Chapter 1: Once Upon A Night In The Desert
Chapter Text
It was cold.
That was the first thought to return to the elf, the darkness of his vision slowly fading back into reality with every beat of his heart against the inside of his ribs. How strange - he had never been so aware of his heartbeat before, but right now, he could feel every palpitation and twitch of the organ, which felt so full, like it was going to burst. He could feel the heat of his blood as it gushed rapidly through his veins, from his chest, down his legs, through his fingertips… he flexed his fingers in response, exhaling softly at the sensation of the crisp night air kissing his naked and exposed chest and arms. He was wearing pants still, but hadn’t he also been wearing a shirt? And why did his skin feel wet?
Blinking, he looked down at himself, using his hands to try and brush the crimson liquid from his pale skin, but his hands and arms were just as dirty as his chest. He felt so dazed as he stood there as if he had just come to consciousness after blacking out briefly, and now everything was distorted and distant to him. He could hear sounds around him, but the ringing in his ears made it impossible to discern what it was. He could see, but his vision felt blurred at the edges. It was dark, but there was a warm glow coming from all directions; he turned, blinking again to try and clear his vision, realizing he stood at the center of a circle, and around the circle were standing torches stuck into the hard desert ground.
Confused, he turned around slowly, his heart picking up its pace and becoming more violent and volatile in his chest when he realized he was surrounded by bodies. And the blood! Gods, there was so much of it, and it was everywhere, and-...
Again, Astarion glanced down at himself, realizing now that the substance he was covered in was the same blood that stained the dirt around him. “Wh-... What the Hells is this ...?!” He panted out, wanting to step away from the carnage, but there was nowhere he could go! The corpses were everywhere, immobilizing him as panic and deeper confusion bloomed in his chest. Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he spotted movement. He spun to face it, expecting to see a coyote or whatever other wild beast could be responsible for all of this, but he was absolutely terrified to see it was something much worse than a simple-minded beast; It was Cazador.
His tormentor. His captor. Instinctively, Astarion stumbled backward away from him, only to be confounded by the way the man was looking at him. Cazador was pale, his eyes were wide and full of terror as he stared at Astarion - but there was a hint of anger there as well. “Raphael! What-... What is the meaning of this?! Show yourself, devil!” Cazador demanded while he tried to back away from Astarion, only to slip in a puddle of muddy blood and fall on his ass, resulting in him instead crawling backward.
Who? Astarion again blinked, but this time, as his eyes befell Cazador’s body, something in him quickened. His eyes, now deep crimson (unbeknownst to him) found Cazador’s throat, where he was immediately enamored by the sight of the man’s pulse. The look of it somehow rid Astarion of his own fears and uncertainties, and at that moment, he realized just how thirsty he was…
Oh-so thirsty.
–
Air rose when it heated. A miniscule dust devil, almost unnoticeable, kicked up just behind Cazador’s crawling form. In no time at all, the swirling air caught fire. Flames licked the circulating winds, growing enough to pull wind past the hair of anyone within several feet. The flames of the torches flickered and yawned, debating whether or not to snuff out entirely.
None of them did.
Out of the flaming wind materialized a humanoid shape, the outline molten and solidifying into identifying features until a man appeared. The wind cooled, as did the flaming man. A slow clap rang out into the desert, the underfoot grit and empty expanse absorbing all chances of an echo.
“Brav-oh, my good man.” A gravelly voice, like chocolate melted over copper pieces, purred from the darkened figure. The crunch of footsteps under genuine leather dress shoes spaced out each step to be slow, sure, methodical. “It appears you were strong enough, after all.”
The footsteps were no longer grinding against dirt, but now padding through the puddles of mud in that same slow rhythm. The figure stepped into the light of the circle, and his features illuminated. A younger middle-aged man with a thick head of dark hair, meticulously styled, was not addressing Cazador. No, his shadow-cast, dark eyes glowed amber and were fixed directly on the blood-soaked boy standing in the center of the viscera.
“What is the meaning of this?!” The now small, pitiful man at their feet crawled to stand, muck and blood sticking to his hands and clothes. “You tricked me!”
A smile line pressed in, made darker and more pronounced in the high-contrast low-light of their bloodied desert oasis. “I did no such thing,” the theatrical voice mused. He sounded just delighted for the excuse to explain the coming folly. “You do not have an eye for legalese, Cazador. Plain and simple.”
The confused tyrant trembled with what appeared to be even parts fury and fear. The man could smell it on the little rat. Reeked of weakness. Delicious, but off-putting. Cazador looked like he was about to burst a gasket. “You–” he shrieked, pointing at the well-dressed stranger with an accusatory finger, “you said that if it worked, I would become immortal! That was our deal! You lied to me–”
“Stop your pitiful tantrum, Cazador. It really is unbecoming.” The stranger sighed, turning once more to face the man in the center of the circle. “I promised a rite for immortality. A chance to become an apex predator. But you,” he only glanced in the dark-haired man’s direction with satisfaction bleeding into contempt, “were not gracious enough to accept the risks.”
“What…what risks?” His voice cracked. Cazador wasn’t doing himself any favors by growing more and more unhinged.
The suited man sighed and shook his head. “You told me explicitly that you were not to be harmed, yes? That you yourself were not willing to die during the ritual? Well…the amended version you performed did just that. It spared you any discomfort.” Slowly, the dark eyes were drawn back to Astarion. “No, you offered me a gift of someone who had a…how did you put it…” he pondered, taking his time for dramatic effect, “...an exceptional tolerance. And it appears you were correct, Cazador.”
The deranged, muddy man paled. “You…”
“Enough of this.” The devil turned to Astarion, a devious twinkle reflecting back in his eyes. “My dear Astarion, I am sensing you might be a bit thirsty. Nod yes if you are.”
–
The gust of wind wasn’t enough to drag Astarion from his stupor, though it did tussle his short, curly white hair, which was sticky and matted with blood that was entirely not his own. Thump, thump, thump! Cazador’s heartbeat thrashed in his throat, blanketing Astarion’s mind back into that same dazed state as before, but not quite causing him to black out and go into another frenzy. So enthralled was he by the throbbing under Cazador’s skin that he took a few seconds longer than he should have to realize that the seemingly innocent dust devil was glowing ablaze. Astarion winced, the sand kicked up from the sudden whirling inferno stinging his eyes enough to somewhat snap him out of his hypnotized trance. Grimacing, he lifted a hand to shield his strangely sensitive eyes from the brightness of the fire, but he couldn’t seem to will himself to move. His mind told him to flee, but something else inside of him refused. The part of him that was so desperately starved, freezing him in place and fraying his common sense so dramatically that he could only stare in disbelief and awe as a figure appeared from within the flames.
Through the distortion in his hearing, he could hear the clapping, as if it were in his mind. Squinting, he reluctantly lowered his hand as the flames died, and in their place was a man unlike any he had ever seen. He was immaculate. For a moment, Astarion forgot that Cazador ever even existed, his ruby eyes unblinking as they locked onto the intense, demanding gaze of the warm-skinned stranger. His lips parted, exposing elongated fangs that he was unaware of, but he couldn’t speak. His throat felt like it was made of sandpaper, grating painfully from just how thirsty he was, as if he hadn’t had a sip of water in days. He couldn’t make a sound, he could only stare, dazed and completely astonished by what he was seeing. Of course, he was plenty disturbed by the carnage that surrounded him, but it all felt like a dream. It didn’t feel real…!
Even Cazador no longer mattered. The man that had been at the center of Astarion’s torment for the past few months; starving him, beating him, and forcing him into bed… that man somehow immediately felt so insignificant and small compared to the figure that had just appeared in a torrent of flame and wind. He knew that Cazador was talking, but it felt like he was floating underwater, and Cazador was above the water yelling at him. He couldn’t understand a word and didn’t care to try. He just watched Raphael, as Cazador had called him, unable to look away. Weirdly, he didn’t feel afraid, but this all felt like such a fever dream to him that he didn’t even know if he believed any of it was real, anyway.
They were arguing, he picked up on that much. Something about immortality, and tricks, and-
‘My dear Astarion, I am sensing you might be a bit thirsty. Nod yes if you are.’
He knew his name, but more importantly, he seemed to somehow know the thirst he was feeling - though, calling it ‘a bit thirsty’ was such an understatement. Still, his response was immediate; he nodded, his bare feet shifting in the bloody mud as he dared a small step forward. His breath quickened, and the red of his eyes seemed to glow unnaturally in the torchlight. A pained desperation touched his usually collected features, but then, he froze mid-step. His gaze slipped downward, locking onto Raphael’s throat now. His pulse… it was stronger than Cazador’s. Calmer. Hypnotic. It pained Astarion just to look at it! Immediately, his hands balled into fists and his vision danced as he felt a horrible ache in his chest. His heart, though powered by the blood of those he had already slaughtered, was already yearning for more.
He tried to rationalize it all, but against this strange new instinct, NOTHING was making sense!
–
Raphael did not want to deign himself to send even one more pity glance Cazador’s way. He reveled in the cosmic justice, the irony of what was about to occur, but to feel contempt for that creature would indicate he cared about him or his fate at all. It did not matter, no more than a chicken on the dinner table mattered. One could thank the creature for providing nourishment to the mouth that fed, but it was not the chicken who decided to feed the table. Appreciation of the end result – satiation, was as much thanks as the fowl deserved.
No. He wanted to bathe in the sight before him. The beautiful boy, his glorious canvas painted from head to toe – he deserved to be witnessed now, as he was. Raphael surveyed him with a gooey slowness, taking his time. The nod came, just as expected. His rapt attention gave Raphael satisfaction. Yes, he would do quite nicely. Quite nicely indeed.
“Good.” Raphael noticed the eyes trained on his own throat, and he shook his head with the same relaxed pace as his claps and footsteps. He was in no hurry. “I have a gift for you, should you choose to accept it. I have a feeling you will.” The well-dressed man took one or two measured paces towards the spawn. “Listen, and listen closely, love.” His hands folded behind his back as he circled the thirsty elf, his eyes trained on the bloody art piece like a sniper. “You are going to drink from your captor. Drain him of his blood…his spirit…his life.” The devil had closed in enough that he whispered the last word, his breath most likely brushing along the wetness on the boy’s shoulder. His breath smelled of wine, but a bouquet of cherries, musk, and sulfur carried an intoxicating cloud along with him.
“Now,” he murmured languidly. “Go.”
Chapter 2: Once Upon A Night In The Desert II
Notes:
TW: violence, blood, death
Chapter Text
Cazador’s yapping and wailing only intensified at the ‘gift’ mentioned to Astarion, not suggesting that he drink the life out of his captor, but demanding it in such a calm and casual tone. Immediately, the fledgling spawn’s gaze shifted, again befalling Cazador as Raphael’s heated whisper caressed his shoulder and made him shudder. The rational elf in Astarion was appalled by the very thought of having to so much as TOUCH Cazador ever again, but that other part of him was in control now. That part of him that he did not yet understand - but this Raphael seemed to understand so perfectly. Yes… he could drink the life out of Cazador… and he would.
Go.
It was all the encouragement and invitation Astarion needed. Staring at Cazador, he could feel it; his hate for the man, rising like acidic bile in the back of his throat, burning the inside of his chest and making him feel sick. He took a step forward, casually stepping over one of the corpses, and Cazador stepped back.
“No!” he shouted, using his most commanding voice to try and deter Astarion. The same voice that used to make Astarion flinch, now it only made him sneer. His lips again parted in absolute disgust at the man before him, baring his fangs as he continued his approach. With each step forward he took, Cazador took back, his fear rising when he realized that Astarion was very much unphased by his shouting.
“Wh-... What about money?! Yes! That’s it! I’ll give you enough of it to never have to lift a FINGER! J-just… just stay back… stay away-”
Midway through his begging and attempted bribing, Astarion closed the gap between them. Astarion was honestly just as baffled by it as Cazador, but it seemed that whatever happened to Astarion to give him this thirst also gave him unnatural speed, and he was tired of hearing Cazador’s voice. Perhaps, had he more self-control, he’d savor the moment. He would draw it out. Make the bastard scream. But all the young vampire could think about was his thirst, and Cazador’s throat was simply too tempting.
Cazador felt so weak in his arms as he grabbed him, arms around the man’s torso with a crushing, brutal, uncontrolled strength that audibly snapped and cracked multiple ribs. That alone was enough to make the man scream - music to Astarion’s ears! - but it was when the elf so mercilessly buried his fangs into his throat that Cazador began to squeal like a pig at slaughter. Well… until Astarion’s fangs clumsily shredded Cazador’s vocal cords, reducing the screams to a desperate wheeze instead. But at that point, the vampire elf wasn’t even THINKING of his captor anymore. Fresh, hot, sticky blood sprayed against his writhing tongue, and he was more than eager to suck it down, completely eviscerating his tormentor’s throat with his lack of skill or grace when it came to this new feature of his. But it didn’t matter. He crushed Cazador’s body in his arms, squeezing him like a Capri Sun, accidentally rupturing almost all of his organs in the process as razor-sharp fangs scraped bone.
It only took moments for Cazador to die, but even then, Astarion couldn’t stop! He was in a frenzy, trembling and groaning as he bit the other side of Cazador’s neck, shoulder, arm - anywhere he could get fresh blood to fill his mouth.
–
Raphael smirked as the boy did exactly as he was told, even waiting until he was instructed to go forth and attack. This one…he had great promise. Yes, he’d do wonderfully. Malleability was gold in his industry, after all. The “gold” Cazador was desperately offering would have been insulting had it not been so pitiful. The man’s begging during his last moments painted his weakness more plainly than putting up at least half a fight – no matter how futile his body might be against the dexterous strength of the spawn before him.
Yes… Raphael thought as his new asset tried out his sea legs. Like a baby fawn, his knees seemed almost wobbly – unpracticed. He would grow accustomed to them, of course. Given time, he would develop his feline grace, his hunter’s style. Even now, clumsy as he appeared, he was a force to be reckoned with. And reckoned with, he was.
The dark-haired man beamed in something akin to pride as he enjoyed the show. Astarion, showing his newfound speed and strength, snuffed Cazador out in a few measly cracks and cleaves. Flesh ripping had a particular sound that agreed with Raphael, given the day. He didn’t prefer to do it much himself, no. That was where this darling boy would come in. He would be an excellent attack dog, more than capable of handling the dirtier, bloodier business that Raphael came into time and time again.
The gurgling from the corpse was boring, standard. What wasn’t boring was the rippling muscles below the layers of ichor and gristle. Although the bloodied elf’s back had been mottled with scars after being carved with the script of the hells, Raphael was sure he would be pleased to find that the transformation had wiped them clean. A fresh start for a fresh canvas. Newfound strength recruited every possible tendon and strap of tissue, the blood and firelight illuminating delicious shadows that had the devil deciding that he would paint this scene many times over. Surely it wouldn’t be possible to perfectly distill the glory of this moment in a painting, but he would still enjoy the process of attempting.
The shredding was getting a bit gratuitous after the seconds ticked on, but the speed in which Astarion devoured was no small feat. The screaming had long since stopped, replaced by the surprisingly stimulating music of the snapping jaw, the feral gulping and slurping. To see such a delicate, pretty thing performing such sin gave Raphael a deep, perverted pleasure. It stirred his gut. It was not the act itself that aroused him, but the defamation of a beautiful boy. A full high elf, no less. It sang of perfection.
In not much time at all, the prodigy of the sanguine arts was nearing an end. Not because he was satiated, surely. He simply ran out of parts to devour.
“Very thorough,” Raphael voiced with glowing approval. “Most impressive. As it is said, waste not, want not.” The devil placed a firm, warm hand on the cold, wet one’s shoulder where he crouched and ravaged. “Has that improved that infernal burning in your throat?”
–
Astarion gasped when he finally pulled his fangs from Cazador’s body, snapping back to reality when he felt that warm hand on his shoulder, and that deceptively sweet voice at his side. It returned him to the present, panting as he dropped Cazador’s broken, pale, corpse in the mud at his feet and stared wide-eyed at him while it all finally began to settle in his mind. Stunned, he turned his gaze finally back to Raphael, standing up slowly and wiping the blood from his maw with the back of his hand - or trying to anyway, but considering his arm was as bloody as his face, it just smeared the crimson over his pale, cool cheek. The heat of the fresh blood coursed through him rapidly as he stood, filling him to the brim with vitality and strength, and yet…
“...I want more.” He whispered, sounding as astounded and confused as he felt. It was a horrified revelation that he wasn’t even sure how to begin processing. Again, he looked at his hands, bloodied, but he knew none of it was his. He had killed everyone . “I-I don’t… I mean…” He didn’t seem sad or remorseful as he turned to look at the carnage surrounding them, just very confused.
“Why do I want more? I just-... I shredded his throat with my teeth! ” The elf looked more disgusted than anything at that particular revelation, his face twisting into one of displeasure as he took an uneasy step back. Away from Cazador’s corpse, and away from the strange being that had literally appeared in a flaming vortex.
“He called you Raphael, but who are you - what are you? And what the hell am I?! ” Astarion shook his head, an unamused and dry scoff escaping his much more comfortably lubricated throat. Lubricated with Cazador’s blood, he thought, which was so vile!
–
I want more.
Raphael exhaled through his nostrils with minor amusem*nt. “I am sure you do, my dear boy. I am sure you do.” He dropped his hand, reaching with his other one into his suit pocket where he gingerly plucked a crimson handkerchief from its depths. He casually wiped his dirtied hand with it, cleaning it from the gore that had transferred from the spawn’s beautiful, filthy skin. He waited, patiently, for Astarion to take the scene in with his fresh, sensitive eyes. The confusion was apparent. Good. Confusion made this all easier for both of them. Namely Raphael, which was most important anyways.
He questioned the source of his thirst, referencing the rampage he had committed against his slaver. Ahem, late slaver. He had made sure and short work of him. The nervous vampling was backing away, but he would find out very quickly how futile it would be to attempt to run. Even with his impressive speed and reflexes, Raphael would collect him with the snap of his fingers. He hoped he would be more compliant, but if he wasn’t…well, Raphael would be forgiving. This was a lot to take in all at once, after all. The flustered boy continued asking questions one after another, enough that the devil had time to fold his kerchief neatly and replace it to its pocket home. Such questions were all rather reasonable, considering the circ*mstances. Raphael had a chance to flex his composure’s endurance.
Once they slowed down enough for Raphael to intervene, he held both hands out in a cordial gesture. “Simple. You have been welcomed into the immortal realm thanks to your darling puddle here.” He motioned with an indifferent wave of his hand to the pile at their feet, what had moments ago been Cazador Szarr. His lip pulled up in disgust of his own. “Despicable creature, that.”
Shrugging his shoulders back to straighten his posture, Raphael shook his head with mock embarrassment. “Oh, forgive my rudeness. As you said, my name is Raphael.” He bowed his head, peering up at him from behind thick, dark lashes with a mischievous glint in the eyes they sheltered. Lifting back up, he stared the darling feral creature down steadily. “I am many things, dear boy.” He began to pace at that same funeral dirge pace. “Am I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a savior?” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a menacing smirk. “That’s for certain.”
He paced in a circle around the vampire, continuing after a beat. “Cazador Szarr made a deal with a devil. Horrid creatures, or so I’ve heard.” Shooting a wink, he chuckled and clasped his hands together. “He sought inhuman strength, speed, power.” Raphael gripped the air in front of him, making a fist. “He wished to live forever. And to do so, he would require a number of souls as payment.” Motioning with outstretched hands to the bodies surrounding them, he continued. “He knew the risks of the ritual, of course. There was a chance it would not take hold – that it would all be for naught. He would die an excruciatingly painful death, and the souls offered would be forfeit.” Halting in his path to stand directly in front of Astarion, Raphael sighed. “Alas, he wanted his cake and to eat it too. So he had that devil rewrite the terms of their contract. The accepted a revised deal that stated he would…what was it? ’Come to no bodily harm during the ritual.’ Simple.”
Too simple. Embarrassing for him, really. “Among his sacrifices, he offered his most coveted, prized possession. A beautiful, broken boy who could withstand any torture, any pain, any strain. His words, not mine.” The man sighed, shaking his head. “So, the devil wrote that beautiful, broken boy into the contract in Cazador’s place. He would be far more likely to survive the ritual. And guess what?” Raphael’s eyes twinkled. “He did.”
–
He hadn’t failed to notice the way Raphael wiped his hand clean after touching him, which was honestly a bit offensive, but considering he was covered in blood he couldn’t say he wouldn’t do the same. Besides, he figured now was probably the worst time to be offended when there was so much more going on that he struggled to process. It was almost as offensive as being called ‘boy’, which caused his eye to twitch a little the more the man said it. After his questions were all laid out, all he could do was listen as it was explained to him, piece by piece, even calling himself a savior! Naturally, Astarion was suspicious of it all, despite what he had seen and done. As Raphael began to pace a circle around him, he paced as well, not letting the man get behind him for a second and keeping at arm's length now as everything was slowly laid out for him.
“Wait-” Astarion interjected, shaking his head. It all sounded far too… good? To be true. Did it even sound good? It was a lot, that much was for sure. “So are you a savior, or are you a devil? Also, are you saying that I am immortal now? And I’m just supposed to believe this because…” He scoffed, shaking his head again and throwing his hands up in exasperation, taking another small step back to give himself space to think, but the more he thought, the more insane it all became. “... because you came strolling out of a fire vortex.” It was less of a question now, and more of a statement that he was trying to remind himself DID happen. He saw it with his own eyes! As unreliable as those felt right now. It all still seemed like some kind of dream. Then there was the whole soul thing to address.
He clucked his tongue, letting out a tight breath to try and calm his rattled nerves as he looked around at all of the corpses, but still, he lacked any real remorse, even knowing now he had to have been the one to do it. If anything, he felt… strangely… giddy. His lips twitched, uncertain of if he should be laughing, smirking, or frowning, and his hands found their way to rest on his narrow, slender hips. “I mean I always knew that wretched, slimy bastard was an idiot, but I never would have thought he’d be THIS much of an idiot.” The young elf admitted, unable to hide the growing mirth from his voice the more it dawned on him that he was now something far greater than he had ever been before. And immortal, if Raphael was to be wholly believed!
“Well! I suppose that just begs the question… Why are you still here? You have your souls,” he gestured toward the corpses. “You’re welcome for that, by the way, I suppose. And you have him,” With a rough ‘tap’, he kicked Cazador’s leg, sneering at the pile of twisted bone and gore before shaking his head and peering back up at the supposed devil. “Not to sound ungrateful, but it’s not like I volunteered to be a part of this contract. I mean, I’ll take the immortality and strength and all of that other fun stuff, but I never agreed to be a part of… whatever it is you’re doing here. So, if it’s all the same, I think I’d like to go and find out more of what I can do, while you reap your souls, or whatever it is a devil does.”
–
Raphael did not take offense at Astarion’s obvious moves to keep distance between him. Even a wolf with its back against a wall posed no real threat. He paused his pacing and stood still while he was interrogated further. He enjoyed this, really. Raphael lived for answering questions. And prayers, but that was another matter entirely.
So are you a savior, or are you a devil?
He smirked, raising a brow. “Now now, stereotypes are harmful. Those two things are not mutually exclusive, my dear.” Allowing the elf to voice more concerns, Raphael stared him down with polite interest. Sweet thing was talking himself in circles, a welcome sight. Made this all so much easier for the both of them. Raphael let him gather himself – think out loud a touch. His eyes crinkled mirthfully when he so quaintly described how he strolled out of a “fire vortex”, and the devil put a pin in that one. He’d be using it later, he decided. Korilla would be getting a kick out of that, he was sure.
The vampire squirmed in his confused state, still taking in the beauty of his mess sprawled around them for what seemed like miles. It was nowhere near that impressive, but Raphael would let him have pride in the work he had done. Besides, it was delightful to see the plainly-displayed emotions the platinum-blonde man wore upon his nonexistent sleeve. There wasn’t an ounce of regret in those eyes. Oh, had that been a hint of… pride he saw? Had he impressed himself?
The kick sent to Cazador’s corpse and the comment that followed earned the vampire a delighted laugh. He had been such an idiot. Almost impressively so. “One of the biggest I’ve met, and I’ve met countless idiots.” Astarion’s mirth reflected like a mirror on the face across from him, although there was always a sense that he was simply being entertained by this whole ordeal. A mad joke, all of it.
Raphael adjusted his cufflinks as he was interrogated further. He had his souls, what more did he want with him? Although he wouldn’t admit it, they hadn’t been his souls. Rather, he had simply arranged the contract. All those screaming, tortured spirits were already in Avernus at this rate, burning all the way down to his father. His lip pulled up in the hint of a sneer, the only crack in his impervious facade until that point.
Why couldn’t this creature just, waltz off into the night with his head held high, living his own beautiful, brutal, bloody future all by himself? With a minor raise of his brow and a slight ‘you got me’ of his scoffing lip, Raphael held his hands out once again. “You raise valid points, each and every one of them.” Narrowing those amber spheres that reflected that same molten flame as the torches did, they zeroed in on the brilliant, blithesome rubies housed in the teardrop eyes. “By all means, run off into the sunset with your strong new legs. Slay countless virgins. Drain the masses of their precious juices. The world is your oyster, good sir.”
He paused, curling his hands back in from their gestures to a proper stance full of drama and intrigue. “Only, sunsets are a thing of the past. Your flesh will char, melt, and then turn to ash. You may run, but the hunger will never be sated. Your thirst, never quenched. You will kill the way all the inexperienced do: slovenly.” Tilting his head side to side while deliberating some hypothetical, Raphael hummed. “I’d give you one…maybe two days, if you’re careful, before the authorities find the trail of grisly bodies that lead straight to your door.” He paused, frowning. “Assuming you have a door, of course. How long have you been trapped in this camp? Maybe your landlord will give you an extension. Tell her not to mind your striking new blood red eyes. Colored contact lenses are just so uncomfortable. I wouldn’t recommend them. They’d interfere with your improved sight.”
Shrugging, the man waved and pivoted in the mud, about to turn his back and begin walking in the other direction. “I know how to alleviate all of these problems, even your war with the sun. Which, if I’m not mistaken, will be greeting us in less than an hour. I hope you’ll find suitable shade. It would be a shame for all of this carnage to be for naught.” The sky had, while they spoke, gradually shifted into a deep and unmistakable shade of indigo. The sun was on its way, ever encroaching like death unto mortals.
“It was nice to meet you, Astarion. I sincerely wish you the best luck, truly.” With one more bow, much deeper than the first, he closed his eyes and swept his hand under his trunk. “It has been a privilege.”
–
Of course his points were valid. He only said things that were worth saying, after all, which made everything he said valid. He decided not to press that point though and instead allowed a smirk to tug at his lips when the devil confirmed that yes, he could just go off and live his new life now. He wouldn’t be stopped, not by Raphael, and certainly not by Cazador! Indeed, everything the man proposed sounded like an absolute delight! Right up until he mentioned the sunset, that was. The sun would melt his skin? Turn it to ash? And this hunger - this HORRIBLE hunger - would never be satisfied?! Immediately, the smirk was wiped clean off of Astarion’s face, his eyes widening and his skin paling further. If such a thing was possible, at least.
Fretfully, and with a sudden sense of dread and panic swelling in his chest where he had once felt the budding of excitement, Astarion’s crimson gaze shifted to the sky and he was horrified by what he saw. Though the sun was only just barely touching the very base of the vast sky, the typically dark purple hue that promised morning was on the way seemed bright to his eyes. It made him squint just to see the faintest bit of sunlight on the horizon, making him suddenly quite terrified of what would happen to him once the sun began to rise further. And the damned devil had a point: Where would he even go? He supposed he could duck into one of the houses here, but what if someone came upon the carnage during the day? The town was isolated, but sometimes it did get people passing through. How would he hide? He was fast, but surely not fast enough to make it to another town before the morning rays turned him to ash!
Adding to his sudden very real fear, festering in his gut like bacteria, the bastard-devil was about to just LEAVE him! “Wait!” Astarion half demanded, half pleaded, hurrying to Raphael’s side with a light scowl gracing his fine features. “You can’t just-... just abandon me, after dropping that load of absolute sh*t on me! Are you serious? This thirst won’t go away?! And the sun will MELT me? ” He hissed through grit fangs, gripping Raphael’s sleeve, as if that would keep him from warping away in another gust of flame. He didn’t care if it dirtied the man’s fine clothing, which it definitely did. He clung to his arm like his life depended on it, and with the sun so rapidly rising, it felt like it did depend greatly on it.
“If you know how to rid me of these symptoms, then do it, dammit!” This was a blatant command, but there was clear desperation and even fear reflected in his eyes, his fingers gripping tight and absolutely REFUSING to let loose for even a second. He would sooner see the garment torn to shreds than let go!
—
The story that the emotions on the vampire’s face told as realization hit was erotic. Anticipation, confidence, ambition and the most provocative, hope – all boiling off the top as the exquisite panic sparked in those feral ruby irises. Just like that, the hope had been crushed. Raphael had even impressed himself with this one. He was simply too good at his job, he supposed. Pity, he hoped for at least the attempt at a futile chase. Any opportunity to flex his refined power gave him a rush.
Alas, he felt pride regardless.
The dismayed alarm with which Astarion regarded the incoming sun tickled Raphael’s lower gut as realization set in. Good. The devil lied not. At least the gentleman had a crumb of self-preservation left. Without it, there was little to do to salvage a person who had no intention of seeing the following day – or, in this case, night.
