Just some rambling I dare to call Buck character (development) meta that I literally babbled into my voice recorder on the wya to work after I saw gifs of the ep with the kidnapping and now just transcribed and am posting bc it's my thoughts and they're half coherent
The Diaz boys are his saving grace. Everyone knows it, you might as well have it branded on his forehead. Everyone knows it, the kidnapper knew it, Taylor knows and overyone at the 118 knows it. It's not something that he can hide. He spends all his time at work, always, and the Diaz family, Christopher. And talking about love languages, spending quality time, is obviously Buck's.
Right, where were we. So the Diaz boys, are his saving grace. Everyone knew he lived for them, everyone knew they meant a lot to them. They meant his life, but they still didn't know how much they had saved Buck. And that's where we delved into Buck's past, including BPD again bc I want to, and how he never had anyone to give his life for - except his parents a long time ago, and well, Daniel, without even knowing - but those two are probably what made him feel like he had to give his life, his everything, in order to have a purpose in life. Exchange his life for anything
And then with the sex addiction, basically saying how he just needed to be used so he could feel worthy- not even worthy, just to be alive.
Be worth something because there was no point in anything for him personally, so he had to have some other purpose. For someone else. There was no love there. Ever. Maybe not ever but since he was a child, a teenager, there was no love for himself, no love from others. No love felt, what's it called, usable/computable. He'd been given the wrong fuel, the wrong air to breathe. No oxygen, just poison. Not poison necessarily. Just, unusable, which made him feel like the broken one.
And first, he found the 118, which gave him a purpose and allowed him to give his life, his time - with his time being everything in his life - his whole being, his body. To the job, to everyone else, giving himself worth.
That still wasn't on a personal level. It was only professional level worth, because it was just a job. And the sex was at a personal level with interpersonal relationships, where he also just needed to be worthy. And so, he needed to feel used. It wasn't that he felt love(d). He just couldn't have down time, couldn't be alone with himself because then he wasn't worthy. He needed to useful to someone else. He wasn't looking for love then. There was no there was no confusion about what love is, because he didn't believe in it, not the way others knew of it. But the 118 giving him a purpose gave him more than he had ever had in life.
But he wasn't used to that kind of life, he still had all his harmful way, the self destruction that he had many different areas of this life, but especially with the sex addiction. Letting himself be used by others, being useful, serving a purpose on an interpersonal level. And it was harmful to his performance with the 118, with a healthy life, which is why it qualifies as a sex addiction and not just an active sex life. So it was harmful to his purpose in life. Alone the interpersonal worth would never be enough because in Buck's life people were a very, very fleeting presence. There had to be something greater than those interpersonal connections, which is why he was scouring the world, literally two continents.
So he gave up that interpersonal self destruction so he could be a good firefighter, be useful to the 118 and the City of LA, and have a purpose. And he was managing, but he still hadn't healed yet. So he tried, he was trying to do better and have healthy relationships but he didn't quite know how and that's how he ended up always choosing someone who wanted to use him. That's all he knew. It was the only thing he knew how to respond to. He didn't know how to respond to other kinds of affection. It wasn't something he even knew how to feel the need for, consciously, because he wouldnt allow himself that need. He didn't believe it to be a possibility for him.
And then that's where the Diaz boys came in, where he saw a chance for him to be useful. And he made an impact, because it was something greater because it was what the 118 had been teaching him about friends and family. And family was a the thing he could never quite grasp because didn't understand it. He couldn't understand it because it was always out of reach. It was never something he had with his parents emotionally cut off and Maddie having run away. It was always something beautiful in his mind that he was fighting for but it was never in reach- until the Diaz boys. And Buck wouldn't let that opportunity slip, he just jumped straight in head first, without a second thought. Mindless, adrenaline-junky (aka brave) Buck.
And he was welcomed with open arms because that was exactly what Eddie needed, and exactly what his son needed. And even if Eddie hadn't know he needed it, he knew he had to hold onto it with both hands once he felt it. He could see that Buck kept slipping away because Buck didn't believe he was allowed to have that. He knew how to be useful but he'd never been part of a family like that before, even though he really wanted to. Having that constant, that responsibility, that's love. Maybe. He doesn't know. He's still learning.
So when did Buck know he wanted to become a Diaz. He never quite knew it but he felt that there was a place he could fold himself into. A place where he could be and stay, if he wanted to. A place that accepted him, just as he was.
There's no one instance when he knew he wanted to be a Diaz. He never dared to believe he could, that he was allowed. But he knows he would give eternity to them. And he knows it because he feels himself getting healthier, getting stronger. He starts to become more selfish, or more accurately, find self love, self preservation for his family. Just a little bit.
He wants it to be his family but he doesn't feel like he's allowed. And Eddie keeps telling him "you're allowed to" in many different ways, all kinds of words and forms, until Buck can finally slowly build up to that chapter of his being. Until he creates that new mechanism that will run smoothly.
