peachlcve

[peachlcve]

Ok so we've had tail HCs for a non-tief SO, how about some tail headcanons WITH a tief SO? Which of the boys would notice them doing the horny tail thing at them first? Would they notice but pretend NOT to to be polite, or just start doing it back and confusing everyone in the party except for Karlach etc etc 👀👀 - my tief!Tav would like to know, for a "friend", who may or may not be very horny for Dammon *wink wink nudge nudge* XD

Surprise, guess who's dropping in :)

I'm currently rotting away at home while recovering from a work injury so I thought I'd finish this request up. Luckily I shouldn't be away from work too long (though the injury is looking slightly more iffy recovery time wise than we first thought). I hope you all enjoy, I love some casual tail stuff being dropped in my requests. I'm also slightly shocked that it's taken me this long to write for a female character considering I'm very much bisexual...

The Bachelors (+Karlach) when your tail gives away your feelings

Dammon

Dammon is a very perceptive person, deceptively so

Having lived in the hells for even a short time will do that to a person

Naturally, he tends to look at peoples body language

So you can bet he notices every little curl and lift of your tail when you come to visit his forge

He's also quick to show his own interest, curling and flicking his own tail in a less than subtle way

If you didn't realise that you were even doing 'the tail thing' you'd definitely notice Dammon doing it back to you

It's honestly something he finds extremely flattering, having someone showing such open interest in him is a definite ego boost

And Dammon is a very confident man, he has no qualms about anyone seeing him return such a display of affection

When the two of you are together it's like you're having full conversations only through your tails

Your party members also have no idea why Karlach is always laughing at the sight and leading them away

She will tell you later on to "hurry up and get on with it" with a firm slap on the back

Dammon is definitely a very happy tiefling when you take her advice and wrap your tail around his for the first time

Zevlor

He genuinely convinced himself that he's just imagining things

This poor, tired paladin is so convinced that someone like you would never see him in that light

So when you start doing the tail thing Zevlor completely ignores it at first

It doesn't matter how obvious you are, you could bend over his desk and curl it up over your back like you're in heat, and he'd still believe it's not what he thinks

And everyone can see the way you're pining for him, curling your tail up and away from your body every time he speaks

Zevlor is also mildly scandalised by how open you are with the gesture, only learning later from Karlach that you have no clue what it means

It becomes a regular thing for you two, much to the dismay of all the other tieflings around, purely because Zevlor is just slightly too embarrassed to mention it

It's only after the tiefling refugees are safe, and he's had a few drinks in him, that he'll indulge your long standing desires

Though it's only in private that he'll respond to it, his tail carefully curling and winding around your own

Rolan

The first time Rolan sees you curl your tail like that he almost chokes on what he was drinking

Your fussing over him as he coughs doesn't help the blush growing on his cheeks

He tries to ignore when you do it, despite the fact his own tail itches to reciprocate

Once Cal and Lia see you lift your tail while talking to Rolan it's all over for him

The teasing is absolutely endless, to the point he'll start to blush when you merely enter the same room the three siblings are in

It's a wonder he doesn't simply pass out when you do the tail thing while talking to him with your crew and the other tieflings around, he looks like he's about to

As much as he enjoys the sight, it's all horribly embarrassing that everyone knows, though it's not embarrassing enough for him to stop you

It takes a long time, and plenty of confidence gathering, but Rolan does eventually do the tail thing back

He has to make sure you two are absolutely alone first, but it's very apparent when he returns the gesture

Though, Rolan looks just as grumpy as always while doing it

Karlach

Karlach has few ways of showing affection to people she cares about while her body is still a walking furnace

When she sees the way your tail curls and lifts as you speak to her she's absolutely beaming

Karlach responds almost immediately, her tail mirroring your own in a clear expression of interest

The others in the group can't figure out why the two of you are animatedly moving your tails, they end up deciding it's just a normal tiefling thing

If you don't even realise what it is you're doing and question why her tail is 'like that' she'll absolutely cackle

Expect to never live it down and to always be lovingly teased over it

It becomes a regular thing for everyone on the crew to see, they do ask questions when the two of you don't do it while talking to other tieflings though

Karlach doesn't only express her interest in how her tail moves, you'll get plenty of flirting from her too

But doing the tail thing is a simple way for you two to reinforce your interest in each other until you're able to touch her

Dammon, having seen how you both interact, is hardly shocked at how quickly Karlach intertwines her tail with yours when she's able to touch others again

She's still going to do the tail thing to tease you though

[peachlcve]

A Devil You Do, ch. 8

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: 8.3k previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Eight: The Mouse's Gambit

You can't compromise with evil, it always profits in the end.

“Well, well, looks like the mouse has made herself quite at home in the fox’s den.”

Raphael expected you to wake with a start, eyes pinging open with urgency, heart thundering as you realised your surroundings, noticing the devil before you, stumbling over yourself in a rushed apology and feeble explanation as to why you had taken the liberty to let yourself into his rooms, undoubtedly look through his things, then fall asleep on his chair.

But you did not so much as twitch in your sleep.

He frowned, stepping closer, examining your serene visage, looking only slightly uncomfortable contorted into the tight spot. There was no sign of awareness, no suggestion that you were registering anything that was going on around you. How long you had been passed out here for, Raphael was not sure. He knew you had crossed the threshold into the Devil’s Den a couple of hours ago, and thought it strange he had not sensed you leave, but now he could see why.

The exhaustion had finally caught up with you. Your delicate, fragile mortal form was entirely spent, unable to do much apart from rest.

With a sigh he snapped his fingers, transporting you from the rather uncomfortable loveseat to the plush sheets of the bed in the adjoining room, smoothing out the fabric on the chair wrinkled by your sleeping body once vacated. Still, you uttered no sound, gave no sign of stirring, so he busied himself with refreshing the room, filing his contracts, and straightening out his things. He had to smile to himself when he opened his wardrobe, seeing his coat hung neatly in the back, his scent mingled with yours in an enticing aroma. Slowly, he ran his hand over the fabric, remembering how you looked grasping it around your shoulders, bracing against the fresh night air.

In the bedroom, you sunk into a sleep so deep it felt like a temporary death. Raphael watched you from the archway for some time, leaning against the frame and looking for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders, evidence that you had not wandered too far into that beckoning abyss. He became somewhat fascinated, watching you sleep so soundly. Rarely having a need for it himself, and with no logical day and night cycle in Avernus, he could not remember the last time he had slept. There had probably been a few occasions he had dozed off, even his life had its dull moments of course, but to lay down his head and cocoon himself between crisp bedsheets, closing his eyes for hours at a time? No, he could not recall that ever happening.

Drawn closer by the pull of the tide of your breathing, he stood over you and tilted his head. Your sleeping body, lax and unaware, betrayed all the thoughts your mouth would not say. When he lifted his hand to your cheek, ever so delicately brushing the tips of his fingers across the sun-kissed skin, your lips curved into a tiny smile. When he retreated, it disappeared, replaced by a quivering confusion and idle displeasure. He had half an urge to sit beside you, run his hand across your hair, stroking gently like a doting mother, humming an old lullaby to settle your unconscious mind, but he did not.

A fragment of a memory struck him all of a sudden as he regarded your sleeping form, images of bare, tangled limbs in the dead of night, a bed of dew-laden grass, silent stars twinkling overhead, tender, wandering hands and a devastating fall from grace.

Winded by the pain the sudden intrusion wrought from his chest, he choked it back down, banishing those images, scenes he had sworn never to think on again, from his mind. Unsettled by the memory, he withdrew from the room, tearing away from your bedside, relegating himself to an armchair tucked into an alcove by the door. He could just about still see you from this new position, keep an eye on you just in case, and made sure to give you one last glance before he settled in to idly compile his latest business dealings, distracting his addled mind, waiting for you to wake.

Meanwhile, the combination of the feather-stuffed pillows cushioning your head, the comforting warmth of the lavish sheets beneath you, and the smell of Raphael and his things drove you deeper into unconsciousness, deeper into your dreams.

“Let us flip for it, then. Heads, I’m white, tails, you’re black?”

“Very we— hold on, that’s not how that works.”

You grinned at the devil before you, approaching the table with a soul coin humming in your hands, rolling it skilfully across the backs of your fingers as you slid into the seat across from him.

“Alright, you call it.” With a flick of your thumb the coin shot into the air, spinning rapidly as Raphael declared “Heads,” watching as you caught it in the palm of your right hand, flipping it onto the back of your left, uncovering it to reveal who would get to play white in the game of lanceboard that was in the process of being set up between you both. “Ah, bad luck Raff. Maybe next time.”

“Hm, I suspect you have a biased coin…” Raphael sulked as you each began stationing your pieces, organising them perfectly in the middle of their respective squares.

“You’re a sore loser, you know that?”

He frowned at you, delicately placing his last pawn as you readjusted your queen.

“Just start.”

With a smirk you obeyed, advancing the pawn in front of your king two spaces, a move that Raphael mirrored. Next you moved your kingside knight to f3, trying not to smile as your opponent took his queenside knight to c6. Then it was bishop to c4, knight to f6, a quick trading of pawns and you were threatening his queen with your knight on the sixth move. With a small frown he claimed your knight with his king, allowing you to place him in check with your queen.

“I see you’ve been practising. That was ‘The Fried Liver Attack’, no?” He asked, resting his cheek against his fist, annoyed he had not foreseen the move and instead played right into it. But, then again, it was not one you had played before, and he could not remember encountering it previously. You nodded enthusiastically as you watched him peruse his pieces, deciding what to do.

“Yes. I read about it in the book you recommended.” You explained, folding your arms as you watched with baited breath to see what he would do. Perhaps it was the surprise of your new opening, or maybe he was not on form that day, but he made a blunder, uncharacteristically retreating his king to g8, allowing you to pursue checkmate in three.

“Perhaps I should revoke your access to my library…” He teased, growing increasingly frustrated at his lack of options as you pressed.

“You would not dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”

You narrowed your gaze at him, a thrum of deadly, divine power surging from within, rippling beneath your skin and behind your eyes as you silently challenged him to try it. He cocked an eyebrow, shifting his gaze back down to the board with a nod, telling you to get on with your next move. With slightly excessive force you made your last one.

“Checkmate.” You announced, leaning back in your seat as Raphael sighed deeply.

“Well, that was a quicker game than I was hoping.” He observed, looking forlornly at his pinned king. “…Another?”

For a moment you considered it, deciding to give him a chance to emerge victorious, aware that should you beat him again his mood would only sour more, so would it really be a win at all? He could sulk for days when he felt like it. Despite being nearly three hundred years old, he could still act like such a child.

“Alright.”

You each swivelled the board around, swapping sides and quickly resetting the pieces. Raphael, as usual, opted to move his pawn to e4, but instead of responding in kind you decided to try something different. Adopting the Cormyrian Defence , you moved your pawn to c5. Raphael seemed to have been expecting this, and countered you with Mystril’s Gambit , developing his attacks rapidly and putting you in a tricky spot, unable to adequately position your queen.

The game dragged on endlessly, his merciless attacks leaving you with few options to develop your pieces and make your own counter. Despite having an extra pawn and a central pawn majority, you could not find a way to gain the upper hand and maintain control of it. After some time of fruitlessly moving pieces back and forth, you offered your hand to resign the game.

“No. Keep playing.” Raphael said with a frown, swatting your hand away. He had ridded himself of his outer garments, crisp white sleeves uncuffed and rolled up to his elbows, betraying his growing impatience with the game. You sighed, rolling up your own sleeves, and went to make a deliberately bad move as to forfeit the game. “No.” Raphael’s voice was stern, warning, eyes drilling into you with such a fierce intensity that your heart stuttered in your chest. “Make a proper move.”

Slightly afraid of incurring his wrath, you removed your hand and made an effort to properly scan the board, settling on a more appropriate move. Raphael responded, and eventually you saw his plan: distract you from castling to reveal a hidden kingside attack. You took the opportunity to castle, saw Raphael’s eyes widen a fraction before a proud sort of smile settled on his lips.

“Very good.” He praised in a low hum, ashamedly causing the back of your neck to burn.

“Enough of the commentary. Just play.”

The devil chuckled, making his counter, his eyes flicking from the board to you as you traded moves. He adored watching you think, seeing your eyes shift over the pieces one by one, mentally mapping out their possible paths and laying out all of the options before you. You chewed on the inside of your lip as you thought of what to do next, but he could tell you knew there would be no victory for you. So, you went along with the only moves that made sense, until he had you in checkmate.

“Well played.” You commented, extending your hand for him to shake. He grasped it gently, giving you a nod.

“Likewise. Now, I would like to claim my prize for my victory.”

You quirked an eyebrow, looking at him with an amused expression.

“Oh? And what do you declare your prize to be?”

“A kiss.” He smiled almost sweetly, expression reminding you of the boy you had found by the river all of those centuries ago.

“Just a kiss?” You asked with a grin, moving to stand and round the table, placing yourself in between his legs as his hands trailed up your outer thighs to settle on your hips.

“Just a kiss.” He answered, voice low and quiet.

“Very well, then.”

You leaned down, capturing his lips with your own as your hand moved to cup his jaw, tasting fruit and wine and fire smoke. He smiled into the kiss, hands grasping you more desperately, as he murmured something in Infernal against your lips;

“Xe dajy haf.”

You awoke slowly, full of grogginess and a dark ocean swirling in your head. It took a moment for your surroundings to come into focus as a groan slid its way out of your throat, but you struggled to recognise where you were.

Sitting up slowly, you noticed the familiar red linens, extravagant furniture, and signature smell of the Devil’s Den with a sickening sense of dread.

Why am I on the bed…?

You did not remember falling asleep here and had no idea how long you had been out for. Looking to your right towards the window, it was getting late in the day, the sun hanging low in the sky and the brilliant hues of golden hour flooding the room.

With great effort you slid from the soft bed and onto your feet, wincing at the stiffness in your joints and muscles that had been asleep for far too long as you shuffled haphazardly towards the front room. It was not until you got within a few feet of him that you noticed Raphael sat in an armchair before you, tucked away into the wall, eyes fixed on you curiously. Frozen in your tracks, all you could do was stop and stare at him, mortified by the sound of your own heartbeat now ringing in your ears.

“So, you’ve finally decided to rejoin the land of the living, hm? I trust you slept well.” He closed the book he was reading, banishing it to another realm with a flourish of his hand as he reclined in his seat, eyes looking you over.

“…How long was I asleep for?” You asked, eyes still half-lidded, not yet firing on all cylinders. He smiled and lifted himself from the chair, moving to stand just a few inches in front of you.

“Practically the whole afternoon.”

“Oh.” You looked down, slightly sheepish all of a sudden. “Sorry. I came to return your coat but then…I must’ve fallen asleep.” Confused and disoriented, you rubbed at your temples, attempting to remember exactly how you had ended up on his bed.

“Yes, you did look quite exhausted when I returned. I moved you to the bed, I thought you might find it more comfortable.” He explained, watching your face as it shifted through a medley of mixed emotions.

“Ah…thank you.”

“It’s no matter. Was there any other reason for your visit?” Raphael probed, and for a moment you felt entirely too exposed, wondering if he knew you had sort of been hoping to see him again, before realising what he meant.

Ah. The contract.

“Um, no, not particularly…”

A hint of disappointment fell across Raphael’s face, quickly dismissed with a nod.

“Very well.” He looked at you curiously as you made no effort to move or respond, clearing his throat awkwardly to disrupt the silence. Your eyes held a vacant look, unspoken thoughts troubling you as you stood with a slightly unstable sway. “Please, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure your companions are expecting your return.”

Blinking a few times you nodded, rubbing some of the sleep from your eyes as you turned to look at the dark metal of the doors, the sacred barriers keeping your mind safe from prying eyes, keeping your thoughts your own.

“Actually,” you began without much thought, “is it okay if I stay a while? I’m not ready…to deal with this, just now.” You tapped a finger to the side of your head, a displeased look on your features that Raphael immediately understood. “But…I don’t want to talk about the contract at all, please.”

“Of course. What’s mine is yours, within reason. And no business.”

You smiled in thanks, stretching your limbs and taking a moment to properly inspect your surroundings, tracing slow footsteps across the room. You noticed for the first time the numerous rose petals scattered across the floor, adrift in the swirling water of the bath, the faint hint of rosewood incense on the air, the two sparkling, empty goblets arranged neatly beside an unopened bottle of Thayan red on the console table.

“Do you…seduce clients here?” You asked, brow furrowed, gaze distracted as your pace slowed, still evaluating your surroundings, already knowing the answer.

“I’m quite certain I have no idea what you mean.” Raphael replied evenly, voice laced with a teasing tone. You scoffed unintentionally and returned to your surveying. He watched your movements curiously, folding his arms and bringing a thoughtful hand to his chin. “You know, envy is a sin, my dear.”

