Fic: But to Bring a Sword
Title: But to Bring a Sword
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Missing scene, smut, slight plot.
Pairing: Michael/Lucifer (slight Sam/Dean)
Rating: NC-17.
Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of the main arc elements of Season 5.
Word count: ~ 3.000
Content notice: ( Skip) Dub-con/non-con. Implied incest. | Detailed warnings for those who need them. | Warning policy.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction set in the world of Supernatural. Neither the world nor the characters belong to me in any way, and I make no money from this.
Summary: Two forces meet at the edge of the world.
Author's notes: No thanks to hildigunnur who pawned this one off on me ;) (You know I love you, hon.) Many thinks to salixbabylon, who holds my hand, sends me internet hearts, and hunts through my stories for errant commas and kills them. Much love to the boyfriend, too.
~*~
Go straight to the story.
Downloadable versions:
But to Bring a sword in: .html (20 KB) || .txt (19 KB)
Please RIGHTCLICKSAVE for both links.
~*~
But to Bring a Sword
Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.
For I came to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law;
and a man’s enemies will be the members of his household. Matthew 10:34-36
"I thought I might find you here," says a voice from behind him. "Of course you would choose a grandiose, symbolic location. I find it rather too warm, to be frank."
The ocean fills his entire horizon, the headland at his back, the warm summer wind buffeting his clothes and hair, the scents and sounds and the sun on his skin sensations that he has left behind for too long.
Not as long as the creature at his back, though. "You are never frank, Lightbringer," he returns as he moves to face his adversary. "Your lies are legend."
"Ah," Lucifer says, narrowing his eyes. "I have no use for lies this time around, taxiarch. I have learned that an ungainly truth makes a sharper scalpel than an elaborate lie."
He feels abruptly tired, though he has not been long on this earth; feels it in his heavenly wings, his bones, his shaking faith, and he turns his head and looks off over the Cape Finisterre. "Say what you came to say, Adversary," he growls, folding his arms to keep himself in check.
The Lightbringer stares at him flatly, through the mien of his vessel; his expression is dark and his hands are fisted at his sides. "I adored Him better than any of you did. I loved Him, and I reveled in His creation. My faith in Him was never shaken, never wavered; I did not doubt. And yet for that, you cast me out. Now you have lost Him, but what is worse, you have lost your faith in Him, and still you are revered, among men and among your brethren."
"We do not doubt Him, Devil," Michael answers. "We do not let our prides blind us to His place for us in His plans."
The Lightbringer laughs at that, a sharp chuckle, and shakes his head. "Do you take me for a fool, Archangel? I walk this Earth by leave of your brethren, whose mistrust has led them to believe that they may bring about the apocalypse, immanentize the eschaton without consequence. If there is one among our kind who currently holds no illusion as to their place in His plans, that is me, Brother."
"And me," he responds, drawing himself up to his full height and letting his wings unfold briefly.
Lucifer seems more bitterly amused than anything else. "Yes, you," he says, softly. "Impressive, Michael. Did you let me approach merely to tell me that you are here to end me?"
"It is my sacred duty to lead the hosts of heaven," he begins, but is brought up short when Lucifer steps closer and takes a hold of his arm.
"You are my brother, Michael, and yet you would cast me out," he says, and his touch burns through the shirt this vessel was wearing when he claimed him. "For naught but a word from our Father, our Father whom you have lost."
"And who yet commands my every decision," he returns, but knows that he will regret these words when a slow smile spreads over Lucifer's face.
"Whose pride was that, taxiarch?" the Lightbringer asks gently. "For if He is truly absent, you must know that your decisions are yours only, Archangel. How does it feel to have a choice?" He steps closer until he is toe to toe with Michael, until Michael must turn his head to look away from his gaze.
"Why have you come here, Lightbringer?" he asks, guarded. Any fight between them must end one way, and one way only; so it has been foretold, but he had not anticipated that fight to take place on this ground.
