Wish Upon a Morningstar

by RoyalKareem

Summary:

It was meant to be a simple festival—just a recurring event that happened every year or so. Nothing impressive enough to warrant special treatment. But, of course, since Lucifer would be attending, Paimon was going all out—when has he ever done otherwise? Even so, things were supposed to go smoothly, but this was Lucifer we're talking about, and his bad luck was legendary.

When has anything ever gone normally in his eternal life?

Chapter 1: Looming Shadows

While he and Alastor were partners, they didn’t always sleep together—as in sleepovers of course, not the other meaning—those moments were rare. More often, it happened when Lucifer wasn’t at his best, and Alastor would essentially stay by his side as if on guard duty. But it had been another week since the meeting with Ozzie, and Alastor had mentioned missing his own bed. And who was Lucifer to hold him back?

Apparently, though, the night terrors had been lying in wait. It was as if the lurking darkness had patiently bided its time, waiting for the shadow master to leave so they could finally prey on the light the moment the fallen archangel let his guard down, waiting for sleep to come.

—Frankly, another nightmare about Heaven seemed almost inevitable.

This time, however, they weren’t just threatening—they were coming for his very soul. They wanted everything: to take Charlie, Alastor, or maybe both for all he knows.

Either way, Lucifer would be condemned to spend eternity never seeing at least one of them ever again.

The choice should have been simple, right? A life is always too precious to lost. Whether it was his partner’s or someone else’s… he kept telling himself there was no bias here, no preference—he was the King of Hell after all, he was meant to lead, to save the one in the worst condition. 

But when Adam’s blade pressed against his daughter’s throat, and Lute held Alastor at the edge of oblivion, it all unraveled.

“Who will you pick, little King?" Their voices sang, mockery dripping with venom. “Your baby girl… or your dear, twisted lover?”

“You can’t save them both… Who will you sacrifice?”

Adam’s sneer cut deep, and Lucifer’s voice cracked with terror. “A-Adam, buddy, let’s talk this through, yeah? Take me instead. Take me!” he pleaded, a pitiful echo of the King he used to be, as the memory of Lilith’s wisdom about the art of negotiation clawed its way back to him.

But his pleas were met with cruel laughter. “Wrong answer, bud,” Adam snarled, his blade tightening against Charlie’s neck. “Say goodbye~!”

Before Lucifer could even decide, both blades flashed—Charlie’s and Alastor’s heads fell, rolling toward him in a sickening, endless spiral. Their faces contorted in agony as their final breaths slipped away. Crimson soon pooled at his feet, spreading like a curse through the air.

Lucifer screamed.

It was an agonized, primal scream that ripped through dimensions, shaking Hell itself—and probably had reached the first layer of Heaven’s atmosphere if not more. When he jolted awake, his raw angelic form surged to the surface, wings outstretched in a violent fury, his old halo that's split to two had fractured further with anguish.

That fallen archangel stood frozen, horror dawning in his chest as he realized the form he had let slip. His nightmare-fueled panic had triggered something far more terrifying: a form with more eyes than any he had shown before. These were eyes that burned with celestial fire, each one radiating a light so pure and blinding that it could reduce any lesser creature to ash. His wings stretched out in a massive arc, shimmering with divine energy that twisted and pulsed like an uncontrollable storm.

He could feel the sheer magnitude of it. This form—the true angelic terror—was a sight not meant for anyone lesser than his rank. He had become something beyond recognition, a blinding force of wrath that no one in Hell, not even the strongest demons, could survive witnessing. Any creature unworthy would be obliterated, blinded by his radiant glory.

Thank fuck no one is around.

His mind raced. When had this last happened? Even during his fall, when Heaven itself cast him down in flames, he hadn’t lost control like this—of course, he could harm Lilith if that happened. The horror of that realization twisted his gut. All this because of a nightmare? No. It wasn’t just any nightmare. It was them—Charlie, Alastor—their deaths, the helplessness.

But none of that mattered now. His priority was clear: control. He had to take back control of himself before someone saw… before anyone could be destroyed just by being near him.

His wings, glowing with that blinding light, snapped inward, folding tightly around his trembling form like a cage. He pressed them as close to his body as possible, trying to contain the overwhelming energy that leaked from him. The burning light flickered, casting strange shadows across the room, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

"Calm down, Sammael," he whispered to himself, reverting to the name he hadn’t spoken in eons. His voice cracked with desperation. "Remember… just breathe."

He shut his eyes, his focus sharpening like a blade. With great effort, he willed the raging power inside him to recede. His body trembled, his chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven breaths, every inhale and exhale a battle to rein in his raw celestial essence. The light around him dimmed slowly, painfully.

He isolated the room—sealed it from the rest of Hell. No one could come close. No one could see this. The consequences would be catastrophic. It felt like an eternity, every second a war against his own form, but after what felt like an unbearable struggle, the light began to fade. His wings retracted, folding into the compact, familiar vessel he had grown accustomed to.

The panic subsided, leaving him shaky, exhausted, but intact. It had taken him five agonizing minutes to regain full control, but those five minutes felt like they could have cost him the world—it probably would have.

Sighing in relief, Lucifer finally let go of the isolation spell. Almost immediately, the door slammed open, revealing his girls and partner, rushing inside as if they had been holding their breath. Emily was the first to step into the room, likely because she insisted on it, having sensed the immense holy power that had seeped through, despite the isolation.

"Mr. Morningstar? Are you here? Are you okay?" Her voice, filled with concern, cut through the darkness of the room, though she didn’t address him as ‘Dad’ this time. The room was pitch black until the door opened, and even then, the light from outside barely reached the bed. It was difficult to locate Lucifer amidst the shadows.

"Yes, I'm here. I'm okay," Lucifer responded, his voice a bit shaky as he fumbled to turn on the light. He winced when he saw the state of the room—furniture overturned, curtains shredded, and scorch marks on the walls from his uncontrolled power.

“Yikes, this place is trashed.” Vaggie’s comment was blunt as she and the others entered the room, after Emily signaled it was safe.

“Yeah, uh... things happened,” Lucifer muttered sheepishly, quickly replacing his torn pajamas with a proper outfit. He wasn’t about to stand around barely clothed in front of his children.

“What happened exactly?” Charlie’s voice was filled with worry, her brows furrowed in a way that demanded the truth. Lucifer sighed, knowing he had promised her not to hide things unless absolutely necessary.

“A nightmare rattled me enough to accidentally expose my angelic form.” Admitting it felt heavy, but he figured he owed them that much honesty. He drew a clear line though, “Don’t ask what it was about. please...” The distress was clear in his voice as he pressed a palm over his eyes.

“It’ll be fine. I’d appreciate it if we don’t talk about this... Though, is everything okay outside?” Lucifer asked, peeking through the gap of his fingers.

"Um, yes, Dad. Everyone’s safe, if that’s what you’re asking..." Charlie reassured him, though she didn’t mention the damage to the hotel that Alastor was currently handling with his shadows. 

It was obvious she was troubled by her father’s request for no further questions, but Alastor, as always, stepped in before she could push further. “Why, yes. I reckon it was you who kept most of the damage contained to this room?” Alastor stated rather than questioned, summoning one of his cardigans and draping it over Lucifer with gentlemanly grace. 

“Though I must say, that was quite a screech—loud enough for Hell to hear. Fascinating, as it is fitting~!”

Lucifer chuckled softly, appreciating Alastor’s attempt to lighten the mood. It worked, easing the tension that had gripped his mind.

“A destructive screech indeed. Like a deranged rooster impatiently greeting the morning star.”

“Ah, but why would you compare yourself to the Lord of Lust?” Alastor quipped with glee, while Lucifer responded with fondness in return.

“Well, he is family, no?”

“Ah, yes, sire~ It appears you also share the same preference for taking a co-worker as a special partner?” Alastor teased, leaning in to whisper the remark into Lucifer’s ear, intending to draw a blush from his partner.

But instead, the devil’s expression tightened. “Shall we get ready for breakfast?” he said almost too fast to the girls, forcing a smile. “‘—Sorry, just... a bit sensitive about that topic right now.’” He followed up with his partner via mindlink.

Alastor, satisfied that at least he’s informed about it, silently agreed with the devil and allowed Whispie to lead the others out of the room. Afterward, he placed a hand gently on Lucifer’s cheek, noticing how cold his partner's skin felt—colder than usual but it wasn’t surprising, nor was it news. If anything, the fact that the devil’s wings seemed less unruly now, more settled though not yet tucked in, is a good news.

Lucifer leaned into the touch, appreciative of the silent gesture and the calm it brought him. A soft sigh of relief escaped his lips as he savored the familiarity.

"Is it because of Paimon?" Alastor asked quietly, breaking the silence after giving Lucifer a moment to center himself.

"Paimon?" Lucifer echoed, his brow furrowing in mild confusion.

“Yes, The Blood Moon Festival with the meteor showers is tonight. I imagine that's something he'd love to flaunt—and something that might stress you out. Though, from the looks of it, you don't even remember,” Alastor observed, still curious as to what might have triggered Lucifer’s outburst. The devil hadn’t mentioned it specifically, but his mind was still searching for answers.

Lucifer thought it over for a moment. “Actually... maybe,” he admitted. “Not the content of the nightmare exactly, but I can see how Paimon’s flair played a part.”

The pressures of prestige, maintaining a perfect image, the constant demand to be flawless—those stresses certainly added up when Paimon was involved. Though the nightmare itself wasn’t directly linked to him, it wasn’t lost on Lucifer that these expectations could've triggered the appearance of his worst fears. Heaven as the antagonist of his dreams was nothing new, but Charlie and Alastor appearing together, in the same nightmare, was.

Normally, it would be Lilith and Charlie, or just Alastor, and it was always a haunting replay of the past. This time, though, it felt different. It hit deeper because unlike Lilith, who had betrayed him, Alastor hadn't. And Charlie—Charlie had been everything to him from the day she was born. While he might have chosen Charlie in the end, it’s easy to imagine him taking too long to respond, much like what happened in his nightmare.

Perhaps it was Paimon’s influence on his subconscious fear of how the denizens would perceive his new family that created that new warped scenario in his head. 

Though, if that’s far-fetched, then honestly, he doesn’t know what could have caused it…

‘Shit,’ Lucifer felt his thoughts spiraling again, the weight of it all creeping back.

"Let's head to breakfast," he said abruptly, cutting himself off before his mind could drown him again.

Thankfully, Alastor was easy to comply. The two made their way downstairs, walking—since Lucifer insisted that he needed to fix everything he had accidentally destroyed during his moment of weakness. The Devil also had to absorb all the lingering angelic energy along the way to ensure it wouldn’t weaken or, worse, harm any of the residents by accident.

“By the way,” The King glanced at his partner, who walked beside him now, voice filling the uncomfortable silence between them. “Have you decided if you’re going with me?” 

The Overlord still hadn’t confirmed whether he planned to attend. The invitation was for Lucifer alone this time, but he had generously extended it to Alastor as well. After all, if The Devil requested it, Paimon would likely build an entire new castle overnight, so adding another guest was hardly an issue.

Lucifer wasn’t particularly excited at the prospect of spending hours around the Ars Goetians, especially not all alone. If that happened, he’d be stuck clinging to Stolas, the only noble who didn’t figuratively—or even literally, in the case of some extremists—lick his boots. The mere thought made the devil shudder. 

‘Heavenly Father, grant me patience to survive today…’

Meanwhile, Alastor mulled it over. There wasn’t much in the way of Overlord activity for him today. The hotel didn’t have any pressing matters that he couldn’t cancel either. So, maybe attending could be fun—events like these always turned out interesting, after all! 

No, he wasn’t going just because he was worried about Lucifer after what happened earlier. Not at all. That would be ridiculous since the devil was clearly back to his normal self. There is absolutely no reason for his concern—none.

And so, he shrugged, “I’m rather bored today, so I suppose I could escort you, sire,” Alastor said with a grin. Lucifer’s smile instantly brightened, relief clear on his face.

“Neat! I wasn’t looking forward to being stalked by oversized, shapeshifting lizard-owls all day.” The devil rolled his eyes playfully, earning a chuckle from Alastor.

“You really need to work on your pet name for him.”

“Ew, no. Why waste energy on that?”

As their banter continued, the tension from earlier had fully dissipated, replaced by the usual playful back-and-forth that only they shared. With a smirk tugging at his lips, Lucifer nudged Alastor, and the two descended the final steps toward the dining room.

The scent of freshly prepared food wafted through the air, courtesy of Niffty, who had outdone herself yet again. Plates were already neatly arranged as the rest of the household gathered around the table, chattering softly.

Lucifer and Alastor took their seats among them. Despite the chaos earlier, no one questioned what had transpired. From the sharp gaze Vaggie kept on everyone, it was clear she had ensured the silence, and the blond couldn't help but feel a swell of pride—his soon-to-be daughter-in-law was always reliable.

