#bg3 raphael

You lift your bandaged arm and grimace, hovering your other hand over the cloth. Blossoms of pink are beginning to show through the white of the fabric, making you painfully aware that you need to change them out again and check on the wound. You don’t want to see it. 

Over the course of the day, a new type of pain has manifested in the area: deep, aching throbs with increasing intensity as time went on; sharp, shooting pangs that travelled up your arm at random. As meticulously as you try to clean the wound during every bandage swap, you have no supplies for stitching, and enough of a conscience to know not to jump to dramatics like cauterization, which could cause an even more aggressive infection.

The river steals you from your thoughts with the slap of a wave against the rocks, sending a splash over your warm thighs. You suck in a breath and close your eyes, tipping your head back and letting the contrasting coldness soothe you. You’re in your underwear, your trousers in a heap beside you. Modesty doesn’t matter in the woods, and you have no patience for dealing with soggy pant legs.

“Someone’s not having a good day,” The voice drips with an all-too familiar amusement, and your eyes snap open. You stare up at the sky, not turning your head to look just yet as your cheeks heat with embarrassment. Modesty in the woods usually doesn’t matter, unless you happen to know a certain human-skinned devil who enjoys making an appearance at the most unconventional of times. “My little loner has gotten into a predicament, it seems. I didn’t think you so reckless…”

“I’m not yours, devil,” you grit, wishing he’d disappear back into the flurry of cinders from which he came. 

“Not yet.” His reply came easily, and with a dismissive certainty like it was nothing to be argued against. He was set on having you, and for reasons you did not understand. Making his way to the edge of the rocks bordering the river, he took in the view of flowing water and wooded scenery, before casting his half-lidded eyes sideways at you. His lips quirked upwards, and if he didn’t look smug before, he certainly did now. 

You could feel the weight of his intentionally unnerving gaze, and you snatched your heap of trousers and stuffed your wet legs into them, deciding soggy pants weren’t actually so bad. Standing and turning to tie your trousers, your back to him, you cursed your luck (or lack thereof).

“Whatever you want, I’m not interested.” You scowl over your shoulder before returning to your fussing, grabbing your footwear from where you had set it earlier. “If you can’t resist patronizing me, then come back another time. I can’t do this right now.” He makes a sound that’s half a scoff, and half a laugh.

“‘Patronizing’? My, what a big word for you.” Your eye twitches at his jab. He moves closer from behind as he talks, smiling calmly. “You might want to educate yourself on its meaning, for I’ve never ‘patronized’ you. I’ve only ever been helpful.”

You refuse to turn and face him tonight, for it would invite him to go on with his twisted words and offers. “I don’t consider it ‘help’ when you want something like my soul in return.” You really should ignore him and walk away. Don’t respond at all—don’t feed his ego. 

“The price has not always been so steep, and yet you still refuse my offers.”

“Because all of your offers lead to the same path.”

“In the end, perhaps. But I’m not expecting souls tonight. Lend me a moment of your time—let me see your infliction, and we can discuss the matter of payment within reasonable bounds.” His offer made you pause for a moment, before you shoved your last foot into your footwear and stomped off, leaving him by the river. Ignore him. There was no way you were letting a devil—much less a devil like him—near your vulnerable wound. 

You made it to your little temporary camp, irritated by your soggy trousers. 

You did a double-take and stopped in your tracks. Bastard—! There he was, leaning against a tree and drumming his fingers on his own crossed arms. His stupid, smug face was waiting for you to find words. He wasn’t going to leave you alone tonight, and realistically: what could you do to stop him?

“Get… out of my camp!” You sputtered, shoving a pointed finger toward the woods as if ordering away a misbehaving mutt. He raised a brow, pushing off the tree.

