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It had been one of the boys tutors who told him. Told him exactly how magic was manifesting in the boy. It made him a bit ill. Everything about this particular spawn was disgusting, disappointing. If the youth hadn’t torn apart one of his favorite warlocks in his birthing, if he didn’t now wear their beautiful face as skin, he would’ve killed the brat a long time ago. Cambions were sickly, conflicted creatures. Besides, The Cold Lord was careful to a fault, and he’d slaughtered many of his own children. If they served no political or optics purpose, they were disposed of. Younglings grew, became adults. Became threats. He had no love for his own progeny.
He did however have desires. The warlock that had been the boy’s parent birthed the child here, in his citadel. Perhaps they thought Mephistopheles would save them, because they were favored by him. They had been quite handsome, but Mephistopheles had hundreds of lovers. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands over the millennia. Still, humans loved to impress their concepts of love onto devils. It was always amusing. While Mephistopheles had obsessions, he always felt disposing of his lovers was important after a certain period of time. Unless say they were of immense use, like his on-again off-again love-hate entanglement with a certain Goddess. Otherwise having someone too close to you was a danger, an opening. The Lord of the Eighth Layer never allowed chinks in his armor. This particular lover disposed of themself by continuing the pregnancy, poor lovestruck thing. Funny, they’d been a smart creature besides that. That was humans for you though. He’d come into the bedchamber they’d birthed the cambion in to slaughter the newborn, but he’d felt that pulse of desire, seeing that little face stare up at him, covered in the viscera of the body he’d burst from. He favored his birth parent completely, appearance wise anyway. As soon as the boy could walk, he started taking him.
When he silenced the boy, when he forced him to turn into his human guise so he could stare at his pretty face, it was good. Really good. He’d even given the boy the same distinctly human name of his old flame. Might as well not hide exactly what the child was, a proxy for someone else. Of course Mephistopheles had a haram of incubi and succubi in his service, many with his dead lover’s true form, but there was something about his son’s pretty little face twisting with pain instead of pleasure that made the boy so lovely. So the Archdevil did not kill him, and he’d grown. Grown into the lithe, pretty young thing he saw before him now. He favored his human parent now more than ever. He was truly fetching. In a year or two the cambion would be called upon to serve in the Blood War, be considered an adult. Mephistopheles had to take advantage of having the boy here, under his thumb while he could; there was no way his effeminate dandy of a son would survive Avernus.
The clock ticked loud in his blue tinted office. He knew silence made the youth uncomfortable. The devil let them both sit in it a little longer, watched the boy’s eyes anxiously dart around the room. Mephistopheles enjoyed the way his little tail twitched with nervousness, and the Archdevil pretended to write something on his parchment to further drag the silence out. The Archdevil only spoke once a half-hour had passed, and the undersized half-breed started to squirm in his chair. He was never any good at sitting still, unless to read some limpid love story, write a silly song or paint a queer little picture. That was all well and good to the devil in truth, because it always gave Mephistopheles an excuse to beat him, bed him.
“So….brat….”
The Archdevil drawls, leaning back in his chair. Mephistopheles pressed his face in a hard line, his hands coming together and tail twitching with “irritation”. Really, it was excitement. He was in the mood to torture the teen.
“Your magic has manifested fully. Through song, and the playing of the lyre. That is what your tutor has relayed to me.”
The boy slowly nods. He can’t speak, Mephistopheles silenced him when he entered his office.
“All those studies of the weave and you’re more interesting in singing, dancing. You prance around my palace, a bastion of science and precious artifacts like a damned minstrel at a carnival.”
The youth scowls at this summation, taps pointedly on his parchment book. He wants to write him a reply. The brat always wanted to argue, it was like he craved his beatings as much as Mephistopheles craved doling them out. The devil ignored him.
“Never have I produced a spawn as effete as you. All my children past and present have been wizards, sorcerers. Great mages. True commanders of the weave. For the greatest arcanist of the Hell’s magic flows through them.”
The boy taps on the parchment against, digging his little claw into the paper. Again Mephistopheles ignores him.
