Archive of Our Own

Mizora hated being kept waiting.

Time passed according to its own laws in Avernus, but by her estimation, this new neighbor of hers— this bastard princeling— was nearly an hour late. To his own meeting.

First, she waited in the vestibule of the palace, utterly ignored while servants scurried about with boxes and artwork and pieces of furniture; then, the gallery, where a simpering mortal secretary accepted her credentials and confirmed her appointment.

"Master Raphael will be home any moment," the mortal said. "You are welcome to relax in his boudoir until then. It's where he conducts his most private matters of business and pleasure."

So she waited in the boudoir. It was gaudy, like the rest of the house: with marble floors, gold-trimmed surfaces, a heated pool, and a scattering of newly-placed furniture— a writing desk, some chairs, and a canopied bed. A massive portrait of what she could only assume was the Master of the House himself surveyed the chamber with a glowering, domineering frown.

Somewhat more notable than the decor was the incubus on the bed.

"You poor thing," it purred. "You look so tense. Don't fret. Raphael never takes too long."

Mizora thrummed her fingernails on the armrest of her chair and deliberately re-crossed her legs, shooting it a smile that she hoped conveyed the appropriate ratio of irritation to forbearance.

"I do not fret, nor does Lady Zariel. However… she does have a teensy tendency to become displeased when her representative's time is wasted."

"Time spent with me is never wasted." The incubus traced a claw on the satin sheets in front of him, in a gesture as obvious and well-worn as his leather lingerie. "I am Raphael's personal incubus, and he wishes only the greatest pleasure for his honored guests."

"Nevertheless, I am here on official business. I am in no mood for—" she waved her hands— "this. I'd prefer to wait without distractions."

The creature sighed. "Very well." And with a languid snap of its fingers, it vanished in a puff of smoke.

How unusual! What was Raphael's game here, leaving an incubus— his personal incubus?— to service his guests? Mizora had attended many meetings over the course of her career, both in Baator and on the Prime Material Plane, and she had never seen such an arrangement.

She had told the incubus the truth: she was here on official business. The dossier she carried with her contained a multitude of forms that needed to be signed and witnessed in order to authorize this new palace as an official residence and place of business. But as much as Mizora loved paperwork, she loved gossip more. And there was so much she needed to know about Avernus's newest and most newsworthy resident.

What kind of a man was this Raphael?

And…

What kind of a man leaves his incubus in his waiting room for his visitors to fuck?

Until she had the answer to this strange, nagging question, she knew she could never be satisfied.

She already knew a few things about him. Like herself, he was a cambion: part fiend, part mortal, unranked in the rigid hierarchy of the Hells. Mizora had earned her place at Zariel's right hand through her ruthless efficiency and penchant for detail— and that place was as close to a promotion as a cambion could hope for. Or so she had thought, until she beheld the House of Hope in all its tasteless glory. She ran her fingers along the red satin upholstery of her oversized and over-cushioned armchair. So this is what being the son of Mephistopheles gets you.

With the incubus gone, and with no sign of her host, Mizora set about one of her favorite pastimes: snooping. The mortal secretary had said that this Raphael conducted business here, but of course, the filigreed drawers on the gilded desks were empty. No surprises there. No devil kept real paperwork unsecured, and besides, he had only recently arrived.

Next, the wardrobe: not empty, but nothing remarkable either, she thought to herself, as she shifted through rows of identical blue, gold-trimmed doublets.

She glanced at the steaming pool— like the incubus, she thought it prudent to avoid— and then at the recently-vacated bed. Like the armchair, it was covered in red satin, and the headboard was lousy with gilt carvings of fiendish faces. She rifled through a bedside table and immediately regretted it, unveiling a set of extremely minimal leather undergarments. Sighing, she reclined and kicked up her feet onto the crimson duvet.

Bored again. Perhaps she had dismissed the incubus too hastily. She was not wholly immune to their charms— there was enough mortal in her for that. But the delights of their venom paled in comparison to the joy that Mizora took in her work. She handled contracts for Zariel regularly and dealt with mortals face-to-face… weeping, desperate ones, shamed, humiliated ones…

The memories of her dealings sent a frisson of pleasure through her body, but it immediately curdled into frustration. I should be up above, she thought, getting work done. Now that she was out of drawers to open, she was back to waiting.

She leaned over onto her elbow with a harrumph. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something that had escaped her notice: a stack of papers on the bedside table, neatly tied together, handwritten in ink.

Documents! she thought… but then, when she took them in hand, she saw that they weren't contracts at all. They… no, it, was… a manuscript?

A REIGN OF CROWNS AND SCEPTERS

read the title,

by

RAPHAEL

Mizora bolted upright. This— now this was interesting. A story, written by Raphael himself! One could only learn so much of a man by sampling his incubus. Sampling his writing, though…

She folded her wings, curled up her tail, and settled into the cushions.

