Giggles And Fluff 🕊

Roman was going to regret his misdeeds. He just didn't know it yet. Only Virgil did, because on that specific day Roman's misdeeds included dragging his snug and sleepy little brother outside in a fucking snowy setting. For a fucking snowball fignt, as if they never fought indoors. Making his toes numb, making his breath steam like a dragon's.

The worst thing about this snow was that it didn't show their footprints. Virgil squinted over his shoulder. The air was still and thick with anticipation, not disturbed by so much as a sigh, but he knew his usually noisy mindmate was close.

- I'm gonna make you eat snow! – He roared the first thing that came to his mind, because Logan wasn't around to say this wouldn't be nutritious.

Just like he expected, Roman couldn't resist responding and giving him directions.

- I'm gonna give you a snow bath! That might make you stink less.

Such an insinuation from Remus' twin wasn't anything Virgil was willing to swallow. He narrowed his eyes against the glaring snow as his fingers tightened on the snowball he was holding. It could have been lumpier than any of the royal perfectionist's, but he wouldn't know that before it's shattered against his face.

With his best battle cry, Virgil leaped over the snowdrift that was making his sixth sense tingle. To save him from looking stupid, Roman was indeed curled up there, perfectly camouflaged EXCEPT for his ridiculous red hat. He didn't even get on his feet before Virgil shoved him into the snowdrift without holding back. What else are brothers for?

- Can you believe I did it with one hand? – the emo scoffed, still taking a few cautious hops away as his other hand still held the snowball.

- You little!.. – the man in white bellowed with snow flying off his fluffy hat as he struggled to pull himself out. Although it was hard to take him seriously like this, Virgil didn't stay around to hear the rest of the sentence.

Roman wouldn't admit it of course, but it dawned on him very soon that he should not have challenged Virgil. Being the smallest yet fastest side made him a nearly impossible target, and damn, someone taught him to throw hard... Roman inhaled the frost with a whistling noise as he was struck by a physically painful reminder of Remus.

- ...brat! – he sputtered while Virgil laughed in the distance. After the prince blinked the pain away, there was no one in sight.

Alright, he still had a chance. This emo was used to skulking in dark environments. Which, well, was not the case right now.

Panting with a snowball in each hand, Roman was crouching through the leafless scenery. Where... did... he... go?

- Stormcloud... Don't be a coward... – the prince called, willing the teasy lilt into his voice that usually came naturally. He paused at a faint crack overhead. Of COURSE! The trees!

He didn't have a counter plan, he just looked up against his better judgement.

Virgil had another talent. Playing with reflexes.

The crack was followed by as much snow as an average branch could fit crashing down on Roman, chilling him from head to toe and blinding him once more. The last thing he saw was a small yet ominous figure on another branch.

- What the HELL! – Roman cried, shaking the stinging mass away. – Don't you EVER get tired?

- I'm nearly falling asleep here! – Virgil shouted back in that voice which made it difficult to know if he was being sarcastic. – Now are you gonna surrender or what?!

***

Revenge.

The seven letters kept pulsing in Roman's head even as he came inside and snapped into dry clothes. Even as Virgil boiled some water and handed him a cup. Even as they sat by the bar counter and drank their tea together. Maybe because his muscles still ached, or because every look Virgil gave him was a smug one. Still, whatever prank came to his mind in the meantime was either too cruel or more aggravating than humbling.

His body being uncomfortable wasn't helping. He pulled one hand from where it was warming up on his cup to rub his flank.

- Dude, you actually gave me bruises.

- What do you wan' me to do, kiss them better? – Virgil shrugged. – You would've been as tough as me if no one went easy on you.

The prince didn't let himself feel bad for him, in favor of acknowledging the implication that Roman couldn't win fairly. Virgil brushed past him to carelessly drop their mugs in the kitchen sink.

- Come on now, loser, you owe me cuddles.

It didn't click after this phrase. Not even after Roman closed Virgil's door from the inside and flopped onto his bed. But when Virgil lay down as well, so stunningly peaceful in contrast to his own self on the battlefield, the dragon turning into a domestic skink...

His eyes were closed, unaware of Roman's narrowing dangerously. When he shifted closer and put his arms around Roman's neck, the prince didn't object. A few seconds passed quietly, if only because the taller side allowed them to. Then, he started to spider his hand around the other's back, avoiding rubs that would relax Virgil further. The emo whined in protest (he would've surely described it as humming, but Roman knew better).

- Mm, no. I'm gonna sleep.

- Mm, yes. I'm gonna keep you awake some more, actually, – Roman mocked, leading his hand down to Virgil's side.

He wished he could take a picture of his brother's face when the realization struck. He wished he could save the startled squeak when he snuck under Virgil's sweater for a little squeeze.

- FUCK! No! COLD!

Roman laughed heartily, certain it wouldn't be long until Virgil would join in. He wasn't even speaking in full sentences anymore!

- Uh oh! Where is your toughness now? – Roman proceeded in spite of Virgil's own hands trying to force him out, giving another squeeze.

Right on the belly.

- SHIHIHI-HIHIT! – Virgil arched his back, his laughter breaking out with gasps and snorts. It seemed he was actually tired after their game though, because his struggling was only growing weaker. Much weaker than Roman knew he was capable of.

- Can you believe I did it with one hand? – he smirked, moving again to prod Virgil's ribs. It led to another snort right in his ear. Outrageously adorable.

He lowered his head to the point he was practically lying on top of Virgil and could whisper in his ear.

- Imagine what two could do...

His hands spread over Virgil's upper body, digging into the sensitive skin they found everywhere. Any strategy he had in mind was abandoned as he just tickled and tickled.

In turn, Virgil abandoned his attempts to defend himself, covering his face instead. Since this probably counted for capitulation, Roman only kept going for a minute. Alright, two. It's not like Virgil ever bothered to throw an insult or say “stop”.

Once Roman decided to be merciful, Virgil removed his hands from his eyes but didn't open them, not even when the prince summoned a glass of water and put it to the other's lips. Not even when Roman curled around him again, soaking in the quiet leftover laughter. His frantic breaths soon turned into soft sleepy ones. He was warm, giggly, thoroughly red, and Roman loved him this way.

The prince hid his nose in his brother's neck to keep it warm during their nap.

- Sleep tight, little skink.

Vox is tired, so very tired. Being an Overlord in Hell is tiring. Being in Hell at all is tiring.

Of course, there’s a certain ‘new smell’ to the whole thing, but even a promotion as it stands can’t shake away the days that he just feels like shit. This place is not for the faint of heart, and all he has is his nose-to-the-grindstone mentality to make it all worse.

There are some comforts, though, and one of those is the rather charming demon in red that he met in the bar the day he arrived in the Pride ring. An Overlord that had set up shop a few decades ago and was, as Vox understood it, one of the more dangerous of the lot he had met so far.

The pinging desire to dethrone had been immediate but only until he met Alastor. Then…

…the closet door had opened, and he was as unsteady as a baby deer chasing after the man as often as he could.

