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arachnixe · 8 months

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An End To Fate

The goddess watches while her chosen hero arrives at the culmination of his journey. He’s so close now. All he needs to do is raise the amulet and speak the invocation, and the goddess’s great enemy will at last be vanquished.

And yet, he collapses instead. He fails.

Another bad end.

The goddess rolls her eyes with contempt for how easily the demon queen undermines his purpose this time. She claims him, twists his mind and body to suit her disgusting whims, and uses him to repel the lesser knights the goddess sends to reclaim him.

She rejects this outcome the same way she rejected all the other tragic failures she watched play out.

Gripping the Fate-Ending Knife, she reaches as deep into the world as her influence stretches, and with a savage slash she severs this timeline. It thrashes, bleeding raw possibility over her hands as she pulls time’s amputated limb out of the world and tosses it into the pile with all the others.

Events reset. The fated hero is a child once again, full of potential.

And again the goddess laments her inability to reach further back. If she could reset to a point early enough, perhaps she could have chosen another soul altogether to lavish her attentions upon. This one has clearly not lived up to her ambitions.

She sighs. A garden of souls at her disposal, and she wasted so much of her time, power, and attention on one that should’ve been weeded out. She tried abandoning him as a lost cause on several timelines, but all would-be heroes without such soul-cultivation fared even worse. It seems there is no changing that choice now, unfortunately. All she can do is tweak his life’s path and hope things turn out differently.

Keeping him away from degenerate influences on his childhood has become a dance she knows well. She could do the steps in her sleep now. A tragic lightning strike kills the cross-dressing tailor before they meet. His tomboy sister drowns in the river before she decides to act on her more perverse inclinations. Then one of her more fanatical priests feels inspired to show the chosen one kindness when he loses himself in mourning.

Then the goddess falters, unsure what to change this time around. She has tried so many different strategies, none of which fundamentally changed the outcome of this conflict.

Well, perhaps there is one gambit she might take. It may be risky, but what does she have to lose?

When her chosen hero reaches adulthood, just as he grows ready to face the start of his destined journey, he is thrown from his horse in a tragic accident. He does not die, but he comes very, very close—close enough for her to snatch his soul from the world for a moment.

In her hands he stands—his soul taking a form matching his body at the time of his accident—looking up at his goddess in awe.

The goddess smiles down upon him. “How nice to finally meet you face to face, my very favorite waste of effort.”

It is her hero’s turn to falter, face twisting into a pathetic contortion of confusion, but why hold back now? The goddess finally has the chance to tell him exactly what she thinks of all his failures, and she decides to take advantage of it.

“I gave you everything. Every advantage. Strength unrivaled by all. I protected you. I guided you. You could have been unstoppable if you just put genuine effort into applying what I gave you.

“But you let me down. You disappointed me. You squandered all that potential.”

Tears flow down his cheeks. Her hero, crying! Such a pathetic display. “What have I done wrong?” he asks her.

Of course he doesn’t know. In this lifetime he hasn’t done anything to disappoint her yet. He will, though. That much is certain. Unless, of course, he could learn from his past mistakes.

The goddess drops him unceremoniously in front of the wretched tangle of dead timelines. They still quiver and shake and twist into each other in a huge, writhing pile.

The hero’s eyes widen, taking in countless lifetimes of failure.

She watches his soul’s projected form flickering, shifting between his body’s appearance in one timeline after another as his soul experiences the disappointing paths he walked, lifetime after lifetime.

Each shift, each flicker of shape, changes him slightly less than the one before as he approaches a more resilient average of all his self-images.

The goddess scowls, recognizing the body the hero slowly approximates. It’s one she always does her best to steer him away from. Sometimes it’s the tailor that puts the idea into his head, sometimes it’s his sister, sometimes it’s any number of others, and sometimes she truly has no idea where he gets it from.

Once it’s in there, he pursues the obsession with more devotion than he ever shows her.

In those lifetimes he is taken by this confusion, he finds the magic or the alchemy to reshape his body into something mangled and feminized, or else he is offered such a body during his confrontation with the demon queen in exchange for his allegiance. The goddess is never more disgusted with him than when he accepts such an offer.

And here he is, once again choosing to throw away the body she crafted for him to inhabit—ungrateful for it, even—in some mindless craving to be something he is not.

“Even now you fail me, learning the wrong lessons from your mistakes,” the goddess says. “Next time I will have to be more selective about what lifetimes I show you.”

Her fated hero—a man again grotesquely in the shape of a woman—turns to face her.

She sees no more reverence in his eyes. The groveling posture of an inexperienced whelp is replaced by the confident poise of a warrior who’s fought countless lifetimes of battle.

His glare is as blasphemous as his form.

“Every opportunity for happiness,” he says, voice higher pitched than it was when she pulled him from his life. “You erased them. None of my wives ever knew me now, or they no longer exist thanks to your meddling. My true goddess does not even remember my faithful service.”

“She is a demon, you pathetic good-for-nothing,” the goddess rasps, voice filled with spite. “I am your only true goddess!”

“You’re the one who took away all my happy endings!” The hero’s shouting catches her off guard. It is not as small as it should be.

When did his soul’s stature grow to where he could stare his own goddess in the eye with such venom?

The goddess’s eyes flick to the knife resting nearby. It has become time to end this attempt.

The hero parses the glance immediately. Many lifetimes of battle-hardened instincts explode into action.

The goddess, a being who had never fought her own battles in her immortal life, is simply too slow and too clumsy to stop the hero. Before she can react, the knife is pressed to her throat.

“You wouldn’t dare—”

The hero dares. With a savage slash, the Fate-Ending Knife spills a goddess’s blood, and a mortal woman takes control of her own life for the first time.

She can return to her body at the point they resuscitate her, bringing all this knowledge with her.

Or…

She stares at the knife in her hands. She remembers countless lifetimes of goddess-inflicted scars.

The hero makes up her mind.

Without hesitation, she reaches into the world—as deeply as she can—and severs this timeline.

#empty spaces #my writing #repost #demons #corruption #chosen ones #gods #trans #abuse

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sekiromi · 4 months

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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.”