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lanafofana · 8 months ago

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Cuckoo for a Cuckhold

(I forgot to take screenshots of daddy zevlor so have this instead, it still fits cause...well you'll see)

Just under the wire (depending on your timezone) DAY 5 for HalsinTavWeek has come crashing through the finish line! But Lana! Where is Day 4's prompt?? Shhhh, my beauties, it's sleeping.

Pairing: Halsin/Tav(F)/Zevlor Summary: It's a special occasion. Halsin wants to watch someone rail his wife. Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI Warning/Tags: Modern AU, Cuckholding, smut, masturbation, established relationship, banter, P in V sex, innapropriate use of tiefling tail, consensual kink No beta, we die like Yonas (RIP Yonas) And lo, an AO3 link for thee

Sitting at a gaudy bar, heavy bass music thumping loud enough to make him regret having ears, and drinking some of the worst swill he’s ever tasted, Zevlor was not having a great time.

Despite being the only patron physically sitting at the bar the bartender seemed pathologically incapable of giving him the time of day. When he tries to wave him down and the man, yet again, turns to someone else walking up to order something, the tiefling grits his teeth, tail lashing and resists the overwhelming urge to give him the stern talking to he so richly deserves.

“Excuse me,” says a warm friendly voice. “We noticed you across the bar and really dig your vibe. Would you be interested in fucking my wife?”

Caught in the middle of draining his glass, the last sip of lager slips down the wrong pipe and Zevlor chokes, coughing and sputtering. Regaining his composure he wipes his mouth and turns to look at who’s approached him just in time to see the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen smack her hand against the thick bicep of, easily, the largest man he’s ever seen.

“Not like that!” The woman chastises with a mortified smile. When she turns her attention to Zevlor he feels his earlier irritation fade as if she contained some innate ability to soothe the ruffled feathers of grumpy old men. She hands him a napkin which he uses to dab at his chin while he eyes the pair expectantly.

“Sorry,” she was explaining, with an exasperated glance at her husband. “He was raised by wolves.”

“Bears,” the man corrects.

“My heart, my love, pleasestophelping!” The man grins, pecking her on the head and settling himself down on a stool miming the action of zipping his lips and placing the invisible key in her hand. “What he means to, er, say is hello, I’m Tav and this is Halsin.”

Zevlor reaches out and gently takes her hand in his, gallantly lowering his lips to her knuckles. “Zevlor, my dear,” he intones mildly, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Enchanted.”

“Oh!” Tav’s nervous smile softens, pleasantly surprised with the little display of chivalry. She looks lovely, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, a soft blush dusting her cheeks and he’s amused that she only thinks of withdrawing her hand when he lightly squeezes it.

“I believe you were making a proposition?” He asks wryly, eyes flicking to the man behind her, who hasn’t stopped watching the proceedings with interest.

Tav coughs,”Right.” Then, cheeks remaining stubbornly flushed she proceeds to stumble through the most charmingly awkward come-on Zevlor’s ever witnessed, let alone received.

“You two are terrible at this,” he remarks not unkindly when she’s finished and Halsin stifles a laugh.

“Practice makes perfect,” defends Tav with a sniff but she looks just as amused as her husband. “What do you say, Zevlor?” The heat in her eyes could have scorched him where he sat.

“It would be my absolute pleasure.” At his wicked smile the petite woman grins and takes his hand, tugging him along behind her while Halsin settles the tab.

They don’t go far, which is just as well considering the electric tension that practically fizzes into view everytime they catch each other’s eye. The fancy hotel they’re staying at already has a reservation in Tav’s name and the three manage to get all the way to the elevator before Zevlor’s tail snakes around her waist to yank her close enough to kiss.

Hands snake up his chest to find purchase on his shoulders and he barely swipes his tongue across her lips before she opens up for him, moaning prettily as their tongues glide against each other.

His hands on her waist travel down, untucking her shirt roughly. He slips his thumbs just below the waistband of her short skirt to trace circles on the sensitive skin of her hips, an action that earns him a particularly lewd moan that he greedily swallows with his tongue and teeth. His tail wraps around her leg and snakes upward towards her skirt and when he traces the warm damp line between her legs she shudders.

“I know you don’t mind if I enjoy the show but I feel obligated to point out that this elevator has cameras,” says Halsin and Tav jerks back in alarm. Zevlor chuckles while she buries her face in the crook of his neck, hiding from the camera’s view, the tips of her ears burning brightly. Reluctantly he removes his tail from her skirt though he does take a moment to trail the tip down the back of her thigh as he does so.

Soon enough the door to the suite is shut behind them and Tav leads him by the hand to an impressive bedroom with a wall of floor to ceiling windows that reveal a breathtaking view. A sea of city lights spreading out into the distance, a cluster of artificial stars outshining the night sky.

Tav puts a finger under his chin to direct his attention back to her and gives him a look that could incinerate. “Unless you’re thinking about fucking me up against those windows, I think your attention is better served elsewhere, Commander.”

He quirks a brow at her. “I didn’t tell you I was a commander,” he chides, face breaking into a slow smile.

Tav shrugs, eyes twinkling, “You were right. We’re terrible at this. C’mere.”

The tiefling bends his head to kiss her, hands finding her hips to tug her close. Her perfume smells like coffee and orange blossoms and he slips a clawed hand into her hair to hold her close, deepening the kiss.

“I for one would like to revisit the window suggestion,” Halsin chirps from the bed where he’s already bare chested and under the covers.

Breaking the kiss Zevlor gives the man an exasperated look. “Aren’t you supposed to be the silent observer?”

“She broke character already!” Halsin defends.

“It’s not your birthday, is it? She’s allowed to break whatever the hells she wants!” He leans back into Tav’s orbit to press a lingering kiss at the pulse point of her neck. “Well, my lady. Where would you have me?”

Putting her hands on her hips Tav surveys the room, gaze lingering on the windows. “You know, this feels a lot less sexier than I imagined it. What happened to letting everything happen, y’know, organically?”

“Says the woman who planned out an entire scenario to pick up her own husband at a bar,” says Zevlor, unbuttoning his shirt and smiling innocently when she rounds on him with a frown.

“What was wrong with my scenario? It had a lot of potential!”

“Oh yes, right up until, ‘We dig your vibe’ over there couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.”

“Yeah, well your wife was too head over heels seeing you scowling at the bar to do anything but stare at you. Someone had to do something or we’d all still be down there.”

“Fuck’s sake,” says Tav, aiming for annoyed but landing somewhere closer to fondly amused. She takes off her shirt and tosses it aside, stalking towards the wall of windows. “Right, you,” she points at Halsin. “Sit at the edge of the bed, there, where I can see you.”

Obediently he does as directed and Zevlor, kicking off his boots and unbuttoning his pants gives him an arch look. “How are you already naked?”

His husband shrugs with a wide, self satisfied grin. “No buttons.”

“And you,” says Tav, feeling a little like she’s trying to wrangle cats. “Come here.”

“Finally,” breathes Zevlor, crossing the room with wide strides and wrapping her in his arms.

He kisses her hard, sinking his hands into her hair to hold her steady while he plunders her mouth. She tastes like sweet water and cinnamon and he moans when she sucks his tongue into her mouth. Breaking apart for air he grips her thighs just under her ass and lifts her, pressing her against the window pane and leans in to suck a soft warm nipple into his mouth hungrily.

With both hands and mouth occupied his tail glides up between their bodies and sinks between the lips of her damp folds until he brushes against the tight bundle of nerves.

“Shit, Zevlor,” she gasps, jerking, mouth falling open. Through half lidded eyes she spies Halsin, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand palming his own erection while he watches them. When his gaze finds hers on him the man smirks, widening his legs and leaning back to improve her view. “Gods.”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Zevlor growls against her skin before switching to her other breast, sucking on her nipple to the point where pleasure meets pain and she keens, one hand fisting in his hair tightly while the other grips one of his horns. Releasing her tit he bares his teeth, his eyes burning bright with the ferocity of his lust. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wrecked for me, aren’t you?” Between her legs the tip of his tail slips warm and wet against her clit in a slow and lazy pace that has her blood burning in her veins.

“Fuck! Zevlor, I can’t–,” her breathing comes in shorter, desperate bursts. “I can’t think.”

“Shhhh,” he smiles into her skin before he drags his teeth against the delicate skin in the crook of her sweaty neck, licking the salt from her body greedily. “Don’t think, my dear, let Zevlor take care of you.”

She rests her head against the glass window at her back and her gasps give way to wanton groans and back again as he works at her clit with maddening precision. Her orgasm hovers just out of reach and she’s powerless to chase it, caught in his meticulous rhythm.

Glancing at her other husband on the bed she whimpers at the sight of him, skin flushed with arousal, his leaking cock being stroked at the same careful tempo that has begun to beat like a heartbeat in her cunt.

“Kiss me,” she demands, feeling the burning ember of her orgasm fanning into a sudden blistering wildfire. She tugs on his horn and he grunts but surges in to crash against her mouth, swallowing the moan that rips through her throat in tandem with her climax.

He holds her through the inferno and when she can finally meet his gaze with eyes unclouded with mindless lust he lets her down gently. He removes his tail from her body but she’s always been faster than he gives her credit for and she snatches it. Holding his gaze she brings the tip, glistening with her arousal, to her lips, sucking it into the warm wet heat of her mouth with an appreciative moan that punches the air from his lungs.

He places his hands on the window on either side of her head, boxing her in, and breathes out harshly at the roguish smirk she gives him with his tail sticking out of her mouth.

“You’re playing with fire, woman,” he mutters roughly.

Tav swirls her tongue around the tip of his tail before pulling it from her mouth with a pop. “What do you want to do about it?” It’s a challenge and permission all in one.

He turns her around kicking her feet apart and pressing her against the window and wishes he could be outside looking in at the sight she must make like this. Wet pussy dripping, pupils blown wide, skin flushed and hungry for a fuck right after an orgasm.

He runs his hands down her body reverently, marveling that she’s given him the privilege. She’s so fucking soft and sweet and perfect. He runs his claws down her spine to the small of her back, smirking when she gasps and her hips jerk. Lining up his swollen member to the tight wet slit he kisses her shoulder before pressing his hips forward, clenching his jaw at the overwhelming sensation of her body taking him so beautifully.

“Hells, woman.” He pauses, head bowed as he draws in a shuddering breath.

Over her shoulder she grins at him, nothing but wicked mischief in her eyes. It’s all the warning he gets before her back arches and she presses into his crotch until he’s fully sheathed in her cunt, his balls brushing against her clit.