It was a fact the cambion was his first bard, not a lie to make the boy feel bad (Though the Archdevil certainly mentioned it to do so). Mephistopheles was the greatest and mightiest mage in all the Hells. He was considered the devil to deal with, for almost all magic users. Of course, bards were a strange and uncanny exception. The way they connected with the weave was bizarre and unnatural, in the Archdevil’s eyes. He sighed, and it was a true sigh. The boy would have to play music now, would have to sing to become a better magic user. His connection with the weave would be interwoven with art itself. Mephistopheles’s ears were preemptively ringing. There could be no more punishing him for skipping down the halls, humming and twirling. Sad, it was one of The Cold Lord’s little joys in life to punish the child for his singing and dancing- ridiculous merry-making.
“There’s little to do at present, you are what you are. Your abilities have manifested how they’ve manifested. There’s no changing it.”
He leans back, enjoys watching the boy’s face flash with exasperation before slowly pulling his hand away, realizing he would not get to say his piece. His eyes meet Mephistopheles for a second, and the devil sees the tiniest bit of sadness there. It made a pulse of desire run through the devil. The half-human youth, still yearned for Mephistopheles’s approval under all that protective prickliness.
“You’ll never get it~”
Thinks the devil with a smirk. The boy’s angst tastes delicious, and it permeates the air. He can see the boy trying at impassivity but it’s a skill he struggles with. His emotions when displeased, were often laid bare on his sweet face. The cambion has always favored his humanity, though they were blessedly nurturing him out of it. Still, the child’s nature leaned towards weakness. Sometimes the Archdevil just wanted to shake the boy, slam him into something until he screeched for mercy. A lot of the time. It was unfortunate Mephistopheles was constantly busy, swamped with tasks. His research, maintaining his archives and vaults, the day to day ruling of Cania, protection against threats of coup or being usurped, court politics, his many schemes and pet projects. So much to do as always.
There was of course also the secret task, the one that consumed his mind at any given time. The overthrowing of Asmodeus and becoming the Ruler of all of the Hells. The devil knew what his future should be. Mephistopheles; Supreme Ruler of The Nine Layers, King of all Things Evil & Reviled. He was the second most powerful creature in the Hells, a God of sorts himself. Still, he coveted, envied. One day he would be the First, but he’s not foolish enough to rush it. Lord Asmodeus was a master tactician who’d maintained his position for millennia, one had to be oh so careful. Simply, the devil had a lot of stress it his life, his creeping fingers entangled in numerous affairs. So it was nice to just indulge in the boy at times. The flavor of his terrified anguish was particularly appetizing, and it was a shame the Cold Lord had to hand so much of his rearing off to men in his employ.
“We’ll have to procure you a new tutor. No reason to waste a wizard’s time with a bard.”
He catches the flicker of the tiniest smile before the boy’s face falls back to feigned neutrality. The cambion does not like his tutor. Hmm. Mephistopheles will have to find someone adequately cruel as a replacement. Shouldn’t be too hard. Entertainers of the Hells were no less cruel than the rest of the devils. A matter of finding someone strong enough was a more difficult affair, in recent years the cambion had become proficient at killing those tasked with rearing him.
For now it seemed, Mephistopheles would have to inflict the cruelty.
“An embarrassment as severe as this requires a punishment. Shift.”
The Archdevil orders him to undress. The boy hesitates. The cambion doesn’t like being naked in front of him. He’s completely covered as usual, which just won’t do. Long pants, dress shoes and a buttoned-up frilly blouse that covers even his ringable little neck. So unlike the common fashions of the Hells, which are much more revealing. Mephistopheles himself dressed a bit more conservatively than the average devil; he’s currently wearing a billowy dress-shirt, but it’s unbuttoned half-way, opened and revealing his abs, his stomach. The half-breed had begun mimicking human fashions, another embarrassing thing about him. The boy stuck out like a sore thumb in Mephistopheles’s court. After all, he had a pretty figure, and the boy preened and fussed over himself like a little peacock. So why would he choose to hide it? Probably from Mephistopheles’s prying eyes, trying to gain some sense of control over himself, his body. Well, it was a pointless endeavor.
The teen could not deny the Lord of the Eighth Layer, and they both knew it.
The boy doesn’t look at him, just tilts his head downward slightly. His clothes disappear, but he’s still sitting in the chair, his two hands wrested over his lap. The pose looks relaxed, but Mephistopheles knows it’s not. The teen is trying to protect his face and groin from the more painful blows.
He points to the center of the room.
“Kneel.”
