Chapter Text
It should be said that Alastor has no idea how he ends up in the bed of the Devil himself.
He’s the pragmatic one. Nothing in his life, before or after, has ever been done without meticulous preparation. He’d kept a planner, for Satan’s sake, with all his (legal) doings carefully scripted in his neat cursive.
He can only blame this whole thing on a severe lack of foresight. Morbid curiosity, too. Because though Alastor may be a lot of things—cunning, proficiently skilled at piano, a cannibal who is savagely ruthless in his pursuit of power—he is also naturally curious, with a keen eye and a need to study things that he deems fascinating.
Since Vox’s defeat and the hotel’s surge in genuine interest from the sinners of Pride, Alastor has had to make good on his promises as hotelier. He will welcome guests—though not without a bit of theatre and some magic—and he will attend to any issues Vaggi herself cannot. He becomes an integral part of day-to-day life, unable to disappear at a mere whim the way that he used to, slipping into the shadows to prowl unseen through the hotel’s many hallways.
Because of this, he’s noticed one thing.
Lucifer, the scourge of Heaven and the King of Hell himself, is not very surreptitious of the glances he steals of the Radio Demon when he thinks no one is looking. And that, to Alastor, is very fascinating.
It starts simple enough.
Charlie is adamant about staff breakfasts, never mind that half of those in attendance are not actual staff. However, Alastor is content to play along, so long as it does not interfere with his own duties. It’s best to indulge the princess in her whims, after all. She’s so much more bearable when she’s happy.
As is customary, Alastor is the first one down to the kitchens before the brownish dried blood of dawn brightens to the usual deep, rich red. He prefers it like this, the entombing solitude: one light on in the long, spacious room offers the kind of atmosphere that sets one at immediate ease.
Though he’d much prefer to be in the comforting humidity of his bayou with a nice bit of rare venison on his breakfast plate, his maman did raise him to have manners; even separated eternally, her voice will always be the one he cows to.
So he gets the coffee started, falling into routine. Growing up, he would help maman with the coffee in the morning on the good days. They had nothing but a cheap, dented percolator, and he’d grind the beans while the water boiled on their uneven stove. Maman would hum a jazzy tune; if he was lucky, they’d have their old cathedral radio on and they’d sing along while her weathered, capable hands kneaded dough for the morning’s biscuits.
There’s a homesick place in Alastor’s heart, but it’s one that no one will ever know. Not the smell of sweet jasmine in the humid air, nor the exact color of maman's eyes.
Coffeemaking has changed greatly in the past century. Charlie insists on modernity, their coffeemaker a hulking, industrial thing, so Alastor compensates by grinding the beans fresh daily. If he has his own vintage pot and his own secret stash of coffee and chicory root, then that’s nobody’s business but his.
By the time the princess herself makes her way into the kitchen the coffeemaker is percolating with its first pot of the morning, the kitchens fragrant with the rich scent of coffee beans.
“Al! Good morning!” Charlie chirps, adjusting the ties in her hair. “That smells ah-mazing.”
Vaggi appears not long after, brushing her hand across Charlie’s shoulder in greeting. Alastor watches how the two interact with a cocked head and narrowed eyes, fascinated by the choreography of their movements. Their body language speaks of an easy familiarity, both somehow knowing what the other will do before it happens.
Maybe Alastor is simply curious. That’s what he could chalk this up to. He is a solitary creature, with no desire to let anybody know him well enough to be at ease with him. In fact, he can’t think of anything worse!
Still, it is not enough to squash this sudden curiosity. The princess and her paramour are very different, but they are still in a committed relationship. Alastor doesn’t think he could deal with someone not doing things exactly to his specification. To him, it simply seems like an annoyance, though it does appear to work for others.
Speaking of annoyances: a shimmering gold portal opens just shy of the tables, because Lucifer is incapable of not making everything a show.
The king steps from the portal and greets his daughter and Vaggi. Then, when he looks around the room and finds Alastor standing by the slowly-percolating coffee pot, makes a face like he’s just stepped in sinner gore.
“Oh, bellhop,” says Lucifer with palpable disdain, imbuing the incorrect title with so much disdain that Alastor is nearly impressed. “I didn’t expect to see you so early.”
“And I didn’t expect to see you at all,” Alastor lobbies back, blood singing with the promise of Lucifer’s reaction to his next words. His arms rest primly behind his back as his smile widens. “You are so often absent. Much like your own Father, ha ha!”
Lucifer opens his mouth, shoulders squared and the tips of his horns just beginning to poke through his forehead, but is stopped by the addition of a third voice.
“The girls fightin’ again?” Cherri Bomb drawls, yawning her way into the room with Fat Nuggets tucked into the crook of one arm. The little pig snuffles and lifts its head, before deciding nothing important is going on and tucking itself further into Cherri's arm.
Luckily, her appearance offers enough of a distraction for Alastor to turn back to his coffee preparation. Before he does, though, he catches the golden gaze of the Devil on him, sharply curious, and mentally files that away.
——
Once you know what to look for, finding it is much easier, and now that Alastor knows what the calculating weight of Lucifer’s attention on him feels like he is almost painfully aware of how often Lucifer stares when he thinks nobody will notice.
As a sinner Alastor does, unfortunately, need sleep. But much like in life, he doesn’t require much of it. Five or six hours usually suffices, so he can do his final rounds late after most have gone to their rooms, and before any of them wake in the morning.
He travels through the shadows at night, making sure all the appropriate doors are locked, and that the front (and back) of the hotel are free of any unsavory types. For once, the hotel is peaceful. Despite his general indifference towards the purpose of this place, he can’t help but feel a bit of pride at how safe he keeps it.
He has always liked building things from the ground up. Getting one’s hands dirty is the best way to do it, after all! Of course, he prefers blood to dirt, but one does what one must. He didn’t become the most feared shadow in New Orleans without a little of both on his hands.
With Rosie’s chains broken, Alastor is no longer bound by her word to the hotel. If he wanted, he could have left right after the battle. But it seems like he’s getting sentimental in his old age, and the thought of leaving Niffty especially put a squirming in his gut that he was not fond of.
There is also the promise of Lucifer, who he’s grown to enjoy tormenting at every possible moment. It’s been a week since their interaction in the kitchens, and they’ve yet to speak again. That does not mean, however, that Lucifer has not had…eyes on him.
Existing as a sinner in hell, regardless if you’re the most powerful or not, means that you’re always aware of what is in your surroundings. Though he and Lucifer don’t cross paths physically, Alastor is quite aware of him lurking just out of sight. It’s almost comical, especially because he’s almost certain that Lucifer has no idea that he’s been found out.
