Chapter Text
Pushin' all your buttons 'til you're crawlin' on the floor
You say you hate my guts, but you're still coming back for more
– Villain, Bella Poarch
***
Alastor
Alastor was in hell.
Both literally and figuratively.
As he sat in the kitchen, his hands clasped around a half empty bowl of still-steaming jambalaya, he carefully considered his rapidly narrowing options. He would kill the butcher. There was no question about that. Revenge notwithstanding, there was the embarrassment of it all. Eating a lust demon on purpose was all well and good, but accidentally?
The jokes practically wrote themselves.
And anyway, how was he to know that the shop’s slogan – Taste The Love In Every Bite – had been meant literally?
It did, however, explain the wink the butcher had given him as he’d handed over his purchase. And, now that he thought about it, the looks of surprise upon the other patrons’ faces. It must have been shocking, he conceded, to see the Radio Demon – chaste as a nun – purchasing the bones of an erotic entrée, as though beholden to some dark, venereous appetite like a common sinner.
His tastes were strictly limited to violence, havoc, and demon flesh. And he meant that in the more traditional, cannibalistic sense, thank you very much. Sex was passé. At best, an uninspiring way to while away a scant few minutes. Hardly worth the effort, and certainly not worth the clean up afterwards. Whilst yes, he would allow that the promise of sex was an easy way to lure unsuspecting demons into his waiting claws, where was the fun in that? The skill? The sense of accomplishment at a trap well snapped?
Pathetic.
And the worst of it was, dinner had been awful. Whatever appeal lust demons held, it was not to be found in the flavour, Alastor concluded. The meat was stringy and tough, with an aftertaste that could only be described in terms of its similarity to wet socks. It was the most atrocious thing he’d ever eaten, which was impressive, considering.
A sharp hiss forced its way between his bared teeth, blending ominously with the radio static that was slowly building around him. White hot anger pulsed through his veins. He gave the bowl a murderous glare, as though willing it to shatter in his hands, rictus grin tightening.
It wasn’t the only thing that was beginning to tighten, either.
Alastor looked down, noting with growing distress that a certain part of his anatomy had become a rather more prominent feature than usual. A red hot flush washed over him, making his skin prickle. He was rock hard. Very noticeably so. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide.
At this rate, nothing more than untucked shirt tails were going to suffice. Wasn’t that a depressing thought? Not only would he be irritatingly hard and increasingly horny in the middle of the kitchen, but sloppily dressed to boot!
This was how it started, he said to himself. It began with untucked shirt tails. Next it would be string vests and baseball caps and… sweatpants. He shuddered. That simply would not do. The slide from suave to slovenly was rapid, and inconvenient erections be damned, he had no intention of hastening his descent.
He growled, thankful that he was alone, at least. Which left him contemplating his next set of options: primarily, what to do now.
What he wanted to do was touch himself. Or, rather, what he desperately didn’t want to do was touch himself, but the battle between mind and stiffer-than-usual matter was looking increasingly like one that would result in his hands hastily stuffed down the front of his pants, his own thoughts on the subject entirely irrelevant. It was only a question of time.
For the first time in his afterlife, his fingers itched with desire. His skin felt tight. Too tight. And good grief, if he didn’t release himself soon, there was a decent (or, rather, indecent) chance that the seams on his pants were going to lose the battle they were currently waging with his cock. Location be damned (and to be fair, it probably already was), he wanted nothing more right now than to free himself. Ease the ache that had settled at the crux of his thighs with the palm of his hand. Feel the cool air on his rock hard cock as he stroked himself to agonising completion.
Staying put in the kitchen was out of the question. Heaven forfend (or should that be hell?) any of the other residents of the hotel should stumble upon him in this state. He’d never hear the end of it.
He could already picture Husk’s laughter at his misfortune. Charlie’s disappointment, followed by Vaggie’s disgust as an encore. And Niffty… well the less said about Niffty’s reaction, the better. Angel, in particular, would be a problem. The spider demon’s offer to suck his cock was, as Alastor understood it, a perpetually open one. One that looked all the more appealing with each passing moment. But the demon’s contract with Val added an extra set of complications; the last thing he needed was Vox getting even the slightest whiff of this.
Now that truly would be humiliating. That clout-chasing, mediocre, disgrace of an entertainer getting even a scant few seconds of footage concerning the Radio Demon’s loss of virginity would be a disaster of nightmarish proportions. Perhaps even a prelude to all out war. No. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to avoid Angel at all costs.
