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Raphael x Reader: Act II: The Dinner, pt.2

Summary: Your patron Raphael invites you for a dinner with multiple ulterior motives. Part 2 of 2. Word count: 3853 Notes: Dinner date with Raphael at House of Hope. Some romantic tension finally relieved, making out with the devil.

Previous part

“I’ve been looking forward to spending an evening with you,” Raphael mused just as you pulled your hand back from his. His warmth lingered, burning your fingertips.

He had brought you into a grand foyer. Nervous about the new situation and Raphael’s company – and not really knowing what to reply – you gaped around at the decorative hall. Massive pillars stood in rows at each side and the ceiling was impossibly high. There were no paintings on the walls unlike in the rooms you had previously visited, but devilish sculptures stood amidst the pillars. No doubt sculpted after Raphael’s own visage. Deep red drapes softened the masonry.

Raphael lingered in the middle of the foyer while you paced around a bit, marvelling at the interior.

“Before we dine…”

You turned to look at him.

Raphael snapped his fingers. A sweet wave of nothingness washed and settled through you – silence.

“There. A little privacy from our tentacled friend,” he said with a complacent tone.

The Emperor was going to be extremely upset about you dining with the devil and denying it the chance for eavesdropping. It already had opinions and dire concerns of you lending your ear to Raphael. Even more so about sleeping in the devil’s bed, but that was a conversation you rather wanted to forget.

“Oh. It’s… quiet,” you said, bemused.

The whispering and humming of the Artefact in the back of your mind was gone. Not once had it occurred to you that Raphael might have the power to do such a thing. At the same time, it warranted slight worry about his motives for silencing your astral guide. What had he planned for the night that he didn’t want anyone else to hear?

“This way, my raven.” Raphael motioned towards the hallway and you stepped into pace at his side.

Your mind truly was wondrously silent, thanks to the devil. While it felt weird, a sense of bitter longing filled you. What a luxury it was to remain the only inhabitant of one’s skull. You couldn’t get rid of the tadpole soon enough.

The earlier times you had visited the dining hall of House of Hope, you had not exactly been keen on examining the interior design. Raphael didn’t seem to mind that you were taking in every detail of your surroundings now. Hells, he even seemed pleased at your silent awe as your gaze moved around from the massive painting of the devil himself above the fireplace.

There was a simple brass bell on a chain that was mounted into the wall. The bell was almost invisible in the middle of all the elaborate decoration, but something in it drew your attention.

Raphael followed your gaze and hummed in thought. “Go on, give it a ring,” he urged.

You moved closer to inspect the item.

“What is its purpose?” you asked but didn’t dare to touch it despite his encouragement.

“It is merely a simple dinner bell. Ring it and I will know the table has been set.”

You reached for the short chain and gave it a light tug. The bright jingle sound reverberated in your skull and made your teeth ache momentarily. If that sound couldn’t travel through different planes, nothing could.

“Satisfied?” Raphael spoke while you held your cheek to stop your head from spinning.

“And regretting it,” you asserted with a pointed glance and moved in for the seat he was offering. Raphael let out a low and soft laugh while ensuring you were seated comfortably, then took his own seat opposite.

The hexagonal table was once more laden with dishes that you had never seen or tasted before. It seemed that Raphael currently held a taste for the more exotic Southern flair as many of the foods originated from Calimshan. There was roasted goose and stuffed portobello mushrooms with cherry port wine reduction and foie gras stuffing, aqua-tinted Green Calishite cheese, pork sausages and honey-sauteed vegetables – the same dish you had eaten on your first meeting. He also served you a glass of trike, a sweet and strong wine made from palintrike. Oranges, apples, sunmelons and other fruits were plentiful on the table, cut into bite-sized pieces and served with a sweet paste made of dates.

Raphael took care of most of the conversation on his own while you ate. He told you about the ingredients and spices in the dishes, their preparation methods and the history of the area they originated from. While it was certainly interesting, you couldn’t figure out a natural way to bring up Astarion’s dilemma.

After five courses and three different wines to match, you couldn’t possibly eat anything more. When Raphael paused to sip his drink, you braced and went for the direct route.

“Can I bring my companions here for dinner?” you asked.

Raphael arched a brow at you.

“They’re not my clients,” he replied, unsurprisingly, and leaned forward. “You are. My most precious one, in fact.”

The weight of his words made you shiver and a wave of apprehension coursed down your spine. It had been evident that he really didn’t care for your companions, but when he accentuated it like that… You had to avert your eyes in a flush and focus on the empty plate in front of you.

Raphael placed his glass on the table and fixed a curious gaze to you.

“What is on your mind, little raven?”

You inhaled quickly, remembering why you had brought up the topic in the first place: “So, about Astarion…”

Raphael made a calming gesture and smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m motivated to help him.”

Your loyalties were already stretched between your companions and your devil patron. To both of them, you essentially owed your life. Raphael could stand to be pressured a bit more. You straightened up on your seat.

“How soon?” you questioned.

“As I’ve previously stated, I’ll think about it and get back to you. Don’t fret,” Raphael replied and, to your astonishment, added: “Until I offer the little vampling a mutually beneficial solution, take care not to tread into any perilous dens on your adventures.”

He was talking in riddles again and looked impossibly complacent.

“I don’t need your approval,” you replied coolly and sipped your wine.

Raphael hummed with mirth and spread his arms theatrically. “Certainly you don’t.” The balmy timbre of his voice sent another wave of shivers through you, but this time the sensation made you feel warm.

You swirled the wine in your glass, examining the deep red colour against the light of the fireplace. Raphael leaned back in his seat, gazing at you contemplatively.

“I was surprised to see you at Last Light today,” you said to change the subject. “A mere coincidence, I take it?”

Hells, you were apparently starting to imitate his way of speech now. That was too much wine.

Raphael chuckled, as though pleased with your question. “There are so many people ripe for temptation,” he replied. A non-answer.

Your brows furrowed as you remembered Mol. Had she already made a deal with the devil? You had half a mind to ask Raphael, but he probably wouldn’t provide an answer other than citing whatever patron-client confidentiality rules devils lived by. You sipped from the glass again, flushing down the thought.

“Does it ever bother you to make a living out of mortals’ suffering?” you questioned and watched Raphael’s reaction over the rim of your glass. He snapped his fingers and the glass filled up right in front of your eyes.

“Life is not a fairy tale, my dear,” he replied in a low tone, posture relaxed and not at all bothered by your questioning.

You paused to huff in thought before answering: “Yet mine already has the main antagonist on stage.”

“Oh?” Raphael raised a brow. “I didn’t realise I was the villain in your narrative,” he said, clearly amused. If the line was meant to taunt you, you held back any further retorts and sipped the wine.