It’s late evening. Most of the guests have retreated to their rooms for the night, leaving a few stragglers down in the common area in front of the television. Alastor eyes them and the television with distaste as he passes by on his nightly rounds, a low bugle drifting through his microphone when a commercial featuring Valentino and Velvette begins to play.
“Buncha shit, if y’ask me,” grumbles Husker from behind the bar, stopping Alastor mid-stride. His ever-present static screeches.
“What was that, my dear fellow?” he asks pleasantly, positioning his arms behind his back.
Gesturing with a half-full bottle towards the cluster around the television, Husker says, “The Vees. Still able to make commercials like nothing fuckin’ happened.” His words slur only slightly, so it must be early in the night for him. A surprise, considering Angel Dust hasn’t been back since returning to Valentino and Husker’s been deeper in the bottle than he has been in years.
Suddenly, somewhere in the closest corner of the room there’s a brief flash of red and white, a muffled curse that has one of Alastor’s ears swiveling towards it. Eyes narrowing, he sends his shadow to check it out, and off it zigzags.
To Husker he hmms while he waits. The shadow finds nothing; with raised shoulders and upturned palms it returns back to Alastor’s feet like an obedient dog. Seems the king has made better use of his time.
Alastor has little patience for the bartender’s theatrics. In the grand scheme of things the Vees mean nothing, especially without Vox. Time moves on, and soon somebody stronger will come along, and the pentagram in the sky will keep on turning.
“I’m afraid that’s Hell, old chum!” he replies, spinning his microphone around to his left hand. Without waiting for a response he saunters off towards the kitchens to continue his rounds, whistling a cheery tune as he goes.
——
The sign outside the king’s room says NO ALASTORS ALLOWED.
It’s cute, really.
“I wasn’t sure you remembered my name,” he says silkily when he catches Lucifer alone in the main room, popping up directly behind where he sits on the couch. Lucifer lets out a strangled shriek of surprise, dropping his book and whirling around.
“What are you talking about?” he snaps, trying, and failing, not to look flustered.
Alastor lets a light little jazzy tune emanate from his microphone. “I happened to be doing my rounds on the top floor and it brought me to your suite and your darling little sign. And since you have called me many things besides my name, I had simply assumed you forgot and were too embarrassed to ask.”
Lucifer stares at him in a mix of annoyance and incredulity. Without his top hat he really is much shorter than expected; his shoulders are several inches below the high back of the couch, forcing the perspective further. “Were you creeping around my room for any particular reason, or just because you’re a weirdo?”
Waving his hand, Alastor says, “Heavens no! Just doing my duties as the host of the hotel.”
Lucifer sneers.
“I don’t need your duties”—he makes air quotations—“stinking up my corridor.”
Alastor’s grin sharpens like a knife against a whetstone, its glint deadly. “Are you sure about that, sire? I mean, all of Hell knows of your impotence—surely you wouldn’t mind a little security every now and then.”
That makes Lucifer jump out of the chair and whirl around, eyes glowing red. “You mouthy little—!”
Alastor tsks. “Now, now. No need for that language, Lucifer. You know how protective Charlie has become since the battle.”
Lucifer stares at him mulishly, like a petulant child. It’s true that Charlie keeps a closer eye on her father now than she did before. None of them had expected that Lucifer could be wounded to the extent that he was. Though he’d explained that it would take much more than that to kill him, Charlie still wasn’t convinced.
“How do I know you wouldn’t be the one to send them straight to me?” Lucifer asks.
“Because, sire. I find you terribly interesting, and I’m not finished with you yet.”
With that, he melts into the shadows and slips away, leaving behind the faint echo of a piano sonata and the dumbstruck look of the Devil himself.
——
Alastor has always made it a point to be very distanced from whatever group activities Charlie plans because he’s not interested in the ridiculous notion of redemption. But with Lucifer starting to become more involved in the day-to-day of the hotel, popping up like a cold sore every time Alastor thinks he’s safe, he’ll be damned twice before he allows Lucifer to best him on his own territory.
There’s also still that latent curiosity. The thrilling shiver down his spine when he recalls the king’s continuing clandestine attention. Alastor has never been one to settle for less; proclivities aside, having a being like Lucifer pay such careful attention to him is, to put it bluntly, titillating.
So when their Monday activity ends up involving partners, Alastor is quick to pull Lucifer close to him before he can squirm away, one arm slung across his shoulders. “I think this would be a perfect activity for your favorite father figures, hmm?” he says to Charlie, his permanent grin wide.
Predictably, the princess squeals and claps her hands together, nodding. Beside her, Vaggi looks less convinced and more suspicious, but Alastor thinks that’s a bit unfair. He wouldn’t harm the king, after all!
“That’s perfect!” Charlie says, her eyes shining. “Oh, Al, I’ve been wanting you and Dad to bond for so long now!”
“Are you sure that’s what they’re going to do?” Vaggi asks, her eye narrowed. She crosses her arms over her chest. “The last time we saw them together—”
“Now Vaggi!” Alastor replies, squeezing Lucifer a little tighter and forcing a surprised huff of breath from the diminutive king. “Do you really believe I’d harm our dear old king, and right in front of his own daughter, no less!”
Vaggi mumbles something that sounds like yes, and Alastor continues on. “I simply think it’s time we put things in the past, if we both are to be here more often.”
“What?” Lucifer asks.
Alastor snaps his head down towards him. “Why yes, Your Majesty! We are both here to support our dear Charlie, are we not?”
Uncertainty wars with the fury in Lucifer’s golden eyes. Glancing at his daughter, he stammers, “W-well—”
“Now if you’ll excuse us,” Alastor says, already beginning to steer Lucifer towards the hall with claws dug into his shoulder, “we’ve got some bonding to do!”
Once out of earshot and tucked safely in the library, Lucifer roughly shrugs Alastor’s touch off and steps back, glaring at him. The low light suits him, giving the fine, flawless features of his face an unearthly relief. The angry set of his mouth and the hint of razor sharp fangs completes it. If ever were a soul to embody the avenging angels the church told Alastor about, Lucifer would be it. “What the fuck was that about?”
“Oh, don’t act so troubled,” Alastor says dismissively, running a finger across a bookshelf. The dark reds and mahogany of the room lends the space a more intimate feeling, something that is not lost on Alastor as he glances back to Lucifer. “I know you’ve been spying on me. You’re terrible at stealth.”
Lucifer opens his mouth, then shuts it. Then he says, indignant, “What else did you expect me to do? I’m not just going to trust my daughter with some cannibalistic deer.”
“You certainly seemed fine with doing so before,” Alastor points out with glee. “More than fine, actually.”
