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The Hazbin Hotel lobby buzzed with its usual chaotic energy, a mix of redemption exercises, casual banter, and the faint crackle of infernal static that seemed to cling to the air like smoke.
Charlie paced back and forth near the reception desk, her hands clasped together as she outlined the day’s group activity, a trust building circle where sinners were supposed to share their deepest regrets.
Vaggie stood nearby, arms crossed, her single eye scanning the room with habitual suspicion. Husk slouched behind the bar, nursing a bottle of cheap booze, while Niffty darted around like a caffeinated blur, dusting surfaces that didn’t need it. Angel Dust lounged on a worn couch, scrolling through his phone with four of his arms, the other two fiddling with a pink feather boa.
And then there was Alastor, the Radio Demon, perched on a high-backed chair in the corner, his ever-present grin stretched wide across his face, though today it seemed just a touch sharper, like a knife edge glinting under dim lights.
The residents had gathered for what Charlie called 'morning motivation' but the atmosphere felt off. Alastor, usually the picture of unflappable amusement, had been snapping at minor annoyances all week. It started small: a static-laced growl when Niffty bumped into his leg while cleaning, a pointed comment about Husk’s 'slovenly habits' that carried more venom than his typical teasing. But today, it was escalating. Charlie’s enthusiastic speech about redemption hit a snag when she asked for volunteers to share first.
“Who wants to go first? Alastor, what about you? you’ve got such great stories from your old days!” Charlie beamed at him, her eyes sparkling with optimism.
Alastor’s red eyes narrowed fractionally, his grin unchanging but his voice crackling with an undercurrent of irritation. “My dear Charlie, while I appreciate your boundless enthusiasm, perhaps you could spare us the amateur therapy session this morning. Some of us have actual matters to attend to beyond wallowing in regret.”
The room fell silent for a beat. Charlie blinked, her smile faltering. “Oh, uh, sure! No problem. Anyone else?”
Vaggie stepped forward, her spear materializing in her hand out of habit. “Hey, asshole, watch your tone with her.”
Alastor’s ears twitched slightly, a rare tell that something was amiss. He rose smoothly from his chair, his shadow elongating across the floor like spilled ink. “Ah, Vagene, always the loyal guard dog. How quaint. But if you’ll excuse me, I have a some errands to run. I'm afraid you'll have to continue without me here.” His voice maintained that vintage radio timbre, laced with static and charm, but the way he swept past them toward the door carried an edge, his cane tapping sharply against the floorboards.
As the door slammed behind him, not quite a slam, but close enough for Alastor, the usual face of complete composure, slam the door like this? that made the group exchange glances.
Husk grunted from the bar, polishing a glass with a rag that looked older than sin. “Well, that was weirder than usual. Guy’s been a real prick lately.”
Niffty paused in her dusting, her single eye wide. “Alastor’s smile looked funny! Like it was gonna crack!”
Charlie wrung her hands, concern etching her features. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. He’s always so… composed. But the last few days, it’s like everything sets him off. Did I do something wrong?”
Angel Dust looked up from his phone, smirking. “Nah, toots, it's not you. Smiles is just bein’ his dramatic self. But yeah, he’s been extra snappy. Yesterday he threatened to turn me into a fur coat when I asked if he wanted a drink. And I didn't even flirt with him this time!”
Vaggie leaned against the desk, her expression thoughtful. “It’s not just you, Angel. He nearly bit my head off when I suggested reorganizing the lobby furniture. Said it was ‘unnecessary meddling.’ Something’s up.”
The group settled into a loose circle, the morning activity forgotten in favor of this impromptu discussion. Husk poured himself another drink, the amber liquid sloshing into the glass. “Maybe he’s just bored. Overlords like him get twitchy when things are too quiet.”
Niffty hopped onto the couch next to Angel, her tiny feet kicking in the air. “Or maybe he’s hungry! I could make him a nice stew!”
Charlie shook her head, her blonde hair swaying. “No, it’s more than that. Alastor’s been helping with the hotel since the beginning, even if it’s in his own way. But lately, he’s avoiding everyone. I saw him rubbing his neck yesterday like it was sore.”
Angel arched an eyebrow, his multiple eyes glinting with curiosity. “Neck rubbin’? Huh. Y’know, Smiles is part deer, right? All them antlers and shit. Maybe it’s a deer thing.”
Vaggie snorted. “A deer thing? What, like seasonal allergies in Hell?”
Angel shrugged, his fluffy chest fur ruffling. “Hey, don’t knock it. Back when I was alive, I knew a guy who had a pet deer or whatever. They get weird at certain times of the year. Lemme check somethin’.” He pulled out his phone again, fingers flying across the screen as he typed into a search engine.
The others watched as Angel scrolled, his expression shifting from casual to intrigued. “Okay, get this. Deer shed their antlers every year, right? It’s called velvet shedding or somethin’. But during that time, they get all tense and irritable ‘cause of muscle strain and hormones. Like, the antlers are growin’ back or sheddin’, and it messes with their whole body. Aches, pains, mood swings, the works.”
Charlie leaned in, her eyes widening. “Really? That sounds awful. Is that what’s happening to Alastor?”
Angel nodded, showing the screen to the group. It displayed an article from some wildlife site, complete with diagrams of deer antler cycles. “Says here it’s usually in late winter or early spring for most deer, but who knows how that translates down here in Hell. Time’s all fucked up anyway. But yeah, muscle tension from the antler base can cause headaches, neck pain, and make ’em super cranky. Fits Smiles to a T.”
Vaggie crossed her arms, skeptical but considering. “Okay, assuming this is real—and it’s a big assume—how do we know it’s that? Alastor’s not exactly your average buck.”
Angel scrolled further, reading aloud. “‘During shedding season, deer may exhibit increased aggression, restlessness, and sensitivity to touch around the head and neck.’ Sound familiar? And look, there’s tips on how to handle it for zoo animals or whatever. Massage, pain relief, keepin’ stress low.”
