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Chapter Text

“So why exactly are we meeting a diabolist in her creepy antique shop in the middle of the night?”

Astarion’s question was met with a giggle and an elbow in his ribs as he and Shadowheart crossed the grounds of The Devil’s Fee, arm in arm, towards where Karlach, Wyll and Gale stood at the top of the steps, by the door. 

Wyll jogged down the steps as they approached, pulling Astarion into a one-armed hug, whilst pecking Shadowheart on the cheek. 

“It’s so good to see you both, are you keeping well?” Wyll’s smile was warm, but he looked exhausted. Less than a day had passed since he and Karlach returned from Avernus, their clothes still carrying the faint scent of sulphur. Wasting no time, they had quickly summoned their old travelling companions with a cryptic message, requesting they meet outside this particular shop in the Lower City.

Karlach looked uncharacteristically anxious as she descended the steps, jaw tight and set with a worried smile. “Thanks for coming guys,” she said, pulling Shadowheart into a tight embrace. “It means the world.” 

Astarion leaned over to plant a light kiss on her cheek, and enjoyed the warmth that spread across his jaw. He’d missed his fiery friend in the month that had passed since they saved the city from the Absolute.

The dust of battle was long settled, but for Karlach and Wyll, peace was fleeting. They had been forced to journey to Avernus to save Karlach from the imminent threat of her engine overheating. Astarion, Shadowheart and Gale had remained in Baldur’s Gate, revelling in the spoils of their newfound fame and basking in the attention and adoration that came with being hailed as heroes.

“But why here? Why now? Are we robbing the joint?!" Astarion added in a hushed tone, his curiosity and excitement heightening. 

Wyll and Karlach exchanged a glance, before beckoning the two arrivals up the stairs, to join Gale by the front door. Gale rolled his eyes at Astarion’s eagerness for theft, the smirk that tugged at his lips betraying his amusement.

“We know we’ve dragged you here on short notice, but trust me, you’re going to like this one.” Wyll spoke quickly. He was nervous about something. “It’s a delivery job. High-value cargo, high reward.”

“This matters,” Karlach added. “More than I can explain. I just… I need you guys with me on this one.” 

Shadowheart slipped her hand into Karlach’s and squeezed. “Of course, K, whatever you need. We’re here.” 

“There’s more to it. This job, well, it’s possibly dangerous. You remember Helsik?” Wyll continued.

Astarion would never forget Helsik, the warlock who owned The Devil’s Fee. She had provided the ritual components and the space in her establishment to open a portal into the Hells. Right into the devil Raphael’s House of Hope. In exchange for her assistance, they’d promised her some magical gauntlets from Raphael’s private archives — and delivered them, after a risky heist that involved breaking and entering, stealing priceless treasures, freeing Raphael’s favourite prisoner, and ultimately slaying the cambion in his foyer when they were caught red-handed. Gale had even had an... unsettling encounter with Raphael’s personal incubus — a scholarly pursuit, he’d said — though they all agreed never to speak of it again.

“Helsik’s messenger imp found us in Avernus.” Wyll explained. “She has a valuable infernal package that needs transporting to Amn, discreetly. And it’s not just about the gold,” he added with a smile directed at Karlach, “though there’s plenty of that. We see it through, and doors open for all of us.” 

What doors could possibly open for a vampire spawn? Once the mind flayer tadpoles were removed from their skulls, Astarion had been shackled by his curse once more. At the grand celebrations held in honour of the city’s saviours, he had played his part flawlessly, charming nobles, raising toasts, and dancing under chandeliers. But beneath the facade, the hunger never ceased. His need for blood was a constant, gnawing thing.

Gale was frowning slightly, bemused. “And you two trust this woman? The hells-obsessed diabolist whose patron is an archdevil? It’s very… unlike you, Karlach.”

Karlach nodded in understanding. “I know, mate. I wish I could explain more. I don’t have all the details myself just yet. Let’s just hear her out first, then we can decide, okay?”

Gale pursed his lips into a thin smile, nodding. 

“Alright then, let’s do this,” Shadowheart said decisively, rapping on the door with her knuckles. 

________

Helsik didn’t open the door immediately. For several minutes, the five stood on the doorstep looking at each other nervously. 

Astarion was about to ask if Wyll and Karlach knew exactly just how much gold they’d be making from this job, when the door opened and the dwarf ushered them inside.

The Devil’s Fee was just as Astarion remembered, vast and shadowed. Shelves and cabinets lined the walls, filled with infernal curiosities: ancient tomes, glittering gems, and mysterious trinkets that seemed to hum with dark energy. 

It was late, the store had been closed for hours, and the only light came from flickering candles, their shadows shifting eerily across the room. The faint, lingering scent of sulphur hung in the air; a subtle reminder that Helsik frequently visited the Hells.

“Quickly, quickly, this way, please,” Helsik urged, ushering them across the store, towards the grand staircase. “I'm glad you came. Time is of the utmost importance.”

Astarion’s gaze lingered on a particularly beautiful black gem in a display case, his fingers itching to steal, but after a pause, he followed the others up the stairs after the dwarf.

At the landing, Helsik disarmed the glyph of warding before gesturing them through into her living quarters.

The room was just as they had left it over a month ago. The blood circle that had formed the portal still sprawled across the floor, dark and dried. Astarion wouldn’t have been surprised if some of their own blood was mixed into it, given the state they had left the House of Hope in after Raphael’s defeat. It had been a brutal fight. They had all suffered their share of cuts and burns, but Gale had taken the worst of it, crushed beneath a collapsing soul pillar, his injuries very nearly fatal. Karlach had carried him out, whilst Astarion had made sure none of their ill-gotten loot was left behind. 

Walking over to what Astarion knew to be her bedroom door (thanks to his snooping prior to opening the portal), Helsik disarmed another glyph of warding, one that hadn’t been there last time. Clearly, she had increased security since acquiring her valuable infernal prize.

“Following your attack on Raphael, and the subsequent ransacking of his home, I was curious. I thought there might be some precious artefacts and curios that you had left. I would never have gone had you not gloated about how you slayed Raphael. I figured the coast was clear. And what I found… what a prize indeed…”

She seemed lost in thought, speaking almost to herself, as she swung open the bedroom door. 

Tied to a chair in the middle of the room, was a large cambion. Arms and wings bound tightly, ankles strapped to the chair legs. Head bowed, and completely naked.

Astarion had seen a few cambions in his time, all of whom had those devilish protrusions jutting out from their foreheads, but he knew only one with such an impressive crown of horns. His stomach dropped. 

Helsik strode over to her prisoner, pulling on a horn and tilting the creature’s head back to give her audience a view of his face.

Raphael.

Astarion heard surprised gasps from the others, some mumbles and uncomfortable shifting. He turned to see Karlach and Wyll frowning deeply, Shadowheart’s eyes widening, Gale’s face flushing bright red.

How in the Hells was he alive?

The last time Astarion had seen Raphael, he had been lying in the foyer of his House of Hope, broken and bleeding profusely. Eyes glassy. Pulse non-existent. 

Realising who was standing in front of him, the cambion snarled and began struggling fiercely against his restraints. His nose wrinkling in disgust. 

Still firmly holding a horn, Helsik conjured a syringe into her free hand, pulling Raphael’s head back further. His eyes softened momentarily as he looked up at her, hopeful and pleading. What in the Nine Hells was that about? Without comment, she stuck the needle into his neck and injected the contents of the syringe. Raphael’s eyes rolled back, leaving black sclera visible beneath fluttering eyelashes. His breaths came in quick, quiet huffs as his entire body stiffened. Muscles seizing, bound wings quivering, and tail tightly squeezing the chair leg. Then he fell still, head dropping forward as Helsik released his horn. 

Astarion met Shadowheart’s gaze sidelong. She shot him a puzzled look, unsettled by the scene in front of them.   

Gale cleared his throat awkwardly, still slightly flushed. “Ahem, er, assuming this is the precious cargo you mentioned… Why exactly do you need us to transport an incubus? What do you plan on doing with them?” 

Incubus?

No, wait…

Astarion peered at the figure in the chair. Muscles stilled, head hanging and eyes barely open, staring at the floor. Haarlep, Raphael’s personal incubus had been glamoured to look like their master, for some narcissistic reason, but they were not a perfect copy. Haarlep’s version of Raphael was younger-looking, Astarion recalled, with fuller cheeks and a straighter nose. 

No, this was definitely Raphael. 

Helsik, confused, looked at Gale. Then back at Raphael. Then she tipped her head back and laughed. It was a harsh, crow-like sound. “My dear, this is not Raphael’s incubus. This is the devil himself.”

Shadowheart’s sharp gasp, Wyll’s sudden tensing, and Karlach’s hand instinctively going to her weapon told Astarion that Gale was not alone in thinking that Haarlep was the one tied before them in the chair. 

“That’s impossible! He was fucking dead. We killed him,” Karlach exclaimed, immediately pacing the room in furious disbelief. Gale seemed stunned into silence.

Wyll stepped towards the bound cambion, crouching in front of the chair and peering up at Raphael closely. Raphael did not move his head, but his eyes flicked up to meet Wyll’s good eye briefly, before returning to the floorboards.

“Well obviously you didn’t, or he wouldn’t be here, would he?” Helsik drawled, unhelpfully. She stood with a hand on her hip, a self-satisfied smirk curling her lips.

Wyll’s jaw tightened as he stood up and turned back towards the diabolist. He folded his arms, studying her carefully. “Alright, Helsik, why don’t you tell us how this is possible?”

“Like I said, when you returned from your little foray into the House of Hope, I went through the portal to… take a look for myself. Raphael’s archives are famed throughout the Hells for their vast wealth and priceless treasures. To leave all that gold, those artefacts and relics just lying there… well I do so hate to see a good treasure trove go unappreciated.”

Astarion nodded to himself. He couldn’t blame her for that. Where there was loot to be claimed, it was a shame to leave it ownerless.

“I saw the bloodshed. All that destruction you left in your wake — luxury furnishings and ornaments destroyed — ugh, such a waste!

“And then. Then I saw him. ” Helsik gestured to Raphael. “Cradled in the arms of his incubus, limp and unmoving. Haarlep was just sitting on the floor, holding him. We’ve been… acquainted in the past… Haarlep and I…”

Glancing covertly across at Gale, Astarion hid his smirk at the pink blooming across the wizard’s cheeks once more. Shadowheart’s look was less subtle, causing Gale to blush even more fiercely.

“Taking him was Haarlep’s suggestion, actually. Together, we brought him back here, and I’ve been nursing him back to, ah, almost-full health ever since.”

“What’re you dosing him with?”  Shadowheart addressed Helsik directly for the first time since arriving, gesturing to the empty syringe on the side.

“Incubus spittle,” she stated proudly. “With a dash of crawler mucus, mixed with some basic poison.”

“So he’s charmed?” Shadowheart pressed.

“The spittle was a gift from Haarlep,” Helsik nodded in confirmation. “The rest is… insurance. Cambions are resistant to the effects of poisons, of course, but not immune. A little every day keeps him weak.“

“And crawler mucus to paralyse him?”

“Just a little bit,” Helsik pouted. “Because if the charm wears off… well, he’s ever so big and strong…” Her eyes took in Raphael’s form appreciatively as she brushed a hand through his hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear. 

Suddenly Astarion felt uncomfortable. He wasn’t one to shy away from a little cruelty, especially at the expense of a devil of all creatures. But something about the way her eyes raked over Raphael’s exposed flesh… It hit a little close to home. He knew what it was to be leered at like that.

“Is he too big for clothes, then?” Astarion couldn’t keep the hostility out of his voice. 

“I needed access to his skin,” the dwarf snapped angrily, glaring up at him. “Surely you remember the state you left him in. It’s taken me a month to heal all his wounds. To mend all his bones.”

Astarion did remember the state they left him in. Supposedly dead. 

But apparently not.

Astarion winced at the memory of Wyll freezing Raphael with a hold monster spell, whilst Karlach hacked at his wings with her battle axe, and Astarion’s own specialised arrows pierced his thick cambion skin with devastating accuracy. 

“And Haarlep?” Wyll queried. “Where are they now? Do you trust them?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” Helsik scoffed. “You can never trust a creature from the Hells. But I believe the incubus wanted revenge after centuries spent serving such a cruel master. Finishing him off would have been too easy. I imagine Haarlep wants to see him humiliated, degraded. Vengeful creature.” 

Astarion had no love for the incubus they’d encountered when exploring Raphael’s boudoir. The creature seemed restless, a caged thing craving attention. But he did understand the desire — no, the need — to punish one’s tormentor after centuries of abuse. 

“They left to feed. I imagine they’re running around Baldur’s Gate somewhere,” Helsik shrugged.

Karlach groaned, not at all thrilled to hear about the fiend likely terrorising the city in gods knew what form. “Is Haarlep going to be a problem for us?” 

“Why would they be? I have their full endorsement to do what I want with him. They even carried him through the portal for me. And provided me with these infernal chains.”

Helsik gestured to Raphael’s bindings, chains that Astarion recognised instantly. They were the same ones that had once shackled Hope, the dwarven cleric, in the House of Hope’s prison. After stealing the Orphic Hammer from the archives, the team had rushed to the cellar to free Raphael’s favourite captive. Hope had shed her chains in the hallway as they dashed back to the portal, elation lighting her face. But her freedom was cruelly short-lived; she had fallen in battle, struck down by her own sister. An enraged Karlach had delivered swift, merciless retribution for the woman who had suffered so much, only to taste freedom for mere moments before it was taken from her again.

“They also gave me this,” Helsik said, pulling open a drawer and extracting a grim-looking restraint. It was some sort of muzzle or gag, clearly crafted from the same infernal metal as the chains. Thin leather straps, designed to secure it tightly over one’s mouth, dangled from it. Astarion couldn’t help but think of the mask they had found on Prince Orpheus in the astral prism, rendering him both silent and unable to cast magic. Knowing that Raphael had a hand in the imprisonment and suffering of so many, made Astarion feel much better about the idea of using it on him.

Seemingly satisfied that the combination of chains, muzzle and poison would make transporting the cambion much less difficult and dangerous, Wyll and Karlach gave each other a small, decisive nod. 

“Okay, this sounds doable. So what’s in Amn?” asked Wyll, steering the conversation back to the details of the job.

Helsik looked over her prisoner briefly before ushering her guests out of the room. 

As they stepped out, Astarion stole one final glance at Raphael, whose head had lifted slightly as he watched them walk away. His eyes landed on Astarion, his gaze piercing and much more lucid than he had appeared only moments before. Astarion shuddered involuntarily, shaking off the intense stare from fiery irises as he stepped back into the diabolist’s larger living space.

Helsik locked the door to her bedroom-cum-prison-cell, then gestured towards her desk across the room. Charmed though he may be, she clearly didn’t want the cambion hearing the terms of the agreement. 

“I need him moved to Athkatla,” she said softly. “I have a contact there, a fellow portal crafter, who can open a gate to the third layer of Baator without drawing the attention of Mephistopheles’ spies, who are undoubtedly sniffing around Baldur’s Gate as we speak. They’ll soon know about the portal to Avernus opened from right here, if they don’t already. It won’t take long until they’re knocking on my door.”

“Why the third layer?” Karlach asked. “What’s in Minauros?”

Helsik looked momentarily offended, her hand coming up to her chest. “My patron resides there. The archdevil himself, Lord Mammon. Mammon and Mephistopheles have despised each other since the Reckoning. Taking something Mephisto desperately wants? Taking his son? That’s worth half the coins in Minauros to my Lord. And Mammon only values one thing: wealth. So Raphael is now worth more than his weight in gold. Get him to Athkatla and my contact will take him from there. Then you return to me here, and I’ll make sure your payment is waiting,” she finished, fixing Karlach with a knowing smile.

“Okay, but why us?” Shadowheart asked, still missing a key piece of the puzzle.

“Because I know you’re not spies. I know you have reason to ally with me against Mephistopheles and his spawn,” she gestured towards the locked door. “You’re not just going to let him go, or allow him to manipulate you into releasing him. Hells, you’ve already tried to kill him once.”

“And what if we just killed him again? To finish what we started.” Astarion asked nervously, feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the mission. After the chaos of the House of Hope and breaking Wyll’s contract with Mizora, they’d sworn off hellish entanglements, save for Karlach’s frequent trips to Avernus to cool the infernal engine in place of her heart.

“You most certainly will not do that. Because I have something you need.” Helsik continued looking pointedly at Karlach. 

Karlach, who had been pacing the long room as soon as they entered, sat down on the chair at the large desk. “You can fix my engine.”

“More than fix it, my dear, I can have it replaced with a brand new one.”

A gasp left Shadowheart. Gale, who had been poking at Helsik’s bookshelves, whirled around, clearing his throat in surprise. Wyll stalked over to Karlach and put a supportive hand on her shoulder. 

“And I’ll be able to stay.” Karlach uttered softly. “Right here on the material plane. Forever.”

Seeing the hope in Karlach’s eyes tugged at something in Astarion’s chest. She had always led the charge to fix everyone else’s problems. First into battle against Cazador, breaking the chains of Astarion’s enslavement; relentless in the fight against the Sharrans who stole Shadowheart’s memories and held her parents hostage; the last to leave the collapsing Iron Throne, ensuring Wyll’s father made it out alive. She had carried them all, time and again.

Perhaps this time, they could carry her.

“You’ll be able to stay wherever you want to, friend. There’s gold in it for you too — Mammon always pays his debts. He’ll make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. All of you.” Helsik’s words tumbled out in a fervent rush, dripping with devotion for her patron.

Astarion’s eyes widened. He had nothing. No wealth, no roof over his head, only the constant, gnawing hunger that sent him stalking the streets at night. But gold? Gold could buy comfort, security… perhaps even a future.

“Take a day to prepare yourselves. Meet back here, same time tomorrow. I’ll arrange a carriage and mules for you. Don’t be late.” 

And with that, they exited The Devil’s Fee into the cool night, all a little dazed from the revelations of their visit with Helsik. 

All it took was one look at Karlach’s small, cautious smile for Astarion to know they were making the right choice. Hesitant but laced with hope, it was the smile of someone daring to believe in a future they never thought possible. 

“I don’t know about you guys, but I could do with a drink,” chuckled Shadowheart. “Elfsong?”

Chapter Text

They left The Devil’s Fee in the dead of night, as planned; their ‘cargo’ bound and hidden in the back of the carriage.

“He didn’t look… comfortable, exactly, did he?” Shadowheart muttered quietly as they walked through the silent streets of Baldur’s Gate on their way out of the city. Wyll and Gale had taken the first turn riding atop the carriage, getting to grips with the steering, whilst Astarion, Shadowheart and Karlach walked behind. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did he request a silk cushion and a foot massage? I must’ve missed that.” Astarion replied, earning a chuckle from Shadowheart.

Karlach kept her eyes on the padlock that secured the carriage door. “Look, I know it seems cruel, but unchain him and we’ll be ash before sunrise. The moment we let our guard down is the moment he makes us regret it. We leave him exactly how he is.”

Helsik had already moved Raphael into the carriage when they arrived just after nightfall to pick it up. She’d now conveniently managed to find some clothes large enough to fit his cambion frame – Astarion had rolled his eyes at that.

Raphael cut a twisted figure in the carriage. An infernal chain bound his wrists behind his back, the metal biting deep, while another shackled his ankles, leaving him little room to move. The unbreakable restraints ensured he couldn’t teleport or plane shift, stripping him of most of his magic, but the infernal muzzle, clamped tightly over his nose, mouth and chin, silenced his most dangerous weapon: his tongue.

His wings had proved tricker. Without any more infernal chains, they had resorted to thick rope, tied around the fleshy, clawed limbs in a series of intricate knots. In a spark of genius, Shadowheart had soaked the rope in holy water, rendering him powerless to snap or burn through them.

Arms and wings pulled behind him, Raphael was unable to lie flat on his back. His massive horns, jutting out from the sides of his head, made lying on his side difficult. He was forced to sit upright, leaning against the carriage wall in an awkward, painful angle. 

The journey was expected to take at least twenty two days, with additional days factored in for longer rest stops. They agreed it was safest to travel by day, with Astarion riding in the carriage alongside their bound prisoner to stay out of the sun’s reach. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with this arrangement but conceded that it would make the trip smoother and less dangerous for everyone. At night, while the others rested and took turns keeping watch, Astarion would hunt deer and boar to keep them fed. 

________

Following a night of walking, which saw them exit the city and cross the river Chionthar, the sun’s rays began to peek over the edge of the horizon, the sky getting lighter. 

Astarion had been nervous about getting into the carriage, to rest alongside a creature who had numerous reasons to want to see him dead-dead.

“If I don’t make it through the day, know that I expect my body to be draped in the finest silks before you leave me for the vultures.”

Astarion’s attempt at humour earned a few amused chuckles from his companions. Only Shadowheart recognised his performative indifference for what it was — a mask for his fear — and stepped up to join him in the carriage, to ensure their prisoner remained fully incapacitated.

“Time for your shot, hellspawn,” she said, climbing into the compact space. It was a little too snug with the three of them, and Astarion decided that maybe he was glad it would just be him and the devil in there during the hours of sunlight. All the more room for keeping his distance.

Raphael didn’t struggle when Shadowheart stuck the syringe in his neck, he likely barely felt it through his tough cambion skin. But he did glare daggers at the cleric, his eyes promising violence if he were ever out of his chains. After a moment, those eyes rolled back, closing, and his shoulders slumped, head lolling forwards. 

“Sorry he’s not charmed,” Shadowheart sighed, leaning back. “This should keep him down for a bit, but when he wakes, you’ll just have to put up with his… enchanting disposition.” She rolled her eyes before clambering out of the carriage.

Helsik had provided them with poison and crawler mucus, but she hadn’t been so quick to part with the incubus spittle without turning a profit. They had refused her demand of five thousand gold pieces for it, deciding that Raphael was certainly not going anywhere, so charming him to them wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway. They could put up with a few furious glares.

Alone with the unconscious cambion, Astarion decided to try and get some rest of his own, hoping that he could get four hours of meditation in before Raphael came round. 

Eyeing him warily, he spread out his bedroll and lay down on his side, his back against the wall of the carriage. He was thankful that his trance would keep him in a semi-conscious state, in case he needed to dodge any surprise attacks. Perhaps Raphael would try to squash him to death… 

As Astarion closed his eyes, he became acutely aware of the warmth radiating from the figure lying just a few feet away. When was the last time he had felt such heat? After two centuries, he had long grown accustomed to the perpetual chill of his own undead body, the only reprieve coming from the glow of a fire or the press of a warm body against his own. He let his mind drift to those rare, stolen moments of comfort as he slipped into his trance.

________

Astarion awoke a few hours later, alarmed to find that Raphael had slid down the wall in his unconscious state and was now lying much closer than before, his back turned to the elf. 

Frozen in quiet panic, Astarion stared at Raphael, listening to him breathe, looking for signs that he might be feigning unconsciousness. The cambion’s neck was twisted at an awkward angle, due to his horns, giving Astarion a view of the side of his muzzled face. He took in the sharp angles of Raphael’s face appreciatively. He was a handsome bastard, even in his more frightening devil form. He didn’t look so scary now though, expression softened by sleep, flaming irises hidden behind closed eyelids.

Astarion’s eyes travelled down to the exposed neck. He could hear a strong pulse, slow and hypnotic. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the scent of musk filling his nostrils. There was something primal about the rich, earthy aroma. It was intoxicating, drawing him in with an undeniable pull. Beneath that heavy base, he detected a subtle note of fragrant cherry, sweet and enticing. 

I wonder what his blood tastes like…

Raphael had warned Astarion, all those months ago, that his blood burned hotter than wyvern whiskey. How true was that?

Suddenly Astarion became aware of a foreign object weighing his leg down. Snapping out of his reverie and jolting up in alarm, he stared down at the cambion’s tail, which had wound itself around his ankle at some point during his trance.

For a moment, he considered freeing himself. The tail held onto him with a loose grip and certainly didn’t feel like a murder attempt. 

Astarion couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the warm skin of another against his. 

It actually felt… nice.

Lying back down slowly, he stretched out and stared up at the ceiling, letting the gentle sway of the carriage and the warmth curling around his ankle lull him into a state of relaxation. Fully rested from his trance, he found himself relishing the quiet peace. It had been so long since he’d done absolutely nothing — to simply let his mind drift without purpose.

But as his mind wandered, that sense of ease soured. 

The enclosed space. The wooden walls pressing in…

It felt like a coffin. 

Like the wretched box Cazador had sealed him in for an entire year.

His chest hitched as he dragged in an unnecessary but instinctive breath.

It wasn’t enough. 

He took another, faster, but the air felt thin, useless. 

His skin prickled, stretching too tight over his bones.

His teeth ached, a dull, crawling itch in his fangs.

The walls pressed closer. 

He tried to swallow, to focus, but his throat felt dry. His fingers curled into his bedroll beneath him, gripping hard, willing himself calm. 

He wasn’t in a coffin. He wasn’t locked away. This was different. 

Cazador was dead.

The tail around Astarion’s ankle shifted.

A subtle movement that almost felt like a soothing rub.

Astarion fought to steady himself, letting the warmth and soft pressure against his skin ease the panic.

He let out a shaky exhale, the tension in his limbs gradually unwinding.

The panic gradually started to fade, as the tail continued its slow, comforting caress.

________

At sundown, whilst setting up camp, Gale preparing a stew, they realised that perhaps they ought to feed Raphael too. 

“So, what’s the meal plan for our new pet?” Astarion asked Karlach, chuckling at the absurdity of his own question. “What exactly does one feed a devil in captivity? Biscuits?!”

Karlach chortled and gave him a playful nudge with her elbow as they approached the carriage together, ready to extract the devil. “Cambions are entirely carnivorous. Meat’s not exactly scarce, so we can afford to part with a little, though I’d personally rather see him chewing on a turnip…” 

Getting Raphael out of the carriage turned out to be a challenging endeavour. Despite Karlach’s considerable size and strength, lifting the seven foot creature proved more difficult than expected. Wyll stepped in to assist, while the others stood by, ready to help if needed. The entire ordeal was undignified, and by the time he was planted on the ground, the fire in the devil’s eyes blazed with barely-contained rage.

Next, they needed to remove the muzzle covering the lower half of his face. Karlach and Wyll drew their weapons in case of sudden movement, while Gale cast silence, to prevent Raphael from attempting to speak or use magic. Shadowheart, standing at Raphael’s back, was on muzzle-duty, which left Astarion drawing the short straw: he had to be the one to slip the scraps of soggy meat fished out from the stew between the cambion’s very sharp-looking teeth. 

It was safe to say that Raphael did not enjoy his meal.

Whether it was the indignity of being hand-fed on his knees or simply a distaste for overcooked meat, Raphael’s jaw worked stiffly as he forced himself to chew. His nose wrinkled in displeasure, but he swallowed the meat begrudgingly, fury still burning in his eyes.

To his surprise, Astarion found that he actually quite enjoyed hand-feeding the devil kneeling at his feet. Raphael’s shirt hung loosely, and from his vantage point above, Astarion’s gaze lingered on the pulsing column of his throat. The sliver of collarbone peeking from beneath the fabric, a delicate, tempting curve. 

Forcing himself to take a slow, steadying breath, Astarion tore his eyes away from Raphael’s exposed throat. Clearly, he was hungry. He would hunt tonight.

________

Hours later, Astarion slipped silently back into their forest camp, a boar hoisted over his shoulder from a successful hunt. The air was cool and crisp, filled with the faint, soothing murmur of a nearby brook. Silvery moonlight spilled through the canopy above, dancing across leaves and shrubs with inky shadows and soft glows. 

The camp was quiet, his companions deep in slumber, Gale snoring softly. Only Shadowheart remained awake, taking her watch by the flickering campfire. On light feet, he approached, quietly clearing his throat so as not to startle her. She smiled up at him as he lowered himself onto the blanket next to her.

“So, how are you finding your new roommate?”

“Hot. And terrifying.”

Shadowheart choked on a laugh, trying to stifle it so as not to wake the others. “You should have heard Karlach and Wyll drawing straws on who was going to help him relieve himself — and bathe him. I’ve never seen Karlach more… red.” 

“Gods, I’d love to have seen that,” Astarion chuckled, thinking that, yes, he would definitely enjoy witnessing the entire thing. “Is washing him really necessary? He’s a prisoner. A sponge bath seems like something of a luxury. Hells, I’ll take one if someone’s offering.”

“Honestly, I think it’s more for your benefit than his comfort; you’re the one sharing a confined space with him.”

“I think he actually smells quite nice,” Astarion said softly, smiling at the memory of Raphael’s tantalising aroma.

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow at him. “Steady on, there. Maybe you’re the one who should be scrubbing him down in the river.”

“Ugh, I wish. Alas, no running water for me anymore.” 

Since the removal of his tadpole, Astarion was at the full mercy of his vampiric curse. No sun, no running water, no entering homes without permission… some of his favourite pastimes. 

Sighing dramatically, he uncorked his leather water-skin – its name now a mockery of its intended use — and sipped the blood, freshly collected from his boar. “Maybe Gale should offer,” he sneered quietly into the container at his lips.

This time, Shadowheart was less successful at stifling her loud snort. They both froze momentarily as Gale shifted in his sleep, mumbling something about his cat, then turning over. When he was still again, Astarion and Shadowheart broke down in a fit of hushed giggles. 

“No no, he asked Haarlep for the female Raphael, remember,” Shadowheart snickered, recovering from her laughter enough to speak. “This version is much too… firm.” 

Their laughter became uncontrollable then, and they clamped their hands over their mouths, eyes sparkling with mischief, bodies shaking with silent mirth.

Eventually Astarion ushered Shadowheart off to get some sleep, feeling fully rested himself and happy to take over watch for the rest of the night. He found his eyes wandering over to the carriage frequently, thoughts drifting to the being inside. In a few short hours, he’d be back in there with him. And yet, the thought didn’t stir the same revulsion it had before – the same fear. 

A troubling realisation curled at the edges of his mind, unspoken but undeniable.

Perhaps he didn’t just tolerate the presence of that warm body. 

He enjoyed it. 

Craved it.

Chapter Text

Astarion awoke to glowing eyes; Raphael’s molten gaze was fixed on him, unblinking and unreadable. 

The carriage wasn’t moving, and no noise came from outside. 

They had planned a supply stop at Beregost, along the Coast Way, seven days into their journey, leaving the carriage under the cover of a copse of trees, about half a mile from town. Shadowheart stayed behind to guard it whilst the others headed into town in search of food and provisions. 

Astarion, still confined to the carriage to shield from the sun, had been locked inside with the devil. On the road, there was no need for such precautions, but with the group split up, they weren’t about to take any chances.

Feeling unnerved by the scrutiny, Astarion sat up, leaning back against the wall of the carriage, facing the cambion who was sitting upright, staring him down. 

Rapahel looked exhausted, pain shadowing his eyes.

Upon climbing back into the carriage, hours ago, Astarion had succumbed to pity and slid a folded blanket under Raphael’s head. It had taken some of the pressure off his horns, and the sleeping devil had exhaled a soft, slightly muffled breath of unconscious relief. Astarion had watched him sleep for a long time, wondering what devils dream about. What caused the furrowed eyebrows and the little scrunches at the top of his nose? What made his bound wings twitch, and his tail flick sporadically? For hours, he had listened to his deep, steady breaths, which would occasionally become sharp and uneven, quickening into panicked, shallow pants through the muzzle. 

He couldn’t even imagine what a nightmare looked like to an evil creature. Probably mewling kittens and giddy children. A cool breeze on a summer’s day. Fresh cinnamon buns. Like an addict, Astarion had breathed in Raphael’s scent ravenously, catching the delicious tang of distress and metallic notes in the air — blood. Recognising his own hunger, he had sipped some boar blood from his water-skin as he watched the creature dream. 

Now, some time later, Raphael’s stare burned Astarion like a brand. Had he been aware of the intense observation he’d been under hours before? Was he angry? Astarion shifted uncomfortably, maintaining eye contact to try and mask his unease.

An unknown voice from outside broke the tension, both elf and devil snapping their eyes away from each other to look towards the door.

Someone was approaching the camp.

A warm, female voice asked Shadowheart if she had a moment to talk about ‘our silver lady of the moon, Selûne.’ 

Astarion rolled his eyes, breathing a small sigh of relief and chuckling that Shadowheart’s afternoon just got a lot more interesting. A fellow worshipper of the Selûnite faith was sure to brighten the cleric’s day. Looking back over at Raphael, he found the devil staring at him again. They had been on the road for days now, and Raphael had made no previous attempt to communicate with them, only silently seething, his anger a constant, palpable thing.

“Can I help you?” Astarion finally asked, raising an eyebrow in what he hoped was an assertive and challenging look. 

Blinking only once, Raphael twisted his upper body, his bound wings making a scratching sound against the floor as the claw tips scraped the wood. He looked over his shoulder at his wings, then back to Astarion. Pointedly. 

Frowning, Astarion pulled himself away from the wall and scooted forwards to inspect Raphael’s wings. 

He grimaced at what he saw.

The wings were raw and blistered beneath the ropes, open sores oozing and bleeding. It now occurred to Astarion why he’d been able to smell blood. The holy water that they’d infused the ropes with was burning him like acid, seeping into the wounds more with every small movement.

He extended his hand to touch a wing, but Raphael recoiled swiftly, twisting away again, wings now out of Astarion’s reach. He paused momentarily before closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“I don’t know what you want me to do, darling. I can’t untie you. Surely, you understand that?” 

Raphael’s shoulders sagged, his eyes full of disappointment. It was the first time Astarion had seen him look sorry for himself, rather than furious and vengeful. 

He looked pitiful. 

Astarion liked it. It made him feel powerful. 

He knew the devil was growing weaker. Sleep claimed him more often, his stomach growling loudly from hunger, even in slumber. The poison kept him under longer each time he was injected, and whenever his arms were jostled, he winced, numbness from being bound so long turning into agonising pain. The inferno that once blazed in his eyes had all but flickered out. He was in no state to attempt an escape.

“Ugh fine,” he sighed, grabbing his leather gloves. “Just for a bit. But if you fuck me on this, I’ll make sure Gale overcooks your scraps of meat until the end of time. It’ll be like sucking on Jergal’s sandals.” 

Raphael’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. He shifted his weight, moving into a kneeling position, bowing his head as low as he could without taking Astarion’s eyes out with his horns in the cramped space.

Every time he saw the devil kneeling before him, bound in chains, something stirred within him. “Turn around,” Astarion ordered, his voice rough, as he tried to ignore the warmth pooling in his belly.

Raphael obeyed, shuffling to reposition his large frame. 

Fastening his gloves, Astarion assessed the web of intricate knots that bound Raphael’s wings, tethering them together and securing them close to his back. He winced at the memory of being burned by holy water himself — a weakness of both fiends and vampire spawn alike. It had been a punishment favoured by Cazador; the sadistic vampire master had taken great delight in pouring the searing fluid over Astarion’s hands, to watch his skin sizzle and corrode. Astarion remembered the stench of his skin dissolving, then the white-hot agony of it regenerating. 

With dexterous fingers, despite the thick leather of his gloves, Astarion made fast work of the complex knots that Shadowheart had tied. 

Raphael held his breath as Astarion loosened the ropes and peeled the fibres away from raw, bubbling skin. When fully removed, the bindings and gloves were tossed to the side of the carriage, a safe distance from them both. 

Freed at last, Raphael’s wings shuddered before stretching out with a loud crack, air bubbles escaping from between the stiff joints. A low, muffled moan of relief escaped from beneath the infernal muzzle — an unexpectedly arousing noise, sending more heat to Astarion’s groin. 

Astarion leaned back against the wall and watched Raphael’s wings extend as wide as the carriage would allow, enjoying the sight as the cambion sighed and rolled his shoulders, stretching languidly. Reaching for the book in his backpack, Astarion tried to ignore the scent of blood now being fanned around the carriage by the large wings, flexing in slow, graceful arcs. They stilled after a few sweeping motions, lowering to spread out on the floor.

Astarion stole one last glance at Raphael; the devil’s eyes were closed in quiet enjoyment of the brief reprieve. 

Smiling to himself, Astarion settled in to read, the stillness of the moment a rare comfort.

________

For what felt like hours, Astarion was fully absorbed in his book, lost in its pages, until a sharp scent curled into his senses, pulling him back to the present.

Burning.

Raphael sat bolt upright, his brow furrowing in confusion as he swept his wings through the air, trying to clear the smoke that had started filling up the carriage. 

Then Astarion saw the flames. Over in the far corner, where he had discarded the ropes and leather gloves, small tongues of fire licked at the wooden floor of the carriage, spreading at an alarming rate. 

Stomach lurching, he dived for the door, rattling the handle desperately, only to remember, too late, that it was locked from the outside. 

Astarion cowered, folding in on himself, his face buried in his hands. After everything he had been through, this was not how he imagined his two centuries of sad, miserable existence would end.

Suddenly, he felt a hot, heavy body on top of him, folding over his back. 

Terror flooded Astarion’s veins as his mind spiraled. 

No, no, this can’t be happening.

Breaths he did not need came in short, panicked bursts. 

Raphael had started the fire. He must have. What better way to trap him and finish him off, using the flames to his advantage?

He curled his body, shrinking into himself, trying to make himself as small as possible, desperate to escape the overwhelming heat that pressed in from all sides, and the considerable weight of the devil on his back. 

After a moment, realising he wasn’t yet burning, Astarion opened his eyes. Everything was bathed in red, light filtering through the large wings wrapped around him, shielding him from the flames. 

It was a breathtaking sight. 

Feeling strangely calm all of a sudden — safe — he reached out and ran a finger down the membranous skin, earning a shiver in response.

Panicked voices from outside snapped him out of his daze. 

Suddenly the door was wrenched open, bright sunlight pouring into the carriage. 

Fear spiking again at the new danger, Astarion screamed to feel his skin instantly singeing under the harsh rays. Reacting immediately, Raphael’s wings repositioned to encase Astarion fully in a protective arc, shielding him entirely from the sunlight. 

From outside his cocoon of protection, Astarion heard Shadowheart use her magic to create water to extinguish the flames within the carriage. 

The flames had been mostly surface-level, scorching the wood without consuming it. Blackened streaks marred the carriage floor, smoke curling from the worst of the singed spots, but the structure remained intact, charred, but not crumbling.

With nowhere else to go, Astarion crawled out from under Raphael’s winged embrace to hide further in the carriage, sooty water instantly staining his clothing.

Entirely resistant to fire, Raphael was unharmed, only his clothes were slightly ashy.

“I’m going to fucking kill you, devil!”

Suddenly, Karlach was there, grabbing Raphael roughly by a horn and hauling him out of the carriage. With his arms and legs still bound, he had no way to catch himself, crashing face-first onto the ground, wings flapping wildly in an attempt to regain balance.

Reacting instinctively, Astarion lunged forwards. A sharp pain in his outstretched hand and a loud hiss of sizzling flesh stopped him, causing him to shrink back into the shadow of the smoking carriage, nursing his singed fingers. “Karlach no! Please! He saved me!”

“Saved you? Astarion, he fucking started it, don’t you see that?!”

“But the chains, the muzzle, he can’t cast magic, Karlach!”

Wyll stepped forwards, putting a hand on Karlach’s shoulder. “He’s right, Kar. It can’t have been him.”

“But look at his wings — he got out of the ropes!”

“Karlach, that was… that was me…” Astarion’s small voice drifted from the shadows. 

Everyone, devil included, looked over at Astarion. “The holy water, it was hurting him. I wanted to heal— I wanted to help.”

They all turned to look at Raphael’s wings, which were fanned out flat on the ground behind him, as if he were trying to look as non-threatening as possible. In the daylight, the sorry state of them looked even worse than it had inside the carriage. Red welts and small tears peppered where the rope had touched flesh, oozing sores glistening in the light. The veins underneath were dark and prominent, the skin looking thin and papery. 

Karlach heaved a sigh. Lowering the battle axe in her hand, she shook her head and walked away from the figure at her feet without a word.

Wyll exhaled, breaking the tense silence. “Let's make camp here for the night. We’ll check the carriage, make sure everything’s secure, and set off again in the morning. Gale, help me get him up.” He gestured to Raphael on the floor, who was looking at the carriage, towards the elf cowering in the shadowed recess. 

Shadowheart climbed into the carriage, paying no mind as sooty water wicked into her clothing. “Are you okay?” She asked Astarion, sitting down next to him.

He nodded, his eyes fixed on Wyll and Gale as they heaved the massive cambion to lean upright against a tree, before injecting him with the paralytic-poison blend. Gale leapt aside to dodge a clawed wing tip that flapped as Raphael’s entire body reacted to the toxins, shuddering violently before going still and limp. 

“Astarion?”

Astarion took a slow breath, his gaze lingering on the prisoner as he collected his thoughts. “It’s just… a lot to take in,” he said, his voice tight but steady. “Seeing him in those chains… It brings back memories. Cazador... He made sure I never forgot my place. Bound, drugged... hurt. It’s all too familiar.” He shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’ll be fine. I just need some time to process, that’s all.” 

Shadowheart winced as she joined Astarion watching Wyll fold Raphael’s wings, holding them in place for Gale to tie with more rope, freshly soaked in holy water. Raphael didn’t struggle — couldn’t struggle — crawler mucus flooding his veins, locking his muscles. “We’ve increased the dose,” she said softly. “When we know for certain we can keep him down, maybe, maybe we can forgo the holy water. But we can’t take any chances, you know this.” 

“Is the poison really necessary? The chains alone held Orpheus for thousands of years and he was the son of Gith.” Astarion sighed. He leaned back against the carriage wall, his fingers tapping restlessly on the wood. The thought of sedating Raphael like this, with poison, gnawed at him for some reason, however justified it might be. 

Shadowheart’s voice dropped to a quieter, more serious tone as she turned to face Astarion fully. “Look, I get it. It’s hard not to feel sympathy for someone in pain, I’m a cleric, for Selûne’s sake. But don't forget, he’s not like us. He’s a fiend. Evil through and through. He’ll use every inch of our guilt and compassion against us. Don't let your own history pull you in.”

Astarion nodded, shifting uncomfortably at the quiet reprimand in her words. “So what about your new friend?” he enquired, desperate to change the subject and remembering the voice of the Selûnite approaching camp. “What did she want?”

Shadowheart’s face lit up, pleased with the new direction in conversation.

“Oh, it was another cleric from the Church of Selûne! She was on the road approaching travelling merchants, raising funds for a festival the local chapter is preparing for. She was as delighted as I was to find another Selûnite. You know how it is around here, they mostly follow Waukeen.” 

“Yeah, so weird, huh,” Astarion agreed, not at all knowing ‘how it was around here’.

Suddenly Shadowheart’s expression faltered, her eyes widening as something unknown to Astarion fell into place. “Now that I think about it… there really aren’t many Selûnites in Amn, are there? It’s not exactly a place that welcomes her faithful...” She trailed off, looking uneasy. “Gods, I didn’t even consider it at the time. What are the odds I’d just happen to run into one out here?” She exhaled sharply. “Astarion, I think it was a diversion. I was so caught up in the conversation, I didn’t notice the fire — it was lucky the others arrived back when they did. This may well have been a targeted attack. We cannot stay here tonight.”

Shadowheart jumped down to warn the others, her urgency immediately drawing their attention. They gathered by the slightly charred carriage, Astarion still inside, and spoke in hushed tones, their voices low to avoid unwanted ears. They exchanged wary glances, all unsettled by the idea that they were being watched, possibly followed. It was agreed that they would keep moving for another few hours, and make camp further off the main road in a secluded wooded area at nightfall. 

Karlach gave Astarion a small smile as she helped Wyll heave a barely-conscious Raphael back into the carriage. She had seemingly forgiven the elf for untying Raphael’s wings when it became apparent someone else had started the fire. 

Everyone was on edge as they packed away and prepared to move.

After mopping up the water and scrubbing any remaining soot from the interior of the carriage, Astarion settled in to read his book for the last few hours of daylight, until he was free for another night.

________

A few hours later, they had found a concealed spot to make camp for the night: an isolated clearing tucked beneath the sweeping branches of ancient oak trees. The group had settled into their usual evening routines; Wyll was stoking the fire, Gale preparing ingredients for a stew, Karlach and Shadowheart chatting away as they laid out bedrolls and hung canvas between the trees for a makeshift shelter. 

Recognising the familiar symphony of his companions getting settled outside, dusk creeping over the camp, Astarion put his book away, and turned to rouse their prisoner.

Raphael had slipped into unconsciousness following his increased dose of poison and crawler mucus. The bumpy road had done him no favours, he lay at an odd angle, his inert form twisted uncomfortably. 

A folded blanket lay under his horns.

Astarion reached out, feeling scorching skin beneath his fingers as he gently shook Raphael’s shoulder. 

The cambion flinched, jolting awake at Astarion’s touch. A deep crease immediately formed between his brows, as though he had forgotten his surroundings and was enraged by the sudden reminder.

“And the prince of darkness awakens. So you are still alive. Hungry?” 

Still looking furious, Raphael heaved himself up, a muffled groan escaping him as he struggled to pull himself upright. His bound arms trembled under the strain, his wings twitching uselessly against their fresh restraints. Each movement was sluggish, as though even the act of sitting demanded too much of his weakened form.

Astarion had found himself actively looking forward to Raphael’s nightly feeding. To see those glowing eyes gazing up at him intently through thick, dark lashes… He looked forward to grazing Raphael’s parted lips with his fingers as he fed him. Watching him swallow down water, spilled droplets trickling down his chin, running down his neck, over that slow, rhythmic pulse… Sizzling from the heat of his skin…Pooling in the small hollow between his collarbones… Water that looked like blood against his red skin…

Astarion couldn’t tell if he wanted to eat him or fuck him. 

Hells, what is wrong with me?!

Shaking his head to clear the intrusive thoughts, Astarion shifted awkwardly in tightening trousers. Looking back at Raphael, he was relieved to see that the devil hadn’t seemed to notice his growing arousal. Raphael sat with his head tipped forwards, eyes screwed tightly shut, shoulders tensed. 

Crossing a leg over the other to hide his erection, Astarion extended his hand, touching the back of Raphael’s arm to draw his attention. 

Raphael jerked away violently as if Astarion had burned him — as if that would hurt him. A deep, animalistic growl rumbled from his chest, and he seemed to almost cower from the elf’s hand, alarm and anger flashing in his eyes. The reaction startled Astarion so badly he leapt back, withdrawing his hand sharply. 

“What in the Hells was that?!” he demanded angrily, glancing down to make sure he was still covered. 

Raphael glared at him for a moment longer, before closing his eyes again. His chest heaved as he took a long, deep breath. When he looked at Astarion again, his eyes had softened; he bowed his head very slightly in what Astarion assumed was meant to be an apologetic gesture. 

“Is it… your arms? Your hands?” he asked, scanning the cambion for injury, a sense of déjà vu from that morning creeping in. He shuffled closer in the small space to get a better look without touching him.

Raphael’s hands were trembling slightly, curled fingers swollen. The veins in his wrists looked dark and angry under his thick red skin. 

“They do look rather painful. I’m— I’m sorry.” 

Raphael raised his eyebrows, turning his head to look at Astarion with mild surprise. 

“Oh, you didn’t think I’d give a shit about you hurting? You do know I’m the sap slipping blankets under your head, right? And recklessly releasing your wings…” He shook his head, still incredulous that he’d managed to avoid a scolding for that.

For a moment, the pair just stared at each other. Raphael’s eyes flicked between each of Astarion’s before dropping to his mouth and back up. 

Astarion smirked. “At least take me out for dinner first, darling,” he giggled, enjoying Raphael’s eyes drinking him in.

Raphael’s eyes dipped lower, down his torso, then lingered on his crotch. A single eyebrow arched, and his gaze flicked back to Astarion’s face, amusement dancing in his eyes. Realising what Raphael had spotted in his lap, Astarion tugged the bottom of his shirt down in horror. He was grateful that his pale vampire skin was incapable of blushing, but his eyes snapped to the floor from embarrassment. 

Raphael leaned forwards, lowering his head to put himself back in Astarion’s eyeline. Meeting those irises of flame once more, Astarion felt foolish for his reaction. For letting something slip, for exposing his own attraction to the devil.

But why should he be ashamed? Shame was a surrender, an offering of control — and he was not the one bound and powerless.

Perhaps it was better to own it.

Lifting his head once more, Astarion squared his shoulders and tilted his chin to look at Raphael down his nose, in a bid to reclaim the upper hand.

Raphael gave him a small wink. 

Astarion’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers curling into a fist before he unfurled them slowly. The devil was toying with him. Probing for cracks in his composure. He refused to take the bait. Instead, he let out a quiet, amused scoff and tilted his head, voice light but edged with impatience. “Well, aren’t you charming? Look, we won’t be able to get you down from the carriage without touching your arms. It’ll hurt, but I’ll ask Shadowheart if she can help with the pain, okay?”

Raphael nodded, the mischief in his eyes fading at the reminder. 

After a moment of silence, Astarion cleared his throat. “Thank you, by the way. For before. With— with the fire. You saved me, I suppose. I appreciate it. Thank you.” 

Raphael shrugged coolly, then winced at the pain the movement caused his sore, spasming arms.

Astarion grimaced. He knew the searing agony of numb limbs and trapped nerves. Sharp, stabbing, and relentless, like lightning coursing through screaming muscles. 

“Would… would shifting to your human form help?” Astarion asked quietly, watching the tremors shuddering up Raphael’s arms. “We’d need to unchain your arms first, so it would give you a moment of relief.”

Raphael fixed Astarion with an assessing gaze. He looked weary and strained, but his eyes narrowed in calculation as he searched the elf for his angle. Finally he nodded slowly, a hint of suspicion in his eyes, as if he were uncertain how much he should reveal.

“Too tired to scheme, eh? That makes my job easier,” Astarion chuckled softly. 

Raphael was looking at him intently now. Astarion could practically hear the unspoken plea in the air between them. Yes, he wanted to switch his form. Badly.

“I’ll need to trust you not to rip any throats out the moment those restraints come off.”

Another nod, more eager this time. 

“Convincing the others won’t be easy… but who could say no to this irresistible face?” Astarion gestured to himself.

Raphael rolled his eyes, but an amused glimmer flickered in them — excitement. 

Was this another step too far? A moment of softness he couldn’t afford? 

Astarion wasn’t even sure if the idea had been his own, or if the devil had somehow planted the seed himself, curling his way into his mind like smoke.

Chapter Text

There was a storm coming.

The air was heavy and electric with the promise of rain. Distant thunder rumbled across the darkening sky. The wind had picked up, tugging at the canvas shelter Shadowheart and Karlach had erected, rustling through the branches of the oak trees that concealed their resting place. But it was still warm, and eerily quiet. Birds and animals already hunkered down. The calm before the storm.

Shadowheart peered into the empty carriage, pulling her cloak tightly around her shoulders. “Do you think more of us can squeeze in here?” 

Wyll, who had just helped Karlach haul the cambion out of it, looked over the small space. “With him in there? It’d be a tight fit. You might have to cuddle up with the fiend.” 

Karlach snorted, as she pressed down on Raphael’s shoulders causing him to sink to his knees, wincing. As soon as she let go of him, he sat back onto his feet, his shoulders sagging with pain and exhaustion.

“Someone remind me why we haven’t forced him to shift into his human form yet?” Astarion chimed in, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “He’d take up far less space. And be much less conspicuous to any onlookers.”

Karlach gave him an assessing look, like she could see right through him. “Why does that matter? He’s locked away most of the time.”

“Astarion, he can’t change form with the chains on. We’d have to take them off, and that is out of the question,” Wyll added. “Even Helsik didn’t dare risk it.”

“Is it?” Astarion pressed. “Out of the question, really? He’s practically begging for some relief. Without his horns and wings he’d be smaller and more comfortable himself. Everybody wins.” 

Karlach sighed. “Astarion, I know you think we’re being cruel, but his comfort doesn’t really come into it.” 

“Then what about my comfort? Forgive me, but we haven’t exactly disarmed him fully have we? In this form he still has those massive, impaling horns. Claws sharp enough to gut — oh, I don’t know — an elf. And let’s talk about how his tail is just— just hanging out. I’m pretty sure that thing is prehensile, I’ve seen the way it moves. What’s to stop him from strangling me? If this is what we’re calling ‘harmless’ now, I’d hate to see what you consider dangerous.” Astarion finished his rant slightly out of breath. 

Everyone was looking at the devil now, assessing the threat. Raphael kept very still, head lowered, eyes darting between Astarion and Karlach. 

Karlach tapped her chin, her expression thoughtful. “Hmm. You know, for once, I think you’ve actually got a point, Fangs. Don’t expect me to say it again, though.”

Astarion rolled his eyes dramatically, pretending to take offence.

“So, how is this going to work?” Gale asked, stepping forwards and rolling up his sleeves. “Do you want me to silence him or hold him?”

“All the infernal bindings will need to come off,” Wyll explained. “I think silence would be best, and the rest of us will be on guard for any physical attacks. I can cast a hold spell if he moves even an inch.” 

After a quick discussion around logistics, they took their positions surrounding their prisoner, Gale stepping back, ready to cast. 

Karlach moved to stand beside Raphael, taking a handful of his hair in her hand and pulling his head back. “You change your form, and that is it,” she growled in his ear, placing a dagger at his throat and applying a small amount of pressure. “Do you understand?”

Not fearing the blade at his throat, Raphael nodded wearily. He adjusted his position slowly, stretching his legs out in front of him for easier access to his chained ankles.

Wyll took up a defensive stance, drawing his rapier, while Shadowheart stepped forwards to help Astarion with the chains. 

“We’re ready,” said Astarion, kneeling in front of the bound devil and nodding to Gale.

Being inside the sphere of silence was like being submerged in a void. The air itself seemed thicker, and the sounds of the world were entirely muted. No howling wind, rustling of leaves, no gentle creak of wood as the oak trees swayed with the approaching storm. Just an eerie emptiness. It was disorienting.

Starting at his ankles, Astarion swiftly unlocked the chains binding Raphael’s legs, leaving the restraints on the floor within easy reach for refastening. 

Shadowheart was undoing the chains holding Raphael’s hands behind his back, as Astarion moved back up his body to remove the muzzle. 

Astarion leaned in, his face close to Raphael’s as his arms reached around the back of his head to undo the straps. Pulling the gag away from his face, Astarion noticed bruising on Raphael’s nose and marks from the straps on his cheeks. He felt a hot breath on his face as Raphael exhaled in relief, Shadowheart having finished unfastening his wrists. 

Astarion watched Raphael’s face, as he stretched and flexed his free arms, wriggling his fingers to circulate the blood. His expression was one of profound relief; his brows were furrowed, his lips parted and jaw clenched, showing a row of sharp white fangs as he rolled his neck, paying no mind to the blade held at his neck.

As Shadowheart released his wings, they shivered in satisfaction, giving a single, deliberate flap before folding neatly against his back in a silent show of compliance.

Astarion felt strangely dazed. He had seen the devil at his most powerful, had even fought him to the death over a month ago, but seeing him now, unshackled, pleasure written across his features… It was mesmerising. He looked like something otherworldly, like a dark angel carved from night itself. Awe curled in Astarion’s chest, warring with unease.

Karlach’s grip on Raphael’s hair tightened as she shook him firmly, the dagger still pressing against his throat. Her lips moved, clearly forming the words “Do it now,” but no sound escaped within the sphere.

Raphael’s eyes met Astarion’s. There was a blazing inferno in his fiery irises that hadn’t been there before. One that Astarion had thought they’d snuffed out…  

Shit.

Astarion started to panic. 

Hells, what had they done? Raphael had been freed. He was surely about to kill them all, or escape. They’d seen him displace himself from the material plane without uttering a word… The silence sphere was useless. They were unprepared. And it was Astarion’s own damn fault for suggesting this in the first place. 

Astarion’s panicked thoughts stalled as bright flames engulfed Raphael before his eyes. A rush of hot air swept the elf’s hair from his face, and he squeezed his eyes closed as he waited for the burning to begin.

But burn, he did not…

Slowly, his eyes cracked open, gaze shifting into focus. Gone were the flames and the heat. Gone were the horns, the wings and the claws. 

Brown eyes met Astarion’s. Beautiful, brown, human eyes. 

The large, solid body had been replaced by a shorter one, broad shoulders becoming slim. Pointed ears rounding, harsh angular features becoming soft. 

Astarion gazed into the face of a handsome human man. 

The handsome human man gazed back at Astarion.

What lasted only a moment felt like minutes.

Astarion saw Karlach beckon Shadowheart, silently urging her to tie Raphael back up. He reached for the chains at his own feet, turning back to bind Raphael’s ankles once more.

Then Raphael’s eyelids began to droop, his blinks becoming slower and heavier. Frowning, he suddenly lurched forwards, hand rising to clutch at his chest. He began to struggle for breath, silently spluttering and coughing, until his entire body stiffened. He fell backwards, writhing on the ground, foam forming at his mouth as his muscles bunched and spasmed uncontrollably.

Gale instantly dropped the silence spell, the oppressive stillness lifting and making way for a wave of alarm as the sound of Raphael’s gasping and wheezing filled the air. 

Karlach’s face contorted with panic. Throwing herself on top of the devil, she gripped his body tightly, her voice frantic as she gasped, “No, no, no, no, this is my only chance, you can’t do this!” She tried to steady him, but the devil was beyond her reach, his form twitching uncontrollably beneath her.

Astarion’s stomach churned as he watched, helpless, his mind frozen in horror. His eyes were wide, his mouth dry, unable to tear his gaze away from the devil’s body writhing on the ground. 

“Shadowheart! Do something!” Wyll shouted, his voice tight with raw urgency as he lunged forwards and tried to pull Karlach away. 

With Gale’s assistance, Wyll managed to peel Karlach off Raphael’s convulsing form, making way for Shadowheart, whose hands were glowing with healing magic before she’d even reached him.

“Fuck him. He can’t die like this, the fucker! Not now!” Karlach wailed into Wyll’s shoulder, as he gripped her tightly, rubbing soothing circles into her back.

It was at that moment that the storm finally broke. Heavy raindrops began to splatter down, pinging off their canvas canopy, the sound of each one like a booming drumbeat, drowning out the muffled sobs escaping from the tiefling in Wyll’s arms. The air grew thick with moisture, the smell of wet earth rising as the downpour pressed in around them. But it couldn’t dampen the razor sharp tension, the dread that lingered, as they all sat unspeaking, watching the cleric at work. 

After a short time, Shadowheart finally sat back, nodding to herself. “He’s going to be fine. Turns out his weak, little human body couldn’t handle all the toxins we’ve pumped into him. Oops!” 

“Oh for gods’ sake.” Astarion sighed, adding this to his growing mental list of things to feel responsible for. 

The devil looked almost peaceful in his unconscious state — not at all evil, but certainly unwell. His usually tan skin looked pale, his eyes had dark shadows under them not visible in his cambion form. The bruising on his nose and cheeks from the muzzle was more pronounced on his delicate human skin. Astarion felt the guilt gnawing at him. When had he become the soft one of the group? 

“Astarion, help me get him back in his chains, would you?” Shadowheart asked, noticing him staring.

Astarion grimaced, but nodded and shuffled over to help. 

They opted to bind Raphael’s hands in front of him, granting him the small mercy of comfort in sleep. No wings meant no holy water, and Shadowheart had purged his body of poison, so he would likely feel somewhat better when he awoke. Weak, but lucid.

Drying her eyes on a sleeve, Karlach stood and stepped across to where Shadowheart and Astarion kneeled. “Thanks, Shadowheart,” she said softly, scooping up the unconscious Raphael as if he weighed nothing, his much smaller frame allowing her to do so effortlessly, and carrying him to the carriage. She deposited him on a bedroll, then emerged, glancing up at the sky with a grimace as fat raindrops pelted her face. The storm showed no sign of relenting, the downpour drumming incessantly against their meagre shelter. With a shiver, she ducked back under the canvas, shaking herself off like a wet dog.

Astarion and Shadowheart squealed, scrambling out of the splash zone. Wyll and Gale were both fighting laughter as Karlach, smirking, dropped onto a blanket, stretching her legs out with a tired groan. 

“Alright, wizard,” she said, wringing her hair. “What’s for dinner? Something hot, I hope. It’s been a godsdamn day.”

“Ah yes, tonight’s exquisite dining experience — stew! …Again!” Gale announced theatrically. “A true marvel of culinary innovation. Who would have thought you could throw whatever scraps you have into a pot and call it a meal? I do hope you can all contain your excitement.”

The fire was flickering and sputtering under the assault of the storm, but with a casual flick of his fingers, Gale kept it steady, weaving his magic through the flames to keep them burning strong. They passed bowls of boar stew amongst themselves, huddling closer to each other as exhaustion rolled over them like the dark clouds above. Their makeshift shelter creaked under the torrential rain, droplets leaking through in places, but none of them had the energy to complain. Instead they laughed together and ate together, drowning out the chaos of the day.

________

Astarion was exhausted by the time the dawn arrived, creeping over the drenched landscape in a wash of muted greys and pale golds. The storm had long since passed, but the rain continued to fall in a steady, ceaseless drizzle that turned the world into a haze of mist. Heavy clouds still choked the horizon, tinged faintly pink where the sun fought to break through. The air was heavy with the scent of wet leaves.

Astarion stood over the fresh corpse of a deer in a small meadow, wiping blood from his lips with the back of his hand. The hunt had kept him occupied, but it hadn’t quietened his mind. So much had happened over the last twenty four hours… 

First, he had almost burned to death — actual, permanent death — in a locked carriage, shortly followed by the revelation that they were being stalked and targeted by fire-starting cleric imposters. Then they had watched the devil convulse and choke on his own breath, teetering on the edge of death, along with all their plans. And then, of course, the night had ended with Astarion getting completely drenched tracking this deer. By the time he’d sunk his fangs into the doe’s throat, he’d been cold, miserable, and questioning every single one of his life choices. And his ‘unlife’ choices too…

He let out a low sigh as he turned back towards camp, dragging the carcass behind him through the slick mud. 

As he approached, he heard giggling from the carriage. Shadowheart and Karlach had made use of the extra space available away from the rain and spent the night alongside the unconscious devil. Three bodies could now fit in the narrow space of the carriage, due to Raphael’s more manageable-sized human form.

Meanwhile, Wyll and Gale had valiantly endured the storm beneath the makeshift shelter. Judging by the deep shadows under their eyes, neither had got much sleep during the night. Gale was hunched by the fire, poking at a pot of bubbling water, decidedly miserable. Wyll sat beside him, shoulders heavy with fatigue, his usual relaxed demeanour dulled by the restless night.

“Oh hello, deer,” Astarion announced as he ducked under the canvas. Gale’s eyes lit up as he saw Astarion’s catch of the day, Wyll’s face shifting from exhaustion into glee. 

“You beauty!” Wyll rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm. “We might survive this trek after all.”

“Finally, something that isn’t boar!” Gale groaned in a mixture of relief and delight.

“Oh darling, I’m hurt,” Astarion gasped dramatically, feigning offence. “I killed those boars with love — just for you, Gale.”

Gale gave him a wry smile, rising to help prepare the animal.

As if summoned by the talk of food, Karlach and Shadowheart appeared, climbing down from the carriage. They dashed across the wet, exposed ground to take shelter under the canvas canopy. They looked remarkably well-rested in comparison to Wyll and Gale. Shadowheart stretched with a pleased hum, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Gods, he’s like a furnace,” she said, glancing at Karlach with clear delight. “Who knew devils made such good bed warmers?”

Karlach shrugged. “I can’t say I appreciated all that heat he’s kicking out, but it felt damn good to be inside for a change. Maybe we need to find an inn sometime soon. It’d be a nice change to sleep in a real bed again.”

Everyone nodded, murmuring various sounds of agreement.

“I miss bedsheets,” Astarion hummed. 

“You should miss baths,” Shadowheart chuckled, prodding his wet shirt. “Astarion you’re soaked through.” 

“Maybe I need a turn in the furnace with the— what did you say, bed warmer?”

Shadowheart gave him a sly wink, causing him to choke on air, momentarily forgetting that he didn’t need to breathe.

“Well, here comes the sun, alas, I must make my exit,” he said, recovering quickly. “Enjoy your venison.” 

None of the others noticed the strips of raw meat he had pinched from Gale’s heap of prepared cuts.

As he opened the carriage door, even more wet than he’d been ten seconds ago when he had darted out from under the canopy, Astarion was stopped in his tracks by a small noise. He could hear a faint scuffling coming from inside. Hesitantly, he climbed inside, the glorious warmth of the space enveloping him immediately. Water rolled off him, pooling on the floor in a small puddle.

His eyes found the sleeping figure on the floor, taking up much less space than the last time they had shared the carriage; he was seemingly caught in the grip of a nightmare. Unpleasant dreams seemed quite regular for Raphael, but this felt different. He seemed more afraid. Looked slightly more… powerless. His breathing came in quick, ragged gasps, his curled body tense and trembling. Without looking away, Astarion shifted further inside the carriage and pulled the door closed.  

Astarion started shrugging off his sodden clothes. He removed his shirt, then his trousers, scrambling around in the low light to find a clean, dry pair in his backpack.

Raphael’s body suddenly jolted, making Astarion jump in surprise. He turned to see Raphael squirming, muscles clenching and twitching. His shirt had ridden up slightly, revealing a toned lower stomach, a bare strip of flesh across his hips.

Forgetting his own nakedness, Astarion leaned over and gently touched the sliver of skin. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but the heat that spread through his fingers was heavenly, and he couldn’t resist laying his palm flat on the exposed stomach. Pressing firmly on Raphael’s trembling muscles seemed to calm him; his twitching lessened, his ragged breaths slowed.

Astarion glanced up at his face. His eyeballs were moving rapidly under closed lids, thick lashes fluttering. He leaned in closer, his free hand pushing back a lock of dark hair that had fallen across Raphael’s face. He smelled amazing, like musk, cherries. Astarion couldn’t help but press his nose against Raphael’s neck. He felt the throbbing pulse gradually slowing as Raphael’s nightmare eased. Blissful warmth seeped into the elf’s skin, spreading across his face. 

He kept his eyes on the sleeping devil’s as he licked a stripe up the column of Raphael’s throat. The body beneath him shuddered, though not like before, this was lighter, a tremor of release as tension ebbed away.

He tasted like distress.

Before he knew it, Astarion was fully leaning over Raphael’s sleeping form, one hand still on his stomach, fingers ever so slightly tucked into the waistband of the devil’s trousers, sapping his warmth, the other moving round behind his neck, to cradle his head and lift him slightly…

As Raphael’s head tipped back, neck bared to the vampire, Astarion slowly lowered his mouth again.

Raphael’s breath hitched in a sharp inhale as Astarion’s teeth pierced his skin.

In an instant, scalding blood filled Astarion’s mouth, burning his tongue and gums. He involuntarily gulped, sending the burning liquid searing down his throat.

He dropped Raphael and lurched away from him, distantly aware of the thudding the devil’s head made as it clashed against the floor. 

Panting, Astarion desperately tried to pull cool air over his quickly blistering tongue. He grabbed his backpack from the corner, hurriedly uncorking a healing potion and swallowing it in one gulp. Gasping for air when he’d emptied the bottle, he slowly turned to look at the devil on the floor…

Raphael was lying there, looking up at Astarion from beneath lowered brows, suspicion and a slight bewilderment in his eyes.

“Oh! Hello, darling,” Astarion trilled breathlessly, “don’t mind me.” 

It occurred to Astarion that the scene looked much worse than simply a vampire giving into his bloodthirst. Astarion was fully naked, and Raphael’s trousers had been pulled further down a few inches, his shirt pulled up around his ribs.

“Oh Hells, that wasn’t… I didn’t… Look. I know how this appears…” he stammered, grabbing his dry trousers and thrusting his legs in. 

Raphael raised a single eyebrow, pulling himself up slowly. Was that a mischievous glint in his eye? Was Astarion just imagining a smirk underneath the muzzle? 

“Let’s chalk this up to a terrible idea fuelled by poor impulse control, shall we? No need to dwell,” he blurted sheepishly, one hand in his backpack, rummaging. “I brought you something. It’s deer, caught this morning. And... it’s raw. Am I correct in assuming that’s more your preference?”

Astarion was delighted to see the devil’s attention shift, the offering clearly catching him off guard. His faux pas from moments ago seemingly forgotten in the wake of the new distraction.

“I know you’re hungry,” he spoke softly. “It must take a lot to feed a big devil like you.”

Raphael’s eyes snapped to Astarion’s. He could almost see the gears turning in the devil's mind, the sharp calculation behind his gaze. He was sizing Astarion up, searching for an angle. What was the vampire’s motive? What did he want in return? And, most dangerously, how could he exploit this small display of kindness?

“I don’t— I don’t want anything in return. Think of it as my way of saying thank you. For before, with the fire.” 

Raphael looked down at the strips of red flesh now in Astarion’s hands with an almost predatory intensity. Astarion had heard the constant, hollow growls of the cambion’s stomach while he slept, the deep, sorrowful noises of hunger. 

Astarion’s gaze flicked over the devil, quietly assessing. Beneath the power and malice, Raphael was just like any other beast, driven by a primal need for sustenance. Astarion could trust him to behave, at least for now, in exchange for food. It was enough to make him consider removing the muzzle without backup.

A sharp rap on the carriage door signalled their departure, and moments later, the vehicle jolted into motion, rolling slowly over the rain-softened ground. The steady drum of rain on the roof had ceased, so Astarion assumed the others were taking advantage of the clear weather while it lasted and hitting the road again.

“I’m going to have to trust you again, so no funny business. Now, come here.” He sat back, leaning against the wall and gestured for Raphael to come closer.

Raphael shifted with great effort, easing onto his knees, before shuffling over and stopping a couple of feet away. The scent of musk and cherries filling the air between them.  

“You’ll have to come closer than that, dear,” Astarion sighed, widening his legs, beckoning Raphael to kneel between them. “I won’t bite. Not again,” he added with a shudder.

Maintaining eye contact, Raphael edged forwards slowly, heat radiating from his body. The look in his eyes told Astarion he saw right through this feigned dominance, this grasp at control. He knew exactly what Astarion was doing. He obeyed, but was visibly unimpressed.

“Don’t make a sound.” Astarion said slowly, reaching for the muzzle straps at the back of Raphael’s head, their faces only inches apart.

His fingers worked deftly at the straps, brushing through the thick strands of Raphael’s hair. His touch lingered for a moment, enjoying the warmth beneath his fingertips before he loosened the final buckle.

Astarion withdrew the muzzle fully and placed it on the floor beside him, leaning back against the wall, studying Raphael’s weary, bruised face. He looked better than he had when poison had coursed through his veins; colour had returned to his cheeks and the dark veins beneath his skin were less pronounced. His eyelids no longer drooped as heavily, and he seemed more alert, despite the exhaustion that still clung to him. 

Perhaps keeping him hungry had been the right choice, but it was too late for second guesses. Astarion had already made his offering. The devil was already on his knees between Astarion’s thighs. Besides, he liked this.

Raphael remained perfectly still, simply staring at Astarion. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Astarion shook his head.

Suddenly the carriage jerked violently, sending Raphael flying forwards and careening into Astarion. With his arms bound, he was unable to catch himself, his body landing flush against Astarion’s, a heavy weight between the elf’s open legs, a panting breath hot against his neck.

“No need to throw yourself at me quite so literally, darling. If you wanted to be closer, all you had to do was ask,” Astarion whispered into the ear that was level with his lips.

He was vividly aware of every inch of contact between them, every intimate brush. His senses zeroed in on the blood still on Raphael’s throat, staining his shirt collar. He felt his own blood racing, pumping, down… down between his legs.

Cackling voices filtered into the carriage from outside, Shadowheart calling out between giggles, “Sorry ’Star — didn’t see that pothole!” 

“Don’t get burnt by the hot potato!” Wyll’s voice rang with amusement and was met with howls of laughter from the others.

Astarion smirked at the hot potato in question, pushing him back up onto his knees. Holding him by the arms to steady him as the carriage rumbled over the uneven ground.

Raphael’s eyes darted between Astarion’s eyes and his lips. His chest was rising and falling with rapid, eager breaths. The ravenous look on his face intensified. 

Trying to shake off the heat pooling in his groin, Astarion looked down at the food still in his hand. He plucked a strip of raw deer meat, and raised his hand to the smirking lips in front of him. Those lips parted slightly, a quick flick of a tongue gliding across them, dampening the surface in anticipation of the moist flesh.

Gently, Astarion slid the meat into the open mouth. 

Raphael immediately closed his lips around Astarion’s fingers, causing him to exhale sharply, his eyes darting back to Raphael’s. The devil’s half-lidded gaze pinned him to the spot, dark and smouldering, as he swallowed the mouthful whole. A challenge, an invitation and warning all at once. 

One by one, Astarion pulled his fingers free. He allowed his thumb to linger on Raphael’s tongue for a tiny moment longer before slowly dragging it down over Raphael’s lower lip, and holding it in place. His other fingers curled around the devil’s jaw. 

Hells. He knew he was in trouble. 

Cupping Raphael’s chin with his hand, he leaned forwards, and ran his tongue along Raphael’s lips. The taste of distress was long gone. Replaced with excitement and— arousal? The devil was holding his breath, sitting perfectly still, eyes tracking each one of Astarion’s movements.

Tentatively, Astarion brushed his lips against Rapahel’s in a gentle, unhurried kiss, testing — savouring. 

At first, Raphael didn’t react, remaining unmoved, his eyes still open, expression unreadable. Then Astarion felt a soft exhale from Raphael’s lips, a hot puff of air ghosting into Astarion’s mouth as the devil finally moved against him, pressing back and deepening the kiss. Astarion felt himself melting into the heat of Raphael’s mouth. It was dizzying and overwhelming. 

His fingers grazed along Raphael’s jawline, sliding back to tangle in his hair. Gripping it tightly so as not to break the kiss, his other hand pushed the devil backwards, pressing him down until he was lying flat on the floor. With his arms still tied in front of him, Raphael had no choice but to submit. Astarion straddled Raphael’s bound legs, his hand sliding under Raphael’s shirt, palm pressing against the smooth, toned stomach, like it had only minutes before. But this time, the owner of that stomach was awake and wonderfully responsive. 

Raphael moaned into Astarion’s mouth, the low sound sending more waves of arousal down his spine, the heat engulfing him like wildfire.

Astarion knew this was a bad idea. He was risking everything. And for what? A fleeting fantasy? A moment of indulgence? But despite the warning screaming in his head, he couldn't tear himself away as Raphael shifted beneath him, his warmth anchoring him in place.

Spotting a low hook on the wall, likely meant for securing luggage, Astarion seized the opportunity to claim even more control. He lifted Raphael’s arms, threading the chains over the hook to pin him in place. To Astarion’s wicked delight, a flicker of panic crossed Raphael’s face, before it was swiftly replaced by irritation at finding himself so exposed, so utterly vulnerable beneath Astarion’s control.

“What are you afraid I might do?” Astarion whispered into Raphael’s skin as he peppered small, wet kisses over the devil’s neck, grazing over the bite marks from earlier with his teeth, the hot, dried blood tingling against his lips.

A deep chuckle rumbled from Raphael’s chest, the vibration thrumming through Astarion’s body. “I’m not afraid of you, little vampling. Please, do your worst.” 

Astarion pulled back, sitting upright. He stared at the man beneath him. The sound of Raphael’s velvety voice startled him more than he expected. It was rough, husky, weeks of disuse clinging to every syllable. Astarion had almost forgotten the weight of it, the way it filled the space, dark and commanding. The rich timbre sent a shiver through him. And then there was the challenge Raphael had purred, the wicked amusement in his eyes. 

Do your worst.

Slowly, he began to push Raphael’s shirt up his torso, exposing his stomach and chest. He leaned forwards again, keeping his gaze locked on those smouldering brown eyes, and dragged his tongue up the lean body, from hip to collarbone. Astarion was pleased to see Raphael break eye contact first, his eyes rolling up, head tilting back as he groaned and arched into it, his entire body shuddering beneath Astarion’s attention. The small victory was intoxicating, fuelling Astarion’s need to push further, to take more, revelling in every moment of dominance and control. 

