Human filtered aroace Alastor

And it's been a long time since he found pet names—especially the cutesy or feminine ones—strange. Actually, strange isn't the right word at all. Not with how positively radiant the King becomes at the slightest hint of an affectionate nickname.

The soft, lovely words that roll off (Name)'s tongue, dripping like warm honey into his ears, affect him in ways no one but Lucifer himself could ever understand. It's almost cruel, really—the dilemma you're forcing upon him. Should he let you finish your sentence, savoring every syllable, your accent, that syrupy tone you know he loves? Or should he simply kiss you senseless, tangle his tongue with yours, and find out whether the giddy warmth melting him from the inside out is all in his hopelessly lovestruck head?

"Luci"—one of his personal favorites—is enough to convince him that, had he still been living in Eden, you wouldn't have needed much to tempt him into sin.

A lingering glance. Fingertips brushing along his wrist, nails grazing his skin. One perfectly spoken syllable.

He would've sunk his teeth into whatever apple you held out to him.

The second your voice reaches his ears, no matter how quietly you speak, his head snaps toward you.

It's magnetic.

The sweetest melody.

A gentle buzz that leaves him equally attentive and completely enchanted.

(Name), however, insists she prefers his voice.

And Lucifer, being the embodiment of Pride itself, wears that compliment exceptionally well.

He'll waste every ounce of theatrical talent he possesses pretending to be modest, even as that razor-sharp grin stretches wider and wider across his face.

"My dear, don't be ridiculous," he'll say, coughing politely into his fist before adding,

"...But do go on. Which one of my baritones is your favorite?"

The poor man—not that poor, really—lives for praise.

Not just any compliments, of course.

The elaborate ones. The flowery speeches about how utterly unique he is. The shameless flattery. The kind that feeds his ego until it's positively overflowing.

But yours?

Tell him he's cute.

That's it.

That's enough to leave him dizzy.

Nothing extravagant. Nothing over-the-top. Just simple, honest sincerity.

Luci—the Father of Lies himself—can tell exactly how much truth you're spending just to make him feel special.

And he loves it.

Oh, how he loves it.

Even if those steadily reddening cheeks didn't give him away, the way he squirms certainly would.

Ask him to sing for you.

You won't have to beg. You may not even finish asking.

The King sings naturally, absentmindedly scattering little melodies and half-finished tunes wherever he goes, unconcerned with whether the lyrics make sense.

Though, when it's for you...

He always makes sure it sounds beautiful.

The rhythm depends on his mood, of course.

Cheerful.

Soft.

Perhaps something that could lull you to sleep.

It hardly matters, because every version is breathtaking.

Loose notes weave themselves into elegant melodies before you even realize it, blooming into sung poetry, carrying you through verses and rhymes until all you can think about is hearing him continue.

It's only fitting that Luci was once an angel.

The Divine's favorite, no less.

Because divine is exactly how his voice sounds.

Sometimes (Name) starts wondering whether she's truly in Hell at all.

Surely it shouldn't be legal for someone to sing like that.

Especially not so gently.

Demons prey on vulnerability, don't they?

They're creatures of temptation.

And yet their king is quietly humming under his breath while coaxing you to rest your head in his lap, already planning to run his fingers through your hair.

Gentle.

Tender.

Vulnerable.

Who would've thought?

Honestly...

Most sinners.

At least the ones staying at the hotel.

Running into the two of you glued together is less a possibility and more an inevitability. Anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby becomes an unwilling witness to your relentless displays of affection.

Exaggeratedly loud kisses.

The kind that sound almost theatrical, where you grab him by the collar and pull him in without warning.

Lucifer only laughs into them, practically melting before eagerly chasing another.

Then there's the flirting.

The embarrassingly youthful kind that one of Hell's founders really shouldn't be capable of.

But Luci makes a point of keeping up with whatever cheesy pickup lines are making girls giggle these days.

After all, impressing you is practically one of his royal duties.

So (Name) gets to watch her impossibly dramatic man enthusiastically throwing out the worst pickup lines imaginable.

Is your dad a baker? No.

Did you fall from Heaven? Obviously not.

Roses are red, violets are blue... Yes. Congratulations. You can identify colors.

You laugh, thoroughly entertained by how earnestly he tries to win you over every single day.

And every time you answer with pickup lines of your own—equally terrible, hopelessly sentimental, and utterly nonsensical—Lucifer has the time of his life.

The hotel's residents, meanwhile, don't stick around for long.

They find the whole thing deeply unsettling.

Little do they know, the physical affection is even worse.

