#sin bin

It hadn't been the first or second time, the idea she had planted so consistently; Even though he pretended to be stubborn about it, just like a particularly tenacious weed, it had slowly taken root. Maybe his wise daughter was right. Decades of solitude, punctuated only by the occasional disastrous meeting with the other Sins and the long, echoing silence Lilith had left behind in the palace after her departure, had worn him down to a husk of cynical exhaustion. He missed... things. Fun things. Normal things he couldn't get even as he moved into the hotel. Like a good conversation. A shared laugh over a dumb joke. The simple, absurd warmth of another body pressed against his.

So he had decided to try. He'd glamoured himself - not much, just a tweak here and there, enough to blur the edges. A slight change to the tone of his porcelain skin, adding shades of cream and hiding the blush spots at the corner of his mouth and his traiterous tail to make him more approachable. He'd kept the height, or lack thereof, a fact of his life he'd long since made peace with, and the striking blond hair, though he'd dulled the sheer, overwhelming power that made it glow. The well-tailored, royal robes were switched with a more casual, tuned down - but still well-tailored - version of them, and his hat exchanged for a pair of fake reading glasses.

The result was a reduced version of him, enough of Lucifer left to not feel too costumend, but enough to make him appear as passably harmless.

The day, however, had been a lesson in futility. Pentagram City was a relentless assault on the senses and soul. He'd tried to buy coffee, only to witness the barista, a spindly spider-demon, get into a chainsaw duel with a customer over a latte art discrepancy. He'd attempted to browse a bookstore, but the entire romance section had been occupied by a spontaneous, very noisy orgy. A walk in the park had required dodging stray gunfire from what appeared to be a turf war between parts of cannibal town and rogue maniacs of the doomsday district.

Everywhere he looked, there was chaos, cruelty, a complete and utter lack of anything resembling grace or simple, genuine kindness. It was his kingdom, his creation in a roundabout, hands-off sort of way, and it was exhaustingly depressive to witness. He was just about to teleport back to the hotel, muttering about the whole experiment being a catastrophic failure doomed from the start, when he rounded a corner and saw you.

A young, low-level imp had apparently been kicked over his apple cart a few feet away, his meager wares scattered and bruised. Demons were simply walking past him, some even kicking at the rolling fruit. Without a second thought, you had walked over and bent down, helping the imp gather his apples, murmuring quiet reassurances as you wiped the grime from one and handed it back. Your touch when you patted his shoulders in consolation was gentle, your smile genuine.

Lucifer stopped dead in his tracks.

Then you stood, brushing off your dirtied hands, and your gaze swept across the street. It felt as if it landed directly on him. There was no flicker of recognition, no fear or deference in your eyes. Just a simple, curious acknowledgment of another being in your vicinity. You gave him a small, polite wave before adjusting the shoulder strap of your bag, turning to continue on your way.

Something inside him, something dormant for millennia, snapped awake. It was more than just instant attraction; it was fascination. Here was this woman, a soul condemned to Hell for unknown reasons, yet she moved through the filth of it with a self-possessed confidence that wasn't arrogance, and a kindness that wasn't weakness. A brilliant diamond in a sea of broken shards of glass.

Before he could think better of it, before his cynicism could talk him out of it, he found himself hurriedly running after you. He could feel the glamour tingling around his cheeks, a nervous tell he quickly rubbed away.

"Excuse me!" he started, his voice a little less smooth and more daft than he intended. You turned, your eyebrow arching slightly. "Yes?" "Hi - hello. I'm Luci...en." He fumbled, feeling ridiculously clumsy at the improvised name, but had to roll with it now that it was out. "Yes, Lucien. And I just saw what you did back there. For the imp. That was... incredibly kind."

A faint smile touched your lips. "Oh, that? It’s sweet of you to notice, but it was nothing. He was having a bad day. We all have them."

"Right. Bad days. I'm, uh, I'm having one of those days myself. The city is always..." He gestured vaguely at the carnage around them. "...a lot."

