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Lucifer opened his mouth to announce, “I’m a genius!” What he said instead was, “What the Hell, it actually worked.”
Dawn was breaking with its customary fanfare over the City of Angels. It shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lucifer’s penthouse and cast a Golden Globes-sized spotlight over the supine body of the LAPD’s Lieutenant Marcus Pierce — lying face-down across the Macassar-ebony floorboards, buck-naked, and emphatically not breathing.
Lucifer had to give it to the lieutenant, who was also Cain, the world’s first murderer. Apart from the not-breathing part, he looked better than anyone 50,000 years old had any right to.
For one, he was in much better shape than the penthouse lounge, which had been totalled by last night’s activities. Lucifer’s expensive glassware was strewn across the room, the Bvglari sofa was soaked beyond any dry-cleaners’ abilities, and the lacquered coffee table had been broken in two.
In the center of the wreck was Pierce’s body, looking like a luscious-yet-innocent sculpture by Michelangelo: broad muscles, deliciously meaty arse, firm flesh that was still baby-soft despite the torments that the hopefully-now-late lieutenant had put it through.
And Pierce had put it through 50,000 years of hell on Earth. Literally.
Last night, though, Pierce had taken masochism to a new level by seeking help from the former King of Hell.
“I need you to help me die,” he’d said, revealing his deepest desire, his old eyes an unearthly blue in his eternally youthful face; “I’ve lived so long it’s all become meaningless, I want it to stop,” and, really, who was Lucifer Morningstar, once chief of all of God’s angels and now the Good Samaritan champion for many of humanity’s little causes, to turn down such a desperate request for help?
That said, last night hadn’t gotten off to a promising start.
“We’ve tried everything! Well, almost everything.” Lucifer turned off the diesel motor, glared at his blood-splattered iPad screen, and crossed Chainsaws off the list.
Wearily, Pierce pulled himself off the serial killer plastic wrap that Maze had rolled out across the lounge floor and furnishings. He’d stripped down to his briefs to give Lucifer better access; this meant Lucifer got to see the wounds closing in realtime, the Lieutenant’s flesh knitting cleanly together until it was once again silky-smooth and unscarred.
“If it were that easy, I’d already be dead. I’ve tried everything on that list, and more. Grenade down the throat, devoured by wolves, dropped into helicopter blades, jumped down a volcano… Gotta tell you, that last one was a rough half year of healing.”
Lucifer put the iPad down and moved on. “Fine. How about this?”
It was a last-ditch attempt: one of Maze’s Lillim daggers, forged in Hell, lethal to anyone in both Heaven and Earth. Lucifer put a hand on Pierce’s shoulder, and drove the curved blade up, with all his supernatural strength, under Pierce’s naked ribs and into his heart.
There was a lengthy pause, then they both looked down at the protruding hilt of the knife, which was now oozing. “Nope,” the Lieutenant said, calmly, without missing a beat.
Lucifer sighed. He, too, had exchanged his bespoke Prada suit for machine-washable cargo pants in order to play Darkly Dreaming Dexter. Irritably, he let go of Pierce and rubbed at his bare skin where the Lieutenant’s blood splatter had begun to itch.
“Tell me that it at least hurts,” he said crossly. “Do you even feel pain at all?”
Pierce scowled as he hauled the knife, inch by slippery inch, out of his chest. Sweat beaded on his brow.
“Yeah, I do. It hurts like a bitch, every single time.” He tossed the bloody knife sideways, where it promptly lodged itself in one of the wall fixtures, to Lucifer’s dismay. He snarled, “Why are you even still helping me? You’d figure by now even your dear old Dad would’ve gotten tired of all this blood.”
Lucifer stalked over to extract the knife; unfortunately, it looked like the gold-leaf paneling was beyond rescue. Damn it, serial killers had it better than he did: at least they didn’t have to serially kill the same annoying person over and over again.
Biting off a curse, he stalked back to confront the ungrateful bastard who was refusing to die, and also wreaking havoc on Lucifer’s designer décor.
