🐚Hi! I'm Rachel, or Shae, whichever~ MINORS DNI PLZ WARNING: self- and OC-shipper (LIVE CRINGE LIVE FREE ✊) COMMISSIONS + SHOP: https://tr.ee/HMPOMt (35 | Aqua ☀, Taurus 🌙, Leo ⬆ | 🌈Ally/Grey-ace) I post my artwork, writing, and the occasional craft projects here and there ~🎼🧜🐚~
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i love making friends in fandom, i love playing with our toys together, i love coming up with increasingly niche aus, i love lifting strangers up, i love motivating people to create, i love watching someone get excited over an idea and immediately running with it, i love yelling in tags together, i love seeing someone gain confidence in their writing/art because people were kind to them <33
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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✦ blurb — When Lucifer finds you sick and burning up on the couch, the King of Hell can’t fix everything with magic. So he does the next best thing, he stays.
Lucifer came home talking before the front door had even finished opening.
“Honey, I’m home. I went shopping with Charlie. Some rude people out there! I can’t believe Charlie turns to me, completely serious, and says, ‘Dad, please don’t threaten the man with eternal consequences,’ as if that was not an incredibly reasonable response to someone cutting in line,” he called from the entrance, his voice bright with the kind of delighted offense only Charlie could bring out of him. “I mean, really, eternal was clearly an exaggeration, I was thinking three weeks at most.”
Usually, you would have answered from the living room before he even made it past the doorway. Usually, you would have laughed or asked what the poor stranger had done to deserve him, or told him that threatening citizens probably did count as abuse of royal power, no matter how creative the punishment was.
Today, there was nothing.
Lucifer’s smile faded before he realized it had.
The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful, not comfortably still in the way it sometimes was when you were reading, but strangely heavy, like the rooms had been holding their breath for hours. He paused near the entrance, one hand still resting on the doorframe, his eyes moving from the untouched lamp near the hallway to the half-open book abandoned on the side table, then toward the living room where the faint golden glow of the fireplace stretched across the floor.
“Darling?”
No answer.
He found you on the couch.
You were curled beneath a blanket that had slipped halfway down your shoulder, your body tucked tightly into the corner as though you had fallen asleep trying to make yourself warm and given up before you managed it. A book rested open against your chest, one hand still loosely curled over the pages, and the mug of tea on the coffee table had gone completely cold, the surface dark and untouched beneath the dim light.
At first, Lucifer only softened.
You looked exhausted, a little crumpled, your hair messy against the cushion and your face turned slightly toward the fire, and for one quiet second he simply knelt beside the couch with a fond smile, already preparing some gentle teasing about how you had once again lost a battle against sleep.
Then he brushed a strand of hair away from your face.
His smile disappeared.
Your skin was too warm. Far too warm. His hand moved immediately to your forehead, then to your cheek, his brows drawing together as the heat beneath his palm confirmed what his heart had already understood.
“Oh… sweetheart.”
Your lashes fluttered at the sound of his voice, but you did not wake properly, only shifting with a small, uncomfortable sound that made his chest tighten. The book slipped from your hand, and Lucifer caught it quietly, setting it aside without looking away from you.
“Darling,” he murmured, softer now, one hand settling carefully against your shoulder. “Wake up for me, just a little.”
You stirred slowly, fighting your way through fever-heavy sleep, your eyes opening halfway before closing again almost immediately.
“Luci?”
“I’m here.” His voice stayed gentle, though the worry beneath it sharpened with every second. “How long have you been feeling like this?”
You frowned, as if the question had to travel a very long distance before it reached you.
“Like what?”
“Like a furnace in a blanket.”
You made a weak noise that might have been a laugh if your throat had not clearly hurt.
“I’m fine.”
“Of course,” he said, with the strained patience of someone who absolutely did not believe you. “That must be why you’re unconscious on the couch with tea you didn’t drink.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“For several hours?”
“Yep.”
Despite himself, Lucifer let out a short laugh, though it did nothing to ease the tension in his face. You tried to push yourself upright, probably to prove some point neither of you had agreed on, but the moment you lifted your head, the room seemed to tilt around you. Your shoulders swayed, your hand missed the edge of the couch entirely, and Lucifer caught you before you could slide sideways into the cushions.
