"I'm the devil," the Devil hissed, as though explaining it to a small child. He reached around Sam, curling his fingers around his exposed cock. Even knowing that sex was going to be inevitable, Sam couldn't get hard for torture. It was where he physically drew the line, unable to perform. But Lucifer had talented fingers--it wouldn't be long.

Instead he went to work with his own hands, as though Lucifer wasn't all over him, reaching down to slide his fingers immediately against Eliot's entrance, grateful that he didn't pick this moment to fight, or kick him in the chest, or any of the other things that he might have done given the chance. Eliot obeyed, and Sam was grateful for that.

He pressed two fingers inside, soon enough, wet as they were, for fear that the blood would coalesce too soon. Blood was - he'd discovered - a terrible lubricant, and if there was an open wound involved - the only way to guarantee sufficient easy movement - then the wound was probably too painful for there to be any enjoyment. Lucifer didn't want this to be gentle, but then why was that any surprise?

Sam bent in over him as he worked his fingers in, not for a moment taking his time the way he had before. Eliot, after all, had been fucked often enough and with such frequency, that rushing things this time shouldn't make things much worse than they already would be. He pressed in a third finger, looking up into his face as he did.