You whipped your head around to glare at him, eyes fierce and voice exasperated, any hint of sleepiness now gone.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Oh, you didn’t have to.” He hummed. You cursed yourself silently. When did he catch on to that little secret of yours? You felt like you were barely even aware of it yourself. Perhaps you were just that easy to read, or maybe he was just teasing for the sake of it. Regardless, it was bad enough having the Emperor digging around in the deepest recesses of your thoughts every passing second, and it seemed Raphael’s company would provide you with little of the relief you had been looking for, merely trading one evil for another.

His lips tilted into a smirk, entirely too devilish for your tastes, although you supposed he could not really help that. Your lungs heaved a sigh as you looked to the Heavens, offering a silent prayer for the Gods to grace you with the strength to maintain your dignity in the devil’s presence.

“Would you like me to employ that line of persuasion? I wouldn’t want my favourite client to feel left out, after all.” He stepped closer, intentions entirely flirtatious, but realised his mistake as your nose scrunched up in response. You answered quickly, sharply, before you could think too much about it, let yourself be half-tempted by the offer.

“No. I’ve had enough of being manipulated with sex, thank you.”

Raphael tilted his head, felt a very brief pang of something in his chest (Was that genuine sympathy? No, surely not) before turning towards the table and pulling out the cork from the bottle of wine.

“Understandable. What about just a drink, then? No strings attached.” With an air of grace entirely at odds with his nature, he filled the cup on the left before extending it towards you. He watched you eye it, and then him, suspiciously, expression distrusting and arms tucked in closely, entire body guarded, ready to detect deceit. He let the smile drop for a beat, allowing you a peak at something more genuine. “You look like you need it.”

Gingerly you accepted, reaching a hand out slowly to grasp the stem, retreating a safe distance once it was in your hands. Raphael smiled, quickly filled his own cup, and raised it towards you.

“To our continued alliance.” He chimed. You smiled, raising your own goblet, simply said, “Sure,” and waited for him to take a sip first before taking your own, a gesture which highly amused him. In truth, it had not even crossed his mind to lace your drink with something.

The wine was soft and sweet on your tongue, full-bodied and silky with notes of blackberry and plum.

“Have you always had such a hard time trusting others?” He asked, smirk creeping back onto his lips.

“No, actually. It all started about two months ago when I met this insufferable devil.” You snapped, before launching into a rant about all the trickery, deceit, and enemies you had encountered on your perilous journey thus far in some pretty colourful language. The hag, the shape-changer, the Emperor, even the devil himself – you unloaded it in a glorious monologue that, were it not for the slightly unfavourable picture you had painted of him, he would have felt compelled to applaud. Afterwards, you took a much-needed breath, glanced at Raphael, then looked away quickly, a little embarrassed by your rant and worried for his reaction, particularly since you called him ‘insufferable’, which was not exactly true. You could suffer him well enough, you had learned.

Raphael blinked a few times, took another sip of wine, then added fuel to the fire as punishment for your poor manners.

“Oh, and do not forget the elven vampire spawn who manipulated you into liking and protecting him by bedding you, twice.”

You choked on your wine and let out an exhausted groan.

“Thank you for reminding me!” It was still a sore topic. Although you had now forgiven Astarion and remained friends, the ease with which he had played you still stung, the fact that you never noticed the disingenuousness of your entanglements bringing a great deal of shame to rest on your already weighed-down shoulders. “Wait, how do you know about that?” You suddenly asked, turning to throw an accusatory look his way. Raphael had the decency to look a little ashamed, but only a little.

“You of all people should know by now that I have eyes everywhere.” Korilla, you realised. A subtle blush bloomed on your cheeks and across your nose, wondering what detail your little trysts had been recounted to him in. You folded your arms and hugged them in close, taking a tentative sip of wine.

“I took you for many things, Raphael, but a pervert was not one of them.” You relished in the frown that fell across his features as he neared the edge of his patience. You were not always on your best behaviour for him, but to insult him twice in his own office? Now that was a level of insolence he would not usually tolerate.

He had more patience than usual for you, though, so he corrected his expression and presented you with something more amiable.

“Pray tell, little mouse, what other things do you take me for?” He asked in a highly suggestive voice. If you could roll your eyes with any more vigour, they might fall from your head and roll away.

“Point proven.” You gestured a finger towards him while he simply chuckled, the low, smooth sound rumbling in his chest. Your heart stuttered within your own, only just, only for a moment, before correcting its pace and resuming a more normal rhythm. Gods this creature vexed you so.

“My apologies, but you must allow me my fun now and then. My other clients are all so frightfully boring.” His mouth contorted into a shape of displeasure, eyes tired at the thought of all the other deals and contracts he had been working on in the background. In truth, there was only one thing he cared about: you. Or, rather, what you could do for him. What you could do for each other. That was what he kept telling himself, anyway.

“Does that mean you find me interesting, then?” You asked as you meandered past, attention now idly focused on the spines of the tomes lining the shelves in the corner of the bedroom, head tilting this way and that to read them.

“I thought that was self-evident.” Raphael stepped closer as you perused the books, turning his gaze downwards as you crouched to look at the lower shelves more easily.

“Well, perhaps I just wanted to hear you say it.” The balance of the conversation had shifted slightly, for once, and Raphael was not sure how to feel about it. Distracted by the way your eyelashes fluttered as you glanced across the row, he answered without thinking.

“I feel ‘interesting’ is too mundane a word, I find you to be fascinating.” That seemed to catch even you off guard, and he knew he had said something careless the moment your doe eyes landed on his, looking up at him from beneath those feathery lashes. He coughed lightly, clearing his throat, and prepared to try to rectify his mistake. “Of course, why would you not be? As I said, you have impressed me thus far, somehow accomplished the impossible more than once now, vanquished mighty foes, survived certain death, and avoided sprouting any tentacles along the way. Quite the reputation you’re earning for yourself as well, might I add.” You smiled at that ever-present flirtatious lilt in his voice, thought of all the other clients he had used it on, how many others had fallen for it.

“My, my, you’re feeling very generous today. Any reason for the excessive flattery?” He did not fail to notice the way you mimicked his tone. He did not want to admit, even to himself, how much he enjoyed it.

“Excessive? You do yourself a disservice, my dear. Any flattery from me is entirely deserved.” You stood slowly, deliberately, now just a whisper away from him. He could smell the faint hint of fresh mint on your breath, the cedar and vetiver that lingered on your hair and skin – was that a perfume or was that just your natural scent? Either way, it was utterly divine. He felt his fingers twitch towards a loose strand before he stopped himself. “Besides, must there be a reason? Perhaps I simply enjoy it.”

You turned to face him, dragging your eyes away from the books as if they were more worthy of your attention, before casting your gaze across his face, examining every crease and line, every hidden thought, until your eyes met. For a moment your attention drifted south of his eyes, lingering for just a beat too long somewhere near his chin before snapping back up. Had he imaged that? Did you just so brazenly look at his lips? He had lost track of who was toying with whom.

“I suppose that’s reason enough, then.”

For once, the devil was at a loss for words. You were mere inches away from him now, one deep breath and your chest would press against his, one quick move and he could have you just where he wanted you, flush against his body, burning skin against skin. He swallowed those thoughts down and took what he hoped was a sure-footed step back, putting a safe distance between you both, pretending he needed to refill his wine which was barely half drunk, just for an excuse to tear himself away from your unnerving gaze.

He was flustered, he realised. Something that he could not recall experiencing within the last century. How had you, a mere mortal of no extraordinary origin, managed to unsettle him so? How had you crawled your way into his thoughts, his life, his musings in his most private of moments? Why did he bother to check on you at all hours of the day, why was he concerned constantly with your whereabouts and your comings and goings? Why had he made it his business to know all of yours? He could try and convince himself his interest was purely of a professional and diabolical nature, that he was merely protecting his asset, but then why did his heart thrum wildly when he sensed you at his door at Sharess’ Caress? Why did the sight of you admiring him in the waning moonlight the evening prior flood his chest with warmth? Why had you done what no ordinary mortal had ever done before? Somehow, you had made him care for you, in his own way, and despite his nature he prayed you would never find this out.

He was unusually quiet as he laboriously filled his cup, eyes not meeting yours as you stepped closer. You had half an urge to try to detect his thoughts because you were just aching to know what was going through his head, but he would definitely not take kindly to that. In what you thought had been playful, flirtatious banter you had touched upon something, a nerve, an unspoken desire, and the devil was unravelling before you. You could seize this opportunity, you realised, take a step and pull at that thread until he came undone, until he was at your mercy, until you could make your own demands assured they would not fall on deaf ears. You would enjoy every second of it, too, seeing the usually so calm and collected Raphael brough to ruin beneath you.

But, it was not in your nature to manipulate and exploit, even when it came to him. Besides, it would be a double-edged sword anyway. One wrong move and he could easily flip the tables and take the upper hand, have you agreeing to sign away the Crown of Karsus and Hells know what else with the promise of undoubtedly ungodly pleasures. It was a fine line to tread, and you had to consciously remind yourself several times of what you had heard at the Blushing Mermaid, how upset that had made you.

“Care for another?” He asked, voice velvety and even once again as he extended a hand for your goblet which was now nearly empty. Surprised you had already a finished a glass, you handed it over and allowed him to refill it, aware that it was probably not a good idea to dull your senses too much in his company but also craving the numbness, itching for something to just take the edge off of all you had waded through so far.

“Thank you,” you said earnestly as you took the now full cup from him, fingers brushing his as you did so, sending a not entirely unpleasant tingle across the back of your hand. His smile, lacking its usual mirth, took you by surprise for a moment, and you hesitantly returned it.

“My pleasure. Now, for my gracious hospitality I do require something from your fine self…”

Your heart plunged into your stomach with a sickening gravity, colour momentarily drained from your face. How could you have been such a fool to think the devil would welcome you with open arms, provide some respite from your weary travels, and ask for nothing in return? Karlach and Wyll were right – would he make you sign the contract here and now? No, surely not, but then…what was he after? Raphael almost felt bad for causing the obvious distress that was written across your face, and put you out of your misery quickly.

“No need to fear, I merely ask you indulge me with a game of lanceboard. You play, do you not?” You watched him move past you, saunter towards the two armchairs in the corner of the bedroom, summoning an extravagant specimen of a board on the table between them with a flick of his wrist.  

“I dabble…” you followed, lowering yourself into the seat opposite him. “Though I’m no master by any means.” It was not a lie, you were not a lanceboard master, but you played well, back when you actually had time to play. Though, you had never faced an opponent quite like Raphael before.

“Do not undersell yourself my dear, the suggestion of the Theskan Double-Counter Gambit at the Last Light Inn was no small feat.” He began setting up his pieces, having given himself black, a curious decision since you felt like you knew he preferred to play as white. You would not argue, though, and slowly followed suit, positioning your white pieces in their correct spots.

“Perhaps, although I suspect you intentionally left that move open to throw the game.”

Raphael gasped dramatically.

“Now, that’s quite the accusation! I would never do such a thing. I am, if nothing else, an honourable opponent.” He said with a smirk, pushing his last pawn into place and taking a sip of his wine. You shook your head, unable to help the small smile that crept onto your lips.

“Alright, just don’t go easy on me. I don’t like to lose, but I absolutely hate a false victory.” You expressed, giving him a serious look.

“Noted. Please, begin when you like.”

You started with pawn to e4, a standard opening for white. Raphael thought for a second or two, and you wondered whether he would go for the Cormyrian Defence, before he mirrored your move and met your pawn head on. This gave you a chance to employ a variation of the Two Knights Defence, a favourite but infrequently used opener of yours. You advanced your knight, and he followed suit. You brought out your bishop, his other knight followed. You pushed, he brought forth another pawn. After trading pawns, you moved your knight to f7, in line to take his queen, and watched his face as he scrutinised the board. With a small frown, he reached for his Cyric, aiming to take your knight and remove the threat when suddenly he stopped, lips parting slightly, fingers just shy of committing to the move. You watched with baited breath as he declined taking your knight, opting instead to move his queen to e7, abut to your knight. You slumped your shoulders, a little disappointed but not too surprised. Raphael had probably encountered every opening, defence, and gambit possible in his time playing lanceboard, in fact he had most likely even created a few himself. Still, yours was not a common opener, since it required sacrificing a fairly valuable piece, and you had been hoping to catch him unprepared.

“The Fried Liver Attack…it’s been some time since I’ve encountered that opener. You almost had me.” He commented, running his fingers across his jaw thoughtfully.

“That was the aim…” You mused as you made your response.

“Where did you learn that?” He asked, considering his options.

“Read about it in a book once, I think. I know it’s not the strongest move, I just like the name.”

Raphael chuckled, nodding in agreement.

“Perhaps, although any move can be a strong one against an unprepared opponent. The first time I encountered the Fried Liver Attack, it was checkmate in under ten moves.”

“No chance of that today, I fear?”

“Hah, no such luck. You’ll have to try something else.”

Conversation flowed naturally while the game developed. He asked where you learned to play, you told him how your father taught you the basics and the rest you learned from books, and from playing against vastly superior opponents when the chance would arise. You recounted some of your favourite games in extraordinary clarity, able to remember each move as if you were playing them now, a fond smile on your face as you reminisced on your childhood. The way you described it made it sound rich and bright, warm and fuzzy around the edges and overflowing with a childlike, naïve sort of joyfulness that brought a mournful feeling to your heart when you thought about how long ago that was, and how much things had changed. You would give almost anything to return to those nourishing and easy days, relive a carefree childhood void of pain, tragedy, and heartbreak. To be a city kid again, roaming the familiar streets of Baldur’s Gate without crushing responsibilities, with loving parents to return to at the end of the day. But you were not a child anymore, and your parents were long dead.

You finished the last of your wine, now onto a third bottle, and decided to shift the focus of the conversation.

“Do you remember what it was like…to be a child? Is it different for devils?”

Raphael thought long on your question, so long in fact you started to wonder if he had even heard you. After a lengthy silence, he opened his mouth to reply.

“It is different, yes. I…do not remember it as well as I thought.”

There was a distant, sad look in his eyes as he tried to recall something now irretrievable, like trying to catch the light with his bare hands.

“What do you remember?” You asked softly, hesitantly, watching his face carefully for signs you were prying too callously.

“…It was lonely, until it wasn’t.” He paused to collect his thoughts; eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance. “I had to learn to survive by myself on this plane, a wretched, bestial creature by all accounts. My father, Hells curse him, let the world have its way with me, and the world was not kind.”

“What about your mother?” You asked without much thought, watching as his expression tightened into a mild frown, shaking his head with a melancholic sigh.

“Mortal mothers of cambions do not survive childbirth.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

To have never known the true, unrequited love of a mother, to have never been cradled against her breast and softly sung to sleep, to have never been cared for; the thought of it broke your heart. You wondered; did he miss his mother? Can you miss what you have never known?

“How did you survive? How did you make it here?” You were curious to know how anyone, even an immortal fiend, could make it through such an ordeal. To be completely alone from birth, to not only survive by oneself but to eventually thrive – how could such a thing be possible?

Raphael smiled stiffly, averting his eyes.

“Trust me my dear, you do not want to know the specifics.” He answered in a low, grave voice, conveying an implicit understanding that he would not divulge much more. “But eventually, I made a friend of sorts. They helped me and I helped them, and when it became clear he might have a use for me yet, my father brought me to the Hells and gave me my station in Avernus. The rest is, very dreary, history.”

“How generous of him.” You scoffed sarcastically, which Raphael nodded at with a smile.

“Indeed.” There was a brief pause. Raphael lifted his gaze to meet your own, not prepared for the sincerity swimming in your eyes, the genuine look on your face that said, ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that.’ It occurred to him no client had ever before cared to ask about his life, not that he usually felt inclined to speak on himself anyway. As with many things, you were the first. “Anyway, enough of that. I suspect you to be stalling from making your next move.”

You glanced down at the forgotten lanceboard between you, thoughts of your game having been entirely replaced with thoughts of Raphael and his ghastly childhood.

“I would never do such a thing…” You teased, refamiliarizing yourself with the pieces and their positions, as well as your own plan, but you were far too distracted to remember what you had been intending to do next. Not wanting to keep the devil waiting much longer, you made the move that seemed the most sensible to you.

The Cheshire grin that broke onto his face alerted you to your blunder immediately.

“And so, the mouse falls into the trap…”

By forcing a trade of queens, Raphael opened up a direct line to your cornered king, his unsuspecting pawns preventing you from making a move to avoid the now inevitable checkmate.

“Hells…” You grumbled, making the only move you could before he struck his final blow.

“I believe that, my dear, is checkmate.”

With a sigh you accepted his extended hand, shaking it half-heartedly because, despite it having been a good game, losing to him had now put you in a bad mood.

“Well played, Raff.”

He looked stunned for a moment, his hand freezing around yours uncharacteristically.

“What did you just say?” He asked with incredulity and confusion. You made a face, looking away, painfully embarrassed.

