Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were two phrases that Alastor absolutely despised hearing: the first was Rosie saying “I told you so”, and the second was either Husker or Niffty saying some variety of “I don’t know, ask Angel Dust”.

The first one was something Alastor hadn’t heard many times over the years, but it had cropped up a few times, the first of which came immediately after he (as a fresh young Sinner) had attempted to consume Zestial’s soul. Even nearly a century later, Alastor shuddered to recall that moment, and it hadn’t been made any more tolerable by Rosie sipping her tea at him and smugly informing him that she had quite explicitly stated not to do it.

The second one was… new, in that he had never heard it before that very afternoon, at which point he subsequently heard it from both Husker and Niffty in fairly quick succession.

The conundrum, Alastor had thought, was quite a simple one, the premise of which began thus: in addition to simply being a little home-away-from-home that added a certain bayou charm to wherever he was residing, Alastor’s pocket dimensional swamp served as an ideal breeding ground for a wide variety of different flora native to many parts of Hell and even a few places in Creation, namely Louisiana. As a man raised to respect the Hoodoo tradition and taught in the ways of rootwork by his dear maman, Alastor quite enjoyed the hobby of crafting different potions, poisons, poultices, and anything else you could make out of dessicated and ground or hewn plantlife and store in a jar. As he had told Charlie many times, he did have a life outside of managing the Hotel, hosting his program, and terrorizing the streets of Pentagram City, and this hobby of his had led to Alastor’s establishment of Pride’s single-most popular rye whiskey distillery as well as a brief stint of contact with the apothecaries of the Sloth Ring that presumably fell off because Belphegor was, well, Sloth itself.

Of course, having done this sort of work for so many years, Alastor enjoyed branching out, expanding his collection of plants, and experimenting with them to see what he could develop. This led to the acquisition of some rather lovely little flowers from the Lust Ring called the Amourtis, with silken petals the color of a sunset with deep red near the stamen, turning to a gentle orange and fading to a blue-violet at the edges. It was, apparently, a key ingredient in several of the recreational drugs used widely throughout Lust, and from everything Alastor could determine, quite potent. They had taken to the soil in the swamp quite well, thriving in the glade in which they were planted, and Alastor had been rather eager to see what sorts of effects he could pull from them.

When he had informed Rosie of this acquisition, part of their usual idle chatter over coffee, she had told him that using them was probably a bad idea. When he had asked why, she had simply shrugged at him, an action she was well aware was deeply annoying and would only make him more determined to try it. And, perhaps, that annoyance had led him to be somewhat… overhasty in his actions.

The Amourtis was, certainly, a lovely flower. It seemed that it was quite eager to produce pollen, as well, as the act of collecting a few to experiment with had led to a rather ludicrous amount of golden dust-like pollen covering his hands and the sleeves of his coat. Initially unfazed, Alastor had begun dusting it off of his skin and clothing and into a small tray, and he noted the way that it smelled. It wasn’t definable, nothing he could compare to anything else, but it was pleasant. It wasn’t precisely floral, and it certainly wasn’t clean, but there was something raw and primal in the scent that made his stomach twist in the most pleasant sort of way.

Of course, as was his luck, it wasn’t long before that pleasant sensation was overtaken by something significantly less enjoyable. First, it began to grow too warm, Alastor eventually forced to remove his coat and his bowtie to relieve some of the heat that felt as though it was seeping out of his very pores. Soon after, he realized his skin was growing incredibly sensitive, the faintest touch sending a bizarre shiver straight into his bones. It began growing more and more difficult to catch his breath, to focus his attention on anything, to even think, and Alastor came to the most logical conclusion.

Obviously, the flowers were poisonous.

Usually, Alastor’s first thought in matters of poisons was Alastor himself. He was an old hand at crafting serums and antivenoms, and usually if he was given the poison in question it was trivial to whip up a cure for it in an hour or two. That, of course, was provided that he was able to think about the damn thing, which he wasn’t, so instead he went with his usual second option.

One of the many, many reasons he kept his nifty little Niffty around was her knowledge of chemicals and their interactions. Many people thought of her as nothing but a maid, but not only was she well-versed in exactly what sorts of chemicals worked on which kinds of stains and surfaces and why they did, she was also an accomplished assassin. If anyone would know about the effects of the flower and how to counter them, it would have been Niffty. Or so Alastor thought, anyway. When he had actually called on her, she had apologized for being unfamiliar with it and then advised him that he should speak with Angel Dust about it.

“Why would I do that?” Alastor asked.

“You said the flowers came from Lust. He does a lot of drugs. He might be familiar with it.”

So that hadn’t helped at all, which was fantastic. Alastor had gone so far as to send for Husker next; gambling addict and alcoholic he was, to be sure, but he had made hangover cures for absolutely every type of liquor and drug that Hell could throw at someone. However, he had informed Alastor (standing at the other end of the room with his ears laid back) that he had no idea what to do about this kind of thing and then told him to just ask Angel Dust.

“Why do people keep saying that?” Alastor asked.

“I dunno, because he probably has the most experience with this shit?”

Alastor didn’t want to call on Angel Dust. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Angel Dust, of course; no, the two of them had engaged in many conversations over many nights when Alastor came into the private lounge to find the spider decompressing after a long shift at work. When Angel Dust was too tired to be aggressively cheeky, he could actually be a pleasant conversationalist, incredibly knowledgeable about theater and music and food while being quite eager to learn about other topics he personally found interesting. And, when it wasn’t just about sex, Alastor actually found himself interested in Angel Dust’s complaints about his job. There had been a time that Alastor had a rather keen interest in the workings of the film industry, and while he had forgone that for his love of radio, he still found himself fascinated by the way films were made. Plus, it sounded like VoxTek was an absolute shitshow more than half of the time, which just added a level of personal fun to the stories.

No. Alastor liked Angel Dust. He just didn’t want to call on him.

Logically, he had no reason not to. Despite all of his appearances, Angel Dust had the capacity for discretion, and Alastor had never known him to divulge any secrets that he knew… save a few things about the Vees, which demonstrated he wasn’t being compelled to keep secrets, he simply chose to. Add that to the fact that he was undeniably the most likely to know what was happening to Alastor and how to handle it, and it made Angel Dust the natural next step in a search for a cure.

But when Alastor thought about calling the spider to his room, the twisting in his stomach worsened. It grew even hotter, and Alastor panted as he popped one of the buttons off of his shirt with his claw, sagging down into his chair. He just knew, somehow, that Angel Dust would make it worse.

Somehow, all of these thoughts made the sudden sharp knock on his door even more ominous.

There was, apparently, something wrong with Alastor.

Angel Dust couldn’t tell if this was an emergency warranting alarm and extreme caution (because “there’s something wrong with Alastor” was one of the most forboding sentences one could utter in Hell) or if it was a situation that had the potential to be very funny (considering that Niffty had been giggling like a madwoman when she told Angel Dust about this supposed problem). He’d tried asking Husk, but the guy had just rolled his eyes, stopped him with a raised hand, and started drinking straight out of a bottle of tequila.

And Husk hated tequila, so whether it was an emergency or not, something was definitely going on.

On the one hand, it wasn’t Angel Dust’s problem. After all, Alastor was always determined to deal with everything by himself, practically building his whole damn personality on his spooky lone wolf cryptid thing. If he did have a problem, then it would make sense to just leave the guy to figure it out on his own.

On the other hand, Angel Dust liked Alastor, despite all his best attempts not to, and he knew that most of this “I’ll do it and I’ll do it by myself dammit” attitude the guy had was due to the fact that, for most of his time in Hell, he’d been largely alone. He was stubborn as a mule and didn’t seem to realize that he actually did have friends that would be willing to do things for him, not as part of a deal but just because it was a thing that friends did.

On the third hand, if it was funny, Angel Dust really wanted to see it. Like… he really, really wanted to.

He didn’t have anything for the fourth hand, and the fifth and sixth hands were full of gun, so he supposed that settled it. He was going to go to Alastor’s room and see if the guy would actually let him in.

Angel Dust stood outside Alastor’s door with one set of arms crossed, a hand on his hip and his fist still raised as he listened for any kind of response. He heard shuffling, so he knew Alastor was in there, but the guy was either ignoring the knock or avoiding people. Tilting his head Angel Dust knocked again, and this time he heard something fall over.

“Hey, Smiles, it’s me,” Angel Dust called. “Lemme in.” No response. “I ain’t gonna go away ‘til you let me in.” No response. “Okay, so lemme tell you about work two days ago. We were filmin’ this script Travis wrote, more’a that fuckin’ Pure Boy series, god that fuckin’ name, anyway so I walk in and I see the prop table and it’s just covered in Lego bricks, right? So I’m like, hey, Travis, what the fuck? But he says don’t worry about it and like I’m worryin’ about it especially when Rocky comes out and he’s got on this like sexy gimp clown suit or some shit? And I find out I’m s’posed to build like this big Lego cock and while I’m doin’ that Rocky’s gonna take that little squeaky horn he’s carryin’ and put it right up my–”

The door clicked and swung open. Honestly, Angel Dust was impressed that Alastor weathered that much, because if Angel Dust ever started talking about the scripts, it was usually a cue for Alastor to get swallowed up by his shadows and vanish.

Angel Dust had been in Alastor’s room once before, only for a moment; Kee Kee, being the Hotel itself, was able to open any door she felt like to any room on the premises. Fat Nuggets had taken to following Kee Kee around the Hotel, like the universe’s smallest and most invested tour group. Kee Kee liked Alastor. Fat Nuggets also liked Alastor. This had led, once, to Kee Kee shoving Alastor’s door open, both her and Fat Nuggets getting into his room, and Angel Dust being forced to go in to coax his baby out from a bush at the edge of Alastor’s swamp. He hadn’t actually gotten much of a chance to look around and certainly not to hang out, so this felt almost significant.

He let his eyes skate over the room, if you could call it that. A bed that looked like it was never slept in, a desk that looked like it had seen a great deal of work over the years, a swamp that stretched out for what seemed like forever from where his back wall should have been, and a small sitting area with two chairs in front of a large fireplace that emitted a steady green glow despite the fact that there was no fire burning in it. It was in the sitting area that he finally saw Alastor, and suddenly, Angel Dust understood why Niffty was giggling and Husk was drinking.

Alastor was slumped in his chair, coat and tie gone, the harness he always wore askew and his shirt open enough to reveal the fur on his chest. His feet were firmly planted apart, one of his legs shaking slightly, and he had an extremely visible erection straining the material of his slacks so badly it looked like they might rip. He was leaning one elbow on the arm of his chair, his hand cradling his face, but Angel Dust could see one glowing red eye peering at him from between those long, sharp, dangerous fingers.

It was, without a doubt, the hottest thing Angel Dust had ever seen.

The door shut with a snap so suddenly and so loudly that Angel Dust squeaked, jumping and turning his head to look. “Fuck,” he breathed as he turned back to Alastor. “You’re in a real state, huh?”

“Laugh it up, Chuckles,” Alastor said in a strained voice heavier with radio static than his usual distant delivery. “I… am handling it. I have… no need for either your input… or your concern.”

Angel Dust raised a skeptical brow at that, planting his hands on his waist and his hips. “Uh-huh, yeah, sure, you look like you’re doin’ a spec-fuckin’-tacular job there. What’s with you? Y’look like you just got cockblocked after gettin’ the best lap dance Asmodeus’s personal club’s got on offer.”

Alastor growled low in his chest, and Angel Dust’s other brow raised to match the first. But the Radio Demon didn’t lunge, no shadows attacked, nothing happened except that Alastor just kept staring at him. He was frustrated, then.

With a heavy sigh, Angel Dust dropped his usual attitude and took a couple of steps forward. “C’mon, Smiles, tell me what happened. Niffty told me there was somethin’ wrong, and I can see she was right, and if she was comin’ to me when you were safely tucked in your room it’s ‘cuz she thinks there’s somethin’ I can do for you.”

Alastor closed his eyes and swallowed roughly. “My work bench,” he said in that same fried, strained radio voice. “I was… experimenting with…” He didn’t finish, just raising his other hand and flapping it uselessly in the direction of the aforementioned bench.

Game as always, Angel Dust shrugged and pivoted to march over to the desk and look. There were some pretty flowers on it, but most of the top of the bench was absolutely covered in pollen. “What’re these?”

“Amourtis,” Alastor answered. “From Lust.”

Angel Dust slowly turned his head to stare at Alastor. “...why the fuck do you got raw Amourtis pollen in your fuckin’ room? What’re you even tryin’ to make?!”

Alastor didn’t raise his head, but Angel Dust could see the corners of his smile shifting and his lip curling. “I was… experimenting. As I said. They’re… used in recreational… drugs, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Angel Dust said slowly, walking back towards Alastor. “Recreational drugs that the succubi and the incubi use. It ain’t shit that most people wanna fuck around with, buddy.”

