two Lost/SPN crossovers, Ellen/Sayid and Lucifer/MIB
Title: And You Could Smell The Whiskey Burning
Rating: R
Pairing: Ellen/Sayid
Words: 940
Summary: >What stands out to her isn’t his clothing (too refined, too pricey, too new) and it isn’t his features either (dark skin, definitely Arab, foreign accent, a better grammar than most people Ellen usually talks to); what stands out, is that he orders MacClutcheon’s.
Spoilers: general S2 for SPN and S4 for Lost. The timeline is probably kind of wrong but bear with me.
Disclaimer: Neither Lost nor SPN are mine, sadly for me and my bank account.
A/N: originally written for the fic battle at lostsquee for the prompt whiskey. And the pairing was too made of awesome. Title stolen from Steve Earle.
What stands out to her isn’t his clothing (too refined, too pricey, too new) and it isn’t his features either (dark skin, definitely Arab, foreign accent, a better grammar than most people Ellen usually talks to); what stands out, is that he orders MacClutcheon’s.
Or, that’s the first thing that stands out. The second is that half of this new Roadhouse would in theory be over someone like him with not exactly nice intentions in a second (obviously not a hunter, could be mistaken for some kind of terrorist, screams money all over also because you don’t order MacClutcheon’s if you can’t pay for it), but instead no one even goes near him. The man doesn’t speak much, he’s more quiet than anything else; but there’s something about him that screams danger, there’s something in his dead eyes that screams that messing with him isn’t a good idea at all; Ellen hasn’t seen someone looking so dead since Dean the day after he sold his soul, and who knows if this guy hasn’t sold his, too?
He just might have.
He sips the whiskey lightly, slowly, showing that he knows how to appreciate such a drink; Ellen can only respect it. Running a bar, you learn to respect this kind of things. For a split second she misses Jo helping her, but she won’t try to reach out to her before Jo herself does, and forgets about it for the moment.
And the man keeps on staring into his half-empty glass with dead eyes and she wonders if maybe he isn’t about to do it.
“Hey, I usually mind my own business, but can I ask you a question?”
The man nods softly and doesn’t say anything.
“You know which kinda people usually are around in this bar, don’t you?”
“I do,” he answers, functional and businesslike.
“You plannin’ to sell your soul?”
He lets out half a snort before taking another sip.
“That happened a while ago. Metaphorically, do not worry about that.”
She nods and lets that go, his voice deadpan but at the same time honey-sweet and warm; he has a tone and a cadence that are just charming even if he isn’t doing it on purpose and his hard, cold, dead eyes are a striking contrast to that unwanted warmth. It might be the way he talks or the accent or the way his hair falls in unnatural waves on his face, barely touching his leather black coat; Ellen suddenly wants to know, and so she shuts her mouth because it isn’t her business and it isn’t her job.
“How many?” she asks after he orders a second glass.
“How many what?” he asks back, his voice even.
“How many people you loved did you lose. I happen to recognize it. Happened to me too.”
“How many did you lose?”
She takes a breath, figuring that since she was the first to ask, it’s only fair that she answers.
“One for good. Maybe another.”
He nods and takes another sip. “Two. For good.”
She nods without saying anything because she knows that speaking doesn’t help, it never helps. He stares at her with a sort of curious expression though, still hard but maybe recognizing something in her. Something familiar.
Loss. Death. Ellen’s life, and apparently this man’s too.
“We close at three A.M.,” she says then before serving a new customer.
He just gives her a tiny nod.
At a quarter past three A.M., he’s pushing her against the counter and his body is lithe and compact and strong against hers even if he’s more or less the same height and Ellen is no weak woman; he’s also a good ten years younger than she is at least, but it isn’t important. What’s important is that she hadn’t had this in a while and he’s willing and he gets it even if he doesn’t know; he tastes of whiskey and Ellen does too because she took a sip of her own before, and it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s the right taste for this kind of fucking, Ellen thinks, fast and efficient and release, and as his lips (which are strangely, surprisingly soft for a man who is such hard edges) find hers, they don’t just kiss but draw blood. She arches into it; she’s no fragile young virgin and she knows how to meet harsh with harsh, brutal with brutal, strength with strength. It happens against the counter as it presses into her back and he thrusts inside her, not slow, not gentle, and it’s alright because that’s not what she wants. Even if his voice, if he speaks, is slow and gentle. Such a contrast, such a contrast, she thinks, and they don’t say anything as they come. She doesn’t even think about anyone; maybe he did, but she won’t ask.
--
“What’s your name?” he asks as he buttons his coat and takes out his wallet.
