was annoyance rather than stress. The Radio Demon lay sprawled across the mattress like a wilted vine, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed too brightly for someone who claimed to be “perfectly fine.” Fever radiated off him in rolling waves.

 

Lucifer’s mind, however, wasn’t on Alastor.

 

Not entirely.

 

It slipped, again and again, into that hollow place where the echo of Charlie’s voice lived. Divorced. The word still tasted unreal. Lilith hadn’t even told him herself—not properly. He found out through his daughter, already shaken and exhausted, forced to play the messenger while he stood there like an idiot pretending he hadn’t already suspected it.

 

And now what occupied his day?

 

Babysitting this. Sinner.

 

A cosmic insult.

 

He dragged a hand down his face. If Charlie knew our deal was feeding him with my blood… if she knew what this idiot managed to get himself into… She’d think he was slipping. She’d think he was desperate for distractions—or worse, that he wasn't enough.

 

He swallowed the ache like it was something poisonous.

 

Alastor shifted, pushing himself upright with a boneless sort of determination.

— I believe— ngh— this has been more than enough, — he said with that strained but insufferably smug smile.

— I can stand, my dear, no need to hover.

 

Lucifer shoved him right back down with a wing, firm but not cruel.
— You’re not going anywhere.

 

— Oh come now, Lucifer…! — Another attempt to sit. Another effortless push from the King of Hell.

 

Lucifer didn’t even look at him this time; he just pressed Alastor back into the pillows with a fingertip glowing faintly gold.
— Stay. Down.

 

Alastor huffed, then grinned, the fever making his expression somewhat lopsided.
— You do like using that little clause in our deal, don’t you? It was one each day before our deal. At this rate I’m starting to think you want me helpless at your mercy.

 

Of course he’d twist it like that.

 

Lucifer’s jaw clenched. He leaned in, eyes narrowing to glowing slits.
— Don’t flatter yourself. You’re unbearable even when you’re unconscious.

 

Alastor laughed—actually laughed—before wincing as another pulse of heat ripped through him.

 

Lucifer’s irritation cracked, just a little, under the weight of worry.

 

The corrupting shimmer of angelic essence burned beneath Alastor’s skin. Lucifer could feel it, like a candle trying to set fire to a forest. His blood. His flesh. Alastor consumed too much too fast, and it was eating him alive from the inside.

 

And the bastard still had the audacity to joke about it.

 

— Truly, Lucifer… if you wished to stop me from consuming you, perhaps you shouldn’t t taste so.. tempting.

 

Lucifer’s eye twitched.
— But that is literally what’s making you sick, you imbecile.

 

For a moment—just one—Alastor’s grin softened.
— Ah. But deals are deals. And I did say I would make good use of what I was offered.

 

Lucifer’s chest tightened, something hot and miserable clawing up his throat.
Not because of the words.
But because of how easily Alastor spoke them.
How easily he lived.
How Lucifer himself felt like a crumbled ruin wearing a crown.

 

He grabbed Alastor’s shoulder, pushing him back again when he tried—again—to rise.

This time he didn’t bother arguing.

 

He simply let authority pour into his voice, thick and undeniable.
— I order you to stay.

Alastor froze. Not stiff, not alarmed—more like he found something about this whole ordeal entertaining.
He sank back into the sheets, eyes half-lidded, expression smug and faintly hungry.

 

— As you wish, your Majesty.

 

Lucifer hated him.

 

Lucifer hated that he didn’t.

 

And above everything else, Lucifer hated that the only thing waiting for him outside this room was the ache of a broken marriage—and the knowledge that this irritating, fever-burning demon was the closest thing he had to distraction.

 

He leaned back in the side of the bed, wings curling in protectively despite his scowl.

 

If Alastor noticed, he didn’t comment. He simply closed his eyes and breathed through the heat tearing up his veins.

Lucifer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

Being King of Hell had never felt so exhausting.
Being alone had never felt so loud.

 

And Alastor—of course—had to be here to witness it.

Chapter 5: Something Wrong

Summary:

Alastors felt better, so now, it's his turn to take his part of their deal once again, but how and when he'll figure out somethings different?

Notes:

Mentions of Blood and Gore, it's just a small part, but you've been warned :)

Alastor woke choking on gold.

 

Heat curled through his body—not the blistering, fever-boiling agony of before, but something slower, thicker, creeping like molten syrup beneath his skin. It pooled in his throat, pulsed in his chest, radiated out until the inside of him felt… wrong. Too warm. Too alive.

 

And then came the sound.

 

A laugh—thin, distant, echoing like a radio transmission from a plane spiraling out of the sky.

 

He turned toward it, or tried to. There was no horizon, no sky, no ground—only an endless white expanse stretching in all directions. Blank. Empty. Silent.

 

Until it wasn’t.

 

A shimmer flickered at the edge of sight.

 

Then another.

And then gold.

 

Gold like sunlight breaking through a storm. Gold like burning churches. Gold like blood spilled from something divine.

 

It poured across the blank world, swallowing the white, creeping toward him in hungry, devouring ribbons. The laughter sharpened. The gold brightened. It pressed in, too bright, too close—

 

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t—

 

A crushing weight slammed over him.

 

And the gold shattered.

 

 

---

Alastor jerked awake with a violent, rasping gasp, every nerve snapping back into the real world at once.

 

Darkness.

 

Heat.

 

Pressure—something heavy pinning his face, suffocating him.

 

He thrashed instinctively, swatting upward with a sharp, panicked shove.

 

The weight lifted immediately, folding back with a soft rustle.

A wing.

 

Lucifer’s wing.

 

Alastor blinked hard, vision clearing enough to take in the scene: he was still in the King’s bed—apparently. Lucifer had drifted sideways in the bed beside him, one wing slumped entirely over Alastor like an unwilling guardian blanket. The damp cloth still lay half-fallen on his own forehead.

 

Alastor’s chest rose and fell too quickly, breath ragged, the remnants of gold still clinging to his throat like smoke.

 

Lucifer’s eyes snapped open at the impact of Alastor’s shove.

 

For once, the King did not start with a complaint.

 

Or a glare.

 

Or even an insult.

 

He simply stared at Alastor, blinking once, twice, as if his brain took a moment to catch up with his body.

 

Then, in a voice too quiet, too controlled—too uncharacteristically soft—he asked.

— Are you… better?

 

Alastor swallowed, throat still burning, mind still fogged with traces of the dream’s golden light.

 

He expected Lucifer to snap. To scold him for waking him. To complain about being shoved. To lecture him for breathing wrong.

 

Not that question.

Not in that tone.

 

Alastor opened his mouth, then closed it again, fingers twitching against the sheets as if unsure what to do with themselves.

 

The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow from Lucifer’s feathers. He looked tired. Truly tired. His posture slouched, hair slightly mussed from sleep, hand still half-lifted as though he’d meant to steady Alastor but thought better of it.

 

For a moment—brief, fragile—Alastor said nothing at all.

 

He wanted to avoid all this, what the hell was he thinking, it was no good deed.

 

Then—

 

Alastor’s breath steadied. His vision cleared.
And with clarity came the return of his personality.

 

Which is to say—his mouth.

 

He pushed himself upright with a slow, exaggerated stretch, eyes drifting lazily around Lucifer’s bedroom.

 

— My, my… what a quaint little chamber you have, your Majesty. Very… lived-in. Very “recently divorced and sleeping alone.”

 

He saw Lucifer's eye twitching so hard his wing feathers fluffed.

Alastor grinned wider.

 

— Truly, if I had known your décor was this tragic, I might’ve let the fever finish me off rather than wake up here.

Lucifer inhaled sharply through his nose, finally, avoided it completely.

 

— Get. Out, you're better, leave.

Alastor didn’t bother walking.
Shadows coiled up his limbs like delighted pets, and with a smooth, theatrical bow, he vanished into them—gone before Lucifer could summon another insult.

 

---

 

He returned hours later.

Appearing exactly three inches to Lucifer’s left.

 

— OH FUCK—!

 

Lucifer jumped hard enough to rattle the chandelier above them. Charlie yelped, hand flying to her heart. Papers spilled across the floor.

 

Alastor smiled like a man who had just ruined someone’s entire afternoon.

 

— I want my part of the agreement again, — he said cheerfully, cane tapping once against the marble.

 

Lucifer spun on him, as if he had control of anything.

 

— Absolutely not. You’re not well yet.

 

Charlie blinked between them, confused.

 

— Wait—what happened yesterday? Dad, what is he talking about? Why wasn’t Alastor well?

 

Alastor opened his mouth with the sweetest, most poisonous smile.

 

— Oh, my dear girl, I merely ingested a rather generous amount of angelic f—

 

Lucifer’s hand slapped over his mouth so fast it was almost comedic.

 

— HE ATE SPOILED MEAT, — Lucifer snapped, voice booming with kingly finality. — Terrible choice. Poor judgment. Not my fault.

 

Charlie frowned, clearly unconvinced.
Alastor’s eyes smiled above Lucifer’s hand.

 

Useful.
Very useful.

 

Lucifer removed his hand slowly, glaring daggers.

 

Alastor smoothed the collar of his coat with prim satisfaction.

 

— As I was saying, — he continued, tone sugary, — my end of the deal remains due.

 

Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose, feathers dimming in irritation.

Alastor leaned in, voice dropping to a soft, wicked purr:

 

— And since you are so very concerned with secrets…
I do trust you’ll honor this one too.

 

Lucifer hated him.

 

Charlie looked nervous.

 

And Alastor?

 

He smelled leverage.

 

Sweet, shimmering leverage.

 

And he intended to use every drop of it.

 

Lucifer’s expression twitched between panic, irritation, and the unmistakable look of a father trying to prevent his daughter from hearing something she absolutely should not hear.

 

— Charlie, sweetie, I just remembered—

Inventory check. Important. Urgent. Extremely… kingly.

 

Charlie blinked.

 

— Dad, we don’t even have an inventory system—

 

— And THAT is why it’s urgent!

Now excuse us.

Alastor and I have—

He waved his hands vaguely.

— …business.

 

Alastor, of course, waved cheerfully at Charlie as Lucifer grabbed him by the collar.

 

— Farewell, my dear princess. I seem to be… requisitioned.

 

Both man got envolved by fire, and suddenly, they were somewhere inside the hotel, of course, but it was an storage room, so unused and filled with dust

 

Lucifer exhaled.

 

— This will do.

 

Alastor looked around, unimpressed.

 

— A charming broom closet you’ve chosen for our rendezvous, your Majesty.

Very regal. Very… “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

 

Lucifer pointed at him, jaw tight.

 

— If you insult the room, you’re insulting me.

 

— I know, — Alastor replied, smiling wider.

 

Lucifer groaned like a man who deeply regretted every life choice of the last 24 hours.

 

Then, without warning, he reached up and tugged his bowtie loose.

 

Alastor froze.

 

The fabric slipped through Lucifer’s fingers, falling across the table like a guilty secret.

 

Then Lucifer’s fingers moved to the first button of his shirt.

 

Alastor blinked once.

 

Twice.

 

A third time.

 

— Oh?

His voice cracked almost imperceptibly.

— W-what is happening?

 

Lucifer shot him an annoyed look.

 

— I’m not tearing another shirt because you can’t control your appetite. Last time you practically chewed through half of it.

 

— It was one bite, — Alastor protested, hands raised.

— A dedicated bite.

 

Lucifer undid the second button.

 

Alastor’s ears went down, feeling embarassed.

 

Not voluntarily.

 

And certainly unnoticed by him.

 

Because his eyes had fallen to Lucifer’s shoulder.

 

And the bite was there.

 

Alastor’s mark.

 

A crescent of healed, pearlescent scar tissue — faintly glowing — carved into Lucifer’s right shoulder like a signature.

 

A reminder.

 

A claim he had no intention of making, but made anyway.

 

Lucifer caught his staring and rolled his eyes.

 

— Don’t look so proud. It’ll fade.

 

— Oh, I’m sure it will, — Alastor replied, voice smooth, mask firmly in place.

— I’m simply impressed by how… quickly you recover.

 

Lucifer scowled.

 

— Angelic regeneration. Try not to take it personally.

 

Alastor smiled, sharp and harmless.

 

— I assure you, Lucifer, I take absolutely nothing you do personally.

 

Which, ironically, was true.

 

And also a lie.

 

Lucifer finished pulling off the shirt, tossing it across a velvet chaise that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the birth of sin. His breath heavy, showing irritation.

 

Alastor clasped his hands behind his back, posture elegant, expression unreadable, smile too perfect to trust.

 

And yet—

 

His throat felt tight.

 

Strange.

 

Warm.

 

Different from the fever.

 

Lucifer turned to him, golden eyes glowing, jaw set.

 

— Let’s get this over with.

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened to something almost hungry.

 

— With pleasure, your Majesty.

 

Alastor leaned in.

 

Lucifer tilted his head to the side—reluctantly, stiffly, with all the dignity of a man preparing to let a wolf bite his throat again.

 

Alastor did not hesitate.

 

His fangs sank into the base of Lucifer’s neck with a clean, ripping puncture.

A sharp tear of flesh.

A burst of the fallen angel's bleeding.

 

Lucifer whimpered.

 

A thin, strangled sound he clearly hadn’t meant to make.

 

Alastor shivered.

 

Not in pleasure.

Not desire.

Pure sensory overload.

 

His tongue dragged across the wound, drinking the burn of celestial blood as it spilled like molten gold across his palate. It stung. It scorched. It was divine taste—addictive in the way fire is to a moth too arrogant to fear death.

 

Lucifer’s breath hitched.

 

Alastor didn’t look at him. Didn’t care.

He swallowed another mouthful, then another, claws pressing into Lucifer’s shoulders for balance as the demonic hunger he felt finally ceased for the first time in hours.

 

Lucifer’s hand moved.

 

Not away.

Not pushing.

Just… reacting.

 

Fingers slid instinctively into Alastor’s hair.

 

And then—

 

They touched one of his deer ears.

 

Warm.

Golden.

Firm.

 

A grounding touch.

 

A claiming touch.

 

And every instinct in Alastor’s body—every line of boundary he had carved into himself across decades—shattered.

 

His entire body jolted.

 

Move. Back away. Attack. Do anything except freeze—

 

He couldn’t.

 

The taste—

The warmth—

The contact—

 

It drowned him.

 

His ears, traitorous things, melted under the touch like butter under sunlight. His breath hitched against Lucifer’s skin. His grip faltered. And for a horrifying second he leaned into that warmth before his brain caught up with his instincts.

 

What—

 

What the hell was he doing?

 

Alastor tore himself away violently, stumbling back as if burned—not by angelic blood, but by the intimacy of a hand where no one was allowed to touch him.

 

His throat felt raw.

His breathing uneven.

 

Lucifer blinked, confused, still half-dazed with pain.

 

Alastor’s voice, when it came, was cold.

Sharp.

A tone he rarely used—one with no smirk behind it.

 

— Do not touch my ears again.

 

Lucifer opened his mouth—likely to defend himself, or deflect with sarcasm—but Alastor didn’t give him the chance.

 

The shadows rose at his heels like smoke.

 

And with a twist of darkness swallowing him whole—

 

Alastor vanished.

 

As always.

As expected.

As he preferred.

 

Leaving Lucifer shirtless, bleeding lightly, hand still suspended in the empty air where the deer demon had been—

 

And a silence too heavy to ignore.

Chapter 6: Feelings.

Summary:

Lucifer dwells on feelings, having discoveries about himself... and... maybe others...

Why does it looks so difficult for other people when its obvious for him?
Also, he could spend more time with his daughter, to clear some things out and help her out, like the good father he is.

Lucifer woke with a jolt of pain blooming under his skin.

 

It wasn’t enough to make him gasp, but it was enough to remind him of last night—specifically, of sharp teeth, tearing flesh, and the humiliating little sound he’d made before he could stop himself.

 

Perfect.

 

Just what he needed.

 

He pushed himself upright, groaning as the muscles along his neck pulled and the half-regenerated skin throbbed. The wound was closed, but not finished; angelic flesh healed fast, not instantly, especially when it had been ripped out rather than cut.

 

He ran a hand over the side of his neck and felt the texture: smooth in some places, raised in ghostly ridges in others.

 

A temporary scar.
From him.

 

Lucifer’s wings twitched irritably as he swung his legs off the bed. He stretched, joints popping, and made his way to the mirror hanging on his wall—a tall, ridiculous thing in a golden duck-shaped frame Charlie had insisted on giving him for Father’s Day.

 

He stared at his reflection.

 

The scar peeked from beneath his collarbone, faintly glowing, still raw around the edges. It looked worse against his pale skin—the first one now just a disapearing scar, but still looking like he got attacked by a primal animal.

 

He exhaled, a long, defeated breath.

 

— Perfect. Absolutely perfect, — he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. — As if today wasn’t already miserable enough…

 

He washed, dressed, tucked his hair back, forced his wings to sit neatly, and left the room.

 

The hotel was awake—barely—but awake. Demons were shuffling around, staff were sweeping, and Charlie was humming somewhere down the hall.

 

Lucifer walked, not because he had somewhere specific to be, but because doing anything was better than letting his mind linger on Lilith’s words.

 

"She said she doesn't want to see you anymore, dad..."

"That I should stay away from you..."

"...I never heard her say such harsh things..."

 

He swallowed against the burn of those memories and kept walking.

 

He found Charlie near the lobby, rearranging pamphlets and smiling at a group of sinners who didn’t deserve it. Her face lit up the moment she saw him.

 

— Dad! You’re up early!

 

— I… couldn’t sleep well, — he admitted.

 

Not a lie.

 

Not the truth either.

 

Charlie gave him a soft, worried look before brightening again.

 

— Hey… about yesterday. I didn’t get to ask, but… everything okay? With you and Alastor?

 

Lucifer felt something inside him jerk.

 

— Oh—yes. Perfectly fine. Absolutely fine. He’s impossible, but— fine.

 

— I’m glad! — Charlie smiled, earnest, warm. — It makes me happy that you two are finally spending time together. You disappeared with him for hours yesterday. That’s… progress!

 

Lucifer stopped walking.

He blinked at her.

Progress?

With Alastor?

 

— Charlie, my dear, let’s not get carried away, — he said, smoothing his coat as if that would fix the conversation. — I don’t “spend time” with him. I tolerate him. I had to deal with him because of a… situation. That’s it. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing more.

 

Charlie raised an eyebrow, and Lucifer continued—without realizing he was doing so.

 

— He’s arrogant, he’s rude, he listens to no one, his manners are atrocious, and he has this infuriating little smirk— you know the one, the “I know something you don’t” smile? I hate that smile. He talks in circles, he twists every word, he won’t stay still, he refuses to be reasonable, he— honestly, the nerve of that demon is—

 

He kept going.

 

And going.

 

And going.

 

Charlie’s shoulders began to shake.

 

He didn’t notice.

 

— And the worst part? He acts like everything is a game, like nothing touches him, like nothing matters, and I— I simply refuse to entertain the idea that—

 

Charlie burst into laughter.

 

Loud, bright, unstoppable laughter.

 

Lucifer snapped his mouth shut, affronted.

 

— What—? Why are you laughing? What did I say?

 

She wiped her eyes, still giggling.

 

— Dad… you hated Adam. Absolutely despised him. You loved to beat his ass up on the exorcism day, and even laughed when he died by Nifty..

 

Lucifer made a face.
Not inaccurate.

 

Charlie grinned.

— But even then, you never talked about Adam this much.

 

Lucifer opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

 

She leaned forward, eyes gentle, soft.

— You don’t hate Alastor.

 

Silence stretched.

 

Long.
Painful.
Heavy.

 

Lucifer let out a breath that felt like he’d been holding it for centuries.

 

— … No.

He admitted quietly.

Almost grudgingly.

 

— I don’t.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes roaming at the floor.

 

— I should. It would be easier if I did. But I don’t.

 

Charlie reached out, squeezing his arm.

 

— That’s okay, Dad.

 

Lucifer wasn’t sure it was.

 

Not with everything else falling apart.

 

Not when the only constant in his immediate future was a deal with a demon who tore into him like an addiction.

 

But he didn’t say any of that.

 

He simply breathed, straightened his shoulders—

 

And prepared himself for whatever fresh torture the day would bring.

 

Alastor included.

---

Lucifer stayed with Charlie for the rest of the morning, helping her decorate for Xmas.

Correction: Charlie's idea of Christmas. A bizarre mixture of human nostalgia and hellish improvisation that somehow made the hotel feel warmer.

 

She hummed happily while organizing a box full of ornaments. Lucifer floated above her with ease, snapping his fingers to send bright ribbons spiraling around the chandelierand summoning small star-shaped lights to hover around the lobby.

 

— Dad, you're doing amazing!

 

Lucifer smirked, even as he placed a glowing angel topper on the tree with exaggerated disgust.

 

— Yes, dear, nothing says “holiday spirit” like putting a miniaturized enemy species on top of a pine tree. Very festive.

 

Charlie laughed, and Lucifer felt a pang in his chest. A bittersweet ache. At least she was smiling.

 

When the last decoration floated into place, Vaggie approached—stern, tired, and holding a clipboard like it was a weapon.

 

— Lucifer. I need you to do the therapy shift today.

 

The king blinked slowly, as if she’d spoken in an alien language.

— Absolutely not, the last time I did you a favor—

— Please. Just this once. Husk is… he’s awful lately. With everything that happened…

 

Lucifer waved a hand.

— Something about the spider leaving him or betraying him or exploding, I didn’t catch the details. Either way, why should I—

— Because we need someone who can talk to him, and you’re available.

— I am absolutely not—

 

But then she stepped aside, and behind her stood Charlie, hands clasped, eyes large, glistening, shimmering, deadly.

 

The puppy-dog stare.

 

Lucifer felt his soul crumble instantly.

 

— Oh come on. That’s cheating.

— Dad… please?

 

And that was the end of him.

 

He sighed dramatically, placing a hand on his forehead as though mortally wounded.

 

— Fine. But if he starts crying, I’m leaving, really.

 

The makeshift therapy room was barely a room—just a chair, another chair, and a very judgmental ficus.

Lucifer sat, prepared to regret everything.

One sinner after another.

Confessions, whining, guilt, self-loathing, dramatics… he’d heard it all.

He pretended to listen, occasionally offering a “mmh,” or “you're funny,” or “have you tried committing fewer crimes?”

 

Shockingly, it helped more than expected.

 

Finally, when he thought it was over, the door creaked open.

 

Husk walked in like he had been physically dragged there.

 

— Make it quick. — he grumbled, slumping into the chair.

 

Lucifer crossed his legs, chin in hand.

— Delightful enthusiasm. How can the king of Hell ruin your day?

 

Husk exhaled sharply.

— I don’t know. I just… been feeling weird, okay? Angel’s gone, Vox used him to screw with us, and I didn’t even realize he was suffering. He’s out there alone, probably hating me, I couldn’t do anything—

 

Lucifer stopped listening around the third complaint.

Not that he wasn’t sympathetic—he simply processed emotions too efficiently to dwell on them.

 

So when Husk paused for breath, Lucifer raised a brow.

 

— You’re in love.

 

Husk looked at him confused, as if something absurd just blew in the place.

— What?! No. No. I lost that ability ages ago. You think I’m some sap? Please.

 

Lucifer snorted lightly.

— You cared. A lot. More than you claim to be capable of. You noticed every time he laughed, every time he cried, every time he looked tired. You got angry when he flirted with others, and for someone who pretends not to care about anyone, you cared very specifically about him. That’s not subtle affection, that’s just… affection.

 

Husk stared at him—confused, insulted, and maybe a little horrified.

 

— …Shit.

 

Lucifer smiled, smug and satisfied.

 

— Yes, well. Happens to the worst of us.

 

Husk didn’t respond. He simply stood, muttered something like “thanks, I guess,” and left the room, head spinning.

 

Lucifer remained seated, surprisingly… pleased.

 

He had helped. Not manipulated, not pushed, not tricked—helped.

 

It felt… warm, weirdly.

 

Then a strange realization hit him.

 

Something was missing.

 

A specific irritant. A constant annoyance.

The emotional equivalent of stepping on a LEGO piece daily.

 

He frowned, looking around the empty room.

 

He had not been insulted once today.
No mocking bow.
No shadowy push down the staircase.
No grin cutting through the halls like a knife.

 

Nothing from him.

 

Lucifer clicked his tongue, irritated.

 

— Where the hell is that stupid deer?

