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Long before I saw you

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In all honesty, Lucifer has no idea what he did in a previous life to be granted this.

It’s both unfair and everything he wished for.

Sam’s kneeling position, flawless and submissive like few people manage to be for him, continues to stir feelings Lucifer never felt as strong as he does now. Sam’s left flank is a few inches shy of touching the corner of the black and golden bed, blindfold in place over his eyes. It had been his only requirement when he first came there: the blindfold mustn’t come undone for as long as Lucifer is in his presence. He had no problem following that request. After all, this was a select club where people came to either dominate other people for personal pleasure or submit and let go for people who liked to take the reins and care for another human being. In most cases, long-term relationships budded, but it wasn’t a rule.

This was a place for pleasure and recreational purposes, not a meeting center.

Lucifer approaches the man, unfurling his dominant persona even before he shrugs off the black, satiny bathrobe. Sam’s black and white blindfold is on the white side. It’s another little thing that endeared Sam to Lucifer. How the simple switch in colors tells Lucifer everything he needs to know and plan for their evening.

He pushes his hand through Sam’s long hair, covering most of the blindfold.

They’ve been doing this for almost six weeks now, and each time Lucifer found it harder and harder to keep himself from inquiring after Sam’s well-being or his day or his safeword, and little things like that.

Sam has asked for impersonal. Gentle, but impersonal, right now. Lucifer needs to attain to that rule and nothing more. He can’t chit-chat with Sam because Sam’s his client, and his sub for the evening to take care of, and he never fails to do that, personal feelings or not.

But question after question keeps pushing in his mind. They’re a hassle to handle, so he concentrates on the now.

“Safeword.”

The gentleness in his voice pulls a soft shudder from Sam.

“Dean.” Comes the answer, just as broken and full of meaning as the last times he said it.

When Lucifer first asked this of Sam, he took a long minute to utter the name. Right then and there, Lucifer knew that there was a whole long and disastrous story behind that simple name. One that he can’t ask Sam about, even though he wants to know.

He can only learn about this man from the skin that’s full on display for Lucifer to feast his eyes and mouth and nose on. The smell, the taste, the sight — and then the sound. How Lucifer’s able to extricate little whimpers and moans, how sometimes they break Lucifer’s heart in pieces and he feels like he’s suffering as intensely as Sam is. But it’s his duty and mission to take everything that haunts Sam out in the open and then burn it down to a crisp. With touch, whispered praises and kisses, he never fails in taking Sam apart, in pulling out the pain and sorrow and tension and memories and everything Sam never talks about but is vividly depicted in the tight line of his mouth or the laxness of his lips or the teeth marring the lower lip.

He takes care to catch Sam when he plunges, exhausted and empty, dazed and so gorgeous in his vulnerability, Lucifer has no say in the way he gathers the man close to his chest, effectively enveloping him and offering as much care and sweet, sweet praises as he can muster.

 

***

 

“Lucifer, your boy awaits you,” says Ruby, appearing in the doorway to the common room.

His boy. He smiles as he stands up and heads for their designated room without another word.

After seven weeks, everyone on the staff knows that Sam belongs to him and there’s this unspoken rule that nobody is allowed to dom Sam but him. Or maybe the general consensus is that he belongs to Sam. Either way, Lucifer has no intention whatsoever to either agree or deny any of those statements.

 

***

 

“You never asked me anything outside the scene,” Sam says one day, two months later.

That stops Lucifer dead in his tracks. He studies Sam for a few long moments.

“I didn’t,” he acquiesces slowly, wondering where Sam wants to head with this conversation.

“Why?” Comes the almost shy, almost reluctant reply.

“Because you asked for impersonal.”

Sam ponders his answer. “But you’re curious.”

“I can’t say that I’m not.”

Sam’s lips purse in thought. The color of his blindfold is black. He’s in a good enough head space to demand rough. Lucifer’s heart speeds up, saliva pooling into his mouth at the thought that he’ll get to rip at his own seams just a little bit more and give in to the unsettled passion that lies beneath his cool and controlled mask.

He takes a step forward, moving his hand to undo the loose knot of his robe.

“Can I — “ But Sam’s voice dies in his throat and he swallows, lowers his head in submission.

Or more likely embarrassment. Lucifer pauses, studies the man for a few precious moments.

“What do you want, Sam?”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry.” Yet, the tips of his fingers are white where they rest on his knees.

Lucifer comes to stand a few inches apart from Sam, bends a little and tilts his head up, rough hands gentle and caring on Sam’s cleanly-shaved chin.

“You chose the black side of your blindfold, Sam, which means that you’re in the right mood for me to take off my gloves and really make you feel the extent of my passion and desire.” A shaky breath escapes Sam. “So tell me,” Lucifer whispers across Sam’s half-open lips. “What do you desire right now?”

It would take on a slight inclination of one head for their lips to meet. The thought is so tempting that Lucifer barely manages to keep his breath and himself under control.

“I want to kiss you,” Sam says, scarcely moving his lips.

The shaky breath gusting out belongs to Lucifer this time. Already Sam’s own is picking up in pace.

“But — “

Lucifer waits. Sam remains silent, muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Go on.”

“I… want to control it.”

It’s a near thing, but Lucifer pushes himself back instead of forward as it was his intention. Goddammit, but he’s so deep into this that he can hardly make out the line between professional and personal.

