Written in the Stars (Lucifer x Angel!Reader)

Chapter 7

Panic sets in the moment you open your eyes.

You'd sensed hints of it in your dreams: the sensation of Lucifer's arms loosening their hold on you despite your protests, the feeling of the Devildom heat growing faint and being replaced with the coolness of the heavens, the sensation of the Morningstar's aura growing dimmer and dimmer until you couldn't detect it at all.

No doubt, your subconscious realized what had happened. Asleep, you may have been, but you felt it when your angel form manifested, when the room grew noisy with shouts and chaos as people must have set their eyes upon the blackness of your wings.

Your subconscious had known it, and yet your mind continued to deny such truth.

But now, having opened your eyes and taken in the unmistakable sight of the room you've spent thousands of years in—you can't deny it any longer.

You've been taken back to the Celestial Realm.

"S-Simeon!" You shout on instinct, untangling your limbs from the softness of the blankets.

When he doesn't come, you stand, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror mounted on the wall.

Your eyes widen when they fall upon your wings.

They're white.

Just how long have you been asleep?

Biting your lip, you creep the door open. "Simeon?" You call again, hoping, praying that he's nearby. You turn your head to the right, glancing down the hall that's usually lined with paintings and artwork, but all you see is an empty stone wall.

A sight you know all too well.

Gasping, you slam the door and retreat back inside, but then all the small details of the room you'd missed earlier are now highlighted in your eyes.

Your eyes dart over to the circular rug, the same creamy white you're used to but far too new and pristine to be the same one that you've had in your own room. You glance at the bedframe, a perfect replica of the one you once slept on, but it lacks the scratches along the side from all the nights you'd spent dragging your nails along the wood in boredom. The robes hanging off the hooks on the back of your door look the same, but they lack the telltale creases of your failed ironing attempts, too perfect to be the ones you've worn for so long.

You fall onto your knees, a shudder running through your body when you recall the familiar sight of the empty, stone walls outside.

There's no pretending otherwise.

You're in the tower of the High Seraphs.

You glance out of your window, hoping that the sight will prove you wrong, but the lack of neighboring clouds only confirms your fears. The room you're in is nothing more than a replica of the one in your shared abode with Simeon, the familiar surroundings nothing more than an illusion meant to give you some peace of mind.

You scowl.

Stomping over to your closet, you yank it open to find all the same clothes you have in your actual room, but it's obvious that these have never been worn. Still, you yank them over your figure with such force that you almost injure your wings in the process, knowing that time is of utmost importance right now.

You frown, running a comb through your hair as you begin to realize everything that must have taken place while you slept.

Doubtless, Simeon administered medicine to you, which must have manifested your angel form. If you recall the sound of shouting correctly, then the first person to scream must have been Luke—who likely summoned Michael on instinct.