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villainsoftheweek · 15 days ago

Text

the devil can't have you.

chapter two.

explicit. 18+ only. - 7.7k+ - Alastor x f!demon!reader / Lucifer x f!demon!reader

content: love triangle, power dynamics, seduction, possessive behavior, obsession, emotional manipulation, dream manipulation, jealousy, smut, non-ACE Alastor

Lucifer seduces with tea and dreams; Alastor answers with the only thing he’s never said.

The envelope at your bedside arrives without herald or fanfare – no brass-blown warning, no scream splitting through the plaster. Only a shift. Subtle as breath held in a chapel. A warping of presence, like time drawing in a slow, reverent inhale. The very air bends around it – the atoms bow. And when your eyes slide to the bedside table, there it waits.

Not placed. Presented.

A single envelope, cut from black vellum darker than a moonless grave, rimmed in silver filigree that catches no light – only reflects it, like the glint of a blade. Its seal is wax the hue of spilled blood, glistening wetly despite the room’s stillness. Pressed into the center: a sun in ruin, eclipsed and weeping gold. At its core, a crimson jewel – not gemstone, but glass. Not inert, but watching. A pupil in the eye of a dying god.

You rise slowly, the way sinners ascend the scaffold. Limbs heavy with aftermath, breath still wrecked from the storm he left in your bed. The sheets cling to your skin, damp with memory. The scent that lingers isn’t perfume, but presence – ozone through old wood, scorched iron, and sweetness singed with rot. The smell of something ancient exhaling through you. The air still crackles, faintly, like a record at rest.

The envelope doesn’t wait. It summons.

It thrums in your chest like the memory of a wound, plucked like a harp string just beneath bone. The scent of an apple, sun-warmed marble, incense twisted into something darker: honey cloyed with mildew, candle wax bleeding into bloodstained silk.

The seal bears no name – only a line of hand-scripted crimson:

To my most intriguing guest.

The script is not gaudy, not ornamental – but intimate. The seduction of a thousand years distilled into six syllables and a bow too polite to be trusted.

You don’t open it. Not yet – not alone.

You dress in silence, each layer of clothing feeling less like armor and more like theater. As you rise, the floor beneath your feet gives – velvet-soft, a rug embroidered with lilies, crowned deer skulls snarled in silver thread. The walls lean in. The corners writhe with shadow. Nothing in this room feels still.

He is not here. But he is not gone.

Across the suite, a silver tray waits atop a throne of an armchair – all velvet and clawed legs. The breakfast laid out is grotesque in its luxury. A brioche glazed in something golden and sinful, still steaming. A burgundy mug of coffee, black as the abyss, so still it reflects your eyes. Under a cloche: a single egg, soft-boiled, its shell marked with a crimson “A” and dusted with paprika like a seal in dry blood. Marked. Claimed.

Beside it, a folded card. Unsealed.

You’ll need your strength.

It needs no signature. The message is slight. But the echo it leaves in your ribs is not. Not kindness. Not concern. Something older. A farewell dressed in etiquette. Or a vow with its throat slit. Like he knows what waits in the envelope at your bedside.

By the time you reach the lobby, the envelope tucked tight in your coat pocket sings like a second heart. It yearns to be opened – you can feel it with every step.

Angel Dust is upside-down on a chaise, all limbs and languor, flicking through a porn magazine like it owes him money. Charlie paces before the desk, clipboard in hand and worry etched into her grin. Husk sulks behind the bar, glass of something amber catching helllight like a relic set aflame.

And then – him.

Alastor. Your Alastor.

Perched like a prayer unanswered. One ankle draped over the other, spine ramrod straight, gloved fingers resting upon his cane. Not relaxed. Poised. As if stillness itself were a snare. His eyes snap to you – not slow, not searching. Claiming. Like watching you enter a room is a moment that belongs only to him. Then his eyes move to the envelope, barely visible.

His smile stretches, radio-smooth. But there’s iron beneath the velvet.

“Ah,” he drawls, each syllable dipped in molasses and menace. “So the Devil’s courier comes cloaked in silence today. How...tantalizingly intimate.”

You step forward. The envelope pulses like a living thing. Eyes follow it.

Angel pops his gum. “No way. Is that from him?”

You nod. “Left it beside my bed.”

Charlie stills. “Sealed?”

You nod again.

Husk squints. “Looks like bait. Pretty bait. Like a ring box full of scorpions.”

Alastor hums, and though his voice is sweet, it cuts like cello wire.

“You should be honored, my dear,” he leans forward, teeth gleaming. “He rarely extends his hand unless it’s to pull someone apart. Even rarer that he courts without at least a decade of lies and manipulation first.”

Angel somersaults upright. “Lemme see the seal. Oooh! Girl, now that’s an invitation.”

Charlie glances at Alastor. The worry in her voice is clear – even she knows joining her father is not the best move for you to make. “Should we stop her?”

He laughs. But there’s nothing kind in it.

“Stop her?” he repeats. “You don’t stop a summons. Not from him. It would go against the very etiquette of the realm! And my dearest is far too polite.”

