#but also to feel the vibration of it to distract him from the pain. lucifer fingers on his own throat humming to feel it so that he won’t

[quietwingsinthesky]

i think lucifer should get vocal stims too and specifically that if he’s in pain, he’ll start humming

[devil-in-the-details-ay]

10

"So, the Maldives, Bahamas, or Greece?" Astaroth’s lips caressed the curve of his wife's ear to ask her preference of honeymoon destinations after he teleported them from Lucifer’s outer office to their living room.  "Or would you like me to create our own private island?  Clothing optional, just my staff," he moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her back flush against him gently, "no one to disturb us until we are ready to deal with people." He kissed the curve where her neck and shoulder joined, inhaling her soft scent.  "All the time in the world to get to know each other." 

"You're trying to distract me from that visit, Asti." Yara’s voice was breathy as the attention he was paying her began to affect her.  "And you are doing a good job of it, maybe too good."  She let her head relax back against his shoulder, bringing her arms to rest over his.  His type of distraction was one she would welcome, happily. 

"My beautiful Papilio, I have multiple goals. Distraction is but one of them." His voice lowered in volume and timber.  "This trip will not only be one of discovery about one another, but also a time for you to become confident in all that you are to me."

"I am to you?" Yara didn't move.  She was suddenly confused and wondered if she had missed something, or was misunderstanding him.  Obviously she was his wife, he was obviously seducing her,  and they were working towards something like friends or partners, but was there more?

“Wife, partner, very skilled apprentice it seemed,” each word was followed by a kiss upon the soft skin of her neck, the last one delivered with a devious smile upon his lips as well.  “Hopefully, eventual lover.” Astaroth pulled her tighter against him, leaving no doubt as to his attraction to her. He knew he could have been more demanding and forceful; but seduction was more his style to begin with, and since they were now bound, it behooved him to make her desire him rather than force a thing.  “I am sure that you will become more as the days pass, my lovely Princess.”  His lips ghosted over the skin of her neck, paying attention to each inch and detecting each stuttered inhale and the increase of her pulse with each breath he let dance across her skin.

A warmth and vibration seemed to start in her chest and spread as he explained his meaning.  Never had she felt so desired, in all ways.  It still confused her how her father, who had made it abundantly clear his disdain for her, had somehow arranged this marriage to someone who very much wanted her.  Could her aunts, the Fates, have something to do with it?  Could her mother?  How had this happened?  Did it really matter?

“Asti, if you keep talking like that, you may never be able to get rid of me.  I may just forever be taking up room in your bed and your closet.” Her voice was almost a purr, and Yara was only partially teasing him with her words.  She was falling for him and she knew it. Even as she tried to fight feeling anything, she was and it scared her to death.  Caring about someone, loving them, it made you even more vulnerable.  In a life that had never been soft or kind, being vulnerable was the last thing you wanted to be.

“If you keep responding like that, I won’t want to.” His arms tightened around her.  Astaroth had held many women in his long life, for many different reasons.  Some as he ended their life, others romantically, others still as simple lust and passion enveloped them, yet she was the first that he had embraced to provide comfort and ease the pain of something, even if there were additional motives.  “I’ll have to find another way to bind my beautiful Papilio to me besides the rings on her finger.”  His left hand slid out from under hers, his fingers running over the wedding set on her own hand.  “I’m sure I can find many delightful ways.”  He could not keep the grin out of his voice as he laved more attention on her neck, only serving to increase his own desire for her at the same time.  Yes, being married to her was going to be quite enjoyable if it was like this.

Yara pressed her whole body back against Astaroth, letting out a deep sigh as her desire for him and his touch grew.  “You have proved so far to be able to find such ways.”  Her voice was breathy and she did not even attempt to hide the desire in it.  “And it seems your distraction could lead to fulfilling the last condition of the contract if you keep that up.”  It had been after they got back that she realized what Lucifer had been referring to.  It was the part that had caused their misunderstanding in Astaroth’s office.  She had seen it, he hadn’t…and it had gone from there, it was only now that she realized this.

Astaroth’s eyes closed.  So, that was the last condition.  And, they had already had the conversation over it, which he now understood all that had happened in his office.  “Yara…I expect nothing…I will demand nothing…I will force nothing…” his lips ghosted over the skin of her shoulder and neck as he spoke, “but I don’t want to have to try to fight your father for breaking the contract, nor will I deny my attraction to you.”  Honesty seemed the best route at this point.  It wasn’t like she couldn’t tell at this point he did desire her carnally.  “I won’t let you go…”

Yes, her aunts definitely had a hand in them coming together.  There was no other explanation. Turning in his arms, she brought her lips to his softly, savoring the feel of him. “I might be changing my opinion on our discussion yesterday.”  Her fingers lightly played with his hair just above the collar of his suit jacket.  “You will have to let me go though.” A teasing smile flitted across her lips as his brow rose in confusion. “Unless you want your suit ruined to get it off of you.”  Slowly her nose ran along his as her lips once more made their way to his.

He couldn’t help but chuckle against her lips.  It seemed that his wife was going to be an endless source of surprises.  First she somehow figured out how to remotely eliminate someone, then the way she had stood up to Lucifer, and now the desire that was glowing in her eyes was such a reflection of what he knew was showing in his own.  

“I might be willing to let you go for that.” Astaroth’s voice was deeper, a slight rasp entering it born of desire. His hands now gently roaming her back, still holding her to him. “I do want to keep my Papilio happy after all.” Foreheads together, he couldn’t help but look down into her gorgeous emerald green eyes as he teleported them from the living room to the bedroom.

[beelsnack]

I Put A Spell On You - Obey Me Boys and A Witch MC

I may have mentioned it in an ask or something before, but I'm actually a practicing witch. (Sorry, Mammon.) So, in honor of spooky season, I bring you witch MC!

----

Lucifer: "Can I ask you something?"

Lucifer looked up from the report he had been working on. In the House of Lamentation, hearing that question was very rarely followed by anything but disaster. He bit back the urge to sigh and turned to look at the human. "You may."

"Have you ever been summoned by a witch?" the human set down their pen. They had taken refuge in Lucifer's room in an attempt to actually get their homework done, and had been working diligently up until this point. "Like, successfully."

He raised an eyebrow. "No, I haven't. I doubt any mortal witch would have the power to actually summon me."

"That's what I thought," they leaned back in their chair, stretching.

"What brought this on?"

"A witch I know up in the Human Realm swore up and down that he had, quote unquote, ‘summoned Lucifer himself.’ No one believed him anyway, but I figured I would ask just to confirm my suspicions.”

“No, it is highly unlikely that a mortal witch would have the magical power to summon me,” Lucifer chuckled darkly. “Although many have tried.”

“What happens to them when they do?” they asked, completely abandoning their work at this point. Part of Lucifer wanted to reprimand them for getting distracted, but he couldn’t deny that he liked having their attention on him. “Do you curse them or something?”

“I do nothing,” he smirked as they got up to lean against his desk. Perhaps he could stand to take a break as well. “The minor demons they actually summon, however, often have their fun with those foolish enough to try.”

“Oh, I’ll bet the Little Ds have a blast with them, huh?” the human grinned.

“Ask Number Two about the time he possessed a ouija board and convinced a human they would die if they ever wore the color blue again.”

Laughing, the human moved to return to their spot at his coffee table where they had spread out all of their study materials. Lucifer, however, had different plans.

“Oof!”

In one quick, fluid motion, he had grasped the human around the waist and tugged them into his lap. The movement had mussed up their hair, and he affectionately moved a few strands out of their face to see their adorable pout.

“You know, my dear, you are the only human witch able to summon me. You should wear that fact like a badge of honor.”

Mammon: “Now that’s just playin’ dirty!”

The human had to make a concentrated effort not to laugh at Mammon. “Yeah, they really didn’t have to go that far. They already have you by the balls.”

“They do not!” Mammon growled, crossing his arms. “Nobody has control over The Great Mammon!”

“Except for the multitude of humans who you made pacts with because they promised you a few bucks.”

“Wow, okay.”

Shaking their head, they gently plucked the doll out of Mammon’s palm. It was a standard poppet, made out of cloth. “Why don’t you just have Lucifer or Satan undo the curses?”

“Because,” Mammon huffed. “Human magic is different from demon magic. None of us know the first thing about it.”

“You just don’t want to admit to anyone that the witches pulled one over on you again.”

“Can you fix it or not?”

Smothering another laugh, they brought the poppet closer to examine it. Aside from the basic filling, it felt like there were some stones in there, and they thought they smelled some herbs.

“So, basically all you need to do is remove whatever link they used to bind the doll to you,” they muttered, more to themself than anything. “Usually it’s hair, nail, a drop of blood if they’re feeling particularly nasty…”

“That’s what they were doin’?”

The human looked up, tilting their head. “What?”

“One of the witches was bein’ real nice to me,” Mammon sighed. “Patting me on the head when I dropped off some money for them. Shoulda known she was trying something fishy!”

“Okay, that answers that.” they made their way over to their desk, plopping down in the chair. “So she probably pulled out some of your hair and put it inside the doll. So all we have to do it get it out, this thing becomes a regular old doll, and voila, curse broken.”

“How do we do that?” Mammon asked, peering over their shoulder as they reached into their drawer. His blue eyes widened when they pulled out a pair of scissors. “Whaddaya plan on doin’ with those?”

“Mammon, this is going to hurt like a bitch.”

“Wha - ack!”

Mammon doubled over in pain at the same time the human cut open a slice on the doll’s belly. There, right in the center of the stuffing and stones - and there were herbs in there, they had been right! - was a little bundle of white hair, tied with a piece of twine.

“Ah-ha!” they plucked the bunch out of the doll, and Mammon just barely managed to catch himself on the corner of the desk before he went crashing to the floor.

“Holy shit, human, I’m gonna fuckin’ hurl.”

“Do it somewhere that isn’t my room, please.”

Leviathan: “Levi, I don’t know how to tell you this, but ‘witch’ and ‘magical girl’ aren’t the same thing.”

Ever since they let it slip that they practiced witchcraft, Levi had obsessively forced them to watch every magical girl anime he could think of. It was his way of relating to them, they were sure, but it was starting to get a little out of hand. There were only so many variations of the magical girl trope in existence.

Levi frowned at them. “It’s not?”

“Well, for one, I don’t own a super cute lolita dress.”

“Do you want me to make you one?”

The human laughed. “Somehow I don’t think showing up to a coven meeting wearing a pink loli dress will make the others take me very seriously.”

“What about blue?”

“Leviathan.”

“Fine, fine,” he huffed. “So if it’s not like in the anime, what is human magic like?”

“A lot more boring than demon magic, honestly.” the human shrugged, turning back to the monitor. Since they had put their foot down against watching Madoka, the two of them were rewatching Sailor Moon. “A lot of using herbs and crystals and energy. Really symbolic.”

“That is boring,” Levi scowled. “You don’t even get a transformation sequence.”

“I’m just as mad about it as you are, dude.”

Satan: “Holy shit, Satan, that is a ton of books.”

THe demon had no reason to look as proud as he did as he sat the stack of books on the table in front of him. “This isn’t even all of them. Some of them are cursed, so I let them be for now.”

“That’s...both impressive and concerning.” the human picked up a book off the top of the pile. “Whoa, it’s even handwritten!”

“I’ve collected my fair share of grimoires over the millennia.” Satan took a seat across from them, watching as they turned each page with reverence. “I believe that one is from a Scottish witch from the 16th century.”

“Should I be wearing gloves or something?” they cradled the book like it was made of glass. “This is historic, Satan.”

“I’ve cast the appropriate spells on them to prevent them from decaying, don’t worry.” Satan laughed. “Although your concern is appreciated.”

“I could learn so much about the craft from these,” their voice was barely above a whisper, eyes wide as they scanned each page like it contained the secret to eternal life. “This is...wow…”

The look of utter rapture that the human had on their face was endearing, and Satan couldn’t help but smile softly at them. “Feel free to peruse them whenever you like. They deserve to be appreciated.”

“You mean it?” they looked up with hope sparkling in their eyes. “Thank you so much, Satan!”

“Of course,” he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind their ear. “That look on your face is worth any price.”

Asmodeus: “I have a gift for you!”

Asmo poked his head up from where he had buried it in his D.D.D. The human stood next to the couch, arms clasped behind their back and a giddy smile stretching across their face. Asmo could practically feel them vibrating from excitement.

“Ooh, for me? Darling, you shouldn’t have!” He pocketed his phone and gave them his full attention. “What is it?”

They held out their hands, revealing the treasure they had been hiding. “Ta-da!”

Asmo carefully picked up the chain from their palms. Dangling from the end of it was a small bottle, wrapped carefully in wire and turned into a pendant. Tiny, translucent pink stones sat inside, nestled in a layer of salt and herbs. The magic surrounding it was faint, as most human witchery was, but it was so uniquely them that Asmo could just about cry.

“Oh, darling, you made me a love charm!” he exclaimed, immediately slipping the necklace on. “It’s so cute! I love it, thank you so much!”

The human smiled. “I’m glad! I wasn’t sure what to do with the rose quartz, but I knew you would love them, so I figured I would make you something! Not that I really think a love charm would work on you, but I figured you would appreciate the aesthetic.”

Asmo laughed, reaching forward to cup the side of their face gently. “You don’t need to use a love charm on me, darling. I’m already captivated by you.” His other hand came up to touch the pendent resting against his collarbone. “This will just serve as a reminder of how spellbound you’ve made me.”

