Chapter Text
Three days.
Three measly days.
For someone who prided himself on self control, on committing the most visceral and gruesome acts against his fellow man only to complete his rounds mere hours later like nothing was amiss, Alastor would be the first to admit his current failures.
A shadow of the man he’d been beforehand, a pathetic husk of his former self, utterly enslaved to his baser instincts and completely out of his depth.
But how could he not be?
When dealing with the Devil himself, even his inflated ego didn’t extend to thinking he wouldn’t be changed.
Irrevocably. Forever
The prior weekend was still a blur of highly strung emotions and deplorable sins of the flesh, flashes of which hit him with unsettling clarity every time he had a moment alone.
Or, mortifyingly, whenever he even let his mind wander for a split second.
He’d been forced to accept his new normal when he couldn’t even make it a few hours before locking himself in his study, reliving every graphic detail while rutting into his hand.
Alastor had stopped resisting part way through Monday, accepting his new fate for the time being. His patient had made no indication that he wanted to give up his human disguise anytime soon, nor had he made any moves to reveal his true form again.
With limited options, Alastor had resigned himself to playing along. He’d planned on enjoying a little banter in his sessions with his patient as usual, distracting himself with his other work. Business as usual, to a point. Even if it was all a cover to give him time to process the world-shattering realisation that he was now entangled with a supernatural being far beyond his mortal comprehension.
But that was not the way Lucifer wanted to play.
Shifting in his seat while another shiver radiates from his core before travelling down to the head of his cock, Alastor is reminded just how fucking foolish he was to consider otherwise.
Precum drools from his slit as his cock twitches in his pants from the stimulation, dampening the seam of his work slacks. He does his best to keep his breathing steady, crossing his legs slowly so as not to draw any attention in the uncomfortably packed room. His efforts to retain some semblance of decorum in front of any curious gazes is pitiful, but it’s the only thing he can do to fight his rapidly slipping sense of self-control.
Because he’s one wrong move away from losing his fucking job right then and there.
His current method of attempting a retrospect is the only thing he can think of to fight the tempest of desire spiraling its way into his core. In hindsight it was more than a little idiotic think he could return to feeling in control so easily. He’d been so swept up in the idea of being the Devil’s favourite, of feeling seen for the innate evil nature he’d been hiding for decades, that he'd neglected to remember he’d actually been dealing with that same devil for months.
Patient 66 was obnoxious, unhinged, brattish.
Lucifer was no different.
Especially when he was demanding every modicum of the attention he had in order to save face.
The torture had been practically non-stop. The only semblance of reprieve he gained was in the sessions with the devil, where his patient kept up the act of being a model asylum resident. In the last three days Lucifer had droned on about his issues, acting like an incorrigible flirt at any opportunity without actually making any moves, only to pout when Alastor had to call their time for the day.
Nothing new…on the surface.
But those eyes.
The eyes that now permanently shone with golden light when they were alone drew Alastor in like a moth to the eternal flame.
The ones that were always watching him.
Alastor’s inability to function outside of their sessions clicked into place the second he realised that minx, that fucking bastard, had learnt his schedule down to the damn minute.
To say that he'd spent the last few days in a daze was an understatement. The brand on his chest burned every time he reached for his pen or went to pull a book off his shelf. He would be mid-way through a therapy session with another patient and feel the ghost of those fingertips against his skin. Alone it was even worse. He’d be plagued with visions of what they’d done in detail, of what they could do, of scenarios from the depth of his depraved mind come to life in vivid detail like some kind of twisted hologram.
But by far the most egregious of what the harlot put him through was this slow tease during his staff meetings.
Like the one he’s currently forcing himself to endure.
The constant battle with fighting down an erection while listening to fucking Susan drone on about the different patients' needs, or the new state-wide treatment restrictions wasn’t something he’d banked on ever having to deal with.
Yet here he was for the third day straight. Gripping the handle of his chair, already on the edge of ecstasy as he tries to follow today’s presentation on the merits of hydrotherapy. All while trying not to think about how he’d been balls deep in his patient’s warmth in the very same place his colleagues were considering installing the bathing units in.
Biting his already worn bottom lip, Alastor curses his past self for falling right into Lucifer’s trap.
It had started small at first. Monday morning’s staff briefing had been the start of these phantom touches. They started subtly; a dance of fingertips up his leg while he spoke, and a stroke down his stomach when they were preparing to wrap up for the day. Yesterday’s meeting had kicked it up a notch with some brushes over his cock into the mix, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.
In fact, it was quite a thrilling distraction from the usual monotony of hospital bureaucracy.
Alastor’s mistake was being absent minded enough to allude to it in his session with Lucifer yesterday. When his patient had sprawled across that still soiled couch, insisting Alastor also tell him about his day, he’d replied with a rehearsed answer. Minimal details, brushing over the different sessions and paperwork he had to complete. Dull, business as usual.
He’d only realised after the fact that he’d used the word ‘underwhelming’ to describe that morning’s meeting.
The glint in those golden eyes was the only indication that he’d fucked up.
Just thinking about that look now sends a shiver down his spine.
Alastor inhales shakily, barely resisting rutting into thin air. Because no matter what his pleasure laden brain is trying to convince him, he knows Lucifer isn’t actually in the room with him.
That, just like the previous two days, his length is safely tucked away in his pants. Straining in need, but not exposed in the slightest.
But that wasn’t what the damned brat was set on making him believe, though.
No. Through means far beyond what Alastor’s several decades in medicine could explain, it felt like his cock was currently being expertly worked in a sinfully soft palm. It had been that way since he first took his seat when the meeting began around half an hour ago. Starting slowly but insistently, working him up to being painfully hard with phantom sensations dragging him closer and closer to the edge with each passing moment.
In his defence, Alastor had tried to leave the second he realised the stakes were far higher today, but a single snide comment from Susan about his professionalism had glued him back in place. He was far too prideful to let someone like her think she had the upper hand, so he’d spent the first part of the meeting asking asinine questions until Lucifer’s game had sapped his ability to speak in a level tone.
Still, Alastor was determined to see this through. A fallacy that was proving to be a steep price to pay, but he was far past the point of being able to leave.
Not even his worn lab coat could hide how aroused he was now if he stood up, and he certainly didn’t want the majority of the staff at the Sacred Heart to see his impression of a well-pitched tent. Nor did he actually have the willpower to pull away from the mind-numbing pleasure Lucifer’s phantom hands possessed. Alastor’s nerves were on fire, forcing him to continually clench his teeth to prevent himself from whimpering like the dog the devil had turned him into.
