no.4

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For a demon as old as himself, Satan knows that telling someone you love them shouldn’t be this hard. Then again, how often has a demon as old as himself had to confess his love for another being, especially one quite as enthralling as you? He feels his eyebrows furrow. The familiar burn of irritation rising in his chest at the thought of allowing himself even to imagine that you could be feeling the same way. That you could be wherever you are now, having the same dilemma, the same desire for…

Satan rests his book in his lap, eyes closed as he leans his head back against the chair. Irritation turns into something else as he presses his thumbs just enough into the inner corners of his eyes, hoping to dull the uncontrollable pressure building below the surface. His leg bounces as he’s pulled into a full spiral of thoughts about you, making all of this much harder on himself in the process. He just can’t seem to control himself around you and what a cliche that is!

It’s all your fault, of course! You’re just so sweet to him; he doesn’t know what to do with himself. From checking in on him when you know he’s had a terrible day, spending nearly hours searching for him after yet another nasty argument with Lucifer, just to sit with him while he vents his frustrations to you. You never mind, you never care. You who made him feel like no matter the circumstance, there’s always space to let him just… exist. You know all his favorite books by all his favorite authors, and he didn’t even have to tell you; you just noticed! He’s never felt so seen by another being.

And he can’t even allow himself the courtesy of telling you all of this to your face because there’s no way he is deserving of the sort of love you give him. So he spends as much time as possible with you, taking you on dates that aren’t dates (if you ever asked… which you didn’t), inviting you to sit with him while he reads (you’ve fallen asleep with your head in his lap more times than he can count but that’s friendly… right?), soft, snarky comments about how boring it is listening to Lucifer during council meetings (your absolute perfect laugh making his heart flutter because you think he’s so funny).

Satan groans softly, realizing now that no matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince himself that you’re just another human. He has to tell you, he has to stop this foolish behavior and-

“Satan?”

He jumps abruptly in his seat. Hands moving away from his eyes to see you standing there. Right there! In front of him! For who knows how long! He tries hard to say your name casually, though it’s pretty clear at this point that acting casual is next to impossible.

“How long have you been standing there?” He manages to ask, voice strained.

He watches you glance him over, a look of concern on your face as you answer, “Long enough. What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” Satan blurts, mentally kicking himself at how much of a bumbling idiot he sounds like right now. He’ll have to remember to blame Mammon for this later.

He hears you hum softly before sitting next to him. Satan can’t keep his eyes off of you long enough to even attempt at collecting himself. He knows how he looks, especially to you. It’s not exactly late; he has been alone in this library for upwards of two hours. Sitting alone… in the dark… book open in his hand but never reading… hair and clothes visibly disheveled… He must look ridiculous! All this time spent thinking about you has him looking like he hasn’t slept in days. He feels ridiculous!

“Satan!” He’s startled by the sound of your voice pulling him away from his thoughts. He can’t even focus on what you’re saying and he feels awful for acknowledging that.

“This is your fault.” He states that before he can stop himself. It takes him all of five seconds to realize what he’s done but it’s too late. Your expression changes from one of concern to annoyance. A sour expression on your face that Satan thinks you manage to wear beautifully. He really is thinking like Mammon.

“My fault?” You ask, voice matching that expression on your face

Satan hesitates. On one hand, he’s perfectly content changing the subject to placate you. On the other hand, he knows that attempting this would be worse than just expressing his feelings to you. The chances of you rejecting him are not zero. He would hate to be the reason your friendship ends, but the longer he looks at you, that expression on your face, the knowledge that you’re even concerned for him, that you were in your room (or even with one of his brothers) and thought to check on him. It isn’t the first time, of course, but he can’t help that this time, it just makes him want you more. The very thing ripping his psyche apart is the only thing that could possibly put it back together. And he knows this.

He feels his breathing pick up, ignoring it. He feels himself moving closer, leaning forward, ignoring that too. He watches your expression change, your face heat up, your eyes soften; he can’t ignore that.

