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His heat presents itself out of nowhere.
There is no preamble. No pre-warning signs.
There are no telltale symptoms. No slow-building fever.
It comes for Alastor in the blink of an eye. All at once, from zero to a hundred in the span of a few minutes.
It’s only after it’s far too late that he realizes he’d miscalculated his suppressant doses. A one day window was left gapping between doses, a forgotten day standing between himself and his sanity.
Twenty four hours in which he was at his most vulnerable. And in those twenty four hours, the unthinkable occurred.
Of course, the likely hood of his heat was slim. The residue of the previous dose, while not nearly as potent as it could have been, should have been enough to keep his biology in check.
But he hadn’t thought to consider the influence of other pheromones around him, now that so many alphas live in such close proximity to him.
He should have known. Having so many new inhabitants in the Hotel was bound to mess with things. Alastor is a creature of solitude- and as such, he’s never needed to account for the other demons around him. He’d never stuck around in one place for too long, never dwelled where the population was too high. He hadn’t known he’d need to be so diligent with his doses. Hadn’t known he’d need to be careful which scents he allowed himself to pick up.
All it took was one alpha’s rut. Well- one alpha’s rut and the misfortune of a poorly calculated dose of heat suppressants, that is.
In the twenty four hours before Alastor took his next pill, the damage was already done. His heat was on its way, and no amount of suppressants could prevent it now.
Perhaps in hindsight, there were a few prewarning signs, though Alastor had been too stubborn to see them.
A prickle in his skin. A damper on his mood. A waning in his energy. A sidelong look from Lucifer, an inquiry if he was all right.
Alastor should have realized that Lucifer would scent it on him, likely before Alastor could even scent it himself- even if the fallen angel didn’t fully know what he’d sensed. Bonded pairs tend to be hyper aware of the other’s scents. Even if they’ve never actually mated in the technical sense of the word.
It doesn’t matter now. Recognizing the signs now will not undo his careless behaviors from earlier.
He grits his teeth as he hunches over the sink in the Hotel lobby’s bathroom, where he’d taken refuge as soon as he felt the oncoming fever. One moment he’d been discussing renovations with Charlie, and the next he’d felt flushed and lethargic. And then the ache in his core had begun, and he knew he needed to escape before any of the others could scent it on him.
His claws scrape along the porcelain, his muscles twitching as he swallows down his panic.
He needs to get out. Now.
But where would he go? To wander the streets of Hell while in heat is to ask for a death sentence. He’d be condemning himself if he left.
But he cannot stay here. Not where anyone could find him, where anyone could scent it on him. Besides the embarrassment of being found in such a state, there are the ramifications that the scent of his heat could bring- namely, the arousal of the other alphas in the building.
Alastor has seen first hand what a crazed alpha will do in order to try and stake their claim. He’d learned his lesson well with Vox. Once the scent of a heat is in their lungs, there’s no trusting an alpha to be cordial.
Besides- Alastor does not wish to mate. And explaining that while his body says just the opposite is asking for trouble.
Hiding is, of course, an option. His scent might be traceable, but what other choice does he have? He can’t go to Lucifer- it would be horribly unfair to ask the alpha for his comfort and help just now, when Alastor’s scent could very easily put him into rut. It’s not Lucifer’s fault that Alastor does not wish to mate.
No, finding Lucifer is certainly not an option.
But the longer he stays in here, the more likely it is that someone will catch on to his scent. If he heads up to his private room now, he may be able to avoid running into any others before the full effects of his heat come on.
He just needs to be quick about it. The fever is growing worse, his mind already beginning to cloud over.
He glances up, finding his own face in the mirror. He growls at what he sees, baring his teeth at the pathetic being before him, his skin all pale, his eyes too dilated.
A slave to your biology, he tells himself, his lip curling in disgust, even as his smile remains plastered on his face.
He pushes himself away from the sink, flexing his fingers as he shoves down his symptoms, and prepares himself to make a break for his safe haven across the Hotel.
He doesn’t remember how he gets there. The journey is a blur of burning skin and aching limbs. But eventually Alastor is safely in his room, the door locked tight behind him as he makes for the nest in the corner of the room.