Beelzebub: When they had first described themself as a “kitchen witch,” Beel had thought that they meant they were a really good cook.

And while that was true, they also were literally a kitchen witch.

“Basil for protection...oregano to ward off negative magic...there, that should do it.”

To Beel, it just looked like they were making pasta. Which was never a bad thing. But they chose which herbs to season it with such intention and purpose, Beel knew it was more than that.

“Do herbs really have magic?” he asked, leaning on the counter next to the stove while the human worked on magic dinner. “I’ve never thought of them as particularly magical.”

“It’s more of a human thing,” they said, sprinkling the last of the oregano over the pot of sauce. “We don’t get the flashy sparks and all that, so we had to develop our own magic.”

“Hm…” Beel regarded the pot with curiosity. “Is that why your cooking is so good?”

“Sure, we’ll go with that.” they laughed, swatting at his hand as he slowly approached the pot. “You aren’t sneaky, Beel.”

“Can I just have a taste?”

“Your ‘taste’ is drinking the whole pot like it’s soup.” they rolled their eyes. “I haven’t even started cooking it yet! It’s cold!”

Beel pouted, looking every bit the kicked puppy. “But I want to taste your magic.”

“You can taste my magic when dinner’s ready.”

Belphegor: On nights when he couldn’t sleep, Belphie usually ended up with the human.

Sometimes it was just him wiggling his way into their bed and cuddling with them until he felt sleepy. But tonight, it looks like they were sharing a case of insomnia.

So that was how he ended up sitting on the human’s floor with his hand in their lap as they studied it like it was a textbook.

“So? What do the squiggly lines of destiny tell you about me?”

“That you’re a little bitch.” they shot back, running their thumb over the center of his palm. “You have a lot of crosses on your heart line.”

“Which means?”

“You’re emotionally fucked up.”

Belphie snorted. “I could have told you that one.”

“You’re the one who came in here and wanted to see some human magic, I don’t want to hear any complaining.” they let go of his hand. “The only reason I’m breaking out the salt and candles is to banish your demonic ass from my room.”

“You know that only works on lesser demons.”

“Anything will work as banishment if I throw it hard enough.”

Diavolo: This...felt kind of pointless, honestly.

They knew it was mainly because of Diavolo’s obsession with human culture. But doing a Tarot reading for the Crown Prince of Hell seemed like a waste of everyone’s time.

Well, regardless, a summons from Diavolo was not to be ignored, so they had dutifully gathered up their cards and made their way to the Demon Lord’s Castle.

“You know,” they began hesitantly. “If you want to know the future, you have a time-manipulating butler right there.”

Barbatos, ever watchfully, chuckled and inclined his head. “My Lord is fascinated by human methods of divination.”

“It’s true,” Diavolo nodded. “Tarot especially has always piqued my interest, but very rarely do I have time to indulge with the other witches who visit the Devildom.”

....Oh, they really couldn’t say no to the hopeful gleam in his eye. A man that large had no right to look that cute.

“Alright,” they handed him the deck of cards. It looked hilariously small in his hands. “Go ahead and shuffle them.”

“Oh, I get to do it?”

“If you want,” they shrugged. “I usually have whoever is being read for do the shuffling, so the deck can get a feel for their energy. Unless you don’t want to, of course.”

“No, this is exciting!” He really did look like he was having fun. “How many should I draw?”

“Just one, and we can go from there.”

With a focus that might have been a bit too intense, Diavolo began shuffling. He handled the deck carefully, which made them happy. So many people were rough with the cards, and they were always worried they were going to get ruined.

“Alright.” Diavolo laid a card face down on the table between them. “Would you like to do the honors?”

He was being dramatic, but they couldn’t help but play along. What was the harm in a little bit of fun? They flipped the card face up and let out a startled chuckle.

The Devil.

“Did you do that on purpose?” they asked, laughter dripping from their voice.

“No, honest!” Diavolo was laughing too. “What does the Devil card mean?”

“It means my deck has a sense of humor.”

[letsloveimagines]

Title: One kiss or your soul

Pairing: Modern AU! Ivar the Boneless x female!demon!reader

Prompt: Where Ivar decides to my a deal with a demon.

Word Count: 4520

Warnings: a little swearing, satanic rituals, mention of monsters and death

Note: The images doesn’t belong to me, all the credits go to the respective creators. I only made the collage. Also,the rituals were based on Supernatural.

                                                          ♦⋅☆⋅♦ 

He tried to take a short walk that day, for the first time in months... His skin was now bone white, and Ivar knew he needed at least about ten minutes of vitamin D.

What he did not expect was the huge crowd that was on the street that blessed day; families gathered to talk animatedly, children playing with each other to discuss the disguises they would wear and all the sweets they would eat. The city appeared to be decorated with bats, cobwebs, scarecrows and zombies, lanterns and pumpkins. It was then, while he was surrounded by people everywhere and feeling his heart thundering, that he remembered it was October, Halloween more precisely, and the whole community was getting ready for the fun of that night.

The pain in his legs was already characteristic, his gait was sloppy and lame, and crutches were his longtime companions. But that never failed to attract attention as always, and that happened at that moment. The children who played looked at him laughing and pointing, talking to each other, the adults whispered and looked at him with pity.

Ivar hated pity.

And he hated even more how the attention of those shitty people made him feel, even though he was already used to it.

With a strong desire to vomit, feeling the sweat running down every corner of his body and trying to breathe, Ivar looked for any corner where he could take shelter. The small library across the street that seemed to be the only establishment without the festive theme appeared to be the best option. He was quick to cross the street - as fast as it was possible for him - to enter the establishment, greet the lady with the half-moon glasses behind the counter (who chewed blue bubblegum while filing her nails), and hid in the most distant place possible, among several decrepit shelves almost falling with the weight of dozens of books.

Ivar had sat on the floor, his back against the books and shelves, his head hidden in his arms and knees drawn up just trying to remember how to breathe. He was at the beginning of a panic attack, and being aware of it only made him even more distressed. He hated that it happened because of his useless legs and because of people he didn't care about. Why couldn't he have been born healthy like his brothers? The air did not seem to reach his lungs fast enough, leaving him almost choked and trembling all around, and with the world spinning around him over and over again.

It took a while, but it ended up after a few minutes of breathing exercises. The frustration remained, however, leaving him so enraged with himself and the world, that he punched the bookshelf behind him in an abrupt gesture. This hasty action caused so much noise that he was sure that the children across the street had been able to hear. In silence, swallowing hard and fearing he would be expelled to face the crowd outside, Ivar peered slightly at the librarian trying to see if she had heard it too. This one, however, had her back to him with the phone between her ear and shoulder, talking animatedly while continuing to take care of her nails, without paying attention to what was happening around her.

"No..." she exclaimed, certainly wanting to sound shocked, but looking completely delighted by what she had just heard. "Don't tell me that she really said that to you?"

More relieved, the boy leaned back against the bookshelf perhaps with more force than was necessary, as he immediately felt the wood behind him creak and the piece of furniture rocked from side to side. The dark-haired boy was quick to grab it, managing to keep it from tipping over, but not without a few books falling to the floor raising so much dust that it left his black pants almost gray. One of those books, due to fate, had not joined the others on the wooden floor eaten by the termites immediately, but had fallen on top of him, the hardcover hitting his head hard. Thankfully, the boy had been born with a head full of rich black hair capable of supporting the impact, or he could now have a bruise to take care of later.

Curiously, still rubbing his head with the free hand of his clutch, he looked at the cursed object. It was a book with a brown cover and black insignia and broken in the corners. In large and dark letters, in a font that looked like a victorian one he could read 'Monsters in the Darkness'. Interesting title, Ivar thought, quickly putting the other books on the shelf and flipping through the one that had caught his eye.

Looking at the watch on his phone that said it was still 2PM, and listening to the conversations outside, he thought why not.

He found himself a chair, shook off the dust with the back of his hand and began to read. The pages were turned quickly while Ivar, frowning, realized what the book was really about.

"What the fuck?" He asked in a low voice, amazed.

His hands held the book tightly, his eyes skimming over the yellowed and gnawed pages. Or maybe it was the mice, this place seems to be full of them, Ivar thought. It was true. That library was old, smelled of mold and looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years. But that was a good thing, at least for him, because it meant it was almost always empty. Whoever wrote this must be on drugs.

But he still didn't stop.

The more he read the more confused he became. The names and notes changed as well as the images, but they were all on the same theme: dark creatures and reports of sightings. Vampires, werewolves, spirits... creatures with claws and fangs, ferocious and with the ability to kill as easily as breathing.

The younger Lothbrok was confused but immensely interested. He didn't believe any of that, but it helped to pass the time. The boy always liked scary things, but he liked the real ones better, and those creatures that the book addressed had no way of being real. However, he was unable to drop the book.

His fingerprints passed smoothly through the written words and the drawn figures, feeling the depth of the ink on the paper. The words registered in his mind quickly as he read page by page, practically devouring the book in what seemed to him mere minutes, but in fact it was already three hours straight sitting in a corner of the moldy library, with a weak lamp beside him illuminating his reading.

He read so much until his blue eyes got tired and he was forced to rest for a few minutes, and until he was at the end of the book. The last theme was demons, but as soon as he turned the page to continue reading, he found… nothing, just the back cover of the book indicating that it was over.

Strange, he thought absently. And that page was even stranger, a few millimeters thicker than the others... almost as if it were glued.

He should? Looking again at the librarian who, admirably, was still distracted on the phone after three hours, Ivar grabbed the knife he always carried with him, opened it and carefully took it to the paper, making a small cut. As he suspected, the previous page was actually many more, and Ivar was eager to find out what it was about and why those pages seemed to be a secret.

> Of all the inhuman creatures that walk the earth, demons are the most evil. They desire nothing more than death and destruction, and not out of desperation or need as is the case with vampires who need blood to survive ... Demons kill and torture simply because they want and can, because they love the pleasure that the chaos of humanity brings them. There are those who say that they were also mortal once, but that their souls were corrupted so perversely in the depths of hell that they ended up becoming what tortured them. Blood, pain and death are all that are left behind when they pass.

> They are faster, more beautiful and stronger than should be possible. They are attractive and charming, in a way that hypnotizes a human. But they are evil, above all. Demons are separated into different sections depending on their personal power, or at least that is what we think. They are able to make a deal with a mortal, give us what we want for a while, but take away something they want afterwards. They are deadly dangerous… She, above all.

Ivar didn't even realize he was reading aloud until his voice started to crack, and he had to clear his throat so much that it looked like his throat was scratched. He wanted water, but he didn't have it, and he was not going to stop reading his interesting book now to fetch it. Frowning, he looked back at the page.

> It is not really known who she is or when she was created. Some say that she is Lilith, the first demon known by men and the mother of monsters... Others say that she is even older and her real name is lost, or forgotten by those who fear her. Now, she is known as Y/N, and as her there is no equal. Dark and deadly, she is Lucifer's right hand. But she is the most qualified to make a deal with, if they are brave enough to do so, and if they have something she wants.

Deal? What kind of deal? Ivar asked himself, and at that moment his cell phone vibrated in his pants pocket. When he pulled it out and unlocked it, a message from Alfred appeared on the display.

Alfred: Hey man, are you sure you don't want to join a horror movie marathon? It was going to be fun.

Oh, Ivar had completely forgotten about that. Alfred had already invited him a few days ago, but the long-haired boy hadn't given him the right answer since he was working on one of the chapters in his new book. He made a point of ignoring his family's thousands of missed messages and calls, however.

Ivar: Nah bro, I still haven't finished the chapter and I have until Thursday to deliver. I will probably be busy working on it for the next few hours. Sorry…

That was what I had to do as soon as I got home. It didn't take long to receive an answer.

Alfred: There is no problem, but you will have to compensate me. The marathon is next Saturday, okay?

Ivar: Yeah, sounds good to me!

He received a "Cool" as an answer and returned the phone to his pocket.

> Generally summoning a demon requires several ingredients: a devil's trap, fire (white, black or red candles), bowl with red-hot charcoal, salt, summoner's blood and the summoning words.

Ivar then proceeded to read what the ritual was like, along with the necessary Latin words.

> However, it is not advisable to do this. Once a demon is summoned and on the human floor, they are freed from the restrictions of hell. There is nothing to stop them from doing what they want. And if you try to summon her... Well, may God have mercy on your soul.

And so the book ended, with a phrase that at that moment seemed so scary.

His throat was dry, his hands were shaking again and for some strange reason he felt the sweat on his forehead and neck, the fat drops escaping the hairline running down his neck and back.

Should I? He thought, confused, it's freaking stupid, I know.

Ivar was a man of science, he believed in the real facts. Yes, he liked scary stories and mythologies - after all, one of his books dealt with Norse mythology - but he didn't really believe in it. And everything in that accursed book that had fallen on his head addressed unreal things, fictional things... Monsters created by the human imagination, by humans who wanted to blame their own evil on creatures that could not exist.

He was already closing the book and getting up to replace it, when he stopped and looked at his left hand, opened his palm and saw the half-moon wounds he had done with his nails in one of his attacks of anger.

He sat down again, staring at the yellowed pages. The dark, sharp letters and monstrous figures, with horns and cat-like eyes were everything he could see... that and his hands, always injured.

The earlier panic attack came back to him, his mind working at full speed. Frustrated, he ran his hands through his dark hair making a mess of locks fall onto his forehead and into his eyes, and he felt like pulling out each one.