"To give you a choice," the Devil replies, smirking at him, his eyes dancing with mirth.
"Our kind were not meant for choices," Michael returns, feeling his convictions straighten his spine. "We do not understand them."
"And yet some of us have been making them since the dawn of time, Brother," Lucifer answers, bringing up his other hand to touch his fingers to Michael's cheekbone almost absently. "Yet now you have that which you so adamantly denied you wanted, even as you cast us out. Yet your brethren, who decried us for our choices, are grasping at the opportunity to exercise their own free will." He smiles and drops his hand to Michael's shoulder, and Michael remembers why this being was favored above all others in Heaven at the sight of his smile.
"Why have you not stopped me, Michael?" Lucifer asks when the silence has gone for a few beats, warm fingers still resting on the bare skin of Michael's shoulder, thumb caressing his collar bone.
"Perhaps," Michael responds, "I was trying to gather intelligence on my adversary."
"Perhaps," Lucifer returns blandly. "If so, why have you not left?"
"You may have something yet to say."
"And the best of the entire Host to gather this information was the Viceroy of Heaven himself?" Lucifer smiles, gently.
"You have not let another approach you, as you well know," Michael says.
"A truth, and from you," Lucifer says bitterly, and there is no beauty in the smile on his face now. "And I would not have let you approach me, either, Brother. I came to you."
"And I must admit that this puzzles me greatly," he admits, meeting Lucifer's eyes.
"Choices," Lucifer responds wryly, "are, as your host would put it, a bitch."
"What is your..." he starts, but gets no further, for the Lightbringer leans in to put a finger across his lips.
"I loved my Father," he whispers gently, softly, holding Michael's gaze. "I loved his creation. I loved better and stronger and with more passion than any who went before me and any who have gone after. Love was my crime and my choice; it is the reason I was cast out of Heaven, never to return."
He leans in, until his breath brushes the ear of Michael's vessel, until he can feel the heat from Lucifer's body - his vessel's body - across his own. "That choice may make me your adversary now, Brother, but we both know for whom I fell."
The reflex to bring his hands up and push Lucifer away does not come from him; it is from his vessel, whose body he rides. It is muscle-memory, more than perhaps anything else, that has him hook a foot behind Lucifer's ankle and drop him to the ground.
They never make it all the way there.
There is a bed instead, in a large, airy room, and when he extends his senses he gets a feeling of piety and hospitality - a monastery, Santiago - they're safe as can be, closed off from the world and the hosts of heaven and hell; a shelter from the storm, draped with white linen and soft pillows. Between the two of them, their Father could find them, but not many others.
"I will not have any more of your lies, Lightbringer," he whispers into the silence; they are sprawled together on the bed, his knees between Lucifer's legs, his hands still on the other angel's shoulders, holding him down. Lucifer, for his part, is sprawled where he fell, arms up above his head as if he's... no. He shall not think so, for that way lies damnation. He moves away to stand, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.
"I do not lie; I do not have to," the devil responds.
"And yet you do not speak the truth. You fell for pride, not for love, Lightbringer, and your pride will lay you low again. Why are you still here? You must know I am stronger than you."
"I told you," Lucifer says, "I wish to give you a choice. And perhaps I wanted to see you, Michael." He's sitting on the edge of the bed now, looking up at Michael, his hair disheveled, and he looks - somehow - unaccountably sad. A voice at the back of Michael's consciousness quietly informs him that this look usually accompanies contrition, which is the last emotion he would have expected this being to express.
"Do not try to..." he begins, but then Lucifer holds up a hand and he stops: for all that he has battled this being, he remembers loving him.
"I won't," Lucifer says. "If you do not wish me to, I will not. All I ask is... this." He holds out a hand, indicating the room. "We have time. If you will."
It has been long, too long, and despite everything; despite the end of the world, this is a choice he'll make the same way every time. "I will," he replies, meeting Lucifer's eyes.