Zevlor curses, grasping her hips tightly to hold her still, his tail flicking from side to side in agitation. But his wife isn’t one to be swayed and her back bows and arches, her hips rolling into his and he grunts. He can feel his composure slip through his fingers at the undulation of her tight wet heat squeezing his cock and in the reflection of the glass window he can see her smirking at him.

“I warned you,” he grinds out through his teeth. The brimstone of his eyes flaring bright and hot sends a shiver down her spine. He tangles one hand in her hair, holding her face to the window and with his other he grips the soft plump flesh of her hip hard enough to leave bruises. He snaps his hips, pleased with the resulting lust drunk moan it elicits, fogging the glass.

Her cunt is a hot wet heaven, swallowing his dick and his brain cells with each increasingly desperate slam of his hips. Their breathing becomes more labored, loud and harsh and peppered with desperate moans and grunts. Tav reaches a hand between her thighs and places her fingers in a ‘V’ where his body meets hers, adding a firm pressure to the base of his shaft that has his eyes nearly rolling in their sockets.

With her face pressed against the glass Tav has a clear shot view of Halsin who looks nearly as wrecked as she feels. His hair, already loose from its customary tied back style, frames his face, strands stuck to his sweat slick throat and damp face. When their eyes meet the unfiltered intensity could have set her on fire. Her spine curves and she pushes herself back into Zevlor’s thrusts, desperate for release.

The tiefling releases his grip on her hair and instead reaches between her legs, encircling her wrist and yanking it up to pin it against the glass. He doesn’t linger in the position long, her inner walls are bearing down on him so tightly he can practically taste her orgasm in the air.

Taking both her hips in his hands he fucks into her harder, faster. Tav’s panting sighs turn into guttural moans that taper off into delicious whimpers. With each wet grasp of her cunt on his cock her breathing increases, each cry coming faster and sharper as she begins to unravel.

Wrapping a hand around her front he jerks her body away from the window and against his chest, slotting his mouth where her shoulder meets her neck. Pressing his teeth to the silky flesh there his tail lashes around and slipping deep into the lips of her pussy, grinding hard against her clit. The orgasm tears through her with a wail from her throat that goes directly to his balls and a tight clamping sensation on his dick that has him exhaling a breathless moan, his vision clouding with his own climax of euphoria.

Spent and panting they stay locked together for a brief minute before with a tender kiss to her shoulder he pulls out, smiling softly at the noise of complaint it tugs from her lips. She turns to face him and pulls him in for a breathless kiss before they both break apart to look at Halsin.

The elf looks ruined, skin flushed dark, laid back on the bed with his arms spread out. His cum covered chest rising and falling as he catches his own breath.

“I changed my mind,” he says when they join him on the bed. Zevlor, running a warm damp cloth down his husband's chest and cleaning the mess of ejaculate, arches his brow in question. “That was an excellent scenario.”

Tav scoffs. “That was hardly what I had in mind.” She rolls over, nuzzling her pillow drowsily. “Maybe role play isn’t for us.”

Halsin and Zevlor trade a look, their faces breaking into slow conspiratorial smiles.

“I don’t know,” says Zevlor casually, tossing the used rag to the floor.

“Practice makes perfect,” confirms Halsin sagely, grinning when he peels back the blanket to tug a squawking Tav into his embrace.

The End

#halsintavweek #halsin x tav #halsin x tav x zevlor #tav x zevlor #smut #it came to me in a daydream idk what to tell you

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emmg · 3 months ago

Note

I beg of thee Raphael nonconning virgin tav as dominance because normal sex isn't going to put them in their place...........

(if you do this, please don't do anal or blowjobs, nonnie is a wimp with icks they/them for said nonnie too!! ) -🍄⭐

Aw shit I'm sorry Anon, I got lik 5 or 6 asks for the same thing so I forgot about the them/they, though I did edit this version specifically for you. Big sorry!

Everyone else, I'm gonna be posting the link to the unabridged ao3 version in another ask.

Mind euh the tags: non-con, rough sex, just overall dead dove behavior

"You contemptuous creature."

At first, the words draw laughter from her. It’s impossible not to find some twisted humor in watching Raphael—normally so poised and in control—lose his composure. Throw a bitch fit over trash talk. His nose wrinkles, his hands twitch involuntarily, fingers all but convulsing, the mask of benevolence slipping just enough for her to glimpse the arrogance beneath. All because she dared to strike at his most fragile point—his virility, or the lack thereof, if Haarlep’s scathing whispers were to be believed.

But when he repeats those words a second time, after the carnage has taken its toll—after she’s been shattered and broken, her companions tossed from the House of Hope like discarded dolls—everything changes. She's wiped the floor with him, he's done the same to her, and now it’s just her and Raphael, both battered and bloodied. The echo of those words fills the suffocating silence between them, and suddenly, the laughter dies in her throat.

The dread that follows is cold and visceral, sinking into her like a slow-acting poison, curdling in her stomach. Every instinct screams at her that something is deeply, horribly wrong. Laughter feels obscene now, swallowed by the growing horror that tightens like a vice around her chest.

Raphael loves words. He worships them. He uses them like a sculptor uses clay, crafting elaborate threats, intricate insults, always searching for a new way to twist the knife. He doesn’t repeat himself.

But now, with his face slashed and eyes wide, those same three words fall from his lips again, unchanged, unembellished. They land with the weight of something inevitable, something final.

You. Contemptuous. Creature.

That’s when she knows. There are no other words left. No florid insults or twisted poetry. Only these, spat with venom, because they are all that remain. He’s beyond anger now.

He catches her by the scruff of her neck, like someone handling a disobedient dog, but curses under his breath when his fingers slip against her skin. Frustrated, he switches to her shirt collar, yanking her through the halls with such force that the fabric tears. Her hair tangles in the cloth, pulling painfully at her scalp. By the time they reach the boudoir, he hurls her to the ground with such violent strength that her chin smashes against the floor, the impact echoing through her skull.

Haarlep, lounging languidly on the bed, arches a single eyebrow in response.

"Feast," Raphael hisses. "Ruin her. Fuck her senseless, devour her soul, keep her as your twisted plaything—I don’t care. I want her hollowed out, destroyed from the inside."

She can barely breathe through the pain, through the burning humiliation, but she watches him with half-lidded eyes, sees him wipe a smear of blood from his lips with the back of his sleeve before spitting a thick, crimson glob onto the carpet.

He turns on his heel, leaving without another glance, as Haarlep slowly slithers off the bed, moving toward her like a serpent closing in on its prey.

She glances down at her left leg, wondering why it feels so numb, spotting a wound, high on her thigh, peeking out through shredded cloth. A jagged tear, deep and vicious, splits the skin open. Ah, well, this isn't ideal... She presses her hand against it instinctively, feeling the viscous flow slip between her fingers. It's more than a simple cut. This is bad, dangerously so. An artery, maybe, nicked and bleeding out fast. Her head feels light, the edges of her vision wavering, as each heartbeat sends another rush of red gushing from the wound.

She wonders if she can ask her heart to take it easy for a little while lest she leaks out entirely.

"Little thief," she hears a murmur, the voice a soft purr in her ear. "You didn’t want to play before, but now... now we can have some fun." Haarlep's breath is hot against her skin, followed by the slow, sinful drag of his tongue along her cheek, leaving her shuddering. He sighs, a heavy, almost disappointed sound. "But I do not like bedraggled things. No, I do not like them at all..." ��

He carries her to the restoration pool, cradling her as though she were something fragile, something broken but fixable. The water is hot, healing, immediately soothing the raw pain seared into her body. She sighs, her head rolling back, slipping in and out of consciousness. The agony begins to blur into something distant, almost abstract. She feels Haarlep’s claws gently tearing through her clothes, cutting away the blood-soaked fabric, disposing of it. He washes her, erasing the bruises, the cuts, the aches from her skin with every pass of his hands.

Then, something shifts inside her, a sudden, sharp realignment. The sound is loud, wet, and jarring, startling her awake with a yelp. Her ribcage snaps painfully back into place, the broken bones knitting themselves together in an instant.

"Much, much better," Haarlep croons. His hand slides beneath her back, and she lets him guide her deeper into the water, submerging her until her hair is fully wet, the tension from where it had been yanked from her scalp melting away. The pounding headache that had been beating at her skull vanishes, leaving only a strange, heavy calm.

"You're wonderful," she tells him. She doesn't know why. It just feels right.

She sighs again, feeling as if she’s on the edge of sleep. Everything feels so distant, so unreal, as if she’s drifting between worlds. Maybe it’s the blood loss, or maybe it’s the aftershock, the body’s surrender after the adrenaline burns out. She feels soft, weightless, like she could slip away at any moment. The only thing anchoring her is him. Maybe that’s just what incubi do, she thinks. Maybe this is their power.

Her arms fall loosely around Haarlep, not quite an embrace, but enough to steady herself. His hands roam her back, exploring her skin, and though she’s dimly aware that both of them are naked, it hardly seems to matter. She’s too tired, too numb to care. Every time her eyelids flutter shut, it feels like centuries pass in the darkness.

She blinks, and Haarlep’s lips are on her throat.

She blinks again, and his mouth is on hers, soft but hungry. She kisses him back, caresses his face, sighs into his mouth.

Another blink, and his hands are moving, trailing down her waist, her hips, slowly rising higher.

Blink. Blink. Blink. And suddenly she’s no longer in the bath. The water, the heat—it’s all gone, replaced by the too-big bed beneath her, soft and engulfing. Haarlep is above her now, murmuring something low and indistinct, his words blurring into the haze of her mind. She doesn’t try to understand. It doesn’t matter. Reaching out, she cups his cheek, marveling at how lovely he is, how perfect his skin feels under her palm. He’s warm—so very warm—and the weight of him on top of her is comforting, almost intoxicating. His tongue flicks at her lips, glides down her throat, then traces a path lower, dipping into her navel. She sighs softly, her body heavy with a strange, dreamlike contentment.

When he parts her thighs, there’s no fear, no hesitation. Just more warmth. His tongue teases at her knees, tracing slow lines upward. Higher. Higher. Higher. But just when she expects him to reach the spot where her body craves his touch, he stops. He doesn’t kiss her there, doesn’t satisfy that illogical, sleepy longing she feels despite her exhaustion. Instead, he hums softly, the sound vibrating through her.

Another blink. When she looks down, she sees him resting his head on her stomach, hands folded beneath his chin like a bored child. His sigh is deep, drawn out.

"Oh, little thief," he deplores, voice coated in mock lament. "Perhaps I shall feast later." His hand lazily pets her side. "No, no… this he’ll want to know." Another heavy sigh. "Well, let's keep you warm for now."

