Chapter Text
Chapter One
Kneel
The first day, you raged against your chains. Raphael’s Boudoir swallowed the sounds of your screams, your bellows of fury, your endless weeping. You cursed him, damned him, refuted everything about him, vowed to destroy him, and were met with nothing but silence. An empty room.
That first night, you did not sleep. Your golden shackles loosened off the wall of their own accord, and you slept in your makeshift nest — blankets and pillows piled up around you as one would give a cherished pet.
The following week, there was nothing but tears. Nothing but emptiness. Haarlep did not even enter the Boudoir once, though part of you was glad for it. You didn’t want him to see you like this. Infernal servants, imps and lesser cambions, waited on you at myriad intervals, serving you food or water without a word before absconding. None of them answered your questions.
Where is Raphael? What is he going to do to me? Is there any way out of here?
None of them so much as look you in the eye.
The days pass in lonely monotony, each one more numb than the last. You realize soon that you don’t know how to count the days anymore, with no sunrise or sunset, no nightfall in the ever-burning Hells. Hours feel like seconds. Minutes feel like weeks. Time does not mean anything here.
Nothing means anything here.
You have been forsaken. That is the truth of it. You can feel it in the thrum of your heart, steady and destitute, that your will is no longer your own. You know, as instinctively as you know how to breathe, that you will obey Raphael’s word. Your body yearns for his voice, his instruction. It waits on pins and needles for him to command you, apprehension in every pulse of blood through your veins.
Even if your friends were to come for you here, Raphael would set you against them. You would fight your own loved ones. You would hurt them.
You would kill them, with no option to stop, trapped in your body as it tears them apart.
So you pray. You pray to any god who is listening that they do not come for you. That they simply learn to forget about you, the foolish girl who took a foolish deal and lost everything for it.
Once, you thought you would never be alone — not truly. For you would always have them, no matter how life tried to separate you.
What a silly dream. This — chained in the devil’s home, wasting away the hours in solitude — this was what it meant to be completely, utterly alone.
One day, at last — for you don’t know how long it has been since he pulled you down with him into this fiery nightmare — you hear footsteps in the Boudoir. It is all too easy to assume they are nothing but the mindless march of another cambion, but then comes a voice that sings through your very blood, tingles along your bones.
“These violent delights have violent ends,” Raphael purrs, rounding the bath in the center of the room, lazily striding toward you with his eyes fixed upon your form on the floor as you look up at him, “and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.”
He is crimson from head to foot. You haven’t seen this attire before, all black silk and plum lining, tight vest and loose blouse, rich and decadent to the eye and the touch. His horns curl like a crown above his temple, and when he reaches you, he towers over you, gazing down his nose at his most recently acquired possession.
His newest toy.
“The sweetest honey,” he says, lowering to his knees, taking your chin between his fingers, “is loathsome in its own deliciousness, and in the taste confounds the appetite.”
You want to spit at him but your body refuses your mind’s suggestion. You simply sit where you are, among your luxurious throws and furs and cushions, your princess’ prison, and meet his blazing eyes.
“Are you quite finished despairing, my dear?” He tilts your head to one side and the other, examining you, your empty stare, your sallow skin. “Or must I let you wallow for another week or two?”
Your eyes, dull and lifeless, narrow slightly, just enough to disrupt the mask of emptiness that you’ve worn for countless days now. You don’t want to answer, but you know he expects you to speak, so your body forces you to. “Come to taunt me?” you ask.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “The time for that is long past, Hikari. Our game of cat and mouse is over. Or are your chains not tight enough to remind you of that?”
With a twirl of his index finger, the chains at your wrists shirk back into the wall, pulling you backwards, your back pressed against the cool red stone, your arms prone above your head. Your breath escapes you, and you inhale through clenched teeth, forced to meet him at eye level now.
Pleasure smolders in his gaze and he leans forward, reaching out and taking the golden chain that dangles from your collar in one hand, slipping the metal between his fingers. “I do enjoy seeing this side of you,” he muses, his gaze raking over your restrained form. “Though my servants must do a better job of keeping you beautiful. What use is a weapon left out to rust?”