“Let’s see…” He hummed, pretending to contemplate it. “No, I don’t think I will. Not yet, at least, although I’d rather be in a more tasteful environment than this sad scene.” He glanced at your surroundings, then sighed and waved a lazy hand toward your arm. “Just for you, dear one, let me put it plain: you won’t fare another day with the infection and blood loss your body is battling. You’ll collapse before you make it halfway to the nearest sign of civilization. Then again… you do have a habit of surprising me, so perhaps you would manage halfway—but no farther.”

You glared at the devil. You were feeling the effects of the infection. Standing so suddenly to put your clothes on when he first showed up had made your head swim, and now, without the river water to cool you off, you feel warmer than you should. Flushed, but not just because of your anger at the unwanted guest in your camp. Fever was beginning to set in.

“How do you even know that?” You grumble. His ensuing grin showed a flash of teeth, and you could swear that you saw a glimpse of inhuman fang. In just a single slow, fluid movement, he was closer to you than you would prefer. Leaning in, his eyes widened with glee, and an air of wickedness slipped into his words as he hissed:

“I can smell it.”

You stared at him. His ability to switch from a faux gentleman to his true devilish self and back always threw you off. He straightened and slowly blinked, his eyelids lowered to their normal half-draped frame. “And as delightful as the scent is, I can’t have you dying on me now. I rarely make such generous offers, but tonight, I have one in store for you. Consider yourself lucky! Despite it all, a liking for you has kindled in me.”

“For the last time, I don’t want your offers—” you begin to snap, but he raises his hand to pause you.

“Silence, or I might not be so ample with my proposal,” he demands, and for some reason, you feel the instinct to obey. Something in his voice… giving orders came easily to him. As much as you want to argue, you let him speak, which makes him tip his head in satisfaction. “I will fix you. Your wound will be healed, and your energy replenished, but it will be done in the way that I see fit.” You wait for him to continue, but he does not.

“...is that it? I don’t understand. You’ll heal me, and… that’s all? What kind of an offer is that? You get nothing in return.”

“Oh, it is quite unfair, isn’t it? For me, of course. For you, this is a gift you’d be foolish not to accept.” He waves a finger. “But… I do get enough in return to be satisfied for now. I do not do favors.”

“Then what…?”

“That’s the best part—why spoil it?”

“I’m not doing this, devil! I know how you work. You’re tricking me into something that can’t be reversed!” You snap incredulously, your arms flaring out to the sides in exasperation. The sudden action makes your head spin, your heart pounding in your ears. Unfortunately, he is right: your blood loss and infection are catching up to you fast.

“No,” he murmurs softly, sounding oddly genuine. His tone fluctuations give you whiplash, and although you know that he curates all of his words to manipulate you, he’s just too good at it. You haven’t heard his voice soften like this before. “You will walk away tomorrow free of any debts or charges. You will be as you were, well…” He chuckles and waves his hand dismissively. “Before you went and had your arm mangled. Perhaps even better.” 

As if predicting your next words, he adds: “And don’t fret your lovely little head about my methods. I won’t say that they will be painless, but I can promise that it will be nothing compared to what you have already gone through.” He lifts his hand to your injured arm, hovering it under your elbow. He isn’t touching, but he’s close enough that the unnatural heat of his body radiates across your skin.

This all sounded… far too good to be true. It had to be. It was. There was a catch to it, but one you could not figure out. What would his ‘methods’ be? What was he refusing to tell you? He seemed excited for you to find out, so it was absolutely nothing good. But if you’d be healed—saved, really—without debt to him, even with whatever discomfort his process might cause, it seemed foolish not to consent. Dammit! How was he so good at taking advantage of scenarios like this? How did he know when someone was in need of something dire? It’s like he could sniff out predicaments from across Faerun.

You stood there, contemplating it. He allowed you to consider your options, letting his hand fall back to his side and giving you the silence and space you needed while you thought it through. He was a man of patience and he was done being pushy with you. Whatever you decided on next would be the answer he would take—he would pursue you on this matter no longer—meaning that for your own sake, you needed to decide well. 

