Chapter Text
The incubus had seen Raphael around Mephistar. They had never spoken to the son of Mephistopheles, but they were aware of his reputation: pompous, conceited, avaricious. A preening little narcissist who wouldn’t deign to acknowledge anyone he deemed beneath him.
Which was ironic, of course, as he was a cambion, and no-one in the Hells commanded less respect than a half-breed.
The incubus had paid him no mind for the first few centuries of his life. They worked for the archdevil of Cania, and short of serving Asmodeus himself, there was no greater honour for a creature such as them. They were Baalphegor’s favourite amongst all the succubi and incubi in the citadel, permitted to bed anyone they desired, taking nourishment where they wished. Even Mephistopheles himself requested their services on occasion.
To someone of their standing, Raphael was a nobody, however desperately he tried to convince the rest of Cania otherwise.
In general, cambions had it rough in the Nine Hells. Excluded from the infernal hierarchy, they made easy targets, beaten and abused for sport by devils who knew a half-breed had no recourse or protection. Because, what were they even going to do about it?
The incubus had assumed, however, that Raphael, as Mephistopheles’ son, would be spared such indignities. That he’d spend his days scheming in comfort, never dirtying his hands, never truly understanding pain.
So it came as a shock, one day, to walk in on two pit fiends raping him in a supply closet.
The incubus stopped in the doorway, keeping their expression carefully neutral. Raphael looked so small wedged between the two infernal giants. His arms and wings were pinned, but he wasn’t fighting against them — he wasn’t even struggling at all.
It was the expression on his face that lodged itself in the incubus’ memory. There was no rage, no defiance, none of the indignant outrage that most devils wore when cornered. It was just so human. Deep, profound sorrow; the face of someone barely holding themselves together. They’d never seen Raphael wear that expression before, because for once, his features weren’t twisted into that all-too-familiar sneer.
Neither pit fiend looked up when the incubus pushed the door open. One had its hand fisted in Raphael’s hair, wrenching his head back, as they rutted into him fiercely. Raphael’s eyes darted to the doorway, meeting the incubus’ gaze for a fraction of a second, before they slid away in shame.
He thought they’d come to join in.
The incubus watched for a moment longer, as the second attacker wrenched the cambion’s mouth open and roughly forced his head down. Smiling at the resulting choking and spluttering sounds that followed, they closed the door and left.
But they couldn’t stop thinking about him.
About those exquisite bruises they’d seen spreading across his skin, purple bleeding into blue. The blood beading at his throat where claws had pierced his flesh. The sharp, intoxicating scent of his despair. And most of all, that look in his eyes — beautiful, broken hopelessness.
The next time the incubus saw Raphael, he was leaving his father’s throne room, moving stiffly through the grand hall. His doublet was buttoned right up to his throat, concealing every inch of skin.
The incubus had noticed this before, how absurdly covered the cambion kept himself. Infernal fashion favoured exposure, strategic glimpses of flesh designed to entice and unsettle; everyone displayed themselves to some degree. Everyone except Raphael, who hid behind high collars and long sleeves as if his body was secret and shameful. Even his wrists were hidden.
They found themself wondering just how many bruises lay beneath all that careful fabric. Fresh ones, perhaps, or older marks, faded to yellow and green. Their mind drifted back to the rape they’d walked in on — Raphael’s shirt pulled down over his shoulders, exposing the broad plane of his chest, all that crimson skin laid bare and vulnerable. They wondered what it would feel like under their touch. Warm, probably. Yielding.
Raphael glanced up as he passed, and there it was, that familiar expression of contempt. His nose wrinkled slightly, as if the incubus were something unpleasant he’d stepped in.
The incubus was wearing a different form than when they’d walked in on the scene in the closet, so they wondered if Raphael had history with the original owner of this particular face. How many of the forms they cycled through meant something to him, or carried some sort of insult or buried grievance?
Or maybe he was just a prick to everyone.
Probably both.
They weren’t sure why, but they followed him.
Keeping their distance, they stalked him through the ice-crusted corridors of Mephistar. Once, Raphael turned down a passage, then immediately reversed course and took a different route. The incubus peered down the narrow corridor he’d avoided and spotted a single gelugon loitering at the far end.
Interesting.
Raphael didn’t move like prey, despite his caution; he kept his head high, his wings tucked, and his spine straight, despite his gait suggesting that he was in need of healing. There was just something strangely alluring about him.
