sekiromi

[sekiromi]

i found the tenth circle of hell: it's where your fave blows up on tiktok

[sekiromi]

A Devil You Do, ch. 7

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 5.4k previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

[read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Seven: Foolish Temptations

'Resist the devil, and he will flee from you', or so they say. Though, resisting this devil is proving surprisingly difficult.

The crisp chill of the night air may have blown the cobwebs away, but the walk back to Sharess’ Caress did little to clear Raphael’s muddled mind.

Despite being liberated from your company, the devil could not seem to convince his thoughts to leave you alone. Usually it would be the other way around; luring potential clients, seducing mortals, corrupting their thoughts so that they encompassed him and only him – these were his most favourite and polished weapons amongst his varied and formidable arsenal. His endearing human appearance, painstakingly perfected over the centuries, had succeeded an uncountable number of times at fulfilling this simple task. From what he had observed of you tonight, it was still satisfying its intended purpose, but he had to half-worry that, by using it so often, was he straying too far into his mortal side?

It was the only explanation for the stubborn images echoing in his head: depictions of you sat politely, enthralled by his stories, wide eyes filled with wonder, cheeks ever so slightly flushed from the wine. Thoughts that descended into more wicked things as he ruminated on them, drifting to fantasies of the feel of your tongue, the taste of your skin, the sound of your moans, the sight of you bare and willing beneath him, perhaps his fingers wrapped around your delicate throat...

He felt himself grow impossibly hotter at the notion, shirt suddenly feeling uncomfortable and restrictive, practically strangled by his necktie, and fought very hard to dismiss it.

But, why? He was not a creature that abstained from sin, prevented himself from indulging in pleasures of the flesh. He had bedded clients before as and when it suited him, anything to cinch the deal and secure a particularly coveted signature. It was not a common occurrence, mind. Usually, he considered such acts beneath him, but sometimes the deal was just too sweet pass up. When Haarlep’s particular genre of talents was not appropriate, Raphael had few qualms with doing his own dirty work now and then. He took joy in it, too, watching the shameful rapture in his client’s eyes as the realisation of what they were doing dawned on them, the awareness that they were enjoying it beyond the realms of what they might have considered possible. That damning defeat was a sweet victory in and of itself.

Why, then, did thoughts of this nature concerning you disturb him so?

Because he could not control them, he realised.

Over the many years, he had grown quite talented at sensing which potential clients might be swayed by this particular line of persuasion, and who of them were depraved enough to bend to Haarlep’s will. Briefly, he wondered what sort of effect Haarlep might have on you. Raphael was sure you were attracted to him in some way, whether you had admitted it to yourself or not, but to what depth that attraction was rooted he could not say. Then there was the problem of your infuriating headstrong personality and tendency to veer off-script, both traits that made your actions sometimes difficult to anticipate. If a situation were to arise in which Haarlep could have their way with you, Raphael was not certain things would swing in the incubus’ favour.

He decided not to linger in the Devil’s Den when he arrived, spending no longer than a few minutes in the room to collect his latest correspondence before fleeing the mortal realm for the time being, hoping to put some immeasurable distance between himself and his new fixation, praying that might ease the sinful wonderings gripping his mind.

It did not.

Sifting through his letters and business dealings back at the House of Hope offered little relief, he could not give them his full attention and felt the words jumbling up on the parchments before him, their meaning now concealed, tangling themselves together in a mess that started to resemble the curve of your lips…

With a disgruntled sort of sound Raphael threw the papers as he turned away, sending them scattering across his desk and leaving a few to fall, landing in soft whispers on the floor. Leaning back in his chair he brought his hand to rub at his eyes which felt wearier than usual, as he tried to forcibly push those images of you from the backs of them. All it sufficed to do was threaten to bring a headache on.

Distracted and disconcerted, he lounged with his gaze turned upwards and imagined whether you were also plagued with irksome thoughts of him as he was of you. He could not recall the last time a mortal had tempted him so, it had been some centuries for certain, perhaps even longer. After all, entertaining creatures though they are, Raphael did not hold them in particularly high regard. Most were predictable, myopic, and unimaginative. Few had garnered his attention so diligently, even fewer deserved it.

For all of your average mortal features and tendencies, some of which were undoubtedly bothersome, you were special. He had not lied when he had called you his most favourite client, nor when he told you how he had grown quite fond of you, not that it was likely you had truly believed either for a second.

He told himself the reason for this blatant favouritism and metastasizing attachment was merely a function of the role you were set to play in this particular, most desperately awaited of scripts. The extreme patience he was exercising as you danced around the decision that lay before you, the added liberties and promises of amendments he would not usually make – he tried to convince himself he would behave the same way regardless of who stood in your spot, whoever was primed to place that coveted crown atop his head.

But, deep down, a part of him knew this was not true. Because he did not want just anyone to be the one to hand it over to him, he wanted it to be you. He longed to watch your eyes betray your most inner of workings as you prepared to relinquish that power, uncertainty and a touch of fear flickering across them as you did so. He yearned to taste the apprehension in the air, feel your fingertips graze his temple as you secured the crown in place. And he wanted that inevitable moment to be immortalised forever, in the hearts and minds of generations to come, as a devastating masterpiece.

He could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye. He would kneel before you, head bowed, prepared for the added weight to adorn it, accepting your reluctant blessing. The sun would hang low in the sky, flooding the scene with dramatic lighting and golden rays, carving out the delicate planes of your face. He would rise to stand, basking in the glow of his most arduously awaited victory, with you there beside him. Perhaps he would seal the moment with a stolen kiss in an expression of his most devout gratitude, branding your lips forever with his own. Perhaps he would take your hand in his, whisk you away with him, and have you remain at his side forever to bear witness to his diabolical conquest.

With a small, contented smile, Raphael pulled open a drawer on his desk and retrieved his journal from within, settling down to commit the specifics of this new, favoured scenario to paper and ink. As the details unfolded, as his imagined you grew crisp and life-like in his mind, he felt the pace of his heart step into a new rhythm, sensed long-dormant emotions, ones he was not certain he had ever experienced before, begin to surface uncomfortably as he mentally roamed your now familiar features. He felt it rise up in his throat, lodge itself somewhere in his larynx, threatening to choke him.

Gods, what was this feeling slowly filling that hollow expanse in chest? Suffocating him from the inside out, weighing down on his heart? He needed to name it, reckon with it, accept it and let it move through him, otherwise he feared it might torment him forever. As he sat with it, jotting increasingly hurried thoughts down, he was devastated when it revealed itself as yearning. His expression contorted into one of displeasure.

Such an infantile emotion. Utterly unbecoming of an Archdevil.

“Hmm…what’s got your tail in a twist?” A familiar voice purred into his ear, arms snaking down over his shoulders as Haarlep rested their chin in the crook of Raphael’s neck tenderly, eyes skimming the rushed scrawl of their master’s hand.

Raphael snapped his journal shut a little too fast, betraying the secret nature of his musings, rising to stand and disentangling himself from the incubus’ embrace. He had not noticed Haarlep approach, had not even really registered that they were in the room.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, dear Haarlep.” He tried to temper some of the agitation in his voice.

“Is that so? What’s the matter, mouse got your tongue?” Haarlep teased, devilish smirk toying at the edges of their lips.

Raphael scowled. If looks could kill, Haarlep would be dead thrice over.

“Watch it, you heathen. My tongue is perfectly fine, though I might consider removing yours if it continues to displease me.” He folded his arms and inspected his nails, casting an eye towards the incubus who showed no sign of remorse.

“You tease, master,” Haarlep grinned, perching on the edge of the desk, gaze coy as they regarded Raphael, “have you finally come home to play? You’ve been most neglectful of me these days. I’m practically wasting away…” They gave the devil their very best pleading gaze, looking like a love-sick puppy as their tail swished in hushed agitation between their legs.

Raphael considered the demon and their temptation, taking in the familiar form before him with a newfound sense of dissatisfaction. He idly mused on how convenient it would be for Haarlep to have learned your form, oh how he would delight in absolutely ravishing your lithe body, knowing you were feeling a trace of the pleasure all those realms away without a shred of understanding as to what, or who, was causing it. What a treat it would be to have an image of you attending his every whim and desire, unable and unwilling to decline his commands, to make a mirage of you commit such delicious sins that the real thing never would.

Perhaps there was some depravity in you yet, you had fucked a vampire spawn in the woods after knowing the creature a mere few days, after all, but Raphael knew you were a proud, fierce sort of thing that would sooner knock back a shot of wyvern toxin than bend the knee to one you deemed unworthy. Maybe there was still time to convince you of his worth; the thought of seeing you bowed before him in honest devotion sent a thrill of a certain magnitude running down his spine, but then, so did the thought of those roles reversed.

Until that fateful day, however, he would have to make do with Haarlep.

“I’ll have you on the bed. In the other form.”

Haarlep looked on in genuine surprise, almost stumbling on their words.

“Oh, really? How unusual.”

“I don’t recall asking for a commentary. Just do it, quickly.” Haarlep could sense Raphael’s patience was running thin, but the bite in his words was poorly concealing a sliver of a desire conceived in something like shame. Sensing the subject was a touchy one, and pursuing any sort of teasing was likely to end in pain for the incubus, Haarlep decided to exercise some caution as they obeyed.

“Of course, master.”

Haarlep’s female form might be a poor imitation of your own, but Raphael prided himself on being a good pretender.

And, if nothing else, at least Haarlep was thankful for the change of pace.

—-

“So, are you going to see him again?”

You shot Astarion a warning look. Despite his hushed tone and the grating volume of the bustling Blushing Mermaid, you were worried about your other companions overhearing your secrets. Settling into the seat across from the vampire, you cast a glance towards Karlach, Wyll, and Jaheira stood idly chatting at the bar as they waited to be served. Undeterred by Karlach’s pleas, you had opted out of buying a round for the party, your coin purse could not take much more of it after all. Although, you could not escape procuring a glass of the house red for Astarion as payment for his silence regarding your activities the night prior.

“Well I suppose I have to, I’ve still got his coat…” You mused, glancing out of the window towards the harbour where the sun was dancing in dazzling reflections on the water’s surface.

“You know what I mean,” Astarion continued, leaning forwards to catch your eye which you provided reluctantly, “will there be a second date?” He moved his eyebrows suggestively and you wrinkled your nose at the insinuation.

“I already told you, it wasn’t a date.”

“You can keep saying that, but it does not change the facts, my sweet. He took you out to a fancy restaurant, paid for the whole thing, strolled with you on a romantic moonlit walk along the river, and brought you safely home afterwards – it was a date.” His words held a sobering clarity, bringing an unwelcome realisation.

Oh Gods, it was a date.

“Hold your horses! Astarion, what do you know about her hot date? She wouldn’t tell me a thing!” You felt your blood run cold, completely baffled as to how Karlach had snuck up on you both without either of your realising. With wide doe eyes, you pleaded with Astarion to keep his word, begged him not to reveal your secrets. He gave you an exasperated and apologetic look, shaking his head as he swirled his wine around in the goblet.

“It’s no use darling, ‘the truth will out’, as they say…” he took a long sip to delay the inevitable for your sake, before continuing. “Better it be from your lips than mine.”

Karlach, now joined by Wyll and Jaheira, turned her heated gaze to you expectantly, sending a sharp jolt of fear down your spine, sizzling into unease and nauseating dread.

A fox caught in a trap has been known to chew off its own leg in order to escape. But, what would a mouse do?

For a moment, you considered the logical parallel: throw yourself out the window, jump into the harbour, and swim straight into the sun. A touch dramatic, perhaps, but at least it would save you the pain of facing the gathered jury before you and their no doubt damning sentence. Still, you supposed Astarion was right, unfortunately. His silence would not hold forever, and keeping secrets from those you now considered amongst your closest friends pained you more than you would have expected. So, with a heavy heart, you took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then uttered your confession.

“…It was Raphael.”

Silence.

Stunned silence.

Feeling brave, you lifted your eyes to cast a glance across your companions. Astarion had the decency to hide his mouth which was undoubtedly bearing a smile at your expense, Jaheira and Wyll both looked…concerned…and Karlach’s eyes were so wide you were worried they might fall out of her head.

“Sorry soldier, I must’ve misheard you, for a moment there I thought you said you went on a date with Raphael!” She said as she practically slammed her beer down onto the table, falling into the seat beside Astarion who could hardly bear to watch. You groaned and slapped your hands over your face, determined to try to hide your shame, to little avail.

“Give her a chance to explain, Karlach, I’m sure she has a good reason. Right…?” You peeked out at Wyll as he slid into the seat beside your own, desperate to give him the explanation he was looking for but unable to provide one. You could not even think of a good enough lie, so you simply shrugged your shoulders and admitted the bitter truth.

“He asked, I said yes.”

This, apparently, was not an acceptable answer.

Thus began an hour-long interrogation into your activities the previous evening; what was said, what was not said, what might have been agreed between the two of you, whether you planned on seeing him again. Karlach conducted the session, closely supported by Wyll. Astarion interjected at points, acting as your much needed defence, a role he played very well though you supposed that was to be expected given his past as a magistrate. For the most part, Jaheira sat in relative silence, content to drink her beer and entertain herself as she watched the carnage unfold.

You sat and took your verbal berating, wishing the floorboards would open beneath you and swallow you whole. You hated feeling like you had done something wrong, especially when Karlach’s and, to a lesser extent, Wyll’s disapproval was so severe, leaving you worried your little dinner date had caused irreparable damage in your relationships with the two of them. It saddened you, but the longer it lasted the more it nurtured another feeling within your body, something akin to anger.

Exactly what was wrong with what you had done? You still had not made any decision regarding the contract. You had made no promises, discussed no terms, all you did was share a meal and listen to his stories, your only crime was that you enjoyed his company. What was so morally corrupt about that?

Sensing your rising frustrations and quickly diminishing mood, Karlach heaved a sigh, her shoulders slackening as she finished her rant.

“Look soldier, I’m not trying to be a dickhead, okay? I care about you, I don’t want you to get burned. Devils don’t feel things like we do, they don’t care about anything other than themselves.” She leaned in closer, luminous eyes begging you to understand her unspoken meaning.

He doesn’t care about you.

“She’s right,” Wyll began from beside you, looking at you almost with pity. “It’s in their nature to deceive and exploit.”

With a huff, you were about to bite back at the warlock, point out his blatant hypocrisy considering his own circumstances, when you overheard a snippet of a conversation from the table behind you that caught your attention, someone mentioning the name ‘Raphael’.

“Ssh! Someone might hear.”

The voice, a woman’s, was full of giddiness and the temptation of a poorly-concealed secret. Ever so slightly you turned your head, angling your ear to better pick up on the discussion that was muffled by the hum of incessant chatter, straining to piece together the sentences.

“Come on, tell me, how was he?”

A hushed giggle followed by a brief intermission ensued, and you felt your heart start to sink.

“Well, he’s a devil, I’m sure you can use your imagination…”

“Oh, did he use that form, then?”

“No! He was human the entire time. A surprisingly…gentle lover, given his nature.”

You felt your cheeks warm out of embarrassment as the subject of their conversation dawned on you, suddenly mortified that you had even considered the possibility that the attentions Raphael so lavishly bestowed upon you yesterday were in any way unique or special. On the contrary, it seemed he had plenty of other mice to amuse himself with, even more so than he cared to with you.

