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astarions-darling · 7 months

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An Indecent Proposal Raphael x FemTav/Reader

NSFW mdni tags: inappropriate touching, edging, panty sniffin', raphael is a dirty little pervert, clothed male, naked female summary: you barge into Sharess' Caress ready to give Raphael a piece of your mind. however when you get there, things do not go as planned. read on ao3 via source (this is pretty dialogue heavy because Raphael likes the sound of his own voice. and I don't blame him. this is also silly.)

You don’t bother to knock when you reach the door with the little shiny plaque that says “Devil’s Den” in an ornate script. The door isn’t locked, so it swings open effortlessly when you barge in. The tirade ready to fall from your lips falters as the door closes with a soft click behind you and the hand you had raised in righteous anger pauses before limply falling to your side.

Raphael is lounging in one of the overly gilded armchairs that furnish the den, a glass of something that looks both incredibly alcoholic and expensive dangling from one hand as he regards you with that infuriatingly knowing smile. None of that is why the cat suddenly has your tongue; it's that he has shrugged off the outer layer of his clothing and sits there with his white shirt unbuttoned. The view of his bare chest isn't a particularly novel sight—after all, you share a camp with several people, and some—like a certain large elf—enjoy being one with nature on any occasion they can get. It's more of a shock to see Raphael in such a state of undress; it would be a lie to say you had never considered what lay beneath his neatly tailored clothes. But you would have bet all the gold in Faerûn that Korilla stitched him into them every morning to ensure they stayed perfectly in place. Right now he looked so...deliciously dishevelled.

“My, my," comes his amused voice, "does the squirming tadpole hinder your manners as well, little mouse?” The gentle timbre of his voice washes over you and it's enough to snap your attention to his face. “Or have you always been an uncouth little beast that flounces in without knocking?”

You frown at him, your irritation flaring up again. Your fingers flex—though not in a fit of pique but because your mind has been lost to the thought of running your fingers through the hairs on his tanned chest. That bloody distracting devil. Why did you come here again?

"Did you come all this way to gawk like a gutted fish or did you have something you wished to say?" He raises a brow, tipping his drink towards you. "If you wish to stare, I am, of course, happy to oblige—though that will cost you. This establishment operates on a quid pro quo basis, you know."

Quickly you shake your head, trying to wrangle your thoughts. The devil stands, unfolding himself gracefully from his chair and languidly striding over to a nearby credenza on which an array of bottles and glasses sit. He moves with care, never rushing, and with a deliberate air you can’t help but admire. He makes you feel clumsy.

You watch him carefully pour some rich amber liquid into his glass. It looks like steam rises and hisses above it for a moment before disappearing. The man turns to you, the corner of his lips quirked.

“I’d offer you a drink but I’m certain you’d decline.”

That presumptuous bastard. You’re too irritated to wonder if this is a trick on his part, which is foolish. But he too easily gets under your skin and so you open your mouth to retort.

“I would love a drink,” you say petulantly. You watch him take a sip, hating how you can’t stop yourself from watching his tongue flick out to catch the remnants of it on his lips. He fills up another glass before passing it to you. You watch the amber liquid swirl a moment before throwing it back quickly.

An incredibly stupid thing to do. Whatever it is, the liquor burns your throat and has you spluttering as you bend over coughing. You hear Raphael’s low chuckle of amusement before a glass of water is conjured out of thin air and hovers before you. You snatch it, guzzling it down just like the beast he claims you to be.

“What the bloody hell was that?” you ask, wiping at your mouth with the back of his hand. You catch his nose wrinkling at your lack of decorum. “I think my insides are melting!”

“Cease your melodramatic caterwauling,” he says, casually taking another sip of his own drink. Smug bastard. “It will pass.”

You cough again, feeling the liquor heat up your veins. You blink a few times before the alcohol simmers down, leaving just a pleasant warmth in your belly. Liquor and spirits had been few and far between while on your little adventure—well, anything half decent that is. The swill you’d managed to get was no better than vinegar. You’d stupidly agreed to let Astarion steal some expensive-looking vintage from the wine festival in the Lower City…which had ended up with you spending the night in a cell. Sometimes that elf was the clumsiest person you’d ever met. With that thought, you suddenly remember why you’ve come here.

“I would like for you to stop sending Korilla to spy on me,” you demand as the devil places his drink down so he can re-button the cuffs of his sleeves.

Did he go deliberately tan on some beach, you wonder? That thought spirals and you’re suddenly picturing lying in the sun on some perfect beach while his skin glitters with salt and sea.