You draw in a breath. Reach for the seal.

“I’m opening it.”

Charlie flinches. Angel leans closer. Husk mutters something no god would answer. Alastor – silent – steps nearer. Not to stop you, but to bear witness.

The wax breaks with a hiss, like steam rising off a branded soul.

The parchment unfurls too easily. Warm. Almost breathing, like it’s alive.

The ink shines like blood stirred into sacrament.

“Let’s share tea at sunset – in my Garden, where nothing is quite what it seems. Come as you please: the truth, a lie, or something deliciously in between. I’ll see through every layer, and you might find you enjoy being truly seen.”

– L. M.

You fold the letter. But it does not end. It lingers like perfume in your blood.

Angel whistles. “Well, that sounds like a date.”

Charlie touches your arm. Her tenderness is always welcome. “You don’t…have to go.”

Alastor cuts across her. Soft. Certain.

“But she will.”

Your gaze meets his.

He doesn’t blink. “I heard it. The moment you started breathing like prey.”

You slip the letter into your pocket.

“I think I have to.”

Alastor escorts you to the threshold.

The hotel behind you mutters with unease. Not fear. Not joy. Something hungrier. Expectation.

He stops at the archway, hands resting over his cane. The street before you writhes in heat and ash, rust and ruin. Shadows cling to cracks in the cobblestone like bruises.

“A word of caution, pet,” he murmurs, low and near your ear. “Lucifer doesn’t want you. He wants the mirage of you. The vision that shudders prettily beneath his gaze.”

You glance sideways. “And you want the one that bleeds under your bite?”

He chuckles. No denial.

“I want the whole thing. Teeth and soul. But I don’t dress it up in poetry.”

You exhale. The envelope burns cold in your pocket.

“If I don’t return?”

He lifts a gloved hand – fingers ghosting up your jaw, cradling your face as if weighing a secret.

His voice is velvet laid over razors.

“Then I’ll raze his Garden,” he says, each word carved in promise. “Stem to root. Petal to thorn. And drag you home where you belong.”

And then, Alastor kisses you.

No flourish. No spin.

Final.

His mouth presses to yours like a seal – like a right – his radio hum bleeding into your teeth, your spine, your thoughts. He tastes like storm-burned sugar and dead things blooming. His hand ghosts over your ribs like a brand not yet lit.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t step away.

“You belong in my broadcast, darling,” he breathes. “Don’t let him edit the script.”

You stare up at him, voice thin. “And if he rewrites me?”

The static behind his smile sharpens.

“Then I’ll take his crown,” he says, matter-of-fact, “and transform it into a collar around your throat.”

You step into the city with the Devil’s letter on your chest and Alastor’s kiss tattooed to your mouth.

It tastes like a promise.

And like war.

The garden is somewhere outside of time – suspended in a dream that trembles on the edge of waking. Stars bloom like night-orchids in a sky that doesn’t match the rest of Hell, bleeding light in slow motion. Beneath your feet, bone-white marble gleams with a polish too perfect for mortal craftsmanship, veined in whispering gold, as if the stone itself had been coaxed to speak, to make you promises. Thorned rose roots snake through the cracks, thick and pulsing, their blossoms the color of blood held too long in the lungs. Some are open, others still curling. All of them face you, like subjects bowing before a queen.

The scent is impossible – not merely sweet or floral, but ancient. Heat, spice, and something divine gone to rot. Like the perfume worn by a goddess who’d long since stopped caring who she seduced.

The air tightens as you cross the threshold.

Lucifer sits at the head of a table carved from secrets. The surface shimmers with wheeling constellations, slow as breath. He rises as you approach, all theatrical grace. The shadows behind him bow.

“Ah,” he says, low and lilting. “Hell’s rarest creature. You came!”

You pause before the table. The excitement behind his voice feels practiced, you don’t miss the fact. You wonder if he stood before a mirror reciting his lines before your arrival. “You left me little choice.”

“Choice is such a mortal preoccupation,” his smile is sharper than his voice. “But I believe in courtesy. And curiosity. You’ve both in abundance.”

His gaze slides over you – slowly, reverently, as if reading scripture carved in flesh.

“I imagine your...radio companion gave you a warning,” he continues. “He’s so very good at those. A little static, a little growl. He must have been seething when my invitation arrived.”

“More than usual,” you say coolly, though his proximity makes the lie in your voice tremble.

Lucifer gestures. A chair, carved of bone and dusk, slides back with a purr against the marble. A place is set before you in dishware the color of twilight, trimmed in something glimmering and red – not ruby, not wine. Blood remembered.

Tea is poured from a vessel shaped like an open mouth. The liquid is viscous and dark, curling with scent — clove, jasmine, sugar, sin. You leave it untouched.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Wise,” he hums, that beautiful smile etched on his face. “But not necessary. I asked for your company, not your compliance.”

You narrow your eyes. “That distinction usually means very little in Hell.”

“And yet here we are,” he murmurs. “Not as captor and caught – but as two curiosities, orbiting. Closer now than before.”

