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Lucifer x F. Reader
When a struggling, reclusive, but wealthy single father calls upon the help of a governess to help tutor his coming-of-age but unruly daughter, one has no choice but to accept the most gracious invitation of employment. Especially if your new employer is the King of Hell. (aka if Hell, but if it was set similar to Victorian Era England, so like circa 1830 to 1900 A.D.)
The morning dawned with that peculiar quality of light that was neither fully crimson nor gold, but something caught between the two, as though the sky itself could not decide. Y/N woke to it streaming through her window, painting her chamber in shades of amber and rose, and for one blissful moment before full consciousness claimed her, she forgot the weight of the previous night's confrontation.
She rose with mechanical precision, dressing in a modest dove-gray gown that seemed to match her spirits, pinning her hair with the same careful attention. The burns on her hands had healed to faint pink marks, but they still pulled when she flexed her fingers. A reminder, she thought grimly, of what happened when one reached too close to flame. Or Hell. Charlie was already awake when Y/N arrived at her chamber, bouncing on the balls of her feet with an energy that seemed almost manic in its brightness.
"Miss Y/N!" she exclaimed, rushing forward to clasp the governess's hands. "I've had the most wonderful idea!"
Y/N summoned a smile, though it felt quite fake. Anything for Charlie.
"Have you, darling?"
"Vaggie is coming for tea this afternoon! You remember Vaggie, don't you? From the ball?" Charlie's eyes shone with such hopeful excitement that Y/N could not help but soften. "And I was thinking we could have it in the garden, under the magnolia tree that didn't burn. It would be lovely, wouldn't it?"
"Very lovely indeed," Y/N agreed, smoothing a curl from Charlie's forehead. "Shall we work on your French conjugations before she arrives? We've neglected them rather shamefully this week."
Charlie's face fell only slightly. "I suppose we must."
"We must," Y/N said gently. "But I promise to make it as painless as possible."
The study session passed with Charlie's usual mixture of brilliance and distraction, her mind clearly elsewhere even as she dutifully recited her verbs. Y/N found herself similarly unfocused, her thoughts drifting unbidden* to golden eyes. S/he forced her attention back to the lesson with an effort that left her exhausted. When the clock struck eleven, Y/N released Charlie to prepare for her guest and found herself wandering the half-restored corridors with no particular destination in mind. The reconstruction had progressed remarkably in the past weeks, Sir Pentious's designs proving both innovative and efficient. She could hear the distant sounds of hammering and the low hiss of what she assumed were the serpent's various mechanical contraptions. He would often stay up late into the evening working, and she had to admire the dedication of such an individual.
It was as she passed the eastern wing, the section that had burned hottest, that she saw him.
Sir Pentious emerged from a doorway that should have been locked, one of the storage rooms that held salvaged items from the fire. His movements were furtive, his tall form hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. Impossible consider not only his stature but his top hat. In his hands, he clutched something wrapped in dark cloth, pressing it close. Y/N pressed herself against the wall, heart suddenly thundering. She watched as he glanced left, then right, his forked tongue flicking out to taste the air. Seemingly satisfied that he was alone, he slithered quickly down the corridor toward the servants' quarters, disappearing around a corner.
She should follow him. Should demand to know what he carried, what business he had in locked rooms. But her feet remained rooted, some instinct warning her that confrontation now would be foolish. Dangerous, even. Instead, she made note of the time, the location, the way his eyes had gleamed with something that looked disturbingly like satisfaction. And she resolved to watch him more carefully. Everyone in the Manor had secrets, and while some were meant to let alone…something didn’t sit quite right with her.
Therefore, luncheon was a strained affair. Lucifer sat at the head of the table, Y/N to his right, Charlie chattering brightly about her upcoming tea party as though she could single-handedly dispel the tension.
"And Vaggie is learning embroidery too, you know," Charlie said, cutting her roasted duck with perhaps more vigor than necessary. "Lady Sera says it's essential for a young lady of quality. Though I think Vaggie finds it rather boring, if I'm honest."
"Many essential things are boring, sweetheart," Lucifer murmured, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. "That doesn't make them less essential."
Y/N reached for her water glass, her movements careful, controlled. "Miss Vaggie strikes me as a girl of considerable sense. I'm sure she understands the value of patience."
"Oh, she does!" Charlie agreed enthusiastically. "She's ever so sensible. Sometimes I think she's more sensible than I am, which Papa says isn't difficult…" She stopped abruptly, as though realizing she'd said something she shouldn't.
Lucifer's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "I said no such thing."
"You implied it!!" Charlie countered, then giggled.
Y/N felt something in her chest constrict painfully. This, she thought. This easy warmth between father and daughter. This was what she'd thought she might be part of, once. How foolish she had been.
"If you'll excuse me," she said quietly, setting down her napkin. "I should prepare the terrace for Miss Vaggie's arrival."
"But you've barely eaten." Charlie began.
"I'm not very hungry, I'm afraid." Y/N rose, offering a smile that felt like it might crack her face. "Enjoy your meal."
She was halfway to the door when Lucifer spoke, his voice low but carrying clearly across the room.
"Y/N."
She paused but did not turn. "Your Majesty?"
Ah…the title. Not his name, as he had long requested. A long silence stretched. She could feel his gaze on her back, heavy as a physical touch. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with something she couldn't name.
"Thank you. For tending to Charlie's education so… faithfully."
"It is my position," she said simply. "Nothing more."
And before he could respond, she fled…like she always did.
The garden terrace had been arranged with particular care, a small table draped in white linen, delicate china cups painted with roses, tiny cakes and sandwiches arranged on silver tiers. Y/N stood back, surveying her work with a critical eye, when Charlie appeared at her elbow.
"It's perfect, Miss Y/N! Oh, Vaggie will be so impressed!"
The young angel arrived promptly at two o'clock, delivered by carriage and accompanied by a stern-faced attendant who waited at a respectful distance. Vaggie herself looked lovely in a gray dress trimmed with maroon ribbons, her single visible eye bright with excitement that could only be called akin to ecstatic joy.
"Miss Charlie," she said, offering a graceful curtsy, though the grin on her face betrayed her true emotion. "How wonderful to see you again."
Charlie, too, practically vibrated with excitement. "And you! Oh, come, come sit down. We have lemon cakes and cucumber sandwiches, and Miss Y/N made sure everything was perfect!"
Y/N excused herself after the initial pleasantries, intending to give the girls their privacy. For a time, the girls' chatter washed over the normal topics. Talk of music and books and the latest fashions from Heaven's and Hell’s court (and subsequent mentions of Angel Dust). But then the conversation shifted, the voices dropping to conspiratorial whispers.
"I think," Charlie was saying, her tone serious despite her youth, "that something is wrong between Miss Y/N and Papa."
"What do you mean?" Vaggie asked.
"They're being so… careful with each other. And Papa looks sad when he thinks no one is watching. But he’s always like that. And Miss Y/N…" Charlie's voice wavered. "She doesn’t look at him!"
"That's terrible," Vaggie said softly. "Do you know what happened?"
"No," Charlie admitted. "But I think… I think they care for each other, and something went wrong. I want to fix it."
"Charlie…" Vaggie's voice held a note of caution. "Some things can't be fixed by wanting them to be."
"But I have to try!" Charlie insisted. "Miss Y/N makes Papa smile. Real smiles, not the ones he uses for court. And she looks at him like… like he hung the moon just for her. They should be happy together."
"It’s not technically allowed, but what are you thinking?" Vaggie asked, and there was something in her tone, a knowing amusement, that suggested she already knew the answer.
"A dinner party," Charlie declared. "Something special. Just the four of us. We'll seat them together and remind them that they like each other!"
"You want to play matchmaker?" Vaggie's voice danced with barely suppressed laughter. "Charlie Morningstar, you're incorrigible**."
"I prefer 'determined,'" Charlie said primly, then giggled. "Will you help me?"
A soft sigh. "Of course I'll help you, Princess."
"Oh, thank you!" The sound of rustling fabric, as though Charlie had thrown her arms around her friend. "You're the absolute best. The best best best!"
The Magic Kat occupied a corner of Pride's entertainment district and was the sort of establishment that catered to demons of taste. Husk had not intended to come here tonight. After his fight with Angel, he'd told himself he was done with the spider demon, done with caring, done with the particular brand of torture that came from wanting something he had no right to want. The interior was dimly lit, all dark wood and darker velvet, the air thick with cigar smoke and the murmur of quiet conversations. A small stage occupied one corner, currently empty, and Husk settled himself at the bar with his usual bourbon and a grimace.
"Rough day?" the bartender asked, a succubus with knowing eyes.
"Rough life," Husk muttered.
She smiled sympathetically and moved on to other customers, leaving him to his misery. He was three drinks in when the lights dimmed further and a voice, smooth, feminine, achingly familiar, announced from somewhere in the shadows: "Ladies and gentlemen, demons of distinction, we present for your pleasure this evening…Losin’ Streak."
Husk's head snapped up. “Angel Dust?!”
The spotlight found the stage, and there stood Angel Dust, transformed. He wore a floor-length gown of shimmering black silk that clung to every curve, cut daringly low across the chest, and slit high along one leg. His hair was swept up in an elaborate style, diamonds glittering at his throat and ears. But it was the makeup that completed the illusion, soft and glamorous, highlighting the elegant bones of his face, making his eyes enormous and luminous. He looked like something from a dream, absolutely breathtaking.
Husk's glass slipped in his paw. He caught it just before it shattered, but bourbon sloshed over his fingers. The music began, and Angel's voice filled the room, rich and smooth as honey over gravel. He moved with practiced grace, working the small stage as if he owned it, and perhaps he did. Every eye in the room was fixed on him, captivated. Every eye except the one that mattered. Angel's gaze found Husk at the bar, and for a moment, his professional smile faltered. Their eyes met across the smoky room, but then Angel looked away, throwing himself back into the performance with renewed vigor. But Husk saw the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
The song ended to enthusiastic applause. Angel took his bows with a theatrical flourish, blowing kisses to the crowd, and Husk thought he might leave, might disappear backstage and avoid him entirely. Instead, Angel descended from the stage and made his way directly to the bar.