When he realizes he wants to be a Diaz, he already knows he could be. He knows it to be true in a way that feels like he knew it forever. Because it has been a truth, he just had to grow first. He had to find solid ground first, so that a seed could settle in safely and take root, so he could grow.
So it's not that the Diaz boys give him just a family. They save him from himself.
The thing everyone kinda knows about Buck is that he's his own greatest enemy. But they don't know what that's like. Not really. Being your own greatest enemy in every shape and form, in many different ways that make up his being.
But they see him grow and they know that that never could have happened without Eddie in his life in that moment, right then and there. See it didn't matter that at the time that Eddie needed to grow too. They were so intertwined that they needed each other and grow together to grow individually.
And Eddie wouldn't be a fraction of this Eddie without Christopher, so...
Of course Buck has to be a Diaz.
Thank you for coming to an episode of the all new Buck Talks and keep an eye out for more character discussions and pls excuse my dumbass self
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.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
How Chloe Decker Ruined The Greatest Slut of The Universe
Part: 1 / 1
Setting: Post s5, maybe post s6?
Word count: 2.2K
Rating: T
Summary: Luciferâs thoughts on monogamy have changed over time. Or, how Chloe Decker ruined the Greatest Slut of the Universe.Â
Authorâs note: Thanks for the help on this one! If Iâm still a little off canon in some places, I apologise. I tried my best. If it bugs you too much that it doesnât 100% match whatâs implied on the show, you can always consider it an AU.
Lucifer had never seen the point of monogamy. Why limit yourself to one sexual partner when you could have a thousand?
It wasnât a matter of quantity over qualityâDad no. It was simply a matter of diversity. Variety. No matter how delectable the taste, you wouldnât stick to one meal for the rest of your life. No matter how sweet the melody, you wouldnât listen to one song and one song only. Even the most magnificently scored piece of music would eventually tire your ears if it were all you ever heard. So why on Earth would you tie yourself to one person?
He might have understood it if humans were designed to mate for life, like beavers and seahorses, but they werenât. They were polygamous creatures. And yet so many of them spent every living second obsessing over finding the one. It was untrue to their natureâdeviant, really. The saddest part was that once they thought theyâd encountered this âother halfâ, theyâd chain themselves to the person, restrain themselves. Suppress their innate desires.
Why, oh, why?
The question had struck his mind so many times, most often amid a particularly sinful orgy. Why would you ever abstain from the abundance of pleasure several lovers could give you in return for sporadic and ever-worsening missionary sex with the same person until your dying day?Â
It had made absolutely no sense to him.
But then heâd met her.
Not that heâd turned monogamist by the mere sight of her (he wasnât that weak). But it was her acquaintance, all the light and the dark that ensued, which ultimately had made him abandon his philandering. Heâd wish he could say it was a conscious choice. It wasnât. After sheâd kissed him that first time (and probably even before that) he just simply hadnât had the desire to engage in casual sex with strangers. Not that he hadnât felt desire in any formâhad practically been set ablaze with it the moment their lips had touchedâbut heâd burned for her, and no one else.
And then, before he could even act on this newfound, completely overshadowing, giddying want, the all-destructive revelation had been thrust in his face. That she was nothing but another pawn in his Fatherâs vexatious game. That she hadnât kissed him of her own free will. That they werenât real.
It had felt as if heâd crashed against the sulphurous ground of Hell once again. And his carnal desires had been pushed even further back. If he couldnât have herâand he couldnât, because she deserved a choiceâhe didnât want anyone. Not even when heâd fled from reality to Sin City had he been tempted to pick up a bed mate or two. Nor had he felt the need to seduce Candy as heâd pretend-married her. No, that little arrangement had primarily, almost solely been to protect Chloe. To give her a choice. Â
And heâd done just that, as theyâd gone back to being friends. Just friends. (For some reason, it had not relieved the ache in his chest, but heâd tried not to dwell on that). And yet, despite their now defined platonic relationship, he still hadnât resumed his libertine habits. Mainly because heâd been busy sending his mother into another universe, being abducted, cursing his reattached wings, and learning that the new lieutenant was Cain(!). It wasnât like he hadnât tried to get back to his carefree debauchery. The feathery traitors on his back had just kept getting in the way and ruined the mood.
That, and he hadnât had quite the same appetite as before. Or perhaps his sexscapades had just become less filling. Either way, the hunger roused by their kiss had still burned inside himâa hunger that couldnât be sated by one-night stands and sex parties. Because, as reluctant as heâd been to admit it back then, all heâd wanted, all heâd desired, was her.
But she had been forbidden fruit, and for once, heâd refused to bite. For once, somethingâsomeone had mattered more to him than his own wants and needs. And so, after a couple of (by his standards) unsatisfying shags, and for the first time in history, heâd had sex with no one but himself. Only accompanied by the ever-fading memory of her mouth on his, and bittersweet fantasies of what could have been.