Focusing his mouth on a nipple, Astarion teased with his tongue, gently grazing his teeth over it, relishing the gasps he coaxed from the devil between his legs. He scraped his fingernails back down Raphael’s torso, causing a shiver to run over the hot flesh, goosebumps prickling down searing skin.

Raphael tugged at his arms, unsuccessfully trying to unhook the chain link from the wall and free himself. Astarion bit down on his nipple in harsh reprimand, provoking a grunt of pain and surprise from Raphael. 

Crawling back up the devil’s body, Astarion returned to his mouth, kissing him gently and whispering seductively against his lips, “Oh absolutely not, darling. I’ve got you right where I want you.” 

Raphael opened his mouth to respond, but Astarion placed a hand over his lips. His other hand palming his prisoner through his trousers.

“I’m going to need you to be very quiet, devil.” As he breathed the words, he slipped his fingers under Raphael’s waistband, following the trail of hair and tapering muscle. He wrapped his hand around Raphael’s cock, and began to stroke.

Raphael gasped, his eyes screwed tightly shut, as if he were calling on every ounce of self control he possessed. He gritted his teeth beneath Astarion’s hand at his mouth, the elf’s fingers pressing hard into his bruised cheeks. 

Astarion worked his other hand up and down Raphael’s hard length, languidly, consistently, and squeezed the tip with each upward stroke, causing Raphael to roll his hips, grinding up into Astarion’s hand. When he felt the devil’s body tense, Astarion sped up a little, tightening his grip. His hand at Raphael’s mouth dropped to his neck, replaced by lips, in an impatient and demanding kiss. 

Raphael came with a deep moan, the sound prolonged, vibrating into Astarion’s mouth, as he rode out the waves of pleasure gripping his body. Hot seed spurted up his stomach, coating Astarion’s fingers. 

As he lay quivering and panting beneath him, Astarion leaned down and licked the devil’s abdomen, looking up at him through fluttering lashes as he lapped up his spend. It was a devastating move, Astarion knew, even Raphael had no defence for it, his cock twitching against his stomach in response to the sight.

Sitting up and licking his own fingers clean, Astarion smirked down at Raphael, who was basking in the afterglow of their brief entanglement. Half-lidded brown eyes gazed back up at him through a haze of pleasure. 

Without warning, Astarion slipped the muzzle over Raphael’s face, tightening the straps with agile fingers. “You owe me one, sweetling,” he said, smiling weakly at the devil, whose eyes had widened in surprise. A furrow appeared between his brows: annoyance at the abrupt conclusion to his blissful moment.

Astarion unhooked Raphael’s arms from above his head, helping him sit up and pull his shirt down. His body lurched as Astarion tucked his cock back into his trousers for him, still sensitive from his orgasm.

Astarion exited the carriage that evening hard and aching. He craved his own release, desperately, but wasn’t quite ready to give that part of him away again just yet. He would take care of that later, privately amongst the trees. Where no-one else would see him find release in thoughts of the devil.

Chapter Text

Evening settled over the landscape, the last remnants of daylight stretching long shadows across the sun-dried earth. The rain had stopped hours ago, and their steady pace had put the soaked lands around Beregost far behind them. Now, setting up camp off the main road, they welcomed the firm, dry ground. There would be no clinging mud and no damp bedrolls tonight.

In the distance, the jagged silhouette of the Cloud Peaks stretched across the horizon, the snow-capped summits bathed in the last light of dusk. Astarion was grateful his companions seemed too caught up in the view to notice the evidence of his earlier restraint — his self-denial —  an ache still pressing insistently against his trousers, as he hopped down from the carriage.

“Gods, it’s beautiful,” Shadowheart sighed, her gaze sweeping across the distant peaks. “And we’ll be crossing those mountains soon?”

“We’re about three days from Nashkel,” Wyll replied, nodding. “A small border town where we can stock up on supplies before we hit the mountains. Get ourselves prepared for the cold. Then we’ll take the Trade Way through Fang Pass. It sees a decent number of merchants, but it’s still pretty treacherous. Likely home to a few ogres.”

“Ogres? Wonderful. Because clearly, one ill-tempered, oversized menace just wasn’t enough.” Astarion drawled, trying to subtly adjust himself in his trousers.

“Oh come now, Astarion. He’s not oversized anymore,” Wyll said cheerily, thankfully not looking over at the vampire. 

“He’s not exactly small either,” Astarion muttered under his breath, the memory of his fingers wrapping around Raphael’s cock still fresh in his mind.

Not helpful.

As they spoke, Karlach hauled the ill-tempered menace in question out of the carriage. She lowered him to the ground unceremoniously, before leaning in and peering at him closely, perplexed.

Astarion noticed Shadowheart also staring at Raphael with a slightly horrified expression. Confused, he followed her line of sight… Straight to the devil’s throat, where two puncture wounds stood stark against his skin; his collar was saturated red, dried blood flaking on the side of his neck. 

Shit.

Astarion had been so distracted by everything else that had happened in the carriage that afternoon, he’d forgotten to clean up the evidence of his… experimental nibble. Straightening his collar and glancing around at the disapproving faces turned towards him, Astarion forced his best air of nonchalance. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if anyone forbade me from sampling the goods. And trust me, I won’t be making a habit of it.” He shuddered at the memory of his tongue burning like hellfire.

A moment of silence stretched uncomfortably between them all. It was awkward, heavy. Astarion wasn’t sure where to look.

“See, this is why you should always blow on your food first,” Shadowheart said quietly, a poorly-contained smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth, her eyes glistening in amusement.

Laughter erupted amongst the group, sudden and unrestrained, breaking the tension like a snapped bowstring. Karlach doubled over, one hand gripping the side of the carriage to keep from falling over as she roared, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“A bit spicy for your tastes, was he?” Wyll chortled, dabbing at the corners of his own eyes with the back of his hand. 

Gale gave Astarion a pat on his shoulder. “If only you were able to appreciate my cooking. You wouldn’t get peckish enough to eat our consignment.”

“Can we please drop it? Frankly, I think I’ve suffered enough,” Astarion sighed theatrically, a weight lifting from his shoulders as the uneasy atmosphere evaporated. 

Smiling along with his laughing companions, Astarion cast a glance at Raphael, slumped at the bottom of the carriage steps. The look in his eyes was one of pure disdain, as if he was barely tolerating the mockery. 

Maybe Astarion would try some light blowing next time…

________

As night fell, Astarion carried a bucket of water to a secluded spot amongst the trees. 

Gale had taken the first watch whilst the others settled in for the night, Karlach and Shadowheart opting to sleep inside the carriage with Raphael again, despite the clear weather.

Astarion couldn’t help but feel a strange and unwelcome twinge of envy. It was an intimacy he wasn’t sure he wanted to share.

Using the small amount of fire magic at his disposal, Astarion heated the water until it simmered, the warmth rising in the cool night air. 

His mind raced, bitter thoughts lingering on Raphael’s body heat being claimed by someone else.

But as he dipped the sponge into the water and ran it over his chest, those thoughts dissipated, replaced by the sensation of soothing warmth trickling down his torso. His thoughts drifted back to having the devil tied beneath him, breath ragged against his neck, body writhing under his hands… Imagining the hot skin underneath his fingernails as he’d scraped them down Raphael’s lean abdomen, Astarion ran his hands over his own body. His own cold skin feeling foreign and dead.

He unfastened his trousers and — finally — allowed his cock to spring free. Sighing deeply, he wrapped his wet fingers around it in a firm grip and slowly began to stroke. 

Tipping his head back, Astarion closed his eyes, allowing the memories of the afternoon to flood his mind; flashes of what he’d already done, and the darker, more tempting images of what else he longed to do. Grinding his hips into his own hand, he imagined straddling Raphael’s chest, prying open his mouth and slipping his cock between the devil’s warm lips. In his mind, he took handfuls of thick hair between his fingers, grasping, pulling, holding Raphael’s head still, as he buried himself in that wet heat. Pinned by Astarion’s legs, arms chained above his head, Raphael’s brown eyes would be half-lidded with lust as he took every inch of Astarion, his lips swollen and his tongue swirling against the shaft.

Astarion’s breath grew ragged, low moans slipping from his lips, breaking the stillness of the forest as he leaned forwards, pressing his palm against the rough bark of a tree for support, his other hand speeding up. 

His entire body stiffened as climax overtook him. Pleasure rippled through him in shuddering waves, his cock pulsing in his hand, spend coating his fingers.

“Astarion? Is that you? Are you out here?”

Astarion tensed at the sound of Gale’s voice close by. 

He wasn’t embarrassed to be caught naked, no, he was far too accustomed to being exposed physically. But the shame of what he’d been doing rattled him. What — who — he had been thinking about as he did it. As if Gale could somehow know. His shock and horror quickly shifted into irritation. Why was Gale skulking around the forest in the night, sneaking up on people simply washing themselves? 

Stepping closer to his tree for cover, keeping his back to the forest, Astarion hastily splashed water over his hands and groin and grabbed his towel. “What in the Hells do you want, Gale?!” He hissed angrily, as the wizard stumbled out from behind a tree, his eyebrows lifting in surprise at the sight of Astarion wearing only a towel.

“Astarion! Oh, I’m— I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to— gosh this is terribly discourteous of me,” he stammered, spinning around to face the trees. 

Astarion couldn’t suppress the amusement creeping in as Gale stumbled over his words. After all, he was the one who'd intruded, he should be the embarrassed one. “You know, you could’ve just asked for a private viewing, Gale, there’s no need to sneak around,” Astarion said smirking, his irritation now tinged with playful dominance.

“Aha, very good, Astarion. No. No, that’s not why I’m here.” Gale approached a fallen tree, gathering his robes around him as he eased himself down. 

Well, he clearly wasn’t going anywhere. Sighing, Astarion finished towelling himself off and started dressing.

“Well, I certainly hope you didn’t come out here just to ruin my perfectly serene moment.” He slipped into his boots, his voice still playful, but now a flicker of interest crept into his tone. What could Gale possibly want that couldn’t wait? He turned to face Gale again, who looked up at him from his log, an embarrassed flush colouring his cheeks.

“So, how are you doing, Astarion? Are you getting on okay in that carriage?” Gale asked, fidgeting with a piece of moss growing in the bark next to him. 

“I’m getting on just fine, thank you,” Astarion said, frowning. He perched himself on another fallen stump, facing the wizard. “What exactly is this about?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. I just thought it pertinent to… enquire as to how you really are.” 

“You’re kidding, right? You thought that sneaking up on me in the forest while I’m completely naked was the best time to check in?” Astarion couldn’t keep the rising hostility out of his voice.

Gale’s eyes skimmed over Astarion’s body briefly before returning to meet his gaze. “How is Raphael?” 

Something was off about the wizard. On the surface, he appeared to be his usual blustering self, but there was something in his eyes that felt different… He held Astarion's gaze, longer than usual.

“Well, if you mean after I drank his blood, I suppose he’s been a little out of sorts. On account of being drained and all…”

The man’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a hint of ire flashing through them.

This was not Gale.

In one smooth motion, Astarion drew a dagger from his boot, lunging forwards to seize the man by the back of his neck. Resting the blade against his throat, Astarion bared his teeth, flashing his fangs. “Who are you, really?” he growled.

Not-Gale didn’t even flinch at Astarion’s sudden movement — nor the blade at his throat. He tilted his head slightly, a smirk curling on his lips as he regarded Astarion with a deliberate flutter of his eyelashes. “What gave it away?”

“Who the fuck are you?" Astarion hissed, pressing harder with the blade. “Tell me, or you die.”

“Oh, little vampling. You cannot kill me on this plane, you sweet, silly thing.” 

Astarion blinked as the figure before him began to glow slightly. Then Gale’s body shifted, as if his very skeleton had expanded from within. Large wings unfurled from his shoulder blades, jagged horns sprouting from his forehead, while his skin deepened into a rich, fiery red.

A deep laugh rumbled from the creature, but it was no longer Gale’s voice. It was a voice which Astarion was now a little more intimately familiar with. 

Haarlep looked at Astarion through Raphael’s cambion eyes. 

“Why are you here, incubus?” Astarion spat. 

“Well, that’s not very nice, is it?” Haarlep drawled. “Why don’t you put your little knife away so we can play nicely? I’ll just spawn right back in the House of Hope should you use it.” 

Astarion pulled himself away swiftly, putting some distance between himself and the fiend, but he did not lower his knife.

“Good enough,” Haarlep chuckled, tilting their head again and drinking in the sight of Astarion. “It’s a shame you put your clothes back on, we could have had a bit of fun, you and I…”

“I’d never touch you, devil.” 

“No? Not even in this body?” They smirked, running a hand down the muscular cambion frame, stilling when they reached their crotch, fingers tightening on the bulge. “I think you quite like this one. I can taste your arousal.” 

“Oh fuck off, Haarlep,” Astarion snarled, thankful his undead body couldn’t betray him by blushing. “What do you want from me? Don’t make me ask again.”

“I merely wanted to see how my little brat is doing. Have you been doing awful, nasty things to him?”

“He’s fine. Why do you care? You gave him to the diabolist in the first place.”

“Has he felt me using his body?” Haarlep asked, ignoring Astarion’s question. “Every single night.”

Astarion frowned. “What does that mean?”

“When I wear this form, he can feel everything I do in it.” Haarlep purred, giving themself another squeeze. “That creepy little diabolist wanted to have her way with him — he couldn’t quite perform, so she took me in his form instead. Definitely the better choice, of course, I was literally made for such sport, but my poor little brat was forced to watch. Chained to the chair at the foot of her bed, feeling every thrust I made, every nip and bite she took of me. He was not a happy boy when we finished playing. Tell me, is he still furious?”

“I’ll make sure to ask him.”

The incubus sighed dramatically. “I’ve been working so very hard to get his attention. I hope he’s been thinking about me.”

“Can he feel you now…?” Astarion asked, pointedly looking at Haarlep’s hand slowly stroking themself over their garments. 

“Mmmmmm. Oh yes. Do you want a ride? Maybe he’ll know it’s you.”

Astarion felt desire curling in his belly, heat pooling in his groin. An image flickered through his mind, vivid and intrusive. Raphael’s brown eyes looking up at him, lips stretched around Astarion’s throbbing cock. It’s the incubus, he told himself, blinking the vision away. Closing his eyes, he forced his breath to still. Better to shut it off entirely than risk inhaling any more pheromones. Breathing was more of a habit for a vampire anyway, not a necessity.

“I must say, little vampling, your interest in my pet intrigues me. What could a scared, little mouse like you see in a big, evil monster like him?” 

“I thought you were his pet.” 

Haarlep tipped their head back to laugh. A rich, sensual sound that only fanned the flames of Astarion’s growing arousal. “You couldn’t be further from the truth, little one. Raphael can deny me nothing. He is mine.” They growled the last word, teeth slightly bared.

Astarion flinched, alarmed by the intensity of it. 

Haarlep’s voice darkened, dripping with menace. “Take pleasure with his body, if you must. I’ll allow that. But keep those rotting fangs of yours off him. I will not have another creature feeding on what is mine.”

“Trust me, darling, I’ve had my fill. I’d rather sip from a goblin’s swill bucket than endure that wretched taste again.”

Astarion didn’t have time to blink before Haarlep was upon him, knocking him to the forest floor and pinning him down with a clawed hand on each wrist. They leaned in, inhaling deeply as they trailed their nose up his neck to whisper in his ear. “Still, you reek of hunger,” they purred, their breath hot against his skin. “You can lie to yourself all you like, little leech, but your body tells the truth. Make sure you don’t forget, Raphael is mine alone to devour. Body, soul, and every sweet, shivering breath in between. Mine.”

Astarion let out a breathless laugh, though there was little amusement in it. “Charming. Truly. But if you’re quite done with the theatrics, I’d rather not spend the night in the dirt.” He squirmed beneath Haarlep’s grip. “Now, be a dear and get off.”

Astarion was slightly surprised when Haarlep released him, rising gracefully to their feet before returning to sit on their fallen tree, a disarming smile curving their lips — Raphael’s lips.

Astarion pushed himself up, brushing leaves and dirt from his clothes, his own lips curling into a smirk. He was still unsettled, but he masked it with a veneer of nonchalance. “So, let’s be civil, shall we? You tell me what you’re doing here, and I won’t send you back to Avernus with your throat slit.”

“Oh, so very civil, little vampling. Very well. As you know, we have a friend in common. The pervert diabolist in Baldur’s Gate. Helsik. We’re clearly on the same side here.”

“Are we now?” Astarion muttered, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. We are.” Haarlep smiled sweetly. “Well, anyway, she wanted to know how her little hirelings are getting on, transporting her oh so precious cargo to Athkatla. I’m here for a report.”

“A report from just me? What about the others?” 

“Oh come now, you’re smarter than that, my dear. They’re sleeping, obviously,” Haarlep giggled, rolling their eyes.

“And you couldn’t wait until morning?” 

“When you claimed to be using my little brat as your personal blood bag, I felt compelled to step in.” Anger flashed across Haarlep’s expression once more.

“Look, Haarlep, I tried it once. His blood practically burned my face off and then boiled all my insides. I certainly won’t be doing that again.” 

Haarlep turned their head away, assessing Astarion sidelong, their mouth twisting in thought.

“Good,” they simply said, then with a grin they added, “has he managed to manipulate you yet?” 

“I beg your pardon? And how exactly do you think he’d manage that? He’s chained and muzzled,” Astarion scoffed.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Haarlep drawled, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “maybe it starts with a little sympathy for the poor, tortured creature. Look at him, so big, so cramped, those wings and horns must be terribly uncomfortable. Maybe we should let him shift into his human form, yes? Oh, and he’s probably tired of choking on poison too. And of course, we can't forget, let’s feed him some tasty meat, because we want our cambion to grow up big and strong, yes?”

Astarion felt dread in the pit of his stomach. Any trace of arousal long extinguished. He really was a fool. He’d let himself feel pity, even guilt. He’d tried to help Raphael and ease his suffering. Hells, they had even shared a moment. Though now, in hindsight, it felt more like Astarion had simply serviced the fiend, getting nothing out of it himself. He burned with anger, but it was the disappointment that cut deeper. Disappointment because some small part of him had thought he and Raphael shared some sort of… connection. 

“So you haven’t tried to remove that sexy little muzzle?” Haarlep was smirking. “Oh, by the way, can I keep that when you’re done with it?”

Astarion threw up a hand to shut Haarlep up. The incubus just giggled. 

“What are you getting out of this, devil? What’s your angle?”

“My angle? I told you, I’m here to check in. Is my touch-starved little prince still having his nightmares?”

“Yes.” Astarion stated, now pleased for any small amount of suffering Raphael may endure.

“Do you want me to swing by and give him something more pleasurable to dream about instead?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, you are a vindictive little thing, aren’t you? Off to punish him now for being a devil? How delicious.” 

Astarion sighed, torn between confusion and frustration. He had been quick to anger at the thought that Raphael had manipulated him, yet now he wondered if Haarlep was simply doing the same: getting under his skin, playing on his emotions, goading him into anger.

“Just report back to Helsik, if you must,” he said as calmly as he could. “We’re fine for now, just a few days out from the mountains. But we may be under pursuit. Someone attempted to set fire to the carriage outside Beregost, likely agents of Mephistopheles trying to take Raphael. They must know about us and where we’re going."

“Ahh yes… That.” Haarlep muttered, their eyes shifting uncomfortably. “Mephisto doesn’t know.” 

“What? How can you be sure?”

“I’ve been playing my part too, sweetling, charading as Raphael when necessary, allowing him to be seen in Avernus, occasionally Cania. Mephistopheles is growing suspicious, wondering why his unruly spawn hasn’t reported in. But if I were to go to Mephistar, he’d know the moment I stepped foot in the capital. He’ll catch on eventually, but for now, I've bought us some time."

Astarion raised an eyebrow, somewhat impressed. He hadn’t known about these precautions. “But... hang on, it didn’t work. He knows. Someone set the fire.”

Haarlep shifted slightly, a subtle unease creeping into their posture.

Astarion frowned, his suspicion growing. “That was you, wasn’t it? The Selûnite cleric? You set the fire?! You nearly killed me, you bastard!”

“I didn’t know you were inside,” Haarlep whined, with clearly feigned ignorance.

“But why set it at all? What was the point?” Astarion’s mind was racing as he tried to understand the incubus’ motivations. 

Haarlep’s playful smirk faded. “I wanted him back.”

Astarion instinctively took a step backwards. “I thought— I thought you were helping us. We need to get him to Athkatla. Why would you release him?”  

Haarlep’s eyes darkened as their gaze drifted, as if they were focusing on some distant memory. Their voice dropped as they stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “For thousands of years, I’ve fed off him. Thousands and then... nothing. Can you understand what that’s like?” they whispered, shuddering at the very thought. “Imagine feeding on something so delicious, so nourishing, that every cell in your body is revived with each sip? His soul...” They exhaled sharply, as if tasting it on the air. “It’s an exquisite elixir, like honey and wine. Each drop is intoxicating.” Their lips curled into a predatory smile. “I’ve fed from many, but none compare to him. He’s not just sustenance, he’s indulgence — no, decadence...”

Haarlep paused for a moment, as if savouring the thought, before shrugging, a small, unsettling smile tugging at their lips again. “So yes, I set the fire. To borrow him, just for a little snack. A moment of weakness. I’m sure you’ve had your fair share.”

Astarion’s gaze softened, a faint nod acknowledging Haarlep’s words. “I understand more than you think,” he said quietly. “The pull of something like that… something you can't resist… Well, it's a hunger that never quite goes away. Though, I suppose I’m still much, much younger than you, so my appetites perhaps aren’t quite so well established,” he added with a smirk.

Haarlep’s lips curled into an annoyed sneer at Astarion’s taunt. “In any case, little mouse, you and I clearly understand each other,” they drawled, choosing not to indulge the jab. “So why not help one another? There must surely be something that you want? Something I can provide?” 

“Look Haarlep, as enticing as all this is,” Astarion said, gesturing to the large cambion body right in front of him. “I don’t even know how to get you what you want. The carriage is always being watched; two of them are sleeping in there right now. I can’t sneak you in, I can’t sneak him out. It’s just not going to work.” 

“Why so sneaky, little rogue? I would be happy to provide for everyone. Like I said, we’re on the same side.” Haarlep scratched their chin with long, clawed fingers, in an exaggerated show of thought. “Aha! I know exactly what you need. In a few days, your path will take you through the Cloud Peaks: a freezing and inhospitable place. Your spicy little prisoner is the only one with enough body heat to keep you all warm. Will you be drawing straws to decide who gets to snuggle up to him each night? I think not. I can provide you with furs from the dire wolves of Cania, built to withstand the harshest cold in all the Nine Hells. You won’t feel a single chill. Nothing you can buy in Nashkel will compare to the warmth these coats offer. I’ll acquire one for each of you, in exchange for a simple feeding schedule. On your terms, of course. Keep him in chains if you must, I think I’d find that rather… delightful.”

Haarlep gave Astarion a smug smile, eyes gleaming with self-assured confidence that their offer could not be refused.

“Alright, I’ll speak to the others at dawn, but they won’t like it,” Astarion said, pointing a stern finger at Haarlep, who gave it a look like they just might bite it. “Just, give us some time to discuss it and then come find us in Nashkel. I’m sure you’ll be able to pick up his scent.”

Picking up his bucket, Astarion turned to walk away from the incubus, before he remembered something he wanted to ask.

“Haarlep, can Gale feel you… using his body too?” 

Haarlep grinned at him through the darkness, teeth glowing in the soft moonlight. “He certainly can.”

Chapter Text

Haarlep’s proposal was met with about as much enthusiasm as Astarion expected.

None. Just horror, revulsion, and outrage. 

The others were unsettled enough by the revelation that the creature had been slinking around in the night, Gale, however, was mortified to learn they had done so wearing his face.

“I don’t understand how you didn’t immediately suspect it wasn’t me, Astarion?! I was on watch, for Mystra’s sake, I would never leave my post!”

“I did realise, Gale, that’s the point.” Astarion rolled his eyes. He knew they would be a tough crowd, but he hadn’t expected quite this much backlash for a mere suggestion.  

“You’re asking us to make another deal with another fucking devil,” Karlach sighed, exasperated.

“Not to mention, Astarion, you know how an incubus feeds, right?” Wyll added. “We can’t allow them to be alone with Raphael, and I don’t imagine he would agree to an audience.” 

Astarion hadn’t considered that. If Raphael wasn’t a willing participant, then there wasn’t much they could do — aside from forcing the incubus on him, and with his own history, that was a path Astarion wasn’t willing to entertain. 

Shadowheart sighed, shivering slightly in the cool morning air, the sun not quite risen. “We could really do with those coats though. Do you think we can persuade him? They’re his incubus after all.” 

“We can find adequate coats in Nashkel. The plan needn’t change just because Haarlep is pedalling slightly thicker furs,” Wyll implored, shaking his head. “I’m not giving Raphael the chance to gain leverage on us.” 

Gale was visibly uncomfortable. “But what if the incubus turns on us? If it’s true that all they want is him,” he gestured towards the carriage, “will we have to fend them off at every corner? Can we afford to provoke them?”

“Not to mention we can’t kill them on this plane. Not permanently. They’ll just keep coming for us. For him.” Astarion muttered. “Perhaps I could talk to him?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Karlach said. She was pacing as she always did when her temper was rising, her boots thudding heavily against the ground.

“I think I could persuade him,” Astarion said quietly.

“And I think I could rip his heart out and serve it to Haarlep on a silver platter,” Karlach retorted. “But it’s not going to happen. We can’t— I can’t afford to risk anything going wrong here.”

“If Haarlep attacks us, we’ll handle it,” Wyll said, moving to stand beside Karlach, who had paused her pacing and was breathing heavily, the flames licking her skin glowing brightly.

“Well, be prepared for them to come looking for us in Nashkel,” Astarion replied, his tone flat. He couldn’t help but shudder at the thought. Haarlep wasn’t just a trickster, but a predator. A creature of deception. They had their own ways of getting what they wanted, and with their ability to take any form, no-one would see them coming.

Unable to linger in the open any longer, Astarion climbed into the carriage to escape the rising sun. Karlach and Wyll had taken Raphael out for a quick splash from a bucket before they continued on the road to Nashkel.

Shadowheart followed him in, a tentative smile on her face. “Look, Astarion, I know this isn’t exactly what we hoped for, but it’s for the best. Raphael wouldn’t get much out of that deal with Haarlep, so his price would be steep — too steep.” She paused, making sure he was listening, even though he focused on smoothing down the bedrolls. “I wouldn’t want you paying that price, Astarion. Nor Karlach, if we fail to fix her engine.”

“I know, dear,” Astarion said, shrugging off her gentleness. “I just… I guess I’m afraid of what Haarlep might do. They started the fire, you know. They almost killed me. If I hadn’t released Raphael’s wings in a moment of weakness, then I wouldn’t be here now. And yet, I know I shouldn’t have untied him.” 

Shadowheart tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady as she considered his words. “A moment of weakness?” she echoed softly. “No, Astarion. Not weakness. You had all that power over a devil, not to mention one that frightens you, and yet you showed him mercy above anything else. I call that strength.”

Astarion pulled a face. Shadowheart was sweet, loyal, she’d always say whatever was needed to build her friends up. A healer of hurts and hearts alike. “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. And it’s all just... regurgitated blood. Disgusting.”

Shadowheart shoved him playfully. “You’re a twat, you know that?” 

“I do.” Astarion said simply, reaching to give her hand a quick squeeze. “Thank you, though.” 

She gave him a silly, toothy smile, before her expression turned wicked. “Oh, you’re going to love this: so, as you know, Karlach and I slept in here again last night. Well, in the early hours, I woke up to these strange noises. Raphael was sort of… squirming about…”

“Nightmares? He seems to get them a lot,” Astarion said, nodding.

“Does he always climax after a nightmare? Oh wait, he’s a devil… so maybe he does…”

“I’m sorry, climax? Like…” Astarion made an obscene gesture at waist-level. 

“Mhmm.” Shadowheart’s eyes were mischievous, her mouth pursed with unbridled glee.

“Well shit. What did you do?” An image flashed across Astarion’s vision — Raphael beneath him, eyes scrunched closed, back arching, riding out waves of pleasure.

“Pretended to be asleep. I think it woke him up, I thought I’d spare him the humiliation.”

“Did Karlach notice?”

“No, she was dead to the world.” 

“So you just left him there? Lying in his own damp patch?!” Astarion chuckled. 

“What was I supposed to do?! ‘Hey Raphael, I see you’ve just made a mess of yourself, wanna take your trousers off and I’ll clean you right up?’”  

Suddenly Astarion remembered his conversation with the incubus. His laughter died down somewhat. “So, Haarlep told me that they’ve been trying to get his attention. And that he can feel them touching themself in his form… as if they were touching him.” 

“Oh.” Shadowheart’s face fell. “Well that’s definitely not as funny. I can’t believe you’ve actually made me feel sympathy for a devil.” 

“While we’re at it, maybe spare some for Gale too. Haarlep has his form.”

Shadowheart’s mouth dropped open then. Her brow furrowed. “I think I would like for us to kill Haarlep after all,” she said quietly. “Why hasn’t Gale said anything? Gods, we’ve been teasing him for weeks. I feel awful.”

Hearing approaching voices, they both looked up to see Karlach and Wyll returning with Raphael. They had loosened the chains around his ankles slightly, allowing him to take small steps. He walked slowly, still weakened from hunger. 

Giving Astarion a guilty smile, Shadowheart hopped down from the carriage, leaning away briefly before turning back with the syringe in her hands. “I’m sorry, ‘Star, I know this isn’t your favourite method of cambion control. I’ll keep the dose low, but I think we need it.”

Astarion shrugged, Haarlep’s snide comments about Raphael’s manipulation still played on his mind. “I don’t entirely disagree with it anymore.” 

“Delivery for Master Ancunín,” Wyll said, a broad smile on his face, as they neared the carriage.

“Where do I sign?” Astarion laughed, shuffling further back into the carriage to make room.

A few moments later, Astarion and Raphael were back inside the carriage, alone, doors closed to the rising sun. Raphael was barely clinging onto consciousness, slumped against the wall, gazing wearily at Astarion. 

“Your incubus paid me a visit.”

Raphael frowned, his head tilting in silent question. 

“They wanted to make a deal. Scheduled feeding visits with you, in exchange for some dire wolf fur coats to see us across the mountain.” 

Astarion wasn’t sure he understood Raphael’s answering shrug.

“Would you have done it?” 

A nod.

“But why? Why would you want to help us? Or even Haarlep, they betrayed you.”

Raphael looked away, closing his eyes. 

“Oh I see. Because it would help you somehow, right? That’s the only reason you’d agree. What would you even get out of it?”

Brown eyes opened and met Astarion’s gaze. Raphael raised an eyebrow and gave a small, sluggish head bob, as if it was obvious what he would get out of it.

Oh.

Oh.

Astarion would have blushed if he could, feeling foolish. “Right, of course. Sex with an incubus. How could I be so oblivious?” 

He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much. Raphael and Haarlep had been fucking for thousands of years — the incubus had said it themself. “Well, you’ll be disappointed to hear, we’re declining the terms. No more devilish dealings for us. After the one involving you.”

Raphael’s eyes crinkled in amusement before he closed them again, tipping his head back to rest on the wall as the paralytic-poison flooding his veins continued to take effect. 

Astarion ran his eyes up and down the slumped figure. He looked clean save for his clothes. “Haarlep said they’ve been… using your form.” 

Raphael’s eyes opened. But he didn’t move.

“So, I thought you might like a change of clothes.” 

Raphael glanced at Astarion briefly, before casting his eyes down.

“Look, a man with a bathtub like yours back at home clearly loves to be clean. I can help. I’ve got spare clothes; you’re only a tiny bit taller than me in your human form, I think they should fit.”

Astarion took the slight quiver of Raphael’s brows as confirmation that his instincts were right. Turning away to grab the spare clothes, he smiled to himself, savouring the quiet thrill of control. “I’m going to do your legs first, okay? I’ll have to undo the chains.”

Producing the keys he’d swiped from Wyll as the warlock had helped their prisoner back into the carriage, Astarion set to work unlocking the chains around Raphael’s ankles. Raphael watched through slow, languid blinks, struggling to hold onto consciousness, as Astarion moved up his legs and began to unfasten his trousers at his waist. 

Astarion’s thoughts were a dizzy blur of anticipation. “You’ll need to lift your hips for me to get these off.”

A light brush against the warm skin on Raphael’s stomach sent a shiver down Astarion’s spine. After a night spent lost in fantasy, being this close again was intoxicating. 

Raphael’s length twitched underneath the fabric, hardening from the gentle touches. Astarion bit his lip, tugging the waistband lower to reveal taut ridges of muscle. Then he looked up, and saw Raphael’s eyes. Unfocused, lids dipping lower and lower.

“Seriously? You’re going to fall asleep right now?”

Raphael blinked rapidly, his lashes fluttering as he fought to rouse himself. He was losing the fight, the drugs sinking their claws into him and pulling him under.

“Oh, for the love of—” Astarion sighed, halting in his removal of the garments and sitting back up.

He stared down at Raphael, whose brows were drawn together in a faint frown of disappointment, his breaths deepening as he slipped helplessly into drugged sleep. The sting of frustration coursed through Astarion, in more ways than one — he was annoyed, yes, but also... undeniably, achingly frustrated. He knew he couldn’t exactly blame Raphael for it, but the outfit change would have to wait. 

With another sigh, he refastened the chain around the devil’s ankles. The cold bite of metal against hot skin sparked the contrasting memory of Raphael’s tail coiling around his own ankle all those days ago. Had that been part of the manipulation that Haarlep had warned him about? Was Raphael manipulating him now, playing on his desire, or was this him using the devil as a means to satisfy his own twisted need for control? 

Astarion wasn’t entirely sure which one of them was the puppet.

________

That night, Astarion approached Gale by the fire. The others had long since retired, but the wizard sat with a cup of Blackstaff Red, swirling the wine idly as he stared into the flickering flames, his expression distant, contemplative.

“Thinking of home?” Astarion asked, settling onto the blanket beside him.

“Always.” Gale smiled, though he didn’t look away from the fire. He lifted his cup, tilting it slightly to inspect the deep red within. “Waterdeep in a bottle.”

“I always preferred a Gulthmeran Reserve myself,” Astarion mused, watching the liquid catch the firelight.

“A fine choice,” Gale said with a nod, finally turning his gaze to Astarion. “But I suspect you didn’t come here just to talk about wine. How can I help you, Astarion?”

“Why did you do it?” Astarion blurted out.

“Do what?”

“Allow Haarlep to… do what they did to you.” 

Gale looked away, his deep blush visible in the low light as he considered his answer. “Curiosity, mostly,” he admitted. “Incubi are rare, Astarion. A brush with one is a once in a lifetime experience… or so I thought at the time.” He gave a small smile, shaking his head. “To be honest, I wanted to see what it was like. To understand the allure, the power they wield. And, well… those pheromones.” He let out a quiet chuckle. “I don’t know if I could have said no, even if I’d wanted to.” He glanced at Astarion, his expression turning more serious. “And we needed Raphael’s safe key, didn’t we? At the time, it seemed a small price to pay.”

“But not so small now?”

Gale gave him a knowing look. “It’s been an adjustment.”

“Gods, I’m so sorry, Gale. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to have your body used without— without truly wanting it.” Astarion hesitated, his voice quieter now. “I just want you to know that I understand.”

Gale’s gaze drifted back to the fire, his expression turning distant again. “It’s like a whisper of something happening, just out of reach. A sensation I can’t quite describe. Like being touched by a ghost.” He shuddered, rubbing a hand over his arm. “Intimately.”

A moment of silence stretched between them before Gale huffed out a humourless laugh. “Thankfully, the incubus seems far more enamoured with our prisoner than with my fine features.”

Astarion smirked. “Understandable. Raphael does have a certain ‘chained and tormented’ allure.” 

Gale rolled his eyes, smiling, taking another swig of his wine.

“Gale?”

“Yes, Astarion?”

“Do you believe someone can be inherently evil?”

“Unquestionably. We were just discussing Haarlep, were we not?”

Astarion exhaled slowly. “I just don’t understand how someone could be completely and truly evil. Irrevocably. Irredeemably. I’ve done despicable things, you know. Drunk my fill from innocents, played with my food, taken pleasure in cruelty. But even I can care. Even I can… want more…”

Gale turned to him, studying him in the firelight. “That’s because you’re not evil.”

Astarion let out a soft laugh. “Darling, I’m a vampire spawn. I’m supposed to be evil.”

“And yet, you aren’t.”

Astarion’s smile faded slightly.

Gale continued, “True evil isn’t just cruelty or selfishness. It’s being incapable of anything else.” He pointed to the carriage. “Devils lack empathy. They can understand what will cause pain, what will comfort, what will inspire trust, but they only use that knowledge to manipulate.”

Astarion folded his arms. “So what, they’re all just… born that way?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a convenient excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse. It’s the nature of their existence.” Gale leaned forwards. “Evil isn’t just an action, it’s an absence. They don’t hesitate before doing harm. They don’t choose selfishness over kindness because kindness was never an option to begin with.”

Astarion hesitated. “I don’t buy it. People are more complicated than that.”

“They’re not people.”

Astarion’s fingers tapped restlessly against his arm. “Then explain this: Raphael is half human. He dreams. He has nightmares. If he was truly unfeeling, how could he ever wake up in a cold sweat?”

Gale frowned, considering. “Because fear is not the same as empathy. Think about it. He likely doesn’t dream of those he’s harmed. He doesn’t wake in the night haunted by guilt. He fears only for himself. I think he’s afraid of what’s waiting for him in Minauros. Or afraid of his father.”

Astarion looked away.

Gale softened. “I know it’s a difficult thought. You—” He hesitated, then chose his words carefully. “You were shaped by a monster. And yet, you still became something else. So, you assume others must have the same chance. The same choices.”

Astarion toyed with a loose thread on his sleeve. “I suppose, what really frightens me,” he admitted, voice quieter now, "is that if he truly is evil, down to his very core, then maybe I am too.” Gale’s brows drew together, but Astarion kept going. “But if I’m not… if there’s something else in me, something that fights against it… then what does that mean for him? He’s got more human in him than I do, after all.”

Gale studied him for a long moment, swirling the wine in his cup as if it might grant him wisdom. Finally, he sighed. “I think,” he said carefully, “that you’re looking for an answer where there isn’t one. Or at least, not one that’s so… clean cut. We are not simply what we were made to be. And perhaps neither is he.” He took a slow sip, gaze distant. “But if you’re looking for reassurance or some guarantee that he is not what you fear he is… I can’t give you that, Astarion.” His lips quirked in a small, sad smile. “You’ll have to decide for yourself what you see when you look at him. And what you see when you look at yourself.”

Astarion didn’t answer. Instead, he stared into the fire, watching embers flicker and fade into the night. Thinking about their prisoner in the carriage, sleeping, his breath slow and steady. Dreaming.

________

Astarion climbed back into the carriage the next morning, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts. His conversation with Gale played on a loop in his head, needling at him in ways he didn’t like. The wizard’s words did make sense, but Astarion just wasn’t convinced. True, creatures like devils lacked empathy, their every action calculated for gain. But what about half-human, half-devils? Were they the same as true evil? Perhaps they were uncaring simply because they had never been shown another way to be? Did that make them evil, or just… broken?

And if that was the case, what did any of this make him?  A broken vampire spawn. He didn’t feel like he was evil. And he certainly could care for others…

He shoved the thought aside as his gaze landed on Raphael, awake and watching him. There was something pleased in that look, something expectant, and Astarion felt a familiar thrill coil in his chest.

Oh, he liked that. He liked the way those deep, brown eyes followed him, intense and ravenous. And even if the hunger was for all the wrong reasons, it was still for him.

Since he had been turned, lovers had come and gone (mostly gone, thanks to Cazador), never lasting long enough to matter. Astarion had never had time to become obsessed, to claim and keep someone for himself. But this creature… this chained, defiant thing… Astarion somehow felt like Raphael belonged to him. At least for now. And for the first time in his undead life, he was the one in control.

“Lie face down,” Astarion said, his voice rough. “Now.”

Raphael’s eyes narrowed, but Astarion could see it — that flicker of intrigue, of anticipation. He moved slowly, twisting his body to roll onto his front, leaning up on his elbows. His head turned back slightly to watch Astarion in his peripherals.

Astarion settled behind him, admiring the long, lean stretch of his body: the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the perfect curve of his backside.

“Hook your hands.” Astarion nodded to the low hook on the wall. 

For a moment, Raphael considered the request, looking like he might refuse. Then he extended his arms, hooking his bound wrists onto the wall fixture. No longer supported by his elbows, his shoulders and head rested on the floor. 

Submission.

Astarion slipped the key from his pocket and carefully began unlocking the chains around Raphael’s ankles for the second time in twenty four hours. “Are you going to stay awake this time, darling?” He cooed softly, glancing up at Raphael, who had now pressed his forehead against the floor. A small nod was his response.

“Good.”

Without warning, Astarion leaned forwards, gripping Raphael’s hips and lifting them, so his knees were pulled underneath. Raphael’s head and shoulders remained on the ground, his spine arching into a smooth, elegant curve. Astarion slid the devil’s shirt up along his back, letting it fall lower, revealing the expanse of tanned muscle beneath. He ran his hands over the hot skin and felt Raphael’s breath catch underneath his fingers. He slid his hands down and under, following the waistband to find the front of Raphael’s trousers. They were tight; Raphael’s cock already pushed against the fabric from the inside, hard and insistent. Astarion unfastened them, then peeling them down his thighs slowly, he leaned back to take in the view of the devil prostrated in front of him. Heat flooded his groin, and his own clothes felt uncomfortably tight, as he fully removed Raphael’s trousers and tossed them aside.

With a knee, he spread Raphael’s legs wider. Astarion felt lightheaded, almost drunk from excitement, as he placed a trembling thumb into his mouth, coating it with saliva. He let out a long, low exhale as he placed the pad of his thumb against Raphael’s entrance, his other hand spreading a cheek, nails digging into soft flesh. Raphael’s skin was scorching. His hole twitched slightly at Astarion’s touch, then his entire body stiffened as Astarion pressed inside.

Astarion felt giddy as he began to wiggle and rotate his thumb. Pulling out. Pushing in. The gentle rocking of the carriage guided his rhythm as he massaged the muscle, each sway setting a steady tempo. Raphael’s body was taut in effort to stay balanced as they moved.

Astarion tried to ignore the strange and insatiable urge that whispered how good it would feel to go faster, to be rougher… to hurt him. He tried to hold himself back, but the dark temptation clawed its way to the surface. He removed his thumb, not quite finished stretching Raphael, and hastily began unfastening his own trousers. 

Raphael turned his head to look back at Astarion over his shoulder, watching as the elf spat in his hand before grasping his own cock and giving the hard length a few firm pumps.

Astarion bit his lip as he forced himself into Raphael. 

Raphael tensed. He was unprepared. Tight. No noise escaped Raphael, the muzzle still strapped to his face, but Astarion could see his eyes screwed shut in pain from the violent entry. 

It took only a few hard thrusts before Astarion was fully hilted. A long, low moan escaped him as he rolled his hips, basking in the heat that engulfed him. It was like nothing he’d felt before. Adjusting his balance, he began to move in and out. 

He was slow at first, but his rhythm quickly shifted, each thrust becoming harder and faster as he adopted a punishing force. Astarion leaned back slightly, looking down to watch his cock pistoning into Raphael. A deep shudder rippled through him at the sinfully delicious sight. He bit down harder on his lip. From the corner of his eye, he saw Raphael’s hands clench, long fingers grasping air, wrists still hooked to the wall. 

Astarion suddenly became aware of a tangy, metallic smell. He’d bitten through his lip. Or torn Raphael. Maybe both. The scent of blood was a match to the inferno inside him, severing all restraint. He pressed his full weight down onto Raphael, stretching out along his back. The devil’s legs slipped wider apart under Astarion’s weight, inadvertently taking him even deeper.

A surge of energy crackled through Astarion, like lightning tearing itself from his skin as he chased his own release at an unforgiving pace. One hand roughly pinned Raphael’s head to the floor, fingers tightening in his hair as he held him down, whilst the other reached round to grasp Raphael’s cock. It was slippery with pre-cum as he stroked in time with the thrusts of his hips.

It wasn’t long before Raphael’s muscles stiffened, the hot grip around Astarion’s cock tightening. His climax was drawn out, as Astarion squeezed and milked his length, spend dripping onto the floor. 

Astarion knew the discomfort and sensitivity Raphael would be feeling now. 

He smirked and kept going. 

Harder. 

Gripping Raphael’s hips, Astarion pulled out further with each stroke and then slammed back in at an unforgiving pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the carriage, drowned only by the creaks and squeaks of the wheels on the gravel road outside.

Raphael’s nails were digging into his own palms now, his knuckles turning white.

It wasn’t as if the devil could feel wronged by Astarion. Not really. Moral injustice required a conscience, a soul that balked at cruelty. So what did it matter if Astarion took what he wanted? If he pushed too hard — fucked him too roughly? The devil had no righteous indignation, no claim to innocence. He was a creature of power and hunger, just like Astarion. And power was meant to be seized.

Astarion’s climax hit him like a tidal wave, every inch of him ignited by the sudden surge. Sparks of heat coursed through his body and his cock pulsed as he filled Raphael in an eruption of ecstasy. He rode out his orgasm face down on the devil’s back, panting, digging his nails into Raphael’s sides. 

After a moment, Astarion heaved himself back up, breathing heavily. He gripped the base of his spent cock as he slid it out of Raphael’s warm body, shuddering at his own sensitivity.

Raphael flinched at the withdrawal, his chest heaving as he struggled to draw enough air through the muzzle. He remained helpless in his position, his arms still shackled to the wall, backside still exposed in the air. 

“Gods, you’re a vision,” Astarion murmured, his gaze tracing Raphael’s bent-over body. “Here, let me help you.” He unhooked Raphael from the wall, and helped him to turn over, lying him flat on his back. Leaning down, he slipped Raphael’s feet into his trousers, shimmying them up his legs. “Lift your hips for me, darling,” he said softly. 

The devil obeyed, watching Astarion’s face, a slightly dazed expression on his face. 

“You look positively lovestruck, my dear. Did I leave such an impression?”

Raphael gave him a long blink. Light creases formed at the outer corners of his eyes. A smile. 

Astarion smiled back.

He lifted Raphael’s bound hands to his mouth and gave each of his palms a light kiss. His lips tingled from where Raphael’s nails had broken the skin, blood staining the lines of his hands. Despite the searing memory of his scalded tongue, he licked Raphael’s palm, tasting the blood. He found himself wanting more. Beneath the initial sting, there was something rich; dark cherry notes mellowed by a smooth, almost chocolatey depth, and just the right hint of bitterness. Not unpleasant at all, actually.

Gods, he really wanted more.

Fuck.

Haarlep was going to skin him alive. 

Sighing, he refastened the chain at Raphael’s ankles, then stretched out on his bedroll. He lay next to his prisoner trying very hard not to think about drinking him dry. 

Raphael fell asleep quickly, thoroughly worn out. Astarion watched him for a while, mulling over his conversation with Gale from last night, turning over his own actions just now in the carriage.

Was he evil? Despite everything in his past, despite the so-called ‘hero’ he had become, perhaps he had been a little cruel just now. He had taken what he wanted, heedless of how Raphael felt, or how much it might hurt.

But that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

Because he did care.

Perhaps too much.

The thought unsettled him, leaving something raw and restless in his chest.

With a quiet sigh, Astarion shuffled closer, letting Raphael’s warmth seep into his side. The lingering heat of his body and the steady rise and fall of his breathing was grounding… soothing...

He closed his eyes, slipping into a meditation that felt less like rest and a little more like introspective reflection.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since their encounter with Haarlep, and now, at last, Nashkel emerged from the misty valley just as the first pale light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a soft glow over the timber and stone rooftops.

The town was quiet, save for the distant clatter of a cart and the muffled voices of early risers setting up market stalls. They had timed their arrival carefully, just before the town fully awoke, making straight for the Nashkel Inn, where Astarion and their prisoner could be smuggled inside before the sun or any prying eyes had a chance to catch them.

They booked a large suite upstairs, its spacious sitting room branching off into three smaller rooms. Gale and Wyll would take a room each, and Karlach and Shadowheart would share another. They planned to lock Raphael in the third, leaving Astarion free to rest in any of the rooms during the day, then make use of the sitting room at night, or roam the city streets if he preferred to hunt.

But for now, the sun kept Astarion confined to the inn. 

Shadowheart, Gale, and Wyll went out early to stock up on travel essentials, while Karlach kept watch over the rooms and their prisoner. Meanwhile, Astarion finally allowed himself to stretch out on a soft bed for the first time in over a tenday, sinking into his trance.

When Astarion awoke, he heard Karlach’s voice. He opened his door and padded into the sitting room, only to find she wasn’t there. Her voice came from the third room — the room where Raphael was chained tightly to a chair, just as they had first found him in Helsik’s bedroom at The Devil’s Fee, but slightly more clothed.  

Astarion lingered at the door, listening.

“…It has to be something infernal,” Karlach was saying, her voice low, as if she was speaking to just herself. “Soul coins fuel my engine. The damn thing is built from infernal iron…”

Astarion could hear the slow rhythm of her pacing, the occasional creak of the floorboards.

“She said she could replace it,” she continued. “Entirely. So she’s clearly acquired something from the Hells. But what is she planning? What does she know of Zariel’s engines?”

Silence stretched. Astarion could picture her, arms folded, watching the devil with narrowed eyes, looking for any flicker of recognition and testing for a reaction. 

“It’s all your fault, you know,” Karlach muttered, her voice low and bitter. “You made Gortash the fucking monster that he was. And he made me the… the broken thing that I am.”

Astarion shifted, just enough to peek through the gap in the doorframe. He could see Raphael, bound in his chair and staring up at Karlach, impassive and unreadable underneath his iron muzzle.

Karlach let out a harsh breath, running a hand through her hair. “I hope you’re fucking miserable.”

Astarion cleared his throat in warning before stepping around the corner, feigning a stretch and rubbing his eyes. 

“Oh, having a little chat, were we? What did I miss? He never shuts up, this one, does he?”

Karlach gave him a small smile as she walked past him, leaving the room. Before following her, Astarion cast a final glance at Raphael, whose brows lifted in a fleeting, wordless shrug. Half amusement, half indifference. 

Astarion closed the door behind him. 

He watched Karlach pace around the suite for a moment, then took a seat in an armchair by the fireplace.

“I know you're used to devils at your shoulder, my dear,” he said, his tone light, “but you might find me a far more helpful confidant. And dare I say, slightly more benevolent.”

Karlach stopped pacing and dropped onto the armchair across from him, her leg bouncing, tail flicking with restless energy.

Astarion remained still, patiently waiting for her to speak.

“I don’t know why I did that,” Karlach muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. “It was stupid to talk to him. I just thought… maybe if I said it out loud, he’d react, y’know? Give something away. Any tiny reaction might tell me something. Stone-faced bastard didn’t even blink.”

“What makes you think he’d know something?”

“Because he’s fucking ancient. Not to mention, he’s some sort of infernal craftsman or some shit. Think about it, Astarion, he had those infernal chains forged to cage Prince Orpheus. Even he can’t break out of them. And the orphic hammer? Raphael’s work too. And don’t forget, his house literally floats above the battlefields of the blood war in Avernus, so he’s essentially got front row seats to Zariel’s hellforged army in action.”

Astarion nodded, understanding her train of thought. “An army which you were part of… following the installation of your engine.”

“Right. So if the devil-fetishist, Helsik, has a fix for me, I’m certain it comes from the Hells. And I’m certain Raphael knows how it works. That’s if it even exists... But I'm not willing to entertain that thought. I can’t take another false hope.” She leaned forwards, elbows on her knees, head cradled in her hands. “I shouldn’t have said anything to him. I’ve just shown him my hand.”

Astarion gave a nonchalant shrug. “I wouldn’t worry about it. What’s he going to do? He can’t even speak, can he?”

“I don’t take chances when it comes to devils,” Karlach replied. “He’s already got six hundred and sixty-six ways to twist anything we say, to gain the upper hand. And I just gave him one more.”

Astarion wasn’t sure how to respond, so he remained quiet, letting the silence stretch as he waited for her to continue. After a moment, she let out a long breath, shaking her head. “I’m sorry I’ve been... off lately. I know I’m usually all smiles and laughter, but this job’s got me strung out. I feel so… on edge. So angry all the time.” She glanced over, jaw tightening. “I’m scared, Astarion. Really damn scared. We already killed that bastard once, and now he’s here with us. While we eat. While we sleep. While we let our guard down.” She shook her head again, her tail still flicking. “He’s not just some prisoner in chains to me — he’s a threat. And he’s close to the people I give a damn about. That’s not something I can shrug off.”

She hesitated, voice lower now. “And the worst part? This is all because of me. You’re all here for me, risking everything. So yeah... I’m scared. And I’m angry. And I hate that I’m the reason any of you are even near him.”

Astarion leaned forwards in his chair, his fingers toying with the hem of his sleeve. He wasn’t as good at this as Shadowheart. He could never find the right words. “You’re not dragging us into this, Karlach. We’re here because we chose to be. I chose to be here.” He offered her a faint smile. “I know I’m not exactly the comforting sort, but… you don’t have to carry all of it, all the time. Not with us. Not with me. You are utterly adored, my darling, and if you think we’d ever let you face this alone, you clearly haven’t been paying attention. You’re stuck with us, I’m afraid. Yet again.”

Karlach sniffled, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “Thanks, Fangs. You’re doing a pretty damn good job, actually.” She managed a small, watery grin. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you for a hug.”

Astarion huffed a soft laugh. “Yes, well… fire and vampires don’t exactly mix. We’re a bit too flammable for comfort and I’d hate to go up like kindling.” He shuddered at the memory of the smoke filling the carriage. The flames licking the wood… “Karlach, can I ask you something? Why do you think he saved me?” Astarion asked quietly. “When the carriage was burning.”

Karlach looked surprised at the abrupt change in subject. “Ahh, I guess, because he knew he couldn’t escape in those chains, and thought saving you might make you more... pliable.”

Astarion considered this, his mouth twisting. “But his wings were free. He could have flown away.”

Karlach shook her head, her voice firm but thoughtful. “Flown where? He couldn’t speak, couldn’t shift, couldn’t teleport. We had the keys to his chains. Plus he was injured and pumped full of poison. No-one’s going to stop to help a shackled cambion on the side of the road.”

“I suppose,” Astarion conceded, though his voice still carried a thread of uncertainty. Why did he want to believe so badly that Raphael had saved him out of some twisted sense of kindness? The notion felt almost too easy. Too comforting.

Karlach straightened, her expression resolute. “We’ll be okay, Astarion. We’ll stick to the plan. Keep our guard up, protect each other’s backs, and we’ll get through this — together. Now, do you want anything from downstairs? I’m starving.”

Smiling, Astarion shook his head. “No, thank you, darling, you go and eat.” 

As soon as she’d stepped out of the suite, Astarion found himself drifting over to Raphael’s room.

Leaning casually against the doorframe, he let the door swing open with a soft creak. Raphael looked up, his expression as unreadable as ever.

“Did you listen in on everything we just said?”

Raphael shrugged, as if he had no real choice in the matter.

Astarion supposed that he didn’t really.

“And... do you know a way to fix her heart?”

For a long moment, the devil did nothing, then slowly, he lifted his chin, his eyes narrowing as he locked gazes with Astarion, clearly calculating his next move. After an agonising pause, he gave the slightest nod, then lowered his head once more, looking up at Astarion from the shadow of his lashes instead.

“Right. Common knowledge for any third-rate devil, then?”

Raphael’s shoulders shifted in — Astarion guessed — a huff of laughter, muffled beneath the muzzle. His eyes closed briefly, brows lifting in amusement as he shook his head, seemingly entertained by Astarion’s insolence.

“Well, a deal with a dwarf’s still better than one with a devil. Get comfortable, darling. You’re not going anywhere.”

Raphael rolled his eyes, but the faint glint behind them remained. Still amused.

Astarion wasn’t quite sure when the devil had stopped glaring daggers at him. Somewhere along the road, the venom had faded, replaced by those quiet little creases near Raphael’s eyes, the ones that hinted at a smile. A smile he couldn’t see, but somehow still knew was there.

And he knew it was a smile meant only for him.

________

The night in Nashkel was cold and quiet. 

Astarion stood in the shadows of the town square, eyes narrowed as he took in the stillness. The only sounds were the occasional creak of a swinging sign and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Streets, once bustling with merchants and travellers, now lay hushed beneath the blanket of darkness. 

He had found his prey quickly — she made it all too easy. Short, mid-forties, and as drunk as a kobold in a barrel of firewine, the human woman staggered out from The Belching Dragon tavern. She fumbled with her cloak as the chill of the night hit her, nearly tangling herself in the fabric before managing to swing it around her shoulders. She then wobbled her way down a narrow, winding path that veered down towards the river.

Perfect.

Astarion followed her on silent feet. 

After a short while, something made her glance over her shoulder. Not a sound, not a shadow, Astarion was much too stealthy for that; just the quiet prickle of instinct that comes to a woman walking alone at night.

She blinked blearily at him through the darkness. “Elf? You… followin’ me?” she slurred, brows knitting as she tried to place him. 

He gave her his most charming smile. A smile that had earned him countless meals over the centuries. “Only to make sure you don’t take a tumble, my dear. These paths can be treacherous in the dark… we don’t want you ending up in the river now, do we? May I offer my arm?” His voice curled like velvet, smooth and disarming. 

She squinted at him, unsure, then shrugged.

Astarion stepped closer, offering his arm with a gentleman’s flourish. “Allow me,” he said smoothly. “I see quite well in the dark.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she looped her arm through his.

His smile widened as they walked on together, close enough now for him to smell the cheap wine on her breath… and the heartbeat pulsing steadily beneath her skin.

“You’re not from around ‘ere, are you?” she hiccupped, casting him a sideways glance. “You one of ‘em silk traders?”

“Oh, I don’t sell anything, darling. I’m more in the business of taking.”

She blinked up at him, confused, but didn’t have time to form the question.

In a blur of motion, he slammed her against the wall behind them. One hand clamped over her mouth and the other tilting her head up, he sank his fangs into her neck with surgical precision. The woman gasped — a wet, startled sound — then fell limp against him. A quick death.

Warm blood gushed into his mouth, coppery and wine-soured, spilling down his chin, soaking into the collar of her cloak. After nothing but boar and deer for so many nights, the blood of a sentient creature was a stark reminder of what he’d been missing. It was richer, fuller; a complex blend of fear and desperation. Astarion drank deep and greedily, until the sharp edge of his hunger dulled. 

Finally pulling back, he wiped his mouth with a thumb and his forefinger, and regarded his meal with detachment. Her blood was… ordinary. Coarse and unrefined. Warm, but without depth. Not like—

Not like his.

Astarion heaved a sigh. Why was he so desperate for something that he knew would only hurt him? He could still feel the sting of it, the searing burn that had blazed in his mouth and set his throat on fire. 

Heaving the woman’s limp body towards the river, Astarion idly pondered how he might reduce that unbearable heat in Raphael’s blood without ruining its flavour. Perhaps chilling it in some way… He could always get ice in the mountains…

In the end, he came up with nothing plausible. With a frustrated huff, he released the corpse into the water. It snagged briefly on the reeds, then broke free, drifting lazily with the current and vanishing into the dark.

Hunger sated, but thoughts still restless, he strolled back towards the inn.

As Astarion approached the door to their suite, he heard voices from the other side, hushed but panicked. 

The others were awake. 

He frowned, confused. They had all been fast asleep when he left, enjoying the rare luxury of soft beds, the safety of an inn. So what had happened? Why were they all awake and so clearly on edge? It was still the dead of night, and no sounds of movement came from the other rooms; whatever the trouble, it was confined solely to their suite.

As he stepped into the room, he could feel the charged atmosphere. The air hummed with tension.

“... and Gale, you can’t exactly concentrate on silence forever!” Karlach was saying, as she paced in tight, furious circles in the middle of the room.

“The chains are imbued with anti-magic properties, he’s still unable to cast any type of spell.” Gale said from his armchair, his brow furrowed, fingers steepled in thought. 

Wyll and Shadowheart were standing at opposite sides of the room, both wearing expressions of shock and disbelief. 

“What’s going on?” Astarion asked, his voice cautious as he moved to stand beside Shadowheart.

With a subtle tilt of her head, Shadowheart motioned to the third room, the one where Raphael was being kept. “Go and see,” she said quietly.

Wyll, who was leaning against the doorframe, stepped aside, allowing Astarion to enter.

Raphael was still tied to the chair. Still shackled to the hard wood with chains at his arms and ankles. But his shirt was torn open, ripped from collar to hem, exposing the tanned skin beneath. His hair was mussed and ruffled, falling in loose strands around his face. The muzzle was gone, and his lower lip was bleeding slightly.

Five thick fur coats had been draped across the unused bed.

Haarlep.

Astarion felt the others close in behind him. All eyes were on the devil.

Raphael looked up at them, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, dark amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Well then. Are you finally ready to consider a counter-offer?”

Chapter Text

A heavy silence settled over the room as Raphael’s smile widened. 

Despite the chains still binding him securely, he was now free of the muzzle and radiating an unsettling confidence. He watched their expressions carefully, clearly savouring the unease that rippled around the group.

Ever the diplomat, Wyll stepped forwards, folding his arms. “Go ahead then, Raphael. Enlighten us with this counter-offer of yours.”

Raphael shifted in his chair, rolling his neck lazily as if he had all the time in the world. As his gaze fell on Astarion briefly, he licked the blood off his bottom lip with a quick flick of his tongue. 

Astarion felt heat pooling low in his stomach. There was something dangerously enticing about seeing Raphael like this: ruffled, restrained, and yet utterly unbothered. It shouldn’t have stirred anything. But it did.

“As I’m sure you’ve already begun to suspect, the methods of your vile little employer are crude at best. She might tinker and patch Karlach’s infernal engine, yes, but a lasting fix? No.” Raphael shook his head slowly, eyes gleaming with superiority. “Her so-called solution depends entirely upon your young tiefling friend from the forge. Though, if I recall correctly, he ran out of fresh ideas, did he not?” 

Karlach glanced at Wyll. “Dammon?” Astarion saw her mouth.

“Ah, yes.” Raphael nodded. “Dammon.”

Karlach visibly tensed. “Why should we believe you?” she snapped. “You’ll say anything to get what you want.”

Raphael inclined his head slightly, his expression mockingly patient. “You don’t have to believe me, Karlach. But consider this: Helsik may dabble in devilry, but she’s a neophyte, fumbling at a locked door, whereas I possess the key. The true nature of your engine lies not in gears or grafted metal, but in the magic that binds it. Infernal magic. Helsik lacks the knowledge, no, the vision, to anchor such power properly to this plane. But me? I know the rite. An ancient binding ritual that would tether that machine of yours to the material plane for good. No more burning. No more ticking clock.”

“So, what does Dammon have to do with any of this?” Karlach demanded.

Raphael chuckled softly. “Nothing useful, I assure you. Helsik’s patchwork fix involves him, yes, but only because he rents his forge from her. She’s his landlady, nothing more. He does the hammering, she spins the lies.” He tilted his head. “Whatever you think he’s working on, it’s the same half-measure he’s always offered. You won’t find salvation in his forge, Karlach. Just soot and scraps and more precious time wasted.”

Karlach’s brow furrowed, her mood turning inwards. Dammon’s name had clearly caught her off guard.

Catching the shift in Karlach’s posture, Wyll took the lead again, his voice calm but firm. “So, this ancient binding ritual of yours, what does it actually involve? Let me guess, it starts with us setting you free, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I may be talented, but even I have my limits. Some feats, particularly infernal rituals of staggering complexity, are rather difficult to perform whilst shackled like a beast.” Raphael gave Wyll an almost predatory smile. “I’m proposing a deal, little Ravengard. Naturally, it will involve you freeing me.”

Astarion opened his mouth to speak, drawing Raphael’s gaze. His smirk softened slightly as his eyes fell on the elf. Or did Astarion just imagine that? He pictured the dreamy look Raphael had given him after their rough coupling in the carriage a couple of days ago. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And beyond that, I suppose you have a price? You wouldn’t merely do this out of the goodness of your infernal heart?”

Raphael chuckled, a rich, velvety sound. “Goodness has nothing to do with it. Let’s call it mutual benefit. You grant me a small concession, a minor favour. And in return, I restore Karlach’s heart fully. Everyone gets what they want, with no… lingering consequences.”

Shadowheart scoffed, her arms crossed. “No lingering consequences from a devil’s bargain? Spare us.”

Raphael turned his piercing gaze upon her. “The alternative is to watch Karlach’s condition worsen, her engine ticking ever closer to failure. Helsik and Dammon’s tinkering will only delay the inevitable, and you know it, cleric. My method ensures a future free from that burden. Think carefully, now.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

“You slipped up, devil,” Karlach finally said, stepping forwards. “You shouldn’t have mentioned Dammon. I know him, and I trust him. If he’s involved, then I’m willing to bet he’s already found something better. Something that’ll actually help me.” She folded her arms, her eyes set with unwavering resolve. “We don’t need you. Hells, we might not even need Helsik. But if she’s just Dammon’s landlady? Fine. We’ll toss her the favour. It’ll get you out of the way.”

Raphael’s expression didn’t shift. “My, my, was it a slip?” he mused, voice smooth as ever. “Who’s to say?” His fingers tapped idly against the chair’s armrest, the chains at his wrists clinking faintly. “Dammon is… earnest. I’ll grant him that. But he’s a child, barely scratching at the surface of infernal knowledge. A mere decade in the forge, hammering away at things he barely understands, does not make him a master.” His eyes flicked to Karlach, then to the rest of the group. “You’re putting your faith in hope and guesswork. In possibility. Is that really a gamble you’re willing to take? With your friend’s life on the line. I offer certainty.”

After another moment of silence, Raphael’s words lingering in the air, Wyll let out a sharp breath. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve heard enough. If Karlach trusts Dammon, that’s good enough for me. We stick to the plan. Shadowheart, get the needle. If we have to knock him out to shut him up, then so be it.”

Raphael’s eyes narrowed slightly. 

“Hang on, before we do anything,” Gale said, clearing his throat as he spoke for the first time in a while. “I’d like to know how Haarlep got in, what exactly they did… and why they took the muzzle off him.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Gale, take a wild guess.” Astarion gestured broadly to the devil’s torn shirt and the bruises blooming along his exposed skin. “The ripped clothing? The bite marks? That thoroughly ruffled hair? I’d say it’s quite clear what the imp did.” He couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his voice, a flicker of jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.

Haarlep had left twin fang marks on Raphael’s neck, perfectly mirroring Astarion’s, which still lingered unhealed on the opposite side. Except theirs were bigger, bloodier, and with deeper bruising. It felt intentional. Like a challenge.

Raphael’s gaze slid lazily to Astarion again, a knowing smirk curling his lips. “Why, you look positively lovestruck, my dear. Did I leave such an impression?” he cooed softly, looking up at the elf through thick lashes.

Astarion blinked. He hadn’t expected to hear his own words tossed back at him, especially not in that voice, with that infuriating smile. If he still had a heartbeat, it would have skipped. Raphael wasn’t threatening him. He was teasing. Prodding. Reminding Astarion of their little secret. 

The others looked at Astarion, expecting a retort. Some flash of wit or a cutting remark…

When Astarion said nothing, Gale continued, frowning. “Right, well— aside from the obvious answer as to what Haarlep did… I mean, how did they even slip in without us hearing? How did they… do all this without waking us? That’s a concern, no? We thought we were safe in an inn, with no real need to keep watch.” 

“We were wrong,” Wyll said calmly, shrugging, “but there’s no point dwelling on it. What’s done is done. Haarlep got what they came for, but no-one’s hurt, and we’ve even got the coats. As for our friend here…” He cast a glance at Raphael. “He’s found his voice again, unfortunately. But we’ll adapt. This is fine.”

Karlach nodded, rolling her shoulders as if trying to shake off the tension.

Gale still wore a grimace, clearly still unsettled by the incubus and the threat of them returning yet again, unnoticed.

Shadowheart, though, was watching Astarion. Studying him. When his gaze finally met hers, she tilted her head in silent question. She knew him too well, and he knew she’d find a quiet moment later to corner him, and ask what he wasn’t saying.

Raphael interrupted the silence. “While this has all been deeply moving,” he said, inspecting his torn shirt with distaste, “might I request a shirt that isn’t in ribbons? And perhaps a bath, if your hospitality extends that far.”

They agreed that a proper bath was acceptable. Getting Raphael into it, however, would be the tricky part…

To do so, they’d need to unchain him from the chair, restrain him again to move him through the inn, then undo the chains to strip off his clothes… only to rebind him for the bath, unbind him again to dress him afterwards, and finally, secure him once more before they returned to the road.

Wyll solved the first problem by casting an eyebite spell to send him to sleep, Raphael slumping without resistance. 

“If this weren’t such a logistical nightmare, all this unchaining and rechaining could almost be foreplay,” Astarion mused to Wyll, as he and Astarion lifted the unconscious devil and carried him through the quiet halls to the bathing room.

It was still early, but Karlach stood watch outside, arms crossed, daring any nosy guest to ask questions.

The bathing room was warm and moist with curling steam; someone had already prepared the bath, then foolishly left it unattended. As they lowered Raphael to the tiled floor, Astarion wondered if that person had ever expected a warlock, a vampire and an unconscious devil to sneak in and steal the first soak.

Wyll took a seat on a stool in the corner, brow furrowed in concentration to maintain his spell. 

Astarion moved quietly and efficiently, removing Raphael’s chains once more, and beginning the slow, careful process of undressing him. He swallowed hard as he peeled away the devil’s torn shirt. His hands trembled ever so slightly, with both nerves and anticipation, and he silently hoped that Wyll was too focused on his spell to notice. He stripped off Raphael’s trousers, and eased him into the sunken tub, guiding the limp body with careful hands. The water lapped gently at Raphael’s skin, sizzling and steaming slightly from his heat, as Astarion crouched at the edge, slipping an arm behind the devil’s shoulders to keep his head above the surface. 

As Astarion began to wash him, the full extent of the damage caused by Haarlep’s visit revealed itself beneath the steam. Bruises bloomed across Raphael’s skin. Long, raking scratches ran along his ribs and down one thigh; marks too precise to be accidental, too intimate to be impersonal. Astarion’s eyes lingered, not out of concern, but calculation. He tried to make sense of Raphael’s part in this. The choices made, the control surrendered. Had he given himself willingly? Wasn't he still mad at the incubus? Astarion hated that he couldn’t quite read it.

He continued to scrub with slow, methodical strokes, working the cloth over Raphael’s chest and arms. The steam clung to his skin and every now and then, he caught himself staring longer than he should. Tracing the ridges and hollows of muscle with his eyes, listening to the faint flutter of a heartbeat beneath the surface. Astarion’s hands were steady, but his mind was anything but. 

Gods, it’s hot in here.

Suddenly, raised voices drifted in from outside the door.

Karlach’s tone was calm, measured, as she clearly tried to placate someone far less composed.

Someone, Astarion assumed, who had come back expecting their bath.

Wyll sat up at the sound, his head snapping towards the door.

Understanding what this meant, Astarion glanced down to meet a pair of wide, brown eyes blinking up at him. Wyll’s concentration had slipped.

For a brief moment, Raphael looked genuinely surprised; confused to find himself naked, submerged in a bathtub, and with a vampire running his hands over him. But the shock didn’t last. He composed himself quickly, a smirk curving his lips, one brow raising.

“Sorry, Astarion. You all good here?” Wyll said, standing. “I’m going to check on Karlach.”

“Of course,” Astarion replied, not taking his eyes off the devil. “He’s not going anywhere. I’ll manage.”

As Wyll opened the door, the voices outside grew louder, a full-blown argument now spilling down the hallway. He slipped through and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Astarion and Raphael alone, staring at each other in silence.

“Are you enjoying this, little vampling?”

“Perhaps too much,” Astarion breathed, as heat coiled low in his stomach at the sound of that deep, dulcet voice.

He dragged the sponge lower, running it teasingly down Raphael’s torso and over his cock beneath the water, earning him a surprised grunt from the devil. 

A muscle flickered in Raphael’s jaw, as he studied Astarion. “Have you thought about my deal?”

“You’re seriously trying to talk business right now?” Astarion said, his tone edged with the sting of being ignored.

“My dear, business is pleasure,” Raphael purred. “At least, for me.”

Still maintaining eye contact, Astarion grasped Raphael’s cock and squeezed. Hard. No sound escaped the devil this time, but the little scrunch of his nose betrayed his discomfort. His annoyance. Although cruel, Astarion needed to feel that shift: the subtle tilt of control back into his own hands. He wasn’t about to let Raphael steer the conversation. He released his grip, then traced a finger slowly down one of the claw marks scoring Raphael’s torso. “I see Haarlep chewed you up.”

“And what would you have had me do? Fight them off with my bare hands?” Raphael lifted his wrists out of the water, the chains clinking faintly. “Not exactly an option, was it?”

“What did they say to you?” Astarion asked quietly, as he resumed the slow sweep of the sponge across Raphael’s abdomen.

Raphael’s mouth twitched into a sly smile. “It may surprise you to learn that we didn’t do a great deal of talking.” 

Astarion could feel his irritation growing; he pressed harder with the sponge, his scrubbing becoming rougher. “Coming from you, that does surprise me, actually.” 

Raphael’s deep laugh rumbled in his chest. He leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, eyes slipping shut as he settled into Astarion’s touch, clearly enjoying the attention, no matter how coarse the scouring was against his skin. For a fleeting moment, Astarion was tempted to reach down and grip him again. To remind Raphael who was in control here. Or perhaps remind them both that pleasure did not belong to incubi alone; that he, too, knew how to leave a mark.

His gaze fell to the new bite marks on Raphael’s neck: deep, deliberate, and still raw. A clear message. The incubus staking their claim, reminding Astarion who Raphael belonged to. Or at least who they thought he did.

Astarion noticed the devil’s eyes were open again, watching him intently; quiet and calculating, as if trying to read every flicker of thought. 

“Tell me, vampling,” Raphael murmured, “those little carriage moments. Were they meant to be tactical… or personal?” He tilted his head, watching Astarion through the steam. “You’re very convincing either way.”

Astarion’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer right away, keeping his hands moving, still scrubbing with more force than necessary. “You really don’t waste a moment, do you?” he muttered through his teeth.

Raphael just watched him with composed scrutiny. “Merely curious. You’re not the only one who knows how to press an advantage.”

That was it. Astarion’s leash on his temper snapped. In a flash, he dropped the cloth and grabbed Raphael by the throat, fingers digging into the bruised, wet skin, yanking the devil towards him. “I know what you’re doing,” he growled into Raphael’s ear, voice low and laced with venom. “You think that if you get under my skin, you’ll win something. You won’t.”

Raphael’s smirk returned, unfazed by Astarion’s grip on his neck. “Touchy,” he murmured. “But I suppose I’d be defensive too, if I wasn’t sure whether I meant it or not.” He turned his head slowly, meeting Astarion’s eyes without a trace of fear; entirely undaunted by the vampire’s bared fangs so close to his face. His gaze dipped to Astarion’s mouth, lingering. His own lips parted, just slightly, as his breathing grew slower, deeper. From the hand cutting off his breathing, or perhaps something else…

Slowly, Astarion leaned in, pulling Raphael even closer. His free hand found the far edge of the sunken tub, steadying himself as the space between their mouths narrowed to mere inches. 

“You are nothing to me,” he hissed. 

Then he closed the gap.

They crashed together, the kiss sudden, heated, and desperate. Teeth grazing, lips slick and urgent. There was nothing tentative about it. No teasing. Just hunger.

Astarion’s fingers slid into Raphael’s damp hair, gripping tightly and tilting his head back to deepen the kiss. Raphael was delightfully responsive, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Unable to use his own hands, the devil leaned into Astarion instead, mouth parting wider, answering with want and need.

Astarion kissed him like it was a challenge. Like he needed to prove he was still the one who could leave Raphael undone.

Fuck you, Haarlep.

The door swung open with a burst of urgency, and Wyll stepped inside, breathless.

