Uncasual Enjoyer @megidonitram - Tumblr Blog

Jun 8

1920's AU Astarion/Raphael Fic

Quick Summary: Dressing up and pretending to be Cazador's wife isn't a particularly good or honest life, but at least it gave Astarion the freedom to explore his fascination with men. When a handsome stranger with dangerous connections shows up at The Crimson Palace on a night when Cazador's away on business, Astarion realizes his charade might be more of a cage than a release.

Rating: Expicit

Ao3 Tags:

Alternate Universe - 1920s, Crossdressing, Forced Feminization, Period-Typical Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Astarion's Past Abuse (Baldur's Gate), Dubious Consent, Raphael is Good at Sex (Baldur's Gate), Mind Games, Oral Sex, Rimming, Anal Sex, Mirror Sex, Sexual Overstimulation, Dirty Talk

Ao3 Link

Astarion swanned through the smoke-filled back dining room of The Crimson Palace, in dark rouge and heavy eye makeup that softened the hard edges of his features, draped in a mink stole and a dark velvet dress with gold beading that matched the grand Art Deco design of the hotel so completely that Astarion felt more like a piece of furniture than an actual person. In the soft evening lamp light, no one was any the wiser as “Mrs. Szarr” moved from table to table, laughing at the same unfunny quips and fawning over wealthy men’s boasting –anything that would keep patrons running up a tab.

“And where is Mr. Szarr tonight? I find it hard to believe he’d just leave a lovely thing such as yourself unattended,” a man in a poorly tailored suit asked. He didn’t bother hiding his ogling. No one did.

What was the point of having a beautiful wife if other men didn't covet her?

Astarion let out a bright trill of laughter, making pointed eye contact with the bartender who’d been watching him all evening. “Who says I’m unattended?” he touched the ruby pendant resting in the hollow of his throat like he was thinking fondly of a lover, not fussing with the iron collar clamped around his neck. “Cazador’s away on business for the next few days.”

“Such a shame. I had something I wanted to discuss with him.” The man mused, reclining back in his chair, chewing on the end of his cigar. He didn’t unbutton his dinner jacket, and it bunched sloppily around his shoulders.

“Maybe I could pass a message along?” Astarion suggested. He reached over the man's lap to pick up the crystal decanter in the center of the table and poured the last shot and a half of whiskey into the man’s rocks glass. “Put in a good word for you? I’m sure you’ve got some brilliant ideas in that head of yours.”

It was an empty gesture, and Astarion knew it. Cazador would kick this guy out of his office before his ass hit the leather sofa. He couldn't stand the nouveau riche and their constant, insecure boasting. However, nothing moved liquor like a little bit of fantasy.

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about it, sugar,” the man cooed, taking a big slug of his whiskey. His cuff links were too heavy for the fabric of his dress shirt, and they flopped around as he moved his hands. “It’s not women’s work, you’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

“That would be terrible, wouldn’t it?” Astarion hid his disdain behind a pursed-lipped smile, plucking the decanter off the table. “Why don’t I get you another bottle, and you can think my offer over a little bit?”

“That I can certainly do…” The man’s eyes blazed with the heady intoxication of Cazador Szarr’s own “wife” waiting on him hand and foot. A more shrewd man would probably be able to tell that “she” was just trying to escape the conversation.

Astarion turned and made a beeline straight back to the bar. The bartender regarded him with a weary stare as he set the decanter down on the mahogany bar top with a heavy clink.

“That sucker at table 12 will take another bottle.” Astarion reached behind the bar for a hand mirror that the bottle girls kept to check their makeup for touch-ups. “Tell Violet if she keeps smiling and nodding at his bullshit, she can probably get at least another two out of him.”

The bartender, Leon, if Astarion recalled correctly, curled his lip as he watched Astarion fuss with his appearance. He was a new acquisition, and had been mostly straight until Cazador got his hooks into him —had some sob story about a dead wife and a little girl at home, Astarion had half listened to on a slow night. He hadn’t quite adjusted to Astarion and Cazador’s particular arrangement yet.

“I don’t understand how you can degrade yourself like this,” Leon muttered. He poured a shot of water into the decanter and swirled it around with a well-practiced motion.

“In due time, you’ll watch Cazador make men do a lot more for a lot less than what I’m getting.” Astarion gave him a cutting stare, slipping the hand mirror back into its spot.

He didn’t expect Leon to get it. Most sane men wouldn’t. When people learned Astarion’s little secret, they assumed he was stuck in one of Cazador’s perverse power plays, which was true to some extent. Astarion did what Cazador told him to do, wore what Cazador told him to wear, fucked who Cazador told him to fuck the way Cazador told him to fuck them. There wasn’t a single aspect of Astarion’s life that Cazador didn’t completely control. Yet, there was an immense amount of freedom in putting on his pretty porcelain mask and dancing on a razor’s edge. It allowed him to feed that devil inside, the one that yearned to flirt with, and touch, leer and be leered at by other men.

"That gilded cage must be awfully pretty on the inside.'’ Leon sighed.

Before Astarion could dignify that with a response, the ornate doors of the dining room's private entrance swung open, and all eyes turned to the man being ushered in by the hostess. He was casually but impeccably dressed in a slim scarlet waistcoat fastened with thin gold button chains over a cream dress shirt that flattered his broad shoulders and bronze complexion. His chestnut hair was a little long around the ears and slicked back away from his sharp, foxish features. He carried himself with the air of a leading man, someone who was used to commanding the attention of an entire room with a word or a gesture.

It was highly unusual for the Crimson Palace to host a VIP that Astarion had never met, but there was little doubt this man was important.