"Yeah, it can be..." you agreed, your eyes warm and understanding. "You just have to watch out for the good inside of all the flash and bang, an then, sooner or later, you’ll just see it as annoying but bearable background noise."

"I'm not sure I want to get used to that." Lucifer admitted, a brittle laugh escaping him. It sounded rusty, even to his own ears, but you smiled wider at the sound, as if you waited for him to make an actual point. "Listen, this is incredibly forward, and I swear I'm not usually this... impulsive. But I think my day - and hopefully yours, too - would be significantly improved if I had a coffee with you. Or a... chai? If you're more of a tea girl." His nerves faltered at the way your brows arched higher and higher in open bemusement. "Or…” he babbled, wondering what power in the seven rings you made his brain mushy just by blankly staring at him, “...we could just stand here and marvel at the sheer incompetence of me… asking you out."

Your laughter was like a melody, clear and bright in the cacophony of Pentagram City. It made his chest feel strangely tight. "Alright Lucien," you said, testing his improvised name on your tongue with such charm it almost made his blushed cheeks visible through the glamour. "I think I could spare half an hour."

You were, as he found out, indeed a tea girl - One that, after a short two hours of talking and laughing accepted his invitation to lunch the following day - refusing profoundly to let him pay, slipping the timid waitress in the ditzy coffee shop enough bills for both of their drinks plus generous tip. The week after, a movie date he meticulously planned turned out to be an absolute disaster - how would he have known that a film titled "From Hell With Love" wasn’t a cute, romantic comedy but actually a two-hour, high-budget gay-porn with a surprisingly decent plot about two star-crossed incubi?

The memory of you sinking into your plush theatre seat, your initial pleasant smile slowly melting into horrified amusement, still made his glamoured tail twitch with embarrassment. He had tried, bless his soul, to maintain a veneer of composed dignity. He sat ramrod straight in his seat, refusing to look at you, focusing intently on the ridiculously overwrought cinematic performance. It was you who broke first, snorting a laugh that quickly turned into a choked wheeze. "Lucien," you had whispered, trying to be discreet. "Is that... a tentacle?"

He had cleared his throat, his face flaming a brilliant shade of crimson. "It... appears to be a rather... anatomically improbable one. The special effects budget must've been clearly... generous."

You'd dissolved into helpless, silent giggles, shaking so hard the popcorn bucket between you rattled and making the other, clearly more intrigued movie-goers glare at the both of them. And then, you'd done something that sent a hot shiver through him. You'd reached into the bucket and, without looking, placed a piece of popcorn directly against his lips, an instinctive gesture of shared solidarity in absurdity. He'd opened his mouth, accepting it, the buttery taste insignificant compared to the electric thrill of your brief touch.

They walked out of the theatre into the neon-drenched evening, the air pregnant with the scent of exhaust fumes and fried food. You were still laughing, the sound bubbling up and spilling over, and Lucifer found he couldn't stop joining in. It wasn't a polite, charming laugh. It was real, it reached his eyes, made the corners crinkle.

"I am so, so sorry," he managed, running a hand through his blond hair. "I swear, I just read the title. I thought... I don't know what I thought. Not that."

You wiped a tear away, your cheeks flushed. "Don't be. That was the most unintentionally hilarious thing I've seen in forever." You nudged his shoulder playfully. "Plus, now I know to vet our future entertainment choices myself. For the record, 'Love Everlasting' probably means an extra-long overstimulation scene."

Lucifer's heart skipped a beat at her offensive implication of future dates, of clear and assured interest in seeing him again. "Noted. My cultural literacy is clearly... rusty. What would be a movie people actually watch for fun around here?"

"Depends on your definition of fun," you said, linking your arm through his as you strolled. The gesture was so natural, so easy it made his ears tingle with blushed heat. "There's always the Gladiator reruns. Lots of screaming, decent special effects. Or we could find a place that plays old-time movies. Pre-Extermination stuff, not produced by sinners. Black and white - Bogart, Hepburn... They always feel... quaintly optimistic to me."

