Chapter Text
There are twenty-seven freckles across her face. Six dust her left cheekbone; four scatter across her chin; an impressive ten arch over the bridge of her nose, spilling beneath her eyes; three nestle by her right temple; and the last four—unruly, without rhyme or reason—are scattered on her forehead.
He counts them the way he counts soul coins when they spill. Not simply gathering them up and tossing them into a purse, but taking precise inventory of each one. He already knows how many there are, yet still he does it. Every single time.
Just as he does with her face.
The first time, when he taps his temple with a clawed finger, referencing the parasite squirming behind her eyes, he recites the practiced introduction: “Am I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. A savior? That’s for certain.”
The freckles are light then, the sun not yet bold enough to darken them. They remind him of dust, of grime on a neglected surface—like dirt that clings to a dog before it’s dunked into a trough. He almost wants to scrub her down, wash away the wilderness clinging to her. He smiles as he makes his offer, though his amusement fades into a wince when she drags dirty fingers across his tablecloth. He’d seen her hands moments ago, clawing through the earth like a feral thing, looking for a chest her vampling friend assured her was there. They’re still dirty now.
Disorderly.
The second time, it’s in the dreary Last Light inn, and she's scowling, fretting over the child playing lanceboard across from him. She’s sharper here, the sunless sky casting her freckles darker, deeper.
“Don’t play games, Raphael. Help him.” Her voice is tired, irritated.
She holds her vampire's hand as if they were lovers. Maybe they are. The sun hasn’t reached these shadowed lands in centuries; there’s no reason for her freckles to have become more prominent , and yet they have. He wonders if it’s the wear of this place, the shadow clinging to her like a second skin.
He no longer thinks of dunking her into a cold basin to scrub away the dirt. Instead, his mind wanders to the soothing waters of his boudoir’s bath—how much better she would look there, resting, submerged, freed from the weight of this place. And if she were to nip, well, it’s hardly a challenge to drown a kitten. Farmers do it all the time—tossing a litter into a bucket, placing a lid over it, and walking away until the frantic yelps fade into silence.
The third time is in the brothel, the air thick with pleasure bleeding through the walls. He silences the parasite's whispers, ignores her companions, and turns his attention back to her. Her freckles are lighter once again, though seven remain, murky, dim—seven little marks, like constellations at her right temple, where her silver-streaked hair brushes back.
“You’d make a fantastic Archdevil Supreme,” she deadpans, voice flat, eyes dead.
He knows she means the opposite, that she’d rather lick the brothel floors clean with her tongue than give him what he wants. But he plays along, offering a mocking bow.
Her hair is clean, her skin, for once, free of the smears of dirt and blood. Yet still, he frowns as he looks her over. Pretty things should remain as they are—untouched, preserved. Locked away in the sanctity of a bedroom, stashed in a cupboard, bound to a bed, or set behind glass in a museum. Not left to sleep under the stars like refuse, exposed to the elements. It steals their brilliance, wears them down, strips away their value. What use is a treasure when it has lost its gleam, when it no longer holds the power to entice or captivate?
His gaze drifts to the circlet resting on her brow, a crude trinket humming with enchantment. Practical, perhaps, but gold against her pale skin? It clashes. She should be adorned in silver, something that enhances her beauty, not dulls it. He almost tells her to melt it down, to cast away the garish thing. As it is, it cheapens her, a gilded mistake that makes her look like half a whore.
Well, he rethinks, catching that look she trades with the pale spawn and the elf—perhaps not just half. No, the whole lot of them, filthy things. Crawling. Temporary. Ephemeral. Short-lived, thick-skulled. Tongues sliding, saliva mixed, lips swollen and split, thighs parting without thought, slick with sweat and friction. Sighs. Grunts. Useful for fetching things. Pretty to look at. Good for nothing else.
He imagines her between them—pale limbs tangled, their hands on her, mouths at her neck, his and hers and his again. Her body arching, hips bucking, desperate, using each other up. He pictures their skin sticking, sliding, their noises turning guttural, their limbs a mess of instinct. His teeth on her neck, the spawn's breath in her ear. The druid’s fingers twisting in her hair.
He blinks, shakes his head, the image clinging before he can push it away.
Each time, he counts. Each time, he knows the number of freckles—just as he knows the tally of coins in his coffers—and yet he can't help but recount, as if something might change. As if she might change.
He repeats his offer. Again, he asks for the crown, but this time, he cloaks his desire in layers of praise and gilded metaphors. He speaks of power and glory, of the weight of destiny resting upon her brow, of how the crown would be nothing but a symbol of her greatness—how In yielding it to him, she would be its protector, its savior, keeping it from those far worse than him.
Each word is a thread, carefully picked, binding his intentions beneath flattery, hoping she might not notice his hunger beneath.
Her answer grates against him, lazy and dismissive. His displeasure deepens when her eyes barely skim his contract, the parchment hovering expectantly before her. With a flick of her wrist and a careless glance, she says, "Nope, shoo," as if brushing away something beneath her notice, as if the contract itself were a living thing she could swat aside.
She doesn’t even look back as she goes, one arm looped through the druid’s, the other through the vampire’s. Two shadows at her side, pulling her away from him as if he were nothing more than air.
He sets about rectifying it.
Her house is an ugly thing—he notices that right away. Dust clings to the windowsill like an afterthought, long forgotten. His fingers twitch, drawing idle shapes in the grime, tracing and retracing until both sides match. Asymmetry unsettles him. When she finally returns and finds him there, sitting calmly at her table, there’s a brief flash in her eyes—a spark of something, annoyance, perhaps. But it fades almost as quickly as it came, replaced by a small, resigned smile.
"And what brings you here, Raphael?" she asks, voice warm despite the frown. She sets her satchel down, boots shuffled off, and rolls up her sleeves.
"I've come to trade," he replies.
“Have you now,” she repeats, her tone thoughtful, though her attention runs away from him for a moment, busying herself with herbs from a jar. He watches her toss them carelessly into a mug, the scent of tea filling the space, though none is offered his way. He glances around, eyes catching on the paintings that line the walls. They are awful, mismatched swirls of color, no harmony to them at all—jarring, as if the room itself rejects them.
