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In the Devildom, certain legends passed down through the generations posed more as cautionary tales rather than some story swapped around the glow of a fire for the simple entertainment of who could recall the scariest story.
The most popular was also a threat: Cerberus. There wasn't a soul in the Devildom that wasn't at least aware of the three-headed monster; used most often to threaten younger lesser demons into falling in line. The most favored was the notable feat of the Devildom Prince: aiding and recruiting seven powerful fallen angels into his court. Proving to all that Prince Diavolo's accolades surely know no bounds, as well as his insurmountable might that one would do well never to instigate.
However, the tale most terrifying, most-whispered, was that of the Avatar of Wrath's frightening temper. One that needed no introductions due to the very nature of how Satan had ripped through the Devildom in a rampage upon his very birth. So many had bore witness to his all-consuming power—even fallen prey to it—it was a wonder he was allowed to prowl the streets unchained. At least, that was what was often murmured.
Certainly, you've seen Satan get agitated, even seen him fly off the handle numerous occasions, but couldn't help but feel that the tales and legends were perhaps a bit exaggerated. You’re sure that, perhaps, some uncountable amount of years ago, these might ring more true. Back when Satan was uncontrollable and unable to cope with his existence; but seeing the effects of these tales still shake the very foundation of lesser demons as Satan casually strode by was humorous more than anything.
The very same demon who goes out of his way to make such grand romantic gestures for you, who allows you to curl up in his lap despite hating feeling pinned to one spot, who recites you poetry from memory. Whose touch is inviting and voice so soothing. Who does everything within his power to prove how protective he is, and how deeply he cares.
That image of Satan clashes hard with a blood spattered everything. His horns and chin drip thick crimson, claws stained in it; soaked into his clothes as he whips the viscera from his tail in a violent snap that strikes the ground. He looks every bit the demon from all his myths and legends, gnashing his fangs and wild eyes flitting this way and that in search of his next victim.
In this moment, he is no longer your Satan, but he is very much the Avatar of Wrath.
The sound of even your slight movement, or maybe the frightened breaths, alerts him to the fact there is still a creature left alive. Wrath whips around with a snarl, blood-soaked hair sticking to his face and forehead as he seeks out the source of the noise. His glowing violent gaze meets yours in an instant.
Just the look alone steals the strength from your legs, toppling backwards and landing flat.
In the next instant, he is over you, knelt down with the savage glint of his enraged gaze suddenly gone; somehow softened before even making it to you that quickly. “Oh no, no,” he breathes, forcing his bloody hands away when instinctively reaching for you, “are you hurt?” Satan doesn’t miss the way your gaze travels down his face, focused on the syrupy drip of his chin.
“N-no…”
Recoiling, he moves back to his feet, turning on you to scrub at his face with his sleeve. It doesn’t do him much good, however, since his clothes are just as saturated as his skin.
“Satan..?”
“Go home.” His voice is clipped, a tone you're more familiar with hearing when he’s faced with the annoyances of his brothers. You detect something else as well.
“Are you all r—”
“LEAVE!” Despite the volume and the intimidation, the thunder of his voice can’t hide it from you.
Fear. So intense, it’s almost tangible.
Satan’s breath stops when your hands meet around his torso, pressing flat and warm against his ribs, pulling him back into your embrace. He feels your cheek against his shoulder blade, your deep even breaths, the hammer of your heartbeat. “You’ll get blood on you…” he whispers, as if that is what he’s actually worried about; sucking in a breath when your hands begin retreating. Your touch lingers, palms pressing and gliding along his sides and back to silently relay you’re not pulling away for that reason. Only turning once hearing ripping, Satan’s turbulent gaze drops down to your hands tearing your shirt, splitting the bottom half of the material until you’ve torn a sizable piece away.
“Satan.”
He looks up quickly from your hands.
“Sit.”
Without needing the pull of magical bindings, Satan finds himself slowly lowering to the ground, leaving space for you between his legs when you near-immediately follow his movement. Holding his breath when you reach up, his eyes flutter shut as you brush the torn portion of your shirt over his cheek. Everything is silent. Even time seems to stand still as you gently wipe his face, clearing away the blood and dirt that has culminated into a dark grime on his normally flawless skin; then his neck, what you can of his bangs, and his horns while he dips forward to allow you to reach.
“I’m sorry,” Satan murmurs softly as you cast the filthy piece of cloth away. He stares at it, as stained as his own clothes in blood that isn’t even a drop of his. Or yours. He’d made sure of that.
“I was only a little startled.”
Still refusing to meet your eyes, Satan shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have lost control like that.” He’s glaring at the scrap of cloth now. “I apologize if I’ve disappointed you.” It’s quite obvious he doesn’t actually mean ‘disappointed’ when he says it. ‘Scared,’ you’re able to translate. Apologizing for scaring you.
This shell is quite familiar. Satan often used it, and his anger, to push you away in the beginning; his way of discouraging you from getting too close, lest you see the ‘real’ him. But it is quite too late for all of that nonsense.
“Thank you for protecting me,” you say instead.
That has his eyes snapping up, searching. “Why?” He doesn’t move in any other way, looking every bit expectant that you’ll want to leave. Like even he believes you should. “How are you not afraid of me?”
You settle in place, getting as comfortable as you can amid the rocks and remnants of pieces of the demons that you had summoned Satan in defense against. “I was afraid.” His gaze drops away, but you reach out, bringing it back to you before continuing, “And that’s why I summoned you.”
He blinks slowly, nearly following the movement of your hand with his jaw when it falls back to your lap. The implications of what you mean are obvious to him, yet Satan holds his words, waiting, silently imploring you to continue. Needing to know despite the fact you could have summoned any of the others in the face of danger, he was your first thought.
“I’m not afraid of you, Satan.”
Satan’s arms move around you, palms against your back, burning.
“You are terrifying. But I know you won’t hurt me.”
He pulls you flush to him, now seeming wholly unconcerned with the blood that might stain you as well.
“I know if anyone threatens me, you’d never let them live to even regret it.” His chest swells beneath your wandering hands as he sucks in a breath neither of you realized he was holding; stilling again as your arms fold around his shoulders and neck. “The only thing that does scare me,” you pull, urging him to lean in, “is how much I like knowing that.”
He doesn’t need any additional coaxing to bridge the remaining space. You meet him halfway, welcoming the hot energy that surges through him and expels in a gratified groan you’re all too eager to swallow up. All the worry seems to have bled out of him, evident in the stark contrast of how he pulls you impossibly closer, dedicated now to devouring you; in the curl of his tail circling around your thigh to ensure your capture, compared to only moments ago when demanding you leave him here to wither amongst all the gore and decay caused by his rage.
His nails bite into your skin as he lifts you at the waist against his body, welcoming your legs hooking around his hips, and you know that he very much likes you knowing all that about him too.