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The crimson heart of Sinsmas beat louder in Hell than it ever had on Earth. It wasn’t a celebration of gentle snowfall or silent nights, but a vibrant, cacophonous affirmation of existence, a defiant spark of revelry in the eternal gloom. This year, that spark had found a perfect vessel in the lobby of the Hazbin Hotel.
The grand room was a cathedral of carefully curated chaos. Warm strings of hellfire-red lights coiled around banisters and dripped from the high ceiling, their glow a mimicry of hearth-light that somehow failed to dispel the elegant shadows. Bewitched candles, their wax perpetually suspended in the act of melting, flickered in sconces and on mantles, their flames shimmering with faint, whispering faces—laughter and sighs ghosted onto light. Pine garlands, their provenance dubious at best (likely pilfered from a mortal lot, then re-stolen from another demon’s lair), coiled like sleeping serpents along the staircase rails. They were dotted not with simple glass baubles, but with little obsidian ornaments that pulsed with a slow, internal rhythm, etched with demonic runes that promised mischief, not joy.
From an ancient gramophone in the corner, a scratched record spun, issuing a jazzy holiday tune that warped and crackled, the brass sections sounding mournful, the bells slightly off-key. It was charming in its distortion, making the whole place feel like it had swallowed a radio broadcast from the 1940s and was now slowly digesting the echo.
And in the center of this orchestrated spectacle—the axis upon which the entire dizzying holiday seemed to spin—stood Alastra.
Tall. Poised. A study in controlled composure.
The doe demon was a vision of restrained elegance. Her long, crimson hair, the colour of freshly spilled wine, spilled in soft, artful waves down her back, each strand gradually deepening to an inky black at the very tips, as if darkness itself were sipping patiently at the vibrant colour. Her ears, the most delicate betrayals of her demonic nature, lifted gracefully from the crown of her head, furred in soft russet and tipped in a velvety black, the way the deepest part of night kisses a fading horizon. Her figure was a paradox: a waist cinched to an almost impossible slenderness, from which her hips and bust curved with a lush, dangerous elegance. She was a creature who understood the armor of fabric, who never allowed a sliver of skin, a hint of collarbone, a whisper of vulnerability to escape the fortress of her attire.
Not until this very night.
Charlie Morningstar, a burst of golden enthusiasm against the crimson backdrop, fussed with the final adjustments, her fingers trembling with excitement. “Alastra—just—hold still! You look PERFECT. I swear on all the rings of Pentagram City—Mrs. Santa has NOTHING on you.” Her voice was a delighted stage whisper that carried to the rafters.
Alastra offered a polite, practiced smile. It was an old-fashioned expression, refined and musical, touching her eyes but not quite warming the deep, ancient pools of amber within. “Patience, dear,” she chided gently, her voice the texture of warm honey poured over old radio static. “Good presentation is like good conversation. It cannot be rushed, lest it lose its charm.”
Charlie giggled, undeterred, her fingers deftly smoothing a nearly invisible seam.
The dress was a masterpiece of infernal tailoring. Deep, plush crimson velvet, so dark it drank the light, trimmed with a band of pristine white fur that seemed spun from moonlit frost. It hugged Alastra’s form with a lover’s intimacy, as if the very essence of the holiday had woven itself around her. The bodice settled snugly over her bust, its neckline dipping in a soft ‘V’—not indecent, but enough to brush the tantalizing specter of scandal. And when Charlie, with a final flourish, settled the matching coat over her shoulders—a grand, fur-lined masterpiece of the same velvet, its heavy clasp left deliberately undone—it opened like the curtain on a long-awaited performance.
It revealed the elegant, pale arch of her collarbone, a topography previously uncharted.
And, more startlingly, the soft, undeniable shape of her breasts, now cradled and lifted by the structured bodice, not hidden away but framed, presented. It was a revelation of feminine form that her usual high-necked, severe gowns defiantly denied.
A ripple—tangible, seismic—rolled through the gathered demons in the lobby.
Conversations stuttered into silence mid-sentence.
Glasses paused halfway to lips.
Eyes, of every shape and hue, widened in a unified shock.
From the bar, Husk choked audibly on his drink, a sharp, sputtering cough that echoed in the new quiet.
And Lucifer saw her.
He had been a statue of casual dominion by the grand piano, his long, slender fingers resting with deceptive idleness against the polished ebony. A faint, bored smirk had played on his lips as he pretended to examine a garland, his aura one of a connoisseur mildly amused by provincial decorations. He was beauty crafted by a deity who had adored symmetry and grace to the point of sin. Tall—perhaps an inch above her—with shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of millennia without a slouch. His hair, the pale gold of a winter sunrise, fell in artful disarray. His eyes, molten gold and piercing, gleamed beneath lashes so dark and thick they seemed painted on. His skin was porcelain-smooth, light as bone china, holding a luminosity that caught the crimson lights and reflected them back as if he had swallowed a sliver of the sun and let it glow gently from within.
The King of Hell. Angelic in his perfection, terrifying in his stillness.
And tonight, he was clad in regal, dark attire, a sharp-cut suit of deepest black accented with a waistcoat of Sinsmas crimson and a tie like congealed blood.
He went utterly still.
Not the stillness of boredom, but the profound stillness of a predator catching an unexpected scent. The lobby, the music, the chattering demons—it all dissolved into a distant blur. His world tunneled, sharp and absolute, onto a single point of crimson and velvet and revealed ivory skin.
His gaze, respectful and detached for a fleeting second, found her eyes. Then it began its descent.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Openly possessive.
It traveled over the graceful slope of her neck, lingered with scorching intensity on the newly-bared hollow of her throat, the elegant line of her collarbone—a masterpiece of bone and shadow he’d only ever imagined. It traced the fur-trimmed edge of her coat, where it parted to frame the soft swell of her breasts, a landscape finally surrendered from its strict captivity.
His jaw tightened, a minute flex of muscle along his pristine jawline.
A vein, faint and gold, throbbed once at his temple.
Then, as if the sight had become physically painful, he looked away—a sharp, almost violent turn of his head, as though he had been staring into a forge’s heart and been burned.
Alastra noticed.
Of course she noticed. Her awareness was a finely tuned instrument, sensitive to the slightest shift in the atmosphere, especially when it emanated from him. A faint, rosy blush—the delicate pink of a hellflower’s first bloom—crept high on her cheekbones, staining the usual ivory perfection. For just a single, unguarded breath, her impeccable posture faltered; her spine, usually a rod of steel, softened into a subtle curve, like a bowstring drawn taut and trembling with potential energy.
Charlie clapped, breaking the spell. “YES! Okay, hold on—the final piece! The belt!” She wrapped a thick, black leather sash around Alastra’s impossibly small waist, fastened it with a heavy, intricately wrought gold buckle that depicted thorned roses, and stepped back. Her hands flew to her mouth. “There! Lady Claus! Fancy. Elegant. Terrifying. I LOVE her!”
Alastra smoothed a gloved hand—black silk that vanished under the coat sleeve—along the rich velvet of her torso, her composure sliding back into place like a well-fitted mask. “It is… adequate,” she murmured, though the words held the faintest tremolo, a vibration of discord only someone listening for cracks would detect.
And Lucifer?
He began to move.
His approach was not a walk; it was a claiming of space. Each step was slow, unhurried, the whisper of his polished shoes against the marble floor a counter-rhythm to the jazzy record. His aura preceded him—dark, rich, and heavy, like the scent of aged port and cold stone. The crowd of demons parted before him without a word, a red sea of pretense, all eyes darting away while desperately trying to watch.
His smile curled into existence—not kind, not cruel. It was something older, a smirk that knew the price of every beautiful thing in all creation. It was possessive amusement, laced with a dark, sparkling delight.
“My, my,” he drawled, his voice velvet wrapped around a blade of honed steel. “The hotel has acquired quite the… breathtaking decoration this year.”
Alastra’s delicate ears gave a subtle, involuntary twitch, the black tips quivering.
Her smile remained, a pristine, painted-on thing. “Your Majesty,” she said, dipping her head in a nod that was precisely calculated to show respect without an ounce of submission. “How fortunate we are to have you gracing our humble festivities.”
He studied her openly, his molten gaze a physical touch. It slid from her eyes to her lips, then down again to that maddening, revealed curve of her collarbone, before returning to her face. “Fortunate?” he murmured, the word a private caress. “Pretty doe, I believe the fortune is all mine tonight.”
Her long lashes lowered a fraction, a pantomime of irritation. “You insist upon these… ridiculous pet names.”
“And yet,” he replied, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate register that somehow cut through the ambient noise, “you never once tell me to stop.”
He reached for her hand.
It was gloved in that same black silk, elegant and forbidding.
He took it, his own fingers bare and warm, and lifted it slowly, giving her every conceivable moment to pull away, to rebuke him, to maintain the distance she so fiercely guarded.
She did not.
Her hand rested in his, a silent concession.
He bent, the motion fluid and old-world. His breath, warm and smelling faintly of apples and brimstone, washed over her knuckles a second before his lips did. They brushed against the silk—not a peck, but a deliberate, lingering press. The contact was not just touch; it was a hum of tension, a static charge that seemed to crackle through the very air of the lobby, raising the hairs on the arms of every nearby demon.
Her voice, when it came, was a whisper strained through silk. “S-sire…”
It was barely a sound, more a shape of breath against the sudden quiet.
He smiled against her glove, his eyes closing for a fleeting second. “There it is,” he whispered, the words for her alone. “So beautifully, defiantly obedient… when you choose to be.”
Her eyes flickered, revealing a rapid-fire storm: heat, frost, pride, and a thousand sharp retorts wrapped in lace. “I simply respect the throne,” she replied, smoothing the tremor from her voice, pulling her poise around her like a cloak. “Nothing more.”
He straightened, but instead of retreating, he leaned closer. His shadow fell over her, cool and encompassing. “Liar.”
The word was soft, absolute.
Her breath caught—a tiny, telltale hitch she couldn’t suppress.
Nearby, Charlie bounced on her heels, her eyes wide as saucers. She turned to Vaggie, hissing behind her hand, “Oh my god, they are SO doing this on purpose, this is like a weird, intense, fancy tango—” before Vaggie, with a long-suffering sigh, dragged her firmly towards the punch bowl.
The lobby lights seemed to glimmer brighter, the enchanted candles flaring. The record hit a particularly warped note and crackled. Somewhere, a small, silver bell—tied to the tree—chimed once, sweetly.
Lucifer’s gaze drifted to the Santa suit laid across a nearby armchair. It was the traditional cheerful red, trimmed with the same pristine white fur. “Seems I have been cast as the jolly icon of the evening,” he mused, releasing her hand to shrug into the coat. He donned it as a sovereign would his ceremonial armor—regal, wicked, utterly devoid of wholesome intent. He looked back at her, his smirk deepening into something truly dark. “How fitting, don’t you think? That Santa should have a Mrs.”
