#satan writes

[bloodclxt]

😈Wanted to write a short drabble of Lestat playing with Louis' body. Enjoy~ (this is based on the amc adaption)

“Will you stop?~ I’m tryna relax..”

Louis said in his devilish Creole accent before taking a drag of his cigarette and retrohaling it.

Lestat smiled at him as his hands continued to explore the body beside him.

“Louis..You know exactly what you’re doing-“

His skin is so soft. So smooth and brilliant. It was all Lestat could think about.

“-You know you like it when I praise you. Don’t be so coy with me, love..”

Louis smirked and rolled his eyes at Lestat clocking his attempt at seduction. No matter how much he pretended to ignore it, Louis knew how attracted Lestat was to him and he loved all the attention that came with it. With just a smile and a curl of a finger, he could make this centuries old vampire hard as rock. He could set his partners heart ablaze in the right suit, with the right attitude, with the right setting. He knew that his beau could barely keep his hands to himself when he’s fully dressed and being naked in front of him was a sure fire way to get Lestat on his knees. The power he felt knowing that Lestat was damn near crazy for him was intoxicating. Louis’ chest rose up and down as he took another drag, letting the smell of tobacco permeate their surroundings. His eyes soon closed as Lestat’s thumbs played with his nipples.

“Mmmm..Down, boy~” Louis teased through a slight moan.

Lestat couldn’t help but moan back as his thumbs delicately flicked and circled around the buds.

“They’re so sensitive. I hope you don’t mind if I have a taste..”

Just then..Louis’ head tilted back and his chest rose from the feeling of Lestat’s mouth sucking sweetly on his body. Both nipples started to harden as he lapped at them over and over, each succulent flick of his tongue, each suction from his lips sending a pulse of pleasure through the rest of his body.

[satanlovescats]

Self

“Kindly stop that.”

An ember flickering. Something so trivial. The slurping of a drink. His words dripped with venom, sickly as molasses. 

The magic began wearing off over the course of dinner, slowly returning to himself. A wisp of smoke, a spark igniting. Requests taken too literally, a fork narrowly missing a reaching hand.

On exiting the castle grounds, the flames set ablaze. He returned to normal, as did his brothers. Silence. No one spoke on the way back to the house. The human stayed behind, offering to help the angels take the leftovers back to Purgatory Hall.

They understood. The brothers needed time to come back to themselves. 

Leftovers. A thing many wouldn’t think twice on. Something he never experienced at a dinner with all his brothers present. He hadn’t noticed just how... disturbing it felt until now. How all their behaviour was so inherently wrong.

It made his skin crawl. Feelings lost and feelings revealed without his consent, spoken in a haze of kicked up ashes from a dead fire. Extinguished by magic far greater than his own, no way to fight against it.

He retreated to his room, door locked tight. The crashes began. Books flying and wood snapping. 

It wasn’t deserved. 

Taking away the very thing that saw his creation. What he took as his own and worked to control, millennia of constant effort. And in the matter of hours it was gone. A calm he’d never known. An emptiness. Cold fingers grasping at the fires of his soul and putting them out with ease.

Was it truly that easy to take away such a huge part of his identity? One spell and he lost so much of himself. His stomach knotted, an ache deep and unsettling. 

He panted softly, claws retracting and tail curling around his leg, squeezing with a welcomed pressure. When did he enter demon form? He shook his head. It didn’t matter. What did was now he could. 

Sitting amongst the carnage, he frowned. It would take hours to straighten up, mending spells and careful placement. Not that he hadn’t done so many times before, and would do so many more.

He was Satan, Avatar of Wrath, and rage was part of him. Something he never denied. Something he never wanted taken away again. 

He was a fire never to be put out.

