Chapter Text
Lucifer stirred.
The first thing he noticed was that he was alone. The second was the soreness blooming across every inch of his body—less the aftermath of battle, more the echo of surrender. Of indulgence. Of weakness.
His eyes opened slowly. The room was a mess. Sheets twisted into chaotic, unforgivable knots. A chair overturned. The dresser had a dent in it, which, if memory served correctly—and unfortunately, it did—was a direct result of his back slamming into it. Repeatedly.
Lovely. A souvenir.
He didn’t move. Didn’t want to. His limbs felt too heavy, like shame had gained mass and was now pressing him into the mattress with all the smug weight of hindsight.
Oh good, he thought bitterly. I broke the world, emotionally blackmailed myself into a romantic crisis, and now I have to deal with... endorphins.
He groaned and rolled onto his side, burying half his face into a pillow that still smelled like him, like the aftermath of a thunderstorm soaked into old mahogany and something darker, feral and untamed.
And just like that, the memories returned—hazy, burning, infuriatingly vivid.
Alastor.
His voice, warm and low, speaking Lucifer’s name like it was a punchline to a joke only he understood.
His hands. That maddening grin.
The way Lucifer had fallen apart under him, clung to him, let him in.
Physically, emotionally, metaphorically—pick your poison.
Lucifer exhaled shakily and dragged a hand down his face. “Oh, no,” he muttered. “No no no. Nope. We're not doing this. We're not making eye contact with our trauma before breakfast.”
But his brain was already off to the races.
Because, in case he needed more reminders of how deeply, irreparably fucked he was, the very last thing he remembered before passing out was not the sex.
It was the moment after.
When Alastor—smug bastard that he was—had leaned close, looked him dead in the eye, and in that saccharine voice of his, asked:
"Would you give me the crown, dearest?"
And Lucifer… hadn’t said no.
Oh sure, he hadn’t said yes, either. But the silence? The goddamn silence that followed?
It was louder than any answer.
You spineless, lovesick idiot, his mind hissed. You were supposed to be the Morning Star. Not the Morning Slut.
He groaned louder this time and flopped dramatically onto his back, arms spread wide like he was auditioning for a tragic Renaissance painting titled "Man Defeated by His Own Horny Decisions."
The ceiling stared back. Judgmental and uncracked.
He asked for the throne, Lucifer thought. And instead of smiting him on the spot like any self-respecting eldritch monarch would do, I almost gave it to him on a f**king pillow with a bow.
Because it had been easier.
Easier than thinking about the plague.
Easier than facing the truth.
Easier than realizing that every single soul in the hotel had known what was happening to him—what he was doing to them—and had chosen not to tell him. Like he was some delicate, wilting flower that might shatter under the weight of the truth.
And maybe… maybe they weren’t entirely wrong.
Because when push came to shove, what had Lucifer done?
He’d caved. He’d fallen. Not from Heaven—he’d already done that part centuries ago. No, this fall had been private. Internal. And consensual.
He had crawled into Alastor’s arms like they were sanctuary. Like he was safety.
And for one goddamn night, it had worked.
And now here he was. Naked. Alone. Not metaphorically. Actually. The sheets were barely covering anything and his pride had packed up and left sometime around orgasm number three.
Lucifer let out a breath through his nose. Laughed, once. Sharp and bitter.
“So this is healing,” he said aloud, staring at the ceiling. “Good to know it comes with a side of emotional whiplash and lower back pain.”
But under the sarcasm, beneath the tangle of self-loathing and unspoken panic, something else stirred.
Clarity.
The fog he’d been swimming through for days was finally lifting. Not all at once. But enough.
He could move again. Think again. Feel again.
It was horrifying.
But it was also… relief.
Oh no, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Oh, absolutely not. I’m not about to admit that all I needed was a good lay to kick my brain back into gear. That’s not a recovery arc. That’s a porn plot.
Still, the truth lingered like a bad perfume.
He felt alive again.
And he hated it.
Lucifer curled back into himself, sheets gathered around his hips like a toga of shame. He let the silence stretch. Let the bitterness steep.
Maybe if he stayed here long enough, the world would forget what he’d done.
He whispered, more to himself than anything, "I should’ve stayed in that coffin."
And somewhere, buried under the weight of his own melodrama, the ghost of Alastor’s laugh echoed faintly through his mind.
Smug. Sweet. And dangerously close to sounding like home.
Lucifer groaned and pulled the pillow over his face.
“I’m never getting out of this bed again.”
After several minutes of considering whether rolling over counted as effort, finally peeled the pillow off his face.
The room was still trashed. No helpful time skip had reset it. No divine intervention had swooped in to offer emotional closure or even a latte.
Nope. Just him. The echoes of regrettable moaning. And—
His eyes narrowed.
Sheriff Quackers sat perched on the nightstand, perfectly balanced between a tipped-over glass and a smudge of glitter Lucifer definitely didn’t want to investigate. The duck’s little plastic eyes stared at him, unblinking. Judging.
Lucifer inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his teeth.
“Well, Sheriff,” he said, voice hoarse but gaining sarcasm by the syllable, “let’s go over the facts, shall we?”
He sat up, draping a sheet over his hips in the vague direction of dignity, and adjusted his posture like he was about to present a TED Talk to a room full of barnyard-themed bath toys.
