phosphoriel | For grimholdkeeper

For grimholdkeeper

The sea sighs and rushes against the austere coast, the barren space between cliffs and water; at high tide nearly all this stony shore would be underwater, but there are places where dry ground lingers, hollows set higher against the cliffs, yet still tucked against and sheltered by their towering reach. Lucifer walks beside the water, seeking, following no pathway or direction: only the sense of a mortal life held in his keeping some time ago. It is still his, of course; he has never unchained it, never let it go free, only let it be at the edge of his senses for a while, still shackled to his strange, lonely, twisted heart.

The water rushes cold and frothing over his bare feet. He is robed only from the waist down, broad wings trailing behind him in the surf like the train of a gown. All the world smells of salt and solitude, a sky gray and roiling with clouds now swiftly turning black with the approach of night. In the twilight he sees a set of stairs carved roughly into the rock a little way up the shore, leading to a hollow in the cliffside where a small hut perches, standing bravely, precariously against the roar of the ocean. Built of driftwood, perhaps, to judge by the not-quite-straight lines of the walls, their dark shining smoothness. Light glows from the windows, sparse but easily seen through the gloaming.

His feet mount the steps at no particularly hurried pace. At the door, he feels the barrier of a closed bolt, but at his hand on the frame and a murmured word it unlocks soundlessly, and he pushes open the door, stepping within. His wings fill the diminutive space. He looks first at the lamp on a table, and then the man sitting beside it. "Is that the only light you have, Balthazar?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's not just sealed with a bolt, of course. There are wards and shields, but even if they were strong enough to keep Lucifer out, their caster wouldn't want them to.

Truth be told, he barely needs the protection these days. There are no true Morganians any longer, with Horvath powerless and Morgana destroyed. And while he no longer does Merlin's work--he has a different master now--he feels no need to oppose those who do. It's an uneasy truce, but it works for now.

It's been nearly thirty years since he saw Lucifer, but Balthazar hasn't aged and looks much the same. His hair is shorter and smoother, and he's clean-shaven at the moment, but his clothes are just as worn and shabby. He only wears one ring now, his old magic talisman, and that only for nostalgia's sake. He can cast magic without it now, and usually does so.

As Lucifer enters, he's already looking at the door, anticipation on his face, and a faint smile. There's a book in his lap, an antique grimoire, but he hasn't been reading it for the past half hour. He's only a little surprised to see his master, and more than a little pleased. "You're the only light I have," he answers without missing a beat and as matter-of-factly as a comment on the weather.

He sets the book aside and stands. "It's been a while since I've seen you face to face." He's missed that, the opportunity to look and touch. The blinding glare that shakes him out of himself. "But I think I felt you draw near."

"Am I?" It draws a smile, those words from Balthazar, though his smiles, as always, come easily enough. He has not changed, neither in appearance nor in nature, thirty years an eyeblink to him, shorter in his perspective than in that of any mortal's, even one as old as his sorcerer. His own radiance is a subtle thing, his wings shining as though lit from behind, the room seeming brighter now for his presence. His skin where it's bared is smooth and unmarked for today. Feathers rustle as those wings flicker outwards and then settle, closing in again against his back.

"Our bond lingers. Would linger, no matter how many years passed." It's no surprise to him that Balthazar sensed his approach. With the passage of time, that intimate awareness only grows deeper. For all that Balthazar calls him master, it gives the man a kind of power over him, to know where he is, but Lucifer doesn't trouble himself with that; he knew perfectly well what would come of it when he claimed this man as his own. "Have you not always felt me?" Soft words, and a slow approach, drawing nearer. He could make Balthazar come to him, could make him come on his knees if he wished to, but such games are for other times. The radiance in that room is his love, flawed and faceted though it is.

His arms go around the man first, and then his wings, drawing him into an intimate embrace. Lucifer murmurs inarticulately and lifts his face in a cupping hand, brushing his mouth with his own. It's a fleeting light kiss, his fingers searching tenderly through the sorcerer's shortened hair. Desire recalls itself easily even at so chaste a gesture, but for the moment he only holds him close, without pressing for more.

"Of course, Master," he sounds just a little breathless as Lucifer draws closer, blue eyes drinking in the shape and glow of him. "I haven't forgotten. I couldn't if I wanted to."

There's something slightly different about the way Balthazar carries himself now. Shabby and worn he is still, and there's an intensity behind his eyes, as if he could spring at any moment to combat or to play. Beneath it all, though, there's a strange calm, a peace born of mixed resignation and confidence that he will not be abandoned.