"Well, well," he said, his voice pitched higher than usual, that affected showgirl persona firmly in place. "Didn't expect to see you here, Whiskers."
"Didn't expect to be here," Husk replied gruffly.
An awkward pause stretched between them. Angel signaled the bartender, who produced a martini without being asked. He took a delicate sip, still not quite meeting Husk's eyes.
"You were good," Husk said finally. "Up there. Real good."
Angel's fingers tightened on his glass. "Thanks."
Another silence, this one even more uncomfortable than the last. Husk drained his bourbon and signaled for another. When it came, he stared into the amber liquid as though it might hold answers.
"Look," they both said simultaneously, then stopped.
"You first," Angel offered.
Husk took a breath that seemed to come from his toes. "I was an ass. The other night. Said things I didn't mean, or… or said 'em wrong, anyway."
Angel's expression softened fractionally. "Yeah. You kinda were an asshat."
"I just…" Husk struggled with the words, his paws clenching and unclenching on the bar. "I don't know how to do this. Whatever this is. I'm a washed-up drunk who sold his soul for a bad hand of cards, and you're…" He gestured vaguely at Angel's glamorous form. "You're this."
"This?" Angel repeated, something sharp entering his voice. "This is just a costume, Husk. Underneath all this…" he gestured at his gown, his makeup, "...I'm just as much of a loser as you are, baby."
"That ain't true!"
"It is," Angel interrupted firmly. "You think I got where I am by making good choices? By being smart and sensible and worthy?" He laughed, bitter and broken. "I'm owned, Husk. Body and soul, I belong to someone who uses me like a goddamn prop. So don't stand there and tell me you're not good enough for me when I can barely look at myself in the mirror most days."
The confession hung between them, raw and painful. Husk stared at him, seeing past the glamour for the first time to the exhausted, aching thing beneath.
"Angel…"
"Forget it." Angel downed the rest of his martini in one swallow. "This was a mistake. I should…"
Husk's paw shot out, catching Angel's wrist before he could flee. "Wait."
Angel froze, looking down at where they touched. Husk's paw was rough and scarred, Angel's arm smooth and pale where the long gloves didn't cover.
"I'm scared," Husk said quietly. "Of this. Of… caring. Of what happens when you realize you can do better than some broken-down cat demon with a drinking problem."
Angel's expression crumbled, rebuilding itself into something softer, more genuine. "And I'm scared you'll realize I'm not worth the trouble. That all the baggage I come with isn't worth whatever this might be."
They looked at each other for a long moment, two broken things recognizing their reflection.
"Fuck," Husk said eloquently.
"Yeah," Angel agreed.
Then, slowly, carefully, Husk pulled Angel onto the barstool beside him. "Sit. Have another drink with me. We can… figure it out. Or not. Just… stay."
Angel hesitated, then settled onto the stool with a grace that made Husk's chest ache. "One drink."
"One drink," Husk agreed.
The bartender brought another round without being asked. They sat in silence for a moment, shoulders almost but not quite touching, the space between them charged with possibility.
"You really did look good up there," Husk said finally. "Best damn singer I've heard in decades."
A genuine smile bloomed across Angel's face, transforming it. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Well." Angel leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to something intimate. "Maybe you should come see me perform more often then."
"Maybe I should."
Y/N should have known something was afoot when Charlie appeared at her chamber door that evening with an expression of exaggerated innocence.
"Miss Y/N! I've had the most wonderful idea!"
Y/N looked up from her book, marking her place with one finger. "Another wonderful idea? My goodness, you're quite full of them today."
"We should have a special dinner!" Charlie announced, bouncing on her heels. "Just family. You, me, Papa, and Vaggie. Something nice, to celebrate the Manor being almost finished. Don't you think that would be lovely?"
Warning bells chimed faintly in Y/N's mind, but she ignored them. Charlie's enthusiasm was difficult to resist. She knew the young lady was full of…more than well-intentioned ideas but often they ended up going awry. "That does sound lovely, sweetheart. When were you thinking?"
"Tonight!" Charlie clasped her hands together pleadingly. "Oh, please say yes, Miss Y/N. I've already asked Nifty to prepare something special, and Husk is arranging the dining room, and everything will be perfect!"
"Tonight?" Y/N echoed faintly.
"Please?"
How could she refuse? Silently nodding, Charlie squealed with delight and threw her arms around Y/N's waist before dashing off, calling over her shoulder, "Seven o'clock! Wear something pretty!"
Y/N stared after her, the warning bells now clanging with considerable vigor. But it was too late to back out now without disappointing the girl. She spent the next hour preparing with more care than she wanted to admit, selecting a gown of deep emerald silk that brought out the color of her eyes, one of the nicer pieces from Angel's shop. Her hair she arranged simply in an Engenin rolled bun***, allowing a few tendrils to escape and frame her face. A touch of color to her lips, a subtle darkening of her lashes. She told herself it was merely about looking presentable. The fluttering in her stomach was simply nerves.
At precisely seven o'clock, she descended to the dining room and stopped short in the doorway. The room had been transformed. Candles burned in elaborate candelabras, their flames dancing in the slight breeze from the open windows. The table, usually long enough to seat twenty, had been shortened dramatically, creating an intimate setting for four. Fine china gleamed in the candlelight, and arrangements of roses, Husk's work, no doubt, graced the center of the table. It was, Y/N realized with sinking dread, unmistakably romantic.
"Oh no," she whispered.
"Oh yes," came Alastor's amused voice from somewhere behind her. She whirled to find him leaning against the doorframe, grin positively gleaming with schadenfreude. "Our dear little Charlie has quite the flair for dramatics, wouldn't you say?"
"You knew about this?"
"I am Head of Staff, my dear. Very little happens in this household without my knowledge." He tilted his head, that damned smile ever present on his face. And she had not wished more than now to wipe it clean off. "Though I must admit, I did nothing to dissuade the child from her schemes. The entertainment value alone is worth any awkwardness that may ensue."
Before Y/N could formulate a suitably scathing response, Charlie appeared in a flurry of red silk and excited chatter, with Vaggie in tow.
"Oh, Miss Y/N, you look beautiful! Doesn't she look beautiful, Vaggie?"
"Very beautiful," Vaggie agreed, though her smile suggested she was in on the scheme.
"And here's Papa!"
Y/N's breath caught despite herself. Lucifer appeared in the doorway, dressed impeccably in a black suit with subtle gold embroidery that caught the candlelight. His hair was neatly styled, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes, those treacherous golden eyes, found hers immediately and held. For a moment, neither moved.
"Your Majesty," Y/N managed, dropping into a curtsy.
"Y/N," he replied, voice rough. Then, more formally: "You look… very well this evening."
"As do you."
Charlie practically vibrated with poorly suppressed excitement as she ushered everyone to their seats. And this, Y/N realized, was where the true scheme became apparent. The table was set for four, yes. But the arrangement was pointed: Charlie at the head, Vaggie to her right. And on Charlie's left, two seats placed so close together they were nearly touching, one for Lucifer, one for Y/N.
"Charlie…" Y/N began.
"Isn't this cozy?" Charlie chirped, settling into her seat with aggressive innocence. "I thought it would be nice to all sit close together. Like a real family!"
Lucifer's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Y/N could feel heat rising to her cheeks. But there was nothing to be done. Refusing would only make a scene and hurt Charlie's feelings. They took their seats. The first course arrived, delivered by Nifty with a smile that was far too knowing for Y/N's comfort. It was a delicate ox-tail soup****, aromatic and beautifully presented, and Y/N focused on it with desperate intensity.
"So!" Charlie said brightly. "Miss Y/N, tell us about your day!"
Y/N forced a smile. "It was quite ordinary, sweetheart. We worked on conjugations, prepared for Vaggie's visit—"
"And Papa, how was your day?"
Lucifer, who had been studying his soup as though it might contain the secrets of the universe, looked up. "Productive. Sir Pentious presented his final designs for the west wing. They're quite ingenious, actually."
"Isn't that wonderful!" Charlie beamed. "You should tell Miss Y/N about them. She's very interested in architecture."
Y/N nearly choked on her soup. "I'm… adequately interested," she managed.
"Then you must allow me to explain," Lucifer said, and was there a hint of amusement in his voice now? "Pentious has designed a system of vents that will—"
As he spoke, Y/N found herself drawn in despite her intentions. He was passionate about the topic, his hands moving expressively as he described innovations in structural reinforcement and fire prevention. Lucifer was an amazing inventor, mind sharp as a steel trap, something Y/N had always admired. His duck-themed inventions had always made her day, and to see him express himself once again in this manner didn't fail to make her heart flutter. His knee brushed hers under the table, accidentally, surely, and neither moved away.
The second course arrived: roasted quail with root vegetables and a wine reduction. Charlie kept the conversation flowing with the determination of a general directing troops, asking leading questions, engineering moments where Y/N and Lucifer had to interact directly.
"Papa, didn't you say just yesterday that Miss Y/N's dedication was remarkable?"
"Miss Y/N, don't you think Papa looks quite handsome when he smiles?"
"You should both try the wine, it's from the same vintage you had at the ball!"
By the time dessert arrived, a decadent chocolate torte that Nifty had clearly spent hours on, the tension had shifted from merely awkward to something more complex. Y/N was hyperaware of every movement Lucifer made, every breath, every fleeting glance. And he seemed similarly afflicted, his usual composure cracking around the edges. It was as they were finishing their dessert that Charlie made her move.
"I think," she announced, setting down her fork with careful precision, "that we should make this a regular thing. Family dinners every week."
"That's a lovely idea, darling," Lucifer said absently.
"Just the four of us," Charlie continued. "Because we are a family, aren't we?"
"Of course…" Y/N began.
"A proper family," Charlie interrupted, her voice taking on a slightly desperate edge. "With a mother and a father and… and…"
She trailed off, tears suddenly welling in her eyes. Vaggie reached over to squeeze her hand supportively. Lucifer straightened in his chair, concern replacing everything else. "Charlie, sweetheart, what's wrong?"
"I don't like it!" Charlie burst out. "I don't like you and Miss Y/N fighting!"
"We're not." Y/N started weakly.
