"What did you say to Dean?" Sam accuses the moment he gets through the door.
Lucifer peers up at him over the top of Sam's laptop.
"Today, he's in a piss awful mood and it's apparently all your fault."
"A lot of things are my fault," Lucifer says quietly. "Which one in particular offends your brother today."
Sam sighs and throws his coat over the table, then he leans back into it and tries to think of a good way to phrase Dean's current state of mind.
"He finds you- difficult to accept in a not-trying-to-kill-us-all sort of way, it messes with his world view."
Lucifer clicks something harder than is absolutely necessary.
"That's because your brother 'doesn't want to listen to us fucking like the world's about to end at three a.m.'"
"Please don't quote Dean, it creeps me out."
"But he's so descriptive."
"I don't want you being an influence on each other," Sam says honestly, throwing his bag down and completely ignoring- repressing- the knowledge that they've been keeping Dean awake. "Are you surfing for porn?"
"I'm the devil, of course I'm surfing for porn," Lucifer says sensibly, though there's a curve of amusement at the edge of his mouth. "It's all so grubby and delicious, especially when it's about you." Sam pulls a face and tugs his shirt out from under Lucifer's bare feet.
Lucifer sets the laptop aside and reaches out, slides his fingers into the waist of Sam's jeans, catches at the tight edge of his shorts.
"Seriously, about Dean, you promised you wouldn't do anything to him."
The devil's smile is far too amused.
Sam doesn't drop the 'you're in trouble unless you clarify that statement,' face.
"Nothing horrible," Lucifer adds, which is maybe the best Sam's going to get.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Sam tells him, or maybe accuses. Hell, this whole thing is insane.
Lucifer tugs, just a little, until Sam's close enough to kiss.
Though he doesn't- he just breathes into his space.
Sam sighs, half reluctance, half inevitability and tips his head and Lucifer is there, right there, the moment he has permission, pushing at his open mouth-
Sam turns away, takes a breath, before he loses himself completely.
Lucifer smiles up at him.
"You can trust me, I'm an angel."
"You're full of shit," Sam corrects.
"But I am an angel," Lucifer points out, and the pull of his fingers is insistent and unstoppable and Sam ends up braced over him on his hands, breathing down and absolutely not having any reaction to the way Lucifer is watching his mouth.
Like he has plans for it.
"Don't think you can distract me, you're kind of obvious and it's not going to work," Sam says flatly.
Lucifer laughs against his skin and drags him all the way down, until Sam ends up on his back without ever intending to, with one hand shoved into Lucifer's hair and the other on the over-warm skin of his waist, fingers dug in too tight to be a protest.
His t-shirt ends up bunched under his arms and then over his head, and Lucifer never seems so warm and so heavy as when he's a weight on Sam's chest. He can't remember why he was protesting, or even if he was protesting.
His hand drops, find the softness of Lucifer's waist, the warm edge of his jeans. He shoves into the unnatural strength of his hands, careful but demanding wherever they push, and Sam pushes back. Because that's what he does, still not quite used to every movement being completely ineffective unless Lucifer allows it-
But he allows a lot.
He allows everything Sam wants.
Sam thinks maybe that's one of the reasons he can't stop. That he doesn't want to stop.
"Stop wriggling or I'll tie you down," Lucifer says smoothly, all amusement and lust.
Sam makes some sort of noise in his throat, quick and greedy and unintentional, that Lucifer obviously approves of, he can tell by the throaty chuckle that slides over his skin.
"You like that idea don't you?"
"No," Sam says through his teeth.
"Liar," Lucifer purrs against the quick thud of his pulse and -Jesus Christ- there are teeth in his throat and hands sliding up his arms, dragging them up the bed with slow insistence, pressing them into the metal there.
Sam, for all he probably should, doesn't try and pull free.
Lucifer's grip is tight and hard and Sam tangles his fingers there when Lucifer's coaxes him to.
"Say yes." Lucifer wants, and what he wants he usually gets. Judging by that sharp flash of teeth, and the dig of his fingers, he wants to break Sam open and burn him from the inside out, leave him shaking and wrecked and raw on the sheets, and Sam wants it too. God help him, he wants it, every damn time.
"Yes," he manages.
Lucifer bends the metal of the bed frame inwards over his wrists. Just bends the metal round until it presses into his skin and Sam swears and pulls on instinct, then inhales sharply when Lucifer's hands slide down the raised length of his arms.
"Don't pull, you'll hurt yourself."