“Easy,” he said, one arm immediately braced behind your back.
“I’m okay.”
“You just nearly fell over.”
“I did not.”
“You did, majestically at that.”
Even feverish, you managed to open one eye and glare at him.
“That was rude.”
“That was accurate.”
He helped you sit back against the cushions, keeping one hand near your shoulder in case your body decided to betray you again, then reached for the cold tea, frowned at it, and set it aside with visible disapproval.
“When did this start?”
You blinked at him.
“Earlier.”
“Earlier when?”
“I don’t know, earlier.”
“Helpful.”
You coughed into the blanket, and the sound was rough enough to make his expression shift again, all humor thinning beneath something older. He touched your forehead once more, then your neck, checking your temperature with a focus that made you realize his slow panic was not the frantic uncertainty of someone who did not know what to do. It was the fear of someone who knew exactly why he needed to act.
“Did you eat today?”
You hesitated.
Lucifer’s eyes narrowed.
“Darling.”
“I had toast.”
“When?”
“Morning.”
“It’s evening.”
“I was busy being sick.”
“That is not a meal plan.”
You tried to protest, but another cough stole the words from you, and by the time it faded, your eyes had gone glassy with exhaustion. Lucifer’s hand found your back instinctively, rubbing slow circles between your shoulders until your breathing settled again.
“Water?”
“A little.”
“How much is a little?”
You gave him a deeply unconvincing look.
He sighed.
“I’m going to pretend that answer was less concerning than it clearly is.”
“I’m not dying.”
“I am aware you are not dying,” he replied, though his voice softened at the way your fingers had begun clutching the blanket. “But you are burning with fever, barely coherent, dehydrated, and very determined to annoy me by pretending you’re fine.”
You sank deeper into the couch.
“Sounds like me.”
“Unfortunately.”
His expression gentled. For a moment, he looked past you rather than at you, and something in his face changed, as though he had been pulled suddenly into another room, another century, another bedside. You could almost see the memory pass over him, the practiced movements returning to his hands, the careful voice, the quiet assessment of symptoms and blankets and water and fever.
Charlie, you realized.
Of course.
Lucifer had been a father long before he had been your lover. He had sat through childhood fevers, sleepless nights, tiny hands refusing medicine, stubborn little voices insisting they were not tired while already half-asleep. He knew this rhythm. He knew what came next.
That should have reassured you.
Instead, it made your throat tighten.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
His gaze snapped back to yours.
“For what?”
“Making you worry.”
Lucifer stared at you for a second, then shook his head with such immediate disapproval that you almost smiled.
“No. Absolutely not. We are not doing that.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“You’re sick, sweetheart, not committing treason.”
“Feels like treason.”
“That would be the fever.”
You tried to sit up straighter again, determined for reasons even you could no longer explain.
“I can go upstairs.”
“You can barely remain upright on a couch.”
“I can walk.”
Lucifer’s brows lifted.
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
He watched as you pushed the blanket aside and placed your feet on the floor, your jaw tightening in concentration as though standing had become a strategic military operation. You managed half a second upright before your knees softened, and Lucifer caught you before you had time to fall, one arm around your waist, the other steadying your shoulder.
He looked down at you.
You looked up at him.
“…Still feeling independent?”
You grumbled something into his chest.
“I’m going to assume that was a heartfelt apology for doubting me.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know.”
Without another word, he slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly against him. You made a weak sound of protest, mostly because some stubborn part of you still insisted on being difficult, but your body had clearly chosen a side, and it settled against him with embarrassing relief.
“I’m not a baby.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to carry me.”
“I know.”
“You’re still doing it.”
“Absolutely.”
You rested your forehead against his shoulder, defeated by his warmth, by the secure hold of his arms, by the soft brush of his coat beneath your cheek.
“You’re impossible.”
“So Charlie keeps telling me.”
He carried you toward the stairs slowly, one hand rubbing gentle circles against your back while your head grew heavier against his shoulder with every step. You could feel the steady rhythm of him beneath your cheek, his breath careful and controlled, his grip firm without being tight, and for the first time since waking up, you stopped trying to prove you were all right.
