Lucifer: *sits there in the crushing silence of the hospital room, staring at Alastor’s small, trembling frame*
The quiet machine beside them hums weakly, the only piece of reality still moving forward. Everything else in Lucifer's world feels like it’s cracking apart under the weight of what he’s just heard.
He should have been here.
He should have protected him.
He should have fought harder—for Alastor, for Liam, for Calliope—
and instead he let his grief shove everything else out of focus until it all fell apart.
Lucifer: *presses both of his hands against his face, trying to steady himself, but they won’t stop shaking* I failed you… I failed both of you…”
Alastor doesn’t hear him. He’s gone somewhere far inside himself—some crumbling, muffled corner where he still tries to bargain for the babies he will lose. The sound of his own ragged breathing fills the room like static.
He curls tighter, shaking with whispered pleas to no one—to everyone.
Lucifer steps closer. Something in him tears open when he sees the way Alastor’s fingers dig into the thin cotton gown, as if he’s trying to hold onto something slipping beyond reach.
Lucifer: *barely audible* I would undo it if I could.
And then—
As if the universe itself listens.
As if the thought is a command.
The air stills.
The clock freezes mid-tick.
The fluorescent lights flicker once and then stop shimmering altogether.
Lucifer lifts his head.
The world is motionless.
His heart stutters.
Then everything begins to rewind.
The lights un-flicker.
The tears on Alastor’s cheeks rise instead of fall.
Nurses un-open doors.
Machines hum backward, screens un-scanning.
Lucifer stares, breath thinning, as the entire clinic begins dissolving into streams of time peeling backward like film in reverse.
He squeezes his eyes shut—
The world bends—
His stomach flips—
And then—
He wakes.
The thrum of reality settles in his ears like a familiar bass hum.
He is not in a clinic.
He is not holding …. Wait, who was his not holding?
He is back in his workshop at the manor, sitting at his cluttered workbench, tools scattered everywhere. The faint smell of rubber clings to the air.
Lucifer: *groans, clutching his head* What the… what was that?
His skull pounds like someone struck a bell inside it. His vision swims.
What a nightmare.
A bizarre, vivid, gut-tearing nightmare full of people he didn’t even know.
Lucifer: *yawns* these damn pregnancy hormones have been giving me the worse nightmares. *looks around and sees he’s been working on a rubber duck*
📝 FAQ for “Bedtime Broadcast” with Alastor & Calliope
Alastor: Ah—good evening, my delectable audience! And welcome to a most unexpected detour in depravity and domesticity: Bedtime Broadcast!
Now, now, don’t adjust your dials—I assure you, you're hearing me correctly. This is Alastor, the Radio Demon, bringing you something a touch softer than my usual symphonies of slaughter and soul-splitting shrieks.
Today, I come to you not as a scourge of sinners… but as a father.
May I present to you my greatest creation—not forged of blood or brimstone, but of lullabies, lull tears, and lovingly sterilized bottles—Calliope.
Yes, yes, go ahead and gasp. She’s real. She’s mine. And she’s absolutely radiant. A giggling little bundle of golden curls, dazzling eyes, and a scream that could shatter glass and the patience of the damned.
I daresay she’s the only thing in Hell that’s managed to make me soft. Don’t get used to it.
Calliope giggles. Alastor chuckles warmly.
She is the reason for this charming little blog, this Bedtime Broadcast—a chronicle of our lives together, of demon diapers, devilish teething, and the delights of fatherhood in a place where most folks wouldn't trust me with a cactus, much less a child.
But! Before we get too cozy, a bit of housekeeping—or should I say hell-keeping?
Blog Rules, with Radio Precision:
No Minors. This blog is for unholy grown-ups only. Children in Hell may be few, but this space is not for you—run along, or I’ll make you a bedtime story. A permanent one.
Be Respectful. Toward me, my daughter, and your fellow readers. Any rudeness, blasphemy, or particularly tacky fonts will be incinerated with style.
