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ghostchems · 5 months

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bad idea right? - raphael x f!tav

your companions have made their stance on making a deal with a devil clear but as the stakes of your quest grow you aren't so certain

a/n: i am shouting out @angellayercake for screaming about this with me and for also having to deal with this:

this is my first raphael fic! i tried :) 2.1k words. smut! mdni! 18+ please. both tav and raphael make bad decisions! ao3 link.

Your muscles and bones ache as you toss and turn in bed, eyes squeezed shut while you try to force yourself to sleep but to no avail. The bed creaks as you shift, an exasperated sigh leaving your lips. Sleeping used to be easier before the tadpole, before your abduction and before you somehow became the hero of this story. Your eyes flicker across your companions, watching as they sleep, their chests rising and falling between soft breaths. You knew booking a room at Elfsong would be good for them, allowing them to sleep in actual beds for the first time during your adventure rather than bedrolls on the hard ground. You care for them, more than you’ve cared about anything before, putting their needs above yours. Perhaps that’s why you’ve taken on the role as the heroic leader.

But you don’t want to be. Not anymore. You’re exhausted from trying to go about this the right way when there is a slightly easier way to go about it.

The second those big, brown eyes fell upon you in the Devil’s Den he knew you were exhausted. You still went about the delicate dance of learning what he truly wanted from you and how you refuse to make a deal with a Devil. But deep down, you wanted to and he knew. The way his lips quirked into a slimy smirk as you left, your eyes met his and you gave him a knowing look. He would be expecting you to come back.

You just didn’t think you would be back so soon but you aren’t able to get your thoughts to quiet down. You need your plans in place to quiet your mind enough to rest. Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you make your way back to Sharess’ Caress, a cautious eye scanning the streets for anything out of the ordinary. You miss the days when you could walk these streets without worry, when signs of danger were few and far between.

The hair on the back of your neck stands on end once you reach the door to Devil’s Den, a lump forming in your throat. Ever since Raphael showed his smarmy face and performed his rehearsed speech to your group, you couldn’t help but be curious about him. A devil, a cambion to be more specific, coming to you with a deal was never even a possibility that crossed your mind before, let alone having multiple run-ins with him since you escaped the wreckage. There is always something far too tempting about him and his schemes.

I’ve grown fond of you, in my own way.

You think about the way those words rolled off of his tongue more than you would like to admit. An infernal creature fond of you. You can’t help but feel special. A quick thought blips to the front of your mind, a sudden worry that it’s too late at night for you to be disturbing him. You suck in a deep breath and shrug the thought away — you are his favorite client, after all. The door to his room clicks and you push open the door, revealing Raphael still perched at his desk almost as if he hasn’t moved since you left him earlier.

“Back so soon, mouse?” The devil tilts his head, an amused smile playing on his lips. “You put on quite the performance earlier, I figured you would take a few nights to stew over it before you came crawling back.” His voice drops deliciously low as he curls his fingers underneath his chin, his eyes scanning your body. You feel warmth start to blossom in the pit of your stomach but you choose to brush the feeling off. It’s just like him to continue this little game of his when he knows full well what you are here for. You decide to play along.

“Where is the hammer, Raphael?” You ask, annoyance dripping from your town while you walk completely past him and into the bedroom. He trails after you curiously, watching as you start to go through the drawers of his bedside table. You know it’s not here but you must play along with him, wanting nothing more than to hold his attention. Raphael lingers behind you, peering over your shoulder with a bemused expression.

“It’s not here, my pet. You’ll receive it at the right time — if you accept my deal.” You feel his warm breath on the back of your neck and your cheeks flush, your grip on the drawer tightening.

“How do I know you won’t screw me over?” You don’t dare turn around, almost afraid how close he is to you. One of his hands grabs you by the waist and you can’t help but give a startled mewl. He snaps his fingers and a contract appears in front of you, the infernal script too complicated for you to understand, and a quill floats beside it.

“You wound me.” Raphael purrs into your ear, savoring the position he has you in. The chase, the seduction is always his favorite part. “My deal is fair. We get what we both want. I promise you, my dear, I would never lie to you. You are my favorite client, after all.” His lips touch your earlobe and he can practically taste your desperation. He sucks in a sharp breath to compose himself while his hand on your waist drifts lower. Raphael has you right where he wants to and he’s relishing in having the hero of the sword coast in his grasp.

“Raphael—“ His name catches in your throat as his fingers slip inside your waistband. You shudder and your eyes flutter open and shut, your cheeks bright red as he continues lower. For Raphael, this is something that happens every so often with his business — having to sweeten the deal with a little bit of devilish delight, but this felt especially sweet. Raphael is corrupting you himself, in more ways than one. His fingers stroke along your opening, your folds already slick to his pleasant surprise.

“My, my.” He teases and you can feel him smile against your ear. “Seems that you are quite ready to accept my deal, little mouse. Take the quill.” His voice is a mere whisper now, his fingers teasing at your entrance. You hesitate for just a moment, putting on a small act of reluctance before following his command, the quill feeling impossibly light in your hand. Raphael hums his approval and presses one of his long fingers inside your dripping cunt. You dip your head back and lean into him, resting on his shoulder as your eyes close and lips part, an embarrassingly soft moan falling from them.

A rush of desire courses through Raphael, so strong that it nearly distracts him from the task at hand, a blush rising to his cheeks that unfortunately you can’t see. He gives a low growl, his mouth finding your neck and sucking on the delicate flesh while he starts to curl his finger inside of you. You gasp and drop your hand to grab his forearm, fingers digging into his sleeve as he continues, your body writhing and your toes curling in your boots. Your body is impossibly hot, your mind thinking only about how sinfully good his finger feels, the dangers and worries of signing his contract far away now.

Raphael is lost in your taste. His tongue and lips drifting along your neck, planting wet kisses and sharp bites, his eyes closed and his breathing heavy. He slips another fingers inside, stretching you open with deft digits as he sinks them even deeper. You’re putty in his hands and you hate that it feels so right, that this is what you wanted, what you dreamt about after first laying eyes on him. Your knees start to buckle and the tension in your abdomen is almost at its breaking point, stuttering moans and huffs clawing their way from your throat. Raphael nearly forgets himself, so utterly wrapped up in your taste, your scent, but he’s able to catch himself before he takes it too far. He pulls his fingers from you and starts to stroke lightly at your fully drenched entrance.

“Sign the contract, my little mouse, and I’ll finish you off.” His voice is gravelly and you feel the words vibrate from his chest. You don’t hesitate this time, feverishly signing the contract as his fingers lazily circle your cunt. The second you’ve signed the contract ignites into flames and disappears, quill included. Raphael wastes no time, plunging his fingers back inside and thrusting them roughly. Your hips buck and your eyes squeeze shut, riding his fingers to the edge of the precipice. His teeth find your earlobe, grazing it before giving it a rough nibble that is enough to send you toppling over the edge. Your body trembles and convulses, breathing heavy as your vision blurs and it overtakes you.

Normally, Raphael would have slipped away from his mark, leaving them alone to bask in the delicious shame of making a deal with a devil. But he can’t leave you. His nose scrunches as his eyes meet your glassy ones, your cheeks an adorable shade of red and your lips shiny and pink. He shouldn’t be feeling this way, not for you, not for anyone, but he can’t help but want you. Raphael hasn’t felt this kind of want in ages. His heart pounds in his chest, his gaze drifting to your lips. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But he can’t resist you.

Raphael’s lips crash against yours, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth. You groan at the taste of him, cherries and musk, and you melt into the kiss. It’s fierce and possessive, his strong hands grabbing you again by the waist and clumsily pressing you back into the nearest wall. It’s like he can’t control himself which is alarming given how carefully he has crafted his image for hundreds of years just for you to tear it all away in a moment of weakness. He can’t stop himself though. His hands are groping you all over, drifting from your ass to your breasts, with one firm hand settling on your throat.

You can’t breathe and you’re sure Raphael has forgotten that you need to breathe. You manage to tear yourself away from the breathless kiss, air filling your lungs as he bites at your jaw, those caramel eyes never leaving yours. He uses his free hand to tug at your pants, ripping them in the process but he doesn’t care. He needs you. He needs nothing but you in this moment. You’re not used to how quickly he moves, suddenly finding your legs wrapped around his waist while he holds you up against the wall with one hand, his hard cock already pressing against your slick entrance.

You brace yourself against the wall as he slams into you, his sharp nails digging into your ass and a deep moan rumbling from his chest. A scream leaves your lips, your hands pawing at his chest before curling into his doublet to hold on. He keeps the pace desperate, the mere strength of his thighs pounding into your ass enough to leave bruises. You squeeze your legs tighter around his waist and he whines, a sound you want more than anything to hear again. He captures your lips in a kiss again, his burning tongue dominating the kiss as he fills you so deeply, deeper than anyone has before. Your hands drift up his shoulders to settle around his neck, fingertips brushing the soft curls at the nape of his neck and you swear you hear him purr.

Raphael’s teeth, somehow sharper than before, sink into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as you give a sharp yelp, your body jerking as the pain sears through you. His breath catches in his throat before giving a deep, rumbling snarl against your lips. One last thrust and he’s spilling himself deep inside you, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. Your eyes are wide as you take in his face, his forehead glistening with sweat and a few loose strands of his usually perfect hair, his cheeks flushed red. His gaze meets yours, seeing your reaction and immediately disappearing, only to appear a second later in front of you and tidied up except for a hint of redness in his cheeks.

Meanwhile your lips and teeth are stained with blood, your hair is a mess and your pants are still around your ankles with the devil’s cum dripping down the inside of your thighs.

“A pleasure doing business with you, mouse. We shall keep this a special secret between us.” Raphael sounds almost angry with you, nearly growling between gritted teeth but there is something else that catches you off guard. His face – his words sound threatening but his face looks unsure, perhaps even worried?

Raphael leaves in a flash of fire.

part two

#raphael x tav #raphael x reader #bg3 raphael x reader #raphael bg3 x reader #bg3 raphael x tav #raphael bg3 x tav #bg 3 fanfic #baldurs gate fanfic #raphael bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate raphael

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possumteeths · 4 months

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Like a Rotten Dog

Baldurs Gate 3, Rolan x Reader, Rolan x Human!Tav (Second person nondescript femme insert) 5,800 words, Porn with feelings, Rated E. Rolan POV. My works will never use the Y/N device.

Summary:

Rolan miserably fucks a pillow while thinking big thoughts. He thinks about how obnoxious you are and how it's completely unfair that you've forced him into such a state. Unfortunately for him, his train of thought betrays his determination to hate you. "What are you to do now? Storm Ramazith’s tower atop a glittering pegasus? Perhaps you’ll declare him a poor maiden in need of a hero and expect him to swoon and fall at your feet? Should he kiss you for luck as well? Give you a handkerchief? For all the painful obedience he’s given to Lorroakan, it would be a simple thing to give it to you instead, wouldn’t it? So far you’ve asked for nothing, (not that he would’ve given you anything besides a pinched declaration of thanks) but surely his bill is due soon." "Surely you’ll come to collect since you’re so adept at finding him no matter his location."

Fic & tags under the cut or on ao3!

Tags:

He should’ve known that you would arrive at Sorcerous Sundries sooner rather than later.

Regarding Rolan’s well-being, you were like a bloodhound to his discomfort. You were always exactly where you needed to be, which was often exactly where he wished you’d keep far, far away from. With the sense of incoming doom in Baldur's Gate, he should’ve assumed you’d be hot on its trail and he was soon to run into you eventually.

Still, he wished you could’ve reunited under more pleasant circumstances. Your face lit up in recognition once you saw him behind the counter, only for your expression to morph through the motions of shock and anger before settling on disgusting concern. It was the concern that burned him, the bruise under his eye flared up like a fleshly bleeding wound and Rolan did everything in his power to keep his head held high. He didn’t need your help and he certainly did not need your pity. The very concept of pity coated his throat with the acidic taste of bile.

You had no right to swoop into his life and save him from his failures time and time again. For once, he wanted to fix his own problems. Lorroakan was a… difficult man, but a learned one. Rolan thought that if he could just toughen up and learn all that he could, perhaps he’d finally be free of your meddling. Perhaps he’d finally be able to sleep at night, unafraid of being an utter failure. Didn’t he owe that to his family? To himself? If he could just be better— a better man, a better wizard, then he could defend himself for once. He wouldn’t need you and your concern. He wouldn’t feel inadequate or unsure of himself ever again. If he could be a better version of himself, then he would be able to look you in the eye without all the shame that came with it.

How was it possible that you managed to look so good while he knew that you spent your days out there fighting and surviving by the skin of your teeth? All he’d done since reaching the city was bow his head and allow his master to use him as an outlet for his temper. He felt like a whipped dog who’d done nothing wrong besides give his utmost obedience and you looked like hope incarnate. Your pity felt like freedom although it burned like shame. By the time you left the shop, Rolan firsthand witnessed the steady growth of determination swell beneath your skin and he knew that you were soon to do something that left him no choice but to thank you for his life again.

At this point, there weren’t enough words in any language to voice the gratitude you were owed. The crumbs of respect that Rolan begrudgingly handed to you were too much and not enough. So far, the only recent decision he’d made for himself left his ego and body badly bruised. Sure, he’d taken charge of Zevlor’s incompetence and got as many people as he could to safety— but if saving the refugees were up to you, no one would’ve been left behind. Perhaps his siblings might not have been taken in the first place.

The creaky door to Rolan’s meager living quarters feels heavier than normal as he defeatedly pushes it open. All his confidence and what he used to think was talent awarded him the finery of a single room and splintery floorboards. He heads for a mostly empty red bottle atop a shelf and downs the last few dregs of it, hoping the potion might soothe some general aches and pains if it wasn’t enough to heal any of them. Earlier, you’d purchased as many health potions as the shop had in store, traded three magical amulets for an extremely powerful scroll, and tipped him for the trouble of bringing you everything you purchased. Throwing gold at him, you had the audacity to ask if he was alright with a tinge of fury in your tone. Gods he hated you at that moment. He was doing what he had to for survival. Because of him, his family had a roof over their heads. What was the cost of a few arbitrary wounds for the price of safety? What would you know about something like that?

Immediately, the thought is shut down by guilt and fresh anger has him slamming the empty potion bottle down. The rickety shelf rattles, but there’s no one around to witness his frustration. Right now, he can’t bear the idea of his siblings seeing the state of himself. Heavy feet drag him to a mirror and Rolan concludes that he doesn’t look awful, the wounds he wore were trophies that displayed his dedication to magic. Ugly to only the ignorant. No one but him could understand that. His siblings didn’t care to listen to reason, and Rolan didn’t need to ask his sister to know she was conspiring to do something about his problem— only she didn’t hold a candle to your ridiculous tenacity.