He shivers all over as he is drawn close, sighing raggedly and tilting his head back to receive that kiss. In response, his arms slide around Lucifer's neck and shoulders, bliss and hunger rippling through him. "I should have made tea, I suppose," he murmurs when the kiss breaks. "Or something to eat. Is there something you wanted of me?"

A hand passes down Balthazar's spine in a long slow stroke. The broad wings enfold him and keep him close, caged around him, the gentlest form of entrapment. Lucifer doesn't answer at first, letting silence spin itself out into the space of the little house while he absorbs the familiar sense of this man. He changed, in the span of those years--change is the very nature of his kind--and Lucifer watched from afar, but it's a different matter to stand with him in the circle of his arms and to know him this closely again. The shudder at his touch resonates through him. The desire, and the joy.

"Oh my love," he murmurs, very low, "there is so much I want of you."

It can wait, though. It can unfold at the pace that it will, for he has no intention of vanishing again, not for a while, at least. Other matters will demand his attention eventually, but for now there is this, and them. "Make your tea if you like," he tells him with a smile, wings drawing away and folding in again at his back. His hand goes again to the side of his face, long fingers curving over his jaw, his cheek. "I don't have need of it, Balthazar, but I'll drink with you." Another stolen kiss. Another warm press of mouths, and hunger beneath it, held in gentle restraint.

He feels a thrill ripple through him at murmured endearment, and the following words, and sighs shakily. For years now, he's been in greater control of his own short-term destiny than at any time before in his life, and he's had no trouble asserting his will with other mortals. Including Veronica and the Prime Merlinian. But Lucifer's presence turns his world on its axis, and once again he's a servant, only this time it feels right.

At least for now.

He feels cold as the wings withdraw, as if he had grown used to that light embrace in split seconds. "Mmh. I know you don't, but it's only fair to be hospitable, isn't it?" He smiles into the kiss, leaning in to make it last a moment longer.

When they part, he steps away reluctantly to prod the fire. There's a kettle next to it, already. He drinks tea almost all day, particularly in the damp, cool climate. "I'm afraid I only have the one cup," he says. "I didn't bring much practical when I came here. We can share. Or I could conjure up another, if you'd rather."

He crouches to place the kettle on, the movement more fluid and easy than it would have been even a decade ago. He hasn't erased his external scars, mindful of his master's fondness for them, but the uneven places in his bones have been smoothed over.

He takes pleasure in something as simple as watching Balthazar move through this sparse, austere room, watching him bend before the fire to warm the kettle. He stands, filling the room with his light and his presence, and as Balthazar crouches--smoothly, without apparent pain--his gaze follows him, and drinks in the sight of him, the smile lingering on his beautiful mouth. "I will share your cup." It smells of the sea even inside of the house, and of the tea the man has had before Lucifer ever came to him here, and of Balthazar himself. His presence is written into the very walls.

Lucifer moves toward this man who is his willing servant, steps beside him as he straightens, touching the side of his face to turn it back towards him. For a moment it seems as though he might seek another kiss, but then he smiles and draws Balthazar with him as he steps toward the table, and the seat the man had occupied there, taking it for himself. His hands are firm and gentle on the man's limbs, passing over his skin, urging Balthazar down into his lap. He can lift him as though he is a child. All the time they've spent apart has served to deepen the man's strength and power, and he can feel the suppleness within him, the quick mastery of it at his fingertips. It pleases him to sense it, and to know that Balthazar--all that he is now, all that he has been--is his, and always his.

"Tell me what made you come to a place like this," he murmurs, fingers gliding through his dark hair, weaving into the strands. His hands fall, and spread Balthazar's thighs over his lap. It's intimate, this embrace, and it's familiar.

The dusk outside is deepening. Normally he would have lighted more candles by now--the shack has no electricity--but the soft blue gloom settling in makes the firelight's flicker across Lucifer's skin and wings just that much more arresting. He's watching in his peripheral vision even as he pours the tea, enchanted by the subtle motion.

Willingly he follows the light pull, and he slides into his lap without hesitation or fear of being too heavy or ungainly. Somehow he manages to hold onto the teacup without spilling or dropping, even as his legs are pulled softly but irresistibly apart. He shivers, though, breathing picking up. "I let Veronica go. It was nice for a while. Different, but nice. She knew something had changed, of course. I kept her anyway, for a few years, but I didn't want to break her mind. So I let her go, and came here to think for a bit."

