Chapter Text
To set the record perfectly straight, Lucifer does not get off to Alastor's radio show.
He gets off while it’s playing- big difference.
And it’s not like it’s routine; he hasn’t pavlov’d himself into getting hard to the sound of bad wordplay or anything. He’s just as likely to offer color commentary at every tacky turn of phrase that spills out of his tabletop radio. Maybe call in every once in a while and start a fight live on air. Normal stuff.
Really, it’s a testament to how much Alastor sucks as an entertainer that Lucifer gets bored enough to work one out halfway through a broadcast. The sinner ought to be ashamed of himself, if he was even capable of feeling such a thing.
“-and it looks like this absolutely dreadful heatwave will be raging on all week, dear listeners. So this must be the hellfire they always spoke of in sermons; who would’ve thought that the devil knew how to bring the heat?”
It starts as noon sharp on a weekday, as it always does. Ten minutes after noon, if you rightly discredit Alastor’s mind-numbing introductory spiel.
“Oh, fuck off,” Lucifer scoffs, palming himself through his pyjama pants and not thinking about anything in particular- just as he always does. A scene from an admittedly trashy romance novel slips through his grasp as he rolls his eyes.
Again, it's nothing special.
“But enough about that, sinners. I have quite the announcement for all you wayward souls today- and quite the guest!” Alastor goes on and on and on, already excruciating voice made worse by the tinny filter of the radio. “It’s a rather experimental thing we’ll be trying out today, so her lovely little soul will be staying intact for now. Knowing her, though, she’ll still be screaming loud enough that I won’t even get a word in-”
“Seem to be doing a good job at that already, asshole. You fucking done yet?”
It's a lovely voice, unfortunately. One Lucifer has gotten quite familiar with as of late. Smooth. Strong. A little detached, but he’s always liked that in women.
His hand stills.
He can’t say he likes much else about Vox, but he can’t say he dislikes her, either. Yes, there’s the whole ‘living battery’ thing, but Charlie doesn’t deem her a threat anymore; what’s the point in holding a grudge?
For one thing, he gets it. The whole presentation of it all. The only thing mortals love more than rigid little boxes is punishing anyone that won’t fit- he can’t imagine breaking out of them to be easy.
But Lucifer isn't mortal, and thank the Speaker for that. Lucifer was an angel, and for all their faults, they never bothered so much with meaningless labels. He was called everything under the sun in Heaven- usually a nuisance that needed to stay out of the way, but still.
In Hell he’s known as a man, and he has better things to do than argue with that.
Like getting off to his enemy’s radio show.
“I am now, dear,” Alastor grits his teeth over the mic, quickly falling back into routine. “Ladies and gentlemen, you simply must imagine the shock on my face when the media overlord asked for a spot on my show. And here I was thinking this whole song and dance was just- what did you call it again, dear? ‘dusty old outdated bullshit’?”
“It is,” Vox huffs. “Just thought I’d stop by and some charity work while it’s still running. You’re welcome.”
They’re fucking. Everyone knows it. Lucifer knows everyone it because he knows it, and he doesn’t get out much.He doesn’t have to, when Alastor’s collars aren’t nearly high enough to hide the bruises he gets.
It’s fun to see him act like they do, though. Makes you wonder what marks really are hidden.
The tv head’s got pretty sharp teeth, after all.
Lucifer is very, very hot all of a sudden. Like, excruciatingly. He blames it on the heatwave, and wordlessly slips his hand down his waistband.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, old pal.”
Time seems to fold in on itself when the duo begin to really talk. It’s minutes and its hours, going over everything from local politics to whatever pissed them off that week. Vox speaks over Alastor more than once, and it’s a blessing every time- she’s funny, in her own crass way. Knows a thing or three about working a crowd.
Working Lucifer’s wrist, too, apparently. He's almost relieved when they cut to a break, struggling to catch up with his breath.
It doesn’t last long.
“Night and day you are the one
Only you beneath the moon and under the sun”
He usually hates it, when Alastor sings along to what he plays.
“Whether near to me or far
It's no matter, darling, where you are
I think of you”
Vox, critically, is not Alastor.
He reaches for a bottle of scented lube and pops off the cap.
“Great show, the other day,” he says, seeing the two stumble out of a storage closet just a few days later. Even disregarding the continued soreness of his wrist, he's being sincere.
Unfortunately, the wrong sinner accepts the compliment. “Why, of course it was! I’d never settle for anything less when it comes to true entertainment-”
“Shut the fuck up, Al,” Vox snaps, and miraculously, the deer actually does. Upon closer inspection, his face is a little flushed; fly undone and still lost in the afterglow of fucking around like horny teenagers.
Lucifer makes plans to use that against him in the future. In the meantime, words are hard to come by as Vox leans down to kiss his hand. “Always nice to meet a fan, your highness.”
Her teeth are indeed as sharp as he remembers. The top few buttons of her blouse are undone, and it truly is a miracle what proper healthcare can achieve. Her lips, the same ones brushing against his knuckles, have been on other places- places that were attached to Alastor, yes, but that’s not their fault.
Once again, Lucifer Morningstar feels very, very hot.
“Lu is fine, really,” he says, tugging his hand away with a little too much force. “I mean, you’re here a lot, so…”
“You’re too kind, sir.” she’s strolling out of earshot before Lucifer can figure out if that’s sarcastic or not. If he happens to linger on how her pantsuit hugs the curve of her ass, that's really no one's business but his.
“Didn't anyone tell you it’s rude to ogle at a woman?” Oh, right. That guy.
“You’re ogling too, asshole. Get over yourself.”
I got a fever
An inflammation, that's what I got
You turn the heat on me
Some like it hot
Vox is on the next broadcast. And the next. And the next. She's a fan-favourite, clearly- he can see why.
