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blancheludis · 2 months ago

Text

Whumptober 2024 Day 14: "cause I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted"

Fandom: Star Wars, Clone Wars Characters: Fox, Thorn Tags: Hurt Fox, Mind Control, Institutional Abuse, Protective Thorn

Summary:

Fox wakes up with blood on his hands and no idea how he got to Coruscant's lower levels. This is not the first time he went missing for days without remembering a single thing.

"I've killed someone," Fox whispers, later, when the panic has died down to a manageable level. "It's not the first time."

Thorn hums, which sounds more like an automatic response, something he would do for any shiny after their first time a meeting with a senator went wrong. His hand never stops drawing circles on Fox' back, though. He never stops holding Fox up.

"Did you hide all the evidence or do I need to clean it up?" he then asks as if inquiring about a change in the patrol schedule, or like other people might talk about the weather.

---

Fox wakes up with blood on his hands and a dull ache in the back of his head. He is sitting in some dark, dirty alley in what he guesses must be the lower levels of Coruscant. A quick check does not reveal any new pressing injuries. Just the same throbbing of the marks on his back, stretching uncomfortably with every breath he takes and the ever-present pain in his right shoulder.

It takes him too long to notice that he is not wearing armour but all black slacks. Not even the regulation undersuits but something unfamiliar, non-descriptive. Scratchy cloth that sticks to the skin of his arms and abdomen. Heartbeat picking up, he raises a hand to his face, finds the same flimsy cloth covering the lower half of it and a hood pulled in deep. No helmet, leaving too much of his face bare in a city where a drunk civilian does not make a difference between droid or clone when wanting to air their frustrations at the war.

This is not - Fox breaks his own rules all the time, especially the ones about taking breaks and not sticking out, but he never goes out without his armour, without his bucket. This is the surest way to get killed. Or to invite more regulations and punishment down on the Guard.

Something is wrong. Seriously wrong. It is entirely possible for a Guard to be overwhelmed during patrol, to be taken to the lower and quieter parts of the city, to be taught a lesson. Usually, they do not find that brother until it is too late, though. They are not unharmed, out of armour, and covered in blood that apparently is not theirs.

Fox has no comms on him, no other clue to tell him where he is or why he is here.

Carefully, he pushes himself to his feet. Long practice makes him barely waver when the dizziness hits. It takes a bit longer than usual and his throat is parched to the point where it stings when he tries to swallow. Not just a quick stint out of the barracks then. Some time must have passed.

He leans against the wall as he waits for the world to come into focus around him. For the briefest of moments, he contemplates simply leaving. He is stranded somewhere out of sight with no idea what happened, but something must have happened, something that might be a neat end for Marshal Commander Fox. He could get off Coruscant to a faraway corner of the galaxy and retire. He could rest his shoulder and see whether the damage is actually permanent if he does not aggravate the injury again and again. He could sleep.

With an unhappy frown at himself, he starts walking. Whatever else happened, Fox would never abandon his brothers. The men under his command are what keep him going day after day. As much as he would love for everything to just stop, he would never throw them to the wolves for it. Later, he might regret that he survived whatever happened here, but regret is something he knows intimately by now, like a second skin, a second heartbeat right beside his own, only faltering less often.

First things first, he needs to get back to the barracks without being seen. Everything else, he can deal with after.

---

He has made it all of three halls down from the entrance, when Thorn falls into step beside him. He barely reacts at the sight of Fox out of his armour, but Fox knows him well, sees the way his back is straight to the point of pain, the way he is turned towards Fox as if expecting he has to catch him any moment now. Something aches deep inside of him at that. With the life they lead, they could have easily forgotten how to care, how to love. Instead, they still care so much, for better or worse.

"Are you hurt?" Thorn asks, instead of a thousand more important things.

Fox glances at him from the side. "What happened?"

Thorn's step falters for just a second before he collects himself. "You tell me," he says, his voice rough even through the vocoder. "You went to see the Chancellor and then disappeared for three days without a word."

"Three days?" Fox stops in the middle of the hallway, re-evaluates what little information he has, and tries to ignore the pit of horror opening up in his stomach.

Three days means he did not go out sleepwalking, even ignoring how unlikely that ever was, considering how far down he went and in unfamiliar clothes. It means he did not go out drinking and pass out in an alleyway, either. Even desperate and tired, he would not abandon his brothers for three days.

The Chancellor is going to throw a fit. What if he summoned Fox and he was not there? What if one of the more difficult senators boxed through more decommissioning requests without him being able to run interference?

And what could he have possible done for three days? He did not think it was that much blood on him, but he could have changed clothes, could have done a lot more terrible things in that much time than he can guess at the moment. He could have -

A hand on his shoulder snaps him back to the present. He flinches back, one arm raises instinctively to protect his head. When he blinks, it is still just Thorn with him. Quickly, he loses the defensive position. Neither of them says anything about his panic. They do not need to. They have held each other through panic attacks too often to count. Talking will not make it better. Nothing will make it better as long as they are still here, still on Coruscant, still under the care of people who like breaking them.

"You didn't get any of our messages?" Thorn asks once they start walking again.

"I don't have my comm with me."

"What happened?" Thorn asks again, barely disguised urgency in his voice.

This is not a conversation for the hallway. Fox is not sure this is a conversation for anywhere, really. As a good second-in-command, Thorn should report him, have him decommissioned. Leaving his post without warning, missing time, waking up covered in blood. All of that just says he is not fit to lead.

He is silent until they make it to Fox' office. It is just as he remembers leaving it when he went for patrol. He does not remember being summoned by the Chancellor.

