Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lucifer's morning routine had gained an unexpected shadow—one with antlers and a perpetual grin.

He could see Alastor in the mirror as he buttoned up his vest. The demon moved like smoke behind him, all restless energy and barely contained motion.

Three steps to the left, pause, pivot, four steps to the right.

He’d been at it for at least ten minutes and showed no signs of stopping, not since Lucifer had pulled himself out of the king sized hotel bed to get dressed.

They’d settled into a peaceful little pattern in the last few weeks. And this morning, like any other, should have been filled with a quiet domesticity that Lucifer adored.

Should have been.

But Alastor's reflection kept catching his eye.

The Radio Demon's usual composure was fraying at the edges. His smile was too sharp, his posture too rigid, and his crimson eyes—usually half-lidded with amusement—were tracking the fallen angel’s every movement.

Lucifer reached for his cufflinks, the gold catching the light as he lifted them from the vanity.

Behind him, Alastor's pacing stuttered to a halt.

"You're going to wear a hole in the carpet," the blonde murmured, his reflection giving a little smirk.

Alastor's laugh was static-edged, brittle as old radio waves. "How wonderfully observant of you, darling."

That barbed little endearment gave absoultely nothing away, as usual. Very helpful.

Lucifer set back to doing up his minute golden apple cufflinks.

In the mirror, he watched Alastor resume his pacing—but closer this time. The demon had closed the distance by half, his movements becoming more deliberate, more purposeful.

Like he was herding something.

Like he was herding him.

Lucifer resisted the impulse to reach for him.

There’d been a time when he wouldn’t have—when he would’ve turned around, taken Alastor’s face in his hands and kissed him to calm him down.

But he’d learned.

Sometimes Alastor wanted touch. Sometimes he didn’t. And even when he did, it had to be his choice.

So Lucifer stayed still and let the moment pass.

But his focus was on the way Alastor's shadow seemed to loom larger in the periphery. Were his antlers growing?

"There," Lucifer said softly, completing the second cufflink. He turned from the vanity, intending to move toward the wardrobe for his jacket, but found his path blocked.

Alastor stood directly in front of him, close enough that Lucifer could smell the cinnamon scent that always clung to the demon's short fur—warmth, darkness, and something just a little too static-y to be natural.

The Radio Demon's smile was fixed in place, but his eyes were wild.

"Going somewhere?" Alastor asked, his voice dropping into a lower register than his usual broadcaster banter.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "The wardrobe. For my jacket. Unless you’re telling me to go meet the Sins half-dressed?"

But instead of stepping aside, Alastor shifted. Subtly caging the angel in.

Something that made Lucifer's pulse quicken despite himself.

"The meeting can wait," Alastor said, his hand gesturing abruptly in the air, before it settled on the vanity behind the blonde. "Surely a few more minutes won't matter."

“Can…wait for what, exactly?” Lucifer allowed himself to be maneuvered back toward the mirror, but his eyes never left Alastor's face.

The demon's usual theatrical flourishes had turned more intense. Almost predatory. Like he was trying to control something that desperately wanted to break free.

"Alastor." The angel’s voice was gentle. "Are you alright?"

The question hung in the air between them, and for a moment, Alastor's perpetual smile flickered.

Just for an instant, something raw and vulnerable flashed across his features, reflected in the mirror, before the mask snapped back into place.

"I'm fine," Alastor snapped. His posture straightened, shoulders squaring in a way that screamed defiance. "Perfectly, wonderfully, fine."

But his voice distorted, like a radio caught between stations, or in a thunderstorm.

Because he was lying.

Lucifer studied him for a long moment, taking in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach out and—what?

Yes, they were together. Sometimes at each other’s throats. But Lucifer’s prickly little demon rarely reached for him first—even if everything had to be his idea first.

So why was he looking at the angel now, like he wanted nothing more than to grab him?

Lucifer tried, valiantly, in his opinion, to ignore the flutter in his chest. To not jump to conclusions. And to move again, this time sliding past Alastor with a roll of his eyes.

"Right. And I'm the Pope."

But before he could take more than two steps, Alastor was there again, blocking his path.

This time, there was no pretense of casualness.

The demon stepped directly into Lucifer's personal space, close enough that the King of Hell could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"You're blocking the wardrobe," Lucifer said flatly.

Alastor’s smile twitched. “Am I?”

“You’re also radiating enough territorial energy to spook the walls. Should I be worried you’ve finally snapped?”

“You wound me.”

“Not yet, sweetheart. But if you keep me from a meeting with the Sins just to breathe down my neck, I might be tempted.”

"Who said you could go?" Alastor's voice had dropped to something low and dangerous, his eyes fixed on Lucifer's face with an intensity that made breathing feel difficult.

Lucifer found himself pressed back against the mirror, the cool glass a stark contrast to the warmth of Alastor's proximity. The demon's hands came up to bracket him on either side, palms flat against the mirror's surface, trapping him in place.

What the hell was going on?

Sure, he was the Morningstar. He could escape if he wanted to.

But…he really didn’t want to.

"What's up Al?" Lucifer hedged. "You're acting a little…off."

Alastor's laugh was too bright, too sharp. "Off? My dear Lucifer, I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

But his grip on the mirror had tightened, knuckles gone ashen with the force of it. And his eyes—his eyes were practically glowing, pupils dilated to thin slivers of black surrounded by rings of crimson .

“Wouldn’t be like you, to have no idea.” Lucifer murmured.

After a moment where neither of them moved, were they both tried to figure out the other’s next move. The angel reached up, his fingers ghosting along the line of Alastor's jaw.

The demon's skin was fevered, burning hot to the touch, and the deer leaned into the contact with a desperation that he couldn't quite hide.

"Bambi, what’s going on here?" Lucifer said softly. "Talk to me."

For a moment, Alastor's eyes closed, his head tilting into Lucifer's touch like a cat seeking affection. But then his jaw tightened, chin lifting in that way that meant he was gathering his pride around himself like armor.

"It's…" Alastor's voice caught, and he had to clear his throat before continuing. "It's my demon body causing issues."

The admission was ground out through gritted teeth, like each word physically pained him to say. His antlers had grown even more prominent, branching out in elaborate curves.

Lucifer's eyebrows lifted. "Issues?"

"Instincts," Alastor spat, the word like poison on his tongue. "Primitive, ridiculous, deer-based biological nonsense that I should be above."

But even as he spoke, his body was betraying him.

He pressed closer to Lucifer, close enough that the King of Hell could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse, could smell the musk that clung to his skin—earthy and wild, like deep forest and rotting leaves.

Understanding dawned slowly, pieces clicking into place like tumblers in a lock.

The territorial behavior, the possessiveness, the fevered skin, and dilated pupils.

"So you're going into heat?" Lucifer asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“I’m male. It’s rut.” The demon snapped, eager to correct and chastise.

It was a second later he realized what he said, and Alastor's entire body went rigid, a low growl rumbling in his chest that seemed to vibrate through the mirror at Lucifer's back.

His grip on the glass tightened further, and for a moment, Lucifer thought he might actually crack it.

But then his shoulders sagged, the fight going out of him all at once.

"Yes," he admitted, the word barely above a whisper. "If my behavior is…off…for the next day or so, that's why."

Lucifer's lips quirked into a smile, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Well, that almost sounded like an apology."

Alastor straightened immediately, drawing himself up to his full height. "I don't apologize. Not for anything." He huffed indignantly.

"I know," Lucifer said, his voice gentle despite the amusement dancing in his eyes. "That's how I know this is affecting you more than you'd like to admit."

The radio static around Alastor crackled with irritation.

"I can handle it," he insisted, his claws flexing at his sides. "I've managed before, I'll manage now."

Lucifer's gaze softened, curious rather than mocking. "How do you normally handle it?"

"Alone." Alastor's voice dropped.

"I see," Lucifer said now, carefully extricating himself from between Alastor and the mirror.

It had taken Lucifer months to realize Alastor wasn’t playing coy when it came to sex. Wasn’t trying to be prim and proper and prudish.

His hesitations weren’t resistance, exactly—they were inexperience and overwhelm.

He didn’t crave touch. He didn’t need sex. It just wasn’t wired into him the same way. But that hadn’t meant he didn’t care for it.

Quite the opposite.

In the beginning, Alastor had assumed that being with Lucifer meant giving in—that sex was the price of intimacy, the proof of affection. So when Lucifer reached for more than he was ready to give—eager, hungry, assuming—Alastor vanished.

Not out of disgust, but panic.

It took weeks for him to come back. Even longer to admit he thought he’d done something wrong. That he believed walking away would end whatever it was they’d started.

What followed were many tangled conversations, quiet nights full of questions and long silences.

Eventually, Lucifer learned to stop reaching. To let Alastor come closer on his own terms.

The night it truly shifted was when Alastor had reappeared after a three-week absence, wary and defensive, expecting pressure.

Lucifer hadn’t touched him. Just set up the chessboard, poured two cups of tea, and waited.

Alastor sat. Played in silence. Stayed the night.

Intimacy had to come first. Then sex had come later, and slower. Quiet and careful.

And for Alastor, it was more about closeness than need.

And when he did choose to be close, it felt like being trusted with something sacred.

There were nights when they simply lay together, Alastor’s hand curled in his, breathing in sync. And there were others—rarer—when Alastor looked at Lucifer with quiet intention.

Lucifer learned to savor those nights not because they were frequent or frenzied—but because they meant something. Every time felt like the answer to a question Alastor still didn’t know how to ask.

They were still figuring each other out.

And right now, Lucifer really needed his partner to give him a bigger hint.

"You know," Lucifer said, his voice gentle but matter-of-fact, "we're together now.”

“Yes, I believe I’d figured that out when I started sleeping in your bed.”

“Listen smartass, I’m saying I could help you with your rut.”

Alastor's posture stiffened immediately, his smile stretching painfully wide.

"How generous of you to offer," he said, voice dripping with false cheer. "But I'm afraid I must decline."

"Why?" Lucifer crossed his arms, leaning against the wardrobe door. “I mean you can, of course, but why go through it alone if you don’t have to? You do trust me, right?”

Alastor's eyes darted away, focusing on some invisible point across the room. He also didn’t answer.

"I become rather…feral during these periods. Quite unseemly. I wouldn't subject you to that particular side of myself."

The words were clipped, precise, as if each one had been meticulously selected and polished before being allowed past his teeth.

But beneath that careful control, Lucifer could hear the tremor of something deeper—though, whatever that was, it flew right over the short angel’s head.

Lucifer huffed, a spark of pride flaring in his chest. "I'm an archangel, Bambi. Former right hand of God. I think I can handle a deer demon in rut."

"That's not—" Alastor began, then stopped himself. His claws flexed at his sides. "It took a great deal of conversation and…frankly coddling,” Alastor said the word like it had to be pulled from him. “To get to this point in our arrangement. I’d rather not—this would…upset the balance."

Lucifer blinked, processing the words.

“Arrangement?” He repeated, not liking how clinical the word sounded his tongue. “We’re in a relationship.”

“Yes, dear, I’m aware.” Alastor sighed, his flicking ears giving away his annoyance when his smile didn’t. “I meant our…intimate arrangement.”

“Look Bambi,” Lucifer chuckled. “I’m old, but I’m not exactly set in my ways.” He stepped closer, enjoying the way Alastor's eyes tracked his movement. "I'd be perfectly happy to let you do all the work, y’know." The angel gave a flirty grin.

Something flashed across Alastor's face—a fleeting expression of hurt that was quickly masked by indignation.

"I am quite capable of controlling myself," His antlers seemed to grow another inch, casting jagged shadows across the wall. "And I’m afraid you'll simply have to be satisfied with that."

The words had more bite than Lucifer expected, and he realized, belatedly, that they'd somehow started having two different conversations.

“When did…I say I wasn’t satisfied?” The angel ran a hand through his hair, looking up at the demon with pure confusion on his face. “Al, what are we actually talking about here?”

The demon’s smile tightened, eyes gleaming with something that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite desire, but lived somewhere in the dangerous territory between.

"I should go," Alastor said suddenly, turning toward the door. "I have business to attend to."

"Al—" Lucifer started, reaching for him.

The Radio Demon stepped neatly out of reach. "Don't worry, darling. I'll be back this evening. Assuming I am enough company for you?"

"Of course you are?" Lucifer said softly, not sure why the tension in the room had turned from teasing to sour. And even more of unsure of how to fix it. . "Always."

Alastor nodded once, sharply, and then he was gone—vanishing in a swirl of shadows and static that left the air smelling of ozone and earth.

Lucifer stared at the empty space where Alastor had been, trying to piece together what had just happened.

He'd clearly mis-stepped somewhere and said something that had struck a nerve.

With a sigh, he turned back to the wardrobe, pulling out his jacket.

The Sins would be waiting, and he was already late. But his mind remained fixed on Alastor—on the wild look in his eyes, the tension in his frame, the way he'd both leaned into Lucifer's touch and pulled away from it.

It was always trial and error by fire with the two of them.

Chapter Text

The Hazbin Hotel's lobby hit Lucifer like a wall of sound and heat the moment he stepped through the doors.

Laughter echoed off the vaulted ceilings, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the rustle of fabric as demons moved in clusters throughout the space.

The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and champagne.

And underneath it all—the metallic tang of barely contained chaos that always seemed to cling to Hell's residents.

Lucifer paused in the doorway, his shoulders automatically squaring beneath his jacket.

The meeting with the Sins had run long, and now he found himself thrust into—what was this again?

Something Charlie had mentioned that morning. Some kind of celebration.

