Archive of Our Own

"Are you looking to buy for yourself or for someone else?"

You look to the side to find the store owner standing next to you. She seems nice, and the smile she directs at you makes you feel like you're right at home. You glance back at the plants in front of you, conscious of the weight of your tote-bag with the items for tonight's dinner. 

It's the first time you've set foot in this particular flower shop. It's on your way to the apartment, so you've passed by it countless times in the last five months you've been living in the area. Today would've been no different had you not accidentally dropped your phone right in front of the store, and had taken the time to actually look at what's inside.

The display of plants this time around on the window display seem to be based around low-maintenance plants, and needles to say, you had caught sight of some of the cacti sitting there, tall and clunky compared to some of the more delicate-looking flowers and plants. But it hadn't been the big cacti that had caught your attention—

No.

It had been the tiny ones set in front of the huge ones. You have a thing for small, little cute things, and those? baby cacti? Your feet had dragged you inside before you had even realized it.

You know the store is only run by two people—the owner herself, and whom you're assuming has to be a family member given their similarities. When you had walked in, they had both been busy with some clients, and because you hadn't really walked in with the purpose of buying anything, you didn't exactly mind not being tended to. Instead you had occupied yourself by looking around at all of the different types of flowers and plants. 

Then you ended up gravitating towards the cacti, because how could you not?! It warms your heart a little, truly.

"I..." You start, and then take a second look at all of the cacti in front of you. You've never really been a plant person, but if you were to start, you guess small cacti would be the way to go. There's just something so adorable about them and—jesus, why are you getting so worked up over some plants?

You catch sight of a particularly small one, a tiny yellow flower sitting on top of it's head like a crown. You let out a small noise and shuffle closer, ignoring the delighted laughter that the store owner sends your way.

It reminds you of Satan so much.

"I'm buying for someone else," You say, and then straighten up and point towards the little guy. "That one, actually."

The owner gives you a brief smile before she motions for her other worker to get the plant for you. As that whole process is being done and you pay, having acquired a new plant, the owner asks you what type of person you're giving it to.

You don't get any weird vibes from her, and the question seems genuine enough that you don't think twice about it when you let her know; "It reminds me of my roommate, I don't think he'd appreciate being compared to a tiny, cute little fella like this one though." 

"Ah, you must care for him a lot!"

You hesitate. "I mean, I wouldn't say that..."

"Right," the store owner says, and the smile she gives you seems softer, almost like pity. 

You're not sure why that is, but you don't question it for long. Satan sends you another text message, asking you how long it'll take you to get home, and you bid the woman a good evening before making the ten-minute walk back into your apartment.

When you finally make it home, opening the door to the apartment means that you're greeted first-thing by the heavenly aroma that comes from the kitchen. You close the door softly behind you, walking forward until you reach the kitchen where Satan's busy chopping up vegetables. He's too engrossed listening to what you're assuming is a podcast, so he doesn't see you walk in.

You place the tote-bag on the kitchen counter, and then the other bag where your new little friend is inside of. You take notice of all of the pots and pans occupying the stove, and then your eyes slide around the kitchen. There's an organized mess going on, and for a second you can't help but wonder once again why Satan insists on cooking for an army when it's just the two of you.

You've asked him about it before, and while at first he had replied with fake-hurt ( "You don't like my cooking enough to eat re-heats? I'm wounded." ), he had later admitted that it was a force of habit.

He wouldn't specify afterwards, despite your prodding. 

Aside from the mess, you notice that he's wearing sweats, and his hair seems like it's been stuck on bed-head mode all day. It comes to mind then, that he's probably been home all day today. You glance at the cactus in the bag, and then back at him. 

It's been a week now of him not going to work. You're not worried about rent—although that's only because you know he has the money for it, and there's still a few more weeks left before rent is due once more—but more about how he's coping with it.

He hasn't mentioned it, but you can tell there's something bothering him about not being currently employed. You don't pry however, and you're not sure if he's thankful or annoyed by your lack of questioning. 

