sometimes lux changes when the moon yawns and starts to lower outside, when the vampires have to end their playtime and return home and sleep until the next sunset. only a few critters actually remain and they aren’t really conversing; energies low, party thoroughly burned through them. drinks have been absorbed. songs have been sung. bodies have danced to their deepest content. for hours, lux is filled with laughter and cheering and the heat of bodies but now things are different   —   now things lull into something that most of the crowd don’t ever get to see or feel. gone. they are home in their beds, by now. dreaming. blue gets to do the same thing but he’s awake when it happens, when fingers move over ivory and obsidian and play something that soothes him like nothing else. lucifer has this ability   —   it’s more impressive than the one that draws out people’s desires; the one where he calms the fires in him and pulls him into a very specific kind of tranquility. relaxed, he’s watching lights on the ceiling while the devil plays chopin   —   able to see him move out of the corner of his eye where he’s laying on the booth behind the piano. one leg is stretched out but he has his other foot planted on the floor to help keep things from spinning. it’s a tender thing, having the devil play a lullaby to some of their most faithful servants. the bar is quiet. every note echoes and blue can feel his body grow heavy in a way that is familiar   —   eyes closing. if he allowed it, he could drift off like this. but he won’t. no. blue only sleeps when lucifer is beside him now, only truly rests his head when there is no work to be done. this is a release, on the devil’s part   —   this is expression and blue listens with his whole heart. every note. and he wonders, as he so often does. he wonders about lucifer, about homesickness   —   and about what it’s like to lose the love of another. he wonders about the weight that the devil carries daily, wonders about things like phantom pains and gorgeous wings stored away where nobody can find them. he wonders about the stars that are fading outside and he wonders if the ash is still falling the way it used to down below. he wonders, idle, how long they will stay here   —   how long lucifer will allow him to remain at their side. he wonders if lucifer truly understands that he would be willing to do it, forever. that he knows nothing else and wants nothing else. he wonders, as his devil plays, if he knows how much he loves them  —   if he will have a chance to show them all the little ways before the sun blots itself out. he wonders, as perfect hands play the piano and the hellhound’s emotions, if they will ever truly settle down. if they will ever do the strange things that humans do, if they will ever try the white-picket fence. he wonders about things like last names, about how he does not have one and is only interested in taking one on like a spouse. it makes him smile   —  he almost chuckles at the thought, at how fucking silly it sounds. blue morningstar. it’s ridiculous and yet the nocturne makes him actually think about it, makes him realize that he’s already wearing the fucking ring; it’s just bigger, just around his neck instead. humans don’t get that. they don’t understand that he’s already dropped to his knee in servitude   —   that the vows are carved into his skin and in the way they match fabric or notes when they perform together. what they have hasn’t been experienced on earth by anyone else and blue knows as much as notes slow down, as he exhales and allows himself to think the name one more time. a secret wish, his heart too big. something to go down in one of his notebooks where he writes all his songs about them   —   words he’s never sung, notes he’s never played. the song is almost finished when the hound boosts himself up and steps over the small distance required to reach them. to get to piano. the smile on his face is small   —   fond. he’s slow as he moves, as he lowers himself to wrap arms around shoulders from behind. a lover’s embrace. for a moment, he stays like that   —   face simply buried in hair, eyes closed. full. so full of so much that sometimes he doesn’t know where to put it. there was a time when he thought he knew what he wanted, a time when he and charlemagne picked out the place at the docks and they all insisted he get the biggest room   —   that he stay there, but it’s been a moment since he’s stepped foot in that space. it’s been a moment since he’s played the role he made for himself when he popped topside. time goes into lucifer, now. they sleep through the mornings, sometimes   —   rise late in the afternoon and raise hell all night. the boys miss him. he knows. he knows that he doesn’t have the same amount of time with them, that they will eventually die of old age or at the hand of some foolishness   —   but he doesn’t know how to be anything else, anymore. since the letters found his chest, something changed in him. something he doesn’t want to lose. something he needs, in order to be at his best. he will lose them all, eventually. someday even the docks won’t be the same but lucifer’s freckles will all be in the same place and his mouth with find them and cherish them with the same adoration   —   with the same love as the first time he was able to actually touch them. against lucifer, he sighs. so content. so absolutely complete.

❝   But it - it was - it was soooo BORING to just stay in the sha- sha- shadow while you got to do the co- do the COOLER part !   ❞   The glitch shoots back as they stare at the direction that the suspect ran off to , sitting on the surface with shaky , bloody hand over the wound through the shoulder .   They were itching to do or say something   —    ANYTHING while Lucifer was trying to get answers out of the suspect .   Of course , the excitement got to them when they noticed the suspect had a gun in his back pocket .   They thought they could snatch it off of him and aim it at his face as to force him to give Lucifer the details he needed , though their clumsiness gave their presence away and . . .  well , the rest is history .   

     jupiter came for my entire ass and i have thought of nothing else sense. buckle in.

they have come for him BEFORE, suspicious. they have asked their questions. demanded explanations that he did NOT have. dangerous. the museum he owns is a neon sign to hunters and he’s known that for a while, has crossed that bridge again and again. the wood of it weakens each time, the stream beneath more and more angry with each pass   ---   waters dark. before he knew what he was, before lucifer came to him like a dream, colin FEARED those depths but now he knows that the murky black is not a threat to HIM but to those who make him a TARGET. one man, in particular, has proven to be very determined to snuff him out. a man in his late forties, now   ---   one who called himself FRIEND. that was before getting wind that colin wasn’t HUMAN. oh, how he’d turned. colin watched HATRED consume him like a CANCER. some hunters are like that. they believe that anything NOT HUMAN is therefore entirely EVIL. a service, a weight he chose to carry, ridding the world of things he can’t UNDERSTAND. their last encounter had been a bloody one and colin had expected it to be something FINAL. gone were conversations between them, gone were the slim chances of reason. each attempt was different but that last one had been CAREFULLY crafted, blade soaked in the oil made from the olive tree of vouves   ---  or so he proudly CLAIMED. that blade, silver and salted, had torn him open as if he were PAPER   ---   but the hunter looked at him with FEAR in his eyes when he did not wither or catch fire. colin allowed him to keep his life   ---   had believed, so naive, that he would LET IT GO and accept that some things cannot be KILLED. colin would not be the first immortal angrily written about in a hunter’s journal, nor would he be the last. days have passed with nothing, not even a whisper. the man ends up at the BACK of colin’s mind until LUCIFER HIMSELF appears before him, dripping in BLOOD. he knows, the moment that he sees him   ---   knows, somehow, without the devil uttering a word. william lucas is dead. the man so terrified of EVIL.  made to meet his beloved maker by the very word’s poster-boy. hands turn up to him, RED. an offering. time CHOKES and SPUTTERS around them as colin moves closer, as he absorbs this image   ---   these words. THIS LOVE. the god becomes so FULL all at once that it is a wonder emotion, at its purest form, doesn’t solidify, doesn’t bubble and ooze from every opening. colin does not emit the light he feels, prismatic in nature   ---   he does not radiate anything when he stops, hazels unable to look AWAY from the scene before him. ADORATION replaces every cell he has, so much that his hands start to SHAKE. for a moment, he looks like he may be an ANGRY GOD   ---   like he may boom a COMMAND but when colin speaks, his voice is stained with INTIMACY unlike anything else.