“But he didn’t stay?”

“Not by choice. He said he desperately wanted to, but he had a business engagement, something he couldn’t get out of. I’m sure I’ll see him again, though.”

Turning back, you tried to shut out the rest of the conversation, not caring to hear the details of how, mere hours before your arranged date, Raphael had been entertaining himself rather indulgently between the sheets of some other client, bestowing her otherworldly pleasures and promising sweet nothings, while you fumbled around trying to not look like a total mess for him.

Karlach’s eyes were full of a bitter sympathy when you met them, but her words were even worse. Along with your other companions, she had heard every unpleasant detail of the exchange unfolding behind you.

“Soldier…I’m sorry.”

Gritting your teeth, you sharply grabbed your tankard and knocked back the last of your pint, slamming the empty vessel on the table with enough force to draw the attention of a few patrons milling about nearby, effectively silencing any more potential commiserations from either Karlach or any of the others. Hastily you got to your feet, sending your chair skidding behind you with a grating screech, and announced you were leaving, stalking past Wyll and heading straight for the door before they could respond.

Augh, how could I be so stupid!

The babble of the tavern faded as you fell into the warm embrace of the low sun, the light momentarily blinding you and threatening to trigger an ocular headache. Shielding your eyes with your hand, you turned to take the path back towards the Elfsong, intent on sinking into a boiling bath, scrubbing any lingering hint of Raphael from your tarnished skin, before drinking yourself into a coma. A fine plan indeed, you decided, before it was temporarily interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps growing louder and Wyll’s voice calling your name from behind.

Reluctantly you slowed your pace, turning to face him as he came to a stop before you, half bent over his knees to catch his breath.

“Gods you walk fast…”

“What is it, Wyll? I don’t need any more lecturing, I just want to get back and—”

“No, no, I’m not going to lecture you,” he held his hands up in a sign of honest peace, and watched as you folded your arms, shifting your weight from side to side as your gaze turned analytical. Taking your silence as permission to continue, he carried on. “Relationships with devils…they’re complicated, messy things. Trust me, I know better than most…” You scoffed and made a move to say something, but he stopped you. “Just hear me out, okay? I’m not judging you for whatever’s going on between you and Raphael…at the end of the day, it’s your business, not mine. I just…you should know what you’re getting yourself in to, temper your expectations of him. And please…if you want to, talk to me. I’m always here for a chat, about anything, but when it comes to devils and contracts, I’m something of an expert. I get why you didn’t mention it before, but now that it’s out there, don’t feel like you need to keep it all to yourself. Karlach might be less...welcoming of the topic, but you can always talk to me.”

You listened attentively, watching the way his expressions shone with compassion and authenticity, how his eyes betrayed some of the heartache he himself had endured at the hands of these infernal fiends. You knew he was right, he was in a position to understand your situation better than anyone else, but what could you even say? Where could you even begin? You still did not fully know what your situation was, exactly, could not begin to describe to him the nature of your relationship with Raphael, because you did not understand it yourself. In the end, you simply pulled a tight smile and offered a nod of acknowledgement.

“Thank you, Wyll. I’ll try.”

He did not seem fully satisfied, but supposed that was the best he could hope for. Sensing it would be unwise to push the matter, he bid you a good evening and turned to head back to The Blushing Mermaid, leaving you alone with your scattered thoughts.

Time alone in the bath did little to ease them, you could feel them threatening to fester into increasingly unpleasant, ugly things the longer you stewed. Your fingertips and toes had long shrivelled like sundried tomatoes and the bathwater had taken on a tepid temperature when you finally lifted yourself from its grip, dressing into clean clothes that smelled like soft clouds and making a beeline for your bed.

Flopping down onto the hard mattress you groaned, shifting uncomfortably at a mass of something digging into your back beneath the covers. In a frustrated rage, you tore them back to remove the offending item, only to stop in your tracks upon seeing the smooth black and gilded gold of Raphael’s coat, hastily stuffed beneath your sheets this morning to hide from prying eyes. Without even lifting it your nose, you could smell a hint of cherries and musk, and made a mental note to wash your bed linens as soon as possible to evict his signature scent from them.

For some time, you sat and stared at the garment, wondering what to do with it now. Briefly you considered setting fire to it but, despite how satisfying that might be, quickly decided against that course of action. Should Raphael come looking for it, you could not afford to replace it, and you did not want to have to explain why you had taken such a violent issue with his clothes. Holding on to it, on the other hand, would give him a good reason to visit you as and when he next desired, no matter whether it was a convenient time for you. The idea of him appearing out of the blue again, much like he had done the first time you met on the road to the goblin camp, did not please you in the slightest. You did not wish to live in a constant state of vigilance in case he was lingering nearby, you could already imagine how distracting it would prove to be, and you would not be able to control your reactions if he were to just pop up and casually ask for it back, both addressing the dinner and effectively drawing a line underneath the evening.

No, you could not withhold it from him. That left you with one solution; you had to return it.

The thought displeased you, but at least you would be doing so on your own terms, at your own convenience. The weary stalemate of this game of lanceboard was beginning to untangle itself, pieces moving of their own accord and pathways forward becoming slightly clearer. Now, it was your move.

So, it was with a loathsome reluctance that you found yourself once again outside the doors to the Devil’s Den, coat tucked firmly beneath your arm. The sun was lingering just below its apex somewhere behind you, warming the back of your neck as you considered whether to knock or let yourself it. It would be polite to announce your arrival, but you wondered whether Raphael deserved your manners at this point. Still, you supposed it was in your best interests to avoid getting on his bad side, even with the deal looking increasingly unlikely, so you lifted your fist and rapped it against the metal three times.

A few seconds passed, and there was no answer.

Trying again would be pointless. If he was in, he would definitely have heard you, the room was not that large, after all. You could feel the Emperor growing restless in the recesses of your mind, whispering to you to just dump the coat on his doorstep and leave without looking back, let that be the end of it. You were half-tempted, but such a valuable piece of finery would surely get stolen if left on display, and again you did not want to be indebted to Raphael to replace it.

With no windows for you to peek in, you turned your ear towards the door and listened for any movement inside, in case Raphael was in and just with a client, intentionally ignoring you. There was not a single sound, however, so with only a little nervousness you pressed a hand against one of the doors and pushed.

Surprisingly, the door opened with ease. Wherever Raphael had gone, whatever he was up to, he had not deemed it necessary to lockup. The candles were still lit, flooding the room with a soft warmth, but you made it your business to be as quick as possible as you crossed the room to reach the wardrobe beside the inlaid bath.

The rising steam caressed your apples of your cheeks, clinging to your eyelashes in tiny droplets as you opened the door and scanned the interior for a spare spot to hang the coat. A hook on the back would have to suffice, you decided, quickly returning the garment to its rightful owner, shutting the door to the wardrobe, and intending to flee the scene immediately.

At least, that was the plan. Like the unfortunate cat, however, your curiosity got the better of you.

Telling yourself you would linger only for a few minutes at most, you crept into the adjoining bedroom and raked your eyes across every inch of the space, arduously examining anything that stood out. There was not much, Raphael was too careful to leave anything condemning out for you to find, so you had to wonder whether he wanted you to read the crisp, white letters arranged perfectly on his sideboard, addressed to different lanceboard pieces, or the innocuous leatherbound askew on the nightstand, Raphael’s familiar scrawl decorating the pages. Carefully flicking through the pages, your eye was drawn to a couplet encircled in red.

‘If the line doesn’t scan,’ the devil sneers, ‘you forfeit your soul and end in tears.’ / ‘Ha! I’ll keep my time and make my rhyme, with vim and snap and no “down came the claw” crap.’

You huffed a small sound of amusement, smiling at the clearly self-indulgent tale before closing the book and returning it to its original place, not a hair’s width off of how it had been left. You were not sure why you bothered to make it appear so untouched, you were certain Raphael would somehow know you had been snooping regardless, but perhaps it was better not to make it too obvious.

The afternoon was wearing thin and you still had things to do, other than trawling through Raphael’s things, so with a weary sigh you turned and left the bed chamber. Despite having no real reason to stay, you still found it annoyingly difficult to leave, and you were not sure you wanted to dwell too long on the reason why. Lowering yourself into a sit on the loveseat adjacent to the door to rest your legs for a moment you realised it was because, despite being glad Raphael had not been in, a small, irritating part of you had been hoping to see him still, a desire the Emperor made sure to chastise you for repeatedly.

With a sudden onset of exhaustion you rubbed at your eyes, trying to shut out his yapping. Maybe it was the tiresome battles, or the drowsiness of an afternoon pint kicking in, but you found it incredibly difficult to keep your eyes open. The weight of your most deadly quest, the overheard conversation in the tavern, the disturbed sleep and a mind that would not quiet down for a second – it all came crashing down on you as you sat there, eyes half-lidded, staring vacantly at the empty space in front of you.

You felt your torso lean to one side, aching to bring itself to rest against the upholstery beneath you, just for a short while, just long enough to gather the strength to drag yourself across the city back to the Elfsong.

I’ll just…rest my eyes a moment…

All rational thought left you as you succumbed to your fatigue, bringing your hand to rest beneath the side of your head as you tucked yourself neatly into the narrow seat, curling up like a hibernating dormouse, intending to doze idly until you felt a bit more alive.

You fell asleep within minutes, slipping further and further into that abyss so that you could not hope to wake from it easily, body frozen still as your mind traversed a growingly familiar dreamscape, barely readable expressions breaking the calm of your sleeping visage, sending ripples across its surface, ineligible murmurs slipping through quivering lips.

And this, sleeping softly and at your most vulnerable, was how Raphael found you upon his return.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 raphael #bg3 raphael x reader #bg3 raphael x tav #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #raphael x tav #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #raphael the cambion #x reader #reader insert #fem reader #female reader #sekiromi #a devil you do

[sekiromi]

he's also contemplating if he should add some more fuel to the fire :D

[sekiromi]

A Devil You Do, ch. 6

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 6.9k previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

[read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Six: The Famished Come to Feast

Two doves on the selfsame branch, Two lilies on a single stem, Two butterflies upon one flower: - Oh happy they who look on them!

You did not enjoy interplanar travel, you decided, tightening your grip on the devil whilst your free hand flew to his upper arm, squeezing your eyes shut as you waited for it to be over. Luckily, you did not have to wait long, your feet coming to rest with only a slight sway on solid ground after a mere few seconds. Raphael placed his hand over yours and looked down, eyes silently asking if you were alright. You managed a tight smile which seemed to satisfy him, and he led you both down a cobbled alleyway awash in the orange glow of the streetlamps overhead.

Underneath a forest green awning attached to an old building that simply bore the words ‘sub rosa’ in golden lettering, various tables and chairs were arranged in a neat grid, each with an oil lamp burning in the centre, some filled with patrons of the restaurant, others empty. All kinds of creatures seemed to dine here, some you did not even know the names of and had never seen before, but they all appeared to have one thing in common; whether they were alone, with a partner, or amongst a small group, there was an air of secrecy about them, an illicit understanding that their business was their own and no one else’s. You got the feeling that you should not look too closely at anyone nor try to eavesdrop on any passing conversation, and politely averted your eyes as Raphael opened the door, gesturing for you to enter first.

Inside was a small bar that stretched to the back wall with glasses, goblets, chalices, drinking vessels of every kind displayed on open shelves around the top and hanging from rails underneath. Wines of every colour, region, and vintage lined the cabinets, accompanied by interesting looking bottles of spirits, liquors, and various other distillations that you did not know the names of, forming an iridescent rainbow of glass that shimmered in the light. From another room you could hear the muffled sound of a piano being expertly played, a piece you recognised as the gentle, romantic rhythm of Liszt’s Consolation no. 3. Behind the bar, a rag in hand as they dried the bottom of a glass, tail keeping time of the piano solo like a swaying metronome, stood a tall tabaxi, their inky black fur interrupted by a bib of white that extended from their chin beneath a crisp dress shirt overlayed with a fitted waistcoat, bow tie perfectly symmetrical in the centre of their elegant neck.

“Raphael,” they greeted warmly, returning the glass to its home as they rounded the end of the counter and approached before stopping to give a low bow, “good evening to you, and your delightful companion.” Striking yellow eyes fastened themselves on you, thin pupils imperceptibly moving across your smaller figure as they appraised you. Transfixed by the creature, you could not look away. “How are you both this evening?”

“Quite well, thank you, Six. How about yourself?” You were surprised to hear Raphael reciprocate the question, and turned your gaze to him as he exchanged pleasantries with the waiter. He did not notice your look, or pretended not to at least.

“Very well, thank you for asking. If you’ll both please follow me, your table is just this way.”

They led you past the bar and through a red curtain half-covering an arched doorway to the left. This room was dimly lit, shaded lamps diffusing faint, warm hues across the small space, and casting soft, substantial shadows in convenient places. There were fewer tables inside than outside, you noticed, no more than six all together, and all except one were filled. Towards the back of the small room stood a baby grand, rich and perfectly polished mahogany reflecting the flickers of the many candles alight. A demure elven woman draped in a black dress of fine silk played tunefully, feet pressing pedals beneath as her fingers danced across the keys, their tone resonating softly within the chamber of the instrument.

Six led you past the other seated patrons to a table tucked away in the back, sandwiched between the wall and the windows. Raphael gestured for you to take your pick of the two seats, and you slid into the one further away that allowed you to look across the room, your back to nothing apart from the wall behind you. It was not until Raphael took the other seat that you realised you had voluntarily put yourself into a corner.

You smiled up at Six in thanks as they placed a copy of the wine list in front of you, offering some clarifications and advice on the rather daunting list of options. Altogether there were about seven pages to flick through, three dedicated to just red varieties, and you did not fail to notice that there were no prices listed.

“For tonight’s menu, I recommend a paler wine,” they brandished a quill from somewhere and, leaning over you, drew little stars next to their favourites as they flicked through the pages, “any of these will pair well with your meal, an orange one in particular will complement the flavours without overwhelming them, but you might prefer a white if you like a slightly sharper taste. If there’s anything you’d like to try first, just let me know. I’ll give you both some time to decide.” Raphael gave a nod of acknowledgement, turning his gaze towards you as Six bowed their head and slipped away. Glancing down at the menu, you perused the wines they had marked, not confident in your ability to pronounce many of them at all. Below each was written a brief description in a tiny hand, noting the top-most flavours and general texture. You skimmed them all, filing away information about which were sweet and which were bitter, which had sharp hints of citrus and which had more mellow notes. They all sounded good to you, though not that you considered yourself much of a sommelier. Usually you would drink just about anything.

“Anything take your fancy?” Raphael asked, his own wine list left untouched in front of him. You glanced up at him before looking back down, your mouth twisting thoughtfully as you flicked back and forth through the sheets.

“Hmm…there’s too much to choose from, a lot of these sound really good.” Your eyes skimmed the same passages again as you propped your elbow on the table, resting your cheek against your fist before placing the menu down and fixing your gaze on the devil sat across from you. “What would you recommend?”

He gave a satisfied smile, honoured to have been asked.

“Like you say, many of them are very good indeed. Have you had the pleasure of tasting a wine from Tashalar before?” He asked, leaning back in his seat and slowly lifting one leg to cross over the other as he regarded you. You shrugged and shook your head.

“Not that I can recall.”