Raphael didn’t let the silence sit for long, eager as he was to continue painting the analogy. He leaned forward over the table. “And what does that make you, little raven? The hero? The sage? The victim?”

You leaned back on the chair. “Isn’t it a bit too late to choose a role?” you mused. “I am clearly the underdog.”

Raphael laughed. “Everybody loves an underdog, don’t they?”

You hated the blush that crept over your cheeks. “I should hope so,” you murmured nonetheless.

Raphael’s eyes narrowed at the sight as a self satisfied smirk crept across his lips.

“The journey has changed you already,” he noted.

Despite having a whole table between you, the moment felt as intimate as him buttoning up the borrowed shirt on you that morning in his boudoir. Heady and tender feelings coiled inside you, and it didn’t exactly help cooling down your flushed skin.

“How so?” you asked.

Raphael brushed any doubts aside with a burgeon motion of his hands. “You’re no longer the tender bud I encountered at the site of calamity. You’ve grown, little raven. Flourished.”

“Right…” You didn’t really know how to react when he was suddenly showering you with compliments. “I hope it hasn’t been a complete waste of time for you to watch me grow.”

“At least I can’t say I’m not entertained,” Raphael said with a warm chuckle.

“Enjoying the show, then? I’m glad.” It was the wine talking, but damn if flirting with him didn’t make you exhilarated and hot all over.

“Very much so, my dear.”

You placed your elbows on the table and locked your fingers under your chin, never breaking eye contact with the devil. Raphael’s eyes glinted at the sliver of gold on your finger. His lips curved upwards. He too leaned over the dinner table, fingers intertwined, and immobilised you with a heated stare. The honey-tinted brown eyes had gained molten swirls. Your heart started drumming faster.

“How your features and string of tragic misfortune have entranced me,” Raphael said, surely in jest, but the voice. It was a lover’s voice, sensual and suggestive. A sharp pulse of desire shot through you. His attention was intoxicating. You wanted more. A flutter sprang to life in your chest.

You blinked and focused on trying to stay calm even though your head was spinning.

“Shall we enjoy the rest of the evening in a more comfortable setting?” Raphael asked carefully. The rumble of his voice set your very soul alight. Gods help you, you were hanging on his every word. A pulse of desire was pooling into a warm liquid that spread through your body.

“You’re the Master of the House, so I’ll follow your lead,” you managed to reply.

Raphael arched a brow in surprise and chuckled. He stood up.

“Undoubtedly I am. Come.”

He offered his arm to you like the perfect gentleman and walked you down to the next room. Just holding his arm threatened to turn your legs into jelly, but you steeled yourself, determined, though nervous to see the evening through.

The room was a small parlour with plush sofas and small tea tables littered with delicacies and confectioneries. You made a little gasp. Calimshan Knots, Mraed and different kinds of chocolate were on display on a luxurious silver tray with three layers. It looked almost too beautiful to break a piece from the work of art for a taste.

Raphael guided you to sit down on one of the red loveseats and sat down next to you. Exhilarated at the proximity, you had to force yourself to breathe, only to inhale his sweet scent of cherries concentrated in the air.

“Please. Indulge.” He motioned towards the sweets, but you felt the words had another underlying meaning. Your blood started running hotter in your veins.

Raphael examined your features with great interest.

“You said there was something you wanted to discuss with me…” you suddenly remembered.

“Ah, yes. There is a matter of great importance that your little group will soon have to resolve,” Raphael stated and his head tilted slightly in thought. “One way or the other.”

“Oh? What kind of matter?” you asked unsure if you really wanted to hear this. “I assume it has something to do with the Artefact?”

“Technically, yes,” he said, a hand to his chin, “I happen to possess an item of great interest to aid you in this predicament. I could be persuaded to part with it.”

You blinked. “And what would I have to offer in return for this item?”

Raphael chuckled mirthfully. “Very good, little raven. Your skills in the art of infernal negotiation are improving. But, for this particular instance, I’m willing to take a loss.”

Simultaneous feelings of unease and pride clouded your mind. “That’s… unexpected. You would lose hold of such an item for me?”

“If it means you win, my dear,” Raphael purred and leaned closer. “However, it still comes with its conjectures.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” you said quietly, “What would those conjectures be?”

“I’m willing to loan you this item, if” – Raphael lifted exactly one finger in the air – ”you promise to return it along with another trinket of my choosing.”

He could very well ask something impossible of you and do whatever he wanted with your soul in the end when you inevitably failed to deliver. So far Raphael had been fair in his dealings, but you had to be careful. Cryptic and unhelpful hints aside, you didn’t want to think about the Artefact, the tadpole or the Absolute right now.

“I’ll think about it and get back to you,” you murmured.

Raphael barked a laugh. “Indeed. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, my dear.”

The laugh left the remnants of a smirk over his lips. You swallowed. His scent of fire and cherries was making you go mad as it addled your poor, tadpoled brain. He lifted his arm over the sofa back and angled his body properly to you.

“You, my most troubled protege, will surely make the right decision,” his lover’s voice whispered with a rumble you could almost feel over your body.

Raphael’s hand dipped to caress your shoulder. The touch ignited a trail of fire in its path. He leaned closer and instinctively you leaned away. A proper smirk now curved his lips. So it became a chase; the fox hunted the raven. Your breaths grew shorter by the second.

He placed his other hand on your knee, a gesture to keep you still. The touch shot a wave of heat through you and you barely held back a wince. Thanks to the wine and your general ludacrity, you were already feeling wanton enough in his company, so you wouldn’t be able to take much of his enabling to finally snap and throw all noble notions into the fires of Hell.

That was presumably his goal.

“I’ve grown fond of you, little raven,” Raphael purred, “I’d hate to see you make the wrong choice.”

His every word caressed your skin, adding fuel to the liquid fire raging in your body. You swallowed to gather the last bits of your prudence and said: “I’m sure my companions and I will make the best decision we can under the circumstances.”

Raphael’s smile widened, his head leaned to the side. “That is most gratifying to hear, my dear.”

His hand still lay on your knee and you believed you felt it inch up your thigh while the other one continued caressing your shoulder, trekking up to the back of your neck. You couldn’t take your eyes off Raphael’s face. His gaze lowered to your lips. You placed your hand over his on your thigh and saw the delight spill into his expression. His skin was hot and you were already dreaming how it would feel wandering around your body; caressing, circling, fondling…

Did he do this with all his clients? Somehow you knew the answer. You could read it in the curve on his lips and the spark in his eyes. Mortals often held no such interest to him.

You were special.

