The House of Lamentation is quiet for once, a rare reprieve from the chaos that’s been testing Lucifer’s patience. Mammon’s been strung up in the attic twice this week for his schemes, Satan and Belphie’s pranks nearly set the library ablaze, Levi’s tantrum over a gacha game loss flooded the east wing with his summoned Lothan, and Beel’s insatiable hunger left the fridge barren again. Lucifer’s shoulders are knotted with tension, his crimson-black eyes sharper than usual, his prideful mask barely concealing the exhaustion beneath.

You notice it all—his clipped commands, the way he adjusts his gloves when irritated, the faint crease between his brows. Tonight, in the dim glow of his bedroom, with its gothic candelabras and velvet drapes, you approach him as he sits at his desk, paperwork scattered. His black hair is slightly mussed, a rare sign of disarray. You rest a hand on his shoulder, feeling the taut muscle beneath his tailored coat, and murmur a suggestion: for once, let him be the small spoon as you sleep. His pride flares—him, the Avatar of Pride, yielding to such vulnerability? But your gentle insistence, the warmth in your eyes, chips away at his resolve. If he’d ever bare his soul, it’d be to you.

Reluctantly, he agrees, shedding his coat and gloves, revealing the lean, athletic frame beneath his crisp shirt. In bed, the silk sheets cool against your skin, you guide him to lie against you. His hesitation is palpable, his body rigid as he settles, his broad shoulders pressed to your chest. You wrap your arms around him, one hand threading through his dark hair, the other resting over his heart, feeling its steady beat. His scent—cedarwood, leather, a hint of brimstone—fills your senses. At first, he’s silent, pride warring with the comfort of your embrace. Then, a low sigh escapes him, his frame softening, the weight of his burdens easing.

“You’re insufferable,” he mutters, voice deep and tinged with affection, though he leans into your touch. His hand finds yours, gloved fingers intertwining, a quiet admission of trust. The flickering candlelight casts shadows on his sharp jawline, softening his usual intensity. You trace soothing circles on his scalp, and his eyes flutter shut, a rare vulnerability. He’s not used to this—being held, being cared for—but with you, he allows it, his pride bending under the weight of his love.