The hostess showed the man to a private booth in the back of the room. He smiled and made a charming quip that made the hostess giggle like a schoolgirl before taking her leave. He settled in the booth and slipped a well-worn travel journal out of his breast pocket, and jotted a few things down, tapping the barrel of his pen against his lips between thoughts. After a moment, he sensed Astarion’s eyes on him, and he looked up, giving Astarion a crooked, knowing smile.

A giddy little lump formed in Astarion’s throat, and he hastily swallowed it down, turning back to Leon, “Do you recognize that man?” he whispered. “I didn’t think we had anyone on the ledger tonight.”

“I haven’t been told otherwise,” Leon looked up from the glass he was polishing. “That guy certainly looks the part, though.”

“I’ll scope him out,” Astarion muttered, pushing himself off the bar.

Getting across the dining room was bitter agony. It wouldn’t do to storm over to handsome stranger and interrogate him outright. Astarion had to continue making his rounds.

Faux fond hands on shoulders. “Is everything to your liking?”

Shugging out of drunkards’ grasps, “You can look, but no touching, dearest.”

Astarion felt the stranger’s gaze prickling the back of his neck the entire time, and it drove him mad.

When Astarion finally reached the stranger’s table, he tried to peek over his shoulder at his writing, but he only got a quick glimpse of a peculiar script before the stranger snapped the journal shut and stowed it back in the inside lining of his waistcoat.

“Spying’s a filthy habit, little mouse.” He scolded. His voice was deep and rich with a sort of lyrical quality like a theater actor, though he was far too classy to be working in any of the run-down opera houses in these parts. “Doesn’t Cazador train his girls better than that?”

“My apologies, it’s just a bit odd to see someone come to The Crimson Palace to write.” Astarion put on his most charming smile, clasping his velvet-clad hands like he was begging for forgiveness, “You piqued my curiosity.”

The stranger chuckled, his expression softening a bit. “It’s merely a small hobby of mine. I fear my poetry wouldn’t be of much interest to you.”

“Oh, I’m sure it's wonderful, but I won’t push you to share.” The last thing Astarion wanted was random men trying to read him their dirty limericks. He glanced around the table. There was only a half-empty carafe of mineral water, no alcohol. “Might I get you something to get those creative juices flowing? We just got in a beautiful Chablis straight from the Burgundy countryside.”

“I never drink without company.” The stranger gave Astarion a knowing smile. “Unless you’d care to join me?”

Astarion laughed, half flattered, half embarrassed. He placed his left hand over his chest, showing off the obnoxiously large rock on his ring finger.“I appreciate your interest, but I’m not one of the floozies. I could probably find you someone more to your type, though.”

Cazador didn’t permit Astarion to fraternize with anyone without his direct supervision. Astarion was his most potent blackmail weapon, and he was obsessively protective of his identity.

“I know exactly who you are, little mouse.” He picked up his water glass, cheating his own ring out to reveal a shrieking goat’s head delicately carved into a silver bezel with a band inlaid with lapis lazuli. “I don’t think Cazador would mind if you made a small exception to his rule.”

Astarion’s whole body ran ice cold. He glanced back over to Leon, who was watching them intently as he polished the same glass over and over again. This would make it back to Cazador within the hour.

“I’m surprised you didn’t call ahead, sir.” Astarion gushed, trying to wave down one of the bottle girls. “I’ll have the balcony prepared so you don't have to—”

“Oh nonsense!” The stranger slapped down the idea like Astarion had suggested they step out into the back alley for a little fun. “I’m merely a humble middleman, unworthy of such fanfare. I’m perfectly happy in the dining room.”

Astarion furrowed as the bottle girl stopped in front of the stranger’s table, waiting for Astarion’s order with the vacant eyes and the straight-backed posture Cazador demanded out of his women.

“Bring us over a bottle of Mr. Szarr’s cabernet and a couple of glasses when you get a chance?” Astarion slipped into the booth across from the stranger, trying to hide the disdain from his face.

The bottle girl raised an eyebrow at the request, fingers playing at a scar on the back of her hand. A few years ago, Astarion had watched Cazador grind the heel of his boot into her palm for some sort of slight against a guest.

“Just do as you’re told.” Astarion snapped, and the girl chirped her apology and scurried off like a startled field mouse.

“A cabernet and not the Chablis?” The stranger mused. He rested his chin on the back of his hand, studying Astarion with a razor-sharp gaze that made Astarion rest his hand over his Adam’s apple as he swallowed down his nerves. “Why the sudden change of mind, Mrs. Szarr?”

“The Chablis is a perfectly nice, refreshing summer wine, but I don’t typically enjoy whites,” Astarion said plainly. “They lack character.”

The stranger hummed thoughtfully, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a woman of taste, I see.”

The bottle girl approached the table again with the bottle of wine submerged in a bucket of ice— if Cazador had been here, he would have thrown that bucket at her head. She placed a wine glass in front of both of them. She looked to Astarion with another quizzical look. “Should I… get you anything else?”

“Some privacy.” Astarion watched the girl hurry straight for the bar to have a hushed conversation with Leon. He turned his attention back to the stranger. “I don’t know what kind of power play you’re trying to pull, but I don’t have nearly the kind of sway over Cazador that everyone assumes.”

“You misunderstand, my sweet. There’s no power play, I simply wish to see an honest picture of The Crimson Palace’s day-to-day operation without her owner driving the whip."

“And you think the best way to go about that is to publicly embarrass him?” Astarion hissed. “Who even are you? I must have entertained nearly half the Eighth Circle by now, and I’ve never seen you before.”

