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dilucs-princess · 10 months ago

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The sweet taste of milk

Pairing: Doppelganger Francis x afab reader

words: 1,147

warnings: fem!reader (no pronouns but fem anatomy), sub!Francis, slapping, unrealistic sex (no prep), slight mommy kink, overstimulation

reblogs > likes

@b-ella-donn-a

Francis Mosses was on his knees, staring up at you. You have no idea how you got in this situation, peering at him through the window. "Please," He breaths, clasping his hands together. "Please let me in.. I-I'll be a good boy... I'll serve you so well, miss, please..."

You could only watch, mouth hanging open in shock as you watch Francis. Was it Francis? Was it a doppel? You weren't even sure but the way he was begging was so beautifully and so needy, you had to rub your own thighs together.

Your hand reached towards the open button and Francis basically sobbed with relief, crawling his way towards you. You could tell he was so, so needy! You couldn't help but laugh as he crawled into your office.

He sat back on his knees, a cute little bulge forming at the front of his trousers, you reached your foot out to press down on it gently and he keened, choking back a desperate moan.

His disguise was starting the slip. Sharp teeth and a long tongue, red eyes, rimmed with gold. You grinned.

This is what you wanted. You gestured the poor doppelganger to stand up. "Strip," You commanded. And he did it as fast as his shaking and trembling hands allowed him. He folded his shirt and trousers, placing his hat and bow tie on top.

He was left in his boxers and shivered when you licked your lips. "Delectable... Truly, a pleasant sight to behold.." You murmured, standing up. You clicked your fingers and pointed to the chair, he rushed over to sit down.

'What a good boy..'

You chuckled, shaking your head as you ran a hand through his hair and he leaned into the touch. You leant down to press a kiss to the corner of his lips, kissing across his jaw and slowly down his neck and chest.

You moved to straddle his lap and he gasped when your body made contact with his hard dick. Even through his final layer and your clothes, he desperately rutted up but you slapped him and he stopped immediately. He sobbed softly, he was so desperate for release! He needed to cum so bad - and you hadn't done anything!

A soft chuckle left you at his pathetic state and you lowered your head to wrap around his nipple, gently sucking on it whilst your other hand went to tug and pull at the opposite one, leaving him writhing and whimpering under you. You hummed with a raised eyebrow as you pulled back, swapping your mouth and hand with a happy smile.

Francis was panting, gripping your hipws tightly, he was trying so hard not to move his hips, he didn't want to get hit again, he was a good boy! He bit back another moan, he was sure his fingers were causing indents in your skin.

He threw his head back when you began to grind against his cock. Small whimpers left his lips and a small cry when you got up off of him. He looked back up but sighed happily when you began to strip, quickly standing too discard his last item of clothing.

You raised an eyebrow, chcukling when you saw him sitting down quickly too, wrapping a hand around his dick. He moaned softly, slowly stroking himself, squeezing his eyes shut. You tsk'ed quietly, cupping his chin, your thumb swiping across his lip. "Gonna cum already? You're not even inside me yet!" You laughed, humming as he took your thumb in his mouth.

Francis was like putty in your hands, so desperate and needy for you, allowing his hand to pull away from his dick as you straddled him, the tip of his dick rubbing against your pussy.

He cried softly, whining when you took your thumb out of his mouth, quickly taking one of your breasts into his mouth, suckling desperately on your nipple. You smiled, he was so cute! How could you ever deny him anything?

"Mommy, mommyy, please.." he whimpered against your skin and you just smiled, slamming down onto him quickly, all at once.

Both of you moaned out in unison and you smiled at the slight stretch, though you couldn't wait for your turn to fuck him instead. You allowed time for you both to adjust as his hands went to hold onto your hips, slowly rubbing circles into the skin before you slowly lifted yourself up and dropping down again.

Francis' breath was hot against your neck and skin, his moans breathless and desperate as he whimpered and whined as every pull of your soft walls against his rock hard dick. He knew he wouldn't last long, he had been desperate for ages.

His fingers were digging into your skin, his eyes glued to your cunt as one of your perfect hands went to rub at your clit. He whimpered and tentatively replaced your hand with his. He smiled up at you nervously but it all disappeared as he saw your blissful expression.

"Mmm, Miss. 'm so close, wann' cum so bad!" He whined, burying his head in your shoulder. You smiled, nodding as you continued to bounce on his cock. "Cum, cum inside of me, darling, you're okay," You replied with a smile, clenching around him desperately.