"Then come here," the Lightbringer says, beckoning with a hand from where he's still sitting on the bed, eyes shining, and he's beautiful. Michael had forgotten, because it's been millennia and he made every effort to repress it, but here, now, he can dismiss from his mind that the future is for fighting and it won't be side by side.
Lucifer is taller, in this form, and when he draws Michael down onto the bed and wraps his arms around him, Michael notices every inch of their height difference in the way Lucifer manages to curl himself around him, face buried in Michael's short hair. "It does not matter to me that you do not believe me, Brother," the Lightbringer whispers, fingers tightening in the t-shirt on Michael's back. "It is enough that I know I speak the truth."
He does not wish to re-start their disagreement: what is done is done, for whichever reason. What is important right now is that the being in his arms is someone he never thought he'd get to hold again, and even if the situation is less than what he could have wished, they have always been destined to stand against each other. It does not mean he loves his brother any less; it never has.
So all he says is, "Shhhhh," before leaning up to kiss Lucifer, soft and gentle at first but turning hard and dirty soon enough.
His body knows what it is doing better than he does; knows to bite down hard on the tendons of Lucifer's neck, making the angel gasp, knows to curl his fingers around the other's wrists until he can feel the bones grinding together, and he knows he'll leave a mark but he does not care. Others have left their marks on this perfect being; he may as well.
"Michael," Lucifer breathes out, "please."
It is heady to have him asking, to have him begging, and Michael responds by tangling a hand in Lucifer's vessel's shaggy hair and holding his head so that he can kiss him more thoroughly. The way their lips meet is familiar and comfortable, and they fit together the way only two people who have filed each other's edges off ever do.
Lucifer arches up into him, the hand that Michael is not pinning to the mattress winding its way up beneath Michael's shirt, warm and insistent, until he can't but let go and pull his shirt off, and Lucifer's hands are working at his belt buckle when he emerges from the flurry of clothes, like they'd practiced it.
He needs to stand up to take his jeans off, but that doesn't mean he needs to take his eyes off his brother, and so he watches when Lucifer pulls his white button-down over his head and unbuttons the khaki pants he's wearing. He gets rid of his own clothes in time to help pull down Lucifer's pants, and he revels in the way the backs of his fingers skim over the skin of Lucifer's legs when he draws the fabric down and off.
Naked, there are not a whole lot of illusions left; it's just them - and their vessels, of course, but their vessels have been here before without them.
"I have missed the sight of you," the Lightbringer murmurs, and Michael has to assent, because the sight of Lucifer sprawled out beneath him is one he has waited eons to see again.
And feel; they kiss, for what feels like hours, skin sliding against skin, their cocks rubbing together, pleasure spiraling until they're both breathless and close, so close, but Michael wants more, because this, this is probably the last time, the last time for any of them, and he needs to take everything he knows the other will offer.
Somehow, miraculously - naturally, this is Lucifer, after all - there is lube in the nightstand, and Lucifer makes no comment when Michael slicks up his fingers and reaches down to push them inside. In fact, he makes no sound at all, until his eyes blink shut and his mouth opens as Michael's fingers find the right spot, and then there's a low groan and a loud exhale, as Lucifer's body - his vessel's body - yields to the pressure.
"Don’t…" he starts, then breathes sharply and tries again. "Don't take all day," is what he finally says, pushing his knees apart and up, and then all Michael has to do is withdraw his fingers and lean down, until he fits perfectly into the cradle of his brother's hips.
"It was only ever you," he whispers, when Michael thrusts home, pleasure licking up his spine, and he's shaking, his arms barely holding him up, and then Lucifer wraps his long legs around his hips and pulls him in even closer and that's it, he has to lower himself until they're flush up against each other and Lucifer wraps his arms around him too, and then Michael is being surrounded in every way possible.
"Please, Michael," his brother says, sounding wrecked. "Please move, please," and how can he not comply when he's asked so nicely?
