( famous last words, on account of being who he is. but luci extends a hand and nick shakes it, so it's a done thing.
(unconsciously, a little scar of a snake sprouts from his spine in blatant homage to the worst mistake nick has made in recent time. eventually, it'll move to his chest like a slithering worm, so he can see the evidence of making deals with the devil. but! for now — )
they take their positions, naked, on the field of battle. lucifer is distantly reminded of holy wars and angelic bodies, of his own angelic body being pinned underground by a cage of god's making — but the fight begins and he pushes it aside, as he always does, to focus on here and now. here and now there's a battle to win, a boy to pin, and luci won't be caught unawares. they dance for a little while, more naturally hesitant with fighting a new opponent, but luci quickly finds his footing, and then it's easy. easy as pie, really. nick is small and young and untested — luci has been fighting wars since he first rebelled, long before the creation of the world, has honed his strength to a knife point. taking him to the mat is effortless. pinning him is like pinning an already slaughtered lamb. getting a hand on his dick is like cupping one around himself — a foretold ending, something already written. luci grabs him and squeezes.
he's behind him, cupping him like two dogs mating. the hand on nick's cock is rough but not mean, calloused by not cruel. he strokes his dick like he was made to do it, pressing his lips against his ear, a suspiciously long tongue lapping up from nick's chin up to his cheek. before them, the crowd thunders their applause. shouts debasements. fuck him, fuck him. )
How would you like your defeat?
( asked, because it's obvious. he's losing. luci squeezes his dick, milking precum from him like he's owed every drop of nick's suffering. )
On your back, Nick? Or taken like this, debauched, debased?
no subject
( famous last words, on account of being who he is. but luci extends a hand and nick shakes it, so it's a done thing.
(unconsciously, a little scar of a snake sprouts from his spine in blatant homage to the worst mistake nick has made in recent time. eventually, it'll move to his chest like a slithering worm, so he can see the evidence of making deals with the devil. but! for now — )
they take their positions, naked, on the field of battle. lucifer is distantly reminded of holy wars and angelic bodies, of his own angelic body being pinned underground by a cage of god's making — but the fight begins and he pushes it aside, as he always does, to focus on here and now. here and now there's a battle to win, a boy to pin, and luci won't be caught unawares. they dance for a little while, more naturally hesitant with fighting a new opponent, but luci quickly finds his footing, and then it's easy. easy as pie, really. nick is small and young and untested — luci has been fighting wars since he first rebelled, long before the creation of the world, has honed his strength to a knife point. taking him to the mat is effortless. pinning him is like pinning an already slaughtered lamb. getting a hand on his dick is like cupping one around himself — a foretold ending, something already written. luci grabs him and squeezes.
he's behind him, cupping him like two dogs mating. the hand on nick's cock is rough but not mean, calloused by not cruel. he strokes his dick like he was made to do it, pressing his lips against his ear, a suspiciously long tongue lapping up from nick's chin up to his cheek. before them, the crowd thunders their applause. shouts debasements. fuck him, fuck him. )
How would you like your defeat?
( asked, because it's obvious. he's losing. luci squeezes his dick, milking precum from him like he's owed every drop of nick's suffering. )
On your back, Nick? Or taken like this, debauched, debased?