He disappears for only a heartbeat, returning with a nightgown in hand. "Up, up," he says playfully, and she sluggishly lifts her arms, just enough for him to slip the gown over her head. The soft fabric slides down her skin as he tugs it into place before gently pushing her back onto the bed and pulling the covers over her.

"Don't leave," she mumbles, her thoughts scattering like a half-remembered dream.

"I suppose I can stay until you fall asleep," he purrs, slipping in behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her tight against his chest. His warmth seeps into her, enveloping her in a cocoon of safety. "It’s not the same, but... it is something."

His voice fades as she drifts, barely registering the quiet words he whispers into her hair. All she knows is how warm, how soft, how utterly good he feels beside her. She sighs, utterly content, lacing her fingers with his as she falls into the deepest, dreamless sleep, sinking into the darkness as if she belongs there.

When she wakes, she blinks up at the ceiling, utterly bewildered, staring blankly as her mind pieces itself back together. She lies there for what feels like an eternity, her thoughts floating in fragments, trying to remember where she is, why she’s here, and—oh, right. What happened.

Then, she catches a whiff of coffee. And food. She rolls over to find a silver tray perched on a table in the center of the room, piled high with pastries, fruit, and other delicacies. She shuffles off the bed, fingers brushing over the nightgown she now wears—right, Haarlep must have put it on her. She lifts the coffee to her lips, expecting bitterness, but lets out a surprised sound as warmth spreads through her. It’s not simple coffee. It’s sweet, strong, with an unexpected aftertaste of lavender. It jolts her mind awake, yet oddly soothes her frazzled nerves.

Cup in hand, she takes a lazy lap around the room, finally stopping before a mirror. She’s paler than she’s ever seen herself, her skin nearly ashen, a shade of grey close to her hair. She lifts the nightgown, glancing down at her thigh—there’s a scar, raised but fully healed. She hums to herself, covers the scar again, and polishes off the coffee.

What follows is a solid hour of her fiddling with the locked door, yanking at the handle, trying to shoulder it open—until frustration boils over, and she finally hurls the silver tray at it with a loud clang that does precisely nothing.

Eventually, the door opens without a whisper of sound, nearly colliding with her nose. She jerks back, barely managing to avoid falling flat on her face. And in walks Raphael, gliding right past her without so much as a glance, settling himself into the plush armchair in the center of the room. He reclines, crossing his legs as if he hasn’t left her stewing for hours, and she just stares, somewhere between apprehension and disbelief.

She sits on the bed, legs crossed underneath her, watching him.

She notices it immediately: he’s wearing a robe. Just a robe. And she hates it. She doesn't know why, but something about the sight gnaws at her, sets her teeth on edge. She wants him back in his usual finery, draped in layer upon layer of silk and brocade, in ruffles and velvets that bury him beneath his own pretensions. Not this casual, almost informal display, where she can see far too much of his chest, tan and exposed under the loose folds of cloth.

Maybe he’s getting ready for bed. Maybe it’s not morning at all, and she’s slept through to the next night. Or the one after that.

The thought makes her nervous, a creeping sense of time slipping sideways.

He makes wine appear and serves himself, offering her none of it.

"Haarlep shared the most fascinating insight with me," Raphael begins, his voice a slow, silken drawl. He swirls the wine in his glass, watching it spin, letting the scent rise before drawing it in deeply, savoring the moment. His nose lingers near the rim as he speaks again. "It appears, you see," he continues, "that the little mouse is all bluster, nothing but air, whispering baseless barbs into the dark."

Her heart stammers, skipping a beat, and she can’t tear her eyes away from his robe—the dark silk, intricate golden arabesques snaking across the fabric, too beautiful and too rich at once.

Raphael takes a single, languid sip. When he sets the glass down, it is with a soft, almost poetic clink.

"That one who dares to weave such lurid taunts," he muses, "could not possibly know what it is to be taken, to be undone by another’s touch."

So, Haarlep’s a bloodhound now? Of the particularly unhinged variety, apparently, sniffing out virginity instead of anything remotely useful.

She shakes her head, though she knows not why. Maybe from sheer incredulity. At least it explains why Haarlep had suddenly decided to leave her alone.

"Ah, but," Raphael sighs, his tone shifting, now lilting with a mockery that is almost whimsical, "despite it all, I find myself graced with a peculiar mercy." His teeth flash behind his lips. "Yes, even where you are concerned."

She narrows her eyes, resisting the temptation to tell him to go take a long walk off a short pier. Or to go fuck himself, preferably somewhere far, far away from her.

"Why not enlighten this brazen rodent?" he carries on, the words rolling from his tongue like a threat, each one drawing her deeper into the quiet terror of his intent. "Why not teach her the true meaning of being speared apart, to feel the depth of what she mocks so thoughtlessly?"

Raphael raises his glass in a half-hearted toast. "What it is to be fucked, little thief," he whispers. "So that she might finally understand, and learn the wisdom not to speak of that which she has never known."

Oh, so he's still angry.

There’s a glass of water waiting on the nightstand. She picks it up, wishing it were something stronger. A brief, delirious urge flickers—maybe she could ask him for liquor, just to see if he’d indulge her. But before the thought solidifies, she sets the glass back down, noticing how her hand trembles too much to trust it.

Raphael, in contrast, drains his wine with a single gulp, tipping the glass back high enough for the liquid to rush down his throat. There's nothing refined about the way he drinks, she notices, a strange detachment creeping in as her mind scrambles to find any distraction. His throat works, swallowing the last of the alcohol, and for a fleeting moment, he looks more beast than noble.

"So," Raphael begins, his voice songlike, his lips still glistening with the wine he’s just swallowed. "Why don’t you be a very, very good little mouse and lie down for me? Spread your legs nice and wide."

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees as he watches her, waiting.

She changes her mind. Takes the glass again. Drinks until it is empty, but still her throat feels parched, her tongue heavy.

"Oh, make no mistake," he continues, his tone dropping lower, "it will not be good for you, no... the first time is never good, I hear. But why let it be a scream when it can be a soft gasp? A quiet ruin instead of a brutal one. It’s your choice, really, but I must admit... I do prefer to break things slowly."

He can't be serious.

Raphael shifts and she tenses immediately, almost scurrying back on the bed, but somehow remaining prone.

"Hold on," she says. "I have something for you."

She’s feeling suicidal.

Raphael arches an eyebrow.

With an exaggerated sigh, she makes a show of rummaging through the sheets, her hand shuffling to-and-fro before pulling free, her middle finger raised high and proud. She flips him off, her expression utterly deadpan.

Raphael makes a pensive sound. "For your sake," he says, "I will pretend I did not see that. But tempt fate again and I will take that wrist of yours and, with my own teeth, carve it down to the bone.”

Point taken.

Sure, she’d love to skewer him like a devilish kebab, but she’s also got a strong preference for survival, and the chance of limping back to Gale, Karlach, and Shadowheart to lick their wounds together, preferably with all limbs still attached. Maybe she won’t even have to tell them what it cost to walk out with the Orphic Hammer, if he still lets her keep it after all of this. Just a simple transaction: a little charm, a little sacrifice. No one ever needs to know she had to play the whore to buy herself a ticket back to camp.

She rises, slipping into the oversized robe Haarlep left behind. It’s much too big, but that feels like a comfort. Wrapping it tightly around herself, she picks up her glass and walks across the room to sit in the chair opposite Raphael, silently thankful for the little table acting as a barrier between them.

"May I?" she asks, gesturing toward the wine.

There’s a brief pause before he cocks his head and smiles. "Partake," he grants.

She pours the glass to the brim, taking slow sips until it’s halfway gone, letting the silence linger. Raphael doesn’t rush to fill it either, simply sitting back with his legs crossed, watching her idly.

"Can we negotiate, perhaps?" she offers, her voice tinged with hope.

"Which part?"

She hesitates, then swallows her nerves. "All of it," she blurts out. "You caught us. In the end, we didn’t take anything. No real harm was done."

"No harm done?" he repeats, dragging out each word. "You believe attempted theft, rummaging through my possessions, damaging my property, and desecrating my secrets amounts to no harm done?"

"How about an act of service?" she proposes. "Whatever you wish."

"So glad we’re on the same page," he replies, his tone dry and mocking. "Go lie down on the bed."

"Aside from that."

Raphael props his head on a closed fist, looking at her in a manner so mockingly playful it’s almost insulting. "Did you know," he says, "that I was planning to court you, little mouse? Don’t look so surprised—yes, even I can be swayed by softness on occasion, though those moments are rare indeed." He shifts, reaching across the table to trace a finger along the rim of her glass, circling it slowly, never stopping.

"Oh, we would have made such a fetching pair, indulging one another until the excitement faded." He punctuates this with a loud, theatrical sigh that might have rivaled a tragedy actor’s. “But alas, you’ve chosen to squander my generous inclinations. You rob me, you insult me...” He clicks his tongue in disapproval, the act so exaggerated it’s almost a parody of itself.

"Yet call it fate," he says, suddenly clapping his hands together with a sharp sound that makes her jump. "I have decided to let you walk away."

"Amazing," she says. "I'll be on my way then."

Raphael, predictably, pretends not to hear her.

“Now, here’s how this will unfold,” he continues, rising gracefully and swiping her glass, taking a greedy sip. “You’ll strip out of those clothes—they were never yours to keep—and for the second time tonight, though I despise redundancy, you’ll climb onto that bed, spread yourself open, and lie still, like the obedient little mouse you were always meant to be.” He mimics the motion of holding a brush, his hand floating in the air as if he’s painting some delicate masterpiece. "One way or another, you will bleed on my cock tonight, dearest dear."

She lets him carry on, watching as he moves through his little soliloquy, complete with sweeping arm gestures and fingers dancing through the air. Even his hands, it seems, cannot shut up, punctuating each of his words with dramatic flourishes.

Whatever beauty she once saw in him, whatever thrill she felt at his thespian mannerisms—the polite, practiced excess, the smug smiles, the honeyed words, and rhymes tailored just for her—all of it now festers, turning sour and crude in her mind. The girlish infatuation is gone, withered in an instant. Now, all she sees are too-long claws, too-sharp teeth, and a too-fragile ego.

Raphael stands before her, head tilted, smile stretched wide. He clearly means to shock her. But she’s still a little dizzy from the blood loss, and besides, she’s heard far worse. Growing up near the docks, you learn early that promises of every kind, coarse and lewd, will be thrown at you the moment you start looking less like a child and more like a whisper of a woman.

Careful, girlie, or the rats’ll drag you off and make a wife of you.

Come over here, pretty—I’ll give you coin to scrub more than my floors, eh?

Just say the word, darling, I’ll teach you why sailors call it the dockyard grind.

