Chapter Text
You should be careful what you wish for, they say.
Another day. Another shitty day. People say things like ‘carpe diem’ - seize the day - and talk about making the best of it. But honestly, if life gives you lemons, make lemonade… And what are you supposed to do when life gives you literal shit?
You stood in front of the guest toilet, staring down at the bowl where someone (you had a strong suspicion it was the big guy who reeked of burgers and cheap booze) had left a massive load of… well, you couldn’t even find words to describe the atrocity assaulting your eyes, nose, and entire body in this cramped dump of a restroom.
Everything would stink after this encounter, you thought: your hair, your skin, your shirt, your jeans - yeah, and as the universe loved to remind you, even your sneakers weren’t safe. It was as if the gods you didn’t believe in wanted you to suffer for some heinous crime you must’ve committed in a past life.
You let out a defeated sigh, rolled up your sleeves, put on the pair of big-ass rubber gloves that reach to ones elbow, grabbed the toilet brush, and took a deep breath before plunging it into the filth like a sword into battle. You gagged once, twice, cursing whoever decided this was your fate (yourself, if you were being honest). Finally, you reached for the rag and disinfectant, wiping down every square inch of the seat, the handle, even the walls around it, as if trying to erase all traces of this offense against humanity.
It had gotten late. The end of your shift had come and gone, and you were still here, scrubbing, straightening, closing up - because who else, right? Everyone else had already taken off, slipping away with excuses about getting home to their families or whatever other important priorities they decided you didn’t have (of course not).
You grabbed your coat and bag, stepping out into the night after double-checking that everything was set for the restaurant’s early shift tomorrow.
The street was quiet, empty except for the faint flicker of a streetlamp and the rustling leaves skittering across the pavement. Filling your lungs with fresh air and letting the cold clear your head, you were ready to make your way home.
You were exhausted. The ache in your back, the dull throb in your feet, and the headache simmering behind your eyes, all reminded you of just how much you gave everyday - and for what exactly? The mountain of student debt for the degree you could hang up in the toilet as decoration, your ungrateful family, or maybe your nonexistent love life?
Running from one minimum-wage job to the next in the evenings and weekends because your nine-to-five didn’t pay you nearly enough for what your work was worth - just so you could afford to live (sometimes eat too).
You didn’t have much time for yourself or to go out and meet up with friends, let alone dive into the dating scene. You barely even remembered the last time you’d had sex. So the single real joy you experienced lately - the one way you could truly relax during those rare, precious moments of me-time - was playing games, reading fanfics, and scrolling through Tumblr.
You put in your headphones, set Enya’s Greatest Hits on repeat to let the music drown out the remnants of the day, and started walking.
Just then, your phone buzzed.
em-egg has tagged you in a post: If I have to suffer looking at it, so have you @poppsqueak.
Curious, you opened Tumblr and nearly choked on a snort, finding yourself tagged in what could only be described as a cursed screenshot: your favorite Baldur’s Gate 3 character, Raphael, with freaking Lord Farquaad hair.
You scrolled through the comments, grinning at the reactions:
chargedforcrimes: poor pookie, but I’d still love him <3
solas4eva: 😂💀 @em-egg
em-egg: @solas4eva I hate it so much I want to cry lmfaooo
em-egg: If I have to suffer looking at it, so have you @poppsqueak
d3vilsp3t: HAHAHSLDFJFSK
adibarks: Still would smash. Raph has mad rizz
You went back to look at the picture, zooming into his soulless eyes, silently thanking the devs for not going with the ‘sickly Victorian child’-hairstyle. You weren’t so sure you’d still be thirsting after the devil if he’d been introduced in the game looking like that.
Closing the app and opening your photos, you went straight for your BG3 folder full of Raphael images, hoping to erase the lingering screenshot that’s ‘forbidden in 7482 countries’ from your mind. You admired each one while listening to the heavenly tune of Caribbean Blue, imagining a world where you didn’t have to get up at 7:00 AM, didn’t have to go to work - a world where you weren’t stuck reliving the same monotonous day over and over.
How incredible would it be to live in a place like D&D’s Forgotten Realms (specifically Baldur’s Gate 3, because of a certain cambion), full of magic, secrets, mysterious creatures, and breathtaking scenery. A world where every day would be an adventure.