Questions Welcome—If You Dare. I am an open book, sealed in blood and bound in leather. Ask what you will—just mind your tone.
Alastor: Now, pour yourself a cup of whatever you drink, settle down, and join us weekly for tales of tantrums, teething, and terrifying tenderness.
This is Alastor—and little Calliope—signing off for tonight’s broadcast.
The radio dial clicks softly as he adjusts it, the familiar hum of static filling the penthouse. One arm cradles Calliope against his chest, her tiny fingers tangled in the edge of his coat sleeve.*
Alastor: *sounds cheerful. Too cheerful* Ahhh… there we are. Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Calliope: *Babbles, gnawing thoughtfully on one of his gloves.*
Alastor: *Chuckles, smoothing her hair with a clawed finger.* No, my dear, we are not eating Papa’s hands today. Tempting though it may be. You’re still a tad young for finger foods.
The laugh warbles—just slightly—before snapping back into its polished cadence.
The room looks the same as it always has. Same velvet furniture. Same cursed microphones. Same ever-smiling demon on the radio dial. But Alastor keeps glancing at the shadows anyway.*
Alastor: *Crosses the room, checking the window seals for the third time that morning.* Perfectly safe. Entirely secure. No televisions, no cameras, no— *He pauses, sniffing the air.* “—no annoying TV headed bastards.
Only then does he relax enough to set Calliope down on the rug.
Calliope: *Immediately wobbles, then plops onto her diapered bottom, clapping proudly.*
Alastor: *Applauds with exaggerated enthusiasm.* Bravissima! A performance worthy of the stage!
But when she toddles toward the microphone stand, he lunges a little too fast, scooping her up again.
Alastor: *Light, joking tone.* Ah-ah! Not yet, darling. Broadcasting is a dangerous profession.
For half a second, his smile falters. Vox’s face flickers through his mind. Cables. Static. The feeling of being watched.
He adjusts his grip, pressing Calliope closer, her heartbeat steady against his chest.
Alastor: *Lower, quieter—no audience voice.* Papa’s here, Darling. I’m here for you.
Calliope: *Yawns, cheek squishing against his coat, utterly unconcerned.*
Alastor: *straightens, smile snapping back into place like a mask pulled tight. Brightly, to the empty room.* Now then! Lunch, naps, and perhaps a delightful murder mystery on the airwaves!
He carries her toward the kitchen, humming an old tune— one from his childhood and that his Maman used to hum.
The portal closed behind them with a whisper of golden light, leaving only the dim warmth of the Hazbin Hotel's lobby. Alastor stood motionless in the center of the room, his gaze drifting across the space with the blank curiosity of a stranger. He tilted his head, that familiar smile creeping across his gaunt face—but his eyes held nothing. Just hollow, glassy recognition of shapes and shadows.
"Now… this is a fine establishment, I must say," Alastor murmured, his voice raspy and thin. "You bring all your… 'guests' here, or am I just 'special'?"
Lucifer's heart sank at the word. He turned toward the deer demon, his expression softening despite the weight pressing against his chest. "You are special, you idiot." He gestured toward the hall. "Come on. You look like you haven't eaten in—" His words faltered as his eyes swept over Alastor's skeletal frame: the sunken cheeks, the tremor in his hands, the way his clothes—no, not clothes, just a threadbare blanket—hung from his shoulders like a shroud.
"—a while," Lucifer finished quietly.
Alastor laughed, sharp and broken. "Oh, I eat. All the time. Quite the hearty appetite, in fact!" He tapped his lips in what might have been meant as coy. "Sometimes I even taste."
Lucifer winced, exhaling slowly. "Let's get you cleaned up first. Your suite's still here, you know. It's…" He hesitated, searching for the right word. "Different. Doesn't hum with the same bayou magic you had running through it before, but it's still yours."
Alastor froze mid-step. His bare hooves pressed against the cool tile, and something flickered behind his expression—something sharp and painful. "My… suite?"
