#sick lucifer

[highwaytosickfics]

Hazbin Hotel sickfic prompt 4

Applemedia prompt (bc it's applemedia week and i'm inspired)

Lucifer and Vox both get sick and whine about it until Alastor begrudgingly takes care of them. Then they figure out that Alastor is sicker than the both of them but refuses to admit it.

[oshii]

SICK!LUCIFER FANART FROM @lets-get-rickety-rekt !!!! LOOK AT IT! I'M SO IN LOVE OMG. THE COLORS. THE SHADING. THE STALL WALL GRAFFITI. THAT IS SCRATCHED OUT. LUCIFER'S LONG LEAN BODY HUNCHED OVER THE TOILET. THE BEAUTIFUL CREASES OF DAN'S JEANS. HIS BOOTS. OMG. @lets-get-rickety-rekt u are the best and deserve all the praise and highest accolades.

[autistic-lumberjack]

Nightmares

Pairing: Lucifer x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: It’s hard to escape a nightmare when you know it’s really a memory

Content/ warnings: ANGST, ptsd, nightmares, mentions of vomit, hurt/comfort, kind of a sickfic?

Word count: 1, 311

A/N: Wrote this to try and cope with 15x18, it’s not working so far but it turns out feeling emotionally shattered really helps when writing angst

When Lucifer first showed up at your door after what felt to both of you like a lifetime apart, he was elated. He had escaped, he was safe from Crowley’s torture, you were together again and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Lucifer felt safe.

The days were full of distractions. The Winchesters snarking about your trust in him, the occasional hunt, most of all the way you were always there, a constantly encouraging and comforting presence that made it all bearable. The nights were a little different.

Lucifer didn’t know what was worse. The nightmares, or the fact that he would wake up every night knowing they were memories.

His first night back on earth, he dreamt of the cage. Thousands upon thousands of years alone, alone with the knowledge that he was despised by everyone, even his own father. He dreamt of how it felt to meet you, to finally be loved by someone they way he loved them only for it all to be ripped away. For him to fuck everything over. For him to let you down.

That first night, he awoke in a pool of sweat with bile rising in his throat, scrambling upright to retch over the side of the bed. He had barely registered the cool touch of your hand rubbing comforting circles against his back, the pounding of his heart masking the feeling of your cheek resting against his shoulder while you whispered sweet nothings into his ear.

His breathing was panicked, frantically gasping for air before another twist of his stomach had him gagging over the edge of the bed again.

When the mattress dipped down beside him, Lucifer cried out, choking on stomach acid and saliva with the feeling that his chest was being crushed, his legs thrashing out in a panicked attack until a cool washcloth was laid down against his forehead and it finally clicked in his mind that you must have gotten up, settled down again beside him.

“Deep breaths, c’mon sweetheart, I’ve got you, you’re safe”

Your voice seemed miles away, a distorted murmur behind the choked rattle in his lungs, the far-too-fast pounding of his heart in his ears, but it was yours, and Lucifer felt a slight sense of calm wash over him.

You spoke again, but this time Lucifer didn’t hear your words, just the sound of your voice, full of love and concern and drowning out the screaming in his mind. When your hand slipped up slightly so that your fingers would brush against his forehead overtop of the washcloth, Lucifer instinctively leaned into your touch, his choked coughs calming enough that he could take in a full breath of air.

He felt you shift closer, dropping the now warm cloth onto the floor, beside what Lucifer had calmed enough to feel a twinge of guilt towards the mess he had made, but the thought drifted from his mind when he felt your fingers comb through his hair, brushing back the pieces that has been plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Lost in the feeling, it took him a moment to realize you were talking again, but once more your words were lost behind the slowly quieting hammer of his heart. Lucifer figured you could tell he wasn’t fully processing what you had to say, but you continued on nonetheless, your voice a comforting lull inside his mind

It wasn’t until Lucifer felt something cold tap at his fingers that he realized his eyes were squeezed shut, and immediately he snapped them open, half expecting to find himself back in Hell with Crowley holding an archangel blade to his wrist but instead being met with your worried eyes reflecting the dim light glowing from the bathroom, and a glance downward showed your fingers curled around a glass of water.