“Do you paint, little mouse?” he asks, searching for the right compliment, ready to pour her ego full with empty praise if that’s the price.
Artists, after all, are vain creatures—hungry for praise, willing to crawl for a scrap of admiration. If that’s what she craves, he’ll drown her in it. He’ll pull every string, catapult her crude, forgettable works into the finest galleries, where even the most discerning critics will pretend to see brilliance. He’ll grease the palms of wealthy collectors, ensuring they bid high, inflating the value of her art until her hubris is bloated with the fame he’s bought for her.
It’s simple—everyone has a price, a want.
“My mother,” she says softly, as if the words are drawn out of her with effort, her eyes drifting toward the weathered frames. “Her hands grew shaky, later on,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him. “It doesn’t matter. And you don’t care.”
He tilts his head, a practiced smirk on his lips. “I will have you know I’m a patron of the arts.”
"Yes," she says with a too-wide, too cheeky grin, "indeed you are. I've seen your house." There’s a bite in her words, a joke at his expense. He'll let it go for now.
"The crown," he begins again, two fingers rising to tap the table with the soft cadence of inevitability. "Do not deceive yourself, little mouse. If you do not place it in my care, it will not lie forgotten in the dust of memory. No, it will be sought, claimed by hands far less kind than mine." He pitches his voice low, wills his words into a lilting rhythm, sharp beneath the sweetness. "I have never lied to you, and I shall not begin now." He lifts a single finger, pointing at her with delicate precision, halting her mid-sip. "It will be taken, and I promise you, those other players will twist its power into something far darker than you can imagine."
Her smile lingers, foolish and defiant, but the edges of it tremble, faltering like a candle flame caught in a draft. Her gaze flits away, left, right, and left again, avoiding his. She withdraws into herself, hiding behind the thin veil of steam rising from her tea. He watches as the warmth dampens her upper lip, as her thoughts pull her inward, away from him.
In this light, with her loose hair and quiet surroundings, she looks softer, younger somehow. The house's comfort wraps her in an illusion of simplicity. Her usual braid undone, grey threads weave through the silver strands at her temples—three on the left, four on the right—details he notices with idle amusement.
"I suppose you have been forthcoming," she says at last, her voice distant, contemplative. "I suppose," she repeats, musing aloud, "that you could simply appear, snatch it from me the moment we pull it from the Elder Brain. But instead, here you are." She gestures at him with a lazy wave, her tone almost teasing. "Asking. And quite politely, I might add."
He feels a surge of wicked delight, a violent excitement bubbling just beneath his skin. She is oblivious—sweetly, naively so. She doesn’t know the rules that bind him, the ancient laws that shackle his kind. The Pact Primeval, yes, even she must understand that much. But the deeper truths, the restrictions and the dance of loopholes—those are beyond her grasp. He cannot take freely, cannot seize what he desires without delicate maneuvering, without proxies. She doesn’t know, and the thought fills him with a cruel sort of glee.
His smile spreads slowly, languid and predatory. "Yes," he murmurs, his voice a low purr, "I have always been honest with you. Fair, forthright, and ever so patient."
Her laugh bursts from her, sudden and sharp, as if she can’t hold it back. It’s an ugly sound, rough, like something caught in her throat. Or a dog that's been kicked. "In your own way, yes," she agrees, eyes glinting with mirth. "But don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did to Yurgir. The endless song." Her tongue clicks against her teeth in a mocking rhythm. "Tsk-tsk-tsk. Don’t pretend you're too benevolent, Raphael. It spoils the allure."
"The allure?" His eyebrow arches, intrigued.
She grins, bold and playful, pushing her hair back with a casual sweep of her hand. "You’re quite beautiful, you know," she says conversationally. "You should use that instead of poetry. I’m sure more fish would bite."
And with that, she winks, brazen as ever.
"Oh," he murmurs, voice slipping into a sultry rhythm, "is that what you desire? A little seduction? I had thought you above such… trivialities."
"Above what?" she counters, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Having a beautiful man dance and preen for me, just for me, with no one else watching?" Her laughter spills out, light and badgering, like an idiot poking a bear with a stick and giggling all the while. "No, no, Raphael. You misunderstand. Wax poetic about me for a change, rather than at me. I insist." Her smile grows, teasing and knowing. "Everyone likes to feel special, to be, if only for a fleeting moment, the object of affection—no, scratch that—attention, of someone they could never hope to touch."
"How very vain of you," he replies, his tone rich with amusement, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "And rather shameless."
She shrugs with a deliberate air of indifference, entirely unabashed. "To have a handsome man, or woman, tell you you're beautiful in return," she kisses her fingertips, a theatrical flourish, and sends the kiss floating into the air as if it were an offering to the ether. "It’s orgasmic. And the kneeling, the crawling—" Her voice drops, sultry and bold, "well, that's a whole other pleasure, isn’t it?"
He opens his mouth, a well-crafted compliment poised on his tongue, but before he can speak, she cuts him off with a sudden wave of her hand. "Wait, wait," she murmurs, too eager, too alive with whatever idea has just sparked in her mind. Her fingers flutter in the air as if dismissing his words before they've even had the chance to form. Without another thought, she abandons her mug and rises from the table, leaving him alone in the dim solitude of her small kitchen. He hears the faint shuffle of objects in the background, a drawer sliding open, the soft clink of something metallic.
When she returns, there’s a certain gleam in her eye, and in her hands, she carries an old, worn deck of cards, the edges frayed with age. She drops into her seat, leaning on the table with an easy familiarity, shuffling the cards with a bit too much skill, her fingers moving with practiced speed. He watches, amused and curious, as the cards fly between her fingers. A tad too adept, he thinks. She’s cheated her way through tavern backrooms, no doubt, swindling the drunken and the foolish.
"You’re well in your cups," he remarks finally, his eyes catching the faint flush of her cheeks, how the color lingers and deepens. It’s not embarrassment, not shyness—it’s simply there, glowing beneath her skin.
"Yes," she agrees, far too quickly, a playful grin tugging at her lips. "I was drinking with Astarion. Like a hole,” she adds, snorting. “Do you play gin?"