Progress party?

Graduation ceremony for the redeemed?

The details slipped through his mind like smoke, lost in the haze of his preoccupation with Alastor and the mess he'd apparently made of their conversation this morning.

He straightened his cufflinks—and tried to summon the composure that had carried him through millennia of cosmic politics.

The crowd seemed to pulse around him, a living thing of voices and movement that made his skin crawl. He'd never been good with this—the mingling, the small talk, the performance of being sociable.

Even before the Fall, court gatherings had been an endurance test rather than entertainment.

But Charlie had organized this. Whatever this was. And he was her father, so he should at least try to—

"Lucifer!"

His head snapped up, searching for the voice that had called his name. Instead, his gaze found Alastor.

The Radio Demon stood near the center of the room, surrounded by a semicircle of enraptured sinners who hung on his every word.

He was in his element—all sharp grins and theatrical gestures, his red coat pristine despite the chaos around him.

The sound of his voice carried over the din, that familiar radio quality wrapping around some elaborate story that had his audience laughing at all the right moments.

He looked magnificent. Untouchable.

Completely unbothered by whatever had passed between them that morning.

Lucifer's chest tightened.

Alastor's gaze swept the room as he spoke, those crimson eyes bright with performance-mode confidence.

But when they passed over Lucifer—lingered for just a moment—there was no acknowledgment.

No subtle smile, no slight nod.

Nothing.

Just that smooth transition back to his audience, as if the King of Hell were simply another piece of furniture.

Well. That answered that question.

Lucifer was definitely still in trouble.

He found himself drifting toward the bar. The familiar weight of anxiety settled between his shoulder blades—that old ache that came from not knowing how to fix something he'd broken without understanding how he'd broken it in the first place.

His fingers worried at his sleeves, smoothing non-existent wrinkles.

Then his collar.

Then his cufflinks again.

The repetitive motion was soothing, even if it probably made him look as nervous as he felt.

"You look like you could use a drink."

The gruff voice cut through Lucifer's spiral of thoughts. He looked up to find Husk leaning on the bar, wings folded neatly behind him, expression set in its usual blend of disinterest and mild irritation.

"That obvious, huh?" Lucifer slid onto the nearest barstool, grateful for the reprieve from the crowd.

Husk shrugged, already reaching for a bottle. "Part of the job description. Reading people." His claws clinked against glass as he selected something amber and expensive-looking from the top shelf. "What's your poison?"

"Something strong," Lucifer murmured, his gaze drifting back to Alastor despite his best efforts.

The Radio Demon was now gesturing with dramatic flair, his shadow stretching impossibly long across the floor as his audience watched every move.

Lucifer accepted the glass gratefully, using it as something to occupy his hands while he tried to think of a way to approach Alastor that wouldn't end in another awkward misunderstanding.

The problem was, he still didn't entirely understand what had gone wrong in the first place.

"Quite the turnout tonight," a voice said beside him.

Lucifer glanced over to find a tall, elegant sinner sidling closer to the bar. She had silver hair and knowing eyes, and the kind of smile that suggested she was used to getting what she wanted.

"Yes," he agreed politely, taking a sip of his whiskey. "Charlie's done well organizing this."

"Mmm." The sinner moved closer, her shoulder brushing his as she signaled for a drink. "Though I have to say, I'm more interested in the company than the cause."

There was something predatory in her tone that made Lucifer's skin prickle.

Not dangerous—he was still the literal King of Hell, after all—but uncomfortably forward in a way that reminded him why he preferred smaller gatherings.

"Ah, yeah, right," he muttered, taking another sip and glancing around the room.

His eyes found Alastor again, still holding court near the lobby's center.

The demon's antlers seemed more prominent than usual. Even from across the room, Lucifer could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his smile was just a fraction too wide.

The rut was still affecting him. Had to be.

Which meant Lucifer's bumbling attempt at help that morning had been even more poorly timed than he'd thought.

"You seem distracted," the sinner observed, following his gaze. Her smile sharpened when she spotted Alastor. "Ah. I see."

"See what?”

"The Radio Demon's quite the catch," she purred, moving closer still. "Though I hear he's not particularly…generous with his attention."

There was something calculated in the way she said it, like she was fishing for information.

Or trying to plant seeds of doubt.

Lucifer's grip tightened on his glass.

"I wouldn't know about that," he muttered, leaning away as subtly as he thought he could.

Alastor said he was fumbling in conversation, teased him lightly for fumbling over social cues all the time.

So this morning must have been more than a fumble.

But the woman's words stuck with him, adding weight to the anxiety already churning in his stomach.

Alastor wasn't generous with his attention—not in the way most people expected. He was careful, deliberate, selective about when and how he offered intimacy.

And this morning, Lucifer had apparently trampled all over that careful balance with his clumsy offer to help.

The sinner leaned closer, her perfume cloying in the warm air. "Perhaps you'd like to get some fresh air? Away from all this noise?"

Her hand settled on his arm, fingers trailing down toward his wrist in a gesture that was definitely not casual conversation.

Lucifer stiffened, his social anxiety spiking into something approaching panic.

He wasn't good at this—at reading intentions, at deflecting advances, at navigating the complex web of Hell's social dynamics.

"I'm fine here, thank you," he managed, trying to step back without being obviously rude.

But the sinner followed his movement, pressing closer. "Come now, your Majesty. Surely you can spare a few minutes for a devoted subject?"

The words dripped with suggestion that made Lucifer's skin crawl.

He glanced desperately around the room, looking for an escape route that wouldn't require him to make a scene.

Charlie was across the lobby, deep in animated conversation with a group of sinners.

Husk had conveniently vanished to serve other customers.

And Alastor—

Alastor was no longer holding court by the lobby's center.

"Actually, I should really—" Lucifer began.

"Is there a problem here?"

The voice came from directly behind him, low and smooth with just a hint of static around the edges. Lucifer felt his shoulders relax before he'd even turned around.

Alastor stood there, close enough that Lucifer could smell that familiar scent of cinnamon and earth that always clung to him.

But there was something different in his posture—something predatory and possessive that hadn't been there during his earlier performance.

The sinner's hand fell away from Lucifer's arm immediately. "Mr. Radio Demon, sir. I was just—"

"Leaving," Alastor finished pleasantly, his smile sharp enough to cut glass. "How wonderful. Do enjoy the rest of your evening."

It wasn't a suggestion.

The sinner's eyes flashed with irritation, but she was smart enough not to push. With a curt nod to Lucifer, she melted back into the crowd.

Lucifer exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from his shoulders. "Thanks. I was starting to think I'd have to—"

He stopped mid-sentence as Alastor moved closer, close enough that the demon's chest was nearly pressed to his back.

A warm hand settled on his chest, fingers splayed in a gesture that was unmistakably possessive.

"Your collar's crooked," Alastor murmured, both hands coming up to adjust the fabric at Lucifer's throat.

The touch was gentle but deliberate, fingers lingering against the silk of his shirt longer than strictly necessary.

Lucifer's pulse quickened, not from anxiety this time, but from the unexpected intimacy of the gesture.

"Is it?" Lucifer's voice came out rougher than intended. "I thought I'd—"

"Mm." Alastor's fingers smoothed down the lapels of his jacket, the movement slow and careful. "Better."

But he didn't step back. If anything, he moved closer, his body creating a barrier between Lucifer and the rest of the room.

Thumb tracing a small circle against the fabric.

It was startlingly forward for Alastor, who usually maintained careful boundaries in public. Who rarely initiated contact, especially anything that could be read as claiming or territorial.

The rut.

Oh, he liked this side of Alastor.

Lucifer found himself smiling despite the tension that still hummed between them. "Hey there, big guy," he said, trying for light and teasing as he turned to face him. "Someone's feeling antlery today."

He'd meant it as gentle ribbing, the kind of affectionate teasing that usually made Alastor's eyes crinkle with hidden amusement.

Instead, the demon went very still.

The hands on him paused mid-caress. Alastor's smile tightened almost imperceptibly.

But he didn't pull away.

Instead, he made a soft huffing sound—part exasperation, part something else—and resumed his fussing with Lucifer's appearance. His fingers smoothed along the line of Lucifer's shoulders, adjusting the hang of his jacket with unnecessary precision.

"Your appearance reflects on the hotel," Alastor said quietly, his voice carefully neutral. "Charlie worked hard to organize this evening."

The words were reasonable, but there was something defensive in his tone that made Lucifer's chest ache.

As if he was trying to justify his own behavior—to himself as much as to Lucifer.

The fallen angel couldn’t think past the thrumming excitement in his veins.

He leaned closer at once, closer than could be considered professional or even friendly.

Lucifer dropped his voice to a whisper that only Alastor could hear.

The demon's ear twitched at the proximity, and Lucifer caught another hint of that wild, earthy scent that seemed stronger tonight.

"Not saying I'm into the whole dominant woodland stag thing," he murmured, his lips nearly brushing the shell of Alastor's ear, "but also I'm not not saying it."

It was awkward and earnest and entirely too honest—the kind of clumsy attempt at flirtation that Angel Dust said made him sound like he was trying too hard.

But it was genuine, and he'd hoped that would count for something.

Instead, Alastor jerked back as if he'd been slapped.

His ears flattened against his skull, antlers growing more prominent as his shadow seemed to darken around them.

The carefully maintained composure cracked, revealing something wounded and furious underneath.

"Charming," Alastor said, his voice tight with forced cheer.

But his hands had stilled on Lucifer's jacket, and when their eyes met, Lucifer's stomach drop with the sudden certainty that he'd said exactly the wrong thing.

Again.

The static around Alastor crackled with barely contained emotion, and for a moment, Lucifer thought he might actually break character.

Might let whatever he was feeling show on his face instead of hiding behind that perpetual smile.

Instead, he stepped back, putting careful distance between them.

His hands dropped to his sides, fingers flexing as if he was fighting the urge to reach out again.

"Perhaps," Alastor said quietly, "we should find somewhere more private to continue this conversation."

***

The space under the hotel's grand staircase was shadowed and relatively quiet, the ambient noise of the party muffled by the wooden structure above them.

Lucifer found himself pressed back against the wall before he'd quite registered how they'd gotten there, Alastor's hands braced on either side of his head.

The demon loomed over him, all sharp angles and barely contained energy. His antlers had grown more pronounced, casting jagged shadows across the wall, and his eyes held that wild gleam that spoke of instincts riding dangerously close to the surface.

Under different circumstances, it might have been incredibly attractive.

Hell, if Lucifer was being honest with himself, it was incredibly attractive.

The possessive way Alastor had claimed space around him, the territorial energy that radiated from him like heat—it was everything Lucifer hadn't known he wanted from his usually reserved partner.

"Okay," Lucifer said carefully, his voice pitched low to avoid carrying to the party beyond. "I can see you're upset, and I'm clearly missing something here, but—"

"Are you?" Alastor's smile was razor-sharp, his voice dropping into that register that made demons across Hell take notice. "Missing something?"

There was hurt underneath the menace, something wounded and raw that Alastor was trying to hide behind aggression.

"I thought that was kind of hot, actually," Lucifer said, trying for honesty. "The whole protective thing. Maybe I read it wrong, but—"

"Of course you did," Alastor cut him off, his voice flat and bitter. "You always do."

"Okay, ow," Lucifer blinked, taken aback by the venom in the demon’s tone. "I didn't mean to—"

"I know what you meant," Alastor interrupted again, leaning closer. "You think it's funny to tease and poke at me when I'm like this?"

"Bambi, I honestly don't understand what—"

"Not like myself," Alastor spat. "Reduced to base instincts. Acting like some common animal instead of a civilized demon."

The static around him crackled with agitation.

"I mean," Lucifer said slowly, trying to navigate the minefield he'd apparently wandered into, "yeah, a little. But not in a bad way—”

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they were wrong.

Alastor's entire body went rigid, his smile stretching into something that looked more like a snarl.

The shadows around them seemed to deepen.

"A little," he repeated, his voice deadly quiet.

"Al, that's not what I—"

But Alastor was already moving, closing the remaining distance between them until Lucifer could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

One hand came up to brace against the wall beside Lucifer's head, the other settling against his chest—not quite pushing, but definitely claiming space.

It should have been intimidating.

And it was—but it was also something else, something that made Lucifer's pulse quicken for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

"So you do like me better when I act like something I'm not," Alastor whispered, his voice carrying that static quality that happened when his emotions ran too high.

The words were soft, almost conversational, but they landed with devastating precision.

Lucifer felt his face fall, the pieces finally clicking into place.

"What? No!" The protest burst out of him, sudden and desperate. "That's not what I said. That's not what I meant at all."

"No," Alastor agreed, his crimson eyes fixed on Lucifer's face with unsettling intensity. "But it's what you said. This morning."

The angel felt his stomach drop.

"This morning when you made it quite clear," Alastor continued, his voice shaking slightly despite his controlled posture, "that I don't do any of 'the work' in our sex life."

The words hung between them like a blade. Lucifer stared at him, speechless, as the full scope of his fuck up finally became clear.

"Wait—" He started forward, hands coming up instinctively to touch, to comfort, to fix. "Alastor, I didn't say—I didn't mean it like that."

But the Radio Demon stepped back, just enough to avoid contact while maintaining his position.

His shoulders were rigid, his jaw set in that way that meant he was fighting to keep his composure.

"That is what I heard," he said quietly, not looking at Lucifer anymore.

Lucifer could see the hurt in every line of Alastor's body—the careful way he held himself, the way his antlers had grown even more prominent, as if his demonic features were responding to distress.

