#this is the first time tealeaf has spoken

[thelilcreature]

Vent art. Had bad regression last night.

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

Sitting Between Seconds:

Mollymauk and Lucien talk with each other as the latter dies deep down in Cognouza.

this for the one shot request.

Mollymauk has been watching for a long time. 

He’s not exactly a separate person, more just a…fragment inside a fractured mind. He watched his friends be beaten and bloody, he heard words coming out of the mouth that used to be his. And he heard his friends call out to him, and it worked, they coaxed him forward, just enough to protect them with what little control he has over this body. 

And he watches the final blow be dealt to himself. No, not himself. The monster who’s body he had taken for but a few short months. Lucien. A rather ugly name, he thinks. Mollymauk is much better if he says so himself. 

He’s dying, Lucien is at least. Mollymauk has been dead for a while, just a passenger for this latest romp. Nothing more than a bit of mud stuck to one’s shoe. He can feel the body taking shuddering breaths, he can feel the flesh beneath them. 

And for the first time in far too long, Mollymauk finds the strength to speak to this person that has carried him for so long, “Lucien, is it?”

There’s a long pause before the words echo back around him, with an added, “Mollymauk Tealeaf.” The words are spoken with a growl, as if the name were a curse itself. Molly rather likes that idea. “The parasite.”

Molly chuckles, “Not the prettiest name I’ve been called but certainly not the worst.”

“What do you want,” Lucien snarls. “At least let me die in fucking peace.”

“I won’t,” Molly responds, his voice deeper as well as the anger that he’s kept bottled up since Lucien has arrived starts to seep out. “See, you hurt my friends. You hurt Yasha deeply and it is for that that I hope you will never have a restful moment. You didn’t know them.”

“Nor did I want to,” Lucien replies, his voice weaker now. “They…do seem to love you quite a lot.”

“As I love them,” Molly responds easily. And with a burning feeling of anger, Molly turns it into love. Because his anger is borne of nothing but a deep love for his friends. Using the love as a guide, Mollymauk plunges deep into Lucien’s mind. 

He swims through the caverns of darkness and memories until he hears a laugh, Jester’s laugh. A sound he would never forget for all the world, he so adores making her laugh.

With a slight smile, Molly pulls towards it and sees the first time he met this crew, all of them looking ragged and worn, and somehow so much younger. That memory leads to another, their first night on the road together. Then to a memory of a drinking contest gone wrong.

He forces Lucien to watch memory after memory of the people who killed him.

Jester gives him a big hug, whispering her thanks in Infernal, he kisses her hair. I had never met another tiefling before her, she set the bar too high for all the others that followed, Molly tells the monster.

Nott tries to steal from him, but he catches her by the wrist with a fond smile. Tricky one she is, sticky fingers but a heart of gold. 

Fjord sits in the bed across from him, asking kindly about his swords, Molly tells him a glamorous lie. I never did know what to make of that one, so many secrets and yet he has such a bleeding heart.

Molly kisses Caleb’s forehead, hoping that it will get him out of his stupor. He is so fond, so dear, and yet he hides it all to shield his heart. How can someone not love him for that?

Beau flips him off, Molly doing the same in return. She’s a real tough bitch, loved her like a sister because of it.

Yasha braids flowers into his hair and he gives her a four leaf clover in return. I love her the most, so much that even when you reappeared, my love for her bled through, Mollymauk adds finally. 

“Why must you show me this,” Lucien growls, growing ever weaker in the split second that has yet to pass. “I know them for the buffoons they are.”

“Yes, they’re buffoons, but what does that say about you if they managed to strike you down?” Molly asks, his voice light with humor. “You were never a match for them. With hearts as big as theirs, all one needed to do was ask for mercy and kindness and they would have shown it to you. Probably,” Mollymauk chuckles. 

Lucien is silent for a long, long moment before he says, “At least I know that I’m taking you down with me.” 

Molly imagines himself smiling, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. They’re some persistent motherfuckers. And in their eyes, you desecrated my corpse. I hope whatever hell awaits you, Lucien, is lukewarm at best.” 

And as the light begins to fade, Mollymauk grabs one last memory, pulling himself as hard as he can into it. 

