#someone cry over this wet cat of a tiefling with me

[itsclydebitches]

Zevlor: An Angsty Character Analysis

Hey, Zevlor simps. Can I interest anyone in 4,000 words about our favorite disaster tiefling? 💀

“We can’t stay, but we’ll be slaughtered if we leave—we’re no fighters.”

Back during my first play-through this is the line that turned Zevlor from another dime-a-dozen, exposition spouting NPC to a character I was legitimately interested in. “We’re no fighters.” My DnD ignorance abounds, but even I could see that wasn’t an accurate statement. Here’s a mountain of a man sporting fancier armor than my level 2 Tav knows exists yet, having wrecked half the goblin hoard with his crossbow and, if you let him, he'll happily turn to punching as a solution to verbal disagreements. Plus, he’s clearly the one giving the orders, so what do you mean you’re not a fighter?

Having explored the Grove a bit I chalked it up to a generalized assessment of the refugees as a whole. They’re mostly kids, civilians, and would-be protectors who only look the part of fighters in cobbled-together armor. One woman is grappling with the guilt of killing someone for the first time, even an enemy. Lakrissa is sure they’re all going to get slaughtered and is willing to put money on that fact. Meanwhile, the couple you meet are more concerned with what pet they’ll get when they somehow, someway, make it to the city. Don't worry about how that'll happen. You learn later that even those like Ronan are small potatoes compared to most of the baddies you’ll face. On paper he looks and sounds like the real deal—dressed in robes, talking up an apprenticeship with the famous Lorroakan—but scenes like the celebration light show and his own fury at needing to be saved, again, highlight how far he still has to go. The point is that Zevlor is right: these aren’t fighters and he at 18 strength, paladin, former commander, is definitely the exception.

However, BG3 is the sort of detail-heavy game where I’d expect them to include that exception in the dialogue. “We can’t stay, but we’ll be slaughtered if we leave—these people aren’t fighters.” Zevlor’s inclusion of himself in this assessment continued to nag at me and it didn’t start to make sense until I delved into his tag here on tumblr, with more patient players than myself posting everything there is to know about the tiefling. (Thanks, all.) Zevlor is fascinating to me in part because he has this contradictory nature, one example of which is that he’s a very talented fighter who desperately doesn’t want to be a fighter anymore.

…but also he totally does.

We overhear in his dialogue to Tilses that Zevlor is adamant about shedding the titles he’s earned through combat: Hellrider, Commander, Sir. He insists that they’re just civilians now and it’s not like he’s being disingenuous here—note that he introduces himself as just “Zevlor” to Tav. Zevlor means what he says to Tilses and we can see that he’s trying to both reinforce his point and lesson the blow by referring to her as “Tilly.” The nickname is a sweet one, hinting at their close bond in just a single word, reminding her that he’s not saying this to hurt her, he cares for her… but the nickname is simultaneously something he never would have used as her commander. The intimacy meant to comfort is also a hard blow to weather. They're now people who use nicknames inappropriate for the hierarchy of battle.

So Zevlor means what he says here, means it enough that Tilses is convinced and drops her use of “Commander,” but there’s definitely a hint of bitterness in his voice. At least, I’ve always heard it. Zevlor is steadfast in his conviction here, even going so far as to say, “I’m done soldiering, Tilly” when discussing what will come next at Baldur’s Gate. Yet for all of that his tone conveys (understandable) anger and disappointment that it’s come to this. Zevlor doesn’t act like someone who truly wants this change, but rather someone who’s been forced to accept it.

Is it outside forces unwillingly influencing him then? Did Avernus truly change things irrevocably? No, not really. At least, not in the way Zevlor likes to claim. Tilses herself states that being a Hellrider is for life; nothing can take away that title. You lost your post? Your whole city? Most of the people under your protection? Doesn’t matter! You’re a Hellrider forever, no matter the circumstances. I can easily picture a time in Zevlor's life where he would have agreed with Tilses wholeheartedly. They are Hellriders, dammit, and so long as there’s one person looking for their help they will wield that title alongside their blades. And right now, Zevlor has a lot more than just one person in need of his assistance.

So it’s not that Avernus truly stripped them of that identity. Nothing can do that. Zevlor is not rejecting titles and planning retirement because the mechanisms of fate are forcing him to.

He’s doing all that because he’s lost confidence in himself.

Even as someone with a shaky understanding of DnD classes, I love the parallel between a broken oath and the rejection of a lifelong title. If Zevlor can fail in his oath—or in his faith entirely, according to the memories stemming from his pod—why-ever would he think that any other ‘permanent’ part of his identity was worth fighting for? If you can loose the very thing you’ve built your entire life around, every important aspect of yourself, tied to your very soul… what’s a bestowed title compared to that? Zevlor doesn’t believe himself worthy of being a Hellrider anymore, but I think that goes deeper than a string of horrific circumstances making him feel incompetent. As an Oathbreaker, Zevlor likely believes that if he couldn’t uphold that, he can’t uphold anything. Calling himself a Hellrider would be a lie. A fiction. A pathetic, dangerous, insulting fiction at that. It’s like calling yourself the “Hero” while continually failing those around you. Sure, others might insist it’s a title you’ve earned, one you will always carry with you, but you don’t believe them anymore and at a certain point calling yourself that feels worse than embracing the title of “Villain." You don’t want to be the villain… but you want to pretend you’re the hero even less. Pretending is exhausting.

We see this struggle in the many ways that Zevlor fails, or almost fails, to uphold the ideals that originally guided him. I use the term “villain” above deliberately because Zevlor is not merely a former hero-type who’s self confidence has been shattered, or who has been reduced to a civilian, or who thinks themselves useless; he’s actively fighting against temptations that, under less stressful situations, he’d never even consider. I don’t think he is a villain, I think he’s a flawed, struggling victim who sees his own, inevitable mistakes as villainous—and the longer that warped perspective continues the easier it is to fall into bad behaviors. This cycle is perfectly summarized in the autobiography Zevlor keeps by his bed:

“When every passer-by thinks you a thief and a heretic, it is deeply tempting to become one.”

We don’t know if this is Zevlor’s autobiography (as far as I’m aware, anyway) but even if it’s not the words have clearly resonated enough for him to keep them nearby. This particular line paints a pretty clear picture of Zevlor’s struggle. If everyone you meet says you’re devil-kin, vermin, or would-be criminal, isn’t it easier to just give them what they want? If you can’t persuade them otherwise, why put in the effort of trying? If he can’t be Faithful to his God, why have faith in anything at all? If he can’t save these people—setback after setback, mistake after mistake—why is he even making the effort?

Zevlor obviously is trying, very, very hard, which is why such thoughts are merely temptations rather than actual, questionable actions. Still, the Grove gives us numerous examples of the precipice he’s balanced on—and the ways Tav can tip him in one direction or another. You can talk Zevlor down from his anger and get him to acknowledge his disgust in nearly sinking to Aradin’s level. You can also let him boil over and punch the human at a time when the last thing anyone needs is more violence. You can convince Zevlor that there are peaceful ways of stopping Kagha's ritual, or you can help him in pursuing the darker temptation to kill her. It’s a “low” thought, but at his own admission he hasn’t been above entertaining it. Zevlor’s requests for help, though always polite and humble, carry a spark of manipulation in them too. He’s not above leveraging your previously selfless good deed to his advantage—"She owes you for saving this grove"—and if you approach him before speaking with Kagha he’ll claim that the ritual will “be trouble—for all of us.” Except, no? Not really? Tav can make it clear that they’re just here for a healer, they’re only passing through, and as a fighter they are not beholden to the Grove’s sanctuary as the teiflings are. It’s not trouble for everyone involved, yet Zevlor frames it as such in the hopes that (unnecessary) self-interest may motivate you if selflessness fails. Finally, if Zevlor dies in your play-through and you use Speak the Dead on him, he will admit to having “plenty” of secrets, none of which he’ll share. Admittedly, this may be the result of cut content, specifically a story-line in which Zevlor knowingly betrays the tieflings rather than being tricked by the Absolute. Still, the game as it stands is the story we have and within it we’re given a man who is both fighting against these dark urges (ha) and has a past riddled with secrets. If Zevlor is anything, it’s blunt when it comes to his own failings, accurate and otherwise. So how terrible must these secrets be that he outright refuses to divulge them when, generally speaking, most corpses speak freely in death?

