[ 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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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.
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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?
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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.]