“In that case, might I suggest we share a bottle of Amarast Nectar?” He watched your gaze return to the list, eyes searching fruitlessly. “It’s on page six.”

You found it halfway down the page, its region of origin listed as the Delphin Mountains and notable flavours including orange blossom, dried apricot, elderflower, and a hint of chestnut with a salty finish to it. It sounded intriguing, and you were not opposed to trying something new, so you nodded in agreement.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Excellent.”

When in range, he alerted Six to your decision, and you watched as they left for the bar. Taking a moment to further inspect your surroundings as you waited, you again cast your gaze over the room. Hushed conversations faded into the melody of the next movement the elf played, cutlery clinked in soft chimes against crockery, and the atmosphere felt tight, almost intimate.

“What made you choose this restaurant? I would have thought you’d have a private room or something with your own personal chef.” You asked with a tilt of your head. Raphael raised an eyebrow.

“Is this restaurant not to your liking, mouse? You haven’t even tried the food yet.”

“No – I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought…I don’t know, I didn’t expect you to take me somewhere public.”

Raphael seemed to consider your words closely for a moment, drawing in a thoughtful breath as he searched for a response. In the end he settled for the truth.

“I did consider somewhere more private…however, I thought you might be more comfortable in a neutral, public setting,” he explained, before gesturing around the room, “besides, sub rosa is still quite an exclusive ‘members only’ club. Not just anyone can book a table here.”

You felt your heart settle a bit, sort of almost…touched, that he had the foresight to consider your trepidation.

“Oh. Well, that’s very thoughtful of you.”

He offered you a smile and a nod, silently saying but of course, as Six returned with your bottle of wine. They moved to fill your glass first, offering no more than a finger’s width, before looking at you expectantly. There was only half a moment’s hesitation as you figured out what you were supposed to do, you could not remember the last time you had been to a restaurant where you had been expected to try the wine before you committed to the whole bottle. After all, it was already open now anyway, what would they do with it if you said it was not to your tastes? You never could figure that out.

Delicately pinching the stem of the crystal glass, you aerated the amber liquid with a gentle swirl before lifting it to your nose. You did not consider yourself a sommelier, no, but you still had your senses. A burst of fruit and florals drifted up as you inhaled, hints that were amplified even more on your tongue, lingering on your palate in delightful swirls. Raphael watched you closely from across the table as you sampled the drink, enraptured by the performance as you flicked your gaze from him to Six, giving the latter a nod of approval and gesturing for them to fill the glass.

“I’ll be back with your first course shortly. Enjoy.” You watched as they departed before turning back to look at Raphael with a curious gaze.

“But…we haven’t ordered?” You questioned, arms folded in front of you as you leaned in closer. Raphael merely smiled, reaching to pick up his glass.

“Here at sub rosa they offer a very select, seasonal set menu that changes each day depending on what produce they are able to procure in the morning. There is only one option for each course.” He explained, not moving to take a drink of his wine.

“Is now a bad time to tell you that I’m kinda fussy?” You asked with a smile.

“Yes.” He tilted his head down a little to look at you through his eyelashes, amused, before raising his glass into the space between you both. “Now, let us drink. To new business partnerships.”

Lifting your own glass you gently brought it to his, careful not to accidentally break it, before bringing the rim to your lips for a sip. It was sweeter the second time around.

Six returned soon after with your first course; crostino topped with warmed goat’s cheese, a sweet fig jam, and fresh mint leaves that tingled on your tongue. It was the best thing you had ever eaten, until the next course came out. A rich brown crab served on a bed of sauteed saltwort and topped with slices of juicy blood orange provided a nice, light contrast to your starter. And, as Six had promised, it paired excellently with Raphael’s choice of orange wine. The figs made a return for your dessert, baked into a buttery, crumbling tart crust alongside a nutty frangipane cream filling, presented in such a perfect slice it was worthy of a portrait, you decided.

Between courses and mouthfuls of the delicious food, you enjoyed a pleasant conversation with the devil. He told you about how he discovered this place, explained that it was first just a wine bar but, after a suggestion from him (and a small monetary investment) they opened up a kitchen and started to offer food. He mentioned how the main currency of the restaurant, rather than gold, was secrecy. Patrons of all ilk and walks of life sought sub rosa out for its policy on strict confidentiality. No business discussed within the walls of the restaurant would be repeated to anyone, and details of reservations were destroyed shortly after they had been fulfilled. You could come to sub rosa for an evening and be entirely lost to the world, something you felt you could soon get used to.

As the conversation developed, you had to wonder what the motive of the evening was. How many clients did Raphael take to fancy restaurants, charm them with his sharp tongue and opulent tastes, lavishing them with his attention? You did not kid yourself into entertaining the idea that you might be the first, nor the last; there was not a chance in the Hells. Still, he seemed like a busy man, and the fact that he had taken the time to turn his attentions to you alone felt significant, but you could not figure out why.

The truth, not that Raphael would let you know, was that you intrigued him beyond logical reason. Every meeting with you thus far, no matter your mood, had been an enjoyable one, and he had been invested in every detail of your journey from the start. Recently, he had found it hard to stay away, exercise some restraint, and let you come to him of your own accord. He wanted to get you alone, free from the whispering of the Emperor, from the judgements of your companions, allow himself to get a proper read on your character, discover something new about you. He wanted to give you a break, provide an opportunity for you to be entirely yourself for an evening. No open quests, heavy responsibilities, difficult decisions; just a fancy dinner.

And, if you happened to take a liking to him after tonight and felt more agreeable about signing his contract, well, then the evening would have been a wild success indeed.

The last piece of your tart lay on your plate before you, perfectly prepared to contain the optimal ratio of crust, cream, and fruit altogether. The perfect bite. You almost could not bring yourself to eat it, because then the meal would be over, and you would likely never again taste something so heavenly.

“Not going to finish your meal?” Raphael asked, his own plate now clear.

“I am. I’m just…savouring it, I guess. I’ve never had figs before, you know. Didn’t expect to like ‘em so much.” You idly poked the baked fruit with your fork

“Figs to fill your mouth…” Raphael mused, empty fork resting on his lips.

“Citrons from the South,” you continued with a fond smile.

“Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,”

“Come buy, come buy.” With the final line, you gave in and reluctantly devoured the last morsel.

“A fellow fan of Rossetti? You find ways to surprise me still, mouse.” You were not sure if it was the euphoria from the food, the effects of half a bottle of wine, or whether you were under some kind of spell, but the particular octave of Raphael’s voice this evening, the low purr that hummed in his chest when he spoke, did something to you, something unspeakable, something you dare not linger on.

With a sickening drop of cognizance, you realised you were attracted to him. A devastating realisation.

“Everyone knows the ‘Goblin Market’.” You ended up responding with a shrug, tracing patterns on your plate with your fork and trying to even out your voice.

“Do they, indeed…”

The desire to lift your head and look at him was immense, but you knew he was already looking at you and you could not bring yourself to meet his gaze just yet.

“Anyway, it’s not my favourite of hers.”

“Oh? Pray tell, my dear, which is your favourite?” You had him intrigued now. You could feel his eyes grazing your cheeks as you placed the fork down, looking thoughtful for a moment.

“I prefer ‘An Old-World Thicket’.” With a breath in, you lifted your eyes to cast them across him. He had averted his own gaze for a moment, wracking his head for a verse of the poem you spoke of.

“…Remind me how that one goes?” He asked with a hint of something akin to vulnerability.

“Oh it’s a long one, I can’t remember the whole thing. Let me think…” You wandered your own memories of being read bedtime poems as a child, searching for a full verse left untouched by the effects of the passing of time that you might be able to recite. After a few seconds you cleared your throat and began the first that came to mind.

“The pleasure I remember, it is past;      The pain I feel is passing, passing by;      Thus all the world is passing, and thus I:           All things that cannot last Have grown familiar, and are born to die.”

Raphael nodded eagerly in recognition as you spoke.

“Ah yes, I remember. Quite a sombre poem to have as a favourite, no?” He observed, moving to undo a fastening on his coat as he reclined.

“That’s what I like about it. The contrast between the beauty and vitality of the nature she describes around her and the solipsistic darkness within her. It’s very real and honest.”

Raphael felt the urge to ask you if it was a poem you related to, if that was why you held it dear, but decided that was too personal of a question for now.

“Any other hidden passions I’ve yet to uncover?” He settled for, resting an arm on the back of the chair casually.

“Oh, plenty,” you responded with a smile and half-laugh, “but I’ll save those for another night. Why don’t you tell me something, instead?”

“As you wish. What would you like to hear?”

You looked pensive for a moment, fingers tapping against your cheekbone and irises gazing upwards as you thought. Across from you sat a font of knowledge and experience. The stories Raphael could tell would no doubt be enrapturing, epic, and moving. You tried to think of something you might like to learn about, but there was so much to choose from. For a moment you considered asking about the Fall of Netheril, he had mentioned before he was there when it happened, but you quickly decided against it. You did not want to encourage discussion of the crown and therefore, by extension, the unsigned contract. Not yet, anyway.

“How about…‘The Harrowing of the Hells’?” You suggested, gazing curiously as his face contorted into an expression of displeasure.

“A rather unpleasant one, that. Would you not prefer a lighter tale?” His reluctance to divulge had you intrigued, and you could not help but to press him.

“I always preferred the darker fairytales as a kid.”

“My dear, the Harrowing is no fairytale. Besides, to hope to understand it there is another story that predates it that must come first. A long, sad tale in and of itself. Not suitable dinner discussion, I assure you.”

“Good thing we’ve finished our dinner, then.” You returned with a sly grin. He stared at you fixedly, narrowing his eyes and silently daring you to push the subject further. Upon seeing no sign of relent, he sighed.

“Alright, then. I must warn you now, though – this story does not have a happy ending. Are you familiar with the tale of ‘The Dove and the Devil’?”

An old fairytale from your childhood, one your mother would recite as a cautionary tale of sorts to prevent you from getting into too much trouble.

“I think so…it’s the one about an angel who was seduced by a devil, he tricked her into sin and so she was cast out of the Heavens? Then she rotted in the Hells while he profited from having corrupted such a divine creature.”

Raphael laughed mirthlessly and shook his head.

“You mortals always need a villain in your stories, don’t you? It was much, much simpler than that.” He glanced around before leaning in closer, which naturally encouraged you to do the same. “They merely fell in love, and paid the price.”

You felt your expression tighten into a frown.

“But, and I mean no offence here, devils…can’t love…can they?”

Raphael tilted his head and gave a small shrug.

“I suppose it depends on the devil. But usually, no, devils do not concern themselves with such infantile emotions. This one, however, did.”

You opened your mouth to add something when Six suddenly appeared and asked if you were both finished with your food so that he might clear the plates, forcing you to sit back and put some distance between yourself and Raphael. The waiter then inquired as to whether either of you would like a coffee, an offer both you and Raphael accepted, and left quickly to prepare them.

“Why? What was different about this devil?” You asked, leaning forwards again and crossing your arms on the table in front. Raphael looked thoughtful for a moment, ruminating on something, before responding.

“He was young, I suppose. He had not yet learned to hate.”

“So…what happened, then?”

He gave a sad sort of smile, wondering on where to begin for a few moments as Six returned with two espressos, placing them before you both gently with a clink of ceramic, and promptly left again. The enticing, toasted scent of the coffee graced your nose with hints of clove and cherry, a combination that seemed to warm you from the inside even before your first sip. You suddenly had the feeling you might never be able to smell coffee again and not think of this moment; being sat here in the dim light with Raphael, listening to his stories, enjoying his company, basking in the joy of a genuinely wonderful evening.

“Very well, allow me to set the scene, if you will…”

Raphael recounted the tale in spectacular, dramatic detail, gestures and expressions animated as he built towards the climax of the story. His voice, full of emotion and the weight of distant memories, described how the angel and the devil met on the material plane as children. How, both being the spawn of powerful immortals with whom they had a difficult relationship, they bonded unexpectedly. Knowing they were metaphysical opposites, but too young to really understand what that might mean, they played and indulged in mortal pleasures together, visiting great empires, witnessing catastrophic chaos, relishing in mighty battles, causing their own mischief. They experienced a shared youth together, sparing each other from what would have likely been an otherwise lonely childhood. This bond that they developed bloomed into friendship, and friendship eventually started to mature into something more.

They were nineteen when they committed their cardinal sin. Succumbing to their mutual desire, they made love in the blanket of the night, the moon and stars their only witnesses. Heavenly hands wandered infernal peaks and valleys, clawed fingers drew forth stuttered moans, and bodies intertwined in a magnificent collision of the divine and the damned. There was no insidious seduction, no illicit temptation, just a pure, adolescent, reciprocal hunger for one another that brought them together.

Once the Gods learned of the corruption of their asset, however, they raged. She was forbidden from stepping foot in the mortal realm again, and instead was sentenced to spend the rest of the century repenting for her sin in the Seven Heavens. Safely within the clutches of the spiteful Gods, her mind was poisoned against the devil, and any fond thoughts of him alchemised into ones of resentment. Feeding her convenient lies, they told her that a devil was not capable of love, that he was merely seeking to claim her precious soul as a powerful bargaining chip, a feat that would have earned him great honour amongst his kin. This is the lie that came to be known as the tale of ‘The Dove and The Devil’.

Confined to Mount Celestia, she spent her years training alongside a holy army in preparation for the Gods most ambitious plan yet: a full-on siege of the Hells, a war that would later become known as the Harrowing. With her methodically-nurtured contempt for the infernal and her overflowing divine powers, there was none better suited to head the charge. For over half a century she led scores of celestials into Avernus, striking down all devils, fiends, and demons in her path as a golden warrior, a reformed angel.

“She was a fearsome thing to behold, indeed. It was a perilous time to be a devil, you know, looking up to see her streaking through that red sky, it filled you with such a gripping sense of dread. Even now, I shudder to think of it…”

A devil that dies in the Hells, after all, dies for good. There was a devil though that, despite the concerted efforts of the deities, she could not bring herself to kill, even as he tried to kill her. Parts of Celestia, of course, can burn out the evil lurking within a soul, extinguish any corruption that had been implanted, but it cannot cure love. And, despite everything they had come to believe about each other, that love was still there. It was this love that became her undoing; in a moment of blinding fear, without hesitation she took the life of another celestial, one of her own charges, that was about to strike down her devil. This betrayal was a sin that the Gods could not forgive.

She was summoned back to the Heavens to face the wrath of her Gods. For all her virtues, she could not undo her actions nor deny the painfully obvious truth: her very spirit had been permanently marred by the hands of a most unholy creature, she had been contaminated and corrupted, and thus there was no place in Heaven for her. Stripping her of her station and immortality, they banished her to Nessus where she would be expected to remain for the rest of her now finite life, however long that came to be.

In the depths of the Hells, she could not hope for absolution from her Gods, but instead her devil proved to be her saviour. He recovered her from Nessus, taking her with him back to Avernus, where they fought together to bring an end to the Harrowing of the Hells, united as one.

“I would like to be able to tell you that this is where our story ends, that the dove and the devil arose victorious and retreated to a quiet, easy life together in relative peace, that they lived happily ever after in the Hells, content to spend a small eternity within each other’s arms. Alas, I did warn you this was not that kind of story. Although the Harrowing was over, another war was waging, a war that sent tremors across the realms, a war that was being fought on their very doorstep. I am, of course, talking about the Blood War.”