“Ellen,” she answers, and takes the thirty dollars he owed her for the drinks. “Yours?”
He seems to debate it for a second. Then he takes a breath and gives his back at her; but just before leaving, he slowly turns towards the counter again. “Sayid,” he answers softly, and then he’s gone.
She just nods and looks at the watch. A quarter to four A.M. He hasn’t left a trace of his presence, but it’s fine. She wouldn’t have wanted any.
Ellen sighs, then finishes the half glass of MacClutcheon’s that still is on the counter; feeling drunk enough to do it but not enough to say too much, she picks up the phone and calls Jo.
End.
Title: Sympathy For The Devil
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Lucifer/Man in black (which kinda becomes Lucifer/War), implied Jacob/Man in black
Words: 1280
Summary: “I was waiting for you,” the real devil says as you finally stand in front of him again.
Spoilers: SPN: up until 5x02. For Lost: through S6, even though they're sort of general and nothing specific.
Disclaimer: Neither Lost nor SPN are mine, sadly for me and my bank account.
A/N: originally written for toestastegood for the five acts meme, for the prompts reunion, rough sex and hand holding. Which considering the two people involved might seem a weird combo but eee. ;) Second person POV. Title from the Rolling Stones, obv., but I have no imagination, as previously stated.
“I was waiting for you,” the real devil says as you finally stand in front of him again.
“Seriously?” you answer, keeping a safe distance from him, because you can’t have worked so hard to escape that godforsaken island and become what you were always meant to be to just find out that Lucifer is wearing Jacob’s face. “That is your vessel?”
Because really. The devil shouldn’t be wearing a meatsuit that looks about to fall down into pieces.
Lucifer raises an eyebrow and looks down at himself, then sighs.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s not the one intended for me, but entering it caused… distress and I still have to contact the one intended for me. What’s wrong with it?”
“Except for that piece of skin falling off your cheek? You look like Jacob, that’s what’s wrong with it. Though let me tell you, he took better care of himself.”
“Sorry for that. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
You snort and try not to pay attention; after all, it’s just a vessel. And even if it has the face of the person who kept you there since Lucifer first fell, you can let a grudge go. For now. You still don’t particularly like it, but it’ll do.
“Well, I’ll try not to mind,” you shrug. Everything feels too good to care. John Locke felt just so wrong; now, this? The whole contrary.
“So, you’re free,” Lucifer says then, a glint sparkling in blue eyes. “How much time has it been?”
“An eternity,” you whisper, because it’s been an eternity since he fell, or so it feels like; and you went with him and you’ll never regret it, not when now you might have a second chance at winning your fight.
And while now he’s rotting away in a vessel who doesn’t make him justice (it’s not just that it’s Jacob’s face; even if it wasn’t, nothing could really suit Lucifer), him who once was the most beautiful creature to ever grace Heaven, you can still feel him from his prison of flesh.
The more you look, the more you see behind it and the more you remember how pure and perfect and holy he used to be (along with you), and then his arms are around your waist and your hand brings his neck forward. You kiss him harshly, roughly, trying to get past the human, all to human taste of his vessel and find him, the Lightbringer, the only one you’d follow to the end.
The one you worked so hard to leave that island for, and harder since you knew that he was free.
(The island isn’t there anymore. Like anyone that was on it. You don’t care. You really don’t.)
His clothes fall under your hands, frail and torn and imperfect as his flesh, and then yours are just gone.
Right. He never was particularly patient.
You’re in a bedroom in some abandoned house (Pestilence was taking a walk near here last day, he whispers in your ear when you take a second to eye your surroundings), and then you fall into the unmade bed. It feels welcoming, after centuries, after millennia of not sleeping and earth and everything but, and you might not be human but you know how to appreciate comforts. Lucifer’s hands dig into your back and push you down as he grinds against you. The friction is delicious, the feeling of his teeth biting into your shoulder is, too, and if there’s something wrong about being constricted to flesh (him, at least; you still could turn into smoke, but you really don’t want to, not when it’s easier like this) then it’s lost in the fire inside his mouth and in the wicked way his tongue moves as it battles with yours. You bite down on his lower lip and the skin is so frail that it draws blood, but he moans, saying that it really had been too much time, really too much, and you agree silently as you savor his taste.
Your hand reaches down where he’s hard and shifting his hips in a way that is nothing but sinful, and wouldn’t he know that, and then you slowly, slowly start to jerk him off (nothing like what happened with Jacob once each few centuries; that was rough and harsh and release, and after each time you just hated each other more than before).
