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The Devil Made Me Do It: Cain, Part 1.2 by TheBaldestOfThemAll

Before you get on your high horse, there’s something you ought to understand about hunters. Demon hunting sure as Hell ain’t the sort of fantasy you’d want to live in—seeing the worst of the world, slaying monsters that shouldn’t even exist, and never knowing peace. Family and friends few and far between. You don’t ever dare bring anyone you love into this life if they aren’t in it already, so for a hunter, it’s best to not love at all. For people like Cain, demon hunting has always been about surviving until the dust settles, then drifting away into the next storm and surviving that. After the storm, it’s usually still all f***ed up, but sometimes, through the clouds, is that bit of silver that keeps a man going. Who would’ve thought a demon could be that silver for Cain?

A while ago, Cain was out on a hunt in Los Angeles. Incubi and succubi had wrought havoc on the City of Angels. Long story short, Cain kicked some demon ass and got the attention of the big man down there. No, not *that* one, but one of the other ones: Asmodeus, Second Prince of Hell and head honcho of the incubi. Turns out, Cain had really f***ed with his numbers. No demon legionnaires to collect the souls of contractees who’d run out of time meant less souls for Hell altogether. F*** with the numbers hard enough, and the biggest man down there, the King of Hell, gets wrathful—not good for anyone, Hell or Earth. In a bind, the Prince struck the huntsman a deal he couldn’t refuse: at the end of every month, he’d come and pay Cain a visit and stay the night with him. He’d satisfy the huntsman with the best of the best of his services, and in return, all the huntsman had to do was vow to never kill him or his legionnaires.

Call Cain a monster or say that he’s as bad as the demons themselves for getting in bed with a literal Prince of Hell, but a hunter has needs, and f***, does Asmodeus satisfy those needs. Cain knew that well. This was the sixth night he’d be spending with him, after all.

Asmodeus knew a little something on how to satisfy a man. He’d had an eternity of expertise, and with his human form, it wasn’t hard to see how he’d tempted entire empires into selling themselves to him. The Prince of Lust had the sort of face that would make any man have unholy thoughts about him: an (un)godly jawline, chin, and cheekbones that made even Michelangelo’s David look goddamn ugly in comparison, a nose fit for a Greek god, a magnificent mane styled in a deliberately disheveled quiff that blazed atop his head wildly like dark hellfire, a virile but short and masterfully-maintained black beard that was the envy of any man, and eyes that penetrated the soul so deeply that he could take one look at anyone and know exactly how to make them succumb to a life of sin with him.

You see, everyone has their forbidden fruit—the sort of thing that they’d give everything up for just to have a taste of. If you could have this fruit all to yourself, eat it to your heart’s Desire, and be the happiest f***ing man in the world, what would it take for you to eat it at the cost of paradise? Call them our vices, or (more aptly) our demons, human Desire has always been *the* hot commodity to Hell’s most infernal. Asmodeus knew just how covetous humanity could be. How selfish and self-serving. How carnal. Humans were the ones who’d brought upon their own damnation, after all, just for a taste of that goddamn fruit. But enough is never truly enough, is it?

There’d always be some fool out there willing to make a deal.

For Asmodeus, all it took to know how to make his contractees fall to him was one, maybe two nights with them, max. He’d slither into their psyches, into the depths of their Desires, and mindf*** them. Tantalize them with the forbidden fruit. Then, it wouldn’t be long until they begged him to give them what they wanted—another deal with the devil. It was an amendment to the contract of sorts. Amendments like these, they kept things between him and his contractees interesting. For a demon, Asmodeus was generous. He often gave more than what was asked for, but he also took away what was rightfully his, whatever his contractees had sacrificed to him.

Humans had a tendency to be so easy that it was almost sad. The huntsman, on the other hand, was a tough man to break. Cain’s conditioning as a demon hunter made him a hardened man. As stubborn as Cain was, Asmodeus was even more stubborn, and by his hubris, made a vow to himself that the huntsman *would* be broken.

The five nights they’d spent together so far, the sex was good. Asmodeus hated to admit it, but even as an incubus, Cain knew how to satisfy him. He was one of the only men he’d known who could do that. But on every one of those nights, as the demon was f***ed without mercy by the huntsman, he knew there was something deeper behind those eyes full of hunger. The man was repressed. The depths of his psyche were too deep, even for the demon who’d been doing this for an eternity.

