Work Text:
Say You’re Mine for the Ages
Silence.
Silence.
At the end of all things, in the wash of blood and madness, all was still and silent. Raphael wondered if it wasn’t some trick—perhaps he’d gone deaf. The rustle of fabric as Baalphegor crossed the caldera promised he had not. She cut a striking image against Cania’s monochrome terrain—cinnamon and ash—as she crossed to Mephistopheles’ corpse.
The poets liked to speak of the emptiness of such victories—vengeance would leave one hollow, they said. Raphael felt anything but—the Fiend howled in his head, some great beast adding its song to the Archduke’s more flowery exultations. Won, he’d won. Mephistopheles dead, the Lord of Murder dead. Bhaal’s essence…
…Bhaal’s essence. It tasted like blood; it felt like raw power. It was standing at the eyes of the storm, feeling the winds tear at you, and laughing. The power of true divinity—his.
Theirs, he corrected, a shiver chasing along his spine. Where was the irritation the thought should have elicited? Where was the fury? The emptiness, the loneliness, the rage, as he clawed ever upwards?
Silence, Raphael thought, closing his eyes. All was silent.
The Archduke felt his Duchess as she crossed to him—like strings of power or flesh, sowing parts of her to him, shared tissue, shared power. There was a resonance—divinity her sire imbued to her by virtue of birth and the mated essence he’d stolen.
“Look,” she breathed. Joi lifted her hand to his temple, tracking downwards along his cheek and the trickle of blood. His Duchess stared, searching his face as if seeing him for the first time. Her free hand curled behind his neck. “Look at you.”
Raphael traced her lower lip. “Name me—you have earned the honor. Be the first.”
“Raphael,” she murmured, stroking his face. Her eyes burned—green like envy, flecked with gold—his queen, the joining point of so many sins. Her voice was low, her words a hymn. “Archduke of Avernus, Lord of Ambition—a god.” He shivered, kissing her—this thing, this goddess, this other half of his divine essence—drowned in the taste of her and the rush, completed…whole. Her fingers threaded through his hair, inhaling the air he breathed into her lungs. His Joi spoke against his lips. “My god.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The silence broke.
There was only noise in the aftermath—Mephistar's citadel and its halls, all full of music and laughter. Lords and Ladies from each of the Infernal Courts rotated around him, offering their praise. False praise, yes—every smile was the edge of a blade pressed to his back—but why should that matter? The devils no longer looked upon him with disdain. They stared with jealousy.
And Asmodeus offered a new title—the son of Hellfire's birthright.
"Hail, Raphael," the Dark Prince said, voice dark. He held his goblet high, dark hair hanging loose over his shoulders, handsome like roaring thunder. "Archduke of Cania, Prince of the Eighth, Lord of Ambition." Raphael sat up straight, jaw squared. A feast hall of Dukes and Duchesses, all eyes fixated upon him. Asmodeus sat at the head of the table, Lady Baalphegor on his left. And the place of honor? His. The Lord of the Nine's eyes glittered like rubies. "Hail Raphael—Right Hand of Asmodeus."
They cheered for him—hated him, this half-blooded bastard who had moved so far beyond every devil assembled. Raphael bowed his head and held up his goblet.
His Sire's throne, realm, title—everything belonged to Raphael. Mephistopheles' name would fade to nothing, and there would be only Raphael.
Blood thundered in his ears. The words rose to his tongue, heady and well-practiced. The devil might even have meant them, as magnanimous as he felt. Raphael stood, bowing his head. "Hail Asmodeus, Lord of the Ninth—the Shield of Law, a wall against the Abyss and her chaos. Without him," he flicked his gaze from the Lord to the Lady Baalphegor, beautiful, seeing too much. She tipped her head to him, hiding a smirk in her wine. "The tide would wash over us, one and all."
The corner of Asmodeus' lips ticked up. Ah, clever boy, it said.
The Lady of Murder shifted beside him, eyes dark, smiling as he took his seat. Joi slipped her hand into his, touch settling on his upper thigh. Heat radiated from her skin, through the robes, licking outwards—she squeezed.
The conversation turned towards more neutral ground: the Blood War, Raphael's plans for Cania, if he would continue his Sire's experiments—banal.
Joi's touch strayed upward.
Why should they be denied?
~~~~~~~~~~
How many centuries had he spent wandering Mephistar’s halls?
