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[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 8

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** So, a rogue and a bard walk into an inn... ***

“You know, Durge, I don’t mean to insult Gale - he is the smartest man I know, probably - but coming up with names is probably not his strongest suit. Durge lacks a certain… I don’t know, it lacks a certain…”

“Je ne sais quoi?”

It was rare for Raphael to speak a single word while they made their way towards Baldur’s Gate through the night. As much as Raphael clearly loved the sound of his own voice when he held all the cards, he was much less inclined to speak now that he was markedly at a disadvantage. He usually walked at the back in sullen silence, with Wyll and Durge right in front of him carrying a torch and Astarion and Halsin further ahead, putting their darkvision to use. To be honest, sometimes as they talked among them they almost forgot he was there. His voice made them recoil, and turn back.

“Was that Infernal?” Halsin asked, and got a shrug in reply.

“Something similar.”

“Abyssal, then? The language of demons?” Astarion guessed.

“That does depend on who you ask,” Raphael replied. He didn’t seem inclined to add any further clarification, and the conversation turned to other matters as they walked through much of the night.

However, a few hours later Wyll went back to… well, names. If it were up to him, Durge mused, everyone would have such impressive-sounding names, no name would seem at all impressive anymore.

“I have grown attached to Durge, I’m afraid,” they chuckled. “Odd as it sounds. I think I may just stick with it.”

Wyll made a vague gesture with the hand carrying the torch. “I understand, but you could add something. For a little more flair.”

“I take it you have suggestions?”

“How about… D’urge?”

“... That’s exactly the same?”

“But, with an apostrophe!”

“Why?”

“Ah, a y is indeed a good letter, but not the best for every name. Dyrge doesn’t quite click, does it? Although perhaps--”

“Is this kind of talk how you bested the Netherbrain?” Raphael spoke up. He somehow sounded both weary and genuinely curious. “I for one can feel the contents of my skull shrink with every word you push past your lips.”

“I can take a dagger to your ears if you think that would help,” Astarion suggested without turning, and Raphael had the good sense not to respond. However, Halsin did turn, as did Durge. For Raphael to speak during their nightly marches was rare enough, but what really caught their attention was how weary he sounded - and it probably wasn’t because his brain was truly shrinking.

In the flicker of the torch Durge couldn’t see him as clearly as Halsin surely did, but when he stumbled on a root and barely caught himself before falling, they did notice how it took him a few moments to actually regain his footing.

“... You seem a little tired,” Halsin said, not unkindly. “Perhaps we should have ended that sparring march earlier than we did, after all. Did you not get enough rest before we set off?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Raphael snapped, and staggered again in a way that very much suggested he was not perfectly fine. To be fair he had recently recovered form grievous injuries, they had been walking through the night for nearly a week with heavy backpacks, and he was very much dealing with the limitations of a human body that was, frankly, a few years past its prime.

When Durge instinctively reached out to catch him, he leaned heavily on their arm rather than pulling away like he’d touched-- well, a rat. It made them all pause, and Durge cast Dancing Lights to better illuminate their surroundings. Once they could see clearly, Durge could tell that Halsin’s choice to describe him as ‘a little tired’ had been a kindness in itself: he looked exhausted.

“I think we have covered enough distance to warrant an early stop,” Durge said. After all, they were only hours away from dawn, and the drizzle that had bothered them through most of the night was starting to turn into actual rain. Against their feverishly warm scales, Raphael felt cold even through clothes; that may very well be the reason why he was not pulling away.

“... If we can push ahead just another couple of hours, we should reach a town on this side of the Chionthar,” Wyll spoke, gesturing to the path ahead with the torch and forcing Astarion to duck under it. “It’s called Sunridge. We passed right by it last time, but it has a really nice inn. They make some of the best rabbit in wine-currant sauce I’ve ever tasted. If the day will be as rainy as tonight promises, it would be nice to spend it in a room with actual beds in it.”

“Wyll, that sounds excellent. Not the rabbit, not for me, but a warm room and a real bed would be very much welcome,” Astarion declared, and turned back. “If the old man can bear another short walk, that is. Ah, don’t look at me like that. You are by far the oldest here.”

“Speaking of bear, I could turn into one and carry him,” Halsin offered, gaining himself a laugh from Astarion and a snort from Raphael.

“You really only want an excuse to change form, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not. I can walk,” Raphael snapped, and pulled away from Durge. Before anyone could point out the obvious fact he’d likely collapse within the hour by the looks of it, he pulled out the lyre and played a few notes. The sense of relief was immediate, and Durge looked around to see the others looked perkier, too. Of course, they thought, the Song of Rest. Useful little spell, that.

“Well, that was nice,” Wyll commented, gaining himself a scoff from Raphael. The magic had helped with some of the exhaustion, but clearly not with his mood.

“Glad to be of service,” he muttered, not sounding glad in the slightest. “Let us head to the inn, then. I shall gladly bear the walk as long as you keep quiet.”

They did reach the town and its inn within a couple of hours, as Wyll had said, only to find that the inn had no vacant rooms. The disappointment was somehow mitigated by the fact that, despite the late hour - or early hour, depending on what side of the day one looked at it from - the innkeeper was still able to bring them a hot meal.

“We’re hosting our annual Three-Dragon Ante tournament, from noon through the evening, and we’re full with players who came to sign up from out of town,” she explained, placing hot soup, roast rabbit, candied almonds and mulled wine on the table. “I do have some space available in the attic, if you have nowhere else to go, but I doubt more than two people could squeeze in there. I am very sorry.”

“Ah, I see.” Wyll sighed. “No need to apologize, it was bad timing from our--”

“Actually, the attic sounds good to me,” Astarion cut him off, and smiled at the innkeeper, gesturing to Raphael. From his part, Raphael had finished the soup and bread in a few bites and was staring intently at the candied almonds. Very intently. A little odd, that, really. He must be more tired than they thought, Song of Rest and all. “Our friend here is exhausted, and I expect a few hours of rest on a proper mattress would do him good. If you could accommodate the two of us in the attic, we’d be truly grateful.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that can be arranged. I’ll have mattresses and blankets brought up, give it a quick clean while you finish your meal. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a lifesaver, my friend.” Another bright smile and the innkeeper was off, leaving Astarion to turn to Durge. “You don’t mind, do you, love? Someone has to keep an eye on him, may as well be me. Staying out of the rain for a while might make my hair more manageable, too,” he added with a sigh, running a hand through impossibly well-coffered hair.

Later on, Durge would feel more than a little foolish for not immediately guessing Astarion was planning something: with the shared goal of getting to the Hells, there hadn’t really been any need to keep that close an eye on Raphael in the first place. But they were tired from the walk, and a little distracted by the fact Raphael was proceeding to absolutely demolish the entire dish of candied almonds by himself. They simply assumed Astarion wanted to sleep in a real bed for once, and couldn’t fault him for it.

“Of course, it sounds good. We’ll camp nearby and be back at sundown,” they said. Astarion smiled, and turned to Halsin.

“I know you’re probably looking for an excuse to wander around on four legs again, but would you stay in the tent with them today? Their sleep hasn’t been great lately.”

“That’s not nece--” Durge began, only for Halsin to cut them off.

“Of course, you need not even ask,” he said, with an eagerness that made Durge suspect they may not be getting a lot of sleep, and that settled it. The innkeeper announced the attic was ready just as they finished their meal, and they took their leave just as the sun rose.

Durge did not notice - none of them did - that their backpacks were only slightly lighter, their gold pouches gone.

***

When Israfel first arrived in Cania, all he had to hold onto was a bag of almond sweets.

There were other things he’d wanted to take with him, all his books and his lyre and his clothes, but everything had moved so fast. Duke Barbas - tall as he was wide, with a mane of black hair slicked with oil and flowing red robes - had refused a forced invitation to stay for a meal while Israfel gathered his belongings. Barbas had declined with a politeness that did little to conceal his disdain.

