It isn’t the light from passing cars that stops the crickets chirping just outside Chloe’s bedroom window, it is the sound. It is the rumbling echo of tires on wet pavement that momentarily frightens them into silence. When they kick back up, they join the subtle hum of her vibrator and the clacking of the pull-chains on the spinning ceiling fan above her bed. Outside of these small ambient noises, the inside of her bedroom is still and quiet.
Chloe’s hand moves up to her mouth, and she bites it to stifle a moan. She bends her knees so that her feet lay flat against the bed, barely disturbing the rolled back comforters.
“Shit,” she whines, her hips lifting off the bed as her hand pushes the vibrator deeper into her pussy. She rotates her pelvis as she sinks the toy as far as it can go. This particular toy has a smaller vibrator that slaps up against her clit each time it is fully seated inside of her. It proves too much stimulation for now, and she pulls it away, her body slowly lowering to the mattress. She continues to undulate, plunging the toy in and out of her in long, slow strokes.
Her body is on fire.
Beads of sweat form on her chest, despite the running air conditioner and the fan above her. They swell and pool into the valley between her breasts.
She exhales a charged breath. This feels so much better than it usually does. The better it feels, the slicker her toy gets with her juices. Thank fuck it's waterproof because she is more than wet. She is soaking. But how can she not be with the devil on her mind? She had recently dug the fantasy of him out of her memory, and it is clearly as powerful as before.
Before there was Eve, or Father Kinley, or Rome, or even Marcus Pierce, there was just Lucifer.
Just him lying beside the soft light of her bedside lamp, his body crashing into hers as she stared into those deep, dark-brown meres of want and need.
She bites her lower lip.
In her fantasy, his cock fills her to the hilt as he pants her name. Not her pet name, either, her real name.
“Lucifer,” she whimpers. His name escapes her lips softly, like a whisper or a prayer. She sinks the toy into her faster, her body continuing to lubricate each push and pull. The small vibrator bumps against her clit, and her body jolts before she quickly pulls it away.
She slides a hand down to act as a shield. Then, she pushes the toy all the way into her, as deep as it will go. Her mouth opens wide, and her eyes roll back in her head before her face contorts. It looks like she is in pain, but it is anything but.
“Yes,” she gasps, turning her eyes down to her hand that now rubs small circles over her clit. She lets her head fall against the pillow before closing her eyes and thinking about him again. About his scent, the heat of his body, his hands all over her, and her hands all over him. About him being done with Eve and maybe finally deciding to give them a chance, finally choosing to forgive her or to forgive himself.
“Lucifer,” she moans, her want for him no longer just about carnal pleasure. She ached for his touch, for his closeness. He was wildly infuriating and childish, but thinking about the way he looks at her beneath those impossibly long eyelashes makes her body weep with desire.
“You feel so good,” she whines, fucking herself harder. She opens her legs further, opening herself for him, wanting him to see it all. A wave of heat rolls over her and is shadowed by a cold draft from the fan above.
Her nipples harden painfully beneath the breeze, and she removes her hand from her clit to cup her breasts. A palm runs over the sensitive bud, and she hums, the feeling a perfect mixture of pain and pleasure. This is when she reaches her breaking point, unable to take the teasing anymore.
She snaps up in bed and turns onto her knees just as another headlight temporarily illuminates her bedroom. Thank God for curtains. She pushes her ass in the air and reaches a hand between her legs to feverishly push the vibrator into her. She imagines it is him, overcome with desire, and fucking her senseless from behind.
“Yes, just like that,” she whines as the vibrator begins to push back against her, her pussy more lubricated. It’s a really good fantasy. “Please, fuck me,” she begs, so close to the end of her rope.
Her hips begin to push back against her hand, wanting more, needing more. The vibrator whines and hums inside her body, spinning and thrusting inside her wetness. She’s almost there.
“Shit,” she whimpers, her face in the pillow.
She imagines him inside her, rocking his way to the end of this fantasy like he has done many times before. She imagines his sounds, his whispers, and the delicate way he says her name.
Then, like always, she is catapulted into a heavenly release. Unlike any other time, however, his name leaves her lips so full of want that it strips bare the veil of denial. She falls into her trembling orgasm.