“Sorry, Rapahel, I have no idea why I called you that…” You offered, waiting for him to remove his hand, but he did not. When you looked back at him his face was still frigid with shock, looking somewhat troubled. It was rare that someone ever felt comfortable enough in his company to call him by anything other than his full name, especially something as common as ‘Raff’, and he could only think of one other.

No. I will not entertain this foolish hope again!

“…Raphael?” You leaned forwards, peering into his eyes that were focused on something you could not see, distracted by thoughts you would never know. You squeezed his hand very gently, almost imperceptibly, but it brought him out of his trance immediately. He withdrew from you suddenly, ripping his hand away as if he had been burned, leaving yours to hang limp and empty in between you both.

“Apologies…you must excuse me; you merely caught me by surprise.” He explained as you slowly removed your hand, settling it in your lap where it pulsed with the absence of his contact, the scorching shame of what felt like a rejection threatening to solder your throat shut. Had it really felt so vile to hold your hand longer than what was absolutely necessary? And why could he now not look at you?

Raphael had turned his attention to the window towards the darkening sky, the hour having grown late. The candles in the Devil’s Den had slowly burned down, last flames clinging to puddles of wax, and your cheeks were aglow with the hue of the bruised rose petals littering the floor. Wine-stained lips, luminous eyes, soft, warm hands…you were eclipsing Raphael’s mind in a way he could never have prepared for, and he felt that he had to put some distance between you, reclaim some semblance of control, remind you who you were dealing with, what your purpose was.

You were a means to an end, nothing more, nothing less.

“While I have you here, what say we revisit your contract?” He suggested, summoning the dreaded parchment with a snap of his fingers. At the sight of it your expression immediately contorted into a displeased frown.

“I said no business.” You reminded him, barely able to bring yourself to look at the contract, giving it disgusted sort of side glances as it floated ominously in the air before you.

“Then why are you here, little mouse?” Raphael asked mildly, watching you with a mix of curiosity and slight frustration. You were about to respond with something no doubt distasteful when a line on the contract caught your eye.

“Hold on, what’s this…” You grasped the parchment, eyes scanning the Infernal symbols written in a diabolically small font, so small you had to bring it right up close to your face to stand a chance of reading it, the meaning of the glyphs coming easily to you, easier than they had done in Astarion’s tent when you had translated some of his scars. “Clause eleven, subsection a: ‘Fulfilment of the details of this contract does not equate to its end. If able and willing, The Beneficiary agrees to provide ad-hoc services to The Benefactor for the remainder of their mortal life as and when called upon, including but not limited to provisioning of intelligence, participation in battle, and personal protection services.’ What the fuck…” Your eyes continued scanning the contract, finding numerous sneaky subclauses littered amongst the previously discussed terms that would ensure you would be tied to the devil in some way, shape, or form for years to come, yet there was nothing about providing you or those important to you the protection he had implied he would give.

Then there were the lines concerning your soul. It seemed any violation of any term, no matter how small, would result in you surrendering it to the devil for him to have his way with, a situation that looked more likely than not. As far as you were aware, he had only mentioned your soul as collateral if you signed the deal yet failed to deliver the crown, not if, in say twenty years, you failed to report some scheme you became aware of to overthrow him.

It was what you had known was coming the entire time, what you had been dreading; waiting for the other shoe to drop. It all came crashing down in dazzling clarity; his extracurricular activities with other clients, everything that Karlach and Wyll had said, even his infuriating victory earlier. You may have lost one game of lanceboard tonight, but you would be damned to lose another, you decided.

Raphael had not expected you to be able to understand the contract at all, sat dumbstruck as you made sense of a language he had no idea you could speak, and felt his simmering blood almost run cold as the situation dawned on him, enraged by his own carelessness. Pure, unadulterated anger fell across your face before he could try to placate you, convince you that this was what he had wanted to discuss, that he wanted your input on the specifics, that this was just a standard template that needed tailoring to your situation, which was not entirely dishonest.

You stood from your chair suddenly, surprisingly steady on your feet given the strength of the multiple bottles of wine you had both drunk, and stalked across the room to place some distance between you, abandoning the contract on the table.

“I can’t believe this! Just when I was starting to think you…that you might…”

Raphael stood to take a few tentative steps towards you, afraid (but of what?), half-reaching for you as you attempted to gather your composure, your temper hot and palpable in the dwindling light of day.

“Dear mouse, allow me to explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it! I’ve had enough of this, giving you the benefit of the doubt, thinking you were actually not all bad, thinking that we were somehow even. Fuck,” you laughed, a sound entirely devoid of amusement, “I actually thought you cared about me for a moment there. I’m so fucking stupid!” You brought your hands up to cover your face, scared that you might cry if you did not laugh, and you would not allow yourself to cry in front of him.

“You are many things, but stupid is not one of them. Please, you must listen—” Raphael felt his breath leave his body as your hands suddenly grasped his collar tightly and your body collided with his, pushing him back to stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed, yanking him down to beneath your eye level, a silent threat held in the tempest of your face.

“Shut. Up.” He dared not move, nor breathe too heavily should he enrage you further. He tried to think of a way to recover the situation, but could only conjure sweet words that would just fall on deaf ears and only escalate things even more. He had made a grave error with the contract, and the likelihood of seeing your lovely signature on the bottom of it had dwindled to near zero.

Fool! Why didn’t you remove those terms before?

Before he could say anything, you did something so outrageously unexpected that, at first, he wondered if he had fallen asleep at some point during the evening and was instead having a very vivid dream. You kissed him, hard.

Your lips came crashing against his, hungry, desperate, yearning, and he hesitated for just a moment before he kissed you back with the same burning passion, savouring the way your lips slotted so perfectly against his, how soft they were, how eager. His hands quickly grasped your hips, pulling you closer and down into his waiting lap whilst your hands snaked into his hair, nails grazing his scalp in a way that felt heavenly and sent goosebumps rising across his shoulders. The inside of your legs pressed against the outside of his thighs, and he unashamedly pulled you down harder as he lifted his hips to grind against you, letting you know exactly how much he needed you, how much he had wanted you, all this time.

With a tug on his hair and a well-timed burst of friction where your bodies met, you were actually able to draw out a moan from his mouth, a noise he was immediately ashamed by. He did not think on it for too long, though, now only concerned with ridding you of your clothes, but before he could even try you seemed to come to your senses for a moment, ripping yourself away from him and retreating a couple of feet, chest heaving, mouth parted, and eyes wild with a hundred different emotions, namely contempt.

In that moment, Raphael could swear you looked more devilish than himself, but Gods did you look a vision. You took a moment to devour the sight of him, shoulders rapidly rising and falling with the sudden need for breath, lips bruised and hair in disarray. Thighs slightly parted and eyes glassed over with unbridled lust. You had done that.

Shaking your head with a sigh you tried to gather your thoughts, interrupt the silence before he could speak first.

“Forget the deal, I won’t be signing it. If that concludes our business, we have no need to meet again. So, please, leave me alone from now, and I shall do the same.” You watched your words sink in, saw his eyes soften as his lips parted to say something. You did not let him. “Goodbye, Raphael.”

You turned to look out of the window somewhere far in the distance, and before he could utter a word you took a step enshrouded in mist and disappeared from the room, ending the conversation on your own terms for once.

The Devil’s Den fell silent save for the sound of Raphael’s own laboured breaths, the rustle of bed sheets as he shifted against them, the deep, hollow sigh that spilled from his lungs as he watched the space you had occupied moments before. Full of shame and defeat, he hung his head in resignation, the ghost of your lips against his just shy of torturous, the aching familiarity of it muddling his already clouded mind. Behind the taste of berries in the wine that lingered on your tongue, there had been something else, something seraphic that unhooked the latch on a harrowing pain Raphael had kept tightly sealed deep within the farthest shadows of his being. He tried to force it back shut, will it to subside, to spare him, but he sensed it was too late.

You had won this round, and he was not sure there would be another. As the coldness of the night drew in, room now void of your warmth, he wallowed in his defeat, bitter and sore. He shook his head, muttering into the silence.

“Touché, little mouse.”

[peachlcve]

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.

[chapter eight]

[peachlcve]

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]

[peachlcve]

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]

[peachlcve]

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]

[peachlcve]

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]

[peachlcve]

A Devil You Do, ch. 2

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: 3.3k

previous chapters: [1] [read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Two: Infernal Delights

You shouldn't have wished to live in more interesting times.

The afternoon was mild, sun softly kissing warm cheeks and breeze tousling loose hair. It felt almost peaceful, normal, if you ignored the dull ache behind your eye socket where the tadpole was wriggling around, burrowing deeper, pushing against your optic nerve. You spared it less than a thought, trying to ignore its grating presence, as you pushed forward towards the crumbled bridge that would take you one step closer to the person who was supposed to be able to cure you of your condition.

Before you were able to get across, though, something interrupted. You felt the static in the air first, an almost imperceptible change of pressure nearby, then heard the crackle of dying embers. A scent of something sweet, sour, and musky lingered on the air. Astarion’s nose wrinkled at the smell.

“My, my, what manner of place is this?” Caught a little off guard, you turned with only a small jump to face the interloper. “A path to redemption, or a road to damnation? Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning.” He had a smooth voice, it weaved its way through your defences and set your heart at ease embarrassingly quickly, soothing the instant trepidation. Cinnamon hair tucked behind rounded ears framed a handsome face, lips tilted into a small not-quite smirk, not-quite smile. “What would suit the occasion? Hmm…the words to a lullaby, perhaps. The mouse smiled brightly: it outfoxed the cat! Then down came the claw, and that, love, was that.” Perplexed, and a little amused, you tilted your head as you continued to appraise him, evaluate him. He paid your analytical gaze no mind, and carried on. “They do know how to write them in Cormyr, don’t they? Well met. I am Raphael. Very much at your service.”

Nothing good would come of this interaction, you could tell. Still, you spared him the benefit of the doubt and decided to entertain him. After all, there was something strange about him that piqued your curiosity more that you would have expected, had you dulling your usually sharp tongue to deliver a more placative response.

“Am I talking to the mouse, or the cat?” You queried, unsure if you would like the answer.

“Neither. The fox, rather, hiding in a word, a silent observer – about to break the silence.” Your left eyebrow raised of its own volition. “Of course, what I have to say merits some privacy, as well as some more…let’s call it, refinement.” He looked around, gesturing to the landscape you had become only too familiar with over the past few days, and nodded to himself. “Yes, this place is decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes. Come.”

Before you could respond or object, you and your companions were engulfed in a cloud of sparks and smoke. You felt your body shift through the planes uncomfortably, evoking a feeling of endless falling, and tried to suppress the rising panic in your throat, a vague awareness of what sort of being you had the misfortune of encountering that day might be.

When the mist dissipated and you were solidly on your own two feet again, you quickly examined your surroundings to try to figure out where you had been summoned. The latent heat of Avernus clung to the air, even inside the cool room, you would recognise the smell of the first layer of the Hells sooner than your own face in the mirror, though you could not say why. Apart from when the Nautiloid came careening through on its collision course, to your knowledge you had not been here before. Other than that, you perceived you were in a dining hall dripping in crimson, a large table filled with a feast fit for a king, flames roaring in a huge fireplace that you thought was too large for the room it resided in. And there, in front of it, Raphael.

“There. Middle-of-somewhere.” His smile was entirely too cocky, you decided. You shared a look with Lae’zel, conveying a silent understanding to be ready to fight should the need arise.

“Can you be more specific than ‘somewhere’?” Voice guarded, you turned your gaze back to Raphael, who was only too happy to oblige. He gestured around himself with a flourish.

“The House of Hope. Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed – lavishly. Go on! Partake, enjoy your supper, after all…it might just be your last.” His gaze was unsettling, perceptive, dissecting. It made you feel entirely too exposed, so you looked away as you folded your arms in mild impatience. After all, it was not like you had all the time in the world for these distracting dramatics.

“Are these theatrics leading somewhere?”

He chuckled, a melodious sort of sound that reverberated in your ears and imprinted itself on your mind in a way that concerned you.

“Are you not entertained? Well, far be it from me to disappoint.” That grin again, all-knowing and too confident. There was a sudden flash of fire, you could feel the heat against your cheeks from where you stood, and Raphael assumed his true form before you, just as you had suspected: a cambion. Still, you stepped back a little, both to avoid the flames and also to get a better sense of what you might be up against should this descend into violence. After a few seconds, you realised that turn of events would have only one outcome: your untimely and almost certainly gruesome deaths. You were suddenly glad for your decision to be pragmatic about this encounter.

The devil was larger in this form, more intimidating, more impressive, dare you say. Skin turned clay red; scarred wings stretched out wide as he shrugged into this form as if trying on a new outfit. Rough, jagged horns emerged from his scalp, and nails grew into long, sharp claws. It was not until your eyes had raked over every inch of him, and he had started talking again, that you realised your mouth was hanging open slightly.

“What’s better than a devil you don’t know? A devil you do.” Suddenly you became soberingly aware of the fragility of your little mortal life. Something about this cambion seemed different to the few others you had encountered, the ones you had read about. There was a nobility about him, a grace and well-practiced manner. All devil’s had silver tongues, but his was polished to perfection. This was a spawn of an Archdevil, and a very powerful one at that, you were sure of it. “Am I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a saviour? That’s for certain.”

Regarding him for a few moments, you thought of how to respond. Starting a fight was out of the question, and he seemed amicable, for now. Best to play nice, you supposed.

“What makes you think I need saving?” An answer he had been expecting, it seemed, judging by the smile revealing his pointed teeth.

“Come now. Why play hard to get when you’re in deep over your tadpoled head? One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. I could fix it all, like that.” He snapped his fingers, conjuring a brief lick of flame, and watched you eagerly, hungrily, like a predator stalking its prey. He had lied before, you decided. He was no fox, nor was he a simple house cat. He was more like a tiger, masquerading as something less deadly, appealing to your humanity with a delicately crafted mortal guise that pleased both the eye and the heart. With it now gone, you could see him as he truly was. Dangerous.

Your eyes drifted to the rather self-indulgent portrait of the devil above the fireplace, the depiction stirring a recollection of something you could not quite grasp. You shook your head, ignored the gnawing doubt creeping in to share the space with the worm.

“You’re mad if you think I’ll make a deal with a devil.” You retorted almost automatically, hoping it would not offend your host (or kidnapper, whichever way you were looking at it). Luckily it did not, in fact it delighted Raphael. He so loved it when his clients put up a fight, it made their inevitable failure all the more delicious for him, gave him more despair to feast on. And he had a feeling yours would be particularly divine.

“And what is madness but a denial of reality? Still, I’ve a feeling you’ll change your mind. Before it’s changed for you…” Allusion to the fate that almost certainly awaited you made you shudder involuntarily. “Try to cure yourself. Shop around, beg, borrow, and steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair – that’s when you’ll come knocking on my door. Hope. Hahaha! Such a tease.” You did not linger on the feeling left by the way he said the last few words. He did not miss the slight dilation of your pupils, and tucked that away as a potential exploit for another day.

“And if I do want to take this deal – how will I find you?” You asked with a slight reluctance. Whilst you had no genuine intention of entertaining his offer, you supposed it was best to keep your options open.

“I’ll be around. Watching you squirm like a tadpole through a nice juicy brain.” That summoned a pretty visceral image you would rather have done without. “All those pretty little symptoms – sundering skin, dissolving guts – they haven’t manifested yet, have they? One might say you’re a paragon of luck. I’ll be there, when it runs out.” A promise, although an unwelcome one. Before you could think of a witty retort, you were enshrouded in mist and smoke once again and returned to the land the devil had plucked you from. Your head swirled, although this time not just because of the tadpole, and as you swayed unsteadily on your feet you wondered: why the Hells did this have to happen to you?

You talked at length with your companions about the interaction, most strongly advising against considering entering into any deal with a creature of an infernal persuasion, despite the growing direness of your situations. You had to agree with them, although you found Wyll’s insistence on the subject matter interesting considering his own predicament. Still, you tried not to judge too much, and just nodded along in easy concurrence. Gale, however, offered a slightly more balanced perspective, which surprised you.

“Look, all I’m saying is there might be more to this devil than meets the eye. It’s rather convenient that he offers to take our tadpoles, evidently powerful things, as unpleasant as they are.” He winced towards the end, his parasite moving uncomfortably in his brain. You could feel yours wriggling about too, and willed it to settle down while you ate your meal in front of the campfire.

“Surely he’s just looking for an easy target, right? I read once that devils can smell desperation, he must’ve sensed us coming a mile off…” You gazed into the flames, the heat pressing against your face reminding you of Avernus, a place you had visited for a combined total of no more than five minutes. That was probably enough for one lifetime, though, you decided.