But, alas, you’d have to settle for experiencing all that on your computer screen again. Already, you felt the urge to start another campaign - one where you’d mod Raphael’s head onto Astarion’s body (for the 516th time in a row) - just to live out that romance Larian had denied you.
Still staring at your phone, lost in your own thoughts, you were so focused on the pictures of your blorbo that you barely noticed the sudden blinding light shining from your side. You turned your head, realizing too late that you’d wandered right into the street - a truck was barreling straight toward you.
You froze, panic rooting you to the spot as your heart slammed in your chest. Your breath caught, the world narrowing to those piercing beams, and before you could even think to move, the truck hit.
Was this really how it would end for you?
Flattened by a truck because you were too busy ogling a pixel man? Out of all the ways to go, this seemed insultingly mundane. Just you, your phone, and a poorly-timed meme.
As the darkness crept in, one last thought floated through your mind. If only Faerûn were real, you could have been fighting alongside your companions, saving the world one overly complicated side quest at a time and you could have spent your last moments giving Scratch and the owlbear cub the head pats they deserved.
Anything would’ve been better than… this.
But no, here you were, in the most anticlimactic exit imaginable. And just as the world dimmed to black, one final thought anchored in your mind:
Larian, you better give Raphael some damn romance options in the afterlife.
Eurus
Afer Ventus
So the world goes round and round
With all you ever knew
They say the sky high above
Is Caribbean blue?
If every man says all he can
If every man is true
Do I believe the sky above
Is Caribbean blue?
Boreas
Zephyrus
If all you told was turned to gold
If all you dreamed was new
Imagine sky high above
In Caribbean blue
…
The melody lingered, soft and sweet, as if it were the only thing tethering you to consciousness. You felt weightless, floating in an endless expanse of blue (yeah, that was 100 percent a result of the song you kept listening to nonstop), and the fleeting sense of calm wrapped around you like a gentle tide.
But then, something nudged your side, the unpleasant feeling shattering the illusion.
It was faint at first, almost imperceptible - like someone impatiently tapping you to get your attention. You tried to ignore it, clinging to the comforting melody. Alas, the nudge grew firmer, a sharp jab following, and annoyance stirred within you.
What the hell?
Before you could dwell on it, the nudge turned into a violent shove, followed by a sudden brutal kick that slammed into your ribs, forcing the air out of your lungs.
You gasped, eyes snapping open as pain bloomed through your side. The dreamlike tranquility dissolved in an instant, replaced by harsh, unrelenting reality - or rather, hot, unrelenting reality. Freakishly hot.
Sweat clung to your skin, pooling in all the worst places. You were sweating like a microwaved chicken wing at 3:00 AM (why this specific time, actually?) - greasy, disoriented, and questioning life choices.
Where the hell were you?
The floor beneath you was hard but smooth, almost pleasantly cool against your cheek and fingertips - a stark contrast to the inferno you seemed to have landed in.
Dread welled up in your chest, coiling into a heavy knot. Something pressed against your breast (your left boob, the bigger one), making it hard to breathe, and while your eyes adjusted to the dim, reddish light, it struck you that neither the lights nor the room were anything like the cold, sterile atmosphere of a hospital or the familiar confines of your bedroom. No, this place was… otherworldly.
Were you really dead? Was this really the afterlife? Have you really landed in hell?
Various questions rushed through your mind, a flood of irritating incoherence, piercing your brain and forming into the worst headache you’d ever had (and you’d had plenty of them on the daily).
The last thing you remembered was being hit by a truck. The memory flashed before you in vivid detail - the blinding headlights, the screech of tires, the sickening crunch.
Shaking, you tried to rise, but when you turned your head, you saw a figure standing over you.
Their outline was blurry - distorted, almost but certain details began to stand out. Broad, red wings. Big, pointy horns. And a pair of orange-gold glowing eyes, staring straight into your very soul.
As your vision sharpened steadily, your heart began to race, and realization dawned upon you.
Raphael.
You vomited your gut out.
The crackers you had for lunch in the office, paired with the tinned ravioli you had found in the supply depot of the restaurant (which you’d heated up in secret because temp workers weren’t allowed to touch the food, and you’d forgotten to bring your own), splattered partially onto yourself and partially lodged in your throat.