As Hell’s signature screams filtered through the windows, echoing in the background like a twisted symphony, the familiarity of it all brought a strange sense of calm to Lucifer’s mind, settling over their peaceful reprieve like an anchor in the storm.

Chapter 2: A Court of Thorns and Masks

Today's event would be held at one of the Ars Goetia manors in the Wrath Ring, though the owner of the manor itself wouldn’t be the host or the star of the show. Those roles would fall squarely on the King and Prince of the Ars Goetia of the Pride Ring: Paimon and Stolas.

Stolas’s appearance was expected, given that hosting the Blood Moon Festival was part of his royal duties. His father, Paimon, however, had no obligation to attend, let alone turn the occasion into a grand spectacle. Lucifer had been the cause of that.

It all started when Lucifer offhandedly mentioned to Paimon how he’d love to see the meteor shower next time it came around. Paimon, eager to please his beloved master, took the comment to heart, turning the simple festival into a much more extravagant event to welcome Lucifer. 

As a result, Lucifer couldn’t back out of this one—not now that he had gotten to know Stolas better and realized his careless quip had likely made the young prince’s workload much heavier.

Lucifer even planned to find a moment to apologize or make it up to Stolas later, whenever he got the chance.

Other than that, there’s also another thing on the devil’s mind. 

He had decided, somewhat impulsively, to have a personal chat with Satan—not a business discussion for once. That nightmare… It had gotten him thinking. And Satan was one of the two Sins who had successfully built a family, the other being Leviathan. Which, judging by how their sons turned out— Damien is a polite kid, despite his brash actions, while Seviathan? Well, that little bastard broke Charlie’s precious heart once upon a time—Satan seemed like the better family man to talk to. 

Besides, Levi still hadn’t warmed up to the idea of Alastor being Lucifer’s consort instead of the Queen, so… yeah, any personal conversation with him could wait.

“It never ceases to amaze me how you can go from paint-covered chaos to this, Your Majesty. Like, seriously, can I call you Daddy too? Smiles definitely won’t,” Angel quipped from his sprawl on the couch, sucking on a lollipop with far too much suggestion, his eyes lazily dragging up and down Lucifer’s semi-formal attire. The spider demon wasn’t shy about making his innuendos painfully obvious.

Lucifer’s lips curled into a smirk. “Normally, I’d play along with that, bud, but I’m a loyal man and dressed like one as well~ Now, if you’re thinking of being my son, and a toddler at that, then maybe I’d consider it.” Though, he did send a flirtatious wink back at the demon, just to stay on brand.

“Aww, no fun—” Angel’s flirty pout was cut short by a sharp shriek when a heavy package with his name on it slammed into his back with a resounding thud.

Whispie, hovering in the shadows, let out a gleeful cackle as Angel groaned dramatically, sprawled under the weight of the box. Emerging from the dim corner like a phantom, Alastor twirled his mic with a flourish before using it to lift Angel’s chin, his crazed dials spinning in delight. His demonic cosmetic appearance flickered to life, eyes glowing as his predatory smile widened. “Didn’t your mama teach you not to touch what doesn’t belong to you, dear boy? Or should I teach you... and have you call me father while we’re at it?”

Lucifer snorted, unable to suppress his amusement. “Spare him, ‘Smiles.’ As hot as your possessiveness is, we’re gonna be late if you start terrorizing him now.”

"Well, isn’t that unfortunate?” Alastor's voice dripped with mischief, the gleam in his eyes revealing how much he enjoyed unsettling the smaller demons. Though, his words to Angel were only half-joking, much to his own unsettling realization—since when had this possessiveness started brewing, he wasn’t sure.

Even though it was only a semi-formal event, Lucifer had taken extra care in his appearance. His usual sharp attire had subtle upgrades—gold cufflinks that glinted in the light, and deep red accents woven into his ensemble that matched Alastor’s scarlet tones. Alastor, in turn, donned matching cufflinks and splashes of white on his tailored jacket, an elegant complement to Lucifer’s style. Together, their outfits harmonizing in subtle but deliberate details.

The transformation from the casual, paint-splattered version of Lucifer just an hour ago was stark. Angel, despite his earlier teasing, was right to comment—Lucifer effortlessly exuded the aura of the King of Hell. His dark, regal presence had a way of commanding the room, magnetic and imposing, making even the mundane act of walking outside to their awaiting transportation feel monumental.

“I suppose you guys won’t be back for supper?” Charlie asked with a sheepish smile, watching the playful exchange unfold in front of her. Despite her lighthearted tone, there was a hint of concern in her eyes, especially after this morning’s incident. But with Alastor by Lucifer’s side, she felt more at ease. She trusted the Radio Demon to keep an eye on her father, no matter how bizarre the circumstances.

“Yeah, I believe Paimon said something about gathering the guests for an early dinner, then cocktail hour and dancing while we wait for the festival to kick off,” Lucifer replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “The schedule’s a mess, but that’s typical of Paimon. Probably wants to make sure I get to eat everything I missed at the last ball.”

He grimaced slightly against his effort to grin in reassurance. “No need to worry, duckie. We’ll have our fill—besides, it’s your crazy uncle Paimon. What wouldn’t he do to try and please me?” His attempt at a joke was undercut by the weary tone, a sign of just how draining the whole ordeal would be.

Charlie squeezed his hand with a chuckle. “Dad, you’re rambling.” Her eyes softened with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. “So, I guess he hasn’t changed if you’re reacting this way.”

Lucifer let out an exhausted sigh, his expression saying everything his words didn’t. “Nope.”

Even the Nephilim couldn’t hold back a small laugh at that. “Well, don’t forget to have fun! You too, Al!” she added, turning to Alastor, whose grin widened at the prospect.

“Why, of course, darling~ A festival is meant to be enjoyed!” Alastor chimed, his voice full of excitement.

“We’ll be back before curfew,” Lucifer reassured her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “If we’re going to be late, I’ll give you a call.”

Charlie nodded, watching as her father and Alastor made their way out. Much to Lucifer’s relief, there was only one limo waiting outside the hotel, ready to take them to the Wrath ring. No hordes of photographers or Vvisper Snappers lurking around this time—just a quiet ride through the fiery landscape.

The drive was smooth, taking them straight to the grand manor where the event was being held. Wrath’s typically unbothered attitude toward noble gossip worked in their favor; no one here cared much about what the aristocrats from Pride were up to. But while the journey itself was uneventful, the true challenge awaited them inside the manor. The social minefield of the Goetian elite was ahead, and Lucifer couldn’t help but mentally brace himself for the chaos that was sure to follow once they stepped through those doors.

The grand doors of the Goetian manor swung open, revealing the opulent extravagance of Paimon's 'humble abode'—though it was not one of his personal residences, just the estate of a lesser collateral. 

Gilded chandeliers glistened overhead, their glow reflected in the polished marble floors. The walls, draped with crimson banners embroidered in gold, stretched high, giving the space an air of grandeur befitting only the most high-ranking demons. The scent of exotic incense wafted through the air, mingling with the hushed murmurs of aristocrats already present.

Lucifer and Alastor stepped inside, their presence immediately drawing attention. Whispers began circulating like wildfire, as all eyes were drawn to the King of Hell and his unexpected companion.

They knew the red demon. They had seen him from a distance, had heard of his barbarian acts, had listened to his broadcast, and had been in close proximity during the chaos of the last dance floor, but this was the first time they were both seeing and standing close to the sinner without any barriers.

The Devil was about to worry for his partner; however, it seemed the overlord needed none of his concern—Alastor clearly reveled in the envious and disdainful looks aimed his way, as though he'd won something, which, in a way, he had. Escorting the King of Hell was a big deal, let alone winning his heart as Alastor had.

In any case, before they could take more than a few steps, an overly familiar voice echoed through the hall—one that almost made Lucifer scowl on the spot

"Ah, Your Majesty!"

The Lord of Pride’s smile tightened as Paimon swept toward them, his robes billowing behind him in an almost exaggerated display of regality. Lucifer could see the Goetian King was in full form tonight, eager as always. Then again, Paimon never did anything halfway, especially when it came to his beloved liege.

“Your Majesty, Radiant Sovereign of the Infernal Realm,” Paimon began, his voice filled with rehearsed reverence. “It is an honor beyond measure to welcome you to my humble abode on this most auspicious night. The very stars themselves seem to have dimmed in reverence to your presence, for no light could ever outshine the brilliance of the King of Shadows. Please, allow this unworthy servant to humbly offer you the finest delights this evening has to offer, for your mere presence has already made this celebration truly divine.”

Lucifer gave a polite nod, his face a perfect mask of patience. “Paimon,” he greeted, tone restrained but cordial.

Paimon’s eyes, glistening with adoration, then shifted to Alastor, and though he maintained the same grandiose manner, there was an unmistakable shift in his tone—barely perceptible to anyone but those keen on subtleties. His smile became tighter, his gaze a fraction colder.

“And I suppose your invitation was extended for… one more guest?” Paimon’s voice dripped with condescension, though he tried to mask it behind a facade of politeness. His eyes briefly flicked toward Alastor, sizing him up as though he were an afterthought in the grand scheme of things.

Lucifer, fully aware of Paimon’s antics but choosing not to rise to them, responded with a serene smile. “Yes, as you can see, I’m bringing my consort today. Won’t you fix up something to accommodate?”

Alastor’s grin widened at the exchange, his radio-dial eyes gleaming with a flicker of amusement as he felt the passive tension simmering beneath the surface. He knew full well the Goetian King’s disdain for him, but that only made things more entertaining. He gave a mock bow, his grin never faltering.

“Oh, no need to fuss on my account, Your Highness,” Alastor’s voice was honeyed but with a sharp edge that only Paimon would catch. “I’m simply here to ensure that our dear King enjoys himself without any interruptions.”

Paimon’s lips twitched, but he quickly recovered, offering a tight-lipped smile in response. “Of course, how magnanimous of you.” He then turned his attention fully back to Lucifer, as though trying to erase Alastor from the conversation altogether. “Anything for you, my liege. I shall have the preparations made at once. Rest assured, you shall want for nothing.”

Lucifer’s brow raised ever so slightly, sensing Paimon's irritation beneath the surface. He leaned in closer, his voice low but pointed. “Nothing for either of us, Paimon.”

The Owl’s eyes flickered briefly with frustration, but he nodded, unable to argue with the King of Hell. “As you command, Your Majesty. I shall see what we can do about it.”

With a graceful flourish, Paimon turned on his heel and glided away, summoning his servants with a clap of his hands to prepare the additional accommodations. The grandeur of his exit was an attempt to salvage his pride, though it did little to hide the fact that Lucifer had clearly gotten the last word.

As the Goetian disappeared into the crowd, Lucifer glanced at Alastor with an amused smirk. “You certainly know how to get under his feathers.”

“It’s a gift.” Alastor chuckled under his breath, straightening his tie with a quick flick of his wrist. “Then again, You’ve got Paimon wrapped around your finger, sire. The man would likely lay out a red carpet made of stardust if you so much as hinted at it.”

Lucifer scoffed, amused but slightly exasperated. “And what do you think the red carpet that Morningstars—that I use for every royal ball—is made of? He already did that before you could even give him any ideas. Pretty sure it pissed him off when you and Vaggie stepped on it last time.”*

“Well, at least he’s consistent.” Alastor grinned, eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. “You do have that divine aura about you. I’m sure Paimon thinks he’s doing the heavens a favor by worshiping you.”

“Oh, he’s worshipping me, alright. Heavens got nothing to do with it,” Lucifer quipped, rolling his eyes as if the whole situation were more trouble than it was worth.

Alastor’s grin widened, his predatory charm gleaming through. “I’d say it’s more than worship. It’s obsession—something I can certainly appreciate.” No, actually, the demon is voicing his disdain; after all, he has a certain TV-bastard who's pretty much on the same level of craziness as this pompous bitch.

Lucifer chuckled, shaking his head. “If it wasn’t so exhausting, it might be flattering.”

“He has to be,” Alastor replied, his voice lower as they stood a little apart from the rest of the guests. “Afterall, in this court, survival isn’t based on just power, is it? It’s about keeping the right alliances. And, of course, having the favor of the King of Hell is a priceless asset.”

Lucifer hummed in agreement, his gaze lazily drifting over the gathering. “Still, the theatrics get tiring. Honestly, a simple meteor shower and a nice dinner would’ve sufficed.”

“Well, you’re not exactly known for ‘simple,’ my liege,” Alastor teased, his smile widening as he glanced at Lucifer’s attire—though relatively understated for the King, the gold accents and perfectly tailored suit still gave off an air of undeniable power.

Lucifer smirked, adjusting his cufflinks. “I suppose that’s fair.”

