[{ closed spn Lucifer/Jack RP with @showtimeaholes21 }]
Lucifer enjoys this whole white picket fence kinda life a little more than anticipated. Super Americana, sue him, but...hey, it’s nice, come on. What is there not to like?
A fridge full of food, beer. Snacks in the pantry and a decently sized TV, a fast car in the driveway he can pay someone to pressure-wash in the summer and shovel in the winter. The opulent flowers the last owner had so dearly cared for in the garden Lucifer likes to sit in, because duh, sweet memories and all that. The only thing missing might be: a mutt, for the kid. Something Lucifer could leash and take on a morning run, return home to for a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice with. Then again, he hates dogs. And he hates running. Everything, really, he hates everything. But it’s nice to have stuff. To own things.
Lucifer lets his fingers trail up the railing to the pretty stairway Kelly had so insisted on restoring, it’s the soul of the house, honey, whatever that might have meant... It’s a damn house, it’s got walls and running water. Upstairs, the cozy hallway with the picture frames; a little fewer of those, because Jack says he can’t take to see them, now that his mom is gone. He can be a little crybaby, Lucifer’s kid. So much human in there, pathetic, really...but just like Lucifer where it counts. Powerful. Gorgeous.
The room to Jack’s door never really closes (not that it would stop Lucifer; and Jack’s smart like that, smart little cookie) so Lucifer lets himself in, quietly on socked feet because his kiddo is napping, down on his stomach on his tidy little bed—he’s tidy, Lucifer’s kid, careful and thoughtful and he stirs, a little, in the sheets he sweats into, hot with the low fever of his impending heat. Lucifer sits on the bed, because he bought it: reaches out to gently brush some of that caramel blond hair out of that blissfully unaware face. If Kelly were still here, she’d say: let him sleep, honey, he’s going through a lot. But what does she know? Dead bitches don’t bark.
“Hey, kiddo. Hey, you’re sleeping the entire day away, hm? Come on, you won’t be able to keep those peepers shut once it’s actually bedtime...”
Knuckles to that forehead; hot. A murmur, deep in Lucifer’s boy, a sigh. Lucifer takes that warm scent right in, lets it creep down the back of his throat, fill out his skull.
Again, soft, “Jack,” and, “hey, buddy, come on. You know what we agreed on. Let’s not start out like that.”