What are you to do now? Storm Ramazith’s tower atop a glittering pegasus? Perhaps you’ll declare him a poor maiden in need of a hero and expect him to swoon and fall at your feet? Should he kiss you for luck as well? Give you a handkerchief? For all the painful obedience he’s given to Lorroakan, it would be a simple thing to give it to you instead, wouldn’t it? What would you ask of him in exchange for your help? So far you’ve asked for nothing, (not that he would’ve given you anything besides a pinched declaration of thanks) but surely his bill is due soon. Surely you’ll come to collect since you’re so adept at finding him no matter his location.

A fresh wave of outrage guides him away from self-depreciation, but it comes with a delicate aftertaste of something new. You asked him why he was so rude to you back in the grove, —the conversation feels as if it happened a lifetime ago— and Rolan haughtily remembers your displeasure in his lack of reverence. At least that’s how he chose to interpret your question. Unbeknownst to you, he had the makings of greatness in him too. You were just a stranger to him, a mere moment in his soon-to-be great story. One day he’d be a powerful and renowned spellcaster and you’d likely be a statue or a painting, felled in battle and remembered by few. Your meddling was only delaying the inevitable. You were keeping him from his destiny and you were upset with him for refusing to inflate your ego? Did you expect him to look at you like a wide-eyed pup, stars in his eyes in the shadow of your glory?

If he was less of a man, Rolan would’ve picked up a pillow and screamed into it. You’ve tainted the distaste he has for you and because of this, guilt-laced shame makes his stomach twist. A healing blister on his side reminds him that he’s a coward, he’s too stubborn for his own good and a tiny part of his pride rolled over on its back, belly up, tail wagging when he set eyes on you this morning. Even now, his tail flicks behind him in the way it does when he thinks of you. Rolan couldn’t find it in him to ask how you were faring, but now he regrets his clipped words and the demand for you to leave him and his problems alone. You weren’t going to listen to his plea anyhow, so why waste the words? He should’ve swallowed his attitude and spoken to you as a friend.

But— there lies the problem.

Rolan doesn’t have friends. He never felt the need for anyone's company besides his siblings. He’s bookish, too busy with his studies and his magic to go out of his way to socialize with anyone. Why would he? No one ever wants to talk with him, and when he finds himself forced into a conversation he’s overly aware of the humor that people find in him. No one respects him. Cal and Lia keep him company because they have to, and they’re all the support he needs. He doesn’t know the first thing about friendliness or pleasantry and he doesn’t care to learn.

After you wiped out the goblin camp and set his people toward hopeful safety, his sister told him to seek you out at your party— but you ended up coming to him instead. Caught off guard, all he could do was lamely conjure a few dancing lights for your entertainment and he wasn’t able to hold the spell for very long. His tongue felt as if it had become furred, he couldn’t remember what exactly he’d said to you but he did remember his sister’s horrified expression in response. She thinks he’s harboring feelings toward you, and he supposes her assumption is half correct. He has a lot of feelings pertaining to you but none of them were sweet and soft.

It didn’t matter anyhow. By all accounts, he should despise you (and perhaps he does), but the way he feels is overly complicated and tightly wound. Why do you dress the way you do? Why do you smell so pleasant? Caked in mud and splattered with gore, you manage to wear it all stylishly. Why do you care about everything as much as you do? Where do you find the motivation to put one foot in front of the other and carry on? Aren’t you tired? Every time you’ve sought him out, you ask if he’s alright before immediately offering your aid. You try to speak with him, you’ll ask him about his siblings out of politeness, but he always shuts you down like an idiot addicted to the taste of his boot wedged between his teeth. Everything you are rubs abrasively against everything he tries to be. His confidence is always received poorly while yours shines obtrusively enough that people are forced to love the way it blinds them.

You’ve done your best to put Rolan into a daze as well, but his determination to dislike you has become a core tenant of his personality. You deserve his thanks, you deserve his respect. You have every right to force him to kneel and then command for him to kiss your boots. The only thing you’d have to do for such worship would be to demand it. You could take it from him just as Master Lorroakan does. But you won't. The confusing, awful way he feels toward you would be so much easier to compartmentalize if you were cruel. He wishes disgust would replace your pity, that way it would be easier to justifiably hate you. If he could imagine you laughing at him, calling him pathetic, and exposing him for the coward he is, then he wouldn’t be rushing for his bed, hands already working at his robes to find the ties that hold his breeches at his hips.

This world is cruel and the animal law of predator against prey is just as prominent as it is amongst beasts. He’s survived thus far because of you and now he bows for false promises, willfully misleading himself into thinking that he’s anything besides a whipping boy. The punishment bruised and burned into him is deserved. For all that he’s given in exchange, he thinks that he’s gotten off easily if anything. Certain laws of nature shouldn’t be broken and he should not have gotten to this point by cheating his way along instead of taking the hits that came with his repeated failures. What pact has he declared in exchange for your patronage? What are the stipulations he’s agreed to? You’re not winged but you’re radiant just the same. Perhaps the obnoxiously attractive body you wear is an illusion, perhaps you’re a devil who followed him from Elturel with the sheer intent of ruining his life.

Caged and afraid, desperate to be anything besides what he is, you’ve rendered him into a broken thing. A broken thing whose throat is dry, whose hand shakes as he miserably gropes the swollen length of his cock. A stubborn part of his psyche still thinks he’s a man, you’re a pretty face and the closest thing to a friend that he’s aware of. Of course, you make him hard. There’s no shame to be found in a natural reaction to someone whose attention wanders back to him like a pet with a penchant for running away. In the quiet moments of whatever respite he’s able to steal for himself, Rolan’s wandering mind often breaches a handful of thoughts that he’s determined to keep under lock and key. If he lets his mind dash away from reason, sometimes he thinks about touching you, he wonders what you’d feel like if you were wet and wanting.

Weeks ago, while flipping through a book on anatomy from the tower’s library, he paused on a few figure drawings of a naked human woman. He dared to look at her breasts and the shape of her hips in a rather unstudious manner and his composure unraveled from there. He’s never wanted to dwell on things he finds unnecessary; women and all the struggle that came before sex felt like too much of a headache to pursue. Rolan’s seen what fools it makes of people, he’s seen more people than he cares to think about who are horns deep in grief after losing someone they loved. Keeping himself safe from such matters felt like the smartest thing he could do, he didn’t wish to expend time or effort to pursue anything with anyone. So… he didn’t feel like a pervert for utilizing the anatomical drawing of a woman’s body for masturbatory purposes. If he wouldn’t pursue anything real, this seemed more efficient than wasting his time daydreaming about physical touch and a certain someone’s attention. With one hand on the book and the other wrapped around his cock, he quickly worked himself to completion and that was that.

Unfortunately, the release didn’t bring him any pleasure. His orgasm only felt like a momentary distraction from the angry thing he’d awoken. Now he blindly seeks a sense of relief that he can’t seem to get his hands on because he doesn’t know what he’s searching for. For days, he thought about the damned book and the terms for various parts of a woman’s anatomy. He thought about their function and how it was more than likely that a woman could find herself in the exact predicament he was trapped in. Task after nonsensical task was performed for Lorroakan and all he could think about was the book hidden beneath its proper shelf and the way he wished he could somehow enchant it so the diagrams would be in color.

After a particularly brutal “lesson” that involved his naked back and a shock of lightning, he stole away to find his recent obsession. While lost in his thoughts, eyes tightly shut and a desperate fist working himself over, he proceeded to ruin the book with an errant splatter of his release. Once the first rope stained the pages, he didn’t care to lessen the blow. He was bitter with his master, bitter with his newfound curiosity that only grew in size. The hunger crept into him only because of weakness— He was a failure in too many ways and so Rolan felt justified in coating the diagrams with everything he had. Shame was far from him when he closed the soaked book to shelve it back into place.

That should’ve been the end of things, he wished more than anything to smother the awful birth of late blooming desire but the damned thing refused to simmer down and die. You kept that from happening. You left him with no choice but to use the promise of self-release as a coping mechanism. He’s always been an impetuous ass and he’s never felt the need to find any distaste in accepting the fact. He’s impulsive but Rolan felt he was too smart to asphyxiate on any lasting consequences. Rubbing himself raw was a byproduct of everything else wrong in his life. Why should he worry about consequences when you’ll be there to save him from whatever circumstance? He wanted to drink himself to death in Last Light Inn, but you wouldn’t let him. So he ran headfirst into the shadows, figuring that he’d either save his siblings or die trying and you apparated from the darkness to rob him of the martyrdom he aimed for. You took everything from him, smothered his pride, and strangled his ego as if his wants and needs meant nothing to you. You’re in his head, you’ve stolen all of his impulsivity and alchemically perverted it so that it all revolves around you.

And he can't hate you for it because you’ve destroyed his previous definition of hate.

He can’t drink in self-pity because he thinks of you and the disappointment on your features when you found him completely pissed and slurring his words. You told those little devils to stop serving him and shooed them away as if you were his mother. If he goes past his limits, all he can think of is your annoying face all screwed up in pity. Eyes soft, voice gentle. You’d probably let him rest his head on your lap only for him to vomit on your thighs. He can’t imagine you shouting at him even if he was to soak your clothes in wine and stomach acid and he hates you for it. You’d pet him with the gentleness you might administer to someone on their deathbed and ask in that awful pitying tone of yours if he felt any better.

He can't drink without thinking of you. He can't touch himself without obsessing over you. You’re the horrible reason he started this habit in the first place. He can’t even bare his flesh for his master to abuse without thinking of your gods' awful pity either.

“Are you alright?” Must be the majority of all the words you’ve ever said to him and he imagines you finding him like this, shoulders sagging as if too heavy for his spine with his hand shoved into his breeches. Sharp teeth sink into his lip and he tries to envision himself through your perspective. To you, he must look like a miserable excuse for a tiefling, and an even worse example of a man. He feels soggy, bogged down by the weight of his failures. The only aspect of his species that he displays is his pride and right now, such a concept is far away from where he usually keeps it. The mask of confidence is replaced with a whimpery fat-lipped need to feel anything besides the desire for self-flagellation, and he shudders in disgust while imagining you looking at him, pretty mouth held open for a moment while searching for the words to say.

“Does it hurt?” You’d ask carefully because you’re aware of how easily he finds the audacity to snip at you.

He doesn’t know if you’re asking about the bruises or the awkward way he strokes his cock. You wouldn’t ask him if he needed help, nor would you be shy about closing the distance between your body and his to take charge of the situation. You’d use your thumb and forefinger to pick up his chin and he’d look up at you, unburdened by the undead desperation that plagues his body. In his fantasy, he doesn't think about the complicated feelings he harbors for you, instead, he submits to the determination in your gaze.

In real life, he’d fumble his way through such an occurrence and ultimately be left racking his brain for an apology which he doesn’t know how to say. He doesn’t know how or when to shut up, he’d never let you take charge of him even while painfully aware that you’d figure out a miraculous way to make him feel better. He’d disappoint you and embarrass himself into the binds of a torture chamber of his own design. Even now, just squeezing himself over his clothes, he struggles to quell the gut punch of an orgasm that wants to swallow him whole. He wouldn’t last through your touch, he can’t imagine kissing you because on principle, he can’t entertain such a ridiculous thought. Not only is the concept too embarrassing to hope for, but he wouldn’t know what to do. He’d accidentally cut your soft human lips with his teeth. He’d say something idiotic and you’d slap him right in the face. Perhaps you’d find his body heat too estranged from yours, maybe you’d find his features too odd. Perhaps his shaking breath would betray the way he wants you to see him. Perhaps he’d pass out from all the blood rushing to engorge his cock and then he’d crack his head open on the ground.

Too aware of himself, he thinks that he’d try to kiss you like the muscled heroes in trashy books and he’d somehow manage to poke your eye out with a horn. Analyzing every possible outcome has led Rolan to believe that anything he could try would end up in complete failure. He’s… resilient, but his recent track record displays failure after hard-headed failure. To allow himself a proper delusion where he's able to touch and fuck you without envisioning tail curling embarrassment, he feels as if he needs to give you a reason to see him as anything other than a pathetic dog. He limps as he walks, his tail’s tucked between his legs and he’d bite you if your hand got too close. Why would you ever look down at that with anything besides disgust or pity? If you were to force his door open right now, he’d drench the inside of his pants with cum and before he was able to catch his breath, he’d find a way to make an ass of himself because when it comes to you, he’s mastered the art of behaving like a pompous prick.

You’d never want this… and he’d never be able to charm his way into being passably desirable. It would only add another foot of dirt atop his grave if he finally found the nerve to do something about the complicated basket of feelings he keeps on hand, only for you to reject him outright. He’d never find the right things to say so that this could have a squalid chance of poking its head into reality.

Still, he thinks about your hands sliding down his chest, slowly mapping out the shape of his body as if you intended to remember it. Humans are so soft, his skin is thicker than yours, his chest is ridged and he wonders if such a difference would be pleasurable or painful. Imagining your naked breasts, nipples pressed against his textured skin as he explores your soft curves with his hands makes a gritty moan fall from his lips. He would never be yours, nor would he ever know the pleasure of knowing your body— but he could pretend. He could convince himself that if the stars aligned once he sacrificed his soul, maybe he could have one night with you. A few hours would be sufficient enough for a lifetime of longing. A single kiss, a moment of your time would be enough fuel to help him mentally leap over everything that kept him up at night.

He wishes you really were a devil. The temptation, the need for you would finally respect the concept of reason. If he were to give you his soul, then at least you’d be bound contractually to give him anything he asked for. In all the stories, the seduction of such a being is inevitable. Even the strongest people succumb eventually. The prelude to his demise would drain his soul out of his balls and he’d finish without the disgust that usually rose after he figured out how to think again. In the sticky aftermath, he could say whatever drivel that would fall out of his mouth and you’d take it with an entertained eye-roll. Nothing he could do or say would matter if you had his name neatly signed at the bottom of a horrendously unfair contract. It would be a good deal on your end, you already have him weak and dependent on you so you could do wonders with the usage of his soul. Wanting you would be so much easier if you owned him. He couldn’t hate you or himself if he had no choice but to obsess over you. He wouldn’t chase away your constant presence in his thoughts if he’d given his mind away, completely at peace to let it rot in your greedy hands.

The bed creaks under Rolan’s weight as he finally lays down with a bratty huff. He buries his face into the mattress with his eyes tightly shut as if that would keep him from hating the desperate way he claws for his pillow. He already knows that his hand won’t suffice, he’s already bunny fucking the mattress, hopelessly grinding himself against the solid mass, wishing he could bore a hole into it without anyone discovering his shame. His breeches barely escape his ire when struggling with the ties takes a moment too long. They’re shoved down with a growl and his pillow is folded in half to then be shoved beneath his hips. With his thoughts soaked self-admonition, he finds enough of an in to slot his cock into the plush crease of his folded pillow. Nothing about it feels right, it’s loose and dry but he whimpers with the idea of what it represents.

