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“He’s an imbecile,” Alastor proclaims, the words he'd been holding back for the last eight excruciating minutes of silence spilling forth.
He would usually give more pause, airing his grievances about the king aloud, but he finds that his tongue has been loosened by the utter dread burrowing in his gut. He leans closer toward the vanity's mirror, hands steady as he adds a dab of golden shimmer around the arch of his cheekbones to soften the harsher angles of his face.
He trades out the shimmer for his eyeliner with a huff. “Did you know that the last time I saw this man, he couldn't tell me anything about his land’s most prosperous goods? Or about how trade had been impacted by the dissolution of the neighboring kingdom’s monarchy?” Alastor traces his lashline with the onyx-tipped pencil. The contrast coaxes out the lighter sanguine hues scattered throughout his irises. “I spent an entire month with him, and I can say with certainty that there was not a single compelling thought in that empty little head of his.”
“You don't say,” comes his attendant’s monotone reply.
“His absent-mindedness should be studied; I imagine it must be a defect of some sort. Truly, how is it that the heir to the Morningstar throne can not hold down a conversation exceeding five minutes without his eyes wandering? He doesn’t even have the decency to feign interest.” Alastor lowers the liner to the vanity’s surface and reclines against the back of his chair. He beckons Husker closer with a curl of his fingers. “Honestly now, you’d think he was raised in the stables instead of the palace.”
Despite calling him forth, Alastor’s instincts bristle when he feels Husker’s approach and subsequent touch. He forces himself to remain still as Husker fumbles with the clasp of his heavy collar, his fingers grazing the nape of Alastor's neck.
When its weight lifts, the tension in the line of Alastor's shoulders recedes like a tide. A prickling sense of unease remains, having his throat exposed to another like this, but it's subtle, subdued under the knowledge that Husker, for all his deficits as a conversational partner, is loyal to a fault.
By way of being a beta, Husker also lacks the same instinctual urge to claim an unmated omega as his alpha counterparts. Even in the face of his hypervigilance, Alastor knows he is safe here.
“Oh, and another thing — “
“Al. Listen,” Husker interrupts. “As much as I want to hear about the many, many shortcomings of your fiancé, we’re kinda on a time crunch here.” Husker glances at the overhead clock to punctuate his point. “Only got a few hours until you're expected to meet his Majesty in his chambers.”
Alastor wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Don’t remind me,” he scoffs. “It should be my misfortune that I am to be wed in a place where it is customary to have the consummation prior to the actual ceremony.”
Husker shrugs. “I dunno. Kinda makes sense to me. Nothin’ more binding than a claiming bite,” he supposes. “The ceremony is more of a celebration after the deed.”
Alastor sighs audibly to broadcast his displeasure at that, then opts to abandon the vanity. He will admit that the chamber the Crown has provided him to prepare for the grand occasion is actually quite lovely — filled with sensible decor and antiques that appeal to Alastor's more traditional tastes. When he drifts past the wall-length mirror situated by the armoire, he stops to survey his reflection.
The robe he dons is woven from the finest silk; a piece of art crafted by an exemplary artisan. The texture is divine on his skin, luxurious in a way that's almost obscene. It catches the light with his every movement, drawing one's eye.
He is completely bare underneath, ensuring his darling future husband only has to exert minimal effort. It's easy access for even the least inspired of kings.
“How you feelin’?” Husker asks from his side.
“Positively dreadful, my good man,” Alastor answers. He turns on him with an unnaturally wide smile. “I will likely spend the next few hours considering the merits of drowning myself in the bathtub.”
Husker grimaces at that.
Alastor dismisses his concern with a wave. “Oh, do relax, pet. Truly, you and my handlers could benefit from a sense of humor. You needn’t worry. I wouldn't dare tarnish my mother's legacy with something so ghastly.”
“That's the spirit,” Husker says tonelessly. He juts a thumb over his shoulder towards one of the unmarked doors behind them. “There’s a service hall that leads to the king’s private gardens. You wanna check it out? I don’t know, might be time better spent than contemplatin’ your own death.”
Alastor exhales, immensely inconvenienced. “Oh, I suppose so.”
Resigned, Alastor follows Husker’s lead. The deserted corridor he is met with is blessedly empty save for him and his designated chaperone. Alastor is surprised to find art decorating the walls at even intervals — an unnecessary kindness extended towards the personnel here to liven up the space. He observes the paintings they pass with a distant sort of admiration.