The conversation begins light. He speaks of the Hotel, of your singing – “You sing like you're seducing the Devil himself” with a laugh – of the decadence in the summer air. You respond in half-measured replies, wary of the trap behind each of his syllables.

“You laughed at one of my jokes at my last gathering,” he says, swirling his cup, not sipping. “Alastor looked like he wanted to eat me.”

“I laughed at a ridiculous notion you presented, not at a joke,” you correct, cautious not to forget your tone. You lift an eyebrow. “You sound disappointed that he didn’t.”

“Oh, I was. But not for the reason you think,” his grin is slow and laced with something fondly cruel. “Jealousy looks so raw on him. You’ve stirred something ancient in that charming sociopath.”

Your lips twitch. “He’d love to hear you call him that.”

Lucifer leans forward, eyes glinting with something merciless and soft.

“He fears you,” he murmurs, voice low as velvet. “Not for your power, but for what you’ve done to him. You’ve shifted something he thought immutable – and he can’t name it, can’t undo it, can’t bear the price.”

You hold his gaze, steady as flame. “Maybe that’s exactly why it matters.”

“Is it?” he asks, voice silk-smooth. “Or are you looking to be changed, too?”

You draw back slightly. “I didn’t come here to be dissected.”

“No,” he agrees. “You came here to see what it felt like. To be seen. Truly. And perhaps to feel powerful enough to refuse a king.”

You feel the blood stir in your cheeks – heat or anger or something harder to name.

“I haven’t refused anything,” you murmur.

“No,” he echoes, and the smile he gives you is unbearable in its gentleness. “You haven’t.”

He reclines again, graceful, deliberate. The galaxy table pulses faintly beneath his fingers. You think, for a moment, that the stars within it shift when he breathes.

His tone softens.

“You could be so many things. You’ve worn sin like silk and shame like armor. But what if you let it all fall? What then?”

You look at him – the Devil, the Morningstar, the once-favorite. He’s beautiful in the way falling is beautiful: terrible, inevitable, and bright enough to burn.

“I don’t want your crown,” you say.

“No,” he murmurs. “But it would suit you.”

The stillness between you sharpens, laden with unsaid things. Gravity bends. Heat coils at the base of your spine, not from desire alone, but from recognition – of what he is, and what you almost are. What you could be.

You can taste the power on the tip of your tongue it’s so close – but you won’t be another to be seduced by the Morningstar’s promises.

When at last you rise, Lucifer does as well. His movements are slow, reverent, practiced – as though you are something sacred he’s preparing to bury or bless.

He takes your hand. Just your hand.

His lips press to your knuckles, warm and impossibly soft, and the air around you hums with restrained want.

“Until we meet again,” he murmurs against your skin.

You should walk away.

Instead, you say, low and steady, “You're certain we will?”

His gaze lifts. Candlelight flickers behind stained glass.

“It is inevitable,” he says.

His smile curves with quiet promise.

“Next time, maybe you’ll stay longer.”

The roses bloom wider as you leave. Some of them bleed.

The ballroom of the hotel is silent when you return.

But not empty.

The hush is not peace – it is tension. Even the shadows seem to lean inward, ears pressed to the walls, waiting. The drapes, once merely extravagant, now resemble stage curtains pulled taut before an unspeakable act. Above, the chandelier hangs dormant, its thousand crystal facets like frozen tears, catching no light – only the phantom memory of brilliance. Moonlight attempts to trespass through the stained-glass windows, only to be swallowed by the dark velvet and marbled gloom.

Your footsteps sound too loud, even against the vastness of the floor – each one echoing back like an accusation. The doors behind you swing closed with a whisper that sounds like the end of something. Like a curtain fall.

And he is already there.

Alastor stands beneath the chandelier, as still and composed as a painting come to life in the moment you look away. No spotlight follows him, but he doesn’t need one – he creates his own gravity. His posture is carved from artifice: shoulders drawn back in that gallant predator’s poise, hands gently folded over his cane, coat immaculately buttoned. A gentleman carved from obsidian, grin chiseled into permanence.

But the longer you look, the more the cracks show.

His shadow is wrong. It doesn’t fall; it climbs. Snaking up the columns and across the ceiling like spilled ink with teeth. It snarls along the tile like a thing separate from him, twitching, coiling. The smile – that infamous smile – doesn’t twitch, but it’s too still. Like a door welded shut behind which something paces. Not humor. Not charm. But the echo of a growl sealed behind a phonograph’s needle-hiss.

He does not greet you. Does not bow. Does not beckon for you to be closer.

Just that smile. Just that voice – softened by static, sharpened by suspicion.

“Well?” he says. “Did he whisper his gilded half-truths in your ear? Show you your reflection in his eyes – all softened and sanctified? Did he promise you a crown? A kingdom?”

The grin flickers wider. “A leash made of compliments?”

You take a step forward.

He – almost imperceptibly – takes one back.

Not fear. Something worse. Restraint.

His smile doesn’t fade – it stretches, flickering with something feral, too many teeth in a mouth not built for honesty. And his eyes…they are hunt-lanterns in the fog, catching motion. The gleam in them is not joy.

It’s blood-scent. It’s warning.