They stood together for a moment, the buzz of the aristocrats and demons around them growing louder as more guests arrived. Alastor's presence beside Lucifer was a striking contrast—while the King commanded attention with his calm, regal demeanor, the Radio Demon exuded an almost unsettling charm, his smile sharp and knowing.

“I must say, I’m intrigued to see what Paimon’s got in store,” Alastor mused, his eyes scanning the room with an air of detached curiosity. “He seems… overly prepared.”

“He always is,” Lucifer replied with a tired smile. “But tonight, it’s not just about the festival or me. It’s about maintaining the Goetian image, making sure Stolas does his duty, and—of course—proving that Paimon still reigns supreme in the court of pride.”

“I’d almost pity the man if he wasn’t so utterly insufferable,” Alastor chuckled.

Lucifer smirked, adjusting his cufflinks. “Careful now. That’s my beloved subordinate you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll behave,” Alastor winked. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your grand evening, after all.”

Before Lucifer could respond, a distant chime echoed through the hall, signaling the call for dinner. The crowd shifted, voices quieting as a line of finely dressed demons began to file into the grand dining room.

Lucifer straightened, glancing at Alastor with a knowing look. “And now the waiting game begins.”

Alastor nodded, his grin unwavering. “It’s all about the hierarchy. Let them fawn over the lesser lords and ladies first. We’ll make our entrance when it’s fitting.”

“Of course,” Lucifer said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “After all, we wouldn’t want to deprive them of the chance to bask in our glory.”

As the last of the guests made their way into the dining hall, Paimon’s voice rang out, announcing the arrival of the evening’s most important figure.

“And now,” Paimon called, his tone practically dripping with reverence, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for. The Radiant Sovereign of the Infernal Realm, The King of Hell, His Majesty, Lucifer Morningstar!”

Lucifer and Alastor exchanged a quick glance, both of them having their grins slightly tightened—one with amused defiance, the other with irked annoyance—All because Paimon actually dared not to announce Alastor’s presence. Not even as Lucifer’s escort.

“My my, this should be fun~” Lucifer heard his partner murmur before stepping forward, following his lead. It seemed like the next event would be anything but a simple, nice dinner indeed.

Notes:

*Meet The Fam (chapter 15)

Chapter 3: Devil's Gambit

There was only one seat reserved—for Lucifer alone. No seat for Alastor. And that, clearly, was no accident.

‘Well, I'll be damned! They actually dare to defy me?' Lucifer mused, a glimmer of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. He wasn’t sure whether this was Paimon’s doing or if the feather-brained royalty simply 'overlooked' it. Either way, the audacity to challenge him in this way was almost laughable.

“‘Al, I don’t want you standing next to me. So, I’ll give you two choices instead: shake your head for the first option or nod for the second,’” Lucifer said, using their private mind link as they made their way toward the grand end of the dining table. Alastor responded with a subtle nod, his expression unflinching.

“‘Either I conjure a more grandiose chair for myself while you take the one that’s there... or, if you’d like to know what I'd prefer—you become my chair. I want to ruin Paimon’s day.’”

The second option, of course, would be uncomfortable as hell for Alastor. But if he chose that? Oh, what a sight it would be, a scene sure to burn in the memories of every soul present.

Lucifer was already preparing to summon a copy of his own magnificent throne from his realm, ready to assert his superiority with a visual statement of power—when he saw Alastor nod instead.

That smirk, almost imperceptible, crept back onto Lucifer’s face. Well, well, it seemed his partner was just as furious with the insult. Perfect. This, Lucifer could absolutely work with.

As they reached the end of the room, a collective silence fell, eyes narrowing as Alastor boldly took the reserved seat first. Gasps echoed around the hall, and Paimon visibly tensed, almost lunging in outrage at the insolence. But any words caught in his throat, choked by the collective gasp that followed when Lucifer, with practiced grace, elegantly lowered himself onto Alastor’s thighs as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The room froze. Even Paimon’s feathers seemed to puff up in shock. But what truly left the crowd speechless was when Alastor, with smooth, predatory ease, wrapped his arms around Lucifer’s waist, pulling him closer. The demon leaned in, head nestling comfortably against Lucifer’s shoulder, a picture of defiant intimacy.

Lucifer barely held back his own surprise. He hadn’t quite expected Alastor to take it that far, but hell if it didn’t send a message. 

“‘Oi, Bambi, what are you doing?? Are you even okay with this???’” Lucifer’s voice echoed through their mental link, a note of incredulity beneath the playful tone. In response, Alastor let out a quiet, crackling hum—the sound Lucifer had come to recognize as a ‘yes’ after so much time spent around the radio demon.

“‘Well, as long as you're comfy.’” Lucifer tilted his head ever so slightly, adjusting his posture to give Alastor a bit more space. 

After a thoughtful gaze crossed his eyes as a brilliant idea came to him, he then added, “‘Can I touch your head?,’” He's clearly making the most of this chance, but at the same time, wouldn't it be fitting to reinforce the idea that Alastor's behavior wasn't just insolent, but rather a reflection of their usual dynamic? 

Of course, consent is paramount. Hence why he asked, “‘If you don't want me to touch your ears, make them flat for a moment. If you'd let me, just keep them as they are.’”

Lucifer expected a no, honestly. But the familiar static crackle of affirmation echoed again, a ‘yes,’ that sent a ripple of amusement through the Devil. He chuckled softly, though he disguised it well as a casual smile before reaching out to gently caress Alastor's ear.

“It’s been rather cold lately, hasn’t it?” Lucifer remarked, his smirk curling as he noticed the wide-eyed stares of their audience—both horrified and envious. The sight of Hell’s King so casually caressing the ear of his ‘escort’ was enough to set their tongues wagging, though no one dared say a word.

From the way Alastor was purring, low and satisfied, it was clear he enjoyed the attention it garnered. Lucifer couldn't help but inwardly laugh. Surely, that sound was because of the public display—not just the ear rub alone, though of course, he’s doing a great job at the action as well. He always had that magical touch afterall; how else could he have not only stolen two of Adam’s wives so easily with his charm but actually satisfied them?

“Indeed... It’s been quite cold, Your Majesty,” came Paimon’s voice, breaking the heavy silence. The Goetian King tried—and failed miserably—to conceal his irritation, his feigned indifference shattered by the seething jealousy creeping into his tone.

The tension in the room was electric, and the devil, basking in it, smiled wider, practically tasting the humiliation of the nobles as they were forced to swallow their indignation.

Lucifer’s smirk deepened even further as he could feel the thick envy radiating from Paimon. Oh, he would’ve laughed outright if he wasn’t sure that the bird’s frustration stemmed from jealousy more than simple anger. 

To him, this wasn’t about Alastor’s presence anymore—it was the fact that a lowly sinner had stolen his dearest King’s attention.

“Although, My Lord,” Paimon continued, voice strained but polite, “if a seat is what you need, perhaps your... escort could take Lord Wrath or his wife’s seat, as they may not be attending now.”

Lucifer considered it, quickly realizing that this was Paimon’s backup plan all along—in case he’d actually snapped at him for not providing another seat specified for Alastor. Clever, but not clever enough. It didn’t matter, though. His partner had already won this battle of wits, taking control of the situation with elegance.

However, as Lucifer thought over the offer, he glanced around the table and noticed that Satan’s seat was positioned to his right, while Paimon’s was on his left. If Alastor were to take either of those seats, he would still be placed higher than Paimon in the seating arrangement. That little detail almost made Lucifer break character and laugh out loud.

Oh, the irony, Lucifer mused, considering whether to follow through with the offer or play a different game altogether.

Leaning closer to his partner, The King’s voice was a soft murmur as if serenading his dearest, yet loud enough for everyone in the deathly silent room to hear.

“demoniuccio mio,” Lucifer purred, his voice dripping with a dangerously intimate tone, as if the conversation was a forbidden secret meant only for their ears. “What do you think? Would you forsake my side and claim one of these distinguished seats, thus elevating yourself above our lovely court this delightfully ominous night?”

The words, while spoken like a lover’s whisper, dripped with mockery for the onlookers. He knew exactly what he was doing—adding salt to the wound in a room full of fragile egos. The silence in the room deepened, and the tension hung thick as the Overlord’s eyes gleamed with that same playful malice.

“I’d rather die, mon roi~” Alastor replied, as if it was the easiest decision in the world, his voice as alluring and velvet as Lucifer’s, sending a shiver through the crowd.

The King's smirk widened impossibly, practically stretching across his face. The room felt like it held its collective breath as the devil and his demon relished in the unspoken victory, their defiance shining through without a single raised voice or outward confrontation.

It was all too perfect.

“Well then, Prince Stolas?” Lucifer’s voice rang out, smooth and commanding, cutting through the tension like a blade.

The owl demon flinched slightly at being addressed so suddenly, but quickly straightened, meeting the Devil’s gaze. “Yes, Your Majesty?” Stolas mentally congratulated himself for not stuttering despite his shock.

Lucifer’s smile actually tenderized a fraction upon the younger’s reaction, his voice softens a bit. “Would you do me the honor of taking the seat of my right-hand man for the night? According to your father, that seat will remain empty, and I’d hate to feel lonely with two gaping chairs beside me.”

The ripple of tension that followed was palpable, especially from Paimon, whose barely concealed fury practically radiated across the table. But that was exactly what Lucifer had intended—this entire ordeal was nothing more than pure entertainment for him and Alastor. Toying with these prideful aristocrats was their own private sport.

Stolas, to his credit, didn’t question the King’s request, even under the searing glare of his own father. Though nervous and uncertain, the prince nodded, rising from his seat and obediently taking his new place beside Lucifer, a quiet unease etched on his face.

“Now then,” Lucifer announced with a wave of finality, leaning back comfortably in Alastor’s lap, “Paimon, shall we resume dinner?”

Paimon’s jaw clenched as he forced a smile. “Of course, Sire. At once.” His thin veneer of civility barely concealed the irritation simmering beneath the surface. With a signal, the dinner resumed.

Throughout the meal, Alastor took up the role of Lucifer’s hands, feeding the Devil with uncharacteristic care, occasionally sneaking bites for himself. It wasn’t even a question; Alastor had simply begun feeding his partner, spiteful at being denied a seat of his own. Lucifer didn’t mind, though—in fact, he seemed more amused than anything. His smirk softened into something more playful, the mischievous gleam in his eyes suggesting he was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

As another bite disappeared between Lucifer’s lips, he paused, savoring the moment before his eyes flicked over to Paimon, who was stewing in his simmering anger just a few seats down.

"Ah, Paimon,” Lucifer called out again, voice quiet yet still laced with a mocking undertone. “Would you be so kind as to help me with seconds? This steak, I’m afraid, is far too well done for my tastes. Perhaps you could let the chef know I prefer it rare—very rare, actually. I feel rather… ravenous tonight.” His smile sharpened as he leaned back against Alastor, his tone practically dripping with amusement.

The subtle implication wasn’t lost on anyone, least of all Paimon, who visibly tensed, his forced smile stretching just a bit tighter. He blinked, and for a split second, fury flashed in his eyes before he masked it with an over-polished grin.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Paimon replied, his voice carefully controlled. “I shall personally see to it that the chef rectifies the mistake at once. I wouldn’t dream of disappointing your appetite.” His emphasis on ‘your’ barely masked the bitterness in his voice.

Lucifer hummed softly, clearly enjoying the discomfort his request caused. “Excellent. I’ll be waiting eagerly.”

Paimon nodded stiffly, signaling a nearby servant to relay the message to the kitchen. As the tension ebbed slightly, Lucifer glanced back at Alastor, who had been watching the entire exchange with a wicked grin of his own.

Not only did Lucifer take pleasure in the reactions of the other demons—particularly the scandalized expressions at their shared utensils and public display of affection—but there was also a deep satisfaction in being served by his normally prideful partner. Alastor, who seldom yielded control to anyone, now dutifully attended to him with a possessive air that was unmistakable.

“Well, it seems we’ll be dining on something more suitable soon,” Lucifer murmured softly to Alastor, this time his voice barely audible to anyone but the two of them. “‘Though I must say, you’re making quite the meal out of this situation yourself.’”

Alastor grinned cheekily, his fingers then brushing against Lucifer’s cheek where a bit of sauce had lingered. Without hesitation, he then licked it off, earning a genuine blush from his unsuspecting partner before preparing the next bite as if he did not just do something unusual. 

Afterall, while both of them reveled in the subtle power play they’d enacted over the room, who said he couldn’t have some actual fun with his darling Devil?

“'Cocky bastard. Don’t go too far, you hear me? I actually need to control the court,'” Lucifer scolded lightly through their mindlink, quickly schooling his expression—He couldn’t afford to be caught having butterflies like some maiden in love in front of these predatory vultures, now can he?