“Perhaps, perhaps not, time will tell. For now, I suggest we keep him on side, just in case we can make use of him in the future as well.” You shrugged and supposed that made sense, though playing a devil would be no easy feat. They were masters of persuasion, manipulation, entrapment. Even the lowest cambion could sweet talk someone into sin, and the cambion you had the joy of meeting had been no ordinary one. Granted, he was still just a cambion, but better to stay on the safe side and not risk underestimating him. He had been all smooth talking and warm welcomes with you today, but there was every likelihood that could change.

After you finished your dinner and the fire was dwindling into embers, you bid goodnight to Gale and Astarion, the only two remaining members of your party awake, and headed for your bedroll. As you settled in, drawing the covers up to your chin and grimacing at the smell of the wild clinging to your clothes and sheets (should have really bathed before bed…) you mulled over your planned itinerary for tomorrow. The goblin camp had been easy enough to ‘infiltrate’, now you just needed to find this Halsin, rescue him (whatever that entailed), ask him to remove the tadpole, and hopefully your interesting little escapade would come to an end. Then, you could meander back to Baldur’s Gate, return to your quaint city life, and forget any of this ever happened. The smile fell from your lips, aware that there was no hope in Hells things would be that simple. At least, the devil did not seem to think so.

You found your thoughts drifting back to him against your best efforts, recalling the silhouette of his cambion form in all its grandeur displayed in front of the fire, those claw-like wings, jagged horns, and infernal eyes. You could not seem to get his image out of your mind as sleep came to take you quickly, gripping your exhausted bones faster than it ever had before.

And still Raphael’s face did not leave you in peace.

In your dreams you wandered a barren and scorched hellscape, the battlefields of Avernus, ravaged by centuries of war. The heat was suffocating, climbing down your throat, clawing at your eyes, but somehow you were able to tolerate it. In the red of the earth, a more vibrant red polled from scattered bodies: some demons, some devils, tieflings, humans, celestials. Both friend and foe, good and evil. The stench of fresh death gathered all around you, and your face scrunched together in displeasure as you tried to brace against it, stop the bile churning in your stomach. When you opened your eyes you looked down to see your hands dripping with blood as crimson as that leaking from the dead. You felt your heart start to race, panic rising in your gullet. Just what have I done?

A sudden hand on your shoulder sent you into a spiral of dread, and then an oddly comforting acceptance. You turned to see Raphael, his face softer, younger, it seemed, expression impassive if slightly severe.

“Let’s not linger here, my dear.”

Your mouth opened to respond, but before any words could materialise the mirage of the dream fell away, engulfing you in blackness.

In the morning, you awoke with a slight headache, although that seemed to be becoming the norm these days, and a vague sense of a welcome touch, an unexpected comfort. As you pieced together the brief dream, images slowly coming back to you as you laboriously lifted your body from your bedroll and prepared yourself for the day ahead, you realised it felt more like a distant memory.

You tried to shake the feeling off, turning a blind eye to the gnawing sense that you were missing something. There were enough other gnawing sensations roaming your body, namely the one in your head, you could not spare the attention for one more.

By the time the day drew to a close and you were wading through dismembered and eviscerated goblins, all thoughts of the haunting dream were forgotten, replaced entirely with the sights of destruction around you. Splattered with blood, chest heaving with every breath, you let your body slip down the wall you were resting against to come to a squat, barely listening to what Shadowheart was saying as she fussed about you, healing your numerous wounds, chiding you for being so careless in your fight against the goblin leader Dror Ragzlin. It was true, you had been careless and allowed yourself to get hurt a little too much, but truthfully by that point you did not care anymore. You just wanted to get the task over with. She kept talking, trying to engage you, keep you focused. It did not work.

All you knew was that the sun was setting, you were exhausted, and Halsin could not cure you.

The small hope that lived in your heart began to fade, and the world slipped away with it as you fell into a dreamless sleep.

—-

Raphael thumbed through Korilla’s latest report on his new favourite mouse, delighting in all the gory details. Halsin had told you to take out the goblin leaders and the rest would fall into disarray, but it would seem you had taken it upon yourself to slaughter all of them regardless. He had to admit, he was surprised you had it in you. Of course, to most people goblins are detestable little beasts, but they were still people, they still had hopes, dreams, desires…usually grim ones, mind you, but aspirations nonetheless. Yet, you had cut through them all as if reaping wheat, even with the numerous wounds earned from your earlier conflicts. He hoped you would learn to exercise a little more caution in the future, if it were not for the cleric you seemed to be keeping close your injuries may have cost you, and by extension him, dearly. He could not afford your death, not at this point. He still had such big plans for you, after all. As he finished with the report, he started to mull over the details of his next planned visit to you and your travelling companions. He would give you some time to think over your first interaction with him, give you a chance to at least consider what he had to offer, let you fester over his words and his vague promises and leave you just long enough for a sliver of doubt to begin to metastasize within your mind, wondering if you had been too hasty in your refusal, starting to think that you might have missed your chance. Just then, he would reappear, much to your relief, and present himself as your saviour once again.

Only he knew he was anything but.

He could hardly wait.

“It seems like a lot of work for one mere mortal soul,” Korilla mused upon her return, “why not settle for some slightly lower hanging fruit?”

Raphael scoffed and shook his head. It seemed his agent still had a lot to learn in the ways of fiendish contracts and bargains. Although, he supposed there was only so much of the infernal delights she could ever hope to understand.

“My dear Korilla, why bother with the low hanging rots when, with just a touch of patience, I could steal the forbidden fruit from the very top?” He could only imagine how sweet that fruit would taste when finally secured. The dwarf merely looked at him, unconvinced, and he sighed. “You’ll see soon enough why this one is so special. Now, have you any news for me?” He tried not to sound too eager. Korilla pulled out a small notebook she had been using to jot down her observations, scanning them for anything of interest since her last report, and had to suppress a sheepish smile as she divulged the details of the party the tieflings held at your camp in the evening, and what you then got up to in the woods after everyone else had gone to bed.

Raphael’s eyes shone with rapture at the revelation.

“My, my. What a scandalous little mouse.”

Oh, you were going to be an entertaining one, indeed.

[chapter 3]

[peachlcve]

A Devil You Do, ch. 1

Raphael tells himself that it is only because of your importance that he tolerates your insolence, placates your tantrums, grants you courtesies never before bestowed on a mere mortal. He tells himself his interest is purely professional, his desire to be close merely an expression of wanting to protect his investment.

But then, why do you remind him so much of someone who once felt like home? Why does your soul echo with the remnants of something heavenly, and why does it entice him more than any contract ever could?

He learned not to hope anymore, but for you he might make an exception.

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: 1k

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

Chapter One: A Hundred Lifetimes from Now

The tragedy of the divine retribution of an original sin.

Fire rained down in whistling streaks, scorching the plane and causing it to shudder.

Raphael was many things; eternal, infernal, unforgiving. Hellfire simmered in his veins, behind his eyes, beneath his skin. Cruel and calculating, wicked and sinful, a creature of an irredeemable nature. Scorned son of Mephistopheles, a young lion lying in wait to pounce on his father, tear his throat and devour his flesh to take his place.

Concerned only with control and domination, loving no being other than himself.

Despite the heat of the fight, Cania remained cold and impervious, desolate and dark.

It had been that way for a long time, almost as long as Raphael could recall. His long life stretched out behind him unwaveringly endless, shadowed by greed and lust for power.

A flicker of a dying light, the last gasping breath of something divine erupted into the blackness.

The beginning grew hazy sometime during the second millennia, but there was one thing, or one person, rather, that stubbornly clung to the very fringes of his memory, slipping into his subconscious for safekeeping somewhere around 1400 DR.

Their body lay broken, crumpled, cold. Chest stuttering, choking on the blood rising in their delicate throat, and Raphael knew terror for the first time.

It still haunted his sleep, festered in a dark corner in the back of his mind, waiting for an opportunity to remind him of all he had won and then lost in his quest for everything.

“No…” Bloodied feathers and shattered bones, he tried to hold them together, put them back into one piece as if it could save them. “Hold on, my dear.” This fear on his face, it was a new emotion to them, one that they would remember a hundred lifetimes from now if only in the deepest reaches of unconsciousness.

They made an awful sound, thick, congealed blood pooling in their mouth as they tried to speak.

“G-Go, Raphael…it’s a trap.” Skin was already turning cold, fingertips icy as they weakly brought them to his cheek. “Mephisto…he—”

“Hells with him, I’ll kill him for this. I swear.” Rage burned unrestrained behind fiery eyes they had grown to love, despite every sense telling them to do otherwise. A forbidden attraction, a dance between the infernal and the divine, a collision between the Heavens and the Hells. They had both been damned from the start. They knew this. It had not stopped them.

“You won’t. Please…go, live. We will meet again.” His rage subsided to sorrow, feeling their once immortal life drain from them faster than sand through an hourglass, faster than the Styx through Avernus. His eyes grasped theirs, searching, pleading, bargaining, but both knew it was too late. Stripped of their invulnerability by the very Gods that had gifted it to them, Death would make a move soon. There was one thing left to say, a final deal, their last promise. Gently, they guided his face closer to their own, voice diminishing as a numbness climbed into their very soul.

“In the next life.”

Raphael wept for the first and last time.

—-

Whatever souls are made of, some are awfully persistent.

When theirs had departed for a more distant realm, it was some decades before it graced the material plane again.

They kept true to their promise; Raphael did meet them in their next life, albeit in another form, another face. It did not matter to either, their essence was still there, still the same. In that second life, they had managed to hold on to their memories of the one before, remembered the centuries they had spent together. The first, which they had spent the better half trying desperately to kill one another. The second, when they started to realise why they never could succeed. And the third, where they paid the price for his arrogance and ambition, slaughtered by his own father to teach his unruly son a cruel lesson.

Whatever you earn, I will steal. Whatever you have, I can take. What is yours, is also mine.

When their mortal life ran its course, they found him again in the next. And the next, and the next. He loved them in every single one, however they appeared to him, wherever they had come from. He cherished them entirely, stood beside them as they grew old, mourned their deaths that felt like they were coming faster and faster as the years stretched on, and waited for them to knock on his door once again.

Until they started to stop remembering, until it took him searching for them to elicit any memories at all. Until only echoes of the past remained.

Every reincarnation remembered less than the last.

Sometimes, he would miss reincarnations entirely. In these lifetimes, he would wonder what had become of them, whether they taken another lover, whether any visions of him and their past entanglements haunted them in the void of the night like they did him. During these lapses, the near misses, Raphael would find himself beginning to grow hazy on the details himself. An amalgamation of lives, a collection of personalities that were so similar but also just slightly distinct from one another, made it difficult to hold on to what was original. What he was looking for.

Eventually, it had been nearly a thousand years.

A thousand years of solitude, a thousand years to forget.

Raphael’s heart hardened once again. He became the devil he knew, the creature he was born to be. Cruelness returned, contracts were formed, and souls were traded year after year.

But he did not come across theirs again. He was not sure if he would even recognise it anymore.

By the mid-1400s, any lasting hope of finding them diminished entirely. Wherever in this existence they wandered, they would simply pass as hollow ships in the night, each unaware of the other.

Raphael accepted this, and got on with his work.

[chapter 2]

[peachlcve]

gn!reader/deputy and eli get stuck in a bunker or cabin together and gasp there's only one bed!

seriously tho I love your writing and thank you for writing for Eli there's not enough fics with him 💚💚💚

Title: No One I Trust More

Notes: This is truly the only trope ever <3 Thank you for the kind words, this was a treat to write! I love writing for Eli, blessed golden-hearted mountain man with a tragic storyline <333

Warning(s): Canon-typical violence, bear encounter

Words: 4k

Bullets whiz through the air like miniature torpedoes, the tiny metal pellets digging into the bark of trees and the hard soil of the earth. You follow Eli through the mass of trees and foliage, your heart beat pounding in your eardrums and adrenaline coursing through your veins and making everything seem too slow and too fast all at once. Eli ducks behind a tree and you copy his movements, ducking behind the tree opposite of him. You hold your gun in your hand, taking a second to recollect yourself as Eli offers a small amount of cover fire with his arrows raining down on the peggies like hellfire.

You heard the drop of at least two bodies in the onslaught and quickly swivel on your heel, pressing your shoulder into the hard bark to steady yourself as you aimed at the incoming threats. You fire off four rounds and three bodies drop, you duck behind the tree in sync with Eli and you both look at each other with approving nods as you suck in deep breaths.

"We can't keep running all night Eli, we gotta lose 'em." You say with urgency, checking your clip and counting your bullets. You only had one spare clip left and it would not last another round of a firefight—You also noted Eli's dwindling supply of arrows. He cursed and hit his head against the tree he was behind, knowing Wheaty wouldn't be able to find you both if you kept moving. The distress call you'd made twenty minutes ago was about a few miles south of where you were now and you were nowhere near the Wolf's Den. You were a little bit screwed but oddly with Eli here you didn't feel too helpless about the situation.

You were a good team. You'd made it outta worse.

"Okay," he breathes out harshly, "there's a bunker stashed west of here if we're where I think we are. C'mon." Eli nods to the right and goes low to the ground, taking advantage of the tall grass as he crouches. You follow suit after firing two warning shots at the hidden peggies, the sound of metal hitting bark following after you.

You follow Eli through the tall grass, sneaking to one patch of foliage and another, slowly making your way down hill. You watch his back and make sure to keep close behind him, your feet are aching and you're desperate to get to this bunker, a moment of reprieve would be heaven. Eli holds a hand up and you halt instinctively, ducking further toward the ground and watching his hand like a hawk. You listen as rushing footsteps go over the hill you were just on and a shuffling goes a mere foot in front of you.

Brown fur peeks over the grass and you can't believe how unlucky you both have been today, first stumbling upon a small peggie camp and getting spotted immediately and now running into an adult brown bear.

Your hand reflexively reaches out to rest on Eli's shoulder, as a way to reassure as well as making it possible for you to pull him back if necessary. The bear pauses ahead of you, turning its large head and huffing out a deep breath as its big brown eyes survey its surroundings. Your heart hammers in your chest but you're grateful to hear the footsteps from the hill have fallen away. Eli leans back into your hand, lowering his own slowly as the bear begins to move in the direction you both had just come from. It makes a throaty noise and you feel your nerves fray at the way the ground shakes with its heavy steps. At least that would keep the peggie's busy if they felt like coming back around this way.

Your head falls forward, leaning on Eli's backpack as you exhale as quietly as possible. He exhales as well, his shoulders sinking as the bear continues on its way.

"Fuck this day man." You almost laugh but you're too tired to muster it, Eli manages a chuckle in response however.

"I second that."

You both continue on slowly, feeling your heart beat skip at every noise and too harsh a breeze. You run out of tall grass and make a run for the bunker Eli was leading you too. He stops beside some foliage and digs his hands under the piles of dead leaves, grass and twigs. A metal mechanism is muffled under the mass and he grunts as he tries to pull it upward.

"Gimme a hand here dep." He asks and you oblige, digging your hands under as well and clumsily finding his holding a large circular handle. You adjust so you're holding it and begin tugging alongside him, the grass rips away and dirt falls as you manage to bring it up. You both stiffen at the sound of running and shouts, far too close for comfort. Eli stops when the hatch is open enough for you to duck past him and get situated on the ladder. You slide down the ladder quickly and move out of the way for Eli. As he makes his way inside he pulls the circular door shut, almost falling but catching himself and making his way down the ladder at a more cautious pace.

You walk further into the bunker, it was dark and damp, the first small section full of shelves of canned food and water bottles by the dozen. The second room had a single bed and a desk pressed up against the opposite wall; a radio and map were on the desk with what looked like a conspiracy theory wall meticulously pinned up above it. Further on it looked like it dipped into another storage area and possible bathroom, a small bunker compared to some you'd seen already but it would do until the coast was clear.

Eli walks past you, on guard as he checks under the bed and then stalks towards the end room, aimed to maim at any sign of threat or unwanted company. You ease your gun into its holster and sit on the bed, needing to rest your legs and your lungs.

"Coast is clear…" Eli mutters as he walks back into the main room, stopping by the desk to fiddle with the radio. It was working, surprisingly, and he quickly put it on the Wolf's Den channel. The first thing you heard was Wheaty, his voice listing off the coordinates you and Eli had given him thirty minutes prior and affirming you both were in fact, not there. Eli would have just grabbed his good ole handheld radio to get in touch with him but he'd lost it during a struggle with a particularly unruly peggie. Seriously, shit luck today.

"I reckon we hole here a half hour before headin' back to the Den." Eli sighs, turning and crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back against the desk. His usually messy hair was absolutely mangled and clung to the sweat on his forehead, leaving him looking even more haggard than usual. You were sure you looked similar, if the grime on your arms and clothes had anything to say about it. You nod and swivel around, falling back onto the bed and letting out a groan as your body protests to being straightened out. It felt like heaven though, finally getting the weight of your feet and knees and just laying completely still.

You glance at Eli who averts his eyes to the roof a little too quickly, you roll your eyes and scooch over on the bed. It wasn't big but it could fit you both, it'd be snug but hey, you wouldn't complain.

