Chapter Text
The ballroom glittered like the throat of a dying star — opulent, suffocating, gilded in corruption. Every inch of Lucifer’s palace was polished decadence, from the stained-glass chandeliers dripping with ruby light to the polished obsidian floors that mirrored a thousand wicked smiles. The air smelled of perfumed sin and sweet rot, heavy with incense and the faintest burn of ozone, as if even the architecture held its breath in reverence or restraint.
Tonight’s gala was no mere display of infernal wealth. It pulsed with tension — something theatrical, electric, and cruel. There was music, yes: a haunting string quartet playing in minor thirds, the notes winding like serpents between whispered conversation and brittle laughter. But beneath it all thrummed something darker. The walls seemed to lean in. The candles danced too high. This wasn’t celebration. It was spectacle.
It was amusement.
You stood near the edge of the marble dais, your posture poised, the stem of your wineglass cool and delicate between your fingers. The liquid inside swirled like blood caught in a spell, darker than crimson, deeper than ruby. Your dress clung to you like shadow and flame — midnight velvet with glimmers of ember thread, its low back baring you to the flickering light and every covetous gaze it drew. You were made to be watched, and tonight, you were on full display.
Alastor was beside you, tall and composed, one gloved hand resting lightly — possessively — on the small of your back. His grin gleamed like a razor, his eyes narrow slits of broadcast gleam. Every inch of him radiated static elegance, the illusion of effortless charm sharpened into something dangerous. He murmured small barbs and flatteries to passing guests with his usual cordial sadism, but never once did his hand leave your body. Not for a second. Not until you sweely requested he fill your drink again — and even then it was full of reluctance.
And yet, across the room, Lucifer watched you with the patience of a god denied tribute.
He stood elevated on his own dais, surrounded by sycophants in gold-threaded attire and velvet cloaks. And still, his gaze never wavered from you. It bored through satin and skin and bone, so warm it was cold. He looked at you not like prey, nor prize — but as if he were the one holding your leash, and Alastor had dared to borrow it.
When he approached, the crowd parted without question. His presence rolled forward like a tide, calm and inevitable, drowning all conversation in his wake. He smiled as he reached you — slow, radiant, too white.
“Tell me, darling,” he purred, voice silk stretched over a blade, “how does one enchant a man like him?”
You blinked, not because you didn’t understand, but because your brain refused to answer fast enough.
“Pardon?”
Lucifer’s laugh was soft and lilting, like the final chord of a church hymn as it echoes off ancient stone — too beautiful to be trusted. “Alastor,” he said, as though tasting the name. “He’s been circling you like a predator since the moment you arrived. Unusual, for him. I was beginning to think his appetites had gone entirely stale.”
The thought of his appetites going stale pulled a soft giggle from you, the crinkles at the edges of your eyes that Alastor had grown so fond of kissing forming briefly. He, unfortunately, took it as an invitation to press his luck.
His gaze dropped to your wrist, where his fingers brushed lightly, as though testing the pulse. The touch burned, not hot but divine — an echo of Heaven still lingering in the devil's skin. His thumb stroked once, just enough to make your breath catch.
“Do you even know the power you hold?”
It wasn’t a compliment. It was a warning. A mirror held up too close. A reflection through him you didn’t want to see.
Before you could shape a reply, the atmosphere shifted like a radio dial snapping to a new frequency. Alastor reappeared, his shadow preceding him in sharp angles. His smile didn’t change, but the air around him did — cooler, crackling faintly, as if the entire ballroom had drifted into a broadcast lull.
“Ah, Lucifer,” he said sweetly, his voice honey-glazed static, a dangerous edge threatening beneath the cracks. “Always the charmer. But let’s not flatter my dear too much — she might begin to think she belongs to someone else!”
He tilted his head just slightly toward you, his grin tightening at the edges.
Lucifer’s grin widened in turn, all teeth and sacrilege.
“Oh?” he asked, gaze flickering lazily between the two of you. “Tell me — do you love her, or do you simply hate the idea that I could?”
Alastor’s fingers, still nestled against your spine, pressed in harder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to speak. Mine. He didn’t feel it necessary to answer a question with such an obvious answer.
The moment hung there like a held breath, thick with the scent of ancient rivalry and something far more primal. Lucifer’s eyes gleamed. Alastor’s grip flexed. And you — caught between divinity and distortion — felt your own blood begin to sing.
Lucifer took one slow step back, the smirk never leaving his lips. His gaze flicked lazily from Alastor’s clawed hand at your spine to your parted lips, your breath caught like prey between them.