There was a long pause. “...it’s an aphrodisiac,” Alastor concluded. “I thought ‘death through love’ was… I don’t know… hyperbole.”

Angel Dust snorted quietly. Okay, so this IS serious, and it’s ALSO funny. “It’s one’a the ingredients in the love potion VoxTek makes. It’s got, like, a microgram of the pollen per dose.”

Alastor growled again. “I absolutely despise that they were right.”

“...who was right?"

“Niffty and Husker said… you would probably know… what it was and what to… do about it.”

Angel Dust giggled, savoring for just a moment the fact that Alastor had essentially just called him the expert on a matter. “Don’t worry about it, Smiles. Get yer lil’ shadow guys to clean up the pollen and then you won’t hafta worry about it, and the effects’ll wear off in… I dunno, depends on how much you got, but could be a couple’a hours. Could be a day.”

The low hum of static that seemed ever-present around Alastor, usually an admittedly pleasant white noise, spiked into a piercing squeal as the Radio Demon suddenly leaned forward and stared at Angel Dust in abject horror. “A day?!”

Angel Dust winced, holding his hands over his ears until the noise subsided. “Sorry, pal, you better clear your schedule ‘cuz you got a lotta masturbatin’ in your immediate future.”

Alastor was still sitting forward and still staring with wide, crazed eyes. As Angel Dust watched, Alastor’s ears slowly laid back to rest flat against his head. “...does…” He swallowed audibly. “...does that help?”

Angel Dust nodded at him, but he was growing confused himself. “Uh… yeah, I mean… look, I wasn’t gonna be all crass and shit, I know you got your hangups or whatever, but…” He gestured wordlessly at Alastor’s slacks.

For a moment, Alastor stared at him, then slowly looked down, and then made a noise that was somewhere between alarm and frustration. “I do not… have… hangups,” was the response that he chose.

“Okay, fine, you don’t got hangups,” Angel Dust said. “You got neuroses.”

“That is not better and you know it.”

The spider giggled again. “I’m just surprised you ain’t been jerkin’ it nonstop since the effects started, that’s all. You got way more self-control than most people do.”

Alastor sat back and hid his face with his hand again, but this time, Angel Dust could see a distinctive glow that indicated he was blushing. He mumbled something under his breath and the blush seemed to grow darker.

“...what was that?”

“I can’t,” Alastor said, his voice still weak.

Angel Dust stared at him. “You… can’t… wait.” He held his hands up. “Wait, hang on, what’re you talkin’ about?”

“I can’t,” Alastor said more firmly, sitting up and staring at him. His face was still intensely flushed and his eye contact was so crazed and unerring Angel Dust could tell the other demon was forcing it. “I have very rarely experienced any sort of biological urge to… to engage in any activity that leads to procreation, even when I was a teenager and apparently supposed to be plagued with nothing except thoughts of… of… that,” he said passionately, gesticulating violently. “And on the few occasions that I did, if I ever tried to… to… engage with it, nothing ever happened. It felt strange, it made my wrist hurt, it was intensely boring, and it only made the feeling worse. So I have always simply ignored it. And I do not want to face an entire day of ignoring this.”

Angel Dust was still staring, but now it was in absolute fascination. “...so… you’ve never…” He raised his hand with a limp wrist and shook it back and forth. “...like… ever.”

Alastor groaned loudly and put his head in both hands, clenching his fingers in his hair.

“Okay, okay, sorry. Look, I ain’t pokin’ fun, Alastor. I promise.” This was officially a delicate situation, and Angel Dust wasn’t exactly positive how to navigate it without treating Alastor like a virginal client who was nervous about a session. But Alastor wasn’t a client, and for all Angel Dust knew he wouldn’t appreciate even the idea of it. Angel Dust bit his lip before he crossed over to Alastor and knelt, tilting until he was in the other demon’s eyeline. “Will you tolerate me bein’ a professional for a minute here?”

Alastor’s eyes opened, then narrowed. “...alright.”

“M’kay. So, I’m gonna ask you somethin’, and I’m gonna need a yes or a no. Either one is fine. Do you want me to help you out?” When Alastor just stared at him, Angel Dust said, “Nothin’ weird. Nothin’ you ain’t comfortable with. And nothin’ you’re gonna owe me for later. All real professional and shit. I ain’t gonna tell nobody, I’ll even… like… magic-swear that for you if you want.”

Alastor closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, gritting his teeth. Angel Dust heard something crack. He just sat and waited for an answer, watching the Radio Demon’s inner struggle for a long few minutes that just made his flush and his heavy breathing worse. Finally, he opened his mouth and said one quiet word.

“Alright.”

Angel Dust swallowed both his surprise and his immediate questions of ‘really?’ and ‘are you sure?’ because, with whatever had just gone through Alastor’s head, the last thing he needed was someone making him second guess himself. Angel Dust nodded and leaned back, then got to his feet. “C’mon.”

Alastor stood as well, his body trembling with the effort of keeping himself together. Angel Dust truly didn’t know how he was managing it, because the raw pollen was usually enough to turn just about anyone into a crazed sex maniac; apparently, Alastor really was just so immune to hormones that even something like this didn’t make him entirely lose control. He gripped the chair to keep himself standing. “...I… I don’t…”

Angel Dust shook his head. “You don’t gotta know what to do. You just let me take care of it. Can I put my hand on your arm?”

“...yes.”

He reached out and gently look Alastor by the arm, leading him over to the bed and encouraging him to sit down. He then knelt in front of him, and Alastor’s eyes went wide for a moment. Angel Dust gave him as reassuring a look as he could under the circumstances before he carefully began removing Alastor’s boots. The other man hesitated for only a moment before letting him, his hoofs gently tapping against the floor as Angel Dust freed them and set his boots aside. Angel Dust looked up again. “Are you comfortable removing your clothes?”

Alastor immediately shook his head, the look on his face that of a panicked fawn. “N-no, I… I don’t… I mean…”

Angel Dust shushed him. “It’s okay. You don’t gotta, like I said.” He considered for a moment before he stood and crawled onto the bed past Alastor, rearranging the pillows until he could sit against the headboard comfortably. Alastor watched every one of his movements with… trepidation? Excitement? Angel Dust wasn’t sure, but he kept his movements deliberate and confident as he got the setup right and then turned to sit back against it. “C’mere. Sit with your back against my chest, m’kay?”

Alastor’s movements were cautious and more than a little awkward as he complied, settling between Angel Dust’s spread legs and flopping backwards against his chest. Alastor was practically a furnace with all the heat spilling off of him, and as he relaxed into the spider, he let out a soft noise that was half a sigh of relief and half a whimper. Angel Dust bit his lip, mentally telling himself to calm the fuck down because this wasn’t about him, it was about Alastor and it needed to stay that way.

“Alright. I’m gonna touch you. We’ll start slow, and you can tell me if I do anythin’ you don’t like. And if I do somethin’ you do like, y’can just nod. Okay?” Angel Dust asked. Alastor just nodded wordlessly, somehow both so tense Angel Dust was afraid he was going to snap while also being so relaxed he was like liquid.

Consent given, Angel Dust reached up and placed his hands on Alastor’s shoulders, feeling the way his muscles tensed and contracted before slowly beginning to relax as Angel Dust ran his palms slowly down to his elbows, then back up towards his neck. His relaxation deepened as Angel Dust massaged his arms, his shoulders, his chest, his upper back, and his neck, and gradually, a low purr began rumbling through the radio static.

“That’s good, just like that,” Angel Dust murmured, and Alastor gasped softly. Angel Dust hadn’t done anything else with his hands, but he stopped. “Alastor?”

“N-no, don’t stop,” Alastor whispered. “...p…please.”

Angel Dust nodded in thought and went back to gently stroking and massaging Alastor over his clothing. Alastor didn’t flinch when Angel Dust touched his neck, so the spider allowed two of his hands to travel higher, slipping into Alastor’s hair. The Radio Demon started slightly, his static stuttering, but it mellowed out into a louder purr as Angel Dust began massaging his scalp. His hair was shockingly soft and well-cared for, and the deeper the massage grew, the more Alastor seemed to melt in his hold.

The position was correct, and the temptation was just too great. Maybe he was pushing his luck, but Angel Dust allowed his hands to travel higher, to the base of Alastor’s ears. The instant that he began rubbing, Alastor actually whined, pushing his head back into Angel Dust’s hands as his ears twitched and shuddered. “You like that?” Angel Dust murmured, and Alastor gave him a tight and quick little nod immediately, like he didn’t want the contact to stop.

And Angel Dust didn’t stop. His fingers found the edge of Alastor’s open shirt, and Alastor nodded, so Angel Dust allowed his fingers to push into the soft, thick fur on the other demon’s chest before he slowly began unbuttoning it further.

Maybe he should push his luck a little further.

“You’re doing so well,” Angel Dust murmured as he gently scratched at Alastor’s ears and his chest, and Alastor let out a soft, high keening noise. Curious, Angel Dust stilled his hands for just a moment. “You’re bein’ such a good boy for me.”

“Oh, fuck,” Alastor whispered harshly, trying to press both his head and his chest into Angel Dust’s hands, bowing his back and tilting his head to expose his entire throat. Angel Dust smiled a little and went back to petting him, murmuring gentle words of encouragement and reveling in the way that Alastor began to pant with his tongue hanging out over his teeth. His soft whining noises began to grow pained and frustrated.

Angel Dust chuckled, nuzzling the side of Alastor’s head. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“N-nothing,” Alastor managed. “I’m f-f-fine. I can hand… handle it.”

“Mm.” He leaned up and gently blew on the fur around Alastor’s ear, making it start twitching like crazy. “Want me to touch your cock, or d–”

“Yes,” Alastor hissed through gritted teeth.

Smile widening, Angel Dust allowed one of his hands to trail down to Alastor’s slacks, ghosting over the line of his cock and making his whole body jerk sharply. The temptation to tease him was strong, but Angel Dust showed mercy instead, just unfastening the waistband before he slid his hand inside and wrapped his fingers around Alastor’s cock.

The Radio Demon made a noise that would have been a howl if he hadn’t been gritting his teeth so hard. Angel Dust’s breath caught as he gently pulled Alastor out of his slacks, allowing his erection to finally fully stand, and it… was huge. Like, Angel Dust was a hooker and a porn star, he was really hard to impress in that department, and even still…

“Just relax, baby,” Angel Dust murmured as he truly let himself encircle Alastor’s cock with his hand and give it a slow, steady stroke up to the tip and then back down. He was able to quietly delight at the way the skin creased at the edge of his palm, and the second time he made it back to the base, he saw the monstrous cock pulse as even more blood flooded towards the tip. Glistening precum suddenly pooled from the slit, Alastor gasping at the sensation, one Angel was usually not even aware of when it happened to him. The other demon’s mouth was opening and closing slightly, like words were trying to form, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what he wanted to actually say.

Angel Dust bit down on his lip a little, giving Alastor another gentle nuzzle to the side of his head while he moved his hand back up. He used his palm to smear precum all around the tip, then stroking down again, the slickness easing his way.

At that, Alastor gave an open-mouthed moan. His panting grew more intense, his eyes were growing completely unfocused, drifting just a little out of sync with each other. Those wickedly clawed fingers of his were gripping the comforter, popping holes in it as they flexed back and forth. And in the same rhythm, his hips began to rock. Just a little, it was with trepidation, it was uncertain, naive. He wanted to thrust properly, that’s how it felt. But he didn’t know how.

“That’s it,” Angel Dust whispered, encouraging the rhythm with a steady hand, flexing until he found the right amount of pressure for the moment. “That’s so good, sweetheart, just like that.”

He complied, and whimpered while he picked up the pace and force. “Ah~! Angel…!”

…Alastor had never just called him Angel before.

Fuck.

The rhythm of his hand almost faltered as Angel Dust shuddered at the sheer feeling of power that came with having the Radio Demon fall apart at his touch. Alastor’s cock was burning, throbbing in his hand, and Angel Dust wanted to see him shatter.

He leaned up and nuzzled Alastor’s ear, then he whispered, “Now be a good boy and cum for me.”

Alastor’s scream was high pitched and overwhelmed. His hips shot up and in several staggering bursts he came. With Angel’s help it spattered three times—each punctuated by an explosive burst of static—over the spider demon’s hand, onto Alastor’s slacks and shirt, the trace of a midriff that could be seen where his shirt had shifted. Then it was left dribbling over the shaft, his knuckles, and left Alastor’s chest heaving up and down rapidly. His eyes were now shut tight, his whimpering resumed, trailing off in little melodic whines that very nearly became a song.

“Th… tha… thank you…”

“Mmhm. You’re welcome, baby.” It felt silly to hesitate after everything they’d just done, but still, Angel Dust did take a moment before he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Alastor’s head. “Y’want me to stay?”