Technically, dinner was supposed to be your duty tonight, but Satan had texted you saying that he could do it. You still had a couple of hours left at your job, so you decided not to deny him the opportunity, and asked him if he needed anything for tonight. Hence the items he requested.

You knock on the counter five times, and the vibrations are enough to have Satan glance back. His green eyes lighten up briefly when he looks at you, and then he's taking one of the earbuds out of his ear and motioning towards the tote-bag.

"You didn't have any problems getting the ingredients?" He asks, even though he's already sorting through the bag and pulling out the ingredients. You let out a small laugh, leave him to it.

"I got them all," you shrug. "You don't mind if I join you, right?"

"Hm," Satan picks up the ingredients and sets the closer to the chopping board where he previously was. "Feel free."

"Great." You say, and then head towards your bedroom. You switch from your work clothes to something more comfortable in a couple of minutes, washing your face and hands in the bathroom before heading back towards the kitchen.

"So I started that book you recommend to me a while..." When you step up towards the kitchen, you find Satan leaning on the counter, something curious on the expression in his face. Cradled in his hands is the small cactus. "...ago."

He raises it up, brows furrowed. You feel your face flush.

"It has my name on it."

"I—" You shake your head, "you weren't supposed to see it now!"

Satan blinks, and looks even more confused. "Why?"

"Why were you going through the other bag?" You sound pissed, and you are. Not at him necessarily, but more at yourself. The idea of buying him the dumb thing was to like, make it a joke or something, but now you're second-guessing the whole thing. Is it too weird? You've only known each other for the better part of three months. Oh god. 

Satan's lips thin out, "you forgot something. I can do without it, but I thought you must've placed it there. Instead I found this."

He sets the cactus down, on top of the little card that has Satan written in cursive. 

"..."

"A cactus, with my name on it."

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "Don't make a big deal out of it. I just thought it looked like you."

"Oh." Satan breathes out, and then he goes back to looking at the cactus. For some reason you're not too keen on exploring, you end up examining his facial expression. The tip of his ears are dusting red, but that's the extent of what you can gather about his whole opinion of the thing.

"You don't have to kee—"

"No." Satan shakes his head, "I think I will keep it." And then he pushes it to the side with care, so that it's not in the way of everything else. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose, breathe in twice.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, just... don't think too hard about it." For some reason, him accepting it just makes the whole thing worse. You need a break.

You're not sure when he's managed to worm his way under your skin, but Satan does an excellent job at breaking down your walls enough that even something as small as this has you scrambling for excuses. You feel like you're thirteen again and experiencing your first crush.

You eye him, his back turned to you. And then you let your eyes roam down further down, where even with the baggy clothes he's wearing do nothing to hide the curve of his ass.

You're fucked. 

"You're back early."

You swear loudly when you look up from your phone. In the living room, sitting down on the further edge of the couch with a single lamp illuminating the book he's reading, sits Satan. You had expected him to be in bed by now—a glance at your clock has you confirming that it is close to being 2 a.m. and your roommate is usually by bed extremely early.

Today seems to be the exception.

"You scared the crap out of me."

Satan gives you a small smile, non-apologetic. "Sorry."

You roll your eyes, taking off your shoes and kicking them somewhere off to the side. 

"How'd your date go?"

"Did you stay up waiting for me?" Re-direct the question back to him, you're in no mood to think about the date you had just come from. You're a bit upset, sixty-five percent because you really thought you might had something solid and waiting to develop with this one person, and the other thirty-five because you did not get laid. You even wore your nicest outfit, and Satan had provided some very useful commentary and tips for your date.

You had left the apartment in good spirits, especially so given that Satan had complimented you and had been interested enough in your outing to give you tips. That was a new thing between the two of you, and you had hoped that maybe these three months living together would also result in a new friendship, after-all, living with your best-friend had always been a dream of yours. Satan is nice company, unlike the asshole you had wasted five hours of your time with.

"No," Satan says, ever so honest. He looks sheepish though when he raises the book he has in hand. "I happened to get very invested in this book, I hadn't realized just how much time had passed."

You sigh. "At least one of us enjoyed themselves tonight."