And then there was Lucifer...
A sound like a record scratch filled the air as a flare of white hot hate pulsed beneath his skin, twisting into lust in the pit of his stomach. Alastor felt as though the air had been punched out of his chest. Gasping, he pushed his half-eaten dinner away, bracing himself against the tabletop. His hands clawed into the wooden surface, leaving deep gouges.
Lucifer.
That short, pompous, self-important ass. Ever since he’d taken up residence in the hotel, Alastor had made it his mission to be the thorn in his side. The poison in his coffee. A total and utter pain in the posterior. There were no depths to which he would not stoop – and there was a short joke in there somewhere, he was sure of it – including destroying every single one of his pathetic little rubber ducks. The joy, the thrill he felt as he shredded each of Lucifer’s tacky plastic creations had been incomparable.
Until now, that was.
Now the glee he had felt upon indulging his petty hatred had begun to morph into something more disturbing. Something that made his cock twitch with unexpected (and unwanted) interest.
He did not want to fuck Lucifer. Fuck with Lucifer, yes. Absolutely. But actually fuck him?
No.
No…
Maybe?
Unable to help himself, Alastor thought of the picture they would make. A violent tableau; the King of Hell pinned to the floor, his fisted hands restrained by Alastor’s own, his clothing creased and torn by the Radio Demon’s claws. It was an image that thrilled and disgusted Alastor in equal measure. One that made his cock throb insistently against the too-tight fabric of his pants. A quiet groan escaped his throat before he could stop it.
Hell was intended to be a place of punishment, he supposed. But this was obscene.
Literally.
He had to get out of the kitchen. Now. Whilst his rapidly crumbling dignity was still intact.
Thankfully, escape was the easy part. It was a simple matter of opening a portal to his rooms and stepping through. There and gone in the blink of an eye. With a sniff, he waved a hand and… Nothing.
Eyes narrowing, he tried again.
And was greeted with the same result.
Nothing.
Zip.
Nada.
The air in front of him remained stubbornly intact. At most, he had managed to conjure a slight draught; it mocked him with the scent of spiced demon. Alastor wrinkled his nose in disgust, a sickening shiver wracking his frame as another wave of lust rolled over him.
This wasn’t good.
Panic began to tighten his chest. What of his other powers? He tried to summon the smallest sliver of tentacle and was met with nothing more than a feeble puff of smoke. Even his shadow was looking a little peaky – no longer the looming beast nightmares were made of, it skulked at his feet, looking for all the world like an actual trick of the light.
The sound of radio static had begun to build again. This time, it brought with it a laugh track that sounded somewhat mocking. It was a new and unfamiliar form of self-abuse, but one the demon had to admit fit the developing theme of the evening.
Alastor took a deep breath. He leaned back in his chair – steadfastly ignoring the way the movement caused the rapidly dampening fabric of his pants to rub against the aching length of his cock – and tried to calm himself down enough to re-think his options.
Okay, so his powers were, if not completely gone, rather diminished. A frightening prospect. And one he hoped wasn’t permanent.
Swallowing down another bubble of panic, he forced himself to think of the task currently at hand. An easy escape via portal was no longer an option. Neither could he discorporate and slink through the shadows. The only option left was the physical route: he would have to make it out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the lobby and into the elevator without being seen. A big ask. Especially since there was no way to his room that wouldn’t take him past Husk’s bar.
It was going to require some sort of distraction. But what?
Fire?
Flood?
Something else of inappropriately biblical proportions?
Deep in thoughts that involved more locusts than were entirely practical, Alastor didn’t notice the kitchen door swing open until it was too late.
“Whoa! I… Wha… What the fuck are you doing here?”
Fuck.
Lucifer.
(And no, those two thoughts were separate, thank you very much. Even if he had to wrench them apart with his bare hands.)
Cheshire-cat grin firmly affixed to his face, Alastor tried wretchedly to feign an air of indifference. From the look Lucifer gave him, he wasn’t entirely sure his attempt had been successful.
“I’m doing whatever I please,” he said, ignoring the flash of heat that crawled across his skin at the sight of Lucifer’s obvious displeasure. “This is my hotel, after all.”
“Charlie’s hotel,” Lucifer corrected.
“A joint venture.” Alastor’s fingers stroked the deep scratches he had left in the tabletop before he could stop them. Traitorous things. “I’m simply trying to get the lay of the land. Familiarise myself with all the changes made in my absence.”
