#very into the morningstar asshole hole he's carved out for himself

[adinfinita]

3RD AUGUST, 1845. A FEW DAYS POST-MUTINY, POST-FALL. THE ORLOP, OUT OF SIGHT. FOR @riversoaked​.

how would they tell this story, years and months from now? from whitehall to shanghai, and all the world that sprawled beyond the extremities of an empire with no dusk, no tenable sunset. a tale of mutiny and murder in the vein of hudson, or polytropos odysseus and his decade long journey back to the arms of civilisation. or farther back, to the inception of original sin, the oldest story mankind has ever told. where it all began: a garden, an apple, the pride. the commander has no doubt he will play some rudimentary part in the architecture, laying the bearings and sketched foundations of what would one day become infamy. become parable. but the rest? the rest was immortality. it was the dawning of myth and insurrection; it would be the killing of empire. 

before, when the ghosts that walked the promethean’s decks only whispered, only waited in dream and shadow to ensnarl their victims, he had come to her, the promise of survival and the blood sacrifice required at its altar winding through his lips with the silk-coated steel of providence. what are you prepared to do, he had asked her, levelled eye-to-eye, a clear-sighted parley of arsenals and the statecraft of violence when notions of civility and rationalised humanity had been abandoned. all angels are terrifying. so what kind of monster are you prepared to become? if he were to ask her now, there’d be a blade pressed against his pulse swifter then he could bare a  serpentine smile, the brunt of a pistol rammed against his throat where the urge for laughter lay choked with holy treason. 

there is only one story that matters. let it be known: i did not fall from grace. i leapt to freedom.

he steps into the light, the dim flickering of an oil lamp casting a slick, oscillating film of shadow and visibility across him. hands tucked behind his back as a gesture of ceasefire, and ersatz goodwill, he lifts his chin with the cavalier flick of a matador flag.  “easy now, rowland.”  estrada is no god, no empyrean king, but where they are going, there will be no more kings, no more thrones.  “for all you know, estrada’s men outnumber yours. every day that passes, support for dowling wanes and estrada’s rebellion gains ground, sparks prerogatives of deliverance and finishing what we started. you can’t afford another body in the brig. if i were here to gloat, i’d do it in front of the entire crew to see. i’m here because in your gut, in the place you sheath your teeth and your guns to be your captain’s righteous soldier, you know going back is the wrong choice.”

[regrettablewritings]

The Devil’s Advocacy (Slight Lucifer Morningstar x Reader)

A/N:*casually publishes piece that’s been in her drafts for eons that honestly should’ve been done during Pride Month and in celebration of the fact that Lucifer got saved but she kept procrastinating, and is using the excuses that every month is pretty gay #20gayteen and that Tessa Thompson coming out calls for the elongating of the month*

The TV shows, movies, and music videos had it all wrong: There was absolutely nothing glamorous about going to a club to drink away your sorrows. Or maybe the problem was that you weren’t doing it right. That was honestly very likely; these types of places weren’t really your scene. And frankly you were probably kidding yourself by choosing to give your patronage to one of the more upscale clubs in LA rather than one of the much cheaper (yet arguably unsafe) bars that otherwise riddled the rest of the area.

And yet, you wanted to believe that you deserved Lux-level drinking. Or rather, you needed to (so your mind told you): You’d endured enough crap for the day, and there was no point in worsening your already glum mood by grabbing a sip at, say, the Swill Trough eleven blocks over. Though, as you sat in the seductively lit establishment, surrounded by the gyrating bodies of clubgoers and their voices which blared over the bass-heavy thud of the music, you were beginning to question your decision. Not necessarily regret it, per se, but perhaps mull over it. The $10 vodka-infused Shirley Temple you'd been nursing for the past half hour wasn’t even doing much for you, the ice having long since diluted the liquor. Though, at this point, did you even want to get drunk anymore? You weren’t entirely sure. Probably not, to be perfectly frank.

A decently loud yet still logical enough side of you figured that the least you could do was finish it and then decide what your next move was. But alas, with every sip, no thoughts were coming to mind. And you really didn’t want to go home just yet . . .

A glimpse at the clock on your phone had you deciding that two and a half hours probably wasn’t enough time for your mother to calm down from whatever breed of hysterics she’d risen to since you’d left. But then, it was also too much time to be sulking in such an environment – that was better suited for one of the aforementioned holes-in-the-wall.