"That you think I'm boring," Alastor continued, his voice carefully neutral. "That you think I don't contribute. That you'd rather I be more like—like this." He gestured vaguely at himself, at the aggressive posturing, the territorial behavior. "That being so bestial has made you see that I am…deficient, as I am."

Each word was precisely delivered, clinically dissected.

As if he'd been turning them over in his mind all day, examining them from every angle until they'd crystallized into certainty.

Lucifer felt something crack in his chest. "Alastor, no. That's not—fuck, that's not what I meant at all."

But the damage was already done. He could see it in the way Alastor's smile had gone brittle, in the careful distance he maintained despite their physical proximity.

In the way his eyes had gone flat and guarded, as if he was already pulling back into himself.

The words tumbled out in a rush, desperate and unpolished.

"Okay, but that isn't what I meant." Lucifer stepped forward, awkward and earnest, his hands hovering in the space between them like he wanted to touch but didn't dare. "When I said I'd be happy to let you do all the work—I meant because I like making you feel good. I like watching you figure out what you want and take it."

"I wasn't saying you don't contribute. You let me touch you. You trust me with—with this." He gestured vaguely between them and the fragile intimacy they'd built over months of careful negotiation.

Alastor's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.

A crack in the armor, maybe, or just uncertainty about whether to believe what he was hearing.

"I like how things are," Lucifer continued, his voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. "I like you. You're not boring—you're the furthest thing from boring. You're just…different. Different isn't bad, Al.."

He took another half-step closer, encouraged when Alastor didn't immediately retreat.

"I like that you think about things. That you're careful and deliberate and you don't just throw yourself into things. I like that when you do reach for me, it means something."

Alastor's jaw tightened, his gaze flicking away before returning to Lucifer's face.

"And this?" His voice was carefully controlled, but there was a tremor underneath it. "This aggressive, territorial behavior? You find it amusing?"

"I find it—" Lucifer paused, choosing his words more carefully this time. "Yeah, I like the big buck energy thing too. But that's not all I like. That's not the only version of you I want."

The admission hung between them, honest and a little raw.

Lucifer felt heat creep up his neck, embarrassed by his own sincerity but determined to push through it.

"You don't have to be anyone else for me," he said quietly. "Not the perfectly composed Radio Demon, not some feral animal in rut. Just…you. Whatever that looks like on any given day."

Alastor stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

The static around him had quieted, though his antlers remained prominent.

"I don't know what to do with that," he said finally, the words so quiet Lucifer almost missed them.

It wasn't quite forgiveness, but it wasn't rejection either.

It was uncertainty.

“You don't have to do anything with it.” Lucifer felt something loosen in his chest. "Just…maybe believe it?"

Alastor's ears twitched, a small involuntary movement that spoke of emotions he wasn't quite ready to voice.

His posture remained rigid, but some of the aggressive tension had bled out of it.

"The rut behavior," he said after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "It's…embarrassing."

The admission seemed to cost him something. His jaw worked silently, as if he was fighting to get the words out.

"I become reduced to base instincts," he continued, not meeting Lucifer's eyes. "Territorial, possessive, driven by primitive urges, I normally keep well under control—that I rarely have. It's unseemly."

"Maybe in public," Lucifer said gently. "But you don't have to hide that side of yourself from me."

Alastor's gaze snapped back to his.

"I don't want you to see me as—as less than what I am."

The pain in his voice made Lucifer's chest ache. He could see it now—the fear underneath the embarrassment, the worry that being seen at less than his most controlled would somehow diminish him in Lucifer's eyes.

"Al," Lucifer said softly, "I want to know all your faces. Not just the one with the perfect smile."

He reached up slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving Alastor plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to.

When the demon didn't retreat, Lucifer's fingers found the sharp line of his jaw, thumb brushing across the heated skin of his cheek.

Alastor was burning up, fever-bright with whatever internal battle his rut was waging. But instead of pulling away, he leaned into the touch with a desperation that made Lucifer's heart clench.

"You're allowed to want things," Lucifer murmured, his thumb tracing small circles against Alastor's cheek. "You're allowed to be possessive and territorial and demanding if that's what your body needs right now."

Alastor's eyes fluttered closed, his breathing unsteady. For a moment, he looked less guarded, more open than Lucifer had ever seen him.

"I don't know how to want things simply," he admitted, his voice rough. "Everything has to be calculated, considered, weighed against potential consequences. But this—the rut—it strips away all of that. Makes me feel things without thinking them through first."

"And that scares you."

"Terrifies me," Alastor confirmed, opening his eyes to meet Lucifer's gaze. "Because what if what I want is too much? What if I ask for something you're not prepared to give?"

The vulnerability in his voice was devastating.

Lucifer could see the fear there—not of rejection, exactly, but of wanting something so desperately that it might break whatever careful balance they'd achieved.

"Then you ask," Lucifer said simply. "And if it's too much, I'll tell you. But Al—you're not going to scare me away by wanting things. You're not going to lose me by being honest about what your body needs."

Alastor leaned further into his touch, a soft sound escaping him. His skin was fever-hot against Lucifer's palm, and when their eyes met, there was something raw and desperate in that crimson gaze.

"I want—" he started, then stopped, jaw working silently as he fought to find words for whatever was clawing at him from the inside.

Whatever he'd been about to say—whatever confession had been clawing its way up his throat—it felt important.

Monumental, even.

The demon's lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them nervously, and for a moment he looked so uncertain that Lucifer's chest ached with protectiveness.

"I want—" Alastor tried again, his voice rougher now, touched with static that spoke of emotions running too close to the surface.

The shadows around them seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, and his antlers had grown even more elaborate, branching out in complex curves that caught what little light filtered into their secluded corner.

He looked magnificent and wild and completely undone in a way that made Lucifer want to pull him closer, to promise him anything, everything—

"Dad? Everything okay over there?"

Charlie's voice cut through the charged air between them like a blade, cheerful and concerned and devastatingly well-timed.

Alastor jerked back as if he'd been shocked, the intimate moment shattering like glass.

His mask snapped back into place with audible force—literally audible, accompanied by a burst of static that made nearby demons glance in their direction.

The transformation was jarring.

One moment he'd been vulnerable and open, pupils blown wide with want and fever.

The next, he was the Radio Demon again—smile fixed firmly in place, posture perfect, every line of his body carefully controlled.

But Lucifer had seen the cracks now.

"We should—" Alastor began, then stopped.

His eyes found Lucifer's for a moment, and there was something desperate in that crimson gaze. An apology, maybe, or a promise, or just pure frustration at the interruption.

Lucifer felt his heart clench. "Al—"

"You should attend to Charlie," Alastor said. "She seems concerned."

There was something final in his tone .

"Will you—" Lucifer started, then caught himself. Pushing now would only make things worse. "Will I see you later?"

Alastor's smile flickered, just for an instant, and something soft passed across his features. "Perhaps."

It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either.

Lucifer thought he might say something else. Might acknowledge what had passed between them, or promise to continue their conversation later.

Instead, he simply nodded once—sharp and precise—and then he was gone.

Not walking away, not making excuses.

Just gone, vanishing in a swirl of shadows and static that left the air smelling of ozone and deep forest.

The only evidence he'd been there at all was the lingering warmth where his hand had touched the wall beside Lucifer's head.

The fallen angel stayed where he was for a moment, processing what had just happened.

The emotional whiplash of it—the fight, the hurt, the fragile beginning of understanding, and then this abrupt return to distance.

"So that's a 'not ready to forgive me yet,'" he muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his neck and wincing. "Cool. Good talk."

He could hear Charlie's voice getting closer, probably making her way through the crowd to check on him.

Which meant he needed to pull himself together, put on his public face, and pretend he hadn't just had his heart put through a blender by his emotionally complicated boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Partner.

Whatever they were calling it these days.

He straightened his jacket—the same jacket Alastor had fussed over earlier, adjusting it with those careful, possessive touches that had started this whole mess.

They'd made progress tonight, despite everything.

Alastor had admitted his fears, had let Lucifer see behind the mask even if only briefly.

That had to count for something.

Lucifer sighed, adjusting his cufflinks one final time before stepping out from under the stairs.

He could see Charlie approaching, her face bright with concern and curiosity, and he summoned a smile that probably didn't fool anyone.

But as he moved to intercept her, he couldn't help the small, private thought that escaped under his breath.

"Still think the antlers are hot."

Chapter Text

Lucifer didn’t expect Alastor to come to his room that night.

He’d replayed the day’s disasters on endless loop—everything from the tangle under the stairs, to the look on Alastor’s face as he vanished, to the thousand little places where Lucifer could have said something right and instead fumbled it.

Lucifer also knew Alastor’s patterns by now.

He knew the man’s pride, his cycles of silence and self-repair, the way he sometimes needed to vanish for a day, or three, to lick his wounds.

Lucifer understood it. He respected it.

He hated it.

So he expected to spend the night alone, and maybe the next one too. He deserved it, really, and didn’t bother to undress before throwing himself onto the sofa. He dozed, woke, stared at the ceiling and let his mind gnaw itself to ribbons.

He did not expect the knock at his door just past midnight.

He did not expect it to be Alastor.

And he certainly did not expect to open the door and find the Radio Demon standing there, buttoned to the throat, eyes burning with a look that was too direct to be theatrical.

The air between them prickled, taut as a razor’s edge.

The hallway was all dim bulbs and haunted shadows, red carpet gone black at this hour, and Alastor’s silhouette looked more like a threat than a man. He held himself tall and still, as if holding the world at bay through sheer force of will.

Lucifer’s first impulse was to try again—to apologize, to babble, to say something that might soften the rift between them.

But Alastor beat him to it.

“I thought you’d be sleeping,” he said, tone crisp and almost formal.

The words were nothing, a meaningless icebreaker, but Lucifer heard the olive branch in them. He let Alastor in, closed the door, and waited for the rest.

Alastor moved into the room with that deerlike grace, careful not to touch anything, hands folded behind him. The static around him was faint, but always there—a soft crackle that seemed to crawl up the walls and collect in the corners.

Lucifer stood by the door, watching.

“You don’t have to be here,” he said, gently.

“I know.” Alastor’s smile was a knife, but not aimed at Lucifer this time. “But here I am.”

The silence was still heavy. Lucifer opened his mouth, desperate to fill it, but Alastor cut in.

“Don’t,” he said, not unkindly. “No more apologies tonight. You asked me what I wanted, again and again. I’m here to answer you.”

Lucifer blinked. That, didn’t sound like the way his dandy Radio Demon spoke—blunt, impatient, stripped of the usual filigree.

He could see the effort it took for Alastor to say it. So he let the other man have the floor.

The demon set his cane aside with care, then reached up to unfasten the buttons at his throat. His movements were controlled, precise, like a surgeon scrubbing in. When he shrugged off the coat, Lucifer saw the muscles in his arms, the way his chest rose and fell a tick too fast, the flush high in his cheeks.

Alastor draped the coat over a chair and turned, facing Lucifer fully for the first time. His antlers caught the lamplight, casting a web of branching shadows across the ceiling.

“I want,” Alastor said, and faltered. His hands flexed at his sides. “I want…to see what happens if I stop fighting it.”

It was all he said. But the look in his eyes—the raw, unmasked need, the hunger—said the rest.

Lucifer swallowed, not trusting his own voice.

He could have said a thousand things. He could have asked, or joked, or teased, but none of it fit the moment.

Alastor crossed the room in three strides and kissed him.

Hard.

It was not a careful kiss, not the slow-motion explorations they’d gotten used to. There was nothing rehearsed or tentative about it. Alastor pressed him back against the closed door, hands on either side of his face, and claimed his mouth like a man starved.

Lucifer responded the only way he knew how—he surrendered.

He let himself be devoured, let the demon’s tongue scrape over his teeth, let Alastor’s body pin him to the wood. His own hands came up instinctively, curling into the tight scarlet shirt.

The heat between them was instant, almost shocking, and Lucifer moaned into the kiss, unable to keep the sound trapped in his chest.

They broke apart only long enough for Alastor to breathe, his forehead pressed to Lucifer’s, eyes shut tight.

“Don’t think you have to stop,” Lucifer whispered. “You’re allowed to take what you want.”

“Good,” said Alastor, voice raw.

The next kiss was rougher.

Teeth, tongue, bruising.

Alastor’s hands snuck up under Lucifer’s shirt, and left golden lines down his back, clawed at his hips, yanked him close enough to crush their bodies together.

They stumbled backward toward the sofa, lips never separating, and Lucifer let himself be pushed down into the cushions.

He sprawled across the red velvet, dizzy, as Alastor stood over him, chest heaving.

For a moment, the demon hesitated, and Lucifer saw the struggle—the need to control, to orchestrate, fighting with the brute force of his body in rut.

“C’mon big buck, I got ya.”

Alastor climbed over him, settling a knee between Lucifer’s legs, and all the doubt burned away.

Their bodies fit together perfectly.

Lucifer let Alastor press him into the cushions, hands pinned above his head.

The demon’s eyes were wild, glassy, pupils blown wide. For the first time in memory, there was nothing calculated about the way Alastor touched him—no careful choreography, no performance or hesitation.

Just want. Just need.

Alastor bit down on Lucifer’s lower lip, hard enough to sting, then followed it with a tongue that soothed and claimed all at once. His hands roamed, fingers digging into Lucifer’s biceps, hips, jaw, as if he couldn’t decide where to anchor himself.

The radio static in the room had gone from polite background fuzz to a throbbing pulse that matched the frantic rhythm of their bodies.