The word hung in the air. Optimistic. In Hell. It was such a jarring concept it was almost funny. Lucifer looked at you, really looked at you. You weren't just another soul damned to this realm; you were actually, truly trying to live here. Finding pockets of light, humor, and connection in what others saw as eternal damnation. And he was utterly, hopelessly captivated.

A few more dates blurred into a rhythm he hadn't experienced in centuries. Even Charlie had noticed his elevated mood, giving him knowing smiles whenever he'd come back from an outing, a ridiculously goofy grin plastered on his face as she pestered him about when he would introduce her to his 'girlfriend', a term he denied in embarrassed stutters.

They had wandered through a few art galleries - after Lucifer used a bit of his influence to find out you were an aspiring artist - mostly filled with grotesque masterpieces, where you'd critiqued the use of negative space with more insight than any of Hell's stuffy art critics. He had taken you to an exclusive jazz club near cannibal town after you made a side comment about always having wanted to go there as you passed it on a stroll through the city with him. The scolding he got from you for wasting so much money had been a fair sacrifice for  the kiss on the cheek he received as a thank you, and after a few drinks together you had pulled him onto the dance floor, giggling as you stumbled through the steps with an endearing lack of grace that made even the band laugh and his heart ache with fondness.

Each moment with you was as if he could take a fresh breath after running for miles. You were sharp, your wit and sense of humor a delightful counterpoint to his own. Beautiful in the best unconventional way. You were kind, but not a doormat, capable of shutting down a pushy bouncer with a single, withering glare. And you were... soft. Not in body, though you were that too (as if he wouldn't notice all of your sinfully daring curves), but in the way you listened, the way you focused all your attention on him as if he was the most interesting man in hell. And while he reveled in your affections for 'Lucien' - the worry of what would happen if you found out he was Lucifer all this time, that he had consistently lied to you about his identity, was a growing, constant source of anxiety, pushing the feeling of getting the most out of this 'relationship' before it all would, most certainly - inevitably - implode.

Which brought him to tonight.

The date had been the most perfect one yet. A quiet little rooftop restaurant far away from the usual mayhem, the lights of Pentagram City twinkling below like a galaxy of fallen stars. The conversation flowed easily, from terrible jokes to surprisingly deep discussions about what constituted a 'good life' (a topic he had some very strong, very private opinions on). He hadn't wanted it to end, and from the way you kept finding excuses to stay, he knew you felt the same.

The most obvious, universal signal came as you both stood outside your apartment building, a comfortable silence settling between you. The neon glow from the sign of a pawn shop across the street painted your face in shifting shades of magenta and gold.

"Well," you said, your voice a little softer than usual. "This was... really nice."

"It was," he agreed, his hands stuffed in his pockets, feeling like a teenager on his first date. "More than nice."

You bit your lower lip, a gesture that never failed to make his breath hitch. "I have... coffee, at my place. If you'd like to come up for a night-cap?"

Lucifer blinked owlishly at her, the coin too high in the air to drop yet. "Oh, well... isn't it a bit too late for caffeine? I thought you hated coffee anyway..."

A smile that was both bemused and exasperated spread across your face, and you took a half-step closer. "I do." you said, with the patience of a saint. "But I don't hate your company."

The penny finally hit the ground with the weight of an anvil. He felt the glamour shimmering around him, a nervous energy crackling in his very bones. "Coffee," he repeated, his throat suddenly very, very dry. "Right. YES. Excellent idea. Love coffee. The ritual of it, you know. The warmth. The, uh... grounds."

You bit your lips to prevent you from laughing at his ridiculously flustered response. You didn't mock him, though. You just reached out, your fingers brushing his wrist as they intertwined with his. "Come on, Lucien. Let's go."