“You reek of him,” he murmurs, voice hollowing out. The static is gone. This is his voice. Not the showman’s, not the Specter of the Airwaves, not your Radio Demon as you’ve always known him – this is the man beneath. Stripped raw. Flayed open.

“Of his touch. It is wrong.”

You open your mouth. You don’t know what you’re going to say – only that the silence between you feels like it will crush your ribs. But before you can summon a single word –

He’s there.

Across the floor in a blink, his cane spinning out of his grip, clattering against the marble. Hands find your waist, seizing the shape of you with a fever that borders on violence, though his grip remains just short of bruising. He’s backing you toward the piano – slowly, deliberately – herding you like something hunted.

Not pinning.

Cornering.

As though to put space between you is to let Lucifer reach in and take you from his arms.

“I know what he is,” he breathes against your throat. His voice brushes your skin, his breath warm and cold in quick pulses. The scent of him has changed – ozone laced with something more primal. Something unspooling. It smells like rage – hiding beneath fear.

“He paints futures in gold,” he growls. “He makes you forget the cage he puts you in. Makes you forget you were ever wild.”

“Alastor –” you whisper.

That’s all.

That’s enough. Just his name from your lips.

His mouth slams against yours – no finesse, no warning. Just want. Just the sound of a man tearing the brakes off himself. It is not gentle. It is not polite.

It is hunger incarnate.

He kisses you like he’s biting a bullet. Like he’s drowning and your mouth is the only surface that can keep him afloat. His gloved hands claw at your coat, fingers trembling, too careful – then not at all. He rips it off your shoulders, the fabric sliding to the floor in a hush like dropped robes at the altar. Next, his own.

Each layer of clothing between the two of you becomes sacrificial.

Not discarded. Offered.

He shreds through the fastenings with desperate precision – not brutish, but urgent. Like he’s trying to outrun some version of you slipping away into Lucifer’s hands. His mouth leaves a burning trail – along your jaw, your neck, down your collarbone. He doesn’t just kiss – he brands. Little bruises bloom under your skin, his teeth scraping close enough to make you gasp, then moan.

“I can’t give you the world,” he pants, voice cracking, pressed to your sternum now, kneeling. “Only myself. This…broken thing. A broadcast of want, all for you.”

You cradle his face – make him look at you. And you kiss him back.

Not gently.

Desperately.

It is an answer.

He lifts you onto the piano like you weigh nothing. The lacquered surface is freezing beneath your spine, your thighs parted around him as the instrument sings a low hum at the contact – like memory, like reverence. The whole room vibrates with something just shy of sound.

His gloves vanish, tossed aside – his bare hands are warm, calloused at the fingertips, trembling. He touches you with a reverence that borders on madness. You feel him chart you like a cartographer sketching holy lands – lips ghosting along your hip bones, your ribs, your thighs.

When he finally enters you, it isn’t a thrust.

It’s a claim.

A possession written in heat and salt and fever.

You arch, breath choking in your throat at the stretch. You swear you can feel every inch of him, pulsing, searing, as your body grips him like you were made for this. His hands clutch your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints on your soul. And still he doesn’t move. He stays – fully sheathed, head bowed against your chest, breathing in broken static.

Then –

He begins to move.

Not slow. Measured. As if he’s trying to remember how to do this without unraveling completely. His rhythm deepens with every second – hips snapping with staccato ferocity. You moan – no, sob – as he thrusts harder, each collision deliciously brutal. You lock your ankles behind him, dragging him in deeper.

His voice is right in your ear:

“He wants you because you shine.”

Snap – deep.

“I want you because you see me.”

Snap – deeper.

Each thrust punches through you like a beat in some terrible, beautiful symphony. The piano beneath you wails. The chandelier above quivers. Shadows dance. His groans blur with static, with sorrow, with a joy so sharp it cuts.

You are shaking, helpless – caught between the swell of orgasm and the wreckage of meaning. Then –

His fingers find your clit.

Rough, practiced, proof that he knows you. Your back arches violently. Your climax tears through you like something blunt breaking bone. You cry out – no word, just sound. Your body clamps around him, a vice of desperate want.

He snaps.

With a strangled moan, he slams into you one final time, spilling inside you, hips twitching, his body curling like something dying and born again in the same breath.

He doesn’t pull out.

Just leans over you – spent, trembling, collapsed against your skin. His sweat mingles with yours. His breath hitches. He’s not panting from exhaustion.

He’s shaking from fear.

“He’ll try to make you forget this,” he whispers, brokenly. “Forget me. Forget that you are my perfect little muse.”

You thread your fingers into his wild, sweat-damp curls and tug his head up, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“I won’t,” you say, firm. True.

His eyes glisten. No tears, but the emotion is the same.

“Don’t let him take you from me,” he breathes. “Don’t let him rewrite you in his image.”

He cups your face in both hands, forehead resting against yours.

“You’re already perfect in mine.”

You kiss him again – not as a weapon, not a war.

But as a promise.

He allows the shadows to transport both of you to his bed, never letting go. And when he finally curls around you, still buried inside you, still pulsing with the last of his need, the ballroom does not feel cold anymore.