All while his lower half throbbed with the need of him.
Of Lucifer.
What should be impossible, or what he’d considered so before Lucifer flipped his entire world on its head, has him chewing his bottom lip in an effort to tether his waning sanity. The burst of metallic flavour on his tongue does the exact opposite of calming him down though. While the taste of his own blood is unbelievably dull to that of the former angel’s, his mind quickly supplies him with the memory of licking that forbidden nectar from the flat of his blade.
The first of the divine flavors Lucifer blessed him with.
Alastor has to clear his throat loudly to cover the strained noise he makes as his tongue blooms with Lucifer’s delectable mix of sweet musk and spiced apples.
It’s embarrassing how quickly he links the flavour to the memory of having his mouth sealed around that dripping cunt, but he’s convinced it’s something he’ll never truly forget. The spray of the shower did so little to dull the way every one of his senses honed in on what he’d been craving for so long. Where his tongue had plunged as deep as he could reach, determined not to waste a drop of the slick arousal.
The arousal he’d caused by so readily dropping to his knees and-
Fuck.
As the next set of antiquated hyalotypes are placed up for review of the room, Alastor carefully uncrosses his legs. It’s a risky move with how wound up he already feels, but relief can no longer be delayed. The confines of his pants are restrictive enough, and with the unnaturally soft hand having somehow coaxed him to full throbbing hardness, he can’t put himself through the agony of trying to will himself to go down by squeezing his legs together any longer.
If anything, that mix of pleasure and pain is only adding to the coil tightening in his quivering abdomen.
Besides, the rest of the staff are engrossed in reviewing the photos of similar hydrotherapy units. The only person that has even acknowledged his existence since the presentation started was Rosie with a cursory glance and quirked eyebrow at his inability to keep still. But with the lights dimmed he can just about sneak a hand to his crotch to carefully maneuver his length away from the tightness of his waistband to rest against his bouncing leg.
It’s as intense as picking the perfect angle for a lobotomy, but Alastor forces himself to follow the action through to the end. The lessening in pressure is almost enough to make him moan again, something his tightly closed jaw fights it’s best to contain. But what almost does him in is the touch of his own hand.
While Lucifer’s teasing has felt remarkably real, the first actual touch to his twitching length is like taking a match to kindling, hitting him again with the reality of his situation. That, quite like some of the chronic cases of masturbatory insanity they’d supposedly treated in the asylum, he was openly touching himself in a crowded room.
Carefully. Slowly.
Alastor lets out the breath he’s been holding just as cautiously when he moves his hand away, almost ready to pat himself on the back for buying himself some time to calm down.
But that’s when he feels it.
The serpentine tongue that Lucifer had let him sample just enough for him to develop a craving for the unique sensations it could bring, now wrapping around the swollen head of his cock.
It’s far more intense than the touch of his hand. Far more real.
Utterly heavenly...for all of three seconds.
Gripping the table he’s tucked himself under as far as he can go, Alastor’s eyes go wide as the reality of what he’s about to endure hits him like a ton of bricks. Once again he kicks himself over not leaving when he had the chance, of letting his reputation take a few knocks from otherwise insignificant thorns in his side.
Lothe as he is to admit it, he should have taken the excuse to duck out of the monotony like some of the other Doctors had, even if it would lump him in with Vox.
Because the idea of trying to keep his composure while feeling those plush lips closing around his tip already seems like an impossible feat. Hell, if he’s not careful, he’s not sure he can stop himself from blowing his load right there in the breakroom.
When Lucifer starts to suckle, he’s almost convinced the static in his tunneling vision is the prelude of just that.
Alastor’s legs jerk under the table, the resulting knock making his colleagues concerned for their hot beverages as hands scramble to grab them. A mix of emotions flicker through the accusatory gazes around the table before he manages to mask the convulsion with a fake, and rather dramatic, sneeze. Susan’s tone becomes somehow more nasally as she flicks to the next picture, but otherwise Alastor surmises his dangerous game has gone unnoticed.
For now.
Running out of options as his cock is further enveloped in wet heat, Alastor scrambles to come up with a plan before that smart mouth steals what’s left of his sanity.
But he’s not entirely without a few tricks in his arsenal. In his career, both in medicine and ridding the world of the scum that resides at the bottom of humanity’s barrel, he’s developed enough of a poker face to hide his ulterior motives.
While he never thought he’d be using it to suppress his own carnal pleasure, it’s better than nothing.
Settling into the seat further by planting his feet firmly on the floor, Alastor dons the mask he uses to lure his people into trusting him entirely. The sensation is like pulling on a pair of well-worn gloves, the familiarity of such a mask remarkably calming. Sure, the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth while observing yet another option for different bathing apparatuses is odd, but not out of character.
In fact, odd is something he can rely on.
A facet of his mask that’s helped him hide all sorts of misdeeds over the years. The quiet boy who spoke too little but saw too much. The eccentric student who aced every class, including his now infamous paper on the procurement of bodies for medical dissection, ethical and otherwise. Then the brilliant doctor whose methods of treatment were questionable yet yielded undeniably successful results.
Yes, odd was an integral part of how he wanted the world to view him. Today’s behavior would be no different.
At least, that’s what Alastor tells himself as the phantom mouth around his cock demonstrates Lucifer’s lack of a gag reflex.
God above.
Without meaning to, his hips buck upward, desperate for more of the stimulation he’d never known the appeal of until recently. While it feels like he’s spent more time attached to his left hand in the past few days than he has in the rest of his life combined, it’s nothing compared to this. The tongue that’s been gently teasing the underside of his cock splits around the head on the next pull up, and he can swear the vibrations of a hum starts sending tiny pinpricks of pleasure all through his body.
Still, somehow, Alastor manages to keep his expression unchanged with his eyes locked on the opposing wall.
While his body is already at the stage of betraying his iron-clad will, the years of training himself to be completely unreadable are actually paying off. Even if it feels like the corners of his mouth are being held up by strings that are seconds away from snapping, he’s not getting a second glance from his peers.
Which, while also a testament to how he’d chosen the perfect place of work to fly under the radar, proves that any attention he feels on him is a figment of his imagination.
Just like everything else.
But when the next pass of the forked tongue teasing the rim of his glans leaves the distinct wet feeling of saliva against his heated skin, he can’t help but instinctively tighten his legs. His mind tells him he should meet resistance, that there’s no way in heaven or hell Lucifer’s lithe body isn’t knelt in front of him, but there’s nothing.
