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yuukaze10 · 19 days ago

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the devil can't have you.

chapter five.

explicit. 18+ only. - 13k+ - Alastor x f!reader x Lucifer

content: rivalry: Lucifer vs. Alastor, possessive behavior, obsession, jealousy, smut, blood, voyeurism / implied eavesdropping, marking / claiming, non-ACE Alastor

you're going to be forced to choose.

The hotel had never felt so quiet. Not the gentle hush of peace, but the kind of silence that feels alive – tense, waiting, a stillness that crawls under your skin and makes you wonder what unseen thing is holding its breath. Even the air seemed thicker, clinging to you as you moved, every creak of the old wooden floorboards under your bare feet echoing louder than it should.

You drifted through the hallways like a ghost, unsettled by the absence of sound. No clinking of Husk’s bottles. No faint hum of Vaggie’s voice down the hall. Not even Charlie’s bright laughter spilling from downstairs. The hotel — normally buzzing with energy and chaos – felt as though it had retreated into itself, cloaked in a strange, heavy anticipation.

Then you heard it.

A single, low note from the piano.

The sound cut through the silence like a thread of smoke. It wasn’t Alastor’s usual showy, syncopated style – the playful, almost mocking notes he played as if performing for an unseen audience. No, this was something entirely different. The sound was slower, deliberate, steeped in a quiet kind of sorrow. The melody unfolded like a secret, each note trembling, as though the keys themselves might shatter if he pressed too hard.

You froze, listening. The sound filled the empty corridors with a fragile, aching beauty. Your chest tightened, and before you knew it, your feet were carrying you toward the music.

The creak of the staircase seemed deafening as you moved barefoot down the steps. You didn’t dare breathe too loudly, as though any sudden noise might break the spell of the music. The notes drew you closer, pulling at you like a thread wound tight around your ribs.

When you reached the lounge, you saw him.

Alastor sat at the piano, his back ramrod straight, his antlers faintly catching the golden chandelier light, their shadowed shapes cast like jagged crowns across the wall. His fingers moved with slow precision over the keys – long, pale, and trembling slightly, as though every note cost him something. His silhouette was unnervingly still, save for the measured rise and fall of his hands.

And he didn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he did and simply chose not to look – a man lost in a world only he could hear.

You had never heard him play like this.

The song felt like a confession made without words, something carved straight from the marrow of his being and placed, trembling, into the room. It was not polished or theatrical, not the sharp, bright swing tunes that belonged to his radio persona. This melody was raw and winding, rising slowly, like a breath drawn too deep, then falling again in soft, aching notes that lingered like echoes in an empty church.

Each key he pressed carried a strange vulnerability, as though he were afraid the sound itself might shatter under his touch. There was no rhythm meant for dancing here – only something that pulled at the edges of you, unraveling threads you didn’t realize were tangled. It felt like being seen too clearly, like standing in the center of a storm that was both violent and heartbreakingly still.

The song was him, and it was you. Your name unspoken, but written in every minor chord, in every trembling pause between notes. It whispered of longing, of wanting without knowing how to ask, of something sharp and wild straining against its own cage.

When the final note faded, silence fell again – thicker, heavier than before. Alastor’s hands lingered on the keys, his fingers curling slightly, before falling into his lap. His head tilted just slightly – not the jaunty, exaggerated tilt of the showman, but a small, quiet motion, like he was listening to the emptiness left behind.

“...You wrote that,” you spoke into the silence, your voice barely above a whisper, afraid of shattering the fragile stillness.

His head turned slowly, and when his crimson eyes met yours, there was no sharp static in them – only a brightness that burned without spectacle, without performance. “Indeed I did, my dear,” he said, and for once, his voice lacked its usual lilt. There was no flourish, no sharp-toothed grin. Just him.

“For me?” you asked, hesitant, the words catching on your breath.

Alastor’s fingers tapped once against the polished edge of the piano, a sharp staccato sound that filled the silence. His mouth curved faintly, but it wasn’t the grin you knew – it was something smaller, almost uncertain.

“You make me think of strange things,” he murmured. “Things I thought were long gone from me.”

His gaze lowered to the keys, his voice dipping quieter. “I don’t…often write. But there are feelings I cannot express with words. Not the way you make me –” he stopped abruptly, as though the thought itself was too raw to finish. Something like shame flickered over his face, fleeting and unguarded. “Not the way you make me feel.”

You stepped closer, drawn in by the weight of his honesty, by the sudden, startling vulnerability in his tone. The air between you felt charged, heavy with unspoken things, with the pull of a thousand unsaid words.

“Alastor…”

He drew in a breath – unnecessary for a demon, but it carried the tremor of something human. His crimson eyes met yours again, and this time you saw no mask there, no shadow of his usual pride. Only a man standing on the edge of a feeling he could neither name nor escape.

“My dear, I find I owe you something rather distasteful…an apology,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue with an edge of discomfort, as if the admission itself were foreign to him. “I fear I have been a touch…possessive. Controlling, even,” his grin flickered, strained at the edges. “Why, how simply beastly of me! A most unbecoming trait, wouldn’t you say?”

He laughed lightly, but it was hollow, the sound of static caught in a radio’s hum. His gaze slid from the keys to you, crimson eyes catching the light in a way that made your heart tighten. “I thought that if I kept you close – tied you neatly in a little bow – I might keep you safe. Or perhaps,” his tone softened, the grin faltering, “I simply wanted to keep you…”

The word caught in his throat, his jaw tightening as though the next syllable might unravel him. When it came, it was quieter than you’d ever heard him, raw in its simplicity: “Mine.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. He gave a short, brittle chuckle, tilting his head with forced levity. “Ah, but listen to me – positively dripping with sentiment! How frightfully undignified.”

You could see through the performance, through the veneer of showman’s charm, to the sincerity he was trying so hard to bury beneath a grin that was just a little too sharp.

You felt your chest tighten. It wasn’t often that Alastor used words like mine with such naked rawness.

“But that isn’t love, is it?” he continued, his voice softer now, brittle, each syllable sounding like it could cut his own tongue. “Love isn’t a chain. And if I’ve hurt you with my grasp – if I’ve made you fear me – then I am truly…sorry.”

You didn’t know what to say. He had hardly spoken to you like this – stripped bare of the grin, the static, the layers of theatrical irony. He was simply Alastor. And that was almost too much to look at.

“Sit with me,” he said, his voice low and uncharacteristically hesitant. He patted the bench beside him, the gesture simple but weighted.

You hesitated, still caught in the rawness of his words, but you moved closer, your knee brushing the side of his leg as you sat. The scent of old wood and faint ozone from the piano mingled with the faint, wild energy that always radiated off him.

His hand hovered in the air for a moment, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you – like he wasn’t sure he deserved to. Finally, he placed it gently over yours, and for the first time, his touch felt careful instead of commanding.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a murmur, his gaze fixed on your hand under his like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you. I don’t know how to be gentle without…breaking.”

Your throat tightened, emotion flooding through you in a wave so sudden it hurt. “Then let me show you.”

He looked at you – really looked – and for a heartbeat there was no mask, no flicker of humor, no trace of the predator. Just a man, almost afraid. Slowly, as though you might vanish if he moved too fast, he lifted his hand to cup your jaw. His thumb brushed your cheek, tracing the soft curve of it as if committing the shape and texture to memory.

When his lips touched yours, there was no hunger. No claim. No sharp edges. It was soft. Gentle. A question he didn’t know how to ask out loud.

