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A rose by any other name would be just as much of a thorny fucking asshole
– Shakespeare
... Probably
… If he’d ever met Alastor
“Er… So… This has never happened to me before.”
It was a lie. Not even a particularly good one. A man, or rather, former angel didn’t live for ten thousand years without the occasional embarrassment in that specific department. It was only natural, even if the being in question was of an unnatural persuasion. God-given wings – literally – weren’t always useful when it came to rising to the occasion.
Something of which Lucifer, King of Hell, Light of the Morning, and so-called Father of Lies (if only by those who had never actually met him), was all too aware.
Head held stubbornly high, he looked up into the grinning face of his companion, daring him to comment. Which he did. Because if there was one thing Alastor was unable to resist, it was the opportunity to be a colossal and unrelenting prick.
It was, Lucifer mused, one of the things he reluctantly loved about him.
“I’d find that particular lie far more convincing, your Majesty, had the same thing not occurred the last time we were in this position,” Alastor said as he removed his thigh from its snug fit between Lucifer’s legs. His hands, braced either side of the King of Hell’s head, tensed briefly, claws digging into the mattress beneath them, shredding the sheets. Hooking a single finger beneath Lucifer’s chin, he tilted his head upwards. Their lips were little more than an inch, maybe two apart. “Why, if you’re not careful, you’ll be liable to leave me with some sort of complex.”
“As if your ego would ever allow that,” Lucifer scoffed, cheeks hot. “You’ve got too high an opinion of yourself to let mine drag it down.”
“You give me too much credit, I fear.” Alastor’s thumb ghosted along the curve of Lucifer’s lower lip, prompting a shiver. “Perhaps I’m self conscious regarding my desirability.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes. It was a refrain he had heard before, and it was just as convincing this time. Which was to say, not at all.
“Sure,” he hissed, forked tongue darting out to lick the path Alastor’s thumb had taken. “And I hear Hell’s about to freeze over.”
“We could do with a change in the weather,” the Radio Demon mused, unusually amiable given the situation. “It will give me a chance to air out my winter wardrobe. I’ve always thought I’d look rather fetching in a roll-neck sweater.”
As much as Lucifer was inclined to agree, he refused to entertain the thought, unwilling to add to the impotent ache he felt between his thighs. He shifted restlessly against Alastor with a mixture of both embarrassment and thwarted lust.
“It’s not just me,” Lucifer said, tone petulant. “You haven’t exactly… you know… given me a standing ovation, have you?”
Which, now that he thought about it, Lucifer was fairly sure hadn’t been true five minutes ago. He distinctly remembered the contents of Alastor’s slacks being slightly firmer in nature when the demon had pulled him down onto the bed. Marveled at how large said contents were, too. It had been his final thought before Alastor had pressed a thigh between his and he'd gone… Well, there was no other word for it than ‘limp’.
“What can I say? It appears your disappointment is contagious.”
Lucifer frowned. He knew Alastor was just trying to get under his skin, but perhaps there was some truth to it. It had happened last time, too. And the time before that.
And, if Lucifer was honest with himself, on several previous occasions that had only escaped Alastor's notice because they'd been less… well, intimate.
This time, he’d chalked it up to nerves. At least on his own part.
Mostly because, though he might have been the Devil, even he, Lucifer Morningstar, Heaven's own personal pain in the posterior, got nervous on occasion. And if there was anyone in Hell liable to make him nervous, it was Alastor. The man was unpredictable. Vicious, too. Whilst he couldn’t be considered a threat to anything other than Lucifer’s dignity, there was something distinctly nerve-wracking about the idea of being Alastor’s first (a tidbit Alastor had gleefully informed him of one morning, four months into their not-quite-relationship, smile on his face, eyes daring Lucifer to comment). Especially given that, should he fail to show Alastor a good time, the mockery would be never-ending.
He could picture it now. Himself, sat on the edge of the bed, apologizing profusely, cheeks burning; Alastor in the inevitable wet patch, ears pinned flat to his head, still hard and thoroughly disappointed, the first of a barrage of insults on the tip of his whip-like tongue. It would be even more humiliating than his current predicament. And almost certainly would not engender fond enough feelings within the notably prudish Radio Demon to entertain a repeat performance.
In Lucifer's defense, he hadn’t had much in the way of contact, lascivious or otherwise, since Lilith had left. Not for lack of opportunity, he had hastened to add upon Alastor’s not so subtle insinuation the last time the topic had come up. Nor had he had any complaints; Lilith had always been thoroughly satisfied. As had Eve. But there was always the chance that he had lost the magic touch somewhere in the pit of despair he’d spent the last several thousand years inhabiting, and he had a reputation to protect.
Groaning, Lucifer rolled over and buried his face in the pillows.
“This is some sort of twisted joke,” he mumbled into the fabric.
The sound of creaking bed springs filled the air as Alastor shifted above him. It was followed by a jolt, the demon flopping down onto the mattress in his usual over-dramatic style. The frame shook beneath them.
“I beg your pardon?” Alastor said from somewhere to the left of Lucifer’s ear, close enough that Lucifer could feel the heat of the demon’s breath against his skin.
It sent a wave of gooseflesh chasing down his jaw and neck, a tingling sensation following in its wake. Chest tightening with a sweet and entirely irritating sort of ache, he growled in frustration, pressing his face further into the pillow.
“It’s a joke that every time we…” he said, words muffled by blood-red cotton. “That I…”
Lucifer trailed off, unwilling to go into the specifics of the problem. It was bad enough experiencing it first hand. Giving it voice, however…
He resisted the urge to look imploringly at Alastor, who remained annoyingly silent, no doubt choosing to let Lucifer suffer.
Bastard.
“Oh, nevermind.”
Cursing his pride, dented though it was, Lucifer fisted his hands into the sheets beneath the pillow, firmly ignoring the breeze that whispered across his exposed back. It felt too much like a mockery of Alastor’s fingers.
Why did this have to happen to him? And with Alastor, of all people? The demon least likely to be understanding about it all. Kind words were not part of Alastor’s lexicon, unless spoken in a distinctly sarcastic tone.