“Now that was different and you know it.”
Alastor blinks, one eyebrow raised. He folds his hands behind his back and bends forward. “Do I?”
They stare each other down in silence, teeth bared. Finally, Lucifer breaks. “…Fine. Yes, I’ve been watching you.”
“Spying.”
Rolling his eyes, Lucifer leans against one of the plush, velvet-upholstered chairs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Sure, guy. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Oh, but he is frustrating. Never one to admit when he’s at fault. Always quick to deflect blame or try to use his silver tongue to make you believe you were the one to blame. The Devil is small, and petty, and Alastor is so utterly consumed with his interest in him.
“Did you find what you were looking for, sire?” he asks, thick with radio feedback.
Lucifer pushes himself off the chair, then. Stalks forward, golden eyes gleaming in the low light cast from the small stained glass table lamps. He prowls like a big cat, intent and purposeful in his stride. Alastor has never been—and never will be—prey, but perhaps that’s something worth exploring with Lucifer. He can see the appeal in the sharp spike of animalistic fear, courtesy of the prey instinct Hell has cursed him with.
A flash of gold winks into existence: a portal, to Lucifer’s chambers. A large bed with pink sheets and a ridiculous duck headboard. Alastor doesn’t say no. He doesn’t move away. Lucifer’s heeled boots make no noise against the carpeted floor.
“I don’t like you,” Lucifer says, stopped now at the foot of the portal. Its golden glow shines on his skin and in his eyes as it swirls around him. He stands tall, unmoving.
The air has a charge. Alastor’s next inhale catches in his throat; he forces it down, squaring his shoulders as he looks at the king. The ridiculous white jacket and pink striped vest. The tall black boots that make Lucifer’s legs appear impossibly long. The face that is as beautiful as it is terrifying. God’s favorite creation, a heavenly wonder tossed aside like an old doll.
“Bravo,” he says crisply to mask the throbbing of his pulse. “I don’t like you either.”
Something shatters. It feels like static on his skin. It’s the anticipation of moving after waiting in the shadows with a knife in his hand.
Lucifer makes a frustrated noise before he’s closing the last few inches between them, bodily hoisting Alastor up through the portal and onto the bed, pressing him against that ridiculous headboard before he can say nary a word. His hat falls off in the process, tumbling to the ground; Alastor is not sorry to see it go.
And they aren’t kissing—they aren’t, but Lucifer’s mouth is damp and warm against the column of Alastor’s neck, his hands running up and down Alastor’s clothed chest. When he slips onto Alastor’s lap, Alastor can barely muffle the surprised, doe-like bleat at the onslaught of sensation.
The Devil is a lithe thing.
Short, yes, but also slight. A finely tapered waist that accepts the spanning clasp of Alastor’s hands, narrow enough his claws nearly touch at the small of his back. Wide golden eyes that always manage to look so pathetic and hopeful at the same time. As if he’s asking for Alastor’s touch, his kiss. Like the touch of a sinner could finally be his salvation after centuries buried in the deepest pits of the cosmos.
Alastor is under no illusion that he’s a good person. The gossip from the papers after his untimely death was surely full of shock—the amiable, charismatic Alastor Boudreaux couldn’t be a demon. He led ladies home at night. He played piano at their favorite speakeasies. He always had a smile ready. His voice was the one they sought on the airwaves for comfort when the news kept getting worse.
People see what they want to see, and all his life Alastor carefully cultivated his public personality. He knew he’d been destined for Hell the moment he picked up that claw hammer and stood over his inebriated father, but that didn’t mean others had to see it. His maman had raised him right, and his love for her ran much deeper than his contempt for the poor excuse of a man who was too free with his fists and his belt.
All of that leads Alastor here, on what should be a king’s stately bed, but what is, instead, a bed with a grotesquely absurd facsimile of a duck in lieu of a proper headboard, with the king in question straddling his lap and licking hotly down the long line of Alastor’s neck.
It should be revolting. It should have him shying away in disgust. As it is, Alastor’s bow tie is undone and the top three buttons of his shirt are open. Lucifer’s tongue is unsurprisingly serpentine, dexterous where it laves over Alastor’s skin. And it isn’t…unpleasant. That may be the most shocking part.
There is also the matter of the Devil himself. Though Alastor would never admit it even under the threat of a second, more permanent death, Lucifer is undoubtedly the most beautiful creature Alastor has ever seen. His grating personality aside, it’s easy to see how Lucifer is temptation incarnate.
It infuriates and intrigues Alastor to no end, how this minuscule being is more powerful than anything he’s ever known.
A warmth has begun to simmer at his core, its presence rare but not foreign. Though these types of carnal relations aren’t something he usually chooses, he hasn’t made it to a hundred years without experiencing arousal and its subsequent release.
Lucifer’s small hand curves around the nape of Alastor’s neck, easing him into tipping his head back. A pleased hum against his skin, and then Lucifer’s tongue is sliding along the curve of his jaw. A catch of sharp teeth—nothing more than a promise, and Alastor’s breath hitches. The static in the air crackles, as if shifting between stations.
He’s not hard, but it is simply now a matter of when, not if. Lucifer writhes performatively against him like the snake he is so often portrayed as, sinuous with angelic grace while he breathes hotly against the demon’s finely-furred skin. Unlike Alastor he is hard, a firm line against the soft weight between Alastor’s own legs, where his cock is still tucked into its sheath, and the press of it against that oft-ignored sensitive place is maddening.“I never took you for a wanton hussy, my liege,” Alastor says drolly to the ceiling, his eyes half-lidded, enjoying the weight of the king’s body against his the way one enjoys a sip of fine whiskey. Savoring. Taking in every element to parse the flavors on his tongue. Shuddering at the perfect combination as he swallows it back.
Lucifer scoffs but doesn’t refute it. His voice dips low, an ancient thing, as he leans in to the tuft of Alastor’s ear and says, “I don’t see you complaining.”
Another telltale crackle of static that Alastor is quick to shove a laugh track into. He cannot lose his composure. “Why would I do that when I’ve got the most powerful being in all of Hell squirming on top of me like a teenager in the backseat of a car?”
Smiling audibly, Lucifer asks, “What do you know about that?”
“You misunderstand me, Your Majesty,” Alastor replies warningly, ears pinning back. “Do not mistake my indifference for inexperience.”
It’s intended to be a barb. Lucifer is quick to judge—something Alastor himself is all too familiar with. However, his own snap judgments tend to involve murder, though for good reasons. Lucifer’s contain no such thing.
