Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There were many creative ways to torture the Devil in his own home.

Rolling onto his elbows and knees, Alastor pressed his chest into the silky comforter and arched his back, hips raising invitingly. The move was for little more than to stretch his stiff joints, admittedly, but it didn’t hurt to flick his tail a few times for the sad sap in the chair. Loathe as Alastor was to play the part of the eager deer, he knew Lucifer appreciated the fantasy. Or at least the fluffy appendage.

The decision was the correct one. Lucifer let out a stream of colorful prose, weaving between English and a language that was decidedly not of mortal origin.

Alastor stretched until his joints gave a satisfying pop. There was something freeing about bearing himself entirely. Well, not entirely. Not his mostly-soft cock, swathed in shadow as he deepened the arch of his spine. Not the scarring and strip of missing fur at the base of his tail, nor his misaligned shoulderblade — deliberately on the far side, closer to the headboard than to Lucifer. Magic could not hide those two the way it could more superficial injuries; only clothes and angles, one of which he was very much without at the moment.

It was better for Lucifer to not see any of his back at all. Alastor was exceptionally careful in how he displayed himself. He made sure that the King could see none of it from this position, with his additional height on the bed.

Vox had seen him naked countless times, as had the two men that came before him while he was still alive.

The irony of Lucifer — the one who would judge him the least for something as inconsequential as a few physical imperfections — getting to see the least of him was not lost on Alastor. Were it not an utterly horrifying prospect to think of her during such circumstances, Charlie the Therapist would no doubt draw some sort of conclusion from that, reading more into it than there was.

He simply did not want to deal with Lucifer crying; not out of pity, anyway. Tears wrung out from bone-deep sensations like suffering and orgasms were always welcome. If Lucifer saw too much of the Radio Demon and lost his hard-on it would ruin the whole evening. A punishment rendered pointless, and that would only be a punishment for Alastor.

The possibility, no matter how miniscule, stirred up a violent churning in his stomach and left him to be battered by the rough waves. He could taste it in his throat, brackish and contaminated.

“How long are you going to tease me?” Lucifer moaned from his time-out chair.

“Maybe until your cock falls off,” Alastor hummed, allowing his shadow to manhandle him onto his back. “Or maybe forever. I don’t know. It’s so boring in Hell.”

His smile grew fond when Lucifer let out a pitiful sob. Alastor really enjoyed him. The hottest flares of his upset over the evening had melted away with Lucifer’s orgasm, replaced by a bratty playfulness and a healthy dose of mania. This was still a punishment, of course, but he hoped Lucifer could find at least a little fun in it.

A warble, loud and needy, tickled the sensitive skin of his inner ear as his shadow started nuzzling him for attention. Alastor let his hands roam over the thing’s nebulous form, appreciative of its efforts that night. He would not have recovered from the unpleasantness of the evening without its help.

The nice thing about Alastor’s shadow was that it didn’t share any of his physical defects. No obviously damaged shoulderblade, no fur loss nor scarring on its tail. It was all the best parts of him, fuzzy and indistinct enough to hide the issues that plagued its human counterpart. Alastor mapped out its unblemished back with his hands, half-nuzzling back against the face that now burrowed into his neck.

He did not resent the thing for its unspoiled appearance when he himself had to make do with defects. His companion had always been good to him, steadfastly remaining at his side. Even if it didn’t have a choice, inextricable as mortals and their shadows were, it never made him feel like that’s the reason it stayed.

It was lining the edge of his jaw with chilled kisses, and not just to torment their tied-up little voyeur groaning several feet away. It needed to kiss someone. Alastor could control himself; his shadow could not, and so he needed to redirect it.

He may be the Radio Demon and an Overlord first and foremost, but Alastor allowed himself a halfhearted lamentation for his tenured position managing the libidos of desperate men and men-shaped creatures.

Alastor grabbed his shadow’s face and pressed their lips together, slipping his tongue inside to wrap around its far longer, more dexterous one. Briefly startled by his boldness, the shadow eagerly met him kiss-for-kiss, deepening them until Alastor’s jaw ached. Entirely unbidden, a song slipped out of him — not the radio this time — through fits of static.

You’re huggable, you’re kissable

I’m wild over huggable, kissable you

You’re hauntable, so wantable

And that’s why I want you like I do

His ears swiveled toward the sound of splintering wood.

It wasn’t that Alastor didn’t like kissing. He enjoyed it quite a lot, when it did not hold the weight of something daunting. He’d kissed every one of his other paramours before he’d even had sex with them. Lucifer was the exception, just as he always was.

Kissing Lucifer came with the expectations of a man who’d only ever kissed one other person, in a marriage that lasted millennia. It was easier with Alastor’s shadow, despite him never indulging in it before his foray into madness with Lucifer. Being an extension of himself, his shadow took the complication out of a lot of things.

For example, his ineffective cock.

Alastor did get hard from the actions and antics and general appearance of one Lucifer Morningstar. He was hard right now — almost, a little bit, getting there — and had managed an erection plenty of times during their numerous dalliances. But sometimes, more often than he’d like, it took a while. Especially when his mind was fogged by bothersome things; like irritating wedding rings, or being called a slut, or concerts that violated the Geneva Conventions. They buzzed around his head like gnats, and his poor wilted cock paid the price of it.

His shadow made the process easier, not to mention faster. When your lover was you, it took out the guesswork and all that pesky communication.

That meant Alastor was not surprised when the cold press of lips moved on from his own in favor of leaving a trail down his throat, mapping out all the dips and curves, the ridge of his Adam’s apple, teasing a bite with each row of teeth locked in place against his carotid pulse points on either side. A bit more pressure and it would draw blood. One snap from strong jaws and Alastor might just end the night with an orgasm.

The noise that escaped him was undignified, as was the one he got in response from the direction of the chair.

His shadow’s touch, though chilly, was not freezing. Alastor had long since gotten used to the sensation of it. But against his feverish skin it might as well have been ice. While he’d never experienced snowfall in his lifetime, he imagined each pass of its mouth was like a dusting of frost settling atop scalding pavement, only it did not melt away when it made contact. His shadow was a relentless thing, after all.

The tongue stopped its exploration to lick up the sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat. He felt it all the way in his hooves as they dragged along the bedding, the socks covering his claws the only things sparing the expensive fabric from destruction. Dizzying, the mortal body; he wondered if the sensation was as strong for a divine being like Lucifer.

When the shadow continued downwards, licking and nipping at his chest, he arched up into it and made a big show of flicking his tail in the gap between his back and the mattress. His shadow knew precisely which buttons to press; if not for Alastor, then certainly for the Devil.

“What are you doing?” Lucifer whispered.

Alastor lazily rolled his head to the side, locking eyes with his captive pervert. The space between them had shrunk, with Lucifer very clearly closer by several inches. One had to look no further for an explanation than the front legs of his chair, now uneven with the back two, ground down to the point of pitching him forward. The lecherous fool had scooted so aggressively towards the bed that he’d ruined the furniture.

It stirred up something white-hot in Alastor’s abdomen far more than the circle of teeth marks around his nipple his shadow was leaving, like a brand to his insides. Lucifer’s disheveled appearance only added to the appeal; restraints cutting into skin that glistened with sweat, damp collar smeared with Alastor’s blood, his own golden ichor dripping down from bitten lips. Alastor wished he could call a painter to immortalize the moment. Wouldn’t a King have one on speed dial?

“Alastor,” Lucifer whined when his question continued to go unanswered.

“I’ve never let anyone watch before,” Alastor admitted.

He witnessed the chair scraping forward another inch in real-time, Lucifer’s rutting hips the driving force.

“Watch what?” he asked, voice rasping as if he’d stolen Alastor’s radio filter. “Alastor, watch what?”

