Lucifer: A Short Story

The first time Lucifer tries to stand, it's all he can do to keep himself from collapsing. His effort is not enough.
The corrupt Cherub inside him makes sure he can never be strong enough to perform even the simplest tasks. Its influence is pain, the feeling of being dragged underwater by invisible beasts, tentacles coiling inside and around his chest, his arms, his legs, until he can't move. He has forgotten how.
Every time he wants to reach out for some item, the cherub crushes his will, and his limbs betray him. His hands are not his own, foreign, borrowed apendages that resist his command. Still, he tries.

Duma kneels beside him, watching Lucifer through concerned blue eyes, and folds his arms around the Lightbringer's shoulders and

He wishes he could speak his mind.
As though he had heard his thoughts, Lucifer stops and gazes at him, amber eyes soulful and warm. "You can talk," he mutters softly, voice musical, incredibly tender, and clasps Duma's wrist in his fingers. "You don't have to practice silence, Duma."
He cups his fingers around Duma's jaw, then, and tilts his head upward, and kisses him. Duma isn't sure what he feels; he enjoys it, yes, but something in him senses that this is wrong. Still, he allows Lucifer to fist long fingers into his hair, to curve one arm around the small of his back.
As his torso presses against Lucifer's, Duma feels their muscles slot together, every dip and curve fitting perfectly, and the rapid, frantic beat of Lucifer's heart. A strangled growl escapes him. Lucifer grins.
"Was that a noise I heard?" he all but teases, one perfect eyebrow quirking up in amusement. Duma stares at him, watches the muscles in Lucifer's jaw flutter in time to his pulse, listens to his hurried breathing, his staggering heart, and grins back.
"You learn quickly," Lucifer praises. "Perhaps I'll make you speak one