"You are!" Charlie insisted. "You're being so careful and polite, and you barely look at each other, and you both seem so sad!" Her voice cracked. "I just want my mom and dad to stop fighting!"
The words hung in the air like a bomb mid-detonation. Y/N felt all the blood drain from her face. Lucifer had gone perfectly still beside her, not even breathing. Across the table, Vaggie looked between them with wide eyes.
"Charlie," Lucifer said very quietly. "Y/N is not..."
"I know she's not my real mother!" Charlie interrupted, tears now streaming down her face. "I know that! But she's the closest thing I have, and I love her, and I can tell you care about her too, and I just want everyone to be happy again!"
She dissolved into sobs, and Vaggie immediately pulled her into an embrace, shooting apologetic looks at the adults. Y/N's hands trembled in her lap. She couldn't look at Lucifer, couldn't look at anyone. Her heart felt like it might hammer straight out of her chest.
"I think," Vaggie said gently, "that perhaps Charlie and I should retire for the evening."
"No!" Charlie protested through her tears. "I haven't fixed it yet!"
"Come on," Vaggie coaxed, helping her to her feet. "Let's go upstairs. I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, how's that?"
Charlie allowed herself to be led away, still crying softly. Her voice drifted back to them: "I just wanted to help…"
And then they were gone, and Y/N and Lucifer were alone in the candlelit dining room, surrounded by the remains of a meal and the shattered remains of their composure. For a long moment, neither spoke. Y/N stared at her hands, watching them shake, willing herself not to cry. Beside her, she could feel Lucifer gathering himself, could practically hear the careful construction of whatever he was about to say.
"I should go to her," Y/N said finally, starting to rise.
"Wait." Lucifer's hand caught her wrist—gently, but firmly. "Please. Just… wait."
She sank back into her chair, not trusting herself to pull away from his touch. His thumb moved absently against the inside of her wrist, probably without him even realizing it, and she felt her pulse jump beneath his fingers.
"She sees you as her mother," Lucifer said quietly. "And I… I cannot fault her for that."
Y/N's throat tightened painfully. "I never meant to overstep."
"You haven't," he interrupted. "Y/N, you have been nothing but appropriate in your position. It is the rest of us who have… complicated things."
He was still holding her wrist, she realized. Still touching her. And she still hadn't pulled away.
"I meant what I said last night," Lucifer continued, his voice dropping lower. "About you caring for me. I was… stunned. Honored beyond measure. And terrified."
Now she did look at him, finding his face closer than she'd expected, his eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"Why terrified?" she whispered.
"Because I care for you too," he said simply. "More than is wise. More than I have any right to. And I have spent these past weeks trying to convince myself otherwise, trying to maintain proper distance, trying to protect us both from a scandal that could destroy everything we've built."
His hand slid up from her wrist to cradle her hand properly, fingers interlacing with hers.
"But Charlie is right. We have been fighting. Fighting our own hearts, fighting what might be possible, fighting the simple truth that somewhere between your arrival and now, I have fallen hopelessly, inconveniently, impossibly in love with you."
Y/N's world tilted sideways. "Lucifer."
"I know," he said quickly. Heart fluttering at finally hearing her say his name again. Like a prayer on her lips, and he had forgotten what Heaven felt like until she said it. "I know all the reasons why this is impossible. Your position, my status, the court, the scandal. But I also know that watching you walk away from me, seeing the hurt in your eyes, has been a torment worse than my fall."
He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that sent electricity racing up her arm.
"I am not asking you to forgive me immediately," he murmured against her skin. "I am not asking you to forget my cruelty or my cowardice. I am only asking… may I…at least pursue you? Properly, carefully, with all the respect and honor you deserve?"
Y/N felt tears prick her eyes, but these were different from the ones she'd shed in her lonely chamber. These were born of something fragile and precious unfurling in her chest. Oh, this surely wasn’t happening. This had to be a dream. Here he was, the literal King of Hell, asking to pursue her properly? Against all the scandal, the odds, the press. And part of her wanted to shun it. To resist and keep that professional boundary that had been suffocating her day by day…
"I am King of Hell. If I cannot protect the woman I love from vicious gossip and petty minds, then I deserve neither my crown nor my throne."
‘The woman I love.’ The words echoed through her, settling into places she hadn't realized were empty. He cupped her face with his free hand, thumb brushing away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen.
"Let me pursue you," he whispered again. "Let me prove that my words are not empty. Let me show you what you have come to mean to me, to this household, to my daughter." His voice dropped even lower. "To my heart."
Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the last of her resistance crumble. When she opened them again, she found him watching her with such naked hope that it took her breath away.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, you may pursue me."
The smile that broke across his face was incandescent, transforming him into something almost unbearably beautiful. He leaned forward slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, and pressed his forehead to hers. They sat like that for a long moment, learning the feel of each other, savoring the permission to finally be close. Y/N could feel his breath on her lips, could count every gold fleck in his eyes.
"We should check on Charlie," she murmured, though she made no move to pull away.
"In a moment," Lucifer agreed, also not moving. "Just… one moment more."
His hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head with exquisite gentleness. Y/N's eyes fluttered closed as he drew her closer, closer, until his lips were a hairsbreadth from hers.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. They sprang apart like guilty children, Lucifer nearly overturning his chair. Y/N's hand flew to her chest, where her heart was attempting to escape through her ribs. The knocking came again, loud and insistent, echoing through the Manor's half-restored halls.
"Who the devil!" Lucifer began.
Alastor appeared in the doorway, his expression unusually serious. "Your Majesty, forgive the interruption, but there are… visitors. At the gate. They're quite insistent."
"At this hour?" Lucifer rose, straightening his jacket. "Who?"
Alastor's smile took on a sharp edge. "Representatives from VoxTech, sir. They claim to have urgent business. Something about an official inquiry."
Y/N felt ice slide down her spine. Lucifer's expression hardened into something terrible and regal.
"An inquiry?" he repeated softly. "Into what, precisely?"
"Into the fire, Your Majesty." Alastor's eyes glittered dangerously. "And into the… personnel… of your household."
The moment shattered. Lucifer looked at Y/N, and she saw the war in his eyes: the desire to send them away, to protect this newfound understanding, warring with his duty as king. And Alastor’s smirk never faded from his face, though Y/N did notice the strain of it.
"I'll handle this," he said finally, voice hard. "Y/N, go to Charlie. Make sure she's settled."
"But!"
"Please." His hand found hers one more time, squeezing gently. "Trust me."
She nodded, throat too tight for words, and fled. As she climbed the stairs toward Charlie's room, she heard voices rising from the foyer, official, accusatory voices that made her skin crawl. Question after question, the flash of a camera, the scribble of a pen on paper. And beneath it all, Lucifer's measured tones, every inch the king, betraying none of the softness she'd seen moments ago. The serpent was in the garden, and they were all about to discover just how deep his venom ran.
FOOTNOTES-------------------------------------------------------------
*Unbidden = arising without conscious effort.
**Incorrigible = (of a person or their tendencies) not able to be corrected, improved, or reformed.
***Engenin = Engenin rolls were tight, sausage-shaped tubes that could be rolled from the crown to the back. Two long ringlet curls hanging from below the large bun were tossed over the shoulders to the front.
****Ox-Tail Soup = Popular soups in the Victorian era ranged from luxury, exotic dishes like turtle and mulligatawny to hearty staples such as ox-tail, lentil, and vermicelli, often served as the first course of a formal meal.
Summary: You, ever the popular bee of Hawkins High and girlfriend of Jason Carver, should have nothing to do with ‘The Freak’ Eddie Munson. In fact, you shouldn’t even look at him. But…he’s very pretty, don’t you think?
Warnings: Reader has AFAB anatomy, but I try to keep everything GN as possible, fingering, P in V, use of pet names in sexual context, unprotected sex (PLEASE PRACTICE SAFE SEX), slight sub/dom dynamics, slight possessiveness and jealousy, etc. MDNI, 18+
For my dear friend @thee-pixie-skull
– 1986 –
Hawkins High was your kingdom. You were the one everyone noticed the second you stepped into a room. Perfect hair, perfect smile, always cheering loudly at pep rallies and standing just a little closer to Jason Carver than anyone else was allowed to. Whether you were flying through the air during a tumbling pass or leading chants on the sidelines, you fit perfectly into the picture Hawkins loved to frame. Jason loved that picture too.
At least, he used to.
Lately, something about him felt…off, to put it mildly. His hand on your wrist lingered too long when he was annoyed, tightened. His voice carried an edge when you talked to people he didn’t approve of. He talked about respect a lot now, about loyalty, about how people should know their place. And somehow, your place felt smaller every day. What to wear, eat. Who to speak to and how to respond to those deemed as “freaks”. It was suffocating. But anything for the picture-perfect image that your parents and Jason’s parents had set up, right?
But there was no harm in a little break now and again…so you started disappearing. Not at school, you had grades to keep up. You still smiled in the hallways, still sat at the popular table, still kissed Jason’s cheek when he expected it. But after the final bell rang, you slowly drifted out. You skipped bonfires and parties, took longer routes home, and spent afternoons anywhere that wasn’t with them.
And that was how you met Eddie “The Freak” Munson.
The first time, it was purely accidental. Ducking into the drama room to avoid Jason’s friends, only to find Eddie sprawled across the floor with a guitar and an open notebook.
He looked up, took one glance at you, and scoffed. “Wow. Hawkins royalty slumming it. Did you get lost on the way to cheer practice, or lose your little boy toy guide dog?”
You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing in slight annoyance at the boy. Jason was not your guide dog, and you were certainly not a lost little princess. “Wow. I didn’t realize I had to explain myself to the peanut gallery.”
Something flickered in his eyes, amusement, maybe. Interest. From there, it became a habit. You ran into him in the cafeteria line, behind the school after hours, in the library when you both should’ve been somewhere else. You traded insults back and forth so often that it almost became a game. A grand duel between the princess and the pauper. And honestly?
It…was somewhat fun. To have someone to banter back and forth with, no restrictions. No looming presence telling you what to say or how to be. There was laughter. Real laughter. The kind that didn’t feel forced or expected. Eddie didn’t treat you like a trophy. He treated you like a person. Not a housewife's dream to be. And before you knew it, you were sitting at the Hellfire table after school, dice in your hands, trying not to laugh as Eddie dramatically narrated your character’s demise.