Thankfully his rushing thoughts are a potent enough concoction to mask the way his mind struggles to imagine thrusting into you. He can’t think anymore, he’s so hard that it hurts and all he wants to do is thrust into the cushy relief of his pillow, panting into his mattress while obsessing over vague ideas of what your body would feel like.

You’re always so attuned to his well-being. Always so eager to offer your help. If he told you that the only thing he wants from you is to fuck you until he can’t think anymore, would you graciously bend over the nearest surface and offer your pretty cunt? The diagram painted such a vivid idea of what you’d look like. Apparently, your cunt swells similarly to his cock when aroused and he imagines the offering of a swollen flower, petals engorged with need and the dripping center of it drooling steadily in anticipation. You’d be so inexplicably soft. Humans are a ridiculous species, and he wasn’t immune to the inherent curiosity he holds for your kind. With zero real-life experience to go on, he believes that humans have heavier breasts. He thinks that fat settles differently on your species’ bodies and there just seems to be more to grab and hold onto. You’re tailless and he wonders if that might make it easier to drive deeper into your body if you were positioned on all fours. Lust soaked daydreams of hips and thighs torment him daily. He’s much larger than the four inches of your body’s comfortable limits (a fact provided to him by the anatomy book), and Rolan wonders if you’d be able to handle the intrusion of his cock.

According to the tiny font of raunchy, cheaply printed novelettes, it would be a tight fit but you’d eventually be shouting his name in place of any god you pray to. He imagines you reaching for his ass, your legs locked around his hips and you do your best to hold him deeply inside of you, wet heat begging him to remain buried in your depths. Women can orgasm contrary to popular belief, and aided by the combination of educational journals, books on body function, and a few trashy epics, he’s decided that at least once in his life, he’ll make a woman come for the sheer sake of curiosity. With you, he’d make you come as often as physically possible, but if he can’t have you he thinks that just once with someone else will be enough to quench the intrigue.

Gritting his teeth, he jerkily thrusts and grinds into his pillow. The bulbous base of his cock is painfully swollen and he closes his fist tightly around it, squeezing hard and wishing for the tight clasp of your body. He’d seal you up and pump you so full of come that you’d forget every sorry state you’ve ever found him in. The looming understanding that satisfaction will remain at an atrocious distance forces his hips into a frenzy, too stubborn to admit defeat. Rolan hisses in frustration due to the sorry pillow that doesn’t offer nearly as much friction as he needs. The needy mouth of your cunt would be so much tighter, so much wetter than this awful thing. You’d take him with a gasp of shock, surprised by the heat of his turgid cock as he encases himself inch by inch into all of that softness he imagines. The underside of his cock is ridged similarly to the rest of him, and according to the anatomy book, he differs in other ways as well. Would the shape of him shock you? Would your tight little cunt spasm around him as if in awe of the pleasure he brings? In the few dirty stories he’s discovered over the years, human women adore his kind. Blunt-headed human cocks pale in comparison to a tiefling’s. Filled to the brim, your eyes would roll back and you’d ask him to please fuck you. Would you tell him that he’s ruined you for all other men and you’ll need him from now on to satiate yourself? Rolan's delirious thoughts decide yes, those are definitely things you’d say.

More likely, you’d give yourself over with that teasing, snooty look of yours, all too aware that he needs you because you’ve learned how to read him like a book. He’d take you although the acquisition would feel more like blind surrender. You once asked if he intended to thank you for your efforts and he imagines you asking him to thank you for the privilege of just the sight of you. You’d spread your cheeks, exposing the vexing pink blush of your folds and he’d have no choice but to fall to his knees before you. He’d fucking crawl if you’d let him just breathe in the scent of your cunt. Even now, he feels light-headed and caught between too many contradictory points. His heart is wedged in his throat, his lungs feel strained and he swallows dryly while imagining what it would be like to drag his tongue between your folds.

Rolan curls in on himself and uses the heel of his palm to press against the pillow, desperate for more friction. Caught on a new train of thought, he pants open-mouthed, tongue painfully dry while imagining your legs spread over his face. He’s thirsty, he’s half alive and the short distance between your body and his mouth feels like torture. You bossily direct him to speak his adoration into your cunt and before he can promise that he will, you proceed to cover his ears with your soft thighs. You’ll call him a golden boy like you did when telling him that he shouldn’t leave the grove alone. Instead of telling him that his apprenticeship doesn’t make him some sort of golden boy, the term is given to him as a pet name. You like his eyes, you like his tongue and the way he’ll die before disappointing you again. You’ll reach for his horns, forcing his head up so you can grind against his mouth, and his tongue moves in untrained flat strokes because he doesn’t know what you like. He envisions fucking you on his tongue, thrusting it into your heat with the intent of worshipping the hidden sanctuary of your cunt. Your reward for his resignation, for finally giving you the thanks you deserve tastes like the safety he longs for and he feels at home with you above him.

In the present, his tail thumps against the mattress, and the pointed tip flicks in agitation as something final settles in his bones. This realization has been building in ferocity long before he began violating his pillow and he rubs his cheek against the mattress, breathing hard with the back of his throat feeling inflamed. The moan forced out of him crackles, his ragged breath sets it alight and the fiery resignation is executed through a blubbering whimper. Rolan’s hips punch forward as if trying to punish the pillow for its current form, he thinks that it should be you. He should be in your arms, he should be driving his pitifully sensitive cock against your skin, and he’d beg for the privilege of fucking your thighs because he can't bear the idea of disappointing your cunt with his ultimately early release. This should be an act of supplication. You’ve won. He’s at your mercy. He needs you, he needs you. You’ll save him from his pride once again and he’ll finally find the words necessary to declare to you what an ass he’s been.

As if his body was politely waiting for the mental submission, his spine straightens, and cum shoots from the head of his prick before he’s fully realized the impending threat of his orgasm. Reduced to sensation alone, Rolan rumbles out a long groan as he fucks a deluge of cum into his pillow. All he can do is thrash against the violence of his every sense expelling from his body in the form of viscous white sludge. His mouth hangs open stupidly as his frenzied thrusts soon dispel into non-movement. When it’s all over, he takes a long, slow breath and he’s surprised to discover that doesn't feel the pressing need to clean up his shame before hatred can find its way back into place. Right now, his wounds don’t exist, neither does his anxiety. His pride’s already fucked off to another plane and Rolan hopes it’ll take an extended holiday. He wants to confront you without it for the first time since you forced your way into his life.

Determined, his ego picks the pieces of itself from the ground as Rolan grinds his softening cock into the now cool mess of his release. He thinks that such a tribute has to be well received. With no experience with women, people, or conversations and social normality— Rolan has high hopes that the next inevitable run-in with you will end on a pleasant note. Of course, nothing of his fantasies will be realized, —he’ll hold those thoughts in the dreary prison he keeps them in—, but he’s resolute to to let you in on the secret respect he’s reserved for you.

You mean a great deal to him, and he hopes to let you know as such.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts! I'm sorry I made you read the word turgid, I thought it was funny and refused to edit it out lol.

#baldurs gate fanfic #Bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #rolan x tav #rolan x reader #rolan x you #poki writing #Poki fics #bg3 rolan

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blushstories · 23 days

Note

Hello! Just saw your quick fire blurb series and I'd love to suggest:

Gale x Tav

Where Tav is upset because their feelings for Gale are one-sided.... or are they? 👀

Hope you get tons of inspiration from any asks you receive! 🥰

hi!!! yay thank you so much for being my second request:))) i will do my best <3 set during the party after the grove is rescued !!

Glass crashed somewhere behind you, followed by an uproar of laughter and cheers. Someone’s just won a drinking race.

You don’t know what Karlach’s saying to you, she’s a blur in your vision; your eyes have drifted over her shoulder to where Gale stands. His head is bent over a book as usual, strands of his hair falling slightly over his face. Karlach is so lost in her anecdote that she doesn’t notice your concentration failing, gesturing animatedly, perhaps partially due to the alcohol from the festivities.

Gale’s finger follows a line in his book as he reads, then flips the page. He considers something for a moment, then his eyes flit up to meet yours. Your heart gives a massive thump as you avert your gaze, heat rushing to your cheeks. You tune back into your conversation with Karlach, only for her to cut herself off. She scans your flustered appearance, fingers gripping your cup just a little too tight.

“You alright, soldier?” She asks with a quirked eyebrow. You nod, relaxing a little as you shake yourself back into reality. A knot tightens in your stomach as you scold yourself for getting caught up again in your feelings. Specifically, your feelings for Gale. He’s never shown much interest in you in that way, but your rational brain can’t pull you out of your crush. The knot will remain, and you will be reminded of it every time you see Gale.

“Yeah, sorry,” you shake your head, as if these thoughts were going to fall out of your ears. “Just thinking. Maybe I’ll put this down,” you say, putting the bottle onto the crate next to you.

“Have you tried talking to him?” Karlach asks. You freeze and she smiles. “You’re not so subtle. Lucky if he hasn’t caught on already. Is he still looking?”

You jaw goes a little slack, and you feel foolish for wearing your heart on your sleeve, and forgetting to hide it. Your eyes flicker between Karlach and then Gale, who is still watching the both of you.

“Yep. Yeah. Great. Um, I think I might go and hide now. Until tomorrow. And Gale could do with a rest, so you can join us on the road if you want. Yeah…” your heart has picked up a little and you try to slip away, but Karlach’s voice stops you.

“Trust me, Y/N. Give it a shot.”

Maybe her confidence influences yours. You spin on your heel and start walking towards Gale, who is putting his book away. You mutter something like I hope you’re right as you pass her, and you approach Gale with a small smile.

“Ah, Y/N. I was hoping you’d spare me a moment. Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah, actually. It’s nice to see everyone happy for once,” you say. He hums in agreement as he scans the small crowd behind you.

“How come you’re not over there? Don’t you want to join in?” You say.

“Oh, I’m perfectly content to stand here and watch. Their happiness seems to be my own. Your company is, however, most welcome.” There’s a glint in his eye.

“Can I sit with you?” You take a small chance, realizing that there’s nobody else you wish to spend time with tonight.

“That would be delightful,” he says, pulling out an extra cushion for both of you to sit.

The night crawls on lightly, you and Gale enshrouded by the shadows around his tent and whispering under the stars and moonligb, the promises of something beautiful blooming glistening on your skin.

#baldurs gate x tav #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate x reader #baldurs gate gale #gale x reader #gale dekarios #gale x tav #baldurs gate fanfic

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amywritesthings · 7 months

Text

the better strategy. / astarion x tav

summary: After successfully saving Druid Grove, Astarion has one goal in mind: secure his safety. His strategy? Seduce Tav. But what if that plan goes horribly wrong and he falls for his own game? pairing: astarion x tav (female, she/her) word count: 3.9k tags: tiefling party reimagined, act one spoilers, non-sexual intimacy, astarion's pov, allusions to astarion's past, selûne!tav // mature for thematic elements

part two. / masterlist.

PART ONE: THE ATTEMPT

“I can’t help but notice you’re not indulging.”

The minute the conflict within the goblin camp was over, the second the dust settled in the grove and the victory was imminent, Astarion knew precisely the trajectory he would need to take.

Call it his innate instinct — it wouldn’t take many brain cells to understand just who led this group of afflicted tadpole carriers, for better or worse, after such a battle.

At first he assumed Shadowheart would be the one he’d eventually stalk in the daylight, with her mysterious artifact clutched tightly to her chest. The follower of Shar, however, has about as many problems as her braid has sections.

She would not lead this group to triumph.

Lae’zel? Strong, but lacking in people skills.

Karlach? Strong, relatively agreeable, but suffering greatly from her fiery defect.

Wyll? Too many contracts, so little time to absolve them.

Gale? Not a chance in any of the Hells.

Tav, however…

Calm and collected Tav. Skilled and cunning Tav. Diplomatic and equitable Tav.

Brilliant in all shades of red, peppered across her skin in blood spatter — that Tav.

From the beach where he held a knife to her throat all the way to securing a victory for the refugee tieflings at a grove that never deserved her help, he’s watched this elven woman go from a nobody to a savior overnight.

Everyone vies for her attention. Everyone wants her approval.

Even now he witnesses her flutter through the throngs of beggars invading their sleeping space, trying their hands at flattery and praise.

(Incredible, that her ego hasn’t shot to the heavens with the gods and goddesses themselves.)

So when she finally — finally — stops in front of his tent after her lap around the camp, he knows he must catch her attention.

Keep it. Suffocate it.

He holds an empty goblet for the sake of saving face amongst the traveling tieflings, not quite willing to divulge his little secret so willingly to strangers.

Tav stops walking to stand before him when she catches that he's talking to her. “Am I not?" she challenges, holding up her goblet. "I’m drinking.”

“Not as heavily as others,” he quips, blinking his attention to the downtrodden no-name tiefling to his left still going through the motions of war and loss.

Tav’s eyes follow Astarion’s, resting there on the tiefling for a moment. Astarion blinks back to watch her expression soften — empathy.

(He hates it when she does that.)

“No, I suppose not,” she begins to reason. “That being said, I must admit I was not born with an iron stomach like Gale — or given a gifted singing voice like Alfira — or find myself in the mood to expose my talent of strength like Lae’zel.”

He can see it in his peripheral — Wyll and Gale sharing a bottle of wine, discussing the parameters of magic while crowding a most-eager Alfira as her slender fingers strum well-loved strings. Shadowheart sits quietly to the side of Halsin, nodding her head to the steady stream of tunes, and Karlach whoops and hollers as Lae’zel takes down yet another tiefling opponent in a series of arm wrestling matches.

Astarion hums indifferently. “But you were the one who secured the demise of those leaders. They all should grovel at your feet.”

“I recall seeing a fire bolt or two ignite from your hand,” Tav teases, returning her attention to his face. The licks of light from the fire compliments her complexion so well. “It wasn’t an effort finished alone.”

“It was an opportunity for violence,” he reasons. “I wasn’t about to squander it.”

“Is that so?” she asks, seemingly unconvinced by his removed reasons.

“Besides, fighting and swordplay is all well and good, but you were the one to spin the spider’s web to convince that rigid drow to believe we were rallying to her cause,” he tut-tuts with his tongue. “I didn’t think you had it in you to lie.”

After a brief huff, Tav shakes her head. “Not my best strategy.”

Astarion’s brows slide high. “No? I beg to differ.”

“I just needed to buy more time so no one would get hurt,” Tav explains, and Astarion wants to outwardly groan at her heroics. He doesn't. “I had no interest in aligning myself with someone who wanted to bring so much pain. Zevlor led his people well — they ought to be the ones you praise.”