Deep down, Lucifer knew why: it was because it was a blow to the sin he embodied. God worked in mysterious ways – primarily, it seemed, to do awful things to Lucifer Morningstar. It was part of his punishment, he supposed. Though this was a decidedly new angle.
With a sigh, Lucifer rolled onto his back. Above him, the faux sky of Alastor's room darkened into a strange sort of twilight. It felt horribly intimate. He wondered briefly whether Alastor had done it on purpose; the room often reflected the demon's mood, and Lucifer was never quite sure how much of it was involuntary.
It felt as though the room had begun to shrink around them, the night sky enveloping them in a hot, uncomfortably humid cocoon. A dark-looking cloud drifted overhead like an omen, dimming the light of the moon. The scent of damp earth filled the air. Tupelo and cyprus leaves rustled in the breeze. A firefly bumbled at the foot of the bed, seemingly oblivious to the drama that played out before it.
“This is your fault, you know,” Lucifer said, folding his arms over his torso in a gesture that was absolutely not a demonstration of his self consciousness.
(Father of Lies, after all.)
“Mine? My, my, that’s quite the supposition! I wonder… What evidence do you have to suggest it?”
Lucifer opened his mouth to reply and… hesitated. The truth was, he had little in the way of anything concrete. Only a growing pattern of incidents, and a vague sense that this was, somehow, Alastor's fault.
“This has never happened to me before,” he repeated, at a loss.
The bed rocked as Alastor shifted upon it. A claw, long and sharp, poked Lucifer in the side.
“So you've said, and I have refuted.” The jab at Lucifer’s ribs turned into a strange sort of caress, the tip of Alastor’s claw tracing the curve of the bone. “I fear for your memory. An artifact of old age, no doubt.”
The insult, accompanied by the demon’s touch, filled Lucifer with the now familiar mix of annoyance and arousal that he had come to associate with Alastor. His words – sharp enough to cut deeper than his claws – always strangely at odds with his actions, which seemed reverent. Perhaps even caring, in an odd sort of way. It made Lucifer’s head spin.
“I meant with anyone else,” Lucifer said, refusing to uncross his arms and let Alastor’s claw continue on its journey towards his sternum.
“What, exactly, are you accusing me of?”
Alastor’s tone was sharp. His fingers trailed lightly along Lucifer’s flank. Ordinarily Lucifer would have called the gesture threatening, but the bite was missing. If anything it seemed, well, sweet.
Which only made him feel worse.
“Oh, I don't know.” Lucifer batted Alastor’s hand away. “It would be just like you to do something like this. You probably think it's funny.”
The King of Hell unable to get it up. As impotent in his love as in his rage. It was the sort of thing that should have sent Alastor into a fit, cruel laughter ringing through the bayou. Instead there were only the soft pops and crackles of radio static.
“Ordinarily you'd be correct,” Alastor said, threading his fingers through Lucifer's own.
“But? I'm sensing a ‘but’ here.”
“But in this instance, you're wrong. I'm finding it as frustrating as you are.” Alastor's grin became more of a grimace. “Why you think I would choose to put myself through this specific torture is beyond me. Torturing you, yes. That's just a bit of fun. Making myself miserable in the process defeats the purpose.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working,” Lucifer grumbled.
“Oh, rest assured, I’m absolutely not! Your discomfort is the only thing saving this evening from becoming a true waste of my time,” Alastor said brightly. He hummed to himself, thinking. “Though if I had the ability to douse the fires of another’s lust with a metaphorical bucket of cold water,” he mused, the tips of his claws pricking the delicate skin that stretched across the back of Lucifer's hand, “my interactions with Angel Dust would have been far more entertaining!”
He had a point. Access to this sort of power would have rendered Alastor more of a menace than he already was. An opportunity to mess with Hell’s horniest denizens would have been irresistible to the Radio Demon. Still, that didn't mean it wasn't his fault…
“Perhaps you've been cursed,” Lucifer said after a moment, feeling distinctly as though he were grasping at straws.
Alastor did laugh then.
“Who would dare curse me?” he said, once he had recovered, voice bright and thick with radio distortion.
“I don't know!” There were too many to count. Lucifer could name at least four possible suspects in the Hotel. And as for the wider Pride Ring… “You've got a lot of enemies.”
“All of whom are very much under the impression that I have zero interest in any form of sexual depravity, therefore rendering their curse as impotent as you currently are.”
Lucifer felt his cheeks begin to burn again.
“You didn't have to phrase it quite like that,” he mumbled.
Alastor's eyes flashed in the darkness. His smile broadened.
“Sensitive, your Majesty?” he said, voice infused with a mean sort of mirth.
“Oh, fuck you, asshole.”
The hand that grasped Lucifer's own tightened briefly, thumb stroking the length of his index finger in a way that, had it been anyone else, would have seemed almost lewd. Instead, it made Lucifer feel as though Alastor was busy counting the bones. Tracing the shape of them beneath the midnight-toned skin that decorated his forearms.
No doubt imagining where carefully applied pressure would make them snap.
The thought sent a frisson of strange pleasure dancing across his chest, the sparse blond hairs upon it standing on end. The muscles of his thighs tightened fractionally. His cock, still disappointingly limp, gave a half-hearted twitch.
It was probably for the best, he thought gloomily. Masochism had never been his favorite flavor of depravity. At least, not until it had begun to involve Alastor, and that was something he didn’t fancy exploring quite yet, even within the relative safety of his own mind. No matter how eagerly his body – or at least the parts of his body that weren’t his uncooperative dick – reacted to the suggestion.
Instead, he forced his mind back on track, steadily warming to the idea of a curse. It certainly fit the specifics.
If he squinted.
And exercised a degree of disbelief regarding his own anxiety that only the Father of Lies would be capable of.
Ten thousand years of being able to get it up on command (and sometimes very much not on command, much to his chagrin), had given him pause. He had no issues in the privacy of his own rooms with nothing more than his imagination for company. His hand, whilst not a great substitute for the object of his affections, had proven more than adequate. As had the collection of pillows upon his bed, the slightly dusty box of sex toys that had languished upon a mostly forgotten shelf, unused, for the last two hundred or so years, and the detachable shower head at one end of his obscenely large bath. Even just the thought of Alastor, accompanied by a glass of whiskey and the melodious tones of the record player, was enough to render him as stiff as his drink – and little more than an equally stiff breeze liable to make him come, given his sexual frustrations.