The Fallen Angel needs to have his hands on you. It's an unconscious, almost instinctive urge.

(Name) isn't much better.

She needs her hands on him just as badly, twirling those unruly blond strands around her finger and smiling every time he instinctively leans into the touch.

Walk past him. I dare you. See if you can make it more than a second without a hand settling around your waist, gently pulling you back against him.

Without absentminded fingers hooking around your belt loops.

Without one of Hell's most respected figures casually draping himself over you as though personal space had never existed.

Return the favor.

Trace your thumb along the line of his jaw until it reaches his chin, tilting his face however you please.

Climb into his lap and steal his hat, but never once look away from those crimson eyes.

Pull him into one of the quieter hallways, back him against the wall, and simply...

...hold him.

Wrap your arms around him tightly, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

God, the sinners hate it.

They'll happily consume the most depraved pornography the underworld has to offer, burn through entire supplies of drugs, and rack up enough crimes to rewrite the penal code.

Yet somehow, they cannot tolerate the two of you being disgustingly in love.

"Could you two be any more revolting?!"

"Stop touching each other!"

"Quit trying to outdo each other over who's more in love!"

"For fuck's sake, get a room!"

Unfortunately for them, neither (Name) nor Lucifer are particularly merciful.

The bitter, loveless killjoys can go to Hell.

...Well.

More than they already have.

The two of you have no intention of becoming any less of a menace.

Charlie is probably the relationship's biggest supporter.

She was so overjoyed when she found out you and her father were together that she genuinely considered organizing a Valentine's Day event for the hotel.

Knowing her dad's love life wasn't doomed to end in tragedy...

Knowing someone truly kind had found a place in his heart...

Wow.

It was an incredible relief.

Besides, the unwavering support you show both her and her dream of redemption has more than earned you a permanent place among the people she treasures most.

Helping manage the hotel is no easy feat, especially when it involves things like:

Constantly reminding the guests that swearing at one another and attempted murder are strictly against the rules.

Arguing with Alastor over changing the wallpaper in the guest rooms while enduring his stubbornness and that infuriating elegance he hides all his pettiness behind. (Not that there's any genuine hostility between the two of you—but Lucifer absolutely loves watching you bicker with that insufferable bastard. Honestly, he'd be perfectly content grabbing some popcorn, sipping tea, and enjoying the show from the front row.)

Reassuring Charlie that she's doing an amazing job, helping her build trust with the sinners and giving them a place where they can finally feel safe.

The list goes on.

That wonderfully chaotic hotel is full of surprises.

And while solving its endless problems was never supposed to be your responsibility, they've quietly become one of your favorite parts of everyday life.

You like bringing a little balance to all the chaos.

Whether it's for those fleeting moments of peace...

...or simply to see your princess smile.

It's obvious how much your help means to Charlie—not just because it's invaluable, but because it's a genuine act of love.

A project as monumental as redemption demands people you can lean on.

Someone who's always there.

A shoulder to cry on.

Words that lift your spirits back up.

A volunteer who'll happily join every spontaneous musical number without hesitation.

Your presence is all of those things.

Essential.

Comforting.

And endlessly encouraging.

Luci gets emotional.

As a father, bringing comfort and stability to his daughter is of the utmost importance; as a lover, he couldn't be more grateful that (Name) is the keeper of his affection. Because he can see, plain as day, that your place within his family goes far beyond friendship. It is something truly parental.

Charlie asks you for nice places to take Vaggie, looks up to you as the standard she wants to live up to, and makes absolutely no effort to hide the fact that physical touch is her love language.

Seriously, no jokes—he thinks he could cry.

Hug the princess, then invite him into a group hug, and there you have it: the Devil himself fighting back the urge to burst into tears.

Call out "Morningstar," singing it with all the charm you can muster while the two of them are in the same room.

They'll both look at you immediately, patiently waiting to hear what you have to say, wearing matching expressions of pure delight.

It's simply adorable.

But do you know what's even more adorable?

This man's reaction to receiving a bouquet of flowers.

Gather together a delightful mess of dahlias and carnations, with rows of white impatiens peeking through the warmer colors. Wrap them in lavish paper, layering different shades, arranging satin-like folds upon one another, and tying everything together with an oversized ribbon.

Luci has no idea how to hold that sort of gift.

Where to place his hands.

How to breathe in the fragrance deeply enough.

Holding it rather uncertainly, with all the obvious awkwardness of someone completely inexperienced, he shifts it around in his arms, trying to compose himself.

Which proves difficult as well.