You were not all right.
Lucifer knew.
And somehow, that made it easier to stop pretending.
By the time he reached your shared bedroom, you were almost asleep again, fever dragging you down in slow, heavy waves. He lowered you onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache, tucking the pillows behind you so you were slightly raised, then stepped away only long enough to move through the room with quiet purpose.
Windows opened just enough to let cool air circulate without turning the room cold. A fresh glass of water appeared within arm’s reach. A basin was placed discreetly near the bed in case your stomach turned. He removed the heavy blanket from your legs, replaced it with something lighter, then rested a cool cloth against your forehead before you could ask where he had even found one.
You blinked up at him, feverish and impressed despite yourself.
“You’re… really good at this.”
Lucifer paused while adjusting the edge of the blanket around your waist.
His expression softened.
“I had a lot of practice.”
You understood without needing him to say her name.
“Charlie?”
“She caught every cold imaginable when she was little,” he said, smoothing the cloth gently against your forehead. “I used to think she was collecting them out of spite.”
You laughed weakly, then winced when it made your throat hurt.
“I can’t picture the Princess of Hell throwing tantrums over medicine.”
“Oh, she absolutely did.” Lucifer’s mouth curved with fond remembrance as he sat beside you and lifted the glass of water. “She once accused me of betraying her because cough syrup tasted like banana.”
“That sounds like her.”
“It did taste terrible, to be fair.”
You accepted the water because refusing seemed impossible under his watchful gaze, and he only made you take small sips, patient enough to let you breathe between each one. When you turned your face away after a few mouthfuls, he did not force more, only set the glass back down and brushed damp hair away from your temple.
“Good.”
“That was barely anything.”
“It was more than nothing.”
“You’re easy to impress.”
“When you’re sick, yes.”
He brought broth later, warm but not too hot, and held the bowl while you managed a few spoonfuls. When your throat hurt too much to speak, he filled the silence himself, telling you little stories about Charlie as a child, about the time she insisted she was not sleepy and fell asleep mid-sentence, about the night she demanded five “last” bedtime stories and then cried because the characters in the fourth one did not hug at the end, about how she used to wrap herself in blankets until only her eyes were visible and declare herself a royal cocoon.
You smiled despite the fever.
Lucifer noticed every time.
He kept talking.
Not too loudly, not too fast, only enough to keep the room gentle, enough to keep you from sinking too deeply into the discomfort of your own body. Every few minutes he checked the cloth on your forehead, replacing it before it warmed too much, his fingers cool and careful against your skin. When you started shivering, he added another blanket. When the heat rose again, he folded it back. He seemed to know exactly when to intervene and when to simply sit beside you, present without hovering, attentive without making you feel helpless.
It was strange, being cared for like that.
Not because no one had ever helped you before, but because Lucifer did it as though your comfort was not a burden, not an interruption, not something he had to squeeze between more important things. He moved through every small task with quiet certainty, and each one said the same thing more clearly than any grand declaration could have.
I’ve got you.
At some point, when your fever made you restless and your eyes hurt too much to read, he picked up your abandoned book from earlier and began reading aloud. His voice was softer than usual, stripped of theatricality, warm enough to make the words blur pleasantly at the edges. You barely followed the story, drifting in and out while his hand rested near yours on the blanket, close enough that your fingers eventually found his.
He stopped reading for half a second when you held onto him.
Then he continued, quieter.
Night settled fully around the room.
You slept in fragments, waking every hour or so to water, cool cloths, murmured reassurances and Lucifer’s steady presence beside the bed. Sometimes he was sitting in the chair with your book open in his lap. Sometimes he was standing near the window, watching the city through the narrow gap in the curtains. Once, you woke to find him arranging a small row of rubber ducks on the bedside table, each one wearing a tiny nurse hat.
You stared at them.
He froze with one in his hand.
“…Y/n?”
You closed your eyes again.
“They’re cute.”
“They’re medical professionals.”
“Of course.”
“They went to school.”
“I’m sure they did.”
You fell asleep to the sound of him laughing softly.
