Chapter Text
Tonight was the night.
Sparda had made sure everything was just so: candles lit, sweet smelling oils burning in low lamps, fresh flowers, everything possible to encourage and entice love-making. It helped that Eva was breath-taking in her elaborate, finely made gowns. She was even more breath-taking out of those same elaborate, finely made gowns.
The King of Hell had to grin, a little lecherous, to himself, as he imagined the porcelain skin of his lover, supple beneath his hands and mouth and teeth. Her hair, the color of beaten gold, wrapped around his fist. Her perfect lips opened in ecstasy. Both sets.
Sparda sighed, finishing the summoning circle on the paving stones in Paradiso’s back garden. His wedding present to his wife was a roaring success. Eva, the last surviving heiress of a dying house, was smitten with the English-style manor, and especially so with the sprawling garden that spread out behind it, like a bridal train. In the dim light of early dusk, the garden that she wished to tend and nurture did resemble a kind of enchanted fairy garden. The large, chalk summoning circle would only slightly detract from that.
He discarded the chalk he used to etch it, and lifted the thick, black column candle, the flame flickering and jumping as wax pooled around it. He glanced towards the house. Eva had said that she would be bathing before bed, and sure enough, the bathroom window was glowing, dull and warm. Sparda had a little time then.
He cleared his throat.
“I call upon you to show yourself, now,” he said, voice clear and commanding. “Using the authority of the air and night, by powers black and white. I call upon you to show yourself to me, Dark Lady of the Second Circle, Queen of Whores, and Mother of the Dragon. I call upon you to show yourself to me, Governess of Lust, by my authority granted by right of our Infernal Lord.”
Sparda blew out his black candle. Almost in time with the snuffing out of this little flame, the wind picked up. No more a breeze, but now a gust. It upset the leaves on the fruit trees, it shook petals from the flowers in their planters, and with a whip-like crack, a blast of heat, and the smell of sulfur, the summoning was complete.
Standing in the center of the circle, amidst a pile of black snakes with glittering scales, stood a demoness. Nearly seven feet tall in her heels, she was willowy and thin. She wore a cape of fur and feathers, gathered around her chest, elaborate ropes of onyx and amethysts around her neck. She was pale as a statue, though her long fingers were black and long-nailed. Her lips were black and perfect. Her hair was thick and long, gently curling white. Her horns were small, curved near her crown, and striped black and pearl. When she opened her eyes, they were black, save for irises of pure violet.
“Astaroth,” Sparda said, in greeting, with a small incline of his head.
She rolled her eyes and sneered at him, lips curling in distaste.
“What do you want?”
“Mother – “
“Don’t you “Mother” me!” She snapped, teeth still barred. “I am not something you summon up whenever you find your ass in the fire.”
“I am still your king,” Sparda said, with a saint’s worth of patience.
“ My king would spend far more time with his ass in the throne ,” she scolded.
“I didn’t ask you here to argue with you, Mother,” Sparda sighed, taking his monoglass away from his right eye. With it gone, the glamor faded, and the scar that marred his handsome face was thicker, paler, and the eye turned milky and ruined. A final parting gift from Mundus. He cleaned it with a handkerchief from his pocket.
“You asked me here to beg forgiveness?” Astaroth purred, eyes narrowed.
“Not by half,” he chuckled, putting his monoglass back on, the glamor returning his good looks. “I intend to do my duty to the realm, and in doing so, give you a gift every mother of sons yearn for.”
At the prospect of a gift, Astaroth did quirk an eyebrow.
“ .. Go on?”
Sparda grinned, showing teeth.
“ Grandchildren. ”
Astaroth’s black and violet eyes sparkled with want. Sparda silently preened, knowing this battle was all but won.
“There has been some talk, my son,” she said, deciding to now choose her words and tone with more care. “That you have made the Queen of Hell a human woman. The fact that the ceremony was not done within the eyes of Hell has caused some whispers.”
“Her bloodline is impeccable, and she looks stunning in cloth-of-gold,” Sparda said, waving her concerns away. “However, it is true, she is a human.”
“Fie!” Astaroth scoffed, crossing her arms over her bosom.
“Mother,” Sparda warned, throwing her a look. He calmed himself, smoothed his shirt. “Being that she is human, and she is the Queen of Hell, thanks to her marriage to me, then it is through her womb that the next King or Queen of Hell shall come. I am determined to do my duty, in this measure, Mother.”