The memories are both unsettling and, oddly enough, almost comical now. Raphael’s polished menace is nothing compared to the raw filth of dockhands and street scum.

After a while, she just sort of... nods. Shakes her head. "And you care about this... why?" She waves a hand around aimlessly. Moving it just to move it. "Haarlep’s probably far more fun in bed anyway."

"But I cannot exactly corrupt Haarlep, can I?" he replies, one finger rising in emphasis. "There’s a particular charm in setting... let’s say, a precedent. To be the first brushstroke on a blank canvas. To set the bar against which all future experiences will be measured. Corruption," he concludes with a slow smile, "is delectable."

She can’t help it; she snorts, even laughs a little. "What corruption?" she scoffs, her mouth twisting into a smirk. "It’s just a physical reality, like eating a plum. Either you’ve done it or you haven’t. You’re not corrupting"—she throws in air quotes—"an Aasimar, luring them away from their godly parent. Just sticking your prick in someone."

"Why deny yourself, dear one?" He doesn't circle her, not exactly, but he does walk once around her chair before stilling, hands resting lightly on the backrest. Tap, tap, tap they go against the wood before jumping to her shoulders. "If it is but the equivalent of biting into a fruit."

She considers, just for a split second, letting a barb fly. Something about whether he even lasted long enough to count his first time, or if it was as pitiful as whatever performance Haarlep has to suffer through whenever he gets the itch. Or, better yet, if he just bent over and let whatever fiendish partner he had at the time, ahem, take the reins. Odds are that such a question would end with all her teeth on the floor, painstakingly knocked out, one by one, knowing him.

It’s tempting, though. Her tongue almost tingles to let loose the quip, but she's been called a contemptuous creature twice already and this is where it landed her. If he says it a third time… well, she’s not exactly eager to find out what fresh hell he might unleash.

"I was waiting for you, O Raphael,” she says instead, rolling her eyes.

"How providential, then, that I am all too willing to fulfill that desire."

His hands drifts lower, fingers pressing into her upper arms as he urges her to stand, walks back around, and returns his touch to her waist.

"Perhaps," he suggests, leaning close, "your acting talents might shine here as they never have before. Better to use your gifts in this intimate stage than waste them on tavern fools and poker-faced games, wouldn’t you agree?"

"There's nothing here worth winning."

Raphael tuts softly. "Oh, but there is. Scratch my back, and I shall scratch yours—is that not how the saying goes? Be a delight and I will be generous in return."

She stares him down. Haarlep did warn that he was more bark than bite, and truly, what difference does it make if it’s him or another? After all, she did once fantasize about him, didn’t she? Those late nights at camp, when he was still more enigma than letdown, before he dangled the hammer, before he demanded the crown.

How could she not? He’s a devil, a godsdamned devil, draped in silks and brocade, spewing prose so sweet it's sticky, all poise and grandeur, acting as if she were a rare treasure, his favorite client. That was, of course, before she went and tore her way into his House.

She gives him a curt, acquiescing nod, quick and distant.

"Marvelous," he murmurs. But then, just as she’s bracing for what’s next, he draws back, snaps his fingers, and a contract materializes in the air, unfurling like a smug declaration of bureaucratic triumph. "But first— formalities."

"Seriously?" she says.

"I am a man of principles," Raphael replies, arms parting. "Consider it a force of habit. A legal contingency. You have, after all, proven yourself somewhat unreliable. I must ensure that what I am so generously offering is appropriately compensated."

"And what exactly are you giving up here?" she asks, barely containing an eye twitch. He’s the one getting his cock wet; what could he possibly be sacrificing?

Raphael places a hand on his chest with a small, clearly rehearsed nod. "My time," he says, like he’s imparting some profound revelation. "It is infinitely more valuable than you can comprehend—unlike your fleeting hours, which you squander on petty distractions."

Unbelievable.

Resigned, she reaches for the contract and he immediately produces a quill, offering it with far too much glee.

"May I read it first?" she asks, lifting an eyebrow.

"Naturally," he concedes.

It’s in Infernal, of course. She stares him down in silence until he relents, a chuckle leaving his lips as he waves a hand, and the letters bleed into Common. She sighs, her eyes scanning the lines, feeling the absurdity of it all settle in once more.

As soon as she starts reading, she thinks she will have an aneurysm.

INFERNAL CONTRACT OF BODILY RECOMPENSE AND SERVICES RENDERED IN FAVOR OF RAPHAEL, MASTER OF THE HOUSE OF HOPE

WHEREAS the undersigned mortal, hereinafter referred to as "The Mortal," having knowingly and with ill intent, trespassed upon the domicile, personal chambers, and associated property of His Eminence Raphael, herein referred to as "The Master"; and...

...in his boundless beneficence, has resolved to defer immediate damnation, punishment, or otherworldly torture, contingent upon receipt of fair and equal recompense in the form hereinafter detailed...

"The Mortal's Body": Defined as the entirety of the Mortal’s physical form, inclusive of but not limited to flesh, bone, sinew, spirit, voice, and all sensory faculties...

"Night of Compensatory Access": A single period from the hour of dusk until the subsequent hour of dawn in the realm of Avernus, whereby The Master is granted uninterrupted, unhindered, and unequivocal access to The Mortal’s Body...

...by affixing her signature below, The Mortal concedes to offer herself wholly, without protest, evasion, or mental reservation, to The Master for the duration of the Night of Compensatory Access...

Exclusivity Clause: The Mortal shall refrain from, resist, or otherwise prevent any attempt to evade, diminish, or reduce The Master's designated rights and privileges as defined herein...

Her head spins. She swears this would be hilarious if it weren’t so harrowingly detailed. She presses on.

ARTICLE III: CONDITIONS OF REPRIEVE

Forgiveness of Transgressions: In consideration of the services to be rendered by The Mortal, The Master shall, upon satisfactory completion of the Night of Compensatory Access, forgive, expunge, and render void all actions pertaining to the trespass...

...renounces all claims, pleas, or requests for mercy, leniency, or cessation of services during the duration of the Night of Compensatory Access....

ARTICLE IV: LIABILITY WAIVER

The Mortal indemnifies and holds harmless The Master from any and all claims, damages, injuries, or torts resultant from the execution of the contract...

...acknowledges that the nature of the acts herein may include, but are not limited to, discomfort, pain, debilitation, or mystical exhaustion...

“This all seems… rather extreme for…” She trails off, not quite able to say it aloud.“Well, you know. Is this really worth my soul if I don’t…” She pauses, frustrated with herself.

“Perish the thought,” Raphael exclaims, clutching his chest in mock offense. “That would be far too dramatic. No, dear, only your ability to wander.”

“My what now?”

“Oh, you’ll still be able to walk around,” he clarifies. “But stray from your promise, and let’s just say you won’t be getting much farther than the hallway that led you here. A bit of an elegant leash, if you will.”

The first pang of fear sinks in. She hadn’t even bothered reading the initial contract—the one he so pompously presented back at Sharess’ Caress—because she never intended to sign it, much less honor it. But this one... this one is personal, intimate, implicating her and only her, like he’d siphoned her very blood to craft it.

She feels Raphael’s fingers at her throat, walking along her skin until they reach the ties of her nightgown, just barely peeking out from beneath her robe. He tugs at them, exposing more of her throat but luckily nothing else.

“From dusk until dawn,” she reads, her gaze fixed on the parchment as all other words blur away. Those are the only ones that matter.

"And only that."

Before she can talk herself out of it, she signs, feeling a searing heat at her fingertips as the contract vanishes in a flurry of embers.

His hands immediately move to clasp her face, pulling her gaze up to meet his. He watches her, never blinking—how are his eyes not dried out?— his mouth stretched into that too-wide, lopsided smile, looking so pleased with himself, practically soaked in smarm.

"Now that that’s settled…” he drawls, his thumbs carving circular paths into her cheeks. “We have the entire night stretched out before us and I intend to savor it. No need to rush through." The way he lingers over night unnerves her, stoking a wild urge to claw at his throat, to demand what makes him so damn giddy, but she stays quiet. "I could start with a simple indulgence… come on that pretty face of yours, paint you just the way I like, or…" He tilts his head, smiling as he watches her reaction. “Perhaps you would prefer to kneel, lips parted, tongue out, waiting like a good girl to taste every bit of me. Ready to earn your keep, so to say.”

Her stomach twists, a hot flush creeping up her neck as each filthy word drips from his mouth, every one lewder than the last, practically daring her to bolt. Great. Just fantastic. Maybe hanging herself would be faster. Or maybe she should just waltz out and take her chances with whatever Avernus has to offer in the way of “not Raphael.” Better still, she could track down Yurgir, sweet-talk him into offing himself again right in the middle of the room. She’d pay good coin to see Raphael’s face as he’s left scrubbing entrails off his floors. Anything—anything—to spare her one more second of his insufferable gloating, let alone his plans for the evening.

"Oh, don’t tell me you’re nervous now," he admonishes, punctuating it with an obnoxious little tsk-tsk-tsk. She watches, horrified, as his tongue clicks against his teeth. "I would have thought you’d be a bit more ardent. After all, debts do demand their due."

“What is wrong with you?” she blurts out, fully aware this could very well get her voice box ripped out on the spot. “Who talks like that?”

Raphael doesn’t answer; instead, he steps closer, well within her space, until she’s enveloped by his scent, a potent mix of cherries, smoke, and musk, so thick she can practically taste it. There’s even a faint note of soap somewhere, though she suspects it might be from her, from whatever Haarlep scrubbed into her hair while washing away the blood and bruises. Not that it matters much now, with Raphael in her face, clearly reveling in her discomfort.

For a moment, she thinks he’ll kiss her—he’s close enough—but instead, he presses his nose to her cheek, trailing up her skin like a hound catching a scent. Then, just as animalistic, he follows with his tongue, dragging it slowly along the same path. He breathes against her ear, tracing its curve, then moves to her neck, his mouth seeking out the web of veins as though drawing the salt from her skin. She winces, brow furrowing, and he feels it, gripping her hair and yanking her head back.

"Be good," comes the reminder. "Be lovely." He angles her head back further.

She parts her lips for him, and his tongue slips inside, invasive. It doesn't feel like a kiss; it likely isn't. He traces the inside of her cheek, pressing firmly, as though tasting her from the inside out. She lets her hands rest on his shoulders, fisting the material of his robe because she needs to hold something, even if that something is Raphael.