“As much as I’d love to accept, Lord Sunspear,” he’d said, very purposely misremembering the name, “I am in quite a hurry to return to Cania, as I have other duties to tend to and my liege lord is not a patient master. The boy’s belongings can be collected at a later time.”

Israfel had felt Lord Starspire’s hold on his shoulder tighten, pulling him closer to his side, but there was nothing he could do to keep him there and they both knew it. “His lordship can allow us a few minutes, I hope,” Lord Starspire had spoken, gaze low despite the furious tremor in his limbs, “for Israfel to--”

“Raphael,” Duke Barbas had cut him off, and dropped his gaze on Israfel. He’d smiled with no warmth. “Lord Mephistopheles is keen to choose the names of every spawn he welcomes home. Your name is Raphael.”

Israfel may have protested at being renamed like a dog changing master, if not for his surprise. He’d blinked, taken aback. “Mephistopheles? The archdevil?”

Barbas’ jet black eyebrows had gone up almost to his hairline. He glanced over at Lord Starspire, whose grip on Israfel's shoulder had turned heavy as stone. He looked surprised and oddly delighted. “You mean to tell me you never told the boy who sired?”

The man had swallowed, and looked down at Israfel, whose mind still reeled at the notion that his sire wasn’t just a devil, but the Lord of the Eighth. He had read stories about Lord Mephistopheles, his might and his fury, the power second only to that of Asmodeus himself. And he’d been reading about his father, all along? Israfel had stared at Lord Starspire, eyes wide, and the man’s own eyes seemed to veil with tears.

“Forgive me, boy. I’d planned to tell you, but I’d grown to hope this day would never--”

“Well!” Duke Barbas exclaimed, clapping his hands once and causing both to recoil. “Now that that has been cleared up, I think it would be proper for Raphael to discard that disguise. He won’t be needing it anymore,” he added, gesturing vaguely at him.

Israfel had wanted to tell him it was no disguise, that this body was real and his own just as much as the one with horns and wings, but the devil before him had raised an impatient eyebrow and he’d suddenly felt very, very small. He’d breathed out and willed his form to change back, from human to fiend. It gained him that smile devoid of warmth again, and the weight of his stepfather’s hand on his shoulder was gone.

A satisfied click of his tongue, and Barbas had nodded. “Much better. Your Lord father summons you, little duke. You may say your goodbyes, but be quick.”

The goodbyes had been quick indeed and most of it had been a blur, too fast for his usually nimble mind to catch up. He’d remember Nan holding him tight, whispering something-- You’re loved here, promise your Nan you’ll remember that, come back see us -- and he’d remember a few people crying, and the cook pushing something in his hand, a small bag of his favorite almond sweets.

Last had been Lord Starspire, who’d crouched and pulled him close in an embrace that Israfel-- not anymore, he had a new name now, didn’t he-- was too overwhelmed to return. He couldn’t make himself say anything, his tongue heavy as lead. “Be careful,” was all Lord Starspire managed to whisper in his ear, then he’d pulled back and stood.

As the boy nodded and stepped back as well, Duke Barbas had cleared his throat. “Come, boy. It’s time to join your kind,” he’d called, holding out a hand.

Raphael had taken it, and that-- love-- was that.

***

Astarion was not, usually, a details kind of guy.

He saw little point in planning and plotting when, more often than not, some absolutely insane shit would inevitably happen and make all the aforementioned planning and plotting entirely useless. He’d rather just keep his knives sharp and close at hand, and his eyes peeled.

This time, however, the situation did require some strategic planning and so plan he did. Quite brilliantly, if he said so himself, paragon of humbleness that he was. A perfect plan that would see them leave a couple dozen thousand pieces of gold richer, allowing them to get Helsik to open that portal to Avernus for them… and have enough left over to buy the best supplies available to give them a better chance at surviving the Hells than a literal snowball. It would all work out perfectly.

If the devil did indeed know how to play Three-Dragon Ante, of course. If not, Astarion hoped he was a very quick learner, or they would be utterly screwed. The others just might be a little cross to learn all their collective gold was gone.

Ah well. The die was cast, and it was time to find out how it landed.

“Hey, old man, wake up,” Astarion called out, shaking Raphael by the shoulder. He made a noise, trying to shake his hand off, to no avail. “Come now, you’re fine. I’ve let you sleep almost six hours.”

“What do you want, spawn?” Raphael muttered, voice thick with sleep. He sat up, blinking, but of course he could see next to nothing in the dark. Not anymore. “What time is it?”

“It’s time you get up and play your part to win us some gold, that’s what.”

“Wha--”

“Because we do need gold. Badly. You can play Three-Dragon Ante, yes?”

Raphael grunted, running a hand over his face. “I can play any game you mortals ever dreamed up and several you never did, obviously. But what--”

“And are you any good?”

“I am not going to deign that with an answer.”

“I’ll take it as a yes. Great. Come downstairs, the tournament is about to start.”

Raphael’s hand stilled midway through brushing back his hair. Astarion could see him frown while putting two and two together. “... The tournament the innkeeper kept going on about - you signed me up?”

“I did, so you can win that nice prize of ten thousand gold pieces. And I bet all of our money on you, so if we’re to pay our way into Hells, you know what to do.”

“And you didn’t think of asking me--”

Astarion laughed. “Don’t be absurd, of course I did! But you would have said no. Plus the others would have said no, and we really don’t need all that nonsense. It’s a nice simple plan, really. You go downstairs, sit your ass on a chair, and don’t get up until you’ve won every single game and claimed the prize. That should be easy for you. Unless, of course, you think you may lose to mortals.”

“If that’s an attempt at goading me into doing your bidding, it’s amateurishly transparent and--”

“By the way, if anyone asks, your name is Wulbren Bongle.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused, darling. Up now, they won’t wait for you. And stop frowning, I’m sure beating scores of people at something will make you feel good.”

Raphael scoffed. “Would stepping on insects make you feel good?” he muttered, and Astarion smiled in the dark.

“Yes, actually.”

“... Of course it would,” Raphael muttered, but he did start feeling around for his boots, and Astarion considered the argument won.

***

“So, you found him well.”

“I’d say well is somewhat of an overstatement. He’s doing acceptably, for someone who was only recently turned into a mere mortal. Certainly an improvement from the state he was in when I took him to the Material Plane, though I regret to inform you his skill in bed has not likewise improved.”

“... That was not among my most pressing queries. Or anywhere among my queries.”

“Ah, I suppose that is not something that’s usually shared with one’s mother, hmm? Apologies.”

“You don’t look very sorry.”

“Don’t take it personally, dear. I’m never sorry for anything.”

Dalah held back a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I am no one’s mother,” she muttered. In the back of her mind, she remembered being terrified as months passed and her belly swelled. She’d heard enough stories to know what fate befell any mortal mother of a half-fiend, but ending the pregnancy would gain her an archdevil’s ire, and her husband’s certain death on the battlefield. In the end, it had been for Rahirek. It had always been for him.

She remembered locking herself in her rooms when flowing robes could no longer hide her state, and she remembered spending nights awake praying to any gods she knew of. She remembered what she promised, too.

Let me live, and I’ll learn to love the child.

But she had not lived, and that promise no longer mattered.

“... I was but the means to bring a spawn of Mephistopheles into the world,” she muttered in the end, her voice bitter as bile. Haarlep tilted their head.

“Well, you were rather successful. Half-fiends seldom live all that long. The least impressive ones are meat for the Blood War, and the more impressive ones tend to bite off more than they can chew sooner or later, and pay the price. Raphael lasted more than most. I am pretty sure he is Mephistopheles’ oldest living son, really.”

“It seems to me he did bite off more than he could chew.”

A shrug. “Eventually, yes. But it was always going to happen. That’s how cambions are.”