Astarion sprang back, instantly breaking the kiss. The movement was too quick to be casual, but Wyll didn’t seem to notice. His eyes swept the room, focused entirely on the task at hand.

“We’ve got to go. Now.” he said, raising a hand to cast. A shimmer of magic rippled through the air as Raphael slumped back in the tub, unconscious once more. 

They moved quickly. Astarion and Wyll lifted Raphael’s body from the water, chains rattling, muscles straining as they dragged him out of the tub and onto the cold tiles. There was no time for care; the chains were undone and fresh clothes pulled onto wet skin. The fabric clung to Raphael’s body, plastered to every line and angle. Astarion grimaced, but with the heat Raphael radiated, he’d probably steam-dry fairly quickly.

The moment the clothes were on, the chains followed, clinking back into place, then Wyll hauled Raphael over his shoulder with a grunt, and jerked his chin towards the door. “Get it open. Head straight for the carriage — the sun’s not fully up yet. Shadowheart is packing up our rooms.”

“What in the Hells is going on?” Astarion demanded, yanking the door open and holding it for Wyll, who staggered through with Raphael slung over his shoulder.

The hallway was chaos. Karlach was standing just outside the bathing room with a human man locked tightly in a headlock, his face red from shouting and struggling as he flailed an arm towards Gale, who was standing nearby, visibly distressed, hands raised in surrender. 

“I assure you, I don’t even know your wife!” he was saying, voice cracking.

The owner of the inn, a halfling woman, was storming down the hallway in her nightclothes, demanding to know why her establishment sounded like a battlefield at dawn.

Astarion frowned in confusion. The entire scene might have been comedic, if he had the faintest idea what was actually going on.

Down the corridor, Shadowheart appeared, her arms loaded with gear from their rooms as she ran towards them. “Astarion, help me with these?” Without giving him time for questions, she dumped half the bags on him, heading quickly for the stables. He could barely see over the thick furs in his arms as he followed. 

The sky was still streaked with the last shades of night as they loaded the carriage in tense, hurried silence. Wyll had deposited Raphael inside, conscious again and looking disgruntled, slumped against the wall of the wagon like cargo.

Astarion was dusting off his sleeves when Karlach and Gale finally burst through the stable doors, both breathing heavily.

“Well?” Astarion asked, turning to them with a raised brow. “What in the Nine Hells just happened back there?”

Karlach dragged a hand through her hair, then broke into a grin. “Turns out the guy whose bath we stole? He’d walked in on his wife with another man this morning — hence his delayed return to the hot water. So he was already pretty pissed off...” She nodded towards Gale, barely containing her laughter. “Then he sees us sneaking around, sees Gale standing there looking as awkward as ever, and decides he’s the one who ruined his marriage.”

“Which I did not,” Gale added quickly, raising a finger. “I don’t even know her name. No, Astarion, it was—”

“Haarlep,” Astarion finished, his voice low and tight.

Karlach gave a short laugh, wiping sweat off her brow. “Exactly. Anyway, the guy went totally berserk, tried to claw Gale’s face off. We stopped him. He’s fine. Bit bruised. But we’ve been evicted and barred for life.” 

Astarion rolled his eyes, glancing at Raphael who was slumped in the carriage with his eyes closed. “Well, it sounds like Haarlep has been rather busy this morning.”

Raphael cracked his eyes open, offered Astarion a lazy wink, then closed them again with all the satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Seemingly, no-one else noticed. 

Shadowheart was looking at Gale sympathetically. “I’m sorry this happened again, Gale. I can’t believe they were still in the inn that entire time.” 

“I could feel that they were up to... something.” Gale gave a small shudder.

“I guess they just weren't left satisfied after their first breakfast,” Wyll offered dryly. After a pause, he turned to look at Raphael. “What, no witty comeback?”

Raphael turned his head towards Wyll, raising his eyebrows before opening his eyes. “I didn’t realise this was a call and response, Ravengard. Do we applaud your line before I deliver mine?”

Astarion snorted before he could stop himself, then coughed theatrically to try and cover it, as Shadowheart shot him a bemused look. Yes, she was definitely going to corner him later. 

“Let’s just get the fuck out of this place,” Karlach said, shaking her head in disbelief at the sheer madness of the morning they’d had.

And it wasn’t even sunrise yet.

Chapter Text

Astarion missed the muzzle.

Not because Raphael wouldn’t shut up, no, the devil was in fact unconscious and had been pretty much since they left Nashkel. 

But the silence felt tense. Temporary. Raphael wouldn’t stay quiet forever, and Astarion knew what was coming.

After administering the latest dose of poison and crawler mucus, Shadowheart had waited until Raphael’s eyelids had fluttered closed, before turning casually to Astarion, wearing that all too knowing look again.

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” she said.

“Whatever do you mean?” Astarion asked innocently.

“I’ve seen you put the moves on people before.”

“Put the moves— I beg your pardon?!” 

“I’m not judging,” she added quickly, the corner of her mouth twitching. “He is handsome, I get it. It’s fun to flirt a little. Especially with danger.”

Astarion scoffed but didn’t look at her.

Shadowheart continued, more gently this time. “Just be careful, Astarion. What feels like harmless fun to you… to him, it’s an opening. He’s waiting for one tiny misstep, which, I guarantee, he’ll seize instantly and use to his advantage.”

Astarion gave her an exaggerated eye roll and raised his brows, as if she’d just accused him of something wildly beneath him.

Shadowheart chuckled. “I’m not telling you not to enjoy yourself. I’m just saying… devils don’t flirt for pleasure. They flirt for leverage. And… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Astarion let out a quiet breath, a dry smile tugging at his lips.

“Darling, he can’t hurt me. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve played this game? I’ve seen the way he looks at me, like he wants to own me. But this time, I get to enjoy it. To be wanted — desired — and still be the one holding the reins. There’s no-one pulling my strings anymore. No Cazador, no parasite, just me. I just want to enjoy the attention, on my terms for once.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Shadowheart said, “you deserve a little fun for yourself. But maybe be subtle about it? I don’t think the others would be quite so... understanding.” Then, tone light with amusement, she added, “And, you might have centuries on me, old man, but I’m still laying down some rules: no touching.”

Astarion let out an exaggerated sigh, flicking a hand dismissively. “Oh please, he’s practically comatose half the time. Hardly a thrilling opportunity.”

“Maybe so, but the moment he’s conscious, he’s dangerous. And even more so now that he can speak. He doesn’t need hands to twist a knife. Just— just don’t give him anything to work with, okay.”

“I shall do my best,” Astarion said, with a small nod. “What exactly is the plan with the dosing anyway? More poison? Another generous splash of crawler mucus? I won’t lie, I’m not exactly thrilled about being alone with him now that he can talk again.”

Truth be told, it terrified him. Words were Raphael’s true weapon, precise, elegant and oh so sharp. And now that the muzzle was gone, there was nothing stopping him from dredging up everything.

The House of Hope. 

Stealing the hammer. 

Freeing Hope. 

Killing him. 

Or at least… attempting to.

Before all of that, Raphael had been useful. Helpful, even. He’d known things. Told Astarion truths about his scars, about Cazador’s plans and the Rite of Profane Ascension. Without that knowledge, they might never have got the drop on Cazador and the outcome could have been very different. Astarion was under no illusion that Raphael had forgotten any of it, or that he wasn’t waiting for the perfect moment to bring it all up.

Especially now that his tongue was free.

So Astarion really missed the muzzle.

Shadowheart gave him a sympathetic smile. “We picked up more of both in town, so we can keep him sedated as long as you need. Just shout, and I’ll be there with my needle. Anytime.”

And so on they travelled, the cold creeping in through the cracks in the carriage as they began their ascent of the mountain.

Wrapped in fur, Astarion sat and listened to the soft creak of wood and the distant crunch of snow under the carriage wheels, watching his unconscious companion’s hot breath curl and dance in the frigid air. 

Haarlep had been right, the dire wolf furs were a blessing, almost enough to forget the frozen world outside. Without them, the wind slicing down the mountainside would have been brutal, especially for the others outside, trudging through it on foot, cheeks pink and toes frozen.

Raphael stirred, a faint groan slipping past his lips as his eyes blinked open groggily. He shifted, or tried to, but his bound limbs barely responded. The crawler mucus still coursed through his veins leaving him sluggish and heavy-limbed.

“Hey you, you’re finally awake.” Astarion cooed. 

Raphael glared at the elf, then closed his eyes again with another groan.

Astarion chuckled, masking his unease. “If you’re just going to lie there and moan, at least pretend it’s for my benefit.”

“Ah, yes, nothing complements excruciating internal disintegration quite like your shrill brand of mockery,” Raphael grumbled. 

“Disintegration? Oh, don’t be so dramatic, darling. Why, your talent for exaggeration is truly unmatched.” Astarion couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice.

“Do forgive me if I’m not at my most charming. Being pumped full of poison every few hours tends to dull one’s wit. I didn’t ask to be marinated in agony.”

“For someone who’s lived through centuries of damnation, you’re awfully delicate,” Astarion said, shrugging. 

“Yes well, you lot have managed what few ever could: you’ve somehow made torment utterly tedious.” With great effort, Raphael managed to raise his chained wrists, draping one arm across his face to cover his eyes. The other dropped limply at the side of his head, the chain clattering against the wooden floor.

Astarion scooted closer, stretching out beside the devil. Raphael lay in a thin shirt, needing no coat at all, despite the freezing air. Heat still seemed to roll off him in waves, and Astarion leaned into it, basking in the borrowed warmth. 

After a moment of silence, Raphael moved his arm slightly to peer at Astarion, his gaze more focused now. “Tell me, little vampling,” Raphael murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “are you here to use my body again?”

“You didn’t seem to mind last time,” Astarion purred back.

“Mmm. Do you mean the time you held me down and fucked me raw, or are we talking about you using me as target practice and firing arrows through my throat?”

There it was.

Astarion pulled away swiftly. He didn’t know how to respond to the sudden venom, the fury that blazed in Raphael’s eyes, the top of his nose scrunching from anger. 

“You do recall your attempted execution, yes?” 

For a moment, Astarion considered knocking on the carriage door, calling for Shadowheart and requesting she knock the furious cambion out again, but then Raphael’s expression softened, a slight smirk playing about his lips. 

“Utterly reckless. Borderline suicidal. But somehow… it worked. You bested me. And that’s what makes it infuriatingly impressive, I am loath to admit.” 

Astarion was almost convinced. But then he noticed the way Raphael’s smile was just a little too stiff. Spotted the glint that still burned in his eyes. Whatever mask of civility he now wore, it hadn’t quite hidden the fire beneath. Astarion chose not to acknowledge it. Instead, he leaned in again. “I actually meant the first one,” he said, voice low. “In the carriage.” 

Raphael’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. “It’s always fascinating to me how the abused become such efficient—”

He was cut off by a deep moan escaping his lips. His eyes widened in horror, as he involuntarily shuddered, his back arching, legs curling up slightly.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Astarion asked, alarmed. He scanned Raphael’s body, looking for the source of his distress.

“It’s… Haarlep.” Raphael bit out through clenched teeth, his eyes rolling as another low groan tore itself from his throat. 

Ah. 

Raphael’s breaths came out in shallow pants, as he squirmed in place, eyes squeezing closed and a deep frown crossing his brow.

“Do you… require assistance?” Astarion offered hesitantly.

“Don’t touch me,” was the growled response. 

With a huff, Astarion rolled over, turning his back to the writhing figure behind him, and tried his best to ignore the noises. Raphael’s groans and grunts were low and rough, and Astarion could practically feel the faint vibrations of his voice through the wooden floor.

He felt his own arousal growing. His own trousers tightening as his length hardened beneath them. 

Astarion let his fingers drift downwards, silently creeping under his waistband and brushing along his cock before they curled around it. He grasped it lightly, massaging the skin between his fingertips in a slow, absent motion. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft, restless sounds behind him. The low breaths, the shifting fabric, the clink of chains. 

Astarion had just begun to quicken his pace, stroking himself more firmly, when Raphael let out a slightly strangled gasp, followed by a slow, lingering moan. He paused, unsure whether to continue. He badly wanted to finish, but the carriage was quiet, Raphael’s panting breaths settling.

“Don’t stop on my account, little vampling, you were just finding your rhythm,” Raphael murmured from behind him. 

Astarion froze.

Raphael’s mocking tone struck something fragile within him, dragging a shadow of memory up from whichever dark corner of his soul Astarion had buried it in. He’d spent too many years under Cazador’s command, forced to perform and then ridiculed.

Not anymore.

He knew he couldn’t win with words. Not against Raphael. To claim the power back, he needed to put him on the back foot. Disarm him. 

Astarion rolled over and shifted close again. As he pressed his body up against Raphael’s, he reached his hand up and let his fingers trail over Raphael’s jaw, guiding his chin until their eyes locked. Then, with a dangerous smile, Astarion ran his tongue slowly across his own bottom lip, fluttering his lashes provocatively.

Raphael’s brow furrowed as he studied Astarion, suspicion behind his eyes. He clearly didn’t like the shift. The loss of upper ground he’d momentarily gained through charm and shrewd words.

“You think you’re clever,” Astarion breathed onto the devil’s skin, eyes fixated on Raphael’s mouth. “But I’ve been used by better monsters than you.”

Astarion leaned in further, closing the distance until his lips brushed against Raphael’s. It was a whisper of a kiss, feather-light and almost tender, just enough to tease.

After a pause, a moment of hesitation, Raphael began to respond, his mouth parting to kiss him back.

But Astarion didn’t give him the chance. In the next breath, his lips were gone, replaced by the sharp slice of fangs sinking deep into Raphael’s throat.

He wasn’t careful. 

He wasn’t gentle. 

He was brutal. Vicious.

Astarion clamped his jaw down hard, fury tightening every muscle in his body as he ignored the blistering pain of the scalding blood that flooded his mouth. He sank deeper, teeth scraping cartilage, feeling tendons shift and stretch beneath his bite. The devil’s body jerked, but Astarion held fast and unrelenting, as if he could tear the control right out of him; drain the arrogance, the smug satisfaction, the ceaseless self-righteousness.

This wasn’t hunger — it was punishment. And he wanted it to hurt.

He drank deeply until the blistering heat in his mouth and throat was too much to bear. As Astarion pulled back, he was pleased to see genuine surprise on Raphael’s face. Shock at the sudden violence. Pain from the vicious mauling of his neck. For once, the devil was lost for words.

Astarion leaned in again, pressing another kiss to Raphael’s mouth, smearing crimson across his lips and jaw. This time, Raphael did not reciprocate.

“Cat got your tongue?” Astarion whispered onto his lips.

Raphael coughed, his voice raw as he tried to rasp through torn vocal cords. “You’re almost as cruel as Haarlep.”

Astarion tensed, the satisfaction in his chest souring. 

Almost as cruel as Haarlep.

He rolled away without a word, telling himself it was just another one of Raphael’s mind games, more manipulation.

His mouth hurt, but he couldn’t take a healing potion. Not now, and certainly not in front of him. So instead, he lay back and closed his eyes, licking the devil’s burning blood from his lips, grimacing at the pain, but also savouring the strangely intoxicating notes underneath the sting.

Then, his previous arousal entirely gone, he slipped into his trance.

________

Astarion felt unwell when he awoke. 

His stomach was twisting painfully, each cramp sharp and nauseating. Sweat glazed his skin and the thick fur coat now felt suffocating. He fumbled at the collar, tugging it open as if the weight of it was choking him. A bitter taste clung to the back of his throat, and for a moment, he was certain he might vomit.

Something was wrong.

He peered over at Raphael, lying flat on his back, seemingly asleep. His skin looked waxy and too pale beneath the dried blood still smeared across his face and neck. A fine sheen of sweat clung to his brow, and his limbs twitched now and then in small, involuntary spasms. 

The blood. It was poisoned.

Astarion could feel his body trying to purge it, regenerate through it, but vampires weren’t made for this. Devils might be resistant, but he wasn’t. 

Unable to sit up, he raised a weak leg and feebly kicked at the carriage door. “Shadowheart,” he called as loud as he could manage, but only a whisper came out. 

Another wave of nausea hit and Astarion clutched his middle as his stomach turned in on itself. This time, he couldn’t stop it. The burning surged up his throat like wildfire. He doubled over with a choked gasp, as thick, tarry, black blood poured from his mouth in violent, convulsing heaves. It splattered across the carriage floor, sizzling as it touched the wood. He coughed again, more blood following, his whole body trembling as one hand braced against the wall, the other clutching his stomach.

Raphael stirred, eyes blinking open, his brow furrowing as he took in the scene before him. His gaze dropped to the black blood steaming on the carriage floor… then to Astarion, hunched over, pale and shaking, streaks of it running down his lips and chin. For a moment, his expression twisted. No concern, just revulsion.

“By the Nine…” he rasped, voice hoarse and raw through his still-shredded vocal cords. “You absolute idiot.” He struggled upright, chains rattling as he clenched his teeth against a wave of his own dizziness. Then, twisting awkwardly, he brought his bound wrists up and knocked hard against the carriage door. “Your vampire is… leaking,” he managed to croak out.

Astarion heard muffled voices outside, and then the carriage lurched to an abrupt stop. The motion jolted through his body, causing another violent churn in his gut. He gagged, shoulders convulsing as his stomach clenched painfully once more. Surely there was nothing left inside him.

He shrank away as the door was yanked open and daylight poured into the carriage.

Shadowheart froze in the doorway, eyes wide with horror as they swept over the carriage interior: the blackened mess across the floor, the acrid stench hanging in the air, and Astarion in the corner cowering from the light.

From behind her came Karlach’s unmistakable voice, loud and incredulous: “Holy fucking shitballs. What in the blazes happened, Fangs?!”

“Karlach, keep us moving. Get us to those caves Wyll mentioned, we’re not too far,” Shadowheart ushered Karlach away, then climbed into the carriage, pulling the door shut behind her with a heavy thud.

Astarion exhaled in relief as the harsh sunlight vanished. He turned towards her, lips parting to speak…

But no words came.

Only more blood.

Shadowheart was at his side in an instant, her hands glowing as healing magic flowed from her fingertips into Astarion. It surged through him, burning away the poison inside his stomach. 

“You’re okay, ‘Star. I’ve got you,” she whispered, rubbing his back soothingly, as the carriage jerked into motion again.

Relief swept through him as the pain and nausea eased. He drew in a long, slow breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs and cleanse his insides. Too exhausted to say anything witty, Astarion gave Shadowheart a small, grateful smile. He leaned into her without a word, letting his head rest against her shoulder. 

Looking across the filthy carriage, he noticed Raphael slumped against the wall, watching them with interest. The devil’s eyes drifted from Astarion to the cleric beside him and back again, a mixture of amusement and disdain etched across his face, a slight sneer playing around his blood-stained mouth.

Astarion eased himself upright, still weak but steady, and turned to Shadowheart. “He looks utterly dreadful, don’t you think?” He gestured with a tilt of his head, not looking at Raphael. 

Shadowheart looked Raphael up and down thoughtfully. “He doesn’t appear to be actively dying. Though the poison has slowed his regeneration right down. I could patch him up... but I’m fairly certain his body can handle a few more doses before it starts properly shutting down. Let’s give him a couple more days.”

Astarion glanced across just in time to catch the glare Raphael shot at Shadowheart, sharp as a blade and burning with fury. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, as his humiliation curdled into rage. 

________

Astarion stepped down from the carriage, boots crunching in the thin layer of snow that had drifted into the cave mouth. The chill hit him immediately, but the fur coat wrapped around his shoulders lessened the bite of cold, and the natural shelter of the cave kept the wind at bay. He took a slow breath, eyes sweeping over the frozen landscape. The world beyond their small shelter was a wash of white and grey: snow blanketed every surface and each tree was encased in ice.

The sun hovered low on the horizon, the sky behind the jagged mountain peaks slowly bleeding gold. Just a few hours remained until nightfall, but the cave’s overhang kept the last rays from touching him, as he left the safety of the carriage.

Behind him, the others began to set up camp. With no need for tents, bedrolls and blankets were laid out across the cold stone floor, clustered near the growing fire at the centre of the cave, as Gale’s magic coaxed its flames to life.

It wasn’t quite the same as the luxurious beds at the inn. But it was safe enough. For now.

“Well, it seems that Astarion has already eaten,” Wyll announced as he emerged from the carriage a short time later, a bucket full of crimson water in hand. “The carriage, and its resident fiend, are clean once more — mostly.” He gave a theatrical little bow, chuckling to himself as he turned to toss the contents outside the mouth of the cave.

“Let’s not pretend I kept any of it, dear. My belly is emptier than Raphael’s black heart,” Astarion called back from his spot by the fire, rubbing circles over his stomach. 

Gale glanced over from the pot he was stirring. “Forgive me for asking, Astarion, but… why did you bite him again? I thought the last time you tasted his blood, you were, well… burned. Quite literally.”

“Oh, it wasn’t for the blood, darling.” He waved a lazy hand. “It was to win an argument.”

Karlach snorted. “You need to learn to ignore him, mate. You’ll be driven mad otherwise. That dickhead loves the sound of his own voice.”

Wyll joined them all by the fire, pulling his fur coat tighter around his shoulders as he rubbed his hands together briskly.

“I’ve got to say though, Shadowheart, he is looking a bit peaky. Do you think it’s worth giving him a healing potion?” Wyll asked quietly.

Shadowheart waved him off, unbothered. “He’s fine for now. By my calculations, he’ll survive another few days at least.”

Wyll frowned. “Are we taking the blood loss into account here, as well as the poison? You’ve seen the wound on his neck, right?” 

“There’s no need to worry yourself, Wyll. I’ve got it under control. The longer we can stretch this out, the less of a threat he is to Astarion while we’re on the road. Anyway, I thought the goal was to prevent him from speaking too much.”

Karlach was nodding in agreement. “One-hundred percent. We don’t have the muzzle anymore. If this keeps him quiet, then I’m fully behind it.”

“Okay, you’re the cleric, Shadowheart, I’ll take your word for it.” Wyll acquiesced with a shrug. “I don’t need to remind you, though, that we cannot risk him dying on this plane… He’ll just spawn right back in Avernus, and we won’t just have failed the job, we’ll have a twice-murdered vengeful cambion at our backs.” 

At that, the conversation around the fire faded into a low, indistinct murmur as Astarion’s thoughts drifted back to the moment his fangs sank into Raphael’s neck. He could still feel it: the crunch beneath his teeth, the resistance from tearing tendons, the intense heat that poured into his mouth.

You’re almost as cruel as Haarlep.

Now he thought about it, he wasn’t certain that he remembered Shadowheart actually looking at Raphael’s wound. She’d been fully focused on him; her magic sweeping inside him and purging the poison. In the chaos, in her own panic… she hadn’t checked the devil. She hadn’t seen how deep Astarion’s teeth had gone.

Astarion rose to his feet. “Just need to fetch my pack,” he said breezily over his shoulder. “Back in a mo!”

He didn’t wait for a response, just turned and casually strolled off towards the carriage.

Astarion slipped into the carriage, momentarily taken aback by the remarkable cleaning job Wyll had done. The floor had been scrubbed and the smell of regurgitated blood was gone entirely. Even Raphael’s face had been wiped clean.

But just his face. He was still wearing the same blood-soaked shirt. And he looked awful. Sweat soaked every inch of him, strands of damp hair plastered to his temples and cheeks. His complexion had turned a sickly grey, a sheen of fever glazing his skin.

His breathing came in shallow, ragged pulls, and though his eyes were open, they weren’t focused. They rolled slowly, like he was drifting in and out of consciousness along a fevered edge.

He was awake. Barely. 

Astarion rummaged through his pack, fingers curling around a vial of healing potion. Then he crossed the small space and knelt beside Raphael, ignoring the damp heat radiating from him. He slipped an arm behind Raphael’s shoulders, lifting him gently, until the devil’s upper body lay cradled in his lap. 

Astarion pulled back the collar of the blood-soaked shirt, gently peeling the fabric away from the wound. He grimaced at what he saw.

It was a mess. Ugly and torn, as if Astarion had viciously mauled him.

Which, he supposed, he had…

Both rows of teeth marks were clearly visible: two perfect arcs punctured deep into the flesh, and where they met in the centre, a chunk had been torn clean out, leaving a jagged, gaping mess of torn muscle and exposed tissue. The skin was mottled with deep bruising, black and sickly purple, Haarlep's bite marks now completely hidden. Blood had dried in dark, crusted rivulets down his neck, but fresh blood still seeped from the raw edges that refused to close.

He remembered Wyll’s words: “we cannot risk him dying on this plane…”

Astarion swallowed, unsure if the hollow ache in his chest was guilt needling at him, or fear of what might happen next.

What in the Hells was wrong with him? It really had felt like a display of power at the time. Like Astarion rightfully reclaiming control. 

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe he was no better than a fiend.

He uncorked the potion and dampened a cloth, then slowly, carefully, Astarion pressed it to the edge of the wound, barely touching it. He paused at the tiny whimper that escaped Raphael. A weak and feeble sound, entirely unsuited to a powerful, wicked creature. Then he tried again, dabbing softly, as if gentleness now could undo all that savagery from before.

He looked down at Raphael, fevered, pale, and shivering, and felt something aching in his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

A sudden commotion outside tore his attention away.

Something huge crashed into the surrounding rock with a sickening thud that shook the frame of the carriage.

Then came shouting; Karlach’s voice was loud and fierce, barking orders to the others. He heard the unmistakable sound of steel; the hiss of a blade being drawn, the clash of metal striking something solid. 

Gale’s incantations followed, but his words were nearly drowned out by a low, guttural roar that didn’t belong to any of them.

Astarion froze, elven ears straining. 

Another loud roar answered the first. And then another.

Ogres.

Chapter Text

As Astarion swung the carriage door open, his eyes quickly confirmed what his ears had already forewarned: they were under attack.

From not one, but three enormous ogres. 

Shrugging out of his fur coat hastily, Astarion leapt down from the carriage and was immediately engulfed by the roar of combat.

The hulking brutes lumbered and snarled as they attacked with unexpected co-ordination. 

One of them had apparently ripped a tree clean from the earth and hurled it across the campsite. The trunk had crashed down on the campfire and ignited; the flames hungrily licking over the surrounding blankets, casting the cave in dancing orange and deep shadows.

Figures jerked and twisted in the flickering firelight, their movements half-swallowed by smoke. Through the haze, he spotted Karlach, locked in combat with the largest of the three giants. A mountain of muscle and bone, the beast swung a spiked greatclub, but Karlach met it head-on with her battle axe, bracing the blow with a crack of steel on wood.

Wyll had already successfully disarmed the second towering beast, so it was now trying to pummel him with its fists. Wyll darted in and out of reach, alternating between precise jabs with his rapier and bursts of Eldritch energy that lit up the air in green streaks.

And then there was the third ogre. Smaller, stupider, and currently occupied with throwing rocks at Gale, who ducked and stumbled backwards as he tried to gain enough space to cast a ranged spell. Beneath the ogre’s feet, Shadowheart was striking out with her mace, as she tried unsuccessfully to draw its attention away from the wizard that it seemed determined to squash.

It was utter chaos.

Astarion slipped from the shadows near the carriage, bow already in hand, eyes locked onto his first target.

His first shot buried itself in the thick back of the ogre trying to smash Wyll with angry fists. It didn’t react, just bellowed louder and swung again at the warlock, completely lost in its frenzy.

Another arrow followed, then another, each sinking deep into meat and muscle. Still, the beast barely flinched.

It was too distracted. Perfect.

Astarion slung the bow over his shoulder and slipped forwards, as graceful and silent as a shadow. One hand found the hilt of his dagger, the other bracing for the leap. He was nearly in range; one well-timed pounce, one well-placed strike, and the ogre would fall.

A sudden bellow split the air, wrenching his attention away from his mark.

Karlach cried out, stumbling as the greatclub slammed into her leg, one of its jagged spikes snapping off, left buried deep in her thigh. But she didn’t fall. Instead, her roar of pain twisted into fury. The flames curling along her skin surged higher, fed by her rage, her infernal engine burning brighter and hotter.

Nearby, Gale and Shadowheart had found their rhythm. Gale was hurling spell after spell, driving the smallest ogre in loops, whilst Shadowheart darted in from the blind spots, her mace cracking into its ribs each time it turned. Their opponent spun in dizzy frustration, grunting and lashing out at nothing as the two wove around it like they were dancing. 

Astarion pivoted back, facing his target once more, his dagger raised and ready to strike. The ogre’s back was still turned, it was still unaware. One clean, stabbing leap and it would be over.

“MEAT!”

The guttural shriek echoed from behind him, giddy and savage. 

A chill shot down Astarion’s spine as he froze in place.

He spun on his heel just in time to see a fourth ogre, filthy, wide-eyed and grinning, looming over the carriage. It had one meaty arm wedged through the open door, clawing its way inside.

Reaching for Raphael.

The devil was still weakened, barely conscious. Completely defenceless. And Astarion had left the door open.

He barely had time to move before the fourth ogre reached in and grabbed Raphael by the legs, dragging him out of the carriage like a rag doll.

The devil struggled weakly, twisting in its grip, but he was too dazed, too broken to fight back. The ogre hauled him upright and brought him close, sniffing him. 

Even from a distance, Astarion saw Raphael wrinkle his nose in disgust.

Then Raphael said something to it. Astarion couldn’t hear what, but the ogre snarled in response, its thick brow furrowing. Then it swung its massive arm back and slammed him face-first into the stone floor.

A sickening crack rang out.

When it lifted him again, Raphael’s face was a mess, crimson gushing from his nose and mouth. He smiled with red stained teeth, and said something else, something that made the ogre’s nostrils flare.

The realisation struck Astarion.

He wants to die.

To get free. 

Shit.

The furious ogre threw Raphael.

Horrified, Astarion’s eyes followed the blur of red as Raphael was hurled across the cave like a broken toy. He hit the wall with a crunch and collapsed in a tangled, motionless heap.

He didn’t stir.

Astarion’s breath caught in his throat.

“A little help here!” Wyll’s strained voice rang out behind him, panicked and urgent.

Astarion turned just in time to see him pinned beneath a massive foot, the ogre towering over him pressing down on his chest. Wyll writhed, one arm stretched towards his fallen rapier, which lay just out of reach in the dirt. He was coughing and choking as he gasped to pull in air. 

Astarion’s gaze darted around the cave.

Karlach was still locked in her brutal clash, teeth bared in a snarl. She couldn’t help.

Gale and Shadowheart were driving their ogre into the corner, working in perfect rhythm, striking one after the other. They had it handled. And then they would go to Wyll, he was sure of it.

They’d seen him. They would help him.

No-one had seen Raphael.

And the ogre that had thrown him now loomed over his limp form, wielding a rock the size of a small horse in both hands. It lifted it slowly, preparing to bring it down.

Astarion didn’t think. He moved.

He turned, raised his bow, and drew back the string.

The arrow whirred as it flew straight towards the ogre advancing on Raphael.

As his shot struck true, the ogre roared…

…and dropped the rock.

It slammed down onto Raphael’s legs with a bone-splintering crunch that echoed throughout the cave. The devil jerked violently, a raw, strangled cry tearing from his throat. Pain, not death. He was still alive. Just.

The ogre bellowed in frustration, turning sharply and fixing Astarion with a murderous glare. It reached across its barrel-like chest, unhooking a length of thick, rusted chain looped around its torso, letting it fall with a heavy clatter. Then it began to spin it. The chain whirled through the air with a whistling hum, wide slicing arcs of brute force. Astarion only just managed to dive aside in time, but not before the end of the chain grazed his ribs with a brutal snap.

Pain bloomed across his side. He looked down and saw blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading quickly. “Just marvellous,” he hissed.

He slowly backed away from the ogre, drawing it away from Raphael’s crumpled form and back towards the carriage. 

He ducked low, weaving through the shadows, counting the ogre’s thudding steps close behind him. Then he vanished.

The ogre stopped in its tracks, confused. 

Astarion lunged up from behind, blade flashing in the firelight.

As it spun around in surprise, he drove his dagger up beneath the ogre’s jaw, punching through bone and sinew, right into the tiny, rotting kernel it used for a brain.

The ogre was statue-still. Then it shuddered, blood and grey matter gushing down the blade, splattering Astarion in hot, foul gore.

He wrenched the dagger free and ducked to the side just in time to avoid the massive corpse collapsing beside him with a crash that almost knocked him to the ground.

Wiping gore from his eyes with the back of his sleeve, Astarion turned, scanning the chaos that was beginning to quiet. The spreading fire had been extinguished, leaving the cave dim and heavy with smoke.

To his right, Karlach and Gale were finishing off the big brute. A shimmering cloud of daggers still hung in the air, glinting in the firelight like deadly stars. The ogre gave one last staggering roar, then toppled with a thunderous crash that rattled the stones beneath their feet.

To his left, Shadowheart was crouching beside Wyll, her glowing hands pressed to his chest. Wyll was slumped, but awake, one hand cradling his ribs while the other clutched hers tightly, jaw clenched as he grimaced against the pain.

They were alive. All of them.

But some only barely.

Astarion sprinted to where Raphael lay broken on the stone, dropping to his knees beside him in a flurry of panic. 

Raphael was completely unconscious, his face a mess of blood and bruising. His nose was bent at an awkward angle, one eye was swollen shut, and a deep gash had torn through the bone of his brow, slicing down to the lower edge of his eye socket. 

Astarion leaned in, face close to Raphael’s, holding his breath as he listened.

For a long, terrible second there was nothing.

Then a breath. 

Shallow. Wet.

He heard the telling rattle of fluid in Raphael’s lungs. Broken ribs, most likely.

One of Raphael’s legs was bent at a sickening angle. The other was worse. A shard of bone pierced clean through the skin, bright white peeking out beneath the blood-slicked tear in his trousers.

Astarion closed his eyes for a moment, jaw clenched tight. If he’d felt guilty before, that was nothing compared to how he felt now.

We should have healed him sooner.

I should have closed the door. 

Behind him, footsteps shifted over loose stone. “Is… is he still alive?” Gale’s voice was tentative, worried.

Astarion looked up then, glancing around. Gale stood a few paces back, arms wrapped around himself for warmth, visibly shivering. His coat was gone, a casualty of the earlier fire. Beyond him, Shadowheart had finished healing Wyll and was now kneeling beside Karlach, examining the large spike still embedded deep in her thigh. 

Wyll, who was back on his feet, was peering into the carriage with a puzzled look. As he turned and spotted the missing cambion, Astarion kneeling next to him, alarm surged across his face and he bolted across to them. As he reached them, Wyll crouched beside Astarion, his good eye scanning the devil’s battered frame with a grim expression. “We need to move him,” Wyll muttered to Astarion. “He’s twisted. Let’s get him over to Shadowheart and lie him flat. Carefully.”

Astarion nodded, his gaze lingering on the mangled legs. He shifted closer, hands hovering uncertainly, trying to figure out where to lift without causing more damage.

He’d felt breaks like that before. Cazador would leave him to reset his own shattered bones. To endure the slow, torturous crawl of regeneration alone. The memory made his stomach twist.

“Gale,” Wyll called over his shoulder without looking back, “can you get a new fire going? Back corner, away from the smoke.”

Gale didn’t reply, but his footsteps retreated into the darkness and moments later, a warm orange glow spilled across the cave walls as the new fire took shape.

Wyll turned to Astarion. “You got his legs?” he asked, shifting to brace Raphael’s shoulders.

Astarion nodded. “Mind his ribs,” he murmured. “And be careful, that shoulder looks dislocated.”

Wyll grimaced, adjusting his hand placement.

Astarion slipped his arms beneath Raphael’s legs as gently as he could, and together, they lifted him slowly. Raphael’s head lolled, blood dripping from his temple, his body slack as a doll. They moved in sync across the stone, steadily navigating the loose ground and scattered, charred supplies. Every jostle drew a wince from Astarion, the guilt eating at him. 

When they reached the growing glow of the new fire, they laid him down on one of the few surviving blankets. 

Shadowheart appeared without a word, her expression unreadable as she took in the extent of Raphael’s injuries. She knelt beside him silently and pressed glowing hands to his chest, her magic spreading in warm pulses as she began mending shattered ribs and collapsed lungs.

Astarion watched her work, a whisper of warmth breaking through the tight knot in his chest, a mixture of pride and admiration.

Very carefully, Shadowheart reached up and realigned his nose. She kept her hand there a moment longer, palm resting against his bloodied cheek as healing light seeped into the fractures across his brow and eye socket. When she pulled her hand away, Astarion saw that Raphael’s eyes were open. One bloodshot and hazy. The other entirely red, flooded with ruptured vessels. Both were locked on him.

Raphael’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. 

Caught off guard, Astarion hesitated… then returned it, small and uncertain.

The eye contact lingered until Shadowheart shifted her focus to his shattered legs. As her hands moved lower, Raphael’s smile dissolved. With no warning, just a brutal, splintering crunch, Shadowheart reset the exposed bone.

Raphael flinched violently, his body twisting up in pain. What might have been a cry came out as a hoarse rasp, his throat still ruined from Astarion’s bite. He tore his gaze from the vampire, turning it on the cleric instead, eyes blazing with pure outrage. He hissed through clenched teeth, “I swear on everything unholy, when I’m out of these chains…”

Shadowheart cut off Raphael’s growl with a casual shrug, meeting his furious glare without flinching. “You’re most welcome,” she said breezily, then rose to her feet and turned away without another word.

Astarion frowned.

Raphael’s bones had been reset, yes, but his shoulder was still dislocated, his legs still broken. The healing was far from finished.

Astarion stood, brushing the dust from his knees, and strode after Shadowheart. She’d joined the others, now gathered near the carriage, speaking in hushed tones. Gale was wrapped in Karlach’s fur coat, while Karlach stood fanning herself with a hand, her skin still steaming from the fight.

“You’re not done,” Astarion said sharply, coming to a stop beside Shadowheart. “His shoulder’s still out. His legs—” he gestured back towards Raphael, “are broken in two places, if not more.”

Shadowheart turned, her eyes briefly flicking to Karlach, before settling on him. “I’ve done what I can for now,” she said, keeping her tone light but placating. “I’ve used more of my magic than I should’ve already. I need time to recharge, or I’ll be useless if we’re attacked again.”

“Okay. But we’ve got potions,” Astarion snapped. “Plenty of them. You picked up more in Nashkel.”

Wyll stepped in, giving Shadowheart a small nod. “Astarion, we’ve got enough for emergencies,” he said evenly. “Shadowheart’s stabilised him, so he’s no longer knocking at death’s door.” He glanced towards the crumpled figure by the fire. “Cambions regenerate. Slower now, sure, but it’s working. He’s still breathing. And frankly…” Wyll shrugged, voice dropping just slightly. “It might be better if he stays quiet for a while.”

Astarion’s eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face. “You’re joking. This again?” He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “If you’d healed him before the ogres showed up, he might not be in this state.”

“Yes...” Karlach said slowly. “And if you hadn’t bitten half his throat out to win a pissing contest, he might not have needed healing in the first place.” She sighed. “Astarion, look. He’s not our friend. He’s a devil. An actual devil. You know what they are. He’d leave you with far worse than broken legs.”

“And what if we’re attacked again?” Astarion retorted, eyes darting between the others. “What happened to ‘we can’t risk him dying’?”

Gale exhaled, his voice calm but firm. “Astarion. Come now. He’s not dying. We’re not being cruel, we just saved his life. We’re making choices. Hard ones, yes, but necessary.”

“Selûne rarely intervenes loudly,” Shadowheart murmured. “But sometimes, when things break… it’s so something else can be mended. Perhaps this is one of those times.”

Astarion turned to look at his friend, incredulous. He usually kept his thoughts on the gods to himself. He had no use for them, but he’d always respected Shadowheart’s devotion, however misguided he found it.

He opened his mouth… then shut it again.

He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say.

Or why he cared so damn much.

The fire crackled between them, and for a moment, no one said anything. 

It was fucking awkward.

Wordlessly, Astarion turned away from the firelight, from his companions, and walked back to Raphael, who watched him approach, silent and still. Astarion couldn’t tell how much he’d heard, but suspected it was enough.

He knelt beside him, resting a pale hand lightly on his arm. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “This is going to hurt.”

He’d done this before, countless times, for his siblings. After Cazador’s tantrums, when the blood had dried and the screaming had stopped, all that was left would be the quiet click of bones being set back into place. One vampire spawn tending to another. He gripped Raphael’s arm and popped the dislocated shoulder back into its socket with one swift motion. The joint shifted with a jolt and a dull crunch.

Raphael didn’t cry out. He didn’t flinch. His eyes never left Astarion. 

Astarion leaned in, voice low and firm. “Well done. Now I need to get you back to the carriage. You’re going to have to help me.”

He hooked an arm under Raphael’s good shoulder, readying to lift. But as he began to pull, Raphael shook his head weakly, his eyes dark with pain. He couldn’t get his legs beneath him, and a pained gasp slipped from his bloodied lips, as Astarion continued to pull, trying to heave him upright.

“Please, Raphael” he whispered, “I just need you to try.”

Raphael choked on a sound that might have been a growl, or a whimper. His body gave a violent shudder, trembling in Astarion’s arms as he tried to ease his own weight onto shattered legs.

His eyelids fluttered, breath ragged. He looked seconds away from blacking out.

Then a hand caught his other side.

Wyll didn’t speak, just adjusted his grip beneath Raphael’s arm and met Astarion’s gaze with a quiet nod, then together, they lifted the devil, and carried his weight between them towards the carriage.

Did Wyll realise Astarion had gone to help Raphael before him?

Astarion barely registered the others stepping aside as he and Wyll pulled Raphael up into the carriage. 

Then Astarion grabbed his fur coat from where he’d left it, and without a glance back, he turned on his heel and walked away from the camp.

He wanted to wash, to hunt. 

But he needed to be alone.

________

It didn’t take Astarion long to find his prey: a young mountain goat, separated from its herd, nosing through the snow for scraps of grass. 

He struck like a wolf, his bite driven by frustration more than hunger, then fed quickly and cleanly, and just enough to take the edge off his anger.

For a while afterwards, Astarion sat on a large rock near the cliff’s edge, the cold stinging his cheeks as he watched the stars glimmer and sparkle above.

He turned the night over in his mind: the attack, the argument, the blood… 

Raphael. Broken and helpless. 

He just didn’t understand why it bothered him so much, letting Raphael suffer. 

Each of his companions had spelled it out for him at some time or another: devils are evil, devils don’t care. They can only manipulate. They will only destroy.

He knew that. He did. But still… something had its claws in him, when it came to Raphael. Gripped him in a chokehold.

Was it guilt? Fear? Trauma?

Depraved carnal lust?

He snorted at the thought, pulling himself up from the rock. That, at least, would be a simple answer. 

With a sigh, he hoisted the bloodless goat over one shoulder and turned back towards camp.

Time to make peace with the others. 

________

As Astarion stepped quietly into the mouth of the cave, the soft murmur of voices drifted to him through the firelight. 

“I’m not saying he’s right,” Shadowheart was saying. “But it’s not simple for him.”

He paused, just out of sight.

“He’s been through things none of us can fully understand. Two hundred years of unfathomable abuse. Watching Raphael suffer like that—” Her voice dropped lower. “It’s not about the devil. It’s about everything Astarion has already survived. It’s a front-row seat to someone else’s torment. And it’s… triggering for him.”

Astarion stood frozen. He hadn’t expected to hear his name. He certainly hadn’t expected… kindness. Understanding. His eyes burned before he could stop them. 

Blinking hard, he stepped forwards, heading for the fire, towards the silhouettes of his companions.

Their faces lifted as he stepped into the firelight, a few gentle “heyy” s and a soft “how are you?” greeting him as he approached.

He offered a faint smile, then gestured to the goat he carried in one hand. “I brought dinner,” he said, then glanced up at the pale light creeping into the sky outside the cave. “Or… breakfast, I suppose.”

A short time later, earlier arguments left behind, Astarion climbed back into the carriage as they prepared for another long day ascending the mountain.

He was surprised to find a very clean and very lucid devil waiting for him. Raphael’s eyes were bright, no haze of pain, no burst blood vessels.

“Astarion,” Raphael said, greeting him with a wry smile.

“You look… clean.” Astarion replied, trying to fight his own smile. “Are those Wyll’s clothes?”

“Ravengard is quite the altruist.”

“He’s the best of us,” Astarion mused, nodding. “I see he scrubbed you down too.”

“Oh, he’s not nearly as thorough as you are.” Raphael’s gaze ran down Astarion’s body briefly, catching on his shirt. “You’re bleeding,” he said, frowning. 

“Not anymore. I healed hours ago, darling. Vampire spawn are clearly much faster and much more proficient at regeneration than lesser devils.”

“I’m not a lesser—” At Astarion’s teasing grin, Raphael stopped mid-sentence. He scoffed and rolled his eyes instead. Still smiling. 

Astarion felt strangely warm. He’d given Karlach his fur coat, not needing it inside the carriage with the hot body beside him. But still, he felt slightly… flushed. “How are you feeling?” he asked more quietly.

“Hale and hearty. Your cleric found some scraps of magic in the bottom of her depleted reserves.”

Astarion raised his brows, surprised. “Interesting.”

“Quite. Although she’s left one leg,” Raphael said, lifting his bound hands to gesture loosely to his left thigh. “Said I could ‘heal it my damn self’.” 

“She just knows how much you like being in control,” Astarion replied smoothly.

“How very generous of her.”

“She also knows how much I like watching you suffer.”

Raphael raised a single eyebrow, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Sadist.”

“Hypocrite,” Astarion shot back, his smile widening.

Chapter Text

The days that followed the attack passed quietly and without incident.

The party had made their way down the mountain path, leaving behind snow-dusted peaks and bitter winds, trading them for a winding descent towards warmer lands flanked by bare trees and grey skies. They followed the Bitten Road, its muddy path snaking steadily towards the Alandor river, and the city of Crimmor beyond.

In the carriage, the mood had shifted.

Incredibly, the poison injections had stopped, more for Astarion’s benefit than Raphael’s, he knew. With his voice restored, the devil had been quite talkative, and he and Astarion had spoken often. Not the strained, brittle exchanges of before, but genuine, easy conversation. There had been no barbed jabs and no veiled threats. Just… company. 

It was amicable. Astarion found he rather enjoyed it.

Raphael was sharp, eloquent, even funny, in that dry, devilish way of his. He spoke like someone used to holding court, but he listened too, and when Astarion spoke, he didn’t just nod along, he paid attention.

There was something about the way he looked at Astarion; he seemed curious, amused, genuinely interested. He wore a faint smile whenever Astarion said something especially witty, and his eyes gleamed whenever they brushed against each other in the cramped space of the carriage.

It was intoxicating.

And for the first time in a long while, Astarion felt relaxed. Happy.

“So, what are you going to do with the money?” Raphael asked him one morning, as the carriage rumbled along the flat road towards the river.

Astarion looked up from the book he was reading. “Awkward question, considering you’re the merchandise, no?”

“I’m merely curious.”

“What makes you think there’s gold in it for me? You don’t think I’d do it just for Karlach?”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t. I just know Mammon. You’ll be paid.”

Astarion folded the corner of his page, set the book aside, and reclined with a lazy, contented stretch. There was nothing quite so delicious as daydreaming about the extravagant life he intended to claim. “Oh, I’ll buy a house,” Astarion said breezily, inspecting his nails. “Something enormous and gaudy, preferably with gilded banisters and far too many chandeliers. In Baldur’s Gate, of course. I’ll entertain every night; throw lavish balls — all pomp and pageantry — with scandalous company and enough wine to make you forget whose blood is on the carpet.” He finished with a wicked smile. 

Raphael let out a low chuckle, his eyes sparkling in… approval?

“So, what about you?” Astarion asked, tilting his head to study Raphael. “What awaits you in Minauros? Beneath all the rot and ruin?”

Raphael’s smile faltered, the glint in his eyes fading. “Oh, all the usual subjects,” he said, staring at a blank spot on the wall. “Whipping, flaying, bone breaking, mutilation. Starvation, sleep deprivation, strangulation. Rape, rats, tooth extraction, immurement.” His voice dipped, growing quieter. “Eye-gouging. Limb removal. Scalping. Emasculation…” 

He said nothing for a moment, then sighed and shook his head, as if clearing a shadow from his mind. When he looked at Astarion again, he was smiling. “A charming little itinerary, wouldn’t you say?”

Astarion didn’t know how to respond. “And… and this will all happen to you? Not by you?”

“How I wish it were the other way around. Alas, I won’t be having any of the fun.” Raphael gave him a grim smile.

Astarion felt a hollow ache in his chest and a sickening weight of guilt in his stomach. He was the one leading Raphael to that fate, and yet here he was, daydreaming about wine stained galas and candlelit masquerades, all funded by the sale of the devil opposite him…

He felt awful.

“Back in Nashkel,” Astarion began, speaking slowly and carefully, “when you proposed a deal... what was the favour you would’ve asked for? In order to do the ritual for Karlach.”

Raphael didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted, but his head didn’t turn. He looked at Astarion from the corner of his eye, every inch of him unnervingly still as he calculated how to respond. After a momentary tense silence, Raphael closed his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose. He turned his face back to Astarion, smiling. “We shouldn’t talk about this, little vampling.” 

Oh.

“Why not?”

“Because they’ll all just tell you it’s my nefarious plot to manipulate you.” He indicated the others outside with a jerk of his head. 

“I just want to know what the favour was. That’s all. The conversation can end there.”

“Why does it matter? They don’t want my deal.”

“Well maybe it changes things.” Astarion shrugged.

“It won’t.”

“Humour me.”

“Okay, fine.” Raphael paused, lips tightening. “I hadn’t thought one up yet. I just wanted my freedom, but didn’t want you to see how much. I needed it to seem… secondary. Happy now?”

Astarion just stared at him, his mind turning over the confession. He hadn’t expected such… honesty. Not from Raphael. Never from a devil. To admit that he didn’t have everything planned out the whole time, no hidden, perfectly polished scheme tucked up his sleeve… 

It was disarming.

And unexpectedly human.

Astarion felt a strange warmth stirring inside his chest. That glimpse of vulnerability didn’t weaken Raphael in his eyes. It made him real. And strangely desirable. He wasn’t just some untouchable, unfeeling creature: he was flawed and fallible. Desperate. Hurtable. 

Just like Astarion. 

Brown eyes blinked at him, snapping Astarion out of his thoughts.

“If we let you go… Found another way to fix Karlach without handing you over… Would that be enough? Would you… let the past go? Call us even?” he asked quietly.

“Careful now,” Raphael spoke softly, “you don’t hold the cards in this game.” 

“Firstly, ouch. My voice does count, thank you very much,” Astarion scoffed, bringing a hand up to his chest in mock outrage. “And if you want these lips to start singing your praises instead of sealing your fate…” He arched a single brow. “You’d best start wooing me, devil.”

Raphael offered only a long blink and a faint smile, then looked away, not dismissively, but as though he were lost in thought. The conversation faded, contemplative silence settling in the space between them.

Yes. Maybe there was another way. Maybe they didn’t need Helsik and her deal at all. Dammon was still out there and already invested in Karlach’s survival. And for now, if Raphael truly warmed to him… perhaps he wouldn’t seek revenge. Perhaps he could be convinced: his freedom, in exchange for the safety of Astarion’s friends. 

Astarion’s head started throbbing. A slow, pulsing ache that made it hard to think. 

Gods, plotting is exhausting.  

His temples were tight, his vision fogging at the edges slightly.

Across from him, Raphael tilted his head slightly, a lazy but observant motion. “You’re looking a touch pale, little vampire. More than usual. Are you feeling alright?”

Astarion frowned. His hands were trembling, the joints aching, and he felt a cold trickle of sweat creeping down his back. He wasn’t cold though. If anything, he was too warm. Much too warm. 

The river.

They must have reached it.

He’d been so focused on Raphael that he hadn’t noticed the sound of rushing water under the carriage wheels. And not just beneath them — around them. The spring floods had swollen the Alandor river’s banks, and the wheels were splashing through the shallow runoff that flooded across the plains. 

Astarion had been lucky so far; their route hadn’t forced them across many rivers. Crossing the Chionthar when leaving Baldur’s Gate had been tolerable; the bridge there rose high enough above the water to dull any adverse effects of being so close to the current.

But this was different.

They were much lower, much closer to the danger. The water lapped at the underside of the carriage. It was inescapable. 

Astarion braced a hand on the wall, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek trying to ignore the itching and burning feeling on his skin — under his skin.

They had to get across. Fast.

Raphael pulled a small face, his brow creasing in the middle. Was that sympathy?  “So considerate of your companions to give you a little warning,” he muttered. Then with a sigh, he shifted, scooting away from the wall and lowering himself down onto his side, chains rattling as he adjusted. He beckoned to Astarion, nodding to the space next to him with his head. “Come here,” he said, voice low.

Astarion hesitated for only a second before pushing himself up with trembling arms and slowly crossing the narrow space. His limbs felt heavy and his thoughts were sluggish. He wasn’t sure what Raphael was doing. But he couldn’t think straight. So he obeyed. 

He lowered himself down beside the devil, wincing as he settled stiffly onto the bedroll and stretched out to lie on his side. Raphael lifted his bound wrists with a quiet clink of metal, gesturing Astarion closer with a small tilt of his head. Astarion hesitated again, but the comforting heat radiating from Raphael’s body made it hard to pull away, hard to pretend he didn’t want it, so he inched closer. Raphael let his arms drop, looping them gently around Astarion’s shoulders, the chains settling against his back.

Astarion wasn’t sure if it was delirium, but he was fairly certain he was cuddling a devil.

From this close, there was nowhere to look other than at each other, so Astarion studied Raphael’s eyes: deep, dark brown and flecked with a hint of gold in the low light. They were locked on him, hypnotic, searching. Gazing right into his very soul.

Astarion’s gaze dropped to Raphael’s lips, then his throat. Hells, he was thirsty. The river sickness had made his body feel weak and hollow, and from this close he could hear Raphael’s steady heartbeat. He was fairly certain if he had a heartbeat of his own, it would be thundering out of his chest.

Slowly, Raphael leaned in. His nose brushed against the curve of Astarion’s neck, trailing upwards in a smooth, steady line. Astarion shivered as he felt a soft intake of breath, followed by a prolonged exhale right against the shell of his ear.

He shuddered involuntarily. Heat flooding his groin. Trousers straining. No, if he had a heartbeat, it wouldn’t be thundering out of his chest.

Raphael pulled back, again locking eyes with Astarion. “Go on, little vampire,” he said softly, his deep voice reverberating through Astarion’s chest. “Take what you need.” 

Astarion paused for a moment, confused.

Did he mean blood, or…?

Raphael tilted his head, exposing his neck to the vampire. “Small sips,” he murmured, “it won’t burn as much that way. It’s like drinking hot tea. You’ll get used to the heat.”

Not one to refuse an invitation, Astarion leaned in slowly. The sweet scent of cherry and musk curled around him, heady and inviting. His tongue traced a stripe up the devil’s throat, tasting the salt on his skin. He hovered just beneath his jaw, brushing his lips against the warm flesh that covered his pulse. The skin was smooth, no sign of the torn flesh or bruising from days ago. All the marks he’d left had vanished. But not for long…

He sank his fangs into Raphael’s throat. Then, as instructed, took a tiny sip. 

It was still scalding hot, but the taste in that small pull was deep and aromatic. Both fruity and chocolatey, the sweetness offsetting the tang.

He took another small drag. Gods, it was heavenly. 

The very tip of his tongue went numb at first, tingling faintly from the heat, but the rest of it soaked in every rich note. Raphael had been right: the warmth dulled with each small sip, leaving just smooth, intoxicating flavour flooding his mouth. His throat didn’t burn at all.

Astarion brought one hand up to cradle the back of Raphael’s neck, whilst the other slipped around his back, trying to pull him even closer. With their bodies pressed against each other, Astarion could feel Raphael’s hard length pushing against his own straining erection. He growled in delight and sank his teeth deeper, gradually feeling his strength returning.

A low groan escaped Raphael, his breathing growing rough and his heartbeat pounding now. Astarion might have thought it a pained noise, had Raphael’s hips not moved at the same time, shifting against Astarion’s leg, gently grinding against him. Astarion’s hand slid lower down Raphael’s back, creeping around to his front. He trailed his fingers under his shirt, slipping beneath the hem, then, slowly, he pushed down the front of Raphael’s trousers, seeking bare skin, warmth, and the reaction it might earn.

Raphael didn’t disappoint. As Astarion’s fingers wrapped around his hard length, it was like he’d sent a jolt of electricity through the devil. Raphael let out a deep moan, every muscle tensing and his head tipping back. Astarion withdrew his fangs from his throat, pulling back to watch Raphael’s face, as the devil arched into his grip, brow furrowed as he squeezed the elf tighter in his arms. 

Feeling Astarion’s gaze on him, Raphael opened his eyes. They were dark with lust, pupils blown wide as he looked back through inky lashes. His lips were parted, heavy breaths hot and uneven, every exhale ragged.

Astarion desperately needed to be closer. He slid a knee between Raphael’s, but the movement jarred the devil’s still-mending leg and a sharp grunt escaped him as he winced. He bowed his head, resting his forehead against Astarion’s, eyes squeezing shut against the pain.

“Easy, vampling,” he whispered.

The hand that wasn’t stroking Raphael beneath his trousers drifted up from his neck, fingers weaving into his hair. Astarion closed his grip, tugging the devil’s head back just enough to expose his mouth. He lingered close for a moment, lips hovering just shy of contact, letting Raphael feel the heat of his breath. Letting him squirm in anticipation.

Then he pressed their mouths together in a maddeningly slow kiss. 

It wasn’t like the kiss at the inn. That had been hungry and bruising, a clash of passion. This was different. Playful, drawn out and teasing. Almost tender.

His tongue swept into Raphael’s mouth; the taste of blood still warm on it, as he swirled it against Raphael’s, savouring the way the devil’s length twitched in his hand at the same time. The faint catch of Raphael’s breath was almost as exhilarating as the taste of him, and it stirred a primal hunger within Astarion. He needed more.

Pulling back, Astarion brought his hand up to his mouth and licked from palm to fingertip, before returning it to Raphael’s cock, coating him in a slick layer of slightly bloodied spittle. He watched his hand as he stroked up and down, enjoying the view of Raphael’s hips rolling as he ground himself into Astarion’s grip. He was enthralled by the sight and his own cock throbbed, demanding attention. 

With a smile and a wink, Astarion slipped from Raphael’s embrace, the chains loosening their hold as he ducked out from his arms. He made quick work of his clothing, throwing each layer aside as Raphael’s eyes tracked him, heavy-lidded with desire. 

Raphael raised a curious eyebrow as Astarion clambered over him, then lay down again, tucking in against his back and curling close once more. From this position, Astarion had more freedom of movement, his hands gliding under Raphael’s clothing and over his skin, tracing every dip and valley of muscle with slow, exploratory strokes, enjoying the moans and shivers he coaxed from him.

He hastily dragged Raphael’s trousers down, then pressed his own cock against the hot skin of his backside. The sight of his throbbing length resting between Raphael’s cheeks sent electricity coursing through him, and he was suddenly desperate to be inside that soft warmth. 

He brought both hands up to Raphael’s head; one gripping his hair again and pulling back his head until it rested on Astarion’s shoulder, the other slipping inside his mouth, coating probing fingers with hot saliva. Raphael sucked on them with a sensual moan. 

“Ssshhh.” Astarion hushed him, moving his slicked fingers all the way down to Raphael’s hole, still holding back his head.

As he slipped one finger inside, Raphael’s entire body shuddered, his breath hitching. 

Slowly Astarion began to move that finger, pulling out, pushing back in. He added another finger, and then another, his movements getting faster as his desperation grew. And then, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he withdrew them and placed the head of his cock against Raphael’s entrance. 

Raphael stilled, holding his breath for the rough penetration.

But Astarion was gentle this time.

He eased himself in slowly. Infuriatingly slowly. Centimetre by centimetre.

He didn’t want to hurt him.

Not this time.

As he hilted himself fully, he felt Raphael practically melt in his arms, his head still leaning back, throat still exposed.

Instinctively, Astarion sank his fangs into Raphael’s neck again, right in the muscle where it met his shoulder, holding him still as he set a rhythmic pace, driving himself deeper with each snap of his hips. Low moans escaped Raphael between pants as Astarion fucked him harder and harder, alternating between sucking and nipping at his neck.

His world narrowed to two sensations: the sweet taste of blood on his tongue, thick and molten, and the tight grip swallowing his cock, igniting his nerve endings, sending sparks up through his core.

He finally understood what Haarlep had meant. 

This was rapture.

He didn’t want to drink from anyone else again. He didn’t want to bury himself in anyone else.

He only wanted Raphael.

Astarion suddenly became aware of a deep growl rumbling in his own chest. He sounded like an animal, feral, lost in instinct and craving.

He pulled out — both teeth and cock — earning a disappointed hum from Raphael.

Then sitting up, Astarion moved around to take up a new angle. Upright and on his knees, he spread his legs and slotted as close to Raphael’s backside as he could, gently spreading the devil’s cheeks for access. 

Raphael’s face fell slack, mouth dropping open, as Astarion pushed back in. 

Astarion liked this new angle. The devil still lay on his side, but his torso now twisted to look up at Astarion. And Astarion could look down at Raphael: watch his face, watch his leaking cock bounce with every thrust, watch his own cock sinking into that tight, quivering little hole. He rutted into Raphael fiercely, hands on his cheeks, spreading, squeezing, digging his nails into soft, golden flesh.

The weakness from before had vanished entirely, swept away by a raw, thrumming energy that bubbled under Astarion’s skin, seeping into his rolling muscles. His limbs no longer felt like lead, instead they tingled as that energy rippled through his veins, building pressure, gaining momentum. Was this what it had felt like to have a heartbeat?

It wasn’t enough. He needed more, needed to get closer. He needed to claw his way inside Raphael, tear through his walls and melt into his bloodstream. He wanted to sink his teeth into every inch of him, tear his supple flesh and guzzle up every drop of blood, sweat and tears. He dug his nails in more and fucked him harder.

Raphael was close. His entire body was shuddering, sweat glistening on his skin. Every thrust drew a sharp pant and a sinful moan, equal parts pleasure and pain as Astarion brushed against that bundle of nerves and carelessly jolted his broken leg. 

“Astarion. I—”

Raphael’s body stiffened, his back arching, head tipping back and lips parting. His eyes were locked on Astarion’s right up until the last moment, then they rolled closed as his climax peaked. Spend shooting out and soaking the bedroll underneath him.

The tightening of his muscles, as well as the deep, rumbling groan he released was enough to tip Astarion over the edge. He fell forwards, leaning over Raphael as waves of pleasure rolled through him, the strangling grip on his cock milking every drop of seed from him. He rode out his own orgasm with a few sharp, final thrusts, his head light from ecstasy, then let himself drop onto Raphael’s panting form.

When the shockwaves had eased, he pulled out slowly, both of them spasming from sensitivity. 

Astarion stared down at the devil, unable to keep the grin off his lips, adrenaline still coursing through his body. 

“What type of tea do devils drink, anyway? Green— no, Earl Grey?!”

Raphael smiled up at him, then, without a hint of irony, whispered, “Bone marrow.”

Astarion blinked. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. With a chuckle, he laid his head on Raphael’s chest and closed his eyes. Not his usual position for meditation.

________

Astarion awoke a few hours later, still lying on top of Raphael.

The devil was watching him. 

Rubbing his eyes and yawning, Astarion sat up. He brushed a hand through his hair, wondering what state it must be in after all that… strenuous activity. He brought up a second hand, raking through his curls in a delicate panic, trying somehow to make them lie flatter and yet have more volume all at once.

Raphael’s lips curved into a small smile.

“Don’t you laugh at me,” Astarion said, eyebrows raised. “I’m trying to hide the evidence of our little… tryst, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. But if you’re hiding all the evidence…” He tilted his head, eyes flicking downwards in a pointedly suggestive arc. “You may want to address the rather glaring display right in front of you.”

Turning to look properly, Astarion took in Raphael’s still half-naked form, his trousers bunched around the chains at his ankles, where they’d been hurriedly tugged down and abandoned. His cock lay limp, his backside exposed to the elements. Astarion’s fangs pressed into his lower lip as he stared, appetite stirring again. Temptation curled its finger at him in the form of Raphael’s bruised arse cheek, the marks of Astarion’s fingernails still visible. He wanted to bite it. To draw blood. 

“Astarion,” Raphael said softly, his voice a quiet tether pulling him back to the present. “If it’s not too much trouble… a hand, perhaps?”

“Oh, darling, I’d love nothing more than to provide a strong, firm hand.” He smirked as he shifted forwards, reaching down to help. “But yes, let’s get you decent before any of the others see you and get the wrong idea.”

“And what idea would that be, exactly?” Raphael murmured as Astarion leaned in close to his hips. “That you just wanted a peek, or that you were hunting for a bigger artery?”

Astarion looked down at the bare skin beneath him. “Oh, do you mean this artery?” he said, licking the inside of Raphael’s thigh. 

Goosebumps immediately prickled along Raphael’s skin and a small grunt escaped him. His cock twitched as blood flooded his groin in instant arousal. 

Inhaling deeply, Astarion closed his eyes and smiled. “Well now I’ve found it, I’ll be sure to revisit it come breakfast.” And then he yanked Raphael’s trousers up roughly, the movement against his leg causing him to stiffen in pain. Despite the snarl that escaped his lips, Raphael’s length hardened further.

“Careful darling,” Astarion purred with a wicked little smirk, “or one might think you enjoy being in captivity.”

________

The evening air was crisp and the fire in the centre of camp crackled merrily, its golden light dancing across the floor of the forest clearing they’d claimed for the night, just outside the city of Crimmor. The few blankets that had survived the ogre attack were laid out in a loose circle, and the group lounged together, picking at bread, hard cheese, and dried fruit. Laughter came easily, and for the first time in what felt like ages, a sense of ease settled over them all.

Karlach had her feet propped up and a full tankard in her hand, eyes bright with her usual fire. Wyll was smiling more than he had in days. Shadowheart looked lighter, as if a burden had been lifted now that she was no longer tasked with dosing Raphael with poison every few hours. Even Gale had let himself recline, shoulder to shoulder with the cleric, sipping slowly from a steaming mug.

But Astarion noticed the way Gale’s eyes kept flicking towards him; quick, sideways glances when he thought he wasn’t being observed. And when Astarion spoke, Gale didn’t respond. He laughed at the right moments, but never at Astarion’s jokes. When he passed the wine, it was to Karlach or Wyll, not him.

The shift was subtle. But to Astarion, who had mastered the art of reading people in his two centuries, it was glaringly obvious. And he’d sensed that something was up for a couple of days now.

He lounged back, swirling his own drink, a smile still fixed on his face, but his happiness had cooled just a little.

As the others began settling into their bedrolls, laughter and conversation dying down, replaced with yawns and sleepy rustling, Astarion lingered. On quiet feet, he drifted over to the edge of the campfire’s glow where Gale was rearranging his fur coat into something vaguely blanket-like.

“Guilty conscience, Gale?” Astarion drawled, draping casual charm over the pointed words. “You’ve barely looked at me all evening. For a few evenings, actually. One might think you’re avoiding me.”

Gale didn’t look up immediately. He took his time adjusting the folds of fabric and picking a leaf off the coat before responding. “And what would I have to feel guilty for, exactly?”

Astarion’s smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. For one, how about not warning me when we reached the bloody river? Not even a check-in, Gale. Have you grown that tired of me?”

Gale frowned, clearly caught off guard. “That’s not what this is about,” he said, blinking. “Though— I’m… I’m sorry. We didn’t think. The river was flooded, we were all a little preoccupied.”

Astarion’s smile dropped, his voice dropping to a cold hiss. “I could have died, Gale.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed. “And Wyll almost did. A few days ago. Do you remember?”

Astarion stilled.

“I saw you,” Gale pressed on. “When the ogre had Wyll pinned. You saw him in trouble. You looked… and you hesitated. Then you ran the other way. To him.”

A muscle in Astarion’s jaw twitched, then he crossed his arms defensively. “I knew Shadowheart would help him. She was closer — Hells, even you were closer, Gale. And frankly, even Wyll would agree that letting Raphael die would have cost us everything. He was already half-dead before that ogre got to him. We were about to lose everything we’ve been working towards.”

Gale’s hard stare didn’t waver. “Raphael dying here isn’t the end for him. He’ll wind up back Avernus, wounded yes, but delayed. But Wyll?” He shook his head. “Wyll doesn’t get a second chance. If he’d died under that ogre’s foot, that would have been final.”

Astarion opened his mouth, but Gale kept talking. “We’re doing this job for Karlach, and yet, you know that she would never gamble with Wyll’s life for it. But you did. And for what?”

Astarion closed his mouth. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“You were under Cazador’s thumb for too long, Astarion,” Gale said, shaking his head. “Maybe now you’re just looking for another monster to hide behind. One who won’t judge you. One who’ll let you be everything you think you are, without feeling shame.”

The words landed like a slap.

For a moment, he just stared at Gale, trying to mask his rising emotions. He was angry, but more than that, he was hurt. Wounded. Deeply and unexpectedly.

He laughed, sharp and brittle. “Well, aren’t you just a fucking genius, with your clever little theory. You think I’m still a frightened wretch looking for someone else to collar me? Please.” His voice shook with venom. “I’m not hiding behind anyone, Gale. Least of all someone chained like a dog.”

He turned away before Gale could reply, jaw tight and fists clenched, and stalked into the forest.

Astarion stormed through the trees, his feet carrying him on instinct, far away from the others, away from their judgment and their holier-than-thou attitudes.

He found another small clearing and paced in circles, boots crunching over twigs and leaves. The hurt still churned in his chest, Gale’s words replaying in his head, eating at him. 

Another monster to hide behind.

“Bastard,” he muttered, before turning and kicking the nearest tree.

There was a sickening crack.

He doubled over with a sharp intake of breath. “Gods damn it!”

Clutching his throbbing foot, he leaned against the tree. A broken toe, probably.

Astarion sighed.

What if he’s right?  

What if this whole thing with Raphael wasn’t about having control — having power — but some deeply buried reflex he hadn’t even seen for what it was? After everything he’d been through in the past year, was he still just trying to earn safety from the most dangerous thing in sight?

A smooth voice slid from the shadows, low and mocking:

“Why, oh why do you cry, my pretty, little mouse?”

Chapter Text

“I’m not fucking crying, Haarlep,” Astarion hissed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“Which one of them was it? Do you want me to eat them?”

The incubus stepped into the clearing, wearing Raphael’s cambion form, their eyes instantly roaming up and down the elf’s body. Astarion wasn’t as well acquainted with this version of Raphael, but he couldn’t deny the allure. Towering, fearsome… and beautiful.

Another monster to hide behind.

Maybe Gale was right.

“I said I’m not crying. No-one’s hurt me. Now kindly fuck off.” Astarion pulled away from the tree he was leaning on and started limping back in the direction of camp, his toe throbbing. 

Haarlep only shrugged, falling into step beside him with an effortless grace. As they walked, they leaned down slightly, peering at Astarion in the pale moonlight. “I could carry you, if you’d like,” they purred, voice dripping with faux tenderness.

“Haarlep, why are you here?” 

“I’m just checking in, little one, there’s no need to be snippy,” they trilled in Raphael’s voice, but in a tone Astarion couldn’t imagine Raphael ever adopting. “And I’m hungry.” 

Astarion recalled the state they’d found Raphael in at the inn after Haarlep’s last ‘feeding’. Ruffled, bruised, his clothes torn, his lip bloodied. A bitter pang of jealousy crept through him at the memory. Along with a small amount of arousal.

Haarlep let out a velvety chuckle, inhaling deeply as if savouring the scent of the air. “Oh my, all that for me, little mouse?”

Astarion gave no response, refusing to dignify Haarlep’s baiting with so much as a glance.

Haarlep pressed their lips into a sulky pout. “Ugh, I always thought you were the fun one. How disappointing.” 

Astarion continued to ignore them.

“Not talking tonight, hmm? Poor thing, Raphael must be driving you utterly mad now that you’ve gone and lost that muzzle. He just doesn’t know when to shut up. Have you throttled the little brat yet? You must have at least thought about wrapping those pretty hands around his throat?”

Stopping dead in his tracks, the frustration bubbling too close to the surface to ignore, Astarion turned sharply to face Haarlep. “That’s a good point actually, Haarlep,” he hissed. “Why did you take the muzzle off him in the first place?”

Haarlep’s grin widened. They leaned in, lips brushing against Astarion’s ear as they whispered, “Because I love the sinful sounds he makes when he comes undone…” Their voice was a molten purr. “It would’ve been such a shame to keep that sweet music muzzled. Not that you need me to tell you…”

Before he knew it, Astarion had been pushed backwards against a tree, one clawed hand pinning him by the shoulder, the other stroking his cheek. They drew in another deep breath, their nose grazing his neck. “You reek of him, leech.”

Haarlep spread their wings in a dramatic sweep, blocking out the moonlight that filtered through the canopy, casting Astarion deeper into shadow. Through the darkness, the menacing gleam in their amber eyes set Astarion on edge. “I thought we had an understanding, you and I.”

“Oh, did we?” Astarion choked out, attempting a lighthearted chuckle as his gaze skimmed around for an opening he could slip through.

The incubus narrowed their eyes, their wings folding in slightly to cocoon them together. “You’ve been very naughty, haven’t you?” they whispered, each word a hot puff of breath against his skin. 

He caught the sweet scent of their pheromones, winding through the air like smoke, but it barely stirred him; for some reason he found himself able to resist the pull. He leaned away as far as he could, feeling the rough bark against the back of his head, catching on his curls.

Haarlep’s eyes locked onto Astarion’s mouth, as they let out a low, sultry laugh. Before he could react, they seized his lips in a hungry kiss. Their mouth was soft but demanding, pressing insistently against his, trying to claim, trying to conquer, to bend him to their will.

Revulsion immediately boiled inside Astarion. He had promised himself to never again allow uninvited hands on his body, pawing and fingering at him like he was a thing to be claimed. The anger that surged through his veins — the absolute fury — made his entire body tremble as he found himself inches away from losing control.

He shoved Haarlep away with a sharp, brutal thrust. 

They staggered backwards, wings fluttering to catch themselves, only just preventing them from falling in the dirt. Surprise flashed across their features for the briefest moment, before being quickly replaced by a familiar smirk. They parted their lips, ready to retort, but then paused, head tilting to one side as they listened intently to something only they could hear.

“Lay a hand on me again,” Astarion growled, “and I’ll—”

Before he could finish, footsteps sounded nearby. A voice calling out.

“Astarion? Astarion, I’m sorry for what I said. Please, come back to camp?”

Gale emerged from the treeline, worry etched across his face. That worried expression became confusion, then shock, finally hardening into anger as his gaze landed on Haarlep, who, in the brief moments between being shoved away and Gale’s arrival, had shifted their form. To Gale’s.

Gale raised his hands, red energy crackling at his fingertips, casting eerie shadows in the surrounding trees. He spoke slowly, his voice steady and commanding. “Get away from him. Now.”

Haarlep tilted their head — Gale’s head — amusement lighting up their stolen features. They spread their hands in a mocking gesture of surrender. “Ooh, so fiery,” they purred. “Did you come to join the fun? I promise, there’s plenty of me to go around.”

“Astarion, step back, I’m going to kill them.” Gale pulled back one hand, fingertips glowing with magic, ready to strike, but Astarion stepped between them, hands raised slightly. 

“Don’t bother, Gale” he muttered, tone dry. “Save your magic, they’re not worth it.” He turned to look coldly at Haarlep, who was watching them with gleeful interest. “Haarlep, you’re not welcome here. We want nothing from you, and you’ll get nothing from us.” 

Haarlep gave a little gasp of feigned offence. “Oh, you cruel little thing. Here I come to offer a gift, and you turn me away.” They turned and started to drift lazily towards the trees, tail swishing with each exaggerated sway of their hips. “Such a shame. I thought you might want to hear about the concerning new developments pertaining to your task... and Mephistopheles.”

Gale and Astarion looked at each other, both frowning. 

This fucking incubus.

Reluctantly, Gale lowered his hands, letting his magic ebb away, and Astarion exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Talk,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

________

Haarlep refused to say anything until they had an audience with everyone.