Taking a few precious moments to breathe, he gets to his side of the desk and only then turns towards Thorn, schooling his expression into something more appropriately blank. He misses his bucket.

"I don't know," he says. If he cannot be honest with Thorn, the Guard's struggle is already lost.

Neither of them sits down, too restless. Instead, they remain standing still, which does nothing for the trembling energy simmering in Fox' bones, but at least it is familiar. Standing, watching, ignoring what he feels or thinks, what people throw at him.

"What?" Thorn asks, clipped and altogether too collected. Inside, he must be close too screaming. Fox definitely is.

"I remember being on shift in the Senate. Next thing, I wake up in the sublevels."

He does not mention the blood. That he has to at least try to figure out for himself first. If he did something that will get him killed, he cannot take Thorn down with him. Somebody has to take over. Stone is a good commander, good with the shinies, but not able to deal with everything. Fox is not able to deal with everything, but he does so, anyway. Perhaps it was only ever a question of when his mind would break, not if.

Thorn stares at him, gaze burning even through the bucket. "Without comms or armour."

The nagging feeling that something is wrong is just getting worse. Fox does not take breaks. He sleeps only when he cannot keep himself up any longer, ignoring a dozen warning signs before that. And even then, he always has his comms on him. The clock does not stop on Coruscant. Their brothers do not stop being in danger. What use is he if they cannot reach him?

When he does not say anything, Thorn asks, "What about the meeting with the Chancellor?"

Fox shrugs, uselessly searching his mind. The headache just grows worse. Silently, he shakes his head.

"Do you have any idea what you did for three days?"

Killed someone, probably. It is hard to say how much blood is actually on him from the dried mess that is his shirt. Also, Fox has learned how to fight cleanly. He could have done any manner of things without leaving damning evidence.

Trying for a careless smile, Fox says, "I was hoping someone with a grudge got me."

He would not be alive then, surely. He certainly would not have woken up by himself, abandoned and in fairly good condition. That would still be better than any other explanation he can come up with.

"No," Thorn says slowly, studying him. "You sent a message that you were on your way to Palpatine. Nobody has seen you since."

Well, there they have their someone who likes to take their frustrations out on those who cannot fight back. He does not need to say that out loud, though. Most often, Thorn is the one who has to stitch Fox back together after the worst meetings. If anyone knows, it is him.

"Nothing to be done, then," Fox says, as good as an admission of defeat.

"Are you hurt?" Thorn asks again, insistent as usual.

"No." Just exhausted. Just terrified. Just fighting a losing battle and not knowing how long he will be able to keep it up.

"You can't go back there alone."

A laugh breaks over Fox' lips, as sharp as it is short-lived. As if he would ever let anyone else deal with Palpatine. It is his duty to protect his brothers and he already throws them to enough wolves. He will not do this, too. He is already giving everything. Why not his mind, too? As long as he wakes up again to do his job, it is a sacrifice he is willing to make. He carefully does not think about the blood, about the hundreds of terrible things he could have been doing. The Guard is his first priority. Everything else, he tells himself, comes after.

"What did I miss?" Fox asks, ignoring Thorn's helpless fury as much as he does his words. They have no time to dwell on dreams. There is work to be done.

---

They keep their ears to the ground, but crime happens every day in Coruscant. A dozen unnamed bodies turn up every hour, more disappear without anyone ever finding out. All Fox has is a bad feeling and a headache that returns with a vengeance every time he tries to remember something, anything. He files it away as a momentary break. He has too much actual work to do without running after dead ends.

---

Then it happens again. Well, this time he does not wake up in an alleyway but comes to in his bunk. He is missing another day, though, and has a fresh cut across his right collarbone, deep and angry and hurting every time he moves, a constant reminder that something is wrong. He did not get injured in training, neither the regular sessions nor in any meeting with the Chancellor. His bucket says he never stepped a foot out of HQ but instead took a day-long nap as if anything that miraculous would ever happen to a Marshal Commander, much less Fox.

This time, he does find a message from the Chancellor summoning Fox right before he blacked out. This time, Thorn is not willing to just brush it off.

"What is he doing?" he hisses late one night when they are actually off duty at the same time for once.

And Fox, exhausted to the bones, says with a smile showing way too many teeth, "Whatever the kark he wants."

---

Fox does a lot of things he does not want to do. Every Guard does. It haunts his every waking hour. The losses, the pain, the degradation, the helplessness. Before, he would have been glad to just unburden his mind of everything for a while, to forget his constant, crushing reality. Now, he realizes that not knowing is worse. Terror is their reality. He has no illusions what he is capable of, what he would do willingly and without hesitation if only pushed in the right way. Either these are psychotic breaks, which would not speak well for his continued ability to lead, or someone makes him forget what happens, what he has to do. His mind does not need further inventive to paint the most horrible scenarios it can think of.

If Fox is willing to do terrible things with his eyes wide open, what does he do when he is out of his mind, out of his own control?

Thorn frowns and tells him not to worry himself crazy. Fox has been made to worry, though. And insanity just lurks around every corner.

When he goes to their medbay and asks for a tracking chip to be inserted under the skin of his arm, Stitches looks at him like he has gone crazy. Which he probably has, he just cannot tell his men that, because they depend on him.

"Whatever for?" Stitches asks, conveniently forgetting that even the CMO has to follow orders when his Marshal Commander wants something and it will not directly lead to any medical issues.

"As a precaution."

"In case of what?" Stitches has his arms crossed in front of him, the very picture of stubbornness. He cannot beat a master at his game, though.

Fox cocks his head to the side and offers simply, "We need to be prepared for anything." That is how they have survived so far, after all.