No one’s hair to grab to give him an anchor, no one’s tears to further ease the slide of his cock in and out of that tight throat, and no eyes to plead at him when he shoves the entire thing in and-
Oh.
Oh fuck.
The fantasies he’s been fighting to ignore instantly flood Alastor’s mind. The dam he’s created between fantasy and reality crumbles in seconds, filling his mind's eye with salacious visions of his patient servicing under the table. Unable to stop himself, the picture of his deepest desires paints itself in mouth-watering detail as his heart stutters in his chest.
Those angelically long lashes flutter closed as Lucifer takes his cock down to the root, groaning like Alastor’s taste is just as addictive to him as his sweet nectar. Alastor’s legs twitch again when the vision’s cheeks hollow around his cock, the warmth surrounding him just as addicting as the teeth he can feel threatening the underside of his throbbing length.
Teeth that are far too sharp to be human.
As soon as the thought enters his head, the vision before him transforms. Once again he has to hold his breath as the thought of seeing that tail again makes him pulse. He sees it swishing behind Lucifer, moving in the same rhythm as his playfully wiggling ass. Because of course that brat would tease, even in his more demonic form.
He wonders how it would feel to grab hold of Lucifer’s horns just as they appear, with his mind helpfully supplying just how useful they’d be in choking that brat out.
Teaching him a lesson by fucking that angelic face into submission. Until Lucifer’s face is the picture of ruined beauty, all just for him.
Or, more pressingly, sobbing with relief over finally being able to spill while choking Lucifer on his cock.
Fluttering blonde lashes open as his speed increases, with the blue once again replaced with shimmering gold. The deep pools Alastor’s ready to drown in stare him down just as he feels his testicles begin to draw up to his body, tightening as an inferno of pleasure builds and-
-the overhead lights in the room flick back on so fast he almost jumps out his skin.
And Lucifer, the damned harlot, pauses just as Alastor’s cock hits the back of his throat.
No.
“Now that that’s over,” Susan starts, taking her space back at the head of the table while a few of the younger nurses set about clearing away the clunky projection apparatus, “We move onto the next point of the agenda. Patient reports. Particularly the volume in which they’re not being completed.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Even as Alastor balances right on the edge of bliss and simultaneous ruin, Lucifer doesn’t move a muscle.
As if his patient knows exactly what’s to come even before the old bitch of a matron narrows her shrew-like eyes directly on him.
“I’m not one to single any of you hard working Doctors out. However,” She slams her pile of papers on the table before picking the first and thinnest stack, “Your pile of finished reports is particularly light, Alastor.”
If the way Susan says his name isn’t enough to make his erection finally wilt enough for his head to clear, the way she thumbs through the stack before sighing heavily definitely does.
The smarmy ‘Again’ muttered under her breath is what puts Alastor’s mask, complete with a far more manic smile, firmly back in place.
“While I’m well aware of my shortcomings, Susan,” he starts, tone remarkably even considering he can feel the prongs of Lucifer’s tongue flexing against the underside of his cock, “I’m afraid I’ve been quite swamped with the practicalities of my position while we’re still several staff down.”
Alastor swallows the thick lump in his throat that forms when his shift in position sends him further into the mouth that isn’t really there, the ripple of pleasure only counteracted by the sharp pain he gets from swiftly stabbing a fingernail into his leg.
“It’s no secret we’ve been running on fumes since our dear Doctor Nergal’s tragic departure three months prior.” He continues, his mind supplying the vision of flames he’d convinced the old fool to throw himself in when he asked too many questions about a former shared patient, “And what with illness and the sudden incident spike in the last week or so, I dare say we’re at breaking point.”
Alastor keeps his smile firmly in place as his mouth fills up with the bitter taste of a flimsy misdirection. It’s far below his usual calibre, where he would carefully plan out how to steer any conversation to his favour. But with the breath he can feel tickling against his pubic mound, it’s the best he can do.
With thanks to some deity that’s set apart from the hellish one pretending to be between his legs, Susan takes the bait.
“Ah, yes. Of course!” Her eyes finally leave Alastor as she addresses the rest of the room just as a single bead of sweat trickles down the back of Alastor’s neck, “The impending full moon is to blame, you see! I’ll say it again; it’s the same every month, and we should be moving away from all of these new fangled treatments and accept that our charges are sensitive creatures to those kinds of universal vibrations.”
The way Alastor can feel every set of eyes in the room roll is another welcome distraction. Especially with Susan’s tone implying she’s the world’s leading expert in astrology, painfully forced to act the part of a humble asylum matron.
And Alastor thought he had illusions of grandeur.
Usually, he’d have no qualms about calling such baseless pseudoscience out, but with the way he’s clutching at straws to suppress the needy whine over being held so perfectly on the edge again, he chooses another route.
“So astute of you to notice, Matron,” he says, drumming his fingers on the desk in a failed attempt to dispel some of the unresolved tension in his body, “I’ll be sure to mention those invaluable insights to the board.”
While it’s said as genuinely as he can muster given the circumstances, there’s one person he can’t fool.
Out of the corner of his eye he catches Rosie raising her hand to discreetly laugh behind. He’s struck with another wave of fear over being caught, then he catches her eye. Despite his mind being hazy at the light suction he’s being forced to endure, he successfully reads the amusement in his old friend’s expression. There’s a second eye roll behind a nodding Susan’s head before she shakes her own, immediately lowering Alastor’s heckles.
Letting him see the golden opportunity to push everyone’s attention off him, if only for a moment.
It’s so rare to have both Rosie and Susan in the same room. The hospital’s most senior nursing staff tended to work in opposing shifts, but the short-staffing he’d mentioned had forced them to be creative with the roster. Not that he’s not complaining. Even if his pride will end up wounded with yet another favour being added to Rosie’s current tally, he knows where his friend’s loyalties lie.
Besides, with his non-existent patience waning and the window to form coherent thoughts rapidly closing, it’s a risk he needs to take.
“But while my quantity has been lacking-”
Alastor pauses, not for the dramatic effect he hopes everyone is taking it as, but because he feels the tips of Lucifer’s tongue stop teasing around his head to lap at the emissions beading at the slit.
Before pushing in.
“-I think you’ll find the focus of my submitted reports-” Alastor skillfully masks a catch in his throat by wetting his lips, trying to ignore the tang of sweat beading in his hastily-trimmed moustache, “-Are more than making up for that in their quality and depth.”