“Here’s where you’re wrong, Cain. My Father’ll never get tired of seeing you bleed. He’s having too much fun screwing you over, in the same way he’s screwing me.”
Lucifer meant every frustrated word. His wings had been returned to him like some cosmic joke, and Maze’s Lillim knives had been equally ineffective in cutting them off permanently, though he’d put that to the test, too, in an infuriating SAW-meets-Groundhog-Day montage.
Pierce didn’t flinch from Lucifer’s anger. He just folded his arms over his healing heart and faced him down: glower to glower, toe to toe, chest to chest. Lucifer took a moment to savor the swelling rage, the surge of blood in his immortal veins…
Which was when he realized that their bare bodies were both slick with the sweat of their exertions and Pierce’s blood, and that they were standing so close he could feel the heat curling off of the Lieutenant’s superhuman skin.
Well. Maybe there was more than one way to skin this particular metaphorical cat. Of course Lucifer had no truck with animal cruelty, but the world’s first murderer, Adam and Eve’s eldest son, didn’t deserve the same courtesy.
“You know, speaking of screwing…”
Pierce had retained his poker face throughout the hands-on violence, but now he recoiled from the leer in Lucifer’s voice. His own dripped with defensive sarcasm. “Do you ever stop thinking with what’s in your pants? We’re trying to end my life! Who ever died from too much dick?”
Lucifer was hardly listening. He felt the corners of his mouth curl up in what he knew was his usual devastating smile. Desire fizzed in his blood like vintage Cristal. What a fantastic idea! Worthy of the very worst tortures of Hell, and that including making lost souls mainline Justin Bieber’s entire back catalogue! Besides, his no-longer-little devil was rising to take the air, signaling its unqualified approval of the idea.
“Good things come to those who wait,” Lucifer told his dick in an admonishing tone, rubbing his hand over the rugged cotton fabric that for the time being restrained it. Needless to say, it felt delicious. To Pierce, whose pupils had grown huge, he said, wheedlingly, “There’s a first time for everything. And, what a way to go, right?”
Pierce still looked deeply skeptical, and Lucifer knew he had double down. He added, “Besides, not that I’m one to boast, but …”
He reached into his pants, and wriggled them off his hips like an exotic dancer, and let his M.V.P. out to play.
The King of Hell had many guises. One of them was the angelic wings; another, the demon face his Father had just returned under the most inconvenient of circumstances. It was only to be expected that those guises extended to the other parts of him. Lucifer summoned up the hugest, reddest demon form of his dick, and brought it forth for Lieutenant Pierce’s inspection.
This sheer magnificence gave even jaded Cain pause. A reluctantly awe-struck expression crossed that handsome face; color rose into his cheeks, and his tongue darted out in a Pavlovian reflex.
Lucifer spent a moment preening. Naturally, Pierce couldn’t help being impressed. “Now, Lieutenant, you show me yours.”
Pierce snorted. “What is this, high school?” he demanded, even though a tell-tale bulge was forming under his boxer-briefs, and sweat had started to bead at the hollow of his throat.
“Nothing like a little competition between alpha males,” Lucifer purred, in a pitch that made Pierce’s breath come faster; he added, smirking, “Unless, of course, you don’t think you can keep up …?”
Like a match to a flame, like a cheeky hashtag to an online pile-on: Pierce’s lips curled into a snarl, then he launched himself at Lucifer’s mouth and did his best to kiss Lucifer’s sneer right off his face.
Reeling like drunks, wrestling to get a better grip on each other, they crashed into the cocktail bar, smashing whiskey glasses and champagne flutes and sending a tumbler of rare 50-year-old Yamazaki to the ground. Pierce’s mouth was an inferno, his arms even hotter; he kissed Lucifer like he wanted to kill him, like he wanted to be killed by him, and it was every bit as intoxicating as the long-remembered fires of Hell.
Lucifer always prided himself on being in control, but it was hard to do that with Pierce shoving him over the glass-strewn bar counter and digging bruises into his skin and growling, “Who’s the alpha now, huh?”
