The Loves of Lucifer Morning Star

One: Cain

"Don't come in! This is private!"

"So sorry." Lucifer peered around the door and fixed the couple on the bed with a look like that of a French Ice Dancing judge. "Hate to interrupt you lovebirds but if that's Erwin whose face you're sitting on, his wife is looking for him."

The woman caught in media res, realized it was one of the homeowners in the doorway and turned scarlet. "Oh, hell!"

"Exactly," Lucifer said. "I suggest you beat it."

The woman, and her companion, scrambled off the bed and Lucifer stepped nimbly out of their way.

"You haven't seen my husband, by any chance, have you…?" he said, as they bolted. "…I guess not." He could hear them galloping down the stairs.

Moments later, came the voice of a woman saying, 'Erwin, I've been looking for you. What have you been…?'

Normally, it would have been his jam, but it had been a long day, with people in and out all afternoon—more people than he recalled inviting—who had come out of curiosity and stayed for the arrest. Not surprising, giving the free food. But there had been a surprising number of realtors in the crowd who expressed interest in looking over a house that might be on the market again soon.

—Was it going to be sold furnished? —Could the bed stay? —It would be a major selling point. —What was the asking price?

How had he been supposed to know?

—The department rented the house fully furnished —The bed was a California king. —The black lacquer headboard? —fully wired with built-in speakers and ambient light sensors. —And, oh, yes, the pillow-top was soft as a lamb's bottom.

Getting that lot out had been especially irksome, although, judging from the fight in progress below, it was true when some of them said they'd been dying to check it out.

Lucifer considered the bed on which more than one couple had done the nasty, with both fondness and regret. That bed had spoken to him the moment he saw it, but, right now, all he wanted to do was grab a few personal items—including his missing partner—and get out. They could pick up the rest of their things in the morning.

He could hear the battling trio leave the building, and listened for any sound that would indicate anyone was in the house who shouldn't be here.

Down the block, a child being dragged by the hand was screaming, 'I want more!'

You and me both, vile urchin, you and me both.

"Pierce?" Lucifer called

No answer.

"All righty then, if you're going to play it that way…"

Lucifer's tongue flicked between his lips, as if tasting the air.

"Let's see, if I were an introverted, sullen bronze age relic, trying to avoid the dregs of a sordid suburban orgy…"

Thoughtfully, he went to check in the dressing room—or, since this was an exclusive Los Angeles suburban community—he went to check the walk-in closet.

"…where would I be hiding?"

The closet, en-suite with a bathroom papered in a toile print, was where the original decorator had let their inner girl-child out to play.

I featured full-length mirrors, back-lit display cases, drawers with silent-glide technology, and vertical wardrobes with adjustable valet rods. The toile, the veneers, and the lights were all pink; there was a pink velvet chaise lounge in the middle of it; the effect was that of a life-size music box, sans ballerina.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are…"

There was still no answer.

The room looked appeared to empty, but appearances could be deceiving and any designer worth their salt would have included a few nooks in which to secure such valuable accessories as jewelry, drugs and errant partners.

Again, Lucifer's tongue appeared between his lips, and his attention fixed on one of the vertical wardrobes. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it the rest of the way and, with pleasure, took in the lush line of bespoke suits hanging there—jackets, trousers, and color-coordinated accessories on padded hangers—the bare bones of what one needed to establish a truly convincing persona. On Chloe's advice, the department had provided a few items of, but nothing Lucifer was prepared to be seen in public in. Pierce, he remembered, all too painfully, had brought two or three plaid shirts that were probably balled up in a drawer somewhere. It was supposed to have been a short assignment, but really!

"Where, oh where, can you be…?"

The first evening, three days ago, after dressing out the bed with his own fresh sheets, he had gone down stairs and found Pierce rearranging the potted plants in the living room. After taking that poor devil's ivy vine out of his hand…

Seriously Lieutenant? What am I going to do with you?

What's the matter, now?

You're never going to wear that?!

What's wrong with what I'm wearing?

It's so…so Pacific Northwest. No one is going to believe we're a couple. At least, let me…

What are you doing? Stop that!

