The Devil and the Servant
Warning: adult themes, sexual themes.
When Haarlep returned from the Cold Lord’s bed chambers, Raphael was tucked in bed with one of the books that the incubus had brought back. The stains of blood from the walls and the floor had been cleaned spotless, and there was no longer a tub inside. It had been a few hours, so it was no surprise that everything was neat and orderly, and Raphael looked clean and tidy from his bath.
Back to wearing Raphael’s form, Haarlep closed the door behind them, the gelugon still guarding and allowing the creature through. He crawled his way onto the bed, wings tucking behind his back. Whilst he was clean, per se, the hot seed from Mephistopheles was still inside him, tucked in his very tender and sore backside from where the Archdevil had violated him. Ironic, wasn’t it? Considering what he had done to the cambion Gaar’nil. This was not something that was uncommon amongst the Hells. They were devils, and devils put each other through horrendous things. Raphael, himself, had been tortured for days, weeks, and likely still would be. Mephistopheles was still playing his games, and this time, it had merely involved Haarlep. Who was he to deny what his master asked of him?
The incubus would not have minded bedding the Archdevil like he had before, so many centuries ago, if it had have been on his terms, but the truth was, Haarlep did not like Mephistopheles. He had been young when the Archdevil had first taken him, he had not known any better, and when he and Raphael had shared each other, Mephistopheles liked to remind him who was in charge. The lord of Cania had to make sure that his gift was good enough, after all, to make sure that they could please Raphael to keep him distracted. And yet, the incubus knew from day one that it was all about power. Mephistopheles would never allow his son to have anything over him.
When they’d first shared a bed, Haarlep had enjoyed it. He was freshly made and every instinct in him was begging to be discovered. Every physical touch and lust that was inside an incubus wanted to be sated. Back then, however, it was Haarlep who had been on top, not the other way around—even if he’d sat himself upon Mephistopheles’ lap and swallowed the Archdevil whole. Even with Raphael, the devil may have been a sadistic, little narcissist, but inside the bedroom, he was his pet, his little brat, and always on the bottom.
An incubus did not detest being on the bottom, sex was sex, and being sated was being sated. But for Haarlep, personally, he had always been a dominant force. To be the submissive one was a change, and he found that he did not appreciate Mephistopheles’ way of bedding him. For as many times as Haarlep had slept with others, every glamour within his body was his because they had vowed it so.
There had been a few, particularly those that Raphael had invited up into the boudoir, that did not wish to play their games, but as a means of punishment, it was just devils being devils. It was the law, and devils were allowed to punish. This was not punishment. Mephistopheles was just being Mephistopheles, wanting to own every, little thing that Raphael had, including his incubus.
Perhaps before… before Raphael’s death, this would not have mattered. And yet… something in the both of them had changed, it would seem, though Haarlep refused to admit anything about that. He was a fiend, and fiends hardly cared about such sentiments.
When Haarlep crawled across the bed and moved alongside him, Raphael’s hand dropped from his book after turning the page, his fingers moving to Haarlep’s warm skin and hair. “You were with my father long enough,” he muttered, eyes still skimming the pages. “Or did you decide to take a wander around the Citadel?”
There was an accusatory tone within Raphael’s voice, and Haarlep hummed, looking up as the brown eyes skimmed the pages he’d brought back from the House of Hope. Despite the news that there was no Hammer, Raphael did seem to be in a better mood now. Perhaps it was because the two cambions had had their punishment, or maybe it was just because he was cleaned and ready to sleep.
“Your father demands my attention,” he informed, and Raphael’s eyes finally dropped from the book, lowering it. “He wishes to know how you are fairing. I made sure to mention that you suffer greatly, particularly from two cambions who attacked you.”
Raphael swallowed. “Is it fair to assume you told him nothing of what happened inside this room?”
Haarlep nodded. “Do not worry, my love, he knows nothing of tonight.” Leaning on his elbows, belly down, he pulled a pillow down to lean against it. “Your little cambion friends will be sure to never mention it within earshot of the Lord of no Mercy. Now… read to me?”
Raphael took a breath, picking his book back up. “You have heard this one. A multitude of times, if I recall.”
“I do not care. Read to me. I wish to hear your voice.”
Brown eyes lowered to Haarlep, looking at the fiend, his brows knitting for a moment. “Has my father turned your mood so sour?” Raphael scoffed. After what they had shared tonight. The torture, the humiliation and violation of two bastard cambions, and then the hot, needy sex between them? All turned to shit because of his father… Mephistopheles ruined everything he touched.
“I cannot blame you.” He had nothing nice to say about Mephistopheles, of course. Raphael understood that he was just as cruel, but Mephistopheles was far worse. Perhaps that was only because Raphael thought about himself and the punishments and negligence he had received his whole life. The abandonment… Now, now Mephistopheles only kept a close eye on him so he could watch him suffer. Bastard. He was not called the Cold Lord for no reason.
He moved his hand to Haarlep’s shoulder, but there was something wrong. Where there would usually be a purr, or a little rumble of delight, Haarlep seemed… odd. Distant. Strange. That was so very unlike the incubus, who would rub themselves and their pheromones all over every little thing inside his room and house.
Instantly, Raphael became suspicious that something wasn’t being said. He had had enough of these games. He still had no blasted Orphic Hammer, and he had been humiliated and beaten by two little shit cambions. Now Haarlep was going to act strange? Haarlep was about the only damn thing he had in this realm that he could (somewhat) rely on.
“Oh, spit it out, would you? I am in no mood for you to sulk. What is wrong?” he asked, impatient as he dropped the book face down against his stomach, annoyed that he’d been disturbed in the first place.