Itâd been rather depressing.
At some point, she had, for some inexplicable reason, started dating Lieutenant Pierce, aka. the worldâs first murderer. Consequently, Lucifer had put all his energy into proving to her just how much better than the Murderous Man Ham he was. In addition to providing her with her favourite snacks, buying her a car, and other small acts of kindness, heâd continued to stay abstinent, solo sessions aside. Sleeping around with half of LA didnât exactly say âloyal and devotedâânot to Chloe, at leastâand he hadnât wanted to lose her over meaningless sex. Eventually, he had (with a little help from a friend) realised that it would take more than expensive gifts, decadent dinners, and celibacy to win her over. That heâd have to tell her how he felt about her, instead of telling her how to feel about Pierce. With hope dangerously blooming in his chest, he had gone to finally confess the feelings heâd tried to suppress for so longâonly to have an inadequate diamond ring and a quite unexpected âyesâ get in the way.
In the throes of jealousy and heartbreak and so many other painful emotions he couldnât name, heâd started bringing people into his bed again. Heâd thought it would help him get over Chloe, or at least keep his mind off her and bring him in a better moodânone of which had been the case, of course. Because all he could think of, as he would lie there, thrusting with as much passion he could muster into his amour dâun jour, was that it wasnât her. That sheâd chosen Pierceâchosen Cain. That heâd had and would have her in ways Lucifer could only dream of.
(And oh, did he dream. To a pathetic degree.)
In spite of the sulky thoughts that had invaded his mind every time heâd been entertaining someone for the night, he had, as always, managed to make all participating parties, himself included, reach their climaxâoften more than twice. But while they had left his place smiling and satisfied like never before, heâd lied motionless in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling as empty and as starved as he had pre-sex. If not more.
He probably should have realised then that his days as a serial lover were over. Should probably have realised it long before that, actuallyâsay, when an innocent kiss had changed something fundamental inside him. But he hadnât realised anything. Not then. Not when rekindling his relationship Eve had made him feel oddly guilty. Not when their weekend-long orgies had done nothing to fill the void inside him. Not when heâd found himself alone in the shower, getting off to sappy daydreams rather than the luscious woman waiting in his bed. Not when heâd finally broken up with said woman, and his excessive need for polyphonic stimulation had vanished altogether.
Nor had he realised it any of the times heâd looked at Chloeâwhen the stars in her eyes and the purity of her soul had taken his breath away. Not when she so openly and without fright had accepted him in his true form. Not when sheâd made him see that it wasnât his true form after all. Not during any of their most tender momentsâmoments he could only have shared with her. Not when she had felt like home, more than Heaven, Hell or Earth ever had.
Maybe he had started realising it when she between sobs and pleas had declared her love for him. (It was, after all, in that moment heâd realised he loved her in return, and more than he could even begin to understand). But it wasnât then, and it wasnât there, it had finally dawned upon himâthat Detective Chloe Decker had ruined the First and Greatest Slut of the Universe.
No, the ultimate epiphany had come to him far, far away from her soft lips and her warm heart. Had first come to him when heâd let himself fall and sat in the throne heâd never wanted. Tortured by her absence for millennia on end. For it was there, amongst ashes and demons and scum, in the blackness of the abyss, deprived of her light, that heâd felt it. An all-encompassing desire, a scorching, excruciating longing to be with her. And only her.
It had been the single saddest case of Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
And fonder it had grown. For each day he spent in Hell without her, each year, each century, it only became all the more clearâcrystalline, eventually, glowing brightly in the black smog: He loved her. Exclusively, absolutely, and unconditionally.Â
Still does.
And even more so now. Now that he knows the feeling of her skin against his, and that she always vacuum-cleans to Spice Girls. Knows just how loud she snores, and what her naked body looks like in the sunlight. Now that he knows she kisses (far) better than she cooks, but that sheâs no stranger to fixing a leaking pipe. Knows that it takes four tequila shots to get her horny and two glasses of red wine to have her falling asleep on the couch. Knows how sheâll toss and turn in bed when thereâs a killer on the loose, and the peace on her face when theyâve put one behind bars. Now that he knows what makes her gasp in pleasure and what makes her cry with laughter. What makes her roll her eyes, and what makes her stomp out of the room. Knows the sound of her âgood morning, babyâ, and her âsleep well, honeyâ. The sound of her âI love youâ murmured against his lips.
Now that he knows herâtruly knows herâhe can do nothing but love her more with each passing hour.
And the best part is, she seems to feel the same way about him.
What a lucky bastard that makes him.