Lucifer surrendered to it, letting himself be devoured.

He moaned, arching into every rough touch, shivering as Alastor’s mouth moved from his lips to his throat, teeth scraping over sensitive skin. He could feel the demon’s cock, already hard and rutting against his thigh through two layers of fabric.

And it was about to drive him crazy.

He almost didn’t notice the first rip—his own shirt, torn open, buttons scattering to the floor.

Alastor buried his face against Lucifer’s ches and inhaled, sharp and animal, then licked a line up to the hollow of his throat.

Lucifer laughed, breathless, and wrapped his legs around the demon’s waist, grinding up until Alastor groaned in surprise.

This was nothing like their usual. Not careful, not slow, not sweet—though there was still something vulnerable in the way Alastor clung to him, as if expecting to be pushed away at any second.

Lucifer felt a wild joy, the kind that buzzed beneath the skin. He gasped, “If you keep tearing my clothes off, I’m sending you the bill.”

The words landed like a slap.

Alastor froze, hands fisted in the ruined shirt.

For a moment, Lucifer thought he’d lost him—that the fun was over and the mask would snap back into place.

But instead, Alastor looked up at him, expression shocked and almost dismayed. “I didn’t mean to—” he whispered, a crackle in his voice that wasn’t quite sound.

Lucifer shook his head, twisted his wrists free from Alastor’s grip, and cupped the demon’s face. “No, no, don’t stop. I like it. I just—wasn’t expecting you to go full big bad buck on me tonight.”

Alastor’s ears flattened, and a flicker of shame crossed his features.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said, eyes darting away. “I’ve never been…this, before.” His hands flexed, claws half-retracted. “I don’t want to hurt you. Or do it wrong.”

Lucifer kissed him, soft and reassuring, then let his lips brush Alastor’s ear. “You’re not hurting me,” he murmured. “You’re perfect. If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you. But right now, I want you to keep going.”

Alastor shivered, unsure. “I don’t—” He faltered, shaking his head. “You usually—”

“Top?” Lucifer offered, with a wicked smile. “Yeah, usually. But I told you, I’m pretty flexible for being so old. If you want it, take it.” He nuzzled under Alastor’s chin, breathing in the scent of ozone and cinnamon and something darker, earthier. “You’re doing great. Just…don’t overthink it.”

Alastor’s whole body vibrated with tension, as if every muscle was locked in battle with itself. Lucifer wondered, briefly, if that’s what it had always felt like inside the demon’s skin—decades of self-control, every moment a fight against the urge to let go.

“It’s just instinct, it won’t change how I see you,” Lucifer whispered. “Let it happen.”

Alastor stared at him, unblinking, for a heartbeat.

Then something snapped.

He shoved Lucifer back onto the sofa, this time harder. His hands skated down to Lucifer’s belt, fumbling with the buckle, then yanked his pants open. He barely bothered to push them down past Lucifer’s hips—just enough for access.

Then Alastor ground himself down, pinning Lucifer’s cock between their bodies and rutting against it with an abandon that bordered on obscene.

The heat was instant and electric.

Lucifer arched, groaned, let his hands roam wherever they pleased—over Alastor’s back, claws, shoulders, antlers.

The demon’s body was fever-hot, slick with sweat, and his mouth never stopped moving—biting, licking, tasting every inch of exposed skin.

Lucifer didn’t bother with subtlety. Well, he usually didn’t. But he wanted this as bad as Alastor did, and he knew his partner needed to hear it.

“Fuck, Al, that’s it—don’t stop—” He moaned, bucked up, grabbed the demon’s ass and pulled him closer.

Alastor obeyed.

He rocked against Lucifer’s cock, grinding so hard it bordered on pain, but the pain was good, grounding, real.

The static in the room built and built, until it was almost a song—a feedback loop of pleasure, need, and pure desperation.

“That’s it, I gotcha.”

Lucifer’s tail, long and sinuous, snaked up between their bodies. He wrapped it around both their cocks, squeezing them together, and the friction was so perfect, so raw.

He almost came right then and there.

Alastor gasped, the sound half-human, half-animal.

He buried his face in Lucifer’s neck and bit down, not breaking skin but close, and the vibration of his groan traveled all the way through Lucifer’s spine.

The pace got sloppy. The kisses turned wet and frantic. Lucifer could feel Alastor’s body trembling, losing rhythm, ready to shatter.

“Come for me bambi,” Lucifer whispered, nipping at Alastor’s ear. “Let go.”

Alastor did.

He made a sound like a dying radio, all static and broken music, and came hard, rutting against Lucifer’s cock.

The fallen angel followed, the heat and pressure and desire too much to resist.

They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and torn clothing. Alastor slumped forward, heavy and boneless, his breath rasping against Lucifer’s collarbone.

The blonde held him, stroking the back of his neck, feeling the wild pulse of the demon’s heart gradually slow.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the distant thrum of the hotel, muffled and meaningless, and the soft static that curled around them like a blanket.

Lucifer smiled, utterly spent, and pressed a kiss to Alastor’s hair.

The silence in the room was soft and heavy.

Lucifer lay sprawled on the sofa, breathing slow and deep, Alastor draped across his chest like a weighted blanket.

Sweat cooled on their skin, and Lucifer’s ruined shirt clung to his ribs. Damp and sticky.

The world outside the suite was an afterthought—a faint hum through walls and carpets, irrelevant compared to the heat still trapped between their bodies.

He liked the weight of Alastor on him. Liked the feel of those strong arms pinning him down.

But he could feel the shift.

It started in the way Alastor’s spine stiffened, the way his hands twitched restlessly at Lucifer’s flanks instead of holding him close. The static, which had faded to a gentle background hum during the haze of orgasm, flared up again—a nervous, uneven buzz that set Lucifer’s teeth on edge.

He knew that rhythm—the spiral of self-recrimination, the slow tightening of a noose made from expectations.

Lucifer let his hands drift up, gentle, until his fingers found the tense line of Alastor’s jaw. He tipped the demon’s head up, thumb stroking over the flushed cheek.

“Hey,” he murmured, “come back.”

Alastor’s eyes met his, startled and wide.

For a second, the mask threatened to snap back into place, to flatten all the messy humanity into a sharp-edged smile. But Lucifer didn’t give it room. He cupped Alastor’s face, kissed the tip of his nose, and waited.

Alastor swallowed, voice barely more than a rasp. “That was…I didn’t mean to—”

Lucifer cut him off with a kiss, softer this time. “I liked it,” he whispered against the demon’s lips. “Every second.”

Alastor hesitated, then relaxed by degrees, like a clock winding down. He slumped into Lucifer’s chest, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

They stayed that way, breathing in sync, until Lucifer felt Alastor’s hand—tentative—trace the outline of his ribs.

Like he was checking to see if any had cracked.

“You’re not going to break me,” Lucifer said, smiling up at the ceiling.

“I am rather heavy,” Alastor replied, and this time the laugh was genuine, low and static-rough but real.

Lucifer threaded their fingers together. “You’re perfect—I mean it.”

Another pause, this one less brittle.

Alastor rested his cheek against Lucifer’s sternum, ear pressed to the steady drum of the angel’s heart.

The warmth between them grew gentle, less fevered but no less intense.

The static quieted to a contented purr.

Lucifer could have stayed like that forever.

But he caught the worry in Alastor’s eyes—the flicker of doubt that always came back, no matter how many times Lucifer tried to chase it away.

He remembered, sharply, the first time they’d slept together: how the morning after, Alastor had spent hours pacing, convinced that he’d been “too clumsy, too inexperienced,” that Lucifer would lose interest once the novelty wore off.

He remembered, too, the long, awkward conversations that followed—the careful negotiation, the rebuilding of trust, the thousand small ways they learned to fit their jagged edges together.

He didn’t want to lose that tonight.

So he shifted, rolling Alastor gently onto his back, and propped himself up on one elbow. “If you’re about to tell me that you only wanted me because of rut hormones, I’m going to have to punish you.”

“Oh? And how would you manage that, my dear?” Alastor arched an eyebrow.

Lucifer grinned and snapped his fingers. The sticky mess vanished, replaced by soft, fresh pajamas—crimson for Alastor, blue duckies for himself. He conjured a blanket, tucked them both under it, and pulled the demon close.

“First, I’m going to keep you here,” Lucifer said, voice low and playful. “And then, I’m going to make you tell me about your day. And then, if you’re very good, I might even let you fall asleep in my arms.”

Alastor made a face. “How devious.”

Lucifer nuzzled under his jaw, inhaling that familiar scent of earth and ozone. “That’s right. I’m terrible.”

Alastor laughed, the sound melting into a sigh. He tucked his head against Lucifer’s shoulder, arms winding around his waist.

They lay like that, tangled and warm, the world outside the room fading to a distant, meaningless blur.

Eventually, Alastor whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

A pause.

“For this.”

Lucifer pressed a kiss to his forehead, then settled back, content. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he said, and for the first time in days, it was true.

They dozed together, safe in the afterglow, the radio static a soft lullaby that promised, for now, that everything would be all right.

Chapter Text

Lucifer woke to the scent of ozone and cinnamon, satin sheets tangled and twisting themselves halfway down his body.

He stretched, splaying fingers over the pillow beside him, expecting warmth—maybe an antler tip or a lock of red hair catching the morning light through the hotel suite’s ugly velvet curtains.

Instead, the bed was cold.

Alastor was gone, and had been for some time.

Lucifer lay flat for a while, tracing the spiderweb cracks in the ceiling, listening for the click of hooves or the static hum that always preceded the demon’s reappearance.

Nothing but the thud of his own heartbeat, and the far-off echo of Hazbin’s ancient elevator stuttering through the floors.

No voice, no laughter, no radio whine.

He rolled from the bed, body aching pleasantly from the night before—a memory he could still feel on his lips and hips, a bloom of bruises just now surfacing along his collar. He examined the marks in the bathroom mirror, running a thumb over a half-moon bite above his shoulder, then grinned and decided not to just heal it away.

If the deer wanted to mark his territory, who was Lucifer to object?

He showered, dressed, and left the room, expecting to find Alastor lurking somewhere in the halls.

He was not there at breakfast. Nor at the bar, where Husk nursed a hangover so intense it made Lucifer’s own eyes water.

The Radio Demon’s absence turned the hotel’s usual racket hollow.

Lucifer found himself wandering the corridors, sleeves rolled to the elbow, eyes half on the floor and half on the shadows that pooled in the corners.

No sign of Alastor.

He rounded the corner near the music room just as a guest—stepped directly into his path. He was a shark demon, hair slicked back to a perfect 1940s wave, and he wore a suit so crisp it might have been sewn directly onto his body. Even his shoes looked like they’d never touched dirt.

He blocked Lucifer’s way with a practiced smile. “Your Majesty,” he said, laying the accent on thick, “I hear you run a tight ship.”

“Not exactly,” Lucifer sighed. “And I’m not the captain of this vessel.”

“But you are the King of Hell, aren’t ya?” The man’s eyes flicked up and down, appraising. “But those kingly duties can be so…boring.” His gaze lingered at Lucifer’s throat, where last night’s bruise was barely concealed by his shirt collar.

“Look, I’m not looking for—” Lucifer stepped to the side, but the sinner matched him—eager, too close. “I’m on my way to a meeting,” he lied.

“So am I.” The man’s hand landed on Lucifer’s bicep, thumb pressing into muscle. “Maybe we could combine efforts, Your Grace.”

He said it like an insult, like a dare.

Lucifer stifled the urge to roll his eyes, already plotting his exit. “Nice of you to offer, but I—”

He never finished the sentence. The air behind him shifted, and the shark’s hand went rigid on Lucifer’s arm.

A voice, perfectly level, cut through. “Pardon me, sir, but you seem to be lost.”

It was almost pleasant, but there was nothing welcoming about it.

Alastor stood over Lucifer’s shoulder, looming at full height, red eyes burning so hot they washed the hallway in crimson. He wore his pinstripe coat, buttoned and immaculate, but the way his hands flexed at his sides betrayed the violence he was barely containing.

The sinner’s grin slipped.

He looked from Alastor’s face to Lucifer’s, then back. He let go of Lucifer’s arm with the smallest, most cowardly step backward.

“Mr. Radio Demon, sir, I was just—”

“Leaving.” Alastor didn’t move. “This part of the hotel is reserved for scheduled activities, and as there are none on the docket today…”

“Oh.” The sinner managed a smile, but it was the smile of a man facing down a lion and realizing he’d left his rifle at home. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude.” He turned and left, speed-walking for the nearest exit .

Lucifer waited until the guest’s footsteps had vanished before exhaling.

He turned to the demon at his back, appreciative smirk already on his lips. “That was a little dramatic, even for you.”

Alastor didn’t answer.

He just watched the end of the hallway with a gaze that could have cut glass, static crackling in the air around him, his smile a rictus stretched far too wide.

“Al?”

The demon’s pupils were nearly gone, his antlers crowning in a shadow that made the wallpaper ripple. He looked at Lucifer the way a hound looked at a fox—like he was waiting for permission to pounce.

Lucifer’s pulse stuttered.

“Alastor,” he said, voice gentle. “It’s me.”

This time, the deer’s eyes flicked to his, searching for a trick or a trap. He didn’t find one, but it didn’t slow him. Without a word, Alastor grabbed Lucifer by the wrist—and yanked him through the nearest door.

The music room.

Lucifer barely had time to register the familiar space—dusty piano, scattered sheet music—before Alastor's magic sealed them in.

