Thus Spoke Machiavelli - tastypeaches (2024)

Table of Contents
Chapter 1: to know is an invitation except i live at the hosts house Chapter Text Chapter 2: wanting and deserving juxtaposed is the equivalent of jaywalking Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 3: alternate definitions for haste and synonyms for slowpokes Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 4: body heat in subzero is still not enough to save you when it's in kelvin Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 5: crossroads and forks can be something so intimate Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 6: fluency in intimacy but this is a new dialect Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 7: sometimes narcissism comes from neglect Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 8: pride is seldom understood unless you're on your knees Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 9: when i asked for outdoor seating i was under the impression it was nice out Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 10: tops are for tupperware and bottoms are for pants Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 11: sometimes it's best to keep your nose clean from family drama Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 12: two cream one sugar, but one of those creams is a euphemism Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 13: when offering someone an inch and they take a mile, be sure that it won't cause prolapse Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 14: i was pretty sure the phrase steaming hot bean juice meant coffee, not this Summary: Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 15: being fluent in multiple love languages is an artform and a im a freelancer Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 16: when i said i had been to prison this isn't what i meant Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 17: this one time i got locked out of my house and i had to sleep in the garage only to remember there was a door into my house in there Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 18: marriage counseling isn't exactly something devils do, but it helps if you do soul searching in the souls you steal to understand how to improve your relationship Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 19: sometimes boring missionary is the best way to spice up your relationship especially when it comes with the realization that you're facing down the end of the world Notes: Chapter Text Notes:

Chapter 1: to know is an invitation except i live at the hosts house

Chapter Text

Haarlep relaxes and slumps wearily on the lavish damask comforter, a drawn out sigh from his mouth as he buries his face into the plush pillows. His current partner pulls out, swiftly tucking himself away into his trousers with a firm squeeze to the incubus’s rear as he slides from the bed. He offers a warm chuckle as he retrieves the shirt he’d discarded to the floor and the doublet he’d hung on the corner of a wardrobe nearby. The demon turns his head to watch as this guest - a human of all people, a living one at that - redresses himself. He’s almost unremarkable; astonishingly lovely for a human, but rather mundane if he were anything else. Well built, modestly toned chest and abdomen, wispy, mid-length dusty blonde hair parted and brushed to one side with a delicate jaw and brow line and incredibly talented rosy lips. The man catches Haarlep staring as he buttons up his top, denying him any further feast for his eyes.

“Round three will have to wait, sweet thing,” he muses, running slim, albeit scarred, finger tips over the fiend’s cheek, lingering at the edge of his jaw. Haarlep adjusts his head in order for his lips to catch two of the fingers, scantly brushing his tongue over them, eagerly wishing to guide them and something more into the maw of his mouth. “My meeting is about to start and if all goes as planned there may be two of us with you later.”

“Don’t leave me waiting too long,” he purrs, allowing the fingers to be trailed away. The guest places his fingers into his mouth for Haarlep to watch, sucking off the saliva. He’s showing off. There’s nothing quite like having an infernal wrapped around your finger tips - or in this case, needily wanting to suck on them.

His name is Losson Wright, and he is there, at the House of Hope, with a purpose. He has signed a contract with Raphael, much to the dismay of his colleagues and companions. But he has bigger plans in mind. Sure, Orphic Hammer, free the githyanki in the Prism, maybe get him as an ally. That was all well and good. Hand over the Crown of Karsus to Raphael in order to uphold his end of the bargain. It worked well in theory - but there was still the chance that he would fail in gaining the aid of Orpheus. And what then? No, he needed something to sweeten the pot before he took such a gamble.

Getting his dick wet in the body double that was Raphael’s incubus was one thing. No preparation needed - the perks (pun quite intended) of getting off with a demon such as Haarlep usually involved getting right to the fun. It was a satisfying little time waster, using such an eager hole while he waited, but it was not quite enough. He’d had an itch he’d been wanting to scratch for a while now and each time it crept up, he heard Mephistopheles growl in his ear with horrified disgust: “Don’t you have taste?

If Mephistopheles was so jealous, he could come fuck Losson himself.

He takes a seat at one of the lush, velvet and leather upholstered benches near the entryway to the boudoir, backed by the babbling run of water pooling into the spacious bath behind him. Losson sits, one leg crossed over the other as a figure (who he’s now intimately familiar with) passes through the barrier. He remains in his human facade, scowl woven intricately across olivine flesh with a brow furrowed in displeasure. Losson had seen how that face - once the devilish features took over - would soften and contort into that of utter bliss and so he cannot find it within himself to be overly threatened by Raphael’s intimidating presence.

“You’ve got quite a lot of nerve coming here,” Raphael sneers, his figure looming over Losson with the intent to threaten and frighten. He does not flinch but he does take a moment to appreciate how he’s seated both eye and mouth level with the devil’s groin. He is daring, he considers it, but he lets the moment pass by without feeding the craving. “I was quite sure we had come to something of an agreement back at the Devil’s Den - yet here you are. Uninvited.”

Losson raises a hand, glancing away as he rests his other palm over his raised knee. “Just me, though.” He say, nonchalant, with a gesture to himself and then his surroundings. “Scour the room and the House as much as you like. I have come alone, and unarmed I’ll add. Not a blade upon me. I am at your mercy, Raphael.” He leans back on the bench, he deliberately does not mention the arsenal of spells at his disposal. The Devil studies him: his posture, the cool, calm, demeanor - the way the scent of Haarlep sticks to his skin in its own sulfuric perfume. He steps away, eyes formed into squinting lines as he paces through the boudoir, hand articulating now and then to detect the presence of anything unseen. With a click of his fingers, a cluster of imps appear, which he sends out to flurry through the abode for the presence of other intruders. He will find nothing. Losson Wright has indeed come alone.

He affords Raphael the search; he’s here to talk after all. He doesn’t need his companions here to judge his actions.

Close to half an hour passes - the building is thoroughly scoured. From hidden rooms to the prisons where a maddened dwarven woman rambles to herself about hope, the building is empty of additional intruders. Only Losson. Satisfied with the outcome, Raphael returns to the human guest, his hands applauding slowly in a wholly sarcastic manner. The scowl is still upon his lips and Losson’s own cannot help but quirk into a faint glimmer reflecting his own amusement. “Very well, Losson,” Raphael says. “You’ve done the impossible - you’ve broken into my House of Hope. And for what? To steal that contract from under my nose and wave it in the face of your Master, declaring that you’ve bested me? Where do you think that will get you?”

Losson nearly chokes, finding himself wanting to laugh as a quip comes to mind rather instantly. “If I were to do that, I’d hope it would land me in his bedroom.” He notes the abject horror on Raphael’s grimace before he waves his hand to dismiss the thought, as if utterly repulsed by the idea of Mephistopheles’ private life. “But that contract is precisely why I’m here, Raphael.” And with this he rises to his feet, arms outstretched once more to show how truly unequipped he was. “I am no fool, I’ve made deals with devils before, so I’m simply here to talk. About these terms. In your lair.”

The grimace begins to fade and Raphael steps back, allowing the human facade to melt away to reveal the carmine fleshed creature beneath. His wings flex, as if having been cramped up for some time and he cracks his neck from side to side as horns erupt from his forehead. Still, Raphael’s gaze has not left Losson, but he does understand that perhaps he might not be holding all the cards in this game at this moment. And so. . . Raphael offers Losson a grin, confident and with the intent of trouncing this human at this game. To remind him of just who it was he was dealing with and why no matter who you might be, it was always wisest to never try to dance with a devil. Especially not Raphael.

“Very well,” he says lowly with a flash of fanged teeth. “Let’s talk.

Raphael guides Losson out of the boudoir, leaving a highly disappointed Haarlep on the bed, denied another romp with this curious human. Raphael however, does not say a word as he enters the archive with the warlock (not his warlock, of course) in tow. He offers the faintest of nods to the archivist who bears so many similar features to the devil, albeit more youthful, more slender and lithe - but just enough resemblance that Losson wonders whether Raphael may have some affairs with him just the same. The devil leads Losson to a door which he opens without so much as lifting a finger, revealing a balcony with a pair of chairs overlooking the hazy chasm of Avernus.

The air hangs heavy with the stench of sulfur and being out there causes Losson to wish that he could rub his eyes clean of debris that does not exist. It is as if smoke was thick in the atmosphere but there is no flame (at least from so high above the Hell) as evidence. The air is warm, but not muggy - far drier than Losson would have ever guessed as he can feel the moisture being sapped from his skin. Raphael offers him one of two seats, separated by a small table with a platter of fruit and two goblets filled with wine. Losson takes the one on the left, relaxing into the fine upholstery as Raphael joins him.

“If I were a less gracious man with less on the line, I’d throw you from this balcony and see to it that you dangled from its edge for all eternity for your audacity.” He growls, taking the wine that seemingly had been placed there in anticipation for this encounter. Losson’s brow twitches in intrigue but he does not ask the question that is on his mind. “It takes gumption to enter the House of Hope uninvited, especially considering I can easily keep you here, so I will hear you out. Once.”

“Firstly,” He begins, holding up his index finger. “I don’t think Mephistopheles would appreciate you keeping me here - let’s not risk you upsetting the wrong devil in an attempt to teach me a lesson,” Were Losson the warlock of any other devil than the Cold Lord, he knew those words would be completely lost on Raphael, but he can use that to his advantage. He raises a second finger. “Secondly, you know as well as I that there is a non-zero chance that Orpheus kills me and my companions once he’s released, so I need something to,” he pauses, lips pursed before he ultimately lowers his fingers and plucks the other goblet of wine from the table, sipping it and making damn sure to let some of it dribble from the corners of his mouth. “Honey the heat.”

“I am ensuring you walk free once I have the Crown,” Raphael spits, the acidity of his words smacking between his tongue and the back of his teeth with a click. “I’ll spare your little ensemble and ensure that you all have quite comfortable lives from that moment on. Why,” he motions forth with his hand and summons the contract, a scroll neatly bound with a violet ribbon that unrolls in his grasp. “I even have it noted that I won’t even keep your souls if you die in your attempt; falling slave to an elder brain seems punishment enough.”

“You’re missing something crucial,” Losson says, licking away the trail of merlot at the corner of his mouth, hoping Raphael is watching. Hoping he sees how his tongue flicks. Hoping he knows how that tongue had stroked and slithered into his duplicate incubus’s ass. Losson lets himself wonder how close Raphael sounded by comparison. How he must taste. “You’re looking at all that comes after. All that comes whether I succeed or fail in obtaining the crown. Obtaining a weapon is convenient, yes, we’ll be able to make plenty of headway with it. But I need incentive, Raphael. Something to motivate me.”

“And here I thought the possibility of being flayed and on display hung from a meathook for all time was motivation enough.” Another sip of wine. “You’d have the makings of a fine devil if you learned how to pitch your offer a bit better. It’s almost a shame you’re human. Fragile. Malleable. I could snap your spine without even needing to draw a breath. Get to the point, Losson, or I will change the terms to something far less merciful.” Losson cannot hide or stifle the snicker he has been holding back - if only he knew. If only Raphael had even the slightest inkling of what the contract he’d formed with Mephistopheles entailed.

“Well that’s no fun, I like this banter,” he laments, the complaint causing him to let his shoulders sag in defeat. “Fine, if you wish for me to be more candid, Raphael, I will. I’m simply trying to be equally as cryptic.” The wine is set upon the table with a slight clatter of metal on marble and Losson rises to his feet. The devil studies him, watches as he stands, fingers tracing over the engraved wooden frame of the chair, moving the few feet toward the infernal. Losson is a confident man. Perhaps too confident in the way his legs take the short sweeping strides to Raphael’s seated form. “I will guarantee, even in the event that should I perish in the attempts, I will not let my soul rest, until that crown is resting where it belongs - on your very head - on a single condition. I want but one thing from you in addition to the Orphic Hammer. Just one thing.”

“And that is?”

And brazenly, Losson swings his legs on either side of Raphael’s lap. He hovers, not quite seating himself, but looming over him in very much the same way the devil had done so over him upon entering the House of Hope. He allows his hands to play, clutching Raphael’s resting left forearm with one, while plucking the glass of wine from the other to set it back down to the table. Losson grins, and for a split second he sees the disbelief in Raphael’s eyes. He knows what he’s thinking: “This little pissant is going to ask for me to lay with him, isn’t he? What a laugh. He will not be the first mortal to try to submit to me and he certainly won’t be the last.” But Losson can practically hear the surprise in Raphael’s eyes as he shares his answer.

Your submission, Raphael.” Losson gasps as he leans inward, seating himself on the devil’s lap with a soft thud. The act forces an astonished and appalled glassiness to sweep over him, followed by a chill that Losson had not felt since his one and only foray into Mephistar.

It is a move that he is quite sure will get him killed if Raphael does not react favorably. It is a risk that Losson is willing to take and it’s a risk that - to his delight - results with a hand cupping his ass, clawed fingertips poking through the fabric. A grin of smugness takes hold of Raphael’s features before he laughs - it is a booming, humorous and altogether unholy laugh that sends a ripple of genuine dread through Losson’s spine (and oh, Gods he likes that). His head rocks back in the chair, holding this human invader upon his lap. As a devil, he is difficult to read, even when he appears truly pleased. It’s this danger in trying Raphael in his own lair that Losson finds so thrilling. “And what makes you think that submission is something I am so willing to give? Particularly to someone like you?"

Perhaps it is that confidence of Losson’s that results in him daring to run his hand down his chest as the layers of his natural appearance begin to peel away. Slowly, in a blurry haze his attire begins to vanish as his hands drop to his lap, slowly but surely revealing a new form as he begins to mimic the form of Haarlep (still nestled in his bed of the boudoir) clad in the very same leather harness and undergarments. Pale red begins to spill over Losson’s flesh like paint upon a canvas as he lifts himself up, a pair of wings splaying out behind him as he nudges a leg between Raphael’s with little to no resistance, much to his surprise. “Because I don’t have to be me, Raphael. If that’s what you want.” he whispers as the disguise takes its magical hold. “I can be exactly what it is that you want most,” He wears a fang filled smirk on those scarlet lips. “Without the eternal desperation of an incubus’s cock controlling my thoughts.”

This affords him the opportunity to run a hand over the devil’s torso, fingers tracing in light but enchanting curving zig-zags over the intricate fabric. He notes the faint quirk of a smile on Raphael’s lips - although he is remaining silent and placid, he allows the display, allows Losson to project such a scene for him. A warm laugh rumbles from Raphael’s chest, giving Losson’s rear another firmly clawed squeeze, this one laced with the hint of offense. But nevertheless he does not deny Losson’s advance. “You are not the first mortal to throw themselves at me,” Raphael jeers, although he smiles just the same, eyes glowing intently with something close to ferocity but also…utter fascination. “Nor are you the first to decipher my preferences - why should I accept?”

Losson considers his options for a moment - he was quite sure that simply offering to take the same form as Raphael would be enough to convince him. He had assumed that his own desires associated with pleasing Raphael in the methods he liked best would have been a guarantee. But there was but one more card up his sleeve that he suspected might be just what was needed to make the archdevil quiver with a satisfaction that would make obtaining the Crown of Karsus seem like only a small token in the grand scheme of things.

“Because I am a warlock of Mephistopheles,” Losson reminds him, allowing the disguise to drop, reverting to something far more common and plain - the blond haired human, pleasantly seated upon Raphael’s lap. He’d done enough to pique the devil’s interest, and it did not take straddling his hips to tell him that. It was actually the way an undeniable tug of his lips into a thin line of contentment that gave Losson his answer. “And wouldn’t you just love to say that you took something from one of his own that he’ll never be able to claim for himself?”

“And just what might that be? Making his little warlock grovel at my feet?” Raphael scoffs, though still he appears to remain entertained. “Rendering you a teary-eyed whelp, begging to satisfy and pleasure me? Steal from him the chance to break your spirit and leave you spreading your legs and offering yourself like a cat in heat? Yes, I bet he’d love to see one of his devoted splay themselves so wantonly for someone other than him - he has quite the hatred of being seen as second best to anyone, after all.” Losson bites his lip - Raphael’s claws have pierced the flesh of his ass and he can feel the torn flesh spill blood onto his nails.

He can’t help himself - he grinds his hips. He wants a little more heat. Avernus is a furnace, but he would gladly bake himself alive if it meant getting to hear Raphael continue describing the possibilities. Losson prefers to be the dominant party with his partners, he would never deny that - it’s where he derives the most pleasure. Drawing out sounds in ways that he knows only he can. Rendering someone so spiritually and bodily spent they can only look at him with adoration. He only has the facade of control; being the one to so thoroughly unravel someone gives him a rush few other things can. But in this moment, hanging upon Raphael’s every word, every description - He feels that tingle of wanting to submit to another. But it is brief. Perhaps it was due to the very scenario he had orchestrated in his head. A fictional scene where he could present himself to his own patron in the very ways Raphael described that rippled up his spine. He would dwell on this idea later but he was far more focused on the owner of the lap on which he was seated.

“There’s only one little problem with that plan, Mephistite.” Raphael continues. The insult riles Losson up - he’s only been called that twice. Once by Karlach who he quickly reacted to the term by asking to sleep with her (she agreed, and he has the burns to show for it). The second was Mizora who said it with such a biting hiss to her words that resulted in such tension that the two of them wound up entangled within moments (leaving him with a matching set of scars to the ones that Karlach had left). “I’m not that sort of devil.

And Losson grins. It is the toothiest grin he can muster because he knows. He knows that Raphael does not care for warlocks prostrating themselves before him. He doesn’t care for pleasures of that regard. Raphael does not care to bend over his lovers and use them as nothing but holes for his immediate satisfaction. He didn’t need Haarlep to tell him this either. Because Losson knows this sort. Knows this type of man. He’s had many a gentleman like this in his bedroom. Powerful beyond belief. Charming, cunning and manipulative. Capable of making anyone bend to his whims. Could use anyone who cared to offer their body for his own wants, if he so chose. But no, Losson knew. He had chosen his words carefully when he had made his offer.

“I know,” Losson assures him, opting to show off that undeserved confidence again by unfastening the closure of Raphael’s collar. “You long to be the one on display, the one being used, the one toyed with and tormented and teased and tongued and,” And this is how he knows he’s on the right path. A fiendish hand resting against Losson’s wrist, guides him to the next closure.

An invitation.

“Shall I go on?” Raphael hesitates in his response, but the faintest glimpse of his tongue running over his teeth catches Losson’s eye. “-And arms bound, legs spread, your chest against the mattress while I show you what it means to be bested.” He feels the grin upon his face widen with each phrase, sliding further on to Raphael’s lap so that his hips rest against the devil’s abdomen. “And not only bested, but defeated - offered up as a prize to not only the champion who has usurped you, but the human who has done just that. The human who has put the mighty, powerful archdevil Raphael in his place. Beneath him - beneath everyone who he ever dared rise up against. A trophy. A trophy for me to use as I see fit, to mark and marr as my own. To fill and fuck to my heart’s content until his lust for me rivals that of the whore of an incubus he keeps in his bed.”

He falls silent. He watches Raphael’s gaze. Transfixed, studying Losson - watching how his lips had moved to enunciate every word. Every syllable. And he’s hooked on him. Much like Losson’s finger has hooked through the next closure of Raphael’s clothes in an attempt to begin undressing him.

And then he speaks a command. Sharp. Biting. Callous. Furious.

Aroused.

Off.

Losson complies and slips from the devil’s lap, arms raised in what will either be defeat or in victory - he will know in a moment. He glances over the devil as he rises to his feet - he notes all the hints of a man flustered. A few beads of sweat at the hairline. Cheeks a shade of burgundy deeper than the merlot abandoned in the glasses. A few stray locks of hair loosened from a carefully coiffed style. A clenched fist at his side. That’s all but stating the obvious between the man’s legs. Raphael’s lips are curled into a snarl but his wings twitch with an involuntary shiver. Losson considers a moment, trying to use the wriggling worm in his skull to force Raphael’s compliance, but he opts against it. He is a man of cunning and he knows he’s just one well placed line away from Raphael begging for Losson to fuck him.

And it comes to him.

“Who do you think you are to order me around like that?” he chuckles, eyes narrowing. “If I wanted to be bossed around by a worthy devil, I’d simply bottom for your father.”

Oh, he knows. He knows. And he sees that arousal mixed with fury and utter disdain coupled with the faintest bit of impression. He nailed it. Just like he was about to nail Raphael. Playing on that obsessive insecurity about needing to surpass those above him, those who could easily break him as he could break mortals. Losson has an opening, so he steps toward Raphael, unhooking the next closure. “I’ll see you in the boudoir.” he sighs, leaning into breathe into the devil’s ear. His breath is cold - chilled, intentionally - a reminder of the ties he has to the frigid metropolis of Mephistar.

Raphael inhales - it’s a slow, desperate and agonizing breath as if the dry air of Avernus burned his lungs. It’s nearly that of a wheeze as he reaches to his throat, seeming to be loosening the inner layers of clothing in anticipation. “Get your slimy human tail in there before force feed you your own entrails.

This would be the last order from Raphael that Losson would oblige.

Chapter 2: wanting and deserving juxtaposed is the equivalent of jaywalking

Notes:

do you think haarlep ever had his own appearance independent of raph
what do you think he looked like

i've added some tags. May tag this with Raphael Shaming for real.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“I’d ask you what in the Hells you did in there, but from the looks of it, you somehow got the better of Raphael, didn’t you?” Korilla is waiting for Losson as he steps out from the Archives into the hallway which remained riddled with eternally damned debtors. He runs a thumb over his lip with a well-deserved chuckle as he offers the dwarf a look reminiscent of a devious child knowing he’s done something to alarm his mother.

“Oh come on,” he says warmly as he pats a hand to her shoulder. “I’ve been able to smell the desperation on him since we first met - literally and figuratively. That fragrance he wears? It practically screams submissive. Coupled with that ego and his narcissism? It’s undeniable.” He begins to weave his way around Korilla to return to the boudoir where he would unfortunately have to tell Haarlep that he would have to wait his turn, as he anticipated Raphael shortly. She however, steps in his way, an arm outstretched to halt him in his path.

“You know he’s not actually going to be into you beyond your dick, right?” she informs Losson of this in the same way a best friend might be looking out for their better half. “You said it yourself - the man’s a narcissist, no matter how flattering he is, you’re not his first choice. He’d much rather look at his own face going down on him, but you just tweaked the right buttons, so enjoy it while you can.”

“I don’t need him to be into me anymore than that. I’m not-” And he pauses cutting himself off as he holds his hand to his forehead, leaning back as laughter takes hold of him. Oh. Oh goodness, Korilla - did she really? Did she think that he -? That Losson was actually -? “Oh no, no no no, Korilla, don’t misunderstand me. If you think that I’m harboring some profound, deep, romantic attraction to him, please think again.” His laughter starts to adjust, turning into something akin to a cackle, which he finds (thankfully) that she’s joined in on. “Hardly - believe me there is nothing about Raphael that has my heart racing in a flutter and my mind distracted with fantasies of riding into a sunset in a white horse drawn carriage. Perish the thought.”

“Now that’s quite the image,” she says between her giggles. “Don’t think I’ll ever want to witness that side of Raphael, if it exists at all. I’d have thought he’d have gotten a tadpole of his own in that skull of his.” Korilla eventually steps aside, her footsteps soft on the wooden tiled surface of the floor. “What did you get out of him anyways?”

“A stiff poke in the thigh and three buttons opened.”

Korilla nearly chokes on her own spittle, quickly needing to compose herself as she walks in the direction of the boudoir with him. Losson figures he might be able to start preparing himself for what he is quite sure is going to be an incredible evening. At least he thinks it is evening considering he’s been here a few hours and he’d entered from Devil’s Fee sometime in the early afternoon. “You are a brave, and very stupid man.” She comments. “I think you’d be better off trying to coerce Haarlep to pick you as a lover over him if you’re looking for a good time, but I’m not here to judge.”

“Really? The incubus over an archdevil?” Losson stops in his tracks after ascending one of the landings, his foot still resting on the previous step. The comment is mostly sarcastic but he laughs nevertheless but he notes how Korilla’s expression does not change or return to that of amusement. If anything, it sours, offering him a look of. . .was that pity? His gaze narrows faintly and he looks back to the barrier of the boudoir and then back at her. “No, be honest with me - is he, you know -” Losson lowers his voice, a streak of embarrassment clear upon his face as he finds the expression offered to him one of utter empathy.

“He’s terrible,” she mutters, frowning as she nibbles her lower lip, walking in step with him. “Not that I know from experience, and not that I’d ever tell him, but, anyone I’ve heard of that has earned his favor enough to sleep with him? Never a good time.” She shrugs, reaching out to pat Losson’s forearm apologetically. “If you want to say you fucked a devil and lived, sure, it’s worth it. But if you’re looking for something mind blowing? You’re better off laying with a mind flayer.”

Oh. Well. He wouldn’t comment on that last part.

“Luckily for me, I’ve slept with one devil and lived, so I’ll be doing better than most - I’ll at least have an idea of what a good fuck from a devil is compared to a bad one.” Losson smiles, trying to be ever the optimist, closes out the thought with a shrug, pushing some of the stray blond hair from in front of his eyes, tucking them behind his ear. “He strikes me as being into humiliation - maybe I can use that to my advantage.”

“Your funeral.”

“If he wants to kill me for kink, then that’s a him problem. No Crown of Karsus for him, and my soul goes right to his father who has plenty of work lined up for me. I may even receive a hero’s welcome if he finds out I’ve bullied his son to death. My death, of course.”

“You really made a deal with Mephistopheles, huh?”

A smile. “Graz’zt said I was still too inexperienced for his liking and told me to come back when I learn some more tricks with my tongue, so I went for the next best option with less of a wait list.” Korilla chokes again on another laugh. Losson likes her - she shares a similar brand of humor to him and she knows how to take a joke. “Besides, he saved my life, multiple times over. Would you believe I asked him to be his warlock instead of him offering something of his own volition?”

“You really are stupid!”

“What can I say - self-preservation is for the smart and the lonely. I am neither. And if Raphael turns out to be the worst fuck of my life, so be it. I can at least say I did my best and no one can tell me otherwise.” Korilla offers him pursed lips and a doubtful stare, but she waves off her disbelief as they both come to a stop before the boudoir’s barrier.

“I think you must be incredibly lonely if you’re coming for Raphael,” she says. “I will follow this man through the Hells, but I’m sure you’ve had better and I can guarantee you will never have worse.” The dwarven woman gives Losson a once over, a softness to her expression. “You’d get better head from a lemure.”

“Oh? Is that an option?” Wintery blue eyes light up and his attention seems instantly piqued at the suggestion which from gauging Korilla’s smile - she sees it’s just another joke. “Relax, I’ve turned some awful fucks into a great time. Even if the sex is awful, the experience won’t be. I’ll tell you all about it in my memoir.”

He wouldn’t say he was surprised to find this information out - with the way Haarlep so very desperately clung to him when he approached the bed again. Raphael hadn’t come to join him yet, so he had to bide his time somehow. And with Haarlep so willingly suggesting round three, he couldn’t possibly say no. But yet, Losson could tell there was something akin to neglect at play. Even for an incubus he was touch starved, his own needs likely often ignored in Raphael’s own haphazard attempts at getting off, requiring the incubus to play the dominant role between them. Losson’s fingers spread wide in Haarlep, stretching him open for him to have a go at. The demon sighs, head rocking back, his teeth sinking into his lip to silence himself. He doesn’t need to be prepped, but fingering and fisting has always been one of Losson’s favorite parts.

His mouth leaves wet splotches over Haarlep’s throat whilst the arms over his shoulder run their hands against Losson’s back. His claws scrape against the bare, exposed flesh in a plea to encourage his curious human to take the next steps. Losson’s fingers fold inward and his hand guides slowly in and out of the fiend’s ass, slipping smoothly inwards and drawing an elated gasp out as he pulls Haarlep onto his lap.

“Will you please~” he sighs, his hips rocking upwards to flash the ridged length of his cock for Losson to admire. He will, not to worry - his fist slips free after a few loving strokes inside the demon, hand slick and damp which he shakes out and smears on the duvet. He clutches at Haarlep’s hips, holding his cock in his hand firmly to guide himself into the gaping entryway he’d prepared. The demon’s body arches forward upon entry and Losson holds him at the small of his back, steadying him before he slumps into the pile of pillows, resting his back against the headboard.

“Well is this not a lovely sight to see -” Losson purrs, lounging comfortably against the cushions. He turns his gaze to study the monstrous crests of flesh and bone of the demon’s chest. And oh how they move when Haarlep inhales, slowly, intently - holding it in his chest - and then exhales as he rises and falls on Losson’s cock. He’s so much taller than Losson, and he looks even more so while riding on him, arms wrapped around his neck. “Right where I want you, love.” He lowers a hand to rest between the incubus’s legs, his hand stroking the swollen length of his cock gently, fingers brushing the underside up toward its head. Haarlep shudders with another rise-and-fall of his hips, pushing his weight toward Losson as if begging to be held from such a simple touch. A intimacy-starved incubus. It was almost an oxymoron. Perhaps Korilla was right. Perhaps Raphael really was atrocious in the bedroom.

Not to worry, Losson was good at fixing that in people. A devil should be no different.

Again!” Haarlep cries out as Losson’s hand stops moving, a whine heavy in his throat as he mutters the word repeatedly, urging another stroke. He obliges, slowly, but he stops before touching the cockhead, dangerously close to pulling his hand away altogether.

“Say please, Haarlep.”

Haarlep’s head droops down, eyeing Losson lazily, his eyelids heavy and lips pouty, his tongue lightly tonguing the lower of them. “Please*” he whimpers, placing his hands to Losson’s chest, a pained, needy little noises emitting from his throat. Losson grins - his own lush laziness taking hold.

“Please what?” He asks, slowly drawing his hand away, causing the whine to grow louder.

“Please - please, pleasepleaseplease continue stroking my cock - please keep your hands upon me. Please, won’t you please close your palm around me so I can fuck your fist juuust as hard as you’re fucking me~?” His voice sings out in such a shameless, nearly giddy string of words that Losson cannot help but satisfy - between Haarlep’s own motions, Losson fucks into him deeper still, jolting him upright into a thrust. His hand closes around his cock, tightly squeezing enough in his stroke so that Haarlep can truly fuck his fist if he so wishes.

“Very good,” Losson purrs, watching how the incubus’s entire body shudders, exhibiting something of a convulsion in response to the well timed thrust of his cock and the hand beginning to jerk him off. “Poor thing,” he continues, his hand and hips beginning to find their own rhythms, alternating with one another. “Always in bed but never truly satisfied, hm?”

“I will be,” He gasps with another roll of his hips, staring down at Losson with a hazy, lustful flicker of adoration in his eyes.. “If you continue to offer your body to me like this.”

It’s almost heartwarming. This poor creature was clearly one that thrived on sexual submission, was so often used for Raphael’s whims, that he rarely got to indulge in what made him happiest. What fed his desires. What his very nature demanded. And a human of all creatures was pleasuring him in ways that brought him the most satisfaction he’d seen in gods knew who long. Losson shifts in his position. Haarlep whimpers as the cock within him adjusts in tandem, but now he is offered the chance to lean against the man who was pleasuring him so. He takes advantage of the opening and presses his chest to Losson’s, allowing himself to melt into the arms of the man whose cock was rubbing in such smooth, languid strokes against his prostate.

“More,” he gasps into the ear of the human. “Please, I beg of you - use me as you wish. Give me your body, your heart, your flesh, your seed -” He looks nearly pained as he brings his face close to Losson’s. It’s pitiable. How he continuously crushes his weight into his lap, nearly milking his cock for any dribble of cum he can offer. But Losson offers more - he shouldn’t be the only one gaining more for this new arrangement with Raphael. He catches Haarlep’s lips with his own amidst his appeals for pleasure. He had not kissed him earlier - he doesn’t like kissing, it feels far too personal - but this poor creature deserved it. He was so well behaved, and so easy to fuck (as was his nature), and Losson couldn’t help but offer him a little tenderness. Kisses were reserved for those who deserved.

Haarlep expresses his gratitude by filling Losson’s mouth with his tongue.

Round three ends not long after and results in Haarlep cozying up at Losson’s side, arms wrapped over his stomach. He dozes pleasantly, a spent and contented incubus at Losson’s side, seemingly mind shattered properly in the first time in ages. A pleased little smile adorns his lips, the sight of a job well done to in his estimation. Losson’s arm is neatly tucked around the demon’s shoulders in wait for the head of the household to come greet him.

He supposes he’s now been left in wait for another half an hour or so since his little escapade had ended. Haarlep stirs at his side a few times, likely just snoozing off the post-fuck afterglow for a spell before he’ll be ready to go again. Losson debates asking if he could change to a woman sometime later so he can go down on her, it could be another equally exciting adventure should Raphael keep him waiting. Whilst imagining the squeals of an succubus having her cunt eaten, his attention is drawn away - the man of the hour.

Raphael approaches the bed where Losson rests comfortably with the demon cuddled up into his side, a look of positive bliss laced throughout his features. His eyes dart from the fiend to Losson and his smug demeanor for a moment before he says quite plainly, “You’ve broken my incubus.”

“I did!” He makes a proud declaration, extending an arm upward as if toasting to his victory. “And I can break you too.” A grin. A scowl. Another notch on the board for Losson’s upper hand.

Raphael paces around the edge of the bed, his eyes study Losson curiously. The way he lounges so carelessly. The way his arms wrap around his personal incubus as if he were his own lover. The very presence that exudes self-importance, of which Raphael was so keen on emitting himself. But something about Losson is almost infuriating and it’s quite easy to pinpoint precisely why - it is because he is human. For as easy and trusting humans could be when caught in a bind, they were just as easy to become self-obsessed egomaniacs when left unchecked. Losson was evidence of it.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Raphael announces, waving his hand at Losson to try and shoo him from the bed. “I reject your terms. You’ve received the Orphic Hammer and my guarantee of your entourage’s protection once I have the Crown. There is nothing else I am willing to include in our exchange.” Losson feels his heart tug in disappointment while he sits upright on the bed. Haarlep shifts, but it is not enough to wake him quite yet. Getting a read on Raphael here proved far more difficult, perhaps he’d done something to make studying him more challenging - ah. Yeah. That’s it. Losson clocks a ring upon Raphael’s finger. A Ring of Mind Shielding, a common trinket of rogues and bards alike and apparently…Archdevils who did not want to admit that a human had gotten him worked up.

“Your open collar says otherwise.” Losson argues, eyeing the ring. He crosses his index and ring finger in each direction before his hand relaxes and he feels the transparent additional hand manifest near him. Mentally he reaches his grasp into this invisible and incorporeal hand, guiding it forward toward the devil. “Besides,” He feels the heat of Raphael’s flesh mentally though the mage hand closing in on the devil’s finger. He just needed to drop the right words. The right one-liner to distract him long enough to slip that ring off and gain the upper hand once more. “Don’t you want to prove Korilla wrong?”

There it was.

“What in the Hells are you getting at?” He hisses, taking a step toward the bed - Losson uses the hand to pinch the ring quickly in the moment of gradually boiling rage. “Are you truly mad enough that you would try to coerce a devil -” Losson does not listen to the words coming out of his mouth, far more focused on sliding that ring from his grubby finger - managing to do just that after a matter of moments and unflattering words. “- To think that you truly are this audacious. If I was not in need of your services, I’d disembowel you where you lay.”

“And disturb Haarlep?” Losson pouts, as if truly offended that Raphael would go out of his way to trouble the needy fiend snoozing in his arms. He brings the hand back over to himself and drops the ring into his hands. “Raphael.” He says, rolling the ring between his fingers, tone wearing a heavy weight of disappointment. “Am I that much of a threat to you that you have to use Mind Shielding to keep me from reading your true desires and feelings towards me? Your body language says it all, you know.” As if performing stage magic, Losson fidgets with the trinket twisting it within his finger before allowing it to vanish. “I know I’m asking a lot of a devil, wanting your honesty - and we both know that I wasn’t feeling a fifth horn prodding into my thigh.”

Fury is a look that Losson thinks is quite attractive on Raphael’s face: it shows that he’s not all talk. Not all charm. Not all cunning and clever word play or mind games. It shows that there is an anger to him - it shows that he truly is a devil capable of many a great or horrific deed. It is proof that even devils of the most powerful variety were fallible. That devils too could be shaken and have their own masks stripped from their facades. Raphael’s flesh seems to flicker with heat radiating from him - Losson can taste it. He wants to feel how it can scald his flesh. “You are a vile cretin,” comes his next words. Yet, his voice is soft; a wildly potent contrast between the anger radiating from him. “You continue to test my patience and you have overstayed your welcome. You come into my home, and brazenly declare that you wish for me to kneel before you. “ His upper lip quirks into another scowl. “As if you have any power over me.”

“Because I do,” Losson counters quickly, swiftly and carefully slinking away from Haarlep as to not disturb him. He is on his feet quickly - bare heels tapping along the cool floor’s surface so that he can invade the devil’s personal space. “How many times do I have to remind you who my patron is, Raphael? He has told me many things about you. The good, bad, filthy and shameful; the kind of details that people don’t talk about, even behind closed doors. And he is not the only one who talks - your bravado speaks volumes, and I just happen to know how to decipher that language.”

“Are you threatening me.” Raphael bellows, an arm outstretched as if preparing to strike the warlock in the throat. To spill the blood belonging to another devil. To steal one of those souls for himself. To take a soul that was rightfully claimed by his father - one that he will never, ever gain for his own use, no matter what his contracts say. Yet, Losson remains composed, standing in the very space those taloned fingers could reach. Perhaps it is because he knows that even if Raphael were to strike him down, the terms of his contract would never quite put an end to their interactions. In a way . . . Losson is untouchable. And still, Raphael’s words are not a question, they are said as if they were a statement. His body is hunched, shoulders raised firmly, joints angled and predatory, poised as if prepared to lunge and dissect the human where he stands.

“Not at all,” Losson says again, facing the danger head on as he closes his hand around the wrist before him. “Rather, I’m trying to seduce you - it was working before, wasn’t it?”

As Losson speaks, there is a second, only a second where Raphael thrashes at the contact, but he grows tame. Quickly. A voice whispers in Losson’s ear - sharp, cold, but laced with intrigue. His eyes close to dwell on it. He knows the voice - Mephistopheles has been scrying on him, the bastard. Of course he was, anything he could do to watch his son squirm, even if it meant crossing boundaries into the taboo.

Since you’re so intent on sleeping with him, try a little tenderness. The lad was always desperate for a soft touch. We should talk later.”

He had not expected actual endorsement from his patron in his efforts, but endorsement was endorsement all the same. Even though he could recall how Mephistopheles had expressed disgust at Losson’s curious arousal at the idea of sleeping with Raphael, he seemed fascinated nevertheless. Losson issues a response within his thoughts, simply saying “Keep your eyes off, you filthy voyeur,” closing it out with a laugh. He does not need twenty-five words to get his point across.

He had his heading - if tenderness would work, then tenderness it was.

Losson presses his lips to the far thinner flesh of Raphael’s inner wrist. He knows how chilly his lips can be since his pact was formed, so he kisses gingerly - one, two, three light ones before he opens his mouth, dampening the flesh, tasting the clammy residue of sweat clinging the devil’s skin. Raphael’s vein’s throb lightly beneath his lips; Losson thinks of Astarion and how he might be tempted to sink his teeth into the man just to know the taste and the heat of infernal blood at its purest. He pretends for a moment that he might be a spawn himself and nips at Raphael’s flesh - and there it is. That gasp. That little crack in the devil’s voice as Losson gazes toward him to see the man’s attention divert away, as if focusing on Haarlep’s form, still cozily nestled on the bed.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Raphael tries to bark back at Losson, but there is a stammer to his words.

“I don’t think I have ever met someone with so much stress,” Losson says, mouth still bravely enduring the salt and sulfur of Raphael’s arm. “I’m not threatening you, Raphael. I’m offering -” He feels the muscles of his arm lose their tension and his arm flexes as Losson forces the arm to bend in his walk toward him. His mouth finds Raphael’s hand where he grazes his teeth over the knuckle of his thumb, holding him still so his palm is near his mouth, practically nuzzling his face into it. “To take some of that stress away. You were rather keen to the idea a little while ago. Talk to me - tell me what I can do.” He allows his eyes to meet Raphael’s which still are awash with darkness, disbelief and above all frustration. But Losson once more, notes the deep flush of burgundy on the devil’s cheeks. He lowers his arm but his position, now against the man’s chest remains firmly planted. He rests his hands on his sternum, fingers twirling around the open fasteners of his gambeson. “If you truly want me to take off from here, leave and never mention it again, very well. I understand. I’ll respect that. I’ll redress you and no one will ever hear of it. We can pretend it never happened.” His hand drops to the next closure, still holding the garment tight across his figure. “Or, if the idea of having a good fuck for a change interests you enough, I’ll gladly finish stripping you and I’ll be happy to offer you some relief.”

Losson hears the faint chuckle of Mephistopheles in his mind before the connection between them goes dark. Good, Losson was quite open with him but the only voyeurs he had agreed to were Haarlep and the Debtor creeping outside the entrance.

For a split second, or perhaps for a century or more - it was hard to tell how long it truly lasted - the hardened features of Raphael’s face melt away. He likes what he sees. A devil lacking what made him devilish. For that miniscule moment, he sees Raphael as…a different person. A fiendish child with large shoes to fill and an inability to do that. The fury begins to drain from his eyes, and he remains still, his focus dropping in a flash to Losson’s hands upon his chest. Those same eyes close, his lungs expanding into a deep, inwardly breath: a slow, haggard and perhaps disdainful one, his shoulders rising and falling. A far different type of up-and-down compared to Haarlep on his hips but an hour or so prior. And with that heaving of a breath, his hand presses to the back of Losson’s, guiding it to the next closure.

“You may continue,” he admits, voice low and ultimately defeated.

When his eyes open again, they are not what Losson expects - there is a glassiness to them, heavy with disappointment. Insecurity. It is not the ferocity of a devil who has lost a gambit, it is the forlorn dismay of someone accepting a fact they harbored denial for. For Raphael, the consent is not only permission for Losson to proceed - it is a confession.

It is quickly replaced with the familiar visage of a devil who knows only power and control, his grip at Losson’s hand tightening. His talons scrape, peeling dead skin cells from his flesh, digging so that once released, indents would remain in Losson’s hand for the next few hours. “Should I change my mind, you will cease immediately or I’ll have Yurgir vivisect you before your mother's eyes.”

That’s the Raphael he knows. Losson offers a confident flash of a smile, his fingers looping about the closure, popping it open.. This time, however, Losson does not linger at the next clasp. Instead, he grips the fabric and tugs the devil toward him and makes the move he’s had on his mind for hours now. He silences Raphael before he can get another word out. He steals a kiss, snatching the lower with his teeth in a rough tug. He has a mouth that tastes of fire and fine liquor - the biting tang of a whiskey on his tongue coupled with the natural heat of a fiend. Losson dislikes kissing - they are only given to those who he thinks deserve them. And perhaps, he supposes, if Raphael deserved a little tenderness, Losson could deliver. In his own way, of course.

He denies Raphael the chance to react before he yanks himself back his face full of a toothy grin. “You’re the one calling the shots, dear,” he says. “May your mind be free to change on a whim.”

He notes how Raphael starts to lean in, trying to return the very mouthy kiss that Losson had stolen, but he is stopped in his tracks as his collar is snatched, firmly held within his grasp.

The human’s gaze immediately changes, hardening with the narrowing of clear, periwinkle eyes. His brows knit together in a firm, glowering form, furrowing at the bridge of his nose. His overly confident grin falls to that of a heavily lined frown. Any softness that Losson previously wore on his sleeve was now replaced by that of steel and iron, casting doubt on the man that had been standing there only seconds before. His posture straightens and a strength comes to him with the flexing of his fingers. He jerks his neck back, gesturing to the bed, and he responds with an icy, bite to his words.

“Now get on the bed. I’m not asking. Move.”

Perhaps tenderness might be what it took to force Raphael to lower his defenses. But it would be the sting of authority that would get him to lower his trousers.

Notes:

happy 666 hits y'all :)

Chapter 3: alternate definitions for haste and synonyms for slowpokes

Notes:

hi i was at a convention on the opposite side of the country this weekend and i have covid now so sorry this may not be as finely edited as previous chapters. i've been Sick(tm)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It is beyond obvious within moments that Raphael is….not great. It comes in the form of him standing before the bed, gesturing to the snoozing Haarlep still curled up amidst the pillows, tail twitching in his sleep. Losson’s expression remains dark, already allowing himself to slip into the mindset required to truly appreciate Raphael’s submission. He follows the archdevil to the edge of the mattress, eyes passing between the two figures.

“You’ve granted a debtor of yours permission to watch you fuck for eternity - what’s one more set of eyes?” He steps toward Raphael - he is small next to the devil, nearly a foot shorter against the fiend’s full height. The first glimmer of this other side to Raphael leaks through to the surface here - Losson notes it. Raphael doesn’t want to be watched. Not this time. He has offered Losson this side of himself, and he will be damned (heh) if he won’t show this devil that he is going to respect that. “Right,” He nods, approaching Haarlep who he gently shakes the shoulder of.

“Again?” the incubus asks with a yawn, stretching out very much like a cat, disturbed from its sunbathing and napping in a stream of light across a floorboard. There is a sly, pleasant little tug at his mouth, stretching over his cheeks. Losson offers a polite smile, combing through the fiend’s hair, stroking at the base of his horns - he notes how Haarlep’s eyes flutter shut and he stifles a whimper.

“I’m sorry, sweet thing -” Losson gestures his neck over toward the figure of Raphael standing anxiously at the other side of the bed. “But he wants some privacy, do you think you can give us some?” Haarlep’s tail thumps against the bed like a displeased animal, a slight pout apparent as he rests his chin on his arms, folded before him. “Will you let me make it up to you later?”

His expression perks up, and he sits up on the bed, stretching further, his wings spasming his his muscles loosen back up. “I think I could agree to that,” he says, sliding to the edge of the bed to dare steal a morsel of physical attention from Losson by wrapping his arms around his shoulders, legs on either side of him, stealing a playful kiss from the warlock. “I’ll come find you. I promise.” There is a crackling of heat and smoke, and Haarlep is gone - and Losson is quite sure he’ll find him waiting at Elfsong later and he’s going to have to explain why a demon was waiting for him.

“How do you do that?” Raphael begins to ask as Losson starts to climb on to the bed. He looks practically dumbfounded at how with just a few words this human was able to convince his own doppelganger incubus to simply depart with only a promise to bind him. “You shouldn’t have that sort of control over a fiend.

Losson ignores the question for the time being and the hardness of the mindset he has slipped into starts to take its hold again. “I gave you instructions, Raphael. Follow them or I’ll find someone who will.”

Something about watching how with only a single phrase, Raphael does as directed. With his attention focused elsewhere, he rests his body on the damask duvet, propped against the pillows with hands resting in his lap. Losson finds himself nearly offended…Is that really how Raphael was going to present himself to him after all this effort? After all the teasing? After spending the past few hours trying to get him to admit that he wanted to be completely and utterly controlled in the bedroom?

“No,” Losson says, straightening up on his knees, using them to walk across the mattress to the arch devil. “That won’t do at all - am I really supposed to believe that this is how you present yourself? That you just sit on the bed and wait?” He scoffs, swinging a leg over Raphael’s torso so he can hold his weight over him. “This is embarrassing - you look like a grandfather at his temple waiting for the offering basket to drop in his weekly silver donation.” Once the warlock crawls atop Raphael’s body it’s as if a furnace has been lit as heat begins to radiate from him in waves, the air blurring closer to his skin. Losson’s hand runs up Raphael’s stomach, fingers operating deftly, flicking open the remaining five closures, leaving only the thin blouse separating his palm from the rosy flesh of his stomach. Raphael swallows, it’s a thick, sticky and mucousy swallow, perhaps still heavy with the phantom presence of Losson’s tongue tasting him. His eyes dart to his stomach, forcing him to miss the way Losson flashes his teeth to convey the clever idea that struck him. “I have an idea,” he says, fingers now sneakily focusing on opening the buttons of the undershirt, closing in toward Raphael’s ear, breathing coolly as his speech lowers to a whisper. “I’m going to teach you.”

Losson’s lips graze against Raphael’s ear, lowering to where the lobe meets his jaw. His teeth scrape softly as they had done against his wrist before, but it’s far wetter than that earlier act of tenderness. He begins to kiss over Raphael’s neck as the collar opens, flashing more of the dark pink flesh and infernal crests for Losson to drag his tongue over. He feels the pulse of Raphael’s throat beneath his tongue as he begins to drink in the hellish heat radiating from him. He does not get the sighs and whimpers he was hoping for, especially considering his past with subs. It was almost discouraging but Losson was quite determined. He was going to make damn sure that for as awful as Raphael supposedly was in bed, that this wound up being a pleasant experience. He nips, teeth razing against the devil’s flesh; he wonders how bruises look on this color of skin. He wants to see how well Raphael wears another color, but he will not do more than a nibble until Raphael speaks clearly.

“What in the hells do you need to teach me?” he grumbles, but he is quickly led into a stifled gasp, Losson’s hand opting to rest against the exposed stomach. It’s a good sound, he concludes - the last words trail off into an anticipatory and surprised gasp with the final syllables hanging heavy in the words. He indulges in a laugh pressed to Raphael’s neck between the grazes of his teeth.

“How to behave for one,” he murmurs against him, running his fingertips over the length of the man’s abdomen. “I don’t take well to mouthy, insolent demons who can’t appreciate what I’m offering.” Losson’s teeth press more firmly, lips pursing as his trailing rests at Raphael’s collarbone, sucking in small, circular motions. “I am going to,” he pauses after a moment where he begins to stroke his tongue in light spiraling traces. “Teach you, how to behave in the bedroom - and hopefully-” He takes the smallest of bites, tugging at Raphael’s skin all whilst his fingers stroke at the top of the waistband of his trousers. “That should hopefully make up for the supposedly abysmal quality of relations you normally have in here.”

Raphael wears something akin to utter horror on his face, the likes of which Losson unfortunately did not get to play witness to as he was far more focused in leaving the first of what would be many marks on the devil’s throat. He begins to argue with Losson but his words get softened by the sounds of a deep, although far-too-quiet groan rippling from within his lungs. “I should skin you -”

“You absolutely will not,” Losson counters quickly, giving a tug to Raphael’s flesh, grinding his teeth back and forth upon the patch of neck. “You might have control over the House of Hope, but I assure you, I have control over you right now.” Losson pulls himself free from Raphael’s throat and sits upright upon his hips. He can feel the blood engorged length of a cock formed beneath the layers of fabric of the devils pants. Like the rest of his body, it is exuding a heat that sends warm shockwaves through Losson’s gut. “Now,” he resumes, leaning forward to run his hands over Raphael’s stomach - pushing upwards to his chest where his palms rest on either pectoral, fingers almost lovingly tweaking the nubs of his nipples. “I’m going to ask you a question, and if you want to make damn sure that your time here is well spent - you will answer me honestly.” With one hand, he pinches the nipple beneath it firmly, forcing Raphael to purse his lips in an effort to quiet himself down. “First question,” Losson continues, hands resting at the top of his pants. “What do you want me to do to you?”

He watches as Raphael’s expression begins to shift and change, going from that of passive (and faintly rather active) resistance to that of a young man - Losson knew this look well. A look of someone far too embarrassed or shy to piece together his desires. It was, in its own roundabout way, almost cute to see on such a stern face. The vague sense of innocence that traced over Raphael’s face, omitting those stern, pointed edges of his appearance in favor of replacing them with delicate curves and roundness. He dares not comment on it yet, lest Raphael become even more disobedient. He wanted to make him comply. Relax. Accept. There was much to be enjoyed here, provided he could put his devilish ego aside. Raphael’s lips remained pursed into a thin line, a scowl trying to decide whether it wanted to cling to his face or not. But Losson could see the urge to answer. Which would it be and which would win? Pride or pleasure?

“Raphael,” Losson speaks again, noticing how Raphael’s eyes seemed to dart away from him like a dog caught in the act of chewing apart a pair of shoes. He strokes along the devil’s bare stomach again and once more begins to resume their plucking at the man’s nipples. “I asked you a question - do you want to have a nice time or not? Because I’m not about to just try reading your mind. I could, but -” There’s a heaviness to the gaze he wears on his face as he shifts his weight closer. “I think you want to tell me.”

He sneers, but he does not react with any further hostility. If anything, he seems to melt a bit beneath Losson’s touch, jerking his chest into the prying hands. Losson continues, however, making an effort to slip the man’s garments from his body. He beckons him to lean forward and slip his arms free, fasteners that keep the garment folded around the wings pop loose and in only a matter of moments, Losson is able to toss some of Raphael’s clothes to the ground. He murmurs something pleasant, akin to ‘That’s better,’ before he allows the devil to relax again. Now partly exposed, the ridged and crested infernal chest bore before Losson, Raphael seems to draw upon his classic confidence. “What do I want?” he asks, voice calculating as he takes one of Losson’s hands from his chest, directing it between his legs to cup him, urging him to squeeze for what it’s worth. “I would think it was obvious that I want you to get on with it - feel me, work me up, get me in a tizzy - whatever it is you’ve got in mind. Get to it, I am waiting.”

Losson laughs as his hand takes the gift it has been given and starts to squeeze and study the concealed length beneath. The heat beneath his palm is a welcome offering, his fingers rubbing one at a time in a drumming, massaging ripple. That was more like it. “Very good,” he says smoothly, offering a grind of his hips into Raphael’s lap. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He laughs and presses his hand firmly, pushing the tiniest of gasps from the devil’s lips. “And look, we’re even posed in such a way that you can see yourself in the mirror while I jerk you off.” He grunts, trying to pull his gaze from Losson - but it is obvious where his eyes were focusing. The full length mirror across from the bed gave a glimpse of Raphael, his legs partly spread open, the back of Losson visible to him. It was remarkably unmarred despite his time adventuring. Despite his numerous lovers. The only thing blocking Raphael’s view of Losson’s back in full was half his blond hair covering his left shoulder. For a man who often preferred to see the scarlet flesh of his incubus in this mirror - Losson’s back wasn’t unpleasant to look at in the slightest. Perhaps, he was in a position where…maybe he could allow this human to have his fun.

And that was precisely when Raphael’s head tilted back, offering his neck in full for Losson. “If you don’t mind,” he admits with a sigh. His eyes shut and Losson takes his chance. His mouth clamps at Raphael’s collarbone, scraping his teeth hungrily whilst his hand continued to stroke the devil’s cock within his trousers. That was what he wanted - that gods forsaken invitation to have fun with Raphael’s body.

“You learn quickly,” Losson purrs, bringing his mouth to the devil’s ear again, having since had his position on his lap adjusted to be over just a single leg. He nearly curls into Raphael’s side as his torment continues. Breaths hitch in Raphael’s throat, almost choking on the exhales and he reaches a hand to hold the back of the human’s skull, urging him not to pull away.

“Do not speak,” Raphael grunts but his words turn into a groan, his belly lurching in a sudden spasm in response to Losson’s own pressure upon his groin. He falls silent beyond his steady breathing, anticipating the way the hand stroking him would soon touch him. He yammers to himself, gaze darting between the reflection across from the bed and the hand between his legs - he asks lowly, voice raspy. “Will you actually touch me or are you insistent on tormenting me?”

And Losson laughs. His hand squeezes, oh gods does it squeeze, and he then pulls his grasp away. He pulls it away and rests it at the top of the devil’s trousers. “You talk too much,” he chuckles into Raphael’s ear, sucking the lobe and nibbling in order to distract him from the presence of his fingers fussing at the top of his pants. He jerks his body back knowing he would not allow Raphael to keep his head buried for long. He knows the sort of ploy the devil in question is getting at - he wants to conceal his own bliss, his own enjoyment of the exchange. For as much as he would offer his submission to Losson, he did not want the same submission to be witnessed.

Losson wants to see Raphael when he finally pulls his cock out. He wants to see how the archdevil reacts when Losson has his hands on him. How his eyes may flood with countless thoughts at once, how his chest might heave when Losson begins to stroke him. How Raphael might gradually have to accept that someone other than himself was capable of getting him aroused.

He is not gentle in how he tugs down Raphael’s trousers. The snap holding the devil’s tail secure pops open and quickly, the pants are pulled down along with his undergarments. The fabric pulls over the lump of the aroused appendage - and Losson finds his stomach growling.

“Are you truly telling me you have a cock like this and you aren’t using it right?”

He is big. It’s unfortunate. After hearing that he was horrible in the bedroom, on top of being unpleasantly submissive and self-obsessed, Losson was truly hoping that he might at least be able to pity Raphael for having a small endowment. But truthfully - it was unfair. Raphael was large. Certainly for human standards. For a devil, Losson suspected he was pretty average. Clearly there were some differences between him and Haarlep, as Haarlep was quite a bit shorter in his length than Raphael. It was the girth though, the girth that made Losson briefly debate if he should just hop on the fiends lap and just start riding him for all it was worth. He was crested, with vestigial like ridges similar to the ones upon his chest and the skin offered the same vaguely scaled texture that the rest of his body had.

“This isn’t fair, Raphael.” Losson laughs, closing his hand around the cock he’d so aggressively tugged out. “You can’t just keep this all to yourself.” Raphael inhales - and his voice is loud. Gasping noisily. Sloppily. The noise is wet, damp, and highly unprepared - he had not anticipated Losson to grasp him so suddenly, but with this groan comes a new side of him. Raphael slumps into the pillows, his face showing a deep flush of streaks of burgundy across it. He holds the back of his hand to his mouth, not quite stifling himself, squeezing his eyes shut as a refusal to watch the face of the human who had rendered such a sound from him. He sinks low into the bed, only his shoulders resting into the layers of cushions and pillows, jerking upwards as Losson’s hand offers a lazy stroke. “Poor Haarlep,” Losson continues with another flick of his wrist. “Getting to see such a lovely display of meat but never getting to taste it or ride it for himself.”

It’s quite a shame knowing how easy this man would be to get off - he hoped that he’d be able to draw out whatever would come (heh).

“Stop talking about him,” Raphael sneered, but his voice did not carry the same amount of malice as it had in the previous insults. But it’s enough that Losson was able to pick up on the twinge of jealousy.

“Who are you jealous of?” Losson asks, the same heavy darkness to his voice that he often applied when trying to take control of his partner’s wants. “Me or him? Jealous of me for being able to fuck your mirror image and satisfy him in ways you can’t? Or perhaps,” He pauses and closes his second hand around Raphael’s cock, drawing out a few slow, agonizing pumps. “Are you jealous of him because of how thoroughly I can fuck him and you want to feel it for yourself?” He draws out the last stroke to lure out a response.

“What do you think?” the acid is still heavy in his words, but his hitching breath as Losson’s thumbs rub feverishly at the head of his cock, neutralizes the poison.

Answer me, Raphael.

His tone is heavy, authoritative, and without even the faintest hint of magic or illithid influence. Losson’s eyes narrow as one hand withdraws, reaching to rest beneath Raphael’s chin, tilting his gaze to focus at him - and not the mirror across the room. The remaining hand upon his cock strokes again, and soon, Losson finds a comfortable rhythm. One two, one two, one two - only lightly teasing his head with each motion. Soon enough he’d offer something more but while he waited for a response, this is what he would offer.

The devil’s eyes squeeze shut, chest all but rising and falling like his incubus had upon Losson’s cock earlier. His words begin to take form, but he shakes his head as if trying to deny himself the liberty of answering. It’s so obvious that if he were to admit his desires, Losson would indulge, but it would all come at the cost of his pride. Pride, such a funny, fickle thing for devil’s to experience. Often their downfall and their rise to power and ascension all the same.

“I’m waiting.”

“Him.” Raphael confesses after a moment of idyllic resistance. “I envy him, are you happy now?” And his voice is silenced. Silenced as Losson uses the hand beneath his chin to hold his jaw still, using the moment to steal a kiss. He is oddly cautious in the effort - lips lightly pressed at first, but soon parted in encouragement for Raphael to join him. His tongue strokes Losson’s after a moment; another invitation. He wonders as he welcomes Raphael’s intrusion, if this was another grab at not having to show Losson his submission, but he finds the devil’s hands clutching his face, holding his head still so to bring him in closer. He finds this action so needy, so hungry for more that he is truly defining what it means for actions to speak louder than words. His breath is hot, perhaps almost enough to burn. And it washes through Losson’s mouth in desperate little puffs with each stroke of his cock. A somewhat innocent reaction, reminding Losson that kisses were reserved for those who deserved.

And it clicks.

Yes, surely Raphael’s greatest desire, his utterly perfect partner is himself - but it makes sense. It is because of that power he exudes. It is not he that causes his loins to stir - it is what he is capable of that causes this archdevil to experience such arousal at his own doings. It was never about him. Never about himself. He associates power with himself. It is power he wishes to submit to. And if he truly sees himself as the most powerful being across many planes, it all made sense that he would find such sexual desire in himself. Submitting to power and control - that was what he was interested in. Being overpowered. Being taken advantage of. That feeling of being defeated and rendered helpless. Should he ever view anyone else as more powerful than he was - then he would have no choice but to want that person to force his obedience.

For a man obsessed with law and order - Raphael was such a mess when it came to his kinks.

Losson was about to have more fun than he anticipated. He knew precisely how to make this great archdevil, now known to him for being abysmal in the bedroom, not only a great lay, but the perfect sub. For him at least. Losson’s arm wraps around the devil’s neck guiding him away from the pillows as he rewards Raphael, his fingers focusing on the head of his cock where the sticky build of pre-ejaculate has bubbled up through the slit. He thumbs slowly, finger sticking a bit with each prod of his fingertip. He sucks in the devil’s sulfuric breath, urging him to unleash another little sigh. He loves how the vibration of desire feels from an infernal - it’s like sparks are ignited in his throat and he’d love to feel such a burn. He feels the whimper, however. The whimper of a man already feeling as if he’s being edged - of holding himself back.

A shame. And here Losson was feeling like he was actually going to succeed at a specular evening of submission from Raphael. The kiss is broken with a sudden yelping of pleasure against his lips as his spend erupts from his cock, spilling over Losson’s fingers and knuckles. He is quick - far too quick. They’d need to work on that. His cum doesn’t burn but it’s far hotter than Losson expected, far hotter than anyone else he’d slept with. Devils, honestly.

He raises his hand after Raphael breaks the kiss from his premature orgasm. He does not look away (“Very good,” Losson will say) and keeps his gaze locked as the warlock at his side laps up the mess upon his hand hungrily, sucking the seed into his mouth with lavish strokes of his tongue. His eyes shut, savoring the taste of the devil - about as he’d expect. Same as most tieflings, but there is a sourness to it that must come from a far more concentrated infernal origin. The taste of sulfur and brimstone mingling with the briney tang.

The burgundy flush of Raphael’s cheeks remains, as does the glossy look of his eyes as he studies his human companion. He does not look at the mirror, nor to any of his portraits. He simply stares, as if to ask “Well, what now?”

“That was a good start,” Losson then says, pulling his leg from over Raphael’s lap, adjusting his position in the bed so that his back faces the devil. He grabs his shirt which had been discarded on the opposite corner near the headboard, pulling it on to conceal his torso once more.

“A start?” Raphael suddenly spits, whatever sort of compliance he’d offered suddenly discarded in favor of an annoyed retort. “Are you truly now telling me that after enduring these antics of yours for hours that you’re simply going to wash your hands of this? You spent what felt like an eternity tormenting me and convincing me to accept your advances and you’re now going to redress and leave?”

Losson glances over his shoulder to the devil, only partly dressed and utterly fuming. He’s slipped from the bed, having tucked himself back into his trousers and has made his presence known on the bed’s opposite end, looming over him with arms outspread. Losson would say he was baffled, but he knows precisely why Raphael is so angered by this turn of events. “I’m not going to exhaust you in a first session,” he says. “I have an idea of how you are in the bedroom now, and now I know how to make next time better.”

“Who in the hells said there would be a next time?” Raphael hisses, wings suddenly spreading out as if to barricade Losson in. As if to say that Losson was not leaving here so easily. “I will not put up with your games again - you finish the job or I will finish you.”

“I did finish the job, I got you to come and I got you to admit wanting me.” Losson corrects him. “But if you’re serious and don’t want a ‘next time’ then I think I’ll count my losses and I’ll just enjoy myself in the future with your incubus who I am now quite sure is waiting for me back at my camp.” There is an overly smug confidence to Losson’s words this time, so much so that it catches Raphael off guard once more. “There won’t be games next time, I don’t need to press your buttons or break through your defenses and get you squirming to admit your desire to be overpowered.”

His wings relax and eventually fold behind him, leaving Raphael standing topless and frankly quite disheveled before Losson. There is something almost pathetic, almost sad about the way the devil stands there as Losson finishes redressing. Something that screams ‘kicked puppy.’ Something that Losson is capable of reading as rejection.

“Do you want me to come back?” he asks after the momentary silence that came from him pulling his boots back on.

Even with his boots on, Raphael still stands over him quite significantly. He wears a dejected sort of pout, perhaps weighing his options - was his pride worth it? Was he willing to sacrifice this sliver of his pride in favor of finding someone he could deem as worthy enough to be the object of his power fetish? Was this human, this warlock, this tool of his damned father really be the first figure to understand what it was that he craved?

“You have figured out a weakness I am loathe to share,” he admits as Losson straightens himself up after redressing. “You understand the nuances of it better than even Haarlep and as much as I am not thrilled to admit it, yes, I would like you to come back.”

A smirk tangles in with Losson’s features as in turn he untangles some of the mess of his hair. “That can be arranged; I’ll come back so you can come again.” There’s a laugh and this laugh yields a small tug to Raphael’s lips - a smile of solidarity. Losson pats at his cheek and in doing just that, Raphael takes his wrist in turn. Much like Losson had done to him earlier. And what he does is unexpected.

Raphael kisses his wrist, holding the human’s palm against his cheek, allowing his fingers to flex and flick near his hairline as the devil offers a strangely tender offer of affection. Losson nearly flushes - he’d had subs be smitten with him before, but this was not an act of attraction but rather of gratitude. And furthermore, a request. His mouth is hungry still and Losson catches on. He closes the space between himself and the devil as the facade of the fiend fades and the human vessel of Raphael takes its place. He is much easier to reach this way and it offers Losson the chance to kiss the man before him. It no longer tastes of heat and sulfur, but now of brandy and stonefruit. A sumptuous sweetness after all the bite and bile of the hells.

“You come too fast,” Losson says after a moment of savoring Raphael’s lips. “Work on that between now and when I see you next. Teach yourself how to hold back and I’ll make it worth your while.”

He does not allow Raphael to get another word in after that, quickly and hastily making his way out of the boudoir. Losson intends to return. And how he hopes Raphael practices in the next few days. At the very least, Losson knows that he’s left the devil with something to fantasize about in the meantime.

When Losson returns to Elfsong that evening, he finds a guest waiting for him. Much to the surprise of the others who cannot for the lives of them know where this lovely man came from. He is a high elf, sunkissed skin with dark ebony hair, pulled into a small ponytail, and nearly glowing saffron eyes. The voice of the Emperor booms in Losson’s mind - “You have gone to the hells to risk it all and it has resulted in one of its own seeking alliance. You are endangering yourself with actions far too rash for me to condone.

He opts to wave it off and he sinks into one of the many chairs of Elfsong’s common area, allowing the smoky aroma of the fire to relax him. He breathes deep and momentarily finds himself catching the scent of Raphael before he finds it’s not him at all standing nearby.

But rather, Mizora.

She wears a smile much like the one Losson had worn on his face when he was able to lure out and admission from the archdevil. Her arms are crossed over her chest, finely manicured nails tapping along her forearms in a smug sense of victory. Losson hadn’t even been aware they were competing for something.

“You stink of Avernus,” she comments with an amused giggle. “And so does our new arrival.” Her eyes dart to the next room where the new visitor is lounging far too comfortably in the bed that Losson had staked out for himself. “I think someone had a fun time instead of trying to rescue the city.”

“Why are you still here?” he asks Mizora, his own gaze falling to Wyll from across the room, gesturing to her as they make eye contact. He asks with eyes alone ‘Why is she here again?’ to which Wyll can only offer a shrug.

“It was for Wyll’s sake but seeing as how he’s already rescued his father, I’m really just here for the entertainment. And revenge, of course.” She takes a seat in a chair next to Losson. “It was to give a piece of my mind to that damn Elderbrain just the same, but I think you, little Mephistite are going to prove to be all the amusement I need until then.” He feels his skin crawl at the insult directed at him. “Care to enlighten me with what sort of adventures you got up to in Avernus today, or shall I just have to fantasize over who topped who?”

“You can tell, huh?” he asks, tone relatively bored, perhaps wishing to dismiss her with his feigned disinterest.

“It’s not often an incubus comes wandering around here,” she suggests. “Especially one wearing such a fine disguise. Why not have him show his true form, I bet he’s simply to die for.”

“Why? So you can steal him for yourself? Or so you can join in?”

“Oh, so I was right!” She offers another laugh. “It was either that or you hired someone for some assistance in your little endeavors. But do yourself, and him, a favor - don’t leave him wanting too long. Incubi can be quite volatile creatures when left unfulfilled.” She then stands and runs her hand beneath Losson’s chin with a coy smirk. “Hope you’ve got plenty of stamina, you’ll need it.”

He waits a moment as she leaves before rising to his feet again to approach his guest. He doesn’t question for a second who it is. The way those eyes study him, the way his body poses itself on the bed. The way he is quick to get on his knees on the mattress, arms wrapping around Losson’s neck, guiding him in for a hungry kiss. It’s Haarlep, no question. Like Raphael, with a less fiendish form, his kisses take on a new taste, Haarlep’s being that of spice and citrus or a mulled cider. His mouth is warm. It fills Losson with the craving of autumn and its crisp night air. His hands comb into his hair, nails scraping at his scalp and sending a shiver through Losson’s spine. He wants to lose himself in the embrace - it’s so welcoming and encouraging that he’d love nothing more than to remove his clothing and fall into bed. But he can’t. Not quite yet.

“Wait,” he mouths into the embrace, severing its connection. “I’m glad to see you again too, but we need to establish who you are -”

“I’m Haarlep,” the incubus quickly says, sliding back onto the bed, his clothed legs spread now to show off the outline of an erection already formed. “You know who I am.”

They don’t.” he counters. “I’m lovers with one of these men already and I’ve slept with most of the others - I am not about to jeopardize that. We’ve discussed this as part of our relationship, now I need to discuss this with you. Are you alright with all this, knowing that?” He sees how Haarlep’s lips purse in contemplation and then after a moment, he crosses his legs.

“Nothing wrong with presenting me as a platonic ex,” he says with a smooth chuckle. “If you’re looking for a believable lie, there you have it.” He looks past Losson and studies the other individuals of Elfsong, contemplating. “Why, I think I’d be quite happy to take anyone here as a lover if most of them are good enough for you - such a lovely array of faces. Particularly the vampire -”

“I’m going to veto the vampire for you,” Losson says. “Man has enough struggles with sexual intimacy even with those he loves, you can have your pick of just about anyone as long as they’re open to it.” He finds himself on the verge of amusement. “Though for the most part, we all are.”

“That opportunity sounds rather exciting.” Haarlep purrs. “An entourage of sex positive degenerates like yourself - consider me aroused in every sense of the word. If the vampire is off limits, I’ll respect it, especially since the offerings are quite sumptuous after all.” Losson offers a pat to the incubus’s cheek which is instantly reciprocated in the form of a kiss to his hand.

With the agreement made, Losson steps away and finds himself in the company of that very lover in question - the same vampire whose body he’d put as off limits for Haarlep. Astarion is nestled in his bed, his book in one hand, the other idly stroking Losson’s hair, twirling the blonde locks between his fingers. “What were you doing all afternoon?” he says in his preoccupation.

“Would you believe me if I said Raphael?” Losson responds in a whisper. This causes Astarion to look down at the human nestled against him.

“You have got to be joking.”

He offers Astarion a smile which is immediately met with a laugh of disbelief before it slips away and the vampire is left both aghast and highly entertained by the prospects.

“You slept with Raphael, of all people?”

“Was trying to do something for my patron,” Losson says. “Wound up getting more than I bargained for, and wound up committing to something I hadn’t planned on committing to.” He shrugs and then reaches up, lightly touching Astarion’s cheek, admiring the coolness of his flesh as he leans into his fingertips. “It’ll be fun, I think.”

“I hope this doesn’t come to bite you in the ass, my love.” Astarion says, lowering the book to rest on the mattress beside him. Losson smiles, but he knows the smile will not stop Astarion from reading into it. “Devil’s are tricky bastards, the lot of them, no matter how many good words you have with them. Whatever it is with Raphael that you’ve gotten yourself involved in, do try not to dig yourself deeper than you have with,” he grimaces. “Mephistopheles.”

“It’s nothing beyond some kink,” Losson assures him. “No attachment whatsoever.”

“It’s not the sex that worries me,” Astarion’s voice lowers and a familiar ache to his words hangs heavy. “It’s the debts owed. The leash devils keep around your neck. The punishment they can dole out the moment they’ve decided you’ve misbehaved or violated their agreements.” He strokes some of the sandy, blonde hair from Losson’s face. “Just because I have obtained my freedom does not mean you can just start risking your own.” Losson pushes himself up and positions himself between Astarion’s arms, leaning in to offer him a kiss. Cool as ever, their kiss is exchanged, but Astarion lingers, seemingly wanting to savor it. His eyes remain shut before he slides down in the bed, pulling Losson down with him. “As always, perfection.” He whispers, allowing Losson to offer him a flurry of pecks along his cheeks and forehead and response.

He would hope that once Astarion learned that it was Losson holding the leash, that his worries could be put at ease. Losson was in control here, and he was not about to let anyone make a fool of him. He would earn these devil’s subservience, one way or another.