…he had pulled the sweater over Pierce's head, folded it and wrapped it around his shoulders—they did know how to build shoulders in the bronze age—and tied the sleeves in a knot.

That's a little better!

Will you knock it off!

He had been settling the knot in place, when the doorbell rang…

"I know you're in here," Lucifer called.

Again, there was no answer.

It was possible some snoop had been reading the labels, but he got done his knees and parted the wall of linens, cottons, and summer-weight worsteds and found the panel behind them. It took some prying and poking but, eventually, he found the right place to push. It slid it open, and the air that puffed in his face had a deliciously earthy scent of spunk and myrrh.

"Very masculine, but it's too late to crawl back in the closet. Everyone was asking where you'd gotten to."

"Tell them you found me in the bedroom hanging from the ceiling fan."

"That would never support your weight."

"We can try…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Lucifer said. "Anything interesting in here? Bootleg whiskey? Women?"

"No!"

"Let me see; move over..."

"Don't let it snap shut!"

After a shuffling of legs, a bumping of elbows, and with his foot blocking the panel, Lucifer settled back against the wall. A feather-light touch of downy hair was tickling his arm, and his cock was throbbing.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I've never been in the closet before."

"Color me surprised…"

It had been the Welcome Wagon at the door. Brian and Anya, such a lovely couple from up the block, bearing coupons and a casserole, and stayed for dinner.

That had been a bit tiresome, what with Pierce struggling to find an authentic gay voice, but Lucifer had covered for him successfully and, in the end, they had gotten a solid lead out of it.

Someone terrorizing the neighborhood, turning suburban dreams into suburban nightmares, had been very promising and, after Brian and Anya left, they had coordinated with Chloe and made plans.

After that, there had been one teensy-weensy squabble over the dishes, and then it was time for bed.

Lucifer had already claimed his side and settled in with a book, when Pierce came in. He was wearing a pair of blue checked flannel pajama bottoms, that matched Lucifer's. He smelled of Maja soap and Pepsodent…

Seriously?! They expect us to sleep in the same bed?

Yes, darling, we are married, and this isn't an episode of 'I Love Lucy'. Think of it as an opportunity to get to know each other.

Not happening!

Then go sleep in one of the other rooms.

Those are all kiddie beds.

Suit yourself.

Lucifer had shut the book, turned over and snuggled the covers around his ears. Pierce, after some audible huffing, had climbed in and turned his back. There had been four feet of space between them.

I hope you don't snore.

I don't snore!

They both snored.

At some point in the night, Lucifer had woken from a dream in which he was being shoved head first into a rotary blender and discovered the programmed thermostat had dropped the room to Subarctic Tundra. Pierce had kicked the covers off and was snoring like a 1938 Pratt & Whitney R-985 airplane engine firing on all cylinders.

Lucifer, briefly, reflected on the fact that it hadn't been the movie industry, or the regional varietals, that had attracted him to the City of Angels; after eons in the pit, he had no tolerance for cold.

Pierce had snored on.

It wasn't fair.

Really, it wasn't fair.

Lucifer only intended to give Pierce a good poke, planning to torment him mercilessly in the morning, but, when he reached out he found one of those broad shoulders closer in proximity than he expected, and happened to run his palm over it.

The snoring ceased, of course, as Lucifer realized that, in addition to being nicely muscled, the shoulder was quite warm and, since he never had a problem pushing his luck and, since Pierce was signaling no opposition to his touch, by word or deed, Lucifer assumed 'permission granted' and let his palm wander whither it would.

It wandered down the smooth concavities of jaw, neck and clavicle and climbed a nipple crowned convexity. There it twiddled the nub, and elicited a delicate shiver, before working its way down the inclined plane and slipping under the waistband of Pierces' jammies. There it combed through the brush for hidden treasures and, to Lucifer's delight, found them. Pierce had let a low groan that didn't, not even remotely, sound as if he were in pain.

There had been certain impediments to complete intimacy, but brushed flannel bottoms slide easily. A certain amount of pleasurable flexing took care of both garments and brought them closer together.