The kiss built slowly, like warmth creeping through frozen veins, until your fingers curled into the lapel of his coat and pulled him closer. You felt him shudder – a low, broken sound that wasn’t his usual hum or static chuckle, but something real. Something raw. Something that sounded like relief.

Alastor rose from the piano as though waking from a trance, his movements slow and deliberate. His hand extended toward you, palm up, as if asking you to trust him with something fragile. When you placed your hand in his, his fingers wrapped around yours with an almost trembling care, not like a predator securing its prize, but like someone who feared the slightest misstep would break the moment entirely.

He didn’t drag you from the room this time, nor did he whisk you away with his usual theatrical flourish. Instead, he simply walked with you, side by side, his tall frame leaning ever so slightly toward you, as though drawn to your presence by some invisible force. Every few steps, his gaze dipped down to meet yours – sharp red eyes softened to a near-glow, searching your expression, silently asking: Do you want this as much as I do? Will you change your mind?

By the time you reached his room, your heart was a thundering ache in your chest. The door closed behind you with a muted click, and Alastor didn’t move at first. He stood in the dim light of the room’s single lamp, his hands at his sides, his expression unreadable but unbearably intense. His antlers cast branching shadows along the walls, like dark fingers stretching toward you.

“May I?” he asked. Just that – two words, low and careful, but they hit you with the weight of a confession, as if he was asking permission not just for your body, but for something far deeper.

You nodded, breathless.

Alastor stepped closer, his every motion measured, deliberate. His hands hovered above your waist, the air between you buzzing with tension before his fingers finally settled there. They were warm, steady, but with a faint tremor that betrayed the restraint threading through him. He didn’t grab or pull; he held, his thumbs brushing slow arcs over your sides as if reminding himself that you were real.

He began to undress you with painstaking patience, not tearing or rushing but peeling away each layer like it was a precious artifact. The brush of fabric sliding over your skin sent tiny sparks through your nerves, and you felt his gaze on you, drinking in every inch revealed as though each new piece of you he uncovered was another verse in a song he’d written just for this moment.

His bare hands touched you with a reverence that made you shiver. His fingers traced up your arms, over your shoulders, skimming the curve of your collarbone and the lines of your waist. There was nothing casual in his touch – every movement was an act of intention, a silent prayer.

“You’re…exquisite,” he murmured, leaning down, his breath hot against your skin. His lips pressed to your collarbone, lingering there as though he was memorizing the taste of you. “I don’t deserve you, but I can’t stop wanting you.”

Your hands trembled as you reached for his clothes, but for once, he didn’t tease or toy with you. There was no dramatic pause, no smirk. He simply let you undress him, piece by piece, the crimson vest sliding off his shoulders, the black suspenders snapping softly as you let them fall. Each button of his shirt was undone with a quiet surrender, his chest revealed inch by inch, pale and almost luminous in the dim light. You traced your fingertips down the planes of his chest and felt the faint shiver that rippled through him.

His sharp breath caught, and his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

When he eased you down onto the bed, he didn’t crawl over you like a predator. He didn’t trap you under his weight or pin you with his usual intensity. Instead, he lay beside you at first, the mattress dipping gently under his long frame. His hand brushed your cheek, his knuckles grazing your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip as if he wanted to learn it by touch alone.

He kissed you again, and this time it was deep, slow – a kiss that felt like it had been waiting inside him for decades. His tongue brushed gently against yours, teasing, coaxing rather than claiming. His other hand smoothed over your thigh, slow strokes meant not to control but to invite, to coax you open for him.

“Tell me if I’m too much,” he whispered, his breath hot and trembling against your mouth. “I…don’t want to hurt you tonight.”

You smiled against his lips, the intimacy of his voice warming something deep inside you. “You won’t,” you whispered back, and he kissed you like those words were his undoing.

Alastor’s hands roamed with a patience you had never known from him before. They weren’t frantic or commanding; they were exploratory, reverent. His fingertips traced your ribs, following the rise and fall of your breath. They mapped the gentle curves of your waist, the soft expanse of your stomach, the swell of your hips. His touch was slow and deliberate, as though each inch of your skin deserved to be discovered, savored, and remembered.

When his hand finally slipped between your thighs, it wasn’t with a sharp motion but with a lingering hesitation, his crimson eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. He stroked you with feather-light care, his long fingers moving with a measured rhythm that made your breath hitch.

You gasped softly, your hips arching instinctively into his touch. Alastor’s mouth curved, but not into the sharp grin you expected. This smile was smaller, softer – heartbreakingly real.

“That sound,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, “Is sweeter than any music I could play.”

His fingers worked with meticulous attention, as though he were learning you like a favorite song – every note, every pause, every breath you took etched into his memory. His touch alternated between slow, deliberate circles and careful pressure, his thumb brushing your clit with maddening patience. Each movement coaxed small, desperate noises from you, sounds that only seemed to make his grin soften, his crimson eyes brightening with something dangerously close to wonder.

“Ah,” he murmured, his voice low, silk stretched over static. “Do you feel that, my dear? How easily you sing for me?” his gaze stayed fixed on your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure, every tremble of your lips. “So perfect…so beautifully undone.”

He didn’t rush. His free hand smoothed over your hip, curving up to your waist, holding you in place as though afraid you might drift away from him if he didn’t anchor you. His fingers inside you curled just slightly, stroking in slow, deliberate motions designed to coax the tension building inside you into something that felt dangerously close to shattering.

Your body trembled under his touch, your breath coming in ragged bursts. “Alastor –”

“Yes,” he said softly, his grin flickering into something almost reverent. “Say my name again. I want to hear you.”

The pleasure became almost unbearable – too much and not enough all at once. He withdrew his fingers with slow precision, his touch leaving you aching for more. You whimpered at the loss, and his grin returned, just a little sharper, though his eyes stayed soft.

“Shh…” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you – a slow, languid press of lips that left you dizzy. “I’m not done with you yet. Not nearly.”

His hand slid down your thigh, coaxing your legs open wider as he shifted his weight. He moved above you with a fluid grace, careful but deliberate, his body pressing against yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. He paused, forehead pressing to yours, his breath uneven.

“Look at me,” he whispered. His voice lacked its usual theatrical lilt – it was low, raw, stripped of pretense. You met his gaze, and what you saw there made your breath catch. Not hunger. Not possession. Something deeper.

He positioned himself slowly, deliberately, his hand guiding himself as he brushed against your entrance. He lingered there for a heartbeat, his gaze locked on yours, waiting for the smallest nod of permission.

When Alastor slid into you, it was slow – excruciatingly, reverently slow – like he feared even the smallest rush might fracture the fragile tenderness that had bloomed between you. The first stretch of him made you gasp, your body arching instinctively into the feeling of being filled by him, of every inch sinking into you with deliberate, measured care.

A low, shaky groan left his throat – a sound so raw and uncharacteristic it made your stomach twist. It wasn’t the polished, radio-smooth chuckle you knew, but something deeper, more human. His forehead pressed against yours, the faintest tremor running through his breath as his lips grazed yours in soft, unfinished kisses – half sighs, half prayers.

He stilled once he was fully inside you, holding there, as though he needed to commit this moment to memory – your body wrapped around him, your breath mingling with his, your heartbeat thrumming against his chest. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with an almost reverent touch, his crimson eyes half-lidded as he whispered, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it:

“There… perfect. You feel so perfect.”

His lips ghosted over your mouth, your throat, as though he needed to taste every sound you made. He lingered like that for several long seconds, breathing you in – not moving, just feeling. And then, with a careful, deliberate roll of his hips, he began to move.

