Chapter Text
‘No more Lucifer Moaningstar! Hollywood hunk off the market.’
Sorry ladies, but it looks like everyone’s favourite fictional spy is a taken man.
Actor Lucifer Morningstar, best known for playing the eighth incarnation of James Bond, has been spotted on a romantic date with none other than up and coming actress Chloe Decker.
The two were seen enjoying a candlelit dinner at the prestigious Chateau Marmont, and then holding hands on a stroll down Sunset Boulevard.
Has the beautiful actress finally tamed Hollywood’s leading womanizer?
And if she has, can you hear the sound of our hearts breaking?
Chloe huffed in outrage, her cursor declining the gracious offer to see the latest Kardashian’s botched butt lift, as she slammed the laptop lid down instead.
“This is the most sexist piece of shit I’ve ever read!” she fumed to her publicist, “up and coming actress… I’m just as famous as that asshole… and we were not holding hands!”
He’d only been in one measly movie franchise after-all.
Granted it was Hollywood’s longest-running franchise, earning more than two billion dollars worldwide, and he was the lead, but still.
On the other side of the line, Charlotte Richards just laughed.
“I take it the date didn’t go well then?”
Chloe sighed, slumping back in her chair. She ran a tired hand over her face and thought about how to answer that question.
She supposed it didn’t go badly.
Lucifer Morningstar’s reputation preceded him… and he didn’t disappoint. He was as charming, as magnetic, as charismatic as the tabloids suggested. He was funny, and very generous, and Chloe understood why their mutual friends had set them up.
But he was dangerous too.
He had been dressed all in black, his silver ring a flash of colour against his whiskey glass as elegant fingers wrapped around it. Pianist fingers, she had learned during the main course. He was an accomplished musician and nightclub owner, as well as a famous actor. As he spoke, his British accent wrapped around her name sinfully, wielding it like a weapon. Everything he did hinted at familiarity, at dark intent.
He was impossibly, annoyingly attractive. He had thick, dark hair and a dark beard to match, framing a jaw that was square and sharp. His eyes had glimmered playfully as they swept over her, a casual arch to his brow, and he held himself with a cocky, devil-may-care attitude.
And then there was the whole insisting he was the devil thing. That had been more than a little jarring.
At the end of the night, when they had walked down Sunset Boulevard to the car—not holding hands—anticipation had curled hot in the pit of her belly. Chloe knew that he would extend a husky invitation to his penthouse. She knew that his dark eyes would drop to her mouth, and he’d murmur something undoubtedly clever and seductive, and he’d kiss her, and she’d let him.
And then what?
There was a reason the tabloids called him Lucifer Moaningstar.
He was, for lack of a better term, a slut.
A playboy.
A womanizer.
According to TMZ, he’d never had a co-star he hadn’t slept with.
A single mother of a four year old, with one failed relationship with a fellow actor already under her belt, Chloe didn’t need the head—or heart—ache.
Lucifer Morningstar would chew her up and spit her out, and she refused to be at the mercy of a man again.
So, she told Charlotte, “we’re not compatible. We have different priorities.”
“Darling, I’ve seen the man. As long as his face is compatible with between your thighs, who cares?”
Chloe scoffed, rolling her eyes.
“Nice, Charlotte.”
“I mean it! How long has it been since Daniel?”
Chloe bristled at the mention of her ex. The question was an open one. It had only been a year since their divorced was finalised, but it had been much longer since their marriage was over.
“I’m not answering that.”
“Prude,” Charlotte purred before she got down to business, “anyway, you better get used to Lucifer Morningstar… because they want you back for a final screen test… and it sounds like the part is yours to lose.”
Chloe’s eyes widened, excitement coursing through her. She tried to stay calm, to not get her hopes up, but the female lead in a Bond film was a career defining role. No-one could call her an up-and-coming actress after that, she thought sourly.
“Thanks Charlotte,” Chloe said sincerely, appreciative of the hard work her publicist and agent put in, “and trust me, when it comes to getting what I want? Lucifer Morningstar better get used to me.”
Standing outside the studio, his eyes flashed with recognition when he saw her.
Chloe rolled her own, wondering if it was too late to turn on her heel and pretend she was never there. But he had seen her now, glanced at her with dark eyes sparkling in amusement, and she refused to give him the satisfaction.
Lucifer Morningstar was a shark. A shark who smelled weakness like blood in the water. They hadn’t known each other long, but Chloe already enjoyed telling him no, a word she was sure wasn’t in his vocabulary.
His lips stretched around his cigarette, awarding her a flash of white teeth. He took a drag and blew the smoke away from her. Then he tossed it on the ground, stamping it out with the toe of his expensive shoe.