Because it was luck that brought them together. Not Dadâs will. He knows that now. Yes, she would never have existed had it not been for his Fatherâs divine intervention, but He didnât create her from his ribs or code her to love him. As opposed to what Lucifer had thought for so long, theyâre not made for each other, not like that. The fact that she met Lucifer? Definitely Dadâs plan. But that she let him into her life? Into her heart? Now, that she can only blame herself for.Â
Lucifer blames her tooâhas questioned her judgement many times over the years, but always with an impossible amount of gratitude. Despite⌠everything, she chose him. They chose each other.Â
He still doesnât understand the whole soulmate-thing humans are so keen on (why praise your free will only to romanticise the idea of a predetermined partner?), but he canât deny that he sees it now, the point of monogamy. Itâs not that you canât live without the person, or that you feel obliged to be with them until death do you part. Itâs not about containing desires.
No, itâs about not wanting to live without this someone.
And, much to his surprise, sex has very little to do with it. If he ever had to choose between having the best sex of his life every day or always being in Chloeâs company but never getting laid, his balls would be bluer than all smurfs combined. And heâd still be the happiest Devil alive.
Fortunately, he gets both her company and the best sex of his life. But itâs not the incredible orgasms that keep him higher than any party drug ever did. Itâs merely being near her. The closeness. The trust. The love.
He wouldnât trade thatâ wouldnât trade her for anything. (Not even a mĂŠnage Ă trois with Aphrodite and Marilyn.)
Once he realised that, it had only taken him two years to act on it. First, heâd sat down and had a short but heartfelt conversation with Beatrice. When that went well, heâd visited his old sparkly friends in the sky, for the first time since he formed them, and carefully picked the tiniest bit off the Brightest of them all.
And now, heâs finally making his way up the coast to the beachâthe beachâas a fragment of his dearest star twinkles brighter than ever inside the gold ring nestled against his fluttering heart.
For years, his innermost desire has been to spend every day with her and do his absolute best to make her happy. He not only knows but feels that there is no one else for him. That they are, in the most beautiful and incredible way possible, stuck with each other; they might as well make it official.
If she says yes, that is.
Edit: I have come to realise that I probably should have given @thewollfgang some credit for the idea about the ring. I am truly in love with their âRingâ-fic, and Iâm not sure I would have gotten the idea of Lucifer putting a star in Chloeâs ring if I hadnât read their fic. And now that I just read it again, I realise that the ring being in Luciferâs breast pocket also is heavily inspired by the same fic. So, lots of credit to the absolutely amazing @thewollfgang on this one.Â
OK may it's cheesy because Disney but looking for songs for Buddie post 5a (am making playlist) and, um, Descendants 2 Space between.
One has to go, one has to say and it's hurting like hell but neither will ask the other to sacrifice for them. They'll always be a part of each other. It's meant to be a best friend's story but I always felt it was shippy
Planning a Hell of a Wedding | â choosing a mode of transportation
Drabble 07 / ?
Setting: Sometime after s5
Word count: 530
Rating: M
Summary of the series: The Devil and the Detective make their way through the wedding planning checklist. One is more passionate about it than the other. Â (Works as a sequel to this fic.)
Authorâs note: I believe we're still at a T-rating for this one, but if I'm wrong, please let me know! I'm finding it hard to find the line between T and M. Edit: It has been brought to my attention that weâre closer to an M-rating than a T.
Read it on Ao3
âSo, I was thinking, rows of six on either side of the aisle, piano to the right, a little in front of the arch, and then, when the whole âuntil death do us partâ-spectacle is over, weâll ride off to the venue in my white Alfa. Or would you prefer the red Aston?â Lucifer comes out of their bathroom as he talks, drying his damp hair with a towelâand naked as the day he was formed. Droplets still cling to his bare skin, which is distracting enough in itself, but itâs something else that makes Chloeâs breath hitch and her mind go blank.
âMy eyes are up here, Detective.â
He sounds almost offended, butâeven as the sight of him has entranced herâChloe can tell heâs feigning it; heâs more than delighted seeing her react like this.
âThisâ meaning her staring at⌠at him, eyes wide and mouth agape.
âDetective.â
Chloe reluctantly looks up at his face, too shocked (and too aroused) to be embarrassed. He looks back at her, half-peeved and half-amused. She clears her throat.
âIâm sorry, youâre just, uh, making it⌠well, hard, to concentrate,â she tells him, and if her eyes flicker down to the distraction sheâs referring to, itâs not on purpose.
Looking down at himself, Lucifer raises an eyebrow as if heâd been oblivious to the state of his own body until this point.
âOh, I see,â he murmurs with a smirk, but doesnât wrap the towel around his waist or pick up a pair of boxers. Instead, he throws the towel in the hamper and just⌠stands there. But naked and fully-
âCare to hold that thought, darling?â he asks her, catching her (no doubt, hungry) gaze. Thereâs a glint in his eye, that tells her he thoroughly enjoys it, getting her all one-track-minded. But then his expression turns serious. âNow tell me, white Alfa or red Aston?â He pads over to their (ridiculously large) bed and lies down on his side beside her, casually striking a poseâhand on his hip and one knee slightly bent. âWhich would you like for our first ride together as newlyweds?â His brown eyes twinkle and he looks so innocent the contrast to her dirty thoughts is almost comical.
