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swoon and fall into my arms

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The nearer they draw to their destination, the more Sam's thin veneer of calm is stripped away. He's as taut as a bowstring, every delightful inch of him tense with anxiety and growing terror. For a while there, he'd been adorably fidgety—rubbing his sweaty palms over his thighs, one leg jittering up and down to a restless beat. Now he's simply leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, face buried in his palms, breaths coming out in ragged puffs. He is a deer caught in headlights, frozen in knowledge that life as he knows it is about to end.

Oh, if his screaming fans could see him now. Ladies and gentlemen: Sam Winchester, Hollywood's darling, the fearless action hero presently starring in the entire fucking world's wank fantasies. See him restore order to a lawless city! See him single-handedly bring down an international terrorist organization! See him ward off an alien invasion!

See him cower pathetically at the thought of finally presenting his true face to the world.

Lucifer should probably be feeling more sympathetic. Or possibly offended.

Instead, he's torn between fond amusement and an inappropriate desire to pull Sam into his lap to see if he can't work some of that tension out of Sam's system. Post-coital is a look that suits Sam; Lucifer is sure Sam's adoring public would agree. And Jesus—the idea of Sam walking down the red carpet with Lucifer's come leaking out of him. Just. Yes. It's beyond tempting.

"You promised to behave," Sam hisses suddenly, shooting an accusing glare in Lucifer's direction. That's when Lucifer realizes that his hand has gone from rubbing soothing circles over Sam's back to groping that fine ass.


Sam's glare intensifies.

Sighing regretfully, Lucifer moves his hand.

"You know, if you're not ready for this, I can always move out of sight of the door and you can make your big entrance alone."

Sam's eyes go wide and all he manages is a strangled, "What?"

"There's no reason why we have to do this tonight. Maybe you're just not ready to go public with our relationship. And that's okay. Heck, it's okay if you're never ready. Coming out as a gay action hero in Hollywood—that's the sort of thing that kills careers. I've been talking to your PR team and, well." Lucifer bites his lip and looks up at Sam through lowered eyelashes. "Dating a musician, especially one with my reputation isn't going to do you any favors."

The poor boy's mouth is opening and closing like a fish.

Oh, yeah. Gotcha—hook, line, sinker.

"Okay, wow," Sam huffs indignantly. "And here I thought we were on the same page. Do you really think that lowly of me? I love you. And I am not going to hide our relationship away like I'm ashamed. Because I'm not. I'm nervous, yes, but that's not the same as having doubts, capiche?"

"If you say so," Lucifer agrees, suppressing a smug smile.

Sam nods curtly and turns to the window, jaw set in stubborn determination.

Oh, Sammy, Lucifer thinks, you are too adorable for words.

All traces of anxiety have been eliminated. Who says Lucifer is a bad boyfriend?

When their turn finally arrives to walk the carpet, Sam doesn't hesitate to exit the limo to greet the sea of flashing lights. Sam smiles and waves and when Lucifer places a possessive hand to the small of his back, he does more than welcome the touch: he turns to Lucifer with an impish grin, cups his lover's startled face, and stakes his claim for the entire world to see.

It's a kiss that says more than words ever could.

The crowd roars.

"Mr. Winchester—"

"Mr. Morningstar—"

"How long have you been together?"

"Is it serious?"