"Yeah. Top floor. You used to—"
"You must be confusing me with someone else." Alastor's voice turned sharp, uneven. "I… I've never been here before."
Lucifer frowned, stepping closer. "Al—"
Alastor stepped back, gripping the frayed edges of his blanket tighter.
Lucifer swallowed hard, his gaze catching on the blanket—on the bruises barely hidden beneath it. "So, uh… food! You like that, uh… what's it called?"
"I'll eat anything you want me to." Alastor leaned in, trying for something playful, something practiced. "Anything."
Lucifer froze mid-step, his stomach twisting. He could smell it now—the copper tang of starvation, the rot of cigarettes and cheap perfume trying to mask pain.
"Al…" Lucifer's voice came out soft, almost pleading. "That's not— that's not what I meant."
Alastor tilted his head, blinking with feigned innocence. The movement was mechanical, rehearsed. "Oh?" A faint smile curled at the corners of his lips. "I do apologize, my dear fellow! I simply assumed, what with your tone and all—" He chuckled hollowly, the sound fading almost instantly. "—that this was a working arrangement!"
Lucifer stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're not working right now. You're safe. No one here's gonna touch you, got it?"
Alastor stared at him for a long moment before offering a shaky grin. "Oh, I see. You're one of the talkers. I charge extra for that, you know."
Lucifer pressed his palm against his forehead, sighing deeply. "Father, give me strength." He gestured toward the grand staircase. "Come on. You're getting food, then a bath, then sleep. And no, none of that's code."
Alastor blinked as though trying to parse the words, then let out a soft laugh. "A bath and dinner? My, my. You are an odd client. Most of them skip straight to dessert."
Lucifer flinched, his jaw tightening. "I'm not a client, Al. I'm—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "—someone who still gives a damn about you."
The words hit Alastor like a note out of tune. He faltered, that mechanical smile flickering as if someone had pulled the plug on his act. "Give… a damn?" He laughed again, quieter this time, almost uncertain. "How novel."
Lucifer didn't reply. He simply walked beside Alastor, gently steering him toward the hotel kitchen. Every step echoed too loud. The old floorboards creaked under Alastor's hooves, and his reflection in the glossy tile looked wrong—distorted by the light, stretched thin like something barely holding together.
Lucifer grabbed a loaf of bread and some soup from the fridge, muttering as he heated it. "It's not fancy, but it's warm."
Alastor watched, dazed, then suddenly smirked. "Warm is good. Heat is… comforting." He leaned against the counter, the blanket slipping from one shoulder to reveal bruised skin beneath. "But if warmth is all you want, I can provide that and entertainment—"
"Alastor, stop."
The sharpness in Lucifer's voice cut through the air like a blade. The silence that followed was heavy. Alastor blinked at him, startled. For a second, his blank stare cracked—something small and scared flashed in his eyes before he looked down.
Lucifer's voice softened, guilt bleeding into his tone. "I'm not mad at you, Al. I'm mad at whoever made you think that's all you're worth."
Alastor's lips twitched, trembling between a smile and a sob he refused to let out. "Worth?" He let out a dry laugh. "My dear king, I'm worth exactly ten for a handy, twenty for a—"
Lucifer cut him off by pressing the warm bowl of soup into his hands. "Eat."
Alastor blinked down at the bowl, the steam fogging up his hollow gaze. He stared at it like he'd forgotten what food was supposed to be. Tentatively, he took a sip. His hands shook. The warmth hit his tongue, and for just a second, he stopped shaking.
"That's it… just like that," Lucifer murmured, almost to himself.
After a long silence, Alastor whispered, "You really don't want anything, do you?"
Lucifer smiled sadly. "Just for you to live long enough to remember who you are."
Alastor looked down again. His reflection wavered in the soup—his antlers cracked, his smile thin. He laughed softly under his breath, though it sounded more like a sob than he'd ever admit.
Lucifer leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the deer demon across from him. He watched every small, hesitant movement—each trembling spoonful lifted to Alastor's lips, every shallow breath between sips.