Your apartment was a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the inner city. It wasn't grand or modern, but it was yours. The walls were painted in a deep, warm shade of burnt orange, and old, mismatched lamps cast a soft yellow glow at the hand-drawn ceiling borders. Bookshelves overflowed with well-loved paperbacks, and a collection of quirky, hand-painted mugs sat on a small kitchen counter. There were half-finished canvases propped against a wall, vibrant slashes of color that spoke of a restless, creative spirit. It smelled faintly of paint, old paper, and the faint, sweet scent of your natural essence, sweet and slightly spicy.

"It's... wonderful," he said, genuinely meaning it. It felt cozy. It felt warm. It felt like you.

"Thanks," you replied, shrugging off your jacket and draping it over a chair. "It's not much, but it's home." You moved towards him, suddenly appearing much less confident and much more nervous than he had ever seen you before. "So, about that nightca-"

He didn't let you finish. He crossed the space between you in two strides, his hands gently framing your face, and kissed you.

It wasn't a chaste goodnight kiss. Oh no, it was a kiss born of weeks of suppressed want, of a dozen goodbyes that had ended too soon. Your lips were soft, parting eagerly to melt against his. He tasted you, a sweetness that was entirely your own, and felt a wanting groan rumble in his chest. Your hands came up to rest on his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of the jacket he still had on, pulling him closer.

The world narrowed to the space between you, to the feel of your body pressing against his, the silky feeling of your skin, the soft, sighing sound you made into his mouth when he sucked on your bottom lip. He was lost, adrift in a sea of sensation he hadn't allowed himself to even think about for ages. He walked you backward, his lips never leaving yours as he joined you in your efforts to undress him, getting as far as shrugging off his shirt until the back of your knees hit the arm of your sofa. You fell into a sitting position, looking up at him with wide, dazed eyes, your lips swollen and glistening. He knelt before you, a supplicant at an altar he was only now realizing he devotedly wanted to worship at.

"Luci..." you breathed, your voice thick with desire, and the abbreviation of his name, his real name, even if coincidental, drove him wild with wanting.

His hands found your waist, the fabric of your blouse bunching under his palms as he slid them upwards, tracing the curves of your ribs. He wanted to touch all of you, to map every inch of your skin with his fingers, his lips, his tongue. He wanted to devour you, to be consumed by your affection in return. He felt a desperate, almost frantic need rising in him, a gluttonous hunger for your pleasure in the face of his dilemma of identity and the downfall it would entail. He had to savor this moment, needed to take everything he could, before his self-made fate would take it all from him, again, as it always did.

"You don't know..." he murmured, his voice a low, velvet rasp that seemed to vibrate through you. "Fuck... you don't know how badly I wanted to do this for the longest time."

He didn't give you a chance to respond. He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below your ear, his teeth nipping gently. He felt your shiver, heard your sharp intake of breath, and it was like fuel to a fire that was already raging out of control. He kissed his way down your neck, his hands deftly unbuttoning your shirt one button at a time, his knuckles brushing against your heated skin with the delight of realizing you didn’t wear a bra. He took his time, savoring the journey, the way you arched into his touch, the little sounds of pleasure that escaped your lips.

When your shirt was finally open, he sat back on his heels for a moment, just looking at you. The soft light from the lamps cast an almost golden glow on your skin, and he was struck by the sight of you, disheveled and wanting, for him. "You're perfect," he whispered, and before you could protest or disagree, his mouth was on you again, his lips closing over a peaked nipple, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. You cried out, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling so tight he worried for a second his glamour would crumble under your fingers.

You were writhing beneath him, your hips moving in a rhythm that was both holy plea and sinful temptation. He could feel the heat of you through your jeans, the dampness that was seeping through the fabric, and the thought of it, of how ready you were for him, nearly undid him. But this wasn't about him. This was about you. This was about ensuring you wouldn't forget him after it would all end. That there would at least be some sweet, unforgettable memories of honest feelings in the bitterness of his lies.