Raphael caught all of this in passing as he leisurely turned his back to the neoteric spawn, letting him squirm.
”Wait!”
Raphael paused, following through with several performative steps, letting the proverbial ball fall in Astarion’s court, so to speak. He reacted as expected and then some. He feigned surprise, simply bewildered that the man was now so very interested in what Raphael had to offer. The devil slowed his pace once his sleeve was grabbed, a small gesture that delighted him to no end. Like a truly lost boy, requesting help from the friendly-looking man at the park, Astarion used his rather impressive new strength to jerk him to a halt. Raphael awarded a leisurely side-eye down at the sleeve, now dirtied, with a scowl. He was seconds away from demanding the creature to unhand him lest he lose a hand himself, but the devil needed this boy to need him, to commit.
“If you know how to rid me of these symptoms, then do it, dammit!”
A heavy sigh. A half pivot. A fresh pique.
“Ah. Are you sure, love? I would hate for you to miss out on the boundless opportunities for freedom in this…” he glanced around to the dead emptiness surrounding them, “oasis”. Still, Astarion had commanded, thus Raphael would gladly obey. With a smugness, Raphael snapped his fingers.
The two of them melted into fiery darkness, dissolving into the surrounding air and dispersing their particles through time, space, and dimensional fabric. In seemingly no time at all (it did in fact take time, but to those in the warp, their perceived travel took mere milliseconds), the two materialized into their same forms, Raphael’s arm still gripped by the needy vampire, in the middle of an entirely new location.
A grand fireplace roared behind them, swirling and licking not unlike his own elegant dust devil from which he had arrived from only minutes earlier. Dizzyingly-tall ceilings arched and yawned above them, fine and intricate patterns of carved wood and artisanal precious metals woven together into architectural masterpieces. Art adorned the walls, painted scenes of fineries and dark arts leading any blessed viewer into a haughty museum of his own (admittedly unrivaled) taste. A grandiose table with a dizzying array of freshly-prepared cuisine, the likes of which Raphael doubted Astarion had ever seen, towered behind them where it had been tastefully displayed. Candelabras adorned with jewels and cut glass flickered round every corner the eye could see, but much to Astarion’s presumed relief, not even an inkling of sunlight could be sensed.
“Ask, and you shall receive.”
Taking the opportunity to break free of the death grip on his arm while the man was assumedly off-kilter, Raphael strode across the room and held his arms up to gesture to the splendor around them. “Esteemed one, allow me to welcome you to my humble abode, the House of Hope.” Spinning on his heels, his coattail flourished as he tilted his hips, plucking a bottle of wine from a fine, dark wood mini bar near the fireplace. He uncorked it deftly with a swipe of his hand and began pouring the blood-red liquid into one of the glass goblets. “Would you care for a glass? It might not quench your thirst, but this particular zinfandel’s bergamot tones are–” he lifted his free hand to kiss it in appreciation, “unparalleled.”
Chapter 3: No Duress For The Best
Chapter Text
Oasis? Astarion scoffed, a sneer tugging deeper at his lips. There wasn’t a worse place for him to be if the sun was now against him! There wasn’t a tree in sight - the sky of New Mexico was often very large, very blue, and very bright. He’d be cinders in the wind before the sun fully rose! Astarion glared into Raphael’s far-too-calm gaze, his lips parting as his voice rose in his throat, but he couldn’t get a word out before, unexpectedly, Raphael snapped his fingers - and everything quite suddenly faded, but not before he felt a brief flash of heat across his skin, as if he were being devoured by a very hot flame, but it happened too quickly for him to feel any pain from it. Just the snap of fingers, the flash of heat, and then darkness. But the darkness, too, was brief. Honestly, Astarion felt like he blinked, and when he opened his eyes, everything had changed.
Openly, Astarion gawked at their new surroundings, his fingers now so loose that Raphael could very easily drift away from him without the new vampire even noticing it at first as he struggled to instead take in the room they found themselves in. His long, pointed ears - so unlike those of even half-elves nowadays - perked up a bit as his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Loosely, his hands fell to his sides as his gaze shifted this way and that way, his head turning to look here and then there, unsure of WHERE to look first! There was just so much splendor and wonder in this one room, and his newfound enhanced vision only made the high elf feel that much more trapped in every little detail he noticed. He found himself staring up at the massive painting that hung just above the large, open fireplace before long though, the warm light dancing off of his skin and illuminating the crimson against his pale flesh.
He was a mess. A slender, monstrous mess with lean, powerful new muscles, razor-sharp fangs, and claw-like pristine nails. Almost every inch of him was covered in blood, mostly dry by now, but some of it still quite fresh across his chest, lips, cheeks, neck, and arms from his old ‘master’, as Cazador liked to be called. This was the blood that glistened the most in the orange firelight.
At first, it was hard for him to take in the painting as a whole. He felt dizzy, his sharpened new vision focusing at first on the strokes, which were perfect and immaculate. The colors were blended with a skill that surely no mere mortal could possess, making the painting look so REAL. He realized this as he finally took in the painting as a whole; A massively imposing figure looming over him, with skin as crimson as the blood that stained his own flesh and wings that were simply enormous as they sat folded behind his back. The man was dressed well… much like Raphael. In fact, the creature had an uncanny resemblance to the man - aside from the twisted horns, leathery wings, and clawed fingertips. It was his eyes that were most entrancing, though. They were bright and smoldering, much more vibrant and commanding than any other aspect of the painting.
Ask, and you shall receive.
Blinking, the sudden reminder that he wasn’t alone was enough to knock Astarion out of his trance, and quickly - almost startled to have been plucked from his deep distraction - he spun on his bare feet to again face Raphael. The amount of things he was having to process just kept piling up, and up, and up. It was almost maddening, if Astarion had been anyone else with less control of himself, but he reeled back his mind before it could explode and tried to focus on one thing at a time. And right now, he chose that one thing to be Raphael.
“You said ask and I shall receive, but what I asked for was for you to rid me of these blasted symptoms. I quite like the sun, you know.” He sneered, bare feet padding across the smooth, warm floor that was made up of various granites and other stones he had likely never seen before. He approached Raphael, ready to accept the much-needed glass of wine which was definitely going to be the finest wine he had ever had, but he faltered. Within reach of Raphael, he froze, and again, he found himself staring at the man’s throat.
Luckily, he had self control, now that he wasn’t so starved. Still, the sight of a pulse was the most seductive, hypnotic, alluring thing he had ever seen, and he immediately felt drawn to it…
“Damn it all!” He hissed dramatically, closing his eyes and jerking his head to the side to force himself to stop staring as his body became tense. “Is THIS what my life is doomed to be like?! Staring at people’s throats? FANTASIZING about their blood on my tongue?! Look at me!” Astarion gestured to himself, a look of absolute and total disgust on his face. How he LOATHED filth! And here he was, the living embodiment of it! Coated in gore and mud!
“Can you take the hunger away, or not?!”
–
Mmm, Raphael let himself marinate in the awe the vampire was practically drenched in. His saucer eyes could have held two cups of tea. Each. The smug devil would give him all of the time in the world to admire his portrait, only…later. There was a way to go about things. A proprietor had standards for himself. No one wanted to work with a rude, ungracious host. However, the boy was in such a rush. All, ‘liking the sun’ and ‘ridding him of symptoms’. It grew tiresome. Where was the tact? The patience? Ahh, he would improve given time. “Of course you do,” Raphael mused, pouring another glass of the deep burgundy liquid from its dark, sparklingly-clean bottle. “You asked for me to rid you of those powers. I do not like discussing ad nauseam details when my guests are facing imminent peril. Doesn’t encourage rational decision-making.” The man shrugged, gesturing with the wine bottle in his hand. “Sue me.” He plucked the round, elegant chalice up with the stem between his two middle fingers. He held it with a steady sureness as he turned to offer it to Astarion.
However, after those garnet orbs settled on him – or namely, his throat – Raphael knew he needed to begin his true hostly duties sooner rather than later. He raised a single brow, shifting his gaze slowly up. “Hello dear, my eyes are up here.”
Then came the outburst. Gods, this little bat was quite the drama queen. So much more fun than Cazador had made him out to be. What a spitfire! Faced with all he had, he worried about throat staring and – as he reminded Raphael – his disgusting state. No longer was the man a feral creature of mindless thirst. The man had standards. Something Raphael could relate to and intended to see to.
“Can you take the hunger away, or not?!”
Raphael snapped at him. “Yes, I can.” He was still holding the goblet out for Astarion to accept, but he held a hand up in apology. “But please, allow me to make you more comfortable. Your new lifestyle doesn’t have to be so…” He side-eyed the vampire from top to bottom and back up again. “Uncomfortable. Please, follow me.” With little wave in the air with his free hand, Raphael began walking brusquely. He expected the vampire to follow. He would enjoy the destination as much as the journey there, he was sure.
Leading out of the dining hall, the suited man could barely be heard as his leather shoes made his steps nearly inaudible. It must have been something about the shoes themselves, or his trained feet that placed in such a way on the glorious flooring that kept his presence almost entirely unannounced. The halls were uncharacteristically empty, and down a classy corridor with even taller ceilings than the last room, there was a set of expensive double doors. A wave of his hand and it unlocked and opened. He stepped through the threshold and into a glorious room full of decadent art, treasure, and sculptures. Books littered the space, but beyond that the place appeared immaculate. At the center of the grand space was a luxurious fountain filled with steaming, crystal blue water. The room radiated the bouquet of the man himself, only a tinge of something more heady, more primal could be picked up only the most sensitive of perfumers.
A touch of pheromones. The spice of sex.
“Please, enjoy a bath. It should make you more comfortable.” Hung up on a nearby clothes rack was an array of various blouses, dress shirts, trousers and jackets. Some shoes were lined up neatly on a shelf above the rack, all deliberately and neatly folded and arranged by color. “I will be outside, but there is much to discuss. Take your time, and when you are comfortably changed, I will see to explaining your options and addressing the reasonable concerns you have.” He turned on his heel to return to the main door, his hands laced behind his back. The man slowed, looking over his shoulder to mention one last thing for him to mull over in his solitude. “I am truly glad you survived the ritual. It would have been such a waste for you to end up like all, the, rest.” The punctuated words were conveyed in a markedly different tone. It had gone cold, dark, and subtly threatening. With that, he waved his hands and the doors shut promptly.
–
Yes, I can.
Astarion paused his growing tantrum then, surprised that the devilish man would so easily and quickly confirm, but he was pleased to hear it. Slightly, his shoulders relaxed, just enough for him to reach up and snatch the crystal wine goblet before the offer could be reconsidered. Even his face seemed to relax a bit, the tension in his brow smoothing slightly, but he still stared expectantly at Raphael as if to silently say ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’. Though, he couldn’t deny that getting more comfortable DID sound wonderful right now. When was the last time he had even been comfortable? Back at his sh*tty little apartment, just before Cazador tricked him and lured him into his trap? That all felt so long ago… He shook his head, trying not to dwell too much on that as he followed behind Raphael, able to finally take the man in more privately without those amber eyes noticing.
He was quite handsome. Aside from the blood on his sleeve from where Astarion had grabbed him earlier, his definitely expensive attire was spotless and pristine. Not a strand of hair was out of place, and his shoes somehow remained perfectly clean, despite Astarion being quite sure he had walked through some of the bloodied mud puddles earlier. Speaking of his shoes, one of the vampire’s brows arched when he realized the sound they made; or rather, the lack of it. It obviously wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened all day, but it was still an interesting fact that piqued the young man’s blooming curiosity. His own feet, bare and dirty, were loud against the floor. In comparison, at least. More and more, he found some part of him actually admiring the devil! It was as if he somehow was everything Astarion had never known he wanted to be, but the more he saw, the more he liked. Very briefly, a sliver of his mind wondered if it was possible for someone to become a devil, but he quickly waved that aside. For all he knew, his newfound powers were every bit as wonderful! He’d just need to learn to use them.
Again, Astarion was in awe of Raphael’s powers, impressed by the way he was able to open the heavy-looking doors with a mere wave of his hand, wordlessly commanding them to obey his will. And they did! And his glee only escalated when he followed him into the room and was greeted by the sight of the most wonderfully-resplendent room he had ever seen. It almost put the dining room, overflowing with gluttony and eloquence, to shame! Then, he smelt it. Something very familiar to him - something that sent a visible shiver down his spine, dotting his flesh with goosebumps and sending his heart into the base of his throat. At the back of his throat, the scent of sex gathered, quietly awakening something in Astarion that he was eager to swallow down. Of course, it was like a very, very faint aphrodisiac to the young man, making his skin throb slightly in a way he didn’t quite WANT it to throb right now. The scent wasn’t strong or overpowering, but with his new senses, he could pick it up and recognize it easily enough, but he saw nothing in the room out of the ordinary that would emit such a scent.
He shook his head and cleared his throat, determined not to mention it or think too much about it. A task made easier when gifted with Raphael’s parting words: I am truly glad you survived the ritual. It would be such a waste for you to end up like all, the, rest. It reminded him of something Raphael had said before - something about having been ‘strong’ enough, commenting on his tolerance for pain. Pain… he couldn’t remember what had happened, not before he woke up covered in blood, but as the doors were shut and he was left alone with his thoughts, he could vaguely recall the feeling of… death.
“That’s ridiculous.” He hissed to himself, setting the goblet down at the side of the steaming, large bath and making quick, thoughtless work of peeling off the old, blood-coated, sticky pants he had been wearing, disgusted to see that his legs were just as red as the rest of himself. He shook his head and just as quickly removed his skin-tight black boxers, leaving the clothing in a heap as he eagerly stepped down into the foggy, hot water, sucking in a pleasant hiss at just how HOT it truly was. Enough to make him feel like maybe he could truly rid himself of all of the blood, that was for sure!
Before that, though, as he sat in the water, he hammered back the wine. It was truly fine wine, but as Raphael had warned, it did absolutely nothing to cure him of his thirst. It at least left a pleasant taste in his mouth, but the lingering pheromones in the air were quick to again mingle, making him scrunch his nose in confusion. No matter. He’d have time to ask about it later. He set the empty glass aside and decided to lean forward, closing his eyes as he scooped up the water with his hands and used it to wipe away all of the grime and blood and sweat, slowly unmasking his true face once the filth was gone. His smooth, flawless skin, naturally fair and made more so by his new ‘condition’. It only enhanced the sharpness of his features. He took his time, though it was annoying, that nagging thirst that constantly ached in his fangs and throat.
–
“Absolutely ridiculous,” a disembodied voice proclaimed casually.
Behind the elf, a voice that should not belong in a seemingly-empty room sounded out as though arriving through a vacuum. There was a form now, that hadn’t been there before, leaning against a red velvet loveseat with golden pins accentuating the luxurious fabric. Long, strong legs bulged against skin – red skin. The color of what one might presume a forest fire looks like in the late hours, contrasting with the cold night sky. Up an exposed arms and chest, black straps were strung against them. Once one’s eyes got to the top, however, that’s when things got interesting.
Horns. Wings. A tail.
A true creature from nightmares draped like a pinup, one hand propped up to reveal toned, muscular arms that stroked the velvet with a finger. The face was very similar to the one which had just left the room moments prior, only his black eyes glowed burning amber. However, this expression was far more impish than any that had passed over Raphael’s features.
And now that the body sat in the room, it became clear what the stimulating, heady aroma caught in the back of the vampire’s throat radiated from.
“You know, you have to keep pestering him to actually get anything done around here. He takes his sweet time with all of his chores.” The fluid movement of the creature wove through his entire body in a feline way. His skin almost seemed to ripple. Did he seem…somehow dewy? As though the hells captured inside of him perpetually gave off a dangerous heat. The man huffed and shook his head contemptuously as he fell backwards off of the arm of the loveseat to land on his wings. The grand, vigorous wings spread further apart like a crimson bat’s, revealing the span to be positively massive – even in the already colossal room. “He’s absolutely no fun. Gets off to hearing himself go on and on in his soliloquies.” Rolling his eyes, he smirked at the vampire in the bath, eyes undressing him–only, there was nothing to undress.
A playful brow pulled up as Astarion was scrutinized listlessly. “But not you, no. You’re fun.” Sitting upright but lax on the cushions like a melting portrait, he purred. “Tell me. What is your greatest desire, you lovely creature?”
–
Astarion was just beginning to relax into the steamy water, pondering Raphael’s words, when the sudden voice that seemed to warp into existence behind him nearly caused his heart to burst from his chest. “Bloody hell-! ” He hissed as he turned to glare over his now tensed shoulder, nostrils flared and fangs on full display, instinctively ready to spring up and defend himself, but he froze halfway through the process of standing when he spotted the source of the voice. Eyes as clear and red as the wine he had just consumed, the blood-red of the orbs made to stand out more starkly against his complexion now that he was mostly clean, widening at the display that awaited him.
Immediately, he recognized the very grand figure as being the very same as the only from the painting, the shock enough to slowly coax him back down into the water as he turned to fully face the creature so he could take it in more completely. “It’s… you… I mean, from the painting!” He murmured, almost too quiet to be heard above the trickle of the fountain. “Your clothing choice is-...” He faltered in his speech, not yet letting his guard down, but taking on a much more interested expression than the once he had worn previously, when he had been ready to pounce and attack. “... different.” Astarion finished in a small mumble, gulping drying as he allowed his eyes to hesitantly wander over the skin exposed so shamelessly to him.
Firstly, he eyed those wings - so much larger in person than in the painting! They were intimidating, not so much as the horns that curled atop the man’s head, but honestly, his entire physique was intimidating, for many reasons. The most obvious being that he was a red-skinned devil… but when the man spoke, it got the gears in Astarion’s head spinning, causing his brow to furrow and his lips to press together into a tight line. “Hold on a second- chores ?” He repeated, sitting up further in the steaming pool, pressed against the slick wall as he carefully observed and listened to everything that was said. “Raphael is your servant?” He scoffed, narrowing his brow as a defined pout graced his smooth features, pulling the corner of his lip into a fanged frown. “You should honestly punish him - he’s quite out of line, calling himself a savior and then nearly letting me burn to cinders in the sunlight!” Eagerly, he threw Raphael right under the bus, hoping the REAL devil here would see fit to better train his staff!
But, there were other matters at hand. His new eyes didn’t miss a thing, and right now, he found himself openly staring at the way the creature’s muscles so elegantly quivered beneath his skin. Skin that seemed so smooth, and so slick with sweat… his eyes wandered and that scent gathered only stronger in the back of his throat, until the pheromones were all he could smell and taste. How perfectly beautiful the man was! If he weren’t a devil - THE devil? - then Astarion would have argued he had been sculpted by the hands of an angel. And there it was again, that hunger, desperate to be sated, gnawing in her belly and on his tongue--
He blinked, distracted from his staring by the sudden question: What is your greatest desire, you lovely creature?
His brow furrowed slightly, this time in thought, but he knew the answer immediately. “More.” He answered, simply at first, as he lifted himself from the water. His pale skin, glistening and wet, looking almost pearlescent as he perched himself on the edge of the tub in a way that kept his more private bits turned just out of view. His body was much more slender than that of the red-skinned devil, his body sculpted athletically lithe - his muscles promising of power, but not in a brutish or obscene way.
“More everything - wealth, fame, blood, power… I want more of it ALL. This new body is just the beginning, I can feel it! But that oaf of yours claimed to have the key to even greater possibilities. I want to know what else I can have. I mean, at this point, the possibilities seem endless!” He smirked, his eyes lighting up excitedly at the mere THOUGHT of what was possible.
–
As recognition blessed the fair features of the bathing man before him, the devil’s eyes widened with unbridled delight. “You recognize me?” Holding his hand to his heart, he feigned a dramatic swoon, he threw his head back with a delighted titter. “Well, this is a first. You are far more observant than I anticipated. Kudos.” He righted his head, lowering his striking eyes to stare directly into the gleaming carmine oculi that he felt drinking in his exposed form, his fashionable attire. “Different?” The devil sneered, but nothing genuine enough to make one’s hair stand on end. “Hardly. It’s quite comfortable, darling. You should try it on.” He adjusted, leaning forward with interest and folding his hands. His strappy shorts left little to the imagination, especially with his legs spread the way they were. Everything was miraculously held in place, but…it made the eyes hover. Reveling with the thoroughness in which he was beheld, the winged man only grew more intrigued by the second – all of that intrigue reflected in his body language. “Yes, chores.”
”Raphael is your servant?”
Infernal orbs grew a mirthful fire within them at this question. “Wasn’t it obvious, love?” Observing the lovely, bratty frown on the pale face that housed such impunity, the wicked being was absolutely transfixed by every word from those fair lips. Then came talk of punishment for the underhanded misbehavior of the uppity man-servant…
With no pause, the man threw his head back and positively howled with laughter. It was a gruff, musical sound that vibrated the crystal in the room, seeping into every pore and crevice. Every hollow rang with it. “Right you are! Oh, thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Wiping at his eyes with a sideswipe of a black-clawed hand, he simmered down and licked his lips. “We are to be grand pals, you and I.”
When the real, juicy answers started flowing, the chthonian entity leaned back onto the sofa to spread his arms across the back in a wide, undaunted posture. More. He nodded, subtly, dark, but with glee. “An excellent answer. The only correct one, really. Keeps your options open.” While he spoke, his half-lidded eyes trained on the nude body lifting itself from the blue, healing waters. The blood had already been filtered through, leaving the bath as pristine as when it had been entered with the gory residue. Thus resulted the pristine skin, pale and pure. As if nothing had ever stained it.
“Your new, improved chassis holds the potential far beyond even your boundless imagination, beau.” Standing languidly, the creature drifted frictionlessly to the stand filled with garments. They were all far too small for the man, yet he perused with an aimless hand, flipping through hangers one or two at a time. “As much as I wish you could achieve worlds domination today, there would be too much trial and error.” Tsk-ing at a powder blue pair of slacks, the man continued searching the wardrobe. “It seems you are accepting your new reality rather expeditiously, though. Cruder, lesser brutes would not have the foresight to recognize what an existence such as the one you’ve been gifted with could provide.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “A pity, that.” He looked back at the garments, a brow raising as he plucked a pair of coal-gray trousers with approval. This would accentuate Astarion’s pale coloring, he decided.
“But you are not most people, are you.” A statement, not a question. “Hells, you’re hardly a person now.” Another article, a white blouse which tied crisscross up the deep v-neck was snatched decisively. “You would not have survived your re-birth if you were.”
Lifting the chosen outfit and a pair of tasteful maroon underpants out from their previous housing, the creature’s bare feet padded softly over to a full-body mirror near the elf. “Dress in this. Trust me.” He winked. “I would never steer you wrong.”
-
It was strange. Somehow, the uppity, snobby servant Raphael seemed to be far more composed and intimidating than his master. The winged-created on display before him seemed so carefree by comparison, but he chose not to dwell on the smaller details of it all. He’d be mad by now if he tried to justify and understand everything that had happened to him tonight, so instead, those bright red eyes of his watched with curiosity at every lavish movement the creature made. The statement about being ‘great pals’ was stranger still, but it brought a small smirk to the vampling’s lips as his brow arched and his shoulders relaxed a touch. Well, being ‘pals’ with a devil didn’t sound too bad a deal.
“I’m a bit of an opportunist, I suppose.” He agreed smoothly when complimented on how quickly he was acclimating to his new ‘reality’, eyeing the ‘man’ as he flicked through the clothing set out for him with a curious eye. “Though, I’m still not sure what this ‘re-birth’ was. I don’t feel too different from before. Just… hungrier .” He huffed with a small grumble, every bit as bitter about it now as he had been before when the man-servant had told him that he would be this way forever, unless he sought out whatever ‘options’ Raphael had for him. He tried to just shake it off, but he was still adjusting to it, and it was so very uncomfortable. Perhaps with time he would get used to it, but right now, it irritated him.
He decided to distract his thoughts though by turning his focus elsewhere; the outfit that had been chosen for him. He wasn’t a shy person, but being casually naked around another person was so different from being intimately naked, and the confusing scent of sex that lingered heavier in the air than before made the situation all the less comfortable. He wasn’t completely aroused by it, but… he was maybe a little. It was something he’d never experienced before. His skin crawled and ached, and not just with a thirst for blood, but for something else. The strappy little harness that the man before him wore hid practically nothing, inviting the vampire’s gaze to roam. And the more the man moved, with every twitch of his tail or flicker of his wings, the more that spiced scent danced over Astarion, tainting his skin with the aroma and filling his lungs. The very subtle throb as the blood he had robbed from Cazador and the other’s raced between his legs made it clear enough that if he was to stand, his half-erection would be displayed quite clearly, which was an embarrassment Astarion was confounded by.
Selling himself for sex intentionally was much different than being so exposed and vulnerable without consenting to it. “How about a little privacy while I finish up and get dressed?” He suggested, keeping his body turned in just the right way so he had some sense of ‘modesty’ without having to awkwardly slip back into the water.
–
“An opportunist, yes…as we all are. You’re in excellent company, darling.”
The horned man listened and nodded occasionally, listening actively as though he were used to being someone to “talk to”. His tail flicked back excitedly as he replied, “Yes, the thirst will not be going away anytime soon. Best to get used to it now.” It was said in passing, as though it was the weather or local events being discussed – not drinking blood to survive, no. Just a topic of small talk in this so-called “House of Hope”.
The vampire’s modesty earned him a very particular reaction from the hellish creature – another sneer as though he was a child being denied a pet in a shop window. “Privacy? Hmph. You’re so modest. It’s cute.” Rolling his eyes, the devil sighed and hung the clothes up on the mirror, setting the other articles on the adjacent side table. “Fine. Raphael will see you outside when you’re presentable.” With that, the devil strode towards a pillar beside one of the fountains. Passing behind it, one might have expected to see him come out of the other end – but there was nothing. He had simply disappeared, leaving the boudoir empty with only the sound of trickling water.
Outside the door, the halls seemed to fill up with the sound of scuffling feet and strange signs of activity. Such activity could not be heard within the luxurious bedroom, but upon entering out into the hallway, one would be greeted by some very strange sights indeed. Tall and short people of all ages and races dressed in worn servant’s clothes could be seen scattered throughout the halls doing various odd-jobs and chores. Some cried out every so often, making some of the massive corridor sound like an old-timey mental asylum. The reverberation of such a wide array of emotions and voices haunted the house, making it subtly unsettling.
In front of the grand fireplace in the mess hall, a tall, well-constructed velvet chair sat tilted by the crackling flames. Only now, they burned a strange gray-black. A familiar suited figure could be seen staring into the flames, slowly twirling the glass of wine in a carefree and elegant hand. He could be seen putting his nose into the top to get a whiff of the aromatic liquid before taking a modest sip. The dirtied sleeve from before was now impeccably clean. Only his silhouette could be seen, backlit by the brilliant tendrils of strange fire – faced just enough towards the door to catch an incoming figure he was very much so expecting.
Chapter 4: A Sound Proposal
Chapter Text
The devil was a very curious thing indeed - and a bit infuriating.
He seemed so dismissive of Astarion’s concern! Craving and lusting for blood every waking hour of the day felt like something worth being pitied for, but the winged-man - who’s name he had yet to catch - just seemed to dismiss it with a wave of his tail! Astarion’s stare was unamused, but he was at least seemingly given what he requested; privacy. It really was weird that the master of the house and such a powerful being would be so fickle. Maybe he could be manipulated… yes. Maybe he could take advantage of that carefree and simple nature and have what he wanted! In time, he assured himself, arching a brow at the strange way the devil seemed to have vanished, but shaking it aside for now as she fully rose from the bath and finally dried and dressed himself. The outfit fit him perfectly, and he decided it didn’t look too bad on him at all. He left the v-neck strings untouched and untied, showing off the lean muscles of his chest and neck. It was like the outfit was tailored just for him, hugging his narrow hips and long legs perfectly, while being loose and flexible where it mattered.
Satisfied, he turned to the mirror to see how he looked, wanting to preen a bit - but was shocked when he didn’t see himself reflected back at him. It was jarring at first, but he quickly decided it was just the devil playing some childish trick on him and decided to look past it for now. He had a bone to pick with a naughty little man-servant, after all! Oh, the delight he felt, knowing he was about to wipe that smug look right off of Raphael’s face, but the moment he stepped into the hallway, he was met by a multitude of people.
“God-!” He hissed at the first sight of one of them, his heart lurching in his chest and his lips twisting in disgust at the way the people looked. Filthy, ragged clothes, moving stiffly like corpses. Jerking, twitching, muttering… they didn’t seem to pay Astarion any mind at all, but that didn’t make them any less unappealing. They seemed to be working, but why the hell would people like them being assigned to such a glorious and beautiful estate? They plagued the halls like little wobbly viruses! Astarion didn’t even feel hunger when he looked upon them, only faint pity and mounds of distaste.
He had to be careful of them as he traversed the halls. They were scurrying around like rats, working away amidst their apparent madness, willing to run right into him and his fresh new clothes if he wasn’t careful! Sooner than later, though, he finally made it back to the grand dining hall with the great fireplace, which was where he saw him. Sitting in his large chair, swirling around his glass of exotic wine, like he deserved it. It caused a bitter little smirk to form on Astarion’s lips as he made his slow approach, though he did falter a little at the sight before him. The flames were an ominous black and gray, seeming to suck the light from the room rather than illuminate it. It gave the room an unsettling, unnerving vibe, but he had to remind himself that it was all a part of Raphael’s little act.