Thankfully, for the sake of both their composures, Alastor let out a quiet burst of static, answering with a subtle ‘yes,’ continuing with his endeavor though not straying so far from the romantic gestures he’d already displayed.

As the courses progressed, with Alastor feeding him desserts as well, Lucifer found himself more than content.

Well, he thought, ‘Dinner is turning out to be rather delightful.’

Chapter 4: Holy Venom

‘And how did we get here again?’ The question hung in Lucifer’s mind as he let out a quiet, sheepish chuckle.

He had been dancing with Alastor, both of them indulging in the night’s festivities. The music, the energy, the cocktail hour—it had all been a perfect distraction. But then, they felt it—a vibration. Not from the loud music reverberating through the dance floor, no.

This was something else entirely.

Lucifer’s frown deepened as unease settled in his chest. Hell didn’t have natural earthquakes, and he certainly wasn’t the cause of it, which only meant one thing: trouble. His instincts were sharp, honed from millennia of rule, and right now, they were screaming at him. He had a very bad feeling.

Noticing the shift in Lucifer’s demeanor, Alastor leaned in, his ever-present grin softening into something more serious. "Shall I investigate, my Lord?" His voice was low, respectful, yet laced with eagerness for action. The devil was tempted to send him, but the thought of Alastor going off alone unsettled him more than the mysterious tremors. No, he couldn’t leave the venue himself either—his presence was expected. He needed a solution, fast.

Before Lucifer could create a clone or devise another plan, they both noticed Stolas slipping out towards one of the balconies, his posture unusually tense, alert. Curious, and with no other viable option, Lucifer and Alastor followed.

Upon reaching the balcony, the scene that met them was unsurprising. Stolas stood in the moonlight, eyes locked on his lover, Blitz, who had arrived not as the romantic counterpart to the owl prince’s dramatic longing, but as a professional—there to work. Lucifer resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the absurdity of the situation.

‘For heaven’s sake, why does it always come to this?’ Lucifer thought, exasperated, as he regarded the imp assassin. Blitz was on a mission, and the subtle vibrations felt earlier? Likely linked. He could sense it. Blitz had mentioned something to Alastor and Lucifer about a disturbance, one that required immediate attention.

Lucifer’s gaze shifted to Alastor, who met his eyes with a knowing glint. The imp had intel: Mafia. Of course, it had to be something as chaotic as that. The earthquake was no natural phenomenon, but a ripple from underworld dealings—dangerous ones. Blitz, through his crew, specifically Moxxie, had uncovered something foul. Moxxie’s past connection with the mafia made the intel all the more reliable.

Lucifer pondered for a moment before making the call. Letting Alastor go with Blitz and his crew to investigate seemed the best course of action. Alastor’s penchant for chaos would fit right into this scenario, and besides, Lucifer trusted him to handle whatever they found. He gave a slight nod, sending his partner off with a half-playful, half-serious warning.

Now, standing alone on the balcony with Stolas, the night felt heavier, more dangerous.

The silence between them was suffocating, stretching on far longer than it should have. Lucifer and Stolas had run out of pleasantries almost immediately, and making conversation with a visibly worried prince wasn’t an easy task. Lucifer understood all too well what Stolas was feeling—the same helpless anxiety, the same itch to throw aside decorum and go himself, despite being chained to the golden cage of noble events.

He needed a topic, something they could both relate to. Anything to break the tension before he started spiraling into worry for Alastor, which was the last thing he could afford. His mind raced for something suitable when it circled back to the nightmare he had this morning.

'Wait... actually?'

The situation they were in now… wasn’t it the perfect parallel? Both of them waiting while their partners fought on their behalf, both unable to act, only able to stew in restless concern.

Lucifer considered the thought, almost amused at the irony. He had meant to ask Satan about the dilemma, but now… Stolas seemed the more fitting person. After all, Satan’s bond with Damian and Roo was more like Lilith’s with Charlie. But Stolas, with his complex relationships, would understand better.

“So, Stolas, I’ve been wondering,” After bracing himself, finally Lucifer broke the silence, his voice weary. “If you had to choose between Via and Blitz… who would you save?” 

The weight of the question hit harder than expected, but he continued nevertheless. “You know, just in case you could only save one… and lose the other forever.”

Stolas, blindsided by the heaviness of the question, blinked—Alarmed. 

“I… Sire, what?” His voice was small, shocked by the abruptness of such a grave topic. 

Was this some sort of announcement? a warning? What’s going on?

Just what in the Seven Rings is the King of Hell trying to tell him???

All the while, oblivious to the turmoil he had stirred in the prince, Lucifer found it preferable to the awkward silence they’d been stuck in. He chuckled awkwardly, misinterpreting Stolas' horrified expression as confusion. “I… well, I’m just stuck in that kind of dilemma, I suppose?”

Well, NOW Stolas looked tense for an entirely different reason. “Is it… Heaven? Are we under attack? Should you even be telling me this, Sire?” His voice dropped to a near whisper, and Lucifer quickly waved his hands to dispel the misunderstanding.

"Oh, no, no, nothing like that!" The King reassured him immediately, only realizing now how his words could be perceived as threats. "It’s just the chaos in my head, really. No imminent danger, I promise. It’s just…" He trailed off, searching for the right words before continuing. "In this place of endless chaos and hellfire, it’s rare to find someone in circumstances like mine. You know, with a deranged lover of lower rank and a child you adore from a previous marriage."

Stolas stared, surprised by the unexpected connection. He had never imagined he’d have something in common with the Devil himself, the King of Hell who commanded such reverence. Yet here they were, standing on equal ground in at least one area of their lives.

“Well, about that,” Stolas began, his voice softening, “I suppose… I’ve had my share of sleepless nights.” He sympathized with Lucifer’s plight.

While unsure how to compare his own tumultuous marriage to whatever lay between the King and Queen, he knew the pain of being torn between two loves—helplessly romantic and unconditional familiar.  

“Though, I suppose, I would never see that day,” Stolas said after a thoughtful moment, his voice soft but resolute.

“Oh?” Lucifer turned toward him, intrigued. “And why is that?”

A sheepish smile tugged at Stolas’ lips, his feathers ruffling slightly as he hesitated before speaking. “Well,” he began, “if it ever reached that point—so severe that I couldn’t even weigh the pros and cons—then I wouldn’t be able to choose at all.” He paused, locking eyes with Lucifer. “Because I’d have already died fighting before I was forced to make such a decision. Wouldn’t you do the same, my Lord?”

The words hung in the air, carrying a gravity that resonated deeply with Lucifer. Stolas’ response wasn’t one born from arrogance or impulsiveness but from an unyielding devotion to those he loved. 

—Lucifer blinked in genuine surprise at that answer. 

Lately, he had been told that sacrificing oneself wasn’t the right answer. But here was someone who seemed to understand him, who shared his instinct to protect at any cost.

Slowly, a grin spread across Lucifer’s face, followed by a soft chuckle as he covered his eyes with his hand. He missed the flush of embarrassment that colored Stolas’ cheeks, but it didn’t matter—he wasn’t laughing at him.

“I’m glad,” Lucifer said, surprising Stolas. “I guess it was the right choice after all! I’m not crazy.”

Realizing that he and Lucifer were on the same page, Stolas began to smile as well. “Yeah, well, isn’t it kind of our responsibility as the strongest anyway, Sire?”

Lucifer brightened, finally locking eyes with Stolas once more. "Indeed. A shitty burden, isn’t it?"

Stolas beamed, a genuine smile lighting up his face. "Wouldn’t have it any other way."

Lucifer chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re a good kid, Stolas. Funny you came from Paimon."

"Ha ha ha…"

"Well," Lucifer raised his glass, smirking, "I’ll be rooting for your appearance tonight, hmm?"

Stolas mirrored his gesture, clinking his glass against Lucifer’s with a newfound camaraderie. "Thank you, Sire." And with that, they both took a sip, the tension between them finally melting away.

—Or so he thought; Lucifer should have known his luck better…

Lucifer and Stolas stood leaning against the balcony railing, the cool breeze of the infernal evening doing little to ease the tension in the air. Stolas seemed to have relaxed, though only slightly, after their earlier conversation. The clink of their glasses earlier echoed faintly in their minds, a subtle reminder of the drinks they held. Lucifer had asked for the finest drinks to be brought to them, something special, fitting for their station.

The wine in Lucifer's glass sparkled innocuously, and he took a slow sip, savoring its familiar taste. It tasted almost nostalgic to him, reminding him of Heaven— ironic, considering their current location. He hadn’t given it much thought, though. It was just wine, after all.

Suddenly, a sharp sound broke the stillness. Stolas coughed, once, then again, his hand rising to cover his beak.

Lucifer glanced over, brow arched in amusement. “Hey now, drink slowly. The night is still young anyway~” he mused, thinking that the young prince had simply drunk too fast, all the while taking another sip of his lovely drink.

However, the owl prince's coughing only grew more intense, his hand trembling as his fingers pressed against the rim of his glass. “I… I’m… I’m not” he rasped, his voice strained. He took a shaky breath, but it didn't seem to help. His face was paling, the deep hues of his feathers dulling in a concerning way.

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his glass as a creeping realization began to take hold. Something wasn’t right.

“Stolas?” Lucifer’s voice had an edge of concern now. The prince coughed violently again, and his body shuddered as though something was tearing him apart from the inside. In that moment, Lucifer’s gaze fell to the glass in Stolas’ hand—and then his own. The drink looked perfectly ordinary, a deep crimson liquid swirling elegantly in the light of Hell’s ever-burning sky.

But then it clicked.

The drink, the taste—it wasn’t Hell’s. It was Heaven’s.

Lucifer’s face darkened as the horrifying truth hit him. “Holy wine,” he muttered under his breath, almost incredulously. He had been so familiar with the taste, so unaffected by its divine energy, that he hadn’t even realized the implications. But for someone like Stolas? A demon of Hell? It was poison.

Stolas’ breaths were becoming ragged, and the glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the stone floor of the balcony. Lucifer’s eyes widened in shock as he lunged forward, steadying the prince by the shoulders.

“Stolas, you’ve been poisoned,” Lucifer said, his voice low but urgent, shaking him slightly to keep him conscious. He cursed himself inwardly, his mind racing as he realized he had been the one to request the drinks, so he thought it would be safe. Who would have thought someone would dare to include him in their calculations to target the prince?

Stolas’ eyes were wide with pain, his hand clutching his chest. “Poisoned…?” he whispered, barely able to get the words out.

“Yes, holy wine.” Lucifer’s voice was grim as his mind spun. “It’s from Heaven—harmless to me but to you… Damn it!” He cursed sharply, his gaze snapping to the balcony’s entrance as if searching for help. 

Where had they even gotten it? Holy beings weren’t supposed to be here in Hell, and fallen angels were part of his court—himself, Vaggie, and Emily. 

And even though they could somehow contact beings as low as cherubs via Earth, who would have dared?

It didn’t matter. Not now. What mattered was that the holy energy from the wine was violently clashing with Stolas’ demonic essence, tearing through him like a corrosive poison.

“Stay with me,” Lucifer commanded, his voice low but filled with urgency. He knew what he must do. He raised his hand over Stolas’s gut, summoning his power. It wouldn’t neutralize the holy wine, but he could try to pull out the damage while replacing the loss of magic with his own.

“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known…” Lucifer muttered under his breath, feeling a pang of guilt twist inside him. He had been too comfortable, too lax.

Stolas gave a weak chuckle despite his agony, his eyes flickering up at Lucifer. “It’s… quite the drink… Sire,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, trying to manage a smile.

Lucifer couldn’t help but huff in amusement, despite the dire situation. “Of all the things you could say right now.”

“I’m… not going to die… from wine, am I?” Stolas wheezed in jest, his words labored but still managing to carry a shred of his dry wit.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Lucifer growled, not sharing the mirth due to his concentration. "You may not realize it, but dying from a drink is a pathetic way to go. I'd never let it happen to one of mine. Now, keep your damn mouth open"

The King's power pulsed through Stolas, steadying the chaos for the moment. The holy wine wouldn’t claim the prince tonight—not while the Devil still had a say.

Lucifer was only halfway to help Stolas, his hand subtly channeling power to ease the poisonous effects of the holy wine. Luckily, the poisoning was still in its early stages, so his touch was enough to slow the reaction within the prince’s body. But the extraction process, which often required far more intimate contact, wasn't necessary this time.

Just as they settled into a tense silence, both kneeling on the floor of the balcony, their moment was interrupted. The door swung open without warning, and someone strode in with brazen authority—the Marquee. His abrupt entrance startled both of them, and Stolas instinctively clamped his beak shut, not wanting to risk drawing any suspicion.

Lucifer paused his actions too, caught between the need to continue helping Stolas and the sudden complication of their being discovered. His stomach churned with the impurities from the holy wine, a nasty reaction caused by Stolas's magic clashing with the heavenly drink. But vomiting it out, especially in front of any witnesses, was impossible.

