Obsession . ||A radioapple 📻🍎(Alstor x Lucifer) Imagination.

24. MISSION: Stop creepy artist (part 2)

I swear to God my life's never boring. So my mom and dad had a fight (again 😭🙄) and mom packed her suitcase and left the house saying stuff like-- "I will never come back" (for the 53rd time since I was born.) So she left leaving me and my dad alone. And now my dad has a VERY successful business and he couldn't (noway) sacrifice that for me. So I've been busy studying and doing all the house work 🙃 💀 Also i got my results and i came 7th (someone kill me)

Anyway ENJOY
_________________________________________________

Lucifer’s POV

Lucifer was pretty sure he’d rather be fighting a pack of rabid hellhounds than dealing with this.

"Somebody please kill me," he thought, mentally tallying all the ways this was, without a doubt, the most uncomfortable experience of his entire existence—and that was saying something, considering how long he'd been around.

The creepy artist (aka Pedo Picasso) was edging closer, and Lucifer could practically feel the waves of thirst rolling off this guy. Gross. Just gross.

And then there was Alastor. Oh, Alastor, who wasn’t even trying to help. Nope. He just stood there, gun in hand, his expression flatter than a pancake. Like this was completely normal! No big deal! Just another day!

Lucifer was already plotting the best way to snap off Alastor’s dick and flush it down the nearest infernal toilet when the artist did the unthinkable.

The guy dropped his pencil—on purpose—like it was some pathetic, greasy imitation of a “whoops, I dropped my pen” pickup line. And that’s when it got worse. So much worse.

Drooling (yes, drooling), the guy shuffled closer and, in a move that Lucifer would never be able to unsee, raised his paintbrush and started swirling it around Lucifer’s nipples.

Yes. His nipples.

“Ugh, what the hell!?” Lucifer’s voice came out in a strangled gasp as he tried—tried—to shove the brush away. But just as he was about to reclaim some semblance of personal space, something cold and slimy wrapped around his wrist.

“Ngh—wha—!?”

Oh no. Oh NO.

The paint tentacles were back. Because of course they were. And like they had some sort of unholy GPS, they went straight for every one of his most sensitive spots.

Lucifer’s brain officially checked out. Great.

Tentacle-nipple-art-thing, while Alastor stood there like it was a scenic painting of flowers.

This was his life now.

Lucifer’s brain was short-circuiting.

The tentacles, these weird, squirmy paintbrush limbs, were slithering across his skin like they had a mind of their own. Cold, slimy, and unfortunately precise, they found every spot that made him want to scream—and not in the fun way. One coiled around his waist, another snaked down his thigh, and a third—oh, hell no—was heading straight for his neck.

Lucifer squirmed, trying to push them off, but it was like trying to wrestle a jellyfish. Sticky and relentless. And to top it all off, Pedo Picasso was still drooling and painting invisible circles over his chest like he was creating some unholy masterpiece.

A strangled moan slipped from Lucifer’s lips as the tentacles started to tighten around his limbs, exploring every inch of him with maddening precision. “A-Alastor!” he hissed, his voice coming out breathless and shaky, in the hopes that the artist might think Lucifer was saying his lovers name out of pleasure. “A little help?!”