He rises to his feet, chain still in hand, and snaps his fingers. At once, the shackles on your wrists and ankles vanish, a golden glimmer of dust in the air that dissipates as soon as you move. Reflexively, your hands clutch at your wrists, rubbing the skin there even though it is thankfully not raw. You flex your legs, roll your ankles, and the room feels so large all of a sudden. There is a world around you once more.
You could call upon your wings, sprint to the window and jump out, fly away—
As soon as the thought comes, it dashes away. Whatever awful magic binds you to him refuses even the notion, and you wince as if something snapped against your skin.
“Ah.” Raphael grins, tapping his head with one finger. “I can hear those, you know. Better even than the Emperor could.”
You manage to stand, still rubbing at your wrists, glaring at him. “Stay out of my head.”
“Your right to privacy is one of the many things you have forfeited to me, my dear.” He tugs at the chain of your collar and you catch yourself before you stumble forward. “Now, be a good girl and get in the bath.”
Your skin bristles at his pet names, but before you can snap back at him, your legs are moving, carrying you around him and toward the bath. Steam coils around your ankles just before your toes slip beneath the hot water’s surface, stepping down into the circular basin, stopping just before the hem of your robe gets wet.
No, you think, but your arms are moving already, pulling your thin robe up your thighs, your waist, over your breasts and shoulders, tossing it to the side where it falls in a puddle of linen on the floor and you are bare, naked, before the devil.
You can still control your eyes, and they burn into him where he stands, watching you with a pleased smile, a thoughtful finger crooked beneath his chin.
“Keeping boundaries between us — isn’t that what you said all that time ago?” His gaze follows you as you descend further, as you are enveloped to the curve of your waist in water so hot it turns your skin pink. “What was so important to you before all this?”
“You are vile,” you snarl, turned to face him, the ends of your hair wet upon your back, blonde strands dancing in the ripples around you.
“And you,” he says, sauntering around the perimeter of the bath until he settles to a seat upon his bed, one leg lifted and bent, his ankle resting upon his other knee, “will enjoy a refreshing bath — now, and every morning after. Then, you will come here,” he continues, smoothing a hand upon the mattress beside him, “and await my command.”
Your jaw works to contain your anger, even as your hands busy themselves with sweeping warm water across your skin. “I thought you meant to torture me, Raphael.” You lather soap in your palms, and something about the way you can’t break eye contact with him even if you try is horribly unnerving, even as you smooth your fingers down your naked waist, over your bare breasts, while he watches.
“And isn’t this torture for you?” He gestures toward you, at everything you are at this very moment. “Pain and torment — these are useless in the face of one who can bear them. And you bear your suffering so well, my dear. As lovely as it would be to witness, you require… a more delicate hand.”
Fingers lacing through your hair, you rinse your skin, and when you emerge from the bath, you smell of orchids and lemonblossom, fresh and fragrant. You stand at the top of the stops, droplets of water cascading down the curves of your body, and when Raphael extends a beckoning hand toward you, you go to him. There is no resistance in your movements. There is no choice.
“I will never love you.” Your voice is unwavering despite the tremble in your hands, so close to him now as you stand before the bed, well within his grasp. Your wet hair sticks to your cheeks, flushed with heat and rage.
He merely chuckles, slipping his fingers into your hair, cradling the nape of your neck. “I never dreamed you would. Nor do I need you to. I don’t need you to feel anything, my dear — and soon enough, you won’t. All I need you to do… is obey.”
His nails dig into your scalp, knuckles clenching.
“Now, kneel.”
You expect it already — your knees to buckle, your legs to bend, to give in to gravity and do as you’re told — but nothing happens. You remain standing, motionless before him, and your brow furrows in confusion.
What trick is this…?
Your blood does not sing for his voice, not this time. You test your body, wrenching yourself free from his grip in your hair, and backpedal away from him, barely managing to stay on your feet in your haste. Holding your arms out in front of you, you steady yourself, not once looking away from his eyes — watching him this time instead of at his mercy.
As if reading your thoughts — and perhaps he is — Raphael’s grin widens. “There really is something about a willing servant, isn’t there? Something… intoxicating.”