The problem was clearly not universal.
Something that a few, extremely brief and somewhat embarrassing experiments regarding the touch of others had also proven. Not that he’d been fucking his way around the Hotel; the evidence he had collected to support his theory regarding the cause of his predicament had mostly consisted of a combination of a spontaneous and unwelcome boners alongside the serendipitous appearance of a Hotel resident. Including, on one horribly memorable occasion, finding himself with a lap full of spider demon whilst sporting an erection so large it could probably have been seen from Heaven. If Angel Dust had noticed, he hadn’t said anything. Thankfully.
That particular incident had been Alastor’s fault. The Radio Demon had taken to toying with his bowtie in Lucifer’s presence. Slipping a finger beneath the black silk, the fabric tightening around his neck like a garotte. It had left Lucifer with the overwhelming urge to tear it off with his teeth – the distraction of it so complete that it had been responsible for both his boner and his lack of awareness regarding his surroundings. Quite how Angel Dust had ended up sprawled across his thighs escaped him; one minute he had been contemplating the taste of Alastor's neck, the next he had a panting, pink-and-white pornstar treating him like furniture, the word ’Duck!’ ringing in his ears.
The whole thing had been deeply embarrassing. But it had left Lucifer with a very compelling piece of evidence, from which he had determined two things:
- That it was caused by Alastor
- And only Alastor
Who was cursed, Lucifer told himself with increasing desperation. Obviously.
And currently looking at him with something akin to pity.
How did that saying go?
Needs must when the Devil drives himself to distraction.
Or something like that. Human aphorisms weren't his strong point. Still, anything to shift the blame firmly away from himself.
“What about that TV guy?” Lucifer said. “Box, or whatever?”
“Vox,” Alastor corrected, nose wrinkling with distaste. “And even if he did have access to powerful enough magic to pull it off, I'd imagine he'd see it as shooting himself in the foot.”
Lucifer blinked. “What? Why?”
The grip upon his hand shifted, Alastor cupping it in his own. Lucifer watched as he began to trace the creases upon his palm like an old fashioned fortune teller, the demon humming gently as he followed the angel’s lifeline.
(Another joke from God at his expense.)
“He still holds a vain and somewhat pathetic hope that I might one day deign to fuck him,” Alastor said after a moment. “Cursing me this way would leave him high and dry.”
That Vox might have other desires upon Alastor's person – ones that didn't rely on the integrity of the Radio Demon’s mast – clearly hadn't occurred to him. And whilst Lucifer couldn't deny that educating Alastor on the finer points of sex would be deeply amusing, it would lead the asshole right back to the original point – his seemingly chronic lack of one.
“Is that a subtle hint I should feel grateful you decided to grace my bed?” Lucifer said, changing the subject.
Alastor’s hand smoothed upwards over the delicate bones of Lucifer’s wrist. A claw, sharp and crimson-tipped, pressed against the vulnerable flesh, directly over the vein beneath. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to send a thrill trilling up Lucifer’s spine.
“Not subtle, no.” The sharp press of a claw became the gentle caress of a thumb. “And I think you'll find we're in my bed.”
Lucifer shivered. Snatching his hand away, he poked Alastor in the chest.
“I meant it in a metaphorical sense, you ass.”
Alastor raised a single eyebrow. “And I suppose the issue being solely yours is out of the question?”
“I'm the King of Hell!” Lucifer said. “No one could curse me except maybe God themselves.”
“That wasn't my point, but it's interesting that's where your mind went.”
“Oh? And what is your point?”
He poked Alastor in the chest again for good measure, unable to fully suppress the jump of surprise when the demon caught his fingers, pressing his hand flat to his sternum. Lucifer could feel the buttons of Alastor’s shirt beneath his palm; feel the heat that poured off the demon in waves, burning like the sun at their single point of contact; feel the weight of Alastor’s hand upon his own.
“That this is just a manifestation of your performance anxiety,” Alastor said in the sort of tone he reserved for particularly stupid individuals.
Lucifer wasn't stupid – despite his fervent denials, and his brief and unconvincing foray into cursed territory, he knew the demon was right.
What he was, however, was willfully ignorant.
There was a difference.
One he aptly demonstrated as he firmly punted the conversational grenade back into Alastor's court.
“Doesn't explain what's happening to you, does it?” Lucifer countered, accusatory. “And why does it have to be my fault? What about your nerves? What's to say that it's not you doing this to the both of us and you just don't realize it?”
Alastor snorted.
“If you're trying to undermine my masculinity, it's not working. My self worth isn't tied to my sex life.”
“That's because you don't have one!”
It was a low blow. They both knew it. Though quite which of them it ended up insulting, Lucifer wasn’t sure.
Alastor’s smile became vicious. “And whose fault is that?”
“Not mine! You've had a century of opportunity! It's hardly my fault you wasted it.”
Irritated, Lucifer pushed himself up with his free hand. Swinging a leg over Alastor’s thighs, he deposited himself firmly on top of them, hand still pressed to the demon’s chest. Cotton of Alastor’s shirt creasing beneath his touch, Lucifer smoothed his palm across the demon’s pectoral. He felt Alastor stiffen beneath him – and not in the way he had hoped.
The hand upon his own tightened dangerously.
He stilled.
Touching was something he had rapidly come to realize was done entirely on Alastor's terms. A dicey subject, demarcated by the demon's actions over his words, often manifesting in the warning tap of fingers, or the grasp of a tentacle wrapped too tightly around a limb.
It didn't hamper whatever passed for Alastor's strange demonstrations of affection, however. Nor the frantic kisses the demon often bestowed upon him – usually when he was least expecting it, and something Lucifer suspected he only did to catch him off guard. Often, Lucifer woke to Alastor curled around him, the sole point of contact his forehead, pressed to the middle of the angel’s back, basking in his warmth like an overfed cat. And it was… nice. At least until Alastor woke and the insults began, the peace of the morning destroyed with an entirely too self-satisfied grin.