“One: there’s a world-ending plague of shadows eating my kingdom alive. Entire cities, erased. Gone. Just... poof.” He snapped his fingers, then winced at his own dramatics. “And it’s my fault. Surprise twist.”
“Two,” he continued, standing up just to immediately regret it, “everyone I almost, sort of, kind of started to trust decided to hide this from me because, apparently, I’m too emotionally unstable to process reality without short-circuiting like a broken Roomba.”
He turned, pacing in circles. Sheriff Quackers, naturally, remained unimpressed.
“Three,” he said, voice rising, “after five days of impersonating a haunted throw pillow, what finally got me to move—not take responsibility, not rise to the occasion, no no—what brought me back to myself was getting railed by that bastard with the smile.”
He stopped pacing. Blinked. Pressed both hands to his face like he could physically scrub that sentence out of existence.
“Gods. I actually let him touch me. I—” He cut himself off. “Nope. Not going there. Forbidden thoughts. Out. Begone, temptations of the flesh.”
Lucifer took a slow breath, eyes fixed on the duck like it might smite him.
“I wanted him to take control,” he admitted in a whisper. “Not just of me, but… of everything. The plague. The throne. My burden. I wanted to hand it all off and pretend I was just... some broken ornament in a forgotten wing of the castle.”
He let the silence hang, heavy and ugly. Then rolled his eyes and flopped back onto the bed like a man too tired to keep up the dramatics.
“Of course I did,” he muttered. “Because clearly, running from my problems is working splendidly. Who knows what’s left of the ring. And I’m here, post-coital and emotionally bankrupt, talking to a plastic duck.”
Sheriff Quackers offered no rebuttal. Only that same quiet stare. Unwavering. Judge. Jury. Mall cop.
Lucifer sat up again, running a hand through his hair and sighing so deeply it almost sounded productive.
“All right,” he said, more to himself than to the duck. “We’ve done the breakdown. The humiliation spiral. The melodrama. That was Act One. Very moving. Bravo.”
“Now for Act Two. The damage control.”
He stood abruptly, immediately regretted it, and sat back down with a groan. “I begged, Sheriff. Begged. Do you know how long it’s been since I begged for anything that wasn’t coffee?”
Sheriff Quackers stared into the void, offering no comment.
“Okay,” he muttered, dragging the word out like it cost him rent. “We’re doing this. We’re standing up. We’re facing reality. Hooray.”
No movement.
He sighed. Deeply. The kind of sigh that could power a wind turbine.
Then, finally, with the grace of a Victorian ghost reluctantly answering a séance, Lucifer pushed himself upright again. His knees cracked. Dramatically. Betrayal from his own bones. Rude.
“Stars above,” he grumbled, wobbling slightly. “I am never doing that again without stretching first.”
A flick of his fingers sent a small pulse of golden light rippling outward. Warm. Controlled. Almost smug. A crisp pink shirt materialized over his frame, sleeves loose, collar slightly open as if daring someone to comment. Fitted white trousers followed, tailored to perfection. Then high black boots, polished to a shine that screamed I own your soul and your fashion sense.
He adjusted his cuffs with unnecessary flair.
“Still got it,” he murmured, though his reflection in the cracked mirror looked more ‘emotionally devastated glam rock frontman’ than ‘ruler of Hell.’ Close enough.
With a breath that tasted suspiciously like regret and dramatic resolve, Lucifer turned to the door.
But just before reaching for the handle, his gaze flicked sideways.
“Wish me luck, Sheriff,” he said, smoothing his sleeves with a touch of theatrical gravitas. “Or at least wish they’ve had breakfast before I show my face. I’d like to avoid being shanked with a cereal spoon if at all possible.”
He paused. One eyebrow quirked.
“And, uh... thanks for listening. Again. You’re alarmingly reliable for someone who squeaks when squeezed.”
He offered a tiny salute, then turned back to the door.
A breath in. A world waiting.
Lucifer opened it. Just a crack of light spilling in from the hall. But enough.
Time to face the aftermath.
Time to face them.
Lucifer stood in the hallway, spine straight, boots echoing on the polished floor as he took the first steps toward the dining room. His internal monologue was already preparing its eulogy.
This is it. This is how I die. Not in battle. Not in glory. But in a communal breakfast ambush.
The smell hit him first—coffee, toast, some kind of overcooked egg product. He wrinkled his nose. Hell truly has fallen if I can smell Angel’s attempt at a ‘protein-rich omelet’ from this distance.
And then: the doorway.
Lucifer walked in, posture elegant, expression neutral, and immediately regretted everything.
Every single resident of the Hotel was there.
At the same damn table.
All of them.
Charlie. Vaggie. Husk. Nifty. Angel.
Time slowed. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way—more like in the “oh God someone pull the fire alarm” kind of way.
All conversation stopped.
Forks froze mid-air. Toast was held like holy relics. Angel’s fork actually clattered to his plate with a metallic gasp.
Silence.
Lucifer stood still, every cell in his body screaming for him to turn around and pretend he’d just been sleepwalking. Maybe throw himself down the stairs for good measure.
But he didn’t move.
He just raised an eyebrow, cool as ever.
“Well,” he said dryly. “Don’t all look thrilled at once.”
And then—
Chaos.
The silence shattered like cheap porcelain.
“Dad!”