After all, it was the most surefire way he could get his hands on that Crown.

Notes:

tada. now you know who Losson romanced. (because im a simp)

quick tldr for how I am writing losson and astarion: I have written Astarion as demisexual. Neither of them really associate sex with love, and more often than not both of them do not see sex as something romantic. they both know and respect each others approaches toward sex, and only sex with one another is a rare and deep act of trust. Astarion is precisely why Losson has the approach of "kisses are reserved for those who deserve". but it should be noted that at this point, Losson is essentially a sex worker. He does get paid for his dom services. I will be touching on where this started in a future chapter featuring another character from the game, specifically from Act 1.
okay its 2am. i need to go to bed now because i have covid.

Next Day update: Hey so I think some folks might appreciate this. I mod a bg3 server. It was made mostly for me and my friends from another discord but if you like this and want to join in on our shenanigans and also listen to me screaming about my ideas and brainstorming for this fic, come check us out. We are a kink and smut friendly server, we just ask you keep particularly questionable topics to our Underdark section. You can come check us out here https://discord.gg/QtEmyZZnWq

Chapter 4: body heat in subzero is still not enough to save you when it's in kelvin

Notes:

ive had a couple people express interest in mephistopheles
here ya go. have fun.
also i still have covid so this again is not as well edited as other chapters but on the plus side i get to write a lot more when im not dying from being sick.

uh tag warning for incest mention? like not between existing characters, but like. i mention it?

(an edit 5 minutes after i posted this: I MENTION SORN AND NYM. OF COURSE THERE'S INCEST MENTIONS)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Losson is freezing when he wakes - and he knows precisely why. It is because the place in which he has woken up is far from Elfsong. Far from Baldur’s Gate. Far from even Avernus. He draws in a breath, feeling how it crystalizes into ice within his lungs as the chill runs through him. His lips quickly grow blue and stiff and the blood within his veins becomes like that of icicles. A part of him screams joyously, I’m home! I’m home! But the hellish freeze of Mephistar is not yet his home - although he regards it quite the same as one.

A gust of frigid air strikes him in the chest, knocking him backwards as he stands to his feet. But no sooner does he get his bearings does he feel his body collide with the searing bite of metal on his back. He strikes a steel structure and pulling away from it would only cause the flesh to be flayed from his back, exposing the raw meat of his muscle to the freeze. Breath is knocked from him and he feels the intolerable bliss of hypothermia rush through him. His bones grow brittle and snap, fragile as hollow twigs, his corneas become blinded with the searing sting snow and his vein’s freeze like waterlogged reeds within a river.

He loves this next part.

The heat that comes over him as he feels the eruption of a blaze cast around him. The presence of the devil of his dreams and his duties makes his presence known. The sultry warmth of his tongue in his mouth and his hands digging through the frozen flesh of his chest to clutch his heart. It cracks through his ribs, taking his heart within his fist and with a surge of heat, as if jumpstarting an infernal engine - Losson lives. His bones heal and his arms have the chance to wrap around the neck of his savior, holding him close in order to savor the life sustaining gift. It is both a sincere and a sarcastic gesture. On both their parts.

“You put the incubus to shame,” the voice of the figure grumbles and with a concussive wave of blue flame - the landscape of ice and bitter cold is no more.

Losson’s body is now pressed into the high backed, floral upholstery of a wing chair, with naught but a memory of his body freezing to death. The chair in question is located in what appears to be a study; bookcases line the walls with the exception of a single door to Losson’s left and a crackling fireplace of azure flames warming the vicinity, yet their glow remains golden and warm. There is a desk on either side of the fireplace, one utterly saturated in documents, books and emptied inkwells and broken quills. The other desk, neatly maintained with but a single book open with a single quill prepared to inscribe the blank pages with. The room is ornately designed with the ceiling extending far, far above with panels of glass making the top of the spire, as if the study were but a tower in a castle. It’s dimly lit with only a few candles adding to the light other than the fireplace, and the floor is covered in a finely designed rug of a fractal like pattern.

But it is not the high class presentation that has Losson’s attention. It is the figure concealing the glow of the fireplace from him. His back is turned, four thin, leathery wings folded behind his back with a double tipped tail flicking back in forth, like that of a contemplative and intrigued cat. The figure’s flesh is far more uncommon for most fiends (with the exception being a certain she-devil with whom Losson was familiar). But he supposes that’s one reason he likes this man. He is pale blue, akin to a periwinkle with his tail gradually fading into stark white. A chilly shade to match the cold of Mephistar.

Within his hands, a cup and saucer, rosy and floral in pattern, appear - it’s safe to drink, he knows he’s not at risk for any sort of punishment. And so he takes a sip - a darjeeling with the essence of rosewater and lemon. Far more refreshing than he had anticipated. Perhaps this was a warm day in this reality, Losson could never tell. Once cold was cold, there was little chance at determining what was colder still. Losson takes a sip and as he does, he watches as the devil’s shoulders tense, rising in a visible shudder, causing him to turn.

“Must you slurp so noisily?” He sneers, approaching Losson with utter revulsion.

The devil in question was none other than the Cold Lord, Mephistopheles. Compared to most others, he is small for an Archdevil, particularly for being as powerful as he is. He is shorter than Losson by a few inches and his frame is much slimmer as well. He almost has something of a youthfulness to him, a soft face, wide, navy sclera eyes with turquoise irises, concealed by a pair of spectacles - virtually unheard of on the prime material - and dark, neatly coiffed hair, parted and brushed to one side, a pair of slim, ibex-like horns twisting from his forehead, couple with a pair of smaller, curved ones near his temple. Mephistopheles was a devil obsessed with always looking (and being) his best, and he had an attire to match, one that clearly put Raphael’s to shame. Losson stifles a chuckle as the devil snatches the teacup and saucer from him and holds it to his lips, demonstrating.

“You must sip like you are trying to breathe silently, there shouldn’t be more than but a whisper of sound, but here you are, gulping it down like a peasant’s chowder.” He hands the offering back to Losson with a grimace adorning his virtually hairless face. “Do it again. But with dignity this time, surely you must have some of that in your shameless spine, don’t you?”

He rolls his eyes - Mephistopheles, instantly reprimanding him for it - and then holds the dainty teacup to his lips and takes the lightest and softest sounding sip from the cup that he can possibly muster. “Is that better, Lord Mephisto?” he asks, resting the cup upon the fair china before setting it to the side upon the end table next to his chair.

“Much,” the devil grumbles, keeping his position firm in front of Losson, arms crossed as if waiting for an explanation. He looked so young compared to others, compared to even Losson himself who was only around thirty years of age - it was almost hard to believe that this youthful visage of a devil was Raphael’s father. “You know why I’ve summoned you, don’t you?”

“Well, if it was to make out, my lord, you could have shown up at any time.” His expression sours momentarily, his face briefly flush with lavender upon his cheeks before he shakes it off. It would seem that no matter how many times he had brought this cheeky warlock of his to his realm, he could never get over how a deep, mouth to mouth embrace was the only way Mephistopheles could ensure his guests did not perish upon arrival. Humans and their hormones - disgusting.

Enough,” he snorts, waving a hand to draw over another chair, similar to the one Losson is seated in. “Since you don’t wish to reply, I’ll speak instead - you’re here because you’ve decided that of all people in all the planes, you want to sleep with my son.”

“In my defense, I am trying to get something out of him.”

Mephistopheles sneers. “I’m always trying to get something out of him, but you don’t see me trying to get my rocks off with him.”

“Well he’s your son, I would hope not.”

“Devils have slept with their children and worse, don’t make assumptions, human.” Mephistopheles interrupts Losson. “I would not do such a thing with that disgrace of a fiend - I simply have to offer potential praise or attention, perhaps even say 'well done' and I can have Raphael on his knees, begging to do my bidding.” Losson purses his lips, trying not to laugh - he can have Raphael on his knees begging too, but he doesn’t need to be a devil to do that.

For all intents and purposes, Losson is quite behaved when in the presence of his patron. He knows when he can get away with a one liner here or there, and he knows when he has to keep his mouth shut. For as brazen as he is, he knows there is a time and a place for causing a ruckus. And being in the presence of Mephistopheles was not one of those places.

“I suppose you want to know why,” Losson asks, taking another sip of the tea, watching as his patron watches him, anticipating a mistake. He relaxes when the sip is taken nearly silently, and he relaxes. “You’re a reasonable sort, aren’t you? I could tell you why it is that I’m so intent on sleeping with him, despite my very little attraction, right?” The devil sits back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, fingers steepling momentarily in anticipation. “Because I’m keen on turning on him.”

“Interesting,” Mephistopheles comments, a cup and saucer of his own appearing within his grasp, allowing him to partake in the consumption of the tea (which Losson finds is not quite sweet enough). “How do you intend to do that? Go along with this little arrangement until you decide to lay with him long enough and then deny him release? Ha, that won’t take you very long now will it?”

“You’re…not far off.” Losson notes. “Going along with the arrangement and enjoying some fun in his bedroom, and perhaps teaching him a thing or two about how to use his dick properly - but it’s the final outcome where I intend to make my move.”

“It’s the Crown, isn’t it?” Mephistopheles practically snarls these words from behind his cup, causing it to rattle lightly against the saucer with a soft clinking. Losson resists the urge to make some snide remark about being too loud, but he knows silent fury when he sees it. “I have not let the thought of losing that accursed object leave my mind from the moment it occurred and I will not stand for a damned elderbrain being in possession of it.” The room begins to grow cold, not quite as intensely as the air outside but it becomes noticeable almost instantly. “The Dead Three will eternally be the death of me - no matter how often those bastards try to gain an upper hand on myself or Asmodeus, they never succeed and just result in more bloody paperwork!

Losson watches as ice dances upon the surface of his tea. So much for enjoying more of it.

“It might reassure you that I have no intention of giving Raphael that crown.” Losson sighs, setting aside the now frozen cube of tea. It might not have been quite sweet enough but he was enjoying it all the same.

Mephistopheles’ tea on the other hand, still remained piping hot, which he sips from leisurely. His eyes study Losson from across the room as the cup is set down, the chill slowly starting to seep out of the room once more. “I do hope you have all the intention of returning it to me, Master Wright.”

“On a condition.”

A grimace as the cup clatters against the saucer. “Speak your terms.”

“I want to use it.”

“You most certainly will not.”

“And why not?”

“Because I will not have another Folly of Karsus on my hands and even more paperwork!” Mephistopheles groans, raising his hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing the spectacles up. “Master Wright, you are a warlock. Not a wizard. You could not ever hope to wield magic in the same way he or any other disciple of Mystra could. You have attuned to magic due to my influence and such power would likely dehydrate your brain in a matter of moments.” The devil sets his tea aside and stands to his feet, approaching the desk that is utterly clear of clutter, inspecting the shelving surrounding it, as if suddenly struck by a realization. The books in Mephistopheles’ study are not books. Not all of them. They are contracts of warlocks and clients across the planes, both new and old, pristinely bound in leather bindings to ensure further indestructibility. The tome in question that Mephistopheles removes is the one belonging to Losson - and its size is massive. Perhaps only one of several volumes. Mephistopheles drops the book onto the desk and cracks its spine (Losson feels this in his own back), opening it to a particular article within its pages. “However,” he does declare as he skims the page. "We do have a clause in subsection 38-12, article 27 that states that you are permitted access to my collection of magical artifacts in the event you are acting in my best interest. If you can prove to me, when the time comes, that your use of the Crown will earn my approval, I may be willing to overlook your transgressions. And perhaps even offer you the prowess to utilize said magic without your mind being shredded to bits.”

“You could just talk like a normal person and tell me you’ll let me use it for a little bit since you like me.” Losson points out as Mephistopheles returns the tome to the shelf. He can practically feel the chill of his stare - although that may just be the typical cold of the plane creeping in through cracks beneath the doors again.

“I like you no more or no less than any of my other warlocks,” the devil says, articulating each syllable so that his words cannot be misinterpreted. Nevertheless, Losson decides he will misinterpret them.

“But you never said more or less than any of your other contract-bound devotees,” he amends. “I knew you liked me, Lord Mephisto. I think you and I have really gotten close.” He laughs and goes to lift his cup of tea again, forgetting how it had frozen over, opting to take another sip - only to stop in place when he finds the ice cube bumping against his teeth.

“You’re such a child sometimes,” Mephistopheles says, returning to his seat with a sigh. “I had hoped you’d have grown out of that by the time you’d gotten older but yet you’re still as much of a boy today as you were when we met.”

“Don’t lie to me, you miss those days.” Losson offers a cheek smile to the devil who retreats into the cushioning of his seat as if utterly dismayed.

“I miss them in the same way a sick person misses the days of being unable to work.” the devil scoffs, flicking his wrist so that the chunk of ice that is Losson’s tea reverts back to its previously steaming form. “You’ll be a fine trickster one day, provided you live that long and provided your soul still proves useful to me.”

Losson takes a moment to enjoy the taste of the freshly reconstituted tea again as he studies the way the devil sits across from him once more. He has…a complicated history with Mephistopheles, but it is not so much one that is antagonistic. Nor is it positive for both parties. It is mutually beneficial in ways that would take centuries to explain, or perhaps an incredibly well informed wizard, capable of making complex histories concise. Losson does not harbor any ill intent toward his patron and the same could be said the other way around, and yet, Losson has some qualms with some of his actions.

“About the Rite of Ascension -” he mentions after a moment, draining the final sips of tea.

“Do I regret teaching it to that vile, maggot eating scab of a vampire, yes.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“I knew what you were going to ask, don’t think I’m blind when it comes to seeing you making eyes at that spawn of his.” Mephistopheles scoffs again, offering another wave of his hands to dismiss the teacups. “Even devils can make mistakes and can regret their actions; just like the gods we are not infallible. We make mistakes just the same, the difference is in how we live with the consequences. I can regret teaching Cazador about Ascension until time and space melt into nothingness, but nothing will change that I allowed him access to that knowledge and nothing will change that I allowed him to damn over seven thousand souls for his own betterment.” He rolls his eyes but nevertheless, there is a quirk upon his lips. “Now if you want to know a man who would make a truly dastardly and heinous devil, it would be him. Count yourself lucky that your elven leech slayed him before I got my hands on him, or the next few years might have gone very differently if I had my say.”

He feels a chill, nothing quite as similar as the cold from the plane’s natural climate, but one of actual discomfort. Of actual displeasure. It was one that reminded Losson of the sort of power Mephistopheles could actually wield over him and just about everyone else. When those words come from the devil, Losson remembers that this form that Mephistopheles presents himself as is only the one that Losson is fond of. That his true form is something far more threatening. Far more diabolical in every sense of the term. This young man in his pristinely designed formalwear with the gold rimmed spectacles is simply that of a memory. A form the devil had taken ages ago when Losson first summoned his aid. When he had first begged for some sort of salvation.

Devils would do as devils wished at the end of the day, and Mephistopheles was no different.


When Losson wakes for real, he finds himself almost entirely alone in Elfsong. A note at his bedside table from Astarion states he’s gone for a short stroll with Shadowheart to scout out the House of Grief. They were planning on going inside to have some not so friendly words with the Mother Superior before confronting Gortash after all. Jaheira and Minsc had stepped out to check on her children and verify (for the third time this week) that they weren’t destroying her house. And Gale, Wyll and Karlach had made yet another visit to Sorcerous Sundries, despite the projection there now showing that of a dead man, whom Losson felt highly satisfied in killing at Aylin’s side. Where the others had gone, it was a mystery - he didn't pry into their business anymore than he had to. As long as no one was ruining the city further. Curse his damnable bleeding heart. He would reassure himself, for all his good deeds, he was still quite the slimeball.

Not according to the incubus between his legs, however.

Within moments of Losson waking, Haarlep is beneath his blankets, mouthing at him through his trousers, stirring the heat up within him. He’d been so cold after his subconscious foray into Mephsitar, that the heat - whether it came from the incubus infernal blood, or something about the close contact with another body - was entirely welcome. His head lulls back, hands pressed into the fiend’s skull as his trousers are tugged down to his knees. His breath is uncannily warm (gods he hopes he’s only still chilled and not getting sick) and he is too eager to guide Losson’s cock into his mouth. He heaves a sigh, grunting into the side of his forearm as he arches past the demon’s lips. He moans pleasantly against his shaft, holding Losson at his testicles, palming his balls soothingly with deft, cautious strokes.

“Ohhh, yes,” he gasps, combing his fingers through the dark, ebony strands of Haarlep’s chosen form. He feels the needy whimpers of his own desire rippling from the back of his throat, coaxing Haarlep to do his absolute worst. (A turn of phrase, of course - if he wanted someone to do their worst at sucking his cock, he’d simply fetch Raphael). Haarlep’s tongue swirls around him, slurping and gulping around him like a child sucking upon candy. He gulps, his eyes shut as his head bobs upon him, savoring every inch Losson offers him. The warlock does not dare pull upon Haarlep’s hair - he has not shown wanting that sort of playful abuse, and how he devours Losson’s cock shows the utmost patience and pride in his work. In the way he parts his lips now and then to gasp or draw in breath. In the way he squeeze Losson’s sack. In the way his cheek nuzzles into his thigh. In the way he clutches Losson’s hand in such a juvenile, sweet gesture.

Despite the blanket concealing them, Losson can’t help but stroke the incubus’s cheek in the bobs of his head. A light stroke of encouragement to reassure and encourage him to continue. He’s no stranger to morningwood and having an incubus in his vicinity who is only too utterly pleased to do away with the intrusion, was something of a blessing. “That’s a good boy,” Losson pants lightly, exhaling in quiet little puffs. “Drink up, sweet thing…” His voice trails as he finds himself on the receiving end of something far more unexpected.

Fingers. Prodding at him, stroking between his ass cheeks, seemingly trying to find purchase. Of course, he’s not opposed - but so early? Why so early. He won’t deny how much he’s missed the feeling of having fingers poking into him, wishing to stretch him out. His mind flashes back to his nightly foray with Mephistopheles and memories long since past, but he grounds himself in reality. “Now, now, Haarlep,” he manages to choke. “It’s far too early for that,” Losson’s voice cracks as Haarlep seemingly obeys him without a second thought. Instead, he begins to suck deeper, harder - humming and groaning into the length of Losson’s cock in a feverish attempt to taste the seed he has to offer.

He’s never come like this before - it’s so smooth and fluid and it hardly feels like anything at all. Just the warm tingling of electricity through his gut as he releases into Haarlep’s mouth. He rocks his hips into him, allowing the incubus to drink down every drop he has to share. Losson’s fingers comb through Haarlep’s hair, watching how those eyelashes flutter as he finally opens them to meet his gaze. Truly a sight - an overly affectionate incubus operating as his own personal wake up alarm. Losson strokes his cheek as Haarlep pulls his cock from his mouth, cleaning him up from the slick trails of saliva.

“I’d say you taste divine,” Haarlep purrs, assisting in pulling Losson’s trousers back up. “But I’m afraid I’ve never experienced it. I’ll just have to assume that you and celestials must taste the same.” Losson watches the demon slink up his torso and curl up at his side, arms wrapping over his shoulders. Losson affords him the moment to bask in the afterglow of a job well down before he has to stir the creature in order to get himself up.

“You’re too kind, sweetness,” Losson says as he sits himself up in the bed, exhaling with a chilly breath. “I have things to take care of this morning so I’m afraid I’ll have to leave for a while; can you manage without me?”

“Are you going to tease Raphael again?” the fiend asks with a smirk, fit of his kind. “I’ll be sad to miss it, but I can imagine.”

Losson can only offer a smirk as he slinks his way to his feet, stretching as he stands upright. He combs his fingers through Haarlep’s hair again - he really does make a lovely elf. But a question lingers in his mind - what does this incubus look like when he hasn’t been glamoured. When he hasn’t borrowed the forms of others who form a sexual pact with him. He surely must have his own appearance. He clearly didn’t always look like Raphael. Devils and demons could change as they desired, so did Haarlep ever appear as he wished? Was this elven form just a non-infernal version of his true appearance? It would be a question for another day, another time.

He had such an odd bit of sympathy for fiends.

“I think I shall,” Losson said, stroking his fingertips beneath Haarlep’s chin, watching as he stretched toward his hand like that of a cat. His feline-like traits were plentiful and in a way, Losson found it rather cute. “I have an errand to run before I go though, need to catch up with some former coworkers, ask for some advice.”

“Advice on how to please Raphael?” Haarlep asks, sighing warmly as he rests in Losson’s palm. “You need only look like him if you wish to satisfy him. He’s an easy man to pleasure. If you mean receiving pleasure in return, I’m right here.” Oh that was a good line, Losson can’t help but smile in response. If he had to use words alone to determine Haarlep’s infernal legacy, that was enough of a demonstration as required.

“No, no - I’m quite capable of pleasing myself if Raphael isn’t up to the task,” he and Haarlep share a bit of laugh at the devil’s expense. “He has his own private quarters at my old place of employment, I suspect I may ask my former coworkers about his goings on there. Maybe they can offer me a little insight.”

“So devious,” Haarlep says. “Using his own agency against him. I’d quite like to see what comes of that.”


And it is precisely that agency that takes Losson by surprise when he arrives at Sharess’s Caress that afternoon. He had to see for himself how likely it would be for Raphael to dare show himself in that den of depravity, in which Losson had spent many a great evening. His arrival is welcomed warmly by friends and colleagues alike but what truly has him taken by surprise is the presence of a pair of drow that had only just begun their employment around the time of his departure.

He is quick to tuck the loose white and rose streaks behind the ear of the girl, Nym, and kiss her cheek lightly, and in turn, take the hand of her brother, Sorn and affectionately pepper along his knuckles. “Why the two of you - I have heard a great many a story about your roles here.” Losson compliments as the three of them take to collapsing in an affectionate tangle on one of the many couches in the back room of the brothel. He has no intentions of slipping into their private quarters for a romp - although they make it clear they’ll cut him quite the discount.

(“The only discount I want comes in the form of those things you do for no one else but your favorite clients.” came his response, issuing a laugh throughout the room).

He knows he’s on a time table. A limited amount of leisure could be afforded to him before he had to finish what the Dead Three started. But he needed to indulge while he still could - Losson was quite sure that when all was said and done not only would his soul be forfeit, but it would be severed into shreds by all the benefactors who had a stake in it.

Sorn kisses upon his neck and makes a comment, asking if someone else has been nibbling on him recently - several someones, Losson is quick to point out. Both he and Nym share an excited laugh at those prospects. Losson cannot help but ask them who they’d rather hear about - the vampire, the cambion or the incubus. Or perhaps they had interest in someone else? Just as his soul had many stakes in it, his body had even more.

But it is amidst this cheerful engagement of drink and decadence and reunions of friends and colleagues new and old that the curtain parts. A heavy cascade fills the air with the tingle of sulfur along with it. But along with sulfur, a familiar fragrance. An audacious, floral one belonging to a devil Losson was quite keen about knowing better. With arms draped across the back of the chaise lounge he shared with the pair of drow, Losson’s eyes follow the figure entering the room. He is not an unfamiliar guest to anyone present but only moments prior did he find himself all to eager to get to the sordid details about his apparently atrocious bed behavior.

He found himself rather lucky he had not quite shared those specifics yet.

“It’s not often you come to join us back here, Raphael,” Nym comments, intrigue heavy in her voice as she leans forward, elbows resting upon her knees. Losson withdraws his arms from behind the twins and starts to rise to his feet.

“Finally decide to take advantage of your employee benefits?” Sorn offers a chuckle, sitting himself up on the arm of the chair, as if presenting himself as goods for inspection.

Raphael does not have a scornful look upon his face, in fact, he’s actually quite difficult to read. And Losson knows damn well he’s still holding onto that ring he’d swiped from him the day prior. He wonders, as he sits there among the employ of the establishment, if the twins knew of Raphael’s infernal legacy. If their could tell that the smoldering odor of smoke that came with Raphael’s presence was not due to choice but simply a fiendish trait he could never quite shake. Or perhaps Losson was just so accustomed to the smell of devils that the scent always seemed to linger on the back of his tongue.

What does surprise Losson is the surprisingly charming way Raphael greets the twins - He takes Sorn’s hand and much like Losson had, kisses it almost lovingly. “My favorite pair of belladonnas,” he says, tone warm and sultry as he moves to Nym, kissing her cheek sweetly as she stands to greet him. “The offer is, as always, tempting and sumptuous, but alas I have some business to attend to.” His eyes dart toward Losson. “With this common cobblestone weed.”

The drow both stifle a laugh, causing Losson to playfully shove at them both. “You wound me, I thought I could at least be something akin to crabgrass.”

“And risk a wildfire?”

Losson hisses; that was a good comeback.

“With Losson?” Nym asks. “You so rarely come visit the rest of us, you know he taught most of us what we know, don’t you?” Nym presses a hand to Raphael’s chest, allowing him to hold his hand at the small of her waist momentarily. He only produces a laugh in response, holding it close to her ear so that his breath tickles her - she giggles and slips free, returning to Losson’s side.

“I’m afraid it’s business of the boring variety,” Losson sighs, exchanging a glance with the devil as if to ask ‘Is it? What do you want?’ “Perhaps we can arrange for something a little more exciting later, but he is - unfortunately - my reason for stopping by today. I was hoping to catch him. If he didn’t show I at least would have the chance to see my two favorite protegés.”

The temporary farewells among them take longer than expected and Losson can sense Raphael’s impatience growing. He eventually takes to start leaving, disrespecting the art of a goodbye, thus urging Losson to follow suit. Raphael’s presence in the main lobby and bar of the brothel seems to be a showstopper. Regular patrons and employees alike stop to murmur momentarily as he passes by, Losson in tow. He takes it that Raphael’s appearance within the brothel is a rarity and a treat, leaving him to wonder -

“So do you work here?” he asks after a moment, waiting for the opportune chance when most ears were out of reach. “Because if you do, how come we never met. I worked here for the better part of a decade, and the twins had only just started when I was about to leave.”

This stops the devil in his path, causing him to turn, glowering at Losson with a disgust that Losson hadn’t seen since, well, yesterday. “Me? Work here?” He makes a nauseated sound. “As if this hovel deserved someone like me.”

“Mm, right, their clientele is supposed to be quite skilled at their jobs, I think they’d have to offer refunds if you were here. Haarlep though he could -” He is silenced as Raphael grabs Losson by the shoulder and all but throws him through the doorway of the Devil’s Den, slamming the door behind him. He feels the walls shudder and for the briefest of seconds he could swear the room had been cast in flame. Losson stumbles, falling to the ground of the ornately designed rug beneath his feet, and the fiend stands over him, human façade still firmly in place. He steps toward Losson, his foot stamping upon his chest. And he smiles.

“I have a room here,” he corrects, seemingly too distracted by Losson’s string of insults of his performance to come up with any sort of clever comeback. “I pay enough for permanent lodging that I am offered whichever company I desire.”

Losson purses his lips, trying to push himself up from the ground, but Raphael’s weight falls upon him harder. “You know this?” he gestures upwards at the fiend. “This whole thing you’re doing right now? You’d be great at this dom thing if you just could keep your dick up. You kind of make me want to misbehave a bit, see if you’re willing to punish me for my disrespect and insolence, maybe get you to pull my hair and rough me up.” He laughs, trying to push himself up again, this time with Raphael’s foot relenting. Losson manages to sit upon the floor, rubbing where the foot had been pressed, catching his breath a bit.

“Yes, that’s what everyone expects from me,” Raphael scoffs. “Gods forbid an infernal be interested in anything other than being such a rampant, power hungry figure - let a man turn his brain off and enjoy a little subservience why not?”

“Oh, so you admit it?” Losson asks, getting to his feet, dusting himself off.

“I never denied it, I simply was not fond of your methods of getting me to reveal it to you.” Lossons gaze narrows, that of complete doubt. Raphael’s eyes roll and he steps away from the human. “Alright, yes, I denied it, but your methods were unorthodox and shameful.”

“I thought you liked a little shame?”

“I do.”

“Right, when it comes from your father.”

Now isn’t the time to discuss that.

“Yes, but I can see that between throwing me to the ground and me mentioning him, your pants seem to have gotten a bit tighter, so we’re going to need to address the hollyphant cock in the room.” He smiles and he notes the visible way Raphael’s shoulders sag as he - surprisingly - begins unfastening the closures of his attire. “Not even going to ask me if I’m interested? I might be busy you know.”

“You came here when you’re supposed to be securing me the Crown of Karsus. You aren’t busy.” Raphael snaps, removing the first layer, hanging it on a hook past the doorway into the bedroom as he busies himself with the blouse underneath.

“Touché, you’ve got me there. What can I say, a man likes to cut loose - though I can’t say I was actually expecting you to come find me this time.” Losson follows after Raphael, watching as the blouse slides from his shoulders and, ooh damn - he had always expected his human form to have something of a more portly build. A wine gut perhaps. But his back is so smooth and unmarred, nary a blemish or bruise. There is not precise definition to the way his back is exposed but Losson can see how his shoulder blades curve when he moves his arms, as if shaking out the pair of wings that does not travel in this form.

He likes what he sees.

“You’ve,” Raphael clears his throat. “Preoccupied my thoughts.”

And so Losson laughs, stepping behind the devil, realizing that his partial undress is his way of encouraging this warlock to come closer. To come and touch him. To make that lazy handjob seem like only a tasting pour of a fine flight of flavors for what’s to come. His lips press into Raphael’s shoulder, kissing upwards to his neck. He hears how the devil’s voice softens into a sigh, far gentler than the hisses of the day prior. Raphael cranes his neck to the side as Losson slips his arms around his waist, stroking the patches of dark hair of his abdomen, slipping his way close to his ear.

“Just say you got off thinking of me fucking you.” He teases, breath heavy in Raphael’s ear. “It won’t be a fantasy much longer.”

Notes:

okay also?
feel free to comment on this, I got two other bg3 fics in the works. one is your standard tav/astarion fic with my tav (who is coded as a dullahan) and another featuring fucking Kar'niss that hot drider from act 2 (and monster porn). anyone want that stuff? ill gladly share it. my tavs are all wildly different people. no durge fics yet, but stay tuned.

as for Mephistopheles - this portrayal is a culmination of a bit of research of Mephistopheles throughout Forgotten Realms canon over the years as well as my own experience with him as a player of dnd for over 20 years. a tldr for him in canon Forgotten Realms - he is a somewhat neurotic, research obsessed wizard with a love of academia and a hatred of always being in second place to Asmodeus who often regards him as almost a servant, despite them being equal in power. So you guys get glasses wearing, uptight fancy dressed wizard devil with a meanstreak he keeps composed for the sake of propriety.

as always - I help moderate a small kink friendly bg3 discord server found here: https://discord.gg/zBVBRSXfsv
you can hear me scream about ideas for this fic such as me not really knowing the details of Losson's warlock pact and realizing the alternate plot to this fic is "a bunch of sex workers try to make Raphael's dick work"

Chapter 5: crossroads and forks can be something so intimate

Notes:

alternate chapter title: fellas is it gay to let your doppelganger give you aftercare

hey guys look! a lore drop about Losson! :D

anyways hi, im no longer sick with covid, hence why this one actually took a few days to finish up. it's still hastily beta'd because i have dnd in an hour and wanted to get this out before I spend my evening drowning in dice.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

There is something so warmly inviting about the way Raphael reacts to Losson’s hands over his stomach. The way he clutches at the leather strap of his belt, pulling it taught before loosening it and sliding its tab through the notch holding his pants closed. Raphael is oddly welcoming, hand upon Losson’s in encouragement. He wonders, still running his mouth along the side of the devil’s throat, if Korrilla had spoken to him. Had told him that this silly fool of a warlock wanted to show him a good time. Who knows? Whatever Raphael had been passing off as sex recently was apparently not even very enjoyable for him.

Ah, so, maybe that was it. Maybe Raphael wanted to know how it felt to be seduced for once. By someone other than an incubus whose very design was to romance, seduce and arouse. It was obvious that the man was good at charming people. Ordinary people, that is. He was clever and cunning with his words, even capable of flattery if he so chose. But following it up, allowing his actions to speak for himself? He was all bravado, none of the boldness. He did want to learn, but the more Losson allowed himself to touch the devil’s flesh - far cooler in temperature than the pink infernal and patch skin from the day prior - the more he realized that the man needed to think it over. Deals such as this often required more than just a split second decision after all.

“On the bed,” Losson murmurs into the crook of his neck, stepping him forward. “Lay down on your stomach, head on the pillow.” He loosens his arms from around Raphael’s waist and gives his clothes a slight tug, allowing for him to choose to remove the layers of clothing before laying down. Which he does, but it’s clunkier and far less sensuous than Losson hoped. He stops him before he gets on the bed. “No, no. Do that again - pull them back up -” He hears the start of a protest in Raphael’s throat before he seems to register why. “Now let them fall, smoothly, don’t just let them drop.” The devil gathers his trousers back up, pulling them up towards his hips again before this time he hesitates, then he steps from Losson, the clothing now sliding over his legs as he approaches the bed, allowing himself to step from the ankles more smoothly. Losson gets only a little peek at his bare ass before Raphael assumes what is clearly a more comfortable form. “Love the flourish at the end, well done.” He says, now entirely amused by the way the man lays upon the bed, resting his head and arms upon the pillow, back of his body exposed to the warlock.

“And what are you going to do, exactly?” he asks, resting his head comfortably, turning to face Losson who remains a few feet away. His tail flicks almost flirtatiously, paired in such lovely timing with the words. He’d almost be impressed if he were not sure that Raphael was still holding on to a bit of that front of pride.

“Well,” Losson says, approaching the bed, hand outstretched to run over the stained wood of the nightstand before he allows his fingers to brush the fabric of the comforter surrounding him. “I would like to have my way with you, bury that smug face of yours into the pillow so that you cannot scream for me without bearing the suffocating heat surrounding you. I’d like to crawl behind you, bend you forward so you’re all but hidden away from me with naught but a hole waiting for my intrusion.” He brushes his fingers over the devil’s lips, perhaps wishing, perhaps hoping that Raphael might suck on them in the same way Haarlep does. “I’d like to spill into you, remind you of what it means to feel powerless and at the mercy of someone who can either fill you with your every heart’s desire…or your every worst nightmare.” There is the briefest shift of Raphael’s lips - the man’s tongue but only lightly tracing one of the fingers. He withdraws his hand. “Now, now, Raphael - If you want something of me in your mouth, you’ll have to earn it.”

For a moment, Losson thinks he has Haarlep in this bed. The way Raphael’s eyes soften, the way his lips purse. The way his entire demeanor relaxes, his tongue still resting at the edge of his lower lip, as if completely shattered that the finger was drawn away. He likes this look on him. Likes how Raphael has decided to lower his guard. How he’s concluded that Losson may very well be an acceptable alternative of a lover. And he sees something on Raphael’s face that he has not seen in…

Centuries.

For a moment, Losson is gone. He’s sitting on a fence in worn down, muddy clothes, panting heavily as he rests. Bruised and bloodied from some sort of scrap - something that clearly has left him fighting for his life. He’s no more than fifteen, still new to the world. Still novice to it all. Still but a common human with nothing but a name and his own damnable pride. Sitting on the lower rung of the fence is another boy, roughly the same age. But this one different. Very different. A tiefling, slate blue in color and bruised to the Hells and back with blotches of indigo covering his face. He is not seated quite as comfortably as Losson is, so he hops down, seating himself on the grass in front of the tiefling. His horns - four of them - are broken; sawed off, an act of trying to remove the fiend from the boy.

Losson pats the ground next to him, urging the tiefling to climb from the rung of the fence and sit by his side. It takes a moment of coaxing but he does just that. He smiles, tucking loose straw blonde hair from his face, hiding it behind his ear. “They really did a number on you, huh?” he asks, leaning in to inspect the other boys face. “You’re out now, they won’t get you again.”

The expression on the tiefling’s face softens but then winces as Losson grabs his chin, turning his head to the side. “That hurts,” he murmurs, gaze torn away from the human in the grass in front of him. Losson grimaces, but it is that of worry as he releases his hand, concerned he may have hurt the other boy. “No, no, it’s okay - I know what might make it feel better.”

“Yeah?” Losson asks, hesitantly withdrawing his hand, an apologetic frown on his lips, also trying to keep from locking eyes with the boy, who now has a playful little smile on his mouth.

“Maybe kiss it better?”

Losson hears the suggestion and is quick to oblige, leaning in to press a light, affectionate kiss on this little infernal’s cheek - only to be scooped into his arms, flung back into the tall grass in an eruption of laughter. A cheering coming from the tiefling declaring, “I’m free! I’m free - I won’t ever have to go back there - I’m free!” before the two boys roll about, happiness their shield before they lay still, offering Losson a glimpse at the softest, sweetest smile he could imagine on a fiends lips.

“What now?” Losson asks as their fit of laughter begins to die down, the two boys, hands linked left to gaze at the rosy sky overhead. The tiefling turns to look at Losson who in turns shares the gaze. There is something truly sweet in the way their eyes meet, smiles dancing over their lips as the tiefling rolls to his side, scooting closer to Losson. The air grows cold and the human boy shivers but the tiefling is not about to let him freeze. He wraps his arms around Losson before he rolls toward him, pinning him slightly. A daring, devious look washes over them both for a moment - they both fully intended to take the phrase 'romp in the hay' literally. But not quite yet. The tiefling runs his hand down the side of Losson's face as another chill rushes through the air around them, a breeze that almost dares to invite snow, despite the summer months raging strong. He leans back, sitting upon Losson's lap, watching as the human pushes himself up on his elbows. The cold air intrigues him - almost as much as the way four enormous, slate wings begin to unfold from his partner's back, blocking out the last of the sun's remaining rays.

“It means I can now tell you who I am."

Losson returns to reality, shaking the distant memory from his mind with a chill running up his spine. His mother used to tell him those spontaneous shivers were the sign of a devil’s hand upon his shoulder. Whether this was true or not, it didn’t matter - especially considering how it was his hand resting upon Raphael’s. He knows that relaxed smile well, and for a moment, his heart yearns. It strains within his ribcage, wishing for the briefest of flashes he could be back within the icy prison of Mephistar and - he was here. He was present in this moment. He shoves it aside. Shoves that sudden ache away and he lowers himself, lowers enough that he can lift Raphael’s chin from his nestled arms to meet his.

He hates how he notices how youthful he appears when he casts off the mask of power he’s so obsessed with. He hates that Raphael presents himself as so young and sweet and he can’t decide whether or not this is worse than the aggressor he experienced the day before. No, he doesn’t hate it - not at all. He thinks he prefers the agitated, resistant and volatile devil who challenged him. Funny, he’d never figured he’d enjoy a brat; he never had before. But clearly Raphael had changed his tune overnight.

When he’s not being indignant about it, Raphael actually is capable of kissing quite well; Losson’s surprised to find that not everything about him is as atrocious as he anticipated. His lips are plump and damp and provide a smooth, almost flavorful embrace as Losson guides himself on to the bed, still cupping his chin to move with him. He doesn’t allow for it to remain as he disconnects from him, jerking his head forward to encourage Raphael to tuck his head away again. “You’ll be squirming soon enough,” he muses, having kicked off his shoes in his efforts to climb aboard the mattress. He rests his weight over Raphael’s legs, positioned near his calves so he has a fine view of the peaking curves of the devil’s bare ass.

He concludes that it truly is unfortunate that he has a nicely built body when all was said and done, but absolutely no clue how to use it to please himself completely - and others. Losson isn’t bashful as he adjusts his position, running his hand over each cheek of Raphael’s rear. His wings jolt upright, shuddering at the abrupt contact before he relaxes. If that’s his reaction to a new person (other than Haarlep) giving his ass a squeeze, he was in for a treat. Losson laughs softly, making a split decision to change where he felt this would be most comfortable opting to rest to the devil’s side. His palm gives a firm clutch to Raphael’s ass as he moves, pulling out a strangled ‘Ooh,’ from the man, seeming to be following the order of hiding his face quite well.

Losson leans up to Raphael’s ear, giving a slight tug to the back of one of his horns to pry his head from his resting position. He smiles lowly and then closes in, kissing the devil’s cheek before his voice hushes into his ear. “Say ‘cloves’ if you want me to stop at any time.” He murmurs, nibbling the shell of the ear to the point before withdrawing. His hand touches upon the back of Raphael’s neck, his flesh instantly raising with goosebumps as he guides his touch lower to rest upon his ass once more. He squeezes him lightly before drawing his fingertips between the cheeks. He hears the light whine of protest, watching as his shoulders tense and then relax once more. Losson’s fingers wriggle between the cheeks, stroking in slow, caressing sweeps, lightly prodding as he finds the knot of flesh he’d (hopefully) soon be shameless decimating.

He feels Raphael’s bodily protest once he begins to slide his fingers in, having had to step away momentarily to scour the bedroom for something to aid as lubricant. For as lavish and stylish as the room was (especially considering where it was located!) Losson took longer than he was hoping to find something suitable to slather his fingers in. “You’re so desperate but you can’t even be arsed to keep some lube in your nightstand,” he chuckles lightly as the first of his fingers begins to creep into the devil’s entrance. Raphael’s body jerks at the intrusion and Losson can only laugh - he can hear the devil begin to mouth the first few letters of the safe word he’d offered, but his head shakes against the cushions as if trying to encourage himself to see this through. Losson lifts himself up, not on his knees, but with his spare hand he holds himself up, leaning to the side of the fiend’s cheek, brushing his lips against it. A soothing offering as he prods the tip of his second finger, his ring one, to join the other.

“So composed,” he sighs, his kiss breezing against Raphael’s cheek. “Barely a sound. I thought I was going to be blessed to hear your cries of bliss, but I suppose silence will have to do.” He is careful with his word choice, he wants to use as many hissing syllables as he can. He wants the tingle of those letters to ring in Raphael’s ears as he slips his fingers back and forth, perhaps almost lovingly stroking him inside. He wants to instill faith in him. Encourage him to raise his voice. He wants to praise him for coming to him so willingly. He wants to see how many compliments it took before he came.

He trails away, noting the grumbling in protest as his cheek is left exposed. Another hum of amusement tickles the back of Losson’s throat as he glances back at the devil’s rear, two fingers slowly working back and forth within him. “Raphael, if you want me to go any further, I’m going to need you to sing for me,” Losson requests, opting to push his two fingers in as deep as he can muster, giving them a bit of a wiggle and a flesh so to push and prod at Raphael from all directions. “Head up, no more suppressing those whimpers with the pillows. It was all well and good once you were getting comfortable, but every moment you resist is another moment I’m wasting instead of securing you that crown.”

He glimpses the way Raphael begins to turn his head, separating his mouth from the surrounding cushions. Much better. Losson prods a little more, hoping to make his point clear. A raspy inhale catches his ear, leading to a smirk on the warlock’s face. It was certainly a start. A start that also gave him a slight clue of how to proceed. With his hand sliding back, Losson begins to slowly motion his fingers - in, out, in, out - flexing his furthest knuckles at the apex of each thrust inwards. “Yes,” he begins. “Soon enough that Crown will be seated upon your head - rightly in place of the only man deserving of such power.”

Yes ,” Raphael chokes out a gasp at the next thrust inwards, his body stretching forward in such a pleasant, positive jerk, practically dragging his cock against the mattress. Losson wouldn’t have been surprised if he came in that very moment. But to his surprise he hadn’t. However. . . His hips begin to twitch, jerking into the bed with small, haphazard thrusts.

“Ah, ah, ah~” Losson scolds, leaning toward his cheek again. “If you’re going to fuck the blankets you will do it in tandem.” His index finger which had yet to make its way into him began to stroke the skin it rest upon - the phrase ‘devil’s taint’ sounded too funny in his head, and he couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. But stroking it? Oh that drew something loud out of Raphael whose head pulled back with a strained sigh. “Now, Raphael,” he says, enunciating the syllables of his name, slinking up against his back, his fingers still slipping rhythmically back and forth. “How can I be so sure you’ll be able to control all that power if you can’t control yourself.” He draws his index finger over Raphael’s taint before slowly allowing it to worm its way into him as well to join the light plunges of his hand. “Why should you ever wear the Crown of Karsus if you come the moment someone praises you?” He holds himself out over his back, not quite laying upon him, but hovering closer enough that if Losson were to just pull his trousers down and line his cock up, he could easily start fucking the man. “Do you really want the masses to worship you only to lose your load in your drawers at every turn?”

Yet, he withdraws as he catches the way Raphael begins to rut against the bed - his hips moving in beautiful harmony with his own fingers. Losson chuckles - splendid. “So you can take orders, good, good .” He purrs the second iteration of the word.

What a truly strange man. He could go from praising him, fueling the flames of desire for more power, more control - and then completely turn the praise around into shameful slings of insults, harassing him for his performance, and no matter which he did, Raphael was enjoying every bit of it. Talk about desperation. A few more humps against the bed and Raphael was going to be spent and…Losson was not about that. His fingers slide free and he wipes the mess upon the blanket - Raphael could have it laundered later if he got upset about it, and his hand encloses around the base of his tail, resting just inches above the reasonably loosened up hole of his ass. His hands are still slick from the lubricant and he decides that perhaps he has the opportunity to do something unusual. Something fun. Something he really wish he tried with Haarlep first.

Upon his withdrawn fingers, Raphael still continues to grind and squirm into the bed only resisting once the shiver of his tail being grasped runs through him. His body clenches - Losson stifles a laugh from watching as his ass tenses up. With amusement taking hold, he tests the waters, trailing his enclosed hand around the base of Raphael’s tail, guiding it upward as if he were about to start gripping the devil’s cock instead.

What are you doing? ” Raphael growls, his tone reminiscent of a displeased cat, preparing to swat. Losson’s hand slips downward to the base of his tail once more and the growl turns into a mewl.

“Not used to having your tail fondled, are you?” He asks, stroking a few more times - he does not run his hand over the full length, of course - it would diminish the sensation - just a few inches of it. No more than a foots worth of the appendage. Losson treats it much like he would a cock, jerking his wrist, squeezing where necessary and after a moment of deliberation - dragging his tongue over it. He had to know. Had to know how Raphael would react. How he’s gasp and claw a the sheets. How he’d wriggle about like an untouched virgin. Losson had only used his tongue briefly on Raphael and mostly on the most mundane and chaste of spots. But his tail? He wants to hear Raphael beg for him to suck his cock. He wants to give him an idea of what his mouth could do.

He holds the base of his tail, massaging the crests where it meets his spine, stroking each ridge as his mouth leaves damp, hungry kisses song its under side. Raphael swings his tail, but not to shake him off, but as if to offer more to the human taunting him. His torso raises, his wings fluttering and smacking nearby furniture in a sudden frenzy of resistance. Not resistance - resilience. Color Losson quite proud. He could feel how Raphael was trying to hold himself back. Keep himself from coming too soon.

Before long, his hips raise, offering himself. Presenting himself. Presenting his tail for Losson to indulge in. He gets clever. Gets greedy. One hand still on the base of his tail, the other dropping between his legs to cup the now dangling sack. Raphael buries himself into the bed, torso low and rear raised high - delicious. He rolls the devil’s balls in his hand and he hears the desperate little cry echo throughout the room. “Hells, if you’re going to touch me like this, at least fuck me .” He chokes, voice sticky from thickened saliva.

“Patience, Raphael.” He murmurs just loud enough as he runs his tongue over the underside of the base of his tail once again. “I’m not done getting my fill yet.” His tongue travels down the few inches, finding the very hole he’d spend some time pleasuring and surely he begins to prod at it with his tongue letting it slither about at the ring of flesh, tracing it before closing his mouth over it. He strokes the tail again in another lavish gesture while allowing his other hand to trail away from his sack to ghost his palm over his cock. Just a taste of how dangerously close he was to grabbing the devil’s length, to give him something more satisfying to fuck into.”

Touch me, just fucking touch me ,” he hears the would-be Archdevil beg. He laughs against his asshole before pulling his mouth free.

“Say ‘Please, Losson.’ He requests.

“Bite me.”

He does.

“Wrong answer. Try again.” Raphael’s hips twitch and he thrusts - forcing his cock into Losson’s hand. He withdraws it quickly and makes a scolding tsking sound before nipping him again. “For that I should leave you here untouched for the rest of the day, but I’ll give you another chance. If you beg for it a bit, really let me know what you want, I may indulge you.” He can feel the heat of disdain from Raphael as the words tingle in his ears. He cannot say no to a fair exchange. But saying please apparently is something devil’s cannot abide by, even when it comes to getting off. “Go on,” he says, mouthing again at his asshole, sucking the flesh around it as if to encourage him. A little motivation to hear this smarmy prick of a man beg. “If I like what I hear I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

It was all about contracts and negotiations between them, and as Losson mouths and tastes him as he torments the sensitive nerve endings around his tail. He waits. Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten sec–

“I beg of you,” Raphael snivels. “I beg of you, please - touch me. Grab my cock - grab it and tug, jerk, squeeze, stroke, fondle and caress it. I can’t take it, I-” His breath catches in his throat. “I need it. I need it…” Another hitch and for the briefest of pauses Losson could swear he’d made the man cry. “If you’re going to make me hold back this long, at least make me come in your hand.”

Truthfully - he was impressed. Haarlep was still better at begging. He sounded so much needier and excited about begging. But this desperation? This desperation from Raphael that sounded as if he was on the verge of melting if he didn’t get a hand jerking him off soon? Oh that was certainly a worthy performance. He might have to reward him a little extra for that toon. He resumes the tonguing of his asshole, but this time with a deep, hungry slurp before his mouth pulls back – and his palm between his legs slides along his cock.

“Hells, thank you-! ” Raphael cries out, thrusting rapidly into Losson’s palm. He considers pulling it away, but he can’t bring him to punish Raphael after that surprising presentation. He does see it as a perfect opportunity to tease him - only for a second, of course. His hand pulls away and Losson gets himself upright. He’s not going to fuck Raphael - not yet. This was still only a start for the two of them. But he does get himself to his knees, hips aligned with the fiend’s ass. He simply wanted an easier way to reach around his body to grab at his cock as he grinds on him - that was all.

“Much better,” He praises, hand quickly and easily finding comfort in how he holds Raphael’s dick again. Losson doesn’t have to do anything special as he jerks him off - Raphael was the sort of guy who could probably come if the wind blew against him the right way. He does have the added benefit of the devil’s tail resting against his torso, as he grinds his clothed hips against his ass, however. Maybe he could get Raphael to beg to be fucked too. He couldn’t wait to hear how that sounded. “Now Raphael,” Losson finds himself gasping as well as he rocks against him as if daring to pull his cock out at any time and begin truly fucking this devil as deeply as he deserved. “If I get you off - you have to do something for me. Do you understand.”

And to Losson’s surprise, he gets a response he was not expecting.

Yes, sir .”

A smile creeps on his face. So that’s the sort of affirmation Raphael was keen to give. He’ll take it. “Very good,” he praises again, feeling the fiend’s thrust into his hands again. “I’m going to order you,” he says between rocks of his pelvis, holding one of Raphael’s hips still, suggesting that this could be a future activity between them. “Maybe with only my voice, maybe with magic, maybe with the damn tadpole , and you’re going to listen to me.” He holds himself over Raphael’s back again. “And you’re going to obey me; do precisely as I say - and.” He feels heat in his own stomach and he slows his own dry thrusts (well, not entirely dry due to the damp splotches forming on his pants). “You’ll be sure to thank me when we’re done.”

Another bleating of “ Yes, sir .” from the devil and Losson has to tug at his collar to keep himself composed.

Sir was not a title many of his subs in his past had used, and this - this was doing something to him.

Losson offers a few more words of praise and shame alike - Raphael reacts similarly to each, as if unable to decide which he enjoys more. But it does not take many of those before Losson decides to amp up the speed of his wrist and Raphael’s voice turns into a slur of incoherence and spills himself all over Losson’s hand. It’s hotter than he’s used to - he’d almost believe it could burn less tough mortals. But there’s more than he expects and it spills between his fingers and collects in his palm before dribbling over his wrist with the excess landing upon the blanket.

He held out much longer than he had anticipated. In a strange way, Losson was…proud?

He smears his hand upon the blanket to rid himself of the devil’s seed - now he would certainly need to have the bedding laundered. Losson leans over him and kisses along his shoulders, his wings sagging whilst his body relaxes. Any moment now, Raphael would come to his senses and start barking at Losson to get over himself. Shame would come to him faster than most, he suspected. But, that only meant Losson had to keep him in the mood before that happened. He runs his mouth over Raphael’s jaw, his tail flopping to the side with a thump. “Much better,” he whispers, kissing along his cheek, offering a few post-pumps of his cock. “You held it much longer this time.”

The noises of protest begin from Raphael but Losson is not about to let him slip out from behind the curtain of subspace so soon. He was enjoying himself - even though he knew later Raphael would deny it. He continues to run his hand along the fiend’s cock, making an effort to work him up again. He still came sooner than Losson had wanted, but still managed to keep himself hard longer. He hoped (heh) it was from wanting to offer a better performance today. He begins to sigh again, eyes fluttering shut while his body moves with the intrusive hand once again. “Are - are we quite finished?”

“Not at all,” Losson answers, his hand slipping away once he’s pleased Raphael’s sufficiently worked up again. “You owe me now remember, we had an agreement.”

The sigh that comes from the infernal upon the bed reminds him of the ones bored dogs exhale when no one will play with them. Except in this case, Losson is all too willing to play. Raphael begins to roll over on the bed, careful of where his wings are placed. He offers something of a pleasing view for Losson to study. Infernal crests and ridges adorning his chest and torso, all the way to his hips and upper thighs. His skin is far rougher than (almost) anything else Losson has had the privilege to bed and in a way, he enjoys how flawed the cambion body is by comparison. He gestures after getting his fill of the display, hand motioning upwards.

“Get up.” he orders. “On your feet.”

He feels something tingle within him - it’s not the tadpole, far from it. But it throws his mind back to another familiar sensation. Seeing how Raphael lays there, arms now stretched over his head, something akin to an undeserving sense of accomplishment. Don’t look so smug, Losson finds himself mouthing as he watches how he lays there. But the words feel familiar on his lips.


“Don’t look so smug.” a much younger warlock, decades later, says as he watches the proud and deserving grin of Mephistopheles flash upon his lips. He is undressed and exposed for Losson’s viewing pleasure, lounging upon a finely dressed bed of rich satin. The Archdevil laughs to himself as he moves forward from the comforts of his bed, crawling over to his warlock with feline-like prowess. He is drunk on something - be it power or prosecco - and he’s experiencing a moment of giddiness and a need to indulge in his passing fancies. He’s not normally a promiscuous sort, but when he gets one of his overly confident warlocks into such a vulnerable position, how can he not?

“Come now,” he says, coolly (literally) as he gets Losson upon his back. “You didn’t possibly thank that you could lay with me and not expect me to crack you wide open, did you?” He speaks with such cunning and cleverness as he adjusts Losson’s body so that his legs are raised near the Archdevil’s hips. “You’re just like every warlock of mine - and every human there is. You think you’re so clever and cute.”

“I am,” Losson’s voice is cut off by a moaning hiss as fingers stroke between his legs, talon like fingernails ghosting over his thighs.

“Cute yes, clever, ehhh,” The devil laughs, positioning Losson to where he might be easily entered for a third time that evening. “You have your moments.” With a smooth, calculated roll of his hips as he aligns himself, the devil enters Losson with a slight groan, a blissful smile flickering upon his indigo lips.

The human’s back arches, practically laughing as the groan escapes him whilst he hooks his arms around his lover’s neck. “But I’m your favorite.” Mephistopheles does not respond to this as he holds Losson’s hips rocking back and forth, pushing his torso deeper and deeper into their bed.

“Is that what you think?” he asks, against his warlock’s throat. “Of all my servants, you’re the one I like most?”

Another gasp - another laugh - a light pull of the devil’s hair.

“Just the one you hate least.”


“Don’t look so smug,” Losson says with a practiced confidence as he waves a hand, calling upon a spell he learned for precisely this sort of occasion. His mouth opens and the way his words come out hold that of an eerie, ethereal ring. “ Rise .” He instructs, watching the way Raphael reels, as if dizzy - confused as to why he was now standing at the bedside. Smugness becomes Losson’s tool now as he adjusts himself at the bed’s edge, avoiding where he’d been leaving his smears of fluids. “Good, good, so you can succumb to charms now and then.” He teases this as the spell wears off. Raphael does not make for the bed again but instead seems to wait for his instruction. Another second or two - and Losson’s voice takes on the same hypnotic ring, casting the spell again. This time, “ Kneel .”

It’s a harsher, heavier maneuver than he anticipated as Raphael drops to the ground. It’s not a heavy one that could cause him pain, but rather sudden and definitely abrupt. He likes how Raphael looks. On his knees before him, hands resting upon his thighs - cock upright and aching to be touched again. But he was not the only one in need of a little release. Raphael got one already, now it was Losson’s turn.

“You’re only slightly better at this than I expected,” Raphael quips, his voice lowered as if trying to say it under his breath, but his words turn into another throaty groan as Losson extends his leg outward, pushing his bare foot against the cambion’s cock. There’s something thrilling to Losson as he now gets the chance to see Raphael’s face after this entire little outing. He looks positively demure, almost ashamed. He strains to avoid eye contact. Such effort being put into not letting Losson see how truly, horribly, horrendously, mind-numbingly badly he was enjoying it.

“Learned from the best,” He gloats. “Now come closer. I’m not done with you.” Raphael slides across the floor, wings folding behind his back to keep himself steady. Though Losson spares him the guilt of having his face examined, he does watch the rest of him. There is a part of Raphael that is itching to cut loose. To slip back into that mindset as he was having his ass tongued where he begged so greedily for Losson to touch him. Damnable infernal pride. It could drive a man to madness, but Losson had a thing for madness, didn’t he?

Losson’s hands are quick at tugging down his trousers; with a sigh he takes in how it feels to have the pressure and friction of cloth upon him released. He gives himself a few lazy tugs, brushing back some of the mess of blonde hair surrounding him. But only human, he’s nothing remarkable to Raphael - nothing so exotic of thrilling that he’d be squirming and itching to feel it inside him. If anything, Losson was quite sure, Raphael might be unimpressed. Let him. Just because a human cock was softer and smoother than most other people’s did not mean anything about its performance.

If Losson had to base every experience he had with only the most recent dicks he’d had the pleasure (or misfortune) of handling, he’d probably not have the best opinion of fiends.

(“Fun to touch, impressive to look at - disappointing carrying capacity. One out of Five stars.”)

He waits for some sort of snarky comment from the would-be archdevil, but none comes (heh). Raphael gets himself comfortable between Losson’s legs whilst he kneels and rests his forearms upon his thighs. He hesitates as if waiting for permission before a nod is given and with his right hand, Raphael closes his fingers around Losson’s cock. A most uncharacteristic groan rumbles from Losson’s chest. Not because Raphael was anything special, but because the heat from his palms is almost numbing. He’d thought that the swift, smooth and electrifying strokes from Haarlep would have prepared him for this sort of heat, but it is intense and he hopes beyond hope that Raphael would be able to provide something worthwhile.

In a way, he does. In the way he doesn’t wait to direct Losson’s cock into his mouth. With not a second to spare, his hand pushes on the back of Raphael’s skull, urging him to go as deep as he possibly can. It’s warm in there. He can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose but the heat encasing him is far more encompassing than it had been when he stole that fierce kiss the day before. And that’s when he feels it. Something very different from before.

Two tongues.

Split apart somewhere in the middle of a larger tongue, each half licking in opposition with one another. As one licked up, the other went down. He finds himself swearing - he can’t remember which language. Common? Infernal? Abyssal ? He couldn’t remember - but Raphael understood, whatever it was, and he laughs upon Losson’s cock, slurping hungrily. For all the teasing and bullying he’d done, he worried for a moment that he might come sooner than he intended as well. He’d never hear the end of it. From anyone. Raphael or otherwise. His head begins to rise and fall, forcing Losson to lean back, using his elbows to keep him as upright as he can muster while guiding the infernal tongues surrounding him.

So he knows how to do something well. That was certainly a plus.

Raphael holds his hands at the base of Losson’s shaft, his thumbs rubbing in small circles each time he brings his head back. He tastes him so lovingly - as if he’s been starving for this for ages. This was never what Losson had expected when he’d heard the phrase ‘devil worship’ in the past, but he would take it. He changes his grip - moving from his skull to his horns, mimicking the thumbing motion Raphael continues on his cock to the fiend’s protrusions as well. The hum of a whimper - Losson likes that. His breath hitches as he praises him, now completely transfixed in watching how this sorry excuse for a devil swallowed and slurped.

It’s only when his head slides up and pops off his cock, allowing Losson to watch his next trick does he decide what he wants next. He chokes on his saliva, mesmerized in how the split in his tongues wriggles at either side of his cockhead, alternating and taking turns at how to taste the preliminary fluid bubbling to the surface. He starts to buck into Raphael’s mouth once he lowers again, using those horns for stability, once more forgetting the language he’s speaking. He knows he’s being understood. Each instance of him trying to say “That’s right, a little deeper,” or “Slow down,” is said in a mutual tongue which Raphael obeys hungrily. Losson composes himself, sitting upright on the bed amidst his own lazy thrusts into Raphael’s maw, enjoying that sudden lurch each time he pushes into the back of his throat.

“Who knew you could suck cock better than most whores,” he laughs warmly, lowering a hand to stroke at Raphael’s cheek, coaxing him to wearily crack open a single eye. He allows himself to be witnessed with his mouth full, hands and thumb having had lowered to massage Losson’s testicles in the same circular patterns. “Is this where all your talent lies?” Losson’s voice is sickly sweet, affectionate and perhaps - to an untrained ear - romantic . “How lucky I am to have the worst fuck but the best head in all the hells.”

His fingers comb through his hair and Raphael sighs - Losson catches that this entire time, his hand has been between his legs, agonizingly jerking himself off again between the strokes. He’s struggling to keep himself back - adorable . He scratches at Raphael’s scalp and another moan reverberates and he strikes the back of his throat once more. He holds steady still with one hand upon a horn, the other lovingly rubbing the back of his head. A few more cooing, encouraging alternating sighs of approval coupled with shameful insults and he decides he’s held back long enough and gives Raphael what he so hungrily sought.

Losson fills Raphael’s mouth roughly; it does not help that the second it begins, the devil’s mouth opens as if surprised by the feeling of the orgasm near his throat. He moans against Losson’s cock, spend spilling out over the corner of his lips and over his chin.

Losson thinks, watching this display of the devil suddenly smeared with his cum, that if he dares spit it out - that’s it. No more. Deal broken.

But he doesn’t. With his mouth pulling free from Losson’s cock, he sees his lips purse closed and the muscles of his throat shift, tighten and then relax - devouring whatever had successfully managed to remain on his tongue. And still, Raphael continues to surprise him - as Losson reaches to grab some discarded clothing to wipe himself off, the devil resumes, licking clean the residual mess before it cools and becomes unappetizing.

“Would you look at that,” Losson chuckles, stroking Raphael’s cheek to wipe away some of the filth. “Who knew you were so much of a cum slut.” Cockiness (heh) stretches across his lips from ear to ear. “It’s a good look on you.” Losson slips away from Raphael, feeling the pleasant tension of the room begin to ease and normalcy begin to return. As he adjusts himself, tucking himself back into his pants, he bends toward the fiend, planting a playful little smack of his lips on his forehead. “I’m serious, you surprised me - that was much better than yesterday.” He tilts to the side, balancing on one leg to scoop up some of Raphael’s clothing, handing it to him as he squeezes his shoulder, rubbing gently.

With Raphael coming down from the high of it all, feverishly trying to wipe off whatever residue might be left on his face, he snatches the clothes from the human, almost feverishly pulling his blouse back on. Something akin to disgust strikes his face as Losson continues to rub at his shoulders - no matter how pleasant it might feel. “What in the hells are you doing?” he snaps, aiming to strike the hand from him.

“Little aftercare?” Losson says, faintly puzzled. “Does…Does Haarlep not do this for you?”

Another grimace, his upper lip pulling back in displeasure. “What are you talking about?”

“Aftercare? You know, where you and your partner help one another relax and come down after a solid fuck? Make sure you’re both doing alright?” The horror remains on the devil’s face. “...Haarlep doesn’t do aftercare?”

“When he’s finished I dismiss him and tend to matters myself, why would I need anyone else to do something like that?” Raphael manages to secure his trousers upon standing, and as he pulls them back into place, he restores his humanoid glamour. He reaches to his head, brushing back the hair that the pillows had rendered into a state of disarray and he begins to fasten his doublet. However, Losson beats him to the punch and begins to fasten each closure deftly, finishing with a light pat to his chest.

“Let him.” Losson says with a smile, extending his hand to tuck some of the still loose hair back behind his ear. “Drink some water.” He adds. “If you’re going to reject my offer this time, at least promise me you’ll hydrate a little.” Losson won’t push the matter further. Raphael isn’t keen on the idea of aftercare and he wasn’t about to cross that line with him. Losson finds his shoes and slips them on, tapping his toe to ensure they’re secure. He waits a moment, Raphael’s back now turned to him.


And all he can think, as he departs from the brothel: Please, gods, do not let this man fall in love with me .

Notes:

big shout out to everyone coming to check out the discord i help run! I do a lot of brainstorming in there and I like to have sounding boards. some folks in there have asked or suggested a few things to me and i will clarify: yes, Yurgir and the Archivist will both be making extended appearances in this fic. Not for a while still.

I also have other devils, cambions and fiends from Forgotten Realms I am aiming to include at some point also.
If you're interested in the discord, here you go! https://discord.gg/dfjESzcHhZ

We are a kink friendly and mature discord. Please keep in mind that this is an 18+ server!

now im gonna go scoot off and play my new rogue tiefling and hopefully not die.

Chapter 6: fluency in intimacy but this is a new dialect

Notes:

WHO IS READY FOR SOME FUCKNASTY INTIMACY.
There's only some smut in passing this chapter. But we have graphic stuff in other forms.

I am pre-emptively apologizing because guess who isn't in this chapter. yup. no raph.
I wanted to explore more of Losson's relationship with sex and intimacy before i move back to the smut so I can give you guys an idea of why he's with Astarion. I think some people might have been surprised by that. so i apologize for a very exposition heavy chapter and for Astarion centered content if you're not here for that. (get used to it, im writing a TavStarion fic which should be going up too).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

He wasn’t always a dom. Nor was he always a top. There were handfuls of people that Losson had met over the course of his many decades of life that piqued his interest enough that he’d be glad to sleep with them, regardless of what position he took. Mephistopheles was one of them. The two of them had switched off frequently over the centuries. It wasn’t uncommon for there to be periods of time where Losson had been railed so thoroughly he forgot what realm he was in. Sometimes he’d forget who he was fucking entirely - it didn’t bother Mephistopheles. As long as Losson didn’t suggest he was getting railed by Asmodeus. That was the only guaranteed way to ensure he would be thrown out of bed. Or worse, cut off from his magic until Mephistopheles literally and figuratively cooled down. It was during one of those times he teased his patron that Losson had been cut off for several years and took the time to dabble in other areas of magic, resulting in him being quite skilled with a violin.

His musical prowess allowed him to catch the eye of people without the need for utilizing his infernal connections. Music had a magic of its own that he’d figured out how to access through a bit of tenacity and impatience. In time he managed to figure out the lute and the lyre as well, and in no time he was plucking strings - of the musical and the heart variety. It offered him the chance to seduce people of different lifestyle. A different demographic. And most importantly his job at Sharess’s Caress.

It had been about five years since Sorn and Nym came to join the ranks of the highly skilled entertainers at the brothel. Somewhere in that time, they had gone from shy, easily flustered sweet young things just trying to make a living, to some of the most prominently sought after companions in the whole of the city. Losson liked to take credit for that. He taught them both plenty of his own tricks, sharing with each of them what it meant to be charming and seductive while feigning (or genuinely expressing) interest in their clientele.

There had been a fling for a short period with both of them; on the romantic side of things, that is. Losson always had a preference for men but Nym he found equally as satisfying as her brother. He hated to admit how he was dating them both simultaneously at the time, afraid it might cause something of a rift between them but they seemed rather content with the prospects.

It was Losson who suggested that if they really wanted to rake in clients, perhaps, if they were comfortable with it - advertise as a package deal. The right clients would devour that. A pair of gorgeous Underdark beauties for the evening? It was extravagant…and scandalous all the same. Going to a brothel was one thing, but going to a brothel and hiring twins for your evening of indulgence? Now that was truly something.

He had always, in some way or another, been involved in some aspect of sex work. Be it from organized brothels to selling services or turning tricks in taverns or on streets. To more luxurious positions as someone’s personal escort. It always paid decently. Always made ends meet. And more often than not made for a relatively comfortable life. He’d see clerics regularly to ensure he was cured of any sort of disease he could’ve picked up and made sure to disclose such to anyone who may have come in contact with him between curings. For all intents and purposes - Losson was safe about what he did.

Even when he let his lovers carve open his stomach in an honor to his goddess. That’s precisely what Abdirak had been for him. About twenty years prior, Losson was on a bit of a deviant streak, trying to find ways to satisfy itches he needed to scratch in newer, exciting ways. And perhaps this had led him down a road where he met a certain young cleric of Loviatar, at the time virtually unscarred, who was all too happy to teach Losson a thing or two about embracing her love.

He still has the scars on his abdomen.

(“It won’t kill me,” he had said. “My patron will see to it - he hasn’t let me die in the past three hundred and thirty years - he’s not about to let me die now.”)

(“How tempting,” Abdirak had purred as he began to drag the blade of a knife upon Losson’s stomach, slicing the flesh with the exquisite precision of a skilled butcher. “We shall see just how deep she will let me carve; how blinding your pain and how euphoric your faith in her, whether she be yours to embrace or not.”)

Encountering him again at that goblin camp was surprising to say the least. His body much older - somewhere in his 40s, given that he was human - and his face and abdomen decorated with scars in honor of his goddess. Flaws aside, he had aged beautifully - eyes sparkling, neatly groomed, hair brushed and lips just as talented as ever. Something about the encounter was probably where Astarion first started to feel the flicker of a flame for Losson as this warlock enthusiastically removed his shirt so that (once more) he could share in Abdirak’s faith.

Losson requested the others head back to camp when he was finished; they had some catching up to do.

And by catching up, this meant allowing Abdirak to bend him over the table in which he studied Loviatar’s teachings. He let his ex slam into him, digging his fingers into the open, flayed flesh of his back - unable to determine whether he was groaning from agony or thrill. He scraped at the table until his nails wore down to the tips, bloodying his fingers. He struck the table harshly until his thighs were bruised. His head grated against the stone surface until welts adorned his forehead and cheeks. Eventually, Losson came - splattering his seed upon the religious texts upon the table. Abdirak seemed positively delighted. Between the spend and the blood upon the table, surely Loviatar must be quite entertained by their entanglement.

There was no difference between torture and temptation when it came to sleeping with Abdirak. Both parties always wound up bloodied and injured. Both parties always wound up raw. Both parties wound up completely drunk on the afterglow.

Aftercare took a strangely erotic turn with Abdirak - cleaning wounds with the intention of using substances that would burn and sting. The piercing ache of needles stitching up open wounds. The peeling of coagulated blood off raw skin. Abdirak found the post-fuck suffering just as exquisite as what came during and before.

It was precisely why things didn’t last between them - too much and too often. Every now and then a fuck of this magnitude was fun, but Losson had a difficult time enjoying it as much as Abdirak had. It was a religious experience for him while for Losson, it was just a new way to explore kink. It wasn’t fair to Abdirak, even though he knew that Losson did not experience the same love for his goddess as he had. He deserved a partner who could experience the same level of enlightenment. Losson was not that person. For as phenomenal and fun and dangerous as the sex had been, there was no way he could keep with this sort of lifestyle.

He had loved Abdirak but…Love and sex were not often things that coincided for Losson. It was like mixing work and home. The overlap had to be done with the right sort of touch.

None of that romantic entanglement was there after Losson trudged away from Abdirak that evening. He did suggest they keep in touch a little more, in case the urge for such a fling ever came up again. Abdirak really had aged beautifully, and Losson was sure that he likely had only another twenty years or so before death took him. He made sure to savor the metal on his tongue as he kissed him for a last time. Just in case this was the very last time.

Losson never bore scars on his back like Astarion’s which he kissed gently the night after their first foray together. It had been the first time since he’d been involved with Abdirak twenty years prior, that he was quite sure he was having sex with someone he cared for. He could read simple Infernal - but he couldn’t bring himself to tell Astarion the few bits he had understood. Only a few words, but it was enough that Losson had his suspicions as to what it all meant. Mephistopheles had mentioned this Rite of Ascension thing to Losson before and all he knew was that it was bad news. Astarion was a cursed man and Losson’s heart broke for him. He could have easily demanded a communion with Mephistopheles to reveal himself before Astarion and rid him of the engravings, but…Well, chances were that he could do nothing to spare Astarion of the Rite.

The least he could do was take care of Astarion and maybe make a change to his contract later to ensure his safety and survival.

Losson was no stranger to practiced sexuality; Astarion was incredibly skilled at it. But oh, he could see right through that charade. Why he had actually become interested in Losson was completely beyond him - he was sleazy, he was sarcastic, quite rude and a bit of a charlatan. Scratch that, he knew exactly why Astarion had been interested. Nevertheless, he was gentle with him when Astarion solicited him. He made it more about affection and praise than about the passion and thrill of spontaneous sex. It was not like work. Not like a job - it was quite different. And his heart was beginning to yearn. He would cater to his lover's wants and needs - he'd let Astarion call the shots. He was in charge, and Losson would do precisely what Astarion craved. The desires left unspoken. The words that hung heavy on his tongue. Losson spoke several languages, and the body language of the broken was one of them.

He was quite sure that night he had fallen in love with the spawn.

