fraugwinska

[fraugwinska]

EVERYONE SHUT UP OUR FAVORITE SHOW IS ON!!!

A Truth Universally Denied - CH. 4

Lucifer x F. Reader Masterlist

When a struggling, reclusive, but wealthy single father calls upon the help of a governess to help tutor his coming-of-age but unruly daughter, one has no choice but to accept the most gracious invitation of employment. Especially if your new employer is the King of Hell. (aka if Hell, but if it was set similar to Victorian Era England, so like circa 1830 to 1900 A.D.)

It was a relatively calm mid-afternoon Thursday, when the fragrance of a thousand blossoms and the subtle promise of summer yet to come. Summer was rapidly approaching, as was the start of the new social season, meaning Charlie’s studies were rapidly intensifying. So, Y/N had taken it upon herself to accompany Charlie into the garden as a momentary reprieve from the long hours spent in study. 

The Moringstar’s garden, a sprawling and artfully tended expanse of land close to twenty-five acres or so, was often left to the industrious and rather peculiar care of Mr. Husk. Husk was, to the untrained eye, a rather forbidding figure as previously mentioned. His countenance was fixed in a perpetual grimace, and his attire was perpetually stained with soil, sap, and a faint but distinctive scent of brandy. It was said among the household staff that he was indentured to Mr. Alastor, though none dared press the matter directly. 

Still, whatever his past may have entailed, Husk’s devotion to the garden, and in particular to its roses, was nothing short of reverent. Charlie had taken a sudden interest in botany as of late, much to Husk’s visible disdain, though he betrayed the slightest fondness when she leaned in with shining eyes to ask how the thorns coiled just so or what compelled a bloom to blush so pink in the sun. He bent low, with an uncommon gentleness, to show her the base of a stem or how much sun was required to make petals an elegant hue.

“I have some brand new roses around back, Miss Charlie. If you would go take a look, I am sure you would see the same stem pattern.”

“Oh, of course!” 

Y/N watched with no small amusement how the very sight of Charlie’s eager expression softened the demon’s hardened exterior and ran off to view the new flora. Brushing a speck of pollen from her sleeve, spoke softly, “You are quite the naturalist, Mr. Husk. A philosopher of petals.”

Husk snorted, though not unkindly. “They don’t scream, don’t argue, don’t lie,” he muttered, patting the soil around a white rose. “Unlike people.”

Charlie, in the meantime, had grown restless and tired of searching for the roses. For while roses might charm her intellect, trees, it seemed, stirred her sense of mischief. An old and large oak tree stood proudly at the far right end of the garden, filled to the brim with leaves and strong branches, and it had earned itself the name ‘Job' in reference to the unwavering prophet.

“Miss Y/N,” she called sweetly, already a few feet up the gnarled branches of a venerable apple tree, “look at me!”

Y/N turned with immediate alarm. “By every Circle of Hell, Charlie Morningstar, get down this instant !” Y/N cried, rushing toward the base of the tree. Her heart leapt into her throat as the child swayed, one foot perched perilously on a narrow branch. “What possessed you?”

But Charlie only laughed, climbing higher with an enviable agility. Of course, if she fell, her demonic nature may save her, but there was never full certainty. Heart pounding and all thought of poetic gardens forgotten, Y/N darted beneath the tree. Her skirts gathered in one hand, looking up in dread as Husk muttered a few choice words not fit for ladies' ears and turned on his heel, disappearing into the house, undoubtedly to search for help.

With a nervous exhale and a quick look around, Y/N placed one gloved hand on the tree’s rough bark and began to climb up towards the young girl in an attempt to rescue her. Her Tavistok boots* slipped more than they held, her petticoat caught on every twig, and yet upward she climbed until she reached the girl, clinging to a limb that bowed just so beneath their combined weight.

“It’s alright, Charlie,” she breathed, extending a trembling hand, “grab my hand, please. I’ve got you.”

Charlie, now struck with obedient fear by her governess’s pale face and quiet terror, did as she was told. Inch by inch, they descended, though it seemed to take a lifetime. Just as they reached the lower branches, Husk reappeared, breathless and red-faced, trailed by Lucifer in dark velvet and Alastor looking mildly entertained. As they stepped into the clearing, Charlie blinked down from her perch, visibly wilting under the weight of her father's gaze.

“Well now,” Alastor drawled, folding his hands behind his back, “I had no idea Miss Y/N’s studies included teaching aerial acrobatics in crinoline?”

“Enough, Alastor,” said Lucifer, his voice quick but firm, and at once Alastor fell silent, his smile never wavering, though it was now clearly hollow.

Y/N, drawing on a flicker of her magic, gently lowered Charlie to the grass with a flash of golden light. The child landed safely and was promptly gathered by Husk, who bundled her up in a quiet lecture about the dangers of climbing off where she wasn’t supposed to. But Y/N, now alone in the branches, thought the end was near. Only until she felt her foot slip, her fingers clutching nothing but air as she cried out with a high-pitched yelp. Eyes collapsed shut, she braced for impact, yet it never came. Instead, as her eyes cracked open, she was met by a handsome face and waiting arms.

Lucifer’s wings were vast and seemed to be laced with starlight, and he caught her as though it were nothing, as though her descent were expected. Her breath caught, more from the shock of his eyes, those endless depths of calm, than from the fall itself.

“Thank you,” she whispered, barely audible over the pounding of her heart.

“You are most welcome,” he murmured, though he did not comment any further as he continued to gaze into her eyes. Shining orbs filled to the brim with relief and trust, boring onto him with a reverence he hadn’t seen in a long time. It nearly took his breath away at the sight of such beauty. Once her feet met the ground again, Y/N steadied herself and remembered propriety, or tried to. She straightened her skirts with more fluster than grace and turned to Charlie with hands on hips.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” she said, though her voice was gentler than she meant it to be. “You could have fallen and broken your neck, or worse!”

Charlie, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with regret, looked to the ground. “I just wanted to see the view. I’m sorry, Miss Y/N. Truly.”

“I know you are,” Y/N replied, pressing a kiss to the child’s hair, “but there are safer ways to fly than in trees.”

Charlie nodded solemnly, cheeks red with shame, and trudged toward the manor, Husk gently guiding her inside with a hand on her shoulder. Y/N watched her go, then turned slightly, feeling the heat of Lucifer’s gaze still upon her. She looked up, meaning to offer her thanks once more, but found herself instead saying nothing, merely sharing a look that seemed to last forever in the space of a breath. Then, he simply walked away.

When the effects of her hopelessly romantic heart wore offer, Y/N soon began realizing the state of her unruly appearance. With a soft sigh, she proceeded quickly through the back of the veranda and into the kitchen, towards the backmost corner. Quickly grabbing a rag and turning on the faucet, she tried to make quick work of her messy state. The water basin in the manor kitchen was made of cold porcelain, deep and wide enough to bathe a hound, and still somehow barely accommodated the trembling rush of water that now rushed over Y/N’s hands. She scrubbed at her palms with lavender-scented soap, the same she’d used on Charlie earlier that morning, as if she could erase the memory of rough bark, fear, and the slow-fading heat of Lucifer’s arms. The stone floor was cool against her now bare feet, shoes discarded due to their now obvious wear, and the only sound in the room was the gentle trickle of water and the occasional clink of a glass bottle settling on the shelves behind her. She bent over the basin, splashing some water over her face. The cold bit at her skin, shocking her nerves into clarity. It was just a fall. Just a scare. She had handled it. Charlie was safe. All had ended as it should.

“Careful not to scrub yourself out of existence, Miss L/N,” came a syrupy voice from the door. “Although I suppose if you did, it might save us all some trouble.”

Y/N did not turn. She reached for a cloth and dabbed her face with measured grace. “To what do I owe the displeasure, Mister Hartfelt?”

He stepped further in, boots clicking softly on the stone. “You were meant to watch her. Not to let her climb trees like some undignified squirrel.”

“And you,” she said, turning to face him now, her voice calm but steel-laced, “were meant to assist in the household, not lurk in corners issuing threats and condescending quips. Charlie is alive. Unharmed. Which is more than can be said of the last governess under your supervision, who quit in tears and bruises of pride.”

Alastor’s grin did not falter, but the air changed. It grew colder, hungrier . Shadows gathered at his feet, curling and twitching with a mind of their own. The green aura that marked his magic shimmered behind his eyes like a distant wildfire. 

“Do not mistake my civility for silence, dear. I’m the one who keeps this house running when its Master refuses to. I’m the one who held the child’s hand through nightmares while her father buried himself in grief. And you… You traipse in here with your tidy skirts and your parlor tricks and pretend to understand what this family needs.”

Y/N’s spine stiffened, but she did not look away. Not from the way his shadows slithered up the edges of the cabinets. Not from the ghostly whisper of static in the air. “I never claimed to know everything, Mister. Hartfelt. But I do know that terrorizing the help and undermining progress because you feel entitled to misery is neither noble nor helpful.”

Alastor’s smile slipped, just for a moment, revealing something jagged beneath the polish. His voice dropped to a near-growl, silken and venomous. “Just remember, girl: I am the one who decides who stays and who rots . And it would do you well to keep your place, before you lose the privilege of having one.”

With that, he turned on his heel and vanished into the dark of the corridor, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft, decisive click. The scent of ozone and rot lingered in his absence.

Y/N exhaled slowly, setting the damp cloth on the basin’s edge. She didn’t tremble. Not yet. But her reflection in the kitchen window flickered faintly with the candles behind her, unsteady, uncertain. Still, she stood her ground. She always had. And some red-headed demon wasn’t going to make her run now. 

The hallway was dim on her way back to her room, the sconces** burning low with flickering golden light that barely touched the ceiling’s ornate crownwork. Y/N walked slowly, the hem of her petticoat dragging slightly across the marble tile, her arms wrapped around herself. A rogue draft had settled in the house, a strange thing for it being so close to summer, but she thought nothing of it. Her steps were quiet as she all but marched back to her room, until a voice stopped her. 

“Oi,” came Husk’s grumble from behind. He stepped forward, ears twitching, a half-smoked cigarette tucked between two fingers, and the faint scent of ash and rosemary trailing behind him. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Y/N replied gently, though her hand had flown to her chest. “Just… walking off a long day.”

There was a beat of silence. Husk scratched at the back of his neck and muttered something too low to catch, then, louder: “Look, I ain’t good with this kind of thing, but… don’t let what Alastor said get in your head. He doesn’t speak for everyone.”

Y/N blinked. Her voice, when it came, was cautious. “How did you…?”

“When you’ve worked beside him as long as I have,” Husk said, eyes half-lidded, “you learn the rhythm of his cruelty. Man’s like a broken radio, you always know what tune is coming. And you learn to listen through the static.”

A breath of laughter escaped Y/N then, small and weary. “Well, I’m grateful, truly. Though I’m not sure I’m doing much right these days.”

“You’re doin’ plenty right,” Husk muttered. “Charlie’s happier. More focused. Fewer teeth in everything she says. That’s all you. Ain’t none of us seen her like this in… a long time.”

Y/N’s throat tightened at the kindness, rare and gruff as it was. She reached forward without thinking, rising to her toes and pressing a kiss to Husk’s scruffy cheek, soft and warm. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Really.”

He flushed a dull rose beneath his fur and muttered something about turning in for the night before skulking off down the corridor, tail twitching behind him as Y/N followed suit and resumed the trudge to her quarters. What neither noticed was the figure at the far end of the hall, motionless in shadow.

Lucifer had stepped from his office just in time to witness the kiss. His expression did not change, not at first. He only stared, frozen in place, a cut-glass tumbler*** of bourbon dangling loosely from one hand. It was a strange thing, the sharp pain that bloomed in his chest, small but precise, as if someone had pressed a glass shard into the hollow place where his hope had just begun to grow.

She had kissed Husk. Of course, she had. Y/N was warm, kind, and practical. No, means a stunning beauty, Lucifer could admit to that, but she radiated…normalcy. Husk, though gruff, was honest and present. And what was he? A recluse. A monarch. A man whose grief had made him a ghost in his own home. There had never been a future to imagine between them, only flickers of it. False hopes. Fragile things.

He had hoped when he stared into her eyes earlier that afternoon that maybe she felt some affection towards him. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, society would never allow them to couple. But the hope, despite the harsh reality, remained. 

Lucifer turned slowly and retreated into the quiet of his study, the door shutting with a soft click behind him. The hearth had long since gone out, the room lit only by the dying embers in the grate. He poured himself another glass of whiskey and drank it in one long swallow, the fire catching in his throat but failing to warm anything beneath it. Perhaps this, too, was worse punishment than falling.