The lock didn't just click, it fused, metal flowing like water until the mechanism became one solid piece. Lime green symbols flickered across the door frame, voodoo sigils that pulsed with protective energy.

No interruptions. No escape.

Alastor turned, and Lucifer's breath caught.

The demon's composure had vanished completely. His smile was nearly splitting his face. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. Those crimson eyes burned with an intensity that made the air around him shimmer like heat waves.

He looked at the fallen angel like he was drowning and the angel was the only thing that could save him.

"Al—" Lucifer started.

Alastor moved before he could finish. Strong arms wrapped around the devil’s smaller frame, pulling him close.

Lucifer found himself pressed against the wall beside the piano, Alastor's body caging him in, radiating fever-heat that seeped through fabric and skin.

“Maybe we should talk about—”

The demon buried his face in Lucifer's neck and inhaled, deep and shuddering. The sound he made was barely human—part groan, part whine, all need.

“Okay, yep, message received, talk later.”

Then his mouth was on Lucifer's throat.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Alastor bit down with enough force to bruise angelic skin, his teeth leaving perfect crescents along the column of Lucifer's neck. He worked his way up to the angel's jaw, marking him with the single-minded focus of a predator claiming territory.

Lucifer's hands flew to Alastor's arms, gripping hard. Not to push away—to anchor himself against the overwhelming sensation of being consumed.

Heat flooded his veins as Alastor's claws found his bowtie, yanking it loose with one sharp jerk.

The buttons of his vest and most of his shirt followed.

"Fuck," Lucifer breathed, the word torn from him as Alastor's mouth found the hollow of his throat.

The demon's tongue was slick and burning, leaving black trails that cooled in the air and made him shiver with anticipation.

Alastor pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wild and unfocused.

His antlers had grown, branching out in elaborate curves that scraped against the wallpaper. The static around him had become a living thing, crawling up the walls and making the sheet music flutter like trapped birds.

He was magnificent. And terrifying.

Lucifer could feel the demon's cock, hard and demanding against his hip, rutting with small, unconscious movements—instincts riding too close to the surface.

The big buck attitude was already getting the devil on board, even without the greedy friction between them.

"Alright Bambi," Lucifer grinned, reaching up to cup Alastor's face. "I'm here."

Alastor leaned into the touch with a forlorn sound, eyes fluttering closed.

For a moment, he looked almost peaceful. Then his hips jerked forward, grinding against Lucifer's thigh, and the angel felt him shudder.

"You want to rut against me?" Lucifer asked, voice rough with his own rising need. "Go ahead, buck. Take what you need."

Alastor whined—distress and desire in equal measure, as if Alastor was mourning the loss of his composure even as his body demanded satisfaction.

"It's okay," Lucifer assured him, hands smoothing down the demon's chest. "I wanna help you. I want this."

Alastor pressed him harder against the wall, hips rolling in the graceless rhythm of pure instinct.

His claws found Lucifer's shirt and simply tore it open like paper. Buttons scattered across the floor.

Lucifer should have been annoyed—torn clothes, bruising grip, the tension of being stalked instead of seduced. But all he could feel was heat.

Not just lust—certainty. This was Alastor, and this was real.

Showing Lucifer that part of the Radio Demon that wasn’t all polish and performance.

Just raw need and trust so complete it stole his breath.

"Do you want to fuck me?" The words spilled out before the fallen angel could think better of them.

Alastor's eyes snapped open, pupils blown so wide his eyes were almost black.

He whined again. The sound vibrated through his chest and into Lucifer's bones.

"Yes, I want you too. Mate me."

Alastor’s entire body went rigid, then suddenly he was moving, hands tearing at what remained of Lucifer's clothes.

The angel snapped his fingers, vanishing the ruined fabric entirely, leaving him naked and pinned against the wall with Alastor's cock already pressing against his ass.

Okay, maybe he should have thought this through before saying those particular words to a big, horny, rutting deer demon.

His cock pushed forward with relentless pressure, and Lucifer saw stars.

Not pain exactly—he was an archangel, after all, and Alastor couldn't truly damage him—but the stretch was intense, overwhelming, brutal in its urgency.

"Fuck, fuck—okay." Lucifer was almost giddy as he snapped his fingers again, magic slicking and preparing him just as Alastor thrust into him.

The sound the demon made was pure animal satisfaction. A growl that rumbled through his chest and filled the room.

Alastor’s cock drove into him with relentless force, each thrust lifting Lucifer's feet from the floor until only his heels remained in contact with the polished wood. The angel's boots—the only clothing he'd kept on—scraped against the wall as he was fucked with an intensity that knocked the breath from his lungs.

"Fuck, yes—" Lucifer gasped, wrapping his legs around the demon’s waist.

Alastor's body seemed to stretch beneath his touch, growing taller, broader, his limbs elongating with sickening cracks that should have been alarming. The demon's claws extended, sharp as daggers as they sank into the wallpaper on either side of Lucifer's head, shredding the pattern to ribbons.

The angel found himself completely caged in by Alastor's demonic body, surrounded by the scent of ozone and forest decay.

The smile had grown impossibly wide—the corners stitched like a doll's mouth, stretching beyond what should have been physically possible.

His pupils shrank to spinning pinpricks in a sea of crimson.

"That's it, take me," Lucifer encouraged, voice breaking as Alastor's cock hit so perfectly deep inside him that his vision blurred. "Make me yours—"

Alastor responded with a sound that was more radio interference than voice, his long, blackened tongue darting out to lick a burning trail from Lucifer's collarbone to his jaw.

The angel wasn't sure if the demon could even hear him anymore.

The power emanating from him was wild, primal—the tendrils along his back pulsed in time with his thrusts.

"Right there—fuck me just like that," Lucifer moaned as Alastor's cock found the perfect angle to hit his sweet spot over and over again.

But the demon gave no sign he understood, only fucking harder, faster, his body distorting further as his instincts surged.

His antlers scraped the ceiling now.

Welp, he wasn’t too old to handle it himself.

The fallen angel reached their bodies, wrapping his hand around his own neglected cock, stroking himself in time with Alastor's brutal pace.

"Fill me up," Lucifer urged, tightening his legs around Alastor's waist. "Come inside me, buck. Claim what's yours."

Alastor's tongue—impossibly long now—thrust into Lucifer's mouth without warning.

Filling him from both ends.

Lucifer surrendered, letting the it slide down his throat and send sparks of pleasure down his spine.

He could feel the demon’s flow faltering.

The static in the room reached a crescendo. Radio dials on the ancient phonograph spun wildly, the temperature dropped then spiked as Alastor's power fluctuated beyond his control.

With a final, punishing thrust, Alastor buried himself to the hilt inside Lucifer.

The angel felt the hot pulse of the deer demon's come flooding him, marking him from the inside. It pushed him over the edge, and he came with a strangled cry muffled by Alastor's invasive tongue, spilling over his own fingers and onto their stomachs.

For several heartbeats, they remained frozen in that position—Lucifer pinned to the wall, Alastor's body distorted and monstrous around him, both of them trembling with aftershocks.

Then, slowly, the demon's tongue retracted, sliding from Lucifer's throat with a sensation that made the angel shudder.

Alastor's form began to shrink, bones creaking as they returned to their proper proportions. His claws retracted from the destroyed wallpaper, leaving deep gouges in the plaster beneath.

The shadows receded, pulling back into his silhouette like water down a drain.

As his features settled back into something more recognizable, Lucifer saw confusion flicker across Alastor's face—followed immediately by horror as awareness returned.

Chapter Text

The change came slowly, like watching fire die to embers.

Alastor's antlers were the first to retreat—those elaborate, branching displays of dominance shrinking back inch by inch until they resembled their usual modest curves.

The crimson glow that had turned his eyes into burning coals faded next, leaving behind familiar scarlet irises.

His breathing, which had been harsh and ragged, gradually slowed to something approaching normal rhythm.

Lucifer felt the exact moment consciousness returned.

It was subtle—a shift in the way Alastor's weight settled against him, the way his grip loosened from possessive to just present.

The radio static that had been crackling around them like live electricity dimmed, and suddenly the demon in his arms felt smaller somehow.

More fragile.

They were still tangled together on the music room floor, Lucifer's back against the base of the grand piano, Alastor collapsed forward across his chest like he'd run out of strength to hold himself up.

The polished wooden floor was hard beneath them, unforgiving.

But right now, all Lucifer could focus on was the way Alastor trembled.

Not with lingering arousal or the fever-heat of rut, but with something that felt dangerously close to shock.

His skin was still flushed, still radiating warmth, but the desperate edge had faded.

What remained was exhaustion…and exposure.

"Easy," Lucifer murmured, his hands moving in slow, soothing arcs across Alastor's back. The demon's fur was damp with sweat, silk-soft beneath his palms, and he could feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat gradually slowing. "Easy, Bambi. I've got you."

The endearment seemed to finally reach Alastor.

His breathing hitched slightly, and Lucifer felt him press closer—instinctively seeking of comfort.

Lucifer gave it, wrapping his arms around the demon’s shoulders. And pressed gentle kisses to Alastor's temple, tasting salt and the lingering musk of their encounter.

The demon's hair was disheveled, the usually perfect waves a mess beyond recognition, but Lucifer smoothed it back with careful fingers.

The music room around them felt heavy. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and pheromones, the lingering evidence of raw need and satisfaction.

Torn fabric littered the floor around them like confetti. But Lucifer couldn't bring himself to care about the destruction.

"Are you back with me?" Lucifer asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He could feel the moment Alastor's muscles tensed, the way his breathing pattern changed. "Do you remember everything?"

Remembering meant acknowledging what had happened, meant facing the reality of how completely Alastor had surrendered to instinct.

The response was immediate and devastating.

Alastor went rigid in his arms, pulling back so abruptly that Lucifer felt the loss like a slap.

Those crimson eyes—clear now, painfully lucid—widened with something that looked dangerously close to horror.

"Oh." The word escaped him on a broken breath. "Oh, Fuck."

Lucifer watched helplessly as Alastor scrambled to create distance between them. With a snap of his fingers, a blanket materialized from thin air. Covering them both, and conveniently, stymying the demon’s escape.

"Oh, yes," Alastor continued, his voice strained. "I quite clearly recall how awful I was to you."

The Radio Demon was hiding behind his old cadence.

But Lucifer could see the cracks—the way his hands trembled almost imperceptibly as he adjusted the blanket, the way his ears had flattened against his skull in a rare display of vulnerability.

"Are you alright?" Alastor's gaze skittered away from Lucifer's face, unable to maintain eye contact. His fingers worried at the edge of the blanket.

Lucifer opened his mouth to respond, to offer reassurance, but Alastor was already spiraling deeper into self-recrimination.

"You said I couldn’t hurt you," the demon muttered. "But I was selfish. Completely and utterly selfish. I didn't even—" His hands fisted in the velvet, dark knuckles paling with the force of his grip. "I didn't make you come."

The admission came out choked, as if it physically pained him to voice it.

And maybe it did—Lucifer knew how much weight Alastor put on things being ‘fair’ between them. Too much, in the angel’s opinion.

To realize he'd taken without giving in return, that he'd been driven by nothing but his own desperate need—it was clearly tearing him apart.

"I…apologize," Alastor whispered, the words barely audible above the whisper of fabric as he pulled the blanket tighter around himself. "I don't know what came over me—I mean I do, but I don't know why I—"

But the apologies died in his throat.

Lucifer's heart broke a little more with each word, watching the demon he loved disappear behind walls of guilt and self-loathing that he'd thought they'd moved beyond.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This wasn't—He had to fix this.

Had to find a way to reach through Alastor's spiral of shame and make him understand that nothing about what had happened was wrong.

That nothing about what had happened was awful.

That it had been, in fact, exactly what they both needed.

"Stop."

The word cut through Alastor's spiral and made his mouth snap shut mid-apology.

The king’s voice carried that particular tone of authority—that meant there would be no argument.

"You were in rut," Lucifer continued, his voice matter-of-fact. "You were rough, not cruel. There's a difference, Al, and you know it."

Alastor's ears twitched at the correction.

The blanket remained wrapped around him like armor, but some of the rigid tension in his shoulders eased.

"But I—"

"No." Lucifer shifted on the hard floor, ignoring that he was still stripped to his boots as he reached for Alastor's hands.

The demon tried to pull away, but the angel’s grip was gentle and unyielding, forcing those trembling fingers to stillness.

"Look at me, Bambi."

It took several long heartbeats where Alastor's gaze skittered around the room, landing on anything but Lucifer's face.

The scattered remains of expensive clothing.

The shadows still clinging to the corners despite the afternoon light.

The piano bench that had been knocked clear across the room.

Finally, reluctantly, those crimson eyes met his.

"You didn't hurt me," Lucifer said clearly, each word deliberate and weighted with truth. "And I would've stopped you if you had. You know I would've."

Alastor's breath caught, his fingers twitching within Lucifer's grip. "You couldn't have—I was too far gone—"

"I'm an archangel." The reminder came with a small smile, fond and slightly exasperated. "I could have stopped you with a thought if I'd wanted to. But I didn't want to, Al."

The confession seemed to shock Alastor into silence.

His mouth opened and closed without sound, clearly struggling to process the idea that his loss of control might not have been the catastrophe he'd imagined.

"I enjoyed it," Lucifer’s voice dropped to something more intimate. "Fuck, Al, I enjoyed every second of it. The way you looked at me—claimed me. Do you have any idea how incredible it felt to see you let go like that?"