You hummed a singular note as you brought your drink to your lips. Maybe I should go to the Swill Trough, you half-heartedly mused. Maybe then I’ll start feeling that “drink away your sorrows” crap.

“You know, most people would come to a club looking for a good time. At the very least, Lux has never been a place to disappoint. Is there perhaps any way that I might . . . better your experience?” The voice didn’t so much break your thoughts as it did manifest as fingers that curled around them with mischievous intent. Perhaps it was because it was soaked with seductive intent. Or perhaps it was because it the type of British accent it was delivered in was almost always used by tricksters in fantasy movies: Elegant, suave, but actually a sleazeball.

Good god, this man must’ve come from across the pond to hit on “easy American girls.”

Eyes rolling, you forced yourself to turn around, fully prepared to tell the guy that now really wasn’t the time to attempt innuendo with you . . . only to learn that he didn’t quite look like the sleazy, try-hard trickster archetype you’d pictured in your head. In fact, at the very least he could tricked you out of your clothes if you were in the right mood.

Though frankly, you almost forgot what kind of mood you were in for the few seconds it took for you to fully ingest the vision before you: Glossy hair, neatly combed back; dark eyes that gleamed with a vigor you had never quite seen in another person before; a finely-carved out nose, right above a smile that was equal parts flirtatious and intimidating. Though, not in a predatory way that one might find on most men in the Los Angeles area; if anything, it appeared to be powered by sheer cockiness. And considering the clearly bespoke suit the stranger wore, he had every reason to exude such levels of esteem. Maybe he was a hotshot lawyer or a doctor or something?

Whatever the case, he was, simply put, quite possibly the prettiest man you had ever seen – and that was saying something in a town bustling with men constantly undergoing procedures, diets, and fashion statements in order to peacock themselves! He was like the prime example of the sort of person your mother would’ve wanted you to meet – Oh, yeah.

In an instant, you remembered what mood you had been in. Your body responded accordingly with you shoulders slumping somewhat and your eyes perhaps flickering with diminished interest.

“Sorry,” you apologized despite personally feeling no reason to. “Kind of having a rough night.” You inwardly cringed, realizing the door you had just opened of your own admission. Tall, dark, and handsome seemed to take notice.

“Yes, well,” he prompted, “isn’t that all the more reason to stop sulking at the bar like some –” he waved a hand aimlessly at you in search of the right words. “– dockworker undergoing a midlife crisis. You’re young, you’re supposed to be carefree, taking life by the balls!” Truly, the vigor in his eyes was no lie; the amount of passion he had by simply suggesting you grab life by the proverbial testicles was honestly astounding even in your somber state.

“At the very least, you should be out grabbing somebody’s balls,” he muttered. “Looks like it might do you some good.” And with a sip of his own glass of high-end bourbon, any semblance of admiration for his zest that you had had died in a blazing ball of death.

“Excuse me?” you demanded, renewed with your own fire. In spite of the fury you had attempted to carry in your voice and glare, Tall, Dark, and Handsome did not appear to be fazed. If you had a moment to stop and think, you would have taken it to wonder just how often he’d found himself in like situations.

“I mean no offense to you, it’s just that you’re sort of existing in your own little depressing corner of the world and you look like you could use a pick-me-up. Or, in this context, a prick-me-up.” He arched a brow and kept that cocky smile still intact. If you hadn’t spent $10 on it, you would’ve been even more tempted to fling your drink into Tall, Dark, and Asshole’s face.

“Well, excuse me for daring to enter one of LA’s many clubs with the audacity of not wanting to snort coke off a hooker’s bellybutton and take a cop car on a joyride!” you uttered through gritted teeth.

“Not snort coke? You’re either no fun at all or in a bad mood,” TDA scoffed. “Either way, no coke tonight, love, I just had some the other day and a dear friend of mine is still on my ass about it. Though, speaking of, I could get you that joyride, free of charge with an optional and highly recommended other type of ride.”

You. Wanted. To. Scream. Pretty or not, he was getting on one of the already halved nerves that you had remaining. You wanted to scream and fling your drink at him – at anyone, really – and keep screaming until everything was out. Not just everything about this but everything from earlier, everything about your mom, everything about you –

But all you had the energy to do was turn away from the gadfly beside you and stop just short of slamming your face onto the counter of the bar. The exhaustion of performing as a human soda bottle was too much; you had to just let yourself sit there and let the inward stress fizzle out. Even though it would most certainly return, by TDA’s means or worse.

Had your eyes been kept on the man, however, you would have noticed that disgustingly charming smile of his begin to falter away.