The Radio Demon turned, not bothering about the mess or his rumpled clothes, until he was on his side, turned so his chest would press into Angel’s. His head rested on Angel Dust’s shoulder, fingers crawled along the bed until they found the spider’s lower hand, threading into his. He was still so warm. And when he spoke, his voice was a whisper embraced by soft static.

“Stay, sha. Please.”

Angel Dust felt… odd, in a way that he never did with clients. Or with anyone, really. Usually, he just wanted to fuck and then be left alone, because anything more was complicated.

“...okay, Smiles. I’ll stay.”

On the other hand, he was comfortable. No reason to change that now.

•••

Chapter Text

Hell bore many incomparable treasures if one sought to discover them. True, it was seen by most as little more than a desolate wasteland upon which nothing good could grow or thrive, and to most ends, such words were very true. But Hell was the birthplace of many of man’s most primal urges, and it was within Hell that one could feast upon the sweetmeats of violence and degradation, of lust and deception, of debauchery and debasement…

…and Hell was the most beautiful feeding ground Zestial could ask for when the desired banquet was fear.

Shadows followed his steps as he drifted through the halls of the great manor house, seeking the quarry that he knew to be slithering about in the hopes of remaining unnoticed. It was truly something utterly thrilling, hunting one’s most desired prey, most especially when that prey was fiercely determined to succeed despite being woefully ill-equipped for such a task.

With the benefit of so many years in Hell, Zestial knew Pride’s airs and energies better than most anyone save Lucifer and Lilith themselves, he would wager, and he used this advantage to its fullest as he swept down a staircase in complete silence and alighted on the landing to see a flame flicker some distance down the hall. He felt his smile grow, his eyes widening briefly, before he swept along after it, bleeding into the darkness to follow the lovely little serpent so insistent on exploring the house of the oldest Overlord so late at night.

Sir Pentious was a confounding thing, and delightfully so, always offering Zestial a new kind of scream or a new level of defiance in the face of abject terror. He was also so very, very beautiful, with his large, curious eyes and smooth curves and long, silken hood. Of course, the poor boy was also what could be called… jumpy, and Zestial thrilled in the way his quarry tensed and spun when the Overlord reached out to run long, sharp claws along the glass of a nearby window.

“Fuck.” Sir Pentious blew out the light of his lamp with a quick breath, plunging himself into the near-impenetrable darkness of Pride’s clouded red midnight pouring through the windows along the corridor. It was as good as pitch black darkness to most eyes, but Zestial had never had issue seeing in even the darkest night, and he knew that Sir Pentious bore eyes that were sharper than most (if, regrettably for him, not as sharp as Zestial’s own). Still, he could see well enough to press himself back against the wall, protecting himself from behind as he glanced back and forth along the long corridor. Zestial almost laughed when Sir Pentious’s eyes skated right over his hiding place, but he maintained his quiet, simply waiting for the serpent to act.

Zestial could hear his breath, growing high and fast as he waited for the inevitable end to their game that seemed as though it simply would not come. His heart, too, pounded in his chest, so loud and so strong as to nearly be entirely audible to Zestial’s ears. The Overlord’s growing arousal spiked as he heard the Sinner swallow with an audible click, punctuated by a slow, trembling exhale. Sir Pentious was trembling as he slowly separated himself from the wall, edging forward in the silence with one hand extended to ensure there was nothing with which he collided, thus revealing his location.

The Overlord sprang lightly from a shadow on one side of the corridor to one just across from it, right behind Sir Pentious, and the poor man let out a muffled shriek as he spun around and searched for whatever it was that he was certain had touched him. With another curse, he picked up his speed, heading for his destination.

He would not reach it, Zestial would make certain of that.

The knowledge that he was being chased, now, paired with the gentle scratching and tapping and rushes of cold, cold air sent Sir Pentious into something of a panic, and he reached the door at the end of the hall, fumbling with a key ring and muttering frantically under his breath. The words were trembling and shaken by the beginnings of soft, stuttered gasps that threatened to break fully with every passing moment. Zestial came up behind him and slowly rose from the shadows, higher and higher, until he stood at his full height over the other Sinner. He then bent at the waist to sweep down and place his lips near enough Sir Pentious’s ear.

“Found thee.”

Sir Pentious screamed in terror, dropping the keys in his panic as he turned and fell to the ground against the wall. Tears streaked his sweet face as his gasps finally turned to sobs, fear grasping him so tightly about the heart that it seemed he could barely breathe for it. A deep and prolonged growl of hunger rumbled in Zestial’s chest as he bent over the terrified creature, one hand slamming into the wall over his head and the other into the floor beside his hip. Sir Pentious made a noise like a whimper too afraid to be another cry, more of those beautiful, enticing tears cutting their way across his flesh.

The sight was too much to bear. Zestial seized Sir Pentious by the coat, ripping it open with a force that sent his buttons clattering across the floor, one pinging off a vase like a melodic bullet. Sir Pentious cried out, but did not fight as Zestial devested him of his coat, and then his cravat and his shirt, casting the material away and asserting his posture with greater intensity to cow the serpent into lying on the floor.

Zestial leaned down and lapped at Sir Pentious’s cheek with a long and glowing tongue, the little snake sobbing as the Overlord partook of the salt of his fear. The taste of it was almost more arousing than the sight, and Zestial’s cock throbbed past the point of pain as he freed it to the cold air and then slipped one hand along the undulating curves of Sir Pentious’s body towards that place a short distance below his abdomen where his tail hid his cloaca. Of course, it was barely hidden now, Sir Pentious’s own arousal apparent even before Zestial’s cold fingers brushed both of his hardening cocks and made him cry out once more, back arching and hips lifting for just a moment as though desperate to press against the cold and deadly hand so intimately threatening him.

The slit of flesh was already dripping as Zestial pressed two of his long fingers inside the tightness of that cloaca, and Sir Pentious howled at the sudden intrusion, throwing his head back and shaking as he sobbed openly. Even so, his inner walls pulsated around Zestial’s fingers as though trying to pull them deeper inside. Zestial stroked him, hand tilted to allow his palm to slide up and down the underside of Sir Pentious’s second cock, and the serpent whimpered and writhed until Zestial took hold of both his wrists and held them firmly against the floor over his head. The writhing did not stop, precisely, but it lessened even as his whimpers grew louder and more desperate. Soon, he was openly panting, tossing his head back and forth as though in denial or, perhaps, in a bid to keep himself under control.

Throughout it all, the tears did not stop.

When Zestial suddenly removed his hand, dripping with slick, Sir Pentious screamed in such pleasurable agony that the Overlord wished he could bottle it up and keep it on a shelf somewhere to experience it again and again whenever he so desired. Zestial smeared that wetness along his own cock until the entire length was gleaming with it, then he pressed the tip against that beautiful slit of flesh, plunging himself fully to the hilt within his beautiful prey’s body and tilting his head back to appreciate the sounds of the renewed cries and the feeling of that twisting, struggling form clenching around him.

Zestial did not hesitate, instead beginning to fuck Sir Pentious in earnest the moment he had gathered himself with enough certainty that he would be able to make himself last at least long enough to make all of the rest worthwhile. Each thrust was punctuated by one of Sir Pentious’s most beautiful noises, cries and pleading and sobs and the broken syllables of Zestial’s name.

Sir Pentious’s body was wound as tightly as a new clock, so desperate and begging that Zestial could no longer resist. He pressed his lips against the side of Sir Pentious’s head and growled, “Give me thy seed, prey.”

With a howl, Sir Pentious came, both of his cocks twitching and pulsing as his semen painted both Zestial’s stomach and the serpent’s own, and the sight of his ecstacy pressed Zestial to push entirely inside the Sinner, spilling his own seed deep within the other’s body. It felt like minutes before the waves of pleasure coursing over his body finally began to subside. Sir Pentious was trembling on the ground, the final dregs of his tears falling as Zestial withdrew himself and then swept the snake up in his arms.

Though he could have made the trip in an instant, Zestial instead walked along the corridor and back to the stairs, Sir Pentious curled against his chest with one hand clinging to his cloak and face buried in his shirt. The tears stopped as they ascended to the third floor, and by the time Zestial carried him into their bedroom and set him on the bed, Sir Pentious was wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Thou truly must do better than that,” Zestial teased him as he sank down to sit beside him, offering a handkerchief.

Sir Pentious took it with a sharp movement that was really only token, performative annoyance; he knew his love well enough to see he was not actually upset. “You were asleep,” he said in exasperation. “I made absolutely sure of it this time.”

“And as I have told thee time and again, my sleep is as light as the barest wisp of smoke. Thy absence shall always be enough to rouse me from it.”

“Oh, it is not,” Sir Pentious laughed, though he was blushing at the compliment as though it was the first time he had heard it. “You, old man, have slept through plenty of much more intrusive situations. I heard you even fell asleep during an Overlord meeting with both Alastor and Vox in attendance.”

“Who is it that so slanders me thus?” Zestial asked, though he was smiling. “Tis all vile deception, my love, listen to it not.”

“Mmhm.”

“Besides,” he continued insistently, “tis long past time for thine own slumber. Didst thou not… how does one say it… bitch for nigh on three hours about thy lack of restful slumber these past nights and their ill effect on thy scientific pursuits? T’was much counter to thy goals to leave our warm and comfortable bed to wriggle thy way back into the library.”

Sir Pentious made that face that he always did when he knew Zestial was right, but he couldn’t just say that. “...I still had more research to do, and as I said, you were asleep, so I thought no harm in my returning to my work..”

“Yes, yes, thy research. Research that shall keep until morn. Thou need not worry, the tomes thou seeketh shall remain undisturbed during thy rest.”

“Nhmhm,” Sir Pentious half said, half grumbled as he folded his arms. “...you tore my jacket.”

“Tis only the buttons, little serpent. I shall affix them in their proper places come tomorrow, have no doubt of that,” Zestial said as he encouraged Sir Pentious to lie down before covering him with the blankets.

“You’d better,” Sir Pentious threatened, narrowing his eyes (still reddened by tears) up at Zestial and drawing a chuckle at the sheer cheek of him. “Or I will… …um… …I am not certain but I will have time to think about it so rest assured it shall be terrible and harrowing.”

Zestial swept around to crawl into bed himself, scooping Sir Pentious into his arms and pulling him against his chest. “I am truly frightened, my love.”

“...good.”

As much as Zestial still loved frightening the citizens of Pentagram City, he had to admit, it was blissful to have such beautiful tears right here in his home.

•••

Chapter Text

The Devil had a reputation, particularly among humans both living and dead, for being a creature devoid of love.

Lucifer, frankly, found that assertion downright offensive. Sure, he had his bitterness and rage, he wasn’t so prideful that he couldn’t admit that, and he knew he could be cruel and downright cold when the situation called for it (and, sometimes, when it didn’t). But Lucifer loved, and often he knew he loved too much or too fiercely or with too much overwhelming focus for anyone else to bear.

It was love that drove him to push so far in Creation that he was cast out of Heaven.

It was love that made him fruitlessly beg at the feet of the Metatron to remain in Heaven.

It was love that drove him into isolation.

It was love that pulled him out of it.

It was, ultimately, love that drove him and Lilith apart.

Nothing would ever change the deep well of emotion Lucifer held for Lilith. She wasn’t his first love, but she was the first he had recognized in himself, and he was positive that even after another six thousand years had passed, that love would not have lessened. But Lilith wanted the one thing Lucifer could never give her: she wanted someone she could obsess over, who would obsess over her and only her in return, with eyes for no one else.

Angel Dust was the one who had casually said, “Ohh, so you’re poly,” going on to explain that he meant ‘polyamorous’ and saying it as though it was one of the most normal things he could have said. Lucifer had never really thought about it, but… it made sense.

Lucifer loved Lilith, yes. But the entire time they were married, Lucifer loved another, and though he tried to burn that love or smother it until it died, he just couldn’t. And though he tried to hide it from his beautiful and devoted wife (because it wasn’t her fault, and he didn’t want to betray her trust, and it wasn’t as though he could ever fulfill that long-unaddressed desire), Lilith knew. She always knew.

Lucifer loved Lilith, but he also believed she deserved to have the monogamous devotion she wanted so badly.

His first love remained unacknowledged for many years, and then, once acknowledged, went unexamined and unaddressed for millennia. It wasn’t until the Archangel Mikael was tossed into Hell unfallen (which was a whole thing, involving a fight with Gabriel and Raphael, the Extermination, baggage regarding Adam, it was a headache) that Lucifer was even forced to contend with it. It was difficult, of course—Mikael had been the one forced to cast Lucifer out of Heaven, they hadn’t seen each other in thousands of years, there had been so much animosity between their realms—but if there was one thing that would apparently never change about Mikael, it was that he was the kindest, gentlest soul Lucifer had ever met. Why Mikael loved him, he didn’t know. He didn’t think he’d ever understand why someone so pure would want anything to do with him. Of course, Lucifer also wasn’t about to question it.