"No."
"Do you know the rules?"
"I do."
Her grin widens, a little too pleased with herself. "Wonderful." She deals him ten cards with a flourish, her eyes lingering just a moment too long on the pile before him, as though trying to sneak a glimpse of his hand. Probably is.
"Let's make this interesting," she muses, her voice tinged with mischief. "If you knock, you also have to take off a piece of clothing."
He stares at her, his expression unreadable, gaze locked on that shameless grin of hers, the drunken flush that spreads across her cheeks, the way laughter simmers just beneath the surface of her skin. Her canines, slightly sharpened like those of a wolfling, glint under the light. Not sharp enough to draw blood, but sharp enough to shred through dignity, if she so wished.
"What?" she asks, blinking at him with mock innocence.
"I did not come here to play cards," he says, his voice laced with growing irritation.
"And yet," she counters, that damned wink slipping from her eye once more, "I won’t speak of the crown if you don’t." She deals herself in, her movements smooth, effortless, the grin never fading from her lips. “So, play—or fuck off.” His wince doesn’t go unnoticed, and she’s quick to add, “I say that with all the love and respect your... rank deserves. Whatever it happens to be. Karlach told me everyone in the Hells has at least ten titles.”
“On a good day.”
“Oh? And on a bad one?”
“On a bad day, mouse, whichever one of us poor sods gets roped into welcoming a delegation, we all gather 'round for an endless recital of honorifics. Hours upon hours of egos trying to outdo each other. It's as riveting as it sounds.”
“And how many do you have?” she probes, momentarily forgetting the cards, curiosity getting the better of her.
“More than you,” he snaps, a sharp edge in his tone. “Play—the very thing you begged for, isn’t it?”
The first time he knocks, cutting her play short, she bursts into giggles. It’s theatrical, exaggerated—like a villain without the moustache to twirl. She leans back, eyes sparkling with delight. "Well, well, well," she drawls, "what shall it be?"
He watches her for a moment, then removes a single ring from his finger, setting it gently on the table before her, savoring the way the dim light catches its polished edges.
Her smile dies, almost instantly, her lips curling into a frown. "You're boring," she says, the words dripping with disdain. "Oh, that’s just not fair," she continues, before reaching across the table without pretense, grasping his hand like it belongs to her. Her fingers are cool, calloused. "You have way too many of those. From now on, you're not allowed to—"
"Ah, ah, ah," he interrupts, wagging a finger in her face, smirking at the way her grip tightens on him. "The game has begun. No amendments now. Those must come before."
When she comes too close to letting him form a gin, she groans and knocks, frustrated, tossing her only bracelet onto the table. It clatters between them, an unremarkable piece, but he watches the way her wrist looks bare without it.
The second time, he senses her holding onto high-value cards, unwilling to risk the points. She sighs, resigned, slipping off a single sock. He arches an eyebrow, unable to suppress a chuckle.
"Those come in pairs," he remarks. "You must remove both."
She does, her frown deepening as if he’s the one to blame. His eyes linger on her, tracing every subtle movement, the way her brows knit together, the irritation hiding the faint blush ever-staining her cheeks.
The third time, she knocks again, her score too low, and this time she peels off her shirt—simple, white, androgynous. His gaze drinks in every detail, not because of any overt lust but because he cannot help but notice. The under-tunic beneath is thin, just enough to trace the contours of her body. He studies the sinewy strength of her limbs, the muscles honed by hours spent drawing her bow, like her vampire companion.
He could shatter her if he wanted. One strike between the shoulder blades and she’d crumble. It’s good she favors distance in battle, good she knows how fragile she is. His eyes trace the flush creeping down her neck, spreading across the top of her chest. It deepens the longer he watches, sinking beneath the fabric. He imagines the blush coloring her breasts, turning her nipples pink, rising to attention under the scrutiny. Her pale skin is crying for color—whether from blood spilled or excitement, shame, thrill, violence. Any of it would suit her well.
"Stop staring, Raphael," she snaps, her voice cutting through his thoughts.
"You chose the game, my dear," he replies smoothly, not looking away.
"Yes, well," she huffs, tugging her tunic down, though it does little to hide the shape of her beneath. "The intent was to get you naked, not me."
"That's going splendidly for you."
She lays down her hand, and he mirrors her, a lazy grin spreading across his face. She smiles too, but hers is softer—drunk, content, as if none of this really matters. Her hair—pale grey, silver, something in between—spills over her shoulders, pooling around her like a curtain, hiding what he had been so meticulously observing. It irritates him, the way it falls, blocking his view, but still, he watches the rise and fall of her chest beneath the veil of too-straight strands.
And then, with a single breath, she speaks, low and almost reverent. "Fine," she whispers, "Fine. You are a genteel devil. I will give you the crown—do with it as you wish—but never come for my home."
His smile widens as he makes the contract materialize before her, parchment and ink swirling into existence with a thought. She signs it with a flourish, as though it’s nothing more than an afterthought.
"Have a good night, Raphael," she says, already dismissing him as she rises from her seat. But just before she passes him, she stops. For a moment, time seems to still as she leans down and presses a kiss to his cheek—unexpected, casual, as though it costs her nothing. Her lips linger, warm against his skin, and she laughs, a low, soft sound that vibrates through him. She smells of cheap ale, of sweat from a long day, of the kind of soap you buy when you don’t care how it smells, just that it works. Cheap, yes, but undeniably hers. "Sleep well, you beautiful fiend," she murmurs against him, "or whatever it is you beasts do. I know I shall."
It unnerves him, the ease with which she expels him from her thoughts, removes all traces of him from her mind where, but a few moments ago, she was flashing him bold smiles.
She doesn’t bother to see him out. She leaves him in her kitchen, alone. He stays longer than he intends, inhaling the remnants of her scent that still hang in the air, letting the moment stretch.
And when the darkness finally settles, cloaking the world outside, he rises. His steps are soundless as he walks toward where he knows she sleeps, her presence pulling him in like a thread he can’t help but follow. He stands there in the doorway, watching her in the dim light—one moment, then two, a breath, then seven more. Silent. Waiting.