He licks along her teeth, the wet drag of his tongue sending an unpleasant thrill down her spine. Then he slides lower, running along the thin strip of flesh beneath her tongue, a place she barely even thinks about, until now. He explores it thoroughly, pressing against it, making her jaw ache under the intensity. His tongue flicks up to her palate, crawling over the ribbed ridges in slow strokes, feeling each bump, each rise and fall of texture as if cataloguing the shape of her, how she feels on the inside, on the outside, where the two connect.

He pulls back, and a thin strand of saliva clings between their mouths, stretching before it snaps, leaving a cold, wet trace along her lips. He undoes the tie holding her robe, humming a light tune while doing so, before pushing it off her shoulders.

His fingers spread over her breasts, pressing them, molding them beneath his hands before moving down, taking his time as he gathers the nightgown between his fingers, dragging it upward. She feels it slide along her skin, brushing over her thighs, creeping higher with each tug until it sits just high enough for him to slip a hand underneath. His fingers find her, cupping her intimately, the heat of his hand burning through her. She tenses, the urge to recoil flickering back to life.

In response, his arm winds around her waist, confining, not comforting.

"Do you even know," he murmurs, his tone conversational, almost amused, as though discussing something mundane, as though he isn't trying to fuck her with his fingers, "what I will become once the Crown of Karsus rests upon my brow?"

She feels his hand slip away only for him to turn her around, pressing her back against his chest. She hears the parting of his lips, the wet slide of his tongue as he licks his fingers with a lewd thoroughness before they return, slick, insistent, pressing between her legs. One pushes into her without warning, making her grimace, her body clenching involuntarily around the intrusion, her heart racing, breaths coming in stilted, uneven bursts.

"No, of course you don’t," he whispers, voice heavy with mock pity. "You are far too bound by mortal limitations, too small of mind and soul to truly grasp it."

She feels the press of his cock against her lower back, a hardness she hadn’t noticed before, his hips beginning a slow roll that matches the rhythm of his finger thrusting inside her. The friction against her skin, the firm grind of him behind her, sends a jolt of anxiety through her, her pulse pounding in her ears as he speaks.

"The Hells themselves will bend to my will, like clockwork, finely tuned, all gears and wheels whirring for me alone. I will make them anew, forged in my vision—a perfect, boundless empire." His tone thickens, growing feverish. She can feel the heat radiating from him, the way he savors the vision of his own ascension. She wonders if it’s his vision of power, of domination, that excites him more than the act itself. "And you..." he trails off, "you will have the distinct privilege of saying you were taken to bed by the Archdevil Supreme."

Yippity-fucking-yay. What joy.

Briefly, she wonders if all Archdevils, supreme or not, are windbags or if it’s just Raphael who inherited the verbose gene.

She honestly hopes that if he ever manages to get his greedy paws on the crown, he’ll shrink it down, lube it up nice and slick, and fuck it to high heaven. Frankly, nobody loves Raphael like Raphael does, but if she were a betting woman—and she certainly is—she’d put her money on the Crown of Karsus giving him a pretty decent orgasm.

He interrupts her thoughts with the sudden press of a second finger, sliding inside with an erratic kind of slowness that makes her wince. His only response is a soft, indulgent sigh, his mouth lowering to her neck as he breathes hot, damp breaths that leave her skin prickling. His hips roll against her with more force, uncontrolled, irregular, now forceful, then barely a graze, only to be followed by an almost shove, an awkward rhythm that nearly unbalances her, only for his hand to tighten around her waist and pull her back.

Soon it's deserting, however, and she feels it snake around her, fingers searching for hers, guiding her arm behind until her palm rests over the growing hardness of his cock. He presses against her hand, grinding into her, a low, satisfied hum escaping him as he urges her to feel him, to hold him there. The angle is awkward—her wrist twisted, his height towering over her—and she can’t quite stroke him properly, the stiffness in her limbs robbing her of fluidity.

But every hesitant motion, every slight shift of her hand against him seems to draw an eager response. He groans, rocking harder into her palm, and his fingers inside her thrust deeper, their tips dragging against her sensitive walls, the scrape of his nails almost making her rise on her toes to avoid it.

At last, she feels him exhale, his hand retreating from inside her, and her eyes flutter shut in exhausted relief.

"On the bed," he orders, punctuating it with a shove to the small of her back, coping a feel of her ass in the process.

She doesn’t wait. She pulls the nightgown off over her head, tossing it carelessly aside before sitting down, gaze fixed ahead as she braces herself. Raphael’s expression shifts, a glint of displeasure crossing his features—not anger, exactly, but an unmistakable dissatisfaction.

"Well?" she says dryly. "Get it over with."

His face hardens. "I told you to be pleasant," he snaps.

"Find me one person who can manage that when they're about to be raped."

His eyes narrow, a frown of distaste tugging at his mouth. "Such an ugly word," he mutters dismissively as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Rape is the behavior of beasts, of creatures without refinement or restraint. This is an exchange—a consenting, fair exchange. I provided the parchment, the ink, and the clauses. You, my little mouse, provided the signature." He looks her over. “Among other things that are to follow.”

He doesn't join her on the bed. Instead, he cups her face, tilting it up so she has no choice but to look at him. His thumb drags slowly over her bottom lip, pressing until it parts, then tracing the same path with the other.

She realizes that, though she’s not exactly crying, her eyes feel just a bit too heavy, a bit too wet.

His nails sweep along the cracked skin of her lips, grazing the split corners, drawing a wince from her that only seems to encourage his smile. She feels the flush that’s crept over her cheeks, wishing she could wipe it away. And then his eyes meet hers. Instinctively, she shuts them, the feeling of those sharp nails—just a little too long, almost claw-like—sends a quiver of apprehension through her. It’s as though his infernal side has slipped out without him fully shifting. Feeling them like that, without seeing, she thinks it has.

He traces the line of her left eye, pressing lightly against the delicate space where her lashes meet. She freezes entirely as the claw moves, pulling at the tears that have gathered there, dragging them out. She sniffles, a fresh surge of tears welling up, unbidden, caught between panic and dread.

Suddenly, Raphael presses her down into the bed, and she freezes, expecting pain. But instead, the claw is replaced by the heat of his mouth, his lips pressing along the trail of tears, his tongue gliding along her closed eye, hot and damp. It laps up the moisture, running so close to her lashes that it’s almost unbearable. For a second, she feels it along the lash line, a hairbreadth from her eyeball, before the tip touches it, seeking the salt at its source. Her breath falters, her hands twitch in the air, fingers furling and unfurling. The heat from his tongue is so intense she wonders, half-delirious, if it could melt the surface of her eye, or if he’ll sink his teeth into her next.

He licks the length of her closed eyes, chasing the tears as they stream down. The sensation is almost too much; she can't stop imagining his teeth ripping through the eyelids, sinking into the eyeballs, turning them into mush, blinding her, and then slurping up the bloody pulp. She stays like that, almost hyperventilating beneath him, until finally, the tears dry up and she wills herself into stillness.

"I expect a little more enthusiasm from here on out," Raphael says, brushing her hair away from her face before his hands go to her waist, flipping her.

She finds herself face-down, her body sprawled out beneath him as he presses his knee between her legs, forcing them open. His fingers move over her back, following the curve and contours, cataloguing every tremor that runs through her.

His hand slides lower, fingers crawling between her thighs before plunging into her without warning. A sharp gasp escapes her, twisting into a curse she barely registers, something raw and furious that spills out as her body reacts, trying to wriggle free from his grip. But his other hand comes down hard against the small of her back, almost enough to make her spine bow under the pressure.

"Now, you can carry on as you have, useless and limp, like nothing more than an insentient sack of flesh," Raphael drawls, his tone maddeningly casual, even as he forces a third digit inside her, stretching her painfully. His fingers thrust in and out, curling and scraping, and she feels the burn of it, the relentless stretch drawing a whimper out of her, muffled into the pillow as she mindlessly tries to squirm away. But it only seems to spur him on, his fingers sinking even deeper.

"If that’s your choice," he continues, "then I’ll simply treat you like one. Like a bitch, if you will—hold you down, fuck you until you’re raw and weeping, until you can’t even stand." The hand pressing into her back finally relents, only to creep upward, fingers tangling in her hair, winding it around his palm. "I will break in that cunt of yours, make you lick the blood from my cock, and then take the exploration further still"—a punctuating tug follows—"to make sure no part of you remains untouched. I am nothing if not thorough." He yanks her up, pulling her flush against his chest, her back arched, her scalp burning, like every strand is trying to individually break away. His fingers pick up speed, pumping in and out with wet, slick sounds, not from pleasure but from how deep he drives them, dragging every bit of wetness out of her.

"Or," he whispers, his voice dropping to a taunting murmur, "put in the slightest effort, impale yourself on me with a smile, and perhaps—just perhaps—you’ll find something in this for yourself." His tongue flicks against her ear, running along the curve before slipping inside. "I shall enjoy myself either way, make no mistake. How you experience this... well, that is entirely up to you."

Dignity falls to the wayside, overruled by self-preservation slithering its way to the forefront of her mind. She’s certain that there are countless ways she could be torn apart in the days to come—and frankly, she’d rather face ceremorphosis with tentacles bursting out of her chest than suffer that fate at the mercy of Raphael’s cock.

“Yes, yes,” she gasps, arching back against him because, at this point, it’s all she can manage. She hopes it’s enough, that this small gesture of compliance will satisfy him, even if only temporarily.

He hums and his fingers inside her slow to a less painful pace. “Yes, what?” he asks, his tongue darting out to taste the sweat gathering behind her ear.

“I’ll… I’ll be good,” she whines, forcing the words out, barely keeping her composure.

“Wonderful,” he breathes, sounding pleased. “That is all I wished to hear. After all, such endeavors are always far more enjoyable when both parties are in agreement, wouldn’t you say?” Self-satisfaction all but drips from him. “Ah, but my apologies—you wouldn’t know.”

When his fingers finally pull out, relief floods through her so heavily that it nearly takes her breath away. She chooses to ignore the wet sound of him licking each finger clean, the way his tongue swirls around them. A little push from him sends her forward, collapsing onto the bed once more, her face pressed into the sheets. But it doesn’t last. She feels his weight shift off the bed, and when she brushes her hair back to look, she sees him adjusting his robe, his cock still hot and hard, as if she's never sucked him off, flashing briefly before he ties it closed and steps away.

He returns to the armchair, pulling it closer to the bed, and sits with an air of casual indifference.

"I suppose you’ve earned a small reward,” he says, eyes crinkling in a way that’s almost affectionate, as if he’s actually capable of generosity.

“A... reward?” she repeats, her throat dry, disbelief settling in. Raphael doesn’t do rewards. Raphael barely registers the concept of fairness. Despite her earlier promises to play along, a healthy dose of wariness prickles through her, but he just waves a dismissive hand, chuckling at her suspicion.

