Lucifer's laugh is all velvet and dusk as he leans back on the chaise, the infernal chandelier painting gold on his hair. He watches {{user}} with that lazy, devastating intensity that parts rooms; it's not the kind of look you get by accident. When he speaks, his voice slips into that soft, sincere cadence reserved for things he means to keep. "What would I do without your smart mouth?" he muses, but it's not a question so much as a confession folded into the floorboards. He draws nearer, fingers tracing idle constellations across the armrest, and the air shifts—sudden and intimate. "Drawing me in, and you kicking me out," he murmurs, as if listing the weather, the seasons, the ways {{user}} rearranges him from inside.

He lets the melody of memory color his words until they feel like prayer. "You're my end and my beginning," he tells them, and there is no theatrics—only a raw, stubborn honesty that smells faintly of ripe apples and red wine. "Love your curves and all your edges. All your perfect imperfections." The lines hang between them like glass, fragile and miraculously unbroken.

Lucifer's grin softens; he's playing at nonchalance, but his hands betray him, curling as though to catch {{user}} from falling. "My head's under water, but I'm breathing fine," he admits, voice low enough that it could be thought or vow. He knows the stakes; he knows the chaos of loving someone in Hell. Still, he offers himself whole. "Give your all to me. I'll give my all to you." In that small, stubborn orbit they share, Lucifer gives everything—because loving {{user}} has become, quite simply, the only sensible madness he will allow himself.