Chapter Text
“We can stop whenever you want.”
Alastor’s eyes snap open. He hadn’t been aware of his decision to close them.
He looks at Lucifer’s face, at his dark brows curled into a little ‘V’ of concern over bright cornflower eyes. His guts twists into a familiar knot, slimy insides slicking past each other with a pressure that has his knuckles whitening with the effort to fight down the rise of bile. Alastor looks down at the pale hand resting on his thigh, those thin fingers frozen where they had been stroking along the inseam of his trousers.
“Are you bored?” He finds himself asking flippantly. He thinks his voice hides his inner turmoil well. He’s spent several decades perfecting it, after all. Alastor doesn’t allow himself to think long about how the answer might make him feel, because if a no tips over the edge of the other man’s tongue they will likely continue, but the anticipation of a yes makes Alastor’s stomach plummet and his cheeks heat.
The corners of Lucifer’s mouth dip down in irritation and his fingertips curl into the starched fabric lightly, briefly. Alastor keeps himself carefully still. Lucifer doesn’t seem like the type of man to bristle at the thought of rejection, but he is alone on the man’s couch and he has been somewhere similar before - somewhere with low light and expectations and his shirt sticking to his skin-
“I should be asking you that, you’re stiff as a board,” Lucifer’s sigh brings Alastor back to witness him retreating just a little. His hand slips down somewhere in the vicinity of Alastor’s knee and away from the vulnerable pulse of his blood pounding through his femoral artery. The weight in the center of Alastor’s chest begins to bleed away, though its phantom coolness lingers.
“Is that not the idea?” Alastor smiles. The more carnal of puns tend to go over his head, and there’s thin satisfaction whenever he is able to snatch one up, but his teeth feel too big for his mouth and his palms are damp.
Lucifer just presses his lips together until they turn white, unimpressed. He hardly cuts an intimidating figure, with his button up loosened and one ankle bent underneath him. The couch under them is soft enough that his weight sinks his already diminutive height by another few inches.
“It’s not that, yet,” Alastor lies through his teeth, sitting up on his elbows to roll his eyes in the shorter man’s general direction,” I’m just….figuring out how to.”
It is the sheer power of his will that keeps him from flinching at his own vague explanation.
“How to enjoy it?” Lucifer blinks at him, shifting his weight back further and taking the warmth of his palm with him.
Alastor shrugs, and looks away from Lucifer’s eyes without looking away from his face. It’s rude to talk to someone without looking at them, but Lucifer’s gaze has turned sharper than Alastor is used to seeing from the other man. He thinks it might cut his fingers.
Instead, he lets his eyes linger on the way his golden hair is coming loose from its swept back style- on the tiniest sparkle of light across his jaw where his five o’clock shadow looms, even though Alastor has never seen the man with facial hair.
“That’s not..” Lucifer starts, and the gentleness in his tone is a cheese grater down the edge of Alastor’s nerves. They don’t know each other like that, and Alastor would prefer he restrained his concerns to the physical.
“I warned you,” Alastor reminds him, pouring every ounce of venom he can summon past the damn of his throat into the words. Lucifer meets his eyes at that, holding them both suspended there for a moment. The sun is beginning to set now, and fingers of light as orange as a dying fire spread out across the wall behind the shorter man and begin to drip down into the wrinkles of his shirt as the silence stretches between them.
“Just keep going,” Alastor says, and it comes out as more of a demand, but that’s fine. He won’t be caught pleading with this imbecile. He reaches for Lucifer’s wrist and tries to drag it back between his legs.
“No,” Lucifer huffs, refusing to budge and pushing his hair back with his free fingers.
“No?” The brunette parrots, unable to hide his surprise. Just like that? “We had a deal-” he narrows his eyes, and Lucifer just waves the glare away, which only serves to irritate him further.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Lucifer says, and Alastor clenches his hands in the sheet to keep from wrapping them around the other man’s throat. It’s looking particularly wringable. Lucifer shifts his legs underneath him so that he can turn bodily to face Alastor.
“I’m not backing out- but we do need to slow down for a second.” He reaches out a hand. Alastor refuses to take it, but he does sit up, bracing himself for whatever nonsense Lucifer is going to spew next.
“We're going to go slow,” Lucifer says, holding his palms face up between them, like he actually expects Alastor to take them.
“I’m not your blushing prom date, you ass-”
“Do you want to tell me the truth?”
Alastor’s brain screeches to a resounding halt. All of the teasing has suddenly fled from the blond man’s expression. He looks up at Alastor through too long lashes that seem to glow in the late sunlight that has slid even lower, threatening to leak into his piercing gaze.