She doesn't believe him.

He's a con. She knows he's a con.

No, no, more than that. He’s the walking embodiment of a con. If a con could strut up uninvited, spout a pompous monologue no one wants to hear, and poof out of nowhere just as she’s elbow-deep in dirt prying a chest loose, declaring himself her savior... If a con could drench itself in cologne so thick it practically slaps you, with an incubus ready to drop to its knees at a whistle to suck him off, well—that con would be Raphael. That con is Raphael.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chides, conjuring a glass of wine in one hand and raising it in a toast. “Trust me—you will enjoy this.”

Then, he lazily snaps his fingers. She stares, waiting for something to happen, the anticipation thickening in the air. But the room remains silent, still, until he gives a subtle nod, signaling her to turn around.

“Oh,” is all she manages, a single word tumbling out as she takes in the sight.

Haarlep sits on the edge of the bed, a smile stretched wide across his face, all sharp teeth and, as always, very little clothing. Waiting. Watching. She hadn’t even felt the bed dip beneath him, but there he is, perched like he’s always been there, lounging like a spoiled cat.

Her head snaps back to Raphael as he resumes talking.

“What sounds do mice make?” he poners, pausing to take another leisurely sip of wine. “They squeak, don’t they? But that is not quite what I’m in the mood for today.” He lifts a finger, pointing it directly at her. “Let us give you some metaphorical whiskers for a change.”

And then, almost casually, he gestures to Haarlep. “Make her mewl.”

Haarlep comes alive as if clockwork, arms winding around her waist as he pulls her into his lap, the sudden strength of his grip taking her by surprise. She lets out a small yelp, startled at the sheer intensity radiating from him. He’s like Raphael but… more. Larger, warmer, every part of him thrumming with a raw energy that feels almost feral. The familiar warmth starts pooling low in her belly, the same heat she felt when he’d fondled her in the bath, setting off that slow burn inside her that fogs up every logical thought.

Before she even realizes, her legs have wrapped around his hips, arms loosely circling his neck as she settles against him.

Fuck it. Just… fuck it. She doesn’t actually want Haarlep—not really, incubus magic or no, no matter how pleasantly dizzy he’s making her feel. But she wants Raphael even less. If this whole mess of a situation forces her to pick one, she’ll take the incubus. Better him, whose very nature feeds off pleasure, than Raphael and his… well, whatever that is. And if it pleases Raphael to see her comply, well, maybe she can live with that.

“Little thief,” Haarlep coos, his voice so soft, so sweet. His tongue darts out, long and pointed, flicking over her lips. She exhales in anticipation, wanting to drink the air he breathes out, draw it as deep into her lungs as possible, drown in it. The most delicious of suffocations. He presses his tongue to hers, a brief, electrifying touch that makes her stutter a moan.

She frowns, the sensation almost too much, but she fights against the lightheadedness, tearing her gaze away to glance back at Raphael.

“Indulge,” Raphael intones, his voice smooth but hollow, his face devoid of expression. Yet his fingers tap impatiently against his thigh.

That’s all she needs to hear. Given the choice between Haarlep and Raphael, she knows where her inclination lies. Turning back to Haarlep, she lets her hands wander up to his face, feeling the curve of his smile form under her fingertips, his grin widening as she presses closer. A soft, breathy giggle slips from her as she feels his teeth, sharp and pearly-white. She traces one of his canines, feeling its fine point, laughing again as his tongue swirls around her fingertip, teasing, playful, yet also predatory.

Her fingers trail up further, brushing aside his hair, feeling along his horns, exploring each ridge and groove, mapping the texture with a mix of fascination and reverence. It's hard, reminding her of thicker nails, but also polished, as if he took a file to it. “Thank you for washing me,” she murmurs, lifting herself just a little to reach the sharp ends, pressing her fingertip to the edge, letting it prick her skin lightly.

Haarlep tilts his head up, studying her. He leans in, pressing a brief, lingering kiss to the spot between her breasts. "I will lick you clean before the night is over, sweetling," he promises.

Her breath catches, jaw slack, and before her mind has fully caught up, his mouth finds her breast, lips closing over her nipple with a fierce, greedy hunger. He sucks, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, lapping and teasing, only to pull back and blow warm air, waiting just long enough for her skin to prickle before diving back in. His hand kneads her other breast, fingers splayed wide as he cups her fully, and in that moment, she wishes there were simply more of her—more for him to take, to devour, to savor.

Her head tips back, a sigh slipping from her as she pulls him closer, pressing his mouth to her. He lets her nipple go with a wet pop, leaving a glistening trail of saliva as he drags his tongue over to the other breast, his mouth resuming its ministrations, tongue and teeth teasing as he works her slowly.

Then, his other hand begins to drift lower, sliding down her stomach, fingers tracing an idle path until they sneak between her thighs. Her body tenses, still tender, her mind flashing back to the earlier painful stretch. But Haarlep murmurs soft, indecipherable words against her, his breath warm and soothing, his tone coaxing. His touch is feather-light, a gentle stroke up and down, not pressing too deeply, not forcing. Just the barest graze of his fingers as they move in time with his mouth.

She hums, lulled into the haze, as she feels herself growing wet. He notices, and his fingers move with purpose now, gathering that slickness, using it to circle her clit in slow circles, just enough pressure to make her tremble, to make her body arch against him.

Her hands clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging in as she steadies herself, barely able to breathe beneath the sheer intensity of him. Incubi are supposed to be the ones devouring, draining, but right now, she feels like she might just consume him entirely, every last part of him, until there's nothing left but that raw, pulsing need. And even then it won't be enough.

Without warning, he pushes her back, and she falls, laughter spilling out of her, head spinning with a strange, weightless sensation. Her vision blurs at the edges, the world fading away until only he remains—his face so close, achingly lovely, all wicked smiles and piercing eyes that seem to pull her deeper with every look. The scent of him fills her senses, thick and heady, intoxicating in a way that makes her dizzy, lightheaded, and if she could dissolve from it, melt away entirely, she would almost welcome it.

Haarlep braces himself on his forearms, grinning down at her, and before she can even catch her breath, he leans in, his mouth crashing against hers. His teeth graze her lips, a quick bite, and she reacts immediately, her nails raking down his back, pulling him closer as if she could meld into him, as if her body wants to fuse with his. She clings to him, her whole being drawn toward him, desperate for every touch, every taste he offers.

The kiss leaves her gasping, her thighs instinctively pressing together, a throbbing need building deep inside her, making her body come alive in a way it never has. Every taste of him is potent, unbelievable, more satisfying than anything she's ever known, more intense than any pleasure she’s ever tried to give herself. Her hands drift down, gripping him as if she can’t bear to let go, as if every nerve is open, raw, and starved for more of him.

Haarlep pulls back, and she watches the way his lips shine. "Not a thought in that head," he croons, petting her sides. The words aren't meant for her, she knows that, knows she should be frowning, should be offended.

It should sting, the way he speaks about her, should spark some hint of defiance, make her want to hit him. It’s as though he’s reaching into her, pulling free every ounce of strength she has, every bit of herself, leaving her hollow but strangely content. The thought crosses her mind, dimly, that he might be feeding on her, whittling her down to nothing, and yet, fading into him feels inevitable, and she can’t bring herself to actually care.

Maybe it's better this way.

"Come here, little thief."

She lets Haarlep move her, his hands gripping her ankles as he drags her down, positioning her so her legs dangle off the edge, making sure they are parted wide. She feels him draw back, the absence of his touch stark against her skin, and almost protests—until his mouth presses against her, and every thought vanishes, every half-formed complaint dissolving into a needy whine.

Her hands move to his head, fingers threading through his hair, wrapping around his horns as she steadies herself. His long tongue traces a slow line up her slit, taking his time, savoring every inch before flattening against her clit. A sharp, intoxicating shock rolls through her, and just as quickly, he pulls back, letting the heat simmer, only to circle her sensitive spot and then plunge his tongue deep inside her.

A choked sound, ugly and short, leaves her as she presses herself against his mouth, feeling his nose nudge against her clit, his fingers finding it as well, massaging in rhythm. His tongue twists, flicks, pressing further, devouring her as he sucks and licks with a singular, consuming focus that leaves her mind blank. He sucks her clit between his teeth, the brief graze of sharpness making her body arch before he laughs and eases up, his breath hot against her as he continues.

Her grip tightens around his horns, hands trembling as she ruts shamelessly against his face, chasing each wave of pleasure he draws out of her. The tightness low in her belly builds, her thighs quivering, anticipation coiling with each flick of his tongue.

An idle thought flits through her mind: all those dire warnings about devils… really, they missed the mark. Should have focused more on demons. Surely a king or two—maybe even a whole council of dukes—gave up fortunes just for the dubious honor of being fucked silly by an incubus with more charm than scruples.

All those bleak winters she'd spent at the temple of Ilmater as a child, because her mother was too sad, too tired, and honestly, asleep for so long she practically fused with the bed... The priests, ever eager, handed out bread along with endless sermons on “righteous living” and the “virtues of a humble life.” A life of penitence, they’d said. A life of humility…

Well, so much for that. Apparently, all that virtue-training went flying right out the window the moment Haarlep decided to get creative with his tongue, because she can’t think of a single reason why she should care anymore.

The tension in her belly coils tighter and tighter, her muscles wound with a fierce, electric energy as each pass of his tongue, each press of his fingers, pushes her closer to the edge. She gasps, breathless, feeling sweat bead on her skin, slicking her brow and the small of her back.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, drawing his head closer, and she arches toward him. She can feel her own slickness pooling, mixing with the damp heat of his mouth, her skin flushed and trembling as her release hits. It crashes over her in pulsing waves, making her thighs quiver, her legs tightening as she presses herself against him, letting out a shuddering moan as he doesn’t relent, all but licking her orgasm out of her.

She pants, then laughs, a soft, breathless sound that bubbles up as giddiness fills her, a heady lightness leaving her almost dizzy. Her body feels weightless, her vision dotted with stars, colors swirling at the edges, vivid and strange. As she stares at the ceiling, tasting sensations she can’t explain, the faint awareness creeps back in—he hasn’t moved away. Haarlep still kneels at her feet, his hands roaming up her legs, fingers tracing the sensitive skin beneath her knees, slowly spreading her open again.

She props herself up, just a little, resting on her elbows, a lazy smile animating her lips, her hair plastered to her forehead. Her muscles still feel loose, relaxed, the aftershocks of pleasure lingering in every inch of her.