“A nat one! You perish in the fiery Flames of Phlegethos, dead because you trusted the wrong man,” he said solemnly, though a hint of a smirk played on his pale features.
Groaning, you place your head in your hands as the other players attempt to console you. Only to crack your fingers apart and slowly look at Eddie with a grin. A smile he would sooner rather die than forget. He had never expected the Queen of Hawkins to be so….fun. Genuine. Smart…kind…pretty—oh, he was getting ahead of himself. Who was he kidding? You were…you. And he was him. He was a nightmare, and you were…a dream.
After that day, you had broken up with Jason, much to the jock’s shock. Jason noticed your distancing long before he noticed Eddie. Maybe you were tired, maybe it was a phase. Avoiding him. He got it; he needed space sometimes, too. But this? This was too much space. You were running away…from him. And Jason hated that. But relationships came and went, and he didn’t need you. He could find some other pretty thing to hang off his arm and giggle. So, imagine his surprise when one day, as he walks to find you at your locker, he sees you…giggling…with The Freak. You had replaced him with…Eddie fucking Munson?
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouted, pacing your driveway later that afternoon, while his friends loitered nearby. “Munson? That’s who you’re sneaking around with?”
“I’m not sneaking,” you shot back. “I’m just not spending every second with you anymore.”
Jason stepped closer, voice dropping. “You stay away from him. Or I swear to God, I’ll kill him.”
“Don’t you fucking dare!”
Your chest went cold as you shoved Jason back, glaring at him fiercely. The argument grew louder, words spilling, accusations flying, threat after threat. And you knew Jason meant them…wrapped up in preventing him from starting a murder hunt. Jason’s voice was already loud, already sharp enough to cut, when Eddie heard it. On his way to your house to help you plan out a new character sheet for the campaign.
“You think you can just embarrass me?” Jason snapped, pacing like a caged animal. “Sneaking around with him?”
“I’m not sneaking,” you said, but your voice wavered despite yourself. “I’m just—”
“Shut up,” Jason barked, stepping closer. His hand shot out, gripping your arm hard enough to sting. “You don’t get to humiliate me like this.”
“Let go of them.”
The words came from behind Jason, low and furious. Jason turned just in time to see Eddie storming up the driveway, fists clenched, eyes blazing. His lip curled in a grin that held no humor at all.
“Oh, look,” Jason sneered. “The freak himself.”
Eddie didn’t even hesitate. He shoved Jason back, hard.
“Touch them again and see what happens.”
Jason laughed, a short, ugly sound that made you grimace. “You really think you scare me?”
The first punch came fast. Jason swung, catching Eddie in the jaw. Eddie staggered, barely keeping his footing, and wiped at his mouth when he tasted blood.
“Oh, you’re so dead,” Eddie spat, and swung back.
His fist connected with Jason’s cheek, snapping Jason’s head to the side. The crowd, Jason’s friends, shouted, but none of them stepped in. They just watched. Jason charged. They traded blows, fists slamming into ribs, shoulders, faces. Eddie fought dirty, desperate, fueled by pure desperation. He was never one to stand up and fight, a self-proclaimed coward. But this was you. And he was ready to stand and fight. Jason fought like he always did, bigger, stronger, crueler.
Eddie landed another hit, splitting Jason’s lip. Jason roared and drove his knee into Eddie’s stomach. Eddie gasped, doubling over, and Jason took his chance, one brutal punch to the face. Eddie went down hard, hitting the pavement with a sickening thud.
“Eddie!” you cried, rushing forward.
Jason stood over him, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles. Eddie tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out. One eye was already swelling shut, blood dripping from his nose onto the concrete.
Jason grabbed your wrist again. “We’re leaving. Now.”
You yanked your arm free.
“No.”
He froze. “What?”
“I’m not going with you,” you said, voice shaking but steady. “I am not your partner anymore, remember?”
Jason stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. The once pretty little housewife-to-be, his final piece in the American Dream, is gone. Like you’d slapped him. Which, honestly…you should have in that moment. But you had bigger things to worry about.
“Fine,” he snarled after a moment. “Stay with the loser.”
He turned to his friends. “Let’s go.”
They left Eddie bleeding on the ground.
You didn’t hesitate. You knelt beside Eddie, hands hovering, unsure where to touch without hurting him more.
“Hey,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”
He cracked one eye open and laughed weakly. “Guess I… lost that one.”
You helped him inside, guiding him to the bathroom. You cleaned the blood from his face carefully, dabbing at his nose, his lip, the dark bruise blooming under his eye. Eddie hissed now and then but never pulled away. His doe brown eyes, despite the slight bruising now around them, were just as beautiful as always. Almost looking at you like a kicked puppy instead of the roaring defender from just a few moments ago.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”
Your fingers lingered against his cheek, and surprisingly, his skin was soft. And Eddie couldn’t get over the way you held him. So gently, how your fingertips seemed to zap electricity through him. And suddenly, the room felt too small. Eddie’s gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, like he was fighting himself.
“You didn’t go with Jason…” he said softly.
“I wasn’t going to leave you,” you replied.
Then, the tension snapped. Eddie leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. You closed the distance instead, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was careful at first, hesitant, almost reverent. Gosh, you tasted so sweet, like whatever cherry gloss you had placed on. And just like that, he was hooked. Addicted. You were high, that was better than any weed or cocaine. And it had to be some sort of messed-up dream, you kissing him like this. But should it be one, Eddie, who never prayed once in his life, shot one up for this dream to never end.
Groaning into your mouth, his hand came up to grip the back of your neck and pull you closer. Eddie’s other hand found your waist, trembling.
You're not sure how it escalated from there. One moment, Eddie has his hands on your waist, and the next, you’re grinding on your bed. Hands tangled in his mousy locks, tugging slightly with every roll of his clothed hips into yours. Which happens to elicit the most beautiful sound you think you’ve ever heard: Eddie’s whimper. The people you would pay, the world’s you would burn, the altars to which you would kneel to hear that sound for the rest of your life. That soft, almost hesitant groan of appreciation with every tug and scrape of your nails on his scalp.
His lips are searing against your own, whatever gloss you had on from earlier now smeared haphazardly across his chin. Not that he minded. The taste of cherry was fine, sure. But the taste of your mouth on his was better. His tongue darting past your lips just to get another taste. Another hit. A high he never wanted to come down from.
He couldn’t help himself, and could anyone blame him when his hands started to drift? Down from your waist, long and nimble fingers tracing the outline of your form with care. Occasionally squeezing just to enjoy the sensation of your skin underneath his fingertips. His ringed hand slowly caresses lower and lower till it finds its way up underneath your cheer skirt and thumbs at the fabric of your underwear. Even without seeing them, he bet you looked so divine. The soft fabric and whatever color you had chosen brought out your features. The mental image alone nearly had Eddie groaning into your mouth as he continued to devour your lips.
"Can….can I?" he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. Finally, having the audacity to truly lift your cheer shorts after you nod, eyes going wide at the sight. Your underwear hugged your hips…and was the only barrier left between the two of you. Eddie's hand slid down your side, possessive yet tender, until his fingers traced the edge of the fabric. He hooked them under the waistband but didn't pull them down….not yet. Instead, he pressed his palm against your mound, feeling the heat radiating from you.
"Gosh…you’re perfect," he whimpered, pinning your thigh with his knee, keeping you spread just enough. His rings were cool against your skin as he slipped a finger beneath the lace, teasing your folds with a few light rubs. Testing for every reaction, what made your eyes roll back the most, or what would elicit any pretty noise from your lips. Memorizing your face the way he did a campaign plot line or guitar chords. But you were far more important than any of those things. You gasped, arching into his touch, and that sound seemed to ignite something in him; his eyes darkened in a display of the addiction to your pleasure. Addicted to you.
He pushed the fabric aside, his middle finger circling your clit slowly at first, building the pressure, only for you to whimper and bite your lip gently. Sure, your parents weren’t home right now, but the sounds he was searching for, you wouldn’t let him have.
"Please, please let me hear you," he begged softly, his voice laced with that yearning hunger. Releasing the bite on your lip, you moaned, your hands fisting the sheets, and he rewarded you by sliding one finger inside you…. then two, curling them just right to hit that spot that made your toes curl. The fabric of your underwear rubbed against your thigh just right with each thrust of his hand, adding a teasing friction. Eddie pumped his fingers deeper, faster, his thumb now grinding against your clit in firm circles. He was relentless, hooked to the way your walls clenched around him, to the slick sounds filling the room. The way the slick from you spilled out and coated his rings, adding a glittering shine to the metal. Gosh, he would never wash them again.
"This must be a dream…" he whispered, his free hand cupping your chest, thumb flicking your nipple through your shirt. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked you, his own arousal straining against his jeans, but he didn't stop. No, he couldn’t. In all your months of friendship, in all those late nights at his trailer high as a kite and laughing, or seeing you in the hallway, he had dreamed of a moment like this. At first, not so much. You were kind and fun to be around, but nothing more. But that day you smiled so damned wonderfully at him, the sun setting low as he dropped you off after a campaign session, thanking him for the ride…he was a goner. Had gone back to his trailer and practically palmed himself till he was spent and every touch of his fingers left him whimpering from the stimulation.
And since then? His dreams had been filled with you. Your laugh, your hair, your eyes. Your legs, your mouth….so, no. He couldn’t stop. Not until you shattered, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, your pussy pulsing around his fingers. He kept going, drawing out every tremor, until you were breathless and limp beneath him.
The velvet of your walls squeezed his fingers so tight that with every exit and entry into your cunt, slick spilled from your needy hole to the sheets in a painfully delicious way. Your body felt fuzzy, and your brain close to numb. All you can think about is how fucking good it feels to finally be fucked by him like this. You had been waiting for him to make a move, a month or so into knowing him. Wanting to see those puppy eyes, espresso brown eyes looking at you so pleadingly. And now you had it. And you never wanted it to stop.