Charlie’s face lit up with determination, though worry still lingered in her eyes. “If that’s what’s wrong, we have to help him! He’s part of the team. So, how do we solve it? What’s the best way to ease that kind of tension?”
Angel leaned back on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, phone balanced on his knee as he scrolled with a lazy grin. “Get this, toots. One of the vet sites says that for deer in rehab centers, a gentle caress behind the ears can relieve a ton of body tension. Like, it hits some kinda pressure point or nerve cluster that relaxes the neck and shoulders. Apparently, deer go nuts for it when they’re all wound up from shedding.”
The lobby went quiet for a second. Husk choked on his drink. Vaggie’s eye widened. Niffty squealed and clapped her hands so fast she blurred.
“I’ll do it!” Niffty chirped, already halfway off the couch. “I’m small! I’m fast! He won’t even see me coming!”
“No!” came the immediate chorus from everyone else.
Charlie waved her hands frantically. “Niffty, no. Remember when when you bumped into his leg while cleaning? He growled so loud the lights flickered. If you go near his ears right now, we’ll be scraping you off the ceiling.”
Niffty pouted, crossing her arms. “But I’m good at petting things! I pet the roaches all the time!”
Angel snorted. “Yeah, and look how that turns out.”
Husk wiped his mouth with the back of his paw. “Ain’t none of us touchin’ the Radio Demon’s ears without losin’ a limb. Guy’s got personal space issues on a good day. Right now? He’d broadcast our screams as a special episode.”
Vaggie folded her arms. “Exactly. We need someone he won’t immediately vaporize on sight.”
As if the universe itself had been waiting for the cue, the front doors swung open with a dramatic flourish.
Lucifer strolled into the lobby, humming a jaunty tune under his breath, a rubber duck balanced on his outstretched palm like a circus performer’s plate. He was dressed in his usual white suit and top hat, looking every bit the ringmaster of his own private circus.
He had been living in the newly rebuilt hotel for months now, ever since the battle with Heaven, and had claimed a suite on the top floor complete with a workshop full of squeaking ducks.
Lucifer paused mid-hum, noticing the cluster of residents staring at him like he’d just walked in wearing nothing but the hat. His golden-crimson eyes widened in confusion. “What? Do I have something on my face?”
Charlie’s face lit up like a fireworks display. She practically launched herself across the lobby, grabbing her father’s free hand in both of hers. “Dad! Perfect timing! You’re exactly who we need!”
Lucifer blinked, the duck wobbling precariously. “I am? That’s… new.” he said, then murmured under his breath, “Usually I’m the one people want to get rid of.” He glanced around the room, noting the tense expressions. “What’s going on, kiddo? Did the smiling freak finally snap and eat someone?”
From Lucifer’s perspective, the lobby felt smaller the moment Charlie started tugging him toward the couches. He didn’t particularly like the way everyone was looking at him, like he was some kind of solution to a problem they’d all agreed was unsolvable. His daughter’s enthusiasm was infectious, as always, but he could sense the undercurrent of anxiety in the air. And whenever the hotel residents were anxious in a group, it almost always circled back to one person.
Charlie pulled him down to sit on the arm of the couch beside her, still holding his hand as if afraid he’d bolt. “Okay, Dad, listen. We think we figured out why Alastor’s been so irritable lately.”
Lucifer’s eyebrow arched. Irritable? That was Alastor’s baseline setting. The Radio Demon had been a thorn in his side since the day the overgrown car radio slithered into the hotel.
Lucifer didn’t like Alastor. Didn’t trust him. Thought the deer-eared bastard was playing a long game that would end with everyone in chains. But Charlie believed in him, for reasons Lucifer still couldn’t fully grasp, and so Lucifer tolerated the presence of the smiling menace.
He leaned back slightly, careful not to crush the duck in his pocket. “Go on, sweetie. I’m listening.”
Charlie took a deep breath, launching into the explanation with the earnest intensity she reserved for redemption speeches. “So, Alastor’s been snapping at everyone for days—more than usual, I mean. He stormed out of morning motivation today after being kind of mean, and we were worried. Then Angel looked it up online, and it turns out deer go through this thing called antler shedding season. The velvet dries up and falls off, but before that it itches horribly, and the growth puts all this strain on their neck and shoulder muscles. It causes headaches, tension, restlessness, and makes them really aggressive and sensitive, especially around the head and antlers.”
Lucifer listened, expression shifting from mild curiosity to amusement. He glanced at Angel, who waved his phone like evidence in court. The spider demon was clearly enjoying this far too much.
Charlie continued, words tumbling faster. “The articles say that during this time, deer get super touchy about their heads—no pun intended—and even little things set them off. But there are ways to help ease the tension. Things like keeping stress low, pain relief, warm compresses… and one site said that gentle scratching or caressing behind the ears can relieve a huge amount of built-up muscle strain because it stimulates certain nerves that relax the whole neck area.”
Lucifer’s amusement faded. He felt his smile freeze in place. “Wait. Back up. You want someone to scratch that guy behind the ears?”
Charlie nodded vigorously. “Yes! It could really help him! But nobody here wants to risk it. He growled at Niffty just for bumping him, and Husk says he’d lose a limb, and Vaggie thinks he’d vaporize anyone who tried, and Angel’s pretty sure he’d end up as a broadcast special. So we were stuck, and then you walked in, and Dad—you’re the only one he can't immediately kill on sight!”
Lucifer stared at his daughter. The lobby had gone unnaturally quiet; even the usual background static seemed to have paused. He could feel every pair of eyes on him.
He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Let me get this straight. Sweetheart, don't get me wrong, but you want me, me, to go find that insufferable, grinning, deal-making, shadow-summoning radio host… and pet him behind the ears like he’s some overgrown fawn?”
Charlie’s expression turned pleading. “It’s not petting, exactly. It’s therapeutic touch. For medical reasons. To help a friend.”
Lucifer’s mind raced. Friend. She called Alastor a friend. The same Alastor who mocked him at every turn, who undermined his authority in his own daughter’s hotel, the same Alastor whose very presence made Lucifer’s skin crawl with the instinct that something predatory was circling.