Shards of broken glass pierced Lucifer’s flesh like tiny, agonizing needles, more painful than the inevitable repair bill. Rage surging through him, Lucifer seized hold of Pierce by the throat and shoved them both off the counter and into the adjacent wall.
He heard bones crack inside Pierce’s body, as well as the gilt-framed Mark Rothko lithograph which he’d slammed Pierce up against. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound; he was going to have to redecorate from scratch anyway.
“Not on my watch, darling,” he sneered, and drove a kiss against Pierce’s teeth, pinning Pierce’s hands above both their heads, trapping Pierce’s straining thighs between his own. Pierce’s bare body jackknifed urgently under his; his cock was an iron bar against Lucifer’s as he tried to buck Lucifer off him and only succeeded in pressing them even closer together.
“Damn you, Lucifer—!”
“Sorry, that’s already taken care of,” Lucifer said, pulling off Pierce’s mouth so he could gloat. Too late, he saw the tell-tale gleam in Pierce’s eyes a split second before Pierce headbutted him violently, making his vision white out for a moment.
Stars blinded him; there was a dull roaring in his ears, and the copper taste of his and Pierce’s mingled blood in his mouth. He felt Pierce heave him up like he was a massive slab of prime rib, and they smashed down into a hard surface that broke apart beneath their weight.
It was Lucifer’s turn to be pinned — trapped under Pierce’s demanding body and running out of air. It felt like his ribs had fractured; he couldn’t catch his breath, or remember when he’d last been this turned on.
Pierce’s still-covered cock had shoved itself into the bowl of Lucifer’s crotch. Pierce loosened his grip Lucifer’s throat in order to take down his briefs, which was a mistake. Lucifer hooked his foot around Pierce’s knee, braced himself against Pierce’s shoulder, and flung Pierce backwards in an overhead slo-mo throw worthy of a John Woo action movie. Pierce catapulted into the window with a sickening crack, and tumbled like a rag doll onto the sofa. He lay there bonelessly for a second, long enough for Lucifer to pick himself up off the remains of his Milanese travertine coffee table and tear Pierce’s briefs all the way off.
Outside, the darkness was lifting, day starting to break over the L.A. skyline. In the gathering dawn, they were finally naked together, both wielding that nakedness as a weapon. Lucifer had to admit that Pierce’s weapon was perfectly adequately-sized: rock-hard and ruddy and already leaking from the tip, a sight that made Lucifer’s mouth water.
“You love this,” he marveled, straddling Pierce’s thighs, fisting that fat, flushed cock with one hand and holding Pierce down by the neck with the other. “This was an actually good plan, wasn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” Pierce gasped between bloody teeth. His dick pulsed traitorously in Lucifer’s hand, even as he tried to get a grip on Lucifer’s own throat. Lucifer bit the nearer wrist, not gently; Pierce cursed and let go. Lucifer bit Pierce’s left nipple too, for good measure, and then he shoved Pierce’s thighs apart. When he shifted his weight to line the blunt, massive head of his demon dick against Pierce’s hole, Pierce let out a low, choked groan that couldn’t hide how badly he wanted it.
Funny, Lucifer knew how that felt. He leaned in and whispered tauntingly against Pierce’s sweating face, “You’re going to let me fuck you, aren’t you?”
Pierce shuddered, his thighs parting further, arms grappling around Lucifer in an attempt to fight him off or to pull him closer, Lucifer couldn’t quite tell anymore. His eyes were a glaze of want and fury. He muttered hoarsely, the admission wrung out of him: “Yes, damn you. Yes, give it to me — just like that — God —”
“Don’t suppose He’s involved in this,” Lucifer said, gloatingly, and went in for the kill.
It would be wrong to say he went in dry, exactly, because by now there was so much wetness that the sofa was sopping with it: the blood, the sweat that was pouring off both of them, Lucifer’s saliva, and Pierce’s precome — as well as the hot juices that were leaking from Lucifer’s now very excited demon dick.
Lucifer worked said dick into Pierce’s body, inch by eager inch, gratified to hear the little helpless cries of pleasure that he pulled from Pierce’s throat, before he remembered the plan was to fuck the lieutenant fatally.
