Lucifer avoids the hat-napping, but he does flick his fingers, sending his own shadow reaching up the wall, many-winged and looming— to pat Alastor's shadow on its hatless head. His shadow manages a single pat before Alastor and it vanish into a darker patch of shadow; a glance to his own shadow, the two exchanging a shrug, and Lucifer resolves to put Alastor — and his grisly dinner plans — out of his head entirely.
And it works! He does not think about Alastor cheerfully ripping out other demons' throats or tearing their hearts from their chests for a full three days. Nearly 72 hours, even! There's so much else to think about: Charlie, her well-intentioned but doomed to failure plan to teach sinners about hygiene, her more likely to succeed plan to institute weekly paid street cleaning duty, the dog-demon guest who brought in fleas and sparked the whole hygiene plan... Alastor doesn't so much as surface in his thoughts.
Except for all the times Alastor's directly in front of him. And when they're bickering. And when Charlie sends him a group photo that includes Alastor. And when—
Well. It's not Alastor eating a live sinner, he'll take it.
Which is of course why, when he heads out to a very different part of town to pick up some kind of welcome treat Charlie's ordered, he slaps a hand to his cheek and groans as he walks smack into another one of Alastor's feeding grounds.
Literally smack into it. He turns the corner, looking for the store entrance (okay, he may be slightly lost), and runs face first into the yelping body of a man held firmly in Alastor's grasp. By the throat. With his viscera hanging out, a spill of blood and chunky flesh and gore that ensures he'll be dying slowly and extremely painfully. ]
Oh, for fuck's sake. [ This time, his entire side is stained in shades of red. It's warm and lumpy and soaking through all his layers. Yeugh. ] Again?
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Date: 2024-02-21 10:42 pm (UTC)Lucifer avoids the hat-napping, but he does flick his fingers, sending his own shadow reaching up the wall, many-winged and looming— to pat Alastor's shadow on its hatless head. His shadow manages a single pat before Alastor and it vanish into a darker patch of shadow; a glance to his own shadow, the two exchanging a shrug, and Lucifer resolves to put Alastor — and his grisly dinner plans — out of his head entirely.
And it works! He does not think about Alastor cheerfully ripping out other demons' throats or tearing their hearts from their chests for a full three days. Nearly 72 hours, even! There's so much else to think about: Charlie, her well-intentioned but doomed to failure plan to teach sinners about hygiene, her more likely to succeed plan to institute weekly paid street cleaning duty, the dog-demon guest who brought in fleas and sparked the whole hygiene plan... Alastor doesn't so much as surface in his thoughts.
Except for all the times Alastor's directly in front of him. And when they're bickering. And when Charlie sends him a group photo that includes Alastor. And when—
Well. It's not Alastor eating a live sinner, he'll take it.
Which is of course why, when he heads out to a very different part of town to pick up some kind of welcome treat Charlie's ordered, he slaps a hand to his cheek and groans as he walks smack into another one of Alastor's feeding grounds.
Literally smack into it. He turns the corner, looking for the store entrance (okay, he may be slightly lost), and runs face first into the yelping body of a man held firmly in Alastor's grasp. By the throat. With his viscera hanging out, a spill of blood and chunky flesh and gore that ensures he'll be dying slowly and extremely painfully. ]
Oh, for fuck's sake. [ This time, his entire side is stained in shades of red. It's warm and lumpy and soaking through all his layers. Yeugh. ] Again?