And now Charlie wanted him to touch the man. Gently. Behind the ears.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache that had nothing to do with antler shedding. “Charlie, honey, have you considered that I might enjoy beating the living daylights out of him far more than caressing him?”
Charlie’s eyes widened in horror. “No! Dad, no beating! That would make everything worse!”
Lucifer raised both hands placatingly, though his tone carried a hint of dark humor. “Relax, relax. I’m joking. Mostly.” He sighed, long and theatrical. “But seriously, kiddo. You’re asking me to voluntarily touch the Radio Demon in a way that sounds suspiciously intimate. Do you have any idea how much he’d enjoy holding that over my head for the next century?”
Charlie squeezed his hand tighter. “I know it’s a lot to ask. I know you two don’t get along. But he’s hurting, Dad. He won’t admit it, because he never admits anything that makes him look weaker, but he’s been rubbing his neck and wincing when he thinks no one’s looking. And if this can help, even a little… please? For me?”
Lucifer looked down at her. Those big, hopeful red eyes. The same eyes that had looked up at him when she was tiny, asking for bedtime stories about ducks and dreams. The same eyes that had convinced him to support this impossible hotel in the first place. The same eyes that somehow still believed the best of everyone, even when they didn’t deserve it.
He hated how effective they were.
But Charlie was asking. Not demanding. Asking. With that unbearable sincerity that made refusing feel like kicking a puppy.
Lucifer exhaled through his teeth. “Okay, Char-Char. I'll do it. For you.”
Charlie beamed, practically glowing. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Dad!”
He stood up slowly, straightening his coat and adjusting his hat with exaggerated dignity, as if preparing for battle. “If he tries to bite me, I’m blasting him through three walls. Medical emergency or not.”
The residents exhaled collectively. Angel gave a low whistle. “Damn, short king’s got balls of steel.”
Charlie bounced to her feet, hugging her father fiercely. “You’re the best! Just… be gentle, okay?”
“Don't worry, honey, your old man got this.” he said confidently.
—
The afternoon sun bled crimson through the tall lobby windows, painting everything in warm, lazy light. The residents had turned the place into a covert theater: Charlie pretended to organize pamphlets at the reception desk, Vaggie leaned casually against a pillar with a magazine she wasn’t reading, Husk wiped the same spot on the bar for the tenth time, Angel sprawled across two chairs with his phone angled just so he could watch without looking like he was watching, and Niffty perched on the chandelier like a hyperactive bat, legs swinging.
They were all terrible at pretending.
Lucifer, however, was having the time of his life.
He’d spent the last hour perfecting his plan, and now he was positively buzzing with mischief. Charlie had begged him to help, and while he didn't liked the idea at first, the moment the idea of catching Alastor off guard settled in his mind, reluctance evaporated. This wasn’t about medical necessity anymore; this was about one-upping the Radio Demon in the most gloriously undignified way possible, in front of an audience, no less.
So there he stood behind the high back of the largest couch, hidden in plain sight, while an absolutely flawless clone of himself lounged in the small velvet loveseat that Alastor considered his personal territory. The duplicate Lucifer looked bored, flipping through a book of old circus posters, occasionally humming a little tune just loud enough to be annoying.
The doors swung open.
Alastor strode in, cane tapping an irritable staccato against the floor. His grin was sharp enough to cut glass, antlers branching a touch wider than usual, ears pinned back slightly. The static around him crackled like a radio stuck between stations. He paused in the doorway, red eyes sweeping the room.
Everyone froze mid-motion.
Charlie dropped a whole stack of pamphlets. Vaggie turned a page so fast she tore it. Angel’s phone screen went dark. Niffty stopped swinging.
Alastor’s brow twitched. The silence was unnatural. He hated unnatural silence.
Yet he said nothing. With a soft huff of static, he glided across the lobby toward his favorite loveseat — only to find Lucifer already there.
The clone glanced up, offered a lazy, infuriating smirk, and returned to his book without a single word.
Alastor stared for a long beat. His ears flicked once in irritation. Whatever retort he might have unleashed apparently wasn’t worth the energy today. Instead, he pivoted gracefully and chose the large plush couch directly beside the loveseat, the one with its back to the room, perfect for brooding. He lowered himself into it with stiff posture, summoned a leather-bound book with a snap of shadow, and opened it with a sharp crack of the spine.
The residents exhaled as one.
Lucifer—the real one—grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. Showtime.
He watched from his hiding spot as Alastor tried to read. At first the Overlord’s eyes darted around the room every few seconds, catching the stolen glances, the barely suppressed excitement. Charlie was practically vibrating. Angel kept biting his lip to keep from laughing. Even Husk looked like he was fighting a smile.
Alastor’s jaw tightened. He turned a page harder than necessary.
But the book was good, a deliciously gruesome tale of betrayal and murder. Slowly, against his will, he sank into it. Shoulders lowered a fraction. One leg crossed over the other. The static softened to a gentle hum. His ears relaxed forward, no longer pinned. He turned another page, more gently this time.
Lucifer waited until the exact moment Alastor’s guard slipped; until the deer demon’s head tilted slightly toward the light, eyes half-lidded in concentration.
Then the clone in the loveseat moved.
It lifted one arm slowly, fingers extending toward Alastor’s right ear with theatrical stealth.
The residents’ eyes all snapped to the motion. Charlie clasped her hands under her chin. Angel leaned so far forward he nearly fell off his chair. Niffty’s legs kicked excitedly.
Lucifer’s clone hand hovered inches away.
Alastor’s ear twitched. In a blur of motion, his own hand shot up, fingers clamping around the clone's wrist with an iron grip. His head whipped around, eyes blazing crimson, static spiking sharp enough to make the lights flicker.
“What in the seven rings do you think you’re—!”
The clone vanished in a puff of red sparkles.
Alastor blinked at empty air.
And then two very real, very warm hands slid enthusiastically behind both of his ears.
