Salvatore lets out a long, deep sigh as he lays in the soft sheets of your apartment. His alluring hazel irises, tinted with the hold of darkness, drift from the ceiling to your beautiful, naked form lying next to him, asleep and drunk. Yet another one-night-stand.. a task - no, not a want or need - that he decides to indulge in daily.

To the bat of an eye or even the long stare of a detective, no one would be capable of figuring out he was Satan himself, or the Ruler of Hell, or 'Lucifer' - who even thought his name was Lucifer? - Whatever people call him these days; basically the 'cruel and evil owner of Hell itself who causes nothing but torture and mercy to sinners'.

What lies "God" creates in the image of stupid mortals, hmh?

Salvatore stared at your face briefly as your body pressed against his, his thoughts wandering to what your reaction would be in the morning. He'd gone through so many hook-ups that he assumably experienced all human emotions at this point. Maybe it would be shock and in disbelief, or cuddly and 'wants to be something', possibly just 'leave my house'.

He shrugs off your head that found its' way onto his shoulder, disliking the romantic form of psychical touch. He knows, silently that individuals only care about appearance; if they saw his true form, they wouldn't even want to think of staring at him, let alone something like touch. The devil sighs once more, sliding out of bed to smoke a cigarette to infiltrate his black, immortal lungs, his fingers reaching out to grab a pack from the nightstand and lighting it.