Her eyes narrowed, a sliver of genuine warning in their amber depths. “Do not get ahead of yourself, Your Majesty.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head, a gesture of pure, predatory curiosity. “But we’re already halfway there, darling. You look the part. You certainly sound the part with all that scolding.”
Her gloved hand lifted, coming to rest delicately at her own waist, a self-protective gesture. “You flirt with such appalling ease.”
“And you,” he countered, taking that final, infinitesimal step that brought him within the circle of her heat, “enjoy pretending you despise it.”
She opened her mouth—perhaps to deliver a killing retort—but he was already guiding her. His palm hovered at the small of her back, not touching, but close enough that the expensive fabric of her coat might as well have not existed; she felt the possessive heat of his hand like a brand through the velvet. He guided her towards the grand tree, and she allowed it. She allowed him. And that silent permission, that voluntary step into his orbit, spoke louder to the watching crowd than any kiss or declaration ever could.
The King settled himself into a plush, high-backed chair positioned like a throne beside the shimmering tree. The multicolored lights played over his sharp features, gilding one side of his face in colour, plunging the other into mysterious shadow. He reclined with an air of absolute ownership, because he owned everything, including the very air they breathed.
He patted his thigh, the gesture at once inviting and imperious. “Come then, my dear. Tradition demands the pretty doe tell Santa what she desires for Sinsmas.”
Her ears twitched again, a full, betraying flick of agitation. Her composure, that exquisitely maintained facade, developed a fine, almost invisible crack. “That is… highly improper.”
“Which,” he murmured, the sound like dark silk unfurling, “is precisely why it suits us.”
The room’s pretense of not watching became a palpable force. Demons studied the ceiling, the floor, their drinks—anywhere but the scene unfolding. Even the jazzy music from the gramophone seemed to lower its volume to a respectful hum.
She held his gaze. In her ancient eyes, he could see the calculations: the weighing of the insult against the challenge, the measurement of risk against the dizzying, forbidden thrill. She was mapping the consequences on a grid only she could see.
Then, she moved.
It was not a rush, not a surrender. It was a slow, deliberate procession of grace. She approached the chair, turned, and began to sit sideways on his lap, her back poker-straight, every line of her body screaming that this was merely a symbolic gesture, a piece of theatrical teasing.
But he shifted.
His hands—one firm at her hip, the other at her side—were careful yet immovable. They coaxed, guided, and settled her until she was no longer perched but properly seated across his thighs, her weight a warm, real pressure against him, their proximity now intimate and inescapable. One of her gloved hands came to rest lightly on his shoulder for balance, the black silk a stark contrast against the black wool of his suit.
“Comfortable?” he asked, his tone dripping with dark silk.
She adjusted slightly, a minute shift that brought her no escape. “I am… tolerably situated, yes.”
A low chuckle vibrated through his chest and into hers. “Tell me, then. What does my lovely, reluctant Mrs. Claus desire this Sinsmas?”
Her lips parted, then closed. She looked away, her profile a cameo of conflicted elegance against the glittering tree. Her voice, when it came, was softer, the polished mask slipping to reveal a glimpse of the weary, wanting creature beneath. “I desire peace for this hotel. Stability for Charlie’s efforts. A lasting victory for redemption…” She trailed off.
He leaned in, his nose nearly brushing the delicate fur at the tip of her ear. “And?”
Her gaze flickered back, touching his mouth for a dangerous instant before skittering away. “And perhaps… fewer frivolous interruptions from those who consider themselves above such a noble cause.”
He hummed, a sound of deep amusement. “So politically phrased. Such impeccable diplomacy. But that is not what you truly want. Not in the silence of your own chambers, not in the secret thoughts you believe I cannot hear.”
Her throat moved in a tight swallow, the muscles working delicately beneath her pale skin.
“You presume a great deal, Sire.”
“I observe a great deal,” he corrected gently. His thumb, which had been resting on the fur trim of her coat, began to move. It traced the boundary where the soft white fur met the vulnerable skin of her collarbone, a slow, maddening back-and-forth that never slipped beneath the fabric, yet mapped its edge with devastating precision. “And I see a queen, bound in chains of her own exquisite making.”
Her heartbeat, a frantic trapped bird, became visible in the flutter at the base of her throat.
He leaned closer still, his lips a breath away from her ear, his words a spell for her alone. “Tell me what you wish for—honestly, Alastra—and I may just grant it.”
Her breath trembled out, a faint cloud in the cool air. “I wish…” she began, each word a careful, breathy extraction. “I wish for… control. Absolute control. Over my own heart. Over the fate I weave. Over… the things that tempt me towards the precipice.”
His smile was a dark, beautiful thing in the shadowed light. “And what, pray tell, tempts you over the precipice, pretty doe?”
Her gaze snapped to his, and for the first time, the full force of what lay behind her composure was laid bare: a roaring furnace of fire, a bottomless well of fear, and a desire so deep and ancient it shook the foundations of her being.
“You tempt me,” she said, the words barely audible, wrapped in defiance and drenched in surrender.
He went still. Not the stillness of before, but the stillness of a mountain, of deep earth shifting. Then, slowly, as if handling the most fragile relic, his hand lifted from her hip. His knuckles brushed along the line of her jaw, a touch so reverent it seemed blasphemous in the heart of Hell.
“Sweetheart…”
The endearment, spoken in that ruined, tender tone, almost shattered her. It threatened to dissolve the last of her icy restraint into a puddle at his feet.
She grasped for annoyance, for the familiar shield of decorum. “You use such… indecorous language, Your Majesty.”
“And yet,” he murmured, his thumb coming up to graze the soft skin just beneath her chin, tilting her face a fraction more toward him, forcing her to meet the full intensity of his molten gaze, “you do not pull away. You do not slap my face. You simply sit here, in my lap, and endure.”
Her lashes fluttered, a damning betrayal. “I am… considering my options.”
“Mhm.” His smile returned, knowing and infinitely gentle. “Of course you are.”
His lips came to her ear again, his breath a ghost over the sensitive fur, stirring the tiny hairs. “Shall I confess what I wish for, then?”
She swallowed, the sound dry. “If it pleases Your Majesty to share.”
“It always pleases me to share with you.”
He lingered there, savoring the fine tremor that had begun to travel through her frame, then whispered, the words etching themselves into her very soul:
“I wish for you to stop hiding. From me. From them. But most of all, from yourself.”
Her fingers, still resting on his shoulder, curled tightly, clutching the black wool.
The lobby, the hotel, all of Hell, seemed to hold its breath.
He lowered his voice further, into a register that was both tender and terrifying, a king’s promise and a devil’s bargain. “I want you to look at me without first calculating the political cost. To stand at my side without the pretense of rivalry as your shield. I want to see you—Alastra, in all her fierce, flawed, magnificent glory—not the impeccably dressed monument you present to the world.”
She exhaled—a shaky, defeated, beautiful sound that she immediately tried to stifle. “That is… a perilously bold request.”
“I am a perilously bold king.” He said smugly.
A silence stretched between them, thick and intimate, woven from the soft hiss of the record, the distant clink of ornaments, the scent of pine needles and candle-smoke and his distinctive, apple-tinged cologne.
Then, she smiled. It was a different smile—softer, sadder, more real than any she had offered all evening. It was heartbreakingly beautiful. “You may be the King of all Hell,” she murmured, her voice a bare whisper of sound. “But even your power has its limits. You cannot command a heart like mine.”
He chuckled, the sound soft and dark. “No, my pretty doe. You misunderstand me.”
His gaze held hers, the molten gold now dark with a seriousness that stripped away all remaining games. “I don’t wish to command it.”
His thumb stroked once more along her jaw.
“I intend to earn it.”
Her façade didn’t just fracture; it dissolved. A wave of heat flushed down her chest, visible above the velvet. Her elegant ears dipped, not in irritation, but in a shy, vulnerable gesture he had never seen before. The hand on his shoulder relaxed, the clenched fingers softening until they were not clutching, but resting.
“Your Majesty…” It was a sigh, a surrender, a plea.
He lifted her gloved hand once more, turning it over. This time, his kiss to her knuckles was not a brush, but a firm, lingering pressure, an oath sealed against silk. It was intimate, reverent, a gesture that belonged in a sanctuary, not a damned hotel lobby.
They remained like that—a tableau of intricate tension and burgeoning truth—while the world around them buzzed with muted activity, everyone pretending not to witness the seismic shift occurring in the center of the room.
Enemies, yes.
Rivals, certainly.
But in that moment, they leaned into shared whispers like lifelong confidants. They occupied the same space like twin stars caught in a gravitational dance. And when his bare fingers finally laced lightly with her silk-clad ones, she didn’t permit it.
She chose it.
“Happy Sinsmas, Alastra,” he murmured, the words a private gift.
Her voice, when it came, was as soft and settling as the first snow in a forgotten forest. “And to you… Lucifer.”
For a long, suspended moment, Alastra simply looked at him. The words—I intend to earn it—hung in the air between them, richer than the scent of pine and smoke, more tangible than the velvet of her dress. In the depths of her ancient amber eyes, a silent storm raged. The defiance, the calculation, the frost—all were momentarily scoured away by the raw, terrifying sincerity of his promise. She saw not the smirk of the King of Hell, but the focused intensity of Lucifer Morningstar, a being of impossible power setting a singular, daunting goal: her.
It was that glimpse of genuine intent, far more than any flirtatious provocation, that undid her.
A warmth that had nothing to do with the hellfire lights bloomed from her core, flooding up her neck and into her cheeks with a ferocity that made her earlier blush seem pale. The delicate, deer-like ears atop her head, which had been held in a state of alert poise, now dipped fully, turning slightly inwards as if to shield her from the intensity of his gaze. It was a gesture of pure, unguarded shyness, a silent admission that his arrow had found a chink in her armor and struck something deep and true.
Her gloved hand, which had been resting so lightly in his, suddenly flexed. She didn’t snatch it away violently; it was a gentle, but firm, retraction. The loss of contact felt louder than the music.
“I… I find I am suddenly quite parched,” she murmured, her voice slightly breathless, the honey-and-static tone fraying at the edges. She avoided his eyes, looking instead at a point just over his shoulder, as if studying the patterns in the pine garlands with immense interest.
With a fluid, graceful motion that was slightly too quick to be perfectly composed, she shifted her weight and rose from his lap. It was not a flight, but a strategic, elegant retreat. The heavy velvet of her dress whispered against the fabric of his Santa coat as she stood, putting precious, cooling distance between them. She smoothed the skirts with a automatic, self-soothing gesture, her head bowed so that a cascade of crimson hair, tipped in black, veiled the side of her face.
Lucifer did not move to stop her. He remained reclined in the throne-like chair, one leg crossed over the other, his arms resting on the armrests. But his eyes—those molten gold pools—tracked her with the unwavering focus of a cat observing a fascinating bird. A new, subtle smile played on his lips. It was not a smirk of victory, but something softer, more intrigued. He had seen the crack, the shyness, the retreat. He had seen the effect, and it was more delicious than any outright surrender.