“Of course, where are my manners?” The stranger plucked the wine bottle from the ice and poured Astarion a generous glass before his own. “You may call me Raphael.”

Astarion furrowed, staring at the glass in front of him. “No last name?”

“I don’t see why we should complicate our interaction with the circumstances of my birth.” Raphael swirled his wine around, examining the thin meniscus that clung to the delicate glass walls. “It’s so rare I get to play the handsome stranger, and I think I quite like the part.”

He wasn’t fooling anyone. He wanted to force Astarion to call him by his first name, to create an image of intimacy between himself and Cazador Szarr’s lovely wife.

“And what shall I call you?” Raphael asked, leveling those burning eyes at Astarion. “Lovely creature that you are, I’m sure you don’t particularly like ‘little mouse.’”

“You should know my name. You seem familiar enough with my husband.” Astarion replied flatly. “I’m Estelle Szarr.”

“Oh, I know what Cazador tells you to go by.” Raphael chuckled. “But the funny thing is, there is no record of an Estelle Szarr anywhere in the county clerk’s office, no birth certificate, no tax records, not even a marriage certificate —that last one’s quite important if you’re going to claim to be Cazador’s wife.”

“That’s not so strange.” Astarion crossed his arms over his chest. “He met me in my hometown down South. My parents didn’t approve of me marrying a Russian, so we eloped.”

“A fair point about the birth certificate and the tax records, perhaps, but for a man in Cazador Szarr’s line of work to not legally marry his wife in the same city he runs his operations is… unorthodox to say the least.” Raphael finally took a sip of his wine, his face lighting up like a proud tutor fawning over a star pupil. “That is to say nothing of your clearly exceptional class. I have a hard time believing a diamond such as yourself would just blow into town from nowhere.”

“Have you considered Mr. Szarr just has an extraordinary eye for talent?” Astarion scoffed, but he felt his voice go thin through his breathy falsetto. “He has a passion for grooming perfection out of this squalid mud heap of a city after all.”

Raphael’s upper lip curled in a wicked grin, his eyes cut towards another silvery blonde in the same crimson dress, swaying unsteadily in her heels as she shamelessly draped her arms around a patron's shoulders as he showed her his new self-winding pocket watch. “I think if that were true, he’d be able to turn out more women of your caliber, no?”

Astarion took a swallow of his wine. It was rich and sharp like being kissed with his lungs full of cigar smoke.

“I figure there’s really only one plausible reason a man with designs of being the most powerful man in the city would not properly marry his wife.”

“Enlighten me then. Since you know so much about my marriage.”

“He is ashamed of what he is.” Raphael’s tone was casual, but Astarion felt some thin veil of safety slip to the floor. “Or should I say, he is ashamed of what you made him?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Astarion drained his glass. His mouth felt dry; the wine didn’t help.

“Oh, shall I guess then?” Raphael’s eyes lit up like a cat toying with its prey. He picked the bottle up and filled Astarion’s glass back before he could even set it on the table. “I don’t think you were lying about being from the South. A clever thing like you must know the best way to sell a lie is to cut it with the truth. It would track, wouldn't it, if you grew up wealthy and religious?”

“That’s hardly a difficult deduction.”

“I don’t think your parents would have forced you into a marriage… You would have been fine languishing in a loveless marriage of convenience, wouldn’t you?” Raphael mused, swirling the blood red liquid in his glass. “You’ve always had your fair share of suitors. I can tell you’ve always been a head turner, whether you’re in your glittery little costumes or not, you wear your beauty far too naturally to be a late bloomer.”

“Empty flattery.” Astarion rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t deny Raphael might have grazed a fingertip over a crack in his defense. “I’m beginning to think you’re a carnival mentalist who talked his way onto the premises.”

The glint in Raphael’s eye turned dark and fearsome. It made Astarion’s stomach churn.

Raphael took a long, luxuriating sip of his wine, letting the challenge hang in the air between them in a heavy pall.

“You liked the romantic attention you garnered in your youth well enough, but it never felt like enough, did it? I mean, it’s quite apparent you have at least an admiration for women, but as lovely and soft and elegant as they are, there was always something a little… dull about them, wasn’t there?”

If Raphael had instead leapt across the table and ripped Astarion out of his clothes, it would not have made him feel half as naked. The slight flush of the wine in his cheeks turned to ice. His hand trembled as he set down his glass. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Perhaps you don’t.” Raphael conceded. “Maybe you’re just a greedy little thing who craves beauty and passion in all its forms, either way, something made your eyes wander towards men.”

Astarion didn’t speak. He couldn’t even look Raphael in the face.

“Did you get too reckless? Is that why you ran away from home? I bet it was a gardener or a stable hand, someone sweet and honest, but could still take you roughly behind the coach barn?”

“He was my niece's summer tutor.” The words left Astarion’s lips before he could stop them.

The image of the kind-eyed Princeton scholar pushed its way into Astarion’s mind like a hot knife. He’d been refined, clever, and worldly, everything Astarion, trapped in Birmingham, Alabama all his life, pretended at being. Being around him had felt electric, but Astarion thought he could control himself. Astarion had always been able to control himself, until he had a few too many nips from a friend’s flask at the 4th of July picnic, and he ran into his scholar while he was trying to sneak back into the house.

Astarion swore he’d been dreaming. Why else would the object of his obsession be in the kitchen in the middle of the night, half undone?

“Oh, my apologies, Mr. Ancunín. I didn’t expect to run into anyone this late at night.” His hair was down and slightly sleep-mussed. The house robe he’d thrown on hung half open.

