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The first time Lucifer offers Alastor an apple, he does it like a joke. Which, in hindsight, is the cruelty of it.
The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel hums with its usual brand of theatrical disaster. Niffty darts between chair legs in a blur of gremlin energy, her feather duster raised like a weapon against imaginary dust. Angel is draped upside-down over the couch like a forgotten marionette; one heel is hooked lazily over the backrest as he scrolls on his phone. Alastor, a looming shadow at the periphery, loiters at the bar as Husk cleans the same glass he cleaned this morning.
Charlie stands near the center of it all, hands clasped beneath her chin, speaking earnestly about "structured optimism" and "long-term reform metrics."
Alastor, however, isn't listening. Not because he finds her uninteresting; quite the contrary. He finds Charlie very entertaining, delightful in a way one might admire a porcelain doll.
His attention is elsewhere, drawn by a sudden, oppressive weight that settles over the air. It's the subtle, charged tightening of the atmosphere, a feeling that crawls up his spine like a lover's possessive touch. The scent arrives first, an enticing cocktail of fire and brimstone, the sweet aroma of baked apples, and something warm and undeniably divine.
The King of Hell has arrived.
And just like that, appearing in a silent, incandescent spiral of flame, Lucifer Morningstar stands beside the grand piano as if he had always been there. His smile is brilliant, disarming in a way that does not quite reach his eyes. His expression is a masterful canvas of amusement and faint disdain, his posture immaculate, his suit as pristine white as ever against the hotel's muted red tones.
The tip of his cane hits the floor with a soft, definitive click. The sound silences the ambient noise and commands the room's attention.
"Hi, Dad!" Charlie brightens immediately, her voice raising an octave. She goes in for a hug, and her father reciprocates.
The hug is quick and brief, though his gaze drifts; his attention is not truly on her, as he scans the room for something.
Lucifer's eyes land on Alastor.
A slow, razor-sharp smile spreads across Alastor's face, widening just enough to recognize the challenge. His ears twitch in anticipation. A game, it seems, is about to begin.
"Ah, Your Highness," Alastor drawls pleasantly. "To what do we owe the honor of this... unscheduled visitation? Has Hell grown so dull that you must descend to our humble little stage of entertainment?"
"Must I have a reason to visit, Bellhop?" Lucifer hums, his voice a low, melodic sound. He strolls forward, not walking so much as gliding, with the innate, unassailable grace of a being who has never been denied entry anywhere.
"Host, and you usually do," Alastor replies, his smile a perfect, fixed crescent of teeth.
"Well, I just so happened to be in the neighborhood-"
"You live upstairs."
"That's beside the point," Lucifer dismisses the comment with a flick of his wrist, as if swatting a fly. He stops in front of Alastor, invading his personal space with a casual, prideful arrogance that Alastor finds fascinating.
Alastor can feel the potent heat radiating from him, the air becoming thick and humming with unspoken things. It's a warmth that could burn all of Hell to ash and still feel deceptively gentle against the skin.
With a flourish that is both theatrical and intimate, Lucifer's hand disappears into his inner coat pocket. When it re-emerges, his fingers are curled around a single, perfect object.
A red apple.
It is impossibly perfect, glossy, and unblemished. Its skin catches the chandelier light, like a lacquered, crimson surface so deep and pure it seems to hold a light of its own. So perfect, in fact, it looks like a prop from a nursery rhyme.
Lucifer holds it out in the palm of his hand, an offering made with an air of almost careless elegance.
"For you," Lucifer says with a smile, his tone light and playful.
A long pause fills the space, thickening the air with anticipation. Charlie blinks in confusion. Angel sits up, curiosity piqued by the exchange. Niffty stops moving, her feather duster hovering in midair. Even Husk stops polishing the glass.
Alastor looks at the apple, then at Lucifer. He looks at the way Lucifer's eyes are watching him, studying him with growing intrigue. There's no malice behind those beautiful red eyes, only a specific, intense curiosity that makes Alastor's skin crawl in a way that isn't unpleasant. His tone suggests no ill intent, but there's more to it beneath.
He sees not just fruit, but a symbol. Lucifer's legacy of defiance, his exile, and the moment he was branded a villain. A symbol of temptation that feels far too heavy for the present moment. The apple was the first act of rebellion, the catalyst for a war that had bled across the heavens and scorched the earth. He sees the knowledge it offers, the power it promises, and the ruin it guarantees.
The intimate trust it carries.
'This is no longer a weapon. It's a gift. I am placing my most infamous symbol in your hands.'
A laugh escapes Alastor's lips, bright and sharp as shattering glass, entirely and beautifully dismissive.
"Sire, you jest!" he says, his voice amused and faintly cruel. He folds his hands behind his back, as if resisting the urge to applaud the sheer audacity of it all. "You mistake me for some little woodland creature with a simple appetite."
A flicker of amusement crosses Lucifer's face. "Yes, well," he says, his tone laced with cool, arrogant charm, "I noticed you favor meat over apples. A little fruit in your diet wouldn't hurt."
"I don't recall requesting nutritional advice," Alastor's grin stretches, a predator's baring of teeth. "And I believe my dietary choices are none of your concern."
Lucifer's smile remains, but it stills as the warmth fades from his expression, leaving a divine coldness. The amusement in his eyes freezes, replaced by the look of a god whose will has been questioned.
"Take it," he says, his voice dropping to a low, commanding hum.
Alastor laughs again, a confident sound this time, as he tilts his head in mock consideration. "I do not accept snacks from others, Your Highness. No matter how... tempting the offer may be."
"Not even from me?"
"Oh, especially not from you," Alastor agrees, his tone deceptively cheerful as the rejection hangs clear in his words. "I do not eat food offered by kings. One never knows what price comes with it."
Alastor does not reach for the apple, nor does he grant it a second glance. His gaze is fixed on Lucifer, studying him with growing intrigue. His expression makes it clear that he makes his own choices and will not be swayed by the promise the apple offers.
For a moment, Lucifer doesn't lower his hand. He simply watches Alastor, his gaze seeming to pierce through the fixed grin and nonchalant posture, searching for what he knows is there. The space between them tightens, as if something might snap at any moment.
"Suit yourself," Lucifer says, the words a soft, final sigh. He withdraws the apple, his gesture infused with practiced, theatrical indifference, as if this entire exchange, this rejection of a sacred symbol, means nothing. He turns away, his attention quickly shifting to Charlie as he idly comments on the lobby's decor.
As the room's ambient noise gradually returns, Alastor watches Lucifer with innate focus. Lucifer doesn't offer Charlie the apple, nor does he toss it to the others. Instead, he slips it back into the inner pocket of his coat, carefully, as if preserving it. As if it matters.
Alastor's smile tightens, a barely perceptible shift beneath the mask. Something unspoken and profound has passed between them, something that feels less like a joke and more like the first move in a game neither intends to lose. A game of temptation and defiance, of power and the illusion of submission.
There's a flaw in the symmetry, one he's not accustomed to accounting for. This doesn't feel like any game he's played before. There's no clear advantage to seize, no obvious weakness to exploit right now. While Lucifer was masking his intentions behind his usual facade, he didn't hide them in the offering.
That unsettles him.
Worse, it draws him in. If this is a game, then Lucifer's playing to win for real. That realization fractures something small but significant in Alastor's composure.
***
The next time it happens, it's an unguarded moment for just the two of them.
The hotel, against all odds, quiets in a way Hell rarely allows. The room is steeped in a soft amber glow, casting long, distorted shadows that dance like wraiths across the walls. Dust motes drift lazily through the air, each a tiny, forgotten soul catching the light.
Alastor stands before the radio console, his long fingers adjusting dials that need no adjustment. It's a ritual for him, a familiar way to anchor himself in the chaos, a way to impose his will on the very frequencies of the ether. A comforting gesture, one he seldom finds in Hell.
