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For: A kiss on the back

 

There’s something almost holy about her skin; it’s pale and dewy-soft, almost translucent in its alabaster hue, like light and sun and all the constellations tattooed into the skies. The paleness of her flesh, illuminated by his starry children, brings sweet torture to his heart; the sort of melancholy that one must carry in his soul, to be reminded of divinity.

He’s quite hallowed himself if the mood strikes him; stars in his eyes, a halo of black gold upon his head. It doesn’t take much these days for him to remember that he was once an angel; it’s no hardship to recollect his days of heavenly worship - not when she’s a sacrament to which he bends the knee. 

She comes to him at night when all is still and kisses at his back, between his ever itching shoulder blades, her fingers soft against his skin.

 He loves her then, in length and in devotion, and when the light does come - there’s little motion - aside from blessed thrum -

- in blood, and peaceful hum, and then, at last, it’s silent -

                                              - his heart is dumb.

Chapter Text

 

It’s a hectic week at work. There’s a serial killer on the loose, a parents-teachers meeting at Trixie’s school, and the fridge is running low on edible supplies. There’s very little time for shopping or cleaning, or bathing, or sleeping. Sex with your hot boyfriend - who also happens to be Satan - isn’t even in the dining room, let alone on the table. 

He’s following her around the precinct like a kicked puppy, all moo-moo eyes and dramatic sighs, and still managing to look like sin incarnate - which, frankly, isn’t helping matters.

“There’s no time for that, Lucifer,” she mutters, pushing him away with her hand on his chest when he gets a little too close. She can smell his cologne and the whisky and him, and it’s driving her a little wild, but she has work to do.

“Come on, Detective,” he murmurs, his lips wickedly close to her ear. “Just a quick one in the evidence storage room. A good orgasm or three would do your tense disposition a world of good.”

It’s tempting - really tempting - he knows what he’s doing, the son of a God, but she’s had two years of practice at withstanding his Devilish charms and it takes more than his proximity and talk of orgasms to break her, thank you very much.

“Lucifer, behave,” she demands and takes a step backwards. “I’m going to get some coffee, and then we’re going over the employee list again. Somebody must have seen something!”

“I’m only thinking of you, darling!” he calls after her, as she makes her way to the precinct kitchen, causing some heads to turn in their direction.

Chloe rolls her eyes good-naturedly and keeps on walking.

                                                                                   *

Her shoulders are stiff and her neck hurts. She’s been sitting at her desk for the past five hours, pouring over case notes and drinking coffee by the gallons. At her fourth grunt and jerky motion to try and release the tension in her aching muscles, Lucifer springs to his feet beside her and presses his long fingers into her shoulders. Chloe can’t help the little moan of relief that rises in her throat.

“You’re stiff as a corpse, Detective,” he mutters, pressing a little harder. “I can take care of this for you. Stop being so stubborn.”

He has a point, and she agrees to a quick massage back at his a little begrudgingly. There’s not much she can do now, not until their old lead checks out, and the pain in her shoulders is just too distracting. And so, she finds herself lying face down on his expensive sheets in nothing but her knickers while he’s scouring his kinky drawers for some massage oil.

“A-ha! Found it!” he exclaims triumphantly, and Chloe moves her head in his direction. She narrows her eyes to better read the label.

“Almond oil?”

“The very best, darling,” he smiles, all teeth. “It will help you relax and do wonders for your skin.”

Chloe rolls her eyes and turns her head to the other side.

“Just make it quick, please. We must get back to the station.”

She feels him settling over her bottom, the weight of his body a welcome sensation.

“Aren’t we bossy,” he quips cheerfully and sets to work. “Not to worry, Detective. This won’t take long.”

