Archive of Our Own

You knock rapidly on Mammon's door. Despite the lack of response, you're not convinced of his absence. You find your D.D.D. in your pocket and click on his icon, listening carefully through the door. Sure enough, you can hear the vibration on the other side, accompanied by a muffled string of profanities.

"Open the door, Mammon." You try not to command it. You feel bad enough with the knowledge that Mammon heard you with Beel last weekend. You’ve done your best to give him the space he clearly wants in the week that has passed, but you know it can't stay like this.

You bang against the door again, this time provoking a growl from the other side. "Hey, knock it off, will ya?!"

"Mammon, open the door." You say it more forcefully, willing your words not to invoke the pact. This conversation needs to happen naturally.

"I don't wanna."

You sigh in defeat. He's already avoided you for a week. If he isn't ready to talk, you know there's no way of convincing him without commanding him. And right now, that would only further the damage. "Okay," you say, voice softer now. "I want to talk to you, so let me know when you're ready."

Mammon doesn't answer. You don't realise that your hand is resting against the door until you push away and return to your own room.

You had tried to study that morning, but without classes to distract from the seventh day of your Mammonless week, you couldn’t concentrate. Now that you have established that the Mammon-drought is ongoing, you know it's time to put those thoughts aside and focus. You gather your books. A change of scenery will hopefully set you back on track.

The fireplace in the common room is lit and crackling merrily—the first sign that you're not alone. Another set of textbooks are strewn across one end of the desk, but your eyes are drawn to the couch. Satan hasn't looked up from the book in front of him, his back against one arm of the couch with his legs across the rest of the seat. One knee is bent to prop up the book. He purposefully turns a page, unperturbed.

You sit down at the desk and arrange your books to resume studying. It works for about five minutes before your mind is side-tracked and cannot be reigned back in. You want to send a message to Mammon, but he’s been leaving you on ‘read’ all week with no response. You sigh loudly and press your forehead into your copy of History of the Devildom.

That's when you hear the book snap shut on the other side of the room. Satan put the book down on a side table, a look of irritation on his face.

"Sorry," you mumble. You keep your head down as his footsteps draw near and only look up when he pulls out the chair next to you. You feel his weight against the table as he settles and will your face away from the pages.

A blush rises to your cheeks when you see him. Now that he isn't holding a book in front of him, you can see that his shirt is only buttoned halfway up, leaving his chest very much in view.

"Something on your mind?" he asks with a smirk. He leans his head against his hand, his elbow on the table.

You groan. He knows. He definitely knows.

"Mammon has been avoiding me for a week," you say, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Satan feigns confusion. "Why would he do that?" He is met with your scowl and chuckles. "I did notice that he suddenly stopped following you around like a puppy after last weekend's ..." He pauses, thoughtfully. "Activities."

"Does everyone know about that?" You don't bother hiding the indignation in your voice.

Satan's sly grin says everything you need to know. You note the pink tinge in his cheeks as he flicks his blond hair out of his eyes. You roll your eyes, resisting the urge to faceplant back into the book in front of you. He chuckles again as he straightens up.

"Mammon is envious," Satan says, matter-of-factly.

"No kidding. But I thought he was the Avatar of Greed. Isn't envy Levi's thing?"

He crinkles his nose at you. "Our sins are not mutually exclusive," he says. "Mammon is the Avatar of Greed, which translates into lust when he thinks of your body. That also means that he is envious when somebody else has what he wants. His pride is wounded when he starts to believe that what he wants is unattainable. And then his expression of wrath is to shut himself away to brood."

"I didn't mean to upset him like this."

This time, Satan's laugh is lighter, more genuine. "Don't be ridiculous. It's not like he'd save himself for you if a good time with someone else presented itself and he felt so inclined."

That makes you flush. You clench your fist in your lap.

The click of Satan's tongue as he tsks at you sends a shiver up your spine. "And just like him, you're greedy and want him all to yourself. Thinking of him with someone else makes you mad, too. Isn't it poetic?"

"I —"

"It's only natural," he cuts you off. "It does make more sense from you, since you're human."

You lean back in your chair, raising an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

His sly grin shrinks into a coy smile and he tilts his head the other way. "In the vast majority of modern human literature that I've read, humans have a tendency to be woefully monogamous. It can be such a pitiful social construct at times."