Tonight, however, his usual hunger for screams and suffering is absent. He's not in the mood to broadcast screams across Hell. The current broadcast hums with a soft static, a steady, familiar whisper threading through the empty room.
His thoughts are elsewhere, ensnared by the memory of their encounter the other night. It's a persistent hunger gnawing at the edges of his composure. He replays the moment when Lucifer presented the apple, the silent testament to a bargain between them, and the way his eyes lingered a moment too long.
The problem isn't the apple. It's that Lucifer offered it at all. He knows that Lucifer offers apples only to those he wishes to bind to him. Not with chains or magic, but with something far more potent: personal connection. In Lucifer's mind, sharing the fruit is a relic of the past, a sacred rite that signifies trust, closeness, and chosen companionship.
And that, Alastor realizes, is a form of temptation that unsettles him more than any promise of power. It introduces a variable he cannot easily dismiss, one that lingers at the edges of his mind, whispering of a possibility he has long since dismissed as irrelevant.
What would it mean to take what's been offered?
The thought is intrusive, entirely unwelcome, and yet it remains.
The very atmosphere shifts around him. The room seems to inhale, holding its breath as the dust motes freeze mid-descent, suspended as if in deference. The temperature rises, a warmth that has nothing to do with the climate and everything to do with the presence now bleeding into the space behind him.
Alastor doesn't turn; he doesn't need to. He knows this presence. He's been both dreading and anticipating it.
"You're becoming predictable, Your Highness," Alastor says, his voice a smooth purr. His fingers remain poised over the knobs, a deliberate display of practiced indifference. "One might think you'd be capable of a little more subtlety."
"You didn't even check." Lucifer's voice answers, a soft, warm croon from directly behind him, making every fine hair on the nape of Alastor's neck stand on end. "For all you know, I could've sent an assassin. Or worse, that sinner guy who kidnapped me."
Alastor hums thoughtfully, a sound that vibrates in his chest. "If it were an assassin, I would have tasted their fear in the air the moment they crossed the threshold. As for Vincent..." His smile sharpens. "He would simply barge in without asking. Sort of like what you're doing now."
"And here I thought I was unique." Lucifer lets out a quiet laugh against him, a rumble that Alastor feels resonate through his back.
"Oh, you are," Alastor replies, his voice a honeyed drawl as he tilts his head just enough to acknowledge the heat at his back without breaking. He refuses to give Lucifer the satisfaction of a full surrender. "No one else makes the very atmosphere bend to their will before they've even fully crossed the threshold. It's terribly dramatic. One would almost think you were trying to impress me."
"Should I?" Lucifer's tone dips into a low, playful tease, promising dark delights. "I could start by dimming the lights next time. Maybe put on a little mood music? Or I could arrange for a choir of damned souls to sing your praises instead?"
"Please don't," Alastor says, giving a light, dismissive wave of his hand. "I prefer my ears intact. And your taste in music is, shall we say, an acquired taste."
A warm chuckle escapes Lucifer. It's a sound stripped of its usual performance, a genuine, private amusement meant for Alastor alone. It's a dangerous sound, one that unravels something deep within him.
"Well then, perhaps," Lucifer murmurs, his voice a low, intimate melody that coils around Alastor's senses, "you also noticed this."
Something red slips into Alastor's peripheral view.
Another apple.
It gleams beside his shoulder, suspended between Lucifer's black fingers like a perfect question mark. It's as flawlessly polished as the last, a beautiful crimson orb, a promise of knowledge and damnation, all wrapped in one tempting package.
Silence stretches like a thick, heavy blanket woven from unspoken words and mounting tension. Alastor turns his head fully this time, slow and unhurried, until they are nearly face-to-face. His gaze fixes on the apple, then lifts to meet Lucifer's.
Lucifer is standing impossibly close, so close that the fine fabric of their sleeves nearly brushes, a hairsbreadth from contact. His expression is different. The usual arrogance has softened, the smirk refined into something more genuine. His eyes are intent, studying Alastor's face with an unnerving focus. The amusement has been replaced by something else, something deeper and far more sincere.
"For you," Lucifer repeats, his voice slipping into a vulnerable, tender whisper that's more terrifying than any threat. He does not posture as he offers the apple with slow, lingering grace, as if every heartbeat between them makes it impossible to ignore. The air between them crackles, so tangible it feels as if it could be sliced open.
"Your Highness," Alastor says lightly, though the edges of his voice are silk-warped steel and his fingers tighten on the table's edge. "If this is an assassination attempt, it lacks imagination."
"You think I'd poison you?" Lucifer's brow lifts slightly, a spark of genuine surprise in his eyes, as though the thought had never crossed his mind.
"I think," Alastor replies, turning fully to face him, closing the distance between them until their bodies hover a breath apart, the heat from Lucifer's form a searing brand against his own, "that nothing you do is ever accidental."
Lucifer doesn't move, but his presence becomes an overwhelming force, like a gravitational pull that makes Alastor's body feel like a traitor, every nerve ending screaming betrayal against his composure.
Up close, Lucifer is a study in divine contradiction.
His blonde hair catches the hotel's dim light like a shattered halo, refusing to falter. His lashes cast delicate shadows beneath eyes that are far too luminous, too intent, and burning with impossible focus. A faint golden blush colors the gentle planes of his cheeks, a betrayal of his composure. Here, he has an angelic beauty, the kind that feels almost sacrilegious in a place like Hell, too pure, too radiant, yet impossible to look at without feeling the pull toward something higher, something untouchable.
And beneath it all, there's a devilish allure that's impossible to resist. The sharp planes of his cheekbones remain elegant, yet they harden into right angles. His lips curl into that infuriating, seductive smile. His crimson eyes flare with a ravenous intensity that feels almost alive. It's the sort of beauty that lures and threatens, a radiant, magnetic danger all at once.
In this moment, Lucifer is the very definition of seduction, the living incarnation of temptation, every motion and breath a pull toward the forbidden. Alastor leans in just a fraction, their breath mingling in the charged space between them. He watches the shift with mesmerizing fascination, daring to meet both the angel and the Devil.
"Take it," Lucifer says, his voice a soft whisper that slips through the air and settles deep. The words are neither a command nor a challenge, but something far more sincere. They're a request. A plea, so carefully concealed it's almost a confession.
Alastor is close enough now to feel the raw, unshielded devotion radiating from Lucifer in waves and to see the fragile, terrible honesty burning like a dying star behind those beautifully sincere eyes.
He has always known, on some intellectual level, what this offering meant. He tried to play it off as flirtation wrapped in theatrical nonsense, a harmless indulgence. But theory is cold and distant compared to the searing reality standing right before him.
Lucifer is offering himself to Alastor in the only language he has ever been allowed to speak.
Lucifer isn't tempting him; he's trusting him through a mutual, voluntary choice. The choice of placing the very symbol of his fall into someone else's hands and to trust that he won't weaponize it.
For a being who should, by all rights, be too proud to stand there so unmasked, so unguarded, so undeniably real, Lucifer's vulnerability is a weapon more potent than any Hellfire.
At this moment, Sin has become the most profound intimacy, a sacred act of desecration. And that impossible devotion has burrowed deep into Alastor's chest, its claws quietly and insistently tearing at his composure.
Alastor's smile sharpens to compensate, but for the first time, it's no longer entirely steady. The realization of it all strikes like lightning beneath his skin, a heat that slides along his spine and coils low in his gut.
This isn't fear he's feeling. It's the horrifying awareness that this is no longer a game. It's real.
His hand moves with an apprehensive edge that feels foreign to him. He reaches out, not for the apple, but for Lucifer's wrist. His gloved fingers curl loosely around it, the cool leather a stark contrast to Lucifer's sinful heat.
With a touch that is both a rejection and an acknowledgment, a caress and a warning, Alastor gently pushes Lucifer's hand aside. His thumb drags, almost absentmindedly, along the sensitive inside of Lucifer's wrist, tracing a line that feels like a memory forming on his skin.