His hands on her body feel - well, heavenly - and she finds herself humming and sighing as they press and dance and pinch at her skin. She feels weightless and warm and there’s a tingling sensation spreading from the base of her spine on to her nerve extremities. Lucifer’s hands drift lower and he shifts; his fingers skim the edge of her knickers, making Chloe draw a sharp breath. He’s dreadfully close to her centre, pressing into the soft skin of her inner thighs and backside, and she finds herself squirming and mewling a little at the pleasant ache that settles in her pelvis. Lucifer’s fingers slip ‘accidentally’ past the edge of her knickers and brush against her. Chloe bites her lower lip and shifts with his hand.

Lucifer bends forward a little, his warm chest pressed to her back, his hand still up her knickers.

“Apologies, darling,” he murmurs against her ear and she shivers. “I didn’t mean to turn you on.”

Big words for a being who claims he does not lie.

Chloe pushes herself upwards and turns, reaching for him lazily with her arms.

“Shut up and fuck me, Lucifer.”

He smiles smugly and kisses her deeply.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he purrs against her throat and pushes into her with vigour. 

Turns out, she really did need an orgasm or three to set her right.

 

Chapter Text

 

 

  1. Chloe Decker time travels in her sleep. It’s not an overactive imagination sort of thing or a particularly vivid dream; it’s real and exhilarating - a by part of the whole miracle deal. At night, she goes through time and space, sees monarchies rise and fall, watches humanity wine and dine and slay its kind, and tastes the ancient air on the tip of her tongue. She never remembers her travels in the waking world. It’s true what they say; God does have a plan.

 

  1. Lucifer meets her in every single one of his earthly visits. At first, they can’t seem to stand one another. He’s obnoxious and she’s a goody-two-shoes, but somewhere during their fifth mutual historical holiday, they strike up a reluctant friendship; and grudging, reciprocal respect. They share wine in Judea, catch a play in Athens; even barely make it out of Pompeii in time. Every visit is life to the fullest, a sensual overload; an unlikely camaraderie between a mortal detective and one of the most powerful entities on the planet. Somewhere around 15th century Venice they become lovers.

 

  1. Her nights are filled with times and places she never dreamed of knowing, her slumbering heart is full of the Devil. She lies in his arms in a rented room at a high-end Parisian brothel, satiated and gasping, and wishes for one waking moment with him.

        “I never remember, once I wake up,” she laments, her voice sad and soft.

        “We’ll just have to make the most of our nights, then,” he answers in kind, and holds her just a little bit tighter.

 

  1. Times and centuries change, their meetings shift and vary. London in 1621, Inverness in 1743, St. Petersburg in 1834, Melbourne in 1929 - the world flexes and evolves around them.

 

  1. It all ends one night in Los Angeles. 

         The year is 2016.

 

Chapter Text

“I’ve heard about you - you’re the one who quotes poetry.”

Jack regards the tall stranger with all the intensity of his profession. The man is rich, that much is certain, the cut of his elegant suit screams old money; he’s also quite cunning - there’s a glint to his eyes that speaks of endless wit and a strategic mind. He only plays the fool to a court of imbeciles of would-be kings and queens. 

“You can say that,” Jack answers, offering his hand. “Inspector Jack Robinson.”

The man’s eyes glimmer mischievously as he takes Jack’s hand and squeezes it heartily in greeting.

“Lucifer Morningstar,” he purrs, his smile wide and wicked. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Inspector.”

Jack laughs; trust Phryne to know the Devil.

Chapter Text

 

This isn’t how they end.

They have a deadline, this much is certain; this thing between them is a race with a clear finish line, an unlikely symphony with a loud coda. She knows this, of course - dreads it, even - it’ll be impossible to go on. Miracle or not, she’s very much a mortal woman, and he… isn’t; one day she’ll wither and die, and he will stay as beautiful and young as he is now, no frost in the black gold of his hair.

She’s used to picturing their conclusion in that slightly morbid, detached way her profession sometimes dictates - she’ll die of cancer, he’ll go back to Hell; a bullet will tear her very being apart, he’ll storm the gates of Heaven and will be killed in the process; some fanatic will uncover the truth and banish and bind him to Perdition, leaving her to deal with the heartache, as she did before. 