However, out of all of this the struggle I’m most intrigued by is the one surrounding the gate. Zevlor represents the tieflings: persecuted refugees, vulnerable civilians, people seeking to survive through cooperation, specifically by joining a community. Kagha represents the druids (or at least a vocal subset of them in Halsin’s absence): bigoted individuals, powerful fighters, people seeking to survive by giving in to their fears, specifically by keeping themselves isolated. This is the moral dichotomy of the Grove and it is symbolized through the gate. Zevlor wants to open it to everyone whereas Kagha wants to close it, permanently.

So isn’t it odd that Zevlor is the one ordering it shut?

When the scene first starts Kanon shouts down that no, he won’t open the gate. Zevlor said that no one is allowed in. Notably, he’s saying this to Aradin and his crew, people that the Grove is at least passingly familiar with, given that Halsin left with them to search the temple. It’s also notable that Zevlor isn’t expecting goblins to attack the Grove. He’s shocked that this is suddenly a problem, brought about by Aradin’s decision—“You lead them here?”— and the entire point of staying at the Grove is that it’s at least comparatively safe. Yes, there have been more attacks lately, but Zevlor seems to be relying on the Grove’s relatively unknown location, as well as the fact that goblins are normally disorganized. The safety is only compromised because Aradin brought a hunting party back, so Zevlor has no reason to expect any visitors, let alone ones that would be a threat.

More importantly, he should welcome such visitors even if he did expect them. After all, that’s precisely what the tieflings are: strangers with no ulterior motives other than to survive. Broadly speaking it makes perfect sense why he'd shut the gates. Zevlor’s first priority is to his people, so anything that keeps them safe is, theoretically, a good thing. But through the lens of his specific characterization and this specific, moral dilemma, it’s an awfully hypocritical decision. Based on everything we’ve seen, our party would not have been welcomed by Zevlor if we’d arrived without danger on our heels and a rescue to endear him to us. So his people should be welcomed, trusted, kept safe, given the benefit of the doubt… but Zevlor isn’t necessarily willing to extend that same trust to others. At the end of the day, he and Kagha want a version of the same thing: safety for those they deem are worthy of it.

It’s precisely these flaws and temptations that make Zevlor such a great character to me, even before he’s tricked by the Absolute. The fandom has leaned hard into Zevlor’s self-loathing and let me tell you, I love it (kisses, hugs, and cookies for you all), but canonically I think he has more reason to fear himself than we tend to portray in the H/C fics. I’m not saying he’s a bad person. Rather, it’s precisely because Zevlor is such a good person that he has the capacity to fall so far. It’s his all-consuming desire to protect his family that leads Zevlor to do and consider so much that a paladin would normally balk at. Denying others the safety you’ve been granted. Subtly manipulating others to do your dirty work. Considering murder.

Zevlor is someone torn between doing the Right Thing and the thing he believes will help those under his care survive. Importantly, when we first meet him he considers these to be two separate courses of action. So can you imagine what goes through his head when he first sees Tav saving everyone and doing so righteously? I think it’s integral to Zevlor’s characterization that the game all but forces you to play the Good Guy in that initial encounter. A cut scene starts, you’re thrown into combat immediately afterwards, and unless you plan to start attacking the Grove members alongside the goblins (which the mechanics discourage through the coloring that distinguishes enemies from allies) you will always finish this fight as Zevlor’s hero. Sure, you can be an asshole afterwards and demand payment. You could already be plotting your betrayal and the slaughter of all the refugees. But in this moment you are nothing but a miracle made flesh in his eyes. Right from the start Tav is succeeding in all the ways Zevlor feels like he's failed. You're the hero.

More specifically, you’re an Every-Man Hero. We might have epic backstories for our Tavs, but within confines of the game you’re largely a nobody when not playing an Origin character. How powerful must that have been to witness then? A total stranger, someone who has no ties to the tieflings or even, depending on your class, any sworn reason to help others, putting their life on the line to save what is most precious to Zevlor? I think a lot about the fact that he never asks Wyll to step in and try to change Kagha’s mind. She owes him just as much as she does Tav—Wyll is an equal participant in that fight and, if your shoddy play style is anything like mine, he likely did more damage—and Wyll is clearly invested in the tiefling’s survival, training the kids as he is. Now, obviously Zevlor’s reticence is largely a question of assigned roles (we need to be the one engaging with Kagha because we’re the protagonist/player) but, like Zevlor’s choice to include himself in the Not a Fighter group, it would have been all too easy to explain this away within the narrative. One comment about how Wyll already tried and failed, or how Kagha doesn’t trust Warlocks, or hell, maybe you don’t meet Wyll in the Grove at all. It’s an easy thing to accomplish and though this is edging more into the realm of headcanon than anything else, I can’t help but think that Wyll isn’t the kind of person that Zevlor could turn to for help right now. Because he’s a folk hero. The Blade of Frontiers, known far and wide for his impressive, selfless deeds. Zevlor is struggling so hard to keep the tieflings safe, tempted by all the unsavory solutions that might achieve that, drowning in self-hatred as his past and current failings catch up with him, wanting nothing more than to be his peoples’ protector:

“I would be a paladin again—with a god’s purpose, a god’s power. Everything I needed to protect my people. And all the while, the cult tortured them. They fought, and ran, and died around me, while I imagined myself their savior.”

Three of the things Zevlor mutters while trapped in the pod are “Hellrider… for… life…,” “Trust… in me…,” and “Children… look away… look at me…” He wants to be the protector, the one children look to for reassurance, he wants his words to Tilly to be a lie and he wants a way to prove that he is a Hellrider for life… but he’s not. At least, Zevlor doesn’t believe it. He lost his titles while Wyll still proudly bears his. Wyll trains the children to fight while Zevlor can only get swept up in anger at them being threatened. The people trust Wyll, adore him, he’s the hero and Zevlor… is not. Not anymore.

It’s too painful to approach Wyll and admit all that. That would be a hell of a blow to Zevlor's pride. But Tav? A stranger? A nobody? The Every-man who had no reason to help or reputation pressuring them, saving them anyway? That’s inspiring. Someone like Tav could be the answer and even, perhaps, the proof that Zevlor could redeem himself. Neither of them are folk heroes, untouchable in their assumed perfection. Tav is a living, breathing example of how the flawed, everyday adventurer can be everything Zevlor strives for.

No wonder he won’t shut up about them in the Shadowlands.

All of this is why it’s so tragic that Zevlor wasn’t given a redemption arc. Sure, you can recruit him for the final battle against the Netherbrain, but there’s no quest to change the cast’s opinion of him—or change Zevlor’s opinion of himself. All his content at the end of Act 2 and Act 3 reinforces that self-hatred.

Let’s make a list, shall we?

Nearly every line of his reunion with Tav has Zevlor painting himself in the worst light possible, from “a lie kinder than the truth” to his refusal to join you because he believes he’ll stab you in the back. You cannot convince him of the Absolute’s manipulation and there’s no response to his belief that such horrors start within the person like, “Of course it does! Because we’re all flawed and equally capable of good and evil deeds! That potential doesn’t make you irredeemable, Zevlor, it makes you mortal!!”

He’s utterly failed as his peoples’ champion and he’s also deemed “unworthy” of being a True Soul. Obviously not being chosen by the Absolute is a good thing, but for a man drowning in self-loathing that’s one hell of a complicated rejection.

Nearly all the tieflings hate him now, all those people he’s been sacrificing his soul to keep safe. I found it particularly devastating that this is one of the rare occasions where nailing a persuasion check doesn’t change the person’s mind. There’s at least one tiefling at Moonrise (I’m drawing a blank on her name) who will believe you when you explain how the Absolute influenced Zevlor, but that doesn’t lead to forgiveness.

Zevlor is deemed unimportant on a literal, narrative level. He is very easy to miss in the pods (I nearly did on my first play-through) and the game does incredibly little to dissuade you from that mistake. Putting aside for a moment that obviously an Origin companion is more significant than a minor NPC, compare this to Shadowheart screaming from her own pod, the game making it abundantly clear that this is someone in need of help—someone worth rescuing. She’ll even say later that you could have run past, more concerned with your own survival and the big picture heroics to bother with her. How must it feel then, if Zevlor ever learns that Tav was there and never stopped for him?