And that’s when you see that there’s light seeping out from his closed eyelids, and appearing under his skin; and you see him in that light, you see Lucifer as you saw him before he fell, beautiful and threatening and perfect and nothing like those unworthy humans you were sacrificed for; and while his grace doesn’t keep that vessel together but threatens to make it fall apart, you bask in that light as it tries not to break from its constrictions and those human legs part.
You fuck him down into the mattress as his body meets yours and his grace blesses you in a way that is nothing short of unholy (the noises he makes can’t be holy, the way his cock hardens in your grip can’t be either, and his whole self isn’t anymore and you both don’t care, because in Heaven it could never feel like this) as it threatens to swallow you.
You look at the shadow his true form in the eyes, which merge with the vessel’s and then are separate and then merge again, and as you feel closer, you grab his frail, human hand and push it against the pillow.
His fingers grip yours in a tight, deathly grip (for anyone else; not for you) and as you let yourself go and he does, too, you speak his name in your true voice as he speaks your name in his, and all the windows shatter and you finally, finally know real ecstasy.
You’re sure he already did know, but then again, he always was the one leading you even if he was good at pretending he never did.
--
You don’t feel the chill as you lay on the bed. Lucifer’s grace is gone now, back inside that poor, imperfect union of bones and flesh and nerves and blood. Strangely, though, now his vessel is in a much better condition.
“What about that?” you ask.
“It seems like letting my Grace free had an healing effect. I suppose it will last for a while.”
You nod, and then look at your right hand, still entwined with his left.
You turn and hold your left one out to him.
“I think you have something that was mine.”
Lucifer’s smile would seem downright devilish to humans, and maybe it’s not too far from the truth, but really. You can’t possibly be scared by him. And especially not now when you finally, finally get to be yourself again.
You’re both suddenly dressed again, and he reaches down into his shirt’s pocket.
He holds the ring out to you and places it in your palm.
You take it and remove your hand from his in order to push it down on your finger and as you do, it finally feels like everything is falling into place.
You close your eyes and let a minute pass.
When you open them again, you meet his stare.
“Welcome back, War,” he whispers, and the feeling of rightness swelling up in your chest is so strong that for a second you feel overwhelmed.
Then it’s gone and there’s nothing else you can do except asking him what are the plans and hear him as he tells you how you’re going to turn Earth back into paradise.
End.
Rating: R
Pairing: Ellen/Sayid
Words: 940
Summary: >What stands out to her isn’t his clothing (too refined, too pricey, too new) and it isn’t his features either (dark skin, definitely Arab, foreign accent, a better grammar than most people Ellen usually talks to); what stands out, is that he orders MacClutcheon’s.
Spoilers: general S2 for SPN and S4 for Lost. The timeline is probably kind of wrong but bear with me.
Disclaimer: Neither Lost nor SPN are mine, sadly for me and my bank account.
A/N: originally written for the fic battle at lostsquee for the prompt whiskey. And the pairing was too made of awesome. Title stolen from Steve Earle.
What stands out to her isn’t his clothing (too refined, too pricey, too new) and it isn’t his features either (dark skin, definitely Arab, foreign accent, a better grammar than most people Ellen usually talks to); what stands out, is that he orders MacClutcheon’s.
Or, that’s the first thing that stands out. The second is that half of this new Roadhouse would in theory be over someone like him with not exactly nice intentions in a second (obviously not a hunter, could be mistaken for some kind of terrorist, screams money all over also because you don’t order MacClutcheon’s if you can’t pay for it), but instead no one even goes near him. The man doesn’t speak much, he’s more quiet than anything else; but there’s something about him that screams danger, there’s something in his dead eyes that screams that messing with him isn’t a good idea at all; Ellen hasn’t seen someone looking so dead since Dean the day after he sold his soul, and who knows if this guy hasn’t sold his, too?
He just might have.
He sips the whiskey lightly, slowly, showing that he knows how to appreciate such a drink; Ellen can only respect it. Running a bar, you learn to respect this kind of things. For a split second she misses Jo helping her, but she won’t try to reach out to her before Jo herself does, and forgets about it for the moment.
And the man keeps on staring into his half-empty glass with dead eyes and she wonders if maybe he isn’t about to do it.
“Hey, I usually mind my own business, but can I ask you a question?”
The man nods softly and doesn’t say anything.
“You know which kinda people usually are around in this bar, don’t you?”
“I do,” he answers, functional and businesslike.
“You plannin’ to sell your soul?”
He lets out half a snort before taking another sip.
“That happened a while ago. Metaphorically, do not worry about that.”