Alastra moved through the lobby with her usual poised grace, but to an observant eye—and every demon present was suddenly observant—her path was too direct, her steps a fraction too measured. She was a ship navigating a sudden, internal squall. The crowd parted for her once more, but the whispers this time were different. Less about spectacle, more about stunned realization.
“Did you see her ears?”
“She left the King’s lap…”
“Look at her neck, she’s flushed all the way down…”
She reached the long, polished bar where Husk was polishing a glass with a towel, his feline eyes following her approach with detached bemusement. The bar was adorned with sprigs of holly that had berries glowing like miniature coals.
“A drink, Alastra?” Husk grumbled, his voice a gravelly contrast to the tense silence she carried with her.
“Something… cool,” she said, her voice regaining a sliver of its steadiness, though it was still lower, softer than her usual public tone. “Something clear.”
Husk nodded, reaching for a crystal decanter filled with a liquid that shimmered with a faint, internal frost. He poured a measure into a coupe glass, the drink emitting a gentle, cooling mist. She accepted it without looking at him, her gloved fingers curling around the chilled bowl, seeking its anchor of cold.
She took a small, deliberate sip. The drink tasted of frozen mint and starfall, a crisp, cleansing shock that grounded her. She closed her eyes for a second, the long, dark lashes fanning against her flushed cheeks. She was rebuilding, brick by mental brick, the formidable wall he had so effortlessly scaled. The cold glass against her palm, the sharp taste on her tongue—these were real, simple things. They were not promises that threatened to unravel centuries of self-preservation.
From his chair by the tree, Lucifer watched. He saw the delicate column of her throat work as she swallowed. He saw the slight lift of her chin as she took another breath, the shy, vulnerable dip of her ears slowly righting themselves back into their elegant alertness. The sight of her, flustered and seeking refuge in a drink, was impossibly endearing. It was a glimpse of the being behind the monument, and he found he coveted that glimpse more than any obedient gesture.
Charlie, who had been vibrating with excitement near the punch bowl, sidled up to him, unable to contain herself. “So?!” she whisper-squealed. “What happened? It looked… intense.”
Lucifer’s gaze never left Alastra’s back. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, one that held a warmth Charlie rarely saw in her father. “Progress, my dear,” he said quietly, his voice a rumble of deep satisfaction. “Subtle, fragile, and infinitely more valuable than a trophy.”
He finally rose from the chair, shrugging off the Santa coat with a casual flick. He was just Lucifer again, in his sharp suit, but the energy around him had shifted. The playful, taunting aura had mellowed into something focused and possessive in a new, more profound way.
He did not approach her at the bar. He did not need to press his advantage now. He had planted a seed, and he had seen the first green, shy shoot break the ground. Instead, he moved to the grand piano, his fingers drifting over the keys. He began to play, not the jazzy, distorted holiday tune, but something older, softer—a gentle, haunting melody that wove through the noise of the party like a silver thread.
Alastra heard it. Her shoulders, which had been slightly tense, eased a fraction. She didn’t turn, but she listened, taking another slow sip of her frosty drink. The music was not a demand; it was an acknowledgment. A shared, silent understanding in a room full of noise.
She had retreated, but she had not run. He had advanced, but he had not captured.
The game, as they both knew, had irrevocably changed. It was no longer just a dance of barbs and veiled challenges. It was a courtship. And as the frosty drink cooled her fevered skin and his melody wrapped around her, Alastra allowed herself, for the first time, to truly consider the terrifying, exhilarating prospect of being earned.
—
The tradition, as it so often did in the Hazbin Hotel, had gotten wildly, charmingly out of hand.
It had begun innocently enough. Charlie, her eyes sparkling with the joy of curated holiday cheer, had hung a single, modest sprig of emerald-green mistletoe from the central chandelier. She’d declared it “cute,” a nod to mortal customs she found endearing. Husk had grumbled something about “forced frivolity.” Angel Dust, of course, had immediately seized upon the implied rule, using it as license to plant exaggerated, smacking kisses on anyone who lingered too long beneath it. Vaggie had pretended stern annoyance, arms crossed, but the way her stern expression melted into a soft smile whenever Charlie laughed had turned the whole concept into something warm, something theirs.
Now, the lobby was a minefield of greenery.
It wasn't just the one sprig anymore. Dozens of enchanted sprigs hovered in doorways, spinning lazily like leafy satellites. Tiny, mischievous bundles dangled from archways and over the backs of plush couches. One particularly wicked specimen, charmed to be slightly sticky, floated at the very top of the grand staircase; it had already claimed three oblivious imps, one flustered ghost, and a very confused sinner who now refused to discuss the incident, merely shuddering whenever the holiday was mentioned.
Each time someone was caught beneath one, a palpable hush would fall over that corner of the room. A little thrill, charged with anticipation and shared mischief, would ripple outwards. What followed was a spectrum of responses: a quick, shy peck between two nervous souls; a boisterous, performative kiss from Angel that ended in laughter; or, sometimes, a softer, more genuine moment of affection that left the surrounding demons oddly quiet, as if witnessing a private miracle. It filled the vast, decadent space with something profoundly strange, something that scratched at the very definition of the realm.
Tenderness.
Hell did many things expertly: wrath, envy, decadent sin, roaring laughter. But it did not do tenderness. Not this quiet, unguarded, voluntary kind. It was a foreign spice in the infernal stew, and the demons weren't sure if they liked it, but they couldn't stop tasting it.
And from his chosen perch at the edge of the vibrant scene, Lucifer Morningstar watched it all unfold.
He lounged with deceptively casual grace in a high-backed velvet chair, one arm draped along its spine, a picture of regal indolence. His golden gaze, sharp and miss-nothing, glinted under the hellfire lights like coins at the bottom of a fountain. He still wore the Santa coat—because of course he did—the rich fur collar framing the sharp, clean line of his jaw and throat. The dark velvet hugged his form with an intimacy that suggested it hadn't been tailored by a seamstress, but by the very concept of sin itself.
He performed his role flawlessly. He offered smiles where they were socially required—polite, slightly amused curves of his perfect lips. He chuckled at jokes, the sound a warm, rich baritone that encouraged further revelry. He traded barbs with Angel Dust, exchanged weary, understanding glances with Husk, and accepted the hesitant praise of redeemed sinners as if it were sunlight, something he could bask in without needing.
But his attention, the formidable focus of the King of Hell, was not truly on any of it.
It was a compass needle pulled by a singular, crimson magnetism. It kept sliding—inevitably, irresistibly—back to her.
Alastra moved through the festive chaos like a melody from a forgotten sonata, one no one else in the room quite knew the words to, but whose beauty hushed them anyway. Her long, wine-dark hair swayed behind her in a silk cascade, the black-tipped ends brushing the cinched curve of her waist. The white fur lining of her coat was a snowy frame for that scandalous, revealed sliver of collarbone—a whisper of vulnerability that screamed louder than any shout. The thick Santa belt, locked with its rose-clasp buckle, emphasized the impossible narrowness of her waist, making the elegant flare of her hips beneath the velvet seem all the more pronounced.
He catalogued her every nuance. The subtle, twitching pivot of her delicate, deer-like ears when she listened intently to Charlie’s enthusiastic rambling. Her laughter, which was never loud, but a soft, polite, almost antique sound, like the chime of a silver bell muffled by velvet. Her very presence seemed to cool the air around her, feeling like the heart of winter—breathtakingly beautiful, edged with a danger that promised a slow, exquisite freeze.
And every single time she drifted anywhere near one of those hovering sprigs of mistletoe…
Lucifer felt it.
A visceral, sharp-clawed urge would rise in him, hot and immediate.
It wasn't mere hunger. It wasn't the simple desire for conquest he’d known for millennia.
This was desire. Pure, focused, and maddeningly specific.
He wanted—Gods and Godlings help him—to touch her, yes. To feel the warmth of her skin through the silk of her glove, to trace the line of that jaw with his thumb. He wanted to kiss her, to discover if her lips would be cool and reserved like her demeanor, or if they would burn with a hidden fire. He wanted to unravel the mystery of what lay beneath the fortress of velvet and poise.
But more than that, a realization that unnerved him with its simplicity:
He didn't want to take.
He didn't want to demand.
Overpowering her would be child’s play. He was the King. He was Temptation given form. He could, with a mere flick of his will, guide a sprig of mistletoe over her head, step forward, and claim his prize under the guise of playful tradition. No one would question it. Many would likely cheer.
But the thought tasted like ash.
It would be beneath him.
It would, more importantly, be beneath her. It would be a violation of the intricate, unspoken dance they had been engaged in since her arrival—a dance of equals testing the boundaries of a precipice.
So, he exercised a discipline older than the stars. He stayed very, very still.
Outwardly, a portrait of patience. Inwardly, a forge.
Alastra noticed.
Her awareness of him was a constant, low hum in her blood, a sense tuned exclusively to his frequency. She saw the careful way his gaze would avoid lingering too long on her when she stood near the greenery—not out of indifference, but from a respect so sharp it bordered on pain. She saw the nearly imperceptible tension that hardened the line of his jaw when yet another couple shared a laugh and a kiss beneath a sprig nearby. She noticed the faint, deliberate flex of his fingers where they rested in shadow, curling slightly as if to grasp something just out of reach, when a bold imp had giggled and called out:
“Careful, Your Majesty! One of those little leafy traps might catch you someday!”
He’d offered a flawless, glittering smile in return.
“I assure you,” his voice had been smooth as aged whiskey, “I am quite adept at evading even the most… persistent of traps.”
But his eyes, for a single, unguarded heartbeat, had flickered to hers. And in that golden flash, she had seen it not as a refusal, but as a confession.
He wasn't evading because he didn't want to be caught.
He was refusing to set the trap himself.
And because of that—for perhaps the first time since her ancient feet had touched the infernal soil—the power, delicate and terrifying, shifted gently into her own gloved hands.
The knowledge settled in her chest, warm and heavy. She excused herself from a conversation about ornament logistics with a calm, practiced grace. She slipped through the vibrant bustle of the party, a ripple of crimson through the crowd, moving into a quieter side hall where the shadows clung thicker and the jazzy music faded to a distant, wistful hum.
Here, alone but for the dance of candlelight on damask wallpaper, her heart began a frantic, rhythmic beating against her ribs.
Ridiculous, she scolded herself, pressing a cool, silk-clad hand to her chest. She was ancient. She was composure incarnate. She was a creature of elegant danger. She had faced down monsters whose names could curdle blood, parleyed with tyrants, and danced through centuries of political warfare without ever letting a hair slip from its perfect arrangement.
And yet…
Her palms tingled inside their gloves.
Her breath felt too warm in her lungs, the air suddenly insufficient.
A nervous, thrilling energy buzzed along her nerves.
Her gaze lifted to a nearby doorway, where one of the enchanted sprigs lazily turned. She reached up, her movement precise, and plucked it from the air. It rested in her palm, innocuous and potent. The leaves were a glossy, perfect green, the berries like clusters of miniature pearl moons. It hummed with a silly, persistent magic, a vibration of playful expectation against her skin.