Alastor ate quietly, shoulders tense beneath the threadbare blanket. The soup's warmth traveled down to his chest, spreading like something alien, something that almost felt… safe. He paused mid-bite, his eyelids fluttering, a faint hum escaping him.
"Haven't had something warm in a while, huh?" Lucifer asked softly.
Alastor smirked weakly, his voice rough but playful. "Warmth is a luxury for those who still have something to burn." He forced a laugh, though it cracked halfway through.
Lucifer didn't laugh back. He just studied the man in front of him—the slumped posture, the hollowness behind the mask.
When the last bite was gone, Alastor set the bowl aside and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but his movements were slowing. His head dipped for a moment before he jerked upright again.
"Hey… you good?" Lucifer asked quietly, his eyes narrowing.
Alastor blinked rapidly, smiling that strange smile again. "Oh, peachy! Just… full, I suppose! Haven't felt this way in quite some time, ha!" He forced himself to stand, but his legs wobbled beneath him.
Lucifer stepped forward, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, easy. It's not poison, you know. That's just what happens when you actually eat food instead of… surviving on fumes and misery."
Alastor huffed a laugh, tired eyes flickering upward. "Fumes and misery…" His grin softened, but there was no humor behind it. "That's quite the diet, don't you think?"
Lucifer gripped him gently by the arm. "Come on, deer boy. You need to lie down."
Alastor tried to pull back, voice dripping with forced charm. "Now, now, if you wanted to get me in bed, you could've just said so—"
"For the love of—" Lucifer groaned. "Alastor, follow me."
Something in Lucifer's tone—fatherly, commanding, safe—made Alastor obey. They walked up the staircase, the hotel quiet except for the faint creak of each step beneath their feet. The closer they got to the top floor, the more the air shifted: heavier, warmer, echoing with a kind of silence that felt like memory.
Alastor frowned faintly, his hooves dragging against the old carpet. "This… hallway feels familiar." He laughed nervously, rubbing at his temple. "I must've wandered these halls before, hm? Looking for clients, perhaps?"
Lucifer didn't answer. He just opened a door at the end of the hall.
The suite beyond was still tidy, as if waiting for its owner to return. But the air hummed with a ghostly nostalgia. Against one wall sat a small crib—paint chipped, a soft blanket still draped over the side. Beside it, a stuffed bunny plush with one ear bent backward stared out blankly, frozen mid-hop.
Alastor stopped in the doorway. His breathing changed. The static started—soft, whispering at first, then louder, screaming behind his eyes. His vision doubled, the room flickering between then and now.
"What is this?" His voice came out hoarse.
Lucifer stepped beside him, his voice quiet, careful. "This was your room, Al. Yours and hers." He gestured gently toward the crib. "You built this space with your own hands."
"N-no, I—I don't— I don't have—" Alastor stumbled back, clutching at his skull. "No, no, not again—!"
The world around him seemed to crack. The scent of bayou moss and static flooded his senses. A giggle—soft, small, innocent—echoed in the back of his mind.
“Baba, look! I draw'd you!”
Alastor let out a strangled cry, collapsing to his knees as pain spiked through his head. "Stop it! Please—stop—!"
Lucifer rushed to him, dropping to his side, gripping his shoulders. "Alastor! Look at me! It's okay, breathe!"
"Why can I remember her voice? And yet her face is—!" Alastor screamed, his voice warping between static bursts and sobs.
Lucifer held him firmly, his eyes full of heartbreak. "Because your mind tried to save what was left of you, Alastor. You buried it all just to keep breathing."
Alastor shook his head violently, tears mixing with the grime on his cheeks. His body trembled, his once-golden voice reduced to broken rawness.
"I can't—I can't see her… all I hear is noise," he whispered, choking on every word.
Lucifer quietly pulled him into an embrace, ignoring the flinch that followed. "Then let it be noise for now. I'll sit here with you in it. Until the silence makes sense again."
The deer demon shuddered in his arms, the static that blocked most of his memories fading into quiet sobs.
