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As things so often do in Hell, it began with bloodlust.
Not of the violent variety, though Alastor is half-convinced he would settle for that too. No, this time around it was a bloodlust of a more… literal kind.
The setting was the hotel, Alastor’s personal quarters to be exact. The time was precisely 1:12 AM. Alastor knows because he remembers glancing at the clock just as those first drops of blood hit the air. The date was three weeks and four days ago, approximately three months after the failed attempt at extermination by Heaven. The players in this game were the Radio Demon and none other than the king of Hell himself, Lucifer Morningstar. The game was one of vicious jabs and mocking sneers and holding oneself back from physical violence, but here, in this moment, all bets were off. The very foundations of the game were about to change, and neither player knew it.
There was something in the way Lucifer had looked at him that night. It wasn’t with pity, per se, but it wasn’t exactly care. It was something in between, or maybe something on a different spectrum entirely. It didn’t matter, really. All that mattered was that it did something to Alastor, and he did not yet know what.
He barely remembered what led him to that moment. In all honesty, he didn’t remember much of the days that led to it. Be that as it may, he has no trouble recalling this. The way Lucifer had shed his coat and vest, rolled up his sleeves, and guided Alastor onto his own bed. The way the king had settled atop his hips and carefully, button by button, divested Alastor of his shirt. The narrowing of gold-tinted eyes and a whispered “fuck” as he settled his gaze on the weeping gash carving across Alastor’s chest.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Lucifer had asked.
“What would you have done if I had?” Alastor answered simply, his smile weak despite his half-hearted, dazed attempt at mockery. It came off less scathing than intended.
Lucifer shook his head, “I would have fixed it. Never would have let it get this bad. Now look at you. Are you even coherent?”
Alastor let out a breathless laugh at that, wincing at the pain raging in his ribs, “as coherent as I need to be, Your Majesty.”
Lucifer had rolled his eyes. He delicately traced the edges of the wound that Adam had so kindly left upon Alastor’s flesh with a single claw. Even just that touch left Alastor drawing in a gasping breath at the pain. Lucifer looked for all the world like he was gearing up to say something he knew he’d regret.
“I can’t continue if you’re in this much pain already,” he sighed, “so I’m only doing this once, but I’m going to give you some of my blood.”
Alastor had raised an eyebrow at that, “you want me to ingest your blood? Whatever for?”
“It has… pain killing properties. Among other things.”
Alastor smiled blankly at him.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know you’ve been wanting it anyway, cannibal. Just… don’t make me regret this, okay?”
Alastor rolled the idea around in his head. He had, in fact, been positively frothing at the mouth for a taste of angel blood. Not just any angel, either, but Lucifer himself. It was a bone-deep craving for a taste of divinity and power and snow white flesh between his teeth. Not that he would ever admit that aloud. Still, the prospect was too good to pass up.
“I cannot make any promises as to whether or not you’ll regret it, Your Majesty,” Alastor drawled, “but in the interest of pain control, I will accept the offering.”
Lucifer made a face, “pain control. Right.”
Alastor smiled warmly back, the picture of innocence.
The king seemed settled on it then. He pressed a claw into the flesh of his palm and drew downward, toward his wrist. The smell hit Alastor first, sweet and bright and heavy in the air, with a hint of something metallic and almost human about it. Lucifer turned his palm down, letting golden blood drip steadily onto Alastor’s face.
Lucifer yelped when Alastor snatched his wrist and yanked him forward just enough to press that palm to his lips.
It took everything in him, then, to hold back the moan of ecstasy that threatened to erupt from Alastor’s throat as his tongue came out to lap at the wound. He could not stop the way his eyes rolled back in his skull at those first few drops of blood on his taste buds. Alastor pressed Lucifer’s hand harder against his face, uncaring of the smear of blood across his chin as he sealed his lips over the wound and forcefully sucked as much blood out of it as he could.
