suffice to say when i play i don't lose

[sindicates]

[ after all the religious rigamarole during life, all the promises and threats and direness of the catholic church he'd avoided, it had been so, so easy to get into heaven.

criminally so, in fact.

it helps that he's so personable and can so easily turn things around in his favor. why, he'd spent his entire adult life protecting the vulnerable people of new orleans, making sure that predators knew they couldn't get away with their vile crimes without consequence. as his body count had risen, the violent crime in the area had dropped exponentially.

there's also the fact that an angel, a woman whose abusive husband he'd killed right in front of her, had seen him at the gates by chance and had done everything she could to get to him to thank him like she hadn't been able to do in life. he'd leaned in and whispered in her ear, one hand resting soothingly on her shoulder, and she'd been practically apoplectic over the threat hanging above his head.

after that kind of display, what could st. peter do but let him in?

he gives the angel a sharp little smile as he steps into heaven.

he'd taken extra precautions, of course: a couple deals here and there with angels he knew from first sight he could get into the heads of, a few favors to turn important eyes away from him, and it'd become the easiest game of his life.

laying low at first had been a priority: he'd had to get used to his new existence, and falling into the welcoming arms of his mother had come first of all. so of course he'd indulged. and despite his sharp smile, he even looks disarming, with the cute ears, antlers, tail, and white and gold color theming.

he'd even been willing to settle into a quiet afterlife, content with making sure he pulled the greatest con heaven had ever seen, when he'd found out about the exterminations. it was an accident, of course: he's not supposed to know, but he'd overheard an excitedly whispered conversation one night and things had fallen into place very suddenly.

he'd never put any thought to hell and the sinners that resided there, but something didn't quite sit right to his morality. without a way to fight back, what recourse could they possibly have against murderous angels that delighted in harming those under them?

why, he could have been one of those sinners himself! or, truly heaven forbid, his mother for having the misfortune of raising a son like alastor.

he'd slunk away without being noticed, but he had put a plan into motion. it'd been easy to steal a few angelic weapons seeing as security was so lax in heaven, and he'd immediately gone to work.

exorcists, contracted killers working under lucifer himself, started disappearing without an initial trace. eventually, bodies would be found, torn apart and doused in gold, and fear started to rise among the denizens of heaven but no one ever seemed able to figure out what could possibly be happening.

exorcists of all types: those that loved destruction, that were filled with enough hate to purposely keep kill counts and laugh about them later, all kinds.

and it brings us to tonight, the night after an extermination, when alastor had heard an exorcist bragging about having killed children down in hell.

he waits until she's alone then flirts, teases, draws her further away until they're truly alone and secluded. it's when she leans up for a kiss that the knife finds her gut: he's always truly had a distaste for killing women except in extenuating circumstances, but here he'd had to make adjustments.

it's mere seconds before she's on her back on the ground struggling as her torn-open abdomen spills blood and organs everywhere and alastor rests over her, one knee on either side of her body as he chokes the rest of the life out of her, reveling in the sound of her last choking breaths getting cut off. ]

It's funny, my dear! Perhaps if you hadn't been so ecstatic about killing helpless children, I wouldn't have set my eyes on you.

[ he's so intense about this one, so intent on watching every light leave her eyes, that he doesn't hear the door behind him open. ]

have some sympathy, and some taste

[lamentapple]

[ Lucifer's always felt like something is missing. Oh, there are plenty of things missing in his life. A warm place to sleep. Clothes without holes in them. A reliable way to get food without having to go digging in the dumpsters behind restaurants after closing time. But even with the gnawing ache of hunger clawing at his insides, he knows that's not what he's lost. There's something else, something he can't even describe. Something that should be in that cold void burrowed deep in his chest, the thing that feels like he's been stabbed when he's waking up from odd, empty dreams.

More times than he can count, he's woken up reaching for something that isn't there. A name, a place, a thing? He doesn't know. He can never remember.

Sixteen years in and not once has he been able to remember.

He asked some of the other street kids about it once or twice. Stopped after they started whispering, stopped sharing their food, never had an empty place anymore for him to sleep. He's lacking, and most of the time, he can hide it. But once he asks — well, they realize he's not whole, and then they realize they don't want him.

Not that any of them really want him. The latest little gang of strays he's hooked up with wants what he can do. Quick fingers and scrawny limbs mean he has no trouble getting into places he shouldn't or taking things that aren't his. He's useful in the grand plan of survival, does enough to earn his keep. But none of the other kids know him. He's learned better than to let any of them get close enough to realize just how fucked up and empty he is. It's fine that way, though. They get what they want, he gets a little safety in numbers and more food than he'd manage on his own.

Turns out numbers aren't safe enough, though.

Not when the kids in charge decided the big, empty house on the hill was ripe for the picking — never mind the security system with its blinking light, never mind how god awful rich these people were, never mind that no one's going to care if a bunch of street rats go missing when they inevitably screw up. Which happens almost immediately — the second run through the place, some of the other kids gone careless with how easy the first time had been.

And now Lucifer's huddled against a closed door, soaked in blood, and hearing the screams as a bunch of armed assholes kill the rest of them. His only hope is they leave without noticing him — a vain hope, he's pretty sure, considering the trail of blood he's left. Doesn't stop him from stumbling to his feet and blindly staggering deeper into the room in the hopes that maybe there's somewhere he can tuck himself away and hide.

No luck, of course. The door swings open and he takes an instinctive step back — bumps into something with sharp edges as he raises his hand to shield his eyes when the light flicks on.

The dick with the gun smirks as he aims it at Lucifer. Must be nice, not having to give a shit about taking care of some rats.

Lucifer lowers his hand and waits for the boom of the gun — but instead there's a voice in his ear, words he barely hears, offering help. Whatever it is, can't be any worse than dying here, and he nods. Closes his eyes, because it's probably just the blood loss talking, and dying is probably gonna hurt like a bitch. ]