The warm, impressionist hues remind him of home, of running down the palace halls as a wild child, chasing the smell of his Mama's cooking.
Nostalgia elicits an ache in a place he cannot reach, but without an anchor to tether itself to, it comes and goes like a spring breeze. Any ties he had to his homeland were severed the moment his mother passed. She is what made it a home. Without her, the palace he'd spent his formative years in had taken on the shape of an illustrious prison.
His Sire only cared for his children carrying the alpha designation. It came as no surprise then that Alastor himself was not treated with any sort of acknowledgement or paternal affection.
No, Mama had taken that warmth with her, and Alastor can admit to himself that he’s a touch relieved, leaving his homeland in his past. The staff here in the Morningstar palace are pleasant enough; he’s been treated with dignity and respect ever since he arrived. The land is plentiful in both wealth and connections; beautiful without the ravages of any recent war.
Yes, despite having to tie himself to an absent-minded fool, Alastor thinks he’ll like it here.
As if hearing his thoughts, Husker says, “He ain't perfect, Al, but he ain't cruel. Also, you're gonna be a royal consort to one of the most powerful kingdoms this side of the water.” He shrugs. “It could be worse.”
Alastor heaves a long-suffering sigh. “As you say,” he acquiesces. “I could have ended up with a brute like Adam or a simpering fool like Vox. If the only thing my mate-to-be is inattentive, I should consider myself lucky. Perhaps after the official ceremony, he’ll totter off to play with his trinkets and leave me to my own devices.” As the door at the end of the hall grows near, Alastor hums thoughtfully. “Yes, I do suppose it could be worse.”
“This couldn't get any worse,” Lucifer groans into his palms.
“Oh, come now, Lu,” Ozzie soothes from behind him. A sizable hand slaps between his shoulder blades, knocking the breath out of him. “It won't be that bad.”
Lucifer shrugs Ozzie off with a grunt. “You don't know what he’s like,” he says, readjusting the cuffs of his ivory dress shirt for the hundredth time. He wonders if he should’ve chosen a different color — if the first thing Alastor will ask when they see each other is whether Lucifer is playacting as a ghost. A glance at his wardrobe has him questioning a third outfit change, but he knows the ransacked state of his closet lying behind those ornate doors and figures it's best to keep that mess hidden.
Writing off his outfit as a lost cause, Lucifer cards his fingers through his hair, smoothing down the stray flyaways.
“He’s going to critique my performance in real time."
Ozzie does a poor job at stifling his laughter at that, but Lucifer’s distressed mind pays him little attention.
“I don't know which would be worse, actually,” Lucifer continues, half-muttering. “If he outright laughs at me or if he fakes enjoyment. You know what, on second thought, I can't do this. How much longer until he's expected in my chambers? Two hours? Why don't you tell that attendant of his that there's an emergency — like a landslide or a declaration of war. Oh, tell him — “
Before he can spiral further, Ozzie claps both hands onto his shoulders. “Enough of that,” Ozzie says, turning Lucifer to face him. “You're gonna give yourself grays over nothing. I'm telling you, it will all be fine."
Lucifer is not nearly as optimistic as his advisor. “You don't know him,” he says again.
Ozzie arches a brow, slowly releasing his hold on him. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but neither do you, not anymore. It’s been eight years,” he reminds him. “A lot can change in that time.”
Lucifer can't argue with that.
The truth was, the last time he'd seen his intended had been in their youth, years before either of them had reached full maturation.
As an adolescent, Alastor had been thin and gangly, lacking the soft, rounded curves often associated with omegas. He’d yet to grow into his features or his height, and his voice had occasionally cracked over his vowels. Still, Alastor had presented himself as standoffish and perpetually unimpressed from their very first introduction.
Alastor hardly had a scent back then to soften his prickly exterior; nothing that enticed Lucifer the way he'd been told about.
Lucifer had tried at first — really, he had. But he didn't know how to please this omega he’d been told he’d someday wed; he didn’t know how to make Alastor laugh or smile.
Back then, Lucifer’s interests lay with anything and everything outside of the political spectrum. He was wholly uninterested in his duties as next in line to the throne.
It'd made sense then that Alastor's attempts to discuss these matters were met with resistance.