 

He didn’t like how quickly worry crawled under his skin.

 

— Fuck. Maybe it’s another side effect…

 

But deep down, in a place he refused to examine too closely, Lucifer knew it wasn’t that.

 

It was something else entirely.

Chapter 7: In the Shadows.

Summary:

When Alastor doesn't understand something, he observes, he judges, and uses all in his power to get it.

So onto the shadows he'll go.

Maybe observe someone the rest of his day.

Notes:

I'm sorry I just couldn't hold myself and I needed to release this chapter to

Alastor dreamed again.

 

Golden water.

Liquid light spreading in ripples across a lake too still to be real, glowing like veins under translucent skin.

A voice—soft at first, distant, familiar in a way that made his antlers twitch.

But no matter how he strained, he couldn’t understand a single word.

Only the tone reached him: calling, beckoning, warm.

 

He tried to step closer.

 

But something dragged him back into himself.

 

He woke up with a sharp inhale, sitting upright before awareness even fully settled.

 

Too early.

 

Annoyingly early.

 

He blinked at the dim room, then exhaled and let his head fall back onto the pillow again.

Tried to return to sleep.

Failed.

Tried again.

Failed harder.

 

— Tch. Figures.

 

He rose abruptly, irritation flickering under his skin like static. His steps were silent as always, his expression already forming its trademark grin—a mask he didn’t need, but wore the same way one wears an old coat: out of habit, not comfort.

 

He stopped in front of his mirror.

 

Stared.

 

Same sharp smile.
Same crimson eyes.
Same immaculate hair.

 

And yet…

 

His reflection didn’t look nearly amused enough.

 

His brow twitched minutely. The grin faltered by a fraction—barely noticeable to anyone else, painfully noticeable to him.

 

He clicked his tongue.

 

After a moment, he reached into the hidden panel behind the mirror and pulled out a small whiskey bottle he kept for… emergencies.

 

Or mornings like this.

 

He uncorked it with his teeth, took a long drink, and let the burn coat his throat.

 

Not enough.

 

Not even close.

Yesterday’s memories crept up his spine like an unwanted hand.

Lucifer.

His blood.
His skin.
His hand on him.
His ear—

 

Alastor’s stomach churned.

 

The feeling Lucifer had pulled out of him—

No, accidentally squeezed out of him—

It was disgusting.
Unacceptable.
Weak.

 

He drank again.

 

Still didn’t help.

 

His jaw tightened.

 

With a slow exhale, almost mechanical, he lifted his hand toward one of the deer ears at the top of his head.

 

He hesitated.

 

Then touched.

 

A light pat.

Then another.

Then a slow press of fingers against the sensitive fur, tracing the curve gently.

 

His eyes closed without his permission.

 

His breath unspooled, something in him melting—something he didn’t understand, something that made his chest tighten in irritation and something else he refused to name.

 

His ear reacted to the touch immediately, the same way it had—

No. No. It wasn’t the same.

This was him.

Not Lucifer.

So there was no reason for the disgust twisting in his ribs.

 

He kept touching, analyzing the sensation clinically, coldly.
Warmth.
Pressure.
Nerves firing.

 

Pleasant.
Fine.
Predictable.

 

So why in the hell had his body reacted like that under Lucifer’s hand?

Why had he frozen?

Why had he leaned in—if only for a breath—before noticing?

 

Why had he blamed Lucifer when the reaction had come from his own skin?

 

Alastor opened his eyes again, lowering his hand abruptly, as if caught doing something unacceptable.

 

His reflection grinned back at him. Wide. Dark. Wrong.

 

He stared at himself for a long, thin second.

 

Then muttered under his breath, voice low and venomous:

— …Infernal nonsense.

 

He didn’t understand it.

He didn’t like it.

And he certainly wasn’t going to admit any part of it.

 

---

 

If sleep refused to return to him, then fine. He had better things to do with the morning.

 

Like figuring out what the hell was wrong with him.

 

Or—if he chose to be generous with himself—what the hell was wrong with Lucifer.

 

Either option was acceptable.

 

He stepped back from the mirror, tapping his cane once on the floor as shadows curled around his ankles like obedient pets.

— Let’s see, shall we?

 

He slipped into darkness, the world bending and softening around him.

He reemerged on the edge of a hallway near the Hotel’s main floor, tucked safely into a patch of shadow that even Lucifer would have trouble noticing unless he looked directly at him.

 

From here, he could watch.

 

And oh—what a display he walked into.

 

Lucifer, King of Hell, Lord of All Things Loud and Gold, stood next to Charlie, helping her hang… Christmas decorations.

Flying up and down the atrium with glowing magic, sticking mistletoe and garlands and twinkling lights on every surface like a glorified cherub.

 

Alastor almost choked on his laugh.

 

Pathetic.

 

Though admittedly amusing.

 

He watched Charlie beam up at her father, overflowing with sentimental joy.

Lucifer responded with a tired smile—the kind that cracked around the edges—hiding whatever pit of misery he’d woken with today.

 

Trying so hard for that girl of his. How nauseatingly sweet.

 

Alastor leaned closer into the wall.

 

He saw every twitch of Lucifer’s hands, the way his shoulders slumped whenever Charlie wasn’t looking, the way his eyes dimmed ever so slightly when she mentioned Lilith.

He saw everything.

 

And he mocked all of it internally, because what else was he supposed to do?

 

After decorating, Vaggie approached with her usual irritation radiating like a migraine with legs. Alastor rolled his eyes as she cornered Lucifer, asking—no, demanding—that he act as the day’s “therapist.”

 

Lucifer’s look of horror almost made Alastor break his silence.

— Oh, how perfect.

 

He watched the reluctant King protest, and watched Charlie appear behind Vaggie with those enormous puppy eyes.

And Lucifer caved instantly.

 

Alastor pressed a hand over his mouth to hide a grin sharper than his teeth.

— Weak. Absolutely weak.

 

The session itself was… well. Exactly what he expected.

Sinners rambling. Lucifer pretending to care.

Alastor listened only because it was entertaining.

 

But the last one—

Husk.

 

He stumbled in awkwardly, tail dragging, ears lowered, whiskey fumes thick around him.

He muttered about Angel Dust. About guilt. About helplessness. About missing that spider more than he knew what to do with.

 

Lucifer listened with growing interest.

And then—

 

— You’re in love!

The King said it as if pointing out spilled soup.

 

Alastor went still.

 

Then he scoffed.

 

Love.

What an absurd, disgusting little word.

 

Yet for some reason, it lingered. Rattling around in his mind like a loose bullet.

 

He knew love.
In the limited, distant way one knows a star: beautiful from afar, deadly up close.

 

He loved his mother.
That had been real. Solid. Worthy.

 

But romantic love?
Coupling?
Attachment?

What a ridiculous, vulnerable thing.

A handle people could grab to twist the knife deeper.

He faintly remembered falling in love once or twice as a human. Brief, silly things doomed to end in blood or betrayal. The kind of love mortals bragged about and demons laughed at.

Finding love in Hell?

He almost barked out a laugh.

That was insanity trying to thrive among lunatics.

But Husk stood there, shaking, confused, maybe aware, maybe not—
And for a split second, Alastor felt something unfamiliar.

Not empathy.
Never that.

More like… recognition of stupidity.

The moment ended as Lucifer patted Husk on the shoulder, and Husk mumbled thanks before leaving.

Lucifer stood alone afterward, chest rising in a strangely proud breath.

Alastor’s grin twitched.

The King looked… content.
Self-satisfied.
Peaceful.

Why?

For helping a miserable drunk confess to nonexistent romance?

He shook his head.

Then something caught his attention—

Lucifer’s expression shifted. Confusion creasing his brow.

He looked around slowly, scanning the room like he felt something missing.

Good, Alastor thought smugly. Let him miss being annoyed. It suits him.

Lucifer began walking—right toward the balcony above the room.

Right toward the shadows where Alastor hid.

He stilled, blending into the darkness so thoroughly not even a god should’ve noticed him.

Lucifer walked past, steps slow, tired, thoughtful.
Didn’t even glance at the shadow Alastor occupied.

Didn’t sense him.

Didn’t feel him.

Didn’t notice the Radio Demon staring at him with narrowed, calculating eyes.

For the first time in a very long time…

Alastor didn’t know what to make of the feeling crawling down his spine.

Not fear.
Not anger.
Not satisfaction.

Something else.

Something he refused to name.

He stayed hidden as Lucifer passed, silent as a corpse.

And even though nobody asked—

he was watching.



...

He let the shadows peel off him like wet silk.

Slowly, deliberately, he stepped out of the dark corner and strolled toward the balcony rail—right beside Lucifer, who still hadn’t noticed him. The King’s gaze remained fixed on the open air, thoughtful in a way Alastor didn’t recognize.

Realization?
Reflection?
Worry?

Whatever expression that was, Alastor found it… irritating.
Mostly because he couldn’t read it.

He hated not being able to read something.

He leaned his elbows on the balcony edge, cane dangling loosely from his fingers, and tilted his head with a smug grin.

— Thinking too hard, your Majesty? You might sprain something.

Lucifer jolted—actually jolted—before his face twisted into annoyance.

— Do you have to sneak around like that? You’re worse than moths. At least they have the decency to land where I can see them.

Alastor smirked wider.

— Oh, but surprising you is half the fun.

Lucifer rolled his eyes, muttering something about “pest control” and “needing holy bug spray.”
Alastor almost snorted.

Then came the silence.

Not heavy. Not hostile.

Just… there.

Lucifer stared ahead again, lips pressing together. His golden brows furrowed slightly—not in anger this time.

Something else.

Finally, without looking at him, Lucifer spoke:

— I was… worried.

Alastor actually blinked.

Worried?

For him?

Lucifer continued, awkward and low:

— You had another side effect before—really strong. I wasn’t sure if… if you were having another.

Alastor froze only for a fraction of a second.
Just enough to annoy himself.

Of all things, he hadn’t expected that.

Not the concern.
Not the honesty.

And certainly not the sincerity dripping off the King of Hell like he wasn’t even aware of it.

He straightened his tie, masking the strange pang in his chest.

— I’m perfectly fine, Lucifer. — A grin split his face, sharper than needed. — Though I must say, your concern is quite flattering.

He didn’t intend to say it that way.

He didn’t intend for it to sound… like that.

But the tone came out smooth—almost flirtatious.

And it worked.

Lucifer’s expression malfunctioned.

Golden blush flared across his cheeks, blooming in a warm, embarrassing glow.
His jaw dropped just a bit, eyes widening like a startled deer in headlights.

Then he sputtered.

— W–what— I— that’s— you—!

Alastor’s grin grew predatory.

Lucifer groaned, dragging a hand down his face in pure mortification.

— Why do you make everything unbearable? — he mumbled through his fingers.

Alastor chuckled. Low. Delighted.

He didn’t know what exactly he had done,

or why that tone had slipped out,

or what devilish itch inside him urged him to tease Lucifer that way—

But Lucifer’s reaction was worth every second.

Absolutely priceless.

And watching the King of Hell fluster himself into a golden blush?

Hilarious.
Truly, utterly hilarious.

He leaned closer, folding his hands behind his back.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t have to because...

 

 

The balcony door creaked open.

 

Alastor didn’t need to turn to know who it was—the soft, hopeful gasp gave her away before she even spoke.

— Dad? Oh—there you are!

 

Charlie stepped out onto the balcony, eyes bright as always…
but then they flicked from Lucifer’s mortified, golden-flushed face
to Alastor’s far-too-pleased smirk.

 

Suspicion.

 

The kind a mother might have walking in on her toddler holding a cookie he obviously stole.

 

Alastor’s grin widened.

 

Before she could get a word in, she clasped her hands together.

 

— So! How was therapy duty today? I'm so grateful you helped us out!

Lucifer straightened, clearing his throat, trying desperately to scrape dignity back onto his face.

— It went fine, pumpkin. I… actually helped someone. Husk, even. And I told him what was obvious—that he’s in love.

He shrugged, smug.
Then jabbed a finger toward Alastor.

— And you, my dear Radio Demon, could stand to join a session. You desperately need therapy.

Alastor blinked, feigning offense.

Then he leaned in, smile sliding into that same tone he didn’t fully control—smooth, sharp, and unexpectedly suggestive.

— Oh? And would you be my particular therapist, Lucifer?

 

Lucifer exploded.

 

Not literally—unfortunately—but in color.

 

That golden blush returned with vengeance, crawling from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. His eyes widened, then darted to Charlie as if begging her not to read into anything.

 

It was glorious.

 

Absolutely glorious.

 

Charlie’s brows lifted.

 

Her eyes moved between them—Lucifer, glowing like an embarrassed seraph, and Alastor, a smug demon resting his elbows on the railing as if posing for this exact scene.

 

Alastor couldn’t decipher what she was seeing.
He hated that.
She was seeing something he couldn’t.

 

Then, slowly… she smiled.

 

Soft. Warm.

The kind of smile someone gives when they see two people “getting along” in a way they approve.

 

Alastor’s stomach turned.

 

He rolled his eyes.

 

Wonderful.

Now she thought something was happening between them.

 

Lucifer tried to speak—failed—then tried again, voice cracking.

— It’s— it’s not— that wasn’t— Alastor is just— HE does that—!!

 

Charlie giggled.

 

Alastor lifted his cane, tapped it once on the floor, and let the shadows climb up his legs like a curtain.

 

— Well. This has been… enlightening.

 

He gave Lucifer one last lingering smirk—one that made the King visibly tense—

and bowed his head toward Charlie.

 

— I’ll leave you two to your wholesome family moment.

 

And with that, he vanished into darkness.

 

At least he’d found something worthwhile today.

 

Charlie saw something he wanted to know.
Something Lucifer didn’t want anyone to see.

 

And better yet?

 

He had discovered the perfect way to fluster the King of Hell.

 

Oh, he would absolutely use this.

 

Again.

 

And again.

Chapter 8: Bother

Summary:

Lucifer's trying to sleep well, atleast once in a couple of days, and to make it harder, he realised yersterday that he was actually falling for that- annoying. person.

And specificaly that person is coming to absolutely do anything but not let him sleep.

Notes:

Graphic descriptions of blood and gore, (seriously, there's many chapters with this warning, if you kept reading it until now, I just assume you don't need this warning :P)

Lucifer blinked once.

Twice.

The third time, his brain finally registered the tall, smiling silhouette in the darkest corner of the room.

Alastor.

 

Staring at him.

 

Like a fucking serial killer.

 

Lucifer choked on air and bolted upright, wings first, voice cracking like a teenager:

— WHAT THE FUCK—?!

 

The Radio Demon didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even pretend he wasn’t being a creep. Just kept that smile like he had been carved out of pure malicious joy.

Lucifer dragged a hand down his face.

 

— …Why are you in my room. At— he checked the clock —at six in the morning.

 

Alastor stepped forward, smooth and polite, which somehow made it even worse.

— Why, to take my part of the deal, of course.
A beat.
— I’m ravenous.

 

Lucifer wanted to throw him out the window.

 

Of all days.

 

Of all people.

 

Of all possible cosmic jokes.

 

Yesterday he had realized — unfortunately, violently, disgustingly — that he was falling for this… thing. This pest. This smiling disaster with no understanding of boundaries or personal space.

 

And now he was being woken up by him. In his bedroom. Without permission.

 

The universe truly hated him.

 

Lucifer groaned and flopped back on the bed, turning his back to him.

— Go away. I’m not awake yet, and I refuse to be awake while you’re being like this.

 

Alastor didn’t go away.

 

Of course he didn’t. That would require basic decency.

 

Silence stretched for two seconds. Three.

 

Then the mattress dipped.

 

Lucifer stiffened.

 

Oh no.

 

No, no, no, he is not—

 

Alastor leaned in until Lucifer could feel breath ghosting over the side of his neck.

— You’re particularly jumpy today, dear Lucifer.

A pause dripping with wicked amusement.

— Should I take it as… flattery?

 

Lucifer launched  himself away like a startled cat, nearly falling off the other side of the bed.

 

— WHAT PART OF “GO AWAY” WAS UNCLEAR?!

 

Alastor chuckled, low and absolutely self-satisfied.

 

— Mm. None of it. I simply chose to ignore you.

 

Lucifer’s face burned — the same horrible golden blush he still hadn't figured out how to stop.

— Stop— talking like that. Y-you’re doing it on purpose.

 

— Naturally.

Alastor tilted his head, eyes bright with that same flirtatious edge he discovered yesterday.

— It seems to… work.

 

Lucifer made a strangled noise.

 

He hated this. He hated how effective it was. He hated him.

 

And also wanted to shove him off the bed.

 

And maybe kiss him.

 

But mostly shove him off the bed.

 

— I hate you, — he muttered weakly, trying to regain any dignity he’d ever had.

 

Alastor only smiled wider.

 

— Delightful. Now— shall we begin? I am, after all, famished.

 

Lucifer threw a pillow at him.

 

It went straight through his shadow like it hit smoke.

 

Lucifer let out a long, exhausted exhale.

 

— Fine. Just— just get it over with. Before I change my mind.

 

Alastor’s grin sharpened, delighted.
He approached slowly, almost ceremonially, like he was savoring the tension more than the meal itself. The bastard.

 

Lucifer pushed the collar of his pajama shirt aside, exposing the shoulder that didn’t have a scar yet. The first bite he received from Alastor still lingered faintly on the opposite shoulder — the ghost of a wound not fully healed — and his neck still carried the traces from before.

He should’ve been used to this by now.

He wasn’t.

 

Alastor’s hand settled on his upper arm, surprisingly steady. Firm. Cold.

He leaned in.

The bite was sharp.

 

Flesh parted with a wet sound, and Lucifer hissed, breath catching as teeth sank deep.
Warm blood welled instantly, running in a thin line down his chest.

Alastor made a low, appreciative sound — a hum of static — as he drank, his grip tightening just enough to steady himself, but never harsh enough to bruise.

 

Lucifer felt the familiar pull, the draining warmth, the strange mix of pain and relief.
It wasn’t pleasant.
It wasn’t awful, either.
It was… something in between — something he hated understanding.

 

When Alastor finally pulled back, Lucifer rotated his shoulder, wincing.

 

— Happy? — he muttered.

— Delighted, — Alastor replied, licking a drop of gold-tinted blood from his lip.

 

Lucifer wanted to throw him through a wall.

He also needed a nap.

 

— And now for my part of the deal, — Lucifer said, leaning back with the fakest smug he could muster. — Since I’m not leaving this room today… I order you to stay with me and keep me company.

 

Alastor blinked once.

 

Then laughed.

 

— How needy, — he teased.

 

— Shut up, — Lucifer shot back, mock-offended. — You’re the clingy one, breaking into my room before dawn.

— For food, not for affection.
— Sure. Keep telling yourself that.

 

Alastor rolled his eyes with dramatic irritation, but eventually relented, lounging across the duck-shaped couch in the corner of the room, legs crossed like he owned the place.

 

Lucifer snapped his fingers — literally — and his pajamas vanished, replaced by his usual regal clothes, cape folding neatly around him.

 

Alastor tilted his head.

 

— Why do you hide your wings so often? Only bringing them forth in… special circumstances.

Lucifer felt his cheeks heat again.

— It’s practical, — he said simply. — And they’re… sensitive.

 

Alastor’s slowly spreading grin said everything.

 

Lucifer instantly regretted opening his mouth.

 

— Don’t. You. Dare. — he warned.

Alastor only hummed innocently.

 

Lucifer sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees. After a moment, he asked:

— When you proposed this deal… did you have any other goal? Any vision of something bigger? Or was it really just… power?

 

Alastor’s grin shifted — not playful, not mocking — but sharper. Heavy.

 

— Only for power, — he said. And he meant it.

 

Something twisted painfully in Lucifer’s chest.

 

Of course.

 

Of course he was falling for someone who didn’t want anything but his strength.
Someone who once hated him.
Someone he hated back.

And all of this happening only three days after discovering his seven-year-absent wife didn’t want to be his wife anymore.

 

Pathetic.

 

He rubbed his thumb over his wedding ring, turning it unconsciously.

 

Before the spiral could drag him deeper, Alastor spoke again.

— Tell me, Lucifer, — he said lightly, almost curious. — Do you ever miss being a powerful seraphim?

 

Lucifer huffed.

— I never lost my powers, — he answered simply. — Just… the freedom to use them. I’m chained here. Stuck in Hell. And I can’t hurt or punish sinners like I used to.

 

He shrugged one shoulder.

— Everything else is still there. Like it or not.

 

Alastor hummed thoughtfully, eyes glinting.

 

And Lucifer didn’t like the way he was being watched.

Like Alastor was trying to figure out a puzzle no one had asked him to solve.

 

Lucifer leaned back on his absurdly large duck-shaped bed, wings still hidden but twitching under his skin.

His fingers kept rubbing over the ring again, thumb tracing the gold absentmindedly.

 

He looked at Alastor — sprawled like a smug cat on the duck couch — and asked:

— Do you even care about anyone else? Right now, I mean.

 

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter.

But it… shifted.

 

— Care? — he echoed lightly, tapping a rhythm with one claw. — Well, that depends on the definition, doesn’t it?

 

It was a vague answer.
Purposefully vague.

 

Not a yes.
Not a no.

 

Just enough to dodge without telling Lucifer to go to hell — which was new.

 

Lucifer raised a brow.

— Uh-huh. Vague, suspicious, inconclusive. So… a no.

 

Alastor’s eyes flicked to the ceiling.

— Interpret however you wish, — he answered with a shrug, as if it didn’t matter.

 

Lucifer watched him for a moment.

 

Then, quietly:

— And… did your family love you? When you were alive?

 

The grin faltered for half a second.

 

Barely noticeable.

 

— My mother was… loving and sweet, — Alastor replied simply. Too simply. — That’s enough.

 

Lucifer caught the avoidance and didn’t push.
But the answer was something.
More than he expected.

He smirked.

 

— So there were people you cared about. At least back then.
— Perhaps.
— Honestly, I was convinced you didn’t even have a heart.
— Oh, I could almost get there, — Alastor replied dryly, amused.

 

Silence returned to the room.

 

But not uncomfortable.
Just… strange.

 

Lucifer stretched his legs, wings twitching again under his clothes.

 

Then Alastor spoke first this time.

 

— Tell me, Lucifer… those “gifts” you’ve been given — from the Deadly Sins. Six of them, I assume? Since Pride is yours by nature.
— Yeah, — Lucifer answered, rubbing the back of his neck. — What about them?

 

— Why do they want you back? Why insist? — Alastor asked with a tone that was half-curiosity, half-calculation.

 

Lucifer frowned.

 

— They always ask. They always try. I kinda… vanished from that whole business for a while. The Hellborn affairs, the meetings, the decisions, the… damn politics.

 

Alastor’s ear twitched.

 

Lucifer continued:

— I didn’t feel like I made any difference being there or not. So I stopped showing up.

 

He let out a breath through his nose, annoyed by his own honesty.

— Even if it’s obvious they liked having me around, — he muttered reluctantly. — And yeah, they want me back. They’ve always liked me more than I deserved.

 

The admission hung in the air.

 

Alastor studied him again — too carefully — but said nothing.

 

And Lucifer suddenly hated how seen he felt.

 

— What? — he snapped. — Don’t look at me like that.
— Like what?
— Like you’re analyzing me.
— Oh, but I am, — Alastor purred.

 

Lucifer groaned and threw a pillow at him.

A loud, frantic knocking nearly made Lucifer jump out of his own skin.

 

— For fuck’s sake… — he muttered.

 

More knocks. Faster.

 

— DAD?? DAD, ARE YOU AWAKE??

 

Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose, stood up, and marched to the door, wings twitching irritably under his shirt.

 

— I just woke up, sweetheart — he lied instantly as he opened the door a crack. — Come later, okay? I’m… very busy doing absolutely nothing productive.

 

She didn’t even hear the excuse.

She slid right past it.

 

— Dad, I need to talk to you.

 

Lucifer froze.

Alastor, behind him, leaned back on the duck couch with a grin, eyes half-lidded, enjoying this like his own private show.

 

Charlie inhaled sharply.

And then—

 

She exploded.

 

— I knew it! I knew something was different! Dad, you don’t have to hide it from me — it’s okay, really! I mean, I’ll miss our family the way it used to be, but mom hasn’t been around in years, and it’s not your fault, and she told me to tell you she never wanted to see you again! And she said so many awful things and—

 

Lucifer’s stomach dropped so violently it might as well have fallen through the floor.