Frustration festers inside him, deep and venomous. She deserves to be thrown to the dogs for wasting his time, for making him linger in this wretched little space. He feels the urge, acute and sudden, to take that pillow she sleeps on and press it down over her face. Until she wakes in panic, until she flails beneath him, pathetic and desperate. Until the pressure breaks her nose, until the crimson fountain bursts forth, blood mixing with her shallow gasps for breath, until her breath, her blood, and the light in her eyes slowly, agonizingly drain away.
Is this where she frolics with her vampire and her elf? Is this where she kneels, shameless and wanton, for them? The thought twists in his gut.
He imagines ripping the covers away—not to wake her, no, but to expose her. To bare her body to his gaze, her breasts, pale and soft. He wants to sink his claws into her sternum, feel the fragile bones shatter beneath his touch, and then sink deeper, through the delicate cage of her ribs. He could weave himself inside her, sew her up from within, his strings invisible but inescapable, always there, always pulling her back to him.
He would yank on those strings whenever the whim struck him. Drag her to him like a puppet, into a bath where he would scrub away that cheap, clinging scent of soap. Dunk her head beneath the water, lather her too-long hair, wash her body, her breasts, down to where her thighs meet. He would undress her, wrap her in nothing but a sheet, only to strip her bare again. Command her to kneel. Take her. Ravage her until she moaned, until she begged, until she cried out—perhaps all at once. Because he is so fucking tired, so exhausted, of this mortal who dares to touch him, to linger in his thoughts, only to walk away.
He would drag her back to the House of Hope. Burn the rags she clings to, dress her in something finer—something that reflects her worth, before stripping that from her, too. He would take her breath as easily as he took her, palm pressed firm against her mouth while he forced her legs apart, while he fucked her raw and fast into the bed, into the floor. Her pale skin would grow red beneath him, then bloody, her body heating, heating, hotter until she burned like the whores she mirrors with her shamelessness.
Maybe he’ll show her a twisted kindness. Maybe he’ll force her down, legs splayed wide, pulling her thighs apart until they strain, leaving her fully exposed, vulnerable. His lips will press to her, hungry, devouring the slickness he knows will already be there. She’ll grab at his hair, desperate for more, pulling too hard—and he’ll bite down, teeth sharp, breaking the skin. A warning that’s not a warning at all. He wouldn’t mind tasting her blood mixed with everything else, wouldn’t mind leaving her marked, stained in a way that can’t be washed off.
His mouth will move between licking and sucking, teeth scraping her tender skin, his tongue slipping in, lapping, dragging. His fingers will follow—one at first, then another, pushing deeper, pumping in a steady, torturous rhythm as her moans turn ragged. She’ll be so close, body trembling, but he’ll pull away. She won’t be allowed to come, not like this. Only on his cock. He’ll leave her gasping, begging, trembling on the edge of something she can’t reach. Then he’ll flip her over, shove her face hard into the sheets, and take her—hard, brutal, uncaring—until she breaks beneath him.
There will be pain, the delicious kind that sears her skin, as his hand grips her hipbone, holding her down, pressing hard. Until her body is spent, her screams echoing in the room, and there’s a bruise blooming on the small of her back, dark and deep from the hand that held her down, a mark she’ll carry long after.
And she would whisper, wouldn’t she? She would laugh, even after all of that, spill that praise she gives so freely, and he would drink it, drink every drop of it until her voice became useless for anything else. He would take her mouth, force himself down her throat until she choked, until she swallowed all of him—every inch, every pulse, every drop, even as it seared her from the inside. And she would thank him for it, because this is what she wants. It’s always what she’s wanted.
She would kiss him, he knows she would, because that is who she is. She takes without realizing it is she who is being taken, consumed piece by piece.
She will thank him, voice trembling, for pulling her from the wreckage of her home plane, her hollow, ugly world. She’ll whisper her gratitude for the fires he shows her, flames that never die. She’ll thank him for stitching her wounds closed, for letting her taste him, feel him. Because he never lied to her—he promised he’d be her savior, and he is, or, he will be.
But then he’ll send her back. Every time. And each time, she’ll return a little more broken, a little more desperate, hunger gnawing deeper, more wanton in her need for him. She’ll reach for him without hesitation, mouth open, eager to kiss him, to offer herself up—whether to be kissed or bitten. She’ll crave either, both, whatever he’ll give her. And the only words she’ll have left, the only sounds escaping her lips will be his name, repeated again and again, and “thank you,” always that, a prayer whispered into the abyss, to the only one who’s ever answered her.
He'll take a knife to the bruises on her skin, find the deepest one, prick the flesh open, creating a small opening for the blood that has risen to the surface to drain away. And he would drink it himself, sealing the wound close with the heat of his breath.
Finally, when all that remains is silence in his thoughts, he leaves. Returns to the kitchen. His fingers brush against the little spoon she’d used to stir her tea, and with deliberate care, he wraps it in a handkerchief.
A small token.
He takes it with him to Avernus, a quiet prize from the house he’ll never visit again.
She brings him the crown like a loyal pup, grinning wide, teeth gleaming in the aftermath of the false god's demise—viscera and entrails strewn across the depths of the sea.
“Nu-uh-uh,” she chides, dancing out of reach, light on her feet, his hand grasping at nothing but air.
That smile—it’s something new, feral, teetering on the edge of madness, and for a flicker of a moment, almost endearing. Her fingers are wrapped so tightly around the crown’s arches they’ve turned white, nails cracked and jagged, digging into her flesh like claws. He feels the urge rise, primal, to seize that braid of hers, swing it back hard enough to rip her scalp clean from her skull, watch the pale strands darken with blood as they coil in his hand.
He would make a whip of her hair, use it to thrash her into the floor until her body spasms, until those stubborn fingers twitch, crack, and finally give way. He can see it—the crown rolling free, slipping from her grasp as the last shreds of resistance bleed out of her, pooling beneath her like a halo of red.
But instead of mocking him further, she simply says, "Where do you keep the liquor, Raphael?"
He tilts his head, pointing lazily to a cupboard across the room. "Feeling parched, little mouse?"
“Very,” she replies. “You promised I could sample the contents of your cellars.”