“Ready for your close up, Miss Decker?”
“What sort of actress would I be if I wasn’t prepared?”
He grinned, clearly pleased by their back and forth. He took a step towards her, casually adjusting his cuffs as he did so.
“Certainly not the daughter of Hollywood royalty that you are.”
Chloe narrowed her eyes, knowing he was teasing her. Penelope Decker, Queen of cheesy 80s sci-fi, was hardly one of the greats. She tried to ignore him, but Lucifer had a way of clawing under her skin and making it itch.
“Have you been thinking about our date?” he purred then, voice dipped low, “I know I have.”
“Not once,” Chloe lied, “I’ve been focused on this screen test. I want this part, Lucifer… and you’re not driving me away like you did Candy Fletcher.”
His brow arched coolly at the mention of his last leading lady, “you shouldn’t believe everything you read in People, Miss Decker.”
“So you didn’t sleep with her and then break her heart?”
“Well, perhaps you can believe some things,” he replied, that sinful smirk still curling his lips.
Chloe didn’t know Candy personally, but her departure from the series had been front page news for weeks. ‘The Heartbreak Prince breaks co-star’s heart’ TMZ had said, ‘Lucifer Moaningstar strikes again as broken-hearted Candy Fletcher steps down as his Bond girl,’ was Entertainment Weekly’s take, and National Enquirer was her personal favourite, as it branded him a ‘love rat’.
Chloe scoffed, rolling her eyes to the sky. It was starting to become a habit around him. Just as habitual, as instinctual, was the delighted grin that curved across his face every time in response.
He leaned back against the brick wall, his stormy eyes unapologetic as they flickered over her. She narrowed her eyes, fighting the urge to shrink under his inquisitive gaze. A strange heat stirred in the pit of her belly as he took her in. It crawled over her skin, fighting for a way in.
Just like their date—dinner, she corrected; she preferred to think of it as a simple dinner—he was wearing a black suit. This time, it was lined with a red pocket square, and the colour shone like an omen, an ominous warning that screamed stay away.
The air was white hot, thrumming between them like a living thing. She had noticed it during their dinner, tried not to, and it pulsed insistently still. It rattled her, but she fought not to show it. He kept her eyes as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fancy silver cigarette case, etched with the initials L.M.
Pretentious prick, she thought with a smirk.
But if you can’t beat them…
“May I?” she asked, her eyes settling pointedly on the case as he flicked it open.
He arched a brow before he slipped one out and placed it between his teeth. There was a flash of white as it hung there and he reached back down to take one for her. She kept her eyes on his lips and then without her permission, the thought that he would probably taste like whiskey and smoke flitted through her mind. She stubbornly pushed it down as he handed her a cigarette.
She held it between her teeth as he pulled a lighter out next. He flicked it open, the sound joining the white noise of the bustling lot around them, and brought the flame to the end.
She lifted a hand to cup around it, not breaking eye contact, and something seemed to ignite between them at the same time—something intense and heady and new. He clicked the lighter shut and pulled away but still, she felt his presence. It electrified the air around her.
She fought to anchor herself again, to get back on steady ground.
“I thought you didn’t smoke," he said.
She hummed, taking a drag.
“I don’t,” she shrugged, blowing it out and away from him, “as a rule.”
“So I’m an exception?” he grinned, eyes sparkling.
“Yes, an incredibly irritating exception,” she told him, but there was a playful edge lining her tone, “and I’m going to need something to settle my nerves if I’m going to get through this screen test with you.”
“Well, I’ve got a bottle of ‘66 Macallan in my trailer,” he told her, brow quirking provocatively, “we could share it… and then we could do something else that simply does wonders for my nerves.”
Chloe rolled her eyes at his offer, so obvious it could barely be called a suggestion.
But that was the thing about Lucifer.
He was jarringly, unashamedly himself. She had never met someone more comfortable in their own skin. He was the sort of man who knew who he was; who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. She would find it admirable if he wasn’t so annoying.
“Honestly, have you ever had a co-star you haven’t slept with?”
A low hum rumbled from his chest as he toyed with his cigarette.
The bastard actually had to think about it.
“One or two, I’m sure.”
“Who was the best?” Chloe couldn’t help but ask, a smirk toying at the edge of her mouth, “no, the most famous.”
“Angelina Jolie,” he answered easily, his tone turning light as he drawled, “joking!”
But then he added, “she was never my co-star.”
And finally, “and she was dreadful.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you.”