Despite presiding over all things eternal damnation, Lucifer is not very good at it. He’s even less adept at reading people. He’s naive, and far too trusting, and Alastor wants nothing more than to exploit all of it.
The barb, however, doesn’t catch. Alastor bites back a low whine at the abrupt lack of contact as the king pulls back and takes Alastor’s face in ink-black hands. Then Lucifer, eyes glowing gold and looking every bit the sin of temptation that he is, merely slithers his way between Alastor’s thighs to look up at him.
“You don’t seem very indifferent tonight.” Tilting his head, Lucifer points his tongue between his teeth, eyes scrunched to expose the purple of his lids. He really is unfairly beautiful. Unfairly perfect, even, despite the marks of his Fall permanently altering his once-angelic form.
Hands on Alastor’s thighs keeps them spread while he leans in closer. “In fact…I’d say you’re pretty into it. Wouldn’t you?” Lucifer asks, sultry. A bedroom voice. So different from the Lucifer who parades around the halls, ebullient and unserious, a veritable ringleader in a circus of his own making.
Confined in his slacks, Alastor’s tail strains to lift, to twitch. His ears swivel. The corners of his smile strain at their stitches. It’s as if something in Lucifer has shifted, like the static charge in thick air before a late-summer thunderstorm.
Between his legs, with his eyes half-lidded and the purse of his lips tempting beyond what Alastor thought he could imagine, Lucifer makes Alastor want to sin. So without saying a word, before he can think and stop himself, Alastor takes Lucifer’s face in his hands and pulls him up for a kiss.
It is inexpert and inelegant. Imperfect. Alastor has never kissed anyone before—he’s never felt the need to, during his prior trysts. Too messy and too much contact for his tastes. Something about Lucifer, though, keeps changing his mind, he’s discovering.
When their lips met, Lucifer had let out a surprised mrrp of a sound, giving Alastor the upper hand. That, however, was short-lived: the second he reorients himself, he’s kissing Alastor like he’s been waiting for it. The soft, damp slide of lips, the hint of sharp teeth, the flick of Lucifer’s serpentine tongue, all of it leaves Alastor hot and breathless.
The force of the kiss knocks off his monocle; it falls with a gentle sound of glass hitting carpet, Alastor’s ears flicked toward it while the Devil ravages the rest of him.
He’s never been like this before. Never sought out the small breadth of clothed shoulders to dig his claws in like he does now. He’s helpless but to follow Lucifer's lead, letting him take them wherever he pleases. A hitched-in breath of a sound comes from him, but he hardly notices.
Then Lucifer’s hands are at the bases of his ears, rubbing into the velvet-like fur there and lighting up Alastor’s nerve endings like a shock. The gasp Alastor involuntarily lets out invites Lucifer’s tongue in, a chuckle vibrating through him when the static between his stations crackles loudly.
“Mm, just as soft as I’d hoped,” Lucifer murmurs, lazily dragging their open mouths together. His fingers continue, down into the fuzzy tuft at the base, up over the curve and into the soft, sensitive interior. Alastor is melting, floating, adrift in the sudden intense pleasure this demeaning act brings. “Bet you’ve got a deer dick, too.” Sliding his other hand between Alastor’s legs, Lucifer curves his palm around the soft weight of Alastor’s balls. Warmth has started to steadily throb in the bowl of his hips, but not enough for his cock to make an appearance.
He can tell that Lucifer feels its absence. He pulls back in surprise, and when he blinks, the sclera of his eyes momentarily flashes red, and his near-imperceptible nostrils flare. It is overwhelmingly powerful to see that slip of control from somebody with Lucifer’s status, and momentarily Alastor feels almost dizzy with pride.
“Okay,” Lucifer says, a hint of brimstone in his voice, “clothes off, now.”
Before Alastor can even open his mouth there’s a shimmer of magic, and suddenly he’s bare, tail twitching in alarm where it’s trapped underneath his body.
A startled bleat escapes him.
“How dare you—” Alastor hisses, eyes flickering briefly to radio dials. He should flay Lucifer for this, should have him begging for the Radio Demon’s rare mercy, how dare he when allowed one small moment of vulnerability…
“Fuck, you’re hot,” Lucifer says, effectively halting Alastor’s thoughts and drawing back the faint green glow of his power. His own clothes are similarly magicked away, exposing milk-white skin that fades into the black on his arms and legs. It’s a black that doesn’t exist in nature: a pure absence of any color or light. “Never thought the animal anatomy would do it for me, but I guess that’s the beauty of living forever, hah!”
“Are you quite done?” Alastor snaps, ears pinned back. Though he has no cause to be ashamed of his body—after all, much like in life it is just a vessel to him—Lucifer’s unabashed staring is making the back of his neck feel hot, and that simply will not do.
Lucifer just grins, his erection steadfast and blushing a pleasing pale gold at its swollen head. A thrill runs through Alastor at seeing that very evidence of the Devil’s desire for him, never mind that he wants to get his claws around it.
“Don’t tell me the big, bad Radio Demon is shy,” Lucifer simpers in that brimstone register. “I happen to know that you think very highly of yourself, so this surely can’t all be because of little ‘ol me.”
Alastor lets out a warning noise that does nothing to deter Lucifer. He knows just as well as Alastor does that if any of this was unwanted, he wouldn’t be here. It doesn’t stop the sinner from posturing, though.
“Didn’t anybody ever teach you that it’s rude to stare?” Alastor huffs, never mind that he is also staring at the impossibly perfect shape of Lucifer’s body, from his small, rosy nipples to the distinct lack of a belly button in that flat stomach. Power is clearly coiled just beneath Lucifer’s skin, and Alastor wants to taste it like he wants to taste viscera between his fangs.
“Baby, I’m the King of Hell,” Lucifer says with a grin, tongue curling over his teeth and eyes once again glowing red. “Nobody teaches me anything.”
“Clearly,” Alastor mutters, but the usual heat behind it is tempered by the faint unsteadiness of his words. He’d meant to start this thing so he could have something else to hold over the diminutive king’s head, but he’s rapidly coming to the realization that he has greatly underestimated Lucifer.
There’s a pause before Lucifer’s voice returns to normal and he asks, searching Alastor’s face, “You are okay with this, aren’t you?”
Looking between their similarly unclothed states, Alastor says, blandly, “I know you are ancient beyond my mortal years, but I did not think you capable of losing your mind.”
The look on Lucifer’s face morphs into a scowl. “Well, how am I supposed to know when every other word out of your mouth is an insult!”
An insult! Trust Lucifer to not understand the verbal art of sparring. “My dear king,” Alastor responds, “if I did not approve of your actions you would know.”