Taking the hint when you bumped the glass against his hand again, Lucifer took it with trembling fingers and allowed your own to wrap around his and lead the glass to his mouth.

He was thirsty. That was an understatement, he was absolutely desperate for water, but could only manage a small sip of the cool liquid before a sob was ripped from his throat and the glass fell from his hand, luckily not dropped by you.

Lucifer was calm now. He was supposed to be calm, he wasn’t dreaming anymore, he wasn’t scared, the pain was gone and you weren’t leaving, so why the hell wasn’t he calm

Lucifer tried to hug his knees to his chest, tried to bury his face against them but found himself led into your arms instead, and if he thought he was crying before, that was nothing, because the moment he pressed the side of his face into your collarbone, he lost it.

The Archangel’s body shook as he was wracked with sobs, arms tight around your waist as each shuddering cry was torn from his lips.

He didn’t know how long the two of you stayed like that, with his head tucked beneath your chin and arms slung around each other while he cried. Didn’t know when his sobs turned to wails, then to silent tears.

He didn’t know when he had moved closer, curled himself up in your arms. Didn’t know when you had tucked a blanket around his trembling form.

When the world did start to come into focus, the first thing that Lucifer recognized was your voice. Soft murmurs against his skin between kisses you pressed to his cheeks, his eyelids, the tip of his nose. Anywhere you could reach you would leave soft kisses, and the unfiltered, unabashed love exuding from everything you did gave Lucifer the strength to open his eyes.

Meeting your gaze, without a thought he drew his hand upward suddenly, sighing at the feeling of his fingers brushing against your jaw as his head swam with a newfound burst of emotion.

“I-” His voice was ragged, catching on the syllable he managed to spit out. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to tell you, he wanted to thank you for, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Shhhh, sweetheart, you don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to apologize. It’s ok, everything’s ok. You’re safe,” You whispered with a loving smile, gently adjusting yourself so you could cup Lucifer’s face in your hands, run your thumbs down his cheekbones.

He tried to smile. Tried to at least manage a twitch upward of his lips, but it was too much, and he felt hot tears welling in his eyes again.

“I love you, you know that, right? I’m not going anywhere, you don’t have to worry, it takes more than a nightmare to scare me off. I’m here for you, through everything. I promise. C’mon, let’s go get you cleaned up”

Lucifer fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, to shut himself away from the world, until he felt you press your lips to his forehead again. He wasn’t used to feeling so loved. He wasn’t used to being loved at all, actually. This was new, unnatural, but it felt so right, and he let that guide him, giving you a slow nod and leaning his face into your hands again.

He knew the nightmares would be back. Knew the next night would be just as terrible. But in this moment, with you, he didn’t understand why, but he believed your words. Everything was going to be ok

-

Tags, let me know if you want to be added :) // @frog-tiddies​ @cursedbobs​

[oshii]

Merry Christmas (or happy nondenominational holiday of your choice!) to all of my friends & followers!

Here is a short Deckerstar h/c piece initially shared with @lets-get-rickety-rekt , who has been a continued source of comfort, encouragement, companionship, and all-around inspiration throughout the last several months (hell, all of 2020). Thank you, Charles <3 Your seasick Dan fic is in the works, I promise!

~*~*~ tw: brief emeto (but that’s probably your thing if you follow me!)

Woke up thinking about sick lucifer and hesitantly comforting chloe

S5, established deckerstar, at the penthouse. The balcony doors are wide open, letting in the full inky-indigo of the night and all its crisp fresh air. Traffic noise several stories below echoes with the honks and accelerations and shouts and sirens of the city at night.