Gods, he really likes her best when she’s focused on battle. Feral, merciless, bold — not whatever this at the end of the fight. She’ll list the damned stray dog for valor before herself.

Still, Astarion catches himself before he can ruin his own performance and sharply inhales. He puts a knowing smile back on his face, voice smooth like tainted honey nectar.

“You could still stand to take a little credit, my sweet,” Astarion replies, “but if you’re not willing to take it, then allow me to personally pay it forward.”

The dance is as old as time itself. Astarion steps from the makeshift rug of his tent, finding himself in the plush earth beneath their feet. The party rages on around them with copious laughter and impromptu music and sloshing ale, but the vampire hears nothing, sees nothing, smells nothing — except her.

And, if he’s calculated correctly, she only sees him.

Jogging up to him after missions to check in on his opinion as if she truly gives a damn. Glancing back when she’s talking to all sorts of lowly creatures as if his opinion means anything to alter her otherwise fortified decisions.

He tries to goad her into the worst possible ideas — no, this person doesn’t need help; no, this idiot can rightfully get fucked for creating their own problems; no, we’re not accepting a mere thank you for payment of our services.

(It’s any wonder she has any gold in her pockets at all.)

Sometimes she listens. Sometimes she’ll demand payment — though, if he had it his way, Astarion would turn these godforsaken degenerates upside-down and shake them stupid until Tav drains them of every last coin for acting like she’s anything but a saint.

Sometimes she stands up for herself, and Astarion can’t help but giggle when these little leeches scramble to reroute back to her good graces.

If he was a lesser man, if he didn’t know better, then the vampire would have an insane thought behind these random acts of acknowledgement: that she values him.

Somehow, in some way, even after he’s managed to violate her trust, her body, her blood — all for his gain.

For his survival.

Now he’ll offer something similar as a sort of payback for her kindness. Unfortunately, his talents are something of a one-trick pony: take a ride, any ride, and he’ll provide the best bloody night of your life. Cazador all but forced it to be a guarantee.

In the end, offering his body to Tav will secure his position in this merry band of misfits.

It will keep him safe — even if he feels the bile rising in his throat as he prepares himself to bite his lip and play coy to her every desire and whim.

(He can prove she’s just as vile as the rest.)

“Pay it forward?” Tav asks as if she doesn’t already know.

“Everyone appears occupied,” he begins, each word dripping with intention. “I can’t imagine they’ll miss us for a spell.”

His crimson eyes find hers, searching for the answer he needs: desire – for him, for stress relief, for a chance to use a willing body to let go.

“There’s a clearing not far from camp,” he purrs, taking yet another step as he ducks his chin to meet her gaze. “You can see the moon brilliantly. And the trees will catch your pretty little cries, so I implore you to be as loud as you’d like.”

Yet he’s met with widening eyes without a single thought behind them. Her lips part, close, then part again. Astarion waits for the telltale signs he’s memorized for the last agonizing two centuries — quickening of breath, dilated eyes, shifting in her stance.

“I promise it will be a night you shall never forget.”

He smirks with haughty confidence, his swagger undoubtedly catching her eye. He won’t touch her , not yet — it’s always best to make the anticipation —

Wait.

There: her eyes widen a fraction larger, lips parting with a sharp inhale.

Then her nose scrunches as if… amused, and he’s lost the script.

The hells?

“Astarion,” she starts.

“Yes, my dear,” he coos, keeping that seductive air about him.

“I don’t…” Tav gives a small smile, apologetic in nature. “I appreciate what you’re offering. Flattered, even, but I’m not someone who…”

Astarion stops moving forward, taken aback by the hesitance in her voice. For someone so headstrong in their decisions within this group, this is the first he’s seen her so… girlish? Up until now, he’s never seen Tav react to anything without conviction.

He senses a running theme between such an annoyance and the unwavering faith of a cleric.

“Am I meant to use our wiggling little friend to complete that thought for you?” Astarion presses, fluttering his fingers parallel to his temple for dramatic emphasis.

Tav sighs, and he hates it. “It’s hard to find the right words.”

“Then we needn’t use them,” he persuades airily. “That’s what bodies are for.”

Gods, she gives this look — and by now, he knows it well. The same knowing stare she gave that wretched little gnome who dared speak ill of her even after his rescue. The same knowing stare she gave Wyll when he threatened to attack their fiery friend.

The game is up.

Astarion feels… cold. Rejected?

He didn’t wish to sleep with her in the first place, but he’s never been outright denied.

“Is the gaudy wizard that eats magic trousers more your type, then?” He flippantly twists the problem away, raising a brow of feigned disinterest. “Or perhaps it’s the bloodthirsty Githyanki who gets off on smelling sweat.”

Tav snorts, rolling her eyes in a way that makes his stomach churn.

Does she think him a joke? Not attractive? Not worthy of sleeping upon her bedroll?

He runs through a list of grievances the cleric may have with him when she finally finishes the lingering thought: “I’m not someone who deals in one-night trysts.”

Tav explains slowly, cautiously, as if trying to spare his feelings. Astarion would be offended if he wasn’t so confused.

“I recognize many of us are seeing these hours as our final to live. Yet I find no comfort or pleasure in sleeping with someone I barely know.”

“But you know me better than most,” Astarion argues under his breath, jutting his chin back. That isn’t entirely a lie — Tav’s has taken the inner workings of his past, his plight, and the monster itself in stride.

Tav is the one to take a step forward this time, her cup half-drunk from the wine Halsin poured. Suddenly another feeling twists in the vampire’s sated gut: surely she’s letting him down gently because she’s interested in that beast of a man.

(The druid is certainly less jagged around the edges, teeth and all.)

“Not well enough for something like that, though,” she replies, her smile light.

Astarion’s brows knit as he considers his options. His usual form of seduction hadn’t worked. Should he spin a story, a web of lies, to make her think she truly knows him? Should he push a little harder, make promises of delight and pleasure, to—

“I’d like to see this clearing you speak of, to see the moon. Connecting with Selûne would be wonderful to experience with you near,” Tav adds, interrupting his inner monologue, “if you’re still willing to show me.”

Oh.

That’s so…

Odd.

Why does he suddenly feel so out of place and odd?

“I…” Astarion has half a mind to wave her off, to say it’s a massive waste of his night when he could get his quota filled by someone else in this camp. Yet he’s compelled to stay, to stare, as he takes in her expression. “...if that is what you wish.”

Is this a game? Play ignorant, then arrive at the clearing for sex?

He can’t read her. He can’t place her smile into any sinister category. It only widens, bright like the moon above, and she brings her goblet to her lips.

The vampire finds himself watching as her neck bobs with the gulp she takes.

“Shall I see you once everyone rests?” Tav asks, suddenly having the upper hand in a situation that was supposed to be his and his alone.

All the vampire can do is nod, sensible not to say anything that will jeopardize the private meeting, and smiles with a strain when she walks away to talk to the tiefling moping on the edges of the camp.

Of course she talks the sad sack into joining the party.

Of course she fucking does.

There’s still a chance she might want him.

All this talk about not wanting to rush things or explore another person could have been for show. She’s the diplomat of this group of imbeciles, lest he forget. She probably couldn’t afford to look interested in him, much less anyone else, so not to cause tension.

No worry — he’ll come prepared, may the cards fall where they must.

Astarion creeps past his tent, shedding his white tunic to hang on a sturdy branch a mere foot’s step away from the clearing in question. His pale skin practically glitters and glistens in the light poking through the treetops, his complexion a stark contrast to the scars and lines of a body that’s only recently belonged to him.

He leaves his trousers on. He’s not a goddamn animal, after all.

“Astarion?” a rushed whisper sounds to his right, so the vampire turns in all his slender glory.

“You came,” he greets, grinning ear to ear with his entendre.

The wood elf stares back at him from a thick cluster of trees, notably confused by the way her brows knit and her nose scrunches. She assesses his vivid nakedness, but doesn’t make a comment — not yet.

Well, she doesn’t particularly look lustful.

Then her attention disappears entirely when she realizes just how clear said clearing is: a damn near perfect circle, where he’s prepared a small blanket held down by sizable rocks he’d found by the river while everyone started heading into their tents for sleep.

To an innocent eye, it’s nothing more than a midnight picnic.

If he had anything to say about it, then it would certainly become that. The only road block is Tav as she nears the makeshift lovebed in the center of the clearing.

“You didn’t have to use your blanket, you know,” she mentions, and Astarion is yet again left sputtering for a suave answer.

How the hells did she know that was his blanket and not that wretched Gale’s?

“It isn’t mine,” he tries — smooth, very smooth.

Tav makes a noise as she sits down on the blanket, head turning as she studies the lack of patterns or love in its weave.

“I saw this in your tent,” she argues without conviction. “Lae’zel hates blankets. Mine are all accounted for. And Gale—”

“Alright, yes, it’s mine,” Astarion interrupts, peeved she’s more interested in playing detective than commenting on his broad chest.

The vampire awkwardly meets her on the blanket, sitting down with his heels dug into the dirt.

His legs stay in a raised triangle, knees to the sky, while Tav sits tall and crosses her legs under one another. Her slender fingers sit in her lap, annoyingly so, and Astarion stares at them to calculate a way he can smoothly bring them into his.

All he needs is to wriggle his way into this bizarre outing, to find what makes her tick, and he’ll be safe. It’s the only word running through his head at lightning speed.

Safe, be safe, make yourself safe—

Her gasp is light, possible to miss, but it takes him right out of the mantra to look up at Tav. Her smile is practically glowing as the moonlight bathes over her body, generous and… beautiful.

“You’re right,” she murmurs. “This is… beautiful, at this time of night.” Tav pauses, searching the constellations. “It’s so hard to pray, really, at camp. I don’t wish to offend Shadowheart.”

“What does Shadowheart’s approval have anything to do with your praying?” the vampire asks, feeling surreal that this is what her pillow talk has started with. Prayer. Religion.

(He’d gotten himself at least somewhat hard at the sight of how pretty she looked in the midnight air, ready to try his hand again, but now it’s all but softened with flattened disinterest.)

“Well, she worships Shar — the twin sister of my goddess, and they are not friendly.”

“So?”

“So,” Tav explains slowly, dipping her chin to observe him at her side. “I don’t wish Shadowheart to see me as an enemy just because of our differences in worship. But now you’ve shown me a place I could visit where I can properly speak to her — so thank you."

Astarion must look perplexed as all hell, because Tav studies his face, his naked torso, then back to his face again. He sits up straighter, unable to hide his annoyance in his rigid movements.

Tav shifts in her seat as well, but before she can continue her soft little chat about useless goddesses and Shadowheart’s temperamental feelings, Astarion clears his throat.

“Do you mean to tell me we are really not going to…?”

Tav’s lips purse, and Astarion’s gaze drops to them. They’re plush, soft – they wouldn’t be the worst to kiss. Hells, she looks soft. Her neck was delectable; her blood divine. It wouldn’t be the worst lay of his miserable little life.

“Sex,” he bluntly states, slashing straight through the bush instead of beating around it for the one-hundredth time when Tav doesn’t ask. “Are we not having sex tonight?”

Tav rears her head back, pulling away from him with a lean. “I… thought I already said we weren’t, back at the party—”

“Yes, and playing coy is all well and good, but I know you hold a candle for me, darling.” Astarion gestures around to the nothingness that surrounds the clearing. “No one is here to judge. No one is listening. It’s just us, so if you want—”

“I don’t.”

Talk about a sobering response.

The vampire squints, and finally — finally — Tav raises her chin with what can be considered a glare.

It’s cute, he’ll give her that.

“I already told you that I don’t simply sleep with people to do it.”

“And why not?”

“Because it’s never any good when it’s not with someone you care for, now is it?” Tav replies, exasperated by his poking and prodding. “Is this what all of this is for? The blanket, the… lack of a shirt?”

Astarion leans in. “Was it not obvious to you?”

“I thought you were overheated in the night!” she reasons, the blush on her face creeping up her neck to her cheeks. He sees it. He fixates on it. “I thought you were genuinely being my friend.”

Friend.

Oh, that one stings — he hates that it stings, that somehow he’s disappointed in himself for kicking the hornet’s nest when he had mostly been in her good graces up until now.

“If.. that’s all you wanted from me tonight, Astarion,” the wood elf slowly begins, curbing her temper with each word spoken, “then perhaps it’s best I leave—”

“No.”

Before he realizes it, the vampire grabs ahold of her free hand to stop her from pushing to her feet. His pale hand cages her wrist in, anchoring her to this shared spot, and he feels… well, not great.

But he can’t screw this up.

He cannot, under any circumstances, have her hate him.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology feels disgusting on his tongue, because he doesn’t quite mean it. He means a fraction of it, however, and that’s enough to push a genuine tone in his voice.

“Please, just… sit with me, then.”

He continues to hold her wrist, taking it as a good sign that Tav hasn’t ripped it from his grasp yet. That, or she’s just giving him the nicety treatment she gives to all of her companions.

Slowly the woman lowers back to the blanket, and he realizes a beat too late that she’s turned her palm to face his.

What?

Tav sighs heavily and turns their hands with a delicacy that feels too sacred for an undead such as himself. Astarion’s palm faces the mercy of the moon when his long fingers, one sinful digit at a time, let go of her wrist.

She doesn’t move away.

“Intimacy is a gift so many people crave,” she begins softly. “I know I do. I know all of us do. It’s why we choose to stay together.”

“The bloody tadpoles in our heads are what keep us together,” Astarion flatly argues, but his voice is tighter as her fingers draw against the life line of his palm.

She huffs with a laugh. “That, too.”

She sits her fingertips atop his palm, hovering. A lump forms in his throat.

“I like when physical intimacy is just that — intimate. That’s not to say Lae’zel’s views or your own are wrong, but… just isn’t how it works for me.”

Astarion is immobile. Lost, quite frankly, in the sensation that’s so little yet feels like it could move mountains.

He’s terrified to breathe, to think, as she continues to press her hand gently to his.

“For me?” she continues. “This — knowing you have my back, and I have yours? That you sit here in front of my goddess and allow me a moment to think — that is intimacy.”

He exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, before raising a defeated brow. “And this is pleasurable, for you?”

“Is it not for you?” she returns straight back like a rapid-fire arrow to the gut.

The vampire doesn’t know how to answer that. Yes, this feels… nice, but it also feels wrong. Like he’s holding a lamb before the slaughter.

She is too trusting.

This world, as horrific as it is, will swallow her whole. He will swallow her in a singular gulp, right down the gullet, before she can process his inevitable betrayal.

Yet what does that say about him — holding her hand, allowing her to manipulate his palm at will, in front of a goddess he doesn’t believe in? This is her sanctuary yet he does not burn.

