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Tucked away in his acceptable corner of the ballroom, Lucifer observes the mingling crowd with disinterest.
Demons have certainly perfected the act of partying, and Diavolo’s household is well-versed in hosting raucous guests. As most of Diavolo’s elaborate balls do, the party has gone well into the endless night. Lucifer feels exhaustion begin to tug at the corners of his eyes, a tension in the line of his shoulders at being stared at all night.
Centuries later, and their gazes have not faltered. In fact, the more time Lucifer has spent at Diavolo’s side, the more the whispers increased. He does not pretend to care, or even consider their gossip worthy of his consideration.
He gives off enough of an intimidating aura that few dare to approach him, and he’s grateful that no one has been bold enough to try in the last hour. Demonus swirls at the bottom of his glass, deep purple and an almost syrupy viscosity as he peers down at it.
“Shall I get you another drink, Lucifer?” A presence appears at his side, and Lucifer attributes his surprised glare to his two previous emptied wine glasses. Barbatos huffs a laugh behind a gloved hand, glancing up with a smile curling the corner of his lips. “If I startled you, forgive me.”
Though he was hardly slouching before, Lucifer pulls his spine tighter, shoulders tensing back as he squares them. You didn’t, is tucked behind his clenched teeth, but it feels too defensive, so instead he says, “There is nothing to forgive.”
"You do not have to attend, you know," Barbatos says.
"Hm, does he no longer want to parade me around?" Lucifer sniffs, before cursing himself internally. Barbatos has already laughed into his hand once in this conversation, so there’s nothing hiding the minute widening of his smile.
“Quite the contrary. You scare off all his suitors,” Barbatos sighs, his hands lacing behind his back again. Barbatos may seem calm and unaffected, but Lucifer knows that Barbatos is as attentive as ever, watchful gaze searching for anything that might cause problems for their lord’s guests.
Centuries ago he might have turned his nose up at the thought of Lord Diavolo’s suitors and their clear lack of common sense. Sure, Diavolo is a prince, but he might have said that if they knew anything about him––his inability to focus for long periods, his penchant for trying to avoid council meetings, his aggravatingly sunny personality, for starters… Royalty or not, they would surely run for the hills once being subjected to a week of his whims.
The Lucifer of today begrudgingly acknowledges that however infuriating and eccentric Diavolo is, he does have redeeming qualities past his riches and power.
Speak of the devil, but Diavolo’s laugh carries over the general bustle of the party to the pair. Across the ballroom, filled to the brim with milling party-goers and servers darting in between, Diavolo towers above a group of tittering guests.
Resplendent in his demon form, Diavolo’s dark red hair and light brown skin are only enhanced by the accents of gold in his horns, his jewelry, his attire. They just got him fitted for another set of formal robes, and yet Diavolo has deigned to wear his usual feathered shawl. His wings, massive and tipped with gold as well, shift with each exaggerated wave of his hands as he tells a story; the demons around him flit between watching him in adoration and dodging his wings, to Lucifer’s amusement.
As the world is unfair, Diavolo notices their attention almost immediately, breaking off from his story to glance in their direction.
Across the ballroom floor their eyes catch, and Lucifer wants to hit himself for the tugging in his chest. Diavolo beams at Lucifer, a smile almost as bright as the stars, and Lucifer resists the urge to flinch at the magnitude of it. Barbatos’ head inclines towards Lucifer, his voice barely carrying the distance between them, amused.
“I distinctly remember him saying that you need not trouble yourself with staying past the formalities if you aren’t enjoying yourself.”
“He was serious about that then, was he?” Lucifer gives a rueful smirk as he breaks their gaze, tossing his head back to drink the last dredges of his glass.
He does not look back at Diavolo, raising the glass into the air in the slightest. A server seems to appear out of nowhere, dutifully offering a tray for Lucifer to deposit his empty glass and replace it with a full one. He gestures it at Barbatos in lieu of a toast, bringing it to his lips.
“Are you saying you’d like to spend the next three hours watching them flock around him while they shower him in compliments?”
Lucifer chokes on the sip, Barbatos hitting the nail on the head for the thing that Lucifer would like to do least.
His choking is nothing severe, just a few subdued coughs into the back of a gloved fist. The glare he gives Barbatos is half-hearted, but Barbatos and Diavolo have a tendency to look wholly uncowed by all his might and power. It’s rather frustrating.
“Excuse me,” Lucifer says, before Barbatos can get him to accidentally admit something embarrassing. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
Lucifer tries not to bristle at the knowing nod Barbatos gives him, turning on his heel and striding for one of the secluded balconies.