“That dashing, horned hero of yours will want to hear this,” they had declared, before insisting the three of them head back to camp together. 

And so here they were, sitting around the campfire, entertaining an incubus.  

Haarlep was back in Raphael’s cambion form, at Gale’s insistence that they take literally any other shape but his. Their eyes kept darting to the carriage, their tongue flicking out to wet their lips at the thought of their favourite meal waiting inside. Astarion curled his fingers into a tight fist, feeling a petty, possessive anger rising up.

Karlach and Wyll had taken the lead on the negotiations, Astarion, Shadowheart and Gale sitting silently.

“We’ll allow you some limited physical contact, in exchange for the information you provide,” Wyll said, slowly and carefully. “Tell us what you know, and we’ll decide what it’s worth.”

“You’re a bold, young thing, Warlock” Haarlep said, combing their fingers through the fur coat they sat on, giving Wyll a smouldering look. “But I wasn’t born yesterday. We exchange at the same time. I’m happy to do it right here. I know how you’ll insist on watching.” 

“Believe us, mate, we don’t want to watch, but we don’t trust you.” Karlach replied, looking extremely unsettled by the entire situation. As always, she was pacing, her battle axe gripped tight in both hands.

Haarlep chuckled. “Distrust makes for such delicious tension. But you’ll hear me out. Because what I know is worth the price.”

“Enlighten us, then,” Wyll sighed, “What exactly is the price?”

“Penetration.”

“Absolutely not!” Karlach spat.

“That’s a little much, Haarlep,” Wyll said, more coolly. “Above the clothes only.”

Haarlep rolled their eyes dramatically, “Hells, you lot are boring. Oh— does that mean I can stick it in his mouth?”

“No!” Wyll and Karlach protested in unison. 

“Fine,” Haarlep whined. “Clothes stay on. I’m nothing if not adaptable. Now, go and fetch my little brat.” They gave a bossy, dismissive sweep of their hand, gesturing to the carriage.

Astarion lingered by the carriage, agitation stirring within him, as Wyll and Karlach helped Raphael down, easing him onto his injured leg, readying to offer him up to the incubus. 

“Let it be known that I do not consent to this.” Raphael grumbled, wincing as he limped across the clearing, the chains around his ankles clinking.

Haarlep’s entire posture changed the moment Raphael came into view. They stood up swiftly, their wings giving an eager flap, their eyes darkening with a ravenous, animalistic longing. “Oh, Master. How I’ve missed this sight. You, broken and beautiful, crawling back to where you belong.” 

“Crawling? Please,” Raphael muttered. “My pride isn’t broken. Just my leg.”

“Pride first, then the fall. You know how this goes.” Haarlep purred, stepping closer. “All that lovely defiance... soon to crumble in my hands, my pet.”

Raphael didn’t look at them, but from where he stood, Astarion could see the telling wrinkling of his nose revealing his simmering ire. 

Wyll eased Raphael down, guiding him to lean against the base of a tree. Haarlep was upon him immediately, straddling his thighs, causing him to cry out in pain as they settled their weight on his leg. Wyll jerked back, throwing up his hands as he retreated hurriedly.

Astarion tried to remember the last time he’d felt this uncomfortable, as Haarlep started to roll their hips, grinding against Raphael’s bound form. His eyes flicked up to Raphael’s face, to find the devil looking back at him with an unreadable expression.

“Raphael’s daddy dearest knows the little brat is missing,” Haarlep sighed, as they rubbed their nose against Raphael’s neck, their hand tracing down his front, coming to rest on his crotch.

Astarion cast a glance around the camp. Karlach stood rigid, her gaze pointed stubbornly upwards, though her eyes kept flicking sidelong towards the two fiends, a look of deep disgust on her face. Wyll leaned against a nearby tree, frowning, one hand on his chin, the other holding his rapier, his gaze was carefully lowered to Raphael’s feet, as if out of some form of respect. The other two were less subtle. Shadowheart wore a cheeky little smile, tilting her head slightly as she openly took in the scene. Beside her, Gale gawked, wide-eyed, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

Haarlep tugged Raphael’s collar down with their free hand, revealing Astarion’s bite marks from earlier. They shot the vampire a withering glare, narrowing their eyes as they leaned in, tilted their head, and dragged their tongue over the fresh wounds, gaze locked firmly on his. Raphael was still watching him too.

A treacherous heat stirred in Astarion’s gut, and he forced himself to focus anywhere but on his cock hardening beneath his trousers. Tried to.

“Papa Mephisto, has sent his warlocks to Faerûn,” Haarlep continued, having licked their way up to Raphael’s mouth. “They’re looking for him in every major city.”

They cupped Raphael’s jaw in both hands, tilting his head up with a firm, possessive grip. With a small purr of satisfaction, they spat into his mouth, then crushed their own mouth against his, tongue pushing past parted lips in a frantic, devouring kiss. Raphael’s blinks became heavier, his eyes rolling from pleasure as the incubus spittle began to take effect. His eyes closed as Haarlep smirked against his lips, and when they opened, he was no longer looking at Astarion. His hungry gaze was fixed on Haarlep. His chest heaved as he surrendered; as he began to kiss back.

Astarion felt the cold stab of jealousy knifing through his chest, stealing the breath he didn’t even need. Every touch, every stolen kiss from Haarlep drove that blade deeper, and he cursed the ridiculous, juvenile envy knotting inside him. It was resentment. It was want, sharpened by the cruelty of watching someone else take what had, however briefly, felt like his. 

It was also the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“I hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me…” Shadowheart whispered in his ear with a giggle as Haarlep let out an obscene moan.

He didn’t reply.

“Fifteen or so of Mephistopheles’ finest are busy chasing shadows in Athkatla,” Haarlep eventually sighed, preoccupied with nipping at Raphael’s lower lip, their hands still roaming. “Here in Crimmor, you've got five, maybe six, looking for him. A dragonborn, a tiefling, a human, and three dwarves. Hard to miss, really.”

Wyll and Karlach exchanged a glance. 

“Do you know where their search may be focused? Locations we should avoid?” Wyll pressed, trying not to look at Haarlep’s gyrating body as they humped a now much-less resistant Raphael, their tail coiling tightly around his bound ankles.

The incubus hummed as they pointedly tugged on Raphael’s trouser waistband, eyeing the straining fabric. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly say...”

“Nice try, incubus,” Karlach huffed out a cold laugh. “Your info is useful, but not that useful. Above the clothes, like we agreed.” 

“Ughh fine. In that case, I’ve got nothing more for you,” Haarlep said, groping Raphael firmly through his trousers, drawing a deep, sensual moan from him. 

Wyll cleared his throat, pulling away from his tree, rapier still in hand. “Okay, I think we’re done here. Get off him.”

Haarlep gave a long, petulant sigh, before leaning in and capturing Raphael’s lips in one final, prolonged kiss. “Goodbye for now, my little brat,” they whispered, stroking a thumb against his cheek. 

Raising to their feet, they turned to look at Astarion, pointing a clawed finger and baring their teeth. “You and I aren’t done, Fangs.” 

And with that, they disappeared in a cloud of glowing, floating embers, leaving behind an uncomfortable stillness. 

A few minutes later, Raphael was settled safely back in the carriage, a slightly dazed, faraway look in his eyes.

“That’ll make another night of no sleep for us,” Wyll groaned as he dropped onto a blanket next to Shadowheart. 

Karlach let out a harsh laugh, shaking her head. “As if I could sleep after that. Fucking devils.”

Astarion felt movement beside him and looked up to find Gale lowering himself down, wearing a small, tentative smile.

“Here,” the wizard said softly, holding out a bottle. “Gulthmeran Reserve — your favourite.”

Astarion took the bottle wordlessly, returning Gale’s smile. After a moment, he huffed a laugh and playfully nudged Gale’s shoulder with his own. “Well, look who’s been paying attention.”

“I’m sorry, Astarion,” Gale said quietly, keeping his voice low enough that the others wouldn’t overhear. “What I said earlier... it was cruel. The choices we make under pressure shouldn’t be held against us. Mystra knows I’ve made enough mistakes of my own.”

Astarion stared down at the bottle, turning it slowly in his hands. The red liquid sloshed against the glass, catching the firelight and glittering like liquid ruby. “No, you were right, Gale,” he said at last. “We look out for each other first. That’s far more important than any stupid job.” He looked Gale in the eye. “I won’t make that mistake again.” He brought the wine to his mouth, but paused. “Oh, and Gale? Thanks for being prepared to kill Haarlep for me.”

Gale reached out and gave Astarion’s shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. Clearing his throat, he turned to the others and raised his voice. “Ahem. Everyone — I believe we all owe Astarion an apology.”

The others blinked at him, puzzled. Even Astarion was caught off guard, pausing mid-swig and pulling the bottle away from his lips. “Gale, I…” he began, but Gale pressed on.

“When we crossed the river today,” Gale said, “we failed to warn our hydrophobic friend here. Poor Astarion was... rather unwell. We should have done better by him.”

Shadowheart’s eyes widened in horror and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Astarion,” she breathed. “You must think we’re utterly awful. I am so sorry. I can’t believe we let you go through that alone.”

Their pitying faces made Astarion’s skin itch, so he did what he always had: masked his unease with a grin and a jest. “Really, I wasn’t alone. Raphael was delighted to witness my suffering. An excellent little show for him, I’m sure. But… but thank you. Your concern means a lot, however belated.”

Gale gave a dry chuckle. “All things considered, I’d say Raphael has had the most enjoyable day out of us all.” 

Astarion snorted into his wine. They had no idea.

“Don’t remind me,” Karlach groaned. “I think I’m going to need to scrub my eyeballs with soap.” 

Shadowheart shrugged, a sly smile playing at her lips. “I, for one, quite enjoyed myself, actually. You can’t deny it was the best entertainment we’ve had in weeks.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Wyll muttered, grimacing. “Raphael wasn’t happy about it. I’m not exactly proud of making that call for him. Devil or not.”

“On the contrary, I’d say that Raphael was very happy about it,” Shadowheart chuckled, raising her brows. “In fact, his trousers could barely contain his… excitement.” 

“I don’t think we can hold that against him,” Astarion said quietly, feeling a pang of sorrow for the role Raphael had been forced to play.

Shadowheart caught the look on his face and her smile faltered, guilt flashing across her features. He could almost hear her heart sink. “Oh gods, Astarion. I— I didn’t think…”

He waved her off. “We’re not talking about me. All ancient history anyway.” He gave her a reassuring smile. 

But despite the passing of time, his own old wounds ached in his chest. He knew Raphael wouldn’t be dwelling on what had happened tonight, wouldn’t feel hurt or ashamed, but for some reason Astarion wanted to go to him. To comfort him. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe he was just projecting. 

“So what are we going to do about Crimmor? About Mephisto’s warlocks?” Karlach asked, drawing him back to the present. “At least we know roughly who we’re avoiding.”

Wyll was nodding. “We should avoid the inns, boarding houses and festhalls. Better yet, we push straight through, stretch our supplies a few more days until we reach Athkatla.”

“But there are even more of them looking for him in Athkatla,” Gale pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be safer to stock up in Crimmor, then get in and out of Athkatla quickly?”

“It’s a bigger city,” Wyll said, “so they’ll be more spread out. And they’re only looking for Raphael, they don’t know who we are.”

“We’re not exactly a subtle group though are we?” Karlach said, “We stick out like a sore thumb. No one’s mistaking us for merchants.”

“We’ll just have to act the part then,” Wyll chuckled, looking around at their merry band of misfits.

They stayed up well into the night, sitting round the dwindling fire, discussing what they’d learned and debating how they might slip through the two cities undetected.

At sunrise, Astarion returned to the carriage, the others busy preparing for the journey through Crimmor.

Raphael was still wearing that dazed expression, eyes half-lidded, and a sleepy smile curling his lips. “I wondered when you’d be back,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. 

“Oh? Have you been waiting up for me, darling?”

“Mhmm.” Raphael nodded, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth and sucking on it. 

As soon as Astarion stretched out on his bedroll, Raphael scooted closer, pressing his warmth against the elf. He lifted his chained wrists, cupping Astarion’s cheek with one hand as he leaned in, eyes fluttering closed.

Astarion turned his head away, and Raphael’s kiss brushed clumsily against his jaw. He drew back, a puzzled frown on his face. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t. Not like this,” Astarion breathed softly. 

Raphael’s brow furrowed deeper. “Not like what?”

“Raphael,” Astarion said, plainly. “Love, you’re high off your tits on incubus spittle.” 

Raphael’s face crumpled, and for a moment he looked like a lost, kicked puppy, before he rolled onto his other side, turning his back to Astarion.

Astarion couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of the moment. Shuffling closer, he tucked himself against the devil’s back, slipping his arms around Raphael’s waist. “I won’t steal from you when you’re not yourself,” he whispered.

There was a pause, then Raphael’s quiet, dejected voice: “You didn’t seem to mind before; you’ve been dosing me with poison for weeks. What changed?”

Astarion pressed his forehead against Raphael’s shoulder. He could feel the slow prickling sensation of his broken toe knitting itself whole again. But beyond that, deeper than that, he felt another sensation… That old wound stirring within him. Not just closing but changing... reshaping itself.

“I did,” he said softly.

Chapter Text

The heat inside the carriage was stifling.

Astarion shifted restlessly, feeling sweat beading at the back of his neck.

Outside, the slow rumble of wagon wheels and the restless murmur of voices drifted in through the wooden walls; caravans and traders waiting in line at the city gates. Crimmor’s city regulations were notoriously tedious: every mule, ox, and cart needed the proper paperwork in order to pass through the gates, and the guards made a grand performance of inspecting each one, causing long delays and queues. Astarion and his companions, of course, had no such paperwork. Fortunately, Helsik had supplied them with a heavy purse of gold for the inevitable bribe. They also had Wyll, who was quite possibly the most charming man Astarion had ever met, so between the weight of their coin and Wyll’s winning smile, they were sure to smooth-talk their way into the city.

Raphael sat across from Astarion, looking utterly unbothered by the baking heat inside the carriage.

Probably feels like home, Astarion thought dryly.

Wordlessly, he lifted the bottle of Gulthmeran Reserve he was nursing, the same one Gale had given him, tilting it towards Raphael in silent question. The devil answered with a smile and a nod.

Leaning in, Astarion cupped Raphael’s jaw, tipping the bottle carefully to pour the wine into his mouth. A single droplet escaped, slipping down Raphael’s throat, sizzling faintly against his hot skin. Astarion caught it with a finger, drawing it to his mouth and licking it clean with an intentionally provocative slowness. 

When he caught Raphael watching him, a devilish glint in his eye, Astarion pressed the finger lightly to his lips and shook his head. “They can hear us,” he mouthed. 

Raphael rolled his eyes. “Then don’t be such a tease,” he hissed back.

The carriage walls were solid enough, and out on the road, with the constant creaking of wood and the squeaking of wheels, Astarion was fairly certain little sound escaped. Soft moans, skin slapping against skin… all masked by the noise of travel. But here, with the others standing silently just outside, it was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

With a metallic groan, the carriage lurched forwards, only to jolt to an abrupt stop moments later. Muffled voices carried through the walls: a gruff male voice barking for papers. They had reached the gates.

Astarion tilted his head, listening. They had agreed on a simple, effective knocking system to communicate through the carriage walls: one knock for ‘all’s well’, two for ‘possible trouble’, and three in case it all went to hell, meaning ‘prepare to fight’.

One knock.

Wyll’s voice rumbled low and smooth, too faint to catch the words, but the chuckle that followed, and the unmistakable clink of coin, told Astarion all he needed to hear. Bribery and charm. Always reliable.

The carriage lurched forwards again. They were through.

Astarion leaned back against the hard wall, sighing quietly. He could hear it now: the layered din of the bustling city. Clattering hooves, shouting merchants, the groan of wheel axles straining under heavy loads

Crimmor.

He glanced across at Raphael, slumped against the wall. He looked tired and hungry, but the absence of poison had done him good. Despite the horrors awaiting him, which drew ever closer with each passing mile, he looked untroubled. Almost happy. Astarion wasn’t sure that was necessarily a good thing. But he liked to think it was partly because of him.

“You’ve been here before, I assume?” Astarion asked casually, running a hand through his hair. “What’s it like?”

Raphael gave him a closed-lip smile. “Busy,” he mused. “A churning river of wagons, beasts, and desperate souls. Dreamers chasing fortunes. Power-hungry wretches trying to claw their way a little higher. Greed. Ambition. Desperation. Everyone here wants something badly enough to bleed for it.” His smile deepened, now showing teeth. “A perfect hunting ground, wouldn’t you say, little vampire?”

“Sounds like paradise,” Astarion hummed. He loved a city. The endless bustle, the anonymity. There was always somewhere to blend in, always fresh prey to pick from the crowds, to feast on without fear. People disappeared in big cities all the time, and any consequences were so often lost beneath the noise. Astarion smiled to himself, feeling the old hunger stir. If only they had arrived at night. 

From outside, Astarion could hear Gale’s excited voice carrying. Wyll seemed silent, and Karlach and Shadowheart’s lighter tones were too soft to reach him through the carriage walls. Gale was speaking loudly and theatrically, enthusing over some imaginary precious arcane trinkets, playing his role as an ambitious trader perhaps a little too well. Shadowheart, posing as his business partner, no doubt wore her usual air of cool professionalism, whilst Wyll and Karlach, playing the part of the ‘hired muscle’, would be lingering close, watchful and intimidating enough to keep would-be thieves at bay.

“And thus,” Raphael mused, “the charade unfolds. Just a couple of merchants and their oh-so-dangerous bodyguards.” He paused. “Of course, hired help paints a target. You parade mercenaries around a city like Crimmor, and you might as well hang a sign from the carriage: ‘Valuables inside. Please rob us blind’.”

Astarion’s brow furrowed slightly. “Do you want them to find you?”

Raphael’s smirk faltered. “Not at all. No, I’d rather not face my father in this manner; he wasn’t best pleased with me when last we met. And that was before you defeated me. Before the chains.” 

“Being taken to your father couldn’t be worse than facing Mammon. Surely?”

Raphael shrugged. “I’d much rather avoid seeing either of them.” He leaned back, his smile returning. “But I’m not worried. You’re going to set me free before it comes to any of that.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Oh am I indeed?” 

He nodded. “You care too much to hand me a fate worse than death. You just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.”

Astarion felt a little unsettled by Raphael’s confidence. What if he was right?

Astarion had made a promise to Gale — to all of them — that he’d put the group first. Helping Raphael would break that. It would betray them, Karlach especially. But the thought of letting him be carted off to Mammon to be tortured… It made Astarion sick.

He did care. And that terrified him more than anything.

Raphael seemed so calm, so certain Astarion would free him. But Astarion wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Not what he wanted. And not what he would do when the time came to hand Raphael over.

He looked at the devil sitting across from him. Raphael was simply watching him. He cleared his throat, choosing not to comment on the accusation. “So, what exactly did you do to make Mephis— your father, so angry with you? I thought you were all ‘order and decorum’. How did you earn the ire of an archdevil, let alone your own sire?”

“Hell has its laws,” Raphael muttered through a grimace.

“Yes, you told me that once before, actually.”

“I bent a few. Broke a couple. Rewrote one or two entirely…” Raphael continued, speaking as if to himself.

“Wait, what? You? You broke infernal laws?” He stared, blinking, trying to tell if it was a joke. 

It wasn’t.

“Just a few tiny mortals signing contracts under... slightly stressful circumstances.” Raphael said, shrugging. 

Ah.

Astarion couldn’t pretend to be surprised. He had initially thought Raphael to be a meticulous, by-the-book professional. That illusion had shattered the moment they met Hope. “Okay, so, you coerced them?” 

Raphael nodded slowly. “I prefer ‘inspired under duress’. However, Hell’s laws are very particular about the ‘spirit of consent’.”

“Is that it? A technicality?”

“If only,” Raphael chuckled darkly. “No, I may also have... acquired a few more souls illegally. Poached from rival soul brokers. Tampered with the records. Reassigned ownership without proper clearance. Trivial infractions, really.”

“Trivial? It sounds like a death sentence.” Astarion recalled the four pillars in Raphael’s house, each one bursting with trapped souls, crackling with incredible power that he’d siphoned during their battle. How many had been stolen? 

“Well, there’s also the matter of my pursuit of the Crown of Karsus. You recall my plan to take over the Hells as Archdevil Supreme? There’s no evidence of any treason as such; as you well know, the crown is once again out of my reach. But even a whiff of conspiracy is enough to seal one’s fate. Even if unproven, appearances matter in the Hells. A trial would be political theatre. Punishment is inevitable.”

“And what would that punishment involve?” Astarion asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know.

“I’m a cambion, so I can’t be demoted like other devils. I have no rank to strip, and my form cannot be degraded. So, they’ll kill me. For order. For precedent. For the performance…” Raphael trailed off, now staring over Astarion’s shoulder, as if he could see through the carriage wall and all the way to the outer planes and Baator.

“Do you know who ratted you out?” 

Raphael’s eyes snapped back to Astarion, a sneer playing at his lips. “Mizora,” he said, his voice laced with venom.

Astarion’s eyebrows shot up. “Wyll’s patron, Mizora?! When? Why?”

Raphael exhaled sharply through his nose. “Ravengard was free of his pact, and for some gods forsaken reason, you let her remain at your camp. She lingered, listened. Eventually, she realised I was trying to bind you all in a contract of my own. She didn't like that. She must have overheard something about the crown as well.” He paused, bitterness tightening his jaw. “She ran straight to Zariel. Who, in turn, spoke to my father.”

“And then we attacked you,” Astarion said quietly, not meeting Raphael’s eyes.

“The very same day,” Raphael said cheerily. “Now you know why I wasn’t home when you… visited.”  

Astarion narrowed his eyes, piecing together the timeline. “Wait, why hasn’t Mephistopheles done anything until now? Surely your father would have had you locked up the moment he found out?”

“There’s rather a lot of paperwork before a trial,” Raphael said casually. “Being the son of an archdevil has its benefits. I was to be confined to my house until the proceedings. I assume Haarlep has been attending the pre-trial reviews and other administrative formalities in Phlegethos on my behalf. Right up until my father realised I wasn’t actually at home.”

Astarion frowned. “Haarlep did mention flouncing through the Hells, pretending to be you… but somehow failed to bring any of this up.”

“Why would it matter?” Raphael said flatly, looking at the floor. “They cleared the path for you. It helped you get me this far.”

Astarion looked at him, searching his face for some hint of betrayal or sadness that Haarlep, his bedmate for millennia, would turn him over to such cruelties… He just looked tired. Hollow.

“Why is Haarlep helping us?” Astarion asked, quieter now.

Raphael gave a faint, bitter laugh. “Because Haarlep is cruel. They feed on corruption. The unravelling of trust. The ruin of something once sacred. And what better feast than watching all of you dismantle me, piece by piece? To see you doubting each other. To watch you sell my body for a scrap of knowledge, then stand by while they clawed at me… basking in your own arousal.” He paused. “They were never helping you, little vampling. They were dining.”

A heavy silence settled between them as Astarion tried to process Raphael’s words. He was furious with Haarlep, disappointed in his friends… and disgusted with himself. He sat stiffly, crossing his arms, staring at Raphael’s face. Then he saw it.

A faint glow. Half-hidden under his shirt collar, just above his collarbone. A symbol. Infernal script pulsing gently like embers beneath his skin.

Astarion frowned. “Your neck... it’s glowing.”

Raphael touched it absently. “What—?”

Knock. Knock.

Two sharp raps against the carriage door.

The signal.

Possible trouble.

Astarion straightened in an instant, slipping his dagger from his boot. One hand shot out to warn Raphael to stay back as he pressed his ear to the door, listening to the muffled voices outside. They were tense, angry, growing louder with each second. An unfamiliar male voice carried through the wood. “You reek of sulphur. We know he’s here, the half-breed.”

“We’ve just come from Avernus,” Wyll’s calm voice said. “That smell doesn’t wash off easily. Who is it that you’re looking for?”

Another voice spoke, this one female, closer — right by the carriage. “I’ve located the incubus’ mark. He’s inside.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing in there but cargo, friend. We have a buyer waiting.” Gale’s voice was loudest. He was standing right next to the door, likely blocking it. “You’ve got the wrong people.”

The woman spoke again, a cold edge to her tone as she hissed, “I don’t think so, friend, seeing as the incubus we met wore your face. Open the carriage.”

“Very well. But there are enchantments on the carriage,” Gale said, “Wards. If we open it without disarming them properly, someone will lose an eye. Or worse. Give me a moment.”

Three sharp knocks rattled against the door.

Barely a second later, something else hit the carriage, crashing against the wood and rocking the entire frame. Gale made a pained noise, the sound coming from lower down than before. He was on the floor.

Next, Karlach’s unmistakable roar of rage cut through the air. The sound of metal clanging against metal. 

“Dolor!”

Another blast shook the carriage, followed by the brittle, metallic snap of the padlock giving way. The next moment, the hinges were groaning as the door was wrenched open, and an unfamiliar human woman in a black cape hauled herself inside, magic crackling at the fingertips of her free hand.

Astarion was ready for her. He lunged with his dagger, aiming at her left flank. But her leather armour was tough, and his blade glanced off, the force of his momentum dragging him forwards in the tight space. He slammed into her, sending them both crashing through the doorway, tumbling into the dirt in a tangle of limbs.

He was outside, in daylight. Instinct took over, and he curled in on himself, arms raised to shield his head, bracing for the searing pain. He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the sun to burn him.

But… nothing.

Cautiously, he opened one eye.

Shade.

They were in a narrow ginnel between two tall buildings, just wide enough for the carriage, the high walls blocking the direct sun. A perfect spot for an ambush. And, mercifully, a convenient place for a vampire to survive. There was no time to bask in relief, Astarion sprang to his feet, scanning the chaos. Gale lay unconscious on the ground nearby, his robes singed. Shadowheart was already kneeling beside him, murmuring healing incantations under her breath. Karlach was locked in brutal combat with another horned tiefling, flames dancing around them as shattered barrels and burning smoke powder hissed beneath their feet.

Wyll suddenly appeared at Astarion’s side, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him upright. “On your feet, ‘Star. Hell of an entrance.”

In a fluid motion, Wyll threw up a shimmering shield as a volley of magic missiles whizzed towards them both. The spell hissed and sparked against the invisible barrier, and close by, the caster, a towering dragonborn, let out a roar of frustration.

Behind them, the woman Astarion had knocked aside rose with an angry snarl, a rapier now in her hand. She surged forwards, fast. Wyll lunged to meet her, twisting at the waist as his own rapier flashed up to parry her strike, sparks flying as their blades clashed.

A shadow loomed as the dragonborn stormed towards Astarion, fury etched into every scaled line of his face. He grabbed Astarion by the front of his shirt, fists bunching in the fabric, and hauled him off his feet as if he weighed nothing.

Astarion reacted on instinct, sinking his dagger deep into the dragonborn’s shoulder, twisting the blade deep into muscle. The attacker howled in pain, yellow eyes furious as he slammed his hard forehead into Astarion’s. The impact exploded behind Astarion’s eyes like fireworks. He crashed backwards, falling into the carriage and hitting the floor with a grunt of pain, vision swimming. Consciousness slipping.

The dragonborn leaned over him, filling Astarion’s field of view, his scaled hand reaching up as he calmly yanked the dagger from his own shoulder, and slowly raised it, poised to drive it down.

Astarion blinked hard, trying desperately to move, but his limbs felt slow, disconnected.

Suddenly, chains whipped over the dragonborn’s head and locked around his throat.

With a grunt of effort, Raphael yanked them tight, and threw himself backwards, using the full weight of his body to drag the attacker off Astarion. Falling back on top of Raphael, the dragonborn thrashed, claws scrabbling for leverage, but Raphael held fast, his jaw clenched, muscles trembling, every ounce of his mortal strength poured into choking the huge warlock with the chains at his wrists. He didn’t let go. He only pulled tighter. Astarion could hear the strained wheeze of breath, the creak of leather shifting… until finally, with one last spasm, the dragonborn went limp.

Astarion pulled himself up, blinking hard, vision still swirling from the headbutt, ears still ringing. Rubbing his forehead, he shook the daze from his skull. The warlock lay sprawled, motionless, Raphael pinned beneath, the chains at his wrists still taut around the dragonborn’s throat. The attacker wasn’t breathing, but Astarion wasn’t taking any chances. He spotted the dagger on the floor, slick with blood, and snatched it up. Raphael raised his arms, removing the chain, and with one swift slash, Astarion drew the blade across the dragonborn’s throat. The body gave a final twitch, then stilled completely.

Astarion glanced down at the devil on his back beneath him. Blood was gushing from the dragonborn’s sliced throat, spilling across Raphael’s chest, soaking his shirt in vivid red. A few dark splashes streaked his cheek and jaw. Raphael was breathing hard, his arms draped above his head, gaze fixed on Astarion, a small, satisfied smile curling his lips. Approval. 

Astarion felt the aching pull of desire. Arousal and hunger flooding his veins at the sight, at the smell of blood filling his nostrils. He leaned forwards, his eyes never leaving Raphael’s. Slowly, he lowered his head and dragged his tongue through the blood smeared across the dragonborn’s neck. It was fresh, still warm and rich in that way dragonborn blood always was, layered with magic and heat. A deep, iron-heavy vintage, with a hint of smoke and something slightly bitter beneath, like scorched cinnamon. It was satisfying, and helped to soothe his spinning head. But it wasn’t Raphael's. His blood tasted older, darker, more refined. Dangerous and divine.

Astarion pulled back, licking the stain from his lips, and raising an eyebrow. “Adequate.”

Raphael rolled his eyes with a strained smile. “Are you, by any chance, planning to get this hulking brute off me?” he wheezed, sounding slightly breathless. 

“Fangs, you alright?” Karlach stuck her head into the carriage, blood streaking down her temple. “Where the fuck is—? Oh!” She spotted Raphael underneath the dead dragonborn, then leaned in and grabbed the corpse by the collar, heaving it off him with a grunt of effort.

Raphael sighed in relief, drawing in a deep breath, as Karlach hauled the body out of the carriage. It landed with a dull, meaty thud, and she dragged it over to the grisly heap of motionless warlocks piled in a shadowed courtyard just off the ginnel — a cramped, cobbled space cluttered with old crates, broken barrels, and the sour stench of stagnant water. 

The fight was over.

Astarion hopped down from the carriage to check on the others. Shadowheart remained kneeling beside Gale, her hand resting on his chest in a gesture of comfort, having finished her healing. Wyll crouched next to them, speaking in a low voice, a vivid slash of blood cutting across his cheek like war paint. Gale lay on his back, his face pale and blood-smeared, his robes torn and scorched, but his eyes were open, and he nodded slowly at whatever Wyll was saying. 

“That’s the last of the healing potions,” Shadowheart murmured, glancing up at Astarion as he approached. “I’m tapped too. It took all my magic to keep him breathing.”

Gale gave a faint, rueful smile. “Far too dramatic, I know. My apologies — it seems I have a knack for being the first to hit the ground. The woman… she caught me off guard.”

Wyll chuckled softly, dabbing at the blood on his own cheek with a handkerchief. “Our poor glass cannon, laid low again by poor battlefield positioning.”

“Ah, the double-edged compliment.” Gale winced as he adjusted his position. “Flattering and mildly insulting in equal measure.”

Laughing, Wyll gave the wizard’s shoulder a squeeze, then winked at Shadowheart as he rose. He turned to Astarion and nodded towards the carriage. “Can I assume all that blood on him isn’t his own?” 

Astarion looked back at Raphael, who was now sitting on the edge of the carriage, his bound legs dangling off the side. He had his eyes closed as he enjoyed the fresh breeze washing over his skin. He looked almost serene. A picture of peace, jarringly at odds with the bright red blood staining his shirt. Karlach was lurking close by, watching him with a wary eye, as if she thought he might make a break for it. Her arms were crossed, and a frown tugged at her brow; she seemed suspicious, unsettled, as if she couldn’t quite decide what he was thinking… or what he might do next.

“From the dragonborn,” Astarion said, turning back to Wyll. “Raphael saved me.” 

Wyll gave Astarion a patient smile. “He saved himself, Astarion. For whatever reason, he clearly doesn’t want to be taken to Mephistopheles.”

Astarion thought about the death sentence waiting for Raphael in Cania. He chose not to share that information. Not yet.

But something else was bothering him more. “What are we going to do about Haarlep, Wyll?” he asked, voice low. “They betrayed us.” 

“Betrayal would imply that they were ever on our side.” Wyll sighed, shaking his head. “We never should’ve trusted them.”

“I should have let Gale kill them,” Astarion muttered. 

Wyll nodded. “Maybe so.”

“They marked him. It’s on his neck, some sort of infernal tracking symbol,” said Astarion, looking back towards the carriage.

“We’ll get Gale to take a look when he’s fully rested. He’ll remove it.” 

________

In true Gale fashion, the wizard insisted on examining Raphael’s mark before even considering any rest. He confirmed what they had all suspected: Haarlep had embedded the sigil into Raphael’s skin, likely to help Mephistopheles’ warlocks track him.

“You’re lucky you noticed it, Astarion” Gale said, frowning as he studied the faint infernal runes on Raphael’s skin. “These marks can be made completely invisible, if the caster wishes.”

That was what puzzled Astarion. Why hadn’t Haarlep hidden it completely? Why leave it visible, even faintly, if they truly wanted Raphael recaptured? He gave up trying to make sense of the creature’s motives.

With the last of his strength, Gale magically removed the mark.

The group agreed it was best to move on, slipping out of the city without any further stops. Gale now rode in the carriage to recover, and Astarion lay wedged between his friend and their prisoner. After an hour lying on his back, listening to the wizard’s increasingly loud snoring, Astarion huffed and rolled over, only to find Raphael already facing him. The devil lay on his side, eyes open, watching him.

“No rest for the wicked,” Raphael murmured.

“Who, me?” Astarion grinned. “Surely not.”

Raphael lay with his head resting on his hands, palms pressed together beneath his cheek. His wrists were bruised and raw, the skin chafed where the chains had bitten into him during the struggle with the dragonborn.

With a small frown, Astarion brought his hand up, and trailed a finger over Raphael’s bruised wrist. “You’re not healing.” 

Raphael let out a small huff, as if he was laughing at his own private joke. “You all seem convinced I should be. But cambions don’t regenerate, Astarion. That’s not one of our tricks.” 

“But Wyll said—”

“And from whom did Ravengard learn everything he knows about cambions?” Raphael cut in smoothly.

Astarion paused. “Mizora,” he said, voice cautious.

Raphael nodded. “Precisely. A conniving she-devil eager to convince her warlock she’s the pinnacle of infernal power.”

Astarion drew his hand back. “You could have mentioned that sooner,” he said, slightly more sharp and defensive than intended. “It might’ve changed a few things.”

Raphael’s smile didn’t fade, but it cooled. “Would it have?” he asked. “Knowing I couldn’t heal… would you all have shown more kindness? Or just found your own indifference a bit harder to stomach?”

Astarion didn’t answer. He thought of Shadowheart, calmly calculating how much poison Raphael could take without dying. He remembered the aftermath of the ogre attack: Raphael’s broken body, and how they’d argued over whether he was worth the healing, or if they should save their potions for someone else. Each time, they’d told themselves it was the right call. For the group. For the mission. They were lucky he’d survived this far. Lucky that the mission hadn’t been lost to their own cruelty by omission.

“I— I’m so sorry,” Astarion whispered, eyes fixed on the floor. He couldn’t bring himself to look Raphael in the eyes. Then he blinked, remembering. “Your leg!”

“Still broken,” Raphael replied dryly, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watched Astarion squirm.

“Gods, it must be agony, especially after being crushed by that dragonborn.” Astarion sat up, reaching for their packs and hurriedly rifling through. “Let me find a splint.” He grabbed a handful of arrows from his own pack, snapped the tips off cleanly, and dug out a coil of spare harness leather from the bottom of Karlach’s bag. “This should work,” he muttered. “Not elegant, but functional.” When he turned back, he caught Raphael watching him, quiet laughter rumbling in his throat. “Stop laughing and sit up,” Astarion snapped. “So I can strap you back together.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he purred. “Always looking for an excuse to tie me up.”

Heat crept into Astarion’s cheeks. He quickly glanced towards Gale, who still snored softly, utterly dead to the world. Good. By the time he looked back, Raphael had pulled himself upright, chains clinking lightly as he shifted to sit against the wall. The smirk hadn’t left his face. Not even a little.

Astarion bit his lip and shifted closer, then he began strapping the makeshift splint along Raphael’s left thigh. He was gentle, moving slowly and carefully, mindful of the break beneath his fingers. For such a large bone, he knew the pain must be blinding. But Raphael didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound. As Astarion worked, he could feel the radiating warmth of the devil’s body, even through the fabric of his trousers. 

He finished tying the straps with one last pull, then allowed his fingers to linger lightly against the hard muscle of Raphael’s thigh. He looked up and their eyes locked, the space between them charged with simmering tension. Astarion’s hand drifted upwards, fingertips gliding along the inside of Raphael’s thigh, causing the devil to tense more with each centimetre covered, until he reached the now straining fabric at his crotch. Slowly, Astarion placed his hand over the hard bulge, watching as Raphael’s eyes closed, his breaths deepening, his chest heaving with each inhale. Astarion began to move his hand, rubbing up and down, his fingers curling to grip Raphael’s length through his trousers.

He watched Raphael’s tongue dart out to wet his lips, and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to taste them. Leaning in, he brought his other hand up to cup the devil’s cheek, fingers brushing against soft skin. Raphael tilted his head, leaning into Astarion’s touch, his eyes fluttering open. He held Astarion’s gaze momentarily, before their mouths met in a slow, breathless kiss. Astarion lingered there, relishing the warmth of Raphael’s breath as it hitched across his lips. He squeezed Raphael harder, causing him to moan softly into his mouth.

Then a low groan came from the other side of the carriage.

Astarion froze.

“Ugh, gods…” Gale muttered, voice hoarse and groggy. “Why does it feel like I’ve been trampled by an owlbear?” He sat up slowly, leaning forwards and clutching his head.

Astarion pulled back sharply, but Raphael’s eyes stayed fixed on him, his gaze unwavering, not once sparing a glance for the mumbling wizard nearby.

“How are you feeling?” Astarion asked, shuffling over to Gale. “I’m afraid we’re all out of potions, but I can call for Shadowheart if you need.”

“Thank you, Astarion. I’m okay. I’ll tough it out,” Gale said with theatrical bravado, chuckling weakly. But the sound faded as his eyes drifted towards Raphael, his smile faltering into a frown.

Astarion nearly sprained his neck trying to follow his gaze, casting his eyes frantically over their slightly dishevelled prisoner, searching for whatever had caught Gale’s attention. His eyes landed on Raphael’s straining trousers, the thick outline of a particularly hard appendage pushing insistently at the seams. 

Shit.

“Gods, we couldn’t have found him a fresh shirt?!” Gale declared, gesturing to Raphael’s once-white shirt, now entirely saturated with blood stains. 

Raphael caught Astarion’s sigh of relief and chuckled, then spoke directly to Gale: “Outrageous, isn’t it? Alas, your friends weren’t quite willing to unshackle me long enough to spare me the courtesy.”

As Raphael and Gale exchanged a polite, good humoured back-and-forth, Astarion found himself studying that maddeningly easy smile, and the little creases that gathered at the corners of Raphael’s eyes when he did.

A hollow ache bloomed in his chest. Their time was running out. And the thought of letting Raphael go… sat heavier than he wanted to admit.

As if sensing the weight of Astarion’s gaze, Raphael looked over at him, his smile widening, relaxed and knowing. 

Then he winked.

Astarion managed a fragile smile in return.

Chapter Text

After nearly a month of travel in total, they had almost reached their destination. 

Athkatla was just a day away, and the end of their mission was finally in sight.

The group sat around a low-burning fire in a small forest clearing on the southern bank of the Alandor River, just outside the city. The flickering embers cast a soft glow across all their tired faces.

Despite their exhaustion, the others whispered with quiet excitement. Karlach, in particular, was practically glowing. In just twenty four hours, their part of the job would be finished, and they’d be heading back to Baldur’s Gate. One step closer to finally fixing her engine. Astarion lingered at the edge of the firelight, silently watching. He hadn’t smiled since Crimmor, three days ago. Not since Raphael had looked at him with that maddening confidence and claimed, without a hint of doubt, that Astarion would set him free.

But now, as they drew closer to the end, that certainty seemed to be wavering.

Raphael had grown quiet too. He barely slept, and, much to everyone’s surprise, barely spoke. He would simply watch Astarion, looking a little less sure, and a little more worried with every passing mile. Astarion didn’t know which was worse: the weight of that expectation, or the fear that he might actually live up to it.

If he had wanted to avoid Raphael, it would have been easy. They hadn’t been alone together since Crimmor: Gale had been riding in the carriage with them ever since, recovering from the injuries he’d sustained during the warlock ambush. His presence had made for a convenient buffer. Astarion would toss him idle, meaningless questions, and Gale, ever obliging, would wander off on long, meandering answers. Astarion never listened. He just sat there, nodding absently, all too aware of Raphael’s eyes on him; that quiet, burning stare he refused to meet.

Now, sitting with his friends around the fire, Astarion found his thoughts drifting back to the carriage. He wanted to be back in there too... With Raphael.

He knew the devil would be lying on his back, eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling, bound hands resting lightly on his stomach, his injured leg propped up on a folded blanket. He wanted to go to him. To lie down beside him, and press his body against Raphael’s hot, solid frame. To tuck his face against the devil’s neck and breathe in that comforting scent of musk and cherry. He wanted to hold him. Keep him. Not hand him over. Not give him up to be tortured for eternity, in exchange for a pouch of gold.

The sound of his name pulled Astarion from his thoughts.

“Gale and I will be in the carriage with Astarion this time,” Shadowheart was saying. “Just the two of you walking will draw much less attention.”

Wyll nodded. “We just need to keep our heads down and make it to the Centre District. We’ll be coming in via the Guard District, so two adventurers won’t raise any eyebrows there. After that, we’re looking for a small shop just outside Waukeen’s Promenade. It’s a physical storefront, just east of the stadium.”

“Ooh, maybe we can stop for dinner at Silverale Hall afterwards?” Karlach grinned, practically bouncing where she sat. “It’s supposed to be one of the oldest taverns in the city, with proper greasy food and strong drinks. Maybe we can call it a celebration, yeah? One last hurrah before we head back to Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion’s hand lifted instinctively to clap over his mouth at the vivid image that crept uninvited into his mind: the group laughing, clinking beer mugs, while somewhere in Minauros, devils peeled the skin from Raphael’s torso in long strips. The thought turned his stomach. He closed his eyes.

“‘Star? Are you alright?” Shadowheart’s voice was soft, but it still drew everyone’s eyes to him. “You’re quieter than usual.”

He didn’t look up. Instead, he busied himself picking imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Are we sure we trust Helsik?” he said quietly. “That she’ll actually fix Karlach’s engine? That any of this will be worth it?”

Karlach, undeterred, crawled over and plopped down beside him, leaning in close. “Hey, mate,” she said, her voice low but full of warmth. “I know you’re worried. But I’m not — so you don’t need to be.” She grinned. “I couldn’t give a shit about Helsik. But Dammon? Dammon I do trust. So trust me, yeah?”

Astarion finally looked up, meeting her amber eyes. She continued, “And you’ll get your gold. I’ve seen you eyeing those manors in the Upper City.” She nudged him gently. “You’re almost there. We’re so close. Please don’t give up now.”

He opened his mouth, trying to think of some light-hearted joke. For once, he had nothing. Instead he gave her a small, pretend smile. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll see it through. I always do.” Then he fell silent again, fingers idly tracing the seam of his sleeve.

The fire crackled softly between them. No-one pressed Astarion further. Instead, Wyll cleared his throat. “There’s still the matter of Mephistopheles’ warlocks,” he said, glancing around the circle. “If Haarlep really was helping them track us, they may know more than we’d like them to. What we look like, for example.”

“Keeping our numbers hidden will be a good start,” Karlach added, “they’ll be looking for a group, so just the two of us walking beside the carriage will stand out less. Capes up, heads down.”

Wyll shot her a crooked grin. “Subtle’s a tall order for a six foot four tank with glowing veins, but sure, we’ll give it a try.”

Karlach grinned back. “Watch me.” She smiled to herself for a moment, then glanced around at each of them in turn. “Hey guys… I know we’re not done yet, but I just wanted to say thank you. For getting me this far. For sticking with me. You know… this almost feels like old times.” Her gaze drifted from face to face. “We didn’t know what we were doing half the time, but we stuck together. Just like now. So… thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you all so much.”

Astarion looked around at the others. They were all smiling, nodding. Shadowheart was dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. None of them needed to say it: they were with her. All the way.

He just wasn’t sure if he still felt the same.

Gale stood, shaking out his robes with a yawn. “Well. As lovely as this moment is, we should all get some sleep. We’ll need sharp minds tomorrow.” He made his way towards the carriage, and the others began settling into their bedrolls by the crackling fire.

Astarion didn’t move. He stayed seated, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, eyes fixed on the dying fire as the dancing flames shrank.

How could he rest with the images looping endlessly in his mind: Raphael screaming, bones broken one by one, skin flayed piece by piece, agony carved into every inch of him. His eyes wide with pain and fear… and betrayal.

And tomorrow, they would deliver him to that fate.

________

As the first rays of sunlight broke through the trees, Astarion climbed back into the carriage. The sky was clear, the air crisp; it was a beautiful day by any measure.

But Astarion felt sick.

Raphael lay on his side, facing the carriage wall. He didn’t move when Astarion stepped inside, but from where the elf positioned himself, he could see those long eyelashes moving, blinking. He was awake.

Shadowheart climbed up after Astarion, eyeing the cramped interior. “This is going to be a tight squeeze with four. Someone’s going to have to move their legs.”

She reached out to touch Raphael’s shoulder, but Astarion caught her wrist gently. “Let him sleep,” he murmured.

Shadowheart paused, meeting his eyes, then she gave a small nod and turned her attention to Gale instead. She leaned over and nudged the sleeping wizard. “Morning, sunshine. Mind making a bit of room?”

The hours passed quickly as the carriage rocked gently down the long road to Athkatla. 

Gale and Shadowheart sat opposite one another, speaking in hushed tones, talking about their goddesses and their faiths. His tales were shaped by a history of intimacy with Mystra herself, whilst Shadowheart spoke with a quiet wonder, her connection to Selûne still new and rooted in hope. Their beliefs had taken wildly different forms, yet they spoke warmly, with a shared reverence and quiet respect for each other.

Astarion listened in silence. He said nothing, but he hung onto every word. His jaw tight, teeth grinding behind closed lips. He had prayed too, once. To every god he could name. In the dark, in the dirt, half-drowned in his own blood and wrapped in fear like a second skin.

None of them came for him. And none would come for Raphael either. Not in the Hells, where no light could reach.

Without thinking, he lowered his hand and let it drift until his fingers brushed the only part of Raphael he could reach: his ankle. Raphael didn’t speak, didn’t look round. But his head turned ever so slightly at the touch. Astarion let his thumb move in slow, soothing circles. The same way Raphael’s tail had once drawn them over his own ankle when he was shaking, panicked, on that first day in the carriage.

Deep in conversation, neither Shadowheart nor Gale noticed.

So Astarion kept tracing those silent, steady circles, as much for himself as for the devil.

________

Evening arrived much too quickly, as if time itself was rushing them towards what waited, as they meandered through the city.

Before Astarion knew it, the carriage had stopped moving. 

A tense silence settled over the cramped interior, and for ten long minutes, he, Shadowheart, and Gale exchanged uneasy glances as they waited.

Then came a single knock against the door.

They had arrived.

The door swung open and Wyll clambered up into the carriage. “Let’s go, Raph,” he said casually, before adding to Astarion, “Help me get him down, would you? Karlach’s already inside.”

Astarion turned. Raphael had already pulled himself upright, sitting stiffly as he stared at Wyll. He looked paler than usual, almost as pale as when he’d been laced with poison and barely conscious. There was no fire in his eyes now. Only dread. Without a word, they eased him down from the carriage, then Wyll moved away to help Shadowheart climb down. 

Raphael tried to take a step, then staggered. A small, strangled yelp escaped him as he put weight on his broken leg and buckled at the knee. Astarion darted forwards, catching him before he could fall. The chains made it impossible to throw Raphael’s arm over his shoulder, so he gripped him instead with one hand braced at his left shoulder, the other locked around his waist, holding him upright.

“I’m fine,” Raphael hissed between clenched teeth.

“Shadowheart?” Astarion turned to look at the cleric, “Is there anything you can do for his leg?”

“Not here,” Wyll said, stepping back to grip Raphael’s other shoulder, glancing around at the quiet street. “Let’s get him inside.” 

Between them, they half-carried Raphael into the shop Wyll had gestured to.

It was dark, cramped, and smelled faintly of mildew. The interior reminded Astarion of The Devil’s Fee back in Baldur’s Gate, but where that place had been curated to perfection in its infernal eccentricity, this was chaos. Artefacts lay scattered across every surface: cracked crystals, moth-eaten scrolls, rusted jewellery, and bones that may or may not have been decorative. A thin layer of dust blanketed everything. At the far end of the cluttered shop, they spotted Karlach leaning on a battered counter, her gaze fixed on a doorway beyond. From within, someone could be heard muttering to themselves, and from the rustling parchments and the thud of shifting boxes, they seemed to be looking for something.

Hearing the creak of the warped floorboards and the distinct rattle of chains as Astarion and Wyll entered with their prisoner, Karlach glanced up and waved them over. They began making their way towards her, slowly weaving through the mess, Raphael wincing with every step, biting down hard to stifle the sounds of pain that caught in his throat.

Astarion tightened his grip around his waist, steadying him. “Almost there,” he murmured. 

Raphael leaned into him, his breath shallow and uneven, his bound arms trembling slightly. Astarion wasn’t sure if it was from pain, or fear of what was about to happen.

“Aha!” came a woman’s voice, just before a tall, broad-shouldered human stepped out from the walk-in cupboard where she’d been rummaging. She was almost as tall as Karlach and laden with jewellery, and in her hand she brandished a thick black rod with two curved metallic prongs at the end. It hummed faintly. “Found it,” she said with satisfaction. Her blue eyes landed on Raphael, slumped between Astarion and Wyll, and lit up. “Well, well, well. You actually brought him.” A grin spread across her face. “When Helsik’s sending stone buzzed, I didn’t quite believe it. But here he is. The half-breed son of Mephistopheles, gift-wrapped.”

When her gaze slid to Astarion, she looked him up and down slowly, her brows arching with obvious interest. “And who,” she purred, “is this handsome stranger?”

“This is Astarion.” Wyll said from the other side of Raphael, “Astarion, meet—”

“Morgana. My name is Morgana,” the woman said in a breathy voice, stepping forwards and running a hand through her cropped blonde hair. “Warlock of Mammon, the unholy Archdevil of Minauros, Lord of the Third.”

Astarion offered a polite smile, knowing when to turn on the charm. “A pleasure, Morgana,” he said, voice velvet-soft, lowering his lashes with a flutter, and tilting his head ever so slightly.

Her cheeks instantly flushed, and she fanned herself with her free hand, her numerous gold rings gleaming in the dim light.

The shop door creaked open behind them as Shadowheart and Gale stepped inside. Morgana glanced their way, then looked to Karlach for a brief nod of confirmation that they were part of the group. Satisfied, she flashed a pleasant smile and gestured broadly with the rod. “Well then, I suppose we shall talk business. Tea?”

A few moments later, she had found them all chairs. All except Raphael, whom she seized without warning, tearing him from Astarion and Wyll’s grasp and dragging him towards her for inspection. He stumbled, the chains around his ankles only loose enough for small steps. His weight shifted onto his injured leg, and he cried out involuntarily, squeezing his eyes shut.

Morgana looked delighted. “Hold this for me, would you, dearie?” she said, thrusting the strange humming rod into Astarion’s hands without waiting for an answer. Then she dragged Raphael beneath the lantern hanging at the centre of the room, ignoring his gasps of pain, and tilted his chin up to the light like a merchant appraising livestock at market. She leaned in close, studying every inch of his face.

The others sat in silence, exchanging uneasy glances.

After a moment, Morgana stood back. “He’s in better shape than I expected. Very good. Helsik implied he’d be poisoned.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And muzzled,” she added with a note of disapproval.

“We ran out of poison,” Wyll replied calmly. “And the muzzle was… lost to incubus interference.”

“Ahh. Haarlep,” Morgana murmured, almost to herself. “Yes, I’m familiar with the imp.” Her gaze slid back to Raphael, frowning again. “What is all this?” She gestured vaguely at his blood-stained shirt, wrinkling her nose. “I can tolerate dust, grime, even swamp rot. But blood? Absolutely not.”

Astarion’s eyes swept over the cluttered chaos of the shop; the cobwebbed shelves, cracked jars, and layers of ancient dust. You’d never know, he thought wryly.

Wyll shifted uncomfortably. “That would require removing his chains,” he admitted, looking slightly ashamed. “We try to avoid it when we can.”

Morgana waved a dismissive hand. “No matter. We’ll change him now. I’d prefer his arms shackled behind his back for the journey through Minauros anyway.”

Without hesitation, Morgana swept her hands through the air, murmuring an incantation. A Hold spell took effect instantly, freezing Raphael mid-breath, his expression locked in a look of utter misery. She extended a hand towards Wyll without a word. He hesitated only briefly before understanding the request and handing over the key to the infernal chains. With cold efficiency, Morgana unshackled Raphael’s wrists and stripped away his bloodied shirt, casting it onto the floor.

Wyll frowned slightly. He folded his arms, as if holding back the urge to comment on her brisk and ungracious approach.

Morgana conjured a fresh garment with a quick snap of her fingers and slipped it over Raphael’s shoulders, then manoeuvred his arms behind his back, pulling them tight and refastening the chains. As she stepped away, she released the spell.

Raphael blinked, disoriented, eyes darting down to his clean shirt and newly bound arms. His confusion was quickly replaced with a scowl, a small crease wrinkling the top of his nose.

Astarion said nothing, but he clenched his fists. Watching it all, the spell and the manhandling, left a bitter taste in his mouth. He told himself it was a necessary precaution. Reminded himself that they’d been treating Raphael in exactly the same manner for weeks. But for some reason, it looked so much worse now.

Astarion could sense Raphael’s own anger bubbling at the disrespect, he could see it in the narrowing of his eyes and the slight curl of his upper lip. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for a little dignity before the damnation,” Raphael bit out.

Suddenly, a loud smack rang through the air as the back of Morgana’s hand struck his face with brutal force. Raphael staggered, thrown off balance by the blow. Unable to steady himself with his arms tied behind his back, he crashed sideways towards the floor. Astarion lunged, catching him by the shoulders just in time to slow his fall. The rod slipped from Astarion’s grasp and clattered across the floor, vanishing beneath a nearby cabinet.

“You do not speak, half-breed,” Morgana snarled venomously. “Do you understand me?”

Raphael raised his head slowly, blood already trailing from a fresh split in his lip, one of her many rings having torn the skin. He didn’t answer, but if looks could kill, Morgana would already be on the floor.

Wyll stepped in to help as Astarion pulled Raphael up, sliding his own chair behind the devil and lowering him gently down. 

Morgana dabbed a handkerchief over her bloodied rings, eyeing their movements with an expression full of contempt. “You’re too soft on him. He doesn’t deserve your respect — he’s not even a full devil.” She sighed, shaking her head in disapproval. “Even Helsik is too easily charmed by a pretty face. But I’ve told her before, I said ‘cambions are beneath us, Helsik.’”

As Astarion turned to look for where he’d dropped the rod, he caught Shadowheart’s eye across the room. Her lips were drawn into a thin line, her eyes burning with silent outrage. Beside her, Gale looked stunned by the sudden violence, his brows raised and mouth slightly open.

Karlach cleared her throat, cutting through the awkward silence. “So, why couldn’t Helsik just open the portal from Baldur’s Gate? Why did we need to haul him all the way to Amn for this?”

As she spoke, Astarion spotted the rod beneath a nearby cabinet. He bent down to retrieve it, reaching through layers of dust and grime.

Morgana didn’t answer right away, and when he straightened, brushing the rod off, he caught her watching him, her head angled slightly and a small, playful smile on her lips. Finally she turned back to Karlach. “Because, darling, that’s not how Baator works. By Asmodeus’ decree, no planar portals can connect directly to any layer of the Hells beyond Avernus. First Layer only. All official comings and goings must pass through it. So, ordinarily, if you want to reach Minauros, you’d have to detour through Dis.” She raised her chin slightly, her eyes gleaming with pride. “But I’m Mammon’s little secret; I have a backdoor into the Third Layer, unbeknownst to Asmodeus and the other archdevils. There’s a bit of a trek on the other end, to the Sinking City, a lot of volcanic rock with some unavoidable swamp and marsh.”

Turning to Astarion with a sickly-sweet smile, Morgana extended her hand. “The rod, dear.”

He placed it into her palm. 

“And when will you be leaving?” he asked, sounding as casual as he could manage. “A portal must take some time to prepare?”

Morgana gave a light laugh. “Oh, I’ll be leaving immediately. Raphael, you see, is a wanted fugitive in the Hells. I must deliver him to Mammon without delay. A portal will take only moments.”

“He’s a what?!” Karlach blurted, brows lifting in confusion.

“Helsik didn’t mention this,” Wyll added, frowning.

Morgana only shrugged. “Well, we couldn’t have you selling him off to the next highest bidder, now could we?”

Karlach rose from her seat, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. “And what else did Helsik choose not to share with us?” she growled. “Is the fix for my engine even real?”

Morgana didn’t bat an eyelid. “I wouldn’t know, dear,” she said, inspecting the rod closely. “I’m only here to ship the fugitive off to Hell. The details of your deal with Helsik are not my concern.”

Karlach slowly sat back down, breathing heavily through her nose.

Morgana frowned and blew a clump of dust from the pronged tip of the rod, then she stepped forwards and, without warning, jammed it against Raphael’s stomach. He jerked violently as white sparks burst from the end of the rod, his entire body locking up in a rigid spasm. The muscles in his neck and shoulders seized, and he crumpled out of the chair, hitting the floor hard. For a few agonising seconds, he twitched uncontrollably, gasping.

Astarion dropped to his knees beside him in an instant, slipping a hand beneath Raphael’s head to keep it from bashing against the floor, holding him steady as he stilled, panting and trembling. “What in the Hells is that thing?” Astarion snapped, his voice shaking from anger. 

“Something to ensure compliance,” Morgana said coolly, examining the tip of the rod again and looking pleased. “It’s keyed to extraplanar physiology — celestials, fiends, and so on. Bypasses their natural resistance to lightning. It won’t kill him. Just keep him... manageable.”

Astarion looked around at the others, searching their faces.

Karlach sat rigid, arms folded, her jaw clenched tight as her leg bounced restlessly.

Shadowheart was glaring at Morgana, eyes narrowed, a disgusted look on her face.

Gale stared at the floorboards, lips pressed together, looking deeply uncomfortable.

And Wyll… Wyll was watching Raphael, a flicker of sympathy softening the tension in his brow.

But none of them said a word.

Astarion swallowed, the weight in his chest growing heavier. He wanted to say something. 

Gods, he really wanted to say something.

But their task was nearly done, and no-one wanted to be the one to ruin it all now.

Morgana began arranging ritual components on the floor: a skull, a diamond, incense, a single coin, a lump of infernal marble. 

Raphael looked up at Astarion, his eyes pained and exhausted. “Astarion. Please—”

Before he could finish, Morgana had seized him by the front of his shirt and yanked him up, tearing him from Astarion’s arms. She snapped a thick iron collar around his neck. A heavy chain trailed from it, which she clipped to a ring at her belt, like he was nothing more than a leashed animal.

She grabbed a travel pack from beneath the counter and turned to them all. “Right, I’d best be going.” She snapped her fingers and the portal behind her shimmered to life. “There’s gold on the counter for your return trip. Please lock up on your way out.”

They all stood, caught off guard by the abrupt conclusion to the encounter.

Raphael’s eyes flew to Astarion. They were wide, panicked… pleading.

“Wait.”

Every head turned towards Astarion, as his voice hung in the air.

They were all staring at him now. Confused. Waiting.

Astarion’s mouth had gone dry.

Was this it?

After everything they’d shared, he was just going to hand Raphael over? To her?

To that smug, cruel woman who had smacked him, shocked him and leashed him like a beast, smiling as she hurt him?

Was that the right thing to do? 

For the plan, the mission, undoubtedly. One more step towards Karlach’s salvation, towards freedom and safety.

But the thought of never seeing him again… 

He hadn’t figured out what Raphael was to him. He didn’t know what they could ever be. 

But he didn’t want him gone.

Not like this…

He hesitated.

“Astarion?” To his right, Karlach’s voice was quiet and concerned. “What are you doing?”

Then from his left: “Astarion?” Raphael’s voice was hoarse, hollow… hopeful.

Astarion looked at him. His brown eyes, his mussed hair, his cut lip.

This hurt too much.

“I’m sorry,” he said aloud, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

There was a ripple of movement from the others, a few surprised murmurs, a sharp inhale. 

Astarion turned his eyes to Raphael. Met his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, softer.

And then he stepped away. 

Back towards his friends.

Raphael’s eyes fell shut. His expression crumpled, his shoulders slumped. It was as if Astarion had driven a blade into his chest, and twisted. He’d never looked more human. And Astarion knew it wasn’t fear of what awaited him. It was heartbreak.

Morgana smirked, hitched her travel pack higher on her shoulder, and took Raphael’s chain in hand.

Suddenly, a metallic snap pierced the silence. Then a crossbow bolt sliced through the air and struck the warlock square in the shoulder. Morgana let out a raw cry, stumbling backwards.

“Master!” came a shriek, just as Haarlep materialised in the corner of the room, wild-eyed, a crossbow in one hand and a smokepowder bomb in the other.

The force of the bolt knocked Morgana back a step — straight into the portal’s edge. Still chained to her, Raphael was yanked violently off his feet, the collar biting deep as he was dragged through the shimmering orange light with her. His cry was choked and cut off as they both vanished.

Haarlep hurled the bomb. It exploded with a deafening crack, smoke and fire billowing across the shop, instantly consuming dust and scrolls and parchments. Karlach and Wyll crashed to the floor, shielding their faces. Shadowheart gasped and threw herself after them, calling down water to douse the flames.

Gale lunged at the incubus, staff raised and rage etched across his face. But Haarlep only grinned, sharp teeth bared in delight as they caught the wizard by the throat and wrapped long, clawed fingers around his neck. “We must stop meeting like this, darling,” they purred, pulling his face close to their fangs. “But I just love the enthusiasm.”

Gale struggled, scrabbling at Haarlep’s wrists, his lips forming a spell he couldn’t voice. His airway was crushed, he was choking.

“What was that, my love?” Haarlep cooed, cocking their head. “Cat got your tongue?” They chuckled as Gale began to turn purple.

With an enraged roar, Astarion launched himself across the room, landing behind the incubus and sinking his fangs deep into the side of their neck. Boiling blood flooded his mouth, but he barely felt it through the fury burning in his chest.

Raphael was gone.

He bit down harder, grinding his jaw until he felt tendons twang under his teeth. Haarlep howled in pain, their grip on Gale releasing as they twisted violently, trying to shake him loose. They slammed themselves backwards into the wall, causing Astarion to cry out as the impact crushed him between stone and incubus. Haarlep reached back and grabbed him by the collar, before flinging him across the room like a doll.

Time seemed to slow.

As Astarion flew through the air, he caught sight of his companions: Shadowheart frozen in horror, Karlach scrambling upright, Wyll reaching for him from too far away, and Gale yelling “NO!”, diving after him with outstretched fingers that missed by inches.

Then the portal swallowed him whole.

Astarion hit the ground hard, the air knocked from his lungs as rock rose up to meet him.

The portal closed.

“Oh, how wonderful of you to join us,” Morgana trilled, casually perched on the stone beside a collapsed Raphael. One hand clutched her shoulder, where a crossbow bolt was still lodged, blood soaking through the fabric. The other gripped the lightning-charged rod, its prongs aimed at Raphael.

Raphael was slumped over, breath ragged, his body twitching from her last strike, as the scent of singed cloth hung in the air.

Still gasping, Astarion pushed himself up. They had landed on a rocky cliffside, where a dry, sulphurous wind swept ash and grit across the stone at their feet. Below stretched a desolate hellscape: a broken expanse of scorched volcanic rock, steaming fissures, and bubbling pits of noxious sludge.

Astarion staggered to the edge, scanning the bleak, endless landscape of Minauros that stretched as far as his eyes could see.

How in the Nine Hells was he going to get home?

Chapter Text

Astarion sank to his knees. 

The portal was gone. 

They were gone. On an entirely different plane, the distance too vast to comprehend.

He was trapped. In Hell.

He’d thought he’d been in Hell before. For two centuries, he had been. A slave to hunger, fear, and a cruel master.

But this… this was actual, real, literal Hell.

He wrapped his arms around himself, staring out at the dead landscape.

“Dearie? Astarion, was it?” came Morgana’s voice from over his shoulder. “I could do with a hand, if it’s not too much trouble?”

Astarion turned. She was still perched on her rock, one hand clutching her shoulder; the crossbow bolt was still lodged in it, her traveller’s cloak stained with spreading blood. It trickled steadily down her arm and she kept glancing down at it with utter revulsion. 

He glanced over at Raphael, slumped a few paces away, motionless and silent. His head was bowed and his hair had fallen forwards, so Astarion couldn’t see his face. He hadn’t so much as looked at Astarion since he’d fallen through the portal.

Mustering all the effort he could, Astarion pushed himself to his feet. His mouth still throbbed from the burn of Haarlep’s blood, and his back ached from where he’d been slammed into the wall. He approached Morgana on heavy footsteps, his mind reeling. 

She looked up at him as he neared, smiling faintly. “Pain I can handle. It’s the blood that’s ruining my mood. Now be a darling and pull the damned thing out?”

As he dropped into a crouch beside her, the scent of her blood hit him; thick and iron-rich, spilling freely down her arm. He could feel his hunger licking at his senses. It had been a few days since he’d fed properly, and now his body ached for nourishment as it struggled to heal from Haarlep’s crushing blow and scalding blood.

He blinked once, hard, trying to refocus.

But, gods, the smell was divine.

Drawing a breath through his nose, Astarion composed himself, then leaned in to investigate the injury. The bolt was lodged deep in her shoulder, the fletched end protruding from the entry wound. Tugging it backwards would cause too much damage. No, it would have to go forwards. “This is going to hurt,” he murmured, sliding his dagger from his boot. “Hold still.”

Morgana tilted her head, watching him closely with a small smile. “I trust you,” she said softly, her eyes dipping briefly to his lips.

Astarion couldn’t bring himself to smile back. Instead he braced one hand gently on her upper arm and carefully brought the blade down, sawing cleanly through the bolt’s tail. Then, gripping the shaft’s exposed end, he pressed it through her shoulder, slowly but firmly. 

Morgana hissed through her teeth, and brought her other hand up to grip his arm, dropping the lightning-charged rod down into her lap.

As the tip of the bolt breached the skin at the back of her shoulder, Astarion reached round and grabbed it, his fingers slippery with her blood, its scent winding through his senses. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched tight, then with one firm pull, he dragged the bolt free. A spatter of blood followed, seeping into his palm. He dropped the bolt and reached for a cloth Morgana had produced from her bag, pressing it to the exit wound with more pressure than necessary.

“All done,” he muttered, before rising and taking a few long strides away from her. He turned his back to her and subtly brought his hand up to his mouth, running his tongue over the pad of his thumb to taste the smear of her blood. It was warm and zesty, with a slight bitterness that made his eyes water. Not unpleasant, just a little sour.

Feeling the weight of being watched, Astarion glanced down at Raphael to find the devil looking at him from beneath lowered brows, pure disdain written across his features.

“I do like a man who knows how to use his fingers,” Morgana chuckled, busy pulling a healing potion from her bag and uncorking it with her teeth. She spat the cork out and took a swig before pouring it over both the front and back of her shoulder with a wince. 

“My fingers? Darling, wait until you see what I can do with all the rest,” Astarion purred back over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off Raphael.

Raphael scowled at him and turned his head away.

Astarion felt the sting of it more than he wanted to admit.

He had let this happen. He hadn’t helped Raphael. Hadn’t fought for him. And now they were both trapped here. 

When Astarion turned back to Morgana, his shoulders drooping a little more than before, he blinked. Gone were the bloodstained cloak and the torn sleeve; Morgana now wore a fresh, emerald green cloak with ornate gold detailing, the fabric still slightly creased from being folded. Her injured shoulder was now hidden, her hands were clean, and Astarion couldn’t see a drop of blood on her.

He raised a brow. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises?”

Morgana gave him a sly smile, reaching casually back into the pack. “Darling, I don’t travel without options.”

Her arm disappeared deeper into the bag than should have been possible, as she rummaged around with an exaggerated flourish. “One must always be prepared. After all, you never know when you’ll need a change of clothes… or, say, protection from the elements.” She withdrew a long, folded parasol from the depths of her bag, made of black velvet with a carved bone handle shaped like a serpent. Whether it was meant to keep off sun or rain, or something else entirely, Astarion couldn’t tell. She gave it a jaunty little twirl, before putting it back in the bag. “Practical and stylish.”

Astarion looked up at the dim, sulphurous sky. It didn’t look like rain. Or sun, for that matter…

“How very optimistic of you,” he murmured.

She grinned. “Bag of holding. Incredibly useful, if just a touch disorganised.” 

Considering the absolute chaos of her shop, Astarion could only imagine the state of inside the bag; a jumbled mountain of half-forgotten trinkets and clutter, hoarded on the off-chance any of it might prove useful someday. Still, with her swift wardrobe change and uncanny parasol in tow, she was starting to seem less like a scattered eccentric and more like someone who knew exactly how dangerous the world — or rather, the Hells — could be.

His eyes flicked briefly to Raphael, then, lowering his voice, he asked, “Do you have anything that might help his leg? I doubt we’ll get very far if he has to limp the whole way.”

Morgana followed his gaze, giving Raphael a long, assessing look. She leaned in towards Astarion, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper only he could hear. “I might…” she said, with a knowing smirk. “But where’s the fun in that? Let him squirm a bit first.” Then, straightening, she added with a wink, “Watch this.”

She turned back towards Raphael with theatrical flair and snapped, “Get up, half-breed. We’re moving out.”

Raphael didn’t respond right away. He was still slumped on the ground, his bound arms twisted awkwardly behind him and his chained legs out in front of him. He gave her a loathing look, but didn’t speak.

“Well?” Morgana prompted, jostling the chain that connected her belt to the iron collar around his throat. “You’ve got legs, haven’t you?”

Astarion watched as Raphael took in a slow, shuddering breath, a muscle flickering in his jaw. Then, with grim determination, he folded his legs beneath him, a choked grunt escaping at the movement of the broken bone. He shifted his weight, then rolled onto his knees, his breathing becoming more ragged as he went. With agonising care, he pushed himself upright, every muscle trembling from the effort as he tried to balance and swallow his sounds of pain. 

Without warning, Morgana stepped forwards and drove the pronged rod into his side. Astarion hadn’t even seen her pick it back up.

White sparks burst against Raphael’s ribs as the magic surged through him. He crashed back down to the ground, muscles locking, a ragged cry ripping from his throat before he could stop it.

Astarion flinched, guilt needling through him as he watched Raphael convulse, limbs seizing violently… until he finally stilled, panting, face scrunched up in pain. For a long moment after, Raphael didn’t move. Then slowly, he lifted his head, his eyes burning with hatred and anger as they locked on Morgana.

She just smiled down at him. “Oops.”

Astarion stepped forwards, bending to help him up, but as he reached out, Raphael jerked away.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, his voice hoarse.

Before Astarion could respond, Morgana’s heels sounded against the stone. “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak,” she said, before driving the rod into his side again.

Raphael cried out as the sparks surged through him again, and Astarion turned to face away.

He couldn’t watch this time. 

He’d only wanted to help. 

With his back turned, Astarion stood rigid, fists clenched at his sides. Behind him, he could hear Raphael’s uneven panting, each breath shallow and strained. 

Morgana crouched beside the devil, her voice syrupy and cruel. “Honestly, at your age, I expected a little more resilience. All those centuries wandering the Hells, and this is what breaks you? Still, this is only discomfort. What’s waiting for you in the Sinking City… will make you question if you’ve ever truly understood the meaning of the word ‘pain’.”

Astarion could hear the rod humming softly, and beneath that, his heightened hearing could hear Raphael’s heartbeat hammering. Morgana’s was calm and even. 

Psychotic bitch, he thought grimly.

He exhaled slowly, trying to leash the fury threatening to overcome him. Without fully turning, he angled his head just enough to speak over his shoulder, his voice clipped and cold. “Can we just go? We’re wasting time.”

Morgana stood slowly, dusting off her hands, as if Raphael’s pain could simply be brushed away just like that. She stepped over to Astarion, coming to stand in front of him, studying his face with rapt interest. She reached out and cupped his cheek. “You’ve got a kind heart, sweetie.” Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “But in the Hells, kindness gets you killed.” She tapped his cheek lightly, almost fondly, and turned away with a swish of her coat. “Come along, then. We’ve got a long walk to Mammon.”

________

They walked for hours. Or rather, they inched their way forwards, in a painstaking crawl across the cracked, unforgiving terrain of Minauros.

The ground was brittle underfoot, jagged plates of black volcanic rock that shifted with every step. Sulphurous steam hissed from narrow vents in the stone, and in the distance, bubbling pits of sludge belched foul-smelling gas into the air in thick, green clouds. That was where they were heading to.

Raphael limped at a snail’s pace, every step a war between pride and agony. He was becoming increasingly unsteady on his broken leg, and despite his best efforts, his gait grew worse with each mile. He was pale and silent, sweat clinging to his skin, pain and exhaustion etched into his face.

Morgana led him by the chain fixed to his iron collar, the length clinking rhythmically as she walked a number of paces ahead. Every so often, she gave it a sharp, irritated tug. “Honestly,” she muttered, “I’ve seen shambling mounds move faster than this.” The jerk of the chain would pull Raphael off balance, causing him to stagger, often nearly falling.

Astarion followed behind in silence, his anger rising each time the chain snapped taut.

At one point, Raphael doubled over, coughing and retching onto the blackened stone, nothing but yellow bile splattering against the cracked surface from his empty stomach. His arms, still bound behind him, offered no support. The acrid stench mixed with the ever-present stink of sulphur.

Astarion stood nearby, itching to help, knowing he wouldn’t be allowed. 

Morgana didn’t break stride. “Keep moving,” she said, cool and unaffected. “You can weep and retch when we’ve arrived. Not before.”

“Please, Morgana, we need to stop,” Astarion said, jogging to catch up to her. “He can’t keep going like this. He needs rest. We all do.”

Morgana sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Ugh. Fine,” she drawled. “We’ll stop. But only because I’d rather not have him die on us halfway to the city. Dead weight is such a pain to drag.” She walked a few steps ahead, scanning the cracked terrain for a somewhat less vile place to settle. Behind her, Raphael eased himself onto the ground, trying to catch his breath.

“This pace is going to kill me,” Morgana grumbled, as she rifled through her bag of holding. “At this speed, we’ll reach the Sinking City sometime next year — if the muck doesn’t swallow us whole first.”

Astarion glanced up at the dull, smothered sky, wondering what time it was. It had been evening when they’d left Faerûn, and they’d been walking for hours… Perhaps time moved strangely here. He couldn’t tell if it was morning or midnight. With no sun, at least he didn’t burn here. In Hell. Ironically.

He was still mulling it over, when Morgana finally stopped digging around in her bag. With a triumphant noise, she pulled out a battered scroll case. “Aha. Knew I still had a couple of these in here.” She unfurled the scroll and began muttering the incantation. Instantly, a dome of soft, opaque force blinked into existence around them. 

A Tiny Hut: warm and dry.

Inside, the stench of the Third Layer faded, the humidity lessened, and the hard ground underfoot felt almost comfortable. It was dimly lit. Cosy.