His lips twitch, curving upward. “This isn’t my home, dear, and alas, these aren’t from my collection.” No, it’s just a room in a brothel, and if she doesn’t release the crown soon, he’ll gladly make her one of the working girls—sell her to the proprietor as a joke, a fleeting amusement.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he’ll buy her first night. He imagines slipping a coin of gold between her lips, forcing her to bite down, the metal bending beneath her teeth even if it hurts—because he is generous, because he is always fair. He pays in gold for what he wants, and she’ll go along with it. Why wouldn’t she? Has she not flashed a hundred smiles his way? Said something about him being smarmy, even as she confessed her liking for him, whispering to her companions that she would never admit it to his face? She’s a creature of secrets, but none of them are hidden from him.
Maybe she’ll kneel—she’s good at kneeling, isn’t she? A little rogue, always crouched in the shadows, picking locks, bending before doors, chests, windows, never thinking who might be watching. He’ll make her kneel before him, make her open that mouth, put it to work.
He imagines her tongue tracing his skin, swallowing him whole, her throat tight around him, silencing her witty retorts, stifling the endless banter that rolls off her lips. He’ll choke the pleasantries out of her, stop her voice in the only way that truly pleases him.
And she’ll look perfect that way—eyes wide, mouth full, the fight drained from her at last.
"That's all right," he hears her say. She slips the crown through her arm, letting it dangle off her elbow, and casually grabs two glasses, pouring from the first bottle within reach. It’s a dessert wine—meant to be savored slowly, paired with something delicate and sweet, the kind that dances on the palate. Not gulped like cheap ale.
She settles on the bed, legs crossed, grinning wide and nodding for him to join.
He does, taking the glass furthest from him, the one she’s almost cradling between her breasts. His fingers brush against the fabric of her tunic as he retrieves it, a whisper of touch she either ignores or fails to notice.
"To your newest acquisition, I suppose," she says, her voice light, half her glass already gone. The wine stains her lips, dark and sweet.
"To my favorite client," he replies, toasting her.
"No," she corrects immediately, immediately following up with that tut-tut-tut sound. "Client no longer. Contract fulfilled. Crown delivered."
"Not quite," he murmurs, watching her as she rolls her eyes, her lips pursed in annoyance, the wine deepening their color like a bruise yet to bloom.
"You’re a thousand years old—or however many, I don’t really know. You can wait a moment longer."
"Yes, little mouse," he agrees, though his gaze never leaves her. He watches the way she drinks, how the glass tips easily against her lips. He barely sips his own before tilting his, pouring the remainder into hers, nudging it upward, coaxing the too-sweet liquid past her lips, down her throat in a slow, sticky torrent. The wine spills like honey, and he watches, hoping it softens her—loosens more than just her tongue. Maybe her will, maybe her body. Maybe even her legs.
And she is little, isn’t she? Little in years, in stature, though she stands so tall in her defiance. Little in the slender circumference of her wrists, so fragile he could snap them with ease. Little in the way she moves, slipping through the cracks of time—he’ll blink, and she’ll be gone. Her irritating teasing, carried away on the wind, her beautiful face withered, turned to ash. Dust buried deep, eaten by the soil, forgotten by everything except him.
But his irritation swells, and she must feel it, must sense the shift, because she abandons her glass, her hands pressing against his chest, trying to hold him back, to tether him. Her cheeks are flushed, fever-bright, the wine burning through her veins, too much of it—too much everything. He watches her, the urge coiling tight inside him, dark and sharp, to take that bottle and pour the rest straight down her throat. To make her choke on it, drown in it, until her knees give way, until she collapses, and she’s no longer the clever, talkative thing—just the pretty thing.
Pretty things are easier. They bend, they twist, they kneel, they lick, they suck. They give without all the smiles, without the sharpness of their wit, without the protest, the spark. They are obedient, pliant, useful. But pretty things are dull. Pretty things are dead inside. They don’t breathe fire, they don’t hold secrets. They could never crawl through the shadows and emerge with the Crown of Karsus in hand.
He’s never counted the freckles on a pretty thing’s face—never bothered. They blur into the background, a wash of skin, nameless, faceless.
"I'll give it to you," she says at last, still smiling. "Here, here, it's yours. I gave my word, didn’t I? I just wanted to share that drink with you—you promised me that much."
She deposits the crown in his lap, her eyes scanning his face eagerly, searching for something—approval, perhaps, or gratitude. He wants to tell her to stop smiling. Not because it mars her beauty—no, it does not—but because it will ruin her if she keeps at it. It will crease that pretty face, etch lines into her skin, wear her down in ways she cannot yet comprehend.
A faint touch, just the brush of his hand against what he's wanted for so long. He feels it instantly—an electric thrum, the disconnect from the Weave, the raw, unbridled power simmering beneath the dull metal. Finally, it’s his. The crown, tarnished and worn, its stones dulled from years lost to time. But the force within, oh, that has not dimmed. It waits, ready to be molded, wrestled into something greater, something more. He exhales—too long, too deep, too honest. For a moment, he lets himself feel it.
Then, with a flick of his fingers, he snaps it away. The priceless treasure disappears, sent to his vault, to Avernus, to the House of Hope. Far from her small, mortal hands. The power is his now, no longer within her grasp, no longer a trinket she can dangle before him with that maddening smile.
"What now?" she asks, her voice soft, playful, as if daring the silence to break first.
"Now," he replies, "I begin my work. I am ever so grateful." He takes her hand, the weight of it delicate in his grasp, and brushes his lips against the back of it, a touch meant to linger. Then, almost idly, on a whim, he turns her hand over, his mouth grazing her palm, lower, to the tender inside of her wrist where her pulse beats fast and frantic. He releases her. "I do savor a fruitful partnership," he murmurs. "And ours, my dear, has been exquisitely, deliciously fruitful."
"Well," she says, laughter curling at the edges of her words, "can the Hells wait a moment longer?"
Her hand, now free, hovers near him, fingers brushing lightly against his knee, the smallest of touches. She laughs again—high, a bit unsteady, the sound almost fragile, like she's testing the tension between them, feeling out the boundary between boldness and fear.
