Prince Abaddon: An Erotic MM Drama (part five)

Together, they ascended through the scarlet skies of Hell.

I can't believe it; Agatha's eggs are hatching!

Earlier today, Blarg's girlfriend Nicole was tending to the soil around the egg clutch when she excitedly called out to the rest of us. We all huddled around the Ficus plant, wondering what had her in such an uproarious state. She pointed to the eggs and said,

"See that?! There are water droplets forming on the egg's surface, that means they're drying out. The baby dragons are almost here!"

I’d assumed the eggs would never bear young, yet it seems our resident bearded dragon somehow managed to have a secret romantic rendezvous. I've been scratching my head trying to sort out how, as there's no indication she's ever managed to sneak out of the apartment.

Perhaps she mated right before I purchased her and took an especially long time to lay?

Now that Agatha is about to become a mother, Nicole and Blarg are out getting an enclosure and UVB heat lamp for the dragon spawn. They'll also be stocking up on pinhead crickets, which, as far as I can tell, are also newly hatched from their own respective eggs.

My word, we're to feed babies to babies.

While those two are out and about, I'll pass the time by detailing the first meeting between Rideriel and Prince Abaddon.

***

Three days passed. Rideriel awakened each morning to find meals left by his bedside. No visitors came, save for the bison demon, leaving him with little to break the monotony of the endless hours.

He often sat by the arched window, watching the work crews rebuilding Satan’s castle. The horned and hooved creatures bustled about, lifting large stones into place with pulleys and spreading concrete with long strokes of several claws and antennae.

Rideriel felt so alone. Sometimes during his lowest moments, he stared up at the portrait of Abaddon. Despite the painting's fearsome nature, its unyielding strength became an unsettling comfort, his only anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

On the morning of the fourth day, Rideriel was at his usual spot by the window when a small locust suddenly landed on his shoulder. He instinctively swatted it away, only to then realize his mistake. He turned towards the fleeing insect, shouting,

"I'm sorry, I forgot you were-!"

The locust crawled through the keyhole. A few moments later, he heard the sound of the lock. The door swung open, and the imposing form of Abaddon entered.

The prince was dressed in a scarlet-embroidered black robe. He grinned mischievously and tossed a similar outfit to Rideriel.

The scribe lifted it up to get a better look. It was a fine piece of stitchery, but not something he was accustomed to. He'd never worn any color other than white, and felt an immediate discomfort at the thought of donning such a garment. Abaddon cocked an eyebrow and asked,

"Is something the matter, little bird?"

Rideriel could tell by the dark angel’s expression that it would be better not to voice his concern, so he replied,

"I... I am not accustomed to black, but if I am in Hell, I suppose it’s fitting that I dress like its citizens."

The prince chuckled and said,

"Oh, there are several who wear white in Hell. 'Tis the uniform of the imprisoned sinner." The scribe thought:

"Aren't I a prisoner?"

Abaddon continued,

"Black and red are the colors of Hell's royalty. I've granted you a great honor by giving you this outfit." Rideriel blushed slightly as he turned to change. His white wings shielded much of his backside from Abaddon's view, but the prince's eyes still lingered upon his slender form.

As Rideriel turned to face him, Abaddon couldn't help but admire the way his chestnut curls framed his small, fine shoulders, and the way the black silk clung to his slender waist.

With a grand gesture, the prince motioned towards the door and said,

"Come, we shall go out to the courtyard to test the health of your wings."

The shy angel followed him down the hallway. As they descended the imperial staircase, he nervously glanced up at Abaddon, murmuring,

"Sir, m-my name is Rideriel, I was a scribe before my-"

The locust lord gave him a hard look. Rideriel shrank back fearfully. A cold smile spread across Abaddon's face as he said,

"I assumed you were a scribe. Your build is only suitable for one who spends their days fiddling with a quill, but surely you jest, the Archangels actually were cheeky enough to name you Rideriel?"

Rideriel gave him a puzzled look. Abaddon explained,

"Rider sounds like writer. You were literally named for your function."

The scribe had never made the connection before, but thought,

"He must be wrong. Writer and rider only sound similar in English-"

But Abaddon's words had planted a seed of doubt. Rideriel hesitated, thinking back to the moment of his creation over four centuries ago. He'd been so proud upon being given his title and station, but with one well-placed sharp jab of the tongue, Abaddon had landed a blow to whatever bonds the scribe still felt with Heaven.

The prince reached out, held Rideriel’s chin, and pulled the angel's face upward, causing their eyes to meet. He saw the torment his words had inflicted; a part of Abaddon enjoyed this, not because he was a sadist (although he most certainly fit the definition). No, the swarm angel saw that smoldering pain as a forge he could use to refashion Rideriel into...

Into what?

A forgotten notion echoed through the back of his mind. Abaddon pushed it away; his time in Hell had taught him to never dwell upon the hidden self, as what was found in that deep ocean could be just as terrifying as...