"Are demons not?" you ask, immediately regretting the question as he scoffs.

"Of course not! Demons are incredibly polyamorous. My brothers and I are no exception, and nor should we be."

The way his eyes scan over you makes you hyper aware of your own body. You're wearing a casual blouse with the top two buttons undone, the bottom untucked from your flowy skirt. You hadn't bothered with a bra when you dressed this morning, favouring comfort for the weekend; you are uncertain whether that was a mistake as Satan's eyes bore into you. You swallow at the giddiness in your throat, trying to will the heat rising in your cheeks back under control.

"What were you reading?" You try to change the subject, glancing to the side table where he'd left his book. You stand and walk towards the couch, collecting the book from its place to read the cover in the light of the fireplace: The Exchange Student. "What's it about?"

Another regrettable question. It's like stepping into a trap and realising your mistake before it closes around you but knowing that it's already too late to escape. Satan joins you next to the fireplace. His hand reaches for the book, fingers brushing over yours. He's staring into your eyes again and you shift your focus from his face and the book and back again.

"It's about a student on an exchange program, indulging in all sorts of bodily pleasures at the hands of her new housemates." His hands find your hips. He returns the book to the side table. "It's not a particularly well-written book, but I do enjoy trashy dramas. I have to admit, I especially enjoy the raunchy details in this one."

There's still a tinge of pink in his cheeks despite how openly he admits to enjoying the book's content. He hasn't broken eye contact with you and his hands are still on your hips. Due to his height, your face is close to the exposed skin of his chest. You don't realise your eyes wandering down until his hands find yours and bring them to the top of the few shirt buttons that are actually done up. He rests your fingers there, saying nothing. You meet the alluring blue-green of his eyes again. Your mouth opens in dazed surprise as you realise that he's put the ball in your court.

The next move is up to you.

You close your mouth and finger the material around the first button until his shirt parts further. You slide your fingertips down his abdomen to the next button, feeling the definition of his frame against your skin. You keep eye contact with Satan as you undo the second and third button, only to find that there are no more. Your hand slides over his stomach and comes to rest on his belt, which sits alarmingly low on his hips. His skin is hot, you notice, resisting the urge to run your fingers down the V shape created by his hip bones.

"Would you like me to read you one of the sex scenes?" he breathes. "I wouldn't mind."

Your voice is thick in your throat and you can't quite get the words to the surface.

"Or perhaps you'd prefer a re-enactment." It is less a question and more a statement: a decision made. His hands still on your hips, he tugs you the short distance to his body and slides one hand up to the back of your head. With a fistful of your hair, he tilts your head back, forcing you to look up at the ceiling.

You feel his mouth on your throat and fail to stifle an airy gasp. His teeth graze your skin. You feel the shudder go right through you, zinging from the crown of your head to your toes and back up. You gasp again, eyes wide at the ceiling. The buttons of your blouse spray down on the floor all at once, the folds of material torn away from each other. His hands had barely left your hip and hair for a second before their work was done. Your body sears with a primordial need as his teeth ensnare the soft flesh of your breasts.

Satan is far from gentle. It hurts, but by gods you want more.

He lifts you easily, hands sliding up the back of your skirt to handle you by the thighs. Just as soon as your feet leave the ground, you feel yourself tossed backwards. The couch catches you and Satan slides over you, pushing your skirt up above your hips as his mouth comes down on yours. His tongue demands entry at the line of your lips and your jaw slacks to allow it. The warmth of his saliva as his tongue glides yours is like honey. He tilts your head further back and you feel the sensation running down your throat.

You can feel the expression of raw shock on your face when he makes short work of the fabric of your underwear, tearing it apart with a claw as his demonic form flickers around him. He smirks as his eyes lock with yours again, his demonic form gone in an instant. He isn't losing control—that was deliberate. You barely feel the small wash of relief before his mouth is pressed to your inner thigh and you finally register that he has you exposed.

"Give me more nectar," he rasps as his tongue slides up the inside of your thigh. You feel his hot breath against your labia. "And Ambrosia!"

You manage a breathless, "What...?"

