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He wanted them. He knew that much from the moment he learned of their existence. Desire came as naturally to him as it did to any other cambion — half-breed members of a non-species, impotent like mules, constantly denied the privileges of their infernal parents. In Raphael’s case, it was the teasing torment of the hunt that made his mouth water. Nothing was more satisfying than slowly pressing the fight out of his prey and licking their resistance from his fingers.
But he hadn’t felt this level of carnality for anyone but himself in the past few hundred years. Of course, there had been a select few debtors who met their ends in the throes of diabolical ecstasy when he fed them to Haarlep, but those were the very dregs of his crop. He had no further use for them, not even for their forms which his incubus undoubtedly collected with the starved fervor of a peasant who finds himself at a lord’s banquet.
Not Tav, though. They were something different. It was the parasite that had first drawn him to them, yet now there was something else — an undeniable fondness lodged in his chest for the way they responded so flippantly to his propositions. They had surprised him with how much they wriggled and pulled on the line, but he would reel them in eventually. He’d always loved the ones that struggled. It made their surrender that much sweeter.
As of late, however, they’d occupied Raphael’s thoughts more often than not. At first it had been because of the Crown: they provided his best shot of reaching it. His dreams were of a shining red victory, theirs just one face amongst the millions of souls that knelt under his hand. Then it became more personal. Images came to him in the midst of inking contracts, flaying the tattoos from Hope’s skin, or standing before his wardrobe contemplating his outfit for the day. Visions (he didn’t deign to call them fantasies) where they featured as a supporting cast member in his play for power — as one of his favored lieutenants, conquering the Hells in his name; as a trophy, displayed in a place of pride on his wall; as a plaything, either in his bed or in the House’s chains (sometimes both), as he toyed with their flesh.
These flights of fancy were tolerable, sometimes even pleasurable. The true problem began when he started picturing himself in their place. It was distracting to be overcome with thoughts of being completely at their mercy, especially when reality was the opposite. It had to be or all his plans would be shattered.
Still, the fantasies persisted. He intended to exorcise them.
Haarlep lies before him, shifted into a near perfect approximation of Raphael’s obsession, with their ass lifted in the air and their face smushed into the sheets. It’s a new position for them both. The last time he bothered to fuck a form other than his own was a century ago and it’s been twice as long since he was on top.
He trails the head of his half-hard cock around their entrance and Haarlep moans with unabashed lust, even though he’s barely touched them. It feels mocking. Closing his eyes, Raphael strokes himself once or twice, picturing Tav’s hands pressing him down— No, he has them right here, he shouldn’t be fantasizing when he could be fucking.
Haarlep lets out another unearned groan as he works his cock into them. For the first time that night, things feel almost perfect. They’re warm and wet and tight around him, with the perfection of feeling that only an incubus can muster. It’s much better this way, to have a simulacrum of Tav that can be bent to his will. Even if he doesn’t know what the real one would feel like. Without them giving their body over completely to Haarlep, there’s no way to be entirely accurate. But that shouldn’t — doesn’t matter.
Raphael thrusts into them, but despite his efforts, he’s softening. Haarlep sighs, and this time it’s distinctly exasperated.
“My extensive collection of ointments and enchantments is always at your service,” they remind him.
He scowls. “Quiet.” He doesn’t need aid for this. It should be enough to dig his hands into their hips and pound them, which he does.
His incubus switches tactics. They moan his name in Tav’s voice, which lights a spark in him, but as soon as they follow it with a “Fuck me,” it fizzles out.
Raphael draws back and pulls out of them. His cock flops limply between his legs, still unsatisfied. He would laugh if he wasn’t so frustrated. Even here, even now, with the situation completely under his control, Tav still finds a way to best him.
Haarlep rolls onto their back. A haughty smirk twists their mouth.
“I think,” they say with Tav’s tongue, “that you want me to fuck you more than you want to fuck me .”
An involuntary shiver runs through him at the thought and his cock pulses. “I thought I told you to be silent.”
“Hm, but that’s not really what you want, is it?” The incubus traces their hand across his chest. “You want to hear me scream your name, don’t you? But I think I’d rather hear mine from your lips, first.”
