Work Text:
Alastor had been right in assuming there would be a next time.
What he hadn’t anticipated was just how many next times there would be.
As the days bled into weeks, he’d long since lost count. At first, their encounters were a matter of happenstance—biting remarks and teasing quips kindling the fire between them until they inevitably tumbled through a portal to the King’s chambers.
Eventually, pretense became unnecessary.
Lucifer had been the first to cross that threshold. One evening, he lingered in a doorway, waiting for Alastor to pass by. The moment the sinner stepped through, Lucifer seized him, dragging him into a dark corridor—out of sight, yet close enough to invite the thrill of potential discovery—and stole a searing, desperate kiss.
Alastor had been more clear-headed than usual that night, but that hadn’t stopped him from shoving a hand down the front of the King’s pants, his other arm braced against the wall over Lucifer’s head, caging him, shielding him from view as he worked the angel with a now practiced touch. He swallowed Lucifer’s moans with a kiss, drinking in the sounds of the Devil unraveling beneath him.
They had barely managed to clean up before Angel rounded the corner, chattering away on his phone.
Miraculously, if the spider demon suspected anything, he kept it to himself—at least within earshot.
Their trysts didn’t stop there.
Despite his best efforts to remain aloof, Alastor couldn’t deny how deeply he’d come to crave the King. It wasn’t just about watching Lucifer come undone for him—with him, more often than not. He craved the taste of him—his sweat-slick skin, laced with the ever-present hint of smoke; his blood, golden ichor richer than any wine.
Even Lucifer’s spend had a taste Alastor refused to acknowledge—faintly of apples, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.
More unsettling, though, was how much he’d come to enjoy the little bastard’s presence.
Lucifer was insufferable—a smug, sharp-tongued menace who delighted in getting under Alastor’s skin. And yet, Alastor found himself looking forward to their verbal sparring, their sharp-edged banter. Even more than that, he savored the quiet moments afterward—when they simply existed together, basking in the aftermath with no expectation, no pretense.
They never spoke about it. Never defined it.
To put a name to whatever they had would be to invite its destruction.
So they simply carried on.
And as a month passed, Alastor began to realize that his own bed remained untouched more often than not, abandoned in favor of the King’s.
And Lucifer?
Lucifer noticed, too.
He didn’t mind. After ten thousand years of sharing his bed—less so in recent centuries, admittedly—he’d grown accustomed to the presence of another beside him.
Of all the souls in Hell, he never would have expected Alastor to be the one to fill that space. And yet, any complaints he might have had felt hollow.
The Radio Demon was… almost pleasant.
Almost.
Not without his flaws, of course—an endless list of them. But Lucifer was hardly a beacon of purity himself. Alastor was an infuriating, sharp-edged creature—quick with a cutting remark, a well-placed insult, a smile concealing all manner of sins. An Overlord, no less—Hell’s most loathsome breed.
Lucifer didn’t like to think about how many souls Alastor must have enslaved to wield his power. How many deals he’d had to have made.
Too many.
And yet, he found himself drawn to him.
He had learned, for example, that Alastor drank his coffee black and avoided sweets—both forgivable crimes. He learned that he was deeply artistic, his love for music woven into his very being, extending beyond his job as a radio host. That for all his towering presence, in private, he could be small—his shoulders slack, his ears drooped, his smile softer, less of a mask.
Lucifer’s favorite side of Alastor was the one he saw when all those walls came down. When the sinner gave himself over completely, let Lucifer take the reins, let himself break in the best of ways.
Better still were the quiet moments after—when he was still hazy with pleasure, or, rarer yet, fast asleep, curled against Lucifer’s warmth, limbs tangled as though his subconscious feared the angel might slip away.
Lucifer craved those moments.
So when they stopped, he noticed.
At first, he brushed it off. They didn’t share a bed every night. But when one night became two, then three, then four, he felt the itch of disappointment.
He had grown accustomed to Alastor appearing at his door. At first, the sinner knocked, always phrasing his intent in roundabout ways. But soon, he stopped asking entirely, slipping into the room as if it were his own.
The first time startled Lucifer. The second time, too.
By the third, he had come to expect it.
By the fourth, he anticipated it.
By the fifth, he longed for it.
So when nearly a week passed without Alastor appearing in his doorway, Lucifer felt the gnaw of something he refused to name.
Had he done something wrong? He replayed their last encounters, searching for some slight, some misstep.
But he came up empty.
One thought lingered, however.