“You seek my blessing as the Avatar of Lust?” Astaroth asked, curious.
“More than that, I need to ensure that the seed flourishes in her garden, so to speak,” Sparda said, intent. “She is human, I am Demon. This causes some biological struggles, and while I am sure eventually a child will come from our union, I wish to spare her the heartache of any miscarriages or false starts.”
Astaroth made a knowing sound and nodded. The snakes around her feet hissed and slithered, starting to coil around her ankles, sliding up the long, stiletto heels. Sparda felt that her little familiars were laughing at him, little hissing snickers.
“Ah. I see.” She reached into her plunging cleavage, her fine corset sewn with small purple stones and iridescent seed pearls. Sparda waited patiently as she fished and finally pulled forth a small vial, carved from a long piece of crystal, corked with a piece of amber. Within the cored-out center, a shimmering lavender liquid. “This should be sufficient.” She offered it to him.
“Is this all?” Sparda asked, curious, taking it from her.
“My darling son, I drew you forth from my body myself, alone,” Astaroth sighed, almost dreamily. Her tone turned cold and sarcastic. “I know you didn’t inherit your father’s cock. That should be more than enough to smear on your little organ, from root to tip. Do so, just before you enter her secrets, and it will ensure this little “planting” of yours bears fruit~”
Sparda was amused. This ball-breaking back and forth his mother and he engaged in was old hat.
“I thank you, Mother,” he said, smoothly. He would take her rude comments in stride. “I will make an heir for Hell this night.”
“See that you do,” Astaroth squared her shoulders and Sparda was reminded of what and who she was. “It has been nearly two-thousand years since you ascended the throne of your father. Stolen, as it was, you stole it back. Don’t let it be stolen again. Give something to this little family you wish to nurture, something that has meaning.”
“I never took you for a sentimental creature,” Sparda said, softly, looking her up and down.
Astaroth smirked.
“Heed me, my son,” she cautioned. “Do not repeat the mistakes of your father and uncle. Hell chews up and spits out men like them and you with great relish.”
Astaroth winked, and with the sound of fluttering wings, disembodied sighs, and a gust of soft breeze, she disappeared from the summoning circle and Paradiso’s back garden entirely.
Sparda exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding and regarded the potion in the vial.
This was it.
This was the night.
He looked back at the bathroom window, and vaguely saw the outline of his wife, going about her business. His heart was so full. All he wanted was to see Eva, like some Madonna with child, pregnant with his baby. She was beautiful now, she would be exquisite once with child.
Why was he nervous?
He had made love before, he reasoned, but this was more. This was mating. This was breeding. As much as he lightly loathed the woman, Astaroth spoke true: Hell needed an heir. Be it a Prince or Princess, the future needed to be secured. Sparda wondered if Eva knew her role to play in this history, in this legend that they were writing with their love?
Perhaps knowing that her husband had his blood up and was feeling amorous, Eva was in their bedroom, by the time Sparda came back into Paradiso, climbed the staircase, came up behind where she sat at her vanity. Eva smiled at his reflection, drawing a silver handled brush down her long, blond hair.
“My love,” she greeted, softly.
“My heart and soul,” Sparda whispered. He came up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her neck. “You look beautiful.”
Eva smiled at him again, and it was clear by her little smirk, she knew what he was after.
“Is it time for bed?” Eva asked, setting her brush down. Sparda looked at her vanity, how the glass atop it was festooned with all the little trappings and trinkets that Eva so valued, everything just so.
“I should say so,” Sparda said, softly. He removed his monoglass again. If Eva took issue with the scar that marred his otherwise handsome face, she never spoke on it. Quite the contrary, she occasionally would kiss the scar, or trace it with her delicately manicured fingers. Sparda was attracted to her beauty, but he loved her for her heart.
The way that Eva lay on their marital bed, her blond hair fanned out, like fine silk, made Sparda’s mouth water. Everything about her was perfect. Here he was, a king, but he would worship her, this slim, human woman. Every part of her was a master piece. He kissed her breasts, the soft skin between them. He kissed down her smooth, flat belly.
Sparda kissed down her naked body, and she sighed and gasped in response to each. He adored that about his new bride. She was responsive and vocal, and the sounds she made were a sweet symphony that Sparda would indulge in whenever he let himself.
When his mouth came to her soft, peach fuzz covered nether-lips, he licked at their gentle sweetness, and then plunged in, lapping up her juices, and rubbing his tongue along her swelling secret rose bud. Eva keened and moaned, her hands on her chest, massaging her own breasts as Sparda prepared her. He wanted her sopping wet, slick all down her thighs, so that when he mounted her, and sowed his seed, her garden was hot and ready for him.