His hand reflexively reaches out to grab hold of nothing as the forked tongue pushes a little deeper, each prong tickling the inside of his slit. It’s an act he’d never even thought about in a sexual manner considering its similarities to inserting catheter, but one Alastor is having to quickly come to terms with how jarringly pleasurable it can be when he’s this worked up.
Or, more likely, because that damned harlot is the one putting him through it.
“If you need an example,” he swallows heavily before gesturing at the pile of papers far too emphatically, “Look no further than the way Sunday’s major incident was completely de-escalated,” He moves a hand to gesture toward Rosie, metaphorically grasping at her to stop him from drowning just as Lucifer pushes a little deeper, “Isn’t that right nurse Taylor?”
Even with his remarkably level tone, Rosie isn’t so easily fooled. She perks up immediately, dark eyes glittering with the smugness of someone who knows there’s far more to Alastor’s pleas than meets the eye. He sends another silent plea, surrendering himself to scrambling for an excuse when she corners him later.
If he even survives the continuing torture that long, that is.
But the invitation to be his saviour is snatched away.
“Ah, yes,” Fucking Susan chimes in, flicking through her papers before throwing Lucifer’s file into middle of the table, “The notorious Patient 66 is one of yours, isn’t he?”
The room quickly erupts with a few gasps, murmurs, eyes flicking all around both from the mention of the patient in question and the social faux pas. While Alastor takes a second to note the way Rosie’s eyes narrow in utter fury to use for his advantage, he physically can’t dedicate further thought to what is otherwise a resounding victory to his cause.
Because, despite the way Susan’s voice feels like nails on a chalkboard, all he can think about is those words.
Words with a hidden meaning that he alone is privy to.
One of yours, isn’t he?
Oh, yes.
Lucifer is definitely his.
Even if Alastor can easily imagine the smirk on that face forming in real time from his patient thinking it’s the other way around.
Wait, no, not imagine.
He has to bite back another ungentlemanly sound when those plump, swollen lips curl into a smile around his length. Even with Lucifer not actually in the room, his patient’s thoughts are as clear as if he’d just whispered them in Alastor’s ear.
Which just won’t do.
The hellish brand on Alastor's chest screams Lucifer's claim to his soul, but regardless of whether Lucifer admits it, Alastor knows the devil is equally bound to him. The chains of this bond bind them both.
No matter how utterly asinine and risky the whim is, Alastor just needs to remind him of that.
In a split second his demeanor flips as a darker expression crawls over his face. He adjusts his stance under the table, no longer trying to squirm away in favour of facing the inevitability head on.
Or perhaps, head in.
A perfect world would have Lucifer manifest enough to thread his hands through those sinfully soft locks to bring that about, but Alastor’s not afraid to improvise.
“That’s correct.”
He flexes his hips, a small enough upward movement to not be noticed by the rest of the meeting, yet enough to feel those lips slip back down his length.
A move that Lucifer immediately counters by jerking back, exactly how he expected him to.
“After being deemed such a high risk-”
Alastor continues, circling his pelvis just enough to drag himself over the open lips at his tip. The act of whorish temptation is out of character, a taste of Lucifer’s own medicine, but it works with how eagerly he feels those phantom lips close around his head.
The success encourages the addition of even more bravado to his already precarious activities.
“-The delicate balancing act of Patient 66’s well-being is one of the hardest-” thrusting again his voice almost breaks as the whore hollows his cheeks far too perfectly,“-ones to manage.”
He stills, hoping to regain that lost ground but it’s entirely in vain when Lucifer takes that as an invitation to scrape teeth on the underside of his cock.
Which- fuck.
Feels far too good for him to currently comprehend.
“And despite the small lul, if-if you will-” Alastor places his hand a little too heavily on the table next to the notes, hoping the outlet will be enough to hold back the noises clawing up his throat, “You’ll find all of Patient 66’s write ups are now up to date, including the-”
His voice catches when Lucifer doubles down, bottoming out while still using his teeth.
The blinding mix of pleasure and pain further scrambles his short-circuiting brain.
“-incidents-over-the-weekend.”
His speech comes out as a garbled mess, one that he immediately tries to cover by clearing his throat.
The second he catches the confused glances rippling around the room, he knows his ploy was ineffective. The irony of his face burning hotter than the hell he’s somehow found himself in the midst of isn’t lost on him. It should be a sobering indicator for him to stop while he’s ahead, to find an out as quickly as possible.
Instead, it only makes him double down in stubbornness. To the point he chooses to take the opposite approach, mind quickly recalculating how to have all those flitting eyes back on him and him alone.
“Excuse me for that outburst. My throat is rather dry, and I suspect I’m not as immune to the human condition as i’d like to think,” Alastor offers with a wink, reaching for one of the water pitchers on the center of the table to pour himself a remarkably steady-handed glass, “But as I was saying, all the reports are co-signed with Nurse Taylor, who can validate my accounts.”
He nods from across the table, layering the charm on thick in hopes it will earn him the favour he needs.
Especially when his next move is to cut Susan off before she can fully raise a boney finger in protest.
“While we acknowledge that the incident was particularly turbulent,” He shoots her a glare, stopping the interruption in its tracks before addressing the rest of the table, “I dare say we’re close to a breakthrough that will positively impact the day-to-day operations throughout the hospital.”
The murmurs he receives at such a statement are positive, drawing the attention of several participants who were previously zoned out just as he prepares to pull off his most daring move yet.
“After all, the de-escalation treatment administered resulted in the notorious patient 66 returning to his cell within the hour-”
He switches position, leaning over the table while firmly planting his feet on the floor, all while making it appear like he’s passionate about his convictions before delivering the final blow.
“-Completely and utterly pacified.”
With the room erupting with chatter and even a small round of applause, he thrusts upward, shoving his cock to the back of the phantom throat. Making the parallels of his tale laughably clear by having that brat finally submit and take it.
The full body shiver he has to suppress as Lucifer’s moan vibrates through his cock is but a small price to pay for sweet victory on all accounts.
“Oh, you flatter yourself, Doctor!” Rosie, the absolute saint that she is, buts in to steal everyone’s attention with her commanding tone, “He’s an absolute marvel at work that one, the way he deals with the most troubled souls, well it pulls at every heart string you could have!”
There’s more murmurs, even a few fawning sighs from some of the younger nurses, all of which Alastor waves away with a modest hand gesture.
