Chapter Text
The night had been warm in that quiet, deceptively domestic way Lucifer had come to crave.
They were in Alastor’s room, the lights dimmed to a soft reddish glow. Shadows lounged everywhere like lazy cats. Lucifer was still humming from the softness of the last hour—Alastor petting his hair, holding him close, letting him tuck himself under Alastor’s chin.
He felt good.
He felt wanted.
He felt brave.
So when he shifted closer, slipping an arm around Alastor’s waist, Alastor allowed it without a word. He let Lucifer press a kiss to his jaw. Then another to his throat.
His voice dipped, instinctive and adoring:
“Mmh… let me…”
Alastor didn’t stop him.
Lucifer took it as a yes.
He kissed down the elegant line of Alastor’s neck, down his chest—bare tonight, mercifully bare—and Lucifer felt light-headed with the privilege. He pressed kisses over the plane of his sternum, the faint scars, the warm skin. His hands slid down Alastor’s ribs, hopeful, greedy, worshipping.
Alastor allowed all of it. He usually did, when he was not wearing his pajama top.
And Lucifer… well, Lucifer adored giving affection as much as receiving it. He nuzzled, he kissed, he mouthed hungrily—like a starved little goblin desperate to taste every inch Alastor spared him.
But then Lucifer dipped lower.
Past the sternum.
Down his stomach.
“When you touched me the other night…,” Lucifer whispered, “…it was so good I felt like I was going to fall apart.”
Alastor inhaled sharply.
Lucifer kissed his skin again, softer this time.
“I want to do the same for you.”
Alastor tensed like a pulled string.
“What are you doing?”
His voice was calm, but the kind of calm a grenade had right before it detonated.
Lucifer mistook it for nervousness.
He moved to undo the strings on Alastor’s sleepwear, light trousers, the one he never was without.
Alastor’s shadows snapped tight around his wrists.
In the next second, Lucifer found himself lifted cleanly off the demon and deposited onto the bed with far more force than necessary.
Lucifer bounced once.
He blinked up at Alastor in shock.
“What?! Why?” he sputtered, pouting in pure offense as Alastor turned away—to dress. To put his top back on. To hide.
The loss of that bare chest felt like someone slamming a door in his face.
“Because I said no,” Alastor replied crisply, straightening his pajama. “And that should be enough.”
Well, one could barely call throwing Lucifer into the mattress a “no” but he felt bringing that up would not help his case.
“It is. It’s enough,” Lucifer insisted, drawing his hands close. “See? Hands to myself. Perfectly behaved. Staying right in my designated emotional lane.” He pulled the blankets over himself in a small, sulky motion he hoped didn’t look as pathetic as it felt. “But… why? Why is it so bad that I want to give you the same thing you give me?”
Alastor’s jaw tightened.
“I do not need it,” he said.
That one hit deep.
Deep and old.
Old wounds wrapped in new skin.
Lucifer’s chest squeezed painfully. Rejection always sounded the same, no matter who it came from.
“Oh, excuse me for wanting to give you an orgasm,” Lucifer muttered, bitter, before he could stop himself.
Alastor’s eyes flashed.
“And I said I don’t want it.”
“Heard you loud and clear.”
Silence fell heavy and sharp between them.
Shadows lingered uncertainly around the bed—half-reaching toward Lucifer, half-retreating to obey their master’s discomfort.
It hurt.
It hurt stupidly much.
Alastor sighed, the edge in his voice softening.
“I told you I am not cut from the same cloth as others. I don’t… I never…” He looked away. “I don’t need or want it like others do. I am happy to give. That is enough for me.”
Lucifer’s throat tightened.
“But… what about your pleasure? Don’t you want to know how it feels?”
“I get plenty of pleasure out of the things we do,” Alastor said simply.
“But—”
Alastor snapped, sharper than a static surge:
“Why is your kind of pleasure superior to mine?”
Lucifer’s mouth shut instantly.
Right.
Right, okay.
He overstepped. Again.
His shoulders slumped.
He felt drained—like all the brightness had been wrung out of him in one twist.
He exhaled shakily, closing his eyes.
“Can I at least…” he began softly.
Touch you?
Hold you?
Just stay close?
But the words felt wrong now. Heavy and invasive. He couldn’t ask. He shouldn’t ask. Not when it was so natural, up until now.
So he swallowed the words.
“Never mind,” he whispered. “Let’s sleep.”
Alastor looked at him—really looked—but Lucifer was already curling inward, pulling the covers over his head, tucking his hands under his chin, an age old habit he could not get rid of.
He didn’t see the shadows tentatively reaching toward him, only to hesitate.
He didn’t see Alastor’s face—torn open for a moment, regretful, confused, then shuttered shut.
Lucifer just closed his eyes and tried not to feel the aching gap between them.