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Sweetling,
Forgive the intrusion, but you were on my mind this morning –
Haarlep and I recently sat for a fetching portrait after you so kindly granted them unrestricted use of your form (an audacious and delicious choice, my dear!), and I thought you might like to be the first to lay eyes on the finished work.
Do let me know where you think it might hang best. I find myself unable to decide whether I'd rather gaze upon you from a hot, steaming bath or from between soft satin sheets.
Yours,
Raphael
Tav’s stomach sinks as she reads the note; its regal, elegant script a visual funeral dirge, tolling ominous bells in her mind. Raphael’s words are, as usual, utterly chock-full of both flowery bullshit and bold assertion. Dare she even unwrap the accompanying parcel, hand-delivered with care by the friendly bartender to her room at the Elfsong?
…The answer, of course, is yes. Curiosity might kill the cat; but – as the devil likes to remind her regularly – the two of them are fox and mouse, with no feline figure to be found. With equal parts trepidation and exasperation, she pulls the red taffeta bow with far too many frills (really, Raphael?) from the package, throwing it aside, and tears the brown parchment paper open without grace.
…Her mouth falls open.
She sees herself sitting on the edge of a polished wooden desk, chest pressed to Raphael’s in an embrace. He has one of her legs hiked up over his hip, his large hand gripping her thigh far too tightly and far too familiarly to feign any semblance of nonchalance; other arm gently wrapped around her back, holding her close. She has one hand resting lightly on his chest, the other draped artfully around his neck. Both of them look ahead coyly, but in different ways:
Raphael’s expression is smug. Possessive. She herself, meanwhile, has her head inclined just enough that her forehead kisses his cheek, and the expression on her – no, Haarlep’s, she mustn't forget that – face is sultry, and…content. Like she's a pretty little pet.
His pretty little pet.
They look like lovers.
Tav can hear her own heartbeat. It makes her brain throb. She rubs her eyes.
The artist’s brushwork is…immaculate. Their likenesses are recreated with obvious care and incredible detail. The curl of her hair around her ears, the tiny birthmark on her shoulder, the subtle outward curve of the bridge of Raphael’s nose – Oskar Fevras could never.
Tav feels uncomfortably hot, and has to look away for a moment.
She wonders which of the devil’s debtors he’d connived into an eternity of penance simply to maintain an artist in residence, and is beginning to think she's in for an eternity of penance herself simply by nature of her business relationship (or whatever it is, because clearly some lines are blurring) with the man.
Glancing back up at the artwork, she sighs. Gods, they're even wearing their usual clothing. Raphael is in his spiffy, poncey embroidered doublet, and she – ugh, again, Haarlep – is in her camp getup: leggings and a sleeveless top.
(Tav is about to wonder how on earth the devil knows exactly what she wears to lounge around in, considering he's only been to their camp maybe once, but then remembers how many times she's caught Korrilla sneaking around, taking careful notes. The two of them really ought to start prestidigitating their arrivals and departures a little more quietly.
She imagines her next silly little conversation with the dwarf:
Korrilla, she’d ask, are you aware of exactly what your master is doing with your reconnaissance logs?
Korrilla would say no, it’s none of my business, frankly.
She’d scoff and retort sharply, He’s ordering unnecessary, lavish paintings featuring a far more accurate depiction of me than he should require for any reason.
And Raphael’s warlock would shrug, the ghost of a smirk on her severe lips, and assure her – You ought to be flattered. He doesn’t do anything without a purpose.)
She supposes it shouldn't bother her so much that the two of them – the subjects of the portrait, she means – are clad in such everyday attire. Wouldn't it be worse if she were in some little slip of a dress, exposing an absurd amount of thigh? Perhaps stark naked, save for a gag and leash? Haarlep’s leather harness? Any of those seem more like Raphael's cup of tea.
But, she realizes, it’s the implication of familiarity that makes the hairs on her neck stand on end. The absolute gall of the devil to intentionally make his incubus look like her, the real Tav, rather than like an exaggerated, sexed up copy.
Nothing without a purpose, indeed.
Tav hates that she doesn't hate the look of it as much as she should. Hates that the pit in her stomach isn't entirely unpleasant. Hates that he's winning whatever round of their stupid game this is, making her think about them together.