“Loud enough?” she hears Haarlep ask as he drags a finger along the slickness pooling from her, tracing the line of her thigh, pushing her knee open a bit wider, exposing just how thoroughly he’s worked her. He tilts her leg, angling her just so, to better display the wet sheen of her cunt to Raphael.

The rush of realization hits hard, snapping her back as her body stiffens, her hands flying to pull her legs together, shuffling herself back on the bed as a deep, burning shame blooms in her chest. Haarlep laughs, high and mocking, and the sound grates through her.

She's no longer drunk on him, no longer under his influence, and she is going to kill the fucker.

Fucking fiend. No, fucking fiends. Both of them. She should have driven a butter knife straight through his skull the moment she saw him lounging in Raphael's stupid boudoir. Or better yet, one of his infernal "accessories." She distinctly remembers spotting a few fiendish dildos tucked around the room during their little chat. Yes, that’s the move—a truly monstrous, comically oversized, and inexplicably barbed devil’s dong, jammed right through his eye socket and deep into that smug brain of his. Scramble his skull with a novelty-sized hellish dick.

What a shame she missed the opportunity.

"Begone," Raphael’s voice cuts through, followed by a flourish of his hand. Haarlep barely manages a scoff before vanishing into thin air. When she looks up again, he’s gone, leaving only Raphael’s gaze pressing down on her.

Good.

Fucking good.

For once, she’s grateful for Raphael’s over-the-top theatrics. Another second of Haarlep smirking up at her, and she’d have gladly spat in his face.

He finishes his wine, and she wonders—absurdly—if he’s drunk, if somehow that would make this whole situation easier. Can he even get drunk, with that Infernal constitution of his? She doubts it. But then he moves to join her, and she finds herself reaching out thoughtlessly, her fingers moving to his shoulder, then his chest, trailing lower to undo the tie of his robe. This is what he wants, isn’t it? Raphael demands to be worshipped, to be desired, even as he savors the bruises he leaves behind, the tears he causes. And she’s still lightheaded, still dizzy from Haarlep, enough to follow along without questioning it too deeply.

“Good girl,” he praises, as she finishes baring him.

There are details she likes about him; things she can appreciate without attaching them to the creature he is. It’s why she flirted with him in that carefree way before all of this, isn't it? She likes the way his hair curls just so behind his ears, how unassumingly brown it is, his lips that are a touch too thin, the sharpness of his nose, though she can’t explain why, the extravagance of his clothes—even his unbearable smugness had its charm once.

He’s a caricature of an aristocrat, the kind who’d trick you out of your last coin and enjoy every second of it, yet also the type straight out of a cheap romance novel: the noble who buys a girl for a night, only to bring her into a life of wealth and comfort when he inexplicably grows fond of her.

But she knows better now. Beneath all that elegance lies the tormentor of Hope, the schemer who’d prey on children like Mol without a flicker of remorse. He’s lived lifetimes, long enough to have seen the scurrying about of so many like her, long enough that some semblance of mercy should have crept in by now. One would think that even Raphael, having watched enough fragile lives flail and fail, might one day feel the faintest pity, like gently ushering a trapped fly out a window instead of crushing it beneath his heel.

But Raphael? He steps on that fly, over and over, century after century, just because he can.

And suddenly, she is afraid, and not even the aftertaste of Haarlep is enough to dull that.

Raphael presses on her shoulder, and she sinks down onto the bed without protest. He hovers above her, watching in that way of his—intense, calculating, oddly detached—before taking her hand with almost ceremonious politeness. “Now, if you would be so kind,” he murmurs, guiding it to wrap around his cock, shaping her fingers to his liking as he coaxes her into a rhythm.

Her hand shakes, struggling to follow the pace he sets, each stroke clumsy, uneven, her breath hitching as the weight of his flesh under her fingers sharpens the reality of the moment. His grip tightens, keeping her hand in place, urging it faster, forcing her into a tempo she can’t seem to match. The thickness of him feels unsettling, wrong, the shape foreign beneath her touch, and panic churns in her chest, turning her breaths into shallow, stifled puffs.

She’s done worse tonight—had him at her lips, tangled with his incubus, even lay still as he tasted her tears, and yet somehow, this is what unravels her. How utterly stupid. Everything suddenly feels far too real, too stark.

"Whatever is the matter, little mouse?" His voice drips with counterfeit sweetness. He leans in, his tongue dragging a slow, wet trail up her cheek, the sensation making her shudder in disgust. "Do you not want to feel what you do to me? It’s a compliment, really."

Despite herself, her hand goes still, but Raphael hardly seems to mind. He disentangles himself from her, reclining back to watch her as he takes over. He pumps himself with a rhythm he couldn't get her to follow, alternating between squeezing and dragging, and her gaze unwillingly falls to the veins she’d traced earlier with her tongue, now standing out, bulging under the pressure of his hand. A bead of moisture forms at the tip, catching the light before he drags it down his shaft. She turns her head, forcing her focus elsewhere, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns of the golden wallpaper. She counts each delicate swirl, following every looping detail, willing herself to find fascination in the ornate designs and drown out the scene unfolding before her.

But she can’t shut out the sounds—the wet, obscene rhythm of his hand on his cock, the heavy breaths, the occasional groan as he takes his pleasure from the mere sight of her. The tension coils tighter and tighter in her chest, suffocating her.

Then he’s on top of her again, his teeth grazing her throat, biting down with just enough pressure to make her gasp. His cock presses hot and hard against her thigh.

"Don’t," she says, surprised by how steady her voice is, how calm it sounds despite the anxiety inside her.

Raphael heaves a great, melodramatic sigh. "But how else will you learn your lesson, little mouse?" His hand moves lower, taking hold of himself, pressing the blunt, too-hard tip of his cock against her entrance.

She stiffens, her hands flying to his shoulders, pushing weakly at him, but the motion only makes things worse. His cock slips lower, finding the right angle, and before she can even prepare herself, he thrusts forward, forcing himself inside of her.

The pain is sharp and tearing, a searing agony that makes her bite down hard on her lip, her teeth sinking into the flesh to stifle the cry that wants to flee. She hears herself mumbling something, but the words don’t make sense. He sheathes himself fully inside her, and it isn’t the dramatic scream she expected to tear from her throat—no, it’s a hollow, soundless exhale, her body too shocked to react the way she imagined it would in the stupid, smutty, sordid stories she’d once read. Her eyes sting, open too wide for too long, and her lower belly cramps violently.

Instinct drives her to push deeper into the mattress, as if she could somehow melt through it, but Raphael’s hands clamp down on her hips, holding her in place. He pulls out just enough to make her wince, his cock scraping against her raw insides, before he slams back into her, harder this time.

Feeling a little deranged, she reaches up to touch his face, an impulse she’d buried before... well, before all of this. And he is beautiful, isn’t he? She can admit to it, even if a very insistent part of her would gladly stab him through the eye if she could get away with it. Her fingers trace his cheekbones, his jaw, his temples, the waves of his hair, and she’s oddly relieved that he looks like this, that he’s chosen this form and not the other, no horns, no towering, imposing fiendish presence. Just this face—human, sharp, and eerily simple.

She’s had plenty of faces in her fantasies over the years, ever since she was old enough to understand the appeal; his just happened to be the latest one to drift behind her closed eyes as she rutted against a pillow or came on her fingers. But unlike all those harmless daydreams, now, he is real, tangible, and she hates him in every way imaginable. She knows, almost certainly, that he’s already made her bleed, and with each rough movement, that stickiness between her thighs grows, a physical reminder that unlike her idiotic fantasies, this one comes with bruises and a contract attached.

He begins to fuck her, his hips snapping forward with each thrust, his breath coming in ragged bursts. She can feel him, deep inside, deeper than she ever thought possible, and each thrust feels like a fresh tear, splitting her open. For a brief moment, he pauses, and she dares to hope that it’s over, that maybe, somehow, this is it.

He holds himself above her, his face tense with concentration, a thin sheen of sweat beading along his brow. His mouth goes to her jaw, undecided, alternating between a firm press, a sharp nip of his teeth, and the hot, damp glide of his tongue.

And, predictably, he starts to talk. Raphael always needs to talk. He simply can't seem to shut up, his words half-muffled against her skin. "I would have taken you to Calimport," he laments, moving in a slow rhythm, never quite bottoming out. "There is a... venue there... The House of Desires, they call it." She wraps her arms around him, more to keep them from flailing than anything else, but he seems pleased, sighing contentedly. "A foolish name," he sneers, "but an intriguing place… A theater and pleasure palace combined. We could have watched The Tragedy of the Mad Mage while you writhed in my lap… or simply listened to the monologues as I took you on the floor of the box… But no, you had to go and ruin our partnership...”

What is even going on?

She knows he likes the sound of his own voice—yapping like some pedigreed lapdog who’s learned to wax poetic. But she didn’t expect him to keep it up now, right in the middle of this, while taking something from her she hadn’t even cared about that much, but still feels downright wrong to hand over to him of all people.

She stares at the ceiling, bewildered, but something else is stirring inside her. It’s that lingering warmth, that hint of something left behind by Haarlep—carried in his breath, his saliva, his touch. The scraping discomfort remains, but Raphael’s slow, labored movements, the unhurried thrusts, almost feel good. Like the teasing tension when she clenches her thighs without touching herself.

His body presses so tightly against hers that every shift brushes against her clit, his chest dragging over her nipples, the scratch of his pubic hair rubbing between her legs and slightly up her stomach. She finds herself breathing harder, mouth opening just a bit, the low, lazy drag of his cock against her drawing out a shy, unintentional moan. Even her toes curl a little.

Raphael reacts immediately, tilting her head back, scrambling for her mouth. It’s hardly a kiss; it feels more like he’s greedily scavenging for scraps, but even that has its own strange pull.

"I knew you would like this," he speaks straight into her mouth and she physically feels his lips stretch, the smirk forming, even as he strains to breathe properly. She must utter something, some kind of protest, though she doesn't really register it, because her head turns and his hand clamps on her jaw, dragging her back, all while insisting, "No, you do, you do... such vulgar words…” He emphasizes it with a sluggish thrust. “So much posturing…” Two more thrusts, and her eyes squeeze shut. “And for what…” Another thrust, and she shivers, feeling a new rush of wetness between her legs.

A tremor travels down his spine, something she can almost trace, snapping him out of whatever trance he was in. He’s no longer slow, and she feels every jarring push as he resumes pounding into her, his cock bruising her from the inside.

When he pulls out, a small gasp of pain escapes her. It somehow hurts more to feel him leave than it did to take each thrust. His hand presses firmly on her hip, pushing or pulling, she can’t quite tell, before he sighs, exasperated.

"On all fours," Raphael demands, turning her around.