Raphael lets them switch positions, allows himself to be put on his back. A gambit, of course, to show them his belly before unleashing his claws. He takes in the glory of Tav’s body, this time from the front. How curves and softness contrast with hard panes of flesh and muscle. Haarlep whispers an incantation and their groin glows with golden light. It only takes a moment for Raphael to see what they’ve done: a replica of his own cock, though matching Tav’s skin tone, stands erect between Haarlep’s legs.
“You don’t mind a slight adjustment, do you? I know it’s your favorite,” the incubus purrs.
Heat floods his blood. “Continue,” he manages, through the thrum in his ears.
Unlike him, they take their time working him open with the help of one of their bottles of oil. After several centuries spent in this House, Haarlep knows the intricacies of Raphael’s body almost better than he does. But the shock of newness, of feeling fingers other than his own inside of him, is enough to tolerate. Just to tolerate. Never mind that he’s fully hard, and has been since they put him on his back.
Above him, Haarlep grins at his telltale groan. He glares at them, but they just smile patiently down. He wonders — if Tav was really here, would they look at him the same way? Would they tease him like this, knowing all along what he wanted, or would their gaze be filled with curiosity? Maybe they’d experiment with him, giving him their fingers or their tongue, working him right to the edge, learning what he liked. Or maybe they’d chase their pleasure without a single thought given to his own and he’d be swept along in their wake. He can’t decide which idea is more enticing.
When they finally sink into him, Raphael practically sees stars. Despite his pride and veneer of disdain, their cock — his cock — brings him the kind of pleasure born only of familiarity and practice. They set a firm pace, gripping his hip with one hand while the other reaches between them to stroke him.
“You’re taking me so, so well,” they croon. “I knew this was what you wanted.”
Instinct tells him to acquiesce, but his pride is still strong enough to protest. “I want… no, I want… you’re mine…” He pants, already close even after just a few moments.
“What?” Innocent curiosity paints their face as their hand tightens around his cock, holding the base firmly. Their hips slow to a treacherous, teasing rhythm. Raphael groans. Each thrust is more languid than the last, reducing his pleasure to a muted haze.
“What is it that you want?” They ask.
“Move,” he demands. It comes out as a whimper. His cock twitches futilely against their fingers. He squirms, rocking his hips into theirs, trying to find some friction, but Tav holds him in place with their other hand.
“Ask nicely,” they coax. “Be a good boy and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”
He swallows a gasp of their name. “Fuck me.” It sounds less like a command and more like a plea.
Tav’s eyes gleam in the dusky light. They slam their hips into him, just once, but hard enough that he’s convinced if they weren’t squeezing his cock enough to prevent it, he’d cum right then.
“I said nicely,” they remind him. The picture of serenity, unfazed by his struggling.
“Please,” Raphael chokes.
Unlike him, Tav knows mercy. As soon as the words leave his lips, they pick up their pace again, driving hot and heavy into him while their hand strokes him at the same time. It only takes a moment for him to finish, and for once the images that burst behind his eyes aren’t of the crown, or his subjects kneeling in thrall to him, or even his own face mirrored back, but of them.
Haarlep slides out of him, huffing a disappointed breath. Once he’s opened his eyes, he sees that they’ve shifted back into his form. Their tail swishes irritably.
“All that work and you lasted barely a few minutes?” Somehow it’s worse to hear it in his own voice. “I beg of you, consider for once the merits of a marital aid?”
“Hush, or I’ll give you to Yurgir as a chew toy,” Raphael reprimands.
Haarlep’s face brightens. “Do you promise?”
He dismisses them with a wave of his hand. They saunter off, over to the restoration pool, while he catches his breath.
This momentary lapse of control means nothing, he decides. Perhaps it’s a result of being so close to his goal. His human half recoiling in terror, reaching for the comfort of subjugation as all mortals do. Soon enough he will be the one to deliver it unto them all.
Yet even as he joins Haarlep in the pool to wash off the evidence of their coupling, he can’t quite banish the image of Tav’s triumphant smile from his mind.