"Get over here Eli." You slap the bed beside you. Eli clears his throat and looks like he's about to move but decides to stay put.

"I can just, uh, sit over here, s'fine."

"Eli, we're not twelve. Get on the bed man." You snort and Eli pauses before laughing gently. He rubs the back of his neck as he walks over, sitting on the edge of the bed gently before falling onto his back beside you. You're both shoulder to shoulder and you fall into a comfortable silence as the seconds ticked by. You notice Eli shift ever so slightly now and then but choose to be nice and not tease him about it, he always got a bit flustered when the two of you were alone and in close proximity for a long time. It was cute.

You exhale, closing your eyes and soaking in the absolute quiet of the bunker, only the subtle electrical buzz rang through the air.

You couldn't put into words how moments like these were near sacred, the calm and quiet was near extinct in your life and you savoured every second of it. Especially with Eli, despite the circumstances of your meeting you'd had plenty of serene moments with him, he gave you a chance to breathe in a place where it felt as if all the air was being stolen away. You appreciated having him in your life and every day you hoped you'd both make it to the other side of this thing; maybe if you did you'd have time to test the waters of your relationship. Maybe follow the spark that ignited everytime you two looked at each other for a tad too long or your hands lingered a few seconds longer than they should.

"I'm sorry about this dep."

Eli's voice is quiet and you turn your head to look at him, brows furrowing as he stares long and hard at the ceiling.

"What're you talkin' about?" You mumble, perplexed by the sudden apology.

"For getting you into this mess, feels like I keep dragging you into shit when you're already doin' all you can for the County and I just– I'm sorry." Eli cleared his throat and shook his head, flexing his hands over his stomach as he breathed through his nose. You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head and pushing yourself up onto your elbow.

"Eli Palmer, you have not once dragged me into something I haven't been ready for. Neither of us signed up for this shit but we're doin' what we can and I prefer doin' it with you than on my own. I'll follow you to hell and back until I take a bullet between the eyes or the Seeds put me down, you got that?" You say sternly, not letting Eli drop his gaze.

"I won't let them put you down dep." Eli responds just as quickly and earnestly.

"Yeah well, you watch my ass and I'll watch yours. No one else I trust more honestly." You smile, patting his chest before shifting back down, now laying on your side with your hands tucked against your chest; hovering just an inch away from Eli's bicep.

"Really?" He seems surprised by your wording, you'd done everything in your power to keep yourself guarded, even from the rest of the resistance. Trust wasn't something you gave easily, Eli had figured that out pretty early on. He would like to say he was the same but he still found himself a tad trusting when faced with someone he thought had a good heart. He had some hope in humanity left in him that you struggled to have on a good day—of which there weren't many nowadays.

"Eli, you are the only reason I've made it this far. You've saved my ass plenty so, yeah, really." You affirm.

Eli's mouth falls open, as if to say something more but he closes it as his gaze flutters down your face. He nods, swallowing hard and turning his gaze back to the ceiling. Time ticks by with the two of you laying in the peaceful silence, your bodies melting into the bed and your weary muscles relaxing after hours of being tense and straining. You can't remember the last time you took a nap, you'd snuck in small sleeps where you could but you wouldn't consider them a nap. Right now you could almost say you felt safe, enough to close your eyes and drift off for just a bit.

And you did, all but cuddled up to Eli's side.

Eli felt frozen, his body stiff as he counted down the seconds. Your head was resting on his shoulder, one of your hands lazily tossed over his forearm and foot tucked under his ankle. He wouldn't dare move a muscle, he didn't want to even think about waking you, you of all people deserve a rest and the idea that he could guard you while you took it had a warmth spreading through his chest.

It was obvious to everyone that Eli was sweet on you, ever since he and Wheaty found you and brought you back to the Wolf's Den. There was something about the way you carried yourself, the way you looked at him—talked to him. It didn't take long for him to be constantly checking up on you and worrying about you non-stop. It had even gotten to the point Tammy had snapped at him about acting like a lovesick schoolboy while there were people out getting killed.

It was a solemn reminder whatever was going on between you two was not something he could really focus on—as much as he wanted to anyway. He'd love to finally have a damn shower, show you he cleans up nice and take you to whatever restaurant or fast food joint you want to go to. He wanted this madness to be over so he could enjoy more moments like this, you curled up by his side sleeping soundly. He wanted you to be safe. He wanted you both to be safe, together if you wanted that too.

Today had just driven that into his head more, every bullet that grazed your skin, every knife narrowly dodged was another moment Eli felt sick to his stomach—he couldn't even fathom what he'd do if you got seriously hurt. Like, down for the count, probably not gettin' back up, type of deal. It wasn't an option he could fathom, you were the deputy, nothin' had stopped you yet. He dares to tilt his head, just to be able to look at you. Admire the way your eyelashes fan over your skin, the way your mouth was squished by your cheek thanks to the contact with his shoulder. You looked so human and so damn breathtaking.

Another bold move—he reaches up to trace his fingers along your forehead, lightly across your cheek. Aside from the grime and dried blood, your skin was soft and Eli allowed a stray thought of what you'd look like cleaned up for a date. You'd probably look too damn-good and he'd trip over himself like an idiot, he wouldn't be surprised. You'd had a way of making him act like a kid around their first crush, a side of himself he hadn't seen in a long time.

He wondered if it was bad luck that timing had made you both meet in the middle of a cult takeover or a weird twist of fate that'd have a happy ending. With the Seeds behind bars, Hope County freed and you two welcome to do whatever the hell you damn well pleased. Eli smiled, he wanted to be there the moment you let all of this weight off your shoulders—to finally see what you looked like when you weren't being Hope County's personal Atlas. Probably something just like this, soft and serene. He didn't know how he'd end up by the end of all of this but if he had you around he wasn't too scared, whatever pieces of him were left on the ground he could tape back together again—with you standing by him, he could do just about anything.

The radio spurts to life a few more times while you're asleep, snippets of Wheaty's worried voice and Tammy's harsher scolding telling you two to get your asses back to the Den if you're not dead. It's only after the half hour is well and truly gone by that Eli shakes your shoulder gently, freezing as you grumble in your sleep and shuffle closer. Your arm skirts over his belly before clutching onto his waist, your head smoothly gliding down to his chest; right over his racing heart.

"You awake dep?" He asks, unsure of the answer and if he would prefer if you were still asleep or not. If you were asleep and cuddling up to him he could say it was nothing but if you were awake… How was he supposed to ignore it? While friends could absolutely cuddle and share a bed, the circumstances had you both dangling over the edge of 'more-than-friendly'—to the point where you cuddling up to him like this could be what gets him to admit a thing or two. To himself and to you.

But after a beat of silence he notes, with disappointment, that you were, in fact, still asleep.

Maybe it was for the best.

"We gotta get goin'," He shakes your shoulder more firmly, needing an out now that he realises how fast he was ready to throw aside focusing on the matters at hand at just the mere thought of you doing something with a smidge of a hint that you reciprocate his feelings. You groan in protest and burrow further into his side, and Eli can't help but laugh, he had never seen you woken up before and he had not expected you to be like this. He wasn't a fan of getting up after a good nap either, but you were both needed elsewhere and any more time here was the possibility of more lives lost.

"C'mon dep." He cooes, and you finally stir back to consciousness, looking up at him blurring with a squinted gaze and unhappy frown. He sees your eyes refocus, sees you realise what you're doing, and is almost gleeful when you drop your head back to his chest with a grunt.

"Five more minutes, you're comfy."

He throws his head back with another laugh, if only to cover the rapid acceleration of his heartbeat within his ribs. He wondered if you could hear it—feel it.

"Thanks for letting me catch a few winks, haven't slept next to someone in… I don't even know how long." You murmur quietly, and Eli nods, unconsciously lifting a hand to hold your shoulder as he stares at the ceiling. He could soak up just a few more minutes, a few more minutes in an embrace with you that was too good to be real. That thought makes him want to roll his eyes at himself, he was losing it over cuddling. Damn, what did you do to him? And did you know you were doing it?

"You didn't get any sleep, did'ja?" You turn, resting your chin on his peck as you look up at him, and Eli feels himself fall short of breath. Your eyes are half lidded from drowsiness, mouth set in an inquisitive pout, and it's just all too much for him. He sits up, taking you with him—and maybe that was a worse idea since your horse ends up strewn over his lap. You grumble as you push yourself up, hands on his thighs and sending all sorts of shockwaves through him.

"I—Uh—Nah. Someone had to keep watch, just in case…"

"Well, thanks for looking after me then, I'll spot your next nep to make it even." You offer a tiny grin, and the magnetism of it is all too much for Eli. You're too close, the proximity making your usual charm hit him full force and drag him under its waves with no mercy. He's leaning into you despite himself, one hand resting over yours as you watch with an unreadable glint in your eye.

This was ridiculous.

"Awe to hell with it, dep, I gotta tell you," he sucked in a deep breath, ducking his head down and squeezing his eyes shut, "I know we ain't really got time for this type of thing and it's fuckin' stupid of me—"

"I like you too, Eli."

Your voice cuts off his soon to be long-winded ramble and he flings his head up so fast that he gets an ache in his neck. You smile softly back at him, and his mouth opens and closes a few times as he takes you in—you were being serious. One hundred percent genuine. He almost couldn't believe it, despite the flirting here and there he never could have guessed, or maybe he just didn't want to get his hopes up.

"Huh? Wh–You do?"

"I was waiting for you to say something, I didn't wanna make shit more complicated for you if you weren't up for it." You shrug, as if it's the most casual thing in the world and he can't help but reach out to grab hold of your shoulders. He didn't want you to slip away, for him to blink and have this just be a dream. You felt the same way, and you had for a while. God how long? How long had he been missing out on whatever it is you two could have had already?

"I think given the circumstances you are the least complicated thing I got in my life right now." He grins and you snort.

"I'll take that as a compliment but watch yourself." You waggle a finger at him with your own grin and if he were standing he would have gone weak at the knees. Everything you did was mesmerising and he was down for the count here. You had him wrapped right around your pinky finger and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"So.. Shit what now?" He laughs and you join in, shaking your head at how ridiculous this is.

"I don't know, I've been wanting to kiss you for six months, how about we start there?" You suggest, one hand resting over his heart as your eyes flicker to his lips. All the air escaped him at your words and he felt starstruck at just the idea of kissing you. He nods, owlishly glancing from your eyes to your mouth as his mind goes blank. He can't remember the last time he kissed somebody and he had a feeling he wouldn't remember at all after kissing you. And he was right.

You make the first move, leaning in and pressing your lips to his, he's stiff at first—in fear of fucking up. But then he relaxes and his lips move against yours smoothly, sharing a kiss that's been building up like a wildfire. And it ignites like one too, soft and curious pecks turning into passionate, long kisses with maybe a bit too much tongue on his part; he was drunk on just the taste of you and you didn't seem to mind one bit. This was more than he thought he'd ever get to share with you, lips and teeth and tongues—a small frenzy full of the feelings you'd both kept hidden for months. It was more than enough, all he needed to get back into the fight and make sure you both got outta this damn thing alive.

"I'm gonna take you on a date," He breathes once you both back off for air; foreheads pressed together and hot breath mingling between you both. You laugh and grab his jaw, fingers running through his hair and pulling him in for another burst of short kisses.

"Where you gonna take me?" You ask, a smile brighter than any you'd graced him with before shining in the small bunker like the sun. Blinding and warm.

"Anywhere you wanna go, anything you wanna do. We'll have dinner, watch a movie, cuddle up on a couch. You smiled as he rattled on breathlessly, closing his eyes to enjoy the feeling of finally being able to be totally honest with you.

The radio crackles. You both look at each other, clinging to the other's body and not wanting the happy moment to end. You sigh first, letting your head to his shoulder and hand fall to his neck.

"After this is all over, I think I'd really like that Eli." His name dances off your tongue and it just melts Eli even more. He kisses your hair and wraps his arms around you, you'd head out in a minute and face the wrath and worry of your friends when you got back to the Wolf's Den but for right now—right now you soaked in the happy ideas for the future. Your future.

[peachlcve]

WANNA BE YOUR DOG

Chapter Four

Cagefighter!Logan Howlett x Reader

Chapters | Masterlist

cw: suggestive

You don’t sleep. You lie under the covers, hyper-aware of the man on the other side of the wall. In your restless mind, last night’s event plays over and over and over again.

The two of you had broken apart after those few blissful seconds to blink stupidly at each other. The only thing able to snap you out of your trance was an icy gust of wind making your whole body shudder, at which Logan said hurriedly, “We should go inside.”

An awkward goodnight and that was it; your doors clicking shut simultaneously. Did that mean he regrets it? Do you regret it? You groan into your pillow wishing only to sleep, sleep, sleep. 

–

Logan goes to work early and comes back in the mid-afternoon. In the evening, you take the bus to the bar; he drives there later. As you ward off nasty men all night, there’s a deep dread weighing you down inside at the thought of yet another excruciating ride home. 

The second he starts up the van, he turns on the radio. The Rolling Stones’ Wild Horses fills the empty silence in place of conversation. 

“I like this song,” you say meekly. 

“Yeah,” he grunts, “Stones are great.”

Another awkward goodnight. And that’s all you said to each other today. 

–

After another day passes, you don’t know whether to cry or scream. You can’t meet his eyes and now he can’t meet yours either. You’re wound up so tightly that you fear what will happen to you when you unravel. Sat on the couch, you remain as far away from Logan as you can manage without making it apparent you’re trying to put space between you, bouncing your knee. The house is dark and the TV glaringly bright, causing your eyes to water, but you keep on staring straight at it. 

Logan, however, is staring straight at you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks after nearly half an hour of hesitation. 

That’s all it took. 

“No, Logan, I’m not okay,” you snap. “After we – the other night – and then you just don’t say anything to me! For fuck’s sake, it’s been radiosilence from you for two nights! You could at least tell me you regretted kissing me-”

“Regretted?” he echoes, brows furrowed.

“Why else would you ignore me?” you shout. 

Logan stands, abandoning his beer on the side table. “I don’t regret shit. I thought you were the one who regretted it, since you haven’t been able to look me in the face since.”

You leap to your feet. “I was embarr-”

“Do you regret it?”

The question makes you pause. Logan waits, staring you down with such an intensity it should make you want to run – but you don’t, you step closer, recalling his taste, his touch… 

“No.” You answer. 

His expression softens as he processes this new information. “Then…why are we fighting?”

“I don’t know,” you breathe, the both of you inching tentatively closer. You take in his face as the light from the screen flickers across his features: he’s handsome in a classically rugged way, so much so it makes your heart swell against your ribcage. He gently settles his hands on your waist and you peer up at him nervously. “Will you kiss me?”

His lips collide with yours the second the words leave your mouth, his arms engulfing you as you loop yours around his neck. It’s pure passion. The slightest whimper escapes the back of your throat, causing him to bite down on your bottom lip. Your hands immediately make their way up into his hair. 

You break for air, gasping and panting, and he takes the opportunity to pull you back down onto the couch, settling in his lap. He begins to descend down your neck: starting along your jaw, then down the column of your throat, and settling at the base, kissing and suckling. Your hands find purchase again in his hair. You gasp when he finds a sensitive spot, and he sucks a mark there before attacking your lips again eagerly. Heat is pooling in your lower abdomen, and your hips twitch, a subtle half-grind that Logan picks up on straight away. He bucks up into you and presses your hips down to meet him in a grind that makes you stutter out a startled moan. Your bodies move just like that as you kiss each other feverishly. 

When you pull away from his face, his pupils large with lust, gazing dreamily into yours – you realise what you’re doing. 

“Wait, Logan – wait,” you pant. 

He stops immediately, studying your face with a terrified expression. “Are you okay? I can stop.”

You giggle airily, feeling a little light-headed. “I’m fine, Lo, I just don’t want to jump into things.” You see him exhale with relief, wrapping his arms around your middle to hold you closer. “After everything with my last boyfriend…”

“I understand.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “We’ll take it slow, sweetheart, no rush at all.”

–

The next week was tentative. You tested the waters first, giving him a kiss on the cheek before he left for work in the morning. Then he put his arm around you when you watched TV together; you pressed your arm against his as he washed while you dried the dishes; he put his hand on your knee when driving home the previous night. 

Although he could never admit it to himself, Logan is absolutely terrified. You’re such a sweet thing – delicate and lovely next to him. Like glass. He worries that if he were to hold you too tight you’d shatter into a million little reflective pieces. 

Sore from swinging an axe all day, he drives home, recalling how he once lived so coldly in this van when it dawns on him that there’s no going back. Your warmth sustains him now. A rare smile lifts his lips at the thought of your big eyes and pretty face greeting him at the door. 

The saccharine fantasy is instantly crushed like a bug by the scene that awaits him inside. He sees you standing in the living room, a girl he doesn’t recognise crying on your shoulder. Something sinister seizes in his gut when he sees the distant, anxious look in your eyes as you half-heartedly pet her hair. 