 

— Charlie, sweetie, we don’t have to—
— I knew you were acting different! I mean, the whole disappearing with Alastor thing yesterday? And the way you react at his teasing now? Dad, you’re falling for him, aren’t you?!

 

Lucifer died inside.

 

His soul actually left his body.

 

He covered half his face with both hands, golden blush exploding across his cheeks and creeping up his ears.

 

— Charlie please—
— And that’s fine! I support you! You deserve to be happy! I’ll always miss mom but… she hasn’t been here, and after what she said… you deserve better, dad, really. And if that’s Alastor, then—

 

— CHARLIE — he hissed in a strangled whisper, trying to stop her. — Stop. Talking. About. That.

 

Behind him, Alastor silently shook with laughter he refused to let escape, shoulders trembling.

 

Charlie leaned a little to the right.

 

Lucifer could FEEL her looking for someone else in the room.

 

He slapped his wings flat against his back on instinct.

 

— Are you alone? — she asked, narrowing her eyes.

 

Alastor, who absolutely wasn’t, simply shifted deeper into shadow.
Not hiding.
Just making it harder for Charlie to notice him.

 

Lucifer panicked.

— YES.
— Really??
— YES, CHARLIE, I AM VERY MUCH ALONE, GOODBYE.

 

He pushed her gently but firmly outside, shutting the door so fast it rattled.

 

Silence.

 

Then Lucifer slowly turned around…

…and buried his face in both hands again.

 

He wanted to melt straight through the floorboards.

 

Alastor let out a soft chuckle, finally standing.

— My, my… such passion. Such embarrassment. Such denial, — he sang. — Truly, Lucifer, you are a delightfully dramatic creature.

 

— Don’t.

— I’m flattered, — Alastor continued, smirking. — But please, explain yourself…

 

Lucifer opened his mouth to deny everything.

But Alastor cut him off, voice smooth and dismissive:

 

— Oh, please, Lucifer. It’s obvious you don’t like me at all. Your daughter doesn’t seem to know that much about feelings.

 

Lucifer froze.

 

Looked at him.

 

And something smug crept onto his face despite the remaining blush.

 

She knows more than you do, he thought sharply.

 

Much more.

 

But he didn’t say it.

 

He just stared, wings twitching, trying not to smile at how utterly clueless Alastor was.

 

---

Lucifer tried three times to return to sleep.

Three.

And every single time, Alastor found a new, creative, uniquely hellish way to ruin it.

First, by lifting one of Lucifer’s rubber ducks between two fingers like it was a diseased rat.

— Is this supposed to be threatening? Or is it merely tragic? — Alastor mused.

Lucifer bolted upright.

— PUT. THAT. DOWN.

Then, after Lucifer hissed and shoved the duck back into the shelf, Alastor tried a second approach:
disgust.

— You know, I once saw a sinner peel his own—
— STOP.
— —skin right off—
— STOP TALKING.
— —just to impress me.
— I SAID STOP.

The third time Lucifer closed his eyes, Alastor simply leaned over the bed and whispered:

— Lucifer, your hair is sticking up in the back. Like a cockatoo.

Lucifer sat up again, murderous.

He inhaled. Exhaled.

— What do I need to do… for you to let me rest for five minutes? — he growled.

Alastor’s grin sharpened.

Predatory.
Interested.
Too calm.

— A trial, — he said. — A very small one. I’ve grown curious about something since early…

Lucifer narrowed his eyes.

— What.
— Your wings.

Lucifer’s stomach dropped so hard he almost gagged.

— Absolutely not.
— Just a touch, — Alastor purred, eyes bright with amusement. — A caress. A test. You have my word I won’t bite them, nor tear them off. Yet.
— That does NOT reassure me.
— I’m not going to hurt your wings, dear. I’m simply curious.

Lucifer stared at him.

Alastor stared back.

And Lucifer had that feeling prey must have when a predator smiled nicely before pouncing.

He rubbed his face.

— Fine. FINE. But ONLY a moment.

Alastor’s grin widened, victorious.

Lucifer muttered every curse he knew under his breath, then slowly removed his blazer and hat. His shirt shimmered, magic thinning, and the six wings pushed free — white fading to crimson, glowing faintly in the morning dim.

He turned his back toward Alastor on the bed.

A terrible idea.

He knew it.

But he did it anyway.

Alastor approached with the silent steps of something born to stalk.

Then—

A fingertip brushed the base of Lucifer’s top right wing.

Lucifer jolted hard, wings snapping upward.

— EASY. — he hissed, mortified. — They’re… sensitive.

Alastor hummed.
An almost interested sound.

His hand slid down the red edge, slow, deliberate.

Lucifer shivered.

Actually shivered.

— My, my… — Alastor murmured softly. — You tremble like a mortal when touched correctly.

— Shut up — Lucifer snapped, voice a little too breathy.

Alastor ignored him.

Another stroke, this time down the white inner feathers.

Lucifer’s spine arched involuntarily.

His wings fluttered.

He bit his lip.

— Don’t— don’t do that spot—
— Oh? This spot? — Alastor repeated the motion, slower this time.

Lucifer nearly yeeted himself off the mattress.

— YOU’RE DOING THAT ON PURPOSE.
— Of course I am.

Another caress — lighter, teasing, tracing the sensitive muscle along the base.

 

Lucifer made a noise he’d deny until death.

 

Alastor’s voice dipped, amused and analytical:

— Fascinating. I’ve always wondered if seraphim wings had nerve clusters or if they were simply decorative.

 

— They’re NOT decorative — Lucifer muttered, wings twitching uncontrollably. — They’re essential. Powerful. Dignified.
— And very, very easy to fluster you with, — Alastor finished.

 

He dragged a finger through the red plume.

 

Lucifer froze.

 

Alastor stopped too.

 

Silence.

 

Then a soft, smug hum.

— You almost leaned into that one, Lucifer.
— I DID NOT.
— You did.
— SHUT. UP.

 

Alastor stepped back finally, hands behind his back, satisfied with the chaos he caused.

 

Lucifer shoved his wings closed against his back, mortified, face burning gold.

 

— Was that enough? — Lucifer grumbled. — Can I sleep now?

 

Alastor smirked.

— Oh, dear Lucifer… that was more than enough.

 

Lucifer threw another pillow at him.

 

Alastor caught it effortlessly, laughing.

 

But he could rest for only a couple of minutes.

Chapter 9: Instincts

Notes:

Sorry. No summary for this one! Just the warnings of doubted-conscent on the ending, and sorry for posting it late! ;-;

The room fell quiet after Charlie left—too quiet, almost purposefully so, like the silence itself wanted to corner him.

Alastor sat where he was, perfectly still, but his mind was anything except.
Charlie's strange comment at the door kept crawling back, whispering itself again and again no matter how much he dismissed it aloud.

Fall for him?
Lucifer?
For him?

Ridiculous. Absurd. Utterly impossible.

And yet… the thought remained, stubborn and irritating, slipping beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn't dig out. He hated that it lingered. He hated that it even registered.

Does she know something? Anything?

No. No—Lucifer despised him, and he despised Lucifer. That was the natural order of things. The deal forced them into proximity, nothing more. Their coexistence was transactional, begrudging, occasionally violent.

So why the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about it?

His gaze drifted before he could stop it—drawn toward Lucifer, who stood near the bedside, adjusting the gauze over his ribs with a wince he tried to hide. Alastor scoffed inwardly. So the great Morningstar could feel pain after all.

Lucifer looked his way and caught him staring.

— What? — Lucifer asked, irritation weak but present. His wings ruffled gently behind him.

 

Alastor clicked his tongue and turned his head away, but not quickly enough.

 

Lucifer stepped closer.

 

— Your ears, — he said bluntly, almost too casual. — Since you touched my wings… may I?

 

Alastor didn’t even let him breathe in another second.

— No.

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

— I was just—

— No.

 

His tone sharpened.

 

— Absolutely not. Not in this lifetime. Or the next. Don’t even think about it.

 

Lucifer let out a breath, half frustrated, half amused.
— You touched mine first, — he argued, though it sounded more like a complaint.

 

Alastor huffed out a laugh, low and mocking.

 

— Only because you thought it wise to lay your hands on me without permission, — he said, voice sliding into something thinner, darker. — Really, dear Morningstar, what did you expect? You were half-delirious from pain, couldn’t even handle a bite without clinging to me like a startled cat.

 

Lucifer frowned, feathers puffing in indignation.

 

— I’m not sensitive to pain, — he muttered defensively.
— It stings, yes. I feel everything—every tear, every drop of blood. But I can take it. I’ve taken worse.

 

He wasn’t bragging.
That was the strange part.

 

Alastor found himself watching the way Lucifer spoke without meaning to—the expressive hands, the slight movement of his eyebrows, the sincerity flickering in his voice. There was vulnerability there, unhidden, inexplicably unguarded in front of him, of all demons.

 

Why?

Lucifer had no sense of danger. That must be it.

 

Because he just kept talking, offering information like Alastor wasn’t someone who hated him on principle.

 

Perhaps he was the one who didn’t understand something.
Perhaps Charlie’s words were nonsense.
Perhaps they weren’t.

 

He didn’t know, and the not-knowing irritated him more than anything Lucifer could have said.

 

Lucifer noticed his stare again.

 

— What now? — he asked, exasperated.

 

Alastor smiled—slow, dangerous.

 

— Nothing, — he lied. — Just thinking.

Lucifer’s wings twitched.

— That’s never a good sign.

Alastor’s grin only widened.

 

Lucifer eventually stretched out on the bed again, wings shifting restlessly. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Closed them again.

 

He was trying to sleep.
Trying—and failing.

 

Alastor noticed immediately.

 

The twitch of an eyelid.
The irritated sigh.
The way Lucifer kept flipping the pillow to the cooler side.

 

He smirked, unable to help himself.

 

— Trouble sleeping, Morningstar? Again?

 

Lucifer shot him a glare through half-lidded eyes.

 

— You are extremely unhelpful, — he muttered.

 

— I am aware, — Alastor replied cheerfully.

 

Lucifer groaned and covered his face with a wing.

 

---

 

It happened almost naturally, then—

boredom, irritation, and a bottle left on the table from earlier.

 

Lucifer didn’t even suggest leaving the room.

 

He just pointed to the bottle on the side table without lifting his head.

— Pour me one, — he said. — If you’re going to stare at me like a vulture, at least give me something to drink.

 

Too lazy to move.
Too exhausted.
Too comfortable relying on him.

 

Alastor rolled his eyes but obeyed, if only to have something to do.
And perhaps he needed it more than he thought.

 

The first drink burned pleasantly.

The second less so.

By the fourth, he realized he was drinking faster than Lucifer.

 

Much faster.

 

His mind kept looping back to everything left unanswered—Charlie’s words, Lucifer’s inexplicable vulnerability, the hunger gnawing at him like an animal still unsatisfied.

 

Power he didn’t yet have.

Blood he tasted but barely tasted enough.

A patience he did not possess.

 

By the time he reached for another glass, Lucifer raised an eyebrow.

 

— You don’t usually drink this much, — he noted.

 

Alastor ignored it.

 

Everything felt off—tight, restless, wrong inside his skin.

 

He downed another glass.

 

And then it hit.

 

Not softly.
Not gradually.

 

A heavy spin, a sudden rush of heat crawling up his neck and into his ears.

His vision dipped sideways.

 

— Oh… fuck.

 

He steadied himself on the dresser.

 

Lucifer sat up a little.

 

— Are you drunk already? — he asked, half amused, half worried.

 

Alastor glared at him—or attempted to.
His expression came out less threatening and more… unfocused.

 

— I— am not— drunk, — he insisted.

 

Lucifer snorted.

 

— Then you’re terrible at pretending.

 

That insult should’ve rolled off him like usual.
But drunk Alastor had no self-control.

 

None.

 

He snapped immediately:

— Says the pampered feathered coward who cried over a little flesh tearing—

 

Lucifer’s eyes widened.

 

— I did not cry!

 

Alastor continued, sharp, vicious, almost delighted:

 

— You whined. Pathetically. Clinging onto me like a wounded songbird. Quite a sight, really.

 

Lucifer’s wings puffed up in outrage.

 

— You’re insufferable when sober. Drunk you is a war crime.

 

But Alastor barely heard him—because another thought slipped into his mind, thick, possessive, hungry in a way that made him still.

 

What if he could taste more?

What if he could claim more of that flesh?

What if he could make Lucifer just as vulnerable again—

but willingly?

 

The idea was intoxicating on its own.

 

He shouldn’t have thought it.
And he certainly shouldn’t have said it—

 

But the dizziness pushed his mouth open before his mind could close it.

 

He leaned in, eyes half-lidded, voice dropping into that low, smooth, flirtatious tone that always made Lucifer freeze.

 

— You know…
He swayed slightly.
— I could devour you, Morningstar.

 

Lucifer blinked. Hard.

 

— …Excuse me?

 

Alastor smiled faintly, drunk and unfiltered.

 

— Every drop of blood… — he murmured, staring directly at Lucifer’s throat.

— Every piece of flesh you’d let me sink my teeth into.

 

Lucifer inhaled sharply.

 

Alastor tilted his head, voice deepening even more—dangerously teasing.

 

— I want to taste all of you, Lucifer.

 

Lucifer made a strangled sound.

 

And Alastor, suddenly realizing what he said, blinked slowly.

Ah.

 

He regretted the last drink immediately.

 

Lucifer stuttered, face warming, wings twitching.

 

— I– I don’t— that’s— you can’t just—

 

Alastor laughed.

Loud, sharp, delighted.

 

— Pathetic, — he said, still breathless with amusement. — You really are.

 

Lucifer’s mouth fell open.

 

And Alastor felt the hunger again.

Gnawing through his ribs.

Scratching up his throat.

 

He lifted another shot of whiskey and swallowed it in one burning gulp.

 

— I’m hungry, — he muttered, almost to himself.

 

Lucifer went silent.

 

A few seconds passed.

 

Then Lucifer exhaled slowly and said:

 

— …Fine.

He rubbed his face.

— If it’ll sober you up before you completely destroy your dignity… you can have another bite.

 

A lie.

Alastor could smell it.

Pity wasn’t the reason.

Something in Lucifer—some mix of guilt, curiosity, confusion—was letting him.

 

Alastor’s eyes gleamed.

 

Predatory.

Uncontrolled.

 

Lucifer gulped.

His fingers trembled as he loosened his tie, sliding it off, undoing the shirt buttons again. Pale skin exposed. A familiar offering.

 

Alastor moved.

 

Silk-smooth.

Danger-fast.

 

He sat in front of Lucifer on the bed, practically caging him with his body.

Lucifer froze, caught between fear, embarrassment, and something warmer.

 

Alastor grabbed Lucifer’s wrist—firm, unyielding—lifting it slowly. He lowered his head, sniffing along the inside of the arm.

 

Animal.

 

Instinct.

No thought.

Just scent.

 

Lucifer inhaled sharply.

 

— A-Alastor— wait—

 

But he didn’t.

 

He bit.

 

Deep.

 

Flesh tore between his teeth—warm, soft, divine. Blood filled his mouth like molten gold, thick and electric, sliding down his tongue and throat like a drug.

 

In his drunken mind, everything sharpened:

 

Taste.

Heat.

Satisfaction.

 

Lucifer’s blood didn’t taste like any living thing.

It tasted like creation.

Like power hammered into liquid.

Like sunlight boiled down into something that could cut his mouth open and heal it in the same instant.

 

He moaned.

Actually moaned at the flavor.

 

He chewed.

Slow, savoring the piece of flesh before it dissolved in his mouth like caramel fire.

 

Lucifer trembled, wings flaring and shuddering as he tried to hold still.

 

Alastor licked the wound clean, tongue dragging over the cut as the skin already began to knit together. Lucifer shuddered again.

 

— Th-That’s enou—

 

Alastor lifted his head abruptly.

 

Lucifer’s voice cut off.

 

Because the look in Alastor’s eyes wasn’t human.

It wasn’t drunk.

 

It was searching.

 

Hunting.

 

He leaned in, nose brushing Lucifer’s cheek, breath hot against his jaw, inhaling him like scent alone fed him. Lucifer swallowed, voice cracking:

 

— I-is that— the blood? A side effect?

 

Alastor didn’t answer.

 

He didn’t think.

 

He just struck.

 

His teeth sank into Lucifer’s neck, just below the bite from days ago—fresh flesh, still tender beneath new skin.

 

Lucifer jolted, grabbed his shoulder.

 

— Ow—! Alastor— what the hell!? I said one bite— ONE!

 

But Alastor didn’t stop.

 

He bit harder, tasting deeper, feeling Lucifer’s pulse throb against his tongue. His grip tightened on Lucifer’s wrist, pinning it above his head.

 

Lucifer fell back onto the bed with a startled sound, his wings spreading uselessly behind him as Alastor climbed over him—uncoordinated from drunkenness, but overwhelmingly dominant.

 

His free hand pressed to Lucifer’s chest, pushing him down, holding him there.

 

Hungry.

Feral.

Lost to instinct.

 

And Lucifer’s breath hitched—

half fear,

half anger,

half something he didn’t want to name.

---

---

 

Alastor realized— dimly, distantly —that something was wrong with him.

 

Very wrong.

 

He could feel it the moment his breath left his lungs in a shaky pant, when he tasted Lucifer’s blood on his tongue again and his whole chest tightened with an ache he didn’t recognize.

 

Hunger.

Need.

Possession.

 

A side effect, surely.

 

But he didn’t care.

Not yet.

 

And Lucifer—

poor Lucifer—

 

Pinned under him, wings half-open and trembling, trying desperately to wake him up like someone trying to pry a starving wolf off their throat.

 

— A-Alastor—! Stop—!

 

Lucifer pushed at his chest, tried to shove his face away, even grabbed his chin to force him to look at him.

 

— Alastor, this is an order— back away. NOW.

 

Alastor froze.

 

Just for a second.

 

The pact tugged at him, pulling his body backward like an invisible leash. His spine jerked obediently and he sat back—right onto Lucifer’s lap, straddling him, breath heaving.

 

A thick strand of golden blood dripped from his lips to his chin.

He licked it up.

Slowly.

Shamelessly.

 

Lucifer stared at him in horror.

 

Because Alastor wasn’t sobering up.

 

He was getting worse.

 

The alcohol, the divine blood, the warmth of Lucifer’s body under him—the mix was melting any last pieces of sense he had.

 

And then the hunger surged again.

 

Alastor leaned forward.

 

— No—!

 

Lucifer shoved him back with both hands to the chest, wings flaring in panic. For a moment he managed to gain a few inches of space, his arms shaking, his cheeks flaming red.

 

— If you don’t stop— I— I won’t stop you anymore!

 

That did something to Alastor.

 

Somewhere deep inside him, something snarled and twisted in delight.

 

Lucifer didn’t know what he was saying.

Lucifer didn’t know what his words meant to a predator whose instincts were already slipping loose.

Lucifer didn’t know what he was inviting.

 

Alastor’s grin spread, slow and crooked.

 

Predatory.

 

Possessive.

 

He grabbed one of Lucifer’s wrists again—gentler this time, but unbreakable. Held it up. Studied it like an animal studies food.

 

Then he brought it to his mouth.

 

Lucifer’s eyes widened—

 

— Alastor— don’t—

 

He didn’t bite deep.

Not like before.

 

Just enough.

Just a sharp little nip to break the skin.

A bead of gold swelled instantly, running over Lucifer’s knuckles.

 

Alastor’s breath hitched.

 

He licked it—

tongue dragging slowly along the wound, savoring every drop.

 

Lucifer whimpered.

 

Actually whimpered.

 

And Alastor felt his own breath catch—heat, hunger, instinct all blurring together, pulling him further and further from sanity.

 

He kissed the same spot he bit.

Soft, almost reverent.

Not for Lucifer—

but for the taste.

 

Then again.

Then lower.

 

Another lick.

Another kiss.

Golden blood streaked across his lips and cheek as he dragged Lucifer’s hand closer to his mouth.

 

Lucifer tried to pull back, voice shaking:

 

— A-Al—

 

But Alastor was already leaning closer, nose brushing the inside of Lucifer’s wrist, breathing him in like he was something he could consume entirely.

 

And the side effect twisted deeper, uglier, sweeter.

 

He wanted more.

More blood.

More warmth.

More of him.

 

And Lucifer knew.

 

His face was flushed, horrified, confused, wings trembling with every uneven breath he took.

 

But Alastor didn’t stop.

 

Not even close.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10: Alone.

Summary:

This chapter is emotionally strong, I hope you enjoy.

Lucifer couldn’t think.

 

Not properly.

Not even close.

 

His mind was an absolute mess—

a trembling, frantic, electric storm with no beginning or end.

 

Every nerve in his body screamed.

Every pulse of heat rising from Alastor’s mouth on his skin twisted him inside out.

Every bite—sharp, ripping, tearing—shot sparks of pain that somehow felt too good, in a sickening, shameful way that made Lucifer want to crawl out of his own bones.

 

He hated it.

He hated HIM.

He hated himself most of all.

 

He needed to stop this.

He needed to stop him.

 

Alastor’s teeth dug into his shoulder again—Lucifer didn’t even know which one, left or right, maybe both, maybe it didn’t matter at this point—

and he gasped, eyes squeezing shut as the golden blood spilled in warm streams down his chest.

 

—A-Alastor—!

His voice broke.

Pathetic.

 

He shoved at him again, using strength he didn’t even realize he had left.

For a moment, just a moment, Alastor slid back—breathing hard, pupils razor-thin, golden smeared all over his mouth like a feral saint.

 

Lucifer sat upright, chest heaving, hand gripping the sheets as he tried very, very hard to gather two coherent thoughts.

 

Stop him.

Wake him.

Call for help.

 

He couldn’t decide.

 

He couldn’t even think.

 

Everything was too warm, too close, too much—

Alastor’s weight, Alastor’s breath, Alastor’s hands gripping him like prey, his wings trembling uncontrollably behind him—

 

He needed distance.

 

He needed air.

 

But instead, Alastor leaned in again, voice lower, smoother, gentler than it had any right to be in the state he was in.

 

— You said you wouldn’t stop me anymore…

A slow drag of his fingers over the fresh wounds on Lucifer’s arm.

— Are you not liking it…?

 

Lucifer’s breath hitched.

 

How dare he—

How dare he—

 

Lucifer opened his mouth to scream at him, to deny everything, to order him to stop—but nothing came out.

Nothing.

Not a word.

 

How did that work??

How did Alastor manage to say something like that—twisted logic, manipulative softness, all wrapped in that animal-eyed hunger—and suddenly Lucifer’s brain simply melted?

 

He didn’t even notice the next moment until it was too late.

 

Until Alastor’s mouth was on him again.

 

Biting.

 

Harder.

 

Lower on his ribs this time, tearing another mouthful of divine flesh free like it belonged to him.

 

Lucifer cried out—half pain, half something he refused to name.

 

Five bites?

Six?

He couldn’t tell anymore.

It all blurred—heat, shock, dizziness, pleasure, fear, self-disgust.

His wounds sparked with heavenly light trying desperately to heal, only for Alastor to rip them open again.

 

—S-stop—

A useless breath.

An empty plea.

 

He should call for help.

Charlie.

Vaggie.

Anyone.

 

He should force Alastor back with a heavenly pulse.

He should use his authority, his magic—

something.

 

But every time he tried to gather power, another bite sank into him, and the concentration shattered like glass.

 

Alastor wasn’t there anymore.

Not fully.

Not in mind.

 

The alcohol.

The blood.

The deal.

The hunger.

 

Lucifer knew enough about side effects to feel panic sharpen inside his chest.

 

If Alastor kept consuming too much angelic matter, the side effect would spiral.

Into something dangerous.

Or irreversible.

Or—

 

Another groan tore from Lucifer’s throat when Alastor’s tongue slipped across a wound too slowly, too reverently.

 

He slammed his eyes shut.

 

Wake up.

WAKE UP.

Come back.

 

What could snap him out of it?

 

A shock?

A command?

A memory?

Pain?

Fear?

 

Or—

 

Or something Alastor wasn’t expecting.

Something emotional.

Something that would hit where instinct couldn’t reach.

 

Something that would confuse him more than the hunger did.

 

Maybe—

 

A confession.

A truth.

A secret.

A feeling.

 

Lucifer wasn’t sure.

 

He just knew he was running out of time.

 

Lucifer finds it—the thing Alastor hates most, the one weapon he has left.