Lucifer's sitting in the chair facing his balcony, trousers on but jacket discarded. His white Burberry undershirt is undone at the collar and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he is pale, glistening faintly with perspiration in the moonlight, bathed in the soft amber backglow of one of several ambient lamps.

He shivers, trembling visibly, weakened in a way he hasn't felt in centuries. Nausea has him in its insidious grip. It tightens his stomach in sickening cramps, constricts his throat as if he's struggling to swallow something huge, makes him shudder with undignified pants as he clutches an empty ice bucket, the waiting more awful than these physical sensations - bloody torturous, even.

But then, from somewhere off to his side, he hears her voice, remembers he's not alone, and feels comforted by her presence.

"Lucifer?" Chloe ventures, her voice as soft as her touch as she lays her hand on his shoulder, fingers delicate as moth wings. "Are you gonna be sick again?"

His eyes squeeze shut, and his only answer is a short groan, which she takes as an affirmative and responds to by spreading out her hand in a soothing arc across his shoulders, rubbing his back.

The comfort is exactly what he needs right now, and he relinquishes to his body's demands, doubling over with a final clenching heave of his stomach.

It's brief, but it's terrible, and leaves him a shaky gasping mess, mouth open and slick with bile, and he doesn't remember ever feeling so ungainly and disgusting in a long time. He's nearly forgotten how much of a strain this is.

Chloe is there, though, right there, rubbing his back, whispering encouragement as he coughs and gags. "Okay," he hears her murmuring, over and over, and through the ringing in his ears and convulsive clenching of his empty stomach, he feels her stroke his disheveled hair and cup his forehead as he bends over the bucket.

She gently lowers the bucket from his face when it appears he is done, and the cool night breeze wafting in from the balcony is a welcome respite for his damp face.

"Here," she tells him, voice still soft, raising aloft the untouched glass of water she'd fetched minutes ago. "Here you go.'

The thought of swallowing anything right now tightens his throat with a nauseating suddenness, and for one terrible moment he thinks he might be sick again, squeezing his eyes shut with a shuddering little moan.

He feels Chloe resume rubbing his back, and hears her set the glass back down without argument.

"Hang on," she says, suddenly, and he feels her hand lift as she abruptly walks away, and the warmth on his back is replaced by a chill in its absence.

He opens his eyes, blinking through the tears, and he turns to watch her go, shivering and helpless as a newborn searching for its mother.

Distantly, he hears water running, and for some reason it relaxes him. He utters a weary sigh and settles back into his chair, gazing blankly out at the night sky, wishing he were enveloped in its utter oblivion as a corporeal force of celestial energy once more.

But he isn't that, not now, hasn't been for eons. He is, for all intents and purposes, mortal. Felled not by his father, but by choice – for love, instead of punishment.

And when Chloe returns to his side, dabbing at his face with a cool damp washcloth, soaking up all the sick heat and exhaustion of the past few hours, his eyes close again but this time in utter bliss, and he realizes he wouldn't trade this for any of his former glory at all. 

[oshii]

”Our Head Cold” instead of “Our Mojo” (sick!lucifer, deckerstar, domestic fluff, h/c, post-s5)

Based off an idea I had about Lucifer, visibly sweating and red-nosed, grocery shopping super late at night bc Trixie is sick and Chloe sent him on a milk run, only she didn’t really send him, Lucifer volunteered to go because he loves her so much, even though his increased vulnerability means he’s sick as shit too. Hurt/Comfort, Deckerstar, short & fluffy!

NOW I WANT RESPIRATORY WOES!LUCIFER PROMPTS. Lucifer all devilishly handsome in his suit and slicked-back hair, five o’clock shadow a little darker than usual, eye-bags a little deeper, and his usual crooning purr gone rusty and stuttering as he pauses to clear his throat, which catches and devolves into a heinous full-blown hacking cough. 

(Lucifer sitting in a steamy bathroom with a towel over his head, coughing into a basin. Lucifer draped across the couch, curled up beneath a blanket, Chloe patting between his shoulderblades as he brings a fist up to his mouth to stifle the coughs, etc. Hnnnng. ANYWAY)

Disclaimer: Leaving Las Vegas and Nic Cage references = no copyright infringement intended.