She shook her head with an incredulous huff, taking a drag of the cigarette, grateful for the burn as it filled her lungs. She was just finishing it, ready to put it out, when the door behind them opened and a young boy wearing an earpiece poked his head around.
“Miss Decker? Mr Morningstar? We’re ready for you now.”
Lucifer held his cigarette between his teeth and gave a little wave of his hand, gesturing for her to go first.
“After you, darling.”
Chloe rolled her eyes once more. She stubbed the cigarette out and prepared for battle.
Chloe slipped into character, planting a sultry smile on her face. Her character was all too aware of the effect she had on men—and so was she.
But the script, her lines, left much to be desired.
“Why, Mr Bond,” she drawled, leaning in to Lucifer who merely arched an amused brow in response, “is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
The corner of his mouth quirked, but before he could read his own lines, she interrupted.
“You’re joking,” she huffed a laugh at the cliché line, her smile falling when she glanced around the room and saw serious expressions, “this is a joke, right?”
“I’m not following, Miss Decker,” one of the producers insisted, unimpressed.
Chloe shifted on her feet.
She could practically hear a seething Charlotte telling her to be quiet, to shut up and do what they say if she wants her career to progress.
Chloe did want her career to progress. She did want to be known for more than her parentage and a topless scene in a shitty movie. But she wanted that career to mean something too. She wanted to be proud of it. And a script which painted her character as little more than eye-candy to hang off the male protagonist’s arm… it didn’t exactly thrill her.
She was torn between wanting the part and wanting to stick to her principles, refusing to play a one-dimensional damsel in distress to Lucifer Morningstar’s martini-sipping, gun-slinging hero.
“I’m sorry…” she started, not apologetic in the slightest, “but it’s 2021. I really want the part and I hope you hire me, but even if you don’t, I really think you should reconsider this. The franchise needs to move with the times. We’re not in the ‘60s anymore. She doesn’t have to be reduced to a plot device, or a vacuous plaything for Bond. People want to see strong, female characters in positions of power.”
She was faintly aware that she was babbling, but no-one was stopping her either, so she flicked through the script as she continued, “I mean, rather than making her a damsel in distress, why not have her as a fast-talking, force to be reckoned with who can hold her own in a fight? An agent herself perhaps, one Bond enjoys sparring and bantering with? She doesn’t have to fall into the badass, emotionless action heroine either. She can be both. You know, the CIA’s go-to superspy with a personal vendetta against Bond and the ice-cold dedication required to carry it out… until she falls for him. That sort of thing.”
Silence fell over the room, some producers listening intently, others looking chagrined and offended. Through it all, she could feel the heat of Lucifer’s eyes on her. He seemed intrigued, curiosity rolling off him in waves.
Finally, as she dragged her eyes to his, he smiled.
“What do you think, Lucifer?” the director asked.
Chloe swallowed. Certainly the part, and perhaps her whole future, rested on his opinion. This was a Bond film, and he was Bond. He was the most popular, the most successful, actor to play the part since Sean Connery, and there was no replacing him. Everything hinged upon what he’d say next.
Chloe had never hated how unreadable, unreachable, he was more than in that moment.
But then, without removing his eyes from hers, he said—
“I think… Miss Decker is right. I agree that her character should be a strong, independent woman in her own right,” he shrugged, “in-fact, I insist on it.”
Chloe blinked, stunned, and his description of the character as hers didn’t go unnoticed.
“But there’ll be rewrites, and so many tweaks—” one producer lamented, before Lucifer cut her off.
“And you’ll do splendidly with them, I’m sure,” he crooned, adjusting his cuffs, “now are we done? I have a prior engagement with my brother unfortunately, and he does so hate it when I’m late.”
“Well, um, we do still have a scene to go through—” someone half-heartedly tried, before Lucifer huffed.
“Really not necessary. Miss Decker is perfect. And obviously I’m perfect,” he waved a hand over his body with a flair of arrogance, “so what more is there to discuss?”
“Well—”
“Give her what she wants,” Lucifer snapped, his voice even but with clear finality behind it, “as I said, I insist on it.”
The room fell silent again and Lucifer gave another short nod. He made sure to brush past Chloe before he left, gently curling his hand around her elbow.
“Your ideas are inspired, Miss Decker,” he murmured, almost sounding genuine, but then his voice dipped to croon a sultry, “I look forward to working under you.”
She rolled her eyes, but shook his hand.
“I hope to work with you too, Lucifer.”
He grinned, dark eyes glittering with glee, and his hand was warm in hers.
She felt nervously excited, anticipation thrumming under her skin, but she wasn’t worried.
Lucifer Morningstar was trouble… but so was she.