“Dad—! I mean, Mr. Morningstar—!”
“Luci, I swear I was gonna tell you but—”
“Are you okay?!”
“Oh God, he looks pissed—”
They surged toward him like an emotional stampede. Voices overlapping, apologies tripping over each other, concern flying in from every angle.
Hands reached for his arms, his shoulders. Someone was sobbing. Someone else was offering him a waffle.
Lucifer blinked.
Oh, splendid. A guilt buffet. Just what I needed with my emotional hangover.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, letting the wave of frantic affection and shame crash over him. Someone tugged his sleeve. Angel was apologizing at supersonic speed. Charlie’s eyes were wide and glassy. Vaggie looked like she was trying not to cry or punch someone. Possibly both.
Lucifer lifted a hand. They froze.
“Okay,” he said, voice calm but firm. “One at a time, please. Or preferably... none at a time. That would be ideal, actually.”
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
In a rare moment of mercy from whatever cosmic force still bothered to toy with him, found himself profoundly grateful that Alastor wasn’t in the room. Facing the entire ensemble of Hotel Misfits was already a Herculean task—each of them loud, chaotic, and emotionally fragile in their own uniquely exhausting way. The last thing he needed was to do it while being ambushed by mental reruns of being thoroughly—spectacularly—railed by the very same demon who'd somehow managed to break through every one of his walls last night.
It was hard enough pretending he wasn’t on the verge of a full existential spiral. Add in ghost-touch memory flashes of Alastor's hands and voice and—no. Absolutely not. He needed to retain at least one ounce of composure if he was going to survive this.
“I’m not here to hand out punishments, I’m not here to yell—although the dramatic opportunity is deeply tempting.”
He glanced around the room, every gaze fixed on him with a blend of hope, guilt, and the kind of nervous energy you’d see in people awaiting a parole board decision.
Lucifer crossed his arms.
“I’m... not thrilled,” he admitted. “But I’m alive. I’m thinking. I’m standing upright, which, frankly, is more than I could say for myself yesterday.”
He paused. Then added, deadpan:
“And if one more person asks if I’m ‘doing okay,’ I will start screaming.”
Silence again. Someone sniffled.
Lucifer exhaled slowly. His tone softened—just barely.
“So. Who wants to explain why my kingdom looks like a dark fantasy apocalypse trailer?”
Husk raised his mug.
Angel coughed.
Charlie winced.
Lucifer sighed.
“Right. Buckle up, kids. It’s going to be one of those mornings.”
Lucifer stood there, in the center of the chaos, half-listening to the overlapping voices around him. Apologies, questions, concerns—somewhere in the background, Husk muttered something about needing a stronger drink and Angel was practically vibrating with nerves.
It was all... a lot.
Too much, really.
Lucifer raised a hand—not to speak, just to breathe. A silent command for quiet. It worked. Barely. They were all still looking at him like he might either burst into tears or smite them all where they stood. Honestly, the odds were fifty-fifty.
The silence settled again, and Lucifer let it stretch a beat longer than necessary. Dramatic effect. And also because he was stalling.
He didn’t want to know how deep this betrayal ran. He really didn’t. But unfortunately, now that he was no longer actively trying to disassociate out of existence, the little thing called responsibility was knocking again. Like a tax collector. Or karma.
They told him everything, in fragmented bursts, stepping over each other like toddlers who’d broken the family vase and couldn’t decide who’d thrown the ball first.
It had started with a message.
From Asmodeus, of all people. A warning, barely coherent, sent to Charlie. And Charlie—sweet, stubborn Charlie—had tried, again and again, to reach him. Had knocked on his door, had slipped notes under it, had waited for hours outside like some heartbroken puppy. He hadn’t answered. Hadn’t even read the notes.
Lucifer swallowed the guilt like poison.
And then there was Alastor. Of course it had been Alastor. Apparently, he had been the one to suggest the connection between Lucifer’s lovely little emotional breakdown and the delightful world-ending plague now devouring the rings of Hell. Because why not add “unwilling doomsday weapon” to his résumé?
The first clue was when Alastor found him weeks ago. Curled up. Lost. Swallowed by shadows. The moment was so vivid in their retelling that Lucifer almost saw it from the outside—Alastor standing over him like some smug, well-dressed necromancer, piecing together the puzzle.
But that had only been the beginning.
It got worse.
As time went on, the hotel itself began to... respond. Lights flickering, doors slamming shut on their own, things moving, vanishing. Whenever Lucifer got upset, the building reacted—like a child throwing a tantrum in sync with its parent. It had stopped being coincidence by the third time someone nearly got decapitated by a rogue chandelier.
So they’d known.
They’d known for weeks.
And they hadn’t told him because—surprise!—they’d been protecting him.
Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course. Of course the universe had decided he needed a “support system.” How dare they. How absolutely dare they care.
He wanted to be furious. He was furious. But under all that heat and humiliation was a strange, bitter knot of something softer. Gratefulness. Gods help him.
He looked around the room.
Every face was watching him, waiting for the reaction. For judgment. For fire and brimstone.
Lucifer straightened, smoothed his shirt, and forced the corners of his mouth into something vaguely resembling a smirk.
“Well,” he said, voice calm, clipped, and entirely too dry, “isn’t that charmingly horrifying?”
No one laughed.