Morgana looked pleased with herself. “I told you I always come prepared, did I not?” she said, rolling up the scroll and packing it away again. “Anyway, I wouldn’t advise sleeping unwarded in Minauros. Not unless you want to be awoken by a swarm of angry Hellwasps.”

Astarion raised his brows, impressed with the shelter. “And to think, I thought your rod was impressive.”

“You’ve seen mine, sweetheart,” she winked, “when do I get to see yours?”

Masking his involuntary choke as a laugh, Astarion brought his hand to his mouth, coyly. “Now, now, where’s the fun in giving it all away at once? Anticipation is half the pleasure, isn’t it?”

“Don’t keep me on the edge for too long, darling,” Morgana replied, delighted at the returned flirtation. “Anticipation is lovely, yes, but I always prefer a good climax.”

Before Astarion could respond, the moment was punctuated with a wet, retching sound from the corner. They both turned to see Raphael spitting bile onto the floor of their cosy little dome. 

Morgana wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. You’ve always got to be the centre of attention, haven’t you, half-breed? Didn’t Daddy give you enough love as a child?”

Raphael didn’t answer. He simply turned his head away, pointedly ignoring them both.

Morgana let out an exaggerated sigh of annoyance. Her fingers twitched, reaching for the rod she’d placed at her feet. But before the sparks could start humming, Astarion brushed her arm with a gentle touch.

“Do you keep any food in that bag of yours?” he asked, giving her his best wide-eyed and innocent look. “All this walking has left me feeling a bit faint.”

That did the trick. Her expression melted, replaced with a warm, pitying smile as she clasped his hand between both of hers, giving it a little squeeze. “Oh my darling, why didn’t you say you were hungry?” she cooed, turning from Raphael like he no longer existed. “Of course I’ve got food. Plenty of it.”

She crouched by her bag, rummaging through the endless depths, and began laying things out with a flourish: a pair of wrapped meal packs, two skins of water, and a couple of rolled blankets. None of it was offered to Raphael.

Astarion laid out his blanket, then sat on the edge, legs crossed, accepting the food with a grateful smile. When her back was turned, he carefully slipped it under the folds of the fabric, untouched.

“Gosh, you were hungry,” Morgana commented after faffing around and picking at her own food. For such a large woman, she seemed to have the appetite of a small bird.

They made light, flirtatious conversation for a while, until eventually, she yawned. “Well, I need my beauty sleep,” she declared, stretching her arms over her head. “We aren’t all as naturally stunning as you, my dear.”

Astarion waved her off, with an “oh you”, earning another sultry grin from the warlock.

“We’re safe in here,” she said, gesturing to the shimmering barrier of the Tiny Hut surrounding them. And as for him,” she tugged the chain at her belt, letting it rattle ominously, “he’s not going anywhere. Unless he plans to drag my corpse along with him.” She lay down on her blanket with a contented sigh, mumbled “Sleep tight, dearie,” then dozed off almost instantly.

Astarion sat in silence for a while. The only sounds were the low hiss of wind beyond the barrier, and Morgana’s steady breathing from her bedroll. He waited for long minutes until her breaths had deepened into the unmistakable rhythm of sleep.

Only then did he move.

Carefully, he reached beneath his blanket and pulled out the untouched food she’d given him. He turned to Raphael. The devil still hadn’t moved from where he sat near the edge of the dome, back turned, his legs tucked in as much as he could bend his broken leg.

“Here,” Astarion whispered, his voice low but insistent. He held out the food. “Eat something. It’ll help.”

Raphael didn’t respond. He didn’t even move.

“For fuck’s sake, Raphael, I’m trying here,” he hissed. “I want to help you.”

Still nothing.

Astarion let out a sharp exhale through his nose, then threw himself down onto his blanket with a frustrated flop, putting his back to Raphael. Trance wouldn’t come easy tonight.

He stared into the darkness, eyes unfocused. He wondered where his friends were now. Had they killed Haarlep? Did they make it to the tavern Karlach had been so excited about, clinking tankards, laughing over greasy pub food like none of this had happened? Or were they already on the road to Baldur’s Gate, rushing back to Helsik? Would they ask her to help find him?

…Would they even try to get him back?

________

Astarion must have drifted off into his trance at some point, because he awoke feeling slightly more refreshed, despite the lingering despair. Unfortunately, his stomach had other opinions. It growled loudly enough to echo off the sides of the Tiny Hut, an audible protest against his continued starvation.

“Gosh, you really are a hungry thing, aren’t you, my love?” Morgana giggled, before sitting up and stretching out her limbs like a house cat. “Didn’t I feed you enough last night?”

Astarion just gave her a faint smile and a shrug, before looking over at Raphael and finding him in the exact same position he’d been in hours before. He was just staring through the transparent, shimmering wall of the dome at the bleak, rocky wasteland beyond. Astarion frowned. He was certain Raphael hadn’t slept during those last few days and nights in the carriage. Not since Crimmor, if he remembered correctly. He wondered how long cambions could go without sleep. Or food. Or water… 

“We’ll be on solid rock for a few more hours, so enjoy the firm footing while you can,” Morgana said, biting into an apple as she rose. “After that, it’s mud, rot and stinking marshland. There’s a long stretch of swamp between us and the Sinking City. Let’s hope Sir Limpalot over there can move his arse at a respectable pace,” she added, jerking her chin at Raphael without looking at him.

“Why is it called that? The Sinking City?” Astarion asked, trying to draw the heat off Raphael again.

“Because it’s always sinking.” She said plainly, as if it were obvious. Which Astarion supposed it probably was… 

“The capital is built on a bog riddled with sinkholes and sludge pits. The entire city is in constant motion; falling, crumbling, sliding under the muck. Slaves are sent on expeditions to mine stone and replace its infirm foundations, but it never stops.”

“What are the chances of it finally collapsing while we’re there?”

Morgana shrugged. 

Well that wasn’t encouraging at all.

“Some streets vanish overnight. Buildings collapse mid-conversation. It’s half swamp, half ruin, and all deathtrap.”

“And Mammon does nothing about that?” Astarion asked, curious. “It’s his city, isn’t it?”

Morgana chortled, as if he’d asked a naive question, then lowered her voice. “Rumour has it, he could stop the sinking if he wanted to. Just a teeny-tiny sliver of his hoard spent on proper reinforcements, and the whole city would float like a lily on a pond… But Mammon is a creature of priorities. Gold spent is gold lost, and he’s never parted with more than a fraction of it for anything.” She frowned to herself, before adding, almost defensively, “But I think he lets it sink for a reason. Nothing breeds desperation like instability. And Mammon adores desperation. Desperate people make desperate deals, you see.”

Astarion was quiet for a moment, fiddling with his sleeve. “And what happens to prisoners in the Sinking City?”

“Oh, most get tossed into the dungeons below the surface — if you can call them that. Really, they’re just pits and holding cells that flood with swampwater when the ground shifts. You either learn to swim, or you don’t.” She cast a glance towards Raphael and added with a sly smile, “But not him. Oh no. He’s far too valuable a prize. Mammon will make a spectacle of it. Special treatment. All the attention he’s ever wanted. Though I doubt he’ll enjoy it.”

Astarion searched Raphael for a reaction. Anything. 

Nothing.

And so they walked. For hours. Across miles of dull, fractured black rock. 

Slowly. Painfully slowly. 

Every step was marked by the muffled grunts that Raphael failed to fully stifle.

The green smear of swamp on the horizon crept steadily closer, its stench choking Astarion’s senses: a mixture of rot, sulphur and death.

As they reached the edge of the rocky expanse, Raphael collapsed. His leg gave out completely, and he crumpled onto his side, chains clinking as he hit the stone with a dull thud. He didn’t try to stand.

Morgana stopped, letting the chain go slack. She turned slowly, hands on her hips, sighing as if he was being completely inappropriate. “Oh, for the love of gold,” she said, exasperated. “Now what?”

Astarion was already moving, hurrying over to drop to his knees beside Raphael.

Alarmingly, the devil’s skin was ice-cold, his breathing shallow and fast. Far too fast. His pupils were blown wide, and he was trembling violently.

“Get him up,” Morgana ordered from behind him.

“Gods, will you just stop?!” Astarion snarled, rounding on Morgana. “You’ve pushed him too far! He’s hurt, he hasn’t slept in days, and you’re dragging him through Hell like he’s already dead!”

Morgana blinked, caught off-guard by his sudden outburst and hostility. Stunned into silence, she didn’t reply. 

Beginning to panic, Astarion pulled Raphael into his arms, cradling his head in shaking hands and holding him tight against his chest. “Come on, Raphael, come on…” he breathed. “Don’t you dare—” His voice cracked. “Don’t you dare leave me.” His own breath shuddered, his chest heaving. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he whispered, voice breaking apart into pieces. “I know you hate me. I know I deserve it. But I didn’t want this. Please. Please stay with me.” 

Raphael didn’t move.

Astarion pressed his cheek against the devil’s clammy temple, gripping him tighter. “Gods, I never meant for this to happen. I don’t want you to suffer. But I’m stuck. I’m stuck down here and I don’t know how to get us out. And I think I’ve already lost you.” The panic bloomed into hyperventilation as he spoke, gasping between each word. His shoulders trembled, and tears streaked down his face as he buried it in Raphael’s sweat-soaked hair, choking on the painful lump in his throat.

Morgana didn’t speak. She sank down close by, sitting in silence, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The chain to Raphael’s collar lay slack between them. Astarion could feel her eyes on him as he sobbed.

Eventually, his sobs softened and became sniffles. 

Astarion wiped his nose with the back of his hand, still holding Raphael close, his throat raw.

Morgana reached into her bag, shuffling closer. “He’s going into shock,” she said quietly. “If I don’t stabilise him, his organs will shut down. Will you let me see him, love?”

Astarion hesitated. He didn’t move. He didn’t trust her with him.

She pulled out a small glass vial, its contents a deep, lustrous crimson. A potion of supreme healing. Rare beyond reason, and worth an absolute fortune. She turned it slowly in her fingers, the dim light catching on the glass. “I’m loath to use this on him,” she muttered. “But, I expect I’ll get my money’s worth in the end.”

Astarion stared at the bottle. Then at her. With a sniff, he reluctantly nodded and shifted back, just enough for her to lean in. He gently tipped Raphael’s head back as Morgana poured the potion between his lips, and held his jaw until he was sure he’d swallowed.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Raphael stirred, his eyelids fluttering open, revealing dull, unfocused brown eyes. He blinked slowly, his gaze drifting before it landed on Astarion’s face above him. Astarion, tear-streaked, breathing hard, clutching him like he was the only thing keeping him grounded. Raphael blinked again, squinting as though unsure he was seeing correctly. “Astar…” he croaked, barely audible. His voice was hoarse.

“I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” Astarion whispered, stroking his thumb across his cheek.

Raphael’s brow furrowed as he seemed to remember… The softness in his expression vanished. His features hardened. “Let me go,” he said, in a low, bitter voice.

Astarion’s heart sank. He felt his chin wobble as he fought against the tears that threatened to spill free again. Slowly, he withdrew his hands, as Raphael pulled himself upright.

Morgana, watching nearby, hummed under her breath as she re-corked the empty potion vial and tucked it away into her bag of holding. “Well, that was dramatic,” she trilled lightly. “If everyone’s legs are working again, we’ve still got a long walk ahead of us. Shall we?”

Raphael didn’t look at Astarion as they both began to stand. 

Astarion automatically put his hands out to help Raphael as the devil shifted onto his knees, rising without the use of his arms. He stood tall and pain-free, his chin lifted as he stared past Astarion and Morgana towards the grim swamp they were about to traverse. 

Subtly, Astarion studied Raphael’s face for a moment. He still looked utterly exhausted, starved of sleep, food, and dignity. But the potion had done its work; the nasty break in his thigh was mended now, at least. Astarion hadn’t realised just how bad it had been. Gods, the pain he must have endured, trying to walk on it like that. And they’d just… left him. Denied him healing. Watched him stumble. All of them. And worse, if Raphael had died here, on this plane, he’d be gone for good. Dead-dead. Astarion didn’t know if that was kinder than what awaited him in Mammon’s hands, but what he did realise now, was that he didn’t want to lose him.

Morgana stepped close to Astarion, putting a hand on his lower arm. “Emotions make for dangerous baggage,” she muttered in his ear. “You may want to lighten the load before we reach the city.” Then, looking intently at his lips, she added: “I can show you how, if you’d like.”

Her gaze returned to his eyes, and she fluttered her eyelashes at him.

His mind moved quickly, calculating. If this was the game she wanted to play, then perhaps he could make it work for him.  If she wanted him close, he could get close. Close enough to charm her, influence her. Maybe even to unlock a chain or two… If he could get Raphael free, then maybe they could figure out the next part together. How to get home. How to help Karlach.

He fixed a charming smirk on his lips and leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a sultry purr. “And travel light, hmm?” he murmured, brushing a knuckle lightly down the back of her hand. “Says the woman with a bag of holding bursting at the seams.” He tilted his head, directing his gaze at her mouth. “But by all means… teach me how to let go.”

Morgana’s grin widened. She bit her lower lip, eyes glinting wickedly. “Mmm. I do like an eager student,” she hummed. With a flick of her cloak and a sway in her step, she turned and began walking, the chain at her belt pulling taut.

Astarion watched her walking away for a moment before he caught movement at the edge of his vision. He turned, just in time to see Raphael look away and follow Morgana, pulled along by the chain at his throat. He’d been watching him.

And just like that, they were moving again, away from the unforgiving stone and into the slow churning swamp that now stretched before them. 

Their destination lay ahead, somewhere across the mire. An awaiting archdevil.

But Astarion had made up his mind.

This time he was going to save Raphael.

Chapter Text

Astarion had thought walking across endless black stone was bad enough, but the stinking, squelching bogland was much, much worse.

The air was heavy and suffocating with thick, choking mist and a stench so vile Astarion had been breathing through his mouth for the past hour. The ground beneath them was soft and spongy, and with every step, half of Astarion’s boot sank into the mire, water bubbling up around his feet as if trying to suck him under. Vines snaked between his ankles, and wide gaps yawned between patches of earth, forcing him to leap or risk vanishing into the sludge.

At least the water wasn’t flowing, just festering. No current meant no danger from his vampiric weakness to running water.

He glanced over at Raphael, who was keeping pace, somehow. His leg had been healed, but his arms were still shackled behind his back, and the loose chain at his ankles forced him to take small, restricted steps. Even so, he managed to navigate the unstable footing with surprising grace, which Astarion would have admired, if it didn’t hurt so much to look at him.

The foul smell in the air was doing a good job of distracting him from that hurt. Rot, sulphur and decay. Morgana walked as if it didn’t exist, humming quietly to herself and playing absentmindedly with her jewellery. Even Raphael, who was covered with sweat and grime, didn’t react to it at all. Astarion, meanwhile, was trying his hardest not to gag. Perhaps the other two were just used to it.

This was the Third Layer of Hell, and it certainly lived up to its nickname: The Endless Bog.

Without warning, the sky split open and hail began to hammer down. Not the dainty, icy pellets of Faerûn, but fist-sized, jagged balls that hissed as they struck the swamp around them, spitting acid and steam where they landed. 

Morgana shrieked and yanked her parasol from her bag, snapping it open. “Astarion, darling — here! Quick!” she called, and he darted towards her on agile feet, leaping over oozing puddles and bubbling sinkholes to duck beneath the shelter. The hailstones slammed against the fabric like magic missiles, loud enough to tear it to shreds, but the seemingly enchanted umbrella held fast. From under the safety of its canopy, Astarion’s eyes found Raphael. Alone and exposed in the open. 

The devil had crouched low, curling forwards to shield his face. With his arms bound tightly behind his back, there was no protection against the acidic downpour. Hailstones struck him with punishing force, punching holes through his filthy shirt as they bounced off his back, raising raw, red welts across his skin. But he barely flinched. He just endured it silently.

Astarion then became aware of how close Morgana was standing; her leg pressed very intentionally against his own. He heard the suggestive smirk in her voice as she said, “There’s something almost romantic about it, wouldn’t you say? Just the two of us. Huddled together, sheltering from the storm. Listening to the soothing sound of hail on the canopy...” 

Astarion didn’t respond. His eyes were still on Raphael. 

Suddenly cool fingers curled under his chin and tilted his face up. Morgana’s lips pressed firmly against his own. It was a brief kiss, and when she drew back, she wore a confident little grin. She swept a strand of hair from his cheek, and kept her hand there.

He was so caught off guard, he could only stare at her, open mouthed.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” she whispered onto his lips. “You’re just so irresistible.”

Astarion glanced over at Raphael, still crouched and unmoving. He hadn’t seen. “Don’t get me wrong, darling, I’m flattered,” he murmured, trying to pull away slightly. “I just… hate having an audience.”

She grinned, fingers releasing his strand of hair to gently stroke up the shell of his ear. “He’s not looking.” She leaned in again.

“He might,” Astarion said softly, forcing a lightness to his voice as he leaned away, almost stepping out from under the shelter. “At any moment.”

Astarion’s mind was racing, his lips tingling from the kiss. Morgana was clever, powerful and volatile, but for now, she was also his shield. A warlock of Mammon who would keep him alive on this plane and could help him get home. He needed her on his side. Which meant playing that old, familiar game of his…

But how could he keep her satisfied and not drive Raphael away any further? He couldn’t risk freeing Raphael while he was still furious with him. What if he lashed out? Or worse, left him behind? Astarion had broken the only fragile thread of trust between them back in that shop, and now he wasn’t even sure if he could fix it. He had to find a way. Somehow.

So for now, he would play Morgana’s game. But he was playing to win.

A sudden silence fell as the storm ceased. The hammering beat on the umbrella stopped, leaving only the acidic sizzle of the hailstones soaking into the swamp. 

Astarion’s boots squelched in the soft mud as he put some space between him and Morgana.

She was still giving him that sultry smile. “You must have a sixth sense for infernal weather,” she chuckled, shaking off the umbrella before collapsing it. “Still with us, half-breed?” She looked over at Raphael. “I see the hail didn’t flay all your skin off.” 

As Raphael stood, he rolled his eyes, his shoulders heaving from a deep sigh. It was the first time he’d reacted to anything for hours. He’d been ignoring them both all day, not speaking and barely even looking at Astarion — not since he’d woken up in the elf’s arms after collapsing and having his leg healed. 

“Got something to say, have you?” Morgana snapped.

Raphael looked like he might actually bite back this time.

“Let me see your back,” Astarion cut in swiftly. “Those wounds… they’ll fester in this filth.” He stepped nimbly over a puddle of bogwater, his boots making a gloopy noise as he approached Raphael. The devil’s posture was rigid. This wasn’t just about checking his injuries though. Perhaps Astarion tending to Raphael’s pain could be the first step towards healing what had been broken between them...

Astarion circled him slowly, his gaze running over the torn fabric clinging to Raphael’s back. The shirt was peppered with holes, the skin beneath raw and welted, blooming red and purple from the hail’s brutal impact. “Gods,” Astarion murmured, reaching out and carefully peeling away a ragged scrap of fabric that had melted into one of the wounds. Raphael stiffened, but didn’t move until Astarion’s other hand settled lightly on his hip to steady him. At that, Raphael recoiled with a growl and took a swift step away.

Well, that went well.

Behind them, Morgana crossed her arms. “You do seem awfully familiar with my cargo, Astarion, darling,” she said coolly. “The tears earlier, I assumed, were really for yourself. But this concern for him… Is there something I should know?”

“We’ve been on the road for weeks, darling,” he retorted. “If I seem familiar with him, it’s only because I’ve been cracking the whip to keep him where he belongs. Beneath me.”

Raphael’s eyes snapped to him, narrowing as he studied the elf. Astarion hoped the message beneath his phrasing wasn’t lost on the devil.

Morgana tilted her head, frowning slightly. “Prove it,” she said softly, dangerously. “If you want my help getting back home after we’ve made the drop, I need to know you’re not sympathetic to the devil. I need to know I can trust you to work with me.”

“And what would you have me do?” Astarion asked, raising his hands and spreading his arms, in what he hoped was a disarmingly candid gesture.

Morgana said nothing, but extended the rod towards him, one brow arched in challenge.

Astarion looked at it, then at her.

A test.

To hurt Raphael. To prove he didn’t care.

He took the rod slowly, his fingers brushing hers, the cool metal humming faintly in his grasp.

Across from him, Raphael stood still, watching with wary eyes. There was no defiance in them. No pleading. Just curiosity.

Astarion frowned as his gaze followed the chain linking Raphael to Morgana’s belt. “Will you not get shocked too? Wait— we’re standing in water. Won’t it fry us all?”

Morgana let out a lilting laugh. “Darling, I told you in the shop, it’s keyed to extraplanar physiology. Celestials, fiends, etcetera. That includes cambions. His flesh conducts the current differently. So you and I are perfectly safe, sweetheart. Unless you’ve been hiding wings and horns from me.”

No wings, he thought grimly. Just fangs. He wasn’t sure how she’d react if she found out what he was. What he needed to consume to survive… She hated blood. Would she cast him out? Kill him? He’d have to tread extremely carefully in order to keep her trust. 

Astarion turned the rod over in his hand. “How far do you want me to go?” he asked quietly.

She smiled. “I want to see him writhing under your feet. Beneath you, just like you said.”

His fingers tightened around the rod as he tried to ignore the pit opening up in his stomach. This was just a little performance for him, and a little more pain for Raphael. Just enough to convince Morgana he was on her side. That she could trust him. If he could keep her believing that, she’d keep him safe — alive. Until he could find a way to free Raphael. He only hoped this wouldn’t push him away even further.

Astarion approached Raphael slowly, holding his eye contact. Tentatively, he pressed the prongs of the rod to Raphael’s side. The first jolt crackled through the devil’s body, and he doubled over with a grunt, jaw clenched, his chains rattling with the spasm. He didn’t cry out, but the tension in his limbs told Astarion that it hurt.

Again. Astarion triggered the surge, and this time Raphael fell to his knees. His brow was covered in sweat, leaving streaks through the grime on his skin, his hair plastered to his face. He was a far cry from the poised, immaculately dressed gentleman who had once sauntered into Astarion’s camp in Faerûn.

Astarion kept going. Again. And again. Each strike left Raphael weaker, his frame seizing violently with each wave of lightning. Until, finally, he collapsed fully onto the sodden ground. His body twitched with aftershocks, helpless and wrung out. The marsh water soaked into his tattered shirt and torn skin, mixing with fresh blood, clinging to every cut along his back and arms. He was panting in shallow, uneven gasps, his face turned into the wet earth.

Astarion stood over him, the rod trembling slightly in his hand.

He raised it again. 

He was dimly aware of the sound Raphael made beneath him. A gasp, or maybe… a whimper? 

“Careful now,” Morgana’s voice cut through the air. “I don’t want to waste any more good potions on him.”

Astarion froze, blinking as if waking from a trance. He looked down at Raphael’s limp form slowly sinking into the spongy ground, steam rising faintly where dark water lapped at his skin. 

Beneath him.

Just as Morgana had requested. 

Morgana’s smirk deepened as she stepped closer. “Effective,” she said, glancing down at Raphael without an ounce of pity. “Had I known you were so ruthless, I’d never have doubted you at all.” She took the rod from him with a wink. “Shall we continue on? You don’t need a break do you?” 

“No,” Astarion said. “Let’s keep walking.”

When Raphael had managed to stagger to his feet, exhaustion weighing him down even more than before, they continued on with their journey. 

Astarion wasn’t sure how Morgana was still going. Just a human, and yet she hadn’t insisted on a single break. She showed no signs of fatigue and made no complaints. If anything, she seemed to grow more energised with every mile they covered. He glanced over in time to see her take another swig from her water-skin. Curious, he lifted the flask she’d given him and gave it a sniff. The scent was faintly herbal. It definitely wasn’t just water. He’d been sipping from it on and off — for show — and now that he thought about it… he didn’t feel tired either. Not really. Not the bone-deep fatigue he expected after two solid days of monotonous travel over hellish terrain.

He picked up his pace until he was walking beside her. “What exactly is in this water?” he asked casually, swirling the contents of his flask. “I’m feeling rather unnaturally refreshed.”

“Three parts water, one part potion of vitality,” Morgana said with a grin. “Keeps exhaustion at bay. This isn’t my first trek through the Hells, my dear.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been dosing me with potions?”

“Oh, don’t look so scandalised,” she said, waving him off. “It’s nothing dangerous. Expensive, sure. But it keeps me moving. And you, evidently.”

Shrugging, he took another sip, then glanced back at Raphael trudging several paces behind, slow and miserable. “You know… We might move much faster if we gave some to him...”

“Absolutely not,” Morgana snapped, all levity gone in an instant. “He stays weak.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “Gods, if I had a penny for every time someone’s said that since we left Baldur’s Gate…”

Morgana stopped walking and reached out, catching his arm to pull him aside. Her voice dropped to a murmur. “You don’t get it,” she said. “He might look pathetic now, but he’s a devil. Common cambion or not, they’re cunning. Resilient. You never, ever, let one regain their strength.”

Astarion turned his gaze towards Raphael’s hunched silhouette. 

He didn’t agree.

He wanted to see the fire back in Raphael’s eyes. 

Just not turned on him.

________

They moved in silence, trudging through knee-deep muck, until the air grew colder and heavier. 

They had reached a strangely still and sinister stretch of swamp. It was much darker here, and the stagnant mirror of black water was broken only by occasional tufts of moss-covered ground and the odd tree that rose out of the water, gnarled and bone white, twisting into unnatural angles as though reaching out to pull the living down. A faint, chilling mist hovered just above the surface of the water, and the eerie silence was just as oppressive, pierced only by the occasional distant drip of water from somewhere just out of sight. 

There was no clear path through and often the spongy ground gave way without warning, forcing them into freezing, waist-high swamp water. Beneath the surface, ghostly shapes drifted; half-seen bodies, faces caught in frozen expressions of fear and agony. Astarion’s foot brushed one, and it vanished like smoke; he stood on another, and its skull caved in with a grotesque squelch. He couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.

Even Morgana seemed subdued here, as though she knew that something was watching and waiting for them in the darkness.

Uneasy, Astarion drew the dagger from his boot and kept it in hand, the cold metal offering a small comfort against the creeping dread sitting heavily in his gut.

He watched Raphael up ahead of him now, slogging through the murky water with short, stiff steps. The loose chains around his ankles dragged beneath the surface, constantly snagging on submerged roots and decaying limbs. He stumbled frequently, and had to keep stopping to tug himself free. From behind, Astarion’s eyes lingered on Raphael’s ruined shirt. Through the tears in the fabric, he could see the angry welts and bruises left by the hailstorm, endlessly agitated by the filthy water slapping against his skin.

Astarion felt a pull in his chest, aching and irrational. He wanted to press up behind him, wrap his arms around his waist, bury his face in his hair and just hold him. He wanted to shield him from the pain, the stink and the endless walking.

Gods, he missed the carriage. Missed the quiet moments watching Raphael sleep, the little twitches of his face. He missed the rambling murmur of Gale’s lectures, Karlach’s laughter, Wyll’s warm smile, Shadowheart’s dry wit.

He missed his friends so much. He was no stranger to loneliness, but he truly had thought those days were behind him.

Astarion was so lost in the ache of memory that he didn’t notice the rippling waters…

All of a sudden, something thick and powerful coiled around his ankle and yanked. 

He vanished beneath the surface with a splash, swallowed by the bog’s foul, churning water and dragged down into the depths. Down here, the water was brown and sludgy, and the mud stung his eyes. He couldn’t see, but he could feel the creature constricting around his leg, muscular and serpentine, pulling him deeper into the muck. 

But Astarion didn’t panic. He didn’t need to breathe, after all. He had time. 

His dagger was already in his hand and he struck out into the darkness with smooth, measured stabs. Each jab was guided by instinct and reflex, and he felt the blade sink into something firm and rubbery, and heard a faint hiss of bubbles ripple through the depths.

The coil around his leg loosened slightly, but instead of releasing him, it yanked harder, pulling him sideways, then down, deeper into the sludge. 

It wasn’t trying to kill him quickly. It was trying to drown him.

Another tendril snaked around his ribs, squeezing tightly. Astarion twisted his body in the dark waters, and with one elegant swipe, slashed through the second limb. It recoiled, twitching and jerking. 

What felt like ten long minutes passed, Astarion blindly grappling and fighting with the slippery creature. It writhed and thrashed, but he was agile like liquid, relentlessly chipping away until, at last, it shuddered and went still, the snaking limbs falling away back into the murky depths.

Kicking out, Astarion propelled himself upwards, bursting through the surface with a tremendous splash. Sludgy water streamed down his pale skin, his hair clung to his face in heavy, dripping strands. He blinked, trying to rid the disgusting water from his eyes.

Morgana was already moving. Relief bloomed across her face as she splashed through the mire to haul him towards the nearest tuft of semi-solid ground.

“Astarion!” she cried, panting as she dropped to her knees beside him. Without warning, her mouth crashed against his, blowing air into his lungs despite his startled grunt. Then she straddled him, palms pressing against his sternum to begin chest compressions.

“I’m fine!” he barked hoarsely, grabbing her wrists and pushing her away. “I’m okay.”

She froze, blinking at him. Then she cupped his face with wet hands, brushing his hair back possessively. “You scared me half to death,” she said, her fingers gliding down his chest, inspecting every inch of him as though unable to believe he was intact. “I thought you’d drowned. I thought—”

She was cut off by the unexpected sound of a chuckle.

Astarion turned his head.

Raphael was close by, leaning with his shoulder against a half-submerged tree. His snickering grew, and within moments, Raphael was properly laughing; deep, raucous laughter spilling out of him, his shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling with amusement. He tipped his head back, looking like he might tip over from the sheer force of his outburst.

Astarion just stared at him, unsure whether to be offended or oddly… relieved. Laughter, even cruel and cutting, was better than that blank, hollow stare he’d worn for days. At least it meant there was still something burning behind those brown eyes.

Morgana rose to her feet slowly, her eyes darting to where she’d dropped the rod along with her bag, before leaping to help Astarion. “What in the Hells is so funny?” she hissed.

Raphael didn’t stop laughing long enough to answer.

With a furious huff, Morgana stormed over and snatched up the rod, the chain between them falling slack as she closed in.

The first shock dropped him to his knees, crackling jolts of energy locking his muscles, but still, he laughed, breathless and wild, as though she’d merely tickled him.

She shocked him again.

When that failed to silence him, rage overtook her. Morgana stepped up and struck him hard across the face with the metal rod. The impact sent Raphael flying backwards, landing in the shallow water with a heavy splash.

He looked up slowly, blood trickling from a split in his cheek. The laughter had stopped, but not the smirk. It tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth as he blinked away the tears in his eyes, his gaze locked onto Astarion.

________

Morgana decided that Astarion looked peaky.

They found a stretch of stable ground under a cluster of bare trees that hadn’t yet been pulled into the marsh, and she conjured another Tiny Hut for them to rest in.

Truthfully, Astarion felt dreadful. He was exhausted from his battle with the nameless swamp monster and could feel the bruises blooming along his leg and ribs. 

And he was hungry.

It was becoming impossible to ignore. The coppery tang of blood from Raphael’s back had saturated the air. Every time Morgana spoke, his eyes were drawn to her throat. And he could barely hear over the din of both of their heartbeats thrumming beneath their skin; Morgana’s brisk and bright, Raphael’s slower, more sluggish.

His fangs felt itchy.

“Astarion?”

He blinked. Morgana was looking at him strangely.

“I said, you were under that water for a very long time, my darling. How did you hold your breath for so long?”

Astarion didn’t answer, instead, he continued towelling himself off. There wasn’t any clean water for a proper wash, but at least he didn’t need to drip dry. 

“You didn’t seem breathless when you surfaced either,” she said, frowning now. “You didn’t gasp for air at all.”

Lowering the towel, Astarion met her gaze. “I’ve always been a strong swimmer,” he offered quietly.

She shook her head. “No. There’s something you’re not telling me. Darling, if I have to carve it out of you, I will.”

“Fine,” Astarion sighed. “I don’t need to breathe. Because I’m… I’m already dead.” He gave her a tentative smile, his lips parting to reveal his fangs. “Sort of.” 

Morgana stared at him — not with fear, but with disappointment, and just a hint of disgust. “Gods,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose. “Of course. A bloody vampire.”

He sat quietly as she processed the information, gazing at him with narrowed eyes. 

“Are you going to stake me?” Astarion asked when the silence stretched awkwardly.

“No, sweetie,” she said eventually with a weary chuckle. “I think I’ve grown too fond of you for that.”

Well, that was a fucking relief. 

“Are you in control of yourself? Of the hunger?”

“I am. I’ve had centuries of practice,” he said, nodding quickly. “Although… full disclosure, I am feeling just a little peckish. It’s been a few days, you see.” 

She pulled back, the grimace returning. “If you need to feed, use him.” She nodded towards Raphael.

“You want me to—?” 

“Well, I’m certainly not volunteering,” she snapped. “He’s covered in it already. Doesn’t seem to mind the attention. And frankly, he’s barely useful to us conscious, so knock yourself out.”

Astarion looked at Raphael. He hadn’t moved at all for the entire conversation, but Astarion knew he was listening to every word.

“Just don’t make a mess,” Morgana muttered, pulling a blanket across her lap, as if it might shield her from any residual splatter.

Jaw tight, hunger clawing at his insides, Astarion shuffled closer to Raphael. He was so damn hungry, and Raphael had become his new favourite meal. He’d been craving another taste for days now, the memory of it taunting him constantly. 

The devil stirred as Astarion drew close, turning his head slowly, their eyes meeting. “No.” Raphael said, his voice rough. He shook his head.

Astarion just stared at him, like a predator sizing up its prey, unblinking, lips parted, mouth watering now. This was the kind of hunger that drowned out everything else… guilt included. If this pushed Raphael away further, so be it. Right now, he was ruled only by hunger.

In a blur, he lunged, shoving Raphael backwards. The devil landed hard on his bound arms and bloodied back, a sharp gasp breaking from his lips. But Astarion didn’t stop. He straddled him, pinning him in place; pressing one hand to Raphael’s chest to hold him down, while the other gripped his jaw, forcing his head to the side.

And then he bit. Fangs plunged into the skin at Raphael’s throat, just above the iron collar, and fire spilled onto Astarion’s tongue. Astarion moaned low in his throat as the rich, sweet taste lit up every nerve in his body. It scorched his tongue at first, but he remembered Raphael’s warning. He took small sips, letting the burn settle, allowing his tongue to adjust to the heat. Each small swallow dulled the ache in his limbs. Sharpened his thoughts, energising him fully.

Beneath him, Raphael didn’t struggle. He just lay still, eyes open, looking out at the grey world beyond the dome, silent as Astarion drank.

After a few minutes, Astarion slowed. The immediate rush of bloodlust was fading, his hunger quietening under the flow of infernal heat now warming his veins. His grip on Raphael loosened just slightly, his hand still pressed against the devil’s chest, which was moving with slow, deep breaths.

That was when he felt an unmistakable twitch beneath him. 

Astarion froze as he became acutely aware of the pressure between them…

Aware of the way Raphael’s hips had shifted slightly.

Astarion blinked, lips still pressed to hot skin, his tongue stroking over the shallow punctures in Raphael’s throat.

Oh.

He shifted his weight slightly, enough to confirm it. The evidence was firm beneath him, undeniable now and impossible to ignore.

Raphael was enjoying this.

Astarion pulled back just enough to glance down at him. The devil’s eyes were half-lidded, his mouth parted slightly.

Their eyes met.

Heat instantly pooled in Astarion’s groin, his own cock hardening almost painfully.

An almost imperceptible moan escaped Raphael on an exhale, as Astarion pressed himself against the devil’s crotch.

Astarion bit his lip to fight the smile.

Raphael was still his.

Before Astarion could say a word, ringed fingers gripped his jaw and turned his head sharply to the side.

Morgana.

She leaned close to him, eyes glittering, lips curved into a dangerous smile. She raised her hand to his lips and dabbed at the blood staining the corner of his mouth with a silk handkerchief. Her touch was delicate, but the look in her eye was ravenous. She tossed the handkerchief over her shoulder, then she kissed him. Hard and possessive, her hands running through his hair, tangling in his curls. 

“Well,” she murmured when she finally pulled back, her breath warm against his lips, “you certainly do know how to put on a show.” Her eyes flicked pointedly to Raphael underneath him. “Trying to make me jealous, are we?” She flashed a falsely sweet smile and stroked his cheek with her thumb. “It’s working.”

Astarion felt Rapahel’s cock twitch against his own crotch. No doubt he was enjoying the sight of Astarion’s mouth being claimed by someone else.

Encouraged by Raphael’s minute reaction, Astarion leaned towards Morgana and kissed her back. She let out a soft sigh of delight, her fingers curling back into his hair. He rolled his hips subtly, focusing not on the woman pressed to his lips, but on the devil beneath him.

He closed his eyes, tuning out Morgana’s small moans, listening instead to the hitch in Raphael’s breath, the quickening of his heartbeat as the smell of his blood still curled around Astarion’s senses.

Morgana kissed him hungrily, pulling him closer. Between breaths, she murmured against his lips, “I thought you said you don’t like having an audience.”

Astarion gave a breathless laugh, his lips brushing hers. “I’ve changed my mind,” he whispered, shifting his hips again deliberately, just enough for Raphael to feel it. “Turns out, there’s something quite thrilling about being watched so closely.”

Morgana caught Astarion’s lower lip between her teeth and tugged gently, before releasing it and laughing. “How delightfully wicked of you. I was going to steal you away for myself, but it seems you want your spotlight.” 

He hummed into her mouth, bringing one hand up to rest on the back of her neck, pulling her close to his face, preventing her from looking anywhere else. His other hand found Raphael’s hip, fingertips sliding underneath his shirt and trailing across the hot skin on his lower stomach. Raphael shuddered involuntarily, his hips pushing up against Astarion. 

Morgana’s hands started to roam across Astarion’s torso in slow, exploratory strokes until her fingers found the buttons of his shirt. One by one, she unfastened them, her mouth still trailing kisses along his jaw. But he barely registered the touch, his eyes were fixed on Raphael beneath him, on the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the rock hard bulge pushing against the front of his trousers, pressing against Astarion’s own aching cock, as he straddled him.

“Astarion,” Morgana purred. “Touch me.” 

Still watching Raphael out of the corner of his eye, he lifted a hand and obeyed, letting his fingers skim down the collar of her blouse, grazing over soft skin as he pulled the fabric down. A button popped off the front as he tugged harder, freeing one of her breasts. He circled her nipple once with his thumb and squeezed gently. 

With a low, breathy moan, she pulled back from his neck to admire his face. Then frowned. “You’re not even looking at me, darling,” she murmured, before following his gaze, letting her eyes linger on Raphael, lying chained between Astarion’s legs. “Oh,” she breathed, the word dripping with intrigue. “Is that what this is?”

Astarion tore his eyes away from Raphael to look Morgana in the eye, a protest forming on his lips. “I—”

“You don’t need to explain, my love,” she cut in smoothly, pressing a finger gently against his lips. “I see it now.”

“You do?”

She smiled, fingers drifting to cradle his cheek. “It’s about power, isn’t it? He’s beneath you — literally. Completely at your mercy.” Her voice dipped to a near-whisper. “You said it yourself earlier. I just didn’t realise you meant… sexually.”

Astarion gave a nervous chuckle, unsure how this was going to play out.

“Well,” he murmured, leaning into her palm with mock-innocence, “I suppose I’ve always had a taste for control.”

Morgana’s smile sharpened. “Oh, darling… don’t be ashamed, you’re among deviants. I won’t judge how you get your kicks.” She leaned in, lips grazing his ear as her hand slipped behind his neck. “He’s beneath you in every way. Take what you want.” Her gaze flicked back to Raphael, whose eyes were fixed on Astarion. “Why don’t you show me?” she whispered, trailing her fingers down Astarion’s chest. “I want to see how much you enjoy the control.”

Astarion let out a quiet, uncertain chuckle, his gaze drifting back to Raphael. He tried to read him, searching for any sign of discomfort or defiance. Raphael hadn’t seemed to mind an audience when Haarlep had mounted him in full view of the camp... Would Morgana’s presence matter now? He wasn’t sure, and he was too worked up to care. His body ached for him, the want sharp and insistent, his cock throbbing against his clothing.

Morgana leaned in close, voice dropping as she purred in his ear, “You’ve got him in chains — use him.” Her hand slid down Astarion’s thigh, coaxing him on. “Make him squirm. Make him beg.” Then, with a conspiratorial grin she added, “And let me watch.”

“Mm. You do make such persuasive arguments,” he murmured, turning his face to nuzzle against her jaw, kissing the skin just beneath her ear. 

He needed to keep her on side, to make this look like a game of dominance, not something that actually meant something to him. She had to believe he wanted her too. That Raphael was just a toy. Nothing more.

Raphael still hadn’t moved, but Astarion could feel the tension in his body. His shoulders were trembling very slightly, and Astarion wasn’t sure if it was the numb ache of lying on bound arms… or anticipation. 

Astarion pressed a light finger to Raphael’s chest, drawing small, gentle circles before roughly tearing his shirt open. He pushed the fabric as far back along his shoulders as he could, before splaying his fingers back over the hot skin and dragging his nails down Raphael’s torso. Raphael’s eyes rolled shut as he arched into Astarion’s touch.

Morgana pressed herself against Astarion’s back, her breath warm on his neck as she draped herself around him to watch over his shoulder. Her arms slid downwards, fingers trailing across his skin through the open folds of his shirt, before tugging the fabric off his shoulders and letting it fall away. Morgana’s hands skimmed over Astarion’s bare shoulders, then paused. She gave a small gasp as her gaze landed on the large scar across his back.

Astarion stiffened under her touch, his every muscle suddenly tightening. He hated that she’d seen it.

She brushed light fingers across it. “Beautiful,” she whispered, as she began massaging and kneading his muscles, the cold metal of her rings a sharp contrast to the warmth of her hands.

He tried to relax into her touch, but he was in his head now. He wanted to tell her to stop. He didn’t want to be touched. He wanted his shirt back on. To cover himself.

Raphael opened his eyes. His steady gaze dragged Astarion from his thoughts, clearing the fog in his mind. The scars were reminders of everything he’d lost, yes. But Raphael was still within reach. Not lost yet.

With renewed vigor, Astarion wriggled further down Raphael’s legs, hooking his fingers under his trouser waistband and tugging down sharply, to expose his hard, leaking cock. 

Peering over his shoulder, Morgana made an impressed sound. “I think I see what Helsik saw in him now,” she giggled into Astarion’s ear. “She also said he couldn’t keep it up for her… Though she clearly lacks your talents, my darling.” 

Raphael’s gaze had turned murderous, as he stared up at Morgana hovering at Astarion’s shoulder. 

Astarion grabbed the chain linking to the collar at Raphael’s throat and gave it a sharp tug. “Eyes on me, cambion.” 

Raphael’s cock jumped noticeably, and Morgana gave a delighted little chuckle, before running her hands back down Astarion’s chest. With sharp fingernails, she pinched lightly at his nipples. 

He felt dizzy with arousal. 

“I need to unlock his ankles,” Astarion said assertively. 

“Just for you, my love,” Morgana cooed. “But only for a little while.”

Surprised, Raphael’s eyes darted between Astarion and Morgana, narrowed and calculating.

Morgana pulled away from Astarion, and without looking round, he focused on the subtle movements she made behind him; the rustle of fabric, the delicate clink of metal and creak of leather as she adjusted her belt. Her fingers seemed to fumble briefly at her waist, before she moved down to Raphael’s lower legs. Then came the metallic click of the lock turning. The chains were slipped from Raphael’s ankles, along with his shoes, and discarded at his feet.

Astarion caught Raphael’s eye. The knowing look they shared spoke volumes. They had both clocked where she was keeping the key.

With a pleased smile, Astarion yanked Raphael’s trousers all the way off. 

Raphael didn’t seem at all bothered at being so fully exposed. Instead, he closed his eyes, slowly rolling each ankle and flexing his knees slightly, enjoying the respite after months in chains. The pure relief on his face was… glorious. It only made Astarion more desperate to sink himself inside the devil and fuck him senseless.

Astarion felt Morgana’s hands unfastening his own trousers from behind him. She took his cock in her hand, coating it with something slick as she pumped him with a firm grip. “I’m always prepared,” she murmured against his neck, her teeth grazing his skin, making him shudder.

There was no denying that her touches were turning him on, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to feign interest in her. Not when he had Raphael spread out below him, golden skin glistening with sweat, pre-cum leaking onto his hard stomach. Dark, glittering eyes looking right into him. Holding that eye contact, he hooked his arms under Raphael’s thighs, pushing his legs up and spreading them wider to line himself up with his entrance. Then, without any preparation for Raphael, he rammed himself inside.

Astarion almost came immediately from the noise Raphael made alone: a rich, guttural moan that rumbled from the very depths of his chest. Raphael’s eyes widened as he curled upwards from pain and surprise, his stomach muscles bunching as he rose. Astarion leaned forwards resting his forehead against Raphael’s, remaining still until he had adjusted to the intrusion. After a moment, Raphael squeezed his eyes shut and lay back down. 

As Astarion began to roll his hips, he realised he’d never fucked Raphael from this position before. He’d never been able to settle between his legs and pin one thigh up with his hands, squeezing handfuls of flesh and muscle. Raphael looked devastating like this: his arms bound beneath him, his chest shining with sweat, the chain at his throat dragging over his taut abdomen with every laboured breath he took. 

Feeling his control slipping, Astarion leaned forwards, pushing down on Raphael’s legs harder, practically mounting him as he pistoned his hips, rutting inside him fiercely. Whatever Morgana had coated his cock in was wondrous. He looked down and watched Raphael’s glistening hole tensing around him as it swallowed him with every thrust. At the sound of Raphael’s moans, Astarion moved even faster, snapping his hips more viciously, watching the devil’s leaking cock bounce against his stomach. He was about to reach out and grasp it, when Morgana’s hands were suddenly on his face.

She turned his head towards her and captured his lips in a kiss, her tongue pushing past his teeth to sweep inside his mouth. 

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her.

His eyes darted around. Morgana’s eyes were closed, but Raphael was watching him closely, his eyebrows knitted together as if he was about to lose control. 

From the corner of his eye he saw Morgana’s hand move. 

She was holding the rod.

Without warning, she jabbed it into Raphael’s ribs, smiling against Astarion’s lips as she did.

Every one of Raphael’s muscles constricted. 

Astarion came instantly. The muscles gripping his cock were impossibly tight and an exquisite rush of energy flowed through him, sending tingling sparks racing through every nerve, triggering wave after wave of absolute bliss.

It didn’t seem to end.

Raphael cried out as pain and pleasure coursed through him, thick spend coating his stomach. 

Astarion pulled his face out of Morgana’s grip to watch the devil ride out his orgasm; a deep, drawn out moan rolling from his lips, his limbs shuddering from the aftershocks. And his face… It wore the most stunning expression Astarion had ever seen on anyone’s face, ever. Gods, he wanted to bite him. Lick him. Eat him. Consume him. 

Forcing his violent and fevered urges back down, Astarion pulled his softening cock out of Raphael’s panting form. He was shocked at the soaking mess that followed; he didn’t think he’d ever spilled that much in his entire life — or ‘unlife’. 

“How did that feel, my darling?” Morgana was nuzzling against his ear again. “I can tell you’ve wanted to do that for a long time. I must say though, I thought you might make him squirm a little more.” 

Astarion tensed. Had he let too much show? He turned to look at Morgana fully. She was eyeballing Raphael with a suspicious expression.

“Well, my dear, I was about to make him beg for it, but your little trick with the lightning rod caught me off guard.” 

She grinned apologetically at him. “I’ve always wondered if that would work,” she said coyly, then looked down at Raphael’s softening cock lying against his stomach. “Maybe I’ll take a turn next time...” 

 A surge of raw, possessive anger flared through him. He had to bite back the growl that rose in his throat — and the urge to pluck out her eyeballs and feed them to her. “Careful,” he said quietly. “Keep talking like that and I might start getting jealous. I thought I was your favourite monster.”

Morgana gave him a tittering giggle. “Oh, don’t you worry, darling. You know I share my toys.” She kissed Astarion passionately, before moving away and crouching at Raphael’s feet. She fastened the chains back around his ankles, not bothering with putting his trousers back on. “Rest up. We’ll try again in the morning,” she said with a smirk, before adding to Astarion, “I want your rod at full charge for my turn. Come, darling, hold me while I sleep?” 

A short while later, Astarion lay in Morgana’s arms as she squeezed him tightly, her head nestled against his chest. She was snoring softly. Just over her shoulder, in the faint light, he could see the gleam of Raphael’s open eyes, reflecting dimly from the other side of the small dome shelter. Still awake, he stared at nothing.

Carefully, Astarion eased himself out of the warlock’s grasp, moving slowly so as not to wake her.

He crept closer to Raphael, unsure of what to say. The devil’s eyes tracked his approach. He said nothing.

“Are you still awake?” Astarion whispered.

“Evidently.” 

“I— er, I wanted to apologise.” 

Raphael frowned and turned his head, looking at Astarion directly in the low light.

Astarion glanced back at Morgana. Still asleep. “I’m sorry for hurting you,” he said, finally.

Silence. It stretched long enough that Astarion thought Raphael had gone back to ignoring him again. He started to turn, preparing to crawl to his own bedroll.

“I liked it.”

Astarion froze, his eyes closing as relief washed over him.

He inched closer, lowering his voice. “You must be exhausted. Won’t you try to sleep?”

Raphael shook his head slowly.

Astarion hesitated, watching him closely. “You’re going to need your strength… when we escape together.”

He waited for the reaction, for some sign that he could trust the devil: trust him not to run, not to turn on him. Not to leave him here all alone.

Raphael didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched Astarion’s face, his expression unreadable. Then, he exhaled, the tension draining from his shoulders, and for the first time in so long, he looked… vulnerable.

“When?” The word was barely audible. Hopeful and desperate.

“Tomorrow,” Astarion said. “You rest now, then tomorrow I’ll snatch her keys, and we’ll leave — together.”

One side of Raphael’s mouth twitched into a small smile. He was hesitant, unsure. There was caution in his eyes, like he wanted to believe Astarion, but didn’t quite know if he could. 

Astarion was determined to earn that trust back.

“Raphael, sleep now. I’m here. I’ll watch over you tonight. I’ll protect you. I’ll…” He faltered, his breath catching. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

Raphael’s features softened, the tension melting from his brow. A quiet sigh escaped him, and he closed his eyes, drifting off at once, as if, at last, he finally, finally felt safe enough to rest.

Chapter Text

Astarion kept his word.

He stayed awake all night, watching.

He watched Morgana, curled up in her bedroll where he’d left her, her expression serene, lips parted faintly in sleep, still snoring softly.

He also watched past the flickering boundary of their protective dome. Beyond the shimmer of warded magic, the eerie swamp stretched dark and utterly still, but Astarion watched for movement. 

One eye on the dark, one eye on the warlock. 

But it was the devil who occupied every corner of his mind.

It was like Raphael had crawled inside him. He was everywhere; folded into every thought and every breath. Whatever Astarion felt for Raphael, he didn’t think it was pure, or soft, or beautiful. It was obsessive, possessive; it was want and hunger. He wasn’t sure if there was even a word for it… or at least, not one that didn’t sound like a warning.

Maybe Gale had been wrong. Maybe Astarion was just evil too.

But watching Raphael sleep now, his breathing deep and even, dark lashes resting against his cheeks, something else stirred within Astarion. Something that didn’t come from desire, or the need for power. He looked so unprotected, but peaceful. Beautiful in a way that made Astarion’s chest ache.

And right now, Astarion didn’t want to take. He just wanted Raphael to rest. He just wanted him to be okay.

Morgana awoke first. She made a surprised noise to see Astarion already awake and not still lying in her arms. “You’re up early,” she yawned, stretching lazily as she moved to drape herself over Astarion’s bare shoulders. Her gaze drifted to Raphael, her eyes sweeping over his still almost-naked form, his tattered shirt lying open, clinging loosely to his shoulders, the rest of him bare and bruised. “You must have thoroughly worn him out last night,” she purred. “I’m impressed, darling.” 

She leaned round to kiss Astarion, but in the last second, he turned his head and her lips found his cheek instead. She didn’t seem to notice the slight and happily hummed against his jaw, “Now it’s my turn.” 

His heart sank. He’d hoped she might have forgotten; that the desire and intrigue driving her last night might have cooled with sleep. 

She pressed herself against his spine, her arms wrapping around him, fingers trailing down his chest. Her lips brushed against the side of his neck, breath hot on his skin. Astarion didn’t flinch. He knew this dance. He knew how to arch into her touch, when to sigh at just the right moment. He’d done it a thousand times before, with strangers, with people he didn’t care for, with marks.

Morgana was just another mark and this was just another performance.

Muscle memory. Easy.

He just needed to distract her long enough to slip the key from where she kept it tucked, somewhere near her belt. Then he could free Raphael from his chains. Then they’d get the Hell out of here. 

“Shall I rouse him?” she whispered into Astarion’s ear, as her hand reached his crotch and squeezed. “Perhaps a little shock to the system to get him up?” 

Before Morgana had a chance to move, Astarion had already slipped from her arms, positioning himself between her and Raphael. He cast her a quick glance over his shoulder, voice light but firm. “No, no, I’ve got him. You get yourself ready, darling.” He shot her a wink for good measure.

With a delighted giggle, Morgana slipped away from him and began rummaging through her bag of holding. Astarion’s eyes followed her, narrowing slightly as they settled on her belt. 

Get the key. Unlock the chains.

He turned to Raphael. The devil was fast asleep, utterly dead to the world. He looked strangely angelic and Astarion wasn’t sure if he had the heart to wake him. But he’d made a promise to protect him, and if that meant ensuring he wasn’t jolted awake by a mad warlock wielding a lightning stick, then so be it.

Astarion knelt beside him. He gently brushed a loose strand of hair from Raphael’s face, his thumb lingering by the small cut on his cheek where Morgana had whacked him with the rod. He brought his other hand to Raphael’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. Raphael stirred with a faint groan, his lashes fluttering before his eyes blinked open. He registered Astarion leaning over him, touching his cheek, and gave him a sleepy, lopsided smile. Like a spark to dry tinder, Astarion felt instantly aroused.

Trying to ignore the hardening in his trousers, he leaned in close to Raphael’s ear. The dried blood on his neck from Astarion’s bite the night before scratched at his senses, fuelling his growing desire. 

“Morning love,” he whispered softly. “The tyrant is still on one. Let me get you up before she has you on your back again.”

Raphael’s smile faded as his eyes found Morgana, still searching through her bag with purpose.

Astarion slipped an arm around his shoulders, easing him upright and relieving the strain on his bound arms. As he did so, Raphael leaned in and murmured, “You will let me kill her, won’t you, little vampling?”

Astarion couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his mouth at the return of the nickname. There he was. Fully rested, and feeling himself again. “The honour will be all yours,” Astarion said, pulling back as Morgana approached. 

“This certainly will be an honour for him. I wouldn’t usually meddle with his kind,” she said sternly as she neared. “But I’m so very curious to feel what you felt last night with the lightning.” She was looking at Astarion eagerly. “I thought we might partake together.”

Raphael was glaring daggers at her, clearly imagining all the creative ways he could end her life.

Astarion just gave her a charming smile. “How do you want it, darling?”

Morgana pointed the lightning-charged rod at Raphael, the pronged tip crackling softly as she slipped it beneath his chin, tilting his head up with an almost tender cruelty. “I thought that I might take him, and you can take me. I now know, of course, which hole you favour, dearie.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Astarion.

He tried to smother the bewildered sound that escaped him, only to end up choking on air. Morgana slapped him on the back forcefully as he coughed. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my love. I very much enjoyed watching you take your pleasure. I’d like to be the one whom you take it from next.” 

She turned the rod in her hand, driving it into Raphael’s neck. He gasped, body arching violently as lightning tore through him. When the convulsions had stopped, he collapsed back to the floor, twitching faintly as the last currents faded from his limbs. Morgana bit her lip. “And I want to feel that coursing through my body.”

Astarion ground his teeth. Of course, she wouldn’t feel all of ‘that’. Not the pain, not the full force of the lightning damage ripping through muscle and bone. Just a delicious tingle thrumming through her core and stroking her nerve endings.  He knew, because he’d felt it last night. 

Still keeping the rod trained on Raphael, she tossed something soft to Astarion: the item she’d been rummaging for in her bag moments earlier. It was a silk blindfold. “Cover his eyes,” she ordered. “I don’t want to see him. And I certainly don’t want him watching me.” She gave a delicate shudder, as if she were the one being taken advantage of.

Raphael’s eyes were still hazy with pain from the shock he’d just received, but they met Astarion’s as he leaned in, the soft fabric clutched between his fingers. Astarion mouthed, “sorry”, then gently slipped the blindfold over his eyes, tying it snugly behind his head. His touch was gentle, almost loving, and he stroked the shell of Raphael’s ear as he pulled away.

When he turned back, Morgana had already shed her breeches and was gathering the skirts of her robes up around her waist. In her hand, she held a small bottle of oil. Seeing Astarion looking, she gave him a sultry smile, then hooked one leg over Raphael’s hips and settled herself down on top of him. She began gyrating her hips, rubbing herself up and down Raphael’s limp cock, leaving a glistening trail of moisture on his skin. 

Astarion felt his own cock twitch at the sight. Unable to resist the temptation, he unfastened his trousers and gripped his hardening length in one hand, feeling a little glad Raphael couldn’t see him taking pleasure from his torment. 

Morgana looked utterly delighted. Still rolling her hips against Raphael, she pointed at Astarion’s undone trousers. “Take them off. Now.” She poured the oil into her hands, rubbing them together to warm it. Raphael’s head tilted slightly as he listened to the sound of the oil squelching and sliding between the warlock’s fingers, trying to piece together what was happening without the use of his eyes.

Astarion slid out of his trousers and knelt beside Morgana and Raphael, naked and throbbing, his hand slowly stroking himself again. 

Smirking, Morgana beckoned him closer with a single finger and, when he obeyed, she seized his cock in one slippery hand, pulling him into a deep kiss with the other. He barely noticed the oil in his hair as she stroked him languidly, kneading with her fingers in all the right places, causing him to gasp onto her lips.

After a few moments, she pulled away from Astarion, hissing, “This isn’t working.” She lifted her hips off Raphael, grasped his still-soft cock and squeezed it, giving it a few rough pumps with oily hands. 

Astarion grimaced as Raphael’s body tensed in pain from the harsh treatment. He stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Here,” he said loudly enough for Raphael to hear. “Let me.”

Morgana sighed and released Raphael’s cock. “Don’t take too long with it,” she snapped, irritated. “The shelter will only last for another hour or so, and I’m not taking two cocks out in the open.” 

Astarion swallowed hard. He despised the woman, but he couldn’t pretend her offer didn’t excite him. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason; it was all a means to an end. The keys were what mattered. And if this was the price… well, sacrifices had to be made.

Then he’d enjoy watching Raphael tear her limb from limb.

Taking his task very seriously, Astarion moved to kneel behind Raphael’s head. Using one hand against the ground to support himself, he leaned forwards — his own hard length hanging low over the devil’s blindfolded face — and took Raphael’s cock into his mouth. His other hand gripped the base and began to stroke. Raphael inhaled sharply, a gasp which promptly turned into a low moan. 

Astarion sucked him lazily, his tongue lapping at the shaft, then as he pulled away, his lips tightened over the head and he released it with an obscene ‘pop’. Raphael hardened very quickly as Astarion circled the tip with his tongue, licking up the pre-cum beading there. He allowed his own saliva to drip freely down Raphael’s length, then rubbed it up and down with his fingers, fully coating Raphael in glistening slickness before taking him deep into his mouth again.

Removing his hand, Astarion began bobbing his head up and down, smiling as Raphael’s hips started to shift with him. Astarion took his own cock in his now free hand and massaged it, gently touching the tip to Raphael’s lips beneath him. 

Raphael jerked his head, surprised by the touch to his face. Then Astarion felt a small, wet sensation, as the devil tasted his own lips and understood what was being rubbed against his face. Fully caught up in the moment, Astarion pulled his mouth off Raphael’s cock to focus on sliding himself in between the devil’s lips. He stroked himself until he felt a hot tongue rise up to greet him, swirling against his tip. Raphael tipped his head back to take him fully.

As he drove himself down into Raphael’s mouth, Morgana tugged Astarion’s face up to meet hers. She licked his wet lips, whispering, “Thank you, darling,” before positioning her hips back over Raphael’s now rock-hard appendage and sinking down with a breathy moan. “Oh Hells,” she sighed, her eyes rolling closed as she began to swirl her hips and ride him with some force. 

Raphael let out a muffled sound around Astarion’s cock. Astarion wasn’t sure if it was pleasure or protest, but he was already too far gone to care. He continued to thrust down into Raphael’s throat.

“Right. Astarion, you’re up. Get behind me,” Morgana panted, her entire body working as she pumped her hips up and down. 

Astarion almost refused, too busy chasing his own pleasure, but then he remembered the keys… and that this was the best way to snatch them.

Reluctantly, he pulled his cock free from between those very warm lips, and moved down to Raphael’s legs, tucking himself in behind Morgana. One hand gripping her waist, he lifted the back of her robe skirts, and pressed a finger against her hole — the one not already filled. His knuckles brushed against Raphael’s balls and he fought the temptation to lean down and take them in his mouth.

“There’s no time for fingers,” Morgana gasped, “I need you inside me. Please.”

Astarion shrugged, then with one hand on her back, he pushed her forwards, the other hand helping to ever so slowly ease his cock into her. The oil and the moisture from Raphael’s saliva helped, but it was a tight fit.

Morgana, completely skewered now, could barely move. She just lay on Raphael’s chest, dizzy from pleasure and practically shrieking. 

Through the thin wall of her flesh, Astarion could feel the solid mass of Raphael’s cock. Their thighs were pressed together, skin slick with sweat. Biting his lip, Astarion concentrated on those sensations and began to thrust into Morgana, his eyes on Raphael underneath, who was writhing now, completely blind, yet utterly overstimulated. 

Oh right.

Free Raphael.

Under the pretence of fumbling for her breasts, Astarion ran his hands around Morgana’s front, feeling under her belt. 

“Yes!” Morgana gasped, a string of saliva connecting her lower lip with Raphael’s chest as she tried to lift her head. “Touch my clit.” 

Rolling his eyes at her demanding tone, Astarion moved one hand lower and began to circle her swollen bundle of nerves with his fingers. The other hand kept hunting. In the centre of her belt, on the inside, he felt a distinct lump, as if there was a secret lining in the leather. He found it had a tight slit and poked a fingertip in. Cold metal greeted him.

Found them.

Beneath him, Morgana’s moans were building, her movements becoming more and more uncontrolled. It would be over soon. He needed to grab the keys now.

A flicker of movement at the edge of Astarion’s vision drew his gaze. He turned his head and faltered, his hips stuttering mid-thrust.

Beyond the transparent curve of the dome, a small group of devils had gathered. They lurked close by, excited and agitated, waiting for the barrier to fall so they could see who was inside.

Fuck.

Astarion’s fingers moved swiftly, he slid his index further into the tiny hidden pocket and hooked the keys, not even bothering to quiet the jingling metal as he pulled them free.

At the same moment, Morgana raised the lightning-charged rod again. Raphael, blindfolded and unaware, turned his head slightly, hearing the humming energy right before she dug the pronged end into his neck, just below the collar.

Astarion watched Raphael’s body stiffen beneath them both, his back arching. A hoarse cry tore from his throat as his muscles seized and shuddered once again. 

Morgana’s orgasm was immediate, she screamed out, desperately thrusting with erratic movements as she rode out her climax, digging long nails into Raphael’s chest, not even noticing the blood she drew. 

Astarion felt the tingle too. He didn’t want it, but it surged through Morgana’s body and up along his cock, tickling every fibre of his being. He tried to deny the orgasm that overtook him, tried to fight it. But one look at Raphael’s chest heaving, his swollen lips, a bead of Astarion’s pre-cum on his chin… Even the threat of the awaiting devils wasn’t enough to hold it back. He came hard, his spend filling Morgana up, as she slowly came down from her own high.

Astarion pulled out of her first, grabbing his trousers and stuffing his legs in. He snatched up his boots and slipped his feet into them, drawing his dagger simultaneously. 

Morgana noticed the blood under her nails. With a squeal of pure disgust, she rose, still panting, the skirts of her robe falling down just as strings of both Raphael and Astarion’s spend began dripping down her legs. That was when she looked around and saw the five devils standing at the very edge of the dome, just outside the Tiny Hut.  

They were silent and still, as if they’d been there for hours and could wait for hours more. One stood taller than the others, towering at about seven feet, its lean body entirely covered with needle-sharp barbs. The horrifying spines jutted from its limbs, shoulders, and its long, burly tail, which coiled behind it like a whip lined with blades. Its clawed hands flexed idly, each finger ending in a wicked, curved talon. Accompanying it were four others, thick with muscle and clutching blood-stained saw-toothed glaives. Their green-skinned faces were contorted with malice, beards of barbed tendrils writhing from their chins like serpents. 

All waiting. 

“Fuck,” Morgana hissed, hurriedly slipping back into her breeches, not pausing to wipe up the fluids smeared down her inner thighs.

“Can they… see us?” Astarion asked anxiously, studying the menacing fiends through the barrier.

“No. The shelter appears opaque from the outside. They can’t get in. But we’ve got mere minutes before the spell runs out.”

“What do we do?” 

“Well for a start, you put that away,” she said, nodding to the blade he was fidgeting with. “I’ll speak to them.”

“Astarion?” Raphael had pulled himself upright, still blindfolded, mostly naked and covered in drying fluid.

Astarion moved to help him, but Morgana put her hand out.

“Leave him,” she snapped, just as the shimmering wall of the protective dome flickered out of existence.

The devils closed in at once, weapons raised, eyes raking over the scene that had been concealed from them only moments before, their interest piquing at the sight of all Morgana’s jewellery and the bound prisoner.

Astarion dropped to his knees at Raphael’s feet, one hand hovering near his blade now back in his boot, ready to defend them both if it came to that.

Two of the bearded devils were flanking the towering, barbed figure who clearly held command, while the other two moved round behind them all, positioned to ensure there was no escape.

Morgana raised her hands and stepped towards the apparent leader, her posture slightly stiff but controlled and confident. She addressed it in a harsh, grating, language, which clawed at Astarion’s ears — Infernal, he guessed. The cadence was guttural, almost angry and confrontational, but the devils didn’t move to attack. They stood motionless, listening. Apparently, that was just how the language sounded.

As she spoke, Morgana gestured to herself and then Astarion, bringing her hands together in front of her. Then, without looking at him, she gestured to Raphael with a dismissive sweep. 

One of the bearded devils was eyeing Raphael curiously. It stepped forwards, crouching slightly, and ran a clawed finger through the slow moving liquid still trailing down his stomach.

Still blindfolded, Raphael flinched at the touch. His body tensed, as if bracing for further unexpected intrusion.

The bearded devil brought the slick-coated finger to its mouth, tasted it, and let out a deep, booming laugh. It turned to the nearest of its kin and murmured something quietly, the amusement lingering in its voice. The other devil looked Raphael up and down and chuckled knowingly. Astarion didn’t need to speak Infernal to translate what it said next, as it pointed at Morgana, then accompanied its words with an exaggerated thrust of the hips and a lewd slap of the air.

A muscle ticked in Raphael’s jaw, and Astarion could tell he was barely holding in his rage.

Astarion glanced down at the three small keys clenched in his hand. Three keys for three chains.

He’d always been a deadly shot with a bow, quick and precise with a blade, but sleight of hand was his true gift. And now, he was going to use it. To free Raphael, right under their noses. Slowly, Astarion turned around, pressing his back against Raphael’s bent knees. The devil recoiled at the contact, until Astarion gave his ankle a brief, reassuring squeeze and he stilled. With his own arms now twisted behind him, Astarion reached back blindly, fingers searching along the rough links until they found the small lock. 

​​The key slid in without a sound. Exhaling through his nose to steady his breath, Astarion turned it carefully, feeling the catch give with the tiniest shift of pressure. The lock sprang loose.

Gently, he guided the loosened chain down over Raphael’s bare feet, letting it settle onto the floor with the softest clink of metal.

One chain down. Two to go.

Nearby, Morgana and the barbed devil were locked in what sounded like a heated exchange, though Astarion couldn’t be certain. Raphael’s head was angled slightly as he listened to them, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

Astarion rose to his feet, snatching up Raphael’s trousers from where they lay discarded. He held them up towards one of the snickering bearded devils.

“Can I dress him? Clothes. He’s cold,” he spoke slowly and clearly, gesturing to Raphael and miming a shiver by rubbing his hands on his arms. 

The devil’s grin faded into a scowl. With a snarl of clear refusal, it slapped the trousers from Astarion’s hands, sending them crumpling back onto the ground.

Undeterred, Astarion circled behind Raphael, scooping up a nearby blanket as he moved. “Blanket?” he asked as he began to drape it around Raphael’s shoulders.

The devil lunged forwards with a growl, yanking the blanket away viciously. 

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Astarion said, raising his hands placatingly, before settling down behind Raphael. Through the rips in his shirt, Astarion could see that Raphael’s back and arms were still mottled with bruises and raw with red welts from where the hailstones had struck him the day before. He grimaced as he silently reached for the lock to the chain around his wrists, making a mental note to loot Morgana’s bag of holding for some healing potions at the first opportunity.

And lockpicks. 

Gods, definitely lockpicks.

“Astarion,” Raphael said in a low, warning voice. His fingers tapped restlessly against each other, a clear sign of rising tension as he listened to the exchange between Morgana and the barbed devil. His nervy agitation reminded Astarion of Karlach in a strange sort of way.

“Hold still,” Astarion hissed under his breath. “This one’s stiff—”

Suddenly the large, barbed devil lashed out, its talons slashing through the air towards Morgana, who, clearly ready for the attack, blocked it with an invisible shield. She threw herself backwards, the second clawed swipe missing her by mere inches.

“Shit,” Astarion spat, as Raphael was jerked sideways, the chain around his neck snapping taut as Morgana moved, nearly yanking him over. Astarion scrambled to steady him. “Hold still, damn it,” he muttered, voice tight with growing desperation, his hands working faster. “I’m almost…”

The lock clicked. 

“...there.”

The two bearded devils lunged to grab Astarion and Raphael. 

Raphael suddenly disappeared into a burst of blinding flame.

Astarion didn’t struggle as he was grappled. He didn’t even think to.

His breath caught as his eyes locked onto Raphael, emerging from the flames; rising to his full height — suddenly much, much taller and impossibly imposing. 

A majestic crown of curling horns arched from Raphael’s forehead, and from his shoulders, broad, leathery wings erupted, spanning at least fourteen feet as they shuddered and stretched in relief. He rolled his neck, stiff joints cracking as he shrugged free of the last torn remnants of his shirt, then reached up and slowly peeled the blindfold from his eyes. Flaming golden irises on jet black sclera blinked once, then looked directly at Astarion.

Astarion was in awe.

A true prince of Hell stood before him, otherworldly and cruelly beautiful, intense heat and raw power rolling off him in waves.

Raphael brought one clawed hand up to the iron collar at his throat. The metal began to glow as he gripped it, first a dull red, then a molten orange. It hissed and sizzled under his grip, glowing and then slowly melting into liquid that snaked down his wrist before dripping to the ground and steaming in the dirt at his feet.

The bearded devil who had attempted to grab at the small, naked human now found himself face to face with a furious, seven foot tall cambion — still naked. Raphael loomed over him, wings fully unfurled, eyes burning. The smaller devil hesitated, glancing around as if suddenly unsure whether this was worth the trouble.

Raphael smiled, just once. Then he stepped forwards and drove his forehead into the devil’s face with a sickening crack. The bearded devil dropped like a stone and Raphael caught him by the front of his armour, before casually dumping him into the swamp with a splash.

Morgana hadn’t noticed the chain fall slack. She was too busy fending off the barbed devil and its brutish henchmen, sparks flying with every strike of her lightning-charged rod. She hadn’t noticed the red menace rising behind her, amber eyes fixed on her with smouldering fury.

Astarion remained frozen in his captor’s grasp, both he and the devil holding him now silent observers as Raphael stalked across the mire towards the fray.

One of the fighting bearded devils turned, scrambling to intercept him. It barely got a hand up before Raphael grabbed the creature by the throat and hurled it with bone-snapping force. Its limbs flailed as it soared through the air before crashing into the marsh with a loud splash.

That got Morgana’s attention.

She turned and froze. 

Even from where he stood, Astarion could see the way her eyes widened, her mouth shaping a single, unmistakable word.

He didn’t need to hear it to know exactly what she said.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Morgana raised the lightning rod, her wide eyes locked onto the fast approaching cambion. 

As Raphael reached her, his hand shot out, snatching the rod from her grip. In the same motion he brought it down across his knee, the metal groaning and white sparks sputtering out the pronged end as it bent. He cast the broken weapon aside without another glance.

The attacking devils had gone still, watching in surprise and amusement. 

Morgana turned, her eyes darting around, frantically searching, before she spotted her bag of holding a few feet away. She lunged for it.

Raphael caught her by the arm, yanking her back roughly and spinning her to face him, his grip unshakable.

Her face went bone-white as she stared up at him in pure terror. 

Astarion was too far away to hear what Raphael hissed in her ear as he raised his free hand, sharp claws pulling back.

He struck with the speed of a viper. 

One moment Morgana stood trembling beneath his furious gaze, the next, she sagged against him, lifeless.

Raphael’s arm jutted clean through her chest, blood streaming down to his elbow, his hand clenched tight around her heart where it still twitched between her ribs.

With a grotesque crack, he withdrew his arm, her heart still clutched firmly in his grip.

Morgana’s body crumpled as Raphael took a single step back. He let her fall to the ground with a wet thud and a small splash, then just stood there, shoulders rising and falling with heavy, unsteady breaths.

No-one spoke. The two remaining bearded devils exchanged uncertain glances, their eyes darting to their leader for instruction. But the barbed devil only watched Raphael silently.

Without a word, Raphael drew back his arm before hurling the heart with savage fury. It flew in a long arc through the mist, disappearing from sight as it was swallowed by the endless bog.

Slowly, Raphael turned. He looked directly at Astarion.

One of the bearded devils had the elf pinned, one arm hooked across his chest, holding him firm, the other clawed hand holding his shoulder in a bruising grip. Barbed tendrils writhed from the devil’s chin, twitching near Astarion’s cheek, one catching on his hair. He leaned away instinctively, trying to avoid the wriggling mass.

The barbed devil barked something in Infernal, its voice breaking the silence.

Astarion wasn’t sure who it spoke to, because Raphael didn’t respond. He was still staring at him, his eyes narrowing in calculation. Then he looked away, taking in the other devils, the chains on the ground, the swamp around them.

He took another small step backwards.

Astarion’s breath caught. His stomach lurched.

Raphael could just leave. 

He could click his fingers and be gone.

He could return to his House of Hope, drink his wine, fuck his incubus, and forget all about Astarion.

He was free.

A tear slipped down Astarion’s cheek.

He remembered the shop. Remembered Raphael beaten and bound, and himself standing there… before walking away. Leaving him to his fate.

Now Raphael stood tall and free. He could do the same.

And why wouldn’t he?

Astarion hadn’t been kind to him. He’d fed from him without consent, hurt him to keep Morgana’s favour, stood by — no, actively helped — as she raped him only minutes ago.

Raphael was going to leave him.

And he deserved it.

His eyes stung and his shoulders trembled as he tried to contain his anguish. The world blurred at the edges.

Through his tears, Astarion saw Raphael begin to pace, agitated and furious, as if he were… conflicted.  The three devils shifted where they stood, clearly growing impatient now.

All of a sudden, Raphael threw his head back and let out a deafening roar. 

A roar of anger, a bellow of release, an unholy cry for every indignity he’d suffered. All the hurt and humiliation, every painful, hungry and exhausted mile dragged across Faerûn and Minauros. The sound sent a chill down Astarion’s spine, raising every hair on his skin. 

Raphael turned sharply and, with a violent kick, struck Morgana’s corpse. Her head snapped clean from her shoulders, sailing through the air before splashing loudly into the swamp. Astarion flinched at the brutality of it.

