Flashes of pink fire pursued Asmodeus.
Demons know no sleep, but once a day their spirit demands rest. Four hours in a trance-like state: dreamless, only a relentless analysis of the past. So when flashes of flame once again clouded Asmodeus's eyes, as if bursting from his skull directly to his vision, it could be considered a kind of nightmare.
The Lord inhaled air noisily through his nose and sat bolt upright on the bed. From the huge painting on the wall, Dispater gazed down at him, as if someone had distracted him from his work. He had lifted his head, calm and slightly curious about what lay beyond the frame of the canvas.
"I can't have sex in here – I constantly feel his gaze!" Naamah had once exclaimed indignantly. In turn, Asmodeus had suggested his wife move to another room; her outrage, it seemed, had mostly been for show.
Three days had already passed since the last conversation between the Lord and his secretary. It might not seem like much, but each extra hour of delay made Asmodeus increasingly nervous. He threw himself into work, drowned in the embraces of his harem and his wife, but it was laughable to think any of it could smother the gnawing anxiety. Asmodeus was preparing to let Dispater go forever.
Throughout these three days, he hadn't even summoned Dispater or burdened him with tasks, as if leaving the entire administration of the Second Circle entirely in his hands. But no. He had been waiting, expecting Dispater to come to him, to knock on the door of the study – a study where, incidentally, not a single succubus had appeared all this time. Never before had Asmodeus remained at his workplace for so long.
But no miracle occurred, and the secretary never came. Moreover, even to his own private office within the Lord's palace, Dispater had only opened the door long enough to retrieve something from his desk.
It would have been easier to rip it off like a bandage from a bloody wound, but Dispater tormented him with waiting and anxiety, driving the Lord almost to howling and crawling up the walls as he paced the corridors over and over on his long legs.
By the middle of the fourth day, Asmodeus was simply fed up with waiting. His patience had run out, and anger was rising – surely it would be better for Dispater himself to just get this over with quickly, wouldn't it? So, waiting only until noon, the man immediately translocated himself to the Iron Tower to enter the library unseen once more. He had to shift through several empty rooms, but in one of them, the sound of a falling book alerted the Lord that his target had been located. Asmodeus stood motionless for several seconds, seemingly indecisive, listening to the rustle of pages somewhere deep within the room, between the bookshelves, where Dispater was.
He wanted to absorb that sound through his very skin. Using his invisibility, Asmodeus ascended into the air as if stepping onto a stair. He wanted to observe the Iron Duke, if only for a little while, before his presence was revealed.
He found him in a touchingly flustered state – standing on a step ladder before a bookshelf, scowling and clearly trying to remember where on earth that particular volume had originally belonged. With a trembling hand, Dispater moved from shelf to shelf, prying apart books packed tightly together with his fingers, attempting to wedge the one he held back into place. But time and again, he failed. Watching the process, Asmodeus couldn't help thinking that sometimes it was easier to find the right key in a jailer's heavy ring. After struggling a bit longer, Dispater suddenly gave his forehead, right between his horns, a light smack and finally found the book its rightful spot.
After this, a calm smile briefly illuminated the demon's grayish face, and the God of Lust nearly melted into a mindless puddle, pressing his shoulder hard against a bookshelf.
Asmodeus's mind was a temple – high walls arching far upwards, vast windows letting in light, and bricks made of memories. At the entrance to this temple stood a staircase descending deep into the depths, and down it every day bounced a golden ball, starting its journey each morning from the very top step. A single touch of the ball against a step – a new thought.
Thump, thump, thump, the ball bounced rhythmically.
«Beautiful, adorable, love» raced through his head as Asmodeus watched his secretary dust off his hands.
Maybe this morning he'd just intended to needle him a bit and ask how the deliberations were coming along, but his heart stubbornly insisted on settling this matter once and for all. Peeling his shoulder off the bookshelf, Asmodeus dropped his invisibility and instantly caught Dispater around the hips, embracing his legs. The man let out something between a yelp and a squawk, gripping the ladder tightly as it wobbled.
"Loghrd Asmodeus!" the Iron Duke guessed correctly without missing a beat, his voice a nervous bark. "Mocking me again!"