She’s used to the melancholy outlines her brain sometimes produces - can deal with any thread of fear that’s binding her heart - But this? Trapped in a warded basement of a crazy occultist, with no windows and running out of air?

This isn’t how they end.

He’s frantic with worry, cursing his inability to whisk them away from the situation, and his hands on her arms are trembling with restraint and fear. He’s terrified, this being of immense power and experience, frightened out of his wits for her, a mortal woman with the lifespan of a tragic butterfly.

Her heart swells in her heaving chest, clenches and stutters with love for the Devil. She reaches out to him, her fingers brushing the stubble on his strong jaw, and pulls him down for a kiss.

He sighs into her welcoming mouth, crushes her to him, his lips soft and moist against her tongue. She holds him like she sometimes holds her child and threads her fingers into his raven locks.

“I will find a way to get us out. I promise,” he mutters into the slick skin of her neck. The stuffy air in the basement is dense with heat and staleness.

“I know you will,” she reassures him and closes her eyes.

He always does.

This isn’t how they end. 

 

Chapter Text

 

“How do you know?” she whispered back, her voice rising just a little at the end of the sentence.

Lucifer scoffed and pointed at the rusty crown on display in utter disdain.

“King Herod’s crown? This ghastly thing? The old boy would drown himself in Wadi Qelt if he’d had to wear this abomination on his head!”

Chloe turned to him and crossed her arms. “And how would you know that, Lucifer?”

His eyes twinkled wickedly under the soft light of the room, and he smiled sharply, all teeth and edge.

“Why, Detective, we were chums, of course! Oh, the stories I could tell you…”

Chapter Text

He sounds delighted and Chloe suddenly finds herself wishing she could shoot him again and get away with it.

“What can I say, Lucifer,” she bites irrelatively. “I’m just bad that way.”

Her partner laughs deeply and takes a step forward, teeth gleaming white behind a large grin. 

“Just how ‘bad’ are we talking, Detective?” he asks, and a flash of his tongue, darting out to wet his lower lip, catches her eye. Her wayward gaze lingers on his sensual mouth that speaks of pleasures untold for a few seconds before she shakes herself free of unwanted desire.

“I’m not sleeping with you, Lucifer!”

Chapter Text

Both men were sitting by the fire in her parlour, in various states of undress. Lucifer was stripped down to his smalls; Jack retained the little left of his dignity by still wearing his pair of trousers, the braces hanging off his bare shoulders.

“Jack!” she exclaimed, eyes wide and unbelieving. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Her Inspector gulped rather audibly and attempted his trade-mark self-deprecating smile.

“The Devil made me do it…?”

Chapter Text

 He presses his hand tightly against the gaping wound in her abdomen and curses all the powers in the universe and his Father, most of all. 

“Try not to move, darling,” he pleads with her, pulling her further into his lap. She winces at the movement and blanches in pain, and he starts cursing his own name inwardly.

“If I die,” she croaks, her slick fingers brushing over his in an attempt to distract him, “I’m haunting you first.”

Her attempts at feeble humour are completely lost on him.

“That’s not how it works, Detective,” he grouses, the fingers of his other hand digging into her shoulder, “and you’re not dying.”

She laughs softly and winces in pain.

“Sure feels that way.”

He curses again, this time aloud.

“Hold on, Chloe,” he pleads with her again. “Help’s on the way.”

Chapter Text

His was a lovely penis, by all accounts, and she coloured and squealed in mortification at the sight of it, turning her back to him.

“Lucifer!” she piped, “What are you doing??”

The Devil in question laughed in delight.

“Well, If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, Detective…”

Chloe closed her eyes and silently counted to ten.

Chapter Text

He’s not used to selflessness. Every lover he’s ever taken to his bed has had his or her own greedy desires to slake. He is like a Wishing Well, a celestial ATM for carnal cravings; good for a night or two, brilliant for a meaningless shag, but rarely more than that.

