He begs it truthfully. Three months after his first job, Michael was having waking nightmares of blood-spattered eyes frozen in horror (Why? Why me? Why you?). He thought Lucifer would show him bliss of escape at the pinprick of a needle or between a woman's legs paid by the hour. Instead, Lucifer brought Michael to Adam - Adam who confused Michael with his wide, genuine smile and drew him to sit on his fine mats talking about Michael's family.
Adam knew everything about the Angelus family. They were a known entity at the Roadhouse for their patronage, spoken of only within its doors. Charles Angelo and his sons were cleaning the streets - at least, they were supposed to be.
“How many did you kill?” Adam's hand slides down the back of Michael's collar, cool fingers stroking the head of the tattoo fanning down his spine: the phoenix forever burning and never reborn. Its immortal struggle was the grotesque mark of their entire family. Michael feels branded and he knows he's damned for a bloody end in a dark, rotting alleyway or behind concrete and steel of the state until one of his neighbours decided to put him out of his misery.
He swallows and shivers. His head is spinning. “Three.”
When Adam touches him, Michael feels like he can be forgiven. Adam sees everything and he can help Michael atone, if he's feeling kind.
Adam's hand curls painfully on his shoulder. “Three?”
Michael nods, head bowed in shame, and wishes Adam would leave bruises. Adam is too professional for that.
Michael struggles to hold the whimper of relief when the rope whispers against his forehead. Its smooth weave slides down his temple and brushes a kiss at the corner of his mouth.
With this touch, suddenly Michael can breathe again.
“I told you to see me after each one,” Adam says, voice cold.
“I'm sorry, Adam.”
Adam barely makes a sound as he slowly circles Michael from the bamboo mats. Michael sighs once Adam slides the suit jacket from his shoulders. Adam finally starts drawing his hands behind his back, the rope winding around his front and over his shirt.
Michael hangs his head gratefully. He can already see - he hopes - where this is going: bracketing his chest, Adam tugging to ensure Michael's elbows are bound tight behind his back before drawing a final length, down, down....
Adam raises a line of the smooth, golden rope for Michael to see. Michael swallows and heat flares in his stomach seeing the large knot tied there.
“I picked this colour for your eyes.” Adam's whisper breathes hot against the shell of his ear.
He begs it truthfully. Three months after his first job, Michael was having waking nightmares of blood-spattered eyes frozen in horror (Why? Why me? Why you?). He thought Lucifer would show him bliss of escape at the pinprick of a needle or between a woman's legs paid by the hour. Instead, Lucifer brought Michael to Adam - Adam who confused Michael with his wide, genuine smile and drew him to sit on his fine mats talking about Michael's family.
Adam knew everything about the Angelus family. They were a known entity at the Roadhouse for their patronage, spoken of only within its doors. Charles Angelo and his sons were cleaning the streets - at least, they were supposed to be.
“How many did you kill?” Adam's hand slides down the back of Michael's collar, cool fingers stroking the head of the tattoo fanning down his spine: the phoenix forever burning and never reborn. Its immortal struggle was the grotesque mark of their entire family. Michael feels branded and he knows he's damned for a bloody end in a dark, rotting alleyway or behind concrete and steel of the state until one of his neighbours decided to put him out of his misery.
He swallows and shivers. His head is spinning. “Three.”
When Adam touches him, Michael feels like he can be forgiven. Adam sees everything and he can help Michael atone, if he's feeling kind.
Adam's hand curls painfully on his shoulder. “Three?”
Michael nods, head bowed in shame, and wishes Adam would leave bruises. Adam is too professional for that.
Michael struggles to hold the whimper of relief when the rope whispers against his forehead. Its smooth weave slides down his temple and brushes a kiss at the corner of his mouth.
With this touch, suddenly Michael can breathe again.
“I told you to see me after each one,” Adam says, voice cold.
“I'm sorry, Adam.”
Adam barely makes a sound as he slowly circles Michael from the bamboo mats. Michael sighs once Adam slides the suit jacket from his shoulders. Adam finally starts drawing his hands behind his back, the rope winding around his front and over his shirt.
Michael hangs his head gratefully. He can already see - he hopes - where this is going: bracketing his chest, Adam tugging to ensure Michael's elbows are bound tight behind his back before drawing a final length, down, down....
Adam raises a line of the smooth, golden rope for Michael to see. Michael swallows and heat flares in his stomach seeing the large knot tied there.
“I picked this colour for your eyes.” Adam's whisper breathes hot against the shell of his ear.
Maybe Adam will let Michael kiss him tonight.
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