"Why 'mocking' straight away?" Asmodeus retorted, sounding almost offended, though one corner of his lips curled into a smirk. "I'm merely helping you – holding you steady."
"I wasn't falling," the man sighed reproachfully, twisting around to look back. For a split second, it was obvious he was analyzing the Lord's reason for visiting the Tower, and sheer horror immediately flashed across Dispater's face. "Oh— oh hell! Forgive me, Loghrd Asmodeus! I know you are under no obligation to help me, and I've kept you waiting so long! I'm nearly finished with the plan – I'll bghring it to you today or tomoghrrow! Again, my apologies for the delay!"
Asmodeus felt he should have been at least a little put off by how desperately his beloved secretary seemed to want what he'd asked for, but instead, his smile only widened as he watched the panicking Dispater.
"Imagine that!" he thought. "His hair even stood on end when he thought I was angry."
Asmodeus was also thinking about how beautiful his pitch-black eyes were. The Lord's smirk grew a fraction wider.
"Take as much time as you need," he hurried to reassure the secretary, only to be met with incomprehension on the other's face. Due to his overthinking tendencies, Dispater was prone to calculating others' actions far in advance – in his mind, he mapped out entire schematics, eliminating options one by one until he arrived at the correct conclusion. He did this in an instant: sometimes his gaze wouldn't even have time to unfocus before the answer was clear. So Dispater's suspiciousness was hardly surprising. After all, Asmodeus had come here initially to find out the reason for the silence. Could he really be so repulsive to him? Besides, despite the difference in their status, they were, and remained, friends.
"Then allow me to know…?" Dispater cut himself off, radiating utter confidence that the Lord wasn't that dense as to miss the implied question.
"I've come for my payment," the Lord blurted out, startling even himself with his own audacity. Dispater's face went slack. He froze completely, leaning against the Lord in his stupor, who instinctively supported his weight.
Asmodeus's heart lurched at the gesture. It wasn't just a stumble towards him; it felt as if Dispater had thrown his arms wide and flung himself into an embrace.
Damn it all, he'd been hovering around his own secretary for billions of years! Now, of all times – especially with the end so near – was the moment to finally seize control.
Without another thought, Asmodeus pulled the Archduke close. Dispater snapped out of his daze instantly, hiccuping in alarm and craning his neck away, desperate to avoid any contact with bare skin.
"Miloghrd?!" was all Dispater could choke out, his hand involuntarily clamping onto his master's silk-clad shoulder.
"What?" The Lord smirked again. "Would it be better if you came to me later? Somehow, I doubt your vampire would appreciate that."
Dispater opened his mouth to retort, then froze again, bewildered, as the Lord began steering him away. Confusion locked his gaze as Asmodeus swept a stack of books crashing to the floor and planted him firmly on the nearest table. Dispater barely managed to brace his hands on the tabletop beside his thighs for balance. The Lord's gaze burned him. Looming close, Asmodeus drank in his face, contorted with utter disarray.
Asmodeus couldn't see it, but a look of grim resignation lit the Archduke's features just before the Lord claimed him for his pleasure. So be it, his eyes seemed to say. Had Asmodeus known, he would have vehemently denied it. Unfortunately, he couldn't read minds, and had no inkling of the turmoil chaining that iron heart.
Watching the man beneath him breathe in ragged, anxious gasps, the God of Lust licked his lips, deliberately running his tongue over his fangs.
Without much thought, he snapped his fingers. Instantly, a small vial materialized right before Asmodeus's eyes. At first glance, it seemed empty to Dispater. The Lord caught the flicker of interest on his secretary's face, and his smile split his face in half. Pulling out the stopper, he poured a small amount of transparent, yellowish, viscous fluid onto his fingers and began methodically rubbing it into his palms. Asmodeus made sure he covered every single micron before swiftly touching the Archduke's cheek.
Dispater, caught off guard by the touch, didn't even have time to flinch. But feeling it, and seeing no sign of the iron corrosion that should have already begun consuming the Lord's flesh, he froze in utter shock.