“That’s how all devils are.”

“Cambions most of all. Nearly all of them think they have something to prove, the silly things.” A shrug, and they grabbed an orange from a silver tray next to the bed. “And how’s the other half of him faring?”

“It’s hard to tell. It-- he seems restless. But he hasn’t attacked anyone without provocation. He has some form of control over himself, at least.”

“And the little trick with the name still works?”

“Yes. He stills whenever I speak it. He almost let me-- I think he may have let me touch him.”

“Good thing you didn’t, or you’d have to make do without hands. Still, interesting. It wasn’t a fluke, then.” Haarlep smiled, seemingly delighted, and finished peeling the orange to eat a slice. “That may be very useful.”

“Useful for what? What is it she’s planning?”

“My lips are sealed. You know that.” A pause, and they shrugged before eating another slice. “As in for talking, not for--”

Dalah held back a groan. “Yes, I know what you mean,” she muttered, already regretting trying to get an answer out of the incubus. They were far from the worst company to keep in Mephistar - not that it was a high bar to step over - but the longer any conversation went, the more she found herself thinking that being torn from the inside out while birthing a devil was perhaps not the most excruciating thing she had ever gone through after all.

“It’s not personal of course. She clearly trusts you to a degree - why else task you to give him the ring?”

Because it’s on me, Dalah thought. He’s my doing as much as Mephistopheles’.

Still, she chose to ignore the question. “Have you spoken with her at all since last time?” she asked instead. Duke Baalphegor could change her appearance just as easily as Haarlep could change theirs; it made sense that any communication would take place between the two of them, who knew in what disguises. It was the most sensible way to go about it, and Duke Baalphegor was nothing if not sensible. She had to be, to keep her loyalty to both Asmodeus and Mephistopheles for so many centuries. Until recently, that was.

In an official capacity at least, no one really knew the reason why Mephistopheles’ long-time consort had left Mephistar quite so suddenly. However, for the many qualities even his victims could begrudgingly recognize Mephistopheles possessed, subtlety was not among them. His bursts of temper were not all that rare, but few recalled seeing one quite as terrible as the one that had followed the disappearance of the Crown of Karsus from his vault.

… That may be partly due to the fact that most close witnesses to his tantrums rarely lived to tell the tale, truth be told, but that day his fury had been felt throughout the citadel, and probably through the entire glacier it was perched upon. And while there were many accusations one may move against the devils who formed the upper crust of Mephistar’s hierarchy, no one could accuse them of being stupid. They had immediately noticed that Duke Baalphegor had seemingly disappeared immediately afterwards, and put two and two together. More or less.

Among them, some whispered that Mephistopheles had destroyed her because he thought she’d played a role in the theft of the Crown; others said he had taken her prisoner. Others yet, more shrewd, knew that even in anger Mephistopheles would not risk Asmodeus’ ire quite so brazenly, killing such a close ally of his.

“Think of it, our Lord of Hellfire has always coveted Asmodeus’ throne--”

“Nearly every archdevil does, Quagrem, except perhaps Zariel with her obsession for battle. Or do I need to remind you what became of Levistus?”

“Ah, but none was ever brave enough to say as much in Asmodeus’ face. Why then would he sit on that crown and its power for so long, without using it for his highest goal?”

“It was the work of a mere mortal, who tried and failed to be something more. Perhaps it was not powerful enough to take on the Lord Below, even on his brow.”

“Or perhaps, Duke Baalphegor convinced him not to use it. Perhaps she even used your same arguments. Everyone with sense knows that Baalphegor’s diplomacy was all that’s kept the Lord of Nessus from removing Mephistopheles--”

“Do you truly think Duke Baalphegor had a hand in taking the Crown?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd, Nexroth. She certainly did not sneak in the vault like a common thief, and may not even know who did, but think of it - she convinces him not to use a powerful artifact against Asmodei, he listens to her as he always does… and when the Crown goes missing, he’s lost the chance to ever use it. To her great credit, Baalphegor balanced her role as Mephistopheles’ consort and close ally of Asmodeus for millennia, but even she couldn’t keep it going forever.”

“And you believe the Crown incident is what upset that balance?”

“Can you think of anything else that might have?”

A pause, a hum. “... Perhaps there is truth to your words. But if that is so, the Lord of the Eighth is in a more precarious position than ever before. As you said, without Baalphegor here, Asmodeus’ tolerance may run thin.”

“Indeed it might,” was the reply, and that had been the end of the conversation, because neither was foolish enough to push it further, to even voice thoughts of a possible demise of Mephistopheles. Neither of them had paid the slightest attention to Dalah, and why should they? She was one of hundreds of thousands debtors doing menial tasks in the citadel, the vast majority of them uttering to themselves whatever gibberish crossed their broken minds. No one’s sanity lasted long, with few exceptions.

Namely, Baalphegor’s personal attendants, all of them mortals who had been tricked or terrified into bearing children for her consort. As far as masters went, she was not unkind as long as instructions were followed… and she had extended some sort of protection over them, for none of them had lost their mind as other debtors eventually did. Not out of charity, clearly - it paid to have eyes and ears everywhere, those of debtors no one paid attention to - but Dalah cared little for her reasons as long as it kept her mind intact.

Except that now, suddenly, she could think of nothing but her reasons.

Saving Raphael, or at least part of him, had been a clear move against Mephistopheles - but to what end she couldn't begin to imagine. What game was she playing? Was it even just her game, or was it Asmodeus’? What role was Raphael supposed to play? What role could he play now that he was split into two beings, one enslaved and one a mere mortal?

Is he to be yet another lanceboard piece to sacrifice? Did I only delay his demise?

Not knowing ate at her, but one thing was clear: she may be on shaky ground but, very suddenly, even Mephistopheles’ position in the Hells didn’t seem all that secure anymore.

***

As it turned out, stepping on insects was making Raphael feel a great deal better indeed.

That was not something he planned on admitting to the spawn, of course. Not that he could have even if he wanted to, as players were not allowed to speak to anybody other than their opponents and the judges.

That, and Astarion was currently busy: it seemed that betting all the gold he had on him was not enough, and he had started his own little gambling ring. He was collecting small bets for each round from spectators whose chosen winner had clearly already lost, but who still had gold left to lose.

And lose it they would, unless they did the clever thing and bet on him.

Raphael smiled and leaned back on his chair, looking at the other five players in his group as they put down their cards. The only truly decent player, a half-orc with a sound strategic mind, had the highest strength flight by far; a quick calculation told her that Raphael could not possibly have a stronger one. Raphael allowed her a handful of seconds to celebrate her victory before putting down his own cards. The weakest flights by far, and yet…

“Unfortunately, my friend, I must claim this round.”

“What! Your flight is nowhere near--” she began, only to trail off when she properly paused to look at the cards.

Raphael smiled. “I have the Druid. The lowest strength flight wins,” he said, and smiled again - admittedly, only a touch smug - before leaning back to let the judge look over all flights and declare his victory, letting him pass the turn to the next game.

The announcement was not particularly well-received by the half-orc, who made her displeasure known by grabbing the judge and flinging him against a table where another game had just concluded. An impressive throw, considering that the judge was roughly the size of a particularly burly gnoll.

A brief bout of chaos unfolded, several of the judges banding together to throw out the sore loser. Raphael ducked under a thrown stool, took a moment to drink a mouthful of wine, and looked over to his left. Astarion was distributing wins and pocketing his fees, but he paused a moment to look back and grin.

Raphael didn’t quite smile back, but the corners of his mouth curled up just a fraction, and he raised the goblet in a silent toast. Another sip of wine, and he looked around again.

Several hours and many games in, the pool of players had significantly been narrowed down. They were now down to twelve tables and, in the last rounds, only one player would advance from each; two more games, then, and that entire travesty would be over with. Until then, he supposed he had no choice but to keep winning.