“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Alastor grins loftily, even though he feels suddenly cold.
Lucifer just looks at him a moment longer before he shrugs, breaking eye contact and sitting up a little straighter as he shuffles awkwardly closer.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he mutters, obviously to himself, but it’s impossible for Alastor not to hear him this close. His breath still smells like apple cider- heavy with the tart cinnamon of that overly sweet seasonal sangria that he’s serving at the bar beneath their feet.
“Give me your hand,” Lucifer instructs, and Alastor makes a face. He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, that his eyebrows are doing, but it almost makes Lucifer laugh- he can see it in the way the man’s slighter frame shakes at the shoulders.
Reluctantly, Alastor reaches out and settles his hand on top of Lucifer’s, palm to palm. Instantly, those pale fingers wrap around his metacarpals, pulling him closer.
“Jesus, you’re skittish,” Lucifer grins, but it comes out more gentle than mean. It doesn’t seem as if the man notices, but Alastor does. Lucifer is funny, and personable when it comes to customers, but this tone of voice is novel, it feels almost special. Alastor’s cheeks heat, and he resists the urge to clear his throat, directing his gaze to their clasped hands, to where a strong thumb swipes over his knuckles, pushing the blood over his bones, warming his skin. Then his hand is turned over, and those fingers dig into the center of his palm and swipe outward, dispelling the tension that he hadn’t even been aware of carrying. Two of his fingers pop.
It’s nice, actually, but for the part where it somehow feels even more intimate than having Lucifer’s hand on his thigh.
“Is this some tantric thing?” Alastor snipes, unable to help himself. Rosie had described him as a porcupine once- all sharp points that activate when startled - directly in front of him - to a client, no less! It is an insulting comparison, and he wishes that he wouldn’t think of it every time that someone gets too close.
Lucifer just shrugs, refusing to bite,”Sure.”
Alastor frowns. This is..not what he had in mind, when he had approached Lucifer Morningstar with this proposition. It’s difficult to say that he truly hates it, as he finds his body slowly relaxing into the slide of Lucifer’s touch, but it is foreign. People don’t really touch him much, and when they do, he is hyperaware of each dot of contact. Gentle fingers press at the inside of his wrist and then stroke teasingly over the center of his palm, making him flinch even as it sends delightful tingles racing up the insides of his arms.
“Can I kiss you?”
Alastor swallows, feeling some of his earlier dread creep back in, a slowly encroaching rot, a fallen tree decaying in the summer heat. He nods, and Lucifer leans up on his knees to close the distance between them. He pauses when he’s but a hair's breadth away, and Alastor holds himself very still. He knows what comes next, he's not an idiot, and he’s kissed people before, but he sort of expects more, somehow. There is no cresting violin or summer breeze. There is only him, and the sagging cushion beneath his ass and the smell of Lucifer’s body seeping into the cracks of his chest. He waits for Lucifer to say something, his eyes fixed on the thin skin beneath Lucifer’s left eye. It’s a little bit sunken, like someone has dug their fingers in until the blood vessels popped, until the skin purpled and bruised. Does this man not sleep?
“Close your eyes,” Lucifer says, low, a hint of exasperation in his tone. Alastor does instantly, as if he’s been caught at something, and only berates himself once the world goes dark. It’s nicer like this, in a way, he can pretend that he’s not really here at all. He is dust in space. He is ten and alone in the woods at night.
He is quiet.
The first touch of Lucifer’s lips is not a revelation. They’re too warm and a bit chapped, which in hindsight doesn’t surprise Alastor. Lucifer bites his lips a lot- when he’s plucking absently at the piano keys, when he’s making drinks, when he’s listening to his daughter Charlie prattle on about her day. For a moment Lucifer just pauses there, his mouth pressing Alastor’s, and Alastor breathes shakily through his nose and tries to decide if the pressure is too much or not enough.
Should he move? Tilt left or right?
Is a kiss supposed to feel like anything at all?
Then, Lucifer begins to move, just a little bit, parting his lips and closing them again, tilting his head -right- and this, at least, Alastor recognizes. He responds readily, swiping a tongue across Lucifer’s bottom lip, shuddering at the ridges of bitten skin - the blood he can almost taste just beneath the surface. Lucifer lays a hand on his jaw, and it’s strangely grounding - gives him something to lean into.
It’s relaxing, actually.
It’s too slow, and the moment stretching makes Alastor feel like he’s being watched. Lucifer must be waiting for him to push things along, he must be, but Alastor doesn’t know how to grasp the transition in his hands and steer it clear of this peace.
