Chapter 4: Claiming Control
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. Teeth, heat, the bitter taste of whiskey. Lucifer consumed, a decade of restraint burning up in the oxygen of Robert’s open mouth. His hands were everywhere—tangling in salt-and-pepper hair, sliding down the lean back, gripping the swell of Robert’s ass through the sweatpants, pulling him flush against the undeniable, hard ridge of his own erection.
Robert met it all. He bit Lucifer’s lower lip, hard enough to draw a metallic tang. His hands clawed at the back of Lucifer’s shirt, yanking it up, nails scraping over the dense muscle of his shoulders. He broke the kiss, gasping, eyes wild. “There he is,” he panted, a fierce grin on his swollen mouth. “Now show me.”
Those three words were the last key. Lucifer spun him, the world tilting. Robert’s palms slapped against the cool chrome of the kitchen counter, the half-full glass of whiskey tipping over, spreading its amber pool like a stain. Lucifer didn’t pause. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Robert’s sweatpants and underwear and yanked them down to his thighs in one brutal motion.
The air in the trailer was cool on Robert’s exposed skin. Lucifer stared at the curve of his ass, the compact, powerful muscles of his thighs. He spit, roughly, onto his own palm, slicking his cock with a few crude strokes. He was huge, thick and heavy, the tip an angry purple. Preparation was a distant thought, a courtesy for a different world. This was about now. This was about truth.
He positioned himself, the head nudging against Robert’s entrance. Robert pushed back against him, a silent, desperate demand.
“You want it?” Lucifer growled, his voice a stranger’s.
“Stop asking. Just fuck me.”
Lucifer drove forward. One deep, brutal, unyielding thrust. He buried himself to the hilt in the impossibly tight, resisting heat.
Robert screamed. The sound was guttural, torn from his chest, a mix of shock and blinding pleasure. His back arched, knuckles white on the counter. Lucifer clamped a large hand over his mouth from behind, muffling the noise into a wet, choked groan. He held himself there, impaled, both of them trembling with the shock of it.
“Shut up,” Lucifer breathed into his ear, not an order, but a plea. The feel of him—hot, clenching, perfect—was unravelling his sanity. He began to move.
He set a punishing, relentless rhythm. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each forward drive a hard, deep slam that rocked Robert’s whole body forward into the counter. The trailer filled with the sound of it: skin slapping against skin, Lucifer’s ragged breaths, the choked, desperate sounds escaping around his fingers. The world narrowed to this: the slick, tight tunnel he was splitting open, the heat coiling in his balls, the sight of Robert Downey Jr., legendary, formidable, bent and taking it.
“Fucking hell,” Robert managed to rasp when Lucifer’s hand slid from his mouth to grip his hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Yes… Christ, just like that… you perfect animal…”
Lucifer fucked him harder, faster. He leaned over, covering Robert’s back, his chest plastered to sweat-slick skin. He could feel every gasp, every tremor. He found Robert’s ear again. “This what you wanted? Huh? This the monster?” He punctuated each word with a driving thrust.
“It’s a start!” Robert shot back, his own voice breaking on a moan. He reached a hand back, tangling it in Lucifer’s hair, pulling his head down. “Now stop talking and come in my ass.”
The crude command shattered the last of Lucifer’s mind. He pistoned into him, a final, frantic, mindless series of thrusts. The orgasm tore through him like a bullet, blinding, violent. He shouted, a raw, wordless sound, as he emptied himself deep inside, hips jerking erratically, spurting pulse after hot pulse into Robert’s clenching body.
He slumped over him, spent, his weight heavy. They stayed like that for long minutes, the only sound their heaving lungs. The air reeked of sex and sweat and spilled whiskey.
Slowly, Lucifer pulled out. Robert hissed at the loss, his body sagging against the counter. Lucifer stumbled back, his pants still around his ankles, his cock slick and spent. He looked at Robert, bent over, marked, used. A wave of something cold and sickening washed through the heat. Shame. Horror.
Robert slowly straightened. He winced, but his eyes were clear, eerily calm. He turned, leaning back against the counter, not bothering to pull his pants up. He looked at Lucifer’s stricken face and gave a low, soft laugh.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t you dare look guilty now. You gave me exactly what I asked for.” He pushed off the counter, walking with a slight, deliberate stiffness to a small fridge. He pulled out a bottle of water, cracked it open, and took a long swallow. He threw another to Lucifer, who caught it on reflex.
“The monster doesn’t do apologies,” Robert continued, his gaze steady. “It just is. You felt it. I felt it. Now we both know it’s real.” He took another drink. “The question is, what do you do with it tomorrow? When the sun’s up and we’re back on set, and I’m Iron Man and you’re the new kid?”
Lucifer looked at the water bottle in his hand. He felt hollowed out, scraped clean. The monster was sated, asleep. The man was left standing in the wreckage, unsure of what he’d built or broken.
Robert saw the confusion. He finished his water, crumpled the bottle, and tossed it into a bin. “Get out, Lucifer,” he said, not unkindly. “Go home. Sleep. The scene’s over.”
It was a dismissal, but it was also a direction. The only one he had. Lucifer mechanically pulled his clothes back into order, every movement feeling foreign. He walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped back into the cool, silent night.
The door clicked shut behind him. He stood there on the step, the vast lot stretching before him. He was different. The world was different. He had no idea if it was better or worse. He just knew the leash was gone, and he was standing in open field, with no idea what to do with the terrifying, limitless freedom.