“You want me to serve you willingly ?” you bark back. “Are you mad?”
“Oh, I think you’ll find the rewards for your eager service will be well worth the effort.” He flexes his fingers before you, curled like claws. “And the punishments for disobedience to be… persuasive.”
He uncrosses his legs, both shoes upon the floor, thighs spread apart leisurely. “So, if we understand each other…” With a flick of his wrist, he gestures to the ground before his feet. “Kneel.”
It is not entirely absent, that piece of you that responds instantly to his voice, that longs to do as he says, but it is quiet enough to ignore. You stay where you are, feet firmly on the floor, hands curling into fists at your sides. He won’t drop his control over you enough for you to fight back, of course. There is no point in even trying.
But after so many days of wasting away, of screaming at him with no answer, an act of defiance as small as this feels as good as clear water to parched lips. You drink deep as you glare at him, unmoving. Disobedient.
But his smile does not waver. If anything, it grows. “Just as I had hoped from you.”
He extends his hand toward you once again and, as if summoned out of thin air, the chain to your collar appears in his palm. He grasps it and pulls, and you stumble the few feet forward until you brace your hands on the mattress beside him to stay standing. You lean back as soon as you can, hoping to put some distance between you once more, but his other hand grabs the chain where it connects to your collar and tugs once more, yet this is a much more intricate force. As you lurch to the side, back bent, he pulls you toward him by the waist, keeping your head low, until you are bent over his legs. With the ease of a man infused with the strength of a hundred souls, he hoists you up with an arm beneath the bend of your hips until you kneel beside him, drawn over his lap, your hair falling like a damp curtain around either side of your face, your nose nearly pressed into the duvet.
“I see a woman may be made a fool, if she had not a spirit to resist. I’ve told you before, my dear — you are no fool.” His fingers stay tensed around the chain even as you strain against it, trying in vain to lift your head, to free yourself from his grasp. “A masochist, though…”
A crack rings out through the room and pain splinters up your spine, wrenching a high-pitched cry from your lips before you can bite it back. The sting of flesh on flesh lingers, sharp and sudden, even after his hand has left your pert, naked rear, held aloft and open to his strikes.
Your eyes bulge wide in shock, and for a moment, you are rendered speechless. He did not just — but he did. Indignation burns up to your cheeks and you writhe in his grasp. “How dare you!” you manage at last, pushing against the mattress with your hands.
“Hands behind your back,” he instructs sharply, and your body obeys instantly, your arms bending behind you, wrists crossed. “Legs together.” Your knees shift to touch one another, thighs pressed closed, ankles side by side near the pillows at the head of the bed. “Really, Hikari, what sort of punishment did you expect?”
Whips, torture, spiked cells — that and more come to mind but before you can give voice to any of them, as redundant as his question is, his palm strikes down upon your rear once more, wringing another yelp from you, your body jolting atop his lap with the sudden pain.
“Stop!” you yell petulantly, embarrassed heat surging beneath your skin.
“You will kneel for me, then?”
“No!”
Down comes his hand once more, harder this time, and you shout openly, your voice echoing back at you off the walls of the Boudoir. Your sensitive rear aches already, your nails digging into your palms behind your back, your toes curling against the sheets, and tears of shame prickle at the backs of your eyes at the knowledge that he is looking down on you like this, naked and helpless before him, back arched, breasts pressed against his legs.
Damn him. Damn him.
And damn the rush of warmth that pools between your legs as he strikes you again, your pathetic cry so close to wails of pleasure that they are almost indistinct from one another.
“Stop,” you beg again, shaking your head. “Raphael — please.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Though I’m a little disappointed. I thought for certain you would last longer before you resorted to pleading .”
“Fuck you.”
Another strike. More pain tearing through your body like lightning. Another gasp, another cry, louder now, angry and mortified and shuddering. Your hips are trembling above his now, tears gathering at your lashes.
“A masochist, indeed. You seek out suffering like a moth to flame, my dear. Lucky for you, I am more than happy to provide.”
He slaps your ass harder this time and the sound that comes out of you is strangled, sensual, submissive. A tear slips down your cheek at the shame of it all.