One of the easiest places to do that? Said bar.

The Radio Demon was already there, nursing his whiskey, as Vox walked in. His acknowledgement was the same as it always was, a small nod and a whiff of static casted the flathead’s way. It’s pleasant, and certainly appreciated, especially after a day such as this one.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to show up late.”

“Mm, your punctuality certainly is legendary.”

Alastor never probes. Vox appreciates it and reciprocates as often as he can—there is something to be said that his curiosity can sometimes get him in trouble. However, today, it certainly would have been easier if the Radio Demon bothered to notice that his drinking partner was looking a little worse for wear.

Emotionally, that is.

“Yeah, well…I didn’t really think that one Overlord would actually try and step foot in my little corner so soon, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised down here anymore,” he huffs, making a motion to the bartender. She knows his order.

“Agrat?”

“No Calliope.”

The Radio Demon hums to show he heard. And then, in a rare moment of physical contact, he swipes his thumb under Vox’s picturebox head, drawing a startled little motion from the demon and an incredulous look in his direction. “It looks like she put you through the wringer.” It’s said with a teasing tone that the television demon is used to now as he gives said thumb a lick.

Was that Vox’s blood or the other Overlord’s?

It didn’t really matter.

“Yeah, she did. I’m…exhausted, honestly.” Now that he’s been given quiet permission, his shoulders drop and he gives a small sigh. 

Alastor’s eyes remain on his drinking partner, almost far-away as if he’s thinking of something else entirely, before a soft chuckle rumbles through the crackle of his filter. “But you’re sitting here, and she is not. Congratulations, pal, you survived another Overlord attempting to usurp your tiny amount of power—how many has it been now?”

Vox’s is now face-first in the wood of the bar. He holds up three fingers to answer the Radio Demon.

And said demon’s smile widens. “Only three? Oh, dear Vincent, I don’t believe you’ve earned the right to complain.”

The television demon turns his head to look at Alastor, squinting. “Yeah, that's easy for you to say, everyone’s scared of you.”

Everyone but him.

“A fear that was well-earned through hard work and perseverance," he hums, craning his neck so he could meet the television's eye properly. An almost playful move. “Just like you're doing right now.”

Vox feels as though he’s making fun of him and turns his head away with a little huff. “Doesn't really seem that way, but I’ll take your word for it.” There is a light vulnerable answer there that can’t help but sigh through, eyes casted down against the grain. He’s gaining small bits of power, sure, but nothing compared to the Radio Demon. He’ll have to realize that soon, right? And then what?

He doesn't really want to think about that, about how this all changes once his companion believes he’s just a fleeting trend.

Alastor is tilting his head as he regards Vox. He’s thinking, watching, articulating his next move as he watches the little pouting demon practically begging for some sympathy that the demon is not wired to give. However…

“Well then, perhaps it’s time for another lesson on my part, my little protege.”

Vox groans. “Don’t call me that again...”

“I’m serious,” he chuckles, “especially if you feel as though your stamina is lacking in…efficiency. After all the help you’ve shown me running pesky little sinners off of my territory, I have no issue offering my own help in exchange.” 

He’s almost surprised he didn’t ask for a deal to be struck. “Fine, what did you have in—”

There was no finishing that statement.

There’s a small tingle that hit his side, right below his ribcage. It’s enough to make him jump a little but when he snaps his head to the side to inquire what it was that his compatriot had done, he sees what looks like one of Alastor’s tentacle things having slid up from the shadows under their feet to wiggle almost playfully at his side.

Wait. What now? There’s not even any time for Vox to react before another one shoots under his shirt and starts teasing his other side. He shivers, nearly collapsing over the bar as he captures his lower lip between his teeth. “Ah-hah-lastor…?” But as he risks a peek beside him, the Radio Demon’s expression isn't instilling any confidence that it was an accident.

There’s a finger resting on his lips, that perpetual smile slightly sharper than he’s used to: it lacks malice but is filled with a toxic mischief instead.

Somehow, that makes Vox even more worried.

If it’s any consultation, Alastor doesn't seem to be interested in overwhelming him with this. Why would he, that would surely ruin the game he’s playing. Eldritch tendrils that he’s seen rip people limb from limb are nuzzling against his skin curiously, the static that draws between them pleasant for a moment until they brush against a sensitive spot and he can’t help but cover his mouth to avoid yelping.

The bartender’s attention is drawn. “Everything alright?”

“Oh yeah—yeah! Sorry…” He’s not sure why he apologized. “Just…didn’t expect it to be so strong.” Did the guy look a little offended at that? He honestly couldn’t care less.

“Careful now, Vincent,” he spares a half-glare at the Radio Demon, “I’m having fun right now. You don’t want to interrupt me, do you?” He spots a flicker of those dials as his grin stretches with lidded eyes, and it makes him want to sink into the floor. Oh, not like he doesn’t want the attention (that is what he wanted, right?), but the optics of this are…

…

…yeah, he’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to play along without passing away.

“N-no…” he manages, a light blue flush on his screen as he sits up rather sharply, expression turning determined. It’s fine, it was just another way to prove himself to Alastor, he could endure it for that possible elation of said praise alone.

And the other demon’s expression turns just a hint more sinister. “Good boy.” He makes a circle motion with his finger, and any hope that Vox had that his companion was taking it easy on him is immediately thrown out the window. Because, here’s the thing, in all the distraction, he really hadn’t noticed that the two wiggling masses under his shirt hadn’t exactly stopped their exploration. They were being merciful, passing by spots that he knew would incite a different reaction, and instead making themselves entirely comfortable against him.

He was an idiot: they had been searching…

So, on Alastor’s cue, they tuck up under his arms and he nearly jolts again. The wriggling is exactly as he expected it to feel, but even that knowledge doesn’t help him from coughing away the beginnings of a snicker. Nonono—nope, he’s not going to break on the first tug. Instead, in an effort to retain some control over the situation, he reaches for his drink and takes a sip.

Only barely shaking.

And Alastor rewards him with a hum of approval and a wink. “Promising. Let’s see how long you can hold out when I get to those nastier little spots.”

“Ho-how could you possibly…?”

“Finding weaknesses is one of my greatest skills, Vincent. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

No, of course he hasn’t. 

“To prove my point,” Vox didn’t really need him to do that, “I know that these,” and the tips of his little tools drift down to circle around the gills on either side of the media demon’s ribcage—not touching the delicate flaps, but even a flick considerably close makes him seize up violently, “ah yes, are probably the worst of it for you, am I right?”

Vox is having a hard time here because on one hand, this is humiliating. He’s a goddamn Overlord, and this is ranging on becoming unearned disrespect, especially considering how much admiration he gives the Radio Demon in return.

And yet, there’s something in Alastor’s tone that’s making an entirely different tingle run up his spine. 

He’s going to ignore that one as best he can.

“I-isn’t this a-a…little c-childish?” 

The Radio Demon manages a short laugh, low and cool. “I am shocked at you, Vox. You should know better than to just make an assumption like that.” What the hell was he talking about? “I am certainly not going to be picky about my methods if the results are met.”