Asmodeus exhaled sharply, like a man punched in the gut. The gel worked. He'd slaved over the formula for hundreds of years, testing it on Minos – turning to gold time and again upon touching him – but during the final trials, it had finally held. And now, at last, he could touch the one he had desired with such painful, burning intensity for so long.
Dispater, meanwhile, looked utterly bewildered. He was afraid to move a muscle, terrified of shattering the long-forgotten sensation of a warm hand's touch.
"Made it for you," Asmodeus shared, his smile widening. He gently cupped the cheek with his whole palm. The Iron Duke remained perfectly still, his breathing deep and slow. Asmodeus's heart leapt with delight. Dispater's skin was exactly as he'd imagined – cool and slightly dry. He needed to explore more.
Pouring more gel onto his palm, Asmodeus smoothed it over his secretary's entire face, even over his eyelids. He reached the ears, then descended to the exposed skin of the neck, observing as a thin film formed on the skin before drying, invisible yet palpable.
The Lord simply felt the intense gaze of those black eyes fixed unwaveringly on his face, and mentally scoffed: So much for that famous patience, eh?
Asmodeus added a bit more gel to his hand. This time, however, it was to touch Dispater's lips with his fingertips, pressing against them, smearing the fluid, then pressing deeper to delve into his mouth. Dispater neither helped nor hindered him; he simply watched and breathed deeply. For the God of Lust, this was enough – he could touch him, caress him as he'd dreamt. With immense pleasure, he pushed his fingers further into the warmth: saliva posed no obstacle to the gel, as it ignored all liquids, letting them pass right through.
He probed behind the cheeks with his fingers, traced the even rows of teeth, teased the palate with light strokes, and then, boldly, pinched the other's tongue between his fingers. He was playing, utterly oblivious to how starved the demon beneath him was for touch. Dispater suddenly surged forward, running his tongue along his Lord's long fingers. A soft moan escaped him simultaneously, and he startled at his own sounds and actions, jerking back from the hand.
Asmodeus's eyes narrowed, and his heart danced a joyful tarantella. Bracing his free hand on the table, the God of Lust leaned towards the Archduke. Asmodeus was nearly mad with desire, watching lips with sharp curves wrap more confidently around his fingers as he began to push them into the other's mouth. Dispater clasped his Lord's wrist, whimpering softly and squirming in place. A scalding suspicion struck Asmodeus the moment he felt the secretary's tongue diligently licking the pads of his fingers. The demon pressed his knee against the other's clenched thighs and pushed towards the groin. Just as he suspected, he encountered the precise bulge of the other's arousal, causing Dispater to gasp loudly, accidentally pushing Asmodeus's fingers from his mouth, and thrust forward against the touch.
Something inside Asmodeus twisted into a fiery whirlwind, akin to those tormenting sinners on his Circle.
"Did you want to fuck me?" Asmodeus purred, slightly breathless, rubbing his knee against the other's groin.
"Not even in my wildest dreams, Miloghrd…" Dispater groaned softly, struggling not to arch into the movement. "I never thought of You in that way. I respect You too much to taint You with such filthy thoughts."
Asmodeus's heart clenched with tenderness. Ridiculous. Him? The God of Lust, the so-called King of Whores, didn't want to be tainted by thoughts?
"Rinse your mouth and swallow," Asmodeus commanded hurriedly, bringing the vial to the secretary's lips. Grimacing at the bitter synthetic taste, Dispater obediently took a sip, though it seemed the small container couldn't hold more than a tablespoon. Afterward, the secretary parted his lips slightly to show his mouth was empty of the gel. That simple, unguarded action sent a jolt through Asmodeus, goosebumps racing from his neck down his spine.
Without a word, he gripped Dispater's cheeks and tilted his head up, immediately crushing their lips together in a kiss. The moment they touched, he felt his heart plummet into his stomach, deciding to stay there when Dispater instantly moaned into his mouth and thrust forward, grinding his groin against Asmodeus's knee. That raw, canine gesture of desire almost made the very embodiment of lust double over with arousal. Asmodeus greedily explored the other's mouth, his gaze heavy upon the secretary. Dispater, in contrast, squeezed his eyes shut immediately. He had a smooth, black tongue, tapering to a point, which caused him not only to roll his 'r's but also to lisp slightly when he spoke. Asmodeus instantly promised himself that during this "payment," he would simply have to teach his Archduke to work that tongue so skillfully, it could tie a cherry stem into a knot.