Which acts as the perfect cover for having to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself making the same sounds as the ones vibrating through his length.
Now that he’s started moaning, Lucifer doesn’t seem inclined to stop. It’s excessive, something Alastor initially assumes is yet another way that brat is intent on driving him insane, before another, far more dangerous thought enters his mind.
That the moans are genuine. That right now, in the privacy of his room, his patient has several fingers buried inside himself. He sees Lucifer writhing like a wild animal so clearly in his mind, rutting against his hand while using that unnatural link to drive Alastor to the brink of insanity.
The thought of that insatiable brat whining while his perfect body begs for Alastor’s touch almost does him in then and there.
“He’s a wonder to see in action, I’m telling you! So understanding of the poor soul’s plight-” Rosie continues, picking up the stack of notes herself before shooting daggers at Susan over the top of them, “-Surely such exemplary work outweighs a little paperwork, no?”
The murmurs in the room are all in the affirmative, which should spell the end of this little exchange. Where the room can move on to the next topic or, hell, even finish up the meeting early.
So Alastor can finally get out of here, find his patient, replace those phantom lips with the real thing before shooting his load deep in the Devil’s throat.
Wait-
Alastor’s eyes go wide as a very real sound claws its way up his throat. He manages to hide it under another fake cough, but even so, it’s the wake up call he needs to snap him out of his fantasy.
No matter how tantalisingly depraved it is.
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Susan asks, her tone smug enough to make Alastor’s erection actually wilt as a matching expression morphs her wrinkled features, “We had another incident in the dining hall this morning, one that required your patient to be put in solitary confinement.”
Ah.
That…wait.
Fuck.
The thinly-veiled attempt to get a rise out of him would usually leave Alastor unphased, such immature tit-for-tat tactics rolling off him like water off a duck's back.
However, when coupled with Lucifer deciding to choose that exact moment to fully deep-throat his throbbing cock, he can’t keep himself in check. Heat floods Alastor’s face when all the eyes in the room snap to back to him just as Lucifer puts him through the delicious torture of hitting the back of his throat repeatedly.
Alastor swallows in sync with the devil as half of the cells in his body scream at him to keep his cool. The other half beg him to throw away everything he’s built his life upon to chase the ecstasy into the burning flames.
Alastor suppresses everything he can with another heavy gulp, narrowing his eyes while putting on a show of attempting to keep his temper in check, “And you didn’t think to inform me of that immediately?”
The mirroring of that same look with the addition of Susan’s stuck-up attitude should temper the heat inside of him, but with Lucifer now bobbing his head rapidly, Alastor is shit out of luck.
“I’m informing you now, Doctor,” Susan answers with a self-satisfied smirk that Alastor knows he should challenge.
But he can’t.
“You know, if it was up to me, which it should be far more often,” she continues while Alastor keeps himself as still as possible despite the need to throw that brat off his perfect pace, “He'd be right back in the full-body restraints we arranged on his arrival. But as your notes state-”
The fear that some of his inner thoughts, or worse, his sketches, have managed to sneak into that stack is an irrational one.
It doesn’t stop more rivulettes of sweat from trickling down Alastor’s neck as Susan flips through the pages in Patient 66’s file in order to find the entry she’s looking for. There’s a sinister glint when she finds it, the mumbling under her breath as she brings the paper close to her thick rimmed glasses making Alastor’s skin crawl.
For all of a second, that is.
Before that sensation flips at the feeling of Lucifer moving lower, the ghost of the breath he knows isn’t really there blooming around the base of his heavily twitching length sending his mind reeling with possibilities.
Just what was that damned brat-
“Patient 66 has, remarkably, turned a corner and is now responding to treatment”
Susan interrupts his thoughts like a derailing train. Her tone is a mockery of Alastor’s long-lost accent, further accentuating the damned pendulum swing of emotional turmoil as his blood boils.
Sneering at him over her glasses, she scoffs loudly, “And what exactly would that treatment be, Doctor?”
Seeing red, Alastor momentarily breaks free of the chokehold Lucifer has on him.
Without thinking he leans forward in his chair, only just resisting the urge to slam his hand on the table. The instincts that have kept his well-crafted mask in place for years kick back in, making him feel unreasonably calm as he imagines just how easy it would be to break his colleagues' bird-like frame in several places.
“My treatment-”
Alastor's breath unexpectedly catches as one of his testicles is enveloped by the same wet heat he’d previously had around his length.
Fuck!
The blanket of security he’d just crafted is snatched away with the rush of pleasure. It’s a sensitive area at the best of times, but just like the previous little trick, right now it’s utter ecstasy.
And Alastor short-circuits faster than the radio in his office after a storm.
“-It will- it could-” he stutters, losing ground with each pause he needs to take to stop the needy whines he can feel in the back of his throat, “I’ve developed some-some unconventional methods over the past few weeks that are proving in-invaluable to our progress.”
His voice strains further, desperately fighting the urge to shiver as Lucifer switches to the other side. The moan that vibrates through his overly-heavy globe is so drawn out that Alastor has no problem imagining what it sounds like.
How Lucifer’s otherwise loud vocalisations would be so beautifully muffled with his own flesh, a thought which makes resisting the urge to cup himself through his slacks that much harder.
The hope that his vague illusions will be enough to stop his interrogation is shattered alongside his restraint when Susan picks his papers back up.
“Again, what exactly would those methods be, Doctor?” She challenges, shaking her head as she flicks back and forth between several entries in the patient’s file, “You don’t go into much detail in these supposedly in-depth notes.”
Alastor prepares himself to launch into a speech about where she can find each and every example before sticking the entire stack up her ass.
But Lucifer cuts him off by switching back to his cock, swallowing half of his length without a moment’s hesitation.
This time he has to bite his lip to stop a guttural moan from escaping. It catches in his throat, the strained sound loud enough to draw attention as he tries desperately not to act like he’s not just fucking whimpered in front of his peers.
Thinking fast, Alastor tries to hide his likely deplorable expression behind his hand momentarily before dragging it down his face in exasperation. He glances between his colleagues rapidly, knowing they're already starting to question the more out-of-character behaviour.
He can’t afford to wonder if he can truly hide this outburst under a staged fit of rage and storm out of the room with a rant about professional conduct. Not with his straining erection now constantly jerking with the need to cum, a sight which will decimate his credibility in a matter of seconds.
And put him under immediate investigation at best.