Lucifer took a breath.
Not a delicate inhale, mind you—more like the kind of long, drawn-out sigh that only someone incredibly tired of everyone’s shit could manage. A sigh that started in his soul, took a detour through his trauma, and came out as pure exasperation.
The room had quieted again, tension hovering like cheap perfume. He knew they were waiting—some for forgiveness, some for instructions, and at least one of them (Angel, obviously) for drama.
Lucifer didn’t give them any.
Instead, he returned to the one place he trusted with all his vulnerability: the inside of his own head. A very dark and dusty filing cabinet with cobwebs, a dozen emotional landmines, and one half-functioning “How to Rule Like a Proper Devil” manual.
Alright. Step one.
Damage assessment.
If he was going to do this—actually do this—he needed to see it with his own eyes. Not trust second-hand accounts or cryptic news from smug eldritch beings who thought ominous phrasing was foreplay.
Yes, Alastor, I’m looking at you.
Not literally. Please, not literally. That would just bring back the visuals. Those visuals.
Focus.
He needed to visit the destroyed zones. Luxe Hollow. Fallen Pines. Hollowheart Village. Charming names, now reduced to smoking craters of despair, courtesy of his emotional incompetence. He had to go. Had to see.
And once that particular nightmare was checked off the list?
Ugh.
Step two: diplomacy.
He grimaced. There were few things he hated more than the words “duty” and “committee,” and yet here he was, mentally drafting invitations to the biggest infernal headache known to demonkind:
The Seven Sins Conference.
Because nothing says “leadership” like locking the most dangerous beings in existence into one room and hoping no one gets stabbed with a salad fork.
Lucifer stared at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.
Which, to be fair, it had. By existing.
Still, he was a king, not a coward. Time to do what kings did best: suffer elegantly.
He picked up the device with two fingers, the way one might handle a suspiciously sticky napkin. With a resigned sigh, he unlocked it.
Bad. Very bad. Oh-so-wonderfully catastrophic.
The moment his thumb grazed the screen, the thing practically seized in his hand—flashing, buzzing, whirring, vibrating so hard it threatened to fly off into the ninth circle. Notifications poured in with the urgency of a collapsing dam. Hundreds. Thousands. The screen stuttered, the processor screamed, and somewhere in the distance, a choir of cursed souls probably hit a high C in sympathy.
The sins' group chat alone looked like a crime scene.
Group Name: “Hell’s PTA” (He didn’t remember approving that name.)
Satan: If he doesn’t respond today, I will send a hellhound to drag him by his overpriced hair.
Beelzebub: Do it. I’ll film.
Leviathan: I’ll stream it. New content is dry this week anyway.
Mammon: Can we monetize this? Asking for a friend.
Asmodeus: I’m offended. You all act like you don’t love when he disappears. It gives the rest of us a chance to shine.
Belphegor: Can’t relate. I’ve been asleep since January. Why are we yelling.
Satan: Because the world is literally ending and our ‘sovereign’ is ghosting us.
Mammon: Lol “ghosting” Lucifer. How ironic.
Leviathan: This is why our meetings suck. We can’t even stay mad in one tone.
Lucifer exhaled slowly, as if hoping that would summon the patience of some forgotten saint. It did not.
He scrolled down. Hundreds of unread messages. There was even a cursed little “@Lucifer” mention blinking in fluorescent red. That couldn’t be good.
Oh, and—how charming—Charlie had messaged him at least thirty-seven times. He didn’t dare read the previews. He’d ghosted his own daughter. Father of the millennium. Someone carve it on a trophy and shove it down his throat.
No messages from Alastor, of course.
The bastard didn’t own a phone.
Because of course he didn’t.
Lucifer muttered something impolite in Enochian and began typing out new messages. If he was going to herd the Seven into a room like a pack of demonic cats, he’d have to use his words. Carefully chosen. Brutally diplomatic. Slightly threatening
> We will be convening. I expect your presence at the Hall of Echoes tomorrow at dusk. No delays. No excuses. Yes, that includes you, Belphegor. And no, Beelzebub, there won’t be catering unless you bring it yourself. This isn’t brunch, it’s a crisis.
He stared at the message a moment longer. Then hit send.
The phone buzzed violently in response. He threw it onto the bed before it could give him a second-degree burn.
Somewhere deep inside, he felt the ancient tectonic groan of responsibility. Duty. Kingship.
Disgusting.
But necessary.
He was back.
Now all he had to do was gather the most unstable, arrogant, and uncooperative individuals in Hell into a single room and not let it explode.
Simple.
Easy.
Horrifying.
He needed a drink. Or divine intervention. Possibly both.
* * * *
Lucifer stood alone in the center of the hall, his silhouette bathed in dim, flickering crimson light. The chamber was impossibly vast—circular and endless, the ceiling lost in a haze of smoke and floating embers. Shadows twisted across the walls, which pulsed like a living organism, a grotesque reminder that this place had been built by living flesh and fed by suffering.
Seven thrones loomed around him, each one as distinct and horrifying as the sin it represented. His own—a towering construct of gold-veined marble with a thousand screaming faces etched into its base—awaited him at the center. He hated it. He always had. It made his back ache. And not in the fun way.
He didn't sit. Not yet.