“Very creepy.” His voice lilted as he spoke, rising into an airy, playful tone with a mocking edge as he stepped fully into the room. The anti-light that refracted from the fire served to make his skin seem all the paler, while accentuating the shadows of his sharp features and the vividness of his blood-red eyes. It would be the first time Raphael had seen his face without all the blood in the way. Though, he couldn’t really care less about that as he moved closer to where the man sat, sitting himself quite boldly on the armrest of the lavish chair and grinning down at the clever little servant. Then, testing his newfound agility, he reached out and plucked the wine glass from Raphael’s hand, deciding he wanted it instead as he comfortably folded his left knee over his right and sat back a bit, helping himself to Raphael’s space as he took a sip of the wine for himself. “Delicious! ” He purred, lifting that crimson gaze of his to the passive painting of the devil he fully believed he had just met.
“You know, Raphy~ You almost had me fooled. Then again, I suppose you never did say you were a devil, did you? You just hinted at it, while making empty threats to let me fry in the sun. All while the REAL devil was here all along! You’re quite lucky he doesn’t lash you, you know. He seemed pretty fed up with your antics.” He sighed, feigning pity for the man before he smirked and knocked back the wine with a low chuckle in his throat.
“Your master seems to be quite forgiving. Much more so than I would be!” His voice was carefree and amused, seeming to be enjoying himself quite a bit - at the expense of the tricky little magically-inclined human he now sat grinning down at from his perch on the armrest, so comfortable and confident.
–
The suited man side-eyed the vampire as he broke the thorough silence within the dining room, his head remaining entirely stationary. Like a disturbing painting on the wall, only his eyes followed Astarion as he moved. His face remained unchanged – perfectly neutral. Composed. Not a hair out of place. Letting the vampire enter as he stayed this way, Raphael’s dark amber eyes seemed as monochromatic as the flame, giving an eerie black-and-white photo effect. Still, the fledgling vampire’s eyes did not betray him, remaining bright red even with the black flame attempting to echo itself in them.
The wine glass disappeared from between his two fingers. A well-manicured, deep brunette brow raising independently of the other pushed up into his forehead. Raphy? He let the vampling continue. The stealing of his glass of wine, the sitting on the arm, the speaking as if he were, in fact, the master of this fine estate... Frankly, Raphael was not easily surprised, but even he had no inkling as to where this behavior had come from. That was, until Astarion mentioned the "real devil".
The… real devil? Oh.
Understanding settled on the previously-unflappable features. That slimy little harlequin. He would be having a sit down talk with someone, later. For now, he got to enjoy seeing how far this rookie would take this.
“Oh, fed up, you say?” Raphael’s so-called master seemed to be more forgiving than the darling newblood. “How lucky for me.” He held his (now free) hand up to his chest. With that, the finely-dressed gentleman leaned forward just enough to press into Astarion’s personal space. It was a particular kind of closeness that typically indicated two things in polite society: either the individual wanted to kiss you, or they wished to fight you. Raphael held his posture there for just a moment, letting the man sweat if he chose to. Well, not that vampires could sweat. Simply a turn of phrase, he supposed.
Standing up fully with an imposing slowness, Raphael ended up looking down from his greater height at the white-haired imp. He held it just long enough to add further discomfort. When he finally did break the pregnant eye contact, Raphael paced deliberately towards the fireplace and turned his back to reveal his hands clasping each other comfortably. “I thought you might be less relaxed speaking to the master of the house in his true form, choosing to give you time to process this… disconcerting milestone in your existence.” The man sighed, then laughed. “I see I was wrong. Allow me to ameliorate my error.”
In the bloom of flame, the fireplace whooshed and glowed a sudden hot, burning red. The color flooded the room a deep, imposing shade as the figure, too, burst into similar flames. The stature grew several inches, and two (even taller) wings flicked themselves comfortably as they adjusted to being released from their (rather restrictive) confines. The suit remained on the figure, however. Again, the outfit was perfectly tailored – as though they had been switched out during a quick change backstage during a theater production. His fingers were still laced behind his back, only now they sported long black claws and were nearly overshadowed by a thrumming sanguine tail.
“Allow me to properly re-introduce myself, Astarion.” Pivoting on his heel, Raphael held his hands out by his hips in a welcoming manner. Upon his forehead sat the barbed black horns that probably looked quite familiar. His posture was relaxed, if not distressing in its confidence. “I am Raphael, Master of House of Hope. I suppose Haarlep stole my thunder,” he mused easily. Shaking his head, he brought his hand up to his chin to ponder thoughtfully. “He is mischievous, that one. Never trust an incubus. They love stirring the pot, rustling feathers.”
Sighing, Raphael crossed back to take his seat, leaning back and popping a leg up on the other knee. “You seem to have enjoyed your bath, changed clothes, and had, no doubt, a charming conversation. Now, we may delve into the business you wished to discuss. The matter of your current state, what you may do to improve said state, and whether or not we have potential for a mutual agreement of sorts.” With that, he leaned forward and plucked his wine glass from the vampire’s grasp, leaning back and taking another sumptuous taste: swirl, sniff, and sip. “Mm.”
–
How lucky for me.
“I’ll say, darling.” Astarion mused, taking another sip as he grinned down at Raphael, a flash of his fangs glowing in the anti-light. Again, his eyes shifted, his gaze slithering down toward the man’s throat, only this time it was a completely voluntary action from the young vampire. If there was one thing that Raphael had been honest about, it was that wine really did nothing for the thrust that burned low in his belly. It wasn’t nearly as maddening a feeling as before, but still. Surely, that bat-winged devil wouldn’t mind if he took a little sip from his naughty servant, right? The thought danced in his mind just as Raphael saw it fit to lean forward, pressing into Astarion’s bubble, as if he could intimidate him! How fun. It did cause Astarion’s heart to race a bit, but it wasn’t intimidation he felt. No, the sly smile on his lips twitched, his eyes narrowing and his smirk twitching to a daring half-sneer. It could be a fun way to test his abilities…
Disappointingly, the man didn’t actually act, instead, he stood and stared coldly down at the vampling with eyes that looked quite sinister in this lighting. Weirdly, though he knew that it was a clever little ruse, Astarion felt an unexplainable chill down his spine at the look he was being given. The hairs on the back of his neck, as fine as they were, stood on end and prickled; danger.
Hah! That was all wrong, though! Perhaps it was some residual primal instinct from when he was mortal, but he was mortal no more, and he wouldn’t be so easily intimidated by a servant. Still. He found himself holding his breath until Raphael turned away from him, allowing the vampire to breathe a small sigh and relax his shoulders which he hadn’t even realized were stiffened.
“Oh, come now! Give it up already, Raphael. This game is--” The flame behind Raphael bloomed, flashing from that dark, inky black to a roaring, vibrant orange-yellow glow that was bright enough to make the vampire hiss and wince back a bit, baring his fangs and squinting his eyes. “You annoying little-!! ” His words died in his throat before ever reaching his tongue when the fire calmed, and he was allowed to finally see Raphael again, only not Raphael. At least, not the human he had come to associate him with.
No. The figure before him now perfectly matched the portrait above the fireplace. From darkened claws, towering wings, the curled crown of horns, and the tapping tail. Astarion recoiled, his silver tongue suddenly feeling like lead in his mouth and his eyes widening. Just as rapidly, his smirk fell, his face suddenly reflecting an expression that perfectly said: Oops. It was at that point that he would have been sweating up a storm if he could do such a thing.
An incubus…? Well, that explained the outfit, and the stench of sex that clung to him. He felt a subtle rage, but one that would have a time and place to be better explored for being lied to so brazenly. Right now felt like the worst time for any kind of tantrum, though, despite the grace and patience the massive, crimson-skinned true master of the house was displaying.
“I-... see .” He mumbled, failing to regain his composure completely, regardless of how badly he tried to reign himself in. In a snap, Raphael could simply send him back to where he found him, which was undoubtedly ablaze in sunlight by now. And with how Astarion had just been speaking to him, he was surprised he wasn’t already burning in the light of day.
The vampire was like a statue as Raphael approached his seat again, plopping down gracefully, despite his size, and graciously moving past Astarion’s transgression to speak plainly about the business they potentially shared. He didn’t move as much as a muscle as the glass was again retrieved from him, letting it go quite happily actually and slipping off of the armrest as fluidly as he had seated himself upon it only minutes earlier. Suddenly, invading the devil’s space felt less than wise.
Slowly, he forced a smile back to his lips, but it was much more reserved and polite than before. He considered trying to cover up everything that he’d just said, but maybe Raphael was willing to look past it? He hadn’t lashed out, after all, so maybe it would be best to just pretend none of it ever happened! Oh, but he had words for that whor*ish little incubus. Clearing his throat, he took on a more charming voice; smooth and sweet, like honey.
“Y-yes! Let’s get to it, shall we? I very much do appreciate you saving me from burning to cinders,” he began, a stark difference to the tone and stance he had taken earlier, but he ignored that as he made sure to stand a more respectable distance from Raphael now. “But! I believe you were telling me about a way to avoid these annoying obstacles, right? You know: burning in the sun, feeling this unfortunate hunger… There is a way past it?”
–
His grand reveal seemed to have done just the trick. A satisfied grin tugged at the ruddy lips, pulling back the rich red skin to reveal a row of imposing daggers of teeth, along with his own impressive pair of fangs. Of course, his own were not for dining on blood – at least not compulsively. There were many variations of days, of course. One could never know for certain what their fangs would be used for on any given day, as Astarion would surely find out. How he would find out, well, that ball had yet to leave the vampire’s court. That was the reason they were meeting.
The look on Astarion’s face couldn’t be more precious. Raphael simply basked in the immediate and prompt rectification of his body language, his biting tongue. Even his indulgent posture snapped into appropriate straightness as the vampire put a polite distance between them. Like a nervous schoolboy before his headmaster, the pale elf guppied and adjusted to the new hierarchy of power as he correctly identified it. The devil gazed at him with amusem*nt over the top of his glass. Why, see? This boy had potential. Spicy, outspoken, and recognized his place when he realized he was obviously out of his depths. Truly, someone Raphael could work with.
Raphael leaned back further in his seat, the rough skin that occasionally bumped up along ridges on his features emphasized each pernicious twitch. The man was satisfied, there was no doubt. About what? That could be left up to interpretation. Perhaps there were too many reasons to place. Raphael did so enjoy when that was the case. He even garnered some much-deserved appreciation for not leaving the brat to crispen under the sun’s rays. Raphael dropped his head in a subtle bow.
“Oh, worry not. I have no intention of letting my esteemed guest come to harm.” That much was true. He had gone to far too much trouble to bring him about, and it would have been an awful waste. “Yes, I believe I was.” Telling him how to improve his current condition, that was. Straightening his own posture, Raphael decided to provide an example of respect given begetting respect in return. “There are ways to circumnavigate these maladies, yes. Like I previously stated, they are not as straightforward as one might wish them to be. Please,” he held his free hand up, motioning past Astarion to bring his attention behind him. “Feel free to take a seat.” Behind the vampire, a lush seat of his own had appeared. It wasn’t quite as luxurious or tall-backed as the devil’s, but it would provide him the illusion of even footing with which to make deals.
“Allow me to bring you up to speed.” The devil set his glass chalice down upon the side table to his right, snapping with his left. Out of a puff of smoke, a thick, leather-bound black book materialized in the now-free hand. In his left, a pair of glasses. He unfolded them against his chest, sliding them up onto his face deftly. The dainty golden pair might have looked silly placed onto such a monstrous face, but rather added an academic air to the intimidating figure. He cracked the book open and flipped through chunks of pages until he settled on one that he apparently sought. “Cazador Szarr. His contract exchanged the gift of sanguine immortality to one ,” he held up a single red claw to emphasize this, “mortal creature. The price? Seven thousand mortal souls.” Raphael’s free hand flattened and tilted side to side as though he were approximating something. “Give or take the dozens extra you killed on top of that, you might actually come out ahead for your next deal.” He looked up past his book at the Astarion with an encouraging gaze. “That is good news!”
Setting the book down on his lap, he gingerly removed his glasses. “In dealings of this nature, everything has a price. Anything – within a modicum of reason – is possible if you have the means to make them so.” The black book vaporized from his hand just as swiftly as it had appeared, the glasses following suit. “I am here to provide options, seeing as you are not well-versed in the dealings of the infernal.” The crimson creature leaned forward, resting his elbow upon his knee as he gestured in little waves with his boiling, writhing skin glowing beneath the exposed skin of his hand. “The way I see it, you have just happened upon a large sum, from a trust fund of sorts. You did not establish the fund, invest in it, or consent to have your name written in – and yet, you have been saddled with the responsibility.”
Sighing, he raised another brow and smirked. “However, your situation is rife with potential. Let us take, for example, your dilemma with the sun. A deal could be arranged, given time and proper terms, for you to be imbued with the necessary protections. Using the previous contract as an example, you might be able to imagine an appropriate estimation of a price for solar sovereignty.” A thin line of air hissed past his lips, the devil himself seeming daunted by such a task. “I do covet the power needed to snap --” he said, punctuating his words with a pop of his fingers, striking a small orange flame, “these solutions for you out of thin air.” Snuffing out the flame with a gentle blowing from his pursed lips, Raphael sighed and folded his hands in his lap. “Alas, this is not the way of the Hells. Power begets power. You have been granted a good hand, and how you wish to play it going forward will decide how many more perks you may earn.”
With that, the devil grinned. It was a sinister sight. Something about the hellish features pulled up in any sort of delight would surely be cause for concern, and this joviality was entirely genuine. “If you are interested in pursuing this, I simply ask you to decide which goal you would like to work towards first. I, personally, would recommend relieving your ailment to the sun. Your thirst has the capacity to assist you in reaching that goal, and I believe you may come to enjoy the hunt.” Raphael shrugged casually. “That is simply personal speculation, though.”
–
The vampire was satisfied for now to consider himself lucky that Raphael seemed to be a man of reason, and sat down when offered a seat of his own. A seat that hadn’t been there moments earlier, for certain, but at this point, he had given up on questioning the anomalies of this ‘House of Hope’. So, when the seat was offered, he accepted it. He tried to mimic a display of relaxation, but he found it difficult to completely recline and ended up with his right ankle folded over his left knee, his foot bouncing up and down at a slow tick as he leaned back and steepled his fingers just over his lap. His mind temporarily wandered - was this really Raphael, or whatever trickster he had encountered in the other room while he bathed? His brow twitched at the thought. Or had it been Raphael all along, and he was just really f*cking with him? Or did he just really have an incubus that looked exactly like him? Their mannerisms were quite different, and undeniably, their scents were quite different as well…
He blinked, torn from his increasing suspicion when the man snapped, the sound filling his ears and pulling his attention back to him fully. For now, he’d just have to believe what Raphael was saying - to an extent. If he had learned anything by now, it was that he shouldn’t fully trust anything here.
His foot twitching stopped when Raphael suddenly had a thick black book in his hand, and… glasses on his face. It was strange, the way Raphael took the time to open the glasses like some mortal would and slide them onto his face. Did he even need them? Surely, he had to have perfect vision. Right? And if not, why not just have the glasses appear on his face?! Astarion’s nose scrunched a little, confused and slightly disturbed by what seemed to be a very intentional waste of time, but he held his tongue and behaved himself as best he could. He would be quiet. He would be calm. He would absorb everything indifferently, and-...
The price? Seven thousand mortal souls.
The vampire recoiled visibly at this, a look of complete bewilderment on his face as his glossy red eyes grew as wide as saucers and, for a moment, his lips parted to form a dumbstruck look onto his face. Very quickly, his foot began to tap and bounce on his knee in a far more rapid, agitated manner, his hand lifting to his chin - one finger creeping up to press against his lips - as those wide eyes narrowed. Still very baffled, but now, the gears in his head were shifting and rotating at such a speed that smoke would be pluming from his ears if it were possible. Something in his chest felt so raw as he processed it. For him to become what he was, seven thousand people had to die? Well, with the addition of the ones he himself had slaughtered, including Cazador. His eyes were no longer staring at Raphael as the thought consumed him, but instead, his eyes were glossy, looking through Raphael as his mind seemed to drift elsewhere.
Still, despite being partially elsewhere, he was able to listen to the rest of what his devilish host had to say. Especially when that grin formed on Raphael’s lips… a wicked grin of dagger-like fangs that put Astarion’s own fangs to shame. Again, he felt a cold chill run down his spine, a frigidness that gripped his heart and sank into his gut, which was already feeling twisted and uneasy about all of this as he learned more about it.
Finally, an irritated scowl found the vampire’s lips, seemingly unable to keep himself as calm as he had hoped as he sprung to his feet. His frustration, however, wasn’t aimed only at Raphael.
“Like you said, I didn’t consent to any of this!” He began, throwing a hand up in exasperation as he paced beside the blazing fireplace. His expression was conflicted - that was the best way to describe it. “Those seven thousand deaths are all on Cazador’s hands, not mine. Still, seven thousand unlikely bastards are dead, so I could have something I never asked for to begin with.” As he paced, the look on his face remained pensive, but never quite touching remorse. Suddenly, he stopped, facing the fire and staring into it deeply and thoughtfully with a furrowed brow. His hands now on his slender hips, foot tapping…
“Seven thousand dead… and all I can feel upset about is that I let Cazador die so quickly.” He hissed, his heart suddenly rising, thumping with a vicious FURY against the inside of his throat. “Not one of those seven thousand fools lifted as much as a finger to help me, after all, so why the hell should I pity them?” He asked himself, a humorless laugh sharply barking from his throat. “If I could change one thing, it would be to make Cazador’s death much more fitting. So!” He turned then to face Cazador, and while his darkened eyes were still narrow and brow furrowed, his lips bore a cruel smile that didn’t show an ounce of guilt or shame. Only a hint of the rage that still ached in his soul.
“Seven thousand… ten thousand… twenty thousand! Makes no difference to me. Cazador had intended for me to die, and not one of them would have come to MY aid! So instead, I will happily fulfill his dream while he rots in the desert sun! I’ll bet the coyotes are already enjoying what’s left of him~” He purred, his expression smoothing once more, his hands returning to his hips as his sinister smile slipped into a sly little smirk. “He’ll be dog sh*t by morning, which is fitting enough, I suppose…” Astarion hummed, slowly pacing back to his chair and sitting on the edge of his seat, his eyes wide and smirk still readily displayed.
“Why the hell not? Let’s play, devil. I’ll walk in the sun, and then I’ll cure this hunger. Name your price.” He was already in the game, after all, why not aim for the top? Maybe he didn’t ask to be entered, but he’d win the grand prize!
–
Tapping foot, shifty eyes, lost attention. The boy was clearly overwhelmed.
Good.
Raphael did what he did best: he pulled from his limitless stores of patience. Astarion might learn it eventually, given enough centuries — though, Raphael knew more than a few immortal beings who had been around eons longer than he, yet had still forgotten everything but the definition of the word, so it was never an inevitability. He had no idea why they didn’t add it to their arsenal, truly. It proved exceptionally useful on numerous occasions, and the current was no exception. The devil had set the stage carefully, and now the most satisfying part could play out before his very eyes. He could sit back, enjoy his wine, and watch Astarion do his work for him: and that was exactly what he did.
Retrieving his wine goblet from its stand, Raphael watched closely as the delightful co*cktail played out over the un-man’s fine features. Yes, there was no doubt he would develop an effective hunting style in no time at all, given he refined his drinking to be less barbarian. It would simply come with time and practice. Already, the sheer drama the features could perform indicated so much potential. The best manipulators could be born from the manipulated, given they paid enough attention.
The devil kept quiet as Astarion began soliloquizing, his eyes trained on the boy as he openly deliberated. He had been scorned by the world to the point he became unrecognizable long before he had been transformed. The human mind worked in mysterious ways, and a traumatized survivor, vampire or not, would be sporadic and mercurial in the most comfortable of situations. All things considered, he was doing well. The devil used the opportunity to look the elf up and down as he paused in his pacing, scowling at the fire. Raphael thought, offhandedly, that Astarion had been the correct immortal choice simply to preserve such a striking, appealing man. Working with Cazador would not have been half as pleasant to stare at.
The elf was close to his decision, that much was apparent. He purveyed no remorse for those lost in the previous deal – an excellent sign. Fervid amber eyes glowed past the blacks of the surrounding orbs as Raphael nodded subtly in response to a particular statement: Not one of those seven thousand fools lifted as much as a finger to help me, after all, so why the hell should I pity them?
It was true. Their souls had been forfeit by default if they had known of Astarion’s imprisonment, but that was another matter entirely. Raphael wasn’t interested in providing the vampire with ways to cheat the system (or the devil himself) before a deal was even struck. He needed something to work for. Instead, he gazed up with courteous interest as the spawn’s face contorted in a beautiful, contemptuous mask. The white-haired cherub of hate wished, in his spirit of vengefulness, that he could make Cazador’s death even more fitting. Raphael tilted his horns down as he nodded. There might be a way for them to do that, but Cazador’s dark soul being tortured and ripped apart in the hells until there was nothing left but a Lemure seemed rather fitting. Again, Raphael was getting ahead of himself. There were numbers being thrown around that almost made the devil choke on his own spit. Seven, ten, even twenty thousand? Why, this vampire would be an absolute soul mine!
A risky plan, executed correctly, could change the hellish tides. Raphael felt himself almost… aroused by the fervor and venom this pretty one could emit. Having remained stoic and unreadable through his moment of excitement, only Raphael’s tail betrayed him in the slightest as it twitched like a happy cat’s. He did smirk, however, when he imagined Cazador being shat out by desert dogs. That was only the tip of the infernal iceberg, but Astarion had the right idea. He rather looked forward to letting the boy in on the joke after Raphael had a contract signed with vampiric blood secured.
“Why the hell not? Let’s play, devil. I’ll walk in the sun, and then I’ll cure this hunger. Name your price.”
Raphael nodded once, remaining professional. “I value your enthusiasm, Astarion. That will help you tremendously in your hunt.” Placing his wine in its place on its table once more, Raphael peered up at the vindictive seraph. “I will make you an offer.” Molten gold stared into irascible red as the eye contact was established. Raphael delighted in the intimacy of contract creation, especially one of this scale.
“Thirty thousand souls.”
Chapter 5: A Sound Proposal II
Chapter Text
As he let the anger roll from his tongue in all of his pacing, Astarion was so caught up in himself that he didn’t realize the intense way Raphael was watching him. Observing him. Assessing.
Honestly, it wasn’t like Astarion to vent so openly, but it was all he felt he could do to keep his fragile mentality from shattering. He had learned, witnessed, and experienced so much more than any human could even fathom in the past few hours; devils were real, which meant Hell was real. That alone was a terrifying reality because it meant that perhaps there was a Heaven. Which had many implications, none of which Astarion felt to be ideal for himself. Oh, and vampires were real, and you could be roped into becoming one without any say on your part. This, all on top of months of sleep deprivation, mild starvation, and various other types of abuse - all that Astarion had only made it through by disconnecting from himself and putting on a front.
So, a little pacing and releasing just a fraction of the bile from his chest in hissed words wasn’t too bad, all things considered. Maybe he wasn’t in his correct state of mind, or maybe he simply no longer had a ‘correct’ state of mind. Whatever the case, it felt good to just let it out, even if it was to the absolute worst ‘person’ possible: a creature who would likely do what he could to profit off of any and all information Astarion was willing to divulge.
He exhaled through clenched fangs when he finally sat down, a sharp sigh through his nose to calm his rattled nerves as he settled down and listened to Raphael as he pitched his offer. Unblinking, he stared down into those very unnatural eyes, burning amber irises that seemed to reflect the heat that burned in the devil’s soul, if he had one…
Thirty thousand souls.
Immediately, Astarion’s brow rose and a smile trembled at the corners of his lips - a laugh he barely could contain, though a few snickers did escape him at how serious Raphael was staring at him as the number left his smooth lips. Expectantly, he glowered into those unflinching, unbudgingly- smoldering eyes, waiting for either a punchline or the real offer…
It never came.
As moments passed, and his bemused smirk fell, the only sound between them was the crackling of the fire just beside them.
“You’re serious.” He breathed out, that smirk souring, and then smoothing as he sat back in his chair until his face was a blank mask. Only his ruby gaze displayed any emotion at all, flickering downward as he took Raphael in with a quick, calculated sweep.
Obviously, he absolutely did not trust this initial ‘offer’ to be remotely fair. He didn’t know what was a fair value for what he was requesting - the ‘cure’ for his current ailments - which put him at an immediate disadvantage, but he knew enough to know that when it came to haggling, it was natural to try and get as much as you could, expecting a counter-offer. Surely it wasn’t set in stone. Nothing was ever set in stone.
Slowly, the vampire again stood, and as he did his expression… shifted. Smooth, and then soft. Well, if you looked past the fangs that glistened in the firelight as a smile touched his lips. Like a cat, he strode comfortably and casually back toward Raphael, smoothly nudging that glass of wine back so he could lean comfortably against the little table at the devil’s side, lingering again in the man’s space.
“That’s quite an ambitious number, don’t you think?” he mused, lifting himself to sit effortlessly on that little table so he could lean over, resting against the plush armrest he had so boldly helped himself to prior. This time, the loose v-neck of his shirt hung open, just enough for his lean, toned, smooth chest to be briefly beheld. Until he folded his arms over the armrest, twisting his body gracefully with a smooth, easy smile gracing his fair features.
“The only issue is you said you could grant me these ‘gifts’ in a snap- ” Mimicking Raphael’s previous action, he snapped, though with less flare and flame. “It would be so easy for you to do, whereas collecting that many souls would likely take much work and exertion on my end. Right?” He mused, his voice suddenly as warm and gooey as honey and smooth as silk. Even his gaze had become something different now - something softer, more intrigued.
“How about this,” Gracefully and without second-guessing himself, Astarion’s lithe figure rose, shifting without a sound as he moved easily and fluidly from the table to again sit on the armrest, but this time, he was facing the devil. One of his knees lightly grazed one of his wings, even. If Raphael wanted to reach for his wine, he’d have to reach over Astarion’s lap now.
“Ten thousand souls, and I…relieve...that deceitful, tricky little incubus of yours now and then~? Surely, he’s more trouble than he’s worth. I’m no incubus, but I’ve never left a partner dissatisfied. That sneaky little Haarlep, as you called it, probably gets OFF on leaving you needing more.” He smirked, a playful light gleaming in his eyes, testing the waters boldly.
“Unless you like that kind of thing.”
–
Raphael was, admittedly, impressed. It had been mild at first, simply amazed that such an abrupt and disorienting shift in his life would send Astarion reeling, and in a sense, it absolutely had. However, given a cold slap in the face with his first offer, the vampire seemed to wake up. Bright ruby eyes stared intently into his own unflinching one, holding strong. Holding steady. Something about it sent an electric tingle down the devil’s wings, like a chill. It appeared this kitten was discovering its predatory gaze, trying out his first roar. Surprisingly, it was already in effect. That was even more promising, and far more fun. That meant this creature would be, truly, beneficial to have under his wing. No one wanted an incompetent weasel of a worker, especially with a contract of this size.
Then, the laughter came. It was tinkling and musical, like a glassy violin. Raphael tilted his head to hold his stare steady, although he had relished the abrupt laughter. The melodrama, well, this was what Raphael did this all for. His job could really be quite enjoyable. Love what you do, never work a day in your life – a topical quote.
The boiling flame gaze held fast, following the vampire as a new man emerged entirely. He wasn’t pleased with the offer, it seemed. Astarion began speaking in the way of the devils with his subtle disapproving glances, his sizing up of the seated man, and eventually, a physical shift. Raphael kept his head still as the pale man lifted himself as though had ultimate control over every fiber of his svelte figure, closing the distance between them and echoing Raphael’s own technique back at him. Insert yourself physically closer to establish dominance. Prove oneself comfortable, untroubled. Then, offer a better solution after having casually shaken the opponent with soft intimidation. A smirk clicked up the corner of Raphael’s lips as his own starting offer was shot down in a most professional manner.
The crimson man tilted his head up to face Astarion as he got himself more comfortable. He was, as he had been before, lounging on Raphael’s armchair and table like a familiar companion. It seemed as though the vampire had his own sensitive awareness of how his marble skin reflected the glow of the fireplace, leaving his shirt open and parted to hang around his neck like it was a sultry invitation for the senses. An ‘ambitious number’, he said. This was a bluff – although he had a reference point, the lad still did not know how ambitious it was. However, Raphael had to admit – this man had certain skills in the art of seduction, it was plain to see. An underrated art, the devil thought. Not every issue could be solved with brute force, nor should it. Although Raphael had a few pointers he would share with the vampire, he also had to admit that his tail’s flicking had paused as he held his breath in the stillness of their close proximity.
“The only issue is you said you could grant me these ‘gifts’ in a snap.”
Raphael waited for him to finish his thought, add his little snapping flair, try his hand. The closeness was broken in a flash when the swift man swept himself like a feather in an unexpected breeze, only to land once more on the armrest. Closer. Even closer. Conscious knee and sensitive wing brushed, and Raphael could smell the vampire’s slight aroma of death that still lingered on his breath. The devil didn’t mind that, not at all.