She reaches a hand out and grips the folded edge of her comforter tightly. She holds onto it, her mouth open in a silent yell. Halfway through, when she’s lasted the most intense wave of her orgasm, she lets go of a breathy cry. “Ohh,” she howls into her pillow, her hand continuing to slowly push the vibrator into her until her orgasm ends.
Then, and only then, does she relent and collapse onto her stomach. Lazily she rotates onto her back and flips off the toy. Here, the sound of the fan above her becomes louder, as do the crickets outside. She pants, catching her breath.
Without the heat of lust enveloping her, the fan above her now blows unnervingly arctic winds over her cooling body. It peppers her skin with goosebumps, and her nipples harden again. This time the pain is not as sweet. She lets go of a contented sigh. That was a good one.
She lays there, catching her breath, only pausing to swallow her spit and soothe a suddenly dry throat. Eventually, she sits up and slides the toy out of her. Another headlight passes by, and again it casts light through her window. The brief moment of illumination makes the wetness on her vibrator glisten before her room is plunged into the matte grey of night.
Outside of her fantasy, she is back to the loneliness of her bedroom. Lucifer was not hers, it turns out, and maybe he never would be. Not after Rome and Father Kinley, perhaps not even after Eve.
She had betrayed him and damaged his trust, irreparably so. And yet, despite all she had done, he was still here, and despite all he had done, so was she.
Around this time, Lucifer would usually be balls deep in a beautiful woman or two from the bar. Perhaps even three if Eve were up for it. Though, to be fair, Eve hardly said no to him.
He hums to himself, reflecting on that. His eyes squint as he turns his glance to the rest of his penthouse. It had been quiet since he ended things with Eve. Empty. Even more so since she and Maze started a romance. It seemed forced at first, but eventually, it was hard to see it as anything other. Not after Maze sang to Eve. After they rushed off in a flurry of kisses and wandering hands, stowing away to the nearest dark room. He huffs, blowing air through his nostril in amusement. Maze. In love. Imagine that.
He watches as his fingers glide effortlessly over the keys of his classic grand piano. It had been a strange few days. After his breakthrough with the Doctor, his body had slowly been overtaken by the red and angry flesh of his devil form. Coupled with the rantings of a religious madman and the truth behind Chloe’s betrayal, it had gotten to him. He had been convinced that evil would be released and who knows, perhaps in some unlucky version of this universe it had been. He had no doubt that Chloe’s presence had stopped him from becoming something more, but it also meant that she had seen him – all of him. She had seen the fallen, the result of the shame and anger that turned him into what he thought he was, a monster.
He furrows his eyebrows as he plays, thinking about how she could have run again, but she didn’t. She stayed with him and, despite her obvious terror, she spoke to him like she always had - with her heart. He tenses his jaw and turns his eyes to the umber liquid cradled in a glass on his piano.
Part of him wonders how he could ever trust her again, the other part … well, it longs for the times when he could, unequivocally. When things were simpler, and she looked at him as more than just the devil. He lets go of an exhausted sigh before reaching for the whiskey, his left hand keeping up his playing rhythm.
He lifts the warming liquid to his lips and sips. The burn is delicious, and he savors it before setting the glass back onto its coaster. His right-hand returns to join the left in song, and his body sways to the music. It is just about the only thing that soothes him these days. Everything else seems … chaotic. Irreparable.
He crosses his ankles, allowing his toes to arc and cradle each other. His back straightens, and he closes his eyes. He seems at peace, but behind his calm exterior, his mind rolls and turns with all that has transpired.
He thinks about everything. About Eve, About the prophecy, about Chloe running away to Rome, and about Cain. It seemed as if he could have done it differently, shown himself to the Detective in a way that didn’t have her outright reject him.
He opens his eyes and turns them to the piano. The joy is sucked out of his playing, but he continues anyway. He smells it before he feels it, the clean scent of ozone like the outdoors after a fresh rain. It is followed by a strange and almost electric snap in the air, and he stops playing. It is quiet without the music, but there is a familiar – and building - hum in his ears.
He grunts, annoyed. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he grumbles, knowing what it means.
Someone, somewhere relatively close, is praying to him.
He sighs. Hearing the misguided prayers of humans who thought he gave a shit about goats and virgins was not what he needed right now. Still, he knows this feeling won’t go away until he at least hears them out. He’s tried to ignore them in the past, but it never ended well as it is impossible to sleep with the constant reminder that you’ve got mail.