In the back of all the lust-ridden thoughts, you wondered how it might feel to be loved by him, to wake up next to those molten saffron or darkened honey-tinted eyes.

You swallowed as Raphael’s fingers moved to the inner side of your thigh.

“Though I could use some motivation…” you heard yourself saying loud and clear.

The devil’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before they were lit with plain and clear desire.

“What a brave and naughty little thing you are. You never cease to surprise me,” Raphael husked. The words were latent with seduction and promise.

He leaned closer and you felt his shallow and waiting breaths fanning over your cheek. Only the warmth radiating from his body and his scent of sweet cherries, deep musk and smoky brimstone was registering at this point. You felt almost woozy, aching in the trepidation that he might pull away and not give you what you craved more and more with each passing second.

Raphael’s eyes were the colour of dark honey, his eyelashes so dark and beautiful, and the thought of his lips on you… The consuming craving to taste him was overwhelming.

“It’s the company I keep,” you intended to say, but in the end were unsure if the words actually left your mouth or were blocked.

Raphael kissed you with overwhelming heat and hunger.

He cupped the back of your head and pulled you right into him.

The kiss was searing, passionate and would’ve swooped you right off your feet had you been standing. His hand instantly made headway up your leg, fingers already tracing your inner thigh and unceremoniously delving closer to your aroused, aching sex.

You gripped Raphael’s shirt, pulling him even closer. You wanted him closer. You wanted him so much. How you wished the clothes on your back would just burn away.

He pushed you against the sofa back with his body. His mouth moved from your reddened and swollen lips to plant hot kisses on your cheek, jaw and down to your neck. You mewled with pleasure and offered yourself to him, indulging his every motion and brush of his lips.

Two thoughts fought for purchase in your head, but neither gained any foothold: were you really doing this with your patron and what consequences there would be. Your soul was already damned. He had been tempting you for weeks so it was about time for things to progress this way. Tangling your body with his surely didn’t actually mean anything.

“Give yourself to me,” Raphael whispered into your ear, his breathing tickling. His hand reached its aim between your legs and you gasped as he resolutely stroked your clothed sex.

Your whole body quivered from the delicious friction of the contact and you bit your lip. A tight sensation coiled in your lower abdomen, ready to burst at the next hint of touch.

You wanted more of him.

“So eager…” Raphael whispered. He kept your head still and close, turning it as he pleased to reach the sweetest spots of your skin. You acquiesced to all of it, too stunned, too ravenous for more to move. The grip of your fist tightened on his arm and at the hem of his shirt.

He claimed your lips again. You spread your legs and his nimble fingers stroked you through your clothes with the most perfect pressure, all the while his heavy breaths tickled your neck and the shell of your ear between demanding kisses. The more you gasped and moaned, the more laborious his breaths also became.

“R-Raphael…” Your throat was dry and your voice already hoarse.

Your hand wandered south with the goal of reciprocating the pleasure he was giving you, but the brushing motions of his fingers sped up and you waivered, abandoning mission. It was extremely hard to focus on anything else besides the pleasure Raphael was so expertly giving to you.

Amidst the kisses and hot breaths on burning your skin, your release was hell-bent on building fast and hard, and, frankly, it surprised you both.

It hit you like a pit fiend running into a wall at full speed.

You gasped for air, clutching Raphael’s forearm and felt the ravaging pulsing against his fingers through your clothes.

“Fuck…” you huffed, voice hoarse.

Raphael’s motions stopped as it dawned on him: You had reached an orgasm in a shamefully short time. It was certainly… surprising.

“Uh, guess I was more motivation-starved than I thought,” you managed to mumble in what you aimed to be an apologising tone. Your head was spinning from the sharp and intense orgasm, and it was extremely hard to think in complete sentences.

Raphael slowly drew back from you with a muted expression. No tender kisses, no praises, he was just staring at you in mild disbelief.

“I, uhm. Do you want to…?” you mumbled ambiguously, but couldn’t quite reach the shame waiting somewhere in the back of your mind. It had felt way too good to be ashamed.

You took a deep breath to clear your head and Raphael straightened his back.

Then he laughed, low and rough and assumed back his role. “Like I said, you never fail to surprise me, little raven.”

You blinked. He was acting as if he had not just kissed you silly and made you come with his fingers while both of you were still fully clothed.

“Hopefully the evening was as enjoyable to you as it was for me,” he continued in a cultured tone.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. So that’s how it was going to be. You hurried to settle your clothes into a more presentable state and hopped to your feet. Your legs were shaking and you felt lightheaded. There was no way your companions would not realise what had happened. Astarion would take one look at you and start either yapping or giggling.

“Yes, uh. Would you be so kind and send me back now?” you inquired, trying to reach an impassive tone but failing spectacularly.

Raphael paused, clearly deciding whether to abide by your request or not. Not a hint of the earlier lust was visible on his face. Either he hid it extremely well or your little display had not affected him at all. How frustrating. So he could make you come with a single finger, but you had no effect on him.

“Of course. Far be it from me to keep you here against your will,” Raphael said with an incline of his head. Not even a hair was out of place on him.

With a quick snap, he sent you back to camp right then and there. A swift look around told you that no one was awake. Good.

Only a moment later you realised that by ‘motivation’ Raphael probably had not meant to allow you to come. Oh well, what was done was done. You could only hope the consequences of your own actions wouldn’t come back to haunt you.

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#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x you #raphael x reader #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #fanfiction #the devil wears house slippers

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creative-frequency · 1 month

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Part 2 with dinner and dessert will be posted next week 🥰

Raphael x Reader: Act II: The Dinner, pt.1

Summary: Your patron Raphael invites you for a dinner with multiple ulterior motives. Part 1 of 2. Word count: 2219 Notes: Dinner date with the devil man coming right up 😘

The lanceboard was left in disorder. The white Cyric was toppled by the board. The match between the devil and the most cunning and ambitious tiefling child in the Sword Coast had ended in the latter’s victory – spurred on by some insightful advice from Gale.

You had no idea what a Theskan Double Counter-Gambit was, but you had an inkling that Raphael had let Mol win, just to grow her appetite for triumph. Concerned, but dedicated to not interfering, you looked after Mol as she returned to her friends. You had no right to moral superiority or telling her what to do. If a deal with the devil – your devil patron – was what she thought the best move in this game of survival, then a deal she would make. Just like you had done to survive. You might only advise Mol to read the fine print carefully.

It had been surprising to meet Raphael at the Last Light Inn, though you assumed it shouldn’t have been. No doubt he had something on his mind, and the presumption caused a buildup of anxiety and something akin to a thrill in you.

Raphael seemed to sense that you felt familiarity with Mol’s situation, because he gave you a cursory glance before turning to address Astarion with a pointed finger. What the glance meant, you had no idea.