He nodded, gasping for breath as you continuously clenched around him, rubbing your clit with more vigor, collecting some click to aid in the lubrication.

He moaned so loudly as he came that you had to shove fingers in his mouth. He didn't care, so desperate as he gagged on your fingers, eyes fixed as he cum spilled out of your beautiful pussy.

His eyed widened and he whined as you continued. "Mmf-" He tried to speak but just gagged beauifully around your fingers instead. You smiled evily down at him. "You really think you could just cum and forget about me? Stupid boy.." You laughed as he cried from the overstimulation.

You allowed your head to tilt back, thrusting your fingers into his mouth as you continuously bounced on his cock, increasing your pace as you felt yourself get closer and more and more desperate.

"Fuck, close, Francis, been such a good boy! So good for me, cumming- oh god, i'm cumming, Francis- fuck-!" You cried out, reaching out to blindly grab onto him as your pussy tghtly clenched aorund him and your body spasmed.

Francis gasped and cried as he came again too, the praise and stimulation was too much for him. You smiled as you slowly came down from your high, wiping his tears away gently.

"Sh, sh, you're okay, baby boy, it's all good. You did so well.." You promised, cupping his cheek gently. Francis looked up at you, eyes still watery as he hid his face in your chest. You just smiled and held him close. "Good boy... Well done.."

#francis mosses #francis mosses x reader #francis mosses x you #sub francis mosses #sub francis mosses x reader #that's not my neighbour #tnmn #tnmn francis mosses #milkman x reader #bryn writes ~ ♡ !#mine ~ ♡ !#tnmn smut

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thedragonagelesbian · 21 days ago

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redemption in the four ethers

for @hexblooddruid & oc kiss week!!! tav x durge, inspired by this post

Everything hurts, and Cyrus is smiling.

Their work--her work--has taken them far from Baldur's Gate by now, the Faithwarden and her knight following nature's call up to Ardeep Forest. An engineer and a wizard got their hands on some of Gortash's work and were attempting synthesize infernal iron on the Material Plane, at great cost to the surrounding lands. Razed trees, polluted waters, black smoke in the skies, but they've done the first part now. Dead constructs, dead artificers, dead engineer and wizard, the part that Cyrus is oh so very good at, nearly dead himself, reciting supplications to his new god cocooned in bloody wings and jagged scrap metal but worst of all are the things still inside of him. The hidden places where his body has burst into sacrificial nothingness.

"Lord on the Rack, weep for me, for I am weak, and you endure. Lord on the Rack, weep for me..."

"Do the Ilmatari not have any prayers about healing?"

Bryn Acevedo's face is pinched, tired, as she makes her way over to him. But Cyrus knows that he had to call upon his god (the new one, but pays in blood and suffering like the old one). Otherwise, one of the colossal clockwork figures now scattering the battlefield would have smashed her between its claws. He took the hurt from her, and so he smiles.

"It's about easing pain," he says weakly.

"That's not the same thing."

She kneels beside him and begins her work, the commonplace ritual of rooting out his pain with the tips of her fingers against his broken body and her brow stubbornly crinkled. Cyrus winces and lifts a hand to touch her forehead, smearing blood--mostly his--across the furrows. "I'm sorry. I know I worry you. But I had to..."

The inspection pauses so Bryn can move his hand to her cheek and hold it there, knuckles soft against the warmth of her skin. "You always say that."

"I always mean it." Something spasms in his gut and he flinches, gasping first in pain and then for air, screams licking up the inside of his stomach, more than he can swallow down, but he can cling to this. His oath. His love. "Always. Have to protect you. Save you. Then you save me once it's all done."

And she saves everything else too. That's the next part. Cleaning, mending, regrowing, nurturing, the things his hands are still too dirty for, the things he could never ever be good for, for all his wishing still spoiled from the start by Bhaal's flesh.

"I know." She tilts her head and presses her lips to his fingers, blood and all. "I know. But I wonder sometimes who this oath of redemption is for."

Bryn must not expect a response, because she pulls him closer, back cradled to her chest and head lolling against her shoulder. As one hand begins to weave her magic around him, the other strokes his hair, and Cyrus wants so desperately to disappear into her touch, but his thoughts keep swimming.