The worst part? You gagged on it, forced to swallow the barf chunks, only for them to come back up anew, your lungs straining as you gasped for air. Nearly leading to your asphyxiation until - mercifully - the weight pressing on your breast was lifted, and you could turn your whole body sideways, retching and spitting, letting it all out.
Raphael (or who you mustered to be him) stepped back. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him wrinkle his nose in disgust, and you could feel his gaze burning into you as you fought to catch your breath, choking on your own misery.
Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, praying for the sweet release of unconsciousness again, a small woman crouched down nearby (unnecessarily, as she could’ve stood just fine at your eye level), examining you like a science experiment gone horribly wrong, while keeping a very safe distance from the masterpiece you’d so graciously contributed to the marble floor.
You looked at the female dwarf, her mouth moving as if she were speaking to you, though no sound reached your ears. When she waved a hand in front of your face - like one does to snap someone out of a daze - you blinked, finally taking her in.
Her round features gave her a permanently unimpressed expression, and her dark, tightly curled, braided hair was pulled back, save for a few strands framing her face. Aside from the updated hairstyle everything about her remained the same - her make-up, her robe, her gloves, her boots. This was undoubtedly Korilla from the game Baldur’s Gate 3.
And the other figure, standing several feet away, was undoubtedly Raphael from the game Baldur’s Gate 3.
This wasn’t some cosplayer at Comic-Con, this wasn’t some pixels on a screen. This was THE Raphael. Wings, and horns, and tail and all. Even that same blue, bard-ass doublet he always wore in the game.
How many times had you modded Raphael’s cambion form onto Astarion’s model? Too many to count. So there was no mistaking it who was in front of you. The game’s graphics were stunning, sure, but they had nothing on the Raphael (or the Korilla) standing before you.
She snapped her fingers right in front of your nose, jerking your attention back to her, mouthing something again, though the sound still didn’t reach you, muffled, like you were underwater - or had headphones in.
Oh shit, of course, you thought, shifting your weight to your left arm so you could fumble the ear buds out with your right, holding them up between your fingers like a peace offering.
“Aha,” said Korilla without a change in her expression, as if she’d immediately understood your gesture. She cocked an eyebrow, her sharp gaze narrowing on the tiny, white things nestled in the gap of your index and middle finger, as a spark of curiosity flickered in her earth-brown eyes, her head turning toward Raphael.
“This thing seems human,” she said dryly.
“This?” He sneered, his tone heavy with contempt, while approaching you, the look on his face unreadable. “This… creature is what was summoned?” Raphael exhaled sharply, a noise of frustration more than anything. “This must be some manner of cosmic prank.”
You blinked sluggishly, the word ‘summoned’ rattling around your head.
Summoned? What did he mean by that?
Your body, however, had no interest in solving mysteries. It refused to cooperate whereas you struggled to sit up - forget standing - every attempt rewarded with harsh stabs of pain in your side and your chest. You hissed, clutching at the ache, your breath coming in shallow gasps as though even that was asking too much; and before you could steady yourself, a fresh wave of nausea hit you like that damned truck.
You couldn’t tell what was to blame - the agonizing whaft of egg farts, the rancid stench of your own vomit still clinging to… well, everywhere on you, or the realization that this whole surreal situation was apparently not ending anytime soon. It had to be a dream, because there was no way you were actually in Avernus, let alone the House of Hope.
That was ridiculous. Impossible.
And yet… the world around you told a different story.
The air shimmered with heat, casting ripples across the polished marble floor. Towering stone columns rose in the middle of the room, framing a pool at its center, its surface glowing with an ethereal light, shifting between shades of cool turquoise and greenish blue. A high, vaulted ceiling stretched above, its arches disappearing into shadow, illuminated faintly by the soft glow of sconces mounted along the walls. Rich, velvety curtains hung in heavy folds around the room, and to your left, a king-sized bed with red, silken sheets stood, giving the space an air of intimate luxury - you were in the boudoir of the House of Hope.
It was beautiful and at the same time frightening; the sinister edge carved in every detail meant to overwhelm, not comfort.
All of it felt real. Too real.
Your head swam as you tried to process it all. The nausea holding your stomach, threatening to drag you back to the floor.
A dream, you repeated to yourself, clinging desperately to the thought. It had to be. What other explanation was there? You being ‘summoned’ into a game surely couldn’t be the afterlife, like in those isekai and transmigration mangas and animes you’d read and watched.