Each thrust was deep and steady, not the sharp, commanding pace you’d expected from him, but something deliberate, intimate. He wasn’t trying to own you. He was savoring you. His rhythm was slow enough to make you ache for more, every deep push drawing soft gasps from your lips that he drank in like they were precious.

His hands framed your face, long fingers brushing over your jaw as though holding you there, grounding you against the intensity. His lips trailed over your skin in a pattern that felt like worship – kisses pressed to your mouth, your jawline, the hollow of your throat, each one lingering as though he didn’t want to leave even an inch untouched.

Between those kisses, his voice murmured against your skin. Not the sharp, mocking tone you’d come to expect, but words almost too soft to be his:

“You’re exquisite…beyond anything I deserve. I could lose myself here. Every inch of you, every breath…”

His voice broke faintly, a tremor rippling through him. “Every single part of you is mine to remember.”

The sincerity in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, making your pulse race. You believed him. Every word felt carved into you.

The build was agonizingly gradual, each thrust sinking deeper, slower, as though he wanted you to feel every second of him inside you. Pleasure curled heavy and molten in your belly, spreading outward in sharp, tingling waves. His thumb found your clit again, circling in perfect rhythm with his thrusts – slow at first, then just enough pressure to make your breath stutter into gasps.

You whimpered, your hips tilting instinctively into his movements, and he adjusted his angle, sliding deeper, hitting the spot that made your entire body jolt. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest at your reaction, his grin softening into something almost dangerous in its intimacy.

“Ah…look at you,” he murmured, watching your body arch, his gaze dark and glowing with hunger and awe. “So responsive. So beautiful when you tremble for me…”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, clawing at the fabric of his coat as though to ground yourself against the relentless pleasure. He captured your mouth in a fierce, consuming kiss, swallowing your moans like they were secrets he refused to share. His tongue teased against yours, slow but unrelenting, the kiss syncing with the deliberate thrust of his hips.

“Say it again,” he whispered against your lips, his voice dropping to a quiet, trembling plea. “Please…say my name again. I want to hear it.”

“Alastor,” you gasped, voice cracking under the intensity, your fingers tangling in his hair as your entire body shivered.

The sound of his name left him struck still for a heartbeat, his rhythm faltering as though the word itself undid him. A low groan rolled through his chest, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath ragged.

The pleasure became unbearable – a tidal wave cresting too high to hold back. His movements deepened, his thumb never leaving your clit as he coaxed you closer to the edge. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think – every nerve in your body was alive, burning with the tension coiling low in your stomach.

And when it broke, it shattered through you all at once. Your back arched, your nails dragging down his shoulders as your climax tore a cry from your lips – his name, gasped and broken, spilling out of you like a plea.

Alastor’s rhythm faltered, his body trembling as your release pulled him over with you. A low, guttural sound escaped him, not a laugh, but a raw, fractured moan as he buried his face against your neck. His hips stuttered, his body shivering as he spilled inside you, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

There was no performance in him then. No grin, no sharp wit. Only the sound of his breathless groan, the tremor in his body as he came undone inside you.

For a long time afterward, he didn’t speak. He simply lay there with you, his body curved around yours like a shield, his hand slowly combing through your hair. Each stroke of his fingers was languid, as though he was memorizing the texture, winding a piece of you around his own heart with every pass. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, the faint warmth of him brushing your back in quiet waves.

The room was still thick with the scent of him. The sheets clung to your skin, still warm with the ghost of his touch. His arm draped lightly over your waist, his thumb grazing lazy circles over your hipbone, as though he needed the reassurance of touching you, but feared pressing too hard and shattering the fragile intimacy between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it, stripped of static and showmanship.

“...Thank you,” he murmured. He leaned closer, his lips brushing your temple with feather-light warmth, lingering there like a silent vow. “For letting me…be this. With you. I didn’t think I was capable.”

You tilted your head slightly, feeling his breath fan against your skin. “Capable of what?”

He hesitated – a rare, vulnerable pause – before answering. “Of softness,” he said simply. “Of anything that doesn’t consume or command.”

His voice was softer still, tinged with something you didn’t often hear from him: uncertainty. You turned in his arms, your gaze finding his. For once, he wasn’t wearing that perpetual, razor-edged grin. He was simply looking at you – truly looking, like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

“You’re staring,” you teased softly, the words slipping out on a breathless smile.

He blinked, a faint curve touching his lips, though it wasn’t his usual sharp grin. It was smaller, quieter – like it was meant just for you. “Yes,” he said without hesitation. His voice was lower, rougher than usual, as though speaking from somewhere deeper than he intended. “I’d commit this moment to memory if I could. You…the way you look right now…I’ve never…”

He stopped himself, the words tangling in his throat, clumsy on his tongue.

You reached up, your fingers brushing along his jaw, feeling the subtle tension there. “Never what?” you coaxed gently.

His eyes flickered – not with static, but with something raw. “I’ve never wanted to…keep a moment so badly. To hold it, to hold you, without needing to twist it into something else. Without fear.”

His breath hitched slightly, and before you could speak, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering as though that single touch could finish the sentence he couldn’t say.

It was almost disarming, how gentle he could be when he wasn’t trying to dominate or control. His hands, which so often commanded with sharp, deliberate precision, now moved over you like they were learning the shape of something sacred – brushing your hair from your face, stroking the curve of your shoulder, tracing the faint line of your spine as though mapping you was the only language he trusted himself to speak.

“Alastor…” you whispered, and the way his eyes softened made your chest ache.

“Yes, darling?” His voice was velvet now, low and warm, as if you’d peeled back every jagged edge until only this version of him remained – raw and quiet and achingly real.

“I like this side of you,” you said, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “The side that doesn’t hide.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond, but the way his fingers tightened slightly over your waist, as if anchoring himself to you, told you enough. He leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, not claiming but offering.

“You bring out things in me I thought were long dead,” he admitted softly. “If I can give you this – even once – then I’ll know I’ve truly made the most of damnation.”

But the warmth of that moment was fleeting. The soft silence, the unspoken words between you, was shattered by a knock at the door – abrupt and hollow in the stillness.

Alastor’s head tilted slightly, his grin flickering back into place like a mask being set over porcelain cracks. “How terribly ill-timed,” he said, but his voice was still gentle when his hand brushed your cheek, lingering there before he slowly pulled away.

You found Charlie waiting in the hallway, her back pressed against the wall as if she’d been pacing for hours and had finally forced herself to stop. Her hands were wringing together so tightly that her knuckles had gone white, and when she looked up at you, her amber eyes were wide with something raw – fear, worry, and a strange flicker of anger.

“Hey,” she said, her voice low, almost breaking. “We need to talk. Please. Just…just for a minute.”

Behind you, Alastor’s presence stiffened like a taut wire. The air around him cooled, sharp enough that you felt the hair rise along your arms. His smile, that ever-present grin, returned with the precision of a blade being unsheathed – too wide, too polished.

“Princess,” he said smoothly, his tone laced with an edge so faint it could be mistaken for charm if you didn’t know better.

Charlie flinched, just barely, but she didn’t look away from him. “It’s important,” she insisted, her voice steadying. “I won’t keep her long.”

You felt the tension radiating off Alastor – not in his words, but in the coiled stillness of his frame, in the way his fingers twitched once against your back. You brushed your hand over his, a silent promise, before stepping out into the hall.

He let go, but his gaze followed you, crimson and unreadable, until you turned the corner. You could feel it even after you were out of sight – like heat from an ember, smoldering just enough to warn you of the fire underneath.