There had been kisses—extremely pleasurable kisses—stropping whiskered cheeks together—shoving his tongue deep into Pierce's mouth.

One of them, though, for all his immortality, was merely human and Pierce had reached his boiling point. He attempted to take the initiative, turning and offering an erection as straight and thick as a short javelin.

Pushy, pushy.

You just had start something, didn't you?

I didn't hear any objection. Not baby's first rodeo, I take it.

Far from it. Are you going to finish this, or not?

I love a pushy bottom. Not to worry, sweetness; even if you're having trouble embracing your part, I'm not going to neglect it.

Sliding an arm under Pierce's waist Lucifer had tucked him back in, nice and tight, and taken a firm grip on it. While his hands pumped, his hips bumped and thrust. He had worked his shaft into the cleft of Pierce's bottom until the blunt head was eagerly nuzzling the entrance. In! Let me in!

Pierce had pushed back—definitely a pushy bottom—whimpering, growling and cursing Lucifer's name.

They were both close to boiling over.

Let me get the lube. I am totally going to take some time to…

What Lucifer had meant was Slow down; let's take some time, because I am going to fuck you into the mattress. But, thanks to the writhing, gasping and moaning, what came out was, 'Siri…us…look…to-to…gon-na…take…time…' and, suddenly, they were bathed in music.

Both reacted thinking, Attack!

Lucifer was flung to the other side of the bed, with the thunderous clap of his wings' eruption. Pierce, on the whoosh of displaced air, seemed to levitate and came down groping for the gun under his pillow.

As the music poured from the speakers, thrumming with an insistent beat, while prismatic swirls of light flowed over them in waves, and voices, raised in exultation, sang I bless the rains down in Africa, gonna take some time to do the things we never had…

Both then realizing then it was coming from the headboard, had lain rigid had lain rigid, until Lucifer told it to shut up.

"Kill me now!" Pierce had said and, taking his shorts and gun, gone slamming off down the hall to spend the night in a little red '63 Chevy Corvette.

Alone in the dark, Lucifer had reassured his cock that everything was going to work out just swell. 'We'll laugh about it in the morning,' he told himself.

That didn't happen, either.

The next morning, he had dressed in the uniform of the day, a patriotically themed Speedo, paired with a dark blue tank top and flip-flops, and walked into the kitchen to find Pierce, in a purple T-shirt, eating cereal at the center island.

As if a jolt of electricity had zipped through a copper wire wrapped around an iron core, and his cock was the core, he was hard and hungry, with a need so intense that he knew they were going to have it off there on the flame-finished granite counter top.

Lucifer had taken one step. Pierce's head came up, and the look on his face the effect of a trash can full of ice-cubes and dirty water dumped over Lucifer's head.

It had been somewhat deflating but, whatever might have happened next, the doorbell had rung.

This time it had been the equipment and the help the department had contracted to to smoke out the Neighborhood Terrorist.

All that day, by unspoken agreement, they kept as far from each other as possible.

Lucifer spent his time focusing on the girls, the water blasters, and the music, and not thinking about purple t-shirts and bulging biceps. He mixed drinks, he pruned roses, he corrupted little boys and generally proved the Devil to be the world's worst neighbor.

Pierce hid in the kitchen.

At one point, Lucifer went in and found him making chicken salad sandwiches.

I need some lemons. We're out

Too bad; I used them all.

What are the bright yellowish things in that bowl over there?

Kumquats.

Lucifer noticed two trays of lime bars cooling on the counter, a smudge of flour on Pierce's nose, and Pierce's biceps and forearms as the buttered bread…

He had tried…

I didn't know you could cook.

Any reason you need to know?

I was going to have pizza delivered…

When? Midnight? Someone should feed those girls out there and it doesn't look like it's on your to do list—

So, you nobly stepped into the breach—

Speaking of breaches—

Aware of the expanding front of his red, white and blue Speedos, and the spreading damp spot, Lucifer had taken the bowl of lemons, and left with his dignity.

It was fortunate that as soon as he stepped out on the decking, one of the girls nailed him dead on, right in his star-spangled balls, with a Super Soaker Mega-Blaster, the one with the double backpack water tanks.