There were rules to their encounters. Unspoken, but enforced. And it seemed as though he had just broken one of them.
Fully expecting to find himself tossed to the floor, Alastor dissolving into angry shadows beneath him, Lucifer tensed. Cursing his own talent for making a bad situation worse, he closed his eyes and waited for his inevitable introduction to the carpet.
“Perhaps I hadn’t found anyone worth the effort?”
The reply was soft. Quiet. Words undistorted by Alastor’s usual radio filter, the slightest lilt of a New Orleans accent coloring his speech.
Hands – trembling, Lucifer noted – came to rest lightly upon the tops of his thighs, hesitant at first, but growing bolder as the angel’s eyes shot open.
Alastor looked… honest. Wrecked, too, if only for a moment, expression snapping back into the smiling mask he presented to the world in less than a blink.
“Or perhaps I was simply foolish enough to think a demon of your, ahem, stature would provide an entertaining experience!” Alastor continued, ruining the moment in high, transatlantic tones. “If only I had realized how inflated the rumors surrounding your prowess had been!” He gave Lucifer a wicked-looking grin, hands smoothing up the fabric of the angel’s slacks. “Much like the ones surrounding your actual stature.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes.
It was a defense mechanism, Alastor’s apparent need to insult him. One he seemingly thought prevented the angel from seeing the truth of the matter: that he cared.
Not that the jabs didn't get under his skin. As reluctant as Lucifer was to admit it, Alastor had an exceptional talent for knowing exactly the wrong thing to say at any given moment. And exploiting that knack to its fullest.
Taking a deep breath, Lucifer ignored the jab, resisting the urge to pinch the demon beneath him.
“Suppose you're correct…” he said, toying with a button on Alastor’s shirt.
“I often am.”
“Shut up. Suppose you're correct and this is–”
“Your fault,” Alastor interrupted.
Lucifer continued to ignore him.
“Something to do with your lack of experience,” he said, hand drifting southwards to rest upon Alastor’s stomach. Lucifer’s fingers splayed across the concave surface of it.
He waited for Alastor to tense again, fully aware he was likely violating yet another of their unspoken rules. But the demon simply grinned, his movements languid and easy as his thumbs rubbed across the seams of Lucifer’s pants.
“I don't believe that's how I phrased it,” Alastor replied, “but do go on.”
“Maybe you've never noticed because it's never come up.”
The Radio Demon was a virgin, after all. His interest in sex, from what Lucifer had gathered, bordered on the academic: he’d read books, watched films, understood the ins-and-outs of the act, if not the more physical urge to participate in said in-and-out. If his affliction matched Lucifer’s, then any lone meeting with Madam Palm and her five lovely daughters would have gone much as expected; primarily with Alastor rising beautifully to the occasion, and subsequently leaving his fingers sticky with the evidence of his foray into the sin of onanism. With another, however…
“My lack of interest in sex doesn't mean I'm impotent.” Alastor cast a meaningful glance towards his lower half. “Current circumstances notwithstanding.”
Lucifer’s brain stuttered to a halt, the thread of the conversation lost as Alastor’s words sunk in.
“Did… Did you just make a dick joke?”
Alastor shrugged. “It felt thematically appropriate.” Grin lighting up his face like a jack-o-lantern, he tapped Lucifer’s thigh with an unexpected enthusiasm. “Besides, this is easily tested!”
And with that, Alastor dissolved into shadow. Arms windmilling comically, Lucifer fought to remain upright. He tried desperately to steady himself upon the now empty bed; a task thwarted by Alastor, who reappeared at the foot of it, and promptly shoved a hand between Lucifer’s shoulder blades. The angel pitched forward and face-planted the pillow.
Spluttering with anger, he rolled over, pinning the Radio Demon with a glare hot enough to melt glass.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he said, struggling up onto his elbows.
“An experiment,” Alastor replied, seemingly nonplussed at Lucifer’s rage.
A tentacle, whip thin and fast enough to disturb the humid air of the bayou, shot out from Alastor’s form. It swept Lucifer’s elbows out from beneath him, sending him crashing backwards onto the mattress once more. A tap on the chest told him to stay down. A request Lucifer grudgingly complied with.
Skin hot with irritation, he shifted upon the bed, head coming to rest on the pillows, elevating it just enough to watch Alastor begin to undress.
Lucifer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
This was not what he had expected.
Nor had he anticipated his response would be quite so immediate. Arousal hit him like a lightning bolt. It made his head spin, his skin tight, his heart pound in his chest with such force it felt as though it would batter straight through his ribcage. He watched, eyes hungry, as Alastor slowly slipped the buttons of his shirt free, revealing inch after inch of tantalizing skin and fur.
Mouth watering, Lucifer swallowed as the demon’s hands reached the waistband of his slacks and popped the topmost button. In one slick, slightly showy movement, Alastor pulled the hem of his shirt from his pants before letting it slip from his shoulders, material bunching at the garters that encircled his biceps.
Lucifer wanted to tear at them with his teeth. Rip the garters from Alastor’s arms and let the blood colored fabric pool around his feet. Push the demon down onto the floor, hands in his hair, and rut against him until they came in their slacks, unable to stop, every breath punctuated by helpless little moans.
He wanted…
He wanted.
And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that such an advance would only result in disaster. That his passions would burn so brightly they’d steal all the oxygen from the room. Leave the pair of them suffocating, their gasps not of pleasure but of disappointment, the fire turning to ash the moment he reached out and touched him. Kissed him. Pressed a hand to the front of the demon’s slacks and took the very first fragment of Alastor’s virginity.
Apprehension forming a rigid band around his lungs, he remained resolutely soft, the expected rush of blood to his much neglected loins more of a trickle than a torrent. Even the sight of Alastor, chest bare, the top button of his slacks undone, as he made a show of loosening his cufflinks did little more than make Lucifer twitch in his underwear.
“See?” Alastor said, unfastening his shirt garters with a practiced flick of the wrist.