Grimly, Lucifer girded his loins and rammed the entire length of his dick fully home, at the same time closing his hand around Pierce’s erection and pumping it in time with his thrusts.
A moan tore from Pierce’s lips like he was dying — “Ahhh, fuck, fuck” — and his broad body spasmed violently as he came and came all over Lucifer’s fist.
Then he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had abruptly been cut.
“Pierce?” Lucifer said, stilling his movements. “Lieutenant?”
The sun rose over the horizon, casting its first rays across the suddenly silent lounge, and Pierce’s supine form.
Lucifer pulled himself out of Pierce’s body with some difficulty. It took a longer time than it did going in.
When he was finally all the way out, Pierce’s form slid bonelessly from the sofa to sprawl face-down the floor, completely motionless. Not breathing.
Lucifer sat back on his heels, more winded than he’d been in a while, and still painfully hard. The view of Pierce’s arse was mesmerizing in the morning light, even more delectable in unexpected death.
“I don’t believe that worked,” he announced in a high-pitched tone he would later deny was part of his repertoire.
The dawn was hushed and silent and waiting. Lucifer’s own heart was very loud in his ears; he held his breath as well as onto his dripping erection —
— and then Pierce’s body spasmed again, and he coughed painfully and flopped over like a dying fish. He lay on his back, gasping for air.
Lucifer felt giddily light-headed from what he told himself was disappointment. Hellfire and Miley Cyrus, it hadn’t worked: the man was very much alive.
“So much for that idea,” Pierce muttered, when he managed to get his breath back.
Chastened, Lucifer felt a crawling flush heat his cheeks. His demon dick hadn’t been big enough to shut the Lieutenant up for five minutes, let alone for good.
He gritted his teeth. He was damned if he was going to give up now. “We just need even bigger dick,” he said. “Let me slip into something less comfortable, and then we can go again.”
“I really don’t think so,” said Pierce, getting stiffly to his feet. “Sun’s up, I gotta shower before heading into the office.”
He continued to talk as he got dressed, something about a K-pop ecstasy drug ring in the Santa Clarita suburbs, but Lucifer had stopped listening. Instead, he glared at his ruined furniture, seething with wounded pride, a whopping renovation bill which homeowner’s insurance wasn’t going to cover, and a demon-sized helping of bright blue balls.
“How about tonight?” he called after Pierce. The Lieutenant ignored him as he walked across the lounge to the door without even having the courtesy to limp, looking more pulled together than any man fucked to within an inch of his life had any right to.
Lucifer scowled deeply. That was it, he was going to ram himself into Pierce’s new case and demand to be taken along, even if it was to suburbia. The Lieutenant and he had unfinished business, and the Devil always got his man.
*
The place might call itself Heavenly Haciendas, but to Marcus, it was Hell on Earth. Everything was aggressively cutesy, all pastel hues and candy colors and cheerful lace, as if Martha Stewart and the Terminator had had quintuplets. Not to mention the close proximity of Lucifer Morningstar, the suave, supremely annoying King of Hell, who had stapled himself to Marcus’s hip, from whom Marcus couldn’t get away without endangering the whole mission.
He hadn’t meant to reveal his desires to end it all to the mercurial Lightbringer, nor for Lucifer to take up the challenge of giving him what he wanted with all the zeal of a boy scout with a pet project. He really hadn’t meant to agree to Lucifer’s hare-brained idea to do it via sex. Clearly, the man’s infuriating sex appeal had clouded even the judgment of the world’s oldest murderer. Marcus regretted it bitterly, not least because the sex had actually been amazing, so good it would have given a normal man an aneurysm.
To add insult to injury, Lucifer had clearly decided the key to killing Marcus was getting to know him better. As such, when he wasn’t making leering innuendo in front of the neighbors, he’d been pestering Marcus for details about his past. He’d kept Marcus up half the night, taking up most of the space in the pastel-colored king-size, refusing to shut up for hours. There hadn’t even been more attempts at killing or more actual sex. When he got tired, he’d just rolled over and gone to sleep, leaving Marcus to fume in irritation and a distinct lack of sexual satisfaction.