The manor had fallen quiet into the late hours of the night, dinner long over and most of the inhabitants retiring for the evening. Even the torches along the hallway had burned low, casting flickering shadows that made the marble gleam like bone. All the hallways in the manor were decorated in this way. Sleek marble floors, dark golden panelled walls made of gilded oak, and gothic sconces every yard or so. It was certainly magnificent during the day, but often left Y/N with the feeling of being watched in the later hours. Especially when the wooden panels of the ceiling would creak as if someone were walking above her. 

Creeping quietly through the hall, cradling a small oil lamp in one hand, the other holding the edge of her cream robe closed. It was one of the newer items of her wardrobe, though still second-hand. But the soft silk material lay plush against her skin and provided a sense of clean warmth she had come to love. She pushed open the apple and gold embellished door to Charlie’s room with care, its hinges protesting only slightly.

Inside, the young lady was already curled beneath the covers, her golden hair spilling across the red-apple embroidered pillows like a halo. The winged-lamb doll was nestled against her chest, its fabric worn and fraying around the ears. Clearly well-loved. Y/N paused in the doorway a moment, just long enough to admire the soft rise and fall of breath before stepping inside.

“I thought you might already be asleep,” she said softly, setting the lamp on the bedside table.

Charlie blinked up at her with large, dark eyes, their usual shine dimmed beneath the weight of the day. She hadn’t spoken much since the tree incident, barely a word beyond dinner, and though Y/N had given her space, concern had settled quietly behind her ribs. Y/N smoothed the coverlet down and sat at the edge of the bed. 

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, brushing a few curls from the girl’s forehead, “is something the matter?”

Charlie hesitated. She looked down, fingers twisting into the edge of the quilt. “Are you… mad at me?”

The question was so small, so tentative, that it struck Y/N with a sudden ache. “No, darling,” she said at once, her voice warm and sure. “I was frightened, yes. Terrified, really. But not angry. When I saw you up in that tree, so high, so close to danger, it scared me. That’s all.”

Charlie’s lip trembled, and she sniffed, though no tears fell. “The last two governesses got mad when I did things like that,” she murmured. “One of them yelled until I cried, and the other left in the middle of the night.”

Y/N felt something cold twist in her chest. She leaned down, brushing Charlie’s hair back again with delicate fingers. “I’m not them,” she said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere. Not when you climb a tree. Not when you throw a tantrum. Not when you make mistakes. I’ll stay, even when it’s hard. That’s a promise.”

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the soft hum of wind against the windowpane. Then, without a word, Charlie sat up and flung her arms around Y/N’s waist, pressing her face into her side. “I love you,” she whispered, barely audible.

Y/N felt her throat tighten. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she held them back with practiced grace, pressing a kiss to the top of Charlie’s head. “I love you too, duckling,” she murmured. She smoothed her hand down the girl's back in slow circles, letting the warmth settle between them like a quilt all its own.

When Charlie finally lay back down, eyes already fluttering with sleep, Y/N tucked the covers around her with gentle care and turned down the lamp until only a dim glow remained. She lingered at the door a moment longer, watching the girl she had come to care for more deeply than she ever expected. No, she would not leave. Not now. Not when she was needed most

FOOTNOTES-------------------------------------------------------------

*Tavistock boots: A popular buttoned boot during the 19th and early 20th century **Sconces: Typically, lamp-shaped fixtures on walls to hold candles that can be intricately designed ***Cut-glass tumbler: Popularized during the Victorian era, glass tumblers became a popular method of cup used to drink whiskey post-dinner.

[fraugwinska]

I noticed that too AAAAAAH

For doe Lucifer week~

[fraugwinska]

SO GOOD, SO WELL RESEARCHED, SO BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN AAAAAAAAH

A Truth Universally Denied - Ch. 3

Lucifer x F. Reader Masterlist

When a struggling, reclusive, but wealthy single father calls upon the help of a governess to help tutor his coming-of-age but unruly daughter, one has no choice but to accept the most gracious invitation of employment. Especially if your new employer is the King of Hell. (aka if Hell, but if it was set similar to Victorian Era England, so like circa 1830 to 1900 A.D.)

The week had been uneventful thus far. Y/N was settling in quite nicely into the Manor, with minimal adjustment adversities. Of course, there were always the occasional mishaps when changing Masters and inserting oneself into a routine previously established. Breakfast served at half-past eight sharp, lesson hours from nine to noon, afternoons spent between piano practice, drawing sessions, and, if weather permitted, a ramble through the garden paths that wound like forgotten veins through the estate. Though that was not Y/N’s main hassle. 

Alastor Hartfelt was by far the cruelest demon to ever grace the plane of Hell, and that was considering his employer was the King of the Underworld himself. Y/N had known from the first moment his hand clasped hers at the front door that the Head of Staff was not to be trusted. There was something in his grin that reminded her of snakes pretending to sleep. But she hadn’t anticipated just how thoroughly he would devote himself to the art of sabotage.

It began subtly, unfortunately. Her first morning, she arrived in the dining room twenty minutes late, only to find both Charlie and Lucifer already halfway through their meal. Alastor had told her breakfast began at nine. It began at eight-thirty, as previously mentioned.

“Oh, my stars,” Alastor had said with mock surprise, dabbing daintily at the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Did I say nine? How silly of me. I must be going senile in my old age.”

Then there was the incident on the veranda, where Y/N had gone to fetch Charlie from a sunbath on the terrace. Walking through the white basla doors, only to find herself flat on the flagstones, her gown hem caught beneath Alastor’s shoe as he passed by with a tray of lavender tea.

“Terribly clumsy of you, Miss Y/N,” he’d drawled, offering no hand. “Perhaps flats are more your speed?”

Y/N had smiled through it all. Tight-lipped. Patient. She had endured worse in her life than passive cruelty wrapped in politeness. But when Alastor began encouraging Charlie’s mischief, she nearly lost her composure. Charlie, of course, found it all delightful.

One morning, Y/N opened her wardrobe to find her undergarments dyed pink, courtesy of Charlie’s “magical mischief potion.” Another day, her tea was swapped with vinegar. The final straw was the chalk drawing: a rather exaggerated portrait of Y/N as a goose, placed front and center on the drawing room easel.

Alastor merely stood nearby, hand over his chest in mock scandal. “Ah, but Miss L/N, she’s merely expressing her creativity. Isn’t that what governesses are for?”

Y/N said nothing. But that night she took the chalk, and with swift, precise strokes, rendered a portrait of Alastor as a beetle being squashed under a human thumb. Charlie howled with laughter when she saw it the next morning. Alastor did not speak to her for two full days. Still, Y/N refused to be deterred. For every prank or petty slight, there was Charlie’s progress to anchor her. The girl had taken to learning with a hunger that Y/N hadn’t expected, though she supposed, with the years of absence and loneliness behind her, Charlie had simply been waiting for someone to notice she was worth teaching.

The young lady could now waltz, albeit with a few miscounted steps, and her piano playing, though stiff, was improving with each passing lesson. Her paintings, while more joyful than technically sound, burst with life and color: crimson suns over blue-green meadows, tiny stick-figured devils dancing on rooftops, and one curious image of what appeared to be a girl holding a daisy in the middle of a burning forest.

“She says that one’s you,” Lucifer had murmured when he passed through the library, a curious look in his eyes. Y/N didn’t ask what he meant. Embroidery, however, had been an utter catastrophe. The hoop had ended up tangled in Charlie’s hair, and the thread, a cursed skein of gold sent from some haughty noble cousin, had unraveled entirely into the library rug.

“I think the needle hates me,” Charlie had declared gravely.

“Well,” Y/N said, trying not to laugh as she pried the hoop from the child’s curls, “I suppose it’s mutual.”

Still, beyond the mistakes and chaos, Y/N saw something blossoming in the child. There was laughter now, and light. She still returned to the dirt sometimes, still scraped her knees climbing trees and stained her skirts in apple blossoms and ash, but Y/N did not scold her. Childhood had been denied to the girl in more ways than one. If rolling in the soil of the garden gave her joy, then so be it. Y/N had been that child once. And she had known too well how quickly joy could be buried.

Charlie’s world was a fragile thing, she realized. Woven from spells, silence, and sorrow. The absence of a mother had left the girl untethered, and her father, though warm in his moments, remained largely distant. There were days he did not join them for supper. Nights when his study door remained closed long after the house had gone to sleep. Y/N had tried not to mind. But sometimes, late at night, she would catch Charlie staring at her with a kind of aching wonder. As if trying to memorize something fleeting. As if, for a moment, Y/N was not just a governess, but the echo of something she missed without knowing why. It frightened Y/N more than she let on. She was here to teach, not to replace. But children did not always understand the difference.

The clock struck three, the bell echoing faintly through the marble halls. Y/N closed the last of the lesson books and set it on the desk with a soft thud. Charlie had already darted out the door, claiming urgent business in the orchard.

“Likely to throw apples at the gardener again,” Y/N muttered fondly.

The poor man had suffered greatly at the young lady’s hands. A cat demon named Husk, an old soul, surely. Husk was surly at times, but Y/N found that he held a wealth of knowledge and unfathomable kindness underneath the exterior. He would often help Y/N teach Charlie about the various flora surrounding the garden, whether that be the pelargoniums under the rockery or orchids in the greenhouse behind the leftmost outcropping of the Manor. A fine man in all regards. A shame Alastor had him indentured.  She gathered her skirts and rose. For all its strange inhabitants and their tangled griefs, the manor had begun to feel, against all odds, like a place she could belong.

“Charlie, no! Stone endangers someone worse!”

That afternoon brought a change in the weather. What had been a delightful morning spent promenading around the garden soon turned to lessons inside. A soft drizzle ghosted across the stained-glass windows, painting jeweled shadows along the library walls. The fire in the hearth crackled gently, and the scent of vanilla wax hung faintly in the air. Charlie sat hunched at the Bechstein fortepiano*, her fingers hovering stiffly over the ivory keys, shoulders tight, back ramrod straight; too formal to be fluid. The first notes of Appassionata rang out, harsh and uneven, an attempt at passion that fell limp.

“No, no, no,” Charlie groaned, throwing her head back with theatrical despair. “This piece is impossible! Beethoven deplores me.”

Y/N, seated not far behind with a notebook in hand, looked up with a calm expression. “Beethoven hated a great many things, but I doubt he had twelve-year-old girls in mind when composing sonatas.”

Charlie turned in her seat, pouting. “I’m quitting.”

“Oh?” Y/N said, rising with quiet grace. “A bit dramatic for the fifth day, don’t you think?”

“It’s not dramatic if it’s true,” Charlie huffed, crossing her arms. “You play it, then! Let’s see if you can make it sound like anything other than dying hellhounds.”

Y/N didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she crossed the room and sat beside Charlie on the long bench. Gently, without reproach, she placed her hands over the girl’s, guiding her fingers back toward the keys.

“The music isn’t in the speed,” she said softly, her voice low and even. “It’s in the emotion. This piece doesn’t need to be perfect. It needs to be honest.”

Charlie hesitated, glancing at her governess with a mixture of skepticism and hope. “But what if I mess up?”

“Then you mess up,” Y/N replied. “And you try again.”

She adjusted Charlie’s fingers slightly. “Here, start here. We’ll play it together, slowly. Just the first few bars.”

And they did. A few missed keys, a rhythm that faltered, but it carried weight. Charlie’s brows furrowed in concentration, but she didn’t pull away. Y/N guided each movement with gentle pressure, their hands briefly moving as one. The melody, ragged and unsure, began to bloom under their fingertips like something tentative pushing through frost.

Charlie looked up at her governess with wide eyes. “I… I think I played that part right.”

“You did.”

A proud, crooked grin split across the girl’s face. A sight Y/N decided she could never tire of. The smile seemed to radiate around the room, a strange manifestation of Heavenly joy in Hell. 

Neither of them noticed the tall figure standing silently in the corridor, half-shadowed in the flickering lamplight. Lucifer had been on his way to the veranda, intending to escape into the solitude of rain and silence, when the sound of halting piano notes drew him down a different hall. He had expected the usual. Harsh commands. Slapped wrists. Rigid correction disguised as education. That had been the way with the others. The governesses who lasted days, never more than a week. Cold women with clipped tones who treated Charlie’s mistakes as moral failings rather than the fumbling growth of a child.

But this… this was different. He watched as Y/N leaned in, her hand never scolding, only steady. He watched Charlie’s small frame lean instinctively toward her, drawn by some invisible tether of trust. There was no fear in the girl’s posture. Only focus. And quiet joy. Lucifer’s hand rested lightly on the doorframe, his expression unreadable save for the small curve at the corner of his mouth. The faintest of smiles.