Lucifer had vaulted silently over the back of the couch the instant the distraction worked. Now he leaned over Alastor from behind, fingers already buried in the surprisingly very soft fur at the base of those red-black ears, scratching with unrestrained glee.
“Gotcha.”
Alastor’s entire body went rigid for one glorious heartbeat.
Then it melted.
A loud, rumbling deer mew burst out of him, his eyes flew wide, then fluttered half-closed in instant bliss. The book slipped from limp fingers and landed with a soft thud on the carpet. His head unconsciously fell back against the couch cushion, pressing eagerly into Lucifer’s hands.
Lucifer didn’t hold back. He scratched with great, gleeful enthusiasm, his nails raking gently through the velvety fur, thumbs circling the sensitive spots just behind the base, fingers fluttering along the edges. He alternated pressure, light scratches to firm rubs, finding every spot that made Alastor’s breath hitch.
And oh, the noises.
Soft churring grunts, happy little bleats, distorted through radio static into something absurdly endearing. Another loud mew vibrated through the lobby when Lucifer hit a particularly good spot. Alastor’s right leg started kicking in helpless, rapid pedals against the couch—thump-thump-thump-thump—like a dog getting the perfect belly rub, only it was the King of Hell enthusiastically scritching the Radio Demon’s ears in front of everyone.
Alastor’s grin had gone soft and dreamy, eyes narrowed to pleased slits, cheeks faintly flushed. He sank sideways until he was half-sprawled across the couch, head cradled in Lucifer’s hands, completely boneless.
The residents watched in open-mouthed delight.
Charlie’s hands were pressed to her cheeks, eyes sparkling with happy tears. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, Vaggie! Look at him! That's so cute!” she whispered.
Vaggie’s stern mask had cracked completely; she was smiling wide, arms loosely folded, she was chuckling quietly. Angel had both sets of hands over his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, eyes shining with pure joy. Husk’s ears were perked forward, a rare, soft smile on his face as he watched.
Lucifer kept going, utterly shameless. He leaned further over the couch back, one knee propped on the cushion for balance, and redoubled his efforts. Scratching behind both ears at once, then focusing on one while stroking the other, occasionally running a thumb along the inner edge where the fur was softest.
Every new motion drew fresh sounds: a warbling churr, a breathy grunt, another helpless mew that cracked into static. Alastor’s leg kept kicking in happy little spasms, heel drumming a cheerful rhythm against the upholstery.
Minutes blurred by in pure, ridiculous fluff.
The lobby filled with the soft sounds of happy deer noises and delighted onlookers trying (and failing) to stay quiet. Charlie eventually gave up and just beamed, bouncing on her toes. Angel pulled out his phone but didn’t dare record—he just clutched it to his chest like he was witnessing something sacred.
Lucifer’s grin was triumphant and fond all at once. He varied his technique, light fluttery scratches, firm circular rubs, gentle pinches at the base, drawing out every possible happy sound. Alastor’s static had turned warm and mellow, like a late-night jazz station playing something soft and sweet.
Eventually, the kicking slowed to occasional lazy twitches. The mews became quieter, more contented sighs. Alastor’s breathing deepened, slow and even, head heavy in Lucifer’s hands.
Only then did Lucifer ease up. He gave one last long, gentle scratch behind each ear, fingers lingering for a final affectionate ruffle.
Then he withdrew his hands and stepped back lightly.
Alastor remained sprawled across the couch, eyes closed, grin soft and dreamy, chest rising and falling in deep, relaxed breaths. One leg still gave the occasional sleepy twitch.
The residents stared in collective, delighted awe at the utterly blissed-out Radio Demon.
Lucifer dusted his hands theatrically, just showing how a good job he had done, considering that Alastor looked that he wasn't even aware that he was being watched by the whole room—and sauntered toward the bar as if he’d just won a particularly satisfying duel.
The lobby settled into a strange, hushed limbo after Lucifer’s triumphant retreat to the bar. No one quite knew what to do next. The usual chaos of the Hazbin Hotel had been replaced by a collective, wide-eyed awe, as if they’d all just witnessed a solar eclipse made entirely of fluff and embarrassment.
Alastor remained exactly where Lucifer had left him: half-sprawled across the large plush couch, head tipped back against the cushions, eyes closed, perpetual grin softened into something loose and dreamy. His chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths. One leg still gave the occasional lazy twitch. The static that usually crackled around him had mellowed into the gentlest hum, almost like a lullaby station left on low volume.
No one moved to disturb Alastor. No one dared. It felt almost sacred, this rare moment when the terrifying Radio Demon looked utterly, harmlessly content. Even the hotel’s usual background noises seemed to have quieted in respect.
Minutes stretched into a small eternity.
Husk, behind the bar, poured Lucifer a glass of something amber and expensive, while Lucifer hummed cheerfully to himself. Every so often he glanced over at the couch, golden-crimson eyes sparkling with pure, unfiltered smugness. He had done that. He, Lucifer Morningstar, had reduced the most dangerous Overlord in Hell to happy deer noises and kicking legs. In public. On purpose. And it had worked beautifully.
He took a satisfied sip and waited.
Eventually, the spell began to lift.
Alastor’s breathing changed first, deepened, then quickened slightly. His ears flicked once, twice. The lazy twitch in his leg stilled. Slowly, his crimson eyes opened, blinking against the red-tinted light filtering through the windows. For several long seconds he simply stared at the ceiling, expression hazy, as if trying to piece together where he was and how he’d gotten there.
Then awareness returned in a rush.
He sat up slowly, like someone testing new muscles. His posture straightened, cane materializing in his hand with a soft pop of shadow. He rolled his neck experimentally, and the absence of tension hit him like cool water after a long fever. The ache behind his antlers was gone. The constant itch under his skin had vanished. His shoulders felt loose, his head clear. He hadn’t felt this light in days, maybe weeks.
Confusion flickered across his face, quickly masked by his usual grin. But the grin was smaller now, almost thoughtful.
His gaze swept the lobby.
