#haarlep is gonna be so mad in 30 mins when they realise they got off thinkin abt raphael for most of it lol <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[haarlep]

A bit of Haarlep masturbation? Raphael has been way to focused on dealing with mortal contracts and the succubus needs attention

There are a few times that the boudoir has been this empty before, but all told: not many. Not for so many days at a time, long stretches of silence where Haarlep is left to fend for themselves. They're not helpless. There's books. Things to smoke. The bath so big they could do laps in it. Food never runs out. Card games and puzzles. They rarely venture out, but when pressed, they could always cause trouble for any of the residents. The Archivist particularly hates it when Haarlep does a pitch-perfect imitation of Raphael.

The real issue is the physical boredom. The lack of physical stimulation. There haven't even been any visitors. The bed they share with their master is a frustratingly cold, lonely space. They're not made to be lonely. Cold and lonely is Cania and all the miseries of that second-deepest layer of the Hells. They're not interested in going back. (And the longer Raphael is gone, they have to wonder if they did something wrong, or...)

Mm, well. They don't need Raphael or his permission, and all things told, tending to themselves should remind Raphael that he has a House to keep in order, as well as his never-ending game of lanceboard with mortals.

Haarlep rolls onto their back with a petulant sigh, coal-burn eyes flicking up to the ceiling, and they run one hand down their body, over their meticulously made chest, stomach, between their thighs. They like leather and velvet and silk in equal measure, and today: silk. The kind of negligee that Raphael could've torn off them if he'd bothered to be here, and the kind of lace underwear that doesn't leave anything to the imagination.

Raphael will feel this, the stirrings of interest, as Haarlep palms absently at their cock. Inhaling, head tilting back against the pillow. He can feel everything. The tug of emotion like a thread tied under Haarlep's skin, something snagged and drawn on: if you were here, I wouldn't have to take care of myself, would I. He'll be—where would he be? Going over the finer points of a contract, maybe, sitting in a comfortable inn room, one knee draped over the other, and feeling his/their hands on his/their body.

Haarlep hums, eyes closing. They're getting warm—warmer—and half-hard under their palm, heat starting a slow drip down their spine to settle in the pit of their belly. They lift their negligee, and hook their thumbs into their underwear, pulling it down past their hips, leaving them around their thighs. The fabric pinches a little when they part their knees. They like that. The tension.

They curl their fingers around themselves, slow and mm, sensuous with themselves in a way that people rarely are with them. They take their time in part because they want to, and in part because they know this will be distracting: the slow up and down glide of their fingers, bumping over the ridges of their devillish cock, thumb running over the sensitive head.

Haarlep didn't realise how frustrated they were. It's so easy to be fully hard, to become aching in their own palm, to find their fingers slightly sticky with precome that dribbles out of him. Their lips part with a languid sigh, spine arching off the bed, just a little. Their other hand toys with the rest of their body: they scrape their sharp claws across their stomach to leave raised welts, dig claws into their chest.

Every glance of pain is a thrill of pleasure for Haarlep, and they know that every scratch will be felt on him, too. Their palm moves faster, eyes fluttering open to take in the room, to look down at themselves, the tremble of their muscles as heat builds. The shape of their cock, a little bigger and thicker than Raphael's, built to be his fantasy.

They won't last long; it's been too much time by themselves, wound up and alone, untouched and uncared for. They can already feel the tightening, the build of pressure and heat, move their hand faster, their breath coming quickly. They gasp and it's for nobody but them: just the sound of their own pleasure, head tipping back, craving the end of it.

Their orgasm comes quickly enough to take them by surprise—all muscles clenching, come splattering their stomach, dripping over their fingers. Somewhere, Raphael will be mid-conversation, and feeling the same thing, even if diluted. The waves of it. The way Haarlep's whole body answers the feeling. How Haarlep's mind is a brief, blissful, empty fog, nothing but this moment.

Afer, they clean off their fingers lazily, cattish, lapping up their own come, wiping it off their fingers and popping them in their mouth. No shame, not alone, but there wouldn't be if anyone else was here, either: to not clean themselves up would just be a waste.

Haarlep kicks their underwear the rest of the way off, letting it fall to the floor, and rolls onto their front, pulling a pillow towards them, their wings spreading out and relaxing. Then: they hear the smoke-burst, smell his perfume.

They close their eyes.

Of course this brought him home, undoubtedly wanting, expectant. They're stuck somewhere between deeply amused and profoundly annoyed.

"You're too late," they say, as they feel Raphael's weight join them on the bed. They crack an eye open. He looks, mm, pissed, brow furrowed. Haarlep yawns, pointedly, and turns away, nestling into the sheets, flicking their fingers at him dismissively. "I'm already spent, master. You'll have to wait your turn."