The silence in the room felt stretched thin, fragile, like it could splinter at any second. Lucifer stayed crouched beside Alastor, his hand still resting between the demon's shoulder blades as he shuddered through the aftermath of memory. The sobs had slowed to tremors. The static in his voice softened to faint, uneven breaths.
"Easy now… just breathe, Al," Lucifer said gently.
Alastor let out a weak, shaky laugh. "Breathe? Ha… I'd nearly forgotten what that felt like." He wiped at his face with trembling fingers, smearing dirt across his cheek.
The mask began to slip back into place—piece by piece, like an old broadcast trying to tune in through static. He straightened his posture, adjusted the blanket around his shoulders, and flashed a too-wide grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"Ah, but what a pitiful sight I must be!" Alastor forced levity into his tone. "You'll forgive me, I trust. Just a touch of melodrama from an old performer, nothing more!"
"You don't have to perform right now," Lucifer said quietly, watching him.
Alastor chuckled softly, his eyes dim. "Performance is all I have left."
He opened his mouth to speak again—to fill the silence before it turned heavy—when the sound shattered everything.
A baby's cry. High, sharp, and painfully alive.
Alastor froze. The sound echoed through the walls, cutting through his chest like a blade. His breath hitched. His pupils dilated, and his ears twitched violently toward the noise.
"…no… no, not again…" he barely whispered. He clutched at his head, fingers digging into his hair. His knees hit the carpet hard. "Stop it. Stop… it's not real… it's not—"
The door creaked open behind them.
Adam stepped into the room, half-dressed, his chest bare and sweatpants hanging loose on his hips. His hair was tousled from sleep, and in his arms he cradled a small crying infant.
The baby girl's hair was a soft, pale blonde that caught the light like gold silk. Her skin was paper white and two small red circles blushed high on her round cheeks. Her eyes , when the baby opened them between sobs, showed yellow scleras with bright red irises that shimmered like polished glass. Two tiny red horns curled just above her hairline, shining faintly against her pale skin.
"Sorry, Luce—Penny woke up again," Adam said tiredly, adjusting the baby on his shoulder. "I tried rockin' her, but she's got lungs like—" He stopped when he took in the sight before him: Alastor trembling on the floor, Lucifer kneeling beside him.
"Oh no," Lucifer breathed.
Alastor lifted his head slowly, and the world stopped moving.
His gaze locked on the infant. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
Her face—that face—it was her.
The soft blonde hair.
The pale skin.
The round cheeks with red marks just like paint.
The brilliant eyes that seemed to flicker with mischief and light. The only difference—the only thing off—were the tiny red horns.
Everything else… was his baby.
"…Ca…lliope?" The name escaped Alastor in a strangled whisper.
Lucifer's chest tightened. He wanted to say "no," but it was too late.
Alastor rose slowly, unsteady on his hooves, his blanket sliding off his shoulders. He took a step forward, trembling, staring as though afraid she'd vanish if he blinked.
"Is it… really you, my sweet girl?" His voice broke. He let out a broken laugh, wet and shaking. "Baba's here, darling… oh—oh, my little fawn, I thought I'd lost you…"
Adam instinctively stepped back, clutching the baby closer. "Uh—what the hell is going on here?"
Lucifer stood quickly, his voice firm but controlled. "Alastor—stop. That's not Calliope. That's Adam's daughter. Her name's Penelope."
Alastor laughed through his tears, shaking his head. "No—no, don't lie to me! She looks just like her! Look—" He gestured desperately toward the child, his voice rising. "—the hair, the eyes, the little red cheeks—!" His voice fractured into a soreness, his vocal cords strained, hands trembling violently.
Penny whimpered, startled by the volume, and began to cry harder.
Alastor flinched, horror flickering across his face as if the sound physically hurt him. He stumbled back, gripping his head again. "No—no, please, don't cry— I'm here, I'm right here—"
Lucifer stepped forward, taking his shoulders and holding him steady. "Alastor. Listen to me. That's Penny. Adam's daughter. Not yours. She’s Calliope’s half sister. That’s why they look so similar but take a closer look at her."