She closed her fingers around it, the cool berries pressing into her palm. Then, she carefully, deliberately, moved it behind her back, concealed by the generous drape of her coat and the fall of her hair.
Her ears, those exquisite betrayers, dipped in a gesture of pure, unadulterated shyness.
Then, she turned. And walked back into the heart of the light.
Lucifer saw her the moment she re-entered the lobby’s glow. His senses, already hyper-attuned to her, pinpointed her before any conscious thought could form. He noticed the quality of her steps—not her usual gliding promenade, but something quieter, more purposeful, each footfall a decided note in a private composition.
He noticed, with a jolt that went straight to his core, that her smile was absent. Not in its place was the cool, poised mask, but something softer, more vulnerable. A faint line of concentration between her brows. A nervous determination in the set of her jaw. The shy slant of her ears spoke volumes.
He was standing before he fully processed the command to move, drawn upright by an invisible cord.
“Pretty doe,” he greeted, his voice dropping into a lower, more private register, the usual teasing edge softened by something akin to concern. “You seem… remarkably intent. Is something the matter?”
She met his gaze, and for a second, the world narrowed to the space between them. She clasped her hands politely in front of her waist—one hand neatly hiding the secret held in the other behind the small of her back.
“Your Majesty,” she murmured, the old-fashioned cadence of her address somehow more intimate tonight, almost tender. “Might I… borrow a moment of your time? Away from the cacophony.”
He inclined his head, a slow, regal dip. “You may take as many moments as you desire. My time, I find, is entirely at your disposal tonight.”
Without another word, they slipped away together—a king and his doe—moving along the edge of the laughing crowd, past the warm pools of light cast by the bewitched candles, into a quieter hallway where the sounds of the party became a muffled, cheerful echo. Here, the light was dimmer, sourced from solitary sconces that painted the walls in waves of amber and deep umber. Shadows gathered in the corners and curled around their ankles like affectionate cats.
Alastra stopped where the hallway gently curved, a small alcove providing a semblance of privacy. She turned to face him fully.
For a long, suspended moment, she simply looked at him. Her eyes traveled over the familiar, perfect features—the sharp blade of his cheekbone, the slight, amused quirk always ready at the corner of his mouth, the molten gold of his eyes that now watched her with a patience that felt infinite. He wasn't demanding. He wasn't coaxing. He was simply… waiting.
A faint, genuine smile, one that reached her eyes and warmed the ancient amber, finally touched her lips.
“You have been,” she began, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the distant music, “exceptionally patient this evening.”
His own mouth curled in restrained, deeply felt humor. “I have found, over rather a long existence, that the finest things are often those earned through restraint. The wait makes the tasting… exquisite.”
Her ears gave another helpless, shy flick. She inhaled, a slow, steadying breath that lifted the velvet over her chest. Then, with a courage that felt monumental, she slowly brought her hand from behind her back.
The mistletoe, slightly rumpled from her grip, lay glittering upon her open, gloved palm.
Lucifer froze.
Every ounce of his celestial composure, his infernal control, fractured. It was not a loud shatter, but a silent, profound cleaving, as if a diamond pane of glass had been struck by a silver needle. The air left his lungs in a soft, stunned rush.
Her voice, when it came, was delicate as the first frost, barely above the whisper of the candle flames. “I believe,” she said, her eyes lowering—not in submission, but in an offering of profound vulnerability—“that tradition… for all its foolishness… should not be denied entirely.”
With a trembling in her slender wrist that was not from weakness but from the seismic force of the gesture, she lifted the sprig between them. She held it aloft, a tiny, glowing canopy of green and white.
And then, quieter still, a breath shaped into words meant for him alone:
“Take what is yours… Sire.”
Silence.
The words did not just hit him; they unmade him. They were a bell struck in the deepest, most sacred chapel of a forgotten heaven, the vibration resonating in the marrow of his ancient bones. For the briefest, most profound instant, the King of All Hell forgot how to breathe, how to be, how to exist as anything other than the man standing before this woman.
His pupils dilated, the molten gold darkening to a deep, burnished bronze. Something ancient and powerful stirred behind his gaze—not cruelty, not violence, but a claiming so profound it bordered on reverence, a possessiveness forged from awe and a fierce, protective tenderness.
He stepped closer.
Not with haste.
With measured, predatory grace that was infinitely gentle.
“Alastra,” he murmured, his voice roughened, stripped of all pretense, dark with an emotion too vast to name. “Look at me.”
She did, her amber eyes wide. “Do you understand what you are offering?”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I do.”
“And you are certain?” The question was a gift, a final door held open.
She hesitated—not from fear or doubt, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of the wanting. The desire that mirrored his own, finally acknowledged.
Then, shyly, almost painfully tender:
“Yes… Your Majesty.”
He exhaled—a slow, shuddering release like that of a man who had been drowning in an ocean of longing and had finally, finally, broken the surface to find the air was sweet.
His hand rose. It hovered, trembling with the force of his restraint, just beside her cheek, giving her one last, tangible chance to turn away, to laugh it off, to rebuild the wall.
She did not.
Instead, she leaned—the smallest, most devastating movement—until the cool silk of her glove met the warmth of his palm.
That tiny surrender was all he needed. It was everything.
He cupped her face, his thumb finding and stroking the impossibly soft skin just beneath the elegant arch of her cheekbone. His other hand slid around her waist, firm and grounding, not dragging her, not forcing, but gathering her to him, making a space for her against him that felt, terrifyingly, like it had always existed.
He lowered his forehead to rest against hers, closing his eyes. For a moment that stretched into eternity, they did not kiss.
They breathed.
Shared air.
Shared warmth.
Shared a current of electricity so potent it shimmered in the air between their nearly touching lips.
“Pretty doe,” he whispered against her skin, his voice hushed with an awe he hadn't felt since the first dawn, “if I touch you now… if I kiss you… I may never be able to pretend indifference again. The game… ends here.”
Her long lashes fluttered against his skin. “Then…” her breath fanned his lips, “do not pretend.”
His resolve, his patience, his centuries of disciplined control, broke not with a snap, but with a melt, like winter’s grip yielding to the first true, persistent sun.
He tilted her chin up with the faintest pressure.
And kissed her.
It was soft.
Painfully soft.
A kiss like a prayer offered in a ruined temple.
A confession breathed into a sacred, shadowed space.
Something so tender it felt forbidden in its holiness, and so holy it felt like the greatest sin he’d ever committed.
Her lips were warm, softer than he’d ever dared imagine. She kissed with an elegant hesitance, a delicate exploration, tasting of quiet restraint finally, blissfully melting. The mistletoe, forgotten in her loosened grip, twinkled faintly above them, its silly magic humming with a satisfied, almost sentimental, glow.
Lucifer felt the universe reorder itself. He had forgotten, somewhere in the barren stretch of millennia, what true, agonizing anticipation did to a kiss. This was not conquest. It was not a performance for an audience of one or many. It was slow. Careful. Devoted. A pilgrimage.
He deepened it only by the most gradual of degrees, letting her feel every incremental shift—the increased pressure, the warmer angle, the closer fit of their mouths. It was a silent question with every movement, and she answered each one.
She made a sound—a soft, surprised sigh that vibrated against his mouth—and her hands, which had been hanging at her sides, lifted instinctively. They fisted gently in the lush velvet of his coat lapels, not pushing him away, but anchoring herself to the reality of him, as if she might otherwise float away.
He smiled against her mouth, a small curve of pure, unadulterated joy.
And then, he felt it—the moment she truly relaxed. The tension in her shoulders dissolved. The elegant line of her spine softened against his supporting arm. She opened to him, a silent, breathtaking permission.
His control, though firm, shifted to accommodate her surrender. He drew her closer, one hand splaying possessively at the small of her back, the other remaining cradling her face, his thumb stroking her cheek as if to soothe a tremor only he could feel.
The kiss deepened, turning warmer, darker. His lips moved with a new, thrilling intention—patient, regal, and deeply sensual—coaxing a response, tasting her, but never, ever taking more than she freely gave.
Her heart hammered against his chest, a frantic, beautiful rhythm. Her breath hitched, a tiny gasp caught between their lips.
And then—when she tentatively, shyly, parted her lips for him—the last of the world fell away. The hallway, the hotel, Hell itself, dissolved into a warm, dizzying nothing.
Their tongues brushed—a tentative, tender exploration. The sound she made then was soft, helpless, a quiet little whine of pure sensation that was swallowed into his mouth, a treasure he would hoard forever.
Heat, not of hellfire but of something purer, spiraled down his spine. He could have burned then, immolated on the spot, and he would have died content.
He kissed her deeper, but still with a heartbreaking slowness, savoring each second, each sigh, each tiny adjustment of her head. This was the sin he had been waiting for—the slow, deliberate, mutual unraveling.
Her fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his coat, pulling him infinitesimally closer without any conscious thought, a reflex of pure need. Her famed composure dissolved, piece by exquisite piece, replaced by something fragile, honest, and radiantly alive.
He broke the kiss only when the need for air became a physical ache, pulling back just enough to breathe against her swollen lips, his voice a rough, wrecked thing.
“Sweetheart…”
Her reply was barely there, a breathless sigh. “Sire…”
It was both a title and an endearment now, transformed by the touch of their mouths.
He kissed her again—slower this time, if possible, lingering, reverent—letting the wildfire settle into a steady, banked heat that promised to warm them for eternity.
When he finally drew back, it was only inches. His gaze was drenched in gold, devouring the sight of her. His thumb traced the flushed, damp edge of her lower lip, as if memorizing its exact shape and feel.
She looked utterly, beautifully dazed.
Elegant still—she could never be anything else—but softened, her cheeks flushed a deep rose, her ears dipped in a posture of vulnerable delight, her luminous eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears of overwhelmed emotion.
The mistletoe, its duty gloriously fulfilled, drifted from her slackened fingers to the floor between them, a silent, satisfied witness.
She swallowed, trying to find her voice in the wreckage of her poise. “That was… highly improper,” she murmured faintly, the words holding no reproach, only wonder.
He smiled—a dark, warm, triumphant smile that held all the joy of a king who had just been given the one thing his kingdom could never provide.
“That,” he said softly, his voice a caress, “was inevitable. Written in stars older than me, in laws deeper than sin.”
Her lips, kiss-swollen and beautiful, twitched into an almost shy smile of their own. “I did warn you about your… forwardness.”
“And I,” he replied, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that promised endless, thrilling tomorrows, “intend to thank you properly for your bravery. In time. All the time we have.”
Her breath shook at the promise—not crude, not rushed, but a profound assurance, layered with a respect that honored her and a desire that worshiped her.
He lifted her hand, the one that had held the mistletoe. He turned it over, and pressed another kiss to the center of her silk-clad palm, a seal over the point where the berry had pressed. It was gentler than any king had a right to be, more tender than Hell could comprehend.
“Your heart,” he murmured, his eyes ablaze yet impossibly soft, “is not mine to command. It never will be. But your trust tonight… the choice you placed in my hands…” He shook his head, as if the gift was too great. “I will treasure it beyond all the relics of Heaven and the treasures of Hell.”