Much later, sometime deep into the night, you woke shivering. The fever had started to break, leaving your skin damp and your body exhausted in a new, hollow way. The room was dim, the lamp turned low, and Lucifer sat beside the bed with his sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled, book forgotten in one hand.
He looked up instantly.
“Hey,” he murmured. “There you are.”
Your voice came out rough.
“Have you slept?”
He blinked.
“I blinked for a while.”
“That’s not sleeping.”
“Almost the same.”
“Luci.”
He sighed, caught.
“No.”
You shifted weakly beneath the blankets, guilt settling heavily beneath your ribs.
“You should.”
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
“Eventually.”
“You’re impossible.”
“We covered that earlier.”
You looked at him for a long moment, taking in the tiredness beneath his smile, the dark smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the way he still reached for the water before you even asked.
“I feel bad.”
His face changed immediately.
“Why?”
“You’ve been taking care of me all night.”
“Yes.”
“I’m ruining your week.”
Lucifer stared at you like the sentence made no sense whatsoever.
“You’ve improved it.”
You blinked.
“I’m feverish, not delusional.”
“I’m serious.”
“Lucifer.”
“I like taking care of you.”
The words came out simple, almost obvious, and that was what made them land so softly. He set the book aside, leaned closer and brushed your hair back from your forehead, his hand lingering there for a moment as if checking your temperature had become an excuse to touch you gently.
“I spent centuries trying to solve impossible problems,” he said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Making sure you drink enough water is refreshingly achievable.”
Your throat tightened.
“That’s a very strange way to be romantic.”
“I’m a very strange man.”
“You are.”
“And I love you.”
The words were not dramatic. He did not say them like a revelation, or a performance, or a desperate attempt to make the moment bigger than it needed to be. He said them like a fact, warm and steady, something that had already been true long before he gave it sound.
“As long as you’re sick,” he continued, thumb brushing gently along your temple, “let me take care of you.”
You closed your eyes, overwhelmed in a way the fever had nothing to do with.
“Okay.”
He leaned forward and kissed your forehead, careful and lingering.
“Good.”
You reached for his hand beneath the blanket, and he gave it to you without hesitation. This time, when sleep pulled at you again, you did not fight it.
Morning arrived softly.
The first thing you noticed was that your body no longer felt like it had been filled with fire. Everything still ached, your throat still hurt, and exhaustion sat heavily in your limbs, but the sharp, awful heat had faded into something manageable. The second thing you noticed was Lucifer.
He had not left.
He was asleep in the chair beside the bed, though calling it sleep felt generous. His head was tilted at an uncomfortable angle, his hair was an absolute disaster, his shirt was wrinkled, one sleeve still rolled higher than the other, and his hand remained loosely wrapped around yours as though even unconscious, he had refused to let go.
The sight made your chest ache.
You squeezed his fingers gently.
His eyes opened at once.
“Are you okay?”
His voice was rough from lack of sleep, and you could not help smiling.
“Good morning to you too.”
He straightened too quickly, winced, then immediately pretended he had not hurt his neck.
“Fever?”
“Better.”
He stood, leaned over you and pressed the back of his fingers to your forehead. The tension in his shoulders loosened almost immediately.
“Much better.”
You laughed softly, and this time it did not hurt as much.
Lucifer’s expression warmed.
“There you are.”
You reached up, brushing a messy strand of hair away from his face.
“You look terrible.”
“I’ll have you know this is the height of exhausted devotion.”
“It suits you.”
“Everything suits me.”
You smiled, then let your hand fall back against the blanket, too tired to keep it raised.
“Thank you.”
His expression softened so completely that for a moment, he looked almost shy.
“Anytime.”
He kissed your forehead again, then your temple, then your hand because apparently he had decided one kiss was insufficient now that you were well enough to notice. You let him, warm beneath the blankets, surrounded by water glasses, folded cloths, a half-empty bowl of broth and a line of tiny nurse ducks standing proudly on the bedside table.
Lucifer followed your gaze to them.
“They performed admirably.”
“I’m sure they did.”
A quiet beat passed.
Then his eyes brightened.
“So…”
You narrowed yours.
“…Yes?”
“I think you’ve earned pancakes.”
You stared at him.
“I thought you were going to say soup.”