The words hit him like a punch to the chest.
Alastor stared blankly at Lucifer before they darted to Adam, to the infant in his arms.
Calliope was small but she hadn’t been that small in so long.
His lips parting but no sound coming out. His breathing was shallow, uneven.
The tears stopped.
The mask reformed.
His face smoothed over—the same painted grin, the same hollow brightness that was far too still to be human.
"Of course. My mistake." His voice came out quiet, trembling. "A simple… mistake." He laughed softly, brittle. "She just— looked so very familiar. You understand, I'm sure."
"Yeah. I do," Lucifer said gently.
Adam, still uneasy, rocked Penny as she calmed. "You sure he's okay?"
"No." Lucifer didn't look away from Alastor. "But he will be."
Alastor didn't answer. He just stared at the baby—at Penny—his smile trembling as if it was holding his entire world together.
The baby cooed once—a sound so familiar, it broke him all over again.
"Adam. Take Penny back to the suite." Lucifer's voice was quiet, measured, calm.
Adam still glanced uneasily between them. "You sure? He—"
"Please. Now." The command was cloaked in silk, but it was a command nonetheless.
Adam nodded, tightening his hold on Penny as he backed toward the door. The baby cooed softly, now half-asleep against his shoulder. Her tiny hand reached out once—fingers curling loosely in the air—before Adam slipped out and closed the door behind him.
The room went painfully still. The faint hum of an old radio somewhere in the apartment was the only sound.
Then Alastor let out a long, shuddering breath. His grin faltered. One hand drifted to his chest, pressing against it as if to steady himself.
"It hurts…" he said softly, through his teeth.
Lucifer turned sharply toward him. "Where?"
"My chest…" Alastor grimaced, curling slightly forward. "It's… tight. I… I'm fine. It happens sometimes, when— when I forget to breathe, or when I—"
He cut off with a faint groan as Lucifer stepped closer, resting a steadying hand on his arm. The Radioman's body felt cold to the touch, trembling beneath the oversized blanket.
"You're not fine. You're exhausted, Alastor. You need rest—"
Lucifer stopped mid-sentence.
As the blanket shifted with movement, the light from the chandelier caught on the shape beneath the fabric—a slight but undeniable curve, taut and rounded where his once-lean stomach had been.
Lucifer's expression faltered. The air left his lungs in a quiet hiss.
"…oh stars above."
Alastor noticed the shift immediately—the pause, the gaze that dropped to his midsection. Panic flickered in his eyes. He grabbed at the blanket, clutching it tight around himself, retreating a step like a cornered animal.
"I— It's nothing, I assure you!" His voice cracked, words hurried. "Merely… a grotesque little result of my poor diet, I suppose! I've been—" He laughed nervously. "—eating irregularly, you see! Hardly anything at all, really, but for some reason—!"
His rambling turned frantic, words tumbling faster the longer he spoke.
"—I swell, terribly embarrassing, I know! Ha—happens when I drink too much water, perhaps! A trick of the light! Or— or bloat! Surely not—"
"Alastor. Stop."
The word cut through his rambling like static through silence. Lucifer's eyes, usually soft even in sternness, now gleamed sharp—calculating.
He took a slow step forward.
"You said you've been eating barely anything. You look malnourished, cold… and yet—" He gestured gently toward the blanket, his voice lowering. "You're swelling."
Alastor visibly trembled. "I-I don't understand what you're implying my good man. "
"You're pregnant."
The words hung in the air like the toll of a funeral bell.
Alastor blinked once, twice—then laughed. It was hollow, strained, and painful.
"Oh, that's… absurd. Truly. What a ghastly joke to play on an old fool!" he choked out through the chuckle.
"I'm not joking," Lucifer said gently.
The static rose in Alastor's ears again, like a broken frequency searching for signal. He shook his head violently.