Raphael turned back to the barbed devil, his voice a low growl as he spoke in Infernal. He gestured to Astarion without looking at him, then, slowly, he sank to his knees, raising his hands in a clear gesture of surrender. 

The barbed devil gave a single nod and one of the bearded devils moved at once, splashing through a puddle to scoop up the discarded chains from the mud.

The same infernal bindings Raphael had only just broken free of.

Raphael didn’t fight as the devil grabbed him. Just closed his eyes and bowed his head, letting his arms be wrenched aggressively behind him. The chains clicked back into place around his wrists as if they’d never left.

Astarion let out a choked sound as the sobs overtook him. The tears came harder now, spilling freely down his cheeks, his entire body shaking with the force of them. 

He’d chosen Astarion.

Rough hands shoved the elf down. His knees hit the muck with a squelch and a thud, and the chain that had once bound Raphael’s ankles was repurposed; snapping tight around Astarion’s wrists, securing them in front of him.

One of the bearded devils snatched up the chain from Raphael’s melted collar, looping it around to bind Astarion’s shackled wrists to Raphael’s. The metal pulled taut between them, linking the elf behind the cambion, tethering them body to body, fate to fate.

As the chains were secured, the devil retrieved the keys Astarion had dropped when he freed Raphael. It tossed them to the barbed leader, before turning its attention to Morgana’s headless corpse and rifling through her robes for gold and jewellery. The other devil overturned her bag of holding, dumping its contents into the mud. 

Before long, the three devils were stooping over the mess, pawing through glittering trinkets and worn travel supplies with clawed hands, tittering excitedly amongst themselves.

As his tears began to dry, Astarion glanced at Raphael. The cambion’s wings were folded tightly against his back, his head still bowed.

“Raphael?” he asked, still slightly sniffly.

The three devils paused, their chuckling tapering off as they turned to look: first at Astarion, then at Raphael. The barbed leader rose and began to circle them, bare, clawed feet squelching in the muck as it leaned in to study the cambion up close. Its piercing gaze was sharp and curious as it tilted his head this way and that. It spoke to Raphael, who gave a slow, weary nod in response.

At that, the devil let out a gleeful yip and began to prance around the prisoners like a child with a new toy, laughing in short, sharp bursts that made Astarion’s skin crawl. 

“Do they… know who you are?” Astarion asked, his voice tentative.

Raphael turned his head slightly, casting him a sidelong glance. The half smile he gave Astarion was tired and utterly devoid of humour. “They do now,” he said.

Astarion’s stomach dropped. “Shit, I’m so sorry.” Then, glancing at the devils hopefully, he added, “There are loads of Raphaels in Avernus, I hear. Really popular name for cambions.”

Raphael let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “They don’t understand Common, little vampling.”

Conveniently, the devils didn’t seem to care that Astarion and Raphael were speaking to each other. They’d already returned to rummaging through Morgana’s spilled belongings, murmuring amongst themselves and casting the occasional glance, and sometimes a pointed finger, at Raphael.

So Astarion kept talking. “I’m so sorry for everything,” he said, shaking his head. “Everything that’s happened since… since we broke into your House of Hope.”

Raphael frowned. His gaze was fixed on the devils, watching them sift through Morgana’s things like vultures picking over a corpse. “You’re only saying that because I’m big and scary again,” he said absently.

“You were free,” Astarion said quietly, his eyes searching Raphael’s unfamiliar and so much more fearsome cambion face. “Why did you stay?”

Raphael didn’t answer at first, then his amber eyes slid to Astarion.

“Because you’re mine,” he said quietly. 

Astarion wasn’t sure how to respond. The possessiveness in Raphael’s voice sent his stomach somersaulting, twisting into a tangled knot of exhilaration and unease. “There’s no contract between us,” he said carefully.

Raphael smiled, showing sharp, white fangs. “Not yet,” he murmured. “But I’d like to change that.”

Astarion let his eyes wander over Raphael’s bare form. “And where, exactly, are you hiding your quill and parchment?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Raphael tilted his head, his voice a velvet drawl. “Are you volunteering to dig around and find them, darling? I’ll just bend over for you here in the mud.”

Astarion gave a startled laugh. He was chained and terrified, but flirting with Raphael came so naturally, that it dampened his fear. Somehow, that was enough to keep the panic from swallowing him whole.

He stole a proper glance at Raphael’s cambion body; powerful, imposing, and more than a little frightening. He was so used to the brown eyed, golden-skinned version, that this truer shape unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

Raphael was watching him back, his smirk fading slowly. “Are you frightened, little vampling?” 

“Yes,” Astarion admitted. “Why didn’t you just kill them all? Why surrender?” 

A sharp huff of a laugh escaped Raphael. He looked at the ground, shaking his head. “That wasn’t an option.” 

“Why not?” Astarion pressed. “You killed two of those bearded ones effortlessly. You tore Morgana’s heart out of her chest with your bare hand. And kicked her head clean off.” 

“I wouldn’t have won that fight, vampling,” Raphael was now looking at him with a sad smile. “Not against a Hamatula and two Barbazu. And definitely not like this, after months of captivity. They would’ve killed me and taken you anyway.” Raphael’s gaze drifted back to their captors, his smile vanishing and a look of apprehension crossing his fiendish features. “I’m so tired, Astarion,” he said, almost a whisper. 

Astarion looked at him, his fear creeping in again. “I know, love,” he said softly. 

________

The barbed devil in charge seemed pleased that the infernal chains stripped the prisoners of all magic, leaving them both entirely harmless and completely trapped. And so, after looting and gathering everything that could be carried, they all marched on.

It was another day of punishing travel through the boggy wastes of Minauros, except now, there was no Morgana with her bag of tricks, and Astarion had joined Raphael in chains. 

Astarion had no shirt, and the heavy swamp air soaked into his skin, making him feel both feverishly hot and freezing cold at the same time. Raphael had no clothing at all, his bare feet sinking into the muddy water with each step, skin caked with sweat, filth and grime. 

The path ahead was nothing but sludge, swallowed by a dense fog, yet the devils pressed them onwards with jeers and commands. There was no rest. No food. Just the sinking certainty that Hell could only get worse.

A crumbling watchtower loomed out of the mist, half-swallowed by the swamp. Astarion squinted through the fog, barely able to make out the leaning structure until they were nearly at its base. The black stone was slippery with algae, chunks of it collapsing into the mire, and its entrance was a wide archway rimmed with tarnished sigils, some still faintly glowing.

The prisoners were marched inside, sloshing through cold, ankle-deep water. The air inside absolutely reeked of sulphur, rust, and decay. 

The chains binding Astarion and Raphael clinked with every step as they entered the gloom. Raphael walked ahead of him, his huge frame and large wings blocking Astarion’s view almost entirely. So he just watched the shifting line of his spine, the agitated flicking of his tail, and the constant pull of the chain between them.

Astarion saw glimpses of their surroundings as they passed: chains dangling from the walls like vines, some still clasping skeletal remains; splintered furniture lying strewn across the floor, coated with a dark, sticky substance; black blood staining the walls, ominous sigils and words scrawled in Infernal amongst the violent splatters.

They were herded up a stone stairwell that spiraled up through the tower’s core, the devils barking commands at them in Infernal as they went. At the top, they were led into a narrow, windowless chamber, barely wide enough for two people to sit side by side. Chains hung from a pulley embedded in the ceiling.

Astarion wasn’t sure why they were even stopping here. The devils didn’t need rest, so was this pause in the marching meant for them? It hardly felt like a kindness. One look at the strange, cramped chamber they were being ushered into and he doubted rest was even possible.

One of the Barbazu (bearded devils, as Astarion now understood), hooked their shared chain onto a rusted hook in the pulley system overhead. It began to crank the mechanism, the rusted gears groaning as the chain drew taut and started to lift.

The pulley creaked above them, and slowly, their arms were pulled upwards; Raphael’s bound behind his back, Astarion’s in front.

Astarion’s jaw clenched and his spine stiffened as his shoulders strained, but beside him, Raphael’s breath hitched sharply. His arms, pulled backwards, were not meant to rise like this. 

A sickening, wet pop was followed by a nasty crunch.

The sound that tore from Raphael’s throat as both shoulders dislocated was one Astarion knew too well; he’d made it himself, more times than he could count, under the cruel hands of Cazador. Raphael’s ragged cry became a breathless groan as his arms were wrenched back at an unnatural angle and pinned against the thick, unyielding muscle of his own wings, which he hadn’t moved out of the way in time.

“No, no, no—” Astarion gasped in horror, rising onto the balls of his feet, straining upwards. On his toes, he stretched his arms up, trying to follow the pulley’s cruel ascent, doing anything to give Raphael even a breath of slack. His calves trembled. His arms burned. But still he stretched higher, just enough to keep Raphael from sagging further into the pain.

The bearded devil chuckled and gave the chain a final, casual jerk, causing Raphael to gasp, before it turned, its heavy footsteps echoing across the crumbling stone as it walked away, leaving Astarion and Raphael alone in the tiny space.

“Bastard,” Astarion hissed under his breath, blinking tears from his eyes. “Hold on. Just… hold on.”

Silence fell, broken only by the distant drip of swamp water and the faint creak of the pulley straining under the weight of them both.

Astarion remained on tiptoes, his calves screaming, wrists aching, but he didn’t dare lower his arms, not when he could feel Raphael still slumped forwards beneath the tension, trembling with every shallow breath.

“You still with me?” Astarion whispered.

Raphael murmured, “Unfortunately.” There was a pause, then, “Next time… you bend over and I’ll stretch, okay?” 

Astarion let out a shaky, strained laugh. Tears still prickled at his eyes and his body shook with the strain of balancing. “Deal,” he whispered.

Slow, agonising hours passed like that. Eventually, following some painful trial and error, Astarion managed to brace himself against the narrow stone walls, wedging his feet and back into place and shimmying himself up the walls, keeping his arms raised. It was extremely uncomfortable, but allowed Raphael’s dislocated arms to fall slack against his back.

Raphael was trying his best to help: his wings were folded awkwardly above him, the joints braced against the stone as he pressed up into Astarion’s legs and backside, trying to take some of the strain. A few times, the sharp tips of his wing claws scraped skin, drawing thin lines of blood. Astarion said nothing. He only pushed harder against the wall, legs shaking, teeth grinding, desperate to stay aloft. 

At one point, Astarion thought Raphael had fallen asleep, he’d been so still and quiet. But then, a low whisper reached him. “I’m so fucking hungry.”

Astarion laughed unexpectedly. The crude honesty in Raphael’s voice caught him off guard; it was so human and so unlike the polished manner he was used to from Raphael. But there was no humour in the hunger behind it. Morgana hadn’t fed him once. He hadn’t eaten in days.

“How are you even still alive?” Astarion ground out. “After everything.”

Raphael gave a weak chuckle. “Sheer stubbornness.”

“We should’ve eaten Morgana when we had the chance,” Astarion whispered, dryly.

“I had her heart in my hand… I should have just taken a bite right then.” Raphael made a chomping noise with his teeth. 

“Would you usually eat a heart like that? Just like an apple?”

“Yup.”

Astarion laughed again, then immediately froze as his footing slipped slightly. His legs were going numb, shaking from exertion, while the stone scraped mercilessly against his bare back.

A sudden, low moan escaped Raphael. 

“Raph? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Astarion asked, alarmed. 

“Don’t call me tha—” Raphael was cut off by another moan tearing from his throat. His wings shuddered underneath Astarion. 

He didn’t sound pained, no it sounded like…

Fucking Haarlep.

Astarion sighed, disappointed. “I’m guessing your incubus survived the shop fight, then?”

“I’m going to kill them myself when I get my claws on them,” Raphael hissed, before groaning again from both pleasure and pain.

“What do you feel? At least let me in on the fun?” Astarion said, “Describe it to me.”

There was silence as Raphael considered, weighing up how much more of his humiliation he was willing to share with Astarion.

“They’re… using my tail… to—” he broke off again as another low moan slipped from his mouth.

Astarion bit his lip, aching to drop down to the floor and watch Raphael squirm at the mercy of Haarlep’s ghostly ministrations. “Don’t leave me hanging, darling. What are they doing with your tail? Tell me,” he pressed, enjoying the distraction from his aching muscles.

“You’re taking far too much pleasure from my torment, little vampling.” 

“But not as much as you, apparently,” Astarion muttered as Raphael’s next moan became more erotic and charged. 

That was when Astarion felt himself slipping for real. Raphael’s wings were no longer supporting him, buckling from weight they could no longer bear. Astarion’s back began to slide down the wall, skin grazing against the rough stone. He tried to push harder with his legs, but his muscles were like jelly, soft and shaking and utterly useless.

“Raphael,” Astarion hissed, panicking. “I’m slipping!” 

Raphael didn’t reply, seeming not to hear him, lost in the flood of sensation coursing through him.

Astarion’s footing gave out. His ankles buckled, and he slid down the rough stone wall, his skin tearing as gravity pulled him towards the floor. 

As he fell, the end of the chain around Raphael’s wrists was yanked sharply upwards. 

Raphael screamed; a raw, animalistic sound that echoed off the stone walls, practically shaking the entire watchtower as the force of Astarion’s falling weight wrenched his already-dislocated arms back up again, stretching torn muscle and ruined joints past the brink of endurance.

“No, no, no, no, no—” Astarion scrambled against the wall, his body too weak, too shaky to lift himself again. “I’m sorry, I’m—gods, I’m sorry—”

With his feet back on the floor, he was close enough to see the agony etched across Raphael’s face. Raphael’s head turned slowly and his golden eyes met Astarion’s. They were glassy with pain and unfocused as he shook his head slightly. “It’s not… not your fault…” 

“But I have to— I need to do something.” 

He stared at his bound hands above him. 

He had to end this.

He took a deep, completely unnecessary breath, then slowly, he began to twist one hand at an unnatural angle. He wriggled and pulled as hard as he could, fingers shaking. His thumb snapped with an audible crunch.

Astarion bit back his own scream as white-hot pain exploded through him. He swayed on unsteady tiptoes as he tried to calm himself, pulling air in through his nose with deep, ragged inhales. His thumb was now nice and limp, and so, with a tentative tug, he pulled his hand free from the chains. 

His breath was a sob as he looked up at his left hand, still pulled high above his head, still bound tightly. With his throbbing right hand, he reached back up to break his other thumb.

“Stop,” Raphael said weakly. “Astarion. You don’t need to do this.” 

“I’ll heal,” Astarion said, squeezing his eyes shut, as his trembling fingers pulled and twisted his left thumb until it popped out of its socket, the ligament giving way. 

The moment Astarion pulled his left hand free, the chains hissed through the pulley, and Raphael’s arms dropped against his back. He collapsed forwards with a shuddering breath, the sudden release almost as excruciating as the tension that had come before.

Astarion sank to his knees, cradling his mangled hands against his chest. Both throbbed with pain, the thumbs bent at wrong angles. Holding his breath, he pressed the left one against his thigh and forced it back into its socket with a muffled pop. Sharp pain shot through his hand, but it was clean, simple. His right thumb, however, was fractured and already bruised and swollen. He could barely move it.

Raphael was on his knees, curling over. With an arm across his broad chest, Astarion heaved him upright, trying to shield his own thumbs as best he could. Up close, Astarion could see the grotesque bulges and dips at the tops of Raphael’s shoulders where both arms had been yanked from their sockets.

A blur of memory washed over him as he recalled popping Raphael’s shoulder back into place following the ogre attack in the mountains. But that time, the bone had slipped out of the front of the socket. This looked so much worse. The dislocations were from behind, the angles brutal, and with Raphael’s arms still bound tightly, there was no easy way to pull them down and round to pop the joints back in. Not without thumbs…

He swallowed hard. For a moment, all he could feel was the useless throb in his ruined hands and the awful helplessness in his chest. “Shit,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “I don’t— I don’t know how to fix this.”

Raphael slumped sideways, leaning until his horns rested against the cold stone to his left, propping up the weight of his head. “It’s alright, little vampling,” he murmured, his eyes hazy. “I’ll figure it out. After some sleep.” He closed his eyes, pain and exhaustion winning out, pulling him under.

Astarion stared at Raphael as his breathing slowed, his sharp features falling slack, leaving him alone with the silence and the weight of responsibility. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he had to be the one to try. He owed it to Raphael.

“Alright then,” Astarion murmured. “You wait here, and I’ll see if I can find an escape. I’ll be back.”

Raphael didn’t respond.

Astarion crept towards the spiral stairwell, keeping his body low and sticking to the shadows. 

He tested each step with the edge of his boot before shifting his weight, wary of loose or crumbling stone. It was quiet as he descended, ears straining for any sign of the devils below.

As he neared the bottom, Astarion caught sight of movement and paused, peering around the stone. One of the bearded devils was stationed at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the wall, its back turned. It was distracted; absently toying with something in its clawed hands. Something small, gold and shiny. 

It was a locket, Astarion realised, as the devil picked at its clasp with a frustrated grunt, clearly trying to force it open. One that Morgana wore around her neck.

Astarion’s fingers slid to the hilt of the dagger still tucked into his boot. Slowly, he drew it free.

He stilled his breathing entirely and began to descend the final steps, approaching the devil on silent feet. 

As he neared, he heard the tiny latch of the locket give way with a snap. A faint hiss escaped the pendant as it sprang open and a puff of shimmering beige powder exploded directly into the devil’s face.

The barbazu jerked back with a surprised snarl, its eyes instantly streaming. Its glaive clattered to the floor as it began to cough uncontrollably. Within seconds, it was choking violently, dropping to one knee as its entire body convulsed, claws scrabbling at its own throat.

Just a few feet away now, Astarion watched as the devil became completely incapacitated, entirely oblivious of the rogue creeping up on it.

Dust of sneezing and choking … Morgana always did come prepared. 

The moment the devil keeled forwards, overcome with rasping wheezes, Astarion slipped up close behind and swiftly sliced his dagger across the devil’s throat.

Hot, black blood sprayed across his arms as he caught the devil, hooking his elbows beneath its shoulders. Mindful of his injured thumbs, he carefully guided the heavy body to the ground, then stayed crouched over it for a moment, listening out for the other devils. 

Silence.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Astarion wiped his blade on the corpse’s hide and rose, scanning around for his next opportunity.

One down. Two to go.

It didn’t take him long to find the second bearded devil. It was crouched in the entry room of the tower on the ground floor; hunched beside a sputtering fire, slowly roasting some charred meat on a crude spit. The smoke carried the scent of scorched flesh, and even from a distance, Astarion could swear the curve of a long leg looked… familiar. 

He crept closer, dagger poised for another stealthy kill, but as Astarion stepped onto the next stone slab, something brittle crunched beneath his boot. 

The barbazu’s head snapped around.

Instinct took over and Astarion lunged, hoping to drive his dagger deep before the devil could cry out and summon its leader.

But the barbazu was too fast. With a delighted gleam in its eye, it dropped the spit, snatched up its weapon and charged, ready and eager for violence.

Vampire and devil collided in a blur of blades. Astarion ducked under the first swing, the glaive carving a vicious arc through the air as he darted inside its reach, slashing for exposed flesh. His dagger was clutched slightly awkwardly between his fingers, but he still managed to bury it in the creature’s chest. 

Before Astarion could pull back, the devil’s writhing beard lashed out, numerous barbed tendrils striking his bare chest and neck. Each sting burned like acid, causing him to stagger back as angry welts instantly rose on his skin, tingling and pulsing from whatever poisons the beard seemingly contained.

He barely had time to recover before the devil came at him again. Astarion threw himself backwards, as the glaive sliced through the air above him, the loud whoosh far too close to his curls for comfort. He landed painfully on his grazed back against the cold, wet stone.

Footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Both Astarion and the barbazu turned towards the sound, momentarily distracted. 

Astarion’s stomach dropped. If the hamatula joined the fight, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

The devil’s grin faltered as the figure emerged; not its leader, but Raphael, staggering around the corner. His arms were still tied behind him, his shoulders still misshapen and swollen, but he was awake and on his feet.

The barbazu blinked in surprise.

Taking advantage of the pause, Astarion surged up, snatching his dagger from the devil’s chest, dropping it into his other hand, and driving the blade deep into its inner thigh, aiming for that vital artery just below the groin. The devil roared and stumbled back as black blood gushed out in spurts. Astarion had taken a gamble — if this fiend’s anatomy was anything like a humanoid’s, it wouldn’t be standing for long.

His gamble paid off: the barbazu’s body fell at his feet, the rhythmic spurts of blood gradually slowing, as its pulse faded. 

Astarion’s hands, arms, and torso were soaked with the black, steaming mess, and his skin burned and itched from the nasty, red rash quickly spreading across his chest. But he was alive.

He looked up, breathless, just in time to meet Raphael’s wide eyes and panicked expression.

“Behind you!” Raphael shouted.

Astarion whirled, just as the hamatula loomed in the entrance to the tower, the spines covering its body bristling with rage.

The barbed devil sprang forwards on digitigrade legs, bounding across the uneven floor with alarming speed, its claws raised and ready to tear Astarion apart. 

It landed a few feet away and began to circle slowly, eyes locked on him with a predator’s gleam, its head tilting from side to side in twitchy, unnatural motions as it steadily prowled closer. 

Astarion swallowed hard and tried to tighten his grip on his dagger. The blood coating his fingers made the hilt slippery, almost impossible to hold, and his broken thumb did little to help. This wasn’t going to work.

The hamatula halted its circling, muscles coiling as it crouched low, ready to pounce.

But Raphael moved first.

Still bound, still broken, the cambion hurled his body, intercepting the devil mid-leap. 

Astarion flinched at the sound of the two fiendish bodies slamming together, the impact sending ripples through the puddles on the stone at his feet.

With his arms still restrained behind him, Raphael’s wings had become weapons, the muscled limbs battering his opponent, hooked claw tips tearing at the hamatula’s face and shoulders.

But the hamatula was a vicious attacker. Snarling with fury, it lashed out at the cambion, its barbed claws raking across bare skin and tearing deep gashes into the delicate membranes of his wings, shredding them like parchment.

Raphael staggered back a step, his face contorting with pain and rage. Using the narrow gap that had opened between them, he ducked his head and drove his horns forwards. They speared through the hamatula’s midsection with an echoing crunch. 

The devil shrieked and shoved at his shoulders, its claws scrambling for purchase, but Raphael roared through the agony of his dislocated bones being slashed. He barrelled forwards like a battering ram, slamming the creature into the stone wall with such force that massive chunks cracked and dust rained down around them.

Astarion was frozen on his feet, watching as Raphael fought like a devil possessed. There was no elegance in the combat, only raw power and desperation.

Stiffly, the impaled hamatula wrapped its long, barbed legs around Raphael’s arms and torso, locking its feet together behind him, just below his wing joints. Its jagged spines bit deep into his bare flesh, puncturing muscle, as it squeezed its thighs with crushing force. Raphael hissed in pain, blood rolling down his sides and back, but he held his ground. 

Both fiends remained locked together in a bloody stalemate. Spines buried into muscle, horns lodged in flesh; each too stubborn, too furious, and too wounded to let go. 

Astarion’s gaze darted wildly around the room, looking for anything that would help. 

His eyes fell on the bag of holding, sitting in a puddle next to the steadily flickering fire. He darted over, his boots slipping in blood and mud, causing him to fall. In a not-so-graceful blur of motion, he scooped up the bag.

In the background, Raphael’s grunting and panting was becoming more and more strained.

Astarion jammed his hand inside.

Come on… something… anything…

In his head, he pictured the item he hoped was inside. 

Morgana always came prepared.

His fingers curled around cold metal. Lightning hummed faintly in his grip.

A back up.

The hamatula didn’t notice him approach, its focus was still on Raphael, who was slowly giving into exhaustion, unable to even hold his wings up anymore. It began to dig its sharp claws into the side of his neck, viciously cutting into his skin.

“I’m sorry, Raphael,” Astarion exhaled, before driving the sparking prongs of the lightning rod into the barbed devil’s exposed flank.

A surge of lightning shot through the hamatula’s body. It screamed as its muscles seized and spine bowed, its barbed legs squeezing tighter around Raphael, whose body convulsed violently from the shockwaves that ripped through him too. 

Astarion watched the crackling energy tear through both devils, their bodies jerking and twitching, before they both stilled. He dropped to his knees beside the unconscious hamatula, his dagger clutched in his slippery hand. He pressed the trembling blade to the creature’s throat and dragged it across, slicing into tough flesh.

The first slice wasn’t deep enough, so he cut again, both hands pressing harder and sawing with the blade.

Steaming, black blood gushed over his hands once more. The dagger, a finesse weapon — not designed for such butchery — slowly sliced through muscle and sinew. He hit bone, but Astarion didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

Not until the head came free, splashing onto the wet floor and rolling away a few feet.

Beneath the devil’s body, a wink of silver caught Astarion’s eye. Submerged in a shallow puddle, glinting faintly beneath the murky surface: the keys to the chains. 

He snatched them up and turned at once to where Raphael lay, still out cold. The cambion’s horns were still buried deep in the hamatula’s abdomen, his limp body held up only by the grotesque embrace of the dead devil, barbed limbs still puncturing his back and arms.

Carefully, Astarion began to peel the rigid, heavy limbs from Raphael’s body, the barbs pulling free one by one, blood oozing from each laceration. Astarion worked with awkward fingers, trying his best not to nudge the cambion’s shoulders too much. Finally, he looped an arm across Raphael’s broad chest and heaved backwards with a grunt, the weight nearly toppling him. Raphael’s horns came free with a gross, sucking sound, and they both collapsed backwards onto the floor.

Unable to rest just yet, Astarion pushed at the cambion’s limp arm and pulled firmly on a wing, rolling him onto his front. Raphael let out a soft, unconscious whimper.

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Astarion murmured, wincing at the small sound.

The motion pulled at every wound, the distorted angles of Raphael’s shoulders strained further by the pressure, but it was the only way. Astarion kneeled beside him, blood-soaked fingers fumbling with the lock at his wrists.

With a final click, the lock released. The chains slackened, coiling to the ground. Raphael was finally — finally — free.

“Raphael,” Astarion whispered, still not done. “Come on, darling. I need you awake. You’ve got to help me fix your arms.”

The cambion stirred, a low groan escaping his lips and sending faint ripples across the red puddle beside his cheek. “Just… give me… five minutes…” 

Astarion couldn’t help but smile. There was something strangely adorable about a narcoleptic cambion falling asleep face down in his own blood. He sat back on his knees for a moment, listening to Raphael’s breaths deepen, his eyes tracing the open wounds and the dark bruising that covered every inch of his red skin. He could at least make a start with those.

Astarion pulled himself up stiffly, absent mindedly scratching the irritated skin on his chest. He turned the bag of holding upside down, spilling its contents and sifting through the potion bottles, studying each one carefully. 

He wondered what would happen next, now that Raphael was really free. Would he help him get home?

He knew now that Raphael wouldn’t just abandon him and leave him to rot in Minauros. Not because of kindness, and not out of some twisted sort of affection. 

But because he believed Astarion was his.

Astarion glanced back at the unconscious devil.

Maybe he should have left his chains on.

Chapter Text

Astarion dabbed at Raphael’s wounds with a cloth soaked in healing potion. 

He watched, transfixed, as shallow cuts and deep gashes slowly knit themselves closed as the potion seeped into them. Bruises faded under his touch, and the angry welts left by the acid hail were smoothed away one by one as the cloth swept over them.

Raphael didn’t stir as Astarion explored the unfamiliar terrain of his body, fingers tracing the ridged lines and whorls under his thick cambion skin. He was dreading what would happen when Raphael awoke. Now he was free, would everything change between them? Would he still be the person Astarion had come to know? The devil he’d grown, somehow, to care for? 

He grazed his knuckles over the joint at the base of Raphael’s wing, gently tracing the curve of bone all the way to the clawed tip, then slowly sweeping down along the soft, delicate membrane. The skin there was torn, with ragged holes where the hamatula’s claws had shredded through. He winced. These would need stitching.

With a sigh, Astarion moved back over to Morgana’s bag of holding and rummaged for a sewing kit. Behind him, Raphael stirred, muttering something slurred in Infernal, before suddenly jerking awake. He groaned as he tried to push himself upright, his body forgetting the damage to his arms, where the bones were still lodged behind his shoulder blades. 

Astarion watched in silence as Raphael slowly heaved himself upright. His shoulders slumped as he sat there, looking blearily around the ruined chamber. His hair was a mess, all tousled and tangled and half-falling into his eyes, and he looked disoriented and groggy, like he could still sleep for days yet. There was just something about the way he looked that made Astarion’s cold, undead heart flutter. 

Eventually, Raphael turned, amber eyes finding the elf crouching nearby.

Astarion gave him a small smile. “Hello, you.”

Raphael didn’t smile back. Instead he frowned. 

Oh.

This was it, wasn’t it? Everything had changed. The chains were gone and the monster was free. Astarion braced himself, fearing the worst was about to happen. 

Raphael opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. He looked down, grimacing as if the words physically pained him. Finally, very quietly, he said, “My arms… Would you… help me? Please?”

An unnecessary breath slipped out in the form of a slightly incredulous laugh, as relief spread through Astarion. Raphael hadn’t turned on him. Not yet.

He smiled, still cautious, as he moved to sit beside Raphael again. “Of course,” he said tenderly. “I’ve got you, darling.”

Raphael’s eyes tracked Astarion as he came closer, his brow burrowing deeper as the elf knelt beside him. “The barbazu got you?” he asked.

Astarion glanced down at the angry rash covering his torso. He’d been scratching at it without realising, his fingernails leaving raised lines streaking across his skin. He waved a hand dismissively, “Oh, don’t fuss. There are plenty of healing potions and I’m not finished with you yet.” 

Raphael’s eyes followed the flick of Astarion’s hand. He shifted, as if to reach for it, but the motion pulled at his wounded shoulder, and he stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath. After a pause, he turned his hand palm-up, fingers giving a small, expectant wiggle.

Astarion hesitated, then placed his hand in Raphael’s much larger one, letting it be swallowed as long, clawed fingers closed gently around it. Wordlessly, Raphael turned it over, taking in the misshapen swell of his bruised and broken thumbs, and the blood under his nails from his scratching.

“Heal yourself,” Raphael said quietly, still holding Astarion’s hand.

Astarion opened his mouth to argue, but Raphael cut him off with a stern look. “Your thumbs. You’ll need them if you’re going to fix my shoulders.”

Rolling his eyes, Astarion huffed through his nose, reluctant but already reaching for the potion. “Fine. But only because you’re falling apart without me.”

Raphael’s frown finally softened and was replaced with a smug look, as he watched Astarion snatch up the potion vial and drink deeply; he was clearly used to having his instructions followed. Astarion bristled at this. How easily the devil slipped into command. He had spent so long being the one in control… and now, somehow, he felt diminished.

“You’re insufferable,” Astarion muttered, shaking out his hands, the healing potion working instantly. He lifted his chin, trying not to fold beneath Raphael’s unwavering gaze. “Now shut up and let me pop your arms back in.”

Raphael nodded. No smart remark, no smug grin this time, he just sat up straight and took a deep breath in.

Astarion shuffled closer and gently took hold of his right arm; one hand gripping his forearm, one supporting just behind his elbow. He pulled down and forwards in a smooth, swift motion; there was a dull pop as the shoulder slipped back into place.

Raphael didn’t make a sound, but his eyes slid shut, lashes sitting dark against his cheeks. For a moment, Astarion thought he’d fallen asleep again.

He moved around behind him and repeated the process on the left. The second shoulder was stiffer, but with a bit more force, it too went in with a soft click. Still, Raphael didn’t react, save for a faint twitch of his tail. 

Astarion lingered, his eyes fixed on the devil’s face. Slowly, his gaze drifted to Raphael’s mouth, staring at the curve of his lips, the delicate dip of his cupid’s bow. He wanted to trace it with his tongue.

As he contemplated leaning in, something coiled around Astarion’s ankle.

He yelped, flinching back in alarm, only to look down and see a familiar red tail curling around his foot.

He whipped his head back to Raphael, who had cracked one eye open, and was biting down on a grin, chuckling to himself. Astarion smacked him hard on the arm. “You bastard!”

The laugher died instantly as Raphael recoiled with a wince, hissing as he cradled his shoulder.

Astarion froze. For a split second, panic flared in his chest, instinct screaming that he’d gone too far, that retaliation was coming. But Raphael only rolled his shoulder, grunting from the stiffness. There was no anger. No violent rebuke.

Astarion steadied himself, pushing the rising alarm back down and recovering quickly. He arched a brow, forcing a smirk. “Oh, so now you’re awake? Good. Next time you play dead, I’m leaving you here.” He folded his arms, but the tension hadn’t quite left his posture. 

Raphael reached out, his clawed fingers curling beneath Astarion’s chin, lifting it until their eyes met. “You’re not going anywhere, pet,” he murmured, then gave his jaw a light squeeze before releasing him and rising to his feet.

The weight of his words sank in. Raphael could leave any time he wanted, it was Astarion who was stranded here. Astarion swallowed hard and said nothing, his eyes following the cambion’s towering form as he stood.

Raphael ambled over to the fire pit, his bare feet splashing through shallow puddles, his tail flicking lazily as he moved. He looked every bit a predator, moving with a smooth, prowling gait, and it suddenly occurred to Astarion how easy it was to forget what Raphael truly was, under his usually immaculate hair, modest clothing, and disarming smile. He was the danger.

The fire had burned out hours ago, and what remained on the spit was little more than scorched remains, blackened beyond recognition. Raphael crouched beside it, squinting at the charred husk, before prodding it with a claw. It crumbled to ash at his touch. “Pity,” he murmured.

His expression lit up as he spotted a second limb lying beside the cold fire pit. A delighted sound rumbled from Raphael’s throat, as he snatched up the raw meat and immediately sank his teeth into it. 

From where he was sitting, Astarion could hear the wet squelch of flesh tearing. He watched Raphael, hunched over, his sharp fangs sinking effortlessly into the meat, rending muscle from bone. Blood instantly stained his lips and chin, and his amber eyes were wild, like an animal’s.

Astarion stared, unsure whether to feel revulsion or empathy. He wondered if he’d looked like this — completely feral — in those moments when Cazador had finally tossed him a rat after days or weeks of cruel deprivation. Had he torn into it with the same primal desperation? The same loss of dignity?

After a few moments, Raphael sat up straight, tipping his head back to draw in a long breath, his eyes rolling closed as a forked tongue darted out to lick the blood from his lips.

Intrigued by the tongue, Astarion made a mental note to investigate that curiosity later. For now, he remained still, unwilling to risk drawing attention to himself, in case the starving beast decided his appetites stretched to slightly warmer, dead flesh.

Realising he was being watched closely, Raphael paused mid-chew, then hastily swallowed his mouthful. With a sheepish glance, he extended the half-eaten leg towards Astarion in offering.

“Warlock?”

“I wondered,” Astarion muttered. “No, thank you.”

“Still has our seasoning on her,” Raphael said, with a wry smirk, taking another bite.

Astarion snorted at that, but he didn’t move from his spot on the floor. He sat frozen, unsure how to handle the wild, ravenous creature before him. He decided to just come out with it: 

“Will you take me home?” he blurted, the words escaping before he could second guess them.

Raphael slowly lowered the leg from his mouth and assessed Astarion with an intense stare, angling his head slightly. 

“Can you get us out of here, please?” Astarion pressed.

“My dear little vampling,” Raphael said softly, a patient smile spreading across his face, “after all the blood, the barbs and the bonds, surely even you must feel it too: the need for stillness, for breath. A heartbeat of peace before we cast ourselves back into the waiting maw of Minauros.”

Astarion sighed, closing his eyes. “That’s very poetic,” he said dryly. “But, darling, I didn’t ask for verse, I asked for a plane shift.”

Raphael’s smile faded; irritation flashed across his face.

“Raphael?” Astarion said, rising slowly. He edged closer, keeping his voice even. “What’s really going on?”

The cambion looked away, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “Seemingly, I am without my powers,” he said, stiffly.

Astarion blinked. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked. “You mean… none? You have no magic at all?”

Without answering, Raphael stood abruptly and began to pace furiously, his torn wings twitching with agitation. “You didn’t question why, at the first opportunity, I wouldn’t immediately rain hellfire down on that insolent wretch of a warlock?” he spat, disgust laced in every word. “If I had my magic, do you really think I would have surrendered to those disgusting lesser devils? Allowed them to shackle me again?”

Well, now it all made sense.

Astarion took a step back. “So the only reason you didn’t leave was just because you couldn’t? You were going to leave me here, weren’t you?” 

“Astarion, no.” Raphael shook his head as he stepped forwards, closing the distance between them. He was so large he eclipsed Astarion’s vision, a looming wall of heat and muscle, leaving him nowhere to look but up into those burning amber eyes. “I meant what I said. You’re mine. I’m not leaving without you.”

Astarion studied him carefully, his mind racing. If Raphael wanted Astarion this badly… perhaps that gave him leverage. Maybe he wasn’t entirely powerless here. “Well…” he sighed. “What are we going to do?”

Raphael looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers. “Whatever is blocking my magic, it’s temporary. It feels like it’s already faded slightly since yesterday…” He started inspecting the skin on his arms, turning each one over.

“What do you think it is?” asked Astarion, his own eyes roaming over Raphael’s bare form, as if he knew what they were looking for.

“It feels… etched into me somehow. Like a sigil, perhaps.” Raphael said absently, now running his fingers over his chest and abdomen. “Invisible, or we’d have seen it.”

Well, that was certainly true. Astarion hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the naked cambion as he’d slept — taking in every inch of him, in all his glory. Watching Raphael’s fingers dance across his own skin now sent warmth pooling in Astarion’s groin. He swiftly averted his gaze. “So we wait it out?” he asked, clearing his throat. “For how long?”

“A few days maybe?” Raphael muttered, twisting to look at the back of his shoulder. “Unless we can find it. Help me, would you?”

Gulping, Astarion stepped closer and let his fingers brush Raphael’s back. He pressed them in gently, feeling the warm shift of muscle beneath his touch. Raphael’s skin was subtly scaled, soft, but with a faint, rubbery give that caught under his fingertips. “What would a sigil feel like?” he murmured, letting his fingers trace a slow path down the line of Raphael’s spine. Beneath his fingertips, the cambion’s muscles tensed, then loosened.

“Hmm. Like a pulse, perhaps. One that doesn’t match mine,” Raphael breathed. 

Astarion traced lower, fingertips gliding along the subtle ridges of bone and scale. His elven ears caught the quickening rhythm of Raphael’s heartbeat, and the subtle change in his breathing, as it became less even under his touch. Astarion smiled to himself. “Your pulse?” he purred. “Darling, I can hear it, and nothing’s going to match that… erratic rhythm.”

Raphael inhaled slowly through his nose, as if trying to steady himself. “What did you do to me, warlock?” he growled into the air. His voice was low and rough, and only served to fan the flames of Astarion’s growing arousal, his trousers feeling exceedingly uncomfortable around the crotch.

“Warlock? Do you mean Helsik or Morgana?” Astarion asked softly, his fingers reaching the curve of Raphael’s backside, stroking around the base of his tail. “Haarlep marked you once, remember?” He pressed harder, massaging the thick muscle. “Maybe it was them.”

A low grunt escaped Raphael as Astarion trailed his index finger along the underside of his tail, from the base downwards, not looking for a sigil as much as a reaction from Raphael…

Without warning, Raphael stepped out of Astarion’s reach and turned to face him. Astarion’s gaze instantly fell on Raphael’s very large, very rigid erection. 

Well, there was the reaction he’d been looking for. His own cock throbbed in response.

Raphael’s eyes were half-lidded and blazing with lust as he surged forwards and seized Astarion’s mouth in a rough kiss. It was frantic and possessive, his dextrous tongue sweeping between Astarion’s teeth, claiming every inch of his mouth. He grasped Astarion’s face, his long fingers curling into his hair, thumbs resting on his temples, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. He scraped his fangs against Astarion’s lip, drawing blood.

Astarion was pushed backwards, staggering until his bare back hit the wall. Hard. 

Oh, he didn’t like this.

Raphael pressed his body up against the elf’s, his heavy cock pushing insistently against Astarion’s stomach, wings filling his vision, and his tail wrapping firmly around his leg, squeezing tight. 

Through the shadow cast by his wings, Astarion could see the glow of his amber eyes.

That old familiar fear began to creep back in.

And suddenly, it wasn’t Raphael’s lips on his: it was another mouth, another hand on his face, forcing compliance. A pair of glowing red eyes flared in the shadows of his mind. 

Cazador.

Astarion’s head began to spin. Once again, he was just flesh in the hands of a master. He stopped moving. Stopped breathing. The heat of Raphael faded, the details blurred. Everything narrowed to a low, static hum in his ears and the memory of cold hands against his skin.

He didn’t respond, didn’t resist. He simply vanished inwards.

His body was spun around and pushed up against the wall. Rough hands yanked his trousers down. 

Then nothing.

“Astarion?”

The word was spoken against the side of his neck.

A warm breath followed, then the gentle press of a nose nuzzling behind his ear. Lips grazed the pointed tip. 

“Come back, little vampling.” 

The warmth behind him withdrew.

The lips were gone. The touch receded.

Astarion blinked.

He turned, slow and unsteady, his entire body trembling, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. His trousers were bunched around his ankles, his cock hanging limp between his legs, any trace of arousal gone. 

He hated how easily it all came back. How fast it swallowed him whole. Made him feel so small.

He’d frozen up, like always, and just waited for it to happen. That was how it worked: he went still and they helped themselves. Cazador had trained him to stay silent, taught him not to speak, not to cry out. After all, his body didn’t belong to him.

But Raphael… hadn’t taken. And Astarion didn’t know what that meant. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

Finally, he lifted his head, looking around. Raphael had moved to the stairwell, and was now sitting on the fourth step up, his long legs reaching the ground, his torn wings taking up the entire width of the narrow space. 

“Why did you stop?” Astarion whispered, staring at the devil’s feet.

“Because you didn’t want it,” Raphael replied quietly.

Astarion’s throat bobbed. “You’re a devil. Why does it matter?” 

“It matters to me.” Raphael paused, exhaling slowly. “I want you to want me.”

Disarmed by the honesty, Astarion looked up. Raphael was leaning forwards with his elbows braced on his knees, watching the elf closely. A faint crease tugged between his brows, and his expression was tinged with shame and frustration, almost as if he hadn’t intended to admit to such vulnerability.

​​That shadow of shame in Raphael’s expression somehow steadied Astarion. He wasn’t the only one feeling exposed. The imbalance between them, so heavy just moments ago, seemed to right itself.

Astarion stepped out of his trousers, and approached the stairwell slowly. He caught the subtle flick of Raphael’s eyes, as they swept up and down his bare form, heard the slight hitch in his breath and the quickening pulse at his throat. 

As he reached the stairs, he took one step up. Then two. Three. Standing between Raphael’s legs. 

Raphael leaned back against the stairs, tipping his head to look up at him. The sight of Raphael, naked, stretched out below him sent a fresh wave of heat surging through Astarion’s veins, his traitorous body already forgetting the fear and horror of only moments before.

He reached out and ran his thumb along Raphael’s lower lip, his fingers curling to cup his jaw. He tipped the cambion’s head back even further, pulling him up slightly, and stroked a strand of hair out of his eye. How could he resist, when he looked like this.

“I do want you,” he said quietly. 

He took another step up, placing his feet either side of Raphael’s hips and lowering himself to straddle him.

Raphael’s eyes widened, and Astarion was certain he’d stopped breathing. His entire frame seemed to tremble with restrained desire, muscles taut with the effort of holding himself back. But he remained still, waiting for Astarion’s lead.

Astarion reached around behind him and grasped Raphael’s cock. It was still hard and slick, dripping with want. “I do want this,” Astarion said more firmly now, his brow furrowing as his own words settled. 

In truth, Astarion hadn’t been sure he ever wanted to do this again: to be entered. The things Cazador had done to him, or forced him to do… they haunted him, clung to him like shadows. And yet, for some reason, he wanted to explore this. With Raphael. Who, unlike every shadow in Astarion’s past, seemed content to be still, to let himself be touched, to be used with quiet, willing submission.

Raphael watched as Astarion slowly raised onto his knees, arching his back as he aligned the tip of Raphael’s cock with his hole. He began to swirl his hips, pressing down very gently, to ease the solid length inside, a centimetre at a time. 

His movements were agonisingly slow, and he thought Raphael might explode long before he was even a third of the way in. But slowly — ever so slowly — his muscles relaxed, and ridge by infernal ridge, Astarion sank down on Raphael’s cock.

With a long, low moan, ​​Raphael tipped his head back against the steps, eyes squeezed shut as if he was fighting an internal battle, willing his hips to stay still and keep his hands to himself.

After allowing himself a moment to adjust to the feeling of Raphael’s thick length buried to the hilt inside him, Astarion gradually began to move. He closed his eyes, focusing on pumping his hips: up and down. Concentrating on the friction, the feeling of fullness, the stretch. 

Gods, it felt so good. 

All the tension melted from his body as his pace quickened, and his hands shot out to grip Raphael’s horns for balance, their ridged, bark-like texture digging into his palms, anchoring him.

As he bounced up and down, he quickly began to tire. Raphael was huge, and his own legs weren’t long enough to keep the momentum up forever. Below him, Raphael shot him a sly grin, sharp white fangs biting into his lower lip, a deep chuckle escaping him. 

“It’s not… not funny,” he panted, wondering how he could possibly feel so out of breath, when he didn’t even need to breathe. “Look… I’m the one taking your… monster cock, you do some of the work.” 

Raphael barked out a laugh at that. “Ask me nicely, little vampling.” He was breathless too. 

The rough sound of his voice sent a thrill through Astarion. “Please?” he gasped. “Just fuck me?”

Raphael inhaled deeply through his nose, closing his eyes, as if savouring the scent of Astarion’s desperation. His forked tongue darted out, sweeping across his lips, as if he could taste it in the air. 

With startling speed and effortless fluidity, Raphael flipped them both; his arms locking tight around Astarion as he swept him underneath him, settling the elf down onto the steps without pulling out. His torn wings curled around them, enclosing them in a protective cocoon. 

Then, with long, deep strokes, Raphael began to roll his hips. His thrusts were languorous and tender, and he gazed down at Astarion adoringly, under heavy lids. “Tell me how.”

There it was again: willing submission. Power, offered freely. It sent a rush of heat sweeping through Astarion. 

“Harder,” Astarion gasped, reaching between them to grasp his own cock, his fingers scraping down Raphael’s abdomen, making the cambion shudder. He gripped himself firmly, kneading his own length between his fingers, stroking in rhythm with the motion of Raphael’s thrusts.

Raphael obeyed. He pulled himself upright and moved Astarion’s legs that had wrapped around his middle, pushing them back by his knees, pushing them up, exposing Astarion further. He began to rut harder and faster into Astarion, sinking even deeper with every stroke at this new angle. He tipped his head back, squeezing his eyes closed; his moans were building, getting louder, movements becoming more and more erratic.

Astarion looked up at him, his dark angel coming undone above him. All it took was one more stroke; Raphael’s ridged cock hit the right spot inside him, and orgasm crashed into Astarion like a wave. Ecstasy rolled up through his spine, coursing down his legs as he cried out deliriously, spend shooting up his stomach, layering over the black blood still crusted onto his skin. 

Raphael slowed, reaching out and cupping Astarion’s face with one hand as if cradling something fragile. He tilted the elf’s chin up gently, smile widening as he watched Astarion tremble through the waves of pleasure rippling through him.

“Now you,” Astarion panted. “Come for me?” 

Apparently that was all it took for Raphael’s eyes to roll back and his body to seize, a deep groan tearing from his throat, as he was gripped in the surge of rapture. He came hard, gasping through the shockwaves, as his body stiffened, his wings shuddering above them both. 

For a while afterwards, they remained sprawled across the rough stone steps, tangled in each other, limbs aching, utterly spent. Raphael’s body was wonderfully warm, as he lay pressed between Astarion’s legs, but eventually, Astarion looked down at their sweat-slicked, blood-splattered bodies and wrinkled his nose.

“Gods, we are absolutely disgusting,” he groaned. 

Raphael moved his head, and Astarion felt a long, wet tongue lick a stripe up the side of his face. “I’ll clean you off.” 

“Absolutely not!” Astarion protested, trying to sit upright and push the cambion off him with what little strength he had left.

Raphael didn’t budge. Not even slightly. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “You won’t find a finer bath in all of Minauros, my dear. Of course, you’re welcome to take a dip in the swamp.” 

Astarion groaned, shoving lightly at Raphael’s chest. “Off, fiend. And keep that wicked tongue to yourself.”

Raphael huffed a theatrical sigh but obliged, pulling out of Astarion smoothly and rising from the steps, tucking his wings in closely.

Astarion hauled himself up and marched over to the bag of holding, fishing around until he found the scroll he was looking for and an old, metal bucket. 

“You may be tapped of magic,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder, “but I can at least boil us some water.”

A short while later, Astarion and Raphael sat beside a bucket of steaming water, carefully wiping away sweat, grime, and blood from one another’s skin. It was incredibly intimate, and if Astarion weren’t still sore from their earlier exertions, he might have dragged Raphael back down onto the stone floor for round two.

As Raphael ran the damp rag down his back, Astarion couldn’t help the smug smirk that curled his lips. Raphael, powerful, would-be king of the Nine Hells, clothed in nothing but ambition and arrogance, was kneeling obediently before an elf, cleaning him. A creature like this, so proud, dangerous, and yet so beautifully willing…

No wonder Haarlep was so obsessed with him. 

Astarion relaxed into Raphael’s warm hands, as the devil swept the cloth over his skin. He looked around at the crumbling watchtower. “What is this place?” he asked over his shoulder. “Why did we stop here?”

Raphael dipped the cloth back in the water. “This charming ruin?” he murmured. “A forgotten watchtower of Mammon’s. Used to look out for enemies, or slaves trying to escape. We only stopped because our dear escorts realised who I was. Thought they might fetch a finer price finding a higher bidder than Mammon.”

“Higher?” Astarion scoffed. “I thought Mammon was the richest creature in existence.” 

“He is,” Raphael said, wringing out the cloth again. “Because he’s notoriously reluctant to part with his gold.”

Astarion turned around sharply. “But you said that we would definitely be paid for bringing you to him.”

Raphael raised his brows, lowering the cloth with an amused look. “I did. But I never said it would be the riches you seemed to expect.” 

“But— But Helsik said we would be made rich beyond our wildest dreams.” 

“She’s a liar, Astarion, I did try to warn you all.” Raphael was laughing now. 

Astarion didn’t find it very funny. “So who would pay more?”

“Oh, thinking about finishing the job, are you?” 

“No,” Astarion said quickly. 

He turned back around, his brow furrowing. If Helsik had lied about the gold, then what else had she lied about? A pit opened in his stomach.

Karlach.

She’d sworn to fix Karlach’s engine. Did she even have a fix? Or was it just another loophole in her bargain? 

Had this entire godsforsaken job been for nothing?

That evil little…

But maybe it wasn’t all for nothing... Raphael had suggested that he might be able to help Karlach.

He was a different kind of evil, certainly, but one with enough power and ego to make good on a promise — if only to prove a point. Astarion glanced back at him now, watching as he casually wiped blood from his own thigh with the damp cloth, looking far too pleased with himself.

“You still have a way to help Karlach,” he said, softly.

Raphael didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth curled. “I do.”

Astarion turned fully to face him. He took the cloth from Raphael’s hand without a word, pressing it more firmly against the grime on the cambion’s thigh, scrubbing harder. His crimson eyes met Raphael’s. 

“What is it that you want, then?” he asked, voice quiet but steady. “What would the contract be?”

Raphael’s glowing eyes roved over his face with startling intensity, like he was memorising each feature. “I want you, Astarion.”

Astarion knew this was coming. A contract of ownership, with a devil. Brilliant.

He wasn’t naive, he knew how these things worked. He’d experienced servitude under a cruel master before, and he’d survived it. Just.

But Astarion wasn’t entirely helpless here; he had been a magistrate once. He could argue, negotiate, shape the terms to his favour before even signing. He could make it work.

Even now, the balance between him and Raphael was ever-shifting. Raphael demanded power, but craved direction. It was maddening and contradictory, and yet, Astarion felt he was starting to understand him. Power was a game they both understood, but beneath it all, Raphael wanted more than to just be feared and obeyed. He wanted to be wanted, needed… loved.

Astarion could use that. He could build a contract around it, leveraging Raphael’s hunger for connection as much as his thirst for dominance. He could do it for Karlach. What was an eternity in Hell if it meant the gift of salvation for someone who deserved better? 

But it wasn’t just about her, and that was the part that frightened Astarion the most. The idea of leaving Raphael now left a hollow ache inside him, and without a contract, he was afraid he’d lose him forever. His warmth, those lazy smiles, that velvety voice. He’d grown used to him — to all of this — and he wasn’t ready to let it go.

“Get me out of here, and I’ll do it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Take me home, and we’ll talk.”

Raphael didn’t say anything, he simply offered Astarion a small, knowing smile, accompanied with a single nod, then returned to watching Astarion scrubbing his thigh.

Astarion felt the erection before he saw it, as he swept the cloth over Raphael’s groin. He met Raphael’s eyes with an exasperated expression.

“Again, already?! I’m still tired from before,” he groaned.

“Don’t look at it then,” Raphael said, smirking.

“It’s hard to miss, love. Have you seen the size of that thing?”

Raphael blinked, tilting his head slightly as his eyes scanned Astarion’s face. “That’s four.” 

“Four what?” Astarion frowned.

“Four times you’ve called me that. I’m flattered, truly.” Raphael pressed a hand to his chest in mock sincerity, his eyes mischievous.

“Oh piss off,” Astarion huffed, smacking the wet cloth against Raphael’s shoulder with a satisfying splat. “I call everyone that, get over yourself.”

Raphael pouted, rubbing his sore shoulder. “You’re a cruel little thing, vampling.” 

Astarion rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite fight the smile that crept onto his lips as he moved around Raphael, wet cloth in hand, reaching for one of his wings to clean away the dried blood. 

He paused, cloth in midair, as he remembered: “Ah,” he said softly. “These need stitching.”

Raphael turned his head slightly, then stretched his wings out behind him. Astarion stood in the space in between them, wrapped in shadow and heat, and that intoxicating smell of musk and cherries. 

“Stay still,” he murmured. “I’ll be gentle.”

They gave up searching for the sigil on Raphael’s skin. Wherever it was etched, it was clearly cloaked by magic, invisible to Astarion’s eyes and Raphael’s own senses. So they chose to wait it out — to wait for Raphael to feel his magic return. 

In the meantime, Raphael fashioned them a makeshift bed, snapping the two remaining legs off a broken table and laying Morgana’s bedrolls over the flattened surface. He looked quite pleased with himself when he presented it to Astarion with a flourish and a small bow. 

​​Astarion raised an eyebrow at the makeshift bed. “Is this meant to be some kind of torture device?”

“Well that depends who’s on top,” Raphael replied with a wicked grin.

Astarion tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “Oh? And what exactly does it do?”

Raphael stepped in close, his eyes gleaming. “May I interest you in a demonstration?”

________

And so they melted into a strangely peaceful existence.

Three days passed.

Three days of flirting, fucking and feeding. 

Raphael polished Morgana off, and Astarion drank from Raphael. 

They rested on their rotting wooden bed, curling around each other.

In the night, Astarion held Raphael through his nightmares, running gentle fingers through his hair. And in the day, Astarion held Raphael as he sank his cock down the cambion’s throat, tightly gripping his horns.

Raphael sang to entertain Astarion, he bathed him with reverent hands, pressed absent-minded kisses to his shoulders, and traced idle patterns across his skin with the tips of his claws. It was affectionate. Intimate.

It was… nice.

On the fourth day, Astarion stirred from his trance to find a smaller body cuddling him. At some point in his sleep, Raphael had changed into his human form. He looked more comfortable without the horns and the wings getting in the way. 

Astarion realised, with a small ache, how much he had missed this form.

Raphael still needed hours more rest, so Astarion simply lay there, watching him. Taking in that familiar face, his smooth, golden skin; his long, elegant fingers resting loosely against Astarion’s chest; his parted lips drawing in slow, steady breaths.

Gods, he’s beautiful.

Astarion felt a creeping sadness in his chest.

He didn’t know how this would end. A contract might bind them, but it guaranteed nothing. If Mephistopheles found Raphael… he would lose him forever. Nothing they had shared, or built together, would matter.

Astarion let out a slow breath. 

What if they just stayed here? In their crumbling, half-sunken tower, with the water-logged floor and the rusted chains. Far away from anyone and everything. Just the two of them, tangled together in stolen hours.

It was a foolish thought. It was impossible and completely unsustainable, but for a moment, he let himself imagine it: a simple little life together. Peaceful. 

He sighed and gently untangled his legs from Raphael’s, rising with a stretch. Checking the perimeter while Raphael slept had become part of his routine now; not because he expected danger, but because it felt wrong not to. After everything Astarion had survived, vigilance was a hard habit to break.

Astarion stepped out of the watchtower and into the gloom of Minauros. The fetid swamp stretched in every direction, the usual stench of damp and decay in the air. Sickly green mist hung low, swirling across the surface of the stagnant water. 

He stood at the threshold, scanning the horizon, ears straining for the sound of splashing or steel, eyes hunting for movement in the fog.

All was still.

Silent.

Feeling somewhat reassured by the quiet outside, Astarion returned to the tower, the weight of his unease fading just enough to leave space for a deeper, more personal craving: the warmth of Raphael’s human skin. The world around them was bleak and unforgiving, but curled beside that infuriating devil, Astarion felt safe — happy. 

Plus, it had been a while since he’d sunk his cock into that tight little hole.

He stepped back inside, expecting to find a sprawl of golden limbs tangled in the bedrolls.

But the bed was empty.

“Raphael?” he called out. 

There was no answer. 

Frowning, he climbed the narrow, spiralling stairs two at a time, checking each ruined level in turn. They were all just as they’d left them: decayed, desolate, and utterly lacking one naked devil with tousled hair and a sleepy smile.

Descending again, slower now, he scanned the shadows, hoping, perhaps irrationally, that Raphael was just teasing him, and he would suddenly step out from behind a crumbling wall, smirking.

But nothing moved.

Astarion felt that old, familiar coldness begin to seep back in: the aching emptiness that once made its home between his ribs.

Raphael was gone.

And Astarion was alone.

Chapter Text

The bed was still warm.

Astarion sat there for a long time, unmoving, just staring at the empty space where Raphael had been lying only moments before.

He didn’t want to believe it. 

Slowly, he pulled the bedrolls over his shoulders, wrapping them tightly around himself, and burying his face in the fabric. The scent of sweat, musk and cherries clung to the threads, and the lingering warmth kissed his cold skin, fading far too quickly. He sank onto his side, lying on the hard tabletop they used as a bed. His body curled inwards as if he could make himself small enough to disappear. The scent of Raphael pressed around him and, with it, the truth he didn’t want to face.

Raphael had left. 

He had just… gone, and Astarion had been a fool to think he wouldn’t. Of course he hadn’t forgiven him for handing him over to Morgana back in Athkatla. Of course he would string Astarion along, lull him into thinking everything was fine between them. More than fine, it had been… perfect.

The first sob broke loose without warning, quiet but raw. Then another. And another. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks, soaking into the bedroll beneath him as the ache bloomed wider and wider in his chest, opening up like a vast, yawning, cavernous void of nothingness.

He cried for what he’d lost, for the foolish, fragile hope he’d dared to hold onto. He wept because he’d trusted a fucking devil, who had sworn he wouldn’t leave. And he sobbed. He sobbed because he had cared so much more than he thought he ever could.

And now he was alone. Truly alone. Trapped in the Hells with no sustenance, no sanctuary and no way home. Even the crumbling tower, which had become their home these past few days, felt colder and smaller now, and somehow less safe without Raphael in it.

He wept for what felt like hours, an entire day perhaps. The bedroll did nothing to warm the cold emptiness hollowing him out from the inside. And through it all, the musk and cherries lingered, taunting him. 

Day two passed in a daze. 

Astarion crawled out of his nest of tangled bedrolls and paced the crumbling tower like a wraith, moving on silent feet across puddles and stone.

The doorway loomed, but he couldn’t bring himself to go near it. The thought of stepping out into that dead, stinking swamp alone was frightening now. He used to venture out while Raphael slept, but somehow, without that slumbering presence nearby, the silence outside felt heavier and more hostile.

He didn’t light a fire, either; it might attract attention, and the cold was easier to bear than the idea of being found by more devils. So he stayed inside, letting the chill settle into his bones as he circled the same walls. Listening to the silence. Waiting for footsteps that never came.

On day three, his sadness curdled. Astarion was angry.

Raphael’s magic must have come back. Of course. The very second his powers returned, he had just plane shifted away. Gone, just like that. 

The lies came back to Astarion in pieces: “I’m not leaving without you,” and “You’re mine.” Astarion had fallen for each and every one of them. Gods, he’d believed that a devil of all creatures might somehow have cared for him. 

Gale’s words, from what felt like forever ago, echoed in his mind: “They can understand what will cause pain, what will comfort, what will inspire trust, but they only use that knowledge to manipulate.”

He was a fucking idiot.

Astarion threw rocks into the swamp that day. He flung them as hard as he could, pulling a muscle in his shoulder in the process. He didn’t cry; he didn’t think he had any tears left in him, but the fury in his chest ached just the same. 

By day four, the rage had dulled, giving way once more to profound grief.

He lay sprawled on that ridiculous excuse for a bed, feet dangling off the edge, eyes fixed on the crumbling ceiling above. Waiting. Wondering.

What if Raphael hadn’t chosen to leave?

What if something had happened? What if Mephistopheles had found him and dragged him back in chains to face his execution? Astarion didn’t know what hurt more, the betrayal, or the fear that it wasn’t betrayal at all. That Raphael had meant every word, and then been taken from him. He could be dead already.

There was nothing he could do but wait. In a crumbling tower sinking into filth, clutching a blanket that no longer smelled like him.

He missed him so damn much.

__________

Astarion shot upright. The stillness of his trance shattered in an instant; he felt breathless though he hadn’t drawn a single breath in hours.

Something was pulling at him. Somehow.

It didn’t hurt, and for some inexplicable reason, he wasn’t afraid. He glanced around the dark tower: the lingering despair of Minauros still pressed in on all sides. And yet… that pull… 

It was there again. Gentle, and steady, like someone was calling to him, wordlessly, but insistent. It resonated through his very bones. He rose to his feet slowly, shedding the bedrolls, every sense alert. The air around him seemed to be shimmering, and when a golden ripple passed through the space around him, he felt a gentle nudge against his back.

The call grew stronger, humming down his spine. He didn’t resist it; somehow, impossibly, it felt right. Like stepping through a door left open just for him.

Then the world buckled inwards, the air collapsing around him, the pressure squeezing him as he was yanked through the planes, the rotting swamp and crumbling stone falling away in the blink of an eye.

Light exploded behind his eyes.

And when he landed hard, gasping, on a worn rug atop creaking wooden floorboards, he understood.

His friends had called him home.

His eyes found Shadowheart first. Her face crumpled with relief, joy, and sorrow all at once, tears pouring down her cheeks in gushing rivers. Gale knelt nearby, a scroll still clutched in his shaking fingers, his eyes glassy. Wyll dropped to his knees beside them, pressing his hands over his heart.

And then came Karlach, in all her blazing heat and uncontained emotion. She was a red blur before she crashed into him, still sprawled on the floor. She wrapped him in her arms, crushing him to her chest, and the warmth of her body surged through him, chasing away every last trace of the cold he’d carried from Hell.

Astarion broke.

Tears welled and spilled before he could stop them. His shoulders trembled as he clutched the back of Karlach’s tunic, burying his face in the crook of her neck. No words came, just the unrelenting tidal wave of everything he’d been holding onto. He was exhausted, hollow with disbelief, and though relief had found him, it came laced with anguish. He was still fractured, still bleeding inside, still aching for someone who had just vanished without a word. But he was safe. They had come for him.

He closed his eyes and let the tears fall, burying his face deeper into Karlach’s shoulder. Each droplet hissed softly where it landed, steam rising from her skin, but she just held him tighter, as if she could hold all of it for him: his grief, his fury. His broken heart.

__________

A short while later, Astarion sat upstairs in the Elfsong Tavern with his friends gathered around the fire. Lakrissa, their old friend working downstairs, had slipped him a flagon of ox blood from the kitchens, and he’d drained it fast, each swallow soothing the vast, aching hunger from four days without blood.

Shadowheart sat close to his side, her arm draped along the back of the sofa behind him, as if she were afraid that he might vanish again if she let him go. Karlach lounged on the floor, her long legs spread out in front of her, back leaning against Wyll’s chair, as he sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap. Gale was perched on the arm of the sofa on Astarion’s other side.

He could sense them all giving each other pointed looks; each of them waiting for someone else to break the silence first.

Eventually, Wyll cleared his throat softly. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he said, his voice calm and warm, “not if you’re not ready. But… are you alright, Astarion?”

Astarion stared into his empty tankard, watching the last few dark drops of blood slide along the bottom. Where would he even start? How could he possibly explain what he’d found in Hell… and what he’d lost? He sighed, then swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again, his chin trembling, his eyes still cast down. 

Shadowheart’s hand found his, her fingers gripping him tightly, offering a steady anchor. “We’re here, ‘Star,” she murmured. “There’s no rush.”

Sensing that he couldn’t quite find his just voice yet, Karlach straightened slightly, her voice light as she tried to break the tension. “Well,” she said, glancing around the group, “we nearly tore Haarlep limb from limb after they shoved you through that portal.”

Astarion looked up slowly, eyes flicking between his friends.

“Gale nearly died,” she added with a small, fond grimace. “Again.”

Gale, from his perch beside Astarion, lifted the wine he was nursing in a dry salute. “Naturally. I had it all under control. Right up until I didn’t.”

“Thank Selûne Wyll was able to cast Hold Monster when he did,” Shadowheart added.

Karlach squinted at her. “Uhh, I think we’ve got to thank Wyll for that one, Hearty.”

A startled laugh escaped Astarion, surprising even him. It was a crack in the heaviness weighing on his chest, and he was finally able to form words. “And then what?” 

Karlach’s eyes lit up as his eyes met hers. She grinned. “We hacked away at the slippery bastard. Almost downed ‘em too, but they broke free and shifted away.”

“We figure they crawled off to die in the Ethereal Plane somewhere,” Wyll shrugged.

“No,” Astarion said, shaking his head. “They survived.”

“Wait, how do you know that?” Gale asked, frowning. “I haven’t… felt anything since.”

Astarion bowed his head. “Raphael did.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shadowheart’s mouth press into a thin line. Her head tilted ever so slightly towards Karlach, a glance passing silently between them.

“Did… did you make it to Mammon?” Karlach asked softly. “Was Morgana with you when we pulled you out?” 

Astarion stared down at his hands. “No. She’s dead.” 

Shadowheart inhaled sharply through her nose. “Gods, Astarion. What happened?” 

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, but the words caught in his throat. What could he even say? They could never understand what he’d shared with Raphael. They’d call it manipulation, they’d tell him he’d just been used. Maybe he had. So he gave them what he could. “We were attacked,” he said quietly. “Some sort of devil patrol. A hamatula and four barbazu.”

“Fuck,” Karlach breathed, the word low and drawn out. “How the Hells did you survive that?” 

“I killed three myself,” Astarion said to the surprised and impressed faces of his friends. “Raphael killed the others.” 

The ache in his chest stirred again. It already felt like a lifetime ago: pulling Raphael’s horns free from the hamatula’s gut, pressing healing potions to his wounds, the easy silence as they rested side by side. He remembered the weight of Raphael against him, the warmth of his skin, the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. And now… nothing.

Gale shifted anxiously. “Erm, I hate to ask, but where is Raphael now?”

“I… I don’t know,” Astarion murmured. “He’s gone.” 

His lip quivered again, and he quickly raised the tankard to his mouth, masking the tremble with a long, pretend sip, as if chasing the last drop of blood.

“Ahh, shit,” Karlach sighed, her shoulders slumping in disappointment. “So that’s it, then? No devil, no payout. Guess our job’s off the table.”

“Well, hang on,” Wyll said, rising from his chair and stepping in front of the fire. “We upheld our end of the bargain. We delivered Raphael to Morgana. I say it’s time we pay dear Helsik a visit and demand what we’re owed.”

“Wait,” Astarion looked up sharply. “You haven’t spoken to her yet?”

Shadowheart, still holding his hand, gave a small shake of her head. “You were our priority, Astarion. We’ve spent every moment since the fight trying to bring you back.”

Astarion felt his eyes welling up; he gently pulled his hand free from Shadowheart’s grip to wipe at them, stopping the tears from falling. “You never said how you got back to Baldur’s Gate so quickly,” he sniffed. “Or… how you even found me.”

Shadowheart gave a soft laugh, casting a sidelong look at the wizard. “Gale’s been keeping secrets.”

“I prefer to think of it as a well-timed surprise,” Gale said with a smug little grin. “I spent much of our carriage ride from Crimmor to Athkatla learning the Teleport spell. Figured it might be useful for the return trip — and I’ll admit, I was rather looking forward to the dramatic reveal.”

Shadowheart nodded, her expression sobering. “We weren’t sure how to find you. Or how to get you back, even if we did. So, we went to Sorcerous Sundries as soon as we got back to the city.”

“You remember Rolan, right?” Karlach picked up. “He had a scroll that would help bring you back. Insanely rare and really fucking expensive.”

“Even with his discount,” Wyll added, folding his arms. “We still owe him fifteen thousand gold.” He raised an eyebrow. “All the more reason to go and see Helsik, if you ask me.”

Astarion’s brows shot up. “You paid how much?”

“Technically, we haven’t paid it yet,” Karlach said with a sheepish grin. “We might’ve promised a favour or two…”

“What in the Hells did you buy that was worth that kind of price?”

Gale cleared his throat, clearly relishing the chance to explain. “Gate, as you may know, is no small spell. It creates a direct conduit between this plane and another, usually to summon a creature from a different realm. But not just any creature, you need to know their true name. That’s what the spell listens for: the exact thread that ties their soul to the Weave.” He looked at Astarion with a mix of caution and relief. “We were lucky you didn’t resist.”

Astarion’s eyes widened. “I could have?”

Gale nodded. “Absolutely. If you’d fought it, even unconsciously, the spell might have failed. But you didn’t; it worked, because you let it.”

Shadowheart gave Astarion’s arm a soft squeeze. “Because you knew we’d come.”

Astarion wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t quite believe they’d really done all this, for him. He felt more tears falling, but this time, he didn’t try to fight them. 

__________

Dusk fell early in Faerûn at this time of year, so just after sundown, Astarion was able to join the others on their visit to The Devil’s Fee. The shop would remain open for another hour or so, giving them enough time to question Helsik before overstaying became trespassing.

Behind the counter, the gold dwarf did not look pleased to see them as they strolled through her front door. She looked up with a scowl and groaned audibly, as she shoved a stack of parchments out of sight beneath the counter. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have shut shop early,” she said through her teeth, baring them slightly in a grimace.

“Now, now, Helsik, that’s no way to greet friends, is it?” Wyll said, adopting his usual charismatic smile and disarming tone. “We’re just here to collect our payment.”

“I’ve got nothing for you,” she snapped, shaking her head. “The deal’s off.”

“Off?” Wyll’s voice had an edge to it now. “But we completed the job. We delivered Raphael to your warlock friend, and she took him to Minauros.” 

“And I’m just meant to take your word for that?”

“What are you talking about?!” Karlach demanded, anger flaring. “We met Morgana in her shit-tip of a shop, watched her smack Raphael around, then drag him away in chains.”

Astarion bristled at the memory.

Helsik narrowed her eyes. “Payment was to come from Mammon upon receipt of the prisoner. He has not received the prisoner, so, to put it simply, there is no payment.” 

“With all due respect, Helsik,” Wyll said, stepping slightly in front of Karlach and lifting a calming hand, “that’s not our problem. We had an agreement with you.” 

“And yet Morgana isn’t here to corroborate your story, is she?” Helsik squared her shoulders slightly. “All I know is that she’s gone dark, and Raphael is being paraded around Cania in chains.”

“What?” Astarion surged forwards, slamming his shaking hands down onto the counter. “Mephistopheles has him?”

Helsik’s gaze dropped to where his fingers dug into her polished worktop, then drifted back up to his face, unimpressed. “Yes. The trial in Phlethegos has been called off; Raphael was ruled in contempt of the court for attempting to slip the leash. The Lord of the Eighth intends to deal with him personally. And no-one argues with Mephisto, especially when it concerns his own spawn.” 

“Trying to slip the leash?!” Astarion’s voice cracked. “He was in chains! He was your prisoner the whole time!” His nails scraped the wood as his fingers curled in, rage boiling so hot it blurred his vision. He wanted to vault the counter, sink his teeth into her throat and tear her apart.

Helsik gave a pointed little cough. “Ahem. Technically speaking, Raphael was your prisoner too.” She shrugged. “Escape attempt or not, let’s not pretend this was going to end any other way. He’s embarrassed Mephistopheles for long enough, they were always going to put him down. This just gave them a better excuse.”

Astarion’s snarl tore from his throat before he could stop it, his sharp fangs flashing as he leaned over the counter. Helsik recoiled instinctively, her body pulling back a half-step, shock flashing across her face.

A hand landed firmly on his shoulder. “Step away, soldier,” Karlach said quietly, her voice low but steady. “Go and cool off.”

He jerked his shoulder out of her grip, spinning on her with a furious glare. “That’s rich, coming from you!” he snapped, then, ignoring the hurt look on his friend’s face, he turned on his heel and stormed out into the dark, slamming the front door behind him.

Astarion slumped onto the stone steps outside, the fury bleeding from him, leaving distress and sorrow in its place. His hands dangled uselessly between his knees, fingers twitching restlessly, his eyes fixed on nothing as his mind raced. Raphael was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He didn’t even know when. It could be happening right now, this very moment. He could already be dead.

But Raphael… Raphael hadn’t left him. 

A reckless thought occurred to Astarion, and before he could talk himself down, he was scaling the outer wall of The Devil’s Fee and clambering up onto Helsik’s balcony. He managed to force her upstairs window open with no tools and no noise. 

As he climbed into the large room, he looked around at the now-permanent blood stains on floorboards. He’d already known that some of that blood had been his and his companions’, but now he noticed the faint lingering scent of cherry and musk. His heart sank to think about Raphael bleeding onto the floor, as Helsik and Haarlep stripped and chained him.

Raised voices rose up from downstairs, the exchange growing more heated, so he moved quickly and quietly, sweeping through the room. He went to Helsik’s bookshelf, her chest of drawers, the cluttered surface of her bedside table: all the places he knew he would find the components needed to open a portal to Avernus. Along the way, he slipped a few choice items into his pockets, anything small, sharp, or potentially useful. If he had learned one thing about stepping into the Hells, it was: you always go prepared.

As he placed the final piece, a large diamond, he heard footsteps thundering up the stairs, panicked voices drawing closer. The portal flared into life just as Helsik burst through the door, Astarion’s friends hot on her heels, all wearing matching expressions of fear and confusion.

Astarion turned to face them, backing slowly towards the portal. “I have to go, I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head.

“There’s nothing for you in Avernus, vampire,” Helsik spat, her eyes flashing. “But by all means, go to Hell, if you’re so eager to die.”

“Astarion, please? Don’t do this!” Shadowheart called out. 

He looked at her, a sad smile on his face, and shook his head again, more slowly. “I made a deal with him.” 

Then he took a single step backwards, into the waiting glow of the portal.

__________

Astarion stood in the ruined entryway of Raphael’s House of Hope. The destruction was everywhere, scorch marks, broken tile, and the stench of death permeating the air. He immediately threw up a hand to cover his nose as the sour tang of decay hit him hard. The corpses of fallen cambions still lay scattered across the chamber, twisted and lifeless. A couple of dead dwarves lay near the back of the room, slumped close to one another. Hope and Korrilla. 

Astarion walked over to a particularly large bloodstain that had dried onto the marble floor. This was where Raphael had fallen.  

Suddenly the portal flared, and out tumbled Shadowheart, Gale, Wyll, and Karlach. 