Chloe is benevolence incarnate. She is not a saint, not without fault, but she’s truly good; kind in the sincerest way, and full of sympathy. Even for monsters like him.

Her gentle kindness takes him by surprise - he’s back from Hell and healing, the time apart meant centuries of agony for him - and she holds him softly in her arms, and kisses his meticulously coiffed hair, and whispers how much she missed him in his ear. And as he tries to regain his equilibrium, her affection for him tethers him to the present, to his beloved Earth. It grounds him in a way that losing his wings never did - he does not feel heavy and bound; he is light and weightless and free.

And when he misses Sergeant Deacon’s birthday party and is genuinely upset that he missed the celebrations, she beckons him to her desk with a smile and produces a napkin covered plate.

“I saved a piece for you,” she laughs softly, removing the polka-dotted napkin with a flourish. “I know how fond you are of cake.”

He kisses her hand, and thanks her with soft, starry eyes, and she blushes ever so prettily under his adoring gaze, that he cares not if the entire precinct is privy to this little exchange.

They have so many ways to love.

Chapter Text

 

“Has it always been this quiet?” 

Crucio narrows his fiery eyes and looks at him as if he’s lost his marbles.

“What are you on about, Sire?” the demon asks, his voice deep and hollow like a hundred sepulchres. “It’s as noisy as ever. Rattling chains and screams to thy heart’s content! Same as always, m’Lord.” 

But Lucifer doesn’t hear the cries of the damned; no anguished shrieks or clattering iron reach his ears. He looks around his thrice-damned kingdom; his land of rot and blight, of pestilence and torment.

Hell does not speak to him anymore.

Chapter Text

She is shot in the line of duty not long after his long-awaited return from Hell. It’s an arrest gone wrong, she’s not wearing her Kevlar, and the bullet rips into her abdomen fast and true like a sucker punch. He cradles her in his arms as they wait for help to arrive, his hand pressed tightly to the gaping wound, as he calls upon his Father. 

She’s rushed into surgery the moment they’re wheeled into the ER, already unconscious, and he’s left behind, bloody and lost, to await updates like some meaningless mortal. He’s not used to feeling helpless - he who wields such power over the souls of the damned - and it drives him mental to be confined to the austere waiting room, with nothing to distract him from his fear. He calls Maze, texts Dan, and goes back to drinking sludge masquerading as coffee. 

When she wakes up, hooked to tubes and machines and artificial living, he sits by her side, looking dishevelled and unkempt. It’s been some long, stressful hours, and, frankly, he couldn’t care less if his Armani suit is a little worse for wear. 

“It’s alright, babe,” she rasps and reaches for his fingers in a feeble attempt to squeeze his hand. “I’m alright.”

He smiles down at her tightly and nods but remains as silent as the grave. She falls back asleep in a matter of minutes.

Her recovery is slow and not without difficulty - a gut wound is not something you bounce back from with practised ease - but he’s hovering like a mother hen and insists on every comfort available, even to the point of insisting that she recuperates in his penthouse, spawn included.

“You pamper me horribly, Lucifer,” she sighs one evening, her head lolled back against the edge of his ridiculously large bathtub. “A girl can get used to this.”

“As you should, Detective,” he mutters, his fingers trailing water over the warm skin of her arm. “But do lose the gun wound next time, yes? Let’s not make a habit of it!”

She snorts and turns her head in his direction, her eyes sleepy and content.

“It’s my job, Lucifer,” she smiles and runs her wet fingers against his knuckles. “I wish I could promise you this, but I can’t. I’m fine now, though. You know that, right?”

“I do,” he says and means it. 

He made sure of that. 

 

Chapter Text

The penthouse is silent and dark when she arrives, the eerie stillness causing her low heels to echo loudly across the marble floor. There are no dust sheets thrown over the furniture, so she takes this as a tentatively positive sign and ventures further into the luxurious apartment.