The incubus knew he was clever — that much was common knowledge. He had a gift with mortals, apparently. Always delivering souls to his father, surpassing his quota each and every tenday, making the other soul-brokers of Cania look incompetent by comparison. Mephistopheles himself remarked on it occasionally: how useful the cambion was. How his efficacy at collecting souls made up for his much less tolerable qualities, such as his personality.
Raphael continued on, his route leading him towards the archives. He browsed the shelves slowly, trailing clawed fingers along book spines, pausing to consider various titles and thick tomes.
The incubus watched from the opposite side of the stacks, peering through gaps in the shelving. They’d never had much use for books. Who needed knowledge when you had all the social intelligence to get whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it? They’d been born knowing how to read desire and manipulate it, how to make themself irresistible. And they were damned good at it, too.
They had to dart behind a shelf when Raphael turned suddenly, book in hand. He crossed to an armchair and settled into it with a casual sort of elegance, one leg folded over the other. Perhaps it was the archdevil blood in his veins, but even seated he carried himself like royalty. A king in a kingdom of one.
They watched him read for hours, studying the little twitches of his mouth as his eyes moved across the pages, and the occasional sly smile that crossed his lips at something in the text. But whenever footsteps approached, whether archivist, warlock or devil, Raphael’s gaze snapped up instantly. He tracked each passerby with his full attention until they’d moved on, and only then did his eyes return to the page.
The incubus found themself wondering how exhausting it must be, being a cambion. Forever vigilant, never safe enough to lose yourself in anything, not even a book.
A name was called close by and Raphael’s head turned instantly, his gaze locking onto the incubus through the gap in the shelves.
The voice had come from behind them and they turned to find a dwarven woman staring up at them, eyes bright with anticipation. A warlock. And apparently, they were currently wearing the form of her patron.
Ah.
“My lord,” she began, breathless with devotion. “I’ve been searching everywhere for the texts you asked for—”
“Not now,” the incubus cut her off, hyperaware of Raphael’s attention boring into the back of their head. “I require components. Three imp patagia — extracted. I need the ashes delivered to the frost gardens forthwith.”
The dwarf’s face lit up with purpose and she nodded quickly. “Potion of invisibility. I understand, sir.” She bowed low and scurried off.
The incubus turned back to the shelves, only to find that the armchair now sat empty. Raphael and his book were gone.
They went looking for him again later.
They knew where his rooms would be, as they had visited that section of the palace often enough for trysts with other cambions and low-ranking devils. The accommodations for half-breeds were pitiful: small box rooms, barren of furnishings. Their lack of rank didn’t afford them luxuries of any kind, no matter how effective they were at acquiring souls.
Raphael’s room was no different. He was sleeping when the incubus slipped inside, stepping through the ethereal plane so as not to wake him with the door latch.
The cambion lay on his back, one knee bent slightly, atop a tiny rusted bedframe. The mattress was thinner than parchment and he had no blanket, only his wings to wrap around himself. It was cold, even for a devil with hellfire in their blood; the walls and floor were polished ice, leeching what little warmth there was from the air. Even in sleep he dressed modestly, nightclothes buttoned up to his chin.
They crept closer, watching Raphael’s face twitch and his limbs spasm slightly with whatever nightmare had him in its grip. Very gently, they placed their hand against his cheek, and he turned his face into the touch, brow furrowing, a small whimper escaping him.
Then they gifted him dreams. Nice ones. Dreams of luxury, of sleeping in a grand boudoir draped in crimson silk. Of sinking into a warm pool with waters that restored broken bones and split skin. Of hands, gentle and tender, tracing the line of his spine and his shoulders, holding him close as if he were safe and precious — and loved.
Raphael stilled, the tension draining from his face, muscles finally relaxing.
And so the incubus came back, night after night, watching the cambion sleep peacefully, wondering when that would no longer be enough for them.
The chance to take something more from Raphael presented itself unexpectedly, in the form of exposed flesh.
They were in the records hall, wearing the form of Adonides, the steward and administrator of Cania. They’d been rifling through soul collection tallies, perusing the names of high-performing fiends, as if selecting from a particularly extensive wine list.
Raphael stepped into the room and froze. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he schooled his features into an unimpressed, almost bored expression.
“This is rather precipitous, is it not?” Raphael’s voice was clipped and controlled, but the incubus could taste his discomfort in the air. “Our arrangement stipulates another tenday before this particular indignity.”
The incubus thought quickly. “Plans change,” they said smoothly. “I require a temporary acceleration to our timeline.”
They had no bloody idea what arrangement he meant.