It's for his victims. All the lives lost to the recesses of his cratered memories, the deaths that haunt him even as he cannot remember them, cannot give them their due.

It's for her. That he might keep her safe and prove himself worthy of her love.

It's for himself. That he might one day bleed enough of himself away to finally believe that he has paid penance for being his father's son. To finally know for sure that his influence is gone and that his body--first and foremost a divine and violent instrument--might finally be capable of doing something else. Something good and green and growing.

But he can't say any of it, so he just stares at Bryn. Eyes wide and pleading and loving.

She catches him at the last moment, while the final threads of her spell come together like tributaries or the vascular system of a leaf or the verses of a myconid's hive-song. Branching, conductive, connecting, the conduit between himself and all of nature. And everything about her softens. As much as she pours her magic into him, she pours herself too. Envelopes him, mouth against his forehead, murmuring, "Te curo."

For every god that has ever touched him, there is no magic holier than hers. It washes over him like a river on a hot day, flowing deeper even than Withers could reach within him, pooling into one of those craters. Some blister left by Orin and Kressa, too seething and furious to touch. Now soothed.

Cyrus seizes.

And when he blinks, he is no longer on the forest battlefield.

He is in a pavilion. A cobblestone clearing in the midst of cramped buildings and laundry lines, with a stubborn gnarl of a tree growing in the center. The summer evening is marked by the low-hanging sun and the people out enjoying the fresh air. Elders lounge in mismatched chairs, children chase each other to and fro, and in the center of it all, beneath the shade of the tree, an elven teenager with clean hands and two grey eyes duels a human girl.

They fight with sticks. She blandishes hers about wildly, his form is as green as he is, not yet fully trained. Corrected. Broken. She giggles, and he smiles, and when she jabs forward with her mighty, childish force, he takes the twiggy sword to the gut with a dramatic gasp.

"You got me!"

He sounds so young that Cyrus almost cannot believe that he is looking at himself. The boy's voice squeaks and crackles with the magic of a transformation not yet fully settled, rumbling and deep. Not yet the son of Bhaal. His mouth is full of sunlight as he collapses to the ground, one hand stretching toward the sky in feigned agony, and Cyrus' heart shatters.

To know that there was a first time that he was hurt. And to know that there was a before when he didn't know any better. Could only pretend.

"Do you surrender?" the girl asks, puffing her chest out.

"You've beat me fair and square... but what's this? The Amulet of Power!" Cyrus pulls a necklace out from under his shirt, an impeccable and shimmering piece of silver. "I feel it, a second wind! En garde!"

He rolls to his feet and sweeps her up effortlessly, much to her delight. Peals of laughter ricochet around the courtyard as he spins her, their sticks forgotten, playful, yes, but terribly gentle bouncing her up to one of the study, low-hanging branches of the tree. He settles her there with so much grace that Cyrus--the real Cyrus--feels nauseous.

He could scarcely stand to look Yenna in the eye when she was in their camp, so certain that his blood lust would ruin something so innocent. Certain even now that he might tip her over. Watch her back crack against the stone and smile.

But he doesn't. Holding the girl steady with one hand, he puts the other on his hip. "Now, what are you going to do about that?"

She claps and chants, "Again, again!"

Before he can oblige, however, there is a call from across the pavilion. "Cyrus! Come in and help me with supper!"

Boy and man alike turn toward the voice, belonging to an older drow half-elf with an exquisitely decorated cane. The woman whose guise the Emperor stole, whose name escapes him even now, calling back, "Yes ma'am!"

He turns to the girl again and helps her down. "I have to go now, but we'll play more tomorrow, alright?"

She pouts, until Cyrus musses her hair, and then she's back to being all smiles and bright round cheeks. "Okay!"

He leaves her to skip back to her parents as he joins his own adoptive mother on the stoop of their house. Her smile is both thin and warm, like the single flickering flame of a candle, and before Cyrus can duck inside, she grabs him by the arm and looks him over. Fusses with the collar of his shirt, with a smudge of dirt on his chin, with a leaf caught in his hair. When she holds it up for his inspection, Cyrus responds by rolling onto the tips of his toes and kissing her cheek. The corners of her mouth twitch.

"I love you, Ma."

She returns the gesture with a sigh-- not of any real disapproval but of a deep, abiding affection. "I love you too, Cy. Now be a good lad and go get washed up."

Be good. Be good. Be good...