Alastor knows what Lucifer wants from him. To take the apple is to surrender, to submit to the inevitable, to acknowledge the ever-blooming bond between them, and to admit that he is not as immune to Lucifer Morningstar as he would have himself believe. Devotion would mean allowing himself to be held in return.
He's not ready. Not yet.
'I understand exactly what you're offering, and I am not ready to matter to someone.'
Alastor inclines his head slightly, the gesture almost reverent. His smile falters, almost disappearing from his face.
"I must decline."
Lucifer goes very still. It's the stillness that follows a fatal blow landing exactly where it's meant to hurt, a single, perfect strike that makes his reaction infinitely more devastating for Alastor.
Lucifer's gaze drops to where Alastor's fingers still encircle his wrist, to the point of contact that's now a point of rejection. A fracture crosses his expression, quick and jagged, impossible to hide if one is looking closely enough. It isn't mere surprise, though the shock is undeniable. It's the look of a man who, against all odds, had allowed himself to hope.
Lucifer is disappointed.
"...I see." The word is barely a whisper, thin and fragile in a way Lucifer has no right to be.
Alastor feels the shift before he sees it. Lucifer's hand slips from his grasp without force. The subtle withdrawal of power, the careful unthreading of presence, leaves a sudden, chilling void. His warmth vanishes at once, and the absence lands hard, pressing the air from Alastor's lungs.
The apple remains untouched. Again.
The rejection hangs in the air, thick and suffocating, as Lucifer tucks the apple away with controlled grace. The motion is precise, but his shoulders tighten a fraction in restraint, a telltale sign of the pride or fury he's holding back. He accepts the refusal with a dignity that is terrifying in its fragility.
Then he's gone. One moment, Lucifer stands before him, vivid, warm, and impossibly bright. Then, he leaves only an empty space where he had been, and the sudden quiet lands like a gut punch.
Alastor remains standing where he is, his hand still slightly raised as if trying to catch the phantom warmth Lucifer left behind. The room exhales, and the dust resumes its lazy descent as though nothing had just happened, as though a star hadn't just been extinguished in their midst.
His hand falls to his side as a strange sense of detachment washes over him. He lets out a low, ragged breath, unsteady enough that the radio's frequency crackles in sympathy. It's a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Something presses against Alastor's chest in a way that feels uncomfortably close to guilt, the consequence of his own design.
***
The next time it happens, it's no longer private, and everyone notices.
It's hard not to notice when Lucifer suddenly appears in the lobby, as he always does, effortlessly and immaculately. He moves with his customary lethal grace, each step a silent command, a king cutting through the court of sinners. He ignores everyone else in the room, their presence reduced to background noise as he carves a path straight to the bar.
He stops directly next to Alastor, the heat of his proximity palpable. The atmosphere around them thickens into an unspoken challenge, a silent dare to anyone who might misunderstand what this is.
He firmly extends his hand, cradling yet another perfect apple. The fruit gleams in the low amber light, decadent in its perfect red richness.
"For you," Lucifer says, his voice low and rough with an undercurrent of something that sounds dangerously like need, cutting through the tension he's created.
Alastor doesn't look at it. He keeps his gaze fixed on the polished wood of the bar, his smile razor-thin over whatever is churning in his gut.
"A whisky, Husker," he chimes, his voice artificially bright, in stark contrast to the suffocating intensity rolling off Lucifer in waves. He taps a single fingertip against the bar counter, the sharp click-clack a nervous rhythm that betrays his carefully constructed nonchalance.
He lets his head loll into his right hand, his posture deliberately loose and languid, a picture of bored indifference. He's definitely going to need a drink if this keeps up.
"Okay, spill," Angel says from the adjacent stool, leaning over the counter to stare at the apple with suspicion and amusement. "What's with the whole fruit thing? Is this, like, your weird version of sending nudes?"
Lucifer remains silent, his focus absolute. He stands his ground, sleeves rolled with meticulous precision to his forearms. Every detail of his appearance is a controlled statement of power, but the expression on his face is anything but controlled. It's raw, incredibly serious, and purposeful. His eyes don't just look at Alastor this time; they're claiming him, marking him with dark promises.
Alastor continues his performance of indifference, but his body betrays him. His ears twitch, an involuntary spasm in response to the sudden, consuming shift in Lucifer's energy.
He doesn't have to look to know exactly how Lucifer's watching him. He knows that look. It's the look of a man who has finally found the one thing he wants and has no intention of taking no for an answer this time.
"It's a gift," Husk grunts, his voice a raspy, cynical observation in response to Angel's question. He sets the fresh whisky down in front of Alastor, the ice cubes clinking sharply against the glass. "At least, that's what it looks like."
"Then how come the rest of us don't get apples?" Angel presses, his voice dripping with playful curiosity. He's enjoying this far too much, the drama unfolding better than any script he's ever read.
"Yes, do inform us, sire," Alastor's voice cuts in, smooth and mischievous. He rests his head in his hand, and his eyes remain fixed on the glass as his finger traces the condensation forming with maddening slowness. "Do you offer fruit to all your associates?"
He knows the answer before Lucifer says anything, of course. He's just savoring the sound of the trap springing shut.
"No."
"Friends?" he prods, the word sharpened by a faint, knowing smile.
Lucifer doesn't answer right away; a delicate beat passes. "No."
"Interesting." Alastor's smile widens, a genuine, predatory thing that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "How... selective."
"Extremely." Lucifer's voice drops, the single word a final, damning verdict.
Alastor reaches for the whiskey, his long, elegant fingers curling around the cool rim of the glass. He doesn't need to see that Lucifer hasn't moved, nor has he faltered at his side. The apple is still extended, an intentional statement.
Across the room, Charlie tilts her head, unease creeping into her expression. She knows her father. She knows the stories and the symbolism, and she knows what an apple has meant to her father before humanity learned shame.
This situation is no joke.
"Dad... why Alastor?" she asks, her voice small and careful, as if afraid the answer might shatter something fundamental.
Lucifer's gaze remains locked on Alastor, as if the rest of the hotel has dissolved into mist, their presence utterly irrelevant. He offers no grand explanation or real justification. When he speaks, his voice is stripped bare, almost striking in its honesty.
"...Because he keeps refusing."
Alastor's fingers still rest against the glass for only a moment, a tiny falter in his otherwise perfect performance. His grin tightens, barely perceptible, as Lucifer's words replay in his mind, each syllable a brand against his soul.
Finally, he deigns to look at the fruit. He turns his head just enough, and his gaze falls on the apple held so steadfastly beside him. Its surface gleams like splendid sin, a perfect, beautiful temptation, a surrender waiting to be accepted.
"You are remarkably persistent, Your Highness," Alastor murmurs, his voice a low, dark rumble, like a cornered beast offered a deal he knows he shouldn't take.
"I can be," Lucifer replies, his tone a perfect match. His grip on the apple tightens. "I don't give things to people I don't intend to keep."
Keep. The word washes over Alastor like a rip current, a cold shock that electrifies his bones. It lands with the finality of a tombstone sealing a vault, a claim of ownership so absolute it feels like a brand searing his soul. His mind stumbles under the sheer weight of the gesture and the precision of that single word.
For the first time since this ridiculous, intoxicating ritual began, Alastor reaches for the apple. His fingers hover near it, trembling with indecision, as if he's not just reaching for a piece of fruit but for his own demise.
Lucifer inhales a sharp, almost silent gasp. He watches the space between Alastor's hand and the fruit as if it's the most important thing in the room. Because it is. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe. His entire being narrows to whether those fingers will close around the apple.
Alastor lets the silence stretch, a looming presence between them in their twisted dance. He lets Lucifer feel it, drown in it. He lets the room feel the terrible, beautiful tension crackling between them like lightning about to strike.