The King of Hell raised a single eyebrow, lips twisting into a self-satisfied smirk. Presumably at the thought of getting one up on the Radio Demon.
God, he wanted to wipe that look off Lucifer’s face. Claw out his eyes. Bite his lips. Possess his mouth as he kicked that stupid cane out from beneath him. Pin him to the kitchen table and fu–
Alastor blinked. He shifted in his seat, forcing himself to concentrate. Sweat was beginning to run down the hollow of his spine. A hunger like nothing he’d ever felt before twisted his stomach, leaving him wanting so badly, he thought he might expire then and there at the table. His skin cried out with the need to be touched, warring (and winning) against his revulsion at the prospect.
This was humiliating.
He just needed to sleep it off. That was all. Get himself into bed – alone! The ‘alone’ part was important – and let unconsciousness roll over him. But how? Given he was currently so hard he was in danger of poking someone’s eye out, he couldn’t simply get up and walk out. Not without Lucifer noticing the state he was in.
“You look like shit.”
Too late.
Well, ish.
So Lucifer hadn’t noticed the specifics – yet – but he had noticed something was wrong. As loath as Alastor was to admit it, the King of Hell wasn’t an idiot. Even if he were, it wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together and get an answer of around eight inches.
He needed Lucifer to leave. Now.
“Such flattery,” Alastor said, deflecting. “Is there anything I can help you with, or can I get on with my evening? I’m a busy man.”
“Yeah, looks like it,” Lucifer muttered. He poked at Alastor’s half-eaten dinner with the tip of his cane. “Still hungry?”
Alastor’s eyes narrowed.
“Whatever do you mean?”
There was a pause. One in which Lucifer’s smirk widened into a full-blown grin.
“You look like you want to eat me.”
Alastor felt his insides lurch at the statement. Nostrils flaring, he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Think rationally.
He was a cannibal. Of course he looked like he wanted to eat people. That was the normal state of affairs, was it not? Surely that was all Lucifer had meant. It was just another dig at his person, his habits.
What else could it be?
Why, that judgemental, condescending piece of–
“Pity, then, that you’d make for a very small meal indeed,” Alastor said waspishly.
“Firstly, fuck you.” Lucifer gave him the middle finger. “And secondly, like you’re not desperate for a little taste of angel? The lust demon just not do it for you?”
Alastor’s blood went cold.
He swallowed loudly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Even to his own ears, his denial sounded laughably unconvincing. It wasn’t helped by his body choosing that moment to remind him that it did, in fact, know exactly what Lucifer was talking about, and would like some sort of say in the proceedings. Sparks crawled across his skin. He shivered, unable to suppress either the movement or the helpless little moan that accompanied it.
Humiliation washed over him like a wave. He could feel his cheeks beginning to heat with embarrassment.
“You know, I didn’t think this was your thing. I mean, the exhibitionism, I get - you like an audience for your tacky tricks. But the sex? Ha!” Lucifer leant against his cane, a wicked look on his face. “You know that usually involves other people, right?”
Alastor bristled at the implication. Anger rapidly overwhelmed the mortification of being caught. No longer hoping a hole would open up in the kitchen and conveniently swallow him whole, he began to wish one would appear beneath Lucifer and send him tumbling into some sort of endless pit. If he had his powers, he’d have… well, he wasn’t sure what he would have done, but it would have been bad. Something that involved liberal use of shadowy tentacles grasping the King of Hell by his tiny, oh-so-snappable-looking waist and throwing him to the floor. Pinning him there. Leaving him vulnerable and moaning as he raked his claws down his chest, shredding that hideous waistcoat, hands moving further south until the reached his co–
NO.
Alastor’s jaw clenched, smile frozen upon his face. He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. The sharp sting of pain, however, didn’t bring him the control he had hoped. Instead, it just served to heighten the unfamiliar sensations that coursed through his body.
It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
A sickness that threatened to devour him whole.
His skin felt as though it were on fire; his muscles so taut they might snap; his bones as fragile as glass. The sound of his pounding heart rang loudly in his ears, punctuating the ever-present hiss of static with a frantic beat.
This had to stop before he made a total fool of himself.
“I think you should leave.”
