A/N:This is really late- like wow, I am a slow writer
Lucifer:
It’s a simple day spent with him out in the market, a simple explanation that he just needs to get out of the house for a moment, and with a frown pulling at the corner of his lips, and ears hot as he mentions that he doesn’t want to be alone. Of course, you couldn’t deny him, so here you are with him, arm in arm, as you walk through the dense sea of demons and others alike. Lucifer has you pulled close to him, taking each step in a slow pace to extend the time he has with you. You don’t seem to mind, clinging close to him, your head turning and peering at all the stores that you pass by, and of course, he could offer to go into one, make a mental note of what had caught your eye, but he rather have you ask for it, looking up at him with a sheepish grin and nervous lilt in your voice. But you never do, choosing to walk arm in arm with him, exchanging small talk. Passing by a bakery, you stop in your tracks, and he comes to a slow halt, turning to you and with a sheepish grin, and you tilt your head over to the shop. Without you uttering a single thing, he nods, holding the door open for you.
Still in Devildom, it’s common to find things that you’ll find less than appetizing. You’ve expressed it before- cringed and paled when something that looked so odd came before you. He’s managed to find food that you’d like- an imitation of flavors back from the Human Realm. At least, the pastries are something that you find that you can stomach even if you have the habit of taking a quick picture of it first. He’d never understand the need for it, but you take a picture of him and you together afterwards, and he quite likes that part. You ask him about a menu item, and he hums, his attention to you as you question the baked good that contains a “soul” and he waves it off- an imitation or perhaps a part of a soul from a being long dead. And then you question something that has him giving you a raised look. Would you- or rather your soul ever show up on a menu? He doesn’t know why you would ask something like that- it’s not as if you’d- and midway through his sentence does the realization of you being human hit him. It’s a cold feeling that washes over him, one that makes his skin crawl and twist at his stomach. Suddenly, he’s lost his appetite.
You’re beside him, sleeping peacefully, and unbothered by the fact that he’s still awake. He won’t cry. It’s inevitable that you will die. He knows that. He’s threatened you more times than he would care to admit. He knows you can die, and that you will. And yet, it doesn’t stop the horrific loss of breath, something stuck in his throat and vision being blurred. Lucifer can’t lose you. Not you. He’s been perfect. He should be allowed to have you, to keep you with him. His hand covers his mouth, tears slipping between his fingers, and eyes closing shut as he lets out a muffled cry. His chest shudders, and he wants to cry. You’re lying beside him, asleep and unknowing as Pride collapses into feeble crying, whimpering and trying to make himself smaller. You won’t be here one day. He shakes himself. There’s no use crying over it. Not now. Not when you’re still here. Not when he can wake you and cause you worry. He wants whatever time that you have with him to be nice- to be something worth remembering and he knows that if you were to find him crying, you’d never go back to sleep- you’d never stop looking at him with such sad eyes. He can’t be the cause of that. Not anymore.
With a whisper, a candle lights beside his nightstand, and then the room glows in a faint orange hue, as he rises from the bed. He is entranced by the still flame, and he remembers the Reaper’s Cave. He remembers your candle. He hadn’t expected to see it- he wasn’t even searching for it, or perhaps he was, but he hadn’t yet realized it. He didn’t want to see the horrific truth that perhaps it was already nearing the end, but there it was. He stared at it for a second and now it haunts him. Going back would prove to be a pain, but he’d do it for you. He’d lift his candle and pour his wax onto yours. He’d stain his hands if it meant that you’d get just a little bit more time. There would be consequences, but it’s nothing he couldn’t handle. He could handle whatever it is as long as you’re there by his side.
He can’t fall asleep and he goes to his study papers in a neat order, and his pen uncapped. The chair creaks under his weight, and he grabs at a sticky note, scrawling the pen over it, and it remains untouched, pure from the ink and indented from the tip of the pen. The pen goes into the trash and Lucifer takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and his hand curves over his mouth. His vision is focused on the opposite end of the room, fixated on the door, waiting for the handle to turn and for you to appear with sleep caressing and making you appear so much softer. He waits for you to wrap your arms around him and lull him back to bed, your lips nothing more than a phantom against his neck. But you never appear. The door remains closed and he remains alone in his office with his vision growing bleary and eyes beginning to burn with tears. His tears curve down his face and drip onto the desk, sullying the pristine wood. His shoulders shake, and he’s crying alone in his office. And he hopes, so selfishly, that you would sense him and come rushing to his aid, and yet, he’s alone. He grieves for a future love lost, and his chest hurts, hollow and ruined. And he wonders how it was you, a human, that could have stirred such emotions in him, enough to make the vision of Pride glossy.
bridgerton s2: Do you think there is a corner of this Earth that you could travel to far away enough to free me from this torment? I am a gentleman. My father raised me to act with honor, but that honor is hanging by a thread that grows more precarious with every moment I spend in your presence. You are the bane of my existence. And the object of all my desires. Night and day, I dream of you.