Even if it makes his stomach twist, a wet-spot seems far easier to hide upon his departure than what the table is currently concealing.
With Lucifer not letting up in the slightest, what other choice does he have?
Alastor takes a deep breath, pushing everything else down to give the best acting performance of his entire career since a certain, now deceased, officer became a little too suspicious of his proximity to his previous three victims.
“While educated eyes will spot that I have, in fact, detailed each approach. At length,” he starts, tone once again steady despite the soft lips caressing his length with each pass, “It’s the culmination of subtle shifts in existing treatment that inform my new, humane, approach to this particular profile.”
Predictably, Lucifer’s speed picks up. But Alastor holds firm, doing his best to disengage with his body just as he does when his muscles strain from hauling his victims or when he has to force himself through yet another overly-friendly meeting with Vox.
Dr. Oxley-Zander’s earlier excuses to leave now seem like an absolute godsend, considering his penchant for sitting far too close would absolutely put another nail in the coffin of Alastor’s sanity, but that currently seems like the least of his worries with the rest of the room watching him painfully closely.
“It’s clear we’re dealing with someone far above average intelligence with Patient 66,” he continues, exhaling heavily to dispel some of the attention as he addresses the entirety of the room, “I mean, I don’t need to inform anyone who's had direct contact with him that he’s not exactly our run-of-the-mill lunatic.”
The statement garners a few chuckles, exactly what he was banking on. His winning smile forms again while Lucifer’s repetitive ministrations become easier to drown out now that he’s not as singularly focused on his talented mouth.
In fact, as his breathing finally stablises, the pleasurable tingle in his lower half is almost comforting.
“I’ve found remarkable success in treating him less like a rabid savage in our conversations, but more like an equal,” Alastor smirks, recalling just how Lucifer looked in their session yesterday, those big doe eyes practically begging for attention whenever he looked up over his notes, “He responds far more like a member of civilised society when-”
Fuck!
Alastor stops himself mid-sentence as, through whatever unnatural means the Devil has been torturing him by utilising, he suddenly feels a light pressure against the rim of his anus. It’s clear within seconds that Lucifer is about to perform an act he’s entirely unfamiliar with in anything other than textbooks and the fantasies he’s yet to attempt with the minx intent on breaking his mind.
Yet, while he’d never envisioned himself being on the receiving end, he can’t deny the jolt of pleasure that light circling motion immediately gives. It’s unlike anything to do with his cock, and yet, the sparks of pleasure are familiar at the same time. He’s immediately struck with the thought that a man in his position, with a craving for making his fellow man submit to his will in whatever means he has at his disposal, shouldn’t like such acts.
Such invasive, submissive and vulnerable acts.
But just like so many other things Lucifer has subjected him to, Alastor does.
Which is a mindfuck enough to break that carefully crafted facade in an instant.
“-When g-given the opportunity for conversation on equal bay-sis,” He stutters through the fog of confusing pleasure, trying and failing to regain his composure, “Patient 66’s company can-can be rather-”
Oh.
What he can only assume is a finger coated in some form of lubricant presses against the tight ring of muscle, just enough to make it give.
The whole world feels like it grinds to a halt when it’s coupled with Lucifer shoving his entire cock to the back of his throat.
Ohhhh.
To Alastor’s horror, and some sense of perverse curiosity, it feels incredible.
“-Pl-pleasant.”
He swallows heavily, clearing his throat again as he reaches for more water, unable to make eye contact for fear he’s now completely glassy-eyed with lust.
That or the need to murder the fucking brat that’s pushing buttons he didn’t even know he had will be be written or all over his face.
Which, wait.
The flash of Lucifer covered in his own blood, beautifully squirming as his human body fights to stay conscious, has the usually composed doctor nearly convulsing under the desk.
Dangerously close already, Alastor is now unable to think of anything but choking out that last breath by his own hand.
“And yet, you’re still unable to find out your patient's name?” Susan interjects, catching his gaze despite his best efforts before narrowing her beady eyes, “You're going soft, Alastor.”
With the universe's sense of irony it’s no wonder that his cock choses that moment to pulse violently inside the wet heat of Lucifer’s mouth. He knows he’s being insulted, that the next thing out of Susan’s lips will either be a second thinly-veiled insult about his background or another challenge to his professionalism. While the latter is accurate, his current state of mind has whittled away all of his patience.
Leaving him wondering if he’ll blow his temper or his load first.
The rage momentarily wins, but when Lucifer decides to repeat both actions again, he instead fully chokes on his next inhale while stars dance on the edges of his vision.
“Are you alright Doctor?”
Rosie once again comes to his defence before he makes an absolute fool of himself.
“That cough giving you trouble again, Dearie?” She clicks her teeth, acting concerned despite the renewed interest dancing in her eyes, “I told you to get that little problem checked out. It's quite persistent.”
Oh no.
Fear of another kind trickles down Alastor’s spine as he retrieves the handkerchief from his breast pocket to politely wipe his mouth. It’s obvious that she’s putting several pieces of his puzzle together.
Which, shit.
Even if she has no way to know the torture the Devil is putting him through under the desk in real time, the idea that his friend thinks he’s falling apart at the mere mention of his patient isn’t a pleasant one.
But one Alastor forces himself to play along with.
Especially now he’s so close he can practically taste the awaiting ecstasy on his tongue.
“Never better,” he starts, clearing his throat again loudly as Lucifer continues to tease him with his mouth and fingers, “All a design of my own making I’m afraid.”
He shoves his handkerchief into his pants pocket, shuddering at the proximity of his fingers next to his cock before fishing out his cigar case to carelessly throw them on the table.
“Any illness is immediately flared by refusing to kick the habit. But then, it’s quite the occupational hazard, no?” He scoffs, pulling out one for himself before sliding the case across the polished surface, “Isn’t that right, Matron?”
Susan, who had been restrained on her usual habit of 20-a-day, initially turns her nose up at the offer. It lasts for all of three seconds while Alastor lights up, the scent of his particular brand filling the small space quickly becoming a temptation she’s unable to resist.
Alastor then generously gestures to the case, inviting anyone to light up on his account. It’s both a ploy to get himself back under control, while unintentionally adding another layer to his dangerous game.
In such a fine caliber of cigar, the nicotine does its job far too well as a relaxant. A few puffs is all it takes before the insistent finger that has been teasing him slips in further.
Fuck.