“I considered it.”
“But?”
“Pancakes make people happier.”
“And that’s medical advice?”
“No.”
He smiled, tired and soft and entirely too pleased with himself.
“It’s husband advice.”
You tried to look unimpressed, but the smile betrayed you before you could stop it.
“Are the ducks helping?”
“They are supervising.”
“Of course they are.”
Lucifer turned toward the door, already halfway into planning breakfast, then paused when your fingers tightened around his.
“Stay a little longer?”
The request was quiet, almost embarrassed, but he heard it.
The pancakes could wait.
Everything could wait.
He climbed carefully onto the bed beside you, still in yesterday’s clothes, still exhausted, still watching you as though making sure the fever would not dare return under his supervision. You shifted closer, resting your head against him, and his arm wrapped around you with immediate, familiar tenderness.
Outside the bedroom, Hell continued being Hell, loud and restless and burning in all the usual ways.
Inside, there was only the cool morning light, the faint clink of tiny rubber ducks on the bedside table, Lucifer’s hand moving gently over your back, and the quiet, simple miracle of being loved exactly where you were, weak, tired, sick, and safe.
── .✦ ʜᴇʟʟᴀᴠᴇʀsᴇ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)
I’m not going to lie, I had a really hard time thinking of a name and I was too excited to actually post this whole thing after posting the snippet like a week ago. I’ll probably come back and add a name at some point when I think of one, but for now, I hope you enjoy!
Lucifer hadn’t existed for very long before he realised one fundamental truth: he is not a perfect angel. He’s not sure what went wrong during the creation process with him specifically, but something must have happened, otherwise he wouldn’t be like this. If he was normal, he’d be singing choirs and making contributions to Earth just like everybody else, not sitting under this stupid tree outside of Eden.
Why does a tree even need a guard? It’s not as if the humans know of its existence, and they never leave the garden anyway. Besides, even if they did take a bite of the fruit, he doubts it could have lasting consequences like the kind they warn him about to make the job seem more important. It’s an apple. The only harm it could do is if they choked on it. He still suspects the only reason they came up with this punishment is so they could be rid of him for a bit.
No matter how pointless the job is, however, he has no choice. It’s his duty to guard it as punishment for something that wasn’t really his fault. He didn’t mean to set fire to Sera’s robes, the fireworks just went off before they were supposed to. A totally harmless accident (well, he supposes it wasn’t harmless to Sera’s robes, but they were easily fixed) that led to an entire month of punishment.
It’s not too bad, he supposes. It could be worse, he reminds himself. At the very least, he has himself for company, and in his opinion, he is an excellent listener, and he doesn’t pretend to listen to his ramblings while (not so) secretly thinking of an excuse to leave. He can’t say that about any of his coworkers now, can he? He can be his own best friend. He’s a cool guy! He knows a lot about ducks, he has a great sense of humour, and–
Oh, who is he kidding? He sucks, too. He can’t even be mad at the others for wanting to be free of him; if it were possible to leave behind the parts of himself that everybody else deemed ‘too much,’ he’d probably join them. But he can’t, and that knowledge creates a hollow ache in his chest that he’s grown all too accustomed to.
He groans, leaning forward until his head meets his knees. He closes his eyes, allowing the darkness to overtake him in the hopes of a distraction from his own thoughts before he can descend into another spiral. If he’s lucky, the emptiness of the void will seep into his brain and he won’t have to think about what a pathetic failure he is for a few minutes.
“Hi!”
The sudden voice makes him yelp, and his head shoots up as his wings flare, almost whacking the intruder in the face. It would serve them right, he thinks, before he looks up and sees a familiar face beaming down at him.
Never mind.
“You know, you should really think about investing in one of those bells,” he says as his heart calms down, your soothing presence already working its magic on his frayed nerves. “Maybe then you wouldn’t scare me half to death every time you visit.”
“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” you ask with that beautiful, infuriating grin as you lower yourself to the ground. He shuffles over on the root he’s sitting on without even thinking about it, making space for you to sit. You do so, crossing one leg over the other. “I’d miss your screams too much.”
“Okay, I did not scream–”
“You so did–”
“–I yelped, and it was a very normal noise–”
“It was cute.”