He suppressed the urge with sheer will, though in return, he was essentially letting the nastiness try to claim its place within him. It wouldn’t survive, let alone succeed, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t having an effect—he was already starting to feel nauseous.

Then, to make matters worse, Paimon entered the scene, likely drawn in by the Marquee’s call. The elder demon’s gaze flickered between them, suspicion immediately evident in his eyes.

“What happened here?! Your Majesty! Are you alright, sire?” The Marquee’s voice was sharp with alarm, his tone making it clear he was ready to pin the blame on Stolas for whatever misfortune had occurred.

Lucifer had no time to lose. Whether or not Paimon knew about the holy wine, the demon wouldn’t tolerate anyone questioning Lucifer’s safety—Not even if the cause was his own son. 

The Devil needed to act fast. 

Discreetly, he teleported one of his cufflinks onto the floor nearby, allowing him to craft a plausible story.

With an exasperated sigh, Lucifer answered, “Ah yes, it’s fine. I’m alright. Just knocked over our drink while trying to catch my cufflink. It should still be here somewhere. Stolas was simply helping me search.”

The room stilled as Paimon and the Marquee processed this. Paimon seemed unconvinced, his expression still sharp with suspicion, while the Marquee looked momentarily sour. That alone gave Lucifer a valuable clue as to who might be responsible for the wine.

“We’ll clean up the mess, Your Majesty,” Paimon said, his tone deceptively calm. He approached and abruptly took his liege’s hand, helping him to his feet with little concern for his own son—not surprising since Lucifer was involved. “I would personally search for your cufflink if you so wished.”

Lucifer’s jaw tightened, anger simmering beneath the surface. The Marquee’s oversight and Paimon’s disregard for Stolas made his fury difficult to conceal. But as frustrating as it was, it also worked to his advantage—The weakened prince needed time to compose himself, and Lucifer was the perfect distraction.

Without even sparing any glance down at Stolas, Lucifer skillfully sent a mental message, his voice echoing in the prince’s mind: "’No need to panic, Stolas. I’ve cleared most of the poison, so it won’t be fatal. But it may still feel terrible for a while. Hang in there until I can find you again, okay? I will find you once I can slip away.’"

Though startled by the telepathic intrusion, Stolas’s tense shoulders relaxed just a little. If Lucifer promised to return, then the prince knew he just had to endure. His trust in Lucifer’s word provided the only solace he could cling to in the moment.

Lucifer, now standing with Paimon, gave a charming, placating smile. 

"It's alright. You can clear the mess later and keep the cufflink if you want," He said aloud, knowing well the demon’s obsessive nature. The idea of feeding into Paimon’s fixation left a sour taste in his mouth, but it served its purpose. He quickly shifted focus. "Now though, since you’re here, how about you and the little Marquee here walk me around the estate, hmm? I noticed some interesting details in the manor, but I haven't had the chance to take a proper tour."

Paimon bowed deeply without hesitation, clearly thrilled to have Lucifer’s attention. He didn’t even bother questioning Alastor’s absence—not that it mattered to him. In fact, Paimon likely preferred it.

The Marquee, on the other hand, hesitated. Lucifer caught the shift in his expression and called it out immediately. "Is something wrong, Marquee? Are you refusing to follow my order to escort me?" The peacock demon flinched at the sudden shift from request to command. He knew well the weight of disobeying the Devil, whether it be Lucifer's wrath or Paimon’s swift reprisal.

Paimon, sensing Lucifer’s firm gaze, openly glared at Andrealphus. The message was clear: pay attention to Stolas for even a second longer, and there would be consequences.

Left with no choice, the Marquee bowed deeply in defeat. "Nothing, Your Majesty. I was merely wondering how many steps behind I should remain from your esteemed presence."

Lucifer concealed a smirk at the smooth lie. "I suppose you've always been more of a chauffeur than an escort.” His sneer was less concealed this time, and he did not miss the way the marquee twitched in response. “Well, since Paimon will walk one step behind me, you can take two or three steps back—just try not to fall too far behind."

Paimon would no doubt grumble under his breath, but Lucifer had drawn a clear line. No one, save for Alastor, was to stand at his side tonight. He made that abundantly clear.

"Understandable, my Dark Lord. Thank you for your benevolent guidance," Andrealphus said with another deep bow, his voice straining with forced humility.

Lucifer gave a curt nod. "Very well. Shall we take our leave, then?"

As they prepared to depart, Lucifer sent one final message to Stolas: “‘Just do your best, Kiddo. I’ll distract them for now. But even later, I’ll assist you, every step, right from the front row. You have my words’”

The weight of the Devil’s promise fortified Stolas, who straightened his posture and forced a calm expression. He would pretend, just as instructed, as if nothing had happened. His resolve solidified, trusting in Lucifer’s word.

Lucifer led the two pompous nobles out of the balcony, his ears already bracing for the relentless rambling from Paimon about a place that wasn’t even his own. It was a small sacrifice to protect Stolas from the situation that had so dangerously unfolded.

Oh, how he wished Alastor would be done with those intruders soon...

Chapter 5: Wrath Upon The Stars

As the festival commenced, the backstage buzzed with preparations and activity. Lucifer had separated himself from Paimon and Andrealphus only when the event was on the verge of starting. Instead of occupying the VIP seat Paimon had meticulously prepared for him—and him only, none for Alastor—Lucifer chose to follow Stolas from backstage, wanting to observe the faces of his denizens rather than remain in a segregated royal area.

Paimon, growing increasingly irritable, had been trailing Lucifer with relentless chatter. His attempts to impress or engage were beginning to grate on Lucifer’s nerves.

“You know, Sire,” The demon said again, his tone dripping with smugness, “It would be so much easier if you just took the VIP seat. It’s not like mingling with the rabble will—”

Lucifer cut him off, his patience thinning. “Paimon, I’ve told you before. I’m not here to observe from a distance. I want to see the festival as it unfolds. It’s important.”

Paimon’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, Sire. But I must remind you that the position you’re in is not exactly... suitable for a being of your stature. It might be more... appropriate to—”

“Appropriate?” Lucifer snapped, his voice barely containing his irritation. “I’m not here for appropriateness. I’m here because I choose to be. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Before he could continue, Alastor arrived with his usual dramatic flair. His entrance was marked by a swirl of his distinctive style and a smirk that could cut glass.

“Ah, mon roi,” Alastor drawled, his voice laced with an amused edge. “I see you’ve been graced by the company of our ever-dutiful Paimon. I must say, it’s quite the sight.”

Lucifer’s expression shifted from annoyance to relief. “Alastor, finally. I need you to take over as my escort. I’ve had quite enough of Paimon’s company for the night.”

Paimon’s expression darkened at the subtle dismissal, but he managed to maintain his composure. “Sire, I was merely—”

Alastor, not missing a beat, interjected with his characteristic snark. “Paimon, as much as I relish your company, I must whisk Lucifer away. There are more pressing matters at hand.”

Paimon’s face tightened in irritation, but he stepped aside with a haughty nod after Lucifer raised his hand, as if to say that any further disobedience would result in drastic measures. “Very well, Sire. Do enjoy yourself.”

As Paimon retreated, Alastor moved closer to Lucifer, his sharp gaze assessing the situation. “You look like you’ve been through a gauntlet yourself. What’s the crisis?”

“Explanation later,” Lucifer said briskly, glancing at the backstage area with urgency. “We need to get to Stolas, now. Something had happened.”

Alastor fell into step beside him, his demeanor shifting to one of focused efficiency. “I’ll handle any interruptions.”

When they reached Stolas, the prince looked pale and strained but managed a grateful smile upon seeing Lucifer. “You’re here. I was starting to worry.”

Lucifer immediately set to work, his hands deftly working to extract the poison. “Hold still, Stolas. I’ll have this sorted out quickly.”

Alastor remained on guard, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a mix of vigilance and disdain. The festival’s lively sounds drifted through the walls, a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere backstage.

“How are you holding up?” Lucifer asked, his voice steady despite his focus.

“I’m managing,” Stolas replied, his voice strained but determined. “Your arrival is a relief.”

Lucifer nodded, concentrating on his task. “Just hang in there. I’ll make sure you’re fit to carry out your duties tonight.”

Alastor, sensing the gravity of the situation, kept his comments minimal but his presence unwavering. The festival continued outside, oblivious to the quiet battle being waged behind the scenes.

As Lucifer finished pulling most of the damage out and replacing Stolas’s demonic energy with his own, he staggered back, gripping his stomach with a pained grimace. The effort had taken a toll on him, and he doubled over, retching, expelling a blue goo from his mouth in a distressing display. The substance splattered onto the floor in a grotesque, shimmering pool.

Alastor, ever vigilant, swiftly reacted. His tendrils unfurled to create a protective barrier around both himself and Lucifer, shielding Stolas from the disturbing sight. Though Stolas could not see the horror directly, the noises of the devil’s discomfort were unmistakable. His face reflected a mixture of concern and apprehension as he listened to the unsettling sounds.

“Luce?” Alastor’s voice cut through the tension once the smaller frame finally stopped, a note of worry lacing his tone. His hand continued to rub soothing circles on Lucifer’s back while his tendrils kept up the shield.

“I’m okay… though, hell. That was fucking awful,” Lucifer grumbled, his voice rough with the aftereffects. He reached into his own magic to clean up the mess—wiping the residue from the floor and his clothing with swift, precise movements. His regal demeanor was momentarily stripped away by the sheer exhaustion and effort.

Alastor swiftly summoned a bottle of water, opening it and offering it to Lucifer. The devil took it gratefully, sipping the refreshing liquid to clear the lingering taste from his mouth. Alastor’s arms remained supportive, helping Lucifer steady himself as he regained his footing.

“Your Majesty…” Stolas began, his voice faltering. He wasn’t sure what to say. 

Should he apologize? Was a thank you even sufficient? 

He was anxious about potential repercussions for causing and witnessing such a harrowing scene.

However, before he could dwell on it further, Lucifer turned to him, wiping his mouth with his sleeve in a moment of uncharacteristic casualness. His regal demeanor had slipped away, replaced by a more grounded concern. His eyes, though weary, focused on the younger prince. “How are you feeling, Kid? You should still be a bit woozy. Though, if you’re as skilled as your role demands, your task tonight shouldn’t be too much of a hurdle.”

Stolas blinked, finding his resolve once more. He rose to his feet, nodding resolutely. “Yes, Sire. I’ll do a good job.”

Lucifer nodded approvingly, his expression then turned serious. “My power inside you might yield better results than you initially expected. Be cautious with its use. If you normally exert 8 out of 10 of your capacity, try using only 3 out of 10. It should achieve the same effect.” His voice carried an edge of concern, aware of the potential risks even with his power now assimilated within Stolas.

Lucifer remained deeply concerned about what might unfold next, which is why he insisted on staying close to Stolas, prepared for any eventuality. His anxiety was not unfounded, as he knew that being too far could prove disastrous. 

Equally, he needed Alastor by his side, not just as a precaution, but to safeguard him should any danger arise directly towards him. 

The Overlord obviously understood his role in this delicate situation without needing any detailed instruction. Why else would he have chosen to forgo reporting on the ongoing affairs with the mafia and instead maintain his silence, focusing intently, solely on Lucifer’s needs? 

Alastor’s priority has always been to ensure that Lucifer remains protected and alert amidst the unfolding chaos—Enjoying himself amidst the chaos comes next; everything else falls behind.

The Pride couple, having meticulously restored their pristine appearances, followed in the owl prince’s footsteps, standing like proud parents that Stolas had never truly had. Their presence elicited gasps and murmurs from the crowd. It was rare for the King of Hell—whom the masses had only seen once on the enormous screen in the sky—to grace a proletarian festival with his presence.

“They seem awed by your presence, Your Highness~” Alastor whispered teasingly. Lucifer, waving gently to the crowd, responded with a mischievous edge to his voice, “Don’t act as though there aren’t fans of yours here too. I see those pointing fingers that aren’t aimed at me, pretty boy.”

“Oh? I’m a pretty boy now?” Alastor cooed, not one to be outdone. “Well, despite your disheveled moment earlier, you’re quite gorgeous one yourself, mon ange.”

Lucifer chuckled. “What can I say? I was Heaven’s eye-candy in my prime~ Aren’t you honored to witness, to own, all of this goodness?”

He could hear Alastor’s static noises, very likely enjoying the prospect that he does, in fact, own the highest monarch of Hell, before he collected himself, and then Lucifer could hear the demon rolling his eyes.

The devil mused to himself, “Either way, stop distracting me, okay? We need to focus, cerbiatto.”