Feelings.

 

He can feel something strong, something he hasn’t even admitted to himself properly. And something Alastor mocks, disrespects, laughs at: emotions. Attachment. Vulnerability.

 

Maybe that’s the only way to bring him back.

 

Lucifer gathers what little strength is left in his body. His horns grow, curling upward, eyes flaring entirely red as he forces their positions to switch again—overpowering the Radio Demon through sheer will, pinning him down without harming him.

He can’t harm him. Heaven’s chains on him prevent it.

But he can hold him in place.

 

He inhales sharply.

All the air he can manage.

All the courage he can scrape together.

 

This is humiliating.

Pathetic.

Exactly the thing Alastor would laugh at.

 

He closes his eyes tight—and screams:

 

— Alastor!

 

No response.

The Radio Demon fights for control beneath him, but weaker now. Unfocused.

 

Lucifer swallows hard.

 

And then—

He says the thing he never thought he’d say out loud.

 

— I’m falling for you, asshole!

 

Silence hits like an explosion.

 

His face burns, chest heaves, eyes screwed shut so he doesn’t have to witness the inevitable humiliation.

 

His voice cracks as he forces the next part out:

 

— I–I maybe even love you!

 

Absolutely nothing.

No movement beneath him.

No resistance.

Just stillness.

 

He doesn’t dare look.

 

Then—

 

— Pff—

 

A laugh.

A real one.

Loud. Sharp. Cruel.

 

Lucifer’s stomach drops. He doesn’t open his eyes.

 

Alastor’s voice, mockingly delighted:

 

— Oh, you can’t be serious… You? The King of Hell? All high and mighty, married and untouchable—falling for me? That’s pathetic, even for you.

 

Lucifer knew that’d happen.

The mockery.

The disgust.

The dismissal.

 

But still—it hurts more than it should.

 

He lets out a breath, relieved Alastor is clearly back to himself… but the laugh that escapes him is hollow. Sad.

 

— At least you’re back…

He mutters it under his breath.

 

— Back?

Alastor’s voice sharpens.

— Back from what—?

 

He stops.

 

Because he finally sees Lucifer.

 

Really sees him.

 

His shirt shredded, skin carved open, blood everywhere, shaking from exhaustion, horns retracting, eyes fading to their usual red-and-yellow.

Lucifer looks… destroyed.

 

Alastor blinks once.

 

— …Fuck.

 

Lucifer loosens his grip and moves back, letting him up.

 

Alastor stands immediately, posture snapping back into perfection. Jacket straightened. Smile wiped clean. Radiating calm—as if none of that ever happened.

 

Untouchable.

Unbothered.

Unreachable.

 

Lucifer can’t do this anymore.

 

— Al.

 

Alastor scoffs instantly.

 

— Oh, we’re doing nicknames now? Should I call you ‘Luce’? Since we’re confessing tragic little crushes—

 

Lucifer cuts him off, voice steady but tired:

 

— I can’t keep doing this. I’m ending the deal.

 

Silence.

Cold, heavy, suffocating.

 

Lucifer stares at the floor. Not at Alastor. Not at his reaction.

He can’t bear to.

 

And obviously,

Alastor doesn’t take it well.

Not even close.

 

His smile twitches—then curls into something sharp and cruel.

 

— Ending the deal? How convenient. How cowardly.

He laughs, stepping closer.

— You start something you can’t handle and then run from it the moment it stops serving you. Typical. Absolutely typical of you, Lucifer.

 

Lucifer stays quiet, jaw tight.

 

Alastor circles him like a predator.

 

— No fairness at all. You bleed all over me, scream confessions you clearly didn’t mean, and now what? You realize it was humiliating? Too vulnerable for the mighty King of Hell? So you break the deal to feel powerful again?

 

Lucifer doesn’t respond.

His face hardens instead.

 

Alastor keeps going, enjoying every wince:

 

— You can’t even look at me. How pathetic.

 

Something inside Lucifer snaps.

Quietly.

Coldly.

 

He lifts his head, eyes now empty.

 

He doesn’t say Alastor’s name.

Not anymore.

 

— Leave. My. Room.

 

Alastor freezes.

 

The smile doesn't seem like a smile.

 

For a long, silent moment, they just stare at each other.

 

Then—

 

The Radio Demon dissolves into static and shadows, slipping into the walls and disappearing without another word.

 

And Lucifer is left alone.

 

He sits there for a moment, staring at the empty space Alastor left behind.

A long breath leaves him—shaky, exhausted.

 

Hours pass as he tries to heal himself.

He drags his nails into every wound, forcing his heavenly power, but they don’t close.

His cheek is torn, his hands chewed up, bruises blooming purple and black.

Some cuts sting deep into muscle—he can’t hide those.

 

He fails.

 

He stands in front of the little duck-shaped mirror he keeps out of pure stubborn nostalgia.

The reflection staring back doesn’t look like a king.

Or even like him.

 

He barely recognizes himself.

 

After a few minutes, he gives up on hiding the damage and leaves his room, floating up toward the rooftop.

 

Vaggie is there.

 

He lands carefully, exhausted.

She turns—and gasps.

 

— Sir—what the hell happened to you?!

Her eyes narrow.

— Wait… is this about Alastor? Charlie came to me yesterday saying you were in love with him or something—

 

Lucifer’s eyes widen, horrified.

 

— Oh, fantastic. Wonderful. Yes, spread the news, maybe make a billboard. I’m sure Hell would love an official announcement of my emotional meltdown.

 

Vaggie stares.

Not amused.

 

He tries to shrug it off.

 

— I tripped. Dramatically. On feelings. Very tragic.

 

She crosses her arms.

 

— Okay. Follow me, sir. You clearly need to talk to someone. Seriously. And if you don’t come with me, I’m telling Charlie.

 

Lucifer groans like a teenager caught sneaking out—but follows.

 

They sit together on the slanted rooftop tiles, staring out at the glowing pentagram far above the city.

 

Two fallen angels.

Two different disasters.

 

Vaggie waits.

Patient.

Firm.

 

Lucifer exhales.

 

— Fine… fine. I’ll… talk. Just—don’t laugh. Please.

 

She nods.

 

He starts.

 

Slow, hesitant—but eventually the dam breaks.

 

— It began weeks ago. Alastor came to me… while we were trapped, saying He could compensate what heaven had chained me, and in compensation, I could give him power, so he kept drinking, consuming my flesh.

 

His hands shake. He hides them.

 

— The side effects, they were so strong. Again and again. I tried to warn him. He didn't even care. So I—opened myself to him. Literally. Let him… bite. Feed. Tear into me. I thought it would anchor him, since now I could order him around, as if I had control of something.

 

Vaggie doesn’t interrupt.

 

Lucifer swallows hard.

 

— But something changed. In me. I started… feeling things. And he hates feelings. He mocks them. And I knew—I knew he’d laugh if he found out. But I was desperate to bring him back, Vaggie. I had nothing left. So I told him. I told him I…

He looks away.

— I told him I might love him.

 

Silence.

 

Wind moves across the rooftop.

 

Lucifer keeps going:

 

— He laughed. Mocked me. Called me pathetic. And… he was right, wasn’t he? I’m the King of Hell. Falling for the Radio Demon like some lovesick idiot.

 

His voice falters.

 

— But I wasn’t lying. Not to him. Not to myself. Not anymore.

 

Vaggie places a hand on his shoulder. He flinches—then lets her.

 

He continues:

 

— So I ended the deal. He insulted me, of course. I expected it. But… when I asked him to leave… he actually listened. Didn’t fight. Didn’t argue. He just… vanished.

His voice breaks.

— And now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to fix me.

 

He finally goes quiet.

 

Vaggie listens to everything without interrupting once.

When Lucifer finally finishes speaking, she sighs softly and shifts closer—not touching him yet, but close enough that he feels the offer.

 

— You know… — she starts quietly, — you’re not a coward for ending something that was hurting you. Even demons deserve boundaries. Fallen angels too.

 

Lucifer snorts, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

— Boundaries. Right. Hell’s favorite concept.

 

She rolls her eyes.

 

— Lucifer, look at me.

 

He hesitates, then turns his head.

 

Her expression is serious, soft but unwavering.

 

— You keep saying he laughed, mocked you, hurt you. And yet you’re acting like his reaction was the only possible one.

She taps her chest.

— I’m a fallen angel too, remember? I know how hard it is to be seen as something other than what you used to be. Or worse—what people think you still are.

 

His eyes lower.

Her voice gentles.

 

— You’re terrified he only wants your power. Your blood. Your strength. That he wants the king, not the man.

 

Lucifer’s breath catches.

 

He’d never said it out loud.

Not until now.

 

Vaggie continues:

 

— But listen… you’re not alone in that fear. Not even a little. I’ve lived my whole life thinking I was only valuable for what I used to be. Or what I could do. Not for who I actually am.

She offers a small smile.

— You and I? We both get judged by our wings—whether we still have them or not.

 

Lucifer swallows hard.

 

It’s comforting.

Unexpectedly comforting.

 

She nudges him with her shoulder.

 

— And hey… you don’t deserve someone who wants you just because you’re powerful. You deserve someone who wants you because you’re Lucifer. The quiet parts. The lonely parts. The awkward, dramatic, self-sabotaging parts. All of it.

 

Lucifer huffs a small laugh.

 

— You make me sound delightful.

 

— You’re Charlie's father, of course you are.

A beat.

— Sometimes. — She says in a funny, contrasting tone, and he smiles.

 

He smiles despite everything—a real one, small but warm.

 

Vaggie’s expression softens even more.

 

— Do you… want something to eat? Might help calm your nerves.

 

Lucifer hesitates, looking away like he’s admitting a crime.

 

— I… would love pancakes.

 

She stares at him.

Then, gently:

 

— Okay. Stay here. Don’t move.

 

She spreads her wings—white, angelic feathers catching the light—and flies down toward the hotel kitchen.

 

Lucifer watches her go, then lets his shoulders drop.

 

Silence settles over the rooftop.

 

And slowly—slowly—something changes inside him.

 

The ache in his chest eases.

 

The buzzing in his head quiets.

 

And then he feels it.

 

Warmth running through his veins.

A familiar golden glow beneath his skin.

 

He lifts a hand and watches the light return, soft and holy.

His wounds begin to close—first the bite on his cheek, then the marks on his neck, then the torn flesh on his wrists and arms.

 

He breathes in.

A shaky, relieved exhale follows.

 

— …Well. That’s better.

 

He sits, calmer than he has been in days, staring at the city.

For once, he lets himself feel… okay.

 

A few minutes later, wings flutter behind him.

 

Vaggie lands with a box in her arms.

 

— Okay, sir. Don’t tell the cooks or Nifty I stole these.

She opens it.

— Pancakes. With syrup. And chocolate chips. I thought you needed the serotonin.

 

Lucifer’s eyes light up— actually light up.

 

— Thank you. Truly.

 

They sit together, eating quietly.

Pancakes on a rooftop.

Two fallen angels sharing a rare moment of peace.

 

Vaggie leans back on her hands, glancing at him.

 

— You know… you need to count on other people more often. Seriously.

She tilts her head.

— Not everyone in Hell is a lost cause. Some of us care. Even when you try so hard to pretend you don’t need anyone.

 

Lucifer looks at her.

Softly.

Grateful.

 

— I’ll… try.

He pokes at the pancakes.

— I see why Charlie choose you in all of people.

 

She smirks.

 

— Yeah, well. Trauma builds character. And patience.

 

He laughs.

 

For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel alone.

 

 

Chapter 11: Defeat the Enemy.

Summary:

Feelings, always their fault to mess with others plans, now, they messed with Alastor's.

Alastor recaps things in his mind to understand what's so unsettling about all of this.

And Nifty might seem one of the brightest answers he got.

Alastor emerged inside his room with a crackle of static and shadow, the darkness hissing back into the corners as he took shape. His heel clicked on the floor—too hard. He nearly cracked the tile.

Annoyed, he adjusted his posture, brushing invisible dust off his vest.

 

The radio demon did not pace.

 

He simply walked. Sharply. Precisely. Irritatedly.

 

His claw traced the edge of the vanity table, and the wood shrieked under the nail’s pressure. He rolled his eyes, scoffed, then muttered to the empty room:

 

— Feelings.

He spat the word like a rotten piece of fruit.

— Always the same pathetic downfall for every idiot in this realm. Vox. The fallen. The queen. Every last one of them. Ruled by their laughable little emotional outbursts.

 

He clicked his tongue, annoyed at how bitter his voice sounded.

 

— And now it’s messing with my plans, too. Fantastic.

 

His eyes rose to the mirror.

 

And froze.

 

The reflection staring back at him was… embarrassing, to say the least.

His pupils were still blown—too wide, too bright. Not normal. Not controlled. His tie was missing entirely. His shirt collar was pulled crooked, bitten through on one side. And his mouth—

 

Golden.

Still smeared with the faint glow of angelic blood.

 

He wiped it with the back of his hand, but it only shimmered more.

 

— Tsk. He clenched his jaw.

— What on earth did I allow myself to become last night?

 

His reflection answered with silence.

 

He remembered pieces, fragmented and cloudy.

Not thoughts—impulses.

Not decisions—hunger.

 

Lucifer beneath him.

Lucifer pushing back.

Lucifer shaking.

Lucifer saying—

 

No.

 

He crushed the thought immediately.

 

He struck a match. The cigarette lit with a trembling spark.

He only smoked when he was deeply, unreasonably stressed.

 

He inhaled. The smoke curled in front of the mirror, obscuring half his expression.

 

— So. I was out of control.

A simple fact, spoken with venom.

— Fine. I admit it. But that does not mean I deserved a—

 

He stopped himself.

 

His eye twitched.

 

He didn't even want to think the word.

Not now.

Not ever.

 

He dragged smoke deep again, trying to keep the irritation boiling hot instead of letting it cool into something far worse.

 

He remembered blood—golden and addictive—filling his mouth like molten honey.

He remembered Lucifer’s skin tearing under his teeth.

He remembered how warm the body beneath him felt.

He remembered how the world narrowed into one simple, primal desire: more.

 

Then—

 

Lucifer overpowering him.

 

As if Alastor were nothing but a misbehaving pet.

 

And then—

 

No.

 

His hands curled around the edge of the vanity, cracking it again.

 

What mattered wasn’t… that.

What mattered was everything else Lucifer said afterward.

 

Ending the deal.

Giving up power.

Denying Alastor’s one path to everything he’d worked for.

 

Feelings.

Always feelings.

Always ruining everything.

 

He scoffed.

 

— Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

He stubbed the cigarette out too hard.

— If only the man had a spine instead of a sentimental puddle inside his ribcage.

 

Despite the insult, his chest felt too tight.

 

He hated it.

 

He hated that the tightness wouldn’t go away.

 

He straightened his vest, forcing composure back into every gesture.

 

— Very well.

He exhaled slowly, cold and controlled.

— If my objectives were compromised… then I should analyze the sequence. Retrace events. And identify the exact moment everything went wrong.

 

He snapped his fingers.

Radio static swirled.

The shadows in the room flickered like speakers tuning.

 

And Alastor let himself remember.

 

Not because he wanted to.

But because he refused to lose control again.

 

He needed answers.

 

And he would dig them out of his own damn skull if he had to.

 

Memories were an annoyance.

 

He hated revisiting them—especially the ones involving that man.

 

But he forced himself to sit still, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling over his shoulders like lazy ghosts. And as the static in his head quieted, the recollections came.

 

First memory: the deal.

The way Lucifer had stood across from him in Vox’s storage room, stuck, snarling, absolutely dripping indignation even when covered by angelic glass.

Alastor had mocked him, naturally.

He always did.

But power—true, irresistible, ancient power—sat just beneath Lucifer’s skin, humming like a storm behind a cracked window.

 

The moment he proposed the deal, he remembered the King’s eyes widening, his hesitation, his disgust.

It should’ve been amusing.

It was amusing.

 

Why had that memory suddenly felt… heavy?

 

He shook his head.

 

Then came the escape.

Lucifer dragging himself out of the wreckage of Vox’s failed plan, him being free from Vox's stupidity,

Lucifer bleeding, cursing, limping.

 

Their eyes met.

 

And then—

 

Alastor in his room for the first time.

 

The first time he tasted that blood.

The first time he watched Lucifer tremble under his mouth as he licked the wounds clean.

The first time Lucifer let him.

 

He narrowed his eyes at the memory.

 

Why had Lucifer allowed it? Why had he enjoyed it?

 

He clicked his tongue, annoyed.

 

Then the daily irritation.

Appearing at the King’s side to mock him.

To interrupt him.

To ruin his morning, afternoon, night.

At first because it was fun.

Because Lucifer’s reactions were priceless.

 

But then…

 

He remembered days when Lucifer was fine, unbothered, unimpressed, immune to the usual torment.

 

And on those days—

 

Alastor found himself even more annoyed.

Even more insistent.

Even more present.

 

He didn’t need to be.

But he stayed.

 

Why?

 

He growled softly, cigarette shaking between his fingers.

 

Then the fever incident.

Lucifer—annoyingly, stupidly, naively—dragging him into his bedroom and forcing him to rest.

Treating him.

Taking care of him with infuriating tenderness and irritation.

 

And Alastor remembered something worse:

 

He didn’t dislike it.

He didn’t push him away.

 

He accepted it.

He enjoyed it.

 

He covered his face with one hand, rubbing his forehead.

 

This was unacceptable.

 

Next memory: the ears.

Lucifer touching them uninvited.

His entire body freezing—shamefully—for a split second.

 

It infuriated him then.

It still did.

 

He winced at the reflection of that sensation.

Weakness.

Vulnerability.

He hated the very idea.

 

Then all the recent days.

The teasing turning sharper.

Lucifer blushing harder.

The man fumbling and stuttering and turning red like a sinner caught in daylight.

 

Alastor scoffed.

 

— There was absolutely no reason for him to fall for me,

he muttered to the empty room.

 

He wasn’t pleasant.

He wasn’t gentle.

He wasn’t anything resembling a desirable presence.

 

Lucifer was an idiot.

 

But then a thought stopped him cold.

 

Then why was I sticking around?

 

There were mornings he could’ve vanished for days.

He could’ve ignored the Devil entirely.

He could’ve pursued his plans, his power, his hunger.

 

But instead he—

 

Stayed.

Watched.

Listened.

Annoyed him.

Insisted on his presence.

 

Not for mockery alone.

 

…Because he liked it?

 

He ran a hand through his hair, his deer ears folding back in agitation.

 

Smoke shook out of him in a frustrated exhale.

 

— This is absurd.

 

But the memories refused to stop.

 

Alastor’s jaw clenched as he recalled the therapy session he’d watched from the shadows—Lucifer stuck in a ridiculous counselor role, Husk sitting across from him looking miserable.

 

Husk’s voice cracking as he said:

 

“I feel guilty… I should’ve been there… I miss him…”

 

Alastor had rolled his eyes then.

He rolled them now.

 

Pathetic.

 

Except—

 

Lucifer’s answer returned, clear and sharp:

 

— “You’re in love.”

 

He remembered Husk denying it instantly—

Just like he had denied everything tonight.

The parallel punched him in the gut.

 

Lucifer’s voice in the memory continued:

 

— “You care too much. You want to be near him. You feel better somehow when he’s around—”

 

 

NO.

 

Alastor sat down on the edge of his bed, hands sliding over his face, fingers pulling down on his cheeks hard enough to hurt.

 

— No. No, no, no—absolutely not. Not me. Not with him.

 

But the more he denied it, the louder the memories screamed.

 

Lucifer opening his door without fear.

Lucifer trusting him.

Lucifer caring for him.

Lucifer letting him close.

Lucifer confessing—

Even though Alastor had laughed, the crack in the Devil’s voice had been real.

 

And that made something twist inside his stomach.

 

Something disgusting.

Warm.

Foreign.

Unwelcome.

 

He gagged at the sensation.

 

— You have got to be kidding me…

 

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

 

The realization slammed him full-force.

 

Lucifer wasn’t the only fool.

 

He wasn’t the only one feeling “better somehow” when the other was around.

 

He wasn’t the only idiot with a tightening chest, or intrusive thoughts, or some absurd instinct to linger, to watch, to stay.

 

No.

 

No fucking way.

 

He whispered it out loud, voice tight, strangled:

 

— No fucking way.

 

And his heart beat painfully once in his chest.

 

Not hunger.

Not curiosity.

Not mockery.

 

Something far, far worse.

 

Something he refused to name.

 

---

 

He released a breath that dragged half an ancient forest out of his lungs, then flicked ash from his cigarette like he was trying to erase the entire last hour with that gesture.

 

Clothes.
He needed clothes that weren’t drenched in gold and self-inflicted shame.

 

He pulled on a clean set—same cut, same colors, same immaculate presentation. The only difference was the lack of Lucifer’s blood smeared along the lapel and the fact that he actually wore a tie this time. His reflection stared back at him, unimpressed, nauseatingly perceptive.

 

Pathetic, he told himself.

 

Not because he was sick.
Not because his head pulsed with leftover angelic heat.
Not even because he’d eaten far too much seraphic flesh in a single night.

 

No.
Pathetic because he remembered.

 

Bit by bit.
Scene by scene.
Like picking glass shards out of skin.

 

He wasn’t dealing with feelings today.

He wasn’t dealing with feelings ever.

 

He grabbed his cane, pushed open his door, and stepped into the hallway. Whatever the others were up to, he was absolutely not in the mood.

 

Husk was pathetically draped across the bar like a melted carpet, whining internally about Angel Dust again. Alastor saw one glimpse of that misery and immediately evaporated into shadow. Charlie spotted him mid-dissolve and shrieked his name like a toddler spotting Mickey Mouse. He didn’t even validate the noise—he vanished.

 

When he reappeared, it was on the couch next to Nifty.

She was engaged in what looked like a board meeting of spiders, all lined up in neat rows as she chatted animatedly about something she probably thought was logic.

 

She turned the moment his shadow materialized—her smile so wide it threatened to split her face.

 

— Hi, Alastor!!

 

He gave the polite smile. The one that didn’t reach anything.

— Good afternoon, my dear.

 

She bounced. Literally.

— Wanna play bug races?!

 

He could’ve said no.
He could’ve walked away.
He could’ve done anything a sane person would do.

 

But he wasn't sane.
And his shadow crouched next to her to choose a roach.

 

He even cheered for it.
And when it won, he loudly smashed it with his foot—pure instinctive joy—and Nifty cheered like she just witnessed the birth of a star.

 

Truly, her mind was a labyrinth of glitter and homicide.
And somehow… he understood it better than his own at the moment.

 

Nifty tilted her head up at him, blinking rapidly.

— Are you sad?

 

He straightened.
He almost scoffed.
He opened his mouth to deny—

 

But she bulldozed straight over the lie.

— Why aren’t you with the King? I wanted to see if you two would kiss!

 

Alastor froze.

 

A stutter of static flickered from his fingertip, his cigar lowering a fraction.

 

Nifty just smiled at him like she hadn’t dropped a nuclear bomb between them.

 

He dismissed her comment immediately.
Absolutely not.
Ridiculous.

 

But the damage was already done—the question clawed into him.

 

Why wasn’t he with Lucifer?

 

He knew the easy answer.
Because he didn’t want to deal with the conversation.
Because he didn’t want to think about what happened.
Because feelings were repulsive.

 

But the other answer, the one that tasted like poison, was the truth he didn’t want:

 

Because if he went to Lucifer now, he might actually listen.

He might actually care.

 

He dragged a hand over his hair, deer ears flicking back into place. Smoke poured from his mouth on the sigh that escaped him.

 

He didn’t understand why he stayed around the King.
Why the mockery wasn’t the only reason.
Why he liked being near him.
Why he felt… better, in a way, when Lucifer was in the room.

 

He didn’t understand how it happened.
He didn’t understand why.

 

And he absolutely refused to acknowledge the possibility Lucifer had spelled out for Husk that day:

“You’re in love.”

 

Husk had denied it instantly.

So did Alastor.

 

But Lucifer’s explanation played back anyway—care, attention, wanting to be around someone, feeling better when they were close—

 

Alastor sank down onto the couch, cigarette hanging loosely from his hand.

 

No.
No fucking way.

 

He had mocked Vox for turning into a pathetic mess.
Laughable. Weak. Plunging himself into emotional dependency.
Disgusting.

 

He wasn’t going to be that.
He wasn’t going to be—

 

He clenched his teeth.