His body falls into a rhythm that feels natural, thrusting firmly but slow, until Lucifer arches into him, head thrown back, though he's still watching Michael through eyes that are barely more than slits. He knows how Lucifer likes it, in this body; knows perfectly how to find the best angle, knows to tangle a shaking hand in his hair, knows to brush their mouths together, trading soft kisses that are barely more than shared breaths, until the hazel eyes flutter closed. Then he can feel Lucifer coming, body tightening around him, and Michael fucks him through it, hard thrusts that rattle the bed-frame against the wall, until Lucifer is shaking, fingers scrabbling over Michael's shoulders, and his hitching breaths sound like tiny sobs.
"Want me to stop?" he asks, pausing his thrusts, his cock buried deep inside Lucifer's vessel, using the hand at the nape of Lucifer's neck to tilt his head down until he can look the other angel in the eye.
"No," Lucifer breathes, "no, keep going, fuck me," he adds, and Michael pulls almost all the way out before pressing home again, and then he lets himself go, thrusts going sharp and fast and hard, and it feels like an age has passed when he comes, an age in which there's nothing but warm skin and a pliant body under his hands, arching up to meet him.
When he comes down from his climax, he's lying in Lucifer's arms and they're fused together by the come on Lucifer's stomach, but it's not like either of them will mind.
"You know I loved you best," Michael finally says into Lucifer's shoulder. "God help me, but I did."
"Blasphemy, from you," Lucifer says softly. "Now I know the apocalypse is coming."
There's a long silence before Michael speaks again. "We can't do this again."
"Afraid to be found out? Afraid they'll remember our… relationship?" There's a bitter note of defeat in Lucifer's tone.
"No," he sighs, levering himself onto his side and leaning onto an elbow so that he can meet his brother's eyes. "I'm afraid that I'll remember our relationship. I'm afraid that if we do this too many times, I'll let the world burn for your sake."
"And that is not your role," Lucifer finishes for him, firmly, and the bitterness is gone.
He leans down to share a kiss, and when they break apart, he whispers, "Ask me" in the space between their lips.
"No," Lucifer says back, gently, and his eyes are sad. "I shall not ask you now, any more than I asked you then."
They break apart, because after that, there's nothing else they can do except start pulling on their clothes.
He's buttoning his shirt when there's a hand on his shoulder, spinning him around and drawing him in until Lucifer can kiss him, his other hand at the small of his back, pulling him closer. Their breaths are harsh when they finally part, and he looks up into his brother's face to find the same stillness, the same calm, that he always exuded, back before he fell.
"I shall see you," Lucifer says, and they both know that it will be across a battlefield.
He feels like he ought to cite the prophecies, point out that his brother's position is untenable, that he's heading for a fall - another one - and this one might just kill him. But Lucifer has never yielded to anything less than overwhelming force, so all he replies with is, "Yes."
They pull apart and straighten their clothes again, and then Michael looks up and finds Lucifer looking at him, back to implacable and stoic, looking neat and not at all sinister in his light-colored clothing, his long hair hardly ruffled, despite Michael burying his fingers in it several times during the course of the evening. It's almost like nothing has happened - except for the purpling bruises on his vessel's wrists, peeking out from beneath the cuffs of Lucifer's shirt.
"Michael," he says, and he lifts his gaze to look the Devil in the eye, only to find that the Devil is not looking back. Instead, he's looking down and to the side, at the bed they've just left. "Of all of them," he goes on, "I'm glad it'll be you." He looks up and meets Michael's eyes for half a second, resolute and uncompromising.
By the time Michael has a response to that, he's alone in the room, but he voices it regardless, because some things need to be said. "You better take me down with you this time, you bastard," he whispers to the empty bed and the fluttering curtains, before pulling himself back to where he ought to have been all this time.
If Lucifer is right, and he truly does have a choice, he knows what he'll be using it for.