His eyes wander back to you, trapped in a bewildering maze of shock and adoration, only to be distracted again when soft petals brush against his cheek and demand his attention—fragile little things, delightfully demanding and desperate to steal the spotlight.

Much like a certain Demon King.

What a grand finale, ladies and gentlemen!

A towering existence brought to its knees by nothing more than a hopeless lover, hopelessly adrift in romance.

And what an even crueler fate before a love so pure—one woven together by nature itself and by hearts that cherish one another.

The tormented soul loses itself to the charm of eccentricity.

If Lucifer was once the Great Deceiver, now all that remains is the posture of a man who wishes he could bless you for such a thoughtful gesture.

So all he can do is smile.

A slightly crooked smile, still caught between theatricality and that overwhelming force that compels him to bare every pointed tooth in dizzying delight.

(Name)'s favorite smile.

And how could you not love it?

When your man isn't trying to be a one-man performance, merely existing in your shared room under the assumption that you're busy with your own affairs, sincerity quietly surfaces.

He fondly watches the flower bouquets piling up around the room, each one more beautiful than the last, as though they're slowly growing into a lavish botanical garden. Idly kicking his feet as he leans against the table and simply admires them; watering them to prove himself a good plant father; talking to them; stroking their petals and looking up their meanings.

Want to see him become even sillier?

Go on and talk about the beautiful bouquet you'll give him on your wedding day.

Luci forgets to breathe, losing himself in that little utopia—a future which, if it were entirely up to him, would be the most fitting reality imaginable.

(Please, give him the damn bouquet on your damn wedding day. He's genuinely daydreaming about it.)

He could "demand" it.

(Beg, actually, though that particular word refuses to leave his mouth.)

In Ancient Latin, no less.

And if you're the kind of person with a thing for Ancient Latin...

Well, congratulations.

You picked the right demon.

(He may have forgotten more than half the vocabulary after falling into Hell, but he'll graciously ignore that tiny detail and do his absolute best to seduce you in a dead language.)

And speaking of eating...

Not even someone guilty of the sin of gluttony would possess so little self-preservation as to willingly chew through the atrocities Lucifer cooks.

They're dreadful.

Satanic.

Harbingers of the apocalypse.

The Health Department's worst nightmare.

As if that weren't bad enough, there's an even greater problem.

The treacherous creature has a pretty face.

And a pink apron.

A pretty face.

And a pink apron.

(Name) is almost certain that more than a few civilizations have fallen because of that combination.

It would've been far too humiliating to write into the history books, so everyone collectively agreed to let it slide.

Unfortunately, the moment Luci looks at you, dressed in that frilly apron and holding a tray carrying what appears to be a brand-new element from the periodic table—one he swears is perfectly edible—

there is no escape.

Before you even have the chance to object, to value your own health for once, your fork is already reaching for a second helping.

Your tongue withers.

Your taste buds cry out for mercy.

Tears pound against your waterline, begging to be set free.

And yet...

You smile, nod, and say,

"It's the best thing I've ever tasted, sweetheart. Thank you."

That single sentence is enough to keep Luci positively radiant for an entire month.

He starts looking up new recipes, or tries to perfect the breakfast pancakes he insists on waking you up with.

So how could you ever insult this sweetheart's cooking?

Your heart couldn't possibly be that cruel.

Not when he looks positively euphoric just from seeing you catch a whiff of his (putrid) meals, fidgeting in anticipation of a positive review.

Unfortunately, you'll have to encourage this hobby.

All for your boyfriend's happiness.

"It's worth it," (Name) thinks.

Because after enduring that particular ordeal, she'll be rewarded with that strangely sweet, domestic moment she shares with Lucifer: brushing your teeth together, sharing the bathroom sink, and feeling your sleepy heads gradually slump against one another.

Your life together could hardly be described as anything other than domestic.

The sort of simple, perhaps even monotonous chores that become charming simply because you do them over and over again with the person you love.

Making the bed, for instance, stops being tedious and becomes something to look forward to—especially when the Devil himself is trying to tempt you back into his arms for just five more minutes.

Or doing the laundry.

It could be done in an instant with the tiniest bit of divine power.

But it's far more enjoyable to breathe in the scent of fabric softener, load the washing machine together while reminiscing about which clothes were worn on which dates, and steal kisses every time the machine finishes its spin cycle.

Cleaning the house—or, rather, certain parts of the hotel.

Somehow, those endless, dust-covered halls end up spotless between bursts of laughter. Time flies with good music playing in the background and an attempt to sweep the floors that inevitably turns into a waltz, dusters and brooms in hand.

