#raphtav

Weeks passed.

The Netherbrain had fallen all according to his plans. The Crown found its way neatly into his possession, served by the very two hands of his favourite client. And so, Raphael, was busier than ever.

At first, there was no pattern for him to notice.

Why would there ever be one? You were never there when he was. Always just missed. A coincidence, perhaps… once. Twice, even.

But today… today was different.

Avernus greeted Raphael with its familiar heat, a comforting one for a cambion like him. The House of Hope was quiet, aside from the moans and groans of his eternal debtors. Inside, the air carried the faint sweet trace of Haarlep’s hookah.

No sign of you. Of course.

The visit to his own home was meant to be quick. It was more out of maintenance than anything else. After all, he still had strings to pull and some more bargaining to do before moving to the next step of his grand plan.

With everything in order, Raphael snapped his fingers. The air curled as a portal ripped through the atmosphere.

Then—

A touch.

Soft. Featherlight.

Fingers ghosted through his curls, uninvited, and most definitely unearned. A slow, indulgent caress against his scalp, as though he was something to be handled. To be used.

His hand stilled mid-motion.

Another sensation followed, warmer, sweeter this time. Raphael felt a shiver down his spine as he felt lips brush along the column of his neck. Each touch sparked familiarity that made heat crawl beneath his navel.

The soft kisses continued. Lower, and lower.

And lower.

Slowly Raphael straightened his back, every inch of his length felt tight underneath his trousers. He gritted his teeth as he felt soft bites along his inner thighs. Before it turned into the feelings of soft lips enveloping his member.

Raphael went utterly still.

Oh.

Oh.

It finally dawned on him.

You have been visiting.

But not for him.

No.

It was never to seek him, or even indulge him.

But to have your greed be sated by his incubus.

Raphael exhaled, eyes darkening as a storm gathered beneath his eyes.

How utterly insulting.

With a snap, spits of fire and smoke curled in the air, transporting him to exactly where you didn’t want him to be in.

His own boudoir.

—

Curiously, there was ‘a mouse’ – one who exhaustedly lounged about on a small writing desk tucked in the corner by the window. As he crept closer, his expression turned humored by the story told upon the desk's sunlit surface: surrounded by stacks of books, missives, and magic scrolls was an unrolled sheaf of parchment that had turned mostly black due to the spilling of a pot of ink. The main body of text that Someone had belabored to scrawl had been lost to the flood of ink, and so too had the quill been devoured in the blackness that spanned to stain the other contents on the desk. What survived of the nearly-illegible writing had been covered boldly by black mouse prints reading:

HELP ME

The mouse in question was as earlier described: exhaustedly sleeping on a raft of a book on its back with inked paws and fur.

“Well, well, what manner of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?” Raphael said to the room and to the little creature that he suspected to be his beloved fool of a partner.

The mouse opened a beady eye to peer at him and leapt up in a fright before rambunctiously squeaking at him. The mouse was quite a sight walking on its two legs, animatedly throwing its hands in the air as it regaled him with an explanation he could not understand. He watched the mouse grab the fur atop its head in frustration, yell and gesticulate further, before it ultimately fell in a heap and began to pitifully wail.

He lowered his head to blink at the rodent on a more-even level. “What did you want me to do about it, my dear?”

The mouse’s wailing ceased immediately as if there had been no real tears to begin with, and the creature hopped off its raft to pass through the dark, inky waters to reach the bottom of their bold message. It took a minute, but an addendum came to be carefully added with tiny, clawed hands and feet.

The message subsequently read:

HELP ME, U ASS

The mouse stared at him with threatening eyes.

Raphael stood to full height and smiled devilishly. “And in return?”

The mouse squeaked a curse at him and charged, leaping from the desk to latch onto his doublet and scurry up fine fabric with an ink trail in its wake.

Raphael dexterously grabbed the mouse by the tail before it could run up and unpleasantly bite him.

The creature crossed its arms as it hung helpless in his grasp.

“For a kiss, not a bite,” said the cat, or the fox, or the rat-fucking-bastard.

“Squeak,” said the mouse, resigned.

The mouse was raised to his handsome and perfect face, and Raphael felt a cold nose touch the stubbled skin of his cheek.

Pleased, he moved the mouse over to the couch and set it down upon the cushion.

SNAP.

His Tav appeared, naked and angry.

“What the FUCK, Raphael!”