Not the worst task in the world, he had to admit. Compared to the dismal experiences he’d had in the past half a year, this was almost… acceptable.

As some semblance of order returned and the winners from their respective games were seated in groups of six, Raphael briefly considered losing on purpose right at the grand finale. Watching the spawn trying to explain to the rest of their companions where most of their gold went would be amusing, he had to admit… but they did need that gold to open up a portal to the Hells, so losing it would be too great an inconvenience to be worth it.

Perhaps the vampling’s little plan hadn’t been all that foolish after all. That, too, was something Raphael would definitely not admit aloud.

He turned his attention back to the game instead, and went ahead to stomp on a few more insects on his way to his first victory in a long time. A laughably small victory, in the greater scale of things, but a victory nonetheless.

May it be the first of many, he thought, and emptied his fourth goblet of wine just as finished his winning hand.

***

“I still maintain you should have told us what you were planning--”

“Thirty thousand gold.”

“That’s not the point I’m trying to--”

“Sorry, love. I can’t hear your point over the jingling of thirty thousand gold.” Half drunk on the bottle of blood he was drinking from, Astarion sat more comfortably on the tree branch he was perched on along with Wyll. He turned to Raphael, who was precariously sitting on another branch, and grinned, lifting the bottle. “Sharee!”

“... What?”

“Isn’t it Infernal for ‘cheers’?”

“It means turnip.”

“Ah. Well-- cheers for the Three-Dragon Ante champion of Sunridge, who just made us rich. We’ll very much enjoy carrying this money to Baldur’s Gate, where we’ll promptly spend it all to go, literally, to Hell.”

As Astarion set to work to empty the bottle, Durge shifted a little on the fork in the tree trunk they were sitting on, with Halsin in his cat shape sitting across their shoulders. They glanced over at Raphael. “... Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

A shrug. “It was a childishly simple endeavor. Bragging would be poor form on my part.”

“He said, bragging,” Wyll muttered, but he seemed amused and even Raphael’s scoff sounded almost like a barely held-back chuckle. Durge suspected he’d had more than a couple of goblets of wine during the game, but said nothing of it and let their gaze wander back to the ground below, where they had set up two tents and started a fire, as visible as a beacon into the night.

If anyone had set out after them with the intent of robbing them of the winnings - more a certainty than a probability, to be quite honest - they couldn’t miss it. What they would hopefully miss was the fact that the several barrels near the tents contained smokepowder.

“... Well. How much longer are we supposed to wait?” Raphael asked, and Durge shrugged, holding back a yawn. Sharing a tent with Halsin was rarely conducive to a sound, long rest.

“I’d give it another hour at most,” they said, and they were not too far off: in the end, it took only about forty minutes before Halsin, still perched on Durge’s shoulder, hissed. They looked down to see shadows creeping at the edges of the small camp, a group of at least ten people. One dragonborn, from what Durge could tell, and a couple of dwarves, along with what was probably an half-orc and others who may have been human or elves - hard to tell.

In the flickering light of the campfire, they watched them split in two groups, each surrounding a tent; weapons were brought up, swords and axes, and they fell on each tent, the silence of night broken by cries and hollers as they proceeded to hack at the tents and… well, at the people they assumed to be inside.

“Not precisely professionals, these ones,” Wyll murmured. “Who wants to do the honors?”

“Oh,” Astarion whispered back, the grin almost audible in his voice. “I bet the devil wants to have a go. Don’t you, Raphael?”

“I’m surprised, spawn. I thought you’d be eager to end them yourself.”

“I’m just generous like that,” Astarion replied, his voice making clear he was also a little tipsy. Wyll reached to grab him by the shoulder, just to make sure he wouldn’t fall off the tree while he gestured widely at the scene below them. “Go on, old man. This shot’s all yours.”

“It will be my pleasure,” was the response, just as someone below spoke up.

“Wait a minute, there is no one he--”

“Ignis!”

The firebolt shot through the air, a streak of bright light in the dark. For a moment it illuminated the faces of the bandits below - one of them saw them, a dragonborn with blood-red scales, but it was too late to do anything - and then the barrels of smokepowder blew up in a deafening explosion that covered any screams, and left their would-be killers no hope for survival. Bit of a shame to lose two tents like that but, Durge figured, better those than their skins.

The shockwave of the explosion was powerful enough to make Astarion entirely lose his balance, but Wyll caught his leg on time and he just dangled for a few moments upside down, laughing at the carnage below. He glanced up with a grin, the flames beneath turning his hair into a bright halo.

“Admit it, devil,” he said, holding up the hand that wasn’t clutching the now empty bottle. “You had fun today.”

Raphael scoffed, of course; he seemed to spend half his time doing that lately, so it wasn’t surprising. What did surprise Durge was the fact he actually leaned over to grab Astarion’s hand and help him back up on the tree while Halsin dismissed his wildshape and cast an ice storm at the fire below, to keep it from spreading to the forest. That particular task covered, Durge’s attention stayed on Astarion and Raphael.

“I suppose that your antics do provide a sort of childish entertainment,” Raphael was muttering. “For those who care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you’re drunk.”

“Sounds to me like you both had enough to drink,” Wyll laughed, only to recoil when both turned on him as one.

“Look who’s talking!”

“That’s a bold stand from someone who guzzles wine like water at all times of the day.”

“Hey, that’s not--”

“Amazed the Blade still recalls what end of the blade he’s supposed to hold, really.”

“Granted, your passable taste in wine makes it marginally more tolerable--”

“I only sample a little wine every once in a--”

“Oh, that’s sampling now? If I sampled necks the way you sample wine, I’d be leaving a trail of dead bodies in my wake.”

“I-- well--” Wyll groaned, clearly realizing he’d bitten off more than he cared to chew at the moment. “Oh gods, I did not sign up for this. Can you two go back to hating each other’s guts?”

“We still absolutely do,” Raphael pointed out, and Astarion grinned.

“The feeling is mutual,” he declared, and patted Raphael's shoulder hard enough to make him fall off the branch with a cry. Later he’d deny doing it on purpose, but as Durge nearly fell themself to cast Feather Fall and spare Raphael a very painful landing on icy ground, Astarion looked at them with a lopsided smile.

“You know, love,” he said, “I still think he likes us.”

***

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#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #the dark urge #raphael bg3 #astarion ancunin #halsin bg3 #wyll ravengard #haarlep bg3 #hell to pay #bg3 raphael #bg3 astarion

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pengychan · 7 days

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[Baldur’s Gate III] A Deal in Three Acts: Act III

Title: A Deal in Three Acts Summary: Weeks since Raphael took temporary residence at Sharess’ Caress, Haarlep is bored. Still waiting for Tav to take him up on his offer, Raphael is frustrated. Tav chooses an interesting evening to show up with a counter-offer. Characters: Raphael, Haarlep, Tav. Rating: Explicit Status: Complete

Act I here Also on AO3

*** Sometimes the best reason to take a throne is finding out what getting railed on it feels like. ***

When Raphael awoke some time before sunrise, he found himself briefly wondering if the little mouse had undergone ceremorphosis while they slept, as she seemed to be holding onto him with entirely too many limbs.

But the skin against him was dry, smelling vaguely of leather and beeswax. A relief, that. Of all the experiences he may be open to, being enveloped in the tentacles of a mindflayer who may or may not make a meal out of his brain was not among them. The drawbacks of that night’s highly unusual negotiations would give him enough of a headache as things were.

He could not simply take back what he’d agreed to; loath as he was to admit it, the Illithid was a viable enough backup plan and the little mouse was insane enough to resort to it. He’d have to see it through, put it all in writing. And then, once the Crown was in his hands and Baator was at his feet… then he could set to work convincing her to revise the contract.