Dispater's cheekbones flushed faintly with his embarrassment and arousal. The Lord couldn't get enough of looking at him, much less pull away – only a miracle could tear him off right now. And a miracle did indeed happen. From the very start of the kiss, Asmodeus had been insistently pressing with his knee, causing Dispater to moan and jerk against him, utterly lost in passion. With one hand, he was already clutching his Lord's shoulder, fingers tightening spasmodically, making his leather gloves creak faintly. That sound had long since forged the strongest associations in Asmodeus, and even during sex with Naamah, he practically always asked her to wear gloves, closing his own eyes.
He thrust his knee again, and in that same instant felt the man beneath him tense his entire body. Dispater was practically lifted off the ground, and he himself seemed slightly surprised by his body's reaction, which had required such brief stimulation.
Asmodeus immediately pulled away from his secretary's lips with a wet sound, watching him shudder slightly, wracked by orgasm. Dispater was already slightly disheveled, flushed even deeper, and though the Lord would have gladly smiled or even teased him, he simply froze in place now, gazing rapturously at the demon before him.
Breathing heavily, Dispater swallowed and jerked back.
"Oh, bloody 'ell! M'loghrd, please forgive me!" he babbled, shamefully squeezing his legs together. "I behaved so disgracefully, I…"
"We need a bedroom," the Lord exhaled decisively, looking straight into the Archduke's eyes. The latter immediately fell silent. He was breathing noisily, and Asmodeus could swear he heard the frantic beating of his heart.
Dispater was silent for perhaps a second, no more, and then came the snap of his fingers. They both tumbled onto the soft bed in the Iron Duke's private chambers.
Realizing this, and that Dispater had teleported them here himself, Asmodeus knew he was truly going to go mad. The realization struck him: He loved him. He loved his secretary far too much. He wasn't ready to let him go to Margott for anything in the world – why the hell should he? Hadn't his love, spanning almost all ten billion years of this universe's existence, earned reciprocation?
Asmodeus almost howled in the moment the Archduke uncertainly pulled him closer.
To hell with that.
With a snap of his own fingers, Asmodeus sent all their clothes flying onto the floor in a heap.
Sure, it would have been insanely sexy and romantic to peel off each piece of fabric, to caress the strong body with palms and fingers, but his patience was wearing thin. He cared so little right now that he was ready to ride Dispater right this second – and he absolutely didn't care that he'd have to shatter the iron-hard crust on the body with magic every few seconds.
Since the small vial remained in the library, Asmodeus summoned another, more substantial crystal flask and poured a measure of gel onto his secretary's stomach, watching him flinch at the liquid's chill. Then, with impatience yet fastidious care, the Lord began spreading the gel over every inch of his desired lover's body, sparing no effort to ensure thoroughness. Dispater might have wished to assist, but each time he reached downward, Asmodeus swatted his hands, forcing his palms back onto the bed.
"My loghrd, I… Mh! Please…!" The demon, starved for affection, moaned beneath him. Asmodeus would gladly spend hours sating him just to hear those exquisite sounds, to feel him tremble so enchantingly at every brush against sensitive skin.
He even traced the folds between fingers and toes, ensuring the film dried evenly across his entire form — leaving Asmodeus no worry of gaps. Only then did he wrap his palm around Dispater's cock. The length clearly ached for attention, yet Dispater himself jerked sideways bashfully, biting his plush lips.
"Miloghrd, truly—" He tried to protest, tongue darting over parched lips, but met Asmodeus' piercing green gaze cast upward from under heavy lashes.
"Lie still and take your pleasure," came the command before he slid lower on the bed, lips grazing the tip. "That's an order."
Dispater released a shuddering exhale, fists twisting the dark bedspread. Desire, fear, disbelief, and some unfamiliar emotion — one Asmodeus couldn't name — warred across the secretary's sharp-edged features. Not that he cared to decipher it; after sweeping his gaze over that face, he parted his lips and laid the crown upon his tongue. Dispater bucked, resisting the urge to thrust.