Perhaps Alastor was simply waiting—waiting for him to make the first move.
It would be just like the bastard. Fickle, playful, maddeningly petty. Lucifer had seen the delight in his eyes when he realized how thoroughly he had seduced the Devil himself.
Maybe he wanted to feel that again.
Maybe it was Lucifer’s pride talking.
But maybe, just maybe , it was worth testing.
Lucifer had never returned to Alastor’s room after the first time he let himself in to heal the sinner’s wound—and quite frankly, he hadn’t exactly taken the time then to look around at that point.
He’d suggested it once, but Alastor had been quick to turn the question back on him, attacking his pride with a quip of ‘What, Sire? Do even you find your room lacking? Inefficient, perhaps? ’
Lucifer had taken offense to that—enough that he unceremoniously dragged the sinner through a portal back to the King’s suite just to prove how efficient his room was.
He hadn’t suggested they meet in Alastor’s room instead again.
So now, standing outside the sinner’s door, Lucifer felt a strange flutter of nerves in his belly. His lips pursed as he peered up at the paneled door.
Why in Hell was he nervous?
Taking a deep breath to hopefully whisk away the butterflies from his gut, Lucifer lifted a hand, knuckles rapping against the wood in a series of knocks—a familiar rhythm he’d mimicked from the times Alastor would come to his room, so there was no question who was outside the Radio Demon’s door now.
Inside, Lucifer could hear movement—quiet, unhurried, accented by the sound of small objects moving, of metal clinking, and of the slight scuff of a chair’s legs against the wooden floorboards.
Then, a beat.
Then, a crackle of audible static—of audio filters settling into place, and a short spark that Lucifer thought sounded mildly annoyed. ( Fuck , had he really spent so much time with the damn Radio Demon that he was starting to pick up cues in the sinner’s sound effects? Was this getting out of hand?)
“Who is it? ”
Alastor’s voice was almost sing-song on the other side, drawing Lucifer back from his thoughts as he blinked, his face settling into a deadpan a moment later.
“You know who,” he quipped back, lips pulling into a scowl. “Can I come in?”
There was silence for a moment—no reply, no movement on the other side. It went on long enough that Lucifer couldn’t help but shift awkwardly on his hooves, the heels of his boots scraping slightly against the floor. His brows began to furrow as he peered at the door.
That’s when he saw it.
The sinner’s silhouette stretched upwards along the door in front of him and grinned mischievously, a shadow cast beside his own, implying that the sinner had materialized behind him. Lucifer immediately gasped, spinning on his heel to meet the Overlord face-to-face.
But when he turned to look behind him, only the empty hallway was there to greet him.
“Uh…”
A deep, unnerving chuckle echoed down the hall just before he heard the door click, the air shifting behind him as the door slid open, causing the King to spin right back around, his eyes wide. There, the sinner’s shadow still stood—looming, cutouts for the Overlord’s eyes and mouth taking on a scarlet glow as it grinned mischievously at him before suddenly retreating into the room, unblocking the pathway inside.
“Fuck , Al, you are such a creepy bastard. You couldn’t just open the door?” Lucifer chastised as he stepped inside with a huff, hands smoothing down over his vest—certainly not to try and wipe away the bit of sweat from his palms.
No, not at all.
He’d expected to find Alastor perched primly in one of his wide-backed chairs by the fireplace, dressed to impress in his usual tattered suit, likely nursing a glass of rye, perhaps enjoying a good book.
But when the area around the hearth was notably Radio Demon-less , Lucifer blinked, sweeping his gaze across the room.
Alastor’s room was… bizarre. Vaggie had once mentioned Alastor’s room in the old hotel—a collection of skulls, trinkets, and taxidermy from both the living world and Hell, making the room appear both cluttered and organized simultaneously. Not to mention the apparent pocket dimension he had introduced into the space—a damp, bug infested swamp, as Vaggie had put it, before grumbling that it was no wonder where Niffty’s insects came from.
Lucifer supposed it wasn’t much different now. There was still a large fireplace against the wall, casting a sickly green glow across the room—likely lit directly by the sinner’s own magic of a similar hue. Around it were shelves and trinkets, displays, questionable and macabre in nature—but so very Alastor.
A vanity shared the same wall, ornate and old, immaculately organized, with one of Alastor’s ruby monocles sitting abandoned on the surface.
Then was the swamp.