It was 11:14 PM, on a Thursday, and the lights of the grocery store were way too bright.

Lucifer scowled in distaste, right eye squinting slightly as the ache behind it throbbed, exacerbated by the violent fluorescent ceiling bulbs. His whole face throbbed, actually; his sinuses were warm to the touch, tenderness stretching painfully across his cheekbones, congested and irritated like he’d done way too much blow (only without the perk of any residual high).

“Damn,” he muttered, sniffing back another wad of ill-timed snot as he pushed his cart to a stop. Aside from the mandated cold medicine and bourbon (synonymous, in his opinion), he’d remembered Chloe’s half-finished grocery list sitting on the counter proclaiming they also needed milk, eggs, bread, butter, cheese, avocados, cilantro, and organic tomatoes (that was underlined). So, a basket man above all else when it came to his grocery shopping, Lucifer had been coerced into pushing around a cart like a middle-aged mom running errands, the cherry atop the sundae of joy that was his Thursday evening.

Insufferably mortal head cold aside, of course. (It appeared that the burgeoning vulnerability harbored by his increased intimacy with Chloe was good for things other than losing his mojo). That, and apparently the Detective’s spawn needed to wash her hands more often, or pick playground friends with better personal hygiene during autumn flu season.

“Bollocks.” Lucifer sighed, leaning over onto the handle of his cart and rubbing the bridge of his nose with mounting agitation. His headache throbbed a dull rhythm, and he sniffled ceaselessly,

Alka-Seltzer having had no effect on his symptoms, because evi-fuckin-dently, his celestial metabolism had slowed down enough to let him get sick, but not enough to allow any over-the-counter medications to offer any relief! How bloody novel!

There was one package of Nyquil left on the shelf, and Lucifer swiped it into the cart with a hasty sniff and rather uncouth clearing of his throat. At this point, he really couldn’t care less. He knew he looked like hell – uncharacteristically disheveled, hair mussed, sleeves rolled up, suit jacket spread across the cart because he’d suffered yet another feverish hot flash in produce, clammy sweat prickling across his chest and staining a dark line between his shoulderblades. He reminded himself of Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas, without the courtesy of a devoted hooker by his side.

By the time he’d paid for all his shit and headed back to the house, his throbbing headache had intensified to the point of pattern breathing, and he grimaced at every stoplight, fervently wishing he hadn’t volunteered to be so goddamn thoughtful tonight.

Chloe had left the door unlocked for him, a small blessing for which he found himself quite thankful as it meant he didn’t have to balance grocery bags and house keys upon his triumphant return.

“I’m back,” he called hoarsely, forcing a taut smile for his girls as he entered the breezeway. “Dipenhydramine and dairy products in hand.”

“Shh!” Chloe hissed, emerging from the hallway with a finger raised to her lips. “Lucifer, I love you, but I just got Trixie back down and if you wake her, I swear—” Then, she stopped, and her brow furrowed deeper, wariness dissolving into concern with a soft sigh. “You look like hell.”

“Relax, Detective,” Lucifer soothed, or tried to, because in his current state his charm was rather lacking, and it showed immediately. Wordlessly, Chloe took the bags from him, set them on the kitchen counter, and returned hastily to rest the back of her hand across his forehead, startling him into silent submission.

“Lucifer, you’re burning up!” She declared, voice little more than breath. “Oh, babe. Here, sit down. I’ll be right back.”

He sank gratefully down into the couch cushions, obeying without protest as she whirled and hurried back down the hallway. With a wavering sigh, Lucifer closed his eyes and wearily brought a hand up to massage his temples, overwhelmingly relieved at the chance to sit down. He hadn’t realized just how sick he was until just this very moment, and it hit him like a ton of bricks. Humanity, he decided, was woefully overrated.