Not one to be shot down easily, Stitches asks, "What is going on?"

"Nothing that impedes my physical ability to do my job." Although it does. Being away from his post does, technically, hinder him physically from working. He is not here to argue semantics, however. He also, carefully, does not mention his mental state either.

The men notice, of course, when Fox is not there for hours and days at a time. When Thorn tells them Fox is on missions, they do not doubt him. Adding his request for a tracking chip into the mix might clue Stitches in on the fact that something is wrong, and he might badger Fox into more frequent check-ups, but he will not upset the fragile balance in the HQ. The men are desperate enough.

"It would be easier to not go out by yourself but always take a partner." With biting sarcasm, Stitched adds, "You know, follow your own rules?"

"Easier is not always possible." Pretty much never, if Fox is honest with himself.

Stitches sighs, a terribly weary sound that tells Fox he has won.

"Give me your arm."

---

The next time Fox wakes up with holes in his memories, he also has fresh burns all over his body, twisting branches of angry red stretching out from his left arm. He knows the damage electricity leaves, by now. Thorn drags him to the medbay and Stitch scrapes the scarred remains of the tracking chip out of Fox' arm.

Fox pointedly looks away, his other fist clenched, while Thorn and Stitches have a silent conversation that he is sure is not favourable for him. Neither of them says anything out loud, though.

Finally, Stitches sighs. "Let's get you some ice packs." Because what little bacta they have left needs to be saved for actual emergencies, not for a few burns.

"This is a message," Thorn says when they are back in the privacy of Fox' office.

Fox cocks an eyebrow, too tired to move anything else. "How?"

"You couldn't do that to yourself," Thorn points out, a hint of relief in his tone that Fox does not know what to do with. "So, it's someone else. And destroying the chip was a message."

Fox is not sure whether that is actually a good thing, but it is not like he can do anything against it.

---

Fox was wrong. Knowing is not better.

---

He wakes up bent over the unmoving body of a Twi’lek, the blood on his hands matching the blood caking the man’s front, running down from the slit throat. He turns and barely manages not to vomit on the body. He has seen dead bodies before, of course, but his insides clench up at the closeness, at the stickiness on his skin, at the inescapable insistence of knowing what he has done.

Mechanically, he cleans up, gets rid of the body and any sign he was ever there. Something pings in his memory, accompanied by stabbing pain. He knows with absolute certainty that this is not the first time. That every time he does not remember follows a similar script that ends with someone dead and Fox hiding any signs of it.

Thorn holds him when he makes it back, out of breath and immediately heaving again the moment he lets his mind wander.

“I’ve got you,” Thorn promises, empty as the words are.

Fox does not want to tell him what happened, does not want to drag him down further. He feels dirty, inside and out.

"I've killed someone," he still whispers, the words dragging up his throat like shards of glass. "It's not the first time."

"Did you hide all the evidence or do I need to clean it up?" he then asks as if inquiring about a change in the patrol schedule, or like other people might talk about the weather.

Something inside of Fox gives, making his eyes burn and his chest constrict. "You can't - I'm -"

"You're a good man, Fox," Thorn interrupts him, gentle in a way they can seldom allow themselves to be. "Look at you. We've been trained to kill. You wouldn't throw up over something you want to do. Something that has to be done."

He is right, of course. The feeling of a blaster in his hands is as familiar as breathing. They spent more time learning how to throw a punch than on how to greet someone correctly. They were bred for war, but this is not that.

"How can you just accept this?" Fox asks, even though he is afraid of the answer, good or bad.

"Easily," Thorn says without even a hint of hesitation. "Now, let's get you to bed."

Fox struggles against Thorn's hold. "No. There's work -"

Thorn pushes him back down on the cot. "I cleared your schedule for the entire day," he says calmly, leaving no room for argument. "No need to overcomplicate things by forcing you back into it."

"Thorn," Fox protests anyway, but then lets himself sink against his bedding, like a marionette with his strings cut. He is just so tired.

"You're welcome, Commander."

---

The next day, the Chancellor summons Fox.

“I noticed you looked a bit piqued yesterday, CC-1010. Is something wrong?” he asks with that grandfatherly smile of his that is not enough anymore to hide the sharpness underneath, the honed cruelty.

Fox recognizes that as the warning it is and stands up straighter. “No, sir,” he replies, not a muscle out of place.

---

Knowing is not better, but knowing the Chancellor is just turning him into even more of a tool strangely is. He still has blood on his hands and entire days missing in his memory, but he has not snapped, he has not become a danger to his men.

“What’s going on?” Thorn asks him, later, in the perceived privacy of Fox' office.

“It’s not me,” Fox answers, too relieved to hide all of it. He taps the Chancellor’s seal on one of the documents on his desk. Some things are better not said out loud. Nowhere is private on Coruscant.

But Thorn understands. His spine goes rigid as he spats, “Kriffing bastard.”

“It’s not me,” Fox repeats, still dizzy with the realization.

“Of course not,” Thorn assured him immediately.

But they could not have been sure. All of them have learned things about themselves they never thought they would be capable of. How far they could push themselves, how often they could go over their limits. How hard it is to not fight back, how easy to lose oneself. Fox would not be the first trooper to snap. He is just the hardest one to replace.

“What will we do?”

The correct question would be, what can they do. The answer to which, of course, is nothing. So, they have learned to stop asking it. Instead, they have become practiced in bending rules and shifting lines, in setting up paper trails that are as false as most senators' tax documents.

“We need to find a pattern," Thorn says, as if that could give them some control back. "We need to find what he wants.”