It would be during the battles of the Blood War that they would pay the price for their unbridled avarice. Believing they could do anything together, they gathered their own armies and set out to secure new victories. When a chance to acquire Cania arose, they were too hasty in taking it, sparing no thought to the circumstances under which the opportunity had appeared. During their siege, they became separated, a turn of events that was by no means coincidental. The Lord of the Eighth had set a cunning trap, enticing them with the potential of a new conquest, and then struck the devil where it hurt the most. Mephistopheles killed the angel, impaling her on her own sword, leaving her on display for the devil to find. In the tundra of Cania, he could not save her, and with her immortality stripped from her, she departed this world forever, cold, in pain, and so far from home.

“And that, I am afraid, is the end of our rather bleak tale.”

You were speechless, moved deeply and profoundly with Raphael’s retelling, the story striking a chord in your heart that threatened to bring tears to your eyes if you were to dwell on it for too long. It brought forth supressed images, fractured memories of distant dreams left behind in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, dreams you had since forgotten. You tried to hold them within your grasp, tempt them to come forwards and reveal themselves, but the more you tried the further they slipped.

The devil across from you looked somewhat wearier after recounting this most grisly history, shadows clinging a little tighter to the skin beneath his eyes. There was something else, something he was keeping concealed for now. You sensed he himself had something of a role to play in this sombre turn of events, and you could not help but to inquire about it.

“Did you know her at all?” You asked quietly, the last remnants of your coffee now long cold as you took a final sip with a grimace.

Raphael stiffened marginally, if you had blinked you might have missed it.

“No, I never had the pleasure.” A lie, you realised. “But I did know him, fairly well.”

You reckoned with the decision to press him about his mistruth, ask him why he was lying to you, but you sensed it would be a fruitless endeavour. Either he would insist, and likely end up convincing you of his dishonesty anyway, or he would get angry, and you did not want to ruin the otherwise pleasant evening.

“Oh? What became of him, in the end?” You settled for. Raphael’s usually warm eyes dulled for a moment as his gaze fell from yours.

“In his despair, he took his own life. Some centuries after her passing.”

“A true tragedy, then.” You responded mournfully, heart breaking for the condemned lovers. Raphael huffed a caustic laugh.

“Hardly. He was a weak, pitiful creature by then. Putting an end to it was the only mildly redeeming thing he did.” You frowned, not sharing in his sentiment as the conversation fell into a natural, only slightly uncomfortable, lull. After a few beats of silence, Raphael spoke up again. “Anyway, enough about that. The night is still very much in its youth. Would you do the great honour of accompanying me on a little stroll to the waterfront? The view is delightful at this hour.” He asked with a hint of intentional vulnerability in his tone. You glanced out the window, noting the blackened sky and twinkling stars. You had no idea what hour it might be, for the most part the evening had drifted along of its own accord, enjoyable company and enrapturing conversation seeming to have interfered with your sense of timekeeping. Still, what harm could a little longer do?

“I shall indeed.” You responded with a nod, unable to help yourself from mirroring the smile that adorned his face at your acceptance of his offer.

“Let us depart, then.”

He stood and led you away from the table, back past the bar where you each thanked Six for the meal, who smiled with a bursting warmth and assured that you were welcome back any time. Since he did not mention anything about the bill, you assumed Raphael had already settled it beforehand, and idly wondered how much it had cost him. You refrained from asking, running the risk of the answer making you feel either cheap or guilty.

Once outside, the welcome, tender warmth of the restaurant was replaced by the fresh night breeze, nipping at your exposed skin and causing goosebumps to erupt in the wake of its caress. You drew in a tight breath, steeling yourself against the sudden chill, cursing yourself for not bringing a cloak or something to shield you from the cold, and followed Raphael closely as he led you towards the main street before taking a right, turning to the river path.

Glancing down to check on you, he noticed you had drawn your arms around yourself, shoulders shivering almost imperceptibly, face contorting into a grimace as the wind rushed up from the river to meet you in an unpleasant gust. Without hesitation he undid the fastenings on his coat, slipping it from his shoulders to instead place it over yours. You looked up, bewildered, about to utter a polite refusal which he immediately silenced.

“I do not feel the cold as you do, my dear. You need it more than I.” You could not argue with him, though you would have liked to. The heat of his body lingered on the inside of the coat, radiating deep into your skin and instantly stilling your shivers. Without it, you could see the rest of his outfit: a smart, well-fitting waistcoat gilded with gold sat atop a loose, ivory dress-shirt, a crimson cravat holding up the collar, black trousers tucked into leather boots that tapped softly against the cobblestones as you walked. He looked good, worryingly so. You could not help but to admire him unabashedly as you reached the towpath. Flicking his gaze from the river to you, he stifled a grin, watching your eyes roam across him without restraint.

“It’s quite the view, is it not?” He asked, glancing back across the river where the reflections of the golden streetlights, twinkling stars, and dazzling full moon danced on the ripples. Soft, quiet wingbeats appeared from behind as a heron flew low over the water, feet tickling the surface and sending up a fine spray. Idle couples wandered the path ahead, arms tucked into each other, heads close, whispering their secrets.

“Mmm…yeah…” Your voice was distant, distracted, and when he glanced back down he could not stop the amused smile from pulling his lips upwards to find your eyes still fixed on him, hovering somewhere between his neck and clavicle. He leaned in close, lowering his head to murmur into your ear.

“You’re not even looking,” he teased in a hushed tone, relishing in the blush that erupted across your cheeks and nose at both the proximity and his observation. You turned quickly to look across the river while he chuckled deeply and gently reached for your hand, tucking it into the crease of his elbow as you walked, forcing you both closer. He considered jesting a little more, but decided against it, instead content to watch the way the reflection of the ethereal lights danced in your eyes.

The minutes passed in a comfortable quiet as you walked together up the path, the warmth of Raphael’s body at your side keeping the cold at bay. You pondered on the events that had unfurled this evening, curious as to why he never brought up the topic of the contract. You had assumed that was the whole point of the entire charade; charm and subdue you into signing it, but he had not mentioned it once thus far, and you had to wonder why. Could it be that he simply enjoyed your company, and wished to spend time with you?

Ha! What a foolish thought.

You silenced that line of thinking, aware of the dangers it presented. Raphael was not only charming in his very nature, but well-practiced at it too. He was specially designed and crafted to tempt mortals like yourself, he made a living out of it. If you were in any way special to him, it was only because of the position you had found yourself in, the chance to procure the object of his deepest desires just within your reach. It took a great deal of effort to remind yourself of this.

Should you sign that contract and complete the deal, your business with the devil would be finished. Would you see him again after that? You had no idea.

“I understand your craving for power, by the way,” you heard yourself saying, apparently unable to let the evening end without touching on the unspoken topic. “I crave it too.”

Raphael looked down at you, regarding you with an honest curiosity, intrigued at both your willingness to address the subject and your admission. You were not the type to pursue something as grand as world domination, you did not seek to subjugate and overrule. From what he had learned of your nature, you sought the opposite.

“May I ask, what for?” He asked, footsteps slowing down slightly.

You peeked out of the corner of your eye to look at him, considering your words.

“I just…one day, I want to be so powerful that I no longer fear anything at all.” You admitted quietly, ashamedly, turning you gaze towards the celestial glow of the moon.

Fear was not something he inherently associated with you. Throughout your adventure you had shown faultless courage, arguably foolish bravery in the face of some very dire circumstances, rushing into deadly battles with a fierce determination to emerge victorious.

“What is it that you fear, little mouse?”

You both came to a stop, your hand slipping from his grasp as you approached the stone wall, resting your arms against the cool bricks and staring out across the river to the bank opposite.

“These days, losing control of my own mind.” You answered as he joined you, only a sliver of a gap between your bodies. There was a look in your eye, you had left something unsaid, but implored him to understand what you meant. You were not just talking about the imminent ceremorphosis should your task fail, you were worried about being manipulated into making decisions you otherwise would not make. By the Emperor, by your friends, by him. “As well as the usual, of course. Losing those I love, my home coming to ruin, dying a painful death…the standard stuff.”

He hummed in acknowledgement and leaned in a little closer.

“You know, I am sure we could work something out. If I were to acquire the crown and all the power it bequeaths, I could protect you and those you hold dear. We could flesh out the terms in the details of your contract.”

You chuckled a little, smiling.

“I’ll consider it.”

The hour was growing late and your eyelids heavy. After watching you stifle several yawns and rub at your eyes like a weary infant, Raphael suggested calling it a night. Despite how nice it would be, he could not stay here forever with you – he still had other business to attend to, besides yours. Other clients to check up on, other contracts to draft. The work, unfortunately, did not stop just because he had.

As before, you took a firm hold of the arm he offered to you, bracing yourself for the unsteady feeling of racing through time and space. You were relieved to find it was not as bad as the first instance, and you appeared before the Elfsong Tavern without even a wobble. The streets were still littered with people milling about, coming and going from their evenings, some walking rather precariously.

With a sigh you went to remove your grip from the devil and jumped only slightly when Raphael’s hand enclosed around your smaller one, turning you to face him as you watched, unsure. He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, intentional, tender kiss to the backs of your fingers, closing his eyes as he did, giving your hand an almost imperceptible squeeze before returning it to you with an expression on his face that seemed to suggest it pained him to do so. You felt your throat tighten at the unexpected gesture, not sure what to say. Luckily, he spoke first.

“Thank you, little mouse, for entertaining me this evening. It has been a truly illuminating experience.”

“Likewise. Thank you for the dinner, I had a good time.”

“I am very glad to hear it. Take care, I’ll see you soon.” With a small nod he turned on his heels and headed towards Wyrm’s Crossing. You watched for a moment, almost until he was out of sight, curious as to why he chose to walk instead of just vanishing into the air like usual. You wondered whether he would look back at you, wondered whether you wanted him to. He did not. At least, not until you had turned away and already ducked into the tavern.

It was not until Astarion, lounging amongst the cushions on the floor of the room with a book in hand as the others slept, gave you a peculiar look as you entered, tilting his head curiously that you realised any hope of your activities of the evening remaining your little secret were well and truly toasted. You groaned inwardly, silently cursing the devil and wondering if this was in his plan all along. How you were going to talk yourself out of this one, you had no idea. You were literally wearing the evidence.

Raphael’s coat sat perfectly atop your shoulders still, and the fabric reeked of cherries and musk, leaving no doubt as to who it belonged to, who you had spent your ‘date’ with.

Astarion gave you a shit-eating grin, eyes sparkling with intrigue as he snapped the book shut.

“Tell me everything.”

[chapter seven]

#bg3 #bg3 raphael #bg3 raphael x reader #bg3 raphael x tav #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #raphael x tav #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #baldur's gate 3 #reader #female reader #x reader #reader insert #fem reader #raphael #baldur's gate 3 raphael #raphael the #sekiromi #a devil you do

[sekiromi]

- Evelyn Waugh, from Brideshead Revisited (1945)

[sekiromi]

[sekiromi]

[sekiromi]

“What’s better than a Bafta you don’t know, a Bafta you do!”

#love him #congrats Mr Wincott!

[sekiromi]

A Devil You Do, ch. 5

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 4.5k previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Five: Enemy Of My Enemy, And All That

Raphael wants to talk; you suppose it can't hurt. The Emperor begs to differ.

On the surface, Baldur’s Gate seemed much unchanged as you gazed across the sprawling city from your camp on the outskirts. From this distance, it looked largely as you remembered it; lively, warm, welcoming. Familiar and dear, home. As with most things, however, distance often obscures the details, it is not until you get closer that you can see the true nature of them, and the truth of your home was a sad one indeed.

It was rotting, from the inside out. Many of the citizens seemed content to blame the incoming refugees, but you could see clearly how wrong they were. A sickness had been allowed to fester and grow beneath the cobbled streets that you once wandered without a care in the world, and suddenly the Absolute felt like the least of your worries. 

Raphael had let you in on the secret, finally. He had the key to all but secure your victory in your imminent fight with the Netherbrain, and he was willing to give it to you. For a price, of course.

That price happened to be the Crown of Karsus, the very thing that had begun this whole affair, the object of Raphael’s deepest desires that would bequeath him with God-like powers and allow him to win the Blood War and unite the Nine Hells under one Archdevil Supreme: himself.

Inferna Victoria, indeed.

You heaved a deep sigh into your mug of ale, body half-bent over the bar in Sharess’ Caress as you mulled over the decision that lay before you. Lae’zel was keen for you to take the deal, no matter the cost, adamant that you must secure the Orphic Hammer and free her Prince as soon as possible. Gale, on the other hand, was positively distraught at the notion of you even entertaining it.

“The Crown of Karsus possesses immense and unknown power, it would be incredibly foolish to put it in the hands of a devil! I cannot believe you didn’t outright refuse him.”

He had snapped the moment the door to the Devil’s Den had shut behind you, wasting no time to chew your ear off about how much of an objectively terrible decision you were on the precipice of making, while offering no solutions of his own to the predicament you had all found yourselves in.

You did not like to admit it, but the devil was right; you did not stand a hope in Hells of defeating the Absolute on your own, and you desperately needed to find a path forwards before the whole city, and then all of Faerûn, paid the price for your indecision.

In the end you had gotten so sick of his lecturing you actually told him to fuck off back to camp and wait there until he had gotten over himself, an instruction he followed with an exasperated “Fine!”.

The others, sensing your thinning patience, left you to it as you hopped up onto a bar stool without a word to any of them and got to drinking straight away. Hooch, the barkeep, tried to put you onto her own, unique concoction but you gratefully declined, settling for something a little more mellow. It was barely past midday, after all. You weren’t an animal; you could wait until the evening for something more numbing. For now, at least.

‘You’d do well to heed the wizard, and steer well clear of that devil.’

The sudden intrusion slicing through your brief, blissful moment of calm immediately set your nerves ablaze with an inappropriate rage, shattering your thoughts and sending them into disarray. Ever since he had revealed himself, the Emperor had been rattling around inside your skull more frequently, more feverishly, whispering unwelcome thoughts into your ear at the most inopportune of times. You could not believe you had almost forgotten he was there.

I don’t want to talk about it right now.

He did not answer, but you got the feeling he had retreated as asked, sensing your foul mood. You almost missed the sweet solace the Devil’s Den had provided; Raphael having been able to silence any unwanted, additional voices within your mind with a snap of his fingers. To him it was a convenience, but to you it felt like a gift. He could not have known how desperately you craved the quiet, how you had forgotten what it felt like to be in charge of your own mind. The only drawback was that you had to spend time in his company which, though sometimes welcome, became quickly grating the more he tried to persuade you to sign the blasted contract. Now however, without his protection from the mindflayer’s prying, you felt all exposed and prickly again.

Although, that feeling could also be explained by the unfaltering, beady gaze of the small woman sat next to you. Throwing her a glance out of the corner of your eye, you sensed she wanted to say something, but you pretended not to notice, hoping to be left to enjoy your beer in peace.

If only life were so kind.

“If it isn’t Raphael’s favourite misadventurer.” She eventually spoke up, drawing your attention out of social obligation rather than anything else. “You’ve put me out of pocket, you know. Raphael bet me five soul coins you’d reach the city in one piece.” You looked her up and down with a frown, feeling a vague sense of recognition but unable to recall ever talking to this woman before.