No, the bayou—yes, there was a difference. The distinction was in the quiet trickle of moving water beneath and beyond the withered bridge that seemed to connect from the hotel’s room into the impressive pocket dimension itself. The connected world didn’t look like anything in Hell—at least nothing in the Pride ring—blanketed in the cool darkness of nights like those seen on Earth, illuminated only by the subtle glow of golden fireflies that danced around the moss-draped cypress trees, reflecting their glow atop the slow-moving stream that disappeared beyond the brush.
How big was this pocket dimension, exactly? Lucifer wondered if it was ever-present, or if Alastor simply conjured it every time he returned to his room. Either way, it no doubt took an incredible amount of power.
Alastor was no average sinner.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind him startled Lucifer from his thoughts, his eyes widening as his gaze continued its sweep across the room in double-time, finally landing on the aforementioned sinner.
“Are you quite done gawking at my room, Sire?” Alastor quipped, though he didn’t so much as spare Lucifer a glance. No, his attention was elsewhere—in front of him, at the mess of metal and wire and parts strewn about the round table in front of him.
Lucifer could only blink, mouth snapping shut—shit , he had been gawking, quite literally. The King’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, forcing a little scowl onto his face.
“I wasn’t,” he retorted, though it was empty, unconvincing. Alastor’s static settled into a low drone as the sinner glanced up from his work over the rims of his glasses—glasses? That was different—peering at the King for only a moment before turning his attention back to the collection of parts in front of him.
The recognition of the sinner’s glasses made Lucifer pause, his head giving a little tilt as his eyes swept over the Overlord, assessing. He realized immediately that Alastor looked different.
Gone were his coat and tie—the former hanging on the rack beside the door, his tie tucked away elsewhere. His boots were forgotten too, evident by the way one hoof peeked out from where it crossed under his opposite leg. His shirt was lazily unbuttoned too, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, high enough to reveal the start of the gradient of Alastor’s tawny skin into the darkened hue of his hands and forearms.
Most surprising though—other than the small pair of round, red spectacles perched carefully on his nose—was the way the sinner’s hair was partially pulled back into a little tail, revealing more of the soft fuzz of his undercut.
He looked… good.
Lucifer must have been staring too long, because Alastor shot him another glance, his smile tightening even as an eye twitched with mild annoyance.
“Are you quite done gawking at me now, Sire?”
Lucifer’s breath hitched as he straightened, shoulders pinching a bit higher as his lips curled in defense, even as a slight golden hue crept across his cheeks.
“I was not—”
“Is there something I can help you with, Sire? As you can see, I’m quite busy at the moment,”
Alastor’s interruption caused Lucifer to bristle, but his words also drew the angel’s gaze back to the mess of parts on his table. Curiosity quickly settled over the King as he blinked, finally allowing himself to cross the threshold of the sinner’s room, drawing closer to the makeshift workstation to peer at the various components.
“...Is this what’s kept you so busy the last few nights?” Lucifer asked, head slowly cocking to the side as his gaze flitted towards Alastor’s hands, watching as the sinner’s too-long fingers worked to carefully reaffix a wire to some sort of metal tube or valve. Lucifer’s eyes blinked in curiosity as he took a moment to properly look over the parts.
Wires, tubes, capacitors, a transistor, and beyond it all, on the other side of the table, an ornate wooden box–-no, a chassis.
“Oh! Is that an old radio?”
Alastor’s static skipped as he spared the King a glance, smile pinching as his lips sealed, pressing together.
“Yes,” he answered—though which question he was responding to was unclear. Both, perhaps.
Lucifer didn’t care. His mind began to itch with curiosity as he inched closer—though he had enough sense to not touch , regardless of how badly he wanted to reach out and start inspecting the various components.
When Alastor shot him a warning glare, Lucifer was thankful for his own restraint.
“That looks earthly,” he observed, “Like, it looks genuine.”
“It is,” Alastor responded simply. For a moment, that was all he said, his focus trained on the delicate coupling of metal as he picked up a tool from the table, carefully beginning to solder the wire to its intended base. Only once he was satisfied did he pull back, eyes squinting through his glasses as he inspected his work before finally leaning back, his gaze lifting towards the King—albeit not much. In actuality, sitting made the sinner only marginally shorter than the King’s standing height.
Lanky bastard.
“American made. 1925. In life, my mother owned one identical to this—though hers actually worked ,”
Static crackled through his words at the end as irritation slipped into his words, his ears pinning back as one of his eyes twitched with annoyance as he glared down at the collection of components.