Even grocery shopping—a task that's usually so dull—has its own charm.

Crossing items off the shopping list while chatting about nothing in particular, occasionally daring to toss a nice bottle of wine or a few chocolate bars into the cart.

Some sinners don't even bother waiting in line. They simply smash the shop window and run off with whatever they wanted.

Lucifer insists he could be much more refined than that, using a little magic here and there to skip the queue altogether.

If your conscience gets the better of you and you suggest waiting your turn like everyone else, he won't argue.

And everything you bought?

You can snack on it while watching a movie, constantly wavering between actually paying attention and commenting on how that character made such an idiotic decision they deserve to be fed to whatever demon is haunting the basement.

Though, whether you're out at the theater or curled up together at home...

The darkness of a movie is always the perfect excuse to steal a few kisses, isn't it?

And perhaps, if there's enough time, movie night can be followed by a spa day.

People don't seriously think these pretty little faces maintain themselves, do they?

Slip into matching robes—Luci absolutely adores the idea.

He also enjoys it whenever you drag him over to try out your newest face masks and exfoliating scrubs, your fingers gently massaging the products into his skin.

His cheeks are so soft, rosy, and wonderfully squishable that (Name) has to fight off an overwhelming cuteness attack.

And if that little thing smiles at you while letting you pull a headband over his messy blond hair...

Heavens.

You'll be selling your soul to him at a discount.

Your man is also strangely good at doing your nails.

Every week, he's there removing chipped polish and touching up the design. And whenever inspiration strikes, he might come up with something entirely new. Though the classics are lovely too—especially anything with little apples painted on them.

And sleeping!

God, sleeping is wonderful!

Whoever came up with the idea of sleeping was undoubtedly a genius! Sleep should be declared a World Heritage treasure, so it's almost offensive that sloth is considered a deadly sin.

But this is Hell.

So if there were one, two, three sins to indulge in, then surely at least five ought to be part of the curriculum.

Anyway.

Stretching out on a king-sized bed, with the perfect balance between soft and firm, resting your head on goose-feather pillows, and wrapping yourselves in a fluffy blanket is the recipe for perfection.

Now add one pretty little man to the equation and enjoy the blessing.

Stay in bed together, chatting idly while your eyelids threaten to close.

The absentminded caresses traced by a thumb gradually slow to a stop, and the conversation eventually dissolves into nothing but sleepy, incoherent nonsense.

Each of you may begin on your own pillow, but eventually the distinction between my pillow and your pillow stops mattering.

The space between your bodies turns into a delightful mess: arms looped around necks, a leg thrown over someone's waist, a chin resting atop the other's head.

Spooning—his favorite, by the way. Seriously, let him be the little spoon and absolutely smother him with affection—or simply tangled together, one practically lying on top of the other.

The position hardly matters when lazy kisses find their way to each other's foreheads, waking you for only a fleeting second before a muffled laugh escapes, both of you utterly content to indulge in these small, tender displays of care.

Bury your nose against the nape of the other's neck, breathing in the scent of freshly washed clothes, body lotion, and that natural fragrance that belongs to them and no one else.

Luci once overheard a rumor that the Devil smells like sulfur.

Ever since then, smelling nice for you has quietly become one of his life's goals.

Wild rose.

Lavender.

Chamomile.

Feel free to choose his cologne.

After all, who doesn't love a good-smelling man?

But back to nighttime habits.

Because it's impossible to forget those fateful few minutes when one of you wakes before the other and, still lost in the haze of sleep, quietly admires the other's features.

The shape of their face.

Those tiny, familiar movements already committed to memory and treasured.

Everything somehow becomes even more adorable when they're asleep.

Peace softens his features, and there's an immense sense of satisfaction in seeing the person you love so completely wrapped in comfort, free from the worries that keep sleep at bay.

Lucifer's quiet little snores, for instance, are pleasant little sounds, and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest draws you in.

Though sleeping isn't always so easy.

Not when your boyfriend's lips act like some sort of magnet, pulling your face toward his for what should've been nothing more than a quick peck, only to become countless kisses scattered across different angles and places.

Sentences interrupted halfway through, turning into make-out sessions.

Loud smacks echoing through the hallway, each of you supposedly headed in opposite directions.

Aiming for foreheads, hands, knuckles, leaving everything stained with lipstick.

Sweet kisses that earn quiet laughter and fill your stomach with butterflies.

Vulgar kisses that hum with obscenity, trailing down his jaw to his collarbone, drawing soft gasps from his lips.

Last—but by no means least—his demonic features.

Good heavens.