It had been Lucifer’s idea to prance around suburbia wearing matching pastel sweaters and wedding rings. And he had arranged a neighborhood party — ostensibly to catch their killer, but really as an excuse to throw a frou-frou afternoon soiree in a gazebo with flowers and bubblegum-pink balloons and decorations that looked as if Lucifer had ordered everything off the whole My Little Pony store catalog.
When Lucifer picked a huge, public fight over the crudités, Marcus found himself giving vent to two days of annoyance and sexual frustration.
“You selfish, self-centered asshole. Everything’s about you, isn’t it?”
Lucifer flushed a little. Marcus couldn’t help noticing how the powder-blue shirt flattered his complexion. He snapped, “In case you've forgotten, I’m doing this for you. If you're not committed, then there's no point to us even being here.”
The neighbors had gathered, open-mouthed, but that didn’t stop Marcus letting fly. “The only reason I'm here is because I have to be. Everything else is just an empty promise. You said you're a man of your word. But you're not!”
The color drained from Lucifer’s face; there was a look of genuine hurt in his eyes. He stormed off, leaving Marcus feeling something suspiciously like remorse.
Sympathy for the Devil, who might actually have been trying his best to help? Stranger things had happened.
Marcus tried to maintain his detachment, but it wasn’t easy. Particularly when Lucifer returned half an hour later, put his hand on Marcus’ shoulder, and said, with an air of real sincerity, “I know I’ve been pushing you. I’m sorry. But I’m not ready to give up. I don't have all the answers, but I hope that we can find them... together.”
There was a tightness in Marcus’s throat, a feeling so foreign he didn’t immediately recognize it. Lucifer’s expression was open and vulnerable; he didn’t look like he was acting. He added, “I mean, after all, you may be the only person on this planet who truly understands me. I'm not ready to give up on that.”
Marcus took a deep breath. It was all true, and it also looked as if Lucifer meant every word.
He totally missed the wicked sparkle in Lucifer’s eyes, and was caught off-guard when Lucifer grabbed him and gleefully planted a huge one on his mouth. The bastard tasted delicious, like punch and apple pie, and he kissed even more skillfully than he’d done in his penthouse while trying to fuck Marcus to death. Marcus found himself going from zero to sixty in his suburban househusband jeans in five seconds flat.
This meant he had to endure the rest of the party with a massive boner, but that didn’t stop them from catching the killers. Chloe put the cuffs on Bryan and Anna, and hauled the criminal lovers off to the precinct, chalking that one as a win for the good guys.
After the arrest paperwork was complete, Marcus headed home, or at least to his current house in Franklin Hills. He ought to be looking forward to getting some much-needed distance from the King of Hell. But as he wandered through the sparsely furnished rooms he’d never gotten around to decorating, he became aware of an emptiness under his breastbone that hadn’t been there three days ago.
Was it just the memory of his boner talking, or did he actually miss the annoying bastard? Marcus hadn’t lived with another person in over 20 years, and though his and Lucifer’s little pretense had only lasted for two days, it had affected him in ways he didn’t want to examine too closely.
When the doorbell rang, Marcus nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Surprise!” Lucifer said. He was carrying a casserole and wearing a black sweater that looked like the mauve one he’d brought to suburbia.
Marcus discovered his mouth watering, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the delicious-smelling pie, or the sight of Lucifer’s lean body in jeans and form-fitting cashmere. “Is it poisoned?” he asked, cautiously.
Lucifer looked affronted. “We already crossed arsenic off the list, didn’t we? No, I thought we could discuss our amicable divorce over dinner. Couldn’t help noticing you hadn’t eaten since the crudités at our party.”
Marcus snorted, but was not unmoved by the gesture. He reciprocated by reaching into the back of his cabinets for the good china with which to set the table.
The casserole was delicious, as was the wine Lucifer had brought to accompany it. Marcus said, “Thank you,” and shouldn’t have been surprised to discover he meant it.