If you do miss Zevlor… oh boy. We’ve probably all seen at least a recording of Orin’s so-called gift. There are plenty of characters who can meet untimely and devastating ends, but very few go through this level of horror. Zevlor—after being held captive, remember—is tortured by God’s Favorite Torturer. He is stripped of his personhood and reduced to a mere “message,” a “pet.” Zevlor is further humiliated in death by being literally stripped of his armor—not just vulnerable in his nakedness, but denied the last symbol of his faith, his status, his power—and it’s always struck me that this is the closest we see to him 'enjoying' an intimate moment, this parody in Orin’s painting. Zevlor is one of the NPC’s most in need of physical comfort and instead he’s forced into this torturous mockery of a sex scene. It also hits hard that when Tav first spots his body the narration says that Zevlor “might almost be sleeping.” Undoubtedly this is a man who isn’t taking good care of himself. He needs a good night’s rest, yet this horrifying trick is all he gets.

As if all this weren’t enough, most of your companion are VERY critical of Zevlor while commenting on his demise. It’s one thing for the tieflings to believe the worst given their ignorance and the fact that they are the ones who suffered from Zevlor’s failure, but your company understands the Absolute and the ways that she gets her hooks in people. Still, Astarion calls him a “wet rag” even if he did deserve better than this. Shadowheart wouldn’t have wished this on him either, but she can’t help but slip in a “no matter his failings.” Lae’zel, often the most blunt, straight up says that he was “always destined to fail his people—and to fail us.” Wyll shakes his head and intones that “even good intentions can lead us down deadly paths.” Only Gale and Karlach stick to mourning the dead rather than airing his shortcomings.

When I spoke to my allies before the final battle Zevlor didn’t have a cut scene. It became clear to me later that this must have been a bug in my play-through, but at the time it only reinforced my feelings that his story was incomplete. Looking on Youtube I’ve found recordings of him saying that he is a Hellrider once more and he would “die a proud man if [he] were to die this day”… but that rings as terribly hollow given where we left him. Last we were together, Zevlor was saying in no uncertain terms that he could not be trusted, he would fail again, he was unworthy of forgiveness. Where did this change of heart come from? It makes perfect sense that he would help Tav in this moment—he begs to be of some use after getting free—but not that he would present himself with such confidence. Within the story as it’s been told this feels… fake. Like Zevlor is putting on a mask to fit the mood of this lively, optimistic party. Which, in turn, gives the “I would die a proud man” line a terrifying implication to me. Does Zevlor expect to die this day? Does he intend to? What would persuade him not to lay down his life here and now? His mission is complete. The tieflings are safe—though not by his hand. There's no hero's welcome waiting for him after this battle. They hate him. He hates himself, and by his own admission the one thing that could still make him proud would be to die at Tav’s side, trying to do one last bit of good. If someone said that to me after everything Zevlor has been through I would keep them far away from the front lines.

(I did, for the record lol.)

I’m not saying anything new then when I go, “Larian, PLEASE add more to his story.” Give us a Zevlor side-quest to renew his oath. Let us invite him to our camp. Something to link the broken man mid-game and the confident fighter at the end so that the latter doesn’t feel like an alarm bell with two legs and a tail. I mean yeah, I get hooked on minor characters so 75% of this is simply me wanting more content of a fave, but I also I do legitimately believe that BG3’s story would benefit from tying up loose ends like this.

Zevlor is a fantastic character, someone who contains an astounding amount of complexity for so little screen time. You have to follow up on that complexity though. If he’s meant to be a purely tragic figure, okay, fine, that’s the ending you get with Orin. But one where he joins you with a smile and reclaims a title he's previously rejected with such fervor requires more work in the middle; a through-line that explains how someone with so much self-loathing learns to think of himself as the hero again.

Because it does all come down to Zevlor’s perception of himself. He was always a hero, flaws and all. He always was and always will be a Hellrider.

The UI knows what's up :)

[soft-for-them]

frumpkin ♡ caleb widogast x reader

Annon🪐: Hey!! I saw your post about writing for critical role and got so excited, always happy to have more writers! I'd love to see a Caleb x reader where he comforts the reader during a panic attack. I don't really have a preference as to headcanons vs one-shots, so whichever you’d prefer. Hope I didn't miss anything, thanks!

Anyone can read this, can be platonic or romantic, it’s based on my own panic attacks so sorry if it’s a bit specific, not proof read like usual.

Panic attacks have always plagued your life, it’s a thing you have unfortunately learnt to live with.

You know all the breathing exercises and mind tricks to get you out of an attack but really all you ever want when you feel the nervous feeling of panic rile up in you is a friend to talk to. For trying to stop a panic attack by yourself never truly works. You always find that stopping a panic attack by yourself makes you feel down for the rest of the day.

When you were a teenager you had ran away from your home to the circus, taken in by the half elf Gustav Fletching. For the first couple of years you helped the circus folk set up tents and decorate, then you found your love for art (no matter how good or bad you are at it).

Many years later you still helped out with the big top but you had become a portrait artist getting extra money from the patrons that came to the shows.

When you were around twenty or so you had met Mollymauk Tealeaf and Yasha Nydoorin.

The blood hunter and barbarian had always had their own ways of calming you down before you could have a full on panic attack but neither of them have ever seen you have a proper one.

Molly is always the type of person who would tell you stories to try to get you to calm down and Yasha would always try and stay near you becoming a shoulder to cry on if need be. However, none of them have ever seen you pace up and down whilst tears stream down your face and your hands shake in absolute discomfort.

No, they have never seen you fully break down.

Your panic attacks have almost disappeared since joining the Mighty Nein, since your found family has grown bigger. Yeah, you miss the carnival but you now feel like you’re doing something with your life now that you’re on this journey.

The Nein and you have all be travelling, in between quests, the canopy of the forest lighting the squiggly path to the next town. Right now you are setting up you tent that looks like a mini high top, the happy memories of your carnival days flooding your brain.

The tent is big enough for three or four people, depending on how bulky someone is. Normally it’s you, Mollymauk and Yasha snuggled in the tent much like you’re used to.

With a good meal in you and the sun setting you take the first watch, watching the orange sun blending in with purple that the night sky brings.

Soon enough Fjord taps you on your shoulder telling you softly that you watch is up.

With a soft smile you give him a small hug and a hearty goodnight, wishing him a peaceful sleep. The tall half orc only splutters out a ‘You too, goodnight (y/n).’

You have developed a soft spot for the half orc. You hug him once more him now sitting down and you bending down to do so you say your finale goodnight.

It’s a short walk to your tent, it’s very hard to miss, the patched up striped reds and pokkadot patterns stand out even in the dimming lights of the night. With a long stretch, your arms raised above your head, you walk into the tent Molly already in his corner of the tent.

‘To bed this early?’ you muse as you take off your boots and light armour.

‘Need my beauty sleep.’ He jokes sipping on a little flask presumably of some strong alcohol.

‘Well sleeping does help with beauty sleep.’ You joke back as you like down in the middle of the tent, leaving a gap to you over side for Yasha or any other person who feels like sleeping inside your tent (though it’s always been you, Molly and Yasha inside the colourful tent.)

For a while the two of you talk, mostly on the subject of setting up Yasha and Beau up like the good friends you both are but soon the talk turns to who Molly might want to set you up with.

‘You fancy someone don’t you?’ he teases knowing full well that you do have a thing for someone in the Mighty Nein.

‘Shut up Molly!’ you mutter turning away from him and snuggling into your covers.

Your try to sleep but he keeps on talking.

‘Is it… Caleb, you two share a similar quiet and shy nature, though you actually wash.’

You ignore him.

‘Or Fjord? I think he likes you and your hugs?’

You cover you head with your blanket.

‘Oh, are you into one of the lovely women of the group, Jester has been spending a lot of time around you lately?’

‘Mollymauk Tealeaf I will smother you if you don’t let me sleep!’

The purple tiefling chuckles but drops the questing, allowing you to fall asleep.

.

.