In the memory, he’s standing in the rain. He’s but a few weeks out of the grave at this point, yet unable to talk. But as the rain falls on his face, he imagines it washing away the person he used to be. He imagines it welcoming the person he is about to become. And as he inhales the deep smell of ozone in the memory, Mollymauk fades. Lucien fades. 

But someone new steps forward, still wet from the rain of their past lives.

[troubleisafriend]

MISTIFIED STARTER CALL & INFO- Jester Lavorre

This one was supposed to be small ;_; But then...well, you'll see down below. Anyway, this'll be an uncapped event starter call for the Mistified rerun! Details under the readmore about what you may encounter with this leetol blue tiefling. Beware of spoilers- aka

XAV DON'T LOOK

RESIDUAL DATA IMPRINTS:

The Lavish Chateau: A very upper-class bordello in the coastal town of Nicodranas. Jester grew up here! You’re bound to see an even more adorable and littler blue tiefling running around the memories here.

The Xhorhaus: A quite comfortable mansion in the Sun-bereft city of Rosohna; this place was gifted to the Mighty Nein for their deeds performed for the Kryn Dynasty. You may even get to see some of them around here, though probably not to interact with…probably…

SENTIENT DATA IMPRINTS:

The Traveler/Artagan: The archfey who became Jester’s first friend and the deity who provides her with her powers. Not hostile, but very mischievous and kind of condescending.

Marion Lavorre: Jester’s mom! (has got it going on) A beautiful red tiefling with a beautiful voice and nurturing presence. Not hostile.

The Gentleman: Jester’s dad! A handsome perpetually moist water genasi who exudes a suave demeanor and works as a crime boss, though the composure can be swiftly dismantled by his daughter. Not initially hostile, but can be made to be.

Isharnai: An old, creepy hag(literally, not as an insult)who enjoys dealing in others’ misery. Was tricked by Jester, who stays in friendly contact with her, into undoing her friend’s curse and is very interested in meeting her again because of it. Potentially hostile.

Avantika: An elf pirate who Jester and her friends ran into on their adventures. Worships the leviathan Uk’otoa (Uk’otoa…) and is very disliked by Jester for her relationship with the tiefling’s friend/crush Fjord. Comes in living and undead flavors! Likely hostile.

The Mighty Nein: Jester’s friends!! The brave, morally-ambiguous adventuring party she traveled with, the people who she would die and kill for more quickly than almost anyone else in the world. Brief summations:

Caleb Widogast: Human wizard. Quiet, bookish, and usually kind of dirty(literally, not as in attitude), but very curious about the arcane. Has a cat familiar named Frumpkin. Nott the Brave: Goblin rogue. A kleptomaniac with a drinking problem, quick to shoot first and ask questions later, but deeply motivated to protect the family she has. Beauregard Lionett: Human monk. A brusque young woman, distrustful and kind of a showoff, but stubborn in the face of adversity and determined to root out corruption wherever she finds it. Fjord: Orc warlock. Handsome and charming, he’s quick to take the main speaking role for his party, though seems to have had some trouble adjusting to actual leadership. Yasha Nydoorin: Aasimar barbarian. Physically imposing in height and muscles, as well as her pale skin contrasting with her black-to-white hair and sunken eyes, but outside of combat is very soft-spoken, sweet, and kind of socially awkward. Mollymauk Tealeaf: Tiefling blood hunter. A charismatic, colorful character, he’s drawn to the weird and theatrical, and seeks to better the world around him even through deceptive means. Caduceus Clay: Firbolg cleric. An incredibly insightful, soothing presence, sure to offer you some tea if given the chance. Spaces out from time to time. Easily keeps the rest of the group grounded. Essek Thelyss: Drow wizard. A hardworking loner, not very good at interacting with people. Time with the Nein has helped him open up, though he’s still likely to be terse around strangers.

Not likely to show up all at once bc let’s not act like the person writing this is going to be RPing six to eight other characters at a time. Not hostile, though they can be a bit abrasive in their own ways.

[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.)

[swiftbell]

So I had some thoughts on where everyone in the Mighty Nein ended up, and I needed to write them down somewhere, so have my thoughts under the cut!