Charlie offered a tiny, hopeful wave. Vaggie gave a small nod of acknowledgment. Angel wiggled his fingers in a cheeky greeting. Husk merely shrugged. Niffty waved both hands enthusiastically from the chandelier.
And then Alastor’s eyes landed on Lucifer.
Lucifer, leaning casually against the bar, swirling his drink with the most infuriatingly smug smile imaginable.
Memory slammed into Alastor like a freight train.
The distraction. The fake hand. The real hands. The scratching. The sounds those mortifying, undignified, uncontrollable deer sounds that had spilled out of him in front of everyone. The kicking leg. All of it.
His eyes scanned the room, until they landed on the figure at the bar. His eyes narrowed to glowing radio dials, red lines spinning wildly.
“You. You!”
The single word cracked through the lobby like a whip, layered with distorted feedback that made the lights flicker. Shadows writhed at his feet, stretching across the floor like grasping fingers.
Angel’s grin widened and Husk took a slow sip, clearly settling in for the show.
Alastor rose from the couch in one fluid motion, cane tapping sharply as he stalked toward the bar. His grin was back to full voltage, sharp, dangerous, promising retribution. Static popped and hissed around him, building in volume with every step.
Lucifer didn’t move. He just watched, his head tilted, smile growing wider.
Alastor reached the bar and planted both hands on the polished wood, leaning in until he and Lucifer were eye to eye. Shadows loomed behind him, antlers branching wider in threat display.
“How dare you?! you think that you can jus—” he began, voice a venomous growl underlaid with radio static.
Lucifer moved faster than thought.
One hand darted up, fingers slipping behind Alastor’s left ear for a single, scratch, right on the sweet spot.
Alastor’s words died mid-syllable.
His eyes flew wide. A deep, rolling deer churr escaped him, helpless, happy, and twice as loud as before in the sudden silence. His body melted instantly, knees buckling, grin going slack and dreamy again. The cane clattered to the floor. Shadows dissolved like smoke.
He would have slid straight down the front of the bar if Lucifer hadn’t anticipated it.
With his free arm, Lucifer caught him around the waist, pulling the boneless Radio Demon against the bar’s edge to keep him upright. Alastor’s head lolled sideways, pressing eagerly into the scratching fingers, another soft bleat vibrating through his chest.
Lucifer laughed, bright, utterly delighted,
“Oh, you are just too easy, Bambi.”
Charlie squeaked and covered her face, peeking through her fingers. Vaggie barked a laugh she couldn’t hold back. Husk snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink.
Alastor, caught in Lucifer’s arm, could only manage a weak, distorted grumble that sounded suspiciously like a pout. His leg gave one betrayed little kick against the bar stool before going limp again.
Lucifer gave one last affectionate ruffle behind the ear, then gently released him.
The moment the touch stopped, Alastor’s pride reasserted itself in a desperate surge.
“Fuck you, Sire.” he emphasized the word 'sire'.
Shadows exploded around him in a dramatic swirl. When they cleared a heartbeat later, he was gone. Only the faint echo of distorted static and the soft thump of his rarely forgotten cane hitting the floor remained.
Lucifer picked up the cane, twirled it once, and set it neatly against the bar.
As soon as the Radio Demon left the lobby, Charlie came running towards her father and hugged him tightly, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, Dad! Alastor looked like his normal-self again!"
Lucifer laughed affectionately, hugging his daughter back, "You're welcome, Char-Char, I'd do it a thousand times again for you."
—
The shadows in Alastor’s room folded around him as he materialized in the center of his room.
For a long moment he simply stood there, cane gripped tightly in one hand, grin fixed and brittle. The static in his voice crackled softly, betraying the storm beneath the surface.
Humiliating. Utterly, inexcusably humiliating.
He replayed it in his mind with crystalline clarity: the warm slide of fingers behind his ears, the sudden, treacherous rush of relief that had flooded every tense muscle, the way his body had betrayed him completely—melting, kicking, making those wretched, helpless deer noises in front of the entire lobby. In front of Charlie. In front of that insufferable spider. In front of Lucifer.
Especially in front of Lucifer.
Alastor’s eyes narrowed to thin red slits, dials spinning slowly. Lucifer’s laugh still echoed in his skull, bright, delighted, victorious. The King of Hell had looked far too pleased with himself, twirling that stolen cane like a trophy.
He despised the man. Always had. Lucifer was chaos wrapped in arrogance, a spoiled monarch playing at rebellion, forever meddling where he wasn’t wanted. Their every interaction had been a duel of barbs and power plays, a delicious game of one-upmanship that Alastor usually won with effortless flair.
And yet.
And yet those hands had known exactly where to press, exactly how firm, exactly how gentle. The memory of it sent an unwelcome shiver down his spine, equal parts fury and something he refused to name.
Alastor forced himself to move. He crossed the room in long steps.
The ache was already creeping back, slow at first, a faint itch beneath the base of his antlers, a tightening across his shoulders that he had almost forgotten could be absent. He had hoped the effects would linger longer. He had hoped, foolishly, that the relief would last.
He removed his coat, removed his shoes, climbed onto his bed fully clothed and lay back against the mountain of pillows. The mattress dipped under his weight, soft and yielding. For a while he simply stared at the canopy overhead, listening to the phantom saxophone weave through the room.
The relief had been exquisite. Like cool water on burned skin, like stepping out of a too-tight collar after hours of performance. Every knot in his neck had unraveled, every throb behind his eyes had quieted. For those few shameless minutes he had felt light.
He hated that he had liked it.
He hated that he had liked it from Lucifer.
Alastor closed his eyes, willing the memory away. He focused on the scent of damp earth and cypress that always lingered in this room.
But the ache returned with a vengeance.
It started as a dull pressure at the base of his skull, then spread outward. His antlers felt heavier, as though the new growth were pulling at the bone. The irritation crawled under his skin like ants.
He shifted restlessly, rolling onto his side. One hand lifted almost of its own accord, fingers hesitating near his left ear.
