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Light and Burn

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The room's dark. There's nothing but the faint light of the moon strafing in through the gap in the curtains. But it's enough to outline the wide spread of Lucifer's bare shoulder's where they're braced by Sam's thighs.

The light cuts down him like a statue, then folds and bends on every slow, shift and push. The fine movements that he makes while his mouth works on Sam.

Sam's forced himself silent, swallowing every gasp and groan and hitching breath. Because Lucifer barely makes a sound, barely even breathes. In these strange quiet moments where all his terrifying focus is on Sam. Every ounce of his concentration and his fury and his attention. And, for all the power of that, there's something strangely fragile about it. Something that forces Sam quiet and makes him feel it all, makes him hear it.

The darkness hides a lot of things.

Sam can't see them but he knows they're there. He can feel them too, the weight of them. He can hear the dry, dragging scrape of them across the ceiling and walls. He can see the way the unlit bulb above them sways and jumps like it's being tossed by invisible currents of air. The way Lucifer's shoulders flex and dip with every slide.

Lucifer's wings. An old and forgotten slice of angel

Sam's hands creep over his shoulders, fingers searching and then digging into Lucifer's back, finding the slow-moving juts of bone and the heat, the impossible heat, of the skin over them.

Lucifer's mouth tightens and pushes down, and Sam bites into his silence in a fight to keep it, mouth opening on one shaky breath after another. His hands are spread open on Lucifer's shoulder blades, shifting ceaselessly, trying to find something he has no hope of touching. Something that doesn't belong here. That can't exist here.

He's close, he's so close, but he doesn't want to come like this. Sam wants more. He searches for Lucifer's hand, braced on his thigh, catches his fingers and pulls. Lucifer's head tips, finds Sam's eyes easily in the dark - before he's sliding free, pushing Sam's legs down and then shifting up his body.

Lucifer shoves him back into the headboard, thighs opening around his own. He jerks Sam's head up, holds his jaw steady, and the kiss he forces out of him is hard and bruising. One hand drops down to catch the wet length of his cock and hold it in place, before Lucifer lifts up and then sinks down. Taking him inside in one long slide. Sam's buried in the heat and tightness of him, and he's gasping into his mouth and gripping his hair too hard. Pushed to the edge too fast and Sam has to hold him still and beg for a second, fighting not to grab Lucifer's shoulders and fuck him until he promises him everything.

He's closer now, and Sam can feel the air currents for himself. The rattle and thud of things pushed off the table and the wall. That wet, electric, outside smell that's like undiluted angel.

He waits until he can breathe again, until he can take the slow rock and shift of the devil's hips. And his hands are sliding on Lucifer's skin again, on the warm flexing muscle of his back, close and strong and hard where Sam digs his nails in.

"You can't touch them, Sam." Lucifer's voice is quiet and rough against his cheek. Some mixture of honest and sad. The devil presses him back against the wall and pushes down onto him. Sam's fingers tighten for a different reason. A low burn of hot lust. Lucifer does it again, in a bid to break him slowly into pieces. Like he's apologising for something he can't control.

Sam catches the weight of him and hauls him in close, mouth open on the rough edge of his jaw and throat. It vibrates under his teeth, a low steady growl of appreciation.

Sam's hands slide back up, trail the dents and juts of Lucifer's spine in frustrated persistence. The greedy human need to see, to feel, and that's when his questing fingers touch - something. An electrical shiver across his knuckles. He stretches into it, finds the curving edges of nothing, sharp and strange and perilously close to too hot to touch. Lucifer shudders in his grip. One white moment of shock, like Sam's touched something he's not supposed to, not supposed to be able to. Something special, something raw. It's a confusing sensation of hot and sharp and tearing in his hands. The heat of it burns. A twist of pain in his fingers. Like it's trying to tear them apart.

But Lucifer grinds sharply down onto him, and that heat presses back into Sam's hands, begging, or daring, him not to let go. Sam catches and grips and holds and Lucifer buries a low, gasping groan in his throat. It sounds lost and uncontrolled and helpless and Lucifer comes without being touched. A fierce grip of heat and pressure that leaves Sam's stomach painted wet. Leaves him twisting and grinding up and in without meaning to and feeling the sharp, shaky bliss of release.

He has to let go, has to stop touching before he burns alive. His hands fall back onto skin, fingers tingling and burning and numb on Lucifer's back.