- FIN.
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Missing scene, smut, slight plot.
Pairing: Michael/Lucifer (slight Sam/Dean)
Rating: NC-17.
Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of the main arc elements of Season 5.
Word count: ~ 3.000
Content notice: ( Skip) Dub-con/non-con. Implied incest. | Detailed warnings for those who need them. | Warning policy.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction set in the world of Supernatural. Neither the world nor the characters belong to me in any way, and I make no money from this.
Summary: Two forces meet at the edge of the world.
Author's notes: No thanks to hildigunnur who pawned this one off on me ;) (You know I love you, hon.) Many thinks to salixbabylon, who holds my hand, sends me internet hearts, and hunts through my stories for errant commas and kills them. Much love to the boyfriend, too.
~*~
Go straight to the story.
Downloadable versions:
But to Bring a sword in: .html (20 KB) || .txt (19 KB)
Please RIGHTCLICKSAVE for both links.
~*~
But to Bring a Sword
Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.
For I came to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law;
and a man’s enemies will be the members of his household. Matthew 10:34-36
"I thought I might find you here," says a voice from behind him. "Of course you would choose a grandiose, symbolic location. I find it rather too warm, to be frank."
The ocean fills his entire horizon, the headland at his back, the warm summer wind buffeting his clothes and hair, the scents and sounds and the sun on his skin sensations that he has left behind for too long.
Not as long as the creature at his back, though. "You are never frank, Lightbringer," he returns as he moves to face his adversary. "Your lies are legend."
"Ah," Lucifer says, narrowing his eyes. "I have no use for lies this time around, taxiarch. I have learned that an ungainly truth makes a sharper scalpel than an elaborate lie."
He feels abruptly tired, though he has not been long on this earth; feels it in his heavenly wings, his bones, his shaking faith, and he turns his head and looks off over the Cape Finisterre. "Say what you came to say, Adversary," he growls, folding his arms to keep himself in check.
The Lightbringer stares at him flatly, through the mien of his vessel; his expression is dark and his hands are fisted at his sides. "I adored Him better than any of you did. I loved Him, and I reveled in His creation. My faith in Him was never shaken, never wavered; I did not doubt. And yet for that, you cast me out. Now you have lost Him, but what is worse, you have lost your faith in Him, and still you are revered, among men and among your brethren."
"We do not doubt Him, Devil," Michael answers. "We do not let our prides blind us to His place for us in His plans."
The Lightbringer laughs at that, a sharp chuckle, and shakes his head. "Do you take me for a fool, Archangel? I walk this Earth by leave of your brethren, whose mistrust has led them to believe that they may bring about the apocalypse, immanentize the eschaton without consequence. If there is one among our kind who currently holds no illusion as to their place in His plans, that is me, Brother."
"And me," he responds, drawing himself up to his full height and letting his wings unfold briefly.
Lucifer seems more bitterly amused than anything else. "Yes, you," he says, softly. "Impressive, Michael. Did you let me approach merely to tell me that you are here to end me?"
"It is my sacred duty to lead the hosts of heaven," he begins, but is brought up short when Lucifer steps closer and takes a hold of his arm.
"You are my brother, Michael, and yet you would cast me out," he says, and his touch burns through the shirt this vessel was wearing when he claimed him. "For naught but a word from our Father, our Father whom you have lost."
"And who yet commands my every decision," he returns, but knows that he will regret these words when a slow smile spreads over Lucifer's face.
"Whose pride was that, taxiarch?" the Lightbringer asks gently. "For if He is truly absent, you must know that your decisions are yours only, Archangel. How does it feel to have a choice?" He steps closer until he is toe to toe with Michael, until Michael must turn his head to look away from his gaze.
"Why have you come here, Lightbringer?" he asks, guarded. Any fight between them must end one way, and one way only; so it has been foretold, but he had not anticipated that fight to take place on this ground.