Fox shrugs. That one is easy. “More power. To get rid of people in his way.”

“He can’t kill everyone in his way," Thorn argues but sounds doubtful about it. "Not even by proxy. So, who makes the cut?”

Fox can understand the need to do something. Beneath his own relief, he is desperate for it, too. Knowing is not better, but it is what he has, now, so he needs to decide what to do with that knowledge, how to turn this situation around so it will not fall on his brothers.

“We’ll work on it," Thorn answers his own question, before fixing Fox with a stare. "Are you hurt?”

Always the same question. Fox shakes his head. “It was just a warning.”

Thorn is not convinced. “He’s made warnings do lasting damage before.” Spoken words do not drive the point home as much as when a lesson is carved into Fox' skin, after all.

“Not this time,” Fox promises. Not the physical kind, at least. He is not sure the blood will ever wash out, but he will carry it just like the lives of his brothers. He is practiced enough in that.

---

They develop a system. Whenever Fox is missing time, they take note of every documented death, every missing person, every shady deal, every public person changing their mind on something. They make some notes in code but do not dare to write comprehensive lists. If their data will be recovered, things will only get worse for the Guard.

"What will we even do with this information?" Fox asks one night as they are up late, growing desperate at the sheer number of things going on beneath the surface of Coruscant's shiny Senate.

Thorn leans back in his chair, keeps his eyes firmly on the desk. "We could hand it over to the Jedi. Once the war is over," he offers, voice even, although Fox does not believe his calm for even a second. "They can make sure that he does not stay in office."

If the war will be over. If any of them will still be alive to see that happen.

"Will you shoot me," Fox says slowly, deliberately calm, "if I ever become a danger?" Someone needs to make sure he does not stay in office either, if he becomes a problem.

Thorn's head shoots up, eyes wide. "Fox," he calls, a plea and an admonishment both.

But Fox cannot budge from this. "He can control me. I don't know how or for how long. But I know that I don't remember anything he does not want me to and I assume I do anything he tells me to." He stops briefly, swallows to clear his throat. "If he turns me against you, against the Guard, promise me you'll kill me."

Thorn, steady, unflappable Thorn, looks terrified. "If he can control you, he can control all of us."

That is possible, but there must be a reason Fox is the only clone they know of who is missing time. Fox is the only one he likes to call into his office to make him suffer.

"We don't know how he does it. Maybe he can only do one person at a time. Maybe -" Fox shakes his head He has to concentrate on what is important here, not on things he cannot change. "It does not matter. When I am lost, I need you to kill me. The moment I turn against one of our brothers. I don't care if you think I might snap out of it again. I will not be used to hurt our own. Promise me."

"If, not when" Thorn corrects, his voice nothing but a whisper

"If," Fox amends but cannot hide that he only does it to appease Thorn. Fox does not believe in happy endings. No, the ending that is reserved for him is cold and drawn out and painful. Most days, he is sure he is already right in the middle of it.

Something shutters behind Thorn's eyes, but when he speaks again, it is with familiar determination. "Only if you do the same."

"Yes," Fox vows solemnly. Nothing has ever been easier. He is here to protect his men. That is the only thing holding him up. Everything else, the war, the Republic, does not matter in comparison to that.

"I promise." Thorn reaches out, squeezes Fox' hand, and they lean against each other, holding each other up.

Perhaps they have a twisted sense of morality, but their loyalty for each other, their love, will never be in question.

#whumptober2024 #no.14 #“cause i want you to know what it feels like to be haunted”#star wars #fic #mind control #institutional abuse #hurt fox #my writing

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janiehellion · 5 months ago

Text

Fallen From Grace

ONESHOT

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Caught between a loveless marriage and a past you can't forget, you return to LA, the City of Angels. As old flames rekindle, you're faced with the consequences of your choices. Would you still make a decision that could destroy everything you've built over the years to experience the emotions you've longed for? “For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.” (Romans 7:19)

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR X FEM!READER

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT / HURT / FLUFF / ANGST

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5.277

MASTERLIST

With your hands deep in the pockets of your jacket, your face buried in a thin scarf, and the warmth of your breath that was soaking into it, it was making you shiver, and your thoughts were thrown back to the ritual of smoking a cigarette. The need to smoke bit into you; thinking of lighting one was still addictive and punishing at the same time. It had been years since you quit smoking, right before you got married to your husband, because he had always hated the smell. Still, your husband was behind you and always had your back regarding your decision to turn your life around, and he became a shoulder to lean on in the change from a reckless young adult into a now responsible and mature woman.

But lately, this routine that you once liked so much seemed to turn into a cage with no way out. The fights with your husband had become more frequent, and his constant work stress added more to the high tension between the two of you. You both were too tired to talk openly to each other anymore and with the same empathy that used to exist. Last night was pretty much no different. A silent dinner, a few short words exchanged between the two of you, and some annoyed glances at each other, until he then got up and went to his laptop in the living room, while you went to the bedroom to read one of your books.

It was days like this, where you felt overwhelmed by your life, that your mind began to wander back to him, to Lucifer Morningstar. You had left Los Angeles almost ten years ago to chase your dreams, leaving him and everything else behind after you came to the realization that it felt more like a simple friendship to you, which had scared you more than it should have. Although you had kept in touch by texting each other every now and then, you hadn't talked to or seen each other in years.

The sun was now setting as you got into your car, and you knew that the decision to visit the City of Angels once again came from some deep, restless part inside of you, and you convinced yourself it wouldn't be a mistake before sliding off your wedding ring and letting it fall into one of your pockets.