Lucifer couldn’t help but smile, a soft breath of amusement escaping him as his arms fell to his sides, hands pushing into his pockets.
“So… what’s wrong with it? And don’t—” he interrupted, raising a hand as Alastor’s mouth opened to quip back at him, causing the sinner’s smile to slip more into a grimace as he glared at the King, “—don’t just say it doesn’t work. Like, what’s the actual issue?”
Now it was Alastor’s turn to bristle, his eyes narrowed into slits as he peered at the King for a moment, before letting out a static-laced huff as he relented.
“There’s an issue with the RF tuner, and one of the resistors is corroded and needs to be rewired. There are also countless wires that have frayed and need to be either replaced or soldered back into place, which unfortunately has devolved into a game of trial and error since the little imps who smuggled this into Hell did not think to procure a manual to go along with it,”
Lucifer could only blink, his brows lifting as his gaze flicked towards the sinner’s face.
It was… strange. Strange, but oddly refreshing to hear Alastor talk at length about something so technical, something he was clearly quite passionate about.
It was a rare, but welcome reminder that beneath all of the layers of sadism and psychopathy, Alastor was indeed once just… human. A human with interests and passions and hobbies.
Lucifer couldn’t help but smile.
“Do you want help fixing it? I could—”
“ Sire ,” Alastor interrupted with a short clip of static, “While I have no doubt you could magically repair this antique back to the state it was in when it was first sold, I would point out that this piece was not made with magic. To repair it in such a way would be disrespectful to its makers and would no doubt tarnish the quality of its workmanship.”
Lucifer balked, hands raising in mock-offense.
“Woah. Hey—first of all, I take offense to that tarnish comment. Secondly… That wasn’t even what I meant, if you’d let me finish my damn sentence,” the King snorted, face scrunching in annoyance. Alastor’s only reply was a quirk of his brow as his static settled into a dull, expectant drone.
Lucifer sighed.
“What I was going to say was that I could help you. I’ve always loved tinkering with technology from Earth in my workshop. It’s cool to see the kind of stuff humans come up with—the ways they make things work. I’ve worked on quite a few things from this era—1925, you said?---I could give you a hand.”
Again, Alastor’s eyes narrowed at him.
Though, to the sinner’s credit, he didn’t immediately dismiss the King’s offer.
Instead, he eyed Lucifer warily, smile remaining close-lipped as he glowered at the angel. He was clearly hesitant to allow the King’s help, the moment dragging on as his static began to buzz louder, his eyes unblinking as he peered at the King.
“Why would you spend your time helping me? Do you not have more important things to attend to, Sire?”
Lucifer snorted in response, eyes giving a slight roll.
“Are you deaf? Those bigass ears just for show?” He quipped, causing the sinner’s static to spark in irritation. “I said I like tinkering with technology from Earth. It’s fun for me. Plus , the only thing I’ve been doing at this time of night these days is now busy with a little project, so I might as well help him out so I can get back to that ,”
He caught it—the little flicker of amusement in Alastor’s eyes, hidden poorly behind a veil of false annoyance. Alastor huffed, but Lucifer caught the way his smile spread into something genuine and amused, almost indulgent. He heard the way the sinner’s static buzz softened, saw the way his ears flicked.
“Oh, my apologies , Sire,” Alastor hummed, tone bordering on saccharine, “I did not realize you had grown so accustomed to my presence in your bed that you would long for it when I found something else to occupy my time,”
“Bullshit,” Lucifer mused, a brow quirking, a hand suddenly lifting to slide beneath the sinner’s jaw, lifting Alastor’s face to look at him properly. He couldn’t help but smirk when he heard the Overlord’s breath softly hitch. “You know damn well what you do to me. You probably know better than most that my greed rivals Mammon’s sometimes,” he went on, smirk widening as he stepped closer, grip tightening slightly on Alastor’s jaw, tilting his face higher.
His words had amusement flickering in the sinner’s gaze, which in turn, had Lucifer chuckling softly. Without another word, the King leaned down, continuing to hold Alastor’s face still as he met the sinner’s lips with a kiss—slow, unhurried, enough to make a pleasant warmth begin to settle in his gut, but chaste enough that the possibility of it progressing further was slim to none.
It lingered for a moment, long enough for Lucifer to feel Alastor’s lips part against his own, inviting the angel’s tongue to flick out, lapping briefly into the sinner’s mouth, forks dragging languidly across Alastor’s own tongue, tasting the lingering whisky on the demon’s breath before he finally began to pull back—albeit not far.