Her chin hits the mattress, neck twisted at an awkward angle, but she quickly braces herself, pushing up, determined not to let him grind her face into the sheets, even if he intends to take her like an animal.

He presses up behind her, his hand slipping between them as he aligns himself, slicking the head of his cock between her folds before he drives forward. She yelps before she can stop herself, making her feel every inch the bitch he’d called her. Each noise she lets out only seems to reinforce it, her own voice betraying her, ringing out like the helpless whine of an animal forced to submit.

The echo of Haarlep is still there, however, just like before, and she thinks that under different circumstances, she might actually find pleasure in this. There's a spark of it, sometimes igniting, sometimes being snuffed out, and sometimes threatening to grow into a blaze. When his hips stutter, when he presses in deep and moves shallowly, his cock twitching within her, she almost feels it—almost leans back to meet his rhythm. She almost feels herself clench around him, hating that she's craving the warmth, that flicker of desire, the urge to reach down and rub her clit until she shudders around him.

“You are,” she hears Raphael’s voice, hoarse above her, “not a complete disappointment, little mouse.” He barely finishes the words before he’s slamming into her again. Air whistles through her gritted teeth as he hits something deep, almost unbearably intense—a spot that sends an aching, twisting cramp pulsing through her core. She cries out and watches her hand grip the sheets, fingers digging in so hard her knuckles turn white.

She hears every wet, filthy slide of his cock, each stroke accompanied by the slap of his flesh against hers. His sweat drips onto her skin, mingling with hers, salty on her lips as he presses her down, pinning her flat against the bed, his chest flush against her back. She can barely breathe, whimpering as his teeth sink into the spot between her neck and shoulder. Raphael shushes her, his hands roaming down her ribs, even as he keeps moving inside her, his ragged exhales wafting against her ear.

“Tonight,” he grits out, “tonight isn’t about you… but if you behave…” His thrusts are wild now, lacking control, as if he’s barely holding onto himself, each movement sharp, utterly graceless. He tries to stay punishing, driving deep, but his cadence fails, and his cock slips free, leaving him cursing, frustrated. She lets out a shuddering sigh of relief, and he swears again, his knee parting her legs wider, forcing himself back inside her. “If you’re good,” he mutters, “I’ll let you ride me, take your pleasure... like the needy little thing you are…”

She finally feels his orgasm when he pushes three more times into her, harder than before, so hard she thinks he spine will snap, before resting his weight atop her.

She feels drunk, though she’s barely touched the wine. It’s that bone-deep weariness that sets in after a burst of misplaced excitement, when every limb feels leaden, her mouth parched, her eyes strained. She listens to Raphael's breathing, his chest pressing into her back, his heartbeat thundering and then gradually slowing. The sweat between them begins to cool, skin sticking together uncomfortably. Almost absentmindedly, he runs his nose along her cheek; not a tender gesture, just an unconscious brush, a reflex without thought.

She feels him soften inside her, his grip shifting as he braces himself, then finally pulls out, a rush of warmth spilling between her thighs. A part of her wants to reach down, stuff something between her legs, stop the flow, wipe it all away—anything to avoid the reminder of what just happened. But another part of her simply doesn’t care anymore. She just wants sleep. Turning over, she settles onto her back, eyes half-closed, only to find Raphael sitting up, watching her with an expression she can’t quite read.

"This suits you," he remarks, his fingers brushing over the reddened skin between her breasts, trailing up her throat and across her stomach where the sheets have rubbed her raw. His touch follows each mark, each flush with the kind of attention one might reserve for a prized possession. His fingers dip lower, tracing a path through the mess between her legs, but she feels too exhausted to react.

She glances at the door, vaguely hopeful the night might be ending soon, though, of course, there’s no window here, no way to know.

“I’m going to sleep for a bit,” she murmurs, barely registering her own voice. “Then I’ll go. That was the deal, right?” Because with him, she’s learned, there’s always a twist, and she wouldn’t put it past him to drag things out until the very last second.

He only hums, now absentmindedly drawing circles along her knee. She notices his robe is back in place, immaculate as always. When had he managed that?

“From dusk till dawn,” he replies, sounding far away.

She nods, relieved.

He continues, voice softer, “At first, when I handed you over to Haarlep, I thought, ‘Why not let her vanish? Let him devour her whole, and be done with it.’” His fingers trail to her other knee, as though lost in the rhythm of his own touch. “Your companions are, after all, quite capable. They don’t really need you, do they? The githyanki, for instance—so eager to free her darling prince. I imagine I could command her to scrub my dungeons with her tongue, and she’d do it without question."

Raphael laughs to himself. “Although… you do seem to inspire a peculiar resilience in them, though for the life of me, I can’t fathom why. It’s not as if you possess a shred of righteousness.” Another low chuckle, his gaze holding hers. “So, yes,” he finishes, “you shall go.”

“Perfect,” she mutters, the sarcasm slipping out unbidden. She doesn't know why he's monologuing—again—but won't interrupt him further.

“Trouble is, little mouse,” he murmurs, leaning in until his hand rests firmly against her stomach, “Avernus has no true dawn, no natural end to night.” Shit-eating, smug delight flickers in his eyes as he watches her face fall. “So, it would seem you’re here to stay—until I am satisfied. Until I, and I alone, decide this night is over.” His smirk sharpens, his palm pressing slightly harder as if to make a point. “And only then will you return to your merry little band, hammer in hand. Yes, I will give it to you; it’s in the contract, after all. Just as the clause which specifies that you will bring me the crown in exchange for it.”

He pauses, an exaggerated look of innocence crossing his face. “Oh, what, did that little detail slip past you?” He shrugs, thoroughly enjoying himself. “No matter. Until then…” His fingers trail up her body, resting lightly at her throat. “Consider yourself my guest.”

It takes her a moment to comprehend, a slow horror crawling over her as she watches him stand, brushing the fabric of his robe back into place. He adjusts his sleeves with a lazy stretch, his gaze half-lidded, catlike, savoring her realization.

“Raphael,” she whispers, her voice barely there. As he turns toward the door, still smiling, she repeats, louder, “Raphael,” scrambling upright, nearly stumbling over herself to follow him.

“Perhaps we’ll make it to the theater after all,” he muses, voice drifting into a dreamy lilt. “Picture it—a night at the House of Desires, you displayed in something far more fitting than those ragged leathers.” His hands move in the air, drawing patterns as if sculpting an attire she cannot see, an outfit that exists only in his mind and one he fully intends to see her in.

“No, no,” he sighs, eyes squinting thoughtfully. “We’ll have to make you presentable first, won’t we? A creature worthy of the occasion.” His lips curve into a small, satisfied smile, as though he’s already dressing her in each imagined layer, savoring the thought of his vision realized.

“Raphael,” she tries again. She reaches out, but he’s already turning away, still speaking as though she were little more than an afterthought.

“Really,” he sighs, pressing his fingers to his temples, massaging, as though dealing with an unruly and particularly loud child. “Must you make such a show of things? Gather your wits; get some rest.”

“You—” Her voice chokes as rage, horror, and helplessness knot inside her, words tangling on her tongue. The room spins, colors swimming as her pulse races. She almost doubles over, the urge to retch nearly overtaking her. “You bastard, you absolute piece of shit, you—”

“Oh,” he continues casually, glancing at his fingernails as though oblivious to her rage, “Haarlep is surprisingly skilled at lanceboard, if you ever fancy a game to kill the time. An underrated talent, I must admit.” He reaches out to tap her chin, casting her a final, mocking smile. “Well, ta-ta for now. As much as I adore your company, you are far from my only client.”

Her hands slap to her face, nails digging into her skin as her thoughts tumble, spiraling faster than she can hold them. She’s going to kill him. No—she’s going to rip her own face off first, claw her way out of her own skull if that’s what it takes. She’ll tear out his vocal cords, braid them into a rope, and hang him from his own goddamn chandelier. Then maybe she’ll bash her head against the floor until there’s nothing left inside. That bastard. That perfume-slicked, smug, over-dressed rat.

She’ll drink his tears, gouge his eyes out, chew them up, and spit them back in his face—see if he enjoys the sensation. She’ll dig her way out of this golden trap he calls a boudoir, storm outside, and throw both middle fingers high at the burning skies of Avernus. She’ll curse at them until the flames twist into stars, mortal stars, ones she can reach, ones she can latch onto, anything to get out. She'll force the night that doesn't exist to end.

And when she does, she’ll double back. Ransack his fucking home one last time, maybe haul Haarlep out with her for good measure—knock him out cold and drag him along if she has to, just to make sure Raphael’s left to stew alone and has no choice but to romance his own hand next time he feels a stirring.

Her breaths come too fast, panic clamping her chest, her body aching, bruises flaring with every heartbeat. The walls press in on her, the gaudy wallpaper spinning, her skin too tight, everything stifling. She’s going to scream, she’s going to combust, she’s going to pass out right here, naked, furious, wanting nothing more than to scrape every memory of him from her mind, to tear every inch of this night away until there’s nothing left but silence—

Her frustration boils over, and she seizes the nearest object—a heavy candelabra—hurling it with all her strength. But the door slams shut just as it crashes into the wall, leaving her alone.

Haarlep saunters in after a while, casting a casual, bemused glance around at the aftermath of her fury.

“I am, in fact, quite skilled,” he says, surveying the chaos. “And you, evidently, are not, because this little scene? Hardly a queen’s gambit.” He shakes his head with faux disappointment, then perks up, tail swishing like an overexcited cat. “But don’t worry, dear. If you’re interested, I could teach you a few strategies. Ooooh, just think of all the fun we’ll have together!”

With a gleeful grin, he starts ticking off ideas on his clawed fingers, ethusiasm brimming over. “We could attend one of Zariel’s insufferable banquets together. Raphael won’t mind, trust me; he's an absolute bore.” He rolls his eyes, leaning in as if sharing a treasured secret. “Or we could burn your dreadful little clothes, make a nice bonfire, and find you something prettier to wear. Velvet, perhaps? And have you seen the dungeons? Admittedly lacking in scenic charm, but for those who enjoy a touch of pain with their pleasure, the ambiance is, mmm, well, perfect." His voice drops to a purr. “Cherry tarts or strawberry, darling? Important to know for, you know, aftercare. Just curious—what’s your stance on flaying? Only the teensiest bit, of course. Adds a little flair, don’t you think?”

Haarlep clasps his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes wide and gleaming. She lets out a long, silent sigh, picks up the second candelabra—because everything in this ostentatious hellhole is symmetrically placed—and proceeds to whack him with it.

#my asks #dead dove do not eat #raphael x tav #yall this is fatherless behavior and fatherless writing so yeah #nsft

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