To me it really felt like all of the characters ended up so beautifully where they were supposed to be.

Beauregard Lionett, the angry teenager who was always ignored, who screamed at the unjust world, and when it didn’t listen to her she beat it instead. That angry lonely Beau helped make the world more just, by telling the stories of people who had been silenced, by being the central piece in making sure those who had taken advantage of others got their due. She told the truth, and the world listened. And instead of having a family that abandoned her because she was a ‘problem’ she has a family that’ll never give her up, that’ll always support her, and love her.

Caduceus Clay, the soft spoken graveyard keeper who was alone in his home, was forced to go into the world, and do things that went against what he stood for because that’s what he had to do. He not only got his family back, he got a new family as well. He got to return home, he got to make things right, and he learned that when they went too far, he had what was needed to stand up, and demand they help fix what they broke - his way.

Caleb Widogast, born with the name Bren Aldric Ermendrud, who had been shaped by pain and fire, who killed his family, only really living to fix the past, wallowing in his guilt, and hiding in fear. Caleb let go of the past, let go of his guilt - and yes some of it is always going to be there, but it’s no longer the crushing weight it once was. He stopped running from his fears, instead he faced them, and beat them with the intellect they had sought to use, and with the family they would never again take away from him. Caleb got to make his parents proud, and is looking to fix the future rather than the past. Shaping it with creativity and love, making sure there would be no one else who had to suffer like he did. And while he didn’t end up with any of the many romantic interests he had, he is healing, and has them by his side still.

Essek Thelyss, who had his own goals and motivations, who started a war just to gain more knowledge, and who put himself first above all else. Aloof and stoic. He learned what it means to belong, what it means to care, favouring the simple pleasures of life, and the value of giving to others. “Caleb, I’m scared”, he says. “Will you do it?” He says “I will help you.”

Fjord Stone, orphan, who never had a home to speak of, and who was so focused on how others saw him that he changed his appearance, his mannerisms, and his voice - just to be someone he looked up to. Who was pulled into servitude for a dark force and given powers he had so badly wanted - but not this way. Fjord got a family, Fjord got a home he can return to whenever he wants, and still got to stay on the sea he loves. He let his tusks grow out, and stopped trying to be someone else, he grew into himself, and when he met his father figure again, that he had, by himself, grown up to be so much like him. And the powers? He threw them away into a river of molten rock, and then turned around to ask the goddess of nature if he may choose to serve her. His choice, not someone else’s.

Jester Lavorre grew up confined to a room, with only her imagination and possibly imaginary friend to keep her company. Always so full of creativity, so full of the love her mother showed her, the little sapphire. Jester whose trickery got her into so much trouble she had to leave her home behind, and flee into a world she had only read about at most, being scared, and fascinated at the same time. She managed to make friends wherever she went, she learned some hard lessons on the way, but in the end she always made it through. Tougher than the world, sweeter than sugar, and cunning like the fey she gave a heart. Jester got her romance she had always wanted, and she got the adventure she had always craved. And through it all, she was always had a good imagination.

Mollymauk Tealeaf - or really, Kingsley Tealeaf now, dug himself out of his own grave with no memories. He was nothing. Empty. He experienced the world, and inspired those around him to be better - even if he wasn’t. He never cared for his past, didn’t want to know it, ran away from it when he could. He was his own self, and the past wasn’t allowed to change that. Then he was taken away. Sudden, unexpected, too soon. He was gone, and then he was someone else, someone who was like him, but in all the wrong ways. Someone who fought the ones he had come to love, and who tried to kill them. Someone who didn’t want to know the past, who didn’t care, but who never got away from it. And then he died, and was someone new again. Not entirely empty this time, but not quite who he had been before. Someone new, someone who accepted that he could be his own person, and honour the past at the same time. Kingsley got what neither Molly nor Lucien got - he got to be alive, and he got to be free to be who he wanted to be.