Perhaps, he thought, Alastor had been wrong about her. But even as that thought stirred in him, the familiar voice of caution echoed in the back of his mind. Kindness was a blade just as surely as cruelty. And he had been cut before. Still, he lingered a moment longer, letting the imperfect melody wash over him, before turning silently back into the corridor. Inside the room, Charlie played the final note of the phrase with a soft thud.

Y/N clapped once, quietly but sincerely. “See? Not so impossible after all.”

Charlie beamed. “Do you think Beethoven would’ve liked it?”

Y/N smiled. “I think he’d have liked you, at the very least.”

Outside, the rain softened. And for the first time that week, the manor felt a little less hollow.

Dinner that evening unfolded with its usual pageantry, the flickering glow of candelabras catching the shine of polished silver and glass flutes. The dining room hummed only with the gentle clinking of cutlery and the occasional soft murmur of small talk between bites. The wine, a dark crimson Romanée-Chonti** that smelled faintly of cherries and cloves, poured as easily as conversation, and all appeared to be proceeding in its usual quietude when Charlie unable, perhaps, to contain her own triumph, burst forth with a declaration so bold it nearly startled Y/N into spilling the delicate red liquid..

“I played Appassionata today,” Charlie announced, chin tilted with pride, her fork poised mid-air like a conductor’s baton. “Almost the whole first page. Ask Miss Y/N, she’ll tell you!”

Lucifer, seated at the head of the table, turned his golden gaze upon his daughter with the kind of warmth that softened the severity of his usually impenetrable expression. 

“Is that so?” he asked, lips quirking upward as if he hadn’t seen the whole moment mere hours before.“Then I must beg you for a recital sometime soon, my darling. That is no small feat.”

Charlie beamed under the praise, her eyes darting toward Y/N as if to say, ‘see, I told you so.’ 

“It’s all thanks to Miss Y/N! She is a really good teacher,” she added breezily, taking a bite of her Kedgeree***. 

“Charlie, please. Not with your mouth full.”

At this, Lucifer’s eyes flicked toward Y/N, lingering a moment longer than was strictly polite. 

“I must confess, I passed the music room earlier,” he said, swirling the wine in his burgundy glass. “It was… enlightening to observe your method. Gentle, yet firm. Encouraging without indulgence. A rare combination, I daresay.”

Y/N’s mouth parted slightly, a touch caught off guard. Colour rose high in her cheeks as she set her fork down with more care than necessary. “Oh, thank you, Your Highness. It’s…it’s really nothing, just a matter of patience and tone. Charlie’s such a quick learner, truly, it’s remarkable. She picks things up with astonishing speed, and her ear is quite refined for her age. I wouldn’t be surprised if she composes her own work one day. Of course, the piano’s not her only talent; her painting has a liveliness to it that I haven’t seen in years. And then there’s the dancing, which, though there are still a few wobbles, shows great promise. She really is quite bright, and it’s no wonder with such—”

A single, deliberate sound interrupted her. The scrape of a chair leg shifting ever so slightly in the corner of the room. Alastor stood there, half-shrouded in lamplight, his ever-pleasant grin fixed like a portrait, though the smile did not reach his eyes. He made no move to speak, only leveled a look at Y/N that was so pointed, it froze the breath in her throat. Her voice faltered, and she lowered her gaze to her plate, hands folding neatly in her lap, as if she had never been speaking at all. “I’m..ah, I’m just pleased to be of help,” she finished quietly, her tone carefully tempered.

Lucifer tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, though he let the matter pass. “Indeed. Your efforts are noted, Miss L/N,” he said softly. “And appreciated.”

The rest of the meal continued in silence, the clinking of cutlery resuming its quiet rhythm. Yet beneath the surface, Y/N could feel the sharp edge of Alastor’s gaze like a splinter in her spine. Whatever game he believed she was playing, it was clear he meant to remind her of the stakes.

The rain had not ceased. It had softened, perhaps, from its earlier persistence, but it still danced across the tall arched windows with a steady rhythm. In the faint candlelight of her chamber, Y/N sat curled in the high-backed chair near the hearth, her hands wrapped gently around a small porcelain demi-tasse****. The lavender infusion steamed faintly, curling tendrils of warmth toward her face. It was a modest comfort, one she’d long relied upon, floral, grounding, and forgiving.

She had changed into her nightgown not long after seeing Charlie to bed. The child had fallen asleep easily, curled into her nest of quilts with the red and black lamb stuffed animal tucked securely beneath one arm. Y/N had smoothed the golden hair from her brow and whispered a soft goodnight before extinguishing the lamp and letting the hush of the manor cradle the silence. The nightgown she now wore was one of her older ones, a faded vanilla shade with a slight fray at the hem, the cotton worn thin in places. It did not match the gilded grandeur of her surroundings, but it was familiar, and familiarity had become something of a luxury these days with all the hassle of a new environment.

Y/N exhaled, slow and even, though it did little to settle the unease roiling beneath her breast. Her mind kept circling back to dinner, how her voice had risen with such unchecked enthusiasm, how her compliments had poured forth without invitation or restraint. She had meant every word, of course. Charlie was a bright, remarkable girl, and if anyone deserved unmitigated praise, it was her. But the moment her words had gathered too much momentum, she’d felt it, the shift. Her hand trembled slightly as she raised the teacup to her lips. Alastor’s eyes had said everything. She had spoken out of turn. And worse, she had done so in the presence of him.

It was not that she had forgotten Lucifer’s title, his power, or the infernal weight of his station. But in that moment, with Charlie beaming across from her and the warmth of shared effort still echoing from the piano keys, she had let herself forget her place. She had presumed too much, allowed herself to speak not as an employee, but as an equal. And for all his softness of tone, for all his rare, wistful smiles, Lucifer Morningstar was not a man one should presume upon. He was not hers to charm or impress.

Y/N set the teacup down with care, her fingers tightening in her lap. She knew better. She must do better. If she were to remain here, if she were to make a lasting difference for Charlie, she would need to temper herself. Praise in moderation. Presence without intrusion. And above all else, she must keep whatever warmth she began to feel from the Master of the House firmly at arm’s length. Alastor may have been insufferable, even cruel, but he was rarely wrong.

The fire crackled softly beside her, casting long, gentle shadows across the ivory and rose-veined marble. She stared into the flames, their restless motion a mirror of her own unsettled thoughts. She had promised herself she would not be discarded. But to remain, she would have to disappear differently, speak less, smile quietly, and observe more. If she let her heart speak for her again, it might lead her somewhere far more dangerous than dismissal. And she could not afford that. FOOTNOTES————————————————————————

*Bechstein Fortepiano: A early German piano, common during the Victorian Era

**Romanée-Chonti: A very high quality, in both reputation and exclusivity, and consequently supply and demand, Burgundy was popular during the 19th Century.

***Kedgeree: A dish popular during the 19th Century with rice and multiple types of seafood.

****Demi-Tasse: Demi-tasse cups were smaller, after-dinner coffee cups

[fraugwinska]

Gag 🌈

[fraugwinska]

⚔️🎀 DTIYS for @/notherpuppet on Bluesky

[fraugwinska]

Lucifer en el limbo, esperando lo peor(?

[fraugwinska]

What I see: ⬆️

What Alastor sees:

🩸.

[fraugwinska]

i was practicing canon style XD

[fraugwinska]

Alastor with long and not messy hair

With a little 📻🍎 comic too

[fraugwinska]

He tried and that’s what matters

[fraugwinska]

When I tell you this has me all of the below: feralinspiredenvigoratedscreamingkickinghowlingcryinghotcoldscorchingskiddly-doodlingbreathlesswildcrazy

I will read this every day until I become tired of it - so never. And please please PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF LUCIFER AND THE OTHER SIX DEALDY SINS if someday you feel inspired to write a follow-up…

… I WILL pay you.

First born or cash, you decide.

The Epiphany

Alastor/2P-Alastor x AFAB!Reader

18+, NSFW, minors do not interact istg

Summary: Alastor tries to sever his feelings for you from his physical form and it has unexpected results—a blue, mirrored-reality doppelgänger of himself whose emotions and physical experiences he can still feel in his own immortal coil.

You decide to cuck him into being emotionally available.

Warnings/Promises: 🌶️ 18+, NSFW, AFAB!reader and related bits, p-in-v, oral [both m- and f-receiving], cucking, edging, tentacles used for bondage, toes the line of dub!con at first [Alastor is pissed off, but he wants it, and he's pissed off that he wants it], frustrated switch!reader, praise kink, bookended by mild angst with hints of future fluff at the end, sex-favorable asexual Alastor

A/N: Idk what came over me, enjoy x

Also on AO3 ✍️✨ | Tip Jar 🫙✨ (Ko-Fi ☕️)

Caring about the Radio Demon was a full-time job that had never been listed to the public. You simply bebopped into the hotel one day with your proverbial application in hand the second you laid eyes on him.

And, good god, you'd suffered for it ever since.

The worst stages of the entire months-long ordeal were the indecisive ones on his part. The ones that came long after the chuckling "jokes" of flirtation, the delicious tidbits of tension, and the initial realization that feelings were, in fact, being caught amidst all that. It was all fine until he decided he wanted to try to build something with you, got your hopes up, and then dashed them the second things got too real. The second he got in too deep.

The asshole tried to ghost you. When you lived in the same fucking hotel. Needless to say, it didn't work and you'd just days ago had the most explosive fight you'd ever had in any of your failed relationships. Explosive on your part because you were deeply hurt—because you still cared, you silly thing.

And explosive on Alastor's part because, well, he did, too. But you couldn't know that. No one could know that. It would ruin him.

He'd determined the only path forward—to solidify the barriers around a heart he'd refused to believe he had up until now, to maintain his image as the ruthless overlord who roamed the Pride Ring without a shred of weakness to be found—was to find a way to cut that part of himself out, either via viscerally physical means or by way of magic. There had to be a way. He'd tried everything to simply forget you and he couldn't. He was getting desperate.

Which was how your current predicament had come to be.

You stand with no shortage of confusion or shock at the end of the hall when you turn the corner and see a watery-eyed, blue-toned version of Alastor sitting outside your suite door. He stares despondently at his kneecaps, his booted hooves turned inward toward each other in a position that very much mirrors a schoolboy put in the hall for a timeout. His face is blushy—which is also blue, fascinatingly enough—and his clothes are rumpled. His shoulders sag with a confidence shortage and, most of all, he frowns at the crimson carpet.

At least until he sees you.

His ears flick back when he espies someone in the hall with him, but they perk up immediately when his eyes latch onto your face. He scrambles clumsily to his feet and then second-guesses himself, glancing backward down the hall before turning back to you. You're sure this is some kind of prank or another deer demon who might just look very much like Alastor until he says your name.

You decide to call him Blue in your head rather than Alastor. It's unoriginal, but it's less weird than calling this individual and the Radio Demon both "Alastor" in your thoughts, even if you don't dare call this version of him by any other name out loud. Just in case.

"Um… Hello," you say as you approach him, fiddling with the shopping bag you're carrying from a recently completed round of retail therapy with Angel and Cherri. "Are you okay?"

Blue hums, wringing his hands, and says in a watered-down version of Alastor's bombastic voice, "Yes! Well, no. I… I'm a bit overwhelmed, you see."

You can see that plainly on his face, but it doesn't tell you anything. "Why's that?"

He huffs a small sigh and says, "Well, darling, you see… I know you because Alastor knows you. I am, in essence, his broader range of emotions."

"Uh-huh…," you murmur, studying him. "Have you been just…missing from him all this time? Because that would explain a lot actually."

"Oh, no," he says, seeming frustrated that he's not articulating better. "I've actually just been, er, removed. And then he was quite angry at the result of, well, me and I've since been kicked out." His ears flattened as he continued to ramble. "And then he left, you see, but the door is locked and… And despite not feeling new to this place, I'm terribly new to feeling alive. It's all been quite a lot."

You decide Alastor isn't pulling some weird prank on you as you watch tears well up in his eyes, noting that even his monocle resembles a teardrop. And, well, you still love the guy, unfortunately. How are you not supposed to comfort a being that is, in essence, his softest parts?

"Hey, it's okay," you murmur, carefully placing a hand on his arm to steady him. He sucks in a breath at the contact, but instead of looking repulsed, he looks enamored. "Um… Oh! Hey, pspspspsps—"

He thinks you might've malfunctioned until he follows your gaze to a little black and white cat he knows is named KeeKee. His eyes shine with affection at the cute cyclopian creature, especially as it trots up to you and nuzzles into your hand.

"Who's a good li'l kitty?" you baby-talk to her, missing the way the blue deer demon nearby is watching you with unbridled adoration in his eyes. "Can you let Al back into his radio tower, please?"