Alastor complied, just in time for Stolas to complete his greeting and early speech. The prince introduced both Lucifer and Alastor as special guests, though he did not reveal their personal connections, only their titles: The King of Hell and The Overlord, Radio Demon.

Stolas then took out his grimoire and began his incantation, opening a grand portal in the sky. The mesmerizing display captivated even the Pride couple, leaving them momentarily awestruck.

“Won’t you make a wish upon the stars, sire? Surely you’re not just praying to your own name,” Alastor teased.

Lucifer almost laughed at the irony. He spared a brief glance at his partner and retorted, “Won’t you start first if you’re so eager?”

“Why, what else do I need? I have you already,” Alastor replied smoothly.

That smooth-talking bastard.

Lucifer struggled to suppress a blush, feeling the sincerity behind the words. It was precisely because he recognized the depth of the sentiment that he was so affected—Alastor’s words were not a mere tease.

“You’re making me feel like an asshole for having more in my prayer, you know?” Lucifer said, his tone is soft despite the jest.

Alastor chuckled. “Well, I’m not a king or a parent; I’m quite carefree~”

Lucifer’s gaze softened further at that. Even without him explicitly stating it, Alastor understood the reference.

However, before he could react, a thunderous gunshot cracked through the air, followed by a grotesque splash of black that splattered the ground before them. The sickening sound of a scream cut through the din of the festival, a chilling cry that signaled the grave injury of the royal fallen before them—

The devil’s smile vanished in an instant.

Black ichor sprayed across his face, dark and sticky, pooling around his feet and mingling with the dust of the festival grounds. The sight was a nightmarish echo of his freshest nightmares, a stark and vivid reminder of the death looming too close. His heart pounded as the reality of the scene threatened to overwhelm him.

Thankfully, before he could dwell further, an urgent grip on his shoulder yanked him back from the brink of hysteria.

“Lucifer. The sky.”

Not ‘Luce’ or any of his pet names. Alastor’s tone was urgent, pointing out something crucial. Lucifer’s eyes shot up to the sky, and what he saw made his owm blood run cold.

A massive rift had torn open in Hell’s sky—the portal Stolas had created gone haywire, spewing blazing meteors that arced menacingly toward their realm. The celestial invasion was not just a spectacle but a dire threat.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Lucifer stepped forward, his hands outstretched as he made a decisive move.

“Shit…!” Lucifer muttered under his breath, the severity of the situation dawning on him with each passing second. Dark energy crackled around his fingertips as he sought to control the chaotic forces, attempting to take over the portal. But, even with his vast power and knowledge, seizing control of someone else’s ongoing magic wasn’t straightforward.

Realizing he wouldn’t be able to gain control or close the portal in time, Lucifer backtracked and shifted his focus entirely. Space magic wasn’t his forte, so he concentrated on shielding the entire Wrath Ring, redirecting the largest meteors back on course.

He knew that if the comets went astray, it might cause significant problems on Earth, potentially igniting conflict with Heaven—and possibly even his celestial siblings. Should that happen, Hell would be doomed, perhaps subjected to another cleansing, as he and the Sins had once done to the ancient hell-creatures of the past...

“Urkh!” Lucifer grunted, straining against the immense pressure of managing the ruptured portal and the meteors. He poured everything he had into the shield, while the denizens below screamed in fear, bracing for impact.

The King’s focus was razor-sharp, his entire being dedicated to averting disaster. His hands trembled slightly, but he fought to keep them steady, channeling his power to create an impenetrable barrier as smaller meteors pelted it relentlessly, as if sent by Heaven itself to destroy the Wrath Ring.

The ground quaked as meteors either disintegrated upon impact or ricocheted off, likely flung into the void. Shockwaves rippled through the whole ring, likely felt in the layers above and below, scattering debris into the air.

“Stay focused.” Lucifer growled to himself through gritted teeth, his voice strained. 

Sweat trickled down his back, his breath came in harsh, uneven bursts. His mind raced through complex spells and countermeasures. The King’s protective barrier shimmered with dark energy, a last line of defense against the celestial onslaught. The heat from the meteors was palpable, even to those used to Hell’s fiery landscape.

His power surged in another pulse, an overwhelming force that grappled with a large asteroid caught in the chaos. He fought to alter its trajectory, pushing it back toward its celestial path with great effort. The task was monumental, the fear of potential devastation—both in Hell and possibly influence over Earth's space situation as well—adding to the weight of his burden.

The King of Hell’s resolve was tested as he fought to protect his realm. But fear not! Unlike most of the nobility here, his title was never just for show. 

Lucifer has exactly what it took to defend his home.

As the last celestial debris disintegrated into nothingness, a heavy silence fell over the Wrath Ring. 

The dust had yet to settle, hanging in the air like the tension that still gripped the denizens. The festival grounds, once alive with revelry and noise, had gone eerily quiet, save for the distant crackle of fading magic. Lucifer stood amidst the debris and scattered remains of what could’ve been an all-consuming disaster, his dark energy still shimmering faintly around him as he slowly lowers his hand, summoning his staff in fine.

Then, a breath of relief escaped his lips, breaking the stillness.

“Phew~” Lucifer’s voice, calm and collected, rang out like a beacon in the silence, cutting through the oppressive weight of fear that had gripped the crowd. Instantly, all eyes turned to him, waiting, hanging on his every word as if their lives still depended on it.

“That was a close one, wasn’t it?” he mused with a casual, almost playful tone, his nonchalance seeming absurd after such a close brush with catastrophe. 

Yet, it was precisely that—his ability to act so unbothered in the face of calamity—that began to dissolve the collective tension. His words, light and effortless, seemed to hold the power of reassurance, calming the storm within each onlooker.

A ripple of nervous laughter swept through the crowd, followed by hesitant claps, which quickly grew into genuine applause. It started softly, but within moments, it blossomed into full-blown cheers and hoots, the sound swelling through the ring like a wave. They weren’t just relieved—they were in awe. The King of Hell had singlehandedly shielded them from destruction, and now, with a flourish, he was dismissing it as though it had been a trivial annoyance.

Lucifer, always the performer, gave a theatrical bow, his wings flaring slightly as he winked toward the crowd. The gesture earned him even louder applause, the tension having fully melted away as he straightened his posture. Without missing a beat, he began to walk back to where Alastor stood, his apple-staff in hand, his regal composure intact.

Behind him, the Wrath Ring’s denizens continued to cheer, their fear replaced by admiration. Lucifer’s presence had not only protected them but restored a sense of control. The festival could now resume, but not without an unspoken understanding—Hell’s King was still, always has been, unmatched, and even in the face of cosmic disaster, he stood firm.

On his way, he gestured silently to Paimon to take Stolas to safety, trying his best not to draw more attention from the masses.

“Paimon,” Lucifer later called out before The owl King could leave. “If I see a single feather missing from that kid the next time I call for him, know that Ars Goetia will be no more.”

No chance for any misconduct. 

The Devil's cold glare alone felt as though it could obliterate any foolish notion—along with those daring enough to even entertain it. The effortless display of power he'd just demonstrated served as proof that he could end anyone with a mere thought. And truly, even Paimon, despite already worshiping Lucifer, would cower like a hellhound pup kicked out of the pound.

Unable to utter a single word, Paimon simply nodded before quietly retreating with Stolas—being uncharacteristically careful with his boy for once.

However, unfazed by any of those reactions, Lucifer simply turned on his heels and walked away with a sharp strut, heading back to the backstage, with Alastor dutifully following behind him.

It was then…

As soon as they stepped out of the public view and into the shadows, Lucifer’s body, sensing the absence of prying eyes, finally gave in.

The strain, the pressure—everything he’d held back through sheer will—hit him all at once. The moment the adrenaline faded, it felt as if the weight of Hell itself bore down upon him at last... 

His legs buckled, and before he could even register what was happening, he collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed. His body hit the ground with a dull thud, his knees scraping against the hard surface. Darkness clouded his vision so quickly—for a brief moment, he almost thought Alastor was playing a joke on him, until he realized that even respiring didn’t come so easily... his breaths were shallow, raw, ragged gasps. It was as though every ounce of energy he had left had been fully drained from his very being in one swift, punishing moment. 

His head lolled forward, and for a brief, terrifying second, everything went blank.

The silence was oppressive—an eerie contrast to the chaos he'd just fought through. The ever-present murmurs of Hell faded, replaced by an echoing void that swallowed him whole.

It was only for a few seconds, truly—no more than a fleeting minute that his consciousness slipped away—but the exhaustion clung to him, gripping his muscles with a heaviness he couldn’t shake.

Then, a familiar voice cut through the haze. “...cifer…?”

The unmistakable owner of that radio-filtered voice knelt beside him, his grip firm yet gentle—his usually aloof tone tinged with rare concern. The King of Hell could feel the demon’s steadying hand on his shoulder, pulling him back from the brink.

Lucifer’s eyelids fluttered as his consciousness returned in fragments, just in time for another inquiry to pierce through the ringing in his ears.

“Are you okay, Luce?”

The question lingered in the air as Lucifer forced himself to sit up, every muscle screaming in protest—just as his treacherous mouth almost did.

“Just dizzy,” he croaked, his voice barely audible, still catching his breath. Lucifer tried to play it off, but the truth was painfully clear—he was running on fumes. His body was betraying him, and he hated it so much that he almost cast himself into the void from sheer anger.

Blood trickled from his nose, a sharp, metallic reminder of how dangerously low his reserves had dipped. The tang lingered on his lips, but he made no move to wipe it away. Alastor’s handkerchief came swiftly to his aid, but Lucifer remained still, unwilling to let the demon see how close he was to the edge—how badly his king was faltering… Not now.

Instead, Lucifer leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, forcing a faint smile as his vision swam. He noticed they were in a secluded alleyway—far from prying eyes, as Alastor had smartly teleported them here.  

Clever bastard. Lucifer let himself rest in the demon’s arms for a brief moment, the silence between them filled with unspoken understanding.

But that moment couldn’t last. Lucifer was never one to surrender, even to his own exhaustion—Not when he's needed for something this important… not when there's clearly no crack for him to settle into.

And so, when Alastor, ever-watchful, offered him an out, “Shall we go back then?” Lucifer shook his head almost immediately, though it took every ounce of strength to do so.

“No. I need to talk to Satan. We’ll be heading to his manor now,” he ordered, his voice firm but strained, as if daring his own body to give out again. The business with the Lord of Wrath was too important to delay, and rest was a luxury he couldn’t afford—not yet.

Why hadn’t Satan shown up at the festival when he’s clearly invited along with Roo? There had to be a reason, and whatever it was, they were going to find out. No rest for the wicked, after all.

Chapter 6: Silhouette of the Fallen

As the night pressed on, the weight of the earlier events still hung heavy in the air. Lucifer and Alastor made their way to Satan’s manor, their mode of transportation a sleek, infernal car that glided through the streets of Hell like a predator in the dark. The car’s engine purred low, a deep growl that matched the tension simmering between them.

Lucifer sat in the back, his body still recovering from the earlier collapse, but he masked his weakness well, leaning back into the plush leather seats as if nothing had happened. His crimson eyes stared out the window, the fleeting shadows of the underworld reflecting in his gaze. Alastor, seated beside him, remained uncharacteristically quiet, stealing glances at Lucifer as they sped toward their destination. The tension wasn’t lost on him; he could sense how depleted Lucifer truly was, but he wouldn’t press the issue. Not now, not when the Devil hadn't even reacted to Whispie’s efforts to gain his attention.

Soon enough, the manor came into view—Satan’s domain, a looming structure of gothic grandeur, dark spires piercing the ashen skies. 

As the car rolled to a stop at the porch, the imp who worked in the building nearly dropped what he was carrying when he saw who had arrived. His eyes widened with shock, and without a second thought, he bolted inside, his small feet pattering against the stone floors as he hurried to alert his master, the grand door was left open

Lucifer smirked slightly at the imp’s reaction. His body might still be weak, but his presence was anything but diminished. 

“Never gets old, does it?” Lucifer mused to Alastor, who was helping him step out of the vehicle with his usual loyal demeanor. Despite his exhaustion, Lucifer didn’t lean on the demon; with a grace that belied his fatigue, he stood firm on his feet. 

“Just as you are, sire,” Alastor replied with his signature wit, his microphone-cane tapping lightly on the ground as they approached the manor's grand entrance.

Within moments, Satan appeared at the threshold, his imposing figure filling the doorway. His dark horns curved majestically, his gaze steely yet intrigued as he took in his unexpected guests. 

“Lucifer. Alastor,” Satan greeted, his voice a deep rumble. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Lucifer cut straight to the point. “I believe you owe me an explanation as to why you’re here instead of where you were supposed to be.”

The troubled look that flashed across Satan’s face was problematic in itself, indicating that even his partner might not be privy to the full story.