You wake up in fear, cold sweat dripping down your neck and back, the white of your shirt surly soaked. Your eyes shift around quickly to the people sleeping soundly in your tent. Molly is were he was before, deep in his beauty sleep. However, you are now sandwiched in between him and Yasha.

She must have fished her shift for she is fast asleep stealing part of your blanket.

 Your breathing is laboured and you feel weak.

‘It was only a dream (y/n).’ you try to reason with yourself, sitting up and throwing the rest of your blanket onto Yasha.

Surely you can’t wake them up now, right?

The feeling you have is panic but you aren’t in a full blow panic attack yet, Molly and Yasha know what to do to calm you down. But they are asleep and you fear that if you wake any of them that they’d be angry with you.

They certainly won’t be angry with you but your brain says untrue things to you when your panicky.

First you try some breathing exercises.

They do not work.

You then try and search around for your sketchbook. Jester had drawn a cartoon of you and her in it that automatically makes you feel happy.

You can’t find the book in the dark.

You truly don’t want to wake up Molly or Yasha, you really don’t.

So, you scramble out of your tent, no shoes or coat, you just need to get out.

The cold early morning air hits you, the sun not even up yet but the moon low in the sky.

 When you had first met the Nein you had tried to get to know everyone, despite your more introverted nature compared to the more colourful characters of the group. One night you had helped Nott pick pocket a rich man, not your greatest moment but it was very fun.

Out on that little stealing adventure Nott had said something that has stuck with you.

‘Sometimes just walking about outside calms me down, stealing helps as well.’ The stealing part might not help you but the walking part might.

With socked feet and hands stimming you begin to walk towards where you were earlier taking watch.

Molly, Yasha or Fjord won’t be there but there must be someone there to talk to before your start to cry.

The short walk towards the watch area seems like you’re walking a mile and your breaths start to become even more infrequent, you forgetting to breath out when you inhale a large breath. Tears begin to rim your eyes and your hands carry on shaking.

You’re not going to make it to whoever is on watch, you are going to break.

You stop and drop to the floor, legs crossed and hands going to you face, wiping away the now falling tears that don’t seem to stop. In this sitting down position you begin to slowly rock back and forward, tiny sobs escaping your lips.

Unknown to you the place you have decided to sit down and cry in is near enough to the person on watch that they can hear your sobs.

 Caleb stands up, looking over the camp, seeing you breaking down on the forest floor.

He has no clue what to properly do.

Normally he is alone when he had any kind of panic attack but then he realises something. The last couple of attacks he has personally had Nott was actually around to help him. Nott was always there to calm him down with cuddles and calm words.

Could he go and get Nott?

No, that would get more attention on the panicked you.

Who else helps him?

Frumpkin!

Caleb quickly summons the cat familiar and he points over to you.

‘Go over to (y/n), ya?’ the Bengal cat nudges his head into Caleb’s legs then pounces off to the crying you.

As soft lump steps into your lap and nudges to hand covered face with its soft fur.

You nervously take down a hand to see Frumpkin nudging you in the way only cats do. He pauses for a moment but proceeds to carry on nudging you when he still sees tears dripping down your face.

Your breathing hitches but there is some kind of clarity as the cat nuzzles the wetness of your cheeks almost like he’s purposely wiping away your tears.

‘…Frumpkin…’ tears well up again but not in sadness per say, it’s a combination of still being panicky but also happiness that the ginger cat is trying to calm you down.

Your arms snake around the slim cat in a small cuddle, you still rocking just a bit.

‘D-did Caleb send you?’ you whisper to the cat in your arms, knowing the answer to the question.

Once your wobbly words are spoken you look up to see a nervous looking Caleb standing near. He fidgets a bit, not looking you in the eyes, though you aren’t looking at him directly either.

‘May I sit down meine liebste?‘ he asks. All you do is nod your head.

He sits down about a body away from you but you automatically nudge up to him so your legs are touching, Frumpkin purring at the two of you.

Your breathing is still a bit funny, a breath being held in. Caleb pauses as he, his hand stops pats Frumpkin’s head.

‘Let your breath out, breath.’ you look at Caleb and try to match his breathing.

‘Thank you, Caleb.’you eventually say.

Your body is still hunched over but you have calmed down, the panic attack has passed, which is very different to normal.

‘Not need to thank me (y/n), no need to thank me.’ He takes his had off of Frumpkin’s head and pats your knee, albeit a bit awkwardly but it gets you both looking up to each other.

You give him a small smile which makes his ear turn red in a blush.

‘C-can I take watch with you for a while?’ you ask.

‘Ya, we can watch the sun rise together.’

.

.

.

i had a bit of a hard time formatting it so sorry if it looks odd.

also, please send in some more critical role requests! (do mind that i’m new to listening to campaign two.)

[chaos-burst]

If I had money I would PAY you for more Widomauk content, because I am so fucking sad lately

[ ao3 ]

Caleb wonders if it’s possible to fall in love in retrospect.

Since Molly’s death Caleb has been thinking about him a lot. Even more so than when he was alive. Death does that to people, he ponders while he sits awake during night watches and draws patterns into the dirt. Death somehow shifts the presence of someone from outside of you into your head and makes them live there on and on and on.

Much like a violinist who only plays one song over and over.

Because Mollymauk can’t change in his mind, he’s destined to stay the same, just as Caleb knew him, without room to develop, to evolve.

And still.

Still, Caleb finds himself replaying their conversations almost obsessively in his mind. He’s able to remember most things, really, but sometimes, when it’s been too long, memories fade from him. And he doesn’t want Mollymauk’s memory to fade.

Mollymauk, who said he didn’t care about what they did before, only what kind of people they are now. Mollymauk, who needed to live by this code because his past never belonged to him. Mollymauk, who gave Caleb the tiniest smile when he said “That is enough for me, Mollymauk Tealeaf.”.

Stupid, ridiculous, endlessly brave Mollymauk Tealeaf.

Caleb feels an almost forgotten fluttering in his chest. Being in love is something he almost can’t remember.

Almost.

In hindsight, Caleb can’t say if he’s been in love before Mollymauk died. Maybe he just didn’t realize it. Maybe he got better at sorting out his feelings during the last months.

Today, the thoughts of Mollymauk are especially persistent. And it’s Jester’s fault. Her voice keeps repeating in his head, small and timid and unsure.

“I’ve been asking the Traveler to teach me this new spell. To bring Molly back to us.”

Caleb could see the surprise on Nott’s and Fjord’s faces. Beau on the other hand simply sat up straighter, leaned forward towards Jester and nodded encouragingly. That’s when Caleb knew that Beau is the same as him.

Replaying memories, still searching for solutions, still hoping, not letting go.

Not ever letting go. They’re both very good and not letting things go, Caleb thinks.

“I think I can do it now”, Jester said. “But I need his body and a pretty big diamond, guys. Like. Really big.”

So now they’re traveling towards the Glory Run Road again. And as if Yasha was able to feel what is going on, she joins them when they’re halfway there. Caleb can see her talk to Jester, tears glimmering in her eyes before she hugs Jester.

Caleb is sure that Yasha hasn’t hugged any of them first so far. But there they stand, holding each other tightly and Caleb can see Yasha’s lips move. He doesn’t need to hear the words to know what Yasha is saying over and over again.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Later, when they’re only a little more than a day’s ride away from Mollymauk’s grave, Beau sits down next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

“You’ve been quiet”, she says.

Caleb shrugs. His mind hasn’t been quiet at all at the prospect of seeing Mollymauk again. It would have been so fitting, being in love with a dead man. The thought of being in love is still foreign in his mind. The last time he was in love, he was merely a teenager.

Now his heart stumbles at the thought of Mollymauk pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“You know I am not much of a talker”, he says, wondering if he should just tell Beau.

“Except when it comes to books and cats”, Beau says and gives him a lopsided grin. Caleb manages a smile.

“Looks like we’ll be complete again tomorrow.”

Her voice is so quiet, Caleb almost can’t hear her.

Complete again.

Yes.

“I’m happy”, he finally rasps, the words foreign on his tongue. Happiness feels strange, like something very old and lost to him, and still very new. Maybe he’s learning how it works to be happy again.

Beau actually puts her head on his shoulder.

“Me too”, she says.

