A Devil That's Mine

by Outburst

Summary:

Devils don't have soulmarks, except one: Raphael. And he would bloody appreciate the damn thing not popping in and out of existence every few centuries!

Astarion does not appreciate the new infernal mark on his body. Just as he thinks Fate and Destiny have been satisfied, they sink their meddling claws into him again! Well, no more. He has the perfect bait to entice Raphael into helping him, and he will milk it for all it's worth.

Notes:

This is for all my lads, ladies, and theybies being kept awake by plot bunnies that won't shut the fuck up. <3

Chapter 1: So It Goes

 

RAPHAEL.

 

Peeling the layers of a debtor's skin apart was a fiddly job that required the utmost concentration. It was not a time for leisurely sips of bloodwine between scalpel changings, nor even to spare moments to admire the work. Flaying was an art form and demanded respect! When one's skin began to protest beyond the usual tickle from drying sweat, that was a problem.

An annoying itch, right under the left wing joint and out of reach. It grew into the sensation of an imp gnawing at the bones, ignorable no more. The devil grunted and dropped the scalpel in favor of snatching a bone saw to scratch. The blunt end was just shy of reaching the offending spot. Of course.

The state of affairs rapidly escalated. Scorched rosemary perfumed the air just before searing pain brought the cambion to a knee. It was as if a ball of hellfire plucked from the deepest pits of roiling souls was being pressed to his flesh. All thought was blasted away. Black spots grew larger and larger at the edge of his vision. Somehow, Raphael, son of the dread Mephistopheles, High Lord of the House of Hope, was burning. 

And then it was gone. The swift, concentrated agony blinking in and out of existence punched a gasp out of his diaphragm.

A half-peeled face peered over the lip of the operating table, flaps of skin dangling and dripping blood everywhere.

"Are you all right, my Lord?" asked the abruptly abandoned debtor. Concern, of all things (under the perpetual fear, of course), in the tilt of their mutilated head. "Do I smell brandy?"

Raphael cleared his throat and straightened up to his feet. He felt more vexed than embarrassed (never!). This blasted nonsense always had to happen at the most inconvenient of times!

"Just an old nuisance flaring." The devil's wings shuddered and flapped, dispelling the aftershocks of pain from the muscles.

Raphael cracked his neck and picked the scalpel up. "How very unprofessional of me! My deepest apologies. Shall we continue?"

The debtor gave a doubtful look and then lay back on the table.

"Yes, if you please."

.

Hours later, back in the boudoir, Raphael stood before a mirror in his human form. No matter which way or how far he twisted, it wasn't enough to see more than the start of the new mark scorched into his back. The script was silver, perhaps in flowery calligraphy. He huffed, annoyed once more.

A brief knock at the other end of the room heralded the appearance of his warlock, Korilla. She strode towards him in her brisk, stomping way. The softest leather boots he could find did nothing to dampen the sound of the woman's clipped footfalls.

"Report for you," Korilla said, stopping abruptly at the stairs leading up to the bedroom. He turned his head to look at her disbelieving face properly. "Is that what I think it is?"

Raphael reached behind, touching where the ring of irritated skin started. Experience told him to expect the scabbing to start and itch for a tenday. Molars ground together at the nuisance, and he shifted into devil form.

"Blasted thing disappeared for nearly two hundred years," he grumbled and snapped a doublet onto himself. "Usually takes nearly a millennia for that wheel to turn."

"Hm. Makes sense. From here, it looked elvish." The dwarf refocused and tamped the stack of parchments in her hand. "Anyway. Is now a good time to review this, my lord?"

Raphael waved her on, half listening as he walked away with her trailing close behind. This was not an unremarkable time for his soulmark to return. For it to reappear when the crown was so close at hand…what sort of omen could it be? The rock forming in his gut suggested a bad one. That rock had rarely been wrong before.

Somewhere in the universe was a pot with his name on it. Someone was stirring it. He could smell the cookfire.

The devil stopped, eyes narrow with suspicion. Korilla barrelled past five steps and then doubled back.

"I know that look. I hate that look. It always means more work for me."

Fiery eyes slid towards her. Raphael smiled, slow and mean.

Korilla scowled.

. .

 

Three years later.

 

ASTARION.

 

Black and gold marble rushed up to meet Astarion's face for the seventh time since his ascension. The startling lack of originality was far more insulting than the act of being thrown onto it. Did these idiots have the same decorator, or was there a flooring sale? Astarion groaned and then snarled when a boot pressed between his shoulders.

"Your hospitality is lacking, Emeric," the Vampire Ascendant sneered. "Reputation is everything, you know."

The pale man sitting on a gold throne (always a throne, though this one was relatively modest) threw back his blond head and laughed. Several stilted voices joined, primarily out of fear. Astarion could smell them, the Vampire Lord's spawn, shuffling nervously at their posts, flanking their Lord. Four to the left, four to the right, and the fool pinning him to the marble.

"Big words for a man who has none of his own." Emeric Walestone leaned forward and nudged Astarion's chin with the toe of his boot. "All I know of you is your pretty face and impertinence. Ah, and the not-insignificant insult of walking into my territory without seeking permission or introduction. Tsk tsk! Your name, vampire."

Astarion shifted his shoulders as much as possible and casually grabbed the long iron bar his manacles attached to, grinding his teeth together as the metal gave no quarter against the back of his neck. The manacles themselves were not as tight as they should be. There was enough room to rotate his wrists.

"Astarion Ancunin," he said, all grace and no concern for the compromising position. “Adventurer Extraordinaire, Hero of Baldurs Gate, and Vampire Ascendant. At your service."

The Vampire Lord scoffed. The boot at the Ascendant's chin pushed and pushed until his neck was fully extended.

"Baldurs Gate…are you one of Szarr's sad little things?" Emeric's nails clicked against the throne's armrest. "What is this 'Ascendant' nonsense?"

"Oh, for –" Astarion huffed and glared at the bastard. "I didn't expect Cormyr to be quite so tedious as this. Then again, you are the most backwater bastard I've paid a visit to so far, Emeric."

The boot at his back stomped down just as the one at his chin kicked sideways.

"Watch your mouth!" The voice above growled. It was almost threatening enough to be heeded.

"You really ought to read your mail at the very least. The others had heard of me through the grapevine." Astarion spat a glob of blood on the marble and laughed. He slipped a hand out of its manacle, wiped his mouth, and slipped back in.  A few of the spawn's bodies jerked, but they said nothing. They were incapable. What Vampire Lord wanted their slaves to speak without being spoken to?

"Turns out isolation is the biggest threat to a vampire these days."

"Hm. Seems this one has lost his mind. How else to explain such…disregard for his unlife?" Emeric motioned at his spawn. The pressure keeping Astarion down disappeared. The world tilted, and suddenly, Astarion was on his (admittedly wobbly) legs.

"Before I kill you, I would like to know one thing." Emeric left the throne and approached slowly, hands clasped behind his back.

Astarion rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we go. More tedium. Let me guess, you want to know how I walk in the sun."

The sudden crushing grip on Astarion's jaw made him hiss and bare fangs. His patience was about to run out. The anger burning in Emeric's red eyes promised so much, and yet they were still in the dancing phase.

"Less sass, little one. More answering. My attention is needed elsewhere." 

A nail caught on Astarion's swollen bottom lip, making his blood sing for Emeric's. That nail paused. Darn. Had he given the game away already?

"I sacrificed seven thousand and seven souls to Mephistopheles, Cazodor first amongst them."

The Vampire Ascendant smiled the same smile that had shaken greater vampires than Emeric. Of course, he typically slaughtered the covens first, but the tedium ! Still, the first flicker of uncertainty was always delicious.

Emeric tried to hide his with a sneer. "Impossible. Nonsense!"

Mmm, yes! A vampire's fear was the perfect appetizer.

"Improbable," Astarion corrected. "Not impossible."

Emeric snatched his hand back. "My spawn captured you with nary a scratch on them!"

"Yes, curiously easy! To think I was merely passing through." Astarion's high laugh made the crystal chandeliers tinkle. "I would have left you alone had you extended me the same courtesy. Or, I don't know, been even remotely polite? Remember, Emeric Walestone, former Vampire Lord of Marsember: you brought this on yourself."

"Form–"

Said Vampire Lord was swept off his feet. Manacles were slipped, and the iron bar was thrust through the unbeating heart of Emeric Walestone and deep into the deplorable marble floor. His roar of fury and pain spurred the spawn into action, their eyes flaring to life with the prime directive of every spawn: defend the Master.

Astarion shook out his wrists and grinned, blood humming through his body with sweet adrenaline and lust for a fight. The spawn would tear apart like wet paper; he couldn't wait to sink his trembling fingers in and stir.

"Be a dear and stay there, won't you Em?" Astarion chuckled fully at the expense of the paralyzed vampire. "I'm not quite finished with you."

He went for the bastard that had been so enthusiastic in his duty to fetch and manacle him for his pathetic Master. One well-placed hit to the chest had the spawn on his back with the wind knocked out. Astarion's fingertips sunk into the muscle, cracked the sternum, and pulled it away as easily as breathing. The small cavern left behind showed the shriveled heart they all possessed - except the Vampire Ascendant. The organ in his chest beat strong and loud, pushing and pulling blood as if it were truly alive, and it felt so good .

The piece of sternum was shoved into the mouth of the next spawn that dared to touch him. The crunch of bone against fangs sent a pleasurable tingle up Astarion's neck and over his scalp. A throat was crushed to a bubbly pulp, pink froth running down his arm. Someone's arm tore away; he used it to beat another spawn to true death. One by one, they fell. Most of the hideous floor was soon covered in a thin layer of beautiful blood, shiny and deep crimson in the candlelight.

Regarding fights, this did not make the top twenty in effort spent. Certainly not in the top fifty of satisfaction. The itch for more buzzed under his skin.

"You know…Cazador always said my screams sounded the sweetest." Astarion knelt over the impaled Vampire Lord. The fabric of his trousers soaked up the precious liquid pooled around them. 

Tearing off that spawn's arm had felt good. Would ripping off Emeric's prove a challenge? He tried it and sighed at the sound of the shoulder joint popping first and then the shredding of the tendons, muscles, skin, and doublet seam. Simple. Smooth. Astarion switched to the leg on the opposite side. An effortless task once more. He admired the way Emeric's body twitched and leaked.

His bloodied fingers left a dark trail over the cold, pale cheek of the creature at his mercy. Astarion tilted his head and smiled fondly at the memory of the Black Mass. "The sounds that came from my Master when I carved the runes into his back left such a cloying taste on the back of my tongue, I can recall it even to this day."

The iron rod was slippery. No matter. Astarion simply wrenched Emeric up and off. The screams of agony were robust but barely more than that. They were the screams of someone unused to pain, nothing like those of poor souls who knew how to endure. For all the suffering the Lords lay on their children, they could barely tolerate the idea of a wound. Very few of them had borne their beatings at Astarion's hands with grace. Such a disappointing weakness!

"Your screams, however, leave much to be desired. Pity. Let us hope your flavor is unique enough to make this worth my time, hm?"

Like so many lovers embraced in the past, Astarion held Emeric in his arms, pressing the vampire's broken back to his chest. Unusual that blood loss had made his prey so docile. Although the nonsensical threats slurring out pointed more to him being insensate. Perhaps the quick rate of loss had something to do with it. Astarion shoved the blond head aside and breathed deep of the potent blood still left. The lingering accents of terror and gore surrounding them added a lovely atmosphere to this meal.

The corridor outside echoed with a flurry of footsteps and shouts. Astarion's lips pursed.

"The household doesn't seem to be on its toes. Did they not take your summons seriously?" he murmured. "For shame, Lord Walestone! You should have spent more time training your thralls. Not that it would have helped in the end anyway, but it's the principle of the thing."

Astarion let out a sharp whistle. Two wolves appeared from the dark corners of the desecrated throne room: a gray male and a flaxen female with a scarred snout.

"Would you distract the insects, my darlings?" Astarion's attention returned to the neck pulled taught in his grip. "No one is to disturb my meal."

The male rubbed against his master's side with affection as he trailed after the larger female. Shouts of alarm and growling soon followed.

"Gold and silver wolves? Gods above and below, it can't be!"

Astarion grinned as the screaming started anew, his parted lips searching for his favorite spot to ravage.

"At least someone around here knows of me."

. . .

Belly full and belongings recovered, Astarion left the impromptu dining room. Lord Walestone's castle was vast and likely filled with shiny things ripe for plucking. The road to Cormyr had been tiring even without his person being so rudely abducted; a few nights between clean silk sheets would be nearly as restorative as the fresh blood in his veins. Or a bath and new clothes.

He left the wolves to their bloody feast in the corridor, their happy chomping and bone cracking filling his chest with fondness. What the beasts lacked in conversational skills, they more than made up for in companionship. And cozy pelts for a tired bat to ride.

*Follow?*

"And take you away from your well-earned kill?" Astarion gave the male a pat on the head. "No. Enjoy yourself, Flit. That leg won't chew itself."

Each oriel window passed had its thick curtains ripped down. The sunlight was giving way to evening, hints of pink and orange staining the edges of the sky. The long shadows did nothing to hide the accumulated dust and neglected blood stains marring the long out-of-fashion rugs. Astarion tutted in disgust. If the servants had been allowed to neglect their duties in the common areas, those clean sheets would be a disappointment. The vampire sighed and admired the view; that, at least, was not lacking. Forest hid all but the spired tips of Marsember's rooftops and the coast was a slice of shimmering blue. Halsin, the old delicious mountain of elf, had done an admirable job of pounding an appreciation of nature's gifts into him.

A warm mitt of a hand ran up and down his sweaty skin, from hip to ribs, with deceptive gentleness.

"Where will you go?" 

The question rumbled through his chest along with the druid's tired voice. It sat momentarily and dissipated to nothing before Astarion had an answer.

"Everywhere."

Halsin's smile, wide and approving, disappeared into Astarion's curls. "Just as I am of a mind to settle, you wander on." He inhaled deep, likely savoring the vampire's scent as was his habit, and pressed a kiss into the mussed silver. "So it goes."

Astarion sighed, turning away from the windows and the memory. He missed Halsin, their trysts, and the druid's terrible sense of humor. Their short time together had been fun. And…safe. The sage advice had been nice, too. Fucking new people would have proven tumultuous without the bear's guidance in those early days. Hells, getting out of his own head was still frustrating at times.

The sun's rays bounced off something small and shiny in the corner. Astarion's fingers pressed against the soft leather of the bag of holding at his hip. Right. Trinkets. He was looking for them.

The best items would likely be lower, in the heart and belly of the castle, but sometimes - especially when dealing with a particularly cocky noble - something interesting would be on display. Mortals were so easily impressed. Taking advantage of that kept Astarion in good gear, well-stocked, and flush with gold. Someday, he would figure out what he would do with it all.

Smells of old parchment and ink attracted Astarion to a heavy set of oak doors. Most likely a library. Even without magic scrolls or ancient tomes to steal, libraries often hid secrets. Emeric seemed like the type to have hidden rooms or passageways. The doors opened with only a small protest from their iron hinges, giving way to a smaller room than expected, made far smaller by the winged being caught stretching his wings before the fireplace.

Astarion froze, his heart flying into his throat. Raphael. The name bounced around his brain with excitement. Faint notes of sulfur and cherries brushed his nose.

The devil's wings shuddered and snapped shut. His dark eyebrows were raised in surprise. Good. They were both on the back foot, at least.

"My, my! Astarion Ancunin, the Vampire Ascendant himself. Isn't this an unexpected delight?" Raphael smiled as he raked glowing eyes over the vampire. "I knew there was something different in the air tonight."

Fear, a feeling Astarion thought had been stomped down and buried for good, clawed its way to the surface and yanked at his gut. No doubt the devil could smell it, judging by how his smile and gaze sharpened. Dents appeared in the brass doorknob in Astarion's grip.

Pull yourself together. You just decimated a whole coven. Nothing and no one has been able to best you in a fight in three years! This is the opportunity you've been waiting for. Don't waste it.

The internal pep talk banked the panic. Astarion unlocked his muscles and glided into the small library - more of an office - to stand as close as he dared to the devil eyeing him up like a tasty meal. Truthfully, this moment had played through his mind more than a few times. Sans the fear. It may serve as a helpful appetizer.

"I would say thank Lord Walestone, but he is no longer with us." Astarion gave his own sharp smile.

"Yes, I gathered that by the blood." Raphael sighed as if he were put out. "While this does free up my evening, it also throws an inconvenient wrench in some things."

"I do apologize, but he did bring it on himself - brought me on himself." He grinned, unable to help it. The blood was still buzzing. "Having dealt with him before, I presume you understand."

The devil hummed, gaze shifting to the fire in the hearth. "Unfortunately." Red knuckles rapped against the stone mantle. "Contingencies, while useful, are not preferable."