Who would've thought the appearance of someone capable of destroying worlds and reducing souls to dust could be so unbelievably enticing?

If beings like that were truly meant to be feared, they shouldn't have made them look so irresistible.

Because you can't quite pinpoint what it is.

But the moment those crimson horns emerge from his temples—smooth, pale, immaculate—and are crowned with gleaming gold, some overwhelming force compels you to pull his head down and press kisses against them.

It's an almost shameful need to worship their rough texture.

Dragging your lips along them, feeling them scrape back with an almost gentle roughness, tracing every curve and every ridge carved into them.

Luci is utterly defeated, in the truest sense of the word.

Stammering.

Blooming into the deepest shades of the sweetest pink.

And overwhelmed by that desperate, all-consuming urge to wrap his arms around your waist, pull you impossibly close...

...and make this moment last forever.

Oh, what a silly man.

As though that were all there was to love about him, and as though he weren't bound to receive so much more.

Deep down, Lucifer knows as much.

Still, he can't help that greedy desire to keep you close with the unwavering persistence of a clingy little spirit haunting your side.

Ease your lover's possessive, anxious thoughts by taking his hand, studying the skin that (Name) had first mistaken for a glove, so dark it seemed almost carved from obsidian.

It is skin, indeed.

As dark as a nightmare, yet carried through feather-light gestures, touching you with a dangerous gentleness.

Dangerous?

How could it be dangerous, when every caress is nothing short of impossibly tender?

Because you're not entirely sure your heart can survive this much affection.

Every lingering touch, every careful stroke, every devoted caress only nurtures within you an almost theatrical longing for this sinner.

And yet...

Who could possibly stop you from admiring that beautiful gradient between white and black?

Who would dare silence you while you study, with the purest attention, the length of his claws and their crimson hue?

As though his sharp teeth sinking into your shoulder weren't enough, those enormous, threatening claws could leave quite a masterpiece across your back.

The mere thought is exhilarating.

Much like a serpent's tongue, his slips across your skin every now and then, sending shivers racing through you.

Luci knows perfectly well the power it holds.

He simply doesn't give a damn about the responsibility that comes with it.

He tastes wonderful.

The ghostly brush of it sends adrenaline coursing through your veins.

And (Name) knows exactly how to play along.

Though she doesn't share the same anatomy, her own tongue—so ordinary, so deceptively simple—somehow proves even worse against his.

The two engage in a petty contest for space and dominion, circling one another with feverish, almost obsessive determination.

The King of Hell has no expectations of winning against you.

Truthfully...

He doesn't even want to.

And his wings?

Oh, his wings.

Beautiful, abundant feathers unfurling from his back in a spectacle all their own, adorning every inch of his being.

They are remnants of Heaven's purity, though partially stained with the colors of sin.

Even so, they could never lose their magnificence.

Not when they're so impossibly soft beneath your fingertips.

So full.

So plentiful.

So wonderfully warm.

Being wrapped in them is an otherworldly experience.

During his embraces, they spread around you until the rest of reality simply disappears, cloaking everything in silky warmth and, every so often, playful tickles.

You could lie against them.

Feel them nudge you whenever Luci is being particularly troublesome—and he will always turn his head away, pretending one of his six wings had absolutely nothing to do with it.

You could even work your fingers through the tiny knots caught between the feathers, patiently undoing them while their owner quietly hums to himself, blissfully lost in the moment.

His tail can't be left out, either!

That slender little thing, carrying the same playful mannerisms as his wings and the same appearance as his horns, plays a very active role in your relationship.

Just as his wings pull you into kisses and affectionate embraces, shielding the two of you behind them, his tail finds its place wrapped around your thigh, trailing its pointed tip up your spine before curling around your wrists, silently asking for affection.

The little squeezes it gives can be gentle, serving only as a quiet reminder of a needy soul—or simply trying to disturb the peace.

But they can also be mischievous, a little rougher than usual, just enough to make you shoot Lucifer a narrow-eyed glare.

The bastard merely answers with that smug expression of his.

Really, there are so many things to admire about Lucifer Morningstar, aren't there?

(Name) managed to come up with 4.028 of them, but there are countless more.

In fact, you could even complain about it: there simply aren't enough words to describe the countless actions and feelings that dance inside your chest whenever your boyfriend is involved.

Then again...

Perhaps it's better that way.

After all, you don't need other sinners setting their greedy little eyes on your future husband.

Although, truthfully, the jealousy is unnecessary.

Hell may grant him as many titles as it pleases.

In the end, Luci—King, Fallen Angel, Tempter—

is your precious little thing.