Jazz and The Great Depression
Alastor / Lucifer Morningstar
(queerplatonic spastenparty und anderes)
(Closed, Moderated)
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Summary
Alastor is the host of a failing podcast. Once at the top of the industry, he is at risk of losing it all if he can't get his numbers back up. Of course, this disaster happens when his company, Pentagram, has a new Creative Director. A man that Alastor cannot respect and cannot stand.
A man who seems delighted to see Alastor fall.
But there is something...off about Lucifer Morningstar. He is all charm, sure. The kind of charm that could make a man trade away his fortune for a smile.
Or his soul for a kiss.
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Ruby eyes burrow into his cheeks, suddenly heat sinks for the alcohol burning away in his veins and the latent humiliation of his rumpled shirt collar and open slacks. Alastor is hyper aware of the way his hair is sticking to his face, to the way his fur is standing on end and he does not know if its fear, or if this is what arousal is supposed to feel like- all of the little pieces of him reaching for Lucifer like starlight to a black hole.
“I want to fuck you.”
He doesn’t like the way those words taste in his mouth. They don’t belong to him, and anyways, they don’t feel big enough to contain what he means- that he wants to split Lucifer open and reach his claws inside to find the ticking mechanism of his heart.
“....What do you really want?”
TLDR; Post season 2 angst and comfort
NOW with beautiful art by the incredible Romanaxe <3
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Vox grits his teeth with a growl and directs his glare back to Lucifer. “Listen here you royal piece of shit.” He starts as his claws harshly poke at the glass separating them with every word. “I own you now. You have no power in this situation. You understand?”
Lucifer is yet again confused about what exactly Vox wants from all this as he sighs. “Yeah you mentioned that but the thing is..I really don’t care.”
The man in front of him is a perfect mixture of baffled and furious at his blasé attitude. “Well you should!”
“Mmmm, says who?” Lucifer asks with a confused tilt of his head.
“Wha- says me!” Vox shouts, grip on his composure slipping. “You should care because I said so!”
“My, quite the compelling argument.” Alastor interjects snidely.
“Alastor, shut the fuck up.” Vox scowls at the radio demon.
OR:
Lucifer ragebaits too close to the sun and causes Vox to put him on the guest list for his Heaven take over party to prove to him he's not a failure.
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Alastor makes it a grand total of thirteen days before collapsing in the lobby. It’s an abjectly humiliating experience for the split-second he’s cognizant of what’s happening before everything goes utterly black.
In which Alastor returns to the hotel and an olive branch is offered over coffee. It’s all very unexceptional.
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Summary
Alastor's been in something of a slump. He's in a job he theoretically loves working under a man he hates, his only real friendship is with a woman who doesn't really know him and who he doesn't want to know him, and he hasn't found it in himself to kill anyone in over a year.
Then, one Wednesday, a new man and his daughter blow into town, and Alastor's life will never be the same again.
He hopes.
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