He mouthed all his love into her pussy.
All his promises and all his praise.
He spoke his adoration directly into Eva’s sex, the womb where he would plant a dynasty to last a thousand years. Sparda mouthed his want for a son. Sparda mouthed the love he would hold in his heart for a princess. But most of all, Sparda whispered his desire to have Eva, beautiful and golden, by his side until the end of his days.
It was a sad prayer.
Eva would predecease him and he knew it, by nature of her biology, but he would love no other woman, he would crown no other queen.
While Eva was panting with need and denied orgasm, Sparda stood and took his time disrobing.
“Sparda,” she breathed, face flushed.
“I can’t very well make love to you with my trousers on,” Sparda said, chuckling warmly, his voice smokey and amused.
“You are a cruel man,” Eva lamented. “To leave me half fulfilled while you take your time.”
“You were needy, my love, I only saw to some of your needs before I decided to indulge my own,” Sparda purred, unbuttoning his dress shirt.
“Of course you would spin it this way,” Eva huffed.
Sparda stripped his clothes off, allowing them to pool around his feet. His human form was broad in the chest, with a narrow waist, and a fine cock. While Eva was thin and willowy, Sparda was built and ox-like.
Naked, skin to skin, as he mounted Eva, the head of his dick pressed without entering her wet pussy, it was like a drug.
He had palmed the vial his mother had given him. He hid it from Eva’s view, her attention focused on his mouth as he kissed her, and his free hand as he toyed with her breasts. She was wet and willing, needy and desperate for her orgasm to come.
“Just a moment,” he murmured, sitting up. He would pass off the application of this potion as lube. He poured it without care over his head and shaft, working his fist to make sure that his erection was at full mast. If Eva noticed or cared, she didn’t show it. Not when he lay over her again, wrapping his arms around her, and she around him.
He sank into her, smooth and easy, and Eva moaned, her head back, her mouth open.
“Sparda,” she whispered.
Sparda responded by snapping his hips, rolling in and out of her as he began to chase the friction necessary for his own climax. Eva moaned, panting, holding onto his shoulders. It was only a little awkward, to shift positions enough to hook one arm under Eva’s leg, sit up on one knee, and use his other, free hand to rub at her clit again.
In short order, both were panting hard, the pace Sparda set steady and fast.
“I love you,” he whispered, and Eva, though her face was a mask of pleasure and desire, seemed to blink with surprise at the sudden sentiment. It cut through the hormones and sex, and Eva moved her hands from where they were gripping Sparda’s shoulders to cup his face.
“I love you,” she whispered back, and for a moment Sparda was worried she was concerned for him. He just dipped his head to kiss her. He chased that feeling of warmth, even as there was a tightness that settled into his lower belly, tighter and tighter. Hundreds of years had told him what came soon, and when he came, spilling his seed up into Eva’s cunny. He tried to keep the rhythm of his fingers, on her clit, steady, but there was some stuttering strokes, until she also arched up, inhaling while she clenched around his root. The aftershocks of her orgasm worked to milk Sparda, and it was almost too much to bear as he came down, oversensitive, from his own.
Sparda slumped on her, still warm inside her, and caught his breath. Demon though he was, something about a good romp made him feel pleasantly exhausted. He was loathe to pull his softening cock free from her, but he did. He wanted to wait, to keep it within her, hoping that the potion would help it all take.
“You know,” Eva whispered, when Sparda did pull out and lay beside her. “You waited until I had a bath to do all that.”
Sparda chuckled, closing his eyes, his head on the pillow beside her.
“A brute am I, my love,” he confessed.
“Yes, but my brute,” Eva said, leaning to kiss his nose.
“ .. Perhaps in time, there shall be little brutes?” Sparda murmured, not daring to yet speak it into the universe and risk jinxing it. He put a hand on her lower belly, as if praying for it to take seed.
“One or two might be nice,” Eva agreed, turning her body so that Sparda might hold her close. “I’m not yet sure what I would even call a child yet. I would have to think. If a boy, if a girl .. “
“I have always been fond of the name Beatrice, for a girl,” Sparda confessed, holding her.
“And for a boy?”
Sparda hummed, thinking on it. The boy may one day rule hell. It had to be a good name, a strong name.
“ .. Dante,” he decided.