"No one in Baator waits," he says. "The wheel is ever turning, ever grinding. By the time I return, the dust of new bones will be there, scattered across my steps."
"You don't need to be so poetic all the time, Raphael. Volo is not waiting in the wings to record your immortal wisdom."
"What is life without a little lyricism?" he replies. "This plane you call home is so dreadfully dull, so terribly ugly. Without sweet words to weave over its flaws, it would be nothing but a tragedy—unbearable."
She nods, absently, her mind already wandering, eyes unfocused as she speaks. "Can you imagine," she says, almost to herself, as if thinking aloud, "the stories I'll have to tell if I fuck a devil?"
His gaze lingers on her. "Ah, but let’s twist that little thought, darling," he counters. "Would the devil even want to fuck you?"
"I think," she says slowly, letting each word unfurl as if testing its weight, "he would have left if he didn’t enjoy my company, even just a little."
"The spirit of this place has truly inspired you, I see."
And still, he waits. He doesn’t move. He simply watches her—this fragile, fleeting thing of flesh and bone, this mortal mouse creeping closer with that uncertain, trembling smile. She laughs, a breathy, nervous sound, and then—like a secret too sweet to hold—she tells him she likes the way he smells, always has. A confession slipped between bouts of girlish laughter, like a secret she didn’t mean to spill.
He watches, always watching, as she edges closer, wondering how far she'll let herself fall, how much she'll take before her curiosity is sated or shattered. How far she’ll wander into the dark with him. Then, suddenly, her hands are on him—first in his hair, tentative fingers weaving through, and then gliding down, ghosting over his skin like a whisper that barely exists.
"Where are the horns?" she asks, voice curious, almost innocent. "Where do you hide them when you look like me?"
"I do not look like you," he replies, too quickly, the words sharper than he intended. "Not here—obviously."
"I'm human. You look human," she says, dismissive, as if that explains away the impossible. "So this is your face, then? Or one of them, I suppose. Truly? Not a mask? I’m not touching an illusion?"
"Illusions dissipate," he says simply.
She hums, a low melody of contentment, her touch wandering, feather-light. Closer, ever closer, her fingers trace the map of his skin, exploring all that cloth does not hide. Her fingertips burn, though it is his body that smolders hotter, yet still, she presses on. She crawls atop him, shameless, settling into his lap, palms bold and warm as they cup his face, tilting his chin upward to meet her kiss. Her lips carry the taste of wine he fed her, mingled with breath that rushes out too quickly, too eagerly. He stays still as her mouth works against his, her body melding into his, like any other whore in this den of whispers and shadows. She plays the part well.
She does not know, but he would have paid for her. He would have gladly emptied his purse, flung down coin after coin, even those embedded with souls, and claimed the night as his alone. He would have bought silence from the very walls, so no echo of sound could mar this moment. Avernus itself would have waited, just to let him later write in the scrolls of his mind that he had tasted the hero of Baldur’s Gate. She whose name now sits on every tongue, but whom he had lifted from the dirt, had baptized his little mouse—now crawling toward him with a smile, offering herself freely. She has nothing left to trade, nothing at all.
His hand curls through her hair, twisting it between his fingers, pulling her back gently, but firmly. His voice drips sweetness, almost mocking in its gentleness as he asks, “Will you kneel for me, little mouse?”
For the briefest breath, her face darkens with a frown—just a flicker, there and gone. “So soon?” she murmurs, but no protest passes her lips as he pushes her off him. She slides to the floor, between his legs, obedient and silent. He frees himself with practiced ease, guiding her head down, down further still, until her breath whispers across the length of him, and he urges her lower, deeper, more, more.
She’s as eager as he imagined, lips parting with a sigh as she takes him into her mouth. Her tongue is relentless, lapping up and down, slicking him with saliva until her hand glides smoothly over his length. Then she deepens it, sucking, humming, her head bobbing in slow rhythm. He watches, curious, hungry, greedy—pushing her down, testing the limits, waiting to see how far he can take it before her lips part to reveal teeth. She gags, her throat tightens around him, and he groans at the constriction, but she doesn’t pull away. Her free hand digs into his thigh, nails sharp, leaving crescent moons in his skin.
In his mind’s eye, the scene is so familiar, played out countless times, but now—finally—it’s real. The vision he’s replayed over and over: her on her knees, dropped willingly or forced down hard enough to splinter bone, her hair tangled in his fist, stripping away any control she might think she has, even over the rhythm. But it was never her in those fantasies, only a whisper, a phantom—not until now, not until the moment where thought becomes flesh, where desire finds its target. Before, it was always Haarlep. When he closed his eyes, rubbed his face and decided to give in, it was Haarlep he summoned, the perfect stand-in for what he couldn’t admit to craving.
But even then, it was never the same. Haarlep was too flawless, too exact in the art of pleasure. A creature of pure carnality, swallowing him whole without a moment’s pause, never gagging, never needing to gasp for breath, never faltering. Perfect. And that was the problem—Haarlep was too perfect, too precise, never giving him the rough edges, the imperfections he secretly desired. The imperfection that she, here and now, brings with every ragged breath and every quiver of struggle.
Right now, just right now, never after, he craves this inadequacy—the humanity of it. The way she gags, struggles, the way her breathing becomes hitched. He relishes in it.
Her hand tightens around him, pumping slow as she pulls back, lips sliding off with a wet, obscene pop, saliva strung between them before breaking. She exhales, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, then shifts onto his lap, still stroking him lazily between them. She presses a kiss to his temple, breathing him in like she’s chasing a scent, something familiar, comforting. And then her neck is there, so close, so tempting. He inhales too.
But the scent unsettles him. It’s not hers. It’s something layered beneath, something she’s tried to scrub away, washed off a thousand times, but still clings to her like a stain. It’s in her skin, marked in the same way as the bite marks, the imprints of fangs. She could peel her flesh down to the muscle, raw and bloody, and still, she’d reek of something that isn’t her.
He yanks her head back by the hair, hard enough that she lets out a sharp hiss, a whimpering curse barely escaping her lips.
“What—” she starts, voice stuttering.