Satan gives you a curious look, "It couldn't have been that bad."

"I wanted to go down on them," You admit, frustrated. Satan let's out a choked little noise that you ignore. You're tired and crabby, "that was the whole point of tonight's date. But there's no better way to kill the spark than by saying you find serial killers hot."

You give him a small smile.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Satan considers you for a second, and what he says next is a poor attempt at livening up the mood. 

"If only I had someone so eager to please me," Satan jokes, and you know it's a joke because his voice goes flat, and it does that a lot when he's trying to be funny.

You know this, and yet—

"I could do it." You hear the words come out of your mouth, "suck you off."

Satan goes quiet, and would you look at that? It seems you're discovering new things about yourself! You will blame your poor brain-to-mouth filter on the one cup of expensive wine you drank during your shitty dinner date. 

"I could." saying it twice doesn't help ease the knots in your stomach, and the way Satan is looking at you is just making the whole thing worse. "If you'd like."

"Do you make it a habit to offer to perform fellatio on your roommates, or am I special?" Is what he says after a ridiculous amount of time—enough so that you have half a mind to just go shove his stupid cactus in your mouth and hopefully choke on it. 

Your face sours briefly, and Satan let's out a chuckle that should not sound as airy and light as it does. Fellatio, like the jackass can't help but not speak regularly like any other person. Realistically you know it's just your brain grasping at straws to set you off into one of those self-doubting episodes of yours that you've been working on for the last couple of years, so you push down that flicker of annoyance the pops up. 

But... it's not a 'no'.

Jesus fuck, you don't know how you end up getting yourself in these situations. Now that you're here however, it almost seems like a waste to back-down on your offer—especially considering the fact that you've pretty much let Satan know there's some interest on his person. You creep closer to the couch, Satan's eyes locked on yours unrelenting and infuriatingly annoying with how they shine in unspoken smugness. 

"No, I don't really do this."

"So I am special?" Satan breathes out. It comes out soft, softer than you would've expected from him.

It occurs to you that maybe there's something more to his choice of words, but you're not really here to play therapist—and if his phone conversations with what you're assuming has to be family members is anything to go by, there's a lot to unpack—so you file that away for later in that little corner of your brain that's been specifically designated for Satan, because there is nothing wrong with wanting to know more about your roommate, none at all. 

Just like there's nothing wrong with scratching a mutual itch.

You're both adults, and worse comes to worse this whole thing turns awkward for both parties. Best case scenario; this becomes a regular thing, and maybe now you can stop trying to keep going on dates that keep leaving you emotionally drained. 

"My compliments will cost you," you shrug, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips when you notice Satan's interest pique in a different way—goes brightly amused, unlike the relaxed yet smug look from earlier, much like that of a feline. Standing now in front of him, he's tilting his chin just the barest amount to look at you. You break the eye contact to give him a once-over.

He isn't in his pajamas, is the first thing you notice. But he also isn't wearing anything different—just the same pale green sweater he had been wearing five hours ago when you left for your date—which means that he hasn't moved from this spot since you last left him. A glance to the side reveals the book that he was so engrossed in prior to your arrival, and you can't help but raise a single eyebrow. Botany.

Without looking at him, you can tell he's smiling.

"What? You didn't think I would indulge in a book about plants?"

You shrug, shifting on your foot. "You seem like the academia type," you pause, and then amend; "I mean... you seem like the type to read about history, thriller... detective works." You throw the last one in just because you've seen some of the covers of the books you've caught him reading on a given day the two of you are actually inside the apartment at the same time.

"Hm," he agrees. "However, I do happen to enjoy reading anything that ends up in my hands. Knowledge in the form of literacy is fun."

You eye him, "If you say so." 

For once, you're glad that you let him choose the carpet for the living room—fluffy and white, and comfortingly soft—because when you finally do end up going down to your knees, and scooting closer to the couch and in front of his legs, you're not met with the unforgiving coldness that is your apartment floor.

Satan lets out a sound, and your attention snaps back up to him. You're pleasantly surprised to see that there's a nice flush to his face, and even though he seems intent on keeping eye contact with you, he seems to be having a hard battle with himself to keep doing so.