Now, at twenty-five years of age, Lucifer can agree that a lot has changed since he last saw his betrothed. For one, Lucifer’s dormant instincts had roused from their slumber, sudden and sharp. He craved nothing more than to protect his pack, his people — to ensure their needs were met so that he could watch them thrive.
No longer had he felt his mind adrift, his days spent aimlessly wandering, for now he had a singular desire to care for those under his purview. For the first time, he could perceive the world from outside his limited perspective; he felt the true weight of his actions (as well as his inaction).
He'd spent so many of his years dreading the day he was to assume the responsibilities appointed to him at birth. And yet, when his father had fallen ill and the time finally came, all Lucifer felt was certainty that he was right where he was supposed to be.
He’d spent countless hours since his coronation consulting with his advisors. He made himself available for every council meeting and court hearing. He spent his evenings in the library reviewing the laws and history of their land, sifting through archives and ledgers, learning how to be a proper king.
And yet…
He wasn't sure if it'd all be enough in the end to woo Alastor...
Or if it was too little, too late.
“Alright, I'm calm,” Lucifer says, absolutely not calm. “No need to hover still.”
Ozzie ignores him as he continues to shamelessly engage in said hovering. “I’m just ensuring you don't crawl out a window and leave the kingdom in shambles.”
“I was seventeen,” Lucifer squawks in offense. “And at the time, our mothers were trying to force Alastor and me to attend a ball so that they could announce the match. This despite the fact that we could hardly even look at each other that day.”
“Oh, I know the tale,” Ozzie says with a huff of laughter. The sound smooths out into a gentle rumble as Ozzie continues, quieter now, “You know, you’re not just my king. You're also a dear friend, and I want to do everything in my power to ensure that today goes smoothly.”
Lucifer inclines his chin, eyes drifting upward to meet Ozzie's gaze. His lips curve, buoyed with gratitude.
“Thanks, Oz,” he says, and he truly means it.
If he is assured of only one thing, it is that Ozzie will always have his best interests at heart.
And he continues to hold that sentiment up until the moment Ozzie squeezes one of his shoulders — once, twice — and then absconds out of his chambers with haste.
The outside lock, used only in cases of an emergency, audibly clicks into place.
Confusion prolongs Lucifer’s reaction time.
“What the — Ozzie?” Lucifer calls out. He approaches the main doors and reaches for the handle to confirm that Ozzie did, in fact, lock it. “Where in the Hell are you — ?”
“Forgive me, Lu,” comes Ozzie’s muffled apology through the reinforced door. “This is for your own good. We can't risk either of you chickening out at the twelfth hour.”
It’s a trap, Lucifer realizes all at once. “Ozzie!” he snaps, forcefully jiggling the door handle to no avail. “Let me out this instant!”
“No can do, Lu. Sorry, friend, but it's time to rip off the band-aid, so to speak.”
“Oh, you are so fired,” Lucifer hisses. “This is treason. This is — ”
“Good luck, chum.”
“Ozzie!”
But it's too late, because the service door on the other side of his suite is already pushing open, and a very bemused omega is being unceremoniously shoved over the threshold. That door, too, is promptly shut and locked.
With a much faster recovery time, Alastor pivots on his heel to spit venom through the wood, “Count your days, Husker. I'm going to skin you alive the next time I see you, you mangy cat.”
It has been eight long years since Lucifer last laid eyes on Alastor. He is somehow both familiar and distinctly unrecognizable.
He's taller now, those long bare legs of his endless as the dark fur of his pasterns bleeds into beige skin. Lucifer’s eyes pause at the tease of smooth thighs, right before they disappear underneath the garnet robe that is tied around Alastor's midsection, emphasizing the taper of his waist. The fabric hangs loosely off one shoulder, showcasing the elegant curve of it.
The haircut that Lucifer had always thought unusual frames Alastor's face perfectly when the omega turns his head, crimson strands cascading over his brow as the black tips skim his shoulder in a subtle kiss. His bangs cast partial shadows across his face, and his eyes glow within them like embers as they lock onto Lucifer.
Under the ambient light of his chambers, Alastor's allure is immeasurable.
And yet the sight of him hardly compares to the smell of him.
What had been indistinguishable before now overpowers the space. Alastor’s scent is reminiscent of caramelized apples glazed in brown sugar. Decadent and indulgent, it elicits a warmth that feels like coming home to a long-lost lover. Something precious, something meant to be cherished — like a memory.