“Get in the bath,” he mutters, pushing her off him, the edge of disgust curling his lip. “Wash it off. You reek of blood, of hunger, of desperation.” His eyes narrow.
She frowns, something fragile flickering in her gaze as she undoes the buttons and laces of her clothes, moving slowly, her playfulness all but dead. Her eyes flicker between the steaming bath, the bed, his face, and the door, uncertain.
“Astarion fed on me more than a week ago,” she says, rolling a shoulder like it’s nothing, a weak explanation for the scent of someone else lingering on her.
She steps into the bath, the water scalding and soothing all at once, stretching languidly as the steam curls around her like tendrils of smoke. Her fingers flit through the vials of oils, perfumes, and soaps, uncorking each one with idle curiosity, sniffing them only to discard them, leaving the stoppers loose, a trail of disarray in her wake. His eyes narrow on the row of disorder she’s carelessly created, and his fingers twitch, the urge to fix, to control, creeping beneath his skin. The itch sharpens when she makes no move to cleanse herself, merely basking in the heat like it alone could wash her clean.
He steps into the bath beside her, his clothes vanishing as though they’d never been, and she laughs, light and careless, reaching for him. But he doesn’t meet her hands. Instead, he grips her shoulder, spins her around with a force that’s almost violent, his movements sharper, rougher than the water could ever soften. She still hasn’t picked up the soap, hasn’t done what she’s supposed to do. His hands snatch the bar, working it into a furious lather, the foam building so quickly his palms feel stripped raw, squeaky, like the soap itself has scoured him down to bone.
He rubs it into her skin, hard, relentless, pushing the suds into her hair, dragging them down her neck. She shifts, pushes back against him—he hears her voice, sharp, irritated, but it’s distant, meaningless. He doesn’t stop. His fingers trail down her spine, dragging along the squeaky tautness of her soapy skin, catching on her flesh, as if her very body is rebelling against his touch.
Only when he grabs her hair, ropes it tight around his fist, pulls it taut until her head tilts back, does he stop. He inhales deeply, his breath shuddering against her skin, the scent of soap mingling with the heat of her. Only then does he feel the edge of satisfaction creep in. But it’s fleeting, just a moment, because beneath the smell of soap, beneath the heat of the bath, he can still sense it—the stench of something else, something she can never truly wash away.
“Raphael,” she gasps at last, turning around with sudden fury, shoving him hard enough that water splashes. She cups her hands, gathering the bathwater, and throws it over her face to dislodge the suds creeping too close to her eyes. “This is supposed to be nice,” she snaps, frustration coloring her throat in a flush of red, more freckles blooming across her skin, some he hasn’t tallied yet. His gaze falls on a pale line, horizontal across the soft curve of her breasts—a mark he’s never noticed before, hidden beneath her usual clothing that never dared dip this low.
“Now it can be, little mouse,” he murmurs, voice drifting as he reaches out, tracing that erratic pattern with an absentminded touch. His hands glide up, palming her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples in slow strokes. “Now, it can finally be.”
She softens, her resistance melting away as she pulls him closer, wrapping her leg around him. And he doesn’t hesitate. The moment the last stain of others has been washed from her, the moment she’s as close to pure as she can be, he grabs her other knee, spreads her thighs apart, and slides into her—no warning, no permission, just an animal need driving him. She says something—words that dissolve into the air, unheard, irrelevant—because all he can focus on is the way her body yields to him, the sharp, delicious slap of her back colliding with the stone edge of the tub as he thrusts deeper. Water sloshes over the sides, splashing the floor, forgotten in the frenzy of it.
Her lips graze his jaw, murmuring soft pleas, “Slowly, slowly,” but those words barely register. The only thing that matters now is the clench of her body around him, the heat, the way she grips him from the inside. He will make her his, thoroughly, relentlessly—his scent, his mark, will consume her, inside and out. He’ll fill her, and his seed will burn through her veins until it seeps into her very soul, coating her essence in him.
He ignores her soft murmur, the request for slowness, for tenderness, because none of that matters now. His hands grip her hips with bruising force, pulling her against him with every brutal thrust, her body crashing into the stone as if she’s part of the structure itself, as if she belongs there, molded to the shape of his need. The water ripples violently, spilling over the sides of the tub with every desperate movement, but it’s distant, background noise compared to the rhythmic slaps of their bodies colliding.
Her legs tighten around him, instinctively trying to pull him closer, deeper, as if she can’t get enough, but it’s him who craves more—always more. His fingers dig into her thighs, leaving marks, his nails grazing her skin as he drives into her harder, faster. Her gasps, her moans are like a chant in his ears, but even those are fading, lost beneath the pounding in his head, the rising heat in his veins.
His teeth graze her neck, then bite down, hard, as his body tenses. His hips slam into hers, harder, faster, until everything inside him snaps. He drives deep, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills into her, thick and hot, flooding her in wave after wave. He keeps thrusting through it, pushing his release deeper into her, as if trying to fill every part of her with himself.
He grinds against her, his cock still pulsing, his seed thick and warm inside her, marking her as his in the most obscene way possible. Breathless, his forehead presses against her skin, his body shaking, but he doesn't move, savoring the feeling of her still wrapped around him, drenched in him.
It is she who pushes him away, gently, her fingers pressing against his shoulder with the faintest resistance, just enough to slip from his grasp. He watches, almost entranced, as she sinks beneath the water, her body disappearing, only to re-emerge moments later, her hair slicked back, cascading down her spine in a wet, pale line. Every movement feels deliberate to him, every shift of her limbs an intricate dance he can’t quite decipher, and yet he obsesses over it—the way her heart seems calm, unnervingly composed, while his own still thunders in his chest from exertion. He searches her face, looking for some sign, some trace of what he’s left behind on her, but the flush in her cheeks seems to come only from the heat of the bath.
"You do smell so very nice," she muses, almost absentmindedly, her voice lilting, sing-song, as if the aftermath of their union has already slipped from her mind. She leans in, just a bit, her lips brushing his shoulder with a quick kiss, fleeting, detached, like an afterthought. He barely has time to savor it before she plants another, this time on his cheek, and he feels his skin burn beneath the gentleness of her touch, though she hums as if it means nothing to her.