Great.

The tentacles are starting to expand out around his torso now, dipping playfully into his navel and swiping slowly against the sensitive skin of his waistline, an action that makes him nearly break the glass in the palm of his hand as he takes a sharp breath in.

“Now, as a reminder, we’re going to use this as an opportunity for you to improve upon your stamina, my dear. No laughing, no whimpering, and certainly no crying.” The Radio Demon’s voice is overlayed with static as he croons out the next part, “Think you can manage?”

No, he’s not sure.

But he's going to do his best anyways, isn't he? Alastor is dangling that carrot over his head, practically teasing him with the idea of his approval.

Shit.

As he sits up, those stupid tentacles have clearly taken that as his consent on the matter and as happy to explore as desired by their owner as he sits and watches Vox squirm for a moment, a delightfully smug smirk on his face that the television head might find nice to look at. You know, if he wasn't the subject of it.

But they’re quick and they’re deadly accurate, already finding a few spots that make him jolt once again—unfortunately, it's the wiggling in his navel that is close to making him whine out, the sweeping motion almost a little too skilled for someone he’s pretty sure never engages in this kind of play often.

Or maybe he wasn't lying before about his methods—tickling was a form of torture, was it not? In some places?

That thought alone made him almost kick his leg against the side of the bar.

Surprisingly, though, Vox is holding out stronger than even he anticipated. The tendrils seem to be throwing everything they can at him—light brushing, wiggling, digging and swirling, even vibrating in some areas. And yeah, it's difficult for him to keep a straight face, but he sure is doing it. He has to, Alastor is assessing him here, and he’s not going to disappoint—

Oh shit, not the hips.

The second two of those wiggling masses slip under his pants and start playing around with the crevice on either side of his waist, he starts to get a little worried. He doesn't make a sound, no, but he can feel his spine curving and his legs pressing up to try and stop their movement, eyes squeezing shut for the first time since this fucking “lesson” started.

A new, third black tendril is suddenly fluttering against the small of his back, an action that makes the media demon straighten up with a sharp intake. “Ah, ah, ah, can’t have you ruining your posture~” 

How painfully unfair.

Vox isn't sure how much more of this he can realistically take, especially when he’s not granted the simplest mercy of being able to curl up like a bug being toyed with under a microscope—that’s essentially what was happening here, right? Those tentacles aren’t leaving him any quarter here, digging into his hips with quick precision.

“M-mmghh…!”

The Radio Demon doesn't respond back, taking a sip of his drink before sparing a moment to enjoy the color of it, rocking the glass back and forth with one finger. His ability to multi-task is almost terrifying, Vox can’t help but wonder how many of the torture sessions-turned-brutal murders were done while he was busy dusting his console or tending to his equipment.

“...A-al…”

“Shh, you can do it, my little picturebox. You don’t want to disappoint me when you’ve been doing such an incredible job so far, do you?”

No, he doesn’t.

The tendrils that are drilling into the hollows of his hips are perhaps the worst offenders of all, the actions making him jittery and snorty as he is forced to sit up. Maybe Alastor did that on purpose, maybe he didn't, but keeping his spine straight was just an invitation for them to dig in deeper. A devious little move on his part.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Oh, this is starting to border on too much to handle. He's pretty sure that line was crossed when this started, but the longer it continues, the more Vox realizes that his inhibitions concerning how embarrassing this was are starting to soften.

Alastor is showing him attention—the Radio Demon is playing around with him with that mischievous little look in his face and he has to fight every fiber of his being that's attempting to blush as his mouth squiggles on his bright face.

He…

…

Maybe he was enjoying it, just a little. Not that he’d let Alastor know that. Not in a million fucking years.

But knowing how scary intuitive the man was, he probably already knew.

Fuck.

“Time to open your eyes, Vincent.”

He hasn’t noticed the lack of the bar’s usual ambiance—how could he, seeing as he was so preoccupied? But as he spares a glance up with eyes practically glitching off his screen, he notices that it’s just the two of them. Not even the bartender can be found amongst the empty spaces. At first, a sudden hint of fear hits his chest that perhaps this had been a long con for Alastor to finally consume him like he does with all his other guests on his radio broadcasts.

Tenderizing his meal before eating it.

However, the tendrils mercifully stop their assault on his body, and give him a chance to release the tension being held in his shoulders as he blurts out a sharp gasp and collapses on the bar, panting. Phantom tingles are hitting every inch that was being touched, which is already making it difficult for him and this new dizzying headache he’s got, but he manages to look back over at Alastor with one eye closed regardless.

Fucking hell…

The Radio Demon is taking the last swig of his drink with a little hum in the back of his throat, standing up slowly with his staff in hand. “Well now, that was very entertaining, pal! I must say, I was quite impressed with your stamina; I never expected you would hold out the entire time!” And he gives a light, almost soft prod to the side of his screen. “Good job.”

“Y-you…why the hell…” Vox is still panting, trying to sit up straight and failing every time with how much his body feels like jello. As the other demon moves behind him, he feels a small pang of something hit his chest and turns his massive head to the side. Was he really just leaving after that? He’s learned pretty quickly that vulnerability is currency down here to the powerful (Alastor included in that category) so he tries to just collect himself as best he can and completely forget what happened to avoid the ache.

He’s not sure he can stop his heart fluttering so fast, so needily…

But then something happens that catches him equally as off-guard as when this entire little test started: Alastor’s devilish tendrils immediately grab his wrists and spin him around until his back is against the bar, tugging his arms up and over his head until they are locked in place.

Ow, his fucking head…

At this point, exasperation can’t help but leak from his mouth as he growls a little bit with squinting eyes, squirming in place. “What the hell are you doing…?” Humiliation? He’s pretty sure he won’t be able to fight against something like that in this state.

But Alastor’s expression is, surprisingly, not daunting. It’s relaxed and, dare he say, comfortable as he regards Vox’s new position, twirling his staff before it carefully drums on the floor and he leans against it. “Oh dear, you didn’t think I was finished with you, did you?”

His static heart stops. “I…what?” He regains a little bit of his usual composure, once again squirming to try and free himself with little-to-no change in the matter. “Al, just…lemme go, alright?”

He’s embarrassed. And this is the last person he’d want to show that in front of, no matter how much closer they had become.

“Oh, but that isn’t what you want, now is it?”

Vox bristles a little. “I-I don’t—ahem, I don’t know what you mean...” Oh fuck, oh fuck.

Alastor tuts before a razor-sharp smile returns to his face as he uses his microphone to tilt the media demon’s ridiculously boxy head up. “No need to be so embarrassed, Vincent, it’s only natural for someone like you.” The hell does that mean…?! “You could have gotten up at any moment and left, I wasn’t keeping you here. You endured such a marathon because you wanted my attention, you wanted to be the center of it.”

He opens his mouth to protest but nothing comes out. Not even a hope and a prayer that he could make up any kind of excuse. 