Lucifer inhales it deep into his lungs, and his alpha instincts flare. He has to put a conscious effort into remaining still when everything inside of him is screaming at him to bar the doors and windows so that Alastor can never step foot back outside of this room. The thought of anyone seeing Alastor dressed down like this makes his blood burn white hot beneath his epidermis, scalding him from the inside out.
His vision momentarily bleeds red, and he envisions spilling blood and rolling heads.
The spur of violence is so unlike him that he startles back into lucidity.
After what seems like an age, Lucifer finally greets Alastor with an awestruck, “Hello.”
Alastor tilts his head at him in silent appraisal. Then, he turns to face him, allowing Lucifer a full, unhindered view.
There was a time long ago when Alastor was too sharp to look at.
But now, Lucifer doesn't know how he is ever supposed to look at anything else.
“Your Majesty,” Alastor greets with a curtsy. Despite the years, he remains the embodiment of poise, his posture showcasing hundreds, if not thousands, of hours of etiquette training.
“Lucifer,” he corrects him in a quiet voice.
And if he had any trace of doubt before that this omega was indeed meant to be his, it is gone the moment Alastor’s lips purse in a futile attempt at hiding a small, authentic smile.
“Lucifer, then,” Alastor says.
Alastor remembers those summer days spent in Lucifer’s company; four weeks to ensure compatibility.
Or, at least, that's what they'd been told.
Alastor isn't so naive as to believe their mothers weren't in cahoots long before his and Lucifer’s first meeting. He could see it now, the old hens tittering at each other over tea at the thought of playing matchmaker with their children. They’d looked good, standing next to each other, after all. A pair that would make for the most lovely offspring.
In the end, the arrangement had been drafted without much regard for their personal feelings on the matter.
Alastor had always known his marriage would be one of convenience; royalty didn’t often get the luxury of marrying for love.
Still, any alpha would consider themselves lucky to be offered Alastor's hand. He was considered a desirable omega amongst most circles, boasting knowledge of several languages, talents as a cook, as well as an experienced caretaker to his many half-siblings.
And yet, he had watched Lucifer’s golden eyes drift away from him during many of their stilted conversations. Despite his many attributes, Alastor was often only met with a muttered hello, a stiff bow, and a dry kiss upon his knuckles for the sake of politeness.
He can still remember the bitter taste it'd left in his mouth to know that Lucifer did not think him worthy of anything more.
He was all but bristling with indignation by the time he and his mother had returned to their kingdom.
As much as Alastor had tried to forget that unpleasant summer, Lucifer would still come to mind over the years — a pitiful boy who wouldn't know a good thing if it was placed right in front of him.
There's no trace of that boy now.
In his place is a man with cornsilk hair who wears his age like a vintage wine.
Who cannot, for a moment, take his eyes off Alastor.
A king whose eyes crinkle at the corners when he graces Alastor with the most bewitching smile.
An alpha whose scent permeates the air, reminding Alastor of humid nights when he would submerge himself in the bayou and search the murky depths for a sense of belonging in a world in which he felt distinctly out of place. Too soft for an alpha, too sharp for an omega; too feminine, too masculine; too light-skinned, too dark-skinned — the tug never ceased.
But he doesn't feel that tug now, enveloped by Lucifer’s soothing scent. He feels, instead, like he is being figuratively embraced.
Something in Alastor's chest tightens. He feels unsure of himself, like he did back when he was simply a boy trying and failing to impress another boy.
He quietly clears his throat. “You look… well,” he says.
Lucifer blinks and looks down at himself. “Thank you. I'm glad you approve,” he says, before his gaze returns to Alastor. “I hold no candle to you, though. You are… positively stunning.”
“You flatter me,” Alastor says, and the heat of his face tells him he actually means it.
Another brief silence descends as Lucifer resumes his open appraisal. It’s different from the leers that Alastor has grown accustomed to as he's developed over the years; Lucifer looks at him like one does a piece of art, with wonder in his gaze.
“Apologies,” Lucifer says suddenly. “I know I’m making an utter fool of myself. I expected you, but you’ve managed to surprise me all the same.”
“I have witnessed you act far more foolishly in the past,” Alastor says with a breath of laughter.
“I don’t doubt that,” Lucifer returns with a smile. “But look at me, I haven't even offered you a seat.” He gestures towards the lavish sitting area in front of the open hearth. The crackling fire infuses the space with warmth. “Please. Tell me about your travels. Are you adjusting alright? I realize being so far from home must be difficult for you. Has the palace staff been attentive to your needs at least?”
