you're going to hell, boy!

I know you always need my time. I'm busy doing the devil's work. Oh, you're in love. But I just keep sinning. Don’t you know, it’s hard enough for me? Screaming out for love, don’t you let me be.

                                                                          LUKAS “LUCIFER” VALE —— THE DEVIL OF NEW YORK,                                                                                           a thirty-nine pornography mogul and businessman

an dependent muse for exclusivenyc analyzed by mat - ( 25, est, he/him )

TRIGGER WARNING! The following thread contains: drug use

     “TELL ME AGAIN why you like this place?” he asked, skating an assuming glance across the inner decor that was very unimpressive to someone of his background. Objectively, the diner was quaint and homey, the food subpar but that’s exactly what made it so wonderful. Lucifer was far too removed from anything remotely considered middle-class to appreciate the aroma of tart and cheap coffee lingering in the morning air, or have any nostalgia to connect the smell of (what was obviously) Bisquick pancakes and syrup to. A waitress came around to set a four-cup holder of various syrups down on their table, and he raised an eyebrow at it.

     Maybe it wasn’t the most common thing to meet up with one’s medical provider for a Saturday breakfast, but it also wasn’t so common to be brought back from a toe to death’s door, and here Amelia was, sitting across from Lucifer as a common denominator to both experiences. He sighed, and then leaned back into the stiff booth, and then found himself giving a quiet chuckle. A genuine amusement at how different life could be for two people who had been tethered together by the hands of fate itself. He entertained this breakfast that he judged so heavily because he considered Amelia a dear friend now. After all, what else could you consider someone who’d saved your life?

     He brought the cream white coffee cup to his lips and took a sip—black, as he usually liked it, because he only drank high quality coffee. This Folger’s was enough to make him grimace against the acidity and lack of flavor, and then quickly reach over for two sugar packets, rip them open and dump them into the liquid as if they could save it. “Alright, Superwoman. Can’t say I’m impressed. Those pancakes better be better than whatever the hell this is,” he protested, and then took another sip anyway. “How’re things with Antoni? Still picture perfect?”

TRIGGER WARNING! This character development task contains potentially triggering content such as: child abuse and abandonment, narcissism, cheating, heartbreak.  //  @exclusivemusings

     TO SAY HE was an vengeful man might have been an understatement. Lucifer, in all his audacity, sat waiting for his date at Per Se, solely out of the need to prove a point. After unintentionally coming upon a “friend” and Mr. Theodore Wolfe, dining together, there was a sort of competitive jealousy that coursed through him. Even if he and Keys had never defined what they were—and that’s exactly what Lucifer had enjoyed about their friendship, there was a hurt he felt he needed to get back at Keys for, somehow. Because how dare Keys invite his intimacy and then go to dinner with another man. Truthfully, it had bothered Lucifer more than he put on, and if he were anything, he would be the victor here. He would not be made a fool of by someone he’d let in, so uncharacteristically. And, despite the arrangement he’d caught Theo and Keys on being the exact behavior he himself engaged in with others, all the time, he did not like receiving a taste of his own medicine. If anything, it made him furious, lost in the injustice. So there he sat, ironically in the same restaurant he dined all of his new dates—a testament to his own entitlement, though Mr. Wolfe wouldn’t know that. Neither would Oliver, the lover of whom he was betraying in this very moment.

    He was here to impress Theodore, as he was sure his first impression of crashing his date at likely not left a good taste in the other’s mouth. He’d donned a suit, tailored to perfection, a spritz of Sel Marin mingling with the tart fruit notes of the wine he’d already demanded the waitress pour. Something of a signature curl had fallen into his eyes out of its manicured grooming—always the same one, and he was just pushing it back when he noticed his date finally eclipse into his vision. A smile, unlike any reserved for those he didn’t anticipate kissing by the end of the night, tugged over his lips, and eyes fell down Theo’s form, drinking him in. “You made it,” he began, baritone voice only flecked with the tiniest accusation. “Was beginning to think you wouldn’t be showing,”  he joked. Lucifer never anticipated someone might ghost him. It would have come as a genuine shock, that would have seriously hurt his ego, and he would have never admitted that to himself. He was glad the other was here, for more reasons than one. “You look lovely,” he tempered his previous tone, compliment falling forth with sincerity. “Sit. It’s nice to see you again, and... of course, I hope you’ll accept dinner as payment instead.” Another joke, lips pulled over canine, with a small humored huff before they met the glass of wine.