Astarion’s mother had complained that long hair on a man wasn’t proper, but Astarion quite liked it. He thought it looked very romantic.

“Don’t apologize, I hoped I might run into you!” Astarion had to hold onto the kitchen counter to keep himself from swaying.

“What do you—“

Astarion reached out and grabbed a fistful of purple silk, pulling himself closer to the other man and pressing his mouth to his.

A hand caught the small of his back, and God Astarion had longed for this, the scratch of stubble against his chin, the heady scent of his cologne, the solid body leaning over him instead of against him.

For one blissful moment, he had everything he’d ever wanted.

But Astarion had to come up for air eventually, and when he finally leaned back and looked up at the blanched, shocked face above him, his stomach dropped to the floor.

“Astarion, have you been drinking?” His voice was grave.

Astarion didn’t answer; he just broke from his grasp, backing away towards the kitchen exit.

“Astarion?” The purple silk robe pulled closed, he reached out to catch Astarion’s wrist. “Astarion, I’m not—”

Astarion didn’t wait for the scolding, didn’t wait to be dragged to his father’s study and outed as a deviant.

He ran, hit the swing door to the dining room, stumbled back to his room, and slammed the deadbolt shut.

He didn’t stop running. He threw what valuables he could find in a travel bag and climbed out the window that very night.

He was on a train to anywhere else before the sun had risen, before anyone realized he wasn’t in bed, before anyone could reveal his greatest shame.

He’d ended up in Cazador’s office by accident, transfixed him by pure happenstance.

Astarion looked up at Raphael sheepishly. “But we never— I mean, Cazador was my first.”

“You poor little creature,” Raphael’s eyebrows knit in mock sympathy. “Then you’ve only known pleasure as something to be viciously seized or forcibly taken. What a pathetic existence.”

Astarion merely nodded. Raphael was right. He was pathetic, nothing more than a debauched little plaything, a disgusting freak wrapped in pretty packaging.

“I’ll ask you again,” Raphael said. “What shall I call you?”

Astarion’s jaw twitched. Years of conditioning made his body rage against speaking the single word that brought the carefully constructed facade Cazador had built for him crumbling to the ground.

“Astarion.” He muttered. “My real name is Astarion.”

How long had it been since he’d told someone his real name? How long had it been since someone had seen the true Astarion? Had anyone ever actually seen the true Astarion?

“Very good, little mouse!” Raphael’s expression softened to something quite gentle. “That was quite the difficult feat.”

“It was.” Astarion’s voice was barely a whisper.

He felt raw, like Raphael had pryed open his ribs and played with the darkest part of him.

Astarion finished his wine and let Raphael pour him the last of the bottle. He studied the slight chip in his nail lacquer— that would need to be fixed before Cazador returned home.

“I think I shall retire for the night,” Raphael announced, standing from his seat. “Might you bring a bottle of Champagne to my room when you find the time? I’m quite keen to know more about that exceptional pallet of yours.”

Astarion shot up after him, anxiety flaring through his body once more. “Are you out of your mind?” He hissed. “Obviously, I can’t come to your room.”

“But you also can’t stand up a Son of The Eight Circle,” Raphael chuckled. “That’s quite the corner I’ve backed you into, isn’t it?”

“Haven’t you tormented me enough?” Astarion seethed.

“Not at all!” Raphael tilted Astarion’s chin up with the crook of his fingers, “I’m finding you make me quite insatiable.”

Raphael leaned down and pressed a kiss against Astarion’s cheek. “It has been lovely to meet you, Mrs. Szarr. You are quite the delight.”

***

Astarion had tried to go back to work. He truly had, but it was hard to go back to upselling trite drunks after being ripped open so violently.

He danced around Leon for a while, trying to dig out what he’d picked up on while Leon tried to press him for more information.

Astarion was just going to step out for a little fresh air to collect his thoughts when he suddenly found himself in the wine cellar, thumbing at the label of a 2-year-old bottle of Ruinart that Cazador was saving for a special occasion.

“What are you doing?” Leon asked, as Astarion pushed past him to shovel ice into a chiller bucket-- unlike Cabernet, Champagne should be served chilled.

“A guest in the Presidential Suite requested a bottle of champagne.” Astarion lied, plucking two flute glasses off the back wall.

“… and you’re personally delivering it?” Leon arched an eyebrow.

“Violet spilled a drink on his velvet blazer. I’m trying to keep him happy.” Astarion stepped into the service elevator before Leon could say anything more.

The elevator car shuddered and buzzed as it slowly ascended to the upper floors. Astarion felt like he was trapped in a coffin.

The doors slid open with a soft ding, and Astarion stepped into the garish gold and velvet-trimmed hallways. He would never admit it to Cazador, but he quite hated how excessively he had designed the luxury rooms. It was far too much for the kind of crowds he claimed to be courting.

Astarion checked the room number he’d hastily scribbled down from the front desk and made his way to the door, knocking firmly.

“One minute.” Raphael’s voice sounded from the other side, and something clattered against lacquered wood before the deadbolt turned and the door swung open.

Raphael had shed his outer layers in favor of a ribbed cotton undershirt, unbuttoned down to his clavicle. His hair was damp and slightly tousled like he’d just combed it back with his fingers.

“Made yourself comfortable, I see,” Astarion replied in a short tone. He pushed his way into Raphael’s room without asking, trying to seem put upon, but really he needed an excuse to look away from the other man for a moment. “Not expecting company?”