So often as an omega, Alastor has dealt with his feelings and thoughts being dismissed as lesser or unimportant. Over time, he has pushed back against these constructs. He had learned long ago how to artfully insert himself into conversation, to prove himself witty and formidable, and garner the respect he had so often felt he deserved.
But here, Lucifer stands before him, the king of this plentiful land, and he gives him the floor to speak without Alastor having to fight for it.
If it'd been another alpha faced with a half-naked, unclaimed omega at the peak age of their fertility, Alastor doubts he would be offered a moment to rest and share his woes. He'd likely already be on his back, submitting to the will of another.
Strange then how Alastor, who always wants to be heard, suddenly has no desire to speak.
Slow and deliberate, Alastor raises his hands to his waist. Lucifer’s eyes drop instantly; his pupils dilate at the sight of Alastor tugging at the tie fastening his robe. The sudden shift in the air, the sharp spike of desire in Lucifer’s scent, is a near-tangible thing.
There is power to be found, Alastor realizes, in being the sole focus of Lucifer’s world.
“I don’t want to talk, Lucifer,” Alastor says into the steadily diminishing space between them. Does Lucifer even realize that he's walking towards him, he wonders.
“N-no?” Lucifer’s throat clicks as he swallows.
“No,” Alastor confirms quietly and pulls apart the knot completely.
The crimson robe instantly parts, teasing a line of skin as he slowly reveals himself to the only man who will ever have the privilege.
Lucifer closes the remaining space between them in a moment.
He's shorter than Alastor, but it doesn’t deter him at all. He fits his palm to Alastor’s cheek the moment he's within reach.
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Lucifer says, searching Alastor's face. “You cannot possibly be mine.”
Mine...
The word sinks into his skin, his marrow, like oil, muddying his thoughts.
Alastor has never cared for the idea of being kept.
But under that smoldering gaze that speaks of worship… he thinks he could be Lucifer’s.
Distantly, he knows that there’s something else at play here; instincts he’d never before been beholden to, rearing their head as karmic justice for all the times he looked down on omegas that seemed to submit to their alphas so easily.
But there’s magic in Lucifer’s touch and home in his eyes, and it's not fair — it will never be fair, because he wasn’t built to resist this.
Lucifer’s hand leaves his face to cup the back of his head and reel Alastor in. When their lips meet for the very first time, Alastor smothers a whine at the taste of him, the heat of him.
With mind-numbing ease, Lucifer coaxes his mouth to part, and Alastor can feel the fabric of his robe whisper over his skin as it sinks to the floor.
“Let me take you to bed,” Lucifer murmurs into his mouth, lips brushing against Alastor’s with every vowel he speaks.
Breathless, Alastor says, “Please.”
Their union was originally supposed to take place a month prior.
Lucifer had managed to delay it by a few weeks, blaming logistics when really he'd folded at the thought of seeing Alastor again.
Looking back, Lucifer doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive his past self for taking that month with Alastor away from him — for the time he could’ve spent learning Alastor’s gorgeous shape.
There’s no time like the present, he tells himself as he guides Alastor back onto deep burgundy sheets. His hair blends into the valleys of the satin fabric, ears skewed and adorably relaxed on his head. There is a faint quiver to Alastor’s legs when he spreads them, anticipation and need filtering through the air the moment Lucifer lowers his gaze to Alastor’s glistening pink folds.
Feeling compelled, as if in a trance, Lucifer trails a hand up a soft inner thigh. Alastor’s skin is hot like a brand against his palm.
“I’d like to touch you.” The tip of a single finger skims his outer lips, eliciting a soft whimper from his doe. “Here,” Lucifer tells him, reveling in the hitch of Alastor's breath. “May I?”
“You're the king,” Alastor challenges, but the sharpness is tempered by the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “You can do whatever you want.”
“Technically true,” Lucifer hums. “But I like to think I am a gentleman as well. Honor is important. Mine. Yours.” Lucifer traces a line down Alastor's folds to circle his fluttering entrance. “So I want to hear you say it.”
Alastor tips his head back, lips parting on a moan, and Lucifer's mouth fills with saliva at the sight of his unblemished neck. He spreads his bare thighs wider, beckoning Lucifer to fill the space between them.