“Lucifer?” she calls out, craning her neck and bending a little forward to try and glimpse his silhouette on the bed, or leaning against the railing; he’s not standing at the bar or reclining in his chair, and she has a brief flash of panic rush through her entire system at the thought that he’s disappeared again, after all. 

A few extra steps bring her to the foot of his bedroom steps, and, at last, she spies his long form spread-eagled over his ridiculously expensive silk sheets. 

“Lucifer!” She climbs the three stairs hurriedly and enters the open room. “Are you alright? Nobody’s seen you in days!”

The sight that greets her isn’t pretty, for a change. 

His face looks like it’s been used as a punching bag; his left eye is swollen, upper lip split and oozing blood. She gasps loudly at the bloody image he makes and drops on her knees at his side.

“What happened?” she demands to know, her fingers fluttering over the black-and-blue bruise on his forehead; he flinches and winces at the contact and she withdraws her hand, an apology ready on her lips.

“My brother came to visit, Detective,” he rasps, and she blanches.

Amenadiel did this?” she asks, horrified - she knows the brothers don’t always see eye to eye, but this is excessive! 

He shakes his head and winces again. Her heart clenches a little at the sight; he must be in considerable pain.

“My other brother,” he clarifies. “I have many, Detective. This little punch-up is courtesy of my brother Michael.”

“Would you like to report him to the police?” she asks softly. 

He laughs quietly, but there’s nothing soft or funny about the sound. The mirthless laugh is followed by charged silence.

“What can I do, Lucifer?” she asks gently; her knees begin to ache due to the unnatural position, but she pays them little heed. 

His hand on hers is warm and surprisingly strong.

“You’re here,” he says simply.

And it’s enough.

 

Chapter Text

 

“Go on, ask him!”

“Why me?! You ask him!”

“What? You’re closer!”

“Well - You’re fatter!”

“Oi! I have heavy bones, me! What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, if he’ll get mad, he’s likely to eat you first!”

“Now you’re just body shaming me, you wanker -”

Lucifer takes a deep breath of putrid air and closes his eyes; ten long, deep breaths - in and out, in and out - should do the trick. The squabbling demons fade a little into background noise, and he lets the screeching and cursing wash over him like the rancid waters of the river Styx.

He is one with the universe, he is calm itself, he is in complete control of his faculties, he is -

“Well! I could say the same thing about your mother!”

- not getting any peace.

With a set scowl and eyes the colour of blood and damnation, Lucifer turns around and comes down on the cowering demons like a pile of infernal bricks.

“What’s this about, then, gentlemen?” he growls, his voice deep and gravely and resounding. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

The two demons push at one another for a few seconds under Satan’s exasperated eye; at last, the fat one prevails, and the skinny demon is shoved unceremoniously forward, shuffling his feet and muttering something about ‘unfair disadvantage’ and ‘body mass of a fucking whale’.

“Y-you see, Your Unholy Infernalness,” the wretch stutters, and Lucifer rolls his eyes. “We have a bit of a situation - “

“What kind of a situation?” he pinches the bridge of his nose; this is going to be a long century.

“Weeeelllllllllll, Dromos ran out of jars for the eyeballs, my Liege, and we can’t reach the spare ones stored in the storage shed on account of the ladder being too short, and since you have wings we thought you might fly up there and get a few down - “the demon’s voice climbs higher and higher towards the end of the sentence, steadily reaching a pitch only the hellhounds are able to hear. Lucifer sighs heavily and closes his eyes.

This is what he gets for saving Earth. This.

“Lead the way,” he heaves dejectedly; the demons brighten.

Right this way, guv!” barks the fatter of the two. “Brilliant to have you back - we’ve had such maintenance issues like you wouldn’t believe -”

Lucifer follows the demons with his eyes closed; ten long, deep breaths - in and out, in and out - should do the trick.

He is master of his emotions, he is peace incarnate, he is relaxed and calm, he is -

“- and there’s a lightbulb in torture chamber 78 that’s been flickering something ‘orrid …”

- Oh, fuck it.