The tension between the built all afternoon, evening, and night until the girls left. That had been at 3:15 a.m.; at 3:55, Lucifer resorted to the garage and the grinding wheel; at 4: 02, Pierce had come out swinging…

You were trying to humiliate me!

It was an accident!

I don't believe you! I hate that song! I can't even begin to tell you how much I hate that song—

Cain, every right-minded person in the world hates that song! But, look, this is great, you're opening up to me. I didn't know you hated Toto, too.

What do you mean? I love dogs!

You just said—

As a result, they missed Chloe's first call and she almost had to bust the Neighborhood Watchdog by herself. Fortunately, they made it outside in time to intercept Brian.

For two-and-a-half golden hours afterward, it had seemed as if they were going to close the whole ludicrous episode down and go home, and then Brian's handwriting hadn't matched the sample in evidence.

So, while he sat in a cell, waiting for a discharge that was going to take longer than normal to process, Lucifer and Pierce went back to suburbia and invited the neighborhood in.

Chloe had followed them with the IT guy who set up a surveillance camera on the guest book. As it happened, the only place that Chloe could surveille the whole of the side yard was in the bedroom with the little red Corvette, and between cleaning, shopping, calling, cooking and decorating, neither Pierce or Lucifer had been able to catch a nap.

But Lucifer was correct, and their little soiree had been a day to remember…

"You can stop avoiding me," Lucifer said.

"I'm wasn't avoiding you. Not this time. I was in the bathroom when that couple came in. I didn't want to have to listen to them getting it on. Who are they?"

"I don't know. I don't care. They're gone. All of them are gone, and…I've been wanting to apologize."

"No, it was me who overreacted."

"That's true."

It was, and yet despite their blow-up they had found a moment of understanding, and Lucifer was going to have a word with one of the IT guys about the video.

But that was for later…

Amid their mutual laughter Lucifer put his hand on the back of Pierce's head and brought their mouths together. He let the kiss deepen, sucking and flicking his tongue in and out until he had Pierce, panting as if little jolts of electricity were zinging along his nerves. Then, Lucifer broke it off…

"Come on. Let's get out of here," he said, "Chloe's waiting for us at the station." He began crawling backwards out of the wardrobe, dragging Pierce after him.

"Bastard." Pierce growled.

"I'm not going to fuck you in a closet."

"There's a bed, right here," said Pierce, stumbling to his feet.

"That's a day bed. It's not daytime and pink's not my color. My place, later. We need to talk."

"I never said that you were going to fuck me."

"You didn't have to."

Later, high above Lux, in Lucifer's bed, in the dark, or as dark as it ever got with the streetlights of Los Angeles casting their rose gold radiance on Lucifer's black sheets, Lucifer took his time.

He slithered up and down the length of Pierce's body, from toes to head, and back, entwining their arms and legs, squeezing, and spreading them out, like the espaliered branches of a fruit tree. He then did it again, this time pressing kisses on the inside of wrists, elbows, knees and throat—on all the places where the blood ran hot under the skin. He had gone down and pushed his tongue into secret crannies and licked sueded flesh, tasting and tormenting until Pierce was quiet, pliant and submissive, in all but one part.

Lucifer got up on one elbow to admire the stubborn part with the damp head that lent it the sheen of silk velvet.

Since had stopped teasing it, Pierce reached it; Lucifer swatted his hand and leaned, breathing on it, but not touching. "Not until I say you can."

"Bastard." Pierce, eyes closed, threw his head back and forth, and arched his neck. "Don't do this to me."

"How many times did you jack off, thinking about this, yesterday?"

"Until I was firing dry. I lost count." Pierce's eyes opened, and the blue fixed on Lucifer's face. "Is there any truth to the rumor that the Devil's member is cold as ice?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yes! All right! Okay! Fuck me blind!"

"Here I thought you were never going to ask."