Sensitive, the God of Lust thought, adoration coloring the observation as he laved the Archduke's length, one hand soothingly stroking a thigh.
"Miloghrd…" Dispater whispered, eyes squeezed shut, punctuating each gasp with a heel dragging against the sheets.
And Asmodeus longed to lift his head, to breathlessly answer every plea with Yes, what is it, my dear?
He was far too preoccupied, practically milking Dispater into his mouth—first gently sucking the tip, then moving his head with increasing urgency, allowing the thick length to sink deeper into his willing throat. Noticing the reaction, Asmodeus deliberately swallowed, tightening his grip around the shaft. Dispater responded with a sharp nasal inhale, eyelids fluttering shut as he slumped back onto the pillows. A thrill coursed through Asmodeus: no one had ever touched his secretary this way before. When Dispater had been cursed, they were young and reckless. Back then, this world had only just been forged by the Great Father, leaving the Iron Duke's body untouchable—until now.
Picking up speed, Asmodeus sank lower until his lips met the base. Within seconds, he felt Dispater squirming beneath him. Moments later, the archduke began to shudder, hands clawing at his Lord's horns in a feeble attempt to push him away. Asmodeus persisted, pressing down insistently while his low moans sent vibrations along the length now buried in his throat.
"My loghrd!" Dispater gasped, barely containing himself, "I'm hanging on by a thread! If you don't stop, I'll—!"
Asmodeus met his plea with a searing upward glance—a look so drenched in desire it might as well have been licking Dispater from head to toe.
The instant their eyes locked, Dispater choked back a strangled cry, hand clapped over his mouth as he arched against the pillows. A guttural groan escaped him as he spilled himself down his Lord's throat, body jerking sharply when he felt Asmodeus convulsively swallow.
Some distant part of Asmodeus might have believed this was enough. But seeing Dispater like this—flushed, disheveled, utterly pliant against the sheets—he knew he couldn't let go just yet. Withdrawing slowly, he licked every trace clean, not sparing even his own saliva. His jaw ached, but he gave himself no respite before sealing his lips against the archduke's stomach, trailing kisses upward. Dispater trembled through oversensitivity, yet responded vividly to every touch. Asmodeus savored each gasp, each sigh, each curve beneath his wandering mouth.
Gods, he's exquisite, the Lord of Lust thought mournfully, grazing his nails over ashen skin. I'll wring him dry.
When his lips found Dispater's throat, Asmodeus swung a leg over his hips, straddling him firmly.
"M'loghrd," Dispater rasped, brow furrowed as if in pain, "have you had anything like this all this time?"
The Lord arched his eyebrows, gazing down at the demon beneath him. He dragged his hands along the creature's ribcage, nails scratching lightly.
"Do you truly think so little of me?" Asmodeus deflected with a smirk, turning it all into a jest.
Leaning closer, the Lord trailed his tongue along his Archduke's cheek, from jawline to temple. Dispater shivered, a ripple of gooseflesh making him buck forward. Asmodeus rocked back slightly, his buttocks grazing the hardening length against him before grinding softly into the thighs beneath. His subordinate's awed expression sent a thrill through him.
I'll trade the whole vial if Dispater dares return to that vampire, the man mused, hips shifting again as he settled fully into the other's groin, and banish him from the Circle to Mephistopheles. Enough.
A golden ball bounced faster down steps, each impact chanting: Love you, adore you, so exquisite, won't let go, love you.
All he could think was how desperately he wanted to ruin his secretary—to overwhelm, to pleasure. His own spine arched like a bow the moment he saw Dispater's black eyes drowning the whites in pools of dark arousal.
Snapping his fingers, the Lord summoned another jar—plainer, heavier than the vial, and worn from use, its surface a web of fine scratches. Asmodeus pried off the greenish cap, dipped his fingers into the viscous syrup within, then slid his hand downward. He stroked the other's length, drawing breathy whimpers from Dispater's lips. Tilting back, the fair-haired man brushed his own entrance, fingertips circling the tight muscle before pushing two fingers in without hesitation. Asmodeus knew his worth; he stretched himself more for show than necessity, slicking the way with theatrical flair.