“Now, let’s talk about you. I sense there’s something you want to ask me,” Raphael mused.

Taken aback, you turned to face Astarion, whose chin lifted up sharply. Gale and Shadowheart shared your impression and traded confused looks. Out of your whole group, you had always been the closest with Astarion. Secrets and thoughts had been shared just between you two, along with multiple bottles of wine. Raphael had not shown interest in any of your companions in your previous encounters, so for him to do so now was… disconcerting.

“I do. I have a…” Astarion hesitated, obstinately avoiding your gaze, “proposal for you.”

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

“This is serious business, devil,” Astarion interjected and proceeded to explain: “My old – well, a long time ago, someone carved some runes into my back. I’d rather like to know what they say.”

Cazador. Astarion was talking about his old master. Alarms blared in your mind.

Raphael let out a long hum and looked more complacent with each syllable.

Right then you also realised why Astarion had been casually asking about Raphael and your contract earlier. He had even said he would like to have a chat with the devil. Completely out of curiosity, of course, and just because he thought the devil rather liked your miserable little group. You should have known the vampire spawn had something else in mind.

“What do you mean? What scars?” you asked Astarion, brows furrowed with worry. He still didn’t look back at you.

Raphael’s eyes glinted with interest.

“You haven’t told them? And you’ve kept your clothes on this whole time? How unlike you,” the devil said, exultant at this revelation of secrecy.

The comment filled your insides with icy discomfort on Astarion’s behalf. You could have sworn Raphael held back the beginnings of a smirk as his gaze glinted over to you.

“That’s enough, Raphael. Can you help him?” you said pointedly. A severe heart-to-heart would be waiting for Astarion at camp, but he didn’t deserve being debased like that.

“I might. If you ask nicely, little raven,” the devil prompted and you rolled your eyes in exasperation. Raphael and his theatrics.

He took another moment to contemplate. Astarion tensed beside you. Gale and Shadowheart monitored the situation, worry etched on their faces.

Raphael finally continued: “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.”

“So you know what it’s about?” you pushed.

“Of course. But, you’ll have to do something for me first.” Raphael tapped his chin in thought, then casually pointed at you – not Astarion. “Let me think about it and get back to you.”

The motion made you feel ever more severely that the line was meant specifically to you rather than your group as a whole. Your pulse sped up.

“Fine,” you replied, cutting Astarion’s attempted reply off and ushered your party to leave. “Let’s go.”

You had just found out you rather hated the idea of your patron tempting your friends into contracts or roping them into acts of service. You didn’t remember harbouring any territorial feelings before becoming a warlock.

After merely three steps, Raphael cleared his throat behind you. It was enough to make you pause since you knew it meant he was not going to let you leave just yet.

“Tav, a word, if you will,” his honeyed voice rang out.

The use of your name shot a thrill up your spine. And the tone he said it in. It was smoother than the sweetest nectar or dark chocolate melting on your tongue. It indicated the transition from business to pleasure.

You glanced at your companions and gave them a reassuring nod, barely holding yourself together. Raphael waited until you were truly alone. Other people had just been going about their businesses in the Last Light Inn, but for the moment, you only saw Astarion, Gale and Shadowheart discussing with Jaheira at the other end of the large dining area. The Harpers were avoiding the little corner Raphael had set up the lanceboard in.

You sucked in a breath full of that scent of cherries, musk and sulphur and the world around you disappeared, along with any irritation you had just felt towards the devil.

“Tell me, O apple of my eye, how have you been?” Raphael questioned, a hand to his chin. “You don’t have any gills to get green around yet, but you do look a bit worse for wear in this light.”

His brown eyes flickered across you, more gauging and analysing than they had been moments ago in the company of others. His next words were added in a carefully crafted neutral tone, but they still served to make you uneasy:

“You haven’t been summoning me in a while.”

In the cold darkness of the Shadowlands, the unsaid words had often burned in your throat and hovered just at the tip of your tongue: Dominus, inferior ad te me flecto inferni. The verbal component to the ritual spell that completed the magic of the focus item on your left ring finger. The ring’s phantom weight made you hide your hand behind you. Raphael and your previous encounters with him had been in your thoughts often. Too often.

You cleared your throat and shied away from his measuring gaze.

“I’m fine,” you said curtly.

Raphael raised a brow in disbelief.

“Was there something you wanted to discuss?” you asked.

“Yes, though mayhap somewhere better suited. Why don’t you join me for dinner tonight, my raven, after you’ve taken care of everything here,” Raphael ventured with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

A dinner? Your heart leaped at remembering the last time you had visited the House of Hope. How the warmth had radiated off Raphael’s body and how his fingers had travelled over your – well, his – shirt. That shirt you had now tucked away beneath everything else inside your travel chest. It still smelled like him.

More importantly, you hadn’t had a proper meal in days. Daydreams of the dinner he had served you on your first meeting had also often been on your mind embarrassingly often. Not that there was anything wrong with Gale’s cooking but the options were severely limited at camp.

You barely hesitated before replying: “I’d love to, thank you.”

The corner of Raphael’s mouth tipped upwards ever so slightly.

“Until later then.”

And he was gone with the usual fiery blaze. You had a feeling he had just rushed off to prepare for whatever would be waiting for you at the dinner tonight and your stomach twisted in anticipation.

—

Exhausting hours later, your party settled in the safe haven of the camp for the night. With each passing minute, you grew more anxious, knowing you should summon Raphael to let him know you were ready for the dinner. But, before leaving, you had to tell someone you would be away for some time. Maybe even until the morning. The thought made your pulse grow more rapid and your stomach twist into knots that had nothing to do with hunger.

Eyeing tentatively Karlach, you cowardly approached Astarion, who was reading a book. Karlach had thrown a glorious fit about the infernal ring on your left ring finger and the ritual it was used for. (“What the fuck were you thinking, Tav?!”) The situation had evolved into one of the worst arguments among your group and you were not looking forward to another one.

Karlach wasn’t an unreasonable person, but understandably, dealing with devils made her blood boil. She had almost “smacked the shit out of you”, but you had somewhat successfully argued that, while she didn’t have to like the fact that your powers came from a devil, she would still have to make peace with it one way or another. You were not going to forsake your powers as long as the tadpole swam in your head. Astarion had been disappointed to miss the brawl that the argument had – fortunately – never evolved into.

So Karlach absolutely hated the idea that Raphael had you curled around his little finger, quite literally, and you could bear no other explanation than you had made the pact out of necessity and, for the time being, would not consider trying to worm your way out of it – no pun intended. It was somewhat of a shock to find yourself unable to discuss the details of your contract, but what you could explain was that you needed the warlock powers to survive, and you still owed some ration of allegiance to Raphael because he was your patron.