The youth slowly does as he’s told, side-eyeing the man before slinking to the floor. The Archdevil swiftly kicks him so he’s laying on his side. He looks cute, small and weak on his office floor. His face is obscured, turned into the black shiny obsidian, one of his little claws idly tapping against it. He can’t help himself, he’s always making noise. Mephistopheles promptly steps on the offending appendage, digging the heel of his sharp dress shoe into the middle of the boy’s hand. He applies pressure, making sure he hears his bones snap, pop. The teen immediately tries to jerk his arm away, but he can’t of course. He watches the boy’s chest begin to rise and fall rapidly, silent tears falling from his pained face. He twisted his foot, watched the boy thrash. It pleased the Archdevil to no end.
Finally he removed his shoe. The hand was mangled, and a claw had been torn from the pointer finger that had been tapping the floor.
The boy snatched his broken hand back immediately, tucked it closer to himself and twisted so it was obscured. He didn’t want the Archdevil to mutilate it any further. The child was silly though. By twisting, his back was now easily accessible to the devil. Mephistopheles lifted the youth’s tail, stared at his tight little hole. The boy’s face turned slightly, his pretty, sunset colored eyes meeting his father’s. He wiggled his hips, inviting him. What a sick puppy he was. In that sense there was no denying the boy was his child. He felt his cock twitch. No. That would be letting the brat off too easy, to be so quick. He liked being fucked too much. The Archdevil dropped his tail. Walked towards his wings and held one out. They were pretty, well-shaped and large. Yet the boy disliked flying, preferred to walk. Like a human.
Sometimes Mephistopheles pondered what would’ve happened if the warlock had birthed the child on Toril. The Archdevil wondered if the little brat would’ve ever even accepted he was a devil at all, soft little thing. He could see him at this age, in some alternate timeline, shifting due to excitement, lust, fear or anger, and becoming frightened and ashamed at the sight of his own reflection.
He’d always been such a sensitive, effete child. Even in the Hells. Loathe to think the prissy creature he would’ve been growing up on Toril. From his loins. Ugh! The thought made the Archdevil sick. Where he got such dramatics from he did not know. Sometimes Mephistopheles thought it best to just take back his little mistake. Take back his own power, borrowed by a creature so unworthy. The Cold Lord could swallow the little cambion whole, if he so chose. Mephistopheles touched the boy’s scapula and the youth preemptively cringed. He knew where this was going.
He snapped the fragile bone, promptly closed his fist. A hard, loud crack echoed through the quiet office. The boy of course could make no sounds, so the only noise was the lovely shattering of his bones, as well as the ever ticking grandfather clock in his office. Now that was music!
Mephistopheles had broken his wings before. Many times. Perhaps he did not like to fly because they were constantly healing- perhaps that habit of walking he could not blame on the boy. Still, who could fault the Archdevil for harming him when the youngling insisted on acting the way he did?
It was a picture, watching the boy thrash and scream silently, tears rolling down his face.
“One.”
The archdevil said calmly, watching the broken wing joint helplessly flutter, the muscles and nerve endings trying to send signals to a body part cut off.
The Archdevil kneeled, making his pitchfork appear. He wasn’t much for the silly thing except to scare mortals, he much preferred his staff for combat. The pitchfork was simply to keep up appearances as the ever feared “Lord of Hellfire”, -but it was good for keeping brats still. He jammed it into the broken wing’s thin membrane, enjoyed the delicious tearing sound, and watching the blood drip from the boy’s pierced flesh. The boy seized, was trembling. His head fell forward, hiding his face in plank position, his uninjured fist clenching and unclenching. The devil could see his little hand was balling so tightly his claws were drawing blood from his palm. Lovely. This was when the spawn was worth keeping. His pain truly always brought the Archdevil great pleasure, eased his overworked mind. Mephistopheles kneeled, watched as the boy shifted into his human guise. That was one way to protect his wings from further harm. He clicked his tongue as the bloody pitchfork clattered to the floor. Always rebelling, even while silenced.
“Now, now. I certainly did not give you permission to do that. Your wings, and every single part of you for that matter, belong to me. Your very soul is on loan, never truly in your own keeping. It has, and always will be- mine. You’re aware of this truth, aren’t you boy?”