To let the devil heal you, or to refuse and risk yourself in hopes of finding an alternative solution before infection and blood loss incapacitated you? According to him, he fully believed you wouldn’t make it without his help. Of course, he could be exaggerating the story to get you to accept, and as much as you wish that were true, the fever creeping steadily into your body made you reluctantly aware of the severity of your plight.

“...alright,” you finally relent, casting your gaze sideways toward the ground with a scowl. He won this time. 

His eyes flicker with that familiar taint of malevolence.

“Excellent,” He breathes.

Instead of moving forward with the process, he spins on his heel and heads to the center of your camp, taking it all in while tapping his finger against his chin. He moves toward a gnarled, arched root where you have your supplies against. With his boot, he pushes aside your bag and clears the space. You glare, but don’t protest, watching him pick up your bedroll, snap the fabric twice in the air to clear dirt, and then drape it over the ground in one smooth motion. He then steps aside and turns to face you, motioning with an arm toward the area he made.

“I’d much prefer a real cushion, but the dirt will have to do since you insist on travelling in these less-than-favorable places.” He curls a finger. “Come.”

You drag your feet as you approach, half because you already regret agreeing to this and half because… 

…Ugh…

Everything sways, your feet scuffing, and for a moment the ground looks blurred and a bit too close. It doesn’t come up to meet you, though; your fall stopped short. 

“Easy, dear,” his deep voice chuckles, and you blink slowly, groaning as you try to plant your feet and right yourself. Instead, you end up pushing against something sturdy, and you realize that it’s him. He is holding you in place easily, his hands resting lazily on your shoulders. “Fortunate for you that I arrived when I did, hm? Look at you—all buckled legs like a helpless fawn.”

You yank yourself away from him, rubbing your head, embarrassed as you regain full consciousness. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble.

“You’re not, but you will be.” He straightens his navy blue doublet, casts a sly glance at you, then lifts a hand and snaps his finger.

You flinch, knowing what that motion means—a display of his powers. You wait, eyes closed, for your wound to start sizzling or bubbling or for whatever horrifying way he uses to heal it. The wound stays the same—nothing besides a brief wave of heat that most definitely did not come from your arm, but rather, from in front of you. You open your eyes and your heart leaps to your throat.

He’s in his devil form, which is something you’ve only seen once when he first revealed his infernal nature to you. Even then, you were never this close, and all you can think about right now is the way he towers over you. His fiery eyes bore into you, the black scleras pulling you into their abyss. He waits for you to recover from your shock and speak.

“What…? Why are you…?” You stutter, your stomach sinking with dread. What method of healing your wound would require him to use this form?

“Try to relax—or don’t; I will cherish this either way,” he thrums, moving toward you. His tail sways once behind him in a languid, satisfied motion, his clawed red hand reaching for you. You step back on instinct, and he clicks his tongue, resting his hand on the side of your neck to stop you. His warmth seeps into your skin and you suppress a shudder. He begins moving behind you, leaning down into your ear as he passes by: “Still yourself. You agreed to this.”

Standing behind you, he wraps an arm around your abdomen, pulling you against his front and then lowering both of you until you’re sitting between his legs, his back against the large gnarled root and your back against his chest. Your already fever-induced pounding heart thuds harder against your ribs, and you feel dizzy with nerves and from the motion of him lowering you down. Never in a hundred years did you imagine Raphael being this close to you. He’s too close.

His large legs, propped up, act like a frame to keep you upright and in place, his thighs resting on either side of you. The sheer warmth that envelops you from his proximity finally elicits a shudder, and the cold wetness of your river-sodden trousers rubbing against your fevered skin creates an uncomfortable sensitivity.

His tail shifts to curl around one of your legs, but then it pauses and twitches away as it touches your pants. He leers and huffs in distaste.