“Oh dear, you must really not be in a great mood. That last bit usually piques some type of interest . . .” In your bitterness, you nearly dared to consider his newfound tone as one of genuine sympathy. In fact, it very well may have been, if not for your inability to convince yourself. At this point, you were sincerely prepared to abandon your drink and trudge back out into the stinking streets of the city. You weren’t sure if wallowing around would do your perception of the day any good, but you were very certain that staying here and being pestered by some smug prettyboy definitely wouldn’t do you any good.

But before you could even muster the strength to remove yourself from your barstool, the man continued, “Look: Emotions aren’t really my bag, usually I just focus on the more . . . superficial things.” At this moment, your brows furrowed. What did he mean by “superficial”? In spite of how slowly you did so, you couldn’t stop yourself from turning your gaze back to TDA.

“But,” he continued, setting his glass down on the counter, “it’s never been much of my style to necessarily leave a pretty lady in my establishment unsatisfied. So!” He leaned in, that smile leaking back onto his annoyingly handsome features.

“What do you want? What is it you truly desire?”

Normally, when a person is asked this, they will feel a flurry of thoughts and temptations. They may feel put off by the nosiness of such a question. Perhaps they might feel indifference or even eagerness to share what they had to say. Or maybe they would feel a spike of anxiety at the sudden presentation of such a potentially life-searching query. After all, what one responds with could easily say everything or all the wrong things about a person – and not everybody wants even the former.

Some might know exactly what their deepest desire was but feel compelled to hide it away out of shame or simply wanting to keep to themselves. Others wouldn’t offer an answer simply because they didn’t have one. Because to boil down the endless possibilities each individual wants into a simple, single sentence is very often impossible to do when one lives to want more than what they can have at that moment.

In your case, you were startled by the sudden question, as any person in their right mind would be upon receiving it from a stranger, no matter how good-looking he may be. And yet, as your eyes so much as entered the same line of his gaze, they were held there. It didn’t matter you’re your face was sparking from the inside with blush as you felt yourself staring into the twinkling eyes of this gorgeous stranger. All you wanted to do – all you could do – was keep staring into those deep, dark pools.

And just as soon as you had, it was as if you were no longer entirely in control of yourself, much less a part of your own mind and body. It wasn’t quite an out-of-body experience, but it certainly felt peculiar to say the least. As though the metaphorical hands from earlier had managed to manifest somewhere deep within the crevices of your mind, caressing with delicate but attentive fingers to find exactly what they were looking for with every intention of bringing whatever it found to the forefront of your mind.

Your voice and mouth moved of their own accord, your brain sluggishly scrambling to make sense of it all.  “I . . . I want . . .”

“Yes?” the stranger coaxed, his tone enticingly perverse and eager as he cling to your every syllable.

“I want . . . things to be okay,” you blurted. And just like that, you could feel yourself slingshotting back into your senses. Almost as if you had woken up from a dream you hadn’t been entirely invested in or even fully asleep for. As you blinked with rapid succession, coming to grips with what you had just confessed, the man reeled in from his leaning position. His face seemed, in a phrase, somewhat disappointed.

“Well, that’s awfully vague,” he said.

You felt your cheeks burning. You weren’t entirely sure what to say to that; he had a point after all. Everybody wants things to be okay, but it was their own personal situations that defined what “okay” meant.

As you began to sink into a state of reverie, you couldn’t help but pick up on small but nonetheless present cues from the man. He was preparing to leave you with your thoughts. Logically, this was what you wanted. However, this wasn’t what you told yourself you wanted. For whatever reason, in spite of what all had just transpired between the two of you, you wanted him to stay. To clear whatever air might not have even existed in that moment.

He wasn’t looking into your eyes, inducing that previous state of hypnosis when you found your next words tumbling from your mouth: “I came out to my mom as bi.”

You paused. You considered whatever you’d been attempting to do successful as TDA paused and set his sights back on you. The previous look of slight disappointment had been completely replaced with one of

“Sexual. Bisexual,” you clarified. It felt weird saying it out loud. Or maybe it was because it was being said to a complete stranger. Speaking of which, why were you saying even that? Was the alcohol actually strong enough after all? Was he really that charming that you were willing to confess that just to get him to keep from walking away? If anything, blurting out that sort of thing would have the opposite effect!

Right now, your newest, deepest desire had become to take the drink in your hand and smash the glass against your head, hopefully killing you instantly.