The Archdevil said calmly, his large clawed hand stroking the boy’s pale, quivering thigh. He had curled into fetal, sobbing and hugging himself. The child makes no acknowledgment of his words, instead he self-soothes.
“Don’t be foolish now. I will give you no more chances.”
The boy cries even harder, his mouth wide and open.. Mephistopheles imagines the wails of anguish, the gulps for air would be deafening at this point. His spawn curls tighter into fetal. Thank the Gods he silenced the boy. He was always so very obstreperous.
He stops stroking the boy, digs his nails into his flesh. His long claws leave divets, pretty rivers of blood flow. Raphael’s skin was so soft for a devils, making it lovely to sink into. Mephistopheles dragged his hand, making the rivers transform into healthy streams.
“Shift.”
He sees the boy peeking at him clawing his thigh from the curtain of loose, sweat soaked hair that’s fallen into his cherubic face. So much fear. So much hate! That was what the wizard liked to see. Maybe he could make a tool out of the brat yet. Mold him into something useful. It was a long-shot, but sometimes he saw glimpses of a truly abominable nature within him. That part of him was becoming more pronounced every year. He could always use more monsters in his service.
The boy did not shift. He spit in the Archdevil’s direction before laying his head down on the cool floor. Such a brat. Brattier than any of his other children, living and dead. Ever a performer, the silly little thing.
The devil smirked. In truth, it was something Mephistopheles enjoyed about the boy at times.
“Have it your way.”
The Archdevil said softly, patting his leg. If not a wing than an arm, a knee. He had not gained the “Lord of No Mercy” moniker as an Archdevil for no reason. Four mage hands appeared, grabbing and holding the thrashing boy’s four limbs down without any gentleness. Forcing him out of fetal, adjusting the boy to spread flat out on his stomach with the same grace one might position a toy or doll.
The Cold Lord considered each option, standing up and walking around the naked, struggling body with his hands clasped behind him. Should he continue with the limb he already injured? The devil eyed the finger missing a claw, the bloody indent where a nail once was. He gazed at the hand, purpling with bruises, the way the cambion held it not quite open, not quite closed. A little “C”, likely that position was relieving pain best. Mmm, harming him there would certainly be quite painful for the little cambion, which would be enjoyable to witness. But it was always nice to leave him more crippled than he started. Two hands out of commission for a while meant no playing music, writing silly stories or painting pictures. Small things that brought the half-breed joy. It wasn’t like it was permanent. He’d let one of his staff heal the boy- eventually. Besides, he was a bard now. The tutor had said singing was by far the quickest way for the boy to connect with the weave. So he could simply sing for a while. No need for his hands.
He stepped over to the uninjured arm. Cast frostbite. A simple cantrip. Of course, from an Archdevil it chilled the boy’s entire arm. He loathed the cold. Hated Cania, despite growing up there. It made sense. The boy’s human parent was from the Southlands originally. He cast it again, made sure the fingers tips were completely dead, he wanted the boy’s entire limb to burn, and then numb. He watched the teen seethe in pain. His red, tear-soaked face was contorted in agony, but he kept his head down. The half-breed hated this. Yet he knew better than to look to his father for sympathy.
There was a time, when he was younger, he would beg his father for kindness, mercy. The Archdevil could see a much, much younger cambion in his mind’s eye, his round face contorted in sadness. His chubby little legs had scrambled to his chamber, after a particularly harsh punishment from a tutor. He’d held out his mangled hand, interrupted his father’s work. The boy had thought Mephistopheles would help him, poor thing. Tattled, he’d wanted his father to kill the teacher, something of that nature. The first time it had happened the Cold Lord rose from his desk, added his own punishment, far crueler than the tutors. The boy had hid from him for an entire year, his men had told him the boy had endless nightmares about him. What a lovely year, what a lovely memory! The teen would never do anything like that nowadays. He was learning, no matter how slowly.
The Archdevil snapped. A cacophony of hysterical, hoarse crying, and cursing filled the air. He watched the drool, tears and snot dribble down the boy’s face. It had been running before he was sure, but the boy’s neck snapped back, giving Mephistopheles a nice view. Humans were disgusting. The Cold Lord stepped on the boy’s frostbitten arm, snapped the radius and ulna bones beneath his foot. The child screamed, shrill and high.