Perhaps he could recreate it. Surely it was simply a matter of pressure and placement. He was no stranger to self-sufficiency; he had survived centuries without needing and wanting anyone’s touch.
Carefully, he slipped his fingers beneath the edge of his ear, mimicking the angle he remembered, thumb against the skull, nails scraping lightly through the short fur. He pressed in slow circles, firm then gentle, trying to find the same spot Lucifer had found so effortlessly.
Nothing.
A faint tingle, perhaps, but no release. No flood of warmth. The tension remained coiled and mocking.
He tried the other ear. Then both at once, awkward with his own hands. He adjusted pressure, harder, softer, faster, slower. He raked his nails, then stroked with the pads of his fingers. He even attempted the fluttering motion he vaguely recalled, the one that had drawn that mortifying churr from his throat.
Still nothing.
The itch worsened. The ache deepened. Frustration coiled hot in his chest.
A low whine escaped him, soft and distorted, more animal than demon. The room’s shadows flickered in response to his mood, stretching and twitching across the walls.
He rolled onto his back again, staring at the ceiling with narrowed eyes. This was absurd. He was the Radio Demon. He did not need assistance. He certainly did not need Lucifer's very skilled hands.
And yet the memory taunted him: the effortless way those fingers had known exactly where to go, the confidence in every stroke, the warmth that had radiated through fur and skin and bone.
Alastor’s hand moved again, more urgently this time. He scratched harder behind his right ear, nails digging in, trying to force the relief through sheer will. The fur ruffled under his touch, but the tension only seemed to tighten in response, a knot pulling harder the more he tugged.
Another whine slipped out, higher this time, edged with genuine distress. He hated it. He hated the vulnerability of it, the way it echoed in the quiet room like an admission.
He tried lying on his stomach, burying his face in a pillow while both hands worked frantically, one behind each ear, scratching in desperate alternation. His legs kicked once against the mattress in frustration. The motion reminded him too vividly of the lobby, of that helpless pedaling reflex, and he stilled immediately, mortified heat flooding his face.
No. He would not think of that.
But the pain was sharpening now, a steady throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The itch beneath his antlers had become unbearable, as though something were crawling just beneath the surface. His breath came shorter, static crackling erratically.
He rolled onto his side again, curling slightly, one hand still clawing futilely at his ear.
He scratched harder.
Faster.
Furiously.
Short, frustrated whines escaped with every breath now, layered over distorted feedback that made the phantom record skip and warp. His ears pinned back flat against his skull, then flicked forward again as he chased elusive relief. He pressed the heel of his palm against the base of one antler, rubbed circles at the junction of neck and skull, raked nails from the tip of one ear down to its root.
Nothing worked.
The pleasure he had felt earlier remained stubbornly out of reach, a ghost sensation that teased at the edges of memory. His body remembered it perfectly, remembered the warmth, the melt, the blissful surrender, but his own hands could not summon it back.
Another whine, longer this time, edged with genuine pain. His legs drew up slightly, his tail, usually hidden, was flicking in agitation against the sheets. The shadows in the room roiled darker, responding to his distress.
He hated this weakness. Hated the need. Hated that Lucifer—of all creatures—had been the one to ease it, and that the ease had been so complete, so addictive, that its absence now felt like torment.
He scratched until his scalp tingled uncomfortably, until the skin beneath the fur felt raw. Still the deeper ache persisted, mocking his efforts.
Eventually he collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, hands falling limp at his sides. The whines quieted to soft, defeated breaths. His eyes stared blankly at the canopy, crimson dimmed with exhaustion.
The room’s jazz record played on, slow and mournful now, as though commiserating.
Alastor lay very still, letting the pain settle over him like a familiar old coat. He would endure it. He always had. He needed no one. Not Charlie’s optimism, not the hotel’s camaraderie, and certainly not Lucifer’s touch.
But deep in the private darkness of his room, curled among crimson sheets with bare hands still half-curled near his aching ears, the Radio Demon could not quite silence the treacherous thought that whispered through the static:
It had felt good.
Far too good.
And it was gone.
—
The next day passed quietly in the hotel, which should have been the first warning sign. Breakfast came and went without Alastor. Charlie kept glancing at the empty chair at the head of the table, smile growing more strained with every minute.
Lunch was the same. Husk grumbled that his boss probably just wanted 'attention' by skipping meals. Angel joked that maybe Smiles had finally got horny and was jerking off. Vaggie told them both to shut up. Charlie fidgeted through the entire meal, pushing food around her plate.
By dinner, even the eternal optimist couldn’t ignore it anymore. Charlie finally cornered her father near the bar, where he was idly spinning a rubber duck on the countertop.
“Dad,” she said, voice small but determined. “Alastor hasn’t... hasn't come down all day. Not once. Could you… could you go check on him? Please?”
Lucifer groaned dramatically, tipping his hat back. “Char-Char, Seriously? The bellhop is probably sulking because I made him bleat like a fawn yesterday. He’ll be fine, sweetie. Demons can't die from starvation.”
Charlie’s eyes did the thing, the beautiful puppy eyes, the wide, pleading, impossible-to-refuse thing.
Lucifer sighed so hard his hat nearly fell off. “Fine. Fine, you win, honey. I'll do it.”
“Thanks, Dad! You're the best!” the princess beamed.
—
He portaled directly to the hallway outside Alastor’s door, because knocking was for people who cared about manners near the radio freak. The door swung open on silent hinges the moment his hand touched the knob. Alastor’s wards recognized him, or perhaps simply didn’t bother resisting the King of Hell.
Lucifer stepped inside and stopped.
The room was dimmer than usual, the green will-o’-the-wisps floating low and sluggish. The phantom jazz record spun slow and warped, like a song underwater. And there, on the massive crimson bed, was Alastor.
He was lying on his side, knees drawn up slightly, coat discarded somewhere on the floor, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. Both hands were buried behind his ears, fingers moving in frantic, scratching motions, nails raking through the fur, pressing hard against the base of his antlers, rubbing circles that looked more desperate than soothing. His ears twitched and pinned with every motion, body curled tight.