He reaches out and grabs his glass of whiskey, ready to take a sip as he stills his spirit and makes himself receptive to whatever prayer is coming in.
“Lucifer,” he hears, a breathy moan that sounds a lot like –
He spits his whiskey all over the front of his piano. “Chloe?” he asks, confused, before reaching a hand up to wipe the dribble from his bottom lip.
He stares out, the electric feeling slowly waning. Did she just pray to him? and was she just-
The electric feeling comes back and quickly, like the tide at night. He immediately tunes into it, like dialing into a radio.
“Fuck,” he hears. It is quick and sharp but laced with pleasure. He huffs, his cock immediately pulling itself from slumber.
Is she diddling herself? He asks himself. He pauses and shakes his head. No, no way. There must be some other reason for-
Then that electric feeling again followed by a low, moaned,” Lucifer.”
His body slacks forward onto the piano, sending the crashing sound of dissonant notes through the penthouse. It is the most delicious thing he’s ever heard, her prayers. Blood rushes to a quickly rising erection, and he shakes his head. He shouldn’t be listening to this. He doubts she even knows she is praying to him.
Another crashing wave of electric energy hits him, and he ignores it. They were in a strange position right now, and the last thing he needed to do was violate her privacy. Yet, the longer the prayer goes unanswered, the higher the jitter in his body until he is practically shaking. He tenses his jaw and steels himself before letting go and allowing it to come through.
“You feel so good,” he hears beneath the telltale whine of lust and pleasure.
“Bloody hell,” he huffs, his cock straining against his pants now. There was no stopping this. It would keep coming – no pun intended – until she was finished. He tenses his jaw and turns his eyes to the whiskey. He supposes there was no harm in lending an ear?
He reaches for the whiskey and downs the entire glass before setting it back on the coaster and stretching his arms across the piano, bracing himself.
He waits, both in dread and anticipation for the next prayer. When it comes, he lets it slide over him with ease.
“Yes, just like that,” he hears before closing his eyes.
Fuck. He glances down towards the erection tenting his pajama pants and notices the telltale sign of precum seeping through the thin fabric.
Already? This woman would be the end of him. He sighs and reaches into his pants to pull out his cock.
“Fine,” he huffs. He just wouldn’t tell the Detective about this particular incident. They both needed relief, so why not?
“Tell me how you like it, Darling,” he says, his voice low and warm.
He strokes himself, waiting for the next prayer. While he waits, he reaches a hand up and squeezes his nipple. He hisses in pleasure. Then he feels it, rolling into his penthouse with a buzz.
“Please, fuck me.”
“Oh ...” he groans, tilting his head back as he strokes himself faster, “Darling, I wish.”
His strokes are a little dry, so he pauses, spits in his hand, and rubs the saliva all over his cock. Then he goes back to working himself. The penthouse is silent for a long while, save for the sound of his pants and him wanking himself blind. He can’t hear her, but he knows she is still going. Still touching herself in delightful ways while pretending it is him. He hums lovingly before reaching a hand into his pants and pulling his testicles out. He massages them, rolling the tender orbs between his fingers as he expertly works his cock with his other hand.
He huffs, feeling the telltale signs of impending ejaculation. He won’t have the patience to edge tonight, not when he still has her whispers in his ear. Just when he thinks she is done and he won’t hear her again, another electrical wave flows in. Immediately he grabs onto it like a floating door outside the wreckage of the titanic.
“Lucifer,” she groans, tense yet free. He can tell she is climaxing. Then the penthouse goes silent again. He knows her prayers are done, but now he has the knowledge that she came with his name on her lips. Now he has the knowledge that she thought about him in her moment of vulnerability. She trusted him, and … perhaps that meant he could trust her again? She had been proven to be imperfect, and it had forced him to remove her from the pedestal on which he placed her. She had fallen, like him, and there was comfort in shared misery.
He yanks on his cock with aggression and speed, wholly lost in the sheer manic need of it all. He needed to cum with her voice fresh in his memory. He leans back, feeling his balls pull close to his body and the tightening coil of desire poised to snap. Then, it does. He groans as hot and bright white spurts of cum jump from the tip of his cock and land on his bare stomach. His legs straighten and lock, his hand unrelenting in its ministration.