It was time for a little bedtime reading.

Your breath catches as you step into the grand throne room in the great citadel of Mephistar. "How can this be?" you wonder. After all, you are but a simple maiden, a lowly cambion wench…

Mizora's eyebrow twitched slightly, more perplexed than offended. After all, Raphael was a cambion too, so why would he…

…and how could a lowly cambion wench be here to witness this grand ceremony, this celebration to end all celebrations? And yet, here you stand. You check your invitation again, just to be sure.

(Y/N,) it reads. You are cordially invited to attend the coronation of Raphael, the Archdevil Supreme, in the Grand Throne Room of the Great Citadel of Mephistar, Cania. Reception to Follow.

"Y… N?" Mizora sounded the letters aloud, before realizing that the author expected the reader to substitute their own name in place of the letters.

Mizora tried… but no. It was impossible. Something in her fiendish nature compelled her to treat the written word of the text as literally as possible. Y/N it was. She continued:

As you make your way through the crowd, you can't help but notice the gown you are wearing as it brushes against your body. You hope it will be suitable for such a grand occasion, but you are unaccustomed to such finery. Your hips are swathed in layers of soft silken skirts, and your supple breasts, bound by the corseted yet extremely tasteful and well-tailored top, long to break free of their oppressive constraints. The other devils around you are bedecked in finery, and your blush turns your ruddy cheeks even ruddier.

After all, you are not like other fiends. There has always been something different about you. A fire, a spark, something devastatingly unique that has always led others to misunderstand you, underestimate you, undervalue you, despite your obvious superiority to them in every way. And yet, despite this unique superiority, you blush from modesty as their leering gazes sweep over you.

Candlelight dances over the ice of the palace walls, and the hubub of the crowd give way to awed silence. There is a glorious fanfare as dozens of trumpets announce the grand arrival.

Then, He appears. Climbing up the dais towards the massive throne is the most handsome fiend you have ever seen. His great wings stretch out behind him, his glorious, glittering garb only highlighting the muscular beauty of the body beneath. You swallow, hard. Surely, this must be Raphael himself. He is a magnificent specimen of a fiend— not unlike yourself in form, but transfigured by the power of the Crown that he now holds in his hands. You hear murmurs of appreciation from all around as the mightiest devils— pit fiends, gelugons, osyluths— fall to their knees in wonder. You feel that urge to kneel sweep over you, too— your body responding instinctively to his dominating, masculine presence.

But no! You are too proud and fiery to be so easily tamed. You remain standing a moment longer on trembling knees, as he holds the Crown of Karsus and places it upon his horned brow. But when he casts his gaze over the crowd and his eyes lock with yours…

You gasp, and tears brim unbidden in your (Y/E/C) eyes, as a warmth pools in your core. Your knees tremble for but a moment before you too drop to the ground. He nods and you thrill at his approval.

Mizora parsed the acronym again. No, she decided. I will not fill in my eye color.

After the coronation, the great hall is transformed into a decadent ballroom. Music reverberates through the once-silent halls and everyone applauds joyously. All the most powerful beings of the Hells swirl around the dance floor, but you remain aloof, off in a corner. After all, you are but a simple cambion wench. Such an extravagant display is beyond your humble experience.

So your breath catches in your throat when you see Him arrive. The crowd parts before Raphael, kneeling, and he inclines his head toward you.

"You," he says. "I saw you from across the room. May I have this dance?"

The strength and beauty of his mellifluous baritone voice, and the aura of his sweet, intoxicating and perfectly-balanced cologne, causes something to stir deep within you. You cannot help but nod and sigh as you are swept into his strong, powerful arms. As he whirls you across the floor, you are amazed by his feline grace, his lordly bearing, and his undeniable stamina that none could possibly question. You lose yourself in his eyes, pools of dark radiance, and your mouth runs dry.

As the music comes to an end, he holds you close. "You are magnificent," he murmurs. His voice is like burnished velvet. "What is your name?"

"(Y/N,)" you reply.

"(Y/N,)" he breathes. "What a magnificent name."

"Excuse me," rumbles a voice from above. "May I cut in?"

It's a pit fiend, and it towers above you, its voice thick with suggestive menace. It reaches out an arm the size of a tree trunk, as if to ravish you on the spot.

"No!" growls Raphael, that deep baritone voice somehow even more velvety in his fury. "She's MINE! I'll kill you if you touch her!" He backhands the much larger pit fiend, and with the strength of his mighty arm, sends it flying backwards into the crowd, where it bursts into flames, utterly destroyed.

You stand, trembling, your shapely bosom heaving, tears brimming in your (Y/E/C) orbs. Raphael whirls towards you, a rictus of rage on his regal face. "You! Come with me." He seizes your delicate wrist in his powerful hand and whisks you away, to his private bedchambers.