You can feel your release barreling towards you with an unrecognized speed. Lips parted in a desperate attempt to ask him to slow down, your whines were quickly muffled by his lips slamming into yours, his tongue slipping past your lips and shoving itself in your mouth. Only to slow his movements and pull back slowly. His yearning eyes met yours. He withdrew his fingers slowly, bringing them to his lips and sucking them clean, tasting you with a groan that sent shivers down your spine. Better than anything he had ever smoked. If he could live off of you alone, he swore he could.
"Can…Gosh, I need to feel you—," he said, his voice rough, and he quickly stood. Sitting up to help him, your hands nimbly come to the buckle of his belt and unclip it with a grin. Holding direct eye contact as you did, Eddie swore he had never seen anything sexier. And he had watched Fire with Fire. As he shed his clothes, revealing his hard cock, thick and veined, pre-cum glistening at the tip, you visibly gulped. You had assumed Eddie was well-endowed, the outline in his black jeans always obvious. But seeing it now, on full display? You weren’t sure if it would even fit….
He positioned himself between your legs before remembering you were still in your underwear, now soaked. Leaning down, flicking his eyes up to your own lust-blown ones, he slowly drags the fabric down your legs with his teeth. Placing kisses on the flesh of your inner thigh as he climbs back up, leaning over you, and pinning you to the bed with his arms. He aligned his cock with your entrance, rubbing the head against your slick folds.
"Tell me you want this…please, I am not gonna do anything if you don’t want this—" he rambled, barely holding it together as his hands trembled slightly on your hips, betraying how much he craved your surrender.
"I want you, Eddie…please?" you breathed, eyes closing as your head lolled back into the pillows, preparing for the pleasure that awaited you. Yes, you had condoms in your bedside drawer, but currently, that thought had flown out the window. Too consumed with the idea of taking him, all of him, and feeling him within you. And that was all he needed.
He thrust in slowly at first, inch by inch, stretching you around his length. The fullness made you cry out, pleasure bordering on overwhelm as your hands flew to his hair. Once buried deep, he paused, forehead pressed to yours, espresso eyes searching yours.
"God, you're everything," he confessed in a whisper, groaning slightly as your fingers scraped his scalp. The beautiful mix of pain and pleasure shot straight to his dick. Then he moved, pulling back gently…only to slam in again, setting a rhythm that had you both gasping. His hips snapped against yours, cock driving deep with each stroke, hitting spots that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Hell, Jason hadn’t even really made you cum before. Eddie had already done it once, as you feel another one quickly approaching. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing to feel all of him. He groaned at the closeness, his pace faltering for a second from the sheer intensity. Sweat slicked your bodies, his pale skin glistening as he fucked you harder, the bed creaking under the force.
Pleasure built like a storm, overwhelming you both. Eddie's rings dug into your skin as he gripped your thighs, spreading you wider.
"So fucking beautiful…" he panted, but the way he said it was laced with vulnerability, his yearning pouring out. You met his thrusts, clenching around him, and he buried his face in your neck, biting down lightly as the sensations consumed him. The friction, the heat, the way your bodies slapped together, it was too much. Your orgasm hit first, ripping through you, and Eddie followed seconds later, his cock throbbing as he spilled inside you, hot cum filling you in fat globs and squirts to the brim.
You both collapsed, panting, sweat cooling on your skin. Eddie didn't pull out right away; he stayed nestled inside you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as his head stayed buried in your neck, the soft curls of his hair tickling your skin.
"I didn't know it could feel like this," he murmured against your hair, his voice raw. "I've wanted you so bad it hurt."
You understood the feeling. But you weren't satisfied yet. With a surge of boldness, you pushed at his chest, flipping him onto his back. Eddie blinked up at you, surprise mixing with a slight hunger in his eyes, his cock still semi-hard inside you.
"What are you—" he started, but you silenced him by rolling your hips, grinding down until he was fully erect again, stretching you anew with a whimper.
“I’ve wanted you too, Eddie…so let me show you," you said. You lifted and sank, taking his cock deep each time, your pussy still sensitive from before, every movement sending sparks through you. Eddie's head fell back, a moan escaping his lips as you set the pace, slow at first, then faster, chasing that building peak. The third for you and the second for him.
His nails dug into your skin, guiding you subtly, but you controlled the rhythm, bouncing on his length, feeling him hit even deeper from this angle. If you thought he had hit the sweet spots before, you were mistaken, because now it felt like he consumed all of you. Sweat dripped down his chest, his curly hair splayed on the pillow, eyes locked on where you joined. Gaze never leaving the sight of his member sliding in and out of you, his cum slightly pouring past your folds back onto him.
"Fuck—yes, just like that," he groaned, his voice breaking with need. You leaned forward, your hands on his chest, riding him harder, your clit grinding against his pelvis with each drop. Pleasure coiled tight, and Eddie's hips bucked up to meet you, unable to hold back.
"Cum, please cum again!" he urged, but it was you driving him to the edge. Your orgasm broke first, walls fluttering around his cock, milking him. Eddie thrust up once, twice, then came with a guttural moan, his cum mixing with the remnants from before, flooding you as you both rode out the waves together. Exhausted, you collapsed onto his chest, his arms enveloping you. Only wiggling out of your warmth to retrieve a wet towel to clean both of you. Placing you in his Hellfire t–shirt and quickly then reenveloping you. In the quiet, his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, kissing the crown of your forehead, the longing in his touch promising this was only the beginning. And you fell asleep peacefully, in the arms of someone you knew you might just love forever.
— 1996 —
The soft glow of the television cast flickering shadows across the living room as the Fellowship trudged through the mines of Moria. You padded back from the hallway, having just tucked your daughter into bed after the third request for water and the second plea for "just one more story."
"Is she finally down?" Eddie whispered, though his eyes never left the screen. His hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few escaped curls framing his face.
"Out like a light," You replied, settling onto the couch beside him, immediately curling into his side, fitting perfectly against him the way they had for the past six years. The ring on your finger is a true sign of that. Eddie's arm wrapped around your shoulders on instinct, pulling you closer.
"You missed the Balrog reveal," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "But don't worry, I can rewind it. You know how I feel about proper cinematic appreciation."
You smiled against his worn Metallica shirt, giggling softly as your head lay on his shoulder. "I've seen this movie approximately eight hundred times with you, Eddie. I think I know what happens."
"Sacrilege," he gasped dramatically, his free hand clutching his chest. "Every viewing is a new experience, sweetheart. You're supposed to appreciate the—"
" ‘The masterful cinematography and Tolkien's unparalleled world-building’, I know, I know," Y/N quoted, reaching up to play with one of his rings, the skull one your given him for your second anniversary.
Eddie grinned, that same mischievous smile that had made you fall in love with him back in '86.
"See? I've trained you well, my little padawan."
"Wrong franchise. And you call yourself a nerd!"
"Our child is going to be so culturally literate," he declared, turning back to the screen. His thumb traced absent circles on your shoulder. You could feel tears prick your eyes, overwhelmed by the simple domesticity of it all….your home, your child sleeping soundly down the hall, this man who'd been through hell and somehow came out the other side still believing in fairy tales.
"I love you," you whispered.
"I love you too," Eddie murmured back, then immediately perked up. "Oh shit, this is the good part! Watch Gandalf here, he's about to—"
And you watched….but not the screen. Just how Eddie's face lit up with excitement over a movie he'd seen dozens of times, thinking that this, this quiet Tuesday night in their small house, was the real magic.
When a struggling, reclusive, but wealthy single father calls upon the help of a governess to help tutor his coming-of-age but unruly daughter, one has no choice but to accept the most gracious invitation of employment. Especially if your new employer is the King of Hell. (aka if Hell, but if it was set similar to Victorian Era England, so like circa 1830 to 1900 A.D.)
Two weeks after the fire, a gray and sullen sun dawned, as though even the blazing star hesitated to cast its light upon the wounded Manor. Soot clung stubbornly to the rafters, coiling through the half-restored corridors. Into this uneasy hush came the steady, rhythmic tap of a cane. Alastor moved through the hall with as much normalcy as he could muster, his limp pronounced but dignified, the polished wooden cane striking the blackened floorboards with a crisp finality.
Trailing behind him in hurried little steps was Nifty, carrying three overstuffed ledgers pressed tight against her narrow chest. She muttered dates, times, and damage estimates under her breath, her tiny feet pattering anxiously behind the taller man. Husk followed last, cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth, the ember glowing as ash flicked down his jacket with every lazy exhale. They paused beneath a scorched beam where the ceiling had nearly collapsed in the kitchen. Alastor tilted his head, studying the charred wood with sharp eyes. The burn here was irregular, quite intense, clinging in streaks and spirals rather than the natural sprawl of accidental flame.
“This section burned hotter,” Nifty murmured, poking the beam slightly as she hummed softly. The noise was of a higher pitch, and might’ve been mistaken for a sadistic giggle had she not paused to squash a fleeing cockroach under her shoe.
Husk crouched next to a melted sconce*, running a finger across a residue that glowed faintly red, even in the dim cold light. He sniffed it and then hacked at the scent.
“Not normal fire,” he muttered, flicking the substance off as though it offended him. “Hellfire.”
Alastor’s cane tapped once more, sharply. “Curious,” he said lightly, a grin spreading across his face though his eyes remained chillingly void of humor. “Hellfire of this potency is not often misplaced.”
They moved deeper into the Manor, their footsteps echoing in the hollowness left behind by devastation. Nifty stopped so abruptly that her ledgers nearly flew from her arms. She pointed with a finger toward a section of wall where scorch marks curled into geometric shapes, clean, calculated patterns, almost beautiful in their precision. Almost mechanical or technological in design.
“These aren’t natural,” she said, voice shivering. “Someone did this on purpose. Like…like a design.”
Alastor leaned close, smile widening. “How artistic,” he murmured. “And how extraordinarily inconvenient.”
Meanwhile, Husk discovered something far worse. At the baseboards, half-concealed behind tattered wallpaper, the warding runes that protected the Manor’s foundations lay cracked, hairline fractures spiderwebbing outward with a deliberate, surgical touch.
“Someone tampered with these,” Husk growled, scraping ash from his jacket. “From the inside.”
A hush fell over the group. Even Nifty, who never seemed to run out of breath or words, stood frozen. The wards were Lucifer’s protection, his safeguard against intruders. For them to be compromised from within meant treachery of the deepest sort.