Shrugging free of the fabric, Alastor crawled onto the bed, a predatory gleam in his eye.
“Your point?” Lucifer said, watching with wide eyes as Alastor advanced.
The demon’s hand traced along the inner seam of his slacks until it pressed up against the juncture of Lucifer’s thighs.
“That you currently don't have one.”
Biting his lip, desire hot in his belly, anxiety tightening his chest, Lucifer groaned, head dropping back against the pillows.
“Not exactly a revelation, Al. I already know you’re the cause.”
The hand between Lucifer’s legs gently cupped him as Alastor crawled over his supine form, trying to coax a little life into his stubbornly flaccid cock, before traveling upwards to grasp Lucifer’s hip.
“As flattering as it is to know I hold such power over the King of Hell, this instance, I believe I’m merely a muse,” Alastor said, brushing back the hair that had fallen across Lucifer’s forehead, mouth close to his ear. “I think this is entirely your doing, Lucifer. For both of us.”
His name on Alastor’s lips, so intimately spoken, made Lucifer shiver.
“Mine?”
“If I were cursed, which I assure you I’m not,” Alastor continued, breath hot upon the shell of Lucifer’s ear, “then surely I’d sense the magic. As would you. But the only magic I can feel, your Majesty, is yours.” He nipped at the lobe. “Why do you suppose that is?”
“It’s not my fault,” Lucifer gasped.
“Then whose is it?”
Lucifer closed his eyes, trying desperately to shut out Alastor and focus.
The only magic he could feel was his own. Even Alastor’s – acid-tinged and sharp, much like the demon’s personality – had faded into the background, suppressed by the golden energy that seemed to pour from him in waves.
“I don’t know!” Another lie. Or, at least, a statement undermined by a steadily growing suspicion that both his nervousness and propensity for self-sabotage was catching. “I–It’s not intentional,” Lucifer said, more truthfully.
“So I had assumed,” Alastor replied, settling himself upon Lucifer’s thighs, mimicking their previous position. “But it begs the question, ‘why?’, doesn’t it?”
“I…”
Alastor traced the line of Lucifer’s waistband, fingertips dipping briefly below the fabric to tease the skin that stretched over his hipbones.
“A more insecure individual would no doubt take it personally,” Alastor said. His palms smoothed across the flat plane of Lucifer’s stomach. “Willingly giving themselves to a partner who seemingly finds the whole idea so repellent, they’d rather render everyone involved impotent than simply say no.”
“I don’t find it repe–”
“Not that I believe that, of course,” Alastor continued, hands splayed across Lucifer’s chest. Over his heart. “Why, I maintain that you’re simply incompetent. Unable to control yourself, only not quite in the way I had hoped.”
“Firstly, fuck you, and secondly, I–”
“Such a disappointment,” he interrupted, tapping out the beat of Lucifer’s pounding heart upon his breastbone. “I can only conclude that it’s due to lack of practice, perhaps. Or opportunity.” Alastor grinned. “I wonder,” he said, eyes so bright they almost glowed. “Does your marriage contract contain a fidelity clause?”
Lucifer frowned. Distracted by the way Alastor’s claws scratched gently across the sparse flesh of his pectorals, he tried desperately to concentrate, the cogs of his mind slowly revolving as he worked through the demon’s question. The ‘clunk’ as it all slotted into place was almost audible.
“What?! No!” he said, cheeks flushed as gold as the wedding ring that sat, discarded, upon the nightstand in his bedroom. “Lilith and I… We… And even if there were others, we… We had an understanding, and… We, ahem… Well… We’re divorced,” he spluttered, words tumbling over one another as they fell from his mouth.
“Then if not that, what is it?”
Lucifer felt his neck beginning to prickle with heat as the embarrassed flush that painted his cheeks progressed downwards.
Alastor raised a single, humiliating eyebrow, and the words slipped from Lucifer before he could stop them.
“It’s because you’re a virgin, okay?!” he snapped, heart pounding. “And apparently that’s a problem for me. Or whatever. I don’t know.”
Alastor blinked.
“You're the Devil,” he said.
Lucifer shifted uncomfortably beneath the demon's touch. Alastor's eyes seemed to bore into his own, full of something Lucifer was sure was reproach.
“Yeah, well, it's er… not exactly my thing, you know?” Lucifer said, tearing his gaze away from Alastor's, embarrassment making his skin burn all the way down to the bottom of his sternum.
“It's traditional.”
Alastor seemed almost scandalized. It would have been funny had it not been so personal.
“It's passé, is what it is,” Lucifer said. “And a lot of pressure. Do you know what it's like to be someone's first? Wait, no, of course you don't. That's the whole problem.”
Alastor's thumb traced the sharp line of Lucifer's flaming collarbone. The touch felt oddly reassuring.
“So the stories aren't true?” Alastor said, tone accusatory.
“I didn't say that…”
He couldn't. Not with a straight face. And certainly not after infamously deflowering not only the first woman, but the second one, too. Though, he supposed, it was easier to exceed expectations when there were no reference points to compare the experience to. Alastor had spent almost a century in Hell; whilst Lucifer couldn't comment on the demon's personal pornography consumption, living in a town where adult entertainment was the only kind of entertainment consistently available did set the bar intimidatingly high.
Higher than it had been in Eden, certainly.
Alastor's fingers toyed with the notch at Lucifer's throat, the tip of his claws dipping into the hollow. Heat prickled across Lucifer's skin. The muscles of his stomach and thighs tensed, want twisting within him despite the uncooperative nature of his intimate parts.
Lucifer could feel the curve of Alastor's smile as the demon pressed his mouth against the tip of his shoulder.
“Then what's the problem?”
Teeth, sharp and tempting, grazed Lucifer's skin.
A bolt of electric-like pleasure ricocheted down Lucifer's spine. It was followed by a rush of panic, the emotion chasing hot on the heels of the sensations the scrape of Alastor’s fangs provoked. Lucifer’s hands fisted into the sheets below. His head began to spin.
“You! You're the problem.”
Alastor’s grin widened.
“It's not funny, Al,” Lucifer protested.