“Who are you?”

“Ah, I forget we haven’t properly met yet. I’ve had my eyes and ears on you so long, we feel like old friends.” She rushed to explain, causing your eyebrow to shoot up. Suddenly you felt vindicated in your insistence to the others that you could not shake the feeling you were being watched at different points along your journey, even when they told you the tadpole was just making you paranoid. “I’m Korilla, Raphael’s…assistant, shall we say.” Interestingly vague, you thought to yourself.

“I would introduce myself, but seems you know enough about me already.” She had the sense to look a little bit apologetic as she gave an awkward chuckle.

“Maybe so. Say, why didn’t you take the boss’ deal? He’s gutted, you know.” Ah, so that’s what she’s here for.

“I haven’t decided what I’m gonna do yet.” You responded cooly, taking another large gulp of your beer.

“I’d strongly urge you do take it. He’s being more than generous with his offer.”

“And I’m being more than generous by considering it, most people wouldn’t bother.”

Korilla sighed, caught Hooch’s eye and gestured that she’d have the same again, before looking down to draw idle shapes into the wood of the bar.

“He’s not all bad, you know. He doesn’t want to see Baldur’s Gate come to ruin, he’s here to help you. He wants you to succeed.” She explained honestly, eyes scrutinising you as you processed her words.

“Why doesn’t he just give me the hammer, then? If he wants me to succeed so badly?” Korilla laughed and shook her head.

“He’s a devil, it’s in his nature. You can’t honestly expect him to just hand over something as valuable as that for nothing in return? Of course he’s going to try to gain something out of the situation.” She leaned in closer, voice suddenly quieter as if you were sharing a secret. “Luckily, you have the means to give him exactly what he wants.” Without intention your face twisted into a soft frown, still not liking the idea at all.

Raphael the cambion seemed bad enough most days. Master manipulator, committer of abhorrent, unknown horrors, power hungry and silver-tongued. A Raphael imbued with the power of the Gods would be nothing short of a nightmare. It would probably take some time for him to unite the Hells and establish himself as their ruler, if he were able to at all. Asmodeus would have to be dealt with one way or another and he had reigned as Supreme Master for as long as recorded history could say. Then there were the other Archdevils that would either need to be won over or dispatched in turn. Mephistopheles, Lord of the Eighth, would be no easy target. The Archduke of Cania would not take kindly to a usurper, he would sooner supplant Asmodeus himself than allow another devil of lesser rank to take the title. Perhaps the chances of Raphael being able to win the Blood War and replace Asmodeus were slim, but on the off-chance he might succeed, could you really expect him to remain satisfied as Archdevil Supreme? He would almost certainly begin casting his eye on other realms, searching for new, diabolical conquests, new targets to subject to his cruelness. In that version of reality, no one and nowhere would be safe from his claws.

After all that you had done, and still undoubtedly had to do, in order to save your home, you were hesitant to leave it even slightly vulnerable to such a fate.

No, Raphael could not be allowed to secure the crown, at least not without certain…assurances on his part.

Did you think yourself charming enough to sweettalk a devil?

“That reminds me actually, he wanted me to give you this.” Korilla’s voice ripped you jarringly from your thoughts, you had nearly forgotten she was there. Looking down, you could see she had slidden a small, off-white envelope down the bar towards you. Eyeing it suspiciously, you put down your drink and carefully picked it up. It was warm to the touch and lightly perfumed, unaddressed on the back, and sealed with a wax stamp depicting a three-faced devil bearing a crown of hellfire. With a strange care, you buried your finger beneath the seal and gently pried it up, unwilling to rip the paper for some reason, and pulled out the message held within. It was short and to the point, bearing none of Raphael’s usual dramatic flair.

Dinner, tomorrow night. Meet me in the Devil’s Den at dusk. Do not be late. Please try to wear something not covered in blood for a change.

- R

You huffed a small chuckle, tucking the invitation back into the envelope, away from Korilla’s prying eyes as she not-so-subtly tried to peer over at the steady, lopping cursive of her master’s handwriting. You found it interesting that she did not know the contents of the letter she had delivered, she seemed to know everything else about you after all. Raphael had not let her in on this little detail, it seemed, which sent a thrill running through you, the joy of a secret shared.

“Well?” She asked expectantly, and instead of giving her the satisfaction you simply smiled knowingly and told her to let Raphael know that you accepted.

‘You cannot be serious. I told you to stay away from him. Nothing good will come of this.’

If I wanted your opinion, I would’ve asked for it.

‘Do not test me, my patience with these distractions is wearing thin. You should be focusing on the Dead Three, not galivanting around and dining with the devil!’

I want to hear what he has to say. I heard you out, I believe I owe him the same.

'Do not compare me to that hellspawn.'

You felt the Emperor retreat in a sulk, your fists clenching in frustration at his incessant need to always be difficult. You understood his reservations about Raphael, after all you had them too, but you just wished he could allow you to make your own decisions, pursue your own path without the constant need to chime in and criticise, undermine, and ridicule. You would never admit it to him, but you preferred it when he was simply the mysterious Dream Visitor offering vague guidance and mostly leaving you be during your waking hours. Gods how you missed having a mind that echoed with just your own inner voice.

In all honesty, you were not certain you had a choice when it came to the dinner anyway. The devil had left little room for refusal in his phrasing, all but ordering you to meet him tomorrow night for what you could only imagine would turn into an evening of him attempting to wine and dine you towards signing your morals away. Oddly, you were sort of looking forward to it.

Korilla gave an indignant huff before downing her drink, bidding you farewell, and jumping off her stool to scurry back to her master. You finished your own drink, closed your tab, and set out to reconvene with your crew and confront Enver Gortash.

—-

Come the evening of your dinner date, you were already set to fall at the first hurdle. After making it to the Lower City and handling some errands (or rather, more deadly battles) you had managed to rent your party a whole floor in the Elfsong Tavern, a welcome reprieve from the barn you had been sleeping in since your arrival, and had then lost a considerable amount of time to waiting for a bath to become available. Despite being the one paying for the room, annoyingly you had somehow ended up at the back of the line, a misfortune that was sure to make you late to meet Raphael.

Grumbling and muttering to yourself you settled into a spare seat at the bar next to Karlach, who was smelling much fresher than she had been an hour ago, and ordered a shot of rum.

“Sorry, soldier, them’s the breaks!” She said with a smile and a stretch, joints in her fingers popping as she interlaced them and lifted them overhead. “I would’ve let you go first any other day, but I needed to wash bits of hag outta my hair.”

You gave her an unimpressed look, bits of hag still decorating your own head and face, and resisted the urge to flick a bit her way. She gave you a sheepish grimace as you asked the barmaid what the hour was.

“Gods, if Astarion doesn’t get out of that bath soon I’m gonna kill him.” You muttered as you glanced out the window, the sun starting to bleed vibrant hues of oranges and reds into the sky. The damned vampire had been in there nearly an hour now, surely the water had to have gone cold at this point?

“What’s the rush? Got plans or something?” Karlach had a half-jesting tone, but upon noticing your strained expression realised she had hit the mark. “Oh I see…you got a hot date, chief?” She nudged your shoulder with hers a little too forcefully as you knocked back the rum, causing it to lash against the back of your throat with a sudden burn. You choked, dropping the glass on the bench quickly and helped yourself to some of her beer for a chaser.

“N-No, not exactly…” You managed once you had cleared your throat.

“C’mon, who’s the lucky guy? Or gal!” She put her hands up as if you had accused her of something to which you just rolled your eyes. In a way, you would rather you were going on a date. As weird as it would be to admit given everything that was going on, it would undoubtedly be less painful than divulging the real itinerary for the evening.

You juggled with the idea of telling Karlach the truth, you never liked lying to your companions, even when it was the easier option. But, out of all of them, you knew Karlach would understand this the least. Whilst the consensus amongst your group was not overly positive concerning Raphael, most had to admit he had his uses, he had pulled through for you all so far. He had upheld his end of the deal with Astarion and explained the true nature of his scars once you had handled Yurgir, and despite withholding certain…details, he had never once misled you nor sought to deceive you. He had been frighteningly honest with you from the very first encounter. The same could not be said of your other supposed allies, including some of your own companions. Despite this, Karlach still hated him with a passion that raged as strong as the fire in her chest.

It was difficult to blame her. After everything she had been through in the Hells, you understood her immediate dislike to anything of an infernal nature. She had been used and abused by devil’s for long enough to warrant her feelings of contempt, but that did not mean you had to share in them.

This begged a certain line of questioning you had been trying to avoid: just what did you think of Raphael, anyway? You were loathe to admit that, deep down, you did not hate him. In fact, there was even an inkling of something akin to fondness growing somewhere in the recesses of your being. You had felt it the moment you were within ten feet of his room at Sharess’ Carress, that shameful, bubbling anticipation of seeing him again that could only mean you were treading some very dangerous waters indeed, waters that would surely drown you sooner or later. He was infuriating, calculating, undoubtedly dangerous, and above all an actual devil, all things which should have made you want to drive a knife through his skull rather than let him take you out to dinner. Still, for some reason you could not find it in your heart to hate him.

“It’s…more of a business meeting, actually.” You glanced at her, trying not to sound too mysterious and arouse her suspicions.

“A business meeting? What d’you mean?”

You shrugged, sliding her beer back over her way.

“A meeting with a potential business partner where we discuss some business.”

“Oh, no shit.” She mocked, taking a large swig. You sighed, deeply.

“Fine…it’s a date.”

“Knew it.” She offered you a sip of her drink, which you gratefully took, supposing you needed all the alcohol you could to survive tonight. “So, go on then, who is it? It’s not Astarion, is it? Thought things were over between you two.”

“It’s not Astarion.”

“Hm…oh, is it Shadowheart? I was just thinking you guys have been looking quite cosy since Shar’s Gauntlet.”

You resisted the urge to sigh again and just shook your head.

“Nope, it’s not Shadowheart.”

“Wyll?” Another headshake. “Lae’zel?” And another. “…Gale?!”

“No!” You did not mean to sound so incredulous, bless Gale. “You don’t know them.” You settled for in the end, hoping that would satisfy her for now.

“Oh really? An old flame, then?”

“Something like that.” You hummed, handing back her drink and resting your chin in your palm dejectedly.

“Alright, keep your secrets. I won’t pry anymore.” She promised with an amused smile, just happy to be somewhat in the know. “Astarion’s just come down, by the way.” Your head shot up, seeing the pale elf sauntering across the room with a towel draped across his shoulders, one hand idly tousling his damp curls, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Oh thank fuck for that! See ya Karlach!”

She laughed as you practically jumped off your stool, stalking past Astarion to make way for the stairs to finally rinse away the blood, guts, and all the other unpleasantness from the last few days.

Almost fully submerged in the scalding water, you shook every bit of debris free from your hair, scrubbed every inch of skin until the dirt that had made itself at home in your pores was finally coming loose, until you were glowing red raw. The bitter dandelion and sharp nettle scent of the soap was not the most pleasing smell, but you supposed it was better than hag and sewer stench. The water had barely started to cool when you lifted yourself from the tub, lamenting that you did not have the time to stay in the warm embrace of the bath for longer. Alone in the room, you searched for an outfit that matched Raphael’s request of not being covered in blood, a task that was surprisingly difficult since you had not had a chance to wash anything yet.

In the end you were able to dig out something that seemed acceptable enough. Nothing too fancy, you did not want to give the devil the satisfaction of making it seem like you had spared your choice of clothes that much thought, or getting the wrong idea and thinking you were trying to impress him, Gods forbid. Still, it was a welcome change to see your reflection in the mirror as you added the final touches, selecting jewellery that made sense from an aesthetic perspective but also in terms of the magical properties they bestowed. Happy with your selection, you stole a drop of perfumed oil from Shadowheart’s possessions littered across the vanity, hoping she would not mind, and gave yourself a final glance, now hardly recognisable from the road-weary adventurer you had become so used to seeing looking vacantly back at you.

Still me, it seems. Despite everything.

Perhaps against your better judgement you resisted the urge to bring a weapon, and slipped out of the room.

It was growing dark when you arrived at Sharess’ Carress. Hurriedly you made your way through the doors and swirling incense, past the bustling of patrons, avoiding Mamzell Amira’s pleasantries and attempts to catch your attention. Slipping through the crowd, you quickly climbed the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and had to pause for breath once at the top.

How is it that after all the walking and fighting, I’m still not fit enough to run up some stairs?

Once your face had cooled down a little and your lungs did not feel so constricted, you walked around the balcony to the Devil’s Den, and hesitated. Just what exactly would be awaiting you beyond the door? You were alone, almost entirely defenceless, and your companions had no idea where you were, a fact Raphael had no doubt been banking on, knowing you would be too ashamed to admit to them you were dining with the devil. Should the evening turn sour, you stood not a chance of surviving, and nobody would even know where to look for your body.

In that moment, you considered turning back and abandoning the plans entirely. It would be easy to retrace your steps downstairs, turn right outside the Caress, slip into the night and make your way back to the Lower City, slide into the fresh linen of your rented bed and forget the whole thing entirely. Should you cross paths with Raphael again, you could simply tell him something had come over you, that you had made a poor choice at lunch and it had repeated on you just as you were getting ready to meet him. You could be a proficient liar after all, when you wanted to be. That was, as long as Korilla had not been reporting back on your every movement that day.

You were almost resigned to this decision when the door before you flew open, sending your heart racing in a confusing medley of panic, fear, and anticipation. Raphael nearly walked headfirst into you before looking up just in time, shocked expression mirroring yours before settling into a displeased frown. Having been waiting restlessly since the sun had finally dipped below the horizon, he had just been about to head out in search of you, in case you had either forgotten your commitment or somehow lost your way during the walk over here. His face betrayed no sign of this intention.

“You’re late.” He folded his arms across his chest, finger tapping impatiently, and you noticed he was not wearing his usual attire, opting for something that was somehow both more and less decadent simultaneously. His undershirt was lacking its usual frills, instead a stiff rounded collar peeked out just above that of the black and gold overcoat he was wearing, which obscured most of the matching waistcoat beneath. Crisp shirtsleeve cuffs were held together with polished, gold cufflinks that, upon closer inspection, were fashioned to resemble both comedy and tragedy masks, one of each on either side. You sensed those cufflinks alone were worth more than your entire wardrobe. As usual, not a hair was out of place, brown curls gently combed back and tucked behind his ears, face freshly shaven. At such close range, you could smell a hint of sharp citrus beneath the usual blend of cherries and soft musk.

“Sorry. The others wouldn’t let me use the bath…it was either arrive late or arrive covered in blood.” You shrugged, feeling your heart start to slow as his frown fell away to reveal something less severe.

“You mean, you didn’t tell them about your most pressing social engagement this evening?” He teased with a dramatized air of incredulity, stepping fully out of the room and softly shutting the door behind him.

“Well, not exactly…but I did tell them where to look for me if I mysteriously disappear.” You were half-joking, because although you had not, you wished you had. He gave an amused chuckle as he faced the door and turned a decorated key in the lock.

“My dear, I promise no harm shall befall you tonight. After all, the safest place in all the realms for you to be is by my side.”

Only as long as you want it to be, you thought, watching as he rose to his full height before you, gaze flitting across your form, taking in your attire, giving a small nod of mild approval before he extended his arm out at ninety degrees, offering it to you.

