Lucifer had always been like a vampire—never sleeping, never allowing himself the luxury of closing his eyes when there were deadlines, reports, and meetings piling up on his desk. His study light glowed deep into the hours when the House of Lamentation fell silent. Paperwork stacked, quills scratched, and yet he was relentless.

But one night, a strange thing happened. You had been allowed to stay in his room, to keep him company. He hadn’t intended to sleep—he never did—but the moment you rested on his bed, some strange warmth filled the room. He sat down, just for a moment. He would watch you sleep, nothing more. And yet… his eyes closed, his breath evened out, and for the first time in centuries, Lucifer slept.

The next morning, panic ensued. He missed an important meeting. He never missed meetings. The brothers whispered about it all week. Diavolo laughed too hard about it. Since then, Lucifer forbade you from entering his room again, his pride too great to admit what had happened.

But temptation was cruel.

One evening, you were in Leviathan’s room, controllers in hand, playing a game alongside Levi and Mammon. Laughter echoed, the sound bouncing off the messy walls lined with figurines and neon lights.

The door slammed open.

Lucifer stood there, dark coat swaying slightly, his crimson eyes burning with exhaustion and something more dangerous—need. Before either of your companions could react, he crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you up to your feet. No words. No chance to protest. Mammon’s “HEY, what’re ya doin’ with them?!” and Levi’s squawking protests went unanswered.

Without ceremony, Lucifer pulled you straight to his room—his bed. He shed his coat in one smooth motion and laid down first, but not without tugging you with him. You landed against the mattress, your back against the sheets, before he settled next to you.

He lowered himself onto his stomach, one arm sliding across your middle, his hand resting lightly but possessively on your stomach. His face pressed close against your side, a faint exhale brushing your shirt. For the first time in centuries, his eyes fluttered shut within seconds.

Lucifer’s breath grew deep and steady as he succumbed to sleep—like he only could when you were near. He said nothing, explained nothing, but his body betrayed what his pride never would: you were the one anchor strong enough to drag him into rest.

And you lay there, speechless, trapped under the warmth of his hand and the weight of the Avatar of Pride himself.