"To give you a choice," the Devil replies, smirking at him, his eyes dancing with mirth.
"Our kind were not meant for choices," Michael returns, feeling his convictions straighten his spine. "We do not understand them."
"And yet some of us have been making them since the dawn of time, Brother," Lucifer answers, bringing up his other hand to touch his fingers to Michael's cheekbone almost absently. "Yet now you have that which you so adamantly denied you wanted, even as you cast us out. Yet your brethren, who decried us for our choices, are grasping at the opportunity to exercise their own free will." He smiles and drops his hand to Michael's shoulder, and Michael remembers why this being was favored above all others in Heaven at the sight of his smile.
"Why have you not stopped me, Michael?" Lucifer asks when the silence has gone for a few beats, warm fingers still resting on the bare skin of Michael's shoulder, thumb caressing his collar bone.
"Perhaps," Michael responds, "I was trying to gather intelligence on my adversary."
"Perhaps," Lucifer returns blandly. "If so, why have you not left?"
"You may have something yet to say."
"And the best of the entire Host to gather this information was the Viceroy of Heaven himself?" Lucifer smiles, gently.
"You have not let another approach you, as you well know," Michael says.
"A truth, and from you," Lucifer says bitterly, and there is no beauty in the smile on his face now. "And I would not have let you approach me, either, Brother. I came to you."
"And I must admit that this puzzles me greatly," he admits, meeting Lucifer's eyes.
"Choices," Lucifer responds wryly, "are, as your host would put it, a bitch."
"What is your..." he starts, but gets no further, for the Lightbringer leans in to put a finger across his lips.
"I loved my Father," he whispers gently, softly, holding Michael's gaze. "I loved his creation. I loved better and stronger and with more passion than any who went before me and any who have gone after. Love was my crime and my choice; it is the reason I was cast out of Heaven, never to return."
He leans in, until his breath brushes the ear of Michael's vessel, until he can feel the heat from Lucifer's body - his vessel's body - across his own. "That choice may make me your adversary now, Brother, but we both know for whom I fell."
The reflex to bring his hands up and push Lucifer away does not come from him; it is from his vessel, whose body he rides. It is muscle-memory, more than perhaps anything else, that has him hook a foot behind Lucifer's ankle and drop him to the ground.
They never make it all the way there.
There is a bed instead, in a large, airy room, and when he extends his senses he gets a feeling of piety and hospitality - a monastery, Santiago - they're safe as can be, closed off from the world and the hosts of heaven and hell; a shelter from the storm, draped with white linen and soft pillows. Between the two of them, their Father could find them, but not many others.
"I will not have any more of your lies, Lightbringer," he whispers into the silence; they are sprawled together on the bed, his knees between Lucifer's legs, his hands still on the other angel's shoulders, holding him down. Lucifer, for his part, is sprawled where he fell, arms up above his head as if he's... no. He shall not think so, for that way lies damnation. He moves away to stand, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.
"I do not lie; I do not have to," the devil responds.
"And yet you do not speak the truth. You fell for pride, not for love, Lightbringer, and your pride will lay you low again. Why are you still here? You must know I am stronger than you."
"I told you," Lucifer says, "I wish to give you a choice. And perhaps I wanted to see you, Michael." He's sitting on the edge of the bed now, looking up at Michael, his hair disheveled, and he looks - somehow - unaccountably sad. A voice at the back of Michael's consciousness quietly informs him that this look usually accompanies contrition, which is the last emotion he would have expected this being to express.
"Do not try to..." he begins, but then Lucifer holds up a hand and he stops: for all that he has battled this being, he remembers loving him.
"I won't," Lucifer says. "If you do not wish me to, I will not. All I ask is... this." He holds out a hand, indicating the room. "We have time. If you will."
It has been long, too long, and despite everything; despite the end of the world, this is a choice he'll make the same way every time. "I will," he replies, meeting Lucifer's eyes.