“Shall we?”

You eyed him suspiciously, trying to discern his thoughts and intentions, catch a gleam of something in his eyes, but he was as impenetrable as ever.

“There’s no need to look so nervous, mouse. We’re just having dinner.” He assured, tilting his head coyly. With some very warranted trepidation, you slipped your hand into the crease of his elbow, trying not to feel too uneasy as the smile on his lips practically doubled in size.

With a crackle of burning embers and a flurry of smoke, you were whisked away from the balcony of Sharess’ Carress, hurtling through the realms to somewhere entirely anew, somewhere unknown, somewhere that, if you were not careful, you might not return from. There was no turning back now, no cancelling last minute, the unpredictable series of events that were now set to unfold this evening had been put in motion, and you could only attempt to steel your nerves and hope the Gods were looking out for you, pray they could still see you wherever you were headed. Although, you were not sure why you bothered praying – the Gods had done sweet fuck all for you up until this point anyway.

Against every instinct telling you otherwise, you had no choice, it seemed, but to put your trust in Raphael.

[chapter six]

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 raphael #bg3 raphael x reader #bg3 raphael x tav #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #raphael x tav #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #raphael the cambion #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #female reader #sekiromi #a devil you do

[sekiromi]

A Devil You Do, ch. 4

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 4.2k previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Four: The Last Light

You, ever the light against which the darkness breaks.

Darkness.

That is all that lingered in these lands. An eternal twilight, a chilling void, all forms stripped of life and sentenced to roam the shadows.

It drained you, permeated your armour, your clothes, your very skin, and seemed to wrap itself around your heart in twisting tendrils, gripping tightly.

Within the claws of the curse, there was no light to guide you. Neither Lathander nor Selûne could hope to penetrate this oppressive gloom, the only gleam keeping the shadows at bay being that of the torch that Halsin held up high in front, and that of your own unwavering resolve.

And nothing, where I now arrive, is shining.

“Stay close, and do not wander from the light.” He warned, casting a glance over his shoulder to the rest of your travelling companions. From beside him, you spared a moment to gaze at them too, noting their worried countenances, lacklustre cheeks and enervated steps. Even Astarion, who by all means should have felt more at home in this deep dusk than any of you, seemed unsettled, and that worried you more than anything else thus far.

Halsin had warned you that the Shadow-Cursed Lands would be like this; devoid of all tenderness and life, dreary and dilapidated, completely depressing and bearing down on you in increasing weight with every step, like wading through mud. Even the stars could not shine here, bequeath their hope and promise of divine assurance unto you, leaving you feeling more lost than ever.

One thing you had not fully anticipated was the cold.

It ate into the marrow of your soul, infected it with a numbness reminiscent of a slow death, and stole your voice away. Your breath condensed in trembling clouds in front of you as you pushed onwards, desperately searching for the strength to press forth and vanquish the shadows lurking around every corner. They kept coming, unrelenting, deterred only by the meek glow of your torches and divine spells, yet you did not falter.

Still, it was a relief when the Harpers led you to the sanctuary that was the Last Light Inn. A glowing sphere of promise broke the wave of darkness that fell against it, protecting the souls within, providing a welcome opportunity to rest and recuperate.

As you lingered within the Moonmaiden’s protection, refamiliarizing yourself with faces first encountered back at the Emerald Grove, your strength slowly started to return to you, arriving like droplets from a leaking tap in meagre, steady beats.

Nobody here was happy, you noted, but at least they were alive. Mostly.

Rolan’s recounting of events dealt you a significant blow, however, hearing how the tieflings you had fought so desperately to protect were struck on the road suddenly, caught off-guard and largely defenceless. How some fell in valiant but condemned combat, how others were taken, whisked away to Moonrise Towers to suffer Gods know what fate, including his own brother and sister. How the rest came to be here at the inn, with nowhere else in the world to go. Desperate and desolate, seeking refuge once again, indebted entirely to strangers. It saddened you beyond measure, wearied your spirit, and had you cursing at your apparent inability to do anything right.

In your journey so far, despite your most heroic of efforts you had left behind little but death and devastation, it seemed.

And so, feeling thoroughly hollow and all but powerless, looking less than your best self, you came across the damned devil again.

“Your move, Mol.” He graced you with a brief glance, attention otherwise entirely enraptured by the game of lanceboard set up between himself and the young tiefling. You gritted your teeth, muscles tensing in irritation at this unlikely coupling. Mol was a free spirit, this much you knew, but you did not think she was so brazen as to commune with the infernal. You felt an instinctive urge to keep her out of Raphael’s claws, though you sensed there was only so much you could hope to say to dissuade her from whatever path she had started paving for herself.

“You trapped me. I didn’t even wanna take this one.” Mol sulked, eyes raking over the board, desperately searching for an escape route.

“Calimshan rules, dear. The first piece touched, is the first piece moved.” Gods his voice was like melted silver.

“That’s garbage! No matter where the knight goes, I’m gonna lose it!” You suppressed an amused smile at her rising frustrations.

“Then make the sacrifice useful.” Raphael’s voice was suddenly stern, lecturing. “Guard your Mystra, or come for my Cyric.” He leant back in his seat relaxedly, allowing Mol the space to further peruse the pieces with her uncovered eye. She examined them at length, discerning nothing, before noticing you all of a sudden.

“Look who made it!” She exclaimed with a smile. “For once I saved your butt out there, didn’t I? We’re square now, chief.” She was referring to your rather unsavoury introduction to Jaheira, a drama you could have easily done without after having just laboriously saved some of her Harpers from the clutches of the Shadow-Cursed.

“Sure thing, Mol.” You responded with your own smile, slipping a side-eye Raphael’s way, unnerved to notice his eyes were already fixed steadily on you.

“Say, do you play lanceboard by any chance? It’s my first time playing.” You did not fail to notice the way her visible eye gleamed in dishonesty. She knew the game, very well in fact, and wanted nothing else other than to win – no matter the means. Considering her opponent, you did not do her the disservice of revealing her blatant lie, and instead casted your eye over the board.

With careful attention, you examined her position, noted down her possible moves, tried to predict Raphael’s responses, narrowing your eyes when you found the blunder. You gave Raphael a suspicious look, unsure whether he had left the opening on purpose to entice the young tiefling, or whether his lanceboard abilities were simply not all that great. Considering the devil was probably about two centuries old at this point, and had undoubtedly played many games of lanceboard against much greater opponents, you guessed it was the former.

Still, you could not help yourself but to bequeath Mol the victory, just to show off a hint of your own knowledge, if nothing else.

“Put some pressure on him. Attack the pieces in front of his king.” You offered, and smiled when she claimed his pawn with her knight.

“My, the Theskan Double Counter-Gambit. Vicious! Exactly what I would have done.” He did not seem perturbed, adding weight to your theory, and disappointment in your chest. Mol quickly proceeded, the moves now revealing themselves before her.

“How’s that for Calimsham rules?”

“Brava! Lovely work. I see I was right to make you the offer I did.” If Raphael’s unfiltered flattery at every passing soul persisted, you thought you might have to consider getting surgery to fix your eyeballs in place, lest you lose them in the back of your head from all the rolling they were doing. “You will consider it, won’t you?” Full of charm, as usual, Mol said nothing. Merely hopped off her seat, and headed towards the others gathered near the bar. With the game now concluded, Raphael stood to face you.

“What a lovely specimen she is. A blushing apple, begging to be plucked.” You felt your face contort into an expression that resembled disgust. What an odd thing to say, you thought.

“Please let me smack this creep.” Karlach mumbled in your ear, echoing your sentiments, and you were half-tempted to let her.

“The Theskan move suggestion was inspired. I had no idea you played.” There was that predictable flattery again. You tried not to let it affect you, honestly, you really did, but you could not help the small, tiny ripple of pride that sprung forth.

“There’s plenty about me you have no idea about.” You responded with a small shrug and a half-smile.

“Don’t I, indeed…” You did not like the way he said that.

“Just stay away from Mol, Raphael.” You meant it to sound more like a warning, something akin to a threat, a statement that she was under your protection (whether she liked it or not). However, it came out as more of a plea, your voice faltering in its gravity.

“Don’t you worry your precious little tadpoled head about Mol – it goes without saying she still has the unconditional freedom to choose the only option she has left. Besides, she won, she has a taste for it now. She’ll be the one who comes to me.” Behind his words was a tease, an implicit understanding that this was your doing. You had given her the tools to taste victory, and thereby bestowed her with a now insatiable appetite for it. You tried not to let it seem like it bothered you, although you sensed it was already too late for that. “But enough about my lesser pursuits. Why bother with trifles when I’m in the illustrious presence of my very favourite client!” He took a low bow, and you had to wonder how many other ‘favourite clients’ he had used that line on before, tried to ignore how easily it was working on you. “Tell me, O apple of my eye, how have you been? You don’t have any gills to get green around yet, but you do look a little worse for wear in this light.” You frowned at that, only slightly offended. Sure, you felt more run down than ever, had not slept soundly for the last few days, and probably looked like you had been dragged through a hedge backwards, but he did not have to say it.

“You know, I’ve never been better.” You lied with a deadpan expression, suddenly void of all patience with him.

“Splendid! And yet…I have this picture in my head, of you tossing and turning in the middle of the night, thinking strange things, dreaming strange dreams. And there’s this little voice inside of you asking: ‘Is this my will, or is it the worm’s?’ But you have no answer, and no way of knowing. The good thing is, though, there’s only one little voice you really should listen to: mine.” Raphael’s usually devilish grin wavered for a moment upon perceiving the fiendish smile adorning your delightful lips, confused as to what could possibly have brought that on. He was trying to dig at you, get under your skin and be the thorn in your side, and he thought he had been succeeding, but it seemed something had slipped past and accidentally entertained you. Raphael’s countenance fell into one of suspicion and annoyance. “What’s so funny, mouse?” Your smile only grew wider as you stifled a laugh.

“Oh, you said a lot of words. But all I heard was that you have these daydreams of me ‘tossing and turning’ in the night.” You mimicked his flirtatious tone and theatrical gesticulations, smirk positively enraging, if not a little bit tempting. Raphael felt his own lips stretch into an amused grin, against his better judgement. He brought his hand to his chin, shaking his head slowly in feigned disapproval.

“Bad girl.”

In that moment, he would have liked it to just be the two of you, your companions be damned, just so you would reciprocate a bit more of this forbidden back and forth with him, enlighten him a little with your undoubtedly sharp tongue. Up until now, you had been far too concerned with what your friends thought of you and the decisions you made to really allow yourself to make an organic choice. He was curious to see what kind of person you were, when nobody else was watching. Perhaps he would pay you another visit soon, when he could finally catch you by yourself, but for now Karlach was looking between you both with no attempt to conceal her revulsion.

“Now, let’s talk about you.” He turned his attentions towards Astarion, lurking closely and almost possessively behind your left shoulder. “I sense there’s something you want to ask me.”

Astarion gave you a quick glance, double-checking he still had your approval. You gave a small, quick nod, despite your own reservations.

“I do. I have a…proposal for you.” He sounded uncertain, almost shy for a change, both emotions you would not associate with the rogue.

“A proposal? If you’re hoping to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern Whiskey.”

“This is serious business, devil.” Astarion’s tone took on a sharper, more familiar note. “My old – well, a long time ago, someone carved some runes into my back. I’d rather like to know what they say.” Behind the air of confidence was a vein of something else, something vulnerable, something ashamed. You turned to look at Astarion, but he did not meet your gaze. Raphael just hummed in response, clearly pretending to think it over.

“Don’t play games, Raphael. Help him out.” You instructed, any former joviality now gone as you turned your attention back to the devil, drawing out a folded piece of paper from your pocket which, when unfurled, revealed the circles of infernal engravings upon Astarion’s back that you had sketched a few nights ago.

“Oh, such impatience.” Raphael chastised, gently taking the sketch, turning it so that he could see it the right way, eyes tracing the letters with considerable curiosity. You knew he could read it straight away, translate the whole thing for Astarion right here and now, but he would not part with that information for free. He nodded along to himself, as if having a conversation within his own head. “It’s something very important to your master. But is it a love letter, a warning, or a deed of ownership? I could give you all the gory details. But of course, you’ll have to do something for me first. Let me think about it and get back to you.” There it is. Astarion scoffed, clearly irritated.

“You’ll ‘get back’ to me? This is important, devil!” He heaved a dejected sigh. “…When?”

“Don’t worry – I’m motivated to help you! Scars often tell such wonderful stories; I think yours might be truly exquisite. I’ll see you soon.” Although those last words were meant for Astarion, the devil looked at you while he spoke them, gaze holding yours for entirely too long. Then, in a swirl of embers and a cloud of smoke, he was gone.

—-

“You have failed me, child.”

A deep, harrowing voice rang in your mind. Your heart trembled at the gravity, the punishment of it.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

Salty tears cascaded over rosy cheeks to pool at the corners of your lips. A stifling heat drew beads of sweat from your bare skin, you could feel them running down your back, biting into fresh cuts and scrapes. Even the ground beneath you was hot to the touch, umber dirt slowly burning the soles of your feet drawn up to your chest as you held your meek form marred in blood, bruises, and dust in a mournful embrace, a face burning with an unspeakable shame buried in your arms. Cocooned in downy, bronzed feathers scorched by hellfire, you sat and cried and waited for Death.

You could pray every day for the rest of your life, confess and bare all before the Gods to try to buy exoneration for your wicked thoughts and desires, but it would not change anything. Redemption was a path you were no longer permitted to walk, absolution a stolen dream. You had been judged as unworthy of your station, and thus sentenced to wander the grief-wracked city , that cavern of pain where endless miseries knell , for the remainder of your now finite life.

The heavenly light you had inherited began to fade as you choked back your sobs of unspoken pain, woeful cries swallowed up by the suffocating inferno of Nessus, the Ninth Hell, a pit of suffering reserved for the most wretched of sinners. Firewinds hurtled around, screeching through the flaming forest and threatening to tear the flesh from your bones, the feathers from your torn wings, but you did not care.

Let them claim you, strip you of your very being until nought but stardust remained.

“This is no place for a celestial, my dear.”

His voice, softer than you ever heard it before, ripped you from your despair. Funny how a devil could alleviate some of your most unholy suffering.

You did not look at him, could not bring yourself to exhibit your disgrace.

“A celestial I am no longer. Leave me here to die, Raphael.”

Hoarse and pained, your voice came forth as a mere scratch, heavy with the weight of the consequence of your irreverent crimes.

“Do not let the sun go down on your anger , sweet one.”

Anger. The only thing sharing the space with your sorrow.

“The sun does not shine down here.”

Hands gentler than you had ever known grazed the wing that shielded you, tenderly pushed it down to reveal the beggared being held within.

“No, but perhaps his emissary can.”

Sore, bloodshot eyes slowly lifted to meet vibrant amber moons suspended in a sea of black. A red, clawed hand was extended, an offering, a deal: abandon your grace and walk beside me as my equal, together we will conquer, together we will prevail, together we can do anything at all.

His eyes glistened with his promise and something desperate, a silent want he had grown too weary to bother to hide. It resonated with the ache in your own chest.

Silencing your tears and swallowing your pride, you took his hand.