She looked away, flustered in a way that was entirely new—a soft, human endearment on her timeless face. For Alastra, it meant the smallest tilt of her head, a veil of hair falling forward, and a faint, glowing blush that painted her from her cheekbones down to the scandalous, beautiful line of her collarbone.
“You speak with a sweetness that could damn a saint, Your Majesty,” she whispered, her voice regaining a ghost of its former steadiness, but forever changed.
He chuckled, the sound rich and full of a joy so deep it was quiet.
“And yet,” he teased, his tone whisper-soft, “you do not ask me to stop.”
She met his gaze then, and in her eyes, he saw the future—a beautiful, terrifying, shared precipice—and her answer was a shy, undeniable smile.
The silence after the kiss was a living thing, thick and sweet, humming with the aftershocks of their shattered pretenses. Alastra stood within the circle of his arms, her forehead still resting lightly against his, as if the connection, once forged, was too precious to sever completely. But the full force of her actions, the boldness of having plucked the mistletoe and offered herself beneath it, now came crashing down upon her with the subtlety of a fallen chandelier.
A tremor, fine and constant, began in the hands that still clutched the velvet of his coat. She slowly, reluctantly, uncurled her fingers, letting the rich fabric slip from her grasp as if it had grown too hot to hold. Her breathing, which had steadied slightly during the kiss, now hitched again in short, fluttering bursts against his chin.
Slowly, she pulled her head back, breaking the contact of their foreheads. Her gaze, when it finally met his, was a storm of conflicting emotions. The ancient, knowing amber was still there, but it was clouded with a dazed, vulnerable sheen.
And then, as if her body were operating on an instinct older than speech, her delicate, deer-like ears—which had been upright and alert during their encounter—completely folded down.
They didn't just dip shyly; they pressed flat back against the crown of her head, the velvety black tips nearly vanishing into the deep crimson waves of her hair. It was a gesture of profound exposure, the equivalent of a human curling into a ball. It spoke of a creature feeling too seen, too cherished, too overwhelmed.
Lucifer’s gaze, which had been drinking in her kiss-softened features with reverent intensity, now caught this change. His eyes, molten and dark, flickered from her wide eyes to the subdued line of her ears. A new emotion, warm and sparkling, bloomed amidst the desire and awe in his chest.
Amusement.
Not mockery.
Never that.
But a deep, delighted, and utterly charmed amusement at this unveiling of a sweetness he had only guessed at. The mighty Alastra, the poised and perilous doe demon, brought to a state of flustered, ear-pinning shyness by a single kiss—his kiss. The power of it was more intoxicating than any subjugation.
Before he could voice a single teasing, adoring word, another movement caught his sharp eye.
From the elegant fall of her velvet coat, just at the base of her spine, emerged a sight he was certain he had never witnessed: her tail. It was a slender, graceful thing, covered in the same russet fur as her ears, ending in a tuft of that inky black. Usually, it was held still, a subtle, elegant extension of her perfect posture.
Now, it betrayed her completely.
It gave a single, frantic, unmistakable wag.
A quick, nervous flick from side to side, like that of a startled fawn. It was over in a second, and she seemed to consciously still it, but the evidence was there. She had wagged her tail. The combination—the flattened ears, the wagging tail—painted a picture of a creature whose elegant composure had been utterly short-circuited by delight.
Lucifer’s lips, still tingling from the taste of her, parted. A soft, breathy sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, more a sigh of pure, unadulterated enchantment. The last remnants of the King of Hell’s aloof detachment melted away, leaving behind a man who was profoundly, hopelessly charmed.
“Well,” he murmured, his voice a low, warm rumble that vibrated in the intimate space between them. He lifted the hand that had been cradling her face, but instead of pulling away, he let his fingers drift upwards, with infinite care, to brush against the downy-soft fur of one flattened ear.
She jolted at the touch, a full-body shiver running through her. A squeak—an actual, tiny, undignified squeak—escaped her before she could clamp her lips shut. Her eyes flew to his, wide with mortification.
“Your Majesty—!” she began, her voice a strained whisper.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his thumb stroking the delicate ridge where ear met skull. The gesture was impossibly tender. “They’re adorable. You are adorable.”
“I am not adorable,” she protested, the words lacking any real heat, undermined by the way she was unconsciously, helplessly, leaning into his gentle touch. “I am… discomposed. It is an untenable state.”
“It is a perfect state,” he corrected, his amusement softening into something deeper, more affectionate. “It is honest.” His gaze dipped, a playful glint entering the gold. “And I must confess, the tail was a particularly captivating detail. I feel uniquely privileged to have witnessed it.”
At the mention of her tail, she stiffened, as if suddenly remembering it had a will of its own. She tried to take a step back, to reclaim some physical and emotional distance, but his arm around her waist held her with gentle, unyielding firmness.
“Lucifer,” she whispered, his name—his true name—a plea and an accusation on her lips.
Hearing it, without title, in that flustered, breathy tone, sent a new jolt of pure possession through him. His smile widened, becoming a thing of wicked, delighted beauty. “Say that again.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“It would only encourage you.”
“I am already so thoroughly encouraged, my dear doe, that I may simply float away.” He leaned in, his nose brushing the sensitive tip of her other ear, which twitched violently under the attention. “But if you wish to ground me, saying my name would be a tremendous help.”
She was battling a smile. He could see it trembling at the corners of her mouth, fighting against her instinctive need to rebuild her walls. The blush on her cheeks had deepened to a glorious rose-gold, spreading down her neck. Her ears remained pinned, but the tail, betrayer that it was, gave another tiny, hesitant twitch.
“You are incorrigible,” she breathed, but the foundation was gone from the reprimand.
“For you?” he whispered back, his lips now close to her cheek. “Always.” He placed a feather-light kiss just below her cheekbone, then another on the crest of her flushed cheek. “I find I have a newfound appreciation for Sinsmas traditions. We must ensure the mistletoe remains a permanent fixture.”
This finally spurred her into action. With a strength that surprised him, she planted her hands on his chest and gave a firm, but not ungentle, push. He allowed it, releasing his hold on her waist and ear, letting her step back into the alcove’s shadows. She immediately turned her profile to him, a classic retreat, one gloved hand coming up to fan her heated face.
“You are… overwhelming,” she stated, her voice striving for its old composure and landing somewhere delightfully breathless and ruffled.
Lucifer leaned one shoulder against the damask wall, crossing his arms over his chest, the picture of satisfied, masculine amusement. He watched her try to collect herself—the deep, steadying breaths that lifted the velvet over her bust, the way she smoothed her hair with trembling fingers, the conscious effort to will her ears back up to their proper, alert position. They obeyed, slowly, but the black tips still quivered.
“Only because you are so delightfully overwhelmable,” he countered gently. “A fortress with a single, beautifully hidden gate.”
She shot him a glance from the corner of her eye, a flash of amber that was both exasperated and fond. “Do not compose poetry about my distress. It is unsporting.”
“It’s not distress,” he said, pushing off the wall and taking a single, closing step. He didn’t touch her, but his presence enveloped her again. “It’s revelation. And I am a connoisseur of beautiful revelations.”
He offered his arm, elbow bent in a courtly gesture. “Shall we return? Before Charlie sends a search party, convinced I’ve finally tempted you into a literal deal with the devil?”
A genuine, if shaky, laugh escaped her. It was a beautiful, unguarded sound. She looked at his proffered arm, then up at his face—at the open affection and amusement written there, so different from the mask of sly majesty he usually wore. The shyness was still there, thrumming in her veins, making her ears want to dip again. But beneath it was a new, steadying warmth.
With a grace that was returning by the second, she placed her gloved hand lightly in the crook of his elbow. “Very well. But you will behave.”
“I shall be the very portrait of regal decorum,” he promised, leading her slowly back toward the sound of music and laughter.
“A portrait I have never seen,” she muttered.
He leaned his head conspiratorially toward hers. “Then it will be a debut. For you, and you alone, pretty doe… I can be on my best behavior.” The glint in his eye promised the exact opposite, but it was a promise she found, to her own astonishment, she no longer feared.
As they re-entered the glow of the lobby, side-by-side, a few heads turned. But the sight of Alastra, still gloriously flushed, her hand on the King’s arm, and Lucifer, radiating a smug, peaceful joy that softened his otherwise sharp edges, silenced any commentary. The mistletoe sprigs seemed to glow a little brighter as they passed.
Her shyness was a secret they now shared, a treasure he guarded more fiercely than any crown jewel. And his amusement was not at her expense, but a celebration of the beautiful, vulnerable truth she had finally allowed him to see.
They re-entered the glowing chaos of the lobby with a studied, deliberate normalcy. A careful inch of air separated Alastra’s shoulder from Lucifer’s arm, though the memory of his touch seemed to radiate heat between them. Her posture was once again a masterclass in elegant composure, her chin lifted, her gaze sweeping the room with its usual polite detachment. Lucifer, beside her, had re-donned his mask of benign, regal amusement, nodding graciously at a passing imp.
To the casual observer, they were simply the King and the formidable hotelier returning from a private discussion. The charged silence, the shared breath, the devastating softness of the kiss might as well have been a dream.
But Hell, especially this corner of it, had very few casual observers.
Angel Dust, leaning against the bar with a drink in one hand and his other draped around Husk’s reluctant shoulders, had eyes like a hawk when it came to scandal. They narrowed, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face as the couple passed under the glow of the chandelier. The light caught something—a tiny, telling smudge against the perfect, pale canvas of Lucifer’s skin.
“Well, well, well,” Angel drawled, his voice slicing through the ambient noise like a silk-covered razor. He pushed off the bar, sauntering into their path with theatrical glee. “Look what the cat dragged in! Or should I say, look what the doe dragged in?”
Alastra stopped, her smile polite but frozen. Lucifer merely raised a brow, the picture of mild inquiry.
“Something on your mind, Angel?” Lucifer’s tone was light, but held a subtle warning.
“Oh, not much, boss-man.” Angel circled them with exaggerated scrutiny, his eyes locked on Lucifer’s face. “Just admirin’ the new holiday decor. Very… matte crimson. Classic. Bold. A little smudged around the edges, though.” He stopped directly in front of Lucifer, his grin becoming impossibly wide. “Ya got a little something… right there.”
He pointed a perfectly manicured finger at his own lip, mirroring the spot.
For a horrifying second, Alastra didn’t understand. Then her eyes, following Angel’s gesture, landed on Lucifer’s mouth.
There, at the curve of his lower lip, was a faint but unmistakable smear of deep, rich red. Her red. The precise shade of her lipstick, now marring the pristine perfection of his complexion like a flag planted on conquered territory.
All the blood in her body seemed to rush to her face at once. The blush that followed was not the soft rose of earlier, but a catastrophic, full-bodied crimson that burned from the roots of her hair down to her collarbone, visible even above the velvet. Her delicate ears, which had been valiantly held upright, collapsed back against her skull in utter mortification.