But Lucifer wasn’t listening. Instead, he was busy looking around the room, taking in the emptiness of it, the half-eaten meal for one, the paper from the butcher’s shop openly discarded upon the kitchen counter. Alastor could practically hear the cogs in Lucifer’s brain whirring as he began to put it all together. An entirely too self-satisfied smile began to twist at the King of Hell’s lips.
“You didn’t know, did you?” Lucifer’s grin widened as he found confirmation in Alastor’s embarrassed silence. “Oh, that’s hilarious!”
“Fuck you,” he spat.
“I know you want me to.”
Alasor didn’t know what he wanted, other than this need, this agony to stop. The longer he looked at Lucifer, the higher it built inside him. Growling, he tore his eyes away. Alastor braced himself against the tabletop, the surface blissfully cool through the increasingly stifling fabric of his clothing. A moan threatened to bubble up from his throat at the sensation. He clenched his fists, claws digging into the soft skin of his palm hard enough to draw blood.
“You think rather highly of yourself.” Alastor kept his eyes steadfastly focused on the blank section of table between his hands. “Are you sure you’ll… measure up?” he said, injecting his voice with as much venom as possible.
Mocking laughter echoed loudly through the kitchen, the sound accompanied by that of footsteps as Lucifer moved closer.
Too close.
Alastor could feel the heat of him through his coat.
“I’ve never had any complaints. It’s amazing what you can learn in ten-thousand years.”
“The repetition of ‘in’ followed by ‘out’ is hardly that complicated,” Alastor replied, tone dismissive, desperately trying (and failing) not to picture himself at the business end of said repetition. “But I suppose, for some, the lesson takes longer to sink in.”
“Hoo hoooo! I pity anyone desperate enough to fuck you,” Lucifer said, leaning in, breath hot against Alastor’s cheek as he continued, “Bad attitude, bad manners, and a bad lay.” The last was little more than a whisper. “What a winning combination.”
Alastor didn’t even try to suppress the shiver this time. Or the moan that followed it. What would be the use? The cat was now so far out of the bag they were practically in different rings. He had nothing to gain by minimising his reactions.
Giddy with this new, strange sort of freedom, he risked a glance at Lucifer.
And immediately regretted it.
The expression on Lucifer’s face could only be described as predatory. Sharp teeth. Sharper smile. A faint hint of pink stained the delicate skin of his neck, creeping up towards his cheeks. And his eyes… His eyes burned with a heat Alastor had never seen before. One that made his stomach twist sickeningly with want.
Swallowing drily, he schooled his expression into one of disdain (easier said than done), giving Lucifer a slow, pointed look up and down. He was shocked to note Lucifer’s state was not too dissimilar to his own.
Interesting.
Or, at least, Alastor’s body certainly thought so. His cock throbbed punishingly at the sight of Lucifer, hard in his breeches, unable to disguise his excitement at Alastor’s predicament. The angel was pitching a tent so large it could have easily accommodated a circus – fitting, Alastor thought, considering the man was a clown.
Perhaps it was time to even the score. Point out the King of Hell’s very obvious short-comings (pun very much intended). Make him squirm with embarrassment. A thrill ripped through Alastor at the thought. The desire to see Lucifer plead for mercy tangled with the strange lust he felt to see him beg for other, more physically tangible things, pushing the hunger that gripped his bones, tore at his flesh, ever higher until he felt wild with it. Ravenous.
For the first time that evening, his grin had an echo of truth to it.
He was going to enjoy this.
“And yet, I can’t help but notice that you seem interested,” Alastor said, rising slowly from his chair, the blood in his veins almost singing with desire. Using his height to his advantage, he loomed over Lucifer, crowding him back against the table. “What does that say about your tastes, hmmm? The King of Hell aroused by a lowly sinner demon.”
A direct hit, if the look on Lucifer’s face was any indication. Not that it appeared he was going to admit it.
Instead, Lucifer simply sniffed and said, “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, but I am flattered. Deeply flattered. After all, this,” Alastor replied, sliding a hand between them to skim across the front of Lucifer’s pants, the tips of his claws tracing the tent in the fabric as he delighted in the strangled groan the touch elicited, “cannot be explained away by a mere culinary mishap. No, no, no! Why, this is all your own work, the result of an overactive and undisciplined imagination - with myself as the inspiration, of course. Who wouldn’t be flattered?”