Lucifer rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath that has Alastor’s ears swiveling to try to catch it. It sounds like infuriating and deer.
“I’m sure consent is a foreign concept to you, but I’m not exactly in the habit of assaulting people. It’s a yes or no question, Alastor.”
No should be the obvious response. It’s already gone too far. He should not be here, laid bare, his instincts kicking their hooves. He should not look at the body of the Devil and want with such carnal hunger that he is willing to throw his pride away just for a taste, as if he’s some junkie like Angel Dust.
“You already have me in your bed,” Alastor replies, even that small admission reluctant to be dragged out of him. “That is my consent.”
Lucifer sighs, drawn-out and long-suffering. “Yeah, I don’t know why I expected a straightforward answer from a sinner like you.”
“Pardon me for not falling into whatever neat little box it is you want to put me in, Your Majesty,” Alastor replies in a sneer, the frustration enough to cool a bit of his growing arousal.
“Wha—?” Lucifer’s dark brows knit together, mouth pulling into a deep frown. “No, that’s not what I meant, Al, jeez. You always want to be difficult, don’t you? Fuck. …Okay, here goes. You don’t fucking get it. I’m here because I’m interested in you, you homicidal maniac.”
Alastor blinks, sure he’s misunderstood. “Why?”
“For the love of—” Lucifer takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. One of Alastor’s ears flicks. “Maybe I’ve just finally lost it in my loneliness. But you…there’s something about you, Alastor, and it makes me fucking crazy.”
The first thing Alastor thinks of is love. But even as it makes his upper lip curl he knows that is not what Lucifer means. Because Alastor feels it, too. It is something that transcends a mortal word to describe it. It’s why his first instinct when he saw the king was to poke and prod to get a reaction.
“Perhaps you have finally lost it,” Alastor says.
A beat, and then Lucifer snorts, says, “Sinners,” with such fondness that Alastor has to look away. His attention is brought back by Lucifer crawling atop Alastor’s bare legs. Then, straddling Alastor’s lap, his own cock swaying with the movement, Lucifer meets his eyes and digs his claws into the softly-furred skin of Alastor’s hips. It’s a dangerous look, a predatory look. Though Lucifer’s horns and tail are hidden, Alastor can easily picture them both now, undeniable evidence of just whose bed he is in.
Alastor cocks his head.
Would Lucifer let him see them, if he asked? Would he let Alastor touch them? To hold the Devil’s spade-tipped tail, the very thing described in countless fear-inspiring fables…
There is no fear here. Even had he not known of the king’s lack of influence over sinners there would never be fear when it came to Lucifer. Little scares the Radio Demon, and even less would make him back down from a challenge such as this.
Lucifer’s ink-black hand settles over Alastor’s chest just shy of his scar, right where his dead heart still beats in a facsimile of life. They say nothing. Alastor’s own hands twitch against the bedspread.
Then, Lucifer grins, and he cups the furry weight of Alastor’s balls in one small, practiced palm.
“Now come on,” he purrs, gently squeezing and tugging, rolling them in his hand and making Alastor’s static crackle dangerously around them. “Show me that pretty cock. You’re practically vibrating, Bambi.”
The hand on Alastor’s chest rubs over the aroused peak of one nipple, and Alastor gasps, fighting the urge to arch up into the touch.
“Fuck you,” he replies, but it’s more breathless than he’d like. Damn the damned Devil. The heat in his belly reaches a fever pitch with another tug, a claw dipped into the slick opening of his sheath, and he finally arches off the bed, thighs trembling, hooves digging into the sheets. Lucifer is good with his hands, of course he is, and Alastor cannot swallow back the gasp as the head of his cock starts to slide free.
He hates this, this loss of control, this submission to the basest of desires making him little more than the beast he’s been cursed to resemble for eternity. But as much as he hates it, he also finds that he craves it. Lucifer’s hand moves from his balls to the exposed tip of his cock, curious, gold eyes focused, claw tracing the slick that already coats the swollen head of his cock.
“Satan below, you’re wet,” he says.
Alastor bares his teeth, ears lowering slightly at the hot mix of desire and shame that rushes through him at Lucifer’s awed words. Though it’s been decades since he’d last been this aroused, he remembers his traitorous dick and how it behaves. Even if he didn’t already feel it, he would know.
“Is it always like this when you’re actually horny?” asks Lucifer, gently swiping the pad of his thumb up the tapered head, collecting the pearl of pre-come oozing from the slit. Against his blackened skin, its shine is filthy. Hedonistic. Downright obscene.
It makes Alastor’s heart leap violently in his chest. It makes him want to sink his fangs into the crux of Lucifer’s elegant throat and take deep pulls of his golden blood.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he practically spits, eyes transfixed on Lucifer’s thumb, the shapely curve of his claw.
“I mean. Yeah. S’why I’m asking you.” Lucifer shrugs, then pops his thumb in his mouth. The sharp screech of feedback fills the air before Alastor can stop it—Lucifer’s lips purse around his claw, a hint of pink tongue bright against his skin. Alastor’s cock gives a mighty flex, sliding fully out to rest hot and damp against his belly.
And the Devil, damn him again, never misses an opportunity.
“Oh ho, you liked that, huh?” Lucifer’s grin stretches wide, showing off his own sharp teeth. It crinkles his eyes up at the corners, laugh lines creases in the fine porcelain of his skin, like the cracks on a well-loved doll. “You’re just full of surprises tonight.”
“Do you ever shut up, sire?”
That grin grows sharper, until it’s nearly enough to rival Alastor’s own. Lucifer is gloating. He has his prize cornered, and he knows it. Alastor can try to say that he has the upper hand here, but he’s already lost it. Possibly the moment they ended up in Lucifer’s quarters.
“Why?” Lucifer asks sweetly. “You gonna shut me up yourself if I say no?”
And there certainly is a thought. The King of Hell, gagged at the mercy of a sinner. Fire lances through his core. Eldritch power elongates his antlers by a prong. That insufferable mouth covered—or stuffed—with something. Fingers. Cloth. The silken strip of Alastor’s bow tie, so unmistakably his, a mark of ownership in the king’s own dominion.
His cock jerks against his belly, dripping more sticky wet against the soft thatch of red fur that leads to its base. A shudder runs the length of his body at the warmth of it, makes him want to flex his thighs wide and invite in the slight body of the King so he can cover him, own him. God, what is wrong with him? What has Lucifer done to him?
“Perhaps I should,” Alastor manages, clawing his way back into the upper hand. “We all would be better for the silence.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“People admire my broadcasts.”
“Is that what they tell you to your face?”