Raphael pursed his lips, staring at “Adonides” as if weighing up whether to argue. Then he sighed and his hands moved to the lacings of his trousers. “Fine. But I trust we can conclude this with some measure of efficiency?” He slipped the trousers down a few inches, before turning away and bracing his palms against the closest table, spine straight, shoulders tense.
The incubus stood frozen, hunger unfurling in their belly. Raphael was here, vulnerable, offering himself freely — or as freely as whatever transaction he’d agreed with the steward of Cania allowed. Their gaze raked down his exposed flesh, noting the rigid set of his tail, before settling appreciatively on the rather lovely curve of his backside.
Raphael glanced back, jawline sharp as he clenched his teeth. His eyes narrowed. “What are you waiting for? I have better uses for my time than standing here like some—”
He was cut off by the incubus stepping forwards and grasping his tail at the base with one hand, lifting it. Raphael went still, his breathing turning quick and shallow.
“Hold this,” they murmured.
Raphael looked back over his shoulder, confusion crossing his features. His hand came up automatically, fingers closing around his own tail with obvious uncertainty. This clearly wasn’t how this usually went.
“Higher,” the incubus said.
Raphael complied without a word, draping his tail over his shoulder, exposing himself further.
With their hands freed, the incubus slid one around Raphael’s hip, palm settling against bare skin. The other moved up to the nape of his neck, fingers sliding into his impeccably groomed hair. They pressed their hips closer and guided him forwards, bending him over the table, causing his trousers to slip down further, falling around his ankles.
Pinning Raphael to the table by the neck, the incubus inhaled deeply, savouring the piquant scent of the cambion’s shame, his unease, and… oh yes… arousal.
With one hand, they freed their own erection. Adonides’ cock wasn’t as long or girthy as the incubus would have liked, but it still made a delightful little slapping sound as they dropped it heavily against Raphael’s skin, causing the cambion to jerk involuntarily at the touch.
Rolling their hips slowly, they rubbed themself over the cleft between his cheeks, enjoying the twitching and bunching of his muscles as he braced for rough intrusion. They brought both hands down, digging fingers into firm flesh, pulling him open and grinding against him harder, brushing over his hole.
“Will you just get on with—” Raphael snapped over his shoulder, but he was silenced by a slick fingertip pushing into his hole. A surprised grunt escaped him.
The incubus grinned as more oil appeared on their skin like dew. Pleasure was their trade, and conjuring the means to deliver it came as naturally as breathing. The fingers of one hand continued circling and stretching Raphael, drawing out the most delectable noises from the devil, whilst the other began to slick their own length.
As they pressed their tip against his entrance, they could feel their own wild excitement rising. Though they had Baalphegor’s blessing to feed whenever they wished, they felt like a starving creature finally set loose at a banquet. They’d watched Raphael sleep for weeks, untouchable, protected by dreams. And now, finally, they could have him.
The urge to ravage him was almost overwhelming; to ram themself inside him in one fierce stroke and savagely hammer their hips, sinking their teeth into supple crimson flesh, right where his shoulder met his neck. They wanted to fuck and fuck, and take and take, until he was trembling and spent beneath them, glassy eyed and unseeing, body and soul devoured.
But then they remembered the small smile that ghosted across his features when he dreamt of silk sheets and healing waters... The way peace softened the angry little scrunch of his nose and the hard line of his lips... And instead, they moved slowly, working their length inside him inch by inch, as gently as if he were made of porcelain.
They drank in every small moan as Raphael melted beneath them, the strength in his legs failing as the incubus buried deeper and deeper, pulling him back onto their cock with their hands. When their hips were flush against his backside, they pulled out again slowly, right up to the tip. Raphael whimpered weakly at the withdrawal, but a second later, he cried out as the incubus slammed back inside.
And then — there — the shift. The familiar rush of essence surrendered, a fragment of Raphael unspooled and was drawn into them. The incubus felt it sink in, settling deep beneath their skin: his form, his voice, the precise configuration of him, absorbed and claimed. Theirs to inhabit whenever they wished.
The nourishment that flooded through them was exquisite. Raphael’s essence carried the raw, musky power of his father, that unmistakable infernal potency, but interwoven with a strange sort of sweetness. Mortal complexity, like wild cherries, tart and lush. Feeling drunk, they closed their eyes and continued thrusting reflexively, drinking it all in.
As they pumped their hips rhythmically for what felt like far too long, Raphael was rocked back and forth against the table, now limp as a ragdoll. His cheek was pressed against the wood, his eyes distant. His grip on his tail faltered, and it slipped from his shoulder, falling back down.
