Page 108 of The Dark Lord Awakens
And yet he could not deny them. Could not control them. Could not think of anything but the feeling of Lucien’s skin beneath his fingers, the nearness of his lips, the overwhelming desire to possess him completely.
Without conscious decision, his hand moved again, pressing harder against the hardness straining against his formaltrousers. The sensation was both shocking and addictive, a pleasure unlike anything he had experienced in centuries of existence.
He fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers, freeing the hardened length that had become impossible to ignore. The contact with cool air drew a hiss from between his clenched teeth, the sensation both relief and torment.
His eyes fixed on the portrait that dominated his sanctuary—Lucien in repose, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in that rare, perfect smile that Azrael had witnessed so seldom during his previous reign.
The old Lucien had been magnificent in his way—cold, stern, ruthless. A being of pure darkness who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Azrael had admired him, had served him with unwavering devotion, had found satisfaction in executing his cruel commands.
But this new Lucien—this kind, compassionate, vibrant version of his master—had intensified desires Azrael had always harbored but never fully permitted himself to express. What had once been a manageable hunger now threatened to devour him whole.
Without conscious thought, his hand wrapped around his length, the contact sending another wave of pleasure through him so intense it bordered on agony. His mind flooded with images of Lucien in those revealing sleep clothes—the smooth expanse of thigh, the strip of pale stomach visible where his shirt had ridden up, the way the thin fabric clung to every curve and plane of his body. The memory of his scent, too—the unmistakable aroma of recent pleasure that had permeated the room, telling Azrael that his master had sought his own release not long before.
Had Lucien thought of him during those private moments? Had he called Azrael’s name when pleasure overtook him? The possibility alone was intoxicating.
Azrael had never allowed himself to indulge in such physical release, though his body had experienced desire. His perfect control had always extended to these urges, channeling them into service, into violence, into obsessive devotion. But now, with the scent of Lucien’s pleasure still in his nostrils and the memory of warm skin beneath his fingertips, his control had finally shattered completely.
His body seemed to know what it needed, his hand beginning to move in a rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart. Each stroke sent waves of sensation through him, building toward something he could sense but not define.
The memory of Lucien’s words days ago surfaced with startling clarity, intensifying his pleasure.“You look different. The void food—it’s affecting you too, isn’t it? You look… enhanced. It’s a good change. You were already intimidatingly perfect—now you’re just showing off.”His master had noticed him, had admired the changes in him, had found himperfect. The praise echoed in his mind, each remembered word sending another surge of heat through his body.
In his mind, it was not his hand but Lucien’s—those elegant fingers wrapped around him, those sapphire eyes darkened with desire, those perfect lips parted in anticipation. Lucien would whisper those words of praise again as he touched him, would tell him how perfect he was, how enhanced, how impressive. The fantasy was so vivid, so compelling that Azrael groaned aloud, the sound echoing in the chamber like a confession.
His hand moved faster now, the pleasure building to heights he’d never imagined possible. The void food had enhanced his sensations too, making each touch more intense, each feeling more acute. In his fantasy, Lucien was not just touching himbut worshipping him, admiring every enhanced feature with reverent hands and hungry eyes.
The image shifted, and suddenly his mind conjured Lucien’s lips against his skin, trailing down his chest, lower still until they reached the part of him that now demanded attention with such insistence.
Azrael froze, shocked by the direction of his thoughts. This was… unthinkable. Degrading to his master. He forced his mind elsewhere, trying to focus on the night’s activities—the screams of Lord Whatshisface as the silver needle found that exquisite nerve cluster, the satisfying terror in Lady Afterthought’s eyes as he’d described what would happen to her estate.
But they offered no respite now. His body continued to burn, his length pulsing in his hand, demanding attention. And despite his efforts, the forbidden image returned—Lucien on his knees, those perfect pink lips stretched around Azrael’s shaft, those sapphire eyes looking up at him with a mixture of submission and desire.
“No,” Azrael whispered, but his hand betrayed him, resuming its rhythm with increased urgency. The fantasy expanded, becoming more detailed, more consuming. He could almost feel the wet heat of his master’s mouth, the gentle suction, the teasing flick of his tongue.
Their eyes locked in his fantasy—crimson meeting sapphire—and the imagined connection knocked the breath from Azrael’s lungs. The intimacy of it, the vulnerability in that shared gaze, was more overwhelming than the physical pleasure itself.
The pressure built within him, a coiling tension that demanded release. His movements became more urgent, less controlled, his perfect composure abandoned in the face of overwhelming need. His free hand braced against the wall beside the portrait, his body leaning forward as the sensations intensified beyond anything he had thought possible.
When release came, it was with a force that shattered his remaining control. Pleasure crashed through him in waves, drawing a cry from his lips that contained equal parts ecstasy and his master’s name. His body shuddered with the intensity of it, his vision blurring, his mind emptied of everything but the overwhelming sensation and the image of Lucien that had triggered it.
For several moments, Azrael remained frozen in that position, his body trembling with aftershocks, his mind struggling to process what had just occurred. Gradually, awareness returned—of his surroundings, of his actions, of the evidence of his release now staining his hand and the floor before him.
Horror and shame flooded him, alongside a lingering satisfaction that only deepened his confusion. He had lost control completely, indulged in acts that went far beyond inappropriate, fantasized about his master in ways that constituted the gravest disrespect.
As he cleansed himself, Azrael’s mind returned to the disturbing realization about Lucien’s modified form. He had shaped his master’s body to his own unconscious desires, had created the very temptation that now consumed him.
The evidence was undeniable. For centuries, he had reduced Lucien’s height, refined his features, enhanced his beauty—all while telling himself it was for preservation. But he hadn’t been preserving his master. He had been creating him—crafting him to match desires Azrael hadn’t even known he possessed.
A dark, unfamiliar pleasure curled through him at the thought.Mine. In the most fundamental way possible, Lucien was already his. His creation. His masterpiece. His obsession.
The fantasy that had driven him to completion still burned bright in his mind—Lucien on his knees, those perfect lips stretched around him, those blue eyes looking up withsubmission and desire. The image should have horrified him. Instead, it sent another pulse of heat through his freshly cleansed body.
He wanted more. Wanted to bend Lucien over his desk, to claim him completely, to mark him in ways that would never fade. Wanted to possess not just his body but his heart, his soul, his every thought.
These weren’t the measured devotions of a perfect servant. They were the ravenous cravings of a predator, of a collector who had found the ultimate prize.
As he dressed in a fresh uniform, Azrael’s reflection showed the perfect butler—immaculate, composed, dignified. But beneath that polished exterior, something had broken free. Something dark and hungry that had no intention of being caged again.
He told himself he would be more careful, but a deeper part of him knew the truth. The hunger had been unleashed. The line had been crossed.