The words stumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Do you think it is possible to be in love with a dead person?”

Beau’s head stays where it is but Caleb can feel Beau go still at his words. His heart is hammering in his chest as if it wants to escape. Breathing is suddenly very hard. Hearing the words out loud is still very different from just testing them in his mind.

“Yeah. Sure”, Beau answers. No hesitance. No judging.

When did Beauregard Lionett become one of the very best friends to him? Caleb can’t say. Just like he has no idea when he fell in love with a certain purple tiefling.

“I feel stupid”, Caleb rasps, wringing his hands and trying to control his breathing.

“It’s not stupid, Caleb. Isn’t it like… super normal that people only realize what they had when it’s gone? Or whatever? That’s what it was like for me anyway. That dumb fuck was the worst and then he pissed off and–you know? When he gets back I’ll hit him. Like. At least twice. And then I’mma hug the fuck out of him because I fucking... didn’t do that while he was still around.”

Caleb doesn’t want to hit Mollymauk. He wants to hug him. He wants him to smile. And in a very ashamed part of his brain is a wish for a kiss. Caleb probably doesn’t even know how to kiss anymore. Molly on the other hand–

He can feel heat rising to his cheeks and he clears his throat, hoping that Beau won’t notice.

“I don’t think I want to hit him”, he confesses and Beau snorts.

“Nah. Didn’t think so. Though I have to say, Caleb. If you start smooshing faces I’ll get the fuck out of there. No offense.”

Caleb coughs a little and Beau raises her head again.

Beau looks at him and Caleb actually manages to look back. Beau seems to consider something, then she opens her mouth and Caleb can see the embarrassment on her face.

“Pretty sure that asshole is like. The brother I was supposed to have, y’know? And I didn’t realize that before–before he died. For me. So. Yeah. Not stupid. And now I have to stop talking about my fucking feelings or I’ll vomit”, she says, her voice hoarse and her eyes definitely wet.

Then she gets up and ruffles his hair aggressively before stomping away.

Caleb doesn’t sleep much that night and he knows that Yasha and Beau are also awake. Yasha staring at the sky, Beau pretending to be asleep.

Still, they’re the first at Mollymauk’s grave where, surprisingly, a rather dirty and worn-out coat still floats in the wind. Caleb feels his breath catch in his throat because the whole grave is full of vibrant, colorful flowers. Caduceus doesn’t seem to be surprised by this and he smiles, apparently satisfied with his handiwork.

Yasha sinks to her knees and carefully touches the flowers while Beau grabs the coat and folds it up before ripping the stick out of the earth.

“Let’s do this”, she says, throws the stick aside and swallows heavily, while Jester slowly approaches the grave and pulls out the diamond.

Caleb can’t breathe.

He’ll be back. He will be alive and breathing and–

Even though he’s exhausted and tired and weak Caleb helps to dig up the corpse. No one speaks when they find the remains. After months, there is not much left that resembles Mollymauk and Caleb has a hard time looking at what’s left of the colorful person he knew.

Jester is crying the whole time while she carefully puts the diamond on what was once Mollymauk’s chest. There is no question if the person coming back will be Mollymauk or someone else.

Jester calls only for Molly’s soul. The soul that belongs in this body above any other soul. Yasha and Beau hold Jester’s hands and Caleb carefully places a hand on Jester’s shoulder while Fjord, Nott and Caduceus stand on either side of the corpse.

The diamond vanishes in a flash of light and Caleb feels nauseous as he watches the body reassemble itself like a morbid puzzle.

“That is quite fascinating to watch”, Caduceus mumbles somewhere to his left.

When the body is whole again, it’s completely naked.

There lies Mollymauk Tealeaf, naked, scarred and in a bed of wildflowers.

In a moment of silence and panic nothing happens before red eyes spring open and a deep breath gets sucked into intact lungs.

Caleb realizes that he’s been holding his breath as they all rush forward, except himself and Caduceus.

He needs to sit down. He needs to calm his breathing. He needs to touch Mollymauk to make sure that he’s really alive and unharmed and–

“Alright there, Mr Caleb? Breathe with me, you’re doing great. Breathe in, breathe out”, Caduceus’ soothing voice says in his ear and warm hands grab him as he stumbles.

The next few hours are a blur for Caleb.

He has no idea how to approach Mollymauk while all the others have no problem acting as if he never died in the first place. Beau doesn’t actually punch Mollymauk, but she does hug him and Caleb hears her suppress a sob when she stammers “You fucking asshole, don’t you dare–don’t–just don’t!”. Yasha doesn’t leave his side for even a second. Nott and Jester keep telling Molly all about what happened to them after he was gone (”We were pirates!” – “You were pirates without me!?”) and even Caduceus asks curious questions about being dead.

Fjord shows Molly his sword. Jester and Molly hold hands. Yasha shows him all the new flowers she collected.

All Caleb can do is sit there and stare at Mollymauk. Wonderfully alive Mollymauk.

His heart aches so much, it actually feels like a physical hurt and Caleb just wants it to stop. Being in love never felt like that, he’s sure of that. At one point, he finds Mollymauk staring back at him.

Caleb’s throat feels very dry while those red eyes rest on his face and a small, lopsided smile spreads on his face.

He might just faint then and there.

“Do you want to get out for a bit?”, a familiar voice says and Caleb flinches before he looks up into Mollymauk’s red eyes. He swallows and looks around in a panic before he finds Beau’s face and she nods her head to encourage him. Caleb gets up and feels dizzy as he follows Mollymauk out of the small Inn they settled in for the night.

“You looked like you wanted to be elsewhere”, Mollymauk says when the cold night-air brushes their hair out of their faces and Caleb sits down on one of the boxes standing outside the Inn. Mollymauk sits down next to him.

“So. I can add ‘eaten by worms’ to my resumé. Pretty impressive, huh?”

Caleb shuddered and snorts.

“I don’t remember it though. Pretty glad about that.”

Caleb doesn’t know what to say. There are many things he wants to say, but they would be uncalled for, inappropriate and terribly embarrassing.

“The new guy is great, he knows an awful lot about mushrooms”, Mollymauk continues and lets his legs swing back and forth as if testing them. See if they still work the same as before.

“Ja. He uh–he really likes mushrooms.”

Molly laughs.

“Don’t we all”, he says with a chuckle and then he’s quiet for a while, looking up at the sky. Caleb thinks about how Beau doesn’t consider his feelings stupid. They’re still there, buzzing under his skin, now that Mollymauk actually sits beside him. But what do you do about feelings like this? They seem to big for Caleb’s body, trying to spill out in any way they can.

When a warm hand reaches for his he almost chokes on his own spit.

“Hey Mr Caleb”, Mollymauk says and doesn’t look at him when he speaks. His eyes are still turned skyward. “I died. And it sucked. Like, a lot. I might just die again tomorrow.”

Caleb’s chest feels very tight at the thought. Molly’s fingers don’t let go of his hand and he thinks his heart might fly away into the night.

“Don’t. Don’t–Just. Be careful, ja?”

Mollymauk tilts his head back and finally turns to look at Caleb.

“I’ll try. Dying sucks, to be honest with you. What I meant though, is–you know. If I die again tomorrow I might as well make the most of my time, yeah?”

Caleb barely manages to look Mollymauk in the eyes.

If I die again tomorrow I might as well make the most of my time, yeah?

Caleb takes a deep breath and turns his hand upside down, so his fingers are able to intertwine themselves with Mollymauk’s.

“We all missed you”, he rasps. It’s all he can manage.

Mollymauk smiles, a small, earnest smile. Not his flashy grin, the one he puts on when he lies and jokes and postures. It reminds Caleb of the smile he saw after they discovered the truth about Mollymauk’s past. Or the lack of it.

“I’m pretty sure I missed you, too. Can’t remember, but. You know. It was good with you all. I’d like to experience more of that.”

Another silence follows, this one stretching out longer. Caleb wants to know what’s going on in Mollymauk’s head. He also wants to say everything that goes on in his mind.

I’m too broken to love anyone. I’m too broken to be loved. I hate myself so much, being in love is so hard. Touching is hard. Talking about caring and feelings is impossible. How can it feel so good to just hold someone’s hand?