Then he chuckled — low, intimate, the sound of stained-glass cracking under pressure.
“Careful, Alastor. Keep clutching her like that, and someone might think you’re afraid she’ll stray.”
His eyes slid back to yours, warm and unhurried.
“You do wear danger beautifully, little one,” he murmured, voice curling around you like smoke. “Try not to let him smother the shine.”
And with that, Lucifer turned — not retreating, but receding, like the tide before a storm — and vanished into the gala’s gilded gloom.
Your lips parted to speak again, but Alastor was already circling. Not like a man — like something older, coiling. The air grew tight with invisible threads, radio static weaving into the edges of your hearing. A thousand distant voices whispered nonsense beneath it all, like channels caught between stations.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he murmured behind you, his breath ghosting your ear. “He always did enjoy watching the stars burn out. There’s something exquisite about the moment right before collapse. So bright. So final.”
One gloved hand slid around your waist, fingers splaying possessively over your stomach. The other crept higher — up your spine, between your shoulder blades, guiding you subtly back against his chest.
“I’ve seen it,” he continued, voice low and rich with static. “He did it to kings. To angels. Even to his own daughter.”
You stiffened.
He smiled against your neck, lips not quite touching. His grip tightened — subtly, not painfully, but with intent. Anchoring. Binding.
“But tonight…tonight he didn’t watch them.” His mouth brushed your temple, your cheek. “He watched you.”
His hand at your waist slid downward, palm flattening against your hip, holding you still.
“Not just a glance. Not just curiosity.” His voice dipped lower, static wrapping the words like barbed wire in velvet. “He watched you the way a man watches a feast he’s been fasting for. The way a hunter watches a wounded fawn stumble.”
You turned your head slightly, but his grip didn't allow escape — he followed, pressing in.
“And you glowed for him,” Alastor hissed, his grin faltering at the edges. “He made you shine. You laughed, and the sound caught in his throat like a hook.”
His hand moved again, this time gliding up your chest, fingers brushing the base of your throat.
“Do you know what it’s like to hear that?” he whispered. “To feel it — on every station, across every thread of static — your laugh lighting up for him?”
He leaned in closer, cheek to cheek, his smile now a trembling thing, stretched too wide.
“I should cut his ears off for listening.”
You inhaled sharply.
Alastor laughed, soft and terrible. “But I won’t. No…no, he deserves to hear what comes next.”
He bent, lips grazing the skin below your jaw.
“Because you’re mine,” he purred, tongue flicking against your pulse like a metronome. “And I’m going to make sure he never forgets what that sounds like.”
His voice was dipped in that awful sweetness again — like sugared poison. He took a step closer. Then another. Until the hem of his coat brushed your knees and the air between you crackled like a live wire.
You swallowed, every nerve on edge.
“…Are you angry?” you asked at last, voice small beneath the weight of him.
Alastor stilled.
Then: a low, velvet laugh.
“No, no, my dear. Anger is so uncouth,” he cooed, almost lovingly. “This?” His fingers slid higher, curling just under your chin, tilting your face toward him. “This is inspiration.”
His grin returned, terrible and sharp.
“I’ve never been so motivated to compose.”
“Why does it matter then?” you asked, quieter than you meant. “You said you weren’t angry.”
“I’m not,” he cooed, tilting his head. “I’m simply jealous.”
He leaned in then, almost nose to nose, his smile feral. “Because I know exactly what he saw in you. And I know he wants to take it for himself.”
His gloved fingers finally touched your chin — gentle, guiding, lifting.
“But he won’t,” Alastor murmured. “Because I saw it first. I tuned into your frequency before he even knew you existed.”
A flash of something darker flared behind his eyes. “You’re already mine, sweetheart. The dial’s been set.”
His thumb brushed your lower lip.
“And I’d rather ruin you than share.”
You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.
Alastor’s fingers lingered at your chin, still poised like a conductor holding the final note of a symphony. His grin had not faltered, but it no longer reached his eyes — it hung there, brittle and bloodless, as though carved from porcelain.
For a moment, the room felt like a coffin. Velvet-lined. Airless.
Then, just as suddenly as the pressure had risen, it fell away.
He stepped back.
Composed himself.
Adjusted his cuffs.
And offered you his arm like nothing had happened.
“Shall we?”
You hesitated. But your hand slid into the crook of his elbow nonetheless.