The librarian was still talking on the phone, the children outside were playing, but all Ivar could think about was how hard it had been to breathe, and how much the walls felt like they were going to close and crush him in that moment when he was curled up on the floor hours ago, with useless legs at his side and that characteristic pain.

Why couldn't he just be normal?

"Fuck it." He grunted then, tearing up the page that contained the details of the ritual while making sure he was not seen, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket. He closed the book, got up, grabbed his crutch and went to put the book in a random place on the shelf where it belonged.

Without further ado, he passed the librarian who looked at him strangely again, still in that conversation (what kind of work allowed her to be on the phone for hours with no end?), And left the place that had been his hiding place in the last hours.

It was night when he returned home. The full moon shone overhead, and the children and their companions were already spotted in all kinds of disguises ringing the bells and knocking on the doors.

Upon entering his practically empty apartment, with only the minimalist decor here and there, he placed the bag from the convenience store on the couch, and pushed it away. The feet of the couch squeaked as they were dragged across the wooden floor and left a prominent mark.

He turned on the TV on a random channel and turned the sound down, just to feel a presence and have a light to illuminate, and closed the curtains on the window that was always closed too. He would never again make the mistake of leaving it open, the last time that Mrs.Rose's cat on the third floor entered the house in search of food, and left a mess of scratched furniture and broken cushions.

Taking a deep breath he took the materials he bought, and prepared himself.

Even though Ivar didn't believe it was going to work, he was still willing to try it, at this point he was desperate… The prices of medicines were high, the hospital bills were even higher, and even with his writing career going well, he continued to lose hundreds of dollars a month. Ivar was too proud to join his father's company, contrary to what his brothers had done. He wanted a job that was his own, and guaranteed on his own merit and not because it was in the family.

And he wanted to go outside and not worry about people seeing him because of his disability and dragging legs... he wanted to be able to live, not just survive.

For once in his life Ivar wanted normalcy.

He opened the box of chalk, took the page he still had in his pocket, and with the red chalk he drew the pentagram shown on the paper on the floor. The lines were more crooked than they were supposed to, but it should be enough to work.

He took the black candles, placed one on each of the five ends of the star, and lit them with a lighter. Then he put the charcoal in a bowl, lit it and watched it burn for a while.

He took the knife in his pocket, took the sharp blade to the index finger of his left hand and pressed hard, breaking the skin. Ivar saw the red drops begin to fall into the bowl, the blood sizzling as it came in contact with the burning coal.

And then he did nothing more than take a deep breath for a few good minutes.

Before being too afraid to continue - he wasted too much time and energy to stop now - he spoke, pronouncing each word slowly and correctly, in a calm tone.

"Daemon, esto subjecto voluntati maea. Te invoco apro funus inferni, Y/N." 

For a moment nothing happened it was just him there, in the middle of the living room, with a number of absurd things around him that if anyone saw him, he would be immediately sent to a hospital.

But suddenly he shivered. The floor shook, the walls shook, everything shook. TV and appliances, furniture, lamps, everything. The plates and glass bottles on the kitchen table rattled, toppled and broke into a thousand pieces as it fell to the floor. The windows seemed to want to open with the force of the wind outside that wanted to enter, whistling furiously. Ivar had to hold on to something when the earthquake suddenly got stronger.

And then…

The flames went out, leaving the wax to melt and hit the floor, he wasn't sure how he was going to explain it to the owner, the shaking stopped and the wind calmed down.

Ivar was left in darkness and silence, with blood dripping from his index finger to his pants, and breathing so fast that he had to open his mouth and inhale as deeply as his lungs could take to try to breathe.

Blood was pumping through his veins and hitting his ears, preventing him from hearing.

"You are such an idiot." The man said frustrated with himself. It was just an earthquake, which came just in time to almost make me believe. Later, when I turn on the TV, I’m going to see that all over the news.

He shook his head, and looked once again at the destruction in the kitchen and confusion in the living room. He was getting ready to go clean up the mess when the candles lit again - alone this time - they went up so high that they looked like they were going to reach the ceiling, beautiful dancers in red, orange, and yellow dresses. The firelight created strange shadows in every corner, tall and small, thin and wide.

And there, in the middle of the chalk-drawn pentagram, was a woman.

Ivar gasped in shock, stepping back several steps, almost falling into the sack of coal left there. The woman looked at him and he looked at the mysterious woman.

"Mortals." She almost spat, full of disdain. "Always so bold and wishing for more than they are due."

He didn't know what to say or how to react. He had hoped it would work but at the same time he didn't really expect it to actually work!

"So what do you want, human?" She said disinterestedly, looking at the chalk-drawn pentagram that held her in disgust.

"I want to make a deal."

"Oh really?" The way she spoke suggested that she thought the boy was stupid. "What is your name, mortal?"

"Ivar Lothbrok." He replied proudly, because as much as he hated his life, he could not hate his name.

"Cute." Y/N commented with an eyebrow raised in clear disdain. "Now tell me what you really want."

Ivar tried to swallow his anger, tried not to let it show on his face and mannerisms, but he couldn't. His eyes and jaw narrowed, his nostrils flared in fury, and his hands gripped the clutch so tightly that for a moment he was afraid to break it. "Look at me and tell me what you think I want!"

And she looked. She looked from head to toe, passing through his long dark hair, blue eyes and facial features, over his body and legs... those damn legs.

"I don't see anything too much."

If it were possible, Ivar would now be smoking his ears. The veins in his neck swelled and bulged, and his cheeks flushed with anger.

“All my life I have always been different from everyone else. If we still lived in ancient times, my parents would leave me in the forest for the wolves when I was born. My whole life has been a struggle, I am the youngest son and the one who had the misfortune of being like this. I'm not normal, I'm not like my brothers, and as much as everyone tells me that it doesn't matter… I can't help being angry all the time.” Ivar confessed, forcing his grip on his clutch. “I was born with broken legs, I spent my entire life in hospitals and being inspected by the doctors. And now they said they think that I will get worse and stop walking completely. Being healthy is what I want.”

There was silence for a long time, while the human and demon looked at each other.

"Yes, that is possible."

"Then give it to me!"

The demon's laugh was loud, hoarse and cold, and her face was full of disdain. But then it changed in front of him, becoming something out of a horror movie. The beautiful woman was gone and now there was something much worse. It was an almost grotesque sight in his human eyes. A dark and without beauty female figure. A pale face and half cadaverous; black lips and sharp teeth like a dagger blade. Completely red eyes shining with hunger and malice. Two long horns protruded from between the hair with something sticky like blood.

Ivar's extremely blue eyes widened, he backed away almost falling again in that damn night.

“Honey, this is not how it works. Do you really know who you are talking to? Do you think you can boss me around? Do you expect me to do something to you without giving me something in return?” She said in an ugly, guttural and chilling voice, smiling devilishly revealing a long, almost snake-like tongue.

"As long as you're in that trap, you'll have to do what I want." He tried as hard as possible not to let his voice falter, but he still couldn't.

"Oh really?"

And as if just to prove her point, she took a step forward, approaching and crossing the crooked lines that formed the pentagram leaving the trap completely.

“Deary, you should have done your research better. With a normal demon, perhaps this lowly trap could have worked, but with me? I am something much worse than a simple demon, and by invoking me you have left me completely free to do what I want. ”

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

Ivar's heart was pounding in his chest, almost as if it was about to explode at any moment, and his fragile legs were shaking so much that he didn't even know how he was still standing.

"I want to be able to walk freely, run, jump... Do everything I can't right now. Please..." She seemed to want him to beg, but Ivar didn't. He could put aside some of his pride, but not that much.

They stayed close to each other, he deathly pale looking in amazement at the bottomless red pits that were her eyes, her sharp teeth, her black lips full of darkness... Until she opened a toothy and devilish smile, and little by little her demonic features retreated, disappearing into her skin again and making her look like a human woman again… and a beautiful one.

She walked away still smiling amused, letting out a little laugh. "Usually I give you what you want and you have ten years to enjoy it."

Ivar's heart gave a huge leap in his chest. "What happens at the end of the ten years?"

"I keep your soul…” Y/N shrugged, assessing her sharp nails before looking at him and raising her left eyebrow, still with the crooked smile on her lips. “Which means that at the end of these years, you die. "

Ten years, thought Ivar. I always knew that I wouldn't live long, anyway. But...

"Usually?" He gave voice to his thoughts.

“I liked you, you seem to have courage... You were brave in trying to challenge me, stupid, but brave. I'll give you what you want, in exchange for... ”The woman seemed to think for a while. “… a kiss.”

"A kiss?" The young man thought surprised and in other words, extremely incredulous. With everything she could ask of him, she just wanted a kiss? The book should have been mistaken, it was impossible for this demon to be so dangerous if Ivar is the one that actually wins with the agreement between them.

"A simple and small kiss." She repeated, seeing his puzzled expression. "It's one kiss or your soul, you choose."

"We have an agreement, then." Ivar said.

"Great." Y/N smiled, making her eyes blood-red again.

She came over, put her hand on his neck and pulled him forward until their lips were timidly shocking at first, but quickly turning into a fleeting and toothy kiss, with their lips moving in sync and their tongues caressing one another. She tasted like danger... And it was a good taste.

When they pulled away, Y/N still had the smirk on her mouth when she snapped her fingers, causing him to make a huge cry.

He felt excruciating pain like never before, his legs seemed to be on fire, they burned so much, the pain was horrible. It felt like all of his fragile bones were breaking and growing, only to break again. Ivar fell to the ground screaming so loudly that his neighbors probably thought he was being murdered and would be ready to call the police at any moment.

It hurt, but it passed. Sweat ran down his face, his hands were shaking, his body was shaking. But when he got up again without the help of a crutch, he had never felt better, his legs were… healthy, normal, complete… healed.

"I- I can't believe this..."

"You have what you want, and I got what I want. "

Something about her facial expression seemed wrong, Y/N seemed too delighted just for the simple reward she had won.

"The kiss wasn't the only thing you wanted, was it?"

"No, it was not."

"We had an agreement! What do you-"

"Has anyone ever told you not to mess with things you don't understand?" She stroked his face, with a smirk on her lips. "Honey, you belong to me now."

[lottiethroughthelookingglass]

Another 15x19 coda/15x20 fix-it? It’s more likely than you think. Anyway I think they should have delivered on the whole barn thing also feeling personally victimised by Lord Huron’s “The Night We Met”

on ao3

It’s a pull in his stomach.

It starts the moment they agree to check out the strange deaths of three IT professionals in the same small mid-western town.

He almost turns it down, says it’s was probably nothing, says they should probably let someone else take it. But he doesn’t

Sam hasn’t connected the dots. Then again why should he. He’d been off with Ruby or something. There’s no reason for him to even think of that night.

The hunt turns out to be a quick salt and burn. The three IT guys had stolen software from the company and the ghost of their ex-boss apparently couldn’t rest without vengeance.

These people need to get their priorities sorted. Dean thinks as he shovels dirt from the boss’s freshly dug grave while Sam stands watch for cops or security guards or the ghost or whatever else might decide to fuck up their night.

The body burns quickly and they’re able to head straight back to the motel. Done and dusted. Sam showers and then conks out almost immediately on his still-made bed.

Dean can’t sleep. Typical. He stares at the faded wallpaper on the dingy hotel room wall. The pull feels like a burning. He wants to throw up. But then again, he wants to throw up most of the time these days.

Grief’s a raw nerve ending. But it can’t last forever. He knows that. It’s not the first time he’s grieved. Not the first time he’s filled his days with drinking and nights with numbness.

But before there’d always been other things to distract him. After Sam there’d been Lisa and Ben, Sam and Jack after Cas and then Chuck and the end of the goddamn world after Mary.

He’s spent the better part of the last year wishing for nothing more than a chance to stop Chuck once and for all and now he almost wishes they hadn’t. Almost wishes that Chuck or Michael or Lucifer or just some damn bad guy would poke their head up and make his life miserable again. At least give him something he can fight. Some goal to work towards. Something he can defeat.

Because this. This he can’t do anything about. All he can do for this is turn through the motions and pretend that he’s ok.

The pull is in his chest.

Maybe it would help. Maybe it’s what he needs. Some kind of closure. Completing the circle bullshit or whatever.

He leaves just after 1am. Sam’ll be out for at least a few more hours. He leaves a note anyway on the cheap motel notepad – gone for a drink, will be back in the morning – Dean.

Sam won’t like it. He’ll be mad in the morning but he’ll be over it soon enough.

It takes almost two hours to get there. The roads all begin to look the same and he soon realises that despite having a good memory for locations it turns out finding a random barn you visited once twelve years ago isn’t as easy as he thought it would be.

He keeps driving. If nothing else it’ll be a way to pass the time and the search at least gives him something to do.

Eventually, he begins to see a few familiar signs. A dirt road with a twisted tree he recognises and it’s suddenly before him.

The barn’s still standing but the years haven’t been kind. Even more slats of wood are missing than before and one end is badly charred from a long-extinguished fire.

He parks Baby behind the barn, in the same spot he had twelve years prior and enters reverently like a parishioner to a church. There’s no need for a torch as the moonlight finds its way through the holes in the roof to bathe the floor in a cool blue light.

The pull turns to an ache.

The sigils are still there upon the walls. Hardly touched by graffiti over the years.

He makes his way down the centre of the barn, the dirt and grass crunching softly under his boots.