Astarion scanned for a place to set the Champagne down. The particular room Raphael had rented was one of the sorrier luxury suites in The Crimson Palace. The inconvenient placement of an air shaft made it about 20 square feet smaller than the other rooms on that floor, and Cazador had compromised by placing an enormous floor-to-ceiling mirror on the back wall and calling it The Vanity Room.

“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t resist.” Raphael chuckled, shutting the door behind them. “It’s only that the electric lights do make it quite hot on these upper floors, I didn’t want to look half a mess if you decided to drag your feet.”

Astarion watched Raphael walk up behind him in the reflection of the mirror, the footfall of his leather loafers sharp and deliberate. His fingertips glided over Astarion’s arms, coming to rest in a loose grip on his shoulders. Raphael’s lips ghosted dangerously over the shell of Astarion’s ear, and he had to fight himself not to swoon into the contact.

That was why he was here, wasn’t it, to let himself be devoured?

Why was he insisting on hanging on to any sort of dignity?

Raphael reached down and plucked the champagne bottle out of the chiller. He strode across the room and sat down on the edge of his bed, tearing off the gold foil with his teeth in a surprisingly animal gesture.

“Would you be a dear and bring me the wash rag from that basin over there?” Raphael asked, tilting his head towards a small porcelain bowl sitting on a side table.

Astarion walked over to the basin, regarding the orange glow of the lamp light in the still, clear water for a moment. Maybe he could seize back a little control if he wanted to.

Astarion dumped the remainder of the champagne ice into the mix.

Raphael watched Astarion with mild curiosity as he delicately unclasped his assortment of tennis bracelets and laid them out on the side table. He paused as he moved to his wedding ring. The cumbersome European-cut diamond surrounded by a halo of rubies had always looked like an eye to him. He pulled it off his finger and set it diamond side down next to his other jewelry.

“That’s quite a lot of fanfare for a wash rag.” Raphael mused, and Astarion let out a dry chuckle as he rolled his evening gloves down his forearms.

“You can’t expect me to get my gloves wet,” Astarion replied, picking up the rag with bare hands and dunking it in the ice water and ringing out the excess. “They’re genuine silk, you know?”

Astarion sauntered over to the bed and pressed the cold rag against Raphael’s neck.

Raphael hummed in approval, leaning into the touch as he untwisted the cage of the champagne bottle.

“My, you do run hot…” Astarion placed a hand on Raphael’s cheek, tilting his face toward him and pressing their lips together.

Raphael looped an arm around Astarion’s waist and pulled him between his legs. A small spark of panic lit up in Astarion’s chest, and the instincts Cazador had drilled into him howled that he was about to be found out.

Astarion swallowed the fear, hooking his fingers in the opening of Raphael’s undershirt, pulling open the snaps as he dragged the washcloth down his chest.

Raphael growled, his grip bit into Astarion’s lower back possessively, as Astarion broke the kiss.

Astarion wasted no time. He lapped at the droplet of water pooling in the hollow of Raphael’s collarbone and followed the trail of the wash rag sinking onto his knees as he trailed kisses down Raphael’s sternum.

“Is this how Cazador taught you to please men?” Raphael asked airily. He ran his finger through Astarion’s hair, pushing it out of his face. “Artlessly jumping on their cocks like a bitch in heat?”

Astarion’s fingers paused on Raphael’s belt buckle. “I’ve never had any complaints before.”

“No doubt because the men Cazador has you courting are quite artless in their lovemaking.” Raphael took the rag out of Astarion’s hand, his grip on his hair tightening a bit, not nearly enough to hurt but enough to hold him still.

“I’d hardly call it love making.” Astarion scoffed.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Raphael pressed the washcloth to Astarion’s cheek.

“What are you doing?” Astarion tried to flinch away, but Raphael’s grip on him tightened. “You’ll smudge my makeup.”

“I’m not much of a fan of this little illusion of yours,” Raphael replied. He continued wiping at Astarion’s face despite his protests. “Be still.”

“I’ll look like a man.” Astarion’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried in vain to turn his face away from the wash rag.

“Yes, I’m aware.” Raphael let go of his hair and grabbed him by the jaw, dragging the rag over Astarion’s mouth. Astarion watched in horror as the rag stained blood red. “That is the idea.”

“Haven’t you done enough to humiliate me?” Astarion wished he hadn’t dunked the rag in ice water. The tug of the damp fabric was bitterly cold, and it made him feel like his skin was being flayed off.

“While I could gladly watch you squirm all night, this has nothing to do with your humiliation.” Raphael tilted Astarion's head from side to side, inspecting his work before he dabbed at his eyes a little more. “When you sleep with men, don’t you prefer them to look like men?”

Astarion bristled at the question, casting his resentful gaze at the floor so Raphael didn’t hit him. “That’s because I’m—“

“What? Because you’ve decided every queer sexual encounter has to be some facsimile of man and wife?” Raphael scoffed. “Or do you get off on being taken as a woman?”

Astarion took pause at that. Despite himself, he liked the drag, liked the artistry of it, the attention, the character he created around that image, but he resented the sex. There was always a thin, dirty veneer over it that kept him from enjoying it. Since the day Cazador made Astarion start this stupid charade, he thought it all felt dirty and unnatural because it was dirty and unnatural, but one stupid little question from Raphael and suddenly he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Didn’t he long to be touched, to be properly undressed and treated as something more than just a willing mouth and greedy hole?

“Do you really think you’re such a uniquely vile pervert that no one else in the world is like you?” Raphael tilted Astarion’s head up, forcing his gaze back on him. “Believe me, Astarion. You have not seen even the tip of the iceberg of how vile and depraved man can be in the privacy of his bedchambers.”