“Not at all. You know, I do believe I've finally got you figured out.” Lucifer set his plate aside, and stared intently into Marcus’s eyes. “Your thing is, you’re terrified of letting someone get close to you because you know they'll eventually die. And you want to die because you don't want to be alone anymore.”
Marcus couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “What amazing insight, Dr. Morningstar.”
Of course Lucifer was right. It just wasn’t anything he or anyone else could do about it. After outliving Aven and their children, and losing Rebecca, and sending Joan away, the man who used to be Cain realized that getting close to another person only hurt both him and that other person. It was why, 50 years ago, he hadn’t gone after Kay, and had driven her into his partner’s arms instead. Over the millennia, he had watched everything he’d ever known and everyone he’d ever loved crumble to ashes over and over, until there was nothing left for him in life except to end it. Harshly, he added, “What's your point?”
Lucifer slid deliberately closer toward Marcus. “My point is this: if we're going to find a way to kill you, then we have got to do it together. You’ll have to let me get close to you.”
Marcus had to swallow, thickly. “Is that right? Say we do it your way, say we get close, and then you leave before we crack the case?”
“Well, at least you know I won’t grow old and die on you!” Lucifer put his hand over Marcus’s. Intently, he said, “Maybe it’ll be different this time, after we got married in suburbia and everything. They do say you can only hurt by the one you love.”
Marcus burst out laughing. “Seriously, this is your new plan? To kill me with kindness?”
“Yes. Is it working?” Lucifer waggled his eyebrows blatantly, and Marcus had to laugh again. The man was ridiculous, and ridiculously sexy, and after years of drought, even this conditional offer of intimacy was going straight to his dick.
“Why don’t you come over here and find out,” he said, and Lucifer stalked over and climbed into his lap.
The Devil took off his clothes and draped himself over Cain’s bed like a really tasty snack, his now human-sized cock a dark red bar against his stomach. Huge white wings sprouted from his shoulders, sheltering him and Marcus both.
Marcus was equally naked and equally hard. He poked at the surrounding feathers awkwardly. “You planning on smothering me to death? It’s like being encircled by a flock of ducks!”
“Blasphemy,” said Lucifer, drawing a lazy finger down Marcus’s sternum; Marcus had to catch his breath. Lucifer added, “Also, don’t knock the wings. Not until you’ve experienced what they can do.”
There was definitely too much talk and too little action. Marcus leaned forward. “Which is …?”
Lucifer’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “This,” he said, and the white feathers on the join of his left wing swept slowly down Marcus’s body, cloud-soft, a thousand small teasing strokes at once, rubbing and feathering tantalizing little touches across brow and chest and groin, covering every inch of skin. Marcus had to close his eyes; his lips tingled, his nipples tightened to attention, and his balls ached as his dick filled with even more blood than he’d thought humanly possible.
He groaned when the wings stopped touching him. He opened his eyes to see Lucifer’s smirk. It was a measure of how turned on he was that he didn’t even feel like smacking that self-satisfied grin off the man’s face.
“Lesson learnt; never knocking the wings ever again. What else have you got for me?”
“I’m just getting started,” Lucifer said, archly, and slithered himself down Marcus’s body like the proverbial snake.
Marcus had spent his Chicago decade trying to lose himself in anonymous sex, but since his residency in the City of Angels, he’d been living like a monk. Before his ill-advised encounter in Lucifer’s penthouse, he hadn’t had sex in months. His resistance was at an all-time low, and Lucifer, the bastard, could probably see it as clearly as if it had been stamped on Marcus’s forehead.
After his fall from grace, the Devil had had centuries to get very, very good at sex. Marcus imagined the vast variety of sexual torments available in Hell: all the thousands of ways to inflict pain and painful pleasure on the human body. He’d learned some of them first-hand in the Devil’s penthouse playroom three days ago, with the King of Hell doing his best to literally fuck him to death.
But, for some reason, Lucifer didn’t bring any of that gleeful violence into Marcus’s bed tonight. Instead, he pushed gentle, feather-light kisses to every inch of Marcus’s skin and pressed his unnaturally clever serpent’s tongue into each hidden crevice of his body.