The hall outside was quieter than it should have been. Even the shadows along the walls seemed to draw back, afraid of proximity. Alastor hummed a pleasant tune softly as you descended the grand staircase — an old jazz refrain about heartbreak and hellfire, off-key in places, like he was letting it rot on purpose.
No one dared look at you.
No one dared stop him.
You felt the weight of it trailing behind you, not your dress, not your heels, but the gaze of a devil you hadn’t known you’d tempted.
You didn’t speak much on the way home.
Alastor was all old-world elegance: arm hooked through yours, his gait measured, his smile serene, a quiet hum trailing from his lips like a lullaby soaked in formaldehyde. He offered pleasantries to passersby, nodded to the shadows that bowed at his presence. But something about him felt too precise — too measured. Every movement laced with tension so tightly wound it became indistinguishable from grace. Like a ballroom dancer spun too many times, the mask barely clinging.
Like a marionette waiting for the strings to snap.
The cold outside clung to your skin even as you entered the Hazbin Hotel, the warmth inside doing little to ease the chill crawling up your spine. Red velvet and flickering neon cast the familiar halls in their usual infernal glow, but it felt different now — uncomfortably close. Like the walls had heard something they shouldn’t.
He said nothing as you climbed the stairs.
When you reached your suite and pushed the door open, he followed without being asked. Still humming that same, saccharine tune — something old, something half-forgotten, a warbled relic from a phonograph long broken. The notes trailed him like fog.
He didn’t speak. Not even when the door clicked shut behind you.
Then came the lock.
Then the seal.
The faint, ghostly whisper of enchanted wards slithered over the frame. Sigils shimmered on the wood for a breath before vanishing, replaced by a low hum, like a radio tuned just slightly off-station. The air turned viscous. The corners of the room dimmed. A single bulb flickered once, then stilled.
Your back straightened. Instinctively. Your fingers tightened around the hem of your dress.
“Alastor— ”
“Do you know,” he interrupted, voice level and unblinking, “how many frequencies he listens to?”
His silhouette stretched across the floor in the dim light, casting his grin longer than his body. He took a step forward, still smiling.
“How many walls his voice passes through? How many rooms it reaches — even when he isn't there?”
You turned to face him fully now, your heart climbing its way up your throat. “Alastor, it was just —”
“He heard you laugh.” His tone remained calm, almost conversational. But his eyes gleamed with something serrated beneath the static. “He saw your eyes shine for him. For Lucifer.”
His name hung in the air like sulfur. Like a challenge.
You opened your mouth, breath catching on the rise of protest, but Alastor was already moving. Not quickly. Slowly. Casually. Like the inevitable walk of a storm toward your doorstep.
“Alastor, I didn’t —”
“Oh, darling.” The word curdled sweet in his mouth. His grin split wider, crueler, almost joyous in its blade-edge clarity. “I insist that I’m not angry.”
Another step.
“I’m inspired.”
His shadow swallowed the distance between you. One gloved hand reached up — not to strike, not to grab — but to gently brush a strand of hair from your cheek. Tender. Reverent. Terrifying.
“You let him see the shine in you,” Alastor murmured, his voice a velvet snarl. “But let me show you what it reflects when it’s truly mine.”
The room buzzed louder. The hum was inside your teeth now.
And the strings — those invisible, buried strings — tightened.
The air was thick with tension, and magic, and something darker still — possessive hunger coiled just beneath the surface of civility. The hum in the room wasn’t just static anymore. It was a low, electric throb, like a tuning fork buried in your bones, responding to the fury behind Alastor’s calm.
He stepped closer. One step. Then another. Until your spine met the wall with a soft thud, and you realized — too late — that the exit was no longer an option.
Not that you’d ever exit his stage.
He leaned in, not with menace, but with dreadful control. His hand rose, slow as smoke curling through a cathedral, and brushed another lock of hair from your face. The motion was gentle — loving, almost. But his fingers lingered too long. Pressed too deliberately behind your ear, like he could tune you if he tried.
“You laughed for him,” he said again, voice like syrup left too long on the burner.
“I laughed at a joke —”
“You touched his arm.”
“He reached out first —”
“You let him look at you.”
That silenced you.
Because he was right.
You hadn’t stopped Lucifer. Hadn’t looked away.
Alastor’s smile cooled like a dead flame, all polish, no warmth. Calculated. Cutting.
“That’s the thing about being mine,” he murmured, tilting his head just enough to let the light catch the sharp edge of his grin. “It’s not spoken — it’s proven.”
And then his mouth was on yours.
He didn’t wait for permission. He never did.