The spark of elation that shot through Astarion felt so hot and bright he thought he might hit the ceiling. He had not heard his name on another person’s lips in so, so long, he’d forgotten how much he missed it.

He needed to hear Raphael say it again.

“You are a man, indeed…” Raphael laughed, quiet and genuine, like he was taken by surprise, and pushed a lock of damp hair out of Astarion’s face.

“Were you expecting anything else?”

“There was a small chance I was mistaken, yes.” Raphael set the rag aside and beckoned Astarion to stand. “Come, I want to see all of you.”

Astarion stood, gingerly sliding his arms out of the sleeves of his dress off his shoulders, letting the velvet pool on the floor, leaving him in nothing but his stockings and a white silk step-in Chemise.

“I don’t mind this look on you… not at all,” Raphael’s eyes roamed over Astarion’s form. He ran a hand over one of Astarion’s nylon stockings, finding the clasp of the garter and unclipping it. “…On another night I might keep you like this a little longer… though I’m sure you’ll fuss at me for ruining your precious silks.”

“Another night?” Astarion asked. He let Raphael guide his foot up onto the bed as Raphael tugged the stocking down his thigh, pressing greedy kisses against the newly bared skin. “You’re expecting me to see you again then?”

Cazador would never allow that, but Astarion pushed the thought from his mind for the time being.

“I have my designs on you, yes,” Raphael replied. The stocking hit Astarion’s ankle, and he stepped out of it, placing his foot back on the ground. “Though tonight is merely about taking the first taste.”

“Do you care to share any of those plans, or do I have to wait and see?” Astarion asked, unclasping his other garter.

“Mmm… I admit I’ve had to rethink things since actually meeting you. I thought I would have to do more to break Cazador’s hold over you.” The second sock was discarded, and Raphael pulled Astarion against his chest, pressing his face into the crook of his neck as he groped around for the back lace of the Chemise.

Astarion let out a shaky gasp as Raphael’s teeth dug hard into his shoulder. A hateful little part of him wanted it to leave a mark. He wanted to see the twisting frown on Cazador’s face tomorrow morning when he realized what they’d done.

“I thought about hobbling you by the ankles and treating you like a real woman… fingering you until you came and using the spend to fuck you while you scream and beg.” Raphael found the tail of the bow and pulled it loose. He sat back and watched as Astarion slipped out of the garment, picking up the champagne bottle and twisting the cork off. “I just know you’ll make such beautiful noises when you're desperate.”

Astarion’s stomach lurched in equal parts fear and desire. The image of Raphael ruthlessly rutting into him while he squirmed beneath him, nothing in his mind but the bright burn of overstimulation. “You certainly have a vivid imagination.”

“A trait you seem to admire.” Raphael’s gaze landed on the slight bulge in Astarion’s shorts as he poured himself a glass of champagne. “Should I continue with the dirty talk, or would you like to move on to more physical demonstrations?”

Astarion had to fight the urge to cover himself. He pushed the straps of his Chamise off his shoulders and let it join the dress on the ground, and stepped out of the pile of cloth. He wanted Raphael to keep talking, wanted to hear every filthy little fantasy he’d cooked up so he might have something to touch himself to later after Cazador put a stop to this, but he was also quite eager to start pleasing Raphael. He still very much wanted to hear his name on his lips again, especially as his voice trembled while he staved off release.

“I don’t know,” Astarion mused, “How would you feel about pairing your champagne with a blow job?”

“This does need something with a salty finish…” Raphael hummed thoughtfully, taking a sip of his drink. Before Astarion could kneel down in front of him, Raphael reached out and grabbed his bare cock, stroking it between his thumb and forefinger. “Lie down on the bed.”

“Oh, I didn’t—“ the protest died in Astarion’s throat as Raphael pressed his thumb against the sensitive glands beneath the head.

“I know what you meant, but I prefer my pleasures taken in other ways.” Raphael took a large swallow of his champagne and handed the glass to Astarion. “Don’t keep me waiting, I want to truly scandalize you tonight.”

Astarion did as he was told. He finished the last dregs in the glass, set it down on the nightstand, and climbed into the bed, trying not to look at his reflection in the mirror. The Champagne had a cloying, almost chalky sweetness to it that did need to be balanced out with something sharper.

Raphael reclined back on his elbows, eyes still roaming Astarion’s body like a starving wolf coveting a fresh steak. “How Cazador keeps you buried in all that fabric all the time is beyond me.”

He gripped the jut of Astarion’s hip and pulled him closer. His mouth pressed to the swell of Astarion’s stomach, and he bit down hard.

Astarion squealed like a stuck pig and tried to twist away, but Raphael’s grasp on him held firm. Astarion fisted his hand in Raphael’s hair, and he finally relented, a wicked laugh ghosting hot breath over Astarion’s raw, bruised flesh.

“My Apologies… I wanted Cazador to remember how someone else thoroughly pleased his darling wife every time you undress in front of him.”

Astarion didn’t have the heart to tell him that he very rarely got fully undressed in front of Cazador. When he wanted to “use what he paid for,” as he put it, he would just hike Astarion’s undergarments to the side and do as he pleased.

But Astarion would know. For the next few weeks, when someone pulled him against their chest, or fucked him face down or bent over a table, he’d feel the ache in his belly and remember tonight and what he got away with.

Astarion forced himself to look down, inspecting the angry red ring of teeth marks above his flushed, dripping cock. It was obscene in the best way.

Raphael reached over and smeared the pearls of precum over the head of Astarion’s cock, dragging his fingers delicately down the shaft. Astarion let out a soft gasp, his shoulders sagging as he fought not to thrust into Raphael’s hand.