Alastor ignored him and instead looked down at his shadow where it was sucking bruises into the skin of his midsection. They would never last on the frustratingly regenerative skin of an angel, but they would on him.

A tendril unfurled from his shadow and slithered across the bed, snagging open the drawer of Lucifer’s bedside table and feeling around inside. Not snooping — no need, Alastor already had — but searching. It returned holding the bottle of lubricant that had seen so much use as of late. The tentacle let it fall to the bed between them.

Several more neon green threads snapped; Alastor could feel the rupture in his magic without even looking.

“You’re going to kill me.”

Alastor’s smile lifted.

“Is the Devil that easy to strike down?”

Laughing silently, the shadow nipped his hip so hard it drew blood. It lapped it up before it could trickle down to the bedding — out of greed, not altruism. Wastefulness was a far worse sin.

The shadow’s tactic of taking its time easing Alastor to full hardness had proven successful. His cock strained between them, twitching against the shadow’s cheek where it rubbed against him. Despite that, it did not take him in its mouth, even though he’d been the one to suggest it earlier at the concert; while he would do a great many things in the name of keeping Lucifer’s seamstress on the payroll, he truly was not in the mood to be sucked off tonight.

The shadow bypassed his cock, only pausing to tease its tongue through the fur of his balls — a spot Alastor was fond of attention to when the mood struck. They drew up tighter and his legs came with them, framing the shadow’s face as its smile curled at the edges. A gentle warble sent tremors through his core.

“Keep that up and this will be a very short evening,” Alastor warned it.

He could practically hear Lucifer taking notes.

After one last sinful lick along the seam of his balls the shadow drew back and picked up the bottle of lube. The tentacle was back between them, teasing Alastor as it coiled playfully around his thigh like a serpent, taking advantage of its grip on him to ease his legs wider apart. Bold as he’d been up until this point, he did not turn to look at Lucifer no matter what frantic little sounds floated over from the chair. Perhaps he was imagining himself spreading Alastor’s legs in place of that serpent-like tendril.

It was hardly a unique thought at the moment.

Alastor fixed his eyes firmly on his shadow’s claws as it popped open the cap, lube dribbling down the neck of the bottle, mocking the precum that leaked over his stomach. He considered taking his weeping cock in hand, if only to give himself something to do, but his shadow had other plans. A twist of its finger had the tentacle around his leg yanking him down the bed until he was closer, thighs opening even wider to accommodate the shadow between them. The bedding bunched up beneath him as his pinned tail attempted to swish back and forth.

The tendril gently uncurled itself from him, holding still for his shadow while it took the time to coat it well. Lube dripped from the tapered end and landed on his abdomen with a wet plap, an obscene mirror of the raindrops hitting the windowpane. His breath hitched as the tip snugged against his hole.

Alastor did not often do things like this with his shadow. Usually, any flicker of interest was fleeting and subsequently written off as more trouble than it was worth. He had experimented out of curiosity or the rare biological urge that proved unignorable, as he’d told Lucifer before. But that was a hand. A mouth, once or twice, not particularly to his taste. A wispy tentacle wrapped around his cock more often than not.

Only once had it been this.

A few weeks ago, long past midnight when Halloween had given way to the lonely quiet of November 1st, after he’d sucked off Lucifer and sent him back to his own room, Alastor had retreated to the bayou and laid down in his bed. Still wearing the nun costume — not wearing any underwear after Lucifer had stolen his — he’d spread his legs for a tenacious little tendril just like this. He’d even let his shadow out to play with his chest. Lucifer would have, had he been there; the man was perversely fixated.

He’d let the tendril tease him, unable to suppress the moans that echoed off the water’s surface right back to his ears, until his shadow cut through the fog of the bayou in the silhouette of a Devil King that Alastor had failed time and again to chase from his mind. But he could chase it from his bedroom. He’d banished his shadow immediately, along with the tentacle, putting an end to the whole thing.

Thankfully his shadow did not shift into that traitorous form tonight. It was an impish thing, but even it understood the shame Alastor would have felt with Lucifer there to witness that.

Tonight’s enterprising tentacle traced his rim with more desperation than the one weeks ago. Though it did not skimp on slicking his hole, it also did not waste any time. As the tapered tip pressed inside it pushed a high-pitched static whine out of him, one strong enough to rattle the radio atop the bedside table.

Alastor’s shadow warbled something he took to be praise, rubbing his hip soothingly in a rhythm that matched the tentacle’s shallow tease in and out.

With the exception of Halloween night, it had been a while since Alastor had last done this. Decades, actually; he’d had no interest since Vox. Preparation for being on the receiving end of things, in Alastor’s experience, was less about actually stretching to fit whatever was going inside, and more a matter of relaxation.

Alastor was often not relaxed.

The only time he was certain to be at ease was with this fragmented piece of himself that Hell had gifted him. His shadow was safe. Maybe Lucifer was safe, too. But Alastor trusted his shadow more than anyone else in all of Hell. There existed enough of an imagined autonomy to feel like it could protect him when he couldn’t protect himself, even if that was what was happening. It took away the overthinking, and so he let it press in close and hold him while the tendril slipped in deeper. It eased a sigh out of him, the breath escaping through both of their mouths like a shared heartbeat.

Lucifer was still there, of course, making himself known periodically through whimpers and cracks of wood. This was still his punishment, only Alastor had temporarily forgotten. Tentacles up the ass had that effect; Lucifer of all people would understand.

Once Alastor’s breathing had leveled out and his hips were rocking to meet the tendril’s gentle exploration, the shadow worked its way down his body again. A generous lover, against all irony, never content unless Alastor was too. Settling down with his cock resting against its cheek once more, the long tongue unfurled from its crooked smile, catching droplets of precum that rolled down the curve of its face.

Alastor could taste it through their connection, milder than semen, almost sweet where he swallowed around nothing.

The shadow’s tongue licked a path through the thick trail of fur leading up from the base of his cock to the dip of his navel, as if mapping out how deeply that tentacle would work itself inside him, and the shadow’s own cock after it. It was a filthy act, one that left him more sick with arousal than if the tongue had pressed in alongside the tendril. Alastor grabbed the shadow’s head, fisting his fingers through its hair and holding it in place as the vibration of muffled warbles left him feeling dangerously close to the edge.

Seven feet away the Devil lost control, a chair broke into pieces, and the rain fell harder. Alastor noticed none of that, because the shadow inside him had found his prostate.

“Fuck, wait,” Alastor groaned, rocking his hips, unsure if he wanted to lessen the pressure against the bundle of nerves or increase it.

The tentacle did not wait.

It slid all the way inside him, widening at the root, so thoroughly slicked that each clench of Alastor around it only drew the inches in faster. The shadow moved with it to follow its path — tongue on the outside, tentacle on the inside — separated by nothing more than the thin wall of Alastor’s trembling abdomen.

Darling shadow, attentive shadow, bedeviling bastard of a shadow; the best and worst of Alastor. The only thing keeping his writhing body pinned to the mattress where he was safe under the cover of tenebrous ink that felt like home. Buried in fur, lapping up sweat and shame and any insecurities that tried to escape, lost in kissing every inch of Alastor that sheathed more shadow.

Sex was not a requirement, nor motivation. It did, however, feel divine. He was so full. Alastor moaned into the crook of his arm, hips rocking in time to music that was no longer playing from the radio. His legs drew up slowly on either side of his shadow, hooves dragging along the bed before hooking around its torso. He could keep it trapped there forever to alleviate the heat blooming from his core and burning him up.

Alastor thought he might be in love with his shadow at that moment, when it held him so sweetly and the oxygen had trouble finding its way to his brain.

Only when the tendril was sheathed as deeply as Alastor could stand and wriggling inside him did his shadowy counterpart pull back. Not to ease but to add, pressing down with one hand on the slight bulge of Alastor’s belly. He whined, feral in the cage of his shadow’s large hand. It covered his entire abdomen — fingers long enough to reach the bottom of his ribs while its thumb nestled in the crook of his groin, the pad of it resting just behind his balls.

