Satan's Just a Playboy with Better Taste in Clothing

Purity

Satan's just a playboy with better taste in clothing.

Ok, fine, that's not all he is. But when you spend as much time with the man, or rather demon, as I have you start to realize he's not nearly as ferocious and intimidating as the legends say. At least, not all of the time.

When the guy's not torturing the souls of the damned, he's actually pretty average. Pale, nearly ethereal skin, hair the color of ash, eyes as black as a soulless void. You'd think he'd be terrifying, but despite the poor description I gave, he's undeniably attractive. I guess that isn't surprising considering he's the master of temptation and all that.

I should know. He's been trying to have sex with me for months now.

"Aw come on, just a taste. It's not like it'll kill you," He said, offering a glass of bourbon on the rocks.

"No, it won't kill me. But I know better than to accept any drink you offer." I replied, my tone even more teasing than his.

"What, do you think I would drug you? Come on, I'm not a monster." He only barely managed to get through his sentence before needing to stifle a laugh.

"You're not a good liar either."

"Good! I hate liars. Always complicating things that have no right to be complex. Do you know we have a special corner of The Basement for people like that?" He likes to call Hell 'The Basement.' I still haven't figured out why. "We call it the Pinocchio room. Every time a liar lies, some random part of them grows. Oh, it's deliciously ironic, don't you think?"

He turned to me with his signature smirk painted perfectly on the corner of his face, lips curled in just the right way. One of his eyebrows were raised, conveying the slightest hint of condescension.

I hated him.

"No, actually, I don't. Do you think we can hurry this along and get to why you called me over here?" I said, my annoyance clear despite my attempt to stay neutral.

"Aw, are you getting impatient? Well fine, if you wanna skip the foreplay I'll get right down to it."

He sat down next to me on the big black leather couch, the weight of his muscular body making it creak with effort. He wasn't particularly tall, only about 5" 10' however, the way he carried himself made him seem twice that height.

Of course, it could have also been the giant half-burnt wings that extended from his shoulder blades.

The wings weren't actually there right then. He could summon them and put them away whenever he wanted. That didn't work with me, though. I could see them no matter what. All-day, every day. Sometimes I couldn't help but stare up at them. It was unsettling how they could look so beautiful, yet literally be burning for eternity.

"Hey, sweetheart, my eyes are down here." He said, his voice too playful to be genuine. I could tell it bothered him that I could always see his wings. It bothered me too.

"You do love that joke."

"I love other things too." His hand moved to rest itself on my leg. His fingers kneading the skin through the fabric of my jeans. "For instance, the way your pulse speeds up every time I touch you."

"You're tracking my heart rate? What are you, a vampire?"

"Oh, no. I just love listening to it. Seeing how you react. I can't tell if you're terrified or aroused and I absolutely adore it."

"So glad my fight or flight instincts amuse you."

"And anyway, it's not your blood I'm after, you can keep that. I want something far more valuable to you and that stick in the mud, Abby."