And so, the Radio Demon continues. “And I’m flattered, truly!” He leans a little closer, voice buzzing with static. “I would be lying if I said that despite all of your weaknesses and folly, there isn’t a part of me that finds you utterly fascinating.”

Vox’s screen instantly glitches again, light blue dusting underneath his eyes as he blinks rapidly. “You…?” Can Alastor feel the elation running up and down his spine? There’s no way he can, right? The first part of the sentence was utterly flushed from the media demon’s brain as he swallows and tries to focus on something else entirely in the room, lest he say something to ruin this entire encounter.

Fortunately (or maybe not) for him, Alastor’s not done. “With all that in mind, I think you deserve a reward for putting on such a good show for me, my dearest Vincent. After all, I’m sure keeping all of those guffaws locked away didn’t leave you feeling satisfied, did it?”

Once again, Vox opens his mouth, actually able to formulate a sentence this time. “S-satisfied?!” He squeaks out as the flush returns. “I really d-don’t think…!” How the hell has this man turned him into this pathetic mess? 

The Radio Demon is strolling over to the other side of the bar now, gracefully hopping up and crossing his legs before he reaches down to almost affectionately give one stroke of the screen, right under his chin. “That’s true, pal, this isn’t entirely selfless. I want to hear exactly what you were doing such an excellent job of hiding from me.”

There are more of those stupid, black tentacles now, slithering underneath his button up and immediately going to work on some of the softer areas they had been tormenting a few moments ago. Vox immediately tightens, trying to tug his arms down to no avail with a sharp intake of breath. His immediate reaction is to hold it hold it just based on pure instinct alone. However, a small cough of a laugh exits his throat and Alastor’s smile sharpens.

“Oh my, don’t hold back on my account, good man! It’s not like anyone can hear you.” “E-exce—heh! Except…you…!”

“But that’s the fun part for you, now isn’t it?” Vox barely manages to shoot him a glare as it’s interrupted by a sudden swipe against his stomach and he yelps. 

Alastor gives a small hum that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. “Ah yes! I completely forgot that I was saving something very specific for last…~” The tips of the tentacles drift upwards to those light blue gills and Vox has a moment of utter panic enter his system like a rush of freezing chill from his cooling fans.

Nononono—

“Ah-hah! Alastor…nnnhehe…!” He can’t even protest without ruining the small bit of control he has over the sounds coming out of his mouth. “Okayokay, listen…! 

“I’m certainly listening.”

“You can…do whatever the fuck you’re g-gonna do…just not–” He lets out a sudden shriek that he’s sure is going to be mocked relentlessly as those tentacles start digging to that tender skin, legs kicking up until they are-too restrained against the floor. “N-no–FUCK! Hah-Alas–!! Nnnhehehe…!”

“Oh dear, did you think that meant I wouldn't continue?”

“NotthereNOTTHERE–!!”

Those red eyes light up. Not in a kind way—no no—he was enjoying the torment of it all. “Not there, hm? Oh, you should know better than that, Vincent”

Well he’s certainly laughing now, isn't he? He hates how unrestrained it is, how the sound is ripped from his guts and splayed out on his chest for the Radio Demon to hear. His picture box head is starting to glitch and overheat as he feels the tips of those tendrils brush feather-light back and forth across the gills mercilessly, torturously, and almost perfectly to draw out the noises Alastor clearly wants to hear.

“A-Ahahaha-LASTOR!”

“Hmm, I wonder if it’s possible for someone to die from laughing too much. I will admit, it’s not something I’ve seen before! What do you think, shall we test that theory tonight?”

Oh shit, he’s not stopping.

Fuck, he actually might kill him with this…!

“Unless, of course, you'd like to make a deal~”

And there it is. Vox can barely make out the words that the Radio Demon is cooing in his direction, his chortling is a few octaves higher. But he can feel the heat from his companion’s excitement around him, around the static that wafts so naturally for the little television demon.

He once again tries to pull his arms down, a mechanical whine coming from his lips. “N-no–!! No-hahaHAHA! Not…reallySHIT!!”

“Too bad, then. I suppose I’ll have to entertain myself another way until you have a change of heart.”

Red claws are reaching up to take a singular antenna between them, a motion that nearly makes Vox shriek with panic. But it ends in horrific elation as the pads of them draw up and down the thin wire, rolling it slightly back and forth as electricity dances between the two rabbit ears.

The result is instantaneous.

“FUCKFUCKFUCK–!!” If his laughter had been unrestrained before, this was digging from deep inside and throwing it at the wall. Like laughter he had been holding onto for decades, before he had even died, was being forced to the surface. Face flushed and expression of forced delight open and unfiltered for anyone to see.

And if it didn't make the Radio Demon smirk with some pride. In himself, of course. “Ooh, that certainly sounds like it’s too much to take—is this spot lethal? I must admit, I wasn't expecting you to impress me with your stamina any further, but willingly putting yourself through this just for my attention? Perhaps you are more masochistic than I was giving you credit for.”

The picture box is barely able to wheeze through his intermittent silent laughter and Alastor gives a light chuckle that sends shivers down his spine as he watches, those dial eyes glowing slightly. “Do you even know where you are right now?”

“PLEHEHEHEASE…!!”

Red ears twitch. “Trying to beg me? Oh, that’s quite the clever trick. However, in the spirit of good competition, I think I made my demands very clear. If you truly want me to show mercy, let's make a deal.”

Vox can’t take it anymore. He truly can't imagine this going on any longer and not losing his mind in the process.

“OKAYOKAY–PFFHAHAHA! JUSTSTAHAHAHAP!”

And the Radio Demon does immediately stop. The result leaves the television head gasping for breath with residual laughing that ranges from loud guffaws to annoyingly sick little giggles. His entire body feels as though it’s been rubbed raw with sandpaper, little sparks of electricity that mirror that burn he wasn’t used to yet when he first realized he could shock people, and himself. Especially himself.

“S-shit…” Alastor is still holding him strong, and he can only assume it’s to keep him in place until the details are accounted for. Fucking sadist. “S-so…what do you want…”

“Oh? Already ready to speak? Very well: a favor, from you, at any moment of my choosing.” He’s crossing his other leg over now, those lidded eyes locked onto him. 

Oh, that was way too open for his taste. But as he opened his mouth to protest, the tendrils returned to his body, setting up next to his gills—yes—but also around his hipbones and stomach, fluttering lightly, threatening.

“Stipulations are off the table this time, I’m afraid. To the winner go the spoils and you are in far too vulnerable of a position to be making any demands right now, Vincent.” He adjusts his monocle before his hand is hovering over the antenna again, wiggling claws menacingly close.

Vox will file this away for later. Because there is no way he can let the Radio Demon get away with this.

“F-fine…!” And he gives a squirm. “F-fucking fine, just let me go…”

“Good man!” The darkness lets him go all at once, drawing a gasp from the picture box as he slinks down to his knees, his legs failing him. There is a brief moment of loss that he feels from the touch alone, but never would he admit such a thing out loud. He instead pulls himself up by the barstool, scrambling for a second on shaking legs before plopping himself on the cushioned seat.

