Chapter 29 #4
Forehead pressing to Satan’s, Michael said, though clenched teeth — “You’re not him.
You’re not Lucifer.” His hands dragged down Satan’s front, to his hips.
“But you have his face.” Angrily, somberly, he dragged his mouth from the edge of Satan’s lips, narrowly avoiding a kiss, then down his jaw, his neck.
Here, he began to kiss, but with too much teeth, nipping him everywhere that his groping fingers, fisting and pulling at Satan’s clothes, revealed skin.
He breathed harshly against the devil’s warming body, dampening it.
Satan bit down on his lip and, momentarily, felt a flicker of pride’s flame in his chest once the prince had moved onto his knees, hands still on Satan’s hips like the devil was a statue of a god and Michael was a pitiful believer.
Veneration, at last. But the devil didn’t feel the victorious laughter he’d expected blooming in his chest. He was chained in Heaven.
He had kneeled before a God who mocked his rebellion, who was going to have the angel of beauty at his side once more.
Apocalypse would strip every action, every word, against God of meaning.
And, suddenly, to be a divine idol wasn’t what Satan wanted from this vile chief prince.
‘It must be because I know it isn’t true.
His belief is crazed. It’s demented. He’s made a cult of us.
’ Yet — Satan breathed out a slow, pleasured sigh as Michael mouthed at his hip, then dipped his face lower.
“What is this?” he finally asked. “Why are you doing this?”
Michael panted hot against the devil’s arousal, then he murmured, “No matter my actions — I know my fate.”
Bitterly, Satan laughed. “You want a taste of me before we’re both killed by God? You want to enjoy me?”
“I told you to stop talking.”
“It’s all Lucifer once wanted, too. He asked you to adore his body.”
“You’re not him.”
“I’m not, but I have him, here, in my chest. Inside me. Don’t you want to join him, Michael? If you come inside, you might find him.” Satan wrestled for control of this moment again. He was the seducer; he was the tempter.
Michael gripped one of Satan’s thighs, then slowly pried it away from the other, lifting, and when put his mouth on the devil’s sin, the both of them breathed out painfully.
“Lucifer,” mourned the chief prince, trying to fill his mouth, coaxing his tongue to flick amateurishly, then he brought his lips together to suckle.
The apple in his other hand plopped to the ground, rolled away, and Satan shut his eyes and listened to the prince moan the name of the angel he’d once loved.
“Is it what you always imagined,” Satan gritted out to stifle a cry, as he shuddered, hearing the chain above rattle, “Michael?” His hips ached, begging the devil to let him rock them forward, to chase the prince’s indulging.
For some seconds, the archangel didn’t answer.
He continued, tilting his head one way, then the other, moving his lips like he wanted to kiss Satan here.
With all his armor, it was impossible to know whether the prince was aroused or not, and so Satan tried to listen for his grunts, the kind of pleasured groans that demons always offered him.
His hips twitched forward without meaning to, and Michael held him tighter, taking it.
Finally, he pulled off, to speak, to brush his damp lips against him as he did — “It’s better. ”
“You could have had it. You could have had me.”
“I’m having you now.”
“It’s too late now.”
“That’s why I’m having you. Because it’s too late for me. For you and I.”
Satan shut his eyes and the heat of pleasure bloomed in his gut, leaning further against, into, the mouth that he refused to admit he’d been made for.
He’d molded himself for other mouths. His body was no longer one of prophecy or fate.
It was liberation, freedom. He was pride and death and uprooted love.
But he couldn’t resist the draw of the other’s imperfect suckles, his desperate, frantic drinking.
Pressing forward as much as he could, bridge of his nose pressing to Satan’s pelvis, Michael fluttered his eyes shut, clutched Satan’s waist tight, almost enough to crush.
He ground the devil against him harshly, as if forcing him, as if this wasn’t a willing offering that Satan would never confess to.
‘It’s too late for us. You’re right of that.
’ He dipped his head, wrestled against the bindings, wished he could do more than arch his back and feel it torn out from him.
Biting down hard on his lip, the devil tried still to crush the pretty moans that had granted him nations, that had ruled Hell.
Gasping, shudders of pleasure rattling the chains, Satan felt the archangel grapple him closer, as close, as deep, as he could.
Trying, hopelessly, to pull the devil’s entire body into his mouth, to savor, to eat.
To be eaten like Christ at his supper, feeling death on his shoulders.
And Michael choked, either on tears or the devil’s dribbling end.
He drank like it was only the devil that could save him.
Satan could only remain there, supported by Michael’s hand and Michael’s chains. Panting, legs shivering, the heat in his stomach aching. “Michael,” he whispered. “Michael.” Broken, soft, no war left in it. Lucifer’s voice.
As if man hearing God, Michael lifted his face with desperate, adoring eyes, mouth leaking sin.
He rose weak, trailed his hands upward on Satan’s body.
When he kissed Lucifer, it was hungry, grieving.
Their lips molded perfect, then broke — pressing hard enough to shatter where they locked to ensure their mouth would never fit against each other again.
‘It’s better to be broken than to be made for you.
’ It was better to be dead than to live without loving, without hating, without the other.