Alastor’s eyes remained lidded when they opened back up to meet Lucifer’s own—pupils wider than normal, indulgent.
The effect Alastor had on Lucifer was clearly not one-sided. That road went both ways.
“So,” Lucifer spoke, voice a touch lower than before, taking on a gentle rasp that made one of Alastor’s ears twitch, “let me help you with this , so we can get back to more of that. How’s that sound?”
Alastor peered at him for a moment, eyes flickering over the angel’s face, which remained close, their breaths mingling.
It was obvious he was debating with himself—a fact that had Lucifer grinning, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Alastor was typically so sure of himself, so quick with his decisions.
It was fun to watch his mind work.
“Fine,” the sinner finally relented, his response clipped, laced with faux annoyance, like a parent conceding to their petulant child’s whims. “But no magic , and if you break it, you can go to Earth yourself to find me another one,”
Something flashed in Lucifer’s eyes—mischief , gleeful and unrestrained—as his lips pulled into a grin.
“Deal, ” the King responded, that single word—uttered from the literal Devil ’ s lips—causing the air around them to crackle. His grin slipped into an appropriate smirk as he saw the reflection of his eyes in Alastor’s own flash from gold to crimson for a moment before he leaned down, pressing another, firmer kiss to the sinner’s lips, swallowing the surprised static-laden bleat that escaped the sinner as the simple, harmless contract settled into place.
‘Bet he’s never sealed a deal with a kiss before, ’ Lucifer thought with pure delight as his own tail lashed behind him once before disappearing with his horns once again. His assumption was confirmed when he pulled back, just in time to see the sinner’s sclera fade from black back to crimson, his pupils spiraling like radio dials once more as his antlers shrunk back to their usual, diminutive state.
Lucifer couldn’t help but laugh at how borderline baffled the sinner looked.
‘Oh. And I bet he didn’t expect to make a deal with the Devil over a damn radio,’ he thought, continuing to snicker to himself as he pulled back.
“Alright!” The King started, releasing Alastor’s jaw in favor of bringing his hands together in a quick clap, “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Alastor clearly allowed himself another moment to just gawk at the devil in disbelief, the last lingering sparks of his own magic dancing down his arms, the air—and his static—buzzing from the King’s own influence.
“Yes,” he finally conceded, “Let’s.”
Minutes bled into hours, evening into night.
Lucifer never would have imagined he’d willingly—gladly—spend an entire evening tinkering with an old earthly radio alongside a sinner.
No.
Alongside Alastor.
Their usual nightly activities? Those were easy to rationalize. He was lonely, Alastor was interesting, and—most surprising of all—they were remarkably compatible in the bedroom. No discussions were ever needed, no awkward negotiations of boundaries—though Lucifer certainly considered forcing that conversation for the sake of a bit more experimentation.
But right now?
They just worked.
Outside of that? Their relationship was a different beast entirely—strained at the best of times, an endless game of wits and sarcasm. Lucifer would never have called them friends.
And yet, the hours passed without incident.
They worked in companionable quiet, focused on their respective tasks. At some point, Lucifer had pulled up a chair beside the sinner, propping himself up on one leg for a better angle as he peered through the conjured magnifying glasses perched somehow on his face, carefully rewiring a corroded section. He’d allowed his own outfit to naturally and gradually shift to a state of similar undress to the sinner—his vest unbuttoned all the way down, his tie loosened until the bow sagged, uneven, his collar unbuttoned to match. His boots came off at some point too, sitting abandoned under the table.
He’d made himself at home, he supposed.
He barely noticed when Alastor got up, only registering his return when a fresh bottle of whiskey thudded onto the table. Without a word, Alastor poured them both a glass, sliding one towards Lucifer before resuming his work.
Lucifer accepted with nothing more than a soft hum, bringing the drink to his lips without looking up. Alastor didn’t seem to mind.
The only sounds were the occasional spark of static, the click of metal against metal, and the bayou’s ever-present ambiance—the creak of trees, the trickle of water, the chitter of unseen creatures. At one point, Lucifer thought he saw a deer in his peripheral vision. He wasn’t entirely sure. He didn’t stop to ask.
His eyes ached from hours of unbroken focus by the time they moved on to reassembling the radio’s wooden housing, seamlessly taking turns slotting components back into place.
“If this works,” Lucifer murmured—the first words spoken in hours—as he leaned back to watch Alastor affix the dials, “we could restore the exterior too, if you want. Strip the wood, fix the worst of the wear, then give it a fresh stain.”