Charlie didn’t speak until she had pulled you down to the far end of the corridor, where the hotel’s golden glow thinned into shadow. Only then did she stop, turning to you with a breath that came out shaky.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she began, her voice trembling with the effort of holding itself together. “I wanted to give you space, because I thought…maybe this was all just tension. Maybe it would settle on its own. But…” She bit her lip, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I can’t ignore it anymore.”

Your brows drew together. “What happened?”

“Alastor,” she said, and the way she said his name – soft but sharp, like she was trying not to let it turn into a plea – made your heart sink. “He’s… different. I don’t mean the way he acts with you. I mean what he’s doing when you’re not around.”

Charlie’s eyes flicked down the hallway, like she was making sure he wasn’t within earshot, before stepping closer to you. “He left earlier. No one knew where he went, not even Husk. When he came back…” her voice faltered for a beat. “He was different.”

You frowned, uncertain. “Different how?”

Charlie’s tone dropped, hushed like the walls themselves might eavesdrop. “There was blood on his sleeve, his gloves. Not unusual for him, I know, but…it wasn’t just that,” she swallowed, her gaze shifting nervously to the floor before meeting your eyes again. “Husk said he saw him out back before he came in. He was laughing. Not his usual laugh – you know the one. Husk said it sounded…darker. Like he’d enjoyed whatever he’d done…more than he usually does, like he needed it. And when Husk asked him about it, Alastor just smiled and told him to mind his own business.”

Charlie’s hands wrung together, her amber eyes wide with worry. “I know what he’s capable of. He’s an Overlord – blood is nothing new. But lately…” she hesitated, her voice thinning. “I think this is about you. He’s not just dangerous when he’s like that: he’s unpredictable. And if his jealousy is getting worse…” her lips pressed into a line, as though she didn’t want to finish the thought. “I’m scared of what he’ll do to keep you close.”

Your stomach turned cold.

Charlie shook her head, her voice rising slightly, threaded with desperation. “I know him, or at least I know what he is, and he doesn’t do things like that without a reason. Do you understand? That kind of rage, that kind of…violence, doesn’t just happen. It comes from somewhere. And I think it’s coming from you – from what he’s feeling for you, from the way he’s losing control.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Charlie’s hands caught yours suddenly, gripping tight, her amber eyes shining with emotion. “Please. I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, because you haven’t. But you’re in the middle of something dangerous. My dad…” she faltered, swallowing. “My dad isn’t helping, either. I see the way he looks at you. I’ve heard the way he talks about you when he thinks no one’s listening. He’s becoming…obsessive. And Alastor – he’s unraveling. They’re both being pulled toward you like it’s gravity, and I don’t know how to stop them.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

Charlie squeezed your hands harder. “I don’t want to lose you to this. I don’t want to lose them to this, either. If you don’t decide where you stand, they’re going to tear each other apart. And maybe they’ll tear you apart with them.”

Her words struck something deep, a nerve you hadn’t dared touch. You could still feel the warmth of Alastor’s touch on your skin, the way his eyes had softened, the way he’d let himself be vulnerable with you – and yet Charlie’s voice planted a seed of unease.

“Charlie…” you whispered, unsure what to say, unsure if you even could say anything to ease the fear in her voice.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “Really think about what you want – not what they want. You deserve to be free of their pull, even if…” she trailed off, her expression heavy with emotion. “…even if it hurts them.”

When you slipped back into his room, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Alastor stood near the window, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that was too deliberate to be casual. The faint light from outside cast his silhouette in jagged shadow, his antlers cutting across the wall like dark crown-spires.

“Finished your tête-à-tête with the princess?” he asked, his voice warm on the surface, but with a brittle undertone – the static crackle of something frayed.

You closed the door behind you. “She just wanted to talk,” you said carefully. “She’s worried –”

“Worried!” his laugh was sharp, clipped, though not loud. “Goodness, isn’t she always? Tell me, my dear, what does she think I’ll do? Lock you in a tower? Chain you up like some dragon’s treasure?” his grin widened, but it was almost too wide, too precise. “Hm. I admit, the imagery does have a certain appeal…”

“Alastor,” you said softly. The edge in his grin faltered a fraction.

“She told me about earlier,” you continued, stepping closer. “About…blood.”

For a moment, silence. His smile froze, like a photograph, and then tilted into something darker – not malicious, but fragile.

“Ah,” he said lightly, though his tone carried an undercurrent of static. “She tattled. How quaint.” he moved a step away from the window, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “Would it horrify you, my dear, to know that I enjoyed it?”

You hesitated, your breath catching. “I thought you were…less inclined lately. I didn’t know this was making you hurt people again.”

“Oh, I didn’t hurt,” he said, his grin sharpening. “I reminded. There’s a difference, you see. Some creatures down here think themselves brave, bold enough to glance where they shouldn’t, to whisper things about you…about what’s mine,” his voice dropped to something low and almost feral. “I find that so…tedious.”

You closed the space between you, gently touching his arm. “You don’t need to prove anything like that. Not to me.”

The static hum around him seemed to pause. His grin wavered, his gaze flickering down to where your hand rested on his sleeve. “…You disapprove.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to hurt people just to keep me,” you said quietly.

He tilted his head, studying you with something between amusement and pain. “Ah, my dear,” he murmured, “What am I to do with you? You make me feel…peculiar,” his tone softened, almost wistful. “I’ve spent decades being adored, feared, worshipped even – all of it meaningless, save for the thrill. But you…”

His grin softened into something that felt startlingly real. “You look at me, and I almost want to be more than the monster they think I am.”

Your breath caught. “Alastor…”

He reached up, fingertips brushing along your jawline. “And that terrifies me, my dear. It truly does. Because I do not know if I can hold you without…breaking something. You, or myself.”

“You won’t,” you said, your voice steady, though your heart raced. “You don’t need to hold me so tightly, Alastor. I’m here with you. Right now. Isn’t that enough?”

His smile softened – faint, hesitant. “Yes,” he said at last, almost like an exhale. “Yes…for now, that is enough.”

You guided him to the bed, and he let you, his usual elegance tempered with a strange stillness. He sat beside you, his long fingers curling loosely around your hand as if testing the shape of something fragile.

Alastor’s long fingers laced loosely with yours, the touch careful, almost hesitant – as though he were afraid of gripping too tightly and shattering something precious. He tilted his head, studying your face with an expression that felt strangely unguarded.

“You do something dreadful to me,” he said softly, and though his words carried his usual peculiar cadence, there was no sharp edge to them. “You make me want to linger.”

You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“Perhaps not for you,” he replied, his grin curling just slightly. “But for me? I’m not accustomed to sitting still like this. I’m a…creature of motion, of sound and chaos. Yet here I am, sitting in silence, simply…looking at you.”

His gaze roamed your face, every line and curve, like he was trying to memorize you. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch unusually delicate.

“I don’t understand you,” he admitted after a pause. “And I don’t understand myself when I’m with you. But I find I don’t mind the confusion.”

You shifted closer, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. His body stilled at the contact, but instead of tensing, he let out a low, quiet hum – not the eerie static of his usual laugh, but a soft, almost absentminded vibration, as though contentment itself was humming through him.

“You’re quieter than usual,” you teased gently, your voice muffled against his coat.

“Yes, well,” he said with a small, amused tilt of his head. “The radio is not always meant to play, my dear. Sometimes it is enough to simply…listen.”

He shifted, his fingers brushing down your arm, tracing a slow line from your shoulder to your wrist. “And I find that I very much enjoy listening to you breathe. It’s a lovely sound.”

You turned your face to look up at him, and the way his crimson eyes softened made your chest ache. There was no performance, no mask – just Alastor, looking at you like you’d carved out a space inside his untouchable world.