Alastor presses closer, grasping at Lucifer’s sides with the intention of drawing him closer and getting to the whole point of this. The smaller man resists, and Alastor fists his hands in his shirt, detesting the sensation of his nails scraping against the fabric.
Alastor hates the vague ache that’s already seeping into his jaw from his mouth opening to accept the wet slide of Lucifer’s tongue. He tastes too sweet, but Alastor finds himself chasing after the faintest sting of bourbon underneath. He pulls at Lucifer’s shirt again, but the man is stronger than his diminutive form would suggest - even half bent over their laps to reach Alastor’s mouth, he is immovable. Alastor huffs out a breath of annoyance, and pulls away from Lucifer’s lips with a hint of disgust at the coolness of saliva on his chin.
Alastor plants his hands on Lucifer’s chest and pushes him instead, so that the other man topples backwards with an undignified yelp. He follows him down, planting his elbows on either side of Lucifer’s head and leans back to his mouth. It’s not the most comfortable of positions, and Alastor fails to see the appeal of his curls falling into his eyes or those sharp knees against his ribs.
He’s not entirely shocked. Each time he has found himself in a similar position before, it has not been his idea, and in spite of the shock of inspiration that has led him here, he has been anticipating this to be a trial. So the faint trace of disappointment that laces through his chest is disarming.
“Trust me?” Lucifer asks in between his kisses. His mouth is shiny now, and the flush of his cheeks is inching towards his temples.
“As if,” Alastor snorts, and Lucifer only smiles up at him. His wide blue eyes are slowly being taken over by the void of his pupils.
Something like jealousy makes Alstor nip at his bottom lip before he pulls back to see what Lucifer wants. Is it really so easy for him? A bit of awkward grinding and some kisses and this man would really do this with him? Strip himself bare and let Alastor touch him? In the vulnerable hollow of this throat? The delicate skin behind his knees?
Lucifer guides him to lay back, a reversal of their position, until Alastor’s head is propped on the couch’s arm rest. He hovers over him, blue eyes darting between each of Alastor’s, searching for something. His hand brushes down across Alastor’s hip again and the brunette keeps his breath steady, lets Lucifer maneuver himself in between his legs, and this alignment is much better. At least Lucifer’s hip bones aren’t scraping into the soft flesh of his thighs anymore.
“I thought you wanted to learn how this can be good?” Lucifer asks, a little out of breath, one hand playing with an errant lock of Alastors hair - twirling it around his fingers.
“I said I wanted to find out if I could do this,” Alastor corrects him, stretching his arms overhead. He knows this will push his chest out, accentuate the cinch of his waist. He’s seen men and women alike looking at it before, the dip of his ribs. He’s always wondered what it is that they see that he can’t. He has spent collective hours examining his own flesh in the mirror, his gangly legs and too-thin wrists. All his brain comes up with are words like weakness and opportunity; something that they can take from him. It’s never put him in the mindset to ask for clarification. At least it can usually get him what he wants: a cigarette or a free drink, if he times it right.
Alastor’s shirt rides up, and, predictably, Lucifer’s eyes rake down and into the vulnerable dip of his belly button in much the same way as everyone else’s before him. An ugly satisfaction takes root in Alastor’s chest, all thorns and nauseating vines.
Lucifer shuffles up his torso a little bit. Just significant enough is their height difference that Lucifer needs the help to reach. His fingers alight on Alastor's wrists and fiddle with the cuffs of his shirt.
“Can we take this all the way off?”
Finally, Alastor thinks, even as his stomach sinks.
“Thought you’d never ask,” he snips, turning his head up to watch Lucifer slide the buttons apart at his wrists. He does little to assist him and intends on pretending it’s out of spite rather than apprehension.
“Have I told you how ridiculous these are?” Lucifer says, pulling a little too hard on one side of Alastor’s suspenders and then letting it slap back against his chest. Alastor glares at him as he slips a hand beneath the band to rub at the skin before he shrugs it all off of his shoulders.
“You tell me nearly every day, but someone in this establishment has to have style.”
He can almost hear Lucifer rolling his eyes but it’s true. Why have a uniform that you aren’t willing to enforce? Image matters.
“You don’t even work at this establishment,” Lucifer snipes without nearly enough heat as he smooths his hands down Alastor’s arms, peeling his shirt off as he goes. Goose pimples rise along Alastor's skin in his wake. The sensation is strange to say the least, and the feeling of being scrutinized nearly unbearable. Lucifer’s sapphire eyes trace over his shoulders, to the inside of his arms where Alastor can feel them pressing at the veins close to his skin. Every time he has to get blood drawn the nurses will inevitably remark on “what nice veins he has” like something from a Grimm fairytale. Does Lucifer think that? Would Lucifer care to know?
