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As his gaze sweeps the lounge again, scanning for blonde strands styled in that perfectly imperfect hairdo and that razor-sharp smile, his pulse stutters.
Lucifer is gone.
Alastor blinks, forcing himself to focus, to push past the haze of alcohol and noise, but the room is crowded with bodies, demons handpicked to join the most unholy celebration of hedonism Hell can conjure. Figures blur together, an indistinct mass of movement and colour.
And then, from beneath the tall arch framing the doorway, carmine eyes meet his own.
Lucifer stands at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder as though daring Alastor to follow.
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'silent night' by emaxx
Excerpt:
Lucifer gasps his name, and it sounds like a prayer, begging for each of Alastor’s touch to brand his name deeper into his own essence. Just before Alastor’s mouth, the sensitive pearl between those soft folds is also pleading: for his tongue to tease and to press with precision. His fingers delve deeper to stroke the quivering walls; if he reaches far enough, perhaps he can somehow inscribe himself there, make his home in the heat that pulses around him for lifetimes to come.
Because even though Lucifer might be Hell itself, he is the closest thing to Heaven Alastor will ever know.
It’s staggering, this rhythm of weak throbbing as Lucifer’s body convulses around Alastor’s fingers again and again and of his heart beating in tandem. Alastor freezes as if tethered by an unseen force, and his breath catches in his throat when, suddenly, a string of four letters rolls through his mind like a revelation whispered by the universe itself.