Cruel, that hand. The thumb rubbed torturous circles against his perineum while the tendril began to withdraw, stimulating his prostate from the other side. A dual assault meant to drive him mad and finish embarrassingly quickly. He told himself he would not be so pathetic, but truthfully he’d be fortunate if he did not black out immediately.

His shadow found the whole thing funny. It laughed in little chirps at Alastor’s delirium, doing wicked things with that thumb until Alastor spurted a clear, sticky fluid up his belly.

He faintly heard the sound of shattering glass somewhere across the room.

Alastor groaned, twitching against the sensation on his skin. Not an orgasm, but something he’d experienced before when it had been a while since his last one, especially when edged with relentless attention to his prostate. Getting there was nice; the mess was not.

Already somewhat coated, his shadow’s hand swiped up more from the puddle on his navel, eagerly licking between its fingers before the substance dried. Whatever it could not clean off of him with its hand it finished with its tongue.

There was no rest for the Radio Demon. The tendril inside him had not stopped its slow momentum, sure to drag across his oversensitive prostate with each slide out and back in. Not direct pressure but a disorienting, gut-swooping slide.

Just how Lucifer preferred it, too.

Oh, Alastor thought hazily. That’s right. He was here somewhere, wasn’t he?

Before he could look around for the Devil his attention was pulled back to the tentacle speeding up; shallow, manic thrusts that concentrated on his prostate and rim as Alastor desperately clenched and fluttered around it.

A warming sensation was spreading out from behind his balls, radiating in pulsing waves up the base of his spine and further outward towards his thighs and belly. He could not stop his limbs from shaking, nor his fur from standing on end as shivers plagued him despite the molten heat. The pleasure came in ebbs and flows, often verging on too much. It always looped back to better than perfect — usually when the vertigo set in.

Overwhelming as it was, there was a reason Alastor preferred this sort of stimulation to that of his cock. It let him slip into a blissful, trance-like state; just as mental as it was physical, maybe more. Unlike the short, intense orgasms from something tight and hot around his cock, this was constant escalation to something just out of reach. Like waiting for a drop that would never come, until he couldn’t take it anymore.

The tendril kept its merciless pace, reaching deep inside again, pushing him close to the edge only to pull back and start the buildup all over. It filled Alastor so completely that not even all of the lube could fit with it, any excess fucked out of him and left to soak the bedsheets and the underside of his tail. His shadow giggled, pinning his hips to the bed, admiring the way his cock was painfully hard and drooling all over his stomach.

Still, it knew to check on him.

Cold kisses were pressed to his chest fluff, then his neck, and finally his lips. Soft at first before a long tongue pushed into his mouth and down his throat, leaving Alastor so unimaginably full of shadow. He would drown in it by night’s end. It only pulled back, warbling playfully, after Alastor had sunk the points of his teeth into its tongue; just what it wanted.

When the shadow seemed satisfied that Alastor was not dead, merely in a depraved stupor, it gently gripped his chin and turned his head to look out at the sight beside the bed.

Of course it wouldn’t forget Lucifer, not even when Alastor was so impaired by the haze of arousal that he had trouble remembering it was the King’s bedroom they were desecrating.

Alastor squinted at the scene beyond the bed; his monocle was… somewhere. Even without it he could see Lucifer on the floor in a pile of wooden rubble, formerly his time-out chair. The armrests, though splintered, remained bound to his forearms with the last few frayed threads and shadows. Apparently they’d separated entirely from the rest of the chair when it broke.

Hadn’t he done that earlier at the concert to a theater seat? Lucifer Morningstar, light-bringer and chair-destroyer.

And was he bigger? He looked bigger, braced on his hands and knees, claws sunk an inch deep into the flooring. Idiot, he was ruining the area rug. Alastor lamented that he would not feel the plush fabric beneath his hooves as it came apart in shredded tufts around Lucifer’s fingers.

Trembling amongst the wreckage of his own making, desperately trying not to rut his erection against the floor, Lucifer stared up at Alastor with tears streaming down his face from demonic red eyes. The gold was gone from them, but it seemed to exist everywhere else: his cheeks, his bloodied lips, the ichor that bubbled up from fleeting lacerations on his arms where his bindings cut into them. Broken glass fanned out in a circle around him, apparently having rained down from the chandelier lightbulbs above.

Alastor pretended it was the fallen angel’s shattered halo, and his cock throbbed in interest.

He could not concentrate on the sight of the Devil kneeling on the floor for him; the physical stimulation was already too much. Anything more and his heart would surely give out.

As if summoned by his thoughts — it probably was, it was him, and he’d clearly been infected by Lucifer’s perversions — the tentacle inside him picked up the pace with renewed vigor, clearly intent on giving their voyeur a show worth the price of his broken furniture.

Squirming in bedsheets drenched in sweat and lube, Alastor’s hooves twisted and tangled, garter clips popping open as his socks dragged down his legs. Like a pitiful fawn, he was shaking thigh-to-toe from the stimulation inside him. His abdomen and balls tightened near-painfully the closer he came to the edge. It felt as if his body was being pushed to orgasm instead of falling into it.

His shadow gently wrapped a hand around one ankle, easing the loose sock and garter off him. The sweetness of its warbles did not match the lascivious look on its face.

Settling back down in the crux of his legs, it worked its way down, leaving bite marks along his inner thighs and searing kisses on his calves, removing the second sock on the way until both hooves were bare. A prehensile tongue came out to lavish the last inches of Alastor’s body to be bared; another spot that was not entirely unwanted. Of course, Lucifer was already intimately familiar with that one after what had occurred on Halloween.

The memory made Alastor’s feet flex in the grip of his shadow’s hands.

Another recreation of that night, this time his and Lucifer’s tryst on the staff parlor couch when they’d snuck away from the Halloween party. Lucifer between his legs instead of a shadow, forked tongue worshipping every curve and point and seam of his hooves, taking a little bit of Alastor inside him yet again as he sucked the claws into his mouth.

The shadow was just as skillful in its attention to his hooves now as Lucifer had been then.

It felt nice.

It did not feel the same.

Alastor made the mistake of looking at Lucifer again; now that he’d remembered it was an option, he found he had little control over the matter. Despite what the Morningstar had tried to do in the Garden, free will was an illusion when it came to him, wasn’t it? There was no other explanation for this.

Looking at Lucifer look at him like that… Why couldn’t he have looked at Alastor like that during the concert?

This had started as a game, a punishment. Something to torture Lucifer that was fun for them both. But seeing Lucifer still restraining himself for Alastor, his struggle to hold back such power, the tears in his eyes that battered the windows, all that desperation… The rug had pulled out from under Alastor, leaving him wildly askew and sick with arousal. It wasn’t the sex, not exactly, but the sex was far more enjoyable with these extra cerebral dimensions Lucifer kept adding to it.

He really should thank the Devil properly sometime, for illuminating yet another facet of Alastor’s sexuality and not making him feel broken for it.

While his shadow did not mind sharing Alastor with Lucifer, it would not be ignored. It drew his attention back by a careful hand around his cock, and then… nothing more, waiting for a sign from Alastor that it was free to continue.

Considerate darling.

Alastor was quite ready to move this along. His body was overstimulated, and his mind… He wasn’t sure there was a word for what happened to one’s mind when you left the Devil dripping in shameful idolatry on the floor as you fucked yourself in front of him.

He rutted his hips up, letting his cock slide in the circle of his shadow’s hand, to indicate it should continue. The first stroke was almost the last; Alastor hissed out a wavering stream of static as he tried to stave off his orgasm.