Something like satisfaction coils in your gut. There's just something about having him unable to keep the calm exterior he seems to carry around himself break, all because you got down on your knees. You're half-expecting a comment about it—previous instances where you've been in the same position have you waiting for a comment about how good you look like this, obedient, needy, and then another part of you, thinks, it would be nice, maybe, if he said something like you're so desperate, it's cute—but all Satan does is give you a pointed look before saying;

"I have a soft spot for romance."

Romance? 

"Huh."

He seems oddly pleased by your reaction, leaning back on the couch and spreading his legs. Your mouth runs a little dry, especially when he places an arm over the back of the couch, all comfort. "I'll admit, I'm a romantic at heart."

You move closer, placing your hands on both thighs on either side of you. You can feel the muscles flex under your palms, the texture of his fitted jeans a nice contrast to the fabric of your own date-outfit. You squeeze his left thigh, and Satan hums.

For some inexplicable reason, you feel—nervous.

It's not because of the way he keeps looking at you, or because your brain keeps on playing his dumb question from earlier on loop (sounding very much like how many dates has it been this month huh? and then, harsher, you're really pathetic, offering to blow him because you didn't have a nice date tonight). It does however, have everything to do with the fact that in the three months the two of you have been living together, one painstakingly thing has become clear:

Satan is attractive, and you always had a soft-spot for attractive people.

Even beyond that—his company, when he deigns to spend any time with you, is pleasant. The silences have stopped being awkward around the third week mark, when he had offered to eat dinner together with some excuse you can't quite remember. You don't think the two of you are friends yet, but it's blooming into something close to it.

Truth be told, you're having second-guesses now.

They're not potent enough to prevent you from delivering on your offer (which he has yet to decline, and wouldn't that be uncomfortable? having him let you get down on your knees only to tell you he's not interested... but he's not that type of person, you can tell), so you lick your lips and look up at him.

"I don't know about this being romantic," you start, and Satan quirks an eyebrow. "But I'd very much like to suck your dick."

Satan's laughter comes out in a huff of breath, but the tip of ears go even more red, and the way his eyes bare into you is intense. "How forward."

You shrug, unable to keep the mirth in your voice as one of your hands crawls further up his thigh, while the other squeezes his other thigh in what you're hoping is comfort—an unconscious movement that you're not sure if you're doing to reassure him or yourself.

Your fingers ghost over his crotch area, aware that he's not even half-hard, but—that's fine. It's not like there was any foreplay yet and you did kind of asked out of nowhere.

Then you hesitate near the hem of his sweater, looking up to catch his face. Satan's gone awfully quiet, and his eyes keep flickering between your face and your hand on his crotch, not quite ready to go under his sweater to reach the button of his jeans and the zipper.

His other hand, when you glance at it, is partially hidden behind one of the pillows on the couch, but you can see it now, clear as day—it's closed in a fist, knuckles white from how tight he's closing his hand.

"You don't have to," you point out, deliberately making sure to let him see the way your eyes are trained on his hand, and then looking up at his face. "I offered, but you never gave me an answer."

"I—" Satan stops himself, blinks, and then his brows furrow. It takes him a second to reply, and he looks a bit lost—like he's just snapped out of a trance. "You're right."

"So?"

Satan's licks his lips, and throws his head back. His Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, and you can't help but think that it's ridiculously unfair how handsome he is. "Go ahead."

And it's not like you need any other incentive. 

You shift in place, trying to make this comfortable for you. You give Satan one last comforting squeeze before you move both your hands up towards his crotch, and then under his sweater and making quick work of the button, and then his zipper. Satan helps you out the rest of the way by lifting himself up in order to shimmy down his pants and black briefs down enough so that you're able to comfortably be in between his legs, and also have a nice view of dick.

Speaking of which—

There's a patch of curly blonde hair just above his dick, trimmed and kind of difficult to see because of how translucent it seems to be—not that you get much time to look at it or the obviously toned stomach that lies above that, given that his sweater goes back down to cover him. His dick is limp, as is to be expected, but when you lean closer and breathe softly near it, you see it twitch.

