"Fuck," he says, once, again, again. Frank's finger pushes inside him and he can't keep it together, do anything coherent except grind his hips against the older man's finger. He hasn't actually let anyone actually fuck him here in hell, even when he's considered it or wanted them to.

Maybe that's just part of his own guilt complex, denying things he wants. But he won't, can't bring himself to, deny this and for the moment he doesn't try.

He stares down at Frank for a second, letting the words be words instead of just sound he isn't processing. When he gets it, a few seconds behind, he lets out a breath he didn't realise he's been holding. He moves then, quick out of desperation, twisting away to find the lube - one of many bottles in the room - in the drawer of the table near the bed. He sits up enough to hand it to Frank, sharp ice-blue eyes watching the man with all of his normal intensity but precious little of his normal opposition to everyone and everything.