LOVE OR SEX || Radioapple

Chapter 17

Lucifer lay on the hospital bed, the sterile scent of the room mixing with the sharp metallic smell of his blood. His chest rose and fell under the oxygen mask, his breaths shallow and labored. His usually pristine appearance was marred by streaks of dried blood and bruises, his once-icy eyes now half-lidded, barely able to take in his surroundings.

As the beeping of machines echoed softly in the room, flashes of his life played behind his eyelids like a broken reel of film. His memories were sharp, chaotic. He remembered every moment of power, every conquest, every time he'd manipulated someone to bend to his will. The countless times he had taken control, using sex not for connection but as a weapon—detached, dominant, untouchable. He had always prided himself on that, on being above the vulnerability that others fell victim to.

But tonight was different. Tonight, that facade had cracked. 

As Lucifer drifted in and out of consciousness, he recalled the mobster's trembling hand and the sound of the gun firing. It should have been nothing—just another in a long line of power plays, a bullet in a body that felt invincible. But Alastor's face as he cried, desperate and shaken, refused to leave his mind. No one had ever cared like that. No one had ever bothered to come back for him.

His mind traveled further back, sifting through memories he had buried deep. The first time he had learned to use his charm to manipulate others, the way he had taken control of his own sexuality to ensure that no one would ever hold power over him again. The way he had learned to weaponize his desires, to turn intimacy into just another transaction. The scars it had left on him—both visible and hidden.

He'd spent years telling himself that he couldn't be hurt, that he was beyond love, beyond attachment. But here he was, lying in a hospital bed, his body failing him, and Alastor... Alastor, of all people, was still here. Even after seeing him at his worst, his most vulnerable, Alastor hadn't walked away.

Lucifer's gaze flickered to the corner of the room where Alastor sat slumped on a small couch, his jacket draped over him as he slept. Even in sleep, Alastor's face was tense, worry etched into his features. It was strange to see someone so fierce, so self-assured, brought to the brink of tears because of him. Lucifer had seen people cry for him before, but never like this. Never because they cared.

A deep pang stirred in Lucifer's chest, not from the bullet wound, but from something deeper. Something he had long ignored, perhaps even forgotten how to feel—regret, guilt, longing.

The memories kept flooding in—faces, voices, moments where he had pushed others away to keep himself safe. He had always believed that if he didn't let anyone close, he couldn't get hurt. But now, lying in this hospital bed, he realized just how lonely that had made him. How much he had lost because of his fear of vulnerability.

The more he thought about it, the more he couldn't shake the image of Alastor standing there, crying for him. It was as though, for the first time, someone had truly seen him. Not just Lucifer, the powerful, manipulative demon, but Lucifer, the broken, scarred soul beneath it all.

His vision blurred, and for a brief moment, his thoughts grew darker. *Is this what I deserve?* he wondered. *A life spent pushing everyone away, only to die alone in a hospital bed with the one person who cared too much for his own good.*

His fingers twitched slightly, and the machines beeped softly in response. He wanted to reach out, to touch Alastor, to tell him something—anything—that might make sense of the mess he had made of his life. But he couldn't. His body was too weak, his mind too clouded by the pain and the weight of his past.

As the hours dragged on, Lucifer drifted in and out of sleep, his dreams haunted by the people he had hurt, the lovers he had used and discarded. They were faces from the past, some familiar, some blurred by time. But one face remained constant—Alastor's. His unwavering presence, his stubborn refusal to leave, even when Lucifer had pushed him away.

When Lucifer finally stirred again, the faint light of dawn filtered through the hospital window. He turned his head slightly, his eyes settling on Alastor, who was still fast asleep on the couch. There was something almost peaceful about the sight of him there, despite the chaos that had brought them to this moment.

For the first time in a long while, Lucifer felt something unfamiliar—something terrifying but undeniable. He felt the stirrings of gratitude. Not for being saved, but for not being left alone. For having someone who refused to abandon him, even when he had done everything in his power to deserve abandonment.

Lucifer's throat was dry, his voice hoarse as he tried to speak. "Alastor..." he whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the hum of the machines. But Alastor didn't stir, too deep in his own exhaustion to hear him.

Lucifer sighed, letting his head sink deeper into the pillow. He would have to wait to say what needed to be said. For now, all he could do was lie there, staring at the ceiling, and try to come to terms with the realization that, for the first time in his life, he might not be as alone as he had always believed.

Two weeks later, Lucifer found himself back in the comfort of his apartment. It was different now, quieter, calmer. The chaos that once reigned inside his mind was still there, but it felt more distant, more manageable. Alastor was always near—his steady presence a reminder that Lucifer no longer had to face his demons alone.

The apartment had become their shared space. Alastor, now his fiancé, had moved in, filling the once sterile and impersonal rooms with warmth and a quiet, protective love. Lucifer had never imagined that he could share his life with someone in such an intimate way, but Alastor had shown him that vulnerability wasn't weakness. It was strength.

There were still difficult nights. Moments when Lucifer's past haunted him, when the memories of his rapists surfaced, and the old habits kicked in—calling them "daddy" in moments of panic, his mind trapped in loops of past trauma. But now, with Alastor beside him, those moments passed more quickly. He no longer had to face them alone. Alastor would hold him through the worst of it, whispering softly that he was safe, that those men were gone, and that he didn't have to fight anymore.

Alastor understood, in his quiet way, that Lucifer's past would never fully leave him. But he also knew that Lucifer was more than his trauma. He was strong, resilient, and capable of love. And Alastor loved him with all his broken pieces, never asking him to change, only offering his support.

Lucifer had come to realize that with Alastor, he didn't need to be perfect. He didn't need to be the untouchable figure he had once crafted himself to be. He just needed to be himself—flawed, damaged, but still worthy of love. Alastor had shown him that.

Some nights, when the weight of his past felt too heavy to bear, Alastor would take his hand, guiding him out of his mind and back into the present. Together, they'd sit on the couch, Alastor's arm around Lucifer's shoulders, the silence between them comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding.

In those moments, Lucifer could let go. He didn't need to think of the past, of the men who had hurt him, or the power dynamics he had used to shield himself from intimacy. All he needed to think about was the man beside him—the one who had seen him at his lowest and loved him anyway.

For the first time in his life, Lucifer felt at peace. The chaos hadn't disappeared, but it no longer controlled him. He had Alastor now, and with him, he didn't need to fight his battles alone.

And that was enough.

The end.