Perhaps that was why he was so willing to always listen to whatever Raphael had put on the table in regards to assisting him. Hunt another devil? Deal. No questions asked. If it meant bringing some semblance of comfort to Astarion, he’d do it. Losson was abysmal at expressing his feelings for anyone - but actions were something he was very comfortable with. A grandiose gesture as large as devil hunting was precisely what he was willing to do if it meant supporting someone he’d truly come to care for.


“Well, aren’t you quite the softie.” Mephistopheles had taunted in one of his routine dream visits to Losson. At the time, the poor blasted warlock was plagued with no end to restless nights. Between the Emperor’s constant check-ins, Astarion feeding on him, camp feuds breaking out and Mephistopheles’ visits - Losson rarely got the deep sleep he so craved.

“You can’t call me that like it’s an insult when that softness is precisely what helped me save you ages ago.” Losson observed, sipping his nightly tea. This one was a rooibos with an infusion of cranberry and cloves. Mephistopheles scoffed, back turned to Losson as he worked at the cluttered desk, seemingly hastily reviewing contracts and documents alike. Every few seconds he’d groan, and either handed something off to an imp to his side, or tossed it into the blue flames of the fireplace.

“I had hoped you’d grow out of it,” he commented, clearly behind in his work from, well, gods knows when. “Your bleeding heart is beneficial when it stands to gain me boons, but when it’s to earn yourself the favor of a vampire spawn, it’s a little pathetic.” The devil made a noise of frustration as he lifted a specific scroll from the desk. “The fifth one from this festering sack of lard! Five of these in a century! Why do these fools think I am so inclined to recruit every loyal follower as a warlock?” He groaned and threw a stack of scrolls into the fire.

“Why did you teach his Master that ritual?” Losson asked, swirling the tea within his cup, observing his reflection.

“It was a whim!” the devil in question declared noisily. There’s more to it. Losson doesn’t need to dig far to know that. But he’s busy and angry - it was clearly not the right time to dig deeper. “Fey are not the only creatures to have passing fancies, Master Wright - you’d do well to know that.”


Oh did Losson ever know that. Sometimes fiends could even put fey to shame in the way they were careful and cautious with their words when it came to bargains. That was precisely why Losson’s heart was buried somewhere in Mephistar. Sometimes when you offer to give your heart to a devil, he’ll take it literally.

“So why do we have another fiend in our camp - besides Karlach and Mizora, that is. I mean, the one who was insistent that he crawl in your bed after I left it this morning.” Losson snorts on his beverage as he and Astarion sat at the edge of the bar in Elfsong. He nearly blows a bubble in his ale, prompting him to set it on the counter before answering.

“I suspected someone would figure it out,” Losson chuckles, slipping his hand atop of Astarion’s as he’s now opted to hold off from imbibing for a few minutes. “Not this quickly though. But his name’s Haarlep - he’s Raphael’s.”

“As in his personal thing?” Astarion appears taken aback, both grimacing and worrying at the same time. “As in a possession?” He nearly chokes on a bellow of amusement but Losson knows this look. He’s seen it several times now. He offers a squeeze to his hand.

“Not exactly, there’s some similarities but it’s not entirely what you think.” The spawn squeezes back - he’ll take the words at face value for now but he wants an explanation. “Closer to me than to you, I think. He’s an incubus - in Raphael’s employ willingly. But I don’t think he enjoys it all that much.” Astarion squeezes back before drawing his hand away to take a sip of his own drink. They both study the bar together, as if mesmerized by its patrons.

“An incubus hired by Raphael?” He laughs - Losson loves this laugh, it’s his genuine one. The one that he has when he does find something truly funny and he’s not simply using humor as a front. “I never realized a devil could be that desperate. He truly must be awful if his incubus isn’t having fun.”

“He is.”

This time Astarion nearly chokes, again that of amusement in which Losson can’t help but smile. He loves to hear Astarion happy - it’s most natural when someone else is in a humiliating circumstance, he finds. A bit of sadism is fine from time to time, even more so when the sadism is directed toward someone much more powerful. “I’m sorry, are you telling me you’ve really had relations with Raphael of all people? I knew we liked him, but I never thought we liked him that much.” He holds a hand to his chest, as if truly hurt. The feigned betrayal forces Losson’s hand as he leans in, nuzzling at Astarion’s cheek a moment before placing a chaste kiss near his ear. “...How bad is he?”

“That kiss would have made him come.”

“So not only is he awful, he’s impotent!” Astaron declares this just loudly enough that a few people turn to look at the source of the announcement. A number of hushed chortles are caught before the conversation of the establishment drowns it all out again. “For all that self-importance he parades about you would assume he has something to back it all up. How did you even stumble across this delicious nugget of gossip anyways?”

“I went to negotiate with him at the House of Hope,” Losson admits, slipping his hand away to grab his ale once more to enjoy a few gulps. “I heard a rumor from my patron that he was particularly,” He purses his lips and searches for the correct word. “Persuadable in the bedroom. So considering that I might as well as a scholars education in that area, I thought I’d try my luck. Get a little more out of the contract I signed. See where things went and well,” He muses, gazing away faintly embarrassed - which truly says something. “Turns out he’s a one pump wonder.”

“That poor incubus.”

“Exactly! He practically followed me back to camp like a lost puppy; I couldn’t turn him away.” This results in a frown from Astarion.

“Darling, don’t tell me you’re one of those people who takes home feral cats every few days.” His lips form into a pout. “There’s only room for one vain creature in this relationship and it’s me.”

“You’re far better at self-grooming.” Losson slides over and steals another kiss. “And playing with your food.”

“How dare you compare me to a feral cat.” He pouts and Losson tucks a loose curl behind his ear, smiling warmly as he allows his knuckle to brush lightly along his jaw. “I’m not forgiving you.”

Losson humors the melodrama. “More like a spoiled housecat, you’re far too pretty.” Astarion makes eyes with him for a moment - he wants to play this game again. He wants Losson to continue. And he shall. But last time it was all about flattery in regards to Astarion’s looks. His appearance. But…Losson can make this game better. “Far too confident. Self-assured. Incredibly clever and cunning; a mouse would feel safer in the presence of a cat. And funny. Oh yes, far, far too funny to be a cat. And such a dreamer too - I don’t think I’ve ever met a cat who can be quite as idealistic as you -”

The pale elf is no longer pale, but a warm shade of peach as his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears deepen with pink. Though Losson knows they will still be quite cool to the touch, the way Astarion reacts to the flattery will never cease to please him. “You’ve gotten better at that game,” the spawn murmurs this comment softly. “I was prepared for you to go on about how alluring I am like always but,”

“I can like more than just your external charms, Astarion.” Losson muses sweetly, taking his lover’s hand again, their fingers lacing together. “There’s so much more to you and I like all of it.


Mizora is practically on top of him the moment Losson returns to the second floor, her nose twitching like some sort of hunting dog. Mizora knows precisely what Losson has been up to and she’s about to make it everyone’s problem. “Well someone had fun pleasuring a fussy little cambion today, didn’t he?” she asks almost moments after the door is closed. She begins to raise her voice as if she wanted to gain everyone’s attention - as if wanting to shame Losson for his line of work. But she stops as Losson raises a hand to her in silent protest. “Oh relax, I wasn’t about to expose your secret just yet. I’m not about to make a fool of one of Mephistopheles’ warlocks - his punishments are far too cruel for even the worst of the worst.” She holds a hand to her mouth as if feigning a whisper. “Customer service, Hell for devils.”

Astarion laughs - if he laughs, then Losson does too. He’d had a stint working in a shop and no matter how small or simplistic the shop, there were always bad eggs that spoiled the experience. “She’s got you pegged, my dear.” He says affectionately, stepping back to study the two of them a moment. “This seems to be a bit of a private affair involving some infernal business. Don’t mind me. I’ll just be over here. Listening to Every. Single. Word.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Mizora teases, turning back to Losson. “You let your little plaything know?”

“Partner.” Losson quickly corrects. He won’t have her lessen Astarion to an object, no matter her stance on mortals. “And yes, I’m going to tell him because I trust him.” Astarion makes an offhanded comment about how this was Losson’s first mistake, smiling as he eavesdrops.

“And you’re not bothered by this?” Her attention turns back to Astarion, once more roping him into the conversation. Losson exhales heavily - he knows what she’s trying to do. She’s trying to get a rise out of one of them. It’s something she takes pride in, whether the figures in question are hers to toy with or not.

He sees he has an opening to answer for Astarion but he chooses not to take it - he can answer himself if he so wishes. Losson nods to him and he catches the quirk of his lips - a silent thank you. “Why would I?” he says. “Losson has a job - a lay for hire - and as long as he’s smart about it, I don’t see why not.” Astarion’s gaze lays upon him a moment and Losson’s heart flutters. He does not give them often but he knows bedroom eyes when he sees them. “If you’re suggesting that our relationship is so fragile that he’d need to sleep around behind my back, then you’re clearly not paying attention.” Then he sees where some of the mask that Astarion wears begins to slip off and the laughter his words are adorned with drips away to revulsion. “We actually do something remarkable, he and I! We talk to one another. It’s astounding, I know. Communication? Gods, so many problems could be easily solved with the right type of cutting remarks. Whether they come in the form of words or knives is entirely dependent, of course.” And he glowers, nose crinkling and brows furrowing at the devil. “Maybe you should try that communication thing with your own warlock. You might see better results than whatever it is you’re doing with the Blade of Avernus right now.” Astarion gestures over in Wyll’s direction. He briefly looks up from his reclining position, pointing at himself as if he were about to be dragged into the conversation. Losson shakes his head from across the room - danger, Wyll Ravengard. Best to stay out of this one.

“How cute,” Mizora replies; it’s hard to tell if it’s genuine or if her words are coated with sarcasm. She’s fluent in both tones, after all. “Well let’s just hope that communication saves your relationship when Raphael decides he wants to keep Losson all for himself.” She has a giggle in her voice as she decides now is the best chance to remove herself from the conversation, lest she evoke Astarion’s ire any further.

The way he relaxes can be felt throughout the room. His raised voice had been heard by practically anyone who was within earshot and willing to listen. Losson rests a hand upon Astarion’s arm as he settles, his posture relaxing and his chest steadying. “You know that was on purpose, don’t you?” he asks, taking a seat and inviting Astarion to join him at his side. They both unceremoniously flop into their own spots, allowing Losson the chance to brush aside some unkempt curls as he rests against the warlock’s chest. He comments in the affirmative, seemingly far more at ease being in the arms of someone he trusts. A stillness strikes them both as tensions die down but Losson cannot yet remain calm.

Raphael very well could try to keep him - and what then?


Losson allows Astarion to feed from him that night. He’s stopped coming to Losson as he sleeps to pierce his neck in those silent hours, now they simply remain awake together. That’s how intimacy works for them. As sex was something they had agreed on making a seldom affair, as neither of them wanted nor required it from the other, this was where they met. As far as they were concerned, it was a new type of intimacy and it was just as, if not more sensuous than any sexual embrace could be.

They never do anything in a bedroll, or a bed for that matter. Blood stains were far too likely. Losson has Astarion wait for him as he picks up Yenna who had fallen asleep in the living space and brings her to her bed. She doesn’t stir but Grub follows quickly, meowing at Losson - he knows, he knows, be careful with her. He gets her settled in bed, leaning down to scratch at Grub’s head as he hops on the bed, nestling up beside the young girl. Losson was always fond of being caught in the act - there was such a thrill to it - but he was not about to let a child be traumatized by seeing a vampire feed on him.

“Now where were we?” Astarion coos as Losson removes his shirt - there’s a few small bruises along his collarbone from Haarlep’s razor-teeth nibbling at him the day prior. Briefly, Astarion stares at Losson as if he’s disappointed. “Really darling? You can’t go a few days without letting someone else leave their teeth marks all over you. Am I not good enough?” It’s all said in jest as Losson slinks onto the couch with him, kissing him warmly, holding his face within his palms.

Kisses were reserved for those who deserved, and gods did Astarion deserve it.

It’s not a deep kiss - it rarely is - but it’s a passionate one that has an open doorway for Astarion to pull back and press his lips to Losson’s neck. He always starts off so sweetly, dotting the curves of his neck and throat with a light sprinkling of kisses. It’s a practiced embrace as he holds the warlock close, hand upon his waist as his breath mists over the flesh. It is the only time his breath is warm, but it is still enough to bring a chill to anyone close enough. He rests against Losson’s body, laying him out upon the lounge as if he were about to satisfy a lover, a leg drawn between Losson’s. But it never exceeds that as within Astarion’s loving caress, his canines puncture the flesh of Losson’s neck, forcing an eruption of metallic tanged blood into his mouth.

Losson no longer jolts back from the sudden pain. He’s learned to control his body and his breathing so that the initial shock of the bite does not cause him shock any longer. His muscles no longer tense up but instead he is able to steady himself, wrapping an arm around Astarion to hold him. He draws his hand along the back of his head and down his neck, soothingly combing his fingers through his hair, murmuring gentle affirmations against his ear. Astarion drops a hand from Losson’s waist to his other hand, clutching it firmly. It’s tighter than normal, gripping him like a lifeline tossed down a chasm. He’s still tense from the altercation earlier in the evening and it’s too apparent in the way his lower jaw scrapes his skin. Losson mutters softly into his ear, he will not let any shred of doubt cloud his mind.

His drink is deep and takes longer than usual. Perhaps it’s because he drinks slower this evening, wanting to truly let the taste of his lover’s blood linger on his tongue. When he finally relents with a final gulp, his mouth lingers on the punctures a moment, as if taking a last few sips - but Losson has come to understand what he’s doing. It’s some strange little trick a spawn does to stop bleeding - it’s a seldom addressed trait of vampires, but why would it be? It doesn’t add to the mystique. Astarion rolls to the side after the final gulp, clearing the blood upon his teeth and nuzzles against Losson.

His head spins - it always does - and he knows he’ll need a few moments before he can bring himself to get up and return to his bed. Chances were he and Astarion would fall asleep there. They had done it before.

“Now that was quite the show,” a voice interrupts them in their post-drink afterglow (which Losson will often argue is much more intense than a post-fuck one). Both he and Astarion find their eyes snapping open. They had company.

And at the foot of the lounge, watching them with the most sultry gaze Losson cared to see, was Haarlep. Different from the form of the elven man who had arrived and different from the form he shared with Raphael. A new infernal form - still bearing a familiar style of leathery, taloned wings but this time copper in color, along with the rest of him. He rests his head upon the arm rest, studying the pair with black sclera eyes with the most enchanting emerald irises. His hair was dark, a similar length and style as what his elven form had appeared in, and his tail flopped out on the floor, bearing an almost heart-shaped tip. His features were far more delicate - far softer. Almost cherubic were it not for the fact he was, in fact, infernal, and sported a pair of curled ram-like horns (only two this time) from his forehead.

“If this is what you call non-sexual intimacy, then I am quite intrigued.” Haarlep drapes an arm over the edge of the couch, drumming his fingers (with painted nails) along the upholstery. His gaze does not fall upon either of them but there’s a devious little smile dancing upon his lips suggesting that…something about the way Losson and Astarion had just laid together had (literally) aroused something in him.

Losson starts to sit, quickly needing to steady himself as the vertigo from blood loss strikes him like a ton of bricks. Astarion holds an arm around him to assist, hand pressed into his back for stability. “Haarlep?” he asks, squinting as he studies the incubus in his new form. “This is…different.”

“This is the original.” he says, lashes nearly fluttering as he watches the couple adjust themselve. “It didn’t seem fair if you’re expending all your energy teaching Raphael how to fuck and then come back to see more of him - I decided to slip into something a bit more.” His tongue runs over his lips. “Novel.”

“Never mind what you look like, what in the hells were you doing? We’re not putting on a show, and if we were, we’d be charging admission!” Astarion’s lips pull back in disgust but he seems to stave off the bemusement, noting the way Losson chuckles at his final comment. “Don’t you know a thing about privacy?”

“Not really,” Haarlep says, shamelessly truthful as he stands up, body still clad in some sort of harness like garb like it had been in Raphael’s boudoir, but this one a bit more . . .sleek? It allows more to be left to the imagination and covers more of his chest and parts of his legs and arms in ways that the previous garment hadn’t. He prefers it. “You spend hells know how long in a cambions boudoir entertaining him and his guests with your body - and others - and you become used to watching and being watched.” Haarlep’s hands push into the upholstery, leaning toward Losson and his vampire lover, eyes glossing over them body. “I have a request.”

“Let me stop you right there: no, you can’t join us,” Astarion answers before the question can be asked but from the way his words come out, Losson immediately clocks it as him making a joke of the situation. He holds his gut snickering at the abruptness, slowly swaying from the anemic high before he composes himself.

“Losson asked that I don’t play with you, so I won’t.” Haarlep says sweetly, extending one of those hands as if about to draw his finger tip beneath Astarion’s chin. He withdraws, pulling back in an effort to be out of his reach. A glimmer of recognition strikes the incubus in response and he removes his hand from the spawn’s personal space. Haarlep has a soft sigh of recognition, though not one of disappointment. “Mortal beings have such an interesting concept of intimacy. So often it results in the carnal, feverish embrace of sex, but not you. I don’t see that - nor do I smell the desperation of desire on either of you.” And Haarlep’s expression shifts - not from the expected capricious, tantalizingly sultry gaze that Losson expected. It becomes nearly juvenile, eyes alight with curiosity and naivete that he would have next expected to see on a fiend of this caliber. “I smell love - and it’s delectable.”

“Maybe we should get you back to Avernus,” Losson suggests, struck with what he could only ascertain to be actual worry for the incubus. He begins to slip from the couch, but Astarion won’t let him move just yet - he’s still too dizzy. “You smell love and you like it? Do you have a fever - can fiends get fevers? Are you sick?”

Haarlep laughs at the sudden display of concern, joining in Astarion’s efforts to keep Losson seated before settling upon the floor at his side. The same curious expression remains firmly planted on his face - which he cannot deny is a truly lovely face. “I am quite alright, but I must know more about what it’s like.” His lips spread into a pleasant smile, teeth flashing as he studies the way Astarion and Losson rest upon the couch. “If you’re going to spend all this time teaching Raphael how best to use his body - I want to learn something as well.” Haarlep extends his hand forward once again but this time he runs his fingers beneath Losson’s chin, giving Astarion his space. “You teach Raphael how to fuck - teach me how to love someone.

And with his honeyed words, Losson is left with but one thought: Gods, please do not let Haarlep fall in love with me too.


“Did selling your soul to Mephistopheles really make you irresistible to devils or is that just an unintended side effect?” Astarion asks as they settle in for bed an hour or so later.

“You’d have to ask him,” Losson says with a sigh. “I didn’t sign up to be an infernal magnet, but here I am - a sex coach for one and a love coach for another.”

“You must have the most astounding resume.”

“Yes, it’s three and a half centuries of sex work followed by a brief freelance position teaching an incubus to love. As you can see, I am very good at my job.”

Astarion kisses Losson’s cheek, his voice softening as he looks the human over. Three and a half centuries of life yet he looked and behaved as if he were still somewhere in his thirties. “I’m serious,” he says after a moment of silence as the lights dim around them. “What in the hells did you do to make devils so inclined to approach you? It’s not normal.”

Losson brushes back some of Astarion’s hair from his face. No matter what he does, there are always a few loose curls. “It’s a very complicated story,” he whispers as he settles into the darkness. “And Mephistopheles is entirely to blame.”

Notes:

So yeah! This is where we stand with Losson. He's teaching Raph how to fuck and Haarlep how to love. How? NO CLUE.
Who's to blame for this shit? Meph. Everyone boo that man. But hey now y'all have some idea of what I imagine Haarlep to look like in his real form. The elven man was the non-infernal design and maybe I'll make him in the character creator of the game. :D

Also I am taking bets/suggestions for other people Losson has fucked/will fuck because why the fuck not! Also really hoping to hear some of your theories about why Losson's over 350 years old :D

hey also? do we like rolan? do we want some hurt/comfort Rolan fic? Because I started writing some.
I lowkey ship him with Dammon and I started writing something. You guys want that? I'll probably bully Lorroakan in that one.

Can you tell I like demons.

Chapter 7: sometimes narcissism comes from neglect

Notes:

so im definitely not at that "im so sorry this update took so long!" stage but I am in the "i think i need to do an update schedule" stage because if i write this too fast im gonna burn myself out.

in case you guys haven't noticed - I have another fic out. Something soft to balance out this kink. It's a Dammon/Rolan fic (with some background Dammon/Karlach and Karlach/Wyll). And uh. okay so maybe it's not totally soft because it's a Hurt/Comfort + Abuse Survival fic. But if you like me writing about tieflings, have at it!

(Also guys, I've got like 80k written of a legend of zelda smut fic with plot. any of you zelda fans? would y'all read it? it's ganon related)

Anyways enough rambling. Anticipate weekly updates of this fic from now on, I think that's the best way to ensure I don't burn myself out on this lol (i've burnt myself out on editing tho, that's for damn sure LOL)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Mortals fall out of love all the time,” Losson explained, sitting in Mephistopheles study, trying his damnedest to not look at the devil sitting across from him. Tension is thick in the air, and it had been present in nearly every encounter between them during the past twenty years or so. Their sex life had been as great as ever, but the passion was gone - the spark that had caused that the tiefling form of the devil and the young human who had saved him had long since fizzled out and frozen over like the rest of the plane.

We weren’t supposed to.” Mephistopheles remarked, the bound tome of Losson’s contract grasped firmly within his hands. His fingers drummed against the cover of the book, tapping against the infernal embossing that reflected Losson’s name. His expression was cold, even for him. His eyes closed, exhaling a breath that had been held for far too long.

“Meph,” Losson spoke, shortening the devil’s name to the endearment he’d come to use over the centuries. “Humans especially aren’t exactly meant to love someone for this long. Our lives are short.”

“That is precisely why I extended your life,” Mephistopheles explained, a single fingertip running over Losson’s name, as if genuinely, truly heartbroken. “Humans don’t often experience love with another being, for more than half their lifespan; I gave you the opportunity to experience it longer.”

“It’s…it’s not in our nature.” Losson tried to offer him a smile but it went unaddressed. “Our lives are short, so when we feel anything, we feel it so strongly and intensely to make up for how brief it is. And,” His voice lowered and he too found himself unable to look at the forlorn expression on Mephistopheles face. “It prolonged how I felt for you. It prolonged how intense and passionate things were. And I think, considering how long you were a tiefling with me, you got to feel it in the same way.”

“Similar lifespans, I suppose.” Mephistopheles agreed. “Short lives, extremely powerful emotions for around a century.” The devil set aside the tome of Losson’s contract, rising from his seat as he strolls across the dimly lit study. His hand cupped the human’s chin, turning his head so that their eyes could meet. “Was it all you had hoped for?” Mephistopheles's hand drew back, resting his palm against Losson’s cheek, cradling his head within his grasp.

“I think any human would have been lucky to have been loved by you, like I was.” Losson praised softly. “I wouldn’t trade that century and a half for all the planes and all the worlds.”

Mephistopheles smiled - he rarely did. But Losson could ascertain that it was bona fide. Mephistopheles only ever smiled in seclusion with him. “Whatever will we do now?” he asked. “Your heart still belongs to me, but what will I ever do with a pair of hearts that do not love like they used to?”

“You play a new game.”

Losson comes back to. He blames his blood loss from Astarion the night before for why he’s so distracted in responding to the human-guised cambion at his side. Raphael’s lip is drawn into a pout as an annoyed scowl wears upon his features. He’s confined to his human presentation for the time being - considering that once again Losson was visiting Sharess’s Caress to see him.

“I can just leave, you know.” He announces, taking note of the distant look on Losson’s face. “If you’re not committed to this yourself, I can just as easily pretend none of this ever happened and we return to the original terms of the contract.” Losson shakes his head, although he cannot bring himself to stand up quite yet to accompany the man.

“No, no, I am quite interested, I’m -” He gestures to his neck to where the two puncture marks had healed over but were no less obvious to the correctly trained eyes. “Little delirious; Astarion needed a drink last night. Still a bit dizzy.” Losson closes his eyes and affords himself a moment to rub at them, letting his mind swim in the hazy vertigo that always came with being fed on.

“Then why don’t you show me how you perform while lost in a delicious haze,” Losson opens his eyes and finds he is no longer on the loveseat of the back lounge of Sharess’s Caress but once again he’s in the steamy confined walls of the boudoir of the House of Hope. Raphael stands in front of him, already reverting back to his true form, wings flexing wide enough to block out the light from Avernus’s yellowing clouds.

“Neat trick,” he says, trying not to allow Raphael the chance to see him actually impressed. “Taking advantage of my willful blindness to teleport us. Like that one.” He offers Raphael a lazy smile as he gets to his feet. He sways momentarily, still feeling a bit lighter headed than usual. Astarion really did a number on him. Note to future Losson - don’t fuck a cambion and let your partner drink your blood in the same day. Even with his infernal blessings, it might have been a little more than he could handle.

“Come now,” Raphael says, sweeping an arm over Losson’s shoulder, guiding him toward the bed. “You know me better than that. Likening my power to that of a simple parlor trick? You know I am capable of far more impressive feats.” He appreciates the assist helping him toward the bed, which Losson slumps on to pleasantly, laying out parallel to the pillows. Raphael starts to climb over him, hovering as if he was actually going to do something to Losson instead. Losson thinks, if Raphael actually takes some initiative here, he’d gladly bend over for him instead.

He doesn’t of course. But he does straddle Losson as he lies beneath the fiend’s figure, staring up at him in lazy anticipation.

“How do you intend to impress me?” Losson asks, sluggishly running a hand up the inside of Raphael’s thigh. The man shudders, his breath hitching within his chest as he tries to remain rigid in his presentation. “You’re not going to try and top me, are you? Did you enchant yourself so that it takes more than an ass-appetizer and a weak handjob to come?” Raphael sneers but Losson is no stranger to the warmth creeping beneath his cheeks. Red flesh be damned, he can still see the flush upon his cheeks a mile away.

Raphael does not answer. As expected. Bravado and grandiose gestures with nothing to back it up with seemed to be what he was best at. Losson lays in wait, expectantly. “I didn’t think you would actually have the audacity to ask something like that.” Raphael confesses after a few more seconds of uninterrupted silence.

“Look who you’re talking to. Did you really think the man who had the balls to walk into your house and ask to sleep with you wouldn’t have the nerve to ask you what you’re going to do to him?” He grins, stretching his arms out to rest them behind his head, getting himself comfortable. This could be a good way to teach him something. He was still feeling the blood loss; if Raphael was intent on having relations with him again, this was the perfect opportunity to make him work for it instead of lounging back like an overly pompous pillow prince. “You have a tongue - use it. I don’t care how.”

Losson follows how Raphael moves. He lifts a hand from the bedding, allowing it to hover the warlock beneath him as if scanning where to start. The order would be followed, but not without some careful analysis. Very well, Losson concludes. Let Raphael be methodical with his actions if this is how he can get him to work for it. Eventually his hand finds purchase, landing at Losson’s hip where his fingers clench at the loose fabric of his tunic, bunching it within his fist in order to slide it up over his torso. As his hand slides the fabric comes loose giving him the chance to guide his palm over Losson’s stomach. It’s a start; his hands are smoother than Losson would expect to give him credit for. His hands feel practiced - as if he’s done this before. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done such gestures on Haarlep, wanting to see what it must be like to have his own body revealed. Raphael kneels, pulling himself away from pining Losson down and brings his other hand to his torso, aiding in the process of sliding his shirt off. He stretches his arms over his head as the shirt bunches beneath them, allowing Raphael to slide the garment off Losson’s body with only a small duck of his head to aid in its removal.

“Human chests are so. . .flat.” he observes, hands running back down over Losson’s torso, fingers lingering at his pectorals. Losson watches - he dares him silently, knowing that his eyes are focused on the nubs of his nipples. Go on. Pinch one. See how I react. That glimmer of intrigue in Raphael’s eyes - the way he focuses on them as if weighing his options. Losson exhales - he makes sure to chill his breath as he does so ensure that there’s a wisp of cool air to allow his nipples to rise up and harden. The incentive is there and he watches Raphael take the gamble.

But not with his hands.

Losson had said he has a tongue, and it was just that which he feels upon his chest. The cambion’s forked tongue is quick to swirl around the tip of his left nipple as he drops down to lay upon Losson. His mouth closes firmly over him, eyes shutting as if wanting to drown out the world around him in order to enjoy the taste. Losson cranes his head back, pushing it into the edge of the mattress - he doesn’t usually enjoy this sort of thing, but that tongue makes him reevaluate his preferences. His teeth graze over Losson’s nipple and he’s quick to card his fingers through Raphael’s hair in an act of praise. He was impressed - he hadn’t expected Raphael to do anything at all.

But it is what Raphael does when Losson is distracted that pleases him the most. The leg between his - Raphael pressing the weight of his thigh into Losson’s groin, kneading firmly. He had to give it to the fiend - he knew the ins and outs of foreplay, it was all about execution. But he just couldn’t back it up.

“Go on.” Losson gasps, his voice breathy with encouragement, and perhaps more excited than he was letting on. Raphael’s hands hold at his hips, nails scraping over the exposed flesh, allowing for welts to rise to the surface as layers of skin tear away. He is rougher than needed but it isn’t unwanted. What is unwanted though, is how Raphael loses his nerve. His mouth removes itself from Losson’s nipple after another few lazy flicks of his tongue and the pressure between his legs eases. Raphael sits up, eyes upon Losson as if demonstrating, showing this was what he has in mind.

He’s not amused.

Losson pushes himself up on to his elbows, the vertigo hitting him like bricks as he shakes it off. He has composure to maintain with Raphael and he’s not about to show that much vulnerability with him. “That can’t be it,” he comments. “You can’t just hold me down, bite my nip and put your leg between mine and pass that off as incentive.”

“What do you want from me?” Raphael shouts in response, the defensive barrier immediately reinforcing itself. “It was bad enough you barged into my abode with your declarations for wanting to sweeten our bargain which has only resulted in my utter humiliation at your hand. And now you’re forcing me to work for it?” His face contorts into that of fury, lips pulled back in a sneer with sharpened teeth glinting in the shadows of his ever looming figure. Losson feels the heat - the fires - that are beginning to ignite within the devil’s figure. The way he could easily become engulfed in the flame in moments. Not precisely what he was expecting today, but he knows the words to say. “Why are you so insistent on demanding my subservience to you?”

He holds himself up, on his palms now, head turned away as his eyes roll. He forces a chill through his body to withstand the slowly surmounting heat between their bodies. “Oh for fucks sake,” he murmurs beneath his breath, finding himself mouthing the words to a spell which suddenly forces Raphael’s entire figure rigid and immobile. Deliriousness be damned. Losson slides himself from beneath Raphaels legs quickly, shifting to his knees by the fiend’s side. As the spell begins to wane, he extends his arms, hands both pressing at Raphael’s throat as he guides the temporarily petrified form down upon his back. The spell wanes and Losson swings himself over Raphael’s torso, sitting upon his stomach with hands upon his neck. “Do you know why I do it?”

“I ought to maim you -” Raphael begins to snarl but Losson sees past it. Raphael doesn’t want to lay a hand on him.

Like any brat, he wants to wrestle.

“Because you like it.” He speaks lowly. “You like when I insult you. When I mock you for not being able to keep it up. For having the sexual prowess of a twelve year old.” His hands run slowly over the curves of Raphael’s throat, pressure gradually threatening to intensify. “You like when anyone, not just me, insults you, suggest you’re a subpar fiend in a devil’s guise. It excites you, gives you a rush - reminds you of what it means to feel powerless.” His thumbs find the correct placement - a gentle push to send a breath of anticipation from Raphael’s chest. “You’re obsessed with feeling powerless because that’s what gets you off - the powerful squashing the powerless. Being pushed around by someone who could annihilate you sends chills through you - and seeing that someone wearing your own face gives you the satisfaction of both worlds.” Another firm, although cautious application of pressure as Losson leans over him, his long, blonde hair framing Raphael’s face like a cage. “But that’s the problem here. You can’t have both, Raphael.”

His eyes shut. Raphael nods, his hands wrap around Losson’s wrists. He knows this well. It’s not a bid for freedom. It’s a bid requesting more. His face softens, the creases of fury subside, although the heat takes a while still to die down. Lips drop the scowl and relax. (Losson is quite fond of the fullness they have - if he behaves, he’ll kiss them later). The wrinkle of his furrowed brow and forehead smooth out, and Raphael speaks. His voice is not hoarse but there’s a sudden raspiness to it, volume barely above a whisper. “Yes, sir.” He says again.

Losson really likes that word.

“I’ll take care of you first - but you will finish what you started with me when I’m done.” He offers this as a deal. A nod from Raphael as Losson applies his thumbs a little more roughly. “If you can manage to speak, the word is elk. If you cannot, three taps to my hand.”

There is another nod from Raphael, and it takes no time for Losson to begin working - he recognizes what card the devil had played. Insubordination. Something he loathes from other people, but something he clearly seems to enjoy in the bedroom. Very well, Losson could oblige. He could play this game. He did not consider himself a brat tamer by any means, but he was starting to see himself as something of a fiend tamer. Between Mephistopheles and Mizora and Haarlep and Raphael (and even his one or two trysts with Karlach), Losson was no stranger to infernals. They liked to play in the bedroom, and their definition of play often involved a fair amount of power dynamics being put into question. They all did it but Raphael was clearly the most interested in that.

Losson hears the first hitch of Raphael’s breath as his hips rise and fall in a slow thrust against him. Losson is not sitting upon his lap this time, just his stomach, but he didn’t need to check to know that the brief accost and string of cold words had made Raphael’s gut lurch with desire. “Look at me,” he croaks lowly, observing how not once had Raphael mustered up the will to look at him since he’d taken control of the situation. “Look at me.” Losson orders again, watching as one of Raphael’s eyes crack open to view him. “Very good,” he commends, stroking with the tip of one thumb, although not letting up on the pressure. “Now let me explain, Raphael.” he continues, allowing his speech to become honeyed. “You can desire and crave power and you can obsess over the idea of being powerless, but at the end of the day you only get one. You can’t have someone like me or Haarlep wear the crown while you present yourself as a willing hole for our most impressive displays of control.” A toothy smile. “Although that’s quite the mental image, isn’t it? Don’t you agree?”

He lets up to allow Raphael a breath and to speak: “Yes, sir.” he agrees hoarsely. His hands continue to hold at Losson’s wrists but there is no such effort in play to actively remove them.

“I thought you might agree,” he whispers gently, resuming his practiced efforts of strangulation. “What do you think? Imagine me above all else, Crown upon my head with such a well behaved and well practiced cambion like you at my feet.” He would have to make sure the projected fantasy he was sharing didn’t sound too appealing, let he might be tempted to follow through with it. “My own personal little play thing - a first row seat for you to witness true power at work, while you get to enjoy all the fruits of my efforts when I’m so willing to indulge you.” The fiend’s eyes shut again and he hears the groan of approval catch in his throat. Losson wants to laugh - it’s not the time, he can boast in a bit. He needs to let Raphael get lost in the scenario first.

It was something he had been considering. He thought quite a bit these past few days about Raphael’s attraction to himself. How he was only willing to sleep with Haarlep because of this strange obsession he had with power. There was more at play clearly, and it didn’t take Losson long to piece some of it together. This obsession with power came from his narcissism - he couldn’t fathom anyone being more powerful than he was so naturally that was why Haarlep assumed Raphael’s form. Being overthrown. Being controlled. Being defeated - that’s what Raphael was into.

He was aroused by his own failure.

Raphael’s eyes make an effort to remain open, engrossed in the way Losson focuses on him with such methodical actions. Methodical, deliberate, precise - but operated by a man who knew how to bring out the best possible reactions from the cambion beneath him. “What do you think?” he continues, allowing his hands to present the façade of tightening when all he does is simply apply the right pressure with his thumbs again. He wanted the threat of suffocation to be there, but it was so easy to replicate it without putting Raphael’s life in jeopardy. “Would being my personal toy while the world collapses around me be what makes you see stars?” He leans in, watching as Raphael’s tongue dabs at his lower lips, his breath building up with the pool of saliva in his cheeks. “Who am I kidding,” he mutters softly with another false squeeze, teeth shining behind the curtain of his hair surrounding them. “I already make you see stars, don’t I? Right now too. Along your vision as you feel the need to roll those eyes back and slip away while I have my fun with you.” He makes observations, addressing the sensation he’s familiar with (he had Mephistopheles to thank for that) encouraging Raphael to embrace the swirling sensation of asphyxia.

Raphael taps - it’s only twice, but Losson takes the cue to lessen his grip just slightly. He would’ve loved to see the devil with his eyes rolled back and struggling for a sweet inhale, but that’s the sadist in him. He complies, offering him the chance to breathe a little more smoothly, a slight reprieve in the midst of his own fantasy. He resorts back to the humiliation for now - he’ll continue with his efforts of exerting power over Raphael when he relaxes again. “That crown will be mine, Raphael. And you will be right where you ought to be. Beneath my heel. A reminder to all those who wish to stop me of what their fate will be. Nothing but a slimy, mindless sub who would give his kidneys for the chance of pleasing me. For just a taste.” Losson smirks - he sees the faintest glimmer of amusement on Raphael’s face, the lightest tug at his lips. There it was. That sweet spot.

And he would exploit that.

“What’s that I see?” Losson asks at that flicker of a smile. His hands remain firm at Raphael’s throat but he sits upright, part of his face concealed by the cascade of blonde tumbling over his features. “Do you like those prospects? Being my loyal lapdog? My precious, obedient little pet, so eager to please me and keep me content? I wonder, my sweet, sweet Raphael - what would you give for the chance to touch me like I touch you?”

Excellent. An opportunity to allow himself to stop powering through the dizziness of his blood loss and cue Raphael to resume where he’d left off.

His hands release and he holds his arms up. Raphael gasps deeply, his chest rising and falling as he lets the oxygen rush in. The gasp turns into a groan - he thrusts his hips, he wants some sort of friction. Something something something something. His eyes beg Losson for a bit of something. Anything. His lips quirk into not quite that of a frown or a pout but a pleading little purse to hold back the whimper. He will comply. Just slightly. He lowers an arm and swings it back, palm colliding with Raphael’s trousers. He arches back - of course he does. Losson’s wrist moves with him - he feels the outline of Raphael’s cock bulging against the cloth. He would love to see the look of embarrassment and shame on his face should Losson strip him of his trousers to find he’d come in his pants already. A few slow, firm palms to his groin, similar to the way he applied pressure to Raphael’s throat - and he ceases, his eyes darkening as he observes how this fiend squirms.

“Show me.” he says, rolling his way off of Raphael’s body, laying next to him against the stack of pillows. He gestures to himself - his bare chest and stomach, his tight fitting trousers, his disheveled mess of golden hair. “I have an entire body for you to please - demonstrate.”

Now that he’s warmed Raphael up, the willingness to perform is far more noticeable. He rolls to his side and gets upon his hands and knees. He is still dressed, although it is more dressed down than his normal attire. A pale red tunic top and black trousers - clothing that Losson had never expected him to wear. The way he holds himself on the bed reminds Losson of Haarlep so seeing such an expression upon the original face of Raphael is something of a treat for him. “I’ll even make it easy for you.” he suggests, unfastening the buttons of his trousers. Is he implying he’d like Raphael to suck his cock, yes, he is, but he’d like to see how else Raphael may think to please him. Today it was not about how long it took him to come, today it was about how receptive he could be to a lover’s wants and needs.

But it is not his crotch where Raphael starts - it’s his legs, completely clothed and still dressed. With one hand, he runs his fingers along the inside of Losson’s left leg, stroking in slow, circular patterns in order to get further along, lifting the limb as needed. The opposing leg, his head runs along, mouthing dryly at the cloth. He practically crawls along Losson’s legs, inhaling slowly as his head remains close, smelling him, allowing the scent of the bath oils he’d used with Astarion the night before, to fill his lungs. Were Losson not trying to teach Raphael a thing or two about this type of sexual relationship, he may have been inclined to ask him to stop -and just work on rubbing his fingers over his legs. The massaging way they drummed against him was soothing and Losson was very much in the need of some sort of full body rub down. Of the stress relief variety.

Raphael moves further along Losson’s body, his head resting at Losson’s hip where his mouth begins to leave lines of damp, ticklish kisses over his exposed pelvic bone. He sighs a soft utterance of praise to Raphael who hums into the next kiss before grazing the fresh with his teeth. Losson’s neck tilts back into the pillows - he needed to give Raphael more credit once he got invested in his performance. “Keep at it,” he whispers, sugaring his tone once again while his fingers begin to rub at the bases of Raphael’s horns. A full body chill, Losson observes. Another one and Raphael’s kiss against his stomach breaks.

“Again,” he pleads. “Do that again.”

“Ask nicely,” Losson corrects.

“Touch my horn base again, please.” he begs with a deep exhale. It tickles Losson - his breath warm and flooding against his navel. Raphael was learning already - he used a complete request. Not simply a ‘please’. Not simply a ‘Do that.’ It was a full request. Losson laughs warmly.

“With such a polite request, how could I decline?” he does so again. His thumbs begin to rub against the base of the two front most horns. Losson’s fingers work in kneading, massaging flicks, pushing and pulling at the flesh surrounding the tree bark like protrusions. He grips, not like he would if he were to jerk someone off, but in the way one might hold the handle of a weapon or a tool. His hands move from simply the base to the entire horn, rubbing upwards, then down again to resume what truly could be compared to a scalp massage. And those cherubic melodious whimpers from behind Raphael’s lips, pressed into the flesh of his stomach - it made it very much a worthwhile endeavor. Then, as if thanking Losson for his indulgence - Raphael shows some initiative.

His teeth snag onto the top of Losson’s trousers and he begins to pull. Much like a dog with a tether of rope for a toy, Raphael begins to tug at the clothing, taught around Losson’s legs. He is kind enough to help and Losson lifts himself to loosen some of the clothing from around his body - but nothing more. If Raphael wanted to keep at this - and gods, did Losson ever hope so - he would manage the rest on his own. Which, to Losson’s surprise, he does. Raphael drags his mouth lower, bunching the clothing up as best as he can muster. It clumps and rides up on itself as Raphael works it lower, eventually settling to using his hands to assist. Losson offers another stroke to the base of his horns in approval, forcing the fiend to rest his head upon his thigh as he enjoys the tingle.

Losson gives Raphael a chance to motivate himself again, but that wanton look in his eyes does not show any sign of dissipating any time soon. He lifts Raphael up by his chin, head cocked faintly as if asking if he’s going to continue. It incentivizes him and his mouth is once more lavishing Losson’s body in his praises. It’s as Raphael removes his pants and has his teeth tugging at the band of his undergarments does Losson really let himself relax into the haze of his blood loss. He lets the weightlessness take him, watching Raphael through lidded eyes as he continues to undress him. It’s such a good look on him - service. He smiles lazily, offering yet another stroke to the base of his horns, this time resulting in him leaning into his touch, begging to be rewarded.

He’s not completely hard when Raphael finishes removing Losson’s clothes, but he’s aroused enough that a bit more heavy petting is all it needed. “Go on, sweet thing,” Losson coaxes lazily, using the endearment he’s already been using for Haarlep for the master copy. “If you want to ensure that you’re worthy of me in the end, you’ll need to prove yourself now.” It is while Losson lounges though he catches a glimpse of it - that little sparkle in Raphael’s eyes that immediately reminds him of something.

This is Mephistopheles’ son, after all.

And that meant that Raphael was going to do something very, very clever or something very infuriating. He was either about to misbehave and ruin such a lovely moment, or he was going to have such a cunningly brilliant plan in mind that Losson would have no choice but to bend him over.

Raphael rises back up, his hand brushing over the length of Losson’s cock as he slinks of the warlock’s body. He crawls close. Close. Closer still. Until his knees nestled near Losson’s underarms. He straightens himself as best he can, revealing just how his crotch was now aligned with Losson’s head. The fiend looks down almost lovingly, holding his shirt up, having untucked it from his belted trousers. Raphael too combs a hand through Losson’s tangled hair, a returned gesture, his nails scraping against his scalp. The heat radiating from Raphael’s crotch so near to his face is warmer than expected - it is pleasantly bulging against the fabric, curved and clearly - aching to be released. A curious eye darts to examine Raphael, offering him the smallest flash of a smirk. Truly, Mephistopheles’ son.

“Will you show me how you like it, sir?”

Oh and the way those words echo in Losson’s skull is like a ricocheting projectile. And Raphael had the nerve to complain to him about his own audacity? For him to rise up and press his cock into Losson’s face and ask him to suck him off while leaving him so exposed. Losson was supposed to be the one edging his partners - not Raphael. If it were not so cleverly conceived, if it were not so appropriate for the scene and if it were not so very much something Losson had on the back of his mind, he would’ve quit right then and there.

But he’d love to taste it.

His hands grip at the cords holding the front of Raphael’s trousers shut, his fingers tangling between them to loosen the fabric. The curves of the erection hidden beneath cause a chill - not the usual sort - to creep along his scalp. “You’re lucky this was on the agenda.” he states coldly as he slips an arm around Raphael’s thighs, tugging him just a little closer. With cords loose, Losson works his trousers down - just enough so that rolling the fabric down is all that’s required before Raphael can offer his cock so willingly to Losson. He holds it in his palm as the clothing is dropped, collecting on Losson’s chest.

The phrase ‘enviable cock’ was not a phrase he’d considered applying to Raphael. But it truly was that. He wasn’t what he’d call himself to be a connoisseur of cock, but he’d choked his fair number of chickens in his day. But getting to see Raphael’s cock so much closer to his face was evidence enough for him that - it really, really was unfair that he had something so appealing between his legs but not a damn clue how to use it. Sure, Raphael was asking how he’d like to be sucked off, he wanted a demonstration of Losson doing what he liked. But he couldn’t very well fork his tongue, nor could he relax his throat like Raphael had.

“You already know how I like it, don’t play coy with me.” Losson grunts, holding the fringed length of Raphael in his hand, holding his mouth dangerously close. “But since you’re being so, very compliant with my request - I’ll do this for you.”

He isn’t slow. Of course he isn’t slow. Why would Losson ever be slow guiding a cambion’s cock into his mouth? Raphael isn’t slow either. His fingers clench Losson’s hair, pushing his skull quickly. The deep, throat moans of the would-be archdevil fill the boudoir - and Losson doesn’t wait to relax his gag reflex. Raphael’s hips are hard, smashing against his face in a forceful thrust. Were it not for the way his hand clutched his skull, Losson would’ve collided with the headboard, giving Raphael the chance to mercilessly fuck his throat if he so wished. But why would he ever do that when he was the one that needed to be fucked silent?

Losson half expects Raphael to come already.

He doesn’t and he’ll count that as another win. His eyes close. His jaw goes slack. He practices what he knows. There’s more to a solid blowjob that just bobbing one’s head back and forth. More than just a hole to be fucked. There’s tongue. And cheeks. And throat muscles. And lips. And nose. And for some bold individuals, there are teeth. It was more than just a back and forth of his head. He likes to make it messy. Likes to let spit spill from the corners of his mouth, likes to make it sloppy so that it can be a visual feast for whoever has the fortune to look down at him. His tongue traces - zig-zagging patterns along the underside, tracing over the small crests and nubs beneath the flesh. He swallows around the head as it tauntingly presses into his throat, using the muscles around it to suck just as his cheeks would.

Raphael holds his head still enough. He even has the courtesy to scoop some of Losson’s hair into his fist to keep it from sticking to the sides of his face and getting coated in the aforementioned saliva dripping from his lips. The sound of his gasps - louder and more desperate than any such Losson has heard before - echo throughout the room and only grow louder. Raphael’s hips begin to rock as if desperately wanting to fuck Losson’s mouth - a foolish idea considering his stamina. But he freezes catching himself after minutes of Losson’s voracious consumption of his cock.

“E-enough,” he blurts out, voice straining. “Elk. Elk!” The word catches Losson’s ears and - and - and - gods, he wants to ignore it. He wants to push the call for a stop out of his ears. Raphael tastes far better than he had ever expected. He wants to know how he tastes. He wants to know just how hot his seed is as it dribbles down his throat. But the word connects. It registers.

He pulls back, threads of saliva connecting him to the impressively sized organ near his face. He feels flush, lids heavy and head swimming. “You called for a stop?” Losson asks, trying to return himself to reality while keeping the scene between them fresh in his mind (hoping) in case Raphael wants to resume.

His chest heaves. Raphael pants, his entire face a deep canvas of burgundy. A hand is held to his mouth, holding back the need for further noise. Raphael loosens his grip on Losson’s hair, letting it fall back into place (not that it had much of a place to begin with). “I was -” he begins to speak. “I was close.” He admits, bashful. “I am not ready to finish yet.”

“You’re allowed to come more than once.” Losson states, relaxing back against the pillows. “But if you want to stop early, that’s fine with -”

“I don’t want to stop.” Raphael interrupts him. “You’ve been finished after I came the last two affairs and I don’t want things to end simply because I’ve - because you - because -”

“Because you came first.” Losson nods in understanding, beckoning a finger to convince Raphael to move a little closer. “Luckily for you - I have more in store than just that.” Losson says, holding an experimental hand to Raphael’s length by his face. “I don’t have the energy to fuck you like I want today but, you have the opportunity to use me a little instead.” He sees Raphael give him a slow, nod, allowing him to resume. “You’re doing better at voicing what you want, so you have my word,” Losson gives Raphael a few, slick, wet strokes with his hand. “We’ll continue after you come.” He begins to part his lips again. “Shall we resume?”

And Raphael’s voice croaks out wearily, “Please,” he says hand returning to Losson’s head, lowering his volume as he guides him so that his mouth is once more around the tip of his cock. “I want you to make me come.”

It does not take much longer for him to finish - Losson’s not too shocked. But what shocks him is the sheer amount he comes. The first spurt slithers down his throat like oil-hot serpents, coating their way down to his stomach. This only encourages him to suck harder, deeper, faster - coaxing out the second burst, this time allowing Losson the chance to show Raphael a similar picture to what he was blessed with the day before. He opens his mouth wide, flat of his tongue still pressed to the head of Raphael’s cock as the second spurt streams over his tongue and threads out beyond it. He drags his tongue upward to flick off the remaining pearls of fluid - resulting in a third, smaller spurt splattering on Losson’s face, above his lower lip. His mouth smacks together, swallowing thickly a few times to rid his mouth of the substance before he makes an effort to flick his tongue out to lick away the remainder.

Raphael stands over him, cock still a stiff mass, panting softly as if surprised he was able to enjoy the sight of someone other than himself take his spend so eagerly. He begins to ask something of Losson, his voice cracking: “Well, what do you do now?”


Upon letting the remainder of Raphael’s cum slip down his throat, Losson licks at his lips, finding a moment to run his tongue over his teeth. He crooks a finger at the gaze of the fiend overhead, instructing him to watch. Instructing him not to move. “What now?” he asks, the arm that had been wrapped around Raphael’s thigh gives a squeeze, hand creeping upward to grab at the exposed portion of his ass. His fingers trace over the skin, finding that small crease of flesh where back meets tail, and he runs the tip of a finger through the crease. Raphael sighs heavily, pushing again at Losson’s skull who offers him a scolding sigh. His grip loosens and he allows Losson to resume as the same hand lowers. It finds purchase between the cheeks of Raphael’s ass, and the same finger that had run beneath his tail begins to prod about. Not with the intent to enter, but with the intent of hinting to what was next on the agenda.

“Now the fun starts.”

Notes:

I also come bearing a little gift for folks!
Losson's face. I've made him twice - one with mods and one without. All you really need to know is he is a pale, blonde human with very light eyes and a very light version of that miasma tattoo on his face in pale blue. Original on left before I started modding, the more accurate mental image of him that I've had is on the right. But hey, I'd like to hear from y'all - which is closer to your idea of him? Do you have your own idea of how he looks? Show me! I'd love to see!

Thus Spoke Machiavelli - tastypeaches (1)

Chapter 8: pride is seldom understood unless you're on your knees

Notes:

happy chapter 8!
i always struggle to write penetrative sex scenes for some reason. maybe it's because i used to do a lot of tumblr roleplay back in the day? who knows.
anyways welcome to chapter 8 where i include the sex number position unironically.

also forgive errors in this chapter please, i did a triple beta but parts of this my eyes kept glossing over after a few reads.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Losson twirls his finger in a circle, convincing Raphael to turn about on the bed after he’s finished cleaning him up. His entire body is still heavy and he’s not about to exhaust himself by putting himself in a precarious ass eating position. When Raphael turns, Losson’s hands brush over the small of his back with a trained precision to urge him to bend forward. He protests momentarily, but with a delicate trailing of his finger beneath Raphael’s tail, does he respond favorably and curves himself downward. His hand slides down over his back and upon the ridges at the top of his tail, amused as the appendage shudders and raises upright, almost like a cat’s tail would. It appears that it’s almost an involuntary reaction as Raphael raises his rear closer to Losson who takes this as yet another invitation.

His hands clasp around each of Raphael’s cheeks, hanging on firmly as he buries his mouth between them. The fiend cries out, first in surprise but then it smooths out to a gushing, mellow purr against the smooth flesh of Losson’s hip. What comes as a most pleasant return of oral affection, Raphael’s mouth moves to the side, lips wrapping around the side of Losson’s shaft - which he praises Raphael for in the form of a sloppily placed slurp against his asshole. It’s been some time since Losson found himself in such a position of mutual oral stimulation, but he isn’t going to complain.

Losson waits a moment, curious as to what Raphael may do, whether he’s committed to sucking his cock while in this position or if he’s going to be a lazy little brat and refuse to work his mouth appropriately. He anticipates Raphael’s laziness, observing how there is not much more beyond his lips brushing against him, but he sputters as he finds the cambion’s mouth upon his cock in full - taking every inch slowly into his gullet. “Very good,” he hums against Raphael’s ass, rubbing the flat of his tongue over the hold a few times, nudging firmly so that the side of his nose pressed down.

Raphael slurps upon Losson’s cock and he has to still himself to keep from thrusting into his throat. He can’t quite reach down to coax him further either, his hands far too occupied at keeping his cheeks spread open for his tongue to prod into him. He mouths upon him, lightly sucking around the taut flesh, urging the fiend to push back a little further. Losson slips a hand closer, his fingers beginning to push against the hole along with his tongue. Raphael’s mouth ceases a moment, a groan surrounding the length of Losson’s cock. Like a reflex, he thrusts - if he’s going to moan like that on him, he’s going to have to contend with feeling his mouth getting fucked.

Losson wonders what it might feel like to have Raphael’s tongue on his ass instead - he’ll have to ask Haarlep later to replicate it if they so feel the urge to do so. Nevertheless, he drags his tongue, his lips, his entire mouth over Raphael’s ass, allowing himself to dribble his saliva wherever it so chose to spread. He wants this man to feel it - he wants him to feel sloppy and soaked and undeniably dripping wet. Whether it be from saliva or seed or some mix of both along with whatever other fluids happened to get involved. He removes a hand, he knows somewhere under these pillows there’s lubricant - among other things. He’d found it when he and Haarlep had their first little tryst before the incubus so sweetly informed Losson that he didn’t need it. Unless Losson wanted to really stretch them out. They would have been happy to gape themselves as wide as he wanted - he’d taken larger in the past and he always sprung back together, as tight as ever.

“Now, Raphael?” Losson murmurs between the cheeks of the cambion’s ass, shuddering himself as he feels that forked tongue do that little trick where both sides wrapped around his head, stroking just the tip. He silently mutters “Not fair” under his breath before resuming composure. “I’m about to really start stretching you out - if you can promise me that you won’t come before then,” He manages to remove the cap from the bottle, unceremoniously splashing it over his hand. “I promise I’ll fuck you as well as I fucked your little toy.” He buries his mouth deep against Raphael’s ass, suppressing the groan of sheer adoration. That thing he does with his tongue. If Losson could do something like that, he’s positive Graz’zt would envy him. He bucks his hips a few times, he wants a little more of that - gods, Raphael. Do not torment him like this. He was supposed to be the one teasing. Not the other way around. Such an irritating man and yet Losson was getting more and more excited about plunging his cock into him. He could not wait much longer.

Raphael does not give him a response, but what he does to incentivize a reply is he begins to slide the first of his fingers in. Not just a little, and not just a single knuckle, he slides the entire thing in - slowly but surely, burying its entire length in him. His tail spasms and his wings do just the same. His head pulls off Losson’s cock to unleash the throaty moan he’d been holding back. It’s a sticky moan, wet with threads of saliva and precum hanging between his upper and lower jaw and resting on his tongue. He gives Raphael another thrust of his hips. “Gods, yes.” He groans, body stretching out, worlds muddled together. “Whatever you want - please, give it to me.”

He nearly snarls those last words. So incredibly demanding. Losson doesn’t hold back - he is quick to slide in a second finger to its fullest depth. It makes the position on his hand a fair bit more comfortable besides. “Do you think you can last?” he asks, motioning those two fingers around, allowing them to squirm like the worm buried in his brain. “Do you think you can remain composed long enough for me to prepare you, or are you lying to me?”

Raphael’s body lurches forward, thrusting his body against nothing as he buries his face against Losson’s hips. “Yes,” he cries out, mouth agape, tongue hanging loosely past his lips. “I can last - must you keep tormenting me?

Losson laughs warmly against Raphael’s rear, squeezing one of the cheeks playfully before he begins to wriggle a third finger into him. “Of course,” he chuckles, beginning to slide his hand back and forth, using his wrist and forearm to control the momentum of his intrusive fingers. He hears the submissive nature of the cambion slip briefly as the crackle of his words are laced with the malicious weight of the devil controlling the manor. But it subsides quickly as another groan disrupts his temporary resistance.

Please,” he says, turning his head to the side as if making an effort to get a glimpse of the warlock preparing him. “It’s bad enough my father sent Haarlep…he had to send you too.” The way Raphael’s words spill from his lips so helplessly, so defeated, it resonates with Losson, but not in the way that he was expecting. That would be something to unpack later.

“Shh,” Losson says as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, slipping himself into a comfortable rhythm. “He didn’t send me, I’m here because I want to be.” His tone shifts as he adjusts his hips, encouraging Raphael to continue working on sucking him off. Was he trying to delay Losson’s orgasm as well, or was he just so overwhelmed by his own pleasure that he was unable to multitask? He’d figure that out later. He works hastily - not so fast that Raphael couldn’t enjoy it or that it might feel rushed, but not so slow that it would feel like torment. It’s carefully planned, methodical. Losson’s arm motions back and forward, cautiously fucking Raphael with his fingers. With each practiced plunge, he shudders a little more, his clawed fingers grasping tightly at the blanket beneath them. The effort he makes to try and continue sucking Losson’s cock is admirable, but it’s not quite enough for his tastes. He wouldn’t scold him for it - he’d be fucking Raphael soon enough. Especially if the way his ass continued to loosen up was any indication of things to come.

“Relax, Raphael - I’m here because you said it yourself.” After spending what Losson considers to be a sufficient amount of time (since the muscle constricting around his fingers had certainly relaxed), he changes his approach. He gives Raphael a whispered warning - he was going to put something more in and didn’t want to alarm him (too much). Pulling his hand out momentarily, Losson allows his hand to contract and begins to push further into him. He knows Raphael liked this, the feeling of being fisted, of being stretched wide and violated. The way he could be opened up so that he could just about fit whoever wished to fuck him. From elves to elementals, devils to dragons - he wanted to feel like he was being used. Losson knew humiliation kinks when he saw them but the idea of degradation and violation too? He would be happy to indulge Raphael, if that’s what he wanted. Amidst Raphael’s humiliated begging for him to go deeper, Losson reminds him of what he’d said to Losson and his entourage upon their first meeting. “What’s better than a devil you don’t know?” He slides his fist in deeper, as far as he could manage, barely brushing his fingers precisely where he wants them. With another hearty groan, this one long, drawn out and heinously shameful - Losson is able to complete his thought. “A devil you do.”

And Raphael begins to laugh as Losson’s arm begins its cautious motioning in and out of him. His laugh is a breathy, pleasant and shaken one that doesn’t exude the anticipated hatred that Losson was sure he’d be on the receiving end of. Not an ounce of vitriol but instead, Raphael merely says, “So, you did pick up on the word play . . .” he gasps lowly, another sampling of gut churning groans spilling out in response to Losson’s next few intrusions inside him.

“Of course I did. I’m a dom.”

He resumes stroking inside Raphael a few more minutes, knowing that the wider he spreads Raphael, the more compliant he becomes. Not necessarily because it’s forcing his submission - but because Losson is one step closer to properly fucking him. Properly shoving his cock into Raphael and slamming into him until his knees shake and he falls upon the mattress with a slump. But not quite yet.

Losson’s hand eventually slips out, leaving Raphael sufficiently spread open and he shakes out the mess collected in his palm and fingertips on to the floor. Losson pushes his face forward against Raphael’s ass again, teasing him a few more times before he offers a playful nip to one of his cheeks. “Crawl forward, sweet thing,” he purrs, using the same endearment he reserves for Haarlep. Though he pauses, silent for a spell before he murmurs to himself, though still loud enough for Raphael to hear. “No, that term’s not quite right for you. You’re not so sweet as you are feisty.”

Raphael pants, his wings resting on the bed, flat and still - flaccid, unlike other parts of him. He is able to focus on Losson through his saffron eyes. It is one of the first times he gets to see Losson as he pleases him. Losson enjoys keeping his face hidden from his subs. He likes to see their faces but he isn’t fond of being watched in return. But it’s this time that Raphael gets to see Losson while he’s in this mindset. In this role. In this carefully crafted persona he uses for the sake of work and pleasure all the same.

It truthfully would be a sickening sight for Raphael if he weren’t so attached to the human. Silky, overgrown blonde hair, brushed to one side haphazardly - even when he had brushed it out, it always seemed somewhat windswept. Desperately in need of a haircut or a trim. Raphael had had the chance to see this human on more than a handful of occasions, and never once did Losson ever seem to be crisply maintained. For a warlock of his father’s, Losson did not fit the expected demeanor. Although the way his lips always seemed to have a hint of a blue, as if frostbitten, that was truly an indication of Mephistopheles involvement. Not only that but the way there always seemed to be a pale, icy appearance of frost crawling over his cheek - were Raphael not such a flame and heat inclined cambion, he may have been itching to feel just how cold Losson could get.

“Spitfire,” Losson says with a sweet twinkle to his voice. “That’s what you are.” He drags his hand between Raphael’s ass cheeks again, stroking beneath his tail, which begins to twitch wildly. “Crawl forward, spitfire - I’m ready. And so are you.” Raphael stills himself, seeking composure before he does as instructed, crawling forward, his wings limp as he moves from Losson’s body. He orders the fiend to kneel between his legs as he lounges back against the pillows. He’d been laying so flat upon the bed until now. As comfortable as it would be to remain laid out, accommodating himself for his temporary dizziness, as much as he enjoyed that position, he was not going to give Raphael the satisfaction of seeing him from overhead. He leans up, back against the headboard, legs stretched outward and hand resting on his cock.

He likes what he sees as Raphael does as he’s instructed - a devil as threatening and cunning as Raphael on his knees, cock aching and desperately erect, its rigid shaft begging to be touched. His hands rest between his legs with his feed splayed out behind him. He reminds him of a pitiful, soaking wet puppy. Oh, how a collar would tie the whole look together. The way his typically stern expression had fallen into such a pathetic display of want. Even with the way his tail thumps against the mattress. It all makes Losson want to ask Astarion if he still has that collar they found in that town in the Underdark. It was a shame it didn’t buzz anymore but he could always ask Gale to add a little enchantment to it.

“What now?” he asks Losson, as if he doesn’t know exactly what Losson has in store next. The smirk on the human’s pale, frostbitten lips says it all. He pats his thigh, lazily stroking himself a few times, having already slicked himself up with more of that discovered lubricant. The strokes are nothing compared to how it will feel once Raphael gets on him.

“Take a seat,” he says. “You didn’t come while I prepped you, and I promised I’d fuck you proper.” Raphael slides closer to him, his body raising as he studies how he intends to start. “Closer,” he says softly, Losson’s voice softening. “Does Haarlep ever have you ride them or?”

“No.” Raphael is quick to respond. “I am -” His eyes tear away from Losson momentarily. “Usually on my hands and knees. Or on my back.” He helps himself to a laugh, apologizing for his amusement. It seemed appropriate considering how desperate Haarlep had been to bottom for Losson.

“Never ridden someone?” His head shakes. He knows he can’t put Raphael on his knees - it’ll exhaust him. He doesn’t have the stamina for that. Not today. “Slide closer, right up here.” Raphael’s behaving now - complying with Losson’s every request. He can’t quite keep up the authoritative presentation. The fiend moves closer, his wings folding behind him neatly as he hovers closer to the warlock - his hands run over Raphael’s stomach, brushing over the rough edges of his flesh. “Don’t force it, lean in -”

He convinces Raphael to lean in, beckoning with his finger. That willingly dejected expression becomes hidden from view, obscured as his face approaches. His hands press into Losson’s chest - planting themselves firmly to steady himself so he doesn’t forcibly seat himself on the fragile human below him.

And Losson kisses him. He lifts himself from his throne of pillows, mouth catching Raphael’s, immediately urging the two prongs of his forked tongue to slither around his. Raphael deserved this. He’d been so well mannered today. So compliant. Almost like he wanted something from Losson. He’ll figure that out later. He’s eager - far more eager than Losson had anticipated him being as he tastes the inside of his mouth. He sweeps an arm around Raphael’s back, stroking up from the base of his tail to the center of his spine before running beneath the joints of his wings. They spasm, much like his tail would, the shocks rushing through his entire body. It forces a sigh into Losson’s mouth and a shakily inhale while he slides his fingers back down to Raphael’s rear.

“Ready?” he asks, a bizarre tenderness to his suggestion. With one hand, he holds his cock firmly, the other, he grips at Raphael’s ass. “You’ll have to work with me if you want me to fuck you.”

Raphael, with Losson’s guidance, begins to lower himself down. His breath is staggered as he holds himself open with the warlock’s aid. Losson raises his hips with his cock still held within his grip. Holding himself still, he helps Raphael align himself. And once he feels that he’s appropriately positioned.

He thrusts.

Raphael falls onto Losson’s lap with a heavy thud - it would’ve hurt if Losson wasn’t so used his hips slamming into others. His head is thrown back, cracking against the headboard, swearing at the feeling of Raphael surrounding him (and the sudden strike to his skull). He’d definitely prepped him sufficiently enough but he was not prepared for the heat. Gods, he was not ready for that. Haarlep was one thing - they had enough differences between their bodies. But Raphael was so much hotter inside. Like he’d just shoved his cock into a furnace. But it's not how Raphael feels that has his attention - it’s how he reacts as he settles his weight on to Losson’s dick.

His body rests against Losson’s, his breathing ragged from the new intrusion into his body. The way he whimpers - no, the way he whines - is melodic to Losson. No longer does Raphael even look the same, he doesn’t have the unshakable, mature guise that had been so customary. Now, he sports such an oddly youthful and innocent presentation. His teeth sink into his lower lip, seemingly staving off the continued trills of ecstasy from the sudden presence of Losson inside him. Losson rolls upward into him, leaning backwards, letting the weight of the devil on his lap and the bloodlessness push him deeper into the bed.

“Go on,” he gasps heavily, shutting his eyes as he takes time to embrace the moment. “Ride. Earn your keep - get me off. You father sent you Haarlep to use you as a cocksleeve - show me what you’ve learned.”

Losson had no expectations for how Raphael might ride him. But it’s what he does that completely throws him for a loop. It’s as if he’s practiced. His body begins to roll, allowing himself to rise and fall on Losson’s cock. His eyes shut and Raphael slides himself up, then down again. He settles on each down as if truly taking in how Losson felt, filling him, pressing into his insides, spreading him a little further, a little deeper, a little wider than just his hand was able to. And - there it was.

It all melts away. The tension. The strain. The irritation. Stress. Annoyance. Any of that which Raphael was still hanging on to begins to drip away. The infernal riding Losson no more looks like such a finicky, domineering and frankly failed casanova that Raphael often presented himself as. With his own aching, throaty groan, Losson takes hold of Raphael’s hips, assisting in the way he rode his cock - and he truly loves what this devil has chosen to let him see. The way his chest rises and falls, both from maintaining his shaky breathing and the rhythm he was trying to stick with, it shows Losson what breaking Raphael might look like once he had that crown in his hands.

He feels a chill along his spine, unsure if that’s his own excitement or Mephistopheles trying to scold him. It’s motivation either way.

“That’s right,” Losson gasps, moving one of his hands to Raphael’s back to coax him closer. His fingers rub at the base of his tail, pushing him gently. With eyes half-lidded, Losson rests his head at the groove where Raphael’s neck meets his shoulder, his mouth comfortable running over the curve, sucking inwards and scraping his teeth. A hand rests upon the back of Losson’s skull - Raphael’s, holding him to his throat, his lips murmuring something incoherent or obscene. Perhaps both. He nips, letting his lower teeth brush harsher into the crook of his neck - he thinks of how Astarion would bite, how he let his canines sink deep into his own neck, how the skin would rip away and the blood would gush into his lover’s mouth. He feels another chill - this time he knows it’s his own mind, taken away to dwell on his own partner’s necrotic embrace.

Not the time, definitely not the time to be thinking about Astarion. Maybe he could ask about arranging for a little private time once this was all said and done. He wouldn’t deny that he craved Astarion’s flesh himself, but he truly hated mixing work and romance.

Raphael on the other hand - Losson didn’t love him. He found him pleasurable company, even more so since he found how easily he could render the man so helpless from the right string of words. The hold (both literal and figurative) he has on Losson is practically possessive; his grasp intense and tight, as if wanting to ensure that Losson didn’t dare pull away. That he keeps sucking and kissing upon his neck. That he keep his cock moving inside him as Raphael kept pace. That he maintain the friction between their bodies. That he not let up even when –

The sound of an orgasm rumbles deep in Losson’s ear, nearly deafening him as he feels the splatter of seed gush upon his stomach as Raphael comes between their bodies. So that was why - Raphael wasn’t sheepish about getting the friction he deserved, but he wasn’t about to verbalize it. It was far more fitting for him to make it happen by forcing Losson as roughly against him as he could. So he could fuck the space between their stomachs and use that instead of begging Losson to jerk him off.

But Losson’s not quite finished.

“Work for it.” He growls against Raphael’s ear, adopting a familiar tone. “If you’re going to come on me, and without my permission you’ll work yourself until I finish -” He catches the lobe of the fiend’s ear, tugging it firmly within his teeth. “I ought to deny you for that but,” he teases, grabbing Raphael’s cock, grip firm as he pumps it, his wrist aggressive in its motions. He’ll milk a third one out of him if this is how Raphael was going to react. “You’ve been such a treat for me today.”

“Yes sir.”

There it was again.

And there Raphael was, slowing his pace, head downcast as he rolls his pelvis on Losson’s cock further. Up, then down with a soft plop, his sack flattening out with each landing. Laying back now, Losson examines how it almost cushions each drop of Raphael’s body, considering perhaps having some fun with them in the future. They would fit so nicely within his palm. He could - nah, now was the perfect time.

He cups Raphael’s balls as he works in a few more thrusts, thumb rubbing over the thin, delicate flesh of his sack as if weighing them within his palm. “Go on, Raphael.” He coos, listening for that hitch of his breath, that hitch of a surprise as Losson massages them in his grasp. His fingers fold around them, lightly squeezing each time Raphael comes down. “You like this?” Losson pants himself, gripping just firmly enough so that the next time Raphael rises off him he tugs them and the would-be devil straightens out - he trembles and then drops heavily on Losson again and -

Fuck.

He makes a mental note to torment Raphael’s sack a little more next time, a bit too late to do much now. He grips Raphael’s hips with sudden ferocity as he lands - that face, that shuddering of his entire body, that way his wings just spread out wide and flutter in sudden bliss - Not Fair. His hand are firm on Raphael’s thighs, he pushes him down. Down. Down. Down.

And Losson jerks up, up, up. Up.

His lips purse as if striving to avoid letting Raphael hear what his actions had done to him. The inferno that had swelled around him as Raphael came plummeting down on his cock, constricting and clenching around him. The delirious presence of warmth that coursed through him. The way he needed to get those few, deep, final thrusts. Those penultimate pumps using Raphael’s ass for his spend before. Before. Before -

His head cracks back into the headboard again and with a final peak of his arching form, Losson comes to climax - it gushes from him. It’s not the few, excitable spurts that he spilled onto Raphael’s tongue the day before. It’s not dribbles of fluid that he can rub on the cambion’s cheeks. It’s a flood, erupting from him as he lets himself waste himself deep in Raphael’s ass. It creeps around him, filling any vacant space it can find, coating Raphael from inside out - as Losson pulls himself free, pushing at Raphael to slide off him.

It trickles over his ass and down his thigh and drips from the loosened hole and on to Losson’s groin where it rolls from his flesh to sink into the comforter.

All sorts of parts of him want to get up and throw Raphael to his back. He wants to lift his legs and keep going. He wants to slam into him again, using that pooling of cum as his added lubricant. He wants to -

Raphael, with his legs on either side of Losson’s torso, holds his hand to his cock, jerking himself off for a final time. He helps. Losson joins a hand to Raphael’s, aiding in drawing out the last spurts of cum from the fiend. He even gives him another squeeze to his testicles as a hint of what may be laying in wait for him down the line. Should he play his cards right, that is.

Losson knew he’d sleep well that night.

Raphael eventually falls to the side, resting on his back. He doesn’t redress himself yet, but he does lay in the glow of what Losson was quite sure might have been one of the best fucks of his life. He knows a man spent when he sees one. Amusement crosses over him as he sits next to Raphael, breathing slowly, eyes closed as if trying to let sleep take him. “So?” he asks. “Aftercare? Can I do that this time?” A bleary eye cracks open from the man, examining the way Losson still just sat there, cock now sufficiently soft and resting idly between his legs. Raphael still seemed rather aroused - but Losson would chock that up to his inexperience.