His fingers twitched, tugging slightly at the cuff of his sleeve. This is fine. Everything’s fine. Just seven embodiments of all that is vile and excessive walking into a room at the same time. What could possibly go wrong?
A distant rumble interrupted his sarcasm. The first to arrive made the ground tremble.
Beelzebub. She didn’t walk so much as ooze forward, leaving behind a trail of sticky sweetness and decay. The scent of burnt sugar filled the air, sickening and thick.
She licked her lips lazily and eyed Lucifer. “Nice place. Bit dusty. You still wallowing in guilt, or are we pretending you're in charge again?”
Lucifer offered a smile so cold it could've frozen brimstone. And so it begins.
Next came Mammon, draped in layers of gold chains, rings stacked to his elbows. He practically glittered. His throne, shaped like a monstrous hand clutching a pile of currency, glowed as he slithered into it.
“Luciiii~” he sang, flipping a coin that hissed when it landed. “You’re looking thin. Depression diet?”
Lucifer didn’t answer. He was too busy fighting the urge to set him on fire.
Belphegor arrived after, or more accurately, was carried in on a floating cushion by two faceless demons. Wrapped in silken sheets and adorned with sleep masks, she yawned loudly as they laid her into her throne of shifting smoke.
“Is this going to take long? I haven’t been awake this many hours since Charlie’s birth.”
Lucifer pressed his fingertips together and inhaled deeply. Breathe. Just breathe. You’ve survived worse. Probably.
Then came Leviathan, gliding on a thick trail of ink-black water, eyes like hollow voids. Her throne of coral and weeping sea creatures moaned as she sat, legs folding like serpents.
“I assume this is about the plague,” she said coolly. “I’m already drafting five songs and two operas about it. Very... avant-garde.”
Satan materialized in a burst of flame and the sound of screaming children. Classic. Cloaked in molten chains and crowned with horns of obsidian, he took his throne of raw fire without a word, but his smirk said it all.
Lucifer gave him a nod. It was either that or insult his fashion sense and start a war.
Asmodeus was last.
He didn’t enter—he descended, reclining on a velvet chaise that floated midair, attended by a dozen sighing imps in sheer fabrics. He looked flawless, of course. He always looked flawless.
“Oh darling,” he cooed, waving at Lucifer, “you finally opened your messages. I was beginning to think you’d ghosted me like one of your little bar flings.”
Lucifer felt something in his soul shrivel and die. Gods, take me now.
All seven were now seated. All seven staring at him.
Waiting.
Expecting.
He straightened his back, stepped forward into the center of the circle, and looked each of them in the eye.
“This plague,” he said, “is no longer a rumor. No longer a distant disaster. It is here. It is growing. And it began because of me.”
The silence held for a few precious seconds. Then, like a dam giving way, came the inevitable chaos.
"I knew it," Mammon spat, springing to his feet in a clatter of gold chains and self-righteous fury. "I knew this whole mess had your melodramatic signature stamped right on it! What happened, Luci? Got a little sad and decided to nuke half of Hell like a toddler with a flamethrower?"
Lucifer closed his eyes. Counting to ten won’t help. Neither will smiting him. But it would be so satisfying.
“I didn’t decide anything,” he replied, voice sharp as broken glass. “Believe me, if I could choose to make the entire lower rings collapse into emotional ruin, I’d start with your vault.”
“So it’s true,” Belphegor muttered from her seat, arms lazily crossed behind her head, legs up on the obsidian table like she was half-asleep at a picnic. “The plague is linked to your… moods. That’s so profoundly stupid I almost admire it.”
“I second that,” said Leviathan, adjusting her sea pearl necklace. “How do you even manage to turn a breakdown into ecological warfare?”
Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not here for commentary on my emotional regulation from the literal embodiment of envy.”
“We’re not here for the end of the world caused by your mid-eternal crisis,” snapped Satan, his voice crackling like fire. “You want to sulk in your ivory tower? Fine. But dragging the rest of Hell into it—that’s where I draw the line.”
“Oh, now you draw lines?” Lucifer shot back. “What happened to ‘burn it all and let the strong survive,’ hmm?”
Asmodeus sighed dramatically, running a manicured hand through his shimmering curls. “Can we please not? If I wanted this level of passive aggression, I’d go back to dating nobles.”
“Then perhaps,” Beelzebub cut in, calm but with that ominous edge that made even Mammon pause, “we should focus on the matter at hand: the plague. How far has it spread?”
Satan leaned forward, red eyes glowing. “I lost entire strongholds. Civilizations I built from ash, gone. Do you know what kind of wrath that stirs in me, Lucifer?”
Lucifer inhaled deeply, fingers folded in front of his lips. He was silent—not out of arrogance, but because he knew that no answer he could give would make this easier.
“I tried to—”
“Oh, save it,” snapped Mammon, eyes glowing gold now, voice shaking with something that wasn't just anger—it was fear. “We heard nothing from you. Nothing. No warning, no explanation. Just dead air while our domains died.”
“You vanished,” Leviathan spat. “We were told you were fine, just… taking time. Time while the rest of us dealt with this hellstorm.”
Lucifer looked around the table at their faces—once equals, now accusers. Each one had lost something. Entire cities. Lives. Control. Pride.
He couldn't blame them for their fury. He couldn't even defend himself properly.
So instead, he straightened in his chair, wings flickering behind him, golden light pulsing faintly beneath his skin.