It feels like sanctuary – cracked and bleeding and burning – on the edge of something vast.

That night, sleep tastes sweet – too sweet.

As if the dream were laced with honey, blood, and sacrament.

It slips over your senses like perfume and velvet, pulling you down, down, down – not into unconsciousness, but into something other. There is no falling. No darkness. Just the slow dissolving of the walls of your mind until all that remains is invitation.

And then –

You open your eyes.

To a palace.

The walls you’re surrounded by are impossible. Formless and radiant. Made of crystal and ash, like time itself shattered and reformed into something mythic. The walls rise and dissolve at once – fractal architecture blooming outward in spirals that defy gravity, each surface etched with scripture that glows faintly red, as if still hot from a divine forge. Light fractures through the crystal – not sunlight, but something older. Older than light. Older than thought.

The sky above burns in shades you’ve never seen.

A kaleidoscope of wings and wheeling galaxies. Stars scream silently across a horizon stitched with halos, wings, smoke. Some of them are falling. Some of them watch you.

And at the center of it all – beneath a canopy of thorny vines and soft starlight – sits Lucifer.

He is radiant.

But not in the way he was in the waking world. There, he was power leashed with ceremony. Here, he is glory unbound. Hair like poured platinum, skin pale as cathedral marble, his eyes molten gold, slow-turning suns beneath long lashes. This throne is carved from alabaster and bone, wreathed in roses that bloom and wither at once. The scent is intoxicating – frankincense, roses, apples, and something sweeter. Something like you.

He doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

Just watches you with that impossible gaze – serene, amused, intimate. The weight of it is unbearable. Like being seen down to the soul and found wanting – but desired anyway.

You try to step back.

Instead, you step forward.

The floor beneath your feet is soft – not solid – a silken mist that parts for you like worship. You glide rather than walk. The crystal reflects your image as you pass: a figure crowned in crimson, veiled in silk, dripping with power you haven’t yet earned. You are not yourself.

But you are exactly what he wants you to be.

Lucifer lifts a hand, beckoning – not with command, but with invitation.

And you go.

Your body does not ask permission.

You climb the steps to his throne like an acolyte approaching the altar. Only when you reach the final step do you realize you’re already kneeling between his knees. The fabric of his robes pools like smoke around you, vast and endless, stitched with symbols that move as you try to read them. His legs part slightly, making room for you.

Your hands rest on his thighs.

His hand cups your cheek.

"You wear it well," he murmurs, voice silk over coals. “The crown.”

You look up – and there it is.

Crimson and gold, feathered and fanged, a coronet that throbs with heat as if alive. You don’t remember donning it. You don’t remember kneeling. But it belongs. A weight on your brow. A truth in your blood.

“Queen suits you,” he says, with the quiet reverence of someone naming a star.

And then – somehow – you’re in his lap.

You don’t feel yourself move, but you are there now, astride him. His hand rests lightly on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. Your skirts – or are they wings? – drape around him in folds of fire and silk. His gaze is not lustful.

It is adoring.

As if you were not just his consort – but his creation.

“It doesn’t have to be a war,” he whispers, thumb drifting inward, higher, higher. The heat of his touch is narcotic. “It can be a coronation.”

You tremble.

Or would, if your body still belonged to you.

He leans forward.

And you don’t remember choosing to – but your lips meet his.

And it is divine.

Not a kiss. Not a seduction. But anointment.

His mouth is molten. Gold-slick, slow, and deep – a kiss that unravels you strand by strand, thought by thought. Your limbs go lax, your will melting like wax in the heat of him. You taste psalms. You taste sin. Your fingers slide into his hair, into silver and silk, and he moans against your mouth, not with hunger, but with gratitude.

“You could rule beside me,” he breathes against your lips. His voice is everywhere – in your ears, in your blood, in the trembling ground beneath the throne. “Not as his. As mine.”

You arch into him, and his hand finally slides beneath your gown – silk parting like smoke, his fingers finding bare skin.

But just before he can claim you –

You wake.

Gasping.

The air in your lungs is thick and sweet – like incense – and for a moment, the memory of him, the taste of him, is still on your tongue. Your sheets cling to you, soaked with sweat and something more dangerous. The echo of heat remains between your legs.

Your hands tremble.

The crown is gone.

But its weight remains.

And so does the whisper – burned into your mind like scripture:

It doesn’t have to be a war.

It can be a coronation.

The air is thick – no, charged. A heady fog of rosewood and storm-burnt ozone coils through your lungs like incense clinging to cathedral rafters. It’s metallic. Electric. Singing with memory. Like the air itself knows. Like the walls knows. Like he does.

It prickles over your skin in static shivers, catching on the curve of your spine, where the dream still pulses like an unhealed wound. Your body remembers it too – the weightless drift, the celestial pull, the velvet-dark realm of star-stained marble and golden tongues. The taste of sin wrapped in holiness.

Lucifer’s mouth had opened over yours like a divine decree. Sweet, slow, inevitable. It lingers now – not just in thought, but in nerve. Your lips are still parted. Still tingling. Still traitorously wet.