"Then come here," the Lightbringer says, beckoning with a hand from where he's still sitting on the bed, eyes shining, and he's beautiful. Michael had forgotten, because it's been millennia and he made every effort to repress it, but here, now, he can dismiss from his mind that the future is for fighting and it won't be side by side.
Lucifer is taller, in this form, and when he draws Michael down onto the bed and wraps his arms around him, Michael notices every inch of their height difference in the way Lucifer manages to curl himself around him, face buried in Michael's short hair. "It does not matter to me that you do not believe me, Brother," the Lightbringer whispers, fingers tightening in the t-shirt on Michael's back. "It is enough that I know I speak the truth."
He does not wish to re-start their disagreement: what is done is done, for whichever reason. What is important right now is that the being in his arms is someone he never thought he'd get to hold again, and even if the situation is less than what he could have wished, they have always been destined to stand against each other. It does not mean he loves his brother any less; it never has.
So all he says is, "Shhhhh," before leaning up to kiss Lucifer, soft and gentle at first but turning hard and dirty soon enough.
His body knows what it is doing better than he does; knows to bite down hard on the tendons of Lucifer's neck, making the angel gasp, knows to curl his fingers around the other's wrists until he can feel the bones grinding together, and he knows he'll leave a mark but he does not care. Others have left their marks on this perfect being; he may as well.
"Michael," Lucifer breathes out, "please."
It is heady to have him asking, to have him begging, and Michael responds by tangling a hand in Lucifer's vessel's shaggy hair and holding his head so that he can kiss him more thoroughly. The way their lips meet is familiar and comfortable, and they fit together the way only two people who have filed each other's edges off ever do.
Lucifer arches up into him, the hand that Michael is not pinning to the mattress winding its way up beneath Michael's shirt, warm and insistent, until he can't but let go and pull his shirt off, and Lucifer's hands are working at his belt buckle when he emerges from the flurry of clothes, like they'd practiced it.
He needs to stand up to take his jeans off, but that doesn't mean he needs to take his eyes off his brother, and so he watches when Lucifer pulls his white button-down over his head and unbuttons the khaki pants he's wearing. He gets rid of his own clothes in time to help pull down Lucifer's pants, and he revels in the way the backs of his fingers skim over the skin of Lucifer's legs when he draws the fabric down and off.
Naked, there are not a whole lot of illusions left; it's just them - and their vessels, of course, but their vessels have been here before without them.
"I have missed the sight of you," the Lightbringer murmurs, and Michael has to assent, because the sight of Lucifer sprawled out beneath him is one he has waited eons to see again.
And feel; they kiss, for what feels like hours, skin sliding against skin, their cocks rubbing together, pleasure spiraling until they're both breathless and close, so close, but Michael wants more, because this, this is probably the last time, the last time for any of them, and he needs to take everything he knows the other will offer.
Somehow, miraculously - naturally, this is Lucifer, after all - there is lube in the nightstand, and Lucifer makes no comment when Michael slicks up his fingers and reaches down to push them inside. In fact, he makes no sound at all, until his eyes blink shut and his mouth opens as Michael's fingers find the right spot, and then there's a low groan and a loud exhale, as Lucifer's body - his vessel's body - yields to the pressure.
"Don’t…" he starts, then breathes sharply and tries again. "Don't take all day," is what he finally says, pushing his knees apart and up, and then all Michael has to do is withdraw his fingers and lean down, until he fits perfectly into the cradle of his brother's hips.
"It was only ever you," he whispers, when Michael thrusts home, pleasure licking up his spine, and he's shaking, his arms barely holding him up, and then Lucifer wraps his long legs around his hips and pulls him in even closer and that's it, he has to lower himself until they're flush up against each other and Lucifer wraps his arms around him too, and then Michael is being surrounded in every way possible.
"Please, Michael," his brother says, sounding wrecked. "Please move, please," and how can he not comply when he's asked so nicely?