He taps a finger lightly against the apple's stem, a delicate, almost caressing touch. It's an assessing gesture, a silent acknowledgment of the power the apple holds. He feels the thrill of surrender and the terror of yielding, a delicious agony that pounds his pulse in his ears.
His eyes flick upward, finally meeting Lucifer's after Lucifer arrives beside him. And this time, he sees everything with terrifying, exhilarating clarity.
Lucifer Morningstar isn't trying to tempt him. He's just asking to be chosen. Not as a passing amusement or a fleeting curiosity. He's seeking to be fully, dangerously, and impossibly chosen. And he wants Alastor to choose him in return.
To choose them.
His finger stops tapping, lingering above the stem as if the weight of choice has suddenly become toxic. He tilts his head, studying Lucifer, trying to read the unspoken rules etched into that perfect, regal composure.
To be chosen by the Devil himself is to be chosen above all others, like a spotlight in the darkest corner of one's being. To be seen in one's entirety, adored anyway, with all the beauty and horror of it, is a revelation that can burn a soul alive.
'I see you. I know who you are. And I want you anyway.'
Alastor's smile returns in full force, charming and devastatingly brilliant. It's a masterful performance, a flawless shield masking the seismic shift within himself.
"If I were to decline again," he says, his voice carrying the full weight of his curiosity and defiance, "what would happen?" The words hang between them, suspended in a thick, challenging tension wrapped in velvet menace.
Lucifer's eyes flick to the hand hovering over the apple, then back to Alastor. For a fleeting moment, Alastor catches it: a tiny, bitter reflection of something wounded and raw in Lucifer's gaze. But it's gone as quickly as it appeared, masked by an instant, iron-willed composure.
"Take it," Lucifer says, his voice dropping to a near whisper, each word landing with finality. "Or I won't offer it again. This is your last chance."
The simplicity of the answer carries more weight than Alastor had anticipated. There's no theatrics, no seductive persuasion, none of Lucifer's usual charm to soften the transaction. It seems the King of Hell has finally reached his breaking point, where rejection might actually matter.
Alastor's finger hovers over the apple for a heartbeat longer as the tension thrums between them like a live wire. He can feel the weight of the decision in every fiber of his being.
He imagines the consequences. Take the apple, and he belongs to Lucifer. Not completely, perhaps not as the king might desire, but in some inescapable, unbreakable way. He could never fully reclaim independence; the king's crimson gaze would always follow, measuring his movements, waiting for his return to the king's side, and anchoring him to Hell's throne in ways he both covets and despises.
He weighs the alternative. Refuse the apple again, and Lucifer stays at a distance. He stays in control, preserving his independence. He can continue his fun across Hell; laughter, cruelty, entertainment, all from a safe distance where no one can touch his core, where he remains untouchable.
But that insidious pull, the one he refuses to name, the fascination that's become an obsession, draws him in, closer to claim the apple. It hovers in Lucifer's hand, impossibly red against those elegant black fingers, begging to be taken.
With the faintest tilt of his head, Alastor lets his hand drop to his side, the movement deliberately casual, almost bored.
"Well, Your Highness," he says, his voice dripping with theatrical mockery. "I do so admire your persistence, but I'm afraid I must remain dreadfully consistent." Alastor's smile stretches wide, the performance flawless, bright, and cruel, as if the refusal were still just a game rather than a challenge. He watches Lucifer's eyes darken, expecting anger, perhaps even a flicker of sadness he saw last time.
Instead, something far more dangerous appears in Lucifer's angelic features. A quiet understanding, as if he saw through Alastor's carefully constructed facade. Then it vanishes.
"...Very well," Lucifer murmurs, his thumb tracing the apple's curve before tucking it away with deliberate care. He turns but doesn't leave as he did before. He pauses, looking over his shoulder.
Their gazes lock, and Alastor feels something shift between them, something irreversible.
"Do you enjoy denying me?" Lucifer asks, his voice rough with frustration and something more vulnerable. "Or are you terrified of what will happen if you finally admit you want this too?"
The words catch like a match landing in a pool of kerosene, the accusation hitting its mark. They burn away every defense Alastor has put up, leaving him momentarily speechless.
Lucifer doesn't grant Alastor the satisfaction of a response before disappearing in his incandescent spiral of flame, leaving behind his brimstone scent and a quiet accusation that curls through the lobby like smoke.
Alastor throws his head back in a laugh that ricochets off the lobby walls, crisp, cheerful, and utterly performative. But beneath the carefully constructed melody, something dangerous simmers. It's the thrill of this unnamed feeling, this game he refuses to lose, even as the rules begin to shift beneath his feet. He lets out a breath of amusement, shoulders relaxing slightly. Settling back into place, he resumes his pose, head propped in his hand. Yet the space where Lucifer had stood feels heavier now, charged with an energy that lingers in the air.
Even in refusal, the choice lingers. And Alastor realizes with a jolt of awareness that it is far more intoxicating than any bite could ever be.
"Okay, was that some new kink I'm unaware of?" Angel asks, lounging against the counter with a smirk that's all too knowing.
Alastor blinks, startled for a brief moment. He almost forgets everyone else is around. The lobby's ambient noise rushes back in around him once the world beyond the apple, beyond Lucifer, has disappeared.
Charlie appears in his peripheral vision, her head tilting with that maddening blend of curiosity and concern she always seems to carry. Her eyes meet his, warm and questioning.
"Alastor? Are you sure-?"
"About what, my dear?" he asks lightly, pushing himself off the barstool with practiced grace. His grin doesn't falter, but a subtle flicker of annoyance in his gaze doesn't go unnoticed. "All these accusations are starting to become incredibly tiresome." He turns to leave.
"About my dad." Charlie follows him, pressing. "About saying no again." Her hands clasp nervously. "It wasn't just about the apple, right? You... understood what it meant?"
"Princess," Alastor chuckles, a dangerous sound that somehow conveys both amusement and warning. "I assure you, I am well aware of what it means."
"But you-"
"And," he stops at the bottom of the foyer, turning on his heel to face her fully, "I assure you I am rarely unwise in my decisions."
Charlie frowns, unconvinced. "But you didn't take it! You could have, but you didn't. I just want to make sure it was the right choice."
"Charlie," he says, his voice a velvet drawl. He studies her for a long moment, eyes narrowing in mock severity, though a shadow of something real flickers in their crimson depths. "I understand far more than you give me credit for. This little performance," he gestures toward the space where Lucifer had been, "was never truly about the fruit."
Her expression turns intent. "Then why didn't you take it?"
He pauses. Why does he feel such apprehension when Lucifer seems so determined about their future?
Alastor lets the silence stretch just long enough to feel like an answer, each passing second counting down to something inevitable. The apple's absence has become a presence, a void pressing against his chest with every breath he takes.
"It's about choice," Alastor says, his voice almost strained. "And about knowing what one is willing to accept. I, my dear Princess, always play the game on my own terms."
Charlie lets out a breath, still studying him. "So...? You're really sure?"
"As sure as I have ever been about anything." He straightens fully, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat in languid strokes. The smile that blooms across his face is broad, confident, and utterly charming, so perfect that even he almost believes it. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it any longer."
Angel snorts from across the room. "Well, I don't know about all that, but the guy did put on a show. That's for sure." Angel's gaze slides to Husk, who is polishing a glass with the weary resignation of someone who has seen too much. "It was kinda romantic, don't cha think, whiskers?"
"Romantic? That was dangerous." Husk grumbles, his voice grave with warning. "Playing with fire like that gets you burned."
"Romance, danger, or fire," Alastor turns his gaze back to the space where Lucifer had vanished, his words dripping with honeyed venom, "They're all just fuel for the performance when you know how to burn them brightly."
"That wasn't a performance, Alastor. What my dad did really means something."
"Meaning is a dangerous thing to assume, Princess."