Another sign he shouldn’t have ignored- Alastor has been nesting for the past two days. Hoarding shirts of Lucifer’s, feather soft blankets, trinkets of those he cares about.
Absolutely pathetic, Alastor thinks to himself as he curls up amidst the heap, and prepares for the longest few days of his life.
——
There’s something off about Alastor. Lucifer isn’t entirely sure what- the demon is always a little strange, always a little odd.
But this is something else, Lucifer knows it. His smiles seem just a little smaller. His quips lack their usual flair.
His steps lose a bit of their grace. His eyes lose a bit of their shine.
Any attempt to inquire is immediately shut down, though Lucifer isn’t sure what he’d expected. Alastor is many things- but an open book is not one of them.
And then, just as he’s convinced himself that he’s being overdramatic- Alastor disappears.
Of course, it’s nothing to be too concerned about. Alastor spends many a nights away from Lucifer, sometimes multiple in a row. He’ll get the itch for solitude at the seemingly most random of times- and just like that, he’ll be gone- no trace, no note, no message.
But usually someone will have seen where he’s gone, someone will have heard him mention a visit to Rosie, or perhaps a longer trip to travel across Hell to see Mimzy. And if he’s with neither, if he’s truly holed up alone somewhere- then he’s usually never gone for more than a day.
It’s been close to two now. And Lucifer, despite wanting to give Alastor his space, despite wanting to be a good partner and know which lines not to cross- despite it all, Lucifer is worried.
Because Alastor does not have the greatest methods of self care, not from what Lucifer has seen. He does not know when to give himself a rest, and while he does know when to admit defeat, he doesn’t not know when to ask for help.
And so, despite his head nagging at him to leave it be- Lucifer begins his search. He’d been pointedly avoiding Alastor’s side of the Hotel until now, wanting to give the radio demon as much space as he needs- but now, he takes to the east wing.
It does not take long before he catches the scent.
Wafting down the halls from Alastor’s end of the Hotel, the faintest of notes of something woodsy, something warm. Laced in it all are hints of distress, of discomfort.
Immediately, Lucifer can feel his body reacting, his senses dialing up. He feels his muscles go tense as he follows the scent, his eyes going wide as he inhales.
Alastor. It most certainly is him, even if there are traces of something Lucifer cannot identify mixed in. Lucifer knows the scent of his omega better than he knows his own- and given how strong this particular trail is, he’s surprised he hasn’t caught the scent sooner.
No matter. He has it now, which is all that matters as he follows the scent up another flight of stairs and down a hall, the trail growing more powerful the closer he gets to-
Alastor’s private bedroom.
Of course. Lucifer should have looked here first- and he would have, except he’s been careful to respect Alastor’s boundaries, and given that they have a shared room- any time Alastor seeks his own room, he must want some time alone.
He comes to a stop just outside the room, his forehead leaning forward to rest on the wooden door. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, picking up more than just Alastor’s particular scent- now that he’s closer to the source, the notes of distress and discomfort are amplified, and there’s something else that almost smells like…
A low groan reaches Lucifer’s ears, coming from beyond the door. He feels a shiver course down his spine at the sound- so pained, so animal. He’s never heard Alastor make a noise like this- hadn’t thought the demon was capable of it.
Another groan, and Lucifer’s mind is made up. Privacy be damned- he knows Alastor is the last person to ask for help when he needs it. He’ll just check on him- and if he’s all worked up for nothing, then Lucifer will leave, and promise never to invade Alastor’s space again.
And with that thought at the front of his mind, he opens the door, pushing his way inside the dark room.
Immediately, Alastor’s scent consumes him. Without the door to dilute it, the full scope of his partner’s predicament becomes quite clear to Lucifer.
He’s in heat. There’s no question of it. And not just at the start- no. He’s in the thick of it. A day or so along if the potency is anything to go by.
Lucifer can’t believe he didn’t realize sooner. But then- Alastor has never had a heat while Lucifer has known him. He’s never smelled this particular scent mingled with Alastor’s own, never knew to pick it out amongst the many lingering scents in the hotel.