At the end of the barn he turns to face the doors.

There’s no breeze, they stand still. Firmly closed.

He doesn’t fall, just finds himself on the ground. His back against the wall and head raised to the sky. The heavens shine above him, stars in their multitudes glitter above.

Cas…

He breathes it out. It’s not a prayer. More a lamentation.

He prayed the first few nights. Racing after Chuck he prayed and he prayed and he hoped that Cas could hear him. But after Chuck was gone and the days started to blur praying became too much. It was just a reminder of the silence that would always face him.

In the stillness of the night there’s a flutter. A familiar sound.

Dean doesn’t move. His mind’s gotten particularly good at playing tricks on him lately.

“Dean?”

A silhouette against the closed barn doors. No sparks rain down. Permanently messy black hair and rumpled tan trench coat and skewwhiff blue tie illuminated by the pale moonlight.

“What are you doing here?”

The figure approaches him. His steps hesitant, nothing like the march under gunfire he’d made that night.

“Saw it on TripAdvisor. Apparently, this barn’s a top tourist attraction.” Dean replies with a crooked but mirthless grin.

Castiel stops, his head tilting.

They regard each other. Castiel’s eyes seem to brim with pain.

Dean’s are empty. He’s cried enough tears and he isn’t going to let some ghostly hallucination draw more from him now.

“Why are you here Dean?” The apparition’s voice is firmer, more demanding.

Dean sighs, tilts his head against the wall, “Just looking for some closure. A bit of sense I guess.”

His mind’s image is before him now, leaning down, reaching out-

A solid hand presses against his arm.

“Dean?”

Dean’s whole-body flinches. Visions can’t touch.

He stares up at the man before him, his eyes wide.

“Cas?” He breathes. “You’re not-”

“I’m sorry, I just saw you were here and… Jack was worried for you. He said I should talk to you.”

Dean tenses, “What do you mean saw? Jack-”

Visions of leaping up and embracing are dashed even as Cas begins to retreat.

“How are you here?” Dean demands, anger bubbling to the surface over any relief.

Cas hesitates, “Jack needed angels to rebuild heaven and well the Empty was getting crowded.”

“So he brought you back?”

“Among others.”

“You’ve been back this whole time.”

“Not the whole time.”

“How long?”

“I- I don’t know. Time is different in Heaven.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me. Me or Sam? I thought we were family Cas?!”

He finds himself on his feet. Words of anger coming so much easier than the tenderness he’s been holding near his heart

“We are. But I didn’t want to make things hard.”

“What the fuck does that mean Cas? What the fuck do you mean hard? Do you have any idea-”

Dean stops. He can’t. This is all his wanted for weeks. Months? He’s not sure. Time is different here too. And now Cas is standing in front of him and he just wants to fight.

Cas is staring at him. Cas is so close. Cas said he loved him.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Cas looks to the ground.

Dean curses, slumps against the wall of the barn. Of course, it’s not what he thought. Why would it be?

“I used to come here often.” Cas’s voice cuts through the silence, gravel deep and rough.

Dean scuffs at the barn floor, “Why?”

“When I was questioning.” he says, “I would come here and I’d look at what you and Bobby had done. The sigils, the bullets, everything. You had no idea what you were facing. I- Heaven, Angels, it was something you couldn’t comprehend. Something so entirely beyond you. And you took your paints and your books and your weapons and you tried so hard to protect yourselves.  You were so scared. And this barn would remind me of that. That no matter what you said, how confident you were, The Plan was more than you and if you couldn’t even comprehend a single angel then what was the worth in listening to you.”

Cas comes and stands beside Dean. A solid space still between them.

“But then, when I was falling… I kept coming here. And looking at this place.  You were so scared. The warding, the weapons, you were just trying to cover up your fear. But it was also your bravery. You knew that this was something bigger than you’d ever seen. Something you couldn’t understand and you were terrified. But that didn’t stop you from trying, from going for it with everything you had because you knew confronting your fear was better than it letting it fester and control you. I was afraid, of everything knew I was feeling. Of falling. But this place reminded me that I couldn’t let that stop me from doing the right thing. Even if I was scared…”

Cas falls quiet. The night air lies stale and still between them. Dean almost wishes it was storming but all is quiet.

“I’m still scared.”

“What are you scared of now?” Dean asks, barely a whisper.

Cas frowns, chews over his words.

“I’m afraid you won’t ask me to stay”

Dean’s eyes met Cas’s and the air becomes electric for a moment.

“What are you afraid of Dean?”

Dean can barely breathe.

“I’m afraid you’ll leave.” He wants to look away but he forces himself to hold Cas’s gaze. “Cas, please stay.”

“I won’t leave Dean.” He says, barely a whisper.

“Good.”

He looks away. He can’t hold that gaze. Doesn’t know what to do with the energy vibrating between them. So he does what he knows, he looks away and tries to brush it off.

“It’s good to have you back Cas.” He says to the wall ahead of him.

He feels a hand on his sleeve. Cas reaching out to him. He turns back to him and suddenly finds himself in a bone crushing hug.

“It’s good to be back.” Cas whispers into his shoulder.

And if Dean holds onto that hug a little longer than he should, if his head turns to breathe in the scent of ozone and that missing storm and home that lingers on Cas, nobody needs to know. If he should really take this moment and kiss the miracle of an angel standing before him but he doesn’t – well, there’ll be another moment he tells himself. There’ll always be another moment.

Cas breaks the hug first, pulls away and Dean almost doesn’t let him. But Cas doesn’t go far. He raises a hand to cup Dean’s face, and he’s got that same look on his face that he had that night.

There’s something Dean should say.

Cas pulls his hand away.

They separate and then they’re in the car and they’re going back to the motel and Sam’s hugging Cas and asking questions and the moment’s gone and Dean can’t stop looking at him but the tugging feeling hasn’t gone. There’s still that sense of grief and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

No. He does know how to fix it. He’s just afraid.

-

They drive straight back to the bunker – back home. They don’t talk much but between the music Sam fills the silence. He calls Eileen who says she’ll meet them when they get back. She’s happy to hear about Cas.

Maybe Dean’s still angry. It’s been three days and he’s barely talked to Cas. It’s better than it was before. He can eat now, he can sleep and every day doesn’t feel like a rusty nail being dug into his gut.

He told Cas to stay but every time he sees him he can’t help but feel that Cas is just itching to leave. He can feel it radiating off him. He left all of heaven and his son to be here. To be with a human who hasn’t even been able to articulate what he wants after this angel gave everything for him.

The third night Sam and Eileen go out for dinner. Sam tries to invite Dean and Cas along in the kitchen over lunch and Dean just gives him a confused look. “No, I don’t want to go on your date Sam.”

Sam shrugs, “Suit yourself.”

Cas comes down to the kitchen after they leave.

“Where’s Sam and Eileen?”

“Went out for dinner.”

“Oh.”

They stand for a moment in the kitchen before Cas goes to leave.

“Do you wanna watch a movie?”

It’s an easy suggestion. Not that he really wants to watch anything. He just doesn’t want Cas to walk out again. Needs some reason to keep him here without actually having to talk about it.

“Ok.” Cas says.

-

They end up on Sam’s Netflix account. So, Dean can snoop and judge more than anything. There’s a half watched terrible looking Netflix original film in his Continue Watching section.

“What the hell Sammy?” Dean says as he hovers over the description.

“Maybe it was Eileen?”

“Hell no, Eileen has much better taste.”

“Was it you then?”

Dean shoots him a stinky look. “No, I have better taste.”

“We should watch it.”

“Really?”

“You’re always insisting I watch “classics” and “good films”. I think we should watch bad things too.”

“Ok.”

They play the film. It’s as terrible as the description suggested. Within five minutes Dean’s cackling at the bad CGI. The dialogue is as clichéd as anything and he’s never seen a man look so stilted while professing his undying love.

Beside him Cas is smiling– almost laughing.

He pauses the movie two acts in.

“I need to take a break.”

“Are we giving up?”

“No, we’re finishing this. I’m just gonna get popcorn.”

He comes back with the popcorn and sits back down next to Cas.

Cas reaches in and takes a handful of popcorn.

“Hey!”

“I thought it was for sharing.”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to eat. I thought it was all molecules to you anyway?”

“I like the texture.”

Dean doesn’t know why his cheeks flush at that. He doesn’t know why he sat down so much closer to Cas. Or rather he does know but he’s not sure if it’s the moment yet.

He starts the movie again.

At least it is a moment. For the first time since Cas came back things feel right.

He looks across at Cas, the angel of the lord that stormed that barn twelve years ago, taking rounds of bullets to his chest without flinching, as he shoves popcorn that he can’t even taste properly into his mouth and laughs at this stupid Netflix movie.

A smile crosses his face.

There’s something he should say.

Cas moves to rest his head on the back of the sofa. He’s got a content smile on his face. He looks like he wants to be here.

“I’m afraid you won’t ask me to stay”

“I love you too Cas.”

He barely registers the words coming out of his mouth.

Cas turns to him, the content smile gone from his face.

“Dean?”

“I don’t really know what you meant. And I’m terrified that we both mean two different things but I just need you to know that I’m so glad you’re back and- Cas you mean so much to me and I’ve been such a dick since you got back but I just don’t want you to go. I just want you to stay and I need you to know before I fuck this up anymore that I love you too… I love you Cas.”

The words stream out of him all of a sudden and Cas is staring at him his mouth slightly ajar.

God, did I look this stupid, Dean thinks.

Cas moves his hand like he’s going to do something with it but it’s still filled with popcorn. He looks at it for a moment. Dean pushes the bowl towards him and he puts the popcorn back in.

The moment feels awkward again but thank God Cas seems to be committed.

He cups Dean’s cheek. His fingers are buttery and it’s kind of gross.

“I- I love you too Dean. And I want to stay. I don’t want to go back to heaven, and I haven’t for a long time. I just want to stay here like this… with you.”

“Ok.”

It’s Dean who leans forward, takes the final leap and presses his lips feather soft against Cas’s. He leans awkwardly, hyper aware of not spilling the bowl of popcorn in his lap. Cas shifts closer so that he can properly kiss him. He tastes like popcorn and ozone and Cas.

They break apart but not far. Dean can feel the ghosts of Cas’s smile against his lips and his breath on his cheek.

The moment’s interrupted by a sudden chorus of loud rap from the movie.

They both turn back to the screen briefly.

“Why the hell are they all dressed as carrots?”

“I have no idea.” Cas replies.

He smiles again and looks over to Dean, their noses almost touching. “You do realise this is now going to be our movie.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, “Absolutely the fuck not.”

[dreamychick]

HeadCanon the boys and MC crying over period cramps

Lucifer

Is....not great around crying. He doesn't really know what to do with that emotion. He tells MC that it's going to be okay, and it'll pass soon. He tries to be sympathetic but it's not easy, it comes off as condescending and gets him thrown out of the room. He comes back with some pain killers and water and offers to hold their hand until it passes. MC is glad for the company. Glad for the contact, and also glad Lucifers cares enough to try. They fall asleep to Lucifer telling them about them about the next project Lord Diavolo will have them do, and when they wake up, they find a tray of their favorite chocolates and a sports drink are on their bedside table, but Lucifer is still holding their hand.

Mammon

Freaks out of course. MC is crying? No no, he can't have that. He acts tough, like Don't cry, human the great Mammon will make this all ok for you. But then he leaves and panics. He doesn't know what to get to help. He's never had a period before and doesn't know what MC needs. But then he remembers Lilith and what she wanted most when she was in pain. So Mammon goes back into the room and before MC can say anything, crawls into bed and holds them tight. He mumbles unintelligible nothings at first because he's embarrassed but the longer they lay together, the more he's able to pull his face out of MCs shoulder and just talk until the smooth constant sound of his voice helps MC fall asleep.

Levi

Also can't handle MC crying. He's very akward. But he doesn't want them to stay in pain more then necessary, so he grabs his collection of TSL and brings them into MCs room and puts its on. Distraction from the pain is sure to be good, plus you can't cry when your favorite show is on right? Unless it's crying from Joy. So he will sit on the bottom of the bed and watch with them, keeping MC focused on the show. And not on the cramps. He brings a few snacks and uses them a constant excuse to keep looking over to make sure they don't start crying again. The constant worry on Levis face, makes MC grab his hand, and they fall asleep fingers locked just like that, with levi's face blushing red.

Satan

The second he sees MC cry he's had enough. He saves the place in his book and he leaves. He leaves the room. And the house. But it' not that long until he comes back to MC's room. But hes not alone. No, he's brought a Friend. One of the cats from the garden. He let's the cat down on MC's bed and explains that the only thing better then a cat, is a cat who will curl up on your tummy and purr. A build in vibrating heating pad right? That has to be so nice for the cramps and the pain right? So now Satan and the cat curl up around MC and lend their body heat for a nice midday nap. When MC wakes up it's not the cat who is on her tummy sound asleep, it's Satan, who's head was nestled on their belly and his arms wrapped around them in sleep.

Asmo

Knows just what MC needs. Lots of hugs and kisses. Asmo will kiss all the pain away. Just tell him where it hurts. And even if he gets a slap for that dirty joke, it's worth it to see MC smile. He runs his finger gently through MCs hair, petting their head just reminding them that hes still there. He will stay the whole time and talk about getting a couples massage, and going shopping together once they feel better and how he wants to draw them a nice hot relaxing bubble bath later when they feel up to it, and maybe even join in. Just to wash MCs back of course. Mc falls asleep with Asmo still petting their head gently.