The balcony is occupied when Lucifer makes it out there, but it only takes one intimidating glare to cause the two devils to scramble in surprise. With muttered apologies and tittering giggles, they gather their clothes and scamper back into the palace. Lucifer watches to make sure they’ve fully retreated, their silhouettes disappearing down the darkened corridor.
He sighs.
The fooling around of random guests has reminded him of his brothers, and how they have been alarmingly sparse for this entire party. After a few minutes of silently grousing about them while squinting out into the blurred outlines of the city below, the soft click of the balcony door alerts him to a new presence.
Even if Lucifer could not sense Diavolo’s magic, he’s sure that he would have known the other’s arrival based solely on the steady rhythm of Diavolo’s footsteps onto the balcony.
“Are you sure you have time to chase after your attendant? Won’t your guests miss you terribly?” Lucifer asks, still faced away, attempting to keep his tone nonchalant. Diavolo’s laugh is softer than the boisterous rumble from inside, and Lucifer doesn’t understand why he selfishly wants this sound to be his alone.
Diavolo’s hip cocks against the railing, his posture open towards Lucifer, who grips the elaborate metal work as he stares out at the Devildom night sky.
“Are you alright?” Diavolo asks, his head tilted as he stares at Lucifer’s profile. If Lucifer were to glance to the side, he’s sure that Diavolo’s expression would be full of gentle concern and mirthful nosiness. He’s not sure what that would do to him. As he’s never done so before, Lucifer wishes it wouldn’t be out of character for him to blame his melancholy on the Demonus. For the strange, upsettingly familiar ache in his chest. “You seem… troubled.”
It’s different from the ache of unsettled anger, from the hollowness that comes with grief––Lucifer has known for years, and is still coming to understand that it is yearning.
“I’m still not sure what you want from me,” is what tumbles out, lips loosened by drink and defenses worn down by exhaustion.
His eyes narrow as they focus on the flickering lanterns of the kingdom below them. Truly, he has become soft. His brothers would tease him mercilessly if they knew of his apprehension––the thought of it is laughable to Lucifer as well.
Him. Lucifer. Never anything but stalwart in his beliefs, obstinance and rolling pride to a fault. An unstoppable presence, leagues above trifling matters like wondering why would someone go to such great lengths for him.
The thought comes to an abrupt halt as Diavolo’s hand drifts into view of his peripherals, and Lucifer almost jerks away, gaze snapping in his direction.
Before Lucifer has a chance to do anything, Diavolo’s hand lands on the rail next to Lucifer’s, so close that Lucifer’s can feel the heat emanating off the other. The light from inside the party filters out onto the balcony, but even shadowed by their backs, Lucifer has no trouble envisioning the details of Diavolo’s hand.
He’s seen them often enough; curled into claws while he tears apart his unfortunate opponents, a fist tucked under his chin as his elbow props him up, lazily twirling a quill between his thumb and his index––he knows the stories behind several of the scars Diavolo refuses to heal. There are so many more scars he knows nothing about.
Staring down at his own leather glove, Lucifer has the singular, maddening thought that he wishes he’d forgone his gloves for the night.
In the same vein, he realizes that Diavolo has not responded to his words, and he glances up at the other.
Even under the threat of the cruelest torture, Lucifer will never admit it, but Diavolo’s pale gold eyes are devastating to look upon.
From the first day he’d met the other, years before he entered Diavolo’s employ; back when Lucifer still had all six of his wings and the scars didn’t ache during storms. Even to today, even with the little light to reflect off of them, Diavolo’s gaze bores into him relentlessly.
“Anything you’ll give me, really.” Diavolo says, a loose shrug to his shoulders, but his smile is warm when he tucks his opposite hand under his chin. He props his elbow up on the railing, “But you already know I feel that way, don’t you,” Diavolo hums.
What kind of an expression should Diavolo have here, Lucifer wonders.
Resentment? Accusatory? Something sick, twisted? Possessive? That would make more sense to him, he thinks. It would be befitting of Diavolo’s savage ancestry and his royal status. A demon prince should not look so earnest.
And yet, the soft longing is not new. It has not been for years.
Lucifer has fought both heaven and hell, but he does not know how to react when the Prince of Hell stares at him like he never fell from the heavens at all. As if Lucifer is still as beautiful and pristine as the day they first met, hundreds of years before Lucifer and his brothers actually fell.
“It is hardly appropriate to be away from one’s guests for such an extended period of time,” he says again, a reflex more than anything. Lucifer clears his throat, not pathetic enough that he needs a drink, but it would certainly make things easier. Instead, his empty glass remains a distracting, useless weight in his hand.
