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reallyhatethiswebsite · 2 days

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Inspired by this pic made by @infernally_fond

When the devil asks if you want to play, you’re supposed to say no. It’s a lesson most people learn as children. Some don’t take it to heart. They say yes instead because the devil promises he will give them something they desperately want in return.

Tav says yes because she fancies him.

That’s alright. They aren’t playing a game of life or death, and her soul isn’t on the line; just her dignity, and she never had much of that to begin with. Only an idiot would agree to a game they don’t understand. Tav isn’t stupid (honest!) but Raphael’s easy smile and request for her company – mostly the smile, it’s a dangerous weapon put it away damn you – chased off all her answers that weren’t ‘yes, of course, I’d love to play Lanceboard with you!’ So now she sits in his room at Sharess’ Caress watching him watch her across the table as she bumbles and bullshits her moves, losing pieces and losing her mind, because she knows he knows she has no idea what she’s doing but he hasn’t said a damn word about it.

He chooses a piece. She watches his long, deft fingers carefully position it on the board. Lucky thing. “Your move,” he says, languid. Everything about him is relaxed, even his posture. He’s resting his cheek on his fist, elbow on the table. Awful manners; must’ve been raised in a barn. His dark eyes glint in a way that makes it obvious he’s enjoying her squirming, her buffoonery. His expression is cooking her from the inside: not-quite-placid, could be conceived as bored if not for the subtle smoulder, a quirk of mildly sadistic amusement. If he keeps staring at her like that, she fears she might do something foolish.

She blindly grabs her piece. She doesn’t know which it is; knows it’s hers from the colour and that’s about it. Smacks it onto a square that’s (probably) alright. Nods, leans back in her chair, pretends to be confident with her approach, her strategy. “There. Your turn.”

Raphael blinks lazily at her. At the board. “Inspired. Truly,” he drawls, making his next move. “By madness, but nonetheless.”

Tav purses her lips. She doesn’t miss the way his gaze flickers to them. “What is madness but a denial of reality? That’s what you said before, right?”

His mouth twists with a lopsided, barely-there smirk. He surely doesn’t miss her glances, either. “Indeed I did. And what reality are you denying at this moment, little mouse?”

Knowing how to play this bloody game, she thinks, wishing he’d challenged her to checkers instead. “Letting you win,” she responds. Round peg, square hole – put her piece here, steal the piece she jealously witnessed him fondle, strangle it in her fist for its crime. He chuckles; rich, deep, raspy.

“A daring manoeuvrer, and highly illegal.” Yet he does nothing to rectify her blatant ignorance. (Actually, devil, what’s illegal is that chuckle). He simply makes his next move. “You know, it’s usually customary for one to be aware of the stakes of a game before they play it.”

And this, Tav thinks in resignation, is why he’s let me trample all over the match like a drunken elephant. She never learns. Somewhere, Wyll is shaking his head in disappointment.

“You didn't tell me there were stakes,” she accuses; considers pouting but doubts that would work on this crafty creature. “I thought we were just playing for fun.”

“And we are, my dear friend,” Raphael coos, terribly entertained (bastard). “What’s more fun than the thrill of a daring wager?”

“The security of knowing I’m not going to lose my soul?”

Raphael’s grin stretches; sharpens. “Oh, but I thought you were going to beat me. Where has your confidence gone, all of a sudden?”

He’s wretched. Vile. Despicable. Tav is so attracted to him it’s ludicrous. “I’ll win,” she snaps, “and then maybe I’ll take your soul instead. I’ll put it in a little jar and keep it with my other shiny baubles and all the things Scratch dug up. How’s that for a wager?”

“Riveting. Inexperienced, as far as eternal torment goes, but it’s a start,” the devil praises, pleased when Tav scowls at him. “Though, as delectable as your soul would be, it isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

“What, then?”

“Hmm…” He makes a show of drumming his fingers on the table in thought. Large, lithe, well-groomed; she likes his hands. Often wonders what other kinds of magic they can do. (Look away, Tav! This is serious!) “How about, if I win, you tell me exactly why you agreed to this game. Why you abandoned the safety of your companions and entered my den alone. Why you were so eager to say yes. And don’t think about lying, little mouse. I’ll know if you do.”

Well, shit. Letting him eat her soul didn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore. One does not simply inform a devil that they like him – especially not this devil. He will use that knowledge, that power, for naught but nefarious purposes, manipulating her much more than he already does. The worst part is, Tav knows she’ll enjoy it. You’re well and truly fucked, mate, as Karlach would say.