“Don’t hold back…” Raphael’s voice was gruff as he fisted his hand around Astarion’s cock. He pressed his lip to the column of Astarion’s neck as tenderly as if they were actual lovers. “I don’t care for your restraint.”

“I-I don’t want to—“ Astarion whimpered, the order made the coil in his belly grow molten. He was sure he would combust at any moment.

“Oh, you won’t,” Raphael assured him. “I’ll make sure of that. Your job is to give yourself over to your desires.”

Trying to relax felt like throwing himself out of the open window. Astarion forced himself to lie back against the mattress, letting Raphael continue to lavish kisses down his body.

Astarion cursed under his breath, and he bucked his hips into Raphael’s grasp as his lips grazed over the bite mark.

“Aren’t you the little pain slut?” Raphael purred. He bit lightly at the edge of the bite mark and pulled at the skin, making Astarion reel. “Should I bend you over my knee later? Does the pain make it feel safe to scream?”

It should have been a humiliating suggestion. Astarion should have huffed and said ‘how dare you?’, grabbed his dress, and stormed out— he should have done that a long, long time ago if he was honest. But if Astarion was actually honest with himself for once in his life, there was quite literally nothing in life he wanted more than for Raphael to spank his ass raw until he couldn’t sit for a week.

“Shall I take that as a yes?” Raphael asked when Astarion’s cock throbbed in his grasp.

Astarion opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat as Raphael dragged his tongue over the head of his cock.

“Have you ever gotten oral, or have you only been on the giving end?” Raphael asked as he took the time to reposition Astarion’s legs so that he could more comfortably lie between them.

“Once,” Astarion replied, fighting through the haze of his arousal to recall the delicate redhead he’d snuck away from a garden party with to lie in the field behind his mother’s stable. “She was my sister’s friend from finishing school. I was young, and she was… inexperienced.”

“Then I suspect this is going to shock you quite a bit.” Raphael mused.

Before Astarion could ask what that meant, Raphael was taking him to the hilt, and everything else in the world vanished.

Raphael held Astarion’s gaze as he bobbed his head, greedy and commanding, sucking Astarion’s cock like he’d been starving for it.

A sob clawed out of Astarion’s throat, shrill and unflattering. He threw his head back, writhing against the bed sheets, and Raphael’s fingernails bit into his pelvic bone, holding him in place. It was blissful agony, sinful and divine in the same measure.

He wanted to rut into Raphael’s mouth until he spilled down his throat, but the moment he tried to buck into Raphael, he pulled away.

Astarion’s immediate impulse was to shrink and grovel for overstepping, but Raphael didn’t give him the chance. He felt the faint tickle of stubble against his inner thigh, and Raphael’s lips ghost over his taint.

“What are you—“

“Be still.”

Astarion tried to squirm away, but Raphael yanked him back by the hips, folding Astarion’s knees over his shoulders.

“Good boy…”

Astarion froze like a trapped rabbit as he felt fingers spread his ass cheeks. Raphael leaned down and spat on Astarion’s taint, eyes gleaming as he watched it drip down onto his hole. It sent goosebumps pricking up Astarion’s thighs.

“Remember, your job is to give yourself over.”

Raphael dragged his tongue over Astarion’s hole, sending a jolt of strange emotion through his body. This should have been disgusting, but somehow it felt the opposite. Astarion held his gaze, chest heavy as Raphael worshiped the darkest part of him.

Two spit slicked fingers pushed their way through the tight furl of muscles to the first knuckle. Astarion mewled at the sudden bright sting. He wanted to struggle away from it, but there was nowhere to go. All he could do was endure as Raphael fucked him with his fingers fast and shallow.

The sting slowly faded into an almost pleasant burn, and Astarion relaxed into the sensation despite himself, and a pathetic, needy whimper slipped past his lips as Raphael plunged his tongue into him.

Astarion nearly screamed as his eyes rolled back in his head. The wet molten sensation was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. A sob of ecstasy wracked his body, and he was sure he was going to spill all over himself, if only he could take just a bit more—

Raphael withdrew as abruptly as he’d conquered, pressing a kiss to Astarion’s trembling inner thigh before allowing him to uncurl and sprawl out on his back.

Amorphous thoughts bounced around Astarion’s mind, sensations, and colors, and tastes. He felt like Raphael had stuck him with a live wire.

“Have I played too roughly with you, little mouse?” Raphael cooed. His hands drifted up Astarion’s flank, pressing greedy kisses to his chest in their wake. “Are you broken already?”

“No.” Astarion huffed. It was all that he could manage.

Raphael’s lips curled into a pleased grin, gripping Astarion’s chin, crushing their mouths together in a rough claiming kiss. Feeling bold, Astarion bit down on Raphael’s bottom lip, drawing a wicked laugh out of the bigger man.

He caught Astarion by the back of the knee and pushed his legs up, pressing the bulge of his cock against Astarion’s aching, needy hole.

Astarion moaned, fisting a hand in the fabric of Raphael’s shirt and rutting against him. It was clumsy, unpoised, everything Astarion had worked so hard to suppress.

Raphael hummed his approval, pressing his lips against the tense muscle in Astarion’s jaw. “Very good, little mouse…” he purred, “you yield so beautifully…”

He sat back on his haunches, and Astarion whined, bucking his hips in a feeble attempt to regain some sort of friction, his own neglected cock bobbing helplessly against his abdomen.

“Hush.” Raphael scolded, pressing Astarion’s hips into the mattress. “I’ll give you exactly what you want in just a moment.”