Heat crept up Alastor's neck, a flush that had nothing to do with residual fever and everything to do with the raw honesty in Lucifer's voice.

His fingers curled in the fallen angel's grip, no longer trying to pull away.

"You’re always so careful with me," Lucifer said softly. "And I love that about you—I love how you think through every touch, every kiss. But seeing you stripped down to pure want, pure need…" He trailed off, his own breathing growing slightly uneven. "It was the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Alastor’s lips twisted, and Lucifer wondered if he was going to get called out for dropping the L-word again.

Too soon, he knew that, so did the demon. But clearly the deer boy didn’t want to disappear on him for another week.

"But you didn't—" Alastor's voice crackled slightly. "I was selfish. I took my pleasure without ensuring yours."

Lucifer's lips quirked into a smirk, knowing what he was about to say would make Alastor blush.

"Actually," he said, his voice taking on a teasing note, "I was very close, y’know. Just a little longer and you would have had me screaming your name."

The words hit their mark.

Alastor's eyes widened, pupils dilating slightly as he processed the admission. His scent shifted—still tinged with shame, but now carrying notes of surprise and something that might have been pride.

"Really?"

"Really." Lucifer brought one of Alastor's hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. "You were making me see stars, and if you'd kept going, I would have come all over both of us."

Alastor shuddered.

The guilt was still there—Lucifer could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he held himself—but it was no longer the overwhelming force that had driven him to panicked apologies.

The Radio Demon didn’t apologize.

"You weren't awful," Lucifer said firmly, his thumbs brushing over over the red tips of his boyfriend’s fingers. "You weren't selfish. You trusted me enough to let me help you through it. And, y’know, I might be the sin of pride and all…but I don’t see anything to be ashamed of."

The words seemed to crack something open in Alastor's carefully constructed composure. His shoulders sagged, the rigid control he'd been fighting to maintain finally beginning to crumble.

"I was…certain you wouldn’t want to put up with this," he whispered.

“I’m not putting up with you Alastor, we talked about this.”

"When I came back to myself and realized what I'd done—how I'd taken you without thought, without preparation—"

"You didn't take anything," Lucifer interrupted gently. "I gave. Freely, willingly. Because I wanted to. Because I want all of you—including the parts that scare you."

Alastor's breath hitched.

Slowly, carefully, Lucifer pulled him closer, and this time, the demon didn't resist.

The blanket slipped slightly as Alastor allowed himself to be drawn back into Lucifer's embrace, no longer hiding behind velvet armor.

The kiss that followed was nothing like their earlier desperate coupling.

This was slow, deliberate, lips and breath and the space between heartbeats.

Lucifer poured everything he couldn't say into it—Alastor melted into it gradually, his initial tension giving way to something softer, more trusting. His hands came up to cup Lucifer's face, clinging to the feeling of him.

When they finally broke apart, Alastor's eyes were clearer—still touched with lingering uncertainty, but no longer clouded by shame.

"Better?" Lucifer asked softly.

Alastor nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Better."

Chapter Text

The Bayou’s humidity welcomed Lucifer like a slap across the face with a wet towel.

All Spanish moss and murky water, cypress trees draped in shadows that moved without wind. And buzzing insects. Lots of buzzing from cicadas he couldn’t see. But boy could he hear them.

He'd slipped through the dimensional barrier while Alastor was away, using the connection they'd forged through countless nights of tangled limbs and whispered confessions.

The air hung thick with humidity and the scent of decay, but underneath it all was something distinctly Alastor—cinnamon and static, earth and ozone.

Lucifer stood in the center of Alastor's private sanctuary.

This was where the demon retreated to when the hotel became too much, when his mask grew too heavy. Lucifer had only been invited here once or twice, and usually it was just to talk as they walked.

Moss brushed his shoulders like ghostly fingers, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the low rumble of a jazz trumpet echoing through the trees.

He'd come here with a purpose.

The rut wasn't over—wouldn't be for another day, maybe two.

And despite their breakthrough in the music room, Lucifer could see the strain it put on his partner.

The constant battle between instinct and control, the way Alastor's jaw ached from holding that perpetual smile when his body screamed for something else entirely.

The angel had promised to give Alastor what he needed, but there was still the matter of getting his dandy little demon to ask for it

So Lucifer decided to just offer it to him.

The transformation began with his face.

He closed his eyes, feeling angelic power flow through his body like warm honey.

His angular features softened first—sharp cheekbones rounding, the harsh lines of his jaw becoming more delicate. It was subtle, but it was enough.

His lips curved, becoming fuller, taking on the kind of innocent allure that would make any predator's instincts sing.

The changes rippled downward, rewriting his form.

His shoulders narrowed.

His waist cinched, emphasizing the flare of hips that had never existed before tonight.

His chest softened, not into breasts exactly, but into something that suggested femininity without fully committing to it.

Every line of Lucifer whispered submission now.

He was still unmistakably himself—still Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell—but filtered through the lens of what would drive a rutting deer demon absolutely wild.

The ears came next.

They sprouted from the top of his head, downy-soft and twitching with nervous energy. They were smaller than Alastor's, more delicate, and they swiveled at every sound—the distant splash of something moving through swamp water, the rustle of leaves, the phantom echo of footsteps that might be the demon's return.

His tail unfurled at the base of his spine, a white flash of fur that flicked with instinctive movements he'd never had to learn.

But it was the scent that would truly unmake Alastor.

Lucifer felt his natural musk shift, hormones rewriting themselves into something would sing to every gene the Radio Demon possessed.

Sweet as magnolia blossoms, but with an underlying heat that promised readiness, receptiveness, the kind of desperate need that would make a buck forget everything else.

He breathed in his own transformed scent and felt his pulse quicken.

If it affected him, Alastor wouldn't stand a chance.

The most intimate transformation came last.

As an archangel, he'd been created without reproductive bits and pieces—vessels were borrowed things, shaped for interaction with lesser beings.

Changing from one configuration to another was no more significant than changing his eye color.

But this time, there was a psychological weight to his shapeshifting.

He was offering Alastor complete possession, total claim.

Every inch of him reconfigured to appeal to the demon's deepest instincts, to present as the perfect mate for a creature whose rational mind had been overwhelmed by biological imperative.

His new anatomy was slick and ready, body already responding to the phantom scent of his would-be mate.

The angel felt his insides flutter—not arousal exactly, but anticipation.

The promise of being filled, claimed, marked inside and out.

Lucifer took a experimental step, testing the balance of his new, smaller hooves.

His hips swayed naturally now, each movement designed to catch and hold attention. He practiced the little gestures—the slight tilt of his head that bared his throat, the way his tail flicked in invitation before disappearing behind his hip, the soft, musical sounds that escaped him when he moved.

Like the calls a doe might make—questioning, inviting, tinged with just enough uncertainty to trigger every protective instinct Alastor possessed.

The final touch appeared without conscious thought.

Lucifer caught his reflection in the dark water at his feet and barely recognized himself.

Oh, did he make one hell of a pretty doe.

Beautiful, tempting, utterly defenseless prey that any self-respecting predator would kill to possess.

Lucifer was still himself. Still in control.

He wasn't actually helpless—just playing the part with Academy Award-worthy precision. If he did say so himself.

He could end the charade at any moment.

And that made it all the more thrilling.

He settled onto a fallen log to wait, arranging himself.

One leg tucked beneath him, the other extended just enough to emphasize the new curves of his thigh. His tail draped over the moss-covered bark, blonde fur stark against the green.

His hands rested in his lap, while his new ears swiveled at every sound.

The bayou around him seemed to hold its breath.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard the crack of a twig, the splash of water displaced by a large body moving through the swamp.

His pulse quickened, and his scent shifted again—sharper now, tinged with anticipation and just a hint of nervous excitement.

Alastor was coming.

The sound stopped abruptly.

Lucifer didn't need to look up to know the demon had spotted him—could feel the weight of that crimson gaze like a physical thing, pressing against his transformed skin with an intensity that made his new anatomy clench in anticipation.

The bayou fell silent around them, even the distant jazz fading to nothing.

When Lucifer finally raised his eyes, he had to bite back a smirk.

Alastor stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, one hand still gripping his cane.

His mouth had fallen open just slightly, that perpetual smile cracking around the edges as his brain struggled to process what he was seeing.

Those crimson eyes were already dilating, pupils blown wide as his gaze traveled from Lucifer's delicate ears down to the white fur of his tail.

The scent hit him a moment later.

Lucifer watched Alastor's nostrils flare, watched him take in that carefully crafted perfume of fertility and submission.

The demon's entire body went rigid, a low sound escaping him that was more animal than human—something caught between a whine and a growl.

"Heya big buck," Lucifer pitched his voice higher and softer than usual. With just a hint of breathlessness, like the very sight of Alastor had stolen it.

The cane clattered to the moss-covered ground.

Alastor took a step forward, then stopped himself, hands flexing at his sides as if he was fighting every instinct in his body. His gaze darted from Lucifer's face to his body and back again, disbelief warring with desperate hunger.

"This isn't—" His voice cracked, radio static bleeding through. "You can't be—"

Instead of answering, Lucifer tilted his head to one side.

Baring the pale column of his throat.

Alastor made another of those inhuman sounds.

"I wanted to help," Lucifer said simply, and the honesty in his voice was devastating. "You've been fighting it so hard, and I thought—maybe if you had what you needed—"

He let the sentence trail off, shifting his weight on the fallen log.

The movement made his tail flick, white fur catching the filtered light, and emphasized the new curves of his body in ways that made Alastor's breathing turn ragged.

The demon approached like he was walking through deep water.

But there was something predatory in the way he moved now, head tilted slightly as he took in every detail of Lucifer's transformation.

His shadow writhed behind him.

"You smell like—" Alastor's voice dissolved into static before he could finish the thought.

Lucifer knew what he smelled like. Ready. Willing.

Everything a rutting deer's instincts screamed at him to claim and protect.

“Don’t think any of this was an accident.”

He rose from the log, flaunting every change he'd made to himself. His hips swayed as he walked, tail giving teasing flicks that drew Alastor's gaze like a magnet.

Then, Lucifer stepped sideways, just out of reach.

The effect was immediate.

Alastor's head snapped up, tracking the movement with laser focus.

His lips pulled back over his gnashed teeth, and a sound rumbled in his chest was pure possession.

And frustration.

Lucifer took another step, deliberately slow, and glanced back over his shoulder.

The look he gave Alastor was the invitation—promising that catching him would be worth the effort.

His new ears perked, waiting for the sounds of pursuit.

“Catch me if you can, buck.”

Chapter Text

Lucifer bolted.

Muscles he'd never possessed before coiled and sprung, sending him bounding through the moss-draped trees . His new hooves found purchase on fallen logs and muddy banks, each leap carrying him deeper into the bayou's shadowy heart.

Behind him, Alastor's inhuman snarl split the humid air.

The sound made every nerve in Lucifer's morphed body sing.

Not fear—not exactly—but something deeper, more primal.

The knowledge that he was being hunted by something magnificent and terrible, something that wanted to catch him more than he wanted to breathe.

Lucifer felt laughter bubble up, bright and musical as wind chimes. It echoed off the water, bounced between the cypress trunks, and he heard Alastor's answering growl like thunder rolling through his bones.

The chase had begun.

Lucifer darted between the ancient trees, white tail flashing in the green-gold twilight.

Spanish moss brushed his shoulders, across his newly sensitive ears, and every touch sent shivers racing down his spine.

His body was a symphony of sensation now—the way his hips swayed with each bound, the flutter of his tail, the sweet ache between his legs that grew stronger with every heartbeat.

He could hear Alastor behind him.

Gaining on him.

The demon's footsteps were punctuated by the scrape of claws against bark and the occasional snap of branches.

The static around him had become a living thing, crackling through the air like electricity before a storm.

Lucifer vaulted over a fallen cypress and risked a glance back.

What he saw made his breath catch.

Alastor had grown.

Not just taller—longer, broader—his limbs stretching as his demonic nature surged to the surface. His antlers branched like a crown of bone, casting jagged shadows that seemed to move independently.

Those crimson eyes burned with single-minded focus, tracking Lucifer's every movement with predatory precision.

Beautiful. Terrifying.

Exactly what Lucifer wanted to free.

He bounded away again, deeper into the swamp, where the water reflected the perpetual twilight and the air hung thick with the scent of magnolia and decay.

The doe’s pulse hammered against his throat, matching his hooves against soft earth.

The bayou itself seemed to respond to Alastor's presence.

Lucifer felt it in the way the shadows deepened, in the sudden stillness of water that should have been rippling with his passage.

Vines disturbed without wind. The very trees leaned in, driving him exactly where Alastor wanted him to go.

A trill of genuine excitement ran through the ancient archangel.

This was more than he'd bargained for—more dangerous, more real.

The power radiating from his pursuer was intoxicating, making his transformed body respond in ways that left him dizzy with want.

He leaped across a narrow stream, landed on a moss-covered boulder, and felt claws whisper past his tail.

Inches away.

The near-miss sent heat racing through Lucifer’s veins.

Alastor's breath had been hot against his spine, carrying the wild scent of rut and barely contained brutality.

For a heartbeat, Lucifer had felt the demon's fingers brush the white fur of his tail—possessive, claiming, promising what would happen when the chase finally ended.

He sprang away, but not before letting his tail flick deliberately against the big buck’s nose.

The sound that escaped the Radio Demon was pure animal hunger.

Lucifer's laughter turned breathless as he bounded between two massive cypresses, their trunks scarred with fresh claw marks.

Alastor was marking his territory. The gouges were territorial—a promise written in splintered bark that said mine, mine, mine.