He stands there, looking down at Sam as if he’s deciding what to do with him, when in reality he realizes how much power Sam holds over him, kneeling and waiting patiently for Lucifer to make a move. Not a decision; never a decision. This power play between them feels a lot like chess: a game in waiting and cautiously placed moves, curious about the outcome.

He never played chess, though. Sam didn’t either, by the looks of it. Chess is more than curious moves; it’s a tactical game, and there’s nothing cold or calculating in what they do right now.

Rather, passion flickers to life like a firestorm spreading low in his gut and taking over every nook or crevice it can reach in his body.

“Kneel on the bed,” he says softly. “Crawl.”

Sam does, moves practiced and sinuous and Lucifer wets his lips unconsciously. He discards his robe and settles on the bed, back propped on the big pillows.

“Come,” he says and watches how Sam crawls towards him, slow and elegant — no, seducing.

What Sam seems to not understand is that he doesn’t need to do anything to get Lucifer hot and bothered; he just has to tilt his head just so or move his lips in a certain way and Lucifer is a goner, ready to comply to everything he asks of him. He doesn’t kid himself: there’s nothing professional pervading their scene. It hasn’t been since their third encounter.

Sam settles atop Lucifer, knees bracketing his thighs, breath ghosting on his jaw.

“Safeword.” He almost forgot to ask this.

The safeword comes out in a whisper, no longer with gravity and importance, but more of a distant memory caught on the edges of his mind.

“Keep your hands on your knees,” he says, low and intimate, and the fire burns the oxygen in his lungs, pupils long since gone wide and dark at Sam’s compliance.

Sam doesn’t rush right into the kiss. No, he feels first: nose dragging on Lucifer’s cheek, lips passing over his, touching lightly, and the whole time Lucifer has to murder the covers to not grab the man and kiss him senseless.

He uses hot breath and almost ticklish touches to make Lucifer question his earlier choice to let the kissing into Sam’s hands.

And then Sam takes his lips into a short kiss; so short that Lucifer chases after him, forgetting that he should let Sam set the pace. Sam deflects easily, turning his head and letting Lucifer find only warm cheek under his lips.

“You’re playing with me,” Lucifer says into his ear, now that he’s in the area.

“No, I’m trying to seduce you.”

Lucifer chuckles. “You’re killing me instead.”

Sam captures his mouth again, but this time he doesn’t backtrack. He kisses and kisses, using tongue and teeth and lips so hot and wet that Lucifer moans low in his throat.

His hips buckle once, unable to control his instinctive movements when so much of Sam’s skin is pressed against his, sumptuously and positively delicious. He’s just testing to see if Sam wants to move on or is content to boil Lucifer for a little bit more, but this gorgeous man on whom Lucifer so selfishly laid claim on unbeknown to the man in question, responds to Lucifer’s inciting, undulating his hips and pulling out a hiss from the other.

“Hands behind your back,” he orders breathlessly when they push into his hair.

Don’t take him wrong. He loves that feeling. It’s because of this sole reason that he gives that order, otherwise he’d dissolve into a rumbling kitten, shamelessly begging for head scratches.

Sam complies easily, and rather happily. He slowly descends on Lucifer’s body and he knows even before Sam’s hot lips touch his nipples where he’s heading to. So he does what he’s been dying to do: he touches and caresses Sam’s skin, insisting on Sam’s sensitive spots with wicked precision and determination.

What would have taken Sam but a minute (at a push) to reach Lucifer’s hard rock dick, now it’s thrice as much time, what with his ministrations that distract Sam into moaning or panting and sometimes begging Lucifer to stop.

“No can do, Sam.” His rumbled whisper makes Sam moan lowly, and Lucifer pushes his nose into Sam’s cheek to keep himself from kissing senseless this devastatingly brilliant man or tie him to the bed and keep him there forever. “You have to work to get to the prize.”

Sam huffs. “Only you could turn your dick into a prize.”

The hands on Sam’s lower back move further down, passing over Sam’s in a caress, and the surprised yelp that comes out of Sam’s mouth when Lucifer’s palm connects with one of his ass cheeks is not manly in the least bit. They both freeze as if neither expected that turn of the situation. Lucifer’s eyes rove over Sam’s partially obscured face in search of anything that could put a stop to this scene.

Sam wets his lips and then catches the lower one beneath his upper teeth, swallowing a bit shakily. He squirms a little, abused cheek sliding fractionally along Lucifer’s suspended hand.

“Do that again.”

Sam’s whispered words are caught somewhere on the fringe between commanding and pleading.

Lucifer regains his composure, returns to his self, wholly and intact.

“What was that?”

He lets his digits feel the rosy cheek feather-like, teasing, being deliberate in not giving Sam what he is asking for.

Sam presses his lips, a tremble running through his body; whether in remembrance of what he has forgotten to add or in a miffed gesture of indolence, Lucifer can’t quite say for sure which one.

“Please, sir, more!”

There’s not enough pleading in those words and one short nail scratches lightly on Sam’s ass cheek. It’s not about the tone being on the right side of the out-of-line, no; Lucifer senses it too much like a thin mask gaining thickness by the moment.