As they advanced toward the western wing, the heart of the inferno, several workers passing through the hall quickly averted their gazes, whispering behind calloused hands. A few murmured Alastor’s name. Others whispered Nifty’s. One worker, pale as chalk, claimed he saw a tall, slithering shadow slipping from the wing moments before the fire erupted.
Alastor’s grin sharpened at the whispers, though his eyes flicked, once, toward Husk and Nifty with something far too keen to be amusement. He heard suspicion well enough, but he did not fear it. No, it was something else he feared. Something watching. Waiting.
It did not take long for the rumors of who ignited the fire to drift beyond the Manor walls. Hell possessed a thousand tongues, each sharpened to a point, and by the first morning of the third week, they wagged with voracious hunger when the first newspaper arrived, its headline smeared in bold, accusing ink.
THE GOVERNESS AND THE KING: A SCANDAL IN FLAMES
The page crackled like tinder as Lucifer’s fist tightened around it. At his side, Alastor groaned at the sight of the sensationalist script. Nifty tried to snatch the paper away, as if rescuing Lucifer from its venom, but he only exhaled slowly, the paper trembling in his grip. By noon, a dozen more arrived.
ALASTOR’S REVENGE? OR A WOMAN’S BETRAYAL?ROYAL HOUSEHOLD IN RUINS! WHO BENEFITS MOST?
Nifty shredded two with her bare hands at the insult towards Alastor. set one on fire with the tip of his cigarette, muttering,
“Seems fitting.” Alastor, however, leaned against the doorway, a smile carved deep into his face yet not reaching his eyes. The broadcasts were worse. Vox’s voice oozed from every speaker across Hell, velvet-slick and dripping with false sympathy. He spoke as though he cared deeply for the “fallen family,” but his words thrust like daggers wrapped in silk.
“Sources” claim seeing tension between Lucifer and Y/N; callers claimed Alastor had been seen “threatening the King mere days before the blaze.”
Y/N tucked them away before Charlie could see. But news does not shield itself from children, especially ones as curious as the young princess. Charlie had overheard two maids near the kitchen whispering about “the wicked governess” and “the Radio Demon’s schemes,” and by afternoon, she found Y/N sitting at her sewing table, mending one of the girl’s dresses.
Charlie stood in the doorway, pale and trembling.
“Miss Y/N?”
Y/N lifted her head, her smile warm but tired around the edges. “Yes, my dear?”
Charlie hesitated before crossing the room. She climbed onto Y/N’s lap without asking, curling close like a child much younger than her years. Her small hands gripped the fabric of Y/N’s sleeves.
“Why…” Charlie whispered, “Why is everyone being so mean?”
Y/N stilled. Charlie’s breath quivered against her shoulder.
“I heard them say terrible things,” the child continued, voice shrinking. “They said you hurt Papa. And that Mister Alastor did, too. But…but you didn’t! And if they just asked you, they would know!”
Her voice cracked into a soft, frightened squeak.
“I don’t understand why they won’t just… talk it out.”
Y/N pressed a trembling kiss to the top of her head. The question, so innocent and pure, carved a wound deeper than any accusation.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” Y/N murmured, arms tightening around her, “some people don’t want the truth. They only want the story that frightens them least.”
Charlie swallowed hard, gripping tighter. “But I don’t like it. I don’t like them saying such awful things about you.”
Y/N brushed a tear from her cheek. “I don’t, either.”
Outside, the roar of crowds rose, chanting, demanding, hungry for blood they had convinced themselves they deserved. The gates trembled under the press of bodies. Reporters climbed onto shoulders to glimpse the Manor grounds. Vox’s voice spilled from megaphones, urging the masses to question, to doubt, to condemn.
The world outside was turning against them. And inside, little Charlie, brave, bright Charlie, held onto Y/N as though the woman were the last safe place left. As dusk bled across the sky, Y/N carried the girl to her room, whispering gentle reassurances though her own heart thundered. Charlie nestled beneath her blankets, small eyes glistening in the candlelight.
“Miss Y/N,” she whispered as sleep tugged at her lashes, “you won’t let them take me away, will you?”
Y/N froze.
“Take you—?”
Charlie nodded faintly. “They said Father can’t protect anyone anymore… so maybe they will try to take me somewhere safe.”
Y/N felt her blood turn to ice. She smoothed Charlie’s hair and whispered, “No one is taking you anywhere. That…I promise.”
“But how can you promise?”
“...I have my ways of protecting you, young lady. Don’t fret.”
VoxTech Tower loomed like a jagged monolith amidst the bustling metropolis that was downtown Pride. Its uppermost floors glowed in perpetual neon, casting poisonous light over the city below. Inside, amidst a maze of static, screens, and looping reports, Vox worked like a creature possessed. For days, he had scarcely left his office, though nothing was new there. Newspapers lay everywhere, piled on tables, tacked to walls, strewn across the floor like the feathers of some gutted bird. Headlines screamed from every sheet: accusations, rumors, speculations, all of them twisted delicately by his hand. The radio equipment crackled and hissed with life; each broadcast another carefully woven thread in the web he spun.
He fed that web constantly, hours upon hours of whispers disguised as news, ‘anonymous’ callers whose every word he scripted, and scandals embroidered with flourishes of theatrical outrage. Each headline was crafted with the precision of a blade, aimed not only at Lucifer but at the Radio Demon who had once stood beside him. That governess was merely collateral. A name to dangle, a face to smudge with shadow, a woman easy to paint as beguiling, cunning, deceitful. Vox had no interest in her beyond the utility of her suffering.
A knock at his office door shattered the electric hum. Without waiting for permission, Val sauntered in, a cloud of perfume trailing behind him. He wrinkled his nose at the chaos of newsprint.
“Honestly, Voxy,” Val drawled, flopping onto the chaise near the wall, “why waste so much energy on this? Alastor isn’t even an Overlord anymore. He’s…how shall I put it….aburrido**. Hardly worth your attention.”
Vox let out a laugh, a shade too loud if anyone had cared to notice.
“Oh, Val,” he said, turning in his chair, the neon glow painting his face in dangerous colors. “Old stories die hard in Hell.”
Val arched a brow. “And you’re writing them all yourself, apparently. Really, why bother? Lucifer, sure. The King is always fun to poke at. But Alastor?”
At the name, Vox’s jaw twitched. Only for a fraction of a second, barely a heartbeat. He busied himself with adjusting the dials of a nearby console, fingers tightening around the metal as though it might snap under the pressure.
“Alastor,” he repeated lightly, though the word scraped his throat. “He has… history.”
“History?” Val scoffed. “With you? Please. You two barely acknowledge each other’s existence beyond trying to kill each other at every waking moment.”
Vox’s smile froze. The corners trembled for an instant, like a film reel catching on damaged tape. His eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in the quiet, distant way of someone dragged reluctantly through memory. Val, oblivious, waved a dismissive hand.
“Whatever. I just don’t see why you’re wasting your talents on someone who walks with a cane now. Or that governess. She isn’t even interesting.”
Vox’s hand clenched around the console so tightly that the knobs groaned. The electric lights flickered.
“Everyone is interesting,” Vox said softly, too softly. “If you look long enough.”
Val blinked, confused by the sudden shadow in his tone. The neon reflected in Vox’s eyes like fractured starlight through broken glass But then, with practiced ease, Vox straightened, shoulders lifting in a mockingly elegant shrug.
“Besides,” he added with a forced brightness, “taking down Lucifer is much more fun when you dismantle his little entourage along the way.”
“Mm.” Val stretched languidly. “If you say so. I just hope you’re getting some entertainment from all this. You’ve been holed up here for days.”
“I find the pursuit… invigorating.”
Val rolled his eyes. “Well, don’t let me interrupt your obsession.” He paused at the door, offering a wicked smile over his shoulder. “But really, lover, if you ever get bored tormenting the King’s governess, do let me know. I have ideas.”
Vox’s laugh came too quickly. “I’m sure you do.”
When Val finally swept out, the door closing with a soft hiss, the atmosphere shifted violently. The forced smile dropped from Vox’s face like a mask unhooked from its strings. His jaw set, teeth grinding. The electric hum deepened, rattling the glass panels overhead.
For several long moments, he simply stood there, staring at the wall where a blurry photograph, cracked at the edges, hung beneath a pinned headline. His gloved fingers lifted toward it, hovering, trembling, almost touching. But he pulled away. He always pulled away. With a curt breath, he turned back to his desk, flicking a switch that illuminated a concealed transmitter panel. Rows of numbered channels glowed a faint, eerie green.
He dialed one carefully, each click echoing like a heartbeat. The line buzzed, then popped, then hissed with static. Finally, a voice crackled through, low, distorted in its cadence:
“…Isss thisss a sssecure line?”
“Yes,” he murmured, settling into his chair like a spider into its web. “Give me your report.”
The office lights dimmed. The tower hummed. And the next stage of his plan began to unfold.
Y/N remained seated at Charlie’s bedside long after the child’s breathing evened into sleep as she watched the rise and fall of the young girl’s chest, counting each breath as though daring the world to steal one away. Only when the candle burned low did she finally rise, her limbs stiff with exhaustion. She closed the door gently behind her and let the corridor swallow her in its half-light. The Manor slept fitfully, timbers groaning in their recovery. The renovations were progressing quite well despite the circumstances, and soon it would be restored to its former glory. Her thoughts weighed heavily, despite this promise of normalcy, and soon she found herself craving something warm, something ordinary.
The kitchen welcomed her with a hush. She filled the kettle by memory alone, hands moving without thought. Nearly numb. Eyes glazed over with emotion or the lack thereof. The soft clink of porcelain and the whisper of flame beneath the pot were small comforts in a world suddenly too loud. She did not hear him enter.
Lucifer stood near the threshold, hands folded behind his back, the faint golden light that clung to him cast shadows across the cabinets, and for a moment, he simply watched her. This…woman who had braved fire for his child and now trembled at nothing more than boiling water. Announcing his presence with a soft clearing of his throat, Lucifer took a step forward as he watched her shoulders tense, spine straightening as she turned.
“Your Majesty,” she said quietly.