It tasted sweet, like fresh honey and apples, spicy like chilis, and above all else, it tasted distinctly of home. Lucifer’s blood was bright, humid days with the sun beating down upon his shoulders. It was the comforting caress of a cool breeze on one’s cheek. It was the aroma of fresh beignets and bitter coffee. It was the lively atmosphere of Jackson Square, the sweet smell of magnolias in the spring, the sound of upbeat jazz on a warm evening. It was everything.
All at once, it was gone. Alastor was helpless to stop the groan of displeasure that left his lips. It took him a moment to come back to his senses. He belatedly realized that the pain in his chest was gone, replaced by a comforting warmth that seemed to dance across his skin and settle pleasantly in his bones. Alastor licked his lips absentmindedly as he met Lucifer’s eyes again, knowing well how he must have looked, golden blood smeared over his mouth and dripping off his chin.
Lucifer was giving him a look he couldn’t quite parse. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said the king was almost blushing, a honeyed color blooming high on his cheeks. It was hard to tell in the dim twilight of Alastor’s bedroom.
Lucifer inspected his palm, suddenly avoiding Alastor’s gaze as he said, “I- Uh… I’ve never seen anyone react to it like that before. I- I mean it tastes different for everyone. I once got told it tasted like cotton candy… Ha- can you believe that? Cotton candy…” He trailed off.
Lucifer looked at him again, “what- what did that even taste like to you?”
Alastor swallowed dryly, resolutely ignoring the intense displeasure he felt at the thought of anyone but himself drinking down the angel’s blood. He forced a cheerful smile onto his face and lied through his teeth.
“It tasted like blood!”
Lucifer looked puzzled, “it tasted like blood. Just… regular, mortal blood.”
Alastor cleared his throat and looked to the side. It was his turn to avoid Lucifer’s eyes.
“Indeed. Now, if you don’t mind, there is a gaping wound in my chest that is going to kill me if nothing is done about it.”
The king coughed, as if only just then becoming acutely aware of his surroundings.
“Right! Right. Let’s get down to business then.”
He parted Alastor’s flesh gently, with both hands. It didn’t hurt.
Alastor watched the king as he worked, fascinated and disturbed in equal measure by the way Lucifer seemed to pull his skin and muscle apart with ease to get to the root of the problem. He took great care in his work, golden magic glowing at his fingertips as he separated the bright white remnants of Adam’s presence from the gash. The sensation wasn’t nothing exactly, it just wasn’t pain. It was warm and tingly, almost pleasant. Alastor watched in awe as Lucifer seemed to manipulate his very cells, arranging tissue and muscle and skin as one would softened clay. He sculpted Alastor’s flesh with the tenderness of an artist working on a beloved piece.
Time passed in a haze, at times too fast to comprehend, in other moments too slow to escape. Alastor could not have guessed how long the whole ordeal had taken when Lucifer finally finished, tracing the pad of his finger along the finished product.
A single scar, jagged and silvery, warped the skin of Alastor’s chest. It looked no more out of place than any of the other numerous scars that littered Alastor’s body, as if it had simply always been there.
Lucifer hummed, seemingly lost in thought. For several minutes, neither man said a word. Lucifer slowly, cautiously, met Alastor’s eyes. His gaze was intense, searching. Whatever he found in Alastor’s expression was evidently not something he was willing to share.
Lucifer coughed, looking away as he climbed off of Alastor and left the man lying in his bed staring at the ceiling.
“I’m gonna go now. Glad you’re not dead and all. Don’t uh… don’t strain yourself too much, yeah? That kind of healing can take a lot out of you.”
Alastor rolled onto his side, back facing the king. His eyes remained wide open, smile strained at the corners.
He heard the unmistakable sound of Lucifer disappearing through a portal.
Despite himself, Alastor turned back, just to check, and found that the king was gone.
The light of day brought with it a whole new set of issues. There had been no chance of sleep the night before. Not when Alastor’s mouth still tasted of Lucifer’s blood and his brain replayed every single moment of their encounter like a broken record. It lingered especially upon the memories of Lucifer’s strange expressions and the sensations of his hands on Alastor’s chest.
