Chapter Text
There’s no denying that it’s flattering, even awe-inspiring, to have two archangels fighting over him, but their timing leaves something to be desired.
“He was made for me,” Lucifer drawls; “we all know this. We’ve always known it. He was made to have me inside him.” His grip is cold but never still, slithering from its bruising grip on Sam’s hip up his spine to a shoulder, down his sides, across chest and thighs; it wends through his hair and strokes his face in gestures that would be tender if they weren’t possessive in every sense of the term. Cold, but never still, just like the insistent, heavy flesh moving through Sam’s gut.
It hadn’t taken long to set his protestations aside when he first found how true the Morning Star’s words were. Those chilly hands cup his jaw and hip perfectly; their thighs are an easy fit despite the difference in height; and when the archangel drives into him, oh, he hadn’t dreamed of feeling this complete. Every languid, rolling stroke – or sharp and fierce, because they’re both creatures of fury and this simmering gait can only satisfy them for so long – fills him to the brim, stretches him just enough to burn against the unrelenting cold, strokes and weighs against his insides right where it’ll drive him mad with pleasure.
Part of Sam tries to rationalise it away as being a matter of the vessel and how Lucifer steers it. With each crash of their hips he lets that thought slip further away. They’re a perfect fit – literally. He sighs and shivers and rolls his hips back and every cell of his body sings Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer even as his mind cries out for Gabriel and neither of these desperate prayers have far to go.
Sam flicks his gaze up from the nest of hair wreathing the Herald’s cock, so heated in his mouth and throat compared to the one taking him from behind, and Gabriel’s eyes (golden, brazen, like the archangel himself) meet his for a moment before turning on his brother. “You know, when you taught these critters how to choose like you did, that kinda set your little kismet here up to make choices, too.”
Better words than blades, Sam figures. He knows these two just well enough to know that it’s not so much Lucifer professing devotion to a human or Gabriel championing free will (because neither of them would) as the former staking his claim and the latter lashing out for ancient hurts. All the same they pour enough attention into Sam’s body, Sam’s pleasure, that he doesn’t felt forgotten for a moment. The archangels grind into him from each side, pet him, adore him, answering his selfish prayers right through their quarreling.
Little keening noises escape his throat: most are muffled by Gabriel’s length as he sucks at it, but now and then they break into groans when he draws back for breath and to swipe his tongue around the thick glans, thrilling at the salty drops that bead at the tip. Lucifer’s rubbing hard against his prostate but not long enough to tip him over the edge; no, he’s drawing it out, maybe even showing off.
Sam doesn’t need to glance over his shoulder to know the Devil’s pursed his lips and cast a considering glance at the ceiling. He can hear the smug, mocking smirk in his voice. “And yet, he still chooses me. He will let me in, sooner or later.”
“I dunno, bro, kind of hard for him to say ‘Yes’ when his mouth’s full of my dick.”
Which it isn’t, a moment later: instead he’s pulling off Gabriel with a wetpop, clenching hard enough around Lucifer to stall his thrusts, and turning his best bitchface up at both archangels. “I’m right here you know.”
Both of them blink down at him with the same measure of affectionate annoyance and say, “Shut up, Sam.”