Suddenly, a message from your husband appeared on your phone. Apparently, he won’t be home for dinner tonight. He was staying out late with a colleague. Relief washed over you as you replied with an excuse about having decided that you were going out with your best friends anyway before you set the car in motion and headed towards Los Angeles.

A few hours later, you saw the familiar evening lights of what you once called home. You aimed for the LUX, the spot that Lucifer owned. Soon enough, your eyes scanned the room, looking for the one person you hoped to see as you exchanged a few words with familiar faces, but your mind was solely focused on Lucifer.

And there he was. The presence of him hit you hard—the lights, the music... It was overwhelming, and you quickly made your way to the bar, where you sat down. The face beside you? Familiar. She hadn't changed a bit, still looking fierce and gorgeous.

Maze immediately looked at you, recognizing you quickly. "There's no way... is it? Is it really you?"

"Hello, Maze," you said, nodding in her direction and smiling at her.

"It’s been a while! Ten years?"

"Close enough."

She whistled. "Lucifer’s going to freak out when he sees you; you know that, right?"

You smiled again, taking a sip of the drink that she handed you. "Where is he now?"

"I don't know. Probably around somewhere and probably smoking."

Your heart raced as you tried to control your excitement and nervousness. You sipped your drink further, trying your hardest to distract yourself. Then the door opened, and you felt that familiar presence. The smell of cigarettes and cologne hit you, making you grip your glass tighter.

"Now, look who’s graced us with his divine presence," Maze announced almost sarcastically.

You turned around, and there he was—Lucifer Morningstar. His eyes met yours with shock before he tried to hide it like usual. He wore his trademark suit, the one that always made him look like he owned the world.

"What in the world are you doing here?"

"Hello, Lucifer. Have you lost your manners in the last decade?"

"I just didn’t expect you."

"You didn’t have to. I just stopped by."

Lucifer only grunted and sat down next to you for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. He took a whiskey Maze handed him and sipped it, his silence speaking volumes.

"I just needed to get away, you know," you started, but trailed off, knowing he would see right through you.

"Finish your drink. I don’t want to talk here."

You nodded, finishing your drink quickly. Lucifer was tapping the counter impatiently, and Maze gave you a knowing look as you left. "Good luck, babe," she mouthed, winking at you.

You followed Lucifer into the elevator and then to the parking lot. Right now, his attitude annoyed you, since he used to be so different with you back then, and as soon as you were outside, he stopped and turned around to you.

"Where's your car? I will hold the door open for you."

"What? Excuse me, please? What did you just say?"

He only smirked slightly instead of answering you as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. So you approached him slowly, placing a hand on his arm and feeling his muscles through his suit.

"I just thought you might want to see me again," you said softly, looking down to the ground.

"Do you think I’m not happy to see you?"

"The way you’re reacting right now, wanting me to get into my car and leave? No, not exactly."

"I just didn’t expect to see you again in LA. You simply surprised me."

You continued holding his arm, squeezing it a bit. "I simply missed you. Is it that wrong?"

"Your fault," he mumbled, finally lighting a cigarette. He took a drag and offered it to you. "Want one?"

"No, I quit years ago, don't you remember?"

He raised an eyebrow. "And do you still always do what your boyfriend wants? Do you follow his rules? Do you obey him?"

"Don’t be an asshole, Lucifer. It’s just complicated, okay?"

He handed you the cigarette anyway, and with a sigh, you took a drag. He leaned against your car, looking out over the city. The lights of Los Angeles twinkled like a thousand little stars.

"You’ve changed," he said after a minute, watching you from the corner of his eyes.

"I never changed. I grew only up."

"No, you’ve changed."

"I’m still me, just... older."

You stood in silence. Lucifer had always been a man of few words around you, but he said so much merely by being there.

"Why didn’t he come with you?" he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

"He’s busy, working on a case."

"How did you end up with a lawyer, I wonder?"

"If you knew him, you’d understand. He’s dedicated, passionate, even."

"He took you away."

"I know. And that wasn’t my intention."

"Aren’t you here to find yourself again?" Lucifer asked, looking at you for a moment.

"No…"

"Then why? Tell me."

"I'm here because of you, Lucifer. I needed to talk. To feel at home again."

"You can't just show up out of nowhere and expect everything to be the same as it was before."

"I did it without thinking."

"You, who plans everything down to the last detail, doing something spontaneous?"

"I just wanted to see my best friend again."

But Lucifer was right, and you knew it. It was strange to be back in Los Angeles without having really thought about it or thought of any consequences. But the feeling you had in your soul blurred every logical thought.

He suddenly grabbed your hand and walked you toward his car.

"What are you doing? Where are we going?" You asked, but didn't fight him.

"It's a surprise. Just wait and see."

"A surprise? What's the plan?"

"Be quiet and sit tight." Lucifer grinned as he started the car.

After the silent ride in the car, you reached the outskirts of a familiar area, where he soon led you through a wrought-iron gate to a small, charming house with a great view of a lake. The very first things that caught your eye were a marble kitchenette and a leather sofa facing a TV that was mounted on the wall, but most especially so, the floor-to-ceiling window leading out to a terrace and the lake that looked nearly as big as the house itself.

"Is this a new place of yours?" you asked him.

"Yes, indeed, it is," Lucifer confirmed with pride. "But that is not the actual surprise. Follow me." He guided you out onto the terrace. "It's a little dark already, but can you recognize the view? Do you remember it?"

You furrowed your brow, following his gaze, and gasped as you finally realized and remembered. "Is this the place that I think it is?"

"Yes, the very spot where we spent that beautiful evening," Lucifer confirmed. "I simply thought you might appreciate the nostalgia and that I bought this place in the end."