He was your patron. An excuse you had already heard yourself using a thousand times over.

In her rage, Karlach had burned through her own tent and afterwards you had not spoken outside combat in days.

So, you paused in front of the vampire spawn, wringing your hands nervously.

“Um, Astarion?” you started.

“Yes?” he replied, obviously irritated at the interruption and didn’t lift his gaze from the book in his hands. He was likely still cross with you from the earful you had given him after departing from Last Light Inn. What he had been thinking trying to make a deal with your patron behind your back, you didn’t comprehend. There would be more conversations to be had about the topic, but later.

“I’ll be away for a bit,” you said quickly, “Raphael needs me for something.”

Astarion’s head snapped up as if he couldn’t believe his pointy ears. “What?”

“I’ll be back in a few hours, I think. I’ll see you in the morning,” you explained in a tone that hopefully was carefree enough to not warrant any concern. No matter that Astarion’s vampire senses probably caught your accelerated pulse.

“Seriously?” he protested in a hiss.

You shrugged. “I need to hear what he has to say. He is still my patron.”

Shit. The words had slipped out before you could stop it.

Astarion scoffed, rolled his eyes and went back to his book. “I’ve heard that excuse before…” He flipped a page. “Make him think faster about helping me, will you?”

You stepped forward and placed a hand gently over his shoulder. “I’m sorry you didn’t... trust me enough to tell me about the scars before.” The touch hopefully conveyed more than the words.

He didn’t meet your eyes, but you saw how his gaze glazed over for just a trice. “Well. Now you know.”

“I’ll do my best. Wish me luck.”

“Hah. I’m sure you don’t need luck with Raphael.”

You paced a short distance away from camp, not daring to venture too far away into the shadows. The pitch blackness seemed to breathe around you, impatiently waiting for you to take a step further into its embrace. You had seen how the shadows had snatched a Harper when you first arrived at this cursed place.

With a short inhale you recited the words:

“Dominus, inferior ad te me flecto inferni.”

Warmth filled the air and the sudden smell of sulphur was overwhelming. The ring on your finger felt heavy, almost burning your skin. Your heart thumped uncomfortably and you could feel the blood rushing in your ears.

“Shall we, little raven?”

You spun around towards the voice. Raphael stood there in his human form, dressed more casually than expected. Instead of the elegantly embroidered doublet, he donned a simple, dark shirt. The upper buttons were left open to reveal hints of his toned chest.

You swallowed. Maybe he hadn’t wanted you to feel underdressed in your camp clothing? At least your simple shirt and pants were mostly clean tonight.

Raphael offered his hand for you to take and just as your fingers brushed his palm, you found yourself in the House of Hope.

Part 2 - Coming soon!

My writing masterlist

#reblog #because i need to stop editing it

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First Announcement

Welcome to Silk and Sulphur, the upcoming fanzine that focuses on Raphael and Haarlep from the popular video game Baldur's Gate 3 by Larian Studios.

The zine will be made by fans for fans and will include visual art and written pieces. A digital version will be available for free and a print version will be made if there is enough interest.

Staff applications are open.

Please follow this blog, share this post and look out for further updates 😈

#👀#interesting!#reblog

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creative-frequency · 2 months

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Pls reblog to spread and tell what specific word count in the tags!

#393268 #reblog

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creative-frequency · 2 months

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The Devil Wears House Slippers 一 An amnesiac devil is found in the middle of the road on your way back to Baldur's Gate. Despite what your companions think, you don't want him to die. And you have a lot of weight from your shared history to unpack. Raphael just doesn't seem to remember it anymore.

#now updated with a new part #reblog #the devil wears house slippers

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creative-frequency · 2 months

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making friends via fandom is inherently hilarious because in many ways it's like a regular friendship and sometimes you'll share stuff that's going on in your lives and offer support and talk about food or pets or random cultural stuff because you live on opposite sides of the damn planet, but also some of your interactions are like "hello beloved friend whom I cherish deeply, I have brought you a deceptively platonic gift of lovingly crafted star wars porn"

#this #love you all <3

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creative-frequency · 2 months

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Raphael x Reader: Act II: The Dinner, pt.1

Summary: Your patron Raphael invites you for a dinner with multiple ulterior motives. Part 1 of 2. Word count: 2219 Notes: Dinner date with the devil man coming right up 😘

“Now, let’s talk about you. I sense there’s something you want to ask me,” Raphael mused.

“I do. I have a…” Astarion hesitated, obstinately avoiding your gaze, “proposal for you.”

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

Cazador. Astarion was talking about his old master. Alarms blared in your mind.

Raphael let out a long hum and looked more complacent with each syllable.

“What do you mean? What scars?” you asked Astarion, brows furrowed with worry. He still didn’t look back at you.

Raphael’s eyes glinted with interest.

“You haven’t told them? And you’ve kept your clothes on this whole time? How unlike you,” the devil said, exultant at this revelation of secrecy.

The comment filled your insides with icy discomfort on Astarion’s behalf. You could have sworn Raphael held back the beginnings of a smirk as his gaze glinted over to you.

“That’s enough, Raphael. Can you help him?” you said pointedly. A severe heart-to-heart would be waiting for Astarion at camp, but he didn’t deserve being debased like that.

“I might. If you ask nicely, little raven,” the devil prompted and you rolled your eyes in exasperation. Raphael and his theatrics.

He took another moment to contemplate. Astarion tensed beside you. Gale and Shadowheart monitored the situation, worry etched on their faces.

Raphael finally continued: “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.”

“So you know what it’s about?” you pushed.

“Of course. But, you’ll have to do something for me first.” Raphael tapped his chin in thought, then casually pointed at you – not Astarion. “Let me think about it and get back to you.”

The motion made you feel ever more severely that the line was meant specifically to you rather than your group as a whole. Your pulse sped up.

“Fine,” you replied, cutting Astarion’s attempted reply off and ushered your party to leave. “Let’s go.”

After merely three steps, Raphael cleared his throat behind you. It was enough to make you pause since you knew it meant he was not going to let you leave just yet.

“Tav, a word, if you will,” his honeyed voice rang out.

You sucked in a breath full of that scent of cherries, musk and sulphur and the world around you disappeared, along with any irritation you had just felt towards the devil.

“You haven’t been summoning me in a while.”

You cleared your throat and shied away from his measuring gaze.

“I’m fine,” you said curtly.

Raphael raised a brow in disbelief.

“Was there something you wanted to discuss?” you asked.

You barely hesitated before replying: “I’d love to, thank you.”

