#i wrote this really quickly instead of getting dressed because satan and Thatcher give me FEELINGS

[rebsrebsrebsrebs]

(casually writes short, self-indulgent fluff for satans birthday)

thatcher's mind races as satan's brothers give him the gifts they'd prepared. with each unwrapping, their insecurity mounts.

'you're supposed to give someone a gift they would like, not something you would want,' says the part of their brain that is never satisfied with their actions, no matter the good intent. 'he probably already has it.' the part that is ready and willing to deem themselves unspecial and useless. 'even if he doesn't, why would he care?'

then it's their turn.

thatcher presents the neatly wrapped book with trembling hands. they aren't able to meet his eyes. no matter that they've shared greater intimacy than this, that satan has held them through tears and pleasure alike. their gift now seems inadequate against the scope of their feelings. they want to give him everything he wants. a history of the use of beetle shells in human societies feels comically underwhelming in comparison.

"thatcher, look at me."

when they glance up from their wringing hands, they find the gleam of novelty in his eyes.

"it's perfect."

satan folds them into his arms with a tenderness they feel is undeserved, but it is so, so welcome. it means they've done well. they ease their tense posture, melting in his arms as his voice washes over them in a soothing tone.

"thank you. i love you."

thatcher smiles against his sweater.

"i love you too."