“Oh, but it is. It's very funny indeed. Why, to think, I've spent all these months making such an effort to get under your angelic skin, when all I needed to do was bat my virginal eyelashes.”
“Shut up.”
“No, I don't think I will,” Alastor said, laughter bubbling up from his throat. “The Devil himself, so nervous at the thought of taking my virginity that he subconsciously interferes with the mechanics. Why, it's the stuff comedy is made of.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes. With a sigh, he shoved Alastor from his spot upon his thighs, sending him bouncing down onto the bed beside him. An action that only served to increase the Radio Demon’s mirth. Cackling, Alastor pressed a hand to his stomach, the force of his laughter causing the mattress to shake beneath them.
“I knew you'd be like this,” Lucifer said, petulant.
Breathless, Alastor wiped a tear from his eye.
“You wouldn't have me any other way,” he said, grin threatening to split his face in two.
“I currently don't have you any way at all,” Lucifer groused, “which is sort of the problem, if you haven’t noticed.”
Grasping Lucifer's jaw with long fingers, Alastor turned the angel's head to face him, oddly gentle.
“Well, that simply won't do!” he said, the claw of his index finger tapping against Lucifer's cheek.
“I can't imagine what you mean.”
“Then you clearly don't have a very vivid imagination,” he replied, tipping Lucifer’s head back into the pillows.
Bed shifting beneath them, Alastor leaned forward, pressing his lips to the hollow space beneath Lucifer's jaw.
The touch – light, oddly hesitant – felt like lightning. A bolt of electric-like pleasure crackled across Lucifer's skin. He gasped, leaning into Alastor's touch, suddenly desperate to pull the demon closer despite the knot of worry that pulled at the taut muscles of his stomach.
“And what do you know about sex, anyway?” Lucifer said, trembling hand hovering above Alastor’s head as he debated whether or not the demon would tolerate fingers carding through his hair. A decision swiftly taken away from him as a hand grasped his wrist, pulling his palm down towards the base of Alastor’s ears.
“I'm a virgin, not an innocent,” the demon said, shivering as Lucifer’s fingers rubbed gently at the juncture between ear and skull. His voice, when he spoke again, seemed strained. “And someone has to take the initiative. Given this is yet another area in which you are laughably inept…”
Irritation at Alastor’s constant needling making him bold, Lucifer traced the outer edge of Alastor’s ear, delighting in the unexpectedly soft moan the Radio Demon voiced in response. Other hand carding into Alastor’s hair, he pressed him closer, skin prickling as he felt the demon's tongue tease the sensitive spot beneath the hinge of his jaw.
“You’re such an asshole,” he said, tipping his head back to further expose his neck.
Laughter muffled by the way the demon’s lips had latched over Lucifer’s carotid, Alastor sucked gently upon the fever-hot skin, bringing the blood to the surface in a way that was sure to bruise. Marking him.
Claiming him.
For the night, at least. The bruises would be gone by morning.
“It's all just hunger, when it truly comes down to it,” Alastor said as he worked his way southwards. “A different variety, perhaps, but hunger all the same.”
“With myself as the meal,” Lucifer mused, toying with Alastor’s ears in a way that made the demon twitch and his teeth threaten to break the angel’s skin.
“I can't claim to have had innocent thoughts in that regard,” Alastor continued as he peppered hot, open-mouthed kisses upon Lucifer’s bared neck.
“Yeah, well,” Lucifer breathed, “I've always suspected that your desire to taste me was kinda more literal than usual.”
Teeth, sharp and predatory grazed over Lucifer’s pulse.
“But the principle is the same,” Alastor said. “The anticipation.”
A point he aptly demonstrated by drawing back until only the ghost of his lips, his tongue, his teeth could be felt. The hot plumes of Alastor’s labored breathing the only stimulation left. Lucifer could feel each exhale dance across the bruises the demon had sucked into his skin. Teasing him. Hinting at the promise of more, so much more, if he only dared press Alastor closer. Urge him back towards the most vulnerable part of himself. Risk those vicious teeth tearing too deep.
“Kiss me,” Lucifer said, panting, the ache deep in his chest, between his thighs ratcheting ever higher with every passing second.
There was a pause, the crackle of radio static filling the air between them, making the baby-fine hairs at the base of Lucifer’s skull stand on end.
“No.”
“Why not?” Lucifer couldn't help the peevish tone that seemed to seep into his words.
Lucifer’s fingers tightened around the base of Alastor’s antlers, nails scraping over his scalp.
The demon gasped.
“Because I don't much care for it,” Alastor said, breath ghosting across Lucifer’s neck and collarbone, making the angel’s skin feel tight with want.
“That's never stopped you before.”
“Before it gave me an advantage,” Alastor replied. He was so close, Lucifer could practically feel his smile against the juncture of his neck. “Why spoil my own fun when I have you at my mercy already?”
Close but not quite close enough.
Lucifer tugged at Alastor’s antlers again. This time, the action earned a shiver. The demon’s hips twitched, the front of his partially unbuttoned pants brushing fleetingly against Lucifer’s thigh. The movement was followed by a small, soft-sounding moan.
“I'll let you bite me,” Lucifer said, breathless.
“I imagine you'll let me do anything in your current state should I ask nicely enough,” Alastor countered, voice strained.
“You've never asked for anything nicely in your entire life. Or afterlife.”
“Au contraire!” Alastor said, lightly tracing the line of Lucifer’s collarbone with the tip of a claw. “I am, quite frequently, a paragon of both good manners and taste, careful to dot my ‘i’s, cross my ‘t’s, and mind my ‘p’s and my ‘q’s.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Lucifer replied, unable to suppress the gasp Alastor’s touch elicited.
Alastor flinched at the term of endearment, the action made funnier still given, Alastor's insult-tipped sweetness aside, Lucifer thought it debatable whether or not the demon even possessed a heart.
Or, at least, not one he didn’t keep in a jar.
“Evil is a choice.” The clouds that had obscured the faux moon began to clear, bathing them both in a silvery light. “Manners are mandatory.” Alastor’s claws trailed across the meat of Lucifer’s shoulder, leaving gold-tinted marks in their wake. “May I?”
“Yes.”