Astarion convinced himself the annoyance in that low voice was not with him. Feigning innocence only went as far as someone would let it; charm, whether innate or magical in means, could push it further. Persuasion, or distraction, would serve better against a devil of Raphael's caliber.

Astarion toed a fraying velvet wingback closer to the fire and sat down, willing his limbs into relaxation. He had to look up at Raphael when he spoke. Though it rankled, ceding a position of authority or challenge to another predator, it made their exchange amenable. Or opportunistic if one was an overconfident Vampire Lord like Emeric Walestone.

"Perhaps I could offer something to sink your teeth into," Astarion said, exhaling through the nose and propping his head up in one hand. "Soften the loss, so to speak."

Those fiery eyes slid back to him. They gleamed, a hint of interest making a thrill go through the vampire. "Oh?"

"I'm not interested in an official contract. Not yet ," he hurried to add and fished a square of much-worried parchment from an inner pocket. "We'll try this on for size first, hm?"

Raphael accepted the parchment, glanced at it, and then held it with both clawed hands closer to the light of the fire as if his vision might be playing tricks without the aid. The blood buzzed not with lust in Astarion now but excitement. He knew this would snare the devil's interest. He knew it.

"Always the infernal with you, isn't it?" Raphael's casualty leeched out of his spine more and more with each passing second.

"I've been to four different diabolists," Astarion said, thumbs rubbing against velvet. "Not one of them has seen anything like this before. One thought it might be a contract. A whole one this time."

He folded the parchment but did not give it back. Astarion could see the gears turning and turning inside that handsome head.

"And what are you offering in return if I find out what this is?"

Interesting . Raphael didn't know either, or at least not the whole picture. The satisfaction of infernal knowledge should have been payment enough, but that was not true with Astarion's scars. Luckily, he had not only the perfect payment but the perfect bait to keep this specific devil on retainer. Keeping the smugness out of his grin took every ounce of strength.

Astarion hooked a finger inside his collar and tugged out a platinum chain. A twisted piece of black metal thumped onto his chest. A red netherstone, faintly glowing, was set into the base. The vampire paused, briefly alarmed and bolstered by the flare of heat rolling off the stunned devil. The hook had found its fish. Hunger had Raphael in its grip. Astarion just had to start reeling him in.

The feeling of having all of that undivided attention to direct where he wished was powerful. Astarion breathed, savoring the infernal sulfur and burning cedar in the hearth.

"Funny," he said, fingers brushing against the stone and feeling a soft buzz of energy. "What people will leave to rot in rivers these days."

Raphael said nothing. His throat bobbed. Astarion wanted to crow in victory over him. How much rage was rushing through that cambion body? How much envy?

How much planning?

Astarion pulled the chain over his head. With a shrug that surely drove Rapheal closer to madness, he leaned forward and held out the small piece of Karsus' Crown to take.

"Here. Payment first, answers later."

A twitch in one of those red hands. One was enough to close around Astarions entire neck and crush it completely. Nothing was stopping Raphael from doing so. Except that bit of parchment. Maybe. If that wasn't enough, then the unsaid promise of more certainly did.

Raphael's eyes and lips narrowed, seeing the boundaries of the trap. But he would step into it. They both knew he would.

"And if I can't satisfy your curiosity?"

"Call it a gift of good faith."

Raphael hummed again, displeasure at the predicament clear, and then chuckled. The chuckle grew into an all-out laugh, filling the room. It was not an unpleasant sound.

"The vampling has found his fangs," he purred, taking the chained crown and watching the netherstone shimmer. "I look forward to playing with them."

Astarion could still feel the ghostly pricks of claws in his palm, tingling. "I have no doubt you will. Any initial thoughts on the sigil?"

"It will require a deeper dive into my archives than those lovely scars." Raphael's thumb ran over the piece of the crown, over and over again. "Where did it come from? I assume you've picked it up thirdhand, at least. Still, information is information is information. I can have my many ears and eyes run down the origin."

"Ah, if only I could say something useful. I'm sure you'll enjoy the irony." Astarion sighed. "That mark appeared shortly after I completed the ritual. Perhaps even during it, I'm not sure. I didn't notice until later. But I know for certain it wasn't there before."

"Appeared on your body?" There was a deep curve of amusement to that devilish mouth when Astarionn nodded. "Indeed? How intriguing!"

Infuriating was the word the vampire would have chosen. He had overcome the destiny carved into his flesh only to be claimed by another. Probably. That was what he needed Raphael to figure out.

"I don't suppose this could be as innocuous as Mephistopheles leaving a maker's mark on me?"

"No, that would be too heavy-handed, even for him." The devil turned the parchment upside down and then ninety degrees. "This has binding agents. That much I can say for sure. Where did you say this was located?"

"I didn't." Astarion wished he had ransacked the wine collection first. "That hardly seems relevant."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I could find out for myself."

"You won't."

Raphael chuckled again, posture far too relaxed for such an uncomfortable direction in the conversation. "Not yet."

What would the blood of a devil taste like? Would it be possible to drain him in one sitting? Then again, the fight would bleed them both enough to make up the difference. Now that would be an exhilarating battle! Too bad the bastard needed to be alive.

Patience. Astarion breathed deep and exhaled slowly.

"Has anyone ever told you how expressive that face of yours is?" Raphael tucked the parchment and necklace into a pocket. "The murderous thoughts are quite obvious."

"Oh yes. That was always my greatest sin."

Fucking Cazador.

Raphael tugged delicately at the lace trim of his cuffs; the juxtaposition with such menacing black claws was stark. They could snag and snap a loop so easily. Yet the devil maneuvered them around the precious material with practiced ease. Astarion wondered if Raphael's finery, even in his hellish form, was his preference or merely one of the calculations made when meeting with a client.

"I'll dedicate a few days to this," Raphael said, inspecting those tantalizing claws. "You'll be skulking about here still, yes?"

Astarion blinked and sat up straighter. "Don't pretend I haven't dropped a blessing in your lap, darling. Give this the time it deserves. I've waited three years. I can wait a little longer."

Two rows of sharp, white teeth flashed. Whether it was a smile or a snarl, he wasn't sure. Laughter filled the room as much as the red cinders and smoke of Raphael's parting. The muscles along the vampire's spine untensed all at once. Astarion slumped into the chair with a sigh. Such a reaction was unbecoming of an Ascendant; the cold sweat and twinge of queasiness in his stomach would not be repeated, damn it!

Next time would be easier. Astarion grabbed an iron poker and stoked the crumbling wood in the hearth. Next time, they would start on even footing. Next time, there would be answers.

Chapter 2: Fool's Blood

Summary:

A brief, sad encounter in a greenhouse. Raphael aggravates the shit out of Astarion. And we get a little more of our wolfy friends! Don't fuck with them. They're not yours.

Notes:

It's Chewsday, innit? There is no rhyme or reason for when I post. Sorry.

...Nah, that's not true. You get it as soon as I'm done editing and figuring out a half-assed summary. Enjoy!

ASTARION.

 

The gardener had a sweet face. Astarion carded his fingers through sun-streaked waves and was glad he had not killed the lad. Watching his cock disappear past lush lips was enough to make his lashes flutter. The wet warmth, the way those lips became pinker with every push and pull.

And he still couldn't come. For all the blood being pumped from heart to prick and the frankly excellent technique, nothing could relieve the ache simmering low in his belly.

Astarion's head thumped back against the glass wall of the greenhouse. The half-elf on his knees peered up through thick, honey-colored lashes. That clever tongue delved into his slit and made Astarion's leg jerk. Well! That was something, at least.

The greenhouse lit up in a flash of red light. Astarion's eyes squeezed shut against the brightness and blast of heat.

"The amount of dust I have inhaled on your behalf would stun a pit fiend." Raphael, in human form this time, tucked a leather-bound portfolio under an arm and raised dark brows at the elven pair. "Bad time?"

The gardener backed off and pressed himself into the vampire's side as fast as a bird escaping a cat. The wild fear in those green eyes and how he sought safety with Astarion pleased a deep-seated instinct. He curled a hand around the half-elf, more to feel the trembling than to reassure him.

"I thought you were a fiend with manners," he said, displeasure warring with amusement over control of his facial muscles.

"There are manners, and then there are priorities." The disguised cambion meandered around the space, snapped a crispy leaf off a dead plant, and scrunched his nose. He half-turned towards the pair once more and waved a hand at them in a disinterested motion.

"Let us not pretend that was going anywhere." The bastard smirked in the face of Astarion's flare of anger. "You're much more interested in what I have."

Raphael was right, of course. That did not mean he had to be a smug asshole about it. His lips thinned in a press. Damn devils. Astarion briefly entertained the idea of calling his wolves to harass the creature, but they were enjoying a run through the estate's forest; dealing with Flit's grumpiness and Sunshadow's cold displeasure (arguably worse) was not a worthy price.

The Vampire Ascendant hooked a finger and thumb around the frightened gardener's chin and locked eyes.

"Go home," he commanded. "...And forget the devil."

The tension and fear instantly disappeared from the half-elf's muscles. Serenity overcame him. With a dreamy smile, he nodded and drifted out of the greenhouse with no cares or worries, off to whatever hovel he came from. Come to think of it, Astarion wasn't even sure he was a gardener or what his name was. But he had eyes so green they evoked black locust leaves soaking up the summer sun. And that was enough to keep him alive.

Astarion sat up and tucked his half-soft cock away, resettling his clothing into place. "Satisfied?"

"Not the word I would choose. Now!" Raphael held the portfolio once more and slapped it against an open palm. "To business."

The door swung open ahead of Raphael as he strode onto the weed-choked grounds, every long step brimming with purpose. Astarion had to scramble after him. Whatever Raphael had discovered had better be worth all the indignity he was being forced to suffer this morning!

Ravens watched them from the trees and skeletons of crumbling outbuildings, squawking their displeasure at the unfamiliar beings in their territory. Astarion could have shut them up with one look, but the annoyance in the creased corners of Raphael's eyes held him back out of spite.

"Must you walk so fast?" Astarion struggled to fall in step but deftly avoided rolling an ankle in a mole hole. "How are you covering so much ground? You're not that much taller than I."

The devil merely shot him that white-toothed grin. They reached a suspiciously new-looking set of iron chairs and matching table, complete with uncreased cushions and a selection of bland white finger sandwiches.

"You had me stumbling half a mile when you could have set this up anywhere."

Not a question. And that fucking grin! Oh, he could kill him. Really, this was the perfect place for it. Not one soul was around in any direction for miles. He could sink his fangs into that throat and chew on the tendons in peace and quiet.

Raphael motioned to one of the chairs and didn't wait to claim one. "Please, have a seat, Astarion."

The Vampire Ascendant smoothed the rumples out of his clothes and raised his chin as he sat down. The sandwiches were pointedly ignored. They smelled like warm egg salad with too much vinegar in the mayonnaise.

"No tea? Tsk." He stroked a pale finger along the iron ivy pattern. "I expected the full doily and pot warmer treatment with all this."

Raphael flipped through the portfolio. "You don't seem the tea type."

"But I seem the egg salad type?" Astarion sniffed. "I'm offended."

The devil's dark eyes flicked to him and back to whatever was in those pages that he was stalling about. "Is that not your default state?"

The absolute squawk of indignance that escaped Astarion before he could stop it sent the ravens into a tizzy. He forced his mouth shut, teeth clicking. Raphael chuckled deep in his chest.

Several sheaves of parchment were dropped in front of the silently fuming vampire. Astarion delicately picked up a corner of the first page between forefinger and thumb, peeling it back like it was covered in goo rather than elegant penmanship. Most of the writing looked to be Common, though several paragraphs and margin notes were definitely Infernal.

"What is all this?"

"My research notes on this fascinatingly tricky puzzle of yours." Raphael sat back, one leg resting over the knee of the other and hands folded in his lap. "I bear the unfortunate news that I have yet to crack this nut. Only on infrequent occasions do I have to venture outside of my House of Hope, let alone my own influence, to track down leads."

"Yes. Well." Astarion squinted at the Infernal as if it would suddenly reveal its secrets through the worsening of his vision. "I do excel in being special. What does this Infernal writing say?"

Raphael's fingers twitched, drawing the vampire's eyes. Was that a bit of irritation? The neutral shoulder shrug added fuel to the spark of Astarion's curiosity.

"Some of the more fun bits, there," Raphael said. "The style of this mark is astronomically old, quite literally, as is the dialect of Infernal used. Translating it into more modern usage is proving…difficult. Attempting to strong-arm it further into the inelegant gibberish you people call Common is near impossible."

Astarion raised a brow and let the parchment flutter to a rest. He mirrored the devil's pose. "All right. Surely a summary of intent wouldn't be difficult for a learned cambion like yourself?"

One tan hand drifted down, plucked a long-stemmed yellow wildflower, and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. "Don't be so lazy with the flattery," Raphael tutted. The head of the flower was held under his nose.

"I suppose I should say that I'm impressed you managed to figure out this much in only a few days. Not that the competition was all that impressive."

"Mm. Better. Still needs work, but better nonetheless." The other tan hand met an equally tan, albeit stubbled, jaw. Did he enjoy sunbathing, or was it natural coloring from his human half?

"There are several binding elements, of course, though I have yet to crack the polarity."

"Polarity?"

"The direction, the possession of power, the…" Raphael gestured as if he could attract the right words from the air. "Who will hold the leash, so to speak."

"Ah. If I am to bind or to be bound."

"Yes." Raphael brandished the flower at the vampire. "That is it, exactly."

Astarion's lips pressed together in a thin line. A luckier person would latch on to the hopeful side of the equation. Should he bother telling Raphael to focus on figuring that out?

"The binding isn't the whole picture," he said. "Do we know how big the picture is?"

"An excellent question." The pads of Raphael's fingers continued their torture of the flower stem until it began to fray apart. "Yes. And no. There is beauty in the simplicity of the mark, how cleanly each separate part comes together to make the whole. There is a clear intent. However, when to begin and when to end is blurred."

Astarion simply stared at how the devil was lost in his own fascination. Or lost in the sound of his own voice.

"You're right about the Common language. That was gibberish."

Raphael's look was cutting. "If you were a devil, you would understand."

"No, I am the Vampire Ascendant and all I care about is keeping my power secure and my person free. The two are not mutually exclusive."

The life he was building, all the future plans that rolled through his trances over and over, were dependent on the outcome of this damned mark marring his body. It was a loathsome, mocking thing, seared black and menacing into pale flesh. Something had plans for him, and Astarion would use every ounce of life he had stolen to fight against them.

The disguised devil's human fingernails drummed against the iron table, radiating minute reverberations. The two creatures, each powerful in their own right, regarded the other with critical eyes.

"I can respect that," Raphael said, breaking the silence. "I'll let you in on a little secret: the ability to keep power is fickle. The desire for power is reliable."

Astarion opened his mouth, but the words died, blown away by the instinctual alarm bells going off in his body. Half a second later, the wolves were howling a warning. The Vampire Ascendant's keen sight swept furiously over the landscape until the first sign of threat was spotted.

"Subtle," he purred and pointed towards the unnaturally foggy treeline. "There."

The sun was high in the sky, well past the logical time for fog to be around.

"Oho! A challenger approaches! What perfect timing."

While Raphael drank in the irony, Astarion's ears tuned into the sounds of the estate. The ones deemed "normal" were parsed and set aside. Twig snaps, and squeaks of poorly maintained metal armor echoed off the smooth-barked trees. Groans and huffing breaths were more challenging to pick up, but that mattered not when the hardy claws of wolves scratched through hard-packed dirt and stone. Humanoid shouts of alarm peaked and then condensed to the determination of battle commands. A wizard chanted spell after spell in a reedy voice. Raphael's chuckling was muffled by various whooshes and hollers and thunks of weapons missing their mark until an angry yelp of pain stabbed Astarion in the heart.

The vampire blinked, the greenery and stonework around him returning to focus. He was on his feet, and they were moving him towards the forest at a clipped pace. Demands for death boiled in his gut. The pleasures of unfettered, agonized screaming kept it under control. For now.

Fingers of fog were no longer creeping into the overgrown grass, but the mess of the grounds made the trek a slog. Each slowed step irritated Astarion's temper like a dirty nail scratching over a spider bite.

Something furry and purple dragged a struggling body into view. Astarion blinked again and paused, his mind blanking out from the absurdity.

"...Flit?"

The now purple wolf dropped his prey and turned towards the vampire, all bloody smiles and wagging tail.

*Master!*

His muzzle and chest ruff were dark with blood; tasting the mixed scents in the air revealed that most of it was not Flit's. The knot in his chest eased the tiniest amount.

"Why…why are you purple?"