 

Chapter Text

Gytha Bolkonski, aged 72, is a woman of many talents. Like all good elderly women of a certain background, she knits, babysits the neighbours’ kids, worships Satan, practices good ol’ black magic, and bakes delicious goods that are the talk of the entire neighbourhood.  

Whenever she sets her golden hands to the task - usually when she hosts the ‘Knitting for Satan’ club’s Wednesday Worship meetings at her humble abode - the entire house is permeated with the delicious scent of rising bread and baking cookies, giving it a warm, welcome feeling that soothes the heart. Nobody can withstand Gytha’s famous loaves. Not even Satan himself.

Today, she’s invited said Satan to host this Wednesday Worship’s session. She’s baked all his favourite numbers and got her best whisky from the back of her cupboard. The Devil is a man of taste; one must be ready to cater to his standards. If the dear boy likes his whisky neat and aged and expensive, then ol’ Gytha will provide the goods! 

Just as she sets everything in place and readies the loaded trays to be taken to the living room, Marge bursts through the kitchen door, her eyeglasses slipping down her long nose.

“Where do you keep your brandy?” she barks, banging some cupboard doors open. “Carol has had one of her turns and is in need of something fortifying.”

“Top right drawer, Marge,” Gytha says without looking up from the tray of butter cookies; there are napkins to be properly folded, after all. “What happened now?”

Marge turns around and rolls her eyes.

“Oh, you know, Carol,” she says, waving the half-empty bottle of brandy about. “She gets too invested! Remember that Australian period drama she’s always yammering about? The one with the lady detective?”

“Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries,” Gytha supplies, rotating the stack of polka-dotted napkins 48 degrees to the right.

“Yes, that one!” Marge barks and pours a large dose of spirits into a steaming cup of tea. “Well, apparently - and I’m paraphrasing here - that Inspector with the cheekbones that can cut glass has had a nasty scare because the lady detective was driving too fast and he realised he was utterly in love with her and now he’s distancing himself - “

“- Men,” Gytha pipes in, gently placing a few small forks on top of the napkin pile.

“ - that’s what I said, too!” Marge all but squeaks and shoves the brandy back where it belongs. “But you know Carol! She says she can’t take the tension and that her poor heart is going!”

“All over some silly show?”

Marge shrugs, takes the cup and turns to leave the kitchen, nearly running face-first into the solid chest of Satan himself.

“Ladies! Is that a freshly baked squash bread I smell?”

“It is, Mr Morningstar,” Gutha simpers and offers him a slice. Lucifer takes a large bite and moans appreciatively, winking at the two ladies. The cup in Marge’s hand trembles dangerously. 

“By the way, what happened to dear Carol?” he asks around a mouthful. “The old girl’s practically catatonic!”

The two elderly witches share a glance and Gytha rolls her eyes.

“Nothing to trouble yourself with, dear - here, hold this tray,” she says in her firmest ‘grandma’ voice, as she ushers him out of the kitchen. “Just a silly reaction to a silly show! She’ll be right as rain in no time, with Marge’s special tea!”

But the Devil stops in his tracks and turns around, the plates on the tray clanking and clashing.

“What show?”

                                                                                     


 

“So he’s just letting her go?” Lucifer asks, buttering another slice of squash bread, “Just like that? But he loves her!” 

Gytha dabs at her eyes with her rather moist handkerchief as the frozen image of a crying Phryne Fisher is splayed over her TV screen; next to her Marge blows her nose rather loudly and shakes her head.

“He doesn’t want to change her,” she croaks and downs her portion of whisky. “That’s rather noble of him.”

“Silly boy,” Carol wails, back to her catatonic self. “Silly boy.”

“The poor man is guarding his heart, Carol.” Gytha admonishes her friend. “How can you blame him?”

“I can!” Lucifer cries out with sudden vigour. “Look at them! I mean, they’re obviously attracted to each other! And they work so well together! How can he jeopardise that? What about all those cases that need solving? The criminals that must be punished. The Detective and I would - “ 

Lucifer stops mid-sentence and looks chagrined for a brief moment as if a sudden realization has made him reconsider his previous statement.

