Chapter Text
"I won't belong to you. You will belong to me," he growls, looming before you all spread wings and dark stormy aura and dramatically swirling coattails. His red-glinting gaze bores into you; something about the timbre of his voice makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
You stand your ground, meeting him stare for stare. Ordinary, powerless human; in this instant, powerful.
"Sure," you agree coolly, poker face firmly in place in the face of all this posturing. "I'll be yours." You extend your hand, to seal the pact with a clasp of arm to arm, and in the instant before you make contact, you add: "I'll be your Dom."
Lucifer is one of the most powerful demons in all of existence. If he wanted to snatch his arm away and reject your terms, he could, so fast you could blink and miss it.
Instead, he lets the contact happen, lets the contract seal. You clasp forearms, and the sliver of skin between his glove and his sleeve touches your bare wrist, and matching pact marks burn into existence on him and you both.
He backs away, suddenly breathing hard, to rub at his wrist. He avoids your eyes, flushing faintly pink.
You cross your arms, ignoring the way your own pact mark still burns hot on your skin. They always take a while to settle down. You suspect Lucifer's will take the longest, simply out of pride and spite.
You smirk at him, but he keeps avoiding your eyes even as he composes himself, standing tall and crossing his arms in unconscious mimicry of you. The stormy aura has disappeared, leaving the air feeling calm, but stretched taut on a thread of tension.
You consider, for a silent moment, plans and possibilities unfolding out as far as you can see in your mind’s eye. Then you stalk over to him, and back him into the front of his desk. He looks at you then, half wary, half wanting, even though he tries to hide it.
You just stare at him for a long moment, not even touching him. Waiting for him to squirm. And he does.
"Well?" Lucifer demands. "You have the pact now. What are you waiting for?"
"What were you expecting me to do to you, as soon as I had your pact?" you ask, half genuinely curious, half viciously creating pitfalls to lay in his path.
He doesn't answer, stoic and defiant, but you can tell he's thinking about it by the way his jaw ticks a little.
"Were you expecting me to immediately bend you over your own desk and have my way with you?" you ask casually. "You sure backed up against your desk quite quickly."
"Certainly not!" he denies hotly. But one gloved hand falls to the edge of the desk and curls to grip it, as obvious as a flag waved at a bull.
"No, certainly not," you agree musingly, "after all, you did say you didn't want me to lump you in with your brothers."
His eyes flash, and he flushes red.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," you say sweetly, striking while the iron is hot, "I'll be a good Dom and always keep your desires in mind." Double entendre that he's sure to catch: you'll take his words at face value and treat him unlike his brothers, whether it's in a way he meant or not; and you'll truly be a good Dom and do right by his wants and limits.
"Don't -- don't call me that," he says in protest. His composure cracked, he’s no longer such a smooth operator. You want to pry that crack in his hard defensive shell wide open, expose the soft vulnerability underneath.
"I'll call you whatever I like," you say pleasantly.
"You will not --" he starts angrily, a clumsy ploy to seize back control.
You cut that off at the knees by getting right up in his space, raising a hand as though you're going to place it on his chest and push, and the rest of his words wither in his mouth.
"Sweetheart," you say, warm and hushed like a lover, and he stares at you, frozen. Something in his eyes says that that crack in his armor is splintering open wider.
You don't touch him, and for all his bluster, he doesn't dare to try to touch you, either. You hover your palm right over his heart, so close that after a moment you start to feel the heat of him radiating out to your skin even through all his layers of finery.
"When's the last time someone touched you, sweetheart?" you murmur. "When's the last time someone put their hands on your bare skin?"
He lifts his chin and tries to give you a disdainful look. "I hardly think that is any of your … business…"
He trails off, as you touch a single fingertip just above the V where his lapels overlap. Then you move your hand, hovering without touching him again, down so slowly over his torso, down to the sash at his waist.
“You can stop posturing at any time, you know,” you say lightly.
He seems frozen, eyes locked to your hand, hardly breathing. You trace the brooch and chain of his belt with a single finger.
“You could just start being honest with me,” you breathe, still so close up in his space that it ruffles the black peacock feathers at his throat. “I’d prefer that.”
“You accuse me of being a liar?” he breathes. You’re not sure if he realizes how he’s matched your tone.
“I’d say we’re all liars down here, sweetheart,” you reply. He swallows, doesn’t seem to have an answer for that. You hover both hands over his hips, up over where the tails of his coat flare out to swirl dramatically even in the absence of wind, up his sides. The solid wood of the desk creaks quietly under his grip. The other hand, with the new pact mark just barely visible at his wrist, seems frozen in midair.
“You could start by admitting how much you want me to actually touch you,” you say.
He slides you a look that manages to be disdainful, despite the pink in his cheeks. “I don’t,” he says flatly.