He could not finish yet. He needed his shadow inside him first, otherwise the night was wasted. A nondescript tentacle was one thing. But it was the involvement of Alastor’s shadow itself, a creature with a personality and a shape and a history with Lucifer, that would sear this memory into Lucifer’s brain.

It had to be the shadow.

But the creature’s attempts to help were little more than cruel and unusual punishments. It applied firm pressure around the base of his cock, squeezing his shaft as its hand slowly slid up to milk Alastor of more precum. He could not possibly have more to give, and yet Alastor’s vision swam as it dribbled out onto his belly over the ridge of his shadow’s tightened fist.

What if it killed him? What if he died in the King’s bed with a shadow up his ass and another around his cock? Could the force of an explosive orgasm match the abilities of angelic steel?

They’d call him a concubine, and not even a very good one if bottoming was enough to kill him.

Using the precum smeared on its hand to pump faster along Alastor’s cock, the shadow left a mess in the fur at the base, tightening its grip on each upstroke. With a delicate claw it traced the head, flushed angry and red. All cognitive function ceased as that clawtip dipped shallowly into the leaking slit. The radio’s speakers popped. He couldn’t, he couldn’t—

Alastor reached his arms out, grasping around until he found something to hold, to bite, finding relief when his claws caught one of the pillows and dragged it to him. He buried his face in it, panting, whining, breathing it in.

Lucifer’s.

He swatted the shadow’s hand away from his cock and replaced it with his own. His orgasm had been building up for too long, and he was drunk and restless, in too deep with a Devil that had somehow become the impetus for every one of Alastor’s deranged thoughts and actions.

The shadow chirped its encouragement as Alastor stroked himself, moving its hand to slick up its own cock that hung heavy between them with a filthy mix of lube and Alastor’s emissions. The length of it was glistening pale crimson where it caught the light from the radio tower, more muted now that it was obstructed by sheets of rain.

Cold pinpricks sank deep into Alastor’s hips, as deeply as Lucifer’s in the flooring, and Hell tilted on its axis as Alastor was flipped over. He landed on his knees, chest pressed to the mattress by a hand on his back; it took great care to cover the misaligned shoulderblade.

To have a bit of oneself that found refuge for the rest…

Every broken thing should be so lucky.

Alastor wished to reward his shadow. He wished to come. He eagerly leaned into the deep arch, presenting himself for his shadow, tail flicking straight up in invitation. His eyes, however, remained open; closing them brought visions of a taunting red drink on a bartop. Alastor flattened his ears against the name of the drink pressing in on him each time he urged his hips back towards the shadow.

It was not true.

With his cheek to the mattress, looking out at the room, his eyes connected with Lucifer’s; red, like the drink he’d ordered.

It was not true. He had not meant it.

The shadow’s cock came up between Alastor’s legs, slotted beneath his own. Teasing strokes of them lined up together left his antlers creaking against the threat of an uncontrollable expansion. That self-restraint became twice as difficult when the shadowy cock slipped downwards, nestled between his thighs. Alastor clenched and tightened around it, moaning. Lucifer had offered that on Halloween as well. A pity the hour had cut things short. Perhaps he should have skipped his radio broadcast and stayed on that couch until dawn.

A few lazy pumps between his thighs felt like a religious experience, his legs squeezing together in prayer with the help of two shadowy hands on either side of them. Filthy wet schlicks filled the room as the cock fucked along his thighs and balls. It never went as fast as Alastor would like, but before he could complain it was withdrawing far enough for the tip to slide up between his spread cheeks. His tail twitched as the shadow nudged its cock against Alastor’s hole, already slick and stretched and fluttering for it.

His shadow was a jealous, greedy thing like Alastor himself, eager to sink inside and claim the place that should have been Lucifer’s tonight.

Excitement writhed in his stomach, knotting around a sick heat that was desperate and beneath him. An implicit trust tempered the tumult. He’d forgotten how letting someone else take control felt when it wasn’t with someone like Vox. He kept his eyes on Lucifer and wondered how he would do when Alastor let him try.

But tonight was for his shadow, and Alastor welcomed it with a rock of his hips and a guttural groan as the head of its cock pressed past his rim, working itself deep inside without pause. His legs would have given out if the shadow wasn’t holding him up. He would have fallen right through the floor and into the lowest depths of Hell, just like Lucifer had.

As his shadow bottomed out, Alastor’s moans shook the radio until the chassis popped open. Half a dozen vacuum tubes rolled out, glowing cherry-red and scorching the bedside table, its surface left charred and smelling of burnt wood.

He supposed he’d have to repair that for Lucifer.

The King had fared no better. Trousers obscenely tented at the front lent him the aura of that trenchcoat fellow on the streetcorner. Only his tail wrapped around one leg of the coffee table kept him from rutting against the floor like a beast, and even that was dragging along behind him. Tempestuous rain hammered the windows as he sobbed at his denial of both an orgasm and Alastor’s touch. Alastor could feel the last of his shadows and stitches snapping one-by-one until both armrests clattered to the floor, finally freeing Lucifer entirely.

He did not look free; he looked obsessed, crawling towards the foot of the bed, satiating a deep hunger inside Alastor.

Vox sometimes caused blackouts when he got especially worked up; Alastor wondered what a biblical outburst from Lucifer might look like.

Would he fracture the Pentagram, destabilizing the fragile stack of Rings that Pride precariously balanced on, burning away the supports and bringing the entirety of Hell down around them like the glass from the chandelier, all because of Alastor?

Or would he simply touch him? Hope was not yet lost, Lucifer might still prove him right. He was not exactly a man, but he was a King, and Kings took what they wanted. Even now he shuffled closer on his knees until they hit the edge of the bed.

Never pausing the thrust of its hips fucking into him, Alastor’s shadow blanketed his back with its body when Lucifer was close enough to see clearly, covering his imperfections. Alastor’s face was still pressed into the mattress on its side, and the shadow rested its cheek upon Alastor’s, their faces sandwiched together as they watched the Morningstar—

Lucifer sinking his claws into the frame, but not Alastor. Biting his own pillow, not Alastor’s throat. Muffling his moans against the sweat-soaked blankets, not Alastor’s skin. Not Alastor, not Alastor—

“Alastor, Alastor, Alastor,” Lucifer sobbed, repeating his name like a desperate prayer.

Perhaps he thought if he begged for it hard enough he could create a new Heaven of their own after abandoning his shattered Hell. He was on the right track — the most enduring religions were born of humiliation and shame. The Devil was already cloaked in the iconography of his phantasmagorical delusions: Alastor’s loose bow tie around his neck instead of a rosary, Alastor railed by his shadow instead of Christ nailed to the Cross, and Lucifer himself, kneeling in the dust and splinters of broken furniture instead of a prayer bench.

He should’ve known by now that God wasn’t listening to him, and Alastor was rarely merciful.

The shadow yanked his hips up higher, adjusting the angle to better glide against his wrung-out prostate until Alastor wondered if he too might come apart like Lucifer’s radio. He could barely breathe in his hypoxic state of static-laced panting that displaced air faster than he could replace it, all while his shadow continued to chase that sweet spot. Lucifer’s pillow was still near his face and he dragged it closer until his mouth and nose were completely covered. He did not mind being deprived of oxygen; he could just replace it with the scent that clung to the stolen pillow.

It was no more complicated than a straight line graph. As air to his lungs, his brain, every cell of his body decreased, pleasure increased.

He’d liked when Vox indulged this particular quirk, especially when the sex went on too long, or when he hadn’t been in the mood in the first place. It gave him something else to focus on, blackness seeping around the edges of his vision like an embrace from his shadow. He thought about how it would feel similar if his father had drowned him in the bayou like he promised he would when he suspected Alastor of being a homosexual. No one blinked twice when little boys went missing in the swamp, especially not ones that looked like Alastor.