    “But I mean it, and you just are not capable of hearing it.” Because it was unpleasant without even being cruel. Oliver wasn’t even attempting to hurt the other’s feelings, but rather shove in Luce’s face the hurt that he was making him go through. Being in Luci’s life meant that he had to put up with that kind of bullshit, and Oliver, who already had gone through a failed marriage and many breakups, wasn’t ready to setting himself up for more heartbreak (he was in enough pain now anyway). 

Behind the mask of confidence he wore on the daily, Oliver was burdened with enough insecurities that he could easily feel as though he was not enough, but never in his life, had he been reminded of that so violently than he had been, that day. It didn’t matter that the insulting wedding band was now nowhere to be found. The slap in his face left its mark. Red. Burning his flesh. “I don’t want to mean something. I shouldn’t mean just something,” he wanted to swat away the other’s hand, but it was difficult not to lean into his touch then. “And if I can’t mean everything to you, I might as well mean nothing, because there will always be room for something else,” and Lucifer made this much clear: they weren’t together. They weren’t a thing at all, even if they cared for one another, even if he felt there was something magnetic at stake here. Even now, he could feel himself getting drawn to him.

“I might be one of your milestones, but I’ll end up a forgotten monument over time, Luci. Covered in moss. Rusty and broken.” And Luce knew him well enough to know that Oliver would never accept to become a shadow of himself, even to please someone else. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be selfless, but that he refused to do it for someone who wouldn’t do the same for him. “Think about it. Even if you managed to drag me into your bed again, how can I ever trust you now?” You could tell how upset he was from the variations in his voice, but not once did Oliver break his gaze away from the other’s eyes because hurt as he was, he wouldn’t let him take his pride.

     THE WEIGHT OF the past few weeks concentrated into this moment, and cradled the duo in a way that might have left Lucifer metaphorically writhing to get out if not for the magnitude of what this all had just become. This wasn’t a conversation he could say he never anticipated happening, but, as with most things, he usually felt like he could coast the good until it all soured. He’d push off preparing for the emotional backlash of his own actions until he couldn’t anymore. And now here it was—and here he couldn’t, anymore. Oliver’s words,  “and if I can’t mean everything to you, I might as well mean nothing, because there will always be room for something else,” echoed in his mind, and like a caged animal, the narcissist felt trapped. Between getting what he wanted on the condition that he could not have his cake and eat it too, and losing someone he might never admit he needed, for not wanting to give them exactly what they deserved. “A milestone?” he echoed, voice breaking at the very end of its syllables with the weight that question held. Oliver had always been more than a milestone to him, and as awful and selfish as Lucifer might have always been, there was still a man underneath all of that callous. A man that felt, even if he shied away from those feelings. A man that needed, even if he shied away from accepting that he might need anyone else except himself. But when it all boiled down and these lovers might scrape at the briny residue coating the rock bottom of their relationship, Lucifer was still a liar. He was still selfish. And he was irreparably so. And Oliver, sweet Oliver had made this grave mistake of getting involved with a man who called himself the Devil and rightfully so, if you asked anyone else in said man’s life.

     Like playing out in some wretched loop, his own actions brought what little stability he and Oliver had to its knees, just as it had with every romantic predecessor before Oliver. Just as it had with Camila, though he never had given Oli the full story. The worst parts of him wanted to deflect, turn this back around on Oli. You’re not such a saint, Oliver Brown. Sleeping with your best friend’s boyfriend the moment they broke up? For once in his life, Lucifer exercised some restraint, if only to salvage what he had with said non-saint. His thumb brushed along Oliver’s cheekbone, down to his jawline, and then back up, and then the words he feared to ever speak before to the journalist left his lips. “So, what? You want to be... in a relationship?” He paused, searching Oliver’s eyes. “Is that what you’re saying? The only way you’d trust me again, is if I committed to you?” Then, as if it were never even an option, he gave a small shake of his head, and it were as if he were trying to talk some sense into his lover. For, they both knew who Lucifer was. “I don’t do commitment. You know this. I thought... I thought you knew this.”