Sensing this, Lucifer turned slightly to Alastor. “Al, could you give Charlie a call for me? I think we’ll be staying here longer than expected, and I don’t want her waiting up too late.”

Alastor, quick to catch on, grasped that Lucifer not only wanted Charlie fully informed or reassured and kept at ease; The two Sins actually needed him out of the conversation momentarily. With a curt nod and a knowing grin of his own, Alastor turned on his heel and headed off to handle the task.

As soon as Alastor departed, Lucifer shifted his attention back to Satan. His demeanor sharpened, the playful arrogance giving way to the authority he wore so well. “Lead the way,” he said, motioning for Satan to bring him inside.

The grand hall of Satan’s manor was a fitting reflection of its master—grand, intimidating, and filled with a primal energy. The stone walls echoed the heavy footfalls of the two rulers as they moved deeper into the manor.

As Lucifer and Satan walked through the dimly lit corridors of the manor, their footsteps echoed softly against the marble floors. The air between them was heavy with unspoken tension. Lucifer's expression remained cool, but beneath the surface, questions simmered. Why hadn't Satan or his wife shown up to Stolas' event? The absence of the Lord of Wrath had not only been noted but had left a void that created far more problems than anyone anticipated.

The silence stretched as they turned down another hallway, passing portraits of important figures and dark tapestries hanging from the high walls. Satan seemed deep in thought, his brows furrowed. His usually domineering presence felt slightly subdued, though it was clear that his mind was elsewhere. Lucifer noticed the hesitation, the sigh Satan suppressed before speaking.

"I know what you're thinking, My Lord," Satan began, his voice lower than usual, almost guarded. "And you have every right to wonder why we weren’t there today."

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his suspicions already forming. He was good at reading people—especially his fellow lords—and the way Satan had avoided the subject earlier told him that this was no trivial matter.

"It’s been on my mind since the moment we arrived," Lucifer replied, not bothering to mask his irritation. "I expected you to be there. Hell expected you to be there. But instead..." He trailed off, waiting for Satan to fill in the gaps.

Satan let out a long, deep sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as they approached the entrance to the inner part of the building. He paused for a moment, his hand lingering on the door handle before pushing it open. “It’s... a delicate matter. One I would rather not have become public knowledge.”

Lucifer stepped through the door, his eyes flashing as he studied Satan’s features more closely. “You know I don’t deal in secrets, especially when they impact Hell. If something’s happening, you need to at least tell me.”

Satan’s eyes flicked toward Lucifer, a brief hesitation lingering in his gaze before he finally relented. “Damien. My son. He’s… going through his growth phase.” His tone was quiet, reluctant, as if the admission pained him in some way.

Lucifer blinked, momentarily thrown by the revelation. “Damien?” He hadn’t expected that. Growth phases for hellspawn could be brutal, unpredictable, and often required direct parental guidance. It made sense, but the secrecy around it...

“I didn’t want to draw any attention to it," Satan explained, his voice gaining a harder edge. "It’s a private matter. One that requires my full attention, and if the others knew, especially the higher demons, they might see it as weakness. They’d exploit it—you know how it is.”

And indeed, he does. Lucifer can sympathize with that. He would do everything in his power to protect Lilith and Charlie’s name, even if it meant disappearing for a while—oh wait, he’s already done that.

The King absorbed the information as they continued walking, his pace slowing slightly as he processed what Satan had said, and in return, the Sin of wrath also matched the pacing on his own steps. 

Lucifer understood the complexity. Hell was ruthless, and any sign of vulnerability could ignite chaos. But even so, keeping something like this hidden carried its own risks.

“I suppose, that’s a sound reason that’s why you and your wife didn’t attend,” he mumbled, more to himself than Satan, his voice soft but sharp.

The Lord of Wrath nodded grimly. 

“It’s not that I didn’t want to be there to avoid Paimon or the Goetian, despite whatever they might be whispering about me," Satan began, his voice low yet firm. "I mean, since when have I ever needed to dodge them, right? But Damien needs me right now. More than ever.”

Lucifer exhaled, his irritation easing somewhat as the pieces started to fall into place. He couldn’t fault Satan for prioritizing his son—It made sense. Hell’s denizens were ruthless, but Satan wasn’t one to avoid a challenge, especially from someone like Paimon. The weight of fatherhood, however, was a responsibility Lucifer could respect, even if it came at a cost. 

Still, that didn’t erase the problems caused by his absence.

"You could have told me earlier," Lucifer replied, his tone carrying the weight of both command and compassion. "Next time, if there's a situation like this—especially during an event where you know I'll be in attendance—inform me, at the very least."

Satan's shoulders tensed at the words, but he said nothing, merely giving a small nod of acknowledgment.

As they reached the center of the room, Lucifer came to a halt, turning fully to face Satan. “I get it, and you can just mark it as something more vague in your next report. However—" The King trailed, his voice calm but knowing. "Today’s incident—Stolas’ event—something went horribly wrong. I believe you haven’t find out the whole story if at all since I come here almost immediately?”

Satan exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face as if the weight of the day finally caught up with him. "Ah yes, that. I felt the vibrations. For a while, Roo and I thought it was just Damien thrashing around again." He let out a dry chuckle, but it was clear the situation gnawed at him. The strain of balancing his duties as a father with the immense responsibilities of being one of Hell's rulers weighed heavily on him, pulling him in opposite directions with every step. 

"To be frank, I was about to run outside. But when I sensed your energy... I figured if you were there, everything would be under control. So, I decided to stay inside and focus on my family instead."

Lucifer studied Satan's face—his eyes, though usually fierce and unyielding, were clouded with exhaustion. His skin, a bit paler than usual, and the tautness in his jaw all screamed of a man stretched thin. For a moment, Lucifer saw a reflection of himself in Satan, in his endless battle between duty and personal bonds. 

How could he not forgive him?

A soft, understanding smile spread across Lucifer’s lips, and he let out a sigh, though this one was gentler, carrying with it the weight of acceptance. "I appreciate your trust in me. But next time, I'd appreciate it more if you did actually check in when you notice things going wrong.” He chuckled lightly, his voice carrying a forgiving warmth. "Focus on Damien for now. I’ll handle the reports, and as for today’s problem? It’s mostly over. Paimon will take charge of the investigation—he’s already on it."

Ever so merciful, the fallen Archangel pardoned his right-hand man with ease.

Satan’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, his gaze softening as he bowed his head in gratitude. "You’re too kind, sire," he murmured, his voice touched with a rare sincerity. He placed a hand over his chest, bowing slightly. "You have my utmost gratitude."

Lucifer gave a brief nod, dismissing the formality with a wave of his hand. "Enough with that. Let’s get things back on track." His eyes briefly glinted with a mischievous gleam, though the exhaustion hadn’t fully left him. “I’ve handled today’s fallout, but we’ll need to follow up—to ensure something like this doesn’t happen again.”

Satan’s jaw clenched as he nodded, clearly conflicted but trusting Lucifer with the weight of the situation. "Thank you. I don’t intend to let this go unresolved either."

“No proble—”

SHIKKK! SHIKKK! SHIKKK!

Before Lucifer could finish his sentence, sharp tendrils pierced through him without warning. Roo had struck, her spiny thorns embedding themselves mercilessly into his body. His eyes widened, and a low groan escaped his lips—too caught up in their conversation, he’d completely forgotten about Satan’s mischievous wife and her lingering ‘playful’ grudge from their past.

“Urkh...!”

Roo’s wicked grin stretched across her face as she twisted her thorny vines, seemingly unfazed by his absurd reaction. 

“Has the great Lucifer gone senile? Not even dodging me this time?" she mocked, but her expression faltered when she saw his reaction wasn’t the usual snarky comeback. Instead, he coughed—hard—and gold ichor splattered from his lips. A strange, almost glowing blue goo mixed with it, staining the floor. Roo’s eyes narrowed, sensing something was terribly wrong.

“...g-good to see you too, Roo...” he muttered, his voice weak—actually weak this time, not the mocking, dismissive tone she was used to hearing. That single realization sent a ripple of unease through her, and she immediately retracted her thorns, the vines retreating back into her body like lightning.

“Sire?” Satan’s voice broke through, filled with a rare tone of genuine panic as he reached out to catch Lucifer before his legs gave out. The mighty King of Hell was falling.  

Lucifer’s body was limp, his breath shallow, and his ivory skin paler than usual as Satan gently lowered him to the floor. “Lucifer!” Satan called again, the name almost foreign on his tongue, his deep voice now laced with urgency.

Roo’s usual bravado was replaced with concern, her face paling as she crouched next to the fallen Archangel. "I... I didn’t think..." she started, but the words caught in her throat.

She never thought this would happen. It never did. Even when Lucifer had let her win once before, he’d always laughed it off, sticking out his forked tongue and flaunting the fact that he was literally immortal, unaffected by her measly thorns. 

But now, as Roo stared at the sight in front of her, there was no satisfaction in her success—only horror. 

Lucifer’s head lolled slightly as he tried to focus his vision. A weak, barely-there smirk crossed his lips. “Ah… kiddo… s-still… sharp as ever…” he whispered hoarsely, blood bubbling up as he struggled to speak.

"Stay still, don’t move," Satan ordered, a hand on Lucifer’s chest as he tried to assess the damage, but the blue substance—whatever it was—was unlike anything he’d seen before. His mind raced for answers, but none came quickly enough. “We need to get you help.”

Lucifer grunted softly, his dull eyes flickering as they tried to meet Satan’s. “No, I… j-just… need a moment—"

But his voice faltered, and for the first time in what felt like millennia, Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell, fell silent.

Chapter 7: Shape of Schemes

As Lucifer slowly drifted back to consciousness, the world around him felt like it was submerged underwater, distorted and muted. His mind was swimming in a haze of grogginess, his body heavy as if weighed down by invisible chains. He could feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, each pulse sluggish and distant, a reminder that he was still clinging to consciousness, but barely.

The first sensation that hit him was the cold. Not a freezing chill, but a strange, hollow coolness that seeped through his skin and into his bones. His limbs felt disconnected, floating somewhere far away from his control. He tried to move, but the effort was like wading through thick mud—slow and resistant, his muscles refusing to obey.

Voices. 

There were voices. 

Distant and muffled, like they were calling to him through a thick wall. He strained to make sense of them, but his mind couldn’t seem to focus. Everything was disjointed—fragments of sound, faint vibrations that reverberated through his skull without meaning.

‘Where…?’

Lucifer’s eyelids fluttered open, but his vision was a blur of shadowy shapes and swirling colors. Nothing made sense. His surroundings were indistinct, blending together in a confusing whirl. He blinked, struggling to sharpen his focus, but the world only seemed to spin faster, violating his senses with its wild, erratic motion.

‘Not Al?’

His thoughts were sluggish, dragging through his mind like molasses. It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t being held by the familiar, steady hands of Alastor, nor the firm grasp of Satan. Instead, Whispie’s presence cradled him, their form gentle but unfamiliar in this context. He struggled to piece it together, confusion clouding his already foggy brain.

A loud, sharp noise pierced the haze.

KRRRRR!

The sound rattled through his body, vibrating in his chest, and Lucifer flinched instinctively, the motion jarring and painful. His head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache pounding at the base of his skull, and he let out a low groan. 

“...fuck.”

The pieces were falling together slowly—too slowly. They’re fighting… The realization crept into his mind like a whisper, faint and fragile.

Because of me? Because of Roo…

The thought should have sparked more urgency, but his body refused to comply. Every inch of him was drowning in fatigue. His fingers twitched uselessly as he tried to summon his strength, but his limbs were still so heavy. It was like trying to move through quicksand.

He forced his eyes open again, squinting against the blinding blur of light and shadow. The room was still spinning, and it was taking everything in him just to stay coherent. But the sounds of combat—the roar of energy clashing—cut through his grogginess. He needed to stop this before it escalated further.

Summoning what little strength he had left, Lucifer managed to lift a trembling hand. His fingers tingled as dark energy swirled weakly around them, the sensation faint but enough to work with. He let out a shuddering breath, concentrating as hard as he could, and unleashed a pulse of power.

The gust rippled outward, slamming into the combatants like an invisible force, forcing them into sudden submission. Lucifer didn’t have the strength to speak, but his voice thundered directly into their minds, laced with authority.

"’If you fuckers don’t stop now, I swear on my name, I’ll make you all suffer as soon as I can.’"

The words rang out with a finality that even in his weakened state carried weight. But as soon as the command left him, the energy dissipated, and Lucifer’s body gave out—his consciousness almost slipped away once more. 

The King’s hand fell limply to his side, the exertion draining what little remained of his strength. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, each inhale a struggle as if the very air was being ripped away from him. His heart raced, pounding against his ribs as stress and exhaustion threatened to choke him.

Thankfully, the ruckus finally ceased. 