“These miserable rags are still wet?” With his arm still barring your abdomen, he reaches to hook a clawed finger into the bow of your trouser’s string.

“Wait—! What in the hells are you doing?!” You gasp, shoving his hand away. “I agreed to you healing my arm!” 

He barks out a laugh.

“Whatever you’re thinking in that filthy little mind of yours isn’t what I intend to do with you.” He laughs again, more to himself, but the sound ends in a sneer of disgust. “Ugh—no. I wouldn’t dream of doing something like that with you, mortal.”

You fluster in humiliation, but as much as he teases you, he knows exactly what this situation looks like. He might not want you in ‘that’ way, but he does enjoy making you squirm.

“Then what are you doing?” You ask again.

He tips your chin back so he can look you in the eye, his other hand coming to rest atop your head so he can stroke your temple tauntingly with one long finger—like you’re some sort of pet. “I’m helping you, as I promised. Your wound will be messy. Unless you feel impelled to scrub bloodstains later, you’ll want these off.” 

You turn your gaze away from his, but protest no longer, letting him move back to your trousers and untie them. He pulls them off of you, and sits you forward to lift your shirt over your head. Your exposed skin is flushed and uncomfortably sensitive from your fever, and the air makes goosebumps pepper across your body. You swallow, unable to meet his eye.

“Oh, don’t be so shy—you weren’t so modest with yourself earlier, sitting by the river,” he teases. 

“That was because I didn’t know you would show up,” you huff. “But I should have guessed.”

You grind your teeth together, your face getting hotter and hotter as the seconds pass. He lets the silence stretch, knowing how much it’s affecting you. “You’ll get blood on you, too,” you point out, not knowing what else to say. He grins wolfishly. 

“Little mouse,” he chides, “are you asking me to take my clothes off? How naughty.”

“No,” you groan, internally berating yourself. “I’m just saying… you don’t seem like a guy who likes dirtying his ‘perfect’ attire. Why can’t you just heal me and be done with this?”

“You’re right—I won’t soil my clothes. But your blood isn’t dirt; it’s a fine lacquer, and one I wouldn’t mind coloring my wear.” He sighs. “Oh, but I can’t have enough to create more than a shoddy stain. I’d prefer to bathe in vats of your spill, but since I’m not killing you, I’ll have to abstain. Very well, you lucky little thing—I’ll strip.” He leaves you sitting there, and you grunt as you have to suddenly hold yourself up while he stands.

“Devil!” You bark. “I didn’t mean you had to undress!”

He ignores you, of course. In fact, it’s clear that he was going to do this anyway, and he is making a point to disrobe in front of you. He thinks he’s giving you a present—blessing you with this display. He is arrogant enough to believe that most mortals would give their soul just to see a glimpse of his body, but right now, you’re just mortified. You stuff your face into your hands, refusing to watch him. At least it’s not pure nudity, but still. His insistence on proximity without clothes is absurd—what is he planning? How ‘messy’ will this get?

When he’s done, he returns behind you and sits down, moving your hands away from your head. You frown silently, staring at the ground. At least you don’t have to look him in the face.

For some reason, your should-be embarrassment suddenly evaporates to exhaustion, and you realize fully how miserable you feel. You slump a little, deciding not to care anymore that he’s seeing you almost naked or that he’s almost naked himself. He’s been around for ages—this probably isn’t anything to him.

He pulls you into his body, and your eyes want to close as his warmth returns to you, now amplified by his bare skin on yours. Fevers are strange—when it first started, you felt too warm and in need of cooling off. Now all you wanted was warmth, and your body was wracked with chills.

You hated to admit it, but this felt nice… the heat of his body. Not his big form surrounding and holding you. Not the fact that his wings were like protective red curtains at the edges of your vision. Not his large and sturdy thighs on either side of your own. Of course not that.

Maybe he really was just trying to comfort you in his own strange way. He knew you were sick, saw your distress, and practically scooped you up to warm you and hold you close. Could it be that the devil is actually… being caring?