And lower…

Your thighs press tighter.

Your pulse is frantic. Not rhythm. Not a song. A frantic snare drum of want and fear and heat. Your body aches – trembling, feverish, slick with the aftermath of something that shouldn’t have touched you, but did.

And you wanted it.

God help you, you wanted it.

You can’t tell where the dream ends. You don’t even know if it did. But one thing is certain:

You are not alone.

Alastor is there.

Not beside you.

Over you.

Watching. Unmoving. Unblinking.

His eyes glow in the dark like freshly drawn blood, twin garnets cut into shadow, catching the red ghostlight in his own gaze. There's no grin. No teeth. No tilted head or sing-song quip. Just.. stillness. A silence too thick to be empty. He’s not resting. He’s not lounging. He’s not performing.

He’s hunting.

“He touched your dreams,” he says.

The words hang between you like a noose.

His voice is low. Not velvet-slick. Not filtered through nostalgic static. It's real. Frayed. Whispering along the torn edges of his own restraint.

You swallow. Try to lie.

But you can’t. Not to him. Not when he sees through you like light through smoke.

You nod.

And still, he doesn’t rage.

Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t even blink.

He just…moves.

The blanket slides aside like an offering – no sharp motion, no theatrics. Just reverent, gliding quiet, as his hands slip over you. Cool fingers meet your sweat-warmed skin, and your body jerks with the contact – already so sensitive, so charged, like you’re still caught in Lucifer’s dreamscape. But Alastor doesn't flinch at your tremble. He cradles it.

He draws you close, inch by inch, until your head rests against his chest, his arms curling around you like roots.

He lays you down like you’re sacred.

His hands are gentle – but they’re shaking.

It’s barely there, a fine quake beneath his knuckles, a reverberation just beneath the surface. But you feel it. And when he speaks again, it fractures something.

“I felt it,” he breathes, voice cracked. “The moment you left. Even if your body stayed. I felt…”

He doesn’t finish.

You open your mouth – to explain, to apologize, maybe – but his lips descend on yours before the thought becomes language.

And it isn’t like before.

It’s desperate.

No teeth. No smile. No showmanship. His mouth devours yours in slow, gasping hunger, like the kiss itself is a lifeline. His tongue slips past your lips, claiming the space Lucifer had stolen in your dream, dragging you back into the here and now – back into him. He kisses you like he’s begging you to forget. To remember. To choose.

He breaks away with a groan that sounds like a man at the edge of ruin.

Foreheads pressed together. Breaths ragged. You feel the tremble of him in every inch of skin that touches yours.

“He wants to make you his,” he says. “So do I.”

A pause.

“But I won’t lie to you. I can’t.”

His hands frame your face. Fingers tremble against your jaw, brushing behind your ear. It’s not seduction. It's a confession.

“I’m not a king,” he murmurs. “I’m not divine. Not a ruler.”

He leans in, voice breaking.

“I’m not worthy of a creature like you. I can’t make you the queen you deserve to be.”

You reach up. Hold his hands in yours. And in that moment – fragile, luminous – he looks more real than you’ve ever seen him. Not a demon. Not a specter. Just a man unraveling in silence.

“But I love you,” he says, breath hitching. “In my own fractured…ruined…real way.”

The air sings between you, charged and holy and obscene.

You pull him down into another kiss.

This time, it’s slow.

Deep.

Your lips part and he follows, melting into it, mouth moving with yours like you’re composing something together – not a melody, but a prayer.

A possession.

His hands slide lower, over your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. Worshipful. Awed. Almost afraid that this would be the last time he’s able. As if your choice isn’t already made.

The blanket is peeled back further, and the way he looks at you...

It’s not lust.

It’s hunger. And grief. And something like rapture.

His breath catches. His eyes glisten.

“No god could make something as beautiful as you,” he whispers.

And then he kisses down.

A trail of soft, burning kisses along your throat, down your sternum, pausing to suck one nipple into his mouth, groaning as it stiffens. His tongue swirls, teeth grazing just enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

Then lower. And lower still.

Each kiss is a vow.

A sin.

A hymn.

He reaches your thighs and spreads them with trembling fingers.

“Say you want this,” he whispers, mouth hovering, breath ghosting over your slick folds.

“I want you,” you whisper.

He doesn't wait. He devours you.

The first lick is long and slow, a flat stripe from your dripping entrance to the pulsing peak of your clit. You arch with a gasp, and he moans into you – loud, guttural, needy. His grip tightens on your thighs, and he feasts like a starving man denied for centuries.

There’s nothing graceful. Nothing polished.

Just need.

Raw, unholy, sacred need.

He slurps and sucks and groans against you, mouth relentless, tongue plunging, circling, teasing. When he focuses on your clit – drawing tight circles with the flat of his tongue – you feel your sanity fray. You try to writhe, but he holds you down, arms iron-wrapped around your legs.

And all the while, the memory of Lucifer’s kiss lingers – ghostlight in the dark.

But Alastor devours that too.