Just in time to see Alastor watching him with a hand over his mouth, hiding that permanent smile that is looking slightly more impish than it was a few minutes ago.

“Oh s-shut up…” How embarrassing. No, truly, he can’t even imagine anything worse than what the Radio Demon just put him through. “D-did you plan all of this to…”

“To achieve a deal made with you? No, I could have done that by ripping each of those little wires from your back one-by-one.” Incredibly specific. “It was just an entertaining way to pass the time and give you a clearly much-needed lesson in improving your stamina!” He leans in close to him. “Gaining a favor from you was just a bonus.”

“P-perfect…” He’s trying to adjust his sweater vest, rubbing the back of his head with a small wince. Why didn't he carry painkillers with him…

“Although,” fuck, what the hell? Vox jumps a little when Alastor’s voice tickles the side of his head, making him whip around to blink at him. “I will say that your laughter was quite the enticing sound. Considering how loud you can be, I was surprised how much I personally enjoyed it.”

“T-thank you…?” 

“Mm, I wouldn't be opposed to hearing it again. Next time.” And he bops his microphone against Vox’s screen gently before making his way towards the door of the empty bar.

Next time.

…

It started, like most of their days, with bickering.

Lucifer sat regally on the sofa in the parlor lounge of the Hazbin Hotel, legs crossed and goblet in hand, exuding calm superiority.

“You’ve gone and scared another client off the premises,” he drawled lazily, not looking up from his wine. “Tell me, was your goal to exorcise them through sheer obnoxiousness, or was it just a happy accident?”

Across the room, Alastor adjusted the dial on his antique microphone, pointed teeth gleaming through his grin. “They were annoying. And slovenly. I did the hotel a favor, you’re welcome.”

“Oh yes,” Lucifer scoffed. “By all means, continue undermining my daughter’s dream with your charming homicidal tendencies.”

The two stared each other down like the air itself had dared to offend them. Charlie had made very specific rules; no bodily harm, no threats of violence, and, most critically, no reality-warping duels inside hotel walls. And yet here they were, toeing every line.

Alastor opened his mouth to respond, but Lucifer cut him off before he could even get a word out.

“You do know what shutting the fuck up is, yes?” Lucifer sipped his wine with an exaggerated sigh.

Alastor tilted his head, grin widening. “Coming from you? One would think your highness would hold some semblance of integrity.”

Lucifer’s eye twitched, eyes red as he jumped to his feet, chest flaring. “You insolent little-“

“Guys.”

Charlie’s voice chimed from down the hall. “Be nice. No violence, remember? I need everyone making an effort to get along here.”

Lucifer plastered on an innocent smile. “Of course, my dear. Just having a spirited discussion with my good friend Al, here.”

Alastor waved, far too innocently, the slight irritated twitch of his eye his only give away. “Just enlightening your father on the joys of radio etiquette.”

Charlie groaned audibly and walked off.

Alastor turned back to Lucifer. “You heard the princess. No violence.”

Lucifer grinned, sucking air through his teeth with a barely withheld sneer.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of hurting you.”

He stood, polished and precise, brushing a speck of dust from his vest. “But Charlie never said anything about shutting you up.”

Before Alastor could react, the world blinked out.

They reappeared in a flash of white light, crackling energy humming against the crimson marble floor of Lucifer’s personal tower suite. The doors slammed shut behind them.

Alastor snarled and spun, his cane raised.

“I will not tolerate-!”

His words died in his throat when celestial restraints burst from thin air, golden cuffs locking around his wrists mid-motion and yanking his arms over his head. He stumbled, thrown off-balance, and his knees hit the floor with a thud. He gasped sharply as he felt cuffs loop around his ankles, keeping them locked to the ground.

“What is the meaning of this!?” he hissed, trying to phase through the bindings, only to find them maddeningly resistant to his usual power.

Lucifer approached, eyes glowing a soft, dangerous red. “A lesson, dear Bambi.”

Alastor bared his fangs, fur bristling, voice crackling. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh I will,” Lucifer purred. “Because it’s adorable. And you have gotten far too comfortable speaking to your king like an equal.”

“If you wish to be treated like royalty perhaps you should act like it.” The overlord spat.

Lucifer didn’t react to the disrespectful retort this time, crouching slowly to come face to face with Alastor’s kneeling form, though it wasn’t by much due to the sheer difference in height between the two.

Alastor met his gaze, unrelenting in the fury that blazed within his eyes.

Lucifer smirked, his face so close to Alastor’s he could almost feel the rageful heat radiating from his face. “You’re not in the position to be talking back, little fawn.”

Lucifer hadn’t intended to touch him, not really.

The plan had been simple: trap the Radio Demon in silence. Lock him in the tower with his own endless thoughts, away from Charlie, away from the staff, away from Lucifer. For once, a few hours of peace in the hotel without that grating, incessant voice chewing through every conversation like static on a wire. He’d let him go…eventually.

Alastor was still on his knees, wrists bound high above his head by golden celestial cuffs that shimmered and pulsed with divine energy. He scowled at the opulent room around him.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your petty little display of dominance,” he spat, “because once I’m free-”

Lucifer sighed dramatically, absentmindedly inspecting his fingernails. “You won’t be. Not for a while.”

He walked a lazy circle around the demon, hands clasped behind his back. “You see, bellhop, the very sound of your voice is like a fork scraping glass. And since Charlie won’t let me maim you…”

He circled back to Alastor’s front now, leaning down again to meet him there, punctuating his words with sharp pokes to Alastor’s chest.

“I’ve—had—enough—of you—talking.”

The last jab landed a little lower than the others, right against Alastor’s sternum, and that was when it happened.

The flinch. It was minuscule, barely a twitch really.

But to Lucifer?

Obvious.

He paused, one brow lifting with interest. Alastor’s face was already tightening, going carefully blank as though to pretend it hadn’t happened at all. But it had. And Lucifer had seen it.

“Well, well…” he mused.

Alastor’s glare sharpened. “What?”

Lucifer said nothing. Just smiled. That infuriating, cocky smile.

Without a word, he stepped behind the kneeling demon, slow and deliberate. Alastor’s posture stiffened.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice now edged with something beyond his rageful snarl, something more raw.

Lucifer didn’t answer. He simply stood behind him, letting the silence stretch long and taut like a string about to snap.

Then- lightly, almost thoughtfully- he placed his fingertips against Alastor’s sides.

Not moving, not prodding, just resting them there. Barely any pressure. Alastor froze.

The tension in his shoulders was immediate. His breath hitched, and he held perfectly still, spine rigid.

A devious grin curled its way along Lucifer’s face. Oh, this was far more effective than expected.

“Is something the matter, Bambi?” he purred near his ear, letting the nickname slither through the air like smoke.

Alastor didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched.

Lucifer didn’t move his hands yet. But the lack of motion was the worst part. Every breath, every micro-shift in Alastor’s body threatened to cause a ghost of a twitch from those poised fingers, and he knew it.