Hates that she takes another look, and hates that her throat feels so damn dry.
The fucking balls on this guy is her thought as she sits down on the edge of the bed, palm to her forehead in exasperation. She can feel the warmth radiating from her cheeks.
And…an itch at her calf. She scratches at the fabric of her leggings, only to feel it again almost immediately following her moment of relief. More of a whisper rather than an itch, a soft caress –
Oh, no.
– a heat between her legs; the ghost of a touch dragging along her inner thigh –
Not now. Not with this gaudy monstrosity of a portrait in front of her.
– a phantom, barely-there flick against her nipples, hardening them to buds underneath her loose sleep tunic –
Maybe one day, Tav thinks, I’ll catch a break.
But not today, because Haarlep is wearing her body.
It’s not the first time, and it most certainly won't be the last. She is well aware of what she signed up for when she appeased the eager incubus during her second trip to the House of Hope, but it still startles her on each and every occasion. Most of the time the sensations are manageable to some extent, if she’s in a place where she can compartmentalize a bit; but tonight she's not otherwise occupied.
And tonight – she draws a quickened breath as a heated presence grazes the skin of her neck, causing gooseflesh to prickle along her arms – there's most certainly another person involved.
An incubus doesn't shy away from self-pleasure, by any means, and the one she shares a form with is no exception. They’re quite adept at it, too, for what it's worth, and maybe she's a little bit flattered that they choose to use her body for that at all. But there's a certain weight – a gravitas, perhaps – to her awareness of the experience sometimes that's difficult to explain. Even before it becomes obvious, she can tell if Haarlep is enjoying her body alone or with another.
But that’s unfortunately where her intuition ends. Tav assumes that the precision of the sensations is likely increased with proximity, so given how far she is from Avernus…she can feel pressure, presence, heat, even penetration, but not definition. Little to no distinction between fingers and a tongue on her clit. Can feel the other person there, but can’t feel the difference between their breath and their kiss on her skin.
It’s enough to drive her mad. Just enough to tease to climax but not enough to know. To experience.
She has no way of knowing whom Haarlep is fucking while in her form, either – she doesn't know who they fuck at all, actually, aside from Raphael himself, and that notion makes her shiver. Is it too bold of her to assume that the devil has enjoyed her body before? That he does so as regularly as she feels herself react? That he's doing so at this moment, knowing she's staring at this maddening depiction of them both, together in a pseudo-lovers’ embrace?
Based on this gift he’s left her, it doesn’t seem unlikely.
It feels – again – terribly intentional.
Tav knows it's coming, but the pang of arousal she feels still flips her stomach upside down.
He's probably watching her, or has Korrilla watching her. Probably planned and timed out this whole thing to trigger some ridiculous Pavlovian response in her, make her want him. Stupid, infuriating man.
…
He doesn't need to do that.
She hates to admit, even to herself, that she’d be thinking about him now either way. The artist certainly got Raphael’s message across – she can hardly look elsewhere.
She sighs in frustration and lies back on her bed. As if admitting a loss, she trails her fingers lightly over her belly and dips them underneath the stretchy band of her leggings, beneath her smalls – finally giving resigned, desperate chase to the phantom sensations toying with her resolve.
You win, Haarlep.
And it’s almost like the incubus (and company) know she’s given up at this point, because as soon as she spreads her legs and begins to tease herself with her fingertips, there’s another pressure there too. She doesn't know why she’s surprised. The touch is soft at first, like a gentle caress, melting into a subtle buzz. A fuzzy feeling, almost like the effects of pipeweed, starting between her legs and moving outward. Dulling some senses. Heightening others. It’s always like this, but rarely does she have time to lie back and enjoy it. Usually she has to grit her teeth and deal with the poor timing of it all, conjuring up repulsive, unsexy thoughts of ceremorphosis or Auntie Ethel in attempts to maintain composure.
But for now…Tav wishes she was there instead of here. Or they were here instead of there. Wants to feel this for real.
As she touches herself lightly, body going pleasantly warm, she reflects on her one-time tryst with Haarlep. Finds that she missed the human (or, at least, non-incubus) aspect of the experience – it had been utterly marvelous, minus the near-death part. Truly. The way they played, embraced, explored her so expertly in their master’s form was sublime; but she’d hardly been able to do anything more than lie beneath them and gasp. As if she were a blushing virgin again.