”Ten thousand souls, and I…relieve...that deceitful, tricky little incubus of yours now and then?”
Raphael could not believe what he was hearing. Astarion wanted to sleep with his incubus, the gift from his father. The devil was taken aback enough that he almost broke immediately into a fit of laughter – something he had to hold back as though it were a cough. He found himself rather distracted during the next few sentences. Things weren’t made much easier as the vampire turned the tables and gave a suggestive comment about being left wanting, smirking about how he might in fact take an interest in such a kink.
Clearing his throat, Raphael nodded. “Well-played. I recognize your counter offer, but it seems you misheard me earlier. My apologies,” he offered with a casual, friendly tone. “I must have mumbled.” Shifting to lean just the slightest bit into their conspiratorial huddle, Raphael decided to adjust to this new dynamic. If Astarion wanted flexibility, Raphael could show he was reasonable. “I wish I could change your state with a snap of my fingers. Alas, everything has a price. A literal one, not a devil’s invented figure.” He ignored his wine for the moment, noting how his challenger had inserted himself right in the path. Cheeky little pup.
“In the infernal world, souls are currency, energy, and sustenance. Souls provide us with the power to enact our will. Broken down, those souls imbue us with magic that can provide you with what you seek – and with me, the power to hold true to our potential contract. Which, once it is written, I am bound to complete.” Raphael decided to reach past the vampire with his impressively-developed, massive forearm in order to retrieve his wine. His suit sleeve brushed innocently over the pale one’s lap as his controlled and deliberate action was completed. Of course, eye contact was maintained the entire time, even with how close they were. The vampire could surely take note of the scents of sweet musk, a bright fruity note, and an underlying twinge of sulfur.
“Now. Like I said, I still recognize your counter offer. Although I cannot provide consent for my dearest Haarlep – that is something you have to bring up with him, but I am quite certain he would be amenable to such an idea.” Swirl, sniff, sip. “Mm…but beware, your dealings with him are between you and him. I cannot promise you won’t be swindled in some other way.” The devil chuckled knowingly, sighed, and then moved on.
“Rather, I can sweeten the pot in other ways.” The man made a general gesture to the room around him. “You are welcome to reside here, at the House of Hope, if you wish. You may have a comfortable quarters, safe from authorities and the sun, and a vault of holding for the soul coins you secure throughout your contract. They will remain untouched – theft is a serious and disastrous issue found throughout the Nine Hells and the mundane world alike.”
Solving unseen calculations behind his eyes, Raphael sighed. “I can also offer…a workplace training of sorts. I can steer you towards suitable targets to keep your thirst sated and your pocketbook full. My contacts list is extensive and in need of...pruning.” He rolled his wine around and leaned forward with a truly diabolical sparkle in his knowing eyes. “Besides, I can imagine you have names on your own list. Surely there are a few you’d like to see stricken.” With that, he balanced his wrist upon the opposite armchair and straightened up in his seat. “I counter your ten thousand souls and Haarlep’s time and affection with the aforementioned benefits including but not limited to: a sanctuary, a bank, and means for guilt-free feeding.” Another pause, and his lips wrapped around the next words: “All of that, and the ritual to provide you and only you, the pleasures and safety of mortals when exposed to the sun. All of this can be yours. In exchange for twenty-two thousand souls.”
–
Astarion lifted a groomed brow at the not-too-subtle ‘cough’ that the devil let out after he finished with his offer. His new vision allowed him to pick up the faintest spasm in Raphael’s chest, the slightest twitch at the corner of the other’s lips that made it evident that he was barely containing laughter. Nothing was more insulting than being laughed at when you were trying to be seductive, at least not to Astarion, who nearly let his mask slip in favor of something less pleasant if not for the quick way Raphael recovered and acknowledged his offer. Luckily for him, Astarion was too intrigued to learn about how souls worked as currency here in the ‘infernal world’ to hold that grudge.
So, souls were literally turned into a currency here? A physical currency. He inhaled softly and pursed his lips as he considered the new detail, parting his lips to speak, only to be blindsided by Raphael suddenly going on about needing to get Haarlep’s … consent? This left the vampire completely at a loss as he tried to figure out what he meant by that, until he went on and made his own counter offer - mentioning Harleep’s ‘time and affection’.
Immediately, Astarion’s pleasant expression shifted into one of complete disgust as he jumped to his feet, breaking away from the closeness the two were forming with a sharp glare and a repulsed frown. “That isn’t what I meant.” He snapped, looking both offended and confounded before spinning on the balls of his feet and stomping back to his chair, where he neatly plopped down and folded his arms over his chest, glaring at Raphael once more before shifting his intense gaze back to the fire and folded his arms over his chest, huffing once more before dropping the matter to consider the new offer that was made to him.
Twenty-Two thousand souls. That felt like a lot. A lot of work, anyways. But was it…?
“You said that everything had an actual, physical price? Well, what would it cost you to actually hold up your end of the bargain? I feel like it’s misleading and unfair to ask me to make an offer on something when I don’t even know the set value.” He huffed, slowly pulling his stare from the fire to again find Raphael’s eyes, which were still very intently watching him. “Being willing to drop from thirty thousand to twenty-two thousand so easily makes me feel like maybe I am being played here.” He wasn’t stupid, as ignorant as he was to the details.
–
Raphael’s lip curled the slightest bit at the sudden snappy behavior exhibited by the vampling. What was he saying now?
”That isn’t what I meant.”
The devil looked befuddled and irritable at the abrupt change. Then came Astarion’s pouting. When had Raphael said the wrong thing? The hot and cold act might startle or distract a lesser man, but not him. “You said that you wished to relieve Haarlep. What in the world could you mean?” He rolled his tongue along one of his teeth, seemingly subconsciously.
In a very abrupt manner, his eyes widened and understanding flashed across his fiery eyes. “You – oh.” Understanding struck him like a wall as his face fell. “Oh Astarion. Never use phrases that are open to interpretation while dealing with the infernal. It can be interpreted incorrectly, which can dig you into deep trouble down the line.” He breathed this, recovering as well as he could with a rolling back of the shoulders. “Besides, those kinds of offers won’t be necessary. We can and will investigate other avenues to find an agreement.” Although the devil spoke surely – almost emphatically – there were telltale signs that he was upset for not being able to control his reaction and the situation at hand, the vampire had flustered him, at least enough to stir him up. “We will redact the clause having to do with that mess.”
It didn’t get any better. Next, his client was raising valid point after point. The wit on this darling man gave Raphael a jerk of something akin to…agitated fondness. “This is a contract delegation with a devil, love. A business deal. You would be surprised how many do not catch onto that – they do not attempt to negotiate. Pity. I do try to limit the…what would you call it in the mundane world… administrative costs.” Raphael sighed and leaned over comfortably to rest his elbow up on his knee against the arm of the chair. “I doubt you would enjoy negotiating with an Archdevil for a deal like this. I act as a…more pleasant mediator, so that you might have a greater chance of success going through such a procedure as the one you’re interested in.”
The devil raised a brow and seemed to have gathered his bearings, but he stood up as though he had no interest in remaining in one place now. Perhaps he was antsy? Rather, he paced slowly and wrapped his wrist with his fingers behind his back, reminding Astarion of his great stature. It might be a reminder of who was doing who a favor here. His spoken pace had dropped to a strict, carefully punctuated and professional tone without his initial playfulness. “Not a single othervampire currently in existence on earth has struck a deal this ambitious. To bring such a request to one of the Archdevils – who would be far less forgiving, I must say – well, good luck finding a deal with them that doesn’t involve your own soul, or worse.” He shrugged indifferently, well past recovered from the mild embarrassment now, and leaned back against the grand fireplace and popped his foot up against the wall, inspecting one of his claws.
“We could arrange a meeting with an Archdevil, if you are interested. Simply requesting a meeting with one of them would cost numerous soul coins alone, and although I think we have the potential to help each other greatly,” he paused with a pointed look, “I advise having fifteen thousand souls available before attempting such a ritual with any devil, especially one who might not be so fond of you.” A sly, sharp narrowing of the eyes stared burrows into the vampire’s head. “You know what is better than a devil you don’t know? A devil you do.”
His thick, slightly wavy hair reflected the burning tendrils in the fire pit beside him, his wings flexing and stretching just slightly as he sighed and steepled his fingers. “How would you like to proceed? A counter offer? A deal? Or, you may always have some time to consider, to deliberate.” Raphael sighed and shrugged with his rather pretentious posture. “I will happily deliver you back to the so-called town I so generously plucked you from, if you so choose.”
–
The vampire kept his glare and pout through Raphael’s outburst, though he didn’t fail to notice how unusual it seemed for the devil to lash out. He had so far been the very definition of composed… Had he gotten under his skin? Struck a nerve? Normally, he would feel delighted to know he was the one to cause such a stir, but there was too much else going on for him to feel much triumph. He decided to just keep that little bit of information in mind for when he could use it later, but for now, he was quietly and broodingly observing Raphael’s reaction - less broodingly, though, when the man so easily and casually waved off the very notion of Astarion needing to use his body to get his way. Of course, he had hoped to sweeten the deal, assuming the devil would be like every other individual he had crossed who wanted something for him and jump at the chance to bed him. But he didn’t seem the slightest bit interested! On the surface, he felt a bit offended, but below that there was a much deeper sense of… Respect? Relief?
“Your loss,” he murmured offhandedly, but the pout and glare had very visibly become less prominent, and a certain tensity in his shoulders seemed to relax. In a way they hadn’t been able to in a long, long time. It made him all the less defensive when Raphael began to lay into him how ‘lucky’ he was to be receiving such a deal, though, when the word ‘vampire’ parted from his smooth lips, Astarion’s breath hitched just a little in his throat. Slowly, his ruby gaze followed the now pacing figure.
“Vampire. It’s a bit strange to hear it out loud for the first time. Makes it feel more real.” He muttered, sighing tensely but relaxing back into his chair with his hands in his lap and his leg folded neatly over the other as he seemed to steadily be composing himself after Raphael’s scolding. By the time Raphael was mentioning sending him back to where he had come from, Astarion was far more relaxed, even waving his hand and subtly smirking at his words. “Come now, darling, no need to be dramatic. That’s MY thing.” He murmured, lifting a hand to rub the bridge of his nose in thought as he let out another sharp, shallow breath from his chest.
“I won’t pretend like I know or even care about the difference between a devil and an Archdevil. This whole Infernal thing is beyond me, but no. I have no interest in meeting any infernal being other than you. So don’t get your panties all knotted up… though it IS fun to watch you get all worked up.” Astarion’s lips lifted further, a taunting little smirk growing on his face and gleaming in his eyes.
“Alright.” He sat forward, his hand dropping between his knees and his head bowing forward slightly. “I will accept your kind offering of room and board, as well as a list of names to make things easier for myself - but I make no promise to kill any specific person. At the end of the day, who I kill is entirely up to me, not you. You will get your souls in the end. As for the souls…” He sighed, rolling his eyes and letting his mask slip for a moment, displaying how truly exhausted he felt. Elves didn’t need as much sleep as humans, and vampires likely needed just as little, but after everything that he had been through (transformation included), he could feel the ache of fatigue in his bones. The blood he had fed on helped keep the coldness of death away, but he felt like he needed to sleep like a corpse for a good long while. Thinking of the monumental task he was about to agree to only added to that exhaustion.
“Twenty thousand.”
–
The imposing red form in his crisp black and red suit returned to its firm and proper demeanor as the vampire seemed to accept the slight rebuff to his offer with barely a mumbled comment. Raphael took note of this. Good.
He did not need Astarion spending his time and effort on activities outside of their contract – it simply did not benefit the devil. Sexual favors were a strict no-go for Raphael. Besides it being borderline offensive that someone like him required contracts to get his proverbial devil dick wet, Haarlep was enough of a nuisance— badgering him for sex like a gremlin rather than an incubus, to the point that Raphael had seen more of a deal to be made keeping the damn moocher busy. If the fair elf before him chose to sign a contract with him and stay in the house, he would realize soon what being pestered by that cretin on a daily basis felt like. Depending on the frame of mind, Haarlep could be a blessing or a bane.
“Vampire. It’s a bit strange to hear it out loud for the first time. Makes it feel more real.”
Raphael huffed through his nostrils ever so slightly, nodding once to this. “Strigoi, Lamia, Haemovore…” he stated, one of his hands lifting to gesture fluidly, “you are one, now. With all of the perks and drawbacks that come with such an existence.” His fact-crammed mind wished to continue on, but Raphael knew better than to leave the contract up in the air without a signature. He would have all the time in the Hells after to teach Astarion about what he was, newfound skills (and weaknesses), and hone them into an excellent creature of prim and proper destruction. The twerp should be grateful he hadn’t had to learn about his new laundry list of undead rules by himself. Hells, he hadn’t even had to lick himself clean. That bath alone would be worth the price of admission!
The vampling tried assuaging the devil to be less “dramatic”, which made the devilish gentleman bristle – only, the boy was seeming more than drained. Once he was given time to truly rest, Astarion would be grateful he pushed through to secure himself the comforts and safeties he required. Raphael kept himself composed as the vampire casually badgered him about being uptight, how little he cared about the affairs of the infernal. Raphael eyed him closely, consciously deciding to overlook the snide little comments. He had to remind himself what a patient devil he was.
Then, a decision had been made. By the sound of Astarion’s voice, it appeared as though they would be getting back to business. The word accept tingled the devil’s sharp ears. The room and board, the list of names…plus a fresh compromise, one that gave liberty to the vampling to hunt who he approved, himself. It meant he would require more nudging for certain targets, but Raphael would enjoy flexing his persuasion skills while guiding the killer towards particular targets. Raphael did not interrupt the offer as Astarion sagged slightly, choosing his offer carefully.
”Twenty thousand.”
That would work splendidly.
Raphael did not twitch at this offer, even stilling his happy tail where it was tucked behind him against the fireplace. Did not want to seem too eager, now did he? “Who you pursue on your hunt will be left to your discretion.” Raphael nodded, pushing himself off of the wall fluidly to drift across the room, over to Astarion. “I accept your offer.”
The devil held out both of his hands, and in another puff of smoke appeared a long, ornate golden red-feathered pen. It appeared ancient and intricate, and there was a hunger that radiated off of it like a living, trembling, tired old god. In his other hand, a similarly quivering piece of browning parchment curled at the edges. Upon the parchment, their deal had already been written – word for word – in a sophisticated script, sloping and flowery. Raphael bent down just enough to present these two items, the pen offered more readily. “Please read the contract carefully. If you require any revisions, I will be happy to amend the wording for specificity.” A smooth smile had pulled up on his lips, like he and Astarion were the best of chums. “When you are satisfied, you may sign along the dotted line.” Already written there was a name signed in glowing red “ink” – Raphael.
“This is no ordinary pen, I must warn you.” The winged creature’s eyes glittered. “Do not be surprised when it bites.”
–
Astarion watched with sharp, careful eyes as he made his second counter-offer. Due to Raphael’s previous little, small outburst, he figured he might be able to read the devil even slightly if he watched close enough. Either Raphael would be upset, or he would be excited - depending on how good or bad of a deal it was. However, he did a good job of keeping himself composed and still, which lead Astarion to believe that maybe the offer was simply a standard one. It wasn’t the worst, nor was it the best. It was fair. Which, if it really did cost fifteen-thousand souls just to be SEEN by an Archdevil, maybe it really was a modest offer? It still felt like a whole lot of work, but there had been no time limit mentioned, so he assumed he had plenty of time. He supposed he was just glad he had added the little clause that he would only hunt who he WANTED to hunt - it gave him a sense of power in their deal that helped convince him that yes, this deal was a good one.
His brow furrowed when, unexpectedly, a parchment and pen seemed to poof into existence in Raphael’s hands. Given how everything here seemed to just appear from thin air, though, he wasn’t TOO surprised - it was just a bit unnerving to get used to. What was more unnerving, though, was the… hunger... that radiated from the pen. Instinctively, his lips curled back and he leaned back, glaring at the pen as it reminded him of the same radiating hunger that gnawed in his gut, only the feeling from the pen was stronger. “Great! So it’s a vampire pen!” He scoffed, rolling his eyes briefly, but reaching for the item regardless. He wasn’t afraid of a pen, after all! Of course, despite being warned, he did hiss at the object when it nipped him on contact. The red feather seemed to faintly glow as the pen filled with his hard-earned blood, stored as a morbid ink that was almost tacky. It was apparently the way things were, though, and just as quickly, he plucked the equally strange parchment from Raphael’s hand, taking his advice to read it with an arched brow.
He parted his lips, thinking to question HOW it came to be. It was word for word what they agreed, but obviously, Raphael had not written it himself. Physically. And yet, his signature almost glowed at the bottom of the page, beside where Astarion was expected to sign. He read slowly over it, more than once, seeking any loophole that could possibly put him in the same situation as Cazador, but he found none. After all, it was written plainly that him, and only him, would receive the agreed upon benefit.
It’s only going to cost you twenty-thousand souls. He reminded himself, but quickly, she shrugged that off. It wasn’t costing him his soul, so why did he care? With a huff, he finally lowered the pin to the page, scrawling his own name in his own beautiful handwriting:
Astarion Ancunin
Chapter 6: Little Star
Chapter Text
Raphael cracked a grin at the mention of a vampire pen, letting out a brief chuckle of his own. “You are not wrong, my friend.” In a way, they were both forms of… tools in some way. One vampire artifact provided him with an efficient contract signing; the other, far more complex relic stood before him: an effective contract closer. Both, bound by their need for blood to do their jobs. Plus, the pen didn’t require clothes and education. Regardless, this investment would be a fine one. He had some…ahem, work to do, what with arranging the proper channels of interest through his network, finding investors and securing the right paperwork to purchase the necessary components for a ritual of this caliber…it would take some time. Still, he could make it happen. Few had those kinds of connections and provided the accommodations as Raphael did. He had a reputation to uphold, and standards to maintain.
The devil noted how Astarion winced against what was no doubt a sharp pinching sensation where his fingers made contact with it. Quite an ingenious invention, he thought. He would continually be amazed by what those in the hells were able to develop given the right… resources. This man was getting a hell of a deal. The best business plans simply built themselves over basic economics. When there was demand, you wanted to be the best supplier in town – even if you helped create the demand in the first place. That was business, baby!
’Astarion Ancunin’
The neatness of the writing Raphael could make out from his angle gave him a surge of heat to his gut. He loved this part. The soft scratching sounds emanating from the pen on the stiff page, the soft anguish and apprehension swirling with the relief in the face like ink and water. There was always something unique about it, and one could learn a great deal about the person signing by this face. Almost like an Oh face: the expression in the height of pleasure bore their insides right-side out.
Raphael saw something else in this man’s face, though. A silent determination. The slight crease between his brows. The curl in the front of his head rustling gently with the movement of his neck. The purse of his lips, just parted enough to release the air he didn’t need to breathe anymore. Raphael lost himself, swimming in that moment that he wished could stretch on infinitely. That, unfortunately, was part of the appeal for him. This was the tipping point. There was before the signature, and then there was after. Boundless time extended in either direction yawned before the two standing in that room, and both would be reframed within the confines of this fleeting moment.
He blinked, and it was over. The name was bound in blood. Raphael had just closed the deal that would make it all possible. Astarion truly had no idea how instrumental this would be in securing the future of the Hells.
“Thank you for your patronage, my dear.” The devil bowed respectfully, accepting the items back with – surprise surprise – a puff of smoke. “You just made an excellent deal, I assure you. An entrepreneurially-sound decision.” The devil smirked and snapped twice at the air behind him, calling over his shoulder. “Korrilla, darling?”
“Yes?” A feminine voice rang out from one of the arches leading into surrounding halls. Stepping out of the shadows, a rather short-statured woman with curly chocolate hair and an ascetic demeanor walked into view. She enunciated well and provided good air support. She did not appear to be soft-spoken, even from the way she had barked the one word.
“We have another member of our household. Are his chambers prepared?” Raphael asked this while being half-turned towards the woman, speaking to her with a polite enthusiasm before turning back to Astarion. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you rest? We will commence with training when you wake.” Raphael knew that he might have too much time on his hands while he waited for the undead to wake. That was usually when new vampires were injured (or killed) – during their first sleep. They were not sure how to protect themselves for the rest that felt like a normal night’s sleep. They had taken bets in the house already – and Raphael’s was six months.
The small woman nodded curtly, standing with her chest puffed out and her arms behind her back. Her clothes were fine and intricate. She was provided with excellent tailors, by the looks of it. Every color woven into the garb complemented her coloring, especially under the reddish light from the enormous mantle. “Yes, they are ready.”
“Korrilla will show you to your quarters, then.” Raphael reached out to offer his hand to shake, with which he would help Astarion up out of his seat. His voice dropped subtly as he prepared to take his hand back, but he paused and put his other massive red hand on the vampire’s shoulder. The overabundance of heat could probably be felt plainly – almost enough to burn if one touched it for too long, but somehow smooth and welcoming at the same time. Like towels out of a fresh dryer from hell.
The devil leaned in and murmured in a gentler, conciliatory tone, “You need not be afraid here, Astarion. That hell hole is behind you.” He exhaled through his nose as he pulled away, finishing the shake of the hand and giving the vampire one more pat on the shoulder before turning on his silent feet and returning to the side table that housed the rest of his wine.
“Well then, follow me.” Korrilla was motioning for Astarion to follow her, an impatient and far less buddy-buddy individual compared to the devil who stood and swirled his glass, raising it to the two.
–
Well, the way Raphael was smirking and ‘assuring’ him of just how ‘sound’ a decision he just made certainly did raise Astarion’s suspicion that maybe that wasn’t so true - but there came no moment of instant regret. No sinking feeling in his gut, no cold dread in his chest, nothing at all like that. This was for his own benefit, after all! Even if the price was rather steep. Perhaps more steep than even he was aware of, but he had plenty of time to dwell on it… forever was long, after all. Honestly, he was just relieved that it was done and over with now! Everything had been so tense from the moment he ‘woke up’ surrounded by corpses in that cold desert, and now, it felt like he could finally take a moment to shed his mask and relax. He didn’t, of course - but he felt like he could. That thought was abandoned the moment Raphael snapped and called to someone from over his shoulder, and within a second or two, a voice rang back out as a short woman stepped into view dutifully.
Already, his room had been prepared?? But he had barely agreed to stay! The devil was quite thorough, it seemed. It was also interesting to note that Raphael had others working for him that WEREN’T agonized, insane wraiths like the ones cleaning his halls. Of course, if Raphael thought that he’d ever have him as whipped as this Korrilla woman seemed to be, he was perhaps as insane as the people groaning in the halls. She stood at attention, answering simply and concisely, like she was a dog. A chocolate lab, maybe~! A smirk curled faintly onto his lips at the thought, but Raphael had been right in his observation. Astarion was exhausted. So much so that he didn’t think twice about accepting Raphael’s offered hand, hoisting himself to his feet, only to be ‘stuck’ standing quite close to the devil with one hand lightly locked inside one of Raphael’s large, unnaturally hot hands while another of his hands reached to rest on Astarion’s shoulder.
You need not be afraid here, Astarion. That hell hole is behind you.
The words, privately murmured between the two of them, were so gentle, and sincere, and certain. It caught the vampire off guard, his eyes widening and heart seizing painfully in his chest as a deep, shocked frown touched his lips only briefly, but long enough for a flash of dread to cross his features. Dread that someone else knew what he had been through, somehow. He didn’t know to what extent, but he clearly knew something, and for a moment Astarion was sideswiped just enough in his moment of raw exhaustion to actually feel vulnerable. Maybe it was the warmth of Raphael’s touch, or the way he sounded like he actually cared, or the humiliation of ANYONE knowing what he had gone through - maybe it was all of those things? Whatever the case was, Astarion was quick to rebound, arching a brow and smirking as he cleared his suddenly very dry throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Me? Afraid? Darling, you don’t know me.” His voice was just as quiet as Raphael’s own, but far less gentle. It was cold, and defensive, and quite suddenly, all he wanted to do was get as far from Raphael as possible.
So, he was given an out, he hurried to take it - shaking Raphael’s hand out of obligation mostly but withdrawing as quickly and sharply as he could. He cast only a single glance back at Raphael, enough to note the way he lifted his glass as if to wish him well, before huffing and following the short, serious little woman into one of the halls.
“You’re pretty bossy for a servant. I like it, of course, Korrilla, but I get the feeling that you need a vacation.” He didn’t hesitate to start rattling on - anything to distract him from his thoughts now - and Korrilla proved to be a very avid listener! Granted, she was just as likely to ignore him, but what did he care? He had always been fond of the sound of his own voice. As would become evident as he was suddenly led to a downward staircase, which CLEARLY was a basem*nt of some kind. Not something he was too fond of! “That devil REALLY saw fit to put me in his BAsem*nT? Tch!” On and on, he complained, not letting up or skipping a beat between words, and that didn’t change when he stepped through the large doorway at the bottom of the stairway.
The room was beautiful of course. It wasn’t some dark, damp, cobwebbed stone-room that smelt like mold. It had a high vaulted ceiling made of a sleek, dark stone and supported by golden arches and beams that glistened in the dim glow of the room. The room was round, and well-furnished; a few massive bookshelves, a desk, a trunk, a large wardrobe, and various other very luxurious and expensive looking pieces of decoration, such as a large silk tapestry that depicted a phoenix in gold and crimson threads. The floor was just as sleek as the walls, dark and reflecting the faint lighting of the massive room… but at the dead center of the room sat something that made Astarion’s skin crawl and his fangs grit together.
“A f*cking COFFIN? Now I know that bastard must be joking--”
“Watch your tongue.” Korrilla’s voice was sharp and stern, as was every word she uttered. It was enough to cause Astarion’s brow to lift as he turned to glance back at her, his hands on his hips and his red eyes glowing almost as he glared down at the little woman.
“If you had any sense about you, you would step in line and remember your place, vampire. Do not expect to be granted special treatment if you step out of that line.” Oh, she was so serious! It was enough to make Astarion giggle as he waved his hand dismissively at her and turned to glare back at the coffin. “Sweetheart, I step where I please. There are no lines-” Glancing back, he sneered to see that she had gone. Disappearing the moment he had taken his eyes off of her. The sneaky little rat! Well… whatever. He huffed, staring heavily at the coffin now. Joke or not, it looked very comfortable. The red interior was cushioned and soft-looking, and it even had a nice little pillow! No blanket, but it was so warm that he doubted he’d need it. So, he let his exhaustion win and stepped into the coffin, laying down and, reluctantly, closing the lid, blocking out the faint warm glow of the room.
It was quiet now. It was like he was in a dimension all to himself; one of warmth, comfort, and pure darkness. So dark that he couldn’t tell if his own eyes were open or not, and so quiet that he could hear the faint pumping of his undead heart. It was like a lullaby, whisking the young creature off to what would be the deepest, longest, hardest sleep of his existence.
…
”Astarion! There you are, I found you!” A feminine voice caused him to stir, his eyes opening wide and his breath catching in his throat as he looked around, only to find that he was no longer laying in the coffin. In fact, he was no longer in the House of Hope. No, he was standing in a hallway - one that he knew well. Very well. His home. Or, his childhood home, at least. Confused, he peered down the long, dark hallway, where he noticed a room with the light on. Inside, a young boy sat with his back to the door, giggling happily as a woman sat over him, tickling him. “My sweet, silly boy! You’re so good at hide and seek, did you know that?” She praised him, her voice so… ethereal. Even from so far down the hallway, it sounded like it was so close to him… he could smell the lavender in her hair. Could feel the warmth of her arms as she held him so tenderly.
It was his mother. Numbly, he took a step toward the room, then stopped himself. “But you’re dead.” He breathed out in a stiff, terrified, small voice - a voice that quivered with complete and utter desperation for his words to be wrong, but he knew he was right.
Then, something ELSE caught his attention. A scent. Overwhelming and rich, so thick that it stuck to the back of his throat and made his body ache painfully. Blood. He turned toward the scent, which was at the opposite end of the hallway, and found himself now facing a doorway that was dark. The door was open, but it was as dark as the void. He felt… Drawn. Compelled. Lured. Slowly, he began to walk toward it, even as the voice behind him grew louder.
“Astarion? Where are you going? My Little Star - come back to me. Come back…”
He could no longer hear her voice as he walked through the darkened doorway. Instead, he gasped, and awakened again, this time sitting on his knees in the cold, dark desert. His wrists were painfully tied behind his back, and as he sat in the middle of the circle, the cultists around him began to chant. Cazador was at the front, smirking down at him as the circle suddenly began to glow. He felt so afraid then, but that fear quickly gave way to agony. The symbol that had been carved into his back began to burn. He heard a horrible screaming around him - it took him a moment to realize the screams were his own. The pain was immeasurable and indescribable. It was like his insides were bursting, and then healing, mending, and then exploding all over again. He tried to beg for mercy, but his mouth was soon too full of blood that poured from his lungs to even scream. All he heard then was Cazador’s cruel laughter…
He wasn’t laughing anymore when, suddenly, Astarion burst free of the ropes and began tearing into the cultists, one at a time, biting and tearing and ripping the flesh from their bones–
Again he awoke, but this time it was for real as he shoved the coffin lid open and crawled out onto his hands and knees. The taste of blood filled his mouth as he choked and coughed and wheezed, realizing he had bitten into his tongue, which caused blood to dribble from his lips and down his chin. He tried to breathe, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate. Unbeknownst to him, while he had slept, his body turned off. He didn’t breathe, or move, or anything of the sort. Quite literally he had been laying dead in his coffin for… how long?? He couldn’t tell, all he knew was he was thirsty. He was cognizant this time, unlike during his frenzy, but he couldn’t stop shaking as pain wracked him from head to toe. Every fiber of his being was in agonizing pain, and he knew instinctively it was because he needed to feed. It was the only thing he could think about as he slowly, painfully, dragged himself up those stairs, like a feral thing emerging from the depths of some great abyss. He had no control over himself, he was more like a spectator as he followed the only sound he could hear in his desperate, starving state; A heartbeat.