Flit tilted his head in confusion until a weak attempt to crawl away by the bastard on the ground consumed the wolf's attention. Pink teeth snapped at the intruder, and a deep growl of warning made him rethink what remained of his life choices. The man wisely chose to whimper and curl into his tattered, wet robes. Ah. The wizard, then. Astarion squatted next to him and was pleased to see the human's hands were mutilated. A thumb was holding on by a thin strip of flesh. Others were bitten or torn off, leaving ragged stumps at various knuckle points.

"Did you think of that?" Astarion asked, digging his nails into a favored spot on Flit's neck. "Aw, you're such a smart boy. Where's Sunshadow gotten to?"

*Eating her feelings. Coming now.*

Astarion refused to admit the precocious canine had picked up such an undignified phrase from him. Sunshadow would never ever find out the young male had said it in reference to her. Astarion was quite sure she was smart enough to understand and retaliate.

*I brought Master this snack!*

"For me?" Warmth almost overtook the need to kill. Almost. "Thank you, darling. I was feeling peckish."

Astarion's hand came away red. He licked a smear (definitely not Flit's blood) and stuck two coated fingers in his mouth. Bright red light startled a grunt from his throat. Re-materialized, Raphael raised a manicured brow.

"What is all… this?" The devil supported an elbow with one hand and rotated the wrist of the other.

Astarion's fingers slipped out clean with an obnoxious slurp and lip smack.

"They're called wolves, Raphael. Well, one of them. That is called a snack."

"Naturally." He slowly tapped his bottom lip. "Is the purple normal?"

He smelled Sunshadow before he saw her limp into sight. Her coat was the same fawn color, but the large red patches were primarily her injuries. There was an acrid smell of burned fur and flesh as well. Astarion shot to his feet and met her halfway.

"Oh, my sweet girl, what did they do to you?"

The female wolf's lips twitched up, flashing her teeth when his hand hovered over the black streak along her left haunch.

"Shush now," he admonished (gently) and redirected his touch to her ears. Sunshadow whined and dropped her head. "Does walking hurt too much?"

She snorted and nosed Astarion out of her way. He grinned past the worry and followed her back to the situation at hand. He did not chastise her for suddenly latching onto the wizard's leg and bearing down. The crack of bone could be heard over the man's screams. Fear and pain cast beautiful pitches to each bellow and wail. Astarion tilted his head back and basked in it like sunlight. One had to appreciate the little joys of life.

"Hmm."

The Vampire Ascendant breathed in and let it out slowly before opening his eyes and regarding the pitiful creature curled on the ground before him. The stained sun and star motif on the robes seemed vaguely familiar but was also cliche enough that he couldn't tell if he was mistaking one wizard for another. He pressed the shiny point of his boot into the human's chin and pulled the frightened, blood-shot eyes towards his own.

The mortal heartbeat spiked at the same time the pupils expanded. "Y-you!"

Astarion's head tilted. "Am I supposed to know you?"

"The pub! We met at the Dancing Fae –" The words were choked off by an influx of lung-rattling coughs. Pink-tinged bubbles gathered at the corners of his mouth. "S-saw you hooded and dragged away that night. Locals said people were disappearing again. This place was a nest once. Bloody fucking vampires…"

"Ha! Ha ha ha!" Delight tickled Astarion's nerve endings. "Oh dear! Did you and your doomed compatriots come to rescue little old me?"

Those light-colored eyes squinted in confusion and lingering pain. Perhaps it was the filth and sweat marring the round features of his face, but there was zero spark of recognition in Astarion. Apparently, he had left quite the impression.

The vampire wheezed with laughter.

"Oh! Oh, that's good!" Astarion wiped away tears and then waved towards the castle. "Darling, even if your quarry wasn't a mass of blown-about ashes on the patio, you're far, far too late. I would have been drained or turned by now!"

The deep rumbling amusement of the cambion next to him was an afterthought, consumed as the vampire was with…well consuming. But he wasn't sorry to share this mortal's hilarious folly.

"How…poetic." Astarion smiled wide, putting his fangs on full display. "Don't you agree, devil?"

"Deliciously so. Such a sweet scene of tragedy." He breathed in, much like the manner Astarion had before. "Mmm. And I didn't even have to orchestrate it myself."

Raphael was enjoying this just as much. Astarion's fangs pressed lightly into his lower lip. They ached to bite and tear. The vampire sank to the ground and made himself comfortable. The wizard whimpered and tried to squirm away, his movements clumsy. Each destroyed hand scrabbled fruitlessly at the grasses and wildflower stalks.

"No no no please no…!"

Astarion teased an exposed ankle with his light, cold touch. A kick went wide. Flit repositioned himself a few paces ahead, not interfering with his Master's playtime but available to cut off any serious escape if needed. Sunshadow ignored everyone, content to lick her delicate wounds.

"Shouldn't be possible," the man mumbled, crackling sounds killing parts of words in his esophagus. "The light. Light is supposed to be safe!"

Raphael's bark of laughter goaded Astarion's viciousness.

"My dear boy –"

Gods, that silkiness. One had to admit the timber of Raphael's voice, the way he wielded it like a fine instrument, had explicit appeal. Astarion sucked on his bottom lip and locked a hand around the human's ankle.

"– Safety is a lie told by fear and perpetuated by the gods and their sycophants. Take comfort in knowing greater heroes than you have succumbed to it."

"Words of solace from a devil. How quaint." Astarion's voice felt gravelly. He squeezed the ankle, bared his fangs, and yanked the man back.

The screams of unadulterated terror snapped the final frayed thread of the vampire's control. Banked rage and instincts took over. His arms were suddenly around a thin chest. Bones snapped as easily as twigs had under the feet of the intruders.

"You hurt my wolves," the Ascendant whispered, so gently, and then snarled. "You hurt my wolves!"

"Monster."

A last, pointless stand by a doomed nobody. Tears made clean tracks down his round cheeks. Astarion licked them away, feeling the warmth, tasting the salt and grit and despair.

Why was 'monster' considered such an ugly word?

"Shall I make you one too?" Astarion murmured and switched his grip to crush the man's cheeks and chin. He held the bastard's face up. His snarl and subsequent taunt turned feral. "What do you think, Raphael? Shall I make this one's nightmare come true?"

"I do not believe you are even remotely capable of enduring a spawn," the cambion said with a sigh.

Blown red eyes met calm brown ones.

"Am I boring you?" Astarion huffed a laugh. "'You're not wrong. 'Spose, I'll get on with it now."

Astarion's nose and open mouth inhaled succulent scents clinging to the wizard's neck. His hand gripped matted black hair at the crown, pulling, leaving a long line of unobscured skin. Saliva filled Astarion's mouth. He dragged wet lips over the expanse of skin, savoring every millisecond before the final act.

The moment the skin split under his fangs, a shiver went through predator and prey. And then everything else ceased to matter.

Gods, nothing was better than a hysterical fool's hot blood.

Notes:

This is becoming so fun to write! We have only begun to explore how feral Astarion can get. Next up: Raphael's Absolute Exasperation.

Thank you for all the hits, kudos, story subs, and comments! You are much loved and appreciated.

Chapter 3: Zoomies and Roomies

Summary:

Flit is a naughty boi. Raphael seesaws from Exasperated to Delighted. UnLife hates Astarion, but what else is new? Haarlep is introduced! Sort of. The lads take the teensiest steps towards getting to know one another.

Notes:

I intended to throw this at ya'll and run in shame for taking so long, but we got some housekeeping to do!

-Tav does not exist in this world, and Orin canonically murdered Durge. For this fic, Karlach was the party leader.
-Karlach told Raphael to get fucked and did not take the Orphic Hammer deal.
-Haarlep is considered male in this fic. I enjoy reading Haarlep as “they,” but using "them" as a pronoun versus "they" as an indicator of a group will hurt my brain in later chapters. I am also retconning Haarlep’s ability to change into a female body because it makes sense to me (not that it will play a huge role, but whatevs).

RAPHAEL.

 

“The House’s estate perimeters are clear, and the security enchantments have been shored up as per the monthly requirements. The weaknesses in last month’s checks were adequately dealt with and are up to snuff now. No new bad patches have been – ”

The sound of high cackles and excited yips in the hall cut her off. Nails skittered and scraped over the stone floors. Something big, and most likely furry, thumped into a door, and the pangs of a headache started behind Raphael’s left eye.

Korilla twisted in her chair and frowned at the cherrywood door of her master’s office. “Blasted imps teasing the mongrels again.”

The House of Hope was supposed to be a refuge against the chaos of the mortal planes he had to suffer, not shelter it! So why, why had he agreed to let it in?

One moment. One singular moment had body-checked Raphael into the chaos he hated - that all fiends born of the Hells were programmed to loathe with every muscle fiber, scale, ooze molecule, and chip of horn and hoof. One moment and two red eyes that glittered in the sun as brightly as the blood dripping from a sloppy, sinful mouth. The scents of terror and hunger and savage glee hadn’t helped. Ah, and those fangs latching onto the human’s neck with such ferocity and then tearing it to shreds with a meanness few could appreciate. Hells, the memory of the vampire greedily sucking at the garish wound, draining the remaining life force, and finally letting go with heaving breaths and head thrown back in bliss and those fucking eyes was enough fodder to feed Haarlep for the past month.

Astarion, at that moment, had been achingly beautiful. Something about it hit all the right buttons in Raphael. And that was a problem. Anything could have been asked of him, and Raphael would have said yes. And he had.

“Let me stay with you.”

Raphael laughed, incredulous. “What?”

Astarion pushed the now corpse off his lap and then leaned back on the heels of his hands. Blood soaked the front of his tunic and painted the expanse of his neck and chest a shiny red. He regarded Raphael with a detached annoyance.

“This lot won’t be the last to try their luck. The castle is compromised. Sunshadow is grievously injured – don’t look at me like that, dear – and needs time to heal. Finding another safe place will take days, at best, and I won’t be easily located for obvious reasons. You have a home, I presume? A base of operations at worst, but I think you enjoy your comforts. Something large enough to have at least one unused room, surely?”

Raphael stared down at the serious-faced vampire, stunned. The pure audacity!

“Over six millennia, and I have rarely heard a request more brazen and foolish. Congratulations.”

Astarion’s smile forcibly morphed into something less delighted by pursing his sticky lips. “Thank you. That doesn’t sound like a no.”

“Nor a yes.”

“But not a no. Better yet, not a snapped spine or hand around the throat either.”

The urge was there but far less intrusive than expected. Curious. He usually had to fight against his nature much harder when the sanctity of his home was threatened. Astarion was right; keeping him close, alive, and easy to access far outweighed the cons. Raphael still chafed. This was the second time this particular client had essentially outplayed him.

“You’re not seriously expecting me to play host to these…wild creatures?”

“They’ll be perfectly behaved.” Astarion put a hand over his heart. “I promise.”

Raphael looked at each wolf head-on, full eye contact. “I will eat them myself if they are not.”

“Where’s that pompous pretty boy when you need him?” Korilla muttered with disapproval and tamped her stack of reports against Raphael’s desk. “Letting animals run amok like that, I swear…”

“I’ll be having words with him myself.” 

Oh, would he ever! A tirade had been brewing and might just be one of epic proportions.

“You know, I was just imagining a wolf rug would look splendid over there,” Korilla said and pointed towards the empty hearth and bare floor in front of it. “What do you think?”

The thought earned a chuckle from him. Raphael made a shooing motion. “Exceedingly tempting. Off with you now. Assignments await your capable hands.”

Korilla hopped off the chair and inclined her head in a soft bow. “Yes, Master.”

 

.

 

An overly excited burst of yipping pushed Raphael to his breaking point. He was out of his comfortable chair and at the office door in a flash, ripping it open. Three giddy imps blew past, tossing tiny tongues of flame at the silver wolf chasing them. Raphael snapped his fingers. All three imps exploded with loud, squelching POPs. He pointed at the disappointed wolf that did not belong in his home.

“YOU. AWAY.”

‘Perfectly behaved’ meant the little shit knew when and how fast to remove himself from a bad situation. Seeing Flit run straight into another (in the form of Astarion’s legs) gave Raphael the teensiest thrill of satisfaction. Microscopic, one might say.

“You have eyes, Flit! Very good ones! For gods sake, use them!” The visibly annoyed vampire untangled the wolf from his legs and held him in place by the scruff. “What have you got him shouting about now?”

Raphael’s lip curled. “The viscera didn’t clue you in?”

Astarion balefully watched three debtors sweep in and start scrubbing away the mess whilst muttering to themselves, hardly aware of each other or anyone else.

Flit whined and licked at his master’s hand. He moved it away, holding the spittle-damp appendage up and away from any further attempts. The smile lines around Astarion’s mouth were tight with tension.

“Flit, we talked about this.”

The way Flit’s ears flattened and gaze lowered appeased neither devil nor vampire.

“I cannot abide reckless gallivanting in this house, least of all when it results in the untimely end of my servants!”

“Ends you brought on swiftly because of a bit of temper!” Astarion snapped back, glinting eyes revealing how close his own temper was to boiling over.

Raphael stepped quick to provide a physical answer to such unconscionable disrespect. The wolf was quicker – foolishly – in placing himself between master and landlord. The low growl and showing of teeth almost made Raphael laugh. A scent of fear spiked from both animal and elf. Outwardly, there was no sign of it; regarding Flit, Raphael was impressed. At least the wolf had some sense.

“Go give Sunshadow some company,” Astarion commanded, soft yet stern enough to brook no argument and his focus on Raphael. “The devil and I have business .”

Flit groaned and then huffed. The click of his nails on the floor sounded a reluctant retreat down the corridor.

Devil and vampire remained in a fraught staring contest. Astarion heaved a weary sigh but did not look away. The anger cocooning his fear blurred at the edges.

“I would ask not to be baited into an argument, but I suspect you would use me as a punching bag regardless.”

The slight tremor in Astarion’s words was like nails scratching over his scalp. Raphael smiled, sharp and dangerous. He wasn’t wrong.

“I have endured random bouts of howling at all hours of the day,” he said with casual contempt. “Food stolen from my tables. Scratched floors everywhere . Six vases and statues were damaged or utterly destroyed. Korilla has found chew marks on one of the soul pillars .”

What color the beating heart in the vampire’s chest forced under his alabaster skin disappeared. This close, Raphael heard his breath catch. Was that panic rising? Good.

“Throw me out then.” 

Astarion’s voice strained through the pressure constricting his throat. His capillaries were red and irritated. The skin under his eyes was a darker purple than usual and puffy. Under closer inspection, alabaster was the wrong word to use for the dull and lifelessness of his skin. Such evident exhaustion in the face of the luxury surrounding them was an insult dwarfed only by Astarion’s refusal to indulge Raphael.

“You’re well within your rights. And it would be so satisfying, wouldn’t it? But you’ve had all the time in the world and haven’t yet.” Astarion huffed a tired laugh and turned to leave the stunned devil there to stew. “Go feed your incubus, Raphael, and then we can talk about disturbances affecting –”

Raphael seized him by the bicep, intending to pull him close and put genuine fear into every weak vampiric vein. He only managed to shake the exhaustion out of Astarion’s bones and replace it with rage.

The vampire bared his fangs with a wild look in his eyes and used the leverage on his arm to shove Raphael back a step. The fact that he managed to move the devil at all made infernal instincts perk up and pay attention.

Astarion shook him off, the motion quick and harsh. “Touch me like that again,” he snarled, low and throaty. “I dare you.”

Well. If Raphael couldn’t force submission, he would stoke that bright rage until the flames were blinding.

Like a viper, his arm shot forward and clamped a hand around Astarion’s delicate throat. Raphael pulled him against his velvet brocade, making it rumple with the rough treatment. A brief, tight squeeze abruptly cut off what no doubt would have been an apoplectic tirade. The tips of Astarion’s boots squeaked against the floor as they fought for purchase, voicing alarmed discontent for their owner.

“Call your mutts,” he murmured, slowly running his thumb claw over that sallow-skinned jaw. “Ah, but you won’t, will you? Because you know I’ll keep my promise and devour them whilst you watch, broken and bleeding on the ground.”

“I could break your arm and drain you dry before that addled brain managed to fire off a single synapse. The satisfaction would be worth the risk, devil.”

Feeling Astarion’s foolish words thrum against his palm sent a pleasurable thrill down Raphael’s spine and the tip of his thrashing tail. Those red eyes glowed in the dim light, full of resolve and a thousand thoughts of the best ways to murder a fiend. There was little room for a lie; the vampling honestly thought he could best the second highest ranking devil in Avernus.

That push, though. It was enough to make Raphael pause.

“What are you truly capable of? I wonder…” he whispered, an intriguing thought spoken aloud for the world to entertain.

Astarion’s smile was full-mouthed and mean. “Care to find out? Oh, darling, please .”