But, for better or for worse, it's not like she’d rule out returning for a second performance. She’s sure she could put on a better show this time around.
…Especially if that third person were present as well.
She’s plenty slick at this point. Yanks her smalls and leggings down to her knees for easier access. Doesn’t have a toy on hand at the moment, but her fingers will do, particularly if her form’s about to get fucked properly in the House of Hope. Flitting, buzzing sensations trace her opening alongside her own fingertips, and she wishes again for neither the first nor the last time that she could see, feel, know more.
A presence at her neck again. A breath, a kiss, a lick, a bite – impossible to tell. A tease, certainly. Causes a full-body shiver; a shaky little inhale.
And then the mystery partner –
No, that sounds stupid – she’ll just call the other person Raphael.
You know, for convenience.
– Raphael, then – slips what she thinks is two fingers (but it could be just one in his true form, gods) inside her doppelganger and she mirrors the action with her own hand. Finds herself delightfully relaxed and desperately wanting, already pulsing around the intrusion of both her own and the devil’s phantom digits.
If Tav closes her eyes she thinks she can almost feel wiry chest hair against the palm of her other hand. If Haarlep in her body responds the same as she does, they must be covered in gooseflesh, sweat starting to prick at their brow. Thinks (a little begrudgingly) the two of them must look lovely pressed against one another.
She hopes Raphael agrees. Wishes he’d tell her what he was really thinking. So hard to parse the flowery false accolades and compliments from honest truth. It angers her to think of him toying with her emotions, and further pisses her off that she lets him affect her so.
The sensations between her legs become rougher as her thoughts take a wrathful turn.
Doesn't know which of his forms she'd rather fuck. Both sound good. She could more effectively throttle him during the act in his human form, close her fingers around his windpipe as she sinks down onto his cock. Could shut him up, cut off his silly, threatening, insipid poetry with her fingers at his throat. But he's so much bigger as a cambion. Ridged; rough. Powerful.
Could hurt her better. Make her scream.
Yes, Haarlep says Raphael’s a poor bed partner – lazy, entitled, and unwilling to compromise. But she would be too if she got double the pleasure for no extra cost.
(To be clear: she’s not defending him; he’s a shit. Just stating facts.)
Perhaps Tav gives herself too much credit, but she just knows she could get something more out of him. Probably not with pretty words; she knows he has enough of those. More likely that biting quips and provoking demands would earn her the reactions she wants. And – oh, she wants. Wants to piss him off enough that he’d hold her down, firm hand in between her shoulder blades, disapproving frown on his lips, and drive his cock right into her –
She stifles a moan as she adds a third finger. Too much for her normally when she pleasures herself, but the way Raphael’s stretching her incubus look-alike nearly to the point of pain right now – fuck – she’s so pliant.
Maybe he's changed forms with his fingers buried in her. Grown in size, forcing her to take again what he's already given. Another ragged whine slips from her throat as she imagines the whites of his eyes darkening to black. Thinks about his wicked, indulgent grin; his smooth, low voice taunting her.
All the pet names he calls her, ever so affectionately and still more patronizingly.
She loathes his condescension. Abhors it.
Adores it.
Wonders what he most wants to do to her. Have her all to himself? Share her with Haarlep? If so – in her form or his? Watch her suck his incubus’s cock – a perfect copy of his own – as he buries himself in her from behind? Tav thinks he’d get a kick out of that, feeling like he has such control over her; but decides she’d like it most if she could see his face. Wants to watch Raphael lose himself, wants to look into his eyes as she ponders whether to kiss his lips or split them. Thinks that maybe she’d do both of those things, and can’t decide which one either of them would enjoy more.
She’s not sure if Haarlep would be quicker to take her side or their master’s. Would love to fuck them as the (perhaps restrained; certainly indignant) devil watches. Would also love to be held down and used by them both. Powerful; powerless; it doesn’t matter. She wants them, wants him.