His body falls into a rhythm that feels natural, thrusting firmly but slow, until Lucifer arches into him, head thrown back, though he's still watching Michael through eyes that are barely more than slits. He knows how Lucifer likes it, in this body; knows perfectly how to find the best angle, knows to tangle a shaking hand in his hair, knows to brush their mouths together, trading soft kisses that are barely more than shared breaths, until the hazel eyes flutter closed. Then he can feel Lucifer coming, body tightening around him, and Michael fucks him through it, hard thrusts that rattle the bed-frame against the wall, until Lucifer is shaking, fingers scrabbling over Michael's shoulders, and his hitching breaths sound like tiny sobs.
"Want me to stop?" he asks, pausing his thrusts, his cock buried deep inside Lucifer's vessel, using the hand at the nape of Lucifer's neck to tilt his head down until he can look the other angel in the eye.
"No," Lucifer breathes, "no, keep going, fuck me," he adds, and Michael pulls almost all the way out before pressing home again, and then he lets himself go, thrusts going sharp and fast and hard, and it feels like an age has passed when he comes, an age in which there's nothing but warm skin and a pliant body under his hands, arching up to meet him.
When he comes down from his climax, he's lying in Lucifer's arms and they're fused together by the come on Lucifer's stomach, but it's not like either of them will mind.
"You know I loved you best," Michael finally says into Lucifer's shoulder. "God help me, but I did."
"Blasphemy, from you," Lucifer says softly. "Now I know the apocalypse is coming."
There's a long silence before Michael speaks again. "We can't do this again."
"Afraid to be found out? Afraid they'll remember our… relationship?" There's a bitter note of defeat in Lucifer's tone.
"No," he sighs, levering himself onto his side and leaning onto an elbow so that he can meet his brother's eyes. "I'm afraid that I'll remember our relationship. I'm afraid that if we do this too many times, I'll let the world burn for your sake."
"And that is not your role," Lucifer finishes for him, firmly, and the bitterness is gone.
He leans down to share a kiss, and when they break apart, he whispers, "Ask me" in the space between their lips.
"No," Lucifer says back, gently, and his eyes are sad. "I shall not ask you now, any more than I asked you then."
They break apart, because after that, there's nothing else they can do except start pulling on their clothes.
He's buttoning his shirt when there's a hand on his shoulder, spinning him around and drawing him in until Lucifer can kiss him, his other hand at the small of his back, pulling him closer. Their breaths are harsh when they finally part, and he looks up into his brother's face to find the same stillness, the same calm, that he always exuded, back before he fell.
"I shall see you," Lucifer says, and they both know that it will be across a battlefield.
He feels like he ought to cite the prophecies, point out that his brother's position is untenable, that he's heading for a fall - another one - and this one might just kill him. But Lucifer has never yielded to anything less than overwhelming force, so all he replies with is, "Yes."
They pull apart and straighten their clothes again, and then Michael looks up and finds Lucifer looking at him, back to implacable and stoic, looking neat and not at all sinister in his light-colored clothing, his long hair hardly ruffled, despite Michael burying his fingers in it several times during the course of the evening. It's almost like nothing has happened - except for the purpling bruises on his vessel's wrists, peeking out from beneath the cuffs of Lucifer's shirt.
"Michael," he says, and he lifts his gaze to look the Devil in the eye, only to find that the Devil is not looking back. Instead, he's looking down and to the side, at the bed they've just left. "Of all of them," he goes on, "I'm glad it'll be you." He looks up and meets Michael's eyes for half a second, resolute and uncompromising.
By the time Michael has a response to that, he's alone in the room, but he voices it regardless, because some things need to be said. "You better take me down with you this time, you bastard," he whispers to the empty bed and the fluttering curtains, before pulling himself back to where he ought to have been all this time.
If Lucifer is right, and he truly does have a choice, he knows what he'll be using it for.
- FIN.