The angry, fluttering breaths tasted like desperation. Astarion was hungry for it, Raphael realized. Oh, ho ho! Now this was a delightfully dangerous game!

Raphael’s fingers slackened their grip, letting Astarion stagger to a stand.

“You’re too exhausted to be of any real amusement,” he said, tone shifting to business mode, and rubbed his palms together to dissipate nothing at all . “But I have plenty of bodies in the dungeons for you to play with if you need to work off that energy. Clearly, you could use the outlet, and I am ever the magnanimous host.”

Red eyes continued to glare. “You…are infuriating.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Raphael’s mouth hardened, the minute feeling of generosity fading in and out.

Astarion repositioned his shirt collar with jerky motions and smoothed his hair. “Need someone to clean up for you? I resent being passed off to play executioner to likely half-dead people already out of their minds with fear and pain. Where’s the fun in that?”

The devil threw up his hands. “Then go out into the wastes and slaughter some demons! Lord of the Ninth knows the Hells have no shortage of flesh to render! I no longer care.”

Astarion hummed with interest. “Now there’s an idea…”

When the vampire pulled on his lower lip with a fang, Raphael’s self-control was sorely tested; calling Astarion ‘cute’ would surely set him off. As fun as that would be, there were essential appointments to keep, and the schedule was already thrown off.

“Then I suggest you take that over-zealous dog with you.” Raphael frowned. “Where’s the other one? She at least has been taught the barest of manners.”

“Ill, or I would let her have a go at your femoral artery!”

“Still? How long could an animal need to heal from a simple burn?”

“Not every being has natural healing abilities!” Astarion snarled, sighed, and then massaged both temples.

Tension bunched his shoulders. The darkness under his eyes seemed to pull his whole face down, and for a moment, Raphel thought he would deflate and sink to the floor. A different flavor of desperation was rolling off him now.

“The wounds are infected.” His words were steeped in stress, reedy sounding, and pushed out of a tight throat. “Animals don’t respond to healing potions the same way we do. I’m out of the healing salve pilfered from those wannabe heroes and can’t make more. She can’t even be moved at this point without screaming in pain, and I really, really do not want to listen to that any more .”

“Is that all?” Raphael scoffed. How disappointing. “I didn’t realize you had such an inability to ask for aid. I’ll summon the damsel in distress to the healing pool and be done with it.”

Astarion looked up; his forehead wrinkled with confusion. “Healing pool? What healing pool?”

As always, the devil began walking down the corridor, not waiting for his guest to follow.

“To be fair, the pool is in my quarters. You are forgiven for not knowing,” he said. “But the House of Hope provides, Astarion. You need only ask.”

“Don’t pretend that there isn’t a cost!”

His voice bounced off the walls, but not the quick steps used to catch up.

“Only according to my whims,” Raphael answered with a private smirk. “But you will never know unless you ask .”

In truth, watching the internal struggle of a mark was a pleasure all its own. The literal play of emotions, from distrust in the first act through hope of another way in the second to despair and finally surrender in the thir d…w ell, it was sweeter than honey. Such decadence no devil would ever be able to resist. If Astarion continued to hurt himself because of pride or some other petty personal need, Raphael might keep him after all was said and done.

Maybe. Hells, the scales were rocking wildly from side to side every hour.

The golden veil-like barrier that kept the unwanted from his chambers disappeared ahead of Raphael’s steps. Morning light – if the ever-burning sky of Avernus could be said to have a morning beyond a grayer tinge – made the spacious room look colder than usual. The use of incense was also lighter, and tongues of steam off the healing pool were reduced to wisps just off the surface.

A sharp inhale next to his wing made Raphael grin. His rooms usually felt mor e…a live, full of motion and dastardly activities. Taking time to consider the room's atmosphere during the stillness of the morning was irregular. Yet the devil had decorated the place to be sumptuous and ostentatious in all lighting; it would always be his favorite refuge.

He watched Astarion be pulled further and further into the boudoir, tension around those widened eyes replaced with –

“You are a ridiculous man,” the vampire said, turning around to take in the full extent of Raphael’s tastes. “ Absolutely ridiculous.”

“You’re only half right.”

Why did he feel so delighted by the insult?

“Come,” he said, leading the way to one of the side stairs. “There’s a lovely view from the balcony.”

“Oh gods, there’s more?”

Laughter bubbled up and out of Raphael. Hearing the genuine offense in Astarion’s tone was very, very funny. Sarcasm, or teasing his inability to have enough self-portraits, was the more common response outside of some banal attempt at flattery.

“Did you think I slept in the pool?”

“Ah, I see now. You’re just luring me into your – wait, what is that?”

“Hm?” Raphael stopped and followed Astarion’s baffled gaze to the lump of red devil flesh haphazardly taking up as much space on the oversized bed as possible.

Dear Haarlep had been a messy sleeper from day one of their relationship. The bed had been sized up twice, yet the incubus still managed to position himself in such a way that left little to no room for a second body to fit comfortably. Today’s perplexing situation saw Haarlep utilizing the end of the bed as the perfect spot to rest his mussed head. The bare, half-twisted torso made each wing flop north and south, setting Raphael’s wing joints and muscles twinging uncomfortably.

General Haarlep weirdities aside, Raphael suspected Astarion’s most pressing matter to be the skin his incubus was still wearing. Although Haarlep’s bed-head and open-mouthed, dead-to-the-world expression hardly did his master any justice.

“Oh, that would be Haarlep, my evil twin.” Raphael kept his tone bored and was rewarded with the incredulous sputtering he was so fond of. “Do keep your voice down; mornings are not his favored time of day, and I refuse to take the brunt of his grumping should you wake him.”

In reality, a fireball could hit the house, and Haarlep would only twitch. He had witnessed this. Twice.

Astarion began rubbing his temples again and backtracked down the stairs. “Forget the view and your weird…whatever! Can we focus on what we came here for?”

“Tsk. Such a spoilsport.”

Astarion stood near the calm pool, arms crossed and expression at the water full of so much dubiousness that it nearly ruined the devil’s good time. Raphael sighed and snapped his fingers as he neared the side closest to the brass taps. They began sprouting fresh hot water, the source of which he considered one of his favorite secrets. Most assumed the water was charmed, perhaps by the pool's construction or in the half-hundred bottles of essences Raphael kept on hand. The secret, of course, was the water itself.

The devil waved an open hand at the pool. “Well? Go on.”

“What?” Astarion narrowed his eyes, suspicious now, and Raphael wanted to laugh again. More so out of exasperation. Goodness, the paranoia!

“It’s not nearly deep enough to accommodate a soft landing. Are you going to let the poor thing materialize without support? Get in there.”

No argument ensued, much to Raphael’s disappointment. There was much grumbling under the breath, at least. And an inelegant grunt of not-quite acquiescence as the elf descended into one of the nests of pillows and comfortable rugs rimming the pool. Quick fingers picked at the weak points of his bootlaces and had them undone in seconds. 

Astarion uncuffed his relaxed linen shirt; come to think of it, he had only seen him dressed in the same shirt style, give or take the odd vest or jacket accompaniment. He supposed it was a trend with the folk accustomed to traveling and far too rustic for his tastes. Today’s shirt was a lovely shade of green with white and orange embellishments at the collar ties. Raphael had to admit the look suited him. Objectively, nothing ever looked terrible on unnaturally beautiful elves like Astarion.

Raphael thought he might be privy to a show of apprehension with a dash of shame whilst considering the concept of removing one’s trousers ran through Astarion’s mind, but alas. The rolling of trouser legs up to the knees proceeded, and Astarion swiveled around to stand in the water.

“Oh. That is…” A hairless shin slowly swirled the bath water. “Mmm. That is a rather wonderful feeling. I didn’t even realize those little aches were there, but now there’s nothing.”

Raphael leaned his hip against a pillar and watched the uptight vampire unclench his body – a decision made by the unconscious , surely .

“I have an…issue I would like you to take care of.”

Astarion raised his white-curled head from his fascination and glared. “Of course,” he sneered, all that tension snapping back into place. “There’s that boot drop.”

“It’s a simple thing.” Raphael had to trace a column segment seam, or else he would have begun patting himself on the back. “My resident warlock has a terrible habit I would like to see broken. Teach Korilla how to soften her damned step, and I will grant you access to the pool whenever you have need. I cannot endure how she clods about like a poorly shod horse any longer.”

Astarion’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “That’s all?”

“I would love to downplay such a task, but honesty is so essential to me after all,” he said with a practiced straight face. “I have had countless conversations, spent gold and time on enchanted footwear. I don’t know how Korilla thwarted such efforts, but the poor results speak for themselves.”

“I don’t know why you expect a dwarven warlock to be good at stealth.” Arrogance and superiority puffed up Astarion’s mood. “I recall her spying efforts to be laughable. Why did you send her, of all people, to watch us?”

“Because she is this House's most trustworthy, loyal, and thorough servant.”

Well. Korilla was as thorough as she could manage whilst being out of her depth, but he would never admit that out loud, especially in the face of Astarion’s doubt. Raphael suspected this duplicitous creature would twist those words to his advantage and poison Korilla against him. Perhaps he would do it just for fun, but more likely, he would keep it as a hidden dagger and strike when the need arose .

“What say you? Is it a deal?”

The corner of Astarion’s mouth twitched. The light of Avernus refracted through the water, painting his pale face and body with faint, wobbly lines.  “Such big talk, and yet I see no contract.”

“A minor task for a minor favor.” Raphael shrugged and then grinned, showing his much larger fangs. “Would you like one? We can hash out the details and fight each other over the fine print whilst sweet Sunshadow suffers.”

Astarion’s form stilled. Ooh, he didn’t like that. (Of course.) The devil watched him, taking in the silent anger and wondering where it was directed .

“Fine.” Astarion flicked his wrist, signaling defeat and impatience. “I’ll teach your little minion. On with it, now devil.”

Raphael clapped his hands together, pleased with the outcome of his game. “Wonderful! She’s in your rooms, I presume? A h…y es, there. Arms out, vampling.”

One echoing snap and the boudoir filled with a horrifying stench and the screaming of a dying animal. Raphael instantly regretted his decision. The shift from tranquillity to chaos was jarring in the worst way.

“Ssh, ssh, shh!” Astarion, half-submerged in the water now and arms clutching a thrashing wolf, tried soothing the beast through the worst of it . “I know, I know, my darling. I know it hurts. Try to relax for me, it will be better soon. I promise.”

Sunshadow wailed almost like a human. The sound gripped Raphael’s baser instincts and shook him; he dropped to a squat, forearms braced on his knees and hands tightly clasped together. Raphael yearned to destroy, to silence. He watched, still as a statue. Neither tail nor wings twitched, anticipation forced to coil in his gut and churn.

Astarion gripped her hard and close, keeping her body under the water and that mouth full of teeth away from his pinched face. Gradually, the kicking and violent splashing came to a stop. The waves gentled. Hard breathing and low murmurs of encouragement filled the tremulous atmosphere. Shivers ripped through Sunshadow’s infection-ravaged body, but eventually, those evened out. Astarion pressed his face into the wet mass of her neck.

Minutes passed with the pair just like that. Dead skin and scabs sloughed away, revealing healthy, pink patches. Astarion raised his head and gently touched the formerly wounded skin on her haunch. Not so much as a twitch or whimper. He flattened his palm over where the worst of it had been and rubbed.

Sunshadow groaned, wild eyes now half-closed in peace. Astarion’s arms loosened. His hands stroked matted fur, one long pet after another. He sat with her in his lap, surrounded by pink and grey swirls of filth, and could not have looked happier.

It was oddl y…i ntimate. Witnessing Astarion’s naked relief and care for the animal was more enticing than the way his soaked clothing stuck to that pretty body.

“Thank you.”

The whisper was as soggy as its speaker, and so faint Raphael almost missed it.

He wanted to shatter this creature and feel the gritty, glittering dust against his palms. It would be so easy. Two broken necks and then a glorious fight would ensue. He could feel ghostly fangs biting and tearing his skin, see glassy red eyes full of agony and madness. Hot blood would pour from them both in unending rivers.

Raphael let out a slow, measured breath. By the Nine Hells, he would leash this desire in every chain he could find. The Crown was too close to lose again.

Notes:

Hooray, our first Raphael chapter!

I hope the holidays treated everyone all right! Let us continue to escape life's horrors together in this new year. <3

Chapter 4: The Elf and The Dwarf

Summary:

Astarion "teaches" Korilla. They "bond". Korilla is not pleased with Astarion's ulterior motive.

Notes:

This chapter was turning into a monster so I decided to chop it up. Its sister is nearly done, so there won't be a massive break this time! Yippee!

 

ASTARION.

 

If an elf such as himself had to pick a favorite type of tree, one might consider the oak. Strong and hearty, they appear imposing at the right height and age. And how could one forget about their contributions to wine and whiskey? Astarion’s fingers trailed over the trunk of a respectable specimen, enjoying the rough scratch of bark. More stood tall around him, shielding the vampire from the worst of the noon sunlight and heat. As much as he loved soaking in real sunlight, the day’s humidity made the walk through the Northdark Wood a sweaty one without the help.

The wet air was a blanket, dampening sounds of sparrows and jays flitting about from one branch to another. Their wings fluttered, casting tiny shadows and flashes of blue or brown. High above, a pair of squirrels chittered and complained. If one paused, the high notes of a happily babbling brook could be heard in the distance. Wood anemones and the warm forest floor perfumed the air. A perfectly ordinary day in a perfectly ordinary forest. It was peaceful. The sort of place that plucked at the knotted strings of one’s ball of stress and coaxed them to loosen. 

He had missed this. Were there scraps of elvishness left clinging to his soul? Maybe so. A month in Avernus made Astarion crave the scent of soil turned up by a boot and the feel of new leaves teasing his hair as he passed. Or maybe those tadpoled months of trudging through the wilderness had seized his muscles, reforged, and then infected them with an ache that wouldn’t be soothed any other way? For all the complaining he had indulged in those days, they had shown him that the world was bigger – so, so much bigger! – than Szarr Palace’s bleak walls and the dingy, piss-stained streets of Balder’s Gate.

For a moment, the spot between Astarion’s shoulders tingled. The feeling was different from the icy prickle that precluded danger. Usually, when someone was watching him, his senses categorized it as a threat. Sunshadow and Flit had long ago left his side to chase rabbits. Astarion gently touched their minds; they were leagues away, cutting through the golden wolf’s former territory and firmly focused on scent paths.

The feeling lingered. A nose in the air and eyes scrutinizing the foliage turned up nothing. The smells hadn’t changed, and the air pressure was normal. Birds were still in the trees, and their grounded counterparts scurried around, living their tiny lives, unconcerned.

Astarion stretched, trying to alleviate the feeling still pressing against his back. Green-tinged sunlight touched his cheeks and pricked his eyes. A memory came to mind, filled with lazy happiness and laughter shared with an enigmatic stranger. Astarion wondered if he could find that meadow again, maybe without the influence of some errantly picked mushrooms. There wasn’t time to become fixated on a singular flower for hours. Although feeling the ground breathe had been a wild, enchanting experience… Or had he mixed that up with riding that peculiar elf until they both were sore and shaking? Mmm. Now that was a pleasant memory, all that bronze skin against a soft blue cloth and impossibly green grass…

Two boots squelched in a patch of mud, a rather indecent sound that would have made Astarion smirk and crack a joke any other day. Instead, he sighed for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Korilla, you’re supposed to be minding your footpath!”

“I am!” The dwarf cursed from behind a tree, and more squelching followed. “I side-stepped a puddle. What more do you want?”

“Silence. Obviously. That’s the entire point of this, is it not?” Astarion found her bent over, bum leaning against the tree, retying the laces on her mud-caked boots.

Korilla’s light brown eyes squinted up at him, full of annoyance. “Sure it is. Because I’ve got nothing better to do than keep tabs on you in the middle of bloody nowhere!.”

He did smirk then. “According to your master, you don’t. Come on.”

“Look after the elf, he says. There and back again, he says.” The dwarf scoffed and continued to grumble. “Oi, if I’m meant to take stealth lessons, why not at the house? Why drag me through, ugh, all this disgusting nature?”

“Soil absorbs more force than stone.” Astarion pushed a whip-thin branch out of the way and let it snap back; Korilla was too short for the trick to provide any amusement. “And you need all the help you can get.”

Truthfully, he was hitting two birds with one stone. Or three, since the first two included this walk through his favorite forest. After being stuck in the monochromatic landscape of Avernus, the Northdark Wood was a feast for the eyes. And as much as his nose had gotten used to the smell of sulfur, breathing deep and bathing his lungs in clean air felt like a heady luxury.

While the dwarf was distracted, Astarion took a surreptitious look around. Nothing was out of the ordinary; that feeling was gone. Had Korilla’s clumsiness chased the culprit away? He simply could not believe she was the cause.