Perhaps they were in a nouvelle Heaven…

There was an angel at the foot of the bed.

It did not have a halo, but there were horns in place of one; twisted, crimson things that broke through a golden hairline, strands curled around them like a crown of silk. The horns were matched by a set of glowing red eyes in the middle of its face, with a dozen more opening up all over its body. Scarlet crescents peeled open along its arms and down its spade-tipped tail, the glow of a large one centered in its chest visible through the fabric of its shirt. The longer Alastor gazed upon it the more eyes appeared, with the set on its face doubling and then tripling as it expanded. Beneath them a mouth opened around elongated fangs.

Even with all that red, it was bright. The angel had skin like cracked porcelain, flaking away to reveal something iridescent and inhuman hidden underneath, patched together with rivulets of gold pouring out. Alastor had never seen so much light effusing from a single creature.

The angel dispersed all thoughts of drowning, illuminating the murky waters of the bayou and the darkness swallowing Alastor’s vision. It would not let him drift too deep. It called his name, pulling him out of the depths of darkness where he sank into the bayou and the cold arms at his back. Alastor was so full, shadows filling every inch of him, but the angel made him feel weightless.

He knew the angel’s name, too, and so he answered its prayers of ‘Alastor’ in kind:

Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer…

“Lucifer,” he moaned into the pillow.

His invocation had worked. The angel let out a sound Alastor could not perceive, growing bigger than himself and his shadow combined as it crawled onto the bed. Alastor’s head swiveled to face the other direction, towards the headboard, where the angel settled in the only place it could fit. Alastor breathed in the scent from the pillow, growing dizzy.

The mattress dipped as it rested its large face inches away from his, all six eyes unblinking and fixated upon him. Long claws gouged the sheets, hooves scratched the floor where they hung off the edge, but it did not so much as brush against his skin. A long whine tore from its throat. Tears came next, bright and luminescent where they spilled on the bed.

They looked like liquid stars. Perhaps that’s how stars appeared before they took shape.

An incomparable bliss washed over Alastor, like he was floating, maybe even dying. But he’d been certain he was already dead. Maybe he had to die again to fully cross into this new Heaven with his angel.

His veins went cold and his bliss was torn from him when a sudden flood of panic that was not his own went through his body. The pillow was yanked away from his face and thrown at the headboard. A tingling feeling rushed through him as oxygen returned to his lungs, and still he heard his angel calling. Alastor flicked his tail; it was only when it thwacked the cold cock buried inside him that the fog fully dissipated.

Behind him, looking distressed, was his shadow. Still sheathed within him but unmoving. And beside him, the angel — only half as much, technically, though he was looking quite biblical. The Morningstar. His Devil, with a few extra steps.

Alastor could feel now that the worry pulsing through their connection belonged to his counterpart. It stroked his hip and pressed closer against his back, warbling in his ear. The move only worked its cock in deeper, and Alastor rolled his hips back in response, encouraging it to move again. He needed to come in a way unlike ever before. His shadow obliged, but not before reaching down between his legs to touch his cock. Alastor groaned and squirmed away from its hand, overstimulated.

It was only when the shadow flipped him onto his back that Alastor pieced together why it had stroked him. The touch had been to ascertain that he was still hard, to spare him the risk of embarrassment now that Lucifer was on the bed with him. He’d had enough of that with Vox.

The shadow resumed fucking into him, slower now, snagging his face for more kisses. Though Alastor indulged the thing he kept his eyes open on Lucifer braced beside him, leaning over now to watch Alastor’s face as he approached orgasm. It was a fascinating reversal of their usual arrangement.

Six gargantuan wings released from Lucifer’s back and opened up above them in an arc, loose feathers shaking down around them. Even more eyes stared down at him from between the inner wingfeathers. Alastor did not know if it was something he did that caused their sudden appearance, or if it simply pained Lucifer to keep them contained while he took this form.

The red light from the radio tower couldn’t penetrate the cover of Lucifer’s wings and yet the room was brighter than before, illuminated by Lucifer himself. Another set of wings, small ones Alastor had never seen before, emerged from behind his ears to frame the Devil’s face. They quivered as Lucifer fought their attempt to cover his primary set of eyes.

All night — longer than that, since the very moment they’d started this thing — all Alastor wanted was to be the center of Lucifer’s attention. And now he was.

The shadow had picked up the pace again, clearly chasing its own orgasm. Oversensitive as Alastor was, he enjoyed the physical stimulation to accompany the mental thrill of watching Lucifer watch him.

Lucifer was terribly big in this form. Enough to dwarf the bed, enough to manhandle Alastor, were he a less honorable man. Alastor would not even be able to take Lucifer’s cock in its current form. But if the Radio Demon also grew… Alastor’s own cock had — admittedly accidentally — expanded inside Lucifer once before, during the disaster of that last broadcast. If Lucifer felt it was only fair for Alastor to return the favor, well, Alastor could be an honorable man, too.

But Lucifer kept his word and did not touch.

Alastor’s frustration had reached its breaking point, amplified by the desperate need to fucking come already. When had his shadow gotten so good at edging? Alastor refused to believe it was his own fault, but all that practice he’d given it tormenting Lucifer was looking rather damning now.

And when had Lucifer, five-knuckle-shuffle and tentacle-rider extraordinaire, developed such strong self-discipline? He was still painfully erect in his pants and wasn’t even trying to hump the bed, merely rutting his hips against air and shredding the expensive duvet with his claws instead. To not touch Alastor was one thing; he’d always been thoughtful about touch when it came to him. But to leave his own cock neglected throughout everything Alastor had put him through?

He wanted Lucifer to touch himself. He wanted Lucifer to touch him.

So badly he wanted to prove that Lucifer was not special. He was no different from the rest of them.

Even if Lucifer was good about ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘it has to be my shadow tonight’ and ‘I can’t give you any more than this,’ even if Alastor trusted him, that did not mean he truly understood. Lucifer did not, and could not ever, understand Alastor the way he claimed to.

But Alastor had run out of time. With every inch of his shadow thrust inside him, its chill not enough to temper the heat flooding through him, and countless red eyes looking at him like he was something divine, he was so close to finishing.

And Lucifer had still not touched him.

The same way he’d been good about not touching Alastor that night in the radio tower when he just couldn’t bear it, even after Alastor had promised it to him. When Alastor had apologized, and Lucifer had yelled at him to never apologize for not wanting sex. The way he’d said they could still have a nice night without any of that, igniting the first spark of something terrifying beneath Alastor’s breastbone.

He was feeling it again now with Lucifer’s eyes on his face, not his body, and his hands kept to himself. A sinking feeling followed, as if that spark had ignited a rope holding a heavy stone from his heart, letting it drop to the lowest parts of him as the rope burned away.

Alastor did not like being proven wrong. He did not like feeling out of control. He did not like the spark in his heart, or the flutter in his stomach.

He feared, however, that he might like Lucifer Morningstar.

He clutched his shadow closer, urging it on with sharp pricks from his dew claws, keeping his eyes on Lucifer’s face over its shoulder. A loyal monster that continued to carve himself into parts of Alastor that he didn’t even know he had. Alastor moaned Lucifer’s name again, carving some of himself into the Devil in return.

Lucifer smelled like the cherries and amaretto from his drink, and the smell on his pillow that was now so familiar to Alastor, with or without liquor on his breath, but still they didn’t touch. Leaning close, noses almost brushing, the heat emanating from the Morningstar enough to burn his lips and singe his hair like he’d done before so many months ago, but still they didn’t touch. A hair’s breadth away, sharing the same air shuddered out of one mouth and into the other, and still…

God, he wished Lucifer would just touch him.

At least he felt the soft brush of Lucifer’s wingfeathers as they rained down on him, and maybe that was what finally pushed him over the edge.