And then… then, there was Rosie.

Rosie had been a complete accident in so very many ways. Already irritated by Alastor’s insistence on positioning himself as Charlie’s new father figure (what a bitch), Lucifer had admittedly been more than a little annoyed at hearing some other Overlord being referenced as Charlie’s new mother figure. And not just any Overlord, but the Overlord of fucking Cannibal Town and Alastor’s best friend. Lucifer had marched straight down there with a mind to do… something, he still didn’t know what his plan was or how he was going to address this apparent issue without sounding like a completely paranoid and insecure maniac, but he didn’t meet the raving, gross madwoman that the title ‘Overlord of Cannibal Town’ suggested.

No, in fact, Rosie had the audacity to be charming, intelligent, funny, confident, a fantastic cook, sarcastic, and… well… dominant. It didn’t hurt that she was also a tall, elegant, beautiful woman with an obvious danger about her, which happened to be one of Lucifer’s greatest weaknesses. During their first meeting alone, she’d had no problem instructing him to wait for her to finish her current business, tell him where to sit, refer to him by only his name, and answer all of his questions quite matter-of-factly. The whole time, she was equal parts friendly and professional, laughing off the idea of Alastor disliking their meeting with a wave of her hand and a claim that Alastor complained about everything.

It took him a while to realize what, precisely, it was that kept him coming back. It took him so long, in fact, that she was the one to initiate a first kiss with him, and wasn’t that a rare thing to see the Devil surprised and embarrassed by a peck on the corner of the mouth.

Rosie and Mikael were not Lilith. Lucifer knew that quite well. Even so, he had never arranged for the two to meet each other. They knew about each other, of course; Lucifer might well be the King of Lies, but he did have standards and nobody was going to catch him pulling that level of deception with those he loved. But even though both of them had informed Lucifer that they were fine with it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was risking repeating history in a way that would end with him alone again.

It wasn’t that he doubted them, not at all. But he couldn’t escape the gnawing fear that they would realize this wasn’t what they wanted after all and they would both leave. Maybe together, because he really did think the two of them would get along. At least they would be happy, and wasn’t that a horrifically depressing thought.

But that was not what was on Lucifer’s mind right now. No, it couldn’t be, because the entirety of his attention was on the fact that Rosie had asked to borrow his own personal bedchamber to set something up, and it had been nearly two hours, and the excitement was killing him. He was in his workshop, trying to focus on his ducks, but concentrating was almost impossible when really all he was doing was waiting for the knock on his door. When it finally came, he nearly fell out of his chair as he spun around, trying to look as normal as possible as he cleared his throat and called out. “Yes?”

Rosie opened the door and leaned in, giving him that wide, sharp-toothed smile of hers, the one that said she was proud of herself and absolutely up to something. She was wearing a different dress than she had before, this one black and white with a high lace collar but with the entire chest cut out down to the top of her corset, leaving her with what he believed was called a ‘boob window’ that showed off her ample cleavage. “Not interrupting, am I?”

“Not at all,” Lucifer said, extending his hand to her as she entered the room. She crossed to him and took it, and he pulled her down long enough for him to give her a small kiss. “Do I get to know what color you painted my bedroom now? Is it lime green?”

“Worse,” Rosie assured him, pulling him to his feet. “Come on, let me show you.”

Pressing his lips together to contain his excitement, Lucifer kept his hand in Rosie’s, letting her pull him out of his workshop and down the corridor towards his bedroom. The room itself was enormous, with high ceilings and large windows overlooking Pride, fine canopies over the bed and tasteful art on the walls that both complimented the small sitting area, tea table, and fireplace. After Lilith left, the place had been one of many that just felt too damn big, and for several years Lucifer had taken to sleeping inside one of the smaller pantries just because the ceiling wasn’t so fucking high (and the chips were, like, right there), but with the company of either Rosie or Mikael most nights it had become a lot easier to bear again.

It seemed most of Rosie’s attention had been on the bed. Lucifer was no stranger to the kinkier side of sex, obviously, and it seemed she had fitted some new equipment to the bedframe. She showed him where it could be rigged both to tie someone down to the bed and to suspend them over it with enough room for someone else to lie just beneath them while still having room to kneel beside, in front of, or behind them, and let him examine the black bamboo silk ropes she had acquired for the occasion… as well as what looked like a soft black eye mask.

“What’s this?” Lucifer asked with mischievous curiosity as he raised the mask between both hands, waggling his eyebrows at her suggestively.

Rosie laughed. “Oh, that’s for you, darling, if you don’t mind my putting it on you. It’s a deprivation mask, one I ordered from Lust. It’s supposed to completely shut off your sight and hearing.”

“Oooh, one of Ozzie’s specials, huh?” Lucifer asked, looking it over. It did seem long enough to go over both his eyes and his ears, and it was buttery soft fabric, the interior some sort of thick, plush material that felt heavenly as he pressed his fingers into it. “Mmm. Very nice. No, I wouldn’t mind you putting this on me at all.”

“Good,” Rosie grinned, then took the rope between both hands and stretched the folded length out a bit. “Strip.”

“Yes ma’am…!”

Lucifer did as instructed, not bothering to hide his excitement as he devested himself of his boots, vest and shirt, pants, and… well, everything else, his cock (which had started taking interest the moment he saw the new hardware on the bed) now standing fully erect. Rosie waved him onto the bed and directed him to the middle, and he obliged, sitting and waiting as patiently as he could while she unfastened her skirt and what had seemed like the top of her dress or a shirt but now appeared to actually be a bolero of sorts, leaving her in her corset, panties, stockings and garters, and heels. This was monstrously unhelpful for his erection, which pulsed with insistence as though begging for him to just wrap his hand around it, but he resisted the urge and just stared at her.

“Wow,” he breathed. “You look… you’re beautiful.”

Rosie smiled, but there was color on her fair grey cheeks as she crawled onto the bed behind him and pressed her chest against his back. Lucifer hummed happily to himself as she trailed her fingers up his arms, scratching lightly with her nails, before she placed the mask over his eyes. “Tell me if you can hear anything,” she said, just before she pulled it over both of his ears and fastened it behind his head. The effect was instantaneous, and he was subsumed in absolute darkness and silence that were both thorough enough to feel as though he was in a dark room but not so quiet as to drive him further out of his mind.

After a few moments, she tapped his shoulder, and he turned his head a bit. “Hm?” he asked in a way that sounded loud to him, but he didn’t hear a response, so it must have been working correctly. Rosie guided him to lie back on the bed and adjusted him, tapping him occasionally to ensure he was comfortable; it was a little sign they’d worked out together whenever one of them was incapable of speaking. Lucifer’s breath had grown heavy and hot by the time Rosie finished tying him down spread-eagle, tight enough that there was no give for him to either pull his hands down or close his legs, but comfortably enough that he could still wiggle his fingers and turn his limbs just a little. She tapped him again, and he nodded to communicate that it was good, before she moved and he felt her lift his head and slide her lap beneath it. She then laid his head back down against her thighs, and he sighed at the feeling of the silk of her stockings against his upper back and shoulders.

As Rosie’s hands stroked along his chest, nails skating across his skin, Lucifer felt himself beginning to purr. He had to admit, being the one to receive the attention was kind of nice, as much as he did like to be the one to dote on others and worship their bodies. Her fingers ran up the sides of his neck and into his hair, scratching at his scalp, when he felt something… or someone… crawling onto the bed near his feet. “Whoa,” he said, mostly just out of surprise, before he chuckled a little nervously. “Rosie…?”

Her fingers tapped against his collar bone, the sound audibly traveling up the inside of his body, just as two other hands touched his thighs and began sliding up his skin. Lucifer gasped, his hips jerking and legs reflexively trying to close, but he was unable to do anything as those hands rested against his hips. They were warm, bigger than either his or Rosie’s, and they felt… strong.

M…Mikael…?

Lucifer’s breath sounded so loud in his ears, and his inability to either see or hear meant he was completely unprepared for the feeling of a long, warm tongue sliding up the entire length of his cock from just above his balls all the way up to the tip. He cried out in surprise, jerking again, and felt Rosie’s hands press down into his chest to keep him still as a mouth closed around the tip of his cock and yeah that was definitely Mikael. The myriad thoughts running through Lucifer’s mind, namely ‘wait why is Mikael here’ and ‘since when do you two know each other’ was completely drowned out by the sensation of a wet tongue and soft lips sliding down his cock, then back up, the feeling nearly torturously slow and nowhere near deep enough.

“Oh, fuck,” Lucifer whispered, the words coming out far closer to a whimper than he would have liked as Mikael released his cock and licked along the length again. Rosie shifted beneath his head, replacing her lap with a pillow for him, then he felt her move around to kneel over his chest. She hooked her legs around his stretched-out arms and he felt the warm wetness of her pussy against his mouth; immediately, he complied, opening up and licking into the slit between her lips. He could feel her shudder as she rocked her hips slowly, and he moaned against her, rubbing her clitoris with the flat of his tongue a few times before letting his rather long tongue slide up into her.

Mikael’s hand wrapped gently around his cock and began stroking it, and Lucifer could feel the angel nuzzling at the head with his cheek before he kissed it. Lucifer moaned, the sound muffled even to him, delighting in the feeling of Rosie’s muscles tightening around his tongue and Mikael’s fingers stroking along his abdomen, hips, and legs. He thought he might drown, but that was something he knew that he could accept. What a way to die.

When they both stopped, it was sharp and sudden, both pulling away from him almost simultaneously. Lucifer nearly screamed at the sudden change in sensation, his cock pulsing as he came dangerously close to orgasm without managing to reach that threshold. He felt both of them shift, weight leaving the bed before returning, and then Lucifer felt the head of Mikael’s erect cock press against his lips at the same time as the sublime wetness his tongue had just been inside began to descend upon his own cock, swallowing it.

Lucifer moaned, opening his mouth to accept Mikael’s shaft as Rosie lowered herself fully onto him and slowly began rocking. Lucifer’s eyes rolled as he cradled Mikael’s cock with his tongue, basking in the feeling of the other man slowly and steadily thrusting into his mouth as Rosie pressed her long and sharp nails into Lucifer’s sides. He could feel the shift as she leaned forward, and the second shift as Mikael leaned back, and his imagination went wild with possibilities when he felt Mikael jerk sharply, his cock pulsing as he came in Lucifer’s mouth. As he eagerly swallowed, he wondered… had Rosie bitten him? That was certainly a thing she liked doing, and Mikael had certainly proven to have quite the masochistic streak.

Rosie sank her claws in deeper and intensified her pace, and it wasn’t long before Lucifer came as well, slamming his hips up into her throughout each wave of his orgasm. As he collapsed, boneless, back onto the bed, he felt them both moving until one of them (Rosie) was leaning with her elbow on the bed over his head, allowing Lucifer to rest his head against her chest, and the other (Mikael) was stretched out on his other side, head resting on his bicep.

Lucifer was panting as he felt Rosie’s nails against his scalp, untying the blindfold and pulling it off. “–all night but I don’t think that would be much fun,” Mikael was saying in his gentle, mild voice.

“Holy… fucking… Hell,” Lucifer panted as sight and sound returned to him, and he looked between Rosie’s proud grinning expression and Mikael’s almost apologetic smile. “When the fuck… did you two… meet?!”

“We haven’t, darling,” Rosie said sarcastically.

“You really should fix that,” Mikael added seriously.

Lucifer frowned at both of them before he laughed quietly, laying his head back. “Holy shit, you two are going to be the death of me,” he muttered.

He could feel them exchange looks. “...does that mean you’d like to be untied?” Mikael asked.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Lucifer didn’t have any control over his limbs until fairly late the next morning.

•••

Chapter Text

Stolas’s eyes burned as they scanned over screen after screen of spreadsheets and financial information, the numbers and symbols all beginning to blur together in a watery and headache-inducing mess of absolutely meaningless nonsense as he searched for every discrepancy he could use to make his client’s case. Here he was, the most in-demand and well-paid defense lawyer in the city, a man whose clientele consisted of household names and billionaires, and he was slumped at his desk, one elbow cocked against the surface and his jaw leaned into his hand, his entire upper body being held upright by the valiant effort of his wrist alone. His tie was loose, his coffee mug held the dregs of what must have been his fifteenth cup of the day, and he was certain he looked like he hadn’t been to bed in days.

It was late, far too late for this. Of course, Stolas was hardly the only person still in the building; his employment at this firm was hardly the first time he’d heard the joke ‘hey, it’s 5:00, time to go home’, and as one of their senior partners liked to say, “The only lawyer who keeps regular hours also has a team of legal aides doing all of their real work.” Stolas knew that, technically, he was in the position to hire as many aides as he could possibly find, foist all of this off on them, and just go home and get some sleep.