"You know," Charlie folds her arms across her chest, stubbornness settling into her posture like armor. "Sometimes, when people keep offering something, it's because they genuinely hope it will finally be accepted."
Alastor lets out a sharp, dismissive chuckle. "I'm sure your father will survive the disappointment," he says smoothly, though a familiar, unwelcome ache thrums beneath his ribs at the mention of Lucifer's hope.
Charlie lingers a moment longer than Alastor would like. Her gaze is pressing, annoyingly persistent, and knowing far too much, stripping away his defenses with terrifying ease. Her eyes are entirely too much like her father's.
"Just... make sure you know what you're doing, Alastor."
"My dear," he tips his head again, eyes glinting with mischief that barely masks the turmoil beneath. "I always know exactly what I'm doing." But even as he turns on his heel, the memory of the apple gnaws at him, a reminder that some choices carry more peril than they promise.
The damage is done. The silence is too heavy.
***
When it happens for the final time, the decision is irrevocable.
The hotel is asleep when Alastor finds the grand piano. It waits in the lounge like an old friend, its sleek black beauty shining faintly beneath the chandelier lights.
His long fingers glide over the smooth ivory piano keys, slow and deliberate, like a lover tracing the curve of a jaw before delivering the fatal kiss. He flexes his hands once, knuckles popping, then settles onto the bench. His posture is perfect, as always, with a straight spine and relaxed shoulders, but something about the stillness is different tonight. He feels less... composed.
He presses the first key. The note is soft and low, testing the silence before daring to disturb it. It trembles into the empty room like a confession spoken to no one, a sound both sacred and profane.
As he begins to play, the melody is not the bright ragtime he normally favors. Instead, it dips melancholically from the keys, minor chords folding over one another in a tune that aches rather than dazzles. It swells, then falters, then swells again, as if unsure whether to rise or collapse entirely, like a heart that beats with hope one moment and despair the next.
Each note lingers as if reluctant to fade, each pause brimming with unspoken words. Alastor's hands move with their usual technical perfection, but the music betrays him. There's something fragile buried in the melody, something hollow that shouldn't exist in someone like him.
Regret is an unfamiliar thing to him. It sits heavily in his chest, like a foreign object his body doesn't know how to expel.
"For you,"
"I don't give things to people I don't intend to keep."
The thought of Lucifer and the apples presses quietly against the back of his mind. The careful ways they were offered, playful, patient, arrogant, each a carefully crafted offering meant to unlock a door Alastor has sworn to keep bolted shut. The unspoken meaning behind them all, a promise of eternity that tastes of both salvation and damnation.
The melody dips lower, drawing out a somber resonance that vibrates through the piano's wood and into his soul. The notes linger in the room like an unanswered question.
"...Because he keeps refusing."
"This is your last chance."
He had meant to maintain control. That was the entire point. He told himself that refusing the apples kept the balance between them in his favor. He doesn't accept gifts or vulnerability, and he certainly doesn't allow himself to be chosen the way Lucifer wants him to be: loved, owned, cherished.
He was protecting his autonomy.
"Do you enjoy denying me?"
Accepting love or devotion from Lucifer Morningstar would be the first time in Alastor's existence that he is no longer the observer of someone's ruin. He would be participating in his own ruin.
"Or are you just terrified of what will happen if you finally admit you want this too?"
A wrong note slips through, sharp and dissonant, and the melody stumbles over it like a misstep on a dark staircase. The sound lingers, sour in the silence.
Alastor stills for half a second, staring down at the keys as though they've betrayed him personally, as though they've revealed the very thing he's been trying to hide from the world, from Lucifer, and, more importantly, from himself.
"Hm." The sound is soft, almost thoughtful.
He resumes playing, smoothing the broken thread of the melody back into place with practiced ease. But the music has shifted. The tune grows quieter, more tentative, climbing toward resolution only to retreat at the last possible moment.
Like a hand reaching out, then pulling back before it can be caught. Like a heart that races at the thought of being captured, even as the mind screams for freedom. Like a man who has finally realized that some prisons are too beautiful to escape, and some captors too tempting to resist.
The room shifts into that familiar warmth and brimstone, threaded with the faint, impossible sweetness of apples. Alastor keeps his hands moving, carrying the melody forward as the presence behind him neither stirs nor speaks.
The melody's final progression trembles beneath his fingers, something perilously close to longing. The last chord lingers, unresolved in the air like a breath held too long, as footsteps cross the room and stop beside him.
Alastor doesn't move. His fingers still rest lightly on the keys. He doesn't turn to greet his guest. He's been expecting him, anticipating him.
"You rush your left hand when you're upset," Lucifer says beside him. His voice is gentle, though something distant threads through it, the sound of a man already beginning to withdraw.
Alastor smiles faintly, eyes half-lidded. "I assure you, Your Highness, I am not upset."
"Liar."
A small chuckle escapes Alastor at Lucifer's audacity, but he doesn't take the bait this time. Lucifer's right, after all. 'Upset' is too mild a word for the tempest raging beneath his carefully composed exterior.
He lifts his hands from the keys and closes the fallboard with a soft, decisive click. The vibration hums through the wood, then fades. Silence stretches between them, charged yet different now. The familiar edge of their ritual has vanished, leaving something raw and exposed in its wake.
Alastor rises from the bench at an unhurried pace, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat as though nothing unusual has happened here tonight. Only then does he turn, truly looking at Lucifer for the first time tonight.
Lucifer has come back empty-handed and crestfallen.
The low chandelier light catches in Lucifer's eyes, making them appear darker and deeper than usual. Shadows dance across his pale skin, softening his usual brilliance until he looks less like the King of Hell and more painfully mortal. His expression has been stripped of its usual theatrics: no prideful smile, no witty remarks on his tongue, no gleaming arrogance worn like a crown.
He looks tired. Not physically, but in the deep quiet that settles behind eyes after hope has been stretched too thin over too many unreciprocated moments. His posture remains impeccable, his shoulders straight, but it's a fragile framework holding a profound weight, a tension along his jaw that holds words bitten back. Alastor can see it in the faintest blackening around his eyes, where disappointment has made itself at home.
Lucifer looks like a man who has spent too long offering something fragile only to watch it remain untouched, and who has already accepted the outcome of a conversation that hasn't happened yet.
The realization lands softly, but it spreads through Alastor's chest with surprising weight. Something in him has been bracing for the ritual's familiar tension, the silent tug-of-war neither of them acknowledges aloud, a dance of refusal and pursuit that has defined their strange courtship.
Without it, the room feels oddly unbalanced. Like a stage where one actor has forgotten their lines, leaving the other suddenly exposed under the harsh glare of the spotlight. Or like a predator who has suddenly realized that the prey he was toying with has been claimed by its own despair.
Lucifer's gaze drifts briefly to the closed piano, lingering on the spot where Alastor's hand rests. The stillness of the instrument hums faintly between them, its unfinished story hanging in the air like something left unsaid.
Then his eyes turn to Alastor. There is no accusation in them. Only the quiet, steady patience of someone who has offered the last piece of himself and is now merely waiting to see what becomes of the space.
Alastor's smile remains a perfect, fixed thing, but his fingers curl slightly against the polished wood of the piano lid, a subtle betrayal of the control he prizes so highly. This situation, after all, has concluded exactly as he intended. Lucifer said he wouldn't offer the apple again, and true to form, he's kept his word. The absence of the apple says it all.
And yet-
"Well," Lucifer says after a moment, breaking the silence, "it seems you've found a better use for your evenings."
Alastor hums in response, a sound that should be amused but comes out toneless. His eyes drift back to the closed fallboard, his fingers tracing idle patterns as if he might coax the music back. Or perhaps he's too afraid that if he touches the keys again, they will play only the truth of what he feels right now.
Lucifer waits a beat longer. When Alastor offers nothing further, he straightens, a final, quiet surrender that somehow feels more powerful than any argument he could have made.