Lucifer moaned as Alastor closed the gap between them, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the point where his neck met his shoulder.
Sparks crawled across his skin at the Radio Demon's touch, the sensation increasing in intensity as the sharp points of Alastor's teeth ghosted over the vulnerable flesh. A small part of his mind wondered what it would feel like to let him bite down. Split open his skin. Spill the golden blood that pulsed below the surface and drink. Consume him, just like the lust that consumed Lucifer’s thoughts.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands trembling with effort as he fought to stay still. Let the anticipation build in the hope that it might overcome his anxiety-induced impotence. Only to find himself and his increasingly lewd desires thwarted as Alastor pulled away, like the asshole he was.
Resisting the urge to pull on the demon’s hair and yank him back down to finish what he started, Lucifer stared wide-eyed as Alastor repositioned himself above him, hands either side of his head, knees at his thighs. Not quite touching, but close enough that Lucifer could feel the heat that radiated from him.
Fingertips scraping across the demon’s scalp, Lucifer looked up into Alastor’s grinning face, stomach twisting with want at the mischievous edge to his ever-present smile.
“So I keep hoping,” Alastor said. His eyes flickered pointedly downwards. When he met Lucifer’s gaze again, they were wicked. “But given your apparent inability to achieve even the smallest of tasks, this must suffice.”
Lucifer flicked the tip of Alastor’s ear. Unprepared for the whole body shudder the action evoked, his hands moved to cup the demon’s cheeks, filing away that little titbit of information for later.
“You say the sweetest things,” he said, thumbs tracing the sharp angles of Alastor’s cheekbones.
“I try.”
“And my dick isn't small,” Lucifer added.
“If you say so,” Alastor replied, pressing a knee between Lucifer’s thighs. “I have yet to feel any evidence to the contrary, however.”
Face schooled into an expression of disbelief, Lucifer collapsed back onto the bed, letting his hands flop loosely above his head.
“It's almost as though you don't actually want to fuck me,” he said with mock affront.
Alastor, not missing a beat, gripped Lucifer’s wrists in one large, trembling hand, pinning them down upon the bed. It was little more than an illusion of dominance, but one that made the angel shiver all the same.
“You should consider yourself flattered,” Alastor said, grip tightening. “You're the only individual I've ever entertained.”
The words were not as comforting as he assumed Alastor had intended them to be.
Or, then again, perhaps this was simply another dig at his seeming incompetence in the bedroom. Alastor, consummate bastard in all situations, going straight for Lucifer’s weak points. Exploiting each and every vulnerability as he found them, no small amount of artistry in his absolute and encompassing assholery.
Placing him on a pedestal only to immediately knock it out from beneath him.
“And I bet this is just everything you imagined it would be,” Lucifer said miserably, turning his head away from the demon’s grinning face, mood suddenly ruined.
Alastor hummed thoughtfully.
“Well, you're right on that count, I suppose,” he said after a moment, sitting back on his haunches, the solid weight of him heavy upon Lucifer’s thighs.
“Oh great!” Lucifer replied, mood wilting further.
Feeling unexpectedly foolish, Lucifer pulled his wrists free from Alastor’s grip and crossed his arms over his chest once more. Hiding it from the Radio Demon’s piercing gaze. He longed for his shirt. Or even his pajamas, in all their rubber duck emblazoned glory, Alastor’s inevitable mockery be damned. Anything to help banish the ever-increasing sense of inadequacy.
“But only on a technicality,” Alastor added, tone oddly thoughtful.
Lucifer blinked.
“Pardon?”
Alastor gave him the sort of look usually reserved for one’s conversational partner having grown an extra head. Lucifer resisted the urge to raise a hand to check.
“So far we've achieved nothing,” Alastor said, voice thick with condescension. “Given I've also imagined nothing…”
Frowning, Lucifer pushed himself up into a sitting position.
“Wait, what? You've not even thought about it?”
Alastor returned Lucifer’s frown. Or, rather, the upper part of his face did. The lower half remained frozen in its perpetual smile.
“That's not quite what I said.”
“Then what did you say?”
“That I haven't imagined it,” Alastor said, folding his arms. “Which I haven't.”
“So what do you think about when you… er…”
Lucifer shifted uncomfortably upon the bed. He made a half-hearted sort of hand gesture, unsure whether or not Alastor had ever felt the desire to–
“Jack off?” Alastor chirped.
“Okay, never say that again.”
Alastor’s grin widened once more, the frown that had taken up residence between his eyes dissolving into something decidedly more impish. Perhaps even a little cruel. “Why not?” he said, eyes flashing dangerously. “Is that not how it's referred to these days?”
“It just sounds wrong coming out of your mouth.”
Alastor simply shrugged.
“If you insist,” he said. “But to get back to the point, on the rare occasion the mood takes me, I can't say I particularly think of anything. Perhaps a scene in a book. Or a vague scenario.”
Lucifer’s stomach twisted. “About you and I?”
The demon shook his head. “About two nameless, faceless individuals who exist only to act out some half-imagined fantasy with just enough enthusiasm to allow me to…”
“If you say ‘jack off’, I swear to god, Alastor–”
“See things through to their natural conclusion.” He traced the line of Lucifer's sternum with the tip of a claw. “So you see, I haven't imagined anything.”
It was strangely comforting, Lucifer supposed, to know that Alastor had entered into whatever sorry thing passed for their almost-relationship with no preconceptions with regards to sex.
Well, beyond having it in the first place.
“I think about it all the time,” Lucifer confessed.
The minutes in the day where Lucifer’s mind wasn’t more or less completely focused on slamming the deeply irritating demon against the wall and fucking his brains out could be counted on one hand. Even now, humiliated and laughably soft, Lucifer’s thoughts were almost entirely filled with a variety of deeply obscene scenarios. That they never seemed to manifest in anything other than performance anxiety when explored outside of his own head didn’t seem to stem the onslaught, however. He was like a dog with a bone, pun very much notwithstanding.
Much like his cock.
Undeterred by Lucifer’s continuing lack of response, Alastor pressed his claws more firmly into the angel’s skin, scoring across flesh the color of sun-bleached bone, leaving raised, golden marks in his wake.