He shifted, his hands moving to the button of your jeans while his lips kept themselves latched onto your breasts. He waited for your nod, for your silent permission, and when he got it, he slowly, torturously, pulled the denim down your legs, tossing it aside. He followed the path of the fabric with his mouth, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, letting his teeth scraping teasingly against your skin, leaving behind trails of goosebumps. He could feel your muscles tensing, your hands in his hair the only anchor to the present as he got lost in the scent of your pussy.

"Fuuuuck..." he groaned as his tongue darted out to taste you, and the flavor was one of pure, unadulterated bliss. It was a taste that was as familiar as it was absolutely, gloriously different, one that with a certainty that shook him to his very core he would never get enough of. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as he feasted. His tongue explored your folds, learning every curve, every dip, every sensitive spot that made you gasp and writhe. He was meticulous in his frenzy, his determination to make you melt under him unlimited, his focus absolute. He had felt useless at a lot of things: As a king surely, as a father mostly, as a husband by evidence devastatingly so. But it all faded by the ache he felt at the thought of being useless to you. Useless to seize the only opportunity he saw in reciprocating that kindness, that gentle light you exuded graciously onto him, with the overwhelming desire he held for you.

He flicked his tongue against your clit, and your back arched off the sofa, a strangled cry tearing from your throat. He did it again, and again; licking, sucking, kissing until you were a trembling, incoherent mess beneath him. "So g-ah... hell, h-how are you so-OH... good at this?"

He could feel your thighs tightening around his head, your heels digging into his back, and with a smile he knew you were close. He doubled his efforts, his tongue moving faster, harder, his lips latching on your clit as his fingers moved up to enter you, sliding in easily, curling to hit the bulls eye that made your whole body seize up. He was addicted. Addicted to the taste of you, to the feel of you, to the way you responded to his touch. He wished to hear you scream his name, his actual name, to feel you cum against his mouth, knowing you rightfully had a king kneel before you in utter, rightful devotion. It was this thought, together with the image of your beautiful face lost in ecstasy as you came around him, that finally made his grip on his glamour falter for the first time that night.

It was just a flicker, a shimmer at the edge of your vision. For a barest second, the ambient light of the room caught a glint of deep, unmistakable ruby red in the golden eyes that were hyperfocused on you, a wave of angelic glow in the hair that framed the face currently nestled between your legs. Hadn't it been for the force of the orgasm rendering you blind in pleasure, you would've seen it - seen the lashing tail, seen the barely contained sprouting double-wings… seen him. In a wave of panicked sobering, Lucifer yanked the slipping glamour back into place. He paused, his heart hammering in his chest, the fear of having been discovered, the fear that he had blown it, that he had been found out, that it was about to end and you'd throw him out...

"Lucien... Are you okay?" you asked breathlessly, your blissful smile fading into a line of worry. He could feel your fingers gently caressing his slick-stained cheeks, an instinctive gesture of comfort. "What's wrong?"

He felt like time was slipping through his fingers, the dreaded, familiar ache of loss tightening in his gut. He had to have this. To have this one perfect memory with you, before the inevitable end.

"It's nothing, really... sorry ... I just got.. overwhelmed by.. well, all of...you."

You didn't seem fully convinced, but the lazy, satisfied look in your eyes returned as you gently cupped his jaw, pulling him up for a deep, assuring, lingering kiss. Your taste was on his lips, and you hummed into his mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated contentment. "Come here," you whispered, your hands moving down to his bare chest, your nimble fingers working at the buttons of his pants. "My turn."

Lucifer's breath hitched as your hands worked with determination, your lips following the path your fingers had taken. You moved to get on your knees before him as you reached the waistband of his boxers, your intentions clear as day. His hands shot down to grab your wrists at the moment of realisation. "Not tonight." he breathed, his voice laced with a sudden, urgent desperation. You paused, looking up at him, your expression a mixture of confusion and desire. "But I want to. Let me take care of you."