When she returns her gaze back to the moon with the wonder of a person who doesn’t believe in eternal damnation for merely existing, Astarion cannot help but stare.

Not at the moon, no.

At her.

Astarion’s fingers experimentally curl around hers, testing the boundary.

He notices the way she smiles not long after.

It takes a second too late to realize that he is smiling, too.

Well — shit.

#baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x tav #astarion x female tav #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fic #bg3 fanfiction #amywritesthings #the better strategy #baldurs gate 3 fic #baldurs gate fanfic #baldurs gate fic

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thecampjuicebox · 6 months

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Feeding the Raph stans today. Enjoy ~

The Deal

Pairing: Tav(f) x Raphael

POV: 2nd person (Reader being Tav)

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

Warnings: SMUT, fingering, overstimulation, spitting, biting, Dom Raph x Sub Tav, bondage, slapping, piv intercourse, GAME SPOILERS - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

You wipe the sweat from your brow and scan the room carefully, the Orphic Hammer weighing heavy on your back. This heist was no small feat, and boy, are you feeling it. Stealing from Raphael was incredibly stupid, and you're sure you'll feel his wrath soon enough, whenever the devil decides to return home. As long as you make it out of the House of Hope, you'll have your back-up. You sigh and shake your head, kicking yourself for telling your team to stay back at the Devil's Fee just in case things in the city went south. In reality, you're the one in real danger. Raphael is not the devil to mess with, surely. You shimmy into the darkness of the hall and make your way towards the portal back to the Lower City. Just a few more steps.

You pant quietly from the heat and swipe the tiny beads of sweat forming on your upper lip now, wiping your hand off on your leathers. "Gods, I can't wait to get out of this.. Hell hole." The final door lies ahead of you. Tall. Daunting. Anything or anyone, could be behind it. You gulp and brace for the worst, reaching for the handle. Giving the door a gentle tug, you crack it just enough to peak inside, spotting the empty portal room. "Fuck yes." Little steps take you towards the portal and you stop. The portal disintegrates to ash before your eyes, leaving nothing but a dusty pile on the lavish marble floor. Time seems to slow around you, the air thickening in your lungs and you gasp for air. Raphael is coming. Hot flames swirl around you and the devil appears, eyebrows knitted together in an expression of pure rage.

"You."

Your heart pounds audibly in your chest and you freeze, eyes fixed on Raphael.

"There are many things I despise from your world. Kittens, the laughter of children, the chaos of it all. Here, in my HOUSE, there is order. There is decorum. You came here uninvited, and you stole from me. You brought the chaos of YOUR world into mine. I will NOT abide it."

His words burn hot like molten metal, searing your ears. You chew your bottom lip for a moment and choose your next words carefully, hands coming to rest on your hips now. A sudden bout of confidence overcomes you and you quirk an eyebrow up at the devil, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning your weight onto one foot. A devilish smirk curves the corner of your lips upward.

"Your house in in complete disarray, Raphael. It was entirely too easy for me to slip past your guards."

Raphael takes a step closer to you, eyes burning like the fires of the very hells surrounding you. You gulp, staring up at him as he towers over you. Confidence gone, you consider running. Your fingers tremble and you pray that Raphael would take pity on you. But you dug your grave. Now you'll have to lie in it.

"You would have been a hero, had you only dealt fairly with me. Instead, you're not so different from the doomed Karsus. Steady over-reaching your limits and burning your world to ash. Your skull will make a fine trophy. Any last words? It will only take a moment to finish you."

You grit your teeth at his words and shake your head, firmly standing your ground against him now. He won't win this. He can't. His expression remains the same. Seething. Ready to tear your limbs off one by one. You ponder your options and move your eyes over Raphael.

"Wait.. I have one more preposition."

"It's too late."

Raphael pauses, lips thinning into a smirk and his eyes travel over your curvy frame, following the lines of your hips and up to your breasts before settling back on your deep eyes. He crosses his arms, drumming his fingers against his forearm, tongue flicking out against his bottom lip to moisten the skin there.

"There is only one thing you can offer me and I doubt you'd be willing to oblige."

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes squinting at the devil. What is his game here?

"Wanna bet?"

The devil steps even closer to you now, leaning in to just barely press his warm lips to your ear. You shudder at the sensation. His fingers reach out to trace your collar bones, little goosebumps raising on the sensitive flesh. His breath coasts along your earlobe.

"A night of pain and pleasure. Ecstasy unimagined. You may not leave here alive, but I suppose that's a risk you're going to have to take isn't it, little mouse? Do we have a deal? Or shall I kill you right here, right now."

Your jaw falls open slightly at the gentle caress of his fingers against your aching skin, shaking hands finding the front of his coat. You crumble at his words. His change of demeanor lights a fire inside of you that you can't control, flames licking deliciously at your core. You groan quietly into his ear and nod. A large hand moves up to your throat, closing its grip tightly around your airway and you grunt at the sudden loss of oxygen.

"Use your words."

"Deal."

Raphael grins and snaps with his free hand, the one grasping your throat tightening ever so slightly. The deal is signed, your soul is his for the taking. He revels in watching you squirm beneath his touch, your eyes rolling back into your head as you fight for consciousness. With a firm shove, he releases your throat and you collapse to your knees, struggling for breaths, your lungs burning. You cough, hands flat on the marble floor for support.

"I expect to find you in my boudoir. Remove your clothes and wait for me on your knees."

...

Raphael's boudoir is as lavish and expensive as you'd expect, perfectly crafted furniture adorned with jewels and gold leaf scattered about the room. A tall, large bed sits neatly made up against the far wall, sheer red tule cascading down and around the sides like a romantic shroud. You step carefully, eyes scanning the opulent paintings of Raphael hanging on the walls. He's so full of himself. What a surprise. With labored breaths, you begin to undress, the devil's words ringing in your ears. "Wait for me on your knees." You slide off the last garment and leave them in a neat pile on the floor, pale skin shivering with anticipation. Sliding to your knees carefully, you place your hands on your plush thighs and lower your head, waiting just as the devil asked you.

Raphael saunters into the room, chalice of red wine in hand, a confident air about his posture. He spots you on the ground and smirks, approaching you slowly.

"Such an obedient slave. You're going to be such a joy to play with."

Your core aches. Arousal coats your inner thighs and you squeeze them together tightly, lest you make a mess on Raphael's nice rug. Your knees burn from the rough surface beneath them and you shift uncomfortably. A small whine escapes you as Raphael moves to the side of you and grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging your head back roughly to make you look up at him, his free hand moving the chalice in small circles to swirl the sweet smelling contents inside.

"Hm. Open."

His eyes point at your lips and you obey, opening your mouth for him. He brings the chalice to his still smirking lips and takes a small sip of the wine, swishing it around his mouth. He leans over you and spits the wine into your mouth, little splashes of red landing on your cheeks and chin. You lap at the liquid, swallowing while keeping your eyes on Raphael, your tongue moving around your lips and chin to clean the droplets you can reach. Raphael growls quietly and tightens his grip on your hair.

"Good little mouse. Stand up."

You nod against the tension on the back of your head and carefully shuffle to your feet, thighs still squeezed tightly together. The devil eyes you carefully and releases your hair, beginning to circle around you like an owl bear stalking its prey. He reaches a hand out and presses it between your thighs, moving them apart. He groans at the warmth there and slides his hand upward, collecting your slick on his fingers.

"Already so wet for me. Open up. Now."

Your mouth opens quickly, tongue dropping out and he slides his now wet fingers against the drool covered surface, swiping back and forth. You mewl at your own taste and close your lips around his fingers, sucking them clean. His eyebrows tilt downwards and a moan escapes his gritting teeth. His fingers slide further into your mouth, prodding at the back of your throat now. You gag and he tuts quietly, pushing further. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes. Raphael grins and removes his fingers from your lips with a soft "pop", a string of drool connecting the two of you. You keen at the emptiness in your throat, looking up at the devil with glossy eyes. Your expression twists to one of need. Your eyes are begging. Absolute submission. Something you've never given anyone before, and something you definitely didn't initially plan to give a devil. Raphael made you feel things even the first time you met him. His deep voice makes your head spin. The subtle smell of cherries and smoke that lingers even after he leaves sets fire to your senses and you crave him. He's intoxicating, and you want to get drunk. Raphael considers you his only weakness, your supple curves tempting him regularly. Every visit to you is purely for his enjoyment at this point. He craves you too. Carnally. Cock twitching in his trousers when you disobey him. He often thinks about the way your hips sway when you walk, your voice sweet like honey when you question him. His lust for you goes far beyond depravity. And he intends to show you just that.

"On the bed, little mouse. Get pretty for me."

Climbing carefully on the bed, you sit up on your knees and Raphael shakes his head, following you up onto the silk duvet. He pushes you backwards onto the cloud-like surface, grasping your ankles to spread your legs as far apart as your hips will allow, each foot pointing towards the bottom corners of the bed. Thick leather straps lock onto your ankles first, Raphael humming quietly to himself as little gold padlocks click into place. He gives the restraints a hefty tug to test the integrity. The devil straddles your waist and moves your arms up to the upper corners of the bed, trapping your wrists the same way. His fingers fiddle with the second set of gold padlocks, a proud chuckle leaving his lips as he leans back to admire his work. You chew your lip and stare up at the ceiling, a large gold-framed mirror showing you a glimpse of your pathetic fate. Wet eyes blink up at your reflection and you whine at the tight restraints.

"Shh, this is all very necessary. Wouldn't want you running away now."

Hot lips press sloppy kisses to your thighs, needy fingers following close behind to grope the skin soon after. Your back bows off of the bed, limbs tugging at the restraints holding you down so perfectly. "Gods.." Raphael grins against your skin and squeezes your inner thigh. "None of those here, love." You grind your hips up into the air and cry out as Raphael bites into your sensitive skin suddenly, drawing blood. He laps at the red fluid carefully, his tongue tantalizingly hot. Pulling away, he admires the deep bite marks in your thigh and kisses them sweetly, moving up your thigh to sink his teeth into the skin just beside your dripping cunt. You throw your head back, jaw falling open and you cry his name loudly, tears stinging your eyes. He coos, moving his fingers up the rub the backs of his knuckles against the outside of your folds. Sticky arousal coats his fingers and your skin.

"Such a mess, mouse. Such a sweet mess. You've been so good so far, I think you deserve a reward."

Without warning, Raphael plunges two fingers into your quivering hole, earning a loud moan from you. Your walls tighten around him and he pumps back and forth slowly, ever so slightly curving the tips of his fingers upwards to just miss your g-spot. His thumb rubs clockwise circles into your swollen clit. He watches you carefully, taking inventory of each of your moans, whimpers, and cries. Your legs tremble at the sensation, arousal dripping onto the bed and creating a puddle on the silk each time Raphael slides his fingers almost all the way out of your cunt before roughly plunging them back into your warmth. He hisses, fingers prodding at your cervix. You gasp for air, a delicious mixture of his promised pain and pleasure knocking the wind out of you with each of his harsh thrusts.

"That's it. You're doing so good."

His deep voice sends a shiver down your tight spine. The muscles in your abdomen wind in a ball each time Raphael's fingers scrape your walls, thumb still working furiously on your now aching bundle of nerves. You cry out once more, nearing your end rapidly. His pace quickens and your entire body tenses in response, sweat beading up all over you, your pale skin glistening in the lanternlight of the boudoir. Raphael leans down and licks a long strip from the top of your mound to your sternum, the salty taste of your sweat blurring his vision. He bites into your hip, earning another cry. The rope of pleasure in your belly tightens further and further, little twinges of pain making your eyes roll back into your skull. Jaw falling slack, you ball your hands into fists, your toes curling and and causing your calves to cramp.

"Raphael.. I'm so close.. C-Can I.."

Raphael climbs up near your head, leaning in to nip at the tip of your pointed ear, breath hot against your skin. His fingers quickly slide out of you, your walls fluttering around the emptiness. Whining loudly, you wiggle your hips at your fleeting orgasm, tears freely streaming down the sides of your face and into your ears.

"Aht aht. Not yet. I'm not finished with you."

The devil slinks off of the bed, undressing in front of you slowly. He slides his coat off and tosses it onto the velvet bench at the end of the bed, silk shirt following soon after. He kicks his boots off and reaches for the laces on his trousers, cock straining against the tight fabric. You drool at the sight of him. Gods, he's beautiful. With careful attention to your reactions, Raphael tugs his trousers and underwear down simultaneously, thick cock springing out and upward. You groan, blinking at him with intense need. The need to fill you up with his girth. To hear him moan as he absolutely ruins you. You buck your hips up off of the bed and whine for him, cheeks burning a sweet shade of red. Your face burns hot. Your belly aches, core awaiting his inches. He saunters back to the bed, snapping his fingers and all 4 little padlocks click at the same time, falling to the duvet beneath you. You wiggle your fingers and toes, awaiting your freedom. Gentle hands work at the leather straps to carefully undo them. With close movements, Raphael climbs back onto the bed, warm body sliding carefully up yours before settling on top of you, weight pushing you into the mattress. You hesitate for a moment, blinking up at him.

"M-May I touch you? Please?"

"Since you asked so nicely, you may."

You lower your arms from their previous resting place above your head and carefully run the tips of your fingers down Raphael's sides, his skin breaking out in goosebumps at your feather light touch. He groans quietly, head lowering so his chin rests on your shoulder. You shiver and continue the movement of your fingers to his back, nails digging daringly into his flesh and dragging downward in one long, rough line. He grunts and bucks his hips forward, one hand planting firmly on the bed beside your head, the other grasping your cheeks roughly, squishing your face so your lips pucker open. He sneers, gathering a decent amount of saliva before spitting directly into your mouth. You choke and writhe beneath him, the taste of wine and your own blood still lingering in his spit. He chuckles and sits up on his knees between your thighs, grasping your hips to carefully pull your lower body closer to his, dripping cunt resting against his painfully erect cock. You test the waters once more, rolling your hips upwards against him.

"So impatient, little mouse. You're going to get yourself in trouble acting like that."

Raphael grips his member in his hand, spitting into his palm and giving it a few slow pumps before lining up with your slit, quickly slamming himself inside. You gasp and shriek out loud, arms reaching to push yourself away from him. He expertly grasps your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, the other hand wrapping perfectly around your sore throat, thumb pressing into one side, fingers following suit on the other side. Little black spots float through your vision and he thrusts into you again, the tip of his cock brushing your cervix. Your hips twitch beneath him but you do your best to hold still now, your vision going blurry as you fade in and out of consciousness. Raphael holds you in that position, head dizzy from the way your walls grip his cock. His hips find a steady rhythm now. A single finger points upwards towards the large mirror you noticed earlier.

"Look at how pathetic you are. Watch me fuck you. Watch me ruin you."