He sips the tea, smiles, and offers to hold the cup to Lucifer's lips. "It didn't hurt the way I expected it to."

Which is not to say it didn't hurt. Just that he's over it already. "I like the sea. It's bigger and older than I'll ever be."

A hand goes to Balthazar's face again. His thumb traces the line of his cheekbone, then slips down to the edge of his jaw, and every touch is a delicate, subtle pressure, delineating the shape of him. The steam from the teacup curls on the air, warm and fragrant. He watches Balthazar drink, gaze falling to his mouth when he lifts the rim of the cup there. "Those bonds you've carried for centuries. Your enemies, your lovers and friends. She was the last, wasn't she?" His thumb brushes the corner of Balthazar's mouth. He smiles, and accepts the offered cup, drinks from it in the sorcerer's hands. The dark room flickers with the glow of the fire, orange and gold on the dark polished walls. "You could have kept her as long as you wished. I would have left you in peace with her," he goes on softly, caressingly, "if that is what you had desired. For a time."

But surely Balthazar knows that. And knows that he could have kept her, could have mastered her, broken her like a horse to bridle if that was what he desired; there's amusement in Lucifer's smile, and affection, his hand cupping the tea and setting it aside on the table.
"You could have any companionship you wanted. And yet you come here to dwell in solitude." His hands fall to the man's narrow hips. He's always been of thin and lean shape, worn and nearly undernourished. It's the weight of the years on him, and yet-- "There is a peace in you. I have not seen it there before, Balthazar." Their faces are close. He brushes a kiss to the corner of his mouth, teasing. "Had you no longing for me, my love?"

Another kiss, a proper one this time, settling over his mouth. And longer than the ones before it, Lucifer's tongue intruding at the cusp of his mouth, tasting, taking, sliding deeper. His hand cups the side of Balthazar's face again, the long fingers settling firm to tilt his head and urge him to yield, to open to him. It's been a long time since he's tasted the man this way. He takes his time, lingering, searching his mouth with his tongue, the fire crackling behind them and the room suffused with its hot, subtle glow.

"She was the last." There's a little grief in his voice, in his eyes, but he's easily distracted by the touch. "You've indulged me so much further than I expected, you know. I thought you might come to collect me for good after Morgana was destroyed. A few years of relative peace was a great gift."

They're close, and he can feel warmth from his master's skin, but he resists closing his eyes, drinking in the blur of color and light inches away from his face. "I did. But I knew you'd come back for me. I could have called. I'm...pretty good at waiting."

He gives up on sight at the feel of the kiss, moaning faintly and shutting his eyes. It feels even better than the last, and, free of the teacup, his hands reach up to curl around Lucifer's shoulders.

"I've not finished with you. Not in this world." He speaks with his mouth to Balthazar's, their lips brushing, words passed as tangibly as audibly. "I've work for you here yet." He'll claim him for Hell in his own time. There's no hurry; Balthazar is his, and when he takes him it will be for eternity. The man's hands against his bare shoulders makes him shiver, a reflexive twitch of skin; his arms come around him to gather him close, and the strong, delicate edge of a wing brushes against the fingers curved over his shoulder, urging touch.

Outside, the wind batters against the walls of the little house and the roar of the ocean could nearly drown out thought, but within the room cups silence and warmth, languid kisses drawing out between them, lingering one into the next. Balthazar's clothing simply disappears beneath his restless, searching hands, and he explores bare skin, his palms hot and calloused; here and there are the man's scars and he's drawn to seek them out and trace them, just as he's drawn to caress the places he knows will make Balthazar shudder for him. "It's been too long, hasn't it," he murmurs sweetly, barely audibly, the words pressed to the man's jaw and throat, his smile brushed against his skin. It hasn't been long at all, truly, not the blink of an eye in the vastness of his own existence, but all of it has been exile and solitude, and he has longed for his servant, too.

He doesn't need much coaxing to transfer his caresses to the wings. The warmth and the soft texture are seductive. He can almost feel his palms tingle as they slide across the surface. "As you wish, Master," he murmurs, submissive but a little sly. The term is as much endearment as title now.

Those hands know him all too well. He gasps as the barrier of fabric separating them from his skin vanishes, arching and wriggling into the touch. Oh, he missed this, too, and so much more than he dared admit to himself. He never stopped loving Veronica, but after love like this, undying and ruthless, nothing she could give him was quite adequate.

"Much," he agrees, voice raspy with arousal, flinging his head back to allow Lucifer better access. "I needed you."