It was as if he blinked, and suddenly, he was standing at the end of a bed. Raphael’s bed. For many reasons, this was foolish… but common sense was something Astarion was sorely lacking as he crawled weightlessly and soundlessly onto the bed, using skills that came from instinct as he drew closer, and closer, and closer to the sleeping, imposing, crimson-skinned devil who could incinerate him in a snap. But he didn’t care! He had craved sinking his fangs into that powerful pulse since he first saw it, and without even slight hesitation, he went for it. One hand gripped the back of Raphael’s neck with the other grabbed one of his arms, as if he could wrangle him while his razor-sharp fangs clumsily and desperately sank into his throat…
Chapter 7: The Call For A Culling
Notes:
TW: blood and ichor, disturbing scenarios
Chapter Text
“Well be on your way, you sly dog.”
Raphael waved, sporting his infamous closed-mouth grin as his previous guest took his leave. The portal glittered and crackled as the shadowy figure made a sort of screeching noise, something that could have been interpreted incorrectly as a battle cry or a warning. No, Raphael was well-versed enough with shadow-cursed undead to understand a friendly laugh when he heard one. And had anyone heard his own send off, it would have sounded an awful lot like numerous clickings in the back of his throat and his own dual-tone screech.
The figure disappeared with a trailing wisp of shadow through the massive arch and back to his darling land of rot and ruin, leaving the devil with an empty chamber besides his own person. For what could have been anywhere between a few seconds and several minutes, the devil stood there. He stared ahead at nothing in particular, lost within his own thoughts. Eventually, he blinked and took a deep, refreshing breath. Not even that could keep his shoulders from sagging, however.
Devils, he was tired. He had been very productive the past six months: done his dealings, preyed on the desperate and dying, invested and investigated…and he felt as though a vacation might be needed soon. Somewhere tropical. His skin required a touch of sun.
Ironically, he had been kept busy by the least busy member of the house. He still wasn’t prepared for the ritual he had promised. Thankfully, he probably had a minimum of 40 years before sleeping beauty could secure this round of souls, which put Raphael ahead of schedule. Still, he had much to do.
Striding down the corridor without any apparent drag from exhaustion, the devil sighed as one or two of the servants cowered away from his approaching figure — meanwhile a handful applauded his arrival. He was in a mood, and had to kick one off of his foot to make it into the boudoir. They were not afraid enough of him, it seemed. Different souls broke differently. Some resorted to madness first, others simply went vegetative. The strongest, surprisingly, were those who cowered. Those were the survivors.
Having updated him on the house checkups (their newest member still slumbered, to be expected), Korrilla had already been dismissed to her chores for the night, and Raphael had every intention of getting a thorough night's rest himself. A long soak in the bath, a glass (or twenty) of the driest red he had, and an early night in was exactly what the Archdevil ordered.
An hour or so later, the winged man was stretching out on his welcoming mattress filled with downy siren feathers. He swore that the essence of their calming songs were echoed in them, filling his bed with hypnotic relaxation. It made sleep possible when his mind simply could not shut off. He was only half devil, after all. Beauty sleep was a must. Under eye bags were not to be in his future.
Haarlep had been badgering him for playtime (even though he had worn him out three days prior), but even the house incubus could sense when Raphael’s moods went askew. One too many times he had experienced what the Devil of the House could do if caught in one of his moods, and thus the man found himself left in total solitude. Blissful, peaceful, perfect solitude.
As he retired between his luxurious sheets, warmer than usual, slightly damp, and exquisitely nude from his bath, the devil exhaled with something akin to satisfaction as he let the feathers lull him into what he anticipated would be a much needed, uneventful, restful sleep.
…
The sky had gone the shade of an incoming storm. By the looks of it, he had little more than an hour, maybe two to make it home. Muddied, bare feet splashed in yesterday’s rain along the dirt path. A chest heaved, panting with the ragged nature of an outpaced child.
He ran. He ran until those feet that he knew were attached to him ached and stung with misplaced steps, bruises and cuts. Still, the sky lightened. The storm could be tricky that way. A true black night bore no ripping winds, no crushing downpour. This sky, such an ominous array of grays it almost appeared white—it was too late. He had been too slow. He was always too slow.
Up ahead, the air had gone silent. Somewhere along the road, he had stopped running entirely. He wasn’t even sure when he had, but he no longer heard the familiar plodding. Heavy and still, the child knew that the storm had arrived. The air had frozen. It announced not with fanfare, no. The eerie quiet of His arrival required no music.
A crushing weight plagued his chest as though it had always been there. It struck him hard enough that he would have gasped had he any air left. Ice pulsed through him as he stared ahead at the path, watching in horror as the flakes fell from the sky with the same silence. He breathed in that ice, but he could not scream. Yet, he heard a scream. He knew who it belonged to. He could never forget. How could he forget their last scream?
They were dead. Dead because of him. Because of who he was. Because he was unlovable. Because he had been born unlovable. It suffocated him. He could not scream. He could not—
He awoke abruptly with the strangest sensation on his throat. It took no more than a blink for the awoken devil to identify where the cold was coming from. His hot blood was being drained. He was all too familiar with the sensation.
“Mm…good morning.” His voice croaked from sleep, rumbling his vocal chords as they resonated through his entire chest. His body had stiffened, already tight from his dream — but now he had an immediate threat attached to a rather vulnerable place.
It appeared that lessons would be starting earlier than expected. One was needing to be taught immediately.
An iron grip closed around the back of the vampire’s neck, skin boiling hot and brutally strong. As though he was scruffing a kitten, Raphael closed tighter around cool skin, a bunch of hair, and undead bone.
“Trust me, love. This is not drinking blood. Release. Now.”
–
Immediately, he was aware of a slight spice when the blood met his tongue. It wasn’t enough to warn him that he should stop, but even if he wanted to stop, he absolutely couldn’t. He heard the rumbling of Raphael’s voice - felt it in his fangs - encouraging the vampire to bite harder and hold more firmly to his prey. He couldn’t stop! He wasn’t ready! He had only just begun to quell his thirst, he needed more!
A bloodied, wet snarl escaped the inside of his throat when he felt Raphael’s hand at the back of his neck, his fangs desperately trying to embed deeper still. The hand at the back of his neck was crushingly powerful, though, threatening to snap his bones like twigs as it so easily fit around his neck and lifted him. Stubbornly, the arm he had looped under Raphael’s neck and shoulders gave him a rough yank, hoping to lift him, but as he did, he took his first actual breath through his nose…
Apparently, that was all it took.
As air funneled down his throat and into his lungs, the blood he had been gorging himself on felt as though it ignited - like gasoline when introduced to a spark.
It started in his mouth, a prickle of pain that started as a sharp sting against his taste buds, gums, and teeth. A prickle that was quick to spread down his throat and into his gut. Then, in radiant waves, the burning began. That, combined with the pull at the back of his neck, was enough to finally detach his fangs from the heated crimson skin. Blood, thick and almost steaming in the darkness of the room, dribbled down his chin and against his chest, plenty splattering back down onto Raphael’s neck and bedding as well. In the dark of the room, Astarion wild red eyes were aglow, but they were sporadic and unfocused. Jittery, his gaze shifted this way, and then that way, and then, suddenly, they rolled up as his hands released the devil to clutch his own throat, where the burning was its worst.
His breathing wheezed, his throat swelling from the inside and sealing shut, which was luckily of little consequence to him since he didn’t NEED to breathe. But the pain… god! His chest heaved and fingers reached back to claw at the hand around his neck while his body began to writhe. Perhaps it didn’t help that when a mortal would feel this kind of pain, their mucus membranes would help to protect them. His body was unable to do that now, so that fire was trapped until it ran its course through his system; though, he felt quite certain he would die before that happened. Likely, he wouldn’t, but it FELT like he would. Screams filled his chest, but they were unable to escape his clenched, tightened throat.
He could feel it externally now as well. The blood on his face and chest began to burn his cold skin. So, this was what the blood of a devil could do? It sure would have been nice to know beforehand. At the same time, it wasn’t like Astarion was thinking with ANY rationality when he had decided Raphael would make for a good meal.
–
Even after such a rude and abrupt awakening, Raphael knew better than to rip the vampire from his throat. He was not, as much as he tried to pass as such, immune to the devastating effects of major blood loss. For a moment, he even considered simply letting Astarion feed until he stopped of his own volition — because he would stop. He would stop the moment he felt the blood scorch his system.
Raphael sighed and closed his eyes just a touch, doing nothing but holding still for the moment. He actually relaxed into the violent display – knowing that forcibly removing a creature with its teeth plunged into his flesh would only cause more unsightly ripping, tearing, scarring.
Unacceptable.
So he waited it out, the world going in slow motion from the adrenaline and closeness to this man he had only so-briefly met, yet had vested such resources into already. He had no intention to kill or maim this creature. He needed him able-bodied and ready. They needed him to hunt, after all.
As expected, Raphael exhaled as the fangs retracted from his throat – the enzymes inside the vampiric saliva having still done their job in encouraging the blood to keep flowing without cauterizing, leaving the puncture wounds to spurt burning liquid out and all over the bed. Right onto his nice sheets. They hadn’t been the dark-colored ones, either. Raphael seethed silently at this, but maintained composure until Astarion pulled away and began to suffer the expected side-effects. Raphael released his grip to reach his freed hand up to hold his (unimpressively messy) bite wound to prevent more spurting. More mess.
“I did not think,” he began with a dangerous rasp and edge to his rumbly voice, “you would need such a rule spelled out for you so quickly --but it seems as though you understand why that was a terrible idea.” However, Raphael scrunched his brows as he did some sleepy calculations in his head. His eyes brightened when he realized that Astarion had woken within the perfect time frame. “Oh! I won the bet! Delightful.”
Brushing that satisfaction away for the moment, Raphael snapped with his free hand. The candelabras around the room began to strike fire to themselves amidst the dark to spill some low light on the shadows. Not that either of them needed it to see, but Raphael felt it was only appropriate. The devil held his neck, blood seeping out from below the wound as he stared down at the writhing and coughing vampling. Although it did not bring him any joy to see him in such pain, Raphael knew that this would be the first of many teachable moments they were soon to share. If anything, Raphael had a touch of pity in his features.
From where he had sat up in bed, the shirtless man sighed where he held his throat, blood reflecting off of where it had wet his skin and dribbled down his chest. The liquid appeared to be black, contrasting heavily across his crimson flesh where it had spilled-- like crude oil that had splashed toxic heat wherever it touched. “I wish there was something I could do to help the pain, but you simply have to wait it out. Let it pass.” Although he deliberated on how to punish such an action, Raphael had no malice in his eyes. He even cracked a smile and began to laugh as though this were the most wholesome joke he had heard all year as the vampire choked and agonized across the lush red bedding, black tar staining his familiar set of bed-worn clothes that he had gone to sleep in six months ago.
“Ahh, this is punishment enough. When you’re finished flopping about like a fish, we will go fetch you a midnight snack.”
–
Panic flourished in his chest, where his heart was painfully straining, quivering, and rattling. While he had been thoughtless and reckless in his desperate hunger, his body at least knew it had to reject the blood he had consumed. If it could even be considered blood. If he absorbed it into his body, it would only do damage, and his body recognized this as the tar churned in his gut. He retched, but still, his swollen through refused to let anything in OR out. Terrified, the vampire clawed at the bed, tearing it and allowing the exotic feathers to flow out of one end as he pulled himself off of the bed and onto the floor, which was cooler than his suddenly burning skin.
It was impossible for him to discern the time that passed as he laid there, squirming and choking. Five minutes? Fifteen? Half an hour? More? It felt like an eternity before the swelling inside his throat subsided, just enough for him to cough up that toxic black blood, the inky, sticky liquid splattering across the smooth stone floor and even staining a nearby red rug that alone was probably worth more than anything Astarion had ever owned combined. It burned coming out just as much as it had going down, but there was an immediate relief just to have it out of him. Only then, when he had heaved up the last of it, was he able to gasp in a wheezing, rattling breath through his clenched fangs.
There, on his hands and knees, he was able to glance up shakily at where Raphael sat on the edge of the bed. He expected anger, but what he saw was so much worse - pity. He looked down at Astarion like he was some clueless, pathetic animal. Helpless. Weak…
“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice was raw and grated, having not been used in six months, and then being doused in a subtle acid of sorts, while his hunger continued to shred his nerves to pieces. His face felt wet… the blood, yes. But why was his vision also blurring? Tears?
“Don’t f*cking look at me like that!” he repeated, yelling the words in a much more vicious snarl, but he was all bark and no bite. No WAY was he biting Raphael again. In fact, there was far more fear in his voice than there was anger. “D-Don’t look at me.”
Shamefully, as he continued to sit trembling on his hands and knees, his head fell forward into a deep bow, one hand lifting to his face to feverishly try and wipe everything off of it, but he only managed to smear the blood and tears together.
“Is this how it will be every time?” He whispered out under his breath, almost too quiet to be heard, if not for the otherwise stillness of the room. There was a clear terror in his voice. Was he now damned to wake up like an absolute savage?
–
It took some time, but eventually the young man was able to force expulsion and cough up the inky sludge. He sputtered it up, convulsing as he burned from the inside out. Raphael only felt a light dizziness, and he knew it would pass. He eventually sat up and moved to the side of the bed to let his long, muscular legs hang over it as his clawed (but carefully pedicured) toes brushed the ground. He hadn’t been staring at the vampire long at all, but he did turn to witness more of his torture — keeping an eye on him. Had Raphael not known better, he might have thought that this spelled the end for Astarion and his adventures. It was a grim, grisly sight.
Vampirism was not for the faint of heart. Cazador would not have lasted long.
Still, to his own surprise, the torture he witnessed brought no joy to his own angsty black heart. As Astarion crawled to his knees, head down, snow-white hair clumping together where the black acid had been smeared, his face contorted under all the wet. Raphael’s eyes turned down further, a slight frown crookedly pressing in at the corner of his mouth.
”Don’t look at me like that.”
Raphael blinked, unaware that his face hadn’t been composed. Still, he stared at Astarion as he held onto his own throat, giving the tar time to form an accelerated scab. His bleeding was already slowing down, but he had lost an embarrassing amount of his own fluids. The beautiful, nightmarish man began to snarl angrily at him, yelling demands. He did not want to be seen like this, and Raphael could understand why.
“There is nothing to be ashamed of.” Raphael winced as he let his bloody tourniquet of a palm drop to his unclothed lap, inspecting it to give Astarion the moment of privacy he asked for. His naked form had black streams running down the front, dripping into little puddles on the stone floor. All over the carpets, there was more. It wouldn’t be surprising if somehow, even the ceilings got caught in the crossfire. Hells, this was quite the mess. The servants would have a grand old time cleaning this up while he and Astarion were off running training errands.
The vampire murmured a question, Raphael’s sensitive ears just able to pick it up in the heavy, silent air. Not the terrifying silence the devil had been dreaming of only minutes prior, thankfully.
“No. You are a fledgling, this is…” He sighed. “To be expected. Unfortunately for both of us.”
The humor had left him, but the man who stood before Astarion lacked that same imposing, impervious collectedness he might have remembered from their first meeting. The devil’s bare body — in all of its glory — crossed the bedside to a luxurious coat rack that had a handful of robes hanging. He snatched a silky black covering, unfurling and draping it over his wide shoulders. There were even customized cuts to make way for his wings where they protruded. It fell to his mid-thigh, concealing his well-built back and buttocks. As he tied it, he turned around, looking quite the contradiction with his own messy dark curls falling around his face, shadows of gore smeared across the exposed skin.
“The first slumber is the longest, the most challenging. You have been asleep for almost six months.” Raphael strode slowly towards the vampire, reaching down to offer him a hand up — although he realized that his blood-drenched grip would most likely injure the scorched man further. Retracting it, he instead sat back down on the edge of the bed nearest his new business partner. “I blame you not for your lack of control. That will come with time and practice. I can only imagine how thirsty you are.”
Motioning towards the stilled fountain bath in the center of the boudoir, Raphael glanced away and gestured with a hand towards it. “Rinse off. Get changed. I’ll do the same, and we can go fetch you a meal.”
–
There’s nothing to be ashamed of.
Astarion felt himself hesitate when the words reached him, peeking up reluctantly from beneath a mess of matted platinum curls. His breathing calmed, and subtly, the anguish and humiliation that tormented him faltered. He had gotten so used to Cazador’s pointless, endless cruelty that he had come to expect it of Raphael as well, but there came no mocking laughter at the expense of his suffering. In fact, all of the devil’s typical ‘flare’ seemed to have been dropped as the devil lifted himself from his bed, a clear, albeit small wince gracing his beautiful face as he gripped his neck where Astarion had bitten him. Despite that, there was no anger, even. The devil before him seemed so genuine, which to Astarion was a great kindness. He didn’t need pity - he didn’t WANT pity, but the amount of understanding and patience being afforded to him while he struggled to understand his new life was one of the nicest things anyone had done for him. He wouldn’t give thanks - he wasn’t sure he’d know how to. The best ‘thanks’ he could think of was vowing to himself that he would never allow this to happen again, he realized as he rose to his knees and scanned the room with a hazy gaze.
It looked like a murder had taken place. The black blood was everywhere, forcing the vampire to realize that he had actually done some damage, though, not enough to likely be life threatening. But enough to coat almost every surface in the thick black substance. Slowly, as he sat back against his feet while still on his knees, his gaze swept over toward where Raphael now stood, catching him just as he was slipping the robe over himself. He had missed his chance to see the man naked, in all of his writhing and screaming and crying, but it was hardly the time to worry about that. He just tucked away the knowledge that Raphael slept naked as he leaned forward and, slowly, he staggered to his feet. He felt heavy again - like weights were tied to each limb. And he felt so cold now… It was just like before, only he was aware of himself now. And very faintly in control, after being shocked ‘awake’ by the acid that scorched him from the inside.
“Six months.” He repeated the words dryly and numbly as he staggered his way toward the fountain bath, his hands shaking as he tried to politely unbutton his shirt, but ended up just ripping it off when he couldn’t find the dexterity needed to push the damned button through the hole. He was at least able to shove the pants and his undergarments down, not having to rip them like a savage.
He smelt like dust… likely from laying still for so long. He had to wonder, as he stepped down into the water, if anyone even knew he was gone. He knew many people, but very few knew him. Countless one night stands, dozens upon dozens of ‘friends’ that he went out clubbing and drinking and partying with, but none would know if he was missing. None would care.
None - besides her.
Ah. But she was a busy one! And so serious about her studies. Would she care? A part of him was so desperately hoping she did…
He exhaled sharply as he lowered himself into the waters, almost weeping for joy as, somehow, the pain inside of his body began to subside. Not the hunger, but the effects of Raphael’s poisonous blood eased, bit by bit.
“I had a dream.”
Astarion rasped the words out after a few long moments of deep silence, his throat still pained, but from his thirst and that alone now. He paused, glancing up at the ceiling, where the chandelier glowed so warmly. “Elves don’t dream, but… but I did. I think. Maybe it was a nightmare?” He didn’t sound too disturbed, though. He still trembled and jittered, teeth clattering from the internal cold that even the hot water couldn’t ease. “I remembered the transformation. I felt the pain of my body dying… and the pleasure of mercilessly hunting each and every one of them, until only Cazador was left.” Why was he admitting this to Raphael? Surely he wouldn’t care. Dreams were nothing new to him, assuming devil's DID dream, but to Astarion it had been a wondrous experience. Even with the pain.
–
"Six months.”
The elf’s words float around them, echoing subtly in the room between the two with such sensitive ears. Then the sounds of shuffling, clumsy limbs finding purchase and padding across stone floor joined the sonic harmony. Natural sounds in such an unnatural place. Raphael had nearly forgotten what bare feet had sounded like.
Keeping his molten magma eyes off of the peeping path, Raphael remained seated and still while breathing through the encroaching pain that followed a bite of this caliber. He had been nicked rather well. Although he had done his best to halt further damage, the fresh and extra sharp newborn fangs had sunk in deep without even stirring him while they pierced him. He replayed the scene in his mind as he sat, letting his healthy pulse repair his thick skin at its own quickened pace. The bath would do the rest—an ugly scar would be annoying to have to sand down—but he would allow "He Who Needed It Immediately" to do so first.
For now, he let the brief memory of the feral closeness return. Let it play like an old projector across his inner chasm. Their hands had both locked around each other’s necks like two desperate lovers in a frenzy of violent passion. A yin and yang. Pulling and pushing. Light and dark. White and black. Ice and fire.
Those who would fall by Astarion’s doing would be fortunate to experience a divine moment of the greatest pleasure and pain available to a mortal. The vampire had been right, that first night he had been here: that death had been too good for Cazador.
More than anything, Raphael felt a pang of gratitude for the gift of being ripped from his nightmare. The rare and vulnerable fear that had ensnared him while he could do nothing to escape had been lifted by his unlikely visitor. Raphael sighed as he lifted his hand once more to his throat, sighing raggedly at no more than a whisper.
”I had a dream.”
He lifted his head, only enough to rest his eyes on the snowy halo of cherub-like hair where it tilted back in the bath. Raphael let his eyes settle there, curiosity having piqued him. He did not speak. He merely listened. It was a well-known fact (at least, well known to Raphael) that Astarion spoke the truth — elves did not dream. They did not truly sleep, either. Not full elves. Their anatomy did not functionally have that ability. To his own surprise, Raphael did not know that vampirism could change this. Hm. It appeared as though their training had indeed always started, and it went both ways.
The vampiric nightmare had him experience his transformation all over again, he told him in a voice that had not sounded for months. That alone was a wonder, one Raphael marveled at. The thirst could be plainly heard, and as that voice described his own death and glorious rebirth, Raphael’s lips curled with satisfaction.
“How… marvelous. ” His own rasp came out with genuine awe tinging the word. Another beat passed in stillness. “The change is no small feat. A miracle of sorts, really. One even fiends struggle to comprehend, fully.” Raphael let his eyes drop to the bloodied rug, how the story and struggle the smears told were, in their own way, an irreplicatable masterpiece. A canvas communicated with the start of their grand journey, just as the New Mexican sand had been not so long ago.
“You do not need me preaching to you, telling you what to feel. You already remember hunting. That sensation, the pleasure you described…it is as pure as any other creature or force of nature.” Raphael’s slow, calming cadence sounded as though each word were in itself a line of poetry. “You bring balance, Astarion. You are the human race’s born predator. You must understand the draw, the call for a culling, don’t you?”
–
Marvelous.
Had it been marvelous…? The pale elf stared at the ceiling as he listened, only to slowly cast his gaze over his shoulder, piercing, haunted red orbs peering over the subtle musculature of his shoulder. His body hadn’t changed a bit, despite his half-year slumber - it was the exact same as it had been when he died. Lean muscle beneath supple, fair skin, rippling faintly with each movement and tremble. Each shutter caused by the deep, bitter chill of his core danced just beneath that seemingly fragile skin. Gone were Raphael’s theatrics and grand gestures. His impossible to read smile was gone from his face, only those smoldering, intense eyes remained the same as ever as he spoke. But even there, the intensity was wholly different than before. It was hard to explain, honestly, but the look Raphael gave him was one unlike anyone had ever shown him.
When it came to Astarion, people only ever gave him one of two looks; disdain or lust. Both of those reactions were calculated on his part. A result of manipulation to get what he wanted. Those around him, he played like puppets - if he could use someone, he’d charm them, get close to them, flirt with them, make them desire him. If they had nothing for him, well, he had a unique way it seemed of making enemies. But either way, the reactions he received were reactions he sought out on his own, so he always knew what to expect.
There had only been one exception to this little ‘game’ of his. One person he could never quite control the way he wanted.
Until now.
Now, Raphael had joined that very exclusive little club. Raphael didn’t look at him with lust - he had been given an opportunity to explore that avenue and have what he wanted physically from Astarion, but he had shot that idea down the moment it was suggested. Obviously, he didn’t seem to disdain Astarion, either. He had more reason to be furious with him than anyone - having just attacked him in his sleep - but he had so calmly assured the vampire fledgling that he didn’t blame him for it.
Astarion found himself shifting in the water, turning so he was fully facing Raphael with his arms folded over the edge of the tub and his chin gingerly propped atop his folded hands as he watched and listened. His own mask was gone for the moment as well, showing his true self, his face almost completely blank but his eyes so intrigued. Even through his discomfort and hunger, he was still amazed by his new vision. He could see every little hair that had fallen out of place around the devil’s neck and face. The perfect smoothness of his skin, the subtle weariness in his eyes, the way his silk robe rested just above his toned buttocks, the gore that soiled the devil’s perfection and excited something inside of Astarion despite the fact that he now knew that blood was entirely off limits to him. Perhaps all of Raphael was off limits for him? The man already had an incubus, whose scent lingered faintly even now…
He didn’t let that particular line of thought carry on. Instead, he listened carefully to Raphael’s words as he pushed himself finally from the soothing waters, lifting himself with graceful ease despite the way he trembled so horribly. The call for culling, Raphael had called it. The ‘born predator’ of man. He lifted a hand to his chest, where subtly, he felt his heart, straining… rattling… trembling… so unlike that of any living creature. It was what caused him such pain! It was what demanded blood. He thought, anyways.
“Yes.” His reply was a bitter whisper. Contorted, and filled to the brim with mixed emotion that touched his smooth features. “But it feels like so much more than just that. It’s not as simple as hunger. I don’t just want to hunt them - I want to HURT them.” He sounded beyond conflicted as he admitted this, his eyes frowning even as an empty, trembling smile found his lips. “I hate them all. I don’t even know how long I’ve been missing, but do you know how many of them care…? If not for Cazador’s mistake, I’d be long dead, and no one would weep.” A scoff lifted from his chest. A sneer twisted onto his face. He thought about saying more, but quickly, he recoiled, biting his tongue as he turned to the rack of clothing, only for his frustration to turn to the mirror, which STILL didn’t show him reflected back at him.
“And your incubus did something to this f*cking mirror! Why can’t I see myself?!” He grabbed the edge of the mirror and leaned in, but it was like he wasn’t there. He could see Raphael across the room, and everything else in between, but not himself.
–
Raphael had experienced the presence of vampires before, on plenty of occasions. The charm that came along with the territory was to be expected – even a sexless dolt with the power of sanguine immortality could seduce the every-man. Raphael’s human side felt it, even when his devilish half could resist with little effort – and that made attempts from lesser leeches laughable.
Then, there was Astarion.
The man before him had a history – a reputation that had preceded him. A beautiful elven boy who could break down any buttress, disarm any defense with a calculated look and a touch – or so they said. His seductive prowess had already been honed, although it had done him more harm than good in the long run. Without a direction, a focused goal, a teacher, his provocative aura had landed him into the pit he had ended up. That had not been Raphael’s doing.
He had simply caught wind of an opportunity when it stared him in the face.
Now, even as he sat shivering with hunger, discombobulated and off-kilter, Astarion could wrap even a devil around his little finger. Raphael could hardly contain his anticipatory elation. The simple act of resting his head and gazing at the devil as he listened, each second that passed created a new frame of a muse that would inspire any artist to construct a magnum opus in this fair creature’s honor. The vampiric charm, even in its raw state, had already become a force to be reckoned with. The more he honed these skills, the more lethal he would grow.
And those slain by his charm would thank him for the opportunity.
Raphael followed the elf with a careful, honorable gaze that remained on his fair face as he exited the bath – freeing it for the devil’s turn in the water. Still, he stayed put where he now stood by the foot of the bed, listening intently as Astarion expanded on his fascinating explanation of how his new immortal experience stimulated him. The hunger inspired more than the need to consume. Astarion craved suffering.
Still, the internal struggle was made clear. Raphael would need to correct that firmly and promptly. However, it did not sound as though it was the wish to cause harm that was the source of his cold heart’s tug of war. No, Astarion hated that had he not been given the chance at this new life, no one would have shed a tear in his memory.
This would not have been entirely…true. During Raphael’s reconnaissance, while he investigated the elf’s history to see if anyone would be following his trail to find him, there had been someone looking for him. The situation had not even required intervention, fortunately for him. Although someone had searched for him, that someone had been weak, powerless, and ineffectual. Thus, Astarion had been right. It might as well have been no one looking for him.
But Raphael had looked. And he had found.
The devil shook his head as he now wove his own route to the bath. “You think an apparatus of thoughtless killing would be enough to dominate the human race?” He scoffed, lip snarling with contempt. “They are, unfortunately, quite proficient in both reproduction and endurance. Like oversized co*ckroaches – only more detrimental to their environment.”
Raphael began to lower his robe just as Astarion began to go on about his lack of reflection. With his robe having fallen to cling around his elbows where it paused half-modestly, Raphael turned and met his own eyes in the mirror – just past Astarion’s nude form turned away.