Its a nice dick, you think, slender enough that you're not really worried about having trouble getting it inside your mouth, but also long enough that you bet you can gag on it easily.

When you steal a glance up at Satan, you notice that he's gone oddly quiet, but he's still looking at you. Waiting.

"Yeah," you say, gripping the base of dick and thumbing along the side of a vein close to your thumb. Satan lets out a grunt, and his hips cant upwards once. "I'd rather be here than with them..."

Satan starts out laughing, but then he cuts himself off with a low moan when you take that exact moment to take his dick into your mouth and suck. Your attention shifts into a single focus-point, and that's getting Satan hard and moaning under your hands. You bet he makes the loveliest sounds, and this is exactly what you need right now—the serotonin that comes from pleasing another person, from knowing that you're the reason they're happy, if only briefly.

You begin to bob your head up and down slowly, uncaring of the way you can feel your saliva run down the corners of your chin as you deliberate try to make the whole thing as slick as possible. You doubt Satan keeps any lube in the couch, you'd know otherwise—and a part of you doesn't mind not having anything else but your saliva easing the friction. It doesn't take long for you to feel his cock begin to harden in your mouth, and with one movement down you begin to pull back, deliberately keeping your lips around the head his dick and sucking one last time, tasting the saltiness of his pre-cum.

His dick comes out of your mouth with a wet pop, and you watch as it curves back nicely, standing erect and glistening. You lick your lips, grasping the base of his dick with one hand and squeezing, looking up to find Satan's used one of his hands to cover his mouth, the other gripping the couch's cushion with such force you're kind of scared he'll end up ripping the fabric. His eyes are close, and his chest expands with every and each bit of air that he takes, and yet he's still too quiet for your own amusement.

You call his name, and he lets out a shaky exhale. His face is covered in a thin layer of sweat, and his blonde hair is in slight disarray. When he tilts his head to the side, hand dropping limply on the side, you're quite content with the way his eyes have seem to grown darker. 

You haven't been down here for more than six minutes, and he looks absolutely perfect like this.

"Hey," you say, and then lean forward—trying to keep eye contact, even though the angle is a bit awkward and your neck kind of hurts—to slowly drag the flat of your tongue on the underside of his dick, all the way to the head. A bead of precum sitting at the top of it, you give it a small lick, loving the way Satan's whole body shivers. "Pay attention to me."

Satan lets out a deep huff of breath, but concedes. "You're making it very hard not to."

"Good." You give him another squeeze, and then slowly begin to pump him. Your spit doesn't go a long way in keeping things slick, so you have to end up taking him into your mouth again at some point. Satan let's out a very audible groan when you use teeth, lightly dragging along the length of his dick, and he surprises you by canting his hips up when you're half-way down taking him—effectively making you gag on his dick.

He lets out another noise at that, and before you're able to pull back up again, you find his hands gripping the back of your head, pushing just the tiniest bit.

You can feel the tears in your eyes, the salty taste of his precum in the back of your throat. Your jaw aches, and then Satan cants his hip upwards once, twice. He doesn't let go of your head, keeping you in the same place.

"Wait, I—" He lets out another grunt when you hum in questioning, "fuck."  Satan's fingers on your scalp tighten, and you feel him begin the motion to push you further down on his dick, but you stubbornly set your head right where it is. Taking a deep breath through your nostrils, you don't know how to really feel.

Used? Yeah, a little bit. Although it's not a complaint, just... unexpected. The way he's holding onto you spells very clearly that he wants to fuck your mouth, and the prospect is tempting...

You don't necessarily need to come back up, you're more than happy to remain unable to speak if you're stuck sucking on his dick. But you'd also like to see him come undone while you jerk him off. 

Although, the fact that he's finally placed his hands on you—it leaves you feeling giddy, makes your blood run hot in anticipation. 

You suck, hollowing out your cheeks, and Satan hisses. His dick twitches inside of your mouth. 