Tav cries out, fumbling for a bed pillow to muffle her sounds as she feels a near-agonizing stretch between her legs. It can't be anything other than Raphael pressing into her body with his cock. Surely he's in cambion form now – no human could make her ache like this –
– All pretense of pretending her partner could be anyone else is now gone. She wants him; she wants his intentionality; she wants, she wants, she wants.
Infuriating.
She hates. She wants again. She feels him bottom out; knows what's happening by the painful, pleasurable jolt within her core.
Thankfully, he gives her a moment to adjust before he begins to move, and Tav’s mind fabricates a frighteningly enticing scene as she tries to relax once more: herself, lying on her back, her head in Haarlep’s lap as both they and the devil smirk down at her from above.
She feels a gentle pressure at her mouth; the subtle, barely-there taste of something saccharine on her tongue. A kiss. A soothing respite; a distraction from the overwhelming stretch of him. Can't tell how soft the gesture really is. Seems too sweet, too romantic for Raphael – she squeezes her eyes shut, shuddering as she imagines his mouth on Haarlep’s in her own form, then in his; and it's all tongues and teeth. Wonders if he’d kiss her differently. Thinks he might. Lets her mind linger on that image, breath coming in shorter, faster pants. Almost parts her lips, opens her mouth to let him in before she remembers he’s not here.
Frustration fills her once more as she realizes her jealousy –
– but then Raphael withdraws and thrusts once, and Tav gasps.
Intentional, she reminds herself, grinding the heel of her hand hard against her clit, gritting her teeth. Fucker.
He sets a slow pace at first, from what she can tell. She thinks it must be unusual for him, given how Haarlep let slip that he prefers to bottom. Given how incredibly self-indulgent he is. Imagines he must be so quick to lose himself in the pleasures of sex, in the chase of his own release.
And she knows she’s right, because she can feel him speed up after a few minutes. Feels a pressure on her hips, as if he’s holding her down for leverage with his clawed hands so he can slam into her. Likes that far more than she wants to admit, and she matches the powerful thrusts she feels with her fingers enthusiastically.
Another ghostly caress creeps up her torso to play at her breasts. She bites down on her lip hard. The presence at her hips is still firm, so this must be Haarlep teasing themself. It helps. She’ll have to see about sending them an edible arrangement later.
But Tav is once again reminded – as she quickens her movements, grinding wantonly against her hand, scissoring her fingers deep within her sopping cunt – that regardless of how vigorously the incubus is going at it, whether alone or with another, it’s as if a thin glass wall still separates her from the satisfaction of it all. Still can’t feel the nuanced touches she wants to. Nothing feels intimate enough. Tav struggles with this as she and Haarlep build side-by-side towards their climaxes; she feels like she’s underwater. Sluggish in her motions and responses. Can’t get a solid grasp on her pleasure. She makes a little noise of frustration –
– but then a hotter, rougher pressure on her clit replaces the cool, agile buzzing sensation she assumed to be Haarlep’s fingers helping them along, and a vivid picture comes to mind of Raphael sheathing himself fully inside of her, as deeply as he can, and finishing them together – she swears she can almost feel him pulse, hear him groan –
And Tav comes – not with a bang, but with a whimper – and it's unsatisfying because she knows it's Haarlep’s, not really her own.
She pulls her hand from her smalls, wiping it unceremoniously on the duvet, and brings the other one up to rest over her eyes. Sighs, slowly counts to twenty. Breathes in and out.
The phantom sensations are gone.
Tav feels empty. Lonely.
She sighs.
Hope everybody enjoyed themselves, she thinks tiredly as she sits up and –
Before she has time to re-situate herself fully, she hears the puff of hellish smoke behind her and smells the burning, sulphuric scent that heralds an arrival from the devil himself. Tav leaps from the bed and hastily yanks the flimsy material of her leggings back into place, heart beating quickly, breath ragged.
Should've known.
“Tav. Sweetness.”
From over her shoulder, Raphael's velvety-smooth voice pours over her like honey. It sends a pulse through her core, a flutter through her chest.
She silently wills her voice to remain steady as she turns to greet him, pasting an annoyed frown across her face.
“Raphael. Here to have another look at your incredibly gauche art project?”
He tuts in mock offense. “Are you not impressed, my dear? Such detail; such finesse. Each stroke a triumph in itself.”