When he kissed you this time, it wasn’t sharp or playful. It was slow, a quiet press of lips that deepened only when you leaned into him, your hand curling against his chest. His thumb brushed your jaw, his long fingers trailing down your neck in a gentle caress.

“You undo me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Piece by piece, without even trying.”

You kissed him again, your nose brushing his as you whispered, “Then don’t fight it.”

He chuckled quietly, but it was low and warm, lacking its usual bite. “Dangerous words, darling,” he said, his tone hushed. “But perhaps I’ll allow myself this… indulgence.”

The room was quiet when you stirred, the air still warm with Alastor’s presence. But then, the atmosphere changed. A warmth bloomed in the corner, not fiery but golden, like sunlight slipping through cracks in a storm.

Lucifer stood near the window, framed by moonlight. His white suit glowed faintly, the gold detailing catching the soft gleam, and for once, there was no teasing smirk on his lips. He looked at you with a stillness that made your breath catch.

“May I?” he asked quietly, as if stepping into your space – your heart – required permission.

You nodded before you could find your voice.

He extended a hand toward you. “Come with me. I want to show you something… somewhere only I can take you.”

The moment your hand slipped into his, the hotel vanished. There was no pull, no violent rush – just a seamless shift, as though the world folded in on itself and reformed around the warmth of his magic.

The room around you shifted before you even had time to breathe. One moment, you were lying in Alastor’s bed, the weight of his presence still clinging to your skin like smoke. The next, a warm hand slid into yours – firm yet impossibly soft – and the world dissolved.

When your eyes blinked open, you were standing beneath vaulted arches of pale marble, the ceiling above open to a midnight sky that glowed with stars that didn’t exist in Hell’s skies. You knew this place. You’d been here once before – Lucifer’s private garden.

The air here was thick with warmth, carrying the rich scent of night-blooming flowers. Enormous roses, the color of spilled wine, climbed across pale stone trellises, their petals glistening faintly as if dipped in frost and flame. Twisting vines threaded with luminous golden leaves crawled up marble columns, winding around sculptures of angels with broken halos.

The sound of water rippling nearby drew your gaze to a fountain carved from obsidian and pale crystal. A figure of a fallen seraph stood in its center, wings outstretched, water cascading from the tips like tears. The garden was decadent but unsettling – both a shrine to beauty and a reminder of its cost.

Lucifer stood just behind you, his hand still warm in yours. He looked out at his garden as if it were both his pride and his curse. The white of his suit gleamed faintly in the moonlight, the gold embroidery at his cuffs catching the glow of lanterns set among the hedges.

“This place… it’s one of the only things I’ve created that feels real,” he murmured, his voice low, almost confessional. “A fragment of what I miss. Of what I was.”

You turned toward him, but before you could speak, he took a step closer – and then, without hesitation, sank to his knees on the marble pathway.

The sight of him there, kneeling amid the roses and the broken angels, stole the breath from your lungs. His head bowed low, pale hair falling forward as he lowered himself as though in worship. The King of Hell, the Morningstar himself, on his knees.

“I’ve spent eternity demanding reverence,” he said softly, his voice carrying through the warm garden air like music. “But for you…” He lifted his head slightly, his golden eyes locking on yours, glowing like molten metal. “For you, I would kneel. I would give every crown I’ve ever worn, every palace I’ve ever built, if you’d look at me like you look at him.”

Your throat tightened, your heart hammering in your chest. This wasn’t Lucifer the ruler. This wasn’t the king draped in pride. This was something infinitely more dangerous – Lucifer, stripped bare of all his armor, offering himself to you.

He reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours with a care that was almost trembling. His lips brushed over your knuckles, lingering there as though your skin held something sacred.

“Will you let me hold you?” he asked, and the words weren’t a command or a game — they were quiet, aching, a plea.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want him, but because of the weight in his voice, the kind of weight that spoke of eternity. He was still on his knees, still bowing as though he’d stay there forever if you said no.

“Yes,” you whispered. The word left you like a sigh, fragile but final.

Lucifer rose with that effortless grace that made him seem more dream than flesh, his hands never leaving yours. When he stood, he was so close you could see the faint shimmer of golden light threaded through his pale hair.

His hand rose to your face, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone as though afraid you’d vanish. “Every time I see you,” he murmured, “I feel something I’ve never felt – not even when I stood in Heaven’s light.”

You felt his arm wrap around your waist, drawing you against him slowly, carefully, as though each movement was a deliberate act of worship. His head lowered to your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, and for a long moment, he simply held you there.

Lucifer didn’t let go of your hand as he guided you along the marble path. The garden stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of wild beauty and sculpted perfection, roses and lilies spilling over fountains, the petals so dark they looked almost black under the moonlight. Lanterns glowed faintly in the hedges, casting soft halos of gold that danced on the polished stone.

He led you toward a secluded alcove framed by an arch of twisted vines, their leaves shimmering faintly as though sprinkled with starlight. A stone bench sat beneath a flowering tree with pale, glass-like petals that swayed without wind. Here, the world felt removed from Hell entirely – timeless, suspended, as if even the stars were holding their breath.

Lucifer stopped and turned to face you, his hand still holding yours. His golden eyes glimmered in the lantern light, softer now, like fire tamed. “This garden was meant for no one but me,” he said quietly. “But now… it feels empty when you are not here.”

His hand rose, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with deliberate care. His fingers lingered near your temple, tracing the curve of your jaw before trailing down the side of your neck. The touch wasn’t claiming – it was as if he were memorizing you, piece by piece.

When his lips brushed your throat, it wasn’t a kiss of conquest. It was softer, lingering, like he was committing your pulse to memory. His hands traced down your back, fingers spreading wide across your spine before curving at your waist. The warmth of his palms was steady, grounding, like he was trying to remind you of where you were – with him, here and now.

You tilted your head slightly, silently granting him permission, and he paused – always waiting – before lowering his mouth to yours.

Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like Alastor’s. There was no trembling sweetness, no fear of losing control. This was slower, deeper – the kiss of someone who wanted to worship every breath you took. His lips moved over yours like a prayer, each touch unhurried, as though time itself had stopped to let him savor you.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured between kisses, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “I’ve ruled kingdoms, burned stars into nothing, but this…” His fingers tightened just slightly at your waist, pulling you imperceptibly closer. “You undo me with a single look.”

Your breath hitched, your hands finding his lapels as though anchoring yourself. “Lucifer…” you whispered, unsure whether it was a plea, a warning, or something else entirely.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. His eyes were molten, glowing faintly in the dim light. “You have no idea how rare this is for me,” he said, his voice soft but carrying the weight of centuries. “I’ve held power beyond measure, commanded angels, demons, entire worlds… but I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

His hand slipped down, fingers skimming along your arm before capturing your hand again. He brought it to his lips, kissing the inside of your wrist, slow and reverent. “I could stay here forever, just like this,” he murmured, “if you would let me.”

You couldn’t speak – not with the way his words wrapped around you, not with how the garden itself seemed to echo his quiet devotion. Every rose, every flicker of golden light seemed to pulse in time with your heartbeat.

Lucifer led you through a series of winding halls in his palace, each corridor lined with high-arched windows that spilled in the glow of moonlight and the faint flicker of gilded lanterns. His hand stayed clasped around yours, his grip steady and warm, his thumb idly brushing the ridge of your knuckles as though he couldn’t stand not to be touching you.

“You’ve never seen my room, have you?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at you with a look that was almost mischievous, but softer than his usual charm.

“No,” you admitted, curiosity prickling at you. “Should I be worried?”