You awoke that morning in a steady sweat, breaths shallow and mind feverish in a mild panic as the dream danced in vivid clarity before you in the darkness, taunting you with its meaning. It took a while for you to come to your senses, realise where you were, who you were. As you slept, you were sure you had been someone else.

While the portrait of the dream faded from your mind as the day stretched on, it gave way to an unpleasant hollow feeling that started to blossom somewhere between your heart and your stomach, right in the centre of your being. You could not shake the feeling that you had lost something important, that something dear to you had been ripped from your very core. When you allowed this feeling to surge forth, took the time to notice and sit with it, try to reason with it, you found unexplained tears would threaten to spring forth.

Traipsing around Reithwin after a thorough exploration of Moonrise Towers did nothing to ease that emptiness, if anything it only helped it to grow. Witnessing horrors you could never have imagined, surrounded by so many lost souls, it weighed on you more than you cared to admit. Finding Arabella’s parents in the House of Healing, laid out gently, almost lovingly, as if they were merely sleeping took you to the very edge of your sanity. Wandering through the graveyard, learning the names of all those that fell here, it was too much for your soul to bear.

You had never thought that death could have unmade so many.

Feeling wearier than ever by the time you approached the imposing stonework of the Thorm’s family mausoleum in the search for Ketheric’s invulnerability, you almost had no energy to entertain Raphael’s usually amusing banter.

“Our hero thought but of treasure ahead, Did not consider the peace of the dead…”

The devil gazed upon you with an all-too-happy grin, pushing himself upright and off of the stone he had been leaning against, waiting agonisingly for your delayed arrival. Seeing his face, even in his mortal guise, caused a sudden and inexplicable sense of longing to claw its way through your chest and up your throat. Memories of a dream, or, memories that felt like they were trapped in a dream raced across your mind. A sense of total and utter helplessness, fading into a vague notion of belonging. With your waning strength, you fought desperately to push it down, gulp back this awful and unwelcome sense of déjà vu. If Raphael felt it too, he gave no indication.

“Through the dark, she went creeping, And awoke what was sleeping. A new grave they dug, which she herself fed.”

He almost wished to tell you off for being late, keeping him waiting, but sensed it would be fruitless. You had arrived on your own schedule, exactly when you had intended to. Unfortunately for him, you did not play by his rules. Not yet.

“How long have you been stood here practicing that little speech?” You asked with some difficulty as you folded your arms, shamelessly looking him up and down. You might have imagined it, but for a fraction of a moment you could have sworn you saw a hint of a crack in his usually perfect composure, caught slightly off-guard at your words. It was gone as quick as it came though, leaving you wondering whether you had seen it at all.

“Why, until it was perfect.” You had no doubts about that. “I’ve grown quite fond of you, you know, in my way. I thought it only fair to warn you about the dangers ahead.”

And warn you he did, in his way. Eventually. After much convincing and refining. You had not the mental facilities to decode his vague allusions and hidden meanings, not today. If he wanted something from you, he had to put it in plain common, a task that seemed arduously difficult to him. Still, you were able to discern the gist of it: within the mausoleum lurked an orthon, an orthon that Raphael seemed to desperately want dispatched.

“Do not, under any circumstances, underestimate this opponent, mouse. At best you will have the blink of an eye to strike.” He insisted, leaning towards you with a harshness in his voice you had not heard from him yet. “Strike first, strike true. Defy the odds, for they are distinctly in its favour. That much I owe the bastard to concede.” His russet irises bore into yours with a sense of urgency, instruction, and something else mingled in with it all. Something he was trying to hide that seeped onto his face as his brows flinched together, something that, for some reason, he could not hide from you. Concern. “Do this, and I will consider that sufficient payment to decode those scars of yours, Astarion.” He turned his gaze to the vampire for a moment, who nodded in response, before looking back to you. He parted his lips as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it.

“Take care of yourself, won’t you?” Said like a command, tone tinged with warning but betraying a suggestion of authenticity. You did not answer, he always seemed to be the one to decide when the conversation was finished anyway, so you just watched silently as he disappeared.

There was not a single cell in your body that was prepared to fight an orthon today, you decided. Better a task left for tomorrow.

After trudging back to your camp and preparing for the evening you fully intended to collapse straight onto your bedroll, allowing Death’s cousin to take you in its grasp right on through until the morning. Alas, Astarion had other plans. Breaking your heart, namely.

With an air of agitation he explained his plan, how he had set out to seduce you and manipulate you into liking him, caring for him, so that you would offer him valuable protection. A tactic he had employed countless times over the last two centuries to charm the unfortunate and lure them back to his master. A ploy you had fallen for, hook, line and sinker. You felt a deep, unearthly humiliation wash over you, drowning you, even as he admitted to falling for you, too.

The sigh that came forth was probably one of the saddest things Astarion ever recalled hearing.

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.” He sounded sincere, but you had trouble noticing over the rush of your own mortification. How could you have not seen this? You had been so caught up in the thrill of a blossoming dalliance, the joy of being desired, you had not thought for a second to wonder whether it was real.

“So, the nights we spent together didn’t mean anything to you?” There was no hint of an accusation in your voice, no bite, no anger. Just pure unfiltered sadness which pained him more than your rage ever could.

“Of course they did, that’s the problem. Or, part of it. Being close to someone, any kind of intimacy, was something I performed to lure people back for him. Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels…tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing. I don’t know how else to be with someone. No matter how much I’d like to.” You understood, and perhaps that was worse than not understanding, because you felt like it robbed you of your right to hurt. The betrayal stung deeply, agonisingly, but you tried your best to pacify it for the moment. You had always been an expert in diminishing the size of your own feelings for the sake of others, after all. Always one to make room for other people in your life by making yourself smaller.

“Maybe what you really need is a friend, not a lover.”

Astarion looked a little taken aback, a little…unsure, for a moment, before weighing up the meaning of your words.

“I…I would like that.”

You held his hand, promised all was forgiven, that there were no hard feelings. You hoped you were as good at pretending as he seemed to be.

Leaving him, you returned to your own tent and sunk into your bedroll, hoping sleep would come for you quickly so as not to leave you with your now depressing thoughts for too long.

For the first time in a long time, you tucked your head beneath the covers, and wept.

[chapter five]

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 raphael #bg3 raphael x reader #bg3 raphael x tav #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #raphael x tav #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #raphael the cambion #reader insert #fem reader #female reader #x reader #apologies for the delay in getting this out #i sort of...forgot hehe #sekiromi #a devil you do

[sekiromi]

"I knew then that the folly of mortals could be the triumph of devils, and that I could use that Crown to unite the Nine under one Archdevil Supreme. Me."

[sekiromi]

Why is Haarlep so different from Raphael - a theory

Hello! Welcome to another theory of mine.

"I am Haarlep. Raphael's personal incubus. Glamoured and transfigured to look like him. I'm a perfect copy(...)"

Hold your horses, sir Wait, they are nonbinary: Hold your horses, noble.

Haarlep states that they are a perfect copy, however there are some major differences in their appearance that could not be caused simply by the visual age difference.*

Haarlep's face has a few major differences:

Lack of darkened skin around the facial hair area (they appear a lot smoother).

The nose is straight and while the tip is shaped similarly, there is no bump across the bridge. They don't even have the cute-angry wrinkles in between the eyes! (Female form has them wrinkles, but the bump is softer)

Maybe it's just me but I was thinking that the upper lip appears to be a bit plumpier.

The face is shorter and because of that, the cheekbones are a lot sharper, Haarlep looks like they had some botox done 💀

The ears appear to be less sharp and shorter (aging hits ears quite hard, but they usually sag and the difference here is with the tip.

Archduchess form does have the roman nose, however the lips are plumpier.

See for yourself below:

And in comparison to Raphael (even to his EA model that has the famous bald spot):

But where is this leading, you may ask?

Well, I am proposing two different perspectives on that:

Haarlep's 'tweaks' point to Raphael's insecurities (a version of theory that my friend @shutexco proposed)

Raphael's devil form resembles MEPHISTOPHELES and he can't stand looking at the actual accurate depiction of his cambion form. Also, if that's the case, take a moment to consider how F-ed up it really is to have Haarlep gifted to him if his father was completely aware of the resemblence. But it would make sense, wouldn't it? Raphael left Cania at some point, but his father made sure he will haunt him all the time.

Have you noticed how Raphael has two portraits of himself that also don't look like him at all?

The second portrait has two horns, so it could be made during the EA, but there is no other similarity.

The first portrait looks like it's wearing some kind of variation of the Helldusk Armor, you can spot the 'Teeth' across the chest, but apart from that and 4 horns, it doesn't look like Raphael at all.

To sum up: the portraits are some kind of a 'vision' of Raphael. For a narcissist he really seems to be avoiding an actual perfect (as in 1to1 accurate) copy of himself.

Also, a few fun facts/smaller theories I'd like to include!

I think he made his own portraits. There are two easels in House of Hope. One behind the Archive (with brushes and cup at the ready and some paint stain spilled below them) and second is on the right hand side of the bed in the boudoir.

Now, the paintings on both easels can be found across Faerun, but the devil portraits are exclusive to HoH and I believe (please fact-check me if you know) that the painting inside Raphael's safe, right above the hoarded treasure, is also exclusive. Raphael is very talented. His diaries are like poetry, full of symbolism, bro is literally a composer, so why not an artist as well? I wouldn't put it past him. And because HoH was made by the head of Mason's Guild, then I guess he had the major influence on the design and I've heard someone say that it's Italian baroque and it's just beautiful.

Here's the Magic the Gathering card of Raphael (I think it was issued in 2022??). It looks more similar to the Statues at House of Hope than the portraits or Haarlep. Oh, btw, I've seen many people saying (mainly on YT and tiktok) that House of Hope is full of Raphael's statues. Not true, those are just cambions

Statues are present not just in HoH but inside Devil's Fee (yes, with both the belt and kneepads)

That's it! Thank you for reading all the way over here, appreciate it so much <3 <3

*Some aging research, specifically for bone structure changes: "As we age we all lose some bone which means that our cheeks flatten, our jaw bone shrinks and our eye sockets get larger. The structure of the face changes so the tissues above the bones will sit differently and so look different." Source "Facial bone loss can lead to retraction of the jawline, which emphasizes jowls and an unstructured neck. Widening eye sockets give your eyes a more sunken appearance and make you look tired. The angle of the bones beneath the eyebrows decreases, which contributes to frown lines on the forehead, droopy eyelids and crow’s feet at the corner of the eyes." Source

So as we can see, Raphael doesn't really suffer from any of those, besides the crow's feet that are imo so gorgeous that I lose my shit, AHFAIHFAJDSKSHA

[sekiromi]

february & my love is in another state by José Olivarez

[sekiromi]

A Devil You Do, ch. 3

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 4.2k previous chapters: [1] [2]

[read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Three: Scars and the Stories They Tell

You are not your own, for you were bought with a price.

“I don’t know why you don’t just ask Karlach to take a look, I’m sure she could read them for you.” Astarion threw you a displeased look and shushed you to stop the others from overhearing, causing an irritated frown to settle on your features and a slight hurt to sting in your chest. Seeing this, he altered his expression into something less unkind, his eyes softening and a small sigh breaking past his lips as you pretended that a loose stone on the floor was suddenly the most interesting thing you had ever seen in your life just to avoid his gaze.

“Look, I know you’re just trying to help, but I’d rather we kept this between us. For now, at least.” He sensed you were less than satisfied with that answer. “…It’s quite personal. Apart from Cazador, you’re the only other person to really see those scars, you know.” He hoped that would placate you, and felt his shoulders lose some tension as understanding broke onto your face.

“Right, of course.” A pause. “…Sorry.” Astarion resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead offering you a small smile.

“It’s alright. Now, where were we…ah! That’s it.” With a satisfying ‘click’ the lock on the chest came undone. He stepped back, stowing his tools as you lifted the lid and dove in, rummaging around to search for any valuables. A bit of gold, a jewelled necklace, a spell scroll…and a rather fancy looking dagger, which you wordlessly extended towards him. His fingers lingered on yours a little longer than they needed to as he took it. “Oh, thank you dear.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Otherwise, I’ll get accused of favouritism.” You gestured your head towards the others milling about across the courtyard, chatting idly as you navigated Rosymorn Monastery. Astarion gave you a teasing smile, inching closer.

“You mean to say, I’m not your favourite? Darling, I’m distraught.” Unlike Astarion, you could not prevent the eye roll that ensued. You liked him, too much perhaps, but Gods could he be insufferable.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come on, let’s get moving.” You slid past him towards your other companions, illuminated by the rays of the sinking sun, as you continued your search for the entrance to the githyanki crèche that Lae’zel had been harassing you about for the better part of your journey. Despite the only other githyanki you had met along the way having tried to kill you, she still seemed keen to make it there, and assured you the Zaith’Isk would provide you all with the solution you were looking for.

Somehow, you doubted that.

“What is a…Zaith’Isk…exactly?” You asked as you walked beside her, keeping a lookout as you rounded corners, watching for danger lurking in the shadows. Considering there was apparently a faction of githyanki loitering around here somewhere, the monastery seemed eerily quiet.

“It is a githyanki healing device that uses psionic energy to remove a mindflayer parasite from the infected. It is engineered from both illithid and metal machinery, it is our only hope for survival.” She assured, gait steady and confident as you traversed the halls.

“Have you used one before?” You asked curiously, still keeping an eye out for any imminent threat. Lae’zel hesitated a little, and cleared her throat before answering.

“No, I have not. But it is known that only a Zaith’Isk can purify a person that has become infected.” You lingered on those words, ‘it is known’, to who, and how, exactly? Perhaps it was your pessimism showing, or perhaps the tadpole had gifted you with some prescient sense of awareness, but once you entered the crèche, the Zaith’Isk did not fail to meet your expectations, as disappointing as they were.

Lae’zel thrashed and fought within the contraption, evidently in distress. Your own tadpole writhed in pain, communing with hers as it faced a barrage of psionic onslaught. It was torture, you realised, and extended exposure would be Lae’zel’s undoing. After some stressful back and forth, you were able to convince her to jump out of the offending machine, causing it to shatter as it would have done her own mind. Amidst the confusion, the disappointment, the failure, you were glad to see her relatively unharmed.

The Ghustil, however, was less pleased.

You managed to convince her that the Zaith’Isk had succeeded in its task, killed the worm wriggling within Lae’zel’s head, which seemed to satisfy her curiosity for the time being. Rushed by doubt, questions, uncertainty, you felt your mind wax and wane while Lae’zel tried to reason with herself as to why the Zaith’Isk had failed in removing the tadpole. Even after pointing out to her that it did not seem to be designed to accomplish such a task, instead being focused on destroying both parasite and host in one fell swoop, she still muttered to herself and tried to find another explanation. Her faith seemed to hang in the balance, so you did not push the matter as you descended further into the crèche to find the answers that you sought.

That worked out really well for you and your party, by the way. It only resulted in a few deadly battles with Lae’zel’s own kin, a confrontation with their wrathful God-Queen, oh, and the total destruction of the monastery and the crèche that resided within it. And still, you were no closer to ridding yourself of the unwelcome parasite that plagued you. But hey, at least you got a cool mace out of it.