His eyes slowly adjust to the dim light. He turns his head to where the scent is strongest, creeping further into the room-
There. In a heap in the corner, curled up and half buried in a pile of blankets and pillows and what looks to be various shirts of Lucifer’s, lays Alastor, his face tucked into his arms, his knees up to his chest.
Lucifer’s heart pangs, even as his body prickles with the desire to protect, to mate, to soothe.
His omega looks absolutely wretched. His ears are flat against his head, and even from across the room, Lucifer notices how Alastor is shuddering. The air is filled with the scent of sweat, of pain, of loneliness.
He inches closer, past the threshold- and at the sound of the door shutting behind him, one of Alastor’s ears shoots up.
He knows he should leave. Alastor has not permitted his being here. He has not asked for him, he has not sought him out.
He should turn around and leave before Alastor notices he’s here.
But then Alastor shifts, and the moonlight filtering in through the sliver of parted curtains catches on his face, highlighting the shadows under his eyes, the paleness of his skin.
He looks horrid. Miserable. Sickly.
Lucifer’s instincts roar in his chest. His skin prickles with the desire to shelter, the need to comfort.
And instead of turning and leaving, Lucifer steps closer.
—-
Alastor shifts in his mound of blankets, wincing as another pang flashes through him.
He feels absolutely horrid. These past two days have been a torture unlike anything Hell has offered him before.
He knew heats were insufferable. But he hasn’t had one since finding his own life partner, hasn’t had one since mating with his alpha.
Having someone to miss makes the pangs of his heat all the more unbearable. Having someone to crave- their scent, their touch, their body heat- it makes things impossibly harder.
And knowing that he cannot have him right now is the icing on the cake.
And on top of it all, his skin is too hot and too cold, his muscles itching to move and yet burning from exhaustion at the same time. He feels as though he’s run a hundred marathons, as though he might like to run a hundred more.
Something rustles and Alastor’s ear twitches in response. He ignores the sound, figuring it must be the roaches again- and before he can think too hard on it, a fresh wave of pain rolls over him, causing him to grit his teeth.
He burrows his head deeper into the pillows, deeply inhaling Lucifer’s scent, which clings to the shirts he’d stolen away to add to his little nest.
The fact that the angel’s scent is already so up in his nose is why he doesn’t scent the actual angel until he’s a foot away from him.
“Al…”
Alastor’s heart spikes at the sound of his alpha’s voice- a million emotions flash through him all at once, the most prominent being a deep sense of longing, as well as a darker shade of humiliation.
Laced in it all is a sense of dread, a prickle of fear.
“Fuck off,” he spits, his voice not nearly as venomous as he’d like it to be. Why on earth is Lucifer here? Doesn’t he know what Alastor’s heat will do to him?
Lucifer doesn’t step away. Instead, infuriatingly, he steps closer. And as he does, Alastor is suddenly struck with the scent of him- not the days-old scent that clings to the fibers of his shirt that Alastor has clutched to his chest- but his actual, undiluted scent.
Like spun sugar and carameled apples. Like forest springs and dew drops on frilly green leaves. Cherry blossoms and fresh cut grass and damp wood and something like safety- tranquillity and peace and protection-
Alastor gasps in a breath, his body instinctually shifting to be nearer his protector, his armor, his safeguard. Never mind that Alastor can look after himself, never mind that Lucifer needs to leave- his body sees and recognizes Lucifer has his alpha. And as such, his body craves to be sheltered by him.
He hates it. Hates how vulnerable his biology makes him. How easily manipulated, how susceptible to persuasion.
“I told you to leave,” he grates out, if only to prove to himself that he has a choice.
Lucifer shifts his weight. Alastor glares at him. His whole body aches, every muscle is screaming.
He wishes it would all go away.
The thought reminds him of another matter that most certainly needs to go away, wishing be damned.
“You need to leave,” he hisses at Lucifer, wincing at the sound of his voice.
Yet Lucifer doesn’t move.
Alastor growls. “My heat is going to put you into a rut, you fool.”
Lucifer’s expression shifts, his eyes hardening ever so slightly. “I promise I can control myself Al. You forget, I am older than mankind itself.” He takes another step closer. “I have been doing this far longer than most- I have plenty of practice with control.”