The incubus frowned. They could hold off their own release indefinitely, but it never took this long. Perhaps they were losing their touch…
“Hey,” they murmured, gentling their movements. “Are you all right, sweetling?”
Sweetling. As soon as the word slipped past their lips, they knew it was a mistake.
Raphael blinked slowly, confusion creasing his brow as though he’d been pulled from somewhere far away. Then he twisted suddenly, shoving them backwards with surprising force. The incubus stumbled, caught off-guard.
Raphael bent quickly, pulling his trousers up with fumbling hands, eyes never leaving them. Alarm was written across his face. “Who are you?” he hissed.
“Adonides,” the incubus offered, gesturing vaguely at their borrowed face.
“No.” Raphael shook his head. “You’re not. What is your name?”
The incubus shrugged, straightening. “I’ve never had one.”
Horror flooded Raphael’s features, followed immediately by deep humiliation. Then he vanished, the air folding in on itself where he’d stood.
The incubus returned immediately to their lodgings in the pleasure halls, shedding Adonides’ form the moment the door had locked behind them. The transformation came easily, Raphael’s essence still warm within them. They shifted, bones realigning, features reshaping, until they stood in his skin.
Before the mirror, they stripped slowly, savouring the revelation of each new detail. Broad shoulders, elegantly muscled. The lean plane of his abdomen. Those razor-sharp cheekbones. Eyes like molten amber.
Beautiful.
They stroked his cock languidly, massaging clawed fingers into the satin-soft skin. It was perfectly proportioned, satisfyingly weighty in their palm. And when they finally took their release, they watched his face in the mirror as pleasure washed over his handsome features.
The incubus smiled. Somewhere in the citadel, Raphael was feeling this too: every caress, every spike of pleasure, echoed in his own body. Whether he wanted it or not.
________
The incubus didn’t approach Raphael again. They watched him from a distance, but still visited him in his sleep. He never knew it was one of his father’s own incubi who had stolen his shape, who wore it regularly, pleasured themself in it, as he felt every sensation mirrored back to him wherever he was, no matter what he was doing.
But they tried to bring him something better too. To displace the other indignities the cambion suffered at the hands of full-blooded devils — Adonides included, apparently. They brought him pleasant dreams and chased away his nightmares, standing silent guard over his sleep.
They had thought he was happy. Or at least... content. So it came as a shock when the incubus overheard Mephistopheles telling Baalphegor that his son had left for Avernus. That he had made some alliance with Zariel that afforded him his own private residence: a fortress floating above the fields of the Blood War, far from Mephistar’s frozen halls.
Gone.
Centuries passed, and the incubus had almost forgotten the half-breed son of Mephistopheles.
Until one day the Archdevil announced his intentions to reconnect with his wayward offspring. Apparently Raphael had made quite a name for himself throughout the Hells as a ruthless soul collector, spinning webs across the mortal lands of the material plane. As a result, he’d amassed an impressive fortune in Avernus, enough to make even Mephistopheles take notice.
The Lord of Cania had heard whispers of a plot to steal a precious artefact from his private vaults. The rumours weren’t verified, but if Raphael truly was the scheming prodigy whispers claimed, Mephistopheles wouldn’t take any risks. He wanted to present his son with a gift — “a distraction” — to keep him occupied and watched.
Baalphegor had recommended one of her succubi for the task; beautiful, skilled and perfectly suited to the work. But the incubus had other ideas. They begged her for the opportunity to honour their archdevil with this assignment, to spy for the Lord of Cania and prove their worth.
After a tenday of relentless persuasion, she agreed.
When the incubus finally laid eyes on Raphael again, the addiction immediately came roaring back. That intoxication they’d almost convinced themself they’d imagined.
He was dressed as he’d always been, buttoned to the throat, every inch of skin below his chin concealed. But the quality had changed; his clothes were exquisitely tailored now, edged with gold thread and expert needlework. And he wore confidence like he’d finally earned it and it was no longer just an ill-fitting costume.
The incubus watched as Raphael dined with his father. They spoke long into the night, their conversation cordial but never warm, like two chess players circling each other with careful moves and polite words.
When Mephistopheles finally presented his son with the promised gift, the incubus was at last close enough to catch his scent: musk and cherries, exactly as they remembered. They could almost taste it on their tongue as they knelt, prostrating themself at Raphael’s feet.
Raphael looked down at them, a slight sneer playing at his lips. His voice was smooth.
“What is your name?”
“Haarlep.”