Lucifer reacts, always reacts, to his name, tangles a hand in Sam's hair and tips his head back, bends him where his body can't quite go and then holds him there, kisses him. Balanced just on the edge of pain and he ends up hissing encouragement rather than protest into Lucifer's mouth.
It gets him breath and tension, the careful push of hips into his own, just hard enough, but not too much.
Because Lucifer's always careful, always controlled, always a little too strong inside his skin.
But then he eases back, sways away, hands curving down to Sam's waist and tugging, just enough for him to skid down the bed, leaving his arms left stretched above him. Caught tight inside metal and Sam swears under his breath and groans when Lucifer's body curves over his own.
Breath on his skin, hot and close, Sam tugs at his arms, and only gets the slam of metal into flesh, a quick ache of pain, and there are teeth in his skin, a tongue trailing over the too-sensitive peak of his nipple, making him drag in a breath and push up into Lucifer's teeth, hold himself there as long as he can.
Until Lucifer laughs against his skin and slides lower, a line of warmth down the middle of his ribcage, the dent of his navel, one quick hot curl of tongue. Which leaves him twisting, just a little, and he's hard under the weight of his jeans. A thud of needy insistence that presses and drags every time he shifts his hips. It's a stab of want he still feels guilty about. The level of desperate need Lucifer can drag out of him without doing a single damn thing.
"Please," Sam manages fiercely.
Lucifer's hand unsnaps the button and zipper, pulling denim and cotton down and away, leaving him completely naked- defenceless- and Sam swears and spreads his legs, throws one round Lucifer's back and pulls him in again. Lucifer bites protest and punishment for his greed against Sam's hipbone, then flattens his tongue there in quick reward, makes him shudder when he trails it into the curve there, close, so close to the hard line of his cock.
"Lucifer," it's more demand than plea, more desperation than anything else and he sobs- actually fucking sobs- relief when Lucifer slides between his legs, pushing them open around his wide shoulders.
His mouth is sin incarnate, heat and slick pressure and Sam makes a noise that's just a shuddering exhalation of air when he slides inside.
His fingers clench where they're trapped, arms straining brief and painful against metal. Hips trying to shove up, trying to get deeper into Lucifer’s mouth.
But Lucifer holds him still, fingers dug into flesh hard enough to hurt, leaving him at the devil's mercy and he can't do anything but groan encouragement, and shake hair out of his eyes to watch.
Because that, that never stops being an impossible obscenity.
He says something, something short, lost and garbled and then one hand is gone from the curve of his hip. A second later there are fingers inside him, a quick, wet push that he groans and spreads under with an enthusiasm he thinks he'll be ashamed of later, but the reward he gets for it, heat and suction, and the press of tongue, has one of his heels digging into the bed, then- fuck- the muscle of Lucifer's back.
Lucifer drags him down with the heat of his mouth, a tension that tightens and tightens until his skin feels like it's on fire.
Then he pulls him over.
It's a long fall, and Sam's left gasping, light-headed and breathless when Lucifer slides away.
The sound of button and zipper, the softness of denim shoved down out of the way.
Sam's still shivering under the last faint echoes of bliss when Lucifer moves up between his legs and presses into him. One long, slow push that forces a groan out of his throat and there's nothing, absolutely nothing he can do about it.
Lucifer presses all the way inside, finds the angle and the force that makes Sam tip his head back into the sheet and gasp. Skin tightening and twitching like it wants to come alive again and it's too much, too good and too soon, he's breathing out his name, messy and incoherent.
But Lucifer kisses him like it's a prayer, kisses him with the bitter taste of himself on his tongue, rhythm finally gone loose and rough. Needy and uncontrolled and everything he hates to be and Sam takes it all.
One last push, a fraction too hard and Lucifer makes a noise that's soft and ever so slightly lost, leaves bruises in the muscle of Sam's thigh and a groan in his mouth. Then he kisses him, shudders his way through release while he ruins Sam's mouth, leaves it wet and bruised and numb.
When he slides free he doesn't move away, shifting into Sam's side instead, pressing his warmth into every line of space, and the damp skin of Sam’s chest and thigh.
He's still heavy, though Sam doesn't complain.
He breathes there for a long second, and then reaches up and unbends the metal holding Sam's wrists.
Sam's arms slither free, sore and aching, he leaves one on the bed, flung out to cool on the sheets. The other he leaves against Lucifer's warm skin.
"I wasn't gay six months ago," Sam protests, though it comes out breathless, and more than a little confused.
"I was trying to burn the world to a cinder six months ago, we all make sacrifices."
"You make everything sound like a threat you know that."
"Only for you, Sam," Lucifer breathes into his ear. "Only for you."