“MylordIbeseechyoufatherpleasePLEASEsto-”
It’s incomprehensible, nonsensical babbling, and the man isn’t surprised. The boy has never been eloquent, no matter how many plays and operas he memorized. No matter how he performed in his room, tried to mimic the speech patterns, the intonations of his favorite characters and writers. The Archdevil had walked in on the boy preforming to a severed head of a servant recently, quoting the great bards of times past. Everyday truly was a new embarrassment with the insipid youth. The memory made Mephistopheles cringe.
The Archdevil dug his shoe in once more, relished the begging transforming into primal, childish screaming. Mephistopheles stood there for a while, savoring the look in the youth’s eyes.
Finally he stepped over, drifting to his own desk. He leaned against the stained, polished wood, drank in the broken sobbing, the hateful cursing all interweaving with little dramatic shrieks. The devil let some time pass like this, sauntering over to his bar cart and pouring himself a drink. He was an ancient, patient creature- his son was not. Let him suffer in this moment for a while. He sipped his cognac, top-shelf. What a beautiful sight the little cambion was. This is where he thrived.
Suffering.
One day, he’d consume the boy’s soul, take back what was always his. But he truly made it difficult, the way his pretty little body was just made for torturing. If Gods could interfere in the business of the Hells he’d believe the Gods had a hand in creating such a delicious physical form- but he knew the credit was really all his own. Which made sense. The personality was terrible, mortifyingly twee- but the face, the figure. Oh, the figure! The warlock had helped too. Lended their guise, but only The Cold Lord could have created something so magnificent. The spawn was the warlock’s feature’s perfected. Mephistopheles palmed himself with his free hand, quickly finished his drink. The creature had stopped writhing, screaming. Raphael was sitting up but hunched over, cursing and muttering to himself. The aroused devil inhaled sharply, as if seeing the boy for the first time. He was tentatively examining his injuries. The Cold Lord imagined he was trying to process how bad they each were. Sometimes he did truly mutilate the child. He still had a deep scar on his upper thigh from a past encounter. Mephistopheles had lost his temper, was going to cut off the boy’s leg- but he thought better of it half-way through. He liked the boy’s legs, tan and coltish. Still, the raised line was there. Mostly though, the injuries weren’t so bad. A broken wing here, an arm there. He could always be healed. Really, it was the cambion’s own fault the older devil fixated on harming him. He was so soft, so breakable. Mephistopheles quietly put the glass down, licked his lips.
“Rise child. Come to me. Now.”
The younger devil’s eyes snapped to Mephistopheles. Open loathing. Rage. He loved how resistant he was- until he wasn’t. Oh to be young. Such pretty passion.
The younger devil unsteadily stood up, not easy with no arms to brace one’s self, while in excruciating pain. He slunk over, not looking at the older man. The Archdevil gently touched his waist, teleported them both to his bedchamber.
The room was cold, dimly lit from the massive chandelier made from blackened iron in the center of the chamber, hanging from the icy high ceiling. It was the only light, burning with ghostly blue flames, and casting shifting shadows across the eerie space.
At the center of the room was a massive black bed, draped in deep blue silk and heavy fur throws. The canopy was carved from ice and inscribed with glowing infernal runes. Restoration spells, as well as sanctuary. Sanctuary was a shield while the devil slept- one could never be too careful. A massive black ice desk and plush chair are positioned nearby, surrounded by large, imposing dark shelves holding the devil’s favorite ancient books and magical artifacts, their contents perfectly preserved by the frigid air. But something else was drawing the Archdevil’s attention.
An incubus the devil had bedded earlier in the day was still lying in his bed. He also was still in one of his most beloved forms- the form of his wayward consort. Consort Baalphegor. She had, disturbingly, gone missing. Which made the Archdevil fixate on her. He had intended to kill her, as Mephistopheles believed her to be a spy. She’d become too involved in his affairs, and like all his lovers- her time was drawing to an end. Convenient she had been spirited away, gone as if she had never existed. And though he searched the Heavens and the Hells, plane after plane after plane- She was completely undetectable to the second most powerful devil in all the realms. A mere she-devil, of no noble or particularly powerful birth or lineage.