“There you go again putting too much cheek in your plea.” The words are soft and a tad bit chiding. “What did I tell you? We are alone here; no one will tear you apart if you let your walls down. Besides, I don’t like my sub hiding behind a mask.” Sam’s shuddered inhale fuels Lucifer’s next words. “Leave those for the people outside these walls, for those that are not worthy of seeing you like this, bare in more ways than one. I believe that after such a long time spent together, I have become worthy of your true self. Do not seek to push me out because —“

The sudden halt is unlike him. Coming so close to confess what he has kept under tight wraps until now is also unlike him.

“Because?” Sam coaxes gently, a mere murmur of syllables.

At this moment Lucifer would like nothing more than to be able to look Sam in the eyes, gauge what passes through that gorgeous mind of his.

“I won’t take it lying down.”

Sam’s mouth opens slowly, just a fraction more to make him look surprised even without the eyes to add in weight and meaning. Lucifer almost can see Sam’s eyes clearly, even though he knows not what color or shape they are.

It’s a near thing, but he refrains from touching this magnificent and resplendent man. He needs to come to Lucifer on his own; to seek comfort from Lucifer on his own. Touches are another way, non-verbal, to infringe oneself upon another, to coax the desired response without the other noticing the little manipulation.

Another stretched moment catches between the unspoken words that come tumbling between them.

Lucifer waits.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, head bowing, arms going lax without them breaking apart from behind Sam.

His lips work tirelessly on empty air for a second or two, soundless words forming and disappearing on them just like that, but nothing concrete forms in sound and meaning. In the end, he deems whatever he wanted to add to his apology as pointless and superfluous.

“Apology accepted, but don’t do this again.”

A nod followed quickly by, “yes, sir,” is all Lucifer needs to continue, palm stroking the previously abused cheek. But a softly spoken ‘please’ attracts Lucifer’s attention; he stops stroking.

“Please — sir,” Sam says more confidently.

“Yes, Sam.” He encourages his sub, waiting for the desired words to tumble from Sam’s lips.

They open, a short moment of hesitation, and then, “please spank me again.”

A dam disappears somewhere inside Lucifer and the desire floods his senses, drowning every reasonable thought, but not quite.

“Why do you want me to punish you?”

“I stepped out of line, sir.”

“And why do you think that?”

A quivering moment suspended on hesitation, a deep breath; all a succession under Lucifer’s keen gaze. There’s nothing in this world — short of the building crumbling around them or other such calamities — that would be able to disrupt Lucifer’s rapt attention.

“I tried to shut you out.”

“Why?”

It’s whispered; Sam’s next words could be his salvation or his ruin.

But Sam falls quiet for longer than before and Lucifer feels sucked into a void, suspended above the maw of a pitless crevice. Fear spreads like wildfire, eating away at him, desire receding ever further.

“I was afraid that you would insinuate yourself further.”

Lucifer regards him contemplatively.

“But —“

“Yes?”

He worries his lower lip. “More than that, I wanted to get a rise out of you.” The next words come forth like a crashing wave kept too long behind a dam. “You infuriate me so when you keep your cool no matter what I do. That tight control you have over yourself —“ An abrupt stop, breath uneven. “I hate it when you don’t let me see you.”

Breath catches itself in Lucifer’s throat and it becomes increasingly difficult to breathe freely around that knot. How stupid and hypocritical of him to demand Sam bare himself of his walls, but keep his own intact.

This time he allows himself to touch Sam, warm palm cupping warm cheek, thumb caressing just at the edge of the blindfold. There’s nothing manipulatory in that gesture.

“I’m sorry I failed to see how my control affected you,” he says, words laced with honesty. “Upsetting you has never been my intention, yet I still managed to drive you to step out of your boundaries to make me see my own mistake. I honestly apologize for my misstep.”

Sam shakes his head as a dissent noise catches in his throat. “I forgive you, but I still want you to punish me, so please tell me that you will,” he says earnestly, even going so far as to lean forward in hopes, perhaps, of getting his own wishes across physically, too. “I don’t want gentle right now if you think that that’s the best course of action to atone for your mistake.” Another shake of the head. “I want rough. I want you to spank me like I really stepped out of my line.”

“Sam.” The word breaks somewhere in the middle, suffused with too much emotion.

“I refuse to see you retreat into your Dom persona, tailored to meet your client’s desires and expectations. I want to feel owned by the real you, not some fabricated mask.”

Sam’s short of breath by the end of his earnest and anger-laden spiel. The quiet pervades the room as Lucifer is stunned out of his skin by what Sam poured on him. He thought he was the only one who observed and filled in blanks. If anything else, this little conversation they had has been more than enlightening.

He opens his mouth, Sam’s name ready to take flight, but he closes it, reconsidering.

“Lie across my lap, hands crossed above your head, ass in the air.” The surprise gathers around Sam’s ajar mouth, floored by Lucifer’s sudden firm and commanding tone. “Every second you waste not complying doubles the number of spanks you’ll receive, Sam.”

Even as he says it, Sam scrambles to do as he was asked to, laying himself across Lucifer’s lap.

A hand comes to rest lightly over Sam’s lower back, the other one stroking his ass.

“Are you comfortable?” The tone returns to its softness.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you breathe?”

Sam inhales deeply in demonstration, his sternum inflating and covering his hanging head between the bent arms.

“Yes, sir.”

“Safeword?”

“Dean.” It comes out tremulous, but less grave.

