( he stops at a dead end, hands on his hips, staring at the blank hedge wall with knotted brows, wondering if a green witch, ( if a certain green witch ) is here and managed to clog up the exit in order to enact a little mischief. it can't put the lure of punishment outside of any witch's grasp, and they're all tricksters, so it's not impossible. he probably would've sensed that though, unless he happened to be distracted with someone sucking the marrow out of his shattered wing bones, which he was, so. he's either trapped or lost, is or isn't. as with everything.
looking back at danny, he offers him a considering look, eyeing him head to toe, and then looking back at his own groin, as if surprised he noticed his hard on. embarrassed, a hand rubs the back of his head, frowny mouth pouting to one side. )
I don't really, ( engage with or sex up or bonk or ) masturbate with humans. You're very breakable. ( he has the urge to affectionately ruffle up danny's hair, but get the impression the action would be more mockery than comfort. luci offers him a smile instead, shyly. ) You're pretty. I'd sooner break a painting.
( which he has done, lit fire to god's precious landscapes and hopeful art pieces, so it's a moot point not that danny would know that. still, caving to danny seems the wrong choice, and lucifer has a stubborn will when he wants one. stepping past him, he talks over his shoulder, ) Besides, didn't you say I look like your father?
( he manages a few more steps before stopping in his tracks, spinning, staring at him with an arched brow. danny on the backdrop of lush greenery, caged like a rabbit in a hole. luci like a fox biting after his little kits, little secrets, to gnaw on in front of him. with a few strides, he's back in front of danny, the smile on his face now more serpentine than shy, more angel than man. when he speaks, it's not a question — a statement of fact. all knowingly, the cycles of fathers and sons, creators and creations. fuck, marry, kill, and your dad is the answer to all of them. )
no subject
looking back at danny, he offers him a considering look, eyeing him head to toe, and then looking back at his own groin, as if surprised he noticed his hard on. embarrassed, a hand rubs the back of his head, frowny mouth pouting to one side. )
I don't really, ( engage with or sex up or bonk or ) masturbate with humans. You're very breakable. ( he has the urge to affectionately ruffle up danny's hair, but get the impression the action would be more mockery than comfort. luci offers him a smile instead, shyly. ) You're pretty. I'd sooner break a painting.
( which he has done, lit fire to god's precious landscapes and hopeful art pieces, so it's a moot point not that danny would know that. still, caving to danny seems the wrong choice, and lucifer has a stubborn will when he wants one. stepping past him, he talks over his shoulder, ) Besides, didn't you say I look like your father?
( he manages a few more steps before stopping in his tracks, spinning, staring at him with an arched brow. danny on the backdrop of lush greenery, caged like a rabbit in a hole. luci like a fox biting after his little kits, little secrets, to gnaw on in front of him. with a few strides, he's back in front of danny, the smile on his face now more serpentine than shy, more angel than man. when he speaks, it's not a question — a statement of fact. all knowingly, the cycles of fathers and sons, creators and creations. fuck, marry, kill, and your dad is the answer to all of them. )
That's part of the appeal.