To your surprise, however, the stranger didn’t seem put off one bit by your confession. If anything, his brows had risen along with a smile. He actually looked . . . pleased? Possibly even impressed!

“Really? Good for you, welcome to the club!” he cheered. The excitement, to your befuddlement, was genuine. “We’ve got leather jackets, and then we’ve got suit jackets such as mine for those who know better.”

You couldn’t help but scoff in place of the coy chuckle you’d meant to give off. “At least you’re taking it well.”

“Oh, what, did some Bible Bob have an actually accurate gaydar – or I guess bi-fi in this case? Call you out on the streets?” TDA leaned forward once more with renewed enthusiasm. His voice lowered in an attempt to contain the obvious excitement present. “Did you dump a guy and then get with his superior-in-the-sack twin sister?”

“Nah,” you shook your head. Part of you told you to leave it at that. But another part of you told you you were already in too deep; you might as well come completely clean.

“My mom,” you said before stopping. Was this too much? No . . . No, you were still sore from earlier; you had every right to vent out just as everybody else in this place probably would over dumber things. “My mom, she . . . Like, she didn’t take it well.” At the vagueness of your statement, the stranger’s expression fell once more. Only it wasn’t one of disappointment or even precociousness. You were surprised to find that he was capable of creating such a stern expression. Surprised and frightened, to be more precise.

His aura, previously exuding an energy of life, now seemed to throb with something more tense. From the way his features seemed to darken and tighten, you could tell he was threatening disgust. Not only that, but it was a disgust that some part of you for whatever reason feared the most.

“Did she kick you out?” he asked, his voice sounding restrained in an attempt to handle the question with fragility.

“No! No… I mean…She just didn’t take it well.” You attempted to handle your words with as best of care as you could. You weren’t even certain what exactly you were afraid the man would do, considering he didn’t even know your mother or who you even were. But something about the way he’d composed himself at even the slightest hint of injustice made something within you curdle. You awkwardly shrugged in an effort to alleviate the foul mood.

“She kinda just stood there. Eyes got a little less focused. And she went all quiet . . . When I tried speaking, she just said she needed a moment to think about it. But think about what!? I’m bi, simple as that! . . . I mean, it’s NOT simple but – ” You groaned as you watched your efforts collapse with every utterance you made. Pressing a hand to your forehead in surrender, you sighed.

“I mean, I guess I should feel grateful that it’s just that. I know I should. But, like?” Your brow creased the harder you ran your thoughts. “I didn’t hurt anyone, it’s not like I just confessed to killing somebody and I needed her help hiding the body. I didn’t do anything shameful, I just told her something about me. It’s not fair to feel like crap for something that wouldn’t hurt anyone. So why do I feel awful for it?”

“Personal decision, from what I’ve observed,” TDA stated bluntly. That earned him an incredulous look from you.

“No, really,” he insisted. “It’s the same type of guilt that keeps somebody looping through their own personal Hell: They have opportunities and the tools to rid themselves of the guilt they imagine is there. They just have to let themselves have it.”

You never broke your stare; only adjusted it to express the confusion you now had. What was this weirdo going on about?

“I mean, look at me,” he grinned as he gestured to himself. “I have nary a regret about my bedmates and here I am, free as a horny bird!”

You made the decision to not compute those last two words. “Did your folks kick you out when you told them?” you inquired without thinking.

“Oh, no,” he responded immediately. In fact, he almost sounded surprised that you would ask such a thing. “Well, they did kick me out. My dad did. But it was for totally unrelated reasons, I can assure you.” He raised his glass to his lips. “Probably wishes that it was just my sexuality, though.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, though you weren’t sure what gave you validation to do so. You brought this upon yourself, whatever it was. You weren’t sure what exactly you were expecting from any of this or where you wanted this to go but at this point, it seemed to be heading closer and closer toward a whirlpool of small talk and emptiness. And realistically, it should be. Realistically, this had to end with the man getting bored or getting distracted by some other, more fulfilling (and dress-filling) chick ready to get boozed up and have a good time. And, realistically, you were going to be left alone once more, unsatisfied for receiving something you weren’t even aware you were searching for. You would gulp down your drink (which was probably so diluted that it was mostly an aqueous Shirley Temple) and, with no other plans, force yourself to head back home where your mother would still probably be thinking about your bisexuality. And she, too, would be unable to offer you whatever it was you wanted.

The stream of thoughts must’ve leaked into your features so fluidly that TDA, in his resumed cockiness, managed to capture their meanings before you even had a chance to realize that they were there to begin with.