Lucifer doesn’t say anything for a while, keeping his stroking unpredictable and light.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“How many?”

The smile stretches the corner of his mouth.

“You only need to count,” he says, carefully hiding any kind of inflection. “The rest of that gorgeous brain of yours can take a vacation.”

The first spank lands unexpected and Sam’s surprised noise brings satisfaction to Lucifer.

“Sam?”

“One.” The word trembles on his lips.

The satisfaction doubles.

He doesn’t predict the second one either; Lucifer does so like the element of surprise, he wonders where he took that one from. Sam’s ass has the quality of blushing maidens caught under the fall of a willow tree, a corpulent rosy, almost in the shape of his palm, but not quite.

He reaches six when the tremble starts and the quiet sobs become more and more uncontrollable. Lucifer makes himself ignore them; he still hasn’t reached twenty, as he promised himself that he will, bearing in mind Sam’s demand.

By ten, Sam can no longer keep quiet and the sobs wrench something out of Lucifer whenever Sam’s breath hitches. Eleven falters, lands without the bite and ferociousness of the previous ones, and Lucifer keeps his palm over the overheated cheek. He becomes aware of his uneven breath and his gaze shifts towards Sam’s mop of disheveled hair. It’s a wonder that the blindfold didn’t come undone with how much Sam moved, even if it was minimal and really just a reverberation of the blows.

“Sam.” It cracks; he clears his throat. “Are you with me?”

No answer comes forth, and Lucifer is in no hurry to pressurize Sam into giving one. He, too, needs to rein himself under control; they’ve never had a spanking session as intense as this one, and the burning palm that’s red with punishment pulsates in time with his beating heart. He really did go all out as Sam required him to do, and he closes his eyes, fighting against the remorse and guilt that threatens to unbalance him. Sam doesn’t need him emotionally unstable, not now that his sub is in a similar, if not more vulnerable, state.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, wet and broken and so, so small. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The litany of words spills from his mouth with increasing urgency, as if he is on the verge of breaking into tears again and Lucifer acts swiftly, pulls him up and into his arms, tucking his head underneath his chin, stroking his shoulder and back, and placing soft kisses into his hair. All the while he murmurs reassurances into his forehead, coaxing Sam into letting it all out and the sobs continue for long minutes.

All that Lucifer has is his patience and the warmth and feeling of Sam’s body fully pressed onto his. It’s through aftercare that Lucifer works himself away from an emotional instability himself; knowing that he helps Sam return to himself, rebuild those walls, all in perfect safety calms his worries and pushes away his guilt.

“Thank you, sir,” Sam says after he repositions himself so he’s straddling Lucifer once again, but leaning on his knees more than Lucifer’s thighs.

Wet streaks still mar his face and Lucifer dries them away with his thumbs, coming up to place a sweet kiss on his lips.

“Anytime, Sam.” He means it more than his voice is able to convey. “Anytime.”

 

***

 

“What does this mean?”

Lucifer takes in the deep red piece of cloth wrapped around Sam’s eyes and head, stopping dead in his tracks inside their room.

“This means that you decide how gentle or rough you want to be. I give you carte blanche.”

“Sam...” The word tumbles out of his mouth unbidden; it’s the first time his voice sounds so unsure.

“But at the end of this scene, I’ll take off the blindfold.”

“I can’t Dom someone without some boundaries set in place and your full consent.”

“You already have my full consent.”

“Sam, it’s dangerous, I —“

“I trust you,” Sam says firmly, tone brooking no argument.

A long time passes before Lucifer finds his words again.

“I don’t know if I can trust myself with you,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

“You are a seasoned Dom,” Sam says, mouth a determined line. “You always stop when you think it’s too much even when I have no problems with where the scene is going.”

Lucifer sighs. “Why are you so adamant about doing this? Can’t we keep things the way they were? It works for both of us. Why do you want to change that?”

“I need this.”

“You’re not answering the important questions,” Lucifer counters.

“Please, sir, I need this.”

“Sam.”

The firm and tensioned line into which Sam’s mouth presses worries Lucifer even before any word comes out.

“As your client, I demand this, but above all, as your sub I am begging you, sir, to allow this to happen.”

A frown creases Lucifer’s brow and terror creeps into his befuddled expression.

“That is blackmail,” he whispers, forcing his legs to not give out on him.

A swallow, knuckles white where Sam forces pressure into his knees.

“I know.”

This cannot be happening, not to Lucifer. He studies Sam, roams his keen gaze over any part of his body, frantic in his search for the catch this proposition surely has. It’s impossible to be as simple as that. That’s not how the world works.

Most of all, that’s not how Sam works.

He needs to step carefully around this minefield his precious sub carefully laid out before him. How is he supposed to get to him without burning to a crisp first? Sam can’t be serious allowing him carte blanche. He obviously does not know what that really means; what Lucifer is capable of doing without previously agreed upon boundaries.

What is Sam playing at here?

“Is this the last time I’ll be seeing you?” He hates how his voice shakes around those words.

Sam’s mouth is a poor substitute for the frown that has surely formed beneath the blindfold.

“No, sir, this is not the last time you will be seeing me.”

Then Lucifer can’t, for the life of him, understand what Sam wants to do by changing the rules.