Nott the Brave, Veth Brenatto, goblin, halfling. Both, neither. Who had lost her husband and son by sacrificing herself, who wasn’t who she used to be, and who was so caught up in her own insecurities she’d rather tune out the entire world with alcohol. Who would insist that she wasn’t smart, that the others were obviously better than her, that she was not brave. Veth kept sacrificing herself - but now she has others to make sure she makes it out alive too. She has a bigger family than ever, and doesn’t have to choose between one or the other, family or adventure, home or the world - she can have both. She gets to invent, to fully use the skills she had always had, but was too insecure to use, and she gave up the veil she put over herself to hide from the world. No longer Nott the Brave, but Veth Brenatto, the Brave.

And Yasha Nydoorin, from the barren wastes, with holes in her memory, with death on her back, and on her hands. Who lost her love not once, but twice - because she had failed. Wandering, trying to find herself, with a grief heavy heart, and who was used by others to commit crimes she never agreed to. Yasha got to break free from those chains weighing her down, to not only walk freely, but to fly in the sky. She found guidance in the storm, and used that to make sure she would never fail those around her again. She got to stop wandering, and instead got a home to fill with flowers, life, and love.

And at the end of the day, they still have each other, and always will. They travel independently, and they grow, but they always have a home, and they make sure to keep in contact, and stay together. As a family. As the Mighty Nein Nine.

[sockablock]

Widomauk Week 2k19 | Day 2: Urban Fantasy

That afternoon, there came a knock at the door.

It flew open before Caleb could even rise from his chair.

“Coming through, coming through!” hollered Nott the Brave as she strode across the welcome mat like she owned the place. Which, to be fair, was basically true. The faded sofa by the window was her favorite place to sleep, and at this point she even had her own set of keys. 

“You are here today early,” Caleb chuckled, standing and giving his closest friend a smile. Then it faded slightly as more people marched into view.

Two of them he recognized. Two he did not.

“Caleb!” Jester beamed, sprinting across the floor and practically leaping into his arms. “Caleb, how are you? Long time no see!”

“Ah, Jester, what a surprise. You are—oh, my ribs—yes, yes, hello—”     

Beau stepped around a stack of books. This apartment was always cluttered.

“What’s up, Widogast? Still a nerd?”

“Still needlessly cruel, Beauregard?” Then he raised an eyebrow, and glanced at the other two.

“Who are the newcomers?” he asked through the pain. Then he added, “Well, come on in, do not be shy.”

A woman taller than his doorframe ducked inside. A tornado of glitter and jewelry blew in after her.

“Ah, the mysterious Mr. Widogast!” the whirlwind shouted. Caleb had to pray that his neighbors were already awake. “It’s a pleasure, dear, an absolute pleasure!” Then the twister paused, and there was a flicker of hesitation. 

“Well. It, er...yes, well. A pleasure indeed.”

Caleb matched the stranger’s measured expression. Now that he had finally stopped moving, he could see that this force of nature was just a tiefling. Lavender skin and technicolor jacket, dwarfed by the enormous figure standing next to him.

“And you are?” Caleb turned to the woman. He completely missed the way the tiefling suddenly deflated. “I do not think that we have met.”

“That is because we have not.” Her accent was soft, though also a bit rough. Caleb had never heard anything quite like it. “I am Yasha. I am a new client.”

“That’s right!” Jester finally set Caleb down. He took the opportunity to un-ruffle his pajamas. “We’re helping her and her friend with a case.”

“With my case, actually, hello.” The tiefling waved his hands around. “Mollymauk Tealeaf is the name, dear. Since you so rudely forgot to ask.”

“Ah. Apologies,” Caleb absently nodded. Then he turned around and gestured to the kitchen. “Would you any of you like some tea or coffee? Do you have a preference?”

“Tea,” said Beau.

"Same here,” sighed Nott. “I already had four cups today.”

“Here, don’t worry, Caleb, I can make it,” Jester grinned. “That way, you guys can go over the case.” She leaned in towards Caleb and gave him a huge wink. “You’re definitely gonna like it,” she said. “It’s all about magic. Right up your alley.”

Caleb’s eyebrow rose again. “Really? Is that so?” he asked.

She giggled and nudged Nott in the shoulder. “Tell him,” she said. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”

Then she danced off to the kitchenette, leaving the rest of the group to be seated.

“Ja, ja, alright then,” Caleb said, pulling his chair up to face the sofa. “In that case, let’s hear what’s going on. It has been a while since last time,” he added, giving Nott a small smile. “I was wondering if you had replaced me, spatz.”