Suddenly, he pulls at the chain of your collar once more, bending you backward, until your body falls back upon the bed, arms still trapped behind your back. Your legs are still shut tight, snapped together, pulled to the side as he leans over top of you, his grip on the chain lifting the back of your head from the pillows behind you.
“This is how I want to see you before me,” he growls, low and ragged. His grin is vicious, his fiery eyes eating up the very sight of you beneath him. “Fallen so far, and with so far left to go.”
Your head is still spinning, pain coursing incessantly through you, muddling your thoughts even as the cool fabric of the duvet dulls the ache upon your pink rear. Your lips, red with your shouting, are parted, panting, and when he captures your mouth with his, you have no defenses ready.
He is so hot. His kiss is searing, wiping your mind of all thought aside from his heat. His tongue slips past your lips, demanding, and the smoky taste of him overwhelms your senses. Your protests sound like moans against his mouth, and he commands you even without words, forcing your tongue to yield to his, forcing your head back against the mattress as he presses harder against you, forcing your eyes to close against his relentless assault upon your body.
He pulls back, not an inch away from your mouth, and mutters, “Legs apart.”
Your limbs obey immediately, knees bending around to either side of his waist, thighs spread wide apart, baring yourself to him entirely, but he does not need to look at you to know what he knows well enough already. Dextrous fingers slip past your hips and you shiver underneath him.
“Raphael—”
You gasp, your voice catching in your throat as his touch slips between your thighs, the tips of his fingers dragging down your swollen clit before sliding between your slick lower lips, wet with betraying desire.
“I know you, my dear,” he says, talking over any objections you could make, and his hot digits toy with your cunt, teasing your entrance, slipping in and out of you in a way that makes you mewl behind your closed lips. “I know the kind of woman you are. I know what you want. What you despise. What it takes to break that lovely little mind of yours.”
He thrusts his middle and ring finger inside you and you can’t help it now — you groan out loud, whipping your head to the side, face twisting in pleasure. Every surge of his hand goes deeper, deeper, the tips of his fingers curling and stroking you from inside.
“Nngh… Ra—Raphael, please…! S—Stop…”
“Your desires, your body — you gave it all to me.” He quickens his pace, and your back arches off the bed, your hips bucking against his hand as everything but your self-respect seeks release at his fingertips. “Beg me for anything you want. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is what I want.”
You clench your teeth against the oncoming waves of ecstasy coiling and twisting between your hips. Gods, gods, you’ll never admit it, not even to yourself, but your pleasure is dripping onto the sheets, your cunt rubbing against his palm, and it’s sickening and abhorrent but it feels so, so good …
“Say you’ll kneel for me,” he growls against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. “Say it and I’ll let you come.”
You will not acknowledge the way your mouth opens immediately, your tongue wrapping around the words in desperation before you swallow them back. You won’t, you won’t, you cannot give him what he wants so easily, and you’re so close anyway, just a little longer and you’ll get to come…
He kisses you again, harder now, carving out your mouth with his tongue hot as hellfire, stealing away your breath as you crest higher, higher, higher on his fingers. When he pulls away you are moaning aloud, gasping against his lips, whimpering like a bitch in heat.
“Say it,” he demands again, and again you do not answer.
He twists his fingers inside you and it’s right there, your body tensing, begging, aching for release—
And suddenly he pulls his hand away. Your undulating hips have nothing to seek, and your breath halts in your throat before you groan uncontrollably, weakly, writhing beneath him in desperation.
“So,” he says, composure quickly returning to his voice even as he still hovers over you, “our games begin anew. I’d expect no less.”
In a few easy motions, he is back on his feet beside the bed, and by the time you can rise up to sit and look after him, he is righting any wayward strands of his hair and backing toward the seal of the Boudoir.
“Welcome to the Hells, my dear. They will not let you run from your desires much longer.” He brings his fingers to his lips, opening his mouth and licking your glistening pleasure from his middle and ring fingers. “I’ll visit you again soon. Oh — and don’t touch yourself until I return.”
With a turn of his heel, he is gone, and you are, once again, utterly alone.