“…I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he said, voice steady. “I’m asking for your cooperation. We don’t have time to point fingers. The plague is still spreading, and if we don’t stop it, there won’t be any rings left to rule.”
* * * *
Back at the hotel, the atmosphere was as far from calm as ever, but at least it had stopped smelling like smoldering guilt and passive aggression. Barely.
Lucifer reappeared in the main hall in a flicker of golden light, wings tucked tight behind him, posture as stiff as a confession booth in a brothel. He wasn’t even fully materialized before—
“Dad!”
Charlie flew at him with the full force of a guilt-ridden daughter and the pent-up energy of someone who had been waiting too long. Her arms were already around him before he could brace himself.
“I’m so sorry again I didn’t tell you sooner—Alastor told me I shouldn’t push you and I thought you needed space but then Asmodeus messaged and then—are you okay? What happened? Are the other rings affected? Do they hate you? They hate you, don’t they? Are you mad at me?!”
Lucifer blinked.
“...That was too many questions and not enough punctuation.”
Charlie took a shaky breath and stepped back, but her eyes were still wide and brimming with worry.
The room was packed—Angel lounging across a fainting couch he absolutely did not need, Vaggie standing just behind Charlie with arms crossed but concern etched in her expression. Husk leaned against the bar, flipping a coin between his fingers with a subtle frown. Niffty peeked out from the hallway with a feather duster still in hand, eyes wide as saucers.
And then there was him.
Alastor was seated on an armchair near the fireplace like he hadn’t recently defiled the Morningstar and left his brain in knots. That stupid smile was painted on his face like it had been forged there at birth, completely unbothered, hands folded politely in his lap.
Lucifer’s eye twitched. He pointedly did not look at him again.
Instead, he smoothed his shirt—white, flawless, not a wrinkle to be seen—and stepped forward into the center of the room, all eyes on him.
“I’ve returned from the Council,” he began, tone even but low. “The situation is... as dire as we feared. The plague has spread to multiple rings. Entire cities lost. Entire populations, turned to stone or consumed by shadow.”
A hush fell. Niffty clutched her duster tighter. Vaggie’s jaw tightened. Angel’s tail curled around his leg.
Charlie stepped forward again. “What did the others say? Do they—do they know what to do?”
Lucifer exhaled through his nose. “No. No one knows what to do.”
A beat.
He continued. “But we’re beginning coordinated scouting. Until then, we wait for information.”
“And then?” asked Husk, voice gravelly.
Lucifer’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then we act. We plan. We do something other than sit and panic.”
The silence stretched. Lucifer could feel a dozen eyes on him, could feel his eyes on him—smug and knowing and amused, like this was all part of some twisted little opera and Lucifer was the tragic lead who still didn’t know his part.
And yet, for once, the hotel was still.
“I’ll do better this time,” he said suddenly, softer, more to himself than to them. “I won’t turn away again.”
Charlie looked like she might cry.
Angel cleared his throat, trying to dispel the weight in the air. “Well. I guess that means we should stop hoarding snacks in the bomb shelter, huh?”
Niffty gasped. “Oh, but that was fun!”
Lucifer allowed himself the tiniest twitch of a smile, barely perceptible.
Still not looking at Alastor.
Definitely not.
End of discussion.
But, of course, he has others plans.
Shadows slithered inward with a whisper, and then—Alastor.
Of course.
The bastard had materialized behind him like a demon-shaped jump scare with boundary issues.
Lucifer barely had time to take a breath before he felt it—those damned hands, suddenly resting on his shoulders like they had every right to be there.
"Now, now, dear Morningstar," Alastor's voice purred directly into his ear, way too close for anyone’s comfort, as he leaned in, Lucifer caught the distinct scent of mahogany—rich, dark, and unmistakably him "don’t you think it’s time we discussed actionable steps? A plague doesn’t vanish with faith and a pep talk."
Lucifer’s spine went rigid.
Calm. Be calm. Breathe. Pretend you’re not having flashbacks of that damn voice whispering far more unspeakable things directly into your ear last night. Pretend you don’t remember his firm hands pinning you down with unwavering strength, leaving no room for hesitation or escape, the way he gripped your hips, your thighs, your wrists—everywhere—with a certainty that made your breath hitch and your pride crumble.
He cleared his throat, stepped neatly out of Alastor’s reach like it was a dance he’d rehearsed, and turned just enough to avoid looking at him head-on. He refused to give the other man the satisfaction of flinching.
“I was getting to that,” he said coolly. “If you can manage to keep your hands to yourself and your interruptions to a minimum.”
“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Alastor chuckled, completely unfazed, already moving to stand at Lucifer’s side—as if he belonged there.
Lucifer continued, voice sharp but controlled. “As I was saying before I was so rudely haunted, the council has agreed that the first course of action is reconnaissance. Each of the seven rings will deploy teams to map the extent of the plague. We need information before we make another move.”
He glanced at the others.
Vaggie nodded, arms still crossed but eyes serious. Charlie looked torn between curiosity and concern. Angel was, impressively, pretending to listen. Husk hadn’t moved from his place at the bar but raised an eyebrow, mildly interested.
Lucifer didn’t look at Alastor.
Not even when he felt that familiar grin aimed at the side of his face like a spotlight in a one-man play.