"Skull the ether!" His lips brush yours and he runs a tongue along you to part them. Your head rolls back and the sound you make is a scream and a gasp in one. "I've got the taste for star-blood."

Poetry, you realise. You don't recognise it, but the way his hot breath dances across your skin through the brief recital, before his mouth crashes against your folds, stirs a needful melancholy that feels ancient. You feel his tongue rush through you, and it fills you with the most joyful sadness. Tears sting your eyes and you float above him, weightless and heavy all at once as your fingers slide into his hair and over the fabric of the couch. He laps at your wetness and draws it out of you, up along your clit and to the plump flesh over the base of your pelvis. Your hips buckle against him. He slides two fingers into the slickness and pumps you gently while he nips and bumps at you, the nub of your clit sucked between his teeth and rolling over his tongue.

You cry out as your body twitches around his finger, cumming hard. He uses his free hand to push you back into the couch. He won't let you move. He won't let you break your orgasm, as if he knows that this is the best one you've ever had, and you can barely take it. Your head is foggy. You can hear your own laboured breath as he holds you still and prolongs your pleasure.

You're whimpering by the time he stops. Even after he removes his fingers and pulls his face from between your legs, you continue to convulse and twitch. You can feel the slickness of your orgasm overflowing from within you as his hand slides up your belly, over your chest and up your neck. Your mouth is already open as he glides his sticky fingers against your tongue. You moan your pleasure into the digits, pressing your lips down over his skin.

There's a soft pop when he removes his fingers from your mouth. You don't expect the sweet gentleness of the deep kiss that follows. He's practically on top of you, supporting the back of your head with one hand as you lean backwards over the arm of the couch. His whole mouth tastes of you and you feel the evidence of your pleasure transfer from his skin to yours.

Satan breaks the kiss to whisper in your ear. "On our way up to the top past welled-up roots of blood ..." His words are slow and rhythmic as he pulls your skirt over your head and throws it to the floor. "Through the forest of mist I planted in our minds ..." He helps you shrug out of the torn-up blouse, kissing your neck. "And the crowds of ghosts running smoke-fingers down our spines."

His hands grace over your breasts. Silence, for a moment, as his lips mould with your neck. You feel your skin pucker between his teeth and know that he's leaving a mark. You groan into the love-bite, eliciting a soft chuckle from Satan.

The way he pulls your head upright and makes you look at him is so sudden that you realise how close you'd been to drifting off in a blissful daze. You're hyper aware again, noting that you're completely naked, sprawled on the couch in the common room and the door has been wide open the whole time.

He holds your gaze. You hold your breath as he rasps, "On our long way to the top, all I can think of is laying you out and down on an animal rug."

An involuntary oh escapes you. Without another word, he pulls you to your feet and leads you closer to the fireplace. The flickering heat brings your attention to how cold you are, standing naked in the common room now that you're not sandwiched between Satan and the couch. He stands you in the middle of a soft rug in front of the fire. You glance down at your feet and take in the shape of the soft, thick floor covering. It had the shape of a wolf, but the size of a bear. You don't notice the way Satan circles you until you feel his breath on the back of your shoulders. Your breath catches in your throat and your body stiffens, facing the fire.

There is the click of his belt unbuckling, the shifting of leather against fabric, the parting teeth of a zipper and the patter of pants bundling onto the floor. He touches your shoulders with both hands, squeezing gently at your trapezius as you shudder.

"On your knees," he whispers with his mouth in your hair.

You go down in an instant, knees pressing into the rug. You feel him come down behind you. Satan brushes your hair over one shoulder, his mouth against the other. His hands run down your sides to rest on your hips. You feel the subtle pressure as he moves his hands, but it's enough for you to understand want he wants. You drop forward in front of him, hands towards the fireplace as he spreads you from behind and positions himself.

"You look like poetry," he says, using one hand to push your shoulders to the floor. The firelight dances warm across your face as he holds you there, ass up for him, still dripping from the things he'd done with his mouth and hands. The tip of his cock pushes into you and he uses it to draw out more of your cum. You can feel it running thickly down the inside of your thighs. You can hear the sticky sounds as he slicks it over his erection. "I'm going to make you sing for me."