He may have been out-bargained now, but he’d turn the tide soon enough. He always did; patience was all he needed. No mortal had ever scored more than a temporary victory against him, which only made them lose all caution. It made the defeat that followed all the more bitter. And perhaps she wouldn’t even mind being bested in the long run.

I won’t leave until I see you sit on Asmodeus’ throne, she’d said, but surely she could be convinced to remain after that. She could see him rule the Hells, and understand he could do more, aim for greater things yet. If she wanted those she cared for safe, she only had to say so. It would only be a matter of time, and oh, he had time in abundance.

Raphael held back a smile, opened his eyes, and lifted himself up on an elbow. The little mouse shifted, but did not wake up. Her eyes - the one truly beautiful thing about her and so delightfully infernal, red pupils against black sclera - stayed shut. Somewhere in the next room he could hear the sound of water splashing, Haarlep’s faint humming as they took their time washing up. They’d had absolutely no hesitation to set him up for failure last night, and he ought to flay him for that. He probably would, but later.

For now, he had some damage control to do. Not the kind of damage control he usually did, but not the most unpleasant either.

Raphael lifted a hand to brush back her hair, a rich black but very obviously chopped off with a sharp dagger while sitting at a campfire. Something equally sharp must have cut into her cheek at some point, leaving a raised pink scar on livid skin. He wondered if it had happened in battle, or if it had been the result of a burst of uncontrolled magic turning on her.

Of all the types of magic sorcerers wielded, wild magic had always seemed the most inconvenient. It was unpredictable, and chaotic; the opposite of everything he believed power should be. How it served her well enough to carry her and her companions that far was a mystery to him. But then again, it suited her. She was nothing if not annoyingly unpredictable.

Just as Raphael pulled away his hand there was a groan, and her eyelids fluttered. “Misza…?” she mumbled. Raphael had never heard that name, but made a mental note to try and find out more as her eyes blinked open and finally focused on him. “All right,” she muttered, and yawned. Rather than covering her mouth, she pressed it against his shoulder before pulling back again. “Well. There are way worse sights to wake up to.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you flattery is not your strongest suit?”

“I’ve been told I’m shit at complimenting people. That’s what you’re saying, yes? Just more elegantly.”

“... It is indeed.”

A quirk of her lips, and pulled back the arm that had been looped around his side so that she could reach up and brush back his hair. “You’re not a vampire though, are you? I don’t see fangs,” she added. Raphael wondered, faintly, if the tadpole in her head may have started to feed on her brain matter after all.

“I am not certain I’m following your line of thought, little mouse.”

“You can use a mirror.” She still sounded sleepy, and her hand paused to cup his face. The thumb brushed over his cheekbone. “You don’t need me to tell you you’re handsome.”

“Oh, he doesn’t need mirrors either,” Haarlep’s voice sing-sang from the next room. “He spends half his time looking at me. Or at portraits of himself. They’re on eeeevery wall.”

Yes, he was absolutely going to flay them. Raphael scowled, and turned to the doorway. “You-- back to the House of Hope. Now,” he snapped.

“I’m not done bathing.”

“I said now, incubus, or I’ll feed you your own skin!”

A long sigh, with Haarlep not even trying to sound intimidated or chastised as they should be. “Ah, what a cruel master I found myself bound to. You may want to run, little mouse, while you still--”

“Haarlep.”

A laugh, the whooshing noise of flames flaring up, and then there was only the sound of water rushing to fill up a space left empty all of a sudden. Raphael kept glaring at the doorway for a few moments and likely would have glared a few more, if not for the hand on his cheek turning his head back to her. She pressed her lips on the bridge of his nose, at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you threaten to flay them often?” she asked, chuckling, and Raphael scoffed.

“Nearly every day.”

“And do you ever do it?”

“... They should count themself very lucky that they’re good at what they do.”

“Yes, it did sound like they knew what they were doing,” Tav commented. Raphael was acutely aware he’d made a spectacle of himself on that bed, and the slightest hint of mockery in her voice may have been enough to turn mild annoyance into raging fury. But there was no mockery, and thus there was no fury. Only a meeting of lips, a hand tangling in his hair.

Right. Damage control. He couldn’t allow himself to be sidetracked by the very same impertinent incubus who’d landed him in that situation to begin with. A frustrating situation if to be fair - and he nothing if not fair - not the most unpleasant he’d ever been in by a long shot. The little mouse was no incubus, and didn’t seem inclined towards another bout of passion just yet. She just kissed him, slow and lazy and content, running a hand down his chest while leaning back on the pillow.

That suited Raphael well enough. If he was being honest, at least in his own private thoughts, he could not recall the last time he’d slept with anyone other than Haarlep. Nor could he recall the act ever being meant for anyone’s pleasure but his own. Haarlep had their pleasure with him, sure enough, but it was taken, not given.

… She could take pleasure from him too, and the thought stirred heat in his lower belly. But he was not as confident in his own ability to last without the aid of a ring and frankly, he had disgraced himself enough that night. He broke the kiss before his breathing quickened, and cleared his throat.

“The water in the pool is always warm,” he said. “If you’d like to join me, as we discuss the finer details of the deal,” he added. Much as he enjoyed the sensation in bed, he’d rather not discuss contracts with dried semen coating the back of his thighs. She probably felt the same about the come - his come, he thought, and some of that heat tried to make a comeback - between her own.

A nod. “That sounds good.” A pause. “... I’ll need to get a message to Elfsong Tavern before Astarion comes looking for me. I think you’ve had your fill of people walking in unannounced.”

“Ah, I see. He’d have come to seek you come morning, in case you ran afoul of me?”

“Yes.”

Raphael tilted his head, and clicked his tongue. “That wounds me, little mouse.”

“That I wanted insurance, or that I thought myself and a vampire spawn could take you on?”

“Honestly, both.”

A quirk of her lips, that hand cupping his face, the thumb stroking his cheekbone again. He leaned into it without thinking as she spoke. “Apologies. Let me send him a message, and I’ll kiss it better. Do you have something I can write with?”

Raphael was never without a sizable supply of ink, quills and paper. The little mouse penned the message quickly, blew on the ink to dry it, and folded it before turning back to him. Raphael gestured for her to return to the bed, and pulled the sheets up to cover them both to an acceptable degree before snapping his fingers.

Korrilla materialized in the room mid-laugh, with her eyes squeezed shut and a mug of something in her hand. “Oh, come on! I don’t believe for a second that out of all the moments he could find to propo-” she trailed off, quite suddenly, and her eyes blinked open. They found the bed and the laugh faded, leaving behind something more akin to a rictus. Her eyes moved from Raphael to Tav, then back to Raphael.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tav wave, but Korrilla did not return the gesture. Instead she sighed, took a generous swig from the mug, and reached up to press her free hand over her eyes for a moment. “I did not need to see this,” she said, voice flat. Raphael scoffed.

“You don’t need that tongue in your mouth either, yet I’m generous enough to let you keep it,” he informed her, his tone alone making it clear he could change that on a whim. He’d had quite enough of his underlings disrespecting him before his-- future kingdomcrowning glory-- ticket to the Crown of Karsus. “But an end to my generosity can be arranged,” he added, “if you don’t cease offering your input when it’s not required.”

Korrilla pressed her lips together, and was clever enough not to make other remarks. Raphael took the folded piece of paper from the little mouse’s hand, and held it out. “I need you to deliver this to Elfsong Tavern, for the attention of the vampire spawn--”

“It may be best not to call him a vampire spawn in front of the owner,” the little mouse cut him off. Raphael paused, and had to concede it was a fair point.

“... Of course. To the attention of Astarion.”

“Right,” Korrilla said, just a little too mechanically, and took the note while standing as far from the bed as her arm’s length allowed her. It was not very far. “Anything else?”

“If you could stop by downstairs and let them know I’ll need their special herbal tea come morning,” the little mouse spoke up, “that would be really helpful.”