Alastor sits up just enough to wiggle the rest of the way out of his button up, and then reaches to lay it on the coffee table- over a listing tower of Architecture Digests. The movement lets him twist away for just a moment and when he looks back Lucifer is unbuttoning his own shirt, his deft fingers working down his chest. The skin revealed is pale, so much so that Alastor can see the vague suggestion of the spiderweb of his blood in the hollow of his collarbone. His muscles are surprisingly defined, and theres a smattering of hair- so light as to be nearly invisible.
“Ok?” The smaller man checks, glancing up as his hands pause. Alastor wishes that he would stop fucking asking that. Alastor is the one who suggested this, that this could be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Lucifer gets to let off his steam, his daughter gets free piano lessons, and Alastor gets to learn whether sex is something that he can muscle through to get what he really wants.
What does he want?
He wants…
He doesn’t know, he supposes. The want is a yawning canyon, and the other side has been obscured by distance and time and the bile that wets his palate when he unbuckles his jeans.
Alastor doesn’t answer Lucifer’s question, just drags him into another kiss, even as his hands help free Lucifer of his button-down. The smaller man’s skin is warm when his chest presses to Alastor’s, warm enough to make the taller man squirm. Alastor’s hands are perpetually cold - even Rosie has remarked upon them in the past, but Lucifer doesn’t so much as shiver when they pull at his skin- unsure of just where to touch.
This sensation, of Lucifer’s weight over him, isn’t entirely detestable, at least. He loses track of time like that, letting Lucifer nuzzle at his neck, and press little dry kisses along the knife edge of his collar bones. It’s nice, and if he can just stay here, he thinks that this might be alright after all. But staying here is not the point of all of this, and he lets his fingers tangle in the wispy, translucent hairs at Lucifer’s nape.
“Touch me.”
Has he ever said that before? He can’t remember.
“Bossy now?” Lucifer laughs, but he does, though he takes his time- petting down the V of Alastor’s hips until the brunette's skin is tingling with it. Lucifer unzips his fly and Alastor helps shimmy himself mostly out of his trousers. He curls up to yank them off, but Lucifer is in the way, still stroking over the skin of his hips and watching the way his muscles clench and unclench unthinkingly- cataloging his reactions. When Alastor starts yanking impatiently at the waistband of his briefs, however, Lucifer relents, and helps pull the fabric away.
He’s only half hard, but Lucifer doesn’t seem to mind- merely takes him gently in his hand. His grip is careful, testing, and it sends a feeling not unlike electricity leaping across Alastor’s nerves. His thighs seem to tremble with it and his fingers curl tightly around Lucifer’s other wrist- braced on the cushion next to him. Lucifer strokes him slowly, and soon Alastor can feel the way his blood throbs against his palm.
He is still trying to drag two coherent words together when Lucifer’s voice slides over him again, soft, but deep, a puddle or a well, depending on the cut of the light.
“Does this feel good?” He asks, feathering his fingertips along the underside of Alastor’s cock, now mostly hard against the jut of his pelvis.
“Or this?” The blond’s fingers trail down further, to tease at his balls, roll them in his palm and Alastor’s breath catches.
But Alastor’s brain fizzles out like so much static. He can't focus on answering the questions with his words because he doesn’t know. His body is obviously enjoying itself- the way it has any time that he’s indulged in this practice alone- albeit with more ruthless efficiency. His mind, however, can’t seem to decide. It tells him that it feels good somewhere in the base of his spine, in the sweat pushing out of his pores so it must be good.
Mostly it just feels strange. It’s like he can’t help but notice every other sensation as well. Like how there are calluses on the edges of Lucifer’s fingers, he can feel them on the upstroke. Lucifer pulls away again, and Alastor glances at him to see him lick his palm before he reaches back down. Lucifer’s breath stutters at the new glide, like he’s the one being pleasured, which just sets Alastor’s brain whirring, even as these haphazard little sounds punch their way out of his throat. The entire experience is mortifying, but he inclines his chin a little further, to watch the way Lucifer thumbs over the head of his cock and then begins stroking him again- the way the head disappears into the ring of Lucifer’s fingers and then reappears.
“What about this?” Lucifer’s hand tightens just a little bit, and Alastor loses his balance on his elbows as his back arches.