The thought made Lucifer's pussy clench with anticipation.

He could feel his scent changing. The careful perfume he'd crafted was deepening with genuine arousal, mixing with the musk of exertion and the sharp sweetness of adrenaline.

It would be driving Alastor insane. Speaking directly to every instinct the demon possessed.

Another bound carried the doe across a patch of open water, hooves barely skimming the surface before he landed on the far bank.

But the splash was enough.

Enough to mask the sound of shadows moving, of space folding in ways that shouldn't have been possible.

Tendrils of darkness erupted from the murky water behind him.

Lucifer's ears flattened as Alastor's shadow-magic reached for him with grasping fingers.

The bayou had become an extension of the demon's will.

Lucifer twisted mid-leap, barely avoiding the dark tentacles that snapped shut where he'd been a heartbeat before. His hooves found purchase on a gnarled root, and he pushed off again, muscles burning with the effort.

This wasn't just a game anymore.

The realization should have frightened him.

Should have made him call a halt, return to his normal form, remind Alastor that this was all just a game.

Instead, it made Lucifer want to run faster.

His heart hammered against his ribs, his breathing came in short, sharp bursts, and every nerve ending felt like it was on fire.

Behind him, Alastor's pursuit had become something primal.

The demon's footsteps shook the ground, his breath came in harsh pants punctuated by sounds that belonged more to beast than man. The static around him had grown so intense that Lucifer could feel it crawling across his skin—his fur—like invisible fingers.

A tree branch caught at his shoulder, tearing the delicate skin.

Alastor's roar shattered the twilight.

The scent of Lucifer's blood in the humid air made all the sounds of pursuit falter.

And then the buck let out an echoing, thundering roar.

Possession. Claiming.

The need to protect what was his.

Lucifer's tail snapped involuntarily, and he realized his mistake a second too late. He quickly made this body as invulnerable as his usual form.

Because blood was exactly the type of thing that would drive a rutting buck into a frenzy of protective aggression.

The bayou around him shifted, shadows deepening, water stilling to mirror-brightness. Vines reached for his ankles and the very air seemed to thicken with Alastor's approach.

The doe was being herded.

Driven toward something—a clearing, perhaps, or a dead end where the chase would finally conclude. His transformed instincts screamed at him to keep running, to bound away into deeper shadows where he might yet escape.

But another part of him wanted to be caught.

The tree came up fast—ancient cypress with a trunk wide enough to hold up a damn house, its bark rough against Lucifer's palms as he braced for impact.

But the collision never came.

Instead, there was heat.

Overwhelming, encompassing heat as Alastor's stretched body caged him against the moss-covered bark.

One massive hand splayed across Lucifer’s chest, pinning him in place with casual, frightening strength. The demon's antlers bracketed his head like a crown of bone, close enough that Lucifer could see every branching point, every shadow they cast across the twilight water.

Alastor's breath was furnace-hot against his neck.

The Radio Demon had grown even larger during the chase—shoulders larger, limbs longer—everything about him scaled up to predatory proportions that made Lucifer feel genuinely small.

The way a doe should feel when caught by a buck.

His new ears drooped, pressing flat against his skull in a display of submission that bypassed conscious thought entirely.

The effect on Alastor was immediate.

A sound rumbled through the demon's chest—satisfaction and possession wrapped in static.

His free hand came up to trace the edge of one soft ear, claws gentle despite their sharpness.

"Such a pretty little doe," Alastor murmured, his voice distorted. "Did you think I wouldn't catch you?"

Lucifer shivered, arching slightly against the massive hand that pinned him in place.

The bark was rough against his shoulder blades, but it was nothing compared to the liquid heat pooling between his legs.

"Maybe I wanted to be caught," he breathed.

Alastor's chuckle was dark honey and broken glass.

His nose pressed against Lucifer's throat, inhaling deeply, and the angel felt him go very still.

Alastor's huge hand slid down, over the doe’s ribs, his hip, mapping the new curves with reverent fingers. When those claws brushed the inside of his thigh, Lucifer's breathing hitched.

"You changed yourself," Alastor said, wonder bleeding through the static. "

His hand moved lower, exploring, and when his fingers found the slick heat between Lucifer's legs, the demon's breathing stopped entirely.

Lucifer bit back a moan as those careful claws traced his new parted his new pussy. He was already wet, his body responding to the chase and capture with an eagerness that left him dizzy.

"For me?" Alastor's voice cracked on the words.

"Well, a little bit for me," Lucifer chuckled breathlessly, letting his head fall back against the tree. "but all for you.”

The confession shattered the remnants of Alastor’s control.

The demon spun him around, pressing him face-first against the cypress trunk.

Lucifer's hands splayed against the bark, finding purchase as Alastor's much larger form curved over him from behind.

Those elongated fingers traced the length of his back, following the curve of his tail to where it met the base of his spine.

"Lift for me," Alastor commanded.

Lucifer obeyed, raising his tail high in a display of submission and invitation.

His buck’s rasping breaths hitched.

Then his nose was there, pressed against the source of that intoxicating scent, inhaling deeply enough that Lucifer felt the pull of air against his folds. The sensation made his hips jerk.

"Perfect," Alastor growled against his skin. "You smell perfect."

His tongue followed—that impossibly long, clever tongue that had tormented Lucifer in the music room.

It licked a broad stripe through Lucifer's folds, and the doe cried out, his claws scraping against bark.

Alastor's tongue was longer, more dexterous, able to curl and probe. It delved between his lips, spreading them wide, mapping every inch.

Lucifer's knees went weak.

Overwhelming—too much and not nearly enough all at once.

Every stroke of that wicked tongue sent sparks racing up his spine, made him arch and gasp and beg for more.

"Alastor—"

The demon's response was to grip his hips with both hands, holding him steady as he worked.

His tongue explored with single-minded focus.

The angle was awkward, the position demanding, but Alastor seemed determined to taste every inch of his doe.

When sharp teeth grazed his inner thigh, Lucifer nearly sobbed.

"Turn," Alastor commanded suddenly, his voice dark with hunger. "Your face."

Lucifer obeyed, legs trembling like a newborn fawn, letting Alastor maneuver him until his back was against the tree once more.

The demon knelt before him—even on his knees, he was nearly at eye level—and he spread Lucifer's thighs with hands with fingers as long as his forearms.

Pinned open. Exposed. Displayed like an offering to a pagan god.

But the look in Alastor's crimson eyes made Lucifer feel worshipped rather than vulnerable.

"Pretty," Alastor breathed, his gaze fixed on the slick evidence of Lucifer's arousal. "Pretty doe."

His tongue returned with renewed purpose, lapping at Lucifer's folds with broad strokes that made the angel's vision blur. The new position let him use his whole mouth—lips and teeth and that impossibly agile tongue fucking him fast and wet.

"Oh fuck—" Lucifer's hands fisted in Alastor's hair, antlers digging into his palms as he tried to find something to anchor himself to. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"

Alastor's answer was to seal his lips around Lucifer’s pussy, and suck.

The angel's back arched off the tree, a cry tearing from his throat that echoed across the bayou water.

His tail lashed frantically, every muscle in his body drawing tight as pleasure crashed over him in waves that left him gasping.

But Alastor didn’t relent.

The demon’s tongue eased but never stopped, drawing out every aftershock until Lucifer was trembling and tumbling into a heap at the base of the gouged cypress tree.

Fuck, he missed sex in this form. Why hadn’t he done this in centuries again??

When the demon finally pulled back, his mouth was slick. and his eyes were wild with hunger.

"Now," he growled, rising to his full towering height. One hand worked at his belt, freeing his cock with urgent movements. “Mine."

Lucifer opened his eyes to see the deer demon’s cock, large, dark at the tip, already weeping with need.

Alastor positioned himself, the blunt head pressing against Lucifer's entrance, and, for a moment, they hung suspended in anticipation.

Then Lucifer grinned—sharp and wicked and utterly unrepentant—as he slipped through Alastor’s lax hold.

“Didn’t think I’d make it that easy on ya, did ya buck?” he called over his shoulder, already bounding away into the deeper shadows of the bayou. His laughter rang out bright and challenging, a siren song that promised the chase wasn't over yet.

Behind him, Alastor's roar of frustration shook the very trees.

Chapter Text

The bayou had become Alastor's hunting ground.

Lucifer felt it in the way the shadows reached for him with grasping fingers, in the sudden stillness of water that should have rippled with his passage.

Vines caught at his ankles.

Spanish moss draped across his path like nets.

And the very trees seemed to lean in, driving him toward something inevitable .

The doe’s transformed body wasn’t tiring. He was an archangel under the fuzz after all—but his hooves slipping on moss-slick logs, his breathing coming in sharp bursts that misted in the humid air.

Lucifer was losing all the will he had to resist.

Behind him, Alastor's pursuit had turned into a claim that would not be denied

The cypress grove ahead looked like sanctuary—tall trees with wide-spaced trunks, water gleaming silver between their roots.

Lucifer bounded toward it, tail flashing white in the green twilight, but even as he ran he could feel the futility of it.

Alastor wasn't just chasing him anymore.

He was herding him to a clearing.

To mount him.

The realization hit just as the shadows erupted from the water on all sides. Dark tentacles wrapped around Lucifer's ankles, his wrists, lifting him from the muddy bank.

He found himself suspended in the air, spread-eagle and helpless, as the big buck emerged from the bayou's depths like some primordial god.

The Radio Demon had grown even larger during the hunt—enough to block out the filtered light, antlers catching the overhanging moss.

His eyes were wild with need that bordered on madness.

"Caught," he growled, voice distorted by static and triumph.

“You sure did, big buck.”

Lucifer's ears drooped in pure submission.

The gesture bypassed every rational thought, speaking directly to the part of the demon that needed to see surrender

Alastor's nostrils flaring as he took in the sight of Lucifer suspended and helpless before him.

Those enormous hands reached out, tracing the curve of white ears, the delicate line of his throat, the new softness of this body.

"Mine," the demon whispered, and there was something almost reverent in the way he said it.

The shadows lowered Lucifer’s knees to the soft grass at the water's edge, but they didn't release him.

Tendrils of darkness held his wrists above his head, spread his thighs wide, arranged him like an offering to the ancient yearning that drove the creature looming over him.

Lucifer felt his pulse flutter against his throat, felt the slick heat between his legs at the display of dominance with shameless eagerness.

His tail lifted, baring himself completely to Alastor's burning gaze.

"Please."

Alastor's control snapped.

The demon dropped to his knees behind Lucifer, one heavy hand gripping his hip hard enough to bruise angelic skin. His cock—thick, dark, already weeping with need.

Lucifer's body was taut with need, every nerve ending singing as Alastor's cock nudged against his entrance.

The doe's breath caught, muscles fluttering with his eagerness.

But then the demon stilled.

Only the thick head of his cock had pressed inside his doe, stretching Lucifer deliciously, before Alastor froze completely.

The angel could feel him trembling—massive frame shaking with the effort of holding back when every instinct screamed at him to thrust forward and claim.

A soft whine escaped Lucifer's throat.

Alastor answered with his own broken sound—part whimper, part growl, all desperation.

His claws dug furrows in the soft earth beside Lucifer's hips as he fought against his own body's demands.

Through the haze of want, Lucifer understood.

Even lost to rut, some part of Alastor was still terrified of hurting him.

Still trying to be careful, controlled, when his biology demanded he take what was his.

The doe let his head drop forward in screaming surrender, tail trembling with the effort to stay raised.

"C'mon Bambi," Lucifer breathed, voice rough with need. "Ya already mounted me—least ya could do is fuck me properly."

The teasing nickname shattered whatever restraint remained.

Alastor fucked him like a demon possessed.

Fast, desperate, driven by instincts that had nothing to do with finesse and everything to do with claiming what was his.

His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, each thrust lifting Lucifer from the soft grass.

The sounds the big buck made were growls and huffs and deep, rumbling clicks. His mind was completely lost

His claws dug into Lucifer's hips, holding him steady as he rutted with abandon, chasing a release that seemed always just out of reach.

“Mine.” Feedback squealed around them both.

"Yours," Lucifer gasped, turning his head to catch those wild crimson eyes. "I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere."

Alastor went very still, his breathing harsh and uneven. For a moment, Lucifer thought he might pull away entirely and his pussy clenched around the demon’s cock.

Instead, something shifted in those burning eyes.

Some understanding that this wasn't just rut-driven fucking but choice, freely given and gladly received.

When Alastor moved again, it was…Slower. Deeper.

Each thrust deliberate and purposeful, as if he was savoring the connection rather than simply chasing release. His grip on Lucifer's hips gentled, though it wasn’t any less possessive.

"Just like that," Lucifer encouraged, his voice breaking on the words. "Just like that, my buck."

The change in pace was shattering.

Desperate friction replaced with devastating power.

Each slow withdrawal and careful thrust hit places inside him that made stars explode behind his closed eyelids. The new angle, the deliberate rhythm, the way Alastor seemed to be mapping every inch of him—it was too much and not nearly enough all at once.

Lucifer bowed his head, his arms failing to hold him upright as a whine escaped him.

His ears dropped further, tail trembling with each impact.

"Don't stop," he begged, the words muffled against the grass. "Please don't stop."

Alastor's response was a deep, rumbling sound that might have been his name, distorted by static and affection.

The demon's rhythm never faltered even as Lucifer's body began to tighten around him.

When orgasm finally claimed him, it was with a force that left him sobbing.