His eyes trace every movement as she strokes his hair, places another soft peck to his jaw, as if she’s erasing what just happened, piece by piece. It unnerves him, the casual way she steps out of the bath, her body no longer his to hold. She’s already slipping away from him, towel in hand, drying herself off out of sight, disappearing into some space beyond his reach, and it twists something inside him.
When she returns, dressed, her wet hair pulled into a careless bun, she stretches lazily, arms reaching high above her head, her spine arching in a way that makes his fingers twitch. The sound she makes—a soft “oh,” barely audible—rattles him. It feels calculated, a tease she doesn’t even have to try for, and his gaze follows her every move as her eyes find his again, narrowing, playful, maddeningly mischievous.
"I'm taking this with me," she says, already pocketing one of the vials of perfumed oil from the side of the tub, the same one she sniffed earlier, and his mind latches onto it. “You won’t mind, will you?” she asks, though the question feels rhetorical, a little game she’s playing. “Unless you want to sign a contract for it—in which case I’m good.”
She’s already slipping away again, and he’s left there, still drowning in the scent of her, her absence a lingering ache. Every word she speaks, every movement she makes, feels premeditated and distant, as though she’s already moved beyond him. She’s untouchable now, and it drives him mad that he can’t claw her into shreds, break apart her bones and fuse them back together, anchor this pretty thing the way he needs to.
The thought drives him deeper into a spiral.
He adds her newly-discovered freckles to the mental tally he keeps, cataloging her, piece by piece, marking her in a way no one else can see. He knows he will count them again—every time—like a ritual, a fixation he can’t let go of.
And from then on, he watches his little mouse differently. No longer out of necessity, no longer to ensure she delivers him what he needs. Now, he watches simply because he can, because she intrigues him in ways he refuses to admit, ways that burrow into his mind and fester. She comes to him—bold, audacious—and in turn, he finds himself visiting her. Always with a pretense, a lie, some flimsy excuse to justify it. Yet every time, she performs this strange little ritual, one that unsettles him but which he never interrupts, as if it binds them somehow.
She’s a physical thing, he’s realized. Always touching, always embracing, her body always seeking connection. Not just with him, but with anyone, everyone. When he arrives, her arms are around him immediately, pulling him close, whether from the front or the back, as though she has to feel him, claim him in her own subtle way. Her lips brush his cheek or his neck, and she whispers, teasingly, about how devils aren’t welcome beyond her threshold, but he’s free to meet her outside. Always that damn teasing, that maddening touch.
One day, she tells him, “There’s an art exposition I want to see.” The silence stretches between them, thick and heavy, until she adds, “Will you take me, Raphael?”
For reasons he doesn’t care to examine, he agrees, and he escorts her to the gallery. She flits through the pieces, the patrons, until she finds the most grotesque, absurd painting in the entire collection—a hideous thing, tragic in both form and color. She coos at it, eyes wide, batting her lashes at the curator and then at him.
“It’s a tragedy,” he says flatly, unimpressed by the thing.
“But can you imagine how tragic it would look in my dining room?” she counters with a grin.
“You don’t have a dining room,” he replies, narrowing his eyes.
And yet, there she is, sidling closer, murmuring, "Please, please, and thank you, thank you," as she pushes him into a dark corner, the words spilling shamelessly from her lips against his neck, into his mouth, as her hands begin their work. Her fingers slip between them, past the barrier of clothing, seeking him out with expert precision. Her hand wraps around him, stroking, teasing, working him into a frenzy as his breath hitches, and his control starts to fray.
"Please, please," she whispers again, relentless, her voice intoxicating as it pours into his ear. “You devils have more gold than you know what to do with,” she adds, laughing softly against his skin as she strokes him faster, harder, until he’s shaking. His body betrays him, and he spills into her hand, the heat of his release pooling in her palm. She doesn’t miss a beat, pulling her hand away, licking the remnants from her fingers with a wicked grin, savoring every drop as if it’s a victory.
She kisses him deeply, her tongue curling around his, and then—casually, as if nothing has changed—she says, “Buy it.”
And so, frenzied by her touch, her laugh still echoing in his ears, he does. He buys the garish painting, the absurd, tragic thing, just as she asked.
Days blur into nights, hours collapse into minutes, and everything—freckles, sighs, whispers—bleeds together into something shapeless, something maddening. She exists in his mind like a fever, an obsession that claws at the inside of his skull. He wants to strike her, wants to feel the crack of his hand against her cheek, wants to see her teeth scatter like shattered pearls, flying through the air in a crimson arc. He imagines the blood splatter, warm and wet, the taste of copper filling the space between them. And then, in the dirt, he'd gather each tooth, plucking them from the earth with a strange reverence, pressing them back into her mouth, one by one, rearranging her smile, her lips, her voice until she can only speak the words he wants to hear.
He’d make sure of that—reshape her into something that can’t utter a sound unless it’s for him.
He wants to ruin her, break her in ways she doesn’t even know she can break. He wants to slip a single claw between her ribs, feel the give of her flesh as it slides into her lungs, puncturing them. He imagines the sudden deflation, her breath leaving her in a violent rush, a gasp that’s more his name than sound. And then, he would kneel, face so close to hers, and he would breathe life back into her. But it wouldn’t be her air—it would be his, hot and searing, filling her chest with something darker, something that burns more than it saves. He would make her lungs his, keep her alive only with his breath, and then, when she’s gasping, desperate, he would plunge his claws back in, sealing the wound, trapping her breath inside.
She would only breathe because he allows it, because he is there, holding the wound shut, controlling every inhale, every exhale. Her life, her very essence, would hang on the razor’s edge of his whims, her chest rising and falling only when he decides it should. And she wouldn’t fight it—not really—because she would learn that the air tastes better when it’s his, that the pain of his touch is sharper, sweeter than anything else.
"Raphael," she says softly, offering him a cup of tea, her free hand curling around his wrist, a fleeting squeeze, as if testing the pulse beneath. "Do you like it?" She nods toward the painting she’d fussed over for nearly an hour, carefully arranging it on the wall.
"No, little mouse," he says. "I do not."