She nods and lets that go, his voice deadpan but at the same time honey-sweet and warm; he has a tone and a cadence that are just charming even if he isn’t doing it on purpose and his hard, cold, dead eyes are a striking contrast to that unwanted warmth. It might be the way he talks or the accent or the way his hair falls in unnatural waves on his face, barely touching his leather black coat; Ellen suddenly wants to know, and so she shuts her mouth because it isn’t her business and it isn’t her job.
“How many?” she asks after he orders a second glass.
“How many what?” he asks back, his voice even.
“How many people you loved did you lose. I happen to recognize it. Happened to me too.”
“How many did you lose?”
She takes a breath, figuring that since she was the first to ask, it’s only fair that she answers.
“One for good. Maybe another.”
He nods and takes another sip. “Two. For good.”
She nods without saying anything because she knows that speaking doesn’t help, it never helps. He stares at her with a sort of curious expression though, still hard but maybe recognizing something in her. Something familiar.
Loss. Death. Ellen’s life, and apparently this man’s too.
“We close at three A.M.,” she says then before serving a new customer.
He just gives her a tiny nod.
At a quarter past three A.M., he’s pushing her against the counter and his body is lithe and compact and strong against hers even if he’s more or less the same height and Ellen is no weak woman; he’s also a good ten years younger than she is at least, but it isn’t important. What’s important is that she hadn’t had this in a while and he’s willing and he gets it even if he doesn’t know; he tastes of whiskey and Ellen does too because she took a sip of her own before, and it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s the right taste for this kind of fucking, Ellen thinks, fast and efficient and release, and as his lips (which are strangely, surprisingly soft for a man who is such hard edges) find hers, they don’t just kiss but draw blood. She arches into it; she’s no fragile young virgin and she knows how to meet harsh with harsh, brutal with brutal, strength with strength. It happens against the counter as it presses into her back and he thrusts inside her, not slow, not gentle, and it’s alright because that’s not what she wants. Even if his voice, if he speaks, is slow and gentle. Such a contrast, such a contrast, she thinks, and they don’t say anything as they come. She doesn’t even think about anyone; maybe he did, but she won’t ask.
--
“What’s your name?” he asks as he buttons his coat and takes out his wallet.
“Ellen,” she answers, and takes the thirty dollars he owed her for the drinks. “Yours?”
He seems to debate it for a second. Then he takes a breath and gives his back at her; but just before leaving, he slowly turns towards the counter again. “Sayid,” he answers softly, and then he’s gone.
She just nods and looks at the watch. A quarter to four A.M. He hasn’t left a trace of his presence, but it’s fine. She wouldn’t have wanted any.
Ellen sighs, then finishes the half glass of MacClutcheon’s that still is on the counter; feeling drunk enough to do it but not enough to say too much, she picks up the phone and calls Jo.
End.
Title: Sympathy For The Devil
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Lucifer/Man in black (which kinda becomes Lucifer/War), implied Jacob/Man in black
Words: 1280
Summary: “I was waiting for you,” the real devil says as you finally stand in front of him again.
Spoilers: SPN: up until 5x02. For Lost: through S6, even though they're sort of general and nothing specific.
Disclaimer: Neither Lost nor SPN are mine, sadly for me and my bank account.
A/N: originally written for toestastegood for the five acts meme, for the prompts reunion, rough sex and hand holding. Which considering the two people involved might seem a weird combo but eee. ;) Second person POV. Title from the Rolling Stones, obv., but I have no imagination, as previously stated.
“I was waiting for you,” the real devil says as you finally stand in front of him again.
“Seriously?” you answer, keeping a safe distance from him, because you can’t have worked so hard to escape that godforsaken island and become what you were always meant to be to just find out that Lucifer is wearing Jacob’s face. “That is your vessel?”
Because really. The devil shouldn’t be wearing a meatsuit that looks about to fall down into pieces.
Lucifer raises an eyebrow and looks down at himself, then sighs.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s not the one intended for me, but entering it caused… distress and I still have to contact the one intended for me. What’s wrong with it?”
“Except for that piece of skin falling off your cheek? You look like Jacob, that’s what’s wrong with it. Though let me tell you, he took better care of himself.”
“Sorry for that. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
You snort and try not to pay attention; after all, it’s just a vessel. And even if it has the face of the person who kept you there since Lucifer first fell, you can let a grudge go. For now. You still don’t particularly like it, but it’ll do.
“Well, I’ll try not to mind,” you shrug. Everything feels too good to care. John Locke felt just so wrong; now, this? The whole contrary.