KeeKee looks at Blue and her ear flicks back in time with her tail swishing. She clearly knows this isn't Alastor, at least not really, but she doesn't see any reason not to, apparently—she's already trotting down the hallway, their own personal, precious skeleton key, to do precisely that.

You smile after her before looking back up at Blue. "She'll let you in," you tell him with confidence.

"That's… That's very kind—thank you," he says sincerely, clasping your hand in his as if it's made of glass. He looks like he's marveling at the act of merely touching you. "I should feel better once I'm in my most familiar territory, no? When I have a place I can rest that's a bit more predictable?"

"I hope so," you say and you do hope so. He seems sweet and unbearably fragile in some ways. It's like he's experiencing existence at a rapid-fire rate for the very first time.

"Would you come with me?" he asks softly, imploringly as he runs his claws oh-so gently over your knuckles, almost petting you. "Please?"

"I think Alastor would kill us both if I did that," you say and your tone isn't without residual bitterness.

Blue shakes his head with a surprising degree of certainty. "Oh, no, he would never hurt you, dear," he insists.

Could've fooled me, you think but don't say aloud. Instead, you ask, "What makes you say that?"

"Because I'm only here due to his desire to extinguish his feelings for you," Blue says as if it's obvious.

And suddenly, you're more inclined to go with him because your questions just multiplied tenfold.

It turns out that Blue is probably being completely honest when he says that he's part of Alastor. That he knows you via that connection. He's just his genuine opposite and it's as jarring as it is refreshing.

Is that why you've ended up making out on Alastor's couch with his doppelgänger? Maybe. Look, breakups are hard—if breakups are what happens when the concept of a situationship falls apart—and the only thing that makes this a weird rebound is the full set of circumstances.

Still, it's hard to ponder that with a clear head when Blue's tongue is halfway down your throat and you've just learned that sucking his lower lip will make him bleat like a fawn. It's harder not to wonder if the same thing would theoretically happen to the whole version of Alastor.

It's only the slam of the suite door that proves enough to divert Blue's—and yours, don't put this all on him—attention from methodically consuming your mouth. When you both look over, Alastor is standing there, his smile snarled up with rage and his fists balled at his sides. His eyes ensnare Blue and he stalks forward.

"I thought I ordered you to dissipate," he seethed, his shadow tentacles writhing like a living threat on his back. "Instead you—," he began, only to hiss and shake his head at his unfinished thought. "No matter. Dear, be a doll and give us some privacy, would you?"

Your fingers clutch gently against Blue's coat and he grips you in turn, seeming less afraid of Alastor and more simply unwilling to relinquish you. "What are you going to do to him?" you ask and it's a brave thing to address Alastor in this moment.

Alastor rolls his eyes and regards you reluctantly. He can only imagine the follies this accidental duplicate has filled your head with and it's only added thorns to his already riddled side. "Nothing that ultimately matters in the grand scheme of things," he snaps. "That slip of a buck you're clinging to is barely a figment of a demon, you see."

Your brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

He scoffs. "Warm-blooded as he may seem, he is but a fragment of me. And he won't last on his own, so I'm told," he said with nothing short of relief. "I can only hope he simply disappears entirely and that my problem is solved despite some strange delays."

You supposed you were overdue to ask what Alastor's problem was, but you'd never thought the context would look like this.

"And what 'problem' is that?" you ask.

His pokerface solidifies as he assesses your expression and determines, "He hasn't told you. Good."

"No, I did," Blue claims too honestly. He looks at you, a cute tilt to his head as he says, "He desires you, dear. And, in turn, so do I. That's the whole matter of it."

Alastor's teeth grit and he brushes off Blue's claims. "Nonsense, all of it. You nee—"

"Hold on, hold on," you cut him off with a laugh. It's a harsh, breathy sound that holds nothing close to humor. "You…split your feelings from yourself? You're that scared of having a crush?"

Alastor bristles and you may have been frightened—he was lethal, after all—had you not known him just a bit better than that. Had you not also seen and heard firsthand from this strange, still-connected manifestation of his heart that he felt something for you.

But you did. And you had. And there was no going back now.

Blue clings to your arm, his large hands almost dainty as they wrap fully around your bicep. He shivers, but it is less the tension in the room and more the aftermath of your unexpected canoodling. He is shivering with desire, with anticipation as he feels your muscles tighten beneath his palms as you react to Alastor's enduring denial. He wants you to have a break from tearing into his origin so you might tear into him instead.

"Scared?" Alastor repeats, scathing. "Watch yourself, darling—you know better than most the things I do to demons who dare to cross me. You've seen it, yourself. I've regaled it to you, myself. I would be most put out if you forced my hand."

"That's not a 'no', now is it?" you boldly counter and his ears flatten against his head. Impatient, you ask, "Is that what he is then? Is he still you? Or is he his own being now?"

"A fragment, I'm afraid, as he's indicated," Blue meekly says beside you and your demeanor softens a little as you behold his wet, teary eyes. "I am an embodiment of a heartfelt craving. An affection. Something electric and impossible to keep checked. That is why I was shed."

"Hold your tongue, you abomination," Alastor growls, his eyes flashing black as the dials of his demon form tick away in place of pupils. "Not another word."

"So you're still an extension of him," you both realize and ask Blue at once. "Forever?"

Blue shakes his head. "Not forever, I don't believe so. Feelings are fleeting, although ours run deeper than we like to admit. Well, than he likes to admit." He offers you a watery smile. "I admit freely that I crave you, dear. Down to the very dregs of my origin's dead heart. Carnally, too. That is what frightens him most. The intertwined two."

"Why?" you ask, your eyes on Blue even as your question could've been asked of the room.

Blue shrugs his thin shoulders. "Power. It's a heady thing until you realize it's no longer entirely yours," he says with a soft, shaky sigh. "I have no need for power. I would ask that you take it from me before I fade. Take everything from me, dearest. Before I'm gone."

You realize what he's asking for just as Alastor snarls, "You will do no such thing." You eye him in your peripheral, watching the stressed heave of his chest and likening him to an earthly buck. "I still feel everything that little wretch feels—you will do no such thing. You will stand aside while I smite him from this realm entirely, reabsorb the essence that made him, and—"

"Can you use his powers, too?" you ask Blue in a lowered tone, eyes locking on his.

Blue furtively glances at Alastor's tantrum before nodding once.

You nod in reply, a slow contemplative motion. The gears in your head are turning.

Alastor has just taken a threatening step toward you both, his claws flexing as he sees you whisper to Blue. This feels like a coup in motion. Ordinarily, he would tear apart anyone who dared question or turn on him, no matter the reason, but he can't bring himself to destroy you. Even if it would ultimately behoove him to do so.

Blue's eyes flicker in his direction as if that aggravating recognition of his own affection has signaled its embodiment nearby. Alastor bristles at being known, even by his own self.

In the meantime, you've made a decision.

"Tie him up," you murmur.

Alastor is so shocked, his radio dials momentarily flicker out. "I beg your pardon?!"

"To the armchair," you clarify to Blue beside you, nodding to the plush velvet armchair adjacent to the fireplace. "Bring him over here and keep him in the chair."

Alastor's form ripples, but it's a vain attempt at intimidation. His own shadow tentacles have already surfaced to displace the chair and they angle the seat to knock Alastor off his hooves, extending to bind him to the chair as they settle their hostage caddycorner to the four-poster bed on the other side of the room.

He's furious.

"Release me, you cretins!" he bellows at a volume that shakes the room, his claws shredding the arms of his favorite reading chair as he struggles against his own power, against the will of his own temporarily sentient heart. "When I get out of this—and I will, I assure you—I will rend your soul apart, mark my fucking words!"

"Maybe," you say and his feral, snarling grin wavers just a little. "But it's better than the slow death you've been giving me and everything I've tried to give you for months, Al."

He scoffs at your comparison. "I assure you, darling," he seethes. "The swift death you're picturing is nothing compared to your due reality. Why, you will be lucky if you only die in my clutches." He watches as you lead Blue by the hand across the room, his gaze narrowing on the contact. "Well? Out with it. What do you want, hm? Do you wish to plead for his pathetic little non-life? Strike a deal to protect you from my eternal ire? Or—"

His ramble catches in his throat, however, as you guide Blue to sit on the edge of the bed by the footboard. He watches your hands move, something tender and yet assertive in them, as you press them against his chest, easing him onto his back.

"What are you doing?" Alastor asks, his voice uncharacteristically hollow with nerves.

"Giving you an epiphany," you say without taking your eyes off Blue as he softens against the mattress beneath you. Well, most of him softens. "Now, hush."

The tip of a tentacle slaps over Alastor's mouth at your command.

Blue only has eyes for you as you lean over him, your dextrous fingertips unfastening the buttons of his shirt as you say, "Tell me what you need, sweetie."

The doppelgänger's eyes fill with moisture, even your fingertips tracing his chest fluff through the parting fabric of his shirt making him tremble and arch against your palm.

"Shhh, you're alright," you coo softly, leaning in and kissing his forehead. Alastor winces slightly in the chair nearby as he feels the faint ghost of that pressure, the barest brush of the warmth you're providing his double. "You can tell me. What do you need? More than that, what do you want?"

"Strip me bare, dearest," Blue whimpers, a couple of overwhelmed tears streaming down his cheeks. "Down to my soul. I want to feel you everywhere. I want you to ravish me, take hold of my control so long as you please, and tell me what you need of me."

You smile, unable to help the affectionate way you look at him. The tender way you touch him. You hold the personification of Alastor's heart against your hand—and now between your thighs as you crawl onto the bed with him.

Alastor can't look away, as much as he wishes he wanted to. He follows your supple body as you loom over his double, his most sensitive traits and desires unintentionally made corporeal. Every trace of your skin against Blue's sends a fraction of that feeling tingling across Alastor's nerve endings and it's pure torture, yet it's precisely what he deserves after all this.

He's realizing that all too late.

You're diligently working Blue's clothes off his body, admiring the tufts of fur that dot his physique, softening the harder angles and wiry muscle that make up the rest. You can't wait to find out if he has a tail.

Blue's ears are flattened and trembling and there's something beautifully pliant and trusting about the sight. He's almost high on his unparalleled excitement as his eyes follow your movements.

Alastor is horrified to realize that Blue is, in fact, his exact copy in every way. And when you have Blue naked beneath you, it's akin to having Alastor lying there with just shades of fur as the sole difference. He looks away in disgust and shame at his double's rock-hard cock standing proud from the fur at his pubic bone, already purpled with neglect and weeping precum at the tip. And yet his eyes are drawn back, almost unwillingly, as you finish marveling at what you've unveiled and investigate your find instead.

"Look at you," you murmur soft praise as you admire his trembling length. "So responsive. You're already so unbearably needy for me and I've barely even touched you."

Blue's eyes tear up with embarrassment and shameless hope as he looks between his starving member and you, his only salvation. The only body Alastor, himself, has ever wanted. He keeps his hands fisted in the sheets on the bed, hungry to touch himself but not wanting to displease you. You look fascinated, tantalized by the sight of him and he can't get enough. He doesn't want to rush this. Your eyes on him and him alone is everything he's ever wanted.

A soft whine escapes Blue as you begin to disrobe, yourself, and his desire gratifies you. In the chair, Alastor's eyes are on you, too, wary and hungry and angry and laser-focused on every inch you bare.

Shed garments whisper against the floorboards as you let them fall from your fingertips until you kneel upon the mattress over Blue in your full glory. Blue's face is dusted navy with the intensity of his blush as he stares up at you, drinking you in and subsequently drunk on the sight of you. He feels uncertain of his worth in comparison, but he's willing to risk anything to deliver you to ecstasy.

He can smell your combined arousal mingling in the air around you both and his eyes roll back as you lean forward to press open-mouthed kisses along his neck and collarbones, all while keeping your core well away from where he needs you most.

Up to this point, Alastor has been able to convince himself that the stirrings he feels in his slacks are a cheap echo of his double's lust, but as he hardens at the sight of you laving the velvety expanse of a torso that, by all rights, should be his, he can no longer persist in the lie. As his own touch-starved cock twitches to life, he can't even cross his legs to ease the tension—he's bound to the arms and legs of the chair, held captive, and all he can do is watch.

He shudders as he hears your voice in his ear despite your whispers falling against the sensitive canals of his double. "You're so pretty, Al," you're whispering as you run your hands along Blue's almost ethereal body. "You're so good for me. So patient. I'll make it worth your while, I promise." His ears begin to flatten in submission, even as he tells himself it's an attempt to block out your words.

Blue hiccups a soft, whiny bleat from the bed as you let the curve of your stomach brush his throbbing member and it smears a glistening line of precum from your navel to your tits.