Alastor snarls. Lucifer laughs, looking pleased with himself. This—insolent creature, Alastor thinks. This immortal imp.
“Getting a little excited, are we?” asks Lucifer, trailing one claw along the extended prong of Alastor’s antler and knocking him bodily from his angry internal monologue. His golden gaze follows his finger the way a scientist studies something interesting.
What a ridiculous question. Raising an eyebrow, Alastor looks down at his cock, unimpressed. Lucifer laughs again and adds, “The antlers, Bambi.” He taps his claw against one.
And thank Satan that Alastor’s fur covers up the worst of his blush. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I would dream of no such thing. Simply acknowledging what’s already there. Your cock, on the other hand…”
Like it’s heard, more pre-come drools onto Alastor’s belly at the low tenor of Lucifer’s voice, and he continues before Alastor can say anything: “Can I suck you?”
A sound like clattering brass instruments. “Excuse me?”
Lucifer shifts his weight on the sheets, thigh muscles flexing when he settles back onto his hooves. His cock, though not as hard as it was when they first got bare, is still standing proudly between his legs. “Uh, a blowjob? Or—what was it you humans used to call it in your time, a suck job?”
“I know what it is!” Alastor snaps, face growing damningly more heated. Of everything he’d expected of the king tonight, debasing himself in this way was not included. A little spark of heated interest kindles low in his belly. “That is…”
“Awesome? Hot as Hell?” Lucifer supplies, shrugging one snow white shoulder. The forked tip of his tongue pokes between his teeth as he winks. Imp. “I like using my mouth, what can I say.”
“That is an understatement.”
Lucifer snorts. “Okay, I walked right into that one.”
Despite himself, Alastor’s smile twitches upward, and he replies, “I fail to see the appeal of the act. Surely…hands would be better?”
Lucifer looks at him incredulously. “Al, have you never gotten a blowjob before?”
Teeth are bared again. A ripple of something Alastor will never acknowledge as shame rolls through him. Sex is all but useless to Alastor, but he still doesn’t like being put on the spot in such a way. “Hands have been perfectly fine when I have desired so in the past.”
Lucifer continues to stare. Alastor does not like it. But he also doesn’t ask Lucifer to stop. Because in that surprised stare Alastor can see the inherent curiosity that makes up the Morning Star, the creator and inventor. The dreamer. It’s Alastor’s own curiosity, mirrored.
“Hoo boy. Alastor,” Lucifer finally says, those golden eyes glittering. “That will not do. Let me rock your afterlife tonight.”
It’s so unbelievably corny that Alastor can’t help but chuckle, underscoring it with his characteristic laugh track. The canned laughter echoes in the room before fading out into the usual hum of static. “Sometimes I wonder how anybody could have ever believed you in possession of a silver tongue.”
“Oh, I can be very persuasive when I want to be, baby.”
“Hmm.” Alastor raises an unconvinced brow. “I’ll believe that when I see it, cher.”
Lucifer’s pupils dilate; he leans forward, almost unconsciously, as if he’s awaiting something special. “You speak French.”
Alastor smirks, the familiar feeling of getting just what he wants out of a situation buoying his heartbeat. “Oui, mon petit canard.”
Lucifer blinks, dark brows scrunched, then says, “Oh, hey now.”
The laugh track again, echoing Alastor’s own cackle clothed in feedback. Then nothing but a surprised inhale as Lucifer pounces, pinning Alastor’s arms to the bed and pressing their mouths together.
No matter how much Alastor squirms, Lucifer’s lithe body holds him down. The fingers around his wrists may as well be shackles of angelic steel. He is trapped, unable to move, at the utter mercy of the King himself.
Alastor opens his mouth, letting Lucifer’s tongue in, and moans.
“Fuck,” Lucifer hisses, serpentine in its sibilance, breath a hot exhalation. His hips drop, the thick length of his damp cock grinding against Alastor’s. It makes his knees jump, trapped as they are, and Lucifer says, groaning, “That was so hot. How do you sound so hot?”
“Lucifer, stop talking,” Alastor growls. Arching, he chases the slick press of the Devil’s lips, feeling all at once as if he’s finally damning some last piece of himself. Never even at his most human hunting through New Orleans could he have imagined it all culminating in this moment. Some part of him thinks he should probably be more surprised at this, but he knows himself.
“Say yes,” Lucifer says, dragging the tips of his fangs along the sensitive skin of Alastor’s jaw. “Let me suck your cock.”
He pulls back, and Alastor looks up at him, trying to subtly catch his breath. Lucifer’s blond hair is mussed, spilling across his forehead and trailing along the back of his neck. As Alastor suspected, Lucifer blushes gold, and it burnishes his cheeks now.
Here is the Devil, begging him. Alastor has never felt more powerful. The heat between his legs pulses, reminds him. But he is never one for being straightforward when he doesn’t have to be, and Lucifer is so fun to torment.
“Whatever you please, sire,” Alastor permisses airily.
“Yes or no, Alastor.”
A frustrated huff of breath. Lucifer is such a bad sport sometimes. “Fine. Yes.”
The sclera of Lucifer’s eyes bleeds red, the only warning before he’s manhandling Alastor on the sheets, adjusting his body like the sinner weighs nothing. Small, capable hands slide up under Alastor’s thighs, pushing his fur against the grain and making Alastor shudder. Then—
“You have a TAIL?!” Lucifer all but yells when he reaches the small of Alastor’s back and the soft, downy line of fur that leads to the tuft of his tail. The way his head pops up between the lean lines of Alastor’s thighs is almost comical.
“Hmm, it appears so,” Alastor drawls, eyes on the vaulted ceiling, yellow mounds of those ridiculous ducks in his peripheral. “And if you ever tell anyone I will personally make it my mission to make your existence at this hotel more miserable than you could ever imagine. Or I will eat you.”
Eyes back to gold again, Lucifer fixes them on Alastor in such a way that Alastor is sure lesser men would give in. “You wouldn’t. Al. Turn over. Please.”
“No.”
“Pleaaase—”
“I believe I gave you permission to put your mouth on me, not fondle my tail.”
“What if I said I’d just look at it?”
“Still no.”
Lucifer pouts. Though he does not push the matter further, Alastor remains skeptical. The snake that Lucifer is so often portrayed as is more accurate than anybody could imagine, and this surely will not be the last he hears of it.
All thoughts of suspicion leave Alastor’s mind entirely, though, when Lucifer pushes his legs apart, settling them over slim white shoulders, and leans in. A quick glance up, a slyly quirked black eyebrow, and a sharp grin and then Lucifer is swallowing him down, using his prehensile tongue to lift up Alastor’s cock and angle it into his mouth.
