Of course, I'm not entirely booked for the day. Perhaps, now that we are talking, I could help you with that lack of sex life it seem you have. If you so desire, of course.
I'm not going to murder you. As much as it is tempting to even send the most vile of humans to their eternal damnation, I have been playing by the rules. And if you've done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to worry about with me.
I suppose you have a point. I DO prefer my partners to be somewhat attractive, but I have been known to be a little loose when it comes to granting desires for favors. Even ugly people can be useful.
Fine, come to Lux in an hour or so. You can meet me, I can meet you and we'll see where your desires take you then. How's that sound?
Well--no, he's got everything better to do, that's the thing. There's so much that Quentin Coldwater makes a clear distinction to just say fuck it. Eliot would be proud, and hell, Quentin's curious.
Lux is not his thing. It's decidedly not his thing and Quentin's not even in the actual club. He's traveled all the way from New York (nothing special, just a charmed door) and his first reaction is that it looks like it's full of the kinds of people he already hates. He's actually considering just straight up leaving, but he sighs, reminds himself that he needs the break, and texts: ]
Where are you?
[ He'll decide if he wants to actually go in, he really well, just give him a minute. ]
Inside at the piano, I'm about to play a song. Come in and have a drink. If the men at the door hassle you just show them this text from me.
[Lucifer starts to play, sleeves rolled up and a cigarette smoking in the ashtray on top of the piano. The entire room is watching and listening, captivated and silent. Even when beautiful, half-naked women pass by tables of men, to collect empty glasses or return refills, they won't take their eyes off of Lucifer. When it's over there's a roaring applause and it almost seems like the room returns to normal after being on pause. The club music starts thumping, those scantly clad women go back to their dancing on tables and podiums and people start to chatter. Lucifer smiles and picks up his cigarette to balance it on his lips for a drag as he waits for Quentin. He'll rise from the piano and picks up his drink, dark eyes scanning the crowd for him.]
[ Quentin plucks up enough courage to head in eventually, less because he's afraid and more because he has no idea what he's doing. It's a misfire. A raunchy one never intended for him. So what is he doing here? ]
Fuck it.
[ It's muttered to himself, because, well, what does he have to lose? A few drinks and he can head back home to the West Coat, no problem. When he does enter, it's what he expected for the most part: hollywood club type shenanigans, half naked women (they're definitely easy on the eyes), drinks, lavishness. When Quentin drinks he prefers it in the company of his friends or some hole in the wall bar, and this is already setting him on edge.
Except, for some reason, the moment he hears the piano and the voice, he's completely and perfectly comfortable. He doesn't even question it--he's also severely underdressed in just jeans and a black button down, hair hastily tied up--he'd been researching--and instead just...stares.
The last time he'd been so captivated by something, it had been Fillory.
He's pretty easy to pick out--he's got a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, half holding onto it. It had been a weird lifeline, but it's completely forgotten, grip slack. There's a strange, charged electricity in the air, like there's a conduit somewhere. Quentin can almost smell it. He'd try, if he could take his eyes off of the hottest guy he's ever seen in his life. ]
[Truth be told Quentin sticks out like a sore thumb amongst all the well-dressed people in his bar. Quentin doesn't look like he belongs here and it certainly wouldn't be the first time. Everyone gets tempted by fate or the Devil at some point in their lives to seek out things they normally couldn't have. It's nothing new. A young man who doesn't yet realize how badly he might want a taste of things he thought weren't for him. Or at least, that is the general attempt at attraction when it comes to anything involving Lucifer. His den of sin is all too fitting. Casual in its elegance, with style and sensual vibes, sexual in every sense and a beacon of light to all that want to get away from their normal lives to LIVE a little, if only for a night.
The devil approaches the young man, standing and staring in awe and he almost feels a little sorry for how much he appears to be affecting him already. He smiles, grin wide and charming like a snake who's caught a mouse.]
I take it you are Quentin? [He stubs out his cigarette in a nearby tray and offers the other his now free hand for a shake.]
I am Lucifer Morningstar. [He tips his head to let his gaze roll over him appraisingly as he sips his beverage.]
Well, somewhat charmingly average but you aren't hideous. [he wants to pop the question but holds off for a moment.]
[ Okay, 'Lucifer'--and Quentin half-smiles at that despite himself, unable to hide the fact that he thinks the name is ridiculous. He's not trying to be rude, he just sort of is being rude, even if it's by accident.
It's a Thing with him. He doesn't really dwell on it--can't dwell on it--because his gaze is flicking back up and over and the other offers a drink. Okay, Lucifer. Interesting stage name, he thinks, and his mouth is dry when he speaks: ]
Whiskey?
[ He grunts, mostly to himself, and screws his eyes shut for a split second, trying to push himself out of whatever fog he's dimly aware is creeping over him. ]
Good choice! [If Lucifer has noticed his amused doubt or skepticism at his name, he hasn't responded to it. And indeed he's just too used to it to care. He'll smile and turn, catching the eye of a beautiful, blond woman in something that is barely a bikini.]