A tiny, choked sound escaped her.
Lucifer, however, didn’t flinch. He brought a contemplative finger to his own lip, touching the spot, then looked at the faint red stain on his fingertip. His expression shifted from mild inquiry to one of dawning, mischievous comprehension. The look he then slid to Alastra was pure, unadulterated devilry.
“So I do,” he mused aloud, his voice a lazy purr. “How… careless of me.”
“Careless, my ass!” Angel cackled, delighted. “Looks like somebody was playin’ a little too rough under the mistletoe! Got a lipstick war goin’ on?”
The attention of the immediate vicinity was now fully upon them. Husk rolled his eyes but watched. Vaggie was trying not to smile. Charlie’s hands were clasped over her mouth, her eyes shining with unsuppressed glee.
Alastra moved on pure, flustered instinct. “A—a napkin, please,” she stammered, her usually melodic voice tight with panic. She stepped toward Lucifer, a silk-gloved hand lifting with the clear intention of wiping the damning evidence away.
Lucifer caught her wrist gently, but firmly, stopping her inches from his face. His fingers circled the delicate bones beneath the silk, a warm, unyielding bracelet.
“Now, now,” he chided softly, his eyes locked on hers, glittering with amusement and something far more possessive. “Such a rush.”
“Lucifer,” she whispered, the name a desperate plea, her eyes darting to the snickering audience. “Let me—it’s—“
“It’s what?” he asked, tilting his head, bringing her captured hand down but not releasing it. “Evidence of a crime?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping so only she could hear the next words, though his theatrical tone invited everyone to guess. “Or a trophy?”
Angel whooped. “A trophy! I like that! Gettin’ marked by the lady! That’s hardcore, your majesty!”
Alastra was going to spontaneously combust. The heat in her cheeks was of volcanic intensity. She tried to pull her wrist back, but he held it fast, his thumb stroking a soothing, maddening pattern over her pulse point.
“Please,” she hissed, mortification warring with a strange, fluttering thrill at his public claim.
Seeing her genuine distress begin to edge past the fluster, Lucifer relented—but only partially. He released her wrist, but instead of letting her wipe the smudge, he caught her other hand and drew her subtly closer, turning them slightly away from the worst of the gawking.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble meant to both soothe and entice. “Since it troubles you so.” He made a show of leaning his face down toward hers, as if presenting the offending spot for cleaning. “Do your worst.”
Her hands trembled as she finally, with the corner of a hastily procured napkin from a nearby table, dabbed at his lip. The action was intensely intimate, her focus entirely on the small patch of his skin, her breath held. She could feel the warmth of him, see the subtle curve of his smile beneath her ministrations. The red came away easily, leaving his mouth perfectly pristine once more.
She let out a shaky breath, starting to withdraw, the nightmare hopefully over.
But as she pulled the napkin away, Lucifer’s hand came up again, not to stop her, but to gently cup her chin, forcing her mortified gaze back to his. His eyes were dark pools of golden mischief and promise.
“For the record,” he said, his voice still low, but no longer trying to hide from the eager ears around them, “I rather liked it.”
Angel hooted again. “Yeah? You want a whole face full?”
Lucifer’s gaze never left Alastra’s burning face. His smile was wicked, tender, and utterly sincere. “Later,” he said, the word a velvet-wrapped vow that silenced even Angel’s cackling for a beat. His thumb brushed the clean line of her own lipstick. “I wouldn’t mind being covered in it.”
The world stopped.
Alastra’s brain short-circuited. The blush, which had begun to recede, surged back with a vengeance, hotter and deeper than before. It wasn't just on her face; she felt it like a fever across her entire body. A tiny, high-pitched whine, utterly unlike any sound she had ever made, escaped her tightened throat. Her ears were so flat they were practically part of her hair. For a moment, she was utterly, completely paralyzed, lost in the profound embarrassment and the shocking, thrilling intimacy of his words.
With a final, overwhelmed gasp, she turned on her heel, the picture of elegant disarray, and fled—not to the shadows this time, but toward the relative sanctuary of the kitchen, needing walls and solitude to process the fact that the King of Hell had just publicly, and poetically, stated his desire to wear her lipstick.
Lucifer watched her go, the smug, deeply satisfied smile settling into something softer, more awe-struck. He touched his clean lip again, the ghost of her touch and the memory of her color lingering.
Angel sidled up next to him, following his gaze. “Damn, boss. You broke her. I didn’t think that was possible.”
Lucifer chuckled, the sound rich and full of a quiet joy. “Not broken, Angel,” he corrected softly, his eyes shining.
“Unfurled.” He finally looked away from the doorway she’d vanished through, meeting Angel’s grin with one of his own. “And I intend to be there for every single, breathtaking moment of it.”
He accepted the drink Husk wordlessly shoved into his hand, the smear of crimson gone from his lips, but the mark of her, he knew, was now indelibly etched upon him for all to see. And he had never been more pleased with a piece of holiday finery in all his long existence.
The Sinsmas party swirled on, a vibrant, noisy carousel of demonic cheer. Alastra had found a semblance of equilibrium at the far end of the polished bar, a half-finished glass of something crystalline and faintly glowing clasped between her gloves. The initial, volcanic blush had subsided to a warm, persistent flush that painted her cheekbones and the elegant tips of her ears. The sharp edges of her composure had been gently softened, not shattered, by a combination of lingering mortification and the potent, frost-kissed liquor Husk kept pouring.
She was, in a word, tipsy.
Not staggering, not slurring. But the world had taken on a pleasant, humming warmth. The lights glimmered with extra halos, the music wrapped around her like a cozy blanket, and the memory of Lucifer’s mouth on hers, and his scandalous words afterwards, felt less like a shocking brand and more like a delicious, secret thrill humming under her skin.
Lucifer had taken up a post a few feet away, leaning against the bar with a drink of his own, a dark amber liquid he swirled idly in its glass. He was a silent, watchful sentinel. His golden gaze tracked the room with lazy disinterest, but its focus perpetually circled back to her, a lighthouse beam finding its shore. He watched the way she now smiled more easily at Charlie’s animated stories, the way her shoulders had lost their perpetual rigid tension. He saw the slight, unconscious sway in her posture as she listened to the music, the way her fingers tapped a delicate rhythm against her glass.
He was keeping watch. Not as a warden, but as a curator, savoring this rare, unguarded exhibition of Alastra Unbound.
Eventually, the small crowd around her dispersed, pulled away by other festivities. For a moment, it was just the two of them at the quiet end of the bar, an island of intimate calm in the festive sea. She turned on her stool to face him, the movement a little slower, a little more fluid than her usual precise grace.
Her eyes, those ancient amber pools, were luminous and slightly unfocused as they found his. The boldness from earlier, fueled by panic and mistletoe, was gone. In its place was a softer, more vulnerable courage, buoyed by liquid warmth.
“Your Majesty,” she began, her voice a melodic murmur, slightly thicker than usual.
“Sweetheart,” he replied, his own voice a low, warm counterpoint. He pushed off the bar and took the single step that closed the distance between them, entering her orbit. “Enjoying the festivities?”
“Mmm,” she hummed, a soft, agreeable sound. She looked down into her glass, then back up at him through her dark lashes. “They are… very loud.”
“They are indeed.” He reached out and, with a touch so gentle it was barely there, brushed a stray wave of crimson hair back from her shoulder. “You’ve been remarkably tolerant of the noise.”
She leaned into the touch for a second, like a cat seeking warmth, before seeming to remember herself. She took a final, small sip from her glass, setting it down with a decisive clink. The alcohol shimmered through her, lending her an ethereal fearlessness.
“The noise will end,” she said, her gaze steady on his. “The hotel will grow quiet.”
“It will,” he agreed, watching her, intrigued by the new direction of her thoughts.
She bit her lower lip, a nervous gesture she would never have allowed in her fully sober state. Her lips, he noted with a thrill, were now bare. The perfect, matte crimson was gone, carefully wiped away after the bar incident, leaving only the natural, softer pink of her mouth, slightly swollen from earlier kisses. The sight was somehow more intimate, more real.
“My rooms,” she said, the words escaping in a soft, hurried whisper, as if she had to say them quickly or lose her nerve. “They are… very quiet.”
Lucifer went perfectly still, the casual swirl of his drink ceasing. The ambient noise of the party faded into a distant roar. Every particle of his being focused on the slight, tipsy doe demon before him.
“Are they?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
She nodded, her eyes wide and earnest. “Extremely. And… I could…” She trailed off, her gaze dropping to his mouth, then to the small velvet purse resting on the bar beside her. A hint of a smile, shy and wicked, touched her bare lips. “I could put some on again. The lipstick.”
The air between them crackled. Lucifer felt a dark, sweet heat coil in his chest.
“Could you?” he prompted, his voice a velvet-rough whisper.
She nodded again, leaning in slightly. The scent of frosty liquor and her own unique fragrance—like winter roses and old books—waffed toward him. “And then… I could give you your gift. Properly.”
“And what gift is that, pretty doe?” he asked, though he knew. Oh, he knew.
“Kisses,” she breathed, the word a secret, a promise, a sublime offering. “The ones I owe you. The ones you… liked.” The memory of his words—‘I wouldn’t mind being covered in it’—hung between them, making her flush deepen. “A gift. Just… kisses.”
For a long moment, Lucifer simply looked at her. He saw the faint tremor in her hands, the vulnerable hope in her eyes, the incredible bravery it took for her, in her tipsy state, to be this forward. She wasn't demanding, wasn't seducing in the classic sense. She was offering. A gift, wrapped in her own shyness and sealed with the promise of reapplied crimson.
A dark, low chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated male pleasure and deep, tender amusement. It was not a laugh at her, but a testament to the exquisite, unexpected wonder of her.
He leaned in close, his lips nearly brushing the sensitive, velvety curve of her ear, now tipped with that adorable, flushed black. His whisper was a devil’s vow, a king’s pledge. “Just kisses?”
She shivered, her eyes closing for a second. “To start,” she whispered back, the two words holding a universe of possibility.
He straightened, capturing her gloved hand in his. He brought it to his lips, not kissing the silk this time, but turning it over and pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the center of her palm, right where the bare skin would be. It was a kiss of sealing a pact.
“Then I will come,” he said, his voice leaving no room for doubt, only dark, thrilling certainty. “When the noise ends. When the hotel is quiet. I will come to your quiet rooms, Alastra.”
He released her hand, his gaze burning into hers. “And I will gladly accept your gift.”
The look she gave him then—tipsy, shy, blazing with a mixture of terror and desire—would fuel him for centuries. She simply nodded, seeming to have used up all her bold words.
—
The last of the Sinsmas clamor had finally bled away into the deep, watchful silence of the hotel after midnight. The echoes of laughter and jazzy music were replaced by the soft, settling sighs of the ancient building itself, the faint hiss of hellfire embers in distant grates, and the quiet, rhythmic thud of Lucifer's own heart against his ribs as he stood before her door.