It was the beginning of a nightmare.
It was the first time his cock would strain in his pants as he thought of Lucifer.
It was the first time Alastor would groan and keep his hands well above his waist, unwilling to touch himself regardless of how sorely he needed it.
The morning, upon its arrival, had made it quite clear to Alastor that his dynamic with Lucifer had undeniably, irrevocably changed. The days following would cement that truth. Their words no longer held malice, and their teasing had changed from vicious to something resembling playful. Their arguments transitioned smoothly into banter. Annoyed glares from across the room turned into faces far too close together and the glitter of challenge in their stares.
Worst of all, Alastor’s very body had betrayed him. Every argument with Lucifer left him reeling, disappearing into the shadows to catch his breath as soon as it wouldn’t make him seem like the loser. Every accidental brush of skin on skin lit him on fire. When Lucifer wasn’t looking, Alastor’s traitorous eyes lingered on the shape of him, all elegant lines and overwhelming power tightly packed into lithe muscles. It was the second most infuriating thing Alastor had ever experienced. The first was that without fail, every single day, sometimes multiple times a day, his blood would rush south and stay there, cock throbbing in his slacks.
Alastor dared not touch it. But that did not stop his mind from racing. It did not stop his thoughts from drifting back to that night. It did not stop his imagination from conjuring up brand new scenarios wherein he might get another taste of that blood, another hand on his skin.
Three weeks and four days led him to this moment. Alastor sits awake in his bed, claws digging into crimson sheets. His dream had been all pale skin and glowing magic and that unforgettable taste, and it left him panting into the air as he woke with a start. Alastor almost wants to cry. His cock is hard, weeping in his boxers, the only thing he is wearing. His ears and tail twitch uncomfortably as he shifts into a kneeling position, throwing the comforter away from his overheated body.
Alastor stares down at the evidence of his arousal. Distantly, his mind wanders again to just how it might feel to have Lucifer’s hands on him again. Caressing, squeezing, bruising, claiming. Alastor’s cock twitches. He wants to scream.
He breathes harshly through his nose, trying and failing to clear away the image of Lucifer above him, beneath him, all encompassing and tasting of everything he has ever craved.
“Fuck,” Alastor breathes.
He leans forward, pressing his sweaty forehead to the mattress, fists clenched in the sheets by his head. A wave of arousal washes over him, scorching hot and overwhelming, as he pictures Lucifer’s fingers on his face, against his throat, around his cock, inside him.
Alastor moans openly, wantonly.
He whimpers, breath dampening the fabric beneath his open mouth.
He is near-delirious with need as he speaks into the otherwise silent room.
“Please,” he rasps, “please end this torture.”
He’s rambling now, unable to stop the flow of words hissed between his teeth.
“Please… I probably deserve it but I cannot take it any longer. I need it. I need you. Just make it stop, I do not care how.”
Alastor feels the frustrated tear slip down his cheek.
“Let me taste you again… Lucifer...”
“Alastor?”
Alastor’s eyes fly open. He sits up suddenly, dizzying himself in his haste.
Lucifer stands at the foot of his bed, like a glowing beacon in the dark of his room, a golden blush gracing his cheeks.
Alastor is not entirely convinced he isn’t hallucinating.
“I heard your prayer,” Lucifer says quietly.
“My… prayer?” Alastor questions, voice cracking over the syllables.
Lucifer steps closer, and Alastor’s eyes flit down to take in the king’s state of undress. He wears only a pair of loose white linen pants, hung low on his hips. Alastor watches him, a strange mix of caution and desperation swirling in his chest, as he joins Alastor on the bed, on his knees so he looks down at Alastor’s pathetic form.
Lucifer speaks lowly, lightly brushing Alastor’s cheek with his fingers. Alastor’s eyes flutter shut and he doesn’t even notice the way he leans into the contact.