 

Nifty kept watching him with wide, innocent eyes, waiting for him to pick another bug to race.

 

He wished—for a brief, raw second—that his mind were as simple as hers.

 

Nifty’s little legs kicked excitedly as she leaned closer, her single bright eye blinking at him with that deceptively innocent curiosity.

 

— So, — she chirped, — when are you gonna conquer your enemy?

 

He blinked, cigarette pausing halfway to his mouth.

 

—  …My what, darling?

 

She giggled—high, shrill, and manic—then smiled at him like she knew every secret he hadn’t admitted to himself yet.

— Your enemy! The short one! The King!
She wiggled her fingers dramatically.
— Duh.

 

Alastor laughed. A sharp, amused crackle—automatic, but edged.

—  And what, pray tell, makes you think he’s my enemy?

 

Her hands flapped as though the answer was obvious, and somehow, with Nifty, it always was.

— Well, because you always win, — she said simply. — You regained control when Vox tried to break you! You regained control when you got sick! You regained control when you wanted to scare the whole hotel and make everyone remember your name!

 

She stabbed a finger into a bug—light, but insistent.

— When you want something, you take it.

 

He stared at her.

And she went on, voice dropping to a whisper that sounded suspiciously like a threat whispered through a dollhouse wall:

— And if you can’t have it…

She smiled wider.

— No one else can.

 

Something clicked.

It was small, quiet, but sharp—like snapping a bone back into place.

— Nifty, — he murmured, staring down at her with a slowly spreading grin, — you twisted little maniac…

— Thank yooou~! — she sang at the exact moment a bug escaped her arena.

 

Without hesitation, she stabbed it with something sharp she produced from god-knows-where.
Dead in one hit.
Happy as a clam.

 

That only made his realization settle deeper.

If this was feelings—if this disgusting, infuriating, stomach-twisting mess was claiming ownership of him—
then fine.

He would simply… reclaim control.

As he always did.

 

Fix it.
Break it.
Take it.
Whatever was necessary.

 

Even if “it” was someone.
Even if that someone was a self-pitying, self-loathing, embarrassingly emotional angelic king who had absolutely no idea what he’d started.

A smile stretched across Alastor’s face, long and sharp.

 

— Well. You’ve been most enlightening, my dear.

 

He tipped his head to her politely.

Nifty waved her bloody tiny weapon at him, cheerfully oblivious.

 

— Go get your enemy, Mister Alastor!

— Enemy — He repeated with a low hum, already shifting into shadow.

— Something like that

 

Because maybe it wasn’t hatred.
Maybe it wasn’t rivalry.
Maybe it wasn’t mockery or amusement anymore.

 

Maybe it was far worse.

 

And if he was going to be sick with these feelings—

 

he’d cure it the only way he knew how:

By taking what he wanted.

 

He vanished into darkness, a plan already threading itself together, slick and precise.

 

Lucifer would not see him coming.

Chapter 12: Same Mistake

Lucifer felt stalked.

 

That was the only explanation his mind could supply, and even then, it sounded ridiculous the moment the thought formed.

It had been a week since… that incident.

The confession.

The screaming.

The mockery.

The break.

 

And for once in several millennia, he’d spent the whole week actually—

happy.

 

Not perfect, not serene, not healed, but happy, in that quiet, steady way that made him realize how deeply he’d been drowning before.

Helping Charlie.

Helping Vaggie.

Letting them drag him into hotel chores and rooftop talks and soft, grounding moments he didn’t know he needed.

Strangely enough, Vaggie had become… a constant.

Someone who didn’t expect the King of Hell.

Someone who just let him be.

 

Charlie knew and supported it, of course, practically glowing every time she caught them having coffee on the roof like two exhausted coworkers.

 

And somehow, even if Alastor had apparently decided to avoid him since that night—Lucifer hadn’t seen him in days—

he could swear he felt him.

 

Radios buzzed whenever he spoke.

Lights flickered when he walked into a room.

Shadows stretched too long, too wide, in corners where no light source should have shifted.

 

He ignored it.

Or tried to.

 

He was almost—almost—getting over it.

 

Tonight, however, was the Redemption Ballroom event.

Second soul redeemed since Sir Pentious.

A huge deal for Charlie, who’d practically begged her father to attend this one.

 

He’d refused at first.

But then she insisted.

And brought him something to wear.

 

He hadn’t expected it to be that beautiful.

 

A white suit—pristine, shimmering lightly with multi-toned blue and chromatic shines that caught the light like stardust.

He’d stared at himself in the mirror for a solid minute before whispering—quietly, to himself:

 

— Holy shit that’s… actually pretty.

 

He hated admitting it aloud, but he looked breathtaking.

Ridiculous, really.

He was Pride after all.

 

The moment he left his room, chaos greeted him.

 

Nifty sprinting after a rat wearing a tiny tuxedo.

(He didn’t question it.)

Husk and Cherri talking Angel — he didn't pay attention to it, but both were in impressively polished outfits themselves.

And other two sinners he didn't knew impressed by a fish man's creation, which almost eats one of them.

 

The hotel’s main hall had been transformed—

Red theme replaced with deep violet-blues, shimmering lights cascading like waterfalls, the music soft but lively.

Husk had already opened the bar, Cherri assisting with surprising competence.

 

Vaggie approached him, eyes widening slightly.

 

— Your Majesty looks stunning.

 

He smiled, bowing his head just a fraction, and she added something about him meeting someone if he wanted to, and that she’d come help him if needed.

He complimented her outfit.

She laughed.

 

He made his way to the bar, and Husk, unexpectedly earnest, thanked Lucifer again for their talk last week while handing him an apple drink.

Lucifer smiled, warmed.

 

And just as he lifted the glass to his lips—

 

A ripple.

A tiny distortion of radio static.

A shift in the air behind him.

 

He froze.

 

Someone slid onto the bar stool beside him with the deliberate grace of a predator sitting down just to amuse itself.

 

A strange, cold tension crawled up Lucifer’s spine before the voice even came.

 

— Is this seat occupied?

 

Lucifer turned his head.

 

Alastor sat there.

 

He froze.

 

Not in fear — no, Lucifer Morningstar did not fear — but in that sharp, irritating, inconvenient way someone freezes when the universe plays a joke on them the very second they thought they were finally in control again.

 

He turned his head just enough to see him without looking desperate.

 

Alastor sat beside him as if the shadows themselves had escorted him there, smiling that same polite, timeless smile that said absolutely nothing and absolutely everything at once.

 

Lucifer cleared his throat softly.

 

— I suppose it isn’t. — He answered, raising the apple drink Husk had given him in a small toast. — But I thought you… had other corners to haunt tonight.

 

Alastor chuckled, a static-laced sound, charming and disarming at the same time.

 

— I do enjoy a good corner, your Majesty. But tonight, I found myself particularly drawn to the bar.

 

Lucifer took a slow sip. The drink tasted stronger now, though Husk swore he hadn’t changed the recipe. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was the demon at his side, now leaning an elbow casually against the counter as if they hadn’t spent a week avoiding each other with military precision.

 

— Hm. Funny. — Lucifer murmured, feeling something warm crawl up his chest and not liking how obvious it might be. — Because I could’ve sworn you were avoiding me.

 

Alastor tilted his head, eyes narrowing in playful amusement.

— Avoiding you? Now why would I ever do that?

 

Lucifer gave him a look. A very pointed one.

 

— Don’t play games with me.

 

— Oh, I wouldn’t dare. — Alastor rested his chin on one hand.

The sparkle beneath his eyes flickered faintly with light, as if adjusting to Lucifer’s presence. — I simply thought you needed your space… after everything.

 

Lucifer scoffed.

 

— If you call making every radio within fifty meters vibrate “giving space”, then yes, you’ve been wonderfully distant.

 

Alastor’s smile twitched. Just a little.

Just enough to reveal something he didn’t want showing.

 

— Ah. You noticed.

 

— Hard not to. I nearly threw one out the window yesterday. — Lucifer muttered, finishing his drink and tapping the counter for another. Husk snorted but served him anyway.

 

Alastor didn’t laugh. Instead, he looked at him — fully, openly — for the first time since that night.

 

Lucifer nearly regretted meeting his gaze.

 

Because there it was. That… thing. That unspoken tension humming between them, tight as a violin string. It flickered in the air, in the lights, in the static on the bar counter. Lucifer felt it along his spine like a whisper he wasn’t supposed to hear.

 

— I apologize, then. — Alastor finally said, softer than his usual theatrical tone. — I… wasn’t sure how to approach you again.

 

Lucifer arched an eyebrow.

 

— You? Unsure? Am I supposed to be flattered or terrified?

 

Alastor’s smile flickered with some quiet static, polite as always — but underneath it, something off balance.

 

Lucifer finally allowed himself to really look at him.

 

And oh.

 

Oh, that was a mistake.

 

He hadn’t noticed it before, but Alastor looked… stunning. Unfairly stunning. A deep red, almost magenta blazer that shimmered when he moved, dark red pants tailored perfectly, and instead of that usual monocle—glasses. Red glasses, narrow and elegant, framing those damn eyes. His hair was different too, the undercut neatly tied back, showing more of his face than usual, and—

 

Yeah. About him getting over it?

Over him?

 

Fuck it. He wasn’t.

 

Not even close.

 

But then his mind caught on to what Alastor had just said.

“We need to restart it."

“The deal.”

 

And like a bucket of ice water down his spine, Lucifer remembered.

 

Alastor didn’t want him. He wanted the bargain. The magic. The blood. The power.

 

Of course.

 

He brought the glass back to his lips, sipping slowly as he crossed his arms, eyes dropping to the cup as if the swirling liquid could save him from being an idiot twice in the same lifetime.

 

— Why would I, the King of Hell, care about resuming such an unfair deal… — He muttered, the dryness in his voice surprising even him.

 

He finally looked up at Alastor.

Sharp. Cold. Formal.

 

— What is your offer, Sinner?

 

The title tasted bitter. It wasn’t the one he usually used for Alastor — not with that tone. But he needed something, anything, to remind himself who held the power here.

 

Alastor laughed softly.

Not mocking. Not dismissive.

Just a low breath before speaking.

 

— My, my… I suppose I deserve that. — He said, adjusting his glasses with one finger. — I admit I may have taken things too far. And in doing so, may have disrespected your Majesty. For that… I apologize.

 

Lucifer blinked.

He hadn’t expected that.

Not from Alastor. Not sincerely.

 

Alastor’s gaze shifted — and for the first time Lucifer saw something there he hadn’t before. Something strained. Tight. Vulnerable in a way Alastor wasn’t built to be.

 

Needing something more than power.

 

Lucifer involuntarily leaned in, just enough to try and read it.

Alastor noticed, lifting his own glass slightly, as if steadying himself, before gesturing to Husk for another drink.

 

— I need this, your Majesty. He continued, voice softer now. — I need you. And I will take the deal either way… whether you deny it or accept it.

 

Lucifer froze for a beat.

 

Take it?

Either way?

 

How… would he?

Why… would he?

 

The thought hit him like a slow, quiet thunder.

 

Lucifer wondered, the question heavy in his mind, heavier in his chest.

 

Before Lucifer could press further, Charlie’s voice echoed brightly across the room.

 

She stood on the small stage set in front of what used to be the hotel’s reception desk, holding a microphone decorated with tiny ribbons that Vaggie probably didn’t approve of but let slide anyway. Her smile was radiant, infectious.

 

— I just wanted to thank everybody for coming tonight! — she chimed, waving at the crowd. — It means so much to me to celebrate another redeemed soul! And I hope this encourages all of you to keep going on your journey!

 

The room cheered. A few demons clapped too loudly; someone threw glitter; Cherri mimicked throwing a Molotov but it was only confetti. Typical.

 

Charlie sang a few lines—sweet, hopeful, with a couple of sinners doing back vocals, others tapping instruments improvised from junk and magic. The whole atmosphere pulsed with excitement.

 

Lucifer lifted his glass for another sip—

 

But the moment his fingers brushed the rim, he noticed someone standing directly in front of him.

 

Alastor.

 

Hand extended.

 

— Care for a dance, your Majesty? Or are you scared of being too bad at it? — He teased, a sharp grin curling lightly at the edges.

 

Lucifer stared at the offered hand. At the confidence. At the audacity.

 

Oh, he was not about to let that slide.

 

He set the glass down, smirking as he stood.

 

— Scared? Please. I refuse to believe you’re better than me at anything involving rhythm.

 

Alastor’s grin widened — rivalry and flirt tangled perfectly together.

 

Their hands met.

 

And then they were moving.

 

Despite the sharp claws and that usual aura of danger, Alastor’s touch was surprisingly… careful. One hand settled on Lucifer’s shoulder, guiding with precision, while the other intertwined with Lucifer’s own.

 

Lucifer raised a brow, leaning in just enough to provoke.

 

— Not bad at this for such an old, boring man.

 

— Old? — Alastor hummed, eyes gleaming behind those red glasses. — If we’re counting years, you are older by several centuries, your Highness.

 

Lucifer scoffed, rolling his eyes—

 

And Alastor didn’t miss a beat:

 

— Though… I suppose, as with wine, some things are better when they’re older.

 

Lucifer blinked mid-step.

 

Wait.

 

Wait.

 

Did he just—?

 

The confusion made his foot falter for a second, and Alastor immediately shifted. One hand slid smoothly from Lucifer’s shoulder to his waist, steadying him firmly, continuing the dance without hesitation.

 

Lucifer’s breath caught.

 

— Did you just compliment me? — he asked, stopping in disbelief.

 

Alastor’s smile stretched slowly, equal parts cruel and… something else.

Something Lucifer had tried, and failed, to decipher since the moment this night started.

 

— Perhaps. — The Radio Demon murmured, eyes glinting with a silence louder than any broadcast he’d ever produced.

 

Lucifer swallowed.

 

That was dangerous.

 

And Alastor knew it.

 

The dance grew slower.

Not in tempo — the music was still lively — but in intention.

 

Alastor’s hand held Lucifer’s waist with more confidence now, fingers steady, claws grazing fabric just enough to remind him who he was dealing with. Lucifer lifted his chin, refusing to let the closeness fluster him, but his pulse betrayed him anyway.

 

Alastor leaned in, voice low enough that only Lucifer could hear.

 

— You have no idea… how addictive you are.

 

Lucifer tensed.

 

— Excuse me?

 

Alastor’s smile did not waver, but it sharpened.

 

— Your blood, your Majesty. It's… exquisite. A flavor one does not forget.

His voice dripped like honey laced with static.

— Last week was pure torture. Having tasted such power and being denied another drop… it was maddening.

 

Lucifer felt that familiar sting of resentment burn behind his ribs.

 

There it was.

The truth.

The reminder.

 

Alastor wanted what he could take.

What Lucifer could give.

What Lucifer was.

 

Power.

 

Of course.

 

Alastor leaned even closer, claws curling just slightly against Lucifer’s waist.

 

— If I had you again… He whispered, tone dropping into something darker. — I would grab you by your neck and—

 

Lucifer stiffened.

 

He knew that tone.

He knew that intention.

And he hated— hated —the part of himself that reacted. That leaned. That wanted to know the end of that sentence even while knowing it would cut him.

 

Because that was exactly the trap Alastor had laid the first time.

 

And he was falling.

 

Again.

 

He hated it.

He hated him.

He hated himself for hating it.

 

But Alastor didn’t finish the sentence.

 

Because—

 

— NIFTYYYYY STOP RIGHT THERE!— Vaggie screamed.

 

Lucifer jolted, the intensity between them shattering like glass.

 

Vaggie sprinted through the ballroom with a spear raised above her head, chasing Nifty at full speed. Nifty, who was chasing the same tuxedo-wearing rat from earlier, the rat screeching in tiny panic as it tried to escape a chandelier.

 

— VAGGIE, IT’S A GUEST!!— CHARLIE YELLED FROM THE STAGE.

 

— THEN WHY IS IT STEALING THE CHEESE PLATE?!— Vaggie screamed back.

 

She skidded to a stop the moment she realized she’d interrupted Lucifer and Alastor mid-dance.

Her eyes widened.

She bowed stiffly.

 

— SORRY YOUR MAJESTY— NIFTY PUT THAT DOWN — CONTINUE, PLEASE—

 

She immediately ran again, waving the spear in the air.

 

The moment was gone.

 

Alastor stood tall again, adjusting his glasses, amusement dripping from every movement.

 

— Shame. — He murmured. — I was enjoying where that was going.

 

Lucifer rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull.

 

— Of course you were.

 

He headed back toward the bar, and Alastor followed like a shadow that smiled too much.

 

They sat.

 

Alastor tapped the counter twice.

 

— Husk. Round two.

 

Lucifer narrowed his eyes.

 

— Round two of what?

 

Alastor smirked.

 

— Whoever gives up first… or gets drunk first… loses.

 

Lucifer scoffed, leaning forward.

 

— You think I’m going to let you beat me at something?

 

— I’m counting on it. — Alastor replied.

 

Lucifer’s pride flared instantly.

 

Oh, no.

Absolutely not.

NOT tonight.

NOT with him.

 

— Fine. — Lucifer hissed. — I’ll drink you under the table.

 

— I look forward to it. — Alastor said, folding his hands neatly.

— Do try not to pass out too quickly, your Majesty.

 

Lucifer snarled under his breath.

 

He was going to WIN.

 

No matter WHAT.

 

The drinks hit the bar.

 

The challenge began.

 

Notes:

By the way, the clothes they're wearing are 100% based on their broadway figurines! They're so pretty and really match their characters, so, here, its canon. :)

Chapter 13: Whatever it Takes

Summary:

Alastor always cheats, and will do ANYTHING. to garantee Lucifer back in his control. to be his again.

Notes:

Tomorrow there won't be a new chapter, so I can get a little break, in compensation, the next chapter will be longer.
(maybe share both POVs too.)

This chapter contains drugs, harassment, manipulation.

Alastor smiled.

 

Bright. Sharp. Too satisfied.

And the smile only grew with every new sip Lucifer took.

 

It wasn’t that he expected to win a drinking challenge against a seraphim — please. He wasn’t delusional. Lucifer Morningstar could probably drink the entire bar dry and remain poetic about it.

 

But challenges?
Oh, Alastor never played fair.

 

He always, always cheated.

And tonight was no different.

 

Finding something in Hell strong enough to affect an angel — a high-ranking one, much less — had nearly driven him insane. Most poisons barely tickled. Most drugs fizzled against that divine body like sugar water.

 

But then… he found it.

 

Some filthy little back-alley creature selling a jar of shimmering powder — a “sugar” banned from Heaven, long ago, for being too potent. Too euphoric. Too distracting for the celestial host.

 

He had paid a disgustingly high price for it.

He didn’t regret it.

 

It would work.

He knew it would.

 

What he didn’t account for… was how cute Lucifer became when tipsy.

The King of Hell — the once Seraph of Pride — slurred insults at him like a drunk cat trying to fight a mirror. His words stumbled. His dignity evaporated. His teasing grew bolder, prideful feathering of his ego with no sense of restraint or preservation.

 

Alastor savored every second like a gourmet feast.

 

Lucifer’s cheeks flushed faintly blue, his lips softer in shape, his eyes shimmering with alcohol-fueled bravado—

Then someone ruined it.

 

A random sinner slid onto the barstool beside Lucifer.

 

Not to fight.
Not to stir trouble.

 

Just… to drink.

 

Quietly.

Normally.

 

Lucifer blinked at him, slow and tipsy, then leaned in with a lopsided smile:

— Hhhey there… hic… nice horns, handsome.
He pointed at the sinner’s chest.
— Are those pecs BUILT or BOUGHT? Be honest, now.

 

The sinner blinked.

— Uh… I, uh… I just wanted a drink, sir.

— WELL I wanted your opinion, — Lucifer said, poking the man’s shoulder with far too much enthusiasm. — Come onn… flex. Flex for me. Do it.
He squinted.
— You look like a guy who lifts tragic rocks and cries about it.

 

The sinner hesitated.

 

— …Thank you?

— YOU’RE WELCOME.

 

Alastor’s smile did not falter.

But it changed.

 

Sharper.
Tighter.
A curl of static behind his teeth.

 

Oh.

There it was again.

That strange, nauseatingly powerful feeling he had discovered last week when Nifty talked to him about Lucifer.

 

Possessiveness.

 

Ugly. Undignified. Animalistic.

 

He hated it.

He indulged it anyway.

 

One of his eyes twitched with a pulse of red. His shadow stretched behind the unsuspecting sinner like an obedient creature with far too many limbs.

Lucifer turned his head for one moment — one single second — to complain about the taste of his drink.

 

That was all the permission Alastor needed.

 

His shadow wrapped around the sinner’s legs and launched him halfway across the room, silently, efficiently, out of Lucifer’s sight.

 

The man landed somewhere behind a table of appetizers. Someone clapped. Someone else screamed. Nifty applauded.

 

Alastor cleared his throat.

This man was his.

 

The thought alone made him mortified enough that he looked away, pretending to examine the bar counter for a moment.

 

Husk saw the whole thing.

 

He raised an eyebrow, smirk creeping up his face — until Alastor’s eyes flashed bright green, the hint of power humming through the air like a threat.

 

Husk looked away immediately.

Smart man.

 

Lucifer turned back, completely oblivious to the airborne sinner he’d just flirted with.

— Y’know what… Al-ass-tor… hic… your face is stupid.
He jabbed a finger at him.
— YOU’RE stupid. With your stupid… stupid smirk.

 

Alastor leaned his cheek on one hand, utterly charmed.

 

— Oh, do go on, your Majesty.

— And your hair… — Lucifer continued, squinting deeply. — Your hair thinks it’s better than ME. Which is impossible. IMPOSSIBLE, I SAY.

— Naturally.

— I don’t LIKE the way you look at me.

 

Alastor’s grin widened, slow and dangerous.

— And yet, you keep talking to me.

 

Lucifer sputtered, somehow both offended and flustered.

Alastor savored every syllable of nonsense, every drunken insult, every pride-filled stutter.

 

This was perfect.

This was chaos.

This was Lucifer — unguarded, glowing, messy, divine.

 

Alastor let Lucifer ramble for a blissful while before steering the conversation back where he wanted.

 

— About our deal, your Majesty… surely you see the advantage of continuing it.
He tilted his head, voice rich as velvet.
— You would miss it too, wouldn’t you? Having a little… control over me from time to time.

 

Lucifer blinked at him slowly, pupils wide and unfocused.

 

— I’m… NOT gonna stay with someone who jus’ wants me for power…
He hiccuped, waving a finger in the air.
— Even if he’s… hnn… handsome…

 

Alastor froze.

 

His grin faltered.
Only for a second — but it did.

 

— …You think I’m handsome? — He asked.

 

Lucifer didn’t even hesitate.

He nodded. Hard. Sloppy. Proud.

 

— Mhm. Handsome. Really stupid. But handsome.
He reached for his glass again.
— One more drink—!

 

Before the apple shot hit his mouth, a hand slammed over the rim.

— NO.

 

Vaggie.

Alastor internally cursed.

 

She appeared at Lucifer’s side like a divine intervention, wings of sheer rage flaring behind her. She snatched the glass from his hand and held it out of his reach.

 

— Your Majesty, what the hell?! Are you okay?!
She inspected him, eyes squinting.
— You don’t get drunk like normal sinners. Did you drink something weird? Eat something? Did someone—?

 

She shot Alastor a death-glare sharp enough to pierce a tank.

Alastor smiled politely, which only made her eyes narrow further.

 

— He’s perfectly fine, dear Vaggie. A little… loosened. Nothing more.

— I wasn’t talking to you. — Vaggie hissed.

 

She turned back to Lucifer, brushing his hair out of his face as he mumbled about someone stealing his “applelicious fun juice.”

Then—

 

— I can take him to his room. — Alastor interjected. — You’re needed back with Charlie. This little celebration hardly runs itself.

 

Vaggie straightened, jaw tense.

 

— No. I’ll take him. And I’m asking you again: why are you even here? Last time you only showed up to watch chaos from the sidelines.

She stepped between them.

— Tonight you haven’t left his side. That’s suspicious as hell.

 

Alastor maintained his perfect smile.

— Lucifer simply asked for company. Someone who doesn’t have… anger issues.
He glanced at her pointedly.
— Or a very busy girlfriend.

 

Vaggie’s wings bristled.

 

— Are you implying you don’t have anger issues?

— Of course not. I’m implying you do. Alastor said sweetly.