“Go on then,” Alastor says with a breathless croon. “Take what's yours.”
Being presented with the prettiest cunt he's ever seen, untouched by all, Lucifer’s restraint frays.
Arousal crashes through him, violent and suffocating as he lowers himself to Alastor's most intimate place. He guides those plush, trembling thighs over his shoulders to frame his head, and Lucifer can’t think of a sweeter death than smothering himself in Alastor's warm, wet cunt.
He reaches up to take hold of Alastor’s hips, bracing them both, and it allows him to feel the way Alastor’s body jolts as he licks a hot stripe right up the center of him.
Lucifer isn’t sure which of them moans louder at that first touch.
Alastor's slick is like the first bite into a fresh apple, sweet and heaven-sent; dizzying. The smell of him unfurls into Lucifer’s lungs, and he grips Alastor’s hips tighter, keeping him still as he lifts his head to swirl his tongue around Alastor’s precious clit and suck it into his mouth.
“Lucifer–!”
His name is the prettiest sound from the prettiest mouth, and it's torture that he can’t split himself in two to soak in Alastor’s expression as he feasts on his cunt.
With every press and flick of his tongue against his clit, Alastor’s quads squeeze his head. His legs are sculpted and lean with training omegas don’t need, and yet pride rushes through Lucifer at Alastor’s latent strength.
He’d once thought Alastor intimidating — not quite fitting into the mold of a typical omega.
But Lucifer knows better now; he knows how wonderful and unique and perfect his omega is.
And perhaps, Lucifer can admit to himself that when he was younger, he had felt too small next to the omega who was so unapologetically themselves; who had sharp discerning eyes that left Lucifer stumbling over his words to the point where it made more sense to stay silent and observe Alastor when he wasn’t looking.
And now that same omega is here, unraveling beneath his hands, and Lucifer has never felt more of an urge to protect and cherish and keep and love.
Reluctantly, Lucifer drops a parting kiss to the swollen little nub before coming up for air. It's enough to clear his hazy mind and allow him to soak in the absolute vision beneath him — Alastor imbued with a deep flush high on his cheekbones; his hair askew, the strands closest to his forehead slick with sweat and curling at the tips. Alastor's mouth is open in a soft whine, and his eyes are twin flames Lucifer wants to burn himself on.
“You're gorgeous,” Lucifer breathes.
“And you’re cruel,” Alastor says, eyes wet and brimming with frustration. “I’m so close. How could you stop?”
Lucifer leans down and places a gentle kiss on Alastor's lips to soothe him, to let Alastor taste himself on his lips. “Shh, it's okay, sweetness,” Lucifer promises him. His hands drop to his belt. “Trust me, I'm going to give you what you need.”
As an omegan prince, Alastor had been required to keep his honor intact until his official consummation.
Easy enough. Given that he’d never been particularly interested in the sins of the flesh, nor had he been inclined to seek out any sort of self-pleasure, Alastor had no reason to view his vow of chastity as a hindrance in any capacity.
It's only now, far too late, that Alastor realizes that his lack of self-exploration in these matters has left him woefully unprepared for the moment Lucifer’s tongue slips inside of him — and then positively reeling when hot, wet suction is applied to his clit.
It all quickly has him descending into what he can only presume is a fit of madness, because he thinks that if Lucifer doesn't knot him this instant, he'll shrivel away into nothingness.
Fortunately, Lucifer seems to be besieged by the same desperation to mate, his hands moving with urgency as he sheds his shirt and pushes down his trousers and undergarments in one fluid movement.
His cock is flushed and swollen, twitching at the tip with a pearl of precome, and when the blunt head presses against him, Alastor’s hands fist into the bedding to hide the tremble of his fingers.
Nothing they've done has hurt yet, but Alastor knows enough; he's heard the tales and expects pain.
Which is why he dissolves into a surprised moan when, instead of penetrating him, Lucifer lifts the head of his cock to rub tight circles against his clit.
The pleasure ripples through him, his nerves alight in a way that is near agonizing. Slick gushes out of him.
“Gods, look at you.”
Lucifer’s cock glides over the slippery mess he's creating between his thighs, wetting the tight auburn curls of Alastor's pubic hair.
“What are you waiting for?” Alastor says, his pitch rising in an impatient whine.
“I’m just… savoring this,” Lucifer tells him. “Making sure you’re ready for me. I want to make you feel good.”