The devil pursed his lips, nodding soberly. “That is no trick of Haarleps', I assure you.” Leaning his head back to stretch his tender neck, Raphael’s eyes shut as though he did not relish the news he was about to share.
“Your reflection no longer exists, Astarion.”
Raphael's contemptuous glare from before had been replaced with a tender compassion as he dropped his chin in the vampire’s direction. “Another advantage granted to you in your hunt. Your prey cannot see you coming from behind, and proof of your existence cannot be photographed – preserved or distributed.” A genuine downturn of his features encouraged the devil to finally drop his robe to his feet as he stepped into the steaming water with surprising grace for someone so massive. His wings flapped gently as he adjusted to the temperature, accepting the healing aura with a stream of comfortable air. Ahh, that was the stuff.
“Arguably, the most lamentable by-product of your condition. While you slept, I searched for a mirror that could counteract that certain predicament – to no avail.” His body sunk deeper into the water, his tense muscles and pained wound mending in mere passing seconds. “No equivalent to this bath either, unfortunately. Most sources of running water should give you pause, I should mention. Avoid it for your own comfort’s sake.”
The devil exhaled, dropping his head below the water for a brief moment before emerging, obsidian blood melting from his pores as though the bathwater itself was caustic, not the cruor. Exhaling with gratification, Raphael sighed and leaned his arms back in the bath, resting both hands along the top to stretch his wide arms length as he accepted the finishing touches to his healing soak.
“You have seen humanity for what it truly is, Astarion.” The words floated from his chest as though they, too, were composed of the healing waters in which he reclined. “They exist to consume, harm, and then dispose of the remnants. You might think, ’No, Raphael, surely not all of them!’ --” he mused, not giving any dramatic rendition of Astarion’s voice that would cause offense before lolling his head to the side, staring knowingly at the pale elf. “And you know better than anyone that, yes, it is all of them.”
There he stayed, eyes boring holes into Astarion’s features as though they were the only mirror he would ever need.
“You finally have the capability to do what you have known needed to happen all along, love.” The devil winked, droplets of water collecting along his eyelashes, cheeks, and lips as they beheld Astarion as though they had been confidantes for their entire existences. “The conflict you feel now, I understand it. I simply ask of you to keep an open mind, tonight.” Chuckling smoothly, Raphael rolled his head back and sighed before pushing himself up and out of the water. It cascaded off of his body, now powerful, solid, reinvigorated as it had ever been. Like a red god’s.
“You will see there is nothing to second-guess, Astarion. For a soul to be eligible for coin collection, it must have been corrupted.” Wet footsteps followed him like a path to redemption as he casually tugged a towel off of a nearby rack, running it along his body familiarly like an athlete in a locker room. He ran it over his hair, rustling it as he peered over his shoulder with a disarmingly gleeful grin. “I doubt you’d be surprised to hear that you will find no shortage of those.”
–
Astarion stared into the mirror at Raphael after he so simply admitted those words to him: Your reflection no longer exists, Astarion. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he held his breath, waiting for the punchline, but it never came.
“That isn’t funny! ” He snapped sharply, pushing away from the mirror with just enough accidental force to cause the entire right side to splinter and crack as he spun around to face Raphael, grabbing a towel to loosely secure around his waist as he did. Irritated, he stood at the edge of that large in-ground bath, slipping his long slender fingers over his hips (which were quite visible, as the towel sagged just low enough to barely cover what mattered) as he stared expectantly down at the devil - but he quickly realized he wasn’t joking. He seemed truly remorseful to have to share the news, which honestly, TERRIFIED Astarion.
“Oh god , you’re telling the truth, then?!” Horror caused his brow to lift and his narrowed eyes to widen. The shock was so real that, in that second, it even surpassed his hunger! “No! ABSOLUTELY not!! How the hell—… but… AM I UGLY NOW?!” He looked more traumatized at that possibility than he had when he realized he had just killed a few dozen people.
Immediately, he reached up to touch his face, feeling to make sure everything was in the correct place. “Did the transformation make me into some horrible BEAST?!” Was that why Raphael didn’t look at him with lust??? It all made so much sense now. THAT was why Raphael didn’t want to use his body as payment. Sure, from what he could tell, his body LOOKED fine… but what of his face?
Raphael tried to move on. Tried to assure him it was for the best that he couldn’t be seen; it would make his job of hunting undetected so much easier. Beyond that, the vampire wasn’t hearing a single thing Raphael said. He tailed the devil from the moment he was out of the healing water, like a shadow, glowering up at him as if expecting something very important to him.
“Stop talking about them and focus more on me !” He demanded, panic dancing in his large glossy red orbs. “How do I look?! You don’t know how I looked before, sh*t… If I’m so horrible to look at, just send me back to the sun right this second and let me BURN!”
–
Raphael did his best not to dwell on the mirror situation, instead using it as a segue to how it could help him. Sure, it was an unfortunate side effect, but he would be impeccably beautiful for the rest of his existence. That would be enough, wouldn’t it? Although, that meant he’d have to take everyone else’s word for it…
He didn’t flinch at the outburst that broke the mirror, although he just barely resisted rolling his eyes. This boy was proving to be quite destructive. Raphael had been this close from spilling some choice words for the destruction on his very, very expensive feather mattress – and the mirror had belonged to French royalty. Not that Astarion bothered to ask. Still, the devil grit his teeth and employed his infinite patience to resist snapping at the very beginning. He had known the beginning would be a struggle. Maybe, he just needed to vampire-proof his most valuable items for a while…
The toweled vampling trailed him expectantly, not letting the topic of his lost reflection drop even though Raphael had done his best to guide him onto other, more pressing matters. Like, say, the burning newborn thirst his voice still betrayed for him? Was that not enough of a distraction? The devil wrapped his own towel around his waist, pivoting enough to look down at the platinum-curled pest with a new, hard-to-decipher expression. It was entirely illegible, like the Mona Lisa’s “smile”.
“Stop talking about them and focus more on me!”
From his greater height, the devil sighed and rotated to face his inquisition fully. One hand lifted, the other resting on his hip relaxedly as he drank in the alarm, the hyperbole, the pure vanity. Raphael reveled in it. He would let Astarion stew in his own hysteria for a while longer, if only for his own devilish delight. Astarion claimed he would rather turn to ash than carry around an unappealing mug.
After a long look, he decided he had let the vampire rot for long enough. Raphael sighed and shook his head with that same impossible expression. “I see you are very sensitive about this, so I will not tease you.” A gentle smile broke, a twinkle in his eye before his voice dropped to a low, husky register. “In all of my years, you are the most devastatingly beautiful creature I have ever been graced to lay my eyes upon.” The devil tilted his head to the side as he ran his eyes over Astarion’s form with a silky leisure, tracing lines about his face, his hair, jaw, lips, and finally, his eyes. “Your eyes glow a vibrant ruby red instead of the color they once were, and your skin now has, a… porcelain quality. A fair paleness suits you, love.”
His brow twitched up as he sighed. “I hate that you cannot verify it with your own eyes, but needs must.” An idea struck him then as he glanced away towards his wall where a portrait of himself had been hung. “How about I commission you a portrait, hm?” The devil crooked his hip where he stood, his clawed hands gesturing along with his words in an easygoing manner. “I would paint it myself, but I gather you would like more than my word for it.” He did roll his eyes this time. “Although I hope you know I would never lie to you.”
–
“Hah! Sensitive! Yes, that’s one way to put it!” He barked out the laugh dryly, a sound that lacked absolutely any humor at all. His burning red eyes were impatient and demanding, with a fragile touch that made it quite clear he could shatter if he heard what he didn’t want to hear. The gentle smile that touched the diabolical lips was all the more daunting to him! Raphael had the beauty of an angel in that smile - an angel about to smite him with the absolute worst news, he was afraid.
“Just spit it out and let’s be done with it!” His voice was a low, strained, desperate hiss, despair blooming across the softness of his face until, in a voice that caused his painfully fluttering heart to become still, Raphael said what he hoped he would hear… and oh-so much more.
With each gravelly word the devil whispered to him - and only to him - the vampire’s anguish faded. It started at his shoulders, which were so tense before, so stiff! But they melted at the reassurance he was given, sloping gently downward as that look of utter horror shifted, easing from his pensive expression as something much softer took its place. Gone was the hostility from his glare, too. His brow rose, surprised by just how lovely Raphael’s words were, but quickly twinkling quite happily despite the painful thirst that grated against his nerves. The hunger was second to the flattery he was all too pleased to bask in. He found it easier to set aside after the shock of swallowing so much acidic blood, but he shrugged THAT painful little lesson to the back of his mind as a sly, cat-like smile found his lips.
“Don’t stop there, darling, it was just getting good.” The vampire purred in a low, sultry voice of his own, stepping easily forward into Raphael’s space as he lifted a slender hand and used it to gently brush some of the taller man’s dark hair behind his pointed ear. Raphael was clearly a man of taste, from his own impeccable appearance to the way he chose to decorate his home, so he didn’t doubt that being praised so highly by the man was significant. At least enough to suffice for now and ease his panic.
“Keep talking to me like that, my dear, and my mind won't be the only thing I keep open for you tonight.” He hummed out softly, titling his head to the side as he retracted his hand from the beautiful devil’s hair and leaned back to inspect him happily. Very happily. For the first time since Raphael had scooped him up, the young vampire was absolutely beaming, which only was amplified when the suggestion of having his portrait done came up.
“You paint~? Well, darling, if I can’t take your word for it, then we’re in trouble! I’d be more than happy to pose for you… but first--” He spun with a lively pep in his undead step as he practically pranced back to the wardrobe to pluck out something to hunt in. He paused as he did, a pleased glow in his eyes and a mirthful little smirk on his smooth lips.
“Let’s go kill someone, shall we?” Gone was any reservation about murder. He was sure that Raphael would only lead him to people who truly deserved it, and he WAS famished!
–
A fire lit in Raphael’s diabolical gut as he saw his words take purchase before his very eyes. Yes, I see. There it is. The reaction, the enthusiasm, the acceptance. It truly had been that easy.
Well, he would play that carefully, he decided. Did not want Astarion losing that keen eye to please, after all. Raphael had really outdone himself as he witnessed the tension melting from those bare shoulders, replaced by something he had been attempting to build the vampire to the entire time: confidence. At least, an appropriate amount of confidence. Couldn’t have him waltzing around with only his own approval required, now could he?
Astarion craved more, but Raphael decided that it was enough – for now, of course. He enjoyed the vampire eating out of his clawed palm, as had always been the intention. Those twenty-thousand souls would be pouring in shortly. He could see it now. The vampire drew closer like an intrigued feline, offering him a salacious proposition of sorts. That pale hand ran against his damp hair rather intimately, and Raphael allowed it. Rather, he let himself enjoy it.
A dark grin, subtle and open enough to get a peek that perhaps he had been understating his interest in the lad, was offered as thanks. “Mm. One thirst at a time, darling.” He hoped unavailingly that Astarion might not notice his devil’s heart pick up the pace, thumping just enough that it revealed that the vampling might have more sway than originally anticipated. Well, at least he might truly believe his previous compliments due to it.
He ended up getting his own adulation for his pastime for painting, something he had enjoyed as a passing hobby since his youth. He had studied with some of the greats over the centuries, after all. If Astarion had studied any art history in his schooling (if not, what were Ivy Leagues good for anymore?), he might be able to pick out where he gathered his technique – and where Raphael had inspired them. One or two hadn’t had gifts at all before the devil got hold of them. Pretty pennies, they’d made. At least their legacies remained in the human zeitgeist. That had been the deal.
Now, his pet was practically skipping to get dressed. It was rather endearing, the devil thought. Astarion had been absolutely transformed. It earned Astarion his own, surprisingly authentic simper in response. The two sourced their own clothing from their respective wardrobes – and Raphael hoped Astarion appreciated that his own wardrobe's home in the boudoir had not been since moved throughout the months, simply awaiting his inevitable return.
Raphael had a particular relationship with attire. While he could simply snap his fingers and appear in a perfectly-ironed suit with all the bells and whistles in their respective places, he enjoyed the act of dressing. The fresh, fine fabrics against his skin, the gathering of each piece from its hanger, the respect given while taking his time with the entire experience...it was why he always took the extra minutes to engage himself in one of his favorite activities. Truthfully, removing his clothes offered him a similar pleasure.
“Let’s go kill someone, shall we?”
Those were the magic words. Raphael shrugged on his black undershirt, and interesting sight where his wings assisted in the matter. He offered a positively delighted grin across the bedchamber. “My dear, you must know how pleased I am to hear you say that.” His fang flashed in the candlelight with his own dangerous, toothy grin.
After the two were properly dressed, Raphael crossed the room with decadent anticipation of his own plain in his features. “I will not waste more time preparing you for this hunt, I know you will do just splendidly.” He stepped closer, now just within that same space that indicated the same two options as before: to kiss, or to kill. Interestingly enough, now, with the vibrations shared between them both, the knowledge of the incoming events, both options interwoven within each other added an electric surge that practically crackled. “My only request,” he murmured, just barely audible, “is for you to savor their suffering.”
Raphael snapped his fingers.
The two dissolved in that instant, just as before. Black flames engulfed them as the two shot through time and space as so many particles. In less than a blink, they materialized within a deep darkness. Their eyes needed no time to adjust. They were deep in thickly-wooded forest, imposing trees cast subtle shadows beneath a new moon. Off in the distance, the smell of campfire and fresh alpine smoke wafted to their sensitive nostrils. However, Astarion’s attuned olfactories would be able to pick up even more sensitively than Raphael’s. The smell of unshowered man, raging testosterone, beer breath, panicked sweat, blood, and sex all swirled together in a bouquet that told a strange story. What that was, it hardly mattered.
What could be found would be tents full of sleeping men having enjoyed themselves for a weekend deep in Yosemite National Park. Each man would have their own distinct scent from their evening’s activities. Raphael had witnessed a particularly depraved scene earlier in the month – only hours ago in this world – where this group of friends had participated in a dastardly ritual of theirs. A deadly hazing.
These fraternity members chose an unsuspecting boy from their school to violate and subsequently execute, one by one. ”Brotherly bonding”, they had called it. A Greek tradition, they claimed. In actuality, it had been brainstormed by two of them who shamefully savored each other’s bodies as often as they could sneak away. The rest had followed for reasons of their own. One had enjoyed himself so much that he had announced to his cohort that he had been “dreaming of a night like this all his life”.
One of them also happened to be the son of a rather high-ranking public official in the state of Texas. If (and when) Astarion inquired about the nature of this slaughter, Raphael was certain his darling attack dog would have no post-massacre qualms. The devil was rather proud of himself for sourcing these ripe and ready offerings while his dearest pet slumbered.
Raphael held his hands out towards the direction of the smell, grinning widely enough to appear quite threatening. It did not look right at all on his features. A simple reminder that he was, in fact, a devil.
“Enjoy your meal, love.”
Chapter 8: A Single Poster
Chapter Text
The M116 had been running late today. Which meant that she had been running late. And that was unacceptable. Lilith wasn’t late. It wasn’t in her DNA.
An impatient toe tapped inside her sensible shoes, a pair that was good for city walking, her pocketbook, and a clean professional look. Just a slight pump, enough that it made her legs look nice and gave her the satisfying tap tap tap against the hard flooring that sprawled across campus. She liked that sound. It reminded her of what she had envisioned brilliant, well-dressed professional women wore. The ones she had seen on television and in passing when she got the chance to rub elbows with attorneys. The ones who commanded respect.
She still remembered the day she got her acceptance letter in the mail, the way her chest had bloomed with pride, anticipation, and anxiety. She had been the valedictorian at her high school, but that had been child’s play in a city like Weatherford, Texas. Columbia University had been the best thing that had ever happened to her, and she had no intention of letting herself slip up and allow something like a late bus to keep her from excelling.
Things weren’t easy, though. She was still $200 shy for this month’s rent. Her internship paid near to nothing, and the hours capped out at ten a week. She did jobs here and there to supplement so she could survive, and as of late it had been…well, a little less than savory. She had an online gig going where she wrote other college students' assignments, essays, you name it. She could not let anyone find out about it – it would put her scholarships and enrollment in jeopardy. So far, she had done just fine working under a pseudonym, but it took so much time doing others’ classwork alongside her own rigorous classwork and extracurriculars.
Plus, she had…another hobby on the side. As if she had any extra time – it was laughable. Still, it mattered to her.
Tonight was a so-called “Thirsty Thursday”, which meant that her roommates were probably drinking themselves to death, working, or training. That meant she might have the apartment to herself. She hoped this was the case – they could be very disruptive. Two of them bickered like cats and dogs, and her third had both a cat and a dog. Sure, she couldn’t afford rent without them, but it was tricky living with non-students. The household was busy enough that she opted to study at the school library where she could actually focus. Nights in an empty apartment were far and few in between, and she was already getting back after midnight – but still, she hoped she might have an hour or two to sit in her city silence.
And the f*cking bus was late.
Her toe tapping only stopped when she saw the blue paint with the yellow stripe sloping along the side illuminated by the distant street lights, she huffed and pulled her book bag further up on her shoulder. It was quite chilly, and she had already been waiting for too long outside in her business formal. Pantyhose were no good at insulating the legs, no matter how well they accentuated her modest heel-raised calves.
The screech of the brakes rang out along the street in front of her, the wind blowing suddenly as it caught on her pencil skirt, another chill running up under it. God, as much as she loved her school, she couldn’t get used to this f*cking weather. Stepping out off the curb, she strode with sure, confident steps up the bus to scan her pass, nodding to the bus driver politely before finding a seat as close to the front as she could. She noticed something… odd about the way the driver eyed her as she had entered, and even now it seemed as though he was peering at her in one of his mirrors. She averted her gaze, keeping her eyes and ears open and alert. When using public transportation, she could not imagine listening to her headphones or distracting herself in some way – well, besides reading. Which was exactly what she did, now.
Anatomy of a Murder by Robert Traver had proved to be riveting, and Lilith allowed herself to read for pleasure during the half hour it would take her to make it to her stop. It flowed well into her… hobby. It had been written by John D. Voelker, a former Justice of the Michigan Supreme Court under a pen name about an actual murder case he had worked on in the 1950’s. Lilith had a vested interest in such cases, especially in detective work. She wanted to work in the criminal sector – had since she started school. However, it had made her seem a little paranoid, like she was reading into things too much when she spoke to the police about…well…
Let’s just say, the police didn’t listen to her. She had gone one too many times, and the NYPD had no time for an undergrad student from out of town. She needed more sway, a real position, more money. She was just a nobody in their eyes, and all they’d done was put a single poster up on the crowded precinct bulletin board.
A single poster. That was all the space they’d given him.
The bus ride disappeared behind her book. The bumpy wheels and chatter amongst other passengers gave a nice consistent background sound to tune out. However, as she turned another page, something gave her pause. She froze, feeling the swooping brunette baby hairs on her neck stand on end. It felt like…there were eyes on her. It was the strangest sensation. She turned her head, carefully looking over her shoulder trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. There were a handful of people – the standard fare of University students and personnel, miscellaneous professionals and other blue-collar workers, plus a houseless person or two sleeping towards the back. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one paid her any mind, even as she scanned their faces. None were familiar beyond maybe having seen one or two faces pass her on campus.
Huffing, she peered up at the flashing stop marquee as the bus pulled up to her stop. She glanced down at her book, memorizing the page number before closing it and slipping it into her bag. Gathering her things, she stood before they had come to a complete stop, walking with a purpose to hustle off of the bus. She thanked the driver, earning her an indifferent mmhm as the cold Harlem wind welcomed her into its unforgiving embrace.
She held her black pea-coat with her arms in a huddle, hugging her bag to her as her breath made fog. Lilith cursed the frigid air and the four blocks that stood between her and her warm bedroom. Her shoes made her favorite little taps as she strode briskly, and she suddenly felt insecure about the noise. Were they too noisy? They followed her wherever she went, and walking alone at night with this unusual, creepy feeling…she did not like it.
Maybe the police were right. Maybe she was paranoid.
Her hurried footsteps carried her rather quickly to the front steps of her apartment. She hustled up the stairs, peering over her shoulders as she inserted the key she had prepared ahead of time into the door. Few people were out tonight, at least none she could see. The door gave way and she hotfooted inside, closing it securely behind her. She did not want any uninvited guests pushing it open after her.
Up the stairs to the second floor, the woman found her other key in a more relaxed fashion now that she wasn’t so bitterly cold and uncomfortably exposed. As the door swung open, Lilith peeked inside and listened for sound. There didn’t appear to be any activity bursting out of the kitchen or the living room eagerly welcoming her home. By the time the front entry had been closed and locked, she felt as though she could finally breathe.
Wandering over to her room, Lilith slipped inside and locked up behind herself. She didn’t like being barged in on, and the more barriers there were between her and the strange feeling she had outside were actively sought out. Flipping on her lamps one by one, warm orange light reflected on her four walls of solace. Her tired blue eyes got sensitive under the fluorescent bulbs at school and work, so her own sanctuary gave them a break.
She did not even sit down on her bed. After removing her coat and hanging her book bag up, taking off her shoes in a methodical manner, stripping her tights and skirt and blazer and blouse, she sourced a comfortable gray and white hoodie to tug over her modest camisole and practical bra. Some warm sweat pants to match, too, she decided. She would not be lured out of her room tonight. She was in until further notice, and would sneak into the bathroom like a shy mouse lest she be stopped for small talk in the hallway.
She exhaled audibly as she finally collapsed into her office chair behind her desk, one piled high with books in neat and orderly stacks. It was small, space-efficient, and tidy. It was enough for her and her MacBook to get what she needed to do done.
First, she checked her news feed. Headlines passed beneath her nose, her laptop’s light reflecting back at her as she pulled her sleek hair into a loose bun. Another mass shooting, local protests calling for cease to fracking plans, a cult massacre–
Her brows furrowed deeply as she reversed her scrolling to return back up to the article. A what? Clicking on it, she peered at the story. Apparently, a man named Cazador Szarr had founded a cult that congregated out in the New Mexican desert. A picture of him posing in a suit headed the top of the webpage – a dark-haired man, seemingly distinguished and charismatic. Lilith huffed a humorless laugh. Of course. They always are.
Scanning down further in only a few seconds as she utilized her speed reading techniques to get the gist without wasting much time, she unconsciously began worrying at her lower lip with her teeth the more she viewed. The cookie-cutter tract housing, the McMansion Mr. Szarr had himself built, and –
Oof.
Torture chambers in the manor’s basem*nt. Surveillance systems in every dwelling. Warehouses chock full of enough military-grade weapons to arm a militia. Lilith couldn’t tear her eyes off the page as she reached down to source her water bottle, cracking it open and taking a swig without pausing.
More than ten thousand people had lived in that compound, it said. After an act of “unified terror”, a mass murder-suicide led to more than 7,000 of them perishing. Those who survived were being returned to their previous homes and families when possible, given aid if they had nowhere else to go.
“Jesus ...” she murmured, brows furrowing. Apparently the leader’s body had been identified, so at least he was dead. Lilith wrinkled her nose. The crazy captain went down with his ship. Still, she began to type in keywords into her search bar to investigate more about the case. She scoured the web for interviews, finding little to nothing. She sat back in her chair, letting it creak and groan under her shifting weight. She hadn’t found anything.
Well, it looked like it was time to turn to Reddit. Those bastards could dig up anything. All she had to do was create the topic. As she did, her attention faltered, however. Redditors were good, but they weren’t filled with divine knowledge. None of her posts about Astarion had turned up with anything helpful, and it had been months.
Without realizing it, she zoned out as her mind wandered. Astarion. She thought of him often, at least daily. The posters she had hung up around campus and their neighborhoods had slowly weathered and worn, and she replaced them when she could – but she felt like a fool. Perhaps everyone was right. He had been a feather in the wind on a good day, floating from party to party and bed to bed. The possibility that he up and left to start a new life wasn’t out of the question. Columbia drop-outs were a dime a dozen. Wyll was a testament to that.
Still. Astarion had cared about his schooling. He had scholarships to maintain, just like her. He had been working diligently, doing well in his classes. Sure, she helped him a bit more than she probably should have, but he was no dumb bunny. If he had the resources the richer kids had, he would have had the time to study harder. He had done what he could to survive in this town, just like anyone else. His work had been sketchy, but Lilith supported him regardless. She agreed that legalized prostitution needed to be approved federally. It made the profession safer for everyone involved, raked in taxes, and provided the necessary protections for an industry that would always exist – legal or not.
His line of work hadn’t bothered her for what it was, only what she worried it could do. Astarion hadn’t been working in a regulated industry – one with safeguards or stability. He had told her about a “whale” who had invited him out on a date, excited in that blasé way of his…
And then she had never heard from him again.
Sounds of keys jingling in the front door made it to her room, and soon drunken laughter could be heard following a ruckus of stomping and tripping. Lilith blinked, suddenly brought back into her senses. Well, it appeared her roommates were home. It was still before 3AM – rather early for a Thursday.
The taste of blood filled her mouth, and Lilith frowned as her tongue ran on the inside of her lip. sh*t. She had worried it enough that it had split open. Groaning quietly, she grabbed another swig of water to rinse it out, simply swallowing the evidence. She would reopen the wound again in a few days, she was sure. Stress did that to her.
She needed to be done for the night. Go to bed. Typing up a brief inquiry to post on the r/truecrime subreddit would be the last thing she would do before falling into a face-down coma on top of her blankets. That night, for the four hours she was allowed, she would sleep like the dead.
Chapter 9: Red-Blooded American Patriots
Notes:
TW: graphic depictions of violence, body horror, torture, hom*ophobia, blood, death, alcohol, inferred SA
If you are easily disturbed, please feel free to skip to the next chapter.
Chapter Text
Astarion didn’t get too extravagant with his own choice in clothes. They would likely be ruined soon, anyways, so he chose a crisp pair of black slacks and a simple but very fine white button-up top that his shaky hands couldn’t quite button all the way up. He couldn’t be bothered with undergarments, or even socks for that matter. He was very much detached as he just threw on the first set of clothing he found, ready to quell that hunger that throbbed in his limbs. He kept his unhinged little smile as Raphael approached him, again pressing into his space, but he pressed back. This time, he welcomed the scents that naturally emitted off of the taller, larger male, inhaling it deep into his lungs; the sweet musk, the impossible to pinpoint faint fruity scent, and the very slight note of sulfur.
My only request is for you to savor their suffering.
He shivered at the comment, but before he could tell if it was the good or bad kind of shiver, Raphael’s snap filled his ears. He blinked. He felt the lick of heat against his skin… and then, he opened his eyes, and their surroundings had vastly changed. It was still very disorienting to the vampire, but he only slightly stumbled this time, like the ground beneath his feet had quaked and then rapidly become still again.
Wide eyes lifted to the forest around them. White pine, hemlock, and various other trees towered over them like silent giants in the night, the faint rustle of their branches captivating to the fledgling. He stared up at them in awe. He noted that it was cold here - he could see his own breath, dissipating into the dark night air before him. The kind of cold that stung his exposed skin, but he found that it didn’t quite bother him as badly as it should have. Maybe it was because his insides were as cold, if not colder. He stared up into those trees for a long, silent moment, observing the way the moon filtered through the branches and pines, until his eyes felt dry and cold and he had no choice but to blink. Well. That wasn’t true. He blinked out of habit. He knew he could have kept them open all night long.
Even as he stood there, seemingly distracted by the awe of nature, his heightened senses were already dissecting the campsite that he automatically knew to be so, so close to them.
Sweat. Musk. Vomit. Beer. Smoke. Blood.
Perhaps Raphael would be able to see the way Astarion’s fine baby hairs rose on the back of his neck and over his arms, or the slight dilation of his pupils, or the way his trembling and shivering very suddenly came to a complete stop as he glanced sharply toward the camp.
Enjoy your meal, love.
He didn’t need to look back at Raphael to see the eerie smile that twisted across his features. Something that would have horrified Astarion before now made his heart race excitedly. He was so READY for a good, rich meal…
But he lingered for a few moments longer. He stood in the darkness, staring at the shape of tents through the trees. He listened. The crackling of fire - faint and burning low. The grotesque snoring that rattled from the longs of more than one of the men. But what he listened for was the heartbeats - young, strong, and violent, all out of sync with each other, creating a cacophony of bloody, wet drums that finally began to lure Astarion in. He was able to pace himself this time, though, knowing that there was no rush. The moon was high, and he could FEEL that the sun was so far away… there was time.
Without a sound, Astarion strode from the trees out into the edge of the sub-alpine meadow where the little camp had been set up. Beer cans littered the grassy ground along with other pieces of trash, but it wasn’t the litter that caught the vampling’s eye. No, he paused when he caught himself staring down at the naked and defiled corpse of a young man. He only needed to look him over once to get a good idea of what happened to him, but it was his chest that Astarion’s eyes fell upon for any real amount of time. Slurs had been etched into the unfortunate man’s chest, and due to the way it looked like it had bled, it was obvious that it had been done while he was still alive.
Something inside of Astarion twitched at the sight. An instinctive hand reached up over his own shoulder where his slender fingers could just barely graze where his own scarring should have begun. His mind flashed back to the moment he had received the scars… Cazador, hunched over his bound and naked form, smirking as he carved so DEEPLY into Astarion’s back. All while he helplessly begged and screamed for him to stop. He could only imagine the young man’s final moments had to have been just as terrifying, and just like Astarion, no one had come to help him. Unlike Astarion, he hadn’t been ‘lucky’ enough to get caught up in a scheme for immortality.