The kiss was a strike — not soft, not coaxing, but claiming. His lips crashed into yours, all sharp edges and static. You tasted iron and ozone and something sweeter beneath, like rot soaked in red wine. His teeth scraped your lower lip — not by accident. It was a warning. A mark.
His hands, gloved and sure, clamped at your waist, dragging you forward into him until there was no space left at all. Your body sparked under his touch, nerves alight, trembling. The hum of his power wrapped around you like radio cords, unseen but unmistakably there.
Then he turned you — suddenly, dizzyingly. The room spun. The world shifted.
You hit the bed, silk sheets hissing beneath your body like water on a hot pan. Before you could rise or even breathe, he was over you — on you — climbing your form like smoke, like wrath given form. His legs bracketed yours. His presence swallowed the light.
“Let’s make sure he hears everything,” Alastor said, and his voice had changed — lower, more primal, deliciously cruel. “Since he clearly so adores listening to you.”
Your breath hitched. “What?”
He smiled down at you like a showman stepping into the spotlight. Too wide. Too bright. Wrong.
“Oh, he’s listening,” he purred, gesturing toward the door. “I made sure of it.”
He leaned in close, his mouth at your ear. “Every moan. Every scream. Every time you beg for me instead of him.”
Your mouth opened, words faltering on the edge of protest or surrender — only to choke off into a gasp as he shoved your thighs apart, one knee slotting between them with sudden, merciless force. His hands gripped your flesh with bruising intent, not to hurt but to brand.
The look in his eyes was pure theatre — rapturous, commanding, entertained.
But the way his hands trembled just faintly said more: jealousy wasn't the root of this — it was the spark. Obsession was the fire.
And tonight, he was going to burn you down for the world to hear.
Clothes vanished in flashes of red and sound, torn away with the wild abandon of a storm breaking free. There was no ceremony here — no delicate unbuttoning or slow slide of fabric. His claws raked at the delicate weave of your dress, ripping straps and shredding silk until it hung in ragged shards, barely clinging to your skin. The remnants fell away like dying embers, pooling silently on the floor beneath you.
He left you bare. Vulnerable. Breathless.
The cold air kissed your exposed flesh, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him — the quiet storm of desire crackling in every measured breath, every tense muscle.
Alastor knelt between your thighs, the world narrowing to the curve of your hips and the sharp edges of his presence. For once, that maddening grin softened — dimmed — not from restraint or denial, but from a hunger so deep it was almost worship.
His pupils dilated, black and shimmering like twin voids pulling you in. His lips parted slightly, a breath caught between adoration and appetite.
“I’ll make you sing,” he whispered, voice low and rough as static sliding over wire. His tongue traced a deliberate path, slow and reverent, from the hollow just inside your knee, crawling upward over silken skin, inching toward the secret warmth of your inner thigh.
Every nerve in your body ignited.
His mouth descended next — a soft, searing touch that silenced all thought. The world ceased to exist beyond the exquisite, burning pressure of him against you.
The way his lips moved, slow and precise, was a language older than sin itself. He mapped you with whispered promises and silent commands, each kiss a note in a song only he could compose. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady even as your breath hitched and your heart hammered a wild tattoo against your ribs.
You moaned for him — such a pretty sound.
“Do you hear that?” he murmured between kisses, voice trembling with a fierce, beautiful madness. “That’s the sound of your surrender. And I will broadcast it — far and wide.”
Your body trembled beneath his worship, every touch a spark setting fire to long-dormant shadows inside you. You were caught in the tempest of his obsession — both captive and willing participant, lost to the primal, reverberating chorus of need and possession.
His tongue was ruthless — deliberate, skilled, cruel in its worship. Every flick, every press of flesh against flesh was a vow, a claim, a promise to unravel you piece by piece. He traced the most sensitive contours of your skin with the precision of a maestro conducting a symphony of ruin. Warm, wet, commanding, he explored you with a hunger that felt ancient, insatiable, as if he were tasting your very soul.
Your back arched involuntarily, spine bowing beneath the weight of his attention. Fingers clenched in his thick, unruly hair, tugging at the strands like lifelines. Every moan that ripped from your throat was a raw, ragged note — each one coaxed out of you by his expert ministrations, each one echoing in the charged silence around you.
The heat pooling deep inside you built faster than you could contain it, swelling until the edges blurred and your breath came in shallow gasps.
But he didn’t let you fall. Not yet.
His mouth pulled away just before the breaking point — leaving you suspended on the edge of madness, trembling, desperate. His grin was sharp and merciless, an artist pleased with his masterpiece unfinished.