You glanced up at Raphael, who flicked his tail idly behind him, like a cat debating whether or not to pounce.
“This human doesn’t seem to be a denizen of the Prime Material Plane.” He said, stretching each word deliberately, as if relishing the opportunity to belittle.
Dream or not, you couldn’t resist muttering under your breath, “Yeah, no kidding.”
“It speaks,” Korilla remarked, her voice tinged with surprise and mild amusement.
“Yes,” Raphael replied with a sigh, “though whether that’s a testament to its intellect remains to be seen - or not.” His tone sharpened when he turned to Korilla. “Are you certain you even gave me the correct summoning plate? Or is this debacle the result of some mishap on your part?”
She bristled, irritation crossing her face.
“It matters not,” the devil continued, waving a dismissive hand as though the question wasn’t worth pursuing, moving to leave the two of you. “Dispose of it.”
The dwarven warlock’s hands began to glow with cyan and black light, and you caught the briefest quiver of pity in her eyes.
Wait - was she gonna Eldritch Blast you?!
“What the fuck?!” Panic bubbled up as you ignored the pain shooting through your side and scrambled to stand, adrenaline dulling everything else. “What do you mean you summoned me, and what the fuck do you mean by ‘dispose of it’?”
You still clung to the thought that this was all just a dream - a weird, stress-induced fever dream. You’d been so utterly exhausted after your shift that you must’ve fallen asleep while closing the restaurant.
Yes, that had to be it.
No truck hitting you. No dying. No being summoned. And definitely no humiliating yourself in front of your 3D crush by puking all over yourself (and his floor).
You gritted your teeth, the words leaving your mouth without thinking. “This dream’s shit! This isn’t how this is supposed to go! If I’m going to dream about Raphael-” you waved an arm toward him for emphasis, “-it should be a nice dream. You know, something where he’s like, ‘Oh, please help me retrieve the Crown of Karsus, dear mortal,’ and not…” You gestured wildly at Korilla’s glowing hands. “Not ordering his henchwoman to fucking Eldritch Blast me with a ‘dispose of it’ like I’m some damn trash bag!”
For a moment, nothing happened. Raphael froze mid-step, his wings giving the tiniest twitch. Then, with a sharp pivot, he pulled a full 180 and stormed back toward you, looking like he was personally offended by your existence. Oh yeah, he was pissed - anger and irritation smeared all over his face like he’d just been handed a pumpkin spice latte when he asked for black coffee.
“What did you just say?” he hissed, his sudden proximity making your breath hitch, but your brain was too fried to keep your mouth shut.
“What part of it? That this dream is shit, you should ask me nicely to retrieve the crown, or that I’m not-”
His wings flared intimidatingly, cutting you off mid-ramble as he stepped closer, his tail swishing sharply behind him. “The Crown of Karsus,” he said, enunciating every syllable with dangerous precision. “How do you know of it?”
Your brain short-circuited, and for a moment, all you could hear was the faint buzzing noise coming from somewhere near your feet. Confused, you glanced down, noticing your belongings - your bag, your phone, everything - scattered across the marble floor, right next to the pool of sick (you were never eating ravioli again).
Ignoring the cambion, his death-stare, and his scary wings, you crouched down, swiping the phone from the floor, the screen lighting up as you brushed the vomit-streaked casing against your coat (ew, but what choice did you have?), reading 3:18 AM and a Tumblr notification:
gwynbleidd-witch has tagged you in a post: this sounds like you 😭 @poppsqueak.
Your thumb hovered over the notification, slightly trembling, when your grip on the phone slackened, and it slid slowly from your grasp, landing with a soft clatter against the marble. Your gaze remained fixed on the now-dark screen, your brain refusing to process anything beyond the absurdity of it all - as if staring at it long enough could make this nightmare make sense (spoiler: it didn’t).
Before you could even think to pick the phone back up, Raphael’s hand shot out, grabbing you by the collar. He yanked you up with startling ease, his eyes narrowing to slits as he brought your face uncomfortably close to his.
“I won’t repeat myself,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the haze in your brain.
Ingame, he was always so polite. Sure, you knew he was only ever polite because he wanted to manipulate the player character, you thought, but still, you couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed at how rough he was being with you (then again, you were gross right now, and couldn’t really blame him for not laying on the charm when you reeked of puke and shit).