The corner of Raphael’s mouth tipped upwards ever so slightly.

“Until later then.”

And he was gone with the usual fiery blaze. You had a feeling he had just rushed off to prepare for whatever would be waiting for you at the dinner tonight and your stomach twisted in anticipation.

—

He was your patron. An excuse you had already heard yourself using a thousand times over.

In her rage, Karlach had burned through her own tent and afterwards you had not spoken outside combat in days.

So, you paused in front of the vampire spawn, wringing your hands nervously.

“Um, Astarion?” you started.

“I’ll be away for a bit,” you said quickly, “Raphael needs me for something.”

Astarion’s head snapped up as if he couldn’t believe his pointy ears. “What?”

“Seriously?” he protested in a hiss.

You shrugged. “I need to hear what he has to say. He is still my patron.”

Shit. The words had slipped out before you could stop it.

Astarion scoffed, rolled his eyes and went back to his book. “I’ve heard that excuse before…” He flipped a page. “Make him think faster about helping me, will you?”

You stepped forward and placed a hand gently over his shoulder. “I’m sorry you didn’t... trust me enough to tell me about the scars before.” The touch hopefully conveyed more than the words.

He didn’t meet your eyes, but you saw how his gaze glazed over for just a trice. “Well. Now you know.”

“I’ll do my best. Wish me luck.”

“Hah. I’m sure you don’t need luck with Raphael.”

With a short inhale you recited the words:

“Dominus, inferior ad te me flecto inferni.”

“Shall we, little raven?”

You swallowed. Maybe he hadn’t wanted you to feel underdressed in your camp clothing? At least your simple shirt and pants were mostly clean tonight.

Raphael offered his hand for you to take and just as your fingers brushed his palm, you found yourself in the House of Hope.

Part 2

My writing masterlist

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x you #raphael x reader #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #fanfiction #the devil wears house slippers

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creative-frequency · 2 months

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Peel me an orange trend with

Raphael/ his favorite client 👀

Would you peel the devil an orange? 🍊👀 I wouldn't lol

Raphael x GN!Reader: Oranges

You woke up with a jolt and a raspy breath. Snugly covered in silken sheets, you made an effort to move your sore limbs. The bed carried the easily recognizable scent of palmarosa and pepper, but there was something else too. Something citrusy, maybe oranges?

As per usual, when your memories of the events leading up to your current disposition were hazy at best, you found yourself in the House of Hope. It was probably the eighteenth time. Or the twentieth. You weren’t exactly counting anymore.

“Still drawing breath, I see. How fortunate.”

It hurt to direct your eyes to the devil sitting in an armchair by the bed. No horns or wings today. His fingertips were pressed together and – well, fuck – did he look pissed.

“H-hey,” you greeted him in a hoarse voice. How long had you been out this time? Hours? Days? A week? You felt as if you had been wrestling with a pit fiend and lost.

Raphael’s frown deepened and his brows knitted together. He leaned forward in his seat and you could feel the aura of strong… displeasure radiating from him. It might not take many more times like this for him to finish you off himself, any contract be damned.

“Consider this the first and last time I will dig you from under a pile of bodies,” Raphael said in a tone as smooth as the sheets wrapped around your undeniably naked body.

This tone was worse than the times you had seen him lose his composure; it implied you had really been within an inch of your life – and so had his existence, by extension. You swallowed. Some pieces of distressing and gory memories surfaced and you felt sick. You had to pull at every bit of your willpower to not puke. What in the sweet Hells had happened?

Raphael stood up promptly, no doubt having only waited to see your eyes open and declare you alive. It was a habit he had formed during the previous seventeen times you had woken up in his house.

“Here, eat. You’ll need your strength to recover,” he said, motioning to the side table.

You turned to see pieces of a colourful fruit, neatly laid on a silver plate. That was why you had smelled oranges. The sweet scent was mouth-watering.

You cleared your throat and said: “Um, hey Raph?”

The devil stopped in his tracks, glaring at you over his shoulder. He absolutely hated the nickname, but it had never stopped you from using it. Annoying him was the greatest pastime House of Hope could offer.

“Thanks. I’ll pay you back for this one,” you continued, voice still a bit shaky and hoarse.

One side of Raphael’s mouth curled up and he nodded. “Rest now.”

And rest you did. And ate oranges. For three days you barely left the bed after initially going for a hunt for clothes. Raphael showed up only once a day to check that you were recovering. Haarlep kept you company and you accelerated the Archivist’s descent into madness by making him fetch you books from the library at least fifteen times a day. Raphael didn’t want you to socialise with his indebted souls, so besides the devil, you only talked to the incubus and the unlucky tiefling.

On the fifth day, Haarlep had trusted you with a knife and you were just digging into the second orange when Raphael walked in.

Once again in his human guise, his head tilted at the sight of you sitting up on the bed, a book splayed open across your lap and a knife and an orange in hand. Disapproval settled onto his features. You didn’t really care if you made a mess. He could always undo it with a snap of his fingers.

“Peel one for me?” Raphael asked and paced closer.

“I most certainly will not,” you replied instantly and plopped a piece of the juicy fruit into your mouth.

He sat down in the armchair and hummed. “A pity.”

“Can I leave today? I’m feeling fine now,” you said casually and chewed the fruit without any regard for table manners. Though, technically you were eating in bed.

“If you so insist,” Raphael nodded, “Although, there is one more matter I would raise.”

“What’s that?” you asked and munched on the last piece. Before leaving, you would have to ask Haarlep where Raphael got the fruits. They were delicious.

“As this was not a transaction, you’re not obliged to ‘pay me back’ as you so aptly put it, but I would request a small favour,” Raphael said and rested his ankle on his knee, fingertips once more pressed together as if he was negotiating a contract.

You groaned. Of course he wanted something. “And that would be?”

Raphael’s lips curled into a foreboding smile and he said:

“Peel me an orange.”

Any hint of amusement died from your face. “You’re truly the pettiest person I’ve ever met.”

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #raphael x you #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #fanfiction #asks #requests #oranges 🍊

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Astarion x Reader: Contradictions and Other Counter-Measures Ch.5

Summary: Mizora makes an appearance. Astarion has to learn to share. These two events have nothing to do with each other. Word count: 2685

Previous chapter

CHAPTER 5: Reunion

Of all your tadpole’d days so far, this one has been extra eventful in both good and almost bad sense.

The best moment of the day is when you cross paths with Wyll Ravengard.

You embrace him, he spins you around in the air and it feels like you are kids again, running through the crowds at stupid balls and dinner parties, calling each other the most pointless of nicknames.

The almost catastrophically bad moment of the day is when Wyll meets Karlach Cliffgate.