Things happen far too fast as Alastor effectively muzzles himself with another shaky inhale. He can feel Lucifer’s pleased moan around his length as he works the finger into him, stretching him out and exploring until-
-Until he adds a second, immediately brushing a spot Alastor can only assume is his prostate, the spike of white-hot pleasure so strong he almost bites off the end of the cigar.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
“Apologies for the interruption,” Alastor says in a voice that’s a pitch too high as he desperately tries to throw the attention off him again, “Would you mind detailing this morning’s incident thoroughly so we can collectively decide the next steps?”
It’s another risky play to not move on from the topic, but he’s down to banking on one thing and one thing alone.
The fact that Susan loves nothing more than the sound of her own voice.
There’s a beat, one where Alastor is pretty sure he can feel his pulse pounding in his ears at the same pace as Lucifer’s mouth and fingers. He does his best not to shrink under what can only be described as both accusatory and suspicious expressions, most he hopes are on the account that he’s usually known for wanting to keep these meetings as short as possible.
Susan, however, practically beams at him.
“Well, considering that I was in the thick of it all, I’ll happily share my account.”
Swallowing down another moan at the relentless attention to his lower half, Alastor nods in her direction, “The floor is yours.”
“At exactly zero seven hundred, block B was brought into the dining hall after I had finished my survey of the room. I came in at zero six thirty, as usual, to find the night cleaners hadn’t finished their duties, so obviously I took everything in hand and-”
No matter how much he wants to seem interested to avoid further suspicion, Alastor’s mind quickly drowns everything but the torturous pleasure almost completely out. Now that he’s not actively engaged in conversation, and with Susan intent on detailing every unnecessary bit of information, it’s like every sensation is heightened.
To the point where his mind can no longer differentiate reality from the phantom sensations Lucifer is putting him through.
A proud man of science he may be, and yet, there’s no mistaking how blissful the feeling of being swallowed expertly to the root at the same time as being fucked by two talented fingers really is.
Or how quickly the reality that he’s about to cum actually hits him.
“-Biting and scratching again, yelling about everything being so unfairly dull. I tell ya, I’ve never heard anything so entitled-”
Alastor hides a choked moan behind a laugh at the sentiment before taking another drag of his cigar. It steels his nerves seconds before Lucifer shatters it by curling his fingers at the perfect angle. He keeps his hand near his face while feigning interest, breath coming in short pants behind his hand. Even as he adjusts his stance he’s given no time to mentally prepare, his nerves sparking like firecrackers and that forboding coil tightening deep in his gut.
His heart skips several beats as Lucifer’s breath impossibly tickles the skin of his upper thighs, the anticipation of what’s to come almost as intense as the act itself.
“-It was deemed a straight-jacket was the most appropriate form of restraint. Something which Patient 66 initially resisted fiercely, but what he remains in currently-”
Oh.
Oh no
With little to no mental defences, Alastor has no problem seeing Lucifer on his knees in those very same restraints with his soft lips wrapped around his cock. He imagines himself watching Lucifer try to keep his sense of balance,those pale lashes clumping with freshly forming tears as Alastor fucks his throat with abandon.
Which makes the reality of staying still right now all the more impossible.
Of course, a straight jacket makes the fingers currently coaxing him further open harder to fit within his mental image. But that does little to dissuade the perverted recesses of his mind. He imagines how easily it would be to use some of his more controversial apparatus, the ones he’d fantasied about using frequently on his patient, on himself instead.
The image of Lucifer attempting to keep one of those attachments inside him with his arms restrained does far more to Alastor than could be considered healthy. While he’d picked his profession for its benefits of discretion and the authority to literally get away with murder, he’s quickly realising he may have overlooked his predilections for such varied restraints.
Alastor hides another groan behind an inhale as he imagines using the straps of the straight jacket as leverage to dictate Lucifer’s pace on his twitching cock. He’s already moving at a fever pitch, but Alastor could make him choke. Those visions quickly expand to the other apparatus at his disposal, all the ways he could tie that brat up and force him to submit to his will completely.
Before sliding inside that slick cunt, feeling that heat constrict around him with Lucifer crying out in ecstasy, before begging the devil to overwhelm every one of his senses again and again and-
-Fuckkkk, he’s so fucking close.
Trying to tune back into the conversation is almost impossible with how thoroughly Alastor’s being pleasured. His face heats up from the shame of how close he is to losing it, the brat deep-throating him again doing little to help his self-restraint as his body starts tensing for the inevitable.
“-After inspection, wounds the patient accumulated are mostly on his face. Patient 66 has a split in the center of his lower lip. Quite deep from visual observations, but he refuses to let anyone close enough to-”
“Come clean me up, Doc?”
The voice, as clear as if it had been breathed against the shell of his ear, pushes him over the edge.
He’s gone in an instant.
It’s incredible. A mind-blowing pleasure so strong he’s pretty sure his toes actually curl inside his Oxfords. Biting his lip so hard that he risks splitting his own, he shoves his other trembling palm directly over his pulsing crotch. He shudders at the contact, cupping himself through his pants to direct his concealed cock into the lining of his pocket just in time.
An impossibly hard orgasm crashes into him like a frieght-train, turning everything else around him into pure white noise. He cups himself around the head, steadily milks himself into the handkerchief he’d shoved in there earlier as he tries and fails to comprehend anything but that mind-numbing pleasure.
It’s only when his breathing finally levels, when the high starts to drop, that the reality of what he’s just done sinks in.
Orgasming so strong he’s still light headed at a work meeting wasn’t something that he ever considered as an experience he’d go through.
Yet here he is.
Red faced and out of breath while his cock seems intent on spilling the entire contents of his testicles directly into the lining of his pants.
Even if he’s utterly mortified, as he takes a deep inhale of his cigar to steady himself, he already knows not even the post-coital rush of nicotine will ever compete with that.
He’ll crave that world-shattering high to the end of his days. And knowing what he does now, likely after that too.
How can it not when the thrill is akin to the spike in adrenaline Alastor experiences when killing his fellow man. While that rush is pure, the bloodlust sating a darkness deep in the recesses of his psyche, this is different. Layered, novel, and just as addicting. The act both disgusts and excites him, the perfect cocktail of depravity.
And with Lucifer’s mark on his chest now flaring, burning his still-healing skin, he knows he’s pleased the being that has otherwise vanished.
Skin tingling with aftershocks, Alastor has to admit that idea gives him far more satisfaction than it should. Pleasing Lucifer, no matter how much he doesn’t want to admit it, scratches an itch he’d never known he had. Even if that feat makes him as insane as his fellow residents, which previously would seem just as far-fetched as bedding the devil and-
“-Alastor?”