Diavolo’s hand brushes over Lucifer’s, and when Lucifer lets him––lets him in as he has been doing over nearly two thousand years already, step by shaking, trembling step––Diavolo’s beatific smile is blinding. He takes Lucifer’s hand in his own, and presses a kiss to his gloved knuckles.
“I’m sure they can amuse themselves for a bit,” Diavolo murmurs, glancing up through dark, thick lashes.
"Lucifer," Diavolo says, his name coated in want, doused in fire; the burning in Lucifer’s chest is not unlike Falling. Lucifer is delirious with it, desperate to hold onto the boldness that allows him to seek Diavolo’s touch, rather than spurn it from pride.
The dizzying heat pushes them into one of the doors, any of them; Lucifer does not care what wing they are in, only that the solid presence against his back is both a relief and an alarm. Without breaking their kiss, Diavolo’s hand wraps around a doorknob. It opens with an easy click, and they tumble into one random guest room of hundreds.
This is Diavolo's home, his palace; no door could ever be locked to Diavolo's touch.
"This isn't what I had in mind for the first time we did this," Diavolo confesses, mumbling messily into Lucifer’s mouth, and Lucifer tries to pull his head back to break the kiss to respond. Diavolo whines under his breath, chasing after Lucifer’s still parted lips––it almost makes Lucifer laugh, how something that usually would irritate him to no end becomes endearing under the haze of lust and alcohol.
(Alcohol, his mind laughs. Lucifer is not timid by any means, but kissing someone he’s shared a strange, heavy tension with for nearly a thousand years is a sobering experience.)
Diavolo’s hands continue their exploration, gliding up Lucifer’s sides and across his back. Heat radiates from Diavolo’s palms; a mix between his generated body heat and the exuberance of Diavolo’s magical power, most likely.
Lucifer struggles with admitting the truth of his desires, as he always has, but he wants to feel Diavolo’s hands on his bare skin, not over the constricting finery he’s dressed in. Today he acts on it, grabbing Diavolo’s wandering hands and bringing them to the front of his robes.
They strip the clothes from each other’s bodies, until Lucifer’s legs hit the edge of the bed and he sits down on it. Lucifer wonders if Diavolo will seek him out, press him into the sheets. There is an imperceptible tremble to Lucifer’s hands, but he is acutely aware that his apprehension is due to his own tumultuous feelings, rather than the act itself––this is far from Lucifer’s first time.
A several thousand year old virgin? Hardly. But Diavolo's tongue flicks over his nipple, and the strangled noise that escapes is not of his own volition. When Diavolo drops to his knees before Lucifer, all that’s left of his rational thought comes to a screeching stop.
This, Lucifer, Diavolo’s mirthful eyes seem to say, his pale gold irises nearly eclipsed by his blown pupils, his lips pressed to the curve of Lucifer’s exposed hip as he looks up.
This is just the worship you deserve.
Lucifer hisses when Diavolo takes his hard cock in his hand, his palm slicked with spit. There are no words that Lucifer knows how to form, staring down at Diavolo licking his lips like he doesn’t know where to begin to devour Lucifer. His cock twitches in Diavolo’s hand, as if giving an answer it’s owner refuses to voice, and Diavolo is smiling when he presses a kiss to the tip of Lucifer’s cock.
It takes every last bit of restraint Lucifer has to not thrust into the soft, willing heat of Diavolo’s mouth, lips parting and his tongue peeking out to welcome him. He forces himself to remember that Diavolo is a prince.
Not just a prince, no ––that insinuates he’s possibly on the same level of human royalty. Absolutely not, Diavolo is so much more. Lucifer groans through clenched teeth as Diavolo’s jaw loosens to take more of his cock into his wet mouth with the same enthusiasm that Diavolo seems to have in spades.
A brief shuffle occurs, Diavolo murmuring something about oil, before he produces a small vial. Lucifer’s eyes narrow at it, and Diavolo’s expression has the gall to be sheepish, “I’m always prepared, Lucifer.”
And then, as if kissing the devil isn’t enough, as if having his cock in the prince’s mouth wasn’t more than he could have ever expected, Diavolo says:
“So, would you like to fuck me, or would you like it to be the other way around?”
Lucifer freezes, his voice lost somewhere between his brain and the spike of lust that Diavolo incites in him with his words.
He’s not sure what he expected. Lucifer believes he knows Diavolo, and yet, Diavolo offering this to him is both unexpected and perfectly makes sense. It stimulates an unnamed giddiness in Lucifer; the same kind of pleasure he gets from watching others beg, but it’s different.
Everything about Diavolo is different.