It was a low sigh that managed to break you out of your mulling. It was a sound you could tell he didn’t make very often.

“Look,” he said. “Did you hurt anyone? As in, beyond petty vengeance or whatever it is?”

You shook your head. “No . . .”

He went on, “Are you using your bisexual powers for good i.e. having mountain-moving, mind-blowing sex with other consenting adults?”

Half a smirk managed to slip through your wall of worries at the wording of his statement. You really shouldn’t have had any semblance of surprise at this point but you still found yourself amused by the tonal shift.

“I mean, I haven’t been sexually active or anything,” you said, voice wavering with the threat of chortling. “But I’m not using it for, like, not good.”

“And do you have any plans to go out into the streets, promenading about your bed life once it does finally kick in?” he grinned teasingly.

“God, no!” You messed up: The smile broke completely free of your toothy hold on it.

“Don’t bring him into this,” TDA said almost warningly. “Though, you really are no fun,” he muttered with a smile. Before you could snap at him, he interrupted with, “Either way, congratulations, young lady: you’re in my father’s hands.” You couldn’t help but notice a node of sarcasm beneath the statement.

“That being said, you’re the goody-good bi type – more specifically, you’re good and just so happen to be bi. The only punishments you ought to be getting are weird, kinky ones, that is, if you were actually any fun. So enough with this whole self-induced guilt cycle, you’re bumming me out just watching you bum yourself out over this!”

You weren’t entirely sure what to respond to or how. “Gee, thanks.”

“No problem at all. If anything, you ought to be more ashamed by wasting your potential: Twice the options in love and sex means twice the fun! If you’ve never thought of it that way then I strongly suggest you start getting out more; maybe relieving yourself of the constant presence of the overthinking mother might do you some good. You shouldn’t let other people determine how you should feel or how you present yourself. Don’t be a plaything in their little play – Go out there: make your own story! Preferably one featuring lots of experimenting and, I don’t know, actually having fun with it.”

“You do realize that by that principle, I shouldn’t be trusting you, right?” you said, smirk entirely full at this point. TDA, however, appeared to be unfazed.

“True as that may be, I can assure you that you can trust me on this one. I’m not going to lie and say any of it’ll be easy but what I can do is tell you that I’ve seen some pretty pathetic sentient garbage passing for humans in my life. Not being straight doesn’t even put you close to that. It’s not necessarily who you are or what your desires are, it’s what you do with them. And clearly, you’re doing nothing with them at all to warrant such a self-defeating mindset.”

As he said this, you couldn’t help but feel as though there were an extra layer to what this dark-haired man was telling you. It was only further assisted by the fact that he didn’t quite look at you until he’d completed his final sentence. If anything, he appeared to have been reminiscing about something; likely those sentient pieces garbage. You were beginning to wonder about them yourself when he finally broke his wistful stare and redirected those stunning, dark eyes back upon you.

“You know,” he lifted his drink back up, “it’s never too soon or too late to start rewriting yourself. There’s plenty of me-approved debauchery around here that I could recommend for you.” Had you not been paying close enough attention, this man’s word choice could easily thrown you off. But as you found yourself maintaining eye contact (through no small feat of your own, frankly), you couldn’t help but share the glance. You felt something in that moment, only it wasn’t anything like the bizarreness that had occurred before. You didn’t feel hands picking gracefully through your mind and you didn’t feel words forming against your own will. You didn’t feel uncomfortable at all in spite of how flustered you were beginning to feel for staring at such a beautiful man.

You felt . . . welcome. You felt open, but willingly. You felt that goal from earlier in the night returning: That belief that since you’d had a bad day, you deserved to treat yourself to the fullest extent. It started to spark back to life and began to sway and grow with interest – and then it stopped. Because you realized that there was another feeling you had kicking around inside of you. One that surprised even you.

“It’s tempting. Really, it is. I think,” you informed. “But actually . . . I think I just wanna go home.” You didn’t think. You just knew. It was strange, but the thought of going home just felt right. Clearly, you weren’t alone in your surprise. TDA leaned backward slightly as if physically moved by your decision. His perfectly arched brows raised with curiosity.

“Really?” TDA questioned. “Are you sure?”

You nodded once. Pause. Two much more certain nods. “Yeah, I think so. I just . . . I dunno, I think I just need to talk to her now. Maybe help her with that ‘thinking.’” The corner of one eye creased as a closed but understanding smirk formed on the man’s features.