“The moment we have more intel,” Lucifer went on, “we begin formulating a plan for containment. And if possible…” His jaw tightened, voice low. “Reversal.”
The room remained quiet for a beat.
Then Niffty piped up cheerfully. “Ooooh, sounds like a deadly adventure! Like a plague noir!”
Lucifer blinked slowly. “That’s… not a genre.”
But sure. Why not.
He finally turned away, the weight of Alastor’s presence still clinging to his skin like static electricity, and moved to the fireplace. He needed distance. He needed space. And maybe divine intervention. Preferably with holy water and a very long stick.
They had a plan. Sort of.
And now came the hard part.
Making it work.
The plan, at last, began to take shape.
Lucifer, eyes still heavy with exhaustion and emotionally wrung out like a wet rag at a middle school talent show, detailed the operation with as much authority as he could muster. Each group would be sent through a portal to a different section of the Pride Ring to locate the epicenters of the plague. No one would go alone — not even Husk, who argued he worked better without “annoying tagalongs breathing down his neck.”
Once the general strategy was laid out, everyone dispersed to prepare for the following day. Some with nervous excitement, others with silent dread. Lucifer just wanted a bed, a glass of whiskey, and maybe ten years of uninterrupted sleep.
Back in his room — mercifully quiet, finally, blessedly devoid of responsibility and social interaction — he kicked off his boots, let the coat fall where it may, and threw himself onto the mattress. Sheriff Quackers greeted him from his perch on the shelf with that same glassy, dead-eyed look of understanding.
“Don’t even start,” Lucifer muttered, throwing a pillow over his face. “I know. I’m trying.”
Lucifer had barely sunk into the mattress, limbs aching, mind fraying at the edges, when the shadows began to twist like smoke across the floor. He didn’t look. He didn’t need to. That familiar static pricked the air just moments before a voice poured into the room, syrupy and smug.
“Oh dear,” Alastor crooned, materializing before him like a damn ghost with no concept of invitation, “you look like a man who’s seen better centuries.”
Lucifer tensed. Not dramatically. Just a subtle a flicker of restraint that gripped his chest the moment his eyes locked onto Alastor standing a few meters ahead—too close, too alone, and with absolutely no escape. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, like the world had very suddenly decided to trap him in a private little theater with the one man he had absolutely no script for.
“I was just beginning to unwind,” he muttered. “But I suppose I should’ve known rest was too optimistic.”
Step by step, the Radio Demon moved closer. Deliberate. Fluid. Like one of those overly confident jungle cats on a nature documentary who knew damn well the gazelle wasn't getting away.
Lucifer: the gazelle in question.
Lucifer’s brain said, This is fine. Totally normal. Not at all arousing. What are we, twelve? Grow up.
Meanwhile, his body went with: Panic. Sweat. Accidentally activate flirt mode.
“You promised you’d let me handle it,” Alastor said, voice dipped in something warmer, darker, too intimate to be casual.
Lucifer's spine stiffened.
Oh. That voice. That lower register, private tone Alastor only used when he was either about to manipulate someone or ruin their life—or both. Honestly, at this point, the overlap was a circle.
“I—yes, I remember,” Lucifer muttered, trying not to sound like a flustered Victorian housewife about to faint onto a chaise lounge.
Of course he remembered. He hadn’t been able to stop remembering. His brain had put that memory on a highlight reel and was playing it on loop like it had a crush on its own suffering.
Alastor leaned down, bringing his face level with Lucifer’s, that unsettling smile softer now. Almost fond. That was unfair. Illegal, even.
Lucifer swallowed.
His body was starting to act out. Heat crawling up his neck, wings twitching with agitation, fighting to spread out. Stupid traitorous flesh prison.
“Are you alright?” Alastor asked, still maddeningly close. His tone was gentle now, curious, and for the love of everything unholy, Lucifer did not need him to sound concerned right now. That was how the descent into madness began.
“Peachy,” Lucifer replied flatly, eyes fixed on the middle distance like a soldier recounting war crimes. “Just enjoying the sensation of my soul leaving my body.”
Alastor tilted his head, amused. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m cold,” Lucifer snapped, even though the fireplace was very much still crackling and his body wasn’t even able to feel temperature. “Now would you please back up before I spontaneously combust and make this even more dramatic than it already is?”
Alastor, of course, did not back up.
Lucifer could smell the faint scent of old wood and ozone clinging to him, could feel the weight of those eyes that always looked like they were trying to decode him like a particularly juicy crossword puzzle.
And all Lucifer could think was: This is it. This is how I die. Death by proximity. Death by smug, red-suited temptation with no respect for personal space.
Lucifer could feel it.
The shift. The pressure building.
Alastor had a way of getting under his skin, twisting his insides, prodding at every delicate part of him that wanted to lash out or shut down. But it wasn’t just words anymore. It was the way Alastor moved, the way his presence invaded Lucifer's space like it owned the very air they breathed.
And Lucifer... Lucifer was letting him.
That was the worst part, wasn’t it? The fact that Lucifer, King of Hell, Lord of Pride, could stand here, frozen in place, letting this happen. Alastor knew exactly what he was doing. Of course he did. He always did. He was good at it—too good.
Lucifer was too aware of the way Alastor’s fingers brushed his jaw, how they felt too warm, too certain, like a magnet pulling him in despite every instinct screaming for him to step back.