He had given her time. Time for the party to die, for the guests to disperse, for the tipsy blush to settle into something more intentional. He had changed as well, shedding the theatrical Santa coat for simple, elegant black trousers and a shirt of fine, dark silk, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled casually to his forearms. He was not the King making a state visit, but a man answering a private, perilous invitation.
He raised his hand and knocked. The sound was soft, but in the corridor's hush, it was as definitive as a gavel strike.
A moment of silence stretched, so long he wondered if she had fallen asleep, or fled, or reconsidered. Then, a voice, melodic and clear, yet softer than he’d ever heard it, came from within.
“Enter.”
He turned the handle and stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet, final click.
The sight that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs and short-circuited a thousand years of practiced composure.
Fuck.
She was… gorgeous. The word was a pale, mortal thing, utterly insufficient.
Alastra was seated on the edge of her large, canopied bed, the frame dark carved wood against walls of deep burgundy. She had changed out of the elaborate velvet dress. Now, she was draped in a robe of crushed black velvet, so dark it seemed to drink the low light from the single crystal lamp on her nightstand. The robe was not fully closed. It parted generously down the front, held together only by a loose, silken tie at her waist that did little to obscure the reality beneath.
It revealed a breathtaking length of slender, ivory leg, bent at the knee where she sat. It hinted at the gentle curve of her hip, the dip of her waist. The velvet folds gaped open at her chest, not brazenly, but with a devastating carelessness that revealed the soft, shadowed swell of her breasts, the elegant line of her sternum. Her crimson hair, freed from its usual precise waves, cascaded over one shoulder in a tousled, silken river, the black ends stark against the pale skin of her collarbone.
And her face… Her face was a masterpiece of quiet intent. Her delicate features were serene, but her ancient amber eyes held a dark, knowing light. She had, as promised, applied the lipstick. Her lips were a perfect, matte crimson once more, a bold and deliberate slash of color against the porcelain perfection of her skin. They were parted just slightly, waiting.
She looked like a painting of a queen awaiting her consort—not in a throne room, but in the sacred, silent space of her own bedchamber. Every ounce of her usual defensive poise was gone, replaced by a languid, deliberate vulnerability. She was offering not just kisses, but a vision. A promise. Herself.
Lucifer leaned back against the door for a moment, needing the solid wood to ground him. His golden eyes drank her in, a slow, scorching survey from the loose waves of her hair, down the tantalizing open robe, to her bare feet peeking from beneath the velvet hem. A heat, slow and syrupy-thick, unfurled in his veins.
“You,” he said finally, his voice a rough scrape of sound, “are a vision designed to ruin kings, Alastra.”
A faint, pleased smile touched her crimson lips. “Only one king, I should hope,” she replied, her voice a soft murmur in the quiet room.
“You have your wish.” He pushed off the door and walked toward her, his steps slow, measured, each one a conscious decision against the urge to simply fall upon her. The air grew warmer, scented with her—jasmine, cold stone, and the waxy perfume of the lipstick.
He stopped before her, close enough that the heat from his body brushed against her knees. He did not reach for her. Not yet. He simply looked down, letting her feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his appreciation.
“Your gift,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on her mouth. “It is even more beautifully wrapped than I imagined.”
Her composure wavered, a faint tremor passing through her. She had orchestrated this scene, but now, under the full force of his focused attention, a sliver of her old shyness returned. Her ears, which had been relaxed, twitched slightly. “The gift is the same,” she whispered. “Only the… wrapping has changed.”
“The wrapping is a gift in itself,” he countered, his voice low and hypnotic. Slowly, he lifted a hand. He didn’t touch her skin. Instead, his fingertips brushed the rich, soft pile of the black velvet where it lay over her knee. He traced the fabric upward, following the line of her thigh, a teasing, maddening caress through the material. “May I?” he asked, his gaze flicking to the loose tie at her waist.
Her breath hitched. She gave a single, small nod.
With infinite slowness, his fingers found the silken tie. He didn’t pull it. He simply hooked a finger into the loose knot and gave it the gentlest tug. It came undone, the ends slipping free. The velvet robe fell open a fraction more, revealing the delicate lace edge of what lay beneath—a slip of ivory silk so fine it was nearly translucent.
Lucifer’s jaw tightened. The discipline it took not to push the fabric from her shoulders was Herculean.
He let the tie drop. His hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs stroking the high arch of her cheekbones. He bent, bringing his face level with hers. Her eyes were wide, her lips glistening.
“You said ‘to start’,” he whispered, his breath mingling with hers. “These gifted kisses. Where,” his lips brushed the corner of her mouth, not a kiss, but a phantom touch, “would you like me to collect them?”
The question, so gently predatory, shattered the last of her nervousness. A spark of her own daring lit in her eyes. She lifted a hand, her fingers, cool and soft, tracing the line of his jaw. “Wherever you wish them to be, Sire,” she breathed. “But the first… should be where they were promised.”
A dark, thrilling smile touched his lips. “A woman of her word.”
Finally, he closed the last millimeter of distance.
The first kiss was a reunion. Soft, searching, a slow melding of warmth. He could taste the unique, waxy-sweet flavor of her lipstick, the sharper, cleaner taste of her beneath it. It was deeper than their kiss under the mistletoe, less surprised, more profound. A homecoming.
He took his time, learning the shape of her mouth anew, savoring the soft, giving pressure of her lips. One of his hands slid from her face into the heavy silk of her hair, cradling the back of her head. The other remained, trembling with restraint, on her knee.
She sighed into his mouth, a sound of pure surrender, her own hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the powerful, rapid beat of his heart through the fine silk of his shirt.
When he finally broke the kiss, it was only to trail his lips, now faintly stained with red, along her jawline, down the elegant column of her throat. He placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss at the frantic pulse point there, feeling it leap against his lips.
“One,” he murmured against her skin, his voice vibrating through her.
He continued his descent, the velvet robe falling further open with each movement he didn’t quite make. He kissed the hollow of her throat, the sharp crest of her collarbone, each press of his lips a deliberate, worshipful brand. He lingered at the upper swell of her breast, just above the edge of her ivory slip, his breath hot against the delicate lace.
“Two…” His hands, which had been so controlled, began to move. One slid from her knee up the smooth skin of her thigh, beneath the parted velvet, coming to rest on the curve of her hip, his fingers pressing into the softness there. The other hand remained tangled in her hair, gently guiding her head back to give him better access.
He looked up at her then, his face level with her chest, his eyes glowing with molten fire. “The third,” he said, his voice a dark promise, “should be right here.” His thumb brushed over the lace covering her nipple, a teasing, electric touch through the fragile silk.
A soft cry escaped her, her back arching slightly. She was unraveling, beautifully, completely, under the relentless, tender assault of his attentions.
He didn’t rush. He lowered his head, and through the fine silk, he took the pebbled peak into his mouth, applying a soft, sucking pressure. The crimson of her lipstick transferred to the pale fabric, a ghostly, erotic stain.
Alastra gasped, her fingers twisting in his hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. “Lucifer…”
He released her with a soft, wet sound, lifting his head to look at her. His lips were smudged with red, his eyes wild with passion barely leashed. “My beautiful, generous doe,” he breathed, climbing up her body to claim her mouth again, deeply, passionately, letting her taste the desperation he was so carefully holding back.
The kiss was a conflagration. All slow pretense burned away in the heat of mutual need. His hands slid the velvet robe fully from her shoulders, letting it pool around her hips on the bed. He broke the kiss only to shrug out of his own shirt, casting it aside, needing to feel her skin against his.
In the dim light, they were a study in contrasts: his pale, sculpted perfection against her softer, ivory curves; the ink of his skin against the unmarked canvas of her skin; the smudged, shared crimson on both their mouths.
He laid her back against the pillows, following her down, covering her body with his, but holding his weight on his elbows. He looked down at her, her hair fanned out, her lips parted and reddened, her eyes dark with desire and trust.
“The gift,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to her forehead, then each eyelid. “Is the most precious I have ever been given.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But it is not complete.”
“It isn’t?” she breathed, her hands roaming over the hard planes of his back.
“No.” He lowered his mouth to hers once more, a kiss that was both a claim and a question. “A gift,” he murmured against her lips, “implies a giver. And I find… I am not nearly done worshipping her.”
And as he began to trail those gifted kisses down her body once more, past the lace, past every boundary, Alastra knew with a thrilling certainty that the quiet of her rooms would be filled, until dawn, with a far sweeter, more sacred noise.
The world had narrowed to the space of her large, canopied bed, to the heat of his skin against hers, the intoxicating scent of their mingled breaths, and the devastating trail of fire his lips blazed down her body. Each kiss through the fragile silk of her slip was a promise, each whispered endearment a key turning in a lock she’d kept sealed for eons. Alastra was adrift in a sea of sensation, her fingers tangled in his pale gold hair, guiding him, urging him on as he worshipped the slope of her breast, the quivering plane of her stomach.
But then, as his mouth lingered at the delicate lace edge tracing her hip, a change occurred. The possessive hunger in his touch gentled. The kisses became softer, more reverent than demanding. His hands, which had been mapping her curves with a thrilling urgency, slowed their exploration, settling to cradle her hips with a tenderness that felt suddenly… final.
He pressed one last, lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh, then slowly, so slowly, began to retrace his path upward. His movements were deliberate, achingly so, placing soft, closed-mouth kisses on her stomach, her sternum, the hollow of her throat, before finally returning to her mouth. This kiss was different from the ones that preceded it. It was deep, yes, and filled with a smoldering heat, but it was also a kiss of conclusion. A period, not a comma.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged but controlled. His eyes were closed, long lashes dark against his flushed skin. He held himself above her, the muscles in his arms corded with tension, but he did not move to remove the last barrier of silk between them. He did not seek to deepen the intimacy further.
A cold, sharp blade of panic stabbed through Alastra’s haze of pleasure.
The warmth in her veins turned to ice. The languid, trusting surrender curdled into confusion, then into a sharp, devastating fear.
He’s stopping.
The thought was a deafening roar in the sudden quiet of the room. Her mind, so adept at calculation and reading subtext, spiraled into the darkest interpretation. His restraint, which moments ago had felt like worship, now felt like a brutal, silent rejection.
He doesn’t want me.
He was tempted by the game, by the chase, by the kisses… but not by this. Not by all of me.
The evidence seemed irrefutable. He was the King of Hell, a being of infinite appetite and instant gratification. If he wanted her, truly wanted her, he would have taken her. The fact that he was pulling away, that he was exercising this infuriating, gentle control… it could only mean one thing. She had offered the gift, and he was politely, devastatingly, declining the full measure.
Her breath hitched, turning into a shallow, painful gasp. The beautiful vulnerability she had embraced now felt like a grotesque exposure. She felt foolish. She had sat here in her robe, painted her lips, offered herself like a feast, and he… he was pushing the plate away.
Tears, hot and humiliating, sprang to her eyes, blurring the vision of his face so close to hers. She tried to turn her head away, to hide the crumbling of her composure, but he was too close.