"Tell me what you want, my darling little buck," you murmur in Blue's ear. "Tell me what you've fantasized about. What you've dreamed about."

"I…," he murmurs breathily. "We do have one… One fantasy…"

Alastor's ears flatten completely at the betrayal.

"Tell me about it," you encourage him, noticing Alastor's silent despair in the corner of your eye. "I won't judge you. Let's see if we can make it real—does that sound good?"

"Yes," Blue half-sobs.

"Then describe it to me," you say between more kisses pressed across his chest, working your way down his abdomen. "In detail."

"W-We're coming home…sometimes from a date, sometimes from anywhere," he stammers, staring up at the red velvet canopy above him as he relishes every press of your lips to his flesh. It's hard to think with you kissing and licking him, with his cock throbbing in the cold air between your bodies, but you've asked him so nicely to share his secrets with you. What can he do but fulfill your request? "We come here…to our suite. You live here with us in the fantasy. We're rarely apart."

Your eyes soften where Blue can't see them, but Alastor can see the thoughtful, tender look on your face. It breaks something in him, to see you look like that in response to secrets never meant to be borne aloud.

"We… We dress each other down from the day," he whispers, his lashes fluttering as you run your tongue along his navel. "And we embrace, kissing each other—sometimes with us carrying you in our arms—as we make our way here. To the bed."

"I can visualize it," you say and the slightly breathless tone of your voice sends a chill up both deer demons' spines. "Keep going. You're doing wonderfully."

The praise makes his eyes well up even as he whimpers out, "We spread you out on the bed. You… You look like an angel, darling—you deserve so much better than us… We should have never—"

But you shush him gently, petting a hand along his thigh to soothe and ground him. "That's behind us, sweetheart," you tell him and Alastor as well. "We're making up for all that lost time now. What happens then?"

Alastor watches you with something unfathomable in his gaze.

"We devour you," Blue grinds out between clenched teeth, his hips jerking slightly as his pupils blow wide at the fantasy replaying before his mind's eye. "We ask you if you've ever dreamt of being tongue-fucked by the Radio Demon and, darling, the way you moan…it's pure music. We spread you out and shatter you on our tongue again and again…until you're shaking and writhing and incoherent beneath us."

You swallow against a suddenly dry throat, mesmerized by his words. By the raw emotion in them.

"And then you reciprocate… We tell you that you needn't, but you want to. You taste us and your lips wrapped around our cock is second only to your—your—"

"My cunt?" you purr and it sends a painful throb through both of them individually.

"Y-Yes," Blue breathes, his chest heaving. "And then we make love to you, dearest. As many times as you like, in whatever way you like. And then we hold you close as you rest and recharge. We keep you safe while you slumber and count the minutes until you wake and we can pleasure you all over again."

You study Blue and his fragile state as you ask, "Would you like to do that?"

His eyes widen and he leans up on his elbows. "Right now?" he whispers, his features slack with awe at the possibility.

You nod. "Right now, Al," you murmur as you crawl further up the bed, further up him. "You and me. Just like in your fantasy. Only we can make it so much better than what you've only imagined…"

Blue's eyes darken with depraved lust as he takes you in, his gaze fastening on the juncture of your thighs as he asks lowly, "May I taste you, darling?"

Alastor presses back against the chair he's bound to, his cock aching and staining a dark dot into the crotch of his slacks.

"Would you?" you request in turn, a blush staining your face.

Blue memorizes the look of the blush on your cheeks as he lies back down and, opting for boldness, reaches out to adjust you into a position over his face. "It would be my greatest honor, my darling," he murmurs, looking on the verge of a spiritual experience.

He encourages you to lower yourself just a bit further before laving a slow, hot stripe along your slit. You shiver at the contact, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as he pulls you more tightly against his mouth, gently spreading your glistening folds with careful claws and nosing against your clit as he begins to fuck you in earnest with his tongue. Its demonic length unfurls and thickens in your quivering channel, reaching far deeper than a tongue ever should—it's the epitome of sin and would have been a one-way ticket to Hell were you not already firmly there.

Alastor can taste you on his own tongue and he salivates, so focused on your slowly unraveling expression that a string of drool cascades from his thinning smile, unnoticed.

Your nerves regarding your position to the thin but eager buck beneath you fade out with your thoughts. When the first moan falls from your lips, Blue redoubles his efforts, slipping one long finger into your weeping cunt and then a second as he uses his mouth to instead suckle and lick tight relentless circles around your swollen clit. He makes a beckoning motion with those clever fingers and the terminology of "coming" has never made more sense than the exact second you start to fall apart on his fingers from it.

"That's it, my love," Blue moans against your folds, his eyes fixated on you from the vee of your thighs as he buries his mouth back into your lower lips, intensifying every effort he's made so far until you're shaking like a leaf, your hips grinding down against his mouth as you mindlessly chase your release. "Use me, love me, give me every drop of your pleasure so long as I've earned it."

You can't help but do precisely as he asks. A wanton moan escapes you as you come apart on his mouth and fingers. He eases you through it, his fingers slowing their pace but not leaving your trembling, clenching cavern. He noses into your mound and inhales deeply as his origin shivers nearby, learning secondhand precisely how delicious your musk smells post-orgasm.

Blue licks up every bit of your slick, diligently cleaning you and holding you in place until he's satisfied he's found it all. When he shifts you down to straddle his torso instead, his nose, mouth, and chin are all shiny with your pleasure and you blush at the sight.

"That was incredible, dearest," he murmurs, his claws massaging the meat of your hips like a contented cat. "You taste divine. Far better than we could've imagined."

You smile at him and lean down to kiss him deeply, a soft moan escaping you as you taste yourself on his tongue. When you finally need to breathe, you shift your lips back to the elegant column of his throat and ask, "Would you like me to tend to you now, sweetheart?"

The pitiful, silent shape of a "yes" falls from Alastor's covered mouth, every muscle in his frame straining.

"Yes," Blue says, too, before looking a little chagrinned. He adds a demure, "Please."

You almost feel badly when you work your way back down the bed and notice how many pearls of precum his needy cock had wept while he was eating you out, but you're determined to help. He seems unbothered, more or less—rather, he appears to have enjoyed seeing you through to oblivion before worrying about himself.

His hooved feet kick out a little against the footboard as you lick him root to tip, following the pulsing vein wrapped around the underside of his dick and mapping him out with your tongue. You can hear the sheets shred beneath his claws as you kiss and suck the long, thick ridge of him before getting brave enough to take him into your mouth. You gently clean the sticky, salty trails of drying precum from his velvety skin, moaning around his tip and causing a violent shudder to wrack through his limbs.

Alastor can feel the phantom heat of your mouth bobbing slowly down his clothed cock and he throws his head back against the cushioned back of the chair, his claws splintering the wood beneath them in synchronicity with his double's destruction of the bedding.

"You feel like heaven, cher," Blue whimpers, reaching a trembling hand toward your hair. He just rests his hand upon it, featherlight, as if afraid you're an illusion he's capable of shattering. You reach up and encourage him to grip your locks and the groan he rewards you with just spurs you on.

Only when he's shaking, not with anxiety but with the threat of euphoria, does he use his hold on your hair to stall your efforts. As much as he'd love for you to keep going, he doesn't know how much longer he can last at this rate and doesn't want to lose the opportunity to lay proper claim to you. He's emboldened in this time with you and it shows as he pulls your mouth slowly off his cock with a soft, wet pop.

Blue stares at you, your bruised lips and the thin thread of saliva bridging them to the tip of his cock, and he looks like he's admiring a work of art. "Exquisite," he breathes, loosening his grip on your hair and cradling your face in one large hand instead. "Absolutely breathtaking."

You blush a little as you ask, "What now?"

Something petty is roiling in Blue's chest at the very idea that Alastor has wasted so much time when this was right in front of him—in front of them when he was still part of Alastor—for the taking. It's occurred to him that his origin, his maker of sorts, will double down after this despite the absolute mess Blue knows he is internally via their connection and externally via one brief glance toward the armchair.

And he wants to ensure that before he fades and his existence's fragment returns to the whole—and it will happen, he can already feel it—that he makes it as difficult as possible for Alastor to ever forget that this happened. Call it a favor, call it revenge. Whatever it is, it's as personal as anything ever could be.

"Get on your hands and knees for me, sweetheart," Blue says in a whisper that is still sweet and even a little fragile, but now holds edges of purposeful intent. "For both of us. Face him, if you would, please."

Your blush darkens a few shades as you do as he asks, turning to face Alastor fully for the first time since you three were arguing with one another across the room. He's a mess of the proud, angry overlord he was before and you've never felt more proud of yourself or more physically confident in your misdeeds. A sheen of sweat decorates his brow and makes his shirt collar cling to his neck, wooden ribbons have curled out of the chair from beneath his claws, and then there's the unmistakable ridge of his painfully hard cock in his slacks, a dark stain seeping through the fabric from the tip.

At first, when you meet his eyes, you think he's still angry. But he's not—his stare is pure intensity and focus, a mesmerized state of debauched and desperate. He looks into your eyes and doesn't look away this time. He can't.

The legs of the chair scrape across the floor as the shadow tentacles drag it and him closer to the edge of the bed. Not nearly close enough to get any sort of collateral relief, but close enough to see even more closely and in further detail what he's missed out on. To inhale the aroma of your sweat and slick and ache even more deeply in his lower belly.

Your thighs clench as you see his cock give a pathetic twitch in his pants.

Soon enough, you feel Blue's heavy, throbbing cock nestle against your folds and your body jumps slightly at the contact before his gentle, guiding hands steady you by your hips.

"Is this alright, dear?" he asks softly behind you and it's a very shy way to ask something while someone is already bent over in front of you, unwrapped and spread open like a gift. When you nod, your breath coming in small, uneven pants, you feel him lean over you and his breath tickles the shell of your ear. "If at any point it isn't, please say so."

"I will," you say, still locked in Alastor's stare like a bird confronting a snake. No, like a snake confronting a snake. You have the upper hand here, not him. To Blue over your shoulder, you murmur, "Thank you."

"No need to thank me for that. It's simple etiquette," he says, still sounding a bit shy. He sounds far less shy as he says, "I'm going to fuck you now, darling. With all I have left in me in this form, I'm going to claim your lovely body and worship your lovelier soul. And, on the off chance he hasn't grasped the concept of what we feel yet, I want you to look him in the eyes while I do both."

You draw in a shaky breath, but you nod. "Okay."

"Good girl," Blue whispers and you feel yourself buckle under the praise, swallowing hard as you feel him rock his hips against yours and lubricate his cock with your slick. You shudder as he stimulates your already overstimulated cunt, but he runs a gentle hand over the curved length of your spine to reassure you. His stroking hand settles against the nape of your neck as he says, "You're going to take me so well, sweetheart. Remember, eyes on him."

"I remember," you whimper, leaning your head back against his hand.

"That's my good girl," Blue praises you again as he begins to push his thick cock inside you, inch by precious inch.

Your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open at the feeling of being so perfectly stretched, so incomparably full. Alastor watches you take his cock while his cock still weeps, unattended, in his trousers, practically throbbing with desperation as he witnesses you unraveling all over again.

You whimper and Blue groans as he fully seats himself inside you to the hilt with a pratical snap of his hips on the final few inches, his balls settling against your clit. You grip the bedspread like a lifeline as he slowly begins to roll his hips again, building a slow, sensual rhythm that makes you salivate and melt down against the mattress in a reverent bow.

"That's it, darling," Blue moans, adjusting his hand from your nape to tangle in your scalp when you're in danger of hiding your expressive face from Alastor's unwavering stare, his eyes a storm of envious agony at the mere sight of you speared on his doppelgänger's prick. "Show him how good he feels inside you. Show him what he's squandered, sweetheart."

Blue's thrusts become a little harder, a little faster as he speaks and you mewl in response, the sound going straight to Alastor's straining erection like a jolt of electricity. His hips buck against his restraints, once and harshly, as a muffled groan finally falls from his covered mouth.

Hazy-eyed, you look up at Alastor and note the knitted pain in his brow, the redness in his cheeks, the wild wanton desperation in his eyes that look on the cusp of watering.

"What do you think, my dear?" Blue grits as he continues stirring your insides with every purposeful pistoning of his hips. "Should we free one of his hands? Let him touch himself while we finish what we started?"

Sympathy sparks in the dopamine-fog of your eyes and you nod, a moan ripped from your throat as Blue angles his hips and finds that sensitive, spongy spot inside you that makes you see stars.