His pussy clenched around Alastor's cock, waves of pleasure crashing over him until he could do nothing but surrender to it. His tail lashed frantically, ears pressed flat against his skull as he rode out the aftershocks.

But Alastor was still hard inside him.

"Breed your little doe," Lucifer whispered, the words tumbling out on instinct and desire. "My big, strong, worthy buck."

Alastor's careful control shattered like glass.

His grip tightened, claws extending to dimple Lucifer's skin.

And when he moved again, it was with the same urgency.

The need to claim, to mark, to ensure that his doe would carry the scent of him for days to come.

Each thrust drove Lucifer higher, pushed him toward a second climax that built like storm clouds on the horizon.

His oversensitive body responded to every movement, every sound, every harsh breath that fell from Alastor's lips.

When the demon finally reached his orgasm, it was with a roar that shook the very trees.

His teeth sank into Lucifer's shoulder. Heat flooded Lucifer's core, marking him from the inside as Alastor's body jerked.

The bite sent Lucifer spiraling into his own bliss, smaller but no less intense.

He cried out against the grass, body clenching around Alastor's still-pulsing cock.

The world came back in fragments.

First, the weight of Alastor's body collapsed against his back, heavy and solid and trembling with exhaustion.

Then the sharp bite of punctured skin where the demon's teeth had claimed him, already healing but still singing with possession.

The ache between his legs, from being thoroughly used in the most primal way possible.

Lucifer's breath came in shallow pants, his cheek pressed to the damp bayou grass.

Moss tickled his skin, earth rich and loamy beneath him, but all of it felt distant compared to the overwhelming sensation of fullness that still stretched him wide.

Alastor was still buried inside him.

His cock had softened but didn’t exactly seem keen to pull out.

The demon's breathing was harsh against Lucifer's neck, each exhale carrying the wild scent of rut and satisfaction and something that might have been wonder.

"Fuck," Lucifer whispered.

He tried to shift, to ease some of the pressure on his oversensitive pussy, but Alastor's weight held him pinned.

One massive hand splayed across his back, claws retracted now but still possessive.

The other had tangled in the white fur of his tail, fingers stroking through the silky strands.

The touch sent aftershocks racing through Lucifer's transformed body.

His doe anatomy was hypersensitive, every nerve ending still firing with the memory of being claimed so thoroughly.

The slick evidence of their coupling painted his thighs, cooling in the humid air and carrying the musk that would mark him as taken for days to come.

He should have felt vulnerable. Exposed.

At the mercy of a demon whose rational mind had been temporarily consumed by biology.

Instead, he felt cherished.

"My big buck," he sighed, pure contentment.

Alastor's response was a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into Lucifer's spine.

Not quite words, not quite sound, but a reluctance to let this moment end.

Chapter Text

Alastor's consciousness surfaced like something dragged up from deep water, heavy and disoriented.

His body still trembled with aftershocks, massive frame gradually shrinking as the rut's fever broke.

The weight of Lucifer beneath him felt impossibly precious, impossibly fragile, and for a moment he couldn't move—couldn't risk disturbing the perfect stillness of the angel.

The bayou around them had gone quiet.

Even the ever-present hum of insects seemed muted, as if the swamp itself was holding its breath.

Spanish moss stirred without wind, catching what little light filtered through the canopy, and the air hung thick with the scent of magnolia and musk and satisfaction.

Alastor's breathing slowed, harsh pants evening into something approaching normal.

His claws had retracted, though his hands still gripped Lucifer's hips. The doe's fur was damp with sweat and other things, matted against golden skin that bore the marks of teeth and desperate fingers.

Mine.

The thought surfaced unbidden, primal and absolute.

Not the frenzied claiming of rut-madness, but something deeper.

Something that made his chest ache with an emotion he didn't have words for.

Lucifer stirred beneath him, a soft sound escaping those kiss-swollen lips.

His tail flicked weakly, ears twitching, and when he turned his head to look back over his shoulder, those familiar golden eyes were soft with contentment.

"Hey there, big buck," Lucifer rasped. "Welcome back."

The casual affection in those words nearly undid him.

Alastor felt his throat close, overwhelmed by the simple acceptance—the lack of fear or regret or the thousand other reactions he'd been bracing himself for.

His cock had finally softened enough to slip free, and he felt the loss like an ache, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away entirely.

The demon shifted, rolling them both until Lucifer was pressed against his chest, blonde fur stark against the red gray-brown.

The angel made a small sound of surprise that melted into a purr as the demon’s arms came around him.

"I—" Alastor's voice cracked, static bleeding through. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Are you hurt?"

Lucifer's laugh was soft as silk.

"You keep asking me that." His hands came up to frame Alastor's face, thumbs brushing over sharp cheekbones. "And I keep telling you—”

“Yes yes, archangel.” Alastor muttered. “But are you injured?”

“I'm fine. Better than fine."

But Alastor couldn't stop touching, couldn't stop cataloging every inch of the Lucifer’s doe form. His fingers traced the delicate curve of those soft ears, the line of his throat where bruises were already fading, the gentle swell of hips that had felt so perfect in his grasp.

Each touch drew small sighs from Lucifer, little sounds of pleasure that made something warm and fierce unfurl in Alastor's chest.

"You changed yourself," he whispered. "For me."

"Well," Lucifer's grin was wicked even in his doe form, "maybe a little bit for me, too. But mostly for you, yeah."

Alastor buried his face in the curve of Lucifer's neck, inhaling the scent that no transformation could mask.

His tongue darted out without thought, tasting salt and satisfaction.

Lucifer's breath hitched. "Al—"

But the need was rising again—not lust, not the driving hunger of rut, but something else entirely.

The urge to clean, to care for, to tend to his doe in the aftermath of their mating.

It was pure instinct, stronger than rationality, and Alastor found himself moving before he could second-guess the impulse.

His tongue was broader now, designed for this exact purpose.

He licked a careful stripe up Lucifer's throat, cleaning away the evidence of their coupling with reverent attention.

The angel's skin was fever-warm beneath his mouth, silky-soft and responsive to every touch.

"Oh," Lucifer breathed, understanding in his voice. "Yeah, okay. That's—fuck, that feels good."

The permission was all Alastor needed.

He worked methodically, tongue following the paths his claws had traced earlier. He cleaned the hollow of Lucifer's throat, the curve of his collarbone, the tender skin behind those soft ears that flicked with each careful caress.

The taste was intoxicating—salt and sweetness and something indefinably right.

Lucifer melted under the attention, pliant and trusting in a way that made Alastor's heart stutter.

The angel's hands carded through his hair, careful of his antlers, occasionally guiding him to spots that needed particular attention.

There was nothing sexual about it—or rather, nothing urgently sexual.

It was an intimate bonding ritual that spoke to parts of Alastor's nature he'd never allowed himself to explore.

"That's it," Lucifer murmured, drowsily. "Take care of me, Bambi."

The endearment sent warmth racing through Alastor's veins.

He nuzzled deeper into the crook of Lucifer's neck, inhaling the scent that was becoming as necessary as breathing.

His hands smoothed over the angel's sides, mapping the new curves and hollows, the places where golden skin gave way to soft fur.

But as his tongue traced lower, following the line of Lucifer's spine, he tasted something that made him pause.

Blood. Golden, angelic, blood.

From where his teeth had broken skin in the final, frantic moments.

The sight of the wound—small but distinct, already healing but still tender—sent a shock of guilt through Alastor’s system.

He’d managed to mark an archangel. Something that the Radio Demon would have gloated about in any other circumstance.

If he hadn’t just branded his boyfriend like some common beast claiming territory.

"Hey." Lucifer's voice cut through the spiral of self-recrimination before it could take root. The angel had twisted in his arms. "None of that. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I hurt you," Alastor whispered, ears flattening against his skull.

"You marked me," Lucifer corrected firmly. "And I liked it, remember?"

To prove his point, the angel tilted his head, baring the bite mark with deliberate invitation.

Mine.

The possessive snarl whispered again.

Mated. Marked. Mine.

This time, when Alastor's tongue found the wound, it was with infinite gentleness.

He cleaned it with the same reverent care he'd shown the rest of Lucifer's body, soothing the abraded skin until the angel was practically purring beneath him.

"Better?" Lucifer asked softly.

Alastor nodded, not trusting his voice.

The need to tend, to care for, was beginning to ebb, replaced by exhaustion that seemed to settle into his very marrow.

His transformation was reversing itself—slowly, gradually, but undeniably. His antlers were shrinking, his frame compacting.

The fever that had driven him for days was finally breaking.

But even as his body returned to normal, the intensity remained.

If anything, it felt stronger now—less wild, more focused.

The desperate hunger had been sated, but the underlying relationship, the bone-deep certainty that this angel belonged to him and he to the angel, remained unchanged.

"Come on," Lucifer said suddenly, struggling to sit up with the obvious protest of well-used muscles. "Let's get cleaned up properly."

Alastor wanted to protest—wanted to keep holding the angel close, to bask in the warmth and satisfaction and the simple miracle of acceptance.

But Lucifer was already moving, wincing slightly as he rose to his hooves, white tail flicking with determination.

The water at the bayou's edge was warm as bathwater, heated by some magic that made this pocket dimension more comfort than a real swamp.

Lucifer waded in without hesitation, sighing as the clean water soothed and washed away.

He turned back to Alastor with an expression of pure invitation.

"Coming, big guy?"

Alastor followed, his body moving on instinct alone.

The water was blissfully warm, carrying the scent of magnolia and clean earth rather than the stagnant smell of a real bayou.

It came up to his chest as he waded deeper, finally reaching the spot where Lucifer waited.

"Turn around," the angel commanded softly.

Alastor obeyed, still too wrung out to do anything but submit to Lucifer's care.

Gentle hands settled on his shoulders, and then warm water was cascading over his back as the angel cupped it in his palms.

The simple kindness of it—the way Lucifer tended to him with the same reverent attention—was almost overwhelming.

"You're shrinking," the blonde observed, voice fond.

His hands mapped the changing proportions of Alastor's frame, following the retreat of enhanced muscle and elongated bone back toward more familiar territory.

"Rut's really over, huh?"

"Yes," Alastor managed. "I think—yes."

Lucifer's laugh was soft as water over stones.

"Good. Not that I didn't enjoy the whole big buck bod, but I missed being able to reach your face without a ladder."

The teasing drew a surprised chuckle from Alastor's throat.

He turned in the water, finally meeting those eyes directly, and felt something settle in his chest.

Only warmth and affection.

"You're still—" He gestured vaguely at Lucifer's doe form.

"Oh, right." Lucifer glanced down at himself as if he'd forgotten about the transformation entirely. "Want me to change back?"

"No," Alastor said quickly, then felt heat rise in his cheeks at the vehemence of his response. "I mean—if you want to, of course, but—"

"I like the way you look at me like this," Lucifer admitted, stepping closer in the warm water. His hands came up to rest on Alastor's chest, now that they were close to the same height again. Well, as they ever were. "Like I'm something precious."

"You are," Alastor whispered. Raw and honest and devastating its simplicity. "You are precious. To me."

Lucifer's expression softened, eyes going molten gold. "Al…"

"I know it's too much," Alastor rushed to add, panic flaring at the thought that he'd overstepped, revealed too much too soon. "I know we haven't discussed—that is, I don't expect—"

Warm lips silenced him, gentle and sure and tasting of bayou water and lingering satisfaction.

When they parted, Lucifer's forehead rested against his.

"It's not too much," the angel whispered.

Alastor wanted to protest, to point out all the ways he was anything but perfect—his pride, his need for control, the way he'd nearly lost himself entirely to base instinct.

But the look in Lucifer's eyes left no room for argument.

Instead, he pulled the angel closer, arms wrapping around that smaller frame.

They stood like that in the warm water, holding each other as the last of the rut's fever finally broke.

The bayou around them hummed with quiet contentment, Spanish moss swaying in an unfelt breeze, water lapping gently.

Eventually, they made their way back to shore, to the soft grass.

Lucifer conjured blankets with a snap of his fingers.

They settled together without discussion, Alastor's head finding its natural place on Lucifer's chest—surprised, and pleased to find it fluffy and inviting—the angel's fingers carding through his damp hair.

"Thank you," Alastor murmured into the comfortable silence.

The words felt like the weren’t enough. But he couldn’t find the right ones to express his gratitude for acceptance, for understanding, for the gift of being seen at his most vulnerable and found worthy rather than wanting.

Lucifer's hand stilled in his hair. "For what?"

"For this. For…" Alastor struggled to find words that wouldn't sound too raw, too revealing. "For not being afraid of me. For letting me—for accepting what I needed."

"Bambi," Lucifer's voice was infinitely gentle, "you don't have to thank me for caring about you. That's what this is, right? Caring about each other?"

It was such a simple way to put it, but it encompassed everything—the months of careful courtship, the gradual building of trust, the way they'd learned to fit their jagged edges together.

And now this, the ultimate test of that trust, passed with flying colors.

"Yes," Alastor whispered. "Yes, it is."

Above them, the artificial sky of his pocket dimension was beginning to darken, stars appearing like scattered diamonds against velvet.

Somewhere in the distance, jazz music played—soft and sweet.

"Sleep," Lucifer murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I'll be here when you wake up."

It was a promise and a reassurance.

Alastor let his eyes drift closed, secure in the knowledge that for the first time in his existence, he'd found something—someone—worth the vulnerability of absolute trust.

The last thing he was aware of was the steady rhythm of Lucifer's heartbeat beneath his ear, the gentle movement of fingers through his hair, and the profound contentment of being wanted for exactly who he was.