“For being so small, those feet stomp up a storm. Is it a curse or an unfortunate trait inherited from your parents?”

“I have flat feet!”

“Ah, so an inherited trait.”

“Much like your insufferable personality, I’m sure.”

Astarion laughed. “Maybe. I wouldn’t know.”

“What are you talking about?” Korilla shot him another annoyed look but let him help her climb down a rocky outcrop. “Your dossier clearly states you weren’t an orphan.”

“There’s a dossier on me?” Astarion stepped lightly from smooth stone to stone, following the dry creek bed; if Korilla could follow without slipping on the moss or getting stuck, he would add a few imaginary points in her favor.

“Of course there is. Everyone has one. I’m quite good at information gathering.” The formerly quiet atmosphere was filled with grunts and heavy landings. Astarion had to force himself not to look back. Imagining her hopping awkwardly, his throat tickled fiercely with laughter.

“Who put yours together?”

“Raphael himself!”

The sheer pride in Korilla’s voice made Astarion pause and chance a glance in her direction. Sweat was pouring down her temples, and smudges of dirt streaked down her round cheek. She concentrated on each step, taking advantage of the closer clusters of rocks to catch up to him. He made no motion to steady her wobble, and Korilla didn’t reach out.

“You’re quite fond of your master.”

Korilla pushed her mass of curly hair back and re-tied it. “I have a beautiful home with all the luxuries one could imagine, access to power I could never hope to achieve on my own, and plenty of work that will never bore me,” she said through quickened breaths. “Plus, he’s a charming bastard who has never punished me unless I deserved it. What’s not to like?”

“Unless you truly deserved it,” Astarion repeated, clicking his tongue. “Sure, sure.”

The dwarf scowled. “Oh, please. Don’t mistake his methods for Cazador’s. That’s a horrible insult.”

“Raphael is a devil ,” he pressed, not liking the stab in his gut at hearing his old master’s name dropped so casually. “Manipulation and mind games are his bread and butter. Or whatever it is that devils eat.”

“Are they?” Korilla chuckled and set her hands on her hips, looking up at him with amusement. “How observant of you, Astarion. Are we fucking done yet, or would you like to infantilize my ability to think for myself some more?”

He almost swiped those little legs out from under her. Her rear was so close to the ground that the drop likely wouldn’t even hurt that much. Pity.

Would he deserve a punishment from Raphael if he damaged his property? Astarion shook off the thought and continued picking through the creek bed; he didn’t belong to Raphael. He would never be someone’s property ever again. Ever . How could anyone wear a collar and not chafe until they were bloody?

“Whatever. Delusion looks good on you, Korilla. Not like I would risk my neck for someone like you anyway.”

“Ugh, you’re so sour .” 

Pebbles clattered against rocks. Wet twigs protested weakly under her feet. Astarion threw his head back to stare dramatically at the forest canopy.

“At least I can walk without alerting every gnoll within a mile!”

“Said the elf to the flat-footed, dwarven warlock!” The volume of Korilla’s indignation lowered. “...Are there really gnolls out here?”

“There better not be. I didn’t spend four months out here simply hunting them for sport.”

That was a lie. He absolutely had. And if the other adventurers he tagged along with had met grisly ends and left their bounty shares to him by default, that was just a bonus.

“Maybe I should try flaying your feet?” Astarion wondered aloud, picking up the pace when the boulders jutting out of the creek banks became more familiar. “Being born an elf merely gave me a predisposition for silent stepping. Pain and fear of more pain were great teachers. I’ll talk to Raphael about it. If he could make you do it yourself, all the better.”

The sudden absence of clatter from behind made him pull up short and turn. Korilla stared at him with wide eyes and a hateful twist to her painted mouth. Astarion smiled.

“Come along, dear. Nearly there.”

They labored ten minutes more through the unsteady rocks and leafy detritus. Astarion expected at least some effort on Korilla’s part, but her noise was as loud as ever. A few unfortunate rocks zinged past him and ricocheted off bigger cousins, one petty kick after another. He ignored the little rebellions. If Astarion’s lessons didn’t take, all he lost was access to the healing pool. Punishment was Raphael’s domain.

They rounded a bend in the creek bed. Ruddy leaves and the thick silver trunk of a copper beech tree came into view. Roots as thick as his torso curled around a tumble of black-veined boulders. The old thing was fat and sprouting several wild arms pointing every which way. The first time Astarion stumbled upon it, he thought there had to be a fae way about it. The truth was far less exciting but beneficial nonetheless.

“Hells.” Korilla’s amazement broke the spell of her tantrum. “Now that is a tree.”

“Isn’t she just?” Astarion said, pleased.

He allowed a few moments to drink the sight in, to let the dwarf catch her breath, and he had a chance to examine the roots. While digging around in the dirt was not even in the same realm of things he enjoyed, Astarion would do what needed to be done. Truly, seeing the buildup of ferns, fungi, and vines in the crevices pleased him. That meant no one had bothered this place since his last visit.

“I’m not detecting any magic…”

He looked over his shoulder to see Korilla waving her fingers about and frowning. “Relax, darling, I’m the only thing here that bites.”

“I’m not sure I trust you. Or this tree.”

Astarion shrugged and grinned when a handful of snarled vegetation came away to reveal an opening. “Suit yourself. You’re good in small, dark places, right?”

Musty-smelling air, no doubt filled with spores and dust, made his nose twitch. Astarion crouched and cleared the opening as best he could. Korilla, dark mouth tight with unease, peered into the darkness. 

“If I must.” The dwarf smiled at him with false sweetness. “Go on then. Age before beauty and all that.”

The audacity shocked a laugh out of Astarion. “How dare you!” he said, playfully flicking an errant curl off his forehead. “Try not to slip and concuss yourself.”

The sudden flare of orange light at his side made him blink hard. Korilla chuckled under her breath and held a glowing rock up. It was bright enough to illuminate the mouth of the cave and quite a ways in.

“...The warning still stands.”

He was half joking. Astarion entered ahead of Korilla, and though the ground wasn’t damp or slippery, it was uneven and peppered with jagged stones that had fallen loose from the ceiling over the eons. The further in they ventured, the wider the corridor became. Spiderwebs clung to the walls in increasing amounts. Astarion’s heart hitched with excitement when teeny tiny glowing mushrooms appeared, adding their ethereal green and blue light to Korilla’s orange.

“Almost there!” Astarion hadn’t meant to whisper, but something about the place always stole his breath.

Korilla’s tight grip on his arm pulled him up short. The mix of colors on her face bathed the worry there in eeriness.

“This is taking us to the bloody underdark!” she hissed, volume as subdued as his.

“We’re not going that far,” Astarion assured her and kept going. “No one has used this entrance in decades.”

As far as he could tell.

Astarion gave a cheeky tap to one of the mushrooms above their heads.

“Which is why it’s one of my favorite stash sites.”

“Stash sites…?” Korilla’s echoing steps slowed in time with Astarion’s. “What do you mean ‘stash sites’?”

The comfortable corridor suddenly narrowed; two marvelous stalagmites partially blocked the way, with smaller, younger ones making slipping through a tricky task. It looked like a wailing zombie’s maw.

“Your research didn’t pick that up?” 

Astarion stepped over a collection of baby stalagmites (shuffling through them only earned you a wickedly sore foot, he’d learned) and gave Korilla a helping hand. As expected, a few sharper ones snagged her robe and did an excellent job of making her stumble and curse nature to the ninth hell and back.

“What, that you’re part dragon and have hordes of stuff around the Sword Coast? No, I must have missed that trait when you were just a spawn bitching about mosquitos and sleeping on the ground.”

“Says the woman struggling in her natural environment and cursing it. Tsk. Glass houses, Korilla.”

“ Fuck yo–what in the world…?”

Bioluminescent and magical light bounced off a thousand reflection points, from simple coins to gems to weapons to gilded art frames to a dozen enchanted metal boxes; it was a dazzling sight. And that was only the shiny things. Piles of books wrapped in protective waxed cotton shrouds, dozens of spell scrolls, and exquisite vintages of wine crowded the shadowed spaces.

Korilla’s shocked face had Astarion preening. He hadn’t expected to enjoy showing off his hidden wealth so much. 

Sadly, living under Raphael’s golden roof must have jaded her senses. The dwarf set her fists on her hips and regarded him more coolly. “You have all this, and you still dress like that?”

His mouth fell open.

“Excuse you! If the giant stacks of treasure weren’t enough of a clue, I’ve been busy!” Astarion squawked and angrily swiped cobwebs off one of the chests. “I would never subject beautiful clothing such as these to the elements. And gore. Lots of people were disemboweled to collect all of this, you know! We can’t all have prestidigi-whatever at the ready.”

Astarion tossed open the lid to reveal neatly folded clothing of such exceptional quality and art, quite frankly, that even the tiny mind of a servant could appreciate the need to protect them.

“Now that’s more like it.” Korilla nodded in approval. “Where has all this been, eh?”

“Excuse me for being comfortable and traveling light,” he grumbled.

“More like being a homeless vagrant.”

“If you are quite finished!” She was right on the line between banter and intolerable disrespect. If he didn’t need her help, Astarion would have snapped her neck and damn the consequences.

He closed the chest, careful not to catch any fabric between the rim and lid, and moved towards the back of the cave. A tall, thin something hidden by a dingy drop cloth leaned against the craggy wall.

“This is the true reason we’re here.” Astarion hiked up the cloth.

“...A mirror.”

Fucking hells, he was never going to show anyone his treasures ever again. Did no one appreciate craftsmanship anymore?!

“A special mirror,” Astarion corrected and let the cloth go, cutting off Korilla’s mildly interested gaze. “Surely a warlock knows an enchanted mirror when she sees one?”

The dwarf crossed her arms. “This thing doesn’t give off more than a blip. The frame is pretty, I guess.”

“The frame is pretty,” he echoed, tone as dead as his body. “You have an opinion on my fashion sense, but the frame of this centuries-old mirror, crafted by the hands of Evereska’s premier silver-smiths, is ‘pretty,’ you guess?”

Korilla shrugged.

“I should kill you on principle.”

“I thought you hated staining your things with gore?” Korilla cackled and slapped him on the hip. “Shake it off, lad, and focus. What am I here for?”

“I can’t very well carry this thing back to the House of Hope myself, can I?” Astarion waved a hand about. “You’ve got magic. Make it work.”

“Ao’s wispy balls, you dragged me all the way out here to be a magical pack mule?!”

“If you’ve got access to a bag of holding with a mouth big enough to shove this thing into, then I might consider apologizing.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and blew out a slow breath. Astarion hoped she had a massive migraine brewing in that thick dwarven skull. It would serve her right for all the cheek. Moment of exasperation over, or whatever that was, Korilla shooed him out of the way and shook her hands out.

“You best grab some of those fancy clothes while we’re at it,” she said, bristling with peevishness. “If I’m playing bellhop, I better see some eye candy around the House!”

“Korilla!” He didn’t even need to feign his gasp, hand pressed against his heart. “You naughty thing, you!”

 

Notes:

This fucking mirror has been stuck in my mind since the story's conception. It really isn't that impressive of a mirror, but I cannot let it go for some reason. It's the entire reason this chapter exists. It's so stupid. Ya'll get some lore-building, at least. BUT we'll have some fun with the mirror in chapter 6!

Chapter 5: Prey

Summary:

Astarion is Astarion. Korilla is a bad ass bitch. The boys are drop-kicked into plot.

Notes:

This chapter came out very different than what I originally planned, but I ain't mad about it. Astarion continues to surprise me with just how unhinged he demands to be.

 

ASTARION.

No sooner were Astarion and Korilla back amongst the trees than a familiar, invisible finger ran down Astarion’s spine. He hated the feeling. It always came with a sense of impending doom. The unseen eyes from earlier in the day were gone; that had been a caress compared to this. Folk tales always said that true vampires suffered from a heightened paranoia; Astarion liked to think ascendance had refined that paranoia. Was it still paranoia if you were always right?

Korilla, busy wiping her face clean with a handkerchief, seemed relaxed (or as relaxed as she let herself be around Astarion). There was nothing amiss in their immediate surroundings.

Physically, he ran his fingers through his hair to pull out errant cobwebs. Mentally, Astarion checked in with his wolves. He did not like the agitation he found.

We’re back above ground. Report.

Gnolls.

Loathing coated the word, thick as sap and twice as bitter. Sunshadow’s natural wolfy derision of gnolls aside, he didn’t blame her.

How close?

Out of your smelling range.

That was far enough for everyone to leave without issue. But where was the fun in that?

Keep your distance. Don’t engage. I’ll take care of them myself.

“What’s that look on your face for?” Korilla’s lips pursed. “Something is brewing in that head.”

“There are gnolls in the area that require eradication,” Astarion said with an easy smile. “Care to join me before we depart?”

She didn’t look pleased. The dwarf was a mess of sweat, poofy hair, and filthy robes. If they weren’t in the middle of the woods, someone might have accused them of engaging in unprofessional behavior.

“You are the most irritating creature.” She heaved a sigh and shook her head in disbelief. “And I knew Shovel before Shovel was Shovel.”

“Shovel?” The odd name did ring a bell. “Oh! You mean Basket. She was a delightful little quasit! What are you talking about?”

Korilla stretched her neck and cracked her knuckles, ignoring Astarion. “Fine, I’ll help. Master Raphael would have my hide if I let gnolls chew you to pieces.”

“Ha!” He set off in the direction he remembered being resettled by gnolls over and over in the past. “What makes you think I need your help? I merely offered an invitation to blow off some steam. You seem to have a lot of it.”

“There’s no way a scrawny thing like you could take out a pack alone.” Korilla’s scoff and laugh from behind caught on a nerve. “You take those furry bodyguards everywhere for a reason, I’d wager.”

He threw a Look over his shoulder, eyebrow arched high with displeasure. “You need to update that dossier. I can, and have, destroyed worse things than a pack of gnolls.”

“In that case, proving it should be no effort at all.”

“None,” he agreed. “I can’t say the same for you.”

With that, Astarion’s body dissipated into mist. Korilla was left alone, or visibly alone, in the middle of nowhere.

“Shit,” he heard her curse. “I forgot he could do that… Astarion! Come back, or I will leave you here!”

Mist couldn’t laugh, but it could whirl about the air in a dance of revelry. Korilla very well could leave him and the wolves…for a little while. Until Raphael sent her to fetch his investment back to the House, perhaps even with raw feet for putting him ‘in danger.’ Did the devil think him so incapable as well? The thought rankled.

Astarion watched the dwarf stomp about the wilderness from above, weaving around branches and enjoying the feeling of warm currents caressing his particles. He tuned out her constant grumbling. Her struggles, whilst amusing at first, were now commonplace and dull. How could such an ‘experienced’ and ‘powerful’ warlock not realize such behavior would attract the beasts she was trying to avoid? If anyone would be torn apart, a squishy spell flinger would fit the bill every time. Gale and Wyll certainly had.

Master?

They’re coming, aren’t they?

Yes. Quickly.

Good. 

His incorporeal body could feel the tiniest changes in the air; the birds had paused their busy itineraries, fleeing the trees or hunkering down in preparation.

Your orders have not changed. Intervene, and I will be very unhappy with you.

Sunshadow was healed, but Astarion’s nerves were not. This was the last place - the last enemy - he would risk her being hurt by.

Yes, Master.

Astarion couldn’t tell by tone alone if she was displeased; the agitation levels were also the same. Ah, well. At least he had no doubts she would obey.

Korilla’s stomping stopped. Perhaps she had finally realized the woods had fallen silent. Her back stiffened.

“Astarion, you son of a bitch…” 

The hiss of anger and stink of fear made his not-quite body ripple with pleasure. Korilla made the mistake of taking a step forward. Whatever care she thought was enough to make that step silent was not enough. An innocent toadstool crunched under her boot, the slippery innards unbalancing her footing. A spear lodged itself into the ground mere inches from her prone form.

Gnollish war cries cracked the tension. He wanted to howl with laughter.

Insolent wench should have listened to me.

Heat flared to life, forcing Astarion to move behind the dwarf. The intensity of her wall of fire was impressive; every arrow and projectile was rendered to ash before touching the flames. That wouldn’t help with the slobbering beasts now flanking her. Primitive though their sharp sticks and sling weapons were, enough damage could be done with a lucky hit.

Astarion waited until a fist-sized rock smashed into Korilla’s shoulder. The wall of fire stuttered and then disappeared in an oxygen-sucking whoosh. The warlock’s arm hung limp at her side. Even in mist form, he could smell her blood. To her credit, Korilla stayed calm and collected, firing eldritch blasts with cold efficiency even as the gnolls moved in to surround her.