"Well, goodnight, Alastor." Lucifer turns, the movement careful, controlled in that infuriatingly graceful way he does when he chooses not to fight something anymore. His coat shifts with the motion, and the faint scent of apples and brimstone trails after him as he begins towards the doorway.
The sound of Alastor's name lands in the room like a candle igniting in the darkness. Lucifer just spoke his name for the first time, deliberately intimate, stripping away the insulting nicknames and games they usually hide behind. It strikes like a pulse beneath the skin, sharp and instant, as a strange panic tightens in his chest and throat.
He watches him go. The absence presses against his ribs, a cold vulnerability rising like a tide. That space where the offering should have happened, where a flash of red should have appeared between them like a dare, is disappearing with each step Lucifer takes. The room feels smaller, emptier, and suddenly terribly cold without the heat of Lucifer's presence right next to him.
"Lucifer," the name escapes Alastor's lips before he can stop it, a desperate attempt to keep him here.
Lucifer stops mid-stride. He doesn't turn immediately, as if Alastor's voice calling out to him might shatter the delicate stillness in the air. When he finally does, the movement is slow, cautious, almost afraid of what he might see in Alastor's eyes if he looks too quickly. As if any sudden movement might scare off a timid animal.
Alastor regains his poise in a heartbeat, his smile snapping back into place with practiced ease. He moves toward Lucifer, each step a precisely measured incursion into the space between them, striding forward as if he already knows exactly how this will end, as if he wasn't just moments away from shattering completely.
"I believe you have forgotten something," he drawls evenly, his voice smooth and precise as a thread slipping through the eye of a needle.
Lucifer lifts a single, elegant eyebrow, a perfect arch of skepticism and intrigue. "Have I?"
"You've neglected," Alastor continues, stopping just short of him, close enough to feel the infernal heat he's grown accustomed to radiating from Lucifer's body and to taste the delicious tension between them, "to make tonight's offering."
"I said I wouldn't offer it again," Lucifer says, his voice low and laden, though its softness fractures under the weight of what he isn't saying. The promise he made in anger is now being broken by desperation.
"I know," Alastor replies, the gentleness in his voice betraying something far more binding beneath. His certainty settles between them, carrying more meaning than he seems willing or able to admit.
He studies Lucifer with almost reverent focus. His smaller frame stills, the motion so subtle it looks as if he's holding his breath. His beautiful crimson eyes meet his own, his expression searching for truth in that statement, yet tempered with caution that follows close behind, as if he's weighing the cost of what he's about to do, as if he's weighing his heart against the possibility of its destruction.
The apple appears as if conjured, with Lucifer drawing it tentatively from his coat pocket. It's as flawless as the rest, its crimson skin catching the low light like a jewel on display in a museum, a forbidden treasure on their private tour.
Alastor's pulse stutters a single, traitorous beat as he faces the weakness of temptation.
Lucifer hesitates before stepping forward, as if testing the boundaries of approaching a wild animal that might either bite him or allow itself to be petted. He doesn't offer the apple to Alastor right away. Instead, he holds it close to his chest, fingers curling protectively around it as if it were the most precious possession anyone could ever claim. As if he's protecting his foolishly exposed heart.
Alastor watches with patience, calculating interest. The longer Lucifer delays, the more fascinating the situation becomes. After days of relentless offering, the hesitation at this pivotal moment is almost deliciously ironic.
"Well," Alastor hums pleasantly, "you appear to be reconsidering our generous little ritual."
Lucifer opens his mouth, then closes it, pausing as if gathering his thoughts, as if mustering the courage to speak words that might cost him everything again. He watches him, trying to decide whether this is real...or another cruel game in their endless match of wits and wills.
"You've refused it before," Lucifer says, his jaw tightening just enough to betray the strain beneath his composure, "several times."
"Indeed, I have," Alastor murmurs, the tenderness unintentional, yet undeniable.
"You refused it," Lucifer continues, glancing at the apple he cradles. His thumb brushes unconsciously over its smooth curves, as though the motion might ground, steady, or anchor him as he's about to risk it again. "Because you understand what I'm asking of you."
Alastor doesn't bother to deny the obvious.
"You've been incredibly persistent in this courtship." His head tilts slightly, politely, his expression captivatingly intent, bordering on indulgence, like a god admiring the devotion of a particularly fervent worshipper.
"That's because-" Lucifer falters, the words catching before they can fully form. He looks back at Alastor, and this time, the reflection in Alastor's eyes is almost unbearable. He searches Alastor again, hope cutting through him with wanting, but worn thin by restraint.
"Because...?" Alastor prompts, his smile slow, knowing, coaxing something dangerous into the open.
"You want this," Lucifer says, his voice steadier than he feels, the conviction settling between them like a challenge he cannot take back. "I know you do."
Amusement flares bright in Alastor's eyes, but behind it lies something terrifyingly like surrender. Somewhere along the way, he's lost the careful method to his madness. The line between predator and prey blurs until he can no longer tell which he is.
"So tell me," Lucifer continues, his voice suspended between offering and retreat, "are you finally done playing with me?"
The carefully constructed mask cracks at the edges. The razor-sharp grin that typically carves his features softens, the corners of his mouth dropping almost imperceptibly. In that fleeting moment, Alastor's eyes lose their predatory gleam, widening just enough to reveal the raw emotion he usually keeps buried beneath layers of theatricality. Something genuine flickers there, a tenderness so alien to his usual demeanor that it seems almost painful to witness, like a wound suddenly exposed to air. His shoulders, typically held with rigid confidence, relax by a fraction, and the tension in his neck visibly eases before he catches himself. But not before Lucifer has seen the truth.
"Offer it to me again," he says at last, his voice low and silken, drawn taut with something deeper than amusement. A feeling dangerously close to surrender.
Lucifer swallows apprehensively, his throat working against the sudden dryness as his breath catches in his chest. For a moment, he only looks at Alastor, uncertainty warring with the careful composure he's trying so hard to maintain. Between them, the apple rests in his hands, softly aglow, as if aware of the gravity it holds.
"You realize," Lucifer says at last, his voice quieter now, stripped of all but its essential truth, "this is the last time."
"I'm aware." Alastor's gaze softens by the barest fraction, his crimson eyes catching the dim light as he leans in a little closer. Close enough that their shared breath warms the space between them in their pocket of intimacy. "Let me pay for my arrogance."
With a small, fluid motion, Alastor lifts his hand, palm open between them. The gesture is deceptively simple, yet its implication is unmistakable.
'I know who you are, what you've done, and what loving you entails. I chose it anyway.'
Lucifer inhales sharply as realization spreads across his face like dawn breaking over the horizon. A golden flush rises, bright and startled, on his cheeks beneath the amber glow of the chandelier light, blooming into a quiet, unguarded flush. So rare, it feels like a treasure.
Alastor smiles fondly, thinking it's almost embarrassingly cute how hope arrives on Lucifer's face, unbidden and beautiful.
Lucifer exhales slowly, as though steadying himself for a plunge. He clears his throat, drawing his composure back around him like a royal mantle. Something regal settles once more into his posture, into the lift of his chin and the steadiness of his gaze. The blush, however, remains vivid on his cheeks, a telltale heart beating just beneath the surface of his control.
"For you," he says, and this time there's no pretense left, only aching sincerity. He extends the apple toward Alastor, holding it in his palm. "Take it."
Alastor tilts his head slightly, and the familiar crescent shape of his smile returns. He knows exactly what Lucifer is doing. Even after it's been offered, even with Alastor's palm open, Lucifer won't place the apple in his hand. His fingers remain curled around it, holding it with a carefully protective grip. Even now, Alastor senses Lucifer is still wary of surrendering it too quickly. Lucifer is holding the moment open, waiting for Alastor to choose and accept the offering on his terms, making this Alastor's choice.