“I can usually ignore them… prayers, I mean. But yours was…” he pauses, looking for the right word, “intense.”
Alastor looks up at him with half-lidded eyes, “I wasn’t praying.”
Lucifer chokes briefly, shaking his head to regain his composure, “you- you were. Maybe you didn’t mean to but I heard every word.”
The king grabs one of Alastor’s hands as he sits back on his heels, prying his fingers away from the wrinkled sheets. Alastor looks from Lucifer’s face to their joined hands as he mulls over his words, unbearable heat rushing to his face as he remembers exactly what he had said.
“Well then,” Alastor chokes out, fear rising unbidden in his throat, “what now?”
Lucifer pulls him forward, maneuvers him so Alastor is straddling his lap and staring wide-eyed at Lucifer’s determined face. He takes his hand off Alastor’s cheek and brings it to his nape, tilting his own head to the side to expose more skin as he brings Alastor’s face to his neck. The smell alone, so close to Lucifer’s pulse, is enough to make Alastor’s cock twitch.
Lucifer’s voice is barely audible as he says, “drink.”
Alastor groans. He grips Lucifer’s shoulders, claws breaking skin, as he inhales the scent of him one more time and then bites down hard into the delicate skin of Lucifer’s neck.
Distantly, he hears Lucifer’s responding gasp, but it’s too far away now to matter. Nothing matters. Not now that Lucifer’s sweet golden blood is pouring down his throat. Alastor gulps it down like it’s the first taste of water he’s had in months. He drowns himself in the taste of New Orleans summers and sweet iced tea and sweet nothings whispered in French creole in the dead of night. Pleasure skips across his skin, lights every single nerve along the way. Alastor can hear himself moaning desperately, but nothing save for a second death could tear him away from Lucifer’s neck right now. Perhaps not even that.
Alastor feels his cock throb in his boxers, feels the intensity of it all, lightning dancing down his spine. He hears himself whine into Lucifer’s flesh and all at once these sensations crash down upon him. His hips jerk of their own volition, static rings in his ears, stars blink in and out of existence behind Alastor’s eyelids. His cock pulses and warm cum floods his boxers.
Alastor detaches himself from Lucifer’s neck, struggling to catch his breath. It takes several moments to come back to himself, and through it all Lucifer holds him close, arms wrapped around him, chest to chest. His fingers glide idly up and down Alastor’s spine, a welcome anchor to reality.
Alastor leans back, suddenly aware of what just transpired. He makes an aborted, strangled noise of embarrassment and tries to scramble away. Lucifer does not let him. Small as he may be, the king of Hell’s hidden divine strength shows itself now in the way he holds Alastor steadfastly in his lap.
“Did you-?”
Alastor tries to jerk away again, but it doesn’t matter because Lucifer knows and still isn’t letting him go.
“Fuck,” the king whispers. He grabs Alastor’s jaw in a bruising grip and forces the demon to look at him. His eyes are heavy lidded, his mouth parted around his breaths, blood drying on his marred skin.
“What does it taste like to you?”
Alastor swallows.
“I already to-”
Lucifer cuts him off, “I don’t believe you. Tell me the truth.”
His eyes are darting between Alastor’s eyes and his lips, undoubtedly dripping with more of that golden nectar. Alastor sucks in a breath.
“It tastes like- like home. My home. On Earth.”
Lucifer pulls him down into a kiss. Alastor gasps sharply, eyes closing as he feels blood smear between their lips. Lucifer seems intent on licking every drop of blood from his mouth, as if he himself could experience the ecstasy of the flavor Alastor experienced. The kiss grows more heated with every second. Alastor brings his hands to cup Lucifer’s face and presses ever-closer, but try as he might he cannot meld his very atoms with Lucifer’s own. All he can do is moan at the slide of lips and tongues and ten claws scraping down his back.
Lucifer pulls away first, leaving Alastor to chase his lips before he fully realizes what he’s doing.