“Ahh,” he hisses as cum drips down his chest and pools around the edge of his groin, soaking into the fabric of his favorite pair of sleeping trousers. It was a mess to clean up, but the idea of her begging him made it worth the extra energy.
He huffs, finally letting go of his cock. It bounces in relief, still pulsing to the rhythm of his heartbeat. He pants before looking around to find something to clean himself up with. When he finds nothing, he turns back to the mess he made and sighs. He got too carried away, too caught up in the moment, and now look at him. Reluctantly he slips himself back into his pants, causing the cooling liquid to slide further down into the space between his legs.
He slowly stands and feels it drip down the inside of his thigh. He messed himself for her, but he will gladly do it again if she begs him.
Chloe’s cup of coffee is already half empty and tepid by the time she looks up to check the clock. He’s late again. It was already hard enough to concentrate with the constant rustling of papers and random phones ringing in the bull pen's open floor plan. Now she had to hope the Lieutenant didn’t come by and ask her where the hell her partner was. She sighs and reaches out for her coffee. As soon as the cup moves to her lips, a very well put together Lucifer gracefully walks around the front of her desk and sits in his normal spot beside her.
“Great, you decided to join me,” she says, setting the cup down and already annoyed.
He hums to himself. “Anytime Darling,” he says.
She hands him a file on her desk, not that he would read it but who knows? “Martin Johnson. He has priors for both breaking and entering and petty theft.”
Lucifer takes the file and briefly looks at the photo before setting it down on the desk. “So, you think this Martin fellow is our suspect?”
Chloe rolls her eyes and turns back to her computer. Of course, he didn’t read it. She supposes you can’t teach the devil new tricks. “No, but he was picked up robbing the next-door neighbor’s house the night in question. Maybe he saw something.”
“Ah,” Lucifer says.
She nods and turns back to her computer. She starts typing before her eyes curiously flip to where Lucifer is sitting to find him staring at her with a giddy smirk on his face.
“Let me just finish this email, and we can go,” she says, turning her eyes back to the screen.
“By all means, take your time, Detective. Stretch it out,” he coos.
She raises her lip in mock disgust at his obvious innuendo. After she finishes her email, she begins to close down her station when she feels his eyes on her. She turns to see him staring at her with a small smirk still on his face.
She freezes and looks at him for a moment. It wasn’t abnormal for him to be happy. Truth be told, she liked to see him happy. With everything that had happened since she returned from Rome, it felt nice for things to be back to somewhat normal. But this smile wasn’t just a happy smile, it is a smug grin. As if he knows something that she doesn’t. She narrows her eyes. “What are we smiling about?”
He chuckles to himself and shakes his head, “Nothing to be concerned about. I’m sure we all get caught up in the moment.”
He slides the single button on his jacket into its hole as he stands.
“Shall we?” he asks, holding his hand out to usher her towards the steps.
She pulls her jacket off the back of her chair. “You don’t even know where we are going because, yet again, you didn’t read the file.”
“Oh, come now, Detective? Why would I do a silly thing like that when you are so good at handling the small details?” he asks. He grabs her jacket and gently pulls it from her arms. She watches him, confused for a moment until he holds it open so she can slide her arms inside. She narrows her eyes at him before turning and slipping her arms in. He assists her when it is halfway on by pulling the jacket over her shoulders.
“Nice try, but flattery will only get you so far,” she huffs.
“Oh? Do tell, Detective. How far will it get me?” he grins.
She rolls her eyes and pulls her hair out of her jacket, “We’re trying to solve a murder here, remember? It’s too early for your … you, okay?”
He chuckles warmly, “Oh? Too early? Perhaps you’d like to have me later?” he asks.
She pauses, and a red hue pulls up from beneath the skin of her cheeks. Even she can’t keep pretending that his smooth words don’t affect her. “What?” she asks, her voice visibly cracking. She clears her throat and huffs, “Lucifer …just … let’s go.” She grabs the file off her desk and quickly walks to the steps leading out of the bullpen
He grins and follows her like a lost puppy. It only takes a few hours for the novelty of his knowing to wear off. They easily fall back into their normal conversations, the kind they had before Rome, and even before Cain. It is calm and comfortable, familiar.