And Alastor really was flattered. Oddly. Whilst not his preferred method of exerting power, he did have to admit that there was a certain amount of appeal in being lusted after. Being wanted. Of filling the minds of others with thoughts of him, and only him, each second that ticked by with nothing but the faintest ghost of his touch ratcheting up the anticipation, the agony. His fingertips grazed, feather-light, over the head of Lucifer’s cock, as if to illustrate his point. A small part of him marvelled at the wetness he found there, the evidence of Lucifer’s excitement seeping through the fabric. A much larger part of him throbbed in sympathy; an unkind reminder that he was in a similar state.
A state, his traitorous mind reminded him, that Lucifer could help with.
Perhaps it was his half-eaten dinner talking, but the prospect of Lucifer reciprocating no longer seemed so distasteful. Whilst he couldn’t say he was particularly fond of the idea of taking anyone into his bed, having the sin of pride upon his knees, swallowing the vice he embodied along with Alastor’s aching cock did have a definite appeal.
The fantasy was so vivid, he could almost feel it. The wet heat of Lucifer’s mouth around him; the pinch of sharp fingernails in the flesh of his thighs; the silken slip of golden strands as his hands fisted in his hair. A screech of radio static filled the air as Alastor’s brain short-circuited, the cognitive dissonance resulting from both desiring and dreading Lucifer’s touch sending his thoughts skittering off into the ether.
Lucifer, bastard that he was, took advantage of Alastor’s momentary lapse in concentration. He widened his stance, pressing his hips further into Alastor’s trembling grasp.
“Maybe I’ll just leave you here to suffer by yourself,” he said, head tilting to one side.
No.
Yes.
God, Alastor didn’t know anymore.
It was all getting so complicated. So tangled.
He desperately wanted to be alone. Left to lick his wounds in peace.
Only…
He didn’t want that at all. He wanted to be here, Lucifer pinning him down against the tabletop, licking his way up his bared chest, teeth nipping at his fevered skin.
He wanted both.
Neither.
Panting heavily, he closed his eyes, forlornly hoping that blocking the sight of Lucifer would give him some much needed clarity.
“Then leave,” he said. "You’re free to go. I won’t stop you.” His air of affected nonchalance was somewhat ruined by the way his hand continued to stroke the length of Lucifer’s cock through his pants. “Why don't you go back to your tower and play happy families with your tacky little ducks.”
There was a pause.
“Sure you can control yourself long enough to let me go?”
Alastor’s eyes snapped open.
“I have control,” he hissed.
Just.
Lucifer knew as well as Alastor did that his grip was tenuous at best. He raised a questioning eyebrow.
“For now.” He said, as he removed Alastor’s hand, his grip around the demon’s wrist almost strong enough to break bone. “But this is just the start. It’s redirecting your powers, you know. The stronger the demon, the hotter the fire. You think it’s bad now? Ha! In an hour, you’ll be so hard you can’t walk.”
Alastor wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t true already. Not that he was about to admit it.
He growled warningly, but Lucifer continued on regardless, his thumb briefly stroking the soft skin of Alastor’s inner wrist before letting go.
“In two hours, you won’t even remember your own name. And after that, well… I hope you enjoy pain, because it’s going to be agony.” A nasty smile twisted his lips. “Unless, of course, you can find another pair of hands to help you out.”
Alastor tried his best to ignore the bolt of lust that shot up his spine.
“I believe my own will be quite sufficient,” he said firmly, trying to convince himself of the truth of the statement as much as Lucifer.
He didn’t exactly have a great track record on that front. The sin of onanism was one of the few he did not consider himself beholden to. The handful of brief experiments into self-abuse he’d conducted as a teenager had left him sticky and unsatisfied – an unappealing combination he had been reluctant to repeat. Instead, he’d found that, given time, most reactions of a carnal nature dissipated without the need for interference.
Still, how hard could it be?
Alastor wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t asked that question out loud when Lucifer replied with, “That depends on what kind of lust demon you ate.” Lucifer’s smirk widened. “Are you sure you want to find out?”
Hmmm. He did have a point.
And what better way to demonstrate that than acknowledge it wasn’t the only point Lucifer had in his favour. Before he could think the better of it, Alastor pressed himself against Lucifer, forcing him back against the table, arms trapping him in place, palms flat against the tabletop.
“Is that an offer to help?”
Given the way Lucifer looked at him, Alastor thought it almost certainly was. Lucifer’s eyes were full of heat. Anger, too, at the way he’d been manoeuvred. Trapped. They bored into Alastor’s own with an intensity the Radio Demon had never seen before; it was as though he were trying to eviscerate him through the sheer force of his gaze alone. Strip him bare. Perhaps even to the bone.