“Sir, please,” Sam continues, leaning forward until his forehead touches the rug, arms outstretched above his head in the last and most humble form of a bow a sub can perform. “I need this so much that I am unable to put it into words. Please allow this favor of mine.”

Something snaps viciously and violently inside Lucifer; his features harden, become clear and focused on the only person worth his attention.

“You are aware that by giving me carte blanche your safeword becomes null, aren’t you?”

He circles his sub like a feral animal would its prey.

Sam doesn’t move a muscle, breath tightly controlled.

“Yes, sir.”

It’s soft and fragile. Lucifer’s eyes narrow as he stops near his left side.

“You do know that I could do anything to you and I wouldn’t be held responsible for the consequences since you gave your full consent, right?”

“I would welcome anything you would throw at me, sir.”

So much blind faith. How did they get here? This whole situation is so out of Lucifer’s control that he struggles to wrestle some of it back into his possession.

“That’s a dangerous thing to say, Sam. Especially to someone you didn’t see once since you came here.”

“I may not know how you look physically, but I know how you look when you take me to heights never before reached, when you whisper reassurances in my skin as you help me come back to myself, how you hold me like I’m the most fragile thing in the world, the silent way in which you keep all my pieces together when I am breaking apart in your arms. Isn’t all this the equivalent of seeing you?”

Lucifer swallows, a fleeting moment of nakedness and vulnerability suffusing his senses before the world rights itself once again.

“How can you put your well-being so completely and unhesitatingly into someone else’s hands and trust them to not hurt you without boundaries firmly set in place?”

It’s out before Lucifer can mull the question over in his head. Sam lifts his head from its submissive pose, a — beatific smile on his lips as he looks right at Lucifer.

“That’s just what submission is all about,” he says, smooth and calm and confident. “I choose to trust you to take care of me at my most vulnerable, as you already did so many other times. Today, I want you to trust me that I won’t break no matter what you throw my way.”

Lucifer looks at him. Really looks at him, because this is the first time he sees this man.

The tide rises. It starts from his gut; it incinerates his stomach, but spreads warmly in his chest and clogs his throat. He closes his eyes against it as if it could burst out through them at any moment. When he opens them, Sam resumed his submissive position, a serenity about him that Lucifer never saw there.

Maybe there had never been a reason for it to manifest.

Maybe their time together gave that back to Sam.

The smile stretches languidly on his lips, epiphany caught en flagrant as it tried to tiptoe around him. He can do good through this, even if it’s in impossibly small increments.

“Very well, then,” he says, tone resuming its confident and dominant tone. “I will allow you this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Undress me,” he issues the first order.

Sam hesitates a moment, caught off-guard by the command. He rises gracefully and extends both his hands until his fingers find and slide along one of the edges of Lucifer’s satiny bathrobe. He follows it down, a slope of delicate material, where he catches the end of the single loop and pulls. His hands come up on Lucifer’s chest, languidly separating and ducking under the robe to push it back over his shoulders.

The way Sam’s mouth slips ajar, hands caressing his skin like it’s something forbidden, hypnotizes Lucifer and he’s almost lulled into a trance when he remembers their arrangement and his features harden once again.

“I didn’t say that you could touch me.”

Sam freezes, lips pressed into a thin line. It’s this stillness which grasps Sam’s body that brings realization to Lucifer’s doorstep: there’s a certain physicality to the way Sam allows himself to come into contact with Lucifer. He doesn’t engage his senses alone, his body, too, becomes an active contributor to the learning process.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

But his hands are late to relinquish their contact with Lucifer’s skin.

Narrowing his eyes, Lucifer pushes his sub, palm spread wide over his collarbone, thumb and index finger touching the base of his throat and it looks inviting even as Sam almost stumbles in his forced backtracking. His mouth belies the surprise hidden behind the blindfold whose color does not drip sin and passion, but rather sorrow and betrayal, blood and vengeance.

His mind associates things that do not belong to this place and more so between them in the span of time it takes Lucifer to bring them both near the antiquate desk pushed under the window. His mind refuses to believe that this is over.

He turns Sam around and forces him to bend over the desk; his arms form a broken rhombus, white a striking contrast against the dark wood of the piece of furniture. The pliancy that meets Lucifer’s rough treatment ticks him off, somehow. The questioning ‘sir’ is missing from Sam’s lips and it infuriates him even more. The silent submission has never been Sam’s modus operandi, not even when he was in a bad enough head space to appeal viciously to Lucifer’s caring nature.

It’s rough the way he jabs two fingers inside Sam, his entrance already lubed as per his only demand back at the beginning, all the while his gaze follows Sam’s expression in the reflexion of the window. Apart from a surprised gasp, nothing changes in it. He continues to be rough even after he is fully sheathed inside Sam, thrusts brutal and vengeful.

The little noise, similar to a wounded animal, that reaches Lucifer’s ears freezes him and he meets his own gaze in the window, horrified by the man that’s towering over a man whose face is hidden in the desk, fists white.

This is not what he had in mind. Why is it that when someone entrusts you with their full and uncorrupted trust you feel this immense desire to tarnish that pureness? Why did he feel the need to show Sam this ugly side of his? This potential for evil. Everybody has it in them. Sam must know that better than Lucifer.

Yet.

He pulls out without coming; not that he could what with his hardness deflating faster than it ever had. It makes Sam turn his head in his general direction, with the same surprised look on his face as before. His lips, though, remain sealed shut over that one word.