After all that, Alastor barely felt his orgasm. More accurate, perhaps, was that he felt it too much. His release — a respectable white-hot splurt that had his vision going dark as it coated him from navel to chest fluff — was wildly outmatched by the flood of inky shadow that filled him up until he swore his belly was round with it. Finally Alastor had gotten to experience his own party trick, only to let the darkness swallow him before he could properly enjoy it.

It could not have been more than a few seconds before he was opening his eyes again. Lucifer was only just shrinking back down to normal size, hand hovering near Alastor’s face, but still not touching.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice raspier than usual.

Alastor considered leaning into the offered touch, letting Lucifer’s fingers brush through his sweaty bangs.

He used one hoof to nudge the shadow out of his body instead. The poor thing flopped to the bed, utterly spent.

“Of course I’m okay. I had an orgasm, not an aneurysm,” Alastor said.

Lucifer, for the first time ever, seemed lost for words. He slowly lowered his hand, claws worrying little circles into the duvet instead. That seemed to remind him of the state of the room around them. Raising both hands this time, he used magic to silently fix the damage he’d caused to the bed, and the chandelier — and, of course, that chair.

The sobering trip back to reality following an orgasm was rarely pleasant, especially when sex was already such a peculiar topic for Alastor. He was fairly certain his shadow had fucked all the alcohol out of him as well. There was an unpleasant sensation settling in the pit of his stomach; it was not the gallon of shadowy cum in there, that seemed to have naturally dissipated. No, that insistent churn of his stomach felt suspiciously like guilt.

Maybe from the way Lucifer was still visibly hard, or the pitifully unsure look on his face that should be impossible on one so erect.

“Are you okay?” Alastor asked, lifting himself up as best he could on his elbows.

Golden eyes widening, Lucifer appeared truly caught by surprise.

“Me? Of course,” he said, and suddenly he seemed it. Alastor could not be sure if it was sincere, or put on for Alastor’s benefit. “I mean, my cock and balls are feeling a bit like they might explode — not that I expect you to do anything about that!”

So sweet, even now.

Alastor stared at the erection still pressing painfully against Lucifer’s pants. After everything that had transpired that night, he felt like his world was tilting, and the Radio Demon did not care for feeling off-balance. So he grasped onto something familiar and playful and just a little bit cruel; that had always worked for them before.

“That’s good, because I don’t plan to,” Alastor said. “Would you like to make a deal with me, my dear?”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes.

“A real one?”

“A gentleman’s agreement,” Alastor amended, waving one hand nonchalantly. “How does this sound: you can jerk yourself off to your heart’s content — you can paint the walls white for all I care — but then I’ll leave.”

You would have thought Alastor kicked him with the devastated look Lucifer gave him.

“Or,” Alastor sang, “if you can continue to refrain from touching me and yourself until morning, and prove to me what a devoted thing you are, I’ll stay the night in bed with you. The shadow as well; you can even cuddle with it, since you’ve been so very good. But no humping it like a dirty dog.”

Lucifer did not need even half a second to think it over.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, already moving his hands as far away from the front of his pants as possible. “Of course I want you to stay the night.”

Alastor’s heart did that terrifying sparking thing again, and he did his best to ignore it.

“That’s my good Devil,” Alastor cooed, eating up the way Lucifer’s tail started thwacking the bed in response to the praise. But it jolted as he seemed to remember something.

“What do you want?” Lucifer asked him.

Alastor did not understand the question.

“In regard to what?”

“Do you want to stay the night?” Lucifer asked gently. “Or would you rather leave?”

There was no disappointment in his voice, nor expectation. No charming edge to manipulate the answer in his favor. Lucifer was just simply… asking.

“I want to stay the night,” Alastor said, static startlingly absent from his voice.

“Good,” Lucifer said softly.

His hand was on the bed between them, looking so small now that it had returned to its normal size. Alastor moved his own closer. Just barely let the back of one clawtip rest against Lucifer’s pinky finger. Their deal did not have to start now. They could give it a minute or two. He shifted his eyes to the broken radio on the bedside table, so he did not have to witness his own vulnerability.

“There were times I forgot you were here at all tonight,” Alastor started, when he was still dumb enough to say it out loud in the post-orgasm haze. Fearing Lucifer might take that the wrong way, he pressed on. “I would not have relaxed to the point of forgetting anyone else was here.”

Lucifer nudged his pinky against Alastor’s clawtip until Alastor met his eyes again; golden and soft and shiny where his lower lid crinkled up with a smile. It appeared Lucifer had understood what he was trying to say.

“Thank you for being…” Alastor trailed off. He did not know how to continue.

“Forgettable?” Lucifer offered, his small smile lifting at the corners.

Safe, Alastor wanted to say.

“Forgettable,” he echoed instead.

Alastor pulled his hand away and said no more, leaving them in a slightly awkward silence. Even the shadow wasn’t making any sounds, still resting on the bed beside them.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Lucifer asked.

Alastor looked down at his body, damp with sweat, fur crusting beneath a layer of drying cum. His smile pulled into something crooked.

“Are you implying I smell?”

“The way you smell after sex is the furthest thing from a problem,” Lucifer said, averting his eyes as the golden flush returned to his cheeks.

Oh god, was Lucifer another one of those armpit perverts like Vox? Fantastic. Alastor sure knew how to pick them.

“I just know you don’t like being messy,” Lucifer continued, speaking to the bedsheets now.

Oh. Well, that was… considerate.

“If I were to attempt standing in a shower right now I would fall and crack my head open,” Alastor said. “Would you like to explain that to your daughter?”

Lucifer very clearly would not.

“A bath then? I could help. Nothing cheeky, just… help.” He glanced back up at Alastor. “If you wanted.”

The last thing he wanted tonight was Lucifer helping him in a bath.

He thought he might possibly like it another night, however.

“I don’t want to get up,” Alastor said. “Your magic will suffice, if you don’t mind.”

The wash of red and gold sparkles tickled his skin as Lucifer gently cleaned him without any physical touch. But it did draw attention to the fact that Alastor was still naked, significantly less drunk, and no longer emboldened by his thirst for punishment. Especially after the way he’d behaved that evening, he was feeling more than a little self-conscious, even with his hands resting over his lap.

Lucifer, an angelic being so comfortable with his own nudity that he would stroll through the hotel lobby stark naked if not for his daughter, seemed to pick up on that.

“Do you want pajamas?” Lucifer offered. He’d used magic to swap his own clothes for a pair of silk sleep pants; far gentler on his aching cock, while leaving far less to the imagination. “I can conjure some, you can conjure some, whatever. You can even leave a pair or two here in my room, you’re always welcome.”

It was not the first time he’d brought up the subject. But no, Alastor wanted to be wrapped in Lucifer himself.

“No thank you,” Alastor said, tapping his shadow where it had started to doze off beside them. It slowly roused itself and settled in front of Alastor. “I need you to do something for me, sweetheart.”

It gave him a sleepy warble, ears flapping as it attempted to physically shake the exhaustion away. How absurdly dramatic; a shadow could not get tired. No doubt it was putting on a show to expedite those promised cuddles with Lucifer.

“Be a dear and fetch me something nice from Lucifer’s closet, won’t you?” he asked it.

That woke the malingering creature up immediately. It nodded, chirping enthusiastically as it allowed itself to be pulled in close by Alastor. He pressed his lips to the shadow’s once, twice, three times, letting it chase his kisses. It had been good tonight too, and it deserved to know that Alastor was deeply thankful for its trusted companionship.

And perhaps he wanted to work Lucifer up just a little bit more.

He watched through his shadow’s eyes as it disappeared into the walk-in closet, directing it to the correct wall. Alastor knew precisely which garment he wanted to borrow that night.