The tentacle holding Alastor's right hand recedes and he's immediate to rip his trousers open, freeing his red, angry cock from his pants and pumping it with his hand. First quick and with desperation and then, gradually, matching the pace at which Blue is pumping into you. A shuddering breath eases from his nose as his eyes roll back with relief—only briefly before refocusing on you.

Your eyes shift between Alastor's hand wrapped around his twitching length and his face as Blue works you into a flustered, babbling, cock-drunk mess before him. You feel yourself clench down around him, your walls fluttering and his resulting sharp gasp.

"A-Al, I'm…," you whimper out as Blue rocks you back by his hold on your hair and his hand gripping your hip to bounce on his cock. "I'm close… I'm so close…"

"I know, sweet girl," Blue grits, holding himself off as long as he could in spite of the way your channel squeezes and tries to milk his length. "Come for me, dearest… I'll catch you, you'll be alright."

Your glistening, swollen pussy spasms around his cock and you scream his name—their name—as you fall apart, his hands the only support you're able to afford as your body goes boneless in his grasp. He chases his own release, his rhythm getting quick and sloppy as he fucks you in earnest and Alastor sits before you, gripping and pumping his own cock at a pace that borders on violence.

As Blue is on the cusp of his release, he looks at Alastor, something feral in his eyes as he mouths, "Don't waste this, too," and Alastor doesn't entirely understand what that's supposed to mean until his double fades from existence and the tentacles holding him down to the chair finally recede in full.

And it's a good thing they do—he's just in time to catch your weakened, thoroughly sated body before you slip off the bed.

You startle a little at the sudden emptiness inside you, at the change of hands touching you, and you feel a pang of loss when you glance back and see that Blue is, in fact, gone, as he suspected he would be soon. You knew it would be temporary, but it still fills you with a sort of loss to know the demon you were just so enraptured with in the throes of passion is simply gone now. Rather, he's part of Alastor again, but there's no guarantee that Alastor has changed his mind past your little "show."

A soft sigh passes through your lips as you look up at Alastor, who still holds you under your arms until your hands find purchase on the bed again. His grip eases once you do, but he doesn't remove it—rather you feel the very tip of a claw trace across your forehead, smoothing away the hairs that cling to the layer of sweat on your skin.

He looks abashed, or at least a touch guilty, as he returns your stare. Perhaps embarrassed. You're both disheveled and far more nude than your bodies could account for—your clothes may be gone, but the walls around his heart have been cracked enough to peer through. You've seen him in the most visceral way possible, he thinks, and he's not sure how to feel about it yet.

Still, he takes in the fucked-out, delicate state of you with mixed appreciation and concern. And he clears his throat, tucks his still-hard cock away in his trousers, and stands on shaky legs with the taste of you still lingering on his tongue to stalk away to the en suite.

You hold back tears when he leaves without a word. It feels almost worse than his anger of earlier, than any sort of death threat he could've drummed up for your audacious actions. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to sort through your delirium and the encroaching shame until Alastor's stained maroon slacks reappear in your vision.

When you look up at him, he looks torn but he doesn't avert his eyes to hide that from you. Softly, almost tenderly, he says, "I've drawn a bath… I imagine you could use it, dear, after…well. Would you care for it?"

It's better than any apology he could've given although he will give an apology once his head's a bit clearer. He'll apologize a few times over, in fact, before he's forgiven himself, which is well after you will have forgiven him. But neither of you will be surprised by this discrepancy.

"Thank you," you murmur, cautiously uncurling your legs from your chest and wondering if you'll be able to stand just yet.

It doesn't end up mattering because Alastor carefully scoops you up from the disaster that is his sheets and bedspread and carries you to the steamy bathroom. He settles your spent body into the tub and the warm water immediately begins soothing the knots in your muscles. The air contains the faint aroma of lavender oil.

"You needn't look so sad, dear," Alastor says suddenly in a lowered tone. You glance at him and he's leaning against the counter, watching you mope. "You look like someone's just met their second death."

"Didn't he?" you murmur as you smooth the water up over yourself, settling back against the side of the tub to better sink into the hot water.

"Not precisely," Alastor said with a rumbling sigh, coming down to sit on the floor beside the tub. He sits with his back to you, respectfully giving you privacy despite seeing you in your entirety and for more than just the trip to the en suite. "Merely part of me again, as I suppose it—he—always should have been. It was foolish to attempt what I did, but I was scraping for solutions."

You feel a bit silly for grieving a fragment of the man who still sits, very much alive, beside you, but it was a complicated situation even before the intimate tryst you shared. Now, in the aftermath, Blue is gone and Alastor seems thoughtful and uncharacteristically quiet, but still detached. You're where you were before again, just with more hopes dashed now than when you started.

"He still exists as part of me. Unchanged. For whatever that might be worth to you."

You freeze, but turn a glance toward Alastor. He's turned his head just enough to watch you in his periphery, his eyes careful but with something tender in them just beneath the surface. It's a more complicated glance than you've ever seen, something with layers on layers that are all at war with one another. He's fighting himself so much, of course he would be overwhelmed with needing to fight you, too. It's a strange concept and it feels like you're making excuses for him. And maybe you are.

But the fact is that caring for Alastor remains an unlisted position. And no one—not one soul in this hellscape, especially not now—is more qualified than you.

[fraugwinska]

A Truth Universally Denied - CH. 2

Lucifer x F. Reader

When a struggling, reclusive, but wealthy single father calls upon the help of a governess to help tutor his coming-of-age but unruly daughter, one has no choice but to accept the most gracious invitation of employment. Especially if your new employer is the King of Hell. (aka if Hell, but if it was set similar to Victorian Era England, so like circa 1830 to 1900 A.D.)

“As I mentioned previously, it is wonderful to make your acquaintance.”

Well, this was certainly a surprise. Not only was Y/N’s employer a wealthy recluse, but the wealthy, reclusive King of Hell. The ruler of the Underworld, who was once beloved and well-known, kept away after the tragic disappearance of his wife a year ago. Such a sorry state the family would be in, she thought after hearing the news, and after meeting Charlie, it was evident that there were familial damages. 

It was evident in her eyes the state of shock Y/N remained in, Alastor off in the corner with that self-satisfied upturn on his face. Of course, his letter neglected to mention any name or evidence of her new employer, a tactic she assumed was on purpose. A sly demon the red deer was, and while Y/N had not known him for long, she knew he would do anything for his own amusement. 

After fixing her expression and a quick clear of the throat, Y/N gave a small curtsey towards Lucifer. She could feel her eyes rake over her form, taking in every detail. The muted blue of her dress, the cracked lace embellished hem, and the burnt umber color of her boots. Simple, plain, ordinary. Something Lucifer felt the need to remedy, though he also found a strange comfort in. Surrounded by niceties every day, often, even the finest of things often become lackluster. Seeing something so contrary to his everyday was…nice for a change. He could not help his eyes from trailing the new governess as she took her seat right beside him.  

“Truly, the pleasure of this meeting is all mine, Your Highness. I am grateful for your offer of employment.” 

“Of course. I heard you were the best. Now please, sit—“

“Dad! Dad! Did you know Miss Y/N taught me a magic trick? Here, let me show you!” 

As if on cue, Charlie mustered all her power, eyes scrunched in deep concentration. A flickering gold light filtered from her hands, and with a puff of sparkle, a small daisy appeared in the small girl’s hand. Her excitement was nothing short of positively adorable, at least Y/N thought so. With a giddy smile and squeak, little Charlie presented the delicacy to her father, who took it with a gentle hand and grin. 

“Why, it’s beautiful, apple pie. Your new teacher seems to be starting early with her lessons–” 

Y/N’s face flushed a deep shade of rose at the compliment, though she quickly busied herself with her napkin, brushing it over her lap as if crumbs had gathered there, though not a single one had.

“Oh, well, it’s nothing really. A simple parlor trick I was happy to give the secret to.”

 Lucifer’s eyes scanned Y/N once more, his attention drawn to her near-mute comment. Noting her modesty with a passing thought of admiration, a rare trait these days, he nodded softly before returning to fawning over his daughter. Y/N remained reserved, though scrutinizing every moment between the pair. Both Charlie and Alastor had expressed…thoughts on Lucifer’s absence and its effects, yet here he seemed so loving. Was it all a charade, some false act put up to appease her before shrouding himself in mystery again? Whatever it was, she was wary.

The rest of dinner passed in elegant quietude, punctuated only by Charlie’s occasional chatter and the clinking of cutlery on fine china. The food was divine, unlike anything Y/N had ever tasted in her modest, mortal life. A medium-well duck stuffed with orange and rosemary, cutting through the otherwise gamey flavor with a chestnut sauce to accompany. Rich, garlic asparagus in a balsamic glaze, paired with a sparkling Harvey and Osborne sherry*. Each bite seemed tailored not only for the palate but for the soul, a richness that made her feel, somehow, unworthy. Even the water tasted like it had once been kissed by stars. Lest she forget about dessert, a three-layered chocolate cake delicacy that seemed only could have been made in Heaven when Y/N saw it was topped with a strawberry cream. 

As the plates were cleared and the last of the wine sipped, Charlie, drooping slightly in her seat, yawned behind one small, gloved hand. “I think someone’s ready for bed,” Y/N said gently, rising from her chair, placing her napkin folded on the seat, and offering the girl a hand. Charlie took it without protest, rubbing at her eyes. Lucifer gave a nod, a soft expression playing across his features.

“I’ll see you both in the morning,” he said, voice low and warm. It rolled like thunder in the distance, promising rain but not yet bringing it.

“But I don’t wanna–”

“Charlie, my dear, what do…um…ducks do when they are sleepy?”

“They snuggle!”

“Right, now, how about we snuggle upstairs like fluffy ducks, mhmm?”

Y/N guided Charlie up the stairs with a gentle hand, offering a knowing smile back to Lucifer, winding through the candlelit corridors until they reached the child’s chamber. It was grand but not cold, warmed by plush pillows and soft toys that looked lovingly worn. As Y/N previously noted, red apples and golden leaves decorated even the furnishings of this room and every other. A common theme, an obsession perhaps? Though she supposed it made logical sense for His Highness to refer to Charlie as ‘apple pie’ with the way the house was decorated. Charlie climbed into bed with a drowsy smile, a small red and black lamb stuffed animal tucked snugly in her arms, murmuring something incoherent. 

“Good night, sweet duckling,” Y/N whispered, brushing a strand of golden hair from the child’s forehead.

“Miss Y/N?” came the sleepy reply.

“Yes, dear?”

“How long are you going to stay?”

Y/N tucked the sheets around her with a soft chuckle.

“As long as you’ll have me.”

Y/N turned down the lamp, casting the room in shadows and warm gold. She lingered for a moment, watching the little girl’s chest rise and fall, peaceful, untouched by the grief that still seemed to cling to every inch of the manor. Then she closed the door softly behind her. The hall was quiet now, except for the occasional groan of the old wood underfoot. She made her way back toward her room, arms loosely folded across her front, her thoughts already drifting toward rest when—

“Oh! I–I’m sorry!” she gasped, nearly colliding with a tall, familiar figure rounding the corner.

Lucifer stood there, one hand lifting in mild surprise, the other tucked behind his back. His smile was calm, almost boyish, though something far older rested behind his eyes. “No harm done,” he said smoothly. “Though I imagine I startled you.”

She nodded, blinking. “Just a bit, Your Highness–”

“Lucifer will do,” he offered with a small tilt of his head.

There was a beat of silence, long enough for her to notice the faint scent that clung to him, like spice and cedar smoke, something deep and earthy. Rarely did Masters give permission of their given name; usually, the use was met with sharp reprimand. And yet, he was here, the literal King of Hell, allowing a governess to use his first name. A peculiar man, Y/n thought as she studied him further in her shock. The sharpness of his jaw, the carved elegance of his features. A dangerous thing to dwell on.

“Well… good night, L–Lucifer,” she managed, voice catching slightly.

“And to you, Miss Y/N,” he replied, his smile widening just enough to show the faintest glint of fangs. “Sleep well.”

She turned away, trying not to trip over herself in the effort to walk naturally. Her heart beat just a little too fast, though she wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or…

Click. A sudden, singular sound broke the hush. Her head snapped to the side.

From the other end of the hall, Alastor stepped into view as though peeled from the shadows themselves. The radio demon’s ever-fixed grin was in place, but there was no warmth in it, only that manic sharpness, like a blade made of teeth.

“My, my,” he drawled, voice curling through the air like smoke. “A midnight stroll with royalty, Miss Y/N? That’s rather bold of you.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a hand.

“Let me spare you the effort. Don’t. Say. A word.” The cheer in his voice had gone brittle. “I do hope you’re not getting comfortable here. It’s a dangerous thing, darling, to cozy up to kings. Especially ones with hearts still rotting from grief.”