Lucifer sat up and took a tube from the nightstand. Squirting a thick blob of gel on his fingers, he them plunged between Pierce's butt cheeks. One greasy finger slid inside, but Lucifer felt the muscles objecting to the intrusion. Maybe, because the gel was cold, at first. It warmed up quickly enough as Lucifer worked more of his fingers in and out, encouraging the muscles to relax, but they didn't quite surrender.

Listening to the sound of Pierce's breathing, Lucifer imagined the overlapping waves of fizzing sensation that must be spreading from Pierce's fundament, tightening his balls, setting his nipples to tingling, and his lips to swell…

Lucifer bent over and kissed him almost clinically, knowing it would be almost too much, but Pierce surprised him by embracing him, locking their mouths together, biting and sucking. Lucifer remembered that this was a man who was willing to forgo eternity, rather than endure it without intimacy.

"Are you afraid of me?" he said, when he was able to get a word out edgewise.

"No."

"Then, let go, or we'll both regret it."

Reluctantly released, Lucifer rolled on top, and forced Pierce's legs apart. He rose on his knees and lifted one of Pierce's leg, and then the other, over his shoulders. Placing the tip of his cock at the well lubricated opening, he kissed it—a different sort of kiss—and pushed inside. It was tight.

"Hey!" He scrubbed his face against Pierce's knee to make him open his eyes. "Does that feel like ice?"

"N-no," Pierce panted. "So hot…"

"Then let me all the way in."

Resistance melted, giving way to acceptance. Lucifer pushed home and, when he was fully sheathed, bent over, folding Pierce's knees to his shoulders, covering him, pushing and pumping. He drove Pierce to the point of no return and, when he felt splash his belly in soft hot spurts, he came, too, like a shooting star over the city of angels.

How quickly the shattered self recovers after an orgasm depends on how desperately one needs to reach the itch that starts between the shoulder blades, and creeps down to the small of the back. Or how at peace one is sleeping one's lover's arms.

As comfortable together as kittens, apparently, even after mopping up the mess.

With Pierce's head on his shoulder and body glued to his side, Lucifer's had no need of sheets or blankets. He found he could take care of any disposition of Pierce's to start snoring with a touch of lips to forehead, and then luxuriate in the snuggling that followed.

Strange, from the moment Pierce had popped into their lives out of the proverbial blue, putting Chloe's life at risk, not to mention kidnapping Lucifer, and the reappearance of his wings; and don't mention, ever, the way everyone at the station was gaga over those blue eyes, and that square chin, and those dammed shoulders, and those thrice-damned biceps.

All Pierce had to do was cross his arms and take a deep breath; then strong men rolled over and showed him their bellies; and women, except for Charlotte, got a speculative gleam in their eyes, and showed him their…interest.

Lucifer wasn't about to thank God, but he would have thanked some named power, if he had been inclined to thank anyone, that he was immune to it.

Speaking of kittens, Pierce picked that moment to roll over, and stretch. It was likely he would have gone back to sleep, but Lucifer's prick picked that moment to wake, as well.

"Drink?" said Lucifer.

"Mmm," said Pierce, and opened sleepy blue eyes.

Lucifer got up and went to the bar. He poured two whiskies and carried them back to the bed where Pierce was sitting up.

As Lucifer ambled back, Pierce scooched to the side of the bed and, placing his feet on the floor, wrapped his arms around Lucifer's thighs and swallowed his prick, or as much of Lucifer's prick as he could. He seemed to have gotten over his ridiculous fear and appeared to be going at it gluttonously.

Pierce sucked, and Lucifer sipped the McCallan from both glasses. At times, he touched one of the cool crystal glasses to Pierce's cheek and pulled free. Then he poured the whiskey into Pierce's mouth. It pleased him that, as good as the McCallan was, Pierce didn't fight when Lucifer pushed back in.

In fact—Lucifer looked down upon Pierce's head—at the broad shoulders and the biceps wrapped around his thighs—he gave Pierce a nudge, popped out, poured whiskey, popped in, and came in a silken gold flow—the whiskey probably gave it an interesting flavor.

The man might be an immortal spanner in the works, but that wasn't a reason not to make a deal with him, Lucifer thought as Pierce's tongue probed the eye of his prick for the last drops.