When it returned with a triumphant grin, brandishing a beautiful maroon robe — the one that had caught Alastor’s eye when he’d done a little snooping months ago — Alastor thought Lucifer might finally break tonight.

He didn’t, of course.

Alastor watched Lucifer innocently while the shadow slipped the robe onto his body, as if daring him to protest the theft. Or perhaps ask why Alastor had not allowed him to get a good look at his back all night, when he had so freely bared the rest of himself. Lucifer did neither. He did stare like a perverse little goldfish, face flushed and mouth in danger of catching flies, eyeing Alastor up and down where the silk rested upon his skin. A bit lustful — to be expected with that pent-up painful erection — but even more-so he looked… enamored.

Alastor could not entertain any more excitement that night. His ass was sore, his lower back and stomach quickly catching up, and he desperately needed the simplicity of the darkness behind his eyelids rather than the glow of red and gold.

“Tuck me in, now,” Alastor commanded his shadow. “Some of us actually require sleep.”

They slipped beneath the repaired duvet together, with Alastor playing the role of royalty that evening as he allowed his shadow to fluff the pillows and drape the covers over him just right. Lucifer, who had not had a cock up his ass tonight, could fluff his own pillows.

But, Alastor supposed, he had promised some mercy, and Lucifer was more than deserving after what he’d been put through.

“Goodnight,” Alastor said, turning over onto his side. With a gentle flick of his fingers he sent his shadow over to Lucifer. “And remember: it is for comfort, not pleasure. I will know if you two attempt anything obscene in the middle of the night.”

Alastor knew he hadn’t been very nice that night. He also knew that Lucifer not being nice earlier had not been intentional. The Radio Demon was a monster, but he could make exceptions for Lucifer.

“Goodnight, Alastor.”

They both lay on their sides facing opposite directions, the apple tower finally silent save for the steady hum of Alastor’s filter. He was on the ‘wrong’ side tonight; Lucifer’s side. He could not help but notice that the view from the window on this side overlooked his radio tower. The image of a chaise lounge from within his own tower came to mind, and he felt a dull ache between his ribs.

Static crackling slightly, Alastor forced his eyes to the broken radio atop the bedside table instead. Curling his arms around the pillow beneath his head, he did not asphyxiate himself with it this time, but he did breathe in Lucifer’s scent once more. He counted each breath as if they were a limited resource, ignoring the worsening pain in his side.

Minutes ticked on with neither one of them finding rest. Sleep eluded Alastor when it absolutely shouldn’t have, not after that level of exertion from both himself and his shadow. He rolled around, trying to get comfortable.

It took him far longer than he’d care to admit to realize that the pain digging into his ribcage was not another pesky emotion, but a literal object grinding against the jut of bones. He fished it out from beneath him, rolling his eyes when he saw what had been plaguing him.

“Everything okay?” Lucifer asked him, looking over his shoulder when he heard Alastor sit up and open the bedside drawer.

“If my shadow isn’t meeting expectations as your personal teddy bear, perhaps I should take it back for myself,” Alastor said.

He had no intentions of doing so, obviously, but the Devil need not know that. He smiled when Lucifer quickly rolled back over, hugging the shadow as tightly as he could with his hips angled far enough away to accommodate his erection.

“I’m going to sleep, I’m going to sleep,” he insisted.

“See that you do,” Alastor hummed.

Giving one last glare to the bottle of lubricant clutched in his hand, Alastor shifted a few things inside the drawer to make room for the thorn he’d plucked from his side. Sweeping aside the usual nonsense, his fingertips passed over something unfamiliar. A notepad. He hadn’t seen that the last time he’d snooped. Leaning over the open drawer quietly so as not to alert Lucifer, he began skimming the contents of the top page.

The first line simply said ‘chest?’

Good lord, was this some sort of erotic diary? The word ‘chest’ in large letters certainly screamed Lucifer, but Alastor would have imagined he of all people to be a bit more descriptive. The question mark was also a head-scratcher; how was ‘chest’ a question?

He continued reading.

Coffee gremlin

Alastor’s ear flicked in confusion. ‘Coffee gremlin?’ That didn’t mean anything at all. Perhaps this was not a lewd diary, but a peek into an immortal being’s descent into dementia.

He read the note beneath it.

Theater schedule - Cats through January - he would hate that. Bribe for something else. Sweeney Todd? What other shows have cannibals?

What on Earth was this?

Brow furrowing, Alastor continued to skim the notes. Was this about him?

A list of artists he’d played on his radio show. A list of drinks he liked, alongside those he did not.

Cocoa too sweet, try 90% dark chocolate with spices instead. Peppermint schnapps bad. Sazerac? Louisiana thing, ask Husk

His heart jumped at the next note:

Detailed instructions on how to make bathtub gin, with all of the most important warnings highlighted in fluorescent yellow.

Alastor swallowed against the tightness in his throat, the constriction worsening the further down the page he read.

Broken microphone staff - ask if he wants help, don’t be pushy

Thighs are good, neck is good, likes ear massages. Don’t even think about tail!

Bad touch days - ask first

NO dogs!!!!!!

Snakes are fine

The terrifying spark in his chest was back, and he rasped out a breath of static in an attempt to knock it loose.

It did not work.

Alastor brushed aside a pen with shaking fingers to see the bottom of the page. There was a little doodle of the shadow that was actually quite good. It was wearing something on its head, as well as something around its neck, with several question marks around it and other things crossed out; Lucifer appeared to have dressed it up in some sort of outfit.

One final note — Alastor’s preferred spices for seasoning non-sinner meat — was something he had only mentioned in the past week when asked by Lucifer directly. After the incident with Vox during the broadcast; meaning Lucifer still cared enough to contribute to his running list of Alastor Facts after what Vox said about him.

Vox had not scared Lucifer away. He had not made Alastor appear any less entertaining.

Alastor thought back to Charlie and her notepad earlier that evening. It would seem it ran in the family, an inherited behavior from her father.

Sometimes Lucifer forgot things. Often he got distracted. An unavoidable detriment of being alive for so long. Time, memory, chronology; all of it worked differently for the Devil. Just that night he hadn’t been able to recall even a single song from the concert when asked, and — unlike Alastor — he’d been paying attention… ish.

At some point he must’ve gotten into the habit of writing things down whenever he deemed them important enough to remember. Things about Charlie, most likely. Important dates, facts about what she liked, things to do and not to do. And… Alastor.

On a loop, ‘no dogs, snakes are fine’ reverberated against the inside of his skull.

The discovery shattered him. It made him feel like an asshole. It made him feel paid attention to, and cared for, and worth something more than he’d ever considered.

Alastor wanted to cry. The notepad was a slap in the face reminder that Lucifer had been taking him into account this entire time. That Alastor was important enough to be remembered, that Lucifer was factoring him in. One concert didn’t change that. A few poor words at the bar didn’t either. But Alastor had missed it all, too busy trying to win this thing between them that couldn’t be won at all.

It did not feel much like a game anymore.

He quietly closed the drawer and slipped back beneath the blankets, facing the broken radio. Taking it apart with his eyes, mentally cataloguing components, working out precisely how he would fix the thing. It was a good distraction. It was enough to slow his heartbeat and settle his stomach. It was enough to keep him from turning over and molding himself to the exact shape of Lucifer’s back until there wasn’t a molecule of air between them.

And if it wasn’t, it would be. If he stared at it long enough, it could be.

It would not become a bigger problem than it already was.

‘No dogs, snakes are fine.’

Alastor shut his eyes against the words as if that would quiet his mind, but it only made him worse. The neat curve of Lucifer’s handwriting bloomed beneath the backs of his eyelids.

‘No dogs, snakes are fine.’

His claws sank into the pillow he’d curled himself around once more, pulling out feathers that were not soft enough, nor crimson enough, for his tastes.