You mewl when you finally adjust to his size, eyes flicking upwards to the mirror. He releases your throat, hand dropping to grope at your breast. You push your chest up into his touch needily. Gentle fingers stroke back and forth over the tender flesh, flicking a few times over your nipple before rearing back and landing a firm smack. You grunt, a red handprint quickly raising on the skin of your breast. Raphael continues to thrust into you, pausing for a moment to lock one of his legs with yours and flip the two of you over, settling you on top of him. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together.

"Ride. And maybe I'll let you cum tonight."

You nod sheepishly, knees planting firmly on either side of his torso. Your hips roll back and forth with perfect rhythm, hands gripping onto Raphael's tightly for stability. He hisses, head tilting back into the soft pillows beneath him. You lean forward to press a soft kiss to his Adam's apple and giggle at the strained whine he lets out. Making the devil himself crumble under your touch. How brave. Raphael's honey colored eyes meet yours and you smile sweetly down at him, you hips taking on a slight bounce now. The devil grits his teeth and releases your hands, his own moving to your hips to guide you up and down on his weeping cock, his hips thrusting roughly up into you now. Sharp nails find purchase on Raphael's chest, scratching long thin lines into the burning flesh, little droplets of blood dribbling up through the fresh wounds. You throw your head back in ecstasy, Raphael digging his nails into the firm skin of your ass.

"By the Nine Hells, I'm so close.."

His voice is strained, pitch wavering as he nears his end. You double down on your movements.

"Cum for me, Raphael."

His eyes burn bright in the lanternlight and he switches positions again, rolling you over and pulling your ass to him, a large hand gripping the hair on the back of your head to shove your face into the mattress. He shoves his cock into you once more, fucking you into the silk, free hand landing a loud smack against the flesh of your ass. You jolt forward, walls tightening subconsciously around him and he gasps at the sudden change of sensation. He yanks his cock out of you swiftly and begins to pump it with his hand, hot ropes of milky white cum spewing onto your ass and back, making a mess of you. You grin, obediently keeping your face pressed to the bed. "Fucking shit!" Raphael cries out, hand slowing to a stop before letting his cock fall limp against his thigh, still twitching from his earth shattering orgasm. You turn your head slightly to peek up at him, his chest heaving. He swipes his fingers through the mess on your backside, collecting a reasonable amount before shoving his fingers into your mouth. You mewl and swirl your tongue around the digits, sucking and licking them clean.

"You vixen.."

Raphael pulls his fingers away from you, immediately shoving them into your cunt. You jolt forward once more, rocking yourself back and forth on his fingers, desperate for your own release. "P-Please.."

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. You'll have to speak up."

"Please, Raphael.."

He shakes his head, free hand reaching between your legs to rub your clit with his palm, the coverage and friction sending you into a moaning frenzy.

"Louder."

You cry out at the movement of both of his hands, hands grasping for the silk duvet. Your back arches inward, churning belly pressing tightly to the mattress.

"Fuck, please, Raphael! Please let me cum!"

"Much better, mouse."

His hands pick up speed. Your moans and whimpers silence to airless gasps, legs shaking uncontrollably under his touch. His fingers slide carefully out of your cunt, other hand still furiously working your overstimulated clit. He's determined now. The rope in your belly begins to tighten again, winding itself into a big knot before snapping all together, your vision going white as your orgasm nearly knocks you all the way over. You scream the devil's name, along with many other incoherent words, your legs kicking and arms flailing as Raphael continues rubbing. Your clit burns beneath his fingers, your walls fluttering around nothing. Emptiness. Using the edge of the bed as leverage, you pull yourself away from Raphael's fingers, panting heavily as you squeeze your thighs together. "Fuck.. Ow fuck.." Raphael grins down at you, reaching forward to firmly press his palm against your clit again. You sob, trying to squeeze your thighs together to no avail. He palms at your clit roughly, free hand swirling soft circles around your slit. He's torturing you now, relishing in the way he can make you spasm. Tears stream down your cheeks and you wiggle yourself away from him again. Raphael chuckles and sits back, allowing you your small moment to recover.

"I believe we've both delivered what we've promised. You're free to go now."

He motions towards the door of the boudoir, eyes narrowing on you, waiting on a response. You stare at him, blinking the tears away. After a moment of contemplation, you shake your head and climb up towards the pillows at the head of the bed, settling on your side. Your fingers trace little shapes into the sweat soaked silk.

"I don't know.. I think I could get used to this. Staying here, with you. As long as you help my friends and I with this little-"

You point to your temple, illuding to the tadpole that still angrily wriggles behind your eyes.

"-Problem."

Raphael's eyes widen and he ponders for a moment, tired body slinking up to rest next to you. He reaches out and trails a hand over the highs and lows of your curves, licking his lips hungrily.

"I think we could arrange something."

#Raphael bg3 #Raphael fanfic #fic request #Raphael smut #Raphael x Tav #house of hope #baldurs gate fanfic

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senseandaccountability · 9 months

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I'm sorry, I had to take a break from the game to write this little act 1 ficlet because I'm obsessed and wanted to try out this POV for a bit. Sorry/not sorry.

Build this ship to wreck pg-13, 900-ish words

*** It’s so simple, seducing her. Almost boring in all its pettiness. A little flattery here, a carefully worded promise there - their lives are dark and dreary and full of worms and Elnys Tavren is not even half as immune to vain delights as she’d like to pretend she is. “You don’t have me yet,” she reminds him and all the freckles and scars of her skin seem visible in the moonlight at that moment. The darkness rising from the earth nearly disguises her but not to him. Never to him, he doesn’t miss a beat and that’s why he’ll win in the end.

There’s something wild about the way she moves. Something raw and unrefined that makes him think not of the endless line of perfect, willing bodies he’s lured and baited over the centuries, but of a before that he no longer knows ever truly existed outside of his imagination. Hundreds of years of make-believe take their toll, he assumes. Perhaps that’s why he - apart from the fact that she’s the least powerful fighter of the group - had chosen to bite her, not so long ago. Glaringly obvious reasons aside, she’s also someone the living man he used to be might have desired, once, before he made a deal with the devil and lost all traces of himself to cruelty and death. Cazador, at least, wouldn’t enjoy her, of this he’s absolutely certain. Look what the pets dragged in. He’d feed, soften the worst of his bottomless hunger and throw away her corpse; the notion rattles dangerously in Astarion’s chest for a fraction of a second. No.

The chasm of his pasts thunders and rages, but he can’t give in to it, can’t twist up this chance at turning the tables. Nothing matters but that freedom, the sheer might of it. Does it? Mere hours ago Elnys had allowed him to deal with the filthy Gur monster hunter the way he saw fit and Astarion had cut the man down - sloppily, without much glee, but instead a sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach. Disappointment, surely, at the lack of grandeur. Surprise that the dreadfully dull woman holding the reins had loosened them like that when, normally, she’ll jump in between an arrow and a bystander for no good reason. On the way back to camp he had meant to ask her why, meant to prod further into the shades of what his power over her could be wielded from - lust, loyalty, naivety - but the words had got caught up in between their companions, then in a camp full of celebration and revolting wine. There’s so much to consider, wound tight around others like this. Obstacles, idiocies, downright doubts, but Astarion is nothing if not resourceful so here they are now. He tells her he’s been wanting to have her since he first saw it. It’s cheap, hells is it ever, but what is seduction other than a mutually signed pact to play certain parts? An animal and its prey. The consummate lover and their chosen one. There’s a glint in her eyes as he steps closer, a flicker of hesitation perhaps. He changes his tone, tilts his head, adjusts to her unspoken demands and just like that, it’s gone again. It’s so simple, seducing her. And hells, it would be boring if it wasn’t for her rough edges, the unpolished lust and the memory of nights in camp, listening to her spin tales from the sordid places she grew up in, her glee after a successful battle, her sharp insights and filthy mouth. All those details of her, they fill up every empty space between them, flatten out the hollows.

She tastes of cheap wine and smoky fish and her hands get lost in his hair, twisting themselves around his curls as he kisses her; he gets lost in his own well-rehearsed theatrics, then in her blood as she rolls her neck and allows him. No fear, no sense of obligation and he’ll remember this for at least a century, he thinks, the way her fingers trace the wretched scars along his back as he drinks her, the way her breath catches and her lips are on his, licking her own life from them. Afterwards, she’s flat on her back beside him on the ground like they’re some lost wood elves frolicking about; he plays along, thinking this woman's surely predictable enough to appreciate that sort of romantic delusion. She’s glancing at him with that particular gaze she has sometimes, letting it graze over his face. It makes her seem puzzled and determined at the same time, as though she’s measuring them quietly, holding them up against a scale of her own making.

There’s that rattle again, the sound of bones in him as he realises he doesn’t want to know what she makes of this, let alone of him. Nothing to see in here, he thinks, pushing himself up on one elbow to meet her gaze. Nothing, nothing, nothing. “Are you alright?” “Am I… what?” Elnys shrugs; the corners of her mouth twitch. “Forget it,” she says, but he won’t. After Cazador, he doesn’t forget a single thing. “Darling, of course I am, as you so eloquently put it, alright,” he retorts instead, stifling a scoff with a smile and her possible further questions with a thumb rubbing over her nipple. She growls, low in her throat, and pulls him down over her.

“’s not a strange question, you know, just common courtesy,” she mumbles later still, arms curled around herself, a few fingers vaguely brushing his arm. He doesn’t care for it, or wouldn’t under any other circumstances, but the sun will be up soon and he can’t find it in himself to spoil the wonder of seeing it by moving anywhere. Elnys’s crimson-dyed hair is spread out over the grass, over the place where his heart once could beat and Astarion lies there watching the stars fade into a bright sky as she begins to snore, her breaths tickling his shoulder. It’s so simple, seducing her.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate fic #baldurs gate fanfic #astarion x tav #astarion

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maladaptive-menace · 1 month

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well besties we did it!! most difficult chapter so far, but fuck me is it the one i’m most proud of heheheh

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mjwiththefangs · 3 days

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Trickery & Daggers, Chapter 6

In which a hungry vampire comes calling. Also on AO3 Masterlist Word count: 1875 Warnings: Vampire bite scene, blood loss.

Astarion is hungry. By the nine hells, he's so hungry. His stomach hurts. The animals he's been feeding on lately have been a welcome improvement for his paltry diet, but even so, it never quite satisfies the overwhelming gnawing in his belly.

Morgana is crouched down, inspecting a dead boar in the road. Ah. Astarion really must remember to clean up after himself in future, he notes. If they discover his nature now, he'll be ostracised, abandoned. He needs the group, he needs her and the protection she grants.

Since he peeked in her journal, and caught her limping, she's been a bit more on edge around him, more withdrawn. He's trying to figure out how he can use what he gleaned to his advantage. Should he casually drop a few elvish phrases in her ear and see how she reacts? The possibilities.

The woman is eyeing him carefully, trying not to be caught looking.

How cute. Well, it would be anyway, if he couldn't see the way the cogs in her head are turning, or feel the vaguest suspicion in her gaze. Curiously though, he can't sense hostility.

That would be something he would remember later.

It is night. They've had a long day, batting at goblins and checking out an abandoned village, even rescuing a gnome from a windmill. They plan to go back tomorrow.

For once, Morgana is not on watch. She's tired to the bones. Her leg has been aching recently. Normally, of course, she can cope and get by just fine. But normally, of course, she isn't hiking every day, or battling or even sleeping rough anymore. It's starting to wear her down.

So, in an attempt to take care of herself, she lies on her back, staring at the roof of her canvas tent, and has a pillow stuffed beneath her knee to alleviate the discomfort.

Her stomach growls as she tries to get comfortable. She has eaten, of course, Gale did rather good with what meagre offerings they brought to him and it went down very nicely with a bottle of blackstaff.

With a sigh, she closes her eyes, trying to shut out everything around her and count her breaths and drift off.

Perhaps it is because she hears something, or she's uncomfortable or even the distracting hunger deep in her belly keeping her awake, that her eyes open at the right moment.

Astarion leans over her in her tent, his mouth wide, revealing a pair of sharp glittering fangs.

“Shit.”

In one hasty motion, he scrabbles back in the small tent, holding one arm in front of himself, exclaiming “no, no- it's not what it looks like!”

“What was it supposed to look like?!” She snaps, hissing under her breath in an attempt to not wake the others.

His mouth opens and closes, failing to come up with a quick answer.

She groans, dragging a hand down her face. She crosses her legs and wearily stares him down.

“You're a vampire.”

“I- yes.”

“Have you killed anyone?”

“Well. Not for food.” his lips quirk at the corner.

She really should have seen this coming. He was far too nonchalant about the dead boar they found on the path. A long pause passes between them. Astarion squirms uncomfortably and Morgana ignores him. It all makes sense, after all.

They both jerk when their tadpoles suddenly react, and she catches a cold glimpse into his unpleasant memories. She feels the ugly blood of a dead rat wash over her tongue and choke her. But it is all the master will allow her to eat.

Then, they're both still. Her eyes meet Astarions, where he glowers from the other end of her sleeping bag.

“You… you ate rats?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes. Rats, bugs. Whatever… my Master -” he sneers the word “- deemed me worthy of.”

There's a clear distaste in his words, laced with bitterness and venom, and it becomes clear that he would rather not discuss it. So they don't. Not now, anyway.

He's returned his attention to her, leaning forward slightly, imploringly. “I just need a little blood. I could think clearer, fight better- please?”

Can she trust him? Probably no, she reasons, though he hasn't hurt her yet and it's clear his secrecy is formed from self preservation. He's hungry and that's something she's all too familiar with. Maybe they aren't so different after all.

Morgana can feel the persuasive pull of his words, the finely woven manipulation within his soft spoken plea.

She knows this is a bad decision. She knows. And yet, she just can’t bring herself to let him starve.

“Ok.”

Surprise briefly flits across his features before he carefully schools his expression into a smooth grin.

“Let's make ourselves a little more comfortable, shall we?”

And that's how she finds herself on her back in her tent, avoiding looking at the handsome man looming over her as he eyes her throat. Her heart hammers in her chest, waiting, the anticipation is almost too much.

His head dips and she squeezes her eyes shut, bracing.

“Remember to breathe, darling.”

His voice ghosts over her skin before his fangs suddenly pierce her.

Her body jerks and she sucks in a sharp gasp, her eyes snapping open.

It’s like shards of ice in her neck. The pain burns, then fades to a numbing sensation. A soft groan slips from Astarion, his lips latched on her neck, drawing deep of her life blood.

She can feel his hard body pressing closer to her, steadily getting warmer as he drinks, or maybe she's just getting colder. His arms snake around her, clutching at her like a man starved, gripping her tightly.

It feels oddly intimate. Very intimate. But, she finds herself not minding so much. In her peripheral, she can just see the tips of his ears flushing a pretty pink hue.