Soft, distressed whines leaked out of him, thin, static-laced sounds that rose and fell with each unsuccessful attempt to find relief. His tail (Alastor had a fucking tail!) flicked sharply against the sheets. Every few seconds his leg kicked once, a frustrated little thump against the mattress.
Lucifer paused in the doorway. Normally this would have been hilarious, prime blackmail material, the untouchable Radio Demon reduced to scratching himself like a flea-ridden mutt. But the whines weren’t cute. They were small and pained, edged with real discomfort, and they twisted something in Lucifer’s chest he didn’t want to examine too closely.
He sighed loudly, letting the door click shut behind him.
Alastor’s ears snapped upright. His head turned sharply, crimson eyes narrowing to slits as he registered the intruder. The scratching stopped abruptly, hands dropping to the sheets as though caught doing something shameful.
“What,” Alastor said, voice tight and crackling, “do you think you’re doing in my room, Your Majesty?”
Lucifer shrugged, strolling closer with his hands in his pockets. “Charlie sent me. You didn’t show up for any meals. She was two seconds from coming here, and let's be real, you prefer me over her being here checking on you.”
Alastor’s grin stretched wider, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “How thoughtful. As you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”
Lucifer raised one eyebrow, gaze flicking pointedly to the disheveled state of the bed and the faint red marks on his jaw where Alastor had scratched too hard.
“Yeah,” Lucifer said dryly. “You look great. Really convincing.”
Alastor sat up slowly, smoothing his shirt with deliberate calm. “I require no assistance. You may leave now.”
Lucifer didn’t move. He studied the tension still coiled in Alastor’s shoulders, the slight pinch around his eyes, the way one ear kept flicking irritably.
“I could scratch your ears again,” he offered, tone light. “If you want.”
Alastor’s eyes flashed dangerously. Static spiked, making the lights flicker. “I want nothing from you.”
Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been up here all day trying to copy what I did yesterday and failing spectacularly.”
A beat of silence. Alastor’s grin twitched.
“What,” he asked very quietly, “do you want in return?”
Lucifer blinked. He hadn’t actually expected the question. He opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged. “Uhh... Nothing big. Maybe you stop trying to argument with me every time you see me. Or just say ‘thank you’ like a normal person. We’ll figure it out later.”
Alastor stared at him for a long moment, weighing pride against the returning ache behind his antlers. The pain had dulled overnight but never fully left, and now it was sharpening again, a slow creep that made his skin feel too tight.
Finally, he inclined his head, just once. “Very well.”
Lucifer’s grin turned triumphant. He kicked off his boots and climbed onto the mattress without waiting for an invitation. “Lie down, Bambi. Get comfy.”
Alastor shot him a venomous look at the nickname but, after a brief hesitation, stretched out on his back among the pillows. His posture remained stiff, arms at his sides, ears half-pinned in lingering distrust.
Lucifer settled cross-legged beside him, rolled up his sleeves, and reached out.
His fingers found the spot behind Alastor’s left ear first, gentle at the start, light strokes through the soft fur, thumb pressing slow circles against the tense muscle beneath. He kept it soft, exploratory, letting Alastor adjust to the touch.
The reaction was immediate.
Alastor’s eyes fluttered. A low, rolling churr escaped him, static warm and pleased. His head tilted instinctively into the hand, ears relaxing forward. The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees.
Lucifer smiled, small and private, and added his other hand behind the right ear. He scratched a little firmer now, nails scraping lightly in the way he remembered worked best. Alternating pressure, fluttering along the edges, rubbing small knots at the base.
Happy deer noises filled the room, soft grunts, breathy bleats, the occasional deep mew that vibrated through Alastor’s chest. His leg started kicking lazily against the sheets, slow thumps of pure contentment. One hand unclenched from the blanket and came up to rest lightly on Lucifer’s knee, not pushing away, just anchoring.
“That's it, Bambi. Just relax.” Lucifer said surprisingly affectionate.
Minutes passed in quiet rhythm. Lucifer kept the touches steady, thorough, moving from ears to the junction of neck and skull, then back again. Alastor’s breathing deepened, static mellowing to a gentle hum.
Then Alastor shifted. He pressed his head more firmly into Lucifer’s hands, ears pushing forward insistently, chasing stronger contact. A soft, demanding whine rose in his throat.
Lucifer obliged without teasing, only chuckling. He scratched deeper, fingers working through the fur with confident pressure, thumbs circling the most sensitive spots. He ruffled the fur at the very base, then smoothed it down again, repeating the motion until Alastor’s whole body went loose and heavy.
Suddenly, Alastor moved.
He surged up and threw himself at Lucifer.
They fell on the bed with a soft 'oof' from Lucifer. Alastor's face pressed forward, nose butting firmly against Lucifer’s own (right where a nose would be if Lucifer had one to begin with). The contact was warm, insistent, repetitive, gentle nudges that turned into eager presses.
Then his tongue darted out, quick, warm licks across Lucifer’s cheek, chin, forehead, the corner of his mouth. Not sloppy, but earnest, tasting sweet, skin and the faint apple scent that clung to the King of Hell. Little happy chuffs puffed against Lucifer’s face between licks.
Lucifer froze for half a second, eyes wide.
Then he laughed, soft, surprised, impossibly fond. The sound spilled out warm and bright.
“Well, hello to you too!” he murmured.
He didn’t pull away. Instead he leaned into it, rubbing his own nose gently back against Alastor’s in return, slow circles that matched the rhythm of his scratching fingers. His free hand came up to cup the side of Alastor’s face, thumb stroking along the jaw while he kept the ear scratches going without pause.
Alastor made a low, pleased rumble and licked again, long, affectionate swipes across Lucifer’s temple, then down to his cheek once more. His tail flicked happily against the sheets. His whole body had gone soft and pliant, leaning heavily into Lucifer’s space without a trace of the earlier wariness.