The words bounce around in Alastor’s skull, struggling to find meaning. He knows they might be true- but everything is so muddled, and his mind is still screaming for Lucifer to leave, for Alastor to be alone, for him to take care of himself- all while his body is craving his alpha’s touch, his alpha’s scent.
He gasps as a fresh wave of pain rolls through him, clearing all the thoughts from his head.
“Isn’t there anything I can do to help?” Lucifer suddenly asks. His voice is gentle. Placating.
Alastor bristles. The words go fuck yourself are on the tip of his tongue, ready to lash out and find their mark-
But then Lucifer sinks down to his knees beside Alastor, and the words die in his throat. His lungs fill with Lucifer’s scent, a wave a calm washing over him, his skin prickling with the desire to be closer, the desire to be protected, to curl up and submit-
He blinks at the alpha, his breathing ragged. Lucifer’s eyes shine with concern, his brow pinched in worry.
His partner reaches a hand out, gently brushing away the hair that lays in Alastor’s face. The gesture is sweet. Kind.
Loving.
There’s nothing possessive about it. Nothing akin to desire. Only care.
A shiver runs down his spine.
Lucifer’s fingers linger on Alastor’s face, almost as though he’s afraid to pull away.
And Alastor- despite himself- despite his desire to be alone when he’s most vulnerable, despite his fear of being manipulated in such a state, despite his general distaste for physical touch- despite it all, he leans his face into Lucifer’s palm.
Because for once, the contact doesn’t send an uncomfortable prickle through his skin. Instead, everywhere that their skin meets, Alastor’s flushed face feels a bit cooler. As though a bit of the fire beneath his flesh is being eased by the alpha’s touch, the raging in his gut calmed by the contact.
Lucifer’s thumb brushes against his cheekbone, a steady, repetitive motion. Alastor closes his eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of the angel.
Lucifer makes no move to leave. He simply remains by Alastor’s side, gently caressing his face, soothing him with his scent. And while a part of Alastor wants nothing more than to push him away, a deeper, more feral version of him wants to pull Lucifer closer.
His mind goes to war on itself.
Because Alastor has always feared his heats. Because despite what his biology shouts for, his mind screams in opposition. He fears losing himself to the sensation, fears his heat inducing others to take advantage of the fragile state it puts him in.
He does not want sex when he is not in heat, and when in heat it’s the same, even if his body tries to prepare itself for a mate. He’d learned early on that the best course of action is suppressants- and when he can’t suppress the heat, then the best option is to lean into the other aspect of his heat- namely the desire for protection, for a pack, for an alpha’s scent.
But no alpha is willing to forgo sex amidst a heat-induced rut. Which is why he’s always spent his heats alone. How can he trust another to adhere to the rules he has set in place? How can he trust a person over their biology, when so many alphas are itching to get their hands on a needy omega, regardless if they are willing?
He’s vulnerable like this. He’s exposed. He’s utterly pathetic. But doesn’t he know by now that Lucifer would never take advantage of his weaknesses? That Lucifer knows where the boundary lines lay, and he’d never cross them, not unless Alastor made it clear that it was ok?
When so many others have failed him, hasn’t Lucifer remained one he can depend on? Doesn’t he know he can trust his angel?
The answer he finds is a shock to himself, but he finds that yes, perhaps he can.
Lucifer promised that he can control himself. And Alastor finds that he can work with that guarantee.
Gradually, the guards around him melt. His hesitations bleed away. His inhibitions grow wings and fly away.
Without a word, Alastor slowly turns his head, rubbing his cheek against the scent gland on Lucifer’s wrist. Willfully scenting himself, allowing Lucifer to indirectly mark him.
Immediately, a part of Alastor soothes as Lucifer’s scent consumes him. A knot loosens in his chest, allowing him to breathe easier, and a bit of the tension bleeds out from his limbs.
A wanting makes itself know in his gut, a desire for more, for closer contact, for closer touch-
He hisses out a breath, exasperated with himself, with how easily his will crumbled. And then he grabs Lucifer’s wrist and pulls him closer, tugging the blonde into his little nest.