Stomach in her shoes, Tav plucks up all the courage and stupidity she has left. “And if I win? What do I get?”

“That’s up to you,” Raphael says. He clearly thinks he has the upper hand. He’s right, but damn him anyway.

Fine, then. In for a penny and all that. “If I win, I want a kiss.”

She’s surprised him, she can tell. She’s surprised herself, scarcely believing she actually said that, but it’s out there now, in the open, lingering like a bad stink. She’s basically already given him the answer he wanted, but Tav isn’t under the illusion he didn’t know beforehand. The power, you see, comes from getting her to admit it aloud.

“A…kiss,” he repeats slowly.

“Yes.” She sticks to her guns despite her racing heart, sweaty palms, impending sense of doom. “From you, obviously.”

He considers it for a long moment, statuesque, giving almost nothing away. Tav does her best not to squirm out of her seat, pretends to be as aloof and unaffected as he is, to questionable success. The satisfaction glittering in Raphael’s dark eyes makes her grind her teeth. He’s toying with his food, as he is wont to do. Stretching out this moment until she’s at her most uncomfortable. Pulling her nerves taut. The split second before they break, he responds.

“Acceptable. Shall we continue, then?”

“Let’s.”

Tav expects a massacre. Tries to mentally prepare for him to pull the rug from beneath her feet, decimate her pathetic attempts, and then string her up by her metaphorical toes and bleed her for every pathetic confession and admission she can give while he gorges on her emotional turmoil (and masochistic delight). That isn’t what happens. Instead, she wins – in about as loose as the term can be used, but still.

“My, my!” Raphael exclaims, faking every bit of awe as he beholds the board, the claiming of his king, the crumbling of his miniature marble empire. “It seems my devilish wits weren’t enough to stop the might of the Hero of Baldur’s Gate. I’ve been bested. A villain, defeated. Quite the fitting end for this little tale. Don’t you agree?”

Tav sits in stunned silence. Of course he let her do this. She’s not completely delusional (yet), but the implications for why are taking their sweet time sinking into her holey grey matter.

“Ah, but I suppose the Hero wants what she’s owed,” the devil continues, sweeping his arms in a grand gesture. “Let it never be said that I am not a man of my word. Come then, Tav. Claim your prize.”

For a moment, Tav doesn’t move. In some ways this is worse than if he won. Raphael waits, a smirk teasing its way onto his face. He’s challenging her. Daring her. Come into my lair, said the spider to the fly. She’s already here, and she might be stupid, but she’s not a coward. Her knees only tremble slightly as she stands, makes her way to him.

He gets up, too.

He’s not much taller than her, but Tav feels like she’s approaching a mountain. The coals that have been simmering in her belly all evening catch flame. This close, the smell of him is overwhelming: cherries, smoke, fire. The heat he gives off can’t be anything but Infernal, despite his human guise. Anticipation sets her jaw, her throat dry. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking as he slowly, slowly, leans forward, dark eyes fixed on her mouth. His breath is hot as it fans across her face. Tav’s lips part unconsciously, eyelids closing. He’s but a whisper away, the silk of his sinful mouth a phantom against her own…

He kisses her cheek. The left one, high on her cheek bone, and though he’s completely composed, she can hear the brief huff of amusement leave his nose as he pulls away.

“There you are,” he says, jovial, almost business-like as she gapes at him, humiliated, flabbergasted, furious. “One kiss, its nature wholly unspecified, delivered as promised. I always deal fairly.”

This fucker’s trying not to laugh. Tav can see the tell-tale twitch of his lips (lips whose imprint burns on her cheek, entirely not where she wanted thank you very much) and the gleam of delight in his eye. Oh yes, he’s had fun with her today.

“Is something wrong?” He asks her innocently when she does nothing but glare at him.

“No,” she grits out.

“Good,” he purrs, unable to stop the shit-eating grin from spreading across his face. “I’d hate to hear that you’re dissatisfied with your victory. I did my very best to acquiesce. As a little advice for the future, from one thrill-seeker to another: you might try being more specific with the terms of your wagers. After all, what’s that saying you mortals are so fond of? Ah, yes. The devil’s in the details. Keep that in mind for next time, hm? Ta-ta.”

A click of his fingers, a spark of hellish magic, and she’s standing in the middle of their rooms at the Elfsong tavern.

“Arsehole!”

From where he’s lounging on a sofa, Astarion lowers the book he’s reading enough to raise an eyebrow at Tav. “Who’s the arsehole, darling, and what have they done?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tav mutters. “Where’s Gale? I need to learn how to play lanceboard.”

#baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #raphael bg3 #fanfic #cringe

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