     Now, this wasn’t some callous declaration that Oliver was not worth committing to because deep down, Lucifer knew any life he’d entertain with the journalist would be whole and completing and better than anything he’d ever deserved, but rather a warning: because Oliver shouldn’t trust him. Even committed, Oliver shouldn’t trust him. Lucifer was not an unintelligent man. He was unaware of himself in many ways, but not this—he was a cheater, and knowingly so, and powerlessly so. “I thought you knew this,” he repeated, in some whisper that held a fleck of desperation. As if that knowledge alone could salvage what they had. Bring everything back to a place he could comfortably be with the other, without sabotaging it all totally and completely... more than he already had.

LIKE NO ONE’S WATCHING ↳ very, very late in the evening. location; hydra waterfront. with @vale-x​

through a small but seemingly mighty bluetooth speaker; rêverie, L. 68, composed by claude debussy fills the space.

a dingy mop wistfully glides along the epoxy floor finish, soaking up the residue of someone’s night life remedy. it smelled like vodka, but rain wasn’t experienced enough to really know that to be true. alcohol was all the same to her, bitter and the recipe to letting your demons run free. personally, she hated the idea of that more than the taste itself. maybe that’s why she’s so reluctant to let it come anywhere near her mouth, even now as an adult. at the very least, her job was clean it all up- and not entertain it. 

finally, after sweeping from corner to corner while picking up empty plastic cups and fallen shot glasses in between, cleaning and clearing every drink table and chair to the back, and seeing the floor lacquered in cleaning product from her stained mop head, a sigh of relief puffed past her tired lips, knowing it was time to move her ‘expertise’ to what she liked to call the curtain call. when the dj’s equipment wasn’t stationed in the middle of the space, it really felt like a stage. from where she stood, she could see the light fixtures aiming the where she’d planted herself and her imagination began to unfold behind her dark eyes. although these light usually flash bright tones of neon, her likeness saw an inviting shade of beige- much like a spotlight centered for the principal dancer. as if that could ever be her. that’s always how her urge to dance started, pretending the lights were waiting for her, and her speaker on it’s highest level switching melodies as if the composer in the pit was queueing her first move. tonight, her arms rounded the moment ‘song of time’ by abel koreniowski was recognizable to her ears. 

like a wave slowly grabbing the sand inch by inch, her posture rolls through her petite frame as it starts in second position, her arms extend out to either sides with a gentle strength running from her shoulders all the way through to her finger tips. next comes a grand plie with a port de bras to her left, the movement slow and in time to the dark hum of the cello. her posture rises and changes through to an attitude, her right leg lifting high behind her effortlessly with a pointed foot through the en dehors, in other words backwards. that finishes forward and stretches through to an arabesque, her dainty and reddened fingers stretching through as if she wanted someone to take hold of them. that dropped into a plie, into a coupe, and into fifth position. that was shaky. more. she thought, and again her body began moving. another turn sprung from her stature, en dedans with her lifted leg bent to where her toes kissed her knee. she lands in an slow and developed plie before finally, she shifts her weight to one leg as the other slowly rises, sustaining that strength and stability until her foot had been beautify pointed above her head, her gaze lowered as her arms followed the point- like they summoning her leg higher and higher. rain held that for a moment, before she gradually let it fall. the dancers held breath released, and a series of huffs trickled after. still, she wanted more… but just when she’d decided to throw her self into a jump- her gaze caught a glimpse of a pair of important eyes that wasn’t there when the curtain opened. 

her steps faulter, and she’s stuck- staring back with a loss for words trying to catch her breath. 

.