“Who’s this?”

–

At first, you’d simply stared, dumbfounded, when Alice appeared at your door. 

“He kicked me out and I have nowhere to go,” she’d wept, and, in spite of everything, you stepped aside to usher her into the home you once shared. 

You tried hard to forget how familiar it sounded when she explained how he’d found someone else and left her in his dust. There was a heaviness in your bones when you brought her into your embrace. 

“You can sleep on the couch.” you sighed. 

–

Your bedroom door clicked shut behind Logan as you slump on the bed with blushing cheeks. He must think I’m such a loser. 

“Why did you let her in?”

You let out a shaky breath, “We were friends for years, practically sisters, I couldn’t just… say no.”

He snorts, and tears prick at your waterline. “Some sister.”

Your lower lip trembles. You bow your head so that he can’t see you try to blink back the tears –  but it’s no use. 

“Hey, I just mean…” he stoops down and takes your chin in his hand. “She hurt you. She could hurt you again.”

“I know, but…” you sigh. “It’s worth giving her a second chance.”

An unreadable look flickers over his face; he swallows hard before murmuring, “If that’s what you want.”

a/n: so sorry this took so long!!

@viviannagiorgini @maximumchilddreamland @vinaluvsu @policedeer @curlies-world @twinky-wink @willow-t @nobrihere @marshymallo @jasmines-greentea @pink-jello-fish @unlikelygalaxygiver @yakbuttersoup

[peachlcve]

WANNA BE YOUR DOG

Chapter Three

Cagefighter!Logan Howlett x Reader

Chapters | Masterlist

Combat is often described as a dance. To Logan, it’s a procedure. 

When his opponent, eyes gleaming meanly in the dim light of the cage, raises his fists and sneers, the Wolverine allows two or three hits for the crowd’s pleasure. Roars of excitement - a glimmer of hope - rise all around. Then, when the unlucky fool has stepped back to shake out his sore fists and strike again, he’s met by a blow powered by solid metal. Only a few more follow before he’s sprawled out on the floor.

Tonight is no different. Two men have been knocked down already, and Logan is taking the brief pause while another is selected to smoke, eyeing the bar. 

It’s packed, more so than usual. Sweat beads on your forehead as you run around, accompanied by only one other bartender – understaffed as usual. What’s worse, some drunk guy has been harassing you all night. Shouting sleazy remarks at you over the noise, unashamedly ogling your tits in the square-neck top you regretted wearing the minute you clocked in. Logan sees it all from the cage. He takes a long drag of his cigar to subdue himself when he sees the man dare to touch your arm when you hurry past. You brush it off, accustomed to the unsavoury behaviours of the bar’s clientele. Logan is not so willing to do the same.

It must be his lucky day, he thinks, when the bold asshole is stepping towards him with his fists readied – too cocky to notice how the Wolverine’s lips have curled into a terrible grin.

The sudden disappearance of half the customers surrounding you draws your attention to the sight of a man, bloody and brutally beaten to unconsciousness being dragged out the door. Horrified, you glance at the cage: Logan’s looming figure, breathing hard as he watches it happen.

“Oh fuck.” you breathe.

–

Logan raises his eyebrows as you turn your back to him the minute he lugs himself onto a barstool. A beat of silence passes before he grunts, “Can I have my beer?”

You slam down the dirty glass you’ve just picked up and glare at him. “No Logan, you may not.”

“Why-”

“Why? Because I saw what you did to that guy,” you hiss, “that was cruel. You were too hard on him. You know you have an advantage.”

He furrows his brows. “I only did it because I saw him harassing you.”

“Loads of guys harass me!” you argue, furiously wiping the counter. “I’m used to it. You don’t need to play knight in shining armour just ’cause some dude was a dick to me.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “But-”

You shoot him a nasty look, storming to the other end of the bar to continue cleaning. Logan keeps his mouth shut, shrugging on his jacket and waiting for your shift to end outside. 

–

It had been three and a half weeks since he’d first moved in and things had been admittedly a little odd at first. Yet the two of you were beginning to warm to each other; taking turns to carry out household tasks, making light conversation in the kitchen. Now he’s fucked it all up. 

In the van, your arms are folded and the tension is so thick he could slice it with his claws. It takes him great self-control not to veer off the road, the way he keeps glancing at you as you stare out the passenger window, keeping your back to him. 

You slam your bedroom door behind you the minute you arrive home. Logan stands in the doorway staring at it dumbly. 

You make quick work of peeling off your clothes, the stench of cheap booze and cigarette smoke heavy on them. You pull on a long sleeve, sweatpants, and fluffy socks, then collapse on your unmade bed to blink at the ceiling.

He was trying to do a nice thing for you. You feel guilt stir in the pit of your stomach at the realisation. Your roommate’s social ineptness had not gone unnoticed by you; being a mutant who knocks people about for a living must make regular interactions a difficult experience for him. Beating that guy up today – it was a demonstration of him caring for you. In some weird, brutish way. 

The smell of food cooking and the sound of clattering pans from the kitchen greets you when you emerge from your room. You walk in to find Logan cursing under his breath, rooting through your fridge. 

“Logan, do you need help?”

He runs a hand through his hair, “Yeah, I think I do.”

You sentenced him to a simpler task – cutting vegetables, which he still managed to slice his finger doing; you got to witness the wound heal and vanish in a matter of seconds – and got to work fixing the mess he made. The two of you ended up eating together on the couch, watching a movie. 

You nudged him with your foot to catch his attention. “Sorry I freaked out.”

“Sorry I upset you,” he says, swigging his beer. “Can I ask you something, though?”

“Sure.”

“You said guys harass you all the time. How bad is it?”

In the flickering light of the TV, his eyes are laser-focused on you, and you sink back deeper into the cushions. “It happens…I guess as much as you’d expect at a place like that. I don’t know, it’s not always bad, some of them are alright.”

He snorts, “You’re lying.”

“What!”

“You’re downplaying it for me,” he retorts. “If some of them are alright, how come you don’t go out with them?”

Your face grows hot as you fiddle with the label on your beer bottle. “I just…It’s…” you squirm. “My last relationship ended, well, horribly, so…”

“Horribly?” Logan’s gaze is as hot as a brand on you, and you half feel like he ought to hold a lamp by your face so it can be a true interrogation.

“He left me for my roommate.” you force out. “That’s why she moved out. To live with him. I mean, we were only together for like six months, but it…hurt, I guess.”

Neither of you speak for a moment. You’re aware of his eyes still boring into your skull. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t-”

“It was so long ago, it doesn’t matter,” you interject, “I ought to let it go.”

And just like that, the progress you’d made had fizzled out.

–

The following night was a slow one. Though you couldn’t see from the bar, Logan had been watching you between matches, trying to study your body language. Completely unreadable. He took care not to release his frustration through his fists.

“Well damn.” you turn to see a man, younger than what would typically be found at this kind of establishment, grinning at you as he leans on the bar. “Aren’t you pretty?”

You tack on your best customer-appeasing smile, “Can I get you anything, sir?”

“A scotch on the rocks. And your number.”

You roll your eyes at the line you’d heard a million times over. “Your drink’s coming up, my number is not.”

“Got a boyfriend?”

“No,” you reply curtly, pouring him his drink. 

“So why not?” 

When you look up at the playful grin on his surprisingly good-looking face, you think over what Logan had asked you the night before: If some of them are alright, how come you don’t go out with them? The hurt and betrayal following your last break-up still lingers, but there’s a chance it may never disappear unless you move on. And this guy is alright, so what harm could it do?

You scrawl your number on a napkin and slide it to him. He winks.

–

A strange feeling was nagging at Logan as he watched you rush about, searching for misplaced earrings and pausing at any mirrored surface to check your hair. He’d heard very little about your date, only that he asked you out at the bar and was taking you to dinner in the nicer part of town. And yet, something felt…not quite right. 

You hurried out the door, wishing him a quick goodnight, taking care not to slip on any ice while wearing the nice pair of heels you had reserved for “special occasions”.

–

A heavy sense of disappointment settled over you when you remembered how most dates usually go: initial anticipation, then small talk, then the realisation that the guy sat across from you is no different from the parade of dicks that you somehow were consistently managing to attract. By the time dessert came, you were thoroughly regretting your decision to go out with him.

He drove you home, not offering to walk you to your door. Okay, you think, a goodnight in the car. At least he drove me home.

“Tonight was fun,” he says, eyes lidded. You grit your teeth for what you know will come next.

“Yeah, it was,” you blatantly lie. “I should-”

He cuts you off with a kiss. When you pull away, a shiver runs up your spine as you begin to open the car door.

“What are you doing?” His hand is suddenly wrapped tight around your wrist, startling you into dropping back into your seat. He plants a kiss on your neck.

“Um, I’m sorry, I’m gonna go,” you say, pulling away. “This was nice!”

His reply is muffled as you practically leap outside, heading to your front gate. Before you can breathe a sigh of relief, you jump at the slam of a car door, turning to see him marching towards you with a sneer.

He aims for your wrist again, but you snatch it away before he can curl his fingers around it. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing, just-” You fumble with the latch until the gate swings open, making you stumble backwards. He catches you before you tumble onto the path by the waist.

“How ’bout I come inside-”

“How about you fuck off.” The low, sinister warning rumbles from the throat of your roommate, who appears in the doorway from the darkness of the house. He curls his fingers into fists, and from his knuckles unsheathes his claws. “Go on. Get.”

The trembling man releases his hold on you to dart back to his car, sending you falling on your ass.

“Ow…” you groan.

Two large hands hoist you up, and you grin sheepishly up at Logan. “You alright?” he frowns down at you.

“I’m fine now,” you murmur, “thanks for being my knight in shining armour again.”

His firm expression melts into a soft chuckle. It’s then that you notice his warmth; the two of you are standing unusually close, his hands still settled on your waist, yours having naturally found purchase on his chest. And he’s not laughing anymore.

What’s happening?

Your heart beats like a marching drum, banging against your ribcage like it’s fighting to get free. He’s inching closer. You can feel his hot breath flutter across your face.

He tastes like smoke and whiskey when your lips melt together.

@viviannagiorgini @maximumchilddreamland @vinaluvsu @policedeer @curlies-world @twinky-wink @willow-t @nobrihere @marshymallo

[peachlcve]

WANNA BE YOUR DOG

Chapter Two

Cagefighter!Logan Howlett x Reader

Chapters | Masterlist

You had his beer ready before he’d even approached the bar. He thanks you, and you go about wiping the counters and washing the glasses as per usual. You assume he’s pretending the previous morning’s events never happened. 

“Did you get the car fixed?” He speaks up suddenly. It’s a casual question, but there’s a hint of discomfort in its delivery.

“No, they’re gonna scrap it,” you reply without looking at him. “It was ancient anyway. So it’s fine.”

“How did you get to work then?”

“Bus.”

“And how are you gonna get home?”

You shift, fiddling with the cleaning rag in your hands. “I was just gonna…walk.”

He snorts. “In this weather? I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Don’t argue.” So you don’t.

–

The bar owner counts his winnings from a table in the corner. You feel his eyes linger on you as you leave with Logan. You keep your eyes forward.

The winter air is biting after spending so many hours in that stuffy bar, a sensation that sends a shock through you no matter how many times you experience it. Logan pauses, and you look up to see him sniff. “It’s gonna start snowing.”

A giggle escapes and you clap a hand over your mouth as his attention snaps to you. “Sorry, Wolverine.”

His eyes roll and his lips twitch, daring to smile a little, “I’m just thinking about how you’re going to survive trekking home in the snow every night you work.”

You’re not so amused any more. “I- I’ll manage. I’m a big girl, Logan.”

You turn from him and trudge towards the van. He follows you with a shake of his head. 

That godforsaken silence returns on the drive home; your timidness prevents you from breaking it, but the weight of it makes you itch. Ten minutes in, you crack: “So cage fighting, huh?” You hate yourself the minute the words leave your lips. 

“Yes, cage fighting.” he affirms, glancing at you. 

“Is that your primary source of income?”

“Are you worried about how much I make?”

“No! I just- I’m curious- I-” Your face flames to the tips of your ears, wishing to return to the silence being mildly uncomfortable rather than absolutely agonising. “Forget it.” 

He watches your face for a moment. “I had a job interview yesterday. Part-time lumberjack. So I have a day job now.”

“Well then, congratulations,” you say. He grunts.

– 

Snowflakes, fat and glittering, have hastened their falling and begun to settle all around when Logan walks you to your door. It feels like deja vu when you stop in the doorway, him halting at the bottom doorstep so that you’re at eye level. Flakes fleck his dark hair and dust his broad shoulders in a way that you find makes him appear somehow endearing.

“I’ll keep dropping you home,” he states. “I can’t have your blood on my hands if you freeze to death.”

Your stomach squeezes and you giggle softly. “Thank you.”

You bid each other farewell. Lingering in the doorway, you watch him saunter back to his van, an idea forming. Before he can cross the street, you decide to fuck it and hurry to the gate, calling his name. “What if you moved in with me?”

–

It made perfect sense; you could barely survive with your measly bartender’s paycheck and he was starting a second job. The two of you could ride home together. It would get him out of the van life he’d been living in. So really, it’s not weird - it’s perfectly reasonable. 

You repeat this justification to yourself so as you pull the tray of cookies out of the oven. You’d attempted to help him lift his boxes inside, but he’d shooed you off, claiming they were too heavy. Unwilling to sit around and twiddle your thumbs, you started baking a batch of welcome cookies to feel a little less underfoot. Logan wanders into the kitchen with wide eyes. 

“They’re welcome cookies,” you explain, carefully lifting each cookie onto the cooling rack. He goes to pick one up and you whack his wrist with the spatula, warning, “They’re hot, wait.” He growls a little and stares at them as if trying to will them to cool faster.

A smile lifts the corners of your mouth; maybe it won’t be so terrible.

a/n: next chapter will be longer promise😭

@viviannagiorgini @maximumchilddreamland @vinaluvsu

@policedeer

[peachlcve]

WANNA BE YOUR DOG

Chapter One

Cagefighter!Logan Howlett x Reader

Chapters | Masterlist

Winter already has its icy grip on the world outside, but in this bar, it’s as hot as the equator.

There wasn’t a shot in hell you would’ve picked this job - bartending in a sketchy underground cage-fighting joint - if it weren't for sheer desperation. Sweaty bodies packed tightly together. Impatient men demanding service everywhere you turn. Grunts and shouts and wails of pain from the cage.

When the fighting was over, the majority of patrons stumbling out the door, you could finally breathe. Wipe down the bartop, wipe away the night.

“Hey, bub, can I get a beer?”

The Wolverine heaves his weary body on a barstool and makes his usual request - the bar owners’ main source of income, the undefeatable beast of a man got a drink free after striking every opponent down with a few swings of his fist. The body hit the floor; another bet was won.

“Here you go.” You avoid his gaze as you pass him the bottle. He grunts his thanks.

A few months ago, you lost your previous job, though fortunately you had a roommate to cover your half of the rent until you found another. Unfortunately, said roommate had already planned on moving out around that same time. Therefore this sad little nightly routine was the only means of avoiding homelessness. What would your parents think, if they were to see you in this dingy, overtly illegal, shithole of a bar? You smile slightly at the thought as you dry off a glass.

Sensing eyes on you, you glance up to meet the Wolverine’s dark gaze, expressionlessly trained on you. Heat creeps into your cheeks and you turn away to pick up another glass.

–

“Shit, shit, shit!”

You slam your car door shut behind you, aborting your fruitless attempts to start it. You wrap your fleece-lined jacket tightly around yourself as you glare at the crappy old piece of metal and go over your options. Option, singular. Walk down a pitch-black icy road. You cuss again and ram a boot into the door.

“You alright there?” A gruff voice from behind startles you.

Turning around, you’re met with the looming presence of the cage fighter, donning a motorcycle jacket, the high collar and angular shoulders making him look even more intimidating. He looks at you with a raised brow.

“Er - well - no, not really,” you stammer out, “my car won’t start.”

“Oh.”

He remains several feet away from you, as if approaching a wild animal. You scuff the toe of your shoe in the gravel like a shy schoolgirl. “Yeah. Um…”

“Would you like a ride?”

He’s offering you a ride.

You shouldn’t. This is a dangerous man; a fighter for a living. And beyond that, you had reason to suspect he might not be just a man. You were sceptical of the idea of mutants, but after watching him take many a vicious blow and emerging without so much as a scrape, you had good reason to believe you were in the presence of one. So you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t get into the scary guy’s car. Even if your teeth were chattering and your toes numb in your boots. You shouldn’t.

If your parents would be terrified at the sight of your workplace, they’d faint at the sight of you meekly accepting the Wolverine’s offer.