A burst of static, the kind between stations, screeches into the room. It should come as no surprise that Lucifer is not one to take his time. Nor should it be a surprise that he is, for lack of a better word, enthusiastic.
With every bob of his head Lucifer sinks deeper. His eyes are closed, at ease with the thick red cock slipping past his lips, shining with saliva in the light of his room. He keeps his small hands off the base of Alastor’s cock, stroking his fingers instead up and down his thighs.
Alastor’s carnal experiences are few and far in between. Once, when he was human, and purely out of an almost clinical interest in what the fuss was about. A few more times since spawning in Hell, because sex is inescapable down here and he’d wondered if it would benefit him as he set out making a name for himself.
Ultimately it didn’t, and he’s had no interest since then. Sex is a messy affair, and Alastor abhors mess. It feels good, yes, but the brief euphoria is hardly worth the bodily fluids it causes.
Lucifer is…making him strongly reconsider that. And Alastor is a man of habit and firm ideals.
Down between Alastor’s legs, the King’s eyes are half-lidded, mouth stretched wide around Alastor’s girth. His claws pinch into the soft skin of Alastor’s inner thighs. The sharp point of pain heightens the brush of his tongue, the constriction of his throat as he—oh, Hells…
Alastor’s head presses back into the pillow, mindful of his antlers, as he lets out a stuttering moan. His own claws dig into the sheets, rending the delicate fabric. His ribs pull in almost painfully as he tries to breathe normally while Lucifer swallows his cock.
Sliding off with a truly obscene, wet sound, saliva stringing down to Alastor’s cock, Lucifer says, “You can pull my hair, you know.” He levels the demon with a smug look and runs his tongue over his slick lower lip. “I like it.”
“Of course you do,” Alastor says, though it lacks heat. In for a penny, he supposes, swallowing hard.
Lucifer’s hair is soft when Alastor sinks his fingers into it. A sound like a purr rises from Lucifer’s throat. Satisfaction, thick and sweet like honey, drips down Alastor’s spine. The purple of Lucifer’s lids droop, and he parts his lips, extending his tongue to lap at the wet head of Alastor’s cock.
Alastor’s grip tightens, breath catching. Lucifer groans and takes him fully into his mouth, cock slipping back into the tight clutch of his throat. With a gasp, Alastor’s back arches sharply with a sickening crack of bone, and his hand tugs. The moan Lucifer lets out, mixed in with the wet sounds of his mouth and throat, vibrates into Alastor’s very bones.
He can’t stop himself from saying, “Fuck, Lucifer,” the rarely-used fricative encased in a crackle of near-unintelligible static. Random bars of music float from his microphone, testament to his fraying control.
It seems to encourage Lucifer. Those purple lids flutter like he’s doing something particularly pleasing, and perhaps he is, Alastor thinks, watching him with a mix of arousal and fascination. The small king is focused, but the rare lack of lines between his brows shows that such a task relaxes him.
He really is fascinating.
It could be nice to finish like this. The wet warmth of Lucifer’s mouth is certainly more pleasant than he’d expected, and he would love the satisfaction of seeing him swallow his spend. But then Alastor notices that one of Lucifer’s hands has disappeared; using his flexibility to his advantage, Alastor strains up and to the side and finds that Lucifer has his hand around his own cock, playing with himself, and, well. That simply will not do.
Dark tendrils of shadow seize Lucifer around the waist. When he pulls back, confused, Alastor flips their positions, straddling slim, white hips. The look of surprise on the King’s flushed face is rather becoming. Alastor could devour him like this, spread out like a divine buffet across soft pink sheets. Let his sharp teeth rend into that sweet flesh and pull sounds from the Devil that no one has ever heard before.
“Alastor—” Lucifer begins, chest heaving as he looks at the tendrils spanning the slim width of his waist.
“There will be none of that, my King,” tuts Alastor, smile sharpening. “Pawing at yourself like a heathen when I am right here. Truly, do you have no shame?”
The gold of Lucifer’s blush turns darker. When his cock twitches on his belly, they both look down, ready to move; Alastor is faster: he pins Lucifer’s cock down with one hand, claws digging shimmering golden grooves in the soft curve of his sides. The look Alastor receives in turn is a shocked one, like Lucifer didn’t expect him to touch him at all.
Silly, really. Alastor wouldn’t get this far if he didn’t absolutely want to. Touching the Devil intimately may be something he never entertained, not even in his human efforts to summon him before—no, Lucifer must never find out about that. Alastor thinks he may have misspelled part of Lucifer’s name.
“If you want my touch, sire, you’re going to have to ask for it,” Alastor leans down and says, static curling around the latter part of the sentence. His eyes flash, antlers edging out a few more inches and neck taking on a grotesque angle.
He expects Lucifer to lash out. Put up a fight. Be that immovable weight of a being far more celestial and far much older than he. Lucifer doesn’t. Instead, his eyes grow rounder. He exhales a little puff of steam that curls up between them and disappears.
He says, “Please,” and it’s like church bells. Like wind chimes. A sweet, earthly beauty at once both holy and unholy. The submission of Lucifer’s body in that instant knocks into Alastor like a physical weight. The Devil, at his mercy. A willing participant.
Shrinking down, some of his eldritch power receding, Alastor wraps his fist around Lucifer’s damp cock. The immediate throb in return stills his touch before he starts moving his hand along the length. Lucifer tenses, sighing out Alastor’s name as his ribs heave under his flawless porcelain skin. His hips make a perfect tidal wave roll into the next downstroke.
Somewhere in the room, a radio flickers to life with a warble of static. A pause, and then a sweet piano tune. Alastor’s cheeks heat, but he remembers Lucifer doesn’t know how his frequencies work. So he says nothing and continues to jerk Lucifer off, bracing his weight with the hand slung over Lucifer’s body. Alastor adjusts on his knees, leans in closer, watching the desperate bob of Lucifer’s throat. So vulnerable, under that thin skin.
His cock, too, vulnerable in Alastor’s clawed grip, velvet skin fever-hot beneath his touch. The pulse of life in it is heady, undeniable, as every stroke makes Lucifer grunt; each pulse brings the ebb and flow of that gold flush over the swollen head. Alastor captures a drop of pre-come between his middle and index fingers, smearing it down the length.
“Al, I—ahh,” gasps Lucifer, writhing on the bed, digging up great ribbons of cotton as he shreds the sheets with his claws. “Ah, fuck—oh fuck, Alastor—”
The slide is a bit drier than Alastor would like, that soft, delicate skin catching on the edges of his palm on every occasional stroke. Though Lucifer seems unbothered by it, Alastor is not.