“Come.”

He helps Sam back up and guides him towards the bed.

“What happened?”

He looks at the hand that’s currently on his biceps, stopping and demanding at the same time.

“Sir?”

Sam’s mouth, a crease of nervous energy and possibly a feeling of despondency, bears the accusations that the man himself would never utter.

Lucifer allows himself to touch Sam’s lower lip, a caress tinged in apologies, and he finds himself being naturally pulled towards this magnificent man that shines even when his face is streaked with tears.

Never again.

Sam shall never again be on the receiving end of this despicable side of his.

Lips touch lips and the kiss consumes them both, raw and broken. They find themselves gliding over the duvet, taking their fill of the other. He lets Sam change their positions, he lets his sub try his hand at being dominant for a little while. The view is too tempting to ruin it and Lucifer wonders about the after, about the moment he will finally get to meet Sam’s gaze.

He wonders about Sam’s eye color. Is it green like the newborn leaves in spring? Or is it pitch black like his are when he is completely turned on by this gorgeous man? Maybe the color is similar to caramel chocolate left to cool off on the ledge of a wintry window. It’s possible that they are a warmer blue than his — but why not a combination of them?

A digit circles Sam’s tight ring of muscles.

It’s time for both of them to return to their respective roles.

Sam buckles and groans softly, but needly. Lucifer kisses him with as much fervor and passion as he can put into it; it’s beyond his power of withstanding. He almost makes Sam come on the spot; good thing that Lucifer isn’t as far gone as he thinks he is because he’s quick to grasp Sam’s erection and squeeze enough to make Sam hiss and whimper.

“No coming until I say so.”

Sam huffs exasperated and Lucifer slaps the nearest ass cheek in warning.

“Behave.”

And Sam lowers his head in submission, a shiver running its course through this well-built body of his. Lucifer catches the quirked lips before the wall of hair obscures them for the most part and he mirrors it. They both remember their last session. It was emotional, yes, but it also solidified their relationship in a way. It feels like he now has more freedom; freedom that he won’t try to abuse again.

Sam reaches Lucifer’s dick with a lot of vocal effort. It amuses Lucifer that Sam thought he would get to it without much work. Nothing comes free from Lucifer; except his love, if one knows which crack to insinuate themselves into, that is. He never believed himself to be a man easy to love. The few that do get past his fronts, those are the ones he cherishes beyond belief.

The moment Sam’s mouth envelops itself around his length, fully recovered from its earlier dejection, a shuddering breath escapes him short of becoming a loud curse. Sam doesn’t need to have that kind of satisfaction. Yet.

He doesn’t let Sam bring him too close to the climax, gently pushing him back and kissing a trail on his neck and collarbone before pulling him above Lucifer once more. Sam catches on quickly and guides Lucifer’s spit-slicked length to his opening. He hesitates when the tip pushes in, a gentle intake of breath as if Lucifer hasn’t been inside him barely ten minutes ago. Truthfully, it is a big difference between that violent wreck and this tender assuage of a memory. His hands travel up and down on Sam’s thighs, refraining from giving him any kind of order to see what he will decide to do.

Sam waits.

Lucifer keeps his up and down motions.

“Sir?”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” he says, deferring from giving him an order.

The position Sam is currently frozen in is strenuous; he feels the quivering of his thigh muscles under his palms.

Sam’s mouth contracts, most probably in response to the furrowed brow hidden beneath the red blindfold. Lucifer lets him remember, and before long Sam’s mouth slips ajar.

“Because I told you that I would welcome everything you wanted to give me.”

“Still, what I did was almost —“

“Almost.” It’s firm and resolute. “You stopped even though I didn’t say anything.”

The fact that Sam chose to disregard his current status and interrupt Lucifer in the middle of talking stresses how much Sam believes in what he says. Lucifer studies him for an inordinate amount of time; Sam’s breath is coming out in short pants, and Lucifer won’t punish his sub for that slight. Keeping him suspended like this is punishment enough; the tight ring of muscles already try to milk his pre-come.

“Go ahead, pet,” he says at length. “But first, lean over.”

Sam presses his lips together to keep in his exasperation, most probably. Lucifer smiles when Sam’s head is a few inches in front of his face. He takes Sam’s hands by the wrists and crosses them over Sam’s small back, applying a bit of force to send the order non-verbally.

“I want you to come untouched,” he whispers into Sam’s ear, sliding the tip of his forefinger over Sam’s slit.

The hiss is pure satisfaction for Lucifer.

But Sam takes his sweet revenge; he works like a tide, coming in and providing a network of colorful stars behind Lucifer’s closed eyelids, and going out in a lazy fashion, passionate and excruciating as if he has all the time in the world to torture Lucifer.

“Kiss me,” he demands and Sam hurries to comply, but then Lucifer adds, “as if you would a lover.”

There’s no hesitation in the way his lips press forward and tongue asks for entrance. Everything is granted to this gorgeous man, and Lucifer realizes that he is not ready to let him go, not now, not ever. He wants to keep his precious sub by his side until there are only maggots to account for their bodies; not even then.

Sam comes first, the kiss pausing for precious moments to let Sam breath, lips sloppily pressed against each other. Lucifer’s orgasm crashes like a lazy wave over him, takes both of them by surprise since Sam is in the middle of another attempt in a series of many others to pull that orgasm out of Lucifer.

