#dvilsdesire

SEVEN INCHES OF SATANIC PANIC LYRIC STARTERS! || Open!

The scent of sulphur assaulted his nostrils several beats before the druid caught sight of the devil, before he uttered his...interesting proposal. Or perhaps demand, considering the speaker. An unkempt brow raised, he turned his full attention from the work before him to his unexpected guest.

         ❝  See,  I  knew  you  would  understand  me.  ❞

Even after a long day of healing in the temple's infirmary and working his hands raw in the rebuilding efforts, Zevlor's spine straightened and shoulders squared. Not only because there was a stranger in his rooms, but because he recognized enough of the scent around them to be on guard. A subdued part of him was also, briefly, godsdamned exhausted.

Zevlor rested a hand on the pommel of one sword, a couple fingers loosely curling round the haft. Just in case.

The scribe narrowed his eyes at Haarlep, neither enjoying the devil's presence or this line of thought.

The quill set down, the ink temporarily forgotten. Standing idle for too long, with no distraction in sight, caused his pet to grow increasingly. . . Restless. Needy. The devil sighs.

“Someone is desperate for attention today, gnawing on me like a feral little pup. Have I neglected my shadow?”

With a shove of his boots against the floor, he slid the chair back, creating just enough space to seize the incubus by the waist; down over his lap, trapping him tight between his chest and the edge of the desk.

“You will sit here, and you will not move. You will bear my touch, feel my hardness against you, and be completely silent until I finish this paragraph.

Raphael pressed a kiss to the shell of Haarlep’s ear “Disrupt my handwriting, spoil my ink. . . and I will return you to the cage boudoir without a second thought. Do we have a deal?”

not in any outward lechery, the likes of which are too often consumed by all else in these labyrinthian halls. but of companionable cohabitation and noncontention.

to put plainly: they curl like litter mated kittens - kept in the crook of elbows or tucked tightly by tail end.

it is rest alone, resplendent and rancor inducing to which the master of the house finds them one night. estella heavy in yards of stiff satin, crinkling crisp as immortal autumn leaves - and haarlep, a bolster - broad at her back.

The first - immediate - impression had been that he'd somehow stumbled into the wrong room, into the wrong Devil, and for the wrong deal.

Mamzell Amira assured him that Raphael had been on-site today, in his usual private quarters on the uppermost floors. His voyage to Sharess's Caress was decidedly a private one at this time, for better or worse (and Gods, did he pray for the better), the distractions of his companions hadn't left him the adequate space to think, let alone decide the trajectory of Toril's fate.

Hence, it came as a shock, upon entering the door, to see that he'd staggered into their infamous red Devil... flagrantly naked, upon the spread of rich velvet sheets.

It was... Unlike Raphael to strike up any other subject with him but the matter of leverage. It was also unlike Raphael to flaunt any part below the collar in such scandalous fashion; spread eagled, with perhaps the intent to vaunt his rather sizeable display -- but he'd digressed.

What on the Gods-damned earth was going on?

"Er, where is- Raphael?" The words fell awkwardly out of Marcellus's mouth as if he hadn't properly formed them in his mind before he allowed his tongue to shape them - something, this strange imposter might have been delighted to know, was rather uncharacteristic of him. He let his arm drop from the door handle, teetering at the entrance as if deciding whether his entry was to be permitted.

Well, this stranger did imply he'd fancied a taste. Which was a call enough for at least one cautious step into the room, letting the door click shut behind him.