“You should be thanking me.” His lilting words are annoyingly pleasant and they drag you out of your daydream. “After all, if dear Korilla hadn’t been with you a few nights ago you’d probably still be a trapped little mouse in a cell.” He smirks, picking up his drink again and tilting the glass toward you. “Stealing wine, really?”

You decide to keep your mouth shut, something that you mentally congratulate yourself for. It was true that Korilla had been the one to free you from your dank cell. Which was a lucky thing; you didn’t want to hurt people while trying to break free, but it would have come to that if the warlock hadn’t intervened. Raphael watches you carefully, an easy smile on his handsome face, his confident casual air annoying you more than anything else.

“I will withdraw Korilla’s eye from your camp,” he says after a few minutes, his voice thoughtful, “if you give me something in return.”

Of course. You sigh. What did you expect?

“I’m not giving you my soul just for that, Raphael,” you scoff. “If I wouldn’t take one of your deals for the hammer then I certainly won’t trade it just to stop your little dog from following me around.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking such a thing,” he says smoothly, ignoring your little jab about Korilla. “I desire a mere trifle. Inexpensive!” The devil laughs, a warm pleasing sound that has your lips twitching and skin flushing despite yourself. “I promise you won’t even miss it.”

You frown. What did you have that he would want? Soul coins, perhaps? But surely Raphael couldn’t know you had some in your possession, could he? But also they weren’t inexpensive…not in the least. What in Balduran’s name could he possibly want from you?

“What?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

He tuts. “You really do need to acquire some manners, little mouse. Too much scurrying around with scoundrels and vagabonds.” He sighs, taking a sip of his drink before grabbing a different bottle. You watch him uncork it with ease and pour the dark red liquid into a silver chalice. When he proffers it to you, your hands take it carefully. “Perhaps this may be more pleasing to your sensitive mortal palate.” You watch the candlelight flicker over the wine before you bring it up to smell. Inhaling, you let the notes of cherry and plum assault your senses, the sweet richness of it utterly inviting. When you take a sip, you let it sit on your tongue for a moment to savour it before you close your eyes and swallow. You hadn’t had anything that good in…well, you don’t think you’ve ever had such a decadent wine before.

When you meet Raphael’s gaze again, you shift on your feet. Your fingers grip tighter on the stem, remembering where you are and who you’re talking to.

“It’s nice,” you say, idly swirling the glass. “Well, what do you want then?”

“Your knickers.”

There is no hesitation in his words, he shoots them out quickly and effortlessly—like Astarion would shoot an arrow. You nearly spill the wine in your shock. You’re certain you’ve hallucinated his words or perhaps this is a weird dream. Maybe you are still tucked in your bed at the Elfsong Tavern, dreaming about devils and their insanity.

“You want my what?”

“Your knickers,” Raphael repeats, his easy stare watching you as a multitude of emotions flicker over your face.

So you had heard him correctly. The man doesn’t even act like he’s asked for anything unreasonable. Disbelief has you standing there with your mouth agape. Is he trying to humiliate you? He must be. Was this some sort of strange ploy to get you to agree to his insane deal of the hammer for the crown?

“Why?” The word falls out of your mouth gracelessly, but you aren’t here to cater to Raphael’s want for proper etiquette.

“Why anything?” His voice is low and tinged with amusement as he finishes his drink. He leaves the glass on the credenza to walk closer to you, his hands gesturing as he continues to talk. “Why does the fox chase the hare? Why do little thieves steal wine? For the thrill?” He pauses, head tilting to the side as he regards you. He grins at you. “For pleasure?”

You despise the way he inflects the last word. It sends a rolling shiver down your spine.

“If you’re trying to humiliate me, consider it done.”

He feigns hurt, or you think he does, as he sighs dramatically. You wish he would he would dress himself back in his tunic again, or at least do up his shirt buttons as your eyes can’t help but flick to his exposed throat and chest as his shirt shifts with his movements.

“I would never dare dream of humiliating you, my dear.” Raphael's words sound sincere, but you do not trust him. He’s a devil. It’s like a constant mantra you have to repeat yourself. You are aware that devils can’t lie, but they can certainly bend the truth—just enough—so that it won’t break. “How it claws at my heart to hear you even utter such a thing.”

“I didn’t know you had a heart,” you retort.

“You wound me again, sweetling.” Hand over supposed heart, Raphael smiles. “Indulge me. I do not ask for much.”