Lucifer leans closer, his hips stuttering seemingly involuntarily against Alastor’s thigh. He can feel how hard Lucifer is through the layers of fabric still separating them. He kisses messily at the soft skin of Alastor’s neck. Alastor turns his head to encourage him, trying to decide whether or not the slimy drag of Lucifer’s tongue disgusts or excites him, but it’s difficult to think at all, with the way Lucifer’s hand works faster, now- the way he grinds down against Alastor’s leg, denim scraping the soft skin of Alastor’s thigh deliciously. Except now the brunette can’t help but wonder if this is enough for him- is his hand tired? Will he resent the way Alastor is just laying here, helpless? Sex is a mutual endeavor, Alastor knows at least that much, and he’s too far in it now to get up and just go home to avoid having to be an active participant. His breath is coming too short and high, and his vision swims, but this is what he wanted, isn’t it?
Why can’t he just stop thinking? It must be so nice to be able to stop thinking.
He supposes it’s finally starting to feel nice - Alastor’s hips buck without his permission as Lucifer twists his hand just so. His grip feels wetter, and Alastor doesn’t know if it's coming from him or the sweat of Lucifer’s hand, but suddenly the slide of their flesh is a audibly slick.
His calf muscles tighten to the point of discomfort, and he has the urge to hold his breath. It’s like there’s a cliff that rises out of the shaking ground of Alastor’s mind- and Lucifer is dragging him towards it and it’s too much and his leg is cramping and Lucifer nibbles at the edge of his jugular and the sharp points of his teeth, like flickers of starlight, dig into his skin as he throws his head back. The heat of Lucifer’s body sinks into Alastor’s skin like a bonfire, like summers in the woods, like-
“Wait -Wait- stop- I don’t“ He gasps out the words before he’s pictured the shape of them in his head. His heart hammers away in his chest, making his ribs rattle.
To his credit, Lucifer stops immediately. When he pulls away completely Alastor feels suddenly far too cold - the sweat beginning to pool and drip down the inside of his knees meets the cool air of the room instead of Lucifer’s warm hands, and it makes his gut coil uncomfortably, strangely bereft. He tries to take a deep breath, imagines that he looks like a landed fish, hopes that Lucifer isn’t looking.
Of course he is. Oceans in Lucifer’s face dipping like the tide into the most disgusting version of Alastor that he can imagine.
“I didn’t mean-” Alastor starts, frustrated. He sits up, the movement strangled by his pants and underwear still caught around his ankles. He kicks Lucifer out of the way in order to yank them both back up to his hips but doesn’t bother to close them.
Lucifer regards him warily- there’s a shine of spit at the corner of his mouth where he’s been biting his lip again, and the front of his own trousers bulge obscenely. Alastor swallows, his eyes darting back up to the other man’s eyes before he can notice how Alastor’s attention has wandered.
“I said that we can stop whenever-”
Alastor shakes his head and bites at the inside of his cheek until the tang of copper oozes around his tongue. He is not so pathetic that he’s going to quit now, overwhelmed by, what is it the kids were calling it these days, a “handy’?
He’s done a lot of online searches, alright? Each time it makes him want to throw his laptop into the dumpster behind his apartment and set it on fire.
“No, I just want to touch you instead - can I -?” Alastor lies, haltingly. He doesn’t have the words for how overwhelming it had begun to feel under the stroke of Lucifer’s hand, under his eyes, under the scrape of his lips. Lucifer frowns, but moves back as his hands go to his waist. He stands to kick his shoes off- oh gross, how had Alastor not noticed that he’d been wearing his shoes on the furniture?- and begins unbuttoning his high trousers.
Before he can think too deeply about what he’s going to do, Alastor is up and over the side of the couch to help the other man step out of his underwear. The human body is a ridiculous machination, Alastor is reminded, his eyes catching on the thin trail of hair leading down from Lucifer’s naval, closer to the dark color of his eyebrows than the bright golden hair on his head and chest. His waist is pretty, and his legs lightly muscled - all of these things Alastor can appreciate from an aesthetic viewpoint - same with his cock. It’s pale like the rest of him, Alastor imagines, although right now it's flushed pink like the man's cheeks and hanging heavy between his legs.
Looking at it, Alastor feels nothing in particular.
Alastor takes him in his hand to lap curiously at the head, intrigued by the burst of bitterness over his taste buds and Lucifer hisses in surprise. The angle is awkward, Lucifer really is too short for this. Alastor retreats just enough to turn them around, getting Lucifer sitting back on the edge of the couch before he shuffles over the carpet and in between his spread knees.
Alastor can be good at this, he knows it, it's just mind over matter. Why he feels the need to be good at something he has little craving for is best left unexamined.
For now.