He moans when you tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, hips grinding against the mattress as if he's chasing friction. Your climax builds too fast – your body locking, heat curling deep, rising, rising, tearing.

“Alastor!”

You scream his name when it hits. Exactly how he adores you to.

Your vision flashes white. Your muscles seize. You sob with the force of it, thighs clamping around his head, body shaking, wet and slick and overwhelmed.

But he doesn’t stop.

He drinks you through it. Every spasm. Every cry. Until your body trembles with overstimulation and you gasp, helpless, twitching in his grasp.

Then – only then – does he rise.

His lips are glistening. His eyes fevered.

“Still sweet,” he murmurs, voice dark with reverence. “But now…it’s mine.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

But you reach for him.

He comes to you instantly, kissing you again, letting you taste your own sweetness on his tongue. His cock grinds against your thigh – hot, hard, leaking. He shifts, nudging at your entrance, pausing only to press his forehead to yours.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say you choose me.”

Your voice trembles, but it’s true – every syllable.

“I choose you.”

His breath breaks.

And he thrusts in.

Slow. Deliberate. Deep.

You sob, nails sinking into his back, legs locking around his waist. He buries himself to the hilt with a low, broken sound – staying there, not moving, just breathing.

As if this moment is too sacred to ruin with motion.

And then he begins to move.

Every thrust is a confession. A claim. He moves slow, deep, grinding, making sure you feel him – every inch, every tremor, every vow. His breath is ragged in your ear, warm and real.

“I love you,” he rasps. “Not for show. Not for sound. For the way you see me.”

He thrusts harder. Deeper.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Because you chose to be. And I will earn that choice. Every night. Every time. Until you never doubt.”

His hand slides between you – fingers swirling your clit, fast, tight, perfect.

“Until his honeyed dreams and serpent tongue mean nothing.”

You can’t hold back.

Your body clenches. Sparks fly behind your eyes.

“Alastor –!”

You come again, full-body, wracked with sobs and light and love and pain, his name broken off in ecstasy.

He follows – crying out, slamming deep, pulsing inside you as he spills with a broken, guttural cry.

And then –

Stillness.

Silence.

Not empty.

Sacred.

He doesn’t pull out.

He doesn’t move.

Just breathes.

Heavy, shallow, trembling against your throat. His arms are still locked around you, a tangle of tension and reverence, like he’s not holding you but clutching you from the brink. His cock twitches inside you, softening, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Doesn’t care.

Only now do you hear the sound of his heartbeat.

Unsteady. Irregular.

Like a song missing its melody.

His hands roam – not lustfully, but like he’s cataloguing you, needing the confirmation of flesh and bone and breath. His fingers brush your ribs. Your throat. Your face. He traces your lips with one thumb, a quiver in his touch like it frightens him, that softness.

You kiss his palm.

He shudders.

“I’ll never be worthy,” he says again – but not like a confession this time.

Like a verdict.

He lowers his forehead to yours. Eyes wide. Unblinking. Searching you like you’re a signal he’s trying to tune into.

“But you looked at me,” he whispers, “as if I were something that could be loved,” he laughs once – breathless, bitter. “A tragic miscasting, my dear, but I’ll play the role nonetheless.”

You cup his cheek, thumbing the edge of his smile. He flinches, only slightly, as if your touch might burn him more than Hellfire ever did.

“I wouldn’t have you any other way, Al,” you murmur. “I choose to be yours – exactly how you are. I love you.”

He stares at you.

Then leans down and presses the gentlest kiss to your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. Each one is careful. As if he’s not worthy of leaving a mark.

“I’m not a dream,” he says lowly, almost to himself. “I’m not golden. But I stay. I endure. I will give you everything I’m capable of…even if it’s just me.”

His gaze flicks downward – to where your bodies are still joined, your limbs tangled, his seed still warm inside you.

He smiles then.

But not his showman’s grin.

Something smaller. More terrible.

More intimate.

“You let me inside,” he murmurs. “Not just here…” – he rocks his hips infinitesimally, more suggestion than motion – “…but here,” he touches your sternum with two fingers. “Where he tried to plant a throne.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to.

Your silence is consent. Is proof.

His voice dips lower. Darker.

“Do you understand what you’ve done, my sweet little songbird?” His smile trembles. “You gave me something he cannot steal. Not even with all his power, his charm, his light. You gave me…choice.”

He presses his mouth to your pulse again, and when he speaks, it’s nearly a growl.

“And now, I’ll compose you into every waking hour.”

He kisses you hard. Possessive. Final.

A seal.

And when he settles against you at last, head pillowed on your breast, one hand tracing slow, reverent circles over your stomach, his voice is almost a lullaby.

“Sleep, my darling. Let him linger in dreams. I have the waking.”

His smile curls against your skin.

Not kind.

Not cruel.

Just his.

And as you close your eyes, tangled together in shadow and sweat and something perilously close to love, you realize something with a tremble:

Alastor isn’t afraid of Lucifer.

He’s afraid of losing the song you made together.

And he’ll never let any world forget the sound of it.