“What’s the matter?” he purred, voice thick with amusement and something darker, possessive. “You don’t want to finish before our guest gets to the good part, do you?”
You barely had time to catch your breath before he flipped you onto your stomach, his movements fluid and forceful all at once. Your body hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets sliding beneath you.
One hand pressed firmly to the small of your back, anchoring you. The other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise — pain and pleasure mingling into an intoxicating elixir. His fingers left a trail of fire where they pressed, marking you.
Then he thrust into you — deep, rough, primal.
The sudden fullness shattered your restraint. Your scream tore free, raw and ragged.
“Louder,” he snarled, voice warping with static, distorted and beautiful. “Let him hear how I fuck you.”
He drove into you with brutal rhythm, a relentless percussion of skin against skin that sent shockwaves through every nerve. Your muscles clenched around him, trembling with overstimulation and desperate need.
Alastor bit down on your shoulder — hard enough to draw blood. The sharp sting was quickly replaced by the slick warmth of his tongue, licking the wound clean with savage care. His grin was feral, a beast exulting in its prey.
“You’re mine,” he growled low in your ear, teeth grazing your skin. “Mine to break, mine to praise, mine to ruin.”
He shifted you again, dragging you up and turning you until you straddled his lap. The sudden change in angle sent new waves of fire through your core. His hands gripped your hips like iron handles on a machine, steadying you even as he thrust up to meet your movements, forcing you to ride him with fevered intensity.
Your mind unraveled — thoughts shattered, replaced by raw sensation. Breath came in ragged bursts, your body pushed beyond any limit you’d known before.
“Say my name,” he commanded, voice a velvet whip.
You obeyed. Again. And again.
“Alastor.”
“Louder.”
“Alastor!”
“Again!”
“Alastor!”
He claimed your mouth with a kiss then — deep, wild, a desperate worship that left you gasping for air. Again he shifted until he was atop you, driving into you with a renewed force you’d experienced before — he never lasted much longer like this. His hands tangled in your hair, holding you captive with fierce adoration in his violence.
He drove you to climax after shattering climax, holding you at the precipice of sensation until your sobs spilled freely, tears mingling with sweat and the sting of his teeth.
And then, finally, he came — moaning low and guttural, voice shuddering with release as his fingers bruised your skin in a final, possessive grasp. The room thrummed with his power, shadows twitching and pulsing like living things caught in the wake of his storm.
He collapsed on top of you, breath ragged, heat radiating in waves.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soft now, almost tender. “Good, good girl.”
You shuddered beneath him, wrapped in his arms, coated in sweat and bite marks and the magic that lingered like a third skin.
In the quiet that followed, his lips brushed against your ear.
“I’ll send him a recording tomorrow.”
You almost laughed. Almost cried.
But instead, you whispered his name again. Just once.
He smiled.
And outside the suite, the faintest crackle of power flickered — like a wire gone hot, humming with dark intent.
Lucifer sat upon his throne — a monolith carved from shadow and regret, towering above the cavernous expanse of his palace. The crimson velvet beneath him was untouched, save for the faintest imprint where the glass of wine had sat, now cold and forgotten. His fingers curled around the armrests with a quiet intensity, knuckles blanching beneath the weight of unseen fury.
The vast hall was deathly silent, yet beneath the surface, something pulsed — a distant, persistent echo woven into the very stones. It was a tapestry of sound: screams strangled into whispers, gasps caught between fear and longing, murmurs heavy with devotion and pain. Among the chorus, one voice threaded through with uncanny clarity — Alastor’s, weaving like a dark melody, and yours, trembling, raw, fragmented.
Lucifer’s eyes closed, lashes brushing against pale skin as he breathed in the reverberations. The echo clawed at something deep within him — a spark of ancient hunger, twisted affection, and burning jealousy.
“Oh, Alastor,” he murmured into the empty hall, voice low, laced with something dangerously close to admiration and warning. “You are afraid.”
There was no smile in his words, no softness in his tone. Only a cold, deliberate edge — like the sharp blade of a blade just drawn.
Yet beneath that stillness, his fingers clenched tighter on the armrests, white and trembling. Behind his closed lids, the flames in his eyes flickered — alive, sentient, and cruel. They danced with shadows older than sin itself, reflecting a darkness that had long ago learned to wait, to watch, and to strike.
“Good.”
The single word hung in the silence like a promise. A threat.
A reckoning waiting to ignite.