[satan-666s-stuff]

Lost Spirit

The men left young            

They left strong            

But came back broken       

Came back without a song    

They left out spoken         

But came back beaten        

Came back incomplete        

They came back weaken        

They were beat           

And empty was the street       

The future was bleak       

They were at ends meet        

They use to answer with cheek   

But now they are meek       

It takes a week           

For them to even speak       

[purple-satan-fic]

can we talk about how good game is basically a tragic alternate reality where dan’s dreams to be danny sexbang or have a band don‘t pan out and he never leaves his stoner party phase and arin is great at videogames but at what cost  now he‘s got depression and trust issues and no motivation because of what happened to him as a teenager like alex and ryland are such less-well adjusted people because of their “failures” and it just blows my mind its a take on if their dreams were never fully actualized and now they live together in a shitty apartment playing a dumbass soul sucking moba that is basically league of legends like this is some crazy meta-level shit worthy of fanfic well played man

[peach-punch-satan]

We have to make a story in my short stories and poetry class that involves certain hand picked traits, conflicts, and morivation and i'm making a Samurai Jack story that sort of is like the one episode of Samurai Jack where Aku is telling a bunch of kids these mock fairytales trying to make Jack look bad. I'm going to try to write it out semi seriously but Aku's narrating the story so I have to add some snide and sassy comments. I'm looking more foreward into reading my friend @mikefroze's story involving Garrus Vakarian from the Mass Effect Trilogy.

[satanlovescats]

Longing

Satan paced his room late at night. His hand ran through his hair, pushing it away from his face. Teeth gritted. Jaw clenched. Thoughts gnawed away at his mind. Frustrated. No, it was more than that. Restless. He felt restless and he couldn’t figure out why. It bothered him to no end. Short fused and snappy with everyone, isolating himself to get a grip on his own head.

He sat down at his desk, pen pulled from a pot and paper retrieved from a drawer. There was only one person he could talk to when he felt this way, but you weren’t here. So, instead, he would write. Write a letter as though you were right there next to him, quietly listening and ready to offer opinion.

I miss you.

He scratched harsh lines over the letters. Focus. He had to figure out why nothing he did seemed to settle him.

How long has it been? I can’t quite remember.

Growling, he scribbled out the words again. That was a lie. He knew exactly how long it had been; 340 days and 18 hours. You left in the morning.

I can’t focus. My thoughts all turn back to you.

He crumpled up the paper, smacking it to the floor with ferocity. He threw the pen to the side, a clatter of metal against wood. His elbows rested on the desk, head in his hands as palms pressed against closed eyes. A grounding pressure.

Satan inhaled deeply, releasing a shuddering breath. He picked up his pen, grabbing a new piece of paper and letting himself write.

I miss you. It’s been long. Too long. We get to talk, but it’s not the same. It’s not the same as having you here. Being able to hold you. Being able to feel your skin beneath my hand. Soft. The feeling of your lips against mine. Warm. The feeling of your hand in mine. The perfect fit.

Being able to call out and knowing you’ll answer. Knowing you’re just across the hall. Just…

Being in your presence.

Slowly, he set his pen down, holding his forehead and staring out the window. A sigh escaped. This feeling… for so long he’d been able to ignore it. To push it down. To bury himself in books and studies simply to forget. But it finally caught up to him. He pulled out his D.D.D., lingering on his lockscreen a few seconds too long. A picture of you. An album brought up, scrolling through.

Pictures of you. Of you two together. It brought a small smile to his lips. He would see you again. He didn’t know when, but he would. He missed you too much not to.

[satanlovescats]

A beauty that blossoms from within

Blooming with colours eyes have yet to behold

Leaving me at a loss of where to begin

A mind with depths greater than any ocean

To dive into leagues unknown

Sinking down with the notion

[satanlovescats]

Falling

He realises it slowly. The more time spent together and the more getting to know one another, he begins to feel something more. An understanding. You understand him, almost better than he understands himself. 

You let him see parts of himself he didn't know were there. Unlocking his mysteries all the while he was trying to unravel yours. 

It hits him late in the night, well past the strike of midnight and a cup of tea cooling beside an open book. He paces and paces and paces, questions racing. When? How? But he already knows the answers. 

You. It's always been you. His feelings are no surprise.