It was a tale for the poets: the cambion child, alone, his Sire’s eyes upon his every move, and pureblooded devils waiting for the slightest misstep.
He had outlasted and surpassed them, one and all. Cania and Mephistar were his, and he intended to stake his claim well and truly. He would contact the Ice Devils, and he would…
…would…
It’s difficult to think.
There’s a savagery to his divinity, worse when she’s near. The threads binding them together drew taut, as if she’d yanked them, pinned the strands beneath her heel to keep him close. Raphael tipped his head back to make room for the press of her lips and chuckled. Joi’s teeth scraped across his pulse, sucking a vibrant purple bruise on his throat, more stark against his red skin.
“They want you dead,” she murmured—but with the Lady of Murder, this was far from a warning. She radiated pride and adoration, and her touch spoke to reverence.
"It is the way of the Hells." He fisted a hand in her braid, tugging hard enough to create space between them and force her to look at him. Joi smiled, and the relative sweetness of her expression belied the underlying hunger coiled between them. He traced her cheek. "Greedy little beast—you want them to try." He nipped at the tip of her nose, avoiding the press of her lips. "Try to kill me."
"Try being the operative word, my love—I'd never let them get far."
Raphael clutched her throat, dragging his lips up and across her forehead. "Tell us why."
He knew the answer: to kill for him—to defend what belonged to her. Greedy, he thought again, but not unkindly. Joi's right hand found Raphael's—she brought it to her lips, kissing the back of his knuckles. Such a tangle of limbs, so tightly entwined but still…lacking.
Age had a way of putting carnal appetites into perspective. The satisfaction of owning or conquering flesh paled in comparison to a kingdom. It could not compare to power. The needs of another would never compare to his own.
But his Duchess was power, not a foreign entity but an extension of himself, twinned, mated.
He could want her—it was no different from pleasuring himself.
Raphael squeezed. "Answer."
"Because," she breathed. "You are mine—I protect what is mine."
~~~~~~~~~~
Mine—growled into the flesh of her inner thigh. The devil dragged his teeth across the sensitive flesh, biting hard enough to draw blood. Raphael sat back, admiring the ruin of his Duchess—sweat-slick, skin painted with an amalgamation of blood and her arousal. He dragged his thumb through the worst of it, painting ragged lines of crimson up to the apex of her thigh. She sighed, spreading her legs—beautiful. The Lady of Murder remained so lovely, fangs flecked with blood.
His blood, hers—did it matter? He thought not.
“Ah, but look at you,” he purred, voice pitched low, like every bad idea, every promise made in the darkest stretches of the night. Some sick thrill chased along his spine as he watched the muscles in her stomach flesh, her pulse leaping as he sunk his fingers back into her spent body. If he closed his eyes, the world would take some dizzying turn. His Duchess cried out, hooking her right leg around him to draw him close.
Soon, so soon, but he wanted to revel in this final indignity against his Sire. Mephistopheles’ private chambers were alive with sound—the new Duchess of Cania, voice pitched in praise to Raphael, reaching for him, worshiping him. She came apart around his touch, shuddering, arching, tail thrashing until he twined his with hers.
How delightful, how delicious to have such a creature so securely bound to his will.
Joi pushed up on her elbows, shaking, crooking a finger at him. “Come,” she ordered.
And he smirked, leaning over her, shifting his weight to rest more comfortably in the cradle of her thighs. She sighed, reaching between them to find his length, leading him—he seats himself so easily. As if she’s made for him, molded, and that gratifies his pride more than he’d care to admit. “And who are you to order me?”
They knew the answer too well, their shared divinity twisting and tugging—rapture every moment he sank into her and screaming fury every time he pulled away. Together, one, for the first time since their victory in Gehenna.
“Your Duchess, your goddess…” she sank her teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, panting, whining, canting her hips to take him deeper. He should cut out her tongue for her impudence. Tear out her eyes for staring at him so sweetly. So many things, all so far off. “Beautiful Raphael—my love.”
Hers, greedy beast, the truth of her claim written in the lines scored down his back. Hers, the sentiment underpinning every heresy she breathed in his ear—their churches would grow great. They would push into the Abyss. They would remake it in their image.
They would shape eternity.
So let it be done. So decreed Raphael, Lord of the Eighth, God of Ambition, Right Hand of Asmodeus.