As the sun started to merge with the horizon, flooding the valley in golden rays, sunbeams dancing in the dust that was settling after the total devastation you had caused, you peeled yourself away from your camp to sit on an outcrop that jutted out over the landscape, one leg bent so your arm could rest on your knee, the other dangling beneath you. Despite everything feeling more hopeless than ever, you could not help but to admire the view, savour the relative peace, and took a moment to offer a silent apology to Lathander for blowing up his temple. The sun remained mute in response.

Now that the crèche had proved futile, your journey would be forced to take a darker turn. Tomorrow, you would set out for the Shadow-Cursed Lands and try to find the source of this infection: Moonrise Towers. Hopefully, you would find the answers to your growing list of questions there.

“Shop around! Beg, borrow, and steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left.”

The devil’s words echoed in your mind. It was as if he knew how every stage of your journey would go, had predicted every twist and turn, every dead end and disappointment. He seemed so sure of the fact that only he could alleviate your condition, and you had to wonder why. There was information he was withholding, knowledge that only he seemed privy to, and it was infuriating.

He knew your quest to remove the tadpole by any means other than his would result in failure, which begged the question, why did he continue to let you make a fool of yourself as you endlessly chased these false hopes? Could he not just tell you why those means were useless, why only he could help? You would be more willing to hear him out if he let you in on the secret.

Like a cat with a mouse, he was toying with you, you realised.

“Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; --We murder to dissect.”

Every hair on the back of your neck bristled and stood straight, blood ran colder than usual, and your palms suddenly became slick with sweat. “My, my, made a bit of a mess, haven’t we?”  You whipped your head around (how did I not sense him coming!) and tried to siphon some of the shock from your voice.

“Raphael.”

“At your service.” The devil took a low, dramatic bow, smile sickening as he drank in your dejected countenance, the irritation starting to etch its way onto your face. “What’s the matter, you don’t look pleased to see me?” He feigned an expression of hurt, placed his hand over his evil little heart in a way that reminded you of Astarion. Fighting was futile, you decided. This interaction would be less painful for you if you kept to the scripted tone. With concerted effort, you eased the suspicion from your features and gave a small shrug, turning back to gaze at the sunset.

“I didn’t say that.”

Raphael’s eyebrows lifted in mild surprise, causing the creases to deepen on his forehead. He quickly corrected the expression, settling for something slyer and more devilish, and brought his hand to hold his chin.

“Oh? My mistake, then. Tell me, my dear, how did Crèche Y’llek work out for you?” He was teasing you. You found it hard to stop your jaw from clenching. You were visibly covered in the evidence of how Crèche Y’llek had worked out for you: dried githyanki blood staining your armour, dust from the explosion settled into your hair, a new wound that promised to scar bisecting the corner of your upper and lower lip at an almost perpendicular angle. It had finally stopped bleeding, just, but you could still taste that metallic tang in your mouth.

“I think you know exactly how it worked out.” Less than ten sentences into this conversation and he was already starting to dig beneath your usually thick skin. He chuckled darkly, and you heard him take a couple of footsteps closer. Suddenly you realised just how precarious of a situation you were in, one small push and he could send you tumbling to your death, obliterated by the rocks beneath. You tried to swallow that new fear down, turning to look over your shoulder at him when he was less than a foot away, having to crane your neck up uncomfortably to meet his eye, conveying a silent message: that’s close enough. Despite the balance being tipped in his favour, he respected your wish and stayed firmly where he was. His eyes shifted across your features, scanning every fleck of blood, dirt, every pore, every imperfection. For a fleeting moment, you could swear they lingered somewhere near your lips, but only for a moment. Ashamedly, you felt your heart quicken a fraction.

“Oh, but it would be so much more fun to hear your version of events, little mouse.” You automatically wrinkled your nose at the nickname, not too fond of it, an immediate mistake you realised, knowing it would just spur him on and encourage him to use it more. A sigh deeper than the valley of the mountain pass heaved its way out of your chest as you tore your gaze away from him, looking down with a sudden vulnerability.

“Maybe another time, Raphael. I’m just…too tired for this right now.” You gestured vaguely towards him as you said that, an action he would not usually take kindly to, but he could see the exhaustion pressing down on you, forcing your shoulders to round and sag. Your eyes, despite looking beautifully aglow in the light of the fading day, were now framed in shadows, sunken and severe. Hands that held nothing sat limp in your lap, knuckles bruised and split, nailbeds torn and whittled all the way down. Your despondency was delightful, but needed some time to mature into utter ambrosian anguish.

“Little mouse.” Despite your distaste for the new nickname, you still responded to it immediately and turned to come face-to-face with the devil, causing you to flinch backwards a bit. He had crouched down to meet your eye, brown orbs holding yours steadily as he extended a hand towards with you exaggeratedly slow movements, like someone trying to approach a frightened little lamb and not scare it away. A lamb, or a mouse. Eyes wide and watchful, you held your breath as he cupped your jaw with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. Bewildered and completely taken aback, you watched as his eyes wandered south again, tilting your face to examine something. It was not until he pressed his thumb to the deep cut at the side of your mouth, opening the wound once again, causing a sting and a hiss of pain to snake through your gritted teeth, that you realised that was what he had been looking at before. You could only imagine it was an ugly thing, having not seen your reflection this evening yet, and suddenly felt self-conscious. “Do try to take better care of yourself, won’t you?” His voice was quieter, softer, and you felt a soothing warmth bloom from beneath his thumb as he traced the wound with an unexpected gentleness, eyes flitting briefly back to yours, feasting on the succulent mix of shock, fear and something forbidden (was that…arousal?) swirling in your dilated pupils.

Gods, he could just devour you. Never had an ordinary mortal been so tempting to him. It was slightly vexing, if he was being honest with himself, and he was not sure what he was going to enjoy more: toying with your soul or teasing with your heart.

Satisfied with something, he removed his hand, his retreating touch causing you to compulsorily follow, seeking it out again as your head fell towards his, before you suddenly realised what you were doing. Embarrassed and silently cursing the handsome devil, you moved back and reinstated the previous distance, unable to look him in the eye, for once in your life finding yourself to be completely speechless.

A chuckle bubbled in his chest, but he managed to hold it back for your sake, instead opting for a knowing smile.

“See you, soon.”

In a flash, he was gone, leaving behind nothing but a whisp of burning ashes, the smell of sulphur, and the ghost of a touch.

Gingerly, you brought your finger to trace the rapidly cooling warmth of where his thumb had stroked, feeling no blood nor scab, no stinging. No wound.

He had healed you.

You held your face in your hands and groaned.

Fucking. Hells.

Back at the House of Hope, Raphael eased into his chair to make a note of today’s excursion. Mostly, he just wanted to immortalise in vivid, descriptive imagery the look on your face when he had touched you, the way your pulse thrummed beneath the pad of his thumb, the inner turmoil that was surely brewing within you. Looking down, he inspected the bright, fresh blood decorating his thumb, glistening in the flickering candlelight, and brought it to his mouth. With unbearable anticipation, he could not hold back as his tongue slid past his lips to get a taste, gently grazing the remnants of the wound, and Gods was it divine. Rich and fragrant, with an earthy, woody, almost smoky base note erupting into something floral, giving way to a hint of sweetness that was not overpowering, the usually sharp, metallic edge dulled by the medley. Honey, jasmine, petrichor all mingled at the tip of his tongue, lingered on his lips as he smeared the remainder in a lazy line across the bottom. It was nothing short of euphoric, and for a moment his eyes glazed over, almost all sense leaving him. When it came back, he decided his written report of the day could wait.

For now, he just needed to see Haarlep.

—-

“How much longer do you think it’ll take?” Astarion asked, peering over his shoulder, back facing you as you sat cross-legged in his tent, journal resting open on your lap, trying to divine the infernal symbols branded on his alabaster skin in the limited light. Freshly bathed and dressed in a more comfortable outfit, you felt a little more like yourself, a little less defeated.

“Nearly there, bear with me…” You sketched quickly but precisely, making sure to capture every detail, every jagged line and joining swirl. It was painful enough trying to make an accurate copy, especially with nothing but the candles for guidance, you could only imagine how awful it must have been for Astarion to receive. The thought tore at the edges of your heart. Were you sure he would not bristle at the contact, you felt tempted to trace them with your fingers, soothe the pain that still lingered with your hands.

Like Raphael had done to you earlier.

The memory struck you like an ice knife, unwelcome and intruding. You did not want to think about Raphael, not right now, so you forced yourself to shove him out of your mind by recounting all the things you did not like about him.

He’s an actual devil, for one.

On to the final circle, you sketched with an intensity betraying your rising frustrations.

He’s trying to manipulate me into liking him so I will hand over my soul.

Scratching at the page, you traced over the fainter lines, making sure the symbols stood out and were readable.

His frilly shirt looks ridiculous.

…

He’d look better without it.

The lead of your pencil snapped with a sharp crack as you pressed down with unnecessary force at the nature of that thought, the tip somehow flying off somewhere into the far corner of Astarion’s tent. You both watched it zoom past in surprise, and he turned to give you a questioning look.

“Oops.” You pulled a sheepish face and looked back down at the drawing. Luckily, it was pretty much finished. Any more and you would just be overworking it. Satisfied, you set the pencil down and gently tore the page free from the binding as Astarion turned back around, giving it a final glance before handing it over. He took it quickly and without thanks, which did not surprise you but had you stifling an eye roll as you moved to sit beside him, watching his ruby eyes scan the strange, unfamiliar symbols that neither of you knew how to read.

At least, you did not think you did.

After having been staring at the scars for the better part of the evening, committing them to paper with a disciplined accuracy, some of the symbols started to shift into vaguely recognisable things that conveyed some sort of meaning to you. You were looking at them, but no longer seeing them, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, a trance-like sensation washing over you as the runes moved before your eyes, implanting their meaning directly into your head.

“Hoyc inferiu non iurare per igneu…” You muttered to yourself in a terrible, broken infernal accent, feeling a blunt throb begin to pulse in the outer corner of your left eye, the edges of your vision darkening as the details of the tent interior faded, and every other sense became dulled.

“What did you say?” Astarion asked, turning to look at you with a curious frown. You did not answer, eyes glazed over and unseeing, it seemed like you had not even heard him. He nudged you gently with his elbow, bringing you back to the moment and ripping you from your thoughts. The trance fell away quickly, and you blinked rapidly as the world around you came back into focus, seeming to have forgotten where you were for a second.

“Huh?” You looked tired and weary all of a sudden.

“I asked, what did you say? Just now? You were mumbling to yourself.”

“Was I…?” You mused with a frown, having no memory of what you said, not until you looked back down at the sketch and saw the first ring of the scar. “Oh, that was…the first line, here,” you reached out and pointed to the letter at roughly seven o’clock on the outer circle, the infernal letter for ‘H’, and followed the joined symbols clockwise to five o’clock, “it means something like ‘this soul swears no oath by fire’, I think.” Astarion followed your finger with his eyes, tried to see what you could see in the nonsensical etchings.

“I thought you said you couldn’t read infernal?” He asked slightly accusatorily, confused as to why you did not offer a translation when you first saw the scars. You shrugged, looking just as confused as he felt.

“I…can’t, or, at least, I didn’t think I could. I don’t know what the rest says, though, just that first line.”

Astarion looked back down, retracing the path you had taken around the outer circle.

“This soul swears no oath by fire…” He murmured quietly to himself.

“Any idea what it could mean?” You asked quietly, watching as he shook his head with a sigh.

“I…don’t know. It almost sounds like part of a…contract…or something.” He was right, you realised. ‘Oath’ was the key that gave it away, and you were annoyed for not having noticed it yourself. This realisation unsettled you. You already had reason to suspect that there was something in this that tied Astarion to Cazador still, and if an infernal contract was involved then that would be particularly binding and difficult to negotiate out of. Not knowing the rest of the translation seemed a significant hinderance, as well. “There is someone that could help us with this, you know…” Astarion glanced at you, gauging your thoughts through your expression, which was looking slightly more vacant than usual at this time of day.

“Hm? Who?”

“Our devilish friend, Raphael, of course.”

Vacancy vanished to be replaced by disapproval and reluctance, a cocktail of emotions that all gathered together to say one thing: no thank you.

“There’s got to be someone else, surely.” You pleaded with an unexpected amount of desperation.

“What’s wrong with him? If anyone’s going to know anything about infernal contracts, he will.” You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, tried to find the strength not to release a barrage of insults regarding the insufferable creature you had the misfortune of encountering again mere hours ago.

“He’s after our souls, for one thing. For another, he’s such a smarmy bastard…” Astarion huffed an amused laugh. He had yet to hear you shit talk anyone. He could get used to it, he decided, and made a mental note to gossip with you about Shadowheart and Lae’zel another time. “Gods know what he’ll ask for in return, are you prepared to pay the price?”

“Well, we won’t know until we ask now, will we?” You grunted and threw yourself back onto the hard ground with a soft thud, covering your eyes with your arm as you tried to suppress the images of Raphael roaming the planes of your face, drinking in your despair, piercing into what felt like your very soul. Feeling the phantom of his thumb caressing the corner of your lip almost caused you to whimper. Almost.

“Fine. We’ll ask next time we see him.” You relented, unwilling to deny Astarion’s whims and sour your otherwise positive relationship. He smiled, looking very much like the cat that got the cream.

“Thank you. Unfortunately, he seems to come and go on his own schedule, so I suppose we’ll just have to look out for any sulphurous odours…or the sound of questionable poetry.” You snorted at that, reminiscing unenthusiastically on your earlier encounter. It lingered uneasily in your mind, how he had the power to completely overwhelm you with just a simple touch, how you had frozen under his thumb. It was something you could not have expected, and stirred a feeling within your chest that you did not want to entertain, a distant ache, an unnurtured longing, a forgotten desire.

You took a deep breath, held it for a second, then spoke quickly. When you decided to tell it, the truth always came rushing forth without restraint, and, because you cared about him, you felt you needed to be truthful with Astarion, always.

“I saw him earlier, actually.”

“What? Why didn’t you say anything?” Astarion leaned over, gently grasped your wrist and peeled your arm away from your face, which you reluctantly allowed, hoping your eyes did not betray the tempest brewing in your soul. You managed a half-convincing shrug.

“Nothing interesting happened…he just wanted to toy with me, I suppose.” It was not untrue, but it was not the full truth. You were not sure what the full truth even was, so what was the point of trying to say it? He watched you closely, eyes searching for any sign of deception, any give aways that you were not being fully honest. You could not tell whether he found anything, but thankfully he did not seem like he was going to press you. “I’m sorry, if I had known you wanted to speak to him I would have said something.” Astarion shook his head, silencing your apology, and moved back to sit upright, no longer looming over you.

“It’s alright, at least you’ll know for next time.” You nodded noncommittally, wondering when the ‘next time’ would be, hoping it would not be too soon.

“Yeah…anyway, I better get going to bed now.” With great effort, you rocked forward and into a stand, brushing down your trousers before gathering up your journal and sketching supplies.

“Alright, love. Sleep tight.”

“You too, g’night.”

You left the warmth of Astarion’s tent, and delved into the chill of night.

[chapter four]

#bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael x reader #bg3 raphael x tav #bg3 raphael x reader #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 raphael #raphael the cambion #reader insert #fem reader #female reader

[sekiromi]

[sekiromi]

tav: exists

raphael:

[sekiromi]

the sun by Mary Oliver