There was only one realm within the Hells the Cold Lord could not easily pry into. The Ninth and final layer of the Hells. He imagined the woman there, preening. Mephistopheles knew her disappearance was Asmodeus’s doing! He was no fool. Therefore…there was nothing he could do. That was the one creature that could deny him. Steal from him. One day he’d get the other Archdevil back, for taking what was his. He deserved everything Asmodeus had. All the worship, all the power.
The thought of Asmodeus was making him shake with rage. He was not the ruler of the sin of envy for no reason. Mephistopheles’s envy over Asmodeus was so powerful it twisted all of Cania. As it was, the already cold room’s temperature was dropping with his mercurial mood-swing. His son’s eyes flitted to him nervously, his little breath coming out in quickened cold puffs.
Mephistopheles already kept this room in particular below freezing, as he liked it. It was important to keep things in a state of stasis. Preservation was key to a lot of his work. His mind was elsewhere though, at the moment.
“Out.”
He snarled at the sex devil. The boy stared at her for a moment too long. It annoyed Mephistopheles. He’d caught the youth playing with this sex devil in particular quite a few times- they were not his to play with. More irritations.
“Oh but lovey-“
“OUT!”
He roared, a torrent of icy wind blowing the creature from the bed, out onto the balcony. It seethed from the blow, before quickly jumping the guard rail, absconding from the chamber in a flurry of beating wings.
“On the bed.”
He ordered, his tail thrashing angrily.
“F-father I-“
Mephistopheles slapped the boy hard across face. In his human form he was so small, and the Archdevil’s hands were so big- his entire head snapped back. The brat loved the sound of his own voice. Well, the Archdevil did not. His mood had shifted significantly.
“On the bed, or so help me I will rend the spirit from flesh.”
The cambion’s eyes widened, and he scrambled to sit on the plush mattress. His gaze was fixated on his father, watching him with the same intensity a prey animal watched their predator. That was good. It eased the Archdevil’s mind to see the boy so afraid. Fear is a function of worship after all. The Cold Lord pushed the boy onto his back, watched his pretty brown hair splay out. Mephistopheles shifted out of his own clothes, gaze never leaving his dark-eyed beauty. Oh, he missed his little human lover. They had been delicious. Getting lost in this was a good distraction. The boy seemed to feel the same, his body language relaxing the second he was on his back.
“You are radiant, Raphael.”
He said to the memory, stroking his face. The boy’s eyes flitted to his father’s. This was the only praise the archdevil ever gave him, and this was the only place he ever did.
“I know.”
He replied shortly, eyes drifting back towards the ceiling as the Archdevil pushed his legs up to access that pretty hole. The Cold Lord chuckled, spitting and watching his saliva drip into the boy. His hole twitched, swallowed it. Gods he was a filthy creature. Despite being visibly in pain, the teen was squirming, inching closer to him. He had always been this way, even when he was very small- very submissive in his bedchamber. Perhaps it was that twisted humanity, wanting to be acknowledged by his father in any way. This was the only closeness Mephistopheles had ever given the boy, and the boy always had craved it.
“My my, you’re making me reconsider. This is a punishment after all.”
“No, please father- please.”
He whined, desperation glinting in his warm brown eyes.
Mephistopheles leaned over him, pressed his massive, ridged cock against the cambion. The Archdevil was much larger than his son when they both were in devilish forms, but the youth was so petite like this. He would certainly tear the boy. Yet here he was, begging for it, as he always did.
The Archdevil waited, teasing his entrance, rubbing himself against the quivering creature. He was, after all, an ancient, eternal creature unless usurped. The devil had all the time in the world. His son, did not.
“Use your words. You’re ever so fond of them. Suddenly the little poet cannot express himself?”
The Archdevil mutters, running a claw along the boy’s thin chest, stomach. The thin lines of blood add to his beauty. How he loved marking the boy. Let him be reminded of his creator, weeks after this encounter. All of his injuries were reminders. That he was not his own, and never would be. Bound by birth to an Archdevil, that cord could never be cut. His fingers drifted further down, clawing his groin, his thigh. He purposely avoids the teen’s cock. It is painfully hard, dripping pre-cum in slow, steady dribbles.
“I-
The cambion closes his eyes. Such pretty long lashes.
“I need you.”