"You're... If I had known—" Satan cuts himself off, and his grip on your scalp lessens. When you look up as must as you can, you find him staring at you a little feverish looking, undone. Like he's having a hard time keeping his control perfect, and it's honestly doing wonders for your self-esteem, and also not helping the thrumming consist desire pooling in your gut. "You look so, ah— you look so good there."

"Hm," you close your eyes, ignore the way your jaw is starting to ache, and bob your head, Satan allowing you to pull off until your lips are once again at the tip of his head. You run your tongue along the slit of it, and make up for the lack of contact by grasping his dick loosely and pumping it, dragging upwards slowly. When you finally pull away, with your fist closed around the corona of his cock, only a thin thread of saliva and precum connects the two of you.

You make eye contact with Satan as you lick your lips, and the way he looks at you shifts the whole aura of the living-room. It goes very quick to something a lot more personal, a lot more possessive. You're not really sure how to explain it, but there's something assessing in his gaze that goes beyond anything that lust might be doing to cloud his rational thought process.

It's... it leaves you feeling warm, for reasons you don't want to think about. 

"Let me fuck your mouth." His voice is rough, sounds deeper, and very controlled. One hand trails down from the back of your head down towards your nape, squeezing a bit. You close your eyes, shivering at the action, and at the way the band of the ring on his finger refuses to be warmed against his skin, a cold pressure that alerts you to your surroundings. You moan, low and needy.

"Yeah," you say, and then again after swallowing, trying to get any sort of friction for yourself by moving your thighs because fuck, you didn't know how affected you were by all of this until now. "Okay."

Satan guides you back towards his cock, and you place both your hands on either side of his legs, relaxing all of your muscles and your jaw and throat was much as you can. You gives his head a couple of kitten licks, teasing him only to be rewarded with little huffs of breaths that give way to something that could pass off as a grunt, before you open up your mouth. 

"You're so good," he breathes out, and begins to push your head down, slower than you would've expected him to. He's very careful to not thrust his hips, allowing you to accommodate his length down your throat, stopping when he sees your eyes close and your eyebrows furrow, nails digging slightly on his thighs. "So good for me, stay there for a little longer, kitten."

The moan you let out is part embarrassment and part arousal. Kitten? That's a new one, and not wholly unwelcome.

At some point, you feel him bottoming out, and his pubic hair trickles your nose just barely. You take in a breath through your nose, the smell of sweat and some musky making your head go dizzy in a pleasant way. Just there, overpowered by the smell of bodily fluids, you can make out the barest hint of something you're starting to realize is typical of Satan—although you can't hold on to that thought any longer, because Satan grunts and the hand in your head pulls you back abruptly, halfway up his dick.

He lets out a pained hiss when in the action, you don't mind your teeth. You shoot a glare his way, but he seems fine, jaw tense and sweaty, but otherwise fine. 

Satan swallows, "You look absolutely breathtaking," and no, you do not advert your eyes from his gaze because you're embarrassed. Absolutely not. "Makes me want to—" he thrusts, "—ah, makes me want to ruin you."

You close your eyes, whine around his cock, and Satan laughs breathlessly. 

"You'd let me," He says, and because you can't disagree you just keep making noises, Satan likes the vibrations against his dick, if his panting is of any indication. The way the hand around your neck tightens, brings you further down on his cock again. You're very aware of the mess your chin and throat are, slick with spit. "Fuck, you'd really let me."

When Satan says your name, you find it a bit difficult to open your eyes. Your head feels fuzzy, and lightheaded. A pleasant buzz that keeps you from complaining about the way your mouth is beginning to hurt from the amount of time he's kept it open.

"Makes me wonder just for how long you've been wanting this," there's something weird to his voice, and something flashes across his face far too quick for you to catch on. "You're awfully good at that—giving."

You have half-a-mind to pull back and ask him what he means, but then Satan is shifting forward, curving his whole body over you and begins to piston his hips upwards. The first thrust catches you off guard, and you moan around his cock, and by the time he's set up as a rough, but slow pace, you've gotten used to it.