He chuckled low, the sound curling in his throat like smoke. “Not unless you’re afraid of being scandalized by the most terrifying thing I own.”

“And that is?”

He didn’t answer – not with words. Instead, he pushed open an elegant, double-panel door. His bedroom was nothing like you expected.

The room was bathed in warm lamplight, the walls painted in shades of ivory and pale gold. Tall windows lined one side, their curtains drawn back to reveal the silver sprawl of the palace gardens. The bed was enormous – carved dark wood and crisp white linens that looked impossibly soft – but your gaze was drawn immediately to a polished wooden shelf near the window.

There, neatly arranged in a row, was a collection of rubber ducks.

You blinked. “Are those…?”

“Yes,” Lucifer said lightly, walking you closer. “I find them…soothing. A reminder that even the devil is allowed his quirks.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you leaned in to study them. There was a duck with a tiny golden crown, another with small bat wings, one painted to look like an angel with a tilted halo – and then, at the end of the row, one that made your breath catch.

It looked like you.

Tiny details were painted onto it: your hair color, a little stylized version of your favorite outfit, and even a tiny, delicate smile on its face.

“You made this?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost breathless.

Lucifer’s lips curved into something small and fond. “Of course. Did you really think I could resist immortalizing you? Even in duck form, you’re exquisite.”

The comment should have made you laugh, but the sincerity in his tone stopped you cold.

Lucifer didn’t push you toward the bed; instead, he guided you toward the plush white couch by the arched window, his hand never once leaving yours. His touch was warm, steady – a contrast to the cool marble underfoot – and every brush of his thumb over your skin felt deliberate, like he was drawing quiet patterns of devotion into you.

The room was bathed in pale moonlight streaming through the tall panes of glass, each beam scattering silver across the folds of his suit. The gold embroidery on his lapel caught the light like threads of fire, and for a moment, he looked almost unearthly – not the King of Hell, but something older, softer.

He eased you down onto the couch, his movements smooth and graceful, but careful too – like you might startle if he moved too fast. When he sat beside you, he didn’t immediately touch you. Instead, he kept your hands folded in his, as if they were the most valuable things he’d ever held. His thumbs brushed slow, thoughtful circles into your palms, a silent rhythm that seemed to calm the space around you.

“May I?” he asked again, his voice a whisper that grazed your lips like the faintest ghost of a kiss.

Your heart thudded. You nodded.

His hand slipped to your thigh, and your breath caught in your throat at the softness of the motion. There was no urgency in him, no demand – only care, like he was exploring something he didn’t dare rush. His fingers grazed along the curve of your leg, feather-light but grounding, and the warmth of his touch seeped through the thin fabric of your clothes, making your skin prickle with heat.

Then his lips found your jaw.

The first brush was barely there, a whisper of warmth that sent a shiver running down your spine. He lingered before trailing lower, each kiss deliberate, patient – a slow journey down the side of your neck. You tilted your head, instinctively baring more of your throat to him, and he paused, as though asking for silent permission.

You gave it with a subtle nod, and his mouth returned, savoring you.

When his lips met yours, it wasn’t the kiss of a king or a devil. It was unhurried, reverent – a kiss that felt like a vow. His mouth moved with slow precision, his tongue brushing yours in soft, coaxing strokes that made you shiver. It wasn’t possession. It was worship, each kiss layered with meaning, as if he were telling you everything he couldn’t say with words.

His other hand slid to your lower back, the palm firm but not demanding, guiding you closer until your chest brushed against his. The heat of him radiated through the crisp white fabric of his suit, and you felt the restrained strength humming beneath it – a reminder of the power he wielded, tempered only by the care with which he touched you.

When he finally pulled back, his breath mingling with yours, his lips didn’t leave you entirely. They traced downward, a path of deliberate worship over the hollow of your throat, across your collarbone, and along the slope of your shoulder. Each kiss felt like a quiet promise, a silent oath branded onto your skin.

Lucifer’s forehead came to rest against yours again, his golden eyes half-lidded but burning with something that felt almost… vulnerable. His breath fanned over your lips, warm and slow, as though he was steadying himself.

“When I look at you,” he murmured, his voice deep and earnest, “I see someone who cannot be owned – not by me, not by anyone. And yet…” His hand rose, pressing gently over your heart. The warmth of his palm seeped through your clothes, grounding you. “Yet I want every heartbeat. Every thought. Every secret you’ll never tell another soul.”

He paused, his jaw tightening as if the next words cost him something. “You make me ache in ways I thought I’d forgotten. I don’t remember what it felt like to need until I met you.”

Your breath trembled. Without thinking, your hand rose to his face, your fingertips brushing along the line of his jaw, tracing the faint roughness there. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, his breath catching as though your hand on his skin had unraveled something deep within him.

“I could bring the world to its knees,” he continued, voice softer now, almost breaking. “I could drown every star in Heaven if I wished – and yet none of it would matter if I couldn’t have this. Just this. You, here, in my arms.”

For a long moment, he didn’t kiss you. He simply held you, his forehead against yours, his thumb brushing slow circles against your cheekbone as though to memorize every curve of your face. His free hand stayed pressed over your heart, feeling each rapid beat like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

The silence between you was thick but tender — filled with things neither of you could say aloud.

Lucifer’s thumb continued its slow circles on your cheek, his gaze steady but softened with something you weren’t used to seeing in him – something unguarded, stripped of the usual wry confidence. His hand at your waist flexed gently, guiding you closer.

“Come here,” he whispered, his tone coaxing, velvet-soft.

You hesitated only for a heartbeat before shifting closer. The fabric of his suit was smooth and warm under your fingertips as you braced yourself against his chest. He guided you onto his lap, his hands steadying you with a care that felt almost ceremonial, as though every motion had meaning.

Once you were there, straddling him, you felt the solid strength of his body beneath you — controlled, still, but radiating heat like a quiet flame. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you just close enough that your chests brushed, but not so close that you felt trapped. It was invitation, not possession.

One of his hands rose slowly, his fingertips brushing the length of your spine before trailing upward to your neck. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. His fingers lingered there, tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, before moving to your temple.

“You don’t know what you look like right now,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent, the faintest smile touching his lips. “Like something divine – something even I don’t deserve to touch.”

Your breath hitched, and you felt his thumb graze over your lower lip, the simple motion sending a tremor through you. He tilted his head slightly, golden eyes catching the silver wash of moonlight, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you again.

But instead, he just looked at you.

His gaze roamed your face slowly, like he was memorizing every curve, every line, every breath you took. His hand shifted to cradle the back of your head, his palm warm against your hair as he pressed his forehead lightly to yours.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice a near-whisper. “The way I hold you? The way I…” He trailed off, the words breaking into silence for a heartbeat before he continued. “Every time I touch you, I wonder if this is how I would have touched the stars when I still belonged to them. Carefully. Reverently. Like I might burn if I held them too tightly.”

His words sank into you, heavy and quiet, and all you could do was breathe, your fingers curling against the lapel of his jacket. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered, his thumb stroking slow lines across your hip, grounding you.

Lucifer’s arms tightened slightly around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His breath ghosted over your ear as he spoke, his voice low, rich, and warm like molten gold.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he murmured. “I see a crown I could never forge, a fire brighter than anything I’ve commanded. I see the Queen Hell would kneel for – not because I ask it, but because they would have no choice. You are…incandescent.”

Your pulse jumped, your breath catching in your throat. He angled his head slightly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he continued, softer now, as though confessing something sacred.

“If I could build a kingdom of only you,” he whispered, “I would burn everything else to ash.”

The words melted into your skin like heat, settling in your chest and leaving you trembling. You turned your head, and his eyes met yours – molten gold, glowing with something that felt both devastating and infinite.