"No. No, I would know. I would feel—" He clutched his chest again, voice breaking. "I'd feel something…!"
Lucifer moved quickly, hands steady as he guided Alastor to sit back down on the edge of the bed.
"Breathe. Please, Al. Just breathe."
"I can't—"
"Then listen." Lucifer crouched in front of him, his tone quiet but firm. "You've been through hell—more than most. You've lost your power, your place, your memory. Your body's been starved and used beyond what it was ever meant to endure. But what's happening now—this—" He nodded toward the covered swell. "—this is real. And it's not your fault."
For a long moment, Alastor just stared. The mask was gone again—completely stripped away. His red eyes were wide and wet, his breath shallow, his hands clutching the fabric of his blanket like a lifeline.
"…How?" he barely whispered.
Lucifer swallowed hard. There was no easy answer to that—not in Hell, not with what had been done to him.
He forced a small, reassuring smile and stood.
"We'll figure that out later. Right now, you need to rest. Come on." He offered his hand, his voice gentler now. "There's a bathroom just through that door. Take a long, hot shower—or a bath, if you'd rather. Let the warmth loosen everything. I'll… I'll find you something clean to wear."
"You… you shouldn't trouble yourself over me. I'm already—" Alastor's voice was weak as he allowed himself to be led.
"You're not trouble, Alastor." Lucifer's voice was soft but carried a weight that silenced argument.
He guided the trembling pregnant man toward the bathroom, steadying him when his legs nearly gave. As the door closed and the sound of running water filled the room, Lucifer lingered by the threshold, one hand braced on the frame.
For the first time in centuries, the Morningstar looked shaken.
His mind raced—questions colliding faster than he could sort them. How long? Who? Could it have been before Rosie stripped his powers? After? Was it some random demon? Did he even consent?
He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing steady, the sound of water muffled by the door.
——————
The water was hot—almost scalding. Steam rose in thick clouds, filling the bathroom until the mirror fogged over completely and the air became heavy, difficult to breathe. Alastor stood beneath the shower head, eyes half-closed, letting the water cascade over his matted hair and down his skeletal frame.
For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he was warm.
He watched the water swirl at his feet, darkening as it carried away layers of grime, dried blood, and the residue of too many hands. The soap Lucifer had left on the shelf smelled clean—like lavender and something citrus. It was almost overwhelming. He scrubbed at his skin mechanically, watching bruises bloom purple and yellow beneath the suds.
His mind began to drift.
The heat wrapped around him like a blanket, and suddenly his limbs felt heavier. His vision blurred at the edges, the steam thickening into something almost solid. The sound of the water became distant, muffled, like he was hearing it from underwater.
‘Tired.’
He pressed one hand against the shower wall to steady himself, but his fingers slipped against the wet tile. His knees wobbled. The world tilted slightly, and he blinked hard, trying to focus.
When did it get so bright?
The lights overhead seemed too intense now, burning white-hot against his retinas. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made the dizziness worse. His breath came shallow and fast, his chest tightening as though something was pressing down on his lungs.
‘Just a moment. I'll rest… just a moment.’
He leaned more heavily against the wall, his cheek pressing against the cool tile. It felt good. Grounding. He wasn't sure how long he stood there—seconds? Minutes? Time had stopped meaning anything.
The water kept running.
His legs gave out.
He caught himself halfway down, bracing his forearm against the wall, but his body refused to cooperate. His vision swam, black spots dancing across his sight. He could hear his own heartbeat—too fast, too loud—pounding in his ears like static.
‘Get up. Get up. You can't fall. Clients don't like—‘
His thoughts fragmented, dissolving into the steam.
——————
Lucifer stood outside the bathroom door, listening.
At first, he'd heard the water running steadily, the faint shuffle of movement. But now… there was only the water. No footsteps. No humming. No sound at all.
He frowned, glancing at the clock. It had been over twenty minutes.
"Alastor?" he called, knocking lightly. "You doing okay in there?"
No answer.
His chest tightened. "Al?"
