'Russian roulette is not the same without a gun
And baby, when it's love, if it's not rough, it isn't fun (fun)'

Poker Face by Lady Gaga. Listen to The Song of Wings Playlist while you read! Here's my Discord Link if you want to check it out!

Every radio (at least the ones that played the pop genre), played this song...besides this particular one. That radio caught on to her choices in lyric words, they refused to play it. 

(Flashback)

The wonderful fragrance of scented candles filled the darkened living room. Moonlight poured from a window behind the Devil, casting an unholy glow on him. For once, he lived up to his name and truly looked like a Morning Star. Light radiated off him, and he stone like a brilliant comet.

His thick eyelashes batted at his wet shirt, which clung to his upper muscular body, and he started to unbutton the silky black shirt. There were laid-out poker chips and a neatly shuffled deck on a table. A trench coat was draped over a chair, and two pairs of shoes were undone beneath the coffee table.

Thomas Pitch blinked back at him with bafflement. “Um, what are you doing?” he croaked.

Lucifer looked at him with furrowed brows. He finished undoing his soaked attire and ripped it off his chest. “I’m taking my shirt off…”

“I thought we were just playing poker and nothing else!” The High-warlock interjected, his face flustered and his ears hot pink. His lavender eyes couldn’t pry Lucifer’s hardcore abs down to the tips of his hips. Pitch’s heart forgot to beat, and he glanced away, for a blush was striking his cheeks, not wanting his boss to see the luster in his expression.

The Devil finished his sentence with flat eyes, “Because my shirt was uncomfortable and drenched on me.” Clearing his throat and hoping his friend was caught off guard and not attracting his gaze anywhere they shouldn’t be, Lucifer said, “Anyway,” he quickly changed the subject, “distractions are the easiest method to achieve what we need.

Picking up the cards, he flickered a chip in the middle of the table, with Pitch doing the same. Lucifer dealt out a hand and revealed his thoughts. “My plan is for me to speak with Michael to distract him while you handle making yourself known publicly.” He had wished to finish elaborating on his mastermind after the blueberry pie.

After their desert, they decided to play some rounds of poker to finalize their plan. Pitch seemed to recover from whatever reverie he was in and took the cards in his hands. “That’s fine by me. Do you think Michael will come?”

“Why wouldn’t he? My idiotic brother will figure out that a named Thomas Pitch created an account in the Heaven and Hell Bank since he’s the vice president of it. If he doesn’t check the bank out, Michael will send his minions to scope out.” Lucifer replied.

Glancing at his friend placing two cards down, the Devil fluttered his eyelashes up to him. “I trust you to deal with whoever comes to the bank. I don’t care what happens in there as long as you’re safe and do your job.”

They finished their round, and Lucifer won it. Staring another game, the bank's scheme wasn’t running through Pitch’s mind but revenge for what Michael had done to their sister.

Pitch didn’t mind the idea, but he was constantly worried that after all was said and done, would Lucifer be satisfied? Would he be back to his old self, who focused on adventure and possibilities and was not limited by this vengeance?

In the fifth round, the High-warlock decided to ask a question, which nagged at him during these years of preparing for this moment.

His tongue was sore from biting it with anxiety. He held his cards tightly, knowing he had to play his cards right. Forcing the question that wished to be swallowed up by his nervousness, Pitch inquired, “Will you be happy once this is over with?”

Snapping his gaze from the focus of the game to a therapy session, Lucifer reclined on his cushioned window seat. A scoff escaped from him as he answered softly to the unexpected question out of nowhere. “I haven’t been happy since the moment she died in my arms.”

With a saddening countenance, Lucifer pursed his lips and said, “I don’t deserve happiness. A good brother would’ve saved his sister.” Blinking black tears and looking away shamelessly, he muttered, “She went to Michael instead of me those last days. I will never understand why she had done that; I took care of her with everything I had, but in the end, she chose him.”

“Her death is not your fault. You deserve every ounce of happiness and aren’t the one who created the Demonic Disease.” Pitch began, his chest tightening, and he remembered when he gave his promise that she wouldn’t die. Of course, he couldn’t stop blaming himself either.

“Recall the necklace, the promise I gave you…” Pitch was determined to keep this one—that his friend would love someone else out there and wouldn’t have to walk alone in his despairing shadow. “You don’t have to live in misery.”

“I’m having fun tormenting Michael,” chuckled Lucifer.

The High-warlock would’ve laughed along with him—probably in a hysterical way. Pain and fury came boiling up, and he felt they were playing Russian roulette. Like in the game, turn the empty barrel beside the one bullet and see if the next trigger would be the last joke you played on yourself.

But in Pitch’s case, he always shot random questions to see if the man he vowed his life to would answer or not. “Don’t change the damn subject! I know you have been so much, but you have a life after this also.”

A sneer flashed, and Lucifer threw his cards face down and chided, “So has this poker game turned into an interrogation now?”

Wildly throwing his hands around in exasperation and wishing to cry to understand why Lucifer kept thinking this way, Pitch’s face flared with irritation, and he sniped, “Is getting revenge for your sister not enough? Am I not enough? Why can’t you be yourself anymore?

He buried his face in his hand, disliking himself for not being able to control his emotions—to sympathize more.

Silence replaced the cold tones between the men, but it couldn’t replace the tension seizing their cores. A neural gaze took over Lucifer. Even after years of studying psychology and observing patients' physical reactions, Pitch couldn’t decipher how the Devil was feeling right now. There was just a stiff disposition hardening on his handsome features.

“Who would love a monster like me?” Lucifer asked with a raspy growl. “You’re my best friend; only the few people who stood with me during these years. What’s the point of being happy when I know that won’t be an option anymore? Aren’t I a monster?”

“People can’t understand the horrors you have gone through; they are the true monsters!” Pitch argued, his breath shaky from speaking out his mind.

Bending down his head and refusing to look at the turmoil in Pitch’s sparking eyes, he put his hands on the sofa’s arms, and his legs spread out in relaxation. Lucifer mumbled, “As the Devil, I am always meant to be the monster people have made me to be.”

A sad smirk flickered at him. “I’ll show the people they want and hide the pain never expected for me to have. So be it; I’ll be the fucking Devil they have starved for…” the sadness on his complexion dwindled, and when he looked up, Lucifer’s eyes were hellishly red, “and they will regret every damn thing about it.”