“Beau told me she missed me. Said I’m like a brother to her”, Mollymauk says after a long while. “She’s still entirely unpleasant, but I would die again for her any day, you know. Having siblings like that is great, to be perfectly honest.”

So Beau did what Caleb cannot. Just said it. Even though she must be ashamed and even though she has a hard time talking about feelings, just like Caleb.

“Mr Caleb?”

“Ja?” Caleb clears his throat. “Mr Mollymauk?”

His own words make him smile.

He missed saying this.

“If I die again tomorrow I’d be really angry if I didn’t try to kiss you right now.”

Caleb doesn’t want Mollymauk to talk about dying anymore. But his whole body freezes when he hears the second part of Molly’s statement and when Molly gets up and suddenly stands in front of him, all he can do is look up at him helplessly, his cheeks burning and his heart hammering.

“So, Mr Caleb. Will you let a dead man steal a kiss?”

The grin Mollymauk shows him is the one he uses when he tries to hide his uncertainty. Caleb knows how to spot it. He replayed every single one of Molly’s expression in his mind so, so many times.

“No”, he whispers and his heart might just explode at the flash of hurt that flickers over Molly’s features, “but a living one would be–that would be–”

Molly blinks and the next thing Caleb knows he has a lap full of purple tiefling, hands in his hair and very warm lips pressed on his mouth. He gasps and almost falls off the box he sits on before his arms wrap around Mollymauk and he finally finds the sense to kiss him back.

No more dying, he thinks as he desperately buries his fingers in Mollymauk’s hair. No more dying.

Molly kisses him like a drowning man in need for air. He tries touching every part of Caleb he can get his hands on and Caleb finds himself panting into the kiss. It’s all so much. Which is only fitting, he thinks, since this is Mollymauk Tealeaf he’s kissing.

“Why, Mr Caleb”, Molly pants against his lips. “For kisses like that, I might just stay alive as long as I possibly can.”

Caleb pulls him down again.

“Deal”, he murmurs into the next kiss.

He supposes that he’ll just have to kiss Mollymauk Tealeaf every day for as long as possible.

[zarcake-writes]

Little Man

So this is what I’m reading today to my creative writing class. And I figured I’ll share it with you all. Hope you enjoy.

Rhea’s sleep was interrupted by the cries of a baby and the feeling of a wet tongue in her face. She jolted away from the tongue and sat up, sending the dog an annoyed looked. The dog let out a soft whimper and turned towards the bassinet located a few feet away from Rhea’s own bed. The dog rested his head on the edge of the bed and peered down at the crying baby.

The small, one-roomed cabin was dimly lit by the dying fire in the hearth. The world outside was dark and silent. The baby didn’t seem to care what time it was, his cries just seemed to grow louder. His small hands could be seen over the edge of the bassinet; small hands curled into angry little fists. The dog began to grow more impatient, running to Rhea then back to the bassinet.

“Alright, I’m coming,” Rhea said.

Walking to the bassinet, she examined the crying baby. His skin was a grayish-blue. His black hair was soft and stood up. The way his tail thrashed around reminded Rhea of a grumpy cat. His blue eyes were filled with tears, and his bottom lip was pushed out in a pout. His brow was furrowed as if he had a reason to be angry at the world. His clawed feet had ripped through the blanket Rhea had patiently wrapped around his body.

“Sweetie, you got to stop ripping the blankets.” Carefully, Rhea unwrapped the blanket from around him and his feet. He let out a small kick and continued crying. “What’s got you so upset now? You need to be cleaned up? You sure smell like you need a cleaning.”

Rhea laid the baby down on a blanket and began cleaning him. When she finished, he seemed to have calmed down a bit. But he still whimpered, his brow was still furrowed, and his tail still twitched in irritation. There was a pitiful look in his eyes that made Rhea’s heartache.

“You hungry, little man?” she asked. As if to answer her, he began to cry again.

Rhea ignored his cries for the time and began preparing his milk. She wasn’t producing any milk, but the midwife in town told her how to make a substitute for breast milk; goat milk, mixed with boiling water, and some sugar.

Rhea yawned as she prepared the baby’s milk and thought about what her life now was. She never thought she would have adopted an orphaned Tiefling baby or make a special formula for him in the middle of the night while her dog watched from the sidelines. If someone told her she would be buying swaddling blankets for a baby, only to have him rip them apart, she would have laughed. Oh, and cannot forget the never-ending mess that comes out of both ends of the baby. But the part that really got to Rhea was the damn goat outside. Stupid thing would constantly try to headbutt her- it was successful once and Rhea still has the bruise on her head.

Looking out the window in her kitchen, Rhea viewed the forest that surrounded her small cabin. The moonlight filtered through the trees, only to be swallowed up when a cloud passed in front of the moon. The disappearing light added to the unsettling feeling of the darkened forest. Shadows seemed to grow in size as the moonlight vanished. Rhea could imagine those shadows being monsters or demons come to harm her and the baby. But it was just a trick of the light. The only monsters Rhea had to worry about were the narrow-minded people who lived in town. The ones who told her to kill the Tiefling baby.

The dog let out a small, anxious bark that got Rhea’s attention. The baby was still crying, and the cup of milk in her hand was ready to be served.  

“Alright, my little man, let’s get you fed. Then we can get back to sleep,” Rhea said. The baby only replied by crying louder.

She scooped him up and sat beside the dying fire. Sitting him upright, she placed a rag beneath his chin, while the edge of the cup rested on his bottom lip. Rhea tilted the cup just enough for him to sip the formula. She watched carefully as he began to drink the milk; his little hands grasped her thumb and forefinger.

“There you go. That’s my big boy,” she said in a soft voice. Rhea’s dog sat next to her and watched.  

The small house descended into silence. The only things Rhea could hear were the soft thumping of her dog’s tail against the floor, and the baby making gross noises as he ate. The quiet gave her time to reflect on how she found the baby.

It had been a normal day for Rhea when she found the baby and his parents. A normal day of checking her rabbit traps, gathering mushrooms, and other edible plants. It was her dog that caught the scent. His hackles rose and low growl alerted her that something was wrong.

He led her to a horrible scene. A male Tiefling lay dead on his side in a small clearing. The puddle of dried blood around his body made it clear he had been killed within the last day. The animals hadn’t even started picking him apart yet.

Rhea approached his body carefully. Her dog was sniffing around, his hackles still raised. The brutality inflicted upon the body made it clear he did not die in a quick or natural fashion. His red skin was covered in dried blood, and what looked like burns. His horns and tail were gone, upon further examination, she discovered they were not removed in a clean manner. The horns were hacked off, and the tail looked like it had sawed off. The blood around the base of his tail told her it had been removed when he was still alive.

There were broken arrows in his shoulder and legs like his hunters made a game of killing him. Rhea couldn’t count the numerous deep stab marks to his torso, and long slash marks to his legs. His feet, which were reptilian-like, were damaged in a way that Rhea believed he had been tortured.

“Fucking animals,” she hissed. She fought back the bile that rose in her throat and turned away from the body.

Rhea examined the ground around the dead body. So many footprints made it difficult for her to tell how many attackers there were. But a trail of blood caught her attention. She followed it to the edge of the clearing, her dog was already sniffing at the trail. The hope that this person got away was squashed when she saw footsteps following the blood.

Rhea glanced back at the dead body and saw he had been looking in this direction when he died. A horrible feeling settled in her stomach. Whoever was at the end of this trail was most likely dead, that much she knew. But she had to be sure.

She followed the trail deep into the woods. Whoever was running was smart. Their trail went in circles at times or it would loop back around. Some points it would cross back over a trail Rhea had already seen. At one point she lost it completely- her dog was the one who found it. The small puddle of blood at the base of the tree made Rhea’s stomach twist.

It was about that time she heard it. A faint crying. Her dog’s ear pricked up and he bolted in the direction of the cries. Rhea ran after him, hoping it wasn’t a trap. The cries turned into screams the closer Rhea got to the source. When she finally caught up to her dog, the baby’s screams were full of despair. Her dog was standing against a tree, looking up to the branches. He was letting out a low chuff and whimpering.