“I fail to see why you find that necessary.” Raphael snorts. “I’ve never required it before.” Losson rolls his eyes and swings off the bed retrieving his discarded pants. Raphael adjusts himself on the bed, sitting up, crossing one leg over the other and resting his arm upon his knee. His wings stretch out, fluttering out the stiffness. “Is this something humans do? Are you that fragile that you have to mend injuries when you’re finished?”

“I told you,” Losson says, redressing himself. “It’s to ensure your partner is feeling alright physically and mentally. Your father did it with me, so why wouldn’t I do it with you?”

“Of course he did it with you, you’re fragile. You’re human.” The offense in Raphael’s voice is not lost on the warlock. Perhaps it’s because of the mention of Mephistopheles.

“And I’ve had human subs who could take more than you.” Losson doesn’t turn to look at him as he steps away, venturing elsewhere in the boudoir. If Raphael was going to insult the idea of aftercare, then so be it. But Losson was not about to leave without finding him something to drink and some food. Raphael barks at him from the bed, refusing to get out - what an absolute diva. He sighs, finding a platter of fruit and a carafe of water with an empty goblet that was set out by the bathing pool and scoops it up, returning to the bed.

Raphael squints as Losson returns with the platter of fruit and the water, which is shoved in his direction. “What in the hells are you doing?”

“Taking care of your pathetic ass.” Losson insists. “You are a mess. Physically. Don’t get me started on the mental and emotional side - I only got a glimpse of that and I think we’ll need a professional to help me understand what’s going on upstairs.” He sneers at Losson and snatches a half of an apple that lay on the platter. He bites into it, crunching and swallowing the entire half, seeds, stem and all, in a few mouthfuls.

“I don’t understand why you feel it’s necessary. I am made of far sturdier genes than you or any of your lovers are.” He is nearly condescending in how he expresses this, and Losson only rolls his eyes again, retrieving the empty goblet and pouring some of the water for him, forcing it into his hands unceremoniously.

“It has nothing to do with constitution or fortitude.” Losson addresses. “It has to do with consideration for your partners. But if your pride is going to get in the way of letting me clean you up, be my guest. You have a bath right over there and you can do that yourself if you’re so inclined.”

Another sneer but Raphael begrudgingly begins to drink the water. Did he think the scene was still ongoing? Losson couldn’t be sure. “I would much rather not let a human put their hands on me -”

“But you’ll let him put his hands in you?” He saw the opportunity. He took it. He does not regret it, even as Raphael swats him with a wing.

Enough.” he growls, scanning the floor for his clothing, which Losson clocks, stepping aside to retrieve the articles for him. “I would rather not be bathed.”

“Why?” Losson swipes a handful of red grapes from the platter, popping them into his mouth, continuing to speak with food in his mouth. “Is it degrading or something to you? Hate to break it to you, but if the act of giving or receiving tenderness and compassion is damaging to your pride, then you probably shouldn’t be having sex with anyone.”

“What would you know about pride?” Raphael hisses, although it’s unclear whether the hissing is from his words or from the sound of the water boiling as he sips from the glass. “Pride for devils is something humans can’t comprehend.”

“Oh for fucks sake.” Losson groans, swallowing the mouthful of grapes. “I am bound to your father! I’ve experienced a devil’s pride first hand. And it’s your father’s damned pride that won’t let me out of my contract - gods, you’re more like him than you realize.” He holds his hands to his face. It seemed nothing he did could free him from his patron’s grasp. Even after he had heard from Mephistopheles how very different he was from this apparent failure of a son. “You’re so obsessed with not letting yourself be seen as anything but powerful that the slightest indication that someone may want to support you and aid you as anything but an underling or an advisor is seen as a flaw. It took me almost my entire human lifespan for me to get through to your father before he realized that he didn’t need to be bound in the form of a tiefling to be vulnerable with me. It took for him to understand that aftercare made isbetter for him to realize that it's not a bad thing to care about your lovers. The sex I have is not about just getting off and shooting your load in or on someone - it's about a connection. Sure, I get paid for my services, but I can at least give a damn about my partners when all is said and done. It's not a curse to care about someone, you know! Even if you can't agree with that, can you at least give me the benefit of the doubt here and work with me?” Losson heaves a deep, heavy breath as he searches about for his shoes, lost somewhere between the bed and Sharess’s Caress (he’s quite sure that’s where he’ll find them). “ I’m not trying to damage your bleeding pride, Raphael! Sure, fine, physically you’re alright, you’re correct! You’re a cambion! Getting topped by a human is nothing! But I need to - no, I want to make sure that pushing you out of your comfort zone hasn’t knocked a screw loose! Just because your flesh can handle it, doesn’t mean your heart can.”

He does manage to find the rest of Raphael’s clothing which he tosses onto the bed with a dejected exhale. “I want this to be enjoyable for us both - you’ve been a pleasant, albeit sometimes poorly timed visitor over the course of this journey; your flirtations were not lost on me. I decided to make a move, see if maybe we had a little chemistry in the bedroom for something fun. No strings attached, and your bargain was the perfect chance to press my luck. But if you accepted this with the intention of an easy fuck, a little change of pace from your incubus, that’s alright. If you can’t accept a little grace after I get you off, then that’s fine. It's not unreasonable to believe that someone might give a damn about you, regardless of your intentions.” Losson would not call what he was feeling as heartbreak - he knew how that felt - but he would call it disappointment.

Raphael, as far as he was concerned, had always been an interesting visitor. He had known of Mephistopheles’ no good son for some time and they’d never met in the centuries of their relationship. Getting to meet him, regardless of whether Raphael knew who Losson was at the time, was such a pleasant experience. He and Astarion had stayed up late together one night, having a chat about what sort of person, what sort of devil, the man had been. They joked over wine, saying that they actually liked the man - he was entertaining. The topic of sleeping with him came up. A few drinks in they both agreed they’d give him a shot if the opportunity arose. They had suspected he might be a phenomenal lover. Probably treated his partners like gold. No, like platinum. They had their little fantasies of being Raphael’s little toy, getting romanced and charmed and seduced into his bedroom. They’d even joked when they arrived in Baldur’s Gate that perhaps the reason he wanted to see Losson at Sharess’s Caress was because he wanted to sleep with him. Naturally, he didn’t. But it did open the door for Losson to formulate his little plan.

Yes, he was disappointed.

“What more do you want from me?” Raphael quips as Losson begins to leave. How very like a devil to try and get the last word. He rises from the bed, now dressed again with water still in hand, striding with bare feet toward Losson like some sort of regal lord addressing an insolent peon. “Did you want me to swoon and sigh over you like your little spawn partner? Or like the twins at the brothel? Did you expect me to worship the very ground you walk on?” He saunters around Losson as if sizing him up, as if scanning him, as if intending to launch some sort of countermeasure against the warlock for mouthing off to him.

“You want my honest thoughts on the matter?” Losson asks, feeling those eyes. How the scan him like a cut of meat. He feels the way his chest heaves and he feels the chill of ice along his cheek. Mephistopheles is watching. His sights are set on this exchange between his ex-lover and his unruly, misbehaved son.

“Enlighten me.” Raphael takes a sip from his drink, tail twitching - not as it had in the bed, thumping about like an overly excited animal about to mate. But instead like a feline, twitching with curious intent.

“Truthfully, I was hoping I might walk away from this whole mess with a friend in you, contracts and infernal dealings aside.” Losson shrugs his shoulders. “But shows what I know. Infernals are constantly attracted to me in one way or another; your father’s doing. I was hoping you might be the rare instance of one who was drawn to me without his influence. If anything, he’s been trying his damnedest to make sure you and I don’t connect. Don’t have some sort of bond. He probably fears what might happen if you and I forged some sort of genuine connection. Could you imagine me? Your stepfather of sorts. Bonding with you in ways he never could? Making you better than he ever could?” He nearly laughs. “Could you imagine? Me, the undying Losson Wright, the Hells equivalent of a Chosen of Mephistopheles, and his horrid son, Raphael - as friends.”

And he sees the quirk of Raphael’s brow. The way the bravado returns as does his coloring. The twitching of his tail intensifying. “Are you flirting with me?” His lips pull into the faintest of smiles as he takes another sip from his water, treating it as if it were a goblet of wine.

And then there is a moment of silence. A silence that Losson recognizes. No ambient presence of the Emperor. No chilly stare from Mephistopheles. A momentary reprieve from the static that comes from the onlookers of his life. Raphael wanted a moment of privacy - and it wasn’t because he didn’t want any voyeurs in the bedroom.

Losson releases a boisterous bellow of a laugh. Raphael shares it. Though the tension in the air remains. “Playfully, but nothing more,” he confirms, enjoying his respite from his spies. “Raphael. I enjoy your company.” He approaches the man and studies him over, reaching a hand out and tugging at his collar, part of which had gotten tucked beneath the shirt. He plucks at it, smoothing the fabric out. “And I want you to enjoy mine just the same. Hopefully enough so that you may even mourn for me if I turn into a squid.”

“I think you would make a fine squid, if that’s at all any consolation.”

“I’ll take that as meaning that you enjoy my company just the same.” Losson smirks and withdraws his hand, but Raphael takes it before he can let himself rest it at his side. To his surprise, Raphael takes it, kissing the back of it with rapt attention. As if praising the very hand that pleased him earlier. Between the laugh, the kiss to his hand, and Losson's little frustrated outburst in response to Raphael's detachment, the tension subsides. Ease comes easily to them both and the air between them is replaced with that of a contented sense of understand.

“You could say that,” he says, lowering Losson’s hand down. “I might even feel so inclined to reconcile with my father and eliminate the brain on your behalf, provided I don’t feel the need to saute you with garlic and feed you to the debtors.”

“That almost sounds romantic.” Losson chuckles, trying to make sense of the strangely intimate gesture the infernal offered him. “Am I invited to return?” he asks after a moment of bizarre tension between them. “If you’re not on board with sub training, I can call an end to this -”

“Did I say that?” Raphael asks, inquisitive. “You make it sound like I asked you not to return, but I most certainly said nothing of the sort.”

Losson extends a hand, moving to pat at Raphael’s cheek - he’s pretty sure this was some aspect of mutual understanding. But he stops. “Hang on, hang on - human brain. Human processing here. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.” He holds his hand up to stop Raphael before patting at the warm curve of his cheek. “We are in agreement that we’re fond of each other, yes? And that we’re still on board for this completely platonic kink arrangement?” This time Raphael is the one to roll his eyes.

“Yes, that is precisely what I am saying.” He groans - this time from annoyance rather than ecstasy. “You can be on your way now.”

“Right, excellent. Communicating clearly is something we're going to need to work on.” Losson then offers Raphael the pat to the cheek he had rescinded, stepping away (still unsure of where his shoes were) pointing at him with his index finger. “Take a few days off - come down, recover, masturbate a little bit, try some new things. Next time, aftercare - whether you like it or not.”

And before he can get a response - Losson finds himself standing in the lobby of Devil’s Fee, a curious looking Helsik leaning over the counter to run her eyes up and down Losson’s figure. He makes eye contact with her and the dwarven woman's face stretches into an entertained grin.

“You’re Losson Wright, yeah?” she asks, eyes twinkling with amusement as he steps toward her counter. “The one I let into the House of Hope?”

“That’s me.” he answers. His lips thin out into something of a smirk, confidently proving to her that he'd survived, despite her doubts. As he closes in, she reaches beneath the counter, retrieving what appeared to be a scroll, tied with a burgundy ribbon.

“Word gets around about you.” she muses, her voice playful as she slides the scroll toward him. “The human pet of Mephistopheles. You’ve been the talk of the Hells, I hear. Quite a bit of gossip you stir up, you’ve got yourself a fair share of onlookers and plenty of bids for you attention. Though, this?” She taps at the scroll. “I think this is the message that might have your attention most of all.”

His eyes narrow as she allows him to pick up the notice. “And why might that be?”

“You’ve got yourself a summons.” Helsik chimes, her eyes glittering. “From Asmodeus himself.”

And within the recesses of Losson’s mind, he hears Mephistopheles utter only a single phrase:

Shit.”

Notes:

So I was chatting with some folks in the discord.
And I know a fair bit (not an exceptional amount) about Forgotten Realms as a whole.
Why not include some of that in this story :)

Oh wait I already am, I used a lot of my inspiration for Mephistopheles from canon FR. But there's more comin'!
Anyways I also like to refer to this chapter as "Losson teaches Raphael about communicating and learning to express your feelings"

also what do you guys think about me making a tumblr? i haven't used it in like 5 years but i wouldn't be opposed to making an account for the sole purpose of posting chapter updates and headcanons. idk. i don't really do social media. anyways. you wanna join the discord? wanna talk with other folks? we're not too big, but feel free to vibe with us https://discord.gg/rjTrhngt

Chapter 9: when i asked for outdoor seating i was under the impression it was nice out

Notes:

oops i uploaded this a day late. long story short - i had a busy week which resulted in me now having a cat.

(basically, little stray kitty walked into my house, very friendly, loves people, very sweet. took her to the vet to check for a microchip or anything and she's got nothing, totally healthy, very affectionate - she is mine now).

I also apologize for a MASSIVE lore drop this time around. I promise, we'll be back to using Raphael as a cock warmer soon enough. But we do get a lil spice this time! Promise.

but hey while I have your attention, if you want to support another fic I am writing that takes place at the same time as this fic - consider reading "Steel Bandages" it's my story exploring the trauma faced by the tiefling refugees where I explore Rolan's abuse at the hands of Lorroakan and the slowburn relationship between him and Dammon. It may or may not feature Losson and maybe Haarlep and maybe Raphael at some point.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Asmodeus?”

The name gets the whole of the camp in something of a tizzy once Losson returns. His body aches all over. His head, his hips, his hands - his neck - and the buzz about the summons is enough that he wants nothing more than to shut everyone out and deal with it in the morning. They didn’t have the time to deal with his interference. Not right now. They were trying to gather their strength to make a move on the Netherbrain and tie up whatever loose ends there were in the event they all failed.

“Chances are that he wants the Crown, same as every devil in the Hells,” Gale suggests, taking a seat at one of the chairs of the foyer. “We’ll have quite the bargaining chip if you listen to every offer being placed on the table.”

“I thought you wanted the crown for yourself?” Astarion quips from his nestled position at Losson’s side.

“Gale, for fucks sake, getting that back isn’t going to win your ex over.” Karlach groans, slumped with her legs over the arms of her own chair. “Didn’t the whole ‘you need to explode for me’ shit knock anything loose in there?”

“How many devils does that make who are vying for it now?” Shadowheart interjects. “Three or four?”

“Technically two when you factor in that Raphael’s a cambion, not a devil.” Wyll includes. “Losson’s patron and now Asmodeus.”

The discussion continues. Losson cannot keep himself focused on it. He has an irate patron screaming in his head and a missing incubus to locate. “Is there any way we can table this discussion for now?’ he asks. “I haven’t even read the scroll yet, and I’m still recovering from being a midnight snack -” He squeezes Astarion’s shoulder reassuringly, reminding him that the comment is said in jest. “Along with my meeting with Raphael today. Having a clear head to assess all this would be much better for me.”

The chatter continues for a moment before consensus is reached - it would be a discussion for morning. This was part of the reason things were stagnant, why they had not made a move yet. There were so many people staking claim in the Crown of Karsus that deciding who they would ultimately turn it over to was not a decision that could be made easily. The decision on the surface was that they would hand it to Raphael as they had agreed, although it wasn’t exactly to everyone’s liking. It had only been the best option thus far, because Losson knew he could worm his way out of the contract. As he had been doing. In Raphael’s bedroom. For the past three days. Furthermore, there was no way Mephistopheles would allow him to hand something so powerful to his son. Even if Losson did want Raphael to have it. It wasn’t happening.

Losson lays with Astarion, curled into his side - he wanted to be the big spoon tonight, considering he realized he’d overdid his drink the night before. He brushes Losson’s hair to the side, fingers stroking affectionately over his scalp, gifting him with the occasional light scratch. His head swims as he lays close to his lover. There is a shared coolness between their bodies, one with the chill of undeath, the other with the chill of ice. Similar, yet very different experiences for two men with similar, yet different relationships with intimacy.

“You could always just sleep with him and get him to lay off,” Astarion jokes as Losson’s eyes close, finally able to find some sort of comfort in a bed that day that wasn’t associated with having his hips brutalized by a cambion riding him. Losson exhales a breathy laugh in response, squeezing Astarion’s hand resting on his waist.

“As right as you are, I think after these arrangements with Raphael are over with, I’m going to need a break from sleeping with fiends for a while.” He feels Astarion’s lips against his skull, a tender kiss of reassurance. “Might need a break from sleeping with anyone for a bit. Is there a such thing as a sex work sabbatical?”

“If you manage to convince all these devils to keep their hands off that crown, I think you deserve to remain celibate for the rest of your life, my sweet.” Astarion’s words are more personal that he’d let most others pick up on. But Losson understands. He squeezes the spawn’s hand again and rolls over in the small bed to face him.

Losson raises his arms, wrapping them Astarion’s neck, shifting closer to him. He smiles warmly and tangles their legs together. With no other meaning to the action than a need to get as cozy as he possibly could. “How’s retirement sound to you?” he asks, brushing his fingers through the forest of snowy curls. “For both of us. No more of this hunting or fucking. Or any of this. We stop working. We just. Lay in bed forever. Like this.”

Astarion sighs. Touched-out as he might be, Losson has found his soft spot. Affectionate touch - not sensual or sexual. Affectionate. The lacing of fingers whilst holding hands. The caress of cheeks. The hands combing through hair. Touches of comfort. Not passion. Losson had to admit - it was his favorite kind of touch too.

“You’re so warm,” Mephistopheles had said, his hand running over Losson’s hand, lifting it to admire the lines of his palms and the blue veins pressed into the flesh of his wrists. “Not that I’m surprised - most mortal peoples are warm. Tieflings are warm. Even my own - but you’re incredibly warm.”

Losson was a young man. Only in his early twenties, his flesh still warm with life and vibrancy, centuries before Mephistopheles would force the cold to course through his veins. He laughed, closing his hand around Mephistopheles’, linking their hands together. “Mum said I always ran warm - she could never tell if I had a fever as a boy.”

“Are we sure you aren’t a tiefling?” Mephistopheles asked, gazing up from behind the frames of his glasses. “I have felt infernal blood against my palm before and your hands feel quite the same. Humans are usually cool to the touch compared to a tiefling but you are remarkably warm.” Mephistopheles slid closer to Losson, the two of them sitting on the fainting count of his study, a navy blue velour upholstered lounge chair that he very likely had obtained for just this purpose. As he slid toward Losson, he pinned those enchantingly warm hands down against the surface, pushing Losson into the corner of the couch. “I like it.”

Playfully pinned, Losson spread his legs, allowing Mephistopheles to crawl between them. Frostbitten lips captured his, a rush of chilled air manifesting like a cloud in Losson’s mouth as he sucked in the freeze. The archdevil’s knee began to grind between Losson’s legs, firmly planted at his crotch, wishing to build more of that uncharacteristically human heat. His hands freed Losson’s only to plant them against the arm of the lounge chair behind his human lover. He brought his body upwards, shedding the outer layer of his clothing, wings folding in a practiced sweep to slide through the slits tailored into the garment. The outer jacket fell with a precision, collecting on the intricately patterned rug below them.

“I love you,” the devil whispered against Losson’s lips, just barely audible enough for the human to hear. His arms wrap around Mephistopheles neck, pulling him for another kiss - he doesn’t need to say it back.

Losson is suddenly in Mephistopheles’ study. In his hands a familiar teacup - this one with the floral notes of cornflower and rose petal and white tea. A floral one, surprisingly springy for the frigid lair of his patron. Losson sniffs it before taking an experimental sip.

“You will reject his offer, no matter what it is.” Mephistopheles’ voice rings out around him but he is not visible to the warlock as he sips from his offering. “It is bad enough that my son is vying for the Crown but to know that Asmodeus has his sights on you to retrieve it for him as well is troubling.”

“How do you know that’s what he wants?” Losson asks. “I haven’t even opened the scroll. He could be inviting me to a dinner party for all I know.”

“He is inviting you to a dinner party, you utter buffoon.” the archdevil's voice growls. “It’s a cleverly disguised way of getting you to mingle with devils so that he and others might be able to offer you deals that can break you out of our contract.”

A blisteringly icy wind rushes through the study, as if a window were opened against the booming gales of a blizzard and the devil stands before Losson, wings sagging despondently. He wears enchanted outerwear - a cape with a thick, fur lined collar with woolen caps over his ears and at the end of his tail. Snow coats his head and shoulders and they melt away within seconds as he shakes off the outer layers of clothing. His eyes scan Losson with a trace of sorrow.

“You’re worried.” Losson comments, taking a sip from the tea - it made sense why he’d want something floral, considering it was obvious he’d just been out in the tundra of Mephistar.

“I don’t want to lose you,” the devil says, beckoning forth his own chair as he sits, his own tea seeming to rise up through the arm of the seat. “Both on a personal level as well as a professional one. You’ve been my warlock for over three hundred years and I’m not about to let Asmodeus take more from me just because he can offer you,” he purses his lips, trying to think of something clearly. “A six headed puppy - listen, I do not know what he can offer you that I couldn’t, but I am not taking any chances at losing my best warlock.”

“Oh, you admit it, I am your favorite.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course you are, I wouldn’t have ma- I wouldn’t have kept you around this long if you weren’t.” He scoffs and sips his own tea and then scans the room. “This won’t do. This tea is too light for such a dark atmosphere.”

There is the crackling of blue flame and the odor of sulfur as the presentation of the study seems to literally melt away, as if like wax dripping from a candle. The seats beneath them change to white, painted, iron lattice dining chairs and the world around them evolves. No longer were they within the confines of the icy Hell, but now, surrounding them for miles upon miles were fields of wildflowers in all sorts of shades - pinks, blues, violets and yellows among colors that Losson could not quite comprehend. Between the devil and the human a table sprung up from the ground of a similar style to the chair with a floral teapot along with matching china and cutlery surrounding a tiered display of sweets and sandwiches.

“Meph,” Losson comments as the environment changes - the warmth of a late spring day coupled with the alluring scent of florals and creek water, and the crackling embrace of a sun overhead. He sets the saucer and cup on the table, resting his hands on his lap. “This is not your preferred locale.”

“It’s not, but it’s yours and we need to talk about this summons because I need you to promise me that you will not, under any circumstances, take Asmodeus’s offer.” His voice is curt, but not only that, there is the most sincere presentation of actual fear and worry - worry that he might lose Losson, and worry that he might be usurped by the devil he considers his adversary yet again .

“There’s not a lot that I want, you know.”

“If he’s promising the Crown, then fine! You may use it before returning it to me! But, I cannot afford to lose you to his charms!” Mephistopheles' tone is biting and truly frustrated and the heavily bound book that contains the centuries old contract between them appears with a thud upon the table. The tome opens, a glowing blank page appearing which the devil runs his hands over, infernal script manifesting in golden inked calligraphy. “There, see, I’m even establishing it now - Losson Wright has the permission of the Archdevil Mephistopheles, to use the aforementioned Crown of Karsus from clause 97, subsection 81, paragraph D, for his own needs prior to returning to same to Mephistar where it is to be kept under lock and key until such a time where its power needs to be utilized by the correct and worthy individuals, provided that warlock Losson Wright does not offer its power to the Archdevil Asmodeus or any other devils of equal or greater power.” The tome slams shut and vanishes. “There! Set in stone!”

Losson takes a sip of the tea - he wasn’t even going to ask for the Crown. He was going to ask for a way to free Astarion of his vampirism. And Karlach of her infernal engine. And Wyll from his contract to Mizora. And to resurrect Shadowheart’s parents. And Lae'zel the recognition she deserves from her people. And give Gale the common sense to stop trying to appease the goddess who shafted him. And to maybe give him better circulation again. He hates having cold hands. But he supposes…with that Crown briefly in his control. He might be able to do just that.

“You’re really bent on making sure I don’t leave your service, aren’t you?” Losson asks, brow quirked. Mephistopheles seethes momentarily - he’s not surprised. The utter hatred the devil has for Asmodeus is no secret. He’d been stealing the Cold Lord’s thunder for eons and in a way Losson could see why this caused the man to writhe with anger so easily. The one thing he had over Asmodeus was Losson. A human. A warlock. That every devil had their eyes on for one reason or another. “I’m pretty committed to you - loyal, even. I probably wouldn’t accept his offer anyways - your son said it best, better a devil you know and what have you. Why so particularly bent out of shape? What makes you think that I’d accept the offer?”

And this causes Mephistopheles to groan - an uncharacteristically childish groan as he throws up his arms and covers his face from sheer annoyance. Losson sees his face flush to a deep shade of indigo. “Because he’s your type ! It’s bad enough you’re shoving your dick in my son right now but I cannot fathom thinking of you doing the same to him!

“Huh.” Losson only makes a noise to inform Mephistopheles he was listening. Truthfully, knowing that the Lord of Liars was his type did have his interest. Maybe he could score himself a fun little fling, learn some information about him - use that to his advantage. Oh, or better still - “You sure I can’t just fuck him to find out some dirt to give you? I might be able to get you a leg up on him -”

There is a rattling of porcelain on porcelain as Mephistopheles’ hands shake, the teacup clattering against its saucer. “Knowing you, the only legs up will be yours while you let him fuck your sorry human rearend into Elysium!” Were he not such a fine connoisseur of china, Losson was quite sure that he would have shattered the cup upon the iron table. “I do not care what it is you can secure me by meeting with him, you are not to accept any of his offers!”

“Are you jealous?” The question comes oddly quickly to the forefront of Losson’s mind, voicing it without another thought. “Seriously. You’ve always taken such a nonchalant approach to my own exploits outside our previous relationship, but," Losson feels a twisting and a tug in his chest, causing himself to clutch at this shirt momentarily. A familiar yearning. A yearning that comes from ages upon ages of separation with such intense desire to see someone again. And oh, he knew the source. "I’ve heard more from you in the past week or two than I have in fifty years.”

“Why does it matter?” Mephistopheles scoffs.

“I think you’re jealous.” Losson solidifies the idea in his head, he cannot believe he’s smiling with such amusement from this realization but he does. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You’re jealous because not only have I been fucking your son senseless, but nearly every infernal that crosses my path seems to be obsessed with me. You didn’t curse me when we split up, did you? So that I’m an eternal magnet for every devil and demon that gets a whiff of me? Can’t say I mind -

“They smell me on you.” Mephistopheles interrupts. “Whether they realize it or not. They can sense you’re marked by an archdevil and they want a taste. What makes you so irresistible to me? Did it really take you this long to connect the dots together?” His brows furrow, annoyance creeping over his face. “Whether I am jealous or not is beside the point. I do not want you to accept whatever nonsense Asmodeus has for you. Or any devil for that matter. Demon Lords you may hear out - I know you’ve been smitten with Graz’zt for centuries, you degenerate - but nothing higher.”

“Graz’zt is the only one who has rejected me, you know.”

“I know! And you’re becoming more and more his type by the day and I’ll pluck every hair from your body one by one if you leave me for him.”

The visible crack in the exterior appears and Losson is all but positive that Mephistopheles is beyond jealous. It almost hurts his heart to see him this way - an archdevil of such renown as he was, so emotionally stunted by the idea of his favorite moving on and finding something more. Gods, he and Raphael were truly so similar. Both of them so fixated on their favorites and so willing to make sacrifices and take risks and bend a knee for the sake of their chosen figures. Both of them so unable to truly voice what they want from someone, particularly someone that they have fondness for. And both of them so truly obsessed with getting ahead and keeping their pride in check.

Losson reaches across the table and rests his hand upon that of the Archdevil’s. He begins to jerk it back, but he freezes his movement. Mephistopheles’ eyes cast downward, examining the way the human’s hand had placed itself so comfortably upon his. It’s been centuries since Losson had taken his hand. It used to be out of adoration and affection. A gesture made out of love and devotion where he’d let each finger close around the pale azure flesh of the devil, who in turn would mimic it. It had been centuries since he’d had the privacy of a quiet lounge where he’d fall into the devil’s embrace before they slinked off to the bedroom for what felt like weeks at a time.

Mephistopheles changes the position of his hand, allowing himself the opportunity to hold Losson’s in response. His wings seem to droop and with it, the flowers throughout the field cultivated for Losson’s visit begin to wilt and wither, the sky becoming greyer by the second. The cozy sunlight vanishes as clouds begin to roll in and the air grows cool, chilly - and flakes of snow begin their descent, fluttering to the ground below. “I miss you,” he confesses. “I’d known the moment we went our separate ways that you would be a magnet for any and all infernal beings that you crossed paths with. That’s why I still kept you close as my warlock - security of sorts. To ensure that you didn’t stray too far.” His shoulders rise and fall. “Is this selfish of me?”

“You’re a devil,” Losson points out, feeling the cold of Mephistar beginning to take hold of the scene his ex-lover had put on display for him. He does feel the longing in his chest - the familiar pull of desire that he’d had for Mephistopheles all those years ago. It wasn’t like there was never anything there to begin with. It was just as he always said - he was human. Humans are not meant to live or love as long as devils. They don’t have it in them. They love quickly and intensely. “Selfish is sort of your prerogative. And if I may be honest?” Mephistopheles nods. “I kind of knew that you were doing that - this isn’t news to me. I had already put two and two together a while back.”

The snow begins to get heavier and the tea begins to freeze over. The field, just moments earlier verdant and blossoming was now cloaked in white powder as the blizzard moves in. Though his blood runs cold, Losson feels the chill. The icy sting as the temperatures drop and his bare arms ill prepared for such an oncoming storm. “You will always be mine, Losson Wright.” Mephistopheles says, his gaze lifting so that his eyes - as frigid as the air - score into Losson’s own. “Though your heart may feel as if you’ve give it to another, you know it will never leave my possession. I have not truly loved another since we separated. You know this, yes?”

He draws his hand away from Losson’s, his palm now exposed, bloodied. Upon his palm, infernal writing, carved deeply into the flesh. He hadn’t felt a bit of it as it embedded itself. As the flesh had split open. Now exposed to the cold, it begins to sting, to burn - Losson grips his wrist, hissing from the jolt of pain rocketing up to his shoulder and shocking his brain. But it does not last. Mephistopheles places his hand upon Losson’s once more and upon its withdrawal, the wounds have scarred, revealing a clean, intricately designed infernal branding.

Losson lifts his hand from the table before the snow can coat its surface. He studies the sigil - a very precise infernal M with runic sigils surrounding and intercepting it. It aches, although it is now healed thanks to the devil’s touch, but it throbs with an intensity he can only compare to the first bite of icy metal when he arrives in Mephistopheles’ abode. “What’s this?” he asks, eyes narrowed as he tries to gauge the emotions of the devil across from him.

“Insurance.” Mephistopheles says, his voice bearing the weight of something forlorn. “Should you violate the contract, breach my trust - you come here. Immediately. No final farewells. No chances to tie up loose ends. No explanations. You will be brought here in an instant. Where you will await punishment. The same punishment all those who betray me face.” His chest heaves, up then down again. “Every fiber of my heart begs me to trust you, Losson.” The devil finally brings his attention back to Losson; there is a familiar fondness to the way his expression settles. “But as a devil I cannot run the risk of your fickle nature as a human. The heart trusts, the soul suspects.” The Cold Lord stands from the table, offering to help Losson to his feet. With a suspicious gaze, Losson accepts the grasp of Mephistopheles hand.

He studies the branding he’d just left on Losson’s palm, a finger tracing the writing. Losson recognizes the look on his patron’s face. It truly is an act of insurance. To be sure that his warlock does not stray and seek power and aid elsewhere. And Losson recognizes why - it is not so much a fear of losing a warlock. It is the fear of losing a friend . Even if he cannot embrace Losson as his lover any longer, Mephistopheles regards Losson highly. As a companion. A friend. A confidant.

“I don’t intend to take any deals, Meph.” Losson says - he knows that the entirety of this exchange is not to stir up bad blood of a past relationship. Nor is it to argue over which one of them was worse off since their romantic affairs ceased. It’s business first and foremost - but it ends with a very sincere sort of understanding.

Mephistopheles was - and still is - quite in love with his warlock.

“What do you think?”

Like a mirror, Losson witnesses himself in all his glory. From head to toe, he stands there, watching as an entirely nude copy of himself turns about, flashing his goods for the warlock to examine. He hadn’t intended to return to the House of Hope so soon (Raphael was still on Losson-ordered bedrest for another day or two) but he arrived there if only to speak to Raphael as well about the summons from Asmodeus - nothing more. But he is greeted by something far more interesting. Haarlep adopting his form, showing off for Losson to appreciate.

“Can’t say it’s a bad copy,” he agrees, sitting across from the bed. “But I have to ask - why did you come back here? I thought you were intending to stay with us for a while.”

“I wasn’t quite getting what I wanted,” Haarlep admits, crawling on to the bed and laying out on their stomach, rolling onto his back to gaze at Losson upside down. “People within the prime material are interesting but not as easy to lure away for a bit of fun.” Their eyes squint, affectionately as he runs a hand down his chest. The same hand that Losson now sported an infernal brand on, but this hand looks remarkably blank by comparison. "Besides, Raphael expressed that he waslonely without your visits."

At first, he laughs. Lonely. Good one. “Are you suggesting I handle that?” Losson asks, rising from the bench, approaching the bed as he addresses the way Haarlep touches themself in the human form. He appreciates the sight of himself - not in a way that Raphael would - but in a way that he understood the sort of sultry gaze he adopted when he was in the mood. The way his eyes become half-lidded, the faint tug at the corner of his lips, the lightest crinkly of his nose and the dimples of his cheeks.

“Haven’t you ever thought about it?” Haarlep asks while Losson steps closer, arms now able to extend forward and clutch at the fabric of his trousers. The incubus tugs Losson closer pulling him into a position where he might be able to easily pleasure the fiend’s mouth. “About what your own mouth must feel like. How your tongue must slither? How your throat contracts around yourself.” Haarlep runs the blank palm between Losson’s legs. “There’s no better way to love yourself, is there?”

Losson drops a hand to brush some of the blonde from Haarlep’s face. He had. He had thought of it. Had thought of how his own ability to give head must feel. How well could he satisfy others. Clearly very well if so many people kept coming back for more. He didn’t have to wonder anymore if he didn’t want to. “Is that what you want?” he asks, admiring the wanton gaze his face sports thanks to the incubus who is now lovingly squeezing Losson’s groin. What did it feel like - what did his own mouth feel like. What did his own cock taste like? How did it feel to fuck himself and be fucked in return?

A tingle runs through him - thoughts he’d never really considered all that much before this moment. But he likes it. Likes the thoughts that Haarlep suggested. He returns the gaze that Haarlep sports and brushes his knuckles over his cheek, before he points and twirls his index finger, instructing them to roll over. “Is that a yes?” Haarlep purrs as he rolls onto his stomach, resting his head in his arms. Losson has never seen himself (or thought of himself) being so submissive. But something about it - something about it! - causes him to crave it.

The sight of Haarlep in his own skin sliding forward to press his mouth to the dry, tightening exterior of Losson’s pants causes his throat to thicken in anticipation. The mere sensation of running fingers through his own hair, through rubbing at his scalp and coax the person wearing his visage forward - he nibbles his lower lip. The incubus grazes his teeth over the clothing, hand pressed to it as he looks longingly up at Losson with his own icy eyes. Surreal as it may be he fumbles at the front of his trousers as if he were in a dream with only himself for company.

“Yeah, that’s a yes.” Losson coos amidst his disorientation, loosening his clothing for his mimic. It’s as if once wearing Losson’s skin, Haarlep knows precisely how to touch Losson - either they had taken meticulous mental notes or he could match the performance of the individual whose skin he dressed in. Perhaps it’s a combination of both. They pull at Losson’s trousers, groping and squeezing him, appreciating how the familiar hands they wore could be so familiar and so foreign at the same time. Losson is a curious warlock after all with a pull to them that could drive fiends wild with desire. It was such a shame he couldn’t smell it.

Losson finds himself aroused faster than intended - he blames his mind swimming with the fantasy of being touched by himself. Perhaps it has something to do with how whatever sexual pleasure Haarlep felt after adopting Losson’s form and how that would follow him. He’s quick to confirm. “The more aroused I become, the more you feel it, don’t you?” Haarlep sighs, their palm giving a firm squeeze to the outline of the erection visible within Losson’s undergarments. “Want yourself like you want me, will you?” his voice continues as he mouths over the clothed cock, rubbing his face firmly over it, stirring up a friction that Losson was very, very sure he had never told Haarlep about his affinity for. He gives a push to their skull - his skull - hearing the scrape of his chapped lips rubbing against the fabric. It’s strangely musical; or perhaps that just the sound of his voice coming from between his legs as Haarlep drags Losson’s tongue over the concealed length.

The fabric grows damp, the outline and presence of Losson’s cock becoming more and more profoundly noticeable. It would be just like an incubus to scour the recesses of that body’s wants and desires before touching the original owner of it. He’s always enjoyed dry head, both giving and receiving it, but feeling his own methods of giving it makes him want to disassociate - and Haarlep can tell. “Stay with me,” he purrs, mouth dragging to the edge of the garment, where it strains, threatening to pull away from the skin. Haarlep brushes Losson’s mouth along the edge, nose brushing through the trail of exposed golden hair creeping over the edge, crawling toward his navel. “I would hate for you to miss how exquisite your mouth feels when it’s sucking cock.” Teeth snag at the top and Haarlep tugs back, alleviating some of the confines before bringing their hands forward to assist. He tugs the underwear lower, scooping a hand beneath Losson’s cock to bring it forward and relieve it from its cloth prison.

His breath hitches in a sticky, damp swallow - that’s how his hand’s felt. Only when they belonged to someone else could he appreciate the faint roughness, from years of dry skin, as they held his shaft firmly. His fingers felt wider than he’d expected them to and his thumb had a surprising weight to it as Haarlep languidly begins to jerk him off, thumbing the bottom rim of his head in curving motions. Feeling his own methods of masturbation being performed by someone else - someone who knew precisely how to touch him - makes him feel weak. A shuddered cycle of breath, in with a stammer and out with a rattle, quick and haphazard as Haarlep eyes him affectionately. Like spheres of ice - Losson understood the very chill he could send through people with just a gaze and he feels something in him crumble. Just slightly.

Please ,” he chokes, a pathetic lilt to his request. It is not often he finds himself adopting such a tone. Such a crack in his exterior. Such a moment of weakness. Haarlep wearing his skin sends him into something of a spiral that he is gladly descending and he’s unwilling to make his way out of it. It feels indulgent - like he can allow himself to lower his guard. No one’s watching and it’s not much different from masturbation.

(It’s so much different from masturbation).

His mouth feels better than Losson could have ever hoped to imagine. Haarlep hears his pitiful request and the roles between them switch. Something clicks in Losson’s head and he feels himself detach from other parts of himself. He whines when he is introduced to the way the flat of his tongue slides over his length. And it only continues as he clutches at Haarlep’s hair - his hair - and starts to beg. Deeper. Deeper, please gods deeper . It’s his body that Haarlep wears; he knows he can go deeper. They do. They guide his head into his throat and swallow around it, all the while their hands rest between Losson’s legs. They slowly alternate which one would palm and squeeze at his testicles, often times giving a firmer quash each time Haarlep returned back to the head.

It’s faster than he expects - but he truly can’t tell how long Haarlep has been using his mouth to suck him off. (Far longer than Raphael, he knows). He only hears the oddly melodic praise of “Good boy,” from the incubus after Losson comes in his mouth. He looks down, entranced by the way Losson licks ejaculate from his lips - how Losson looks licking it clean. He comes to. He grounds himself and stuffs himself awkwardly back into his pants as Haarlep slinks back into the pillows of the bed, still wearing the warlock’s disguise. He blinks away the disorientation before the incubus peels away the facade, returning to their preferred form whilst in the House of Hope. “You’re always welcome to request that of me.” they muse as Losson steps around the bed, lightly brushing his fingers through the loosely swept aside auburn hair.

“You saw a different side of me,” Losson comments, brow raised in intrigued. “Was that intention? Did you want to see that?” A knowing smirk shapes upon Haarlep’s lips, chuckle crackling behind it.

“Perhaps,” they say. “After you gave me your form, I got such chills while wearing it - I wanted to give it a little test run before tonight.”

“Tonight?” The brow remains raised. Haarlep flashes their teeth in a smile.

“Raphael’s made a request of me.” They rise up to their knees and put their arms around Losson’s shoulders, like a lover aching to be carried. Their wings spread out behind them, flapping in place and briefly closing around them like a curtain. “He craves your touch - it’s been on his mind for days. Ever since you made him submit to you so splendidly. He’ll only talk to me about it. Not a word about your visits gets out beyond this room. He wants to know if he’s getting better.”

“Is he?”

“Little by little,” Haarlep says. “I’ve been returning each night. He lasts a little longer each time. Begs me to insult him a little.” The fiend laughs, affectionately brushing their lips over Losson’s cheek, humming against his cool flesh. Fingers brush through his hair, Haarlep curling it within his grasp. “What have you done to him? He’s always been so needy but he wants so much more. You’re doing something right with all your little private affairs. He’d always been so fond of you and now? Now he’s a man obsessed.”

Losson laughs, the last of the surrealist sensation of having just experienced a blowjob from his own mouth subsiding finally. He almost flushes - more from flattery than anything else. “Well, you didn’t have to tell me that. I knew he was obsessed with me from the moment we met.”

“You’re his fetish .”

Truthfully - the idea amused him. Far more than it needed to. Raphael, a cambion who was well on his way to achieve full devil status amongst the Hells, was obsessed. It was a level of flattery for sure. But knowing that Haarlep had been returning to the House of Hope to help Raphael get off again, even after he’d begun spending their days within the lower city of Baldur’s Gate in order to learn a thing or two about relationships. And now - hearing how he wanted Haarlep so badly to take Losson’s form and satisfy him again? And again? It gave Losson the same sort of satisfaction, the same sort of rush as being so tightly bound to Mephistopheles did.

He nuzzles against Haarlep’s cheek, offering him something of a chaste kiss before ducking out of their grasp. “Do tell me if he starts gasping my name then, hm? It’ll be fun to get him to do the same on my next visit.”

As far as Losson is concerned - Raphael just may want him more than he wants the Crown.

Notes:

OHOHOHO DIDJA SEE THAT. DIDJA? Haarlep broke a lil of Losson's dom persona!!

Ngl, I've been planning on writing a lil selfcest scene since I started this fic and it finally felt like the right time.
But hey - I did drop that Asmodeus cliffhanger last time huh? Am I gonna do anything else with that? WHO KNOWS.

Also folks - if you have music that you think fits this fic, send it to me! Tell me the names so I can check 'em out. I love making playlists for what I'm writing.

Discord link as always - I have a thread for this fic and my other fics and we cry a lot about our faves here. https://discord.gg/GMRvtJhvFr
AND! I made a tumblr! You can find me at "atastypeach" where I mostly just link my fics and post a couple random things, including pics of the Tav I actually played the game with. Oh and I just like a lot of posts of my faves. I don't do much there but if you wanna give me a follow but don't want to join the discord, there ya go!

now, if you don't mind. I'm going to snuggle my kitty. her name is Beans.

Chapter 10: tops are for tupperware and bottoms are for pants

Notes:

A little late again this week but I think I've decided Sundays are probably your best days for updates from me for this one! This fic is taking a lot more nuance and a lot more specialized storytelling for me and let's just say I'm having a grand ole time!

I started this fic with the intention of it being PWP but I've realized huh. There's quite a bit of plot involved in this porn. So I've decided to take advantage of that and start including other characters and show off more of Losson's interactions with the others. Specifically - Karlach! It dawned on me that Losson, with such a cold, chilly schtick to him, may have been able to touch Karlach before her engine got repaired!

Also this chapter has your first lil instance of me connecting it to the same time period as my other consistent fic, Steel Bandages. Have we noticed I have a thing for tieflings? Probably just as bad, if not worse than Losson?

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Oh fuck yes ,” Karlach sighs happily as her arms close around Losson, nestling his head against her chest, smiling as the uncanny sound of steam emits from between the two of them. “It’s like hugging a snowman.” Though her engine was mostly stabilized she still runs hot enough that the occasional cool touch from Losson is entirely appreciated. They had figured that out early on - before Losson and Astarion had found themselves utterly smitten with one another, he and Karlach had something of an arrangement. Be it sexual or simply platonic, he could put his hands on her for periods at a time thanks to his frigid blood. He’d been the only person who could touch her in ages and given that it was like ice on molten metal - he could at least give her a bit of the physical contact she craved.

After her first tune up, it had progressed from simply platonic actions of letting her wrap her arms around him in stress reducing hugs and embraces, to entirely sexual forays. Including several instances of Losson finding himself on the receiving end of her affections. Not that he minded of course. It was just like it would be for strangers who tossed him coin - it was work. Except in this case, he genuinely cared about this partner and wanted to see her happy.

Her heart, her engine, rather, belonged to someone else, though. She and Wyll had something of a blossoming relationship between them. Simple at first, beginning with the chaste touches mimicking that of children with innocent crushes, to moments of pure passion. Whether they were sleeping with one another didn’t matter (nor was it Losson’s business) but the frequent need to wrap her arms around the icy warlock was still a frequent occurrence.

“We’ve got to see if we can get you another tune up,” Losson laughs as he feels himself steadily warming up. It was one of the perks of receiving her hugs in turn, he got to remember what it felt like to have warm running blood. Like Mephistopheles hadn’t bound his entire essence in ice. He felt like an ordinary human again whenever Karlach wanted to hold him. Letting go was always hard - it felt like anxiety, flooding his person with ache and strain.

“Would it hurt to check in with Dammon again?” Wyll asks as Karlach steps away from Losson and the cooling comforts of his person. Wyll’s hand touches her and idly the two of them lace their fingers together. He’s no warlock of Mephistopheles but surely he’s cool to the touch just the same, though clearly not as chilly, and a far more human and reasonable temperature.

“We’ve got plenty of infernal iron, thanks to the number of those Steel Watcher’s we’ve taken out.” Losson approaches the trunk they’ve stored their belongings in during the past few months. “Been too heavy for any of us to reasonably carry around, so surely some of this may prove useful to him.”

“Can’t you just put some of that cold of yours into some of the iron and let me cram it in my chest?” Karlach asks, her voice sounding dejected. “I’d miss getting to hug you like that but gods, it would do me wonders.” He smiles sadly at her as he retrieves a few of the hunks of iron from the trunk, setting them on the ground.

“If it were that easy, I would’ve suggested that already. But I’m pretty sure that since Dammon has to heat it up anyways, it wouldn’t work out.” He shares the tone with her but sets the few pieces of infernal iron on top of the trunk before sitting upon it himself. He chews his lip - he has an idea, but it’s probably not one that would go over well.

She’s one of Zariel’s. Absolutely not .

It echoes in his head and Losson only frowns in response.

He focuses on the idea again - it’s simple. Take the iron to Cania. Let it sit in the wasteland for a few hours until it becomes too cold to handle. Somehow find a way to magically retrieve it and dart over to the Forge of the Nine with Karlach before it warms back up.

It won’t work.

Losson thinks loudly the phrase “ How would you know ?” only to receive deafening, annoyed silence in return. Mephistopheles had no proof it wouldn’t work.

You may try.

He smirks and crosses his arms, drumming his fingers against his biceps with a bit of smug satisfaction. “There is an option. But I can’t guarantee it’ll work.”

“You want to take me where ?” Dammon’s voice can’t contain the surprise and shock when Losson approaches him later that afternoon. Clearly amused, he still laughs the idea off as absolutely insane. “I think I’ve spent enough time in just one of the Hells. I’m not keen on going back there any time soon. Especially not somewhere so cold.”

“You want to help Karlach, don’t you?” Losson pleads, knowing he can exploit the blacksmith’s weak spot a bit. He had noticed how Dammon had been so completely enchanted by her, foul language and all, upon their first few chance encounters. “Come on, I’ve seen how you look at her - you’d cut off your own horns if it meant a shot with her.” The smith drives his hammer into some heated iron upon his anvil.

“I missed my shot,” he says kindly after a few more strikes, ensuring he’s flattened this bit of metal to where it needs to be. “And yes, I do want to help her! But first, I’m not about to overstep; I know she’s involved with Wyll Ravengard. Secondly, I’m sort-of-involved with someone now anyways. And third-” He exhales heavily, setting down his tools for a moment to tighten the hair he pulls pulled away from his neck. “I don’t know if encasing infernal iron in ice is going to ensure that it cools her engine down. I’d still need to craft it into the right component for her and that might strip away any of the infernal cold.”

Losson quirks a brow - when did Dammon start seeing someone? News to him. He was pretty up to date in regards to who of his allies were preoccupied in matters of the heart. It certainly didn’t help that Withers was rather nosy as well and often dropped some gossip (in his own Withers-y way) about who was dating who. But nevertheless he stays on topic. “That’s why you need to craft the component first. Make the add on and if you need me to, I can go there myself.”

“You? To Cania? That’s a death sentence.” Dammon is the one to raise a brow this time around. “What makes you so sure that you can even get there? Getting to Avernus for me wasn’t exactly something I planned to do - you don’t just take a vacation there.”

“Let me ask you a question first,” Losson asks. “And I’m not trying to come on to you, but - since we met, have you had,” He purses his lips, thinking of the correct way to phrase this. “An intense, kind of primal drive to jump me?” He regrets the word choice immediately and the clanging of Dammon striking iron comes as a much appreciated sound in place of a discontented silence.

“I won’t deny that you,” he clears his throat. “Gave me this very strong impression of being interested in me.” Dammon murmurs as he very quickly busies himself. “My, uh, my partner?” He sounds vaguely confused upon saying the word. “Had a similar reaction to you, I believe. Though he was far more angry about the sudden attraction than I was.” He glances up briefly before he wipes his hands upon a rag hanging upon his belt. “Is there a point to this question other than making me feel flustered?”

“There is, there is, sorry for having to ask it but - okay, you see.” Losson’s nostrils flare, amused at more evidence of Mephistopheles' tampering. “It’s no secret I’m a warlock, right? Well, my patron is Mephistopheles, and he’s sort of left me with a kind of indelible mark because he’s an archdevil that makes infernals, specifically tieflings and cambions, find me sort of uh. Irresistible.” And with this comes the silence as Dammon has stepped away from his work to face Losson more directly. His pale, infernal complexion has grown warm with splotches of rose as he flushes, still wringing his hands about within the cloth at his waist.

“That explains a lot,” Dammon mutters to himself. “It was talk of the Grove for a bit. A lot of us were wondering if you were flirting with us or if we just found you attractive. Archdevil magnetism? That’s a new one.” He laughs. “Might have to bring that up the next time we all get together.” It takes another moment before he relents, chest expanding as he heaves a sigh, head seeming to be located somewhere else for a moment. “So you have an archdevil for a patron who hails from one of the coldest of the Hells, and because of that you think you can freeze a component of infernal iron long enough to help with Karlach’s engine.”

“Yeah, I don’t know shit about artificery-”

“I’m not an artificer.” Dammon expresses quickly. “I have no such magical prowess, please don’t make that assumption. I don’t want to offer you something that is outside of my realm of expertise.”

“Alright, correct, I don’t know shit about smithing - but it feels like it makes sense to me. What better to cool down an infernal engine than infernal ice. They ought to cancel out, shouldn’t they?” Dammon groans, but he doesn’t seem upset by the prospects.

“The logic is sound - I can’t disagree with you.” Another heave of his chest and then a nod. “Alright, bring me the iron - I’ll craft a cooling component, it’s up to you then to get the infernal ice embedded in it.” Losson smiles and gets to his feet, affectionately patting Dammon on the cheek.

“Good lad, let’s do Karlach a solid yeah?” he says with a bit of a grin. “Oh, and introduce me to that partner of yours sometime - I’d like to get a read on her to see how she feels about me.”

“Oh, you’ve met him -” Dammon corrects. “Saved his ass a few too many times for his comfort. Bit embarrassed by it, so might be for the best if you let him live with a bit of his pride still in tact.” There’s an amused chuckle. “He won’t admit it, but he owes you a lot.”

Losson takes pause, trying to figure out who Dammon might be referring to before he finds himself grinning smugly. Oh . Oh that also made a lot of sense.

He’s going to tease him so much the next time he stops by Sorcerous Sundries.


“He’s a cute one.” As if manifesting from nothing, Haarlep appears in their elven form by Losson’s side as he begins his return from the Forge of the Nine. “Can’t say I would be opposed to getting to hear what he sounds like trilling my name.”

“Taken.” Losson addresses. “His relationship might be open, but he’s taken as far as I can tell. Don’t push your luck with someone taken unless - okay, let me back track that. There are people who are polyamorous -”

“Like you.”

“Eh, not exactly - gods, am I going to have to teach you about this sort of thing too?” Haarlep comes up behind Losson, slipping their arms around him and stepping close, causing the warlock to freeze in step. A very public display of affection that causes the heads of some passersby to turn. In most circumstances, Losson wouldn’t be opposed. But it’s not exactly the right now. “I’m sexually available. Not romantically. Little different. If someone’s polyamorous, they’re likely open to more romantic partners too.”

“And the blacksmith - not polyamorous?” Haarlep slips their arms away from Losson, allowing the warlock to resume his stride.

“As far as I can tell - no.” Losson runs his eyes up and down over Haarlep a moment, their elven form moving in such elegant, smooth strides as if there was not even a hint of there being an incubus hiding within that skin. “Do you have a preference for tieflings then?” They raise a thoughtful hand to their lips as if contemplating, slowing in their motions.

“I think I may,” they agree. “There’s something familiar in the way their bodies look and act - I know how to touch them in the right ways.” Amusement dances on their lips. “They’re sturdier than most other partners, I find. I can really sink my teeth into them and so few of them find that unpleasant.”

“We’re talking about romantic partners, not sexual ones, Haarlep.” Losson corrects.

“I know .” Haarlep emphasizes - Losson swears he can feel the thump of Haarlep’s tail swat against his ass. “I intend to sleep with my lovers too, you know. Even though you aren’t keen on sleeping with your romantic partners doesn’t mean that I’m the same.” Something in how Haarlep says that feels like it comes directly from Mephistopheles. He feels the Cold Lord smirk somewhere and Losson fights the urge to quip back with something snarky.

“Alright, fine, I hear you - you want to be sexually attracted to your partner. That’s pretty common. Not a me thing, but sure - that’s not unusual. You like tieflings, you’ve got a preference. Nothing wrong with that either. Just don’t be fetishy about it.” Haarlep begins to interrupt. “Unless they’re into that, then knock yourself out.” Haarlep closes their mouth, their point addressed quickly. “Dammon’s off limits, he’s taken - so’s the wizard tiefling at Sorcerous Sundries, sounds like they’re an item. His siblings might be open, but don’t quote me. Don’t go for the cute bard. She’s got a girlfriend. Oh, and the pale tiefling with the blond hair? The lady? Married. Unless she and her husband are good with it, don’t overstep. Pretty sure they’re having a baby too so, definitely don’t get involved -” Losson continues to rattle off the various tieflings he knows that had arrived from Elturel. His lips purse for a moment and then gives Haarlep a scan up and down. “Thoughts on older men?”

“A seasoned lover?” Haarlep’s voice trills with something of an excited chime. Their fingers fidget, drumming together in eager little taps. “Raphael’s got several years on me - I can’t say I’m opposed.”

“I know an old Hellrider tiefling. Bit older than Raphael, I think - he’s a bit of a somber gentleman, I think he’s looking to settle down too.” Losson offers a smile. “I think a good lover might be what he could use - might not be the same level of passion you’d expect from a younger partner, but I could see you hitting it off.”

“Do you have a name for me?” Haarlep chirps as the two of them push open the doors to Elfsong. Losson can practically hear the intrigued swishing of the unseen tail. He laughs, guiding the incubus inside - only to find himself looking directly at the oncoming face of the man of the hour. With eyes bright, a tiefling man somewhere in his late fifties approaches Losson. He is adorned in old, worn armor - although he clearly does not need to wear it any longer. He bears a peaceful, serene visage - the guise of a man who has literally seen hell and back. His hair pale for a tiefling and horns pointing backwards. Though age lines his face with the weariness of a hard life, he nevertheless sports a smile. Losson gives Haarlep a slight nudge of his elbow - Speak of the devil (or in this case, tiefling) and he shall hear you.

“Zevlor,” Losson says warmly, approaching the man who seems to have been laying in wait for his arrival. He opens his arms and they embrace - it is a strangely familiar one. The embrace of old friends come to cross paths once again who have long since been able to wrap their arms around one another. “Pleasure to see you again - don’t tell me you were waiting here for me to return, were you?” The man appears almost bashful at the comment. His smile warms further, beckoning Losson to walk with him to a table he’d just risen from.

“I wasn’t waiting long if that’s what you’re concerned about,” he says. “I had gone to your abode upstairs and was informed you’d stepped out. I’d wanted to check in with Wyll after hearing his father had been safely located. It had been such a stressor for him that I wanted to be sure he was faring well. Won’t you sit with me for a while, we haven’t had the opportunity to chat in some time.” The elder tiefling’s eyes scan Losson with something of an amused expression, thoughtful and perhaps even somewhat demure. “You truly have not aged a day. I hadn’t the chance to address this during our last few encounters but standing before now, seeing you free from grime and blood of our foes, it’s rather astounding.”

“Oh come on,” Losson flushes a little, walking with Zevlor to a table with Haarlep in tow. “It’s only been thirty years - people don’t age that much in that amount of time - I mean, you certainly haven’t.” The comment is made to be a flirtatious compliment but also one said from the heart. He had aged, but Losson had such a fondness for the elder tiefling that he couldn’t find it in his heart to comment on the regretful sight. Time had been rough on the man. Sure, he was still quite handsome, but a life of stress does things to people. He and Zevlor, years back - there had been…a fling. For lack of a better term. It was done to tease Mephistopheles more than anything. To rile him up, for Losson to show that he could still get any tiefling he wanted, with or without his patron’s help. But there had been true fondness between the both of them. He'd been the only person since he and Mephistopheles had gone their separate ways as lovers that Losson found himself positively taken with.

“Nonsense, I’ve grown old now, Losson.” Zevlor muses, his lips forming into another solemn smirk, the lines at the corners of his mouth crinkling. “Who might your companion be?” He nods toward Haarlep who has been suppressing a very apparent need to ogle the older gentleman. Aged though he may be, Haarlep saw right past the lines and wrinkles upon the man’s face and had determined that oh yes , Zevlor was a looker.

“Haarlep,” the incubus says, extending a hand as they sit with Losson at the small table where Zevlor had been seated, a half consumed ale upon its surface. “I hear you were a Hellrider - that’s quite the feat. I didn’t know there were any of them left.” Their introduction comes before Losson can get a word out. “You see, don’t let my looks fool you, sir,” the sudden drop of such a formal title causes the elder tiefling’s cheeks to deepen in color. “I happen to be something of an infernal myself. Not from Avernus, of course, but I’ve heard my fair share of gossip about Zariel’s infamous Hellriders.” From across the table - Losson gestures in such a way that it was a suggestion to that Haarlep that they drop the subject. It’s not exactly a first meeting sort of discussion. There is a moment of realization on Haarlep’s face, especially as Zevlor seems to turn his gaze away from the two of them. They smile and Losson swears again they can hear the swishing of an unseen tail from the incubus as they rest their chin in their hands whilst their elbows perch upon the table. “But that can be a conversation for the future, can’t it?”

Ease washes upon Zevlor’s face as the topic shifts away from the Hellriders and he visibly relaxes. “You say you’re infernal as well, yes?” He asks, brow raised inquisitively. “The public’s views on tieflings here is hardly as negative as it is elsewhere, there’s no need to hide.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Haarlep purrs, drumming their fingers against their cheeks in an amused giggle of sorts. “Tieflings, surely are more welcome. But my brand of infernal? My brand of fiend is a bit more.” They smile, flashing their teeth. “ Scandalous. ” Losson draws in a breath as he sees how Haarlep’s eyelids lower, much like a cat showing its comfort with the stranger that has been feeding it.

“Goodness, I doubt that.” Zevlor chuckles, lifting his tankard of ale for a sumptuous gulp before letting it rest again upon the table. “There aren’t many infernals other than tieflings wandering the Sword Coast - how farfetched are we talking about? Truly you can’t be that , ahem,” Zevlor clears his throat. “Exotic.”

And Losson sees how the deviant behavior that Haarlep loves to tap into begins to rise to the surface. He half anticipates them to reveal their cambion-like form for Zevlor, interrupting the daily activities of Elfsong, and slink upon the elder tiefling’s lap. “Oh, how about an infernal of the bodily delights variety.” Their words are subtle enough that sound unremarkable to passersby unaware of the discussion but to those who are intently listening, the are loud and clear. There is the faintest indication of Haarlep’s tongue slipping against their lower lip, eyes darting over Zevlor to give him something of a sensuous scan.

“Helm, preserve me. . .” Zevlor’s voice cracks, his eyes a bit wider than seconds prior, and his cheeks flushed into a deeper scarlet. “You’re an incubus?”

“Oh yes,” Haarlep hums. “And my services are very, very much open for exploration. From anyone .”

And with those words, Losson (who also finds himself a bit more aroused by Haarlep’s sultry intonations) speaks up. “Haarlep when I suggested you meet him, this was not exactly what I had in mind - not yet at least.”

The warlock sits there, feeling himself squirming in faint (pleasant) discomfort as the incubus rises to their feet. Their fingers brush over the table, lifting before they briefly hover close to Zevlor’s face, but stop. “You haven’t reacted to my advances yet, so I shall wait~” they say smoothly before in turn they gloss their fingers over Losson’s shoulder. “I sense you have catching up to do, so shall we discuss this chance encounter later?” Losson offers a surprisingly shy smile as Haarlep turns to leave, allowing him the chance to sit with the Hellrider in comparative silence.

“You keep very strange company these days Losson,” Zevlor muses as Haarlep takes their leave, enjoying another much needed sip from his drink. “An incubus. Yet, I am not surprised - you always had a way with fiends.”

“Blame my patron,” Losson chuckles as he flags down a server, ordering himself a pint of whatever drink Zevlor was imbibing in. “Got confirmation of that recently. He rubbed his grubby little pheromones all over me and now I’m like catnip for fiends.”

“Can’t say that surprises me - you’ve always been such a natural at appealing to tieflings, I wouldn’t put it past you, having incubi wrapped around your finger just the same.” Zevlor studies Losson after a moment, noting how the warlock was certainly much older than he was, but there wasn’t even a single grey hair upon his head. “Your patron’s to thank for your age too, I assume?”

“Aha,” Losson breathes out, laughing the syllables out in an embarrassed gush of flattery. “I was wondering if we were going to talk about that. I’ve seen it on the tip of your tongue every time we bumped into each other. Yeah,” a server returns to hand Losson his pint which he takes a gracious gulp from. “Something about not wanting me to die while he’s essentially eternal. I’m sure there’s more to it, but he’s not telling me.”

“Thirty years, Losson.” Zevlor says, eyeing him over. “Same hair, same eyes - same way of dressing.” Though the tiefling is smiling as he speaks, Losson hears the faint sorrow in his words. “Not a day and yet here I am - age spots, fine lines and wrinkles and not much to show for it.”

“Don’t get started on that,” Losson comments quickly. “Zevlor, you escorted an entourage of civilians from Elturel to Baldur’s Gate - that’s no small feat.” He gestures somewhat, vaguely as if indicating to the entire establishment. “There’s a young wizard controlling Ramazith’s Tower with his siblings who could’ve been lost to the Shadow Curse. There’s a young bard and her girlfriend who are opening a school now. There’s a blacksmith who has his own forge again -” Losson reaches over and clasps upon Zevlor’s hands, firmly, holding them tightly within his own. “Not many people can say that they saved lives like that, Zev.”

But Losson does not get another word out as the tiefling by his side silences him. Zevlor’s lips touch his in such a sweet, grateful kiss - it is not passionate, nor is it intense. But it is the kiss of a man who knew he would not get the chance again. “You really haven’t changed - still so easily in awe of the achievements of others. Still so willing to inspire.” Zevlor’s eyes pull away from Losson’s. “You’ll have to forgive me. I know you haven’t the time or the heart to waste on the still lingering affections of a lonely, old man.”

Everything stills a bit. Losson had always suspected that after their few little dates and affairs decades prior, the Hellrider was still somewhat attached to him. But at that time he most certainly wasn’t looking for anything more, even if at the time his heart said yes. Truly a case of right person. . .wrong time. And it saddened him - Zevlor was a catch. He was such a caring man in ways that Losson could only wish to live up to. The man was such proof and such evidence that no matter where someone came from - all people had it in them to be good. To do good things.

“Perhaps not.” Losson says with a gentle caress of the back of Zevlor’s hand. “But if you’re willing to give someone a chance, I know several people who have the time, heart and so much more.” Truly, he was like catnip for some tieflings. But nevertheless, he smiles and Zevlor smiles with him. “Don’t tell me you’ve been harboring those feelings for thirty years, Zevlor. I’d be worried about you if you did.”

“Gods no.” He laughs proudly. “I’ve had my share of relationships since our little foray as young men - well, when I was a young man, that is.”

“Believe me, Zevlor - you’re only as old as you feel. And if I felt my age, I don’t think I’d be quite as spry as I am.”

“I heard Haarlep’s been taking my form.”

Losson sits at the foot of Raphael’s bed, legs crossed, one over the other with his hands resting firmly on the mattress. On his knees, bound within his human confines, Raphael is before him. His arms are held with rope behind his back, intricately tied to make it difficult for him to move them, even with the full force of his shoulders. He is nearly entirely undressed save for a pair of fine, satin undergarments, barely holding with them the man’s erection, aching to be stripped from the silken layer of cloth. The cambion sneers, trying not to look at Losson who extends a leg forward, pressing his foot upon the man’s cock, nudging it so that Raphael’s head droops and a throaty moan spills from his throat.

“Is that true?”

Losson asks, nudging his foot a bit more firmly. He’s still in his camp boots, opting to have not stripped from them upon his arrival at the House of Hope this afternoon. He pushes again, aiming to make it clear that if he were to apply just a bit more pressure he could possibly crush the devil’s testicles beneath his weight.

Without raising his head, Raphael gasps out an answer in the affirmative. Losson begins to correct him but after the tiniest adjustment of his foot, Raphael remembers his manners and answers correctly.

“Yes, sir .” he grunts, lifting his head to meet Losson’s steely gaze. “I’ve asked Haarlep to take your form when I am spending the evening with them.” He already looks spent. Like he’s been worked to the bone - but if Losson’s experience with Haarlep adopting his form is anything to go off, he knows that the incubus is definitely giving Raphael a work out.

“Very good,” Losson commends him, pleased to hear how the devil has learned to use complete sentences when he asks him questions. He lightens his weight on Raphael’s cock, knowing this is both a blessing and a curse. “Now, tell me - why are you having Haarlep take my form? If you answer nicely,” A cunning smirk weaves over their lips and they lift their foot again. “Maybe I’ll get you off properly.”

He was learning. Raphael manages to slide himself forward so that Losson’s foot was now upon his cock, there of his own volition. His eyes do not leave Losson having concluded that if he behaves, Losson will reward him. Oh, how truly humiliating for a fiend such as himself to be caught in such a predicament.

But he would not lie.

Raphael loved every second of it.

“You have been most satisfying,” Raphael’s mellow voice begins. “In ways I’d not experienced in my countless years, even with an incubus gifted for my own pleasurable usage.” His words are smooth and much to Losson’s surprise there is not a hint of resistance. He nods his head to the cambion, encouraging him to continue. “I’ve asked them to adopt your form so that I might better experience you without the restrictions of,” He begins to sneer, his focus briefly darting away as if seeking the correct way to parse the words together. “This arrangement .”

That cunning smile that a week prior would have annoyed Raphael to no end flashes upon Losson’s lips as he lightly claps his hands together. A measure of applause - and though it could be interpreted as condescending, Losson was altogether pleased. “Now color me impressed and surprised, Raphael.” Losson compliments. “I was half expecting to have to punish you a little to worm that confession out of you? Such good behavior - “ And his voice lowers, eyelids droop and his voice deepens. “You must really want me to make you come, huh?” He crooks a finger, beckoning Raphael forward, to stand. It is an unsteady motion as his hands remain restrained behind him and were useless as a means of steadying himself. Scooping an arm around him, Losson helps him step forward, and in that same motion slides the man free of his undergarments.

“Must you have me remain in my human guise?” he grumbles as Losson’s hand sweeps over his bare ass, flexing so that he can give him a firm little pat as the cambion stands close. Losson’s fingers rise over toward his back to the rope restraining Raphael’s arms, managing to fuss with them enough to loosen them, allowing his wrists to breathe. (Raphael was welcome to work at pulling them off himself, but otherwise Losson would remove them when they were finished). He doesn’t gaze down at the warlock handling him but he’s certainly not ignorant to the way Losson’s hand has already so cautiously begun to stroke the length of his cock.

“Yes,” Losson says. “Because I’ve yet to test your limits this way.” His hand wraps loosely at first upon Raphael’s shaft, offering a few idle, experimental strokes. In his human form, his cock is entirely unremarkable. Nothing special. Maybe a little girthy, but it was not anything Losson was truly impressed by. A decent size for the man’s proportions, protruding from a mess of dark hair that, as far as Losson was concerned, could use a little more cultivation (but perhaps Raphael liked it that way). “You have the option to appear however you wish in your human form and you chose to be average ?” He asks dubiously, gripping a bit tighter now, finding a pleasant motion to jerk the man off with. “I’m quite surprised Raphael - for a man so thoroughly obsessed with himself, I’d have expected you to take a form with a cock that you could choke gods with. Instead, you’ve presented me with the most mundane cock I’ve ever had the experience of handling.” There is a pause. “Not to say it’s not pleasant , getting to manhandle you and make you squirm and beg for me to make you nut while I’m too busy making you see into the outer planes to pay attention to you - but Raphael.” His voice drops, softening as Losson drops to his knees, effectively trading places with him. He gazes upwards, his eyes gentle before the smirk he loves to torment the cambion reappears. “Don’t tell me this is all you have for me.”

The devil’s stare bears into Losson in such a way that it is hard for the warlock to determine whether he is about to react from contempt or desire. But he does not allow Raphael the luxury to decipher which is which before Losson slides closer, jaw slack as he guides the fiend’s cock into his mouth. It’s a slow, eager motion that almost immediately forces Raphael’s lungs to emit such a pleasantly throaty groan. His hips jerk, spasming as he not so much thrusts but wriggles against Losson’s head. He can hear the sound of his arms rubbing together to work at the loosened length of rope holding them back.

His eyes close, tongue lapping at the underside of Raphael’s shaft; he doesn’t suspect it will take long. He’s been providing the devil with the luxury of his preferred, fiendish form to aid in his endurance. While in the façade of a human, there was no way that Raphael could last nearly as long or perform nearly as well. It would be a short little experiment but it would be fun nevertheless. Losson’s mind briefly darts to Haarlep wearing his own form sucking him off - he has to push away the thought while he focuses on the task at hand. His head dedicates itself to its familiar rhythm. He doesn’t have to do anything particularly special with Raphael to make the man come; he’s learned that much from him. Just a slow, deep, metronomic pattern of a back and forth with his tongue slurping and slathering over him with saliva.

Losson is quite sure he’s got Raphael right where he wants him when the most astounding revelation occurs - there are hands upon the back of his head, keeping him from sliding back too far. His eyes open and upon the floor he sees the length of rope, coiled in place behind him. Losson looks away and then glances up - with a grin accumulating across most of Raphael’s face, he smiles down at Losson. His chest heaves as his exhales part through his nose, his fingers gripping at the tangles of blond hair upon the skull that was so diligently pleasuring him.

Very good,” Raphael praises, his tone almost mocking as he pushes at the back of Losson’s head just slightly firmer than Losson would have done to the cambion himself. He gasps upon the man, a sudden declaration in the sound of an ‘ Mmph! ’ as Raphael’s cock rubs at the back of his throat whilst Losson’s face and nose are pushed toward the base, shoved into the curls of hair.

He couldn’t decide if he was pleased or annoyed.

For one, he was quite entertained by Raphael actually taking some initiative - it was unlike him but it reminded Losson of the way the man had often approached him during his journey to the city. The ominous threat that his very presence came with. In a round about way, it excited him, revealing to Losson a side of Raphael he knew was in there somewhere . Each time Raphael’s face had shown itself over these past few months a small part of Losson found himself wishing that the man would pull him aside at the camp side and bend him over some discarded crates or some jagged, rough edged boulders - anything that would force him to bend the knee for the devil. But as time progressed and those options became less and less (and as Losson started becoming more and more aware of Raphael’s preferences) he’d put the idea aside.

But he was also annoyed - Raphael was not supposed to take the lead here. That was not the plan. This was Losson rewarding him. Not the other way around. He didn’t appreciate being usurped in his own domain but. . .In truth, Losson had done that to Raphael the day he’d shown up in the House of Hope and insisted on sleeping with him.

Touché, Raphael .

But he knows how to wrest control over him again. Losson lifts an arm as Raphael pushes a bit unceremoniously upon the back of his head once again and he firmly closes his palm around the man’s testicles. It’s almost one and done - the single, firm application of pressure upon them and Raphael’s seed erupts from his cock, hotly spilling into Losson’s throat. He doesn’t even manage a few final pumps before his hands relax and Losson frees himself, nearly instantly on his feet again.