He simpers, disgust in his tone, and shame awash in his face, body language. There was a time, when the boy was younger, he would announce this shamelessly, the moment the Archdevil threw the cambion on the bed. The half-breed would beg for Mephistopheles openly, to have him, to hold him. Particularly in early life. The older the little half-devil got the harder it seemed for him to announce this fact. This reality. That was all right. His conflicting feelings, as well as his own self-loathing only made it more enjoyable for the Archdevil.
Mephistopheles grinned, his fangs glinting in the light.
“I will indulge you, but this is still a punishment.”
Then the Archdevil's massive cockhead pressed forward, slowly pushing into that lovely tight warmth. The cambion's entire body tensed, as inch after inch of his father’s hard ridged cock was forced into his petite human body. Blood gushed from their point of connection. It always did when the half-breed was in his human guise. The half-fiend could not even grip anything for stability, with a broken right arm, and a broken left hand. Instead he arched forward and screamed, truly helpless. Still, his eyes fluttered, and he did not try to pull away despite his pained expression. In fact his little legs hooked behind his father, a silent encouragement. Mephistopheles had to admit, he’d sired the perfect masochist, in that sense. He’d never seen someone so desperate to be filled as his own son. To the point of enduring mutilation. Beneath him like this, this was where Raphael looked most natural to his father.
He hummed at the pretty sight, easily pushing the teen back down with a light tap of his massive hand. Raphael did look lovely, in bed was the only place he was worth looking at. His eyes were unfocused, his hair tousled, and his wetted lips were parted and begging for him. The Cold Lord got a flash of his lost lover. They too had been a fiend for him, but the brat was even more deranged. You could not break humans into pieces and expect them to them beg for you. What a gift the warlock gave him. Mephistopheles felt a low groan bubbling up at sight of the boy starting to rock himself onto the man’s cock- tearing himself further in the process. The feeling of himself inside the twitching passage as the cambion attempted to fuck himself on the bigger man was truly decadent. The Archdevil’s cock was so large, and the cambion was so small it created a bulge. The devil’s clawed hand traced the indent.
“This is where you belong.”
The Archdevil muttered more to himself then the boy, lust lacing his tone as he rolled his hips. Raphael seemed to agree though, moaning loudly at his father’s twisted words. The cambion’s hard cock twitched as well, and part of Mephistopheles wondered if the boy would cum from his father praising him alone. Something to experiment with another time, but in this moment the Archdevil had his own needs to attend to. He started to move.
“Oh Gods! Father!”
The boy screamed, his face encapsulating such lovely ecstasy and agony. The older devil tilted down, licked the boy’s face with his long forked tongue. Tasting his tears as he rammed into him was divine. He was so delicious. His tongue was almost as big as his entire face. The urge to eat him bubbled up again. Not today. Another time perhaps, if the disappointment ever became too severe. That seemed inevitable.
The devil reached down as he thrusted, one clawed hand drifting to their point of connection, feeling himself stretch the cambion’s entrance with each thrust. The other was on the boy’s chest. Gods his hand took up his entire torso more or less. He could crush him into a pile of gore right here and now. Mephistopheles groaned at the idea of his clawed hands becoming soaked with the boy’s blood and viscera. He picked up the pace, enjoying the feeling of Raphael’s legs slapping against him.
As the devil moved he shifted, leaning over and pressing his weight down into the youth. Mephistopheles very purposely ground himself down into the tiny thing, making sure every rapid thrust went to the hilt. The sound of their bodies coming together was loud, wet- and it echoed in the otherwise silent room, the only other noise the whistling of icy air from the balcony. Raphael groaned beneath him, and the archdevil could feel the little creature’s lips against his chest, but it was all muffled. Which he preferred, the brat just could never just be quiet. Suddenly, there were sharp screams ringing in the devil’s ears. Managing to cut through even with the body of an Archdevil atop him. Mephistopheles must pressing down on his injuries. Good. He snapped to silence the boy, and now it just felt as if he was using another one of his squirming consorts. That’s really all the boy was. The Cold Lord could’ve lost himself in this fantasy if fangs weren’t sinking into his solid chest. He must’ve transformed beneath him, and he was biting, over and over. Not much else he could do, still he was trying to cause harm. Vicious angry hateful little thing. The boy truly was his son.