The pale light of dawn slips quietly through the heavy curtains, soft but relentless – an unforgiving caress that traces the bare planes of your skin with cool fingers. The world outside is still and uncertain, caught between night’s final breath and the hesitant bloom of morning. Beneath your ribs, you still feel the unmistakable weight of him – Alastor’s arms curled around your waist like iron bands forged in a forgotten furnace, holding you with a fierce tenderness that borders on desperation, as if the very act of release might shatter what fragile peace you’ve found. His breath is slow and steady now, a measured rhythm that syncs with the fragile cadence of your own – a delicate harmony forged from restless nights, fractured dreams, and the silent promises whispered beneath a canopy of shadows.

Sleep had come to you both in stolen fragments – fleeting patches of shared silence and warmth, wrapped in tangled sheets that clung to your skin like second flesh. Between gasps and shivers, beneath the pulse of ragged heartbeats, whispered vows had been made—vows to linger just a moment longer, to hold on to this sliver of sanctuary in a world that offered none. But when your eyes finally fluttered open, the bed beside you was cold and empty.

No farewell. No whispered goodbye. No shadow left to chase.

Only the faintest trace of his absence – a lingering echo, like static on a forgotten radio frequency, humming low in the stillness of the room.

Then, as if summoned by the quiet ache in your chest, the air shifts. The temperature changes – subtle but undeniable – and the door creaks open. He steps inside, carrying something small, something precious. A silver pocket watch, old beyond memory, its surface etched with intricate filigree that seems to pulse faintly under the pale dawn light, alive with a secret rhythm.

Your fingers reach out instinctively, trembling as the watch hums softly beneath your touch – a subtle vibration, like the faintest heartbeat, waiting to be recognized.

With a gentle click, the glass face swings open, revealing a second hand that moves not with cold mechanical precision but to a melody you know – intimately, painfully. It ticks to the rhythm of your laughter, caught in an endless loop: soft, bright, and achingly familiar.

Alastor’s voice breaks the silence, low and almost hesitant, fragile in a way you’ve never heard before.

“A reminder,” he says, “that time stops when I hear you.”

His eyes catch yours – burning garnets flickering with something rare and new: uncertainty, reverence, something like awe.

“I have claimed many souls,” he continues, voice rough with the weight of unspoken histories and countless sins. “Many to fuel my power, to bind me in this endless game. But yours...”

He falters, gaze falling away as if wrestling with a truth he barely understands himself.

“Yours is different. I’ve never wanted a soul the way I want yours.”

His fingers brush the edge of the watch reverently, as if afraid to fracture the fragile thread tethering your fates together.

“Not to possess. Not to bind or control.”

His voice drops to a whisper – soft, aching.

“To hold. To protect. To keep safe – beyond the reach of devils, gods, or kings.”

You close your hand over the watch, feeling its pulse thrum beneath your palm in time with your own heartbeat – a tether woven from fragile trust, whispered fear, and a hope you thought long lost.

“Yours,” you breathe back.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across his lips – no longer the twisted grin of the Radio Demon, but something raw, real, and fiercely tender.

“Duet partners,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back with a gentlest of touches. “For all eternity.”

The room hums with a quiet resonance – a song only the two of you can hear. In that suspended moment, time itself bends and sways, rewoven into a melody neither wholly light nor dark but entirely, irrevocably yours.

And as the first true dawn breaks, you feel the undeniable truth in his eyes – Alastor loves you, fiercely and wholly, for exactly who you are; yet, beneath that fierce devotion, a quiet shadow lingers in your mind – the haunting vision of the woman Lucifer believes you could become, a whisper of a fate that shadows your heart with dread and hums beneath your soul like a dark, forbidden song.

The chessboard waits in silence.

White marble glints beneath Hell’s low dawn, pieces arrayed in their eternal standoff. Lucifer lounges in the high-backed chair across from it, one hand toying with the stem of a half-finished wine glass, the other resting against his temple as if he’s listening to some distant, seditious song.

He doesn't need to listen, though.

He knows.

Somewhere – even now – her body is wrapped in another's arms. Alastor’s. The air is thick with it. With her voice, frayed and breathless. With the rhythm of choice, of surrender, of something far older than love.

Lucifer can feel it like a crack in the foundation of the world.

“She’s awake,” he murmurs, almost admiring the fact aloud. “And still…she chose him.”

He closes his eyes. Not in anger – in reverence.

Because he remembers.

The dream he gave her. Golden and aching. His mouth on hers, slow and sovereign. The weight of her in his lap, the crown he showed her glinting above mirrored marble. She could have stayed. She almost did.

But almost is not enough.

He opens his eyes again. Gazes down at the board.

The king remains untouched. The pawns obedient. The knights in waiting.

But the queen – she is missing.

Not captured. Not defeated. Gone.

Lucifer runs a thumb along the edge of the queen’s square, expression unreadable. There is no fury in him, only something quieter. A stillness beneath the smile.

He reaches for the piece box. Finds the queen inside.

Lifts her slowly – glass cold against his palm – and places her not on the board, but beside it.

Off the game. Out of play.

“For now,” he whispers, almost tenderly.

Then leans back in his chair.

And waits.

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