After a whole lot of calm downs and several shared tadpole shows, Wyll sheathes his rapier and accepts Karlach into the group. You heave an extra audible sigh of relief.

On the way back to camp, your steps are lighter. Having Wyll join your odd party feels somehow reassuring, a small guarantee that everything will be alright – even though you wouldn’t have wished for him to be infected with a tadpole in the first place.

“So,” Astarion’s murmur dissipates your deep thoughts. His presence annoyingly fills your orbit as soon as Wyll is out of earshot, talking with Gale ahead. Seems that the vampire spawn was waiting for the chance to speak with you on the walk towards camp.

“Yes, Astarion?” you ask, too tired to even try to avoid him. He has shown precisely zero remorse for licking your hand without permission. A silly notion out of context, but you’re too stubborn to give him a free pass on this one.

Astarion settles into pace to walk right next to you.

“We are travelling with the famed ‘Blade of Frontiers’,” he says. The mocking tone doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Yes, Astarion,” you sigh.

“You do know what he is famous for?” Astarion asks in a sharp tone and before you can reply, he hisses: “Hunting monsters, my dear.”

Beneath Astarion’s easy going facade is concern.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“You seem to know him rather well. Can I trust you to put in a good word for your favourite vampire spawn? Hmm?” he murmurs quite close to your ear. “Maybe convince him that my appetites lie elsewhere than the present company.”

“You want me to lie?” you scoff and shuffle away from him. He doesn’t seem to realise that his recent attentions are not forgotten or entirely forgiven.

“Darling, I’m hurt,” Astarion replies, a hand over his heart.

“Maybe I’ll tell him you bit me,” you say, obviously in jest.

Astarion’s eyes narrow and dart over to Wyll pacing ways ahead of the pair of you. It seems the vampire spawn didn’t count in the possibility of a monster hunter such as the Blade of Frontiers joining your little group. Too bad for him. Especially after fooling around with your trusting nature and goodwill. Serves him right to be worried.

“No need to be so dramatic, darling,” Astarion huffs, “It was only a taste.”

“Yes, yes. Everything is a game to you,” you say and hurry your steps to keep up with the group ahead. Astarion obstinately stays right by your side.

“Not everything. I take matters related to blood very seriously,” he assures with a roguish smile, “Like… feeding and killing.”

“Very funny.”

“That darling neck of yours is an especially serious matter,” Astarion continues shamelessly, essentially calling your bluff. Of course he knows you would never say anything to trouble him. “Maybe next time we could try that instead of the fruits provided by your clumsiness, hmm?”

You roll your eyes and huff, unable to completely hide your amusement. The cut on your palm has already healed and any marks left by the slip of the blade have faded. Forgetting the feeling of Astarion’s tongue skimming over the skin is altogether a different battle.

“Well. If you had asked, I might have even let you,” you reply, hoping he hears the words as nothing more than an attempt at pulling his leg.

Astarion’s brows raise with delight and curiosity. “Is that so?”

“Come on, the others are way ahead already,” you say. Unexpected warmth and tenderness is once again coiling inside you. It seems that no matter how exhausted you are at the end of the day, this banter with Astarion manages to perk you up.

“Coming, darling.”

Settling in at camp that night takes plenty of awkward moments longer than usual. Wyll and Gale are becoming fast friends and while Karlach and Wyll have buried the hatchet, you’re still worried if the peace will last. Knowing Wyll, he had a perfectly good reason for hunting Karlach in the first place, and based on the vague explanations he offered, there would be a price to pay for the failure.

“I know I said it already, but it’s really good to see you,” Wyll says and clasps your hands into his. They are so much larger than what you first remember. He is all grown up now. And so are you, you guess. Behind are the days as teenagers when you would steal a bottle of vintage and toss it around between you two while watching the stars twinkling above the city.

“I heard you’ve been busy these past years. The Blade of Frontiers, hm? You owe me a story or three,” you reply, intertwining your fingers. It feels safe. He feels safe. Like returning home.

Wyll chuckles and smiles, inclining his head. “Apparently, so have you. Story for a story?”

You smile radiantly right back at him. “Deal.”

He starts with his version of how he became infected with a tadpole of his own, hunting the Advocatus Diaboli, Karlach, through the fiery planes of Avernus. Your version is much more boring, mostly culminating in the happenstance of you returning to Baldur’s Gate for an overdue family reunion right before the nautiloid attack. At some point, Gale and Shadowheart join in to listen and share their own stories. Lae’zel is polishing her Githyanki sword by her tent and you realise that Astarion is nowhere to be seen. He is probably out hunting for supper so you brush the observation off.

As the talk turns to post-tadpole plans, Wyll suddenly rises to his feet and looks around.

“Hell’s fire. She’s coming,” he says in a severe tone.

There is suddenly an overwhelming smell of burnt metal with a hint of acrid brimstone. You stumble up to your feet along with Karlach, Gale and Shadowheart just as a circle of flames erupts from the ground.

A female devil adorned in golden jewellery and skin-tight blue dress spreads her wings. A coy smile spreads to her lips and it sends cold shivers running up your spine.

“What a delightful little reunion,” she coos, burning eyes fixated on you.

“Urgh. Anyone but her,” Karlach groans. Hate and disgust twist her features.

Panic rises in your throat. You’re not sure what you can do in a fight against a devil, but you’re ready as hell to cast the lady into a block of ice if it comes to that. At the mere thought, you already feel the frost cover your fingertips.

Calm means control, you have to remind yourself.

“Mizora,” Wyll spits.

“You know this… person?” you ask, stunned.

The devil’s eyes glint with wicked amusement. “Call me Mizora. I’m Wyll’s patron, the fount of his power.”

“Why are you here?” you question, looking from Wyll to Mizora. Wyll says nothing.

“You’ve been naughty, Wyll,” she says, “We had a deal, but Karlach is still breathing.” She nods angrily towards the tiefling, who looks like she is ready to rip the devil’s wings off.

Wyll’s hand raises to his throat as if he can’t breathe. Instantly you rush over to place a hand on his back, trying to figure out how to help.

“You told me devils only. She’s a tiefling– Not a monster,” he wheezes through ragged breaths.

Mizora flashes her teeth. “How precious. Clause G, Section Nine: ‘Targets shall be limited to the infernal, the demonic, the heartless, and the soulless’,” she explains, lifting a finger for each point.

Wyll clasps at his throat and you look to Gale and Shadowheart for help. They seem to be as ready as you are to throttle this devil witch.

“Karlach meets the criteria by virtue of having no heart,” Mizora continues as if it were necessary to point out.

Karlach bares her teeth and growls at the devil.

“What do you want?” you hiss at Mizora.