They began toying with their prey. There were enough to close in and end Korilla within minutes, but they held back, waving hatchets and laughing through their slavering mouths. An arrow grazed her cheek. Another rock caught her in the kidney, forcing air out of her lungs and bringing her down to a knee in the singed underbrush. This was too close for comfort; Raphael might actually kick Astarion out of the house if his favorite warlock died. He meant to intervene, but then Korilla’s eyes began glowing green.

Through heavy breaths, the warlock forced the fingers on her bad arm through somatic signs. Her good hand pulled at the air, gathering strands of glowing green weave, and clenched into an eye-wateringly bright fist. The smell of grave dirt and dry rot became overpowering.

“Mors alle.”

The words were said so serenely, yet the explosion of necrotic energy shredded the life of the meat bags surrounding her. Six gnolls shrieked, turned into pillars of ash, and toppled to the ground in vaguely gnoll-shaped lumps. There was an elegance to it all: life and then death, literally triggered by the palm of a hand. Watching casters' work was always a good show, but something about warlocks always captured Astarion’s admiration. Wyll moved like the noble, trained dancer he was. Korilla, however, could command an entire stage with one move.

Huh. There is something to be said about small packages after all.

Three rage-filled cries snapped Astarion's attention to the remaining foes. A blink and the wounded Korilla was no longer alone inside the closing ring of remaining bloodied beasts.

“You absolute wanker,” she spat, necrotic energy and tendrils of shadows winding around her body. “You used me as bait!”

Astarion twirled a finger around the green light, feeling it tug and tingle his undead body. “I did. What a marvelous surprise you are! Well done.”

The gnolls, momentarily surprised by Astarion’s abrupt appearance, have not lost their blood lust. That was fine by Astarion. The real problem was how he was going to end them. There were so many choices! Feeble-minded as they were, commanding them to kill one another would be child’s play but outwardly impressive–

One burly brute broke from the pack and lunged with a maul held high, making the choice. Astarion deftly unsheathed his dagger and then disappeared. The gnoll’s swing whooshed through nothing, the wasted inertia sending it stumbling. The vampire reappeared only for a brief second. The gnoll gurgled and choked, spewing blood through the fatal gash across its neck. Korilla helped it fall with an angry kick.

Sinking a blade into hot flesh always had the curious effect of calming Astarion’s mind and making his body hum with energy. Even before his glorious ascension, fighting brought a sense of satisfaction. Seeing the light of life leave someone's eyes by his hand, oh it was an addictive thing! To control when that light waned, to wield death by steel or fang…

Astarion forced a gnoll to the forest floor by gripping its snout and wrenching it down. His blade stabbed deep into its back, past thick fur and tough skin into the sinewy muscle. The vampire adjusted his grip and pulled, effortlessly slicing through the meat all the way down to the tail. The sounds gnolls chewed out of their prey were nothing to what they could produce from their own lungs. A pity their blood tasted so vile.

Astarion freed the dagger and spun, lodging it into the foolish foe’s gut who dared to try and ambush him. One twist and activation of a spell later, the gnoll howled in agony. The stench of rapidly rotting entrails wafted from the blackened wound. Quickly, Astarion withdrew. The beast was left to die slowly, clawing its belly as the skin bloated with rot and gas. Soon, it would rupture.

Flashes of red light lit up the forest; Korilla unleashed a barrage of magic missiles down the open maw of a gnoll that had managed to get too close. Clumps of hair, skull fragments, and teeth rained down. Astarion laughed, high and perhaps a little manic. The thrill was too much to keep inside his body.

Korilla pointed past him, heaving tired, angry breaths. “Bloody cowards are running away!”

Sure enough, the dingy brown fur of the remaining three gnolls flashed through open patches of the underbrush as they ran away from the fight. The vampire’s senses locked in.

“Oh no, no, no. I don’t think so.”

Astarion's fangs were out, mouth wide in a grin and nose scrunched with feral anticipation. To onlooking eyes, the vampire disappeared again, presumably into mist. In reality, he was simply too fast to see…but not too fast to catch up to his prey and end the hunt prematurely. 

Astarion chased the gnolls, infusing his laughter with the ability to echo throughout the forest. Every time the beasts began to lag, he growled in their ears or hounded them with shallow slashes to their legs, spurring them on. One finally fell to exhaustion and was abandoned by their packmates. Astarion pounced and wrenched their head free with nary a muscle twitch in the effort. The sound of ripping flesh and feeling the hot blood warm his skin made Astarion shiver.

The two remaining gnolls stumbled ever forward. Long strides were enough to catch up and keep a man’s length of distance between hunter and prey. Astarion savored the sight of the rings of white showing around the wide, bulging eyes. He smiled in appreciation of the pitch of their whines of terror like a conductor pleased with his orchestra. One gnoll grabbed and shoved the other towards the vampire. The sacrifice retaliated with claws, hooking them into the heel of their betrayer and forcing it to the ground. They snarled and bit one another, viscious and desperate.

“Oh, my.” Astarion circled the fighting pair, enjoying the show. Fear of death sprouted differently in each creature; to see it bloom in such a savage way…it felt like a gift.

“Nature is a cruel mistress,” he crooned, side-stepping a torn-off ear.

Blood soaked the ground. Their thrashing tore up the vegetation and churned the soil, creating a gory, muddy mess. The larger of the two pinned the smaller one and wailed a fist against their chest, over and over again. Bones cracked and caved inward. Flesh became red pulp flecked with white shards. The remaining gnoll, covered in claw and teeth marks, tossed back its head and screamed in victory.

Astarion chuckled, low and dark. His hand shot out, gripping the gnoll under its wet muzzle. He could feel the tremors of exhaustion and panic.

“Congratulations.”

 

.

 

Everyone - except Korilla - returned to the House of Hope in far greater spirits than they had left it. Sunshadow and Flit trotted off towards the feast hall, a bloody limb in each of their mouths. The way their tails wagged with happiness put a fuzzy feeling in Astarion’s belly.

“What sort of treat would put a smile on that face, Korilla?” he asked, idly wiping at the spots on his face and chest that were still damp with blood (keeping a black handkerchief on one’s person was a must). “I’ve only ever seen you bored to tears or with that dour frown.”

“I don’t exist to be pleasing to you.” Korilla snorted as if the idea was the most ridiculous thing in the world. “My job is to get things done. Accomplishing that is treat enough.”

“Sure, and a passive acknowledgement from your master wouldn’t put stars in your eyes at all.” Astarion laughed and dodged her small fist.

“Tsch. Menace.”

Raised voices bounced off the marble and stone to the duo. Korilla’s steps increased along with the dour look. Astarion watched her (flat) feet hit the floor and shook his head. The bloody woman sounded like a person three times her size. Thank the gods he’d had her bring back the mirror. Hopefully, it would be a good enough bribe to earn his way back into that pool.

The dwarf reached the feast hall before he did. Astarion first recognized the voice of a frazzled tiefling that normally haunted the archive, but the female devil berating him was new. Her imperious tone brought up bad memories. Astarion reached the hall, eyes automatically seeking out gold and silver fur to confirm the wolves were behaving. The raised voices had no effect on them, too happy were they with their gnoll limbs.

The devil was a cambion, not a strange sight for the House of Hope; Raphael had all manner of devils and debtors under his control. This one, however, lacked the House etiquette Astarion had become used to. She had a pretty round face and a frown that looked more like a pout. Her nose wasn’t as small or turned up as Laezel’s, but quite close, though the red skin made it difficult to tell if it was wrinkled up in an attempt to appear haughty. There was very little sulfur smell about her, less even than Raphael who spent his days poofing around Faerun.

Feigning disinterest, Astarion beelined for the large round table in the middle of the hall. The lack of an actual feast in the Feasting Hall meant there were no expected guests, but there was always wine. A perfect for eavesdropping.

Korilla, undaunted by the cambion’s sneer, marched right up in full non-nonsense mode. “What’s all this noise about? The master of this House does not abide guests shouting at his servants outside the dungeons.”

“And my master does not abide delays!” The tip of the fiend’s tail whipped from side to side like an irritated cat. “Such a lack of decorum. Not so much as an imp to welcome me at the portal, and this buffoon cannot even tell me where Raphael is. It is shameful! I’ll be reporting this untenable treatment.”

“Ah, small correction,” said the archivist, tone and beedy eyes sharp with dislike. “I would not tell you where the master is.”

Doubtful that he knew, as mercurial as Raphael’s location tended to be, but the loyalty was admirable. What was his name again? Gavin? Grovling? No, Garros. Probably.

Korilla muttered a spell and flinched hard as magic popped her shoulder back into place. Neither the devil nor the tiefling seemed interested in asking about her disheveled appearance. Then again, they were denizens of the very Hell playing host to the Blood War. Astarion considered that all courts and houses in the Hells had people walking about in various states of disarray of the violent kind.

“Who is your master? You’ve yet to introduce yourself to me.”

The cambion scoffed, set a hand on her hip, and aggressively tapped a silver pin tacked to one of the many leather straps of her top. “Maevren, Courier of Archdevil Mephistopheles. Who the fuck are you, dwarf?”

“Korilla Hearthflame, Head of Security to the House of Hope and First Warlock of Duke Raphael.” She tilted her head. “If you’re a courier, why not follow procedure and leave your parcel or whatever in his office? Are you new?”

Maevren’s lips pursed at the slight. “I bear a message of great importance and have been ordered to deliver it directly to Raphael’s hands.”

“ Duke Raphael,” Korilla corrected. “Do you have the proper chain of custody to prove that?”

Blessedly, the cambion produced parchment in a puff of smoke without further attitude. Verbally, at least. Astarion didn’t know if he could be even half as– gag –respectful as Korilla towards the girl.

“You know,” the dwarf murmured as she looked over the parchment. “Archdevil Mephistopheles doesn’t give a shit about how a low-ranked cambion courier like you is treated in any court. I could have Astarion here snap your neck or drag you to the dungeons; the Archdevil would be delighted to have a reason to discipline my master. But care about you, personally? Tsk. Not a chance. You’re the sixth new Canian courier I’ve seen in the past three months.”

Astarion threw back his head and laughed. The absolute indignant spluttering from Maevren and the disgust on her face were priceless.

“I must remind you, Korilla, that I don’t work for you or Raphael,” he said through bubbling giggles. “But I can say I would consider doing that for free.”

Maevren hissed at him, wings and body going wide to prep for a fight. “Quiet, you mongrel! What could a pathetic, scrawny nothing like you possibly do to a devil?”

“Oh, darling.” Astarion licked his fangs and leaned his torso over the table, shoulders angled and hands braced for a leap. “Let's find out.”

Korilla smacked the chain of custody against her hand, breaking the tension, and smiled.

“Everything looks to be in order then. Garros, as you were. You,” she said and pointed at Maevren. “Follow me.”

Astarion waited until fiend and warlock were far enough ahead not to notice him following. This had all the marks of either being very interesting or very funny. Maybe both, if he was lucky!

Korilla led the courier to Raphael’s boudoir and walked through the golden veil that kept the unwanted out. Maevren, much to Astarion’s amusement, bounced off the barrier face first.

“My Lord Raphael!” Maevren’s grousing came out a bit nasally as she rubbed her nose. “I must deliver this message to your hands directly!”

Astarion covered his mouth and bumped a tall, millennia-old vase as he slipped between it and a marble bust on a plinth. Controlling his giggles and trying to stabilize the vase simultaneously took a few wild grabs. Thank the gods, Maevren was much more focused on her nose than possible peeping eyes. This was not his best execution of subterfuge.

A deep growl from the boudour interrupted the cambion as soon as she opened her mouth once more.

“I heard you the first time!”

The golden veil shimmered and disappeared. Raphael was surprisingly imposing, clad in his devil form and only a towel. And deliciously damp from the bath.

No, stop that , Astarion chastised himself. His eyes did not heed the warning, instead appreciating the well-groomed dark hair on his chest and arms. The water trapped there evaporated at a slower rate, and Astarion wanted to taste it. The vampire wondered what the underside of Raphael’s pectorals would taste like. Would he allow a nibble? A rapidly fading purple bruise on his sternum suggested Haarlep was undoubtedly allowed.

“This better be important,” the Duke grumbled and snatched the folded parchment in the courier’s hand.

Astarion let out a slow breath. Salivating over Raphael was a terrible idea. Clearly, he had been neglecting his needs again if the sight of a well-muscled devil muddled his brains. How many perfect, muscled bodies had he seen in his life? This was nothing special.

“Astarion!”

The vampire jumped and berated himself for being so easily startled. Then again, the way Raphael shook the foundations of the house when he spoke like that wasn’t fair.

“Stop skulking and attend!”

Astarion stepped out from between the vase and bust. His leisurely pace down the hall concealed his contempt at being summoned in such a disrespectful manner. Raphael’s burning eyes scoured the message over and over, rapidly moving left to right and back again. Finally, he dismissed it in a puff of red smoke and scowled at the courier.

“What are you still doing here?”

“The Archdevil requested a response.”

The scowl deepened. “Hmph. ‘Requests’ suggests an opportunity to refuse. Go on, then. Tell him the invitation is accepted.”

Maevren was mindful enough to bow her head before retreating. Korilla followed close behind.

“What is it?” Astarion asked once they were clear. “And I did not appreciate that tone you took, devil.”

“Blast your tones!” A snap of his fingers and Raphael was clothed in his usual finary. “You need to sign a contract. Now .”

Notes:

Am I sorry for the cliffhanger? No, not really. XD Chapter 6 is going to be nuts.

Chapter 6: Mayhem

Summary:

Haarlep and Astarion are appropriately introduced. Raphael reflects on his father's possible motivations. Contract negotiations begin! Astarion discovers three new things about Raphael. Raphael takes one of them personally. We finally find out what the mirror does!

Notes:

Chapter so titled in dedication to Lady Gaga's new album and our idiots' budding relationship. The vibes. THE VIBES!

If you see any dnd mechanics that don't make any good god damn sense...well, in the words of Sticky Dondo: No yeh didn't.

Anyway, here's seven thousand words. (!!!!)

ASTARION.

 

A jolt of panic went through Astarion, cold and confusing. He hadn't thought it would come to this. If anyone should be calling for a contract, it was he; Raphael's progress on his mark had been slow and increasingly vague. Even so, Karlach's scathing remarks about devils and their contracts rang between his ears. He was safer without one.

"What do you mean?" Astarion asked, covering the panic with the much more acceptable emotion of suspicion. "What's happened?"

"Unforeseen circumstances," Raphael grumbled, eyes flicking towards the vampire, away, and then back again to stay. "Why are you covered in blood again? Never mind, that's not important. Clean yourself up. I'll be waiting in my office."

"Awfully demanding today," Astarion said, archly. "And here I am, none the wiser as to why I should give in to those demands."

The devil paused the sharp intake of breath he'd been taking, presumably to chastise or yell at Astarion's continued obstinacy, and let it go. He flicked his wrist towards the boudoir archway, still open.

"I assure you, we'll both be at risk if you don't. I would rather not discuss things here. Join me or not, I'll be working either way."

Raphael turned and stalked down the hall, wings half opening and closing as if they wanted to stretch and shake the stress out. Astarion's gaze settled on the archway. He did need to wash the blood off…and that lovely warm water would ease his own jitteriness…

The laces on his shirt were undone and loose by the time Astarion traversed the twenty steps to the boudoir's bath. Dried blood and viscera made the stiff cotton scratch against his skin as he pulled it off. No doubt flakes and bits caught in his hair as well. Eurgh. Cleaning a mess was always less fun than making one. Removing his pants was worse as far as mess, but the leather was still malleable enough to slip off easily. Nude now, except for the holster cinched around his left thigh, Astarion stretched both arms over his head. Several spots in his spine popped.

The bath water was as warm and pleasantly tingly over his feet as Astarion remembered. His fingertips brushed against the cool knobs of the small punch knives nestled in the thigh holster. He should take it off to save himself the trouble of post-water exposure maintenance.

A loud groan from across the boudoir made the decision for him. (On! Definitely on.) Astarion slipped into the water before Haarlep - in all his Raphaelion glory - could spot more than what the vampire wanted him to see. Bleary-eyed and busy picking knots out of his (more than likely) sex-mussed hair, the devil took far longer to notice the boudoir's pale visitor than expected.

"Oh!" The look of honest surprise on that face and the following smile further picked at Astarion's fraying nerves. It was such a strange expression to see on that face. Had he ever seen a smile like that on Raphael's face?

Haarlep tilted his horned head, smile melting into something more playful. "You must be Raphael's esteemed guest. Astarion, yes? We haven't been properly introduced; I'll have to needle the Master about that."

Not-Raphael jutted out a hip and placed a red hand on his chest in a way that was distinctly not Raphael's way of moving or posing. "I am Haarlep, Raphael's personal incubus."

"Incubus?"

Well. That explained some things but not others.