âLucifer,â she breathes, her eyes gliding down his bodyâhis perfect, hard, naked bodyâand back up to his face, âI think you know what Iâd like to ride.â
Itâs so predictable and so blunt and so not something sheâd normally sayâbut itâs been over a week(!) and heâs being unusually and frustratingly blind to her desires.
He looks confused for a second, his dark brows furrowing, and his cluelessness is so adorably out-of-character for him she wants to kiss him. But she doesnât. Not yet, at least.
With a light push, she makes him lie flat on his back, and even as she hoists up her oversized t-shirt and straddles him, he looks up at her like he has no idea whatâs going onâbut heâs definitely not one to stop her. Then she sinks down over him, and realisation erupts from his parted lips in a pleased and throaty âohâ.
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.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Planning a Hell of a Wedding | â finding an officiant
Drabble 06 / ?
Setting: Sometime after s5
Word count: 420
Rating: G
Summary of the series: The Devil and the Detective make their way through the wedding planning checklist. One is more passionate about it than the other. Â (Works as a sequel to this fic.)
Authorâs note: The Deckerstar fluff is a little more indirect in this one, but you do get to see how completely smitten⢠Lucifer is.
âAnd youâre okay with this?â Amenadiel asks, puzzled by his brotherâs request.
âWhat? Yes, of course, I am.â Lucifer looks over at him with furrowed brows. âI wouldnât be asking you if I wasnât, now would I?â He scoffs as he puts the tumbler to his lips and takes a swig.
âI guess not.â
They both lean against the railing again, involuntarily mirroring each other. Below them, golden city lights brighten the dark sky and hide away the stars. Amenadiel regards his brotherâs side profile for a brief second, sips his own drink, and gazes out at the night again, a smile on his face. âI just never saw it coming that my rebellious little brother would want Godâs favourite son officiating his wedding.â
He senses Luciferâs annoyed stare boring into his side. In contrast to his request, itâs comically predictable. As are the unholy words that follow, spat in (deliberately) poorly pronounced Enochian. âAnd donât flatter yourself,â Lucifer adds as an afterthought to his name-calling. âYouâre simply the least intolerable option; anyone calling himself âFatherâ is an absolute no-go.â He studies the liquor in his hand for a second before melancholically remarking, âWell, maybe except for Father Frank, if heâd still been around.â He sighs, smiles wistfully, and continues in a lighter tone, âBut heâs not. And I donât want some rando pronouncing us devil and wife.â
âYou want someone who knows you,â Amenadiel concludes.
Lucifer glances at him and nods, reluctantly.
âOkay, Iâll do it,â Amenadiel finally says, like itâs no big deal and not at all a truly great honour to be the one uniting Chloe and Lucifer (Chloe and Lucifer!) in the bonds of holy matrimony. âBut only because I deeply admire your choice of wife.â
âWell, who else would I choose?â Lucifer half-jokes back, his eyes twinkling. He downs the rest of his drink, stares out over the city, and releases an unmistakably happy sigh. When he speaks again, his voice is more serious, emotionalâwarm and smooth with love. âYou know, there truly is no one Iâd rather spend my life with.â
Amenadiel can't help but chuckle at that. âOh, I know, Lucy. We all know.â He takes a couple of steps closer to his brother, along the railing. âIn fact, Iâm pretty sure you were the last person in the universe to find that out.â Â
Lucifer looks at him, snorts, and utters that same profane term as he did before. Except this time, the tone itâs spoken in makes it sound almost endearing.
The elevator dings as Lucifer reaches the penthouse. âAnd the Devilâs back! I found your breakfast burritos and now a guy owes me a favour, so all in all, a successful trip,â he tells her as he takes off his jacket and places it on the bar. With Chloeâs breakfast in hand, he turns towards his sofa to grin at her, only to discover she isnât lying there, closer to ânakedâ than âdressedâ, like she was when he left to fetch her some food.
âDetective?â he calls out, walking up the steps to his bedroom. The bed is empty apart from the crumbled black silk sheets and her bra. His heart starts drumming a little faster against his ribcage.
âDetective, where are you?â His voice is rough and squeaky, the words almost resonating off the walls in the silent penthouse. Much too silent.