“I wasn’t—” she tried again, only for him to step closer.

“They all start with good intentions,” Alastor said, eyes glowing faintly red beneath his brim. “But everyone who gets close to Lucifer Morningstar ends up broken. Or worse.”

Y/N swallowed, unsure whether it was the words or the glint in his gaze that chilled her more.

He stepped back, his grin relaxing again into something faux-friendly. “Just a word of caution, dear. Good night now.”

With that, he disappeared, swallowed again by the shadows as easily as he'd emerged from them.

Her legs felt stiff as she walked the last few steps to her door. Once inside, she locked it, more out of instinct than fear. What did that skilamalink** of a man mean? Surely, it could not be so bad as to have a kind word or look towards the Master of the House. Of course, make no mistake, there would be no scandal. Lucifer could barely afford to even look at her that way, much less would he even be inclined to do so, plain as she was. 

The rain had begun to fall outside, a soft pattering against the tall, arched windows. Thunder rumbled far off, and in the silence of her room, it echoed and seemed to shake the very foundations of what seemed to be an immaculate manor. She undressed slowly, folding her clothes with care, trying not to let her mind spiral. A simple white nightgown seemed to match the embellishments of her housing, much to Y/N’s agreement, but just as she pulled the covers up and lay her head on the pillow, a noise reached her ears. Subtle, almost unnoticeable to anyone other than a skilled governess.

A soft creak from above. She froze, straining to listen. Did Charlie awaken and wander to the attic? Again, a sound. The faint groan of something shifting… something moving in the attic. Her heart thudded once, painfully. The one place she is forbidden to enter. But no further noise came. Only the rain, steady and indifferent, whispered across the roof like a warning.

A trick, a play of an old house on a vulnerable woman. Y/N let out a mild chuckle, eyes still shifting wearily around the confines of her room. As if the curtains might come to life and strangle her. The musings of a woman tired from travel and mingling, Y/n determined. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Tomorrow…tomorrow would make it all right. 

It was a drear and dismal evening in the city of Pride, the kind of night when the rain, in its persistent descent, seemed to gnaw at everything. Lucifer Morningstar sat alone in his study, a heavy glass of brandy cradled in one long, pale hand. Cast in white marble, adorned with dark, almost velvety oak floorboards and bearings decorated in gold leaves and feathers, and alabaster and maroon furnishing, it was a cavern of solitude for the weary ruler. The hearth crackled behind him, but he afforded it no glance; his gaze was fixed upon the long, arched window before him, and the vast city stretched below in an opulent sprawl of crimson light. It was his. All of it. Every tower forged from brimstone, every gas-lit avenue, every sound of revelry or agony that echoed through the infernal streets, his dominion, his rule. And yet…

What ailed him? What hollowness dared take root in the chest of the Morningstar? He could name it, of course—he was no stranger to truth, even when it stung like salt in a wound. Lilith. It had been a year since her absence. It was a scandal to be sure, the complete disappearance of her from Hell itself. A search party led on for about a month before it was called off and a single purple ribbon had been brought back to the manor as the sole evidence found. 

A year ought to suffice to forget, or at the very least to grow numb. And he had Charlie still, bright, foolish, impossibly earnest Charlie. But even she, in her stubbornness, could not quite drag him from the abyss of his own discontent. He had to do better. For her, if not for himself. Yet each day the manor grew colder, heavier, a mausoleum clad in marble and gold. He hadn’t even brought himself to remove the mourning curtains from every portrait of her in the house. There was barely a use for them anyhow, her gaze burned through the coverings into him. 

His thoughts turned then to the new governess, what was her name again? Ruth? No, that had been the last one. Mary? No, she had quit in tears. Perhaps… Y/N? Yes, that seemed near enough to the truth. He had barely spoken a word to her since her arrival, save for a few polite formalities at supper. She had smiled, genuinely, no less, and unlike her predecessors, had not once scolded Charlie for her peculiarities. That in itself was remarkable. Perhaps she would prove a balm to this household. A softness amidst the steel.

He even allowed her to use his rightful name, his given one! How absurd she must think he is breaking formal protocol. He had barely known her for two hours! Damned lonliness crept in his throat when he saw how she gazed at him in the dark, the candlelight doing her features some good. By no means was this new governess beautiful, he could outright admit that. But something was off, nothing wrong per se, but in the darkness, she almost looked like a dream. A woman out of a monumental still life***. 

But the stillness did not last. A sound, sharp, rhythmic. The tapping of clawed raptors upon the marble floor outside the study. Lucifer did not startle; he merely exhaled, slow and with growing irritation. He turned. The shadows by the hearth twisted, stretched, and from their centre, like a sinuous thread drawn through the eye of a needle, came Alastor. The man, if one might call such a creature that, stepped forth from the gloom with the unshakable grace of a stage actor making his final bow. His smile, a ghastly fixed thing, was already in place.

“Master,” he said, voice slick as oil, “a fine evening to drown one’s thoughts in rain and brandy, is it not?”

Lucifer did not answer at once. He sipped his drink, turned again to the window.

“You're early,” he said at last. “I summoned you for the morning.”

Alastor chuckled, a sound like bones dancing in a lacquered box. “And yet I found myself drawn here, compelled by curiosity, perhaps… or concern. The new governess?”

Lucifer’s lip curled slightly, but not in mirth. “There is. She seems… competent.”

Alastor’s grin widened—impossible though it seemed. “Competent? My, my. That is high praise, coming from you.”

“She’s kind to Charlie,” Lucifer said, more sharply. “That is what matters.”

“Of course,” Alastor drawled. He moved closer, the shadows whispering at his heels. “But tell me, do you not find it dangerous? To let someone new into the fold? Into her orbit?” He leaned closer, voice a shade quieter. “Into yours?”

Lucifer turned toward him then, eyes cold as the storm lashing the glass. “I am not so soft as to be threatened by a governess.”

“No,” Alastor replied, not backing away. “But even the softest things can wear through stone, given time.”

Lucifer did not answer. He turned back to the window, to the city that burned and shone beneath his feet, to the kingdom forged by will and wrath. And yet, as the thunder rumbled and the rain traced long trails down the glass, he felt the weight of Alastor’s words settle, bitter and steady, in his gut. Perhaps it was foolish, this hope he’d begun to nurture. This flicker of curiosity. People, in the end, always disappointed. Always betrayed. Still… she had smiled.

And perhaps, he thought, perhaps disappointment was a price worth paying for the illusion of warmth.

FOOTNOTES———————————————————————————

*Harry and Osborne = Harry and Osborne was a popular wine company in the 1890s **Skilamalink = Tricky or dishonest person ***Monumental Still Life = Typically, still lives focus on inanimate objects with no human focus, but monumental still lives or genre pieces are the exception.

[fraugwinska]

My friend @jurijyuu got fanart for her fantastic fic SCRATCH AN ITCH and AAAAAH it's so amazing!!!

Let's welcome @flyingleolionsstuff into the community and show some love! 💕❤️

First post! This is a Hazbin Hotel fanfiction fan art, Alastor/reader! The story is called Scratch an Itch by @jurijyuu

Fully recommend if you like slowburn with 18+ themes

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53292463?view_full_work=true

[fraugwinska]

We 👏 need 👏 long-haired 👏 Luci 👏 x 👏 Alastor 👏

Lucifer with long and messy hair

With a little 📻🍎 comic too

[fraugwinska]

Old men getting ready for Pride Month 🌈

🟢 Commissions Open!

[fraugwinska]

Hotel Managers 🏨🩸

[fraugwinska]

Me, bucked up for this absolute JOYRIDE!

Please give this a read if you love Lucifer and Period pieces... this is gonna be SO GOOD!

@minkdelovely you, my doll, will melt at this!

A Truth Universally Denied - CH. 1

LUCIFER X F. READER

When a struggling, reclusive, but wealthy single father calls upon the help of a governess to help tutor his coming-of-age but unruly daughter, one has no choice but to accept the most gracious invitation of employment. Especially if your new employer is the King of Hell. (aka if Hell, but if it was set similar to Victorian Era England, so like circa 1830 to 1900 A.D.)

Chapter One: Midnight at Moringstar Manor

Muddy beaten roads lead off into the distance as the sun sets over the hill, a crescendo of light fading into the aria of night. Y/N’s eyes pass over the landscape, the hooves trotting over cobblestone jostle the image, though do not make it any less beautiful. A bounce here and there adds to the liveliness of her otherwise disastrous journey, traveling from Wrath to Pride. A long time to travel, nearly a month or so. A boat here, a carriage there, another boat for some unknown reason. She had half a mind to give her new employer a strong reprimand for making her travel so far, but, having covered all the travel expenses himself, she could not find any resolve to do so. 

The arduous journey was nearing its end, less than a quarter of an hour till Y/N was to arrive at her new destination. Her home circle of Wrath was a sorry state compared to the extravagance of Pride; golden-lined buildings and large homes lined the street on every corner. Opulent gates and streets, despite the mud, were far beyond what was the norm in her home realm. She knew her new employer was wealthy, though he elected not to mention his exact status, but the farther she was carried into the realm, the more luxurious and secluded the domain became. 

Contextually, it made sense, employed as the new governess, most likely for some wealthy Overlord. Whatever demon child she was to rear and oversee must be spoiled rotten, Y/N concluded. With all this opulence, how could one not be a touch of a brat? Though she decided not to hold this against the child, who probably knew little else. If only she had had this as a child, what good she would have done with the provisions and resources. Though Y/N did concede her nature might have been different under a different upbringing, she determined her base character would have remained the same. Steadfast, intelligent, needing very little; all considerable traits of a lady, she deemed that she possessed. She had been told so, though mostly it came snide. 

Y/N could admit to it; she was plain. Not a woman of extraordinary beauty or wit, she made it up with her loyalty and calmness of character. Reliability and a touch of humor were all one needed to survive in the world that was Hell. It turned out in the end, becoming a sought-after governess and previously even a full-time professor at the local orphanage where she had been raised. A job that was inherently given to her due to past experience, though Y/N believed her hard work had outweighed the personal bias in her hire. 

The carriage came to a halt in front of a large and gold-embellished estate on the very outskirts of Pride, and even Hell itself. The footman kindly opened the door, taking Y/N’s hand as she stepped out onto the nicely cobbled sidewalk. A bit damp from the acid rain a night ago, but nothing her shoes couldn’t handle. Offering a small smile to the footman, she picked up her suitcase and a reticule* before walking up the stairs. Two large lions with serpents around their ankles guarded the sides of the steps, a new and well-upkept marble that glistened with each passing glance. By far, this was the most beautiful and extravagant estate Y/N had ever seen. As she approached the large oaken doors, Y/N rapt softly once or twice to the tune of Shave and a Haircut, or possibly Beethoven’s At a Darktown Cakewalk. They were both so similar, and she doubted anyone in Hell knew the true origin, even the great composer himself, who had a moderately sized mansion in the downtown of Pride. 

A sharp suit and bowtie towered over her as a red demon answered the door with an eerie smile. Deer-like ears flicking in mild annoyance as his neck craned down to view the simpleton that dared disturb his afternoon tea break. They were important private moments after all. The demon’s monocle shone in the dim light of the torches that hung from marble columns, illuminating the otherwise dark and dismal night. It was nearing close to seven in the evening. 

“Oh, hello, sir. My name is Y/N L/N. I was invited to this residence by mail from a Mr.Hartfelt. For the governess position.”

At her words, the deer demon’s smile widened to a degree Y/N did not think possible. Sharp yellow teeth led the way to shimmering eyes full of curiosity. The demon extended his hand, grabbing hers with a firm grasp that she dared not let go of for fear of upsetting what could be her new employer. 

“Oh, Miss L/N. A pleasure to meet you, quite the pleasure. I must say, you are much taller in person than what your previous employer described, but no matter. My name is Alastor Hartfelt, I am the Head of the Household Staff here at the Manor and the one who sent you that letter on behalf of the Master of the House.”

Y/N finally was able to let go of Mister Hartfelts’ hand, a slight sting in her palm from his firm shake. There was no doubt that the Head of Staff seemed to be a jovial man, though appearances were not always what they seemed in Hell. His smile was too wide, his grip too strong, his eyes too full of something she couldn’t quite place. It all made Y/N uneasy, on top of the fact that she was sure she had heard his name before. It would not aid her unease to ask the deer demon, so she let the thought subside for the time being. Picking up her belongings, Alastor led her into the main chamber of the Manor. 