Alastor’s ears twitched. He studied the wood, lips pressing together as his grin widened—not his usual toothy performance, but something quieter. Almost genuine.
“I rather like its weathered look,” he admitted, his voice dropping into its natural cadence for just a moment. “It gives it character.”
Lucifer smirked. He’d never say it aloud, but he actually liked Alastor’s unfiltered voice. It was smooth, bright—pleasant, even—with just enough rasp to make it distinct.
But when Alastor continued, his usual radio distortion returned. Lucifer did well to hide his disappointment.
“Though… we could reinforce the worst of the damage. Just to prevent further wear.” His crimson eyes flicked toward Lucifer, gaze sharp with silent amusement.
It was then Lucifer realized the position he’d settled into—elbow propped on the table, chin in his palm, cheek squished against his fingers, glasses askew, body leaned slightly into Alastor’s space.
He blinked, cleared his throat, and leaned back, tugging his glasses off.
“Oh. Uh, yeah. That’s probably a good idea. No sense in letting all our hard work go to waste if the thing falls apart again.”
Alastor held his gaze a beat longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
Amusement, yes. But maybe something else.
Lucifer wasn’t foolish enough to call it fondness , but… perhaps a shade of it.
Heat crept up his neck at the thought. He cleared his throat again—louder, more deliberate—before nodding toward the radio.
“So… you gonna turn it on?”
A knowing look passed over Alastor’s face, brow arching as he reached for his glass, downing the rest in a slow, deliberate drag. Only after setting it down did he hum—a deep, static-laced sound that sent a ripple through the air.
“Indeed.”
Lucifer snorted.
Alastor reached out, long fingers deftly twisting the dial. Static crackled through the air—not his static, Lucifer realized, excitement sparking in his chest. Another turn. More crackling, shifting pitches as Alastor fine-tuned the frequency with meticulous care.
Then—just as Lucifer parted his lips to voice his doubt—the radio clicked , the static softened, and a melody emerged from the speaker.
Soft. Jazzy. Vintage.
Lucifer caught the way Alastor’s antlers had elongated slightly, his teeth glinting in the dim light, his glow intensifying just a fraction. Maybe he’d used a touch of magic to boost the signal. Maybe he’d become the signal.
Either way, Lucifer didn’t comment.
He simply grinned, looking far too pleased with himself.
Alastor noticed, of course. He rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Oh, don’t look so smug. I would have fixed it myself if you hadn’t insisted on helping.”
“Maybe,” Lucifer drawled. “But I did help. Hate to say it, Bambi, but we make a pretty good team.”
Mischief danced in his golden gaze as he got to his feet and stretched, arms lifting above his head, back arching with an audible pop.
Alastor simply watched, sipping the last of his whiskey before setting the glass down with an air of finality.
“I can think of worse company,” he allowed, waving a dismissive hand. But before he could lower it, Lucifer caught his wrist.
Alastor paused, brow lifting.
Lucifer only grinned—playful, predatory—as he stepped closer, sliding a hand over Alastor’s shoulder.
“Worse, sure…” he mused. “But better?” He tilted his head, lashes lowering as he nudged his knee between Alastor’s legs, pressing them apart before continuing forward to straddle his lap. “I mean, it’s not every day a sinner gets to make a deal with the Devil.”
Alastor hummed, indulgent and slow, static melting into the radio’s gentle jazz.
“Mmm. And I suppose you intend to collect on your deal immediately?”
Lucifer chuckled. “Oh, absolutely.”
He let his claws trace up Alastor’s jaw and face before jumping upwards, skimming the soft velvet of his ear, combing through the fur just enough to earn a pleased sigh.
Alastor had long stopped pretending he didn’t enjoy it. His body always betrayed him.
Lucifer smirked.
“Your bed or mine?” he murmured, gaze flicking to the nearby crimson and black duvet and pile of pillows against the headboard.
Alastor considered him, slow and deliberate, drinking him in with a gaze that burned hotter than hellfire itself.
“I see no reason to leave when we are already here,” he finally decided. “Mine will suffice.”
Lucifer’s grin turned sharp.
“Sounds good to me.”
His fingers tangled in Alastor’s thick ponytail, yanking his head back with a satisfied hiss. Static faltered—just for a moment.
Lucifer wasn’t sure what time it was.
Didn’t matter.
They had days to make up for.
And Alastor?
He didn’t seem to mind.