That notepad had infected him, like a sickness. It left his heart hammering, the skin over his pulse points visibly twitching, clammy and feverish and screaming out for an intimacy that had always felt foreign to him.

He wanted to scrape beneath his skin and cauterize each frayed nerve ending that begged for Lucifer’s touch, but that would only open himself up further to the Devil’s influence, tinkering around inside Alastor until he did not recognize himself.

There had to be a balance.

Alastor would not let Lucifer cut open his vulnerable underbelly and expose him the way Vox had. But he also knew that he did not have to keep Lucifer at arms’ length. He wasn’t Vox, eager to flay Alastor open; he wasn’t even holding a knife.

Going forward, Alastor would try. He would talk to Lucifer; they’d done so before. It had been working, before Vox ruined it and slipped back in Alastor’s head through the cracks he’d left over the decades.

Alastor would try to be better.

Starting tomorrow, he thought, closing his eyes.

‘No dogs, snakes are fine.’

Instructions for bathtub gin.

A charming little sketch of a shadow everyone else was afraid of.

Tomorrow wasn’t enough, Alastor realized. Not for Lucifer, and not for himself. He had to make an effort tonight.

Turning over, he crossed the gap between them. Insurmountable inches that felt like miles, miles that passed in the blink of an eye. Nothing made sense with Lucifer, even when Lucifer was the only one who tried to make sense of Alastor.

Entire body shaking right down to the breaths that passed through his lips, he came up close to Lucifer’s back. He did not press against it yet, instead laying just the tips of his fingers on Lucifer’s bicep. The bare skin was warm, and it returned a bit of life to Alastor’s.

Lucifer’s muscles tensed for a split second before so easily relaxing beneath Alastor’s touch. If only he could be the same way.

“Alastor?” Lucifer sounded concerned, and that only worsened the sick heat flaring through Alastor’s body. “What’s wrong?”

Alastor felt ridiculous. All night he’d spent denying Lucifer any touch, hoping he would break to prove him right, only for Alastor to be the one that could not end the night without Lucifer’s touch.

“I changed my mind,” Alastor said, his filter distorting each word.

Lucifer tried to turn around but Alastor tightened his grip on Lucifer’s arm, wrapping around it fully now to hold him in place.

“Changed your mind about what?” Lucifer asked. His voice was so calm, and held no judgements nor expectations.

It took Alastor a minute to form the words around the dry lump in his throat.

“I want to touch you,” Alastor admitted. “I want to hold you.”

And then he waited for an answer, like Lucifer always did for him. A gesture, even if it was one Lucifer did not need the way Alastor did. He deserved that common decency, not to mention clarity, after Alastor had made such a big deal out of not touching him tonight.

“Of course you can hold me,” Lucifer said softly.

There were no fireworks when Alastor finally pressed himself against Lucifer’s back. There was no discomfited twitch of skin, nor a roiling heat low in his stomach, nor any distress at the proximity. It simply felt like being exactly where he was meant to be in that moment.

He slotted his face in the nape of Lucifer’s neck. Slipped his arm around Lucifer’s middle, the man’s own silk robe draped over his skin coming along with it, cool between their warm bodies. He allowed Lucifer to find his fingers and tentatively entwine them together.

And, because he’d stripped all common sense along with his clothes that night, Alastor pressed a delicate brush of lips against the back of Lucifer’s neck, the same spot he’d dragged his nose tip along when they’d spent a quiet morning together in the radio tower. A kiss so light it was almost nothing.

Lucifer, of course, did not take it as nothing.

He tried to spin around in Alastor’s arms to face him, but Alastor held him firm, keeping Lucifer trapped against his shadow.

“Don’t,” Alastor begged.

He felt Lucifer’s mouth opening to say something and Alastor quickly brought his hand up to cover it.

He just… couldn’t tonight. Alastor was so tired.

Perhaps, in hindsight, he should have expected what came next: an answer. A similar brush of Lucifer’s lips against Alastor’s palm, in response to Alastor’s not-a-kiss.

Lucifer did not press for more, simply letting the gift rest in the cup of Alastor’s hand. It was not water, or shadowy ink, or blood. It would not slip out and disappear.

Alastor could do one more thing for Lucifer tonight. Not himself, not exactly. But it was the best he could do, and he hoped that was enough.

Moving his hand back to rest on Lucifer’s stomach, holding incredibly still as Lucifer twined their fingers back together, Alastor silently instructed his shadow to lean in close to Lucifer’s lips.

To his surprise, Lucifer hesitated. Alastor could feel his heartbeat through his back, and the fine tremor that ran through him.

“Go ahead,” Alastor murmured. “It’s not a trick.”

Their connection was not fully open that night; just enough to feel a slight tingle across his lips when Lucifer finally pressed his mouth to the shadow’s. Still, he felt that tingle travel everywhere, until it had ghosted across every inch of him. The tips of his hooves, the points of his ears. Between his shoulderblades that drew together, and his fingertips that tightened around the bedsheets in one hand and Lucifer’s fingers in the other. Along the length of his spine, all the way down to the tail that he’d stitched back to his skin to keep it contained.

The moment their lips had parted his shadow leaned back in, stealing a second kiss. One more brief imprint of Lucifer to memorize.

Alastor couldn’t get mad at it. He had done this to himself.

Lucifer had the wisdom not to comment after the shadow’s mouth pulled back from his own. Alastor’s actions had spoken for themselves, and he had no words left to give that night.

They shouldn’t even work together. On paper they certainly didn’t. Not matched in looks nor temperament nor goals in Hell. Not in approach to sex or appetite for touch. But they were together, simply because they could not help themselves.

“Go to sleep, Lucifer,” he said softly.

But even with Alastor now pressed to his back, or perhaps because of it, Lucifer remained awake, as did he. There was only one other thing he could think to try.

A quiet song slipped out of Alastor himself, since the radio was out of commission until he fixed it.

It’s three o’clock in the morning

We’ve danced the whole night through

And daylight soon will be dawning

Just one more waltz with you

“You’ve played this for me before,” Lucifer said.

Alastor hadn’t been sure if Lucifer realized at the time.

“Did I?” Alastor asked with a faux-curiosity.

“Yes.”

‘No dogs, snakes are fine,’ floated to the front of Alastor’s mind once more.

Make an effort tonight, not tomorrow, he reminded himself.

“I thought maybe you’d been too tired to notice that night.” Alastor paused for a long stretch before speaking again. “I like listening to this song while falling asleep.”

The fingers around his tightened their hold.

They could stay comfortably quiet now beneath the low croon of the song. Lucifer still had not fallen asleep, but his breathing was slowing, soft and even.

“Hey Al?” Lucifer whispered.

Alastor breathed in the scent of Lucifer alongside his name.

“Mm?”

“Do you want my wings?”

He had given Alastor the cocoon of his wings once before. Earlier this week, when Alastor had shown up in a frantic mood and sucked Lucifer off before curling up on the far side of the bed fully-dressed.

It was a bad habit to get into. No less childish than Lucifer wanting to hold the shadow while he slept.

“…Yes.”

Six impossibly soft wings emerged from Lucifer’s back without a sound; three slipped gently between Alastor and the mattress, and the other three settled over him like a blanket. There was only a small gap in the feathers, just enough to let Alastor’s arm remain wrapped around Lucifer.

His arm was not as impressive as a wing, but it was what he could offer, and that meant something.

“Goodnight, Alastor.”

The hand wrapped around his own tugged it up slightly, closer to where a heartbeat quickened beneath warm skin.

“…Goodnight.”

It was a static-less whisper against the back of Lucifer’s neck, Alastor’s lips brushing the skin with each syllable. It wasn’t quite a kiss, and Alastor could not give more than that, but it would do for tonight.

That melody so entrancing

Seems to be made for us two

I could just keep on dancing forever dear with you

Alastor was a fool for Lucifer Morningstar.