You whisper his name softly, as if you’re trying to get his attention, and it nearly makes him shiver. He says nothing, scared his words will betray him. His heart is hammering against his chest. He can’t take his eyes off you. Your faces are inches apart, he’s waiting for you to push him away, yet you never do.

Even when he finally kisses you and you completely tense at the feeling of his lips against yours, you don’t push him away. He can’t believe it. His head is buzzing. He pulls away just enough, just enough to look at you that’s enough to tip him over. Satan feels his whole body warm up at the sight of you. Red faced, quite literally shaking, white knuckling the front of his sweater with your eyes closed.

He kisses you again and this time, there will be no room for hesitation. He’s determined now, fueled by your shared desire for him. An unexpected turn of events has him trying very hard to control himself, but he must. Even as he guides you to lie down on the couch, he can’t pay attention to how his dick twitches at the gasp you let out; when you completely relax under him, but keep your grip on his sweater. He has to stay calm.

His tongue grazes yours softly, enough to elicit the softest of sounds from the back of your throat. Oh, that soft sound is enough for him to throw whatever semblance of rationality he has out of the window. He steadies himself with one of his hands at the side of your head before moving the other to rest at the side of your face gently.

Kissing you a bit deeper, just grazing the roof of your mouth with his tongue, his heart races, and he shifts enough to place his hips against yours. He can’t tell which part of his body needs you more. He feels your hands move to his back. Your fingers dig in as if you’re holding onto him; he can’t even rationalize this. Only minutes ago, he was sprawled against this couch, behaving like he’d fall ill spending another second without your touch. But now?

Now he moves his hand from your face, trailing it slowly down your side, not stopping the kiss for a second. You shiver as he gently dips his fingers under your shirt, just to feel your warmth. The wonderfully uncomfortable pleasure that is his dick straining against his pants only increases when he moves to kiss down your neck. Satan bites softly at first, enough to illicit a response, and what a perfect response you give. Whispering a soft, “don’t stop” as if he could.

He leaves deep hickeys just above your collarbone. The perfect spot, he thinks. Just enough to peek over your shirt, just enough to make whoever saw it second guess. A wonderful idea for later, when his nosey brothers wonder where you got off to for so long. Not that he’s concerned about that right now, of course, he isn’t! He’s much more concerned about the noise you make as he slides his hand past the waistband of your pants. And fuck is he concerned about how wet you are.

“I must say,” He pants against your skin, pressing soft kissing across your panting chest. “I wasn’t expecting to find ourselves in this situation.”

You whine softly. He can’t help but smirk. Using his middle finger to tease you just enough, clit hard and aching through your underwear. He feels your hips move slightly, asking so sweetly for more. And who is he to deny you?

Satan shifts just enough to trap you between himself and the couch effectively. He can’t risk the chance of someone seeing you like this, though he knows nobody ever comes to the library when he’s holed up in here for hours. He looks down at you and stops for just a moment. Your eyes are trained on him, half lidded and glazed over. Hair disheveled and breath uneven, he can’t help but admire how utterly mesmerizing you are like this.

Watching your face as he finally moved his fingers beneath your underwear. He groans at feeling how fully wet you are, slipping two of his fingers into you without resistance. Your head falls back, another gasp. He presses them up just enough, and your hips buck. How responsive!

He begins pumping his fingers into you, unable to help himself. Finding a rhythm that has you truly writhing against him and he can’t help but rut against you. He knows how filthy the two of you look. His fingers press deep, never trying to overwhelm you. No, that’s not what he wants. He wants to fill you. He wants to hit every right spot until you’re seeing stars. He wants to fuck you so good, you’re choking on your pleasure. Satan wants nothing more than to leave an impression of his dick on your insides and he fully plans to. He’s waited and yearned entirely too long for you.

He watches you arch against him, breathing shallow and quick, whining his name. The sound of his fingers working you really makes his dick hurt. But he has to stay calm. He has to let you finish. And as he does, he can’t wait to move you away from this couch, to have you in his room, pressed against his mattress for hours. He nearly cums at the thought. But no. Right now he’ll take care of you. Right now, he can wait because later there’s no chance he’ll let you go.

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