Lucifer chokes back a laugh, the disbelieving smile on his face causes Diavolo to grin widely, happily, as he waits for Lucifer’s response. Lucifer grabs onto that giddiness, that burst of warmth, and he leans back, palm propping himself up to watch Diavolo on his knees. He spreads his legs in the slightest, no words leaving his mouth but a clear invitation that Diavolo lights up at.
Oil drips down Diavolo’s long fingers, down past the width of his palm and trickles down his forearm. With a smile still on his face, Diavolo catches Lucifer track the glistening oil even as he brings his hand between Lucifer’s legs. It does not hurt, not much of anything can hurt Lucifer anymore–or at least, nothing registers compared to Falling. But just because it doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it’s comfortable, and Lucifer has to clench his jaw.
“Lucifer, relax,” Diavolo bites gently on the sensitive skin of Lucifer’s inner thigh, working the digit in steady thrusts. Lucifer breathes, the vicious retort dying with the continued presence of the intrusion. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Two fingers turns to three, Lucifer does his best to remain unaffected, but how could he , when Diavolo’s mouth returns to hum happily around his cock. His legs spread to allow Diavolo more space to slide his fingers inside, stretching him out in a way that has not happened in ages.
“Fuck,” Lucifer curses, the first word amidst subtle groans. His hand cards through Diavolo’s hair, unable to help pulling on the short, red locks; Diavolo keens at it, the sound enough encouragement for Lucifer to continue doing so.
Pulling his mouth off of Lucifer’s cock, Diavolo presses an almost cheeky kiss to the tip, curling his fingers inside as trying to draw him closer. The desire to order the other to continue sucking his cock burns strong within Lucifer, the desire to control until submission is not something easily forgotten. Before Lucifer has a chance to act on this, Diavolo’s fingers skim across his prostate, and a strangled gasp leaves his lips.
“I wish you’d let me hear you more,” Diavolo sighs, dreamily stroking at the bundle of nerves while Lucifer yanks on his hair almost painfully so. “You sound wonderful, Lucifer.”
Diavolo sounds so honest, almost dopey in his affection; are they not monsters? Are they not powerful beings that could level cities? Devastate armies?
Lucifer licks his lips, cursing the way his hips roll against Diavolo’s hand.
It continues like this, but not for as long as Diavolo would like. Diavolo claims that Lucifer does not let him prepare him enough, but the look Lucifer gives him could wither crops. His pride flares in annoyance at Diavolo treating him like he’s fragile, but the snarl on his mouth is softened by Diavolo’s wet tongue lapping at his head, dipping into the slit to taste the salt of his precum.
Diavolo has always been chatty, and Lucifer does not know why it would not extend to this.
“I can hear you thinking from here,” Diavolo says, but Lucifer struggles to do anything but overthink every sensation that Diavolo incites. “I promise, I won’t do anything you don’t want. I just want to make you feel good, Lucifer. You deserve to. You spent that entire party looking miserable.” Diavolo laughs, one hand lazily jerking Lucifer, the other still curled inside him. “Unreasonably handsome, but miserable.”
“Stop,” Lucifer hisses through his teeth, head tilted back and exposing the long line of his throat at a particularly eager curl of Diavolo’s fingers, “Stop talking so much.” He can’t bring himself to tell a prince to shut up , however much he wants to. Diavolo wouldn’t take offense, but Lucifer has never been good at letting go. However, at his words, Diavolo’s hands still.
Lucifer narrows his eyes at the ceiling.
Had he been wrong? Is Diavolo upset at him? It would be out of character for him to be upset by Lucifer speaking out of place. Diavolo usually encourages informality––Lucifer looks down. Lucifer finds himself blinking, stunned at what he sees:
Diavolo’s lips pressed together in a soft frown, something like sadness in his cinched brow and lidded eyes.
“Why does that bother you?” Diavolo asks, his words measured and careful as he tries to take the edge off his question with a direct stroke against his prostate, his cock tightly fisted in his hand. Lucifer isn't just the Avatar of Pride, he is pride incarnate. Praise should not set him off. He should wear it like a crown.
That's what Lucifer would have everyone believe, Diavolo included.
Diavolo’s expert touch makes his toes curl, and Lucifer inwardly curses Diavolo for his strategy, because damn him, it’s working. He’d immediately read Diavolo's cautious inquiry for what it is––Diavolo is taking care to not offend him by asking. Lucifer feels a spike of irritation at the assumption of his character. He also dislikes that it’s a bit… correct.
Maybe he can just ignore Diavolo’s question. Diavolo’s been flirting with him for centuries. Why is Diavolo trying to sabotage this by talking? Lucifer’s shifts away from Diavolo’s hands, reaching down to cup the other’s face in his hands and pull him up into a bruising kiss. Diavolo rises from his knees, chasing Lucifer’s kiss until they tumble further up onto the bed.