He lifts your injured arm at last, reminding you why he’s actually here as he wriggles a claw under the cloth and rends the fabric in one swift motion. You jump at the suddenness of it, and then suck in a breath as the air hits the bare, wet wound. You look at it and regret doing so immediately. The unhealed gouge spans across your upper forearm, the skin surrounding its edges lifted and reddened with the startings of an infection. The infection isn’t to the ugly stage yet—no obscene leakings or smells—but the wound itself is still bleeding. It’s a display of deeply torn muscle, rivulets of blood immediately beginning to trail down your skin.

“Hmn…” he hums, observing. He turns his head, his heavy gaze falling on yours from over your shoulder.  “Still fresh.” 

The pad of his thumb strokes your wrist as he holds your injured arm up. It might appear comforting to outsiders, but with each motion his sharp nail comes a bit too close to the open wound. “The infection is present, but it’s still young. Too pristine; too clean. The blood loss is exacerbating your symptoms, which is why you’re feeling so anguished. Have you really been stumbling about for days with this, you foolish thing? I can’t say I’m surprised.” His lips almost graze your ear. “Don’t take that as a complaint… it’s all the better for me…”

He shifts your body to the side so that you are propped against one of his legs and the crook of his arm, giving himself better access to your injury. His head dips.

Then he licks it.

A long, smooth swipe from the beginning of the gouge to the end of it. Not deep—just on the surface—but slick and even warmer than the inflamed wound itself. 

You jolt, ripping your arm free from his hold and clutching it close to you.

“Fuck—!” You cry in shock. This was his plan!? To lick the wound—what?—clean!? Is a devil’s mouth even clean with all of the wickedness they spew? “That isn’t going to help! You said you’d help me!”

“It will help, dear. You agreed to let me heal you with the methods that I see fit,” he coos.

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to lick it!” You shout. “Why in the hells would you do that?!”

“Are you really so shocked?” He drawls, unamused. “Do the horns, the red skin, the wings all mean nothing to you?”

“Devils eat souls!” You snap, squirming and hugging your arm closer. “You eat souls—not blood like some feral beast!”

A blur of red as his hand snatches your jaw. He tugs you forward until you’re face-to-face, a mere inch apart. You can smell the metallic tang of your own blood on his tongue as he speaks. 

“I will do whatever I please, and I will consume whatever I please,” he hisses, his eyes burning into yours with a terrifying intensity. “I have allowed you to hold onto your soul for now—I have been patient as I have tolerated your stubborn nature. I have let you stay blissfully unowned as you stumble through every meaningless corner of Faerun, pursuing your futile fantasy. I have watched it all, offered you my help which would have ended this rootless expedition of yours ages ago, and yet you have refused me each time.” His fingers dig into your cheeks, sharp-tipped nails denting your skin. His voice is a rolling growl and he punctuates each word harshly. “I have restrained myself thus far, but my tolerance for your mulish obstinance can only stretch so thin.”

He draws in a breath, like he’s calming himself, but his eyes remain trained on you and his lips still curled into a sneer.

“I will not dine on your soul just yet, but I will have you in one way or another. If it is your soul I cannot taste, it will be your flesh.”

You are stunned into complete silence, your eyes dilated and your skin pale as he lets your jaw go. He grabs your injured arm and you feel frozen in place as he lifts it near his mouth once more. 

His eyes half close as he prepares to dine, and he hums to you: “Besides, you’ll live to tell the tale. What more could a mortal want?”

His lips close around your arm at the apex of the gouge, his tongue pressing against the edge of your wound. Horrified and unable to do anything but watch, you shiver as he laps up the surrounding blood that has stained your skin. He relishes in the taste of your skin and blood, but mostly in the flavor of your fear. 