That came with risks, however, namely the idea that Stella would find out he had taken on the case of a young man who was being made to take the fall for one of the largest embezzlement schemes he’d ever seen, and he was doing it pro bono. He was just an average accounting employee with a small apartment and a wife, and a Fortune 500 company appeared to be trying to cover up nearly $10 million in funds funneled out by the CFO (the board chairman’s son, of course) by pinning it on this poor hapless man. Honestly, Stolas wasn’t sure what would make Stella angrier, the fact that he was doing something nice for someone she deemed as “lesser” than them, or the fact that he was doing it for free.

As long as I’m here, I don’t have to be at home, too. That’s a plus.

He was jarred out of his thoughts by his cellphone buzzing on the table, and the sound was so sharp that he actually squealed as he straightened up and spun to look at it. “Bloody fuck,” he whispered to himself as he picked it up and answered it without looking, his eyes going back to the mess of numbers on his laptop. “Hawthorne,” he said tiredly, hoping his tone would discourage whoever it was from lingering on the line too long.

“You sound like you got hit by a bus, Stols.”

Instantly, Stolas’s heart skipped and he sat up, alertness flooding him again. “Blitzø!” he said, before he got to his feet and went to his office door to close it. “What are you doing, calling me?? I told you I can’t talk when I’m at the office!”

“It’s nearly 10:30, babe, I’d’ve thought you’d have gone home by now.”

“If only,” Stolas groaned, heading back to his desk and slumping down in his chair. He raised his free hand to his forehead, massaging one temple with delicate fingers. “I’m still dealing with that embezzlement case.”

“Oof. Melting your birdbrain with math’n shit, huh? Couldn’t be me, I think I’d go postal on the whole building–” Stolas heard honking on the other end of the line with some distant yelling, and Blitzø sounded as though he pulled the phone away to yell back, “Yeah, come back here and fuck me yourself you fucking pussy!!”

Stolas laughed in spite of himself. “Walking home? I thought the van was supposed to be out of the shop.”

“Hey, same, but apparently the screaming metal death trap isn’t as sturdy as I’d hoped.” Stolas couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. “It’s fine, I picked up more hours at the restaurant, they need line cooks if they’re really gonna do this open 24 hours shit.”

Stolas frowned. “You’re still working at that place? I thought you quit to go work as a supervisor at that shipping plant.”

“All of that’s true except the quitting part.”

“Blitzø, you already have three jobs, you shouldn’t be working all night, too.”

“It’s fine, Stols, I got this. And once I have enough to start the company, I promise, I’ll be a single-job-employment kinda motherfucker.” Despite his worry, Stolas couldn’t help smiling. “Oh, Loonie said Via’s over at our place. She promised they’d get a ride to school tomorrow morning, so you don’t have to fret about that.”

“Oh? Oh, good,” Stolas breathed. It was very nice, the two of them going to the same high school, and was in fact the only way he’d met Blitzø in the first place. It meant his daughter always had somewhere to go that wasn’t home where he could know where she was and be assured she would still get to school. “I haven’t the faintest idea what I would do without you, my darling.”

“You’d probably’ve run off to be some rich guy’s trophy boyfriend,” Blitzø teased.

“Oh, he’s rich? Excellent, I’ve always wanted a sugar daddy.”

“Yeah, but he’s like 97.”

“I can stand two months of that as long as he wills me everything.”

Blitzø laughed. “Two months is generous, he must be having some really spry days.” Stolas giggled. “Seriously, though, you sound dead on your feet. If you aren’t going to go to bed, you should at least take a break.”

“I’m taking a break,” Stolas said, perhaps a little defensively. “I am currently talking to you.”

“And probably still at your desk and staring at your laptop screen.” Stolas blinked, then sat up and swiveled his chair a bit until he was looking at the window instead. Blitzø was chuckling low in his ear, sending shivers along the back of his neck. “You let me know you too well.”

“You say that as though you expect me to regret it.”

“Don’t you?”

“Never.”

Blitzø made a soft, thoughtful humming noise. “What are you doing?”

“I told you, I’m at the office.”

“No,” Blitzø said, his tone a little lower than it had been moments ago, though he might have been imagining that. “That’s where you are. I want to know what you’re doing.”

Stolas hesitated. “…I’m sitting in my office.”

“Where?”

“In… in my desk chair, behind my desk, Blitzø, why?”

“Because I’m painting a mental picture here, Stols, I need you to work with me.”

Stolas blinked. Oh. “…I’m sitting in my desk chair, but I’ve turned it so I’m looking towards the windows.”

“Still wearing your full work suit?”

“Yes, sir.” Stolas heard Blitzø’s breath catch just slightly on the other end of the line and felt himself growing quite warm. “Though I’ve loosened my tie and unbuttoned the first button of my shirt.”

“Mm. Hot.” Stolas smiled at the lecherous tone and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest of his chair. His boyfriend was utterly ridiculous. “Take off your tie.”

Stolas laughed gently. “Why should I do that?”

“Because I told you to.”

Somehow, even without Blitzø in the room with him, that was all Stolas needed. With a brief glance towards his office door, he reached up, hooking his index finger around his tie and tugging until the tail popped loose from the knot and he could pull the whole thing free. “It’s off.”

“Good. Are you in view of the door? Like, if someone walked in, would they see you?”

“Yes, mostly…?”

“Is the door locked?”

“N-no.”

“Good. Keep it that way and stay where you are.”

Stolas swallowed hard, glancing nervously at his office door again. “Blitzø, I’m not positive this is… really the place for, um, whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“Hey, I’m just making sure you get a bit of a decompression break. You work too hard.”

“I do not.” Stolas couldn’t put much conviction in the denial even without being as tired as he was. He dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “What if someone walks in?”

“Here’s hoping they know to knock.”

“Oh, by the stars,” Stolas muttered, letting his head fall backwards and trying to ignore his now half-hard cock. It would be incredibly easy to fix this situation: he would just have to either refuse to do what Blitzø was telling him to do, or hang up. Of course, something like that, which might come so easily to someone else, was practically an impossibility for Stolas. If Blitzø told him to do something, he would do it. That would probably never change, and Stolas hoped it never did.

Blitzø was laughing at him, but it was soft and fond, the kind of laugh he never used to let himself make and still seemed to feel self-conscious about doing when they were face to face. “At least I want you to leave everything else on.”

“That, ah, that’s good?”

“Take some nice, deep breaths. Relax.” Stolas did as told, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He even made certain his breaths could be heard through the phone, so Blitzø knew he was obeying. “Good,” Blitzø murmured, and Stolas felt his cock jump, straining at his slacks. “Place your hand on your upper thigh. Gently. I want you to just… stroke it for a moment, just like I do.”

Stolas kept his eyes closed and slowly ran his hand down towards his knee, then back up just as slowly, stopping at the crease between his leg and his hip. He repeated the motion several times, and even though the angle was slightly wrong, the sound of Blitzø in his ear murmuring softly and the darkness from his closed eyes was enough to let him pretend that the other man was here with him, that it was Blitzø’s hand on his leg. When the pressure of his fingers trailing higher drew a soft, closed-mouth moan out of him, he heard Blitzø chuckle again.

“There you go, Stols. Are you hard?”

Stolas swallowed with a click, and when he spoke, his voice came out soft and weak. “You know full well I am.”

“Tell me.”

“Fuck…” Stolas steadied his breathing again, not stilling his hand. “It hurts,” he whispered. “I can… I can feel it pressing into my trousers, and it feels… hot…”

“Do you want to touch it?”

Stolas bit his lip. “Y-yes…”

Blitzø hummed a single soft, thoughtful note. “Of course, you’re at work. I’d hate to get you in trouble at your job.”

“Blitzø…!” Stolas groaned softly, screwing his eyes shut tighter.

His boyfriend laughed gently. “I’m just trying to accommodate your schedule and environment, Stols.”

This man was going to be the death of him. “Blitzø, please, I want…” Stolas hesitated, biting down on his lip again, this time so hard he nearly pierced the skin.

“You want…?”

Stolas dropped his voice until he was barely even whispering. “Please, Master, tell me to touch myself. Here, at work, in my office.”

Blitzø groaned softly. “Fuck yes, songbird, anything you want.” Stolas could hear him draw a slightly shaken breath. “Move your hand to pass over it and press your palm into it.”

Stolas immediately did as ordered, a jolt running through his body as he applied the pressure. “Ah…!”

“Shh, shh,” Blitzø murmured in amusement. “Wouldn’t want someone to come in, would you?” Quickly, Stolas shifted to hold the phone between his ear and his shoulder so that he could bite down on his free hand, muffling his sounds. “There you go. Just stroke it through your slacks. Nice and slow.”

Stolas nodded, even though Blitzø couldn’t see him, and began doing as instructed. Even with his hand between his teeth, he couldn’t completely stop the quiet noises pouring from his lips, which only got worse when he heard Blitzø groan quietly on the other end of the phone. “B-Blitzø…”

“Mm? You… want something?”

If Stolas was a less patient man, he would throw Blitzø out a window. “Please, Blitzø…”

Blitzø’s exhale shuddered in Stolas’s ear. “Alright. Unfasten your belt, then your slacks, and pull your cock out.” Stolas did as instructed, gasping softly at the combination of freeing his cock and feeling the cold office air on his skin. “Cold, Stols?”

“A-A little,” Stolas said with a gentle laugh, shivering a bit.

“I’ll help you with that. I want you to run just the pads of your fingers up the vein on the underside, from the base to the tip and back down.”

Stolas was practically holding his breath as he placed his fingers on his skin; his cock was so hot and his hands were so chilled that he nearly cried out just from that. His leg jerked, and he moaned, but he followed his instructions. “Oh… oh, fuck, Blitzø, that feels good…”

“That’s good, songbird. You feeling it?”

“Mmm… mmhm,” Stolas managed, licking his lips and resisting the urge to slide down further in his chair. “I wish you were here, Blitzø…”

“S’that so?” Blitzø’s voice had gotten lower, heavier, and though he was still clearly completely composed on his own end, Stolas could hear how turned on he was. “What do you wanna do?”

“I… with your leave, of course… I would get on my knees,” Stolas whispered. “I would crawl to you, stroke your thighs, kiss your stomach… take your cock in my mouth,” he groaned, listening to the soft noises Blitzø was making. “I would let you fuck my throat raw, you could break my neck for all I care so long as it makes you feel good…”

“Fuck, Stols,” Blitzø whispered. “If I was there I would throw you over that desk and fuck you right there, no matter who came in.”

Stolas whimpered. “B-Blitzø, please, may I…?”

“Wrap your hand around it. Stroke it properly. Start slow, then speed up.” Stolas did, his eyes closing again. “I’d use my tongue on you to open you up. Make you cum without even touching your cock. Slam into you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk the next day. Snap your fucking pelvis in half.”

“Gods, yes…!”

“Cum for me, songbird.”

Stolas bit down on his hand to contain his scream as he came, the first burst of semen shooting from the tip of his cock so hard before it splattered on his trousers and dribbled down his fingers. Panting, he forced his jaw to relax and withdrew his hand, tasting blood. “Oh… oh, fuck,” he whispered brokenly.

“Fuck, that was hot, Stols.”

There was a knock on the door, and Stolas nearly squealed. He grabbed onto his desk and dragged himself back to it, pulling his chair up until his stomach was pressed against the wood. “Y-yes?!” Immediately, Blitzø laughed out loud, and Stolas shushed him sharply.

“Mister Hawthorne?” someone called; it sounded like one of the aides. “Are you okay? We thought we heard a noise…!”

Oh my god why. “Y-yes, I’m alright!” he called back, hastily grabbing at some tissues to clean both his trousers and hands of ejaculate and blood. “I just, ah, I mean, that is to say–”

“Papercut.” Blitzø was still laughing.

“I-I just got a papercut, that’s all.”

“Oh, okay,” the aide called. “Do you, um, need a bandage, or…?”

“No no! I mean, thank you, but no, I have a first aid kit in here.”

“Alright, sir.” He could hear the aide hesitate, but then she left, the shadow under the door vanishing.

Breathing hard, Stolas slumped back into his chair. He began putting his clothing back in order. “Blitzø, you are the absolute worst person I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, that’s your problem,” Blitzø chuckled. “Feel any better?”

Stolas took a moment to consider. “...you know something, I do.” He laughed a little. “You’re an absolute menace,” he added, too sated to feel embarrassed about how fond his voice sounded.

“That’s my middle name. Public menace. My dad was terrible at naming kids.” Stolas laughed again. “I gotta get to work. You’ll be going to bed soon, right?”

“Mm. I will. I promise.”

“Good. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you soon.”

“...yes. Of course. Have a good night at work.”

“Not likely but I’ll do my damndest.”

Stolas hung up the phone and placed it on the desk, then leaned back again and took a long, deep breath. He really did feel better, even though he shouldn’t. He even felt better equipped to go back to looking for those financial discrepancies.