“Really?”
“Oh yeah.” Lucifer tapped his head, unable to prevent the shiver that rolled across him as the pad of Alastor’s index finger ghosted across the stiff peak of his nipple. “It's like some sort of pornographic zoetrope in here.”
The touch turned firm. Cruel. It sent pleasure crackling down Lucifer’s spine, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach. The sensation forced a whimper from the angel's lips before he could stop it.
Alastor’s eyes flashed.
“And yet, despite all the brainpower you've devoted to the endeavor, you still fail to perform.”
Lucifer growled, batting Alastor’s hand away. With limited success.
“You aren't helping.”
“I'm not trying to,” Alastor said, greedily palming Lucifer’s chest before pushing him firmly back onto the bed.
He followed the angel down, burying his head in the crook of Lucifer’s neck, bare chest pressed against Lucifer’s own.
It felt like Heaven. Beautiful. Majestic. Like a trapdoor was about to open beneath him, sending him hurtling downwards, too shocked to brace for impact.
“Then what are you trying to do?” Lucifer gasped.
“Provide a distraction,” Alastor replied, moving swiftly downwards. His lips latched around one of Lucifer’s nipples, teeth grazing against it as his tongue flickered over the sensitive bud. His voice, when the demon spoke again, seemed to emanate from the radio beside the bed. Tinny and accompanied by the pops and crackles of radio static, it said, “Get you out of your own head for long enough to actually achieve the task we set out to complete.”
“That is helping by definition,” Lucifer said, shifting restlessly upon the bed.
Alastor released his nipple with a wet sounding ‘pop’.
“It's entirely self serving, I assure you,” Alastor declared, fingers rubbing across the spit-slicked skin as he began to lavish his attention on the other side.
This time, he took the whole of Lucifer’s pectoral into his mouth. Teeth pressing into the sensitive flesh as he circled the stiff peak of Lucifer’s nipple, he teased the sensitive flesh, biting down just hard enough that it threatened to break the skin. Lower, his hips began to move. Setting an easy, languid pace, they rocked against Lucifer’s in an almost tender manner, full of the promise of what could be, if Lucifer would simply let go. Allow himself to feel. Release the stranglehold he had upon both of them and simply be.
“I…” Lucifer trailed off, hands tangling in Alastor’s hair as he pressed his chest more firmly into the demon’s mouth.
Alastor’s response, when it came, was muffled against Lucifer’s skin. “Hmmm?”
A hand, not Lucifer’s own, reached between them to pop the top button of the angel’s slacks. Fingers – clever, cruel, crimson-tipped – slid below the waistband, teasing the curls that dusted the apex of his thighs. Ghosting briefly against his cock.
“Al–”
Taking the whisper of his name as assent, Alastor’s hand moved lower, the palm sliding against the soft shaft of Lucifer’s cock before encircling it, the pad of his thumb brushing gently across the head of it.
Lucifer moaned in response, the sound becoming choked as his mind, seemingly unable to focus on the pleasure Alastor’s touch both promised and threatened, began to whisper a familiar refrain:
What if you can’t get it up? Can’t satisfy him? What if he laughs at your attempts? Your moans? The faces you make? What if you come too soon? What if Alastor doesn’t come at all?
What if?
What if.
Lucifer flinched.
The hand disappeared.
“I… I can’t,” Lucifer said, closing his eyes, unwilling to watch the look of disappointment that would no doubt descend upon Alastor’s features at his pathetic admission.
Or the way he would surely spirit himself away through the shadows, disgusted at Lucifer’s weakness.
So instead he waited, eyes screwed shut, for the cold rush of air that usually accompanied the demon’s departure, cheeks so hot with embarrassment, he was almost certain they had begun to glow.
And waited.
And waited.
“Lucifer…”
A hand cupped his cheek.
Confused, Lucifer cracked open a single eye. Alastor’s face swam into focus, his smile highlighted by the silvery light of the faux moon. It was soft. Teeth hidden behind lips displaying the most sincere expression Lucifer had ever seen the demon wear.
Above them, the sky was clear. The fabric of the ceiling dappled with thousands of stars.
“My interest in you is not defined by tedious displays of physical affection,” Alastor said after a moment. “Nor by your ability to relieve me of my virginity. Whilst I confess that the idea of intimacy with you strikes me as a potentially entertaining prospect, it’s not a requirement for our continued relationship.”
“Al, I–”
Alastor pressed a single finger to Lucifer’s lips, silencing him.
“Your agony at your inability to see this through, though frankly hilarious, is entirely unnecessary. I've waited 90 years. I'm sure I can wait a little longer.”
Lucifer felt his throat begin to tighten with emotion. He swallowed drily, staring up into the large, blood-red pools of Alastor’s eyes. There was a depth to them he’d never seen before. Like voids in the fabric of reality, filled with something that, if he squinted, seemed almost like affection.
The bands that constricted Lucifer’s chest began to loosen, and he felt himself returning Alastor’s smile, the expression as infectious as his impotence had been.
“They do say patience is a virtue,” he said, after a moment, pressing a kiss to the demon’s finger.
Alastor laughed. Rolling off Lucifer with both the grace and attitude of a cat, he unceremoniously muscled him out towards the edge of the bed, taking up residence in the center of it, long limbs sprawled in a way that gave Lucifer no option other than to cling to the Radio Demon’s torso or risk falling into the bayou below.
“Oh well, in that case, I've definitely changed my mind,” Alastor said brightly, making no move to continue their previous efforts, and instead pressing himself back into Lucifer’s arms like some sort of strange, deeply disturbing teddy bear.
“Asshole.”
Alastor settled against him with a put-upon sigh.
Lucifer felt his cock twitch.
And stiffen.
“My, my, now isn’t that an interesting turn of events,” Alastor said with a deliberate wiggle of his hips.
Lucifer groaned.
“What was that you were saying about having changed your mind?” he said, fingers playing with the tuft of fur that decorated Alastor’s chest.
Alastor drew Lucifer tightly against him, voice warm with the sound of his smile.
“You know, really I can’t recall.”