There, the luxury is beyond your wildest dreams. Gilt covers every surface, carved in brutal and sensual designs, and you blush to see a magnificent bed, covered in red satin sheets. When he casts you down, you fall against a pile of pillows so soft that their touch makes you groan in sinful pleasure…

Mizora peeked up from the page and down at the satin sheets beneath her. The decor and the upholstery did not seem like much of a departure…

Well. 'Write what you know,' I suppose…

At least it seemed like she was finally getting to the good part.

"Please, Your Majesty," you pant. "Have mercy on me!"

He broods darkly. "You realize what you have done, of course. Your incredible beauty caused a scene, and that scene disrupted my ball. I cannot tolerate that. You must… be punished."

Your incredible beauty…? You have never given much thought to it, of course. You are far too fiery and free-spirited to care much for such things. But now, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above the bed, you can see that Raphael, in his great wisdom, speaks truly. Your beauty is so much like his own… your shining (Y/E/C) eyes, your short, lustrous (Y/H/C) hair, your aquiline nose, thin lips and strong, aristocratic bone structure, your deep crimson skin, your curved horns and delicate, leathery wings….

Mizora's eyes narrowed. Up until now, she'd understood that she was supposed to see herself in the heroine's place, but now her physical description had become so specific… Who was the intended audience for this story, anyway…?

"Punished?" you whimper. "Oh please! I've heard tell that you punish willful young maidens with endless orgasms… please, I beg of you… do not torture me so!"

"It is necessary," says Raphael. "You are a beautiful woman, (Y/N.) But I WILL have order. You must accept your punishment."

You nod. Tears continue to brim in your (Y/E/C) eyes.

"Now strip."

You obey him unquestioningly, and your core is on fire as he reaches to his belt and brings forth a golden, intricately carved rod. It glows with a magic unlike any you have ever seen.

"Sire, I—"

"Silence, wench! Do you know what this is?"

"No, sire, I don't…"

"Ah! I said 'silence,' and you just spoke. Now. Get on the bed, on your hands and knees, and I will explain."

You obey, grateful for the chance to listen to his magnificent voice without having to think or speak.

"This— is the Scepter of Karsus. With its power, and the power of this Crown, I was able to conquer each layer of Baator and become the Archdevil Supreme. Now, it will be your punishment. I will strike you here—"

He taps the Scepter on your firm and shapely derriere—

"and after each strike you will thank me, and you will name each of the layers of Baator that I have conquered, until I have struck you nine times. Do you understand?"

You sob. "Yes, sire!"

Before you are fully prepared, the mighty Scepter strikes you, and you cry out. "Aahhhh…vernus! Thank you, Your Majesty!"

It comes down again, and you are racked with even more sobs. "Dis!"

"Ah, ah, ah, you forgot to thank me! We must start again until you have learned your lesson."

WHACK!

"Thank you, Your Majesty! Avernus!"

WHACK!

"Thank you, Your Majesty! Dis!"

WHACK! "Thank you, Your Majesty! Phlegethos!"

"Wrong again, my dear. You forgot about Minauros. We'll have to start again."

You groan and beg as he…

Mizora scanned down the page. Raphael seemed to have to stop and re-start the spanking several times before Y/N would get it right. Finally, after several pages, Raphael, his Scepter, Y/N, and her bruised ass arrived at…

"N… n… n….Nessus! Thank you, Your Majesty!"

You collapse, trembling, beyond the power of speech, and the Archdevil's mighty hand, now tender, strokes your buttocks gently. They are somehow even redder than before.

"Ah," he murmurs, tenderly. "You have endured so much, and you take my punishment so well. What a good girl you are. Now I will grant you a reward for your obedience." His hand reaches beneath you to grip and prod your tender breasts, like ripe pieces of sun melon, and your body roils with desire, your pleasure building with each squeeze.

But this physical ecstasy pales in comparison to the thrill you feel when he unlaces his breeches. You gasp, for this is the prize that you have longed for. You find yourself on the brink of climax just from the sight of his manhood fiendhood: thick, red, ridged, and of a size greater than any you have seen before. (Not that you have seen that many before. You may be a devil, but you are also surprisingly pure.)

Yet again, tears well up in your (Y/E/C) eyes orbs pools. "But how…? Your Majesty… sire… it's so big! How is this possible? How is it going to fit?"

"With the power I hold… anything is possible," says Raphael. "I will prepare you to take me."

With that, he extends his clawed hand and runs it between your thighs. With a pointed and direct pressure, he attacks your clitoris, scrubbing it in a lively rhythm that constantly changes, always keeping you guessing. Your orgasm comes upon you suddenly, spritzing your inner walls and leaving you tastefully moist. (Nothing like the exaggerated and unrealistic wetness you've read about in erotic novels by unskilled writers.)