He is careful to breathe through his nose as he sinks further down, flattening his tongue over the underside of Lucifer’s cock as it pokes torturously at his soft palate. Damn, none of the people in all of those videos warned him about that sensation. His eyes sting and he pulls back, trying to remember to close his lips and suck. It’s not anything special, really, he decides. The struggle for oxygen is less than pleasant, but the skin under his tongue just tastes like..skin. As he bobs his head, the glide gets easier, and the appendage seems to grow in his mouth, but his cheeks quickly feel strangely sore. He brings his hand to wrap around the base as he sinks down, just to see how far he can go before his throat constricts in protest. Hmm, not far at all - his lips barely brush the curl of his fingers. Maybe he can work on that - guys seem to like when their partners can do the whole deepthroating thing, right?
He promptly decides that that is a phrase he never wants to hear again, especially within the confines of his own skull and in the tone of his own inner monologue.
“Fuck,” Lucifer groans above Alastor, startling him from his wandering thoughts. Alastor bobs his head again and sucks at the heated flesh. The sound it makes is an obscene sort of slurp that has him wincing in disgust.
“You’re perfect,” Lucifer breathes out on a groan that sends a bolt of calefaction through his ribs and down to his groin.
Absolutely not. He does not want to know what he looks like, not to Lucifer, not like this, in this awkward, debased version of himself.
“Don’t,” Alastor pulls away to hiss at him.
Until now, he has not quite considered that he will likely see Lucifer again - several times, depending on the duration of this arrangement. Alastor has not considered that he might walk back into this man’s bar a few days from now, in his work suit and shoes that will mean nothing because Lucifer now knows what he looks like without any of it- on his knees, sweating and filthy.
He has to tamp down on the urge to flee yet again.
Lucifer pauses, blue eyes half lidded in pleasure and his blush high on his delicate cheekbones. He meets Alastor's gaze just briefly before nodding. He lifts a hand and smooths Alastor’s fringe back from his face. Alastor makes himself stay still through the petting, even though it feels odd with the other man's wet dick in his face. Lucifer doesn’t seem able to help it- barely seems conscious of his own gentleness half of the time. It is irritating on the best of days, but here, with Alastor beneath him and his mouth wet with spit and precome, it is unconscionable. They are not lovers.
Alastor leans forward, unable to hide his annoyance as he smashes his nose against the dip of Lucifer’s pelvis and scrapes his teeth over the softest roll of flesh he can pinch between his canines before biting down viciously.
Above him, Lucifer yelps, which has the beginnings of a smile tugging back at Alastor’s lips. The yelp trails into a moan as Alastor opens his mouth against his skin to flick his tongue against the bright red welt that will surely darken into a violet blue bruise by tomorrow, and Alastor rolls his eyes to distract from his own mortification.
“What the fuck,” Lucifer rasps, but does not push Alastor away when the brunette reaches for his hips again to pull his cock back between his lips.
So far, this experience seems a bit overrated, but Lucifer seems to be enjoying it, if his breathless little moans are anything to go by. Or the aborted little bucks of his hips that push his cock deeper into Alastor’s mouth. The brunette tries to keep his jaw relaxed but the sensation makes him gag a little, which Lucifer apologizes for breathlessly. He keeps his hands fully at his sides, and Alastor feels a twinge of regret.
They hadn’t felt all that bad in his hair - he’d just been irritated by the attention.
”Alastor-” Lucifer whines, and okay, Alastor won’t hate it if the other man keeps saying his name like that from now on. Like Alastor is in a position to give him something that he cannot reach for himself, like he needs Alastor’s help, like he needs Alastor to-
He doesn’t even realize that his free hand is wrapped around Lucifer’s waist, his thumb notched into the dip of bone, until the man squirms again, his chest heaving.
“Alastor- we didn’t talk about-hah”
“What is it NOW?” Alastor frees his mouth to demand, his lips feeling overly raw as they twist into a frown. He rotates his jaw.
“It’s just- I’m close-"
What?
Lucifer’s cock throbs in his grip, and his smile is a wisp of a thing- bashful and suddenly self-conscious.
Oh.
Alastor makes a face, a little wigged out by the idea, but that’s something else that guys like isn’t it? The ones from the internet seem to, anyways. And unless the test results Alastor demanded of Lucifer before tonight were faked somehow, what’s the technical harm? He ignores the inner voice reminding him that the only guys he knows about are the ones he’s observed in his brief forays into online adult entertainment. Eh, but the thought of that on his skin seems worse somehow, the slippery stickiness of it between his fingers..no. He supposes it’s nice of Lucifer to ask, seeing as how it’s not something that he’d planned for, either.
“Just cum in my mouth,” He shrugs. Seems unpleasant, but he is nothing without a little bluster.