     THE MUSIC HAD finally settled and twilight had expired into night, the juxtaposition of one hour’s evolution from chaotic to silent almost uncomfortably tangible. To Lucifer, this was something akin to a postictal state—some sort of limbo that only existed in the untouched hours between the witching hour and dawn. Squeezed into the last of the day’s twenty-four, or perhaps the first, depending on who you’d asked. If you asked Lucifer, it was the former, and despite the Nightclub’s cyclical return to a liminal space nightly, he couldn’t say he minded it that much. With how full and effervescent with activity the rest of the day always went, there was a certain comfort to be found in the dark before the dawn of the next. A quiet, where all the patrons had went home to recover from the night just as all employees had, and he was left with this lingering feeling of accomplishment, despite having not finished any true task other than watching the party begin, flourish, and end. It wasn’t often that he actually made an appearance in Hydra. After all, he had plenty of other endeavors to keep himself busy, from his primary occupation to all the other side-investments he’d made since his move to this city. Sometimes it overwhelmed him. Sometimes it, coupled with his interpersonal affairs, like having his long-term situationship come to a razor sharp pinnacle of ultimatums, drove him  to seek comfort in the more surface-level experiences. Walking into an owned establishment and being praised simply for owning it. That was a great feeling. One that rivaled many. Ordering a generous round of drinks for everyone sitting at the bar, on the house, and then partying with the like of them.  It’d made for an effective anesthetic, one that lasted right through just the end of the night. He’d then retreated, when the booze wore off and the hangover came earlier than expected and he knew he had an early start the next morning (this morning?), so partying like he was still twenty was off the table. An hour had passed and he’d spent it leaning over the half wall up on the balcony, watching the backdrop of the city’s skyline behind the waves that the club looked out unto. It was a beautiful club, and one might think the narcissus would spend that hour self-congratulating, but when Lucifer was alone, he couldn’t always hide from  the misfortunes that plagued him. Most of them were self-inflicted. That sent him down a spiral; a rabbit hole, of self-hate, of why do I always do this, and then a prompt denial—why does this always happen to me.

     He was finishing up a cigarette after three drags. He was never much of a smoker. Snuffed out the edge against the stone, and then, as if it were an important afterthought, wiped his thumb against the smudge of residue. That stone had cost him a lot of money. Then, as if he hadn’t just spent the better part of the hour lost in thoughts he’d never let see the light of day, he allowed his shoulders to fall into their natural squared poise, standing straight and tall, an air of power in his steps, because even when he thought he was completely alone, he was too afraid to exist in this world as anything but.

     Jacket shrugged over shoulders, and he decided he’d take the steps. For no real reason at all except to linger in the silence a little more. Something of self-torture. Dipped hand in his pocket and found a cuban cigar one of the club goers had gifted him that night, and the keys to his Ducati. He stopped in the doorwayof the stairwell exit, rolling the cigar between his fingers, as if in debate of whether he should procrastinate going home just yet. There was always a sort of solemn loneliness that would revisit him on his ride home every evening. Going back to his massive townhouse, bold and salacious, empty and devoid of everyone and everything except him. Maybe, for just a little while longer, he didn’t want to lay in the bed he’d made. Be reminded of how Oliver had laid in that bed too, and how it was ruining them. Had ruined them. At this point he wasn’t sure. Maybe he was in denial—but denial was as good a salve as any, and just as he took the cigar between his teeth and patted his pockets for his lighter, he noticed it.

     The music was faint enough from where he was standing that he didn’t actually realize there was another presence here until he’d spotted movement out of his peripheral vision. Then, it was like all of his senses awoke from their emotionally distracted stupor, and Lucifer had returned to this moment. But this moment was not something he was expecting, and he stood as spectator to a performance he was sure he wasn’t intended to witness, but could not look away for what it reminded him of. The silhouette of a woman, under spotlighting low cast now, migrating through ballet moves as fluidly as water. He’d seen a scene like this once before—in his own kitchen. His ex-girlfriend and certainly the love of his life, performing near exactly the same routine in her own sweats. There was some strange mix of emotion that fell into his abdomen like an anvil. A sort of sinking morose, seeping down into him where the light of day could not touch—all those dark thoughts from earlier, resurrected from kindle into forest fire. He did not show that however. Instead, he was stoic, all but devoid of emotion as he watched, and maybe if he were any more humble he would have looked away by now, but even at his  most vulnerable, Lucifer was an arrogant son of a bitch.

     Then the show was suddenly cut short, and the duo both seemed to come tumbling, silently, back into reality. For her, quite literally. He watched the employee stumble over her footing, and then felt a strange protest on her behalf. He knew if this were Camila, she would have been frustrated by such a faltering. He took a glance away from her gaze to notice the nearby mop, and then back to darkened hues who seemed to be expecting reprimand. There was a weighted moment, where he took the cigar from his lips and tucked it back into his pocket, said nothing, and then lifted a brow, giving a judgment that was certainly not invited. Perhaps, in his mind, in some roundabout way, reliving that small moment of support he’d given Camila so long ago.