Lucifer’s pupils are blown wide, his face is a bright, warm gold in the places where his blush has pooled, his lips are swollen and shiny. It seems he succeeded in his mission to lick away every drop of blood because there appears to be none left between the two.
Alastor whimpers at the sight, all semblance of self-control gone even before Lucifer had shown up in his room.
Lucifer’s throat moves as he swallows, “what do you need?”
“You,” Alastor says quickly, desperately.
“You have me.”
Alastor makes a frustrated noise, “more of you. Anything. Whatever you’ll give me. Please.”
Lucifer breathes out slowly before leaning them both onto the bed. Alastor’s back hits the sheets and he looks up at Lucifer, his starving gaze raking over every inch of skin he can see. The angel seems to be doing the same when his eyes finally land on Alastor’s boxers, a large wet patch in the front of them, and he lets out a quiet groan.
Lucifer peels the fabric off of him, leaving Alastor to shiver as his cum-soaked, half-hard cock hits the air. Lucifer looks meaningfully at him as he lowers his head to kiss Alastor’s hips, swirling his forked tongue against his heated skin. He sucks hard just over the sharp bone and Alastor cannot bite his lip hard enough to stop the whine that echoes off the walls.
Lucifer does it again. And again. Sucking little bruises and bites into the sensitive skin of Alastor’s hips and inner thighs. Distantly, Alastor wonders if this is all he’ll get, and thinks pathetically to himself that he will cherish every mark like precious gems. He would preserve them all if he could, the mark of Lucifer’s presence etched permanently in his skin.
Lucifer sits up, admiring his work as he presses his thumbs into those bruises. It sends pleasant little sparks of pain jumping from nerve to nerve. Alastor writhes in his grasp, anticipation bouncing erratically around the insides of his skull.
“You sound so good, Alastor. Will you make more noises for me? Please?”
Alastor chews his lip until it bleeds, nodding dumbly at the request.
Lucifer seems pleased by that as he leans into Alastor’s space. He licks the dribbling blood from Alastor’s chin and lips and off the sharp points of his teeth, moaning quietly like sinner blood could ever hope to compare to the rapture that flows through Lucifer’s veins. Yet all the same, Lucifer closes his eyes in quiet reverence at the taste.
Suddenly, the king is looking at him with wide, searching eyes. It shocks a grunt out of Alastor, but he does not back away.
“I want to be inside you,” Lucifer says, piercing gaze holding Alastor hostage, unable to look away.
As soon as he processes the thought, Alastor is nodding vigorously. The very notion of Lucifer having his way with him is one that has his cock once again at full, aching hardness.
“Oh, god… Please, Lucifer. My king. I need it.”
Lucifer shudders, “I never thought I’d see you beg, Alastor. It’s a good look on you.”
Alastor holds his tongue, the urge to reply with something dry and offended bullying at the backs of his teeth. More pressing than that urge is the heady, intoxicating want twitching restlessly in every muscle.
With all the sincerity a demon like him can muster, Alastor says, “if it gets you inside me, my king, I will pray and beg as long and loud as you desire.”
Lucifer outright moans at that, a rumbling, growled thing that vibrates his chest so that Alastor can feel it against him. The king drifts downward, leaving evidence of himself in the form of nips and suckled bruises in the wake of his descent. Alastor, in the light of Lucifer’s request, makes no effort to hold back any of the carnal moans that claw their way out of his throat.
Lucifer, now settled comfortably between Alastor’s thighs, produces something from behind him.
The sight of his own soaked boxers, which he thought discarded, dangling from Lucifer’s hand brings forth a slew of embarrassing emotions to the forefront of Alastor’s mind. Some sickening combination of humiliation and arousal settles low in his gut and stays there as he watches his king dip his hand into the mess in those boxers.
His hand comes out dripping, slick with Alastor’s cum. Vaguely, he wonders if Lucifer intends to taste it. He does not have to wait long to find out.