Fuck.
A bolt of lust shrieked through Alastor’s blood. The crack of splintering wood filled the air as his claws scraped across the table. His hips moved of their own accord, driving the aching length of his cock against the hard plane of Lucifer’s stomach as he ground shamelessly against him. The hitch in Lucifer’s breath was music to his ears, and he repeated the movement.
Again.
And again.
Over and over, until their heavy breathing was interspersed with the sound of pitiful moans. It took a moment before Alastor realised that the sounds were coming from him. Embarrassment clawed at his stomach, and yet, he couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stop the pathetic little groans that punctuated each exhale. Just like he couldn’t stop the clumsy drive of his hips against Lucifer. He was so consumed by need, he felt almost drunk with it.
A loud moan tore itself from Alastor’s throat as he felt fingers tangle in his hair. It was followed almost immediately by a yelp when the touch turned into a sharp, painful yank, his head pulled downwards until he was face-to-face with Lucifer, a hair’s breadth between them.
“Why should I help you?” Lucifer said, breath hot against Alastor’s lips.
Because he wanted it. Did there really need to be any other explanation? He wanted Lucifer. And Alastor always got what he wanted. Lucifer would give it to him. Either that, or he would simply take it.
A new plan began to form in his lust-addled mind.
It was not a good one.
His eyes narrowed, ever-present grin sharpening. He placed a hand upon Lucifer’s chest, fingers briefly caressing his waistcoat before fisting into the fabric and pulling upwards, forcing the King of Hell onto the tips of his toes.
“I could just take what I want,” he said with a lick of his lips.
The grin Alastor received in response was a surprise. As were the golden chains that snapped around Alastor’s wrists, pulling him down to his knees. They hit the floor with a loud thud, sending shockwaves up his legs, the pain cutting through the haze of lust like a knife.
Okay, perhaps that had been a misstep.
A sense of shame at being so easily bested washed over him. His gaze dropped to the floor, Alastor suddenly desperate to avoid Lucifer seeing any hint of it in his eyes, afraid of what reaction that would induce in him with the effects of the lust demon still pulling his strings.
As the pain began to dissipate, sparks began to crawl once more across his skin. Shaking, Alastor pulled at the chains that encircled his wrists, desperate to flee from both Lucifer and the images that had begun to circle around his mind like an erotic zoetrope. Himself, restrained with golden rope, a pair of gloved hands encircling his cock, ring glinting in the light; the flicker of chains around his wrists, pulled taught as he was fucked mercilessly from behind; a collar around his neck, grin forcibly stripped from his face as swallowed Lucifer down.
He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing heavily. But there was no reprieve. No escaping the torture.
“All you sinners are the same,” said Lucifer. Alastor felt the cold tip of his cane beneath his chin. His eyes snapped open as Lucifer forced his chin upwards to meet his gaze. “No manners.”
“Desperate to teach me some?” Alastor spat, sick with the thought of how much he wanted the answer to be yes.
He was fucked. Absolutely and utterly fucked. He knew with unblinking certainty that Lucifer could see it in his eyes, his face, in the way his fists trembled as he fought against his chains.
There was a pause.
“I propose a deal.”
Alastor baulked at the suggestion. He might have been half-mad with lust, but there was no way he was selling his soul to Lucifer. Not even for all the power in Hell (he'd already made a similar mistake once), let alone a quick fuck in the hotel kitchen.
“I think I’d prefer to take my chances with my own hands, thank you.”
Lucifer laughed. He crouched down before the tethered Radio Demon, a single finger replacing the cane beneath Alastor’s chin.
“I don’t want your soul,” he said.
“Then you’re not nearly as mercenary as the stories say. How disappointing.”
Lucifer ignored the jab, thumb stroking the curve of Alastor’s cheek, leaving a burning heat in its wake.
“I’ll help you. Cure you.” The caress became an iron grip around the demon’s jaw. “And in return, you will stop destroying my ducks.”
Alastor couldn’t prevent the laugh that bubbled up from his throat.
“That’s it?” he said between heavy breaths, incredulous. “That’s all you want from me?”
Lucifer grinned.
“That’s it.”
It was too good to be true. It had to be. There was a sting somewhere. There always was.
And yet, before Alastor could stop himself, he had begun to extend a shaking hand, the chains around his wrists melting into nothingness.
“It’s a deal.”