Cute.

His ear twitches. Her hazy eyes struggle to focus. He can’t have heard me.

Oh, but he did. It takes her a moment to realise what she’s done. Without thinking, she’s inadvertently linked their tadpoles. She can feel his giddiness, how he’s utterly enraptured in her blood, unable to think of anything else. She can feel him growing stronger. She can feel how good it feels, her own warm rich blood washing over his tongue, penetrating all his senses, satisfying a deep rooted craving and need in him.

Unthinkingly, her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and another soft noise comes from him. She knows she’s playing a dangerous game, she knows she’s giving him too much, and of course realises he’ll know too, as her thoughts brush against his. He can’t feed for much longer, not if she wants to wake up in the morning anyway, but she just can't bear the thought of leaving him to his hunger.

So she relaxes beneath him, absently reaches for his silver curls, twirling a lock around her finger until her limbs start to feel heavy and her fingertips are numb with cold.

She tries to clear her throat. “Astarion. That’s enough, ok?”

Her voice is soft, the hand she meekly pushes against his chest more so.

It’s like she’s pulled him from a trance, and then suddenly the thread between them breaks, her thoughts her own once again.

He gulps down the last mouthful of her blood, pulling back and dragging his tongue once over the wound, wasting not a drop.

When he finally sits up, his pupils are blown wide, almost completely drowning out the reds of his iris’. A line of red runs down his chin. He looks ecstatic. His face is flushed and he wears a silly grin, his fangs on full display. Morgana hasn’t seen him like this before, and briefly finds herself thinking it suits him.

“That- that was amazing.” He laughs breathlessly, full of wonder. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong, I feel… happy.”

Morgana pushes herself up onto one elbow and brushes hair away from her face to look at him. Hells, she’s getting dizzy. Meanwhile, he’s practically glowing, he looks so alive. Her head tips and she shoots him a tired smile.

“I bet you could really kick some ass.”

It seems like he’d almost forgotten she was here, his attention snapping back to her and he almost seems thoughtful. “Yes. Well, that shouldn’t take long, so many people need killing.” He breezes.

She chuckles again. What a strange elf he is.

Her body feels so heavy. The feel of her pillow under her head is a welcome one and she melts into it, spots swimming in her vision.

“Are you alright?”

Oh. Astarion is still here.

She must be taking too long to answer.

“Morgana?”

Her eyes blink a few times, finally locking on to his handsome features. Her blood is still on his chin. He’s cautiously scooted nearer, hovering not too far from her. Has he ever said her name before? She’s not sure.

Oh, wait, she needs to answer him.

With some effort, she waves her hand. “I feel tired. Woozy. Like I need to sleep for a week.” She sighs, further sinking into her bed. “I’ll be ok.”

That seems to have been a satisfactory answer.

“In that case, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.” The vampire mock bows to her and rises to his feet, carefully stepping towards the tent exit.

Part of her wants to ask him about himself, or just to confirm that she can and will be asking him come the dawn. Alas, she doesn’t have the strength.

Astarion stops short just before the exit. Curious.

He turns, looking over his shoulder. “This is a gift, you know. I won't forget it.”

And with that, he is gone. She forgot to tell him he missed a bit.

As she drifts off, back into a dreamless sleep, listening to the vampire’s footsteps fade into the distance, a vague part of her mind notes that she doesn’t feel hungry anymore.

Astarion’s undead heart is thrumming with life. His body feels as though it is buzzing beneath the surface of his skin, stronger than he has felt before, brimming with a power all his own. All thanks to her; to her blood.

Honestly, he hadn’t expected her to allow him to bite her, but then she had been more curious rather than hostile earlier that day.

The blood of a thinking creature.

He had tasted her, bit her, drank deep of her blood, and not only had she let him, but he learned something.

He can deny Cazador.

He won’t ever control me again.

Astarions mouth stretches into a feral grin. He’s free.

His pulse thrums, full of energy. He is itching to hunt. His senses are stronger than ever, he can hear for what must be miles, from the rustling in the grass, to the sound of his willing blood donor as she rolls onto her side to sleep. Even her weakened heartbeat, still stubborn and beating despite its lethargy.

He is desperate to hunt and kill and drain something. Anything.

In the near distance, he catches the scent of young stag.

Yes, that will do nicely.

Astarion sets off running.

#mj writes #fanfiction #astarion #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 tav #baldurs gate fanfic #baldurs gate fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #vampire fiction #astarion bite scene #trickery and daggers #trickery & daggers #morgana the warlock

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candyk0rn · 7 months

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Cuddles : BG3

It’s been a while! I hope you’re all doing great, and I’m sorry for once more going on a forever break lol. But of course, Baldurs Gate 3 brainrot is so real

Before reading: Fluff, headcanons, Astarion, Lae’Zel, Gale, Shadowheart x reader (separate), gn reader

Astarion:

“Oh? I see you still can’t say no to my endless charm..”

At the beginning of the relationship, touches and prodding aren’t uncommon

Anything that can bring your attention to him

It takes a while and a lot of convincing from you that his somewhat risqué touches was not all that pleased you

And eventually he can even process that you don’t just love him for his body

Although hard for him to realize, with your help he can

So after your relationship has really blossomed and grown, his touches become softer, calmer, more intimate

Nights by the crackling fire, you in his lap, his hand massaging your nape

His fingers are dangerously cold against your skin, but there’s a sense of comfort that comes with the chill

Although he will brush off your reassurance as pitiful and unneeded..

Please reassure him omg

For the longest time, he will surely believe you are like all his other conquests,

Seduced by him and his charms

But just small whispers of love into his ear, your comforting touch against his skin

That’s enough for him.

Gale:

“Come with me, we shall rest under the stars tonight.”

I am of the firm believer that Gale is horribly touch-starved, poor man

Taken advantage of by his own Goddess, thinking that that is the best he would ever be able to do

Then when you come along, it all changed

His thoughts about himself seem to change, his standards seem to change, his love seems to change

He cares so much about you, he cannot help but think he is not worthy

That a cursed, unfaithful man as himself could never even breathe the same air as you

But all of his doubts and worries seem to melt away when you two hold one another underneath the stars

Your fingers lovingly combing through his hair as he rambles on about something he is passionate about

Wether it be a book, his expertise in magic, or Tara (lmao)

Others would shove him off as a show-off, annoying, etc

But you are so willing to hear him go on and on, that he can’t help but love you

His index finger instinctively draws shapes into your back when you hold each other

When he’s cuddled up with you, his worries that today might be his last don’t even cross his mind

He’s more worried about you, how you feel, if you’re comfortable

He doesn’t care if tonight is the last night he shall ever see you

He’d rather die tomorrow than live for an eternity never knowing you

Lae’Zel:

“Chk..I do not take part in worthless acts of intimacy.”

Lae’Zel is not much of a ‘cuddles’ person

Like at all…

She’d rather feel the thrill of battle with you, bathing in the blood of your enemies

Her way of loving is slaughtering anyone who even just looks at you the wrong way

But, if you’re particularly lucky, or especially down

She can’t help but..pity you

In her mind, it’s such a disgusting feeling. This ‘love’ makes her weak, but she cannot run from it no matter how much she tries

The most touch you’ll get from her will only occur in private

A hand perched protectively on your hip or waist

Her head slumped on your shoulder when you’re on watch for the night

acts like this, although small

It means so,so much from her

And she’ll kill you if you go telling Shadowheart about how ‘sweet’ she was being last night

Shadowheart:

“My love…ugh. I’m still not used to calling someone that.”

Shadowheart is lost when it comes to you

Not only is she horribly confused that you of all people would love her

She’s confused as to how she’s supposed to love you

Her entire life, for what she can remember, she’s never been shown comfort or remorse

If she did something wrong, she was punished

She doesn’t remember a single moment in her life when she was loved the way you love her

And although grateful, she feels unworthy

Hugs are common with her, of course in private, but common nonetheless

When she hold you in her arms, the pads of her fingers massage your back lovingly, worried if she lets go, you’ll flee

Let! Her! Play! With! Your! Hair! 🙏🏻

And please play with hers omg

At night, she’ll let her hair down and allow your hands to explore her long, black (or white) locks

Your touch sends shivers down her spine, a feeling she’s not used to, but craves so much

She truly hopes that you’ll never leave her, for now that she has tasted your touch,

She never wants that sensation to leave

Thanks for reading!

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ghostchems · 4 months

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bad idea right? - raphael x f!tav (part two)

raphael lays some ground rules for your deal and extends an invitation.

author's note: read part one here. 2.3k words. 18+, mdni please. some bickering, some groping. thigh riding. ya know, the usual. ao3 link.

“What are you writing?”

Raphael’s quill runs off the page, a thick line of black ink staining his desk. His nostrils flare and he quickly claps his journal shut, eyeing the incubus with sheer annoyance. He clenched his jaw before giving a soft sigh, his shoulders relaxing as he tries to let the frustration roll off of him. The last thing he wants to do is give Haarlep any ammunition.

“My recent business dealings.” Raphael answers curtly and in one fluid motion slips his journal off his desk into a drawer. His eyes flit up Haarlep’s body before settling at his eyes and scrunches his nose. “And where have you been?” He sets down his quill and leans back in his desk chair.

“You know I like to get some air every so often.” Haarlep yawns as he slinks onto the nearby bed, laying down on his stomach with his head propped up in his hands. “Writing smut again, are we? I can smell a certain aroma from you.” His mouth curls into a sly smile, his pointed teeth poking out from his upper lip. Raphael’s gaze falls to the incubus, eyes narrowing as his lips purse. It’s difficult for him to get frustrated with Haarlep at this point — he’s grown used to his teasing after having him in his “employment” for so long but still this situation is delicate.

“Are you jealous, dear Haarlep?” Raphael’s voice drops to a low purr. He gets up from his padded armchair and saunters over to the bed only to sit beside the other. Haarlep rolls over so that he can face him, claws immediately starting to drift up along his doublet sleeve.

“Not jealous.” The incubus huffs, his touch drawing closer to Raphael’s stomach. “It has been quite some time since a mortal got your loins in a twist, though. Seems more receptive than your other pet.” He flashes a brilliant smile while Raphael digs his nails into the palms of his own hands, giving a vicious growl — a warning. Haarlep merely scoffs in response but he does lower his head, gaze beginning to drift around the room. “If you’re going to have her over you should probably have one of your debtors clean up the place.”

“Bringing her here is not a part of my plan currently. Are you requesting something of me?” Raphael peers down at the other as he cocks a brow. Haarlep shrugs and stays quiet for a moment before giving a huff.

“I want to see what all this fuss is about.”

Raphael considers him, his mind quickly running through a few scenarios. Why should he share? But there it is, an opportunity underneath all the show: a deal to be made.

“Perhaps I could make some changes, but what would be in it for me?”

***

You feel a violent hand over your mouth and your eyes shoot open as a gasp rips from your throat. Once your vision settles, you’re met with those caramel eyes leering over you, Raphael’s teeth-bared and gaze sharp.

“Outside. Now.” There is venom in his voice unlike that you’ve heard from him before. He disappears in a spark of ash before you’re able to say anything — and then you realize he’s cast silence on you anyway. You feel an angry growl rumble through your chest but it’s swallowed up by the time it reaches your lips, in some ways a blessing since you don’t want to wake your companions. As you get out of bed, Astarion stirs in the one in front of you, making soft snores and every so often small whimpers? Do vampires have dreams? Your mind wanders as you put on your evening robe to fight the chill of the air. One last scan over your companions and you’re out the door, heading downstairs of the tavern and out to the alleyway.

Raphael is waiting for you, his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed. You hate that the first thing you think of is how radiant he looks in the pale moonlight. The dim light makes his brown eyes sparkle and the gold details on his doublet shine. Memories of the deal you made and what happened after flood your mind, replacing your annoyance with a familiar warmth in the pit of your stomach. You open your mouth but only air tumbles out, making you clench your fists in frustration.

“No, no. You don’t get to speak yet, little mouse.” He stalks closer to you, his movements slow and deliberate. “Rumors have made their way back to me that a certain hero has been fraternizing with an infernal being.” Raphael grits his teeth as he leans in, his eyes boring into yours. “You couldn’t wait to tell your little companions, could you?” There is anger in his voice but underneath it you swear there is a hint of teasing. He awaits your response but then gives a dramatic ah! before snapping his fingers.

“I didn’t tell them about our deal.” You’re finally able to snap back but your voice is hoarse from the silence. “Astarion noticed! He could smell you on me. Called me a freak — but not in a disgusted way, more like… he was impressed.” Too much information but the words spill out of you. Raphael’s face remains unchanged, his lips pressed into a straight line and his brows furrowed. “He’s bad at keeping secrets… but I wasn’t sure if you would care since you left me alone at Sharess’ Caress.”

He exhales slowly through his nose and his face seems to relax, his jaw shifting back into place and his eyes softening. One of his hands reaches for yours, which is balled into a fist at your side. His fingers graze your fist, lightly trying to loosen it before he takes your hand. Raphael’s eyes stay fixed on you, his lips starting to quirk into a barely there smile. You try to keep a straight face but his warm fingers laced with your own makes an infuriating blush rise to your cheeks.

“Did I hurt your feelings, pet?” His voice drops dangerously low as he brings the back of your hand to his lips. You roll your eyes, amazed by his nerve. Did he think he could bat his lashes and you’d be wrapped around his finger? “Mmm… forgive me, for that. Please. It’s been an eternity since someone has affected me this way.” He murmurs, averting your gaze as you swear you see a flash of embarrassment cross his face. Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden candor, having only seen it once before in him.

“You shouldn’t have left.” You remain firm but your voice is a hum, your eyes tracing over his features. “After everything we’ve been through, I thought I would have gotten special treatment.” You wriggle your hand free from his grasp as you give him a sly grin, not about to let him off the hook that easily. Raphael’shead tilts as he regards you silently for a moment, as if your playfulness caught him off guard. His lips tug into a smile and you catch his gaze fall to your mouth, then back up to meet your eyes.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you. As you know, I tend to keep my word.” He all but purrs, drifting in even closer to you.

“Well, I’d like to get it in writing.”

“You what?” Raphael’s charming facade immediately drops, scrunching his nose. You are delighted with the way he glared at you. “Let us discuss this later — we have more pressing matters. Your companions, I am certain they aren’t very supportive of you mingling with a devil such as myself.” He presses his hand to his chest, those caramel eyes sucking you in like they always do.

“I wouldn’t say that they are thrilled about it.” You sigh and break your eye contact. “But it doesn’t seem like a reason for them to leave, at least for now… if this is something that will continue.” He uses one of his long fingers to gently turn your head back to his gaze.