There was a sound that was almost a chortle. “Oh, definitely. I’ll do that.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Really,” she added, and was gone in a swirl of sparks and sulfur before either of them could say anything more. Raphael tilted his head.

“I was not aware this place had its own special tea.”

“You wouldn’t need it,” the little mouse said with a shrug, and pushed the covers off herself to stand. “And you wouldn’t want it, either. It tastes absolutely vile.”

“Then why request it?”

A laugh. “Our deal doesn’t involve a firstborn or anything like it, does it?”

Raphael blinked. “It does not.”

She shrugged and gestured to her thighs, where he could see the dried seed that had leaked out of her. “Then I really should be having those herbs in the morning.”

Right. That. Raphael cleared his throat with a nod. “Ah, I see. Of course,” he said, words uncharacteristically clumsy in his mouth. He was rather relieved when she turned to walk to the pool without another word on the subject, and all too eager to follow her into the water.

The finer details of the deal were few and far inbetween, and made for a short discussion. Near everything of relevance had been said earlier, after all, and taking back his word now was not an option. Raphael summoned the contract with a snap of his finger - double copy and in the common tongue as requested, inappropriate as that felt - and begrudgingly conceded that she could take both back for the vampire spawn to read through before she returned and finally, she promised, signed both.

“You’re dangerously close to giving me a headache, little mouse,” he muttered, watching her put both copies on the floor next to the pool before sinking back in. She’d grinned.

“Is it a headache so bad a crown cannot soothe it?”

“... I suppose not,” he conceded, and it wasn’t a lie. The Crown of Karsus and the rule of all Nine Hells of Baator would certainly soothe him a great deal. For a time.

The pool was a far cry from the restoration pool in the House of Hope, but hardly anything on that Plane could compare to his residence. It was adequate, if nothing else, with good quality soap and clean towels at hand, the perfume in the water not too cloying. It was definitely more than Tav had enjoyed in a long while, if ever, because she took her time washing up.

“If not for the Elder Brain to take care of,” she finally spoke, rinsing the last of the soap from her hair, “I’d never get out of here.”

Raphael chuckled, throwing some water on his face before he stood and looked around for another bar of soap. “My invite to come dine at the House of Hope has never been rescinded. If you’re inclined--” to join me in my boudoir, he’d meant to say, but he trailed off when he felt her tail wrap around his calf, soap-lathered hands stroking up his back. To his annoyance, he didn’t catch himself on time to stifle a sharp breath. “If you’re angling for more concessions--”

“Not at all,” the little mouse replied, voice light. Her hands lathered his back in long, slow strokes, and her tail went up his leg. “That deal is as good as done. I was thinking we may discuss my other proposal. Me coming to the Hells to help you fight this war.” Her hands slipped around his waist, her chest pressed against Raphael’s back. Her tail brushed the inside of his thigh. “I meant what I said. I’ll fight for you to conquer the Hells. If you’ll have me.”

At the moment Raphael felt he wanted to have her indeed, in several ways, few of them figurative and most of them extremely literal. The hands brushing across his stomach turned his voice rougher than he’d have liked. “... I imagine,” he said, “that for all the power I’ll wield, one can never have too many assets.”

“Then you’ll have me, and my magic. And my sword, my bow, an axe I will buy for the occasion.” A hand went up to his chest while the other dipped below the water, closed around his cock. Raphael let out a shuddering breath, shut his eyes. A nail traced a vein and, again, he began to harden, the heat back in his loins. He didn’t try to fight it.

“And what do you expect in exchange?” he asked, eyes shut. She hummed, leaning her cheek against the back of his shoulder.

“Archdevil Zariel will never give up Avernus without a fight.”

“She will not, but it won’t matter at all. Once I have the Crown, and my legions are ready, the Flying Fortress will fall.”

“Zariel will fight to the end.”

“I expect that she will. And I expect that is how she dies.”

“I want to be the one to deal the killing blow.”

Whatever Raphael had expected her to say, that was not it. He blinked, taken aback, and forgot even the hand stroking his cock. He turned to look at Tav over his shoulder, and she met his gaze. “This is what I want in exchange,” she spoke, and he felt the heat of it now - anger, and hatred. He was familiar with both, but he’d rarely met anyone before who hated as beautifully as this unassuming scrap of a tiefling. “Zariel dead by my hand, her head to put on a pike. Give me this, and I will follow you to Malsheem to be the first to kneel when you sit on Asmodeus’ throne.”

I give her this, Raphael thought, and she may agree to revise the contract sooner rather than later, too.

Raphael swallowed, and turned to face her. She let go of him and took only half a step back, still looking at him in the eyes. He licked his lips. “... I could find out nothing about your past,” he admitted, quietly. He reached to cup her face, brush some soap off her cheek with a thumb. “It aggravated me greatly, I must say. But I think I can guess now. You’re from Elturel.”

“I was.”

“I see.” Left alone in the world, out for revenge. An old tale, but Raphael would never grow tired of the timeless tragedy of it. Mortals out for revenge were always among his favorite clients. Not always the easiest, necessarily, but the most interesting. The little mouse had yet to disappoint in that regard. “... Who was Misza?”

She stilled, and spoke again with a voice as cold as the glaciers of Cania. “You said you could find out nothing--”

“I did not. You called that name, when you woke up.”

“Ah.” The coldness faded, and she drew in a long breath, turning her gaze away. “... A gentle soul. I don’t think she lasted long in Avernus.”

“Gentle souls seldom do,” Raphael conceded, and nodded. “Very well. Lead the charge for me, and Zariel’s head will be yours.”

He’d seen her smile before, but the smile she gave now was different. It was not for him, not really, and of that he could only be glad: it was a smile that would not be out of place on a pit fiend, rather than on a simple tiefling. If that was the last thing Zariel would see before she died, Raphael could almost find it in himself to feel pity for her.

Then the little mouse grasped his head, pulled it down, and kissed him fiercely enough to make him forget an archdevil Zariel even existed. She pressed close, flush against him, and he hissed when his erection brushed against her hip. “I hope you’re aware,” he breathed against her lips, “that this was never necessary for me to agree.”

He felt her smile. “Ah,” she said, arms tight around his neck, “but I do want it.”

Well, far it be from him to disappoint his most interesting client yet. And while Haarep described him as disappointing more often than not - a gross exaggeration, no doubt - there was one skill he’d learned well enough. The Archduchess Raphael made sure he learned, and he’d been a good pupil if he said so himself.

Fittingly for the moniker he’d bestowed upon her, the little mouse was indeed small, and light; easy to hoist up to sit by the side of the pool, legs dangling in the water while he knelt between them. She looked down, licking her lips, and ran a hand through his wet hair.

“Could you change?” she asked, her voice rough. “I like your other face, too.”

A chuckle. “You won’t get to look at it all that much,” he said, but it was a request he could satisfy and so he did. Had she been anything but a tiefling, the flames which came with his transformation would have burned the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He stretched his wings a moment, splashing water, and smiled when he felt her hands grasping his horns.

Haarlep did that often, too. They were, after all, excellent for leverage… and a strong grip on his horns, holding his head in place, never failed to send a jolt of arousal down his spine, straight to his cock. It wouldn’t help him last, but that wasn’t important now. All he needed was his tongue, and that had always served him well in any endeavor.

Raphael did not look up again. He placed a hand on each of the little mouse’s thighs and spread them open, leaning forward to press his mouth against her folds. He inhaled deeply, the scent of her filling his nostrils, and ran his tongue across her in a long, hot swipe. He felt her shudder, and heard her moan; her legs hooked over his shoulders, trembling, giving him more access while she held onto his horns for dear life.

With Haarlep in the form of the Archduchess, he never got to set the pace. With her, there was no respite, no comfort to be had. She’d straddle his face and not budge until she’d had her fill, grinding against his mouth, yanking his horns and pulling at his hair, ordering him to prove he wasn’t all that worthless after all, to use that mouth of his for something worthwhile least she cut off his useless tongue and show the world that it wasn’t made of silver after all.