“Don’t you ever pull that shit again, Fangs!” Karlach stormed over to Astarion, jabbing a clawed finger into his chest the moment she was close enough. There were tears in her eyes, and her voice trembled. “We only just got you back.” She sniffed, then paused, her brow creasing as she drew her hand back and glanced down at herself, suddenly confused and slightly surprised.

Astarion placed a cautious hand on her shoulder. “Karlach? What is it, darling?”

Karlach pressed her palm to her chest, just above her engine, and rubbed lightly. “Gods, that actually feels so much better. It’s been… uncomfortable for days now.” 

Wyll stepped over, giving Karlach a gentle squeeze on the elbow, before fixing Astarion with a hard look. “What in the Hells you were thinking, diving head first into Avernus? After everything we did to get you out of Minauros?”

“And what’s this about a deal, ‘Star?” Shadowheart asked, exasperation etched all over her face. “You didn’t… Please tell me you didn’t?”

Astarion hesitated. He didn’t dare admit that there was no contract in place, in case they dragged him back through the portal, still shimmering on the floor.

“He’s going to fix Karlach,” he said instead. “He promised. I need to go to Cania and get him back.”

Karlach looked down at him, still rubbing her chest, a cautious, almost hopeful look in her eyes. “And what did he want in return?” she asked tentatively. 

Astarion shook his head, the answer was something he didn’t want to speak aloud. “All that matters is that he’s going to help you, which he can’t do if he’s dead.”

Karlach gave him a small, sad smile. “It’s not worth it, Astarion. Not your freedom, not your soul. It’s not worth selling yourself to a devil. Not for me.”

“And what if I say that it is?” Astarion replied, his expression fierce. “This is your life, Karlach. How could it not be worth everything?” 

“Astarion,” Wyll said evenly, his voice calm, “we don’t even know where he is, or if it’s even possible to rescue him. He might already be dead.” 

“And let’s not ignore the obvious,” Gale added. “Stealing from an archdevil? You do realise that’s suicide?”

With a small sigh, Karlach shook her head and stepped away, her boots echoing faintly as she began to pace the large room. “It’s for the best, Astarion,” she said softly, looking at her feet. “We’re just… back to where we started. No lasting damage. If he dies, your contract dies too, and you’ll be free of it, of whatever you promised him. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

“But that’s why I’ve got to save him,” Astarion said. “I think… I think he can help me too.”

Karlach stopped her pacing and turned slowly, confusion written across her face. “Help you how?”

Astarion’s eyes dropped to the floor, as he hesitated to answer. He couldn’t say it — not the truth, not what Raphael meant to him. But something had to be said. Just enough to make them understand why he couldn’t walk away.

He let out a long breath. “Darling, I’m tired. Tired of living in the cracks between dusk and dawn, always hungry, always waiting for the sun to set. Never full, never free.” He gave a thin, bitter smile. “Raphael offered me something more. And I’m not ready to let that slip away.”

Karlach shifted her weight, rubbing at her engine again. She didn’t answer right away, just looked at him, brow furrowed, torn between disbelief and understanding. Then, finally, she gave a slow nod. “Okay…” she said, voice quieter than usual. “Okay, Fangs. I get it. You and me, we’ve both been running on fumes for too long.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I guess we’ve got nothing to lose. So… we’ll do it together.”

“Whoa, whoa, hang on, guys,” Wyll said, stepping forwards with his hands raised, his eyes moving between Karlach and Astarion. “Like Hells I’m letting you two charge off without backup. I’m coming too.”

“And where’s my invite?” Shadowheart added, arms crossed, but a smirk tugging at her lips. “I thought we were supposed to be a team.”

“It’s not every day a mortal wizard gets to walk into Cania,” Gale chimed in with a grin. “I’d be a fool to pass up the chance.”

Karlach winked at Astarion. “Well then, I guess we’re still in business, soldier.” 

Astarion was caught off-guard. He hadn’t expected this: this loyalty, this willingness to follow him into the icy jaws of Hell, to rescue a devil. A strange pressure rose in his chest, a tangle of love, gratitude, and guilt. He didn’t want to drag them into danger… but with them, he might actually survive. Raphael might survive. He opened his mouth to thank them, and then he saw it, at the edge of his vision: 

A flash of red.

Wings.

He spun around, eyes wide. It couldn’t be.

It wasn’t.

Fucking Haarlep.  

The incubus stepped into the room, wearing Raphael’s cambion form, and moving with uncharacteristic caution, their eyes darting between Wyll and Karlach, both of whom tensed on sight. Hands raised slowly in a gesture of surrender, Haarlep offered a nervous smile. “Don’t shoot,” they said softly, following it up with a small, uneasy laugh. “I come in peace. Pinky promise.”

Before Haarlep could take another step, Gale began to move, his hands already glowing with magic. “We should end this now,” he said, his voice flat. “No more tricks, we just finish the fiend while we can.” 

“Wait, wait—” Haarlep lifted their hands higher, voice raising in alarm. “I know why you’re here. I heard everything.”

Gale’s own hands flared brighter, the spell on the edge of release.

“Look, I know where he is,” Haarlep blurted, eyes darting between the wizard and his glowing fingers. “I can help you.”

Shadowheart put a hand on Gale’s wrist. He shot her a sharp glance, clearly annoyed, but he let his hands fall, though they still glowed faintly, the spell still ready to cast at a moment’s notice.

Karlach and Wyll exchanged wary looks, neither lowering their guard. Their hands hovered near their weapons, ready to strike if the incubus so much as twitched wrong.

Haarlep took a cautious step closer. Astarion narrowed his eyes. They were draped in what could only be described as a bathrobe, crimson silk, barely tied and hanging open just enough to be intentional. He looked the creature up and down, his lip curling in disdain. “Still parading around in his form?” he said coolly. “Feeling sentimental? Or just fishing for a reaction?”

Haarlep’s smirk turned sly, lips pursing. “It’s not always about you, little vampling.”

Astarion flinched at the nickname — that’s what Raphael called him. It felt like a slap coming from Haarlep.

“Actually,” Haarlep continued, tone airy and unconcerned, though they kept glancing at Gale nervously. “I’m working. You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve made selling this body.” They turned slowly, letting the robe shift just enough to reveal a flash of smooth skin. “Raphael is all anyone is talking about in Cania; everyone wants a taste of Mephisto’s disgraced son. Can’t blame me for cashing in before the market dries up.”

In a blur, Astarion drew the blade from his boot and lunged. “You vile parasite—”

Steel flashed towards Haarlep’s smirking face, but before he could strike, Wyll had seized him around the waist, dragging him back with surprising force. “Astarion!” Wyll barked. “Think this through.”

Haarlep twirled back behind Wyll, robe fluttering as they hovered just out of reach. “Ohh, did I touch a nerve?” they cooed. “It’s almost sweet, how attached you are to my little brat. If you want him back, you’ll need me.”

Astarion struggled against Wyll’s grip, teeth bared, eyes blazing with fury. 

“Enough, Astarion,” Wyll growled, tightening his grip. “Stand down.”

At last, Astarion stopped resisting. He lowered the dagger with a snarl, and Wyll released him. He stepped away, straightening his clothes with trembling hands, his seething gaze still locked on Haarlep. “Why would you help us?” he hissed. “You’re clearly getting a lot out of this. What’s in it for you to see him free?”

“Because without Raphael,” Haarlep said bitterly, “I go back to Mephistopheles. Forever. You can’t blame me for making the most of what’s left of my freedom.”

Wyll didn’t look convinced, still keeping a wary eye on Astarion, he turned to the incubus. “And we’re supposed to trust you? After Crimmor? We found the sigil on him. We know you led Mephistopheles’ warlocks straight to us.”

Haarlep’s eyes widened, and they shook their head quickly, almost frantically. “I had to! If I hadn’t, Mephisto would’ve known I was hiding Raphael. That sigil was a signal, yes, but I made it visible on purpose to try to warn you. Unlike the other one…”

“What other one?” Shadowheart asked, confused.

“The invisible sigil.” Astarion said quietly. “The one blocking Raphael’s powers. That was you?” 

Haarlep nodded, eager now. “Yes. It was cloaking him, shielding him from Mephistopheles’ reach. I kept reapplying it whenever I could, but once you moved him through that portal to Minauros…” they grimaced, “I couldn’t reach him in time. The enchantment wore off, and Mephistopheles found him.”

“How did he find him?” Astarion asked, then turned to Gale. “Could it have been the same Gate spell you used to find me? Why didn’t he fight it?”

The wizard nodded, rubbing his chin in thought. “If the spell came from an archdevil, I doubt he had a choice. That kind of power leaves no room to resist.”

Astarion’s chest tightened uncomfortably. He pictured Raphael as he’d last seen him, naked and human, fast asleep. Did he know what was happening when he was snatched across the planes or did he wake up in Cania, at his father’s feet? “Where is he?” Astarion asked quietly.

A strange look flashed across Haarlep’s face. Sorrow? Guilt? “Mephistar,” they said, voice softer now. “Hard to miss. He’s chained in the middle of Mephistopheles’ court, where everyone can watch him suffer, or… participate.”

Astarion’s stomach turned. He’d imagined Raphael locked away in some cold, dark prison cell, but this… this was so much worse. “When’s the execution?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Execution? Oh, darling, no. Mephistopheles is far too cruel and theatrical for something so merciful. Death would be a kindness.” Haarlep gave a grim smile. “No, he’s made him a monument to failure. Stripped of his pride, his name, his powers. He’ll be chained there for eternity.” 

Astarion swayed slightly, like the ground beneath him was shaking. He felt hollow, like he might actually be sick.

Shadowheart folded her arms, suspicion sharp in her eyes. “I still don’t understand why you even care? Helsik said it was your idea to send him to Mammon. He’d have faced the same fate in Minauros, surely?”

Haarlep’s expression became almost mournful. “It was never supposed to go that far. You were never meant to succeed in getting him through that portal. I just needed him out of the way for a little bit. For his own good.” They lifted a hand, and scratched absently at a horn. “I attended all his pre-trial reviews in Phlegethos for him; I’m much more… diplomatic, persuasive. Raphael has a temper, and if he’d opened that big, arrogant mouth in court, he’d have doomed himself.” Haarlep sighed, shaking their head. “I destroyed the evidence of his... infractions, and his plotting to use the crown to take over the Hells was just hearsay, Mizora’s word against his.” Their voice grew wistful. “The plan was perfect: I’d ‘rescue’ him at the right moment, everything would be cleaned up, and when he returned home, free and unscathed, he’d owe me everything.”

Shadowheart raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t quite go to plan, then? Not as persuasive in court as you thought you were?”

Haarlep shot her a withering look. “The trial was rigged from the start. Mephistopheles wants him out of the way, and in the Hells, no-one argues with the Lord of No Mercy.”

“Then why are you arguing?” Gale asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll say it again, this sounds like a suicide mission. Even if we free him, he’ll never be safe. Mephistopheles will just find him again.”

“Because he’ll forget about him.” Haarlep said, voice cool and certain. “That’s how it goes with Mephisto, his rage burns hot, but never for long. With time, he’ll find a new obsession, in fact, he’s already sniffing around some new arcane experiment. Raphael’s public shame will amuse him for a week, maybe two, then he’ll grow bored and leave him to rot.” Haarlep leaned in, their voice lowering. “And that’s when we’ll slip in and take him. Quietly, no war horns or bloodshed. I’ll create a distraction, and you can get him out of there while no-one’s looking. Mephistopheles won’t even notice — probably not for years, and by then…” Haarlep nodded at Karlach. “Well, you’ll already have what you need from him.” 

Wyll was still looking confused, his voice laced with suspicion. “This still doesn’t explain why you would do all this for him: why you’ve been helping him, from the start.”

Haarlep’s eyes slid slowly to Astarion. “Because he’s mine,” they said simply. “And I want him back.” 

Wyll pursed his lips. “Right. Well… that’s something,” he muttered, clearly not convinced but willing, for now, to let it lie. He glanced over at Karlach, one brow lifting in silent question. She met his look and gave a small, uncertain shrug, nose scrunching. Astarion barely registered the exchange. His mind was spinning.

On one hand, the urgency was off; Raphael wasn’t about to be executed, and that was a small positive. Astarion wasn’t alone in this anymore, either. His friends stood beside him, and Haarlep, questionable, but useful, knew where Raphael was and how to get them in and out of Cania.

But the waiting? It weighed on his very soul.

Every hour they delayed, Raphael suffered. Broken down, piece by piece, in front of an audience. And they were going to let him endure that for weeks? Astarion closed his eyes, and hoped beyond hope that Raphael somehow knew help was coming. That he hadn’t given up.

Not yet.

__________

And so, they waited.

Haarlep, in a gesture of surprising hospitality, allowed them to stay in the tattered remnants of the House of Hope. As derelict as it was in Raphael’s absence, it served its purpose; Karlach, at least, was spared the constant pain her engine caused her on the material plane.

The incubus was gone more often than not, disappearing for days at a time, claiming to be “maintaining their cover” by continuing to sell Raphael’s form to the highest bidders. “He’ll forgive me,” Haarlep had insisted breezily, “once we get him out. He can’t stay mad at little old me.”

Strangely accommodating, Haarlep provided the group with everything they needed: food, weapons, even spell components and fresh bedding, though none of them dared ask where any of it had come from. With time, they were able to rest, regroup, and begin preparing for the bitter journey into freezing Cania.

The group was granted free rein of the house, including the boudoir, to which Haarlep had altered the wards so that only they could enter. “A precaution,” they’d said, “in case any nosy little devils come poking around. It’s the most secure room in the house.” It was the only room left untouched, the rest of the house had been stripped bare. The once-gilded rooms had been swept clean by scavengers, looted of art, treasures, and furnishings. Some rooms had been left in ruins, utterly trashed, as though ransacked from spite rather than greed. There were no eternal debtors left, no wails of trapped souls, no chained prisoners, it was eerily quiet. The enchantment that sustained the pool in the boudoir still pulsed with magic, and the others often spent their downtime there, soaking in the rejuvenating waters. It was one of the few comforts left in the House of Hope.

Astarion didn’t join them. He couldn’t. Instead, he spent most of his hours in the Chamber of Egress, standing alone before the swirling portal to Cania. Its colours churned endlessly, icy blues and infernal reds bleeding into each other, never still. He stared at it for so long, the glow sometimes burned behind his eyes. He thought about the centuries of torment he’d survived, the pain he’d endured at Cazador’s hands, and then imagined how much worse it could be in Hell, at the mercy of devils. At an archdevil’s hands. It hollowed him out just thinking about it. Each day, he unravelled more and more, thread by thread, barely holding it together.

The others noticed, of course they did. They had tried numerous times to draw him into conversation, to speak about it. They were gentle, kind and patient, but there was nothing to say. Nothing they could ever understand.

So he kept it inside.

In the weeks that followed, they worked steadily on the plan.

Haarlep had described Raphael’s suffering in grim detail. He was being kept in Mephistar, the frozen heart of Cania, chained upright between two pillars of ice in one of the citadel’s main hallways. Not hidden away in a dungeon or a cell, but displayed like a trophy, in a central artery of the citadel, used daily by hundreds of devils on their way to kneel before Mephistopheles, seated on his slowly melting throne. As they passed, they would leer at him, jeer at him, hurt him; very little was off limits, they just couldn’t take his life. That would be too kind.

Their opportunity would come when Haarlep confirmed that Mephistopheles had been absent from court for a full tenday; when he was lost in some new arcane obsession or hellfire experiment. The Archdevil was brilliant, but his focus was volatile, and when his mind wandered, the Hells could crumble around him, and he wouldn’t notice. That was when they’d strike.

The plan sounded unnervingly simple. They would enter Mephistar through the portal in the Chamber of Egress, posing as visiting warlocks to avoid suspicion. Once inside the citadel, Haarlep would create a diversion near the grand entrance — something loud, dramatic, and impossible to ignore, to draw as many devils as possible away from the hall where Raphael was kept. While the chaos unfolded, the others would slip through.

Wyll and Karlach would take the lead, watching their flanks; Shadowheart would provide healing if things turned violent; and Astarion would be the one to free Raphael from his chains. Then the moment he was free, Gale would cast Teleport, dragging them all back to the portal and back through to Avernus.

Haarlep would meet them later. Allegedly.

What could go wrong? Countless things, probably, but Astarion didn’t let himself dwell on that. Planning had never been his strength, and he was more than happy to leave the tactical thinking to the group’s bigger brains. His focus was on Raphael. Getting in, getting him out, and surviving it. That, he could handle.

Hopefully.

It took longer than expected.

Mephistopheles, obsessive and unpredictable as ever, seemingly refused to follow any schedule they might have hoped for. Days turned into weeks, and still he presided over his court, toying with politics, punishments, and petty distractions. But finally, finally, he vanished into his private laboratory, absorbed in one of his arcane fixations.

A full month had passed before Haarlep appeared in the boudoir, dressed in more than just their robe. They still wore Raphael’s cambion form, eyes gleaming, horns casting long shadows across the walls. With a dramatic flourish, they dropped five dire wolf fur coats onto the big bed at the back of the room.

For a moment, no-one moved; they simply looked at the incubus, waiting for them to speak, even though they all knew what was coming.

When Haarlep spoke, the usual playfulness was gone from their voice.

“It’s time.”

Chapter Text

Raphael opened his eyes.

Everything hurt.

He drew in a rasping breath, the movement causing cracked ribs to grind together like broken glass in his chest. 

He tried to flex his fingers, but they were numb, unresponsive. His wrists were shackled in heavy, iron chains, each one bolted to a towering pillar of ice in the great hall outside his father’s throne room. His arms were stretched out and pulled high above his head, tension pulling at every joint. If he could stand, it might have eased the strain, but both legs were shattered beyond use, so he sagged in place, knees pressing into the frozen floor. He was fairly certain his spine was broken too, though he couldn’t move enough to confirm it. In truth, he wasn’t sure a single bone remained unbroken. Pain radiated from everywhere. And with every passing wave of foot traffic, came fresh torments. 

It was a free-for-all. There were no guards and no boundaries. He’d been whipped, beaten, assaulted, spat on, pissed on; his body brutalised. 

He didn’t know the rules, but some patterns had emerged: he clearly couldn’t be killed, that would have been too merciful. His horns were untouched, likely reserved as trophies for his father’s collection. His genitals had been left intact too, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, but was at least thankful for — despite the fact that his cock constantly throbbed and leaked from whatever the fuck Haarlep seemed to be doing in his form. And that hadn’t gone unnoticed; curious devils had prodded and poked at him, inserting things inside him, including his own broken tail. 

Every inch of his skin had been carved into. Limbs and torso all bore the signatures of devils eager to leave their mark on the disgraced son of Mephistopheles. Some came for souvenirs: he’d been robbed of a kidney, a rib, and untold gallons of blood, the claws had been pried off each one of his fingers and toes. One particularly grotesque gelugon had tried to take his tongue. He’d thrashed and bit back, severing through its finger with what strength remained. In return, it had rammed a blade up through the bottom of his jaw, impaling his tongue and pinning it to the roof of his mouth. It had stayed there for two days; two long days of choking on blood, until another devil spotted the free knife and yanked it loose.

Even his hair had not been spared. Chunks of it had been hacked away at random, leaving patches and clumps matted with dried blood. Whatever pride he had once taken in his appearance had long since been torn away.

And then there were his wings… his wings had been massacred. The skin had been flayed from the bones, leaving no membrane left at all, only bloodied, skeletal framework. The thin, clawed digits dangled awkwardly, the fine muscle fibres shredded and torn away, the thicker muscles down his back slashed. His left wing hung broken, lying limp against the ice behind him, and the right was curled in tight to his back, spasming every now and then.

Pain radiated through every inch of him in an endless current, pulsing beneath torn skin and splintered bone. His limbs screamed and his head throbbed with a pressure so immense it felt like his skull might split open. He was starving, lips cracked and dry, his swollen tongue constantly dripping blood down his throat. Only Justiciar Bele’s infernal magic kept him alive; it didn’t heal him, and provided no real relief, it just kept him in this cruel stasis, denying him the kindness of death. His body cried out for rest — but there was nothing so merciful in Hell.

Despite all he had seen, all the ages he had endured, Raphael had never known agony like this. It was beyond pain. Beyond comprehension. For the first time in three thousand, three hundred and thirty one years, Raphael wanted to die.

He didn’t understand why it was happening like this. He was supposed to stand trial, to be judged and then executed. Instead, his father had seemingly chosen his own kind of justice: much slower, much more painful, and cruel and humiliating in every way.

Raphael wasn’t the only one enduring punishment in the hall. To his left, another cambion slumped against his own bindings, one Raphael knew had been here for over a decade. He was kept alive with the same magical sustenance from Bele, trapping him in a state of constant suffering. Silent now, his head hung low, chin against his chest, he hadn’t spoken in years, and was completely ignored by everyone.

To Raphael’s right, an erinyes, once a favoured servant of Mephistopheles, never stopped screaming; her shrill wail echoed through the icy room. No-one touched her, no-one even approached, all eyes remained fixed on Raphael, and yet still she screamed, as if she were the one being actively tortured. The devils who passed through the hall would often pause, eyes closed, savouring the beautiful melody of torment. They would smile and sigh because, to them, it was art.

Hundreds of devils and warlocks passed each day, en route to pay tribute or service to Mephistopheles. In the beginning, Raphael had made a point of staring down each one who dared lay hands on him. He memorised their faces, seared them into his mind, building a ledger of vengeance. He’d burn them all, one day…

At least, that had been the plan a month ago. Now he couldn’t even lift his head. He kept his gaze lowered, focused on the puddle of blood beneath his knees. Eye contact only invited more attention and more pain.

Mephistopheles himself had passed him twice. Each time without even a glance; it was as if Raphael had already been erased and forgotten. Once or twice, Raphael thought he glimpsed Haarlep, but they never looked his way. They were probably just the devils Haarlep had stolen the glamours from. Haarlep wouldn’t just ignore him like that... But worst of all, were the moments when he thought he saw flashes of silver hair amongst the crowds, or the glint of red eyes. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. They were delusions, hallucinations, just his mind surely breaking.

Astarion was trapped in Minauros, all alone, with no way home.

Raphael had felt his magic return. On that third day in the clocktower, whilst they lay tangled in each other’s arms. The elf had dug his fingers into Raphael’s hips and thrust into him, and in that moment, whatever sigil had been binding his power finally gave way. He hadn’t said a word. He could have taken Astarion back to the Material Plane, got him home safe. But he’d been selfish. He’d kept Astarion for himself, just a little longer. Then his father had dragged him back to Cania.

He didn’t know what had become of the elf. His little vampling. He likely never would; this was his life now.

Raphael closed his eyes.

__________

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut as he stepped through the portal to Cania. The cold hit him immediately, the frigid air creeping under his thick dire wolf furs and clawing at his skin. The leather of his light armour did little to shield him from the frozen temperatures. The Cloud Peaks seemed tropical in comparison.

A longbow hung over one shoulder: an elegant, unfamiliar weapon named “Dead Shot” that Haarlep had acquired for him from an unknown source. And his trusty dagger, Rhapsody, as always, was hidden in his boot. His pockets were full, crammed with all the random things he’d swiped from Helsik’s room: gem stones, jewellery and a handful of soul coins. He’d kept quiet about the stolen soul coins, though he could hear them, feel them. They pulsed against his legs, emanating strange, incomprehensible whispers that pervaded his mind with angst and despair. They just added to his unease. And then there was the sheet, folded carefully and stashed deep in his pack. The others had stared at him, confused and mildly concerned, as he’d torn it straight from Raphael’s bed back in the House of Hope’s boudoir. He hadn’t explained.

He adjusted the bow, and braced his shoulders against the cold, waiting as the others stepped through the portal. 

“Hells, it’s cold,” Wyll hissed, teeth chattering as he appeared.

The room was cavernous, illuminated only by the eerie glow of thirteen towering archways. Each portal swirled with a different vortex of colour, casting fractured reflections across the glittering polished-ice floor beneath their feet. None of the portals were labelled.

“Where do all these lead to?” Karlach asked, curiously. Steam rose from her breath, but she didn’t seem affected by the biting air, in fact, her fur coat hung open.

“I’m not sure,” Wyll muttered, squinting at the rows, “but we’d best remember which one we came in through.” He pointed. “Third from the left.”

“You’d better commit this whole room to memory, Gale,” Shadowheart added. “If you’re going to teleport us back to it.” 

“Already on it,” the wizard said absently, running his fingers along the edge of their portal’s gilded frame.

Haarlep, who had vanished after stepping through the portal first, reappeared through a solid wooden door set into the wall of ice. Still wearing Raphael’s cambion form, they tilted their head expectantly. “Come along, then. The main hall isn’t far.”

They followed Haarlep through a tall, ice-framed corridor, the sound of their footsteps dampened by the frost-covered floor. The walls of the citadel palace rose up around them in towering, glacial magnificence, forged from solid ice veined with frost, like marble. But it was melting. Thin streams of water snaked down the sculpted edges of the corridor, running along the grooves of intricately carved devils, serpents, and snarling faces, slowly thawing and half-obscured.

Haarlep went ahead, graceful and composed, entering the grand entrance hall through a narrow side door. The room was enormous, its domed ceiling lost in shadow high above. The ice-covered walls shimmered, and water dripped steadily from the ceiling, each drop hitting the floor with a soft, echoing tap, pooling in shallow grooves. Massive arched windows lined one side of the hall, casting fractured beams of light that danced across the ice like shifting stained glass. At the far end loomed the towering front doors, made of blackened iron and frozen bone.

But Haarlep didn’t lead them that way, instead, they turned and gestured to the far side of the hall, directly opposite the front doors, where another wide chamber opened into a series of consecutive halls, their archways framed in melting ice.

“Straight ahead,” Haarlep said smoothly. “Keep going until you reach the great hall with the pillars. You won’t miss Raphael.” Their smirk widened, as they cast their eyes around the large room. “I’ll be here, doing what I do best.” 

Astarion followed their gaze. All around the hall, devils were watching the incubus, some subtle, whispering behind gauntlets or curling their tails with interest. Others were blatant, staring openly at Haarlep with hunger, whispering Raphael’s name.

The sheer number of infernal creatures moving through the palace made Astarion’s anxiety spike. They were surrounded by fiends: lesser devils, horned ones, pit-born monstrosities lingering at the edges of corridors and doorways. How in the Hells were they supposed to unshackle Raphael with this many eyes watching? Even if Haarlep managed to clear out the entrance hall, there were still at least three more chambers between here and the throne room, each one teeming with devils.

The weight of the soul coins in his pocket felt heavier now, their whispers threading into his thoughts like tendrils of dread. Astarion’s habitual breath quickened, and he swallowed hard. 

Don’t break now.

As Haarlep turned away from them and drifted into the crowd, their posture somehow remained relaxed, as if they weren’t all in the middle of trying to steal from an Archdevil. Almost immediately, a gigantic pit fiend peeled away from a cluster of armoured devils and intercepted the incubus, its molten eyes raking hungrily over Haarlep’s borrowed cambion form. It licked its cracked lips, looming close, claws flexing, its intent clear: it liked what it saw. Haarlep offered a seductive little smile and let the creature close the distance. They tilted their head up, leaning in and whispering something in Infernal, a hand stroking the large devil’s solid bicep. The pit fiend rumbled with amusement.

The group quickly looked away.

Karlach muttered, “Stars above, that thing could eat them whole.”

Shadowheart let out a nervous laugh. “Let’s not dwell on that image.”

The companions exchanged nervous glances, steadying their breaths and mentally preparing themselves for unknown dangers. Then, without another word, they began to move down the hall.

They went mostly ignored. A few devils turned their heads as they passed, more curious than hostile. The weight of attention lessened the further away they got from Haarlep. 

The next room stretched ahead, colder and darker with each step closer to the throne room. And at the far end of this hall, a familiar figure stepped into view. 

Mizora, clad in her usual blue gown and gold jewellery. She carried her usual air of smug nonchalance — until she saw them. Her eyes widened, genuine surprise breaking through her polished mask. She made a beeline across to them, quickly replacing the shocked look with a smirk and a sneer. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite little pup,” she said, her voice purring across the ice as she approached. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Wyll’s shoulders stiffened instantly. “Mizora.”

Her gaze swept over the group, as if trying to confirm that this wasn’t some devilish hallucination. “What in the Nine Hells are you doing in Cania?” she asked, not even trying to mask her curiosity. “In Mephistopheles’ own citadel, no less? Have you all gone completely mad, or are you just very, very lost?”

“He’s just shopping for a new patron, Mizora,” Karlach said, practically spitting her name.

Mizora trilled a piercing laugh. “Ah, Zariel’s favourite runaway furnace. I should be dragging you back by the horn, but alas, Cania isn’t exactly her jurisdiction, is it?” Her lips curled as her gaze dipped to Karlach’s glowing chest. “Lucky you.”

“Why are you here, Mizora?” Wyll chimed in, his fists clenched tightly.

“To see Raphael, of course. Word travels fast, even across the planes. Zariel couldn’t quite believe it when she heard.” Mizora stepped closer, lowering her voice, “And of course, I just had to see for myself. The little Prince of Cania, broken and bleeding, screaming like a mortal child.” She hummed in delight. “That kind of theatre only comes around once in a millennia. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“You came all this way to admire your own handiwork?” Astarion snapped, unable to contain himself. “He’s only in chains because of you. You’re the one who ratted him out.”

Mizora blinked, eyebrows raised, more surprised than defensive. Then she laughed, tossing her red hair over one shoulder. “Me? Darling, please, if I’d been the one to bring Raphael down, I’d be bathing in the blood at his feet right now,” she said. “But no. His downfall wasn’t my doing, as much as I wish I could take the credit.”

Wyll and Karlach exchanged a look. 

“Who reported him then?” Astarion asked, confused. “Why was there a trial?”

The cambion angled her head slightly, her eyes calculating. “There was no trial. Raphael is a permanent resident of Avernus, I would know if there were legal summons. I always make a point of attending the fun ones.” 

Astarion’s mind was reeling. “Then, what is he being punished for?”

Mizora gave an exaggerated shrug, completely unbothered. “He always was arrogant, Raphael. Reckless. He probably just overreached; made too much noise and embarrassed Daddy. I care not, I’m only here to confirm that the bastard is strung up like the rumours say.”

Astarion didn’t know what to make of it all. If there was no trial, then why had Raphael said there was? One which Helsik and Morgana seemed to know about, but not Mizora, who supposedly set the whole thing in motion. He wasn’t sure how this would affect their rescue plan, if at all, but he felt uneasy. Maybe Mizora was just toying with them…

“He makes quite the statement piece,” the cambion was saying loudly. “I recommend swinging by once you’ve finished… whatever suicidal business you came here for.” 

Her eyes were still searching Wyll, trying to suss him out. He just gave her a calm smile. “Well, don’t let us interrupt your sightseeing, Mizora,” he said. “Can’t say it was a pleasure running into you.”

“You wound me, pup,” she purred back, placing a hand delicately over her heart, fingers stroking her exposed collarbone. “And here I thought you missed me.”

Wyll didn’t answer. He just stepped past her without a second glance, disappearing into the next hall. 

The others moved to follow, but Karlach hung back. She stepped in close, until she was nearly chest to chest with Mizora. The air around her was shimmering with the heat curling off her shoulders in the cold air. For a long moment, she just stared, a wild grin playing across her face, eyes burning with challenge. Then, with a scoff and a sneer, she pulled back and turned away, walking after Wyll without a word. Behind her, Mizora didn’t move. But her smirk twitched very slightly, her teeth flashing.

Astarion jogged a few steps to catch up with the others, pulling his furs tighter as he glanced back over his shoulder. “So… the trial wasn’t real?” he asked quietly. “What does this mean for our mission?”

“Mizora would never admit to not knowing something,” Wyll said, his own voice low and edged with frustration. “She’d rather lie than look uninformed. Just ignore her.”

Karlach nodded grimly. “Don’t ever trust a single fucking word out of a devil’s mouth.”

Astarion glanced sideways at Karlach as they walked. “Raphael’s a devil. Why did you agree to come? Why help him?”

Karlach looked across at him, then bumped him with a solid elbow to the ribs, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him stumble a step on the glossy ice. “You remember what you told me in Nashkel?” she said, grinning. “You said you were with me because you chose to be. Well, here I am. If I’m stuck with you, Fangs, you’re stuck with me too.”

He almost smiled. He wanted to. Karlach had always been a rock; ever calm in the thick of chaos, the one who cracked jokes even when blades were drawn and arrows notched. He knew she was trying to steady him now, to keep him grounded. He turned his gaze back to the other two. Gale was frowning, deep in thought, eyes flicking between the surrounding devils and the next archway up ahead. Shadowheart walked with one hand near her weapon, scanning each passing figure, whispering soft, urgent prayers under her breath.

With each step closer to the throne room, their moods darkened, as if the cold had seeped through their thick furs and settled in their very bones, dragging in fear and chipping away at what little confidence they’d had.

As they stepped into the final hall, lined with rows of towering pillars of ice, Astarion’s eyes found Raphael immediately. A broken figure strung up between two pillars directly ahead, with his back to them, Raphael was on his knees, his head drooping low, arms chained above him. 

Astarion’s undead heart lurched in his chest. From this distance, all Astarion could see was blood, so much blood: it rolled down Raphael’s skin, pooling beneath him in a glistening lake. From beside him, Astarion heard Shadowheart gasp. He quickened his pace, hurrying towards his devil. 

“Fucking hell,” Karlach breathed, recoiling as a chained devil to Raphael’s right let out a piercing, soul-wracking scream. “That’s enough to drive you mad.”

“What in the Hells is Haarlep doing?” Wyll growled under his breath. “This place is crawling. Where’s the damn distraction?”

He wasn’t wrong, while there were fewer devils in this hall than the entrance hall, there were far too many watching eyes on them. 

Astarion resisted the temptation to run the rest of the way to Raphael, though, closer now, he could see the full extent of Raphael’s torment. He felt sick. His wings…

They were halfway across the vast hall when an ice devil stepped directly into their path. Its mandibles clicked, and it hissed something fast and guttural in Infernal, looking right at Gale.

“I’m sorry — what?” he asked, caught off guard, raising his hands in confusion. “I don’t—”

The devil leaned closer, its head cocking, lidless eyes swivelling. Its claws reached out, lightly brushing his arm, in a strangely familiar, almost possessive manner. Gale’s expression fell as the confusion drained away. He turned to the others. “Haarlep,” he said grimly. “It thinks I’m Haarlep.”

A moment of tense silence passed, as they all grimaced at the implication, then Gale took a deep breath in, and turned back to the devil, offering a slow, crooked smile. “Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a finger to his lips.

The gelugon stilled, intrigued. Gale winked, then tipped his head slightly, gesturing playfully with a flick of his fingers. He looked around at the other ice devils who were now watching the exchange with intrigue. He beckoned them too, and they began to drift his way.

“What in the Hells is he doing?” Astarion hissed.

“He’s leading them away,” Karlach muttered, a mixture of bewilderment and disgust on her face.

Gale looked over his shoulder at them, one eyebrow raised, still playing the part. “I’ll need backup,” he said through his teeth, as he continued smiling as sweetly as he could through his nerves.

“I’ve got you.” Wyll stepped forwards immediately. “Shadowheart, you’re needed here,” he said, nodding once at the cleric, before following Gale back towards the neighbouring hall, ice devils gliding behind them like wolves scenting blood.

“Astarion, hurry,” Karlach urged, glancing after them. “We’re gonna need Gale to zap us back to the portal room, so if you’re going to do this, you’d best be fast.”

Astarion didn’t need to be told twice. In a blink, he was across the icy floor, dropping to his knees in front of Raphael, his longbow clattering to the floor. Blood soaked instantly into his trousers.

“Raphael?” he asked softly.

The cambion’s eyes were open, but unfocused — staring straight through Astarion, as if he were nothing more than mist.

His body was a ruin. Every inch of skin was marked with deep, oozing gashes, clearly carved intentionally. The jagged symbols, Infernal script, branded him like a contract. His lips were split and crusted with dried blood, more seeping from his nose, and his breath came out shallow and irregular. A fresh line of red dripped slowly from beneath his jaw, trailing from some unseen wound inside his mouth, pattering softly into the pool below. His hair had been hacked at; it was much shorter now, with some long strands falling in front of his face, and patches where it had been torn out at the roots in handfuls.

Very carefully, Astarion placed his palm against Raphael’s cheek, slowly lifting his head. 

Dull, amber eyes slid towards him. They didn’t widen or flinch, only stared, glassy and hollow, as if Raphael had been expecting this visitor… or at least a hallucination of him.

Astarion leaned in and kissed him. His lips brushed against dry, cracked ones. He let his tongue flick out, brushing along Raphael’s mouth, licking away some of the blood — all the heat had gone from it. He brought up his other hand, cradling the back of Raphael’s head, careful not to press too hard. 

Slowly, gradually, Raphael began to kiss him back.

When Astarion pulled away, Raphael sighed, a small breath escaping, a faint crease between his brows. Slowly, his eyes focused, and the fog began to lift. His eyebrows twitched, then rose, a flicker of recognition dawning as he looked at the elf in front of him.

“Hello, love,” Astarion whispered.

Tears welled up in Raphael’s eyes almost instantly. He parted his lips with visible effort, a bloodied tongue dragging over the cracked skin to wet them. When he finally spoke, his voice came out as a dry rasp. “That’s… five.” 

Ignoring the tears spilling out of his own eyes, Astarion nodded, his chin trembling. He leaned in and wrapped his arms around Raphael, pulling him in gently, cradling him. Raphael collapsed against him, burying his face in Astarion’s shoulder. A shuddering sob escaped him, his entire body then convulsing from the pain the movement caused. Astarion held him tighter, one hand threading through the torn remnants of his hair, the other bracing his blood-coated back. He glanced down and winced.

Raphael’s wings… Just bare bones now, the skin and membrane stripped away. The left wing was barely clinging on by remnants of sinew. The right was curled in, broken in multiple places, each joint grotesquely bent.

Astarion shut his eyes, his jaw clenched against the rising fury in his chest. “We’re getting you out,” he whispered. “You hear me? You’re not staying here.”

Raphael didn’t answer. He just cried, silently and helplessly into Astarion’s shoulder.

Karlach cleared her throat, reminding him they didn’t have much time.

Astarion drew back, stroking Raphael’s cheeks and wiping up the tears with his thumbs, before rising to his feet. As he turned, he caught Karlach watching him, her eyes flint-hard. She didn’t say a word, but the look was enough. Of course she’d seen the kiss.

He looked away quickly, moving to the nearest pillar and reaching up to the shackle on Raphael’s right wrist, his thieves' tools already in his hands.

Behind Raphael, Shadowheart crouched, her hands glowing with soft divine light, lips moving in silent prayer. Her eyes were closed in concentration as her fingers hovered over him, her magic seeping under his skin, feeling out the extent of the damage.

Karlach resumed pacing nearby, eyes sweeping the vast hall, looking everywhere except at Astarion. Strangely, no one came. Whether by luck, design, or some bizarre twist of fate, the great hall had emptied. For now, they were alone. 

Astarion didn’t stop to thank the gods, time was ticking. He kept his focus sharp, and with a final twist of his pick, the first shackle clicked loose. Raphael’s right arm dropped like dead weight, and he groaned in agony, his whole body jolting from the sudden shift. Astarion moved quickly to the other pillar, setting to work on the second shackle. Moments later, the metal clanked open. This time, Astarion caught Raphael’s arm before it fell, and tried to gently lower it as the cambion crumpled down, his body collapsing under its own weight after being freed from his chains, utterly drained of strength.

Behind them, Shadowheart lifted her head slightly and beckoned with a tilt of her chin. “Astarion,” she said quietly. “Look.”

As Astarion rounded behind Raphael, and recoiled. A massive wound gaped open along his lower back and side, where the skin had been peeled away in strips, the muscle hacked and scorched, leaving a dark, wet cavity. Blackened tissue festered with infection, the edges yellow and green where pus leaked freely, mixing with sluggish, tar-like blood.

“They carved straight through him.” Shadowheart sounded sickened. “He’s missing a kidney, and at least a couple of ribs — right here.” Her fingers hovered just over the wound. “See that gap? There’s no support left.” She lowered her voice. “We can’t move him without Gale.”

Astarion stared at the mess of exposed tissue and the glint of glistening bone. His chest felt tight. He could handle gore and butchery, it was the deliberate cruelty that bothered him. The fact they’d done this to him.  

He was angry. 

Raphael coughed, a weak, wet sound, causing fresh blood to spill from the wound in a sudden gush.

“Godsdammit,” Shadowheart sighed, frustration and panic setting in. “This isn’t enough. This needs more than battlefield healing magic. I need time, clean tools, even gauze would help.”

Karlach stepped around to join them at Raphael’s back, her expression grim as she looked down at the ruined flesh. “This is what’s going to happen to us — and worse — if we don’t get out of here now,” she said, her voice fierce. She looked over her shoulder. “Where in the Hells are those two?” she snapped, already moving to the archway.

The tremor in Karlach’s voice unsettled Astarion. She was usually the most calm in the face of danger, their anchor in chaos. Her rising agitation pressed against his own frayed nerves.

Haarlep suddenly appeared in the archway, before drifting into the room, maddeningly unhurried, their expression carefully neutral. They never once looked at Raphael. “Where are the other two?!” they hissed, eyes darting around the empty hall. “We have to go. Now.”

“They literally went that way,” Karlach said, pointing to where Haarlep had just come from. “You didn’t see them?” Her voice was pitched higher now, rising with urgency. Panic.

“We can’t move him,” Shadowheart gestured to Raphael. “We need to teleport back to the portal chamber. We need Gale.”

Astarion felt another wave of fear lance through him, strangely cold and unnatural, like ice sliding through his gut and coiling up his spine. It sank into his limbs like lead, making his hands tremble uncontrollably. He dropped back to Raphael’s side, crouching. He shoved his hand into his pocket, fingers seeking cold metal. “I thought these might give you some strength,” he said softly, pulling out the handful of soul coins and holding them out to him.

Raphael’s bleary gaze dropped to the coins, then drifted back to Astarion’s face. A weak, broken smile trying to form on his lips.

Then suddenly, his eyes widened.

What little colour he had in his face drained instantly, as he stared past Astarion’s shoulder, completely still, his expression frozen in pure, unfiltered terror.

Astarion turned slowly.

Karlach was deathly still, her usual fire doused in dread. Shadowheart’s hands were frozen, still hovering above Raphael’s torn flesh, her healing spell flickering out, forgotten. Even Haarlep had gone rigid, lips parted, eyes wide with fear.

And then he saw why.

A figure loomed in the archway of the throne room. Impossibly tall, as if carved from hellfire and ice, his skin the deep crimson of spilled blood. Twin black horns curled from his brow, like a twisted crown of elegant cruelty, and a cloak of frost and shadow spilled from his shoulders, whispering across the icy floor. 

Those eyes, pale as moonlight, yet burning with terrible intent, locked on Astarion, boring straight through flesh and bone, staring into his very soul.

Nine feet of infernal majesty, every inch of him wreathed in an aura so oppressive, even the air seemed to bend around him.

Mephistopheles.

Chapter Text

Astarion knew fear. 

Or at least, he’d thought he did.

This fear was new to him. It was unnatural, a profound, magic-born terror permeating through the air, obliterating all other senses. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably. His vision tunnelling. His mind emptying of all thought.

Under the icy gaze of Mephistopheles, Lord of Hellfire, Archdevil of Cania, Astarion felt his will unravel. He felt so small, so insignificant. He was no longer an elf, not even a monster. He was just dust beneath a god’s heels; he was nothing.

Astarion flinched at the sudden warmth on his wrist, snapping him out of his daze of fear. Raphael’s fingers, declawed and bloodied, brushed against his skin. He leaned in, touching his forehead against Astarion’s, his shallow breaths hot against Astarion’s cheek.

“Get your… wizard,” he rasped. “And go.”

Astarion shook his head instantly, the words catching in his throat. “No— Not without you,” His voice cracked and his eyes burned.

Raphael gave a faint, sad smile. His lips were trembling, blood trickling steadily from under his jaw. “It’s too late…”

Astarion tried to protest, that one desperate word already forming on his tongue: 

No.

They hadn’t come this far, crossing planes, risking everything, to just leave him behind again.

But Raphael’s fingers closed around Astarion’s hand with sudden strength, pressing into the soul coins still clutched in his palm. “Go,” he breathed again, his voice fraying slightly.

As Raphael gripped him, the coins began to change. The soft whispers that had haunted Astarion’s pockets became a shrill chorus of agonised wailing. The metal was red-hot, searing his undead flesh, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t; Raphael’s grip was too tight, his golden eyes burning as they took in the elf, scanning his face, as if for the last time.

The coins seemed to sink into Raphael’s skin, as if melting into the open wounds and cracks on his hands. Then Raphael threw his head back with a choked gasp as the infernal energy surged through him, his entire body arching violently.

Astarion tried to steady him, but jerked back as Raphael’s spine snapped forwards again, curling inwards and convulsing painfully. He pulled away from Astarion’s hands, dragging one leg forwards, the fractured bones crunching audibly as he shifted his weight. Each movement was torture, and an agonised growl tore from deep in his chest as he forced his ruined body upright. He stayed hunched as he rose, his breath coming in harsh, rasping gasps, shoulders heaving. Then a blast of flame erupted from his body, engulfing him entirely in a blazing corona of orange and gold. Heat rippled through the hall, and Astarion recoiled, stumbling back, shielding his eyes. 

Through the blaze, Raphael rose, towering over them all in his monstrous ascended fiend form. Black, skeletal wings unfurled from his back, stretching wide as he straightened. Beneath the hard, ebony ridges of his exoskeleton, red and orange hellfire flickered and pulsed down his spine and limbs. His horns had elongated, curling like jagged antlers around a triad of faces — each one animalistic, skin stretched thin over bone, three snarling maws bristling with fangs and tusks. Above them, three glowing eyes were all focused on the archdevil ahead. The horrific damage to his cambion body didn’t look to have followed him into this form: long, glinting talons tipped each finger and toe. His wings were intact too, leathery skin stretched taut between each clawed digit.

Astarion had seen this form once before, during the battle that nearly ended Raphael for good. He remembered too well the speed of those digitigrade legs, the way those claws had sliced through armour like paper. But something was wrong. Raphael moved with a stiffness that didn’t match the majesty of his form. Though he looked healed, he still limped, his steps uneven, as if all the damage was still tormenting him beneath his new shape. He staggered towards Mephistopheles, and from all three mouths came a loud roar, the sound layered and discordant, echoing around the vast hall, rattling Astarion’s bones.

Mephistopheles watched his son approach, moonlight-pale eyes slowly drifting over the monstrous form. He tipped his head back and laughed. It was the deepest voice Astarion had ever heard, lower even than Sarevok Anchev’s, rich and thunderous, reverberating through the ice under their feet.

But it didn’t stop Raphael, he kept advancing, claws raised, ignoring the warning growl that rumbled from the archdevil next, the hissed words in Infernal. 

As he reached him, Mephistopheles swung his arm, striking Raphael hard across the chest. The blow sent the thirteen foot fiend flying backwards, his body crashing to the ice and skidding across the frozen floor.

Astarion tried to move, to run to him, but a warm hand seized his arm, claws biting into his skin.

“Don’t be so stupid,” Haarlep hissed in his ear. “Do you want to die here too?”

“I have to do something.”

Ahead of them, Raphael rose unsteadily to his feet, advancing again. But he never landed a blow. Mephistopheles caught him effortlessly, one massive hand snapping around the jaw of one of Raphael’s smaller heads, the other seizing a wing. There was a grotesque crack as the left jaw bone gave way under the pressure, shattering teeth and tusks. At the same time, a savage tug tore the wing clean from Raphael’s back. The scream that followed was inhuman: a terrible, ear-splitting screech. Beside him, Astarion felt Shadowheart flinch, throwing her hands up to cover her ears. Raphael collapsed to his knees, black blood pouring from his back and down his front, cascading over the ice. Beside him, the severed wing lay crumpled and discarded.

Mephistopheles shook his head as he regarded Raphael, speaking Infernal in a measured tone, seeming entirely unbothered, as if he were simply disciplining a disobedient servant rather than crushing his own son. With a dismissive flick of the archdevil’s fingers, Raphael’s form was swallowed by a brief burst of flame. His fiendish shape collapsed in on itself, and in its place, the broken cambion reappeared.

Stripped of the strength his transformation had offered, Raphael dropped back onto the ice, a rough cry tearing from his throat as his flayed and shattered wings were crushed beneath his own weight, and the gaping wound on his back slammed against the floor. Mephistopheles loomed over him, still composed, still unhurried.

“He’s not going to stop,” Haarlep whispered beside Astarion. “He’ll kill him.”

“No!” Astarion gasped, eyes frantically scanning the floor for his bow.

“You can’t take him on, you imbecile,” Haarlep snarled, jerking his arm back roughly. “He’s a devil. Use your brain!”

Astarion could barely hear himself think over the roaring in his ears — the sound of Raphael screaming as Mephistopheles planted his foot on the cambion’s chest and pressed down.

A devil. 

Devils can be bargained with.  

Astarion swallowed hard. But what could he possibly offer an archdevil? He had no power. No leverage. Nothing that mattered.

“I… I have nothing,” he whispered. “Only my… my soul…”

Haarlep leaned in closer, their breath warm against his ear. “Your soul is no use to a king,” they hissed. “Try again.”

There was another crunch of bone. Raphael’s eyelids fluttered, his breath rattling in shallow, ever-slowing gasps. Mephistopheles bent low, foot still pressing down on his chest, and wrapped a hand around one of Raphael’s horns. He gave a sudden, deliberate yank, as if preparing to wrench his son’s head — and spine — straight from his body.

A king.

The word rang through Astarion’s mind.

The crown.

He surged to his feet, raising his arms as he stepped forwards. 

“Wait!” he shouted.

The archdevil paused.

Mephistopheles lifted his head, slowly turning his gaze to the vampire spawn daring to interrupt him. His boot remained on Raphael’s chest for a long, dreadful moment, and then he stepped back, releasing the pressure.

Still held up by the horn, Raphael wheezed, blood bubbling at his lips, a faint whistling sound escaping as his lungs fought to draw breath.

Astarion swallowed his fear and took another step.

“You can have the crown,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “The Crown of Karsus. I know where it is.”

Behind him, neither Karlach or Shadowheart moved, they didn't make a sound.

Mephistopheles cocked his head, studying Astarion like prey. “Go on, spawn,” he said slowly. “Where?”

Astarion gulped. “I’d like to make a deal.”

One of the archdevil’s brows raised. “Interesting. And what, pray tell, would you bargain for?”

Astarion lifted his chin, clasping his hands together behind his back to hide their shaking. “Raphael. I want you to release him.”

Mephistopheles gave a low, cold laugh, his gaze drifting to Raphael’s broken form, still slumped beneath him, limp in his grip. “Did you hear that, my half-blood?” he said, lifting the horn he still held. Raphael twitched faintly, eyes rolling as he tried to move his head — whether to respond or try to shake himself free, it was hard to tell. He didn’t manage either.

“I assure you, he’s not worth it,” Mephistopheles said, looking back at Astarion and letting the horn drop. Raphael’s head hit the ice with a nauseating crack. He didn’t move again.

Astarion flinched, but forced himself not to look away. He squared his shoulders and raised his voice again, firmer this time.

“I want him. That’s my price.”

Mephistopheles regarded him for a long moment, and then smiled, expression dripping with mockery and malice. “More fool you.”

With a snap of the archdevil’s fingers, the hall dissolved into shadow, and reformed into a far larger, grander space. They now stood in the throne room of Cania: vast and cathedral-like, carved from black ice and obsidian. Somehow, the air was even colder and more bitter in here. Atop a wide, looming dais, sat a massive ice throne, its back rising up like jagged spires. The seat was cracked and misshapen, long icicles frozen in place where melt-water had dripped down the legs like tears, freezing again at the base. It was an impressive throne, but as with most things in Cania, it radiated neglect; it was the seat of an archdevil forever distracted, always chasing a new obsession. All around them, official-looking devils in finely cut robes scrambled to attention. They carried rolled scrolls, quills made from bone, and ink pots filled with thick, crimson liquid that sloshed as they moved.

A sudden crack of magic split the air again. Shadowheart and Karlach both jumped as Wyll and Gale were forcibly magicked into the room, appearing mid-struggle between four armoured gelugons. Heavy infernal iron cuffs glinted on their wrists, etched with binding runes.

Fuck.

Astarion glanced over at Raphael. Blood was leaking from the back of his head, already pooling on the frozen floor, seeping into cracks in the ice below. Just hang on, Astarion thought desperately, trying to calm his rising panic.

Almost leisurely, Mephistopheles ascended the dais and settled upon his throne, the ancient ice groaning faintly beneath him. His voice echoed through the hall: “Very well. Let us proceed.” He steepled his fingers, eyes gleaming like twin stars. “In accordance with the infernal laws of Pact Insidious, the architect of this transaction — the one who orchestrated the return of the Crown of Karsus to me — shall be granted full dominion over the entity known as Raphael, son of Mephistopheles.”

“Erm— What?!” came Gale’s incredulous voice from the back of the room. “Astarion, you can’t.”

Astarion didn’t look back. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat. “And I’d like my friends and I to be released, freed from Cania, unharmed,” he said. “All of us.” He carefully named each one of them, ensuring there’d be no loophole in the wording.

Mephistopheles inclined his head slightly, and at his side, a tall, rail-thin devil with glassy eyes and fingers ending in long, sharp talons, began inscribing the contract onto a long black scroll with shimmering crimson ink.

“Wait,” Astarion said suddenly, his voice interrupting the scratching of the quill. He stared at Raphael’s still form on the floor. “Is he— is he still alive?”

Mephistopheles turned his gaze to his son, head tilting with idle curiosity. With a casual snap of the archdevil's fingers, Raphael’s body jolted and he gasped sharply, then erupted into a fit of coughing, one hand curling instinctively over his ribs. “Yes,” Mephistopheles replied coolly. 

As the archdevil’s icy gaze returned to him, Astarion forced himself not to look away, caught between terror and resolve.

Mephistopheles was handsome, Astarion thought, alarmingly so. There was a trace of Raphael in the cut of his jaw, a ghost of resemblance in the shape of his mouth, but where Raphael had fire in his smirk and warmth in his charm, Mephistopheles had none; his features were flawless, inhumanly symmetrical, and cold. He was beautiful, yes, but not desirable — he was utterly terrifying. Mephistopheles only stared back at him, smiling faintly, as the scribe continued to write up the contract.

The drafted contract was written in Common as a courtesy, and Astarion was given plenty of time to deliberate, as well as speak with his companions.

Mephistopheles remained seated on his throne, watching with an air of faint amusement as Astarion stepped away from him with a small bow, and approached his friends. Wyll and Gale were unshackled, and the group drew together, forming a tight circle, keeping their voices low, despite knowing every word was being listened to.

“Astarion, you can’t hand over the Crown,” Gale said sharply, struggling to keep his tone hushed. “It’s madness.”

“And what would you prefer I do?” Astarion shot back, red eyes flashing. “Sell my soul instead?”

“Well, haven’t you already promised it to Raphael?” Gale countered.

Shadowheart raised a hand, trying to cut through the argument. “Look, Gale, the Archdevil had it locked away in his vault for over a thousand years. Does it really matter if it goes back there to gather more dust? Honestly, isn’t it safer there than anywhere else?”

Gale’s expression tightened. “Need I remind you all, you were the ones who convinced me to leave the Crown behind in the first place. I wanted to use it to help the world, remember? But no, it was too dangerous.”

“We need Raphael, alive and free,” Astarion said quietly. “Right now, it’s as simple as that.”

Gale gave a long, tense sigh. “You’d trade the life of a devil for one of the most powerful relics ever forged? We’re talking about god-like power here, Astarion. He wouldn’t do it for you.”

“It’s not just his life, though,” Karlach added. “It’s mine, and Astarion’s too. This decision saves all of us.”

“Of course I understand that,” Gale lowered his voice. “But surely there’s another way. We haven’t even explored what the Crown can do. It could fix everything, if we just learned to use it.”

“Then why haven’t we?” Shadowheart asked, folding her arms. “You’ve known where it is for months.”

Gale opened his mouth to answer, but no words came.

“Exactly,” she said. “We don’t know how to use it. Or control it.”

“It’s safer in his vault,” Astarion said, nodding, like he needed to convince himself as much as the others.

Wyll was keeping his eye on the gelugons standing nearby, their long spears still trained on the group. One of them was conspicuously missing a finger, the stump gnarled and clotted, clearly the result of a recent and very toothy encounter.

“We might not have another choice now,” Wyll muttered. “This deal could be the only way that guarantees safe passage back to Avernus, after…” he gestured around, “all this.”

Gale scoffed under his breath. “That ice devil grabbed me first. I was well within my rights to defend myself.”

Wyll gave him a tired look. “Yeah? Tell that to the armed guard. We’ve been officially labelled ‘disturbers of the peace.’ If it weren’t for this deal on the table, we’d be rotting in a dungeon for breaking and entering, not to mention attempted prisoner extraction.”

“And not just any prisoner,” Karlach added darkly, her eyes flicking to Astarion, then quickly away. “The prized trophy.”

Gale looked like he was gearing up for another protest, but eventually he let out a slow breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he said at last. “But we’re not signing anything blindly. Let me see that.”

Astarion handed over the draft, into Gale’s outstretched hand. The wizard’s brow furrowed as his eyes scanned each word, lips moving silently as he began to read.

As Gale read, Astarion’s gaze drifted, drawn back to Raphael. Haarlep was crouching over him now, a strangely intense expression on their face. Their lips moved rapidly, as they hissed something in infernal, their tail lashing the air in agitated snaps. Raphael looked almost afraid; he was feebly trying to crawl backwards across the ice, inching away from Haarlep, but the incubus followed, leaning in close, fangs scraping his ear as they whispered to him. Raphael tried to turn his head away, but Haarlep caught his chin and forced it back, clawed thumb deliberately digging into the wound beneath his jaw.

Astarion frowned. It didn’t make sense. Haarlep had been so concerned before, so sympathetic. They’d wanted to save Raphael, claimed to need him, but then they hadn’t even looked at him when they found him in chains, strung up in the hall. And here they were now, taunting him, venom glittering in their eyes. Unable to watch the casual display of cruelty any longer, Astarion turned back to the only thing that might help, and tried to focus on the contract over Gale’s shoulder, unease weighing on him.

“I find this wording slightly… unusual,” Gale muttered, eyes scanning the parchment. “‘The architect of this transaction, the one who orchestrated the return of the Crown of Karsus, shall be granted dominion over the entity known as Raphael.’” He looked up, brow furrowing further. “Astarion, it says you would own him.”

Karlach made a face. “I don’t remember you asking for that. Why the hell would he add that in?”

Astarion’s own frown deepened. His eyes drifted back to the phrase in question. “‘Orchestrated’…” he murmured, rolling the word on his tongue, letting its implications settle in.

He hadn’t planned any of this. Offering the crown had come in a single moment of panic and desperation. It was a reflex, not a strategy. He wasn’t a tactician, and he certainly wasn’t the architect of anything.

But someone else had been. Someone had guided the narrative, nudged events into place, whispered in ears on both sides. Someone who’d been there from the beginning, watching, manipulating, planting just the right thoughts in just the right minds.

His blood ran cold.

Haarlep.

Astarion glanced back at the incubus. Haarlep had drifted away from Raphael and now stood idly, watching Astarion, their tail still flicking with anticipation. When their eyes met his, Haarlep’s expression warmed, the earlier intensity vanished, replaced by a smooth, syrupy smile. They raised their eyebrows in a polite, almost playful gesture, as if to say, ‘Well? What’s the holdup?’

But Astarion was no longer fooled. Haarlep had been the one to hand Raphael over to Helsik, to nudge her into gifting him to Mammon. They’d insisted the delivery be made by the Baldur’s Gate heroes, knowing exactly how to use Karlach as leverage; knowing exactly which strings to pull. The trial, the one no-one had ever seen or heard of, had existed only in whispers, and only amongst those whose ears Haarlep had bent. Raphael himself, misled into believing he’d been betrayed. The warlocks, convinced to stay silent. And then, conveniently, all the damning evidence against him had simply vanished. And that whisper, Haarlep’s voice in Astarion’s ear… “Your soul is no use to a king.” A seed, planted in the moment of weakness, when doubt was at its most fertile.

Orchestration.

Haarlep had wanted Raphael all along, stripped of power, helpless and delivered on a platter… to be owned by contract, and by the laws of Hell. And judging by the wording in the contract, Mephistopheles was in on it too. The whole thing had been a set up. Raphael for the Crown.

Astarion turned away from the incubus and strode up to the dais, voice loud and clear. “I require a rewrite.”

“Oh?” Mephistopheles leaned forwards on his throne, a sliver of curiosity piercing through his cold amusement, as he peered down at the elf. “Is that so?”

“I am to be exclusively named as the primary beneficiary of the exchange,” Astarion said, with as much confidence as he could muster. “As instigator and executor of the transaction.”

He didn’t miss Haarlep’s reaction. The incubus stiffened, alarm flashing across their face as they looked between Astarion and Mephistopheles, shaking their head with growing urgency. They tried to speak, but Mephistopheles lifted a single finger and the words died in Haarlep’s throat. Their mouth snapped shut like a trap, but the panic in their eyes remained.

After a thoughtful pause, Mephistopheles gave a slow nod. “Very well,” he rumbled. “Anything else, little magistrate?”

Astarion looked over at Raphael. The cambion was unconscious again, slipping in and out, still injured beyond belief, but still hanging on. “I want him freed,” Astarion said quietly. “Not bound to me. Not owned.”

A spark of surprise danced behind the archdevils' eyes. “I would advise against that, mortal. My son covets the Crown. Deeply. He would not forgive you for trading it away. Not even to save his own life.”

Astarion considered. It was a fair warning. He wasn’t yet sure what he’d face when Raphael was released fully, with all his power intact. They hadn’t made their bargain yet, so there was no contract in place to protect Astarion. And this way… perhaps Karlach’s engine could be fixed without him damning himself — or having to say goodbye to Raphael…

He could keep him.

Astarion didn’t dare glance back at the others. He could feel their eyes on his back, doubt and disapproval pressing between his shoulder blades. But none of them spoke, not whilst an archdevil held court.

He turned back to Mephistopheles. “How are you able to sign him over to me, anyway?” he asked, carefully. “Aren’t there laws against… selling a person?”

The archdevil laughed quietly. Unexpectedly, the sound had begun to lose its menace; Astarion even found it almost pleasant now. “Not too long ago, a rogue band of adventurers laid siege to my son’s estate,” Mephistopheles mused. “In his final moments, Raphael called out to me, his sire and Lord. He begged me to spare him.” The archdevil’s gaze slid across the group like a blade, and Astarion felt the others shift uneasily behind him. “He belongs to me,” Mephistopheles finished, smooth and absolute. “And is mine to bargain with.”

Astarion wasn’t sure how to process the information. So, not only had they come dangerously close to actually killing Raphael, but they’d also cost him his freedom. Was he waiting to be free and powerful again to seek his revenge? He swallowed his guilt. He had no choice, he needed to protect his friends. Astarion glanced again at Raphael. Still unconscious… He nodded. “Okay, keep it in. I’ll take him.”

A bitter scoff escaped Haarlep, and they folded their arms tightly across their chest hautily, tail now twitching in fury. Mephistopheles smiled at the incubus, a slow, serpentlike grin, then turned to his scribe and gave a single, exaggerated nod. The scribe dipped their quill into the crimson liquid once more and resumed their work.

Astarion and his companions gathered again around the draft contract, reading and rereading every line, each of them going through it three times, just to be sure. It was solid. No hidden clauses, and strangely, no soul-binding fine print. The archdevil wanted the Crown of Karsus badly enough to settle for a clean exchange, with no tricks… or at least, none they could see.

Still, Gale’s brow remained creased as he read. Karlach wouldn’t meet Astarion’s eye. He wasn’t sure if it was fear, judgment, or both. But what would she have to worry about now? Raphael would belong to him. He wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone. And he would have to fix her engine if Astarion asked him to, without condition. 

The throne room was silent as Astarion raised the quill, signing his name neatly at the bottom.

Across the room, Haarlep’s fury boiled over in silence. Rage and disbelief blazed behind their eyes, their mouth contorted into a soundless snarl. But they said nothing. Instead, with a burst of magic, they vanished, orange embers hanging in the air, floating like feathers, before dissolving into nothing. 

The Infernal lettering on the contract shimmered as the “ink” dried quickly.

It was done.

After Astarion revealed the crown’s location, describing in painstaking detail the precise pier along the Chionthar River next to where the Absolute had fallen, the room fell into a tense, waiting silence. Mephistopheles had listened intently, then clicked his fingers, instantly dispatching a contingent of his most trusted cambions and warlocks to the material plane, to Baldur’s Gate, to retrieve the Crown of Karsus. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Until the relic was secured and delivered to Cania, none of them could leave — not Astarion, not his companions, and certainly not Raphael.

Time passed slowly in the frostbitten throne room.

Karlach paced restlessly across. Her fur-lined coat abandoned on the floor, as the heat radiating from her infernal engine increased with her anxiety. Every few strides, she glanced at Astarion, then away again before he could meet her eye.

Wyll and Gale had retreated to a far corner, speaking in hushed tones. Wyll’s arms were crossed tightly, his eyes occasionally darting to the frozen archdevil on his throne. Gale held the contract still, scanning the wording again and again, as if the deal hadn’t already been sealed.

Shadowheart had kneeled on the icy floor next to Raphael and resumed her healing of shattered bones and torn muscle. There was only so much she could do, but she kept going, ignoring the archdevil’s piercing stare, as he watched her work with an unblinking intensity.

Astarion lowered himself down beside the cleric and the broken devil. Without a word, he pulled the folded bedsheet from his pack, the one he’d torn from Raphael’s bed in the House of Hope, and carefully draped it over him. He did his best to wrap it around Raphael, covering what he could; he knew that modesty mattered to him, and after weeks of humiliation, chained and exposed for all of Cania to gawk at, this small dignity was the least Astarion could offer him. 

After several long hours of uneasy waiting, Mephistopheles finally straightened from his throne. He inclined his head towards the group — his “guests,” as he now chose to call them — and excused himself with a courteous nod, before vanishing from the hall in a flicker of blue flames.

He wasn’t gone long. And when he returned, his snake-like smile had fully returned. “The Crown is back in my vaults, where it belongs,” he announced. “Its authenticity has been verified, and thus, our business is concluded.” His gaze slid back to Astarion. “Master Ancunín, it has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

He extended a hand.

Astarion hesitated at first, but rose to accept it. As their palms touched, Mephistopheles’ long, clawed fingers grazed his wrist, and a sudden sting flared beneath the skin. Astarion gasped quietly and pulled back to find a fresh sigil glowing faintly just above his pulse, branded with infernal magic, like a small, much less elaborate version of the scar on his back.

“My son is yours to do with as you please,” Mephistopheles said, tone casual, as if handing over a damaged heirloom. “Should he cause you any trouble… I’ll keep his place open.” He gestured to the pillars of ice still lining the great hall.

Astarion’s voice finally failed him, so instead, he dropped into a deep, respectful bow, his mind both racing and utterly blank at the same time.

It was done.

Without another word, Mephistopheles waved his hand, and in an instant, Astarion, Gale, Shadowheart, Karlach, and Wyll were transported back to the portal chamber, an unconscious cambion wrapped in a bedsheet at their feet. In front of them, the thirteen archways still swirled with magic. 

Astarion and Wyll each took one of Raphael’s arms, hauling his considerable weight upright, blood immediately soaking into their clothes. The cambion groaned, his eyes cracking open in pain and confusion. Instinctively, he tried to pull away, weakly struggling against their grip, disoriented and panicking.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Astarion said softly. “It’s just us. You’re safe now.”

The fight left Raphael’s body, and he sagged between them, surrendering to the support.

As they approached the portal, Astarion caught Karlach’s hard stare. She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to; that look promised a conversation that he wasn’t looking forward to.

But it wasn’t the one he dreaded most, because, somehow, he was going to have to look Raphael in the eye and tell him that he belonged to him now. That he owned him.

He closed his eyes, his hand tightening slightly at Raphael’s waist.

Then, each of them stepped through the third portal from the left and reappeared in the House of Hope.

Chapter Text

As soon as they were through the portal, Karlach rounded on him. 

“You lying bastard.”

Astarion froze, still bracing Raphael’s weight over his shoulder. He didn’t even get a word out before Karlach stormed up to him, fury written all over her face.

“I saw it,” she spat. “The kiss. You weren’t doing this for me. You weren’t doing this to save anyone but him.”

Gale turned to stare at the elf, flabbergasted, whilst Wyll, who was bracing Raphael’s other arm, shot a questioning look sideways at Astarion. “What?” Wyll asked, stunned.

“Oh, celestial heavens…” Gale muttered, eyes darting between Astarion and the limp cambion.

“You deceived us,” Karlach growled, jabbing a sharp finger into Astarion’s chest. “Was it all a game to you? Were you two hooking up in the bloody carriage? Is that why you were so quiet? Then you just fucked your way through Minauros while we were doing everything we could to find you?”

Astarion opened his mouth, then just closed it again. He had no answer that she would accept. 

Attempting to de-escalate the situation, Shadowheart placed a gentle hand on the tiefling’s shoulder. “Karlach, wait—”

“Oh, don’t try and defend him,” Karlach snapped, shrugging her off.

“I’m not,” Shadowheart said quickly. “I just…” She glanced at Astarion, then at Raphael, drooping and bleeding in his arms. “I saw it too. And, while I don’t understand it, I don’t think now is the moment to tear each other apart. We’re all exhausted. Let’s sleep on it, and talk when we’re less angry.”

“I don’t know how to be less angry,” Karlach growled, flames licking up her arms as her rage flared hotter. “He dragged us to literal Hell and didn’t think we deserved to know the whole truth.” 

Astarion’s hands were shaking. He gripped Raphael harder. “I didn’t think you’d come if I told you.”

“You’re fucking right about that,” Karlach was shouting now. “We stared down an archdevil, because you fancy a fucking fiend.”

“It’s not like that—” Astarion began, but Karlach kept going.

“You fucking deserve each other,” she was shaking her head incredulously, too worked up to look him in the eye. “You’re both bloody lunatics who don’t give a shit about anyone else, as long as you get what you want.”

All of a sudden, Raphael jerked in Astarion and Wyll’s grip, doubling over and coughing uncontrollably. An alarming amount of blood spewed from his lips, splattering across the marble at their feet.

“Shit—” Wyll hissed, helping Astarion lower Raphael to the ground as he writhed and shuddered in their arms. His body convulsed, a broken moan tearing from his throat, then a choked cry of pain. ​​

Shadowheart dropped into a crouch beside them, ​​pressing two fingers to Raphael’s neck and laying a hand on his chest. “He’s crashing. Astarion, this is bad.”

From the edge of the group, Gale folded his arms and heaved a weary sigh. “Of course, the oldest trick in the book: damaged goods. The archdevil knew he was dying, and let you take him anyway.”

“Shut up,” Astarion snapped, his eyes flashing. “Wyll, Shadowheart? Help me get him to the healing pool.”

Together, Wyll and Astarion hoisted Raphael upright again, his weight sagging between them, strained sounds slipping from between his clenched teeth. Shadowheart hurried ahead, pushing open the doors to the hallway.

Karlach didn’t move. She stood rooted to the spot, hands planted on her hips, an impatient look of disdain creasing the top of her nose. Wyll glanced back at her, then to Gale. “You two go,” he said, firmly. “Take the portal back to Baldur’s Gate. We’ll meet you at the Elfsong.”

Gale seemed reluctant, pausing as he watched Karlach turn without a word and stalk over to the portal. He pursed his lips in a grim smile, then with a final nod, followed her through. Then they were both gone.

The boudoir was just as they had left it before descending into Cania. The bed was stripped bare, its sheet now wrapped around Raphael, and their belongings still littered the room: cloaks draped over chairs, empty bottles out on the balcony, a journal left open on a table — all remnants of the long, restless month they had spent here, waiting and planning. 

And now, of course, Astarion realised it had all been pointless. They hadn’t been waiting for the right moment to strike, for Mephistopheles to look away. They’d been waiting while Haarlep let Raphael suffer needlessly.

Astarion and Wyll made a beeline for the sunken pool, boots and trousers instantly soaked as they stepped down into the water. Raphael had gone limp again, unconscious, his head lolling as they lowered him between them as gently as they could manage.

“Set him against the side,” Shadowheart said, gesturing as she knelt at the edge. “We need to re-situate his wing joints before they heal the wrong way.”

She frowned in confusion as she lifted one of Raphael’s gnarled wings. The membrane had been completely cut away, leaving behind long, spidery digits that just dangled unsupported. Her hands hovered uncertainly as she tried to determine which way each ruined joint was supposed to bend. Catching her troubled expression, Wyll stepped out of the pool and crouched beside her, dripping wet, reaching out to steady the heavy limb as she worked. 

Astarion remained in the pool, carefully peeling the now-soaked sheet from Raphael’s body. Beneath it, the cambion’s skin was a tapestry of cuts and bruises, but already, the wounds were slowly beginning to stitch themselves back together in the healing waters.

There was a loud crack as Shadowheart rotated the joint of his left wing and Raphael’s eyes snapped open, the black of his sclera visible all around golden irises. For a moment, he didn’t seem to recognise where he was, and a strangled sound escaped him as his fingers clawed weakly at the edge of the pool.

“It’s alright, you’re okay, darling. I’ve got you,” Astarion whispered soothingly.

“Okay, that was the worst of it.” Shadowheart murmured, steadying the ruined limbs. “We need to soak them.”

Raphael’s gaze darted around the chamber, pupils struggling to focus, as Astarion took his trembling hands in his own. “Come on,” Astarion murmured. “Let’s get you in deeper.” He began to step back, gently guiding the cambion away from the pool’s edge. Raphael’s wing bones scraped against the tiled floor with a shrill, grating sound, the claw tips dragging before finally slipping below the surface.

“That’s it, lower yourself in,” Astarion said softly. “We need to get your shoulders under, and your wings.”

At first, Raphael resisted; his body tensed and his clawless fingers dug reflexively into Astarion’s palms, panic flaring in his eyes. But the moment his shoulders sank beneath the water, he stopped fighting. The water’s healing magic began to work, and bit by bit, the tension in his limbs eased. His breathing slowed, and he loosened his grip on Astarion, closing his eyes and sighing. 

Astarion gently released his hands, watching for a moment as they drifted weightless in the water. He waded back across the pool to Wyll and Shadowheart, the water rippling around his waist, but he didn’t climb out. “I’ll stay here with him tonight,” he said, his voice low. “We’ll meet you at the Elfsong tomorrow at sundown, after everyone’s had a chance to rest.”

Concern crept across Shadowheart’s face. “Do you want someone to stay with you?”

Astarion glanced over his shoulder. Raphael was lying back in the water, eyes closed, his body buoyant and still. For the first time in months, he looked unburdened. Astarion turned back with a faint smile. “No. I’ll be alright. He can’t hurt me.”

Shadowheart leaned down to give him a peck on the cheek before rising, but Wyll lingered by the edge of the pool. He crouched, one hand resting on his knee, the other he placed on Astarion’s shoulder.

“Be patient with her,” he said quietly. “Karlach thought you were doing all this for her, risking everything to save her life, not…” his good eye briefly darted over Astarion’s shoulder, “...someone else’s. Underneath the anger, she’s hurt. But she’ll come around.”

Astarion looked down at the water lapping gently at his clothes, swirling around him. “I know,” he murmured. “I hate that I hurt her.” His chest ached with guilt. He didn’t regret what he’d done, but understood that maybe he could have done things differently, perhaps just owned up to his feelings. “I’ll make it up to her,” he added, more to himself than to Wyll. “Raphael will fix her engine. I promise.”

Wyll gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Astarion. Be safe.” Then he rose and followed Shadowheart towards the door. 

Alone at last, Astarion turned.