Beel

Sees MC crying and would rip out his own heart to make it stop. He hates seeing the people he loves upset. And will do anything he can think go to make it stop. So for him that means food. So he goes into the kitchen and gets as many snacks as he can physically carry, most of them chocolate and salt based and brings them back to MC's room. He drops them all down next to the bed and then has MC sit up so he can slide in behind them. Then he massages every muscle he can reach. Beel works out enough to know the toll a sore body has. So if he can make MC comfortable and ease their pain he will. MC falls asleep with their back against Beels chest and beels arms around their stomach. Him holding them tight, feeling cherished, protected and loved.

Belphie

MC is crying and...yea he doesn't like that. He almost demons out until he finds out there is no monster to slay. Theyre in pain. He starts to feel a little useless, what can he do for them? He seems MC curled up and clutching their stomach tightly. So he has an idea, he crawls on the bed and pushes their hand out of the way and lays his body ontop of MCs stomach. Instead of pressing so hard against your stomach and curling inward and hurting your back too. Now MC can lay out, and Belphie will use his body weight and heat to ease the cramps. Plus now you can take a nap together. MC thinks they won't be able to breathe but Belphie doesnt lay on their chest, just their belly and legs. And it's actually comfortable. So with his weight, and heat, they do fall asleep together just like that.

[copias-thrall]

I had an idea How would a demon!Papa III be in heat with his mate that is a rather shy female s/o (the s/o being human in this case)

It is not something unknown to the two of you. Papa III is a demon, and demons have heat cycles. Being an older man, Papa III’s cycles are a bit more regular …but for demon he’s still considered young, so his ruts still pack a pretty potent punch. Before giving in to his feelings for you, how you would receive him during his cycle almost had him giving up—an unmated demon going through a heat with a partner is uncomfortable; one going through a cycle without a mate is painful. How could he ask that of you, knowing your disposition? Knowing if you refused to sate him, he’d have to take a temporary lover?

Luckily you pushed him to confide his concerns in you, and the two of you have had many subsequent conversations about expectations, consent, and safety.

*heat sex; hard biting; knotting*

“I will be very, ah—insistent, little one. Aggressive. Like a beast.”

“But not a mindless beast.”

“Sí. Not mindless—merely … distracted.”

“Will you hurt me?”

“Perhaps a little, mia cara. Some biting, a few scratches. But not in the way you mean, I am thinking.”

“And if you can’t take it, amore?”

“I can.”

“If you can’t.”

“Will I be in danger if I try to leave?”

“I may beg and plead, but I won’t bar you. But I would need a proxy, cara. The damage to myself I would do …”

“So I will take it, now hush.”

The thing about Papa III’s heat is that it’s not an exact science (when Papa III tried to explain to you it’s a ballpark of days and not a guarantee, you had to level him with a look—“I know, my love. I get a period every month.”). So while you both know the week, the day and the hour are still unknown factors.

Papa III’s mini fridge is stocked up with coconut water, and he has a whole crate full of protein and granola bars. The kitchen staff is on call for any other needs (like the meat freezer full of choice-cut steak). You have gotten permission for heat leave from your Abbey duties.

It’s midmorning when one of Papa III’s Ghouls comes to fetch you. It’s not a surprise, but it is two days earlier than the date circled on the calendar. You don’t bother changing or performing your morning toilet—you nod in understanding to the Ghoul, and you grab your prepped duffel bag.

When you enter Papa’s quarters, it’s the smell that hits you first: it’s not an unpleasant smell, but it’s strong—a musky, salty aroma that still manages to smell like Papa’s own spicy-flower scent. The Ghoul ushers you to Papa III’s bedchamber; when he opens the door, the smell hits you like a slap to the face full force, and you stagger back as if physically hit.

Papa explained that you might be affected by his scent; while humans don’t experience heat and scent the way demons do, he warned that you might experience it as the feeling you get when getting a whiff of him from a shirt—but on steroids. It’s a very pleasant loverboyfriend-type smell, and without your permission, your mouth fills with saliva.

You’re taken out of your haze a bit when you see Papa III curled in the fetal position, panting, around a pillow. He’s naked—sheets in a tangle around his ankles—and his skin is slick with sweat; his face has no trace of paint on it. You cry out at his distress, and make to go for him—when you’re stopped by a warning growl.

Distracted by Papa’s smell and appearance, you hadn’t noticed that the Ghoul with you had been affected too. Its fangs are bared and glistening, its eyes are glowing yellow beneath its mask, and its tail is stuttering back and forth. You freeze, trying to remember the orientation video on feral Ghouls. It growls again low in its throat before hissing at you and arching its back in an obvious challenge. While the orientation video warned never to get between a Ghoul in heat and its mate, it DID NOT cover what to do when the mate was yours. 

The Ghoul snaps its jaws at you and flashes its claws. You know you’re not supposed to even think about fear, but you’re on a hair trigger—you can’t run, you can’t leave Papa, and you can’t fight this Ghoul. Your eyes cast about the bedchambers for anything that could be a weapon (surely he would understand if you used that frankly intimidating-looking huge dildo as a bludgeon, right?), but you and the Ghoul are both suddenly caught off guard by a clap and a low, throaty growl.

The both of you snap your heads toward Papa III, who is on his knees—chest heaving and glistening—fists clenched and eyes glowing red.

“Ghoul,” rumbles Papa in a voice that seems to come from within him and everywhere else all at once. The Ghouls whines. “Ghoul, you are not welcome. Leave us.” The Ghouls eyes you again and seems to vibrate. “ Now !” bellows Papa, and—while it does let out a sad keen—the Ghoul hastily retreats out of Papa III’s bedchambers and his suite.

Papa crumples as soon as he hears the door slam, and you go to run toward him, but he manages to gasp out, “The door, mia amore! Lock the door, per favore!”

You hesitate only for a moment before dropping your duffle and alighting to the door of his quarters. You turn the lock, then you sprint back to his bedchamber, making sure to latch that door behind you as well.

Papa III is once again curled in on himself and trembling. You’re quick to scramble into the bed—his nudity is a lesser concern to you than his obvious wretchedness. You take his head in your hands and guide it to your neck—something he advised you would comfort him. His nose snuffles around until it finds the right spot and then presses into you. He takes a couple of deep inhales before his arms come around you and pull you into him, squashing the pillow that is trapped in between you two.

“I am sorry, amore. Mi dispiace. It came on so fast.”

You stroke his head. “Shh. It’s ok, love. What do you need?”

When the two of you had talked, Papa III had outlined how his rut usually went down: a sudden onset of fatigue followed by a mild fever; an increase in body temperature coupled with the inklings of arousal—all of these irritating, but manageable symptoms. These harbingers were supposed to alert Papa of the more intense waves to come—the spark of arousal turning into a burning itch needing to be scratched; the spike in body temperature; the cramping. But if Papa III’s current state is any indicator, he’s sailed through all his pre-heat symptoms and is now firmly in Stage 2.

Papa whines and you can feel him restrain himself from rutting into you.

“Please, cara … please. I need—”

Despite all the talks Papa III and you had and all the pep talks you gave yourself in the mirror, you’re suddenly hit with a spike of anxiety. The moment is here. Papa is going to fuck the shit out of you now. He must sense your trepidation—or maybe the sudden tenseness in your body—because he squirms away from you and literally puts you at arm’s length. Even as he’s rutting into the bed he’s apologizing to you.

“Forgive me, amore.”

Your heart breaks a little, and you’re quick to pull him back into you. You knew this was coming, and all you want is to ease your Papa through his ordeal.

“It’s ok, Papa. What do you need?” you ask again.

He presses plaintive kisses to your collarbone.

“Just you, mia amore. Just you.”

“Well. You have me.”

While you obviously intended to follow through on your assertion, you weren’t quite expecting Papa to give a snarl and roll on top of you immediately. He takes to your nightdress with his hands and teeth, tearing it down the middle to expose your nudity beneath. You give a surprised yelp, but Papa doesn’t even pause in his ministrations as he bites at your collarbone and squirms in between your legs. His knees spread your thighs apart, and when his hard cock encounters your panties, he just reaches down and rips them away as well.

Now, your Papa is always a conscientious and considerate lover. He’s all light touches and slow care with you. He always sees to you first, and he doesn’t adhere to any 1:1 ratio in terms of orgasms—which always seems to end in your favor. But tonight he is actually a man possessed. As soon as your panties are dealt with, his cock is poking at you as he whimpers in frustration. You do your best to reach down to guide him into you while he clutches your flesh; eventually he manages to press into you all on his own, stiffening and letting out an honest-to-god howl as his cock sinks further into the tight embrace of your cunt.

His mouth latches onto the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and he sucks at the tender skin there as he begins to pound frenetically into you. Even though Papa III warned you that he’d be taking his pleasure from you, the reality of it is a little overwhelmed. 

And yet.

Also a little arousing.

Papa pins you into the bed with the weight of his body and his vehement thrusts—there’s little you can do but go along for the ride—but it’s still him. It’s still his currently intoxicating smell and the sounds he makes in ecstasy; it’s still the planes of his body mashing against you and the hardness of his cock inside you.

The fire of arousal heats you, even if it’s not enough at the moment to sate you. You let Papa rut into you and mewl against your skin. The two of you have been working on your comfort in vocality—but tonight there’s no problem. Your breathy grunts and high moans only serve to egg him on as he uses the velvet slick of your cunt to ease the burning of need compelling him on. The stiffness of his cock plunges into you again and again and again—and you can feel as your slick leaks out around him and down his balls.

And oh.

Oh God.

OH SWEET LUCIFER ON A GODFORSAKEN BICYCLE.

The two of you had talked about the possibility of his knot making an appearance—something that happened to him only ever in a rut, and even then being half-human made it a rarity—but you’re still wholly unprepared when the sudden protrusion tugs at your entrance. It’s … extremely stimulating, and you moan out—which only causes Papa III to speed up impossibly. You begin to wail and clutch at the sheets as his knot gets bigger, tugging and pressing at you. Some small part of you is anxious about the way you sound and how you’re acting—but the rest of you is screaming at Papa III to Shove it the fuck in already.

The mounting pressure suddenly pops into your cunt, and you can feel it expand. You scream out—not a breathy scream of ecstasy—but an actual throaty scream at the intensity of it all as you climax hard. His knot fills you in a way you didn’t know existed and how it presses into all the right spots has you cumming 2 more times with demi-orgasms before your head clears enough to realize Papa has broken the skin of your shoulder as you’ve milked him, and he’s now contentedly lapping at the blood seeping out of the bite.

It’ll probably hurt like a bitch later, but right now Papa III has started rolling his hips and is grinding his knot into you. Bursts of pleasure spark behind your eyes, and you suddenly notice you’re rolling your hips too.

“Ah, ah, amore—so tight!”

You wrap your arms and legs around him, and the two of you grind at each other. The sweet pressure of his knot is inescapable—no matter which way you go, there’s stimulation, and soon you’re arching and clamping hard around him again. You hadn’t even noticed it was deflating until you feel his knot expand again, and he howls—trying to jerk into you but unable to fully thrust as he climaxes again.

“Santanas,” he gasps as he falls back down on to you. “Cease moving, little one. Unless you wish to be caught all night.”

“Ok, Papa.”

You’re definitely feeling sleepy, and you let yourself drift off as Papa applies soft kisses and gentle nips to your collarbone. When you wake, it’s because Papa is rolling off you—cock now soft. You feel the trickle of his cum leak out down your thighs as he folds a cover over you, and you wonder how uncouth it would be to use his sheets to wipe it off. Your train of thought is interrupted when you hear Papa whine as his hand hovers over your shoulder.

“I hurt you.”

“You warned me.”

He tsks and attempts to leave the bed, but he’s still in the throes of his rut, so all he accomplishes is teetering on wobbly legs and swooning back onto the bed.

“Papa!” You scootch over to him to gather him up. He trembles a little, and you’re not sure if it’s from his effort or the sweat cooling on him. 

“I’m getting you supplies.”

Your hand finds your nightgown—and then you remember it’s useless; you think about winding the sheet around you—but Papa’s currently laying on the other end, and you don’t want to upend him. Finally you see his favorite slinky robe, and you decide he won’t mind if you commandeer it for the time being.

Once you’re decent, you retrieve a carton of coconut water and a protein bar. You do notice that your shoulder is beginning to throb and sting. When you look up, you see that Papa III is watching you with glazed eyes.

“My phone, per favore, amore.”

You shift the other two items and grab the ancient rotary. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but you manage to get back onto the bed and over to Papa with all your treasures. You place the phone in between the two of you, and you let him dial as you crack open the water and peel the wrapper from the bar. As he murmurs into the receiver, you hand him bite-sized pieces of the protein bar and the carton to drink from. What you can tell from his end is that a nurse is being sent up to bandage your shoulder, but that she can’t tarry because apparently Papa triggered his Ghoul’s rut, who then went back to the Ghoul dorms and triggered a while outbreak of heat cycles, thus overwhelming the infirmary.

When he hangs up, he curls back around you, his cock already plumping to hardness once more. He ruts into your leg, and getting him to eat the last bit of bar and the rest of the coconut water is an exercise in futility, so you put them aside. Papa III squirms on top of you, his hard cock poking at you once again.

“Papa!” you gasp. “Papa, the nurse! I’ll have to let her in …”

“She has keys,” he says into your skin.