Up in the tree, in a bear bag, was the baby. No one had found the baby, not the hunters or any animals. Rhea quickly undid the rope that was tied to the bag and lowered the bundle. The screaming baby grew frantic at the feeling of the bag moving. His screams sent chills down Rhea’s body and made her hands shake. Is this what the male Tiefling was protecting? Who tied it up here?

When the bundle was safely on the ground, Rhea shooed her dog away. She opened the bag and found him inside. A small Tiefling baby, about six months old, with gray-blue skin and soft black hair. There was a splatter of blood on his shirt, and a blood smear on his cheek. Pulling him against her chest, Rhea did her best to calm him.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” she whispered.

Turning to her dog, Rhea saw he had found the blood trail again. Swallowing thickly, she followed this trail. Whoever was at the end of the trail ensured no one would find the baby. Rhea can only imagine what the person was thinking at that time. Allow the baby to fall into the hands of their pursuers or try to lose them and come back for the baby. Rhea wasn’t sure what she would have done in their place.

The trail continued looping around, but eventually, it came to a sudden end. At the end of the blood trail, she found who she assumed was his mother. She was in worse condition than the male Tiefling. What the hunters did to the female Tiefling made Rhea angry and sick. The blood that covered the body made it hard to tell her skin was the same grayish blue as the baby. Her horns had been hacked off, leaving her white hair matted with blood. Her tail was gone as well, removed in a similar fashion as the male Tiefling. She had put up a fight, just like the male Tiefling.

The baby made a noise that brought Rhea out of her memory. He had drunk all the milk in the cup and was upset that the cup was still in front of him. Setting down the empty cup, she wiped his face clean and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Oh, that’s a good boy. Eating all your food. Look at your tummy! It’s full of milk.” Laying a towel over her shoulder, she placed him against her chest and began patting his back.

She patted his back for about twenty minutes. Each burp made her laugh, and he even seemed to be amused by his own bodily noises.

“Little man, Ana is coming over tomorrow. She’s gonna watch you for a bit while I’m out grabbing food. I would take you with me, but you’ll scare away everything. When you’re older, I’ll take you out.” Rhea stood up and removed the dirty towel from her shoulder. The baby yawned and gave Rhea an exhausted look. His eyes were heavy, and he seemed eager to be back in his bassinet.

By the time Rhea reached the bassinet, the baby was already asleep. She laid him down gently and watched him. His small chest rose and fell with each breath. His toes and the tip of his tail twitched as he slept. His little hands were down at his sides, but by the morning they would be thrown up near his head.

“Sweet dreams, little man.”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

“No, like…. It’s just, I can’t believe you’re actually wearing my clothes.” or “Would you mind if I kissed you?” for widomauk maybe?

Thanks so much for the request, I love getting new people suggesting story ideas!

This one ended up a lot longer and a lot smuttier than I expected…

“Mollymauk? Molly? Dear, I think there’s enough sugar in there now…”

Molly’s ears picked up suddenly, his eyes pulled away from fervently watching the busy street outside the café window by Caduceus’ voice. He realised that he was still holding the sugar dispenser over his coffee, that a steady stream of white was still merrily pouring into the cup and had been for some time now, turning the drink cloudy and probably undrinkable.

“Oh…” he mumbled, rather feebly, setting the glass back down and wondering if his dignity would be salvageable if he just stubbornly drank it anyway and gave himself diabetes in the process.

“Distracted, are we?” Clay asked delicately from behind the counter where he was already putting together another latte for his friend. It was no trouble, customers were few and far between this late on a Monday night and Mollymauk looked as if he could use some warm, caffeinated distraction. Though maybe he’d make this one stealthily decaffeinated, the poor tiefling looked wired enough.

Molly grunted in response, resting his head listlessly in his hands against the aged wooden flat top. As much as he tried to force his eyes downwards and at least act vaguely normal, they kept stubbornly drifting to the window again, searching the faces sweeping past in the gathering dusk. His heart rose with each new one and sank almost immediately when it wasn’t the right one, quickly making him feel ill, as if he were on some kind of rollercoaster all while just perched on the stool at the counter of the Nestled Nook.

“He should be back by now…” he muttered distractedly, under his voice though Caduceus’ large ears flickered and picked it up.

“The train must be delayed,” the firbolg soothed as he slid drink number two across to Molly, “I’m sure that’s all it is. You know he’s as eager to get back as you are to see him.”

He bit his lip, not really in any mood to hear any comforting words, even from a friend, just restlessly drumming elaborately painted nails against the side of his mug. He always poured his attention into tiny things when he was feeling forlorn and two nights ago it had been his nails; currently they were a deep purple with intricate, glittering gold pattern work done with a toothpick. It had taken his mind of missing Caleb for a full evening.

“He said six. He said his train got in at quarter to and he’d be here by six…”

Caduceus nodded slowly. He hadn’t needed to ask what was wrong when Molly had slumped into the counter seat nearly an hour ago. All of the friends had been kept well up to date with this tumultuous week, where Caleb was away for a whole three months, off in a city on the other side of the country to do research in a sister academy’s even vaster library. With Molly trapped on the verge of a new production opening at the theatre, the two had been very reluctantly separated for the longest time ever since they’d met.

The tiefling had been, understandably though not exactly forgivably, insufferable the entire time and if Caleb’s texts were anything to go by, he’d been exactly the same. Caduceus quietly pitied whoever owned the coffee shop closest to that other library as they’d probably had a scruffy, mournful Caleb haunting their establishment for the last three months like a plaid ghost. Just like he’d had an increasingly agitated and restless Mollymauk glued to his counter, checking his phone every two seconds for texts from his boyfriend and grumbling loudly when there wouldn’t be one nine times out of every ten.

But the torture was nearly over. Or rather, it should have been fifteen minutes ago. Though the evening was rough; the world beyond the window, beyond the brightly and cheerfully painted letters that spelled out the name of the café, was slick and shimmering as rain came down in sheets. No wonder Caleb was running a little late, Caduceus thought, though poor Molly was past such common sense, only desperately wanting to see his boyfriend again.

Caduceus was considering playing Molly’s favourite albums over the speakers to try and cheer him up, temporarily lifting last year’s blanket ban on folk music, instated after he’d wheedled him into playing the same song to death even after several customers had complained.

But then Molly suddenly jerked bolt upright and the door chimed as someone walked in. Someone in a dripping wet trench coat, with auburn hair plastered to their head, a scarf around their neck that looked like a drowned snake and the most relieved and joyful expression on their face.

Molly nearly sent the stool crashing to the floor as he leapt up and launched himself at Caleb, unashamedly. Caleb’s arms were wide and ready for him, gathering him up and clasping him tightly, the two of them uncertain whether to laugh with relief or sob with joy.

Molly chose the former, Caleb the latter.

“I’m sorry, I’m soaking…” Caleb murmured into Molly’s hair, in between pressing frantic kisses to his head.

“It’s fine,” Molly giggled and he truly didn’t care, even as rainwater started turning the front of his shirt dark and damp, “Fuck, I missed you so much. Never leave me again, okay?”

“Never,” Caleb promised, voice thick,” Never ever.”

The rest could only be said with kisses, Molly catching Caleb’s face in his hands, wincing a little at how cold and wind burnt it was though it didn’t deter him as he pressed their lips together. He could almost say that all those nights in his big, lonely bed, falling asleep with the phone digging grooves in his palms and his cheek after a painful goodbye, were worth it just for how sweet and lovely that first kiss was. Almost.

“You’re so cold…” Molly murmured, letting his hands flit from his cheeks to his neck to his shoulders, trying to warm him up with the natural heat of his skin.

He knew of a much better way to warm him up quickly and could see in Caleb’s eyes that he was having similar ideas but there was that damnable sign on the bathroom door and Caduceus was definitely going to notice something if he seized his boyfriend by the front of his coat and led him in that direction. Once bitten, twice shy.

Which meant home. Home back to the way it was supposed to be, with Caleb’s coat on the hook by the door, his long red hairs clinging to the shower door, his books on the coffee table next to a cooling, forgotten mug, his hand never far from Molly’s.

Home.

Fortunately, it wasn’t a long trip and Mollymauk had an umbrella though it was made slightly longer by the two of them nearly constantly snagging each other for kisses.

Caleb gave a cry of delight as the door was pushed open and warm light flooded the apartment, “Frumpkin!”