You put all associations of kidnappers with white vans out of your head as you follow him to his. You jam your hands deep into your pockets and clench your jaw tight to prevent the audible chattering. Once in the passenger seat, you breathe a small sigh of relief when the first thing he does after switching on the ignition is turn the heater all the way up.

“Put your hands on it so they can warm up.” He grumbles. You oblige. “Why don’t you have gloves on?”

“I think I left them in my car,” you reply, feeling somewhat foolish. You wonder if making other people feel about two inches tall was a hobby of his or an unconscious habit.

He says nothing. He doesn’t turn the radio on. His eyes remain trained on the road ahead. You glance at him once or twice, but his expression is blank and his mouth is clamped shut. Behind you, you are aware of the narrow bed and minimalistic living set up that brings to you a wave of affection for your one-storey rental that has caused you so much grief these past few months. You had always assumed cage fighting must be pure sport to him, and that there was some daytime job he worked to support himself, but now you're beginning to wonder if his sole income is the bets placed on his fists.

He parks a little way down the opposite side of the road as there are cars in front of your house. You pause with your hand on the door handle, watching him scan the area before grunting, “Iʼll walk you in.”

You fumble with the latch on your gate, letting your hair sweep over your face to disguise your rosy cheeks when he leans over you to do it himself. Taking extra care not to slip on your doorsteps and make an even bigger fool of yourself, you jiggle your key into the lock and turn to face…you don’t know his real name. Oh god.

“Thank you so, so much…”

“Logan.”

“Yes! Logan. Thank you Logan.” You give him an awkward smile as he nods his head, again, expressionless.

He grunts a humble “no problem,” and turns to walk away as you step halfway over the threshold. Your mind returns to his van. The sorry little bed that you’re quite frankly surprised can support his broad stature. Before you can psych yourself out of it, you blurt out: “Wait! I have a spare room?”

He halts, caught off guard. “What?”

“If you wanted to stay the night,” you cringe at the words as you say them, “since you went through the trouble of taking me home. You're welcome to. If you want.”

The silence is deafening. He blinks at you and the sudden urge to shoot yourself in the head is overwhelming. Oh my god, what am I think-

“Alright. If it’s okay.”

–

Naturally, he’d gone to fetch a change of clothes and a toothbrush, and you took the few minutes to shove stray underwear in your laundry basket, bin the empty bottle of wine on your kitchen counter, and clear away the pile of well-loved makeup products cluttering the bathroom sink. You mentally cursed yourself for living like the cover of the Stereotypical Sad Single Female magazine.

A new wave of embarrassment washed over you when you showed him to your roommate’s old room, the bed still made in the comically girly pink floral sheets she had left behind. “Very feminine.” he’d commented.

When you’d hastily excused yourself to bed, you let out a long, self-loathing groan into your pillow.

–

It’s six-thirty in the morning, a blasphemous hour to be awake at, and Logan is trying to be quiet on the other side of the wall, in spite of his ridiculously heavy footsteps. You lie awake as he shuffles to the bathroom, wait until the shower is on, then haul yourself out of bed because part of you worries he'll sneak out like a guilty one-night stand without you getting the chance to atleast make him coffee.

By the time he’s emerged, dressed, from the bathroom you've managed to stick some bacon in a pan and made a pot of coffee. He seems taken aback, and it makes you far more comfortable to know that there's one emotion that can display itself on his stoic face: surprise.

“Sorry if I woke you up.” He glances at you as you set his plate on the table.

“It’s fine,” you reply, sitting opposite. Now that the Wolverine is sat at your dainty kitchen table, he seems less like a man-bashing beast and more like a stray dog you've ushered into your home. Thoughtfully, you begin to eat, suddenly feeling far more able to look at him directly. “Can I ask you something?”

He stops, looking at you slowly. “Ask me what?”

Now or never. You inhale deeply and softly say, “How come you never have a single bruise to show for those beatings you take?”

A pause. He chews his bacon and swallows it carefully, analysing your face.

“Do you really want to know?” his voice is low and eyes narrow. You nod. With a sigh, he sets down his cutlery and lifts a fist - the swift sound of sharp metal being unsheathed cuts through the domestic morning quiet as three knife-like claws protrude from his knuckles. Your eyes widen and your knife and fork clatter onto your plate.

“You’re a-”

“This metal runs through me. I think it’s attached to my skeleton.” He explains, rotating his fist so you can better gawk at the claws. “I can also heal extremely fast. There’s other things too, like my sense of smell being advanced…”

“Like a wolverine,” you say, “apt name.”

He grunts and you absent-mindedly lift a finger to touch the deadly metal, “They’re sharp.” he snaps, retracting them. You sit back quickly. He clears his throat. “Sorry. Just didn't want you to…”

“It’s okay. Ahem…”

You don’t dare ask another question despite the many that were whirring in your mind, feeling that the tension has risen once more surrounding the subject. The two of you eat, in silence again.

Once he has his shoes and jacket on, you show him to the door. In spite of the information revealed at the table, somehow his presence makes you a little less nervous than it did the previous night. He falters in the threshold, turning to you.

“Thanks, for letting me stay and everything,” he says. “You didn’t have to.”

You smile lightly, “It’s no problem, really. Thank you for the ride home.”

He nods, “See you, then.”

“See you, Logan.”

You watch him from the window in your door as he crosses the street, lighting up a cigar. If your parents could see you now.

a/n: so sorry for this shaky writing 😭 this is my first time working on a series and I suckkk at starting things so sorry if this falls a little flat - might go back and re-edit when I'm not so tired but oh well! if you'd like to be tagged in the next part please let me know :))

@fallout-girl219 @viviannagiorgini

[peachlcve]

Chapter 3 | Pick Up

pairing: Marc Spector x Reader (implied Steven Grant x Reader, implied Jake Lockley x Reader)

summary: Even after a year living with Steven and Jake in the headspace, Marc struggles to quiet the buzzing chatter. He finds himself frequenting Coffee for Two, a place where brewing roasts fill the air and the cookies are as sweet as the barista.

this chapter: you finally receive a phone call...?

content: Mentions of Marc's past, plotty plot plot

wc: 2k+

a/n: I'm exploring the dynamic between the moon boys! Specifically on Steven and Jake's understanding of the system.

Moon Knight Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Coffee Doodles Masterlist

< Previous || Next >

–

Take it out of that pile of shit, Stevie. 

“I won’t.”

Ay, do it before I sit your ass to the back. 

Steven stares into the rubbish, listening to Jake’s half-hearted threats. 

It didn’t matter if he tossed it into a trash compactor and cast it into the open sea, they both memorized the number on the cup. 

How else could they have survived as Khonshu’s avatar? 

The god spouted astronomical coordinate systems during missions, instead of cardinal directions. It was disrespectful of his domain to merely water down the night sky into four words or their combinations, according to the squawking bird. 

Regardless, no point of direction from his alter or the moon god could shift his moral compass. 

“I dare you, mate.” 

Jake grumbles under his breath. 

Neither of them liked to tug on the string that forced control over the body. They wouldn’t be any better than Khonshu rattling his wrapped talons over their lifeforce — a puppet at the hands of its master. 

We’re allowed to live our own lives. Isn’t that what you wanted?

“This isn’t just about me anymore. Or just you for that matter.”

Once, Steven wanted nothing more than to free himself of the sleep-deprived nights and taste a drip of normalcy. He thought the only way to do that was to overcome whatever was going on in his head.

Egypt.

Khonshu.

The happenings in the Duat with Marc and Jake.

But now, his life, their life was more than that.

Steven was more than elated to discover support from a place he couldn’t even begin to fathom. 

Finding a way for each of them to front was a balancing act through understanding. It isn’t created by compartmentalizing the week into color-coded days or agreeing to a first come first serve basis. Their system was far from perfect, but it was their’s. 

Restraint was the seed of their problems, among other things, but the anxiousness of being confined (like they were in the sarcophagus) was something they couldn’t stomach. 

An attempt to claw himself out would forego the delicate trust built on an unsteady foundation.

No more lies.

No more secrets. 

And definitely, no more double duties.

“Besides, you said it yourself. We should live our own life. If either of us rings up the barista, despite all her loveliness, you’d be pretending to be Marc.”

Jake knew what was coming next. Don’t tell that story again–

Steven turns up his nose toward the reflection on the toaster. “Need I remind you, the last time you filled in my shoes, I ended up at a steakhouse for a date?”

You’re never gonna let me live that down, eh? At least it got you outta the stuffy museum for the night. 

“Hmph, I’m never take dating advice from you, no matter how desperate I get.”

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. 

How about you take those pretty little fingers and pick up that damn cup! And use your other set of five to press the numbers into your phone. 

Jake tended to spear-head ways to bring the out of their shell, it stemmed from years of hiding away. His actions came from good intentions, though the sentiments among the three weren’t always shared. 

“Not gonna be late for my first day, you twat.”

Steven tugs the handles of the trash bag into a neat bow, double-knotting it to emphasize the point. 

He chews the inside of his cheek. It’s been a day, but he still couldn’t feel Marc’s presence after retreating into the recesses of their mind. He’d be lying to himself if he said that things were a little easier this time around.

Despite going through hell and back (almost quite literally), maybe there would be a shared bonding experience that would lead them on the right track. But it always seemed like something veered them a little bit off-center. This time it wasn't a life-threatening mission...

Steven shrugs on his jacket and tinkers with the doorknob.

–

Since the last time Steven worked at the gift shop, he swears the British Museum didn’t sell the stone statues of the Ennead. (He wonders what else popped up during his absence). At least nine deities are behind the display case, instead of the misprinted eight on the poster.

How the toymakers laid their hands on strangely accurate models of the ushabtis is beyond him. It isn’t his problem anymore, the days of working inventory are over.

Whoever is responsible for the new figurines must be the same person who sorted out his new job. After the loo and jackal incident, he swore up and down that he blew the opportunity to become a tour guide.

He shoulders his bag and heads to the information desk, where a familiar blond sifts through papers.

Steven clears his throat. “Morning, Donna!”

“Stevie.” She peers up, a strained smile splitting her face, and hands him his nametag. 

It doesn’t matter if she calls him the wrong name, nothing could take away the bubbling joy in his heart. He holds it in his two hands as if cradling a duckling. 

Steven marvels at it briefly and smiles, noticing the engraved designs. He runs his thumb over it.

A scarab and a moon. 

Layla must’ve put a good word in for him before she left for Egypt.

He clips it onto his breast pocket.

Steven Grant Tour Guide

Donna pipes up, “After you’re done ogling, group A is waiting up front. Speak up a bit for that bunch. Mostly grandparents looking for a day out.”

Steven weaves between visitors meandering through the halls before standing in front of about ten people. A few wandering eyes behind a pair of thick glasses are already looking past him and at the exhibit. Others are fidgeting with their canes. 

“Hiya, there everyone! I’m Steven with V and’ll be your tour guide for the day.” He claps his hands with a bright smile. 

Steven walks backward to face the group while explaining each artifact with animated hand gestures and fluctuating voice impressions. There are tidbits of information he sprinkles in pulled from personal encounters with the gods. But, he skirts around how the unfriendly croc wanted to consume the souls of the living. 

The tour ends in a little under an hour, leaving enough wiggle room for a q and a portion. He rounds them up in front of a sectioned-off hall where they are free to discuss the pieces without the usual prattling of sugar-infested children. 

“Anything you’d like to know more about off the top of your noggin?” 

A shaky hand raises, a paper bracelet decorating the granny’s wrist. 

People rarely asked questions, so Steven beams at the prospect of going off into another tangent with someone as captivated as he is in Egyptology. 

“Yes, please! Go ahead.”

She smiles curiously and points to the unopened area of the museum. “What’s in there?”

“Ah, your guess is as good as mine. It’s my first day here so the curators haven’t filled me in on what’s going.”

“Could we take a peek?”

The hall isn’t open to the public for various reasons – there are fragile steles, brittle canopic jars, and parchment that resemble closer to dust than paper. Still, it tickled his fancy to be one of the first few people to check out the unearthed pieces.  

He scratches the back of his neck. “The guided tour has ended, but feel free to stick around with me and the missus here if you’d like to look in.”

The group is seemingly uninterested, except for her. They disperse with an appreciative nod and head toward the exit. 

“Well, aren’t you a sponge for knowledge!” Steven unclips the rope from the pole and ushers her inside. “Watch your step, might be bits and pieces of packing stuffs.”

Wooden crates line the walls along the respective categories of tools, ceremonial weapons, and non-utilitarian objects. The last are Steven’s particular favorite.

His eyes land on a slab of stone with carefully carved hieroglyphs. “This poem is dedicated to Hathor, the Goddess of Love. How lovely!”

It’s set inside a glass case, Marc stares back at him on the reflection with a slight frown, but it isn’t directed toward him. 

Her hand sidles up to the barrier, Steven glances at the strip of paper around her wrist… it’s a hospital bracelet. 

“Can the other two read this like you can?” 

Steven’s mouth gapes open and before he can reply she recites the hieroglyphs to his (and Marc’s) surprise. 

One plus one Equals two One for me And one for you 

Frantic footsteps near them, J.B. sets the rope back in place and tuts. “Oy! That’s where you went off to. I couldn’t find you on the cams. Off you go, you two.”

Steven tucks his chin down, voice going into a low whisper. “Think the missus here got lost.” 

“What’re you going on about–” J.B.’s gaze flits over to her. 

He rolls his wrist to emphasize his point.

“Gotcha, I’ll call security. Can’t believe she’s back.”

“Back?” He whispers to himself, just barely catching J.B.’s last sentence. 

Steven adds, “Heya, no need for a big fiasco. She’s a nice one.”

–

The chime of the entrance bell hasn’t rung all morning at Coffee for Two.

You gnaw at the end of your pencil in deep contemplation. Your decision darts between opening the shop to kill the boredom or listening to Nan about joining her for a break after she was given strict doctor’s orders for bed rest. Years of baking sweets and brewing coffee weren’t easy on her knees or head for that matter. 

Either way, you were supposed to be on vacation, yet here you were working on a new bread recipe. 

You worked around the clock before she practically forced you to hit the pause button. Even with the help of your part-timer, she couldn’t hold a candle to Nan’s experience with folding dough, piping frosting, and roasting beans. 

Though sitting behind the counter were moments few and far between, you missed the daily hustle and bustle of serving the regulars who were often in pairs.

The gray hairs of a Mister and Missus would peek from the velvet couch as they dipped a biscotti into a dark roast. Or a budding romance between a young couple would lead to sharing an affogato by the wooden stools. You’d smile to yourself and throw in extra cookies for them, claiming that you miscalculated the measurements and made more than usual.

You aren’t a stranger to the coffee shop meet-cute. It happens often enough to warrant the thought of writing a collection of romance novels. 

Between work… and work, there wasn’t much time to do anything else.

The tangents meet when Marc showed up. 

At the right moment and time.

You flinch when your phone plays a jingle, fumbling to grab it and pressing the green button.

“Hello?”

– 

When you prayed to any god listening about receiving a call out of sheer boredom, you didn’t expect a call from the Royal London Hospital. You gripped your phone waiting for the nurse’s message.

“This is the number we had on file in case of emergencies.”

“Yeah, yes. That’s me, I’m her granddaughter.”

“We’d like to inform you that she’s left the premises… again”

“Left the– Bloody hell! You could’ve started with that! You would think after the first time, you’d keep a closer eye on her, eh?” You accidentally bite your tongue after hurtling word after word at the nurse. 

“We’re not responsible for the patient who’s left the area. But, we–” 

“Tried?” You make your way out of the coffee shop, nudging the door close with your hip. “Yeah, like the first two times? Third time’s a fucking charm. You better hope she’s at the same place as last time.”

A call from another line intercepts your current one.

“Uh, hello, Miss!” A light voice chirps from the other side. “We’ve got a bit of a situation at the British Museum.”

You groan inwardly, she was there again. No wonder why the incoming number was familiar. (Not that you were expecting an unknown one from a particular curly-haired regular...)

“Did you find Nan?”

“If you mean the nice granny with the dangly bracelet, then it’s safe to say, yes.” 

“Did she– Is she okay?”

He chirps, “Oh yes, mhm! No need to worry, we’re sat down together.”

“Good, okay. Thank you, by the way, uh…”

“Oh bollocks, forgot to introduce myself. It’s Steven. Steven Grant.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

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[peachlcve]

Chapter 2 | Scrawled Nothingness

pairing: Marc Spector x Reader (implied Steven Grant x Reader, implied Jake Lockley x Reader)

summary: Even after a year living with Steven and Jake in the headspace, Marc struggles to quiet the buzzing chatter. He finds himself frequenting Coffee for Two, a place where brewing roasts fill the air and the cookies are as sweet as the barista.

content: coffeeshops, fluff, flirting, angst (mentions of Marc's past)

wc: 2.1k

a/n: Thank you for all the love in the first chapter! I'm so happy summer's started, so I'll have more time to write out more chapters AND get to the fun and silly asks you sent me!! My inbox is always open for unhinged thoughts and requests. Enjoy!