In all Cain’s restless years wandering across this fallen world, he’d never encountered anyone happy to eat him out. Lucifer went to town with enthusiasm, running the flat of his tongue around the tight rim of muscle at Marcus’s entrance, working him open, then alternating licks between his hole and the skin of his scrotum. Finally, he finally drove in as deeply as he could go, all the way to Marcus’s prostate, and Marcus almost nearly bucked him off the bed. The pleasure was blinding; only Lucifer’s grip at the base of Marcus’s cock stopped him from coming then and there.
“Holy fuck—!”
“Yes, that is the idea,” Lucifer pulled off long enough to say, winking, and then slid himself a couple of inches up Marcus’s thighs to close his mouth around Marcus’s dick.
Marcus had had lovers perform this particular service, but not in the way the Lightbringer was doing it: slowly and languorously, suckling on the sensitive head, then swallowing him effortlessly down to the very root. As that long, flexible tongue traced Marcus’s shaft, licking and curling around the swollen girth, Marcus had no idea how he could still breathe. He heard himself let out moan after shuddering moan, like an animal in pain that was, in the moment, indistinguishable from pleasure.
His vision was swimming in and out of focus, streaks of brilliant light that made it difficult to see. Every nerve was alight, every muscle was shivering, every breath coming in huge gusts as if he was drowning. His ears were filled with rushing wind; his world had narrowed to what Lucifer was doing to him, to where Lucifer was taking him, and whether it was to Heaven, or to Hell.
Lucifer assumed casual mastery of Marcus’s erection like he was playing a delicious, Hellish instrument; as he did so, he teased his fingers into Marcus’s spit-slick hole. Then he twisted his fingers, finding the spot he was looking for, and Marcus couldn’t hold back. He cried out to the Almighty, loud enough to be heard in the pits of Hell, and pitched headlong towards the wide blue expanse of Heaven.
“Oh my God,” he muttered when he returned to himself. He couldn’t feel his legs; in the Devil’s arms, he was a complete wreck, riding an endorphin high that no recreational drug could replicate. He felt more alive than he had in years.
“I keep telling you, the Old Man has nothing to do with it,” Lucifer said, insufferably. He crawled back up Marcus’s chest, licking Marcus’s come off his fingers like a cat, then leaned up to kiss him.
Marcus tasted himself on Lucifer’s lips. It was curiously intimate; something he hadn’t experienced in centuries. He had to reach for a casual tone: “Hate to break it to you, but I’m still not dead.”
Lucifer leaned back against the pillows. “What a shame. Back to the drawing board,” he drawled.
Marcus drew a hand from Lucifer’s shoulder to his chest, tracing the sculptured muscles. The Morningstar had been the fairest of God’s angels; now, naked in Marcus’s bed, backlit by moonlight, he was heart-stoppingly beautiful, a view that almost might be worth staying alive for.
“I've finally got you figured out,” Marcus murmured, past the sudden thickness in his throat. “I don't think you've been spending time with me just to figure out how to kill me. I think you want to spend time screwing someone who's been screwed by your Dad as much as you've been screwed yourself. You’re the one that doesn't want to be alone.”
Lucifer frowned; for a second, Marcus thought he might grab his clothes and flounce off in outrage. But what he saw in Marcus’s eyes made him hesitate. “Maybe we both have some issues that we need to work through,” he said slowly. “But if we're gonna get revenge on Dad, we've got to be committed.”
Marcus snorted. “I've already married you, I'm not sure how much more committed I could be.”
“There’s always room for improvement,” Lucifer said, shrugging. Then, “There are so many things that we never got to try when we were married.”
Marcus snorted again and reached for Lucifer’s human-sized erection, where it had been waiting patiently for attention. It pulsed in his hand, blood pumping through its swollen flesh in time with Lucifer’s heart, with Marcus’ heart, burgeoning with urgent life.
“Fine,” he said, to the both of them. “What the Hell, I’m ready if you are.”