"You are, love... you already are." he said, his voice thick with emotion as he gently took your hands and pulled you back up onto the sofa, laying you out like a precious piece of brocade. He was on top of you in an instant, his mouth finding yours in a searing kiss that swallowed your protests. He wanted to be close to you, to feel you all around him, to lose himself in the warmth of your body. He wanted to bury himself so deep inside you that he could forget, even for a moment, the crushing weight of his secret.

He finished what your hands had started, shucking off his pants and boxers in one swift motion. The sight of him, fully bare and achingly hard, made your breath audibly catch. He settled between your thighs, his leaking cock nudging at your entrance, the tip slick with your arousal and his own desperate need. He paused, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark with an emotion that seemed to confuse you. 

"Luci?" you whispered, your voice soft. That damned name again, so close. So fucking close. "What is it?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he kissed you again, a slow, deep kiss that seemed to say everything he couldn't bring himself to. And then, he entered you. The first thrust was slow, deliberate, a careful exploration of your limits. He filled you completely, a delicious stretch that had you gasping into his mouth for air. He set a gentle rhythm, his movements fluid and practiced, his hands steady on either side of your beautiful, heady face, his lips worshiping every inch of skin he could reach. It had to be perfect, had to be memorable. He wanted to preserve this image, etch it into his soul so that he could hold on to it for the dark eternity that awaited him. It was painfully perfect, devastatingly beautiful, and so ruinously final.

"Lucien..." he heard you say, eyes focussing away from his raging thoughts on your wide ones, looking up at him in a tender concern as he felt your hands leave his shoulders to halt his still thrusting hips. "You're crying."

The coldness on his cheeks proved your statement to be true. He hadn't even noticed. He hadn't even felt the burn in his eyes, or the tears spilling out and running down his face. He pulled away from you, his heart pounding in his chest as his fingertips touched his wet skin. "I'm... I'm so sorry." he stammered, his voice cracking under the horror that boiled in him, burying his face in his hands.

"Hey," you said softly, your hand on his arm, your touch gentle, firm. "Look at me. Tell me what's wrong."

He couldn't. He couldn't bear to see the look of fear, of betrayal, of hatred in your eyes. He had been a fool to think this could work, to think he could have this, to think he could have you. He had lied to you, deceived you, and now he would pay the price. With a shuddering sigh, he let his hands along with his glamour drop. The shimmer of power that he had held back for weeks crackled around him, a visible aura of celestial and infernal energy that made the very air in the room hum and bend. His skin paled back into the pristine white, a stark contrast to the now golden hair that framed his face. His eyes, no longer the warm, caramel brown you had come to know, were now a burning, hypnotic ruby-red. The freckled blush across his cheeks deepened into his telling pink rounds as his tail, with its spade-shaped tip, lashed behind him.

When he finally looked at you, his face was a mask of anguish, his eyes filled with a pain so deep, it physically hurt to see your eyes widen in shocking realisation. "My name isn't Lucien," he said, his voice a low, trembling whisper. "I... I am sorry. So, so sorry."

You stared at him, your expression unreadable. You recognized him, of course you did. You must’ve seen his face on the news, in the papers, in the flickering images of the Extermination broadcasts. "You are..." The name hung in the air, unspoken yet prominently dooming.

"Yeah." he confirmed, his voice barely audible. "Lucifer Morningstar." He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable storm of your fury. "I know I should have told you, after getting to know you, but…” He turned away from you, his heart threatening to shatter into pieces at your silence. "I was a coward, and… and the longer I waited the harder it got to tell you… I'm... I'm so sorry." he stammered, his voice cracking as he scrambled to explain, to ask for forgiveness at least.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the frantic beating of his own heart. He risked a glance at your face, and what he saw there was not anger. Not hatred. Not fear. It was... contemplation. You were looking at him, truly looking at him, your eyes scanning the changes in his appearance not in accusation, but curious interest. Then you did the last thing he ever expected. You let out a soft breath, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

"Well," you said, your voice surprisingly steady. "That explains a lot."

Lucifer just stared, his mind refusing to process what you just said. "W-what?"