Lucifer’s voice dropped into a whisper. “You flinched.”

“No, I did not,” Alastor muttered, a little too fast.

“Oh, but you did.” Lucifer let his fingers flex the tiniest bit, barely enough to count. But it sent a tremor through the demon’s abdomen.

“You are,” Lucifer started, amused wonder in his voice as he paused between words, “sensitive, I take it?”

Alastor growled low in his throat. “This is juvenile. You-“

“You’re nervous.” Lucifer leaned close, breath brushing Alastor’s ear and causing it to twitch. “Which means this is going to be fun.”

Alastor’s entire body tensed like a coiled spring.

The weight of Lucifer’s fingers hadn’t changed, still feather-light against the overlord’s body.

Lucifer let the silence hang for a few excruciating beats, just breathing steadily behind him, his presence commanding and smug and infuriating. Then, ever so softly, he whispered, “You’re practically vibrating, little buck.”

“I am not,” Alastor snapped through clenched teeth. His tone thickened with effort, voice like glass cracking under strain. “Get your filthy hands off me.”

Lucifer chuckled a deep, indulgent hum that rattled straight down Alastor’s spine.

“Oh, no. No, no, I don’t think I will. I think I’ve just discovered something precious, and I’m not the type to waste an opportunity when it lands in my lap.”

He gave one finger the slightest twitch. Just one.

Alastor inhaled sharply, the sound thin and ragged. He kept his expression hard, but a bead of sweat rolled near his brow.

“This is beneath you,” Alastor hissed. “A cheap trick. You’re the King of Hell, not a petulant schoolgirl—”

“Oho, is that your angle?” Lucifer laughed, slipping a hand down to rest just at the curve of Alastor’s waist. His fingers were splayed lazily, not yet moving. “Trying to shame me out of it? Sweetheart, I’m the devil. Shame isn’t really in my wheelhouse.”

He leaned in close again, and this time, his voice was syrupy with threat. “And Charlie said no violence. But she didn’t say a word about this.”

Alastor turned his head just enough to glare at him, eyes narrow and dark. “You’re delusional.”

Lucifer chuckled in amusement, his breath against the back of Alastor’s neck making his fur prickle with goosebumps. “You really hate my guts, don’t you?”

“Passionately.”

Lucifer clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment. “Such a shame. After all the grace I’ve given you.”

Without warning, he let his fingers barely flutter against Alastor’s sides.

Soft, hardly there, but enough to remind the demon how perilously close he was to total humiliation.

Alastor twitched. His whole torso jumped a centimetre forward, restrained only by the cuffs above.

Lucifer chuckled slyly, and in a teasing voice sang, “You’re trembliiiing.”

Alastor growled low in his throat. “Release me. Now.” His voice was raspy, broken and pitched up, and if he listened closely, Lucifer could hear the smile on his lips, which the king of hell found especially interesting. The radio demon was never without a smile, but this was different, to hear it this way through his voice, almost as though it was more raw, real.

Lucifer trailed a finger in a slow, lazy arc just below his ribs, a ghost of a touch. “Say please.”

Alastor’s breath hitched again, another giveaway, another tiny thread of composure unraveling.

“The radio demon does not beg,” he spat.

“No? You sure?” Lucifer crooned. He danced a fingertip in a slow circle around Alastor’s side, just light enough to make the muscle twitch beneath it. “You’ve got that ‘barely holding it together’ vibe. Very overlord-in-distress.”

Alastor flinched again, his face darkening. His lips were pressed tight, like holding back a damful of water behind cracking concrete. His ears twitched. His jaw was clenched so hard it might shatter, and his usual smug grin had abandoned him, something more unrestrained in its place.

“Ticklish little fawn,” Lucifer cooed softly. “All that power, all that pomp. And one well-placed touch and you’re already squirming.” The king stepped around to face alastor again, fingers not leaving their place on his sides.

“I’m not—squirming.” The word sounded like poison on Alastor’s tongue.

Lucifer’s voice dropped again, sweet and dripping with honey. “You’re blushing.”

Alastor turned his head away sharply. “It’s the lighting.”

Lucifer snorted. “Oh, I’m sure it is.”

He let his fingers drift down toward the softest part of Alastor’s belly, stilling them there. Not moving yet, but the threat hung in the air like static before a storm.

“I wonder,” Lucifer murmured, “how long you would last if I really tried. I’ve barely touched you.”

“F-fuck you!” Alastor’s breathing was faster now- still controlled, but uneven. The cuffed position left him completely open, completely vulnerable, and Lucifer hadn’t even begun.

Lucifer smirked. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

And with that, he let his thumbs give the barest stroke along the curve of Alastor’s ribs- soft, slow, and so light it almost shouldn’t have registered aside from the pressure of his nails against the delicate bones.

But it did.

Alastor made a sound- half gasp, half growl. His back arched a fraction of an inch before he stiffened up again, pressing his knees into the marble floor, as if grounding himself would help somehow.

Lucifer’s grin was positively devious. “So, not ticklish, hmm?”

“Go to hell.”

“I built it.”

Lucifer didn’t relent.

His fingers, still dancing just over Alastor’s clothes, pressed with a growing boldness now; softly stroking at his sides, lightly tapping along his ribs, and occasionally letting his thumbs draw slow, lazy circles against the soft fabric of his waistcoat. Nothing direct, nothing skin-on-skin. But it didn’t matter. Alastor was already feeling the effects deep in his gut.

And Lucifer knew it.

“You’re doing wonderfully, by the way,” he said smoothly, as though praising a child for good behavior. “Your composure is truly impressive. I would’ve cracked already, if I were a lesser king.”

Alastor’s jaw clenched tighter, nearly aching. His fists were still tight, shoulders locked, but the cracks were starting to show. His breath was just a touch too fast. His spine arched just slightly away from Lucifer’s hand every time he grazed too close to a sensitive spot. And most delicious of all: his silence was growing tense, strained.

Lucifer’s smirk sharpened.

“Still haven’t answered my question. ” he sang, his fingers now skimming along Alastor’s lower ribs with deliberate precision. “You’re holding up so well. But I do wonder… if you’re not ticklish, why is your heart pounding like a trapped rabbit’s?”

“I am not—” Alastor snapped, before catching himself, grinding his teeth together and looking away with fury burning in his eyes.

Lucifer only chuckled. “Ah. So we’re continuing with denial.”

He moved behind Alastor again, slow and purposeful, fingers never leaving him. One hand rested gently at his waist, the other now tracing the soft spaces between his ribs, testing pressure and rhythm like a pianist searching for the right key. Alastor barely suppressed a jolt when Lucifer hit a particularly vulnerable angle, just beneath the edge of his ribcage, where the fabric of his vest was thinner, less structured.

“I think we’re getting close to something interesting,” Lucifer murmured, pulling his hands away. “But maybe I’m being too polite. Perhaps your pride needs a firmer push.” With that, Alastor’s coat and vest vanished, leaving his dress shirt as the only remaining barrier.

Alastor snarled, eyes blazing. “You think this will win you anything?”