“So, you’re free,” Lucifer says then, a glint sparkling in blue eyes. “How much time has it been?”
“An eternity,” you whisper, because it’s been an eternity since he fell, or so it feels like; and you went with him and you’ll never regret it, not when now you might have a second chance at winning your fight.
And while now he’s rotting away in a vessel who doesn’t make him justice (it’s not just that it’s Jacob’s face; even if it wasn’t, nothing could really suit Lucifer), him who once was the most beautiful creature to ever grace Heaven, you can still feel him from his prison of flesh.
The more you look, the more you see behind it and the more you remember how pure and perfect and holy he used to be (along with you), and then his arms are around your waist and your hand brings his neck forward. You kiss him harshly, roughly, trying to get past the human, all to human taste of his vessel and find him, the Lightbringer, the only one you’d follow to the end.
The one you worked so hard to leave that island for, and harder since you knew that he was free.
(The island isn’t there anymore. Like anyone that was on it. You don’t care. You really don’t.)
His clothes fall under your hands, frail and torn and imperfect as his flesh, and then yours are just gone.
Right. He never was particularly patient.
You’re in a bedroom in some abandoned house (Pestilence was taking a walk near here last day, he whispers in your ear when you take a second to eye your surroundings), and then you fall into the unmade bed. It feels welcoming, after centuries, after millennia of not sleeping and earth and everything but, and you might not be human but you know how to appreciate comforts. Lucifer’s hands dig into your back and push you down as he grinds against you. The friction is delicious, the feeling of his teeth biting into your shoulder is, too, and if there’s something wrong about being constricted to flesh (him, at least; you still could turn into smoke, but you really don’t want to, not when it’s easier like this) then it’s lost in the fire inside his mouth and in the wicked way his tongue moves as it battles with yours. You bite down on his lower lip and the skin is so frail that it draws blood, but he moans, saying that it really had been too much time, really too much, and you agree silently as you savor his taste.
Your hand reaches down where he’s hard and shifting his hips in a way that is nothing but sinful, and wouldn’t he know that, and then you slowly, slowly start to jerk him off (nothing like what happened with Jacob once each few centuries; that was rough and harsh and release, and after each time you just hated each other more than before).
And that’s when you see that there’s light seeping out from his closed eyelids, and appearing under his skin; and you see him in that light, you see Lucifer as you saw him before he fell, beautiful and threatening and perfect and nothing like those unworthy humans you were sacrificed for; and while his grace doesn’t keep that vessel together but threatens to make it fall apart, you bask in that light as it tries not to break from its constrictions and those human legs part.
You fuck him down into the mattress as his body meets yours and his grace blesses you in a way that is nothing short of unholy (the noises he makes can’t be holy, the way his cock hardens in your grip can’t be either, and his whole self isn’t anymore and you both don’t care, because in Heaven it could never feel like this) as it threatens to swallow you.
You look at the shadow his true form in the eyes, which merge with the vessel’s and then are separate and then merge again, and as you feel closer, you grab his frail, human hand and push it against the pillow.
His fingers grip yours in a tight, deathly grip (for anyone else; not for you) and as you let yourself go and he does, too, you speak his name in your true voice as he speaks your name in his, and all the windows shatter and you finally, finally know real ecstasy.
You’re sure he already did know, but then again, he always was the one leading you even if he was good at pretending he never did.
--
You don’t feel the chill as you lay on the bed. Lucifer’s grace is gone now, back inside that poor, imperfect union of bones and flesh and nerves and blood. Strangely, though, now his vessel is in a much better condition.
“What about that?” you ask.
“It seems like letting my Grace free had an healing effect. I suppose it will last for a while.”
You nod, and then look at your right hand, still entwined with his left.
You turn and hold your left one out to him.
“I think you have something that was mine.”
Lucifer’s smile would seem downright devilish to humans, and maybe it’s not too far from the truth, but really. You can’t possibly be scared by him. And especially not now when you finally, finally get to be yourself again.
You’re both suddenly dressed again, and he reaches down into his shirt’s pocket.
He holds the ring out to you and places it in your palm.
You take it and remove your hand from his in order to push it down on your finger and as you do, it finally feels like everything is falling into place.
You close your eyes and let a minute pass.
When you open them again, you meet his stare.
“Welcome back, War,” he whispers, and the feeling of rightness swelling up in your chest is so strong that for a second you feel overwhelmed.
Then it’s gone and there’s nothing else you can do except asking him what are the plans and hear him as he tells you how you’re going to turn Earth back into paradise.
End.