#other tavs might be like who the heck is this guy why am i his emergency contact

[sky-kiss]

Okay sorry for all these prompts/ideas but I just can't get rid of these worms and would love to hear your takes on them! How would you imagine a scenario where Raphael is wounded and decided "I'm going to teleport to my favourite person instead of going back to the Hells" (maybe he was wounded in the Hells and escaped). He manages to teleport to them/their doorstep before passing out. What would ensue? 👀👀👀

p.s. I only though of this because I was thinking of Raphael without his doublet so you see that shirt and then imagined him being all bloodied and beat up 😩 Welp... Adding that to the back burner of things to draw!

A/N: Ya’ll feeling a lil’ bloodthirsty against the boy tonight. What has he done to deserve such violence? You know. Aside from everything. I’ve opted for a touch of silliness. 

_________

The House of Hope is compromised. 

It’s Raphael’s last cognizant thought for some time. The assassin closes the distance between them with hellish speed, a blur of wings and bladed limbs. He’s vaguely aware of the pain, but it’s the burning he feels first. It’s like acid in his veins. Poison, he thinks, and that airy disconnect startles him; it’s poisoned me. 

Raphael rips the beast off him, snapping its neck in one fluid move. Screams echo throughout the House. He hears more of those things scurrying about in the main hall and something massive, something awful, crashing towards the boudoir. 

They’ve come for him. His father’s men or a rival Archdevil, it matters not. He moves towards his armoire, intending to slip into the Hell Dusk armor before they are upon him, and nearly collapses. His vision swims; the muscles in his hands and calves are still in the process of cramping. Everything wants to spasm. 

The cambion grits his teeth, pride warring with rationality. If they kill him here, it will be a final death. But on the Prime…even if they fell upon him, there is hope. Raphael forces his hands through the familiar gesture and casts himself among the planes. He has no destination in mind; his mind cycles through its expansive catalog of people and places and locates one with sufficient strength. The House fades. 

Convenient, because so does his consciousness. 

________

There’s a devil in her garden. 

Well. Cambion.

Tav purses her lips, rocking back on her heels. She should probably feel panicky but can’t find it in herself. Raphael looks rough. His doublet is shredded. His red skin is tinged nearly purple, and sweat beads on his forehead. The hero of Baldur’s Gate glances back towards her cottage, down at the devil she’d once (tenuously) considered a friendly acquaintance. 

If he’d thought to come to her after a decade, then things must have gone sideways back home. 

She sighs, kneeling and slipping her arms under his. The devil is hot. Not in an attractive way, not even in a natural temperature way; it’s like his blood is boiling in his veins and cooking him from the inside out. She goes to move him and groans. 

“Gods, couldn’t even transform to make this a little more manageable, hmm? Good to see you’ve not changed, dear.” 

Getting him inside is an arduous process. Tav has to stop more than once. He’s heavier than he looks, and touching him burns her. 

She finally, finally manages to drag him to the couch. Tav presses the back of her hand to his cheek. She’s no expert in Infernal medicine, but he doesn’t feel or look great. Chewing her lip, she weighs her options. Leave him and hope he awakens…

…or take matters into her own hands. 

She’s always been more of a take-charge sort. Tav fetches a knife from the kitchen. He isn’t going to be happy with her, but he’ll also be alive, so it’s a tradeoff he’ll have to accept. She finishes cutting the doublet free. Seeing him without it is strange. Tav sits back on her heels. He looks smaller, so much more vulnerable without that mark of rank. The shirt beneath is rather plain by comparison. Frilled, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary. Tav cuts it away; the blood has ruined it. They’ll find something else for him to wear. 

The wound stretches across his side. It oozes in some places; the skin along the edges is blackened, already starting to rot. She wonders if his mortal blood worsened or lessened the effect of the poison. 

Tav fetches half a dozen potions from the pantry alongside a roll of bandages. She’ll have to work quickly and pray. 

_________

Raphael regains consciousness halfway through the procedure. The cambion is aware of a pinching sensation in his side; there’s a small hand on his ribs, trying to keep him from moving away. His host pinches him. They’re saying something. 

“Transform.” 

Gods above and below, he recognizes that voice. The devil groans, chancing to open his eyes. Tav is staring at him, crouched between his spread leads, needle in hand. 

“Not you.” 

She snickers. “Me, darling. Don’t complain. You manifested in my garden.” 

“Anything ruined?” 

“An entire bed of night lilies.”

He huffs. “I’m glad to hear it. I should visit far more destruction upon this wretched…” the room does a dizzying turn and his nausea intensifies. 

“You can visit your destruction later. Right now, I need you to transform. Your skin is a bit…” she shrugs. “More difficult to manage as a devil. You need sutures.” He snaps his fingers. The shift is not as immediate as he’d like, and he has to screw his eyes shut against the latent exhaustion. Tav’s hand shifts, moving up to cup the back of his neck. “Easy, love. You’re alright. Could you stomach a healing drought?”

He nods. Tav presses the potion into his hand and returns to her work, leaning over him. There’s a part of him, separate from the pain and sickness, which catalogs the healthier warmth of her skin and the press of her against his thigh. Her scent is precisely as he remembered. Her hair…

Raphael frowns, reaching out to tweak one shorn strand. “You cut your hair.”

She smiles, stitching him back together with practiced ease. “Do you like it?” 

“Not in the least.” 

Tav laughs. It’s a far cry from the last time they were together. When the wretched thing had the gall to deny him; when she’d cut ties entirely and ended their mutually beneficial relationship. She’s so close. He could snuff out her miserable life and finally make good on…

“There.” She pats his stomach, pressing back on her heels. She doesn’t move away, he notes; her elbows remain on either of his thighs. She is such a little thing, his pretty mouse, even with her horrible new hair and a smattering of fresh wrinkles. She tips her head to the side. “You’ll have to rest a while. But you’ll live.” 

“The House is compromised.” 

Tav finally stands. She smooths his hair back, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Stay here then. We’ll make it work.” 

#bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #asks #my fic #have some sweetness to make up for my earlier crimes #but honestly i think it would depend on the tav #if he fled to joi she'd immediately jump to committing warcrimes #because how dare anyone hurt her people #other tavs might be like who the heck is this guy why am i his emergency contact