“Alright,” he concedes, at last, deflating a tad. “Perhaps I understand a little. He- He’s obviously doing it for her own good! He’s practically protecting her from - from a relationship that would change her! Yes - that’s what it is…”

A heavy silence descends upon the room; Marge fiddles with her sleeve, Gytha sniffles loudly in her handkerchief, Carol wails quietly in her armchair. Lucifer looks up from his plate hopefully.

“Another episode?”

Marge lunges for the remote. 

 

Chapter Text

“Here, dear, do try my famous Sugar and Spice cookies; nobody can resist them!”

Chloe battles the urge to gag; something tells her that Mrs Bolkonski won’t take nutmeg and clove induced vomit on her Persian rug too nicely, no matter how motherly and attentive she is.

“No, thank you,” she manages through a tight smile. “I’m, ah, allergic to cloves.”

What’s one little white lie between a woman and her daughter’s 72-year-old babysitter, right?

Mrs Bolkonski places the outstretched tray back onto the coffee table and furrows her brow in that strictly grandmotherly sort of way, shaking her head almost tragically.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Detective Decker,” she bemoans, her great bosom heaving with the grievous news. Chloe fights the instinct to roll her eyes at the old woman; she’s sure got a great flair for the dramatic. “I made an extra batch – for Trixie. You know how much she likes my baking.”

“Oh, she does! Of course, but – erm, spicy food makes her sick,” Chloe stammers hurriedly, feeling incredibly guilty. Not for the first time since she became a celestial insider, she wonders what’s the right dosage of guilt needed to win a one-way ticket to one’s very own hell loop. A sudden image of herself locked inside a miniature room filled with Sugar and Spice cookies creeps into her mind, and she has to blink rapidly a few times to rid herself of the horrific vision.

She really should do something about all the fibbing.  

“You said you wanted to talk, Mrs Bolkonski?” she decides to prompt the old woman and try to distract her from the orphan cookies. “About Lucifer?”

The woman brightens considerably, jilted baked goods completely forgotten for the time being, and takes a sip of what Chloe strongly suspects is more brandy than tea.

“Why, yes, dear, I did,” Mrs Bolkonski simpers and places her teacup back onto its saucer. “As you know, my friends and I are very fond of Mr Morningstar, and we share the concern that his recent – shall we say, absence? – wasn’t good for his health. He’s lost weight, Detective; I know he did. And he’s not wearing enough layers – I’ve not once seen him in a coat! I bet he walks barefoot in that penthouse of his, too!”

Chloe rolls her lips together and nods, squinting hard. Laughter bubbles in her chest, threatening to erupt from her throat, and she squeaks a little in her attempt to squash it.

“I- I’m not really sure what you want me to do about it, Mrs Bolkonski,” she manages weakly, coughing a little to disguise her amusement. “Lucifer is pretty set in his ways, you know.”

Millenia-old angels kind of tend to be.

The old woman tasks and waves a surprisingly smooth hand to dismiss Chloe’s claim.

“Oh, nonsense, my dear!” she croons and takes another sip of the drink that really should be served at a bar - after hours - instead of at afternoon tea. “That boy will do whatever you tell him to do – he’s smitten! Just tell him his old ladies are worried, yes? Here, take that spare batch of cookies. Some nice and spice will do him a world of good!”

Chloe accepts the package with a waxen smile and rises to leave; Mrs Bolkonski sees her to the door with a smug look.

“Now, these cookies are really tremendous – nobody can resist them; not even our Satan.”

Chloe whirls around so fast, she nearly knocks into the old woman.

“What did you say?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

Mrs Bolkonski gives her a motherly smile and pats her on the cheek, pinching the soft skin fondly.

“I said ‘your consultant’, dear. You look pale, my girl! How about another splash of tea before you leave? It’s medicinal.”