Small grunts bubbled up, his lips curling back into a twisted feral grin, as his thrusts became more erratic. The end was coming, he could feel release churning in his stomach as the sharp stings of pain kept coming, amplifying his pleasure. It was unmistakable that this was his son, because only Raphael would be so naughty. His other consorts, servants, and spawn were always so accommodating. He couldn’t kill the boy, break a toy as nice as this. The Archdevil groaned with pleasure as he felt the teen tense up beneath him, the feeling of hot cum spurting onto his stomach, chest. Raphael tensing made his passage twitch, squeeze around the Archdevil’s cock. With a low growl of pleasure he followed his son, spilling deep inside him. He held him there, pumping into him until there was nothing at all left, his cock was softening. After a few moments of gathering himself the devil slowly pulled back.
He chuckled at the sight of the boy beneath him. His usually combed back hair was a mess, his eyes were unfocused, and his lips were half parted and swollen. Even with his red skin too, the devil could see the little cambion was flushed. Blissed out. The Archdevil rarely saw this expression anymore. The boy loved being fucked, loved pain, no matter how much he pretended otherwise. What a nancy boy. Maybe it was a circular problem, like with his wings- but Mephistopheles didn’t care for the psychology of why Raphael was how he was. It brought the Cold Lord pleasure, and that was all that mattered. He returned his voice and stroked the boy’s face. The half-breed’s eyes drifted towards his hand, leaned into it before abruptly turning away. Seeking the same love he always had, but the pulling away was new. So funny how these things went. The boy was growing up. He disconnected from the cambion, stepping off the youngling.
The cambion slowly sagged with relief, the Archdevil’s body weight off his wounds, but it wasn’t lost on the devil how Raphael watched the hand that had been petting.
He didn’t ask his father to heal him, he wasn’t stupid. Finally, finally, he didn’t say anything at all. Mephistopheles noted that his arm was looking particularly bad though, his red skin turning an ugly deep purple at the multiple fracture sites. Mephistopheles’s eyes were suddenly drawn to his balcony, hearing muffled giggling. He saw the incubus had been spying, and two succubi were wrapped around each arm. They were flying just over the balcony, clutching each other like little schoolgirls. Likely the incubus told their kin a voyeuristic opportunity had appeared. They all fell silent when his colorless eyes fell to them. Unsurprising. The two succubi immediately flew off. Incubui and succubi were wanton, feral creatures- devils in name only. In truth they were far more bestial. Best to train them up like one would a dog, or more aptly, gremishkas.
The incubus was bolder, lingering. They sank back to the balcony, as if sensing Mephistopheles’s mood had calmed. They smiled seductively, leaning against the railing.
The Cold Lord had no qualms with the incubus further exacerbating the boy’s wounds for their own pleasure, but not in his sanctuary. He needed to do some work anyway.
“Take him out of here.”
“Oh of course my Lord of course!”
The creature simpered, its gaze focused hungrily on the broken body on the bed. The Cold Lord caught how the edges of their lips quivered. Impudent creature. They’d become quite comfortable, due to Mephistopheles’s favoritism of them. This incubus had developed quite a mouth, in more ways than one. The Archdevil was tiring of them in truth. Their time was short. He watched as they traipsed over, clasping the injured boy in his arms, purring. Their eyes met and Mephistopheles saw something there. His son liked this incubus. That was good to know. He waved the creature off.
Without anymore prompting the incubus flew off, but Mephistopheles caught the boy’s eyes over the incubus’s shoulder. There was something so cold twisting his warm features. Glowering over the incubus’s blue skin. It made him just the slightest bit uneasy. For he’d seen that expression before. Recently. On Baalphegor.
Mephistopheles shook the rogue thought away. Asmodeus certainly had no interest in a cambion child. Asmodeus rarely dealt with non-devils at all, preferring to go through proxies and upholding pure blooded devil supremacy. The boy had no way out from under his thumb. He’d enjoy him for a year or so more, and then he’d die in the Blood War. Or on the off-chance he lived, he’d come home to serve him in Cania. It was as simple as that. That uneasy feeling kept creeping back.
He could always petition to keep the boy home, but Asmodeus expected all to serve, no exceptions. It was one of his ridiculous regimented rules about the Hells. A favor as large as that for a cambion with no political benefit was ridiculous.
Mephistopheles was being ridiculous.
He settled into his desk, ordering a mage hand to bring him the necromantic tome he’d been working from. He would not lose control of any more of his toys, all was regimented and controlled. All was well.
Wasn’t it?