The weight and heat of Diavolo’s body pressed against his is deliriously good, but Lucifer seeks to gain some of the footing he’d lost while caught up in his emotions.
In a flurry of motion, Lucifer manages to flip their positions so that Diavolo is kiss-swollen, wanting, and naked beneath him. Steadying himself on the broad expanse of Diavolo’s chest, where his light brown skin richens with his blush, Lucifer pushes up until he’s straddling Diavolo’s lap. His tongue flicks out between chapped, red lips as Lucifer rises, guides Diavolo’s oil slicked hand to his own cock.
There’s a tremble in Diavolo’s breath as Lucifer’s hand grabs his own, and together they slick Diavolo’s cock with the oil. Once that’s done, Lucifer pushes Diavolo’s helpful hands away to take his cock and press it to his entrance.
Closing his eyes, he lowers his lifted hips slowly onto Diavolo’s cock, low groans escaping from both men as Lucifer sinks down.
The stretch would be painful, if not for Lucifer’s incredible pain tolerance. Instead, it’s just slightly uncomfortable, but also overwhelming in the best way. Breath caught in his lungs, he focuses on the sensation of Diavolo’s cock inside him, the drag of too little oil, the ache in how it splits him to his core––
If he can just get Diavolo to shut up and fuck him, if he can just get past this slight discomfort––
“Lucifer,” Diavolo says, and Lucifer’s eyes fly open.
He should have known to expect Diavolo to try and do more than just lay back and let Lucifer do all the work. Diavolo has never liked being idle, but knowing that does not lessen the effect of Diavolo rising with Lucifer, his cock impossibly thick and deep within him. A strangled shout leaves Lucifer’s lips, Diavolo’s arms wrapping around him, and Lucifer prepares himself for what he assumes will be a brutal pace––
...But Diavolo does not thrust his hips mercilessly into Lucifer.
He does not take or conquer or devour; rather, his warm hands rub soothingly up the back of Lucifer’s spine, the heat easing some of the tension caught in Lucifer’s muscles. Lucifer can’t help but gasp at the tenderness of it all, his hands flying to Diavolo’s broad shoulders.
Diavolo lavishes the curve of Lucifer’s neck with wet, indulgent kisses, murmuring almost soundless praise into his skin. Lucifer trembles in Diavolo’s hold from the sheer, unexpected surprise.
Time passes, the two of them intimately connected as Lucifer has the chance to allow his body to adjust. The prideful part of him wants to tear into Diavolo for treating him this way, but the rest of him is grateful, with no idea how to express the sentiment.
With one tentative, careful roll of Lucifer’s hips, Diavolo moans into the shell of Lucifer’s ear.
Lucifer thinks he’s found out how to show his appreciation.
Lucifer scowls with a blush the entire time and the damp cloth sends shivers up his skin, but he still allows Diavolo to wipe at the cum drying on his body.
Usually he’d snatch the cloth away from a partner and do it himself––ah, well , that’s not entirely true. In most cases, Lucifer would have never let the partner stay, or he’d have left promptly himself, but there’s a certain… pleasure to have the source of his headaches attending to him instead.
“Barbatos says I scare off your suitors,” Lucifer nips at Diavolo’s lower lip in warning when the cloth dips teasingly between Lucifer’s legs.
“You do,” Diavolo grins, “It’s very attractive.” He nods sagely, and Lucifer feels a twitch in his brow coming on. Seeing this, Diavolo brings one hand up to wrap around the back of his head, plays with his hair in a way that Lucifer has not had since it tumbled between his six wings, down to his waist, Asmo begging him to let him braid flowers into it. “It’s my favorite thing to watch you scare them off the grounds.”
“If you’re going to keep talking, I’ll let you get back to your guests,” Lucifer begins, but Diavolo pouts and whines, you started it. Still, he’s laughing and apologizing in the same breath as Lucifer tries to get out of the sheets, “Wait,” he says, a hand around Lucifer’s wrist in a loose, half-hearted attempt at stopping him.
“Please,” he adds, because Lucifer likes it when Diavolo pretends to be polite and accommodating.
(When Lucifer believes he’s genuine about it, and not using it as some ploy to escape his duties, at least––but that is neither here nor there.)
“Why not stay?”
Lucifer wonders when he became so soft. He wonders when Diavolo learned so much about him. With growing sentiment–– the word feels brittle in Lucifer’s mouth, too vulnerable to admit to anyone but his internal self––Lucifer relents.
Just this once, he will allow himself to believe that he can have this.
He stays.