Astarion watched in a fuck drunk haze as Raphael peeled out of his clothes, drinking in his broad, well-tanned chest, the slight softness of his stomach in stark contrast with the long, hard line of his cock.

Astarion reached to run his hands down the length of Rarphael’s cock, but he moved away, shifting to sit with his back against the headboard and beckoning Astarion to follow with a crooked finger.

“How do you want me?” Astarion rolled over onto his stomach to crawl back over to Raphael.

Raphael plucked the bottle of champagne off the ground, taking an indulgent pull straight from the bottle. “In my lap, with your back to me.”

Astarion swallowed nervously, but did as he was told, hiking a leg over Raphael’s lap, trying to avoid making eye contact with his reflection in the vast mirror across from him.

Raphael pressed the mouth of the bottle to Astarion’s lips, and he let him pour champagne down his throat until it overflowed in rivulets of fizzy liquid dripping down his neck and chest.

Astarion licked his wet lips, twisting around to clumsily kiss Raphael as Raphael pressed the head of his cock against Astarion’s hole.

Suddenly, Raphael grabbed Astarion by the chin, forcing him to look straight ahead into the eyes of his reflection.

Astarion hardly recognized the person staring back at him. His hair askew, face streaked with the ghost of his makeup, it was like looking at a particularly unfortunate stranger.

“Does it scare you?” Raphael pulled Astarion’s hips down, spearing him onto his cock. “Being confronted with exactly what you are?”

Astarion reeled, back bowing out as he stretched impossibly around Raphael’s cock. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him, watching his own body writhe as his eyes clouded with unimaginable desire.

As Raphael bottomed out, he petted a hand over Astarion’s lower abdomen, murmuring quiet praise against the shell of Astarion’s ear.

Something in the tenderness of the act shattered the last of Astarion’s resolve. He reached behind him, trying to embrace Raphael in any way he could.

“Will you say my name again?” Astarion’s voice was a helpless whine. “It feels so good when you say it…”

Raphael chuckled darkly, his hand dipped down to curl around Astarion’s cock. “Take your pleasure, Astarion, in any way you’d like.”

Astarion clinched his jaw, rolling his hips against Raphael’s cock.

God, he never wanted this to end. He didn’t think he’d ever been so turned on in his entire life —he’d certainly never felt anything like it with Cazador.

Raphael splayed a hand across Astarion’s chest, holding him steady as he couldn’t help himself and thrust into Astarion’s rhythm a few times.

When Astarion’s orgasm finally found him, it took him almost completely by surprise. It exploded out of him in a sudden shout, as he spilled across his own chest. The release was so sudden and complete, he would have collapsed in a heap if Raphael’s solid form hadn’t been holding him up.

Astarion’s nerves buzzed, and his mind floated from his body, but Raphael didn’t let up. He pushed Astarion forward, crushing his face into the blankets as he continued to plow into him mercilessly. It wrenched a helpless sob from Astarion’s body, as his eyes rolled back in his head.

Raphael’s pace was so relentless that Astarion couldn’t form thoughts. It was wonderfully terrible. For a brief, thrilling moment, Astarion thought he might actually die from the pleasure alone, until Raphael abruptly pulled out.

He flipped Astarion onto his back and settled back between his legs, staring down at Astarion’s tear-streaked face as he slowly stroked himself to completion, spilling his own seed over the drying mess on Astarion’s stomach.

Astarion reached a trembling hand up to touch Raphael’s face, and the larger man nearly collapsed on top of him, crushing his mouth against Astarion’s.

Their last kiss was different, less guarded, less controlled. As if Astarion was being kissed by Raphael, the man rather than Raphael, the agent of the 8th circle. When he broke away, there was something strange and heavy in his eyes.

Raphael stood and cleared his throat, disappearing into the bathroom for a few long moments before he returned with a fresh washcloth and handed it to Astarion.

“Should I go?” Astarion asked, though the dreaded reality of their situation was starting to set back in. He couldn’t leave in his current state, and he couldn’t send for his cosmetics without tipping off Cazador’s staff.

“No, you’re welcome to stay the night,” Raphael said, pulling a cigarette case out of his jacket pocket and lighting up.

Astarion cleaned himself up and returned the washcloth to the bathroom. Raphael offered him a puff of his cigarette, and he took it, letting the bitter smoke numb his taste buds before he climbed back into bed.

It was a strange domestic scene. Astarion imagined it was how his parents might have behaved after sex.

“You should get away from Cazador,” Raphael said grimly. “The sooner the better.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “You don’t say?”

“I’m serious.” Raphael exhaled a lungful of smoke out of his nose. “My father has no intention of working with him. He plans on discarding Cazador and stripping his little empire for parts.”

Astarion sat up, listening a little more soberly. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I might know of a jazz lounge in New York that’s had a hard time finding a proper sommelier,” Raphael said airily. “They’re quite desperate, I’m sure they’d even take a filthy degenerate like yourself if they knew their stuff.”

Astarion hummed thoughtfully. “That’s quite a long way to travel for the possibility of a job.”

Raphael stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I’ll put in a good word with the owner. He owes me a favor.”

Astarion laughed quietly, his eyes drifting shut. “I’ll think about it.”

“Please do.” Raphael pressed his lips to the slope of Astarion’s shoulder and switched off the lights.

The world cooled the slightest bit, and Astarion drifted off to the muffled sounds of the city below, and the unfamiliar weight of a different man at his back.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #raphael the cambion #baldur's gate 3 #raphael bg3 #astarion/raphael #1920s AU

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