Lucifer’s eyes widen, the twin black holes of his pupils enticing shadows in the otherwise bright expanse of his features.
“Um, okay,” he gulps but there is no hesitancy in the push of his hips towards Alastor's face. Alastor has to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the interruption.
It's all over rather quickly after that- in a burst of heat across his tongue. Now that is a strange taste, Alastor decides quickly. Umami, almost, but salty, heavy against his teeth. The thought of getting up and making his way to the small bathroom he’d glimpsed earlier, with his pants undone and his shirt still missing makes his skin crawl. He swallows.
Lucifer’s head shoots up from where his skull had fallen back against the back of the couch as he had groaned his release, eyes sharp like he’s heard.
Lucifer’s face is suddenly back before him, leaning far too close. He’s tapping his pale fingers against his lips. Alastor has a brief moment to note that it’s with the same hand that touched him earlier.
“Open up,” Lucifer requests, gaze glassy and intent.
Alastor squints, wishing he’d kept it now, to spit on the carpet.
Alastor opens his mouth obligingly, feels the whorls of Lucifer’s fingertips pressing his tongue down against the edge of his bottom teeth. Somehow this feels more invasive than having the man’s cock in his mouth, but Lucifer is looking at him with a sort of quiet wonder that has the muscles of Alastor’s shoulders going taut for some other reason that the taller man refuses to investigate.
“You’re -“ Lucifer starts, but then seems to think better of it, withdrawing his fingers. Alastor watches them fall back to rest against his leg, shiny with his saliva.
There is a tingle of satisfaction, Alastor must admit -deep in his chest- at how utterly wrecked the blond man looks, sweat at his hairline and making its way down the center of his chest,plastering the sparse hairs there to his skin.
“Come up here?” Lucifer asks, and there is a subtle, tinny quality to his voice as if to suggest that maybe Alastor isn’t the only one left feeling oddly exposed by the act. He lifts himself off of his knees and plants his palms on either side of Lucifer’s hips to lean in. The other man draws him by the hinge of his jaw into another kiss, giving no indication that he gives a damn about where Alastor’s mouth has just been. Lucifer pries his lips apart carefully with his own, swiping his tongue leisurely along the inside of his gums. The other man makes a tiny questioning groan at the lingering taste of blood in the salt.
Lucifer’s hands sweep down his back and Alastor briefly yearns for them to push in harder, to ease the tension he can feel pressing in on either side of his spine.
When Lucifer’s hands reach his flanks and swipe around to his front to begin pulling at his underwear again he pulls back quickly, oblivious to Lucifer’s disappointed groan.
“What are you doing?”
“You didn’t come,” Lucifer says, like it should be obvious.
“That’s quite alright,” Alastor huffs, reaching to zip up his fly at last.
“Is that not what you wanted?” Lucifer asks, genuine befuddlement in his voice. He looks stupid, sitting there with his pants unbuttoned and his pale skin cooling. The sun has all but disappeared now, and the living room is cool and blue.
Truthfully, it was what Alastor had wanted originally- to know that he could do this and not fall apart- that he could let go the way everyone else seems to be able to and then get up again and go about his life. He finds now, with the strange texture of the inside of his mouth and the tackiness of sweat behind his ears and at his nape, that his determination has ebbed away like the noon tide.
“This was more than enough for tonight,” He says primly, getting to his feet and turning to pull his shirt back to him, his skin suddenly feeling filmy and too-thin.
“Well then? Thoughts, reactions, constructive criticism?” Lucifer asks after a tense moment of silence. He’s pulling himself to plop back against the armrest, utterly unashamed of his half-nakedness, at the way his softening cock glistens against his belly.
Alastor shrugs his shirt over his shoulders before straightening to glare at him, but the teasing smirk that he has come to associate with this man’s peculiar habit of flirting is nowhere to be found. Lucifer's head is cocked to the side, his face genuine and open. Naive, Alastor thinks reflexively.
Alastor is not some whore and the viciousness of the word reminds the brunette darkly of an extension of his blood that he refuses to acknowledge. This is an…exchange of skills, is all. He chose Lucifer specifically for his smallness, his..dopeyness.
When he starts to feel a little bit skeevy about the arrangement, he will remind himself that Lucifer isn’t actually his boss. Alastor just plays piano at the bar he owns downtown a few times a week. Mostly in exchange for tips, and the chance to play the gorgeous Rococo crafted grand that is otherwise being absolutely wasted in that dive bar on drunk karaoke participants and music majors from the community college who come in for happy hours and plunk rigidly at its ivory.