It was true, it really wasn’t much. A heavy sigh and then you hear yourself utter a resigned, “Fine.” It was ludicrous but you couldn’t see any harm in it. And he hadn’t produced a contract to sign—just a gentleman’s agreement, as it were. You were not going to tell any of your companions that you had traded your panties for some freedom. Nine Hells, you hoped you could sneak back into the tavern without them noticing. Perhaps the alcohol has loosened your resolve and has you acting so stupidly but you can’t see anything wrong with the arrangement. With another sigh, you ditch the wine on a nearby table before you turn to leave, but Raphael calls after you.

“And where are you rushing off to?”

“To the tavern,” you say, turning back to face him, “to fetch you your perverse prize.”

“No.” He takes a few steps closer and you catch that hint of spice and musk that wafts from him. “The ones you are wearing, little mouse.”

You suppress a shudder. He’s never been so close to you before, he’s manoeuvred himself into your personal space. The heat and power that radiates from him is intoxicating, more so than any drink upon your tongue, and you’re suddenly reminded of what he is underneath his welcome facade. Yet that doesn’t stop your mouth from opening.

“There are plenty of boutiques around here if you’re that desperate for some new lingerie, Raphael. No need to take mine.” You stick your chin out, matching his stare as you can’t help but add, “As lovely as I think you’d look in pink lace.”

The man’s face doesn’t change, the easy smile remains but you can see the brightness of his eyes—as if you can sense their true infernal nature behind his human disguise. He seems pleased with your reluctance to submit to him easily. Something that you hate to admit makes you pleased in return.

“Pink’s not really my colour,” he muses, fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully, “though I am sure the flush of it against your skin suits.”

Those words do not help you’re suddenly racing heart but you try to ignore his silver tongue. Shifting on your feet, you try to get your mind back in order. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for somewhere to change though there doesn’t appear to be anywhere.

“How I do enjoy watching the little wheels turn in that pretty head of yours.”

You glare at him. “Where can I change then, devil?”

He laughs and then spreads his arms wide. “Right here.” At the look on your face he continues, “You mortals are so easily flustered.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Please, as if I have not seen bare flesh before.”

Later, when you are tucked in your rented bed, you will blame the alcohol. But for now, you simply begin to undo your clothing, starting with removing your boots. He takes a mere step back, those eyes watching you the entire time until you are standing there in nothing but your underclothes. Feeling self-conscious, you feel the flush begin in your chest and work its way up your neck but you refrain from trying to cover yourself up and stand there with your hands by your side as your body tenses. The look on his face hasn’t really changed, but again there is something behind the eyes. A reaching hunger. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you, can devil’s see a soul? Does it call out to him and do his hands itch to pluck it free?

Raphael walks behind you and instinctively you go to turn but his warm hands reach out to hold your shoulders, keeping you where you stand and your toes scrunch at the soft rug beneath to curb some of the tension now beginning to coil in your gut. The lingering touch as he holds you burns into your skin, not due to his infernal nature—though you do sense that he feels rather warm than a regular man—but due to the way your traitorous body reacts to his touch.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“I just want to remember you as you are now, before your flesh is torn asunder by writhing tentacles.” His hands slide down your sides, leaving a trail of gooseflesh and a horrible twinge of arousal. “Before your lovely skin is slippery with mucus and…” he leans in and you feel the tip of his nose behind your ear making you shiver, “you lose that delectable scent.”

You can feel the deep rolling timbre of his voice against your skin. You are too aware of him behind you, your muscles tense as you try to resist the entirely too tempting urge to step back into him. “I am not giving you the crown.” You manage to utter the words though they come out in a whisper. But you are still somewhat proud that you can utter them at all.

“You will.” His fingers touch your neck and you can’t suppress the shudder. “I see your little vampling has taken a bite.”

You twitch as the soft pad of his finger grazes against the puncture wounds on your neck.

“It helps him fight better.”

His hum in response tickles your neck but you refrain from responding. What would you say? That you like letting the vampire feed on you occasionally? That the searing flash of pain mixing so deliciously with the heady feeling of Astarion drinking from you is unlike any sort of pleasure you’ve experienced before? No. The devil did not need any details.

“I’m sure it does.” Raphael's words float against the shell of your ear and you are momentarily aware that you have a literal devil hovering by your shoulder.

The pad of his finger once more traces the puncture wounds from Astarion’s bite. It feels like a bolt of magic whenever he touches you, though the shock of it is far too pleasant and it goes straight between your legs. Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth but you manage to unstick it just as he pulls away.