“Well,” he said, “personally that isn’t the first move I would’ve done in the process of embracing myself. But then that’s not my choice is it?” You returned the smile.

“Nope,” you agreed, gently pushing your abandoned drink away from you. It was no good to you anyway.

“Oh, and before I forget,” he said as you began to get up, “it’s occurred to me that in all the drama I never got to catch your name. How rude of me.” He offered you his hand. You took it. You shouldn’t have been too surprised by how soft it was, given how he appeared to be the sort to manscape and take deep pride in his looks, yet you still were.

“(Y/N).” Your introduction earned you a grin and nod of acceptance from your shaking partner.

“Lucifer Morningstar,” he said. It sounded like silver and silk slinking along polished ebony wood.

It was a pretty name if odd. A pretty odd name, befitting of the pretty and odd man who bore it. However, you had no time to inquire about its origin as you felt the man raising your hand, still in his own, until it was within inches of his lips.

“Well, Ms. (Y/N),” Lucifer Morningstar murmured, the warmth of his breathe tickling the back of your hand. “I wish you the best.”

His lips had to have been the softest thing to have ever come into contact with your skin, let alone your knuckles.

You could feel the heat from his lips travel through your hand, up your arm, and all the way into your face. It took everything in you not to bolt up from your seat like a madwoman and scramble out the door before he could study your features long enough to determine that you were blushing.

“T-thank you,” you found yourself stammering. “It means a lot to me. Really. Everything.” You attempted to continue smiling, but the flustered state that Lucifer’s gesture had put you in made you far too wobbly all over to sustain anything better than an awkwardly enforced grin. Not for any sense of rudeness, you cumbersomely attempted to make quick work of your exit. However, the effort was lessened by one last interruption.

“Oh, and one more thing:,” Lucifer stated. You paused and forced yourself to look upon him one last time. “If you’re ever looking for a place to stay, I have the names of two lovely ladies and one piece of spawn who would be blessedly willing to take you under their wings. . . . Well, one of them probably would. Can’t say the same for the other. In fact, I may have to warn you about that she’d likely more so want to take you under herself and completely ruin that who ‘use your powers of sex for good’ thing.

“Though, of course –” He propped himself leniently against the bar, that mischievous smile from the very beginning back in place “ – if you’re ever interested, my doors are always open.”

Your eyes narrowed but they were betrayed by an amused scoff.

“Thanks,” you responded dryly. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Thank you so much, Lucifer.”

He raised his glass to you in a gesture.

“Anytime, love.”

And off you went.

You didn’t realize you were still smiling until you had already exited Lux. It was certainly a major shift from the way you’d been when you first entered it. Admittedly, there was still some anxiety left bubbling around inside of you but that was to be expected. After all, there was always a hint of nervousness that accompanied the decision to take one’s own life and make it their own by their own set of rules.

You were certain that that applied even to the likes of Lucifer Morningstar.

Speaking of, you were quite surprised by the level of his incite. Perhaps it was your fault for buying into the stereotypes, but you had truthfully just assumed that with a face like that, he couldn’t have had much more than sex, drugs, and hedonism on the brain. And while, yes, it was true that those took up much of the mental property in the man’s mind, it was quite refreshing and even downright charming that he at least managed to translate to you something you had never gotten around to considering before.

You hummed thoughtfully.

Lucifer was a nice guy. You wanted to see him again. Maybe not to take up any of his offers (which honestly seemed a bit too bold for you at the moment), but just to see what other surprising features he had about him.

Lucifer watched your figure weave around the clubbers until it disappeared from his sight.

He felt quite proud of himself. Perhaps this was the sort of philanthropy Linda had told him to try exercising.

It wasn’t even necessarily that he felt nice about being nice; he just enjoyed the feeling of breaking the metaphorical chains off of a “baby bi” and encouraging her to embrace her identity. The rest was up to her now that he’d sent (Y/N) out into the wild world. In a vein similar to that of a person seeing their friend off after a rousing pep talk (but with double the vanity), he couldn’t help but imagine all the possibilities that would become available to the young lady once she began to embrace herself without guilt or question: The places she would go, the events she would attend, the wider selection of people to be with and the subsequent things they might try out –

At that moment, Lucifer felt his smile falter. Crap. Crap! He’d gotten so wound up in setting a poor soul off on their own journey of free will that he’d forgotten the very reason he came over in the first place!

Note to self: Stop trying to be so nice and helpful. Nice guys don’t get laid.