At that point he would already be-- pathetic-- bruised and battered, having been made to crawl and beg to be used, shame a tangible weight in his stomach only matched by his need for more. Learning to give the Archduchess the pleasure she demanded had been a long process, each lesson a welt or a cut or worse, ending quite literally in blood and tears… but he had learned.

And a lesson learned, he knew, is a lesson earned.

His little mouse was so wet, it took several swipes of his tongue to get any real friction against her. When he did, her hips buckled violently and she almost wrenched his head away, only to immediately pull him against her again. But it was nothing compared to the way the Archduchess would jerk his head around, sometimes violently enough to fracture his neck if she deemed his performance lacking, so he barely missed a beat. He placed a kiss on her mound, grazed at sensitive skin with his teeth, and buried his face in her folds again.

“Gods,” she groaned. “Please please please don’t stop.”

For a moment Raphael did pause, smiling against her, half his face already wet with her juices. She sounded almost delirious with pleasure, and for a moment he regretted sending Haarlep away; he should have had them stay and watch. He should have made them listen to this, to remember next time they tried to call him a disappointing lover again.

No matter. They can watch us next time, in the House of Hope. Only watch. I won’t let them touch her, or me. Won’t even let them touch themself. Will serve them right.

The thought made him shiver - Haarlep watching, the little mouse in his boudoir, the mental image of them both fucking him on Asmodeus’ throne, his throne; let all of Nessus see, let all of Baator see - and he almost spent himself right there and then.

But he held back, and forced himself to ignore his aching cock to burrow his face against her cunt again, licking and kissing and sucking and letting himself forget everything else outside this, the scent and taste and touch, the voice crying out in pleasure under his ministrations, the grip on his horns, the heels digging against his back. Beneath his palms, her thighs quivered and tensed. Something changed about her shudders, something in the rhythm of them telling him she was close. She canted her hips against his mouth, leveraging on his horns, and he pushed his tongue in, all of it. He was rewarded with a near cry.

“Raphael,” she managed, the name nearly breaking up on her lips, and the next groan to ring out was his own. He’d heard his name many times over centuries - spoken with deference or loathing, in despair or with mockery, in anger and fear - but never, even with an incubus in his bed, had he heard it quite like that. Not with that want. Not with that need.

Was that why Haarlep wanted him to say their name, when in the throes of pleasure? Was this how they felt? Hells, it went to his head like gughalaki and he couldn’t get enough of it. Another moan above him, and Raphael stopped thinking. He closed his lips on her clit and sucked, all finesse gone, wanting nothing more than hearing, feeling her come undone.

He got what he wanted. One of her hands let go of his horns, and the next moment there was a barely muffled cry. Her hips buckled one more time against his mouth and then she held still, shuddering, heels digging deeper into his back as though she feared he might pull away.

Raphael didn’t think all the might of every devil in Baator could make him pull back an inch. He kept licking and sucking her folds while she rode it out and finally went limp with a near sob. She let go of his horns entirely and might have fallen back on the floor, had Raphael not reached out to catch her. He stood, still in the pool, gaze locked on the panting form in his grasp. He licked his lips.

There should be a portrait of her like this, he thought, to show Haarlep whenever they complained about his skill again. And also for his viewing pleasure, he supposed, but mostly for that. “Little mouse?” Raphael called out, his voice still rough, and she drew in a long breath before opening her eyes. Her gaze was still dazed with pleasure, and she spoke with a voice like sandpaper.

“How do I know,” she managed, “that Raphael hasn’t left and you’re not the incubus after all?”

Raphael let out a scoff that may pass as a somewhat breathless attempt at a laugh. “Am I to take it as a compliment?”

“You can bet your ass.”

“I only deal in souls, and you truly should work on your flattery. Still, consider the compliment graciously accepted.”

A few more panting breaths, and she sat up before glancing down. Raphael was still standing between her thighs and, he realized after a moment, still hard. It wasn’t all that rare for mortal to show a somewhat disconcerting interest in what a devil’s cock looked like. In a rare moment of talkativeness on the subject, Korrilla had admitted that since their arrival at Baldur’s Gate she’d had several queries about it from people who had a rather interesting - if incorrect - idea of what their strictly professional relationship entailed.

Whether or not the little mouse shared the curiosity, she now seemed to be considering the size of it, the girth, the ridges. She licked her lips, and reached up to grasp his shoulders to pull him close. Her heart beat wildly against his chest.

“You’re not done,” she murmured against his throat, and leaned back on her elbows, legs hooking around his thighs. Her skin was flushed, and her eyes seemed to burn. “Come inside.”

Raphael seldom needed to be asked such things twice, and this was no exception; if anything, it was a small wonder he didn’t spend himself against her thigh on her words alone. He gripped her back and thrust forward blindly, in a near bestial lust that belied his every attempt to be civil up to that point. But she was so wet and open to him, he slid in like she was meant to take him; the shuddering gasp against his skin almost undid him.

He did not, as expected, last long. A few graceless, desperate thrusts and he came with a shuddering groan, dropping on top of her, panting against her hair. He had the presence of mind to change his form back to the human one so he wouldn’t weigh too heavily on her, but that was all he could do for a few long minutes. Frankly, for a while it was all he wanted to do: remain still, nestled within her, feeling nothing but her heartbeat against his chest and her hands down his neck, down his back.

When he finally let out a long breath and lifted his head, the hands went to cup his face. His little mouse looked at him through half-lidded eyes, a sated smile on her lips. “Ah, there it is,” she said, brushing a lock of hair off his face. “I see it now.”

“See what?”

“The fox,” she replied, and Raphael chuckled.

“You mean to tell me you didn’t see it before?”

“I was still half thinking you might be the cat, but that fits Haarlep best.”

“Haarlep?”

“Cats never do a damn thing they’re told, and you still want to keep them around.”

Another chuckle. “That sounds like an accurate description,” he conceded. The thought he’d had earlier, both Haarlep and her fucking him on the throne of Nessus for all of Baator to see, nothing on him but the Crown, pushed its way back into his mind. He could almost feel Haarlep’s cock in him, as real as the taste of her in his mouth. Breath caught in his throat a moment, and something deep within him trembled.

“... Raphael? Are you--”

A well-timed knock on the door ended the question before it was even out. Mamzell Amira’s voice rang out, much too chipper for that time in the morning. Or what Raphael assumed was the time in the morning; keeping track of the time had not been among his priorities.

“I’ve brought the special tea, piping hot! And some breakfast, of course. I’ll leave it outside!”

“Much obliged,” the little mouse called out, and Raphael took it as his cue to pull out of her. He allowed himself to dip underwater a few moments before he stood, rinsed his face again, and reached for a towel.

“Do rinse yourself. I’ll take the tray in.”

She chuckled, slipping in the water as he left the pool. “The archdevil supreme, offering to carry my tray?”

“The archdevil supreme was taught manners a lady ought to appreciate.”

“Alas, I’m just a rodent of small size.”

When she’d said the tea tasted vile, she probably was not exaggerating: it most certainly smelled vile, too, and he got some measure of admittedly childish entertainment out of watching her face as she forced it down.

The breakfast of fresh pastries and oranges was much better received, but did not last long. Soon enough she was putting her armor back on, picking up the contract - both copies of it - and grabbing one last pastry. The one Raphael had been planning to eat next, to his annoyance. “I’ll have Astarion take a look at the contract first thing,” she said. “Unless he has something to object to, I’ll be back to sign it before noon.”

“He’ll find nothing to object to, as it meets all the requests you so convincingly outlined,” Raphael pointed out, settling for another orange. “But he’s welcome to waste time however he sees fit. Just remember you don’t have much of it, little mouse,” he added, and as though to agree with him, the ground shook. He looked over to see her press her lips together.

