no.4

The problem wasn't you- Diavolo no, it could never be you. It was his dreams.

He would call them nightmares if he had more dignity, but when it came to you, his mind simply melted. Almost every night nowadays featured Satan waking up in a sweat, blood pumping and pajama pants tented like his dick was trying to fly away. The dreams came in a variety, but one factor stayed the same throughout them all.

Satan loved getting smothered in your body- your scent- anything his mind could conjure up in the middle of the night.

It started innocent enough; getting lost in your lips, his face held firmly by your hands. maybe you would let him trail kisses down your neck while you kept him close, maybe he'd be allowed to bite and mark wherever he see fit. and then it would devolve.

Sometimes you would appear fully dressed, as you did all those times you fell on him. But clothes never stopped his imagination. The memory of your weight, your smell, the feeling of your thighs around his body was more than enough to influence his deepest desires.

Satan might never admit it, but most nights, he dreams of suffocating between your legs.

--

Air refuses to reach his lungs, his hands are useless where they instinctively claw at your thighs, and Satan couldn't be happier.

"Really?" Your voice echos through his head, laced with disgust. "Out of all the brothers, I expected that at least you would have an ounce of dignity."

Satan let out a half-assed growl beneath you. Your thighs framed his head, leaving it barely visible beneath your crotch. The heat of his breath collected into a moist splotch against the seem of your boxers, making it stick obscenely to your sex, and keeping Satan from his first trip to heaven.

"phhm- hnn" He groaned through a mouthful of fabric, nose flaring as he sucked in the smell like an addict. The sore ache in his jaw meant nothing, so long as you kept letting him suckle on your flesh kept just millimeters away through thin boxers. He had to have more. Until the taste was burned onto his tongue and he'd be smelling you for weeks. His greed for it might even rival Mammon..

Every grind of your hips sent another wave of heat through his body that rolled violently into his length, which would jerk against the tight confines of his trousers. Spit and tears painted a pretty picture across his face, further wetting the entire experience and- and his cock was so fucking hard he might die. It was like some kind of eternal damnation that he couldn't escape.

Satan could cum just like this. The lack of air making his head dizzy and mind blank. He'd be thankful for it, so so thankful that you'd grace his degenerate fantasy with a climax. Pre was already soaking through his pjs and if he could just get the right angle- just a little more friction-

"And then what? You'll cum?"

That voice of yours, dripping with poisonous affection, is all it takes to tip him over the edge.

Satan finishes with a long drawn out whine, hips writhing pitifully on the ground and tail snapping side to side as he rides through the waves of his orgasm.

Then his eyes blink open and he's met with reality again.

Humping his own bed with his face shoved in a pillow.. really doesn't scream "Satan", does it? But he doesn't care. Doesn't even mind having to lazily crawl out of bed and change his newly slick pajama pants out for clean ones.

Until the day comes that he can man up and just, at the very least, suggest the idea of getting intimate with you.. he'll settle for this. And hopefully you find yourself a bit more clumsy around him.

He won't mind the bruises.

---