“But—” 

His dick drives home, and you gasp again.

“Need you, cara,” he keens as he begins to thrust into you again.

It goes much like the first time—Papa plunging hard and fast into you until his knot swells, locking the two of you together and setting off a feedback loop of pleasure as his swollen flesh presses into you and as you clench around him until a ceasefire is called. He bites a pillow instead of you this time, but his fingers have left crescents in the skin of your ams.

A sharp rap at the door of his bedchamber startles the both of you.

“Are you quite done, your Dark Excellency?” comes a muffled voice.

“Sí,” calls out Papa hoarsely.

“Papa!” you squeak. “I-I’m …”

He groans.

“Un momento,” he yells louder. Though you can tell it takes some effort, Papa rolls the two of you over so that you’re on top. He artlessly begins to pile the covers in a nest around you, and you take the hint to recinch the robe.

“Come!” he shouts.

There’s the sound of the key turning in the latch before an infirmary nurse, in her starched white habit, bustles into the room with a medical bag. You cast your eyes down as your face grows hot. 

“Sister Aggie,” says Papa III.

In a dry, deadpan tone, Sister Aggie says, “What did you do this time?”

Papa pets your thighs under the covers. You try not to clench down on his knot.

“Show her your shoulder, amore.”

You look up at her from under your lashes and you hesitantly peel the robe back from your shoulder, while still trying to keep yourself covered. She makes a tetch noise, but otherwise remains clinical in her approach to the bite. Whatever she swabs on it stings, and you hiss, flinching. It’s enough to make Papa moan and twitch, but Sister Aggie gives him such a sharp look that he just pants and clutches at the sheets. She’s just about done applying a sticky gauze over the bite when she sees the nail marks, and she pulls the robe down further for access despite your squeak of alarm at almost being exposed.

She fixes a stern gaze on Papa III.

“Your new mate isn’t a Ghoul, Dark Excellency. If you can’t be more careful, I would medically have to suggest you do use a Ghoul proxy—Lucifer knows there are enough of them on their own cycle right now because of you.”

Papa is shaking a bit, but he manages to assure Sister Aggie that he will be gentler with you.

“I’ll be back to check on you every several hours. I’m not sure why you didn’t already put a request in for wellness checks, Dark Excellency. 

“Private,” he pants out—and you know he means your privacy.

“Not anymore.” She catches your eyes. “Has he eaten?”

“U-Uh … I-I—some coconut water and most of a protein bar. He—ah!”

You grunt as Papa starts to grind up into you, moaning. Sister Aggie keeps talking to you as if Papa isn’t about to cum in you again and isn’t babbling at you in Italian.

“He’s going to need a lot more sustenance after this round. I heard from Ghoul 0 that he was up most of the night before you joined him. I’ll let the kitchen know, but you have to make sure he eats.”

You’re trying to pay attention, but Papa’s knot is pressing into you again as he rolls his hips, ratcheting up the throbbing in your cunt. You must’ve zoned out, because Sister Aggie is snapping her fingers in front of you.

“Sister—do you understand?”

Your cheeks burn, but you manage to nod at her. “M-make sure he eats. Got it.“

“I’m holding you to that, Sister.” 

She clicks her medical bag shut.

Papa moans and starts to twitch into you.

Despite your best efforts, the sudden, multiple pressures into you propels you over the edge.

“Oh god,” you punch out, and you curl over as you orgasm, your eyes closing shut as your clit pulsates and you clench hard around Papa III’s knot. You feel it inflate fully again as Papa snarls then catapults up—smacking your mouth hard as he captures your lips, grunting into your mouth as he cums again.

“Spiacente, little one,” he gasps afterwards. “Spiacente.”

As you pet at him, you turn to apologize to Sister Aggie, but she’s already gone.

When Papa pulls free this time the mess is … a lot more to deal with. Papa basically passes out, and—on shaky legs—you make use of his showerhead to clean up. You bring out a warm washcloth to clean him up as best you can, blushing as you hesitantly wipe between his legs (you were afraid that would wake him up and set him off again, but he dozes through all of it). 

As promised, the food from the kitchen is delivered (by another Sibling—they’re apparently keeping the Ghouls away from Papa III until the heat cycles dissipate), and you bring it into the bedroom. At the smell, Papa stirs and cracks open an eye.

The meal is steak—bloody for him—rotini, and buttered beets. You wolf down all of your food and down the rest of the open coconut water. Papa eats the steak and must be babied into eating half of the other portions, plus a fresh carton of water.

He’s giving you That Look again, but you’re not quite up to being knotted again, so you give him an enthusiastic hand job, making sure to squeeze and massage his knot. When he climaxes, his cum shoots out in force and lands hot and sticky on you with every squeeze of his knot that you give. By the time he seems finished, the amount of his cum that you’re covered in is almost comical. Papa presses into you, smearing it around both your bodies as he growls at you.

“Such a waste. Every drop should be in you. It should be filling you up so that you grow fat with my child.”

Even though Papa warned you he’d probably feel compelled to talk of breeding you, you’re still a little embarrassed at his words. You’re not expecting him to scoop some up with his fingers and try to finger it back into your hole. You attempt to squirm away, but at first he’s very insistent on getting it all into your cunt; you have to draw on your reserves to sharply tell him No before he stops—and even then he whimpers at you before dozing off again.

You wish the showerhead was long enough to reach into his bedroom.

It’s a very long few days. Despite Papa’s promise, he still manages to mark you up with scratches and bruises that make Sister Aggie cluck her tongue—though none bad enough for her to make good on her threat. You do your best to let him have you, but your human physical limitations are such that you just can’t handle multiple knotting in such quick succession—as amazing as they ended up being. Occasionally Papa will use your mouth, but he’s actually too afraid he might accidentally choke you with his knot that he’s more willing to let you jack him—even if that proves to be an inferior method of release.

He does have toys—the pocket vagina and tenga eggs getting the most use, and then that dildo you’d been prepared to use as a weapon (you’d been reticent to use it on him at first, but after watching him fuck himself on it, you quickly became eager to control it). He tried to convince you to use the strap-on on him, but you’re just not there yet.

Day 2 was the peak, and the hardest day—he’d been a begging mess and you’d felt you’d spent most of the day caught on his cock. On day 3 you’d noticed him slowing down, and by day 5 his knot had stopped swelling. You’d helped Papa III with his bedding and soiled towels, and the two of you had taken a very long bath full of epson salts and rosewater.

Day 6 is completely indulgent—Papa’s rut very obviously over—but he insists that recovery is absolutely a part of the heat cycle. As you lie on his chest encircled in his arms, you certainly aren’t going to contradict him.

He sighs and kisses the top of your head.

“You are still here, mia cara.”

You place a kiss on his pectoral. 

“I’m still here,” you agree.

[tarysande]

Lucifer Fic: Love Languages (1/1)

Written as part of @thedeckerstarnetwork 2019 True Partners Valentine’s Day Collaboration challenge. 

The elements I had to include were: red, dinner, Ella's lab, and you're special (2x12). My partner, the lovely @randomkiwibirds made a beautiful edit to go with/meet the same prompt and you can find it here!

Also on AO3

#

Love Languages

Words

Lucifer looks beautiful in blue. More beautiful. But the furrow in his brow and the slight downward curve of his mouth distress her. Chloe imagines that when he speaks, it will be to leave—her, their partnership, maybe Los Angeles.

With his coat slung over a shoulder, he looks sad instead of nonchalant; a little defeated. He looks like someone with one foot reluctantly out the door, gazing back into the warmth. Wanting a reason to stay he’s already certain no one will give.

She swallows past a lump in her throat.

Chloe Decker realizes she’s in love with Lucifer Morningstar while they’re standing on a beach under a cloudy sky. He’s wearing blue. He says, “I’d be honored to simply continue working by your side. If you’ll have me.”

He says, “You deserve someone worthy of you, and that isn’t me.”

He says, “More importantly, Detective, you deserve someone as good as you. Because, well, you’re special. And I’m … I’m not worth it.”

And she doesn’t know if it’s because of how loudly his words say I see you, I see you, I see you or because this is the first time she truly sees him—the way he deflects and denigrates himself and waits for the proverbial axe to fall because of course it always does—behind the persona he wears with the same natural ease he wears his three-piece suit, but she kisses him.

I see you, I see you, I see you, her kisses say, while beneath the palm of her hand, he trembles.

Time

She invites Lucifer to dinner, casually, as if it means nothing. All the while, her stomach does funny little flips and twists and arabesques that almost distract from the hard little knot that’s been buried beneath her ribs since Lucifer said the words just friends. Her fingers keep reaching for the necklace she’s worn at her throat since he gave it to her a few weeks ago. If he’s surprised when he shows up and it’s just her and Trixie, he doesn’t show it. He still makes a face when Trix throws her arms around his legs; he still rolls his eyes and quips. Some things never change.

His eyes linger on the necklace. He’s beautiful when the color rises in his cheeks. He’s beautiful, she thinks, when he’s caught off-guard by something good for a change.

He brings wine—great wine—and they drink it. He doesn’t comment on her slightly underdone potatoes or slightly overdone steaks, though he goes into completely overwrought raptures about the sundae bar—Trixie’s idea—for dessert. He doesn’t even complain about stickiness. He and Trixie load their bowls with every possible topping in quantities Chloe can only cringe at. She adds a few sprinkles to her bowl of vanilla and plunks a cherry on top as a concession to the sundae of it.

If he’s brought his phone, he doesn’t check it. She doesn’t hear it ring or buzz or vibrate. If he has other places to be or other people to be with, he shows no inclination for going.

He takes off his jacket. After dinner and sundaes and the box of chocolate-covered strawberries he produces—“What, Detective, surely you don’t object? It’s fruit!” “Yeah, Mommy, it’s healthy!”—he removes his shoes.

Chloe’s not sure he’s ever done that before. Not in her house. She’s seen him naked on more than one completely inappropriate occasion; she’s seen him in his silk robe in his penthouse, looking tempting in a way she’d never admit on pain of death. She’s never seen him in socked feet in her living room, starting a fire in her fireplace, while Trixie hunts down Monopoly in the game closet.

It’s … it’s so strange. Flips and twists and arabesques strange.

This living room has never known this kind of intimacy.

“Look what I found!” Trixie crows, returning to the room not with Monopoly but with a pan of face paints. “Mommy, can you make me a crown? Lucifer, can I paint your face?”

Chloe expects Lucifer to flee, but he only turns away from the now-crackling fire, smiles, says, “Not in a hundred thousand bloody years, urchin.”

He doesn’t need face paint; the firelight gilds his features. He’s beautiful then, too.

“Sure, Monkey,” she says. “I think I’ll have flowers.”

Lucifer stays and stays and stays. And, lying on the floor next to him, her lips sticky with sugar, their shoulders occasionally bumping as her clever daughter fleeces them both, Chloe wants, wants, wants.

Gifts

It’s never been about presents for Chloe. Flowers are flowers and chocolates are chocolates, and as her relationship with Dan slowly died, she received so many of both any fondness she ever had for either died, too.

Lucifer brings her perfect cups of coffee from her favorite coffee place, which somehow always stay warm no matter how far away the crime scene is or how bad the traffic on the way to the station. If he meets her at a crime scene—he knows that every crime scene breaks her heart—he brings a lemon square. When the precinct’s coffee maker finally gurgles to an ignominious death, it’s replaced in an hour with a top of the line model she doesn’t even see him order. He makes her burgers and fries; he pays for dinners; he chastises her if she misses meals. He buys her daughter—her sticky spawn whose hugs he endures with such distaste—ridiculously overpriced toys.

For someone who basks in the limelight and craves attention to an almost pathological degree, he never brings attention to these little things, these perfect things. Not when it’s something he does or buys for her. She’s lost count of how many problems he’s solved with money or favors. She’s lost count of how many times she’s parted her lips to say thank you, only to receive a look that seems horrified she’d even noticed.

Pierce gives her flowers. He gives her chocolates. He makes meals and lemon squares and watches her intently as she eats them, an off-putting kind of calculation in his eyes. She overhears him talking to Ella about her, and Ella, with all the exuberance of her cheerful personality, scattering information like rose petals. He tries and tries and tries, slowly wearing down her resistance like water wearing away the rough surface of a stone.

Lucifer gives her a corsage. He gives her a prom. He gives her a dance with his hand on her back and his eyes full of something she wishes he would speak out loud, could speak out loud, that would change everything if he could just say it out loud.

He’s beautiful in the dim lights of this universe he’s created just for her.

And Chloe wants and wants and wants what, in that hard little knot beneath her ribs, she knows she cannot ever have.

Pierce gives her a gold chain with a heart pendant on it to replace the necklace he doesn’t want her to wear; she wears neither. He gives her an engagement ring in a box and it’s nicer than the one Dan could afford, all those years ago. She tells herself it’s beautiful, she’s lucky; she ignores how generic it is, and how completely not her style.

Service

Lucifer is acting weird (weirder). Manic (more manic). Greatest hits, he calls them.

Might-have-beens, she thinks, if onlys, as the hard little knot under her ribs expands and expands and expands. She’s reminded of Trixie’s birth, of lying flat on her back with her feet in the stirrups pleading desperately with anyone who would listen to make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. “The only way out is through, sweetheart,” said one of the nurses; Chloe never knew which one. “The only way out is through.”

The seed that’s been buried under Chloe’s ribs won’t stop growing. She’s just not sure what it will look like when it’s done. Lucifer plays the piano. Lucifer plays Monopoly. Lucifer gives her a dance and his eyes are full of something she knows too well and has seen too much—desperation.