“Y/N,” he replied, equally restrained. “I did not mean to intrude.”
Eye twitching as he notices she had returned to the formal pleasantries of title and station instead of his name…The kettle began to sing, shrill and accusing. She removed it from the flame with more force than necessary, her movements sharp.
“I was just making tea,” she said. “If you require the room—”
“No,” Lucifer interrupted, then softened. “Please. Stay.”
She hesitated, then nodded stiffly. “I wished,” Lucifer began, then faltered. He drew a breath that trembled faintly. “I wish to apologize. Again. For what I said to you weeks ago. And for… all that has followed. None of this should have fallen upon you.”
Her hand froze mid-pour. Slowly, she set the teapot down. When she turned to face him, her expression had hardened. “You needn’t concern yourself,” she said coolly. “I am accustomed to bearing what is inconvenient to others.”
“That is not what I meant,” Lucifer said, voice rising with rare urgency. “I was cruel and unknowing. I allowed my fear and power to make me careless with your trust. And now you are paying the price for my failings.”
She laughed then, a short, sharp sound that startled even her in its undignified nature. And Lucifer, who had not prayed since his fall, shot up a quick one to never hear such a noise again.
“Trust,” she echoed. “Is that what you believe this was?”
Lucifer stepped closer. “Y/N—”
“You wounded my heart,” she said suddenly, voice trembling despite her effort to still it. “Do you not understand? Though I may be inconsequential in the scheme of your grand existence, you were my confidant. And whatever trust you thought you had crafted burned along with this house.”
The words struck him like a blade. Lucifer stared at her, eyes wide, breath caught painfully in his chest. The truth unfurled before him with cruel clarity. She did not have suspicion, not obligation, but affection. Love. Quiet, steadfast, unspoken…and hopelessly shattered.
“You… cared for me?” he asked, scarcely louder than a whisper.
Her gaze flickered away, jaw tightening. “That is of no consequence now.”
“No,” Lucifer said urgently, stepping forward. “It is everything.”
He reached for her hand, his voice breaking as he tried to shape the confession that had waited too long. “Y/N, I never meant to—”
But she was already retreating, pain written plainly upon her face. “Goodnight, Your Majesty,” she said, her tone formal once more, armor hastily reforged. And then she was gone. footsteps fading into the wounded halls, leaving behind her A.D cup and saucer***. Lucifer stood motionless, the weight of realization pressing down upon him like ash. He had been loved….and in his blindness, he had let it burn.
A slow clap echoed from the shadows. Alastor emerged from the dim corner of the kitchen, grin wide and eyes gleaming with unwholesome delight. He leaned upon his cane with theatrical ease, as though he had been there all along…
“I do believe,” he purred softly, “that I informed you previously, Your Majesty… that the governess would bring you nothing but despair.”
Lucifer did not turn. “Now is not the time for your theatrics, Alastor.”
Alastor chuckled. “On the contrary.” He stepped closer, voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur. “I do not desire theatres. Allow me, as always, to offer my services. After all… someone must pick up the pieces of you.”
FOOTNOTES ------------------------------------------------------------
*Sconce = a decorative light fixture mounted to a wall, historically holding candles or torches
**Aburrido = Boring in Spanish
***A.D Tea Cup = The typical teacup measures 3-4 inches in diameter, depending on the shape, and a demitasse would be approximately half of that, or 2.5 inches by 2. 5 inches. The saucer is typically in the vicinity of 4 inches in diameter.
Warnings: fingering, oral sex, orgasm control and denial, etc. MDNI, 18+
For my best friend, Raptor.
You and Nanami quickly became friends after you joined the first-year class at Jujitsu High a few months late into the semester. With constant training sessions, bonding over books, and a general dislike of how loud Satoru Gojo was, it was inevitable that you would become fast friends. You quickly picked up his habits, figuring out he likes his coffee black and how he defined cut his own hair by the tenth month you were there, much to Nanami’s chagrin and the confusion of every other student. Not even Haibara had gotten Nanami to smile so quickly at anything like you did!
But because of this rapid bond, when you finally did graduate a few years later, the higher-ups and even Principal Yaga saw it fit for the two of you to pair up on assigned missions. Which meant…way more time together. Not that you minded – Kento was your best friend despite the sleepless nights, dingy hotel rooms, and fight after fight. Bandaging each other up, taking way too much care with the gauze to patch any part of him up. Nimble fingers caressing his hand for just a tad too long whenever you were done. The proximity was killing you. How his hair would fall just enough over his eyes when he cut down a curse (his new haircut was a vast improvement from the one in high school), how his eyes would darken, and you always wondered what it might be like if he just stared at you like that. Gosh, the way your thighs squeezed together at the thought. Being in love with your best friend had to be wrong.
But you weren’t the only one. Nanami loved the way you would speak so gently to him when you patched him up, how his name would fall past your lips with a honeyed quality that had him melting. But what got him the most? The way you would whimper when you thought he couldn’t hear. Sharing a wall in hotel rooms was nothing new, but a great benefit to your desperate best friend who stroked himself to your moans of his name when you needed some stress relief after missions.
That’s how he knew his feelings were reciprocated. That’s how he knew when you had him sitting down on his bed in the hotel, tending to a wound, that he could pull you by the collar and kiss you with a soft mumble of “Mine.” Hands flying to his hair, tugging softly, you met his kiss with equal fervor. And that’s how you ended up where you are now. Naked and writhing beneath him, his tongue lapping up every spill of your juices that flood their way onto his face. He is still clothed above you, albeit more bare in his blue button-up, undone, and boxers. Your hips squirm away from the overstimulation, as one of his thick fingers traces their way up to your clit to rub soft circles.
“Stop moving, darling.”
Whimpering softly, you try to explain how close you are. How amazing his mouth feels, just a little more, and you would fall apart on his tongue.
“Kento, please–”
“Just a little longer, darling. Don’t cum.”
He whispered hoarsely, slowing his fingers and tongue down. No, no, no! You were right there. So fucking close, and he denied you. You could feel every atom in your body burn with need. His finger and tongue never let up, despite going slower, as he mumbled the request into your weeping hole. You could practically feel him smirk against you, reveling in the power he held. How helpless you were. That he could now hear you moan his name so sweetly in person, instead of through that stupid drywall.
Continuing his assault on your pussy, finally allowing himself to place two fingers into you and scissor them wide, his smirk grew. Eyes flashing with that darkened quality you had so long desired to see, the near feral gleam in those dark orbs could have had you cumming on the spot if you hadn’t been asked not to do so. Then, just as you suspect, he would keep you on the edge forever….
“Go on now. Let me hear you, darling.”
Before you even have time to process, your body lets go. Cunt clamping down on his fingers with a vice grip, juices spilling past in the wake of your orgasm. Heat flooding your entire body, that warm, satisfying rush to your head, making the world spin. And without you even knowing, you have soaked the sheets below you. Squirting all over his face and fingers in a way that leaves his face shining from your release. Slurping up every drop with a desperate quality, a man denied his meal too long and now starved for the sweetness of your weeping cunt. And how he couldn’t wait to take you apart and put you back together all over again. Maybe being in love with your best friend wasn’t so bad after all.
Warnings: Fingering, cum, female anatomy, implied P in V, use of pet names, jealous, etc. MNDI< 18+
For: oceanicscreams
Can you find the number 11 in the fic today? Let me know in the comments below!
If asked, Y/N wasn’t that drunk. Okay…maybe she was. But it wasn’t her fault that Angel and some random low-level pornstar demon had spent the better part of an hour batting their lashes at Husk across the bar like he was a damn prize to be won. She’d watched it all from her seat, glass sweating in her hand, jaw tight every time Husk’s ears flicked, or his tail swayed in that lazy, effortless way he got when he pretended not to notice attention he absolutely noticed. It shouldn’t have bothered her. It really shouldn’t have. But it did.
So, what does one in Hell do when jealous of a platonic friendship possibly slipping away when you want it to be more? She drank. And then she drank a little more. It started with fruity drinks, then morphed to eleven shots, then long island iced teas, and by the end of the night, pure hard whiskey. The liquor burned her nostrils and the back of her throat, but the sting of the liquid was insignificant compared to the ache in her heart. She stayed long past the time Husk had given up trying to take her to her room, the cat demon huffing some cussed apology and slinking off. By the time actually managed, she’d finally peeled herself away from the bar and headed upstairs. The hotel hallway felt longer than usual, the red velvet carpet swimming slightly beneath her feet. The new lights blurred together, damn Charlie and her desire to make everything LED, it was making the doors lining the walls like copy-paste mistakes. She squinted at one of them, keys clutched tight in her hand.
This was her room. Definitely. The doorknob turned easily, no need for the keys. Funny, she had remembered locking the door before she left. The room beyond was dim, lit only by the warm glow of a bedside lamp. The smell of whiskey and smoke hit her first, comforting and familiar. Her shoulders relaxed without her meaning them to. She kicked off her shoes and stepped inside, not even noticing the figure sprawled across the bed until…
“What the hell?”
Husk blinked up at her, one ear flattened awkwardly against the pillow, wings half-spread as he’d been in the middle of shifting positions. His shirt was gone, vest discarded over the back of a chair, scars faintly visible beneath fur and skin. He looked…rumpled. Sleepy. And damn it, he was adorable.
“…Y/N?” His voice was gravelly, confused. “Why’re you—”
She froze. Oh. Oh no.
Her stomach dropped as reality slammed back into place. “Shit,” she slurred softly, eyes widening. “I…this isn’t—”
“This is my room,” Husk finished slowly, pushing himself up on one elbow. His tail flicked once, sharp with surprise. “You okay?”
She laughed then, a breathy, slightly hysterical sound. “Yeah. Totally. Great. Just…walking into wrong rooms tonight, apparently.”
His brow furrowed. “You drunk?”
“No,” she said immediately, then winced, the loudness of her own voice making her head ache. “…Okay. A little.”
She turned to leave, mortified heat crawling up her neck, but the door didn’t open right away. She fumbled with the handle, fingers clumsy, frustration bubbling up dangerously close to tears. Gods, this was humiliating.