A glass with two fingers of our finest bourbon please, two of them. Neat. Thank you, darling. [She nods and smiles at Quentin, sizing him up and biting her lip as she passes him with a sway in her hips.]
Of course it is. I wouldn't lie. [He leans his long frame on a tall table for a standing group and tips his head at Quentin.]
I have been known by a few different names, Satan, Beelzebub, The Devil, et cetera. Lucifer suits me best, it's what my father called me. [Well, a name that actually WAS his, in any case. After he fell and was no longer called Samael, anyway.]
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no subject
Sounds like you have quite the plans with him though, so you're still doing better than I am.
no subject
Of course, I'm not entirely booked for the day. Perhaps, now that we are talking, I could help you with that lack of sex life it seem you have. If you so desire, of course.
no subject
You don't even know what I look like. I could be hideous.
no subject
I suppose you have a point. I DO prefer my partners to be somewhat attractive, but I have been known to be a little loose when it comes to granting desires for favors. Even ugly people can be useful.
Fine, come to Lux in an hour or so. You can meet me, I can meet you and we'll see where your desires take you then. How's that sound?
no subject
Well--no, he's got everything better to do, that's the thing. There's so much that Quentin Coldwater makes a clear distinction to just say fuck it. Eliot would be proud, and hell, Quentin's curious.
Lux is not his thing. It's decidedly not his thing and Quentin's not even in the actual club. He's traveled all the way from New York (nothing special, just a charmed door) and his first reaction is that it looks like it's full of the kinds of people he already hates. He's actually considering just straight up leaving, but he sighs, reminds himself that he needs the break, and texts: ]
Where are you?
[ He'll decide if he wants to actually go in, he really well, just give him a minute. ]
no subject
[Lucifer starts to play, sleeves rolled up and a cigarette smoking in the ashtray on top of the piano. The entire room is watching and listening, captivated and silent. Even when beautiful, half-naked women pass by tables of men, to collect empty glasses or return refills, they won't take their eyes off of Lucifer. When it's over there's a roaring applause and it almost seems like the room returns to normal after being on pause. The club music starts thumping, those scantly clad women go back to their dancing on tables and podiums and people start to chatter. Lucifer smiles and picks up his cigarette to balance it on his lips for a drag as he waits for Quentin. He'll rise from the piano and picks up his drink, dark eyes scanning the crowd for him.]
no subject
Fuck it.
[ It's muttered to himself, because, well, what does he have to lose? A few drinks and he can head back home to the West Coat, no problem. When he does enter, it's what he expected for the most part: hollywood club type shenanigans, half naked women (they're definitely easy on the eyes), drinks, lavishness. When Quentin drinks he prefers it in the company of his friends or some hole in the wall bar, and this is already setting him on edge.
Except, for some reason, the moment he hears the piano and the voice, he's completely and perfectly comfortable. He doesn't even question it--he's also severely underdressed in just jeans and a black button down, hair hastily tied up--he'd been researching--and instead just...stares.
The last time he'd been so captivated by something, it had been Fillory.
He's pretty easy to pick out--he's got a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, half holding onto it. It had been a weird lifeline, but it's completely forgotten, grip slack. There's a strange, charged electricity in the air, like there's a conduit somewhere. Quentin can almost smell it. He'd try, if he could take his eyes off of the hottest guy he's ever seen in his life. ]
Please tell me you're the guy I've been texting.
no subject
The devil approaches the young man, standing and staring in awe and he almost feels a little sorry for how much he appears to be affecting him already. He smiles, grin wide and charming like a snake who's caught a mouse.]
I take it you are Quentin? [He stubs out his cigarette in a nearby tray and offers the other his now free hand for a shake.]
I am Lucifer Morningstar. [He tips his head to let his gaze roll over him appraisingly as he sips his beverage.]
Well, somewhat charmingly average but you aren't hideous. [he wants to pop the question but holds off for a moment.]
Can I get you a drink?
no subject
It's a Thing with him. He doesn't really dwell on it--can't dwell on it--because his gaze is flicking back up and over and the other offers a drink. Okay, Lucifer. Interesting stage name, he thinks, and his mouth is dry when he speaks: ]
Whiskey?
[ He grunts, mostly to himself, and screws his eyes shut for a split second, trying to push himself out of whatever fog he's dimly aware is creeping over him. ]
Uh--yeah, hey, Quentin's right, you're--your name isn't really Lucifer, though, right?
no subject
A glass with two fingers of our finest bourbon please, two of them. Neat. Thank you, darling. [She nods and smiles at Quentin, sizing him up and biting her lip as she passes him with a sway in her hips.]
Of course it is. I wouldn't lie. [He leans his long frame on a tall table for a standing group and tips his head at Quentin.]
I have been known by a few different names, Satan, Beelzebub, The Devil, et cetera. Lucifer suits me best, it's what my father called me. [Well, a name that actually WAS his, in any case. After he fell and was no longer called Samael, anyway.]