“...oh shit I have to clean the window…!”

•••

Chapter Text

Alastor’s Shadow was a brat.

The very thought, phrased in such a manner, frustrated Alastor himself beyond belief because it was such a silly thing to think. Shadows were shadows, and just because his Shadow happened to be more capable than other people’s shadows (he believed ‘get good’ was the applicable phrase here) did not change the fact that it. Was. A. Shadow.

When his Shadow had first manifested as something of its own autonomous extension of his psyche, Alastor’s first thought had been something along the lines of huh, neat. It truly was useful, and no mistake, being able to technically be in two places at one time. He could send it wherever he liked, the only risk of discovery being if someone noticed something off-kilter on the wall or the floor or the ceiling, and he could project his senses into it, allowing him to see and hear things wherever he liked. Depending on what it was doing at the time, he could feel things, as well, the cold tile floor or the smooth wooden walls or the heat of a nearby fire in whatever room his Shadow happened to be in all communicated as sensations in his hands, his feet, his skin, his muscles, even his bones sometimes. Interestingly, he couldn’t feel pain through it, which… he supposed was good, since no matter how flexible he was himself, that didn’t exactly extend to folding himself essentially in half backwards at the shoulder blades.

Point being, his Shadow had become a useful tool that he supposed he did somewhat rely on a little overmuch, which was why its behavior of late was getting deeply annoying.

It was all the fault of this Hotel, he supposed. At the beginning, everything had been normal, his Shadow had obeyed his every mental command, and he had been able to discover all kinds of things from the comfort of his little table by the swamp in his room. But, before long, people began saying some very strange things to him.

Charlie told him that if he was so curious about the records when she was in the back office, he just had to ask or come in, because there was no reason to have his Shadow do it. When he asked what she was talking about, she claimed that his Shadow kept getting onto the desk and placing its head in such a position that it cast half of whatever ledger she was looking at into darkness.

Vaggie asked him to please stop sending his Shadow to the kitchen every single time someone was cooking. When he said he hadn’t been, she asked why it was, then, that whenever she or anyone else cooked, his Shadow would drift along the counters and the walls, following them as they did their work?

Husker told him that his Shadow was helping him with his nightly counts by giving supernatural shadow impressions of numbers on the sheet, having counted a selection of bottles itself. When Alastor said he didn’t do that, Husker said that he knew, because the Shadow was actually being helpful.

Niffty, too, claimed his Shadow was being helpful by scaring bugs out of their hiding places for her to stab. She then said, before Alastor could deny it, that she knew he wasn’t sending it, but she appreciated the assistance anyway.

Even fucking Sir Pentious had come to actually yell at him—imagine! Sir Fucking Pentious, yelling, at the Radio Demon!!—about his Shadow apparently being something of a menace down in his laboratory. Alastor… did not disown that one, because it was funny, but frankly what upset him was that he wasn’t the one who thought of it first.

And these things, each and every one, was so frustrating that it made Alastor want to scream simply because it didn’t take long to discover that when his Shadow was off doing these things, it wouldn’t listen to him. He could connect with it, yes, he could see through it and hear through it and feel through it, but he couldn’t make it stop doing whatever it was doing until it decided it was done. Apparently.

Of all of these frustrations, Angel Dust presented the most frustrating… frustration. Because according to Angel Dust, Alastor’s Shadow was… following him. A lot. Not even doing anything in particular; according to the spider, it mostly just hung around, watched him, laughed at his jokes, swirled around him sometimes.

This was, of course, absolute nonsense. There was no reason for his Shadow to be behaving this way with Angel Dust, because Angel Dust wasn’t interesting to the point that Alastor would have a need to tail him. He’d told their resident porn star as much, and in response, Angel Dust had said, “Well, then, you need to tell him that, ‘cause I’m sick’a wakin’ up with him over my bed just fuckin’ starin’ at me.”

It wasn’t true. Alastor didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. And, to prove it wasn’t true, he had projected himself into his Shadow only to find the damned thing giggling as it drifted along the wall, listening to Angel Dust complain about his day at work. Alastor had disconnected, blinked one eye and then the other, and then gone to do… something that was not that. When he had reconnected, his Shadow was on Angel Dust’s bedroom wall, apparently listening to him singing in the bath.

This was concerning, and Alastor did not understand it. Therefore, Alastor did not like it.

He knew it was something he had to put a stop to when Angel Dust said, one afternoon, “I think the Big Guy’s got a better sense’a humor than you do, Smiles.”

“...the Big Guy?” Alastor asked, narrowing his eyes at Angel Dust.

“Yeah. Your Shadow,” Angel Dust explained. “He thinks I’m funny. Clearly, you just need better taste.”

“My Shadow is not a he, it is an it,” Alastor had replied tersely. “And do not give it nicknames.”

Angel Dust did not stop calling the damned thing Big Guy, or ‘he’, and it was soon after that Alastor resolved to put an end to the whole affair. But oddly, almost as soon as he cemented that resolution, Angel Dust… stopped mentioning his Shadow. Occasionally checking in showed that the thing was still frequently with the spider, but Angel Dust never acknowledged this to Alastor. The one time Alastor broached the subject himself, the normally unflappable Sinner had actually blushed, said he didn’t know (which was a damn lie), and made his excuses before leaving the room.

Suspicious, to say the least.

The evening that Angel Dust went to bed early was the last straw, as far as Alastor was concerned. Part of him was tempted to just storm up to Angel Dust’s room himself, knock briskly on the door, and demand him to unhand his Shadow or so help him… but he didn’t. No, he didn’t, because that would be crass, and Alastor was nothing if not classy in everything he did. Selectively. When the mood struck him. When it was funniest.

Alastor sat in his chair, settling down, and took a slow, deep breath. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and projected himself into his Shadow. He felt the familiar pull and touch of darkness surrounding him, cradling him, before the sounds and scents and sights began to filter in.

First, there was the heavy breathing. It was Angel Dust, panting quietly, punctuated by quiet moans muffled as though he was biting his lip. Then, he could smell… something difficult to describe. It should have smelled bad, sharp and salty, a musky and heady scent of sweat and something else that made Alastor’s mouth water and his head spin. He could feel the most incomprehensibly soft something on his hands, like he was gently pushing his claws through a cloud that was at once made of fluffy fur and the absolute finest silk, something that made cashmere feel dull and a little coarse, his back against something warm and silk and plush like… sheets.

But it was the sight that did it to him.

His shadow was lying on Angel Dust’s bed, beneath the body of the spider himself; Angel Dust was laid out on his back, his arms stretched out, one leg bent just slightly with his knees crossed, his head turned to the side. Alastor was looking up at Angel Dust’s ceiling which… had… a mirror on it, directly above the bed. As he watched, his Shadow pushed its hands through the fluff on Angel Dust’s chest, and the spider whimpered, arching up into the touch.

Alastor cut the connection so abruptly that he fell out of his chair and to his knees, a wave of dizziness overtaking him as his head spun violently. Panting, he slammed his hands down onto the floor, his claws digging into the rug in front of the hearth and tearing at the fibers. His smile was stretched so taut that he could feel the stitches pulling, his chest heaving and his vision turning red.

What… the actual fuck… was that?!

No. No no no, his Shadow was not molesting Angel Dust. That was not possible. The damned thing going off to irritate the rest of the Hotel on its own without his permission was one thing, but this? This was quite different. This wasn’t something that he did, and if he didn’t do it, why the everloving fuck would his Shadow be doing it?

This had to stop.

Shoving himself off the floor, Alastor threw himself back into his chair and gripped the arms with crabbed hands. Stopping it meant going back in, and it meant staying there until he could get the Shadow to obey him and come back. If it was possible to destroy his own Shadow and start over, he would certainly do so, but he would figure out what sort of measures he was going to take after he had dealt with the immediate… problem. Alastor closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, repeating to himself: it is necessary, it is necessary, it is necessary until he could make the part of his brain still balking believe it.

Even though Alastor was now expecting the sensations, they were still almost overwhelming as he sank his consciousness back into the depths of his Shadow. Warmth engulfed him in more ways than he could count, the almost mind-melting softness returning along with that scent that made him feel ravenous in a way he never had before. The Shadow’s hands were sliding down Angel Dust’s abdomen, down to his hips, across the tops of his thighs, then dragging back up with the ghost of claws that would have torn the spider to ribbons if they had been Alastor’s own hands.

Angel Dust moaned, arching his back and turning his head away from where the Shadow had positioned its face, its crooked grin firmly in place. “Stop,” Angel Dust whimpered, the word barely escaping his lips before it was swallowed by a sharp cry as the Shadow grabbed his thighs and pulled his legs apart. Alastor could feel the grip that the Shadow had on Angel Dust, and while it was certainly present, it was minimal. The other demon should have had no trouble whatsoever breaking away, if that was what he wanted. But he wasn’t.

The ghost of a thought drifted through Alastor’s mind. You don’t want me to stop. It was Alastor’s thought, yes, but it also… wasn’t, and he wondered… had his Shadow spontaneously manifested the ability to think its own thoughts, or had it always possessed it and its thoughts had just always lined up with its master?

“Smiles’ll be real mad if you k… keep this up,” Angel Dust said, his voice trembling through his panting breaths. The Shadow’s hand was stroking the inside of the other demon’s thigh, which was trembling just as badly as his voice. “I-I think he’s… he’s already m-mad at me,” Angel Dust continued with a weak giggle.

No, sha. I’m not mad at you.

And Alastor realized that was right. He was mad, but it wasn’t at Angel Dust. It wasn’t even really at his Shadow. It was at himself, but he couldn’t begin to imagine why.

As Alastor watched the mirror on the ceiling, the Shadow flexed its hand, spawning one of Alastor’s own shadow tentacles (and when the fuck did it learn how to do that?!) and conducting it to wrap around Angel Dust’s leg just above the knee, pulling it up and holding it in place. Angel Dust gasped at the sudden feeling, the cold, the strange pulsing… A second tentacle repeated the process, holding his legs up and apart as more tentacles wrapped around his upper set of hands and held them together over his head, as well as his lower set of hands, holding them straight out from his sides.

“Please, Big Guy,” Angel Dust pleaded as he turned his head back, his eyes opening halfway to look at the lines of the Shadow’s face still on his bed. “You… y-you really gotta stop,” he added, but when he twisted his wrists and shifted his legs, Alastor could feel that the motions barely even qualified as token resistance, let alone an actual attempt to tear himself away from the tenebrous grip his Shadow had.

It seemed the Shadow had the same thought. A tendril of blackness coiled around Angel Dust’s erect cock, making him cry out and arch his back once more. Alastor’s head spun at the feeling of that thin tentacle massaging and stroking that hot, pulsing hardness, the way he could feel the skin gliding over the muscle beneath it… and the strange sensation of another tentacle teasing at the tight ring of flesh further back, making Angel Dust whimper and squirm in the tentacles’ hold.

Alastor couldn’t remember why he had decided to do this or what it was he was trying to achieve; the only thing going through his head now was do it, push it into him, make him scream.

As the tentacle breached Angel Dust’s flesh, the Sinner cried out, throwing his head back, words falling from his lips like wine. No. Stop. Yes. Please. Fuck.

Alastor.

The sound of his own name in such a wanton, ragged, broken, pleading tone was the sweetest thing Alastor had ever heard.

The dizzying feeling grew stronger, intoxicatingly so, as the tentacle that was now inside Angel Dust stilled, then slid out until it was almost free, before it shoved its way back inside with an intensity and speed that made Angel Dust scream. The tentacle did it again, and again, each time Angel Dust’s voice rising and breaking and cracking, and he just kept saying Alastor’s name again… and again… and again.

Angel Dust’s release came with a long, plaintive howl, thrumming through Alastor’s own body through the Shadows, the sensation so strong that for a moment he felt as though he had Angel Dust lying on his chest, one of his own hands wrapped around Angel Dust’s cock, his other hand stroking the spider’s stomach and chest, and it was almost… as though his own cock… was buried inside–

Alastor’s consciousness slammed back into his own body as he came, one of his hands grabbing his cock through his trousers as he howled, his voice nearly inaudible through the sudden screech of radio static. When it stopped, it stopped abruptly, Alastor collapsing bonelessly into his chair and struggling to catch his breath.

Oh.

Was that…

…oh.

Oh, no.

…well, this was… probably not good.

•••

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that Alastor didn’t appreciate being liberated from VoxTek. Quite the contrary, Vox’s overbearing nature and special brand of… “attentiveness”... had been growing frightfully old for years, never mind the growing insistence from the television Overlord in the apparent need to acquire the contract for Alastor’s soul on a permanent basis.

…it was a very long story.

No, quite the contrary, he greatly appreciated no longer being kept at VoxTek. He simply hadn’t ever wanted that freedom to come at the cost of losing his soul to someone different, particularly when that someone had apparently decided to treat Alastor differently from every other soul he owned.