Is it a coincidence that the moan that he pulls from you when he pushes himself in is so melodic? He sighs behind you, holding your backside against him firmly, still for a moment while he enjoys the warmth of being inside you. He still has one hand on your shoulders, keeping you down as he slowly begins to thrust. He takes his time with you, the slow push and pull of him moving inside you bring the melodic notes from your lips as you gasp and sigh into the rug. The feeling of joyful sorrow wells in your stomach again, and you feel somehow desperate for more. All you can do is buck your hips back against him to pick up the pace, but the motion results in his hands tightening at your hips and shoulders almost painfully. He pulls out of you completely. You whine at the sudden absence, trembling beneath him.

"I didn't say you could do that," he hisses. He presses your face into the rug in warning. "Hold still and behave yourself, or I'll stop."

No, you definitely don't want him to stop. You whimper an agreement and try not to squirm with need until he slides into you again. The note that rings out from your chest is muffled into the rug. You press your forehead into the fur beneath you, willing yourself to let him lead, lest he stop and leave you wanting. It's unbearable. You can feel yourself tightening around his shaft, the need to climax again shaking in your bones. You hear his deep chuckle behind you. He tugs you upright with your hair, arching your back as he grinds himself into you with more fervour.

He pulls your body flush against his as he leans back on his knees, until you're sitting in his lap with his cock inside you.

"If you want to come again, lift your arms up." The request sounds strange as he rocks your body over his. You let him guide your arms up, bending at the elbows to slide back over your head—over his head. You card your fingers through his hair, thumbs running down the nape of his neck. "Good," he whispers into your skin. "Just like that."

He cups your breasts firmly before his arms snake around your waist. He draws you against his torso. One hand wanders south while the other stays pressed to your stomach, holding you to him. He slips his fingers against your clit again and the sensation makes you jolt. You worry he'll stop, but he sounds amused as he hums into your ear. He continues to touch you and you know he can feel you clenching tighter around his cock. His lips are on your jawline, hot breath against your ear, your hair in his mouth.

"Sing for me now."

A squeeze from his fingers and you're crying out so loudly that your throat hurts, shaking against him as you cum. You've gone impossibly tight around him and can't help the way your hips move with his, but this time he doesn't reprimand you. His other hand moves from your belly to the back of your head, tugging you back by the hair as his thrusting intensifies. He pounds into you as you continue to orgasm, each thrust punctuating the moan that passes your lips.

You hear him growl in your ear and his grip on you tightens. He sinks his teeth into the crook of your neck and you're sure he's drawn blood, but you don't care. His tongue flickers against your skin as he hisses his pleasure into you, stilling as he finishes and relaxes his hold on your hair.

A sigh slides out of you as he snakes his arms around your midriff. Now his mouth is tender against the crook of your neck, pressing kisses to the place he'd bitten you. Satan breathes you in, letting the tip of his nose drag from your neck to your scalp, just behind your ear. He's kissing your hair, his thumbs rubbing circles along your lower ribs. You relax into him, savouring the warmth of his skin.

From the corner of your eye, you see a figure in the doorway to the common room. You gasp as you turn your head to see Lucifer, a look of utter displeasure set across his face. He clears his throat pointedly. You want to disappear. Satan chuckles. You can feel him grinning into your hair. Somehow, you’re not at all surprised that Lucifer’s displeasure is funny to Satan.

"If you're both quite done, I'll ask that you choose somewhere more private next time and remember to close the door." To his credit, his voice stays level. You feel Satan bristle against your back with irritation. "Make sure you clean up after yourselves."

Lucifer turns on his heels to leave. A lazy flick of Satan's wrist causes the doors of the common room to slam shut with deliberate force. It makes you jump, and you imagine the look of rage on Lucifer's face on the other side.

As Satan pulls himself out of you, you let yourself curl into the rug, the warmth from the fire kissing your skin as you take in how sore you are everywhere. He stands, presumably as naked as the day he was born, and wanders over to the fireplace to add a couple more logs. You're surprised when he returns to your side. He rolls you onto your back as he holds himself above you, pressing a kiss to your mouth.

“Have a rest,” he says softly. “I’m not done with you just yet.”

Your eyes grow wide. You were not expecting your day to eventuate in this manner.

He lays back on the rug next to you, summoning the book from the side table as he lets his head rest against yours, and continues reading.