He starts searching the entire place, looking for signs of struggle and clues thatâll show him which one of his wretched siblings has kidnapped her this time. After investigating the living room and balcony thoroughly, turning every piece of furniture, looking behind every curtain, he goes back to his bedroom to check if sheâs miraculously popped up. When she (still) isnât under the bed, heâs inflamed, his annoyance and anxiety building into infernal heat, spreading through his body like a wildfire. âDetective, I swear to you, I will punish whoever-â
âLucifer, calm down,â he suddenly hears her say, her voice muffled. The sound has relief washing over him, calming down his blazing body. âIâm in here.â
As he realises sheâs in the bathroom, he hurriedly strides down the hall, presses his body to the door, and yanks down the handle. Itâs locked. Panic still hot in his throat, he clenches his hand around the gold, ready to break in when she snaps at him from behind the door. âJesus, Lucifer, what have I told you about privacy?!â
He wants to comment on her choice of exclamation, but something in her voice stops him. âRight. Sorry, Detective.â He puts a hand on the door, tenderly. âI just- Are you okay?â
âYeah, Iâm fine,â she assures him, still a little peeved. âCould you just do something for me, please?â
âAnything your heart desires,â he says with a grin, the last embers of fear now put out by the sound of her slightly annoyed (and thus natural) voice.
âWell, I really desire that you find my purse and bring it to me. I think I put it on the bar.â
He frowns, thinking. âUhm, no. You didnât. In fact, itâs not anywhere in the penthouse, Iâm afraid.â
âWha- You already looked?â she asks, surprised.
âWell, technically, yes.â
He hears her mutter something along the lines of âwhat does that even mean?â before she, quite sceptically, asks, âAre you sure? Lucifer, Iâm not in the mood for pranks right now.â
When are you ever? he thinks, still disappointed she didnât appreciate his creativity last time he tried to lighten the mood. But heâs not looking to rouse her now, so he tells her the truth, hoping it will allay her annoyance, inexplicable as he finds it. âIf you really must know, I spent five full minutes searching the entire place for signs that youâd been hurt by one of my pathetic relatives, so yes, Detective, I am pretty damn sure your little too big and quite mum-ish bag isnât here,â he tells her. He hears her grunt a profanity heâs only ever heard her moan ecstatically in the throes of passion; now itâs laced with frustration and despair. Something is going on with her, and he needs to figure out what it is before she ruins more of his favourite words.
âWhy on Earth do you need your rucksack in my bathroom anyway?â
âItâs not a rucksack,â she tells him.
âAh, nice try! But I will not let you deflect my truly relevant question. What is it you need, Detective?â He tries again, more inquisitively this time.
No answer.
His brow creases with worry and the slightest hint of an ache settles in his chest. âWhatâs going on?â
Several heart beats pass. He tries to remain patient but after seven seconds, his hands are banging on the door and yanking down the antique French handle aggressively. âDetective, let me in please! Did you use the razor Maze made you? I told you not to do that! Are you hurt? Did you trip? Do you have a nosebleed? Dearie me, did you get yourself poisoned again? I- Just please tell me whatâs wrong. Whatever it is, I want to help,â he says, his voice going softer towards the end. With anyone else, heâs not easily alarmed, but the Devilâs girlfriend does tend to get herself into danger a little more often than the average person.
He hears her sigh, short and sharply. âIf you want to help me, you need to calm down,â she tells him in the same slow and placid voice she uses on people who are bold enough to point a gun at her. âIâm fine.â
He takes a deep, shaky breath, her words easing his nerves a little.
âThen why are you acting so⌠strange? And why in Dadâs name are you hiding in my bathroom? I mean, bloody hell, Detective, I was mere seconds from filing an MPR!â
She snorts, murmuring something about a drama queen. Then silence. A deep breath.
âWell,â she finally says, still an annoyed edge to her tone. ââBloody hellâ is not that far off, actually.â
He knits his brow. âExcuse me?â
She sighs deeply behind the door. âItâs just, uhm, you know⌠lady stuff.â
He blinks, dumbfounded.
âOh,â is what he replies.
He would tease her about the euphemism, pretend he doesnât understand, but he understands. He understands everything. Thinking back to the night before, he remembers her acting a little oddly then as well - giggly and gleeful one moment, fractious and bitter the next. Heâd blamed it on her tipsiness, but now that he thinks about it, and does the math, she did take him hostage on a similar emotional rollercoaster ride, one, two, three, circa four weeks ago. And, yes, four weeks before that, too. The first time, heâd thought it was the stress from having her mother stay over for the urchinâs birthday. The second time, heâd indicted the particularly troubling case theyâd been working. But it hadnât (solely) been Penelope Decker nor a frustrating and possibly record-breaking number of dead ends that had made the Detective chaotically jump around the emotional spectrum to the point heâd worried she was suffering from a light personality disorder. No, apparently, it was the tiny rascals known to humans as âhormonesâ whoâd been wreaking havoc in her brain, manipulating her emotions â then and now.
He hasnât uttered anything apart from the one (cleverly phrased) syllable since the revelation, and she must interpret his silence as lack of comprehension, because she begins to explain the bloody thing: âYou know, when a woman-â
âYes, thank you, Detective, I am familiar with the concept of menstruation. Quite popular method of torture in Hell, actually,â he informs her, cutting her biology lesson short.