“Okay then.” You drop your hands and back up a few steps.
He blinks at you, surprised.
“Well then, I’ve got a farewell party to get back to,” you say blithely. “Enjoy your music, good night.” You give a casual wave and turn to leave.
You have one foot out the secret door by the time he finds his voice.
“Wait!”
You pause, turn back to look at him unhurriedly, as though you have all the time in the world.
He’s taken a step forward. Indignation covering up confusion and something like hurt. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demands. “We’re not done here!”
“You said you didn’t want me to touch you,” you point out, shrugging. “So, actually, we are done here.” You raise your eyebrows at him. “Good night.”
You leave Lucifer’s private office, passing through to the library. A moment later, you hear two heavy footsteps behind you, and feel a whoosh of air, and you turn and --
“Kneel,” you snarl, drawing on the power of the pact for the first time, before you even consciously process what you see, and Lucifer goes from having a hand outstretched to grab your arm to falling onto his knees so hard it rattles a stray glass someone left on the coffee table, so sudden he lands off balance and has to brace his hands on the floor.
Here we go, your suddenly racing heart says. He gasps and stares up at you, eyes wide. Here we fucking go.
“You know,” you say coldly, looking down at him, “I wanted to do this the nice way.” A step closer, to really drive the knife in. “But I guess you really don’t want me to lump you in with your brothers, do you.”
He flushes a dull red at that implication.
“Now,” you sigh, putting your hands on your hips. Time to drive the knife in deeper. “I really thought I could count on you to be polite and well-behaved, Lucifer,” you say, shaking your head. “But you’ve been incredibly rude to me tonight --”
“I have not been rude,” he interrupts, eyes flashing.
“Do not interrupt me,” you command him, and his mouth snaps shut, and he looks briefly furious until he wipes his expression clean to passive disinterest.
You smirk at the attempt. That’s cute, given how flushed he still is. Then you turn your best Disappointed look on him, the one you learned from him. “I expected better from you of all demons,” you continue, giving him that Look and watching him try not to squirm, “but you’ve made it clear tonight that I will have to establish some ground rules.
“Rule number one: do not touch me without my permission. Rule number two: do not deliberately cause me harm in any way.”
You look impassively at him. “These two rules persist until and unless I revoke them.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his brows draw down just a little at the second rule.
“Now,” you say, more gently, “the third rule is for me. Rule number three: if you use your safeword, everything stops. I give you my word: if you use your safeword at any time, I will immediately revoke any commands other than the two standing rules.”
He looks almost grateful at that, as though he expected to go into this without any safeguards on his side. Which, fucking hell, Lucifer.
“I’ll always leave you a way out, you know?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “If I ever ask you or command you to do something that you genuinely don’t want to do, then I expect you to use your safeword and tell me. And then I won’t make you do that thing. You trust me enough for that, right?”
Lucifer swallows. “Yes,” he says. But he doesn’t elaborate, and you think … you think the secret is, there are very, very few things that Lucifer would genuinely refuse to do, if you wanted him to. That’s how far the depth of his depravity goes. That’s how deep his devotion to you goes.
You sigh a little, not even sure how to process that, setting it aside for now. “Same goes for if I do something to you that you want to nope out of,” you say. “Just use your safeword, and I’ll stop.”
“Understood,” he says.
You give him a serious nod. “Now, what’s your safeword, Lucifer?”
He thinks for a moment. “My safeword is saturnine,” he says quietly.
You smile at him. “Fancy.”
You wait for a breath of a moment, a transition back into the scene. He waits, still on his knees where you commanded him to be. He looks damn good there, especially in his true form: regal bearing and clothing, impressive horns and huge half-folded wings, and on his knees for you, gazing up at you with that look on his face like he likes that you put him there, but is trying not to show it.
“Now,” you say softly, crouching down to his level. Something about the way his eyes widen a little makes you think he’s humiliated just by that, the fact that you have to bring yourself down so low to meet him, because you’ve brought him so low. “You brothers are all up in the attic. I doubt anyone will come down looking for me until later, but if we come across anyone, you’re not allowed to conceal yourself.”
“What?” he says, still not comprehending, refusing to make that leap of inference to deduce what you mean.
“Crawl,” you command, “and follow me.”
You stand and leave the library, and behind you you hear Lucifer gasp and curse quietly as the pact forces him to comply. You hear the rustling of fabric as he moves, the shuffling of his knees and gloves across the hard stone floor. You walk at a leisurely pace, hands in your pockets as though taking in the paintings on the walls and the richly ornate architecture of the House of Lamentation, and make him follow you all the way down the hall to the stairs. He loses control of his breathing on the stairs themselves, quiet measured breaths turned shaky and harsh as soon as he has to figure out how to crawl up the steps on his knees. You hope the hard stone edges of the stairs bruise his shins.
