Lucifer Headcanons (A bit suggestive~)
Fuuuuk
So currently watching Lucifer the show right and of course I'm fucking simping...
Here's some headcanons or scenarios or whatever.
~
Bro definitely loves being told what to do in the bedroom, like yeah he might start it but pull his hair, scratch his back, bite his skin.. he'll definitely fold.
Will probably make jokes about sleeping with other people just to get under your skin
He's so cute when he's kinda surprised at something so imagine him being madly into you and pausing when you feel the same way.
"You... I'm sorry, can you repeat that again?" He just wants to know if you're really serious because if he wants you he wants to make sure you feel the same. Say it again, he dares you.
Sleeping with him is so passionate, so loving and everytime you find yourself in his arms you can't help but gently run your lips over his jawline, rub circles in his back and bro might just purr.
A big ole cuddler
I have a feeling that he might have a thing for making and watching you come over and over again... There's just something about the way you jolt and squirm and cry out his name that really gets him going.
Might spend hours up on hours between your thighs.
A bit on the submissive side at times? He doesn't want to ever do anything you aren't comfortable with so at times when you pull him aside, give him certain looks, and boss him around he will definitely ask your intentions. Whether you're actually interested or scolding him doesn't matter, he's hard.
He's a big boy, I can't help but imagine him in some lingerie though?? Darker colors suit him best, crimson makes him look edible, but bro can practically pull anything off.
Kinks like pet play but like with you calling him a good boy and him wearing colors and leashes?
Doesn't mind taking his time with you, he's a gentleman so he doesn't rush you into doing anything with him.
If you have any body insecurities he's quick to correct such thoughts. He has a different view on bodies compared to humans, sure if you have a figure he likes then that's that but he won't allow such things to be said about his partner/love interest even if it's you saying it.
Will kiss your skin, pet your belly fat, run or play with your hair if you allow him.
I'll shut up for now but bro literally got me feral smfh. 😒
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Lucifer (TV show) vs Hazbin Hotel
So I found out what Lucifer's take on Hell. I mean the TV show, not the character himself. Yeah, I never went out of my way to watch the show. That was more something my mom watched but I never actively paid attention to it. I only found out Lucifer's take on Hell when I was going through youtube and I gotta say. I don't like it.
According to the show Lucifer, people damn themselves down to Hell thanks to the guilt they feel from all the things they do. While I'm sure most people feel guilt, very clearly not everyone does. The sociopaths who rape, murder, cannibalize, and other atrocities, those people will never damn themselves down to Hell because they'll never think they deserve to be down there. So I don't like the idea of people like those instantly going up to heaven when it's like that. And there's the fact that feeling guilt can be an indicator of someone being a good person, in some cases like, say, a person killing in self-defense, yet they'll damn themselves to Hell. So that's another thing I don't like
In contrast, no one in Hazbin Hotel apparently knows how someone gets to Heaven. At most, they just know when someone gets there. Kind of strange to me that no one has ever bothered trying to figure out a pattern but staying on track here... at least it isn't guilt that determines who goes where. People called it a cop out, that no one knows the requirements, but I'm not up for that whole thing about guilt being that determining factor
I'm sure I'm not the only one of my opinion but I'm kind of curious. Which one would you consider worse? Guilt being the determining factor for who goes to Heaven or Hell or some system that doesn't run on guilt but is still unknown to everyone? In any case, wanted to get I'm guessing a nitpick off my chest
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Losing my religion - Hail Holy Queen
@sorisooyaa I had sworn that none of this would ever see the light of day, but as a payment for your beautiful talent and excellent work...Here is the first chapter of the abomination.
Words: 1,5k
Characters: Lucifer, Michael, Shirel, Emmanuelle
Warnings: blasphemy, reference to sexual assault
“Lucifer,” Chloe had said, her eyes full of pity, the last time he had managed to see her without upsetting the whole plan they had previously agreed upon, “don’t you think it’s time to let him out?”
“I do not think so. Who knows what terrible plans he’s going to set in motion this time?”
Now, as he repeated his doubts to his most loathed prisoner, Lucifer was still not convinced that his beloved had not woefully underestimated the resentment undying beings could harbour.
Michael sneered at his twin in disgust. “Not up for a deal, brother? Do you really enjoy my being here so much?”
Lucifer’s eyes took on a wicked gleam; this certainly had gotten his attention. “All right! If anyone was to miss you—really miss you—and call on you, you may go. Under my supervision, of course!”
This seemed like a fair condition to him, and he would get to spend some time on earth once more, maybe even getting a moment to pop in on Chloe without letting their daughter see him.
A frustrated bellow interrupted his musings rather unceremoniously though and he frowned in annoyance.
“You can say that,” Michael grunted, “you, whose gift has been delivered—even now she’s alive and loving you, smug as ever—only because Amenadiel was apparently the better messenger, not even because you deserved it.”
The thought of Chloe’s staying hand on his chest thankfully prevented a highly unproductive brawl before it could even break out; Lucifer had sworn to her that he would try his best to come to an agreement with his brother and he would not be side-tracked by their shared tendency to sabotage their best opportunities at finding even a quantum of happiness.
“Maybe,” Lucifer drawled with a sharp smile, “if you hadn’t lost track of yours, you’d be sure that someone was praying for and to you, don’t you think? And that, brother mine, is a state of things entirely of your own doing.”
“Shir!”
Emmanuelle strode towards her oldest friends—hands outstretched pleadingly—through the brightly lit gallery; she had not been sure whether Shirel would even come here.