"Oh yes. Provider of pleasures and fantasies," Haarlep said in his master's voice and winked with that devil's eye. "Do you mind if I…?"

Seeing Raphael's body move and talk in ways Astarion had not witnessed or would ever be associated with the Duke was equally fascinating and disconcerting. Astarion couldn't even appreciate the feast of red skin and dark hair. What sort of scowl would Raphael wear if forced into a leather harness and skimpy underthings? The spikes Astarion could do without; they didn't suit. He motioned for Haarlep to join him.

"Of course not, darling. This is more your bath than mine, after all."

"Aren't you a polite little thing?" Haarlep cooed.

One handwave and a puff of black smoke later bared all. Astarion kept his eyes on the incubus' (Raphael's?) face, temptation only a flicker at the back of his mind. Irritation at being called 'little thing' sat right next to it - would everyone in this House treat him with such causal disrespect? Regardless, his senses were on high alert. Keeping this creature in focus felt much more important than a cheap gawk. Haarlep splashed into the water, seemingly unperturbed by the staring.

"You have questions."

Haarlep plucked a few bottles from the extensive collection, knowing exactly which ones he wanted. Clearly, he did not feel the same level of threat from Astarion. Or was very, very good at hiding it.

Bloody devils and their games.

"Why do you look like him?"

"A boring question, but a fair one." The incubus lathered up a bright pink sponge, sending a burst of jasmine and cedarwood into the air. "Let's just say that Raphael has a high opinion of himself. Sometimes, he chooses a different body to enjoy, but mostly, he prefers his own."

"You're kidding."

Haarlep pouted, and seeing Raphael's face pulled in such a pathetic fashion was almost as surreal as hearing the devil liked fucking himself.

"I wish I were," the incubus wailed to the ceiling high above. "I'm bored! He has his talents, and I have my favorite tricks, but I beg the Ninth for some variety! Do you know how hard it is to make sex boring for an incubus?"

"Quite difficult, I would assume." Astarion laughed, tickled by this revelation. "But why tell me this? We've just met. Raphael would hate that his sex slave is blabbing such a secret, no? I could have a lot of fun ratting you out."

"Oh." Haarlep's soapy arms plopped into the water. He stared at Astarion with wide eyes. "Please don't. My Master isn't a stranger to punishing me for my mouth doing things he doesn't want it to, but I don't appreciate it outside the boudoir."

Astarion considered his options and then glided through the water. He plucked the sponge from unnaturally warm fingers and scrubbed his own body.

"Hmm. I suppose I could keep this to myself," he mused aloud. "But why should I?"

Haarlep's head tilted, much like a bird when trying to figure out how to get the seed from a clogged feeder. He sank to his knees, bringing the waterline up to the chest Astarion had been so enamored with on another person.

"Raphael hasn't said a thing against playing with you," he whispered and slowly grinned, wide eyes becoming less innocent and far more salacious. "I wouldn't mind testing that boundary before it's set."

Astarion had expected the offer of sex (what else was an incubus good for?), but he could push for more…maybe a pair of ears privy to the private life of an infernal Duke?

"I shouldn't say this, but you would be doing me a favor." Haarlep giggled, and wasn't that a disturbing thing to hear from Raphael's throat? "I would be very, very enthusiastic. And I have so many forms to choose from!"

Astarion nearly laughed again. An incubus was begging him for sex. Hells, perhaps making the creature happy would be enough to get information out of him for free. Or amenable to another deal in the future, at the very least.

"All right. I accept your proposal." His wariness about Haarlep vanished at the sight of him clapping with happiness. "But I have a date with your Master soon. We'll have to postpone our little tryst."

"Of course, of course!" Haarlep smiled and leaned in to wipe Astarion's chin clean. "This will be our secret. Let me know when you would like to ravish me, or simply find me here when Raphael is out if you're keen to play with hellfire."

Despite the warmth of the bath and Haarlep's hand, a shiver followed the length of Astarion's spine. Oh yes, this would be an exquisite use of his endless time in the House of Hope. The incubus giggled and stole his sponge back.

"Jasmine doesn't quite suit you, sweetums," he purred and faced away to finger the bottle collection once more, claws making gentle tinkling sounds against the glass.

The view of the devil's back wasn't nearly as enticing as his front, but something odd, out of place even, captured Astarion's attention. A series of swirling black characters peeked out from behind the wing joint. Something about them felt familiar. Squinting in the low light didn't help to decipher the odd marks.

"Perhaps ambergris? No, no, too salty… Ooh! Cocoa Absolute could be divine…"

"Haarlep," he said, casually crowding the fiend and grinning when his touch elicited a shiver. "May I ask what this is? A tattoo?"

Shoulders and wings lifted and dropped in a shrug. "No idea. It's not mine. I think it's some kind of elvish, but I've never bothered to learn."

"Really? Is it Raphael's, then? Fascinating…” His fingers traced a loop. Haarlep's wings squirmed, making the water stir. "I can't imagine him having a tattoo at all...and in such an unusual place. Does Raphael have a soulmark?"

Astarion had seen an innumerable amount of soulmarks in his unlifetime, plenty being elvish phrases or symbols but nothing like what was before him now. Soulmarks usually had more spark, a tiny touch of life, not this dull black. Perhaps because it was a facsimile?

"HA! Hahaha! A devil with a soulmark! Wouldn't that be funny!" Haarlep turned, forcing the vampire to back away, and held up an uncorked, blue-tinged bottle. "How do you feel about evergreen and bourbon?"

"I am quite partial to bourbon, actually." The bottle smelled like it held a wide open blue sky on a crisp winter's day, followed by the telltale warmth of his favorite liquor. "Mm. Good nose. But why would it be funny?"

"Devils don't have soulmarks, Astarion," Haarlep said, like it was silly for him not to know already. "Can you imagine how angry the gods would be? Even one mortal soul attached to a devil would be too many in their eyes. Oh! I wish it were a thing. The Hells would be so lively!"

Haarlep had a point. Astarion wondered if Sune would rage with the rest or be blamed. As the divine overseer of soulmarks, there would be much for her to answer for. The thought warmed his black heart. How many times had people attributed his beauty as a blessing from Sune or thanked her for putting him on Toril at all? Like he had nothing to do with it at all.

And how many infernal schemes would collapse or coalesce with the revelation of a soulmark on a devil's body? Ha! What a show that would be.

"I can't say I disagree; I want to see anything that puts the gods in a tizzy."

The incubus beamed at him, another disconcerting image. "I like you. You're fun."

Astarion couldn't help but preen under the simple praise. "Thank you. Not enough people say so. I think you've earned the privilege of washing my hair."

"Ooh!" Haarlep clapped again. "My fingers have been positively itching to touch those curls. Prepare yourself, sweetums! I give a mean hair job."

 

.

 

RAPHAEL.

 

The more he drummed his claws on the wood of his desk, the deeper the divots became. He couldn't stop. Alarm bells were still going off, mercilessly plucking at every metaphorical nerve. The "invitation" sitting before Raphael failed to burst into flame no matter how hard he glared.

Mephistopheles wanted an introduction to the Vampire Ascendant. Being the architect of the Rite of Profane Ascension and recipient of the seven thousand soul price, it was an innocuous enough request. It also stank of something more. The intentions of his father were never so simple. An introduction would merely be the start of whatever plan the Archdevil was cooking. Or had been cooking since the Rite's conception… Whatever it was, Raphael had no intention of letting Astarion be a pawn of Mephistopheles. He was so close to the Crown! It would not be ripped from his grasp a third time!

The devil took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Anger alone would accomplish nothing. With a snap, a full ink well and a stack of parchment appeared on the side table nestled between two chairs. He could afford to be generous in his requests, and the vampire would have no reason to decline a contract.

Three stiff knocks interrupted swirling thoughts of what was needed to prepare himself and Astarion. Facing the Lord of the Eighth would take all of his attention; his First Warlock was lucky he expected her.

"Enter."

Korilla appeared, looking far more put together than before. Somehow, the dwarf returning bloody and worn out from a jaunt with the vampire made perfect sense. The tale would have to wait, and his mood darkened a bit more.

"Yes?" he said and proceeded to prepare quills with short, careful flicks of a penknife.

"You need anything, boss?"

"I imagine you mean something tangible. I will spare you impossible requests such as 'Mephistopheles ceasing to exist,' 'unlimited power,' or 'stopping the source of Avernus' fireball storms.'"

Korilla's sigh was wistful. "Ah, if only. I'll leave this here, then. Maybe it will cheer you up."

Raphael's brow furrowed. "Leave what?"

"The leech had me haul this back," she said, manipulating her hands and fingers into shapes for a pocket portal. "Did you know he keeps treasure caches all over the Sword Coast?"

Raphael rubbed his chin, reflecting on their meeting at Lord Walestone's castle. "So that's what he's been doing…"

But why?

There was a red flash, and suddenly, a full-length silver mirror was in his office. The frame had the slightest glow typical of elven whimsy. Other than the pleasing aesthetic and a hint of enchantment, it was just a mirror. What a waste of resources.

"How insistent was he when requesting your services?"

Korilla shrugged, winced, and rubbed her shoulder. "The usual. Want me to fetch him?"

"Oh, no," Raphael said, continuing to prune his quills. "The longer he makes me wait, the more time I have to tally grievances against him."

The warlock chuckled and knocked a knuckle against the mirror's intricate frame. She left her master to his business, pulling the heavy oak door closed behind her. The quiet rushing sound of woodless flames in the small hearth, plus the snick snick snick from his penknife, left plenty of silence to fill with his thoughts. Every repeated motion reflected in the mirror across the office caught his attention every time he forgot it was there. Raphael stopped and stared at his reflection. His horns were looking dull. Haarlep would need to oil and polish them before the trip to Cania. The less Mephistopheles had to criticize, the better.

Raphael rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, digging in until orange starbursts lit the darkness. Fucking Hells, he hated visiting his father. 

Throwing an unpredictable element like Astarion into the mix would be a nightmare. Every single thing that could go wrong ran through Raphael's mind with increasing speed, ratcheting up the usual anxiety surrounding the subject of Mephistopheles to a new high.

Something touched his back. Raphael hissed and twisted around in his chair. The feeling persisted a moment longer despite no threats anywhere in the office. The devil huffed and stood, shaking the feeling away mentally and physically with a good wing stretch. He staunchly avoided his reflection.

 

. .

 

"Terribly sorry to keep you waiting, dear."

Astarion swanned into the office twenty minutes after Raphael finished his breathing exercises. The devil, comfortable in his seat by the hearth, narrowed his flaming eyes.

"You're wearing Haarlep's clothes. Why?"

Astarion shrugged a shoulder, unconcerned by the question, and smoothed his hands down the fluttery fabric tucked into black leather trousers. The motion made the color shift from red to white and back again.

"He offered, and I didn't feel like walking naked to my room." The vain vampire grinned wide when he noticed the mirror and immediately began admiring himself. "The trousers are a bit big, but this blouse suits me quite well. I have to admit, Haarlep has impeccable taste for a slave."

"A perfect reflection of his Master," Raphael said. "Sit. You've puttered about long enough."

Astarion's lower lip jutted out the slightest bit as if he were pouting and trying to hide it. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the silver frame.

"You don't even care about my gift, do you?"

"Astarion."

Both vampires scowled and then turned away from one another. Astarion dropped into the chair across from Raphael, still scowling.

"Go on then." He waved a long-fingered hand through the air. "Tell me what this contract nonsense is all about."

To hear a contract referred to as 'nonsense' picked at Raphael's already stretched-thin nerves. These negotiations did not need to be complicated. Yet he had the distinct feeling - some would call it impending doom - they would be far more painful than he initially thought.

Pick your battles, Raphael.

He inhaled, then exhaled through the nose. With one flick of the claws on his right hand, the invitation was suddenly between them. Raphael passed it to Astarion, watching his red eyes soak in the words.

"As you can see, Mephistopheles requires our presence before him in three days' time."

The term 'require' and its forms did not appear on the parchment. Only a fool would assume any invitation the Lord of Hellfire sent was not mandatory.

Astarion's scowl quickly descended into dismay. "This says we are to stay for dinner. This is a dinner invitation ."

That was not the sticking point Raphael had predicted, though he supposed his familial "privilege" contributed to bias. Family dinners were psychological torture at the best of times.

"Yes. Some would consider it an honor."

He realized he had never seen Astarion eat before. Feeding on blood, yes, but not food.

"You are able to consume solid food now, yes? I suppose dinner must be one of the Archdevil's tedious tests."

"Yes, I can, but…" Astarion's eyes avoided Raphael; his fingernail flicked over the edge of the invitation over and over. "I don't eat in front of people."

What an interesting little tidbit. Astarion was anything but shy when feeding on people. How many times had he watched the vampire glut himself on blood? What could possibly bring on such a switch?

"On matters pertaining to Mephistopheles, I am afraid there is little choice besides compliance."

Astarion shot him a sharp look. "You sound like you have too much experience in that area."

His answering smile was tight. "Correct. But I am far more interested in why you refuse to eat solids amongst company."

"I thought we were on a tight schedule?"

"We are," Raphael acknowledged with a dip of his chin. "We have much to discuss and, likely, argue the finer points of. But this may be relevant. I won't know until you say the reason. So, if you would kindly oblige an impatient devil?"

"Oh, really don't want to when you phrase it like that." Astarion sighed and fixed his gaze on the ceiling high above. "You're beginning to figure out how to manage me. How unfair!"

He was lovely in his discomfort. The fine lines around his eyes deepened with thought. Astarion's mouth, too often afflicted with smugness or twisted into shapes that meant trouble for someone, was unusually lax and showed off the pleasant fullness. The ends of his hair were still damp, making the curls cling to his twitching eartips. If there had been less space between them (and more time for games), Raphael would have caught those curls with his claws and pushed them behind that long expanse of pointy cartilage just to see if it would fluster the vampire further.

"…But I am growing tired. Fine." Astarion smoothed down the front of his blouse. "I thought that being able to taste and eat food properly after two hundred odd years of nothing but ash on the tongue and forced vomiting would be wonderful. Sometimes it is. But mostly it's…"

Raphael watched him huff and search for the right word in silence. He itched to provide suggestions but feared Astarion's limit for interference on this topic would be short. They'd be here all night and day if that limit was reached.

"Overwhelming," the vampire finally said. He was looking at the floor now. Or scowling at Raphael's favorite rug.

"If only floors held the answers to the problems of all the planes," the devil said with a not unkind chuckle. "Alas, they do not, and I am not a mind reader. Could you elaborate? Overwhelming in what context?"

"It's like being in a ballroom filled to the edges with chattering people where the music is either the finest you've ever heard or the worst, but either way, it's too loud and too fast to find the rhythm." Astarion sighed. Long pale fingers twisted around themselves in his lap. "Even the simplest dishes have too many flavors; my mind knows the names but can't place them, and it drives me mad. The textures can feel strange and uncomfortable, and it's worse when it's something I wasn't expecting. And the smells! They have a tendency to lie. A dish can smell like a sweaty ballsack but taste fine. Delicious, even. The opposite is also true and will make me immediately spit the thing out."

"Ah, yes. I see how that could be a problem in polite company."

Raphael so, so badly wanted to see Astarion unintentionally be the worst dinner guest ever, but at a table that was not his father's. Still, picturing Astarion spitting a wet piece of abyssal chicken foot straight at the Archdevil's face made his stomach clench with how much he wanted to laugh.

"To say the least. Re-learning how to chew took forever, you know. It's exhausting trying to figure out when one has chewed food enough to be safely swallowed. Stop smiling!"

"Ah. Ahem." Raphael resituated himself in his seat. "My apologies. You are right, of course. These…proclivities will likely hinder more than help our cause. If you would like, I can acquire the planned menu and prepare it for you here to practice, as it were."

Red flicked to him and finally stayed, though caution dug into his lines. "You could do that?"

"Easily. I could guess more than half the dishes now; Mephistopheles' tastes staled a millennium ago," he said. "But I would confirm every dish, to be sure."

Astarion nodded, satisfied with this answer. "I appreciate the effort."

"Excellent. That is one wrinkle ironed out. Shall we continue?"

"Ah, yes. The contract." The vampire slumped into the cushions, one elbow propped on the chair arm and a sharp cheekbone resting against his fist. "If we must. Lay it out, then, devil. What do you propose? And what the hells for? I really don't see the point."

"One does not simply have supper with Mephistopheles." Raphael picked a quill and a leaf of parchment that already had the bones of the contract he had in mind. "He does nothing without a purpose. He is unpredictable in his moods, and his rage is unparalleled in magnitude. To extend an invitation to dine reveals his curiosity in you and in your connection to me by extension. The Lord of the Eighth only leaves his laboratory and experiments when he deems something worthy of his attention. That attention, my dear vampling, can be deadly at best and painful at worst."