You don’t look at him at all, for the whole journey, as though there is nothing at all out of the ordinary about you strolling down the hall with the great Avatar of Pride crawling at your heel. You almost want to whistle cheerfully, to really drive the point home, but you resist the urge. By the time you lead him past your bedroom, past all the other bedrooms, all the way down the hall to Lucifer’s room, he’s made himself quiet again, taking tiny shallow breaths to keep quiet. Stopping before his door, the one closest to the attic stairs and the faintly raucous sounds of the party going on above, you finally look down and find him so flushed he looks sick with it, pupils blown wide to fathomless black pools rimmed in red, and so hard and wanting that he’s not only tented his fine trousers but left a small damp patch as well.
You grin, merciless, vicious, thrilled beyond words. This is a better outcome than you ever imagined.
“Open the door,” you say, and he rushes to do it, throwing himself forward on his knees so fast that he bumps up against the door. He seizes the handle so hard you almost expect it to break, and takes down his wards with a flash of magic that lacks any of the subtle finesse he usually employs.
He can’t enter before you, still forced to follow, so you take your time strolling in, too, and he sticks close to your legs, to get himself in the room and the door closed behind him as soon as he can. You ignore that, too, and make your way over to his bed and invite yourself to sit on it.
“How are you feeling, Lucifer?” you ask, giving him a knowing smirk, as he comes to a stop at your feet.
"This is humiliating," he says through gritted teeth. He’s really gonna try to deny that he likes it while looking like that, huh.
“And yet you like it,” you say mercilessly.
He draws himself up proudly, as much as he can while on his knees. “I am the Avatar of Pride,” he says haughtily, “I do not --”
You put your boot on his cock, which shuts him up very effectively, making his mouth drop open on a groan. He tries to grab your foot, but your standing rule stops him with his hand a bare inch away from your boot, and his eyes flash with fury for an instant before he puts his hand back down on his thigh as though he meant to do that all along.
“Yeah, you’re the Avatar of Pride,” you drawl. “But you know, we have a saying back in the human world: pride and shame are two sides of the same coin. Do you feel ashamed, Lucifer?"
He doesn’t answer, just glares up at you, proud angry demon brought to his knees and helpless to do anything about it. But he stays so hard under your boot that you can almost feel it through the sole, and he makes a choked gasp when you press down harder as you lean in to look him right in the eyes.
“You do feel ashamed,” you say softly. "And you like it. You can't pretend in front of me. Just look at you. You like it when I make you feel ashamed. You like it when I humiliate you. Because, oh great Avatar of Pride, that's your domain, too."
Something in him seems to break a little. “No,” he chokes.
“Yes,” you say simply.
He shakes his head, that something breaking open wider, revealing a hint of soft vulnerability in his eyes.
“Do I need to make another rule?” you ask, and then just command it of him, because you can. “Tell me the truth, Lucifer.”
He shudders. “I like it,” the pact forces him to say, and it comes out almost as a sob, and then he can’t seem to stop, gasping out, “I like that you made me kneel. I liked crawling after you. I like that we could have been -- c-caught…”
“Oh, sweetheart,” you breathe, ecstatic at this gift he’s given you. You reach a hand forward as though you’re going to cup his chin, and he leans toward it with a surprising eagerness. But you stop short of touching him, and he can’t make the contact himself without your permission, so the rule leaves him suspended there, so close you can feel the heat of his flushed cheek radiating to your hand. It leaves him wanting, and humiliated all over again at how you deny him.
"Well, how could I deny you something you want so much," you say musingly, to make him think you mean your hand on his cheek.
He looks confused for a moment, when you still don't touch him. Then you drag your boot down the length of his cock, making him moan, and put it on the floor again.
You lean back on your hands and spread your legs comfortably. You see the moment he notices how hard you are, the want that flares in his eyes.
And you say, "Lick my boots, Lucifer."
He recoils, aghast. "That's disgusting!"
You smile lazily. "Lick my boots, Lucifer."
And he's forced down, shuffling back, hands on the ground, down to lower his face to your boot and put his tongue to the worn leather. A shudder rips through him and a whimper spills from his mouth as he licks the first stroke.
"Humiliating enough for you, sweetheart?" you say sweetly, feeling your pact mark burning as your command is enforced, and he whimpers again. That’s a yes. "Keep going, Lucifer. I want these boots to shine when you're done."
He keeps going, making tiny little soft sounds as he does, as he laves over the top of your boot over and over until it shines with it.
"Mmm," you say appreciatively. What a sight: the Avatar of Pride bent over on his knees and licking your boots, in his true demon form, wings shivering and drooping weakly down to the floor. You unbuckle your belt by touch as you watch him, and unzip your trousers and pull your cock out.