“What in the Hells was that?!” He shouts, feeling himself force prestidigitation into the sudden declaration. Unless it was an act of genuine bratting behavior, Losson was not sure if it was something he ought to put up with. “You don’t just wrest control like that from me, Raphael - what sort of wiseass crack was that?” He lets himself feel the frustration for a moment before Losson concludes something quite vital. He is not angry. Not at all. He wants to be enraged. He wants to be furious with Raphael but. . . Something. Something won’t let him. And he knows damn well what it is. But he has to take a moment. Take a moment to let Raphael think he’s truly done something wrong. Because Losson knowspreciselywhat it was he was feeling. It was approval.

He liked it.

There is a look of confusion apparent on Raphael’s face as Losson begins the sudden tirade, especially as a sudden chill takes to the air with the casting of such a simple cantrip - whether intentional or otherwise. The cambion actually opens his mouth, the first words of an apology starting to leave his mouth. “I assumed your loosening of the restraints was part of a challenge for me.” Raphael snorts beyond the words of an apology, beginning to step away from Losson, back now facing toward the bed as he offers the warlock the chance to walk away.

He does not get far as Losson is quick to grab at his wrist.

“It wasn’t, but.” Losson tugs at his lower lip with his teeth, and he feels a creeping along the back of his neck as he pushes Raphael back upon the bed. “I decided. I’m not mad.” Slowly, Losson begins to crawl upon the bed where the cambion, still within his human confines, is left upon his back. He begins to push himself up, resting on his elbows as Losson slowly slinks along Raphael’s body, forcing him to lay down again. His hands run over him, from his hips, to his stomach to Raphael’s chest before with both arms, he snatches Raphael's, forcing the man upon his back, raising them and pinning them over his head.

The cambion’s eyes narrow, smugness taking hold of his expression as Losson lowers himself down upon him. “And why is that, Losson Wright?” Raphael asks, emphasizing the warlock’s full name, causing a rather surprising little spark to shoot up his spine. “Have I perhaps been learning a thing or two from you?”

And with one of those hands slipping away from the pin he’s forced Raphael into, Losson gives a firm, potentially even agonizing, squeeze to the man’s groin. He grins, a dastardly little glint in his eyes.

“You very well may be,” Losson says, almost proudly. “Now, do it again .”

Notes:

WOULDJA BELIEVE I POLLED THE DISCORD ABOUT THE END OF THIS CHAPTER. I legit went "...hey. You guys wanna see Losson bottom? Not necessarily sub, but bottom." And boy wouldja believe people wanna see this dumbass get topped? Who would've ever guessed!

And hey, we got our first instances of trying to teach Haarlep how to flirt without making things really horny! Kind of! They aren't very good at it!

As per usual here's the discord link if you guys want to join us. https://discord.gg/9c5ntRNVj6 We're a bunch of good hearted degenerates and you guys can listen to me cry about Rolan.
Also if you want to follow me on tumblr, where I'll also be posting links as they come out and overall kinda shitposting, you can find me at "atastypeach" and on there I have some links for other stuff people might find cool.

Chapter 11: sometimes it's best to keep your nose clean from family drama

Notes:

What's this? Smut AND a lore drop? Aren't you guys lucky!!!
Not much to say this time except massive shout out to the Mind Blown server this weekend for our impromtu AMA's about this fic and Steel Bandages. Want to join us sometime? There ought to be an invite code in one of the earlier chapters. Some were only made for 7 days but others have no expiry. So if you want to come join us and hear more about the process of this fic, come hang out. We have Losson fanart and an emoji of him now.

Also MASSIVE shout out to Van from Mind Blown who DREW LOSSON FANART? I would link it here but I don't want to share it without permission. Listen. He's beautiful. I'm so thrilled. I never thought a Tav I named after the street my grocery store is on would be so well received.

Y'all are wonderful. I love you.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Losson straddles Raphael, his humanoid form nude and exposed and his cock pleasantly erect for the warlock’s greedy hands to fondle. If Raphael was going to be so bossy in his tone with him, he would need to back it up. He was more than happy to entertain the idea of letting Raphael feel a little more in control of the scene between them - provided he could keep the act up. Losson leans forward, freeing Raphael from the pinned grasp, his hands trailing over his torso to unbutton his shirt, pulling it open to reveal his chest as he slinks upward along the cambion’s body, fingers glossing over the soft flesh of his stomach.

“Tell me how, Raphael.” Losson commands as he draws his hands between his legs to slowly pull open at his pants. He pushes back, letting the curve of his ass brush against Raphael’s cock with the lightest of friction stirring slinks of his hips along the man’s abdomen. “Tell me how you want to push me around and maybe I’ll give you the chance.”

The smug look the cambion wears upon mortal flesh is too familiar to Losson - an overly confident gaze with concealed intent and the corners of his lips tugging faintly in order to draw the curious warlock closer. He raises a hand, running it up along Losson’s stomach - his touch within his human guise is far softer and smoother than as a cambion. Perhaps it’s simply designed to be gentler. “What could I ever do to you that hasn’t already been done?” Raphael asks, his amber eyes narrowed. A tingle runs along Losson’s spine - a tingle reminding him that he likes the implications of those words. He likes a little slut shaming when it’s tossed in his direction. He’s quite confident in his line of work - he isn’t ashamed of his promiscuity. But there’s something that always gives him a little bit of a rush when someone insults him in the bedroom for it. Yes. Call him a whore. He makes a very good living being one.

“Be creative,” Losson teases. “Surely there’s some way you can get me to submit to you.” He places his hand upon Raphael’s and instead of allowing him to run it up his chest, he guides it downwards. A look upon his face says to him - Follow my lead and then do what feels right. He is judging him. Studying. Waiting to see if he chickens out. It’s when Raphael’s palm reaches his navel does Losson’s hand slip away and Raphael’s hand rolls over the curve of Losson’s groin, still contained within the folds of his pants.

He sneers - Losson sees right through it, it is not a disdainful one but a matter of showmanship - hand resting beneath the bulge of his trousers, cupping and squeezing him in such a way that it sends a jolt of surprise up through his gut. “I could lock your filthy cock in a cage,” he growls. “Force you to deal with the consequences of your own arousal - toss you in my prison and link chains around the cage so that you’re trapped, confined with your own erection and naught but your fantasies to indulge it.”

Oh no, he likes that.How he would love to experience it if Raphael were brazen enough to act on such a threat.

Losson rises a bit, rolling down his pants further but it is in doing so that Raphael’s grasp tightens and a timely, yet unexpected groan rumbles out of Losson’s chest. Okay, so perhaps he could back it up a little - Raphael’s grasp was unrelenting and he was truly quite impressed by such a firm grip. He ruts against his palm, jerking forward as if to ask him - no, he wants Losson to beg with such a handle upon him - to at least let him out of the rest of his clothing.

“And perhaps, before then, I shall leave you confined to your drawers,” Raphael suggests. “Let the risk of humiliation fall upon you today.” His grasp is unmoving, and Losson can feel the strain becoming almost unpleasant, but he knows with the right motions of his hand - Raphael could also make it truly worthy of Losson’s eyes rolling back. It was a long shot, but he’d give him the chance to surprise him.

Raphael sits up and he draws his unoccupied hand beneath Losson’s chin, luring him forward. He finds himself smirking - finds himself tempted to start bratting in response to Raphael’s actions. But he won’t. He doesn’t think Raphael has what it takes to handle Losson Wright at his brattiest. His father barely could. “What a shame,” Losson quips. “And here I even wore special underwear for you today and you don’t even want to see them.”

“I want to see you groveling,” Raphael growls, his voice lowering as the hand beneath Losson’s chin clutches upon him tighter, much like the hand upon his groin. “I’ve had just about enough of watching you galivant about the Sword Coast, stripping your clothes off for any pretty face that so much as catches your eye.” A glint of intrigue sparks within Losson’s eyes - yes, that was it. He’d been seeing it this whole time. The way Raphael spoke to him. The way his words were so honeyed and charming. The way he spoke in such a way that dripped with intent and want. Sure as he may have had ulterior motives for his desires for Losson - the want was there all the same. His eyes say it all. They say to Raphael how they want him to draw from that carnal craving he’s harbored for Losson all this time. “I want to see you raw. Untampered with. A skull free from any wandering or prying eyes of some illithid filth - “ He tugs at Losson’s chin. “I want to see you begging me for the release you so rejected from me at our first meeting, upon your knees in desperation for whatever sort of freedom I feel so gracious enough to impart to you.”

Losson feels his eyes flutter shut - oh, he really likes that. Raphael could be exceptional at this if he could just become a better lay. If there is one thing that can get Losson to shed his exterior as the dominant partner in the bedroom, it’s the correct application of a threat - not one yielding in actual bodily harm, of course. But one that came from the voice of someone with intent on following through. It was all about intent. “That’s right,” he murmurs in praise. “Just like that. Go on -” he encourages Raphael to continue. “Tell me. Tell me so that I might give you the opportunity to see me like that someday.”

It is when Raphael’s hand wraps around his throat and he yanks Losson forward, pulling him and causing him to lurch from his position. He falls forward, his hands breaking his fall as they splay out upon Raphael’s chest. But with it - he is on his knees. Leaning forward with his ass raised in the air, just as Raphael wished. His breath had been swept from his lungs at the tugging of his throat, exhaling a chilly gasp into Raphael’s face as he fell. He manages to glance up, his own lips twisted into something of a smirk. There is a momentary exchange of eye contact before Raphael makes his first gesture that gets Losson’s seal of approval.

“Right where I want you,” he flaunts, snatching Losson’s chin to draw him in further. It’s only a matter of seconds before the cambion’s covered Losson’s mouth in a kiss, deep and disappointingly lacking the forked tongue that he found so alluring. But there is a way in how Raphael kisses while confined in this form that brings a sudden weakness to Losson - it’s overwhelming and he feels like he lacks his centuries of experience for a moment. His tongue is ever-present and obsessively tasting the inside of Losson’s mouth and he cannot even find him able to secure even the faintest chance of wresting control over the kiss. And he likes it.

He groans into Raphael’s mouth, his hand lowering from Losson’s jawline to scoop to the back of his skull where his fingers clench around a fistful of loose, blonde hair. There is a yank, but not so much of one that forces Losson away from his mouth - he’s so hungry in how he devours the warlock, he was not going to relent any time soon - but it is such that it is possessive. Declaring to whatever entity is contained within this head that Losson belongs to him, not some mindflayer filth. Somewhere in his mind, Losson wants to cut in and remind Raphael that it’s his father that owns him - but being in the sudden, ravaging embrace of a cambion (who has certainly learned something about how to behave) is exciting enough as it is.

He moves quicker than Losson would have. His hand is already between his ass cheeks. Already warmly slathered in some sort of solution (Losson had not a clue where it came from, but he didn't question Raphael's methods. Truthfully he was just glad the man had the sense to use lubrication at all). Already parting the muscular walls of Losson’s ass. Already worming his fingers into him. Losson groans into the kiss - one laced with the actual annoyed whimpers of pain. He’s too quick. Too impatient. “Careful,” he manages to hiss out of the corner of his mouth, finding only a brief window to utter the phrase. He hisses as his mouth is reclaimed and Raphael’s fingers thrust too rapidly and too smoothly for Losson to truly enjoy.

He forces himself away from Raphael’s kiss; breathless he roughly gives a twist to one of the cambion’s nipples. He begins to utter some sort of annoyed declaration of contempt for Losson - but he silences the man before a word can come out in retaliation.

“You finger too hard,” he grumbles, putting the same hand to Raphael’s mouth. “Like this.” He clutches Raphael’s jaw similar to how his own had been restrained and with his thumb upon Raphael’s lower lip, he tugs it down as he slips his index and middle fingers.

It’s almost instantaneous the way Raphael’s features soften once Losson puts up his front again. His brow unfurrows and his eyes cease straining and his jaw goes slack. His lips pout around Losson’s fingers as he reaches out, hand upon Raphael’s head, yanking at his hair in the same way he’d done to the warlock’s moments prior. He keeps his skull steady as he starts to slip his fingers back and forth, crooking them within his maw. He is met with such a demure, whorish gaze that Losson wants to drop what he’s doing and cram his cock into Raphael’s mouth and fuck his throat until tears stream across his cheeks. Perhaps later. But it was a time for teaching.

It’s how Raphael’s tongue sucks on his fingers that actually causes Losson to nearly let loose in his still-barely-removed trousers. “Get to it,” he orders. “You still have one hand free. Finish undressing me - you lost your opportunity to have sway over me, now put that hand to work pulling my pants off. Only then will I give you permission to touch my cock again.” He draws his fingers over Raphael’s tongue, stroking the flat of it almost affectionately. “Match my fingers while you’re at it. Keep yourself focused on both and I’ll ride you properly.” He feels the sudden need to groan roll from his chest as the presence of Raphael’s fingers begins to adjust - mimicking Losson’s in his mouth. “Oh, look at you,” he continues, jerking at Raphael’s head again, mussing up the carefully coiffed nest of hair. “Already so quick to implement what you’ve learned. Such a quick study.”

Raphael’s nails scrape at Losson’s thighs as he pulls at the fabric of his trousers. One leg first, scraping and bunching the fabric beneath his finger tips, struggling as he cannot use both hands to aid in the process. One leg begins to fall loose, but it still does not yet expose Losson’s cock for his handling pleasure. Losson rocks his hips forward as Raphael’s hand travels to the opposite side, the side far more difficult for him to get a grasp on. It’s a teasing rock of his hips, brushing himself dangerously close to his palm - a reminder of what he gets to touch if he keeps following Losson’s orders.

With a little instruction, Raphael’s fingers begin to slip smoothly within Losson, forcing the warlock to begin thrusting his hips without ever even sliding down on the fiend’s cock. He feels the warm, muggy air of Avernus gloss over his cock as his pants are brought down over his thighs, informing him that Raphael is doing his work admirably. “Go on,” he gasps, his eyes fluttering shut as he thrusts forward in time with the cambion’s writhing fingers. “Claim your prize - touch me all you wish.”

But it is not Losson’s cock that Raphael’s hand grasps. It is his wrist. Losson’s pale, periwinkle eyes open momentarily to find how the fiend has hooked his hand around his wrist to guide his fingers deeper into his mouth. He pulls and pushes at Losson’s wrist, his tongue wildly swirling around each finger, tracing and glossing over and in between each careful crevice of flesh. The corners of his mouth open as wet grunts of delighted docility spurt from within. “Fuck, Raphael -” Losson chokes, not wishing to release the man’s hair, and unable to pull his other hand away. And making it worse still was how the man’s fingers continued to slither about in his ass, making his hips and knees quiver and ache, his limbs daring to give way and leave him plastered with his face upon Raphael's chest and ass raised high in the air. (The thought of being caught like this by someone - possibly Haarlep - makes him want to salivate. He makes a mental note to consider such a circumstance in the future).

He wanted to drop down on Raphael’s cock. He wanted to lower himself and spread his cheeks wide and guide the cambion’s length into him. He was quite sure he might not be able to handle Raphael in his true form - at least not yet. He received so little nowadays. But something in how his tongue laps at his fingers has sent Losson’s mind into a frenzy. A fit, perhaps. He almost hears Mephistopheles laughing at him - oh how he’s fallen.

No. That was not the case whatsoever. Losson still controlled this scene. He was simply indulging Raphael in some of his intrigues. He gives another firm yank to the fiend’s skull and from his chest he bellows, finally rising up from his knees to a more appropriate position, hovering over the man’s erection: “Enough.” Before he slides back to once again straddle Raphael’s hips. He retrieves his hand from the man’s head, alerting him to the change in pace - his eyes open and with a glassy, amber hued observation - Raphael is left staring. His hand pulls free from Losson’s ass as the warlock pulls back, steadying and aligning himself as he holds himself open with one hand. “Hold yourself still.” He orders as the very hand that was just pleasuring and loosening him wraps around the base of the fiend’s cock.

It could have been smoother. It can always be smoother. But Losson slides on to Raphael’s cock with a thudonto his lap. His eyes squeeze shut as he takes the man - he doesn’t ease himself. He lets himself slide down with as little grace as possible. He knows what he can handle. Even when Raphael is far from excellent at the relaxation process of stretching a hole - Losson knows what he can take and how quickly. He swears. Raphael groans, his jaw going slack, allowing Losson to finally retrieve his fingers.

“Go on.” He commands. “Touch me.”

Raphael’s hand extends to Losson, his eyes blinking with traces of delirium as the presence of someone enclosed so firmly around his cock sends shockwaves through his system. He stammers an affirmative, practically unable to focus - and Losson can already tell that it will not be long. Raphael’s hands nearly tremble as he brushes them over Losson’s length, stroking haphazardly, hardly aware of the task at hand. He rolls himself into Raphael’s palm, thrusting gently. It is in this thrust that Raphael jerks upwards into Losson. He rolls again and Raphael's back arches. He ceases the full rolls and changes his motion. A cautious sliding upwards, followed by the lightest of whimpers of a devil in ecstasy. A gentle lowering of his body, guiding Raphael deep within him again. Another whine and a twisting squirm is the response given. Raphael cannot even keep his hands busy stroking Losson.

It only takes another three or four repetitions before he feels the man’s load rocket into him - Losson shivers as it strikes him in the spine and up along his back from the inside. It’s not a particularly satisfying nut to take. It doesn’t even feel especially big. But it certainly is. . .Something.

He slides off and Raphael begins swearing, wriggling his way out from underneath Losson - there is an anger that results in the man revealing the fiendish flesh and wings restoring as he strips away the human disguise. “Are you happy?!” he shouts at Losson who remains on his knees, feeling the cambion’s ejaculate trying to dribble out of him as gravity does its work. “You’ve gotten to experience it first hand - that for all that I am capable of, I cannot manage to retain stamina in the bedroom!” His nose curls, as is customary when the man is frustrated and he gestures toward Losson. “Congratulations! You’ve gotten what you came here for - my humiliation and my pride shattered. Is that what you wanted from me all along? Or are you just as much of a sadist as my father?”

“Actually,” Losson says. “I came here because I want to sleep with you. Regardless of whether you cum quickly. Besides.” He pats at the bed, encouraging the man to come back to him. Raphael, who had stepped away from the bed in a heated, frustrated stomp with the intent of departing, allows himself to be lured back over. “You have promise. Potential.” The cambion, nude and utterly exposed before Losson stands in front of the warlock who swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. He runs his hand over Raphael’s stomach, over the dark hair leading toward his cock, still pleasantly hard, although not entirely erect. His fingers brush lightly over his shaft and Losson gives him a few eager pumps before the organ regains some of the lost firmness. “You stiffen up again pretty quick for one.” He compliments, dropping to the floor before the fiend. “And you have the dirty talk and authoritativeness nailed.”

Raphael gazes down at Losson. His black sclera filled eyes are hard for Losson to get a read on but he does not push the human away as he rests on his knees. “Your efforts of flattery have been noted.” He affirms. “Continue.”

“Do you want me to suck you off again?” Losson asks, bringing his hand between the fiend’s legs, his palm cupping the testicles hanging down at just about eye level. “I’d be happy to if that makes you feel a bit better.” Raphael glances down and there’s a short nod. Losson doesn’t hesitate as he lowers his head, quickly allowing his mouth to capture his hanging testicles, mouth lightly closing around one before moving to the other. A small preliminary gesture before he slides to the rigged underside of his shaft, hand returning to the cambion’s balls, which he begins to massage gently with his fingertips. “And if someone,” he continues between breaths, dragging his tongue upwards. “Is really into humiliation.” Losson hums as he reaches the head of his cock. “More than you even.” His mouth parts and he sucks gently, as if sucking upon a piece of particularly juicy fruit. “You can call them a slut. A whore. Tell them it’s their fault you came too quick.” Losson looks up at Raphael - his hands twitch in place as if itching to grasp at Losson’s skull. “Who cares if you nut fast -” He slides his mouth down, up - sucks - down again, swallows thickly - back up again. “It’s still fun.”

It wasn’t a farce by any stretch. It was true. Losson was enjoying himself. He’d only trained partners on a few occasions - some for work, some were former lovers. All different reasons and circumstances. He’d be damned if he didn’t find it enjoyable. Maybe he didn’t find himself sexually attracted to the person he was going down on. That was okay. He still found it fun. And that’s why he did it. And Raphael being a less-than-stellar lover didn’t mean it wasn’t worthwhile. He was like reading a dirty novel. They were by no stretch of the imagination good books. Not even good stories. But there was fun in the filthy. Fun in the smut. And the same could be said about Raphael. And sure, in time Raphael could probably get to a point where he could hold himself back - but that wasn’t the point of the escapades. The point was to make him fun. Not necessarily good.

“Are you finished now?” Raphael inquires as Losson slides his mouth down upon his cock again, burying his nose against the mess of curly dark hair. “Or was there more?”

Losson’s mouth slides off his length again, and he offers him a devilish smile of his own. “I think you’ve earned a reward,” he says, moving himself backwards on his knees so that his head rested against the plush cushion of the bed’s mattress. He beckons the man forward with a crook of his finger, to which Raphael complies. Losson reaches up, grasping at Raphael’s arms and placing his hands upon his skull. “Go on.” He offers, dragging his tongue lightly down his shaft once more. “Skull fuck me. As much as you want.” There is a moment of familiar protest but Losson scolds him. “Sometimes quantity is just as good as quality, Raphael.”

Shock silence comes over the devil upon this offering. Raphael merely stares down at Losson, his mouth gently enclosed around him and his fingers drum against his skull. A finger of his twists and curls around some loose section of blonde hair, which he tugs at experimentally. Losson gasps - he gasps in a way that Raphael approves of. And he smirks.

And slams his cock into the back of the warlock’s throat.

“Plain black tea with honey?” Mephistopheles quirks a brow as Losson sits across from him. Within his hands is his own cup where he’d been enjoying a particularly spring essence filled tea of strawberry, white tea, cornflowers and rosepetal. Losson’s request caught him by surprise as he simply conjures up a small platter and accompanying coffee table for his warlock. Upon the table is not only the aforementioned tea in a dainty, ivory and coral colored teapot with matching cup and saucer, but a small jar of honey with the comb still inside with an accompanying dipper to retrieve the succor. But also upon the table was a small plate with peppermint leaves and freshly plucked chamomile flowers. Additionally a steaming cup of hot water and a metal salt dish next to it.

“You can read me like a book.” Losson says hoarsely. Mephistopheles is less than amused.

“You really let my son fuck your throat raw, didn’t you?” the archdevil shudders and makes a sound of disgust. “He has absolutely no self-control when he finds a toy he likes and you just let him use you for all you’re worth.”

“Oh come on,” Losson laughs as he retrieves the honey dipper and begins to swirl some of the substance into his cup of tea. His voice sounds far deeper than the devil is accustomed to and a flash of indigo weaves across his cheeks in response to the huskiness. “I’ve had worse fucks from clients - he’s fun at least. Like a bad performance or a badly written novel.”

“I wouldn’t know - I don’t indulge in less-than-stellar arts. I’ve never read a poor novel or witnessed a subpar performance in my thousands of years of existence.” He scoffs, his nose crinkling in a way that is truly similar to that of his son. Losson rolls his eyes.

“That’s a lie and you know it - besides, he has plenty of self control. When I’ve got him around my finger that is.” He smirks behind his cup and witnesses his ex lover’s grimace. He sips the beverage, allowing the slippery honey to coat his throat as it glides into his stomach. Not the worst, viscous substance he’d had poured into his gut as of late.

“Stop talking. Just. Stop talking. About my son. About your sex life. About anything.” Mephistopheles’ tone is abrupt. Curt. And Losson finds himself silent. No magic is cast but the devil does rise to his feet and approach him, closing the short distance between the two figures. “You are going to irritate your throat further if you keep talking.” He retrieves the small cup of hot water and scoops a few spoonful's of salt into it and stirs it before handing it to his warlock, swapping it for the teacup. “Gargle. Now.” Losson looks up at his patron and does as instructed with not another word. He throws his head back and vibrates his throat muscles so that the heat and the salt can cleanse and soak the raw muscles. Mephistopheles holds the cup back out for Losson to spit into - and it evaporates into nothingness the moment it hits the small container. He returns the teacup to Losson’s hands and then plucks a leaf of peppermint and a chamomile flower, crushing them both within his palm - there is a brief spark of some sort of arcane interference as they vanish and the cup of tea is left sporting the aroma of both plants.

“I used to give you these things when you got sick - as a tiefling -”

Losson starts to speak but Mephistopheles rolls his eyes and abruptly casts a spell. Silence. But it was entirely focused on Losson and nothing more. “Stop talking.” he says. “You may not be willing to accept my affections any longer but I will be damn sure that you will accept my caregiving for your stupid, weak, mortal body. Just because I have extended your vitality does not mean you are no longer susceptible to illness or injury - you should know that, you complete and utter imbecile - oh for fuck’s sake.”

He waits until Losson finishes the next sip of his tea before Mephistopheles leans down - with lips as cold as ice he kisses Losson. For a brief instance, the archdevil puts aside his frustrations in his stupid, foolish warlock for having an affair with his son. He puts it aside just as he does with the cup and saucer. He raises a leg, and nudges it between Losson’s, his hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt. Losson doesn’t fight. He allows Mephistopheles’ advance. He even goes as far as to wrap his arms around the archdevil as the warmth is sucked away from his lungs. His fingers brush between the joints of the four wings and then to the base of his back where the joint of his tail protrudes before it splits into two.

“He cannot satisfy you like I can, Losson.” Mephistopheles gasps against Losson’s lips as with the crackling of shattering ice, the kiss ends. “No matter how much training you give him, my son is an overly ambitious fool - even as far as devils go.” His leg does not part from between Losson’s, he leaves it in places as if waiting for Losson to make a move for better or for worse. “You may push me away if you so choose - you did for so long and it was only once this illithid invasion began that I sought to intervene once more.” Losson watches him - he moves his mouth to speak but not a sound comes out. But there is a softness upon his face as his patron begins to withdraw. “I could not sit idly while you potentially were corrupted into something I could not stop. Devil that I may be, I cannot stop a transformation such as ceremorphosis - I can limit its influence in my realm by silencing it and rendering it temporarily catatonic. But there is not much I can do for you.” He sighs and as he withdraws, Losson extends an arm, lightly taking his patron’s hand. For him, the gesture is entirely platonic. “I can only watch and wish for your well being.”

He laughs - Mephistopheles rarely laughs. So when he does, Losson finds it sweet. It’s a charming laugh, heavy on an innocence he sported while in the guise of a hornless tiefling for a few decades. Of course he laughs on other occasions. When getting the upper hand on an adversary. When tricking some poor soul into forfeiting their entire existence to him. When he finds out a particularly nasty letter he’s sent to an editor of a newspaper gets published. But this is the laugh Losson knows. The laugh he remembers from his early life, long before he ever entered into a pact.

“Meeting you was one of the best and worst things to happen to me in my millennia of existence, Master Wright.” Mephistopheles says. “Had I never met you, I would never been introduced to this foolish, silly concept you mortal's are so fond of. You’ve made this archdevil experience a weakness no other devils ought to ever endure, for better or for worse.”

Losson mouths the words: And what’s that? He was curious. He’d seen several varieties of Mephistopheles internal and external crises over his three-hundred odd years of life (he’d discovered that this was a relatively normal sort of spiral for his patron). He was always curious as to what ate at his mind.

“Love, you idiot.” he snaps. “Devils of all varieties don’t experience it. We’ve had this discussion at least twice before. Or rather, I’ve had this discussion at you. I never know how much you retain. Half the time I swear it’s nothing but hot air in that skull of yours - oh, forgive me - it’s hot air and an illithid tadpole right now. Poor thing must be starving. Absolutely nothing to nourish it.” Losson gestures, his hand moving in a circular direction as if encouraging him to hurry it up. If this is a conversation they’ve supposedly had before, he ought to get to the finer points of it already. The archdevil eventually relents and his wings sag behind him. “I can’t get you to take me back, can I?”

He was still going on about it. No surprise.

A solemn expression falls upon Losson’s face. He knows the answer to this. Mephistopheles knows the answer to it. Losson casts a cantrip, constructing a small illusion that gradually makes a vague estimation of Astarion’s appearance (he makes a mental note to show him this later) and puts it on display for his patron, followed by a small section of words asking: May I speak?

Mephistopheles drops the spell and Losson feels the ability of speech return to his throat. He swallows thickly taking a few sips of tea - his mouth still cold and chilly from his ex lover’s embrace. “I haven’t loved like I loved you until I met him.” The illusion fades after a few seconds and Mephistopheles also sports a look of similar sorrow. “If it’s any consolation - my body is still yours to do whatever you wish. It always has been.”

A silence, this one natural, falls upon the two of them. Mephistopheles fingers weave together within Losson’s hand, glancing to study it intently. “You don’t wear it anymore.” he comments, his finger lightly glossing over the fourth finger of Losson’s hand.

“It worried clients.” Losson explains. “I still have it. Won’t ever let it go.” He offers a smile, to which Mephistopheles does not return. “It’s a nice reminder.”

“Mortals are so sentimental.” the devil laments. “Holding on to little trinkets that symbolize such trivial moments in their pasts. I’ll never quite understand that. Trophies are one matter - they represent victory. But mementos? That’s always been an odd one.”

“Marrying you was not trivial, Meph.”

There is a familiar glint in the archdevil’s eye as Losson says those words. A glimmer of something practically unfounded in the Hells. Hope. A silly little thing. Just as silly as mementos and trinkets. “I suppose that’s true,” the Cold Lord muses as he examines a small, silvery ring upon his left hand. “It does mean at the end of it all, you’ll still come back to me.” There is an eerie air of confidence to his words. An eerie smile upon his lips that Losson only knows the half of. “I won’t sabotage what you have now; I find sabotaging one's own warlocks whilst they are alive to be a trick of lesser devils. I like to think I’m rather up front with you, wouldn’t you say, Losson?”

“Where are we going with this?” Losson asks, swallowing again to try and soothe the soreness of his throat. The devil’s head merely shakes.

“Just trying to remind myself that when you die, I still own you. Even if you love another, your soul will always be mine.” Mephistopheles releases Losson’s hand and runs his knuckle gently down the side of his face, tracing the outlines of the magically frozen patches of skin. It is a light caress and as his hands touch the ice, Losson feels it melt away. He feels his heart begin to thrum more rapidly. Smoothly. Warmly. As if he were not seconds away from eternal hypothermia. He feels heat flood him and the aching burn of blood pooling his his cheeks as if entering a warm home after a blustery day. He feels life returning to him. Life. Blood. Warmth. It all comes to him. It all comes to him as he feels himself returning yet another kiss from the devil - this one far warmer. Hellfire. It stirred in Mephistopheles beneath his cold exterior and burned within his heart all the same. It floods into Losson through his second kiss - and he craves it. He craves that heat and so he holds Mephistopheles face, encouraging the warmth to flood through him.

It is a sign of his patron’s rage. His frustration. His disdain. And as far as Losson can tell - his heartbreak. He welcomes it for as long as Mephistopheles will remain there, his mouth feeling like steam rising from boiled water as it spreads into Losson’s mouth.But it is as he pulls back that the devil’s eyes remain distant.

“You say I may still use your body as I wish, yes?” he asks, his words seemingly hollow. Losson offers him a nod. “Then allow me to remind you of what I can offer you, should you ever wish to forfeit everything. When you inevitably do offer me everything.”

The Cold Lord lowers himself to his knees and the heat begins to waver, slowly cooling, once again becoming contained within his chest to be dealt with on another day. His hands caress the length of Losson’s thigh and he finds himself sinking back into the chair, nearly melting from the residual warmth of his patron’s hand. The delicate dancing of his finger tips spur fire to ignite within Losson’s belly and subsequently: his groin. Arousal stuns him and wherever his mind may have gone during his patron’s lament, it’s suddenly miles away as he feels himself numbed - he loves Hold Person when he is the cause of the spell. He loathes it when it is used on him in turn.

Mephistopheles guides Losson’s cock into his mouth as he retrieves him from his pants. A welcome gift after the past day or two of having his own throat so roughly brutalized. It is not one, but two tongues that begin to run along him - so similar, yet so very different from Raphael. His was one tongue, split at the end, each operating as part of a single unit. But Mephistopheles has two entire tongues to pleasure Losson with.

With only his eyes moving, Losson watches him. Watches how his patron’s eyes do not dart away from him. As if reminding him of what he was missing out on. What he was missing out on by giving his heart to Astarion. By giving his body to Raphael and Haarlep. And a reminder to the human - of what was waiting for him when decay finally took both from him. Because at the end of it all - Losson’s soul belonged to Mephistopheles.

And he couldn’t wait to have Losson all to himself again.

Notes:

LORE DROP LORE DROP LORE DROP.

I HAVE BEEN SITTING ON THIS STORY BEAT FOR MONTHS. No seriously. I started writing TSM 2 months ago and this was one of the major things I had planned from the start!

And hey, I hope you guys like this lil measure I dropped about Raphael and sex. What does it matter if he nuts in one - if he's fun about it and wants to keep going, who cares!

Also. Hey. Just saying.
I kinda take requests/suggestions for what sorta things you wanna see happen. Can't guarantee anything but I like hearing what you guys are interested in. ;) If I like your ideas I might make 'em happen.

ANYWAYS. KISSES. I LOVE YOU GUYS. You're all fantastic.

(Also - to whoever recommended this fic in a discord server or whatever like, November 10 I think it was - Thank you!! I got like 50 kudos in the span of like, an hour when you did that! If you've suggested this fic anywhere, please let me know! I'd love to give you a shout out! <3)

Chapter 12: two cream one sugar, but one of those creams is a euphemism

Notes:

[banging pots and pants together]
Backstory! Backstory! Backstory!
And SCHEMES! And Raphael revealing he has a kink.

Aaaaaand 2 announcements.

1. I need to provide a disclaimer. I am not Losson. I'm not projecting on him. He is not a self-insert. I am not a professional dom. I'm not a sex worker. Losson is my Tav and I need to request that my readers please keep in mind that just because Losson says or does something does not mean that this is a reflection of my wants or actions. Please do not get me and Losson conflated. As much as I would love to be a warlock of Mephistopheles, I'm just a fanfiction writer. Thanks for your understanding!

2. I am taking a small break! No, no, it's not writers block or anything - it's because this coming week is Thanksgiving in the United States and for the first time in five years, I have plans! I may only be doing something on the holiday itself and some Black Friday shopping the following day, but I am taking a week to not stress about anything. I might use this time to work on some of my other planned works as well. I may post these new works during my time off from updating this and Steel Bandages, I may not! But I'm taking a lil reprieve for a few days to recharge!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“There’s no way you’re a devil.”

On the ground, a small framed blonde haired teen sits with his legs crossed before a multi-winged tiefling, horns sawed off at the base with a face full of freckles and a pair of cracked spectacles on his nose. The tiefling, slate blue in color, sports a variety of bruises, blemishes and scars, including a splotchy mess around his black and blue eyes, which avoid locking on to the human sitting before him. The two young men are undressed after having had a little romp in the hay as a celebration for rescuing the tiefling from a planned execution of sorts.

“Of course you don’t think I am now - I’m stuck like this.” the tiefling mutters. “I can bring my wings out but nothing more. I swear, I am an Archdevil of Cania. I just - I just - I lost a bet.”

The blonde youth laughs, covering his mouth as he falls back in the straw next to the tiefling, landing slightly on his companion’s wings. The tiefling whines as the young man lays on them but nevertheless rolls over, the wings almost folding over so they act like a small tent over them both. “A bet? What kind of archdevil loses a bet?”

“The kind that keeps getting tricked by Asmodeus.” the tiefling says with a growl. “It’s such a long story, Losson - I don’t even know if your mind is open enough to understand the stipulations of what happened.”

“Try me.” Losson teases, leaning in and playfully kissing the tiefling next to him. “I’m cleverer than you give me credit for!”

“I’m serious.” The tiefling’s voice lowers, slipping a finger between the two pairs of lips. “I made a bet with Asmodeus and I lost. I am confined to the body of a tiefling until I can meet the conditions to be restored - “

“Let me help then,” Losson says, wrapping his arms around the other's neck kissing the pale blue finger between them. “I like you, so let me help.”

There is a spark of something in the tiefling's eyes. He sees this human and the affections he has for him. He sees the willingness and the open heart and limitless desires he has to do the right thing. This small framed human and his bleeding heart and his insatiable need to do good despite the blockades set up to stop him. As clever as he would claim to be, the human was foolish. Foolish and so very exploitable.

“It wouldn’t take much,” the tiefling says, ducking his head beneath the arms that slipped around his neck. For as much fun as he was having with this human, there was certainly a benefit to from their time together.

Gods, humans were stupid.

“What do I have to do?” Losson says, seeming to connect that their little tryst was now complete, rummaging around to find his discarded clothing. “But if it involves getting into another fight I’m a bit sore from taking on all those guards that kept you locked up.”

The tiefling - Mephistopheles - laughs as he waves a hand, returning Losson’s clothes to his body. He is restricted when it comes to most of his magical abilities, but he still has a handful of his skills, simple conjuration. Simple enchantments. Simple illusions. Asmodeus liked to punishment but he wouldn’t deny Mephistopheles everything. “Oh no, much simpler - in fact. All it takes is a signature.”

Mephistopheles leans back in the pile of hay he and Losson had found during their fleeing from his captors. There was no real plan about where to go next. They’d slipped away for Losson to obtain a pack of belongings and nothing more and then on foot, they ran. They ran as Mephistopheles formulated his plan. Where they were running, it was undecided. They would figure it out as they moved. There were plenty of cities where a tiefling wouldn’t be looked at twice. But a small down like this, so far to the south and so far inland? A tiefling might as well have been a sign of the end of the world. As far as Mephistopheles was concerned, it was just further evidence that mortal races were designed to hate and fear fiends and that was that.

But not Losson. Losson’s eyes had always been so full of curiosity and wonder when he laid his eyes upon a person whose lineage was different from his own. He never bat an eye at halflings, or elves or dwarves and gnomes - they were so commonplace. But when he saw a tiefling, a dragonborne, a half orc or even more rare - a genasi, a firbolg perhaps even a hobgoblin, Losson was mesmerized. He was always so fascinated by the variety of people in the world. And Mephistopheles saw such a wondrous, naïve heart to take advantage of.

The problem was that he was becoming fond of the little blonde idiot.

It was something he had not calculated in preparation for his lost bet with the Lord of the Hells - the bet had been something trivial. Something about how Mephistopheles suggested that Asmodeus couldn’t possibly gain a warlock if he were rendered a nearly helpless tiefling. He’d forgotten that the bastard had employed a warlock of his own who registered warlocks by contracting other warlocks to make further pacts for the Supreme Archdevil. He had been fooled in his own game, a loophole that Asmodeus was so quick to exploit - at any given time, he had warlocks making contracts for him. Mephistopheles had never specified how Asmodeus had to secure a warlock while stripped of his infernal title and powers.

So in turn, Mephistopheles had to endure the same experience - a century as a tiefling. A century to convince a mortal to enter into a contract. If a contract could be secured, the seal would be broken and he could return to the Hells, one warlock richer. He was quite sure he was going to fail this arrangement after he’d spent nearly two decades as a tiefling with not but a single glance from anyone who might humor him. He’d opted to drift from town to town, seeking a sort of community that might be in need for a tiefling and most communities were less than receptive. If they wanted to regard him with such contempt that was their loss. The gifts he could bestow upon any mortal who would be willing or eager or perhaps desperate enough to make a deal with a devil . . .

And then there was Losson. Regularly seeing this tiefling on the streets, regularly offering a kind gesture, regularly acknowledging him. It was not Mephistopheles’ proudest moment - living upon the streets, dressed in nothing but rags and smeared with filth. What a foolish mortal - did he not have any idea who he was helping? It was so hard to convey who he was. So hard to present himself as the grand Archdevil he knew he was. His words came out simplified. His actions cautious. It was as if his thoughts could not be conveyed as part of the arrangement made with Asmodeus and he would damn his fellow fiend until his dying breaths. Should he wish to introduce himself normally, he would normally say “Greetings, I am the Archdevil Mephistopheles, the Cold Lorder and ruler of Cania of the Nine Hells, hailing from Mephistar.” But whilst trapped within this tiefling’s form his words were sullied, forcing him to say “I’m Mephist, and I’m very cold.” It almost turned his stomach the moment that he heard the words leave his mouth.

It became easier to speak with Losson. It was as if the filter Asmodeus had put over him had lifted. Just slightly. It made language come far more comfortably. His entire dictionary was still not quite at his disposal but he was gradually finding that he was allowed to be more precise and intentional in his word choice.

“I am a devil, Losson.” Mephistopheles says as he waves his hand once more, returning his far-beneath-him rags to his body. “Despite what it may seem, I am a ruler of one of the Nine Hells and you have done me a great service. And for that - I want to make you an offer. It would be beneficial for us both and I can assure you - if you like me now, you will love what I can become.”

The messy haired human watches him. Watches his hands as Mephistopheles flicks his wrist and hovering within his hand is a scroll, glowing with a deep, navy blue Infernal script across it. It lightly pulses as it floats in place as the tiefling directs the humans gaze to the words. They blur and fade and begin to adjust, reworking and rewriting the text in common. “You’re not shitting me,” Losson gasps, astonished and seemingly in disbelief. “I know a little magic but what you keep doing is stuff I’ve never seen.”

“And I can give you the same type of magic, you know,” he encourages Losson as with another wave of a hand, a small table is conjured with a single quill and inkwell. “We can discuss the details of the contract once you sign it - I am very flexible about terms, provided we negotiate them in full. But for now, I simply need you to sign. I won’t even force you to sell me your soul.” Yet. “I’ve already taken your body,” he winks and he sees Losson’s cheeks flush to such a delicate rosy shade. “And I’ll keep taking it, in fact if that’s what you’d desire.”

Losson’s expression grows thoughtful, considering what may be at stake. As far as Mephistopheles was concerned, he was offering him quite possibly the best deal he’d ever offered a warlock. A chance to sign now, negotiate terms later. Though he said he wouldn’t require this human’s soul - he knew that signing would forfeit that wriggling mass of energy to him anyways. But well, they could discuss that later.

“You’re pretty good at this temptation thing,” Losson begins to laugh. “I mean, I think getting to stay with you is incentive enough, you know.” He smiles and slides closer to Mephistopheles who thinks to himself Of course I’m good at this, I’m a gods damned Archdevil. Losson kisses him. It’s so warm. So light. So full of such authentic, unabashed affection. He melts. In theory. He holds his lover’s cheek and he brings his warlock-hopeful closer. Part of him begins to scream. Begins to yell. It starts banging against the inner surface of his skull, calling out: You love him! You love him! YOU LOVE HIM! If he signs the contract he’s yours forever! Forget his soul, you have his heart!

“I love you,” he murmurs into the kiss, finding that the words come easily. Come smoothly. Like they were always meant to be said to this human desperately trying to climb on his lap. “Your life is so short compared to mine. I can’t imagine losing you to the passage of time.” They feel foreign. The words do. Like he shouldn’t be saying them. That something about his nature shouldn’t be feeling this way toward someone. Love was not something devils felt. Not now, not ever. But the way his heart fluttered in his chest. The way he craved the feeling of Losson’s hands. His lips. His body. It was unnatural. But he wanted more of it. “If you sign this. . .I won’t have to outlive you. You can stay by my side for as long as you want. For as long as we want.”

His ears twitch and he hears as Losson pulls back, a familiar coldness coming over his lips as he remains still, eyes closed. As they open, he watches as Losson rests the contract upon the small table he’s conjured, carefully inscribing his name upon a line at the bottom. His script is so sloppy - he isn’t surprised. Losson confided in him before that he hadn't had a formal education. “You didn’t need to convince me.” He says, setting down the quill. No sooner does the feather touch the surface does the table, the inkwell, the quill and the contract all vanish from sight. Mephistopheles feels something in his chest - another flutter, this one taking hold of his entire form as he feels the frigid chill of Cania start to overwhelm him again. Losson closes in once more, another kiss - the last warm one Mephistopheles would ever receive. He drinks in the subtle, luscious sensation of vibrant, human lips on his own as both his and the ones touching them grow chilly and cool to the touch as frost creeps through their veins.

He cherishes it. For he would never receive such a kiss from Losson ever again.

The familiar study of the abode within Mephistar is as it always is: The room is lined with bookshelves containing contracts of warlocks past and present, with a roaring fireplace with flickering azure flames within. Though the hue of the fire is cool in tone, the light in the study is far from it. It has a welcoming rosy glow to it that staves off the cold of Cania better than any heat possibly could. The display of the pair of desks is as it always had been - one desk cluttered with anything and everything that could possibly preoccupy the mind of the Archdevil of the domain, the other neatly maintained and organized for conducting business at hand. A pair of leather upholstered chairs sits at the far end of the room and between them a table with a dragonlance chess board set up, its pieces arranged in a formation that has gone untouched for centuries. Behind the table and chairs is a vast, cathedral window ascending far toward an inconceivably high ceiling with one of the more lovely views of Cania beyond its thick, glass panes.

It has been centuries since Raphael was last in his father’s realm. And he would much prefer to keep the visit as short as possible. He does not often wish to be in the company of Mephistopheles, especially with recent events stirring up. He is no fool; he knows his father’s warlock has been in his bedroom as of late. And he is not blind to the knowledge of his father’s matrimony to said warlock. His last such correspondence with his father had been around the time Haarlep had been delivered to him. It had been hard to ascertain whether Haarlep’s delivery was in the same light of a father desperate for a child’s love doting upon them with a puppy, but Raphael chose to assume otherwise for his own sanity. And Haarlep’s. It almost embarrassed him - he’d joked as a younger man to his father about how a personal incubus sounded like worlds of fun, and at the time Mephistopheles scoffed at the notion. Raphael had never considered that his father might follow through with the request. Though Haarlep’s relentless mockery and teasing of him certainly told him that they were not there to be a loving companion. They were simply there for a bit of fun.

He examines the dragonlance table - dust coats it in a thick layer, its pieces trapped in a frozen conflict for centuries. He remembers his last move. He sought to defend his queen from his father’s onslaught. They placed the game on pause there. A rather heated discussion about Mephistopheles’ hoarding of powerful artifacts had soured their engagement and killed the mood for a friendly game of logic. He swipes a hand a few inches over the set of pieces and the sheet of dust is whisked away into nothingness as he slides out his seat and sits down. The leather squeaks as he gets comfortable, resting his wings upon slots where the armrests meet the back; a design choice that Mephistopheles created close to a thousand years prior that was now in use across the Hells.

A door, previously cloaked in shadow, opens with a creak as footsteps enter the room. They are heavier than Raphael's by an immeasurable amount and they bear a weight of a formidable power that dwarfs him by comparison. The Archdevil reveals himself - quite different from how he appears with his favored warlock. He is taller than Raphael by nearly a foot, his flesh dark navy blue in color and behind him four folded wings - a single one when outstretched would be longer than Raphael’s entire wingspan. A pair of twin tails, heavily barbed and covered in spines sway idly behind him as he approaches. He is far older than the Mephistopheles that Losson Wright knows so well. He is much older - his face lined with age, at the corners of his lips and at his black and turquoise eyes. He wears the age with dignity and pride, along with the neatly groomed, dark, ebony facial hair that runs from his sideburns along his jawline in a trimmed, even beard only barely an inch in length. Though some things never change - still four horns, two swirling upwards and two curved like that of a rams, although much longer. And the same sleek, albeit grey-streaked, loosely swept crop of hair just barely curling over one of the horns, the very tip brushing the arm of his gold framed, circular spectacles.

Raphael hates how well dressed his father is.

“I am actually quite surprised to see you came,” Mephistopheles says, taking a seat across from his unruly, uncooperative son. “You cleaned the board of dust.” He sits, his wings resting in their own slots as he examines the display before them, making note of each piece’s placement. “And you didn’t move any of the pieces.” The Archdevil looks up from the board to Raphael, their eyes meeting. “You had the opportunity to usurp me and you chose not to - disappointing.” Raphael grimaces - his nose crinkles whilst his eyes roll in his skull.

Mephistopheles,” he greets, his words sour and sticky with bile. “We had started the game with the understanding that we were playing with logic in mind, not schemes.” His father sighs, annoyance heavy in his breath.

“You can call me Father, you know. You frustrate me, but I’ll only deny you are my son in the company of Asmodeus and the other Archdevils,” Mephistopheles snorts, plucking up a knight from the board and moving it in its L shaped formation. “You and I both know we were lying about our rules of engagement. We had no written contract specifying how we would play this game of dragonlance and therefore the conditions are amendable at any time - you didn’t even bother to check if I had rearranged any of the pieces, did you?”

“You didn’t,” Raphael moves a rook and takes the very knight his father had just moved; he’d been anticipating that move for centuries. “Because you understand and appreciate the value of a verbal agreement.”

“You think too highly of me.” Mephistopheles quickly moves a pawn and takes the rook. “But you are correct. I hadn’t touched a piece - were this an actual plan of strategic combat maneuvers, I would not have been able to easily control an enemy’s movement without my own efforts and infiltration.”

“But you did infiltrate your enemy’s territory, didn’t you?’ Raphael continues, moving a pawn of his own to threaten the one his father had moved. “You sent your little incubus to me.”

“They were a gift, Raphael.” The Archdevil takes pause to contemplate which piece of his to move. “We need tea - coffee for you, yes?” There is a momentary silence as the very same door Mephistopheles made his entrance through opens and a cart rolls in, seemingly without anyone behind it. The cart is tiered with two separate levels with a glass bottom and brass trim around the edges. Upon it sits a blue and white floral teapot with a single matching tea cup and saucer with an accompanying sugar bowl and cream pitcher. Also upon the cart stood a carafe of coffee, its pungent smell highly overpowering the light aroma of tea, and with it a similarly nice cup and saucer to the aforementioned teacup. There also sit a few small ramekins with various additional flavors to choose from - honey, maple syrup, fruit nectars. Between the two different vessels stood a small platter of sweet and savory offerings for the two infernal's to nosh on if they so desired.

“If I taste this and find its taste abhorrent I’m leaving,” Raphael sneers as the carafe of coffee begins to pour into his cup. He lifts it from the tray and sets it to the side of the dragonlance board.

“I may not have a taste for it myself but you insult me if you think I carry anything less than quality in my dwellings.” Mephistopheles sneers as he finally concludes on his next move - a bold one as he moves his queen to take a bishop from Raphael’s side of the board. “Check.”

Raphael observes the board whilst his father takes a moment to pour and subsequently doctor the tea he has chosen for himself - it is a black tea with ginger, hazelnut and traces of apricot. Mephistopheles swirls a bit of honey into the cup before he removes it and its saucer from the tray himself. Raphael watches his father and lifts his coffee to his lips - his father is no liar, devilish lineage aside. The coffee is pleasantly bold but with a surprising smoothness that lingers on the palette but in such a way that it provides him with afternotes of brandy and cinnamon - he gives it a positive, affirmative nod. “You have friends in high places, don’t you? Arcadian ground coffee? In Cania? What have I done to be given such an honor of having such a celestially blend of coffee given to me?”

“I want to talk,” Mephistopheles says, anticipating one of the several moves his son could make in the next turn. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with my favored warlock -”

“Your husband.”

“Separated.” Mephistopheles corrects. “But yes.”

“You always have a keen eye on your toy soldiers, surely you know what he’s been up to.” Raphael moves a pawn in the way of his father’s assault from his queen, effectively blocking him off from a potential bid to take his King. He witnesses a grimace upon Mephistopheles’ face as he quickly moves his queen again.

“Check.” He states again. “Yes, I know all too well what you and he have been up to, much to my dismay. It’s as if a little beacon goes off every time he gets an erection and I’m notified of his arousal.” The Archdevil shudders, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Every time he steps into Avernus to bother you, I get this little twist of nausea in my gut because I can smell the sulfur through his senses - it turns my stomach. I don’t know how either of you manage it. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“I’ve been residing there for ages,” Raphael moves another pawn. “I hardly notice the smell.” He leans back in the chair holding the cup and saucer up from the table as he watches his father as he studies the board - there are many moves before him, most of which will yield yet another check, but he sees moves on the board that Mephistopheles has ignored. For as much as he has Raphael’s king on the run, he has let his own guard on his king slip. He’s put so much effort into having the queen advance that his king’s defenses are slipping. “What do you wish to know about my engagements with your warlock? Beyond the obvious bedroom affairs, that is.”

“Do not tell me of your bedroom affairs; he was my partner first,” Mephistopheles looks up - he sees his son’s eyes darting over the board and seems to have noted where his attention had rested. The rook poised dangerously close to pursuing his king. He moves a pawn and takes the rook, his gaze shifting toward his sons. “You give away your plan of action too easily. No, Raphael - I don’t care what you do in your boudoir with my warlock. I care about what sort of arrangements you’ve made with him in a bid for more power.”

“You know what I want, Father.”

“And you will not get it.” Mephistopheles lifts the rook into his fingers, twirling the figurine between them. “No matter what contract you make with my warlock, no matter what promise you make with him in regards to the Crown of Karsus, I am his priority. I had him investigating its whereabouts when those blasted mindflayers abducted him - and with his uninvited cranial guest, any knowledge he had about its use and location was lost to him before he could tell me.” He sets the rook down on the table again, nudging it to stand closer to the other pieces he’s since collected. “He is under orders to return it to me and no one else and he knows what should happen to him if he fails.”

“Father, dearest,” Raphael chuckles as he makes another bid to move a piece within a dangerous line of sight of his father’s army. “You are aware that your little warlock has been plagued with desire to use the Crown, are you not? Could you even imagine - a little mouse with that sort of power beneath his belt?” Raphael leans across the table as he plucks another one of Mephistopheles’ pawns from the board. “Why he may be coming for your place as a ruler of one of the Nine Hells.” He laughs. His chest heaves with amusement at the very idea. “Could you imagine? Being usurped by your own warlock - he might even have the power to divorce himself from your contract and take Cania by force.”

“Are you projecting, my dear, foolish son?” Mephistopheles tone is blunt as he sips from the tea he’s prepared himself. “Or are you simply dreaming of what may happen if he decides to trick us both? Is that a fantasy of yours? That should you be denied further chances to control the Hells, as any devil so justly desires, you would hope that someone you deem worthy has the sense to use the Crown to ensure that you receive special treatment.” Mephistopheles moves another pawn and blocks his son’s path. “Check. Might I suggest that you weigh your options a little more closely, Raphael.”

Before him, the board is arranged in such a way - only a few pieces remain of the centuries old game. A fresh head with new clarity allowed for moves to be better calculated and understood, giving them the opportunity to resume the game quickly. Only a third of the pieces remained and on the board there was a display at hand - both Kings were sufficiently protected. Mephistopheles’ queen was leading an onslaught against Raphael’s remaining pieces while his King remained behind with minimal guard, although what remained was formidable. Whereas Raphael seemed far less interested in moving his Queen and spread his army across the board with his King being allowed more mobility but a thinner line of defense.

He sips his coffee and studies the board in tandem. There is a cheeky little pawn that seems to follow Mephistopheles’ queen that he can only assume represents Losson. He knows there was no foresight going into this game about the conflict at hand, but he cannot help but apply the situation to the board in front of him. “And what precisely do you suggest?”

“I speak not as a father, not even as someone who pities you or regrets past transgressions, but as a tactician, Raphael.” Mephistopheles sighs. “And as an individual who is looking out for himself - and as much as I am loath to say it: you.” The archdevil leans back in his chair, leaving the board as it is for the time being. “I say let us put our game on hold again for our next meeting. I have a proposition for you. One where we both can win.”

And Raphael slowly sets his drink down upon the table again as he passes a final glance to the board - the pieces falling precisely where both he and Mephistopheles wanted them. “Do go on, father.” He says with utmost amusement.

And Mephistopheles smiles, allowing his tea to remain floating in the air at his side as he conjures a familiar, leather bound tome of a contract within his grasp. “You see, I made a recent addition to Losson’s contract. To ensure that he does not meet with Asmodeus - who has requested an audience with him - I have given him permission to him that he may use the crown for his own needs before it is returned to my possession, provided he does not offer same to devils of equal or greater power to myself.”

Raphael smiles. A knowing smile that says that for once he knows he and his father may be on the very same page. He opts to ignore his father's indirect insult in favor of the far more interesting and lucrative points. “And you put this in knowing it could be used to my benefit.” Raphael’s head shakes - but not disapprovingly, but in amusement. “He’s so very fond of me, you know. I’m sure it would take very little to convince him to let me use it as a means of establishing myself amongst the Hells.”

“Though normally I am less than impressed by your efforts at claiming any aspect of the Hells for yourself - I know when you’re tenacious enough to pursue something to the furthest reaches. And in doing so you have managed to get my warlock wrapped around your finger just as tightly as I his leash wrapped around my clenched fist.” He drums his fingers upon the cover of the contract. “Dissuade and discourage him from any further correspondence with other devils and see to it that he does not become tempted to do anything stupid with the crown. See to it that he comes to the conclusion that letting you use it to wrangle some control over Avernus beyond the House of Hope is in his best interest. If you succeed at that, not only will you have earned my favor again - but I will even assist you in leading an assault on Avernus as a whole.”

“Oh, Zariel won’t like this one bit,” Raphael chuckles.

“I would think not. Losson’s already done quite enough to infuriate her. Among other things, of course.” He lifts the cup from its saucer as it continues to float in place, his nails lightly tapping with small clinks against the porcelain. “Of all devils - keep the thought of Asmodeus from ever crossing his mind. Let the only devils whose names he dare utter be yours, and most importantly - Mine.”


Losson has an affinity for using his mouth. Either by talking too much or putting it where he doesn’t belong. Or in some cases where it does belong. And today as he slides a metal bar between Raphael’s legs and ties his wrists to the top of the headboard he lays down on his stomach, eyeing him with such deviant curiosity. “Today,” he says as he squirms forward, and looks up at the cambion from beneath his cock. “I’m going to do whatever I can to make you cum without touching your dick. And as a challenge to me - I won’t shove my tongue or my fist in your ass. Tempting as it might be.”

“And what do you intend to do?” Raphael grumbles, his words instantly cut short as Losson proves his point from the get-go. He opens his mouth and drags his tongue over the curve of the flush, carmine testicles hanging down beneath Raphael’s cock. The man’s breath catches in his throat as he chokes on an unheard declaration. Fiend flesh is so much sturdier, so much firmer than humans or elves - even tieflings have tougher skin all over their bodies. Genitals included. Balls don’t sag nearly as much as other races, less hair covers them, and they are firmer to suck on than any other lineage - except dwarves, Losson would note. Dwarves always had such pleasantly tight sacks to suck on. The hair on the other hand, that's another story. Raphael is no exception to the infernal rule - his balls hang tight and firm beneath his cock, the flesh being far thicker but no less sensitive than other gene pools.

It just means Losson can be a little rougher with them. He can graze his teeth a little more roughly. He can offer harsher sucks to each nut as he slurps it into his mouth. He alternates which side he takes into his mouth, slobbering upon each testicle as if he were gobbling particularly juicy slices of peach. He loves to swallow with them in his mouth, as if he’s daring to actually gulp them down. He feels Raphael pushing down on him as if he were trying to use his own groin to grab at Losson’s head.

There is a scent to Raphael down here that no amount of palmarosa and cherries can mask - a scent that is so unmistakable fiendish that Losson has to close his eyes and revel in it. He would not call it sulfuric, nor would he compare it to the ozone-like gaseous scent he whiffed in Cania. A scent that reminded him of the succubus spittle he’d so brazenly tasted in the Gauntlet of Shar. That reminded him of the very aroma that constantly radiated from Haarlep when he’d had their own little rendezvous. Pheromones. Fiendish pheromones that were no doubt similar to the natural charm and exotic pull Losson radiated himself. He inhales. He inhales deeply. And his eyes flutter shut.

His mind slips from him - he visualizes himself raising back up to his knees and crawling over Raphael’s torso. Of leaning over him and spreading himself open for the cambion. Of slowly sliding himself down on his cock, shuddering at the feeling of every ridge and groove of his length as it pushes deep within him. He imagines riding him properly. Slowly. Dangerously. Of submitting to him. Begging him. Freeing him from his restraints so that Raphael may use him. Use him like he deserves. Haarlep was no longer here to distract him - it was Losson’s job now. Losson's job as he begged for Raphael to cum inside him. To fill every last crevice of him. Who cared if the man came quickly - that meant all the more for Losson to feel jetting into his belly.

Raphael laughs and Losson returns his thoughts back to the present. To the here and now. To the engrossing presence of Raphael’s testicles in his mouth as his tongue had lazily slathered his saliva upon them. He’d had his fair share of incubi and succubi in his bedroom before - but a first exposure this close to a cambion’s musk had Losson’s head spinning in ways that Haarlep never could. It was unusual and from the way Raphael laughs - he seems to know why.

Losson slides his mouth from Raphael’s testicles and slips free from beneath him, manage to crawl away. He rises to his knees and offers the cambion a look. “Think of what you just experienced as being similar to heat.” Raphael purrs from his restraints, his eyes sensually narrowed, his tongue dragging languidly across his lower lip. There is a glow to him as he watches the warlock, flushed and flustered from a sudden, new experience. Raphael flashes his teeth, offering a toothy, predatory grin. He'shungry. And Losson has such a need to feed him. From above, where his arms remain suspended, he crooks a finger forward, beckoning Losson closer to him. “You haven’t buried your face that close for that long before, so of course you wouldn’t have had the chance to be overwhelmed by it.” His grin deepens, his tongue glossing over the edge of his teeth as Losson climbs off the bed and moves around it before climbing back on so that he has an easier time nearing Raphael. “Fiends known as concubi radiate that scent from head to toe, they can turn it on and off at will and can toy with how intense it is - but devils such as myself? It’s concentrated. In small, single dose batches reserved only for our most favorite of partners.”

“You want to mate.” Losson says, his tone even as he positions himself, cock in hand preparing to encourage the cambion to start sucking him off. If he couldn’t devour Raphael’s balls without seemingly getting forced into subspace, he was going to focus on having him use his mouth as payment for getting himself off. He kneels to the side of the cambion who eyes him almost like a caged animal; there is something almost primal behind his eyes and something in Losson wants to poke at the caged beast. Luckily for him, he's something of a lion tamer, and if Raphael wants to get aggressive - he knows how to fight back. (Needless to say - he finds himself intrigued. Excited even.)

“I want to fuck,” Raphael rumbles, his breath hot against the head of Losson’s cock. “And the more you come to my House of Hope and treat me oh, so, splendidly,” He hums warmly, his eyes darting off to the side, as if to admire one of the many portraits of him decorating the boudoir. “The more I want to smash your pretty little head into my mattress until you are desperately begging me to gift my seed to you so that you may bring the next Lord of the Hells into existence.”

His mind feels fuzzy. Losson still has to force the fantasy out of his mind from his moment. The way Raphael words the suggestion is sultry. Enticing. He imagines it - bending over and spreading himself. Wishing to be filled. Not just by Raphael. By Mephistopheles. By Asmodeus. By Dispater. Belial. Mammon. Levistus. Baalzebul. Devils he knows. Devils he doesn’t. Devils he only knows by name and legend. He hears Raphael’s smooth voice encouraging him. Take down these restraints and he’ll have the chance to show them all what Losson Wright is truly good for -

Instead he grips Raphael by the hair and shoves his skull forward on his cock, jamming it into his throat. The cambion emits a contented, pleasurable sigh as the corners of his lips twitch into a smile - a silent thank you. A thank you for putting him in his place. For the reminder. His tail thumps wildly against the bed before it slinks over to Losson's leg, coiling around it possessively. For as much as that brief exposure to such a concentrated burst of primal, fiendish essence caused Losson's mind to ignite with such carnal desire - he was not about to submit to Raphael's whims that easily. And that one-liner? Theatrics. All for show. And Losson was all too happy to remind him that he did not take kindly to those little outbursts. Especially not when he wasn't in a position to follow through.

He smiles. A playful, suggestive little smile as he flexes his fingers about in Raphael's hair before he gives a light yank to one of his horns, suggesting he put that tongue to work if he's going to use it so recklessly.

“Start by sucking me off.” Losson orders, thrusting in deeply as Raphael's tail strokes against his thigh. “Then we’ll talk about this new kink of yours.”

Notes:

I've been sitting on this scene with Raphael and Mephistopheles for AGES.
Anyways guys, thank you so much for sticking with me. I'll have the next chapter posted on December 3. If you're American, have a nice holiday! If you aren't American or if you just hate Thanksgiving, try to have as nice of a day as possible. Smooch some pets. Have a nice treat and a snack. And if you're Black Friday shopping - be safe. Wear a mask. Covid cases are on the rise again.

Chapter 13: when offering someone an inch and they take a mile, be sure that it won't cause prolapse

Notes:

disclaimer: there is NOT prolapse in this chapter. the title is a joke.

ANYWAYS. HI EVERYONE. I'M BACK!
I had a nice hiatus. Holidays sucked. Was forced to come out. Found out my family hates transpeople but still say shit like "they should be allowed to transition and do whatever" but clearly don't mean that. Anyways. That sucked so ya boi's properly starting his transition this month. HRT is finally happening.

But hey, hope everyone's enjoying the epilogue if you're getting around to it. I have some IDEAS. And I heard about a post-credit epilogue thing from one of my readers/friends too that might make for some interesting side stories.

Also, I wanna give a shout out to SocialPermaDeath, one of my readers, friends and fellow mods on the discord. He's been a fantastic asset and sounding board for ideas and he's started writing some additional content for this fic, particularly for Haarlep! His writing is astounding, please check out his work if you get the chance.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Is he fucking with me?”

“As much as I wish I could say he was, he is not.” Mephistopheles has his back to Losson after yet another unplanned visit from his warlock. They were increasing in number as of late and the archdevil couldn’t decide whether he was pleased with this turn of events. His nails drum lightly against the porcelain of his cup, turning as he sets the cup and saucer upon the neater of his two desks. “Fiends give off a particular sort of musk and though it’s most common among various concubi, it’s not unheard of for cambions to emit the pheromone from their genitalia when they are particularly invested in a partner.” Lightly, his fingers tap together in something of a polite clap. “Congratulations, Losson - my son is obsessed with you.”

“I could’ve told you that, the man is calling on me almost daily.” He scoffs, sniffing his cup to get an idea of his patron had offered him. “Is this coffee?”

“I had some left over from a guest - back to the matter at hand.” The comment about the change in beverage is dismissed quickly. “You’ve caused my son to see you as a viable candidate to reproduce with. Most unfortunate. You can either entertain the idea until he gets it out of his system, or you can ignore it. However, the more you ignore it, the more likely he’s going to remain so patient with you teasing him. You ought to know better than anyone how it requires a special touch to work closely with devils.”

“Bhaals balls, Meph -” He groans, tipping the cup of black coffee back to gulp its contents. Mephistopheles squints - he’s not even tasting the damn thing. Doesn’t he know that this coffee is unattainable on the material plane? “So I either gotta amuse him and let him think he’s going to put a baby in me or I gotta potentially wind up eviscerated.”

“There’s an alternative, you know.”

“You just said it’s either or.”

“I did, but I’m letting you know there’s a different approach to one of those scenarios and you aren’t considering it.” The archdevil approaches him and knocks lightly on Losson’s skull with his knuckle. “As much as I’m loath to discuss your affairs with my son, I would much rather see you come out of this situation unscathed. Though I am entertained by the idea of you getting your back clawed open by Raphael’s ravenous talons, I would very much like to be the one doing that to you instead. I’d much rather offer my aid in ensuring you do not have to sleep in the bed you’ve made.” Losson scoffs and the archdevil touches his finger to the side of the cup, refilling it with more of the coffee he’d had prepared. “Do try to taste it this time, will you? You might as well have just chugged ambrosia and didn’t even notice.”

“What are you suggesting, oh great Lord Mephistopheles.” There is the flash of a smile on the devil’s face at the use of such an honorific. “Scare him off with the complications associated with pregnancy?”

“Hardly.” He steps back, leaning against the back of the chair of his neater desk. “Simply change the dynamic. You’re a professional in the field of sexual forays - exploit what you’re best at. Make him think that putting his young in you is not going to satisfy his cravings.”

This time Losson sips. He does not chug or gulp like he had done prior. He sips. He allows the flavor to dance on his tongue. He never quite developed the taste for coffee, given how often Mephistopheles was offering his tea. But he can appreciate a good cup of coffee. And he finds it magnificent and rich. As if it were melting in his mouth. As if the aforementioned ambrosia had been spooned into his mouth by devas themselves and he was allowed to savor in such rich luxor. Were he not trying to honor his patron by tasting what had been offered to him, he knew his jaw would have been upon the floor. Eventually - he swallows. And his mouth feels barren and desolate without such a taste preoccupying him.

“So,” he begins, thinking to take another sip, although he relents for the time being, quite sure that should he sip again he’d be left with another brief moment of euphoria, thus delaying their discussion. “I should…suggest I’m putting one in him?”

“You are so remarkably attractive when you actually answer hypotheticals correctly.” Mephistopheles scoffs, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Let him mount you, do whatever it is he has to feel like he’s in control - and then you do what it is you do best with your most insecure clients and remind him of who is actually in charge.”

“You know if you weren’t devils and didn’t have a wildly different viewpoint on family dynamics from mortals, this would be a very strange discussion.” Losson allows himself another sip - but this time it does not offer him the same sort of heavenly embrace. He sniffs it - trying to determine if he can ascertain what it is about this coffee that made that first sip so truly magical.

“It’s still very strange, Losson.” Mephistopheles grumbles, returning to his tea (most assuredly not coffee). “Family means little to devils; I’m simply here to offer you techniques on how to usurp him. It’s not very difficult. He gets in his own head all the time, obsessed with his success -”

“Just like dear old dad.” He sees the brows upon Mephistopheles’ face furrow into a glower momentarily before it seems he’s decided to set aside the annoyance for another day.

“Make such a comment again and I will personally rip out your toenails and feed them to you.” the Archdevil hisses, approaching a small chest upon the messier desk which he unlocks with a finely engraved skeleton key. “I’m going to provide you something that may come in handy, may act as some sort of incentive to convince Raphael to let you flip the script on him with as little resistance as possible.” Losson gains a glimpse of the chest's contents - shimmering metal and jewels glint in the warm light of the study, filled practically to the brim. Mephistopheles slender, beryl fingers gloss over the various trinkets and treasures before pinching a small ring from within. The gleam of metal vanishes as the chest is once again closed and locked. “Think of this,” Mephistopheles says as he returns to Losson, holding the ring up. It is gold in color and there is a vaguely oval-like shape where a gem could be, but instead it held the tiniest of pearls laid at the top of the crevice. Losson holds out his hand to receive it and it lands within his palm for him to inspect it. “As something of the opposite enchantment I gave your wedding ring. Silver ones are permanent - as long as they’ve attuned, the user may remove it at any time. Gold ones are temporary. Short term. The effects only last a few hours once it is slipped on. Convince him to wear it, or trick him - I don’t care. It won’t affect you, you’ve got a permanent one. I don’t have a preference how you handle it. Do what you must.”

He doesn’t need to hold the ring up to know exactly what he’s looking at on this ring. His eyes go from the ring, to his patron, back to the ring - and once more to his patron whose face has slowly begun to deepen to a shade of indigo.

“Looks like a pussy.”

Yes, Losson!” He announces loudly. “That’s exactly what it represents! I keep these on hand as offerings for potential warlocks who wish to change their bodies - where do you think yours came from? I only redesigned yours because having a phallus on a wedding ring seems a little gauche, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, I would’ve loved that. Gives a whole new definition to the word cock ring.”

“Losson, please say thank you before I banish you from my study.” The devil stammers and his shoulders stiffen as he waits for his warlock to once again make another snide comment. He only hears a bit more laughter before the (comparatively) warmer lips of Losson press to his cheek.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against the archdevil’s cool skin. “I promise I won’t knock him up too bad -” Mephistopheles only pushes his warlock’s face away with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re impotent - you couldn’t even if you wanted to.”

“And how lucky we are for that, hm?” Losson kisses Mephistopheles’ cheek again but this time he lingers, knowing that he’s teased his patron a sufficient amount. The hand that had pushed at his face rests at Losson’s collarbone while the devil looks him up and down. The indigo continues to remain heavily woven upon his features.

“If you ever wanted to change that, you know -” he begins as Losson finally steps back, patting at Mephistopheles’ hand. The warlock offers a smile which is returned in earnest.

“Meph,” Losson’s voice softens and for a spell something familiar returns. A familiar giddiness that was buried in encounters centuries old. For that solitary moment, he does not feel like he is looking upon the very archdevil that extended his life - he is looking at a hornless tiefling who had been ostracized by his hometown. A broken-bespectacled infernal youth who had been living on the streets with only the clothes on his back. He grins and then pats at the devil’s cheek before he steps away. “You know I suck with kids.”

Losson stands in the Devil’s Den and across from him, lounging with his legs crossed is Raphael in all his human glory. He wears a sour expression, seemingly displeased with Losson from the result of their previous engagement. From the looks of things, it seemed as if he was quite disappointed with Losson. He’d confided in the warlock about his desires and they had gone unfulfilled. He scowls across the room at Losson, but he knows this scowl well enough by now that he knows that it’s simply the cambion playing stubborn.

“I have boundaries too, Raphael.” Losson begins to take his shoes off and preemptively unfastens his belt as he strides toward the bed. “You aren’t withholding sex from me besides - you already took your shoes off and I could smell the desperation on you from the lobby.” Raphael’s nose twitches - the familiar grimace affixed as Losson slinks upon the bed. “I needed a few days to process how I felt about it.” He sits at Raphael’s side, perpendicular but still close enough that should he lean over in either direction he could easily put his mouth on something. He does however, lift Raphael’s hand from against his torso as the man lounges and puts it to the topmost closure of his shirt. “I’d like to give it a shot if that’s what you want to do. I’ll even gladly take another long whiff of your musk if that pleases you.” Losson’s fingers fold around Raphael’s hand, and amidst the contrast of colors of flesh he guides them to slide each button from its closure. He encourages the cambion to brush those fingers upon his chest, to stroke at Losson’s pale collarbones. Perhaps even suggest he proceed to undress him - especially if Raphael’s being led to believe he was being given the opportunity to mate with such a willing participant.

