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Being a casual insomniac meant Lucifer noticed many things about those who occupied his bed from time to time. Like his ex-wife, Lilith, who snored like an absolute machine, and denied it every blasted morning. Sure, Lucifer never slept anyway, but the loud, inconsistent noise grated on his already frazzled nerves. Anyway.
His daughter Charlie, as a young little duckling, would occasionally wander into his room after a nightmare. Through that, he was occasionally—often—awake to see how her lids would flutter open every so often, just staring out into the room for a good minute before closing again, then opening once more. It was a freaky thing to behold. Judging from the way Vaggie kept looking at Charlie when she occasionally fell asleep in the parlour in the evenings, it was still a thing.
Now, for the first time in decades, half of Lucifer’s bed was occupied once more. A new development for sure. And one that still sent shivers of excitement down his spine, often forcing his tail free from its pocket dimension to vibrate excitedly.
What had inspired Alastor to say yes to his advances in the first place was beyond him. But he wasn’t about to open his stupid mouth to ask, not at any given time. Still, Alastor staying had just… happened one night. Before either of them knew it, the sinner had dozed off.
Recently, though, Lucifer’s sleeping habits had taken a turn into fucked-off territory, leaving him cursedly awake for days, weeks, at a time, while Alastor slept soundly beside him.
Soundly being the key word.
The sudden song bursting through the room was nothing new. That kind of noise accompanied Alastor wherever he went. In a way, Lucifer was happy to know the guy still breathed, given his tendency to lay still like the dead.
At least up until this point, he’d thought the sinner was a quiet sleeper, staying on his side, breath even and quiet. He had been for the past week, in which Lucifer had been awake at least four times. That counted for something.
Today had seen everything on its head though. Alastor had been uncharacteristically tired and grumpy. Barely said a word to anyone, least of all him, even after they retired to Lucifer’s room.
So, when an arm came flying from nowhere under the sheets, grabbing at him, Lucifer was ready to fight whatever had possessed the Radio Demon to the death. Only to be pulled close to a warm body, closed, smiling lips murmuring against his bare shoulder. “Do you ever think investors were crashing the system on purpose?”
Blinking into the darkness of the bedroom, Lucifer was at a complete loss for words. “What?”
Like he hadn’t even spoken, Alastor continued, “Quite diabolical. Parents sold their children, voluntarily! What a feat!” He squeezed Lucifer tighter, sharp claws digging into his side.
“What are you even talking about?” Lucifer rubbed a hand over his face, wondering if he actually had managed to fall asleep at last.
Sharp teeth brushed against his shoulders. “If deer were the size of ants, hunters wouldn’t exist,” Alastor growled, voice entirely void of a filter. And with a clear, southern drawl.
Lucifer choked back a laugh. “The fuck, Alastor?”
Very slowly, Alastor lifted his head from the pillow, sleepy eyes blinking open lopsidedly. The strained, small grin on his face was pure malice, through clenched teeth, “Aah hate dawgs.”
Knowing only Alastor’s transatlantic lilt, the sudden southern accent felt so exaggerated and wrong. Laughing quietly, Lucifer watched with fascination as his lover kept creeping on the line between fast asleep and kinda-awake. “Go gettem, deer,” he snickered.
“Aah’ll git ‘em ‘n brin’ their bones back to ya.” A sloppy kiss was delivered to his cheek, a clear miss for his mouth. And with that, Alastor tucked in close with a sigh.
And remained torturously still for the entire night, not moving an inch where he rested, draped over Lucifer like some sort of lanky weight blanket of pure heat.
The knew knowledge of that hidden accent drove Lucifer wild the entire night, never giving him any peace, even when he tried to settle down and closed his eyes. In his mind, his own version of Alastor as a human kept playing, ensuring his identity never was revealed, as no one suspected him of faking the transatlantic accent. By the time darkness lifted and Alastor’s alarm started blaring from his radio—or from his head?—Lucifer’s eyes were burning, sure as though he’d gotten a face full of acid from his more tragic duck, the acid spitter. That was about as volatile as a fucking llama with an acid reflux problem.
“You’re in my space,” Alastor complained as he punched the radio clean off the nightstand with a black tendril. The sinner hadn’t even opened his eyes to look where he was. “Why?”
“Um, with me being on the bottom here and all, I think you’re in my space, hon,” Lucifer could barely contain a slightly more than typical manic giggle.
“What is the matter with you?” A single eye cracked open slowly, glowing faintly. Annoyance practically radiated off the sinner in waves thicker than his tendrils.
“Al. Alastor. Babe. I don’t think gorging yourself on the streets of Pentagram City right before bed is good for you.”
The look Alastor threw his way as he sat up was nothing short of venomous. “I certainly don’t judge you for your incessant restlessness during the night, do I?”
Not taking the dig to heart at all, Lucifer kept giggling, trailing his hands up along Alastor’s clothed thighs. Drawing up his best heartbroken expression, he pouted and asked, “Alastor, why do ya hate dawgs?”
Twin fluffy points folded backwards on Alastor’s messy head immediately, antlers branching out past his shoulders. “What exactly did you hear last night?”
“Just some nice, southern trills you never told me you possessed knowledge of.” Lucifer leaned up on one elbow, torn between wanting to comfort Alastor in his discomfort, and basking in the glory of the sinner being caught unawares.
Bright reds narrowed with complete and utter disgust. “That’s it. Even in death it is impossible to be rid of a stomach ache with a warm glass of wilk without rambling like a fool.”
Like you’re doing now? Lucifer wanted to tease, but refrained, instead, he said, “Next time you have an upset stomach, I’ll just heal it for you.”
“And what do you require in return?” Alastor pressed immediately, not stopping Lucifer’s hands from wandering higher across his hips, or when Lucifer pulled him down to nearly rest their foreheads together.
“Just one, itty bitty, teeny tiny little thing, dear.”
“Name it.” It felt like a dare, the way the sinner spat it. Or a challenge.
And Lord let it be known Lucifer wasn’t known to back down from those.
“Occasionally, it would be delightful to hear your southern accent.”
“Why in good Heavens would you want that?” Alastor’s nose wrinkled immediately, distance clear in the lines of his eyes.
“Why does anyone want anything?” Lucifer shrugged. “The little preview last night was hot.”
“Once a month, you get one evening.”
Cackling, Lucifer shook his head. “I won’t put a compulsion on you for it.” On cue, the clone he hadn’t remembered to dissolve after dinner the previous night stepped through a portal with two cups and a pot of coffee in its hands. “We can talk later, have some coffee.”
An accusatory look was levelled his way. “That’s a full week, Lucifer. We shall indeed be having words, but it won’t be a sole negotiation about any southern favours.”