Whatever retort is about to come out of his mouth is quickly replaced by a wheezy sputter, the finger he has raised in the air falling limp. No matter how many times you compliment him, it always catches him off guard. He hopes the heat that rushes to his cheeks isn’t as visible as he fears it is.
Thankfully, you don’t push the teasing for once. Even if he wouldn’t mind hearing you call him cute again– Wait, who said that?
“Sooooo… how have you been?”
Ah, there it is. The dreaded question. Whenever anybody else asks that, he knows they’re just being polite. They don’t actually care how he’s been, so he can just plaster on that grin of his and say, “I’m fine!” and then watch as they go on their merry way. But you actually ask that question looking for an answer. An honest answer that he can’t give because he doesn’t even know it.
“I’m fine!” He tries to sound assuring, but his voice is too squeaky and his smile too wide. He clears his throat and tries again, forcing his smile to relax and lowering his voice to a much more normal pitch. “I-I’m fine. Seriously.”
Your eyes narrow, and he feels the sudden urge to shrink into his robes. He needs to change the subject before you ask again and he’s forced to confront the feelings he’d been having before your appearance.
“How are the humans doing?” It’s the first question he can think to ask. He didn’t see a whole lot of them before being banished here, and as a naturally curious being, he can’t help but wonder how the new Earth species is faring.
You think for a moment, leaning back on your hands. “They’re… okay, I guess. Lilith is nice, at least. She was very polite when I went to visit them, if a little standoffish. Though I think that was mostly because of Adam.”
“Adam?” he questions, trying to remember the difference between the two. “Is he the one with the long hair or the one with the beard?”
You chuckle. “The one with the beard. He’s… uh… how do I put this nicely?”
“A jerk?”
“An asshole,” you say at the same time, seemingly having given up on trying to find a politer way to describe the first man.
Lucifer lets out a gasp, his hands flying to his face and squishing his cheeks together in a comically exaggerated expression of shock.
“Such language!” he scolds, as the shock turns into a disapproving frown. “What would the Seraphim say?!”
You laugh, and suddenly the ache in his chest has nothing to do with loneliness or doubt, and everything to do with you. Making you laugh like this, so open and unguarded, never fails to make him swell with pride, sinful as he knows it is to feel such a thing.
Though if it feels this good, then maybe sin doesn’t always have to be such a bad thing.
“Oh, shut up,” you retort, giving him a shove. There’s almost no force behind it, but it’s the suddenness of the action that makes his wings flare once more as he almost falls off the root. Once the shock fades, he lets out a laugh of his own.
“No, you shut up!” He pushes you back, and unfortunately your reflexes aren’t as quick as Lucifer’s, so you end up failling onto the ground, your eyes wide and mouth open in a perfect ‘O’ shape like you’re struggling to process what’s just happened.
Lucifer can’t help it. He bursts into more laughter—louder this time, and more free—at your absurd expression. He laughs so hard he ends up losing his balance as he leans forward, and falls onto the ground beside you, curling in a ball on his side with his arms over his stomach as he struggles to breathe (thank God he doesn’t have to). It doesn’t take you long to join him, collapsing right next to him.
You’ll both probably get a scolding later for muddying up your pristine robes, but he can’t bring himself to care about the opinions of others for once. In this fleeting moment that he wishes could last an eternity, his world has narrowed down to just you and him, rolling about in the grass under the shade of the apple tree.
It takes a few minutes for you both to calm down. When you finally do, taking a moment to look up at the sky and catch your breath, he feels your hand slip into his. He turns his head, not worrying so much about the blush this time.
“You okay?” you ask. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks flushed, and there’s a grass stain on your face. He’s sure he looks much the same. He smiles, squeezing your hand.
“Never better,” he says, and this time, he thinks he might actually mean it.
@naponiac you asked me to tag you, so here it is! i hope it’s as enjoyable to read as it was to write :) (also i may or may not have a part two planned featuring lilith if anyone likes this 👀)
snippet of an angel!lucifer thing i’m working on to see if anyone would be interested :)
Lucifer gasps, his hands flying to his face, squishing his cheeks together in a comically exaggerated expression of shock.