“Can I do the honours this time around?”
“Ladies first.”
“Fuck you.” her voice lowers just an octave, rumbling and smooth as she ends the broadcast. “Until next time, folks.”
Lucifer mumbles something in response, he thinks, pushing the spend in an out of his wrecked cunt. With his fingers still working lazily inside him, a weak burst of magic knocks the radio off the nightstand. His other hand is far too busy playing with his nipples until they’re sore.
Hell is full of freaks and perverts; he can’t be the only one doing this.
In a strange way, he wants to be.
He's such a delicate thing but when he's starting to squeeze
You'd be surprised
He doesn't look very strong but when you sit on his knee
You'd be surprised
“Alastor’s isn’t here,” is the first thing that falls out of his mouth when Vox sits next to him at the lounge. “He went out to see that cannibal lady, Rita.”
“I know.” the woman crosses her legs, opens her phone, and scrolls in silence.
She knows. Isn’t that something?
Her pencil skirt is awfully modest for Hell’s standards, stockings are near-translucent. Lucifer’s never thought of himself as a leg guy. It would make sense if he was- most people are taller than him.
Vox is one of them.
It takes less than an hour for him to excuse himself, so to speak, splashing water on his face and desperately trying to get his shit together.
She's still there when he returns, barely sparing him a glance away from her phone. “Hey, did you know that sharks are older than trees?”
Why do I do just as you say?
Why must I just give you your way?
Why do I sigh?
Why don't I try to forget?
Purchases are made, as well as a very discreet trip to the Lust ring. Charlie doesn’t ask any questions, and the only other person that would doesn’t seem to care. There is, however, a news report discussing the possible political ramifications of this.
That has to mean something, right?
I'm a-comin' Virginia
I'm comin' to stay
Don't hold it again' me
For runnin' away
Two months in, now it really is routine. A soothing one, at that; he imagines it to be a bit like the bubble baths Lilith used to have at the end of the day. Get brunch, sketch out new rubber duck ideas, and crank one out to the sound of his enemy’s fuckbuddy’s voice.
Lucifer hums to himself as he weighs over the toys in his collection, resolving for just his hands this time around. The mattress creaks in all too familiar rhythm as the moment of truth draws nearer. His pants have been long since forgotten on the floor. The clock strikes noon, he flicks on the radio, and-
There’s nothing.
There’s nothing?
No, no, that can’t be right. He holds the lightweight, duck-patterned item to his head and dials in on that angelic hearing of his.
There’s static, for one thing. Go figure. There’s breathing underneath it, as well; soft and labored to the point of being indiscernible. It picks up, after a while, into something low and rumbling and-
“Mm, fuck, just like that.”
Well. He can certainly identify that voice, even with the thick sheet of distortion layered over it. As a matter of fact, he’ll be thinking that particular bend of vocals for the rest of eternity.
Lucifer wonders where the fuck Alastor is, and pretends the damp, sweat-slick sounds over the signal aren't a hint. “Good boy.”
Alastor groans- or maybe that's just Lucifer rutting into the mattress. He can't tell. He can’t tell anything because Vox is getting eaten out live on the air and he's supposed to act like that's normal.
Think, Luci.
The average sinner is horny to a frankly absurd degree. Vox knows how to turn a profit. Hell itself will freeze over before the radio demon ever dips his hooves into audio erotica.
Therefore, he's not supposed to be listening to…this. A scene gone wrong, someone's magic going berserk, an accident.
So like the sensible adult he is, Lucifer steels his nerves and turns off the radio.
It keeps playing.
A million miles away, Alastor breathlessly murmurs something in French. Vox tells him to get the fuck over himself and seemingly shoves his head back down on her cunt.
Eternal damnation manifests in the funniest ways, really- all this over an apple.
Lucifer's cock aches and he’s somehow too horny to touch it, rocking back into the bed. Anything that isn't the radio, that isn't the fucking noises Vox keeps making falls on deaf ears.
He wonders what she likes, what she needs, because no way in hell is Alastor the generous type. God, he needs to fucking taste her, he hasn't eaten pussy in nearly a decade and would fucking kill for a swim with the sharks- hah, now that's a good one-
There's a bugle cry, and Lucifer almost believes someone else entered the room at the absolutely pathetic whining that ensues.
“For fuck’s sake Al, already?” Vox snaps.
“I was under the impression that was the point of all this,” Alastor protests, and he can practically see the deer’s ears pin back in embarrassment.
“Warn me next time- I'm still cleaning come out of my gills. You have any idea what that makes breathing feels like?”
Lucifer could be better, he thinks as he finally wraps a hand around himself, back arching off the mattress. It all goes white after that.
Approximately ten thousand years pass before he regains enough strength to clean the mess across his stomach and sheets. Ten thousand more pass before he can bring himself to face anyone.
The radio demon is unfortunately very easy to find. Sitting at the bar, Alastor nurses a beer like he hasn't already had enough to drink today.
“So,” he begins, already regretting where this is going, “your show wasn't on today. What's that about?”
The man raises an eyebrow at him, scoffing under his breath. “Is old age finally eroding your memory, sire? My broadcast went on just as scheduled- I wouldn't miss it for the world.”
“You did.” Lucifer blinks. “Got it. And, uh, what was it about?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” Alastor says, tracing the rim of his glass. “Vox has been going on and on about exploring new avenues lately; no real harm in entertaining her, I suppose.”
“Yup,” he nods rigidly. “Well, so, uh. Thanks for clearing that up. See you around, red guy.”
Lucifer heads back to his room without ordering anything, takes a deep breath, and plays the idea that he may be going insane.
Vox is certain she's going insane. A week passes, and according to Alastor, there's still absolutely nothing.
How hard can it be to convince a repressed single dad to have a threeway?