 

                                                                                       


 

 

She finds him at his piano, stroking the keys absentmindedly, his mind obviously elsewhere. He’s wearing her favourite waistcoat again – the one with the purple lining – and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his lovely forearms to her admiring gaze.

“Hey,” she says softly and takes a seat next to him, bumping his thigh with her knee.

Lucifer turns to her and smiles a little wistfully, his hands dropping into his lap.

“Hello, darling. Did you have a nice time with Gytha?”

Chloe chuckles softly and places a beautifully wrapped bowl of cookies on top of the piano.

“We talked about you,” she says and leans over to plant a soft kiss on his right shoulder. “Her knitting club thinks you’re too thin. I think I promised I’d feed you.”

Lucifer brightens at the prospect and wiggles his eyebrows at the painstakingly packed bowl.

“And what do we have here?” he purrs, scrutinising the dish with interest. Chloe groans.

“Ugh, it’s Mrs Bolkonski’s famous Sugar and Spice cookies,” she shudders. “I can’t stand the scent of nutmeg and cloves! She insisted I bring them to you.”

To her utter surprise, he tears at the wrapping and, instead of stuffing his face with his usual gleeful greed, buries his nose in the cookie bowl, inhaling deeply. His eyes are closed, his jaw slack; a look of almost relief crosses his handsome face. Chloe stares at him in amazement.

 Lucifer turns to look at her and places the dish in his laps.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

She finds that she’s quite out of words.

“I – ah, I had no idea you were such a Sugar and Spice cookie fan,” she manages at last. Lucifer shakes his head.

“I’m not,” he explains. “Though I’m sure they’re delicious. It’s the smell, you see.”

She doesn’t.

“It’s strong; dominant, “he says, almost hesitantly. “Like a well-aimed kick to your sinuses, and, well, I need that.”

Chloe blanches at the implication, but Lucifer isn’t done talking.

“Everything smells better than brimstone and blood and rotten entrails, Detective,” he offers softly, and she shudders at the image that he paints, her chest aching for him. “I’d stick my nose in a pile of horse manure if it gets that stench out of my nose. And this,” he adds and raises the bowl for emphasis, “smells much better than horseshit.”

Chloe leans forward and takes the bowl out of his hands, returning it to its spot atop the piano.

“I smell nice,” she proposes, her lips soft against his stubbled jaw; she can feel his cheek expending with a sharp inhale under her waiting mouth. “Smell me instead.”

He takes her into his arms and buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing greedily and sighing into her skin.

“What do you desire?” she asks him rather breathlessly as he mouths at her clavicle, his lips hot and open and wet.

“You,” he answers simply, his eyes warm and fond.

The cookies lie forgotten in their meticulously wrapped bowl.

Chapter Text

Apples are his thing, his trademark - he should be getting royalties, really - they’re as fundamental to his image as desires and favours are. They define him, more than horns and hoves and brimstone and wrath; apples are a Devil’s best friend.

So what if he seduced Eve with figs and kisses and open ears? So what if the Tree of Knowledge was a metaphor for a decent shag in the fertile earth? Humans have been misinterpreting the Bible since before it was written. And the Devil is no stranger to misrepresentation. 

Besides, apples are sweeter with the worm inside.

Chapter Text

There’s darkness in her heart - and lust, and sin, and goodness - 

and holiness divine, and all this fullness -

is there between her thighs as well,

and just as regal as it is in Hell.

Or maybe, it is pure devotion,

a ritual of fevered motion,

and love - right there between her parted knees,

and she’s delighted by the gentle ease,

with which the darkness feels and hallows,

and how it holds her when the climax follows,

and how it speaks, and how it sings,

and all the peace the darkness brings.

It’s full of justice, wrath divine,

but she is sacred, she’s a shrine,

to which it brings its imprecations,

- they’re just as holly as the invocations -

And it is bliss, and it is right,

when she surrounds herself by night,

and even though it’s just the start,

there’s Dark eternal in her heart.