He likes a little roleplay now and then anyways.

He watches as Raphael feigns disinterest; his hand still makes its way down Losson’s chest, squeezing each button through its accompanying opening. Upon reaching the lowest most edge of Losson’s shirt, his hand rests between the warlock’s legs, palming at his groin in a possessive manner. “You denied me a little excursion I had been hoping I might be able to take you on.” Raphael scoffs, sitting upright whilst leaning in toward Losson. His other hand reaches beneath Losson’s chin so that he might no longer watch how he was undressed and could lay his eyes on the cambion’s mortal form. “How can I be so sure you won’t simply deny me again?”

That’s right - just the sort of motion Losson had hoped for. If there’s anything he knows about Raphael, it is that if he gives him the opportunity to be dramatic, he will always take it. He allows Raphael to lead. He wants to feel like he’s in control when it comes to how they get from one point to another. He would be - for now. He'll let Raphael have some fun with this kink of his. It would only be a matter of Losson getting in his head and making him think that submitting would be his idea. For no matter how composed and self-assured Raphael presented himself when it came to the art of seduction - Losson had come to know that he was remarkably easy to unravel.

Losson’s lips quirk into a thin smile as he leans in, feeling Raphael’s fingers guiding him by the chin. A dry, single breath of a laugh slips away as he finds himself shifting his weight; the cambion’s hand between his legs moves with him. “Sometimes I gotta let my partners take what they want, you know?” Losson purrs, moving so he’s coyly leaning over Raphael whilst kneeling at his side. It's a challenge, but also a reward for (as far as Losson's concerned) a job well done their past few trysts. Satisfaction flickers upon Raphael’s face as he removes Losson’s chin from his grasp.

“Such a dangerous game you’re playing with me, Losson.” Raphael muses; he begins to undress himself from the throat down, slowly exposing his warm flesh (both in temperature and complexion) for the warlock to partake in. “You’re allowing the very man who can easily snatch your soul away from the archdevil that owns it to take what he wants from you.” His voice evens out, becoming mellower and deeper as he creeps away from Losson, as he continues to reveal his chest. Raphael steps upon the floor on the side opposite from where Losson was positioned, shrugging his garments from his shoulders. He hangs them upon a nearby hook, his torso revealed for Losson to witness: chest sporting hair down toward his navel, his stomach a little rotund but not protruding over his waistband. Groomed. Sculpted perhaps.

“I’ve played a lot of games with a lot of dangerous clients, Raphael.” Losson entertains as he slouches down on the bed to lay on his side; he props his head up with his hand, his elbow supporting its weight. “You’re not the most dangerous and you’re not the only one I’ve dared.” His eyes follow Raphael as he circles the bed - an intimidation tactic as best as Losson can ascertain but as he comes to the other side of the bed and once more collects Losson by the chin, he sees there’s more to it. While his attention was on Raphael’s face and his expression as he moved, he hadn’t paid attention to his hands, opening and unfastening his trousers which now hung limp at his hips. His cock is exposed for Losson and the way he tugs at Losson’s chin is demanding, insistent that Losson get to work.

“Then let us play another one, shall we?” He grips tighter when Losson doesn’t slide in closer fast enough for Raphael’s liking. He allows himself to be pulled and opens his mouth, laying flat to the bed so that he doesn’t have to strain himself by putting himself into an awkward position. “You suck. You please me. You use that harlot’s tongue for all its worth.”

He smirks at Raphael knowingly as he runs his hand beneath Raphael’s cock, stroking it lovingly as he eyes up at the cambion’s human façade. “Oh, you know I will, it’s what I do best.” Raphael’s hands move from his chin and travel to Losson’s cheek, patting it affectionately.

“That you do, don’t you?” his lips form into a smile. “But while you’re taking your time sucking me off, you must fuck my bedsheets as if you’re desiring to breed with the most willing of holes, aching to feel your seed spill into them." He hears the way Raphael's voice hitches. He senses the urge he must be suppressing to say something as damning as 'Me, perhaps?' "You must grind those practiced hips of yours, thrust and fuck the bedding as if you were fucking that dear, sweet husband of yours.” Losson’s eyes narrow playfully as he offers a few more affectionate strokes to the cock in his hands.

“Sounds fun - what’s the catch?” He asks laying himself out flat upon the bed, breathing shockingly close to the head of the cambion’s cock, daring to let his tongue flick against it. He swears he can feel the reflexive twitch of Raphael’s length in response.

“The goal is to cum before I do.” He laughs lowly, his fingers now brushing over Losson’s lips, using his thumb to lightly tug at the lower. “Don’t be lazy in how you use that succulent tongue of yours - I’ll know if you are. If I cum first, then just know that the next load I release is going to be emptied right into that overly-stretched public use ass of yours.” Raphael leans down, hand now moving to the top of Losson’s head where his fingers interlock with his hair, giving the faintest of yanks. His tongue glosses over his teeth, his voice low as he continues. “And if you don’t cum fast enough for my liking, I’ll have no choice but to plug you up and let my spend slosh about inside you until I’m satisfied you’ve been adequately scolded.” Losson’s eyes dart to his hands; he’s already been stimulating Raphael and he already knew that he could get this man off quickly. He wasn’t even hard yet himself and he somehow was going to have to manage in a race to finish first. “You’ll want to start fucking my bed any moment now, Losson - you know how eager I get.”

There is a tense silence at that final word - and it is only when Raphael enunciates the word “Go,” a moment later does Losson find himself with a mouth full of cock and his clothing magically stripped away, leaving him to grind furiously against the satin duvet beneath his hips. He’d expected that Raphael was simply going to put him to work but he’s surprised to find that the man has gripped him by the skull and begun to thrust into Losson’s mouth like a dog in a rut. And he’s distracted. Distracted by the sound of just how luscious Raphael can sound when he’s controlling his arousal rather than letting someone else. His groans are deep, impassioned and hungry and the way he fucks Losson’s mouth is indication to him that the man could very well be capable of rendering less-skilled lays silent and malleable to his desires and demands.

“Hardly a wiggle of those hips,” the cambion teases as he finds Losson’s tongue far more engaged with his cock than his groin was with the bedding. “I knew you couldn’t resist the opportunity to feel what it’s like to be on the receiving end of my carnal cravings.” He strokes at Losson’s cheek again, almost lovingly. His warm, amber eyes make contact with the icy, sapphires of Losson’s; his expression is gentle and wholly entertained. “The way your lips curl around my cock and the tiniest pearls of tears at the corners of your eyes when I strike the depths of your throat are worthy of being written home about - I see why people pay good money for your services.” His thumb trails to the corner of Losson’s lips, wiping away a small dribble of saliva. “How lucky I am to have such a receptive little pawn at my disposal -”

It’s quick.

Losson had only just begun to feel the beading of precum at the head of his own cock when he feels the bulging of Raphael’s head in his throat. The thick, bitter-tanged taste of cum gums up in his throat in a viscous coating, forcing Losson to swallow heartily as the man’s orgasm concludes quickly after but only a few minutes. He tut-tuts Losson, almost scolding him as he pulls himself free from the warlock’s mouth. Almost affectionately - he wipes away the threads of saliva and cum connecting them and rubs his hand upon the mattress. And as if making a point, he smears the head of his cock upon Losson’s cheek where his hand had laid, blotting it with whatever residual fluid lay upon it.

“Oh, now whatever will we do about this?” He asks Losson as he lays upon the bed, mouth slightly agape, tongue sticking out past his lips. He licks at them, sucking his tongue inward with another swallow. “I would apologize for such a quick release if I weren’t so sure you were trying especially hard for me.” The cambion chuckles, the dimples of his cheeks far more pronounced than Losson is accustomed to - he wears a smile of victory. A victory over the sarcastic little dom of a human that was so sure he could best Raphael in the bedroom. What a smile that was. A smile well earned for putting Losson in his place. For now. “You must find the thought of receiving my infernal gifts rather alluring, wouldn’t you say?”

He finds Raphael guiding his head back between his legs. With only a single breath he finds himself catching that familiar musk. Raphael’s brought Losson toward his sack, pushing at the back of his skull so that he’s forced to breathe in. Losson enjoys Raphael’s scent normally. He finds it alluring and sensuous. He has from the moment he first encountered the man on his way to that goblin hideout. He has from the moment his patron murmured in his head ‘He’s been wearing that cologne since he was a rugrat.’ As far as Losson was concerned - if it’s not broken, don’t try to fix it.

His ears twitch, hearing the request from the cambion. The words sound muffled with Raphael’s thighs so close to his ears, with his own focus beginning to blur. He knows there’s something being said about breathing deeply. To embrace those yearnings. Losson’s mouth suckles upon Raphael’s testicles hungrily, lips catching them so that he may run his tongue over them. He closes his eyes - he opens his mouth wider to let them sink further into his mouth. They feel like the most sumptuous fruit in his mouth. He swears they even taste as such and his mind assures him of such as he’s fooled by the phantom taste of apricot on his tongue. He can only imagine how delectable the next load of Raphael’s nectar would taste as it’s so lovingly poured within his mouth.

Losson finds himself rolling over on the bed. With each eager effort to suckle upon Raphael’s testicles more, the more he squirmed. And no sooner did his squirming begin that he found himself on his back, the cambion standing with one leg on either side of Losson’s head. And beneath and between those legs was Losson - head nestled close to his taint whilst he gulps and gargles upon each plump testicle. He breathes deep - the scent growing more and more intoxicating as his nose is buried firmly. He feels Raphael’s hands upon him, mind swimming with this immense, insatiable desire to please and be pleased by him. His palms stroke upon his chest and stomach as he leans forward, his fist closing around his cock. He pumps. He praises Losson for such devoted service - he cannot hear much else.

“What do you crave?” he hears Raphael’s voice suddenly echo - he only briefly recalls that he’s supposed to make this man submit to him. He wants to say he wants to bend Raphael over and use him as a waste receptacle for ejaculate. But he cannot speak such words. With each suck he finds his mind swimming. He wants Raphael to lean down and strangle his throat with his sack while he sucks him off. He imagines how Raphael’s forked tongue would slither over him as he suffocates him with those opulent, filling balls occupying his mouth. He slurps. He swallows. There’s nothing to swallow but his own spit but it tastes like a blessing as it trickles down his throat. His arms link around Raphael’s thighs, holding firmly upon him as he pushes himself up, taking a deeper gulp. A deeper embrace. He inhales - oh gods above and hells below, that aroma. His mind spirals and he thrusts. Losson thrusts, - he’s only had that single, teasing stroke from Raphael’s hand but that’s all he needs. All he needs from the way his scent consumes him. Arouses him. He feels the heat erupt within his belly as his entire body convulses with a sudden orgasm, the result of such landing upon his stomach in a spontaneous burst. He only hears Raphael’s laughter. Laughter that bounces through the inside of his skull like a symphony playing only for them.

His banquet is cut off as he feels those ambrosial testicles be guided from the steaming maw of his throat. Raphael gently guides them free from Losson’s mouth and steps back. He lays upside down, gaze upon the cambion as he looks down upon him. “Now, now,” Raphael purrs, his finger running over Losson’s lips, wiping away the spittle that’s since collected upon them. The cambion’s face is flush but nowhere near as much as Losson’s. His face is rosy and the patches of frostbite appear to have simply melted during his minutes between the man’s legs. His jaw is slack and his eyes remain glassy as he finds Raphael lifting him up on the bed. There’s a blood rush through him, akin to an overindulgence of alcohol and everything swims while the room seems to spiral. Still standing upright, Raphael’s hands idly brush back the loose, stringy and disarrayed sections of Losson’s flaxen hair so that his face was visible. “We can’t have my little mouse’s heart beating itself to death.” His fingers tug again at Losson’s lip as he holds his jaw, creeping in close to steal a kiss. Normally, Losson would not permit a partner to kiss him first unless the scene called for it - but his mind has abandoned him, tadpole and all as he sucks in Raphael’s breath. The tongue is flat for now but he imagines it on his ass, each side of such prodding about. One side goes in. The other comes out. He shivers and shudders and he spreads his legs, inviting Raphael to push between them.

Losson is pushed back into the bed, guided and corralled backwards as his knees are brought out from under him. Raphael crawls between him, pushing his back against the headboard. His tongue doesn’t taste nearly as enchanting as his balls do, but it does send Losson's thoughts to new and exciting places. How might that tongue feel upon his balls. How much he'd like for Raphael to suck and squeeze them - would he honor and worship Losson’s body in just as fervent a display? When Raphael pulls back, his eyes slit and studying Losson with an entertained smirk, Losson moves with him. His tongue lolls out just barely and he longs to share it with him again. “Now, now, now,” he teases, clutching Losson’s chin once more, pressing his thumb to the flat of Losson’s tongue. “I asked you a very important question and you remained silent - What do you crave, beau?”

He isn’t sure what it is that does it to him. The sudden and striking willingness and desire to be so utterly compliant and submissive to Raphael hits him like a load of iron to the skull. Perhaps it’s the term of endearment. Perhaps it’s the possessive, forceful way he moved his body toward the headboard. Or maybe it’s just everything at once coinciding to make him feel so charmed and relaxed. Losson was just about ready to let Raphael do anything and everything he wanted to him. All from a few minutes with his face buried so deeply against that pheromone gland around his sack.

He wants to get lost in that scent for as long as it will carry him.

It’s like a drug. A drug that has stripped him of all need to control the situation - and he’s not complaining. He so rarely allows himself the opportunity to completely lay back and play sub for someone. Now and then at the brothel he’d have someone hire him wanting a lovely human male to submit for them, but it was never like this. Those cases often felt practically tame compared to this. Compared to how Raphael knelt before him with Losson’s ass upon his knees. He hadn’t even noticed how Raphael’s fingers had kneaded their way into him - Hells, he really had learned something. He’d learned how to wiggle and flex those fingers within him and Losson was so pleasantly punch-drunk with arousal, that he wasn’t even sure he’d even moaned when the man began his intrusion.

“Answer the question, cher.” Raphael coaxes, fingers crooking as if beckoning Losson to answer. What does he crave? Gods. So many things. He wants another deep inhale of that musk for inspiration. He hopes Raphael may give it to him but those chances appear so slim and unlikely. “I cannot truly please you if you don’t tell me what you desire.” His lips curl into a smile as his fingers proceed to smoothly fuck Losson’s ass.

There is so much that he wants.

He wants Raphael to take his fingers out and then bury his entire cock into him. He wants him to shove those fingers in his mouth and force him to clean whatever slick remains. He wants to have his face shoved into the pillows and smothered while Raphael lays claim on him. He wants to put his legs over his shoulder and have him utterly consume his cock and testicles until he’s so overstimulated he combusts. He wants to have enough of that cambion’s seed in him that his stomach bloats from overuse. He wants to be on display while Raphael shows all the patrons of the brothel just how easy it is to take their most sought after dom and render him into a gooey, submissive mess.

And he wants to do all the very same to Raphael in turn.

“Do you know what I want?” Losson eventually mewls, leaning forward, his arms stretching out to comfortably wrap around the cambion’s shoulders as he grinds forward upon his lap. “I want you to show me just how you intend to fuck me if you get your hands on that filthy crown.” He manages to steal a kiss from Raphael’s lips as he continues. “I want you to pound into me as if I'm your prize should you rightfully manage to become Archdevil Supreme.” The haze of arousal from Raphael’s testicles is still strong, but Losson finds his head slowly clearing. It doesn’t make this sudden need to submit to Raphael any less potent - in fact, he’s actually quite excited about it.

And Raphael laughs - a hearty, powerful, booming laugh that causes Losson’s spine to quiver. Whether it’s from arousal and excitement or fear and dread is hard to ascertain. Especially as the fingers are replaced with a heavy, frenzied thrust of Raphael’s cock. Losson’s entire figure shudders as he’s quickly and easily slammed against the headboard of the bed. Raphael hoists Losson’s legs high, pushing them into his stomach and chest as, like a beast, he pounds into the warlock with something of a snarl of humor. Raphael begins to pull back and pound inwards, ensuring that his cock is buried as deep as he can possibly get. That menacing amusement begins to reverberate in his lungs and diaphragm before it begins to rumble from within him into a deep, malevolent howling of laughter.

“My cher, this is only the beginning of what you’ll get to experience from me -” he begins, his thrusts growing more explosive, each one briefly striking the nerve of Losson’s prostate, forcing a sudden, excited convulsion from the warlock. He does not so much as studies Losson, but he analyzes the way his face changes between his thrusts. Raphael’s hands remained planted firmly beneath Losson’s thighs to hold him steady so that with each thrust he could push further and further into the human who so stupidly challenged him. “With that crown in my hands, you will play witness - no, you will play an even greater part of my reign and subsequent conquest - a concubine of my own for me and me alone.” (Not like Haarlep, Losson is able to reason). A strange softness comes to him. A softness that almost stems from the realization of the possibility of defeat. “No,” he continues as he buries his cockhead deep in Losson with what the warlock is sure is the first of several sputtering loads of seed to be deposited in him. He jerks back, groaning as his head collides with the back of the headboard with a soft thunk. Though Raphael cums quickly, it feels heavy in him, as if it were filling a reservoir within his gut where it would swish around until such a time it came leaking free. Raphael almost smiles - a feral little smile that comes with such a predatory, primal threat. “I will use you, like I always intended, to produce the very army of devils I need to move forward with my war on the Hells.” His hand strokes over Losson’s stomach where it felt as if his cum had now pooled within him. Raphael’s hips fuck him again, as if trying to force his spend to take. “One by one - your body will be mine to use to create the very army of devils needed to ensure my victory. An honor, truly - a supporting role in my grand design.”

“And- And then what?” Losson manages to blurt as he drops his hands to stroke his neglected cock - though it does not last for long as Raphael glimpses the need for self gratification and clutches Losson’s length firmly. He pumps. Roughly. Hastily. It makes Losson’s eyes roll back and bite his lip before he is one again able to remember how to verbalize. “What then - when I’ve proven my use to you? You discard me?”

Raphael’s expression becomes strangely loving as now that he has Losson where he wants him. And he smiles. He smiles and he runs his fingers once more upon the warlock’s lips, this time with genuine affection behind his eyes. “If that’s what you wished, I’d toss you into the Styx and let you be nothing but a wasted soul for all eternity. But I’d much rather you alive and by my side, much like the arrangement you’re already locked in with your patron.” There's a low chuckle before he continues to thrust and Losson continues to cling whilst another wave of the cambion’s seed fills him. “And oh, how I’ll ensure you’ll adore every last moment in paradise beneath my rule.”

And then - Losson cums. The initial rolling of his eyes was only a sign of what was to come as he releases for a second time that evening upon his stomach, this time with streams also peaking over Raphael’s fingers. He blurts the cambion’s name in a confused haze of euphoria as he pushes into him, milking some of the man’s own thrusts deeper into his stomach. His own clarity returns to him faster than he expected and the very position he’s in almost embarrasses him. Raphael continues to pound into him, small sparks of excitement still clashing behind Lososn’s eyes as each grind into his prostate sends another shockwave through him.

He allows Raphael a final orgasm, still prattling on about this grand design of his before his body language encourages him to pull out. The jubilation of the pheromones now but a memory in Losson’s mind. He then choses to play cute - nudging his head to Raphael to lay on his back. “I’m still feeling it, you know,” he teases as he looms over Raphael, lifting one of his hands to hold close to his chest before bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them sloppily. Raphael follows his motions only momentarily before his attention moves elsewhere. Losson ensures their eyes meet as he kneels over the cambion’s hip, he grinds his cock upon Raphael’s. With his eyes pulled elsewhere and Losson’s mind now clear to wrest control of the scene, he slips the small, gold ring he’d had upon his finger onto one of Raphael’s. Though they had both come several times already - they were not done. Not by a long shot.

And it is then that Losson’s cock is no longer rubbing on Raphael’s. Catching a cambion off guard is something he’s found he’s remarkably good at. And he continues to get even better. Raphael cranes his neck upwards, his face flushed up to his ears as he observes precisely what it is that Losson’s done. “You menace,” he sneers. But his sneer does not have the weight of fury or hatred. But rather. . .Excitement.Thrill. It is in that flash of his teeth and the divot of his dimples on his cheeks again that cue Losson to continue.

“From the looks of things, Raphael -” Losson whispers as he pins the man down with his presence alone as he crawls over him. “I think you’re still feeling it too.” He brings his hand down the cambion’s chest, his finger tip curving and tracing over his stomach toward the smooth curve of what is now a neatly groomed vulva. “You said the other day you wanted to try this, didn’t you?”

“A menace,” he repeats again, but Raphael does not scowl. He merely grins. “Do your worst, mephistite.”

And Losson sits up. His hand cups the newly formed cunt presented to him thanks to the ring, bestowed upon him by his warlock. It fits beneath his palm perfectly and he can feel the ache and heat coming from Raphael. Losson knows a thing or two about handling one of these - from his own personal experience when he’d had one, and from years in the sex work business. Did Raphael know how it felt to have one? He wasn’t sure. But what he did know is that Raphael wore a grin on his face that told Losson that he’d likely been hoping for some sort of trickery of this degree all along.

He’d come to expect such dynamics with his little mouse - no, it was probably far safer to call Losson his little fox. He was no mouse. He did not scurry about thinking he was safe and desperately trying to escape a vicious predator. He was a fox. A cunning and clever player of its own right that could stride side by side with the cat. Maybe Raphael didn’t know how to parse the way he felt about Losson in that moment, but he’d come to know that this pride he felt in being bested in the bedroom was evidence that (at least in the ways of sex) Losson was an equal. And often times? His better.

Losson smiles as his hand squeezes Raphael’s cunt, forcing him to squirm and jerk upwards. He starts to laugh but Losson gives him a look Raphael knows all too well.

And Losson plunges a finger inside.

“Gladly.”

Notes:

ALRIGHT HERE'S ANOTHER THING I'D BEEN SITTING ON LORE-WISE.

Losson is a transman! Mephistopheles transed his gender! So hey, trans friends? make a deal with him if you wanna change your body. I did.

And now, a new segment!

I GOT FANART TO SHARE. Please give these wonderful pieces of art of Losson a like or a reblog! (I don't know how to make working links in AO3 notes)
https://www.tumblr.com/mr-oldman-appreciator/735666718291148800/atastypeach-s-boy-losson-if-you-havent-read?source=share
https://www.tumblr.com/spell6ound/733878195465633792/made-some-doodles-of-losson-from-thus-spoke?source=share

Chapter 14: i was pretty sure the phrase steaming hot bean juice meant coffee, not this

Summary:

Tags for this chapter:

Daddy Kink, Clit Stim, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Mating Press, Breeding Kink, Self-Degredation, Subspace, Mind Break and Overstimulation

Notes:

HI UM.

OOPS?
I didn't mean to take another week off I promise. Mental health has been absolute shit since what happened with my family at Thanksgiving and I have been trying to bounce myself back up. I didn't mean to I promise!!!!

Anyways thank you guys for sticking with me despite my struggles this chapter. I'm slowly but surely becoming a functional person again. I got this chapter done and I'm really REALLY excited about it. Please note that from this point on I am likely going to be including tags in chapter summaries since I've hit the max tags for the fic.

Um also.
I DO know how the story ends now. I have finished outlining and brainstorming and I know how this story is going to end and I do believe I have a final chapter cap. But I'm not gonna tell you what that is yet.
As always, thank you so much for sticking around and please enjoy this chapter which I have mentally been calling "Oh, I guess Raphael really DOES have a daddy kink."

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Raphael’s warmer inside than Losson had ever expected him to be. Not quite as deep either. But he’s slick and damp and Losson finds himself pushing away the need to press his lips between Raphael’s legs and begin drinking him in. But it’s not quite that time yet. He listens. Listens to the way the man groans, thrusts his hips down into Losson’s hands to guide his fingers deeper within. He laughs, hoisting himself up from the bed to hover over the man, wriggling his fingers in and out of the man’s newly formed cunt.

“I take it you’ve either never had a pussy before, or at the very least never had it fingered.” Losson teases him, his thumb brushing over the general area where he knows the man’s clitoris would be. He doesn’t apply too much pressure yet but he does give him the simple glossing of his finger tip to remind the man that he has a highly practiced hand.

Silence, you.” The man begins to snarl, leaning upwards but slumps back on the bed with a heavy thud and warm, melodic and throaty breaths erupt from his chest. Losson leans in closer, his mouth brushing over Raphael’s chest, mussing up the curls of dark hair whilst leaving damp lip marks over his skin.

“You’re not calling the shots anymore, Raphael.” Losson murmurs upon his pectoral, breath cool and tingly. It causes the man’s chest to prickle to life with gooseflesh and further still makes him stifle another groan once Losson’s mouth catches upon his steadily firming nipple. He sucks upon it lovingly, lips pursed as if about to offer a peck on the lips to a lover. But instead they hold tightly upon the nub of flesh, muscles of his neck clenching as he laps upon it. It’s a promise of what’s to come. Each suck and wriggle of his tongue matches in its own way with the rhythm he takes as he finger fucks the cambion. Each little purse of his lips and taunting suckle is a hint at just what sort of oral adventure he’s about to take Raphael on once he dips between his legs.

“You’re lucky I’ve indulged in my own instincts,” Raphael sneers, his breath hitching and giving away his approval of Losson’s actions. “Otherwise I’d have slain you where you lay.” Losson hums in acknowledgement. A faint indication to tell the man that ‘oh yes, you surely would - you would have carnally destroyed me, I’m quite sure of it.’ That is to say - Losson didn’t believe a word of those empty threats. He had no way of backing them up, especially not as Losson plucked his lips from Raphael’s nipple and brought them to his collarbone, nibbling warmly against the surface.

“Oh yes,” Losson purrs, getting closer to Raphael’s ear, his fingers lifting and dropping in a flipper like motion in the man’s cunt, savoring its slippery, humid grip around him. Raphael makes an effort at suppressing the noise that pours from him; it’s a mewling whine if you could even call it that. It’s louder and heavier than the demure sounds that accompany the word. But were the man just a bit more delicate - it was the perfect descriptor. “You’re most certainly leaning into your instincts - your fiendish, primal instincts. Your desire to tear me apart.” Losson flips his fingers again, only now adjusting his hands position to press his thumb warmly upon the swollen nub of his clit. “What a shame it is that you’re letting me do that instead.” His hand slips back and he hears the relief in Raphael’s breath as he’s given a moment's reprieve. It does not last before Losson is once again wriggling his fingers in Raphael’s pussy. He’s almost disappointed that he cannot hear the squelching over the sounds of the devil’s groans. He babbles something aggressive and angry in Infernal - another empty threat, Losson supposes - and his mouth trails along the curve of his neck to his ear. Losson chews delicately on the lobe before he exhales into it. “I am going to eat you right up, Raphael - and you’re going to beg me for it.”

But Raphael does not beg. Not initially. But he does show what he wants. He drops an arm, previously held against his mouth to suppress his pleasurable breaths and grunts, and he rests his hand upon the back of Losson’s. He pushes upon Losson’s hand - a wordless plea for more. His pride will not yet allow him to beg audibly. Should he succumb to a human’s trickery and exploitation of his desires so quickly, why he might as well renounce his title as a hellish noble. Losson merely laughs against Raphael’s ear, grinding upon his side as he teases with another brush of his thumb upon his clit. The devil shudders, his voice contained within his sealed lips which present the metallic taste of blood to Raphael’s mouth as his canines sink into them. “Such an eager little spitfire, aren’t you?” Losson gasps, nearly scraping his bodyweight against Raphael, using the friction of their adjacent flesh to stroke his cock. “I’ve only just begun stretching your cunt and you’re already asking for more.” His tongue traces the outline of Raphael’s ear, grazing his teeth on it. “Words, sweetheart. I’m not about to drink you dry if you don’t ask for it.”

Losson loves how it feels - he wouldn’t deny himself that. The comparative temperature between Raphael’s body and his own is beyond noticeable. He’d always been so warm to the touch but with his fingers buried in this freshly formed cunt Losson was far more aware of it. He’d had his fingers in his fair share or cambion and devil holes - of various gender identities and sexes - but something about Raphael’s was stirring him up. He longed to bury his face down there much like he had with Raphael’s sack and feel the damp heat on his face. He wanted to feel Raphael smear himself all over his mouth, cheeks and nose and leave him breathless. Losson could have sworn he felt his stomach growl - he was hungry.

“I’m not going to tease you, Raphael,” Losson continues to purr into his ear as he continues to slowly slide his fingers in and out. “Unless you want me to, of course.” He playfully dips his tongue into his ear, letting it squirm lazily, tracing the ridges and dips in the cartilage. “It’d be such a shame if you didn’t ask,” Losson whispers hoarsely, grating again upon Raphael’s side, one of his legs having come to drape over the cambion’s thigh. “Your cunt feels so hot - so wet. I’d hate to leave you so needy just because you couldn’t bring yourself to tell me how badly you want me to fuck you.” Raphael’s chest rises and falls against him in a strong, throaty gasp. “I can practically feel it, Raphael - how badly it wants my cock inside it. How badly you want my cock plunged into you -” His hands quicken. His fingers flip up and down widening and stretching him and the pull back and with the aid of Raphael’s hand, push back into him. “Or maybe,” He grinds again and this time as he grinds, he finds Raphael pushing his opposing hand to the back of his skull. “You want my tongue more, don’t you?”

That’s the switch he needed to hit. Perhaps it was that, coupled with the firm, agile strokes he applied to Raphael’s clit that did it instead. Something about those words. Those gestures. The way his tongue traced his ear. Something among that mess of words and actions had pushed Raphael to the edge faster than Losson anticipated. It wasn’t that Raphael came - he was actually quite surprised he hadn’t yet. But it was that it was precisely what was needed to get the man to whimper his wants. “Hells,” Raphael snarls as he relents. “Go on - eat.” Losson lifts from against his ear and neck, taking a brief moment to admire the splotches of irritation from where he’d preoccupied himself. He looks down at Raphael, gaze narrowed and expectant. He does not open his mouth, nor does he continue to finger him. He doesn’t even allow his thumb to twitch as it rests upon him. “Eat me.” Raphael croaks weakly, although his eyes do not meet Losson’s.

“You’re not the one calling the shots here, spitfire.” Losson scolds him, this time with the endearment used once more. “I won’t do anything unless you ask - and unless you ask nicely. If you’re going to be so demanding about your cunt getting sucked, then you can call Haarlep and they can take care of you.” He makes a daring gesture, suggesting as he moves his hand again, that this time he’ll take it away. Losson brings forth a swelling of magic from within his stomach and channels it forward. “If you cannot beg willingly - I will make you.” He feels the swirling embrace of enchantment magic begin to coil around his hand. “And if I have to command you to do it, then I will be sure to wound your pride.” Once more, his hand begins to slide away. “Last chance - beg of your own volition. Or mine.”

Raphael remains silent. His eyes now affixed with Losson’s, he does not move to encourage the man to continue. Losson sighs finding Raphael’s stubbornness most disappointing. He extends his arm where the enchantment magic had built up with the intent of casting Command upon him. Yet, as the spell begins to slip away - Raphael’s voice rings up.

“-need it. . .”

Losson gestures his head forward. “Again.” he orders, allowing the spell to vanish. “Say it again. I didn’t catch it.”

“Your tongue.” Raphael rasps, trying to push himself up on his elbows. “Please. I need it.” His hand presses upon Losson’s again, trying to guide him in for a moment before instead - he slides his hand out. Instead, Raphael holds Losson’s hand by the wrist, pressing the flat of his palm into his cunt. “I need you to run your tongue upon me - against me, on me, in me.” His voice softens. “If you’re so keen on using that tongue to stir up honeyed words and make me stain the sheets with my own fluid the least you could do is use that tongue to lick up the same.” The corner of Losson’s lip twitches. Good. But not enough. “Taste me,” Raphael requests. “Every little flick of your tongue on my throat and ear made my head spin, dizzy with the thought of how that must feel to have to running it between my legs -” Losson puts a finger to his lips, silencing him.

But it is not the hand that remained at his side, but rather the one that was thickly glossed in Raphael’s fluid. He offers the finger to the man, encouraging his lips to part. “First taste is yours, dear.” There is no caution as Raphael brings Losson’s fingers into his mouth. Not just the one he was offered but both of them, richly coated in his slick. The cambion takes hold of the warlock’s wrist and holds his hand still sucking upon the fingers, allowing the pleasant, yet vaguely alkaline sapor to overwhelm his taste buds. Losson hums in amusement as he slowly coaxes Raphael to open his mouth again and release his fingers. “Hmm? What do you think?” he asks, patting at his cheek and streaking the saliva over his flesh. “Will I enjoy it?”

"Yes," Raphael utters with hardly a whisper. He does not relinquish Losson’s wrists, instead he holds at his forearm, his eyes glassy and practically detached. “Please,” he begs again, clutching Losson. “I need you to devour me.” He smiles. That was a good plea as far as he was concerned. For a man as stubborn as Raphael, to admit he needed someone that badly? That was quite the accomplishment.

“Good boy,” Losson purrs softly as he slinks back and lowers himself. “You did a most impressive job. Now not another word -” His eyes narrow, lids heavy as he glances at Raphael. “Papa’s hungry.”

Oh, but there is something in the response Raphael gives him when he teasingly says those words that catches Losson’s attention. He catches the most sinfully weary cadence of a “Please. . .” And for a moment Losson swears he hears the utterance of the word ‘father’ afterwards, but he opts to address that later. For now, he has one focus - his lips on Raphael’s.

Losson rests upon his stomach, comfortably resting between Raphael’s legs. He admires the cunt presented to him - plush, lips spread just slightly in anticipation, damp and glistening with slick that has begun its slow, steady dribbling upon the blankets beneath it. He doesn’t mind the rich, dark hair that surrounds it - there’s no way Raphael would’ve anticipated the need to groom and trim a set of genitals he didn’t have that morning. Besides - Losson’s seen, ate and fucked thicker.

There’s a musk to Raphael - but it’s not unpleasant. A familiar, almost citrus-like scent that Losson recalls from his own experiences. His fingers brush again, watching as the labia parts from their intrusion. Raphael groans a positive affirmation in response, begging Losson to continue. His middle finger slips back in as he slides closer, face breathing in that scent emitting from the moist flaps of flesh before him. He ensures as he breathes that it is not especially cool - he doesn’t want to shock Raphael’s system. Losson starts by closing his lips around part of his labia, suckling upon the flesh gently whilst his finger resumes the careful protrusions from before. Another groan and Losson’s lips part before they gather more folds of the cambion’s pussy into his mouth. The blankets beneath him stretch in response as Raphael twists upon them. Losson’s tongue slips out, tracing over the damp skin while his fingers stretch him further - but there’s really no need. Especially not as the edge of his nose brushes between each side, applying its own degree of pressure that the finger couldn’t even match. His tongue drags upward, slurping audibly, letting whatever fluid had pooled at the exterior of Raphael’s cunt into his mouth. Another groan from the cambion and Losson pushes his mouth more firmly into it. His tongue prods inwards, wriggling about. He’d fuck him with this tongue soon enough but for now he was luxuriating in that newfound euphoria that came from eating the man’s pussy. It had a taste that was new for him - a vague saltiness that nearly gave him the impression of fresh coconut water. A crispness. A strange refreshing quality. And he wanted to let that slick dribble into his throat and sustain him for his next few meals.

Losson buries his nose in Raphael’s cunt as his jaw begins to work itself. His mouth opens and closes, slurping and sucking on the soft, wet folds of skin against his face. Losson’s lip drags over the lower edge, lightly drawing it up as his tongue keeps it saturated. He wriggles it inwards a bit more, curling it back to draw some more of that tang into his mouth. And with each, hungry gulp, he feels himself stirring for more. Another gentle suck of those outer lips as Losson drags the edge of his nose upwards, sneaking his fingers in momentarily for a few, hasty fucks. All just in time for his nose to brush against the engorged head of the cambion’s clit - resulting in the sudden jerking of Raphael’s hips. And a surprising, whimpering plea of: “Papa, please -” from the man’s chest.

That’s Losson’s sign. His sign to clamp his lips over that sweet, aching little clit that has throbbed past its hood, displaying itself so needily for Losson’s enjoyment. His lips curve around it and he holds his tongue flat against it, allowing the cambion to do the required work. Raphael’s hands find the back of Losson’s head, pushing him in closer as he thrusts his cut into Losson’s mouth, practically squealing with shock and delight. He buries his chin against those thick folds of flesh, smearing the mess against his face as his tongue pulses and strokes upon Raphael’s clit. He feels the occasional twitches and throbs and with each one he offers the fiend a tantalizing little suck of his lips, the same as he would if it were the man’s fully realized cockhead. Again, he hears another plea from Raphael, bucking his hips into Losson’s face once more. He wanted the warlock to feast upon him. To taste him. To enjoy him just as much as he wanted to enjoy himself.

Losson secures himself a breath and an opportunity to tease Raphael. He begins to slowly fuck his cunt with his fingers again, his mouth and tongue still tormenting that rounded nub of nerves. “Do you taste this good for everyone?” He murmurs, his fingers plunging deep to rub against the curved edge of a cervix. “Or just for me?” Losson draws his fingers out and focuses his eyes toward Raphael’s face. Hypnotized. That’s the best word to describe his expression as he watches Losson. And so he entices him, bringing his fingers to his mouth, spread in a v-like shape. His tongue traces them before he buries them within his mouth, sucking on each joint with ferocity without a single breath. When he finally removes them, he does so with a gasp. “You’re doing so, so very well, Raphael.” He sighs, positioning his face just above Raphael’s cunt again, his fingers returning to finger him slowly. “Won’t you cum in my mouth?” He leans against the mound of rich, umber hair, a smile lazily worming its way across his lips. “Won’t you fuck my mouth with your cunt and let me taste you as you come? As I send lightning along your spine? As you whimper for your father again?” Raphael is not fit to resist - Losson’s gotten him relaxed and responsive enough that there isn’t an ounce of fight in the man. He slows the fucking of his fingers but teases him with another brush of his thumb to his clit. “Is that what you’re thinking of?”

It must be. Raphael mentions his father often enough when in bed with Losson that it doesn’t surprise him that the deeper he slips into subspace - the more those desires come to the forefront of his mind. There is a moment of recognition in Losson’s words as he suggests the unthinkable. But it goes unrefuted. There is only the lightest incline and decline of his chin that gives Losson the confirmation. That with the unbroken eye contact answer the question. Very well. He could work with that. He usually charges extra for this kind of service when he’s at work - but this was very much not work.

Losson lowers his head between Raphael’s legs again - Raphael’s raised them, bending at the knee and spread them out wide for Losson’s next indulgence. It gives him the opportunity to link an arm around one of his thighs as he buries himself within once more. The taste of arousal has grown richer in the past few moments. He’ll blame the calling out of Raphael’s thoughts of his father - everyone’s got something. He doesn’t tease as much during his second course. Once he removes and cleans off his fingers again he doesn’t delay - his tongue draws itself up between the slit, punching into the entrances a few times to scoop more slick into his mouth. It’s not long before he is all but making out with Raphael’s pussy, exchanging saliva with it as he would the man’s mouth. But it smells and tastes far better.

And it’s the smell that causes something to click in Losson’s core - that same smell. That same smell of musk, but this time far sweeter and far more inviting. He gulps, jaw moving feverishly as he swallows and slurps more of Raphael’s drippings. He buries his face in his cunt and inhales, lost in the allure of how inviting it felt to be face first in him. Like he was meant to be there. His tongue punches deep within him again, his fingers joining it in such a way where with each slathering of his tongue he wants to bring himself further inside. Raphael’s pussy is hot. Hotter than anything Losson could have expected and to be so feverishly sucking upon those swollen beckoning lips was like allowing the hot steam and water of a shower drip upon his face.

And gods, he wanted more.

He pulls back momentarily, his fingers replacing his greedy tongue as it rubbed upon Raphael’s clit. Losson admires his work - the way it had become so pronounced from its stimuli. The way it practically begged Losson to suck on it and make it quiver with an anticipatory orgasm. But he would torture it further, his slickened fingers rubbing upon it as Losson allowed himself a moment of appreciation for the succulent curves and folds of Raphael’s pussy. How it had been so quick to bloom to life for Losson from just a simple application of a ring. And how it yearned for so much more. He’d been so enamored sucking on the cambion’s cunt, he’d practically forgotten about his own arousal - now painfully obvious as it pressed against the bed.

Oh, but what a look that would be. . .to see his cock sticking out of Raphael’s vulnerable, painfully desperate cunt. To see how it welcomed him inside him. If Losson felt like his face fit perfectly as he ate the man out, oh, his cock was an even better fit. He found himself nervously chewing the inside of his lip. How would it feel - gods, if it was already so hot upon his face, the heat around his cock must be overwhelmingly decadent.

Losson’s mouth replaces his fervently moving fingers, his mind in a haze from listening to the whimpering please and desperate cries from Raphael. Whines begging Losson to eat him up. To go deeper with his tongue. To rub harder. That he’s cumming. That’s right - That’s right. His tongue swirls around the nub of his clit again, flicking and fondling it lovingly. He sucks on it, giving it head as it rightfully deserves. He feels the fluttering of flesh as it pulses against his lips. He opens his mouth and breathes heavily upon it. “Ask me nicely,” he mutters, licking it wetly. “Ask me nicely and I’ll let you have it, Raphael.”

He doesn’t wait for the polite request - he knows it’s in there somewhere amidst the slurring of words of anticipation and excitement. Losson’s tongue doesn’t relent, practically buzzing against it as Raphael’s pelvis thrusts into his face, thoroughly humping against him to force Losson to suck deeper - harder. The convulsing against his tongue doesn’t stop him. Neither does the cambion’s twisting and thrashing upon the bed as Losson shatters his senses, practically tongue-punching his clit until all he hears is the stammering, shaky breaths of Raphael as he stills.

But Losson is most certainly not finished with him.

It’s surprising almost, that with a completely different set of genitalia, Raphael takes a fair bit longer to come to orgasm. Losson likes it. Especially as he pulls himself forward and looms over the man. He grabs Raphael’s chin and pulls it forward, silencing his panting with a kiss to allow the man to taste the residual tang of himself on Losson’s lips. His tongue is lazy as it slides along Losson’s, flitting about to taste the interior of his mouth to take in the supple flavor that the warlock had lost himself within.

Good boy,” Losson purrs, breaking the kiss away so that he can catch Raphael by surprise. With his mind and mouth distracted, it had given Losson the chance to lift the cambion’s legs, pulling them up from the bed and bending them back toward his chest. “Now hold still while Papa gets to work filling you up, will you?”

There’s nearly no resistance as Losson thrusts into Raphael. He’s so luxuriously slick and wet that Losson practically glides into him. Any fantasy he might have had about the sort of heat that this infernal's cunt might have around him was instantly thrown out the window. It’s far hotter and far more encompassing than he could have ever imagined. The walls around Losson clench - but not painfully. In such a way where he feels so pleasantly constricted. He lurches forward, chest puffed outward as the groan rumbles from his gut. His weight leans into Raphael, pushing his legs back against his stomach. He sees the surprise strike upon Raphael’s face quickly, but an iota of outrage before everything about him softens as he finds how Losson has so smoothly and so precisely forced his cock into him. There are no thoughts behind those warm, chestnut eyes - not thoughts other than the need for Losson to fuck him senseless. Which, of course, Losson is already doing.

More,” Raphael chokes as he pushes into Losson’s hips, urging him to continue. “If you’re going to fuck me then give me more.” The warlock affectionately pats his cheek before, without another word - his hips begin to move. Briskly. Short, rapid fire thrusts - ferocious and perhaps almost primal in nature. Quick, overly eager and were Losson not as practiced as he was - they may have been the unpracticed sort of sloppy. But each one is precise as he pumps his cock into Raphael’s gut, laying low against him as he holds his thighs still. There is a quiet gasping of a ‘Yes’ from Raphael as Losson’s speed picks up, their chests pressing and fretting against one another.

That’s right,” Losson encourages as he grinds his hips against the underside of Raphael’s thighs, shifting his position just slightly so that his knees were now bent over his shoulders, resting close to his face. “Take it from me, spitfire.” Raphael’s head cranes back with another gasp of approval. Losson slides back slowly and thrusts himself back in, shoulders arching back as he groans, stealing a brief, cold glance down at the devil below him. “You will take it, won’t you?”

“Hells, yes,” the cambion doesn’t hesitate with his response as Losson fucks into his cunt again. His breath hitches as if the heat from this particular rock of his hips is even more overwhelming than the first. With this next thrust, Losson is able to hear the creaking of the wood of the bed for the first time and how it strains from the shifting of their bodies. “Hells, I beg of you, empty yourself into me - “ The cambion’s arms wrap around Losson’s waist, hands and nails gripping into Losson’s pale flesh, leaving crescent moon indents upon his skin. “Let me feel it pool inside me - !”

Losson brushes aside some of Raphael’s hair, in disarray and displaced from the copious writhing upon his bed. It hangs loose and stringy upon his flesh, stuck in place from the oils and sweat clinging to his skin. “It will, love, it will -” Losson teases as he finds himself thrusting harder than he had been in order to simulate an ever deeper fuck. Each time he collides with the edge of Raphael’s cervix, the fiend thrusts into him, his weight rolling back as if trying to let his body take whatever seed might be spilling from Losson. Unluckily for him, Losson was a man of far more stamina than he was, and a much more concentrated orgasm that came from an intensive amount of practice. His fingers card through the man’s hair, brushing through it almost lovingly. Losson feels a delightfully sick twist in his gut as he takes in the lovely display of the man beneath him. How he pants. How he squirms. How his body thrusts against Losson’s in a desperate bid to feel more of him.

He wants to make this man collapse under the weight of his own desires. He does not let up in how he fucks him. Doesn’t let up in how he buries his cock with each calculated thrust. He knows right where to strike him and how hard to make the man’s voice crack and his lips quiver. “Raphael, I am going to destroy you,” Losson gasps as he holds his cock still other than the slow gyrating of his hips to massage inside him. His fingers twist and twirl within his hair again, giving a light, playful yank. “Not only am I going to spill every last drop into you, I’m going to have you leaving here with it dripping down your legs.” He begins to laugh - a dazed, warm laugh that he’s quite sure he can only attribute to yet another dosage of those fiendish pheromones radiating from the cunt he’s now so ceremoniously fucking. “If it doesn’t take that is.” Raphael’s nails dig deeper into his back and Losson hisses - unsure if it’s from sheer pleasure or from injury.

He’s got Raphael secure enough with his legs over his shoulders now that he doesn’t need his hands to keep himself steady any further, and so he lets them rest near his stomach momentarily before they grip his waist, holding him firm. “What do you say to that?” he asks with a devious bit of wonder to his voice. “A mere human - wrecking you inside and out, emptying himself inside you and forcing you, the oh-so-powerful Raphael, to be nothing more than a vessel for carrying a tiefling.” He stretches out over him in his next fuck. “Why, it’d be devastating if you weren’t so into that!” And it is here that Losson decides to play mean - or nice, depending on which party was talking. Losson trails one of his hands down his body and tucks it between himself and Raphael, resting it right at the top of his cunt. So very dangerously close to his still engorged and still aching clit.

And his fingers begin to rub.

And something in Raphael cracks.

As he leans up to Losson, eyes glazed over, spittle dribbling over the corner of his lip as he clutches tightly upon Lossons back and with a slurred, excitable laugh heavy within his words he cries out, “Fuck me like you want to break me !” This bizarre, sudden euphoria within Raphael leaves Losson with a sudden burst of inspiration and elation. But it continues as Raphael’s eyes seem to roll back, his teeth tugging at his lower lip and his nails scraping upon Losson’s back. “Ruin me. Like I am the most vile creature you’ve ever had the misfortune of sleeping with.” The cambion clings to Losson, revelry nearly sickeningly apparent in his voice as he declares his cravings aloud. “Remind me of my flaws - my failures, my shortcomings.” Again, Raphael pushes his weight into Losson’s hips, his body clenching as if to draw out any cum that might be yearning to erupt from Losson’s cock. Not only that but to aid in the process of forcing pressure and such a rapturous buzz from his clit. He wanted it. He wanted whatever Losson had to give him. And it was abundantly clear how badly he wanted Losson to make him feel horrid.

It is as Losson finds himself smiling, more than happy to indulge Raphael in this fantasy, does the cambion’s arms snake around to the front of his torso, stroking upon his chest. Losson sighs, enjoying the tingle from the ember-like heat of Raphael’s hands - until he winces, hissing as he finds Raphael’s nails digging into his pectorals, scraping long, reddened streaks down his torso. Losson finds his eyes locked with the man, whose mania has extended beyond that to such of a frenzy. His eyes flare - a familiar black sclera and flames for irises before they fade back into their humanoid whites and sepia.

Raphael growls. His voice a low, ghastly rumble as the words that echo from him are said in the carnal tongue of Infernal. It’s a snarled, raspy sound as the words reverb within Losson’s mind with a simple translation:

Defile me.

There is no more hesitation. No more sarcastic quips. Not another word as Losson slams his weight into Raphael. His fingers rub wildly at his clit, stirring up guttural, animalistic sounds from the fiend as Losson’s body crushes into him with slam after repeated slam. Any sounds that came from the two of them were that of groans and grunts of two men just eager to give into the need to use one another’s body for relief. Losson does not change his position - far too obsessed with the wet, sloppy squelching of every blast of his hips into Raphael’s cunt. He glides in and out so easily and with the complete acceptance of his submission, Raphael has become a delight to fuck. Perhaps it was all due to the novelty of having his cock replaced with such a sweet, succulent pussy that was practically begging for Losson’s touch. Or perhaps it was because Raphael wanted an excuse to let himself be used so thoroughly.

It didn’t matter either way. Raphael’s body shudders against Losson as he leans down, tilting the fiend’s chin so that he may look him in the eye. “Go on,” he coaxes, speaking above the moans of the wooden bedframe and its occupants. “Cum for daddy.” It doesn’t take much beyond the command before Raphael finishes, leaving him only uttering pathetic little pleas of want, begging the warlock to finish in him - to use him and leave him aching for more. He silences the devil with a hand over his mouth and another pushing upon his shoulder to keep him flat. He wants to hear Raphael gasp his name before he cums - but the whimper behind his hand is what sends him.

He gives a final pair of deep thrusts, one, then the other before merely pushes his weight further to drain himself. It almost feels foreign compared to how often he’d cum in Raphael’s ass or throat at this point. With those final spurts, Raphael’s throat cracks with a whimper, his body shuddering as he relaxes whilst Losson pulls out. Spent. Completely. His eyes dart between Raphael’s legs, observing his seed leaking from his cunt and he opts to finger him slowly, guiding the mess back inside him. Another whimper. This one truly, truly pitiful. The man lays still upon the bed, shuddering with each stroke of Losson’s fingers returning to him, still rubbing lightly on his clit. Completely and wholly overwhelmed and overstimulated.

“You want one more?” Losson teases as he playfully rubs at the area around Raphael’s still attentive clit. Briefly, Raphael manages to look up, flesh glistening with sparkles of sweat, spittle and semen alike. His lips move to speak but not a sound escapes before he clears his throat of the sticky build up of spit that had collected.

“I asked. . .” he begins. “For you to ruin me.” A soft sound of an annoyed grunt is heard. “Get to it. Before I come down.”

Losson laughs and dives back in for another feasting upon the exhausted man’s cunt.

To his surprise - Raphael accepts the aftercare this time. After a few minutes of allowing himself to contemplate the humiliatingly exhilarating feeling of having another man’s cum stuffed inside him, he decides he’s had enough and allows Losson to clean him up. They share a moment, examining in a mirror just what Raphael looked like thanks to the ring’s influence. It fascinates him. He didn’t find it so strange that Haarlep enjoyed switching their plumbing from time to time.

“And my father gave this to you,” Raphael comments as he rolls the now removed yonic ring about within his fingers, observing its design, shivering as Losson runs a warm cloth over his thighs to clean up any of the spillage from between them. For the fiend, the cloth is far cooler than it ought to be, but for Losson it felt nearly scalding. “Wizards always have the most fascinating itches to scratch when it comes to creating magical artifacts.”

“Helped me.” Losson slinks away, taking the soiled cloth with him as he approaches a small icebox of sorts. “Your father gave me one of those not long after we married and said it would allow for me to change what I wished to change about my body.” The warlock, still completely naked, leans down to the box and retrieves some of its contents - he scoffs at the variety. “Really, most extravagant brothel in the entirety of the city and they leave you stocked with only a pear, a carafe of water, and a raw carrot.” He stands, holding the produce in hand. “Which do you prefer - I wish I could offer you something better.”

“For what purpose exactly?” The devil’s nose crinkles and Losson’s eyes roll in response. He approaches him holding both out for him to pick from.

“As a post-fuck snack, idiot.” He lies. “What? Did you think I wanted round three? Where I’d use the carrot as a strap and the pear as makeshift balls?” Raphael’s arm stretches out and snatches the pear from Losson’s grasp.

“Knowing your history, I would not put that past you.” Another crinkling of his nose as his teeth sink into the pale, chartreuse flesh of the fruit. He sits in silence momentarily, chewing upon the pear before he swallows. “Why in the Hells do you keep coming back to me? Your attention should be more concentrated on the Elder Brain that is plaguing this city, yet you’ve spent the last two weeks engaged in some asinine affair to assist me.”

Losson is left with the carrot which he crunches into happily, easily speaking between bites. “We're still weighing our options. Not that we aren’t trying to stop it. But with the Dead Three’s Chosen disposed of, it almost feels like we can take our time.” This earns Losson a look of disbelief and a scowl from the devil.

“The longer you procrastinate, the more dangerous it becomes. If you were wise, you would’ve dispatched it by now rather than waste your time teaching a devil how to hold an erection.” There is a triumphant, bold laugh from his chest. “Or is the illithid in your brain encouraging this behavior? The longer you wait, the more likely you won’t see its own betrayal coming.”

Losson was lucky that his affairs with Raphael often resulted in the paralysis of the tadpole within his skull. He takes another few crunches upon the carrot in his hand before retrieving the carafe of water and obtains two tin cups for them to drink from. “I know it’s going to try to.” Losson comments handing Raphael one of the cups. “Your father warned me of that a while back - it took the form of your father when I first encountered it. Thought it was him until he pulled me to Cania one night. Really dragged my ass through the pits for that. Said I was an idiot for not recognizing the obvious flaws in appearance. Pretty offended that an illithid had the gall to take the form of an Archdevil at all.”

“As he rightfully should. Were I your patron I would’ve hung you, skinned from a meat hook for a century before I restored you and sent you back.” Raphael snorts, grimacing at the scenario offered, pear juice dribbling over his chin.

“What is with you and skinning as being your primary threat and course of action?” Losson’s eyes narrow as he retrieves another cloth, wiping the fruit nectar from the devil's mouth. “You threaten me with it a lot.”

“It’s effective.” the devil sighs with an annoyed pout of his lips. “It made you agree to my contract, didn’t it?”

“You know as well as I do that your contract has no power over me. Not with what I’ve got in store. You don’t own me. Your father does - and speaking of that.”

“Hells, here it comes -”

“Daddy kink?”

Silence.”

“How about you actually cast the spell next time - seriously. Daddy kink?” Losson takes his last bite of his carrot before sitting next to the infernal man at his side. “Listen, I’m no stranger to the dynamics of devils, Raphael. But really.” The human offers him something of an sympathetic smile. “We all work through our demons somehow - no pun intended - and if you gotta call me, what was it, ‘Papa’ while I’m fucking you? Have at it. But next time, give me a little warning. I can adopt the mindset for that role.”

“It came just as much of a surprise to me as it did to you.” He sneers, his gaze decidedly directed away from Losson who pats upon Raphael’s bare shoulder in a manner that he’d call affectionate.

“You know I am technically your stepfather -”

Enough!

Losson pokes fun at him for a moment longer before the jokes settle. Cambion and human alike come to rest. They each come to redress one another as if nothing sordid had occurred between them. Losson locates one of Raphael’s shoes. Raphael finds one of Losson’s bracers. They assist one another in dressing again, leaving them in casual, yet comfortable silence, with an unspoken agreement that sometime in the future they had a new kink to explore.

But there was something left unsaid that Losson had found himself regretting that Raphael would not be forgetting anytime soon.

What did Losson mean exactly when he said Raphael’s contract had no power over him?

Notes:

Once more everyone, thank you so much for all your support! I really am so grateful to all of you for hanging around and hyping me up and giving me the encouragement to work on this. I am so overwhelmed (pos) about all the support and love I've received from everyone while working on this and even though I can't keep up with comments like I used to, believe me when i say I read ALL of them. You're all wonderful readers and truly supportive and I cannot thank you enough. <3

Chapter 15: being fluent in multiple love languages is an artform and a im a freelancer

Notes:

hi all! happy new year! trying an every 2 weeks dealio for right now. holidays are rough on me. real rough. im bouncing back. slowly but surely. thank you all for sticking with me. I don't really have anything witty and fun to say this chapter other than I really like writing the scenes in the past between Mephistopheles and Losson. I find them fun. :)

Chapter Text

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Astarion’s voice is soft as his fingers lightly trace the Infernal engravings upon Losson’s hand. There is a gentleness to his expression as he sits by Losson’s side, examining the scarred curves of the branding. “I know a thing or two about having Infernal carved into your person.” Losson pats Astarion’s hand as his fingers brush upon the skin, and he laughs sweetly in response.

“Not a bit - it’s temporary, according to Mephistopheles.” He leans back on the couch and shuts his eyes with a sigh as Astarion’s fingers massage carefully upon the scarring. “That feels nice - you ought to consider massage therapy.”

“Nonsense, darling. The idea of touching anyone else stirs a revulsion in me that is so horrendous, I’d rather devour my own insides.” Astarion offers a pleasant chuckle and gives Losson’s hand a squeeze. “Unlike you - your body might as well be public domain with how often you allow it to be used.” The comment at first sounds almost like an insult but Losson knows it’s said with affection and amusement.

“It’s fun, the money’s always been good - clients are always pretty nice.” He wraps his hand around Astarion’s and gives it a light squeeze. “It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

There is a period of silence between the two of them that results in the vampire slumping against Losson, much like an exhausted feline. The question itself seems to go unheeded, and Losson is no fool - he knows that Astarion has dodged it and not giving him a straight answer. He’d need to talk to Astarion later about it - he knew about Astarion’s relationship with sex and that slight insecurity he had about having a lover who sought sex elsewhere. It was work for Losson. Work that wound up fun usually, but he didn’t approach sex as something intimate. Not anymore. “What is it even for?” Astarion grumbles, head resting upon Losson’s chest as the warlock’s hand strokes down his back affectionately. Even through his camp clothes, Losson can feel the bumps of Astarion’s own Infernal markings, relieved that although they remained, the threat behind them was no more. His chest rises then falls in place once his hand rests at the small of Astarion’s back.

“A little bit of reassurance to make sure I don’t go off making deals with other devils for the Crown.” Losson comments. “Not sure how it’s supposed to work. Maybe it will hum to life and I’ll blast Cone of Cold at any devil who tries to lure me into a lucrative deal. Or maybe I’ll just be compelled to bitch slap them. He didn’t really explain.”

Astarion looks up at him, chin resting upon Losson’s sternum with an unimpressed expression. His lower lip juts out, seemingly annoyed at Losson’s answer. “That’s a devil for you - always mum as to the details until the details are to their benefit. And yet you went off and married one.”

“I was young and in love, Astarion.”

“And you’re still in love with him.” The vampire points this out in such a way that it feels like ice has speared Losson through the heart. Astarion does not show any look of dismay or betrayal when he says this, in fact he’s quite calm about it, returning to examine the branding upon Losson’s hand. “It doesn’t upset me, you know. If you were worrying about that.” There’s a strangely warm, toothy smile. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“It really doesn’t bother you?” Losson asks, brow quirked as he uses the same hand to rest upon Astarion’s cheek. “I know we’ve discussed it before, especially when Halsin started to show interest in me, but you swear it?”

The spawn laughs. And Losson knows the laugh well by now. It’s the one Astarion sports when he’s being sincere. “The only part that bothers me is that this time you didn’t refute still being in love with him - I knew, of course, the way you speak about your patron is so serendipitous and smitten.” Losson slumps back on the couch again and Astarion gets nestled in against his chest once more, pleasantly comfortable. “Whatever this is - whether it’s love or not, I like it.”

Losson sits legs crossed beneath the thickly woven branches of the evergreen pine overhead, seated upon his jacket so the bristles don’t stick to his legs. Across from him, upon his own jacket, is Mephistopheles, still in the form of Mephit - though his wings have had to be concealed again lest he be mistaken for a cambion. Losson leans back, hands upon bare patches of soil, hands gripping idly upon the roots of the tree above, lips pursed as he studies his lover’s face. Cracked glasses and all.

“I definitely believe you’re a devil,” Losson comments, his face youthful and streaked with a softness that he loses in his later years. “But you don’t look a thing like how I expected Mephistopheles to look.”

“Of course I don’t - I’m bound as a tiefling, idiot.” He rolls his eyes, scoffing with unamusement, but he could not deny that he found Losson’s periods of dullness endearing. He wasn’t the brightest and he found something about that charming. He wasn’t dumb in the sense that he was ignorant - he dumb in the sense that the man was a complete airhead. Mephistopheles would have never believed he’d be so enamored by a ditz.

“I thought you said once you made a contract you could turn back - why stay?” Losson asks, thoughtfully, a look of genuine curiosity woven upon to his delicate features. “I made a pact with you so go on. Change back. Be Mephistopheles.”

The obvious answer was because Losson was human and he wanted to enjoy as much time with him as he possibly could. But he would be damned if he admit that. But there was a more serious answer that had an immense amount of truth behind it.“And send out a beacon to every infernal and beast in the Hells that the Archduke of Cania is temporarily away from his throne, thus leaving it unoccupied and therefore accessible?” The declaration is announced with something of genuine horror. He most certainly reveal himself as an actual devil to Losson, but in doing so it would emit a sort of supernatural pulse across the planes that Cania was vacant - and anyone could take a stab at unseating him. The power of a devil revealing oneself outside of the Hells was always a gamble. Not only because it meant the Archdevil could lose their reign, but because it often ensued in great, terrible battles among the Hells to reach, occupy and hold the throne for themselves. Most knew better than to try and grab at Asmodeus’ throne if he left the Hells - only the most foolish would try to declare themselves as Archdevil Supreme, as that often would be a death sentence once the devil returned from his ventures. (That didn’t mean Mephistopheles hadn’t considered taking his own army forward, but he knew better than that. To truly unseat Asmodeus was going to require more cunning than a back door approach).

“Come on,” Losson whines, leaning forward now, arms crossed over his chest. “You’ve got to at least give me an idea. If we’re married now you’ve got to be honest with me. You need to at least answer questions for me!”

Another roll of Mephistopheles eyes as he eventually pushes his cracked spectacles up his face. “You may ask questions but if it’s going to put my position of power in jeopardy, I will abstain from answering as it will put both you and I in danger.”

“Aww, you care about my safety.”

“I care about losing my warlock.”

“Aww, you really care about my safety!”

Mephistopheles’ nose crinkles in annoyance. How truly presumptuous. This human insisting that he really cared about him. He did, but he would be twice damned if he allowed himself to admit such too often lest he let it weaken him. “Ask your questions.”

“Why are you blue?”

He chokes on his tongue. This foolish human had been given the opportunity to ask the Archdevil of Cania any questions about his existence as a fiend - and that is his first question. “Why am I blue?” he spits in disbelief, leaning toward the warlock who wears such a sickeningly stupidly sweet and frankly adorable little smile on his face.

He’s so stupid, Mephistopheles would have to be an idiot himself not to be in love with him.

“Yeah!” The young man declares. “I’ve always heard that Mephistopheles was as red as hellfire and with large coiling horns and long, sleek black hair and a stretched out forked tongue and talons.” Losson curls his fingers like a monsters claws, mimicking what he imagines talons to be and Mephistopheles finds himself sighing. He knows the image in which Losson speaks of. It’s quite an old, archaic appearance from his early days before he’d come to his own and found he can be flexible with his outer form.

“You mean this one?” The Lord of Cania offers another roll of his eyes as he briefly allows his form to change - only in appearance and nothing more. He appears taller first, nearly three meters in height, and his flesh morphs from its chilly, slate blue to a blotchy display of violet before it eventually settles on a red so brilliant it makes cherries look dull. The stubs of his horns grow upward and then begin to coil outwards into those of a rams with a twist to the keratin exterior. His neatly combed navy hair grows long and satiny, as if treated with the most luxurious of oils and falls in a silky cascade along his back. His torso broadens, chest now exposed and defined with muscular ridges, his lower half only covered in a sash like garment to cover the essentials. From his back spouts two large, leathery wings with the tiniest of claw-like protrusions at the ends to mimic that of a bats winged hand, flapping as the stretch out, offering the faintest of flutters to the chain-secured velvet cape that hung at the devil’s shoulders. Mephistopheles blinks and stares ahead at Losson - the glasses now since vanished and replaced with a pair of eyes that held such a contrast to the rest of him. Vacant. White. Empty.

With the transformation complete, Losson let’s out a whoop of excitement as he moves to his knees crawling over toward the devil with enthusiasm. “Yes! That's exactly what I always imagined!” He declares feverishly as without hesitation he places his hands upon Mephistopheles’ shoulders - causing a rather instantaneous hissing of steam, forcing the warlock to withdraw his hands, fumbling backwards as in moments - the skin of his palms begins to bubble, a scream of anguish bellowing from the human's lungs. In that moment of utter joy, he hadn’t thought. He hadn’t let himself recall that Archdevils. . .are hot to the touch. He wails. Though there is ice in his veins from his contract, he is in pain - agonizing, blistering, unimaginable pain. The pain of reaching ones hands directly into Hellfire. It was a miracle they hadn’t ignited and burned away altogether. Losson is not often one to cry from injury but his eyes well with tears as they roll over his face and sting the raw, blistering muscle of his palms.

“You fool!” Mephistophles’ voice booms as the form quickly melts away and reveals the tiefling facade once again. Hells, he knew this boy was an airhead but not this much of one. He is not about to have his warlock - no, his husband according to how this contract was arranged - lose his hands due to not using his brain for a split second. The devil takes the hands of the warlock - it is not the worst burn of Hellfire he’s seen. Losson is lucky he has the frost of Cania in his veins otherwise, the burns would be far more substantial. The flesh truly has melted away and only the raw pulsing meat of muscle remains, and in a few spots, there are patches of bone exposed. Miracles are for gods and celestials - but fiends can work their wonders just the same. “Never touch a devil without permission, lest you be engulfed,” he scolds, putting his own hands over the exposed, crude flesh. “You are lucky I can take back Hellfire just as easily as I can give it.” Losson begins to hiss in protest as the contact upon the scorched muscle causes another strike of sheer torment to his nerves. There is a wave of cold - frigid, numbing and altogether wintery as it emits from Mephistopheles’ hands and stabs into Losson’s ruined hands like millions of needles at once. He seizes, crying out in another wave of pain, aiming to rip his hands free, but Mephistopheles only grips tighter. “If you can withstand a nanosecond of Hellfire, you can withstand three seconds of the Cold of Cania.”

The next second involves the feeling of any liquid upon Losson’s hands slowly freezing and beginning to fuse to Mephistopheles like water upon frozen metal. The blonde young man jerks his head away, wincing and crying out in pain again. The third second then involves the tugging of the violated meat as he feels the devil pull his hands back. The flesh begins to rip - no, tear - from the bone until -

It stops.

“Have you learned your lesson?” Mephistopheles asks as he holds up his hands, showing Losson how the periwinkle of his palms contains flickering balls of flames. “I took it back. Now don’t touch again if you don’t have permission.” Losson’s eyes fall to his hands and he is left in shock. No pain. No blisters. No bloody, pulsing muscles that remain scorched from the Hells themself. “I am Hellfire’s Master and it will listen to me - don’t think touching any other devil would allow for such a mercy to be performed.”

Losson remains in stunned silence momentarily, flexing his fingers back and forth to be sure that the pain was truly gone. That his hands were really his own. That nothing sinister had happened in turn. He looks up, gazing at Mephistopheles in both wonder and horror. “Okay,” he croaks softly. “I think I believe you - but you, uh, you didn’t answer my question.”

“Why blue?” Mephistopheles confirms, this impulse burning in his chest as his hands and fingers gesticulate, causing the flames to vanish, back into the very core of his being. He feels so compelled to take that warlock’s hand as he stares at his palms in such bewilderment. It’s hard to resist and he allows himself to take Losson’s hand within his own - for a moment he flinches, as if expecting to be burned or frozen again. Mephistopheles lets his fingers intertwine with the human’s, sighing quietly. “I like blue.” He closes his other hand over Losson’s, squeezing them. “I prefer the cold. I prefer ice. I enjoy the contrast of being an entity associated with the fury and the fervor of Hellfire - but who embodies cold and chill first and foremost. I enjoy the dichotomy.” He looks up at Losson’s face - the warlock’s eyes are downcast, focusing on how Mephistopheles holds his hands. But this affords him the chance to make an observation about this lover of his. His eyes are blue. A pale blue, lighter than the sky of the Material Plane but darker than the glaciers he used to play with to punish interlopers. As far as he is concerned - they are the ideal shade. “I am a man of duality. Opposites and symmetry, causes and effects, balance and harmony; these are concepts I take pride in. Devil though I may be, I understand and respect the acts of give and take better than most.” He laughs, lifting one of those hands from Losson’s, resting the crooked joint of his index finger beneath Losson’s chin to tilt his gaze upward. “This is probably going over your head entirely, isn’t it? You sweet, oblivious thing.”

“You’re blue because you like to subvert expectations.” Losson explains back to him in his own words, and Mephistopheles can only laugh. If being endeared to a human like this mean that he was truly experiencing love, then he supposed it wasn’t so bad. He guides Losson close to him and steals a kiss.

“If that’s how you have to make it comprehensible to you, I cannot argue.” he says, bringing the young man closer to him. Losson pushes back into the kiss - back into him - and his arms swing around Mephistopheles neck.

Humans were so simple, so interesting, but he had decided that he must really love this one.

Losson hadn’t heard from Mephistopheles in about a decade. Were it not for the fact his magic was well in tact and that he’d been hired for more than his fair share of miniature adventuring circuits as a professional in the ways of the infernals - he would’ve assumed he’d been cut off. But his magic was as fresh that day as it had ever been. He had assumed that Mephistopheles had been upset with him when he started working in a brothel, selling his service as a warlock, in order to sell sex to ordinary people. He had voiced some displeasure at the idea. They were still married after all, but Losson wasn’t having it. It was his body and he would do what he wanted with it.

He’d finished with a client of his, a house call to a regular. Some man of the upper city who was climbing the rungs in society's ladder by the name of Enver Gortash; he gave Losson truly rancid vibes. Reminded him of the uncle who had raised him after his father had passed away as a young boy. Something about him never quite sat right with Losson and it wouldn’t be until a decade later that he realized why. This Gortash fellow was one of the rare clients Losson found himself submitting to. The man paid handsomely for it. He had expressed a desire to take people who had more power than he had and forcing them into submission. A form of consensual non-consent that Losson was comfortable obliging him with. Losson would always start the evening as the dom between them, but the plan was slowly, Gortash would fight back, eventually flipping things around on Losson - a method he personally enjoyed in his own private sexual affairs; he couldn't say no. He always walked away with around two thousand in gold when he left the man’s estate, plus an extra three-hundred or so as hush money so he didn’t go gossiping to the Mouth about his bedroom preferences.

You really ought to avoid sleeping with him again if you can help it, my dear.

The words ring rather loudly in Losson’s mind as he pads through the brick inlaid streets of the lower city back to his apartment. It takes him a moment or two before he finds himself aware that this is, indeed, his patron speaking to him after ten years of virtual radio silence. He sputters on his own saliva, quickly putting aside the idea of stopping into the Blushing Mermaid for a quick drink before heading home.

“As I live and breathe, Mephistopheles. It’s been an age. What in the Hells have you been up to?” Losson mutters the phrase aloud, albeit it in Infernal in the event someone might be eavesdropping. Infernal wasn’t exactly a common language, but it was uncommon enough that he could get away with speaking it without being understood by most people.

Don’t be cheeky. Steer clear of Enver Gortash if you can help it; he stinks of Avernus.

“And other things, not exactly the most pleasant smelling man I’ve slept with for coin - you’d think with all that money he’d spend it on some nice bath oils.” Losson comments back, seemingly dismissing his patron’s concerns.

Ever the idealist, you’ve missed the crucial part of my warning.”

“Stinking of Avernus? Yes, heard you.”

Even worse, he stinks of my son.” This is what gets Losson to choke on his own saliva hard enough he starts coughing. He stops himself in his tracks and presses his hand to the wall of a nearby building, holding his chest as he wallops his chest a few times to get the air flowing again. A few drunk passersby of the night point and laugh, making commentary about Losson not holding his liquor - he offers them a chilly stare between his hacking breaths to assure them, he is most assuredly not drunk.

“You didn’t tell me you had a son!”

Congratulations Losson, you’re a father.” He can practically hear the rolling of Mephistopheles eyes at the comment. “I am countless millennia old, Losson. I’ve sired my fair share of children. Both ones I am proud of and. . .not. Considering I do not often talk of my children, you should assume most of them have let me down or have either died before they could have any significant impact on my favor. This son in question is one that. . .I am not the most thrilled with.” There is a pause and Losson assumes for a moment that his patron has severed the connection between them in this conversation. But it resumes. “He has promise, but he’s far too in touch with his human roots - if he can abandon those I may be more invested in his endeavors. For now, I leave him to his own devices. He’s often more trouble than he’s worth - I had to send the fool an incubus to distract him from my own work.