 

She was about to lunge when—

 

— I DON’ NEED A KNIGHT AN’ A ACE CARD PROTECTIN’ ME.
Lucifer slurred loudly, smacking the bar with his hand.
— I’m fine! Lemme drink! Vaggie, stop glowing! You’re makin’ my eyes… swirl.

 

Alastor blinked.

Knight and ace card?

…Adorable.

 

Earlier, Lucifer had called Husk the “master of cards” and demanded another shot from him. It figured the drugs were making him categorize people like a drunk tarot reading gone wrong.

 

Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose.

— Okay— NO. Absolutely not. That’s enough. Time to bed, your Majesty.

 

She reached for Lucifer’s hand.

Lucifer let her take it.

Alastor’s smile didn’t break.

 

But it twitched.
Dangerously.

 

Vaggie was not going to ruin his plans.

 

He simply smiled. Wider. Slower. Meaner.

 

Every time she tried to pull Lucifer toward the hallway, something else happened.

 

A shadow knocked over a tray of glasses.
Another tripped a sinner who then began screaming and needed help.
A third caused a chandelier to flicker violently, distracting Charlie.

 

And the last one—oh, the last one was delicious.

 

A shadow slithered beneath the carpet, tugged it just enough that Vaggie stumbled, forcing her to drop Lucifer’s weight for half a second.

She spun back toward him instantly—

—And Lucifer was gone.

 

The bar fell quiet for only half a breath before Vaggie’s scream shook the entire hall:

—¡HIJO DE PUTA, ALASTOR! ¡REGRESA AQUÍ AHORA MISMO!

 

Alastor chuckled, stepping fully into his own darkness as one of his shadows carried Lucifer in a neat bridal style, the king’s head lolled back, white hair glowing even in the black.

Oh, he would remember this for centuries.

 

He reappeared inside his own room, closing the door with a polite click.
The familiar tree twisted beside his bed, roots curling around the wooden frame.
He placed Lucifer down gently, as if he were a fragile relic.

 

Lucifer blinked up at him, dazed but suddenly… more focused.
The fog was lifting just enough to form a thought.

 

— You… you drugged me, — he murmured, voice hoarse, accusing. — Didn’t you, Alastor…?

His wings twitched, feathers trembling with irritation—or embarrassment. Hard to tell.
Probably both.

— When I get any better—Lucifer muttered, pushing himself up on his elbows, — you are going to pay for—

 

He was interrupted by a shadow.

 

A tender, feather-light touch glided along one of his wings.

 

Lucifer gasped, sharp and involuntary.
Pink rose to his cheeks.
His body tried to retreat; his dignity tried to advance—neither succeeded.

 

Alastor’s grin brightened with wicked delight.

—“Now, now, Your Majesty…— he purred, stepping closer. — you certainly enjoyed it before. Why try so hard to hide such an expression now?

Lucifer glared at him, eyes watery from the mix of intoxication and involuntary sensitivity.

 

He wasn’t surrendering.
Not yet.
Not easily.
Not to him.

 

Alastor leaned down, shadows gathering like obedient pets at his feet.

—I’ve been patient all night,— he murmured, voice dropping into something low and velveted. — But let’s not pretend, my king… I always collect what is owed.

Lucifer’s breath hitched.

Alastor tilted his head, smile razor-sharp:

 

—And I will have that deal back.
Your power, your pride…
You.

—One way.
A shadow traced the curve of Lucifer’s hip.

—Or another.

 

Lucifer swallowed hard, wings flaring weakly against the mattress—
his body betraying him,
his mind fighting it,
and Alastor savoring every second.

 

---

-

 

 

He wasn’t sober. Not truly.
But sober enough.

 

His body, however, was still helpless—weak, warm, trembling under every brush of shadow that skimmed his wings or his golden-blushed skin. The king moaned at the slightest stroke, cursing through clenched teeth, trying to hold on to whatever dignity he believed he still possessed.

 

— S-stop… ngh— Alastor— stop… — Lucifer whimpered, wings twitching. — Just— just stop—

 

Alastor leaned over him, the bed creaking. A shadow curled around Lucifer’s ankle. Another along his hip. Another teasing a feather he clearly didn’t want touched.

His smile softened—not kindly, but knowingly.

 

— I can stop,— Alastor said, voice silk and threat. One hand slid to Lucifer’s cheek, thumb brushing in a near-petting motion. — You know exactly how.

Lucifer glared, trembling, jaw tight.

— I’m not giving you a deal, — he growled breathlessly. — I’m not staying with someone who’s as insane for power as you. Desperate. Look at you— you’re drooling for it.

 

Alastor froze.

Just for a second.

 

Then a humorless laugh swelled inside him—silent, sharp.
Desperate? Him?
Never.

 

Except—

 

His smile twitched.

 

Because I’ve never fallen for someone before, you stupid, pretty, infuriating—

One of his eyes blinked wrong—too slow, too sharp, asymmetrical.
He cursed under his breath, too quietly, too quickly.

 

Lucifer blinked.

— What did you say?

Alastor straightened, dismissive.

— Nothing of importance, Your Majesty.

 

But it was important.
Too important.

 

The last person he cared for was his mother.
When he was alive.
Decades ago.

And now this damn fallen seraph, king of Hell, liar, idiot—
keeps tasting good, keeps looking good—
keeps making his shadows act without permission.

 

Alastor slammed one hand over his own mouth, eyes narrowing in anger—
not at Lucifer.

At himself.

 

At this moron trembling in front of him, helpless and glowing and maddening.

He lowered his hand slowly, his smile fanged and determined.

 

— I will do anything, — Alastor murmured, leaning close enough for Lucifer to feel the warmth of his breath on his ear. — And I am going to do anything.

A shadow tightened around Lucifer’s thigh.
— Until you give up.

 

Lucifer forced out a shaky breath.

— You… you can’t taste my blood or flesh unless I suppress my regeneration.
He smirked weakly. — Good luck with that.

 

The smile that grew on Alastor’s face was slow, intimate, and terrifying.

— Oh, dear king, — he whispered, a shadow lifting Lucifer’s chin, — who said I need to hurt you… to taste you?


Lucifer froze.
Gulped.
Heat crawled slowly down his neck.

The room went quiet.

Alastor’s grin widened.

Chapter 14: True Affection

Notes:

This chapter contains doubted-consensual physical contact, (NOT SEX!), Manipulation, Suffering, Toxic Relationship.

This chapter can be heavy for a certain public, be careful.

This chapter is separated by two POVs.

Lucifer begged—
not out loud, never out loud—
but inside his own skull, like a trapped animal clawing at the bars.

 

Come on… come on… move, damn it—
Why is this taking so long— why isn’t my body back to normal yet—?

 

His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides, his wings limp, trembling whenever another shadow slid under a feather and pressed exactly where he didn’t want it to.

nothing in Hell could drug him like this.
Nothing in the entire fucking universe was supposed to drug him like this.

 

So what the hell had Alastor found?

 

His breath hitched.

 

It wasn’t just the shadows—
it was him.

 

Alastor was licking him.

 

Not kissing.
Not biting.
Not being sensual.

 

Licking him like Lucifer was a meal, a delicacy, a fruit he’d been starving for.

 

He felt the slow drag of a tongue along his armpit—
a spot that should, by all natural rules, never feel good—

 

— S-stop— fuck— stop that— Lucifer gasped, voice cracking, humiliation burning him alive.

 

Another wet trail slid between Lucifer’s fingers where Alastor held his hand open and licked each space one by one.
And then—
his ear.
His cheek.

 

Lucifer wanted to die.
Or kill him.
Or both.

 

Worse:
he didn’t feel only horrible.

 

He felt good.
Too good.
His stomach twisted in hot knots because he liked it—
he liked him—
he liked this horrible, cruel, smug sinner—

 

He groaned into the pillow.

 

This was hell in hell.

 

Lucifer tried to think—anything, anything—of a way to stop Alastor without…

…without giving him the deal back.

 

And because he was desperate, he did the only thing left:
he mocked him.

— You’re disgusting, — he panted, glaring weakly at the ceiling. — This— ngh— this is gross— it’s— who even licks someone’s armpit— what the fuck is wrong with you—

He wouldn't kink shame anyone, no, but when you get desperate...

 

He couldn’t see Alastor’s face.
The bastard had buried it in Lucifer’s arm, hair tied back, neck exposed, goggles gone, acting like Lucifer’s skin was some rare forbidden cuisine.

 

Alastor’s voice vibrated against Lucifer’s bicep—

— This is the most delicious disgusting thing I have ever done.

 

The tone.
Too flirty.
Too pleased.
Too hungry.

 

Lucifer’s brain shut off for a second.

— Aaah fuck…

He didn’t even mean to say it out loud.

His blush flared gold across his cheekbones, eyes squeezing shut, wings twitching uselessly against the sheets.

 

— Stop…— he whispered, breath quivering. — Alastor— please— stop.

 

Alastor lifted his head slowly.

 

For a moment his expression softened—
not in kindness—
but in devotion mixed with cruelty.

 

— What else, — he murmured, tilting his head, — must I do for you to surrender… something you already crave?

 

Lucifer’s heart slammed so hard it hurt.

 

Alastor sat up, looking down at him, lips slick, pupils thin.
The room felt too small, too warm, too wired with tension.

 

Lucifer internally begged anyone for help now—
even his father, that bastard—
anything—
anything to stop this before Alastor found something worse, something more intimate, something—

 

Thank the stars Alastor didn’t kno—

 

His thoughts stopped.

 

Alastor’s smile sharpened.
Cruel.
Knowing.
As if he had read every forbidden word from Lucifer’s mind.

 

Lucifer froze.

Oh no.

He knows.

 

Alastor’s hand slid under Lucifer’s jaw—cold, steady, claiming.
Lucifer flinched, breath catching as the sinner lifted his chin and forced him upright, back hitting the carved wooden headboard.

 

His muscles were liquid.
His wings useless.
His pride a burning heap of shreds on the floor.

 

Alastor leaned in.
Closer.
Closer.

 

Too close.

Lucifer’s breath tangled with his, warm and uneven, and his entire body jolted with panic—
what is he going to do— what is he thinking— shit— shit—

 

He squeezed his eyes shut.

If Alastor wanted to bite him, mark him, taste him more—
If he wanted to use this moment to humiliate him—
If he wanted to—

 

Lucifer swallowed hard, jaw tightening, shame crawling up his spine because a stupid, traitorous part of him wanted this—

—Wanted him—

 

He opened his eyes.

And froze.

 

Alastor wasn’t smirking.
He wasn’t predatory.
He wasn’t even toying with him.

He looked…
embarrassed.

 

Visibly.
Painfully.

 

His ears were angled down, the tips twitching.
His expression caught between confusion and frustration.
Like he’d walked into a puzzle with no idea where to put the pieces.

 

Lucifer blinked once.
Twice.

Wait.

…Wait.

— You—  Lucifer squinted. — Hold on— are you— confused?

 

Alastor said nothing.

Lucifer’s face cracked.
Then he laughed.

 

A real laugh.
Sharp, breathless, half–hysterical from the absurdity.

— Wai— wait— you— you don’t know what to do?
He wheezed.
— You can’t be serious— whattt—? Pff— HAHA— no way— the Radio Demon— the Radio Demon— doesn’t know anything about kissing? Or touching anyone?!

 

Alastor’s shoulders stiffened.
His brows twitched.
His mouth pressed into a flat, irritated line.

 

He didn’t deny it.

The silence was enough.

 

Lucifer kept laughing.
He couldn’t stop.
This was too good.

 

— Oh stars— that’s— that’s embarrassing— HA— how old are you again? And you’ve never—?

 

Alastor’s ears drooped even lower, like a scolded animal.
His eyes avoided Lucifer’s for a moment—
something Lucifer had never even imagined possible.

But then—

Something clicked.

 

Alastor’s gaze snapped back up.
Sharp.
Predatory.
Glowing with wicked realization.

 

— So,— he said slowly, voice lowering, — you want to be kissed. And touched. Hm?

 

Lucifer’s entire soul left his body.

Fuck.
Fuck myself.
Oh, no.
Oh, absolutely not.
This moron misunderstood EVERYTHING.

 

His face burst into golden heat so fast he thought he’d combust on spot.

— Y-you— dumb— NO— that’s not— I didn’t— you idiot—!
His voice cracked miserably.

 

In his mind, he called Alastor every insult he knew in every language he knew, rapid–fire, cursing himself even harder.

Because the worst part?

Alastor wasn’t wrong.

 

Alastor didn’t hesitate long.

 

One of his hands slid firmly to Lucifer’s waist, fingers tightening just enough to remind Lucifer how helpless his body still was.
The other hand stayed on his chin—steadier, warmer than it had any right to be—guiding Lucifer’s face upward.

Lucifer saw it then.

 

A flicker.
A tiny one.
Barely more than a twitch in Alastor’s pupils—

nervousness.

 

Before he could question it, Alastor leaned in and pressed his lips to Lucifer’s.

Soft.
Quick.
Short, almost peck-like touches—more like greeting kisses on cheeks than anything intimate.

 

Lucifer blinked.

Oh.
Right.

 

Alastor didn’t know how to kiss.

 

Lucifer gave him the smuggest, most infuriating grin he could manage in his half-weak state.

 

Alastor tilted his head.
— What? Did you enjoy it so much you broke?

Lucifer snorted.
Short. Sharp. Disbelieving.

 

— No. It’s just…— He stared at him, at this terrifying ancient sinner who somehow looked cute with his ears slightly lowered. — You genuinely have no idea what you’re doing. And it’s cute.

 

Silence.

A dangerous silence.

 

Lucifer had no idea if he’d just doomed himself.
Either Alastor would rage, release him, or do something unpredictable and humiliating.

His heartbeat slammed in his chest.
His wings twitched uncontrollably.

 

And then—

Alastor remembered.

 

He looked like he remembered, now, that he could have Lucifer in the palm of his hands if he wants to.

 

Alastor leaned even closer.

— Then tell me, — he murmured, voice dripping with intention, — how your Highness wishes to be kissed.

 

Lucifer’s brain crashed.

Absolutely shut down.

 

— I— you— it’s— you can’t— ngh—

He stuttered.
Hard.
Face burning gold.
Mind screaming at him to shut up.

 

But Alastor waited.
Patient.
Focused.
Hungry.

 

And Lucifer…
Lucifer was stupid.

 

— Y-you can… try kissing just… one lip first. T-then the other— and um— the tongue— eventually— you don’t have to— I mean— I—

He kept talking.
Too much.
Way too much.

 

The moment he stopped, he regretted every word.

 

Alastor exhaled.

Not annoyed.
Not mocking.

Intent.

Then he kissed Lucifer again.

But this time—

It was different.

 

This time Alastor followed instructions.
Slow.
Measured.
More effort, more focus, more curiosity—
a deliberate attempt to learn how to kiss him.

 

Lucifer melted and hated himself for it.

 

His heart pounded painfully.
His breath hitched.
His wings quivered uselessly against the bed.

 

Because the truth hurt.

 

This man wanted power.
He wanted the deal back.
He drugged Lucifer for it.
He toyed with him, manipulated him, used Lucifer’s own feelings against him.

 

And still—

Still Lucifer kissed back, trapped and weak and emotional.

Still he felt good.

Still he felt something for this awful, cruel sinner.

His mind spiraled, anguish curling under every flicker of pleasure.

 

Why does everyone who gets close to me make things worse?

Why do they all hurt me in the end?

 

…Except Charlie.
And Vaggie.

 

The only two who ever helped him without expecting something.

But Alastor?

Alastor wanted everything.

And he was willing to do anything to take it.

---

 

He kissed him deeper.

 

Not just with curiosity this time—
with hunger.

 

As if he wanted Lucifer’s breath inside his lungs, Lucifer’s taste down his throat, Lucifer’s soul folded into his own.

 

It should’ve been just part of the plan.
Just another step toward reopening the deal.
Toward putting Lucifer back under him, where he belonged—
in that arrogant, possessive corner of Alastor’s mind that insisted mine.

 

But he liked it.

And that was the humiliating part.

When Lucifer called him cute…
He should’ve snarled, mocked him, denied it—
but instead something warm and embarrassing crawled up his neck.

When Lucifer kissed him back, with that messy mix of fear and desire, Alastor felt something tighten inside him, something wanting.

But wanting what, exactly?

Just the deal?

He had no idea anymore.

 

He pulled back for air, though his smile never wavered—he had spent a lifetime perfecting smiles that hid everything.

— You just need to accept the deal again, — he said softly. — We could even add new terms. I could do so much more than… take orders.

 

Lucifer whimpered a weak, broken — No…

Alastor’s eye sharpened.

The more he touched Lucifer—kisses, shadows trailing along golden-blushed skin, hands exploring places that made Lucifer gasp—
the worse the king’s expression became.

 

Sad.
Frustrated.
Helpless.

 

Oh.

And then Alastor felt something unfamiliar.

 

A heat low in his body.
Pressure.
Tightness in his pants.

 

He froze.

 

What—?
That feeling was… new.
Unfamiliar.
Wrong?

 

Rosie had told him the term once—asexual—and it made perfect sense to him.
No interest in intimacy.
No need for physical desire.
No patience for such messy, unnecessary sensations.

 

So what the hell was this?

 

Why now?
Why him?
Why Lucifer?

 

He opened his mouth to speak, to mock Lucifer, or manipulate him again, or regain control—

—and something wet hit the devil’s lap.

 

Not water.

A tear.

Then another.

Alastor looked up.

 

Lucifer wasn’t scared.
He was… devastated.

 

Completely broken open, breath trembling, eyes shining gold with tears he didn’t bother to hide.

 

And for the first time—
in his life or afterlife—
Alastor felt it.

 

Guilt.

 

Not dramatic, not overwhelming—
but sharp, unexpected, and nauseating.

 

When Lucifer choked out another plea—another broken, honest, humiliating whisper—
something twisted in Alastor’s chest.

 

— I just… wanted control over something… in my life. Vaggie is helping me. Charlie’s helping me. I was getting better. And now— this again— everything is a mess all over again— I can’t—

 

Alastor’s smile cracked.

Just a hairline fracture.
Barely visible.

But it was there.

 

He hated it.

 

He hated the way Lucifer’s tears punched something deep in his stomach.
He hated the shame creeping along his ribs.
He hated that he couldn’t look away from that fractured, heartbreaking face.

 

He hated that he cared.

He hated that this was the first time someone’s pain actually meant something to him.

He hated everything about this feeling.

He couldn’t continue.

Not like this.

Not with Lucifer crying under him, begging like that, trembling, lost.

 

He swallowed, jaw clenching hard enough to ache.
His voice came out barely above a whisper:

— …I’m sorry.

 

One snap.

His shadows wrapped around Lucifer, gentle and careful in a way that made him want to vomit, lifting him and vanishing him away—
straight to his room.

 

Alastor exhaled.

 

Hard.

 

He pressed one hand to his face, covering his eyes, breath shuddering.

What was he doing?

What the hell had he turned himself into?

 

Such a mess.
A pathetic, tangled, emotional mess.

 

If he didn’t have these stupid, noisy feelings clogging his thoughts—
he’d be fine.

 

He’d have the deal.
He’d have control.
He’d have Lucifer wrapped around his power again.

 

But instead—

— Fuck it, — he muttered under his breath.

 

Because for the first time…
he wasn’t sure he wanted the same thing anymore.

 

...

 

Alastor stayed in his room for long minutes after sending Lucifer away—long enough to insult himself out loud like a madman.

 

— Pathetic. Utterly ridiculous. Look at you — he hissed at his own reflection in the faint shine of his staff. — Getting rattled because the King of Hell cried. Crying! Oh, marvellous. You’re becoming just like those weak, sentimental fools… Vox with his insecurities, Charlie with her sunshine tears, Husk with his drunken ramblings… Disgusting.

 

His shadow only tilted its head at him, mockingly. Alastor glared at it.

— Don’t you dare laugh. I will evaporate you.

 

But the twisting in his gut wouldn’t stop. That heat in his body wouldn’t stop. The memory of Lucifer trembling, whispering no, tears hitting his lap like knives—it dragged something through Alastor he didn’t have a name for.

He didn’t even know if he wanted the deal anymore.

But he wanted Lucifer. His Lucifer. Possession, hunger, something dark and familiar. And yet… that reaction—the guilt—tangled inside him like something sick.

He changed clothes, straightened his posture, and still felt wrong. Wrong and confused.

 

Rosie.
If anyone could make sense of this disaster, it was her.

 

He regretted it the moment he shadow-stepped outside her town—too late. He walked into her emporium, and she blinked in surprise before giving him that warm, old friend smile he didn’t deserve.

— Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes… Alastor dear? To what do I owe the pleasure?

 

He cleared his throat, fiddling with his gloves.

— I… require… counseling.

 

Her eyebrows jumped, but she gestured him inside.

— That is certainly new. Sit down. Tell me everything.

 

He sat stiffly, like a man confessing to murder.

— I… have been feeling odd. Disturbed. Unsavory sensations clouding my judgement. Affection, guilt—abhorrent things. And today something even stranger. A sort of… excitement. As if hunger, but not quite. Deep inside and—unpleasant.

 

Rosie laughed softly.

— Alastor dear, that doesn’t sound unpleasant at all. And you said you thought you were asexual, yes?

— You told me that term. It suited me perfectly. No need for… intimacy. No desire for fleshly matters. But today my body reacted and I—

 

She chuckled.

 

— Asexual doesn’t mean no attraction ever, sweetheart. Many experience it, just differently. Less. Rarer. Only with the right person.

 

He froze.

— …Oh.

 

Her smile sharpened, playful.

— And who, pray tell, is the lucky soul who thawed your ice-cold heart?

 

He stared at the floor for a long time before muttering:

— …Lucifer.

 

Her hand flew to her mouth, delighted.

— The King? Oh, Alastor…

— Don’t start — he snapped. — I… have no idea what to do now.

— Does he feel the same?

— He confessed to me a week ago.

 

She blinked.

 

— And?

 

He winced.

 

— I laughed at him.

Her smile dropped. Rosie clicked her tongue sharply.

— Alastor!

— I didn’t know what I felt then! And now everything is a mess and I— I attempted to persuade him into the deal again, I thought that was the right thing to do, and instead he— he cried. Because of me. And I felt… revoltingly awful.

 

Rosie sighed, touched but exasperated.

— Oh, darling. That is not how it works.

 

He frowned.

— What isn’t?

— Love. Desire. Affection. Whatever you insist on avoiding naming. You don’t twist someone’s arm into staying. And you don’t have to change who you are for Lucifer. But you do need to be honest. Piece by piece. Small things. Tiny cracks in that frozen heart of yours.

 

She leaned forward.

— Show him affection slowly. Not all at once. Not as manipulation. As… sincerity.

 

Alastor looked genuinely frightened of the idea.

— That sounds… difficult.

— Yes — she said with a grin. — But so much better than what you’ve been doing.

 

He exhaled, long and defeated, shoulders sinking slightly for the first time in decades.

— I… will try.

— Good. That’s all you need to do.

Notes:

Yeaahhhh so, Alastor is an Asshole, but he's trying. a lot. to do better.

The next chapter will also be in his POV [Yeah you guys will get curious for Lucifer's POV until chapter 14 >:) .]

Chapter 15: Trying

Summary:

Alastor actually listens to someone other then himself for once, but nothing seems to work.

Not until he notices he can make it work by asking favours.

He hates asking favours.

Rosie had given him three instructions—simple, in her mind, horrifyingly complicated in his:

 

1. Be honest in small pieces.

 

2. Approach softly, not forcefully.

 

3. Offer affection in small gestures, not grand manipulations.

 

 

 

Easy.

Supposedly.

 

Except every time Alastor tried, the universe itself seemed determined to make him fail.

 

The next morning he planned to speak to Lucifer outside the kitchens—Rosie said morning greetings were a good, harmless start.

Lucifer saw him coming and immediately muttered:

 

— Oh, uh— I need to go pee.

 

And walked away fast.

 

Alastor blinked, insulted on a cosmic level.

 

Angels shouldn’t even have functioning bladders.

It was the most pathetic excuse he had heard in centuries.

 

The second time was at the hotel lobby. Lucifer was reading something for Charlie. Alastor took a step forward—

 

— Lucifer, I—

 

— Vaggie needs me! Now!! Sorry Alastor!

 

Gone.

Just gone.

 

Alastor almost lost his composure right there.