Tav doesn’t miss the lewd emphasis Raphael applies to the word stroke; the soft “o” shape of his mouth; the languid, elongated vowel sound. The man is all double entendre. She rolls her eyes. Easier to loathe him when he’s right in front of her.
“And all for you, my most cherished client.”
He's certainly more composed than she is, and because of this, with mixed feelings of relief and irritation, she thinks for just a moment that perhaps he was not Haarlep’s voracious bedmate just now.
But then he takes her hand – the one three fingers deep in her own cunt but a few moments ago – in his own and bends slightly to plant a kiss upon it in a grand, gentlemanly fashion. His gaze never drops from hers, brow quirking upward as his mouth lingers, and she knows every part of this was, in fact, as intentional as she imagined.
She’s lost this round, and she curses herself again and again as she realizes just how little she wanted to win.
He straightens back up, still holding her small hand in his, and raises it to his nose.
Tav thinks she might pass out when he inhales, long and slow, and his eyes narrow knowingly, a smirk bleeding across his smug face.
Do not say a word, devil, she pleads silently, angrily; frustration and lust and hate and want a frothing, dangerous cocktail in her mind and body, threatening to bubble over and make a terrible, awful mess.
He straightens her fingers and places another closed-mouth kiss to her palm. Savors another slow breath at her fingertips, eyelids fluttering exaggeratedly before gently dropping her hand. She's stricken by how purposefully intimate it feels in the momentary silence – when he's not running his goddamn mouth.
…Which, of course, is fleeting.
“Just wanted to… come and pay you a visit, dearest. But for now I'll release you…and let you get back to whatever it was that you were entrenched in so deeply. Would hate to tie you up any further.”
It's not unusual for his words to her to be laden with innuendo, but this time she knows it's pointed and not at all hypothetical. He may as well put two fingers to his mouth in a V-shape and waggle his tongue suggestively between them.
Pervert.
Tav takes a deep breath before she says something fucking stupid. The man before her waits with a patient, patronizing smile.
“Piss off,” is what she finally comes up with, but her voice cracks just a little bit and she has to clear her throat.
“What’s that, love?”
He advances on her again, closer this time, hand to his ear as if he didn't hear her correctly.
“Piss off, Raphael.” She sounds stronger now, but knows the threat in her tone is still laughable to him.
“How crass, little mouse.” Raphael pouts at her, sticking his lower lip out just so. Tav wants to bite it and perhaps draw blood. “As you wish.”
He poofs away before she can finish telling him to wait, but appears again as soon as she does, as if patiently humoring her with his return. Makes her look desperate. She takes another deep breath instead of kicking him in the balls.
“Yes, my dear? Have your manners returned?” His smug smile is back, and her empty cunt throbs.
“Aren't you going to take this with you?” She points with what she hopes is obvious malice to the portrait that still sits propped against the wardrobe.
“Tav, love. It's as if you don't know me at all! I had two copies made – this one is all yours.”
He holds up a hand when she attempts to splutter a retort.
“No need to thank me. You are most welcome. Show it off to your little friends; I’m sure they’ll be equally delighted. Please do have me back to evaluate its placement, and we can discuss another work or two in the same vein. Something a bit more scandalous next time, I think.”
He winks, because of course he does, and Tav grits her teeth.
“And maybe…you'll deign to grace me with your participation. Not that Haarlep doesn't play the part well, but – I have to imagine there's simply no substitute for the honey-sweet cries of the real thing.”
She flushes bright red and opens her mouth for a smarmy, desperate verbal riposte, but he's already gone. Even the puff of smoke marking his exit feels goading.
…
Gods.
Semi-aroused and wholly unsatisfied, Tav lets herself fall back onto the bed, rolling over immediately to bury her face in the soft pillows.
What an absolute fucking disaster.
She’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.
The coy gazes of the two portrait subjects across the room burn into the back of her head, and she mutters a weak “fuck off” into the pillow to them both.
She has a mind to Banish the offending artwork, but stops instead – she doesn't know where it’ll end up, and can't chance it falling into the wrong hands (yeah, very convincing, Tav) – and ends up pushing it into a corner of the room, facing the wall.
She’ll get rid of it later.