“Forgive me, Meph - but I am a bit too hung up on this whole you having a son at all part for me to care about your intentions for him.” Losson turns down a short alley that sports a back door to the apartment he rents. A modest little place. Two rooms. A living space and a bed chamber. More than enough for one person. Shared bath down the hall with another tenant, shared kitchen further down from that. He pops the key into the lock of his apartment and pushes his way inside, igniting a fingertip with a flame to light the candles by the doorway when he enters. “You seriously mean to keep mum for over a decade and then out of nowhere contact me to tell me that you want me to stay away from my most profitable client because he smells like your son. So what? Your son has a boyfriend. Good for him.”

He has a boyfriend whenever he looks in the mirror, the blasted narcissist.” Mephistopheles groans. “I beg of you to be wary of that man, no matter how good the coin. I’ll double whatever he pays you if you can promise me you’ll do your utmost to avoid him.”

“You know, the sugar daddy part of a relationship usually happens before you marry someone, right?” Losson finds himself joking as he brings light to his small abode. All things considered - it’s simple. The living space offers him a table with two dining chairs, a small hutch where plates and flatware were stored among other home goods. A cozy little fireplace that Losson ignites with a small flick of his fingers with a metal kettle hanging over the pit. A small loveseat for him to sit should he not want to be confined to his bed or a dining chair. And most luxurious of his goods - a small bookshelf with (to Mephistopheles surprise) had several books upon it. For as airheaded as he could be - Losson loved stories. And he’d found himself tickled by the bestseller “A Pleasurable Deal” and fancied the idea of meeting its author. Some warlocks were incredibly transparent.

What did he pay you? 2500? I’ll give you 5000 gold pieces right now if you promise to turn down the next request.” This gives Losson pause as he moves into his bedroom - a plainly decorated two person bed (just in case), a wardrobe and a small chest in the corner that he unlocks in order to put away his pay for the evening.

“On the condition that you let me accept the requests on occasion - it looks bad on a worker of my profession to completely cut out a client, especially one as well paying as him.” He opens another, smaller chest within the trunk, filled neatly with a display of gold and platinum pieces - for what? He couldn’t say. He made ends meet just fine in his line of work, maybe he just liked having the extra so he could toss it at another homeless, ragamuffin tiefling he found on the street in case they turned out to be another Archdevil.

On a further condition you do something else for me.”

“Always counter offers with the lot of you,” he laughs and closes up the two chests before he begins to undress himself in order to get into bed for the evening. The hour is late and he has a client at noon the next day. And considering he’d been the submissive partner that night, he’d need to rest up and restore his strength in order to be in peak form the next day. “If it’s to watch me undress, you get that for free. Husbandly duties and what have you.”

Very funny, I’m not even watching you right now.”

Sure you’re not. What color’s my blouse.”

Sage green.”

“You’re totally watching.”

It has been some time, don’t fault me." A pause. "Your chest has gotten hairier.”

“I did that for you,” Losson laughs.

Liar, you did that for your job.”

“Oh no, you’ve caught me red handed, whatever will I do.” As a means of teasing, he begins to slide the garment slowly from his body, letting it slip gently over his shoulders, flashing a peek at them before he lets the shirt delicately flutter from his torso. “Go on, what’s the condition?”

Very nice, but don’t distract me, lest I decide to start bossing you around and I know how you get when I put on the right airs of authority.” Mephistopheles clears his throat and Losson is left with the hemming and hawing of a man trying to find the precise way to phrase something. “I need you to do some investigating for me.”

“Investigating?” Losson had begun to unbelt his trousers and had stopped mid-loop once the request was made. “Can’t you send a fiend or a spy of your own to do something like that, rather than me?”

You know Baldur’s Gate. My agents do not.”

Losson's slacks fall to the ground in a crumpled heap as he crawls into bed with only his small clothes left on, effectively shielding Mephistopheles from any further glimpse of a peep show. Though, at the time, Losson didn’t have much in the way of romantic feeling for the man, he was more than happy to entertain if the devil were to show up in his bedroom. It was an open invitation. Most of the time. “You know I’m thick, right?” Losson laments quietly as he stretches his arms out, resting them behind his head upon the pillow. “You’d be better off sending someone else.”

I don’t trust anyone enough.” Losson hears this after a moment of silence and something of a smirk tugs at his lips. “I know, hilarious, a devil putting trust in someone - and a human of all people. Flighty little unreliable creatures. So easily tempted by the most lucrative offer given to them even when they know that they’re safer and better off accepting the boring option. I know what I am presenting to you is something you can handle because if anything, you are loyal.

“That’s quite the compliment coming from you,” Losson murmurs. “I happen to recall you being quite upset when I started selling myself after we separated. What makes you think I’m loyal after all this time?”

Because for as dumb as you are, you’re clever in your own right and if you had any nefarious plans to undo me, you would have done something by now. Whether you still care for me the same or not, you have such an attachment to your bond with me that the thought of damaging that bond causes you anxiety. It’s another hopelessly human thing about you - you like me too much.” Losson can feel Mephistopheles grinning and it gives him pause long enough to find truth in the man’s words. He was, of course, correct. Sure, Losson didn’t love him anymore. Blame his accursed mortal heart. But he did like him.

“Alright, alright,” Losson finally caves. “You’re selling me - you’re really good at this buttering me up thing. You keep flattering me like this and I might have to start getting busy under the covers.” He catches the sound of an entertained laugh beneath Mephistopheles’ breath. “What’s the plan?”

Keep your ear to the ground about the Dead Three. I’ve heard rumor they’re itching to steal something from me. What, I cannot say for certain, but it’s dastardly enough that should they succeed?” When Mephistopheles chuckles, Losson can tell what sort of mood he’s in. There’s a different tone and inflection to his laughter to differentiate whether it’s joy or sadism and everything in between. But the laugh he hears rumbling from his husband is something different. It’s mania. The mania of a man who has power that he has long since left dormant and has been aching to dip into again. “If they should succeed, let it be known that I will be a god killer the likes of which no one your plane has ever seen before.”

“You haven’t made a snide comment about my performance in the bedroom as of late. What makes today so different?” Raphael observes, sitting in one of the arm chairs overlooking Avernus as Losson lounges in the one on the opposite side of the table. Losson still has not quite gotten accustomed to Avernus's climate - its dry, smog filled sulfuric air burns his lungs in ways the bitterness of Cania rivals in intensity but opposes in temperature. He always feels as if he is parched and that sand or dirt collects in his mouth. There is a filthiness to Avernus that makes him desperately wish for a bath whenever he returns.

“Because I’m not going to fuck you today,” Losson explains to Raphael as he idly twirls with a metal puzzle in his hands. One of those brain teasers where the user is supposed to find out how to separate the two pieces without damaging them. There are easy ways to separate them if one thinks properly, but Losson isn’t so much of a puzzle person but more of a spontaneous spark of genius sort. He hopes perhaps that spark will come to him as he tries to unfurl it. “I want to check in with you. See how this arrangement has been serving you in the interim of our efforts at unseating the Netherbrain.”

His eyes dart up to find Raphael in all his infernal glory, his wings resting upon the insertions cut into the chair for his comfort. His flame riddled eyes watch as Losson’s fingers work with the metal contraption within his grip, seemingly preoccupied in how they twist and curve - perhaps even considering that these are the very fingers that have somehow rendered him so completely speechless when it comes to their affairs behind closed doors. There is a momentary snort of displeasure as his gaze turns away but he holds a hand to his lips, thoughtfully contemplating as he chooses the correct response. “After having a personal incubus as long as I have, I would have assumed that my desires were attended to, whatever they may be.” The man begins speaking, but a vein seems to twitch within his temple at the continued clinking of the metal bits. “But you have introduced me to some activities in which I hadn’t considered.”

There is another clink but it stops this time as Losson looks up from his puzzle, focusing on how Raphael stares almost contemplatively into the fog of Avernus. The man’s lips are pursed, thoughtful, tail flicking about curiously. “Like?” Losson presses, intrigued, hoping to goad him for further information.

Most of it.” Raphael addresses him pointedly. He leans firmly against the pattern upholstery of the armchair, chest heaving with a deep exhale of a sigh as he raises one leg to cross over the other. “You brought forth a realization in me that I had not been aware of - though I am fortunate to have an incubus in my House of Hope that can assume the form of whoever I or they wish, my preferences and my interests had become strangely commonplace.”

“You know, you can just say your sex life was getting boring and you didn’t know how to spice things up.” Losson wears a smug grin on his face that Raphael glimpses from the corner of his eye, forcing him to sneer in displeasure with that familiar crinkling of his nose.

“Do you not know how to humor a man when he is monologuing?” He grumbles, form relaxing as he leans forward, slumping as he buries his skull against his palms. “Yes, you understand - my sex life had gotten boring. Why else would I ask the incubus to abandon all other forms in favor of my own?”

“Oh come on, you’re a devil. You’re allowed to be a little horny for yourself you know. Hell, mortals do it too - humans especially. Sometimes I get a glimpse of my ass in the mirror and I think, gods, damn! Who gave me such a juicy bit of cake? No wonder people want me!”

Raphael’s lips form into a vague frown of disgust. “Do you not have any grace? Must vulgarity be the first way you speak at all times or are you simply incapable of a little propriety?”

“Going to just take a mental note of that - Raphael enjoys polite crassness. Duly noted for the future. I’ll have to try that out - and yes, I do have grace. I just pick and choose when I want to wear it. It’s like fine clothing - it doesn’t suit me most of the time, but if I need to, I can wear it like I was born in it.”

“I think I would quite like to see that sometime,” Raphael muses, adjusting his position in his chair so that he might get a better look at Losson who has decided to resume the clinking of the metal puzzle. “As it were, yes, you are correct - in a sense I do believe you’re spot on. My private affairs were becoming bland. For both myself and Haarlep. It has nothing to do with talent on their part, of course. My father hand selected one of his very best to entertain me, after all. But they’ve been under orders to do whatever it is that I want. An incubus is a being of pleasure and if it pleasured me, what business was it of theirs if it was routine?” Raphael reaches across the parlor table between them, his hand elegantly turning Losson’s gaze upward to face him. “And you’ve given this devil quite a bit of sinful business of his own to think about, haven’t you? Sins and decadence of all manners and varieties in which I had never put much thought into since you arrived.”

Thankfully, Losson knows when he’s being seduced. And Raphael is doing just that. He’s begun to pull out the stops to try and lure Losson into a trap, of which he’s all too familiar with. What that trap is, he can't say - but he's certainly aiming at luring Losson into a bit of play of some sort. A sweet beckoning of temptation of which Losson wasn’t sure what the gimmick was yet. But no matter the trap. No matter the plan. Losson leans into it. Let’s Raphael’s fingers glide smoothly beneath his chin and brushing over the curls of blond scruff that he ought to trim up later. “Tell me more,” Losson requests coolly as he lets himself be guided toward the man. “What can I do for you?”

“My dear,” Raphael coos, a familiar air of calm radiance to his words as they strike Losson’s air with a welcoming soothe that almost feels like warmth on a cold day. “I only ask for a little more - a little more indulgence.” He’s good at it. Losson won’t deny that. There is a sultry allure to Raphael’s words as he makes the suggestion that makes the warlock drop the metal puzzle with a clink. It makes him twist and turn his body so that his hands grip at the arm of the lounge chair and lean over the table to him. Sometimes - it feels good to give into a bit of magical seduction. But not for long.

He breaks it right as Raphael’s head moves in, lips parted to try and steal a hungry kiss from the human. Losson puts a finger to his lips and ends up forcing him to kiss that instead, leaving him with a victorious smile on his face. “Next time ask before you try to enchant me, okay?” he says, winking playfully. “It’s fun when I’m in the mood, but I’m serious Raphael - is this whole situation working for you? Do you need more? Less? Something you especially like?”

The look of dejection and defeat is beyond apparent on Raphael’s face as Losson disrupts him, but the familiar, confident smile returns to him all the same. “You seem to want a simple answers - yes. I am enjoying it. But. . .” His voice trails.

“But?”

“I can’t help but feel like you’re holding back on me still. The little trick with the changing of genitals was quite exciting but something tells me you have something more up your sleeve.” Raphael crouches forward and procures the metal puzzle from the ground before he leans back into his seat once again. “That Losson Wright, the great warlock of my father, Mephistopheles, has far more games in his repertoire than he lets on.” Raphael’s fingers move. Quickly and with an expertise that Losson is left impressed by. The cambion does not look at the brain teaser in his grasp but with a final tinkling of steel - the metal ends separate and Raphael sets both ends down on the table with a self-assured tug of his lips. “I think what I might especially like is for you to show me a little bit of what you keep behind closed doors.”

And this request - and that strangely erotic way that Raphael solved that puzzle so quickly - causes something to ignite in Losson. A Hellfire of his own perhaps. And he is left gripping the edge of that lounge chair with a giddiness that causes him to bite at his lip playfully. It's a surge of excitement that he hasn’t felt since the early days of his marriage.

He has so much in store for Raphael. He was just taking things slow until now.

He couldn't wait.

Chapter 16: when i said i had been to prison this isn't what i meant

Notes:

next 2-3 chapters are scenes and ideas I've been having sitting in my head for ACTUAL months. been really looking forward to getting these chapters out there.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

When Losson first contacts Haarlep for a little bit of fun, he finds he has to go through Zevlor to do so. To his surprise - that chance encounter between the incubus and the old Hellrider had actually turned into something. As it were, the two of them had run into one another a bit later in the city and Haarlep had expressed a bit of an apology for being so forward, explained their nature as an incubus to Zevlor and the two of them hit it off. Losson would have never expected for a man as so downtrodden about the Hells, that Zevlor would have found himself taken with such a richly infernal being. He was rather sheepish when Losson congratulated him on the new union, insisting it’s not quite as salacious as the warlock might have expected. It didn’t matter - he was thrilled all the same. Zevlor was in need of some kind of companionship after all he’d been through and Haarlep was so eager to learn a thing or two about relationships between mortals. And after Zevlor explained that it was actually quite a chaste relationship - Losson found himself concluding that it was strangely a perfect duo.

However, this did mean that Haarlep was itching to get themselves into something dangerously kinky - they had to pace themselves with Zevlor after all. The two of them had their fair share of physical intimacy but the incubus was finding that more often than not, their intimacy was hardly sexual in nature. And Losson was more than happy to feed a hungry incubus.

Their form for the day seemed to be a bit of a jab at Losson’s own feelings. A pale blue tiefling with turquoise eyes and raven blue hair, long and draped over one shoulder with twisting, upright horns. They flutter their eyelashes at Losson as they push up a pair of oval spectacles and laugh breathily as they lounge upon one of the couches within Elfsong whilst the others were out.

“What do you think?” they ask, gesturing at themselves with a bit of a flourish. “Do I strike up a particularly sensual version of Mephistopheles as a tiefling or what?” They pinch the glasses and slide them off their nose. “The spectacles I could do without but frankly, so could he.”

“Let the man have his fashions.” Losson scolds as he takes a seat in an adjacent chair to Haarlep, leaning over to press a light, greeting kiss upon their cheek. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Ooh, getting right to the chase - you do know how I like a man of business.” They laugh warmly as they twist upon the couch, shifting to their knees, tail lifting upright as if to display themselves for some unseen visitor behind them. “You’ve already made it abundantly clear that you’re interested in a bit of a roll in the hay with yours truly, but I suspect you have something exciting planned. With Raphael perhaps?”

“Who else?” He flashes a grin, teeth looking particularly bright and striking this day as he relaxes in his chair, arms stretched across the back of it. “I was thinking about you and I tormenting him a little - consensually of course. He made a request of me to get a little bit raunchier with what I introduce him to and I have just the plan.”

Haarlep rests their elbows on the edge of the couch as they rest upon it to better face Losson, their eyes alight with curiosity and excitement. “And you’ve come to me to help you execute the plan? I’m flattered.”

“I need another person for this.”

“And you didn’t choose your partner?” They quirk a brow. “Or your husband?”

“Astarion’s not a very sexual person if he has his say about things an I don’t think Mephistopheles would be interested in a threesome with his son.” Losson holds back a chuckle - he can feel it getting louder within his chest. Haarlep offers a shrug.

“You never know, devils are finicky creatures.”

“Believe me. Mephistopheles does not want to have sex with his son.” In the back of his mind he hears a theatrical gagging sound, clearly from the man in question. “Besides - I know you enjoy teasing him for all it’s worth and I think all three of us could benefit from what I have in store. I need someone that can make Raphael aroused from millions of miles away without ever laying a finger on him.”

And while wearing the face that looks uncannily similar to his patron, Haarlep leans even closer and through azure lips, they giggle and say “Tell me more.”

“You know,” Losson says as he brings his head up from between Raphael’s outspread legs. “I think I’m going to take this room back once you take your leave from Sharess’ Caress. Because, uh, since it used to be my domicile for work, after all. I’ve been thinking about returning to work when this is all over with.” Raphael snorts, his gaze turned away from Losson as he begins cleaning the man up. They’d been exploring a little more kink that day - nothing major. Just the simple act of using restraints. Losson had cuffed the man’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts and left him exposed while he had his way with him. They hadn’t really explored the actual bondage aspect of Losson’s docket yet and he wanted to get that marked off his list while he had the opportunity to do so.

“Is this an eviction notice?” Raphael grumbles as Losson pulls back from cleaning the man’s crotch, sitting back on his knees. He shakes his head, as he shifts about, crawling over Raphael’s stretched out legs in order to toss the cloth in a laundry bin and approach a wardrobe with a lock on it.

“It’s an eventual eviction notice.” Losson says, rummaging about in his pocket for a small key ring. “Unless you want to share, that is - I’m not opposed. We just need to make sure our schedules don’t overlap. Would hate for you and I to both have clients in here at the same time. Unless they signed up for that.” He selects the key he’s searching for and presses it into the lock of the wardrobe, listening for that definitive click. “What d’you know - they never changed the lock. They actually kept my cabinet secure.” He turns back to glance at Raphael. "You've never seen what's in here, huh?" Losson pops open the wardrobe and within - a closet of various leather gear, devices and such is put on display. A joyous sort of beam spreads over Losson’s lips as he takes inventory of what is contained in the closet and he glances over his shoulder to Raphael, still left vulnerable to Losson’s devices. “This is how you know they take care of their employees - I had asked them to keep this wardrobe locked ‘til such a time I wanted to come back to work and they did just that.” He reaches within and then turns from the wardrobe, patting a particularly dense looking strip of leather with large perforations in it within his hand. “You wanted to upgrade our play, right? Well, you’ve got it.”

From the pillows Raphael turns his head to watch Losson’s actions as he pats the flogger within his hands. A smile is firmly planted on his face as he pats the flexible leather within his grip, seemingly pretty excited about the prospects of getting to use some of his old gear again. If Raphael were capable paling in apprehension as he steals glimpses of the contents of that wardrobe - the contents of which he’d never seen before - he would have been clammy and sullen looking at the sight of the warlock’s enthusiasm. “You don’t truly intend to strike me with that, do you?” He asked, his throat thick with saliva.

Losson beams, patting it again within his grip. “Maybe!” he announces pleasantly. “I got all sorts of things in here.” Once again he turns his back to Raphael and he begins rummaging. “It’s pretty vanilla for the most part - I have cooler gear back in Cania - but mortal folks tend to like my offerings here. Oooh - I forgot I had this -” He trails off momentarily, buzzing about like a kid in a toy store. Except Losson was, in fact, an adult, and these were very different sorts of toys. “I have a thunder-magic infused dildo in here, Raphael - would you be keen on wearing one of those for a while? The thunder makes it hum and vibrate. Feels pretty nice on your prostate without it overstimulating you or making you cum.” A pause. “Well, you might, but it’s pretty gentle.” He holds up a modestly sized oval like device with a spread, flared bottom, that with a small pinch to it, flares to life with an enchantment which causes the egg like shape of such to begin thrusting and pulsing. “Thoughts?” He shows off the toy to Raphael whose olive-toned flesh has reddened progressively over the past few minutes.

“I feel like I’m being shown a child’s toy chest.”

“Well, you are being shown a toy chest, but these are toys I want to share with you.” Losson shares pointedly as he turns off the vibrating egg. “How do you feel about those restraints. I have softer ones in here - Oh, I forgot about this gag. This is a fun one.” He looks back at Raphael with a teasing grin as he holds up a strap with what looks to be another plug-like toy strapped to one end and a small, sphere like shape on the other. “Gags the sub so someone else can sit on their face.”

Ah,” Raphael sighs, sudden interest weaving upon his features as he strains against the bindings on his body. A brow rises on Losson’s face.

“You wanna try this sometime?” he asks, stepping toward the cambion in human flesh. “You want to wear it or should I?” Losson sits upon the mattress, running his hand down Raphael’s chest, weaving through the dark mess of hair, down toward his stomach and between his legs again where his cock is slowly stiffening once again. “Mm, the thought of having to wear it while you ride my face? Trying so hard to keep yourself from cumming? Knowing I might just strike you with that flogger if you dare cum too soon?” His hand covers Raphael’s cock again, admiring the heat that rests beneath his palm. “Or would you cum on my face anyways because you want to be punished, hm? Filthy boy, cumming before Papa says -”

“That is a cheap tactic!” Raphael barks before he is silenced as Losson’s hand begins to stroke him again, waving a finger scoldingly.

“Or maybe I’ll have to gag you with it so you’re left watching as I ride you, my balls slapping against your face over and over again before I finally cum - just barely missing your eyes but getting it all through that lovely hair of yours.” With his empty hand, he combs his fingers through Raphael’s hair, loosening it from its coiffed style. “We could market it as a new hair product I bet - the public would never know.”

“You’re filthy.” Raphael hisses but Losson only strokes him again.

“Not as much as you are, spitfire - now if you want to keep playing, cum for me first and I’ll arrange for something even more fun later.” If this little romp involving restraints and having his cock tormented by Losson wasn’t fun enough, the prospects of there being something more enticing down the line was enough to make him comply - and easily. “Be a little vocal for me this time, will you? I like when you make noise.” Losson sets the gag to the side on the bed and continues to stroke Raphael’s length slowly. Sure, he may have already cleaned him up but what’s one more for the road? He smiles as the man’s arms relax against his restraints and his hips begin to move in time with Losson’s strokes, effectively raising and thrusting into the warlock’s palms. “Atta boy, fuck my fist nice and slow - maybe it’ll help you last longer.” He teases lovingly as before long, he’s hardly moving his hand at all and Raphael is simply fucking his grip instead. And to Losson’s surprise - he does last a bit longer than he’s accustomed. Maybe Raphael was holding back - maybe he genuinely could last a little longer now. But nevertheless, his cum splurts through the cracks of Losson’s fingers in a heated gush and a loud groaning as Raphael’s hips sink down into the bed once more. “Do you want me to let you out now?”

As the devil settles, coming down from his afterglow he nods his head. “Would you? My arms are getting quite tired and I’d like to tend to other affairs today.” His eyes squeeze shut and had his hands been accessible Losson could visualize him rubbing at the corners of them.

“I have one stipulation.”

A groan. Not one of pleasure but from annoyance as he gives his wrists a rattle upon the restraints, causing the bed to shake in place. “Oh, what is it now?

“Come back tomorrow.”

As Losson says this, his back becomes turned to Raphael’s gaze as his hands begin to busy themselves between his legs. The cold presence of metal upon Raphael’s shaft alerts him before the sound of a soft clicking of metal is heard and Losson pulls back from the man, smiling at his handiwork. Before him, Raphael’s cock has been strapped in. Closed around his cock with the tiniest of padlocks holding the device in place, is a series of metallic bars. They wrap around his now softened shaft, keeping his cock curved in place with little space to grow. “There. Isn’t that pretty. Take a look at it in the mirror later, you'll like it.” Before Raphael can protest, Losson begins to unlock the various restraints holding his person against the bed. “Twenty-four hours, Raphael. I want you to wear this for the next twenty-four hours - you can urinate and bathe with it on, if you so choose, though do keep in mind. You won’t be able to stand up if you need to take a leak. Won’t exactly be possible in that little device.” His fingers work smoothly at freeing his legs and then his wrists. “Be good. Don’t let yourself get too worked up. Don’t have any filthy, impure thoughts - and tomorrow, come back here. And I’ll take it off.”

“What in the Nine Hells is this contraption?” Raphael hisses, glancing down at his genitals to try and study the gold bars crossing over his cock. He gestures at it with some disdain but finds that his question is going unanswered as Losson starts to hand him his clothing back so he could redress himself.

“If you’re good, I’ll tell you tomorrow. And don’t think about casting Knock or any other sort of unlocking spell on that - it’s impervious to it.” He pats at Raphael’s cheek before he places the restraints in the wardrobe he’d opened, looking through its contents to see the small hanging rack where that metal contraption had been sitting earlier. He closes the wardrobes doors and clocks it back up again, turning to rest his back against it with something of a smile. “Off with you! I’ve got plans for the rest of the day, anyways!”

And Losson makes damn sure to leave the Devil’s Den before Raphael catches wise and thinks to ask any further questions.

That would be where Haarlep would come into play for Losson’s clever plan. He’d informed the rest of his companions that day that he would be locking himself in the private bedroom adjacent to the living quarters of Elfsong that evening. As Losson requested, Haarlep arrived - bearing the form of Raphael himself. Not as a cambion but as a human. Losson lay at the headboard of the private bed, arms stretched out over the pillows as he rose to greet Haarlep as if they were an old friend. (At this point, they certainly were). He steps with a swagger of a practiced courtesan and the incubus stands there with something of a smile, allowing Losson to begin undressing them.

“We take it slow, alright? Just little bits at a time - I want him to squirm. Once tonight. Once in the morning. Once in the afternoon before I return to the Den.” Losson playfully begins to unfasten the closures of the doublet Haarlep sports with Raphael’s visage, his hand’s brushing over their torso with practiced ease. Haarlep and Losson were the two people who knew Raphael’s body best - inside and out. As Losson’s hands slip beneath the doublet, arms wrapping around Haarlep’s waist, pushing the doublet from their shoulders, he steps in closer, their lips meet as he exhales into a breathy kiss. Somewhere in Avernus - Raphael is struck with the first bristling tingles of something, no, not something, someone touching a certain incubus as they wear his form.

Losson’s hands are deliberate in how they touch Haarlep, his fingers lightly tugging at the undershirt, gathering it within his grip so that he could push it up. The edges of his palms stroke over the uncannily unusual tan flesh Haarlep sports - Losson’s gotten so accustomed to them mimicking various infernals that humanoid flesh tones are borderline strange. The incubus sighs as their stomach is stroked, lifting their arms so that they may be undressed by the warlock, savoring the presence of Losson’s hands on their pectorals. It causes the kiss to be interrupted momentarily but it’s moment enough that Losson lures a pleasant sigh from the fiend as his thumb tips begin to encircle their nipples.

“On the bed, sweet thing.” Losson leans in toward Haarlep as if about to steal another kiss, thus causing them to move in toward his advances. Their lips pull into a smirk as Losson orders them and they’re all too happy to oblige as their hand rests upon Losson’s waist as they encircle him on their way to the bed. Their eyes remain locked on the warlock, as if playing devious, as if they’ve only just connected and understood the direction of where this evening was going. Losson was both so very brave and so very stupid, willingly bringing an incubus into his bedroom as often as he did. One day Haarlep might get a little too hungry and that would be that for Cania’s Favorite Warlock.

With one knee placed firm on the edge of the mattress, Haarlep begins to crawl upon the bed, hands and knees first. They slink upon it, their rear end raised up and out as if presenting themself, laying low against the bedding so their chest pressed upon the blanket. They stimulate their chest a little on their own, igniting a bit of friction upon their nipples. “Slow you say?” they purr, folding their arms beneath them so their head may rest upon them. “Shall I be slow in how I tease myself as well? I don’t want to be left so pent up that I might pop and ruin these nice furnishings.”

“Tease all you want,” Losson chuckles as he comes up to the side of the bed, running his hand over the length of Haarlep’s leg over to the curve of their raised ass. “Let him think that maybe you’re just having a little fun in his skin for old time’s sake.” He laughs, a smugness setting in as his fingers squeeze the round flesh beneath his palm. “It won’t last too long, not while I’m here.” Playfully, Losson leans down and lightly bites the extended ass of the incubus - not hard, but certainly enough to make a certain cambion in his abode of the Hells jolt upright. “He can’t touch himself - can’t even get hard without it being uncomfortable. I want him to be something of a mess by the time I play with him tomorrow.”

Haarlep’s position changes, but not due to displeasure with Losson’s words but rather amusement as they lower their ass and roll over onto their back, stomach exposed like a submissive dog. Losson worms his way between their legs, hoisting them up so that he could kneel between them. He positions himself precariously and firmly holds himself against Haarlep’s groin, forcing an entertained laugh from their belly. “You’re a sadist!”

“That’s why I get paid as well as I do.” He lowers himself over Haarlep his hips grinding slowly and precisely between their legs, closing in for another kiss, arms planted firmly on either side of them. They aren’t chaste in this kiss. No tender peckings of lips to lead into the embrace. It’s open mouthed and hungry, a swapping of breath and saliva in mere seconds - tongues flattening and thickening against one another in a sloppy slathering of spittle. He rocks his hips, drying rubbing his crotch against Haarlep’s, the heat quickly stirring between them as somewhere in the Hells, Raphael begins swearing to himself. Losson speaks into the mixture of breath and saliva and says: “I need you straining against your clothes, love - as tightly and as long as you can manage.” His hand cups at their chest, cupping and squeezing the flesh while his knuckles massage into the nipple. “Do you mind?”

Haarlep lifts themselves up a bit and catches Losson’s mouth again. Their tongue eagerly slithers against Losson’s pulling him in with a particularly wet laugh. “By all means - let the man wriggle in his bed sheets. Edge me, Master Wright and push that fool over the cliff.”

At first, for Raphael, it had only been familiar tingles to notify him that his form was in use. He often didn’t care and he was often accustomed to it. Haarlep was quite good at limiting how much arousal they experienced in his form out of a means of respect. He was a busy man, after all. He couldn’t be distracted by frequent bursts of arousal interrupting his day - and Haarlep knew better than to tease him while he was otherwise preoccupied. It could be a nuisance at times, however, as regardless of which of his forms Haarlep took, and which of his forms he dwelt in, Raphael was privy to the waves of pleasure no matter what. Haarlep could be moseying about as a cambion while Raphael did his duties as a mortal on the Material Plane, or they could be romancing half-elves in the guise of the olive-toned human while Raphael contently remained as his true, fiendish self. But again, he'd become so accustomed to the spontaneous bursts of pleasure that it was almost second nature now.

What strikes him as unusual this day is the timing of it all. The first little spark of arousal came about an hour after his return to the House of Hope after his day within Baldur’s Gate. He’d been on the balcony overlooking the chasm of Avernus, a novel he’d procured in hand. It wasn’t much. A gentle trickle of warmth through his chest. Beneath the fabric of his clothing, his nipples harden, fabric brushing against them. He involuntarily flexes as the cloth settles - they’re uncomfortably hard. He sucks in a breath, as if one of them had been tweaked playfully. Either Haarlep is having some fun pleasuring themselves, or someone has their hands on the little harlot.

He turns his attention once more to the book in his hand, but he finds himself rereading the same passage twice, then a third time. He cannot focus; the flickering of gooseflesh beneath his clothes is distracting him. Raphael draws in a sharp breath as he makes one further attempt to ignore the sensation. It is what feels like a sudden tug upon his left nipple that makes him rest the book against his stomach, pages curving inward on themselves, that makes him decide that perhaps reading was not in the cards today. Perhaps if he were to just take a moment to rub at the offending flesh through his clothes that he might be able to stave off the static charge of want in his chest. Raphael puts his palm to his chest, using it to rub the fabric firmly in place over the skin - his nipple strains against the cloth and he begins to pinch himself through the layers. It feels divine. Or rather, as divine as it could given his fiendish nature. He hums pleasantly as he enjoys the little teases he offers himself. If only Haarlep would do something like this - it didn’t hurt to ask them some time, surely.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been rubbing at his chest, but it’s long enough for the book to close upon itself and fall to the marble floor with a light plopping sound. Raphael pays it no mind; the hand he’d been using to try and keep the book upon his lap is now free to touch the other nipple, which he does so eagerly. Through his clothes he rubs and pinches at himself, pleasantly enjoying how no matter how much he tugs and tweaks at himself through the garment, they remain perked up and alert for attention. A soft groan rumbles from his chest as he finds himself giving a gentle roll of his hips as he slips open one of the closures of his doublet, allowing himself the chance to remove one of the cloth layers between his hands and his nipples. He starts with the left one - the right seemingly still being warmed up to the play. He hardly notices which sparks of delight within him are his, and which are Haarlep’s. It doesn’t matter; it feels excellent either way.

The linen of his undershirt is much thinner than the fabric of his doublet - it is not lined nor does it contain a layer of insulation against the weather - so its light texture feels even more thrilling. Raphael can feel the way his nipple has grown taut, the nub of it so firm upon the flaxen threads. He offers himself another pinch and Raphael loathes how his mind suddenly trails to that gods forsaken warlock. The smug look on his face, giving it a little twist - which Raphael willingly mimics. He emits another groan but this one heavier as he begins to slump in the armchair, lowering his upper body upon the back. He slouches as he pinches again - yet another groan. He makes work of another few closures so that he can start duplicating his stimulating tweaks to the right nipple. It takes a moment but he frees himself of his double entirely, shrugging it over the backrest of the chair. Gazing over his chest he can observe how the linen fits close to his person - he likes it this way. It accentuates his features - his pectorals specifically. Were that not the desired effect, he’d damn himself for his own egotistical hubris.

But it feels exquisite as he indulges, Squeezing both nubs. Pinching and twisting them through the fabric. He receives jolts from Haarlep - the sensation of teeth upon them makes the connection between them all the more intoxicating. Raphael murmurs aroused whimpers of ‘yes,’ and ‘gods,’ enraptured by the combined pleasure he and Haarlep deliver to him. He wants to palm himself. Feel his cock in his hand. The more he lets his nipples be toyed with, the more he wants to lose himself in the blissful, dizzying euphoria he’s been enjoying.

Eventually, he frees himself of his undershirt. He sits upon his arm chair, chest exposed to Avernus. Another brief fantasy strikes him as he feels the connecting warmth of what feels like a tongue slithering over each nub, sucking upon them like an infant. His head collides with the back of the chair as he groans - he’d take just about any mouth that would come to him in that moment. Even if it were a damn imp flying in from the depths of Avernus. A mouth is a mouth and a tongue is a tongue and he longs for that dampness to be shared upon him, not just left as a ghostly sensation from the concubus being toyed with, realms away.

He damns Haarlep once more as he gives up - he moves from the armchair of his balcony to his bed within the boudoir. It’s been a lonely bed as of late as his concubus has been off exploring the material plane and unless Losson came to give him a bit of practice, he was often left enjoying its comforts alone. Raphael rests upon the bed, one hand still eagerly rubbing at each nipple - there is such a strain upon them. As if there is pressure behind them aching to be released. Nothing will come from them, but he longs for it. Nevertheless, he reduces it to one hand. Only one. As the other dwells between his legs, forcing his trousers open and diving within - he goes to cup himself but finds himself whining in displeasure. Damn his pride and damn his desires - he finds no warm, bulging and plump outline of his cock, aching for some release. Instead he is reminded of the little device Losson has enclosed around him. He must have been so distracted by the sheer bliss from playing with his chest that he hadn’t even noticed the unpleasant suffocating pressure between his legs. He simply cannot become erect. That’s what that little device was for. He could let as much blood as he wished flood between his legs, he could become as aroused as possible - but his cock simply would not rise. It had thickened within its confines but it pressed into the metal that surrounded it.

And that’s when he feels it. He feels the flooding of tingling electricity at his hips and groin. The presence of a flat tongue drawing itself beneath his cock. The damp, welcoming presence of a mouth upon him. It’s just cool enough around himself for the owner of the mouth upon Haarlep’s cock to unmistakably belong to Losson. And the way the presence of an unseen tongue slathers upon him proves it. There’s something close to fury that begins to intertwine with his arousal - Haarlep he couldn’t fault for wanting a little fun in his body (there was a reason he requested they take his own form in the bedroom, after all). But Losson. That deviant, smarmy warlock - he had planned something just like this, hadn’t he?

Raphael does not stay within his bed. He rises from the mattress, letting his slacks fall to the floor with each step until he pads about barefoot within his boudoir. He approaches a mirror and takes a look at himself. Undressed. Exposed. And completely at the mercy of his father’s warlock, planes away. Without even being present, Losson Wright has his fist tightly closed around the metaphorical leash strapped to his throat. Raphael studies himself - carmine flesh with his wings protruding behind him and his tail forcibly hanging low to the ground, its tip twitching in both annoyance and excitement. He knows there is a beauty to the nude form of a fiend, but he cannot take the time to appreciate his own currently as his eyes focus on the bane of his frustrations.

Firmly locked in place around his cock is the metallic, sadistic device that Losson had slid his softened length into. It is a gold colored little contraption - bars crisscrossing over one another and curved downward so that his cock is forced to remain mostly flaccid and hanging low. The end of the device is entirely gold tip with a single hole so that he might be able to urinate. It’s an astonishingly devilish creation as beneath the metal bars is the smallest of a padlock resting upon against his testicles, which keeps the enclosure in place.

Were this toy of Losson’s not such a menace, the glint of gold upon his flesh would have looked quite striking. But when it came right down to it - he saw nothing but another instance of how this belligerent human had gotten the upper hand on him.

He hated how much of a rush that gave him.

There was something truly fun about fucking Haarlep for the sake of enjoyment. Not for sexual gratification or to fulfill some deep urges that needed to be tended to. There was something genuinely pleasurable about sleeping with an incubus for the sheer purpose of having a fun time. Haarlep remains laid out on the bed, flat on their back, laughter upon their lips as Losson’s lips and fingers torment their chest. It’s hard to say whether the laughter is coming from their entertainment at the activity or the knowledge that somewhere in Avernus, Raphael was having to contend with the unpleasant and spontaneous sensation of nipple play.

It’s entertainment either way.

Losson spends far longer than he normally would upon Haarlep’s chest - he wants to draw this out. Wants to both pleasure them thoroughly as well as send Raphael reeling throughout the House of Hope. His leg slides between Haarlep’s, pressing firmly with the flat of his thigh as he lays upon the fiend. Losson’s tongue rubs firmly upon the tiny mound of flesh, not even licking or stroking it, simply rubbing it in place while Haarlep’s hands comb through his hair, scraping upon his scalp. Losson leans into it - it’s been some time since he’s had hands in his hair like this and the way Haarlep’s nails drag over his scalp is intoxicating. He loses focus while his head’s being played with and the incubus laughs warmly in response.

“Lacking a little tenderness lately?” they mewl teasingly, lifting Losson’s chin up to gaze at them. “I’ve been learning a thing or two myself - I’m guessing Raphael still hasn’t learned the art of intimacy unless it involves relieving that pitiful arousal of his.” A playful sort of smile flits upon Losson’s lips.

“Oh, shut it -” he mocks. “Enhancing his bedroom performance is priority number one, enhancing his capabilities as an affectionate lover is number two, and preventing him from becoming more powerful is number three.” His mouth returns to Haarlep’s nipple but only briefly as his lips begin to trail over their chest and down their belly and toward their hips.

“You’re still so very transfixed on ensuring he doesn’t try to usurp his father, aren’t you?” Their voice is almost melodic as their hands continue to brush through Losson’s hair. Losson gives a tug to the trousers - they’re already a fair bit loose from their initial tumble into the room - and begins to lower them, slinking down with them. Haarlep had allowed them to become tight and uncomfortable for long enough at this point and they deserved a little release. “You know even with that crown he won’t last - both in the bedroom and as a ruler.”

“Let’s spare him that humiliation; I can be sympathetic to him when the need calls for it.” He draws his tongue over the jutting outline of Haarlep’s pelvis, licking curves downward. “Mephistopheles would concede to him for all of seventy-two hours before the other devils pick Raphael apart and he forcibly hands the crown back over and abdicates the throne due to the sheer pressure.” He laughs breathily as he mouths and kisses around the edges of exposed hair before resting his arm on Haarlep’s thigh to look up at the incubus. “I think at the end of the day, he won’t know what to do with all that power and will crack under the weight of it.”

“You don’t intend to give it back to Mephistopheles either, do you?” Their voice is innocent in its sound but the question is quite threatening. Losson’s pale eyes dart upwards to see the face of Raphael gazing down at him, a brow quirked inquisitively.

“Where in the Hells did you get an idea like that?” Losson asks, his voice cold and vaguely irritated. Though his hand is resting idly against the length of Haarlep’s cock, the tension in the room shifts from that of sexual to ominous. There is silence. Painful, unwarranted and unpleasant silence.

Until Haarlep begins to laugh. And then Losson laughs. And the tension is gone.

“My goodness, you took me so seriously!” They cackle pleasantly as they give another light push to Losson’s head, encouraging him to go lower and perhaps even start running that clever tongue over their cock.

Losson’s head droops, eyes closed as with his opposing hand he rubs at his eyes between his fits of amusement. “For a second I thought you were threatening me,” he admits, heartily as he emits a chilly breath against the head of Haarlep’s cock. “Everyone seems to be threatening me about that crown these days and I was quite sure you were doing the same.” Haarlep leans up from the bed and runs their hands through Losson’s hair again, brushing it out so the longer sections rest against his back.

“I haven’t a care where that crown ends up,” they share as they roll their hips slowly so that their cock may slide past Losson’s open lips. “I’m just looking forward to seeing what happens in the end.” Their fingers run to the curve of Losson’s jaw as his lips close over the tip of their cock, caressing his cool flesh almost lovingly. “Now, we were in the game of tormenting dear Raphael, were we not? Best put that tongue to work, little warlock.”

Losson wouldn’t deny that he liked when the right people got a little bossy with him in the bedroom. It used to be his preference. To misbehave and mouth off and find himself on the receiving end of a particularly annoyed partner who enjoyed punishing him. But he decided pretty early on that it was getting old. There was something so truly satisfying about taking on a partner with such an aggressively stern personality but then following their every request and desire with precision and cracking that exterior only to be praised for his work with a smile. And then there was something even more satisfying when he could take the same, stoic partner and render them on their knees as obedient and compliant to his own requests. His preferences had evolved over time and he was relatively set in his ways these days. But there was a part of him that always give him little chills and sparks whenever someone used the same tone with him that he used with others. And Haarlep was quite good at giving orders.

And hearing them in Raphael’s voice made it all the more thrilling.

Losson lays flat upon the his stomach, intentionally not aiming to take the full length of Haarlep’s cock into his mouth at first. There was a cambion he was tormenting so he’d need to be methodical in how he pleasured Haarlep. He couldn’t take them deep in his throat just yet, nor could he suck too hard. His tongue did most of the work, drawing streaks of saliva upon the length of it. Lips catching at the side of the shaft to suckle and stroke. But never does he take more than Haarlep’s cockhead into his mouth. He wants to know that Raphael is writhing.

Haarlep eventually leans back, not resting upon anything in particular, but their hands plant firmly on the bed as they begin to thrust into Losson’s mouth. Once he slips just a bit more than just Haarlep’s head into his mouth, they begin to push in, having decided that after what felt like centuries of teasing, they’d had enough. They roll into Losson’s mouth smoothly, almost as if they were trying to take up every last bit of space within their mouth and throat. No more do their hands rest upon the back of Losson’s skull, playing and twirling at his hair. Instead they only thrust into his mouth, voice mixed between laughs of amusement and arousal. “Come now, show me what you do with that mouth that made Mephistopheles so smitten.” Losson offers Haarlep an unamused look with his eyes as he lowers himself further upon the incubus’s cock, their lips twitching into a smug grin. “I’ve hit a nerve, haven’t I? I can certainly hit more than that, you know.” And as if to prove a point, they thrust firmly, striking the back of Lossons throat, forcing him to choke suddenly, a whine reverberating through his mouth. This draws out a deep, pleasurable sigh in the incubus. “I could be him too, you know - you saw how closely I replicated him before. Borrowing some traits while accentuating others.” They lift a hand and brushing it once more along Losson’s jaw. “You can tell me. How much you miss going down on him. One cock buried in your throat, the other enclosed in your tight fist. As he whispers to you.” There is a sudden change in Haarlep’s voice - and how strange it is. “Easy now, love. Take it slow.”

It gives Losson a chill to hear those words. In that voice. Coming from Raphael’s face. But spoken by Haarlep. His eyes close and he groans upon Haarlep’s cock. Losson’s tongue rests flat upon their shaft and he curls it back trying to use it to guide himself off, but to no avail. Haarlep pushes at their skull again and they continue to thrust. They laugh. They know they’ve pulled at Losson’s heartstrings. At his desires. He’s so distracted he doesn’t even notice Haarlep’s cum pooling on his tongue in streams and globules as some begin to slide down his throat. He begins to swallow, thickly downing anything that comes spilling from Haarlep’s cock as he’s finally permitted the chance to slide back. With a final, heavy clenching of his throat as he swallows the remainder Losson rises back to his knees and guides Haarlep against the pillows. His arms pin them down, snatching their wrists to hold them still.

“This isn’t about me, Haarlep.” Losson snarls as he moves in closer. He does not often find himself angry but he feels the heat of frustration and annoyance ripe in his chest. There is a fluttering wave of heat as impatience takes him, his lips curled back in a sneer. “We are trying to break Raphael! Not me!” Though a smirk remains planted upon the incubus’s lips as they close the space between them, managing to slip their wrists free from Losson’s grip. Their arms wrap comfortably around Losson’s neck, a leg raising and hooking around the back of Losson’s thigh to pull him closer.

“I know,” They admit. “But your mind wasn’t on Raphael while my cock was in your mouth - you were thinking of your sweet, diabolical husband. Can’t hide these things from me.” Haarlep’s words are smooth and nauseatingly affectionate as the back of their foot strokes the fabric of one of Losson’s thighs from its crooked position across his legs. “I couldn’t resist tempting you - it’s what I do.”

The warlock rolls his eyes. Haarlep’s grin remains. “Don’t do it again unless I ask.” His request is firm but Haarlep only presents their catlike smile in response. “We’re here to get Raphael pent up - so lift your damn hips so I can finger you.”

Haarlep complies, eagerly. The only thing they seem to enjoy more than reminding Losson of his still constant attraction to his separated husband and patron, is knowing they can leave Raphael as a squirming mess. Losson makes quick work of slickening his fingers - he has a busy evening and an even busier afternoon the next day that he has to prepare them for. As far as he had planned - this was what was going to be only one of three ravenous fucks he shared with Haarlep before the next day.

After all, he’d requested that Raphael return the next day to the Devil’s Den. And he was truly looking forward to seeing the state this cambion was in.

Because somewhere in the Hells - Raphael was humping a pillow, completely unable to get himself off.

Notes:

hey friendly reminder
haarlep is evil too :)
friendly reminder

Losson is fucking DEVILS. This man has little to no self preservation.

Chapter 17: this one time i got locked out of my house and i had to sleep in the garage only to remember there was a door into my house in there

Notes:

Hey everyone, at long last I would like to present to you the continuation of Raphael and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day (In a Chastity Cage). Otherwise known as Thus Spoke Machiavelli.

I want to express my utmost gratitude and appreciation for everyone's patience as I took a little break from updates. This was both for my mental health as well as in preparation for Katsucon. Which brings me to my next point.

I MET some of you lovely readers at Katsucon! I was Raphael at Friday's BG3 meetup and Dammon at Sunday's meetup. It was absolutely wonderful getting to meet those of you who support my work and getting to hear that you enjoy my writing in person was such a wonderful experience.

That being said, between this and Steel Bandages, I don't expect to be updating as frequently as I had been in the past. I am officially entering my convention season and I work a lot on cosplay and do a fair amount of competitions. So between now and September my posting is going to be pretty slow. Anticipate monthly updates for the most part.

This is not my best beta'd chapter but I'll likely make edits or adjust wording if I notice anything particularly jarring in the days to come. <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

In most cases of self-discipline and orgasm control, the operation includes the submissive partner being observed and monitored and subsequently scolded or punished if they make such an effort to satisfy themselves. In the case of a cambion by the name of Raphael it involved a theoretical (and somehow literal) chokehold around his cock as it remained enclosed with sleek, criss-crossing metal bars, locked in place, unable to become erect. Or rather, it could begin the act of growing erect: blood would pump in his loins, causing him to grow flush and aroused but his cock would remain unable to grow or expand from the temporary heat flowing through him. It would dig against the metal cage and render him into a tizzy.

Twenty-four hours. He’d certainly lost track of how long it had been. How many times he’d dunked himself into the bathing pool of his boudoir to stroke his engorged, aching testicles in hopes of some satisfaction. How often he’d run his hands over his chest to tweak and tug at his nipples in search of relief. How he’d slip his fingers into his mouth to suck upon them to give himself the façade of fellating one of his lovers.

He longed for that vibrating toy that warlock had shown him at the brothel. How would it feel to let little pulsations of electricity course through his body as the device pumped away at him.

Raphael fucks himself with his tail. It helps - but only for a few minutes as he is greeted by the overwhelming sensation of a cock being buried into Haarlep, jolting both he and the incubus alert with its many strokes against spatially connected prostates.

Gods, he could kill Losson Wright. But not until after he used his asshole as a receptacle for all the seed he was being forced to hold back.

After some time. He caves. He collects himself to the best of his ability and departs his House of Hope and makes for Baldur’s Gate. For the Devil’s Den. He only makes the quietest of greetings to the staff as he arrives there. The hour is late and his presence there at such an hour is unusual but not out of the question. He locks himself in his chambers and casts an enchantment upon the cupboard that foolish warlock kept locked in the room. With an unflattering swing of his arms as he opens the bureau, he is left with a catalog of options to aid in his release. He scans the options and makes a selection - a modestly sized little insertion with a base he can nestle between some pillows with accompanying lubricant to make easing the device into himself far more acceptable.

He makes short work of his clothing, allowing it to crumple upon the floor manifesting such an appearance that paralleled how he felt. He too would like to crumple but instead of that of an unceremonious pile of rags upon the tile, he’d rather be a heap of a man in someone’s bedsheets. He rehearses that line in his head a few times - he loves how it sounds.

Raphael is confined to his human visage in this realm. It is not because he is incapable of revealing himself as the cambion he is, but it’s far safer. Letting mortals of the Prime Material catch sensation or sight of him in his devilish glory would be far too much for many to handle. So for now, he remains humanoid in his guise - his lovely, human form. He admires himself as he undresses. Were he not already so overstimulated from his incubus partner being railed through the Hells and back, the sheer appearance of his mortal self is enough to make him flush. A truly stunning, lovely man. Just enough curls of chest hair to be sensual. Just enough softness to his torso to suggest he is well nourished. Just enough definition to his thighs to show he is a fit man and athletic to boot. He wants to touch his reflection as he watches himself, wishes to contemplate the euphoria of touching himself and knowing that it is the ideal caress.

His reflection cannot moan independently of his person, but he can more than make up for that. His hands run over his chest, fingers coiling within the hair and stroke over his stomach. Raphael grasps at his enclosed cock and jerks it for all its worth. He feels his abdomen spasm with the want of ejaculation but it merely quivers instead. His testicles are so plump - so taut and firm, as if they could burst at any moment. He wishes he could suck upon them himself. Surely Haarlep would be happy to if they were here, but they were off making this entire evening more tenuous. Raphael squeezes his sack and he slumps back, instantly reaching back to begin slipping his fingers into himself - a little act of self-preparation for the toy he’s opted to borrow.

He could have prepared himself more. He should have. But he doesn’t mind so much as he feels himself pull open, widening for the toy - he had not anticipated it to be as wide at the bottom as it was. Raphael’s eyes roll back - he gurgles in delight as the toys head rubs pleasantly at his prostate. He feels the pang of Haarlep’s getting smashed into. And he drools like a canine awaiting a fine meal. Saliva pools at the corner of his mouth and rolls over the edge and upon his cheek. He rides the toy for all its worth. He begins to slur and babble obscenities and words far too filth and unbecoming for a cambion of his ilk. If his father heard the words that came from his mouth Raphael would have most certainly been banished. Or perhaps, if he was pitiable enough, tossed into a pit of incubi for his (and their) satisfaction and personal use.

Oh to be an incubus with the sole purpose to tempt and arouse.

Haarlep was such a lucky bastard.

He can only give himself so many prostate orgasms before all he truly wants is to be able to cum. He wants to feel it erupt from him. To feel himself leak. To make a mess of himself and the bedding and be scolded for being so unruly and unkempt. He’d heard before that it’s still possible for a man to ejaculate in one of these horrific cages. But it often took quite a bit of effort. If this were not effort enough, then Raphael was quite convinced this device was enchanted to prevent him from so much as even allowing a dribble.

He would rather die than admit to the thrill it gave him.

Raphael upgrades to the other toys, getting progressively larger throughout the night. The first toy being a bit smaller than the dominant warlock that enjoyed teasing him, but by the time morning came around Raphael was amazed that his human form could take something as large as what he was quite sure, rivaled that of an orthon. He felt vile. But in the best of ways. The ways where he imagines conversations he’s had with Haarlep as they regale him of tales of being part of days long orgies with other fiends of their ilk with no real goal than to feel and make others feel celestial. Pun quite surely intended. What Raphael would have given to be a part of those circles. To have his mouth preoccupied with pleasuring a strangler while he was filled to the brim and overflowing with the false affections of others.

It sickened him.

He loved it

(And he groans in complete delight as he lays upon the bed with that lightning infused plug pumping away at him. He finds himself fucking the duvet into submission.)

He is spent by the time morning truly settles upon the city. He aches with desire and want. He knows somewhere in the night, Haarlep and that foolish warlock turned in to rest. But the hour was late - and Raphael was still preoccupied in pleasuring himself. He lays upon the bed, slick and sticky with sweat as his knees prop him up. He lets the plug continue to thrust into him, practically numb to its presence as he allows it to pump away in him like a beast and its mate. He almost contemplates whether that is something he craves as well or whether his mind is lost in the haze of consistent arousal and his judgment of his desires has become so poorly crafted.

Raphael’s hand strokes at his caged cock, whimpering behind his chapped lips for release. Were he any type of true mortal, he’d have believed this was detrimental to the body. But he was no ordinary mortal. He wasn’t even mortal all things considered. He slumps on the bed, one fist tight around the mess of blankets, the other delicately caressing his tender balls. He ached for someone to put their mouth upon them. To suckle them like succulent fruit dangling upon the branches of a tree. The imagery that occupies his mind is enough to get him to collapse.

He does not rest long. Sleep takes him only briefly. The exhaustion only barely staved off as he wakes but an hour or two later to the rumbling sound of the door of the Devil’s Den being fussed with, tossed open and closed again with a slam. But it is not the slam that alerts him. It is the deep, breathy groan of his own voice, as Raphael receives the sting of teeth upon his neck. He lifts his head from the mattress and his eyes witness the display of the origins of his consistent arousal.

Haarlep. Their body masquerading in Raphael’s skin. Upon the door their neck exposed as Losson Wright sinks his teeth upon their flesh much like his vampiric lover did for him.

And he has Raphael exactly where he wants him.

Losson ignores the whimpering pleas from Raphael in the next room and keeps his attention to Haarlep’s body. He nibbles along their throat and to their collar and begins to peel away the layers of clothes that were only placed upon that body long enough to ensure that Losson could bring them back here where Raphael was waiting. His mouth drops to their chest, lips catching upon a nipple which he begins to purse his lips upon as if aching to drink from it. Haarlep purrs and mutters a gleeful, “Drink up,” to Losson as they cup around their pectoral. Losson swears he tastes something dripping from the ducts but he doesn’t question it - mostly because he knows the tricks incubi are capable of.

He allows Haarlep to undress him in turn. He’s yet to decide this part - is he going to submit for Haarlep in full? Is he going to let the fiend hoist him up against the wall and start ramming into him? He almost dares steal a cheeky little side eye toward Raphael as if to ask him if that’s something he’s in the mood for. To dominate Losson like he’d tried to before. He couldn’t. Losson had too much control over him. But Haarlep could. Hells, Losson even welcomed it. On his terms, of course. To give Raphael the sensation of being able to cum inside someone but still painstakingly restrained and enclosed was something that sounded highly appealing to Losson but well, there were other plans to address first.

“You’ve done quite a number of twisted deeds with my son, but this may take the cake.” He hears the voice of his patron and husband rattle about in his skull as his outer most layers are removed and discarded upon the carpet. His hands fumble at the belts upon his hips, tugging and yanking at the waist band and closures in order to remove them. It doesn’t take long as he steps backwards into a wall and an all-too-eager incubus is on their knees before him, aiding in their removal.

Haarlep’s mouth is warm - not the same sort of warm as it is in their fiendish form, but it’s the warmth of living breath and saliva coating him. Losson grips at the edge of the table he’s stumbled into, nails piercing the wood as Haarlep’s mouth doesn’t relent. Their head bobs upon his cock and gulps around him, easing him into their throat. He wishes their horns were present so that he might grip them and start thrusting.

He hears the bellowing moan of Raphael in the next room. Losson doesn’t look his way but instead rests his hand against Haarlep’s cheek as their head continues its fluid rhythm. “That’s right, sweet thing,” Losson purrs. “Do your best to make daddy cum, hm?” Haarlep emits a muffled trill of delight, offering the warlock the scandalous view of a copy of Raphael, sucking upon a cock as if he were trading a blowjob for his freedom. “Promise I’ll make it extra hot and sticky if you do a good job.” Another trill and Haarlep pulls their head back, revealing the most heinously depraved image of Raphael that Losson has seen to date. The face is flush and clammy, sweat beading upon the temples and rolling down to dampen the sideburns. Eyes are heavily lidded and shimmer with a glassiness as Haarlep holds their tongue under the head of Losson’s cock, the threads of their own thickened spittle thick against those lips. Losson offers them a scolding glance, his hand reaching to card fingers through the swept aside chocolate-brown hair. At first Haarlep begins to whimper pleasantly before Losson plays a very familiar hand upon the table - he’s in charge. He snatches Haarlep by the skull and forces them down, thrusting into the back of their throat.

And Raphael cries out, “I’m right here, you bastard! If you wish to ruin me so badly, come this way!”

Perhaps it was an act of compassion or maybe even an act of further edging on the warlock’s part, but the location in which Losson positions himself as he fucks Haarlep’s throat is the very threshold between the bedroom and the foyer. It’s a display he puts on for Raphael to play witness to, either for his enjoyment or his turmoil. Whichever case it may be, the cambion is left laying upon his stomach on the bed, the comforter now twisted and disheveled beneath his weight, having been deflowered many a time since his arrival the previous evening.

Losson plays it up. He plays up his response to Haarlep’s performance as Raphael bangs his head upon the mattress, fist slamming against the softness around him. He feels the weight of Losson’s cock on his tongue as Haarlep sucks upon him. He tastes the tang of salt and sweat as it slithers in a façade down his throat. He feels the sensation of Losson’s cum gum up his mouth and he’s left defeated as the presence of a phantom cock leaves his mouth.

“Gods, your desperation would be much hotter if you weren’t over here dry humping your bed like a horny teenager.” Losson chuckles and his fingers weave through the chocolate brown wisps of Raphael’s hair as his skull remains buried in the blankets. The touch is delicate but each feather-light stroke of his hand is enough that the nerves along Raphael’s spine to prickle to life. He exhales - a throaty moan muffled into the bedding - and Losson gives his head the lightest of tugs. Raphael’s face bears a similar color to that of his cambion form - deep, red and reminiscent of the hells. But it is not the Abyss that is the cause for such a hue, but rather Losson and Haarlep’s own misadventures. “You can’t even manage a day without touching yourself, can you?”

“A bastard like you ought to speak,” Raphael sneers. “Exploiting a known weakness of mine to make such circumstances unbearable.” Losson offers a cheeky smile.

“But think of how spectacular it’ll feel when I finally let you cum,” he purrs, releasing Raphael’s skull, running his hand over his face, cupping his cheek as the man keeps himself hoisted up. “I’m sure you’d love to cum, wouldn’t you?” His tone is almost loving as his thumb rubs lazily across Raphael’s lips. “Get comfortable on the bed for me, won’t you? I’d love to see how much you’re aching for me to do my worst to you.”

“Will you?” Raphael croaks, a weary plea heavy in his voice. It catches Losson’s ear, his head tilting in intrigue. So, he was learning after all. There is another tug at his lips as he pats the man’s cheek.

“Are you asking me?”

“Yes,” Raphael’s hoarse whisper rasps. “Please, will you do your worst?”

“Oh Raphael, darling,” He mimics the cadence of a certain vampiric spawn he often sought the comforts of. “If you ask me so sweetly, I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to remember what I’ve done when you’re finished. Are you sure?”

There is silence from the man as he begins to lift himself from his stomach. As he rises to his knees, hands firmly planted on the mattress, his cock hangs between his legs, as erect as it possibly can be with the cage limiting its arousal. Beneath it, Raphael’s testicles sway, bulging with their own ache and desperate need for release. Losson has half a mind to pop the man’s sack into his mouth at that very moment and draw out the sounds he was so disappointed he’d missed out on while he’d been spending time with Haarlep.

“Quite sure,” Raphael admits, his voice vaguely defeated but behind it, Losson hears more of the anticipation than he does the dismay.

It is in his rising to his hands and knees that it’s evident that Raphael had lost track of where Haarlep had been. They had been upon their knees between Losson’s legs moments before and in an instant they were gone. Yet, it wouldn’t be all that long before their presence became known. In Losson’s efforts of convincing Raphael to agree to a little more play with the chastity cage, Haarlep had taken advantage of the distraction. Just long enough for them to dart toward the opposite end of the bed where Raphael’s ass was raised, prominently on display. It was hard to say which Raphael noticed first - the damp, flat of Haarlep’s tongue at his entrance, or the taste of himself dwelling in his mouth. He lurches forward, hips thrusting in response as he does little to stifle the instantaneous moan from his chest. Raphael sticks his tongue out, beginning to mimic the flicks and prods of Haarlep’s tongue against his hole - a sight that gets Losson to laugh.

“Careful now, I haven’t even finished undressing, Raphael. If you want to eat me up that badly you’ll have to be a little more patient.” There is another stroke upon Raphael’s cheek as Losson uses his other hand to begin to lower his trousers to the ground. “You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look primitive.” His voice lowers into a whisper as he slips his fingers against Raphael’s cheek, thrusting them past his lips. “You want to shove your swollen cock so deep in me you have no other choice but to hump me like an animal desperate to mate.” Raphael’s lips eagerly clap over Losson’s fingers, fellating them as if they were phallic themselves. Were they capable of ejaculation, Losson was quite sure they would’ve come down his throat by now.

With a single hand, Losson manages to peel his layers of clothing free, dropping them to the ground as he slips himself on to the bed before Raphael. He rests near the foot of the bed with ample space to move about. Haarlep’s fingers have begun to work into Raphael and he is left whimpering upon Losson’s fingers before he slides them free. “Thank you, Raphael,” Losson purrs, using his slickened fingers to close around his cock, lightly stroking himself for the cambion to view. It is only a momentary gesture for Raphael’s entertainment before Losson adjusts himself, presenting his back to Raphael as he bends forward over the bed’s edge. “If you’re going to use your tongue like that, then please -” The warlock glances over his shoulder, his expression softening in ways that he reserves for only the most special of clients. His lips purse, pouting slightly and glistening with dampness in the light. “I need you to eat me.

Losson’s tone is sweet. Demure. Innocent. A seemingly naïve plea from the man from whom the chastity cage had been enclosed. And Raphael is left at a standstill. This horrible, conniving, vile man who had him so pent up, so stressed and so completely overwhelmed with his own arousal, was now begging him for more.

And naturally, he obliges.

Raphael’s face buries against Losson’s ass. His mouth feverishly begins to open, practically slobbering as his tongue hungrily traces circles around Losson’s hole. He hisses. He wants to fuck this insolent human silent. Fuck him submissive. Fuck him into obedience. But for now, he can only thrust his tongue into his asshole, savoring the clean, sweet and succulent flavor of his father’s favorite plaything coupled with the tang of his own ass as Haarlep eagerly devours him in turn. Losson cries out - it’s the sort of cry Raphael was hoping he might get to hear. A cry of such a strong, confident personality rendered broken. Exactly. Perfect. Precisely as he wanted.

He gets his arms around Losson’s waist, pulling him upwards. Pulling him closer as he torments this warlock, showing off what he’s learned in his time as a submissive little pet. Losson’s hands grip and twist at the sheets - and no matter how feverishly and desperately Raphael tongue fucked his ass, Losson was still quite conscious enough to flip the script once Raphael had his fill.

What catches Losson by surprise, however, is how Raphael pulls his head back, tugging Losson until he is as far beneath him as he can muster. He does not say a word as he mounts Losson from behind, positioning himself as if he were about to fuck this infuriating warlock silent. Nothing but a whine escapes him as he thrusts and he finds the metal barring him once more. He slumps against Losson’s back and he ruts, grinding and thrusting against him in an annoyed, frustrated loop before he shoves a palm to the back of Losson’s head, shoving him down further.

“End this,” he growls lowly, although with anger heavy in his voice, there is a tiredness that comes from a man - a human - who has been pushed as far as he can muster.

But Losson wonders if he can muster just a little more.

He affords Losson the chance to roll over and Haarlep takes this momentary pause as a sign to take a break from filling their stomach. “One more thing,” Losson says, sliding back so that he can begin to free himself from Raphael’s grasp. “One last thing and then I’ll free you from your prison and I’ll gladly let you shower me in every last drop of cum you’ve got in you.” He draws a finger up Raphael’s chest, curling lightly through some of the dark swirls of hair.

He scowls. But it’s a thoughtful one.

“I promise it’ll be worth it,” Losson reassures. “All the joys of being my favorite little play thing while also getting to fuck me and put me in my place.”

Raphael complies and finds himself a few minutes later, after the bed has been straightened up and the pillows repositioned, laying on his back. His arms are pulled up with his wrists bound with restraints pulling from the headboard’s posts to keep him from lowering them. His legs are spread with cuffs at his ankles tying him to the footboard. And he is on display. Raphael sneers as Losson steps around the bed and instead of his cock being freed from the enclosure, Losson applies the finishing touches to the last aspect of his plan.

Over Raphael’s hips and tucking between his legs are the straps of a leather harness, buckled firmly in place. His cock aches in its metal cage and his testicles brush upon the leather just enough that puffs of exhales slip free with each passing touch. But it is what is attached to the harness that both infuriates and excites Raphael - a phallic toy, similar to the lightning infused one he’d tried on himself. It’s pleasantly sized, easy enough for most practiced partners to take but it has a wide girth that he’d gladly take himself if he were feeling up for the challenge. Losson’s hand strokes the appendage, his hands slick and slippery as he lubricates the device. “Oh Raphael,” he teases as he rubs at the faux-head of the toy. “I don’t know if I can still take your cock if it’s this fat,” Losson teases as he crawls upon the bed. The cambion both smirks and rolls his eyes in response.

“Do try will you?” he scoffs, only to find himself silenced as Haarlep’s hand covers his mouth. Upon the bed next to him, Haarlep smiles, slipping their finger into Raphael’s mouth to stroke his tongue playfully.

“I’ve been instructed to see to it that you don’t speak,” they tease as they rise up to their knees, showing off the fully erect length of Raphael’s own cock to him. But there is more to it as at the cock’s base, behind the pert, taut pair of testicles, a slit, glistening with dampness that Raphael registers as belonging the Grand Duchess incarnation of himself instead. There is a chuckle to Haarleps voice as they straddle Raphael’s head and lower themselves, kneeling with one leg on either side of his head. They seat themselves carefully, cunt placed firmly upon Raphael’s mouth, forcing it to open and taste Haarlep upon his tongue. He can barely see his duplicate as he looks up, cock and testicles resting upon his face - but he does not need to see Haarlep to feel the same surprising tingle between his legs of genitals that do not exist in this form. “Master’s tongue has become far more skilled since last he dined on me, hasn’t it?” They tease as Raphael is left with no choice but to draw his tongue between the lips of Haarlep’s cunt. They give a shudder, aching slightly as they push down with a pleasant laugh. “You’ve taught him well.”

Raphael is unable to focus on the praise being offered to him as the weight of someone resting against his lips catches his attention. Losson hovers over Raphael’s hips, their hand reaching back to continue the work Raphael’s tongue had begun - he alternates two or three fingers at a time stretching and tugging at the flesh of his entrance, thrusting the knuckles inwards enough times to feel himself relax. He’s trained himself plenty over the years that a toy like this one isn’t too intense - he’s taken thicker and longer. Living in the Hells for a few centuries affords one the opportunities. The sound of the human’s gasps soon fill the empty sounds of the Devil’s Den as Losson holds himself open and lowers himself upon the head of the toy.

He’s got a history with this toy. Both for his own penetrative purposes and for penetrating others before Mephistopheles was so kind as to aid him in changing his physiology. It’s not an unfamiliar presence as Losson lowers himself upon it, gasping and crying out in a nearly mocking tone, “Ah, Raphael - you’re so big, I don’t think I can take you!” The theatrical moan lapses into amused laughter as the cambion is left with the debilitating presence of someone slowly bouncing upon his hips but his cock left painfully untouched. He would have protested if Haarlep were not so precariously grinding into his mouth, almost affectionately murmuring for him to ‘Eat up.’

He would be infuriated if there were not such a loud little voice in his head screaming, “Yes! Use me for filth!

Raphael laps up the sickly sweet slick from between Haarlep’s legs, unsure if the heat upon his face was from the humidity he was buried against or from his own arousal. It didn’t quite matter as his head bobbed, using his face to rub upon their cock, offering a little friction to the enthused incubus’s length as his tongue flicked upon the lips of their cunt. Each sound of pleasure to emit from Haarlep as they grind upon Raphael’s face grows louder, more and more delighted in response to the more practiced abilities the cambion had since learned. He groans as Haarlep’s hands brush through his hair, gripping at the roots to keep his skull still. And Raphael complies with the predicament he’s gotten himself in. He thrusts his hips. Raising them and though his cock does nothing but twitch and ache, the sound of Losson’s gasping fills his ears. Though the human may have been deriving satisfaction from the toy alone, it was the rocking of Raphael’s hips that dictated whether or not Losson would have a smooth ride.

Time is already a blur for Raphael. Living for as long as he did, time didn’t compute in his mind any longer. The passage of such was insignificant. And it was even more so as he was unable to wrap his mind around how long the incubus sat on his face. Or how long Losson rode the harnessed dildo at his hips. He’d long since ceased to whimper, honoring his position as the source of both human and fiend’s pleasure. There was an odd sort of pride in it as he felt Haarlep’s several convulsions as they came upon his lips. Followed by an odd sort of humiliation as their cock spasmed, streaking thick streams of cum over Raphael’s forehead and into his hair. Were his mind not so hazy with his own pleasure being considered he would’ve been enraged to find his hair so disrespected. Haarlep eventually replaces their cunt for their cock, thrusting and fucking Raphael’s throat all while expressing words of admiration. They called him a lovely little hole and all Raphael can think is “Yes, I am a lovely little hole” as they swallow the globs of cum as Haarlep unloads on his tongue.

But it is what occurs as Haarlep fucks his mouth that forces Raphael to accept that he is nothing but putty in the hands of his father’s warlock. It is after he feels the stream of the human’s cum plop upon his stomach and their weight eventually slide free that he is offered the first act of kindness since his cock was ensnared in its metallic prison. Losson says something short after Haarlep finishes their task and it’s enough to cause them to affectionately bring their hand over Raphael’s cheek as they slip out of his mouth and crawl away with a knowing smile.

Raphael speaks - but his voice is hoarse and raspy from being burdened so long by the oral fixation that was Haarlep’s genitalia. The words that slip free from him is simply, “What are you doing?”

But he doesn’t need an answer. Not a verbal one at least.

Raphael is presented with the view of Losson nestled between his legs. The blonde warlock’s hair mussed, in disarray - he combs his fingers through it, wiggling them a bit to manage any tangles that have since been created as he rode the still protruding phallus that remained harnessed to him. Losson’s hands extend forward, brushing over the tender, sensitive flesh of Raphael’s thighs - still, amidst it all, he groans. Losson’s caress is delicate and he can tell it is deliberately done so. His fingers unbuckle the harness graceful, slipping it free from Raphael’s pelvis and it is set aside for Haarlep to handle.

“You’ve done such a good job, Raphael,” Losson’s voice lilts, the tone plush and velvety as his hands once more gloss across the cambion’s thighs. “A whole day, unable to cum, containing yourself as I had my fun with Haarlep and even being able to keep your wits about you as I had my fun with you while you were so very helpless beneath me.” The human leans in; his lips kiss and brush over the curve of Raphael’s hip bone, leading toward the straining metal at his groin. Losson slips a hand between his legs and in a single, nearly ghostly stroke, Raphael’s hips raise and his voice bellows into a hefty groan as Losson’s fingers dance along the engorged, aching flesh of Raphael’s testicles.

“You can’t do this to me!” he snarls, but the anger subsides quickly into a whine of desperation. “Please, please - no more.”

He needn’t utter another word. A click rings out through the Devil’s Den and Losson’s hands deftly lift the metal enclosure from Raphael’s cock and slip it free. Only momentarily does Losson get a view of the indentations the crossing metal had left upon Raphael’s cock before it stiffens to its full length. He hears the complaints and the praises being sung by the cambion as the relief takes him - it is indistinguishable whether they are due to gratitude or from the mess of ejaculate that practically spills from him the moment he’s given the chance.