"Please. The way you got us a reservation at The Crimson Spoon on a Friday night with an hour's notice?" you listed calmly, ticking items off on your fingers. "The fact that you knew the vintage of a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine without looking at the label? The... sheer otherworldly... skill you just displayed with your forked tongue?" A faint blush bloomed on your cheeks at the last statement, but your eyes never left his. "I thought you were just ridiculously charming."

He blinked, still absolutely, utterly bamboozled. "I... I am charming."

"You are," you agreed, your smile widening a little. "And you're also, apparently, happening to be the king of hell."

The weight of the title, spoken so casually, made him flinch. He waited for the other shoe to drop. For the screaming, the accusations, the inevitable rejection. "Aren't you... angry? Or scared? Or... I don't know, something?" he asked, his voice laced with incredulous bewilderment.

"Angry? Only of the fact that the sweet, awkward, funny man I've been falling for took this long to tell me." you mused, tilting your head. You reached out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the touch sending a shiver through him despite the dread coiling in his gut. "I mean, yes, it's a lot to process. But I'm not angry. And scared, well... should I be? Are you about to smite me for seeing you cry during sex?"

The teasing edge to your voice was like a lighthouse in a raging sea. He managed a weak, crumpled smile. "No. I'm not much of a smiter these days. It's... frowned upon."

"Good to know." you said softly. Your thumb brushed over his cheek, wiping away the last remains of his tears. "Look at me, Lucifer." The use of his real name, in your voice, without fear or malice, threatened to make him burst into tears again. It sounded so... right. "This Lucien I know... he's kind. He's a little clumsy, he has terrible taste in movies. He gets flustered when I pay for lunch, and he looks at me like I'm the grand prize at the lucky-duck booth you won for me at LuLu World. He's also the best lay I've ever had in my life, before and after death."

The more you talked, the nearer you etched to him, ignoring the fact that they were both naked, literally mid-coitus interruptus, and his precum probably spread all over your upholstery - the more flustered he got, a dark blush slowly overpainting his rosy circles while he was unable to form a reply that would make sense, that was an appropriate answer to your unbelievable calm and forgiveness.

"Tell me," you continued, your voice gentle but firm. "Is Lucifer any different? Did you change more than just your name and your appearance?"

"No," he breathed out, the word a desperate prayer. "No, he's... me. Just... with less of the baggage. Less of the..." He gestured vaguely at himself, freezing in motion as you placed a hand on his cheek, softly pulling him towards you.

"Then I think I'd like to get to know him, too." you concluded, your warmth chasing the coldness that paralyzed him away, soaking him in the cathartic relief of your acceptance. "Baggage and all."

You kissed him, carefully, with much more tenderness than he felt he deserved, and the taste of your lips was an absolution he hadn't dared to hope for. He felt the knot in his chest loosen, the crushing weight of his secret lifting, replaced by a feeling so light, so dizzying it was almost frightening. His arms reached out to you, and you accepted their hesitant embrace with a soft, reassuring hum.

You were a beacon in his endless night, a small, defiant flame in the vast, desolate landscape of his existence. The only one able to ignite the long-forgotten sparks of hope he had already given up upon. He was never more grateful to be proven fantastically wrong - It didn't have to end. It was a beginning, a chance of something more. Something real and messy and imperfectly perfect. His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against his chest, the desperate need to be close to you, to feel the steady beat of your heart against his own returning with as much desperation as before, but under a whole different premise.

He'd make sure he would return your mercy tenfold, repay your absolution in devotion so profound he would never give you any reason to question your decision to keep him. He'd cherish you; every moment, every laugh, every touch, every shared ordinary adventure, every quiet morning he'd hopefully waking up in your warm embrace.

As he lost himself in the warmth of your body, in the wanton sighs that called his hands back over your body... a stray, giddy thought flickered in the back of his mind, so inconveyingly happy but absurdly improper it made him want to laugh before his mind blanked as he entered you again.

Charlie was going to be so thrilled when he would introduce you to her afterall.