“I’m not trying to win,” Lucifer replied easily, stepping forward. “I’m just reminding you of your place.”

He placed both hands firmly on Alastor’s sides now, fingers splayed across his ribs through his shirt. He gave a slow, experimental squeeze, pressing deeper than all his previous touches had.

Alastor jolted like he’d been electrocuted.

Lucifer’s grin widened, pupils blown like a shark sensing blood.

“Well now. That was a reaction.”

“You will regret this,” Alastor growled, voice ragged around the edge, pitched higher than it was just moments ago.

Lucifer only tilted his head, amused. “Eh, maybe. But I’ll enjoy it first.”

With wicked patience, Lucifer began to explore Alastor’s ribs again in earnest- light prodding, circular rubs, sudden jabs- all still over the shirt, but expertly placed. It was maddening. Every touch seemed to find a pressure point Alastor didn’t know he had. His whole torso was tense, back slightly arched, head turned away in desperate concentration.

But Lucifer didn’t need to see his face to know he was losing control.

He could feel it. The twitching. The trembling. He leaned in again, his voice velvety with taunt.

“You know what I love about this?” he whispered near Alastor’s ear. “You still think you have the upper hand. You’re still pretending you can handle me.”

Alastor didn’t respond.

Because if he did, he might laugh.

Lucifer smirked.

“Let’s ruin that little fantasy.”

With a casual snap of his fingers, Alastor’s dress shirt vanished in a puff of golden smoke, like the coat before it, leaving behind the soft curve of furred skin and faint, fawn-like spotting that began where the fur darkened on his sides, curling around to his back. Lucifer took a moment, just a moment, to appreciate the sight. If the radio demon felt exposed before, it was nothing quite like this.

“Adorable,” Lucifer cooed with venomous delight. “No wonder you keep this hidden. All those pointy teeth, that smug grin- and underneath it all, you’re just a sweet little forest creature.”

Alastor snarled, cheeks now burning a dark red. “Would you just shut up-”

Lucifer didn’t even wait for him to finish.

He placed his fingers gently on either side of Alastor’s now-exposed ribs, just the pads of his thumbs, resting right on the soft, vulnerable dip under the lowest rib. He didn’t move them. Just stayed there. Still.

Alastor stiffened as much as he could, wide, furious eyes and an internal storm of panic.

Lucifer leaned in, savoring the moment.

“I could break you with two fingers right now.”

Alastor remained silent, but his lips trembled. His jaw clenched tighter than ever, and a soft, involuntary twitch rippled down his side as Lucifer applied the faintest pressure. Still not moving. Not yet. And the worst part was, Alastor wanted to laugh. Laughter was begging, pleading with his body for release. But he couldn’t. He could not stomach the thought of Lucifer’s satisfaction, the humiliation.

Lucifer smiled.

“I wonder… how long you’ll last, now that there’s nothing between us.”

A deep, ragged inhale from Alastor fuelled the fire further within Lucifer.

And as he began to trace a circle, just one, around the bare fur of Alastor’s side-

The Radio Demon bit his lip, the corners of his mouth twitching further upwards.

Lucifer didn’t move fast.

He didn’t need to.

His fingers skimmed across the short, velvet-soft fur along Alastor’s bare ribs with maddening patience—just enough pressure to keep the nerves lit up like wires beneath the skin. He didn’t tickle, not exactly. It was worse than that. It was anticipation, dragged out into something more unbearable, and Alastor found himself wishing the king would just get it over with instead of holding him here in this uncertainty.

“Still holding strong?” Lucifer asked sweetly, his tone smooth, smug and silky.

Alastor didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His lips were pursed so tightly they were nearly white. His whole body was trembling in his restraints, like a violin string pulled taut. His soft fur bristled, his chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow gasps.

Lucifer tilted his head. “Hm. No comeback? I was almost starting to enjoy our little debates.”

Still no answer.

But when Lucifer’s thumb gently stroked under the edge of his ribcage, just once, the edge of his nail gently scraping the lowest rib, Alastor gave a sudden, helpless hiccup of breath.

Lucifer grinned, slow and wide.

“There it is.”

Alastor immediately growled, low and foreboding, forcing his expression back to a mask of fury. But Lucifer had caught it. That moment. And he was not going to let it go.

Lucifer lightly fluttered his fingers for just a beat against Alastor’s side. Breath caught in Alastor’s throat.

A little stammer. A harsh, involuntary huff of air through his nose.

Lucifer’s grin widened to something absolutely devious. “Sorry, what was that?”

Alastor glared at the ground, fuming, his mouth still clamped shut. His cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, his ears pressed tight to his skull in humiliation.

Lucifer leaned closer, voice a whisper against his neck. “Was that a giggle, Bambi?”

Alastor jerked at the nickname—an instant, furious flinch that made his sides tense—and Lucifer took advantage, letting both hands slide firmly around his bare ribs and squeeze, just once, quick and sharp.

“hh-hf —!”

Alastor’s head snapped down, still biting hard on his lip.

Too late.

Lucifer heard it. Felt it.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Another squeeze. This time slower, fingers digging gently between each rib.

Alastor gave a wheezy gasp and a stuttered, “d-don’t—!” before falling silent again, muscles shaking with effort.

“Don’t what?” Lucifer purred.

Alastor growled, low in his throat. Though, to Lucifer, it would be described as much closer to a desperate whine.

“I wonder,” Lucifer murmured, trailing two fingers in a lazy figure-eight over Alastor’s sides, “how much longer you can keep that in. This act. This is very… dignified of you.”

Alastor clenched his teeth again , his entire body rigid with effort. His ribs twitched beneath Lucifer’s fingers, responding involuntarily to the maddening softness of the touch.

He could feel the heat in his face rising sharply—his blush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, and down the back of his neck like wildfire. He knew he must look ridiculous. His nose crinkled. His jaw was locked tight. His tail was twitching erratically behind him in barely-contained panic.

Not here. Not in front of him.

“I know you’re not laughing,” Lucifer continued smoothly, brushing a fingertip along the lower swell of Alastor’s side, where the fur was softer—embarrassingly reactive, “but you’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it.”

He was.

Alastor hated how right he was.

Alastor scowled, his teeth bared now, but his face—oh, his face was burning. He was glowing red all the way down his chest, the blush utterly betraying him. His body was twitching in tiny spasms, no matter how still he tried to remain.

He was falling apart.

“hh-he—!”

Lucifer laughed triumphantly. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

Alastor gave a wheezy gasp, teeth still gritted.

“D-don’t—!” His voice cracked.

The muscles in his kneeling legs were trembling, and despite the red-hot rage in his chest, he couldn’t stop the shudder that tore through him.

Lucifer chuckled, wicked and sweet. “Oh come on, just let it out. You know you want to.”

His thumbs brushed gentle, fluttering circles just under his ribcage—soft and agonizing . It was unbearable.

A soft, high-pitched titter escaped before Alastor could clamp down on it.