     “You were shaking.” He pointed out, and then gestured towards the area where she’d been dancing. “To... put the most power into your jump, you have to be stable before you jump. The shaking is usually from using small muscles that don’t get used often enough... to be stable.” The words came from him almost uncharacteristically gentle; the same sort of softness he’d give to Camila when she beat herself up about how perfect her pirouette was. He’d often helped her into her jumps, just before a big show. This prompted a piece of uncharacteristic support from him then, and a question followed. “It was good though.” A pause. “Are you the janitor?”

     TIME, AS IT often was, was stretched too thin today, and Lucifer had only a small section in the day to fit in the one-on-one meeting he’d needed to have with Madhi for the past two weeks now. Sometimes on the pursuit to endless wealth, one might bite off more than they could chew, and Lucifer was only now learning that lesson. He typically had managers and managers for his managers, to do all the dirty work with the investments he picked up. The nightclub, the strip club, now this god forsaken apartment complex. He was convinced this would be an incredible investment when he’d bought the place. Over a thousand units of passive income. He thought he was being smart—renovating it all right off the bat, so no one would have any problems. He’d get left alone, bring in an easy 1.5 million a month. But, just as it typically did, reality was much more complex than what he’d hoped for. Maybe that’s why he was extra bitter about having to funnel any amount of money into the place, after all the money he’d already put into the renovations. But that just wasn’t reality. Not for some fancy complex in the middle of decent Staten Island.

     Now he was taking long and urgent strides into the lobby of The Victoire, flagging down Madhi with a point in the direction of the leasing office, where he pulled out the chair she’d normally sit in, and took it for himself. “Okay, I don’t have a lot of time, so we have to finish this quickly,” he prefaced, pulling a laptop out and a folder of papers. He flipped through them, plucking one from the stack every now and again and setting them down on a new stack in front of her. “I have some things I need you to sign. Your last boss clearly had no idea what they were doing... these should have been signed a year ago.” Normally he might have just emailed or faxed them over, but this ensured he had the completed documents in hand, and there was no guess work or waiting. Madhi hadn’t proven herself to be a bad employee. Quite the contrary, he was certain if he’d chosen anyone else for the job, this place would be crashing and burning more than it already was. Or, at least, in his eyes it was. He had no idea the state in which it’d been before he’d taken ownership. “Alright.” The first deep breath of the hour came then, and he gave a small shake of his head. “Tell me what’s been happening. Where’s all the money going.”

Lukas and Hayley

There’s an important distinction between one’s personal life, and one’s professional obligations. But such a matter was never so clean cut and dry, especially for a woman like Hayley who lived in the perpetual grey. Nights like these are a reminder of that. The passion she held for work on a professional level, collaborating with the artistic eye reserved for her personal endeavors. It’s never been easy balancing her two personas; Nina, the Lover of Manhattan, and Hayley, whose fingertips were known for their skill in sketching (rather than her dazzling touch that was more method than luck). But industry events like these are an exception to a rule, a time when the two would intersect to make her an entirety of a woman. As she manages through the rickety, vintage floors in her Louboutin heels (purchased by one of her clients, of course) - she takes a gentle sigh of relief. It may seem odd to some, but this is where Hayley feels most at home; surrounded by art and erotica, basking in the warm familiarity of a dozen pairs of eyes (all of whom she’d fucked gloriously and happily). 

“Sex and art have always had a symbiotic relationship. No true artist, or person, could appreciate one without the other.” Hayley murmurs appreciatively by Lukas Vale’s side, the Dom Perignon in her champagne flute swirling with her gesticulating. Indeed, Ralph Whittington was a genius, and his collection inadvertently art. But the sexual interest is not present in the perspective of his photos. Unsurprising, given his insistence that it was clinical at best, anthropological at worst. A scandal for some sex enthusiasts, but for Hayley, it’s a pragmatism that can be appreciated. “Historically speaking, though… The attitude towards sex ebbs and flows. For every conservative era like the 50′s, you get the sexual liberation of the 70′s, and on and on.” She elaborates, excitement in innate response to Lukas’ own critique. Oh, how she loved these events by his side. They are well matched, at least platonically. How many people could share in her passions, and keep up with her effervescent nature? “But hear, hear, because we are damned even in the age of cam girls and only fans-” She clinks her glass with his, taking a hearty sip of her drink. “So do you. You’re sinful in that suit.” She says with bold authenticity, tilting her head in thought. “I think that Whittington was more a librarian than a true aficionado. His take is too clinical, too absolute. True artists aren’t this way.”