“Hey.” Husk’s voice was softer now. She felt his presence before she saw him. Warm, solid, standing just close enough behind her that she could smell the whiskey on his breath. Not overwhelming. Just…him.
“You’re shakin’,” he murmured.
She huffed, finally managing to pull the door open, then stopped anyway. Her shoulders sagged. “I’m fine. Just tired. And stupid.”
“Didn’t look stupid downstairs,” he said carefully.
Her grip tightened on the doorframe. The jealousy she’d been holding back slipped out before she could stop it. “Yeah. How would you tell? You seemed real popular.”
Silence stretched between them.
Husk exhaled slowly. “That's what this is about?”
Oh, how Husk’s heart might’ve exploded right there. She cared about him. Holy fuck, had he actually been redeemed and gone to Heaven? Had this sweet angel of a person…been jealous? She turned, meeting his gaze despite herself. His eyes were sharp now, sober enough to read her too well. Damn him. “I didn’t like it,” she admitted quietly. “Seeing them all over you.”
Something unreadable crossed his face, then his ears tilted back, expression softening. “You know I wasn’t flirtin’ back.”
“I know,” she said. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t suck.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The air felt heavy, charged in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. Husk’s tail brushed her calf accidentally—then didn’t move away.
“…You can sit,” he offered, nodding toward the bed. “Till you sober up. I ain’t gonna bite.”
She hesitated, heart pounding, then sighed before letting a small smirk play on the corners of her lips ‘Unless I want you to bite, of course.”
She perched on the edge of the mattress, arms crossed, staring at the floor. Husk stayed standing, giving her space, though his gaze lingered in a way that made her chest ache.
“Next time,” he said gently, “if you’re jealous…you could just tell me.”
She glanced up at him, startled. “…Yeah?”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
With a fierce determination, he pulled Y/N flush to his chest, then gently flipped to guide her back to his bed. Peering down into her eyes, his own glowed with a soft hue as a clawed hand came to caress the swell of her cheek. With silent confirmation as Y/N nodded her head, Husk closed the gap as his lips captured hers. Moaning into the kiss, Y/N slowly brought her hands up to find them tangled in the fur at the nape of his neck.
Trailing his hand up to her waist, Husk gave it a tight squeeze that made her squeak. Chuckling at the reaction, both their lips remained interlocked for what seemed an eternity. Nimble fingers traced up her waist, tugging softly on the waistband of her pants, a cawl coming to slowly drag them down her legs. Exposed to the cool air, Y/N let out a gasp of surprise that was quickly replaced with a lewd moan as Husk traced a knuckle up her clothed core.
“Shh, darlin’. Just let me show ya why you shouldn’t have been so jealous.” Continuing to drag his finger across her pantie-clad slit, Husk mumbled the words into the base of her neck.
“Stop, fuck, stop teasing Husk.”
“Now, darlin’. Let me take care of you. Don’t wanna rush this.” Despite his words, he obliged her request by removing the offending undergarment from her body. Working his way down, his face ended between her thighs. His eyes widened at the glittering white gold slick that painted her hole.
Diving in, his tongue lapped up all the juices that spilled from her needy cunt. Sucking softly here and there while delving as deep as his tongue would allow, Y/N let out saccirhine moans and lewd hisses of pleasure. Gosh, she was more addictive than any liquor. Bottle up the juices pouring from her beautiful hole, and Husk would be content for the rest of his damned eternity. Gripping the sheets beneath her, her eyes remained shut in ecstasy. To make matters worse, or better depending on who you ask, Husk inserted his finger into her while continuing to feast. He could see her holding back some of her noises, desperate to control her noise.
"Come on, sugar. Don’t deprive a man of the reward of his hard work."
"But I don't want people to hear--"
"That does not apply today. Let all of Hell know ya mine."
Stretching her open, he added another finger, scissoring her wide. Y/n’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, and her body involuntarily shifted away from the overstimulating assault. Taking his other hand, Husk placed it on her hip and held her in place.
“Darlin’, I don’t want to have to hold ya down.” Perking up at the thought, Y/N gulped. The idea of being restrained all the muscles that way Husk…forcing her legs open so he could do as he pleased…. letting him use them to fill every hole piqued her interest. Perhaps for another time. The thoughts and stimulation from Husj’s mouth and his fingers nearly had her cumming, mumbling incoherently for just a bit more to push her over the edge. Smirking, Husk brought a third finger into her hole, its walls squeezing onto him for dear life. Using his thumb to rub against her clit, the stimulation was bearing nearly too much, and Y/N felt the coil in her stomach snap as she cried his name. Surely, the whole hotel had heard her by now. Not that Husk minded. Cum now coated his fingers and the bedsheets below as her high overtook her senses and she saw stars.
Drawing his fingers slowly out of her and bringing them to his lips, Husk sucked on the white, addictive juices. Both parties were covered in a layer of thin sweat, panting heavily and overcome with arousal. Walking his hands forward till both of his arms caged her in on the bed, and she could feel his growing bulge against her thighs, Husk whispered:
Warnings: Bondage, dacryphilia, implied smut, etc. MNDI, 18+.
First day -- let's go! In each fic, there will be a number counting down till December 24th, the 12 days of Saurmus! Can you find it? Let me know in the comments!
I forgot who requested this, so if it was you, lmk in the comments!
If someone had asked you what your bedroom life with Alastor was like, you weren’t sure if you could give them a word other than interesting. Always ready to try something new or lie back and take it slow, you couldn’t have asked for a better partner than the ever gentlemanly yet devilish Radio Demon himself. However, this request, given one night over an intimate dinner at the hotel, had surprised you. Shared over one too many glasses of wine and good soul food, Alastor’s hand creeping across that table while he wore that signature smirk that seemed to only deepen at the rising heat to your cheeks. And that’s all it took to have your complete agreement to whatever downright foul plan he had concocted to bring you tear-jerking pleasure.
Before you could choke out a pathetic whine, his hands moved to finish the last knot that kept your hands in place, the thin plastic rope complete with those tacky multi-colored lights firm around your wrists and ankles. You looked so desperate already, so ripe for the taking on the king-sized bed, and all his. Rubbing your thighs together, so needy for more than just the burning friction of the ties that bound you. But alas, you could not voice such desires, a small and absolutely adorable red ball choker stuffed in your mouth.
Your features were brought to life in contrast to the plastic Christmas lights he had purchased from some hellish version of Dollar Tree for twelve dollars. The plastic was mostly smooth against your skin, but occasionally the internal wiring would twist and dig into your supple flesh, eliciting a delightful blend of pain and pleasure that already had you wanting more.
The moment the knot was pulled taught by Alastor’s nimble fingers, a surge of arousal pulsed through you. The plastic rope linked to the collar glinted in the light of your shared bedroom, tethering you to your partner’s whims and wishes.
Your eyes looked at him pleadingly, desperate for any modicum of attention. You were always a touch hesitant in this situation in the beginning, but after years of dating, he knew just how to make you croon with desperation. Alastor reveled in that sight, in the luxury of seeing such a woman as you, bending and breaking under his will and crying for more.
“Look at you,” he purred, the thrill of the night filtering into his voice. “So beautiful, like a present all for me, cher.”
Yes, you were indeed quite a present. And one he just couldn’t wait to unwrap.
Had a fun little idea; a new sinner wanders into the hotel looking for a safe place to stay after being evicted (totally think that landlords in hell would be a special kind evil) and it turns out she’s completely incapable of cooking, like a burns water kind of skill level
I just think it’d be a really sweet relationship idea if she admits/ Alastor finds out she’s never had a good meal before and takes it upon himself to teach her or cook for her to ensure she gets to enjoy a meal
It could even have a Christmas spin to it like learning to make something festive (another headcanon is that he wouldn’t drink it, but Alastor knows how to make amazing hot chocolate)
Thank you x
OMG THIS IS SOOO SWEET!
I love it - 100% adding it to the list!
ONLY TWO MORE SLOTS OPEN FOR REQUESTS TO GET EM IN FOLKS!
Love,
Dewy
PCould you write an imagine about a character who, while in heaven, was engaged to Lucifer even before Lilith, and they fell together and had an active sex life? They separated, and then Lilith She appears in the story (just to give context lol) years pass and she shows up at the hotel as Alastor's fiancée. Lucifer hears them having sex and in the middle of the night he appears in the room The character and they have sex again and get back together since Lilith isn't in hell.
Sorry for the mistakes, it was the translator's fault. Kisses from Brazil.
Hi!!
I love this idea! But if Reader was Alastor's fiancée and Reader and Luci get back together....what happens with Alastor?? Food for thought....hehe
Love,
Dewy
I was wondering how you would feel about alastor x f!reader where reader is from present day and was a “midnight ballerina”? Alastor is is in his rut & wandering the Lust Ring in the shadows & finds her at a seedy club? He’s captivated by reader and just has that BURNNNNN for her! I thought of this because I used to be a dancer lol
Hello there!
Thank you so much! I will definitely write this for Smutmus - adding it to the list now.
For the rest of you - ONLY 5 SPOTS REMAIN SO GET THOSE REQUESTS IN NOW.
I do have a little Christmas wish - If you are inclined to, I'd love to see you try your hands on a Radioapple 'Under the mistletoe' fic! 😏 As spicy as you feel comfortable.
Thank you for bringing us Saurmas! Best holiday of the Year!
MY DEAREST FRAU! How it brings me such joy to see you grace my inbox. OF COURSE, I would love to do some RADIOAPPLE. I shall add it to the Saurmus list!
If you're still looking for smutmas prompts might i request some loving, mutually possessive, filthy Vox x reader smut? Like they are absolutely freak4freak with each other like Gomez and Morticia Addams style. Maybe some exhibitionism or Vox recording it to save it for later? Even if you dont do this prompt, i'm looking forward to reading the ones you do 🖤🖤🖤
HECK YESS!! I love that unhinged TV man sooo much! I’ll add it to the list!
hi! Um I’m one of your new followers and I’m hoping if it’s okay I looked at your rules but um could I get some fluffy vox smut? Or fluffy husk smut? If that’s okay! Like readers jealous and just make up fluffy smut if that’s okay?
Of course!! I’ll add it to the Saurmus list! So glad to have you as apart of the Dino community!