The pool had turned completely red, the water translucent and cloudy with blood. Raphael floated in the centre, eyes still closed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The stiffness had eased from his limbs and features, replaced by a quiet stillness that moved Astarion more than he expected, making his chest ache. This beautiful, broken creature, who had thrown himself at an archdevil to give Astarion time to escape, finally looked free of pain. And Astarion knew all too well how precious that kind of peace was after so much suffering.

He waded closer, scanning the cambion’s ravaged body. The freshest and shallowest of the open wounds were already healing, but as the blood was soaked away from Raphael’s skin, Astarion saw the scars that had been hidden underneath. Some were pale and new, others dark and jagged, stretched over joints and ribs, pocked across his torso and limbs. Gashes, punctures, whip marks: all evidence of methodical cruelty and random violence spread over days and weeks.

With a hard lump in his throat, Astarion reached out, and before he thought to stop himself, he gently brushed his knuckles down a ridged scar along Raphael’s ribs.

Raphael jerked violently as if he’d been stung, sharply twisting away from the touch, the tranquility on his face vanishing in a blink. His legs pulled down as he scrambled upright in the water, his wide eyes locking onto Astarion, filled with alarm and confusion.

Astarion pulled his hand back instinctively, holding both palms up. “It’s alright,” he said softly. “It’s me. Just me.”

The panic faded quickly, as recognition dawned and Raphael realised he wasn’t under attack. He offered a small, nervous twitch of a smile, the tension uncoiling from his shoulders just slightly. “Don’t… don’t touch me,” he rasped, voice rough and scratchy after weeks of disuse.

Astarion gave a quick nod, a patient smile on his lips. “Of course.”

He waded to the far edge of the pool, retrieving a cloth and a couple of half-used bottles of soap and oil left resting on the tiled lip. Behind him, he heard a soft rush of water as Raphael slipped beneath the surface. Astarion turned back as the devil emerged, reddish water cascading down his shoulders and chest, running slowly over the defined lines of his abdomen. For a moment too long, Astarion’s gaze lingered. The way the droplets clung to him… the way that one particular drop trailed all the way down… 

Gods, he’d missed that body, more than he’d wanted to admit.

He turned away swiftly, clearing his throat and forcing himself to focus on the cloth in his hands instead, silently scolding himself — now was not the time to reduce the devil to something so shallow, not after everything.

Seeming not to notice Astarion’s attention, Raphael settled onto the submerged ledge that lined the pool’s edge, rubbing absently at his jaw, where a particularly nasty wound had previously bled continuously. 

Astarion tilted his head slightly, studying Raphael’s face. The grime and bruises had begun to wash away in the healing waters, leaving a slightly gaunt, exhausted looking cambion. “How are you feeling?” Astarion asked hesitantly, drawing closer and placing the bottles on the side. 

Raphael didn’t look at him, instead he scoffed quietly, frowning down at the water. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” he muttered, still rubbing at the underside of his jaw, as if a phantom pain still lingered there.

“You’ve been through something unthinkable,” Astarion said softly, shaking his head at the memory of how they’d found Raphael strung up in Mephistar. “Even a devil’s allowed time to feel broken. Trauma doesn’t care how strong or powerful you were before, healing takes time for us all.”

Raphael’s eyes finally met Astarion’s, but only briefly. A cynical expression flashed across his face, as if Astarion had proposed something entirely preposterous. “Me? Traumatised?!” he said, before huffing a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “Please. Devils don’t possess those sorts of feelings, little vampling.”

Astarion just smiled, giving another small nod, choosing not to press. He couldn’t help but notice the way Raphael’s arms folded just a little too tightly across his chest, and how he kept glancing over his shoulder, his eyes shifting. Whatever Raphael might claim, the mask didn’t quite fit right now, and Astarion wasn’t at all convinced that this devil was immune to ‘those sorts of feelings’. But he also knew when someone wasn’t ready to face the truth, so instead, he said nothing. 

Sensing Astarion’s lingering doubt, Raphael surged forwards and captured his mouth in a fierce, sudden kiss. There was nothing soft about it, his rough lips were demanding, possessive. Astarion was momentarily taken aback by the sheer force of it, but then he melted into it, enjoying the heat, the smell, the taste of him. He kissed back with equal desperation, his fingers curling into Raphael’s damp skin, afraid he might lose him again.

“See, I’m fine,” Raphael murmured against his lips between breaths. “Not traumatised.” He kissed him again.

Astarion pulled him in closer with a hand cupping his neck, the other gliding down the firm line of his stomach. But Raphael didn’t return the touch; his hands just remained still in the water, his shoulders still slightly tense.

When Astarion opened his eyes, he found a pair of glowing amber eyes watching him intently. He gave a teasing nip to the devil’s bottom lip and whispered, “Then just relax,” his fingers drifting lower. But as they neared his cock, Raphael’s hand shot out, catching his wrist. The movement was firm but not rough, a silent plea. 

Raphael’s eyes were now locked onto Astarion’s hand under the water, his expression a mix of frustration and hesitation, as if Astarion had intentionally called his bluff. He pulled back and turned his head away in shame, exhaling sharply through his nose. The internal battle was written clearly across his face, in his body language, and in the way he refused to meet Astarion’s gaze again. Astarion knew the devil wanted him, but the pain he’d been through hadn’t let go of him yet, even if he wasn’t willing to admit it right now.

Astarion slowly pulled away, standing upright in the waist-deep water at the centre of the pool. His voice was gentle, understanding. “Raphael, it’s okay. You don’t have to prove anything. Just… stay with me. You can watch, if you’d like.”

He undressed slowly, peeling away each piece of sodden, bloodstained clothing and letting it drift to the bottom of the pool. The water felt heavenly against his skin, soothing muscles that were still tense with exhaustion, and chasing away the lingering chill of Cania. One pale hand slid to his abdomen, fingers trailing downwards, and he tipped his head back, exposing his throat, a quiet sigh escaping as the water kissed along his hips.

Across the pool, sitting back on the pool’s ledge, Raphael watched him. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes followed Astarion’s fingers, tracking every careful, sensual movement as they curled around his own cock.

Closing his eyes, Astarion kneaded himself firmly, nimble fingers dancing up and down the hard length, massaging the skin and squeezing slightly whenever he reached the tip. The lingering trace of magic in the water tingled beneath his touch, sending a shiver down his spine. A quiet moan slipped from his lips, eliciting a small whimper from Raphael too.

He opened his eyes, to find Raphael still watching closely, his eyes fixed and hungry, his scarred hand wrapped around his own cock. He was stroking himself slowly as he looked up through dark lashes, his breath trembling as he drank in every shudder and gasp from the elf.

Astarion held that gaze, rubbing himself harder, faster. The intensity in Raphael’s eyes, the way he looked at him like he wanted to devour him, made even more heat flood through Astarion’s veins. He grinned and bit his lip, arching into his own touch, giving the devil more to watch.

The smouldering look on Raphael’s face, coupled with the view of him stroking himself, was enough to send Astarion over the edge, and he spilled into the pool, curling forwards and riding out the pulsing shockwaves of his orgasm. 

When Astarion had recovered, he lowered himself to his knees and drifted closer in the pool, positioning himself between Raphael’s knees. The cambion still gripped his own cock, but he’d stopped moving his hand. His eyes were dark and searching as he watched Astarion approach.

“Here, let me?” Astarion asked, lifting his hand, but waiting for permission. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Raphael gave a tiny nod and moved his hand away.

Very gently, Astarion slid his fingers around Raphael’s cock beneath the water. It was semi-hard, so he pumped it languidly, rubbing circles into the skin with his thumb, until slowly but surely it was fully erect, twitching slightly in his grip. 

Astarion smiled to himself. Oh, he had really missed this body. 

Not needing breath, he dipped his head fully under the crimson water and swiped his tongue across the tip. Raphael’s hips bucked instinctively, his hands shooting out and burying into Astarion’s hair. Astarion braced himself, half-expecting to be pushed away, but the grip never tightened in warning. Eventually Raphael relaxed, his fingers twisting into the curls, grasping lightly to anchor himself.

Astarion took Raphael into his mouth fully, delighting in how he squirmed beneath him, and although the water muffled all sound, Astarion felt the low tremor of a moan ripple through Raphael’s body 

One hand on Raphael’s hip, the other cupping his balls, massaging gently, Astarion bobbed his head up and down. He sealed his lips tightly around Raphael’s cock, swirling the water around as he swept his tongue up and down, then over the head. Raphael’s hips rolled as he slowly began to grind into Astarion’s mouth, tickling the back of his throat.

It wasn’t long until Raphael’s grip in Astarion’s hair had tightened painfully, as he desperately thrust his hips upwards. Then his body stiffened and he came hard, spilling down Astarion’s throat. Astarion swallowed, the healing pool’s water thick with diluted blood (his favourite, too) counteracted the scorching trail of spend rushing down his gullet.

Astarion surfaced with a gasp, the breath unnecessary but instinctive, and the cool air hit his lungs like a balm. He swept the hair from his eyes, blinked the water from his lashes and turned to look at Raphael.

The devil was leaning back against the curved wall of the pool, eyes half-lidded, fighting to catch his breath. His eyes were no longer dulled by pain or fear, but even with the healing waters working their magic, he still didn’t look entirely himself: there was still a hollowness to his features and a shadow in his eyes that hadn’t lifted.

Astarion watched him in silence, heart tugging. “You hungry?” he asked.

Raphael shook his head, to which Astarion gave a soft snort. “Well, that means you definitely need to eat. I’ll go fetch you something.”

Without waiting for an argument, he turned, water rippling around him as he stepped to the edge of the pool and climbed out. He grabbed a towel from the side, then padded out of the room in search of something a starving cambion might eat, trailing wet footprints through the corridors of the house.

Astarion returned to the boudoir a few minutes later, a hunk of cured meat in hand. He wasn’t sure it was the best choice of restorative meal, but options were limited. He paused in the doorway, surprised to find Raphael already out of the pool. The devil stood naked before the tall mirror, already completely dry, his expression taut with dismay.

He was inspecting his reflection, running tentative fingers through the uneven wreckage of his once-perfect hair. Strands hung in awkward lengths, and his hand lingered at the back of his scalp where bald patches exposed glimpses of red skin. 

It was there, at the top of his neck, that Astarion spotted the sigil. Just below his hairline, faint but unmistakably infernal, lay the marking that mirrored the sigil now etched into Astarion’s own wrist. The mark of possession. His heart sank at the reminder. Had Raphael known what he was agreeing to just now in the bath? Had he really wanted Astarion to touch him, or had something in the magic compelled his compliance?

Knowing he wouldn’t appear in the mirror, Astarion cleared his throat softly as he stepped closer.

Raphael flinched and spun sharply, his back pressing against the glass, startled eyes settling on Astarion. He recovered faster this time, giving Astarion a stiff smile, his gaze darting to the food in the elf’s hands. He didn’t move to take it, nor did he turn back to the mirror, instead, he angled himself sideways, keeping both Astarion and the rest of the room in view.

“Well,” he said smoothly — too smoothly, as he gestured to his hair. “Do you think it suits me?”

But Astarion’s gaze had now drifted to the mirror, to the reflection of Raphael’s wings — or what was left of them. Once grand and imposing, they now hung behind him like a strange, skeletal cape. The pool waters had healed the ragged wounds where the membranes had been cut away from the bones, but restoring the membrane wasn’t possible. It was gone, leaving useless digits with barely enough muscle to flex them. 

“Can they be fixed?” Astarion asked quietly, placing the cured meat on a dressing table close by.

Raphael’s brow furrowed. “The hair?” He reached up automatically, fingers grazing a bare patch. “I have an elixir somewhere. From the Feywild. Works wonders.”

“No,” Astarion said, with aching softness. “Your wings.”

The silence that followed cracked the performance, as Raphael’s hand froze in the air. Slowly, his gaze shifted to the mirror over his shoulder, and for a moment, the mask faltered again. His eyes darkened, and the corner of his mouth twitched, then pressed into a thin line, and he looked away quickly, as if the sight had physically pained him. “No. But I’ll live,” he said, tone more casual than he looked.

Astarion stepped closer, not letting it pass. “Don’t shrug this off,” he said gently, shaking his head. “It’s a big deal.”

Raphael gave a low, humourless chuckle, folding his arms around himself defensively. “Is this the part where you lecture me on acceptance and emotional healing? I told you, I’m fine.”

“No, don’t do that.” Astarion said, voice firmer now. “Don’t play it down and pretend it didn’t happen. I’ve done that and I promise it only rots inside of you.” He sighed. “I know it’s easier not to look, but it won’t just go away. Trust me on that. Just face it. With me.”

Astarion reached down and gently lifted the end of Raphael’s tail. The end was still crusted with thick, dried blood, too caked on and too stubborn to wash away in the pool. “This didn’t just rinse off,” he said, holding it up so Raphael could see it in the mirror. “And neither will the rest of it, not unless you stop pretending it’s not there.”

Raphael looked at the blood-tipped tail in the mirror. His eyes narrowed, both sorrow and shame crossing his features before he turned his back to the mirror entirely, yanking his tail from Astarion’s grasp and curling it tightly around one leg, as if to hide it from sight.

“I’m not pretending anything, Astarion,” he said, voice tight. “I’ve accepted it. My wings won’t heal. They’re useless now. That’s the reality.”

“Your ascended form lost a wing entirely,” Astarion said carefully. “Why didn’t this one?”

Raphael shrugged. “The physiology of that form is too different for injuries to carry over cleanly, if they did, I’d be missing more than a wing. I’d have lost an eye already… and then half my face.” He shook his head, sighing. 

“Can you still feel it, though? Does it hurt?” Astarion asked.

Raphael gave him a tired smile. “Not anymore.” 

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them as they stood opposite one another, both gazing forwards, not really focused on anything at all.

Then Astarion whispered, “Can I… hold you?”

The question seemed to draw Raphael back from wherever his mind had drifted. He blinked slowly, giving Astarion a guarded look, not quite mistrustful, just unsure. His gaze lingered for a moment, and then he took a breath and gave a small, steady nod.

Astarion didn’t hesitate for a second. He immediately wrapped his arms around his middle, pressing close until their bare skin touched and his cheek rested against Raphael’s chest. His skin was hot but familiar and comforting. The scent of musk and cherries swept into his senses, and Astarion closed his eyes, breathing it in deeply.

For a moment, Raphael didn’t move, he just stood in Astarion’s arms stiffly. Then slowly, his hands came up and settled against Astarion’s back. He folded his arms around the elf and bowed his head, nestling his face in Astarion’s hair with a long, weary sigh, the puff of breath warm against Astarion’s scalp.

They stood there, wrapped around each other, letting the silence permeate. 

Relief bloomed so suddenly in Astarion’s chest it would have knocked the breath from him, if he’d had any to begin with. Raphael was here. He had him back. It felt so natural to be in his arms again, so easy Astarion wanted to weep. And this time, he didn’t have to let go for anything.

But even in that peaceful relief, one thought pressed at the edge of his mind: Raphael still didn’t know… Astarion still had to tell him.

“I’m sorry,” Astarion finally murmured, fingers idly tracing over the infernal ridges along Raphael’s back. “For what they did to you.”

When Raphael spoke, his voice was quiet, but Astarion felt the vibrations of his deep voice thrumming through his chest. “I was just bait,” he said simply. “All of it, the capture, the torture, it wasn’t punishment, it wasn’t justice or consequence — it wasn’t even personal. It was never about me. I was just a prop in someone else’s plan.”

“And I played right into it,” Astarion whispered. “I thought I was saving you. And I was, but I thought it had been my choice, my decision, not a predetermined outcome.” He pulled back from the embrace to look Raphael in the eye. “Do you hate me for it? For giving the crown to your father?”

A small smile tugged at Raphael’s lips, a real one this time, the first Astarion had seen on him in what felt like an age, his glowing eyes seeming to warm slightly too. “No, little vampling, you saved my life; that’s more than any other on any plane would have done, truly.” He paused, a sly glint sparkling in his eye, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “And anyway, now I know exactly where it is. Eventually I’ll take it back.”

Astarion took in the little smirk, the touch of ease and mischief returning to Raphael’s body language. He really didn’t want to ruin it, but the truth sat heavy on his heart, and if he didn’t say it now, he knew it would only hurt more. “There’s… something else,” he said carefully.

“Mmm?” Raphael tilted his head, eyes questioning.

Astarion swallowed. “You weren’t just bait. Haarlep wasn’t only helping Mephistopheles get the crown, they had their own plan too. One that involved… keeping you. For themself.”

Raphael’s frown grew as Astarion spoke slowly, a little scrunch forming at the top of his nose.

“They wanted to own you,” Astarion said, more softly now. “That was to be their reward for retrieving the crown for the archdevil.”

“That scheming little shit,” Raphael hissed through his teeth, real anger simmering now. 

“I thought you should know,” Astarion said quietly. “I wasn’t going to let them have you. I renegotiated the deal and Mephistopheles cut Haarlep out. But then… I signed the contract.”

Raphael’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny, studying Astarion’s face like he was parsing the fine print of the moment. His arms slowly lowered, hands slipping from Astarion’s back until they hung at his sides, releasing him from the embrace. “You signed it,” he repeated, flatly.

Astarion nodded.

Another moment passed, and a sliver of red caught at the edge of Astarion’s vision, as Raphael’s tail twitched with rising agitation.

“What, exactly, did you sign?” Raphael asked coldly, every syllable weighed with calculation. “What were the terms?”

Astarion steadied his voice. “The contract… it names me as the orchestrator of the deal. I have full dominion over you, Raphael. Absolute ownership.”

Raphael’s face contorted with rage, his eyes flashing as he let out a furious roar that echoed through the boudoir. He spun away from Astarion and slammed his fist into the mirror.

Astarion flinched as the glass shattered with a deafening crack, fractures spiderwebbing instantly before collapsing in a shower of shards across the floor. He couldn’t move, his limbs were locked as if frozen in place from fear.

Still shaking with fury, Raphael let out another snarl and turned on the nearby dressing table. With one powerful shove, he tipped it over, sending books, trinkets, and the food Astarion had fetched for him crashing to the stone with a loud clatter. The sound jolted through Astarion like a whip crack, and for a terrible moment, all he could hear was Cazador, raging in the palace, destroying whatever and whoever was closest. Astarion’s hands were shaking uncontrollably at his sides, and his body screamed to make itself small, to disappear in order to survive this.

“Fucking hells!” Raphael roared, his voice cracking. He paced in a tight, vicious circle, skeletal wings twitching uselessly behind him, clawless hands balled into trembling fists, his tail lashing the air. The calm that had settled over him in the healing pool was gone now, completely ripped away, and in its place burned a blazing inferno fuelled by everything he’d been through over the past month, all the horrors he’d endured boiling to the surface in a single violent surge.

Tears prickled at Astarion’s eyes. An old, familiar instinct clawed its way up and for one sickening moment he almost bowed his head, almost apologised and begged for forgiveness. 

But no…

Cazador was dead and Raphael was not his master. He was the one with the power now.

Astarion blinked the tears from his eyes and steeled himself. 

“Stop.”

Raphael froze mid-stride. His breath came hard and fast through bared teeth, but he stilled.

Still quaking, Astarion forced himself to stand tall. He spoke louder this time, steadier: “That’s enough. You’re not doing this to me, I didn’t even want this.” 

“You knew what you were signing,” Raphael snapped, his eyes still burning. “You didn’t think I deserved my freedom, after everything?”

Astarion raised his hands placatingly. “I didn’t do this to control you, and I swear, I’m not going to abuse it. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do, Astarion. It’s you who clearly doesn’t trust me.” His voice was a bitter growl. “How many times have I saved your life? I threw myself at Mephistopheles so you could get away. Haven’t I earned your trust?”

“Yes, but…” Astarion’s voice faltered. “You’re evil.”

That made Raphael laugh, a harsh, cutting sound. “And you’re so sure you aren’t, vampire?”

Astarion bit back the rising lump in his throat. His voice came out quieter than he intended. “I was scared I was going to lose you.”

“You weren’t.”

“But I was also scared… of you.”

The fire in Raphael’s expression guttered, dimming with Astarion’s admission. For a moment, Astarion thought he might have been hurt by it, but then Raphael let out a long, slow breath and murmured “Good,” a faintly satisfied glint in his eye.

That smugness stung more than Astarion expected. “Let’s not pretend that you didn’t want to own me,” he hissed, “With whatever contract you were planning to have me sign.”

Raphael didn’t answer, he simply looked away, affecting disinterest. That alone told Astarion everything he needed to know. Devils never bargain without a leash in mind.

A long, brittle silence stretched between them, until finally Raphael spoke. His voice had lost its bite; it came out quiet and unexpectedly gentle. “You know you can release me. Right now. Just say the word, and it’s done. I walk free… and we can be equals.”

Yet again, the weight of the choice settled heavy on Astarion’s shoulders. 

“But if I let you go… how do I know you’ll still help Karlach? After everything, what’s stopping you from turning your back on us?”

Raphael’s eyes locked back onto Astarion’s, his piercing gaze unwavering. “That’s what trust is, little vampling,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging ever so slightly. “You either give it… or you don’t.”

Chapter Text

Raphael slept for hours.

Astarion didn’t.

Unable to trance due to the intense nightmares the cambion was experiencing, he lay awake on the large bed in the boudoir, watching Raphael writhe and shudder next to him. Fists clenched in the fresh sheets, breath coming fast and ragged, Raphael seemed trapped in memories too raw and too recent to escape.

He’d chosen to sleep in his human form, whether for comfort or because he couldn’t bear to look at his mutilated wings, Astarion wasn’t sure, but like this, curled naked in the bed, he looked so small and so fragile. So vulnerable. A far cry from the suave and fearsome devil he’d once been.

The night terrors had started out small, just muffled whimpers and the occasional twitch at first, but as the hours dragged on, they had become more desperate, turning into choked cries and jerking limbs. When the thrashing grew violent enough to risk injury, Astarion had intervened; he pulled Raphael close, tucking his head against his own chest. It had soothed him almost immediately, and the devil stilled with a small sigh.

Now, he lay still in Astarion’s arms, breathing slow and steady. Astarion stared at the ceiling in the dark, fingers idly combing through Raphael’s soft hair, newly restored by the elixir he’d retrieved from a vanity full of fragrant oils and decadent lotions. Astarion had been sorely tempted to sample each one, and breathe in the heady fragrances to savour the luxury, but Raphael had stopped him with a wry smile, warning that some of them would “charm him into a fugue state of arousal for forty eight hours straight” — if they didn’t burn his nose off first.

Astarion’s other hand drifted absently across Raphael’s back, fingertips tracing the raised scars that had followed him into this form, marring once-immaculate, golden flesh. One in particular caught on his touch: a long, jagged line running down his left flank, where a massive, infected wound had gaped before. The healing waters had purged the rot, but they couldn’t undo all the damage; they couldn’t regrow missing organs and bones. 

Murmuring softly, Raphael shifted slightly. The warmth of his body pressed flush against Astarion’s was comforting, but also achingly intimate, and it sparked a slow burn beneath the elf’s skin, arousal stirring in his groin.

Welcoming the pleasant sensation, he thought about what they’d done in the pool. Pictured his hands running over hot skin, his nails digging into Raphael’s hip, his tongue running up and down his leaking cock. His own cock twitched at the memory, and he fought the temptation to reach down and grasp it.

But then, uninvited, came the memory of Raphael flinching away from his touch. 

“Don’t touch me,” he’d snapped. 

Shame prickled at the edge of Astarion’s thoughts, as the words echoed through his mind, unravelling the fantasy. No, it wasn’t really what they had done in the pool… It was what he had done. 

But Raphael had kissed him first.

The thought was ugly and defensive; a shield Astarion barely believed himself, because he knew it hadn’t been affection, and it certainly hadn’t come from desire. That kiss had been a distraction, a wall thrown up by a creature desperate not to feel anything. And Astarion had taken it as permission to take what he wanted.

You signed the contract, he reminded himself. You didn’t need permission.

Ugh, he supposed Gale was wrong about him after all. Astarion clearly was evil, in some sense of the word. He’d spent so long convincing himself he was better than the monster Cazador had made him, that he could care for others and want to protect them. And maybe he could, but deep down he knew there was a monster still inside of him after all, still hungry for power.

Astarion glanced down at Raphael, at his cheek smushed against his chest, breath warm on his skin, and something fluttered in his ribcage... But it didn’t feel like the monster stirring. Not that dark part of him that wanted to possess and control, this feeling was softer; it was strange and unfamiliar, and really quite unsettling. He didn’t know what to call this feeling either. 

But it was a relief to know the monster wasn’t all of him. That the elf was still in there too.

Astarion tightened his arms around Raphael, pulling him closer and burying his nose in the devil’s hair. He let his eyes slip closed and allowed the trance to take him.

__________

Warm fingers brushing across his chest roused Astarion from his trance, and he blinked awake to find Raphael leaning over him, sheepishly dabbing at a small puddle of drool on his pale skin with the edge of the sheet.

Noticing his eyes were open, Raphael chuckled nervously, an uncharacteristically embarrassed sound. “Truly, I am the picture of grace” he muttered, voice rough from sleep, “try not to swoon.”

Astarion just looked up at him, a smile tugging at his lips. The devil looked brighter; even just one night spent finally able to rest, in his own bed no less, had worked wonders to lighten the shadows in his eyes.

“We’re well beyond swooning, darling,” Astarion purred back as he pulled himself up. “I’ve already composed an ode to your elegance.”

Raphael raised an eyebrow, and the sheepish expression melted into a devilish grin. “All for me, little vampling? Why, poetry is my bread and bloody butter.”

“Oh, I know. I think if I were to start reciting poetry, you’d be the one swooning. I’d need more than a bedsheet to mop up that puddle.”

Raphael tipped his head back with a laugh, then winced, his hand quickly moving to the long scar down his left flank. “Well, since you’re so eager to lend a hand,” he hissed through his grimace, “perhaps you would be so kind as to help me out of bed?”

“You poor, ancient thing. What is it now, arthritis?” Astarion cooed. “Are the millennia finally catching up with you?”

“You didn’t seem to mind these old bones before,” Raphael pouted.

Astarion shuffled to the edge of the bed, rising off it with an exaggerated stretch. “Not at all, darling, I’m very fond of all your bones.” 

Raphael’s eyes followed Astarion circling the bed, until he’d moved out of sight behind him. Astarion noticed the subtle tension in the devil’s shoulders that eased as soon as he came back into view and moved to stand alongside where he lay. 

For a moment, Astarion’s fingers itched to trace the curve of Raphael’s backside and down his thigh, but he thought better of uninvited touches. Swallowing the temptation, he simply extended a hand, offering support.

“You must be famished,” Astarion said, as Raphael took his hand. “Let’s get you something to eat before those old bones turn to dust.”

__________

A few hours later, after watching Raphael devour an unsettling amount of vaguely humanoid-looking meat, Astarion found himself standing beside the devil once more in the upstairs suite of the Elfsong Tavern. They’d arrived at dusk, finding the others clean and rested, yet visibly uneasy about welcoming the devil back into their midst, unchained, powers fully restored.

Most greeted Astarion warmly: Shadowheart wrapped him in a long, silent hug; Gale gave a courteous nod; and Wyll pulled him into a firm half-embrace, as if surprised and relieved that Astarion had made it through the night in the House of Hope. Karlach, meanwhile, was uncharacteristically, though not unexpectedly, frosty. Her icy gaze kept flicking towards Raphael, as if expecting him to sprout horns at any moment. Which, Astarion mused, wasn’t entirely out of the question.

Raphael merely met her hard stare with a cool, faintly taunting smirk before turning away. He set to work, directing Gale and Wyll with clipped commands, and together, they cleared the centre of the room, dragging furniture aside, and began sketching a sprawling infernal sigil across the floorboards in goat’s blood, still warm from the kitchens, courtesy of Lakrissa, who’d known better than to ask questions.

Straight to business then.

Watching the surreal scene in front of them, Shadowheart leaned in, her voice low enough for only Astarion to hear. “Are you sure we can trust him not to hurt her?”

Astarion glanced at Raphael. He was dressed neatly in his usual modest finery, outwardly composed — almost himself again. But Astarion caught the cracks beneath the surface: the way he never turned his back to the room, and how his hand kept drifting, almost absently, to his left side. 

As if sensing the weight of Astarion’s attention, Raphael turned his head, and their eyes met. Astarion held that unreadable gaze for a moment, then looked back at Shadowheart, nodding. “How could he possibly?” he said evenly. “He’s bound to obey me, remember? There’s nothing else he can do.”

Something in the subtle narrowing of Shadowheart’s eyes made Astarion wonder if she believed him at all, but she just shrugged and turned her attention back to the ritual preparation, her lips pressing into a thin line. Astarion joined her in watching as the devil placed six smooth stones from Avernus at the outer points of the sigil. Next, he sprinkled coarse black grit from a pouch into the centre, followed by a glistening, crimson heart, wincing slightly as he bent over. Astarion couldn’t help but wonder if that last ingredient had been intentionally saved from breakfast.

When Raphael had finished carefully arranging the ritual components, he straightened with a soft grunt, brushing the grit from his hands as he surveyed the circle one final time. Satisfied, he extended a hand, bidding Karlach forwards with long, elegant fingers. She fidgeted restlessly, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet, but when she saw Raphael beckon, she stilled, her eyes widening and the colour draining from her face.

Before she could take a step, Wyll pulled her into a hug. “You’ve got this, K,” he murmured against her ear. “You’ll be brilliant.” 

Karlach gave a shaky exhale and managed a tight smile as she was released from the embrace, looking less and less sure.

Then Astarion stepped over, reaching for her hand. She looked surprised as he took it and gave it a light squeeze, brushing his thumb over her trembling knuckles. “I know it’s frightening,” he said softly, “but you’re stronger than this thing in your chest, you’ve always been stronger than it. You can do this. And we’ll all be right here with you.”

Her eyes shimmered, and with a small, choked laugh, she yanked him into a hug that was far too tight, nearly lifting him off his feet. “Gods damn it, Fangs,” she muttered, wiping her eyes on her sleeve as she let him go. “You’re gonna mess up my brave face.”

With one final steadying breath, Karlach turned and stepped carefully into the ritual circle, where Raphael stood waiting, silent and still at its centre.

The pair of them stood face to face above the heart at their feet, eyes locked in what looked almost like a standoff. But the determination in Karlach’s expression was edged with uncertainty, and in contrast, Raphael was smiling, all charm and devilish ease, though the glint in his eyes held something more calculating. “Remove your tunic and lie in the centre of the circle,” he instructed, gesturing with a graceful sweep of one hand.

Karlach glanced nervously at her friends, fear and trepidation all over her face. 

“I shall require your blood,” Raphael continued, tone even. “And my own, to anchor the engine to this plane properly. Just a small cut. But Karlach, the pain…” He tilted his head. “It will be real. And sharp. You must endure it.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping lower. “You cannot tap out. You cannot pass out. If you do, the ritual fails. Do you understand?”

Tension rippled through Karlach’s shoulders, and for a moment, it looked like she was about to call the whole thing off… but then she nodded, steel settling behind her eyes.

With slight reluctance, she stripped off her tunic and tossed it to Wyll, who caught it in one hand. Even the flames dancing across her skin couldn’t mask her fear as she lowered herself to the floor, settling slowly onto her back and shifting awkwardly, before folding her arms over her chest in an attempt at modesty. The coarse grit and blood-smeared sigil stuck to her skin.

She looked startled as Raphael stepped over her and lowered himself to straddle her hips, settling his weight firmly across her centre, pinning her. From beside him, Astarion heard Shadowheart suck in a sharp breath.

From his belt, Raphael drew an ornate ceremonial dagger. The steel glinted in the firelight as he nicked Karlach’s palm with a swift flick, then he turned the blade on himself, cutting deep into his own hand. Blood welled and spilled down his arm as he took her hand in his, their wounds pressed together, blood mingling and hissing slightly.

Raphael began to chant. The Infernal syllables were harsh and grating and seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. His brow was furrowed in intense concentration, moisture beginning to bead at his temples. Just behind the circle, Astarion watched, transfixed. Despite everything, he couldn’t help but admire the devil in that moment: regal, commanding, powerful. He was terrifying and beautiful all at once.

Beneath the devil, Karlach’s face twisted in agony, her free hand now clawing at her chest, fingers splayed over the burning core of her engine. Tears welled up in her eyes, but still she didn’t move.

Shadowheart slipped an arm around Wyll’s shoulders, as he watched through his fingers, holding his breath. Nearby, Gale had crouched at the edge of the circle, eyes round with scholarly curiosity, inching as close as the ritual markings allowed.

Suddenly, Raphael tipped his head back, the whites of his eyes rolling up. The Infernal words became deeper, darker, as if they were being spoken through him, not from him. His spine arched sharply, as though yanked by invisible threads, and he planted his bleeding right hand flat on Karlach’s bare chest, just between her breasts.

The contact ignited a chain reaction.

Flames — real, living fire — surged up Raphael’s arm, golden and ravenous as it spilled from his palm, branding Karlach’s torso with searing light. She screamed, her back raising slightly off the floor, toes curling, legs straining beneath his weight. Her knees jerked upwards and her hips twisted, but Raphael held steady, his hand still planted on her heart.

His own face contorted, sweat trickling down his face, hair clinging to his forehead. His teeth were gritted as he continued to chant, his entire arm shaking violently with the force of the infernal magic pouring from him. The fire flared brighter, casting the room in pulsing orange light. The stones and grit along the sigil began to quiver and rise up into the air as the ritual surged towards its peak.

It was horrifying to watch.

Karlach writhed within the ritual circle, her screams cracking into hoarse sobs, as again and again, she teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. But her friends didn’t let her slip: Wyll’s voice rang through the heat and chaos, shouting her name like a lifeline; Shadowheart murmured prayers and encouragement; even Gale, usually reserved, called to her gently from the circle’s edge, grounding her with reminders of who she was and why she was doing this.

But Raphael was somewhere else entirely. His lashes fluttered, his eyes rolling closed as the Infernal words still spilled from his mouth. Flame continued to bloom from his palm in a steady torrent, pouring into Karlach’s chest, searing its way through skin and bone. Sweat now dripped freely from his brow, sizzling where it landed on Karlach’s scorched skin, his trembling palm fused to her sternum, his arm locked with effort.

The heart, next to Karlach at the center of the sigil, was engulfed in flame too, fire licking up its sides until it blackened and blistered, eventually shrivelling to a husk. 

Then, all at once, the flames vanished, sputtering out in an instant. 

The chanting ceased.

Silence.

Raphael’s body stilled, and for a long moment, he didn’t move, barely seemed to breathe. Then, slowly, he blinked several times, his shoulders slumping. Beneath him, Karlach’s chest heaved. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks tear-stained, and she seemed too afraid and too overwhelmed to speak, much less move.

They remained like that for what felt like minutes, both of them silent, trembling, drenched in sweat. Then at last, Raphael turned his head, searching the room. His exhausted gaze found Astarion, and he reached out with a shaking hand.

Astarion was at his side in an instant.

As he knelt beside him, Raphael began to gingerly peel his right hand away from Karlach’s skin. He didn’t turn the hand over, didn’t look at the damage, only cradled it against his stomach, hiding it from view. Astarion slid an arm around his waist and carefully helped him rise, mindful of his bad back. Raphael leaned into Astarion’s touch as he was guided upright, legs shaky beneath him. 

Next to them, the others had rushed to Karlach. Wyll was the first to her side, catching her under the arms as she tried to sit up, whilst Shadowheart took her other side, gently draping a blanket around her shoulders. Gale knelt nearby, still careful not to disturb the edges of the sigil, his eyes still wide with awe. Together, they eased Karlach to her feet, steadying her as her knees threatened to buckle.

She stood, swaying slightly, blinking against the sting of sweat and tears. Then, her hand rose to her chest, fingertips grazing the skin just above her heart, where the flames had seared into her.

She closed her eyes and inhaled.

Then again, deeper this time.

And then, she laughed. Breathless and wild, half-delirious, but unmistakably joyful. “Gods, that feels so damn good,” she gasped. “It worked. It actually worked!”

Shadowheart let out a choked laugh of her own and seized Karlach in a fierce hug. Wyll joined a heartbeat later, wrapping his arms around them both and sandwiching the tiefling between them. Karlach let out a squeak of surprise, then laughed again, overwhelmed by emotion. Gale stepped back to give them space, a proud smile on his face as he watched.

After a moment, Karlach wriggled free from the embrace, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand and turning to face Astarion and Raphael.

She strode over, steps unsteady, but grinning, radiant with disbelief and joy.

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely, addressing Raphael directly. She held out her right hand for him to shake.

But Raphael, still leaning into Astarion’s support, only looked at her, brown eyes glassy with exhaustion. He gave a curt nod, his right hand remaining tightly cradled against his abdomen.

Karlach paused for half a second, then surged forwards, bending down slightly and throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.

Startled, Astarion took a step back, unsure whether to intervene. But Raphael didn’t flinch. He stiffened for a breath, clearly uncertain what to do with the gesture…. and then he just let it happen, his left hand even rising to pat her tentatively on the arm.

As she held him, Karlach whispered something into his ear — too quiet for Astarion to catch. But as she stepped away, he saw Raphael’s eyes roll faintly, and the corners of his mouth twitch with a reluctant, almost boyish smile. 

It was… strange… disarming. Almost sweet. And Astarion once again became aware of that peculiar fluttering behind his ribs… 

He tried to shake the feeling off, turning his attention instead to the conversation now unfolding beside him.

Still catching his breath, Raphael addressed Karlach. His voice, roughened to a rasp from the strain of the ritual, was quieter than usual but no less confident. “You still have the same engine,” he said. “It still runs hot, and always will, but the iron has been… reworked. Enriched. It’s no longer bound by infernal magic, but tethered to this plane. That means no more catastrophic overheating — at least, not here. You must never step into the Hells again. Not in this physical body.” He looked at her pointedly. “If you do… the engine will ignite the moment you arrive, instantly detonating.”

Karlach’s eyes welled, sparkling with unshed tears. She swallowed hard, a trembling breath escaping her as she nodded. “I think I can manage that,” she said with a watery smile. She glanced sideways at Wyll, who was discreetly wiping his cheek. “Yeah. I can definitely live with that.”

A short time later, Karlach and Astarion stood on the rooftop terrace, the noise of the city rising faintly from the streets below: drunken singing, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter. Light spilled from the Elfsong’s windows, casting warm golden beams across the cobbles, where late-night revellers stumbled about in drunken disarray. 

But up here, above it all, the air was cooler and quieter. It was peaceful. 

They hadn’t said much since stepping out, but both of them knew why they were here. There were things that needed saying. They both drew breath to speak, voices colliding awkwardly before tapering off in unison. 

Astarion gave a small smile, and gestured for her to go ahead. “You first,” he said warmly.

Unable to hold them back, the words immediately tumbled out of her: “I just— thank you. For everything. You saved my damn life, Fangs.”

“I promised I would see it through,” Astarion said, looking up at her. “I meant it. Always did.”

Karlach sighed and looked at her boots, toeing at the dust under her feet. “I know you did. I really do. But… when I saw you kiss him… I thought you’d dragged us into Cania to save him and not me. That maybe you’d tricked us into it, because you felt something for him.” She huffed a humourless laugh, lifting her eyes to meet his. “I was so fucking angry. I felt betrayed. But more than that…” Her voice cracked slightly. “More than that, I was scared. For you.” 

“You don’t need to be scared,” he said quietly. “Raphael won’t hurt me.”

She didn’t smile. “Promise me, Astarion,” she said, her expression serious. “You must never free him. He’ll hate it — hate you for it — and he’ll try everything he can to twist his way out. He’s a devil, that’s what they do. He’ll flirt, flatter, make you feel like it was your idea to let him go. But you can never let your guard down. Never.”

Astarion’s gaze dropped to the cobblestones below. “I know.”

“You might care about him,” she continued. “Hells, maybe, in some impossible way, he might even care about you too. But trust me, that doesn’t make him safe.”

Astarion gave a tight nod, unable to meet her eyes again. Shame curled in his chest, along with a slow, creeping fear... He wanted to respond, but the words knotted in his throat, so instead, he swallowed them down, forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and changed the topic of conversation. “Enough about me,” he said, rubbing his arms to warm up in the night air. “This is your night. How do you feel? Chilly yet?”

“Don’t even know the meaning of the word, mate.” She shot him a wink, then laughed, her hot breath misting in the cold air. “No, I feel… really bloody good. I feel alive. Like that ticking timer has stopped and I can finally just live. Like, really live. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this, Fangs.”

“Well, there is one thing you could do for me,” he said, his mind wandering to his broken cambion. “Next time you’re near Sorcerous Sundries… there’s something I need you to pick up.”

“Anything.”

__________

After sharing a celebratory drink with the others, Astarion and Raphael slipped away into the night. Before returning to Avernus, they wandered the now-silent streets of the city, walking side by side beneath the soft glow of moonlight. Even the taverns had quietened, the drinkers gone to bed or passed out on street corners.

Before they left, Raphael had pressed a heavy pouch of gold into Gale’s hands with a smug little smirk and a remark that it should cover the cost of the Gate scroll they’d used to drag Astarion’s ‘sorry corpse’ back from Minauros. The gesture had been cloaked in Raphael’s usual arrogance, but Astarion couldn’t help but feel there was more to it… carefully-disguised sentiment, perhaps. He turned the moment over in his mind as they walked. What did it mean? Did it mean anything at all?

As they wandered the quiet streets, the cold night air biting at his skin, Astarion found himself edging closer, drawn to the familiar heat the devil radiated. Without a word, he reached for his hand.

Raphael flinched, pulling his hand away sharply.

Taken aback by the reaction, Astarion halted their walking and caught Raphael’s wrist, gently turning his hand over. His palm was blistered and weeping, the skin scorched and blackened from the ritual fire. Astarion hissed through his teeth. “Raphael—gods, why didn’t you say anything? There are potions back at the tavern.”

Raphael curled his fingers over, pulling his hand back and tucking it against his chest. “I require nothing from those people,” he said flatly. “There’s a healing bath waiting for me at home.”

Astarion just looked at him for a long moment, unsure if what he felt was exasperation, or affection. Perhaps both. Shaking his head in resignation, he sighed, then turned to him fully, stepping close. “Thank you, Raphael. For helping Karlach. Truly.”

“You’re fully aware that I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

Swallowing the wave of guilt that rose in his throat, Astarion bit his lip. “Are you angry with me for not freeing you yet?”

Raphael stared at him for a long moment, his gaze calculating. “Yes,” he said eventually. “Quite furious, actually. However, I’d have lost all respect for you, had you done so. It would have been truly idiotic to free me and expect me to still perform that ritual.” 

An incredulous scoff escaped Astarion, his eyebrows shooting up. “Well, fuck me, at least you’re honest.”

Raphael inclined his head in a tiny bow, then slipped Astarion’s arm through his own and continued walking. “Come along, little vampling. We’re almost there.”

“Almost where, sorry?” Astarion asked, brow furrowing. He hadn’t thought they were heading anywhere in particular — just walking for the walk, sharing the quiet.

But then he glanced around and noticed the change in scenery. The streets were wider here, much cleaner, and the air smelled less of smoke and booze and more of lush hedges and cut grass. Astarion blinked in surprise, they’d wandered all the way into the Upper City.

They stopped in front of a grand, ivy-strewn manor behind a wrought iron fence. The front garden was breathtaking, an immaculate stretch of lawn trimmed with rose bushes in full bloom despite the season. The stone facade of the house glowed in the moonlight, its tall windows framed by climbing vines and carved lintels.

Astarion stared at it in awe. This was the sort of house he used to admire from afar with hollow yearning, back when he wasn’t even allowed to dream of things like warm beds or privacy. A home like this had always seemed like a fantasy made for someone else. Someone free.

Raphael followed his gaze, then gave a wry little smile and nodded towards the large wooden front doors. “It’s yours.”

Astarion turned to him sharply, stunned. “What?”

Raphael only smiled wider, a devilish glint in his eye. “Is that an order for me to repeat myself?”

Astarion gaped at the house, then at Raphael, then back again, as if either might vanish if he looked away too long. “You’re serious?” he asked, voice unsteady. “This— this is mine?”

Raphael gave a casual shrug, as if offering someone a manor was no grander than lending them a single copper piece. “It’s nothing extravagant by devil standards, I assure you. But with your friends now tied to this plane, I don’t expect you’ll want to remain in the House of Hope permanently. It’s just somewhere for you to… be safe.”

Safe.

The word made Astarion’s throat tighten, and he quickly looked away, blinking up at the ivy-laced stone and the warm light spilling out from the tall windows. His vision blurred. He hated how much it meant to him, how much he’d wanted this over the centuries. Not just the house, but what it represented. 

Comfort. Security.

A future.

But beneath the rising tide of wonder, guilt still pooled heavy in his chest. After everything Raphael had endured, after everything Astarion had done to him — and continued to do…

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured, stepping closer and curling his fingers around Raphael’s, careful of his injured hand. “Thank you feels too small.”

With a smile, Raphael reached up and tucked a strand of Astarion’s hair behind his ear, thumb lingering against his cheekbone. Then he leaned in and kissed him, and the world fell away. Astarion let himself fall with it; falling into the heat of Raphael’s body, the burn of his touch.

When Raphael drew back, just barely, his breath ghosted over Astarion’s lips as he spoke. “You want to thank me properly?” he murmured, voice smooth like silk. “Say the words… Set me free.”

Astarion pulled away, turning his face aside. “No,” he said quietly, unable to meet Raphael’s eyes. “Not yet.”

Chapter Text

The manor had begun to feel like a real home.

It had been a tenday since Raphael had gifted him the house, and Astarion had split his time since between Baldur’s Gate and the House of Hope. What pleased him most was that Raphael chose to sleep wherever Astarion did, without being asked, like he simply wanted to be near him.

They weren’t alone in the manor; much to Raphael’s irritation, Astarion had graciously welcomed Shadowheart, Karlach, Wyll, and Gale as temporary lodgers. The owner of the Elfsong Tavern had not been particularly pleased to discover a ritual circle scrawled in goat’s blood across the floorboards of the upstairs suite, and the group’s half-hearted attempt at scrubbing it clean had done little to improve the situation.

Astarion found he rather enjoyed having his friends close by again, despite the ridiculous number of boots that now littered the hallway. They came and went as they pleased, but most evenings they all gathered in the kitchen, talking, drinking, and laughing late into the night. 

Raphael rarely joined in the laughter, remaining coolly aloof most of the time. Yet he had revealed a surprising talent for cooking, and seemed to take genuine pleasure in feeding them all, watching with unsettling interest as they tasted each dish he prepared. The food looked exquisite, and Astarion was disappointed he couldn’t partake, even if Raphael’s fascination with their enjoyment was, at times, a little too intense.

Gale had taken to the role of sous-chef with great enthusiasm, eagerly quizzing Raphael on obscure flavour pairings and unconventional marinating techniques. His constant stream of questions seemed to wear thin on Raphael’s patience, though Gale remained blissfully unaware of the way the devil’s jaw tightened with every enquiry.

Karlach was on cloud nine. Not only had her engine been fixed, but she also seemed to be growing closer to Wyll. Astarion and Shadowheart had caught him sneaking out of her room on their first night in the house. Everyone had been delighted by this development, Astarion loudly claiming he’d seen it coming all along. With the secret out, there was no need for stolen glances or hushed footsteps anymore; instead they were openly affectionate, all soft smiles and lingering touches.

Not everyone welcomed their sugary displays, however; Raphael often wore a faint sneer whenever the new couple entered the room hand in hand. It wasn’t that he was immune to romance, Astarion had come to realise, only that he seemed to have little patience for anyone else’s version of it. 

But Raphael’s brand of romance was far softer than Astarion had expected. He ran him hot baths perfumed with petals, left out books he thought Astarion might enjoy with humorous little notes scrawled in the margins, and each night, when Astarion joined him in bed, a steaming glass of Raphael’s own blood waited on the bedside table for him. While they rested, he curled close, arms wrapped tightly around Astarion’s cold body, warm breath ghosting over his skin.

Despite all this, however, a certain resentment still lingered. Astarion could feel it in the way the devil sometimes looked at him for too long. Raphael hadn’t asked Astarion to free him again, but the question still hovered in the air between them constantly. 

Astarion sat propped against the headboard of his large bed in the master bedroom, quietly working on his latest sewing project in the glowing amber light cast by the fireplace. Beside him, Raphael lay fast asleep, sprawled on his front, dark hair tousled across the pillow. His human half required a full eight hours of sleep and he’d been softly snoring for the past three, whilst Astarion, who required half as much in trance, was just beginning to feel the gentle pull of meditation.

The glass of blood Raphael had left out for him was already drained, and the taste still lingered on his tongue. Astarion’s gaze drifted to the devil, admiring the curve of his backside and the way the sheets clung to the shape of him. Something warm fluttered in his chest. 

Hooking the needle into the fabric, he tucked away his work, careful not to wake Raphael, then slipped from the bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

He still did his “perimeter checks” each night; a ritual that felt increasingly unnecessary in the safety of his own home, but the habit was a hard one to break. After everything he’d been through, he couldn’t seem to settle down to trance without first making sure all doors were locked, the windows sealed, and the dark corners empty. Just a little peace of mind before bed, even if part of him still feared returning to find the bed empty again.

Astarion padded barefoot into the manor’s kitchen, the flagstones cool beneath his feet. The room was bathed in silver light from the tall windows, and even now, a tenday later, it still didn’t feel entirely real: this was his home. 

The beautiful cabinets, carved with swirling lines and delicate ivy patterns, gleamed in the moonlight, every hinge and handle polished to perfection. Copper pans hung above the hearth, and at the heart of the room stood a large wooden table, solid and long enough to seat all his friends. Astarion smiled to himself; it truly felt like something out of a dream. 

A cat, he thought suddenly. It felt like the sort of home that ought to have one. He could almost picture it, a little orange thing curled in front of the fire, or stalking mice through the herb garden out back. He wondered if Raphael would approve… 

He began his usual checks, testing each window, turning every handle, methodically ensuring the locks held firm. Everything seemed to be in order. And yet…

He paused, wrinkling his nose. There was a smell. Faint, but distinct. Almost metallic... Burning?

He crossed to the oven and cracked its door open, but there was nothing inside. The hearth was cold too. Strange…

He moved from corner to corner, snuffing out the last few half-melted candles, their flames guttering in their holders. But still the scent hung in the air, even stronger now. Astarion frowned, inhaling deeper.

Sulphur.

His stomach dropped.

Hells.

A low hiss broke the silence. Astarion spun around to see a spined devil unfolding itself from the shadows by the doorway, squat and leathery, with barbed wings unfurling from its back and a razor-toothed grin stretching across its face. Another crept out from the pantry, smaller but no less vicious-looking, its hunched form bristling with venomous quills. Spinagons, Raphael had taught him.

Unarmed and shirtless, Astarion threw himself towards the counter, snatching up the two sharpest kitchen knives he could reach. Their weight felt unfamiliar in his hands, lacking the balance and comfort of his trusty dagger, but they were sharp, and hopefully sharp enough to cleave through infernal flesh. 

He turned back to the intruders, raising both blades in a defensive stance, bracing himself for the first strike. The devils hadn’t moved yet, but their eyes tracked him, glinting dull red in the moonlight, wings twitching in anticipation of violence. The smaller one let out a chittering screech, a horrible, grating sound that raised the hairs on Astarion’s neck.

Then the larger of the two devils moved, its wings twitching as it raised its tail and launched a volley of fiery spines across the room. Astarion twisted aside just in time, the projectiles whistling past his head and embedding themselves deep in the polished wood of one of his cabinets. The impact sent up a hiss of smoke as the scorched varnish bubbled, but, mercifully, the flames didn’t spread.

Astarion barely had time to grimace at the damage before the smaller spinagon surged in with an ear-piercing shriek, talons slashing at him. The first strike missed, but the second raked across his right side. Pain bloomed down his ribs, and he staggered back, blood already trickling down his side, wicking into the waistband of his trousers.

Two more fiery spines shot across the kitchen, which Astarion only just ducked in time, rolling behind the heavy oak table as they thudded into the wall behind him, leaving blackened marks in the stone. “Just marvellous,” he muttered to himself, glancing between the two devils circling. They were clever, taking turns, not giving him a chance to hit back. 

As he crouched, Astarion’s hand brushed something beneath one of the chairs: Shadowheart’s satchel. She must have left it behind after dinner. Reaching inside, his fingers found the smooth glass of a vial, and he yanked it free. Holy water.

Luck was on his side tonight.

He popped the stopper with his thumb, the liquid around the rim stinging his skin. Just as the smaller spinagon crept around the edge of the table, spines raised, claws glinting, Astarion threw the contents full into its face. 

The devil shrieked, stumbling back as the liquid hissed and sizzled against its skin. Claws flew up to its face, trying in vain to scrape the searing water away, as it seeped between its sharp scales, white vapour seeping out from the deepening burns.

With a snarl, Astarion lunged, driving one of the kitchen knives up into the creature’s lidless eye. The blade pierced clean through, burying itself to the handle. The devil gave a final, keening wail, then collapsed, twitching, to the floor.

Well, that evened the odds a little.

Pulling himself back behind the table, Astarion plunged his hand back into Shadowheart’s pack, fingers closing around a cool, familiar shape: a silver amulet etched with the symbol of Selûne. He remembered her speaking of it once, how it could channel the divine light of her goddess once per day. Drawing in a sharp, unnecessary breath, he focused on the remaining devil, gripping the amulet tightly and willing the power to answer.

A blinding beam of radiant moonlight tore down from above, illuminating the corner of the kitchen in ghostly silver. The spinagon shrieked as it stepped into the beam, its spines sizzling in the light, wings flaring as it staggered back, smoking. The scent of burning brimstone filled the air.

Flipping his kitchen knife in his hand, Astarion stayed low, and snuck around the room, staying hidden behind the countertops. The spinagon was sniffing the air with short, twitching motions, its skeletal wings tucked in tight as it tried to keep to the shadows, careful to avoid the shaft of moonlight still illuminating the area near the pantry. It crept closer, talons clacking softly on the flagstones, head tilting this way and that as it searched. Astarion watched its every movement, waiting, coiled to strike. 

He dived up from behind the counter and threw his weight into the devil’s side, shoving it hard into the moonbeam. Its screech split the air as it stumbled, limbs and wings flailing, but not before its tail jerked and shot out a sharp spine that pierced right through Astarion’s shoulder. White-hot pain ripped through him, leaving him momentarily blinded by the agony.

Snarling through clenched teeth, Astarion raised his cooking knife and drove the blade down into the creature’s chest with brutal force. As he crossed into the moonbeam to land the blow, the radiant light seared his own arm, eating into his undead flesh like acid. Ignoring the fresh wave of pain, he twisted the blade. The spinagon bucked once, claws scraping weakly at the stone floor, then crumpled in the moonlight, its body hissing and cracking as the radiant magic seared it into ash. As its corpse crumbled away, the knife clattered to the floor.

Astarion staggered back, clutching his bleeding shoulder and cradling his burnt arm, both arms entirely useless against further attacks. But the kitchen had fallen silent once more, save for the faint hum of the moonbeam.

Why were these fiends here? Astarion’s mind was racing. Had Mephistopheles gone back on their deal? Surely it couldn’t be Raphael seeking a way to claw himself free of Astarion’s ownership? Had he betrayed him after all? 

Then the memory struck him: amber eyes burning with hatred, a clawed, red finger pointing towards him, lips pulled back over sharp teeth. 

“You and I aren’t done, Fangs.”

Haarlep.

Astarion didn’t stop to check his wounds. He could feel the blood trailing down his side from a deep gash across his ribs, another stream leaking from the hole punched clean through his shoulder. His arm throbbed with a raw, blistering burn where the radiant light had scorched him. But none of it mattered.

He had to get back to Raphael. 

He stormed up the wooden staircase, pain shooting up his arm as one hand gripped the bannister hard so he could swing around the landing at speed. He threw himself at the bedroom door, slamming it open… and there, sprawled across the bed, Raphael was no longer alone.

Haarlep turned their head as Astarion burst into the room. They were straddling Raphael, who lay pinned beneath them, eyes glassy and unfocused. Leaning in close, Haarlep held a dagger to his throat, a few drops of blood beading under the blade.

“Little vampling,” Haarlep purred, glancing at him sidelong. “Come to join us? I’m not sure there’s enough of him to share.”

The floorboards creaked as Astarion stepped closer, a thin trail of blood dripping behind him. His gaze dropped to Raphael’s face, taking in the smear of red on his lower lip, drawn very intentionally. They had kissed him, likely roused him with it, and judging by the faraway look in Raphael’s eyes, the incubus spittle was already taking hold.

Astarion’s voice was low and venomous. “You didn’t win, Haarlep.” He stepped closer, his eyes blazing. “He doesn’t belong to you, so take your claws off him, and get out.” 

“So cold, darling,” Haarlep muttered, their voice sour with disappointment. “I only wanted to see him again…” They dragged a finger lazily down Raphael’s chest, eyes flicking to Astarion with thinly veiled irritation. “Taste him again. I wasn’t expecting you to walk away from my little house-warming party in the kitchen. Pity.”

Their hand slid lower, tracing the deep scar that curved along Raphael’s side from his back. Beneath their touch, Raphael flinched, half-lidded eyes fluttering slightly with the barest hint of awareness.

“This was me, you know.” Haarlep whispered, voice dripping with sinister pride. “I pulled out the knife wedged in his jaw — this very blade, in fact.” They tilted it just slightly, the point pressing up beneath Raphael’s chin. “I saved him from that delicious agony, the constant bleeding from that talented tongue of his. It was a kindness really, and for my mercy, I thought I’d earned a keepsake. Something special.” They sighed, smiling dreamily. “I had to dig deep for it, mind you, twist and tear until the rib came free in my hand.” 

Revulsion twisted in Astarion’s gut, bile burning the back of his throat, and the surge of rage that bubbled within him nearly choked him.

Haarlep continued, leaning down to whisper near Raphael’s ear. “Oh, how he screamed. I could have dined on the sound alone, it was utterly exquisite.” They closed their eyes as their tongue traced the shell of his ear. “I had to have him, then and there. He didn’t like that, of course. He thrashed, fought me with what little strength he had, too blinded by fear and pain to recognise the touch of my hands — his own hands. His incubus.”

Astarion was frozen in the doorway, every muscle locked in anguish, hatred broiling beneath his skin. He couldn’t move, not with that dagger kissing Raphael’s throat, not with Haarlep poised above him like some grotesque lover, and not with his own useless, injured arms. He felt his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to lunge, to rip the incubus away, but the blade was too close. All he could do was watch, wait, and pray for an opening.

He glanced at Raphael’s face: his eyes were glassy with fury and shame. The devil’s body trembled beneath Haarlep’s weight, muscles taut as he fought against the haze of lust clouding his mind. 

“I fucked him right there in the hall,” Haarlep went on, as if speaking to themself. “It was wonderful for business, so many eyes on us, each one hungry for a piece of the fallen prince. A piece of me.” They paused, frowning, as if weighing the memory. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect them to take another rib… and a kidney. That may have been a touch excessive. But look at him now, you’d hardly guess he’s been hollowed out like a fruit.”

Bit by bit, Raphael seemed to be clawing his way back, fighting through that fog of forced desire. One of his arms twitched, sluggishly reaching up to the hand that held the blade at his throat, but Haarlep’s tail snapped around it with snake-like speed, coiling tight around his wrist and pinning it to the bed. Raphael strained, but the hold was firm, his fingers flexing uselessly against the mattress. With visible effort, Raphael’s lips curled back and he hissed breathlessly, “Just do it, coward.”

Haarlep trilled a laugh. “Oh my sweet thing, if I cut your pretty throat, you’ll just wake up right back in the House of Hope. But I have Yurgir waiting there for you, with orders to take your head the moment you reappear, weak and disoriented. You remember what it feels like for your body to reform? You can’t fight him. This is the end for you, darling.”

A muscle ticked in Raphael’s jaw and his nostrils flared, the rage simmering beneath his skin beginning to win out over the pheromones. But when his gaze slid to Astarion’s, it lingered just long enough to betray the truth: he was afraid. 

“Why?” Raphael asked hoarsely.

The incubus glanced sidelong at Astarion, eyes glittering with spite, their lip curling in contempt. “Because if I can’t have you,” they sneered, “no one can.” And with their gaze still locked on Astarion, they dragged the dagger cleanly across Raphael’s throat.

Raphael’s eyes went wide, a flicker of disbelief flashing across his face as the blade tore through his throat. He gasped as blood spurted out in a crimson arc, spilling across the bed, soaking the sheets. 

Haarlep’s smile deepened, sick with satisfaction, as they sat back on Raphael’s hips. “See you in hell, little prince,” they hissed as they began to dissolve into mist, vanishing from the room.

With a choked cry, Astarion hurtled over, throwing himself onto the mattress. “No, no, no, no—” he gasped, hands clamping hard over the gaping wound, fingers instantly drenched in blood as it bubbled and gushed beneath them in a relentless flood. Panic strangled his voice. “Jen! Help!!” he shouted towards the door. “Jen, please—! Help me!”

Shadowheart burst through the doorway within moments, her silver hair unbound and tangled from sleep, nightclothes askew. She took in the scene with a horrified expression, and immediately rushed over to the bed, pushing Astarion’s hands aside. Her palms glowed as she pressed them to Raphael’s neck, whispering an urgent prayer as she worked.

Astarion staggered back, his entire body shaking. His own wounds forgotten, he dragged a bloodied hand through his hair, smearing crimson through pale curls. 

Behind him, Wyll and Karlach charged into the room, both half-dressed, weapons raised. Gale stumbled in after them, bleary-eyed in a bathrobe, staff in hand. Wyll immediately moved to secure the room, checking the armoire and sweeping back the curtains. 

“He actually can’t die on this pla—” Gale began, his index finger raising.

Karlach cut him off with a sharp elbow to the ribs. “Not now, mate,” she said quietly, shaking her head.

Astarion was pacing now, hands shaking, sobs shuddering and uncontrollable. “It was Haarlep,” he choked, turning to the others. “Devils— they attacked me in the kitchen. They’re waiting for him in Avernus too. To finish him.”

Gale’s expression darkened. “Then I’ll begin setting up protective wards immediately,” he said, turning back to the door. “Nothing else is getting in without us knowing.”

“What is this?” came Wyll’s voice, as he stepped over to the bedside table on Astarion’s side of the bed, where something long, curved and pale rested beside the empty bloodglass. He picked it up, turning it over. “It’s… a bone?”

“It’s mine,” came a hoarse voice from the bed.

All eyes turned as Raphael weakly pushed himself upright, trembling with the effort. His skin was still pallid and stained with blood, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Astarion rushed over to him immediately, dropping to the edge of the bed and pulling the devil into a fierce embrace. Raphael didn’t flinch or pull away; he simply let himself be held, sinking into Astarion’s arms with an exhausted surrender. And Astarion held on, as if he might never let go.

Shadowheart moved away, giving them space, before ushering the others out of the room. “Let’s give them a moment,” Astarion heard her murmur. “Save the questions.” 

The door clicked softly shut, and they were alone.

Astarion pulled back just enough to take Raphael’s face in both hands, his fingers trembling as they cradled the devil’s cheeks. He scanned his expression, drinking in the sorrow etched there; the pain, the fatigue, the shame. His heart ached as he truly looked at him; past the blood drying on his skin and the exhaustion dulling his eyes, and at the devil who had endured so much. Who had suffered, but survived every time.

Not just the unspeakable horrors of Cania, but the pain Astarion had caused him too: the rape in the carriage, the vicious bite in the mountains, the lightning shocks in Minauros. Moments when Astarion had reached not for compassion, but for control. When he'd let his own fear win out, or when he’d let his need for power consume him.

Astarion had turned those memories over in his mind for weeks, letting them rot and fester in the corners of his heart, wondering if they proved that he truly was the monster Cazador had made him. That there was no part of him left capable of real love, of gentleness, of goodness.

But maybe what mattered wasn’t what he had been in the carriage, or in the mountains, or in Minauros. Who he had been before. Maybe what mattered was what he did now. Who he chose to be from this moment on.

He brushed a streak of blood from Raphael’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, then leaned in and pressed their foreheads together. A tear slipped free, cutting a path down his cheek. 

Then he said it, barely above a whisper: “Be free, my love.”

Raphael drew back, his eyes widening. His gaze darted between Astarion’s eyes, searching for truth in them, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came, so instead he leaned in and kissed Astarion. 

It began tentative and slow, the trembling press of lips finding each other. Raphael breathed softly against him, his low sigh the only sound in the silence, and Astarion melted into him, fingers curling into Raphael’s hair as they sank back onto the bed. The events of the night fell away around them, leaving only the warmth of touch and the safety of each other’s arms.

They kissed until Raphael had to break away, panting lightly, his brow resting against Astarion’s once more. For a moment, they just stayed like that, silent and still, then Astarion whispered, “Did it work? I don’t feel any different.”

Raphael reached up, his fingers brushing the nape of his neck, searching, then stilling. His eyes met Astarion’s and he gave a small nod. “It worked.”

Astarion glanced down at his wrist. Even if the sigil had still been there, he wouldn’t have been able to see it under all the blood and ash. But as he wiped it clean, he found only smooth, unmarked skin beneath. He stared at the spot for a long moment, a strange rush of feeling rising in his chest. His thumb brushed over it, half-expecting to feel some lingering warmth of magic beneath the surface.

Nothing.

He looked back at Raphael, who was watching him closely, concerned eyes sweeping over the elf’s wounds. “Come on, little vampling,” Raphael said, gently taking his hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, eyeing the state of Raphael. Blood was smeared from his throat and all the way down his bare torso. Splashes of it had dried on his jaw and cheeks, and a dark line of red glistened on his lower lip.

“I think you’re the one who needs cleaning up, my love,” Astarion said dryly, “You look like you crawled through an elder brain.”

Raphael gave a soft snort. “How about this,” he said, “you take a healing potion, I’ll fetch clean bed linens… and then we reconvene in the bathtub.”

Astarion bit his lip, a hum of approval escaping him. “I like the way you think. I’ll fetch some wine.”

The grin that Raphael gave him next was positively ravenous. Then, with far too much energy for someone who’d nearly bled out minutes before, he swept out of the room to find fresh bedsheets. Astarion watched him go, shaking his head with an affectionate scoff as bloody footprints tracked across the polished floorboards.

In the kitchen, Astarion stepped over the crumpled corpse of one spinagon, barely sparing a glance at the pile of ash where its companion had fallen. He made straight for the cabinet, retrieving two healing potions and a bottle of Gulthmeran Reserve, then headed to the bathroom, where he found a beautiful, golden-skinned creature bending over the tub, naked, running the hot water. 

He paused in the doorway, enjoying the view. 

Raphael was free. 

And still here.

Perhaps freeing him hadn’t been such a terrible idea after all.

__________

“What should I tell the others?” Astarion asked when morning came, lying sprawled in a mess of clean bedsheets, his legs tangled with Raphael’s. “They’ve all warned me at one time or another not to trust you.” He tilted his head, offering a sly smirk. “You’re dangerous.”

Raphael lay beside him, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, his expression lazy and amused. “They’re not wrong,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to tell them anything.” He leaned in, his voice brushing hot against Astarion’s ear as he nuzzled close. “We can pretend.”

“You’d really do that? Pretend that I still own you…?”

“I would,” Raphael said softly. “Pretending to be your slave doesn’t come with nearly as much guilt for you.” He punctuated the comment by sliding his tongue into Astarion’s ear, earning a breathless giggle as the elf squirmed in his arms. “And much less torment for me.”

“I see,” Astarion purred, turning his head to capture Raphael’s lips with his own. “And what shall I command of my loyal slave?”

“Oh, all sorts of unspeakable things,” Raphael murmured between kisses, rolling over Astarion’s body until he hovered above him. He planted a soft kiss on the tip of Astarion’s nose before moving lower, his lips trailing across pale skin, barely touching, teasing. Slowly, steadily, he made his way down.

Astarion wound his fingers through dark, silky hair as Raphael reached his hips, every movement agonisingly slow. A hot tongue licked up the fluid beading on Astarion’s tip, before Raphael took his cock fully into his mouth and began to work his length. Astarion gasped, his back arching instinctively as he rolled his hips into that wet heat.

Brown eyes gazed up at Astarion adoringly, as Raphael explored him with his tongue, licking up and down his length, swirling over the head and probing the slit. Astarion moaned and gripped his hair tighter as Raphael bobbed his head up and down, lips squeezing tight around the shaft, fingers dancing over Astarion’s thighs and stomach.

It wasn’t long before Astarion was squirming, overwhelmed by pleasure and unable to keep the rising flood of release at bay any longer. His knuckles were white in the devil’s hair, as every muscle tightened, and with a low, guttural moan, his hips jerked and he spilled into Raphael’s mouth.

Raphael crawled back up the bed, wiping his chin with the back of one hand, before dropping beside Astarion with a satisfied sigh, breath slightly ragged. “Was that to your liking, my lord?” 

“Fuck yes,” Astarion panted, rolling on his side to look at him. “In fact, I think you deserve a reward for all your hard work,” he purred, brushing a dark lock from Raphael’s damp forehead. “I’ve got something for you, actually.”

“Oh really?” Raphael drawled, rolling onto his back and stretching out lazily against the cushions, one arm draped behind his head, the other hand slowly stroking his own, rigid cock.

“Yes,” Astarion said, getting up off the bed and dropping to his knees to retrieve something from underneath. “But first, I need you to shift.”

Raphael’s smile faltered slightly, and his hand stilled. “Shift?” he echoed, eyes suspicious as he watched Astarion’s head disappear under the bed.

“Mhmm. Cambion, please.” 

When Raphael didn’t respond, Astarion popped his head back up. He took in Raphael’s hesitation and the uncertainty in his eyes. “You’ll like it,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Raphael sighed, his brow furrowing with reluctance, but he obeyed. With a low breath and a ripple of heat, his form shimmered, and in a burst of falling embers, the devil re-emerged in his larger, more fiendish form. His tail curled on top of the sheets, but the bare bones of his wings were hidden behind him, pressed into the cushions.

Astarion rose to his feet, the folded red fabric he’d been working on earlier in his arms. He couldn’t help but smile at the slightly disgruntled look of apprehension on Raphael’s face. “Darling, I said this was a reward, not a punishment. What’s with the face?”

With a huff of laughter, Raphael rolled his eyes, his anxiety slipping behind the familiar mask of his smirk. “You’re getting dressed up for me, are you?” He nodded at the fabric in Astarion’s arms, “You clearly already know I like red. I’m also quite partial to lace… something sheer, perhaps.”

“Oh no,” Astarion said with a sly smile. “This isn’t for me to wear.” He placed the fabric on the bed, spreading it out over Raphael’s legs. One by one, he unfolded the deep crimson panels, each one shaped with care, lined with fine stitching and reinforced seams. “It’s for you.”

Raphael’s smirk faltered. He sat up slowly, reaching for one of the panels with careful fingers. The fabric was lighter than it looked, sturdy but elegant, each stitch meticulous. His eyes followed the lines, the shape, the silhouette beginning to form in his mind.

Astarion watched him closely, heart fluttering with that same strange ache he could never quite name, as Raphael’s expression shifted: confusion giving way to understanding… and then, incredulous awe.

“Wings,” Raphael said quietly. “You’ve made me wings.”

“Karlach picked me up some spidersilk from Sorcerous Sundries,” Astarion said, smiling as he ran a finger over the edge of one of the panels. “Light as a feather and as hard as dragon scales… and a complete nightmare to stitch, if I’m honest.” He looked back at Raphael, voice quieter now. “If you’ll allow it, I can fit them for you?”

Raphael said nothing. He blinked rapidly, moisture clinging to his lashes as he stared down at the panels in his lap. For someone so rarely at a loss for words, his silence said everything he couldn’t. He simply nodded and began to move. 

With the utmost care, he shifted the fabric aside and rose from the bed. He took a breath to steady himself and turned his back to Astarion, then slowly unfolded the bones of his ruined wings. With no muscle to support their movement, and no membrane to give them shape, the thin, skeletal digits clattered together, like brittle wind chimes in a soft breeze. He stood there, motionless, waiting for Astarion to begin.

It took Astarion the best part of an hour to attach the fabric to Raphael’s wings. The devil stood quietly and patiently the entire time with his wingbones stretched out wide behind him. He didn’t complain when Astarion accidentally pricked him with the needle, multiple times. 

As Astarion worked, his eyes kept drifting to the tapestry of scars marring Raphael’s back, focusing on one in particular: the one Haarlep had claimed as their doing. His hand moved almost of its own accord, fingertips brushing gently along it. “Does it still hurt?” he asked, voice low.

Raphael’s head turned slightly, a long exhale escaping him before he replied. “Not in the way you’d think. They took away part of my structure, my symmetry, so now everything pulls slightly out of place. I feel… unbalanced.” 

Astarion glanced over at the bedside table, where the curved piece of bone still rested on the dark wood. “Do you think… we could put it back?”

Raphael barked a surprised laugh. “Hells, no. I’d rather not be carved open again, thank you very much.” He tilted his head so Astarion could see the faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You can keep it, if you’re that fond of it. A souvenir of everything we’ve been through together.”

“Wonderful, I shall turn it into a writing quill,” Astarion chuckled, tying off the last finishing knot. 

“I adore stationery,” Raphael mused. 

Grinning at his handiwork, Astarion patted Raphael on the backside. “You’re all done, love.” He gestured to the full-length mirror on the wall, “Go and take a look.”

Before moving away to look, Raphael turned on the spot, leaning down and capturing Astarion in a slow, lingering kiss. When he finally drew back, Astarion huffed a breathless laugh and gently tapped a finger to Raphael’s chest. “Go and see. You can thank me properly after.”

Raphael smiled down at him, the corners of his eyes creasing, ears giving a subtle little wiggle with the expression, rare and genuine excitement lighting up his face. Then, slowly, he turned and stepped over to the mirror.

Astarion watched him move, admiring the way the muscles on his back rippled as Raphael slowly fanned his new wings out. The fabric caught the pale morning light slipping through a gap in the curtains, shimmering faintly, and for a moment, they looked almost real.

They were magnificent, if he said so himself.

Raphael reached the mirror in silence, his posture tall, almost regal. His eyes drank in the reflection of his new wings, and for a long moment, he simply stared, unmoving, his breath held. Slowly, he turned, first slightly, then further, until one wing came into view over his shoulder. He drew it forwards in a smooth arc, the fabric folding with the motion, and reached out to touch it. His fingertips brushed the stitched seams, tracing the careful joins. He flexed the structure gently, and the wings responded — not quite as easily as they once had, perhaps, but close enough to stir pride and wonder deep behind his eyes. 

Behind him, Astarion stayed quiet, arms loosely crossed, watching the devil watch himself. A strange weightlessness swelled in his chest, an impossible lightness that made him feel as if his feet might lift off the floor, that he might just drift upwards and get stuck on the ceiling. He pressed a hand flat to his sternum, trying to ground himself, but the warm fluttering behind his ribs was becoming strangely overwhelming. 

Astarion stepped up to the mirror, and though his reflection didn’t appear beside Raphael’s, the devil didn’t flinch as cool arms wrapped around his waist. Astarion pressed his face gently to the centre of Raphael’s back, between his wings, breathing in the scent of musk and cherries.

“Can I ask you something?” Astarion murmured against Raphael’s skin.

He felt more than heard the answering rumble. “Of course.”

“Do you know what love feels like?”

Slowly, Raphael turned in Astarion’s arms to face him, looking down at the elf with glowing eyes. His expression was indecipherable and unblinking as he considered the question carefully, before speaking. “I’ve read more about love than any one creature rightly should. Poems, ballads, sonnets. Hundreds of thousands of texts. I know how mortals describe it: how it aches, how it lifts, how it ruins and redeems. I can recite the language of love in a dozen tongues.” He paused, his eyes searching Astarion’s face. “But do I know what it feels like?” He shrugged. “I don’t think that I do. Do you?”

Astarion wasn’t disappointed by Raphael’s answer; he knew the devil was a different being, shaped by a different plane of existence. But actions spoke in ways words couldn’t, and Raphael had shown him, time and again, that he felt something for Astarion, perhaps just as deeply as what Astarion felt for him. 

He didn’t need a name for it.

Astarion looked up at him and smiled, squeezing just a little tighter. “I think that maybe I do,” he whispered. “Or at least… I’m starting to understand.”