“I would rather that they didn’t know about us, sweetling.” Raphael sounds almost sweet as he seemingly takes in every detail of your face, his hand now cupping your cheek. “Them and the entirety of the Sword Coast, at least until the Elder Brain is defeated. We don’t want the general public to think our savior is taking orders from a devil, do we?” It’s something you haven’t thought about until now. You were never one to care for optics but he isn’t wrong. “I have an idea that will put your companion’s minds at ease and take some of the heat off of us.”

You’re hardly paying attention to what he’s saying because of how close he is. You could easily kiss him right now. What would he do? You decide to find out. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you quickly push yourself onto your tippy toes to kiss him, nearly cutting him off. Raphael’s body freezes in surprise before his hand moves from your cheek to tangle with your hair, his tongue desperately pushing into your mouth. It’s like a switch went off in his brain. He’s grabbing you, tugging at your waist so your bodies are flush against each other.

You nearly fall into him as he takes a few steps back, your hands slipping to hold onto his shoulders. Tasting him again was almost just as overwhelming as the first time, the heat of his mouth making me crave him more and more, deepening the kiss. Raphael moves quickly, both his hands suddenly gripping your thighs to pull you down with him into a chair you’re sure didn’t exist a moment ago. He has you straddling his waist, strong hands making sure you stay in place. You finally manage to break away from the kiss to catch your breath, hazy eyes meeting his gaze.

“Go to the Devil’s Fee when you’re ready — my contact will grant you entrance to my House of Hope.” Raphael’s nose traces along your jaw, his lips brushing along your neck as he speaks. He teases at your neck with his teeth, inching lower and lower, while drifting his hands along your robe to grope your breast through the light fabric. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and you eliminate the remaining space between you, melting into his touch. Raphael sucks on your collarbone as he opens your robe even further, fingers toying with your nipples through your shirt before pulling it down and exposing your breasts. You’re dizzy from it all, lost in him and his expert touches and that velvet voice, lips parting to give a soft whine.

“The hammer will be in a safe in my boudoir — an easy heist for you and your companions.” His voice is ragged, breath heavy as his mouth moves down your chest to run his tongue along your sensitive flesh. Raphael dips his hands to cup your ass and guides you along his thigh. Even through the layers of fabric the friction is delicious, making your legs tremble more and more with each drag over his thigh. You forget that you’re outside where anyone could stumble by, moaning recklessly as his lips close around one of your nipples. He flicks his tongue against it, teeth nipping it only just enough to hurt before giving it a few rough sucks.

Your fingers move to dig into the hair at the base of his neck, tilting your head back while his mouth works over your breasts with feverish need. A growl rumbles up from his chest, feeling it against yours as you start to grind against him without his help. It all feels so reckless. Raphael’s composure is completely gone, groaning against your chest as his tongue teasing your other nipple. Your eyes fall shut and you snap your hips harshly into his thigh, chasing your release.

And as easily as he gave into you, he takes it all away.

Raphael grabs you by the chin and wrenches you down to look at him in the eyes. You’re shuddering in his grasp as his caramel gaze sharpens, fire in his eyes. The sudden shift in mood has your mind turned upside down and your body aching to be touched by him again.

“This part is extremely important, pet, so listen closely.” He snarls, digging his nails into your cheeks. “Do not assist Hope while you are a guest. Is that understood?” Raphael yanks you so that his lips are hovering directly over yours. You quiver at his closeness and you nod before even trying to understand what he is asking of you. All you know is that you want him now. There’s a spark in his eyes once you agree and he lets go of you gently, his hands dropping to cover you up before, leaning back in the chair with a smug look on his face. “Go on — take what you need.”

You snap your hips immediately, flinging your hands to grab for his shoulders again. Raphael can’t stop watching your face, the way your expression twists in pleasure with each thrust, the soft groans spilling from swollen lips, basking in how much you crave him. You stare into his eyes as you do as he says, taking what you need from him until it’s all too much. You give a choked sob, hip stuttering and fingers digging into his doublet as your orgasm rips through you. His arms swallow you in his embrace, pulling you tight against his chest to help guide you back down to Earth.

“I’ll amend your contract to reflect the changes discussed this evening.” Raphael purrs into your hair, lightly brushing his fingertips along your back. “I also have something for you – perfume that should mask my scent even from those with heightened senses of smell.” You lift your head up. A present? For you? Strangely sweet for a devil, even if it was to help with sneaking around.

“You’ll also add your promise to the amendment, right?” You ask sweetly, the picture of innocence. He dramatically rolls his eyes.

“If you insist.”

part three

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tatterings · 7 months

Text

Lamentable is the Autumn Picker Content with Plums - Chapter 3, "A Tender New Root"

Pairing: Astarion/Halsin

Rating: PG (for this chapter, next chapters to be NSFW)

Tags/warnings: n/a for this chapter but this is a WIP. Contains spoilers up to late act 1

Word count: 2k

Note: This is the third chapter of first ever fanfiction! I’ve also posted this on AO3. Fic under the cut.

Astarion had been pleasantly surprised that the Arch Druid Halsin was more world-wise than expected. There was nothing more exhausting than a naïve do-gooder who had never experienced the pangs of starvation, the heartbreak of loneliness, or the torment of having choice ripped away from you. Astarion had felt a sort of kinship to the druid, especially after Halsin had reacted to the theft of his diary with nothing but some good-natured ribbing. The vampire was loath to spend company with people who couldn’t bear to have fun.

So when the druid had agreed with him that most druidic cohorts were blissfully unaware of the ways of the world, and began sharing his experiences, Astarion was pleased. Until Halsin caught him by surprise - again.

***

“…but I’ve never come across a vampire until meeting you, Astarion,” the druid had said, gazing directly at the vampire who had just taken a mouthful of sour wine.

Astarion choked and spit the vile wine into his cup, turning his head to wipe his mouth on his shoulder. “W-whatever do you mean, darling?” spat the pale elf, tilting his head back and peering sharply at the druid.

Halsin’s shoulders shook with a chuckle as the large elf shook his head. “No need to play pretend with me, Astarion,” he said, placing his palm on the ground close to Astarion’s knee, “I knew of your… condition, as soon as I saw you in battle at the goblin camp.” He tilted his head to the side and returned the pale elf’s glare with a soft expression that Astarion couldn’t quite read. “As I said, I’ve seen much in my 350 years. Your captivating red eyes, the skill with which you hide in the shadows, and.. well,” Halsin’s crow's feet crinkled as his smile extended to his eyes, “the fangs, to be honest. It is not a difficult conclusion to reach.”

Astarion stared back in shock. And none of this concerns Halsin? He wanted to join our camp and felt compelled to seek me out in the dark? A kind fool indeed; did he learn nothing over the past 100 years since that book? Astarion shook his head to clear it, white ringlets of hair bobbing about his ears. He blinked several times before meeting Halsin’s honey-hazel eyes again.

“Er, generally… when one meets a vampire, one doesn’t really live to tell about it the next day,” he said with a deep exhale, “but technically, I am a vampire spawn. Not a full vampire. All the same limitations, but none of the benefits that come with it.” He gently worried the inside of his bottom lip with his fangs.

Halsin nodded as Astarion spoke, giving the vampire his full attention, but not out of fear or concern. The druid’s posture was relaxed; still seated cross-legged, his forearms resting on his knees, hands dangling. What was his angle? Why did he care about Astarion’s condition, as he delicately put it?

“I see,” Halsin started, then raised a hand to his chin, rubbing it in thought, “so it must be the tadpole that allows you to walk in the sun, as well as the mind link with your friends. The magic in the tadpoles must be tremendous.”

Astarion opened his mouth, nearly correcting Halsin to say the party was more co-workers than friends, but decided better of it. “That’s my assumption, yes,” he concurred, and turned his gaze to the heavens, stars twinkling in the night sky, “For 200 years I’ve been confined to the darkness.”

Halsin sat silent, his attention wholly on Astarion, making no attempt to fill the silence when Astarion paused. “And 200 years I’ve been bent to the whims of Cazador,” the pale elf continued, his words sharp and full of venom, “the bastard who turned me into this.” He lifted his arms into the air and let them fall, stirring up dust from the ground.

The silence between them was thick with the chirp of crickets and the still-present music, the melody a calmer one now as the party died down further.

Halsin broke the silence first, but only after Astarion finally met his gaze again. “It must be conflicting for you,” he said calmly, “the tadpole has given you much. And with the unusual path of ceremorphosis you and your friends areexperiencing... there seems to be few downsides for you.” His last sentence was almost a question.

“Exactly,” agreed Astarion, with more surprise showing in his voice than he intended to portray, “No strong druid hero, nor noble adventurer saved me from my slavery. The mindflayers did. The tadpole was the best thing to have happened to me in 200 years.” He lifted his chin and peered at Halsin down his nose. “With this power, I can slay my master and finally be truly free.”

The druid cracked a slight smile at Astarion. “It is an opportunity that you must chase after, I understand,” he said kindly, “I.. have had the unfortunate experience of being at the mercy of a master.”

Astarion’s jaw dropped in shock. This gigantic man, enslaved by another? Who could possibly have the power to do that? His hand moved by its own, shifting a few inches to rest on top of Halsin’s. The tips of Halsin’s fingers were rough with callous, and nearly twice the size of Astarion’s in width.

“It is a story for another day,” Halsin said, “No need to cast a shadow on a fine evening. But I mention it to say… will support you in this, Astarion. It is a horrific thing, to enslave and control others. Against Nature. And… I believe we can help each other. We can right the wrongs in this world. Cleanse it of much of its darkness.”

Astarion’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re asking me to play the hero again, I’ll have to politely decline, darling. I’ve had my fill for a lifetime,” he said with a scoff, motioning towards the Tieflings, who were packing their bags to make their way back to the Grove. They would set off for Baldur’s Gate in the morning.

The arch druid chuckled at the pout on Astarion’s lips, and shifted his hand up-side down to enclose Astarion’s fingers, cool to the touch. This time the pale elf did not pull his hand away.

“You say you’re no hero, Astarion, but what fate would I have met without you? More good has been done since I met you than a hundred years before. Words cannot express my gratitude. But perhaps I can show my thanks in another way?”

Ah, here it is, Astarion thought, the payment. The druid had rewarded them in gold and the glaive, so Astarion had assumed they were even. But, if the druid were interested in his body… it would be so very easy to lure him in and make doubly sure he’s on my side. I can play this game. Astarion leaned towards the druid, shoulders nearly touching, peering at Halsin from under pale eyelashes.

The druid seemed not to notice Astarion’s body language, and leaned back, raising his hand to set it on Astarion’s shoulder. His thick brown eyebrows furrowed in stoicism that was previously absent.

“It seems our fates have aligned. Both the answers to your delayed ceremorphosis, and some unfinished business of my own will take us to Moonrise Towers,” Halsin rumbled, his hand squeezing Astarion’s shoulder gently, “If you’ll have me, I’d like to join your camp. I can offer my skills and my counsel.. as well as my neck.”

“I do quite well on my own, thank you. I don’t need you to stick your neck out for me, Halsin,” Astarion quipped, with a blithe flick of his hand toward the druid. He leaned back to let Halsin’s hand fall away.

Halsin chuckled, his braids bobbing with the motion of the mountainous elf. “I apologize for not being more clear,” he muttered. The druid shifted to sit on his knees. His thick eyebrows knit upwards, crinkling his scarred forehead. “The path to Moonrise Towers is shrouded in a shadow curse. You’ll not find life, light, or anything natural roaming in that wilderness. No boars, squirrels, nor foe we meet there will be untainted by shadow.”

The druid placed his hand on Astarion’s knee gingerly, not quite letting it relax fully onto the smaller elf’s leg. “If you tried to get sustenance from anything there… it very well could kill you,” Halsin continued, his words slow and heavy with gravity, “You’ll need fortitude for what is to come. Let me be the one who gives nourishment to you. You may feed from me, Astarion.”

Astarion’s eyes rounded, wine-red eyes sparkling in the lantern-light. His sharp jaw dropped open, revealing the pointed fangs on his top and bottom rows of teeth. Halsin tilted his head ever so slightly to get a better look. It may hurt, but Astarion must be kept at full strength. And… I cannot have another comrade fall to the shadow curse. A small price to pay for his friendship and skills.

“I-er… you’re joking?” the pale elf questioned, cocking one ivory eyebrow high up, eyes flitting back and forth, searching Halsin’s face for answers, “You… want me to bite you? To drink your blood?”

Halsin met the vampire’s skepticism with a grin and squeezed his knee with tenderness. “You strike me as extremely… resourceful. We will need your cleverness and strength to face the battles ahead,” the druid said, his voice full of kindness and honesty, “I’m the largest of this party, save Karlach, whose blood would scald your tongue. I’ve more than enough blood to spare, if it will mean that you’ll be your most battle-ready.”

Astarion blinked away tears. To offer his life’s blood to me… willingly? I can’t tell him I’ve never drunk from a thinking being before. But gods above, the boars are bitter and squirrels can barely curb my hunger...

“I.. Yes. Thank you, Halsin, for your generous offer,” Astarion said, fighting a lump in his throat, “A little blood would be so very helpful. I could think clearer; fight better.” The vampire’s eyes glazed over and he seemed to stare past Halsin, lost in thought. Halsin swore he saw a genuine smile tugging at the vampire’s laugh lines.

“It is settled then,” the druid announced, patting Astarion’s knee before rising to his feet. “We’ll journey to Moonrise together. I will let you enjoy the rest of your evening. And your reading material,” he said, with a wink. “Come to my tent after Tieflings depart. You may feed and restore your strength from this morning’s battle. It will allow me to determine the effects of a little blood loss in a safer place than the shadow-cursed lands.”

Halsin smiled once more before turning away. The large elf raised a hand above his head as he lumbered back to his tent. Astarion still sat on the ground, limbs heavy with disbelief.

The gift of his life’s blood. That’s how he wants to show his gratitude? With how handsy this oaf is, I thought he meant to ravish me. But he wants to be bitten? Astarion shook his head again, rubbing his temples with his slender fingers. What is Halsin’s motive? I saved the Grove; he gave a reward… now he’s offering his blood… for what? Clearly everyone else wants him to join our camp or they wouldn’t have invited him. So what benefit does he get from stringing me along with the promise of blood?

Is it a turn-on for him? Astarion puzzled, looking into the darkness where Halsin had walked. The pale elf held his head in his palms and stared at the ground. The Arch Druid’s intentions must be far more complex than the slack-jawed jezebels and drunken horndogs he had seduced for Cazador over the past 200 years.

Though Astarion had bitten a goblin during the morning’s battle, his vampiric hunger was already gnawing deep in his stomach. He held a delicate hand over his bellybutton. I suppose I’ll find out more tonight; to be fed or be in his bed. What a delectable means of security, either way…

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