Lucifer could sense the sudden stillness, though his senses were too dulled to fully process what was happening. He could feel the tension slowly easing around him, the fury in the air dissipating.

He wanted to check, to ensure that the calmness was genuine and not just the calm before the storm—but his useless body refused to cooperate, it’s frustating. 

His limbs felt like lead, and despite the calm settling in the room, his mind teetered on the edge of consciousness. Darkness threatened to pull him under once again, and no matter how hard he tried, he’s still slipping away—He needed to calm down as well. And fast.

That fallen archangel eyes closed shut once more, couldn’t quite tell what had transpired as he tried to focus inward. It was hard, his mind clouded and body fighting against him, but slowly, after what felt like an eternity, he sensed the tension easing. The boiling rage that had gripped him began to simmer down at a rapid pace—Ah, it seemed Satan was stepping in to help. 

‘Good’, he thought dimly, feeling the anger cooling off. His grip on reality was tenuous, but at least the immediate danger had passed.

His breathing slowly began to even out, the burning sensation in his chest starting to calm. His muscles, though trembling, began to relax as he gave in to the overwhelming exhaustion. He couldn’t keep his eyes open even when he needed it; the effort was too great, and the world was still spinning too violently for him to comprehend. He felt himself being carried, by warm embrace this time, the motion rocking him gently, though he had no idea where he was being taken.

Lucifer vaguely registered a voice through his mind, “‘No need to panic, Al. I’m healing... Already getting better. Don’t let Satan call Bel or tell Charlie, or I swear...’” The thought floated out, more reflex than anything, though his grasp on the situation was still weak.

However, it wasn’t Alastor who answered.

"Understood, sire. But we’ll still prepare you a room. Pardon our haste."

Lucifer mentally cursed, realizing that Satan had heard his message instead of Alastor. 

Did he really send it to the wrong demon? He sighed internally, a weary, defeated sigh. ‘I must be really out of it…’

His body slackened further as he allowed himself to be laid down on a bed. The world was still fuzzy, but at least now he could feel his muscles starting to loosen, his physical injuries were healed, and his breath no longer labored. 

Lucifer tried to flutter his eyes open one last time, and this time his vision cleared. He quickly spotted Alastor standing by his bedside, the demonic energy emanating from him sharp and unyielding.

“I just need to rest a bit,” The weakened rasped, managing a shaky smile for his partner. “No need to be so uptight, Al. It was a freak accident.”

He left out the part where Roo’s ‘accident’ was a deliberate attack, understanding that she had no way of knowing what had happened at the festival. Whereas, despite her violent tendencies, she still had a warrior’s code of morals. Roo wasn’t the barbarian she once was in her wilder days with Satan.

Regardless, Alastor’s eyes were still hardened, clearly unconvinced. The eldritch power dancing at his fingertips as if ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. 

Lucifer, sensing the unspoken traction, mumbled feebly, “Hand?”

‘Hand?’ The request confused Alastor at first. He thought his partner needed some form of comfort, something to calm his nerves after everything that had happened.

And while Lucifer did need comfort, it wasn’t the only reason. He was too weak to subdue Alastor’s unruly power without direct contact. His fingers curled around Alastor’s wrist, and through the mark burned into the overlord’s arm—a sign of their bond—Lucifer began suppressing the volatile energy that crackled around Alastor, reining it in with slow, steady control.* 

A faint hiss escaped Lucifer’s lips from the strain, but he persisted.

Alastor’s eyes widened ever so slightly as he realized what was happening. The sudden shift in power dynamics made his blood boil for a brief moment, though not from anger. He instantly dispelled his remaining energy, ensuring no more sparks of eldritch magic danced at his fingertips. A low growl rumbled in his throat as he caught Lucifer's cheeky grin—always so insufferable, even when bedridden and weak.

"...foolish angel," Alastor muttered under his breath, trying to ignore the fondness creeping into his voice. Damn it. He was growing too soft for this fallen bastard.

Lucifer didn't even respond with his usual witty comeback!

Instead, he opted for silence, his body finally relaxing into the comfort of rest. His thoughts began to slow, and his mind drifted, seeking the quiet he desperately needed to gather himself again.

The silence stretched for a good half hour, during which Alastor kept watch, his senses alert but tempered, especially since Lucifer still held his hand captive. The devil had their fingers intertwined, a subtle sign of his tenuous hold on the present calm.

Then, like a faint echo, he felt Lucifer stirring once more.

"’Tell Satan to come here. I would like to hear his report and finish this matter so we can head back by the time I’m up and about.’"

Alastor’s expression soured at the command. He’d hoped Lucifer would take more time to rest, but of course, that was too much to expect. Disgruntled but loyal, Alastor didn’t argue, only giving a curt nod as he rose from his seat once Lucifer let go of his hand.

Silently, he left to fetch Satan, ever obedient to Lucifer's will, though his eyes briefly flickered with concern before he disappeared from the room.

Satan soon entered the room with heavy steps, his expression laced with remorse. The strain was palpable, and Alastor stood nearby, eyes flicking to The Sin of Wrath with a guarded wariness. The air felt thick with unspoken apologies and underlying frustration. 

Satan bowed his head slightly, addressing Lucifer in a low, regretful tone, "Sire, I deeply apologize for Roo’s behavior. She didn’t realize—"

Lucifer raised his hand sharply, silencing him mid-sentence. His fingers barely lifted from where they rested on his lap, but the gesture was commanding enough to halt Satan’s apology. Lucifer's eyes glinted with a mix of exhaustion and impatience as he exhaled slowly, deliberately.

"That is not what concerns me right now," Lucifer said, his voice steady but firm. There was no forgiveness in his tone, nor was there condemnation—it was simply a dismissal of the issue. The unspoken message was clear: Roo's actions were insignificant compared to the larger matters at hand. His focus shifted back to the crux of the situation, steering the conversation in a more pressing direction.

The King glanced at his attendant, signaling him to continue with the report that had been put on hold earlier.

Alastor cleared his throat, stepping forward with a note book he just summoned, his voice smooth but slightly edged with tension. "Regarding today's events, Your Majesty, I’ve been investigating certain movements within the Greed and Envy rings. We’ve discovered that some of the mafia members from Greed and gangsters from Envy have formed an alliance to orchestrate an attack on Stolas. The hit was ordered by an 'unknown' Goetian. However..." He paused, narrowing his eyes as if choosing his next words carefully, "...while our suspicions point to Andrealphus, there’s no concrete evidence yet. Only speculation."

Satan’s expression darkened slightly as he absorbed the information, though his voice remained calm. "Andrealphus?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing. "He's always been ambitious, but to make such a bold move…” 

Lucifer, on the other hand, clicked his tongue in annoyance, “Tsk, still, without direct evidence, we can’t move against him yet, I suppose."

Alastor nodded, though his expression remained grim. "There’s also Paimon to consider. His motives align as well, though more indirectly.”

“Then there’s Stella…” Satan added with a low hum, “—Stolas' ex-wife. A vengeful one at that."

Lucifer leaned back in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stolas is a soft fella—too soft, if you ask me. It’s no surprise so many would want his place, especially with how it's become clear he has my favor. Even more reason for these vultures to strike. But twice? Twice in my presence?" His tone dripped with irritation. "Paimon needs to handle his fucking court better. Shouldn't he have done something about his son’s stalkers by now?"

“Well, considering he’s one of the suspects, I doubt he’s inclined to act unless ordered,” Alastor replied, almost shrugging but holding back.

Satan growled lowly, his hands clenching into fists at his side. "Let me handle that issue, sire. I’d like to make him hear a piece of my mind as well," he said, a hint of wrath bleeding into his words. His frustration with Paimon was palpable, the shapeshifting bird clearly in his crosshairs.

Lucifer eyed Satan, considering him for a moment before giving a faint, approving hum. "Fine. But try not to cause more trouble than it’s worth." He shifted slightly, sitting up straighter, regaining more control over his own magic and movements. His exhaustion was still evident, but the faint traces of strength were returning to him. He waved off any protest Alastor might have offered, his voice final. 

"We’ll be heading back now. I expect to hear about this during our next meeting, Wrath. Don’t disappoint me."

Satan bowed low, his tone somber but resolute. "I’ll have your transportation ready by the door, Your Majesty."

Lucifer stood slowly, Alastor moving to assist him, steadying him as he rose to his feet. "A portal’s not an option right now," the demon said quietly, his voice lined with hidden concern.

The weakened devil merely gave a slight nod in response, a faint flicker of amusement crossing his lips. "I don’t expect it to be," he said with a hint of his usual sarcasm, though his tone was far from jovial. With Alastor’s help, they made their way toward the door, leaving Satan behind to prepare for whatever came next with the foolish Goetians.

The journey back was shrouded in silence, the weight of the day settling between them like an invisible fog. Even the familiar crackle of tension that often hung between Lucifer and Alastor was absent—replaced by a quieter, almost reluctant calm. 

The sadistic overlord, his movements deliberate and careful, carried his partner like a fragile treasure, cradling him in his arms as they slipped into the shadows of the realm between realms, Lucifer just let him. There, hidden from prying eyes, the world around them seemed even more still, the shadowy realm wrapping them in an eerie solitude.

As they arrived at the Apple tower, Alastor was still silent, setting Lucifer down gently inside, but the weight of his concern hung heavy in the air. The weary king, though still drained, offered a faint smile to break the quiet. His voice, albeit shaky, carried a softness that was not often heard.

"I'll be okay by tomorrow," he said, though the reassurance felt like it was more for Alastor’s sake than his own. "No need to panic, yeah?"

Lucifer then added, with a lightness that seemed almost out of place, "Not sure if it would do you any help, but if you want to hold hands, or maybe hold my wrist so you can feel my pulse through the night, either way is okay too."

Alastor’s response was immediate and deadpan, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room. "How about I hold your neck instead?"

The mischievous glint that danced in Lucifer's eyes returned, even if just for a moment. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, and though he was still weak, there was a flicker of playfulness. "That’d be too kinky, don’t you think~?" he teased, tilting his head slightly, a sly smirk tugging at his lips.

"Though, sure," he added with a teasing tone, "if you think you can handle this image when you wake up later, be my guest." With a flick of fingers, the leash and chain that once adorned 'Lulu’s' neck now appeared on him.

A quiet hiss slipped from his lips as the conjuring took its toll, but it was enough to prompt Alastor to rip the plastic off Lucifer’s neck—much to both of their surprise.

"I agree. That was a bad idea," Alastor's voice came, clearly strained.

If he ever dared to close his eyes, even for a second, daring to get a wink of sleep, while his partner was uncomfortable—probably still grueling in silent pain—because of something he caused that might choke that slim neck, whether it was that damn chain, his stupid tendril, or, God forbid, his own fucking hand—he would be consumed with fury.

The very thought ignited a seething rage, not at Lucifer, who had even proposed the idea, but at himself for ever allowing it. He would tear his own limb apart before letting it harm Lucifer the way his mother so often harmed by her excuse of a partner.

In fact, if that stupidity were ever truly happen on his watch, he would gladly gift his own extremities to Paimon like a peace offering in contempt of his own failure.

Meanwhile, unaware of the turmoil in his partner’s mind, Lucifer simply smiled and tried again with a more comforting suggestion. "Well, I do accept hugs if you’re willing—but like you said once, I’m a pretty cuddly sleeper. I can’t promise I won’t hug you back too tight."

Alastor merely raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing more, opting to take hold of Lucifer’s wrist instead. His grip was firm but not harsh, fingers carefully resting on the pulse point, where the steady thrum of life reminded him that Lucifer was still here, still recovering. The silence that followed was more comfortable now, the awkwardness between them giving way to something more nostalgic, more intimate in its simplicity.

As Lucifer lay there, the touch of Alastor’s hand around his wrist stirred memories from long ago. He remembered holding Charlie’s little wrist in much the same way, those first few nights after the deal with Sera about Extermination Day. His daughter’s pulse racing beneath his fingers was the only thing that anchored him—knowing that, as long as her heart beat strong, she was safe in his arms.

Lucifer sighed softly, the memory warming him in a way he hadn’t expected. It was almost comforting to know that even now, someone watched over him in the same way.

He noticed Alastor lying on his side, eyes fixed on him, vigilant and unblinking. The demon was watching him sleep—a rare sight, and certainly an odd one. Lucifer found it awkward, being so exposed under Alastor’s gaze, but he had given his consent, and in truth, he was too tired to care. Sleep, once elusive, now found him easily, fatigue pulling him under like a warm, heavy blanket.

With the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath Alastor’s fingers, and the comforting presence of his partner close by, Lucifer let the exhaustion finally take him. For now, the battles could wait. Tonight, in this fragile moment, he would rest.

Notes:

*Helping Hand of the Fallen [the moment Al gets his marking]

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 15 of Forbidden Fruit Always Tastes Sweet 📻🍎