At the first touch his wings push against Balthazar's hands, soft feathers and rigid spines tangling with his fingers. The feathers themselves are cool but the membrane beneath is as hot as blood. His hands are indulgent over the man's skin, caresses lingering over those places which make him arch and gasp, his smile tender and a darkening of pleasure and desire in his gaze.

"And I you." Cradling the man's jaw, Lucifer kisses him again, gently enough to be teasing, now. It's not gentleness they need now, but passion and intimacy and relentless pleasure, and his hand slides deftly between them to wrap Balthazar's cock, long fingers circling him and slowly stroking. Arousal kindles softly, and threatens to become an all-consuming inferno. "I've missed this too, my love. You should have called to me, if you wanted the love she could not give you."

As always, the man's mind is as open to him as words would have been. Balthazar is his, his own servant, his to care for; it's for him to know his desires, and see to his needs. The other hand tangles in his dark hair when he kisses him again, teeth closing on his lower lip briefly, his tongue ravishing. His fingers move steadily on him, and he draws back smiling, cupping his face to watch his expressions. "Tell me what you need, Balthazar."

The silky touch of the barbs contrasts with the heat beneath, and the almost threatening strength of the rachis. He's still drawn to those wings, and the long separation from Lucifer seems to have made him hungrier for them. The feel, and the light.

He returns the kiss, hungry but willing to let his lust be reined in by the teasing of his stronger partner. Still, when the stroking of his cock begins, he shudders and moans, pushing into the kiss and even seeking dominance, for just a moment. The breaks between contact give him space to gasp for air, but he hears the command.

Eyes hazy with pleasure, he rubs his cheek against the hand on his face, his jaw smooth but for scars. "I need to forget everything but you," he murmurs. "Every sight, every feeling. For at least a little while."

"Come here, then." Wicked, that smile, and intimately provocative. His hands go to Balthazar's thighs again, strong fingers curving over them, denting the skin. The grasp lifts him, his hands cup and coax him open, and the last of Lucifer's clothing too has disappeared somewhere between kisses and caresses, and his own arousal is hot and hard between them, thickly swelled, the skin silken. And it's a slow easy push, the head of his cock sliding slickly into him, strong hands holding him suspended for a moment or two before their grip eases and he lets Balthazar sink down onto him naturally, impaled by gravity and the weight of his own body.

"That's better, isn't it?" A throaty murmur, and his hand catching Balthazar's hair again to bring him into a kiss as Lucifer caresses his hip, his thigh. His cock pulses, hilted deep inside of him. Desires writhes in him, pleasure at being joined with this man again, his own servant, his beloved, and the urge to take him hard and use him thoroughly comes and goes; there will be time for that, all the dark hours of this night, and many nights after. His wings sweep jealously forward and for a while he doesn't move at all, holding him in an embrace of arms and wings, devouring his mouth, savoring the feeling of being buried so deeply with the man tight and hot around him, shuddering in his arms.

Then his hips lift just slightly, encouraging, hands falling to his thighs again to hold him steady, and he looks into his eyes with the smile on his face and tells him, "Take what you need, my love."

Even in the fog of lust, Balthazar can't help but think how convenient it is to have a lover who can just banish their clothing at will, without all the frustration and delay of buttons or zippers, or the irritation of having to leave comfortable positions in order to get fabric out of the way. He's done such spells himself, but they require concentration, which he has little of now, or else the clothing becomes unsalvageable, rendered to ash or threads or flower petals. He chuckles softly at the thought, but the sound is swallowed up quickly with a groan.

The strength of Lucifer, and the confidence with which he holds and manipulates his body, is overwhelming. It makes Balthazar feel small and vulnerable, an edge of pleasant discomfort building into the arousal. He welcomes the penetration, though, making a few soft, inarticulate noises, then nodding. Better, yes. Much.

Held in the cocoon of wings and powerful arms, all he can do is submit to the fierce kisses, breaths rationed out until he's giddy. It's exactly what he wanted, and he does shudder, muscles tensing and relaxing as he adjusts to the control and the feeling of being possessed once more.

Within the shadow of his master's wings, he pants for air, flushed now and eyes bright and glassy with desire. At some point in the kissing, he's put his arms around Lucifer's neck, hands clutching at his shoulders and hair as if for balance, easily hard enough to bruise mortal flesh. He smiles in response to his master's smile and takes a ragged breath, then shifts his body weight, moving to lift nearly off the shaft buried in him, then sinking back down. His eyes flutter closed, bittersweet bliss written across his face.