But every Achilles has his heel, and finally, at the end of their fifth night, this Achilles got too cocky and revealed his.

"You remember the deal we made last time, right Cain?" Asmodeus asked the huntsman, running his thumb along the scar of the man’s strong brow, along his long eyelashes. "I wouldn’t want either of us to fall short on that. You know what happens if you can’t hold up your end of the deal."

"‘Course I remember." Cain pulled away from the demon, smiling with a wink. He walked toward the door, to his leather duffle bag on the table. He opened the bag, rifling through its contents. In all his years as a hunter, Cain had become very well-acquainted with the weaponry used to deal with the otherworldly. Different jobs needed different weapons, and whatever the job was, this man knew his way around both a blade and a bullet. Iron for demons, silver for vampires, werewolves, and witches—and for humans, anything that makes them bleed.

Tonight, he’d need three weapons—four, if you accounted for the big one between his thighs. From his bag, the huntsman invoked the three artifacts and set them onto the table assertively, one by one: a set of black Oster 76 clippers, a safety razor of steel, and a can of Barbasol shaving cream.

"The right weapons for the right job," the huntsman said. "A man’s gotta be prepared for whatever comes. Whoever comes." He winked. "Now I’m gonna make *you* come."

"Is that a threat, or a promise?" the demon chuckled. He eyed the artifacts intently.

"Both. I’ll make this a night to remember for the two of us," the huntsman said, smiling with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

"I’ll have to hold you to that promise." Without warning, the demon got behind the huntsman, wrapping himself around the man’s musculature and kissing the back of his neck possessively. He manhandled the huntsman’s throbbing manhood and started to jack him off through his jeans. The demon drawled lowly into the huntsman’s ear before licking it. He tormented the side of the man’s neck sadistically with his serpentine tongue.

"Mmm f***… Asmodeus…" The huntsman hardly felt like he was in control of himself as the demon consumed him and provoked the depths of his depravity.

"Shh… don’t fight it," he said between breaths, summoning the monster out of the man. "Tonight, you’re going to do to me whatever your heart desires. Then… I’ll do to you whatever *I* desire. You know I want this as much as you do."

"F***…" Cain struggled. He scowled, gritting his teeth together. His eyes looked different. Darker, almost. Primal. He reached for the clippers. "I’m so hungry," he growled.

"I know," Asmodeus smiled sinisterly, "and tonight, I’m all yours."

The big, bad hunter was here for the demon now, and with him, he’d be absolutely merciless.

See, as a hunter, Cain had a more puritanical upbringing. He’d been brought up to deny himself the sorts of pleasures that keep a man sane. It makes it a Hell of a lot harder to succumb to temptation that way—at least, that’s what they say it’s supposed to do. In reality, hunters were some of the horniest motherf***ers out there. Just ask Asmodeus how many hunters have given themselves up to him for a piece of his hot, demon-daddy ass. Well, hunter or not, you ought to remember that Cain is only human, fallible to fleshly Desires. He’d always had his own forbidden fruit, something he so desperately wanted to get a taste of, and there was nothing that got the huntsman off harder than the thought of a handsome, well-muscled manly-man with a full head of hair getting his head shaved completely bald. No matter how much he’d tried to suppress his desires all these years, deep down, he knew it was something he wanted so badly—not just to do to another man, but for himself too.

The man was deprived. Deprive a man of his Desires for too long, and he becomes a monster.

You know that feeling you get when you’re holding a pair of clippers in your hand, right? The hum of the clippers—a demon calling out to you, tempting you to come closer and closer. F***. You drop the clippers, sweat dripping down your forehead. You see just how close you’d come to committing a massacre, if you’d just let the demon in. It’s a thought that scares you, but it’s one that turns you on, too. It might need to be coaxed out, but ultimately, your cock knows what it wants. *You* know what *you* want. Cain knew what *he* wanted. He couldn’t deny himself—not anymore. He wanted a taste of baldness for himself, and he’d pay whatever the Hell it took to get it.

Asmodeus was willing to give him what he wanted, but not without a cost. You know how the old saying goes: "an eye for an eye."

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