In all honesty, he wasn’t exactly sure how it was that his soul had become the property of the underground crime boss, an Overlord known as Angel Dust. One day he had simply been contracted out to produce a long-running radio drama, and what felt like the next, he was signing over his soul. If it wasn’t for the fact that he knew Angel Dust was no hypnotist, he would have greatly suspected the method under which the spider clearly coerced him.

Strangely, however, things had been relatively… normal since then. Alastor did, of course, resent anyone who would presume to control him on principle, but his duties… really hadn’t changed in the slightest. The biggest difference was having a radio tower of his own constructed in Angel Dust’s territory, and that was exclusively a perk. Sir Pentious, Angel Dust’s resident inventor (why he needed an inventor was a mystery) and certified mercury-addled maniac, had the audacity to call Alastor paranoid. Cherri Bomb, Angel Dust’s demolitions expert (and Alastor was pretty sure that was all she did), had laughed at Sir Pentious calling anyone else paranoid.

Then the two of them started fighting again and it was no longer Alastor’s problem.

Really, it was good that nothing had really changed. Alastor should have been relieved. No, he was relieved, because why would he be irritated that he didn’t see the Overlord who owned his soul more often? Why would he care that Angel Dust only really seemed to acknowledge him when he happened to be in the same room and additionally had an immediate reason to do so?

Most importantly… why would he care that Angel Dust hadn’t tried to fuck him?

It was a rather well-known fact about the crime Overlord: whenever he acquired a man’s soul, he fucked that man, though the lurid details were something Alastor had always gracefully managed to avoid. Of course, the fact that he did it wasn’t strange. What was strange was that Angel Dust didn’t kill his former thralls, simply released them from their contracts and turned them out. And, without fail, every single man that he had ever owned and fucked begged to be taken back. They didn’t ask. They begged.

An Overlord that people didn’t mind giving their soul to was a rarity. An Overlord that people actively begged to be owned by was… something else entirely, a kind of insanity that Alastor couldn’t wrap his head around.

When he had first been offered his permanent position, Alastor had been assured in no uncertain terms that Angel Dust would not attempt to sexually coerce him. Alastor assumed that it must have been because he didn’t exactly make a secret of either his disinterest in or disdain for the entire idea of sex, and if there was one thing that Angel Dust apparently took very seriously, it was sexual consent. At first, Alastor had agreed to the terms. He’d been glad for them. Relieved, maybe.

As time passed… that relief lessened and began to twist into irritation. Aggravation.

Cherri Bomb called it jealousy.

That was laughable.

It was the simple fact that, outside of his radio work, Angel Dust didn’t really seem to have any interest in interacting with Alastor at all. The Overlord never antagonized him the way he did Sir Pentious. He never sat and talked with him for long hours the way he did Cherri Bomb. He never took him by the collar and dragged him into another room the way he had to countless, nameless, faceless, useless men who didn’t even provide half the value that Alastor did but somehow still managed to be worthy of Angel Dust’s attention in a way that Alastor himself seemed to lack.

No. He wasn’t jealous.

He was… …he was…

…he was a word that wasn’t jealous, but he always had difficulty coming up with what that word was.

It was because of whatever-that-word-was that Alastor was standing outside the door to Angel Dust’s private study, knocking with a sharp insistence that he did not intend to let go ignored that was most definitely fueled by the three rather generous shots of whiskey he had taken before leaving his room as fortification. He thought he heard a chuckle in the way the Overlord called, “Come in already.” He didn’t much appreciate that, but he kept his head up as he opened the door and stepped inside.

The study was surprisingly tasteful, all things considered, though Alastor thought that calling it a study was giving it too much credit. It did have a desk, yes, and there were a couple of bookshelves, but most of the room seemed to be taken up by Angel Dust’s more artistic pursuits. Currently, there was a rather large loom taking up a large portion of the room with a half-completed, intricate and abstract tapestry currently on it.

Angel Dust himself was sitting in a chair near the fire, a book in one hand and his pet pig, Fat Nuggets, asleep in his lap. As was typical, the Overlord was wearing a well-fitting suit in solid white from tie to heeled boots, his hair slicked back and a cigarette in one hand. The little hellpig was also well-dressed, though he was wearing his own little pink and white jacket with a matching mafioso hat (how they stayed on was anyone’s guess). Alastor refused to admit that it was the cutest thing he had ever seen.

“Hello, Alastor,” Angel Dust said, his voice mildly curious as he closed the book and looked up at him. “Somethin’ I can do for you?”

Alastor suddenly wasn’t exactly sure why he had come all this way, because he had no idea what he was going to say. However, apparently Angel Dust’s voice had roused Fat Nuggets, as the hellpig snorted, blinked, yawned, and then looked at Alastor before wiggling down from the chair and trotting over. Alastor watched him instead, his hands remaining folded behind his back as Fat Nuggets stood up on his hind legs and put his forefeet on Alastor’s own leg. “...hello.”

Angel Dust laughed a little. “Let him out, would’ja? He needs to get some exercise.”

Alastor complied, gently stepping back so as not to knock the little creature over before opening the door once more. Fat Nuggets trotted out, looking as though he was under the impression that he had never been in the hallway before and it was the most fascinating thing anyone could possibly have ever seen, and Alastor shut the door again before realizing he hadn’t taken those seconds to think of something to say.

Fuck.

When he turned back, Angel Dust had his jaw resting against one fist, his cigarette still poised and his other two hands folded in his lap. “So…?”

“I…” Alastor straightened his back and decided to simply forge ahead, damn the consequences and all that. “I wanted to ask if I had done something to… displease you.” He didn’t like the phrasing, and his lip curled as he said it, but he really couldn’t think of another way to say it that didn’t sound completely pathetic.

Angel Dust stared at him, blinking slowly. “...I… what?” He frowned, a soft and incredulous laugh escaping him. “No, Alastor, why would’ja think a thing like that?”

Nothing for it. “I can’t help but notice that you seem to go out of your way to avoid interacting with me.”

“Do I?” Angel Dust asked, settling back into his chair and raising his cigarette. He looked thoughtful as he took a drag, then blew the smoke towards the ceiling. “...I can’t really think of a reason I’d be doin’ somethin’ like that. Ain’t like I got a problem with you.” He shrugged. “You’re good at your job, you work best left to your own devices, all that shit. Thought you preferred it when you were mostly left alone.”

“I do.”

“Great. So… what, exactly, is the problem?”

“I…” Alastor hesitated. That was a damn good question, what was the problem? “...it’s nothing. I apologize for disturbing you.”

He turned on his heel and made for the door, but as he put his hand on the knob, he heard a soft thud and looked up to see a delicate, elegant white hand laid against the wood of the door. “Hey, hold on, don’t go runnin’ off like that,” Angel Dust said behind him. “If you got a problem I wanna know about it. Come on, come in, I’ll make you a drink.”

Fuck, I didn’t even hear him move. …it’s so easy to forget just how dangerous he is. Guess he works that to his advantage.

As Angel Dust stepped away, Alastor turned back into the room and went to the chair Angel Dust pointed at. He then watched as the Overlord went to his bar and began mixing up a couple of drinks. “Rye whiskey, yeah?”

“...correct,” Alastor said as he tried to make himself comfortable in the chair, his mind racing over too many things to even be vaguely concerned with the idea that he might have already imbibed an inadvisable amount of alcohol for this particular conversation. He was suddenly feeling somewhat like a cornered animal, and he just needed to come up with something good enough that would convince Angel Dust it was the reason he came all the way here without making him think that there was an actual problem, so they could resolve it, he could leave, and then he could pretend he had never brought the damn thing up at all.

He started slightly when he was suddenly handed a glass with three fingers of whiskey, neat. “Here,” Angel Dust said, and Alastor thought he heard a chuckle in the word. He also realized his ears were suddenly pointed straight up, and in his irritation, they flattened against his skull as he took the glass with a mutter of thanks. Angel Dust then sat again, crossing his legs at the knees and holding his own glass. “Now, c’mon, spill. What’s eatin’ you?”

Alastor took the glass in both hands, rolling it back and forth just a bit. “...it’s simply… I cannot help but notice that you seem to go out of your way to socialize with most of those you keep in your regular employ except for me. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the lack of interference when it comes to my radio work, of course, but the fact that it extends past professional settings and into everything else struck me as abnormal. Of course, I do understand a lack of desire, generally speaking, as most people do find me rather unpleasant to be around for a variety of reasons.”

“Hey, whoa,” Angel Dust said, uncrossing his legs and sitting forward. “You put that thought to bed, Smiles, alright? I ain’t never found you unpleasant to be around.”

Alastor snorted in disbelief, his eyebrow raising. “Really?” he asked, taking an inadvisably large drink of his whiskey.

Angel Dust appeared to note this, but he didn’t comment. “Really,” he said sincerely. “You’re smart, you’re charmin’ when you wanna be, you’re funny both when you wanna be and when you don’t–” Alastor gave a small growl at that, which grew louder as Angel Dust laughed again, “–and you do good work. It’s creative, it’s original, it fuckin’ blows the writin’ at VoxTek outta the water which yeah I know it’s a low bar but you gotta work with me here.” Alastor laughed at that, which was annoying, and he could only blame the whiskey already working through his system that he was steadily adding to.

“Then…” Alastor looked up from his whiskey to meet Angel Dust’s eyes. “Why do you avoid me?”

“I guess I didn’t realize I was doin’ it,” Angel Dust said. “Sure didn’t mean to. Maybe I thought I was givin’ you the space you seemed to want and just took it too far.”

Alastor hated to admit it, but he was starting to understand why people didn’t like being dismissed from Angel Dust’s employ. He’d never met an Overlord that was this… reasonable. Sure, the guy had a temper, everybody knew that, just like everybody knew not to cross him when he was on cocaine or that if you pissed him off in just the right way you would quite literally never be seen again. But the guy kept his promises, was fair to his employees, treated Pentagram City’s sex workers extremely well, and overall… it really wasn’t a bad environment.

He must have been quiet for too long, because Angel Dust spoke again. “Obviously, somethin’ needs to change. So, Alastor… what is it you want?”

“I don’t know,” Alastor blurted out in a sudden, uncharacteristic display of candor fueled by the way the whiskey was working its way through his system and the caged-animal panic still swirling just beneath his veneer of calm. Clearly, that veneer was working better than he thought, as Angel Dust sat up straighter, his expression one of obvious surprise. “I despised being at VoxTek, I know I’ve told you that, and I obviously have not changed my mind about that. But as much as I don’t wish to return, Vox at least–” He managed to cut his sentence off, and it died in his throat, his hands both wrapping around his glass and his eyes darting away as he sank into himself just a little.

Fuck.

Angel Dust didn’t move. “...Vox at least…?” he prompted curiously, his tone different. Alastor couldn’t tell if it was a dangerous turn or not.

“...I… knew that… Vox wanted me. To be there,” Alastor hastened to add, still not meeting Angel Dust’s eyes.

There was a long silence that was… heavy. It was too heavy. Alastor wished, more than anything, that he was in the sort of position that he could just leave awkward situations and make other people deal with them. If he had been an Overlord, he never would have had to…

…but he wasn’t an Overlord. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He couldn’t simply do as he liked. He couldn’t pick and choose what sorts of situations he put himself in. He couldn’t just… overpower everyone he came across, which was something he had learned in a very painful fashion more than once over the years.

When Angel Dust finally spoke, it was in the same, strange, quiet tone. “...you think I don’t want you?”

Alastor just gave a noncommittal shrug, because he wasn’t entirely positive what he meant and wasn’t even certain that whatever he meant was actually what he was thinking. This was absolutely ludicrous. Childish, even. There was a reason that he had always strived, in the past, to not let others know what he was thinking, primarily because whenever he let any of that mask slip, he tended to get so caught up in his own emotions that he said or did something he instantly regretted for one reason or another.

Alastor did not like regretting things.

He was startled by his glass being gently removed from his hand, and when his head whipped back around with a sharp click of vertebrae, he saw Angel Dust was on one knee in front of his chair, the glass held loosely in one of the Overlord’s hands. He adjusted his grip on it before he raised it towards Alastor’s lips.

“Drink it,” Angel Dust commanded.

Part of Alastor balked at being told what to do. The rest of him felt a near-overwhelming sense of relief at having the burden of constant decision, of choice, taken from his shoulders without him having to actually find the words to request it. Alastor did as instructed, the rest of the whiskey burning as Angel Dust encouraged him to imbibe all of it. The Overlord then carelessly flung the glass over his shoulder where it landed on the stone hearth with a sharp, bright crash, shards flying everywhere, catching the firelight like motes of glittering dust.

“Is this what you want?” Angel Dust asked as he placed two hands on the arms of Alastor’s chair and two more on the back, caging the shorter Sinner in with his long, lithe form. “Do you want me to treat you like you belong to me, Alastor?”