“Such foul language! What would the other Seraphim say?!”
You laugh, rolling your eyes fondly, and suddenly the ache in his chest has nothing to do with loneliness, and everything to do with you. Making you laugh like this, so open and unguarded, never fails to make him swell with pride, sinful as it is to feel such a thing.
But if it feels like this, maybe sin doesn’t have to be such a bad thing.
“Oh, shut up,” you retort, giving him a shove. There’s no force behind it, but the suddenness of the action catches him off guard, and his wings flare for balance. He gives a laugh of his own.
“No, you shut up!” He pushes you back, and unfortunately, your reflexes aren’t as fast as his. You fall onto the ground, eyes wide and mouth open in a perfect ‘O’ like you’re still processing what’s just happened. Lucifer can’t help it. He bursts into more laughter—louder, this time, more free—and falls onto the ground beside you, arms wrapped around himself.
You’ll probably both get a scolding for muddying up your robes, but in this fleeting moment, he can’t bring himself to care about the others for once. His world has narrowed down to just you and him, rolling about on the ground under the shade of the apple tree.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Chosen prompt: #23 "I dreamed of your legs wrapped around my waist."
Requested by: @stormy-knight134
You fell backward onto the bed, and Lucifer's body immediately followed, covering yours as the mattress dipped beneath his weight. He settled naturally between your legs, his warmth enveloping you, and you slipped your arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. A low, satisfied groan rumbled in his throat as he captured your lips again, kissing you with a hunger that had clearly been waiting far too long.
You had been circling each other ever since Lucifer returned to Charlie's life, ever since he had taken up residence at the hotel. The attraction had been immediate, undeniable, lingering in every glance and every conversation, but neither of you had dared act on it. First because he was the King of Hell, and second because Charlie had needed both of you. There had always been another crisis, another enemy, another reason to wait.
Now there wasn't.
No more excuses.
It had started in one of the hotel's quiet hallways. A lingering glance had become a smile. A brush of fingertips had become a hand refusing to let go. Before either of you truly understood what was happening, your back was pressed against the wall and Lucifer's lips were on yours, years of restrained longing finally collapsing between a single heartbeat and the next.
Now his body trembled above yours, an intoxicating warmth radiating from him.
"Lucifer..." you whispered breathlessly.
He answered with another quiet groan before trailing kisses down your jaw, across your throat, lingering against your pulse as though memorizing it.
"Y/N..." he murmured against your skin. "I've dreamed about this moment... more times than I'd ever admit."
Your fingers slid into his soft blond hair, gently curling around the strands until he lifted his head to look at you.
"Really?" you asked, surprised despite the teasing smile tugging at your lips.
A smile spread across his own.
"Really."
He brushed another featherlight kiss across your mouth before his hands drifted carefully over your sides, slow enough to give you every opportunity to stop him. Instead, you arched into his touch.
His gaze never left yours.
You had never seen him look at anyone like this.
Not with desire alone.
With awe.
As though he couldn't quite believe you were real.
"You've imagined this?" you asked softly.
He laughed under his breath.
"Oh, sweetheart..."
His forehead rested against yours.
"I dreamed of having your legs wrapped around my waist," he growled.
He rolled his hips against yours, and there was no mistaking it. He was hard, aching, more than ready for the next step. A smile spread across your lips as you caught your lower lip between your teeth, and his crimson eyes darkened with desire.
"And what else did you dream about?" you asked, arching your hips teasingly against him.
His breath caught.
"Let me show you."
With that, he undid his trousers before crashing his lips back onto yours, devouring your mouth while his trembling hands worked at the fastening of your own. Clothes disappeared one by one, discarded carelessly onto the floor as you became tangled together in the sheets, neither of you able to keep your hands off the other.
You let out a soft moan as he finally entered you, your fingers tightening in his blond hair. He buried his face against your neck with a breathless groan, his movements slow, reverent, as though he wanted to savor every second of finally having you in his arms. Each gentle thrust sent pleasure coursing through your body until stars danced behind your eyes.
Lucifer pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his cheeks flushed, his golden eyes bright with wonder.
"So much better than my dreams," he growled before capturing your lips once more.
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