“There are consequences for being naughty, Wyll,” Mizora says and yanks an invisible leash, causing Wyll to stumble forward, away from your grasp.

Mizora’s hand reaches into the air, causing hellfire to burst around Wyll. Karlach deflates and concern dulls the edge of her wrath. Your hand reaches into your pocket.

“Wait!” you exclaim and step forward, past the hellfire, “Here, let this go and you can take this.”

A soul coin hums on your open palm, warm and heavy for its size.

Mizora’s head tilts with a fake coy smile and she looks at the coin curiously. The flames die down in an instant. “My, my. Your little princess is just full of surprises, Wyll. How fortunate that you happened to be reunited.”

You flick the coin to the devil.

“Are you alright?” you ask Wyll.

“I owe you an explanation,” he says.

“Yes, you do, but it can wait.”

Mizora tuts. “How sweet. Wyll, don’t forget: Our pact still stands. Tata!”

With one last gleeful smile she disappears into flames. The smell of fire and sulphur dissipates with her. The camp is eerily silent as everyone just stands and stares at Wyll.

“Thank you,” Wyll says in earnest. He looks at you with the softest, brotherly adoration and sincere relief.

Later in the evening, Wyll is taking you down the memory lane as you try to remember the steps to a particularly complex court dance together.

Astarion wobbles back with a full belly and pink-dusted cheeks and ears. It’s been some hours since he left to find something to drink.

Wyll leads you through a set of swirls and you step back and forth, taking turns to circle around the other with palms joined in the air between you two. You can’t remember the last time you’ve laughed yourself so breathless and smiled so that your cheeks have begun to ache.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Astarion settling down to sit by his tent, gaze flitting over to you.

The next set of swirls starts, faster in pace than previously your imaginary music dictated. Just as Wyll gently pushes you to whirl around, your feet tangle together. You end up lurching forward and Wyll catches your arm swiftly, using the momentum to guide you into his arms instead of the cold, hard embrace of the ground.

“Oops, are you alright?” Wyll asks, laughing, and steadies you.

You huff, shaking your head. “I’m fine, I’m fine, sorry for almost tackling you.”

You can feel rather than see Astarion’s stare in the back of your neck. It tingles, demanding you to turn and look. Like a fly begging to be swatted away. You push a smile to your lips and curtsy to Wyll.

“Thank you, Lord Ravengard, for tonight’s dance. I must admit, I’m out of practice and breath and require a rest,” you speak courteously and incline your head like the damned swan you were taught to imitate.

Wyll chuckles and bows formally, hand over his chest. “The pleasure was all mine.”

Astarion’s presence burns in the back of your mind. You know he is watching.

“I’m going to fetch a flask of water,” you say, motioning to the boxes of supplies conveniently placed by Astarion’s tent.

Wyll’s eyes dart over to Astarion, but he keeps any suspicions to himself. “Alright. Have a goodnight.”

It feels as if walking on pins and needles as you approach Astarion. He is blatantly staring, brows lighty furrowed, and words no doubt ready to be unleashed upon you.

“How was your evening, Astarion?” you ask and grab a flask of water. You must really be out of shape if a few moments of courtly dance can make you pant and sweat like this.

“I found a bear,” he replies in a weird tone.

Now that you really look at him, he seems to be mildly wobbling and his smile is suspiciously liberated. Otherwise he looks perfectly unharmed and neat as always, not a strand of hair out of place.

“He took some of my blood. I took all of his,” Astarion continues and his high-pitched giggle rings in the night. You don’t know how to exactly respond to such a statement. You suppose that feeding on a bear is much preferable to the rats and bugs he mentioned his diet previously consisted of.

“I… see.”

“You’ve had a busy evening yourself. Entertaining a devil and saving dear Wyll. Where did you even get a soul coin? Shame I missed it,” Astarion says and arches a brow, asking for you to elaborate.

You make a tiny cough. “I just had it lying around.” It’s for the best if none of your companions know the specific circumstances of you acquiring such an item.

“I thought we were going to see some real sparks fly between Wyll and Karlach,” Astarion says slyly and continues after a breath: “But it turns out the real sparks are flying between you and him.”

You’re about to take a swig of water but turn to look at Astarion, filled with shock and repulsion. “Sparks? Wyll? Don’t be disgusting.”

“Aren’t you two just the perfect couple – the figurative prince and princess of Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion says menacingly and wobbles on his feet.

You almost reach for his elbow to steady him, but decide he would deserve falling on his ass after saying something like that.

“Wyll is just a friend,” you assert and have half a mind to wonder why it’s important for you to explain your relationship to this gorgeous man. It annoys you to no end.

Astarion is drunk. On bear blood. Unbelievable.

“Well, he is the sort of prince-type I would dream of marrying,” Astarion continues and chuckles. “When I was thirteen.”

Yes, he obviously thinks Wyll is too much of a goody two-shoes. Too much of a Prince Charming, excessively virtuous and morally upright. No matter that the man literally gained his powers from making a pact with a devil.

Deciding that Astarion deserves to be picked on about his opinions, you opt in for the overreaction.

“Wyll?! Are you serious? Ew, ew, eww! That’s disgusting,” you exclaim and make a retching sound.

Astarion squints at you, full well knowing even in his inebriated state that you’re messing with him.

“I knew Wyll when he was thirteen and trust me, he was far from prince charming,” you assure.

“Isn’t that nice for you. Such long time friends and a happy reunion,” Astarion replies in a cold tone that makes you a little uneasy.

Refusing to let him berate your childhood friendship, you square your shoulders, lifting your chin.

“It actually is. Wyll is a lovely person,” you reply sharply.

Astarion looks away, frowning.

Oh.

He is jealous.

Well, now you just feel bad about teasing him.

“You should try it sometime,” you say, all pretence of ridicule dropped, and bite your lip.

“What?”

“Being nice and friendly.”

Astarion scoffs. Without a word or permission, he reaches out for your previously injured hand and brings it up for a closer inspection. Your heartbeats speed up and deceitful heat rises up to your cheeks. There is no way he doesn’t hear or see your body reacting.

“It’s a tragedy to be misunderstood, when you’re this extraordinary,” he murmurs and brushes his fingers across your palm. Though, you’re fairly certain he is talking about himself, you still haven’t been offered a proper apology.

“Then I’m sure you can figure out how to make amends,” you say with more than intended bite in your words. You pull your hand to yourself, hardly resisting the urge to shake the tingling sensation away.

“Goodnight, Astarion.”

He doesn’t reply as you turn on your feet and march to your tent.

TBC

My Writing Masterlist

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion fanfic #astarion #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #fanfiction #contradictions and other counter measures

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