.

     THERE IS SOMETHING magnetic to Lucifer about Hayley, despite the pseudonyms they both hide their authenticity behind. That authenticity seems to creep out of the woman, dull the edges of her intensity as sexually intimidating madame into someone more earthen; more idle; more tangible. Though Lucifer had never been the type to find anyone but perhaps his own father intimidating, and her first impression had only served to draw him in. Her second impression had served as a hook, line, and sinker so to speak, in a way that he’d imagine most others might begin to shy. Lucifer never was a shy man, but he also might not have expected the symbiosis he would eventually hold with the one who went by Nina. Very early on in their fraternization, he’d picked up on Nina being a stage name of sorts. In his line of business, he’d grown a feel for being able to pick up on pseudonyms and birth names alike, and that wasn’t just because he held one himself. Surely she would have known by now that his mother would have to be some level of cruel to have named him after the Devil himself. So he kept her secret, provided she would keep his, and the act of never bringing this knowledge into fruition was as good a cover as any.

“Is this a joke? You can’t be serious.”

Lucifer would vehemently deny that he is, and quite probably genuinely believes he's not, but he tends to live very superficially and doesn't do much introspection. He compensates for his insecurities, definitely. The largest framework of his character is how he's created this entire facade for himself, to hide behind and avoid when things hit too close to home. For instance, he has a deep-running insecurity about being inherently bad. Rather than let the world see this, he's all but embraced it, and structured his entire life around it, as a way to cope with the reality of that emotion rather than face it head on.

    “I don’t want to leave.” Maybe this tactic would have worked with someone with half their wits, who hadn’t spent most of his years dancing gracefully through the many manipulative people that called themselves family yet where more often present in a board meeting than they were at birthday parties and celebrations. He’d been raised cautious, wary of those who would introduce themselves to him, but he was not sour or jaded yet, despite having nearly reach half of his time on Earth. He’d always been this way. Stupidly optimistic. “I want something you do not possess,” a sense of honesty, a will to commit or even something as small as words of apology.

Perhaps was it naive or incredibly prideful of him to think that he could change one’s way, to believe that he was special enough that he could turn the other’s life around. But was it a grand gesture of selflessness or was it one of the many times Oliver let his heart act out on its set wishes? He crossed his arms over his chest, not defensively, but as though he wrapped himself in the comfort of his own embrace, and into his own hold, found the strength to look the other in the eyes. “I pity you,” he finally said, and with eyes veiled with a toxic cocktail of spite and hurt, he held his gaze. “But I respect myself to much to put up with you for another moment.”

At last, he let his arms drop to his sides and walked up to his jacket, carefully draped around the back of a chair. His mouth fell open, and he considered adding more to it, but as Oliver knew when to speak up, he also knew when not to. He knew his way out of here, but though part of him wished the other would come after him and apologize, he knew better than to hope too ardently for it. It wasn’t an evening he thought would be pleasant, and that didn’t precisely qualify as a prophecy. It was just meant to be.

.

     THIS ATTEMPT AT evading the consequences of what he’d done was futile; he should not have assumed Oliver to be one to back down so easily. After all, all he’d known of the other was that he embodied the exact opposite. Still, knowledge of that couldn’t keep Lucifer’s own compulsion at bay—as dog barks back when cornered, Lucifer did too. Even when he had no right to. Even when he was being cornered to explain himself, to give someone their rightful closure. Even in the face of Oliver proving his own tact and poise once more, by not feeding into Lucifer’s avoidance, the mogul still found himself unable to utter exactly that which Oli had wanted from him. Instead, Oli’s words took him  aback—made him metaphorically stumble over the ground he held himself. Not often did others completely forego challenging him, and instead exercise their own right to not be treated so poorly. For a moment, Oli’s words reverberated through his mind: I pity you. But I respect myself too much to put up with you for another moment.