He glances up between licks and makes another cut-off little moan at the sight of you.
"Oh, don't mind me," you say, lazily starting to stroke yourself off. "Just enjoying the view."
He shivers a little, and after a moment, tries to sneak a hand down to touch himself.
"No," you say simply, as though you're disciplining a dog, and he whines like one as his hand snaps back down to the floor.
"Other boot, now," you order, and he goes. He can't seem to stop whimpering, now, as he licks your other boot clean. He holds onto your heel with those pretty red gloves and whimpers and whimpers and even seems to get into it, cleaning every inch of your boot with an eagerness that you didn't command of him. And then, unprompted, he sits up and lifts your foot to lick the sole.
"Oh fuck," you breathe, and he looks up and locks eyes with you like that, pupils blown so wide that he looks hazy with lust, and your cock throbs in your hand.
You put your other boot back on his crotch, to reward him for debasing himself even more than you commanded, and he moans with his mouth on your boot.
"Don't come until I tell you to," you say, and he nods and takes that as the permission it is to rut against your boot, moaning loud as you grind the rubber sole down on him harshly.
Fuck, he's gorgeous like this. You stroke yourself faster, the hot friction of your hand bringing you closer and closer to your peak, throbbing hot as he ruts greedily against the sole of one boot and lays his mouth so eagerly on the other, almost kissing more than licking it now.
"Fuck," you gasp, so close, and pull your boots away from him and put them on the floor, and seize him by the lapels and drag him in close until he's kneeling between your legs.
"Oh," he moans, staring at your cock.
"Open your mouth," you order, and he does, eagerly, like he'd love nothing more than for you to put your cock in it, and fuck but you'll be coming back to that later.
But for now, though, you just hold him there and look down at the sweet ruination you've put on his face tonight, that soft broken-open wanting look, the little smear of boot dirt on his chin, and stroke yourself fast and eager until the orgasm spills over you, and you groan loud and unabashed as your cum streaks his face.
"Oh, oh," he moans, flinching a little. Only a tiny bit of it went into his mouth, the rest streaked over his cheek and jaw and nose, but he licks his lips and swallows and all you can do is watch in that wordless post-orgasm daze and try not to forget a single second of it.
And then you shove him back, and put your foot back on his cock, and he cries out and grabs onto your boot-clad ankle with both hands and ruts against your sole like his life depends on it. And you let him, and watch him, and wait until he looks and sounds desperate even if you haven't yet broken him enough to beg, and then finally you command, "Come."
And that didn't need to be a pact enforced command, but you make it one anyway, revel in it anyway, as the dual forces of the power in your command and the harsh grind of your boot on his cock drive him to come so hard that he shudders into a bowed arch bent over your boot and moans so hard and broken that it sounds like sobs.
---
Later, you sit in a chair by the fire and sip at a glass of Demonus. You like the taste of it, this richly aged stuff that Lucifer has, how it burns in a way entirely unlike alcohol, even though it doesn't intoxicate you at all.
Lucifer kneels on a cushion at your feet like a treasured pet, his head on your thigh, letting you stroke his damp, freshly-washed hair. You pass the glass down to him, and he accepts it and takes a sip, barely lifting his head from your thigh before laying it back down, and offering the glass back to you.
“About the rules…” he says quietly.
"Yes?"
“Do you really trust me so little?” he asks. “Do you really think I would try to hurt you?”
“I think you would, if you thought you had a good enough reason,” you reply honestly. “You established that precedent yourself, you know.”
“That’s true,” he admits, in a small voice.
“I do think it would take an extremely good reason, some kind of egregious trespass on my part, to ever make you want to try again,” you say thoughtfully. “However, given that I have no interest in betraying you, your brothers, or the Devildom, I doubt we’ll ever actually run into that rule. Just consider it a … safeguard.”
He sighs. “That is very sensible of you,” he says.
“Mmm.” You take another sip of Demonus. Stroke his hair some more, let the silken strands pass through your fingers. He shivers a little as your fingertips rub across his scalp.
“Cold?” you check.
He snorts quietly. “No.”
"Oh, right." None of the high-level demons seem to feel heat or cold quite like humans do. And besides, the fire roars in the fireplace hardly more than a meter from Lucifer's bare back. Bundled into Lucifer's giant bathrobe as you are, you even feel a little too warm.
You stroke his hair some more, and pass the Demonus back to him. He takes it, and drinks, and holds onto the glass. His other hand comes up to curl around your calf. And he looks up at you with his face still pressed to your thigh, eyes dark but for the tiny sparks of red caught from the firelight behind him, pale face and limbs all aglow in that fiery light.
“I’m going to miss you, after you leave tomorrow,” he says softly.
You look down at him as he looks up, letting all the softness of your sentiment show on your face. “I know,” you reply gently. “I know.”