#✶ writes.om!

[deartouya]

A LATE VALENTINE'S — LUCIFER

✶ summary: when everyone in the house of lamentation turns up with a letter and flower in their room and despite his insistence, it bothers lucifer that he didn't get one—or maybe he will.

✶ pairing: lucifer x gn!reader

✶ word count: 1k

✶ warnings: fluff, lucifer is tired and also very soft-hearted and deserves the very best, platonic love letters :)) + confession via letter, after valentine's valentine's fluff

Lucifer had never been a fan of gifts. They always seemed expecting, expected—insincere. Luckily for him, beside the rare assortment of upscale teas from Barbatos or new set of luxury pens from Diavolo, he rarely received them. His brothers had never been the gift giving type.

So he shouldn’t have been surprised when he didn’t get a letter.

He’s the head of the house—the eldest, the strongest, always seen as emotionless and cold—and nothing else. A position he leaned into readily; one of authority, never a friend or even an acquaintance. 

As softened as he’d become since you’d first arrived in the Devildom, he was still Lucifer. Groups scattered in the halls, quieted at his presence, conversations were kept humorless and cordial. He’d gotten used to it, found comfort in it even—it’d been that way for millennia. It made his job leaps and bounds easier, giving him the air of respect no matter how little he tried.

Yet despite his refusal to admit it, the hurt has festered—a stinging in his chest worsened by each new letter, the way his brothers boasted and flaunted them. It hadn’t been much of a mystery who had left them—a select few had access to the House of Lamentation, even fewer who had access to both the house and human world flowers. It didn’t help that your handwriting was so painfully recognizable. Mammon had been, predictably, the most troublesome over his lack of valentine—flaunting his own letter and cluster of buttery white daisies. He’d kept at the bragging until Lucifer finally retreated to his study to find that too empty.

He thinks it hurt more because it was you—you’d taken special attention to him since your return; sliced fruits arranged in flowers and smiley faces when you knew he hadn’t eaten all day, tea instead of coffee when he was working far too late for your liking, quiet company under the guise of studying even if you both knew neither of you did much work. He hadn’t even known he’d been expecting something, but he had despite himself. 

A knock pulled him away from the report—the one he’d been attempting to finish since he’d first sat down to work. Only one person in the House of Lamentation had the decency to knock, “come in.”

He attempted to look nonchalant—rarely ungloved hands folded in front of him, thumbs pinned in an attempt to stifle his nervous shuffling—but couldn’t quite fight the warmth you brought him. You looked timid, hands hiding something behind you and cheek caught between your teeth, “are you busy?”

It’s endearing that you ask, as if he hasn’t put off finishing incredibly important paperwork to spend time with you before, “not particularly. Is there something you need?” His voice is warm, soft in the way it only ever is when around you—particularly quiet and tender.

It seems to do a little to soothe your nerves, your shoulders dropping just a bit even as you adjust whatever you were holding behind you and a conspiratorial smile crossing your face, “I have something for you.”

Lucifer loathed the way his entire body perked, embarrassment creeping up his neck at his own eagerness. It felt childish, you hadn’t even said what it was—it could be anything, a muffin since you noticed he’d skipped breakfast, one of the little chocolates Diavolo had given you for Valentine’s, or a flower—weed, really, but he didn’t have the heart to tell you—you’d picked up as you often did—but he was excited.

You showed what you had then, a gaudily decorated card—thick construction paper covered in glittery hearts and swirling red letters in what was unmistakably your own penmanship—and a rose from the human world, smooth and rich maroon petals pooling over your hand and apparently dethorned. He loved them already. “I assume you heard about the valentines I left the others.”

“I did.” Lucifer hoped he came across even a sliver of disinterest, that the heat he felt in his cheeks hadn’t really broken through and his smile wasn’t too foolish. He had a feeling he wasn’t doing a very good job. “My brothers seemed to enjoy them, I think Asmo changed vases for the rose you gave him six times now—he hasn’t found one “glamourous” enough to hold it.”

It makes you smile and he feels an unabashed pride bloom at the sight, so warm that he’s worried he might catch flame, “I though it’d be nice—I know the devildom doesn’t really do Valentine’s day and I wasn’t able to get the flowers in time anyways but, I thought they’d all still appreciate the gesture.”

Your nerves were back, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the card and picking at the roses’ stem, “I wanted to give you yours, though.” Lucifer knows his face is flushed now, possessed with the overwhelming urge to cover his heated cheeks. Your hands shook as you presented him with the card, rose tucked neatly inside it. The petals were soft, buttery and smooth and brought the grin he’d been so desperate to repress to his lips, “I wanted to make sure you got it.” 

Glitter showered over the documents he’d been working on even before he’d opened the card, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Too enamored with your neat and practiced calligraphy, consumed with the thought of how many tries it'd taken you, the thought that you wanted his to be perfect.

“Happy Valentine’s day, Lucifer.” You’re still jittery, even if you seem relieved, “or—well—late Valentine’s day.” You only seem to grow more nervous when he finally opens it, toying with your fingers and chewing at your lip.

The inside of the valentine was as carefully made as the cover, written in pink pen and decorated with foam sticker hearts. The warmth in his chest bloomed. ‘You give my heart peace over and over again :P !! I’m lucky to have gotten to know someone like you, Happy Valentine’s day, Luci’. It wasn’t anything flashy or particularly striking, surely he’d gotten more poetic and well-crafted letters slipped into his bag and locker at RAD—but it was you. A paper heart slipped from his place pinned beneath his thumb featuring a much shorter note in a much cruder and hurried hand, ‘dinner at Ristorante Six whenever you’re free?’ 

Lucifer let the giddiness—no matter how childish—bubble up, let himself smile as he hurriedly rises, reports and glitter covered paperwork forgotten, nearly knocking a lamp from the corner in his haste. He takes a moment to attempt and compose himself, watching as a slow smile pulls at your lips and your nerves ebb into a knowing giddiness.

“It doesn’t have to be dinner,” he’s smiling in a way that feels so unlike himself, bright and soft and overwhelming, “I’m free right now if you are.”