 

Normally he would force a conversation, mock the neediness of everyone involved, insert himself into the situation simply to spite them.

But Rosie’s voice rang in his skull:

 

“Softly, dear. Not like you’re hunting him.”

 

Fine.

Fine.

 

No stalking, no shadows following Lucifer down hallways, no forcing Lucifer into corners for dramatic monologues.

He even dismissed his own shadow when it tried to slither toward Lucifer earlier like a loyal snake.

 

Why was he following Rosie's advice?

Why?

She owned his soul one month ago—why was he listening to her?

 

Because she was right, damn it.

And he hated that.

 

He remembered how uncomfortable Lucifer looked the week he kept stalking him— how it twisting his stomach in a way he despised.

So yes. No shadow stalking.

No manipulation.

No advantages.

 

Nothing fun.

 

The universe finally gave them a moment together… and of course, it was Niffty’s fault.

 

Lucifer needed something Charlie had misplaced—a small bag of sunflower seeds for some hotel activity. Niffty had it.

And Alastor happened to be walking with Niffty as she happily massacred a trail of bugs with a broom.

 

— Oh! Kingy! — she waved the bag of seeds and the broom in the same hand, splattering insect goo on the carpet.

 

Lucifer approached, gentle smile but still a little hollow-eyed from the week before.

 

— Thank you, Niffty—

 

He froze when he noticed Alastor standing next to her.

 

Alastor, for the first time in his afterlife, tried to behave like a normal person.

 

He adjusted his coat, cleared his throat, and in what Rosie would later applaud as progress, said softly:

 

— That color suits you.

 

Lucifer blinked, confused.

 

— But… I always wear this?

 

Alastor’s face heated.

Barely.

A faint red shimmer along the tips of his cheeks—almost imperceptible, but very real.

 

Niffty gasped softly, eyes sparkling like she had just witnessed a murder scene (in a good way).

 

Lucifer stared between them, completely lost.

 

— Uh… thank you? I guess? I should— Charlie’s waiting.

He held the seeds to his chest, nodded awkwardly, and left quickly.

 

The silence that followed was catastrophic.

 

Niffty leaned in, whispering:

 

— Sir... did the enemy conquer you?

 

He growled.

 

— Not. A. Word.

 

But as he watched Lucifer hurry away from him again, that same twisting hit his stomach.

 

Rosie’s advice echoed in his skull again:

 

“Bit by bit, sweetheart.”

 

He exhaled slowly, trying not to feel like the world’s most undignified demon.

 

He would try again.

Eventually.

When Lucifer stopped pretending to need to pee.

 

Vaggie cornered him in the hallway.

 

That alone was irritating.

 

She stood with arms crossed, wings stiff, eyes sharp like knives that already decided guilt. Alastor stopped walking purely out of spite, his smile calm, practiced, immaculate.

 

— You’re backing away from him — she said. No greeting. No courtesy. — And Dare to aproach him again.

 

Ah. Straight to the throat.

 

— My, my — Alastor chuckled lightly. — Such confidence in your accusations. I’m almost impressed.

 

— Don’t. — Her voice was low. — You hurt him enough. And he’s never accepting another deal from you. Ever.

 

That stung in a way he refused to acknowledge.

 

— How tragic — he replied smoothly. — Fortunately, I’m not interested in making another deal with Lucifer.

 

That made her pause.

 

Just a second.

 

Then her eyes narrowed.

 

— Then why the fuck are you so desperately trying to talk to him?

 

Silence.

 

Not the comfortable kind.

Not the dramatic kind.

The kind that crawled under his skin and sat there, heavy.

 

His smile didn’t falter, but something behind it went very still.

 

— You’re being intrusive — he finally said, voice honeyed with venom. — And remarkably overprotective. Like a mother hen with delusions of relevance.

 

Her jaw clenched.

 

— You really are unbelievable.

 

— So I’ve been told.

 

He stepped past her before she could respond, shadows folding neatly behind him as he walked away.

 

Cowardly?

Perhaps.

 

Efficient?

Absolutely.

 

---

 

Something else was wrong.

 

The hotel felt… louder.

 

Not in sound. In presence.

 

Angel Dust.

 

Alastor noticed him across the lobby, laughing too loudly, draped over furniture like he never left. And near the bar—

 

Husk.

 

Alastor stopped.

 

Husk was wearing those clothes.

 

The old ones.

The overlord attire.

The ones from before.

 

Before the leash.

 

Before Alastor.

 

His first instinct was irritation. His second was to march over and demand an explanation.

 

He didn’t.

 

Because Lucifer was there.

 

Husk noticed him first, just a glance, then—

 

— Hey, King.

 

Short. Neutral. No edge.

 

He gestured subtly toward Angel.

 

— He’s back.

 

Lucifer smiled at Husk, genuinely.

 

— You look… high and mighty. — he said, amused. — Like a casino owner or something.

 

Husk snorted.

 

— Yeah. Something like that.

 

If Lucifer liked it, fine.

Husk could keep the damn outfit.

 

Alastor rolled his eyes and turned away.

 

And walked directly into Charlie.

 

— Alastor! — she beamed, blocking his path with unshakable cheer. — Perfect timing!

 

Never good words.

 

— I need your help with a broadcast about the hotel — she said quickly. — Just a short one! Please? It’ll mean a lot.

 

He opened his mouth to refuse.

 

She leaned closer.

 

— Please?

 

He sighed theatrically.

 

— Fine. On one condition.

 

She straightened.

 

— Name it!

 

— You remove that horrid sign in front of my room. “Alastor’s Room.” Absolutely tasteless. No one needs to know.

 

She blinked.

 

— Oh! Yeah! Totally! Done!

 

And just like that, he was trapped.

 

---

 

The radio studio was familiar. Comfortable. His domain.

 

The broadcast flowed easily—Hazbin Hotel’s progress, redemption statistics, Charlie’s optimism infecting every frequency. Third redeemed soul. Growth. Hope.

 

Disgusting.

Yet… effective.

 

Then Charlie laughed softly into the mic.

 

— I mean, who doesn’t make mistakes, right? But it starts with sorry.

 

She glanced at Alastor briefly, still smiling.

 

— And proving you care. Not with words alone, but actions.

 

The room felt smaller.

 

Static buzzed faintly in his ears.

 

For a second—just one—he had the absurd impression she wasn’t talking to the audience.

 

She was talking to him.

 

Ridiculous.

 

He shook the thought away.

 

As the broadcast ended, an idea slithered into his mind.

 

If he asked Charlie for a favor…

Just one.

 

If she arranged things so Lucifer couldn’t run, couldn’t excuse himself—

 

It would be perfect.

 

Efficient.

Controlled.

 

He hated it.

 

He hated needing it.

 

And he hated even more that he didn’t know whether it would be right.

 

— …Ugh.

 

He rubbed his face, smile faltering for the briefest moment.

 

Asking Charlie for a favor.

 

How humiliating.

 

He had asked Charlie.

 

Actually asked.

 

He told her Lucifer was avoiding him, that he needed to discuss important business with the King of Hell—an excuse so thin it barely qualified as a lie. Charlie stared at him for a few seconds, brows furrowing.

 

— Why would you want to talk to my dad about… business?

 

He looked away.

 

And felt it.

 

That shift.

 

That quiet realization settling behind her eyes, slow and heavy, just like that day inside the therapy room—after Husk left, when Charlie had looked between them and suddenly understood something neither of them had dared to say out loud.

 

She didn’t push.

 

She just softened.

 

— …Okay — she said, immediately. — I’ll help you.

 

Too easily.

 

— If you need anything else about this — she added gently — you can ask me.

 

Ugh.

 

Now she knew.

 

And worse—she was handling it better than he was.

 

She looked at him like he was a lost, aggressive puppy that bit people because it didn’t know how else to ask for attention.

 

Disgusting.

 

He rolled his eyes and fled to the upper floors, cup of coffee in hand. No sugar. Never sugar. Sitting on a couch overlooking the hotel lobby, watching the last remaining egg boy wander aimlessly like a forgotten thought.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

Just for a minute.

 

To think.

Or rest.

Or scream internally.

 

— What did you want to talk about?

 

His eyes snapped open.

 

Lucifer stood a few steps away.

 

Not too close.

Not too far.

 

Arms crossed. His gaze fixed anywhere but Alastor.

 

The tone was serious. Nervous. Guarded.

 

Good.

No—bad.

That wasn’t good at all.

 

Alastor’s first instinct was to smile wide, tease, corner him verbally, force control back into the situation.

 

He didn’t.

 

Rosie’s voice echoed.

 

“Soft. Honest. Small.”

 

Charlie’s too.

 

“You have to show you care.”

 

He inhaled slowly. The radio static in his chest crackled.

 

— I— — He stopped. Restarted. — You’ve been avoiding me.

 

Lucifer stiffened.

 

— I haven’t.

 

— You have — Alastor said calmly. No accusation. Just fact. — And frankly, you’re terrible at it.

 

Lucifer huffed, still not looking at him.

 

— I’m busy.

 

— Angels don’t need to pee.

 

That earned him a glance.

 

Sharp. Defensive.

 

— That’s not the point.

 

Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable. Alastor hated how aware he was of Lucifer’s posture—tense, closed, like someone bracing for impact.

 

He swallowed.

 

— I won’t make another deal with you.

 

Lucifer’s head snapped up.

 

— What?

 

Alastor met his eyes this time. Really met them.

 

— I’m not here for power. Or leverage. Or control.

 

That tasted strange in his mouth.

 

— Then why are you here?

 

There it was.

 

The question he had been avoiding even from himself.

 

His smile flickered. Not gone—but thinner. Less weaponized.

 

— Because… I handled things poorly.

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

Once.

Twice.

 

— That’s… an understatement.

 

— I know.

 

That surprised them both.

 

Alastor looked away briefly, jaw tight.

 

— I hurt you — he said, quietly. — And I don’t intend to do that again.

 

Lucifer’s expression faltered. Confusion bleeding into something more fragile.

 

— Is this some kind of trick?

 

— No.

 

Too fast. Too sincere.

 

Alastor exhaled.

 

— I don’t expect forgiveness. Or trust. Or anything, really. I just needed to say that.

 

He stood, setting the coffee aside.

 

— That’s all.

 

He turned to leave before instinct betrayed him further.

 

Behind him, Lucifer hesitated.

 

— …Alastor?

 

He stopped.

 

Didn’t turn around.

 

— I don’t know if I can just… forget.

 

— I wouldn’t ask you to.

 

Another pause.

 

— And I don’t know if I want you close right now.

 

That one hurt.

 

Alastor nodded once.

 

— Then I’ll keep my distance.

 

He meant it.

 

Which scared him more than anything else.

 

As he walked away, the static in his chest didn’t quiet.

 

But for the first time, it wasn’t screaming either.

 

Chapter 16: Missing

Summary:

Lucifer was also very shocked to find out Alastor is avoiding him, but more even when he simply VANISHES. No missing, just suddenly respecting and acting as if all that stalking never happened.

Notes:

There's this word in portuguese, where you miss and feel the loss of someone beloved(dead or just distant) and there isn't a proper translation for english :(

For the Brazil/Spanish readers, this chapter's name would be "Saudade"

Enjoy!

His room felt too quiet.

 

Lucifer closed the door behind him and leaned against it, wings sagging slightly as if they’d been holding him upright all day. The soft golden lights didn’t help. Nothing did.

 

Alastor’s words kept replaying.

 

I won’t make another deal with you.

I hurt you.

I don’t intend to do that again.

 

It didn’t make sense.

 

He crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at his hands. They were steady now. No trembling, no lingering weakness from that night. Whatever Alastor had drugged him with was gone.

 

But the memory wasn’t.

 

Lucifer dragged a hand over his face.

 

— This is stupid…

 

He sounded tired. Old.

 

Alastor didn’t corner him. Didn’t tease him. Didn’t push him into a deal or wrap pretty lies around power. He had stood there, calm, restrained, and somehow that scared Lucifer more than all the manipulation before.

 

That wasn’t the Radio Demon he knew.

 

That wasn’t the monster he could hate comfortably.

 

He lay back on the bed, wings spreading slightly against the sheets. His mind wandered back to the night in Alastor’s room—the shame, the fear, the confusion, the good feeling he hated himself for.

 

And the apology.

 

Quiet. Almost fragile.

 

Lucifer squeezed his eyes shut.

 

— You don’t get to just say sorry and fix everything…

 

But Alastor hadn’t tried to fix it.

 

He hadn’t asked for forgiveness.

He hadn’t even asked to stay.

 

He had left.

 

That was the part that gnawed at Lucifer’s chest.

 

Normally, people clung to him. Wanted something. Power. Protection. Validation. Control.

Alastor had wanted those things too.

 

Hadn’t he?

 

Lucifer rolled onto his side, facing the window. Hell’s skyline glowed faintly in the distance, all reds and violets and lies.

 

— He said he’d keep his distance…

 

The words felt heavier than they should.

 

Part of Lucifer felt relieved. Safe.

Another part—smaller, quieter, far more dangerous—felt… disappointed.

 

He pressed a pillow over his face.

 

— I hate this.

 

He hated that he missed Alastor’s presence even when it terrified him.

Hated that he couldn’t tell whether Alastor’s restraint was respect… or just another trick.

 

Charlie’s voice echoed faintly in his memory.

 

"People can change, dad. Even if it’s slow."

 

Lucifer scoffed softly into the pillow.

 

— You’re too optimistic…

 

Still.

 

He removed the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

 

If Alastor was lying, it would show.

If he wasn’t… that was worse.

 

Because that meant Lucifer would eventually have to decide whether to let him closer again.

 

And Lucifer wasn’t sure he trusted himself not to fall.

 

He turned onto his side, curling slightly, wings folding protectively around him.

 

— Just… give me time.

 

He didn’t know who he was saying it to.

 

Alastor.

Himself.

Or the part of his heart that hadn’t stopped listening to radio static.

 

...

 

Alastor vanished.

 

Not the dramatic kind.

Not the theatrical disappearance with laughter echoing in the walls or shadows curling around corners.

 

He simply… wasn’t there.

 

At first, Lucifer didn’t notice.

 

Then he did.

 

A week passed. Then another, almost. Every time Lucifer entered a room where Alastor should be, the space felt recently emptied—like someone had just stood there and decided not to anymore.

 

Once, Lucifer saw him at the end of a hallway.

He opened his mouth—

 

— Al—

 

Shadows. Gone.

 

Another time, Lucifer was talking to Husk at the bar. He felt it—that presence, that familiar static brushing his senses. He turned.

 

Nothing.

 

Some days, he didn’t see Alastor at all.

 

And it felt… worse.

 

Worse than being watched.

Worse than being cornered.

Worse than manipulation.

 

At least then, Lucifer knew where he stood.

 

Now it felt like talking to a ghost that deliberately refused to haunt him.

 

— This is ridiculous…

 

He sat on the edge of his bed, wings loose, posture tired. He wouldn’t admit it out loud—not even to himself—but the hotel felt quieter without the radio hum threading through it.

 

That was how it started.

 

The radio.

 

The first time, he told himself it was just curiosity. Testing if he could even tune into Alastor’s broadcasts with his own power. A harmless experiment.

 

It worked.

 

Too well.

 

Now, every night, he came back to his room, closed the door, and turned it on. Always the same frequency.

 

Sometimes Alastor talked about nothing. Rambling nonsense, old-timey jokes, dramatic flair layered over emptiness.

 

Sometimes… souls screaming.

 

Lucifer hated those nights.

 

And yet, he didn’t turn it off.

 

The sound grounded him. Reminded him Alastor still existed somewhere. Still alive. Still himself.

 

It was the only thing that let Lucifer sleep.

 

— You’re an idiot…

 

He lay back on the bed, radio murmuring softly beside him. Static brushed his senses like phantom fingers.

 

On the rooftop, during his daily hour with Vaggie, he complained.

 

Not directly. Never directly.

 

— It feels like something’s missing — he said once, staring out over Hell’s skyline. — Like… when you move furniture and forget what used to be there, but the space still feels wrong.

 

Vaggie eyed him carefully.

 

— Missing what?

 

— I don’t know.

 

A lie.

 

Another day:

 

— I think people can change. Sometimes.

 

She nearly dropped her coffee.

 

— Wow. That’s new.

 

Lucifer scoffed.

 

— Don’t get used to it.

 

But the thought lingered.

 

Alastor had changed.

Or at least… tried.

 

He said he’d keep his distance.

 

And he had.

 

Lucifer stared at the radio as Alastor’s voice crackled through it, smooth and controlled as ever.

 

— You didn’t have to disappear completely…

 

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

 

The radio didn’t answer.

 

Of course it didn’t.

 

Lucifer turned onto his side, wings curling slightly around himself.

 

He hated that this hurt.

Hated that absence felt heavier than presence.

Hated that, for the first time in centuries, someone respecting his boundaries felt like abandonment.

 

— Come back… or don’t — he muttered. — Just… stop making me guess.

 

The radio hummed softly.

 

And Lucifer fell asleep listening to a demon who was trying—maybe too hard—to stay away.

---

A staff reunion.

 

Why?

He didn’t know.

 

Charlie had insisted—insisted—that his presence was important. Which already made Lucifer suspicious, because whenever Charlie said something was important, it usually meant she was planning something.

 

And she was.

 

Because how.

 

How did his seat end up right next to Alastor’s?

 

He froze for half a second before sitting. Too late to change places now without making it obvious. The table was already full—Vaggie beside Charlie, Niffty vibrating with barely contained chaos, Husk leaning back with his arms crossed, a couple of new staff members Lucifer didn’t bother learning the names of, and—

 

Alastor.

 

Right there.

 

Too close.

 

Charlie began talking immediately, blissfully unaware—or very aware—of the situation she’d engineered.

 

— So, for the next phase of the hotel, we’ll be coordinating with Heaven again, especially with Emily’s help—

 

Lucifer blinked.

 

— Emily?

 

As if summoned by the name, a portal opened.

 

An angel stepped through.

 

A Seraphim.

 

Lucifer groaned internally.

 

— Great — he muttered. — Just what this meeting needed.

 

Emily smiled brightly, waving.

 

— Hi everyone! Sorry I’m late!

 

So Emily was a Seraphim. That explained a lot. And somehow made everything worse.

 

Charlie kept talking. Plans. Outreach. Redemption goals. Heaven-approved nonsense.

 

Lucifer barely heard any of it.

 

Because Alastor was silent.

 

Unnaturally so.

 

No commentary. No jokes. No smug remarks. No radio static humming under his breath. Just… still.

 

Lucifer sighed sharply, gaze wandering the room in an attempt to ground himself.

 

And then he felt it.

 

Eyes on him.

 

He turned.

 

Alastor was staring.

 

Not mocking.

Not smirking.

Just looking at him, expression unreadable, posture rigid.

 

Lucifer held the stare.

 

Something twisted in his chest.

 

Then—immediately—Alastor looked away.

 

What?

 

No. No, no, no.

 

Lucifer frowned.

 

Even here?

 

He felt insulted.

 

Fine.

 

He shifted slightly and bumped his leg under the table against Alastor’s. Not hard. Just enough to be deliberate.

 

Nothing.

 

Alastor didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look down.

 

Oh.

 

Oh, you’re really doing this.

 

Lucifer’s jaw tightened.

 

— Unbelievable… — he muttered under his breath.

 

So now he was being avoided professionally too?

 

Lucifer had asked for space.

Not exile.

 

And he’d had enough space already.

 

This wasn’t respecting boundaries anymore.

 

This was running.

 

His wings twitched slightly, irritation bleeding into something sharper.

 

— Radio Demon — he said quietly, without looking at him.

 

Alastor stiffened. Just barely.

 

Lucifer leaned back in his chair, eyes forward, voice low enough only Alastor could hear.

 

— You don’t get to disappear completely and then pretend I don’t exist.

 

A pause.

 

The meeting droned on.

 

Finally, Alastor spoke just as quietly.

 

— I’m doing exactly what you asked.

 

Lucifer scoffed.

 

— No. You’re doing what’s convenient for you.

 

Silence again.

 

Lucifer turned his head this time, meeting Alastor’s profile.

 

— If you’re trying to make this easier — he added — congratulations. You failed.

 

Alastor’s fingers tightened slightly against the table.

 

Charlie laughed at something Emily said, completely oblivious.

 

Lucifer exhaled sharply through his nose.

 

— I asked for space, not to be erased.

 

And for the first time since the meeting started—

 

Alastor looked back at him.

 

Really looked.

 

And whatever Lucifer saw there made his irritation falter.

 

Just for a second.

 

Too late.

 

Lucifer’s thoughts drifted.

 

That was the problem.

 

They didn’t stay where they were supposed to—on Charlie’s words, on Emily’s overly polite explanations, on the future plans of the hotel. Instead, they circled. Spiraled. Returned again and again to the presence beside him.

 

Alastor.

 

Lucifer stared.

 

Too long.

 

He didn’t even realize it until—

 

— Uhum. Sir? — Vaggie’s voice cut through his fog. — Are you okay?

 

Lucifer startled, snapping his gaze forward instantly.

 

— I’m fine — he said too quickly. — Just… thinking.

 

Vaggie narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

 

And then.

 

Alastor bumped his leg.

 

Not accidental.

Not gentle.

 

Deliberate.

A little stronger than Lucifer’s earlier attempt.

 

Lucifer stiffened.

 

Oh.

Oh, so now you react?

 

Fine.

 

He bumped him back.

 

Once.

Twice.

 

Subtle. Petty. Childish.

 

They were two ancient beings with egos older than the hotel, kicking each other under a table like bored children in class.

 

Until Lucifer misjudged the distance.

 

And stepped.

 

Right.

 

On.

 

Alastor’s.

 

Toe.

 

Oh fuck.

 

The timing could not have been worse.

 

Because Alastor’s mouth—usually so controlled, so theatrical—betrayed him.

 

A sound slipped out.

 

Soft. Sharp. Unmistakable.

 

Lucifer froze.

 

Charlie didn’t notice. Emily kept talking. Vaggie was distracted by paperwork.

 

But Husk heard it.

 

His face twisted instantly into visible disgust, before he remembered—too late—that reacting to the owner of his soul wasn’t wise.

 

Niffty, however, leaned forward eagerly.

 

— Alastor! — she giggled. — Did a bug bite you?

 

Lucifer’s face burned.

 

Gold flushed violently across his cheeks, heat crawling up his neck. He ducked his head, hat tilted just enough to hide the worst of it.

 

— Fuck you — Alastor muttered under his breath, barely audible.

 

Lucifer whispered back, voice tight:

 

— That’s for vanishing.

 

Alastor exhaled slowly.

 

— I was respecting your boundaries — he replied quietly. — You could’ve said if you wanted me to do differently.

 

Lucifer’s irritation flared.

 

— Am I talking to a bottom bitch or the Radio Demon right now?

 

That did it.

 

Alastor provoked him back.

 

A shadow curled under the table, fast and precise, wrapping briefly around Lucifer’s lower leg—squeezing just a bit too hard before releasing.

 

Lucifer gasped.

 

The sound escaped him before he could stop it.

 

This time—

 

Everyone heard it.

 

— Dad? — Charlie asked immediately, concern flashing across her face. — Are you okay? You look— maybe sick?

 

Vaggie stared at him.

 

Not worried.

 

Judging.

 

You didn’t tell me everything, her look said plainly.

 

Husk blinked.

 

Once.

 

Twice.

 

Oh.

 

Oh no.

 

Emily tilted her head, finally noticing the fallen angel properly for the first time.

 

— Oh! — she said brightly. — I didn’t realize you were here...

 

Lucifer straightened, clearing his throat, wings twitching once.

 

— I’m fine — he snapped. — Just— cold.

 

No one believed him.

 

And beside him, Alastor sat perfectly still, smile immaculate again, eyes forward like nothing had happened.

 

Lucifer clenched his jaw.

 

You’re dead, he thought.

Later.

 

And somehow… that promise didn’t feel as hostile as it should have.

 

...

 

Emily called his name.

 

— Lucifer—

 

He didn’t even turn.

 

Not now.

Not angel drama now.

 

The moment the meeting dissolved into chairs scraping and voices overlapping, Lucifer was already moving. He pushed open the door of an empty room almost directly across from the meeting hall, stepped inside, slammed it shut—and locked it.

 

Silence.

 

He exhaled hard.

 

— Alastor — he said flatly. — I know you’re here too. Appear, you son of a bitch.

 

The shadows stirred.