No. No no no—

His heart slammed against his ribs, horrified. He could feel the laughter rising, pressing up into his throat like it was boiling over. His blush deepened—how was that even possible? He was sizzling.

Lucifer looked positively gleeful. “Oh. Oh. That’s precious.”

“Stop—” Alastor tried, but it came out strangled.

His entire body was shaking with the effort to remain composed. He was a breath away from collapse. His pride screamed. He was the one who broke others. He did not get reduced to a trembling, twitching mess.

Lucifer let him sit in that silence—hovering, poised, watching.

“You’re trying so hard not to laugh,” he murmured. “You’ve got that whole overlord reputation to protect. But here you are. Quivering like a scared fawn, ears pinned back, blushing so sweetly.”

Alastor snarled through his teeth again. His ears were so flat now they nearly disappeared into his hair.

His mind was spinning so fast, he was completely unprepared for Lucifer’s next move.

Both hands dove under Alastor’s arms from behind, latching onto his ribs, squeezing and vibrating fingertips in deep, wicked pressure.

Alastor broke.

“—p-Phfff—! N-Nohohoho—!”

No, he exploded.

Squeaky, frantic giggles burst out of him like a dam breaking.

He folded forward in the restraints, shoulders trembling violently as the laughter overwhelmed him.

“Pffhehehehehe—aAHAHA–! NO! HA–h-hold on–! You basta–AHAHA!”

Lucifer howled with joy.

“There it is! I can’t believe you thought you’d ever be able to hold out on me.”

Alastor was wrecked. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t think. His mind was a haze of horror and helplessness.

His chest burned. His face was on fire. His laugh spiraled upward into frantic, hiccupy bursts, broken and wild and nothing like the composed, elegant, terrifying image he clung to.

He hated it.

He hated how good it felt to let go.

Suddenly, lucifer was in front of him again, not wanting to miss another moment of Alastor’s wild smile. The demon was always smiling, but this was different. It was so…untethered. His hands slid lower.

Alastor knew, with the last thread of dignity he had left, that he was completely at the King’s mercy.

Lucifer’s grin widened when his fingers reached their final destination—the center of Alastor’s torment.

That soft, vulnerable, absurdly sensitive belly.

“Ohhh,” he purred, watching Alastor flinch even before he made contact. “Now what do we have here…”

Alastor tensed all over, teeth gritted through the giggles still tumbling out of him in helpless waves. “D-Dohohon’t—HAH!—y-you wouldn’t—!”

Lucifer hummed thoughtfully, scanning Alastor’s kneeling form. The way he had resolved to going slack in his restraints, head flopped forward in a last ditch effort to hide his flushed face. The trembling pale fur along his belly and sides—quivering, drawn tight with nerves, absolutely begging for attention.

“Hmm,” Lucifer murmured, cocking his head. “You didn’t say ‘can’t.’ You said wouldn’t. What a funny choice of words.”

Alastor’s eyes blew wide. “D-Don’t you dare—”

Lucifer gently wiggled his fingers just above the exposed skin, slowly bringing them closer to their destination. Alastor nearly stopped breathing altogether, whiny giggles tumbling from his lips, shoulders tight, every single nerve in his body screaming at him to brace.

“You’re already laughing,” Lucifer observed softly. “And I haven’t even touched your belly yet. What’s got you so nervous, little deer?”

He waited.

Waited.

Alastor made the mistake of shifting—just an inch—and Lucifer pounced.

Ten fingers descended like lightning, scribbling up and down the plush fur of Alastor’s stomach in erratic, devastating zigzags. He didn’t give him a moment to recover—each flick and scritch was purposefully uneven, unpredictable, keeping Alastor’s nerves overloaded and confused.

“NAHAHAHAHA—! LUHUHUHUHUCIFER—!!”

“Oh yes,” Lucifer breathed, positively delighted. “There it is. There’s the sound I wanted to hear.”

Alastor lost it.

He thrashed in his restraints, but they held firm, his knees trembling against the floor. His body shook with overstimulation, laughter pouring from him in high-pitched bursts, interrupted only by gasps and the occasional shriek when Lucifer zeroed in on a particularly brutal spot just above his hips.

“G-Get your h-haHAHANDS—! OFF—AHAHA—YOU SADISTIC—!!”

“Ah ah,” Lucifer scolded, brushing his thumbs in slow, lazy spirals around the shallow dip of Alastor’s bellybutton. “Charlie said no hurting each other, remember? This isn’t hurting. This is… correcting.”

“Y-YOU’RE DEAD—AHAHAHAHA!!—DEAD WHEN I GET OUT OF—!!”

Lucifer just clicked his tongue, his smile growing somehow even more smug.

“Oh? Is that a threat? I wouldn’t do that if I were your position right now.”

Alastor wheezed, red-faced and blinking back tears, laughter breaking into desperate little hiccups. Lucifer gave him a moment—just a moment—his fingers still resting wickedly over his belly. Alastor drew in three ragged, giggly breaths.

And then he dug in again, this time with rapid, focused scribbles across his lowest ribs, and Alastor squealed.

A high, undignified sound ripped from his throat as he threw his head back, laughter spilling out uncontained, pure and raw and broken.

“NOHOHOHO—STOHOP—THAHAHAT’S—THAHAHAT’S NOT F-FAIR—!!”

“Oh sweetheart,” Lucifer crooned, his voice practically a purr. “You thought this was ever going to be fair?”

He leaned down, lips nearly brushing Alastor’s ear.

“You ticklish little thing. If anyone finds out about this—well. I’m sure your reputation will never recover.”

Alastor hiccuped. “I—I’ll—I’ll rip yoHOHOU l-limb from liHIHIHIMB—!!”

Lucifer gave his ribs one last, devilishly calculated bout of pinches, fingers zeroing in on the soft flesh between them.

Alastor’s laugh shot up an octave, wild and unrestrained, as he sagged entirely in the binds, all his fight gone, reduced to nothing more than a flushed, breathless, giggling mess.

Lucifer finally relented.

His fingers stilled, drifting lightly off the trembling curve of Alastor’s belly, admiring his handiwork. The deer demon nothing like his usual composed image before—ears drooped, hair disheveled, fur tousled, cheeks cherry-red, chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. Lucifer chose to ignore the warmth that spread within his chest at the way Alastor smiled, bright and wide, so different from the one he normally wore.

And—most satisfying of all—he was silent.

“Not so chatty now, are we?” Lucifer said, mock-gently, brushing a thumb over Alastor’s shoulder like he was petting something fragile. “You should thank me. You’ve been begging for someone to knock you off that high horse since the day you arrived.”

Alastor didn’t speak.

Couldn’t speak.

Just glared, panting, still trembling from the aftermath. Still giggling.

Lucifer stepped back, smug and slow, and let the bindings begin to fade.

“You’ll be free in 10 minutes,” he said casually. “I’m off to enjoy the silence now. Do let me know when you’re ready to behave.”

He paused in the doorway, glancing back with one last smirk.

“And don’t worry, Bambi…your secret’s safe with me.”

He winked.

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