Still nothing.
Lucifer didn't wait. He pushed the door open, and the wall of heat hit him immediately—thick, suffocating steam that clouded the room like fog. He waved a hand in front of his face, squinting through the haze.
"Alastor—"
He saw him then.
Alastor was slumped against the shower wall, one arm braced weakly to hold himself upright, his legs folded beneath him. His head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded and glassy, barely conscious. Water poured over him in relentless streams, plastering his hair to his skull.
"Shit—" Lucifer lunged forward, yanking the shower handle off. The water stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of dripping and Alastor's shallow, uneven breathing.
"Al, hey—stay with me." Lucifer crouched beside him, gently gripping his shoulder. Alastor's skin was clammy despite the heat, his pulse weak and thready beneath Lucifer's fingers.
Alastor's eyes fluttered, struggling to focus. "I… I'm fine," he slurred, voice barely audible. "Just… resting…"
"You passed out, you idiot." Lucifer grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around Alastor's trembling body, pulling him carefully into his arms. The deer demon was impossibly light—too light—like he was made of paper and brittle bone.
Alastor's head lolled against Lucifer's shoulder as he was lifted. "Client… doesn't like… waiting…" he mumbled, his words drifting in and out.
"You don't have a client," Lucifer said firmly, carrying him back into the bedroom. "You have someone who's trying to keep you alive."
He laid Alastor down gently on the bed, adjusting the towel to cover him. The deer demon's eyes blinked open sluggishly, staring up at the ceiling as though he didn't quite recognize where he was.
Lucifer sat on the edge of the bed beside him, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
"Just rest, Al. That's all you need to do."
But Alastor wasn't listening.
His gaze shifted slowly toward Lucifer, and that familiar, empty smile crept back onto his face—automatic, rehearsed. He reached up with one trembling hand, fingers brushing against Lucifer's wrist.
"You've been… so patient," Alastor murmured, his voice taking on that sickly-sweet tone again. "Most clients would've… taken what they wanted by now." He tried to sit up, the towel slipping slightly. "But I can still… perform. Even like this." He gestured weakly toward his swollen belly, his smile never faltering. "I'm very… adaptable."
Lucifer's expression crumpled, pain flickering across his face. "Alastor, stop—"
"I know what you want." Alastor's voice was soft, almost seductive, but it rang hollow—like a broken music box playing a warped tune. "I can be good. I promise. I'm always good."
Lucifer closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. When he opened them again, his gaze was steady, resolute.
He reached out, cupping Alastor's face gently in both hands. The deer demon froze, blinking up at him with confusion and something that might have been hope—or fear. It was hard to tell.
"What are you—?" Alastor started, but Lucifer leaned in closer, his thumb brushing along the sharp line of Alastor's cheekbone.
Alastor's breath hitched. His instincts kicked in, and he tilted his head up, lips parting slightly. ‘This is what they want. A kiss. Some of them like this part.’
He leaned forward, eyes sliding shut.
But Lucifer's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Sleep."
The word wasn't loud. It wasn't harsh. But it carried weight—ancient, undeniable weight—woven with magic that hummed through the air like a low chord.
Alastor's eyes snapped open wide, shock flickering across his face for a split second. His body went rigid—and then, all at once, it melted.
His muscles unclenched. His shoulders sagged. His head tipped back slightly, and his eyes rolled upward, lids fluttering closed as his entire body surrendered to the spell.
He slumped forward into Lucifer's arms, boneless and still, his breathing evening out into something slow and deep.
Lucifer caught him easily, cradling him close as he adjusted the pillows behind Alastor's head. He laid him down carefully, pulling the blankets up over his frail frame.
For a long moment, Lucifer just sat there, watching him sleep. Alastor's face looked different now—peaceful, almost. The mask was gone. The desperation, the forced smiles, the hollow charm—all of it stripped away, leaving only exhaustion and something painfully, heartbreakingly vulnerable.
Lucifer reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair away from Alastor's forehead.