The Radio Demon placed his hand on Lucifer’s cheek with a sickening, calculated delicacy, lifting his face just enough to make Lucifer meet his gaze.
The world seemed to narrow, the only thing Lucifer could see were those glowing eyes, full of that predatory amusement that made Lucifer’s stomach tighten with something that was not quite terror but definitely something.
“We both know,” Alastor’s voice was low, soft, like a whisper in Lucifer’s ear that danced across his skin, “that this is for the best.”
Lucifer’s jaw clenched. His heart thundered.
“No.” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice—strained, hoarse, like it didn’t want to protest anymore. "I—" He swallowed hard. His brain was misfiring, sending commands to his mouth that refused to come out the right way. He wanted to fight, to rip himself away, but...
Alastor’s grip on him tightened, pulling him closer, making it impossible to look anywhere but into those infernal, gleaming eyes.
“You’re lying to yourself,” Alastor said with that same cruel, silky tone. “We both know I’ve helped you keep those... emotions in check. The darkness you can’t control. The rage, the grief...”
Lucifer stiffened. That was—that was the part that hit too hard. He knew Alastor was right. He knew. The demon was the only one who’d managed to pull him back from the edge when everything else had felt like it was slipping through his fingers.
But Lucifer wasn’t going to admit it, not out loud.
“I don’t need your help,” he spat, but even he knew how pathetic it sounded, how hollow the words felt. His body was betraying him, his thoughts were scattered, and Alastor’s hand on his face was a reminder that no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise, this... thing between them wasn’t something he could simply ignore.
Alastor tilted his head, that knowing smile tugging at the edges of his lips. “Don’t you? Lucifer, it’s okay to admit it. You need control.” He leaned in closer, voice softening into something more intimate, as though they were sharing a secret. “And I’m more than happy to provide that... guidance.”
Lucifer felt it—something in his chest clenching as his breath hitched. God, why did Alastor have to make it sound so... convincing? So... right?
The way Alastor was so casual, so self-assured, it was like he already knew how this was going to play out. Like Lucifer had never had a choice in the matter. It was impossible to argue with someone who was already one step ahead.
And Lucifer couldn’t deny it. Not the warmth creeping up his skin at Alastor’s touch. Not the way his own body seemed to lean into the contact, betraying every ounce of resistance left in him.
He hated it. Hated that Alastor had the power to reduce him like this, to make him question everything, make him feel small in the worst possible way.
But there he was, his own body reacting in a way that couldn’t lie. He was drawn in, helpless, despite the bile rising in his throat, despite the part of him that screamed no.
“I’m not weak,” Lucifer muttered, but it came out like a question. His own voice betrayed him again.
Alastor’s smile stretched a little wider, just as dangerous as ever. “I never said you were,” he whispered, voice dipped in honey, “but we both know when you let go...”
And that was it. The unspoken truth that lingered in the air between them. That was always the thing. Lucifer had always hated losing control, and Alastor, for all his faults, understood that more than anyone else.
That was what kept Lucifer coming back. That was the problem.
"Fine," Lucifer said finally, his tone cold but desperate, eyes avoiding Alastor’s. "Do whatever you want. Just... don't make me regret it."
Alastor’s expression softened, just for a moment, as though he were savoring the victory. "Oh, Lucifer... You won't."
Lucifer knew he would.
Alastor leaned in closer, his breath ghosting against Lucifer's lips, the proximity so intimate that it made Lucifer’s pulse race. He could feel Alastor’s voice more than hear it, the words sinking deep into his chest like a heavy weight.
“That’s it... just leave it to me, my Morning Star,” Alastor murmured, the endearment laced with a silky, predatory edge that had Lucifer's breath catching.
And then, before Lucifer could react, Alastor’s lips pressed softly against his.
The contact was light at first, a mere brush of warmth, but that was enough. The last remnants of Lucifer’s self-control crumbled like dust, scattering in the wake of the kiss. His mind went blank, and for a moment, everything else fell away—the hotel, the plague, the guilt—nothing mattered except the feel of Alastor’s lips against his.
It was dangerous. It was reckless. It was the last thing Lucifer had ever planned to do.
But as Alastor pulled back, leaving Lucifer standing there, breathless, a dull ache settled in his chest. Lucifer didn’t have time to process what had just happened. He didn’t have time to think about the way his body had responded, the way his emotions had gotten tangled in the mess of it all.
“Rest,” Alastor said, voice now calm, distant, almost clinical. “Tomorrow, we have matters to attend to. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Before Lucifer could react, Alastor was already slipping away, fading into the shadows without a trace, as though he had never been there at all.
And there Lucifer stood, his hand still frozen where Alastor had touched him, the lingering warmth of the kiss pulsing through his skin. His heart hammered in his chest, and a heavy fog settled over his mind—thick, dizzying, and laced with the aftertaste of whiskey, smoky and sharp.
What the hell had just happened?
It was like a storm had ripped through his mind, leaving destruction in its wake. Lucifer could feel the chaos inside him, the conflict between what he wanted and what he feared. The truth was, he was more than just bothered by Alastor's presence—he was... consumed by it. And he hated himself for it.
The worst part?
He didn’t know if he hated it at all.
“I’m so fucking doomed” he muttered to himself, before going back to bed.