Dispater's eyes widened. He pushed up onto his elbows.
"My Loghrd, you—"
A sharp smack cut the air.
The moment the demon rose, Asmodeus withdrew his fingers. In one fluid motion, he lifted himself and slammed down onto the Iron Duke's cock, sheathing it to the hilt. Hot inner walls clenched around the intrusion, and the God of Lust threw his head back with a gasp that melted into a choked moan.
Fuck. Asmodeus exhaled in ragged relief, denying Dispater even a heartbeat to recover before rolling his hips with another loud, shattered groan.
"Miloghrd!" The Archduke gasped, collapsing back onto the bed and digging his nails into the bedspread.
"Yes?" Asmodeus exhaled with a heated moan, dragging his glazed lover's gaze back to his secretary — which only deepened the man's blush.
Dispater didn't reply. Breathing raggedly and whimpering, he strained to stay motionless, allowing the Lord to claim him. He feared any misstep might disgrace him before the God of Lust, his inexperience laid bare — save for rare petting sessions with Lilith, whom Asmodeus himself had wed him to.
The slick slap of skin against skin filled the bedroom; the thick scent of sex coated the tongue, pulsing through their bodies with hot pleasure that pooled low in the belly.
At first, Asmodeus tried to control the pace, moving rhythmically on the other's length, but patience soon crumbled. Unable to restrain himself, the Lord pressed flush against Dispater, bracing his elbows on either side of the man's ribs and claiming his neck with bruising kisses. Each wet bite made the Archduke shudder violently, hips jerking upward into his Lord, fingers tightening on his forearms — nails scraping faintly from tension.
Yes, more! Asmodeus inwardly keened, thrusting his hips more fiercely. He couldn't tear his gaze away, drinking in his lover's face before dragging him into a searing kiss, tongue greedily mapping his mouth. Dispater muffled a groan against his lips, then — unexpectedly — seized control, lavishing Asmodeus' tongue and lips with slow, deliberate strokes, striving to pleasure him. And it worked. Heat coiled so tight within the Lord that tears pricked his eyes; decades of practiced restraint couldn't stifle the urge to spill then and there.
They parted with a wet sound — saliva mingling with the smacking rhythm of their bodies — and simply stared, eyes locked, neither loosening their desperate grip on the other.
The pace grew frantic. Dispater began meeting his thrusts in earnest, fingers nearly bruising Asmodeus' forearms before releasing him as the Lord's rhythm faltered, sheathing himself fully. The Archduke twisted his hands into the pillow behind him, head falling back.
He muttered something under his breath, and Asmodeus — too consumed by pleasure and longed-for closeness — didn't grasp it at first. Until fragments sharpened into full, unmistakable sentences.
When Asmodeus realized this, he slowed his pace slightly, holding his breath. No, he hadn't misheard — Dispater was muttering poetry. He hadn't caught the beginning, nor did he fully understand why his secretary had suddenly succumbed to lyricism, but ah… how fiercely this new wave of desire washed over him. The pre-orgasmic thrill, momentarily dulled by shock, now surged back with renewed intensity. It was so unexpected, so dramatically beautiful — especially with Dispater's face twisted in pleasure — that Asmodeus couldn't decide whether he wanted to come or weep. He even suppressed his own moans, listening intently to the archduke's faltering voice. Dispater seemed completely unaware that his Lord was shamelessly eavesdropping.
No one had warned Asmodeus that poetry interspersed with moans was his personal aphrodisiac. Now he yearned to grind against Dispater like a man possessed, to whimper and beg him — whisper those lines, leap through verses with that exquisite voice, then break again into the very moans Asmodeus himself would wrench from him.
Apparently, Dispater did notice his Lord's eavesdropping after all, for he suddenly turned his head, his gaze utterly drunk with pleasure.
"M'loghrd," he rasped again, biting his lip as he thrust his hips forward, sinking deeper into Asmodeus. The God of Lust shuddered, rhythm faltering, then immediately adapted to the new tempo — half-listening to the bedframe's protesting creaks as he pulled closer to his secretary.
"Yes?" he asked once more, lips stretching into a satiated smile.
"May I… mh…" A breathy hesitation. "Kiss you?"