“... I’ll be back soon,” she finally said. And indeed, Indeed, she returned before noon. The contract was signed, the Orphic Hammer placed in her hands, and that should have been the last step for Raphael - the moment when he’d sit back to see if they could win after all, if his investment would pay off.

He’d done all that he’d set out to do to make it so, he reasoned, watching her retreating back. Still… “Wait.”

She turned, already in the doorway, to see Raphael snap his fingers. Flames enveloped her and she gave a startled cry, but they died down just as fast. Once they did there she stood, clad in the Helldusk Armor. It would not hurt, he reasoned, to give her a little advantage. Prone as she and her companions were to surprise him, they were facing a fight the likes of which few mortals had ever seen.

“It’s my own armor, made by the forgemaster of Avemus,” Raphael explained as she looked down at it. “Superior to anything a mortal blacksmith may hope to achieve. It always fits its wearer, so you may borrow it for the upcoming battle. Return it along with the Crown once you’ve triumphed.”

The little mouse flexed a gloved hand for a moment, looking at the infernal metal, and nodded. “... Very well. Thank you.”

“You may keep your thanks. You know what the one thing I want from you is,” Raphael scoffed. “Now go, and give that Netherbrain a taste of the Hells.”

The little mouse laughed. “Very well. Just one more thing.”

“There is nothing more to discu--” Raphael began, only to trail off when she strode back in and grabbed his doublet to pull his head down. She planted her lips on his for a brief, forceful kiss. When she pulled back, she was grinning.

“For luck,” she said, and she was out of the door before Raphael’s mouth could formulate a reply, a spring in her step and the Orphic Hammer slung across her back. The door closed behind her, and Raphael found himself staring at it for a very long time.

***

“My word, I’d have never thought I’d live to see the day you’d turn into a philanthropist. Who’d have known you’d find you have a kind soul after all, master?”

That last word, purposely thrown in after a pause like the afterthought it was, somehow annoyed Raphael more than any of the other nonsense Haarlep kept spouting. “Keep this up, and you’ll find soon enough how kind I am,” he bit without teeth, and drank another mouthful from the goblet of blood red wine he’d been glaring at for the past several minutes.

Lounging on the bed, a half-eaten apple in hand, Haarlep sighed. “And you’re modest, too!”

“Be quiet, incubus.”

“You’re still crownless, and yet you helped fix the tiefling’s infernal machine so she can live in the Material Plane, just as you promised! Giving something for nothing. How is that not kind?”

Raphael scoffed. “That the Crown of Karsus would come apart and be in need of reforging was not an outcome I’d planned for, and Zariel’s old guard dog was drawing her last. Had I let her burn herself out without intervening, I would have been in breach of the contract. I don’t expect you to understand such things. The crown will be mine. I have yet to take the Netherese Orb out of the wizard’s chest--”

“Couldn’t he do it himself, by keeping the Crown once he’s done reforging it? Or surely, Mystra could?”

Raphael scowled. “He’d doom the little mouse’s soul by refusing to give it back, and he knows it. Ambitious he may be, but he has the same fatal flaw as most other mortals - sentimentality. Gale of Waterdeep will not--”

“Actually, it’s Professor Dekarios now. Ready for orb removal at your earliest convenience.”

The little mouse’s voice rang out suddenly from the doorway, causing Raphael to turn with a start and Haarlep’s grin to become, if possible, even wider. “Ah, here’s our favorite little mouse!” the incubus crooned. Their tail whipped the air as they stood and approached her. “We were just talking about you. And your friends. And the Crown, of course.”

“Oh, this crown?”

Any and all questions Raphael may have had - how did you get here, when did you get here, how dare you come here - died in his throat when she held up the reforged Crown of Karsus. No longer massive as it had been on top of the Netherbrain, it still looked as foreboding. The three netherstones set amidst spikes of black metal glinted and Raphael could already feel it, the hum of power within each, waiting to be unleashed by someone worthy of wielding them.

Someone like him.

“Give it here,” he said, impatience winning out on civility. He stepped closer, mouth dry, wishing he’d changed into his devilish form so that he could truly tower over her as he should, as he deserved to tower over everyone. The little mouse met his gaze, and smiled.

“And then what, you’ll put it on your own head? That’s not how crownings usually go.”

“I am not in the mood for games--”

“I went through an awful lot to get this crown. It seems only fitting I get to place it on your head myself,” she cut him off, and gestured to the floor with a sharp nod. “Kneel.”

It was spoken like an order, as she held the key to his near-unimaginable power, and by all rights it should have infuriated him beyond words. Instead, it made him stop in his tracks, something twisting in his stomach. He’d heard that order many, many times - in that boudoir, mostly, but sometimes outside of it too - and he’d always obeyed it in the end.

On the floor, pet. Kneel.

“Oh, come now, little brat,” Haarlep purred, coming to stand next to her. Raphael’s eyes moved from them to the little mouse and back, his mouth still dry, unable to formulate words. “You always kneel so prettily for me. And you’ll do it again many, many times. Even with a crown on your head and the Nine Hells at your feet, you’ll always yearn to kneel.” A smile, sweet as rotten honey. “But not to worry, sweetling. We’ll always help you up, when we’re done with you.”

“The only throne you need,” Haarlep had said, pushing him down on their cock. “Is it not your proper place? The only thing you wish to be seated on?”

Raphael opened his mouth to speak, but he could utter no sound. His tongue was heavy, his voice lost. The little mouse was not speaking: she only held the crown, his crown, and kept that hungry look of hers fixed on him. Slowly, beyond thought, his head wrapped in silence, Raphael felt his knees bend. Her lips curled in a smile and she stepped forward, holding up the crown. So many years, decades, centuries of yearning, and there it was at last. Raphael smiled, and closed his eyes an instant before the Crown of Karsus was lowered on his head.

Down came the crown, he thought. And that, love, was that.

The metal felt warm against his forehead, thrumming, alive. Raphael drew in a sharp breath. It felt like a stroke of lighting, a surge of power humming and crackling into every fiber of his being, in his very blood and bone and sinew, in every nerve ending. Raw power, limitless potential kept inert too long, now aching to be used, unleashed. It would not be unleashed yet, though, not until he willed it; the Crown’s power strained against him, and for a brief moment flames flared up, bright, blinding even through his closed eyelids.

But it was only a moment’s lapse, and the flames died down. Raphael had power enough of his own to hold the Crown in check until it was time to use it, to bend all the Hells to his will and step on his father’s throat on his way to Asmodeus.

Soon. Very, very soon, but not just yet. Not until the entirety of his plan was ready to be set in motion; he hadn’t spent centuries in wait to rush it now. Another half a year at most and he’d strike out at Avernus first, with his little mouse leading the charge. She’d have her revenge, and he the first layer of the Hells. It would be perfect, and glorious, and just the beginning.

Let all of the Hells know what I need, then. Let them all see. Who would dare mock me for it?

Raphael smiled, savoring the warm weight of the crown on his head, the power buzzing in his nerves and veins and bones, and opened his eyes. He did not stand: he only looked up to meet their gazes, to see the amused glint in Haarlep’s eyes and the almost predatory one in Tav’s. He licked his lips and lifted his hands, palms up.

It was a plea, and it was an order.

Take me. Break me. Worship me. Make me whole.

He did not speak those words, but he may as well have. A moment later his little mouse had claimed his mouth with her own, a hand tangling in his hair; Haarlep’s own mouth was on the back of his neck, teeth grazing skin, their hands reaching around him to tear open his doublet. As he parted his lips and leaned into the touch Raphael had one last, clear thought.

They dined on him both, the cat and the mouse.

*** [Back to Act I]

[Back to Act II]

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #haarlep #haarlep bg3 #bg3 tav #deal in three acts

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