But, that soft little oh, babe? Was enough to make even his infernal heart flutter happily, through even the congested sinus headache and shivery fever ravaging him alive.

“Here.” Chloe’s voice was low, quiet, hovering somewhere above his right ear, and before he could crane his neck to respond, a cool heavy washcloth was draped over his forehead and eyes, and the blessed damp weight of it was so soothing Lucifer tilted his head back with a low moan. He felt her fingertips land lightly upon his temples; they were also cool and slightly damp from the running water in the bathroom sink. “How’s this? Better?”

“Oh…” he moaned, unable to suppress himself as her steady fingertips pressed gently into his aching sinuses, rubbing tiny acupressure circles where she knew he had to be hurting. “Skilled enough to pull a hair trigger, soft enough to soothe. Incredible,” he breathed, lips parted in awe.

Chloe smiled warmly, the exhaustion of caring for her sick daughter melting into warm satisfaction at tending to her sick devil. “Just one of my many talents,” she murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair, inhaling softly the familiar warm smell of him – hair gel, expensive cologne, imported cigarettes, fresh aftershave, Lucifer.

“I’d better go put that milk in the fridge,” she sighed after several more minutes of massaging. “It’ll spoil.”

Lucifer, rendered gleefully, bonelessly delighted by fever and her gentle ministrations, could only huff a small chuckle in response. “The only thing spoilt around here is me,” he declared. “By the best partner anyone could ever ask for. D’you still want that chicken soup I promised?”

Caught off guard, having completely forgotten about Lucifer’s Chicken Soup from Ol’ Scratch, Chloe laughed, letting her fingers slide away from his face to land on his shoulders, bracing herself to lean over and plant another kiss on the bridge of his nose. “No, babe. It can wait. Rest.”

“Can do, Detective,” he mumbled, sighing once more as she got up and left, not despairing because he knew she’d return. “Can do.”

[oshii]

So I’ve just started watching lucifer (currently at season 3) idk why but I’ve got a fascination with the idea of lucifer being utterly vulnerable around chloe! I love your writing and would be interested in some scenarios where lucifer feels nausea around chloe (maybe from her driving or all the alcohol and drugs from the night before) and she nurses him through it while he just keeps protesting to be fine.

HI! omg thank you for reading and enjoying my works, first of all, I really appreciate that and needed it rn 😭😭

Secondly, YESSSSS to ultra vulnerable nauseous Lucifer puking around Chloe. That is my jam, my raison d'être, if you will.

I'm not actively writing right now, but I have a plethora of vulnerable/vomiting Lucifer fics on my AO3 (Oshii), or on here (search tags "oshii writes", "sick lucifer", or "lucifer sickfic", to name a few).

[oshii]

Lucifer H/C idea(s) *S5 SPOILERS*

....

...

I would love to see Deckerstar continuing their relationship, completely giving themselves to one another, sexually and emotionally, until Lucifer - having become more vulnerable around Chloe than ever - actually begins to fade away into humanity, little by little.

His celestial strength wanes, his metabolism slows way down, and he is no longer immune to mortal ailments. Cue Lucifer, a few months down the road, sniffling irritably and wiping his red nose in the supermarket as he shops for cold medicine and bourbon at 11 PM on a school night because Trixie is also sick and can't sleep due to her own respiratory woes.

Chloe cares for them both, making chicken soup from scratch like her mom used to make, tucking Trixie in with a promised day home from school tomorrow, and insisting that Lucifer retire to bed as well when she finds him still awake, sniffling and coughing quietly into his elbow as he attempts to clean the kitchen after dinner.

[oshii]

Prompts in progress!

Halfway through that first sick!Cain one. Lots of snarky parentheses and dark humor and Cain in running shorts.

In the meantime, I would like all of you to envision either him or Lucifer falling ill during their stint as an undercover married couple and they are sitting in the ER, still clad in festive sweaters and khakis, one holding an emesis bin for the other and both of them wishing they were dead.