Raphael moves around you until he is once more facing you. You feel flushed, far too aware of how your pulse is thudding in your neck, yet he looks perfectly calm and collected, breathing even and standing there as if you were merely discussing the weather. When he drops to his knees before you, you want to scream but you are too transfixed at the sight of him before you. You can barely think when his hands reach up towards your underwear. You stare dumbfounded, some part of you still blaming it on the alcohol, as you watch his long, elegant fingers trace the pattern of lace by your hip.

“They do look lovely on you, little mouse, a pity.”

You find your tongue again and manage to mutter, “I can undress myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” he purrs. You wish you could cast Silence on him. “But what sort of man would I be if I didn’t lend a helping hand?”

Quickly you look away, face burning in embarrassment as your mind easily imagines how helpful said hand could be. He really shouldn’t be allowed to speak in such a way. Did he cast some kind of spell on you? Did he put something in that drink? Or were you just simply this spellbound by him—perhaps not something to dwell on, you decide. You feel his warm breath against the top of your thigh as his fingers slide up under the band of your knickers at your lack of response. You realise you’re holding your breath as he slides the lace down your legs. You risk a glance down but quickly flick your eyes away—his face is far too close to your bare sex. If he moves his head even slightly you know you will feel his breath on your cunt.

Standing there, you wrestle with the idea of stepping back or just blasting him in the face with a spell. Not that you are very good with spells. But damn does his touch feel nice, his hands are so damn warm and soft as he oh so fucking slowly slides your underwear down. Raphael hasn’t said a word and it’s been at least a minute—that must be a record. The lace finally reaches the ground and he taps your ankle.

Wordlessly you lift a foot and his low response of, “Good girl,” has you desperately fighting to control your stupid dumb animal body’s response. Your fingers itch to steady yourself on his shoulder but you refrain…just. Luckily all your adventuring has improved your athletics and you’re determined not to give the devil the satisfaction of stumbling before him into a wanton heap.

His thumb slips under the fabric still hanging around your other ankle and tugs at it. You’d been staring at the wall straight ahead, eyes fixed on a portrait hanging in some ornate frame. But at the tug, you glance down and see Raphael staring up at you, that smug smirk plastered on his face. Could you get away with kneeing him in the face? Lords above, could you get away with yanking him by the hair (and it was such lovely hair) and between your legs? Both are tempting.

“Little mouse?” His voice is a long lilting drawl and he tugs again at your knickers.

You lift your foot quickly, again saving yourself from tripping over, as he slips it off your foot and stands. You stand there a moment, dazed. Your skin still feels like it is on fire, he must be able to smell your arousal…you can. And you can see the way his nostrils flare as he stands and you watch the devil bring the pink lace up to his face and inhale. Now would be a great time for the Elder Brain to try and shake free of its bonds, you think.

“Did you just—”

With a snap of his fingers, you're suddenly dressed. “Was that so difficult?” “Why didn’t you just do that to take them?” you ask incredulously. “Where would be the fun in that?” He straightens the lapel on your clothing and adds, “Remember, I will still be here when you are ready to admit you need me.”

You grit your teeth. “I don’t need the hammer.”

Those deceptively warm eyes regard you and he smiles again, making your hands itch. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs, and in that moment you realise that is not what he means. But you do not get a chance to speak as with a wave of his hand you find yourself disappearing in a flash of crimson-tinged ash before you are teetering on the steps of Sharess’ Caress in the warm evening air. That smarmy, panty sniffing, bastard. As you begin the walk back to the tavern, you tell yourself your frustration has nothing to do with the way he had touched you. Nothing at all.

When you return to the Elfsong, you attempt to sneak past the group as they eat around a large wooden table. Of course, you can’t get past Shadowheart, the cleric spotting you and instantly dragging you to the table. You slide in, squished between her and Gale as she begins to question where you’ve been.

“Nowhere,” you say with a dismissive shrug, proud of how natural it sounds as you grab a bread roll and try to ignore the lingering throb between your legs. ”I just went for a walk.”

You feel eyes on you and look up into the knowing gaze of Astarion. “A walk, darling?” He leans in across the table and you see his nostrils flare. “An exhilarating one, I take it?” He sniffs again. “Climb any cherry trees on your…walk?”

#.writing #sneef sneef #lmao this is so dumb #bg3 fanfic #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #raphael x tav #but it was fun #baldurs gate fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction

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