No, he wouldn’t focus on those dark depths, not while he was looking into the eyes of one who still held innocence.

Abaddon let go of Rideriel's chin, wondering,

Did my bird fall because his beauty was too great a temptation for the angels of lust, or was he...

Rideriel saw the shift in Abaddon’s face, and looked away shyly.

They soon arrived in the courtyard. The workmen were busy carrying their heavy loads, grunting and growling as they went. Rideriel shivered with fear; it was one thing to observe Hell's citizens from above, but up close he felt vulnerable. Abaddon noticed and remarked,

"You need not worry. They know who you belong to."

Rideriel peered up at him, finding a strange comfort in his words.

Before long, they stood in the center of a garden. It was filled with beautiful, fragrant lilies, and statues of handsome, nude angels. Abaddon ran his fingers along the chiseled abdominal muscles of one of the stone figures, saying,

"I've always had a fondness for the style of Praxiteles." Rideriel, smiling, replied,

"Ah, yes, Praxiteles of Athens! He lived before I was created, but I know of his work from Heaven's records." Abaddon raised an eyebrow and asked,

"You're familiar with his art?" Rideriel nodded and exclaimed,

"Oh yes. He produced sculptures of humans and man-made gods such as Apollo and Aphrodite."

Abaddon smiled. Demons had little to no knowledge of such grand work. He’d often suggested Satan celebrate the study of form, but the only statues the former king had any interest in were the busts of musicians.

Satan had only ever focused on the artist, never the art.

Rideriel walked towards one of the statues, admiring it from several angles. A wicked idea entered his mind. He turned to Rideriel and asked,

"Would you enjoy posing for such a carving?"

Rideriel gave him a wide-eyed look of surprise, blushing with embarrassment. Abaddon was intrigued; he'd assumed the newly fallen angel would jump at the chance to show off his body.

The prince spread his wings wide, and extended a hand. With an air of authority, he said,

"It's time, little bird. Show me how well you can fly."

Rideriel hesitated momentarily. With some small pains, he spread his feathery white wings, taking Abaddon’s hand in his. Together, they ascended through the scarlet skies of Hell.

The landscape below was very different from Heaven. Fire spouted out of multiple cracks throughout the broken earth, sending small clouds of ash into the atmosphere. There were trees, after a fashion, with the twiggy appearance of the skeletal creatures that sometimes took residence within the nightmares of young children.

A large demon with scales and leathery wings passed by. As it flew, the behemoth gave Abaddon a quick salute before continuing on its way.

As they traveled, the angels flew above a large encampment. Some of the demonic soldiers were playing games of chance, while others busily tore into the flesh of a half-eaten mammoth creature.

Rideriel gagged. He'd never eaten meat, his kind had no need for sustenance; they received their daily bread from the light of the Lord. He wondered,

Why am I not hungry? Surely father has abandoned me for my transgression.

He remembered his near-fatal encounter with the fallen one, glanced at Abaddon, and asked,

"Do you... eat, like those demons down there?" Abaddon shook his head. With a smirk, he replied,

"Never. I have no need, but my people require nourishment. The citizens of Hell have more in common with animals than angels." Rideriel frowned and said,

"I... I need to tell you, I was not thrown out of Heaven, I fell of my own accord-" The prince's face became as inscrutable as marble. He replied,

"We'll discuss your fall later. For now, you must know the nature of my kingdom. I intend to keep you, so it's only proper you learn about your new home." Abaddon's grip tightened upon him. Rideriel gazed upon him, whispering,

"You want to keep me?"

Abaddon, in a low, steadfast tone, answered,

"Yes. You shall be mine forever."

A wave of clashing emotions flashed through Rideriel; he was horrified at the thought of being trapped in Hell, but had been unwanted in Heaven, treated as an outsider. Knowing somebody as powerful as Abaddon wished to possess him made him feel desired, made him feel...

Loved?

He stared into Abaddon's dark eyes, wanting nothing more than to believe he could be loved.

***

As I dictate this passage, the first couple of dragonlings are tearing their way out of their shells.

There are nearly twenty eggs in total. Nicole said they all seem ready to go, so I must assume these first hatchlings are the most ambitious of the lot, or perhaps merely impatient.

Blarg, Stinksnort, and I were passing the time testing his latest gaming app (an oddly addictive title involving guinea pigs competing in a tennis tournament) when Nicole, who'd been staring at the eggs with rapt attention, started shouting excitedly. Blarg tossed aside his tablet onto Agatha's pillow fort, rushing over to see what was happening.

I wandered over, and saw that, sure enough, the go-getter dragons had managed to create a small hole, with their little snouts currently poking out of the leathery shell. Nicole says it'll likely be several hours before they fully emerge. I'll pass the time working on the next chapter.

See you then.