Fireworks detonated behind Asmodeus' eyes. Without another word, he crushed his mouth against the archduke's, meeting Dispater's equally feverish response. In that instant, Asmodeus clamped his thighs around Dispater's legs and came — untouched.
Him? The God of Lust? Coming first during sex with yesterday's virgin? Petting with Lilith didn't count, of course.
A guttural groan tore into Dispater's mouth. Asmodeus stiffened for merely a heartbeat before fighting through the honeyed spasms to press into him again, driving the archduke deeper into the mattress. Dispater's endurance proved equally short-lived — he followed suit within a dozen thrusts, still clinging to Asmodeus as though drowning, kissing him voraciously, fingers digging into his shoulders like talons around a last lifeline.
When they finally separated, all they had strength for was to collapse onto the bed and gasp for air. Asmodeus buried his face in Dispater's ear, grinning like a complete idiot. To say he was shocked at himself would be an understatement. This hadn't happened to him in ages. Never, to be precise. As the embodiment of Lust, Asmodeus knew one peculiar thing about himself — the more sex he had, the more he craved. Yet there had always been this nagging feeling deep within: though his body found release, his mind remained shrouded in the haze of desire.
But now, lying atop the Iron Duke, he thought only of the blissful languor spreading through his limbs. His whole body trembled faintly, his legs quivering slightly. When Dispater turned and absently exhaled against his ear, Asmodeus broke out in goosebumps that rippled across his skin like waves.
Can't let him go, the demon thought irritably, frowning—but instantly melted as he felt Dispater's fingers brush gently through his hair. Tentatively, almost experimentally, Dispater traced a path from his temple downward, tucking stray locks behind his ear.
Dispater's eyes—now restored to their usual appearance—held an expression Asmodeus had never seen before. The Iron Duke studied him as if seeing him for the first time.
He's mocking me! Asmodeus groaned inwardly. In response, he merely smirked, closing his eyes for a heartbeat. Unable to resist the impulse, he seized his secretary by the nape and sank his teeth into Dispater's lips, crushing them before pulling him close again. Won't let you leave this bed until you're drained of every last bit of strength.
Not that the archduke seemed particularly opposed to this arrangement. For decorum's sake, he protested:
"M'loghrd, wait! Again?!"
But his indignation dissolved at once into another searing kiss—one he surrendered to with fervor. To Asmodeus's surprise (and to the shock of any who'd ever crossed paths with the Iron Duke), Dispater proved to be an ardent lover. Where skill or experience lacked, he compensated with raw abandon.
Asmodeus furrowed his brows, feeling rough hands stroke his back and slide around to his chest. They simply lay there for several minutes, sharing wet kisses, sighing into each other's lips. Sensing that Dispater had rested enough and was ready to continue, the Lord swung his leg over his secretary once more and settled onto his hips.
Dispater inhaled sharply and abruptly pulled away.
"No! No, Miloghrd, I…"
Asmodeus gave the Archduke a bewildered look, one brow arched, but didn't move.
"Is something wrong?"
"No, it's just… I…" Dispater shook his head, letting out a muffled groan, then flipped the Lord onto his back, looming over him.
Now both of Asmodeus' brows shot upward.
"Forgive me for this, Loghrd Asmodeus," the demon exhaled noisily, then lifted himself and unceremoniously turned the Lord onto his stomach, hoisting him up by the hips. Asmodeus instinctively dropped to his knees and arched his back with demonic grace, like a cat in heat.
Is he serious? pulsed through the Archdemon's mind. His cock had stiffened on command when the secretary flipped him over, but this…
Dispater proved the seriousness of his intentions a heartbeat later. Pulling Asmodeus' hips against himself, he pressed the head gently—then sheathed himself to the hilt in one sharp thrust, lowering the Lord onto him. Asmodeus immediately cursed obscenely, whether in Common or Infernal was unclear, and buried his face in his hands.
One realization crystallized in Asmodeus' mind: he would not be letting Dispater go. Not for at least a few more days. Like a succubus, he wanted to drink his fill, enough to last a lifetime.
And somewhere, a small golden sphere tumbled down the stairs:
Love… love… love.