His sweaty forehead touches Lucifer’s collarbone, both of them panting and reveling in the bliss that completion gives them.

He’s coming out of that cloud, remembering to tap twice on Sam’s wrists to allow him to uncross them and relax, when a stray thought expands in the fore of his head like a drop of ink in a glass of water: they're gliding towards a closure so fast that the post-coital bliss dissipates in an instant. He is going to have to let Sam go? Trembling hands find an anchor on Sam’s shoulders, palms gliding upwards towards his sweaty back and then his short nails push down in a scratching motion. Sam’s contented purr assuage this monstrous feeling some, but dark thoughts return, biting at his ball of happiness viciously.

The wells break.

He doesn’t want to give him up.

“This is the last time I’m seeing you, isn’t it?”

He is not ashamed of the tears that fall, unbidden. More than anything, he is grateful that he can express himself so freely and unhindered by any tormenting prejudice in front of Sam. That’s why the thought of losing this man is so excruciatingly painful to bear.

The surprise doesn’t floor Sam for more than a split second; he uses the following one to take off his blindfold, the color of betrayal and sorrow for Lucifer, and meet his eyes dead on. He was right, Sam’s are a mixture of warm colors, ever-changing.

“What are you talking about?” he says, those young features of his creased in worry and confusion.

The hands that come to cup his face without hesitation and catch the next tears are bittersweetly welcomed by Lucifer.

“You’re planning to stop coming here after tonight, that’s why you’re making it count by taking down every rule and boundaries we built over the past several months.”

“Lucifer, I’m not making this my last time.”

“Then why did you change everything? Why does this feel like a goodbye?”

A chuckle, warm and fond, spills unbidden from within Sam’s chest and he leans forward until his forehead rests upon Lucifer.

“I can’t,” he says, eyes closed and hands warm.

Lucifer wants to immortalize this moment and keep it near his heart for the rest of his life.

“I can’t bear this much adorableness from you.”

He leans back, eyes roaming over Lucifer’s face like he’s trying to drink him in and memorize every single feature at the same time.

“I love you, Lucifer Morningstar. I love you with every fiber of my body! There is not a chance in hell or heaven that I will ever let you go.”

“Then why?”

“It was a test.” For his part, Sam mastered a high level of looking guilty and remorseful at the same time. “I needed to see,” — a small smile — “feel you without the boundaries. See what you will do, how much of yourself you would be willing to give to me without me asking for it.”

“Why?” He still can’t believe this.

Sam kisses him and it’s all the more sweet and meaningful now that Lucifer can look Sam in the eyes while doing it. Neither blinks.

“Because I intended to ask you out at the end of it.”

“If I passed the test,” Lucifer fills in, eyes dry and contemplative.

Sam nods and they fall into a suspended moment, a stalemate that does not stretches for long. The question is on Lucifer’s lips.

“Lucifer Morningstar, will you go out with me?” Sam answers the unspoken question with a chuckle.

A smile, wonderful, blinding, and genuine spreads on Lucifer’s lips.

“How could I not when you ask me out like you want my hand in marriage.”

They both dissolve into rumbling chuckles, but not before Sam lands a slap on Lucifer’s arm in retaliation for that cheek.

 

 

***

 

I knew you long before I saw you.

Your voice was the first to make contact with me; the quality of distant thunders permeated my ears and I feared I could smell ozone, but you didn’t even wear cologne on that day. You were so professional and tightly-knit that I regretted, for but a moment, the choice of depriving myself of my sight. My tiny, floating boat came into contact with your fortress on the night that I decided to submit to a stranger and hope that I wouldn’t come to regret it.

Too many breakups, too many fake people; I wanted to experience someone without being limited to the physical appearance. I wanted to see someone without seeing. We were like two worlds colliding, distant stars helplessly orbiting around each other, drawn by the other’s gravity.

You were unexpected, but a clear drop of water in a world of muddy specks and transient kindness.

“Ready to go?” you say, smile a permanent fixture on your lips nowadays.

I take the Mocha Caramel from your left hand, my name written in a squiggly handwriting style, and then our free hands catch each other in-between our bodies to keep themselves warm.

How much time has passed since I asked you out? Too little, you’d say; quite a while, I’d think. We don’t sync with each other as seamlessly as we probably look from an outer perspective, but we do put in a lot of team effort to keep the relationship going.

That’s the third, most important ingredient in a relationship, right? Team effort. We are pretty good at communicating with each other, and trust comes as easy as breathing.

We are good.

You are too good for me, but I keep my mouth shut over this. You don’t like it when I say bad things about myself, and you’re right: I don’t like it, either. But sometimes I feel like the world couldn’t hold all of me, and then, on my worst days, I feel like I could get crushed under a falling leaf.

“Sam?”

It still amazes me how you can sound so unsure when you find me naked and kneeling at the foot of our bed; as if our relationship canceled our fun times together. As if I cannot sub for you now that we finally showed each other all our cards. It’s now, more than ever, that I want to submit to you. Especially now that I know that you’re mine.

You take in the dark red blindfold laid neatly a few inches in front of my knees. That’s the color of betrayal, you told me back then when we were still trying our hands at dating. It worked for about two weeks, then we returned to ourselves and decided to skip that part.