He had deepened his breathing to try and keep himself calm and in control as his gaze drifted away from the man and toward the two tents that held his resting murderers. He’d like to say that he felt a need to avenge the unfortunate soul, but vengeance wasn’t what he was after as, slowly, he stepped past the dying fire and toward the tent closest to him. His wandering wasn’t completely random. He searched for one in particular - the one who smelt the strongest of blood. The one who had tried to wash the blood from his hands, but it remained under his fingernails and deep in the tiny grooves of his fingerprints. The one that had done the carving.
The tent wasn’t massive. It was enough for the man and one of his companions to rest in side by side, though by the stench, it was apparent that they had done more than merely rest earlier that night. Astarion had to crawl, and he did so happily, right over top of the man and straddling his waist to sit on top of him in a rather racy position.
“Dude, I’m trying to sleep…” the man groaned, his voice thick with alcohol as his large, filthy hands reached to Astarion’s hips as if to push him off. But the vampling wasn’t going anywhere.
He sat like a statue, his eyes glowing red in the darkness of that tent and his face twitching between anger, hunger, and amusem*nt as he watched with patience that impressed even himself for the man to wake up. Well, enough to see the red eyes peering down at him and try to scream in surprise, but before he could so much as yelp, Astarion was on him. His left hand gripped and curled into his short messy brown hair, sticky with sweat, and yanked back while his lips crushed against the man’s own.
Oh, but this was no kiss of passion. Fangs tore through lips that tried to close and block him out, and the superior strength he possessed made quick and easy work of forcing his jaw open, just long enough for Astarion to do the damage intended. With a snarl and a jerk of his head to the side, the man’s tongue was ripped from his mouth and spat out carelessly to the side before he dove back in for more. With the man’s tongue now gone, his mouth was a fountain of blood - one that he was so eager to suck the life from, groaning as he pinned the thrashing man down and ‘kissed’ him so very deeply. All of his thrashing woke his friend, but before he could scream, Astarion’s free hand was around his throat, pinning him to the ground and strangling him as he took his time feeding from the gash in his friend’s mouth. His blood was so sweet! Immediately, it gushed through his heart and into his head, making his skin tingle and his head spin very pleasantly.
It wasn’t long before the first man stopped moving, either dead or dying. Either way, Astarion shoved off of him and crawled onto the next man, his eyes wide, wild, and completely depraved, staring down into the glassy and terrified eyes of the squirming, gasping, trying younger male who had just pissed himself.
“You’re disgusting~ ” Astarion teased in a low, breathless voice before leaning down to capture his throat in his jaws. He was more careful this time than with Cazador, allowing him to scream finally as he fed from his throat slowly. He didn’t accurately puncture quite where he intended, accidentally piercing the jugular and causing an obscene amount of blood to spray free, but his mouth latched quickly over it so that only his lips and cheek could be made a mess of before he began to suckle down that intoxicating essence.
It wasn’t long at all before there came movement from the other tent - quick, whispered, terrified voices that stirred in response to the screaming. It was all he needed to encourage him to detach from the man’s throat, letting him bleed out, gasping and alone as he stepped from the tent to be face to face with the other three. One had a gun, one had a bat, and the other, a knife. He must have been quite the sight, because their screams were immediate.
The one with the gun didn’t hesitate to shoot, catching Astarion in the shoulder, but he hardly felt it! Before another shot could go off, he lunged forward, smacking the gun to the side and viciously biting into the guy’s throat, just below his jaw, while one of his hands reached out and clawed into the arm of the one with the bat. Both men screamed… the final man ran, but Astarion knew he wouldn’t escape. He’d be able to smell him for miles.
Besides, he was running right for Raphael. Astarion wasn’t at all worried as he dragged both men to the grassy floor and took turns feeding off of them. A bite to the throat here, a slash and lick to the arm there… They fought back, naturally, but they were so weak that he hardly noticed! He just drank his fill and then some, feasting leisurely and doing as Raphael requested; he savored them.
–
It couldn’t have been a more beautiful sight. The way his kitten shifted into bobcat in only a few heartbeats, predatory eyes zeroing in on his oblivious targets, instincts powering on as every cell in his body aligned in their purpose: Raphael could not take his eyes off of his perfect little vampling. Truly, a gift for him to behold.
He took his time. He analyzed the new environment, steadied into stillness, and Raphael swore he saw the exact millisecond when everything clicked. And then, he was off. Just another shapeless shadow that cast none of his own.
The devil hung back behind the first row of trees, perched casually and comfortably with his ankles crossed, elbow out and stabilizing the rather lax posture. This might have been disconcerting to anyone who was unfortunate enough to stumble upon him out here by accident — a well-dressed devil in the pitch black woods, posing like Mr. Peanut while he grinned like a proud parent at a soccer game. One thing was for certain: Raphael was, indeed, very proud.
The scent of gore hit him. Although the fiendish observer had the sensitivity to pick up enough information to gather general details of what went on in the tent, it wasn’t until a ragged voice struggled to cry out that the remaining meat bags took any notice. To be fair, Raphael was surprised the boys had the wherewithal to even get up to investigate. Maybe they slept light and nervous enough after their evening’s ritual that even the alcohol couldn’t put them out. By the time a mess of platinum curls poked out from the tent flaps — with quite the sanguine dye job, might he add — the suckers had grabbed their useless methods of self defense. Raphael nearly giggled when he caught the charming wafting of fearful urine radiating from the tent’s wind. Oh Astarion. He was a masterful prodigy already. Their mortified screams? Chef’s kiss, truly.
A gunshot went off, but Astarion didn’t let himself even bat an eye. The blast from their cheap Walmart handgun did even less than nothing. If anything, it only egged the bloody cherub on further — got him riled up something fierce. Raphael nearly started clapping as they were knocked down with a sudden ferocious force, only to catch a glimpse of an unlucky straggler scamper out to join him in the woods.
Oh my, Raphael thought, and my favorite one no less.
The young man drew ragged, gasping gulps of icy night air as he stumbled and tripped over his own numb, drunken limbs. He gripped his knife (ooh, custom made, very expensive) like a life raft as he fled and flailed, honey brown hair drenched with his own panicked sweat despite the cold. Although all he could think of was running away from that thing shredding his pathetic “friends” into pulled pork, he hadn’t stopped to consider what could be waiting for him out in the dark. At least, not until it was too late.
”Colin,” a voice whimpered in his ear as though it was no more than an inch away, making the boy grind to a halt so abruptly he tripped, sent sprawling to the forest floor face first. The air was knocked from his chest on impact, and when he tried to breathe in to recover, Colin realized he couldn’t. There was something—no, someone pinning him down. The panicked little louse grunted and pushed with his unimpressive upper body strength against the brutal force being thrust down on him, crushing his lungs to the point of pain. The boy wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he somehow identified the peculiar cracking sounds beneath him that seemed so unnatural. It was the din of his own ribs slowly splintering.
”You’ve been such a naughty boy, Colin.”
The empty lungs struggled for a breath that wouldn’t come. Screamed with air that didn’t exist. Pleaded for help with silent words. Tears streamed down his face as he heard the unmistakable click of his oh so very expensive custom knife being deftly flicked open.
”Don’t you know who my father is?” the mocking whisper taunted, ending with a curt, cruel cackle. The helpless male’s face contorted into a pathetic mask of delicious helplessness and submission. Impossibly, the voice grew closer yet, as though it was inside his head.
”Oh, but I do, Colin.” The voice grew louder and louder, rumbling inside of the deliriously-terrified man’s skull. “And your precious papa can’t help you here. Even though he will know what you did. Everyone will.”
The man’s jaw had gone slack, but not from anything close to death. No, he was still very much so alive, just not kicking. His struggle had stopped, as though he had been overcome by… acceptance.
”Cheers, Colin.” The voice had dropped down to a whisper, now. The most terrifying one of all. ”To the night you’ve dreamt of all your life.”
The screams that tore from the forest after that didn’t sound human. It was as though whoever they came from was a direct conduit to hell itself, a preview for all sinners to come. Then, hauntingly, they cut off abruptly. Moist, fleshy squelches and something like popping bones radiated from the dark woods. Then, the jingle of a belt. Leather tearing. The rustle of something heavy dragging across the pine needles and rocky dirt. Then, silence.
Raphael took a step back, sighing contentedly as he admired his work. His hand kerchief was out as he wiped both of his hands off on the fine cloth. Hmm…not bad at all, he thought, critiquing some of the asymmetries. His past Blood Eagles had been cleaner, admittedly. This had been a rush job. He had instructed Astarion to savor their torment, but then didn’t follow his own advice? Well, he wanted the twerp ready for his pupil when he was good and ready.
And Colin was more than ready for the vampire to see him!
Wrists tied with his own halved belt on a sturdy-enough branch to stretch out his wingspan, Colin “The Eagle” White now hung like a true and proud, red-blooded American patriot! Raphael had super heated the guy’s custom knife with a fiery hand before cleanly slicing down the prone man’s back. That way, the flesh would cauterize the wound before he bled all over the gods-damned place, not wasting a single drop for his beloved’s parched throat. The ribs had been fanned out and above his head like wings, complemented by Raphael’s personal favorite part — his still-breathing lungs draped over the top.
A brow raised on the horned man’s face with a look of distaste. He’d never quite understood why humans had used the word "Eagle” to describe this pose. This sorry lad looked far less a bird of prey, and far more a lame fowl. A chicken, perhaps? Or a turkey?
Raphael waited until he could hear well-placed footsteps behind him. He did not turn around, but rather, held his hand out to motion up to the strung up gift. “He’s all yours, sweets.” The devil looked far more relaxed, now. What a fun way to burn off some stress, he thought. After the night he’d had, he deserved it.
“Don’t worry,” Raphael mentioned assuredly, his wings neatly folding themselves behind his back, “he’s still very much alive. He will be for as long as you need.” He took a gracious step back. Just in case there was blood that was about to shower the general vicinity, Raphael wanted to get out of the splash zone.
–
The screaming from the treeline was unexpected, even to Astarion, who plucked his fangs from the neck of the man who had shot him to glance up. He could smell burnt flesh, and the cracking of bones rang loudly in his ears through the silence of the forest. What was that devil up to…?
Thunk!
He blinked when he felt something hit the back of his head, and glancing over, he realized the guy whose arm he was holding onto to keep him from getting away while he dined on his buddy had swung at him with his baseball bat. He felt the pressure of it hitting him, but it may as well have been a cheap wiffle ball bat - plastic and hollow. Of course, it was a wood bat, but it made no difference to Astarion.
“Darling, wait your turn. Or… do you want to come with me to see what all that noise is about?” he mused, dropping the now cold corpse of his friend and standing, pulling the bat-happy man to his feet in the process.
The man was mostly unharmed. A shallow bite to his wrist, a few scratches and bruises on his arm, but otherwise, Astarion had yet to indulge in him. For a moment, after the nightmarish screams fell silent, he simply eyeballed the man. A few inches taller than Astarion, with thicker muscles - a football player, probably. Had he been mortal, the boy for sure would have been stronger than him, but right now it took everything in Astarion not to accidentally break his wrist as he began to drag him along! The three previous men had filled him to the point where, technically, he could stop and be satisfied. But that just meant he could really enjoy himself now. The pain of his hunger was lessened, and the light, warm, swimming sensation in his head and under his skin made him feel so weightless and… happy! Ah, these guys really had been QUITE inebriated, hadn’t they? How nice.
“Wh- What the hell are you?! LET GO OF ME, YOU f*ckING fa*gGOT!” The man screamed, digging his sock-covered feet into the pine needles, dirt, and grass, but it only made Astarion smirk as he continued to drag him, even yanking him forward as he turned so the man’s body would stumble forward into his own. Immediately, his free hand gripped the man’s hip, holding him close with a painfully harsh grip, despite his squirming.
“You keep talking to me like that and you’ll turn me on, sweetheart.” He purred, enjoying the flash of panic, disgust, and total fear that danced in the boy’s eyes. A sharp squeeze of the guy’s hip made him scream and squirm, then he turned, finally disappearing into the forest with his ‘buddy’ in tow.
It was easy for Astarion to find Raphael - all he had to do was follow his scent - which, like a bloodhound, he could pick up with the slightest of effort. And when he found him, he immediately followed the gesture, up to his ‘gift’. The sight was grotesque! Certainly, some part of him felt disgust, but that part of him was just the mortal part of his soul that clung to him and tried to speak reason into his ear. This is all wrong. This is murder. YOU are a murderer! He shook it off, rolling his shoulders and exhaling a sharp, tense breath as he closed his eyes and listened. He could hear the heart, so exposed now to the cold night air, and his lungs, which somehow were still quite capable of keeping the man alive-
“IS THAT THE f*ckING DEVIL?!”
Right.
He was still dragging around his new friend, and he was staring through the darkness at the shadowy figure of Raphael. Surely he could barely see, but there was just enough pale moonlight for him to catch glimpses of wings… and horns..! The bat wielder hadn’t even SEEN his friend yet, and already he was crying his head off, suddenly swinging that bat around like a maniac, really laying into Astarion’s arm as his blood-curdling screams FILLED the air.
It was much too loud. Astarion winced, the screams so shrill that it felt like they stabbed his brain each time the sound left his lungs. His heartbeat quickened, filling his ears. The pine needles crunched frantically beneath his feet. He began to squirm more frantically, all while beating that f*cking stick of his against Astarion’s arm, like a savage! The vampire tried his absolute best to be calm, but it was such a sensory overload. “Stop it-” He sneered under his breath, but was interrupted by another barrage of screams. “STOP IT-- ” His voice was more tense, like a hiss from between vicious, bloody fangs.
The man didn’t stop. Astarion snapped.
“Shut the f*ck up!” Without thinking, he used perhaps too much of his strength as he twisted to the side, jerking the man with him by the arm and slamming his body into one of the nearby trees. He only meant to stun the guy, make him fall unconscious maybe so all of that noise would end, but… well… it didn’t pan out quite so pleasantly.
The man’s body hit the tree with the force of a car. The tree was large and sturdy, so it only slightly swayed, but the man was far less lucky. The first thing that Astarion noticed was that the guy's arm was no longer...say, attached to his body - he had apparently torn it off at the shoulder, and quickly, he dropped the thing with a look of absolute disdain. When he tried to find the rest of the body, though…
It was in pieces, best he could tell.
“sh*t.” He sighed tensely, staring at the mess. The waste. Quickly, he shifted his quivering glare to Raphael, a small pout on his lips as he mumbled: “It was HIS fault.” He deflected the blame immediately, though he knew deep down Raphael probably didn’t care. He was just as dead, either way. Besides, he still had one left, thanks to the devil. And he would enjoy it.
Without giving the devil a chance to comment on the, uh, accident, he shifted and, with an effortless jump, landed high up on the branches, looming over Colin with his eyes GLOWING much more vibrantly in the dense darkness. It was a grisly scene from this close; he crouched low on the branch, balancing himself much easier than anticipated, and tilted his head to get a look at his back. It was obvious that the devil had done this before - which was horrific to think about - so he chose not to think about it and let his morbid curiosity get the best of him. It was intriguing to watch through the splintered and broken ribs how his organs worked. Disgusting, but interesting.
But how would he kill him? Briefly, he peered down at Raphael, feeling strangely self-conscious now. Raphael had made such a masterpiece of this body, in a really f*cked up way. What if he defiled the art by killing him wrong? He shifted, hands hovering. His body language oozed hesitation until, finally, he just gave in to his primal urge. It was easier than thinking, that was for sure. Leaning down, he placed one hand on the wheezing man’s chest to keep him steady while his free hand slipped into that warm, exposed, pulsating chest cavity and, with a bit of searching, found what he was looking for: The heart.
It thrummed and twitched in his hand, causing his own heart to tremble and his skin to shutter. Oh… he had absolutely no control now. He couldn’t tell if the man moaned, or groaned, or tried to scream, but with a sharp yank, the heart was in his hands. Just as Raphael had expected, a shower of warm blood pelted down where he previously stood as, like the savage, eternally-starved being he now was, he crushed the heart against his lips and sucked and licked at it without a second thought.
All the while he kept his electric gaze focused on Raphael, like in that moment, he only had eyes for the devil as he feasted on the heart of the ‘gift’ he had so kindly strung up for him.
Chapter 10: Once A Ribbon, Always A Leash
Notes:
TW: blood and ichor, mild gore, PTSD flashback
Chapter Text
The purposeful footsteps Raphael heard were accompanied by rough dragging of fat feet - hardly walking if you asked him. It sounded as though his newest hire was playing with his food. Although some might consider such a thing impolite, Raphael did not mind in the slightest. To stare a veritable feast in the mouth without taking one’s time to enjoy it was the true travesty of the modern era. Fast food restaurants and microwave dinners had spoiled far too many opportunities for a daily excuse for mundane whimsy. Not that there was anything mundane about what the two gentlemen were up to currently, but when put into perspective, this was little more than an engaging trip to the grocer.
”IS THAT THE f*ckING DEVIL?!”
Raphael finally turned, getting a look at his blood-soaked dear and his takeout bag. The greasy gremlin had no manners, screaming and pointing at Raphael like he wasn’t a distinguished delight to behold! “A pleasure,” he offered with a theatrical bow.
The human’s limited view in the shrouded forest apparently kept him from appreciating the piece of art behind the “f*cking Devil”, but Raphael’s curious eyes ran along Astarion’s features, gauging his reaction. What did he think of his little craft project? To his dismay, he did not get a satisfying answer because the dimwit human kept yelling and throwing a futile fit.
Raphael sighed and rolled his eyes as he righted his posture. A hand on his hip as he peered down at one of his claws (there was a touch of flesh he was having trouble completely wiping free), Raphael let Astarion take care of the babbling idiot. He was a frustrating one, and if Raphael didn’t know better, he’d say Astarion had picked a rather irritating one to leave for last.
It appeared as though he had grated the undead prince’s nerves, too. The dolt had been told to be quiet (a rather pointless request if you asked him) and kept driveling regardless, driving Astarion to the breaking point. Raphael looked up from his nails just in time to catch the view.
The best way he could have described it was…a stunning piñata of gore.
Raphael’s features lifted into a brilliant smile, nothing like the sinister grin from before. He truly looked like a little boy on Christmas who had opened a gift so spectacular, he hadn’t ever thought Santa would even consider it. Clapping his hands together, the devil howled with delight. “Oh, bravo, bravo!” Truthfully, the unfettered astonishment on Astarion’s blood-smeared features was the icing on top of their murder cake. He muttered an expletive under his breath, but Raphael made no effort to hide his felicity.
He quieted just enough not to be a distraction, no more than he’d already been, pressing his lips together enough that one of his dimples indented mirthfully in a rare appearance. Focusing now on the graceful leap up into the tree performed by the catlike man, Raphael’s fiery eyes observed with much interest as his impromptu contribution was inspected. For a brief moment, Raphael realized he felt…what was that, nervous? Would Astarion approve? Why did it matter so much to him?
Apparently the careful display was enough to provide clear access to the fragile delicacy sequestered within. A touch of something akin to pride bloomed in a similar location within the fiend’s own chest as he witnessed its careful plucking from the host.
A strange sensation overcame him, then. When that luminous garnet stare landed on him, Raphael found himself… transfixed. The uninterrupted eye contact they exchanged felt held in place by some external force, a cosmic coupling that eliminated everything in his view that wasn’t that overwhelmingly bewitching stare. His own face betrayed him entirely. The man had been charmed: hook, line, and sinker.
And he did not fight it.
Not a blink nor breath could be observed from the crimson man’s end as he regarded the provocative feeding. Even the forest seemed to have stilled around them, the animals having long since abandoned the region, the wind deciding to follow suit and silence itself entirely.
When the heart had been properly devoured, Raphael was the first to blink. When he did, he realized his entire body had frozen, too. Rolling his shoulders back, he cleared his throat and nodded, holding a hand up to gesture at the perched predator with respect. “Ahem. Yes, very well.” Dropping his gaze as though he were a school boy who had been caught in the act of something indecent, Raphael exhaled curtly. “You, ehm, are a natural.”
–
Like a blood-stained gargoyle, Astarion remained perched above the hanging, very much dead corpse, devouring the organ that would power his own, very much dead heart. Unblinking, his vibrant vermilion eyes remained sharply focused on the face of his devilish savior, even as a droplet of blood that was most definitely not his own trickled down his forehead and fell onto his thick white lashes, staining them crimson as the blood droplet continued its journey down his cheek.
The moment felt so deeply intimate, somehow… maybe it was the alcohol that now coursed through his veins, but he didn’t stop to consider ‘why’. Especially when Raphael did the one thing he shouldn’t have - he looked away. Immediately Astarion dropped what was left of the now-drained meat chunk and slowly, gracefully, he stood on that oh-so flimsy branch that teetered dangerously just above the beautiful little blood eagle—Raphael’s gift to him.
“My sweet,” he called down to the devil, his voice thick with honey and dripping with sensuality. Oh, he could get used to this. The devil, with his head tucked low, spoke almost modestly. How… wonderful. How beautiful.
Summoning his preternatural speed and grace - fueled with more than enough virile blood - Astarion flickered from his spot on that thin branch and just as quickly reappeared standing before Raphael. Their height difference meant he was now nearly face to face with the devil, which was perfect as far as the vampire was concerned.
“I want you to look at me when you compliment me.” The whispered words were spoken so privately, his breath warm with blood and death as he leaned up, a devious smirk on his smooth, bloody lips. Was it a command? A request? It would be hard to tell, but it was spoken in a deeply-sweet voice as he lifted a hand to rest over the side of Raphael’s neck, the very place he had bitten him earlier that night. Astarion carelessly smeared warm blood against his pristine red flesh while his free hand so boldly gripped Raphael’s waist and encouraged him to come closer still.
“Now… what were you saying, darling?” His eyes glittered in the moonlight, drunk with blood and overflowing in confidence as his fingers curled into the carefully groomed hair at the back of the devil’s neck.
–
This was risky. Very risky. That eye contact had thrummed on his pulse’s rate and pheromones, he was sure. Even though he was a devil, he was also…mortal. Human. Fallible. Although it gave him an advantage in some aspects, being a half-half creature, split between two worlds…he had weaknesses that opened him up to certain sensations that other fiends could not have. Right now, his mind was under duress. There was an undead phenomena who crouched before him. Although his blood offered protection from him physically, his mind would likely fold much sooner.
Still, the lull enticed him. He was a man of sin, after all. It was in his nature, just as it was Astarion’s. The vampire might not even know he was using it - his influence. Raphael had not known Astarion beyond seeing him so incredibly defeated, curled up in the fetal position without any sense of where he was – who he was. He hadn’t stirred when Raphael first laid eyes upon him. He, even then, had come with a reputation for turning even the sternest hearts to puddles. No, this did not stem simply from his newest condition.
Cambions, unlike most diabolical parents, had souls. Yet, he had the weakness of his devilish True Name, too. Both sets of genetics worked against the winged man in some ways. Now, as he stared into this vampire fledgling who, unlike true vampires still had their souls…something about knowing a soul stared back through those crystalline daggers for eyes gave Raphael the chills – something that was generally difficult to do.
He had, in order to resist the pull of Astarion’s sway, severed that connection. Only, he hadn’t really. Raphael felt that draw, still. A figurative white string, thin as a strand of one of Astarion’s fine hairs, stretched between them even now. He swore he could just see it. It made his chest seize painfully. Harpy siren songs were a different sensation entirely – a brainwashing draw that drained the human of their own will.
Rather, this seductive influence gave Raphael an avalanche of sensations, swirling his brain to a frenzy of desire. Just as certain mind-altering substances had various responses and states associated with them, the one he experienced then could be compared to red whisky brewed with imp poison, of all things. It made sense, as devils had their own glands that produced their own attractants – just as most creatures did. Incubus spittle had its own endorphins. However, Raphael’s lower regions burned, pre-ecstatic. This charm stimulated the mind, the body, and the soul.
It was nigh impossible for his constitution to withstand its influence.
Still, he had his own techniques for standing his ground. The only question…did he want to stand his ground?
It wasn’t entirely the charm from Astarion’s undead effects that was giving the infernal creature heart palpitations. He was beckoned from the highground, the branch not even swaying with the vampire reflexes acting as a perfect balance. Gritting his jaw while he had his head bowed, he only caught one split warning of Astarion’s abrupt relocation.
Although Raphael did not flinch, did not jump, their faces nearly touched now. The scent of fresh slaughter and undead musk tightened the hold the blood-snow figure had on him – soon, both figuratively and literally. That rich, alluring voice he used nearly made Raphael’s eyes roll back. Nearly. He was able to control himself, steadying his burning impulses.
“I want you to look at me when you compliment me.”
The brush of his breath cascading across his rouged skin was the final straw. Silently, Raphael’s eyes did as they were told. It happened almost without his knowledge before he was able to really see what delectable scene laid before him. Those ensnaring eyes, the blood-streaked lashes, the gods-damned expression on those ethereal features… It was more than he could bear.
A hand sought out the sensitive, anxious patch of skin that he had only just recently torn with such fervency. The slickness of his fresh hunt spread purposefully to transfer it to his own throat. Raphael felt marked – claimed. The devil’s lashes staggered, lusty and low-lidded as his face remained tipped down, although Astarion had absolutely captured his undivided attention once more. As though it were inevitable.
Their bodies were urged closer once more with the tender but firm guidance from the vampire. Raphael’s fine fabrics were compressed between their bodies, fronts of their hips now touching. It appeared as if there was nothing hiding it now. The apparent and impressive excitement the evening had provided, the touch – it was made obvious with the horizontal pressure.
“Now… what were you saying, darling?”
A rugged smirk urged itself up as Raphael inhaled and wrapped his own arm around the vampire’s waist in return. Although the shorter man appeared twiggier, his strength matched – or even slightly surpassed – the force expended from the devil’s swollen musculature. Still, they were substantial and solid all the same as he kept his face down-turned, eye contact maintained.
“Your gaze crumbles the lands around us, leaving nothing but you, Astarion.” The devil shook his head leisurely, leaning into the pull of his hair with acceptance of his own. “Astarion...” he murmured, sounding like the name of a worshiped deity upon the godless man’s blasphemous mouth.
“Your name belongs in my throat, to live on my lips.” His burning gaze burned hotter, embedding themselves into the icy pools. “Your figure makes Michelangelo stir in his grave, cursing his misfortune - as you put his greatest muses to shame.”
Raphael’s hot breath rolled off of his tongue, richly producing his own concoction of aphrodisiac saliva and pheromones. The smooth gravel of his throat only made them more potent and robust. A clawed hand lifted to run the very tips of his dangerously-edged claws along Astarion’s cheek, down his throat, hovering at his clavicle.
“If not for my baneful blood, I’d have fed you myself.”
–
Though his mind was hazy with the drunken-blood upon which he had so recently feasted, Astarion felt like he was in total control of the situation. Not just of himself, but of the wonderfully obedient devil as well. The way he breathed Astarion’s name sent tremors down his spine, causing his lips to part just enough to let out a pleasant sigh that evaporated into the still night air.
“Ah, there you are.” The vampling purred sweetly when those burning eyes obeyed, lifting to meet his own unyielding gaze. The night may have been a cold one, but at that moment, heat was all Astarion felt. It rolled off of Raphael’s body, consuming the space they occupied amid the gore of his hunt. It burned through his veins from the fresh blood of the pathetic little whelps that would soon serve as a decadent meal for whatever wildlife dwelt here. He didn’t know where ‘here’ was, but he could make a few guesses - if only he cared enough.
He didn’t.
The allure hidden within Raphael’s breath hit Astarion hard and unexpectedly. He inhaled as the hot breath clashed against his face. His senses were immediately overridden by the pheromones that radiated from each honeyed word that left the devil’s lips. He once again shuddered- a small, satisfied gasp escaping him when he felt that strong, warm arm loop around his waist and solidify their closeness by pulling him nearly flush against his larger, unnaturally hot body.
It was then that he felt the very obvious stiffness pressed against his hip - but Raphael would feel the same thing. Smugly, the hand slid past the other man’s hip and reached behind him, slowly smoothing his cool fingers over the fine fabric to firmly grasp one of those delicious cheeks in his long, slender hand. It was truly a shame he had missed his chance to see it before, when Raphael had gotten out of the bath, but he would take the opportunity to feel every inch of the devil tonight. As much as he could get away with, anyways.
“Mm… you’re quite good at this,” he mused softly, a smirk flashing his fangs only briefly, though by now Raphael was intimately familiar with those fangs. They had woken him from his sleep so recently, after all. “Perhaps my name isn’t the only thing that belongs on your lips… or in your throat.”
The vampire stepped forward, driving Raphael back, pressing him against a nearby tree before he leaned in to close the gap more completely. With Raphael’s claws teasing along his neck and earning illicit little gasps, Astarion leaned up to press a surprisingly feather-light kiss to the corner of the cambion’s mouth. Intentionally, though, he avoided a full-on kiss, wearing a smirk just at the edges of his sly mouth as he pressed his bloody pecks against Raphael’s cheek, down to his powerful jawline, where he oh-so carefully teased the edge of his fangs against the sensitive flesh. Not enough to break the skin, for obvious reasons, but he was also using this as a learning experience on how to control them. Astarion knew if he nipped TOO hard, he’d be unpleasantly ‘rewarded’ with the forbidden ichor that sustained the devil.