"But how did you manage to rebuild all this?" you asked, quite overwhelmed.

"Hard work and a bit of devilish charm," he teased, turning to face you and smirking at your reaction.

You remembered that night clearly—with just Lucifer and yourself—when you were talking about your dreams and your future under the starry sky.

"This is incredible! I'm so happy for you, Lucifer," you admitted, though tears were forming in your eyes.

"You're happy for me because I bought this place?" Lucifer's eyes softened, searching for yours while he asked. "Then why do I think there's more to it than that? More than simple happiness?"

You turned away from him, blinking back tears. "Forget about it. I'm sorry; I didn't want to ruin your surprise."

Lucifer closed the distance between you quickly; his face was serious but still calm and composed. "Will you tell me why you really left back then? I don't really believe that your boyfriend could hold that much power to rip you away from everything that was so loved by you."

"You know exactly why I left," you finally said, looking at him again.

"Sure... Of course, I do. Because I always do." Lucifer answered with disappointment in his voice.

You nodded slowly, biting down on your lower lip, unsure how to proceed. "I think that I probably should go home," you whispered, the guilt creeping in, just wanting to drive back home to your apartment and forget about everything.

But Lucifer clenched his fists. "Perhaps you should, yes," he agreed reluctantly, taking a step closer to you. "But not before this," he mumbled, closing the distance between your lips.

Lucifer crashed his lips onto yours, pushing you back against the patio door. There was no denying at this point—this was so much more than just a friendly reunion. It was bringing back to life a love where the flame had never actually gone out.

He broke away slightly as he led you back into the house, his hands removing your jacket, and soon enough Lucifer loomed over you inside his bedroom, his eyes searching yours for permission and reassurance. You nodded, and he kissed you again—deeply and almost desperately.

His hands were touching your body as his lips nuzzled kisses down your neck, and you could feel your body arch into him, begging for more, which was enough for the two of you to quickly get rid of each other's clothes.

"I can't wait any longer," Lucifer confessed, his eyes locked with yours.

You met his gaze, your heart racing as you nodded, and he smiled, slowly guiding you onto the bed. His touch was almost soft as he positioned you beneath him.

For a moment, Lucifer looked at you, mumbling, "You are more beautiful than ever."

You blushed, goosebumps creeping onto your skin as his fingertips brushed along your collarbone and slowly down your arm until he kissed the inside of your wrist delicately.

"You're exquisite," he said softly before his lips traveled up your arm again, across your shoulder, and onto the curve of your neck.

He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, before his lips finally kissed your own. His mouth moved slowly against yours, listening to each sigh that came out of your mouth. You reached for his arms, bringing his hands to your tits, where his fingers gently squeezed them, his thumbs lightly stroking your sensitive nipples and feeling them harden.

Once done, Lucifer's hands went down to your waist, pulling you up to straddle him. He slowly lowered you down onto his cock and pushed himself into you. His eyes didn't leave yours as he moved in very slowly, filling you up completely.

"You feel incredible," he groaned, his hands holding your hips tightly. "I've wanted this for so long."

You began moving, your body slowly going up and down as you leaned forward just a little bit with your hands on his shoulders for balance as you were riding him, and Lucifer's hands slid up your back until he pulled you close, burying his face in your neck.

"You're so perfect," he murmured. "Every part of you is."

You shivered at his words and moaned softly as his hands now moved down to your stomach from your breasts, then back to your thighs, and though the moments were stretching on, Lucifer's thrusts were still gentle instead of fast and rough.

"You're simply amazing," he whispered in your ear. "I want to make you feel everything."

His words only heightened your lust, and you rode him even more eagerly until both of you were breathless, wanting more.

But Lucifer's eyes stayed on your face. "I wish this would last forever," he whispered.

You moaned again and closed your eyes, your body quickening in time with his upward thrusts as you both felt your approaching orgasm.

His thrusts grew urgent, his hands gripping you a little bit harder to guide you through the final moments before you came, and Lucifer's body shuddered against yours.

As soon as your orgasms began to subside, Lucifer's thrusts did likewise. He embraced you tightly, stroking your back, and kissed your forehead softly. "I have missed you more than you know."

You clung to him, your racing heart only now starting to slow down. "I've missed you too," you whispered, your voice shaking, before tensing up as a certain thought inside your head started to form itself, your eyes narrowing.

"Protection! I... I didn't think of—" You started, but your words seemed to be stuck in your throat. "I'm sorry, Lucifer. I should have been more careful!"

"Don't worry about it right now, my dear. Focus only on us. and this moment," he simply answered without any care, but you ignored his words, and just then your eyes fell on something that lay on the ground beside your clothes; his eyes followed in the same direction—your wedding ring, which you had left carelessly in one of your pockets. His eyes went from that ring to you, and only then did he realize what was actually on your mind.

"Wait, wait, wait," he whispered quietly, furrowing his brow as he pushed you off, got up, and picked up the ring slowly from the floor. "You... you're married to him? What? You're actually still with him? Are you kidding me?"

Your face went pale, and you couldn't deny the truth, nor was there any reason to try to lie to him. "Yes, I am, but—"

"But what!" He cut you off. "Is this some kind of devil's bargain? Did you come here to light up an old flame, all the while you're still wearing another man's ring? Is this some kind of sick joke to you?"

"No, no! Listen, Lucifer! Listen to me! I didn't come here to hurt you," you tried to explain, your voice breaking. "I came because I missed you and—"

"Missed me?" He laughed out loud and shook his head. "You come back into my life, get me all worked up, and then this? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I must be quite the fool for thinking that you actually came back for me after ten years. How foolish I am, indeed."