He didn’t wait for permission this time. His hand slid up the curve of your back, fingers curling into your hair as he drew you into a kiss that was both unhurried and all-consuming.

It wasn’t rough or desperate. It was slow, deliberate, like he was pouring every unspoken word into the press of his mouth against yours. His lips moved with a careful heat, his tongue brushing against yours in languid, coaxing strokes that left you lightheaded. His free hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face just so, deepening the kiss without urgency – savoring it, savoring you.

Your fingers tightened in his jacket, clinging to him as if the world outside this moment had ceased to exist. The warmth of him bled into you, every inch of his body radiating controlled power beneath the soft white fabric of his suit.

When he finally drew back, it wasn’t because he wanted to. His lips lingered close, brushing yours as he exhaled slowly, like he was trying to calm something wild inside him. His thumb stroked your cheek, trailing just under your lower lip, and his eyes flickered over your face with reverence that made your breath stutter.

“You undo me,” he murmured, his voice so low it barely reached above a whisper. “Not with fire, not with force…but with this. This quiet. This closeness.” He pressed another soft kiss to your lips – almost chaste compared to the first – before leaning his forehead to yours.

Lucifer didn’t release you for a long time. He simply held you, your body pressed against the steady warmth of his chest, his arms forming a cradle that felt both protective and inescapable. His hands moved in slow, thoughtful patterns along your back – tracing up your spine, brushing over your shoulder blades, curling softly at your waist. It wasn’t mindless. It was as if he was trying to anchor you, to memorize the weight and warmth of you in his arms.

His head rested lightly against yours, his breath warm against your temple. Every rise and fall of his chest was calm, unnervingly steady for someone who radiated so much power. It made you acutely aware of how deliberate he was with every movement – as if nothing he did around you was accidental.

For a moment, it felt like the world beyond the walls of his palace garden didn’t exist. There was only his breath, your heartbeat, and the way his presence wrapped around you like a blanket of velvet and fire.

When he finally drew back, it wasn’t to leave. It was so he could look at you.

His hands framed your face, his golden eyes scanning your features with a focus that felt almost too much to bear. His gaze was searching, almost pained, as if he could see every unspoken thought, every hidden fissure where your heart was already divided between him and Alastor.

“Do you think of me,” he asked quietly, his voice softer than silk, “When you’re with him?”

The question hit you like a pulse – sudden, sharp, impossible to ignore.

You parted your lips, but no answer came. Lying felt impossible under his gaze, and the truth was too heavy to speak aloud. You could only look at him, your breath trembling, your silence betraying you more than words ever could.

Lucifer didn’t press you. Instead, something in his expression shifted – his smile flickering, fading into something small and almost unbearably sad. It wasn’t the sly grin he so often wore like a crown. This smile felt personal, fragile, like it was meant for no one but you.

“Don’t answer,” he whispered, his voice threaded with a warmth that made your chest ache. “I already know.”

One hand brushed down your cheek, his fingers curling lightly against your jaw. His thumb traced over your lower lip in a slow, reverent motion, as though memorizing the shape of you, imprinting the feel of your skin into his mind.

“You’re caught between us,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. “I see it – the way you burn for him, the way you hesitate for me. But when I hold you like this…” His thumb stroked the hollow of your cheek, his voice dipping into something low and raw. “Tell me you don’t feel it. Tell me you don’t feel how I would give all I am, all I’ve ever been, just to keep this moment.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as his words sank into you like fire sinking into paper. You wanted to speak, but nothing came – not when his hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it carefully behind your ear as if you were the most delicate thing in his universe.

Lucifer’s hand stayed cradled at your jaw, his thumb brushing once more over your lip as if he couldn’t resist memorizing every line of you. His gaze locked on yours, molten and unflinching.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” he murmured, his voice almost breaking on the words. “For someone who looks at me and doesn’t see a throne or a crown – but simply…me.”

His other hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle, grounding, pulling you infinitesimally closer. “Before I fell, I thought I understood love. I thought I knew what devotion felt like. But it was nothing – nothing – compared to this. You undo me in ways even Heaven never could.”

Your breath hitched, and you felt your fingers curl into the fine fabric of his jacket, the weight of his words sinking deep. He leaned in slightly, his forehead resting against yours, and for a moment he simply breathed you in, as though the mere scent of you could quiet something restless in his chest.

When he kissed you again, it wasn’t rushed or fierce. It was deliberate, every movement measured, like a prayer left on your lips. His mouth moved over yours with aching slowness, his tongue brushing softly, tasting you as though he might never have this chance again.

His fingers slid through your hair, the other hand resting at your lower back, pulling you closer, closer, until you felt his heartbeat — slow, steady — as if time itself bowed to this moment. The warmth of him consumed you, but not like fire. Like sunlight after a long night.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His lips lingered against yours, his breath fanning your skin as he whispered, “If there is a part of me worth saving, it is the part that touches you.”

His lips brushed yours as he spoke, and before the breath of the last syllable had left his mouth, he was kissing you again – not with the aching slowness of before, but with something deeper. Needier. His restraint was still there, woven into every controlled motion, but it was cracking at the edges, splintering under the weight of want.

His hands roamed – reverently, hungrily – like he was learning you by touch alone. Fingertips traced your ribs, the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine. Each movement was slow, but not hesitant. It was deliberate. Worshipful. He was savoring you the way a starving man might savor the first taste of something forbidden.

“You're real,” he murmured into your skin as his lips trailed down the column of your throat, voice thick and low. “You’re not a dream, not a ghost. I have you. Here. Now.”

You gasped as his teeth scraped your neck, not cruelly, but with a possessiveness he didn’t bother to hide. His hand slid lower, over the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him – and there it was. The heat. The hardness. The proof of just how much control he was clinging to.

Lucifer ground against you once, slow and firm, as if to show you the truth of his desire. “I’ve waited so long,” he breathed, voice fraying at the edges. “I’ve touched shadows of you in dreams – but this…this is mine. You are mine.”

He didn’t drag you down to the ground. He didn’t need to. One moment you were standing, and the next you were cradled in satin and shadow, the velvet grass of his private garden rising to meet your back like the world itself had rearranged to accommodate his want.

His body followed, covering yours in a cascade of white silk and infernal heat. The weight of him was perfect – not crushing, but inescapable. You felt caged beneath him, claimed, his golden gaze drinking in every inch of your skin as if this sight was something holy. A revelation.

“Let me have you,” he said, low and rough as his fingers found the fastenings of your clothes. “Let me feel you. Let me prove that I am not lost. Not when you’re beneath me.”

Fabric parted like water beneath his hands, slow and smooth. He undressed you with a kind of solemnity that should have felt ceremonial – but his hands trembled slightly, betraying the frenzy beneath the surface. When you reached to undress him in turn, his eyes fluttered shut, lips parting around a sharp inhale. It was the first time he’d looked undone – not by power, but by something far more dangerous.

By you.

When your hands slipped beneath his jacket, he leaned into your touch like it was absolution. His breath hitched as you pushed the white fabric from his shoulders, revealing pale skin beneath – marked not by scars, but by light. As if the echo of his fall still flickered beneath the surface, a galaxy of gold veins glowing faintly against his ribs.

You couldn’t help yourself. You traced one with your fingertips, and Lucifer shuddered – visibly, wholly – like the sensation cleaved through something ancient in him.

“You make me feel,” he said, voice cracking as he lowered himself against you. “You make me…forget.”

And then he was kissing you again, and there was no more restraint.