Satan keeps your head pressed to his pelvis the whole time, and the little grunts that escape his mouth are hot and leave you wanting to seek your own pleasure but—

Just being here right now, it's nice, it's good—you're enjoying this.

You mostly zone out at some point—coming back to reality when Satan does a particular rough thrust into your mouth, and when his grunts and pants turn into curse words. You do your best to help out, but with your hands firmly planted on his legs, and your mouth the only available option, you're basically stuck by trying to please him with your tongue and the moaning you keep making. So you're loud, and it spurs him on.

The sound of Satan fucking into your mouth is by far the hottest thing you've had the pleasure of experiencing first-hand.

"Shit," Satan growls out, and his speed picks up. The way he grips your head and neck is beginning to border on painful, and you moan around his cock. "Shit."

That's all the warning you get before he thrusts in once, twice, and then a third time before he pushes your head down hard into his pelvis, making his cock go deep into your throat and shooting his load into your mouth. You choke a little on it, and even your whine isn't enough to alert Satan of the fact. The amount of cum is too much, and some of it dribbles down your spit-slicked lips. Satan lazily thrusts into your mouth a few times, before he lets out a pleased sigh and the grip on your neck and head lessen.

"Look at you kitten," Satan coos, and the hand behind your head moves until he's able to cup your face, a thumb brushing the stray tears away. "You did so well, you needed this, huh?"

You close your eyes, huff through your nose. 

Satan rubs your cheek with the pad of his thumb a couple of seconds before he starts pulling out of your mouth, and although he hisses from the sensitivity, he stops just when the head of his cock remains past your lips. 

When you look at him, you find him breathless and sweaty, the flush on his face makes him look absolutely divine and you can't help but realize that you'd made a horrible mistake, because this? Nothing will ever top it.

Fuck.

Fuck—

"Swallow," He says and the part of your brain that isn't busy having an existential crisis goes well since you asked so nicely, and then you do— you swallow. Satan's eyelids lower in pure satisfaction, and the head of his dick finally pops free from your mouth. Satan's hand around your neck and on your face leaves, and he sits back on the couch, let's out a very pleased huff of air.

You grimace at the lingering taste of cum in your mouth, it's not your favorite in the world but—Satan looked oddly pleased when you followed his orders, and that part of you that keeps wanting to please people, it just followed through with it.

You sit back on your butt, propping yourself up with your arms extended out behind you and leaning back to examine Satan. 

Then something pops into mind.

"What did you mean by that?" You ask, waiting until Satan sits up properly. "That whole thing about me being good at giving."

Satan consider you for a split second before vaguely motioning towards the coffee table, where the small cactus you bought him sits. "You bought me a cactus."

"And?" You blink up at him, not really sure where he's going with this. Yeah, you bought him a cactus, but it was honestly a last-minute decision for no other reason than the fact that you thought it was cute, and small the yellow flower on top of it's little head reminded you of Satan. 

"And you said that you don't make it a point to buy people plants, if you can avoid it."

"Yeah, I think it's dumb... they die off anyways."

Satan lets out an amused sound, and you think he should not look as entertained as he does right now when he's got his limp dick out and about. He looks dumb.

"In some cultures, giving someone a cactus means that you believe they're a fighter." He begins, and shit, you can feel your face heat up when you realize why the lady at the shop had seemed so amused by your choice, "it could also mean that you care about them, and in Japan, it means that you hold feelings for them."

You feel your heart stop, and you can't seem to look away from Satan's beautiful green eyes.

Satan smiles softly, and you see him fiddling the ring on his hand. It takes him a couple of seconds to stop that and redirect his gaze back on you. "I wonder—"

"No." You stop him, and his smile grows bigger, "Don't—No. I didn't know, if I had known I wouldn't have given you a cactus."

"Ah, but you would've bought me something regardless."

"Satan."

He laughs, waves his hand in the air. "I'm joking. I do like seeing you flustered though. This was... nice."

"Right." You breathe out. 

Satan hums, and then his eyes flicker down between your legs. He leans forward, arms braced on his thighs as he contemplates you. "I could return the favor, if you'd like."

You lick your lips.

"Sure."