"Listen! You don't understand! Just calm down and listen to me, please!" you pleaded, your face now red with tears that started to roll down your cheeks. "I never meant for this to happen! You know that! It just happened!"

"Never meant for it to happen?" Lucifer scoffed, anger suddenly giving way to a mocking laugh. "Oh, please, my dear. You do think this is some kind of joke, don't you? Did you come back just to test my patience?"

He turned away from you—his hurt was obvious as he threw your wedding ring across his bedroom. "How very amusing," he said bitterly. "A married woman who seeks out the Devil."

You reached out to him, your voice desperate, but he didn't let you touch him anymore. "Please, Lucifer, don't be like this. I never wanted to hurt you, I promise!"

He turned toward you again. "Don't be like this, you say? What did you expect? Should I just take this as some cruel joke of, what, fate? You think I should simply forgive and forget just because you come at me with a few tears and your excuses?

He had picked up a cigarette from the package lying on the side table of the bed and grabbed a lighter. "Here's a solution for you," he said, lighting the cigarette. "Why don't you go back home to your husband? I'm sure he's just waiting for you to come crawling back into his arms, so you can do what he wants some more."

You winced at the mockery and sarcastic tone in his voice. "Lucifer, please don't—"

"Don't what?" he interrupted you again. "What is it, huh? Don't you want me to remind you of the mistake you've just made? Don't make you face the reality of your actions? Of our... situation?"

He took another drag from the cigarette. "How amusing," he said bitterly. "I've spent most of my time in Hell, and with you, I finally got a taste of Heaven again, only to have it taken away from me in an instant..."

He flicked the cigarette into an ashtray, letting it go out by itself as it continued to burn down. "I'm supposed to be the Devil," he said, his lips now showing a rather sad and hurt smile. "But right now, I feel like I am the biggest fool in all of creation there ever was..."

The silence fell between you, and there, in his eyes, was only hurt, pain, and pure anger.

"I'm so sorry for everything, Lucifer. I never wanted to hurt you, really! Just believe me! Please!" You pleaded and begged.

He sat down at the edge of the bed, his anger now replaced by sadness, especially given the look on his face. "So, now what?" he asked. "What do you think happens to us after all this?"

"I don't know," you said, your voice trembling as you took a deep breath. "I wish things could be different, but they aren't. Believe me, I know this was wrong. I was wrong."

Lucifer took a deep breath as well to try to relax himself and calm down. "Well, wishing won't do anything, nor will prayers," he said, getting to his feet. "And if you want me to be completely honest, then I think you should leave."

You realized you were feeling regret—this was the end of what could have been all along, what could've been all those years ago. "I'm so sorry, Lucifer," you said again, through the tears that were now streaming down your face. "I wish there was a way..."

He smiled at you sadly and shrugged, handing you your clothes. "Here's to the past," he said bitterly. "May it stay there."

You took them from him, brushing your fingers across his while doing so, and began dressing quickly. "Goodbye, Lucifer," you said softly, your voice cracking again.

"Goodbye," he replied as his eyes watched you walk towards the door and into the living room. The taxi was called quickly, and you turned to go out of the front door, but you stopped for a second, turning around to the bedroom door again that he was about to close. "Go on and don't keep the taxi driver waiting."

After he closed the door, you quickly grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a note, tears falling onto the paper and smudging the ink. You left it on the coffee table and stormed out, slamming the door shut behind you. The street was already dark, with only a few lights on each side of the road, and you quickened your pace to the main road. After a few minutes, you could finally see the approaching lights of a taxi.

The taxi driver soon enough returned you to your car, which was still parked in the LUX. Once inside your car, you glanced at the time, which was approaching midnight, and then you noticed the three messages from your husband and some missed calls from him that you quickly opened nervously.

9:42 PM: "Where are you? I'm back, and you're not here."

10:39 PM: "When are you coming back? Why don’t you answer? I’m worried."

11:16 PM: "I called your friends, but they said you weren't even with them tonight. What's going on? Please call me!"

Tears silently rolled down your face again as guilt consumed you. How had things gone so wrong? Your life had been perfect—or so you thought all the time. You’d spent the last ten years forgetting about your feelings for Lucifer, pushing them aside, and now, in one evening, you’d destroyed everything.

With trembling fingers, you tried calling your husband, but there was no answer. The worst part of this whole mess wasn’t just that you’d probably destroyed your life, but how little you’d considered the consequences of your actions with Lucifer in the first place. If karma were real, you thought, you’d crash while driving back home. But two hours later, you found yourself standing in the parking lot of your apartment again.

Entering it quietly and closing the door behind you, you saw your husband asleep on the big couch in your living room, his mobile phone still next to him. With one hand, you covered your mouth to stifle a sob, not wanting to wake him up, and you paused, uncertain of what to do, then slowly removed your jacket, throwing it over a chair, and decided to lay down beside him.

You couldn't help but remember how you both had always been a great team, at least at the start of your relationship back then, facing the darkest moments and hours together and supporting each other through thick and thin. He’d always been there for you; maybe he's been too distant at times, but he's been there nonetheless.

And now your endless thoughts about your mistake kept you awake until exhaustion finally took over. Later, when you woke up, your husband was gone. You hoped it had all been a bad nightmare, but the note on the table proved otherwise:

"When I get back from work, you tell me what the hell happened! And don’t even try to call me today! We'll sit down and talk in person."

You stared at the note, rereading it several times before crumpling it and throwing it on the floor in frustration. You grabbed your coat and left, not even bothering to look in the mirror. At the pharmacy, you were quick, buying what you needed before heading back home. Once sitting down on the couch, staring at the morning-after pill on the table, you knew you should take it right away, but something inside you held you back.