His mouth moved over yours with fire and hunger, teeth catching your lower lip before his tongue slipped past – devouring you, worshiping you. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them slowly, deliberately, and when he settled between them, the heat of him made your spine arch.

There was no teasing. No slow glide of fingers or soft coaxing touches. He had waited too long. He pressed himself against your core through the last remaining barrier of your clothing, and you felt him – thick, hard, desperate.

“Tell me you want this,” he rasped, and though the words trembled with restraint, his body betrayed him – grinding slow and heavy between your thighs. “Tell me you want me. Not a vision. Not a dream. Me.”

Your answer was a moan that became a whimper as your hips rolled up into him, matching his rhythm.

He growled – actually growled, low and guttural – and with a flick of his fingers, the rest of your clothes dissolved into ash and smoke. You gasped as the air kissed your bare skin, and then he was there, sliding against your folds with feverish reverence.

“I will ruin you for anyone else,” he whispered, voice cracked open like thunder behind clouds. “Even him.”

And then he entered you – slow, thick, deliberate.

Your back arched, breath shattered into broken syllables as he sank into you inch by inch, his golden eyes never leaving yours. He didn’t look smug. He didn’t even look victorious. He looked undone. Like this – this moment, this joining – had shattered something fragile and ancient in him.

“You feel like…” He groaned, hips trembling as he bottomed out, burying himself fully inside you. “Heaven. But better. Warmer. Real.”

Lucifer moved slowly at first, drawing back and thrusting into you with reverent force – like every roll of his hips was a prayer, every moan a hymn. But as your legs wrapped around his waist and your nails dragged lines down his back, his control faltered.

He began to move harder, deeper, his breaths turning ragged as he drove into you with the fury of a man who had waited eons for this. Your cries only fed him, his name breaking from your lips like a song, like worship.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice fraying with need as his thrusts grew sharper, more possessive. “Say it again. Say my name.”

You did – breathless and breaking. His name spilled from your lips like a litany, like a spell you couldn’t stop casting. You gasped it against the curve of his throat, moaned it into the skin of his shoulder, whispered it between the fire of his kisses as your body arched beneath him.

“Lucifer –”

The sound of it seemed to undo him. He answered with a deep, shuddering thrust that made you cry out, the breath catching in your throat as your body clenched around him. He didn’t slow. He couldn’t. His rhythm turned fevered, relentless, driving into you like he meant to leave his name carved into your bones. Every stroke was a claim, a vow, a testament to the centuries he had waited for this – for you.

The stretch of him filled you perfectly, utterly, over and over, his cock dragging along every sensitive edge until you swore he was sculpting you from the inside out. You felt him everywhere – inside you, around you, above you, the heat of his body blotting out everything but this moment, this sacred, brutal ache of being wanted.

He was panting now, golden eyes barely open as he watched you unravel beneath him, every shift of your hips drawing a desperate sound from deep in his chest. The air between you was thick with heat and the scent of sex, and still, he kissed you – open-mouthed, hungry, his teeth catching your lower lip as if he couldn’t bear to part from any piece of you.

Your climax didn’t build. It rose – like a supernova igniting at the core of your being. One moment, you were writhing beneath him, your nails clawing desperate crescents into his back. The next, it consumed you.

Pleasure tore through you in a white-hot wave, your body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses as your vision blurred, your voice cracking on a cry you couldn’t hold back.

“That’s it, starlight…that’s it.” His voice was velvet and thunder, ragged and reverent all at once. “Come for me. Let me feel you fall.”

And you did. You fell. You shattered.

Lucifer groaned your name like it was divine, his hands gripping your hips as his own body began to tremble. He fucked you through your orgasm, driving deeper, harder, hips snapping forward with a desperate, brutal grace. His control fractured around the edges, and then he was spilling into you – a low, feral sound torn from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt and broke.

His release hit like a storm, cock throbbing inside you as heat flooded your core, thick and searing. He clung to you through it, body shaking, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he moaned into your skin – low, ragged, devastated.

You felt it in every cell: not just his body, but him. His soul. The part of him he never gave, never exposed. He poured it into you like it had nowhere else to go.

And even then, even as the last tremors of his release faded, he didn’t let go.

He stayed pressed against you, chest heaving with each breath as though he’d been holding it for a thousand years. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you as if your body were the only anchor keeping him from drifting off the edge of the world.

His forehead came to rest against yours, damp curls brushing your brow. For a long moment, there was only the sound of your breathing – twined, shaking, uneven – and the soft stroke of his hand down your spine, over and over, as if calming a beast. Or himself.

His lips found your cheek, your jaw, your temple – not with lust, but with longing – and he whispered, broken and bare:

“I thought the Fall ruined me – but you? You unmade me. And I thank you for it with every breath I steal from your mouth.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, his fingertips grazing your temple, lingering like he couldn’t quite let go. “I will wait,” he said softly. “As long as it takes. Even if you never choose me…I will still wait. Because I am already yours, whether you realize it or not.”

The words struck deep, leaving your pulse pounding, your body still trembling from the tenderness of his kiss. You didn’t know what to say – you didn’t even know what you could say – and he didn’t ask you to.

The moment hung between you until Lucifer finally stood, pulling you to your feet with him, dressing you reverently, although his beautiful features admitted without words it was the last thing he wanted to do. His hand stayed clasped around yours as the garden, the couch, the warmth of his room faded, replaced by the familiar quiet of the hotel hallway.

He didn’t let go until you stood at your door. His golden eyes lingered on your face, softer than you’d ever seen them, and then he leaned in, brushing one last kiss over your forehead.

“Until next time,” he murmured. And with a ripple of warmth, he was gone.

The familiar warmth of the Hazbin Hotel reformed around you as Lucifer’s magic faded, leaving you standing just outside Alastor’s bedroom door. Your pulse still thrummed with confusion and longing, every nerve in your body aware of the ghost of Lucifer’s touch.

You pushed the door open as quietly as possible.

Alastor was still there, miraculously asleep. His tall frame lay stretched across the bed, one hand curled loosely near his head, the faint glow of his crimson eyes absent for once. Even in rest, he seemed unearthly – still, sharp, but strangely at peace.

You stepped inside softly, careful not to wake him, and slipped under the covers. The mattress dipped as you lay beside him, and instinctively, as though he sensed you, Alastor’s arm moved, draping lightly over your waist. His touch was warm, protective, unconsciously pulling you closer even in sleep.

You stayed frozen for a long time, your body still warm where Lucifer’s hands had been. Your pulse felt unsteady, caught between the tenderness you’d shared with Alastor earlier and the reverence of Lucifer’s embrace.

Images tangled in your mind: Alastor’s hands, careful and almost trembling when they’d held you, his grin softening into something real when he’d whispered his apology. And then Lucifer — bowing before you, kissing your hands like you were something divine, holding you like someone who worshipped rather than possessed.

Charlie’s voice drifted back in the silence: “Make sure what you want is really yours, not something they’re pulling out of you.”

But how could you tell? How could you separate yourself when every part of you felt split between the two of them, when both men made you feel so undeniably seen, so undeniably wanted – but in completely different ways?

You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, the tension of the night still humming through your veins. Alastor’s quiet breathing beside you should have soothed you, but your mind wouldn’t still. Sleep was slow to come – when it finally did, it came fractured, broken into flashes.

Alastor’s crimson eyes, softened with something dangerously close to love. Lucifer’s molten gaze, kneeling at your feet like a fallen king offering his crown.

Somewhere deep inside, you knew a choice was coming – one that would tear you open no matter what you decided. And you also knew that, after tonight, you would never be the same.

masterlist.series masterlist.

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