Lucifer half falls into the pillows beside him, landing partially on top of him. Alastor soaks in the warmth that the other provides, immediately satisfied with his decision to allow him to stay.
“What’re you…?”
“Shut up,” Alastor snaps, shifting to curl up in Lucifer’s arms. Despite himself, he begins to purr as he nuzzles his face against Lucifer’s chest, and the action works to quickly soothe him, his distress bleeding away into contentment. A part of his body is still at war with itself- his biology fighting with his brain, with his free will, with his natural desires- but he’s quick to stamp it out, to suffocate it under his desire for Lucifer’s shelter as he nuzzles closer still to the fallen angel.
Lucifer hesitates for only a moment before he’s moving in response, snaking out his arms to embrace Alastor in return, gently running a hand up and down his back.
This is more touch than Alastor has ever allowed between them in the past. It’s more intimate than he ever likes too. It’s too much contact, too close of proximity, too many sensations.
And yet- for the first time in Alastor’s life, his skin is not prickling in every place that his body ends and Lucifer’s begins.
Instead, he feels warm. A pleasant glow fills his whole being, staring in his chest and extending outward, until the fire under his skin is replaced by a softer sort of burning, something gentle and satisfied.
Perhaps this is how touch often feels to everyone else who so regularly craves it.
He soaks the new sensation in, pushing himself closer still to Lucifer and his warmth, breathing heavily through his mouth to scent the alpha, to drown his palate with the taste of him.
“Scent me,” he murmurs, a quiet command that he knows Lucifer hears.
His cheeks flush ever so slightly at his words, but then the angel shifts beside him, a pleased growl sounding in his throat at the request.
He begins to nuzzle his cheek against the side of Alastor’s head, while he rubs his wrists up and down his back, along his arms, in his hair.
Alastor gasps as the scent overwhelms him, everything trace of his own specific scent washed away by Lucifer’s.
It’s shocking, just how quickly it works to ease the rest of the fire in his gut. He hadn’t realized just how easy it would be to sate his desires just by Lucifer’s scent alone, by being scented by his protector.
And beyond just satisfying the burning… he finds that, surprisingly, it almost feels good.
If only he’d had this for every other heat he’s endured. Perhaps he wouldn’t have grown to fear his heats so much. Perhaps he even would have welcomed them, if only for a chance to enjoy such close of contact for once.
When Lucifer is finished thoroughly scenting him, Alastor is hit with a deep sense of drowsiness, the extents of his exhaustion finally catching up to him, now that his body has deemed him so safe and secure.
Without the fire burning under his skin, his body reminds him of just how little sleep he’s gotten these past few days.
A hand begins to card through his hair, gently slipping through the strands, lightly scratching at the base of his ears.
“Get some rest, Al,” Lucifer murmurs. True to his word, not even his voice holds a hint of arousal. He’s completely in control, just as he’d said. “We both know you need it.”
Sleeping while in heat is not a thing Alastor has ever considered before. To sleep is to make yourself vulnerable- and vulnerability while in heat is trouble waiting to happen.
But he is exhausted. And Lucifer’s body is so warm, his touch so soothing. And hasn’t the angel proven his own self control these past moments?
Alastor’s eyelids begin to droop, his head growing clouded. He shifts closer to Lucifer, making himself more comfortable in his embrace.
“Don’t let me sleep for long,” he murmurs, even as he yawns, his words getting lost as he does so. He nuzzles his face in the crook of Lucifer’s neck when he’s done, breathing deeply at the scent gland situated there.
“I’ll let you sleep as long as you need love, alright?”
Alastor hums, already feeling himself drifting. “Asshole.”
Lucifer chuckles, his hand still petting through Alastor’s hair. “I know dearest. I know.”
Alastor can’t help the genuine smile that grows on his face at that, his limbs growing heavy as darkness knocks on his consciousness.
And as he slips off into sleep, he can’t help but be grateful that Lucifer had found him.
Because this whole predicament is awful. It’s utterly humiliating. It’s absolutely terrifying, to trust someone so much.
And yet it’s also the first time one of his heats has ever been bearable.
And that’s something Alastor never thought he’d experience.