“...I…”

“Tell me.”

“Yes,” Alastor said, the word burning on its way out more than the alcohol had on its way down.

Angel Dust gripped Alastor’s chin with one hand and leaned down, pressing their lips together in a caress that could only barely be called chaste for the first, breathless seconds before he encouraged Alastor to part his own lips and slipped his tongue inside Alastor’s mouth. The feeling was electric and overwhelming. Alastor had known what kissing was, of course, but he had never had any interest in engaging in it himself, and it had always struck him as something boring and a little… well, gross in a way that didn’t really appeal to him the same way the grossness of murder and cannibalism did. He’d had no idea that his lips, his tongue, would feel so sensitive beneath the onslaught of someone else’s touch, every scrape of Angel Dust’s teeth and every time their tongues touched sending jolts of pleasure so strong they nearly hurt throughout Alastor’s entire body.

When they parted and Angel Dust pulled back far enough to look at him, Alastor could see a thin string of saliva connecting their mouths, shimmering gently in the firelight. Angel Dust licked his upper lip and it vanished. “You are mine,” he said, his voice taking on a rough and possessive sort of edge that Alastor had never heard before. “You. Belong. To me.”

When Angel Dust kissed him again, Alastor fell into it, the contact melting away what seemed like decades of loneliness and of convincing himself that he didn’t want to be touched, therefore it was alright that no one touch him. Angel Dust hooked two hands underneath Alastor’s legs and lifted him up as he stood; Alastor yelped into Angel Dust’s mouth, breaking the kiss. “Whatareyoudoing?!”

Angel Dust smirked at him. “Carryin’ you somewheres else.”

“Put me down this instant!”

“Absolutely not.”

Ears flattened against his head, Alastor could do little but growl at Angel Dust (who apparently found this very amusing) as he was carried over to the large wooden desk that looked as though it got minimal use. Using one of his free hands, Angel Dust swept the desk clean of everything on it, which fell to the ground in a series of clatters and rustling papers. He quite clearly didn’t care, lying Alastor down on top of the desk before kissing him again. “Mine,” he murmured between kisses, two hands holding his weight over Alastor, another two swiftly unfastening the buttons of his vest and then his shirt.

Alastor felt too swept up in the sensations of such an unfamiliar touch to protest the removal of his clothing, Angel Dust’s lips meeting his again and again before sweeping down to the column of his neck, sucking bruises into the flesh and soothing them with his tongue before moving up to kiss him properly again. When Angel Dust fully pulled back, leaving Alastor panting and breathless, the Radio Demon realized he was completely naked and too deep into the effects of the whiskey to care that much. It was still… overwhelming, he supposed, to have so much of Angel Dust’s attention focused so intently on him, and he tried to turn his head only to have the Overlord catch his jaw and turn him back.

“No,” Angel Dust said. “Look at me.”

Alastor swallowed, but didn’t turn his head away again when Angel Dust released him.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Alastor shook his head.

“Use your words, my pretty little fawn.”

“N-no,” Alastor answered, immediately frustrated with himself that he hadn’t even attempted to protest the stupid nickname. Angel Dust chuckled as he reached down and unfastened his trousers, unzipped the fly, and pulled his cock out. Alastor’s breath caught; it was a lot bigger than he expected it to be (though why the fuck he had any expectation at all was beyond him), and his hand twitched as though he wanted to touch it but couldn’t let himself.

“Go on,”  Angel Dust said; with all eight of his eyes, there were very few things he ever missed.

Alastor gave him a perfunctory glare before casting his eyes down and reaching out, wrapping his hand gently around Angel Dust’s cock and taking care not to let his claws harm the sensitive, velvety flesh. It was pink and white, just like the rest of him, and there was something oddly… pretty… about it. Angel Dust gave a soft moan of appreciation and nodded, encouraging Alastor to continue exploring until he had wrapped his hand fully around it and given it a few experimental strokes. It was growing so hard in his hand, he couldn’t help wondering what would happen if…

Before he got to the rest of the ‘if’, Angel Dust took his wrist and gently removed his hand. “Not yet, little fawn,” he said softly. Alastor glared before yelping as Angel Dust grabbed his legs and hauled them apart and up, his eyes going wide and his– “Oh my fuck you have a tail.”

Alastor kicked his legs in an attempt to get them free, but Angel Dust tightened his grip, preventing him from hiding the blasted thing now actually thumping against the surface of the desk as it insisted on wagging from a combination of nerves, excitement, and irritation (and absolutely not the feeling of having control wrested from him). “That is my personal tail, stop looking at it!”

Angel Dust laughed, an oddly good-natured sound. “S’cute.”

“That is not helping!”

“Shh, baby,” Angel Dust said through his laughter, leaning down and kissing Alastor’s irritated sneer a few times. As much as he just wanted to keep glaring, the touch felt too good, and soon enough he felt himself melting into the touch as his body relaxed.When he felt Angel Dust’s cock pressing against him, he yelped, but the Overlord shushed him once more and continued kissing him even as he began breaching the smaller Sinner’s body.

Alastor let out an incredibly undignified whine that, later, he would deny even being capable of making. In the moment, however, he could do little more than cling to Angel Dust’s shoulders, throwing his head back with a cry of pained ecstacy as the intrusion grew deeper, and deeper, and deeper still. His vision threatened to go grey from the overstimulation, and when Angel Dust began to thrust into him at a slow and steady but building pace, he was hardly even conscious of the sheer amount of noise that he was making. Angel Dust’s murmurs and assurances and, worst of all, words of praise weren’t helping any, simply making Alastor keen and squirm beneath him.

“You’re mine, Alastor,” Angel Dust purred before he dragged his tongue up one of Alastor’s ears, only to be rewarded with another whimper. “You’re mine and I ain’t never lettin’ go of you. I’m gonna keep you forever. I’m gonna use you whenever I feel like it. I’m gonna break you and remake you over and over ‘til you don’t got a clue whether you’re the same at all.”

“Fuck yes yes yes fuck yes Angel fuck…!” Alastor babbled, his eyes shut tightly and his teeth gritted against the mounting pleasure. When he came, his body spasmed, a tidal wave of pleasure crashing over him in a powerful torrent that threatened to drag him out into the deep, endless sea. He heard Angel Dust cry out over him, he felt heat and warmth flood his body, and then…

…then, he felt something warm and soft around him. When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t on the desk anymore. He wasn’t even in the study anymore. No, he was in a large, comfortable bed, bundled up in a blanket. Angel Dust was sitting up against the headboard beside him, legs stretched out and his book back in his hand, and Alastor was curled at his side with his head in Angel Dust’s lap.

Is this what it feels like? To be wanted? he wondered to himself as he let his eyes close again.

I wonder… how long this will last…

Alastor didn’t sleep in any other bed after that day.

•••

Chapter Text

“Millie-Billie? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothin’.”

Moxxie frowned as he leaned backwards as far as he could while sitting on the couch, craning his head to look into the bedroom. He could just make out Millie standing exactly where she had been half an hour earlier: namely, standing in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door, turning this way and that, as though she was critically examining every centimeter of her body. Moxxie’s frown deepened as he got to his feet and turned off the television (he wasn’t the biggest fan of The Deglover to begin with—he thought it was one of the more formulaic shows that had come out of VoxTek in the past couple of years—and it was a rerun anyway), then headed into the bedroom himself.

“Don’t keep saying it’s nothing,” Moxxie said, trying to keep his tone mild so he didn’t make it too obvious that he was fretting and inadvertently give her the opportunity to change the subject into being about him worrying too much. “You’ve been in here for the last half hour, it’s not nothing.”

“I have?” Millie asked, genuinely surprised, her eyes finding his in the mirror as she blinked twice. She then shrugged, looking away and folding her arms. “I dunno. I mean– I just– I guess I was thinkin’ about the party last night.”

“I mean, that’s reasonable,” Moxxie snorted as he sat on the foot of the bed, bracing his hands on either side of his hips. “I knew he was out of his mind and somehow forming way more social connections than we thought possible, but when Blitzø says ‘hey I’m going to a party do you wanna come’, the last thing I was expecting was for him to drive us to Beelzebub’s house.”

Millie turned to look at him. “I fuckin’ know right?!” she said incredulously, her other worries temporarily forgotten. “I mean, I know he’d said he knew her, but I didn’t think he like… got invites to her parties kinda knew her. Now I’m wonderin’ if he ain’t actually not fulla shit when he calls King Lucifer his buddy.”

Moxxie winced and raised one hand to his temple. “Fuck, I don’t want to think about that,” he groaned. “The idea of our boss, the biggest pain in the ass in Hell, actually being on friendly terms with the fucking Devil has implications I would not like to even begin to consider.” She laughed a little and turned back to the mirror, and Moxxie lowered his hand again. “So… you want to tell me why thinking about the party last night has had you staring at the mirror for thirty minutes?”

Millie folded her arms again and pouted. “I dunno,” she said, her tone taking on that defensive edge that it always did when she was embarrassed. “It just… y’know, bein’ there with all them succubi an’ drudes an’ furies an’ shit, them bein’ so…” She gestured uselessly with one hand. “...glamorous? I guess? An’ then there were those fuckin’ sex demons gettin’ all flirty with you like they were thinkin’ I wasn’t good enough for you or somethin’.”

Moxxie straightened up at that. “Hey, Millie, hold on,” he said, getting to his feet and crossing over to her. “They didn’t say anything like that, and they were flirting with… like… everybody in the building.”

“Not everybody,” Millie grumbled.

“As you continue to not notice when someone flirts with you,” Moxxie said with a sort of exasperated fondness, reaching out and taking Millie by the arms to turn her towards him. “Are you actually telling me that you want other people to hit on you?”

“First of all no they weren’t and second of all no, that ain’t it, it’s just…” Millie let her head fall back and she heaved a huge sigh. Moxxie could understand how frustrating this was for her; she hated showing any insecurity, and she had good emotional reason to feel insecure, because between growing up with a bunch of brothers plus a sister who apparently had always been stunning, as well as being more… curvaceous than a lot of other imps, he knew her figure and that cute little gap in her teeth were things that other people had given her shit for most of her life. “Never mind. S’fuckin’ stupid.”

“No, it isn’t stupid,” Moxxie said firmly, guiding Millie back to sit on the bed with him and taking her hand. She turned her head away, and Moxxie tilted his head to get into her periphery as his tail sneaked around to catch hers and coil with it. She giggled in spite of herself and batted at him with her free hand, and he grinned a little before his smile sobered. “Millie… you can always tell me if you’re feeling ‘some kinda way’ or whatever. You know that.”

“I know,” Millie sighed. “I just– I hate it, y’know? Feelin’ like this. Feels like I care what they all think about me, and I don’t.”

Moxxie reached out to rub her back gently. “I’m sorry if I made any of that worse.”

Millie shook her head, leaning just a little into his hand. “S’fine. You didn’t do nothin’. I’m just…” She giggled a little, but the sound was weak. “...well. Feelin’ some kinda way, like ya just said.”

Moxxie smiled at her before he leaned over, kissing her on the temple gently. She hummed softly, leaning into it, so he did it again. “I still think you were the hottest thing in that whole building.”

“Oh, stop,” Millie giggled, waving him off even as she let him keep kissing her.

“Mm. No.” Moxxie nuzzled her cheek, making her laugh harder, and he grinned as he pivoted them so he could push her backwards onto the bed. She could have easily shoved him off, but she didn’t even try, laying her hands on the mattress and tipping her head backwards with a soft moan as Moxxie kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then her throat. “I think you’re the most gorgeous thing in all of existence.”

“Moxxie…” his wife half moaned, half protested.

“You’re more beautiful than any succubus or Goetia,” Moxxie continued, slipping his hands underneath her shirt and pulling it over her head before going back to her neck. “More beautiful than anything that’s ever walked in Creation.” He kissed across her collar bone and to her shoulder. “More beautiful than any angel in Heaven.” He kissed all the way down her arm to her hand, then her palm, each of her fingers, and back up her arm to travel across her collar bone once more to her other shoulder and repeat the process. Millie’s skin was warmer than usual, her embarrassment obvious, and Moxxie couldn’t help grinning as he began removing the rest of her clothing and moved her up the bed so her head was resting on the pillows.

Moxxie wasn’t sure how long he was there, kneeling on the mattress, keeping his weight up over Millie as he let his lips and tongue and hands travel over every single inch of her body. She was a shivering, panting mess by the time he even touched her pussy, which was already dripping by the time he got there. He hooked her knees over his shoulders, pulled her fully against him, and slid his tongue between her lips to lap at her clit and slide deep into her body until she came, her legs tightening around him to hold him in place.

Then, he did it again.

And again.

By the time she finally got frustrated enough to grab him by the horns and yank him up to slam him onto the bed instead, it was fully dark out.

•••