Moon Knight Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Coffee Doodles Masterlist

< Previous || Next >

–

Marc shows up at Coffee for Two at 11:59 p.m. on the dot every Monday night.

Not a Monday morning when people showed up in slacks or pencil skirts for a shot of espresso. And certainly, not a Friday night when teenagers line up for a tooth-achingly sweet drink they found the recipe for online. 

Besides, he likes his coffee black.

The closing shift was clockwork at this point after helping your Nan for years — prop the chairs snug against the table, wipe the floors, and cheekily bag up a couple of pastries for the next day’s breakfast.

Your eyes flick over at the clock nearly striking midnight, as you lean the broom against the edge of the countertop. 

Marc should’ve been here by now, shoulders pulled back and head tilted down, ready to sweep the to-go cup and splash stick.

You remember that he typically parked a white limo… Maybe he chauffeured for a party, hence the break in the weekly conversation. If you could even call it that. It was more like an exchange of stolen glances and nods before parting again.

The logical part of you yearns to walk back to the apartment sooner than you planned and plop down face-first onto the couch. But a nagging twinge irked you to stay a little longer to see if he’d stroll in as usual.

 You could already imagine his face if he saw the sign flipped to close, his bottom lip jutted out into a pout, and a crease between his brows. 

You laugh to yourself at the image of Melodramatic Marc instead of Moody Marc then ultimately deciding to give in to the latter. Maybe you’d curse yourself out when you have to wake up in a couple of hours to prepare the croissants for the next day, but you wanted to take your chances right now.

Rounding the corner of the counters, you duck your head under the cabinets and look for the roast you wanted him to try and the materials you need for a pour-over. 

You place the paper filter onto the dripper then unfurl the bag of coffee beans and toss just the right amount into the grinder. The crushing hum and toasted smell of the grounds was a welcome change after a day of listening to grating ice and spurting whipped cream. With a kettle in hand and the setup complete, you gently trickle the water into circles, watching the grounds set in and coffee drip down the other end.  

You grab a white cup, soon covered with drawings of stars and sparkles, reminiscent of the few you could see from the window. The moon outshined them all, full and on display without a cloud in sight. 

You pour the coffee into the well-dressed it (scrawled with Marc’s name in the annoyingly very pink Sharpie) and notch the lid.

Checking the time again, you realize it’s well past midnight. 

Maybe it’s time to go home, but you didn’t have the heart to toss the drink away. You take a sip, the liquid barely touches your tongue before you hiss at the bitterness. 

How does Marc drink this?

No sugar, no milk.

You drizzle in a couple of pumps and squirts of your preferred add-ons, vowing to yourself to never take it purely the way he does. Drink and purse in one hand, you turn the sign to “closed” and twist the lock with the other. 

Hermano, just check if the place for your coffee fix is open. It won’t hurt, Jake rolls his eyes.

Marc mutters, “No, we don’t need another pitstop after the shit Khonshu just dragged us through.”

Maybe they’ll still have those biscuits I like to eat with the tea! Steven's heart flutters at the thought of eating a couple of the raspberry linzer heart cookies. 

He concedes. “Fine, but the moment I see the closed sign we’re going straight home. I didn’t ask to be in charge of snack runs, ya know?”

A unison of hurrahs echoes in his headspace, he can’t help but smile. In the whirlwind of events of carrying himself in a country that reminded him of crumbled relationships and even faultier progressions of moving on, the desire to find a place where he belonged was something he hated to admit. 

Marc was good at playing the part of blending in for missions. Tugging on a disarming smirk to draw out intel from loose-lipped drunkards at the bar came naturally. As easily as turning on the charm while bargaining at the market for the first edition books Steven claimed was what he’d been searching for his whole life (Oh my days, I need those for my collection!). Or, yet another pair of leather gloves for Jake (Those are fingerless and the straps look cool).

But stripped of bells and whistles created by answering to every whim of humans and gods alike, Marc was just… him.

Steven had his apartment filled with knickknacks and collectibles. 

Jake had his car housing his armaments and gadgets.

What did he have? 

Marc frowns at the thought as he leaps across the rooftops, the moonlight catching the arc of the cape. 

A cot in the storage unit and a fuck ton of baggage that couldn’t fit in his duffel bag.

But maybe Coffee for Two could be his. 

As he leaps down behind the shop, his ceremonial suit unravels, tucking in on itself to reveal his black shirt and jeans. Surely, it’d be closed by now, but he still wanted to check.

Marc turns the corner and sees a sign written in big, loopy letters.

closed let's have "coffee for two" tomorrow

He sighs. “Told ya, who in their right mind would’ve kept open for one customer.”

A gust of wind ruffles his hair, Khonshu’s presence stronger than usual.

“Alright I get it, you damn bird! I get that we have another mission–” 

A post-it flutters onto his shoe. He bends over and holds it under the streetlamp.

If you’re Marc, keep reading.  if you’re not Marc, why are you still reading this?

I think you can keep reading.

“Jake, shut up.”

I drank your black coffee.  Don’t know how you drink this.  It tastes like battery acid.

Steven laughs out the last two words. Think this sweet ol’ message made up for you looking so miffed, mate! She’s right about it though. I oughtta steep her a good cuppa.

“Hey, it keeps us awake! Your hot leaf juice makes our piss smell like flowers and does nothing else.”

Marc carefully tucks the paper into his jacket pocket. 

–

A week after Marc’s absence, he walks in and you greet him with a tired smile as if there was no time lost in between.

“Black?”

He cocks his head up and grins. “Yes, miss.” 

That’s new, you note.

“Got any of those uh, berry cookie thingies?” He makes two “Cs” with his hands and connects them, forming a crudely shaped heart. 

Your eyebrow quirks up and the air is quiet with stillness before laughter bubbles up in your chest, pointing to what he was referring to. “Oh! The Linzer cookies!”

Marc flashes his teeth. “Mhm, a couple of those with the coffee.”

“I’m a little surprised you liked them. Did the sweetness grow on you?” 

“Not for me, actually.”

“Did you want a second drink to pair with it?” 

He replies cooly, “Nah, nothing like that. Just, for my brother.”

You give a noncommittal hum and turn your back to him, looking for a box to place the cookies in. 

Marc chuckles, the corner of his lips curling. “Woah, don’t come pouncing at me all at once.” 

“I just meant to mention that we have a promotion of buy two get the second drink half off for your partner.” You smile to yourself, the view obscured from him. “That’s why it’s called Coffee for Two after all.”

“Mm, right.”

Quietness blankets the pair as you assemble his orders. 

He couldn’t recall the last time his headspace wasn’t buzzing with chatter without gut-wrenching aid, a bandaid haphazardly stuck on. Drowning out the noise wasn’t necessarily the problem, it was finding a way to keep a constant peace of mind. At the very least, keep it at bay. The past year was saturated with blackouts and memory gaps, the swirling gold whiskey dipped him into a hazy state. It wasn’t his favorite way to keep the quiet, but it did the job.

Every twist of the cap dragged him back to what was soon to come.

Every whiff of the liquid reminded him how her hot breath, seething with disdain, warmed his cheek.

And the heat he felt after chugging it was reminiscent of how she would hit the other, turning his head to the side. 

The soft shifting of the pen on paper brought him back. 

“See? Told you I give good service.” You slide the decorated coffee cup and a box of cookies in front of him with a smile. 

Marc thumbs over his name, a little surprised you spelled it with a "c" instead of a "k", along with the twisting designs. “Nuh-uh. Think you forgot something again.”

“I worked hard on that masterpiece!” You frown, feigning annoyance. “You should be asking for my autograph.” 

“I should be asking for your number.”

You don’t reply for a beat. “Well, are you going to?”

He smirks, pausing to mimic your surprise before saying, “Can you write down your number?”

You nibble your bottom lip, failing to hide your giddiness. 

He reaches over to pluck the alarmingly pink Sharpie from the pot and hands it to you. “Think that godawful marker was made from toxic waste. Nothing in the natural world could create that color.”

You scrawl your number on it, careful not to spill the coffee. “Well that ‘godawful marker’ gave you an opportunity to claim that promo.”

“Can I use it now?”

“Not until you call me.” 

Marc chuckles and picks up his order. “Well, I’ll be sure to do that.”

“See you when I see you. Monday at midnight again?”

“Or sooner.” His eyes flit over to your hand, knuckles white from the grip on your apron.

“Uh, not sooner. I’m closing for the week. There’s a couple of things I need to sort out… for the shop.”

Marc nods, not bothering to push the matter further. “I have a funny feeling you waited for me to come before you closed.”

You smile, the tension eases from your body. 

–

Marc wakes up from the early sun rays filtering between the cracks of the curtain. He grumbles, Jake always forgets to pull it close before going to bed. He knew that if he stood up to fix it, his body would betray him and lose the cottony sleep he felt. With a groan, he flops over to his side, but before his eyes flutter close he catches an unfamiliar cup standing on his nightstand. 

He doesn’t remember buying it yesterday and god forbid anybody forces Steven to drink anything quote battery acid unquote.

He picks it up, he notices the drawings… and a set of numbers. 

So, it must be–

Marc flings the blanket off of him and stalks to the fish tank.

“Jake! I know you’re there!” 

Gus peers at him curiously and releases little bubbles.

“I’m gonna slash your tires if you don’t come out!” 

Jake stares back at him and raises his hands in surrender. Ay, you and I both know you wouldn’t do that. My driving gigs are one of the few ways we stay afloat these days.

Marc buries his fingers in his unruly curls. “It was mine!”

What was yours?

“Going to that place!”

I don’t get it–

“Of course you wouldn’t!” Marc bristles. “Couldn’t I just have this one thing without one of you weaseling your dick into my life?”

Hermano, look, I was just trying to help. We thought it was about time you make a friend... or something.

"And you didn't bother asking me first?"

“Oh and remind if I'm remembering this wrong, the last time you set up Steven was when you asked out his coworker to the steakhouse! He’s a vegetarian for god’s sake!”

Don’t get your panties in a twist.

Can we all just calm the “ef” out? Steven appears on the kettle’s reflection. Take a time-out or whatever you Americans say.

Marc fights the urge to raise his voice again in an attempt to dispel the ringing in his ears. If the pair tried to explain the situation, they’d be in for another scolding. 

He opens his mouth before they can. “We can’t do this right now.”

Don’t speak for all of us, pendejo. 

He fists the cup, it crumbles in on itself and tosses it into the bin.

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[peachlcve]

Chapter 1 | Midnight Musings

pairing: Marc Spector x Reader (implied Steven Grant x Reader, implied Jake Lockley x Reader)

summary: Even after a year living with Steven and Jake in the headspace, Marc struggles to quiet the buzzing chatter. He finds himself frequenting Coffee for Two, a place where brewing roasts fill the air and the cookies are as sweet as the barista.

content: coffeeshops, fluff, innuendo (thanks to Jake), poor shy and tired Marc who just needs his drink

wc: 1.2k

a/n: HELLO Moon Knight luvers!! I'm sweeping out this fic since I've had it around for some bit!

Moon Knight Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Coffee Doodles Masterlist

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—

Working the closing shift has its disadvantages… and occasional perks. 

People weave in and out of the café from the crack of dawn, then scurry away when the moon is at its highest. Rarely did they stay to settle down on the rickety chairs late into the night, ever so eager to drag themselves home after a long day.

You hardly remember the customers’ faces, usually down-turned with a sour look of annoyance on their phones who impatiently tap their shoe on the wooden floors. 

The man in front of you with waves of hair swept back to reveal his gruff demeanor, albeit a ruggedly handsome one, wasn’t any different from the others. Yet, you try to catch his eye as he sends a text. 

“You work the late hours like me?” You ask and crack a smile, immediately regretting it after realizing how wry it must’ve appeared from your exhaustion. 

He merely grunts in confirmation.

You clear your throat and idly tap your fingers on the granite countertop. “What can I get for you then?”

“Just a cup of coffee. Make it black.” He retrieves a leather wallet from his jacket pocket and pulls out a few quid in exchange for the kick of energy he desperately needs. 

“Your name?”

“Marc.” 

You whisper his name to yourself before reaching beside you to grab a paper cup and scrawling it on there.

Marc watches you catch your bottom lip between your teeth in fierce concentration as you doodle a smiley face next to his name. He wonders if you did this for every customer or if it was a way to keep yourself awake.

Before you made your last mark, you saw him through your peripheral vision staring at you intently. Usually, customers appreciate the little pick-me-up from the drawings you made. You inwardly wince for holding him up. “Sorry, you must be in a hurry”. You quickly cap the pink Sharpie and toss it into a small ceramic pot filled with other writing utensils. 

Marc notes how some were more appropriate or journaling, like the bright glitter pens, than for work. But it was well-loved all the same since it was nearly flatlining from use. 

“I’ll have it out for you in a minute.”

He shook his head, the black locks of curls bouncing slightly. “No rush, really.”

You situate yourself behind the coffee machine, tinkering with the buttons and opening the wrinkled bag of coffee beans. The warm scent permeates the air, even more so when the brown liquid dribbles into the cup. You quietly sigh in relief at the simplicity of the process. You’ve had a fair share of blended and iced drinks often brought back to the counter by unamused customers, claiming that it didn’t taste the same as last week even though there was a clear-cut recipe list plastered in front of your face when you made their orders. 

You carefully fiddle the cap over the cup and hand it to Marc with a tired smile. 

Marc felt your fingers brush along his. It was warm, but he wasn’t sure if it was just from the coffee. Regardless, he nodded in thanks and was soon swallowed by the darkness as he left to sip his coffee at nearly 1 a.m.

The London weather constantly nipped at his fingertips. 

He curses under his breath and shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket. He longed to settle back into his flat and curl up into layers of blankets, which was truthfully a sorry excuse for warmth because of the godawful heater he just couldn’t find the time to fix. His mind drifted to your touch, it was light, brief if anything. But it sparked a warmth that a blanket or a cup of coffee couldn’t quite satiate. 

A snarky voice filled his headspace, Fuckin’ touch starved.

Marc rolled his eyes. Shut your damn mouth, Lockley. 

He crosses the road, not bothering to look left or right, there’s only him, the moon, and some bloke smoking a dying cig by a closed convenience store. When he squints he saw Steven picking at the loose threads of his shirt in the window. 

Quite a looker with a pretty voice. 

Marc sighs in response, Not you too. 

He takes one last gulp at the bitter drink before raising it over the tin can filled with other rubbish. The streetlamp’s yellowish light caught your handiwork on the cup, his name with half a smiley face messily written with your pink Sharpie. He chuckled at the unfinished doodle, remembering how your eyes widened when you realized he was watching you closely. 

Like a deer caught in the headlights, Steven remarked.

Marc chuckles at his words.

–

It was another closing shift. 

You begrudgingly accepted it from your coworker who reminded you with a smirk that the pastries behind the glass was up for grabs the moment you flipped the “closed” sign by the window. Anyone with half a mind would have sticky hands for the chocolate croissant dusted with powdered sugar. Just the thought of warming it up in the oven toaster as you wipe the counters and stocked the shelves with mugs made you a little hungry. 

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to be eating sweet treats considering the time, but said sweet treats were going straight into the rubbish-bin if you didn’t house them in your stomach. 

You happily hum a familiar tune you heard on the tube while sliding the glass door separating you and your beloved reward for the hard work.

A pleasant jingle of a bell rang over the front door abruptly ending your monotonous tasks.

You toss your head over your shoulder. “Sorry, we’re closed—” 

The same man (Marc, was it?) nods down in apology for entering after hours. He truly was a man of few words.

“Oh! It’s you. I was afraid you were a customer with a complicated drink coming in at the last second.” You dusted your fingers down the seams of your apron and beckoned him inside. “But, it’s the same as last night?”

Marc runs his fingers through the tufts of his curls, the strands wrapping around each finger. You wondered what it felt like. The thought in passing rises to the forefront of your mind. It left as quickly as it came when you hear him call your name after reading it across the embroidered stitching of your apron.

The corners of his mouth turn up in amusement, hardly an exchange for pleasantries, but it was more than what he’d given before. He slides a few quid on the counter. “Yeah, coffee. Black.” 

You pluck your pink Sharpie and begin to write his name on it. After a few quiet moments of gurgling from the machine, you hand the cup to him. 

He furrows his eyebrows.

You quip with a grin. “Did I manage to mess up the easiest order known to man?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“You didn’t draw on it this time.”

You almost laugh but the serious crease on his face was a testament to his genuine disappointment. “Well it wouldn’t be very good service if I didn’t complete my job, eh?”

His eyes shift to the glass covering the pastries as if seeing something you couldn't. “You wanna talk about good service?” A playful lilt tugs at his voice, almost unfamiliar. 

Before you can respond, he mumbles a thank you and scurries out of the cafe. 

Did he just flirt? And… get embarrassed?

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