Alastor lets out a humiliating yelp when Lucifer dips his cum covered fingers down between his legs and presses one, claws retracted, against his hole.
Alastor shuts his eyes tightly against the intensity of Lucifer’s stare, intently watching for every minute change in expression and body language as he circles that hole. Slowly but surely, Alastor can feel his body relaxing into the sensation. Before he knows it Lucifer is pushing a finger inside up to the third knuckle.
Alastor gasps. Even just that mild stretch hits him like a stray bullet and has him clenching tight around Lucifer’s finger. With his unoccupied hand, Lucifer holds Alastor’s thigh against himself, kissing the skin of his knee gently.
“Shhhh,” he whispers, “relax, pet.”
Alastor whines at the nickname, unable to conjure any biting comments or outright rejections. Truthfully, it makes his heart squeeze in his chest and metaphorical flames lick deliciously against his skin. The tender touches and gentle movement of Lucifer’s finger inside him eventually work their magic. Alastor heaves a relieved sigh.
With that, Lucifer pushes a second finger inside. Alastor hums softly, allows himself the freedom of getting used to the feeling of it. Lucifer scissors and stretches and presses the curious pads of his fingers up until he finds what he’s looking for.
Alastor’s back arches high off the bed, his hips jerk, rolling down onto Lucifer’s hand to seek out more of that spine-tingling sensation. He releases an obscene moan into the air, aware, distantly, of Lucifer watching him. He can feel it, almost tangibly. Like a knife against his skin, sharp and eager and just light enough not to cut no matter how badly he wants it to.
A third finger enters him and Alastor cannot, will not control the movement of his hips. He rocks desperately against those long, slim fingers that press so nicely into his prostate. It is glorious, it is devastating, it is rapturous, and it is not enough. Alastor whines, hips moving to seek out more, more pressure, more stretch, as tears gather in the corners of his eyes.
Lucifer removes his hand and wipes it off on Alastor’s thigh. Alastor whimpers at the loss. Lucifer leans up, pressing a gentle kiss to Alastor’s lips before he licks up the tears slipping down his cheeks.
“I’m here, pet. I’m not going anywhere.”
Alastor grabs his face in both hands, digs his fingers into blond hair just to mess it up.
“Hear this, my king. I may not have intended a prayer earlier, but I do now. Fuck me. I need you now or I fear I may lose my mind.”
Lucifer looks at him with something like awe, his eyes faintly glowing golden with every word spoken.
He snaps his fingers and vanishes what little clothing he is wearing. He then positions himself so that the head of his cock is pressed just barely against Alastor’s hole. He looks down at Alastor, uncertainty written all over his face.
“I won’t be able to hold myself back.”
Alastor smiles at him, “promise?”
Lucifer shivers, “you’re going to be the death of me.”
There is a retort on the tip of Alastor's tongue, but it is lost in the guttural scream that tears through him as Lucifer pushes his cock all the way inside in one devastating thrust. It fits snugly, like all of Alastor’s life and afterlife was just a prelude to the moment the king of Hell would snap his hips brutally to fill up the space inside. There is no grace period, no waiting for Alastor to adjust; it seems that Lucifer’s patience has eroded entirely, leaving behind a monstrous need to thoroughly ruin Alastor’s body.
Ruin indeed.
Alastor’s hands scramble for purchase in the sheets, clawing and rending apart the fabric. His entire body moves with the force of each thrust, faster and harder than a mere mortal soul could ever hope to manage. His cries mix beautifully with Lucifer’s near-delirious moans. A blasphemous hymn echoes off the walls of his bedroom, played to the tune of skin hitting skin and the filthy, wet sound of Lucifer’s cock bottoming out repeatedly in Alastor’s cum slicked hole.
Alastor wraps his legs around Lucifer tightly, a hold just as possessive as Lucifer’s bruising grip on his waist. Every single thrust aims to tear Alastor apart at the seams, hits his prostate with deadly accuracy. The pleasure roars through him in waves, threatening to separate soul from flesh, and yet miraculously Alastor remains in his mortal trappings even as Lucifer’s thrusts speed up.