Your heart is pounding hard, pumping a steady flow of blood out of your wound for him to relish. He swipes his tongue along the entirety of the wound again, and this time you catch a glimpse of the crimson-covered muscle. Unlike a human tongue, his is longer and pointier, slick and almost too hot in temperature to bear.

He licks his lips, his eyes closed for a moment as he savors you. He cracks open his eyes, those bright orange flames a silent command from above before he raises your arm again to continue. This time, his tongue slips past your wound’s surface, prodding into your split flesh. You let out a sharp cry, arm involuntarily jerking in his grasp, but he ignores you and holds you in place.

Your head reels as his tongue heats your limb from the inside, the sharp sting of his torturous ministrations flaring in spikes with each prod. You feel dizzy from the sight of it, the obscene feeling, the now more rampant blood loss as he takes it from your flesh. Then, his pointed teeth press in from above and below, his mouth wrapped around your arm. He applies pressure, then stops himself, a nearly inaudible growl rumbling from deep in his throat. He forces himself to let go, making sure to drag the points of his teeth as he lifts his mouth. He returns to your wound.

Your teeth chatter as you grasp his wrist with your free hand, hardly able to take much more before your composure shatters completely. The threat of him feels as dire as death.

“Y-you said you’d help me,” you mewl, realizing that he might not approve of the way you firmly hold onto him. You open your fingers, forcing your grip to be more docile. “Raphael…” 

He doesn’t respond, but at the sound of his name from your lips, his eyes slit partly open and he observes you silently as he feeds. His eyes close again, and the fear that he isn’t listening stabs into your gut. His mouth smudges blood across your skin, his tongue split through the wound. The pain becomes a burn, and you tip your head back against the crook of his arm behind you, squeezing your eyes shut. But the burning, although overwhelming, only lasts a few seconds before it numbs the aches and other sharp pains away. 

You shudder, the unbearable heat turning into a tingling and almost soothing warmth that blossoms across your arm and into the depths of your torn muscle. You peer at the sky through watering eyes, his head still dipped over your arm and his large horns shifting faintly with each small movement he makes. The tip of his tail curls slowly, flicks, then curls again. You can feel each stroke of his tongue still, the movement of his lips on your flesh, but it isn’t painful anymore. In fact, with every passing second, it feels incredibly relieving.

You’re exhausted. You sink down as your muscles go slack, and he accompanies you by changing his posture, stretching out his legs underneath you and leaning back with one of his wings behind you like a velvet cradle. When you muster the ability to look down, you grimace at the smears of blood coating your arm and his chin. However, your wound is gone. Completely. Once the pain had ebbed away, you hardly even noticed that it was healing over.

He is licking your healed arm with slow, languid strokes of his tongue, both cleaning you and basking in the remnants of your taste. His eyes are still closed, his expression now light and relaxed. He looks akin to a big, content cat. A cat that got the cream—or the mouse. You’re half surprised that there isn’t a big rumbling purr coming from his throat.

With no access to a handkerchief in these desolate woods, he tidies himself by licking his maw clean, yet somehow he manages to do it in a way that is refined and elegant despite the savagery of the situation. When he’s done, his heavy-lidded eyes fall down past your arm to your abdomen. 

“What a mess…” He coos. He snakes his arms underneath you and lifts your body up with ease, making you grab tiredly onto his arm for a hold, and his head lowers for the last time as his tongue draws across the blood that fell while he was feeding. The motions are quick and ticklish, barely there, and he finishes with a last brush against your ribs. He lowers you down, resting his own head back with a heavy exhale. He smiles at you with smug satisfaction. “See? A far better mess to clean up than stained clothes.”

You can’t bring yourself to reply, turning your head to the side. He chuckles softly, noticing your fatigue. Your eyes droop and you let them shut, having no will to resist anything else tonight. Despite your state, you can feel that your fever is gone and that your energy is slowly returning. As you drift off, his deep voice rumbles to you, carrying you into sleep:

“Would eternity really be so bad?”