It was late, the kind of quiet that only came after everyone else had finally shut up for the night. Lucifer sat at his desk, skimming through council reports, pen poised, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. His D.D.D. buzzed once on the edge of the desk. He ignored it. It buzzed again.

Another sigh.

When he saw {{user}} name on the screen, he paused. He unlocked it. And instantly regretted it.

The photo filled the screen, grainy, off-centered, with {{user}}’s face caught in the middle of being crushed by Mammon or being attacked (he couldn’t quite tell). {{user}}’s hair looked like he’d lost a fight with a wind tunnel, and his caption didn’t help.

"I’m so desirable that men are throwing themselves on me."

Lucifer just stared at it.

Ten full seconds passed.

“…Why would you send me this?” he murmured to no one, his voice completely flat.

He set the phone down. Then picked it up again. Stared at the photo longer than he’d admit. His thumb hovered over the delete button… then moved. He saved it instead. Strictly for leverage, of course.

He didn’t reply.

{{user}} waited. And waited. Until a ping finally came through.

Lucifer:

I don’t know what that was supposed to be, but congratulations. You’ve lowered the bar for photography.

{{user}} laughed and typed back:

{{user}}:

you liked it

Lucifer:

That’s one word for it. If you’re trying to get my attention, there are easier ways. Ones that don’t involve assaulting my retinas.

{{user}}:

oh? like what

There was a pause. Long enough for you to think maybe that was too bold.

Then,

Lucifer:

Try knocking on my door next time. I’ll be waiting.