You cry out in gutteral moans for your sovereign, entreating him to enter your perfumed garden of delights. And, as he is a gracious lord, he obliges.

Your soft sanctum yields to his iron-hard battering ram, just as all the citadels of Baator have fallen to his unbeatable forces. When his full length finally impales you, you orgasm again, the touch of his almighty rod the most powerful aphrodisiac of all.

But he is not finished with you, oh no. He sets a brutal pace, thrusting and pistoning with magnificent speed and efficiency. With each thrust, you orgasm again, shaking and shuddering until you lose all sense of time and space. Your back arches and you cry out in joy as you feel him bumping into your cervix over and over again, in a way that no other man has ever— or could ever— achieve. It is pure bliss.

Finally, with a gutteral growl, he comes, and the splash of his jism runs in rivulets through all your innermost womanly furrows. The knowledge that you are claimed as his own sends you spiraling into another climax— this one the most perfect of all, because it is simultaneous with his.

Overwhelmed by the sensation, you cling to his strong body, reeling in pleasure, and your eye catches a glimpse of the bedside clock. You are astounded to see that you and Raphael have been making love for hours. How incredible that he has lasted this long! You have never heard of a man with this much stamina. (Again, not that you have that much experience. You are fiery and free-spirited, but certainly not a slut.)

He soothes you and strokes your cheek as you tremble in the aura of his dark radiance. "Y/N…" he murmurs. "I must ask you something."

"Y… yes, sire?" you sigh.

"You are the most incredible woman I've ever known…will you marry me?"

You gasp. How can this be? "Sire… Your Majesty… I wish only to do your bidding, but… no! I am not worthy of you! I am just a simple cambion wench, and you are…"

"I am all-powerful. And with my might, all things are possible. You shall no longer be (Y/N,) a simple cambion wench. You shall be Archduchess (Y/N,) my consort, and Queen of All the Hells!"

He kisses you, the scent of his tasteful yet overpowering cologne again stirring your passions to new heights. Then, he immediately enters you and begins thrusting again, for there is no refractory period.

THE END

(…or is it?)

As Mizora turned the last page, a wicked smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She held in her hands… well, not a soul, exactly, but something akin to one. This Raphael's tates, his proclivities, his ambitions, his secret, most personal desires…

She beamed up at the portrait of him, looming over the bed and frowning in disapproval. How humiliated he would be, to know that she had read his story! How he would melt from shame, to be gossiped about in the corridors of Zariel's fortress!

This— the humiliation, the social ruin of another— was real pleasure. It was better than sex— with a mortal, with an incubus, with… the Archdevil Supreme himself. She licked her lips and felt her body flush. How she would enjoy this.

She chuckled so loudly that she almost missed the sound of footfalls, and the portal to the room opening.

"Ah, enjoying the pleasures of my house, I see."

The man— Raphael— strode past the pool, and took a seat at his desk. His voice was a baritone one, though its level of mellifluousness was perhaps open to dispute. He resembled the portrait somewhat, although it had been exaggerated for artistic purposes.

(Like many things were, presumably.)

"Why, yes. Raphael, was it? Thank you so much for your… hospitality." Mizora rose from the bed and walked slowly and deliberately towards him… the manuscript in her arms.

"Lady Zariel sends her welcome, and her regards, although there is still the matter of some paperwork before the status of your residency can be firmly established," she continued. "I am here as her agent and am authorized to witness the necessary documentation… that is, if you will deign to treat with me."

She dropped the manuscript on the desk, leaning over looking him straight in the eyes. "After all… I am just a simple cambion wench."

This was the moment when shock and fear and humiliation and despair would typically flood a mortal's eyes: when the knife was twisted and their shame reached a crescendo. Already the heat was building in her core, that wrenching anticipation, all building to that moment where he would choke and sputter and—

He smiled. "My story! You read it?"

She blinked. Perhaps he didn't understand. "Why… yes. Yes, I read it. I read the whole thing."

He leaned back and tented his fingers. His smile broadened, his incredibly white teeth flashing. "I am so delighted. I love to hear from a reader. Tell me: what was your favorite part?"

It was as if a flood of cold spring water washed over her all at once, instantly dousing the flames of her nascent arousal. How could this be? He wasn't ashamed at all! In fact, it was as if he liked the attention!

She struggled to form a coherent response. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she said: "If only I could. Sadly, I am rather short on time."

"Ah yes," he said. "Business before pleasure."

Mizora kept her face smooth and professional, and she could only hope that it masked her complete and utter disappointment. I should have kept the incubus around, she thought, ruefully. Instead, she had chased the greater pleasure… but it was all in vain. How could anyone humiliate a man this incapable of shame?

"Yes," she said. "Now, about those documents…"

The End

(… or is it?)