Lucifer kept laughing quietly, the sound warm and helpless. He nuzzled back every time Alastor butted against him, meeting each eager nudge with one of his own. His fingers never stopped moving, scratching, rubbing, soothing, drawing out more contented churrs and soft bleats.
The room filled with the quiet sounds of it: gentle scratches, happy deer noises, occasional breathy laughter, the rustle of sheets as Alastor shifted closer. Time stretched, warm and unhurried.
Alastor’s licks slowed eventually, turning into lazy presses of his nose against Lucifer’s cheek, forehead resting there as he melted fully into the touch. His ears stayed forward and drooping every time, twitching happily under Lucifer’s fingers.
Lucifer kept the scratches going in steady rhythm, fingers moving from the base of one ear to the other, nails light then firm, thumbs pressing small circles along the skull. Alastor stayed pressed close, face tucked against Lucifer’s neck now, warm breaths puffing soft against skin. Every few seconds he nudged forward again, nose rubbing slow along Lucifer’s jaw, then settled back into the touch with a quiet churr.
The room stayed quiet except for the gentle sounds: soft scratches, happy grunts, occasional breathy bleats, the rustle of sheets when Alastor shifted to get closer. Lucifer’s free hand rested on Alastor’s shoulder, thumb stroking idly over the fabric of his shirt.
After a while Alastor’s antlers began to droop. They had been tall and stiff earlier, branching wide with tension, but now the velvet covering looked loose, the bone beneath shifting slightly with every breath. The left one sagged first, tipping forward until the tip brushed Lucifer’s sleeve. The right followed, both antlers hanging heavy and limp against Alastor’s head.
Lucifer noticed the change right away. He slowed the scratches behind the ears and moved one hand up carefully, fingers sliding along the base where antler met skull. The connection felt soft, almost wobbly, like the bone had loosened completely.
Alastor made a low, rumbling sound—half sigh, half pleased groan—and pushed his head harder into Lucifer’s palm.
Lucifer took the hint. He gripped the base of the left antler gently, twisted once with even pressure, and pulled. It came away clean and easy, no blood, just a faint pop as the connection released. The velvet peeled back a little at the edge, dry and ready to shed.
Alastor let out a loud, rolling deer bleat, deep, happy, almost a laugh. His whole body relaxed further, shoulders dropping, legs stretching out long across the sheets. The sound vibrated through his chest and into Lucifer’s side.
Lucifer set the shed antler aside on the blanket, then reached for the right one. Same careful grip, same gentle twist and pull. It slid off just as smoothly. Alastor made the same joyful noise again, louder this time, tail flicking fast against the mattress. His head felt lighter instantly, the constant pull and ache completely gone.
All the pain vanished with the antlers. The itch, the pressure, everything melted away. Alastor’s ears flopped forward in pure relief, and he rubbed his newly light head against Lucifer’s chest like a cat seeking more contact.
Lucifer stared at the two shed antlers lying on the blanket, tall, branched, still warm from Alastor’s body. He laughed quietly, surprised and fond. “Well, look at that. Clean shed. Good boy.”
Alastor didn’t even bristle at the words. He just made another soft churring sound and nuzzled closer.
Then he lifted his head.
His face was relaxed, grin wide and genuine, eyes half-lidded with leftover bliss. He leaned up slowly, nose brushing Lucifer’s cheek first, then his mouth. The contact was warm, deliberate. Alastor pressed forward and kissed him, firm but not rushed, lips parted just enough to let a small, happy grunt escape into the kiss. Another soft bleat followed, muffled against Lucifer’s mouth.
Lucifer froze.
His hands stopped moving on Alastor’s ears. Eyes went wide. For a full second he sat completely still, brain catching up to the fact that the Radio Demon—Alastor—was kissing him. On purpose.
Alastor didn’t pull back. He kissed again, slower this time, nose rubbing along Lucifer’s as he shifted angle. A quiet, pleased chuff puffed between them. His newly light head tilted, ears flopping forward, one hand coming up to rest lightly against Lucifer’s collar.
Lucifer’s shock lasted only that one beat.
Then he exhaled a soft laugh against Alastor’s lips and kissed back.
His hand slid from Alastor’s ear to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the hair there, pulling him closer. The kiss stayed gentle, no teeth, no fight for contro, just warm and steady. Lucifer angled his head, met each small nudge and soft sound with his own quiet hum of approval.
Alastor made more noises into it: little grunts, breathy bleats, a low rolling churr every time Lucifer’s thumb stroked the spot behind his jaw. His body stayed loose and heavy, half sprawled across Lucifer’s lap now, tail still flicking in slow, contented sweeps.
Lucifer kept one arm around Alastor’s back, holding him steady, while his other hand returned to light scratches along the side of his neck and the newly bare scalp where the antlers had been. The skin there was smooth, sensitive, and every touch drew another happy sound into the kiss.
They stayed like that for a long time, making out slow and easy, trading soft noises, hands gentle. Alastor would pull back just enough to nuzzle Lucifer’s cheek or forehead, then lean in again for another kiss. Lucifer met him every time, laughing quietly when Alastor made a particularly loud bleat right against his mouth.
Eventually the kisses slowed to small presses, then to just resting forehead to forehead, breathing the same air. Alastor’s ears dropped and relaxed, body completely limp against Lucifer’s chest. The shed antlers lay forgotten on the blanket beside them.
Lucifer rubbed slow circles along Alastor’s back, fingers occasionally drifting up to stroke the bare spots at the top of his head. Alastor answered with quiet chuffs and the occasional lazy nudge of his nose against Lucifer’s.
Neither spoke. The room was warm, the jazz record spinning soft in the background, and for once everything felt simple.
Alastor’s tail gave one last happy flick before stilling. He settled heavier into Lucifer’s arms, head tucked under his chin, ears flopped loose. Lucifer kept stroking, slow, steady, endless, until Alastor’s breathing evened out into deep, contented huffs.
The pain was gone. The antlers were off. And the quiet between them stayed comfortable, warm, and full of soft deer noises whenever Lucifer’s fingers found the right spot.