Balthazar is lovely this way, dazed by pleasure and desire, so close to undone. His eyes move over his flushed face, his unfocused gaze, the lips parted for breath as though air is something he can't seem to draw enough of. And the smile, the sweet aching joy in his expression as he begins to move on his cock--Lucifer savors all of it, watching closely to see the ways his servant has changed in his absence, the ways he is the same as he ever was. "Like that," he whispers, tender, encouraging, his own eyes closing briefly as the man sinks down onto him again; pleasure makes him shiver, a ravishing, reflexive motion, a susurrus of the feathers of his wings. They twitch and press closer around Balthazar, long primaries brushing his skin, the barbs as cool and soft as silk.

He lets Balthazar establish their pace, their rhythm, lifting hips when he sinks down to meet him in slippery, exquisite thrusts. There's no hurry in him, the motions easy and rocking and slow, his hands slipping from hips to thighs, then up again to caress his ribs, his back, following the way muscles shift beneath warm skin and the smooth ridges of scars. They cup his ass, strong fingers indenting his flanks and keeping him spread apart for the hot thickness of his shaft, penetrating again, again, again. He smiles at the way Balthazar holds him, the strength in his own grasp, his fingers tugging pleasurably at the roots of his hair, and kisses him again, briefly, indulgently. "It's sweet, isn't it?" The words breathe against his skin, his mouth moving tenderly over his hollow cheek and the slight curve of the bone. "Do you like this, Balthazar?"

Balthazar is himself unaware of the picture he makes as he drinks in the sensations, but when Lucifer whispers, he opens his eyes again. He has no words for the beauty he sees, even after all this time belonging to him, and it seems futile to try in the throes of passion. His master knows what he's feeling now. Still, he pauses for a few seconds, trembling with the effort, and strokes along one cheekbone.

When he resumes moving, it's with greater abandon, writhing into the touch of feathers on his bare skin. His brows knit with concentration, pushing the pace as if hoping to meld their bodies together. He breathes hard, chest heaving, and whimpers into the kiss. His head turns to the side as Lucifer murmurs, exposing his neck for attention hopefully. "You know I do," he rasps. "You're...everything."

He supports Balthazar with strong hands, his grasp firm to hold him, to help him move, his hips rocking up steadily into the motions, but he lets the man set the pace that he wants, breathing out in a shivering sigh when he begins to rock faster, harder against him, taking him deep, deep inside. He knows what he's feeling, yes, what he desires, and Lucifer's mouth brushes hot and caressing at the side of his throat, finding his pulse; he rasps it with a seeking tongue, sinks his teeth into the skin until blood pools dark beneath the surface. Bruises and marks fade but the way he has written himself into this man's very being is something that can never be erased.

"I know." His voice is gentle. His wings fold ardently around him and he holds him is his limitless grasp; he wouldn't let Balthazar go free even if he'd wanted to. "I love you dearly. Never doubt that."

He pushes harder into him, lifting his hips, thrusting up as Balthazar sinks down, and when their eyes meet he cups his face, keeping his attention, close enough to kiss him again but holding back. Always, always Balthazar will belong to him, from now until the end of time. There hasn't been a moment since they met when he didn't, when he wasn't already his own utter possession.

Balthazar tilts his head at a deeper angle, feeling the lips and tongue hover over his pulse, like a threat, or a promise. The feel of teeth wrings a low groan from him, one that builds in volume and intensity as the bite bruises him. It's a vivid contrast of pain and pleasure, like the spectrum of contradictions he has learned to associate with Lucifer; possessive dominance and tender words, seduction and demand, love and rage. When he releases his throat and speaks, the groan trails off in a soft whine, neither plea nor protest, and completely involuntary.

The look in his eyes as they meet Lucifer's shows he's dazed with the experience, and quivering on the edge, but he strains to keep his master's gaze, enchanted. The words trickle through the haze of sensual pleasure clouding his brain, and a slow, warm smile appears. For one blessed moment, he's not a servant with a master, not just, but a man with a lover, and the details don't matter. "...y-yes," he manages, out of breath and seconds from orgasm, too far gone to articulate much more. "Love you."

Then another thrust hits home, pushing him past the point of thought. His grasp tightens and his eyelids flutter as he struggles not to close them completely, as if hoping to allow Lucifer to read his soul through them as he comes. His movements are erratic, shaky and desperate, and punctuated with tiny wordless whimpers until the surge of pleasure steals his ability to breathe at all, at least for a few seconds.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For grimholdkeeper

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

((I'm sorry this reply took so long.))