And Losson begins to suck. He brings Raphael’s cock to his mouth and begins suck, drinking down the cum as it continuously bubbles to the surface of his head in a steady stream. But he is not alone. Losson gulps a few times, getting his fill before Raphael finds himself resting in the mouth of another as Haarlep begins to assist. Losson’s head dips lower and Raphael can no longer muster words as one of his balls is sucked into Losson’s mouth, his lips lovingly massaging into it as if to apologize for their twenty-four hours of strain.

There is no reasonable way to count how many times Raphael came. It was as if he were a water faucet that had simply been left on and Losson and Haarlep were dehydrated and in need of quenching their thirst.

It wasn’t that he intended to fall asleep, he just did. And when Raphael wakes, he finds Losson and Haarlep now both dressed. Haarlep’s form having been replaced of some unremarkable elven individual. Raphael’s arms and legs have been removed from their restraints and he is nothing short of delirious. He sits upright and finds himself making eye contact with the human. Losson offers a smile as he stands, having been lounging near the bathing tub in the foyer.

He saunters over - Raphael grimaces - and takes a seat on the bed. “Never thought I’d fuck a cambion to the point of exhaustion, but here we are.” He pats at Raphael’s knee with a little chuckle. “Cleaned you up while you were out, did a little first aid - you’re going to have some bruising tomorrow. Haarlep drew fresh water in the bath here if you want to take a soak.” There is a pause and Raphael finds himself looking at the most genuinely amicable face he’s seen upon the warlock thus far.

Why?” he asks with an acrid sting to his words.

Losson’s shoulders sag and he heaves a sigh. “This again,” he murmurs under his breath. “Because aftercare is a crucial part of a dom-sub relationship. If you aren’t okay during or after then I’m not doing my job. To be fair, I probably shouldn’t have set you up for a full twenty-four hours for a first time, that’s on me. I overestimated what you could handle. I’m doing my due diligence. Cambion or not, devil or not - you just had a wild ride and you need to come down from it.” There is a pause. “You…you are okay, aren’t you?”

Raphael’s nose crinkles. What a stupid question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You passed out.”

“Is that not common? I was under the impression that it isn’t unusual for at least one person to sleep off the euphoria after coitus.” His words come out so dignified but Losson has to stifle his laughter.

“It is, but Raphael, you were out.” Losson holds his hand to his mouth and no longer is the laughter stifled. “You came on both our faces at the same time and we looked up and you were completely out cold.”

“Then I believe that’s a success on your part.”

And this leads Losson to press his hand to his chest, a pure, surprised smile pulling at his lips. “Raphael, did you just compliment me? This is so unexpected. If I didn’t know better I would’ve assumed this was a love confession. Thank you.”

“Is it so strange to hear me pay you a genuine compliment?”

“When half the words I hear from you lately are the pathetic bratting of a sub who wants me to fuck him to the brink of consciousness? Yes!” Losson offers another pleased laugh and then stands from the bed. “Bath’s drawn. You were asleep for about an hour. Be good to yourself today and tomorrow. We can talk about the next kinks to explore in a few days.”

There is silence from Raphael who shifts upon the bed, crossing his legs as he scans the room for his clothing only to find it neatly hung on the edge of a mirror.

“And what will you do in the meantime?”

And Losson shrugs.

“I dunno,” he says as he starts to return to the foyer. “Maybe I’ll finally get the balls to take on this Netherbrain.” And Losson smiles.

And he imagines what a scene like this might involve if he had possession of a certain crown.

Notes:

Anyways! Yes! Hello! Thank you again for sticking with me during that unannounced hiatus while I did my convention preparation. If you are curious about other conventions I am attending this year, please do not hesitate to ask.

One aside - if you are going to utilize the non-expiring invite links to the discord I shared in previous chapters, please keep in mind that my channel for Thus Spoke Machiavelli is now invite only.

Chapter 18: marriage counseling isn't exactly something devils do, but it helps if you do soul searching in the souls you steal to understand how to improve your relationship

Notes:

HEY EVERYONE! Long time no chapter!

So here's your tl;dr: I do conventions! I tend to start going to cons in February of every year and stop doing cons somewhere between August and September. And so I've been smack dab in the middle of convention season and I do a lot of cosplay contests. So that's where I've been! Recently won an award for a Ganondorf cosplay and I'm competing again later this month, but I've had some free time during work to write again so here we are!

But the big convention related announcement - I will be at DragonCon AS LOSSON. I'm going to be him most of the weekend I think because he's been my big plan for DragonCon and I will have ribbons to give out! Spicy ribbons. Might make business cards for him too haha.

But anyways all - thank you for sticking around and I hope this chapter was worth the wait. We've got a bit of it all - lore drops, Mephistopheles and Losson's relationship, and more of what you all came here for: Raphael being a whore. <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Losson would not say he liked Enver Gortash. He was tolerable. He paid well. But he was not someone Losson cared to interact with that often. Prior to his rise to lordship, he’d been something of a frequent guest and client within Losson’s den. He had an undeserving ego - a sub with an attitude. Not a brat, but definitely the sort of sub that liked to talk big about how his cunt was life changing. How people would be so incredibly envious of Losson for getting the opportunity to fuck him senseless. If there were any clients Losson had ever been somewhat concerned about having an undisclosed disease, it was him. He considered himself lucky that he never picked anything up from the man.

At any time, Losson could have easily told Gortash that he was no longer willing to accept him as a client, no matter how solid the coin was - but he had to admit to himself there was an unpleasant magnetic sort of force between them. Not like an attraction sort of force, of course, but a force that seemed to leave Losson batting at the side of his head as if swatting away flies buzzing in his ear. A voice that whispered lowly and shockingly sweetly, that Losson had the power to usurp Enver Gortash if he so chose. It ran in his blood. This was an era before the Crown of Karsus had even been swiped from its pedestal in Mephistar, as far as he could tell when he looked back on things. But there was such anitch. And that itch was insatiable. . .no, no, itch wasn’t quite the right word.

Urge was far more fitting.

He would often play along. Allow Gortash to play pretend where he was the one in charge. He was the one dictating the scene. The one with all the power. All the control. And it often made Losson grind his teeth in frustration. It was as if Gortash knew about that baritone voice against his eardrums taunting him and suggesting Losson overthrow such a pretentious swine. He wore such a conceited smirk that Losson wished nothing more than to remind him of what it really meant to be the one with all the cards. But no, no, that would violate his contract. Violate the clauses of the dom-sub relationship that Gortash so willingly consented to every two weeks.

Even when the scene requested that Losson put his hands upon Gortash’s throat, he felt the desire and the intent to force him complacent. Force him silent. Force him into his place. It was nearly overwhelming. To watch as the color drained from his face. To watch as though his hands clutched at Losson’s wrists with his hips and pelvis spasming through a climax. To watch as no matter how much Losson thirsted to force his own power over Gortash.. All he did was smirk. That knowing, sickening smirk that rendered Losson’s heart rich with ichor.

“It is your birthright; claim it from him.”

He couldn’t place why those words always stood out from that voice in his skull. Couldn’t place what it is that drew him to want to force Gortash to grovel. Couldn’t tell what it was about that man that left Losson famished and craving more. He did not wish to be a lord. Did not wish for any sort of political power. Did not want to have any more control of power than he had in the bedroom with his clients.

But something about Enver Gortash woke up such carnal desires.

Imagine if he could rule. Imagine if he were a lord, no, no, even better. Imagine if he were a king. Upon a throne for all the worship and revere like a god. A god who had been stripped of his chance to reign.

“Put those thoughts out of your skull before I lobotomize you,” Mephistopheles grumbled as Losson found himself seated within a familiar, albeit less utilized room within his patron and husband's manor. The parlor. An octagonal room at the end of a long hallway that resembled a greenhouse. But outside its windowed walls, paneled with art nouveau arches and lattice work, was not the display of a garden and greenery but of still, quiet coniferous trees, their branches heavy with snow and artificial moonlight glowing from overhead from the conical glass spire overhead. The interior however, was much more suited to garden life - that’s where the greenery and color lay. Within it grew lovely plants and vines that coiled and curled up columns and statues throughout, with the air scented with the saccharine aroma of nearly overripened fruit. Losson knew better than to be drawn towards those scents - it led to one of two things. Poison or concubi lurking within the garden. In fact, Losson knew quite well that each and every plant within the parlor was toxic and he knew better than to even allow them to touch his skin.

He didn’t recall being summoned this time. He and Mephistopheles didn’t often sit together as often these days, but they’d reconciled a year or so prior and they were in the process of mending their relationship. Losson found himself lowering a cup and saucer he’d been holding in his hands - it was a warm, malty black tea that had been sweetened with cane sugar and lightened with cream. A perfectly soothing and just heavy enough beverage for the chilly surroundings outside the parlor’s greenhouse walls. “Which thoughts?” he asked, retrieving a small plate which he proceeded to pile high with some finger sandwiches. Mephistopheles glanced up from his own plate to find his husband’s manners lacking, forcing a grimace upon his face.

“Take no more than two, you know better than that.” he scoffed, returning the third through sixth sandwich back on to the tier of goodies that had been laid out before them. “Three if I’ve provided three options, but there are only two today. Have some propriety.” He caught Losson trying to swipe a few treats from the second tier but quickly swat at the human’s hand, forcing him to retreat. “Not yet -” A sigh and then a scoff emitted from the man as his eyes rolled behind circular framed glasses. “Nevermind - that is not the point of your visit today. You know full well what thoughts I am talking about. Those filthy ones about overpowering that Gortash whelp.”

“What are you talking about?” Losson asked, mouth full of sandwich, causing the bespectacled visage of Mephistopheles to shift into a scowl of disgust.

“Mouth closed! I did not spend a century teaching you proper table manners only for you to forgo them after a few decades of a break in our cohabitation.” The archdevil rose from his seat and reached over the table, hand slipping beneath Losson’s jaw to close his mouth. He was in his smaller frame that day - slender build and shorter in stature, Losson seemed to believe he often preferred this form these days, especially when they shared company. Perhaps there was something nostalgic about it. But he wouldn't know and it was not the time to ask Mephistopheles about it.. “Chew and swallow before you address me, if you do that again I shall simply toss you out in the snow and wait for the meat of your jaw to freeze shut so that you do not offend when I bring you back in to discuss this matter.”

His mouth closed and he chewed slowly before swallowing, avoiding the ire of his spouse as he settled back down into his seat. “Better?” he asked, holding off from trying to eat the second mouthful in order to better hear him out. There was a scoff and a nod of approval as Losson composed himself in response to the sudden beratement. “I’m serious, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mephistopheles, sporting the more youthful face that Losson had known when they’d first met, retrieved the teapot, pouring himself more into the delicate, floral china in front of him. “You know full well that I’m keenly attuned to your emotions and activities while on the Prime Material - and I am no stranger to when your desires become,” he cleared his throat before taking a sip of the beverage. “More primal in nature. And I don’t mean any of this nonsense with your play parties or whatever sort of occupation you’ve gotten yourself tied up in.”

“I usually do the tying, actually.”

“Not the point!” The devil’s voice rose again, cracking faintly, as his initially smooth, fluid gesture of setting his teacup down became that of a cacophonous clatter as it was set a bit too firmly upon its saucer. “I am begging you, Losson, to take this seriously. I’ve been quite accommodating in allowing you your space while you re-evaluate our, erm, status - but I am trying to do something for your own good. If you are not going to take me seriously as a spouse, then I ask that you take me seriously as a patron lest I find some means of punishing you for insubordination as a warlock.”

The words were cold (to be expected, considering their source) and it rendered Losson somewhat quiet for a moment as the words sank in. Things had been…rough between the two of them for some time now. He’d lost track of precisely how long, but long enough that Losson had moved back to the Material Plane and found work and was taking up odd jobs here and there to keep himself preoccupied. It had been his decision. Mephistopheles had become possessive of him. And while there is a healthy level of possessiveness in a relationship, for Losson it had long since stepped over the line from possessive to ownership.

For some time, Losson was his. His belonging. His property. For some time Mephistopheles had misunderstood what came from a marriage among mortal beings. Among figures that actually loved one another. As far as he was concerned, for some time, Losson, as his spouse, had duties and responsibilities to Mephistopheles and to shirk those duties or deny him was absolutely unheard of.

And it had soured things between them. Quite terribly.

Losson had left by morning after a particularly unpleasant evening with the devil. And Mephistopheles loved him too much to bring him home. He may not have understood bonds between mortals, but he did understand when he had finally crossed a line. And all he could do once he crossed it was to wait for Losson. His heart know love for only being in all existence. . .and he was not about to jeopardize whatever was left for the sake of his pride.

It was thanks to Losson that Mephistopheles not only felt love for another being, but also experienced humility and shame.

(That is, shame in himself. Shame in others? Oh that was practically an innate sensation in him in this day and age).

“Understood,” Losson accepted, his voice sheepish, his gaze pulling away from the devil across from him. The sound of a wicker chair scraping against the brick floor beneath them interrupted the silence of the parlor as Mephistopheles stood again, this time not from outlandish appall due to Losson’s table manners. Fingers graced the underside of Losson’s chin, a bright cerulean in contrast to the pale ivory of Losson’s flesh. He turned the human’s gaze back toward him, offering an uncannily compassionate smile to him.

“Your birthright is getting the better of you, Losson,” the devil spoke calmly and coolly. “And Enver Gortash is reigniting your need to fan those flames. And if you want to keep your mind clear and your desires unclouded, you need to keep those temptations at bay.” Losson began to reach up to hold the hand beneath his chin close but no sooner does his hand raise did Mephistopheles withdraw and return to his seat. “Take this from a devil of my ilk,” he continued, taking another cautionary sip of his tea (as if hoping Losson might not say something absurd to interrupt his chance to savor the taste). “Temptations are something I deal in quite frequently, and if a devil is warning you of being swayed, it’s best you listen.”

“You’re going to need to clarify, Meph,” Losson said, voice wistful. “This whole birthright thing is new to me. Didn’t know I had one.” A laugh echoed in the back of his throat, almost in that of disbelief as the devil across from him sighs.

“You really haven’t a clue?” Mephistopheles asked.

Losson’s lips slowly curled into a faint, perhaps nearly apprehensive smile as his shoulders motioned into a shrug. “Can’t say I do; came from a small town without much knowledge of the outside world ‘til you came along. Not exactly an ideal place for a birthright to be bestowed upon anyone.” With those words, the expression upon the devil’s face fell, offering Losson an opportunity to quickly scarf down another mouthful of sandwich.

“Which makes all the more sense - a lowly commoner from a laboring village, rising to power and wresting control over major cities throughout the Sword Coast. Sounds like the exact kind of game they would be playing.” The words were spoken in such a way where Mephistopheles was clearly thinking through something on his own, but invited Losson’s ears to play witness. “Losson, you’ve been living within Baldur’s Gate for some time now, yes?”

“Couple years, give or take.”

“You’ve no doubt heard of activities occurring amongst individuals that might be affiliated with a trio known as the Dead Three, yes?”

It was hard to say. Losson kept his nose as clean as often as he could. He rarely strayed from the streets he was already comfortable with. He knew the city was rife with crime but he steered clear from anything that might have seemed like crossing the line. He’d had a run in recently with Nine Fingers, but it was only because he found out one of her closest confidants was one of Losson’s clients and she had issued a well intentioned threat that should she come back with any unsightly marks, she’d have it out for him. It was only once Losson assured her that he was often on the receiving end more often than not that Nine Fingers had a good laugh - and doubled down on her threat.

But he’d heard whispers of the Dead Three. What they did and what they got up to? He couldn’t say. But he’d made note of the name well enough that he’d concluded he was enough of a coward to turn tail and run if he encountered anyone affiliated with the name. It never happened, but in his line of work, he was no stranger to gossip and whispers. Something about cult worship. Something about the Vanthampur’s being involved in some sort of seedy dealings with them. Hidden temple to some less-than-well-received gods of ill repute.

“I know the name,” Losson said after a moment of thought. “Something about bad gods and cult nonsense? Can’t say I’ve crossed paths with anyone involved in that business.”

“You wouldn’t know if you had,” Mephistopheles informed him with another sip of his tea, noting how his spouse’s cup now sat empty. He lifted the pot from the table and refreshed the beverage, its steam billowing in wisps into Losson’s face. “Well, in theory - that’s the thing with cults. You often don’t know you’re dealing with one until it’s too late. But in your case, since you’re not keen to defend them, I think it’s safe to assume they haven’t sunk their talons into you. At least not yet.”

“That’s the part worrying me, the whole usage of yet.” He took a sip from his cup, grateful for his naturally cool body temperature preventing the tea from scalding his tongue.

“It’s Enver Gortash,” Mephistopheles resumed, refreshing his own cup. “He’s affiliated with one of them - Bane, to be precise - and it’s getting under your skin.”

“You’ll need to talk to me like I’m stupid, Meph. Bane? The fuck is that?”

“Losson, my ray of sunlight in a blackened sky - I am trying to talk to you like you’re stupid. And it doesn’t appear to be working.” The devil sighed. “Very well, I suppose you’ll need a quick lesson in cosmology before I can best convey my concerns.”

Losson didn’t know his father. That ought to come as absolutely no surprise. However, he did have an uncle that lived with him and his mother, though he never knew what side of his family the man came from.. Losson was an only child - and that was all that his mother needed. Not a soul in his hometown had ever looked upon her with disgrace or disgust for being a mother with no father present. Not since they all knew precisely what was going on with Losson's lineage.

His mother loved him, naturally. She doted upon him. Praised him and spoiled him. Gave him almost everything he could want. Even when she spoke to him of how he’d be a fine wife and mother one day and he insisted he would not be, that if he were to marry then he would be a husband, she embraced and loved him just the same.

But such is to be expected when you are told your child is the offspring of a god you and your people worship.

She told Losson how he would be a powerful leader one day. That he would prove himself to their god and he would rise to such great heights for the sake of their great tyrant. It was Losson would would herald in a new era. And as such a young, small child, all Losson could do was smile and giggle and assure her with a cheerful declaration of “Okay momma!”

But it would not be his mother’s words that crept beneath his skin, planting the seeds that would begin to germinate once Enver Gortash and Losson Wright crossed paths. It would be that of his uncle. While his mother would praise and uplift him in most aspects of his life - with the exception of tugging his hand firmly when he tried to talk to that disheveled tiefling on the streets - it would be his uncle that would teach him of precisely what he was capable of.

As a child, Losson did not have friends. Not in the sense that most children did. Most children gained friends from playtime and the mutual bonding that came from being small people in a world of adults. Losson’s friends did not come from such. While adults revered him and only spoke highly of him, his friends were just the offspring of the adults who forced their children within his company. And he did not connect with them as other children might. He instilled a fear among them in ways that in his adult years, he could not explain. They played his games and ensured they went the way he wanted them to. He was always the winner unless losing provided the better outcome. The children did not play with him out of a desire to be children together. They played with him out of fear - because they did not know what he might do if they chose to leave.

His playing always impressed his uncle. He would clasp a hand upon Losson’s shoulder, squeezing firmly, telling him that this was proof that he was the correct Chosen. The people were ensuring their children recognized Losson as their superior. That they knew that Losson Wright was the path they must follow and they did not wish to know what would befall them should they stray.

But it would be Losson who would stray long before any would-be followers did.

All because of some lone tiefling.

Some lone tiefling that Losson did not wish to play those games with. And instead, wanted to simply be his friend in a very different way.

A lone tiefling that in but a few short years would guide Losson from the path that had been laid out for him, ultimately stripping him of the reverence that his home had bestowed upon him. That ultimately led him away from the god that had been responsible for his birth. The god that had deigned him as his Chosen from the moment his mother conceived him.

The god that had denied him in the end in favor of Enver Gortash - a tyrant who was deserving of his blessing.

The god that cultists regarded most fervently as Bane.

Losson sat with his teacup emptied one again, although his fingers still remained pressed against the china as if he were about to lift it for another sip. He should have known Mephistopheles would present to him a thorough understanding of the Dead Three - most notably Bane. He could connect the dots now. It had been centuries and his childhood for him felt so much further away these days. When he’d first attained his adult body at a natural rate of maturity, childhood felt far away but not as far as it did this far down the line.

It made some sense. He remembered how during his early childhood how the adults of his hometown regarded him with such reverence. He thought he had just been an especially likable child when he’d first looked back. But to look back this far in the future with so much more understanding - he could remember how people would bow in his presence, how some would remove their caps. He shuddered. Losson was briefly taken by the memory of someone prostrating before him asking for his blessing and how he’d laughed sweetly, and patted the man’s head and agreed.

He remembered how he would play with children - and looking back, perhaps he’d just assumed he’d been a bossy, spoiled child. Always getting his way and being upset when games and playtime didn’t go as planned. But with this newfound insight from his husband's education. It was not that he was an entitled child. It was that he demanded that playtime went his way. It was that he struck them all with such fear that it was all to go his way or they would not leave this playtime without some aspect of injury. And if not from his influence, from the parents these children were desperate to please.

He thought of his uncle’s hands upon his shoulder. The way he whispered into his ear those words of encouragement and perhaps even those of manipulation. And how those words sounded so deep and heavy, resonating in the same baritone that rumbled upon his ear drums when he was in the company of Enver Gortash.

Losson never knew how this uncle was related to him.

But his gut knotted itself into an unsettling missing puzzle piece, telling him that he knew that deep down his uncle was likely his father.

Or perhaps, he ought to say Bane instead.

That sounded right.

And as Mephistopheles taught him more. The more it nauseated him.

“Did you know?” Losson asked as Mephistopheles noted the growing look of illness on his spouse’s face. “That I was -” A different teapot manifested upon the table which the devil lifted swiftly, pouring its contents into Losson’s cup.

“It’s ginger - it ought to settle your nerves.” Mephistopheles poured the beverage and lifted it into Losson’s hands. “I did not know the specifics, but after a few days within your hometown I was able to ascertain your neighbors were all worshipers of the Dead Three per their behavior with others and outsiders.” He waited a moment, allowing Losson to take a few sips of the drink, a softness overtaking him in such stark contrast to the frustrated outbursts he’d had earlier that afternoon. “Your willingness to reach out to someone with compassion and kindness went against their beliefs for a Chosen of Bane. Even when you were scolded and told not to offer me such support, the defiance you showed in response was not in line with what they expected of you - had you known then, it should have been no surprise that they turned on you when you stepped before them in an effort to save a life.” He withdrew again, once more settling into his seat. “They felt betrayed by one given to them by their god.”

Losson sipped slowly before his cup was set upon the saucer. “No child should be a prophet.”

“It was an unfair expectation to put on you, even if Bane were your birth father.” With some guilt from having to inform his lover of such truths, Mephistopheles began to place a few of the pastries from the second and third tier upon Losson’s plate. “Though if I’ve learned anything of you since then, Bane’s influence on you these days is minimal and you channel it in different ways, than through fear and tyranny..” There was a pause. “Most often in the bedroom if my observations of you back in the Material are any indication.” Mephistopheles offered a chuckle. “Innate need to rule and dominate and reign supreme through your very birthright and you opt to exhibit those carnal cravings through professionally dominating willing participants in sexual activity which they pay for handsomely. Cannot say that would have been my personal methodology for stifling Banite urges, but it seems to have curbed that appetite.”

“It didn’t ever happen when I was living with you here,” Losson murmured, nibbling on a scone dolloped with clotted cream. “I was happy as could be here, not a single intrusive thought.”

“Do you think Bane is foolish enough to try and influence a mortal - pardon me, pseudo-mortal - in my realm? Hardly. He likely cut his losses the moment he realized you had absconded the Prime Material and went about seeking another. As far as he’s concerned you’re likely just his bastard now.” The devil snorted a bit, as if stroking his own ego at his assumptions. “However, now that he’s sensed you’re back where he can access you, he’s probably been having quite a fun time watching you and his new Chosen getting under each other's skin. You probably threaten him just as much as he threatens you.”

“I’m not threatened by Gortash - he’s a mediocre client at best and not even a particularly entertaining sub.”

“But you get far more of a rush out of your appointments with him than you do with most others, don’t you?”

A pause.

“Don’t try to smartass your way out of answering this one, Losson. I’ve already gotten a feel for how you react to him. He might not be the most entertaining client, but he rouses something in you that is making you squirm.”

“Oh please don’t use the word rouse or squirm in association with Gortash.”

Mephistopheles smirked. “And why not? Because it rouses something within you?”

Losson grimaced, for once on the opposite side of the exchange of button pushing. “I’m leaving.” He set his cup back down on the table, the ginger tea having been fully consumed. “I didn’t come here to be bullied.”

“Come now,” the devil insisted. “Please. Stay a bit longer.”

Losson had begun to rise from his seat but he stilled himself as Mephistopheles requested he stay. For a moment, Losson looked him over and saw the face of the man who he’d first embraced the frigid chill of Cania for. The back and forth they’d had that afternoon, for better or worse, it had felt familiar. It had felt like coming home - because it was home for Losson. Home was with Mephistopheles. It had been an age since they had separated but perhaps enough time had passed that maybe Mephistopheles had learned something. Maybe he’d spent enough time observing how Losson interacted with other mortals - maybe he was still susceptible to embracing emotions associated with his union with the human after all this time.

But it was in how the request had been made that gave Losson pause. That made him wish to stay.

Mephistopheles had said please. As he had become more possessive of Losson when their relationship had taken a turn, there was no courtesy. He was demanding and authoritative with Losson and did not allow for much in the way of resistance. Losson was his to do with as he pleased, whether Losson accepted or not. It had been unpleasant to say the least. He did not make requests that Losson could refuse easily. But here he was. Making a request and doing so politely where Losson had all the freedom to leave if he so chose.

But Mephistopheles had done something to improve. Something to better himself. Something to be better for Losson’s sake.

And so Losson stayed put.

And Mephistopheles took his hand. And Losson did not refuse him.

“I suppose I could spare another hour or two,” Losson said with a faint smile dancing on his lips. “I don’t have any other clients today - why not?”

Mephistopheles’ hand closed lightly around Losson’s, his thumb brushing against him. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said warmly. “With all the time you’re spending on the Material, I may have a task for you. Although it may be a bit risky.”

Losson laughed, leaning back in his chair as his fingers weaved between the devil’s. “But I like risk - I wouldn’t be Losson if I didn’t.”

So the devil smiled and he spoke: “That’s what I like to hear.”


“If you’re going to be so distracted I would be happy to reschedule this affair to a later date.” Losson’s attention snaps back to the present to Raphael between his legs, his fist enclosed around a cock just inches from his lips. He hadn’t intended to let his thoughts wander, especially when Raphael was being such a well behaved sub that day. He wore his chastity cage around his cock with a strange amount of pride despite how with each brush of it against the bedding, he whimpered pathetically. Losson had found it especially entertaining when Raphael straddled his chest, the way he thrust into his fist as Losson’s palm squeezed upon his plump, straining balls and pleaded for more.

He’d been so remarkably put together as Losson’s fingers fucked his ass, stretching and spreading him only to be left wanting moments later. He issued an order, an order that resonated with those Banite urges, demanding that Raphael slick up his cock before he gave him what he’s craving. But it caught him off guard. His mind had been drifting elsewhere. Ever since Enver Gortash fell, his mind had been on the Crown. And the more Raphael pressured him about his plans for the Netherbrain - Losson’s mind went back to the Crown.

He wanted it.

Imagine what he could do in the bedroom alone with that sort of power. He wouldn’t need to do this for coin anymore. He would practically have people throwing themselves at him for a chance to let him dominate them. Or perhaps even for the rush of acting out a scene where Losson would play submissive, to allow someone else the power trip.

But he didn’t need the Crown of Karsus to do that - if anything the Crown would prevent him from doing things the right way: Safe, sane and consensual.

“I’m waiting,” he recovers quickly as Raphael looks up at him. “You hadn’t begun yet - get to it. Your ass isn’t going to fuck itself,” He pauses and laughs. “Unless you want me to call Haarlep in here. I’m sure they would be happy to. Or perhaps I’m not good enough to fuck you, hm?” He leans forward, cupping Raphael’s cheek, leaning into this Bored Dom approach he’d adopted for moments such as this. “Answer me, Raphael.”

He loves when Raphael looks sheepish, his warm flesh muddled with streaks of pink as he’s left momentarily flustered. “You’re good enough,” Losson begins to scold him for not finishing the sentence but he stops as Raphael resumes. “You’re good enough to fuck me.”

A smile flits upon Losson’s lips, patting at the man’s cheek. “Very good - now go on. Make me slick so I can slide right in and fuck you proper, yeah?”

He loves how obedient Raphael can be when he wants to really enjoy himself. His mouth is warm and Losson can feel the cambion heat emitting from him regardless of form. He sighs, head rolling back against the pillows. He doesn’t thrust - he wants Raphael to do his best without the incentive of getting a solid thorough throat fucking. He combs through his hair with his fingers, mussing up the impeccably coiffed locks, tousling them loose. Raphael’s hands hold Losson’s cock at the base, stroking what he cannot take lightly with his fingertips between slow motions of his head.

Raphael’s eyes close, focused and trained to pay heed to his task at hand. There’s a slurp and something about it causes Losson’s spine to shiver pleasantly. It must be apparent to Raphael as Losson’s hand shudders lightly upon his skull, offering the most delicate of yanks to the roots of his hair. With a flushed smile, Losson gazes down at him, once again trying to keep himself recovered from his distracted state. The cambion cracks open an eye, curiously studying Losson’s demeanor as he slows himself, lips lowered far down upon the shaft.

“Keep going,” Losson purrs, twirling some of his hair beneath his fingers. “You don’t expect me to slip in that easily, do you?” He laughs, leaning down to wipe a trickle of saliva from Raphael’s chin. “Unless you’ve secretly been prepping yourself while I’m not looking, I don’t think you’re loose enough to take me.” He leans back, eyes half lidded as he smirks. “When I’m done with you, you’ll be stretched enough that you can take anyone or anything.”

He hears Raphael whimper against his cock and the hum of the suck makes Losson give him just the lightest of hip rolls. “Ahhh~” He gasps out, pleasantly surprised at the way Raphael was handling himself. “Does that excite you? Being left wide and gaping for anyone to fuck?” Raphael nods into the next up-and-down of his mouth, his eyes closed once more, offering Losson the opening for some of that dirty talk that Raphael seemed so responsive to. “Are you imagining it? Imagining when I pull out of you, being left with your ass spread open only for something longer and thicker than I am to start pumping into you? Maybe it’s Haarlep - they have your cock, don’t they? So firm and ribbed and just aching to fill you up. And you know how Haarlep fucks you best, yeah? That way they press into you with no regard to how overstimulated you are, and how they can just cum in you again and again, and again even though you’re long since spent?”

Raphael’s lips part once he’s at the head of Losson’s cock and a yelping gasp rumbles from his chest. Losson doesn’t permit him another as he guides his head back downward, forcing the fiend to remain in his fantasy. “I wasn’t finished, and neither are you,” he insists. “But Haarlep can only satisfy you so long and you know they have other fucks waiting for them - so they pull out of you, leaving you still gaping wide and positively dripping - dribbling out over your taint and your balls before something else takes you - you don’t know who it is but they’re not as long as Haarlep is, but oh they’re so thick. The girth on them is more than you’ve taken before and you have to spread your legs wider just to take them comfortably. But they fuck you so much smoother than you expect - you can thank Haarlep for that and for how much cum is flooding from you. You feel it running down the back of your legs as you push back into the owner of this mystery cock.”

He watches as Raphael’s hips jerk upon the mattress - once more making a slut out of his bedding as he buries his trapped cock into the duvet. Losson’s breath hitches as Raphael’s mouth remains firmly planted at the base of his length, masked by curls of blond hair. The head of his cock nudges at the back of Raphael’s throat, smearing its pre-cum over the roof of his mouth. “Now, now,” Losson’s voice hitches as he gives a light tug to Raphael’s hair, trying to coax him upward. “Don’t make me cum too fast; I’m not you.” He chuckles and resumes. “Now where was I - oh yes. Haarlep comes back to you, but this time facing you, their cock still stiff and already painfully aching for more and just like the obedient whore you are for me right now, you suck them off, graciously burying your mouth on them. And oh they praise you so sweetly - Yes, Raphael, what a good boy you’re being in that sultry voice of theirs. And it distracts you so long that you don’t even notice how someone behind you has grabbed your legs and hitched them up around their waist so they can impale you with a length so deep you can swear you feel it rubbing against the head of Haarlep’s cock in your throat.”

Raphael’s head separates from Losson's cock again with another deep gasp, Losson glimpses his arm reaching back, likely haphazardly trying to finger himself to indulge in the scenario. “Now, now, Raphael - you can’t be gasping like that if you’re choking on mine or Haarlep’s cock, down you go!” He pushes encouragingly upon his head once again to force Raphael downward and something in the way his mouth glides upon him causes Losson’s breath to hitch as he emits a thunderous groan of approval. “Ohhh, Raphael, with moves like that you most certainly make Haarlep nut down your throat, coating it so richly and thickly that you can hardly tell where it begins and your own saliva begins - it doesn’t help that whoever it is that has you hoisted up dumps his load in such close timing with Haarlep’s that for a moment you’re left completely drenched on both ends. Left wondering how much more you can take - is there anyone larger that would be able to fuck you so deeply - it’s the perfect opportunity isn’t it? Raphael left with his ass spread and stretched and soaked in seed and ripe for the fucking. Surely there are bigger cocks that you can take but it’s not a bigger cock that fucks you next while you’re on display.” His narration continues as he takes a moment to watch the display of Raphael now rutting against the bedding. Surely this bed is the most pleasured lover Raphael has ever had, often at the receiving end of his impassioned humping of desperation. “But it’s not a large one that takes you next, oh no - it’s many small ones, as a swarm of imps smell you from miles away, clamoring to get a taste of you. They crawl up your body, mouths sucking on your wide, throbbing asshole, their tongues lashing out as they cackle and penetrate you, grinding and fucking you with haste - they don’t care about your pleasure. They care about using you for themselves. You’re left hazy as one of them, tired of waiting his turn for your ass flits to your mouth and fucks your lips rapidly before cumming on your face with a moaning laugh while another rubs its tiny cunt on your cockhead, grinding on you to get herself off before the mere presence of potential penetration causes you to nut on her, leaving her delighted as it still floods her and fills her.”

And Raphael whines, his rocking of his hips upon the bed growing sloppy and feverish as he tries to get himself off.

His mouth is getting tired. Losson can feel it and he’s been holding himself back. So he lifts Raphael’s head up, stroking beneath his chin as his lips curl around his cockhead as if he were sucking on a particularly large piece of hard candy. His eyes open, bleary and nearly disconnected from reality as Losson keeps him still a moment.

“And when they all pull away,” Losson continues, his fingers carefully removing some damp hair from Raphael’s face. “You don’t have a moment to relax before you feel the aching electric pulse of your prostate throbbing as in a swift thrust, an orthon - perhaps Yurgir? - snatches you by the waist and pulls you toward him, lifting up to be used as nothing more than his fleshlight.”

With that visual in his mind and the way Raphael’s lips part, his tongue sticking out stupidly, partly numbed from the oral abuse, Losson allows himself climax, spilling his seed all over Raphael’s face in ribbons and globules. He closes an eye as some of it strings close and dribbles down over his cheek and across his nose. He wastes no time sucking whatever residue remains at the head of Losson’s cock, lapping up what he can from around his lips hungrily. It’s near pathetic to watch but Losson loves the look of a greedy sub.

“Oh, you were starving, weren’t you?” he teases, leaning forward to scoop some of his cum from Raphael’s face with his finger, offering it for him to suck. He takes Losson’s finger graciously, sucking upon it lavishly as if licking them clean from sauce of a succulent meal. “Shall I remove your cage now, Raphael?” He whispers lowly as he cleans more of himself from Raphael’s cheek to offer more of it to him before it can cool. “You did such a wonderful job making me cum, should I do the same for you? Should I fuck you so hard that imps make you their plaything and Yurgir makes you his toy when I’m done?”

“Please,” Raphael murmurs almost lovingly upon Losson’s hand as his tongue continues to slurp at the offering of his dom’s seed. Losson loves when he’s compliant. Loves when he’s polite.

“That’s a good boy,” Losson purrs, beckoning Raphael closer, encouraging the human-bound cambion to crawl up his body whilst he lays down upon the bed. There’s something in how Raphael slinks up along him that almost makes Losson want to have the roles reversed, to be the malleable putty of a devil instead. But of course…he knows exactly who to go to if he wants that so badly.

His hands run down Raphael’s chest, through the dark curls of hair as he lightly draws the cool metal tip of the key of the cage over his flesh. Raphael groans. His hips rock forward. And Losson’s hands close around the cage. He feels the flesh pushing into the bars, so desperate to grow stiff within his grasp. He won’t torment the man any longer and with a click the lock is undone and Losson offers him freedom. It takes mere moments for Raphael’s cock to grow firm and plump in Losson’s clutches as he wastes not even a second as he strokes him. Raphael lowers himself so he is laying upon Losson’s body - a request he did not make - and begins to grind upon his torso.

It surprises him. The willing, deliberate motion of Raphael laying upon him, thrusting and fucking into nothing but the space between their bodies. He grunts, pressing tighter into Losson who sinks deeper into the bed. And he allows it. Allows Raphael to fuck the against his stomach. Occasionally he feels the fullness of Raphael’s sack rub along his cock and it causes Losson to groan in turn. But what he finds most pleasant of all - is how long Raphael lasts. It’s a few minutes of pure, animalistic, nearly silent frottage between their bodies before Raphael cums, coating their abdomens in fluid.

And he lifts himself up. And he glances at the mess between them before without a word, he slides himself lower, mouth upon Losson’s stomach, devouring his own mess. It’s quite a sight to see - Raphael indulging in his desires without Losson so much as having to apply the right voice or demands. He loves it. He loves this side of the devil. He loves seeing him no longer hiding behind his charming words or facades and simply enjoying himself. Raphael eventually pulls away, kneeling back with his legs spread, cock once more erect and exposed for Losson’s view.

And so Losson raises up as well, on his knees but far taller than Raphael is positioned. He runs his hand over him, collecting the devil’s cum against his hands as he offers it for him to lick clean - which he does without hesitation. “Did I say you could hump on me like a dog in heat, Raphael?” he asks with his voice low, perhaps almost threatening him. “Did I allow you to grind upon me like the imps in your fantasy?” Raphael’s gaze pulls away. “Did I give you permission to treat me as nothing like a tool to get yourself off?”

There is silence from the fiend as Losson’s hand encloses around his chin and turns his head toward him once more. “No,” he admits in a cautious mutter. “You did not.”

He doesn’t respond. He leaves the silence hanging between them for a moment. He leaves Raphael there for a time to squirm and contemplate what might await him. His lips part as if to defend himself but Losson grips tighter to silence him.

“You’re lucky my favorite sight is seeing you desperately scrambling to get off,” he muses, as he withdraws his hand, twirling his finger in a circle to direct Raphael to turn around. “Face down. I want your screams muffled by the mattress.”

Raphael obeys. Silently. Wordlessly. Excitedly.

And Losson mounts him - he loves when his subjects obey.

Notes:

WELL. DID YOU GUYS GET IT. DO YOU SEE WHAT LOSSON'S BIG MOTIVATOR IS NOW? YEAH!!!! I've been sitting on this for *actual months*. This has been the plan since like, chapter 3. And I'm so happy to drop Former-Chosen-of-Bane Losson Wright on all of you. I love the lore of the Dead Three and Durge's storyline has had me wondering from the start about possible former Chosen's of Bane and Myrkul and I ran with it for Losson. So I want to say thank you to everyone who has stuck with me so long to get to this point in the narrative.

Anyways! I am hoping to continue more of this once con season winds down! I've got 2 cons after DragonCon, with the last one being in October (but I'm not going too hard for that one, it's to visit SocialPermaDeath actually! Read his fics if you haven't!) but I should hopefully begin to have more chapters of this (AND STEEL BANDAGES) once con season's over for the year!

Love you all <3

Chapter 19: sometimes boring missionary is the best way to spice up your relationship especially when it comes with the realization that you're facing down the end of the world

Notes:

Hi everybody!

Been working on this chapter for a little bit, had some wild ups and downs IRL the past two months and I am finally in a position where I was able to finish the chapter, edit and get it posted.

Further updates from me - DragonCon ended up not happening so if you were there and looking for me, I'm so sorry. :( I had some work stuff prevent me from going. But I did attend Rose City Comic Con earlier this month and maybe I met some of you there! I'll be hitting up Anime Nebraskon and Anime Frontier this year too! No word on if I'm bringing the Losson cosplay to either yet. He is TOASTY. (He wears my own take on the Selunite Armor, and I padded it so I can actually take some bludgeoning damage in that armor).

ANYWAYS. No Raphael smut this chapter - I'm sorry, please forgive me - but there will be next time. We just got some sneaky shit and some married couple business this time around.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The crown feels heavy upon his head, drawing him ever downward as if he were bound in concrete and sinking to the bottom of the sea. In a way that’s precisely what happens as the crown rests upon Losson’s head. He feels the metal prongs of its edges digging into his flesh and burrowing into his skull. The weight is enormous and overwhelming but he dares not remove it. The flooding of power from the relic causes his veins to pulsate with sick satisfaction as an echoing voice of his sire cackles pleasantly in the recesses of his mind. Losson cracks a smile as he sinks deeper into the metaphorical sea that is not so metaphorical anymore. The crown had been tossed into the harbor to be left for some hapless fool to discover centuries from now but Losson had felt the twitching desire (urge) to dive in after it, much to the dismay of his companions.

“A drowning dream, really?”

The voice is not that of Bane reverberating against his brain but that of Mephistopheles, manifesting in the waters around him as Losson continues his descent to the bottom of the ocean. He merely floats, wings flapping behind him as if he were flying as he accompanies Losson on the way downwards. He leans back, raising one leg to cross one over the other, relaxing back as if in a recliner. Perhaps he’s simply astral projecting here and he’s comfortably lounging in his study.

“Oh, no, I see now.” Mephistopheles quirks a brow, leaning forward to flick at the metal of the crown piercing against Losson’s forehead. “It’s a power fantasy, isn’t it?” His fingers pluck at the crown and remove it effortlessly from Losson’s head, although the descent doesn’t cease. Mephistopheles studies it curiously within his grasp. “Quite an accurate reproduction of it, Losson. Though I wouldn’t have made the edges quite so sharp - perhaps that’s just your psyche trying to warn you of the dangers of using this relic.” With a flourish he returns it to Losson’s head, holding his hand to his chin to thoughtfully observe his partner. “You can’t tell me you truly are considering stealing this from me, are you?”

Losson’s mouth opens to speak but words are replaced with a geyser of bubbles from his throat. The flooding of water does not seem to strike pain into Losson once his lips part but sound does not emit from him. Mephistopheles nods and he responds with a sound of affirmation. “No, I suppose you couldn’t talk here, could you? Truly this is quite an elaborate take of your subconscious worries and desires, isn’t it?” He smiles. “Not only are you in possession of, but are wearing the Crown of Karsus, an object of immense power that I’ve been requesting you obtain for me, your beloved spouse, believing that you are the only mortal on this accursed plane that can be trusted with this task. An item that can and will destroy you from the inside out, and your own worries of that destruction are on full display as not only is it causing your skull to trickle with blood -” Mephistopheles leans forward and wipes some of the blood clean from Losson’s forehead. It does not simply wash away during the oceanic descent but rather coats and congeals quickly upon the archdevil’s finger. “But the weight of its power is drawing you down into the depths of the ocean where there are beasts and beings that even my kind don’t trifle with.” He taps at the blood between his fingers, observing how the chilled condition of his skin causes it to grow sticky and thick. “And to wrap it all up, you are unable to speak - helpless and incapable of defending yourself. You cannot even begin to tell me why you’d defy my wishes.”

Worried eyes study Mephistopheles but Losson is still rendered unable to respond as the devil reaches toward him patting his cheek, perhaps almost condescendingly. “You would really risk everything we’ve got in favor of pleasing your sire?” His smile is thin and calculating, the nail of his index finger digging into his flesh in a near threatening manner. “I’d have thought you and I had discussed silencing his voice quite thoroughly by now. Or do you put his value above mine?” The warlock’s mouth opens again in another means of defense but he’s only able to spew forth another wall of bubbles and foam. “Losson, my dear - please do try to remember. Bane may have had a hand in making you before this life of yours began, but I -”

The archdevil’s figure vanishes in a cluster of inky miasma, leaving Losson alone in the drink, still continuing to sink beneath the crushing depths of the ocean. He looks about, his skull moving about frantically in search of the man as the silence of the sea closes in around him.

But for only a second longer as Mephistopheles voice rings out again - but accompanied with something much more. The searing sting of ice as columns pierce through his limbs and before Losson can react they launch him forward, effectively slamming him face first into the oceans floor, pinned through each arm and leg - and weight presses on him from behind with talons of immeasurable length digging into his shoulders. He lets out a scream in response and this time his voice truly echoes amidst the fathoms surrounding him. Yet beyond his scream he hears Mephistopheles’ voice - clear as day, although gravely and croaking and crackling with a ferocity that Losson knows very well.

I will own you long after this life of yours ends.

Losson wakes with a start - he slept alone that night and often when he does is when he has the nightmares these days. He presses his hands to his face and rubs at his eyes. He’s soaked through his clothes - he wonders if that’s his sweat or indicative of the location of the dream. The infernal M upon his hand throbs and aches, reminding him that his husband’s presence in that dream may not have simply been his subconscious but an actual visitor.

He wasn’t so much of a fool that he was ignorant to the fact that Mephistopheles owned him even outside of their marital partnership. Though it was that ownership that had led to some contention between them in recent decades. As long as Losson drew breath, Mephistopheles could not own him in full. Losson was still free. And until such a time he perished, only then would the devil claim ownership of his soul. Although, Losson knew at this point that Mephistopheles was far too enchanted with their union to own him like he did his other souls - he did not express the desire to devour or consume Losson’s soul like he did his other warlocks. He had other plans. He’d even expressed on several occasions that he was far too fond of Losson to do any lasting damage to his soul. Bodies could recover from damage. Souls were not as lucky.

Losson finds himself wondering if his desire to swipe the crown from his husband comes from this fear of what Mephistopheles has in store for him. Was this a means of cheating death so that he could remain as he was without fear of ownership?

He valued his freedom. That was part of the perk of being human - freedom. Most other societies had some sort of stringent rules that were followed even if only superficially. Humans didn’t have those rules. Other than don’t make an ass of yourself and remembering that you’re mortal and you don’t have any innate magic to prevent you from getting injured. It was this freedom that he valued, he supposed, that made him resonate so closely with his traveling companions - not just Astarion - they were all bound to some sort of chains or contract that was preventing them from experiencing freedom in its purest form. They were all shackled in one way or another. And when Losson took a look at his dream in those early moments of waking, he was just willing to trade one set of shackles for another.

Pressing into the infernal M of his palm, Losson finds himself beckoning Mephistopheles. Not just his voice but his presence. His company. He wants to talk. He wants him there. It is early. The others had not yet woken up (with the exception of Halsin and Jaheira; notorious early birds). But Losson is silent in his beckoning. Silent as he slips from his bed and into his shoes and out the door to avoid the watchful eyes of his allies. His nails dig into the scar as once in the hallway he snarls in Infernal. In Abyssal. In Celestial. In every language he recalls. He steps into the side bedroom of the inn. He steps in there for privacy (grateful the bedding has been laundered since his romps with Haarlep a few weeks prior). And his voice is rough and bestial as he begs for Mephistopheles to come to him.

His nails draw blood and as if such a sacrifice is what was needed, a sulphuric odor emanates through the room accompanied with a crackling of shattering ice. But this ice does not pierce through Losson’s limbs this time as he turns to find who he’s summoned.

Mephistopheles does not dare take the form of a fiend on the prime material these days, even just a tiefling, he finds it’s too much of a dead giveaway. Instead he is that of a human man, taller than Losson by a head. Finely dressed in such garments that Raphael looks homely by comparison. His hair is dark, neatly combed and streaked with dignified flecks of grey and white. Spectacles rest upon his face covering amber eyes which study Losson’s demeanor curiously.

“I don’t want it,” Losson chokes as the man stands before him. “I don’t want the crown - no matter what my actions might say I don’t want it!”

Mephistopheles stands there, his arms crossed over his chest, body language hard to ascertain as he listens to Losson’s pleas.

“Yes, yes, the power is so enticing and something Gortash said to me - this whole idea of ruling alongside him. It was appealing! And it hasn’t left my mind. It’s like he knew that I was Bane’s original Chosen. It’s like he wanted to awaken that in me. Like he knew he was going to fall at my hand and wanted me to squirm and fester with this recollection that even if he fell, Bane still had a hold on me. That Bane hadn’t lost yet!” Losson clutches at Mephistopheles’ hands, the branding upon his palm burning as he grips on to his husband, desperate for him to grasp back. “I don’t want it. The Banite in me does. And it’s so tempting - more tempting than any pact you or other devils have ever offered me. This thirst for control and power has never been so great in me and I don’t know how much more I can quell it. Making devils beg at my feet in the bedroom is barely suppressing it - and I don’t how much longer I can hold it back.”

Losson is not one to cry - he finds he is often good enough at analyzing a situation thoroughly before he allows his emotions to get the better of him. But tears do prickle to life at the corners of Losson’s eyes, not from sorrow but from fear and frustration. He recognizes these urges within him. These desires to wrest control from all these figures in power. How he desperately wanted to let Astarion ascend when they slayed Cazador in hopes that he could have an Ascendant Vampire in his arsenal of allies. How he wished he could encourage Wyll to offer up his father’s life in exchange for freedom so that he might have political gain within Baldur’s Gate. How he wanted to allow Lae’zel the chance to appease Vlakith. How he nearly gave into this idea of the Absolute so many times just to feel that rushing of power over others. This entire time he had had the chance to wrest control over each and every person he crossed paths with and sacrifice their well being in favor of his own grabs for power. But he hadn’t.

“Of course that’s the case.” Mephistopheles finally speaks and allows a hand to close around the emblem emblazoned hand of his spouse with a squeeze. “If you were keen to let the Banite in you have all the control you would have done so by now - it’s quite easy to squash underlings beneath your thumb and you still opted to stray from that path Bane set out for you.” Mephistopheles wears an expression of staunch composure. Firmly knit brows, an unmoving jaw and eyes focused and unyielding. But these soften when Losson voices his worries. His hand closes around that of his human lover and holds it. “You are lucky that you instilled in me compassion for your plight and that at this moment I am particularly susceptible to it. You’ve been exceptional at curbing the urge through the work you occupy yourself with on this plane and I can offer additional protection from Bane’s chokehold on you whilst we are in Cania, but I am afraid that until you wrest control over that accursed brain wearing my crown, you’ll continue to be tempted by those whims.”

Losson’s expression falls at these words. There is no true reassurance by what Mephistopheles says to put his mind at ease. “That’s all you can say?” he asks, a crack in his voice as he hangs on pathetically to the devil’s grasp. “‘You’re doing the best you can, now finish the job so I can get back what’s rightfully mine’ - that’s all you have to say about this?”

“Do you want me to lie to you and assure you that Bane’s grasp on you will loosen once you finish the deed and that you can rid yourself of the pressures of being all that remains of his Chosen?” There is the faintest of scowls on Mephistopheles’ face. “You are his blood kin. Enver Gortash became his Chosen when you let him down and he still anticipates you will come through for him with Gortash slain. And if not now for his bid for the crown, in other ways. In other regards. For as long as you live, Bane has you shackled to his desires, no matter how much you wish to cast them aside.”

And so Losson’s gaze falls. His expression faltering and wavering to reveal the fear and disdain he’d been harboring this entire time, though he refused to voice it. The others could not know. His plight with his lineage was his own and it was only by luck that Gortash had been in his way at all. Thank the gods for Karlach and her unfortunate crossing of paths with the man during her youth. Losson’s hand goes limp and he steps away, seating himself at the foot of the bed, leaving his husband by the door. He leans forward, elbows upon his knees as he allows himself this weakness. He had been turned to so many times during the past few months for guidance and insight and as a leader of these misfits with a common goal uniting them. And yet his own troubles still weighed on him so heavily. He could assist in resolving these matters of his companions but his own matter was left unresolved. One does not easily sever one's blood lineage to the Hand of Bane.

A hand draws beneath Losson’s jaw whilst he allows himself this chance to wallow. His head is lifted and he finds himself with his attention turned upward to his husband, cradling his face within his palms. “If you are waiting for words of reassurance - allow me to remind you that you are mortal at the end of the day. Your life is extended by my will but your soul is still that of a mortal man. And mortals are so easily drawn toward their destiny, particularly when they have been laid out as cleanly as yours was. But you chose to ignore Bane’s plan - his manufactured fate that he had constructed for you - in favor of listening to your own desires. Stupid as some of those may be,” This draws forth a tug of a smile on Losson’s lips which Mephistopheles brushes his thumb over. “I am countless ages old, Losson, and mortals like yourself remind me as to why I find you all so interesting.” This forces Losson’s smile to widen. “Would I choose to spend time with any of you of my own volition? Absolutely not. I have self preservation, you know.” And this brings forth a laugh from the warlock, the tension beginning to ease. “But you remind me of why I find the living of this plane so curious.” His hand is gentle as it brushes across Losson’s cheek, tucking the flyaway strands of blonde hair behind his ear. “You’re unpredictable.” He continues to hold Losson’s face within his hands, leaning forward and lowering himself closer. “And your resolve makes me love you even more.”

“Are we still talking about mortals as a whole, or are we talking about just me now?” Losson croaks out, his cheeks pressed against his teeth, causing his words to become squelched together.

“I’ve been talking about you this entire time,” Mephistopheles says, his lips capturing Losson’s in an embrace that spoke the quiet parts out loud. His hands lower from Losson’s face and press upon the mattress on either side of him. He slinks forward and Losson begins to move backward upon the bed. His hand raises to hold firm upon the devil’s cheek as he slides back. He knows where Mephistopheles is leading this - he’s not opposed. He hadn’t called him here for this reason but it’s as good a time as any. His mind is silent from the intrusions of the Emperor. His patrilineal urges quelled from the presence of the archdevil. And his heart screams for the attention he’s being given.

Teeth lightly tug at his lower lip but Mephistopheles is not harsh in his teasing. It’s a message to Losson that he’ll be using those teeth elsewhere. And he does. He ends the kiss, his lips trailing over Losson’s chin to his throat. He gasps, his hands rest upon the back of the devil’s head as he preoccupies himself at the crook of Losson’s neck, peppering the flesh with kisses and scrapes of his teeth.

Losson has certainly kissed his husband since their separation. But it has been decades since they last went to bed together. But neither of them were out of practice. They had cues. Actions. Gestures. All used to communicate their next steps without ever saying a word as their mouths were often preoccupied. With teeth at the curve of Losson’s neck and a hand at his hip, he slips free from his upper garments with ease as Mephistopheles knows precisely how to duck and move his head to prevent as little severance between his mouth and Losson’s body as possible. The shirt is discarded to the floor effortlessly and the devil’s hands hold firmly upon Losson’s waist.

They undress one another - it’s not sloppy or feverish by any means, but it is hasty. Garments discarded with little care for the wrinkles that might be inflicted upon the folds of fabric as they crumple upon the floor. Losson has not had many forays with his husband whilst he’s bound in human form - he can count on one hand how many times it had been This would officially push them to the second hand (cause for celebration on Mephistopheles part as he loved the number six as it was divisible by both two and three). He shares features with Raphael in this form - warm, coastal complexion, wisps of dark hair upon his chest and arms, a slightly rotund belly as evidence of a well-nourished lifestyle. But he is far broader than his son. Far stronger as his build would suggest. All the while, he keeps his glasses on.

Mephistopheles is a devil - he does not struggle to procure what he needs from the ether. With Losson’s pants discarded and his groin exposed, the archdevil lifts his hips up and coaxes his lover to cross his legs behind him. He fusses with his own trousers, loosening and dropping them enough to expose himself. Mephistopheles has a bit of length on him but it’s hardly worth writing home about - at least in his mortal form - but he makes up for it in thickness. (Losson dares not make a comment about how much more endowed the archdevil’s son is.) He rubs himself between Losson’s legs, causing warm friction against the human’s taint and jostling his testicles upwards. His hand closes around Losson to keep his cock in place as he rises up and thrusts against him. It draws out a low moan and a grind of Losson’s hips as he thrusts into Mephistopheles’ motion and then a gasping roll of laughter from his chest.

“We’re doing this, aren’t we?” he asks, his head craned back against the plush cushioning of the duvet beneath him. Mephistopheles’ grip adjusts and he changes his hand to wrap as much as he can around them both, wrist moving slowly to stir up a little more of a reaction from his spouse. Losson’s arms raise up and he covers his face with his palms, the laughter continuing. “Gods, it’s been ages.”

“Why wouldn’t we be doing this?” Mephistopheles’ tone is quizzical but there is a faint hitch to his breath as his eyelashes flutter as he’s reminded of what it felt like to become intimate with Losson, especially when Losson was being so receptive to his advances. He doesn’t wait long for a response as within his grasp, he reaches into the nothingness to retrieve some of the lubricant he kept within his study back in Cania. His fingers return to the Prime Material, richly coated as he brushes them over Losson’s entrance, prodding gently.

There is no time for foreplay on this particular occasion. Straight to business. Straight to penetration. Straight to Losson arching his back as Mephistopheles slowly inserts his cock into his spouse after a few carefully planned and precise minutes of working his fingers about. If he wanted to partake in a steamy afternoon watching Losson’s birds nest of blonde hair motion back and forth as he sucked the devil off, he would have requested it.

It had simply been too long.

Losson’s fingers clench around the fabric of the blanket surrounding him, his body pushing into Mephistopheles’ hips in response. The devil looms over him with each thrust, shoulders tensing as he keeps himself upright during his methodical motions. It might not have been the flashiest of forays between the two of them but after so much time it wasn’t particularly necessary. There are no particularly loud declarations or symphonies of moans and gasps. This is routine. This is practiced. This is familiar.

The same old song and dance of a couple who knew one another's body and their responses better than anyone else.

They do not remain entangled with one another for an incredibly long time. They don’t need to. Mephistopheles and Losson remained in sync with one another even after decades apart so the timing between each climax is not long at all - Losson releasing himself within his husband’s grasp as he stroked his cock in asymmetric timing with his own thrusting before only a moment or two later ejaculating as well. He does not remain inside long. In fact it’s almost unceremonious as he pulls out, casts what can only be expected to be prestidigitation to clean them both up (although far more advanced as Losson’s body shudders - not only is the mess cleaned up but the germs and bacteria on his person are evaporated as well).

Mephistopheles removes himself from the bed and redresses before Losson can even sit up - for a brief moment it feels like he’s at work. That his husband is merely a client who’d paid his gold and was about to be on his way. For but a moment, it stings the core of his heart, but the pain eases as his spouse retrieves the clothing from the floor and places them upon the bed. The devil reaches toward Losson, wiping some of the sticky blonde flyaways from his forehead. It was the most mundane, plain, and unremarkable fling Losson has had in months - no, years - but he’s positive it’s the best he’s had in some time.

“Time is running out,” the devil observes. “I do not know how much longer this city can sustain itself with such a threat looming on the horizon.” He takes the clothing he’s set upon the bed and begins offering them to Losson who dresses himself slowly, still coming down from the high of being on the receiving end for once.

“I don’t know how to handle it,” Losson confesses as he buttons up the front of his shirt, tugging his hair out from the collar. There’s a scoff of faint annoyance.

“You free the gith and seek his aid, you fool.”

“Why can’t I just get your help then?”

“Because this isn’t my battle.”

“But it’s your crown, isn’t it?”

“Losson, I am not going to allow my brain to be on the buffet for an eldritch entity and its army of mindflayers.” Mephistopheles stares at his husband wholly unimpressed by the suggestion.

“But what if I was a mindflayer.”

“With all due respect, my love, I would have left you. I enjoy quite a variety of strange partners, but I think that might be where I cross the line.” There is an air of genuine sincerity behind his words but then he pauses. “No, that’s not quite true - I would have accepted you as that way begrudgingly although I do not believe I would be interested with intercourse with you anymore.”

“So it’s probably for the best I didn’t take that crystal tadpole, huh?”

“I would have forcibly ejected it from your brain if you had,” he sneers. “And before you ask me ‘Why didn’t you eject the original tadpole?’ Allow me to be blunt - because I wanted to see how you would fair and whether or not my influence over you would prevent the transformation.” A pause and his nostrils flare in annoyance. “But thanks to Balduran, I wasn’t able to study whether or not our connection would have prevented such a change, because his own influence was preventing the metamorphosis.” Under his breath, Losson hears Mephistopheles utter the word ‘bastard’ before coughing to mask his frustration.

“Aww cute, not only am I your errand boy, I’m a lab rat.” Losson sounds almost unimpressed but Mephistopheles stares him down as if to silence the doubts.

“Relax, if I had noticed any genuine changes in your demeanor, physically or mentally I would have intervened.” He reaches over to Losson and begins to unbutton his shirt, causing Losson to babble out a few words, exclaiming he wasn’t aware there would be another round. “It’s done improperly, I’m fixing it.” His fingers deftly readjusting the fastenings, but his hand rests upon Losson’s chest a moment longer. “You know he cannot be trusted, don’t you?”

“Since we got to the city - some of the things he was saying sounded so. . .” Losson pauses as he rests his hands upon his thighs, his pants back on but still open and undone at the front. “Isolating. The way he talked to us, to me, sounded like he was trying to make me feel like he was the only one who was protecting me but -” He turns to look at the man seated next to him whose eyes roll as he finishes dressing Losson instead, tugging at the laces to tighten the front of his pants. “There’s a lot more to it. He’s not the one who has been fighting out here this whole time. He hasn’t been putting his life on the line like we have. The whole time we’ve been here it’s just been feeling like he wants me to believe his way is the only way.”

“And you damn well know it isn’t.”

They fall silent. Losson adjusts the way his clothing sits on his body in order to become more comfortable in them. Or perhaps more comfortable in his own skin. He feels the devil at his side shift in place as if he were able to stand but instead Losson reaches over and takes his hand. The Infernal M upon his hand glows brightly as he squeezes upon the archdevil’s, not so much looking up at the man. But he clenches that hand tightly - not wishing to let go. “You know he appeared to each of us as someone we found approachable, right?” Losson says. “Someone that we would be comfortable around.” He inhales. It is sharp. Almost like a hiss. “He showed up for me, disguised as you. Even masqueraded as you. Pulled from my memories of you. Had me convinced at first.” He looks up, his grip tightening. “I didn’t believe otherwise until I could hear your voice after we cleared out the goblin camp.”

He feels heat coming from Mephistopheles’ hand. He knows where it comes from. From the Hellfire that the archdevil harbors within himself. He knows that this is the heat of his husband’s rage. For a moment, Losson can feel the trembling of the Hells and hear the cracking of ice and glaciers of Cania as Mephistopheles’ influence on that layer can be felt even when he is not present. Though his body feels hot to the touch, the room begins to grow icy, chilled and frigid as if the heat were being absorbed into Mephistopheles’ person.

“You best dispose of Balduran sooner rather than later.” Mephistopheles speaks calmly. “Because if you do not - I will have no choice but to do so myself.” He offers a final squeeze to Losson’s hand before he releases it and stands. “Balduran has a lot of gall to try and pass himself off in my image. I do not take fabrications lightly.”

He bears a smell when he returns to his companions. Something that Lae’zel is quick to point out, addressing him with something of a sneer as she comments that he has the stink of a frozen corpse to him. He can’t help but laugh - especially when the others are left perplexed at the observation. Frozen bodies had a smell to them. It was hard to describe it. But it has a gaseous, metallic odor. It was not that of rot, but of preservation.

Losson thinks to himself as he finds himself sinking upon one of the various lounges within the room, that he thinks it’s time. Mephistopheles has bought them enough time, as had the Emperor and Orpheus - but he supposes it’s his own fear that keeps him from taking the next steps. Kind words from his patron aside, Losson knows he is only human. He is still weak in the ways of temptation and if his birthright has any say in things, he would betray his pact for the chance at ruling. But for all that accursed blood coursing through him, the heart that controls it has always been guided in another direction. He feels the throng of an ache within his chest as he brings his hands to his face, rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips.

“You stink,” he hears in a tone that ought to be affectionate as Astarion learns down, combing some of Losson’s hair to the side. “It’s not only Lae’zel’s heightened senses that can pick up on it - you actually stink. The bodily fluid stink.” He sits upon the arm of the sofa, fingers still idly playing with the warlock’s hair. “You usually return from Avernus smelling smoky and rather like Raphael’s horrendous cologne, but this is different. Care to indulge me in hearing about your little escapade this morning, darling? Or is this one of your secrets that I’ll have to wait until it thaws out.”

His hands lower and he gazes up affectionately at Astarion, enjoying the light, caressing gestures of his fingers through his hair. A man previously of such intense, sensuous displays of passion was so calmly and blissfully performing a nearly innocent display of intimacy. It was such a pleasant, delightful thing to see. “Husband.” Losson is brief with his words and this causes Astarion to throw his head back in a jovial, boisterous laugh.

“The archdevil himself?” He asks, hand to his chest in surprise. “In our company? And he didn’t even have the nerve to show himself before me?”

“Might have been afraid you’d try to stab him for telling Cazador about the Rite.”

“Me? Stab your spouse? Over something as meaningless as that?” He feigns a look of shock and horror. “Why, you’re absolutely correct, but I do know better than to put myself at odds against a devil of his caliber. I might just have to use you to do that for me instead - he’d forgive a little bloodshed if it came from his cherished husband, wouldn’t he?” Losson breathes out a laugh as he reaches up, clasping Astarion’s hand within his own.

“I’ve done it before - though he likes to remind me of it from time to time if he’s trying to push my buttons.” He explains coolly. “Though I should introduce the two of you at some point - he knows about you, of course.”

“The wounds are still fresh, love,” Astarion coos with a squeeze back to Losson’s hand. “Scarred over, yes, but they’re still fresh and all jokes aside, I cannot guarantee the urge to drive a dagger into your husband’s gut would be easy to suppress.” A grimace lays upon his face, but Losson knows what it means. Astarion was not through with healing.

Vengeance is sweet, surely, but even when exacted, it doesn’t necessarily mean that all is in the past. Though Cazador was now rightfully slain and Astarion and his fellow spawn granted their freedom, there was still the sting of disdain toward all those who put him in that position. Toward those responsible for his imprisonment. Mephistopheles was another of those figures. Sure, they both knew that devils operated according to their own code of rules, laws and ethics. Mephistopheles did not teach Cazador of the Rite of Ascension with the intention to deliberately harm one Astarion Ancunin. He did it as part of a deal. An arrangement. And truthfully, Mephistopheles was going to come out the greater winner in the end. Should Cazador succeed, Mephistopheles would have the souls of thousands of vampire spawn forfeit to him. Should he fail, which was far more likely, he had Cazador’s soul - one that was sure to provide the archdevil with delight in tormenting.

Losson could have reminded Astarion that the exchange of information wasn’t personal. But it wouldn’t solve anything. The wound was still raw and bleeding and only now that the source of it was dealt with could Astarion process where his vitriol could best be directed. And perhaps Mephistopheles was the next best target. A target that only knew of him as his mortal lover’s second partner. Not as a victim of one of his exchanges. And perhaps, Losson thought, that was the safest direction for Astarion to place his hatred. An archdevil he knew that he could never face off against. An archdevil that was bound to the man who saw him as a person first, and an object second.

“Well, you and I’ve all the time in the world, don’t we?” Losson asks, offering another tight grasp to Astarion’s hand. “Given our own circumstances. Provided we don’t get assimilated into the Netherbrain’s army.” This lures a chuckle from Astarion who slips away, hand and all.

“Meeting your husband almost sounds worse when you phrase it like that,” he teases. “Let us hope that assimilating will be easier than maintaining an interplanar polycule then.”

When push came to shove, however, there was still one matter that lay on the table that was pressing upon Losson's spouse, although it was yet to be addressed. One such matter that had been very much something of an issue between himself, his warlock and his ingrate of a son - that contract. The one Losson had agreed to in the Devil's Den some time ago.

Mephistopheles was no fool. And for Losson to casually avoid mentioning the contract he had signed with Raphael did not go unnoticed. Whenever one of the archdevil’s kin made a deal with anyone - he knew. And the day that Losson signed that scroll, agreeing to hand his soul over to Raphael in order to receive the Orphic Hammer, Mephistopheles felt the metaphorical chain he had around Losson’s neck tug. And not in a way he particularly enjoyed.

And so that was why he had decided to pay more interest in his son’s behavior after that point. Of course, he turned his gaze away and dimmed the lights and plugged his ears when he found out about the more sordid arrangement he had made with his spouse. His stomach knotted itself up at the notion, but at the very least Losson was teaching him a lesson in humility. Which devil’s aren’t particularly known to be good at, but it was a helpful concept to be familiar with. Especially in the case of a rotten cambion who fancied himself far more powerful than he actually was.

(It was a shame - Mephistopheles had quite liked his mother. Lovely woman. He wouldn’t say he was romantically attracted to her in the slightest, but she was cunning and clever. Tough as nails.

Raphael’s talons tore through her stomach when he was born and nothing could have been done to save her. Such is the nature of cambions.

He wouldn’t say he mourned when she perished. But it was disappointing. Would he say that was why he resented Raphael as his son? Oh, certainly not. Raphael was just an overachiever who constantly bit off more than he could chew and couldn’t be assed to learn a lesson from his failures. It was always something or someone else that was cause for his failure.)

And it would be his own conceitedness that would be cause for his particular arrangement with Losson Wright that would result in his failure yet again. In his way, Mephistopheles had opted to warn his son when he summoned him to Cania. When he spoke of coming to some sort of agreement between the two of them when it came to who would take possession of the Crown of Karsus. He took a page out of his demonic brethren’s book and decided to play the game of deceit with his son. Raphael wanted to lure Mephistopheles’ favorite into a contract? By all means, Raphael, but there would be a price to pay.

To try and make a contract with an archdevil’s warlock - an archdevil’s spouse, especially - was bold. Even bold for Raphael. But Mephistopheles would allow it. He would allow for that contract to exist. It wouldn't hold up. Not in devilish courts. For a cambion to attempt to usurp his sire's control over a soul? It was laughable. Furthermore, he was quite sure Losson was under the impression that he would owe Raphael nothing on the cosmic level, his soul was already in Mephistopheles’ possession after all. Perhaps that was why he’d moved forward with this little bedroom scheme of his. As some means of compensation in the end. Losson would be required to renege on the deal due to his pre-existing contract, Mephistopheles would allow Raphael to believe that he approved the contract he’d formed with his warlock, but in truth?

His very hold over Losson rendered that contract null and void.

And Mephistopheles supposed his foolish son knew this - and such was why he agreed to the terms laid before him in a friendly game of dragonchess. He could use the crown that would be secured under the contract he had composed for the warlock known as Losson Wright, but only per the clauses Mephistopheles laid out for him. But naturally, he intended for no such arrangement to be made.

Loopholes, he decided, were quite a fun little exploit.

Devils were known to be crafty and cunning with their clients, using honeyed words and niceties to lure people into their contracts with all truths laid bare. Demons on the other hand were known to mislead and deceive to ensnare their prey.

And when it came to pulling the wool over Raphael’s eyes - Mephistopheles found himself seeing the appeal. Perhaps, sometimes, those Demon Lords were on to something.

Notes:

At long last, I wrote Losson fucking his husband.

And addressing the polycule!

I wanna let y'all know about, because I've addressed this in the comments before. Losson's relationship with Astarion is not romantic in the same way as it is with Mephistopheles. I am leaning really hard on the narrative that Astarion is allowed to pursue deep, passionate bonds with people without having to rely on romance and sexuality as a means of deepening a relationship with someone. So while there is definitely love between them, Losson and Astarion are both understanding that as semi-immortal figures, a bond between them, whether romantic or platonic, is going to be very different. So while there is intimacy and a love between them, it is not like Losson and Mephistopheles who have this passionate, long lasting romance between them. Losson and Astarion consider themselves to be in a relationship, in the sense that that they are viewed as being an item, but it's far more complicated than just that. Astarion even says in game that whatever it is between him and Tav, he likes it. He isn't troubled by Losson being married, and Mephistopheles certainly doesn't mind that Losson has another partner. TL;DR: Losson is big on open, clear communication between his partners.

Anyways, tada! Happy chapter aaaaand.

Happy Anniversary TSM! We hit the 1 year mark last week. Thank you everyone for sticking with me so long and for all the comments and support I've gotten on this piece over time. I have gained and lost readers and have gained some truly wonderful friendships (and a partner) over this silly little fanfiction. This is the longest I have consistently updated a fanfic in my entire life and I think this will be the first time I ever actually COMPLETE some of my writing. Truly, this has been an amazing ride and I'm glad to continue entertaining everyone with this story. Thank you <3

(P.S. Neil Newbon liked my Losson cosplay :) )

Thus Spoke Machiavelli - tastypeaches (2024)
Top Articles
Latest Posts
Recommended Articles
Article information

Author: Lilliana Bartoletti

Last Updated:

Views: 5806

Rating: 4.2 / 5 (73 voted)

Reviews: 88% of readers found this page helpful

Author information

Name: Lilliana Bartoletti

Birthday: 1999-11-18

Address: 58866 Tricia Spurs, North Melvinberg, HI 91346-3774

Phone: +50616620367928

Job: Real-Estate Liaison

Hobby: Graffiti, Astronomy, Handball, Magic, Origami, Fashion, Foreign language learning

Introduction: My name is Lilliana Bartoletti, I am a adventurous, pleasant, shiny, beautiful, handsome, zealous, tasty person who loves writing and wants to share my knowledge and understanding with you.