Your eyes kept wandering around, seeking distraction, but just as you were about to scream, the doorbell rang, making you jump. You tried to calm yourself before opening the door, but it wasn’t your husband who you thought might have left his keys behind. Standing there was Lucifer, who decided to step inside your apartment without even waiting for an invitation.

"What in the world are you doing here?" you asked, staring at him while closing the front door.

Lucifer pulled a crumpled note from his pocket—the note you had left for him. "Why do I have to read such nonsense?"

He held up the note before reading it out loud.

"Lucifer, the heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it? I wish I could."

"Lucifer," you began, but he cut you off.

"Well, isn’t this poetic? The Book of Jeremiah—17:9 to be exact!" His voice sounded neutral, but you could see the fire in his eyes. "I guess the Devil isn’t the only one who’s capable of deceit, isn't he? How charming that you choose to repent now, but I’m afraid it won’t absolve you of the choices you made, my dear... I do admire your attempt at biblical drama! Quite charming, isn't it?"

Your hands were now sweaty, and your heart pounded so fast that you thought it was going to explode. "Lucifer, please..." You managed to whisper, but he shook his head.

"I suppose that’s the true nature of humans, isn’t it? Always seeking redemption when it suits them." His voice relaxed slightly, but the intensity behind it remained, and only then did he grab something from his pocket again. It was your wedding ring. "I’m not a priest, my dear. You know exactly who I am, and I won’t be so easily fooled by your attempts at repentance. I'd say that you owe me more than that."

You had barely started to open your mouth when the sound of keys at the door made you turn around in shock. You looked over just in time to see your husband standing there, his face full of anger and surprise at the same time.

"What the hell is that man doing here?" he asked, staring at you.

"Listen! It's not what you think," you started, but your voice cracked, unable to find the right words to even explain yourself.

Meanwhile, Lucifer gave him an almost bored look and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ah, the husband has finally arrived! How very delightful," he said. "I'm Lucifer, and you must've forgotten about me, I see!"

Your husband glared at him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well, I certainly wasn't expecting to be welcomed with open arms by the man of the hour. But then again, I've never been one to shy away from a bit of chaos."

You took a deep breath, trying to get a grip on the situation. "Listen, we need to talk..."

But your husband's eyes were still on Lucifer, looking him up and down. "About what? How obviously you have been cheating on me?"

You winced at the accusation, but Lucifer merely laughed. "Cheating? Now, that's a rather strong word. I prefer to think of it as rekindling old flames."

Your husband's hands clenched into fists, and he let out a scoff. "You! You have no right to be here. Leave. Now."

Lucifer's eyes narrowed, and for a slight moment, he revealed what really lay beneath. "How quaint! I assure you, I'm only a catalyst. Or, let's just say, the devil's advocate, if you will."

Your husband took a step back, his face turning pale for a second. "What the fuck are you trying to pull here, huh?"

Lucifer stepped closer to him, his smile turning into a grin as he pointed to the pill on the table in the living room, which he had noticed all along. "That little token of affection over there might reveal more with its symbolism than you may realize."

The eyes of your husband went to the pill on the table and then back to Lucifer. "What... what do you mean? What the hell are you even talking about?"

Lucifer's smile widened as he leaned forward. "Why don't you take a guess? Or maybe you would prefer to leave it to your imagination?"

"My imagination? You're obviously fucking my wife, and now you are standing here like you have some right to her? As if you own her?"

Lucifer let out a dramatic sigh. "Well, I suppose you could say I am more of an old flame to your dear wife. But let's not get down to the boring details."

Suddenly, your husband stepped forward, his anger overflowing. "Get out of my house. Now!"

"Oh, such a fiery temper. Are you sure you're not harboring a bit of Hellfire yourself?" Lucifer said sarcastically and threw his hands dramatically in the air.

The eyes of your husband widened again, and he took a step back as soon as he could while he looked into his eyes. "I'm warning you. Just leave..."

Lucifer's eyes changed, his stare reaching deep into your husband's soul. "And I assure you that I'm not someone that you want to provoke."

He took a step closer, and your husband's confidence broke down as he looked him in the eyes. "You know what? I'm done with this. I'm leaving! Don't you dare touch me, whatever the hell you are!"

Lucifer's eyes followed him, and he smirked proudly. "As you wish."

The apartment was almost completely silent as the door slammed shut behind your husband, and you stood there, paralyzed, the realization of that moment and what had just happened finally setting in, but Lucifer snapped you out of it as he looked at the morning-after pill on the table once again.

"My dear, really? Do you think that this pill is going to undo what's done now?" Lucifer started. "Do you actually believe that some sort of pill will stop something divine, like... Oh, I don't know, my touch, as an example? I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, darling."

You looked at him with shame, lust, and regret in your eyes. "What now?" You asked him, whispering silently.

"What happens now will be entirely your choice," he said, moving closer to you and stretching out his hand to touch your cheek. "You see, I very much adore you, and I have for quite a while."

His hands were soft but strong, and a shiver ran down your spine. "You can either act like nothing happened, or maybe you can accept it and see where it takes you," he said, his eyes locked on yours. "You've got a choice to make."

He stepped closer, his lips touching your ear as he spoke. "You could try to forget about the night we just had, but you and I both know better. The seed has been sown, and the question is, at this point, whether you'll let it grow."

Lucifer took a few steps back and pushed the front door open, just enough to fit through. "Whatever you choose, I will be here, waiting. And trust me," he said with a smirk, "I have all the time in the world."

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