Leaning down, he opens his mouth and drools out a string of black saliva onto his palm beneath the head of Lucifer’s softly golden cock. It lands, like an ink blot, just below the crown, where the flush begins to turn less gold. Swiping across the head and mixing it with Lucifer’s pre-come, Alastor misses the dumbstruck look in Lucifer’s reddening eyes, but he hears it in his voice.
“I could have gotten lube…” Lucifer begins, still looking somewhat dazed as Alastor looks up. He rolls his eyes. If he’s already messy with pre-seminal fluid from both of them, what’s a little saliva?
“No,” he replies simply.
“Alrighty,” agrees Lucifer. Then, “I have a suggestion. You take this hand here”—reaching down, he takes hold of Alastor’s wrist, pulling him away from his cock—“and you take this here”—then, bringing that hand to Alastor’s own erection—“and you put it here, and then you wrap your hand around both of us, and tada!”
Alastor looks down at the twin weights in his hand. How different their genitalia. The fat width of Lucifer’s, the rounded tip with the blunt head. His own, cervine now, a flash of color resting on that pale cock. He has to curve his spine wickedly to keep it so the heads of their cocks touch. He rolls his hips.
The spark that arcs down his spine is like lightning. The radio pops and crackles, piano abruptly switching to the electric wail of a guitar. His antlers spike as his grin morphs into a snarl.
“Yeah.” Lucifer laughs, eyes gone red, his own grin curling his mouth. “Good, isn’t it?”
Alastor doesn’t respond. He drags his hips back, forward. Lucifer moans, and Alastor huffs out a breath, eyes trained on the obscenity of their cocks in his fist. He’s so slick that it leaks over his fingers. Lucifer is leaking now, too, and the slide quickly grows filthy. The bed groans gently under them. Hot, liquid pleasure suffuses through Alastor, and his next exhale turns into a quiet moan.
The Devil’s eyes, meanwhile, are squeezed tightly shut, his head tipped back and throat bared as he pants. Seeing him so lost in his own pleasure hits right in the pit of Alastor’s arousal, and for a moment, he thinks he understands it all.
A whine; Alastor is almost startled to find that it comes from him. Just a little more, he’s right there on the edge, body aching and trembling towards release. His hooves flex, thighs tightening, sweat-slicked fur rubbing against smooth skin. He says, garbled with feedback, “Fuck,” and that’s all he gets before he’s toppling over that edge.
When Alastor comes his tail shoots straight up, quivering as he spills across that pretty cock, that perfect skin. Opalescent globs of semen smear down his length, over the desperate, throbbing vein he ruts against. One, two more thrusts see Lucifer following him over the edge, a cracked shout half-buried in his throat while his own spend shoots long, gold-tinged trails over his heaving chest and belly. His legs tighten around Alastor’s hips, hooves digging into the sensitive skin between thigh and buttock, before falling wide.
The unseen radio oscillates wildly between the stations, static crackling in the room before finally settling on a low, smoky jazz. Alastor sucks in deep lungfuls of breath, head hanging low between his shoulders. Beneath him Lucifer exhales, then giggles, eyes slitting open. His hair is a tousled golden halo around his head against the soft pink of the sheets. A primal, satisfied part of Alastor purrs. He defiled the Devil, left him filthy with their spend.
“Well,” Lucifer says. “That was unexpectedly good.”
“Don’t make a habit of expecting it,” Alastor responds, too boneless to do much more than drop, panting, on his back beside Lucifer.
“Psh,” the king scoffs, “as if I’d need to. Got it out of my system. Poof.” There’s a snap of fingers, and the sweat and come on Alastor’s body is gone. They both steadfastly pretend like what they said earlier never happened. Good. All the better for it. Hindbrain is nothing to trust once the moment passes.
The jazz continues on. As Alastor’s heart rate returns to normal he finds himself, as he so often does in new situations, curious. “Answer something for me,” he eventually asks, turning his head towards Lucifer. A gesture towards his shadow, which has been lurking at the foot of the bed, retrieves his undershorts, and he slips them on.
“Ominous,” says Lucifer, turning, brazen and unashamed in his prideful nudity as his cock shifts with his movement, laying soft and unassuming against a snow-white thigh, “but sure.”
“Does the Devil actually take souls?”
The look he receives in return is almost comically offended, made even better by the mess of Lucifer’s hair. Without its careful coif, Lucifer almost looks…younger. “What, is yours not eternally damned enough? Ugh, never mind. Don’t answer that. Unlike you sinners, I don’t need to have souls.” Lucifer pauses and stares intently at the ceiling. “Actually, it’s kinda gross. You’re already doomed, why make it worse?”
Alastor laughs and props his head up on his hand, conjuring a faint laugh track. “Why, because it’s fun, sire!”
“Uh huh. Yeah. So, our ideas of entertainment differ very drastically,” Lucifer replies dryly. Alastor thinks back to his failed attempt to summon Lucifer in life. Would Lucifer have taken his soul, if he’d asked? Not needing and not wanting are two different things.
The way Alastor sees it, humans were a failed, flawed race from the start, too caught up in their own ideals to appreciate others’. But he can’t imagine witnessing their creation, feeling all that pride and hope as these naked and vulnerable creatures stumbled around discovering their purpose, and ultimately being punished for believing in something too selfish to fathom consequences. “Do you ever regret it?”
“What?” Lucifer questions, confused. Somehow they keep ending up closer, Lucifer’s cheek now resting on the back of his hand where it lies on his pillow.
“Giving humanity free will,” Alastor replies, curving his body. “I’m certainly not a poster child for it.”
Lucifer doesn’t hesitate, though his eyes do gain a flinty edge. “I could never regret giving humanity the opportunity to choose. The alternative was blind submission, and that just didn’t seem fair. You all…there was so much potential, within humans. You could do anything you wanted if you had the ability to make your own decisions.”
“Bad decisions,” Alastor points out.
Lucifer’s mouth thins, eyes downcast. “Yes. And I get to live with that every day as part of my punishment.” The line softens into something natural, almost fond, and he meets Alastor’s eyes with a sort of unrelenting fervor. “But I know there’s good out there. There always is. And that’s enough for me.”
It isn’t about what he’s said: it’s about what he doesn’t say. The spaces between the words where the silent things sit. There’s good in humanity, Lucifer says. But the way his eyes linger on Alastor’s says And I see it in you, too.
Alastor is not a good person. He never will be, and he has no desire to change. Not even the Devil himself could make a difference. However, the conviction with which Lucifer speaks, the obvious belief he has in the things he says, makes Alastor wonder, for the first time, if knowing somebody else truly can change you.