In one fluid motion, Alastor turns his palm, reaching his long fingers toward the apple. Their fingers brush, a fleeting contact that draws a sharp, indrawn breath from Lucifer's lips, the sound escaping despite himself. Even that small touch lands deeper than it should, less a simple caress and more like a brand. Alastor closes his hand fully around the apple, drawing it from Lucifer's grasp. It's warm from his touch, and the heat sinks into Alastor's skin like a promise of fire and forever.
Alastor turns the apple slightly between his fingers, studying it, considering it. It feels heavier than it should. He feels the weight of Lucifer's patience, the slow, circling dance of a choice that has lingered far too long between them. A story that has already reshaped the world once. And now he's holding the first apple ever offered to a sinner in Hell.
The apple, of course, is no different from the others. There's not a bruise or blemish in sight. Lucifer has always been meticulous about these things. The fruit looks less like something grown on a tree and more like something he created, made with care, crafted, and handled with the reverence of a holy relic.
It's perfect. As beautiful as its creator.
Lucifer is watching him, open in a way Alastor has rarely seen. His defenses have lowered, and his heart rests in the palm of his hands.
Something in Alastor's smile slips. It would be all too easy to shatter this. To laugh, make another joke at Lucifer's expense, deflect, discard the apple over his shoulder, and walk away as though none of this had ever touched him. As though he hadn't already stepped too far into something he can't turn back from.
Instead, he raises the apple to his lips, his gaze locked on Lucifer as he sinks his teeth into the flesh. The bite lands with a wet, obscene crunch, tearing cleanly through the silence. It's a violation, sharp and intimate, the sound of a seal being broken, a covenant made of juice and desire.
Alastor chews with a carnal slowness. His jaw moves in a rhythmic grind, as if pulverizing not just the fruit but the very air between them. He savors the texture, the slick burst of juice flooding his palate. He can't remember the last time he tasted an apple.
A bead of nectar escapes, tracing a glistening path down his chin. It hangs for a moment, catching the low light like a single, perfect tear before his tongue snakes out to claim it. The air thickens with the cloying scent of apples.
Across from him, Lucifer's regal composure cracks like porcelain. It's a subtle fracture beneath his usual careful control. His eyes are drawn helplessly to the slow movement of Alastor's mouth, something raw and unguarded. They fixate on the glistening wound of the apple, on the slow, mesmerizing grind of his jaw, on the way his lips close around each bite.
Lucifer tears his eyes away with a ragged, desperate inhale as his own body betrays him. A surge of heat floods his gut, stirring with a will of its own at the lewd display. He needs a moment to process the sheer, unvarnished lust that has seized him, the way his body responds to the sight of Alastor's mouth as if it were being prepared for him.
Alastor swallows, the sound a thick, final punctuation. A slow, predatory smile curls his lips, revealing a faint, blood-red stain on his teeth. His head leans back in curiosity, his crimson gaze narrowing to a pinpoint of intense, analytical interest. He sees the tension in Lucifer's shoulders, the shameful golden flush creeping up his neck, and the thrill of his own response to the dark, intoxicating discovery.
Fascinating.
"Lucifer," he purrs, the name a silken thread threading through the darkness, "eyes to me."
Lucifer freezes. Every line of his body goes rigid, like a robber caught in the act of fleeing. For an agonizing second, he remains motionless as a silent war rages behind his eyes, weighing the cost of defiance. But he slowly lifts his eyes, heavy and slow, to meet Alastor's. They're stripped bare, shining with a frantic, desperate light that betrays the arousal coiling hotly in his gut.
"Keep them on me," Alastor says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl. The sound lingers in the space between them. He brings the apple to his lips again, his gaze locked on the fallen king.
Lucifer Morningstar looks utterly undone. In that moment, he's nothing more than a helpless moth drawn to a funeral pyre. Alastor finds the sight unexpectedly exhilarating. The fact that he has this response from Lucifer is amusing, leaving a dark thrill stirring in his gut.
"My, my," he hums with rich amusement. "You look as though you've just been caught committing a terrible sin."
"Is that what you want to call this?" Lucifer finally breathes, his voice low and rough, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of control over a sacrament he never expected to witness. "A sin?"
"Perhaps," Alastor smiles, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Tell me, Your Highness. What would you call wanting something so badly you can taste it?" He bites into the apple again, the sharp crack of the flesh like a gunshot in the stillness.
Alastor has seized power, claimed authority, and ripped lives from demons with a grin and a song. He has taken everything he's wanted in Hell, but he's never taken something so freely offered, so willingly, and let it settle in his chest like a confession.
"Temptation?" he asks. "Desire? Transgression?"
Lucifer remains silent, his gaze a molten thing, fixed and unwavering. He watches, the frantic energy from moments before now settled into something sacred and knowing. Alastor's question is meant as an echo, a dark mirror held up to his past. But he catches another meaning entirely in it.
His hand rises in a slow, uncertain ascent. It hovers for a heartbeat before his thumb gently brushes the curve of Alastor's lips, wiping away the glistening trace of juice.
"Devotion," he whispers, his hand moving to cup Alastor's cheek. His palm is impossibly warm against Alastor's skin.
Alastor does not pull away; his stillness is its own answer. The charged distance between them collapses, and the air seems to shift around them. It rests lightly between their chests, like a fragile, crimson heart beating in sync with theirs.
His gaze lingers, drawn despite himself to the stark, impossible beauty of it all. He's cataloged every facet of Lucifer's pride, from his arrogance to his regal boredom to his childish antics. But this Lucifer standing in front of him right now is impossible to look away from. Even here, in the hotel's dim lounge, something radiant clings stubbornly to him. It's impossible to look at him and not remember the archangel he used to be.
In that moment, the realization comes to him quietly, a divine commandment. He finally understands that beneath all his games and performances, Lucifer has somehow become the audience he most desperately sought to please.
As Lucifer's eyes light with that devastatingly genuine affection, Alastor's demeanor shifts as something claws its way to the surface. He would gladly set the world ablaze just to keep Lucifer's light and fire aimed solely at him. Lucifer's touch had not just ignited this feeling; it's now become his only heaven, a damnation he craves more than anything.
Lucifer's hand begins to withdraw, and Alastor's hand shoots out, fingers snapping around his wrist. He searches Lucifer's eyes. Beneath the initial shock, he sees the king of hell trying to reassert himself, a monarch smoothing his rumpled robes even as he remains firmly caught in the demon's grip.
Alastor's fingers uncurl from his wrist, then thread through Lucifer's in an intimate, inescapable entanglement. He lifts their joined hands, turning Lucifer's palm down to study the lines and delicate features as a scholar deciphering forbidden text.
He leans in, a motion so natural it feels like a long-overdue ritual. His lips brush the back of Lucifer's hand, a kiss anything but chaste. It's a seal of fealty, an act of devotion, a dark and beautiful worship.
Lucifer goes completely still, yet Alastor feels the fine, uncontrollable tremor that races through the king's frame. This time, Lucifer doesn't look away. His eyes are wide, fixed on Alastor's face.
And there it is again, that unmistakable celestial beauty. Even with his composure slipping, Lucifer looks like something that once belonged to the heavens, all sharp grace and golden light. The vulnerability only makes him more striking. For a long, silent moment, Alastor studies the wreckage he has wrought. Then he breaks the kiss and steps closer, erasing the last sliver of space between them.
"You've been offering this apple as if it were a temptation," Alastor murmurs, his voice stripped of its usual theatrical flourish, a resonant hum that vibrates through their shared touch. "As though I might take it and run off to wreak some delightful chaos with your little symbol of devotion."
Lucifer hangs on every word, silent and still, allowing Alastor to unravel the truth between them.
"But you misunderstand the nature of this transaction entirely," he continues. Alastor guides Lucifer's hands, folding them securely around the apple's curve. He covers their joined hands over the apple, a gesture of ownership, sealing a pact.