     Oliver, as he should have assumed, was masterful at gaining the upper hand when he needed to. Surely the other man had known what he’d done here: kept good on his promise with the ultimatum he’d presented. Gave Lucifer nothing to grasp except his own faults; the consequences of his behavior. How easily the scales tipped then, when narcissist was threatened with truly and finally losing someone he heavily cared for.  The ire in his own expression began to dissipate as he realized this. Oliver was serious. This wasn’t another bickering argument where they’d meet up again in a few days, weeks, have sex and get over it. Lucifer had crossed a line. Oliver had meant what he’d said, and Lucifer knew the man well enough to know that when the words had come out of his mouth, but now that he could feel the finality radiating off of the other’s form,, it was time for the next segment of the cycle: begging for forgiveness.

     He stepped forward, to close the gap between them just ever so slightly. His voice was soft now. “Oli, you don’t mean that.” As if he could speak for the other man and his intentions. He was the one who wanted Oliver to not mean that. “This doesn’t have to be a problem, Oliver. Baby, this doesn’t have to be a problem.” He lifted his hand then—the one that had donned the wedding band but a few weeks prior, as if it were one last ditch effort at evidence; at placating. “It’s gone. It meant nothing. You—” he stopped, gingerly reaching up to take Oliver’s face in his hands, find his gaze, hold onto it for dear life. “You mean something. You mean... To me, you... You think I don’t care about you?” His thumb brushed over the other’s cheek. This moment was his first authentic moment of the night, where everything that exited his mouth was finally the truth, and not some lie or omission. “Of course you mean a damn to me, Oli. You’ve always meant a damn to me.” A pause, eyebrows drew inward ever so slightly. “You know that. You were the first...”

     INDUSTRY EVENTS, EVEN in the raciest of industries, still tended to hold an air of elegance about them. Ask the King of Porn himself and he’d go on a tangent about how deeply sex workers should be respected, and how they were nothing but elegant. That’s why he attended these specific events out of genuine interest rather than obligation—a crowd of those who embraced the humanity in the sexual experience, and viewed it without its taboo and indoctrinated shame and instead for the universal experience it was: just as natural as breathing or eating—these were his people. Those who did not politely ignore the existence of sex workers, and instead researched them, looked at the sociology behind centuries of sexual lives, and could have a tempered conversation with no ulterior motive about it all.

     Tonight, MoSex was closed off to the public to host a dual networking and teaching event. Of course the man with his name in the headlines of all major industry news sources would have to make an appearance; it was a given. But, unlike most industries, he was actually enjoying himself. Champagne in hand, suit tailored to perfection, a dear friend at his side. It made for a night of authenticity. Rare, for a man who so often hid behind the mask of pseudonym and facade. He’d stopped to take a look at one of Ralph Whittington’s infamous donated collections, to study and contemplate it as an artist might with painting, and spoke to Hayley as he did. She’d always been one of very, very few he could have a philosophical conversation about this all with. One of many reasons he enjoyed her company so much; why he dragged her out to these events as his plus-one. “It’s incredible the influence that illicit entertainment has on a generation of people. Even before the internet existed,” his lips pulled over a defined canine in mild amusement. “They were still finding a way...” he trailed off for a moment, taking a look at the adjacent collection. “This is why it’s so important to not demonize sex and teach people that it’s something to never talk about and to be ashamed of. You talk about it, people learn how to have healthy, safe, sane sex, and then they seek out illicit content that shows the same, and then we cultivate a generation that respects each other in bed and isn’t afraid to communicate about it when someone doesn’t.” He cast a glance her way, and then raised his glass just slightly in salute, before taking a sip. “To the next generation.” A pause; a content sigh. “You look nice tonight, Primadonna. Tell me your thoughts.... What’s your take on this one?”

    HOW MANY TIMES had Oliver suffered through this? Through a man raising his voice at him and making him feel as though he was nothing but a nuisance? How many times had he left the room if only to conceal how upset it made him? You could tell it wasn’t his first time in the way he flinched. Of course Oliver wasn’t startled, or surprised. How many times had he caused men to lose themselves to wrath ? He couldn’t run away today. All he could do was clench his jaw and hold all of his venom in, because he’d stuttered once already tonight and he didn’t want to make it into an habit.