Lucifer felt the change immediately. The soft, pliant body beneath him went rigid. The hands in his hair stilled, then fell away to clutch at the sheets. The most terrifying sound—a small, broken inhalation that was the precursor to a sob—reached his ears.
His eyes flew open.
The sight before him fractured something in his chest. Her face was turned to the side, but he could see the tear tracing a silver path through the faint smudge of crimson at her temple. Her lower lip, that beautifully painted lip he had just been kissing, was trembling violently. The ancient, proud light in her amber eyes was extinguished, replaced by a raw, wounded shame that was a thousand times worse than any anger.
“Alastra?” His voice was rough with concern, with a dawning horror. “Sweetheart, what is it? Did I hurt you?”
The question, so tender, so utterly missing the point, was the final straw. A choked sound escaped her, part sob, part bitter laugh. She shoved against his chest, a weak, frantic push.
“Please… just… get off.” The words were strangled, thick with tears. She couldn’t bear the weight of him, the evidence of his unwanted desire pressing down on her. “I understand. It’s… it’s fine. Just let me go.”
“Let you go?” he echoed, bewildered, but he immediately rolled to the side, releasing her from his weight, though he stayed close on the bed, propped on one elbow. He reached for her, but she flinched away as if burned, scrambling back against the headboard, pulling the rumpled black velvet robe around herself like a shield. The movement was frantic, wounded.
“Alastra, look at me.” His tone was firmer now, laced with a command that came from panic. “Tell me what is happening in that brilliant, terrifying mind of yours right now.”
She wouldn’t look at him. She hugged her knees to her chest, making herself small. The crimson on her lips was a mocking joke. “You don’t have to… explain,” she whispered, the words dripping with icy, wounded pride. “Your… disinterest is perfectly clear. I misread the… the depth of your… whim.” The last word was a poisoned dart.
Disinterest. Whim.
The words hit him like physical blows. Finally, with a staggering clarity, he understood. He saw the scene through her eyes: the infamous Lucifer Morningstar, who took whatever he desired, stopping at the precipice. To her, it wasn’t restraint. It was the most profound rejection imaginable.
“Oh, my dear, beautiful, foolish doe,” he breathed, the ache in his voice profound. He didn’t try to touch her again. Instead, he sat up fully, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You think I stopped because I don’t want you?”
“The evidence is rather conclusive,” she spat, though the effect was ruined by the tremor in her voice.
He laughed then, a short, harsh, pained sound. “Look at me, Alastra.”
Driven by the raw pain in his command, her tear-filled eyes finally flicked to his face. He took her hand—the one clutching the robe—and gently, insistently, pulled it away. He didn’t guide it to his face, but lower, to the front of his trousers, to the hard, undeniable, and frankly straining evidence of his desire pressed against the fine fabric.
The shock of the contact, the sheer, rigid proof of his physical want, made her gasp, her fingers jerking but not pulling away.
“Does that,” he ground out, his voice dark and strained, “feel like disinterest to you?”
Her eyes widened, flying from their joined hands to his face. The confusion was now paramount, warring with the hurt.
“Then… why?” The question was a bare, broken whisper.
All the intensity, the devilish charm, the kingly arrogance melted from his expression, leaving behind something terrifyingly sincere and raw. He released her hand, but cupped her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear with a touch so gentle it made her want to cry anew.
“Because,” he said, each word measured, poured like molten gold into the space between them. “What I want is not a whim. It is not a night. It is not simply the taking of a gift, no matter how beautifully offered.”
He leaned in, his forehead touching hers again, his eyes holding hers captive. “I have waited through the slow death of stars for you, Alastra. Do you truly believe I would ruin it by rushing you in a moment of passion, when you are warm with wine and the novelty of surrender?”
He took a shuddering breath. “I want you. By all the silent heavens and roaring hells, I want you. Every sigh, every tremble, every inch of you. But I want you clear. I want you certain. I want your ‘yes’ in the cold, sober light of dawn, not just in the warm, tipsy shadow of midnight.” His thumb stroked her cheekbone. “I stopped not because my desire failed, but because my reverence for you won. I will not be another thing that happens to you. I will be a choice you make, with your eyes wide open.”
The truth of his words, the staggering, humbling care in them, dismantled her panic brick by brick. The rejection she had felt transformed, morphing into something else entirely: a protection so fierce it stole her breath. He wasn’t pushing her away. He was holding the door open wider, ensuring she walked through it wholly of her own will.
The tears that fell now were of a different sort. The wounded pride dissolved, replaced by a wave of emotion so powerful it shook her. She looked at him—really looked—at the tension in his jaw, the feverish glow in his eyes that spoke of desire ruthlessly leashed, the unwavering tenderness in his touch.
He wanted her. He was agonizing with it. And he was choosing her safety, her certainty, over the immediate satiation of that want.
Slowly, tentatively, she uncurled. She lifted her own hand and placed it over his where it cradled her face, leaning into the touch.
“I am certain,” she whispered, the words firmer now. “The wine… it only gave me the courage to say what has been in my heart. The ‘yes’ was always there, Lucifer. It is here now.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of relief and adoration washing over his features. When he opened them, the gold was soft, molten. “Then let it stay there, sweetheart. Let it grow in the sunlight. We have time. An eternity, if I have my way.” He brushed his lips against hers, a chaste, sealing kiss. “Tonight… tonight was perfect. Your gift was perfect. Let that be enough. For now.”
He gathered her into his arms, not in passion, but in shelter. He pulled the blankets over them both, holding her close against his chest, where she could feel the furious, steady beat of his heart slowly calming.
And Alastra, nestled in the circle of his arms, surrounded by a restraint that spoke of more love than any passionate advance ever could, knew a truth more profound than any she had ever learned: she was not just wanted. She was cherished. And that, for now, was more than enough. It was everything.
The truth of his words—his staggering, self-sacrificing care—settled over Alastra like a warm, weighted blanket, smothering the last embers of panic and leaving behind a glowing, profound gratitude. He wanted her, ached for her, yet held himself back on an altar of reverence for her. The magnitude of it was a language her ancient, guarded soul had never dared hope to understand.
Words felt too small, too clumsy. So she answered him with the only vocabulary that felt equal to the moment.
She shifted in the circle of his arms, turning within their shelter to face him fully. Her amber eyes, still shimmering with the remnants of tears, now held a soft, determined light. She lifted a hand, her fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, the elegant curve of his lips, now faintly stained with the evidence of her earlier gift.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words a breath against his skin.
And then she kissed him.
It was not a kiss of hunger, nor of shy invitation. It was a kiss of pure, overwhelming gratitude. A slow, deep, pouring of her understanding and her awe into the warmth of his mouth. She kissed him with a tenderness that threatened to unravel the very control he had just championed, her lips moving over his with a devotion that was its own kind of surrender.
Lucifer’s breath caught, a shudder running through his frame. He received her thanks, his arms tightening around her, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. He let her lead, let her pour her heart into the silent language of the kiss. It was sweeter than any temptation, more sacred than any prayer he’d ever uttered.
When she finally pulled back, just an inch, both of their breaths were unsteady. A soft, wondering smile touched her lips. Her gaze drifted from his eyes to his mouth, and a new, playful light sparked within the gratitude.
Her lipstick, once perfectly applied, was now thoroughly ravished. It was smudged at the corners of her own lips, giving her a beautifully debauched look. But more importantly, it was all over him.
It marked the bow of his upper lip, smeared across his lower one. A faint, rosy print of her mouth was stamped on his chin. Another kiss, placed with grateful fervor on his cheekbone, had left a perfect, crimson crescent.
She looked at her handiwork—the King of Hell, marked not by war or cosmic power, but by the humble, waxy pigment of her gratitude and desire—and a soft, genuine laugh bubbled from her throat. It was a sound he had never heard, free and light.
"Oh," she breathed, her thumb coming up to gently smudge the mark on his cheek, spreading the color. "Look at you."
Lucifer, who had been lost in the emotion of her kiss, now became aware of the delightful vandalism she had committed. He glanced toward the mirrored surface of a dark dresser across the room, catching a fragmented glimpse of himself. A slow, darkly delighted smile spread across his own smudged lips.
"You did promise," he murmured, his voice a husky rumble of amusement and deep satisfaction. "To cover me in it."
"And it seems I am a woman of my word," she replied, her own smile widening. The shyness was gone, replaced by a soft, empowered warmth. She leaned in and placed another deliberate, gentle kiss right on the tip of his nose, leaving a tiny red dot.
He chuckled, the sound rich and full in the quiet room. "I look like I lost a fight with a very affectionate artist."
"You look," she corrected softly, her gaze holding his, "like mine."
The words, so simple, so devastatingly possessive, hung in the air. They held no demand, only a quiet, awed recognition of the marks she had left, and the reason behind them.
Lucifer’s golden eyes softened, all amusement melting into something unbearably tender. "Yes," he agreed, his voice barely a whisper. "I do."
He did not wipe the marks away. He wore them like badges of honor, like the most precious war paint.
The rest of the night unfurled in a slow, sweet counterpoint to the earlier intensity. They did not stray further toward that physical precipice he had so carefully stepped back from. Instead, they found a new intimacy in the calm that followed the storm.
They talked. Not with the clever barbs or political subtext of the lobby, but with a raw, unhurried honesty. She told him of ancient forests and older sorrows, her voice a soft melody in the dark. He spoke of the dizzying loneliness of creation, of the hollow echo in a throne room that had never felt like home. Their words wove around each other, stitching a tapestry of understanding in the dim light.
She traced the patterns of his tattoos with a curious, gentle finger, learning the stories inked into his skin. He, in turn, would occasionally lean in and press a kiss to her shoulder, her wrist, the fluttery pulse at her temple, each time leaving a tiny, fading crimson imprint, renewing his claim with tender repetition.
Eventually, the deep quiet of the hotel’s earliest morning hours enveloped them. The adrenaline and emotion ebbed, leaving a profound, peaceful exhaustion in its wake. Still wrapped in each other, the black velvet robe and rumpled silk shirt discarded on the floor, they slid under the heavy covers.
Alastra lay with her head on his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. His arms were around her, one hand idly stroking her hair. Her lipstick was now a ghostly, beautiful mess across his chest and collarbone, a map of her gratitude and affection. His own marks on her skin were softer, the faint pink abrasion of his stubble, the memory of his lips.
“Happy Sinsmas, Lucifer,” she whispered into the darkness, the words thick with impending sleep.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, his lips smiling against her hair. “It is the happiest I can remember, my pretty doe.”
And as sleep gently pulled them under, the last thing Alastra knew was the feel of his breath in her hair, the solid safety of his embrace, and the silent, sparkling truth that they had, indeed, spent their Sinsmas together. Not in frenzied passion, but in something rarer and more foundational: a chosen closeness, a trust forged in restraint, and the quiet, glorious beginning of everything that was yet to come. The morning would find them tangled together, her lipstick faded to a soft pink blush on his skin, and a new, unbreakable understanding etched upon their hearts.
Starrat Fri 26 Dec 2025 05:28AM UTC
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