“H-ah- Lucifer!”
Lucifer hisses, growing sloppy in his movements, chasing his high.
“Lucifer! Inside. Please, please please please please, my king.”
Lucifer growls and leans down to bite hard into Alastor’s pectoral, just over his scar, as he ruts animalistically into Alastor’s hole. Alastor wails and, for the second time that night, cums without having ever touched his cock. Ropes of pearlescent cum splatter against Lucifer’s abdomen and Alastor’s chest. His walls tighten rhythmically around Lucifer’s rutting cock. That must be the thing to push the king over the precipice, because Alastor can feel him throb inside. Scalding cum pours forth as Lucifer buries himself as deep as he can. Alastor moans weakly, cock twitching against his stomach. The sheer amount of it is obscene, flooding Alastor’s insides and threatening to leak around the sides of Lucifer’s spent cock.
Lucifer collapses gracelessly on top of him. Gingerly, Alastor untangles his legs and instead wraps his arms around Lucifer. He buries a hand in his hair, the other pressed possessively into the small of his back.
Time, once again, seems a myth in the moments it takes for them to come down. But even if perception denies it, time will surely pass anyway. Eventually their breaths even out, their minds remain somewhere floaty and warm, and Lucifer peels himself reluctantly away from Alastor’s chest.
He pulls his softened cock out of Alastor’s hole, which twitches weakly at the loss. Warm cum leaks down into the sheets, even as Alastor tries to hold it all inside.
Lucifer sighs, a contented thing but tinged with sorrow, as if saddened that the brief moment has escaped them.
“You’re a mess, Alastor. Let me clean you up,” he says, fingertips glowing as he prepares to conjure something.
Alastor slaps his hand away.
“No,” he snaps.
Lucifer’s eyes widen at that, “you… don’t want to clean up?”
“Try it and I’ll bite you.”
Lucifer chuckles, a genuine, light-hearted laugh, “interesting that you think that would stop me, but I’ll concede,” he pauses then, a furious amber blush taking over his face, “did- did you want to keep it inside?”
Alastor glares at him, choosing to answer with his silence.
Lucifer groans, “I really meant it when I said you’d be the death of me.”
He conjures up something else, not a washcloth, nor a towel, but a simple golden plug with a flared base. Alastor stares at it hungrily. Slowly, he nods his consent.
He whines as Lucifer scoops up as much of the escaped cum as he can and pushes it back into his hole with two fingers. He sighs, practically purrs, when Lucifer presses the plug inside to trap all of that cum within him.
Alastor lunges forward and yanks Lucifer by the arm down onto the bed. He wraps himself tightly around the angel, creating a tangle of limbs between them. Lucifer does not resist. He in turn wraps his arms around Alastor, presses close, creates as much contact between their skin as he can.
Alastor breathes in the scent of him, Lucifer’s distinct spiced-apple aroma mingling with the smell of sex. It settles him, grounds him in this moment. Lucifer snuggles into his chest.
“Do you regret it?” Alastor asks sleepily.
Lucifer dares to pull away just enough to look him in the eye, eliciting a grunt of complaint from Alastor.
“What?”
Alastor hums, “giving me your blood. You told me not to make you regret it,” he clarifies, “so? Do you?”
Lucifer smirks, “do you?”
Alastor makes a face, “what an absurd notion.”
“There’s your answer.”
Alastor pulls Lucifer back to his chest just so the angel won’t see the red rising to his cheeks.
Still, he cannot let Lucifer have the final word.
“You are mine now, angel. I do not share.”
Lucifer stifles a laugh into his chest, “aren’t I the one that defiled you? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“No,” Alastor says simply, “I would hardly call it so when you obeyed my every whim and desire. I simply took what was mine to begin with.”
Lucifer graciously does not mention all the begging.
“Okay then, Alastor. I’m yours. No sharing.”
Good.