There had been a single night - the first time that Alastor had brought Husker along and he had drunk Lucifer satisfyingly under the table - in all of their acquaintanceship where Alastor had thought that Lucifer felt anything besides contempt for him. A drunken Lucifer had declared that Alastor was “actually really pretty” when he “wasn’t trying to steal his daughter away from him” before promptly faceplanting onto the bar top. First of all, Alastor had been doing no such thing- he had only encouraged Charlie to apply to out-of-state schools as well as the local university in Fall so that she had options. It’s not as if Alastor has any plans to follow her. Second, Lucifer appears to have no memory of that night after the fifth round of -too sweet, too much simple syrup - Sazeracs anyways.
Alastor remembers enough for both of them.
Like the warmth of Lucifer’s shoulder pressed tight up against his own and the blurry affection in his eyes that Alastor knows was not meant for him.
Most of their acquaintanceship consists of Lucifer bitching at him that that piano is made for Bach and not ”that jazz shit”, and Alastor politely informing him that he has misspelled “Étouffée” on the menu. Yet, the regulars begin mentioning how much they enjoy Lucifer’s live pianoman, including Lucifer’s precious daughter, Charlie, who loves to corner Alastor and ask him invasive questions like “where did you learn to play like that?” and “what's your favorite color?” and “Do you want to join my book club?” are often irritating and flattering in equal measure.
Two weeks ago, Lucifer had approached him, eyes cast down and face red and Alastor’s stomach had sunk straight through the floor. He was going to need a new bar and how many bars had a piano that guests could play, much less a piano like that. He’d thought Lucifer had remembered that night after all, maybe after being hit on the head by a falling tequila bottle, and was about to either ask him out or ask him not to return.
Actually, he had just been asking if Alastor might be willing to give Charlie a few lessons, because in spite of his effort to “raise her with good taste” she still hasn’t shut up about the other man’s playing.
He is very clear that he will pay Alastor, obviously-
“No.”
“..No?”
“Counter offer.”
Alastor remembers the slight wheezing sound of the barstool underneath him as he shifted his weight more clearly than he remembers his offer, exactly. How had he phrased it? The words had been jumbled up in his head - he’s become quite adept at dodging advances over the years- but forging one of his own? No luck.
He does recall Lucifer’s reaction, however, when he had proposed offering Charlie piano lessons in exchange for lessons in…intimacy.
There had been a hilariously scandalized look and a dropped glass.
A “I thought you didn’t swing that way.”
A “I don’t really swing any way - but I’m interested in finding out.”
“Interested in me?”
“..Interested in learning about myself.”
“Figures.”
He’d regretted it as soon as Lucifer had shrugged those slim shoulders and told him to come upstairs with him at the end of his next shift. Alastor’s insides had done something nauseating, and he’d had to remind himself that Lucifer is a consenting adult who easily could have brushed the proposal away. Now here Alastor is: buttoning up his shirt in this man’s den, feeling neither entirely disgusted nor pleasantly surprised. It’s all rather anticlimactic (heh). He wants a shower, but there’s still excess energy buzzing under his skin - something raw with nerves even now. Perhaps he should swing by the studio tonight before heading home.
“Do you..want to do something like this again sometime?” Lucifer asks tentatively, drawing Alastor’s gaze back to him as the brunette flattens out his collar and pulls his suspenders back over his shoulders. With his clothes back on, Alastor feels slightly less seen, more comfortable in his second skin, his carapace, even though the fabric sticks uncomfortably under his arms.
“I should think so- “ Alastor can feel his nose wrinkling, “ Unless you mean to tell me that this menial performance is what it's ‘all about’,” Lucifer’s eyes narrow at the brunette’s charming use of air quotes. Alastor grins, looking for the tell tale twitch in the blonde’s left eyebrow that will tell him he’s struck a nerve.
Lucifer merely pushes a hand through his hair as he takes a deep breath, holds it,and then releases it all at once in one drawn out, exasperated groan. He flops against the back of the couch again, nearly folding into its aging cushions.
The day is gone now, the room dark, and Alastor can’t find his shoes. He needs to be rid of this room and this apartment, and of Lucifer. He wants to be home, and clean, so he can process the last hour properly, preferably with a finger or two of whatever cheap booze Husk has forgotten in his kitchen this week.
Alastor stalks over to where a short hallway separates the living room from the kitchen and dining space, his hand reaching for the light switch.
“Don’t turn on the big light- ! “ Lucifer begs with surprising fervor, flopping across the couch with one hand outstretched as if to stop him, but Alastor is faster.
Lucifer squeaks in a way totally unbecoming of a grown man and ducks down and out of view. Alastor’s lip curls.
Ah, yes, there are his shoes.