He kissed lower, his own lips warm, but undoubtedly feeling cool to Raphael as they trailed steadily down the side of his neck. He only stopped when his lips met the exact same spot he had punctured him so violently before, only now, he was careful and thoughtful. Though, the hand that so crudely wove into his the other’s hair and yanked back to give himself more room to work was anything but thoughtful - the curl of his fingertips against Raphael’s scalp a clear wordless demand for him to comply and let Astarion do as he pleased.
Of course, perhaps they both knew that outside of this moment, Astarion didn’t carry any real sway or command over the devil and his choices. But right now, he’d greedily take whatever he could get. The blood had filled him with life. He was only getting more and more worked up the more power he felt he had - even if a part of that was due to Raphael’s own needs and desires, allowing the vampling to act so boldly. Or maybe he really did have control over him~? Astarion couldn’t know, and didn’t really care about the small details.
His heart clashed against the inside of his rib cage, his chest pressed against the devil’s to pin his body against the tree in a way that would also allow him to feel the intimacy of his heartbeat through their clothes. The hand that so openly groped Raphael’s ass moved away once he had the man pinned, or when he perceived him to be pinned at least, and instead the hand move like a serpent between their bodies to trace the tips of his fingers lightly along the outline of the thick length that strained inside of the taller man’s pants.
“Ah… as large as I’d expect.” He purred against Raphael’s throat, his smirk growing until, suddenly, he pricked his neck with one of his fangs. But this was intentionally done, earning himself just a small droplet of that dangerous blood and scooped it up greedily with a small, pleasant hiss. In large doses, the blood was nearly lethal. Even a drop of the blood was enough to lightly burn his tongue, but he reveled in the slight pain, licking all the way up the man’s neck to nibble and kiss more passionately just under his ear.
–
Raphael burned and swooned under his vampire lord’s approval. Although the devil knew he was quite proficient in the art of seduction, it still flooded his flaming body with even more heat to be endorsed by such a fine creature as the one in his arms. Every word that dripped from Astarion’s lips stuck on him like molten caramel, burning and unable to be swiped away. They left all but physical blisters of desire across every inch of his scorching body. He, too, had such a way with words. It was as if Astarion knew exactly what, and even more importantly, how to say the necessary phrases that would make the diabolical creature unfurl before him.
And unfurl he did.
Raphael caught himself on his back feet just enough to keep from toppling over before the tree behind him caught his form roughly enough to surprise him. Still, their gazes did not break. Only when the darling head of curls pressed forward for a teasing, almost chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth did the devil get the slightest break from those all-powerful eyes. Even so, the charm did not let up. He was a lost cause. Putty in those smooth, powerful hands.
Raphael’s tongue snaked out to taste the blood that had been so delicately transferred to the corner of his mouth, and it became apparent that there was more hiding in between Astarion's fangs than was at first apparent. As the devil’s tongue peeped out, the ends peeled in half in a surprising display of dexterity. Not only was it forked at the tip — like a snake’s but still fleshy enough to be undoubtedly humanoid — but there was far more length to it than was normally found. Only a brief preview was displayed before it retracted back into his maw.
Raphael all but disintegrated under the vampire’s expert touch while he did what he was so skilled at: playing with his food. As the fangs grazed the recently-mended smoothness on the devil’s neck, goosebumps raised on all of the exposed crimson hide — implying that there were goosebumps on all of it, even that which was still concealed by his now-bloodied suit.
Letting go of his inhibitions had never felt so delicious. The risk they both played with only heightened the lewdness of it all, and if there was anything Raphael could support wholeheartedly, it was lewdness. Astarion didn’t devour him, not quite. It was the threat of being consumed, the knowledge that he exhibited newfound self control that made Raphael positively throb. That, and it was obviously a two-way street. Both parties felt as though they were enjoying each other very much.
Raphael might have been a devil, but he was no despoiler — he craved being craved in return.
Every movement indicated that craving was exactly what Astarion was doing. Raphael breathed out a low, needy groan against his will at the refreshing, wintry lips trailing down his feverish neck. However, when his hair was yanked back like a sacrificial offering moments before being slain, Raphael’s hands seized where they were placed on Astarion’s lower hips and shoulders. He relented, and would keep relenting.
For being technically dead, the vampire’s body screamed such contradiction. The thudding heart pressed through two chests, his own possessive hands, and then that feather light touch along the front of Raphael’s trousers — it made Raphael growl. A low, rich, terrifying sound that had struck fear into hearts for centuries — and it conveyed exactly what he wanted. Astarion’s comment on his size made him laugh darkly through a husky breath. “You sound pleased…” Raphael’s hands lowered to grip the sculpted, firm behind and back upper thigh of his transgressor. “You feel pleased, as well.”
He was silenced by the sting of a bite, and Raphael tensed. Had Astarion forgotten? Was he losing control? He had just fed so thoroughly, and the devil did not wish him to come to harm. That newfound tension immediately relaxed, though, when the chilled tongue lapped up just a taste of his gooey, black serum. A welcome sampling of spice and pain.
Breathing hotly, the devil led one of his hands at an almost ticklish lightness up under the back of Astarion's bloodstained blouse, claws gently tracing up and down before leading back south. Skimming along the top of the vampire’s trousers, he played with the fabric enough to edge it down with torturous slowness. Only enough so they sat lower on his hips. Enough that Raphael could feel those slender hips, the bone and sinew in their fine construction protruding from the smooth, marble skin.
“I ache to taste you, Astarion…” he murmured, head still arched back with the previous pull. “To burn your skin with mine own…”
Those gentle hands grew abruptly forceful as he pulled the vampire in as close as their physical vessels could allow, crushing them together as his massive arms used the movement as an opportunity to lift the Astarion up, cradling his buttocks so he was straddling the devil’s waist. Raphael’s head righted itself, tilted just enough to touch their foreheads together as he pivoted with ease so it was Astarion’s back cornered against the tree. The bat wings behind his back stretched and trembled, widening just enough to shield the vampire’s view of the scene behind them. He wanted his eyes on him alone. A possessive hunger dominated Raphael’s features under the cold, moonless sky.
–
A devious glow burned low in Astarion’s eyes when he caught sight of Raphael’s unique tongue, finding himself licking his bottom lip as a reaction. He could think of quite a few fun uses for a tongue such as that, but his mind was quickly brought elsewhere at the reaction he coaxed from the devil when he so lightly teased his length through his pants. A growl that caused his heart to jump and his skin to crawl - an instinctual sense of fear, followed by the angriest throb in his nether region that earned the devil a smaller, hungry growl of his own. The sound calmed when he felt those clawed fingertips against his back, almost soothing with how carefully they stroked his lower back until, quite suddenly, Raphael’s hands lowered and so perfectly cupped his firm, toned cheeks.
I ache to taste you, Astarion…
The way his name left the other’s lips was chilling, causing the smallest of moans to dance from the vampire’s lips as his fingers tugged against the devil’s scalp so that he could kiss under his chin - feel the vibration of his words on his lips as they danced in his throat.
To burn your skin with mine own…
He thought to say something snarky, but could only hiss out a small gasp when the hand on his ass hoisted him up as if he were as light as a sack of feathers. Instinctively, his legs parted and wrapped around the man’s waist, but the hands on his rear were certainly strong enough to keep him aloft as they spun and Astarion found himself being the one pinned to the tree. Before he could protest, he leaned against the itchy bark and saw Raphael’s wings rising, encompassing the duo in perfect darkness.
It was just the two of them there, in the dark cocoon. A haven where he could more directly inhale the sweet must and the faintest scent of sulfur that caused his skin to prickle pleasantly. They could both see in this pitch-blackness, but Raphael’s eyes were what truly stood out to Astarion, along with the faintly warm glow of the Hells that seemed to almost flicker beneath Raphael’s skin if he looked long enough.
It was those glowing amber eyes that the vampire found himself focused on yet again. He leaned closer, releasing his fingers from Raphael’s hair to lightly run his smaller claws (compared to Raphael’s at least) against the thick back of his powerful neck in faint circles as he pressed a taunting kiss just against his cheek before whispering: “What’s stopping you, Raphael? I’m right here.”
His free hand slithered between them as he murmured the words hotly against Raphael’s cheek, not hesitating as it easily slid down into the front of Raphael’s pants and grasped at his thick shaft with only his undergarments in the way now. It was so hot. The thickness alone, as he ground his palm slowly against it, was enough to coerce another little sensual sigh from Astarion’s lips - lips which were now hovering just in front of the devil’s own - daring him to close the gap and claim him.
–
The two immortals were barely more than animals at this point in their hellish mating ritual. Raphael felt quite the brute, only egged on by the concentrated contact their eyes could make without distracting peripherals. His own gaze blazed, his internal fire having been thoroughly stoked. It would be more apparent in the mundane world by itself, let alone in forest blackness. Above them, light pollution did not even attempt to conceal the cosmos. The trees and stars were the only witnesses to their transgression. His eyes closed gently upon receiving the most erotic yet chaste kiss he could recall. Right on his cheek. But this was no bisou bisou.
What’s stopping you, Raphael? I’m right here.
For a split moment, the devil paused. Second guessed. What was stopping him? Beyond his affinity for foreplay, dirty talk, caressing…there in his base was an ounce of worry. Vampiric charm, their business relationship, Astarion’s recent past…
Every thought was immediately cleared from the man’s brain upon being touched the way he was next. The slender fingers deftly trailed down his pants. The contrasting temperature of skins, even above a layer of decadently-soft fabric that kept him from springing free rigidly. The wind of Astarion’s murmur was the last encouragement he needed.
With aching slowness, millimeter by millimeter, the devil’s face closed the already minute difference. Their lips grazed painstakingly, low-lidded eyes still making contact with the vampire. He was searching, one last time. Was he sure? Was this what he wanted?
Like a disgraced angel, Raphael’s last gasp of resistance fell.
The first touch could not have been softer. It cherished the other pair of lips, parted just so as to push heated, fragrant air into the other man’s airway. They pressed firmer. He introduced the tip of his tongue, developing the kiss like a fine wine. He reveled in each new sensation, the introduction of the flavors of the night. His eyes were closed, but no eye contact was needed to keep him charmed.
Breathing in through his nose to inhale his companion’s bouquet, Raphael matured the kiss now. Ramping it up with further pressure, more tongue, a slow and steady rhythm, the devil exhaled.
He wanted more. Needed…more.
Pulling away only briefly, that was the last pause before the show. Introductions had been made. Raphael’s right hand maintained support on Astarion’s buttocks, grabbing and pulling them closer yet as his other hand lifted to find purchase on the back of his neck – the same place he had made the hairs rise numerous times.
Pulling him in with a firm grip, Raphael dove deeper. The kiss expanded as he parted Astarion’s lips with his tongue, introducing it now fully as it swiped along his fangs, feeling the daggers and their danger. The hand on the back of his neck snaked forward to take hold under his chin and jaw, guiding his face at a gentle upward tilt to kiss even more thoroughly. His hips instinctively began to thrust and press against the spread legs, grinding like gradual and impending ocean waves.
–
Not once did Astarion’s ruby, shimmering stare let up. Like a predator locked onto its prey, he kept his sharp gaze, only easing up slightly when he realized he had ‘won’. Raphael’s walls had fallen. The fire in his eyes belonged to Astarion, and Astarion alone. It was enough to curl a small, triumphant grin onto the corners of his lips as the sickeningly sweet kiss finally connected the two of them, sending a spark of lightning down his spine and through his nerves, keeping that fire in his cold, undead belly lit and burning.
He didn’t hesitate for a moment to lean forward into the kiss as the hand on the back of his neck ‘commanded’ he do so with the strong, desperate tug - because he was the one who had made the devil so depraved and needy. Even though he was the one with his back to the tree, caught up in Raphael’s arms, not once did he feel like anything happening was out of his control.
He gave the devil’s fleshy serpent-like tongue a small, bloodless nip as it forced its way into his mouth, but it was a playful gesture. He was all too accepting of the writhing, hot appendage into his comparatively-cold mouth. His tongue pushed back against it, carelessly slipping into the other’s mouth to lightly prick his tongue against Raphael’s fangs, which were much more numerous than his own. Luckily, the taste of his own blood didn’t stir his frenzy. Perhaps because he was so bloated and satisfied? Whatever the case, he hummed into the kiss while the smallest amount of his blood fused with their saliva, but there was something he hadn’t accounted for.
Raphael’s spittle carried with it the same effect a mild aphrodisiac would have. It was like the warmth of his mouth spread through Astarion’s body, starting at his tongue with a tingling sensation that very quickly soaked into his throat and ignited in his spine.
Maybe it was the clash between his piercing allure and the arousing ‘qualities’ of the devil’s deep kiss, but suddenly, Astarion blinked - and for a moment, a very BRIEF moment, he could have sworn he saw something in the darkness beyond Raphael’s shoulder. There was nothing there, only his wing... but for a split second Astarion’s mind tricked him. There, standing in the shadows, he was so sure that he saw him.
Cazador.
In the blink of an eye, the vision was gone. He KNEW that the dark-haired bastard was dead. He had crushed him in his own arms! Though his initial reaction was to withdraw and stop as his anxiety rose in his throat while his confidence plummeted, he had enough control of himself to stay calm and endure the kiss. It was passionate, but… he had lost the edge, he felt. He was jumpy now. Nervous. His tongue retreated, and his hand slid out of Raphael’s pants as the grinding began, but he didn’t try to break the kiss or Raphael’s hold. That would be quitting, and he didn’t quit.
He was distracted now, his gaze flickering constantly over Raphael’s shoulder until-
“Ah-!”
He hissed as he accidentally sliced the side of Raphael’s tongue with a clumsy tilt of his head and poor angling of his fangs, causing a small but painful enough gush of that black blood to flood his mouth. Only then did Astarion withdraw, jerking his head to the side and wincing as he cupped his mouth with his hand.
“Ah… tch. Apologies.” He muttered in a still and quiet tone, glancing briefly to the side as his mind began to wander, just as it would in that basem*nt, when those things were happening-
No, because THIS was different! R-Right??!
He regained his composure as quickly as he had lost it, rolling his shoulders a bit and gingerly sliding his hands back up Raphael’s arms to caress the back of his neck with another sly little smirk. But the glow in his eyes, that predatory look, was gone.
–
Raphael felt his own enthusiasm returned to him, like a passionate tennis ball being sent back and forth. His mind swam, conscientious in how he handled the man in his arms without forgetting that he wasn’t at all fragile. If anything, the devil felt blessed. The luckiest man in all the cosmos, right where he stood. Shielding Astarion from the outside world, tucking him away and showing him the care and appreciation he had been so deprived of made the devil’s chest bloom with even more heat. It probably flickered in their dark huddle it had been stoked so high.
A touch of fresh blood – still warm – coated their collective mouths. Raphael appreciated the blood play, especially from someone so sanguine-focused. He wondered what it tasted like to Astarion, if it enticed him further to lick it from the devil’s mouth. No matter, Raphael desired it all the same.
His eyebrows pulled upwards and together in the center, brought in by the rush of desire, the overwhelming emotion. He lusted fiercely, yes, but he felt so deeply for this man. Raphael cared, he now admitted to himself. He cared for this creature’s safety, his comfort, his success. He wasn’t in his right mind to think about much of anything at that point, being tongue-deep and rubbing their lower halves together, but the sentiment was there all the same.
The devil smiled into the kiss, pulling back just a touch to gasp the tiniest bit of air for his cambion lungs. He still needed sips of the stuff, unfortunately. However, when he dove back in, something had…shifted. At first, the devil wasn’t sure if he was being too sensitive. Astarion had been very forward about his interest.
Right?
Raphael continued on for a beat or two, his thumb rubbing tenderly along the vampire’s jaw as hands retreated from his trousers. It seemed as though he was enjoying the gradual shift to their bodies rocking together in complementary motions. Raphael got the sense that Astarion wanted to try something different, judging by the shift in his mouth – like he was retracting. Perhaps he had something to say.
Just before the devil could separate their lips (he was being a touch greedy, after all), one of Astarion’s oral cutters nicked a sensitive section of the devil’s tongue. It didn’t so much pain him as it worried him about paining his companion. Perhaps, like his throat, the vampire had done it intentionally? Only, his reaction didn’t communicate as much.
Raphael’s eyes opened, hazy and dreamlike. The vampire muttered his misgiving, but Raphael shook his head, murmuring a soft response. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” However, one look at the expression across from him raised immediate concern in the devil’s chest.
“Are you alright?”
There had been a shift. A subtle but concrete adjustment that Raphael had a hard time tracking. That eye contact had broken, and although he still touched him with pleasant fondness, the mood had been modified. How, he wasn’t sure.
Then, it hit him.
Vampiric seduction. You fell for it. The FIRST hunt. You weak, WEAK–
“Mm.” Raphael offered a polite smile, eyes narrowing from their enchanted, boyish shape to that of a more distant man’s. He closed his mouth and gingerly lowered his hands to set Astarion back on his feet. He had excellent reflexes, sea legs would surely be no scare for such a creature.
“No, I apologize.” Wings retracted inward, their cocoon was released. A chilly breeze kicked back up from the incredible altitude. It was nearly December, after all. Winter was coming. He had forgotten the chill in their heated moment, but it nearly passed right through his body like a semi-permeable membrane.
Raphael straightened his posture, fixing his pants adroitly, a quick swipe to tuck in his shirt and a hand through his hair. He appeared composed, once again. Besides the understated blood that had transferred to his black clothing and red skin, there was little evidence they had touched at all. As though nothing had ever happened. The entire scenario had been a fever dream, nothing more.
“Do you have anything else you need here? I can take us back to House of Hope whenever you care to leave.”
–
Are you alright?
The question caused Astarion to falter, blinking in surprise as the already weakened 'spell' between them felt shattered entirely. It was as if the clock had struck midnight, leaving the two staring dazed. Or rather, Astarion was left staring while, quickly, Raphael seemed to recover from whatever had transpired between them and was again himself.
The question still lingered in his mind, though, and briefly, he found himself gazing back into the shadows... but nothing was there. Indeed, not the ghost of Cazador or anyone else. The physical desire was still there, so Astarion didn't understand why they were stopping! So the mood had shifted, so what? Still, the way Raphael's wings dropped and his eyes again narrowed more sternly was all the tale Astarion needed to realize that the moment was soured.
The warmth contained within their cocoon was released, and in its place, a cold breeze that stung his exposed skin. Had he been played? No, he had undoubtedly felt in control, but why was some part of him relieved it was over? While the other part of him felt embarrassed to have lost control…
Wordlessly at first, the vampire's eyes searched Raphael's face, but the embers had gone out. The light that smoldered there now was something else: guarded, stern, and composed.
That confused tension that clutched in his chest lived on as he was abruptly set down. He found his footing quickly, though he felt a definite absence when their bodies were separated wholly. He hated how easily and readily Raphael readjusted himself and 'fixed' himself, looking and acting as if they hadn't just been sucking each other's faces - as if Astarion hadn't just had his hand tucked down his pants, caressing him! He could still taste him in his mouth, the sting of his blood mixed with the sweetness of his spit. It still had his mouth tingling, aching, and throbbing quietly for more, but the cold wind and the awkward tension proved enough to kill his remaining excitement.
Honestly! What was he even supposed to say?! Was he expected to BEG for Raphael to reconsider? Or was he supposed to brush it off and act like nothing happened, like Raphael? Obviously, begging was out of the question...
Pursing his lips, Astarion folded his arms over his chest and gave the devil a sharp, humiliated glare as he tried to decide what to say. He felt tongue-tied. He didn't even understand what the hell had just happened, to be honest. How was he supposed to comment on it when Raphael was already shrugging it off so casually?
"Give me a few minutes," he muttered, tearing his glare away from the man after a few awkward, tense seconds. Slowly, the silent predator stalked away, arms folded as he decided to take a short walk to clear his head and assess his job one last time. After all, he didn't know when he'd see the sky again.
Despite the merciless cold that clung to him, he opted to stay for a while longer. He could see fine enough in the darkness, but he found himself quietly yearning for the sun to rise and kiss his face with the radiant warmth he had once taken so for granted. There was a beauty in the night, but right now, he only felt frightened by it. By the corpses that littered the forest floor and were strung from the trees, by the ghosts of his past that lingered at the corners of his vision, and by the red-skinned devil that was still such a mystery to him, waiting in silent patience to usher him back 'home.' He realized he didn't want to go, but where else could he go?
He felt a thin tether between him and Raphael...
A leash.
Chapter 11: Dulled
Notes:
TW: self-harm, smoking
Chapter Text
December 12, 2023: NYC
A puff of visible air bloomed in front of her lips as she exhaled deeply. It was cold enough for the warm, humid breath alone to evaporate visibly, but an odorous component traveled with it.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
Lilith peered to her right as a familiar voice caught her ear from where she was perched on the stairs leading up to their apartment complex’s main entry. She had heard the door open. A few soft footsteps approached, warm boots crunching against the blue ice melt on the concrete. Lilith shook her head, releasing the rest of the nicotine from her lungs in a final exhalation.
“I don’t.” She tossed the half-finished cigarette down by her own foot on a shallow step, crushing it beneath her heel as it sizzled on the weather-wet surface.
Shadowheart balked. “Hey, I was going to ask for a drag!”
Lilith shrugged, glancing down at her boot where she slowly grit it further. “It’s bad for you.”
“Ha!” Shadowheart, apparently humored, took another step down to the one Lilith sat. “May I join you, regardless?”
The seated brunette nodded once, scooting over closer to the handrail to make room for the other woman.
“Thanks.” The raven-haired half-elf squatted nimbly from her great height, long legs going up further towards her chest than the slightly-shorter of the two. Settling in with a sigh, Shadowheart adjusted to get comfortable, tucking her elbows in closer to torso and huddling for warmth in her jumper. The two sat in silence for a few moments, letting the city rumble around them. “How are things going?” She leaned down, setting her head on her knees to the side so she could look up at Lilith staring off into the street with alertness – and a touch of something less apparent pulling the corners of her lips down. A subtle chewing.
The brunette shrugged, breaking her line of sight to glance back down at her black, suede winter boots. With a deep exhalation, Lilith nodded. “They’re fine.” Another beat. Another twist of her boot. “I’m happy for some time off.”
Shadowheart scoffed. “Is that what you call it? You haven’t stopped. We’re…” Pausing, she mulled over her choice of words. “We’re all kind of worried about you. I feel like I haven’t seen you for weeks. Not really.”
Some more obvious lip chewing could be seen as Lilith nodded a few times, her ponytail bobbing behind her. She tied it up to prevent the smoke from staining her hair – though that only did so much. She needed to stop, more like it. “I don’t want to putter out so close to the finish line. I only have three more semesters.”
“And then another three years after that, knowing you.” Shadowheart closed her eyes and groaned. “Isn’t that how long you go to law school?”
Lilith lifted a brow, a bit of her quirky light beginning to resurface as she was distracted from her quiet, solitary thoughts. “Well, if I play my cards right, it should only be two.”
The other woman gave a ‘pooh-pooh ’ wrinkle of the nose. “I know you work hard to keep your grades up, but there are other things besides school.”
“Oh, I’m well aware,” Lilith snapped. After Shadowheart stayed mute for a few seconds too long, Lilith sighed and mumbled, “Sorry.”
“No, I know.” Shadowheart smiled gently, but her eyes had turned somber. “You miss him, don’t you.” A statement, not a question.
Lilith visibly stiffened, as though her jacket suddenly stopped working and she had gone cold. Dizzy. Furious. It passed quickly, though. “Of course I do.” Her jaw clenched, twitching underneath a loose lock of hair that cast a shadow under the glowing orange streetlight. “Either something really bad happened to him, or–” Her breath caught in her throat, clenched and tight. “Or–”
“Or he left without a goodbye.”
The brunette was frowning again. She sniffed past the cold-weather snot that threatened to drip from her nostril, only encouraged by the cigarette mucus left behind. “Yeah.”
Shadowheart hugged her legs a bit tighter. “Either way, that’s gotta feel pretty bad. I’m sorry, Lilith.”
“I hope he’s an asshole.” The law student put on her best neutral attorney face, ready for poker as she cleared her face of emotion. “I hope he just got an offer that set him up for life. Forgot all about me because he was so…so damn excited.” Her facade cracked, the cold getting to her eyes as they grew slightly glossy. Her chapped lips were wet by a quick tongue, the fleshy pad a bit darker red than one might expect. The dim and colored overhead lights made this fact indistinguishable. “Because, Shadowheart?” Lilith sought her friend’s eyes out, her upper lip pulled up with contention. “If he didn’t, I don’t think he’s okay.”
Shadowheart lifted back up to a sitting position, reaching out to put an arm around her friend to comfort her, and Lilith flinched at the touch. “Shh, no. He was always going to end up doing something like that, Lil. Kind of just how he was, from what I could tell.”
Lilith scowled, but kept her pressed lips shut. If she opened them, the only things that would come out would hurt the feelings of the girl beside her. Because she was wrong. They were all, f*cking, wrong. She could feel it in her gut, and she had learned to trust that piece of her many years ago. When she ignored it, she found herself in heaps more trouble. Now, she worried that gut needed her to take action, to do something. Anything.
“Didn’t you just put a flier into the New York Times?” Shadowheart rubbed her shoulder, holding her roommate in a warm huddle against her bundled up form. “That must’ve been super expensive or something. Did the police vouch for you?”
Lilith shook her head, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. “No, I had a friend submit it for me.”
“Oh?” Shadowheart’s expression lifted with intrigue. “And who is this friend?”
“Just some pleb who thinks it’ll get his dick wet.”
The black-haired girl’s eyes widened in legitimate astonishment. It converted to a scandalized grin. “Lilith, oh my goodness I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk that way!” Tittering, she shook her statue of a roommate with a few cold little bounces. “Then again, I don’t think I’ve heard you say much of anything for a while. I…thought you were avoiding me or something.”
Lilith didn’t respond.
…
Water. Running down her hair. Turning her dark locks into a wall of shadow and hot steam. When it all rushed past her ears and eyes, she could almost distract herself enough. Enough to ignore the craving.
The constant babbling drone of the pouring shower helped her zone out enough to refresh her. To calm her. Maybe she’d even get more sleep that night. Usually, the harder she tried to shut her brain off, the further away it was pushed. At least she wouldn’t reek of nicotine and tar anymore.
Water slicked over her mouth and nose, sealing up any and all passages in which air could be sipped. She could not breathe unless she wanted to waterboard herself. It seemed to be the primary goal of this little exercise. She had already washed and conditioned her hair, completed the rest of her shower. All except for shaving, that was.
Suddenly bursting free of the water cage, she backed up her head abruptly and gasped for air, eyes shut tight before widening and staring at the ceiling. The white tile wrapped around her roomy shower tub, pristine and freshly-scrubbed. One of the benefits of living with all women – even though Karlach’s dog could funk it up after a bath. She usually rinsed it off the walls, though. Usually.
Exhaling raggedly, Lilith squeezed and opened those lids with great effort, as though stretching them. Bringing blood back into her face. Waking herself up again. Shocking her system. Reminding herself that she had control over her own machine, maybe. It was just her in this shower. Just her, the bottles of perfumed soaps and body detergents. And her razor.
She eyed it undecidedly for a few long, arduous seconds. She heard her own heartbeat in her ears, thudding percussively as her vision tunneled and she zeroed in like a desperate cat. If anyone had been privy to watching, they would see her pupils dilate as she bore holes into the little silver razor where it hung on the wall.
She just needed to shave her underarms and her legs. That was it. A simple task, really. It would give her an excuse to use up even more of their limited hot water. She didn’t ask for much in the apartment. She deserved it.
Lilith reached out numbly, like a marionette of her own design. Plucking the razor from its magnetic perch, it released. The weight of it in her hand made her strong, excited pulse pump harder. Until it was all she could hear, even over the water rushing past her ears, making her hair suction around them, draping down her neck and decolletage.
The next part came before she had another cognizant thought. Expert fingers unlatched the little button on the side of the apparatus. It popped open, releasing a single silver razor that could be removed and replaced with a fresh, sharp one when this one had been used. Dulled. Worthless.
Her pruning fingers closed around the fine, thin blade to edge it out of its housing. The emptied contraption was put back into its magnetic caddy hung on the wall. Neat. Tidy. Orderly. Empty.
A shoulder moved with an elbow, which moved with a wrist, which moved with some fingers, which was guided by that glinting, wet blade. She angled her opposite elbow up towards the ceiling, grasping the razor’s edge to the side of her left breast, right forearm across her body. Blue eyes peered, engrossed and transfixed, as she lined the blade up under a long line of thin, pink scars. They wrapped down from an inch under her armpit and neatly, almost looking like a fleshy barcode with how even and parallel each small, healed scar had been sliced. Two scars were angrier than the rest. They were the two closest to the bottom. The blade lined itself up directly under the freshest one, and once satisfied with the placement, pressed in and pulled.
The woman didn’t wince. She tilted her head, intoxicated by the sight as blood pooled out from the cut at an angle like a sheet of red. She admired how this cut bled quite evenly. The laceration had been precise in its depth and length.
She stood there and watched it for a long while. Long enough that soon, the water went cold.
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