And then it's gone, and Cyrus is back in Bryn's arms.

Snared prey startling, writhing, his wounds gone but something else has settled beneath his chest too twisted and heavy to breathe around.

"Cy?!"

She calls him that too. First soft-breathed like a prayer when he opened his arms to her, desire stronger than the conviction that he might snap shut, not only to have her, to hold her, but to be as comforting and safe to her as she was to him. Healer with her hands so busy and shoulders so tight sinking into him. At peace.

It's no gentle exhale this time, though still loving in its immediate alarm. Bryn's grip slackens so she can push him away, hold him at a distance, look him over again. "Are you alright, love? Did I cast the spell wrong? I'm sorry if I hurt you, if I--"

"No." When Cyrus blinks, he realizes that he is crying, tears falling silent and quick down his cheeks. "No, not at all, you..." It's hard to speak through this thing knotted in his lungs. Absence and grief and gift and joy all at once. "You are a miracle."

Bryn flushes. "Is that so?"

"You healed so much more than just my body, I saw... Like when I ate the noblestalk mushroom, I saw something that I had forgotten, except it wasn't. That. Awful bloody wretched thing, it was before... all of it. Everything. I was just a boy. A normal elven boy. And I saw that, saw myself, happy and young and-- and good..."

"What a sad thing to forget about yourself."

"But you helped me remember!"

This isn't sad, not really, and not for the first time, Cyrus wishes they still had the parasites behind their eyes to smooth the mediation. Instead, he paws at Bryn with trembling fingers, stroking her cheeks and burying into her curls and tightening against her skull, trying to get them close enough. And when it isn't enough, mouth as useless as his body outside of its singular purpose, he kisses her. Bryn gives a surprised little laugh before returning the gesture. Slow at first, until the worry and the pain peel away to reveal the post-battle endorphins still lingering beneath. Embers waiting to be rekindled, open-mouthed and wet.

With enough heat and pressure, maybe Bryn will understand that this is what he feels he owes her: all of it, all of him.

And finally, he catches his breath on hers. No longer unmoored, tossing between past selves and churning emotions, anchored by the drag of her tongue against his lips.

"You've always seen it," he murmurs into her, eyes still shut, certain of nothing but the relationship of their bodies--her hands fixed to the small of his back and the curve of his jaw, the strings of saliva broken between their mouths, his forehead against hers--and it's all that he needs. "That part of me. Even when we first met, even when the Urge would take me, you always believed. I'm sorry that I didn't. Couldn't. See..."

"You don't have to apologize for taking time," Bryn assures him, "and now that you have seen it..." The hand on his jaw tilts him back. Without the blazing warmth of her face, Cyrus is left to stare at her, eyes and mouth hanging open. "Maybe you won't always feel like you have to punish yourself."

He shivers as the last of his tears dislodge. A thousand phantom pains, a thousand scars, a thousand times he told himself that he deserved it. Not just because it wasn't someone else, but because it was him. He doesn't know if he can let go of all of it yet, but, "Knowing that I was something, someone, before I was Bhaal's scion, it's like... Like who I am now could be that again. A return, or a- a cycle. After all, if I've learned anything from traveling with a druid, it's that that's all of it, isn't it? Life? And death..." He thinks of the hag's curse. The rot she sowed into Bryn's chest before the spores and the songs and the iridescence, the underside of flowering not as entropy but as renewal. "And then life again."

Cyrus wonders if Bryn is thinking of the same thing--the first time he held her, in the wake of her own imperfect rebirth, festering a kind of growth--as she nods. "You practically sound like a druid yourself." Glancing over him, her eyes glint and linger on the planes of his shoulders, arms, stomach, perhaps imagining the warrior muscles beneath. "Or maybe a ranger."

"Maybe." There's a breath of possibility to the word, not nearly so tightly wound as Ilmater's cords. Cyrus grins and kisses her again. Quicker this time, but long enough to pour his own healing magic into her, the laying of mouths and hands and all his devoted affection before finally pulling himself to his feet. He pulls Bryn up with him. "As you said, it's okay if it takes time. Whatever else I could be," not just in the redemption but in what might bloom before-after, "I know that you'll help me find it."

#my heart sees you #durge!cyrus #bryn acevedo #um!!! yeah!!!!!!!!!! a little something about cyrus beginning his post-game transition from oath of redemption to oath of the ancients #& bryn as the conduit for that transition

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