The cat seemed just as pleased to see him, darting from the cushion he was sat on to rub himself against Caleb’s ankles, purring like an engine in bad need of repair.

“How was he?” he asked, scooping him up and cradling him against his chest like a baby, Frumpkin kneading his arm gladly, “Were you two nice to each other?”  

“Who, Freeloader?” Molly grinned as he tossed his bag and coat down, “Sweet as pie. You know how well me and him get on.”

A blatant lie. Molly and Frumpkin were long time mortal enemies turned reluctant roommates, constantly competing for Caleb’s attentions. Neither of them had been pleased by the fact that Caleb’s accommodation during his research didn’t allow pets or magical familiars of any kind. It had been a long three months of deliberately shedding on clothes, being chased off said clothes, knocking vases and photo frames off high surfaces, cursing and hissing and glaring at each other from opposite ends of the sofa.

And of course now he was a little furry angel, gazing up at Caleb with full moon, amber eyes dripping with adoration. Typical.

Once extracted from his cat’s welcome home, Molly pressed Caleb up against the wall in the way that he knew drove him absolutely wild, kissing him with much more intent, gasping softly as his lips parted for him. Caleb responded eagerly, as hungry for this as Molly. Phone sex and naked pictures were fun in their own way but after a whole three months, they’d proved a very poor substitute for this.

“Gods, Molly…” Caleb whimpered lightly as his boyfriend pushed the shirt away from his shoulders after practically tearing through the buttons. He was in no mood for patience or care, he wanted him so badly it was a metallic taste in the back of his mouth and a flaring ache between his legs.

They blindly made their way towards the bedroom, a hopeless tangle of limbs scrabbling with the doorknob, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. Along the way, Caleb’s jeans were abandoned, as well as all four of their shoes, socks, Caleb’s boxers and packer, Molly’s tights (which Frumpkin immediately seated himself on as a final act of defiance).

Mollymauk found himself tipping suddenly, fortunately down onto the bed which rushed up to catch him, knocking the air out of him with a breathless laugh. Caleb soon came tumbling on top of him and Molly immediately began pressing kiss after kiss to his jaw, neck, chest, re-familiarising himself with all the hollows and lines and ridges he loved so much, with the rapid hammering of Caleb’s heart behind his ribs, so alive and real.

He’d missed it more than words could possibly say. So, he intended to express it by fucking Caleb so hard he wouldn’t be able to walk straight for at least a day.

Though he found his plans suddenly interrupted as Caleb froze in his grip and pulled away.

“Hey…” Mollymauk whined pathetically, “What gives?”

Caleb looked surprised as he fingered the fabric of Molly’s shirt, “You…you’re wearing my shirt?”

Shit. Molly had forgotten that.

The shirt was in fact Caleb’s. One of his favourite ones in fact that Molly had snatched from his suitcase the day he left and stuffed under his pillow. Mustard yellow plaid with brown lines and fraying hems, it was as quintessentially Caleb as it was possible to be and carried all of his musky, bookish and coffee scent. Molly had been sleeping with it pressed to his nose most nights, inhaling deeply as he could in an effort to not cry himself to sleep, and wearing it during the day though only around the flat. Gods only knew the comments that Beau would make if they saw him dressed like this. In his rush to get to the Nook and count down the minutes until he saw his boyfriend again, he’d forgotten to change.

Caleb began to laugh bemusedly, face frozen in exaggerated shock, “Dear gods! What happened, did you go temporarily blind this morning? Is hobo couture on the catwalks right now?”

“Shut up man…” Molly felt his face flushing and he pressed himself to Caleb’s collarbone to try and hide it, “Come on, back to fucking…”

“No, no, no,” Caleb caught him and pulled him back, eyes shining, “Seriously, what gives? I thought everything I wore was, and I quote, ‘only fit to reupholster the awful furniture in some old geezer’s depressing man cave.’”

Molly snorted, bashful and coy, two expressions that had almost never appeared on his face but only made him more tempting to Caleb for all that.  

“Look, I…I really, really missed you, okay?” he mumbled, biting his lip, “And wearing your clothes, having your smell on me…it helped.”

Caleb’s expression turned gentle, soft as the well-worn cotton of the shirt Molly wore, his fingers delicately tracing the lines of his jaw, “Well…I didn’t think my smell was something people actually wanted? But you’re very sweet.”

“Hey, I keep you right these days, your stink’s decreased considerably,” Molly smirked, flicking his arm lightly.

Caleb snorted, “I just can’t believe you’re wearing my clothes…”

He punctuated that with a kiss to his forehead, rolling them gently so Molly was the one on top. His voice suddenly turned huskier, his pupils widened a little, none of which the tiefling’s hunter eyes missed.

“Hey…could you keep that on? My shirt, I mean, the rest can come off but…”

In almost the blink of an eye, without another word being said, Molly’s skirt, binder and underwear were on the floor and all that lay underneath the dark fabric that still held Caleb’s scent, Caleb’s ink marks, was a skin that wasn’t his own. The material curved in a way it never had on him, hugging the fullness of Molly’s chest, stretching and revealing in the most teasing way. Purple as a winter sunset, soft as silk, burning hot under his still cold hands as he slipped them past the lip of the fabric.

How he’d lived without it, Caleb had no idea.

“Do you want to…or I could…” he whispered hoarsely.

Ever the decisive one, Molly rested his hand on Caleb’s chest, “Just give me a moment to get the harness on, darling. You stay right there looking pretty.”

It was a simple process and one Molly was well versed in. It was made even lovelier by Caleb lying on his side and watching the whole thing with a devoted, ravenous gaze, moaning softly under his breath at every snap of the leather and ring of the buckles.

Purple skin brushed lightly over amber as Molly pushed his knees to his chest, purring delightedly at what he found, “Baby, you’re so wet for me…missed me, huh?”

Caleb whimpered and nodded in response, running the fabric of his shirt through his fingers as Molly positioned himself, the toy shining in the low light as the whole length of it buried into Caleb with a soft sound and a throaty cry from Caleb.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Molly shuddered, feeling the pressure right on the spot he needed it most, almost as good as Caleb’s long legs anchoring around his waist, “You’re home.”

The headboard began to thump rhythmically against the back wall, reliably hitting the twin spots where the paint was already chipping and the plaster already denting. Caleb twisted and whimpered beneath him as the toy that Molly operated as skilfully as if it really was his skin and bone pressed him on and on towards the edge.

Molly was in a generous mood, holding nothing back as his hips rolled back and forth, giving Caleb everything he needed and feeling warmth flood through him in turn, that deep sense of pleasure from being connected to the man he loved. His own fingers dug into Caleb’s hips while those long, arched ones worn from writing and reading so much twisted and grasped at the pillows.

For a shy man, Caleb was so vocal in bed, narrating his clamber towards the edge, gasping and moaning, cursing breathlessly in any of his many languages and, over and over, Molly’s name. Molly himself was focused and determined, growling low in his chest with desire.

Though when his own orgasm dragged him under, completely by surprise after he’d been so absorbed in Caleb, he screamed his boyfriend’s name and was vaguely aware of his own name being moaned in a shuddering voice heavy with relief.

Mollymauk didn’t expect to be as out of breath as he was when it was finished, as he pressed his forehead to Caleb’s and kissed him long and slow and lazy.

“I love you…I love you…” he murmured vaguely hands stroking back the hair from his damp forehead.

“I love you too,” Caleb rasped, “I’m never leaving again, I swear. Fuck it, I’m never leaving this bed again.”

Molly laughed raggedly, rolling out of him and off him, too exhausted to consider taking the harness off yet which amused Caleb no end, flicking the cock lightly and watching it wobble back and forth and giggling helplessly.

“Grow up,” Molly snorted, lying close to him, arm pillowing his head so he could stroke his hair.

“Shut up,” Caleb grunted in response, grinning, “I’m going to need that shirt back, y’know.”

“Too late, it’s mine now,” Molly purred, letting his heavy eyes close, all the sleepless nights when he’d been alone suddenly rushing to catch up with him, “You’re never getting this back.”

Caleb groaned and rolled his eyes but, in all honestly, he didn’t care.

Mollymauk looked much better in the old thing than he ever had.