“What is this about? The wing for religious art, really Manu?” that self-same friend whispered as if afraid to raise her voice to an audible level in the presence of ideas she had renounced a long time ago. She had been particularly unafraid as a child—confident in her faith—but since then, many things had changed and Shirel was but a shadow of her former self nowadays.
Shrugging, Emmanuelle clasped Shirel’s hands to keep her from retreating—they were cold and stiff, and, for a moment, her own conviction faltered.
“I need your help, Shir,” she said. “We got a new painting in, and…I don’t know what to make of it. All I do know is—that it’s insane.”
Her gaze flew over the petrified features of a woman she had known all her life; once upon a time—long before she had accepted this job at the old Museum—she and Shirel had spent blissful afternoons here, staring at the antique paintings in wordless awe.
“Do you remember how we used to…” Emmanuelle’s fingers moved gracefully through the air and—despite her self-imposed years of silence—Shirel could hear the song her friend played on an invisible piano in her mind.
“That is a long time ago, Manu.”
“Nonetheless, Shir, you…you are the only one I trust with this. You won’t think I am crazy.” Emmanuelle pleaded, tugging her friend forward under the benevolent eyes of the Holy Virgin, smiling indulgently down at their struggle from every other canvas.
“Manu!” Shirel groaned, digging her heels into the worn wooden floor. “Manu, stop. Please, let’s not go back there—I’ve left all of this behind, you know?”
Then, in a softer voice, she added, “It was fake after all. Heaven and Hell are empty—and there is no such thing as angels!”
Desperate, Emmanuelle stooped to a level she had sworn not to fall to; she hummed the first few bars of an old hymn they both knew well.
The weary, pained gaze in Shirel’s hazel eyes made her flinch, but she didn’t desist.
As young girls—in another life—they’d stay hidden away in this wing until it was almost closing time; the old building had marvellous acoustics and they’d always have enough time for one resounding song before rushing down the stairs, out of breath with laughter, to make it to the last bus taking them home in time.
Back then, Emmanuelle had believed that their whole life would be like that; she was still convinced that the paintings glowed whenever Shirel’s voice—silver bells and sweet honey—caressed their worn vellum. Yes, even now, Emmanuelle had faith in Shirel’s destiny, even if she herself had decided to turn away from it.
Compelled by the ancient memories and the hopeful smile of her friend, Shirel capitulated and joined in the song—feeling her voice soar on invisible wings made her heart feel all the heavier, but she pushed through and simply closed her eyes.
“You’ve still got it,” Emmanuelle whispered in an awed voice as the last notes faded out; all around her, the faces of the Saviour’s mother glowed as if lit from within and a surge of a happiness she had almost forgotten prickled in her fingertips.
“Don’t start, Manu,” Shirel pleaded under her breath, prying one eye open and sighing deeply. “My mother was—disturbed. She’s not really heard an angel announcing the imminent conception of a girl-child to her; life is not some weird biblical musical!”
“I am so sorry that you truly stopped believing in the miracle of your conception.”
“There was no miracle, please believe me!” Shirel put a shielding hand over her burning eyes. “Mum…she was a lonely woman—God knows she has only tried to make herself feel better for having a child of wedlock.”
“Shir, your parents ended up getting married and your voice is a miracle, no matter what you say…”
Shirel’s face hardened into a mask of pain and rejection. “My voice is nothing special…”
Emmanuelle wanted to protest, but she didn’t dare; for years, they had sung in churches and museums, and they had been so convinced that this was their calling and their destiny—people from far and wide had come to listen to Shirel sing the praise of the Lord.
And then, just like that—everything had changed.
A dark alley, a secluded spot…when they had found Shirel, her voice had been hoarse with screaming and crying for help. Nobody had heard. Nobody had come.
On that fateful night, as she opened her eyes in a sterile hospital bed, Shirel had decided to abnegate her faith and—what was worse—to silence that precious song of hers. Nowadays, she worked in a home for deaf students where nobody knew or missed that voice that had betrayed her so.
“Let me show you the painting,” Emmanuelle said, changing the subject. “You might recognise him.”
She led her friend by the hand to a narrow door, almost invisible in the dark panelling of the wall. “Here.”
As soon as Shirel’s eyes had adjusted to the low light after the brightly lit gallery, she gasped.
“As if,” she scoffed, breathing more freely now that she was beyond the searching gaze of the Mother Mary. “I see we’ve moved past the many eyes and arms and wings.”
“So, you do recognise him?” Emmanuelle asked—full of faith and hope once more—as she gestured towards the oddly compelling painting depicting two men standing on either side of a flaming sword.
“These are actually two…” Shirel cut herself off. “You know what? Never mind. There is no way either one of them looks like that! They’re not real, so what does it matter?”
“You once thought they were,” Emmanuelle said almost accusingly. “And there is something so strange about this piece of art—don’t you feel that?”
Shirel did feel it, but she refused to be dragged back into a delusion that had broken more than just her heart. “Manu, the angels I told you about…those were imaginary friends—maybe, I am not so unlike my poor, disoriented mother after all. All those stories? Puerile fantasy—I am so sorry, but it was never…”
She shrugged dismissively.
“Look me in the eye,” Emmanuelle demanded stubbornly, “and tell me that you don’t know who that is!”
Shirel had done many things in her life that she was not proud of, but she was not about to betray her friend in such an unforgivable way.
“My heart and mind are now closed to such revelations,” she mumbled instead, evading the question, “and whatever I might think is just the intuition of a broken soul.”
“Have you ever seen him—them—before?”
“Well yes,” Shirel chuckled mirthlessly. “They’re the reason heaven and hell have felt empty to me.”
So, there it is :)
Thank you for your creativity, my beloved baby :D
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