     “You are right, your personal life is none of my business,” he conceded, which was not good news for either of them. Oliver had an habit of reaching out only to wrap his his hand around someone’s throat and squeeze. “And you needn’t to remind me of the one thing you made abundantly clear : I don’t mean a damn thing to you,” he didn’t dare taint his word with lies in this moment. Claiming that Luce didn’t mean a thing to him would have been one, and he hoped Luci was clever enough to see what he’d so obviously left out here.

   “But you don’t get to run away like a child throwing a temper tantrum over a ardently wanted toy. I am not your fucking thing to play with whenever you see fit. I’m someone.” A person and one that mattered too. Not to Luce, perhaps, but Oliver knew who he was, and he knew that he mattered. “I’m someone you summoned here, because you knew I can’t rest until I know the truth, and you my friend, are not telling me the truth.” Oh he didn’t doubt that the other saw him as nothing but a play thing anymore. He’d be upset about it for days, his ego was wounded, but he’d live. What infuriated him was the level of non sense at play tonight. “You married someone, and now you want to pick up where we left off? No. You better explain yourself now or I’m leaving, and don’t you bother invite me again because you won’t have a chance to do that.” Now, or never.

     FOOTSTEPS HALTED. THERE was a brief moment of non-expression, and then a palm drew isoscelese across his facial hair; a gesture of uncertainty; a testament to the discomfort that Oliver’s words had caused, but it was far too complex, much farther than Lucifer could ever manage to convey with his words. Because, the truth was, this moment was defining. It was not a reflection of the journalist. It was mirror only of the narcissus—and his fatal flaw. How his vulnerability was locked behind bar and key, and anyone who dared to get close enough to peer between the steel would find themselves where Oliver was now: not even questioning—but absolutely certain that Lucifer did not care for them. A defense mechanism at the expense of another, and indiscriminate at that. It had never mattered—how intimate a life he’d shared with another. Anyone that got too close would always get burned, and it was not a conscious decision on Lucifer’s part, and that was the most desolate aspect of it all. He was something of a slave to this part of him... a place to retreat into when things crossed into a territory that hovered a bit too close to his heart, where it was not safe. He sought out that sense of safety in some constant loop throughout his life—found it in flashing lights, praises, mindless sex. Found it in Oliver. Found it in dismissing Oliver, when Oliver hovered too close.

     The man stood there for a long moment, frozen to his spot, unable to turn to look at his lover. Because now he was in it. He was in the trenches with no way out, and he was the one who’d made his bed down there. He always was. A vicious cycle—where he would declare himself the victor, convince the other they were not, when it truly was the other way around. He stood in silence. Listened to Oli speak the truth. Oli always did speak the truth. Listened to Oli call him out, with nowhere to hide in between the lines of what was said and what was meant.  The sign of a masterful journalist. The reason he’d been so drawn to the man in the first place, now here, to deliver their demise. He finally turned to look at his lover. He opened his mouth—and he was about to tell him everything. He was. In the last hitch of breath before he did, a different stream of consciousness left his lips. As if he weren’t the one saying these cruel things. As if he weren’t the one looking into the eyes of the first man who had truly accepted him, who had been so patient with him for so long, who had given him so much more than he deserved constantly. He spoke his words with a finality. And none of the emotion that lingered within him could touch his features. His stare bore into Oli’s, not with the look of a lover quarreling, but with that of an enemy. As if, in this short time, all of their past had unfurled, and instead in its wake was detriment. Oli did not deserve this, but Lucifer was a selfish, selfish man.

      “Then leave, Oli.”

      How he could look into the eyes of his lover, who was so justified in his concerns, and dismiss him even then. Because the alternative was to admit to his wrongs, own them, feel the shame—inescapable and all-consuming—as he stood in the face of Oli’s reaction to his betrayal. It was the right thing to do. It was the necessary thing to do. It was the diplomatic thing to do. But Lucifer was a selfish, selfish man.

     “The door is open. You want to leave, I’m not stopping you.”