Alastor does feel good — so good, he's shaking and threatening to unravel at the seams. A gentle graze of fingers along his flank encourages him to take a breath, to surrender to the sizable cockhead expertly toying at his virgin channel.
But patience has never been his virtue, and Alastor flexes his hips and gasps as the blunted head catches on where he needs it most.
“Fuck,” Lucifer whines, but he doesn't withdraw, he can't, instinct dragging him forward instead. It's the same compulsion that beckons Alastor to rock his hips and force his body to take more of Lucifer's cock.
Lucifer's eyes flicker — gold to red and then back again — as they narrow in on the spot where their bodies meet. Alastor would be embarrassed, having his exposed cunt being on the receiving end of such an intense gaze, if only he could form a single coherent thought.
“Fuck, I wish you could see this. How good I look in you,” Lucifer tells him, followed by a groan as he slips in further, made possible by the fact that Alastor is absolutely soaked. "You're taking me so well. So, so good for me, aren't you?"
The praise coaxes Alastor's body to relax further despite the unbearable stretch, to let Lucifer in even as a hint of pain licks up his spine, teasing the nerves there.
Another thrust has Lucifer’s hips coming flush with the back of Alastor’s thighs. He's full– so full, the pleasure is exquisite. He tries to catch his breath but Lucifer allows him no reprieve when the alpha grips the flare of his hip bones and uses the leverage to grind Alastor's up and down on his cock.
“Oh, god god —” Alastor spine curves in a deep arch as Lucifer manhandles his body, taking his pleasure but giving him so much more in return. The bone deep grind of this hips has Alastor rushing to the precipice.
“Just me, baby,” Lucifer coos, flushed gold.
They are both so deeply affected by one another, and Alastor knows that neither of them will last much longer in these conditions.
Especially not when Lucifer lowers a single hand, just enough so his thumb can rub tight circles over his clit just as his cock strikes that place inside of Alastor that has stars bursting behind his eyes. The pleasure is building, layers of it folding on top of each other, collapsing inward, and Alastor can't breathe— he can't think—
“Lucifer!” he cries.
“Alastor,” Lucifer groans in return. He lowers to drape himself over Alastor’s body, burying his face into the juncture of his shoulder to mouth along the curve of his neck.
“Mine,” Lucifer vows, declaration hot against his skin.
“Yours,” Alastor says, and he tilts his head, exposing his neck further, to prove it.
He whines when Lucifer's teeth scrape over his mating gland, then loses his breath all together when he feels Lucifer’s swelling knot bullying his entrance.
It's all too much at once, indescribable pleasure with no where to go, and Alastor feels it cresting, eclipsing, out of his control.
“Claim me,” Alastor gasps because he's going to come, he's going to come— “Now, Lucifer, do it now.”
The moment those teeth pierce his skin, Alastor consciousness splinters and breaks off for the space of several breaths.
When he opens his eyes, some minutes later, Lucifer is still curled over him, murmuring endearments against his temple. The pad of a finger is gently tracing the shell of an ear, and the appendage twitches at the feather light touch, eliciting a charmed chuckle from his alpha.
Every single part of Alastor aches — his neck, his hips, his cunt still stuffed full of Lucifer's knot.
And yet, for the first time in his existence, he feels whole; content.
If he had any more shame, if his pride wasn't already serving as additional kindling to keep their naked bodies warm, Alastor might've felt self-conscious about the loud purr rumbling in his chest.
As it stands, it's simply answering Lucifer's own.
“You were exquisite, Alastor,” Lucifer tells him, nuzzling their cheeks together in a manner bleeding with affection. “Incredible.”
A kiss brushes over his sluggishly healing bite mark. Proof their bond. A balm to an old wound, from a time when Alastor felt like he was not what his future spouse had hoped for; when he believed that he would never be able to keep those beautiful eyes on him.
This time yesterday, Alastor had dreaded the prospect of finally mating with Lucifer. Now, with the faint hum of Lucifer's soul, weaving with his own, he doesn't know how he's made it this far without it.
Lucifer nudges his nose along Alastor's cheek, applying just enough pressure to get his desires across clearly. Alastor indulges him, turning his head and allowing Lucifer to capture his lips.
“My mate,” Lucifer whispers into the kiss.
Alastor’s pleased purr rises higher in the air like static. “My king,” he says in return.