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I would like to be blindfolded.”

I dip my head, gaze never straying above your knee level, clad in faded black jeans. You never wear socks at home, which is why you catch colds too often for it to be endearing. I worry.

A sigh. “Safeword.”

We don’t really need a safeword anymore; I trust you implicitly. But you still make me say it as if it’s a fail safe. In case.

“Dean.”

It tumbles carelessly from my lips; it stopped weighing around the time I realized that, one day, I wanted to see your face, and Dean shifted a bit from the center of my world since then.

You take the blindfold, then come around my back and ease it onto my eyes.

“Know that I still dislike this color.”

You bend down over my head to kiss my nose when I smile. I do try my best to change your perspective on this color, but you continue to be as stubborn as ever.

If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be able to submit to you.

“Undress me,” you say.

It’s hard to keep from smirking as I stand before you, knowing what I know about this little kink of yours. I find the button of your trousers and make calm work of it, zip pulled down without hurry. It’s when I untuck the white tank top from your pants that a sudden intake of breath suffuses our bedroom.

“Next time please don’t do the dishes before a scene. Or at the very least, use warm water to rinse them.”

I chuckle and spread my cold hands over your stomach, which promptly makes you jump back and catch my wrists to keep my hands away from you.

“Sam, I will punish you if you keep playing around.”

You seldom use that warning undertone, so I calm down and submit to you again.

“I am sorry, sir.”

“I’d praise you for apologizing if you were even a smidgen as apologetic as you sound.”

The sarcasm isn’t even half as biting as it should be when I hear the smile and fondness in your voice. Still, a dozen or so smarmy comebacks crowd my tongue; I keep my lips tightly shut over them. You are always a bit cranky after a cold.

I don’t ask you how you are feeling, instead, I get rid of your tank top and then trousers. I stop at your briefs, feeling the warm gust of breath over my chin. This closeness is tantalizing.

“Is there something wrong, pet?”

I make a lot of effort to remind myself that I’m supposed to submit to you when all I want to do is kiss that snarky mouth of yours into oblivion. You know how hard it is for me to resist rising to the bait.

I stoically resume my task, and if I slide my cold hands along your runner legs on your briefs’ way down, then I will most certainly face the consequences with my chin raised.

“Sam.”

The warning resounds crystalline in my ears. I remain in my half-kneeling position at your feet.

“I’m sorry, sir, but didn’t you order me to undress you?”

This brand of sass always gets me in trouble.

“On the bed, eagle-spread,” you command.

I expect flogging, but that’s not what you give me. My arms and legs you bound to the four posts of the bed. I struggle; I always do. I know it brings you satisfaction to see me bound and at your mercy. You also know that I like to feel helpless like this with you.

You conquer my body. Not in a violent way, and not all at once. No, you were never a one-strike man. The start of your conquest falls over my ankles, first; your palms hot and lips warm, touches too delicate to be satisfying, but you’re not looking to satisfy me right now. This is your kind of punishment, one that ends up with me panting and actually making an effort to get out of the restraints.

If my thigh falls effortlessly under the careful ministrations of your mouth and hand, the other one finds itself just as pampered. If my stomach falls prey to your hungry mouth and playful tongue, then my ass is in a tender need of attention, which you lavish on it with undue roughness, to contrast the way you move up with your conquest, so tenderly.

I fall easily. I want to. I want to fall even deeper, though.

If there ever was a word capable of defining me during our scene, it would be this: falling. It’s a constant.

You rise above me, filling my vision with the kind of features only a predator should wear. And right now you are the epitome of one. It doesn’t matter if you’re bedridden by a measly flu or gloriously dominant like right now, you will never cease to amaze me and make me feel warm and loved.

“Your eyes are a melange of green and brown,” you say one lazy Sunday morning.

We are splayed on the couch among a lot of plaids draped over us or beneath us, both in our flannel pajamas. We had a row or two on the subject of how much skin needs to be covered during winter time; I won. Of course. You might have a mean caring streak and a penchant for wearing as little clothes as possible, but my stubbornness outlasts yours in duration. You are to stay warm and fed and cared for because that’s how I tell you I love you when I find those same words spoken out loud paper-thin and limited. Don't attempt to take these little moments from me because I will fight you. 

“Sweet-talking me won’t get you in my pants,” I say, smiling on your chest. “We agreed that we’ll be watching Hell’s Kitchen.”

“But you’re not in the slightest interested in it!”

“It’s the company that matters.”

“Said company would like a bit of action, too.”

“Said company should also try to laze around once a week. And that’s something coming from me.”

You sigh, admitting defeat. I don’t think you ever feel victorious when you win our countless arguments, though arguments is a strong word for what we have.

The memory of your tear-streaked face burns within the confines of my mind, so fragile and vulnerable that I had a hard time believing that you were the person that issued all those commands. But even then, in your defenseless and maskless state, I found you beautiful and glorious, worthy of everything I kept hidden from the others and everything that I will become.

I sometimes stay awake at night and watch your lax face; in the darkness it's easier to recall that bittersweet memory of my first time seeing you. It is when you bring me breakfast in bed with a smile that encompasses all the bright stars out there in the universe that I remember the reason why we are married.

A brilliant sun sat gently in its luminosity behind that curtain of tears.

I only needed to extend my hand.