In her belly and her chest and her throat, words flip and trip and stumble through arabesques.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” she says. And it’s not just dancing or piano or boardgames. It’s walking into an apartment shrouded in sheets and ghosts. It’s a candy-haired wife. It’s the way he said, “Friends? Yes. Friends, that’s exactly what we are. Just friends,” and planted heartbreak like a hard little knot of a seed beneath her ribs.

It’s all the steps forward and all, all, all the steps back. It’s oneupmanship and secrets and all the times she’s seen his eyes full of something he never says aloud.

She says, “Right now, normal, it just hurts.”

The feeling of the expanding seed, the growing tendrils, keeps creeping up her spine and catching her unawares, usually when she least expects it. It’s there when she says she’ll marry Pierce. It’s there when, after her disastrous bachelorette party, heartbroken for reasons that have very little to do with calling off a wedding, she says she won’t.

It’s there when she stays up all night playing greatest-hits might-have-beens, drinking coffee after coffee after coffee. It’s certainly there when she stands in Ella’s lab the next day and speaks the words she’s been carrying around in a hard little knot under her ribs for more than a year.

“I think if I’m honest with myself, all of this is about Lucifer.”

It hurts and hurts and hurts to want what she knows she cannot ever have.

Chloe plays the piano. Twelve little notes. Heart and soul, I fell in love with you. Lucifer’s eyes are full again, full of the things he never says.

This time, he speaks.

He speaks, and he is beautiful, and maybe now the seed she’s been carrying around can grow into something beautiful, too.

He kisses her.

Her phone rings.

And this time, the heartbreak has nothing to do with him.

After, Lucifer opens his arms and she walks into them. He cups the back of her head. Because you held me tight. He calls Trixie’s sitter. When she’s cold with shock and midnight, he offers his coat. Coffee arrives at the crime scene, along with food that no one touches.

When she needs a moment—she needs several over the course of the long night—he is a wall between her and the world, immovable, impenetrable. A guardian angel, if anything; not the Devil. Not to her.

Touch

It isn’t that Lucifer avoids being touched; not with the number of sexual partners he’s had. But he chooses who he touches and who touches him. He’s really very good at it; no one notices how deliberate he is.

It’s different with Chloe. From the moment she reaches toward the ragged edges of the scars on his shoulder blades, she’s different.

She sees them, for one thing. So few people do.

She sees them, and she looks at him not with curiosity but concern. Genuine concern.

In all his years, his impossible years, his years before years were counted or even invented, no one has ever reached for him outside of lust or anger. The few familial touches he remembers belong to someone else; Samael, perhaps. Not Lucifer.

No one touches Lucifer Morningstar without wanting something in exchange. No one touches him to comfort, to cajole, to curb. But Chloe touches his arm, his stomach, his wrist, his face, and asks for nothing in return. Her touches say, I’m here, as if every one of them is commonplace and not a kind of personal miracle on a par with creating stars.

He begins to take her touches for granted. Looks for them, even. Waits for them. He returns them, first hesitantly, and then with increasing ease—a hand on her back, a nudge of the shoulder, his fingertips ghosting across her forearm. I’m here, he says. Sometimes she smiles like a sunrise, a supernova, the birth of a universe.

But when she stands across a bloody, feather-strewn room, alive and beautiful and wide-eyed, the distance between them has never seemed greater. She sees the monster before Lucifer can hide him. She sees red eyes and red flesh, the herald of endings. This one, he thinks, will be worst of all.

“It’s all true,” she says. “It’s all true.”

Monster. Endings.

He turns to go, wanting a reason to stay he’s already certain she’ll never give. He takes one step, two, twelve, and then her hand is on his arm, his wrist; she’s grabbing his hand even though she’s seen it red and burned and broken, and the monster can never be unseen.

“Not to me,” she says, with her eyes full of something he’s too afraid to name. Beginnings. “Not to me.”

She presses her hand to his heart. She presses her heart to his heart.

She kisses him.

I see you, I see you, I see you, her kisses say. And beneath the palm of her hand, he trembles.

Beneath the palm of her hand, he hopes.

[lonely-bored-writer]

Winchesters meet the Phantoms Ch. 16

WARNING TORTURE

Danny sighed, eyeing the empty spot on his rug. He was so use to waking up with Juliet laying in the same spot for the past months and now Summer is here and Juliet had to go back to Hell. He wasn't surprised considering she was Crowley's puppy, but that doesn't mean he doesn't miss her. His phone vibrating noisily against his desk distracted him. He remembered how ever since the incident that amplified his power, he couldn't stand phones when they ring. It just grates on his nerves.

"Hey Sam, something up?" Danny greeted after reading the contact name Moose. He didn't miss the sigh of relief from the other side of the phone.

"Hey Danny, just checking in." Sam greeted, a shuffling of paper rustled through before the older hunter continued. "How's things? Still with Juliet?"

"Things are alright, Juliet got picked up two days ago. Sorry forgot to update you." Danny heard the soft curse leave the Winchester's lips. "What's wrong?"

"Look Danny, Dean and I... We've caught word about a group of hunters looking for you. Not by name, but we think they might try summoning you." Sam's words shocked Danny, he felt a prickling sensation spread through him from head to toes. "We don't know for sure okay? We're looking more into it, I just wanted to make sure you were okay and to warn you."

"Is this about the whole supposed king of hell?!" Danny growled, annoyed to now have to keep an eye out for another group of hunters.

'"It seems they also want information about how to kill your ghosts." Sam sighed into the phone. "Just make sure to be on alert, and stay wary of people with British accents... Look Bobby is calling me, I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

Danny growled tossing his phone onto his bed, and resting against the floor. He was getting so tired of this, he just wanted a nice summer break without worrying of anything going to kill him. But apparently that's to much to ask.

Three weeks passed. After the first week, Sam's parents took her to an Italy trip. By two weeks, Tucker's parents forced him into a road trip.

Danny wasn't sure if he should be glad that they won't be in danger or sad that he's alone for a while in summer. Regardless he's days ran the same. Spending most of his time fighting ghost, looking at scholarships, fighting ghosts, working on college applications, fighting ghosts, work at the nasty burger, fighting ghost, sleep, oh and did he mention fighting ghost?

It seemed like the ghosts realized that Danny was on summer break and took advantage of his free time. It didn't help that he was constantly on alert for any British accents or for the feelings of a summoning. So, lets just say he hasn't been having the best of summer.

He also should have realized that the moment he relaxed was going to be the moment that they struck. He wouldn't be surprised if all his enemies had cameras watching him for those exact moments.

It was after a long day of ghost hunting, he had to go as far as cancel his shift with how often that they were coming it. That's the last thing he remembered before waking up tied to a chair by blood blossom soaked ropes. Let's not mention the constant reminder of what had happened last time he found himself in a situation like this. Question was, how was he going to get out this time?

You know what also isn't fair? When villains are hot.

"Ah, our guest awakens." The fairly tall man spoke, a British accent laced his words. Danny watched the blue eyed, black haired man before him, annoyance racing through his veins. Just cause the man was hot doesn't mean he wasn't an asshole. "Oh, where are my manners? Arthur Ketch. British Men of Letters."

"You're the hunters I've been on the look out for." Danny stated, eyes narrowing as the man took a seat across from Danny.

"I assume the Winchesters told you that tidbit?" Ketch mused, before leaning forward. "Corporate and tell us what we need to know and I won't have to touch the toy box." Danny's eyes trailed to the black chest Ketch motioned to, a distinct smell of blood coming from it.

"Look you might be hot, but you kidnapped me so I think I'll pass." Danny joked, trying to hide the bubbling anxiety inside him. "I'm sure you'll find someone else into that kinky shit." Ketch watched him blankly before standing and walking to the chest.

"Very well, let's begin." Ketch turned, a pure iron blade in hand. Danny swallowed as Ketch got closer, he sure as hell hoped the Calvary got here soon.

'Cas... Gabriel... Lucifer, you're an angel to right? You respond to prayers? I don't care, just someone-fuck- help me-"

"Sam." Sam greeted into the phone that morning. It wasn't a number he knew but they had his number which meant they knew him.

"Sam, it's Tucker." The sound of the panicky and worried teen's voice that filtered through the phone had Sam wave his brother over and placing the device on speaker. "It's Danny..."

"Tucker, what happened to Danny" Dean asked, taking a seat next to his brother. "Is he okay?" Sam shared a look with his brother, dread already building up inside.

"I-I don't. I left for a road trip a week ago, everyday Danny calls me without fail." Tucker's voice shook slightly, but settled the more he spoke. "He'll even call me during a ghost fight! Before we left he told us about the new hunters he's on the radar of and he hasn't called me. It's been three hours." Sam and Dean shared another, both having an idea of just where Danny could be.

"Okay Tucker, listen." Sam cleared his throat, leaning closer to the phone. "We already know who the hunters are, I can promise you we'll get Danny home safe and sound. In the meantime, try into enjoy your trip." At the look Dean gave him, Sam shrugged.

"I'll try, just... Just keep me updated, text me whenever progress gets made or I'm driving over there." Tucker threatened.

"We will." Dean sighed out once the call ended, turning to his brother. "What the hell do we do? We have no clue where the British men of letters are located. We have no lead!"

"We'll figure something out Dean, we always do." Sam paused, thinking over the next thing they could possibly do before the sound of fluttering pulled his mind away. "Cas!"

"Cas, Danny he's-"

"I know." Castiel cut Dean off taking a few steps closer. "He prayed to me... Along to Gabriel and Lucifer."

"Why the hell would he pray to them! He hasn't meet them!" Dean asked, sharing a shocked and worried look with his brother.

"Apparently he did." Cas responded before he moved back on topic. "Because of his wards I wasn't able to locate him, however he didn't give me a name. Arthur Ketch."

"Shit." Dean and Sam said at the same time. "Did you say anything else?" Sam asked, moving to his laptop hoping to find any more information they could find on this Ketch character aside from he's the BMOL go-to torturer man.

"He did give a description of the room."

"I'll ask again, how did you become what you are." Ketch's words came out slowly, each words clear. The bottle of blood blossom extract in one hand and an iron blade in the other. Danny's breaths came out ragged. The burns from the restrains added to the burning pain from his open cuts and the sharp stabs of pain from the blood blossom extract in the wounds. He knew the amount was getting close enough to cause him nonstop pain, even in human form.

"Like... I... Said..." Danny breathed, raising his head to meet Ketch's eyes. "Go...Fuck... Your... Self..." Danny took the time Ketch took to walk over to the chest no doubt to get a new toy to catch his breath. He bit his already bleeding lip when pain flared through out his wounds again. The cuts were bad enough, the beating was bad enough, but the blood blossom was making things harder to bear. It did't help that unless it was washed out, he'll keep feeling this excruciating waves of pain.

"Wrong answer Daniel." Ketch said before a brass iron knuckle connected with Danny's face, pulling a groan from the teen as a painful red rash grew in the area the knuckled made contact. "How did you become the ghost king."

"I'm... Not... Saying... a... Word..." Danny breathed. He felt like he was suffocating. His throat felt like it was closing up and with every passing blow, it started feeling harder to breathe.

"A source told us you have a special weakness to fire and... electricity." Danny's head shot up so fast it made the room spin for a moment, his eyes focused on Ketch who know held jumper cables. Electricity was worse than fire, they were nowhere close. It wasn't just the pain, it wasn't just the frying of his ghost half. It was also the reminder, the echo of the day his life changed. It was a weakness to his core. It could render him powerless for hours...

"Know we're getting somewhere." Ketch smirked, noticing the fear that painted the teen's face. Now Danny really wished the Calvary would break the door down now...

...

...

...

A scream ripped it's way out of Danny's throat the moment the jumper cables attached to his forearms. The electricity sending ripples through his ectoplasm, shocking his ghost core, pulling the transformation rings forward only for them to sizzle away.

During all this, all Ketch did was watch with a curious look...

[thelastarchangelaskblog]

Redemption Deleted Scene 3

Here we see some more changes that occurred in the process of writing! Yeah, Gadreel’s still not here. Also, this is where I was still figuring out if Gabriel/Tony and Steve would be a thing because at this point I was at Point M and hadn’t yet gotten through Point D (or something like that). There’s a lot going on in the middle that influenced how things played out!!

Comment? :P

Redemption Deleted Scene 1

Redemption Deleted Scene 2

Redemption Deleted Scene 4

Redemption Deleted Scene 5

**

(Read more for mobile users)

Steve and Jarvis were slower in following, but only by a second. They were on his heels as Gabriel exited his room and ran to the source.

No, no, no, no, no. Why was this happening?

They didn’t have wards against angels.

And even then it didn’t block angels from entering dreams, as Lucifer so clearly had here.

Oh, Sam…

Gabriel almost collided into Dean as he left his bedroom, gun in his hand. He didn’t give Dean a second glance, skirting around him and to Sam’s door, pushing it open with a force that almost tore it off its hinges.

“Cover your eyes!” Gabriel shouted, gesturing back at the others.

Lucifer’s light filled every inch of the bedroom, but it was collapsing inward to a familiar human shape.

Gabriel reached for a knife, cutting into his arm and painting the familiar banishing symbol on the wall, only this time he added a personal touch to it: Lucifer’s name.

He didn’t finish it, a small part of him telling him to wait even as the rest of him begged to leave.