A voice, Susan’s, immediately cuts through his post-orgasmic fog to pull every single one of his senses back to reality and into a panic.
“Isn’t that right?” she continues, glaring at him, “It’s unlike you to be silent on such matters.”
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
The world feels like it crashes around him. The reality of being caught occupies both his irrational and rational thoughts, throwing him into further disarray. Without other options, his mouth starts moving without anyone piloting his ability to speak.
“I- Uh- Désolé- would you- would you mind just, I didn’t-”
“-You’re really not looking well, Doctor. I don’t think it’s just the cough.”
The sound of a chair scraping spikes his heart rate again, with the sounds of familiar footsteps approaching both soothing and churning his stomach. He flinches when a hand, that he all too late identifies as Rosie’s, comes to rest upon his sweat-slick brow. Further shame colours his cheeks when he realises he’s still cupping himself under the table, having enough of a moral compass not to want to subject one of his only friends to being an unwilling participant in his dangerous games with the devil.
Despite Alastor feeling like the guilt is written all over his face, Rosie seems to take it all in her stride.
“You’re burning up,” She coos while placing the back of her palm against his clammy forehead, “Perhaps you should take the rest of the day off to recuperate?”
Just when he feels like death would be preferable to the shame he’s being subjected to, the ringing in his ears dies down enough for him to catch the murmurs around the table. More mentions about the seasonal influenza that’s taken several staff off sick, or the supposed encephalitis epidemic making its way down from Missouri, with the slight shuffling back of chairs adding to the play that he could be contagious.
Even Susan, who seems to have set her sights on how suspicious he’s acting, rolls her eyes and mutters something along the lines of it explaining a lot of things.
When Alastor, slack jawed at her brilliance, looks up at Rosie she simply scrunches her nose in fond acknowledgment. It again adds to his mental tally of things he owes her, while also making him realise it’s a blow to his reputation with her that he’ll never recover from. That, despite Rosie being more than a little amused by his predicament, will both see him as lesser and a deplorable reprobate to boot.
That offer of shared dinner considering their supposed overlapping ‘interests’ is now a necessity if Alastor ever wants to level that playing field again.
Doubly so if he’s willing to provide the main course himself.
“Your concern does you credit, Matron,” he replies in the most level tone he can muster while finally withdrawing his trembling palm from underneath his coat, “Though after the morning’s incident, my recovery can wait. Seeing my patient immediately is paramount to his continued care, don’t you think?”
Face shielded from the rest of the room, Rosie lets her eyes go wide at the choice he’s making.
Yes, It’s a risky move considering what Lucifer has just put him through, but he needs to see that damn brat as soon as possible. If only to see him trussed up in those restraints again while glaring daggers at the smug expression his patient will surely be wearing.
Rosie takes a beat to mull that question over before her painted lips part to a wicked grin.
“Well, be sure to put your feet up afterward. That boy will run rings around you in your condition,” she tuts, taking his all but forgotten cigar from him before stubbing it out on the nearest ashtray, “I’m sure we can all muck in if you need to bow out for the afternoon. You were on call all weekend, afterall.”
There’s a few more murmurs, nods, and even a reluctant sigh of surrender from Susan’s end of the table. Alastor can barely process it. He’s too busy looking at Rosie like she’s descended from the heavens while the rest of his mind tries to process the opportunity he can’t pass on.
Paying Lucifer a visit was already set in stone, but now? With a perfect cover to disappear for the rest of the day, possibly even the opportunity to steal Lucifer back to his quarters?
To his horror, his spent cock feels like it's attempting to swell against the sticky inside of his pant’s pocket.
“Thank you, Ro-” Alastor pauses, screaming internally at the slip that gives away even more of his mental state, “-Matron. I’m sure a quiet evening will be just what I need to recuperate.”
Will it though?
The thought rings clear in his head as he imagines what the rest of his night could entail. Of course there was the option for further denial of the devil, refusing to give in to Lucifer's teasing despite the escalation.
But if he played him at his own game?
If he could bring Lucifer to his office, straight jacket included, then perhaps he could be the one administering such tortures. There was no use in denying what he wanted any more, not when the evidence of such was currently cooling against his leg and burnt into his chest.
If he could be the one to turn the tables, to put the devil through his own form of torture.
Make Lucifer scream while he finally puts the apparatus he’s acquired to the test...
The full body shudder Alastor has to suppress makes his decision for him.
“I’ll head over to my patient's cell now,” He states, rising to his feet while taking extra care to swing his coat in front of the sizable stain, “If there isn’t any further business requiring my attention?”
It’s addressed to Susan, and without meaning to, he holds his breath in anticipation of her answer. Considering how much he’s derailed her briefing, she could entirely destroy his plans or make him wait for hours to enact them.
Instead, she closes the patient's notes without a moment's hesitation.
“By all means, Doctor.”
Alastor has to turn from the table immediately to hide the grin forming on his face while putting on the show of rushing out the room to get on with his task. He gathers his notes, takes another swig of water, says his goodbyes and is almost out the door.
Susan clears her throat obnoxiously enough to catch his attention, “Penley?”
Spinning on his heels, confused, Alastor watches as one of the newer interns stirs in his seat, almost tripping over his far too long coat in order to snap to attention.
No.
“Hand your rounds over to me,” Susan continues, all but snatching the clipboard out of the young man’s hand, “And escort the Doctor to Patient 66’s cell.”
No!
Trying to stay calm, Alastor scoffs, “That won’t be-”
“Oh no, I insist.” she continues, ignoring the way the intern shrivels at the conflict before actually pushing him in Alastor’s direction, “He was present at the incident this morning and the following procedures, so his insight will be just as valuable. And besides-”
She folds her hands under her chin as the rug is pulled from underneath him once again.
“-Our next generation of doctors should be learning from your greatness, no?”
Alastor flounders, unable to deny the sound logic of the situation he’s being forced into. Like a king in check, he’s been out maneuvered at the final play. His eyes snap to Rosie who can only grimace at the situation, before falling on the intern as he approaches.
The boy who looks scarcely old enough to be studying medicine. Who's now offering him a sheepishly extended hand while trying desperately to hide the excited reverence in his eyes at the opportunity he’s been given.
Which will amount to him sticking to Alastor like glue, leaving him unable to give Lucifer a piece of his mind…among other things already back to pressing against the inside of his pants.
Shit.