"I'm not sure I like the order in which you've listed death and pain."

Raphael chuckled, deep and dark and full of bitterness. "The implication - the warning - stands. Make no mistake, Astarion, I say this forthright: Cazador Szarr could never imagine the horrors Mephistopheles has wrought throughout the hundreds of millennia he has existed. My father is not a devil to be -"

"Your -" He choked on the words and coughed until little tears appeared at the corners of his eyes. "Your father?! Mephistopheles is your bloody father?!"

The cambion leveled a 'do keep up' look at him. "I am a cambion with at the rank of Duke. Granted, I have and have had thousands of siblings, but, as I am often reminded, a mere cambion could never rise so high on their own in the amount of time I have lived."

"Huh." Astarion tilted his head and examined Raphael as if he were looking at something in a new - and distinctly irritating, in Raphael's opinion - way. "Why am I not surprised that you carry an inferiority complex? And daddy issues to boot. Goodness!"

Raphael's tail lashed at the floor with a great thwack . He would not rise to the bait. He would not!

"Are you finished poking fun?" he said through grit teeth. "A serious attitude would be much appreciated in these proceedings."

"You're worried your father will smash me to bits before you get what you want," Astarion said. The minute amount of seriousness in the words didn't fit how truthful they were. Part of the story was still missing. Raphael couldn't figure out if he was being willfully ignorant.

"Worse. You recall 'pain' coming after 'death,' yes? You are the first vampire to complete the Rite of Profane Ascension, the rite conceived, written, and contracted by Mephistopheles himself. You are the very first of your kind, the Vampire Ascendant. Untested. Unproven. There is every chance he will take you on as his newest experiment. I will not be the one to hand deliver his new toy."

"Ha!" Astarion's face was impossibly pale, and his throat bobbed with multiple gulps, but the stubbornness remained. "You want a contract with me to avoid being his dog. Definitely not to lock in our deal and secure the Crown for whatever ridiculous plans you have for it."

"Both can be true at the same time." Raphael leaned forward. "A contract is the only thing that can keep you out of his grasp. And only I, the blood of his blood, can make it airtight against him."

"How convenient." He swallowed again and stared with disdain at the unfinished contract. His skin began to shine with sweat. "And when the contract is complete? I'll still be what I am, and Mephistopheles will undoubtedly be sniffing after me."

Raphael was honestly surprised the vampire would think that far ahead.

"In the worst-case scenario, we agree to a new contract. What those terms would be…I doubt we will find out." He smirked. "My ridiculous plans will be in play."

The discomfort was at a high point, second only to the tantalizing, peppery scent of anxiety. Yet Astarion's face showed no hint of either. Perhaps now he was realizing the scale of what was at stake: freedom and power. If Raphael knew anything about the stubborn bastard sitting across from him, it was that they shared the desire for freedom and the knowledge that power was the only thing that could grant it.

Astarion's fingernails scratched lightly over the chair arm, over and over again. A quick intake of breath through the nose and then that death-white hand reached out, palm up.

"All right then," he said. "Give that here. Let's have a look."

 

. . .

 

Raphael took solace in the fact that only three quills had snapped in his hand. And not a single ink smear or unsightly drip marks from the many - hells, too many - times Astarion had left him too stunned or perplexed to speak. Negotiating with the elf was a torturous exercise in patience, but he could taste the end nearing. Then he could leave his office where the walls and ceiling felt like they were inching in minute by minute, suffocating despite the cavernous dome above their heads and the length of floor that took fifty long strides to cross.

"Once more, I must remind you of Clause Three A," the devil snapped. Parchment leaves shushed as he shuffled them. His shoe heels clicked primly against the stone. He had resorted to pacing. "By your request: Promisor will record and present all research of Promisee's mark to the Promisee no more than one month after the previous presentation of research. Should an extension be needed, the Promisor must submit the request to the Promisee a tenday before the next due date. Failure to comply may result in Promisee enacting one penalty against Promisor from List B or two penalties from List A should the request for an extension be denied and Promisor declines to adhere to the original due date."

They had already spent three hours arguing about time limits, penalties, and realistic expectations. Raphael was scraping at the bottom of an empty well, trying to soldier through a drought of mercy. Any longer, he might start praying to the gods.

"That was around bottle three." Astarion held up and shook a half-empty bottle of bloodwine from his position on the hearth rug. "This is number six. Sober Astarion would appreciate Tipsy Astarion's decision to turn a month into two tendays. He was being far too gentle with you. And! I won't be signing anything under these condishns."

Raphael bared his teeth even though the vampire couldn't see from his vantage point. "Naturally. I would not give you the comfort of even a whiff of legal argument to wiggle your way out of this, no matter how weak said argument would be."

Astarion giggled. "I do appreciate your honesty, devil."

Raphael scoffed and continued to pace. "One month" was crossed out and "two tendays" written above it.

"Sit down," the vampire grumbled, struggling to pull himself into a sitting position. "All that pacing is making my head hurt."

"No, I don't think I will."

Astarion sighed, loud and from the bottom of his lungs outward. His head, despite the complaint of aching, thunked against the fireplace. Unfocused eyes followed the devil's movement.

"You've been entirely too accommodating."

Raphael did not like the way the vampire's mouth turned up. Such a smirk from the devious Astarion Ancunin had not boded well before. Further sauced with inhibition from the bloodwine… Raphael braced himself for idiocy or another entirely too cunning clause.

"Yes…far too accommodating for how much I've pushed and poked you." Astarion gripped the fireplace mantle one-handed and hoisted himself up. He tossed misplaced white curls out of his eyes and smirked wider when he caught the devil staring. There was the tiniest crinkle to the bridge of his nose, just before the tip.

"Raphael. Darling Duke."

The exaggerated purr made his gut roil. How many more hours would they strike, parry, and dance away only to be dragged back in?

" Tell me how you intend to fuck me. "

Raphael was confident that he was the strongest cambion on any of the nine planes of Hell, nepotism aside. So-called "petty" deals and machinations Raphael of the House of Hope orchestrated and "debased" himself with, according to the devilish denizens put off by his half-human status, had his coffers swollen with souls. Thousands of years of study bolstered his natural abilities. The number of entities that could command, charm, or enchant Raphael was less than a dozen.

One drunken vampire achieved it like Raphael was nothing.

The compulsion whispered past his defenses like a breeze caressing the skin on a warm summer's day. It waved hello, smiled, and made a rude gesture before burrowing into the folds of his brain.

"A puny body like that," he said, flicking two fingers in Astarion's direction with derision. "Could never, and has never, survived me."

The words fell out of Raphael like they had grown legs and jumped. While Astarion laughed at them, icy shock doused the hellfire that kept his heart beating. The internal alarm bells had rung too late.

"Aw, I'm hurt." 

Astarion's faux pout was a welcome sight. It was a joke. Ha ha! Yes. All a joke. If the vampire was smarter or merely less inebriated, that question could have led to disastrous results.

But Raphael's pride could not let this go. "Did you just try to compel me?"

Astarion rolled his eyes and waved him off. "Well, it hardly worked, did it? Don't be so twitchy. It was just a bit of fun."

The corner of that damnable mouth went up again, not quite a smirk, but all the essence of one. He shuffled around, testing wine bottles for dregs.

"Twitchy? A bit of fun?!" Raphael blew out a slow breath. The accompanying chuckle held more growl than he could hold back. "You go too far, Astarion."

"Hit a nerve, did I? Aha!" The vampire found the bottle he had been nursing previously and glanced at Raphael, brow raised. "Or maybe you're not such a big bad devil after all."

The flippancy! The bald-faced audacity!

Astarion ignored Raphael's snarl and leaned back against the fireplace again, bottle raised to his lips. Firelight glimmered in his eyes.

"I barely felt any resistance at all," he whispered, quirked mouth now wet and sharing that glimmer.

The whole of Astarion looked like he would be more at home in a rumpled bed than at the negotiating table of a prominent devil. The careful, fearful elf from Walestone's castle was gone. This foolish creature standing before him was hammering boundaries and finding weak points.

"I think, maybe…" Astarion licked the drops of bloodwine from his lips and pinned the devil with glowing eyes that had nothing to do with firelight. "Maybe I can. Answer: Does my little trick work on you, Raphael? "

This time, the compulsion was a cool cloth on a fevered brow at first, but it grew to an unsubtle kick the longer Raphael gritted his teeth and resisted.

"Not the way you wish it to," he answered as any devil would: the truth wrapped in fog.

That gaze lost the haze of intoxication and zeroed in on Raphael with unparalleled focus as if the devil had opened a vein and let the blood run.

" Ooh ."

Blood would run.

One attempt was foolish ignorance. Twice? No. Unthinkable. The inherent challenge - nay, the insult - to Raphael's infernal nature and rank was a death wish. The fiend inside Raphael demanded that the price be paid to his satisfaction.

Astarion tried to dodge the cambion's hand, but Raphael's speed belied his large, muscled form. The wine bottle shattered, dousing them both. He pressed forward, forcing the vampire's back to bow over the stone mantle behind him. The bones in Astarion's wrist creaked and ground against one another under Raphael's punishing grasp.

He ignored the open-mouthed snarl of his prey. The dim shine off those dainty fangs and wine-pink saliva was nothing more than a weak warning, a farce. What could this creature possibly hope to do whilst under Raphael's power?

"You impotent, belly-crawling parasite," Raphael hissed, nose pressed tight to the temporal bone. "You are an insect. You are nothing. When I am done with you - augh! "

The jagged end of the broken bottle was jammed into the devil's shoulder and twisted. The wound burned with pain, but not enough to force Raphael away. He slammed Astarion into the mantle by the shoulders, only managing it once. Astarion drove the cambion off, two steps, then three. The cambion's wings beat against the still air of the office; the too-smooth soles of his shoes squeaked whilst struggling to find a better purchase.

"You were saying?" Astarion's words, filled with fury, were spat in Raphael's face as he forced him back another step. "Cat got your tongue now? Always the same story with you lot, going on and on about your superiority while stepping on my neck! The shock on your faces is always delicious."

Rage, fueled by indignity, burned in Raphael's chest. The large claws on his wings came around and pierced the vampire through the shoulder muscles. He laughed with dark pleasure as the fury-soaked howls of pain bounced off the stone walls. Raphael wrenched the lithesome form into the air and flicked it away. The mirror caught Astarion full on, the collision shattering the looking glass. Reflective dust and tiny fragments glittered everywhere.

"Get up."

Astarion hocked and lobbed a glob of dark spittle at him. In the next blink, he dissipated into mist.

"Running, are you?" Raphael bellowed. "Coward!"

The gentle sound of tiny glass pieces was barely audible over the rush of inflamed blood in his ears. He brought a boot down on the pile dislodged from Astarion's body, thinking the vampire was the culprit. But no, the pieces tugged themselves free and jumped at the mirror's empty frame. Trails of glass and dust danced towards it, lept, and clung to the backing until every last shard returned. The surface rippled and hummed, leaving behind a perfectly smooth surface and a bloody devil looking back. Two red embers and a fanged maw appeared over his wounded shoulder.

Raphael called hellfire to his hands, turned, and willed the semi-corporeal form to reconstitute between them. He cut off Astarion's frustrated yelp by squeezing his throat. Mustering his strength, the cambion shoved that infuriatingly perfect face into the mirror. Once was enough to leave a spiderweb of cracks and loose pieces embedded in delicate skin. He continued battering the glass until one side of Astarion's face was shredded meat, and the sweet sound of returning pieces began. He held the vampire aloft and watched the glass tear itself free.

Raphael's laugh was nasty. "A lovely gift. A most welcome addition to my treasures. Thank you so much, Astarion."

Droplets of blood were flung from the torn side of Astarion's mouth as he hissed. Vampiric claws extended and raked the forearm holding him up but were only sharp enough to make shallow furrows that would heal in minutes. Raphael laughed again and tightened his grip. They were both sent upwards with a few hard downbeats of his wings. Up and up until his horns scraped the ceiling.

"Let us see how well a vampire can land on his feet, hmm?"

They hovered a moment, Raphael enjoying the wide-eyed look on Astarion's face as they bobbed in the air. He let go. Astarion, to his great surprise, did not fall.

Lean legs used momentum to their advantage and swung over the cambion's arm, shoulder, and neck. Blood-wet claws dug into Raphael's hair and scalp. Pain ripped through the membrane of his left wing. They fell ten feet before Raphael could stabilize.

"Let's see how well cambions can fly with broken wings, HMM?"

The leg around his neck tightened, and the claws released. Raphael whirled and flapped and pulled at the parts he could reach, but it wasn't enough to keep the manic vampire from grabbing a wing between the elbow and wrist joints. A sickening CRACK echoed off the stone this time, and their entangled bodies dropped.

Astarion rolled. Raphael's back took the brunt force of their brutal landing on top of his desk. Wood exploded, shrapnel smashed the mirror again, and furniture toppled into the walls.

Raphael's chin was kicked out of the way. Fangs pushed into his neck, followed quickly by their more blunt siblings. There was no breath in him for the ice overtaking the fire in his veins to steal. His heart cramped with every vicious pull at the wound. The feral animal at Raphael's throat was a greedy thing.

Raphael's right arm flopped when he tried to move. More pain in his shoulder, dislocated, useless. His left pushed and pulled at Astarion, but the leech pinned him down with knees, legs, and arms. The hand keeping his face away slipped on blood and reclaimed its grasp with one claw burrowing into the devil's eye. Jelly was pushed out of the way. The claw scratched the back of his orbital bone and tickled brain matter. Raphael's body jolted out of his control.

All he needed was to free one arm. If he failed, he might just bleed out and wake up in Cania. Raphael pitted his strength against Astarion's. The hand that had so easily strangled the vampire minutes ago was now encased in a white steel grip. Bones he thought fragile were now a devil-proof shackle…but the vampire attached yielded an inch. Raphael heaved and pushed. Red and white, their muscles shook against one another.

Raphael howled and fought. His hand grasped a fistful of hair and yanked . Astarion's teeth clamped down, slicing through muscle and sinew. Meat tore away, string by string, and Raphael kept pulling until he could see Astarion's bright eyes again. He couldn't tell if the flap of flesh hanging from those ruined lips was his or Astarion's. The vampire let go of Raphael's wrist and plunged his claws into the ragged hole left behind. More agony, enough to white out his vision.

The struggle between vampire and devil continued on. Quarter was taken and lost. Bodies were thrown, trampled, torn open. Blood coated the floor; older sticky patches and fresh, viscous puddles overlapped. The mirror repaired itself. The fire in the hearth burned on.

Summoning the strongest hellfire hadn't singed a single white curl (and wasn't that another infuriating mystery). Poison was useless. Of course, none of the necrotic spells at Raphael's desperate disposal had any effect. Mind control and attempts to charm slipped off like water. Astarion shook off, countered, or simply dodged Raphael's magical attacks. Not without cost, thankfully.

Snarls and monstrous howls became less frequent until harsh breathing replaced them entirely. Somewhere across the destroyed room, Astarion coughed wetly. Raphael rolled onto his good hip and spent several minutes hoisting himself into a manageable sitting position. Where his clothes weren't soaked in body fluids, they were hanging in tatters. He pulled out three punch daggers from his thigh and abdomen, respectively.

Astarion stared at him from his slumped position against the wall. A faint sneer pulled the less-mangled side of his mouth. A spasm of pain erased it fully.

Raphael felt like he'd been stomped by a whole company of pit fiends. They were both broken and exhausted, prone on the floor amongst the ruined furniture. Even the fireplace had a few blast marks.

The mirror remained unchanged.

A bone-deep weariness pushed a sigh out of Raphael's (dodgy) lungs.

"Seems we are at an impasse."

The admission hurt as much as the dozen chunks of flesh missing from his body.

Astarion's throat bobbed as he swallowed. " A r e w e? "

The compulsion felt weaker. Raphael's temper flickered, but nothing was left to build the fire.

"Yes," he bit out, against his will. "Do not push this further."

Astarion smiled and let his head thunk against the wall. His voice was raspy and quiet. "Just making sure."

Raphael tore his eye away as Astarion's closed. The reflection of their destruction in the mirror's unblemished surface caught his attention. It really was a testament to craftsmanship. Blood needed to be scrubbed out of the frame's raised pattern. Korilla was going to be huffy about that.

"I do like the mirror," he said.

Astarion's snort devolved into worn-out giggles. The sound was infectious. It reached out to Raphael and coaxed the same out of him until the room was filled with exhausted laughter.

 

Notes:

These fucking idiots, I swear. Who did you root for?

ALSO. I have a Tumblr now!! Come follow me @howunecessary and witness all my reblogged fan art, fic recs, goofballery, and me waffling about a possible Mermay project. There will also be ADTM excerpts shared between chapter posts!