When the light coalesced into the figure standing in the room, the body of Sam Winchester remained, although there was nothing human about the way the being currently inside was stretching the muscles.

Lucifer gave a stricken Gabriel a lazy smile. “Ah, Gabriel.”

And that was all she wrote. Gabriel slammed his hand down on the middle of the banishing symbol, Lucifer vanishing in a flare of Grace and an enraged cry.

Gabriel felt Raphael leave, but he paid more attention to the shell-shocked hunter standing behind him. “Dean—”

He was slammed into the wall a second later by an enraged Dean. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

Gabriel grit his teeth. “That was Lucifer. Or did you miss what just happened?”

“How—”

“The Cage’s broken,” Castiel said, pulling Dean off Gabriel.

“You should’ve left me down there,” Gabriel said, though his Grace quailed at the thought.

“Don’t say that,” Steve snapped.

“If you think we would leave you down there—” Loki began angrily.

“That’s enough.” The words were sharp. “We don’t have time for this. We need to ward this place now. Because that banishing symbol’s good until the morning, but Lucifer will be able to waltz right in here then. And we might not be so lucky to get that painted in time.”

“If we ward against him, will it not affect you?” Jarvis asked, frowning.

“Use his name.” Gabriel shot Castiel a look. “You know what I mean, Castiel. Show the others how it’s done.”

Steve grabbed Gabriel’s arm before he could leave. “And where are you going?”

Gabriel shot him a weary smile that he hoped wasn’t tinged with the terror he felt. “I’m going to distract him – give you guys more time to finish it up.”

 “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

 “I don’t plan on it—”

“You didn’t tell us the last time. Don’t go sacrificing yourself again. Please.”

“Steve.” Gabriel caught his face in his hands, ignoring the way the others were rushing around the bunker under Castiel’s harried guidance. “It’ll be all right. It’ll be fine.”

“You said that last time,” Steve said quietly, one hand coming up to Gabriel’s right and curling around it.

“I mean it this time,” Gabriel said. “I’ve got a plan. A better one this time. You’ll see me again, okay?”

 Steve’s eyes were pained. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Do that.” Gabriel pulled him down to plant a light kiss on his forehead before letting go and heading to the exit.

He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to see Lucifer again. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to – not again. But luck wasn’t on his side, and he couldn’t stop himself from shivering in fear.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he stepped out of the bunker into the cool night. Small shivers ran down his back, and he pressed his lips together as he walked forward.

His eyes dropped to the still form at Lucifer’s feet, and Gabriel bit back curses.

Raphael… He should have known what she would try to do. But it was too late now; the bloody mess on her back was proof enough along with the absence of her soul.

Gabriel met Lucifer’s eyes, fear skittering through him as he saw Lucifer’s Grace hiding behind Sam Winchester’s eyes. “Lucifer.” He was proud that his voice didn’t reveal his fear.

Lucifer’s smile was easy. “Gabriel. Decided to meet me?”

“Oh, yeah.” Gabriel’s fingers curled and uncurled nervously. “You know how it is. Long lost family member drops in for a visit. I just need to catch up with them.” His smile was tinged with anxiety.

Lucifer’s smile turned into a smirk. “Admirable.”

“Yeah.” Gabriel didn’t move any closer, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Lucifer was well aware of his terror; there wasn’t much Gabriel could do to hide it at this point.

He just needed to distract Lucifer long enough for them to get the wards up. And to do that he would need to talk.

“So.” Gabriel wet his lips, fingers itching for his sword. But he didn’t draw it. Not yet. “We haven’t really talked.”

Lucifer’s brow scrunched slightly in confusion.

“I mean, you talked at me, but I didn’t really get the chance to talk back.”

“Did you have anything to say?” Lucifer asked.

Gabriel pulled out a grin that was all teeth. “Oh yeah. Loads. For starters, I’ve got a message.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, and he took a menacing step forward.

Gabriel flinched back before he could stop himself, hands flying up defensively. “Easy now!” He kept the fright out of his voice by sheer willpower. “I think you’ll want to hear this.”

“What makes you think I have any interest in listening to what He has to say?” Lucifer snapped, shoulders heaving.

“Because He’s sorry,” Gabriel said, both hands still up. “He made a mistake.”

Whatever he’d thought, Lucifer clearly hadn’t expected that. “What?”

“Dad made a mistake,” Gabriel repeated, tension vibrating through him. He shifted nervously, taking a small, fortifying breath. “When you rebelled, Lucifer, He made a mistake. And He’s sorry.”

Lucifer’s jaw worked. “That’s all? He’s sorry?” He dropped his chin, eyes fixed on Gabriel as he took two more steps forward.

“That’s not it!” Gabriel flinched again but stopped himself from taking another step back. He braced his shoulders, swallowing. “That’s not everything,” he continued in a calmer voice. He swallowed again, setting his feet firmly on the ground. Don’t move again. Don’t give any more ground than you already have.

Lucifer stopped moving, tilting his chin up in a manner that told Gabriel he had better start talking.

“He says you can go back,” Gabriel said. “Back to Heaven. It’s open for you.”

“Just me?”

“Everyone who followed you,” Gabriel said. “He’s sorry.”

Lucifer grinned shortly before breaking into dark chuckles. “What is this? A compensation package?”

“An apology.”

“Then why doesn’t He tell me this Himself instead than having you do His dirty work?”

Gabriel offered a broken grin. “He didn’t exactly stick around to let me ask.”

“Naturally.” The word was filled with venom. “Was that it?”

“Just stop, Lucifer,” Gabriel said, rather than blurt out everything their Father had said to Azazel. “Please.”

“Why should I?” Lucifer hissed angrily, nostrils flaring. “Don’t I have a right to be angry? He cast me down, Gabriel. He cast me down for an eternity and then turns around and expects me to forgive Him just like that?”

Gabriel restrained a terrified shiver, feeling his human soul quake where he had it bundled up inside his Grace. “It needs to start someplace. It doesn’t have to be this way, Lucifer. You…you were my big sibling.” He let out a breathless laugh. “You taught me everything I know. You think you were the only one hurt by what you pulled back then? Heaven wasn’t the same after you were gone. Why the hell do you think I left?”

“Because you were bored?” Lucifer grinned, quicksilver-like before it washed off his face, replaced by steely hardness. “I hope Michael hurt. But he didn’t stop, even though I asked him to. I did. But he didn’t want to. Too fixated on his destiny.” He spat the word out like it was poison.

“And what about you?” Gabriel nearly bit his tongue when Lucifer’s eyes snapped to his, sharp and deadly. But he couldn’t stop. “What have you been doing? You’ve been following the same script, Lucifer. Break the seals, leave the Cage, and start the apocalypse. Exactly word-for-word to what was laid down on paper. You can’t derail a prophecy without going off-script. And it only needs one person.”

“It was prophesied that Heaven would win, and that you would have your paradise,” Lucifer said, the words almost sibilant as they rolled off his tongue. “What greater victory would there be but for me to win? There would be no new beginnings; just an end.”

Gabriel worked his jaw. “And you want that? You want an end to everything?”

Lucifer smiled, slow and sweet, eyes crinkling in a way that only Sam could pull off and looked wrong with Lucifer staring out behind that face. “It would be a start,” he said gently, and then there was a sharp, stabbing pain in Gabriel’s chest.

[redheadedwhat]

Simon Summer Smut Week!

Here is my entry for Simon Summer Smut Week. This is my first time writing Simon so let me know what you think!

Title: The T-Shirt

Pairing: Simon x OFC

Rating: NSWF (Smut, Language) 

Prompt: Suntan 

“Heads up!” was all the warning Nicki gave Simon before tossing a shirt in his face. 

“What the hell is this for?” he asked, holding up the shirt without bothering to even look at it.

“It’s a gift,” Nicki explained with a shrug. “I saw it on the run and thought of you.” She felt a bit awkward now. It was supposed to be funny and she hadn’t really thought much of grabbing the t-shirt when she’d come upon it in town, she’d seen the picture on it and thought of Simon immediately, but the longer he waited to say anything the more nervous she became. “It’s just a gag gift. You can give it to the commissary if you don’t like it.”

Simon looked it over, raising an eyebrow before tucking it under his arm. “No, I want it.”

“Great!” Nicki smiled, wanting to get out of this situation as quickly as possible. “Well, I got a date with the sun. I’ll see you later!” And with that she was off.

There were many perks to being a Savior, first dibs on non-essential (and even certain essential) items while scavenging was one of them and Nicki was about to go enjoy another. She had the rest of the day off and she planned to spend it sunbathing on the roof with some of Negan’s wives. Unlike some of the others at the Sanctuary Nicki didn’t look down on them for the way they contributed and had gone out of her way to try and make friends. She’d seen a sexually frustrated Negan and he was a huge pain in the ass. In her eyes, those girls were doing the entire community a service by keeping Negan as chill as possible. It also didn’t hurt that they were happy to share some of their perks with her. Such as sunbathing on the roof of their living quarters where it was far more private and as far away from the moat of the dead as one could get. 

Upon returning to her room Nicki quickly changed into a bathing suit and slathered on some suntan lotion. She knew that too much sun could be bad for her, but her grandparents were from Aruba and she loved how bronzed her already tan skin became in the summer. Besides, she was way more likely to become zombie food before she had to worry about skin cancer. She was distracted from looking for a large t-shirt to wear as a cover-up by a knock at the door.

“Come in!” she called, figuring one of the other female Saviors had come to borrow some suntan lotion or flip flops and not bothering to look up from her search. 

“Well, isn’t this a pretty picture?” drawled a deeply satisfied male voice. 

Nicki looked up to see Simon closing the door behind him, the t-shirt she’d given him still in his hand hanging largely forgotten as his eyes roamed her body.

“I’m glad I caught you,” he said with a smile, making his way further into the room and into her personal space. “I wanted to ask if this,” he motioned to the t-shirt in his hand, “was a gift or an invitation?”

Nicki found herself unable to answer, her mouth dry and her mind completely blank. She just watched as he got closer and closer to her.

“Because unless you say otherwise I’m taking it as an invitation.” Simon growled, backing her up against the bed, his body touching hers. “Are you saying otherwise?” 

Nicki shook her head and that was all the permission that Simon needed to press his lips against hers. The kiss was surprisingly gentle at first, but as his hands started to explore her mostly bare skin it soon grew more passionate. Strong, calloused hands pulled the cups of her bikini top to the side and began caressing her breasts while Simon’s tongue did sinful things to her own.

“You sure you want this?” he teased, pulling away from her mouth and beginning to kiss down her neck. “You know what I’m going to do, I just need to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” she gasped out as his tongue found its way to her nipple, his mustache tickling her and causing pleasant shivers. “I want it.” 

Simon grinned and pushed her back onto the bed before sinking to his knees. He ran his fingers up her thighs and over to the sides of her bikini bottoms, pulling the material down her legs to bare her to him.

“Fuck,” he growled as he looked her over, rubbing his palm against the hard cock in his pants. “You are goddamn amazing.”

He let his eyes linger over her mussed hair, her kiss-swollen lips, her breasts, and finally her slit. Nicki was almost becoming uncomfortable with his scrutiny when she finally felt his tongue give her long, hard lick. She gasped and her eyes fell shut as he went to work, licking and sucking at her swollen clt while sinking a finger into her entrance. When she opened her eyes she saw his gaze locked on her, staring her down as he played her body like an instrument. Simon grabbed her around the thighs and pulled her even closer, rubbing his face against her pussy like a starving man getting his first meal in weeks. And if she thought his mustache had tickled on her breasts, the feeling of it down below was practically magical.

“Fuck, Simon!” She groaned, reaching down and grasping his hair, needing something to hold on to as the feelings got more intense.

He could tell she was getting close and slipped another finger inside her, curling both to reach a spot she never even knew existed. This coupled with the slight vibrations he was making on her clit with his lips and tongue had her thighs clenching around his head as she came, riding and grinding against his face wantonly with her climax. 

Simon rubbed her shaking thighs as she came down, giving her clit one last kiss before he pulled away, and grinned up at her. She was flushed and panting and absolutely fucking beautiful. 

“Holy shit!” she finally gasped out.

“Happy to be of service.” Simon winked, taking the opportunity to look his fill at her naked body. “Now, I believe you had a date?”

“I what?” Nicki asked, her brain still fogged.

“A date with the sun?” he reminded her.

“But what about….” she motioned to the hard-on straining against his jeans and watched him smile and shake his head.

“Don’t worry about that,” he insisted. “I have to be back at work, but you can make it up to me later if you’d like.” He licked his lips and smoothed down his mustache before grabbing the t-shirt she had given him and tossing it on the bed next to her. “Why don’t you wear that up to the roof?” he suggested. “Then I’ll know you’re hoping for more.” Simon gave her a kiss and after one last, lusty glance at her body he exited the room, leaving Nicki still sprawled naked on the bed.

“Fuck.” she sighed, unable to believe that had just happened. She was going to be late, but there was no way she could move yet.

Eventually she got herself pulled together enough to leave her bedroom, hoping none of the girls would ask too many questions about her late arrival. When she passed Simon in the hallway he looked her up and down and grinned. Not only did she still look flushed and satisfied, but she was wearing his t-shirt. A soft grey shirt with a picture of a mustache on it that read: Free Mustache Rides.

-----

Thanks to @lucifers-trash-stash for looking this over for me! Feel free to send me comments/questions/critiques and thanks for reading! 

@simons-thirst-squad