"I did not accept this because you tempted me," he confesses, the words laid bare between them, a quiet surrender in their wake. His crimson eyes bore into Lucifer's, stripping away every last defense. "I accepted it because it was yours."
He lifts Lucifer's hand once more, bringing his knuckles to his lips. The kiss is different from the first. It's not a brand but a benediction. A soft, reverent press of his mouth against the hard ridges of bone, a second, silent vow spoken in the language of touch.
When Alastor looks at him, all traces of humor have been extinguished from his eyes, leaving a burning, focused intensity that is both terrifying and mesmerizing.
"You wished to offer yourself to me through that fruit, " he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, a dark promise. His fingers tighten around Lucifer's hand, a possessive pressure claiming what is being freely given. "Very well."
A beat of absolute silence hangs between them, thick with finality. Then, calm and certain, as if stating a universal law that applies only to them:
"Now you have me."
For Alastor, this is the most vulnerable thing he's done since he died.
For Lucifer, this act speaks louder than any 'I love you.'
For a moment, Lucifer doesn't breathe. The words sink into him like hooks, settling somewhere deep and fragile where no one has ever touched. He stares at him, eyes searching Alastor's once more, as though he doesn't quite trust what he's seeing. As though this might vanish if he looks too closely, if he dares to believe it's real.
"You-" Lucifer's voice falters, unfamiliar in its uncertainty. He swallows hard, steadies himself, and tries again. "You mean that."
It isn't a question.
"Let me be perfectly clear," he replies, his voice quieter now, the truth laid bare in a way that feels almost foreign on his tongue. Alastor's grip doesn't loosen. If anything, it tightens in a grounding promise. "I am not in the habit of accepting something I do not intend to keep."
Lucifer exhales, something in his posture giving way, yielding completely. The rigid line of his shoulders softens. A small, almost disbelieving laugh escapes him, breathless and bright, like something long buried finally clawing its way into the light. His thumb shifts, brushing against Alastor's knuckles. The touch is electric, sending a shiver of awareness through them both.
His gaze flickers upward, the golden light in his eyes sharpens, mingling the remnants of his angelic grace with the subtle, dangerous fire of the Devil Alastor has come to know. Every flicker of vulnerability, desire, and something almost imperious shines there at once.
"Then I suppose..." Lucifer breaths, his voice stripped bare of its usual poise, enough to make Alastor's chest tighten with an unfamiliar ache, "that makes us both rather compromised."
"On the contrary," Alastor says, his voice smooth and sharp, though there is no bite left in it. "I find myself quite satisfied with our mutual arrangement."
Lucifer huffs a quiet breath, feeling relieved and fond despite himself. The blush still lingers like a stubborn stain against his composure.
Alastor can see it, clear as day: that Lucifer is happy.
Around them, the hotel remains silent, the chandeliers humming faintly overhead, casting everything in a feverish glow of gold and shadow. The world continues, indifferent, but here, in this small, suspended space, something irrevocable has been forged. They stand there a moment longer. The distance that once defined them has been erased so thoroughly that it feels almost absurd that it ever existed at all. It's been filled with the weight of what they've just begun. And this time, when the silence settles between them, it is no longer hollow. It is full.
As Lucifer's hand tightens around his, a touch that carries the certainty of a final lock clicking into place, Alastor's gaze drops to the apple between them. It's transformed, no longer a symbol of temptation or defiance but a seal of devotion to something far more dangerous and beautifully mutual. When Alastor looks back up, his expression is one of profound calm, a certainty that settles into deep contentment.
"Come now, Your Highness," Alastor says, his voice returning in a gentler shade of its usual cadence. "It would be terribly dull to let such an evening end here."
"Already?" Lucifer's lips curve into a slow, genuine smile. He leans in, the tip of his red tongue darting out to trace his lower lip in a gesture that is both playful and deeply obscene. "You sure get down and dirty quick."
"No, not that," Alastor huffs a breath with a sharp roll of his eyes. He carefully disentangles their fingers just enough to free the apple. One hand remains firmly clasped around Lucifer's, while the other lifts the apple once more to his lips. The motion is calculated, measured, almost teasing, as though savoring not just the fruit, but the effect it has on Lucifer.
"Your lack of patience," he continues, his voice lightly curling with small amusement, "for a man who cannot die never ceases to amaze me."
"I think I was very patient this time," Lucifer replies pridefully, a soft huff of laughter escaping him as his shoulder rises in an elegant shrug.
"If that's your version of patience," Alastor says, his smile sharpening with delight, "I'd hate to see what you consider reckless."
"Careful," Lucifer teases, glancing at him sidelong. "You might find you prefer it."
"Mm," Alastor hums, noncommital and entirely too intrigued for the sound to be dismissive.
Lucifer does not pull away when their hands shift. Instead, he lets the contact linger, fingers slipping naturally into Alastor's, folding together with an ease that feels both tentative and certain.
"I would have waited longer," he admits, a faint smile tugging at his lips as his gaze dips briefly to their joined hands. His thumb brushes faintly against Alastor's knuckles. "If that's what it took."
Alastor's gaze drops to Lucifer's face, and for a fleeting moment, the smile drops from his face entirely. In its place is something raw and undisguised, a hunter's stillness. The thought that Lucifer would have waited longer, that he would have subjected himself to enduring that agonizing hope for Alastor's sake, sends a dark, possessive thrill through him. It's the most exquisite surrender. When his smile returns, it's different. Sharper. As though Lucifer has just become both his greatest indulgence and his most carefully chosen risk.
Then, without warning, he moves.
His hand tightens around Lucifer's, pulling him forward just enough to close the distance between them. The motion is smooth, controlled, inevitable. Alastor tilts his head in with measured grace. His other hand, still holding the apple, captures Lucifer's chin between his thumb and the curve of the fruit, forcing his face upward as he leans in to kiss him.
It is not a brief kiss. It's a decisive, searing press of mouth to mouth, a brand of ownership that is both soft and absolute. It tastes like apples, sweet and crisp, with a lingering sharpness that clings to the tongue. The flavor lingers between them, a rich, consuming promise, a reminder of the offering that brought them here and of the claim that has now been irrevocably laid.
Lucifer freezes, not from shock but from the sheer, overwhelming force of will behind it. His breath catches against Alastor's mouth, his eyes wide and unfocused as if the world has tilted off its axis and remade itself in this moment. A flush of bright gold heat rushes across his cheeks. When Alastor pulls back, Lucifer doesn't follow. He simply stands there, completely unraveled, his lips parted as though the very act of speaking has been stolen from him, replaced by the ghost of a kiss that now owns him.
"Care to share a drink with me, darling?" Alastor asks, his voice irresistibly smooth and controlled, as though he hadn't just unraveled Lucifer. He studies him for half a beat, clearly pleased with himself, his eyes gleaming with amusement and dark affection before that familiar smile curves back into place.
"You-" Lucifer stops, his breath catching again before a loud, incredulous laugh escapes him. He's still gloriously flustered, and Alastor cannot help but soften ever so slightly, a rare touch of fondness threading through his usual grin.
"Yes, I think I'd like that," he says at last, his voice softer than before, a hint of wonder still lingering. His eyes meet Alastor's again, bright and undeniably willing. "Lead the way, then."
As Alastor turns, Lucifer follows without hesitation, walking beside him. Their hands never part, fingers still laced as though neither is willing to test what it would feel like to let go now. They move together through the lobby's ambiance, steps falling into an easy, unspoken rhythm as the world around them dims into the distance.
Lucifer tilts his head up, smiling at Alastor with a wide, radiant expression as he holds Alastor's gaze, his crimson eyes serene and fixed, pouring every unspoken word into the space between them.
'If I fall again, it will be with you. If you fall, I will follow you.'
Alastor's fingers curl more firmly around Lucifer's in return, a silent, steady pulse. It's the smallest reassurance, yet it's laced with an unmistakable oath.
'Let's choose this ruin together.'