âTell me about it.â
âWell, surprisingly, itâs mostly-â
âThat was a rhetorical- Never mind.â
He hears more than just annoyance in her voice now; sheâs in pain. His chest aches again. âIs something wrong? I mean, I have met a lot of women whose deepest desires were to be knocked out cold during Aunt Floâs monthly visit, but at least we know for certain there isnât a mini-Satan inside you, ravaging your uterus,â he points out in an attempt to cheer her up. Itâs mostly a joke, because it shouldnât be possibleâisnât possibleâand yet a part of him is still exceedingly relieved that she, after three weeks of thoroughly unprotected (and sinfully delectable) sex with him, isnât carrying, well, the Devilâs spawn.
âKinda feels like someoneâs ravaging my uterus,â she says with a groan. His heart starts pounding, hard and deafening. Dark spots appear before his eyes as blood leaves his head.
âI- thatâs not- what?â
âNo, Lucifer. Relax. Iâm not pregnant.â She tries to sound mild and calm, but he can tell sheâs aggravated, and horribly pained. âItâs just cramps.â
âOh, right,â he mumbles, a full-blown panic attack officially averted. Still, something in her voice makes his teeth grit and his eyes flare red. He wants to punish whatever in her body is putting her through such⌠torture, wants to torture it back. Or, since he canât really do that, just have a quick chat with his father and whoever assisted him in designing the inhumanly excruciating menstrual cramps. (And humans think the Devil is the one whoâs truly evil.) But he realises a family discussion might not actually help his suffering Detective right now, so instead he wills his voice to sound calm and asks her, âIs there anything I can do?â
As he waits, quite impatiently, for her answer, he pulls out his phone and googles âwhat to do when your girlfriendâs surfing the crimson wave.â Heâs about to tap on the top hit when she replies, âUhm, well, yes, there is, actually.â Her words both surprise and delight him. He loves to feel needed.
âLovely! Whatever you need, Iâm here to fix it as your very own PA.â Â He puts his phone back, letting his hand stay in his pocket, and clarifies, âPeriod Assistant.â As usual, she rudely ignores his clever play on words.
âOkay, I just need to know if you have any⌠stuff? Like, maybe Eve had a stash somewhere?â
âStuff?â he asks, beyond clueless as to what sheâs hinting at.
âYeah, you know-â she starts explaining when he interrupts her, suddenly remembering. âWell, come to think of it, Eve did indeed have a stash!â
âShe did?â She sounds relieved, and it makes his heart flutter a little. âDo you know where? âCause I searched all your cabinets, but I couldnât find anything.â
âUh, Iâm pretty sure itâs in my bookshelf,â he says, already turning to go find it. âWould you prefer marijuana or molly?â
âFor Godâs sake, Lucifer!â she screams behind him, the door between them doing very little to lower the sound. âI donât need freaking party drugs! This,â she says, breathing angrily. A couple of seconds pass. âThis is what I need.â
A tissue slides out under the door. With a raised eyebrow, he bends down to pick it up and sees that sheâs scribbled some words on it with what appears to be an eyeliner. He doesnât know what any of them mean. Well, âibuprofenâ and âdonât be an assâ he understands, but the rest are foreign to him.
âRight, are these strippersâ names, orâŚ? I think Iâve made a deal with an Always once, actual-â
âTheyâre feminine hygiene products, Lucifer! I need feminine hygiene products! I want you to go buy me a whole lot I can leave in here, so Iâll never need to have this conversation ever again!â she shouts, fuming all of a sudden. âSo go out, and get me some tampons and padsâand thatâs pads with wings! âCause I swear to God, Lucifer, if you come back with pads that do not have wings, I might actually cut off your d-â
âYes, we get the picture, Detective!â he cuts her off, chuckling nervously. Itâs not that he hasnât experienced his partner pissed before (he calls it Tuesday as a matter of fact), but sheâs never threatened to mutilate him. âWhatever you need,â he appeases her, his voice sweet and velvety. âAnything else?â He reads the list she has given him, carefully paying attention to every request this time. âRight, ibuprofen for the- yes, your cramps. Iâm afraid Iâve run out, but Iâm sure I can get some wherever Iâll find,ââhe squints his eyes to focus on the words â âAlways ultra thin super long pads with flexie-wings and⌠Tampax pearl compak super. I mean, who the Hell names these things? Not that it matters, of course. If thatâs what you need, thatâs what youâll get,â he assures her.
As he studies her order closely one more time, his stomach growls and he realises that neither of them has eaten anything yet. He immediately offers to bring her breakfast to her; surely, her body needs alle the strength it can get to overcome whatever unpleasant side-effects other than dysmenorrhea his oh, so benevolent father has so generously granted the female population of the Earth.