 

They always did.

 

They peeled themselves off the corners of the room, thick and crawling, until they shaped him—tall, elegant, radio static humming faintly under the air. Alastor stood there, smile untouched, posture relaxed as if he’d been invited.

 

— You’re dead.

 

Alastor tilted his head slightly.

 

— Such warmth — he said pleasantly.

 

Lucifer turned on him.

 

— What the fuck is your problem? First you stalk me like I’m some kind of sick little obsession, then suddenly you vanish. You act like I’m— — his jaw clenched — like I’m pathetic.

 

Alastor didn’t answer immediately.

 

Lucifer took a step closer.

 

— You make me feel worse than I already do. Either you’re everywhere, or you change everything all at once and pretend it’s respect. Pick one.

 

Another step.

 

— You weren’t such a crybaby before.

 

Alastor’s smile twitched.

 

Just a fraction.

 

— I’m aware — he replied, tone almost normal now. — And I’m also aware that I hurt you. That was… not my intention. I didn’t wish to repeat it.

 

Lucifer scoffed.

 

— Oh please. Since when do you care about hurting people?

 

Alastor’s eyes sharpened, voice smoothing into mockery again.

 

— My, my… — he said. — Or are you simply masochistic, Your Majesty? Is this whole little display because you missed me that much?

 

Lucifer laughed harshly.

 

— Don’t flatter yourself.

 

Another step.

Another.

 

— You’re insufferable.

 

— And yet — Alastor murmured — you seem remarkably invested.

 

Lucifer waved a hand dismissively.

 

— Nonsense.

 

— Nonsense? — Alastor echoed. — From the man who looks ready to combust because I wasn’t hovering over him?

 

Lucifer snapped back instantly—

 

— Says the idiot who broadcasts every thought he has like I’m not going to hear it anyway.

 

Silence.

 

Lucifer froze.

 

Oh.

 

Alastor’s deer ears perked up.

 

Not playfully.

Not hostile.

 

Attentive.

 

— …Are you listening to my broadcasts? — he asked slowly. — The King of Hell is one of my fans?

 

Lucifer rolled his eyes, heat creeping up his face.

 

— Don’t get excited. It’s boring. Serves you right.

 

Alastor chuckled, low and soft.

 

— What an honor.

 

— I missed mocking you too, your majesty — Alastor added, stepping closer now as well.

 

Their space was gone.

 

Lucifer’s pulse thundered in his ears.

 

— Well yeah?! So mock this—

 

He grabbed Alastor by the collar.

 

The motion shocked even himself.

 

Alastor stiffened—just for a heartbeat.

 

Lucifer didn’t give himself time to think.

 

He rose onto the tips of his toes, forcing Alastor to bend just slightly, eyes squeezed shut as if that might spare him from whatever reaction waited.

 

And he kissed him.

 

Brief.

Clumsy.

Desperate.

 

For one awful second, nothing happened.

 

Then—

 

Alastor kissed him back.

 

Not rushed.

Not hesitant.

 

Intentional.

 

Lucifer’s breath hitched.

 

The world narrowed to heat, static, and the terrifying realization that the Radio Demon was very much there with him.

 

The second their mouths parted, Lucifer realized two things at once.

 

One—he had fucked up.

 

Two—Alastor hadn’t disappeared.

 

Lucifer jerked back like he’d touched a live wire, releasing the demon’s collar as if it had burned him. His wings flared instinctively, feathers ruffling in sharp agitation.

 

— That— — he started, then stopped. Gods, say something. — That was—

 

Stupid.

Impulsive.

Unnecessary.

 

He turned away abruptly, rubbing a hand down his face, pacing two steps toward the wall and then back again.

 

— Don’t read into that — he said too fast. — I don’t— I wasn’t— That wasn’t—

 

He gestured vaguely between them.

 

Alastor hadn’t moved.

 

At least, not much.

 

Lucifer risked a glance.

 

The Radio Demon’s posture was still upright, still composed, smile intact—but his eyes weren’t locked on Lucifer anymore. They’d drifted just slightly aside. His deer ears twitched once. Then again. Subtle. Almost missed.

 

Lucifer swallowed.

 

— It was a mistake — he continued, voice tightening. — I was angry. You were provoking me. That’s all.

 

He laughed, sharp and forced.

 

— You’re good at that. Provoking. Congratulations.

 

Alastor adjusted his coat cuffs with deliberate care, movements slower than usual.

 

— Mm.

 

That was it.

 

Just mm.

 

Lucifer’s chest felt too tight.

 

— Don’t get any ideas — he snapped, turning back to face him, pointing accusingly. — This doesn’t change anything. You don’t get to vanish for weeks and then— then act like this—

 

His voice faltered.

 

— Like this is normal.

 

Alastor’s eyes flicked back to him briefly, then away again. His ears twitched once more, the tips angling backward before settling.

 

Lucifer noticed.

 

He hated that he noticed.

 

— I mean it — Lucifer insisted, though his tone lacked bite now. — You don’t get to just— just stand there and—

 

He stopped.

 

Because Alastor wasn’t mocking him.

 

No exaggerated grin, no clever jab, no theatrical laugh.

 

Just silence. Static, low and restrained.

 

Lucifer ran a hand through his hair, wings folding tighter against his back.

 

— Forget it — he muttered. — It was stupid. I don’t know why I did that.

 

He turned toward the door, already reaching for the lock.

 

— We’re not— — he paused, jaw tightening. — That’s not happening.

 

Behind him, Alastor shifted his weight.

 

The sound of it—fabric, shadow, something restrained.

 

Lucifer didn’t look back.

 

— Just… don’t make it worse.

 

He unlocked the door, pulling it open.

 

Before stepping out, he added, quieter—

 

— Please.

 

And then he was gone, heart hammering, cheeks still burning gold, leaving Alastor alone in the room with nothing but shadows and unanswered tension.

 

 

Chapter 17: Closer

Notes:

NEWS for my dear readers!

From now on, the chapters will be released twice a week instead of one per day, so I won't have burn out.

And also so you guys can get excited for more and more chapters!

Enjoy and thanks for all support!

For a fraction of a second after Lucifer left, the room stayed warm.

That annoyed him.

 

The door clicked shut, the lock sliding into place on the other side, and only then did the silence truly settle—thick, static-laced, buzzing unpleasantly in his ears.

Alastor did not move.

 

He stood exactly where Lucifer had left him, shoulders squared, smile fixed—

—and completely, catastrophically undone beneath it.

 

…What.

The.

Hell.

 

His gloved fingers twitched at his side, stiff, as if they no longer quite belonged to him. His chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with anger or laughter or hunger for souls. His face burned. No—burned was too small a word.

 

Heat crawled up his neck, behind his ears, blooming across his cheeks so violently it almost hurt.

 

He lifted a hand to his face before he could stop himself.

Warm.

 

Still warm.

— Ridiculous… — he muttered, voice low, strained.

 

His smile wavered. Just barely.

Lucifer had kissed him.

 

Not a trick. Not a manipulation. Not a desperate bargaining move wrapped in fear and tears like the first time.

This one had been—

 

Intentional.

 

Messy. Emotional. Angry. Honest in a way Alastor had never learned how to be.

His ears flicked sharply upward, then flattened again as the realization settled deeper.

 

Tongue.

He swallowed.

Oh.

 

That wasn't that… new.

But felt entirely new.

 

When he had been alive, affection had been performance. A peck on the cheek, a polite press of lips, something transactional, something brief. Control always intact.

This—

 

This had stolen it.

 

His shadow stirred behind him, rising along the wall like ink in water. It stretched, curling subtly toward the door Lucifer had just exited through, lingering there in a way that made Alastor’s stomach twist.

 

Longing.

Clear as day.

 

— Don’t you dare — he hissed under his breath.

 

The shadow hesitated, then sagged slightly, its edges trembling—disappointed.

Alastor snapped his fingers sharply.

 

— I said don’t.

The shadow recoiled, shrinking back, though its movement carried a sulky, almost mournful quality that made his jaw clench.

— You are embarrassing me.

 

He turned away from the door, pacing once—twice—then stopping abruptly when his knees felt… unsteady.

Unacceptable.

He pressed two fingers to his temple, breathing out slowly through his nose.

 

Lucifer wanted distance.

But not absence.

He wanted Alastor near—close enough to feel, to provoke, to miss—but not touching, not overwhelming, not devouring.

 

What kind of infuriating, contradictory nonsense—

His ears twitched again, betraying him.

— You drop a bomb like that and then flee… — he muttered, half to himself, half to the lingering static in the room. — Really, your majesty, how very cruel of you.

And yet—

 

Lucifer had said please.

That word echoed louder than the kiss.

Alastor’s throat tightened. He hated that too.

 

He adjusted his coat with more force than necessary, straightening his tie as if restoring order would somehow untangle what had just happened inside him.

His reflection in the dark glass of the window stared back at him—smiling, composed—

 

Eyes bright.

Cheeks flushed.

Ears refusing to stay still.

 

— Disgraceful — he scoffed.

His shadow leaned in again, softer this time, brushing against his back like a question.

He bared his teeth.

— Do not start.

The shadow withdrew, but not without one last, petulant curl in the direction of the door.

Alastor exhaled slowly, the sound shaking despite his efforts.

 

Alastor exhaled slowly, the sound shaking despite his efforts.

He did not vanish after that.

That, in itself, felt like progress.

 

He kept his distance—measured, deliberate. No shadows curling where they weren’t welcome, no sudden appearances at Lucifer’s side, no pressing, no cornering. When the king of Hell entered a room, Alastor was already there or arrived normally, like everyone else. When Lucifer left, Alastor didn’t follow.

It was… restraint.

He despised how difficult it was compared to being completely absent.

 

Still, something shifted. Subtly. The tension no longer felt like a blade pressed to the throat, but like a wire pulled too tight—dangerous, yes, but not actively cutting.

 

Rosie’s words echoed more often than he liked to admit. So did Charlie’s.

Annoying women. Both of them.

And yet—

It seemed to be working.

 

They fell into something strange and undefined, a rhythm that made no sense and yet felt oddly… lighter. They mocked each other openly again, sharp tongues and smug smiles, the familiar dance of infantile rivalry resuming as if nothing had ever fractured between them.

When Charlie chirped, “Dad, can you help me please?” Alastor answered first, just to spite him.

Lucifer scowled, of course.

 

When Husk went to wash the dishes, both of them somehow ended up there too, sleeves rolled, competing over who could finish first. It devolved into bickering, splashing water, and Husk leaving halfway through with a cigarette and a muttered, “I’m not paid enough for this.”

It was ridiculous.

And worse—

It was nice.

 

The guilt no longer punched him in the gut like it had weeks ago. Seeing Lucifer laugh—really laugh, not the brittle, defensive sound from before—no longer felt like an accusation.

 

Alastor still felt lost, still had no idea what he was doing, but the sharp edges had dulled.

That didn’t stop the looks.

 

Husk’s, especially.

Every time their eyes met, the bartender gave him that knowing stare. The one that said I see you. I see all of this.

 

Alastor responded by smiling wider and reminding Husk—casually, cruelly—who owned his soul.

 

Charlie was worse in a different way. No judgment. Just concern. Always asking if he was okay, if he needed to talk, if something was bothering him.

 

Infuriating.

 

The worst, however, came during one of Charlie’s… activities.

 

They sat in a loose circle on the floor—Charlie, a few guests, Niffty bouncing in place—confessing random, irrelevant, often ridiculous secrets. Alastor hadn’t joined. He stood at the edge, arms crossed, observing like a scientist watching particularly loud specimens.

Then Lucifer sat beside him.

 

Too close.

 

Not touching—but close enough that Alastor was painfully aware of the heat of his presence.

Lucifer cleared his throat.

— I… uh. I wanted to say sorry.

Alastor blinked once.

— For kissing you, — Lucifer continued, voice quieter than usual. — For forcing it. I just—did what you did to me. Used you.

 

Alastor’s smile didn’t change, but something bitter curled at the back of his tongue.

Not as if I didn’t kiss you back, you angelic moron, he thought.

 

The memory tried to resurface—hands, tears, desperation—but he shoved it aside with practiced efficiency.

Aloud, he said lightly, — I’m not offended, your majesty. We can forget it.

 

He knew they wouldn’t.

They both did.

 

A pause stretched between them.

 

Then, against every instinct he had, Alastor spoke again.

— If there were… anything I could do to compensate you. For this last month.

 

Lucifer frowned.

— There isn’t.

 

Another pause.

 

Then—his eyes lit up.

Alastor stiffened.

— No.

Lucifer grinned.

— Your ears.

Absolutely not.

 

His ears flicked sharply, traitorous.

Lucifer tilted his head, amused.

— Since that day... I’ve been curious.

 

Alastor opened his mouth to refuse outright—

—and Rosie’s voice intruded, infuriatingly gentle.

 

Honest. Vulnerable. Small steps.

 

His jaw clenched.

 

Was this a step?

It felt more like walking off a cliff.

 

But… letting Lucifer see something real. Something unguarded. Something his.

 

So Lucifer could feel safe doing the same.

 

He hated that logic.

Hated that it made sense.

Hated that he was considering it.

 

Fine.

 

He inhaled, slow and controlled, then exhaled.

— …One time,— he said tightly. — And you will behave.

Lucifer’s grin softened into something almost—careful.

 

—Not here,— Alastor said immediately, the words sharp but not unkind. —Absolutely not in public.

Lucifer blinked once, then smirked.

— Scared?—

— Discreet,— Alastor corrected. —There is a difference, your majesty.

 

Fire flared.

In a blink, the world folded in on itself, heat licking the edges of reality as Lucifer teleported them straight into his room. The flames vanished as quickly as they came, leaving silence—and space far too intimate.

 

Alastor steadied himself, straightening his coat.

— You know,— he said dryly, —most people walk. Or at the very least, announce their intention to violently displace reality beforehand.

Lucifer shrugged, wings twitching slightly.

 

— Walking is boring. Wings are annoying indoors. This is faster.—

— And unbearably theatrical.

 

Lucifer grinned wider.

—You love it. 

 

Alastor huffed, a sound dangerously close to a laugh—but he caught it before it fully escaped. Just enough to be real. Not enough to be honest.

Lucifer, glowing with barely contained excitement, gestured grandly to the bed like an overenthusiastic gentleman.

 

— After you.—

Alastor rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.

— How chivalrous,— he muttered, but he went anyway.

 

As he sat, he became painfully aware of how close the bed was. How soft. How not something he ever willingly trusted.

Lucifer sat beside him, close but not touching.

Waiting.

 

That, somehow, was worse.

Alastor hesitated.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he lowered his head.

The first time in his life he had ever done that for someone.

Lucifer froze.

 

— Oh,— he breathed. — You’re really— okay.—

— Do not narrate,— Alastor warned quietly.

 

Lucifer swallowed, hands hovering uncertainly above Alastor’s head. He took too long—far too long—like he was afraid one wrong move would shatter the moment.

Then, gently—

He patted the top of Alastor’s head.

 

A simple touch.

Soft.

Careful.

 

Alastor’s eyes shut instantly.

Reflex. Control. Cowardice. He didn’t know which.

 

Heat rushed through him, sharp and overwhelming, curling low in his chest, in his stomach, in places he very much did not want to acknowledge. His ears twitched despite himself.

Lucifer’s hand slid, fingers brushing slowly toward the left ear.

 

Alastor inhaled sharply.

The touch landed.

 

Stars.

 

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t even particularly skilled.

 

It was just… gentle.

Too gentle.

 

His body betrayed him.

Without thinking—without permission—he leaned in.

Just slightly.

 

Lucifer sucked in a breath.

— Oh.—

A second hand joined the first, settling on either side of Alastor’s head, thumbs brushing softly beneath his ears. The deer ears lowered further, folding back, every flick and tremor exposing more than Alastor had in weeks.

 

He hated how good it felt.

Hated how his chest tightened.

Hated how badly he wanted more.

 

Lucifer’s hands moved slowly, reverently, petting, caressing, as if afraid to break him.

 

— Is this… okay?— Lucifer asked quietly.

Alastor swallowed.

 

His voice, when it came, was rough.

— Do not stop.

 

Lucifer kept his hands where they were, slow and steady, as if he were learning Alastor by touch alone.

—So…— he started, carefully casual, —where were you from? Before… all this.—

 

Alastor exhaled through his nose. The question should have been easy to deflect. It wasn’t.

—New Orleans,— he answered instead, voice lower than usual. —I was a radio entertainer. Comedy. Music. Commentary.—

 

Lucifer hummed softly, fingers brushing the base of Alastor’s ears.

A sharp breath slipped out of Alastor before he could stop it.

 

Both of them froze.

Gold bloomed across Lucifer’s cheeks.

 

Alastor felt heat crawl up his own face and cursed himself internally.

—Radio entertainer,— Lucifer repeated, clearly clinging to the topic to recover. —So… what, the eighties?—

—Earlier,— Alastor corrected, though not unkindly. —But close enough.

 

Lucifer nodded, accepting it without pushing, without questioning why Alastor—Alastor—was offering truth so freely.

 

Alastor didn’t understand it either.

 

Maybe Rosie had indeed done something to his brain.

 

Lucifer’s thumb brushed higher along one ear, slow, deliberate.

Alastor leaned in further before he realized he was doing it.

 

—…Alastor,— Lucifer said, choosing his words carefully, —I don’t mean to offend you.—

—You are failing,— Alastor murmured.

 

Lucifer huffed a short laugh.

—It just kind of feels like… you’re enjoying this. A lot.

 

Alastor didn’t deny it.

The silence was loud.

 

Lucifer’s grin turned teasing, pride sneaking back in.

—Wow,— he whispered. —The radio demon. Weak to head pats.

—Finish that sentence,— Alastor warned, voice tight, —and I will end you.

 

Lucifer laughed, light and breathy, hands still moving, gentler now.

—Noted.

 

For the first time, Alastor opened his eyes.

Lucifer was close.

Too close.

 

Not looming, not predatory—just there, leaning in without realizing, focused entirely on reaching Alastor’s ears.

 

They both noticed at the same time.

 

Lucifer startled back a few inches, wings twitching, eyes wide.

— Oh—! Sorry. I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to——

 

Alastor shut his eyes again, ears flicking.

— You are intolerably loud when you panic,— he said, though there was no bite in it.

Lucifer swallowed, hands hovering uncertainly before slowly settling back down—this time with permission.

—Tell me if I cross a line,— he said quietly.

 

Alastor paused.

 

Then, softer than he had ever spoken to anyone—

— You will know.

 

Lucifer nodded, accepting that answer as if it were a fragile thing he didn’t want to mishandle.

 

His hands resumed their slow movement, careful now, thumbs brushing the fur just behind Alastor’s ears, fingers warm against his scalp.

— You don’t have to perform,— Lucifer said quietly. —Not with me.

 

Alastor scoffed out of habit, but the sound came out weaker than intended.

— You say that as if I know how to stop,— he replied.

Another small sound slipped from him when Lucifer’s touch lingered a second longer. He stiffened, then forced himself to breathe through it.

 

Lucifer noticed everything. Unfortunately.

— You do that when you’re overwhelmed,— Lucifer murmured. —Pretend it’s sarcasm.

 

Alastor cracked one eye open.

 

—You are treading dangerously close to insight, your majesty.

Lucifer smiled, softer than his usual sharp grin.

— Guess I’m learning.

 

They sat like that for a while. No rush. No audience. Just the low hum of hell outside the walls and the steady rhythm of Lucifer’s hands.

— You know,— Lucifer said after a moment, —you don’t have to give me anything to make this… even.

Alastor’s ears twitched.

 

— And yet you asked for them,— he replied.

Lucifer shrugged lightly.

— Because you offered. That’s different.

 

That… settled somewhere deep in Alastor’s chest, uncomfortable and warm.

— You are very strange for a demon,— Alastor muttered.

— Funny,— Lucifer shot back, —I was about to say the same thing about you.

 

A pause.

 

— If you want me to stop,— Lucifer added, voice lower, —just say so.

 

Alastor hesitated.

Then, carefully, deliberately—

— Don’t,— he said.

 

Lucifer didn’t smile this time.

He simply nodded, and continued, just as gentle, just as present.

And for once, Alastor allowed himself to stay.

 

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty.

Alastor’s shoulders slowly lost their tension, the constant tight coil easing beneath Lucifer’s steady hands. Each stroke of his ears sent a shiver down his spine that he stubbornly refused to comment on.

— You’re staring again,— Lucifer said lightly.

Alastor huffed.

 

— I am not. I am… observing.

— With your eyes closed?—

— Details.

 

Lucifer’s thumb brushed just under the base of his ear, gentler than before, slower. Alastor’s breath caught despite himself.

— See?— Lucifer murmured. — That.

— If you say another word about it, I will bite you,— Alastor warned, but there was no heat behind it.

— Promises, promises.

 

That earned a sharp exhale that might’ve been a laugh if Alastor were braver.

 

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Time felt strange when no one was pushing, pulling, demanding.

—You know,— Lucifer said eventually, quieter now, —when you disappeared… I thought you were punishing me.

 

Alastor stiffened.

— That was not—— he stopped, jaw tightening. —I thought distance was… what you wanted.

Lucifer’s hands paused.

 

— I wanted you to stop hurting me,— he said simply. —Not to vanish.

That landed harder than any insult.

 

— I don’t know how to stay without causing damage,— Alastor admitted, words dragged out like they cost him something. —Everything I touch turns into leverage.

Lucifer leaned closer, forehead nearly brushing Alastor’s.

 

—Then don’t touch to take,— he said. —Touch to stay.

Alastor swallowed.

— You make it sound easy.

— It’s not,— Lucifer replied. —But you’re doing it right now.

 

Slowly, carefully, Alastor lifted his head just enough to meet Lucifer’s eyes. The smile he wore was smaller, uncertain, stripped of its sharp edges.

— If I fail,— he said, —you will tell me.

 

Lucifer nodded.

— And if you run again,— he countered, —I’ll drag you back by those ridiculous ears.

 

Alastor scoffed, color blooming faintly beneath his cheeks.

— Threatening me now, your majesty?

— Setting boundaries,— Lucifer corrected, smirking.

 

Alastor let out a quiet laugh, surprised at himself.

—Very well,— he said. —I’ll stay.

 

Lucifer’s hands resumed their gentle rhythm, and this time, Alastor didn’t flinch.

 

He leaned in instead.

 

Lucifer broke the quiet with a soft, almost teasing breath.

— Funny… this all almost makes it look like you like me too.

 

The words weren’t sharp. They were careful. Testing the air.

— Like… more than just friendship or something like that.

 

Alastor didn’t answer.

His chest felt heavy, like something had been placed there without his consent. His smile stayed, but it was thinner now, stretched over a silence he couldn’t quite fill.

 

Lucifer waited. Then, awkwardly, he laughed it off himself.

 

— But I know you,— he added quickly. — So there’s no way. At least… we’re friends now. Or something like that. Right?—

That word—friends—settled between them.

Alastor inhaled, slow and measured.

 

— Something like that, your majesty,— he replied at last.

 

Lucifer didn’t push. He never did, not like Alastor expected. His hands slowed, then stopped, retreating as if giving the moment back.

They sat there a few seconds longer, neither moving.

Then Alastor straightened, standing with practiced ease.

 

— This has been… sufficient,— he said, tone slipping back toward familiar theatricality. — I should take my leave before I grow accustomed.

 

Lucifer smiled, smaller but genuine.

— Yeah. Okay.

 

As Alastor turned toward the shadows, Lucifer spoke again.

— Hey.—

Alastor paused.

—…Thank you,— Lucifer said. — For letting me touch your ears.

For a heartbeat, Alastor didn’t trust his voice.

 

— Do not make a habit of thanking me for such things,— he said finally. —You may start to sound sincere.

And then he was gone, swallowed by shadow and static.

 

...

 

Alastor reappeared on his bed in a ripple of darkness, sitting heavily as if the motion had taken more out of him than he cared to admit.

The room was quiet.

His shadow lingered, stretching across the floor, curling upward, its shape tilting toward him in silent, accusing curiosity.

 

Alastor stared at it.

 

—Don’t,— he said sharply. —Do not question my actions more than I already do.

 

The shadow stilled.

His voice dropped, the smile finally gone.

 

—Please.

 

The shadow withdrew, flattening against the walls.

Alastor leaned back, one hand over his eyes, chest still tight with something he refused to name.

 

Friends.

Something like that.

…Idiotic.