Dimly lit, similar to the outward appearance of the estate, white and golden marble lined every surface. Hints of red roses and banners sprinkled in, though overwise everything looked well-maintained but little used. Y/N had heard her employer was a recluse, keeping to himself on any matter that need not concern his immediate and direct presence. A sorry way to be, she thought, though understandable. From what she gathered, it was a single father and a coming-of-age daughter, the mother most likely dead. Divorce wasn’t unheard of, though unlikely and uncommon in higher society. Noticing the black curtain over a large family portrait, the gleaming eyes of a woman staring back at her, Y/N deduced the wife must indeed have long passed. Queer** for a demon to die a second time, a painful process no doubt, but still queer.

“This is the foyer. We rarely receive guests, but if we did, to your right is the reception room. To your front is our dining room. You must receive your breakfast and dinner there with the Master of the house and the young lady. Around which are our kitchen, two pantries, a store room, a washroom, and a small dressing room for our staff. Not off limits to you, of course, though not your place. To your left in the first room is our library at your full disposal for the education of our young lady, and the drawing room is just above it. Outside of the drawing room, through the door, is the veranda and terrace. Beautiful this time of year, you know. Oh, and yes. The principal staircase is behind the reception room, which leads to the private quarters. The Master’s bedroom, the young lady’s, and of course yours. Each with their own washroom. Along with a balcony and private office for the Master. That is strictly off limits to another but myself, the young lady, and the Master; do you understand?”

With a shy confirmation, Y/N’s eyes darted from room to room as Alastor rapidly read off the list of rooms and places she could wander. It was certainly large; the reception room by itself was as large as four master bedrooms put together. All in a similar style to the construction of the manor, the furniture collected a thin layer of dust. Furthering Y/N’s assumptions of the lack of use. No matter. These rooms would be put to continue the studies of the much-mentioned ‘young lady’ of the house. 

“Yes, I understand, thank you.”

“Wonderful. Now, please, follow me. I think it is time for you to meet—“

As soon as Alastor spoke, a jovial and girlish squeal emitted from some unknown source at the top of the main staircase to their right. Lifting her gaze upward, Y/N was met with the sight of a young girl, no older than twelve, in a beautiful but simple red wool dress with a tailored skirt that swept just below her ankles. The petticoat underneath provided ample bounce as the young girl nearly slid down the oak railing of the staircase, in a near sprint straight towards Y/N. Though shocked at the display, Y/N met the girl with a gentle smile and an outstretched hand. 

“Who do I have the pleasure of acquainting, young lady?”

“My name is Charlie, miss. What might your name be?”

Charlie shook Y/N’s hand vigorously, a grip no less strong than the previous handshake with Alastor but certainly more lively. With a shy and stifled chuckle, Y/N regained her composure and extracted her hand from Charlie’s grasp. Taking a good look, Y/N stood in awe of her features. Beautiful blonde hair, stunning black eyes, and rosy circles painted her otherwise pale skin. A picture-perfect demon. No wonder her employer wanted Charlie to have a governess; she would grow into a fine lady indeed. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Moringstar. I am sure Mr. Hartfelt has informed you—“

“Ah, my dear Charlie. Ms. L/N is to be your new governess. So let’s treat her with the respect she deserves.”

A touch miffed that Alastor cut her off, Y/N kept a gentle smile on her face despite the intrusion. Respect, her ass. This man clearly did not know the meaning of the word when it came to women. No matter. Charlie was her main mission here; Alastor could simply be an afterthought. Charlie’s eager grin suddenly faltered, the edges of her once wide grin dropping into a bitter scowl. Her eyes hardened, and without warning, the young girl’s finger pointed directly at Y/N.

“I don’t need a governess,” she announced flatly, chin lifted with practiced defiance, before turning the finger to Alastor, “and I hate for you to codle me.”

And with that, she stormed off, boots tapping sharply against the marble as she ascended the grand staircase two steps at a time. A door slammed moments later, muffled by distance but reverberating all the same.  Blinking slowly, completely baffled by the outburst, Y/N’s mouth lay agape. She had expected maybe the child she was to tutor to be spoiled, but at the very least. Quite docile. This, however, was quite different. Anger was unbecoming, though Y/N was no stranger to its appropriate use in terms of discipline. But unruly children were hard to teach, much less even tolerate. Another spoiled brat in the making, she thought, before tilting her head slowly towards Alastor with a raised brow. Only to find the Head of Staff with that overtly pleasant smile plastered on his face. It hadn't shifted even a fraction.

“My apologies,” he said, folding his long fingers behind his back. “Our young lady can be… passionate. You are her third governess, after all. The first lasted a week. The second, two days. They both cited her temperament as, shall we say, unaccommodating.”

“Unruly, I think you mean.” Y/N corrected softly, mostly to herself.

Alastor nodded once, his eyes flashing with a held-back anger at her correction. Two could play at the game he had started when he interrupted her earlier, she was merely moving a piece back on the board. 

“Indeed. But her unruliness stems from loneliness, not cruelty. The Master of the House is frequently engaged elsewhere. A great many responsibilities rest upon his shoulders. Affairs of state. Public appearances. And, of course, the long shadow of grief.”

There it was. No clarification. No mention of death of the woman in the portrait, only an implied absence so heavily felt it clung to the tapestries and curtains like the dust she noted previously. Y/N sighed, though not unkindly. She adjusted her grip on her suitcase. “I see. Well then, I suppose I’ve my work cut out for me.”

Alastor gestured toward the stairs, bony fingers outstretched in a way that didn’t quite sit right. “Your quarters await. Second floor, first door on the left. Do settle in. Dinner is at eight sharp.”

Y/N’s room was a palace unto itself. The door creaked open into a wash of pale gold and muted ivory. Helllight still clung to the window panes, filtered through gauzy drapes that softened the harshness of Pride’s eternal glow. The walls were lined with creamy marble veined in delicate rose quartz, catching the light like blush against porcelain. Carved oak wainscoting****, dark and polished to a mirror sheen, framed the lower half of the room, and a massive four-poster bed canopied in burgundy and trimmed in gilded thread stood proudly against the far wall like a throne. A medium-sized vanity sat beneath a beveled mirror, its surface adorned with tiny golden apples. A plush chair with what seemed to also be a rosy color was tucked neatly beneath it. Across from it, a writing desk made of blackened walnut waited expectantly, its drawers empty. A modest armoire loomed in the corner, flanked by a standing coat rack carved into the shape of a weeping willow.

She had never seen anything so stunning in her entire life or undead life. Y/N set her suitcase on the bed, unlocking the latches with a deft flick before opening the contents of it to the world. It looked pitiful inside there compared to the opulence of her room. She opened it quietly, revealing only a handful of neatly folded and muted colored dresses, a few underthings, and a stack of well-worn books tied together with a strip of muslin*** ribbon. She had always traveled light, both by necessity and as a result of her lower status, but standing in such opulence, the emptiness of her possessions struck her like a note in a hollow room. Still, she unpacked with the diligence of habit, placing her books on the desk one by one as though they might take root there.

Y/N paused at the edge of the bed, her hand lingering on the spine of the last book she had unpacked. Her fingers traced the familiar groove worn into the leather from years of use, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere, up the grand staircase and behind the slammed door. Charlie had been all angel one moment and demon the next, a jarring shift that echoed in Y/N’s mind like a bell struck out of rhythm. What had seemed like the perfect picture of a well-mannered young lady had shattered instantly under the weight of... what, exactly? Pride? Pain? A desperate need to be seen? Whatever the cause, it rang bitter, and louder than the polite introductions and practiced smiles could ever hope to mask.

Charlie would certainly be a challenge; that much was clear. But Y/N did not shrink from challenges. She hadn’t when she’d taught a room full of orphaned demon children who preferred knives to books, nor when she'd mediated screaming matches between demons twice her size. Yet this felt different. More delicate, somehow. The child’s anger wasn’t just petulance, it was armor. And armor meant someone had taught her, through action or absence, that she needed to protect herself. Y/N knew that sentiment well. Shutting out the cruel expanse of the world in order to find some semblance of self. A dreadful existence, though one that was usually born of necessity. 

Still, the thought of trying to reach her, of slipping past that sharp tongue and harder stare, left Y/N feeling small. Smaller than she’d felt in years. She was a governess, not a miracle worker. And for all her stubbornness and wit and calm, she couldn't help but wonder if she was simply one more doomed name in a long line of governesses Charlie would discard like tissue paper in the rain. The thought scraped something raw and quietly bruised in her chest. She would not be discarded. Not this time.

Then there was the matter of the Master himself. Still unseen and unknown, a man who hid from the world he was supposed to be guiding his daughter in. Y/N hadn’t so much as heard his voice. Was he kind? Cruel? Indifferent? His absence left a hollow she couldn’t quite account for, an unfinished shape in the house’s strange equation. She had received a personal letter, very few instructions, and not even the formality of a welcome. Everything had come through that ever-smiling, ever-watching creature Alastor. What kind of father hid behind a closed door while his daughter withered in plain sight? What kind of man hired a governess without so much as an interview? Y/N stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror, watching the flicker of torchlight dance along her tired eyes. Maybe he was grieving. Maybe he was overwhelmed. Or maybe he simply didn’t care. 

She pushed that thought away with a firm inhale. That would serve no one, least of all Charlie. Still, as the estate groaned gently under the settling weight of evening, Y/N could not help the feeling that she had stepped into something deeper than educational discipline. Things were festering behind those red-velvet curtains. Things that perhaps no lesson plan could solve. She would need more than patience and textbooks. She would need insight, caution, and most of all, time. 

The clock tolled six-thirty in the evening, and Y/N grabbed a simple blue gown, with a cream petticoat to accompany. It was high time she should become acquainted with the Master of the House. 

An hour later, she found herself outside a different door, this one small, white, and adorned with tiny hand-painted apples and golden vines. She knocked once, gently. No answer. “Miss Charlie?” she called softly. “May I come in?”

Silence. Then a faint shuffling. Permission enough. Charlie sat on the floor beside her bed, her chin tucked into her knees, arms wrapped tightly around them. She did not look up.

“I brought something,” Y/N said, kneeling to her level. With a flick of her fingers, a small shimmer of light bloomed between them. Not all demons could produce magic in great quantities, but even small gestures were feasible with the right amount of training. In her palm, a single daisy appeared, its petals a soft pink. Nothing extravagant. But the simplicity made it special. Charlie peeked upward, eyes widening just slightly.

“That’s real,” she said.

Y/N nodded. “Yes, it is quite real.”

The girl stared for a long moment before inching forward, reaching out to pluck the daisy from Y/N’s hand. A soft, almost imperceptible smile tugged at her mouth.

“You can teach me that?” she asked.

“I can teach you many things,” Y/N replied. “But yes. That too.”

Charlie scooted beside her on the rug. “The others just yelled a lot.”

“I prefer not to yell,” Y/N said. “Too exhausting.”

Charlie gave a quiet laugh. “I think I like you.”

That was, Y/N thought, the highest praise she’d received in quite some time.

At precisely eight o’clock, Y/N followed Charlie to the dining room. It was a cavernous chamber, its ceilings arched like a cathedral’s and adorned with stained-glass inlays that flickered with internal fire. A long oak table stretched across the room, set with golden plates and goblets carved from onyx. Two chairs sat at either end, and a third halfway down, clearly prepared for her. And at the head of the table, sitting with one leg crossed elegantly over the other, was a figure unlike any she had imagined. The Master of the House. Y/N stopped mid-step.

He was smaller than she had expected. Slight of build, and pale as alabaster. His short golden hair was neatly styled, his cheeks unnaturally flushed like painted porcelain, similar to his daughter. Yellow eyes with slitted pupils stared at her over steepled fingers, his expression unreadable and vaguely amused. A top hat rested behind him, coiled with a snake that blinked lazily in her direction. The apple on the brim gleamed red in the candlelight, matching the one atop his polished scepter.

He looked like something out of a children’s fantasy book. A ringmaster in a carnival of fire and ruin.

Charlie ran up and gave the mysterious man a chaste embrace to the side, before settling down in her proper spot at his right. With a snap of his fingers, the third chair that was once halfway down and its place setting moved almost immediately to the man’s left. 

“Miss L/N,” he said, voice smooth as syrup and just as thick. “How delightful to finally make your acquaintance.”

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. And then offered a deep curtsy. “The pleasure is mine.”

The man smiled, gesturing with a hand for her to take her place at the table. 

“My name is Lucifer Moringstar, the Master of this House.” FOOTNOTES --------------------------------------------------------------

*Reticule = small Victorian-style draw-string purse

**Queer = in this context, it means strange and is not regarding the wonderful LGBT community. 

***Muslin = lightweight and plain cotton cloth or ribbon

****Wainscoting = wooden paneling that lines the lower part of the walls of a room.