Your eyes trailed over him as your thoughts spiraled in the complete other direction, your faces only inches apart. If you thought Raphael in the game was handsome, the living, breathing Raphael was something else entirely. His skin wasn’t the flawless, smooth texture of digital perfection - it was alive. You could see the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, the almost imperceptible pores, the stubble dotting his sharp jawline, or the other little imperfections you would never be able to spot on your screen. And his eyes… they burned. Literally. The molten, orangey gold wasn’t just a color - it flickered like embers, glowing with an intensity that could melt right through you.
The game had nothing on this. No amount of mods, reshades, or ultra-high graphics could ever prepare you for what it was like to stand in the presence of your blorbo, in the flesh.
The hope you clung to, that this was just some stress-induced fever dream, started to crumble - every little detail was too real; the heat pressing down on your skin, the faint scent of sulfur mingling with something rich and smoky, and the throbbing ache from where his taloned fingers dug into your collarbone. The hope you’d clung to, that you’d wake up any second in your messy little bed (or wherever you fell asleep), faded away like mist, leaving you with one horrifying, undeniable conclusion:
This was in fact reality.
This was what you had wanted, what you wished for while dying - you wanted a romance with Raphael in the afterlife, and here you were.
Your delulu ass latched on it like a lifeline.
Was this it? Was this some twisted wish fulfillment? Was this your chance at a Raphael romance - not just some fantasy, but with the real, living, breathing Raphael?
The thought was so absurd, so utterly unhinged, that a giggle escaped before you could stop it. And then, like a dam breaking, it turned into full-blown laughter.
“What,” he bit out, tightening his grip, “is so amusing?”
It seemed that Raphael was not a man known for his patience. And you, laughing like a lunatic in the face of his very obvious displeasure, tested the last shred of it. But the laughter wouldn’t stop. This was insane. Everything was insane. Your brain was too fried to think rationally, and it had seized onto one ridiculous, delusional thought: you were living your fanfiction.
Simply imagining it, sent goosebumps down your spine…
Suddenly, however, he released your collar, only to slam dunk your back into the freaking marble floor. Pain exploded through your body, sharp and unrelenting, and you could swear you heard a crack (though you couldn’t tell if it was the stone beneath you, your bones, or just your will to live).
“If you’d like to live,” he spat, his wings flaring as he loomed over you like a wrathful deity, “you’d better start talking.”
The pain was overwhelming, and fear surged in your chest. You needed to say something, anything, to avoid getting blasted into oblivion by this unreasonable (hot) cambion. Your mouth worked faster than your brain, and the first thing that you blurted out was:
“The future! I know the future! Please don’t kill me, godsdammit!”
You immediately cringed, your own words echoing in your ears. What the hell did that even mean, ‘you know the future’? In theory, of course you did, you had played the game a gazillion times, but where exactly were you going with this?
Raphael arched a brow, his lips curling into a humorless smirk. “A foresighted human, hmm?”
“Y-Yeah!” you stammered, clutching your ribs while you tried to sit up in vain, your voice shaking as you added, “I’m from a another realm, and I know every future that lies ahead of you.”
Having caught Raphael’s attention, his grip loosened, and he stepped back, his fiery gaze focusing as though he were reevaluating you entirely. With a sharp snap of his fingers, a burst of flame erupted a few feet away. When it cleared, a figure stood in its place - an elder tiefling woman with deep blue skin, her posture bent like that of a long-suffering servant.
“Interesting,” Raphael murmured, his tone shifting to one of sly amusement. “Interesting indeed. Perhaps you’re not entirely useless after all.”
Just as you could even begin to process the potential implications of that statement, his whole demeanor changed. It was as if a switch had been flipped, his predatory scowl replaced by a dazzling, almost disarming smile.
“This,” he started, gesturing grandly to the tiefling, “is Martia. She will bathe and dress you.” His voice dripped with charm, as if he were offering you a five-star spa treatment and not whatever this was. “And after that, we’ll talk about my many futures. Preferably the ones involving the Crown of Karsus.”
With that, he turned on his heel, signing for Korilla to follow, and leaving you alone with Martia and your thoughts.
You should be careful what you wish for, they say.
And damn, were they right.
To be continued…