âYes, please,â she croaks meekly behind the door in response to his offer. âThat would be nice.â
He goes to retrieve the burritos from atop the piano where heâd dropped them in the haste of his search. Once heâs back with them, heâgentlyâknocks on the door. After a couple of seconds, he hears the key turn before she opens the door just enough to reach out her arm through the crack. Heâs about to give her the branded paper bag, when he thinks twice of it and instead takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers. Softly, he strokes the back of her hand and pulls it lightly, prompting her to come out. When she opens the door a little more, the sight that greets him stings his heart. Exhaustion has coloured the skin beneath her eyes purple and her usually ocean blue eyes a matte grey. Her posture is oddly sunken, like she wants to curl into a ball, and her chest heaves as she breathes heavily. She looks truly miserable, and yet sheâs still a sight for sore eyes, as she stands there, wearing one of his white Prada shirts andâŚ
âAre those⌠my boxers?â he asks her with a raised eyebrow and a pleased smile. She looks down to where his eyes have just landed. âWell, yeah, I couldnât- my own underwearâŚ,â she trails off. âIâve lined them with paper towels, just so I donât, you know. I hope itâs okay.â She looks strangely sheepish. He leans over to place a kiss on her forehead. âOh, itâs more than okay. Itâs sexy,â he tells her with a grin. âAnd quite cute, to be frank.â
She chuckles, replacing the ache in his chest with a pleasant, buzzing warmth. âI donât think Iâve ever heard you use the word âcuteâ before,â she points out, looking up at him through her long eyelashes as she leans her forehead against his. He notices the hint of a smile on her lips, and his own smile grows wider. âWell, youâve never worn my underwear before,â he reminds her, nuzzling her nose. âMmm, that is true.â Her voice is nothing but a whisper as she leans just an inch forward to get a kiss from him, which he happily he gives her.
âWhy donât you draw yourself a nice, hot bath,â he proposes, booping her nose. Then an image from Jaws invades his mind, and warily, but with a glint in his eyes, he adds, âUnless that would make a true bloodbath.â She pulls away from him, slowly but purposefully. Untangling their hands, she crosses her arms across her chest (he tries not to notice how it makes her cleavage deliciously peek out behind his hardly buttoned shirt). She glares at him with a look which, historically, means they will be communicating exclusively in scoffs, snorts, death stares and well, I am truly sorry for whatever it is Iâve done but can we please forget about it and go back to being a dynamic duoâs the rest of the day. With a short yet undoubtedly disapproving shake of her head, she snatches the breakfast bag from his hand before slamming the door in his face. âDetective, I-â he stammers as the gush of air hits his front, possibly making his yet to be tamed bed hair look even more scandalous.
He hears the rustling and crinkling of paper as she takes out her breakfast. âList,â she demands sharply with her mouth fullâand not in the way that had him gripping the sheets till his knuckles turned white last night. By the sound of her voice, heâll need to do right by her if he wishes to ever experience that again.
âYes, darling, Iâll do nothing but my best,â he promises her, casting a last glance at the list in question before folding it neatly into his pocket. He starts walking down the hall when the sound of his name makes him turn on his heels to face the door. He senses another reprimand and braces himself, softly offering a simple âDetective?â in response.
âThank you.â Her voice is sweet and apologetic, all aggravation suddenly gone.
âWhat on-â he mumbles under his breath, completely bewildered by her emotional U-turn. Heâs wise enough not to comment on it, however, smiles instead, glad he can be of use, and playfully, yet still in a tone that assures her he means no harm, says, âWell, itâs the least I can do for my menstruating partner.â
âPlease stop saying âmenstruatingâ,â she tells him between bites, sounding a little brassed off again. He considers asking her why but decides against it, responding with a simple âNotedâ instead.
He hears the shower start running and decides to depart, wanting to be back before sheâs done. âAlright then, off I go on my quest!â he sings out, hoping itâs loud enough for her to hear over the shower spray, but the water stops and she calls out a âwhat?â. She has probably already stepped into the shower cabin, adorning his bathroom with all her wet and naked glory. Oh, to be a marble tile on the wall, getting an unobstructed view of her exquisite br-
âDid you say something, honey?â she calls again when he hasnât replied. Itâs not the first time she uses the term of endearment, but it still makes warmth pool low in his stomach. Heâs so smittenânot a cell in his body can deny that anymore. Especially not the part of his body thatâs currently straining his tailored slacks.
He clears his throat and shamelessly adjusts himself.
âHm? No, I was just announcing my exit. Try not to bleed to death while Iâm gone, will you?â
âI canât- Thatâs not possi-â she stammers behind him as he makes his way to the elevator, grabbing his jacket as he walks past the bar. Before she can finish whatever protest sheâs trying to enounce, heâs already in the elevator, sending a text to Linda:
What in the ever-living Hell does âpads with wingsâ mean?
okay okay but IS THAT LYDIA LYING THERE ON THE SLAB HEAD BLEEDING WITH THEÂ POWER DRILL BY HER HAND???? i mean i know we know whatâs gonna happen but this is somehow a little rude, no?