Her grin was jagged, and could’ve drawn blood. This was a goblin’s cheerful face.

“This is the best one yet,” she promised, flopping down onto the armrest. The others followed her lead and sat down.

“Go ahead, Molly, Yasha, when you’re ready.”

The newcomers briefly exchanged glances. Yasha gave Molly an encouraging nod.

“Well, alright, I suppose it’s like this.” The tiefling leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees. “Some people are trying to fucking kill me, and I hired the detectives to figure out why.”

“So we can find them and kill them,” Yasha added.

“Well, I haven’t fully committed there,” Molly leaned back and crossed his legs. “Their motive is what I’d really like to know. At least, for now. I’m not afraid to get my hands...dirty.”

He made eye contact with Caleb and enunciated the word. Caleb plucked his notebook from the table.

“Okay,” he said flatly, and flipped to the first page. “Do you have any leads, so far?”

“None,” said Nott, when Molly failed to answer. “Nothing really good, anyway. I’m guessing it has to do with this guy—”

“Not a guy, dear.”

“—sorry, with Molly’s past. The people after him are definitely magic-users, which is why I came to you,” Nott finished.

Caleb nodded slowly. “Ja, okay, that is all very good to know.” He turned to Molly. “Did you used to know any wizards? Sorcerers? Any who were angry?”

“Yeah, well, that’s the kicker,” Beau muttered. She had taken the other end of the couch and was sitting on the back with her feet on the cushion. “We’ve kind of hit a dead end, there.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “And that is because...?”

All eyes turned to Molly. He gave a sigh and crossed his arms.

“Gods, I really hate telling this story. Especially when it’s the first time I meet someone,”

“Your life is in danger,” Yasha said sternly. “You will tell the story as much as required.”

He rolled his eyes, but it was more fond than anything. “Very well,” he relented, and nodded at Caleb. “I’m an amnesiac,” he said. “Woke up two years ago without a care in the world. Without a single memory to my name. Actually, I didn’t even have one of those. ‘Mollymauk’ is just what they call me at work.”

Caleb wrote this down. “Work?” he prompted.

“I do stuff at a bar. Nothing untoward, just backstage support.” He waggled his eyebrows, as if that would make it better. “Sometimes I post flyers, and sometimes I juggle swords.”

In the privacy of his notebook, Caleb wrote: unemployed.

“I see,” he said, laying down his pen. “And do you suspect your memory loss is magical? Have you spoken to any other arcanists about this?”

“Ha! No, fuck that,” Molly said. “I never gave a shit about my past. Not until it tried to burn me alive, that is.”

Caleb fell silent for just a beat. He schooled his expression. 

“It tried to burn you?”

Molly noticed nothing. Nott definitely did, but elected not to say anything. For now.

“Metaphorically,” the tiefling explained. “It actually threw these bolts of, like, energy at me, but I managed to run into an alley and up the fire escape and through a window. I lost the attackers, after that, but not without getting a bit singed, first.”

“Do you remember anything about these people? Anything memorable?”

“Other than the blasts of magic?” Molly shrugged. “I dunno, maybe? Yeah, I think...at one point, I think they called me something, a...an insurgent? Oh, and they seemed to think my name was Luke, or Luce, or something. It was a bit hard to hear over the explosions, and all.”

“I see.” Caleb turned to Nott. “Have you already looked into that?”

“We’re working on it,” she confirmed. “My best people are knee-deep in the records.”

“Not currently,” Beau said, “but we will be, when we get back.”

At that moment, Jester returned, bearing mugs. After setting all of them down, she perched atop a stack of books, teetering slightly, but not really caring. 

“Did we talk about the tattoos, yet?” she asked. “Isn’t this exciting, you guys?”

“Tattoos?” Caleb reached for a mug. “What tattoos?”

“I was getting there,” said Nott. “The main reason we came is because we wanted to you to take a look at Molly’s tattoos. It’s the only thing we haven’t fully investigated, yet. We think they might be magic, and we think it might be the key to all this. It was Jester’s idea, actually.”

“Aw, it was nothing,” she beamed and waved a hand. “I just suggested that we let Caleb check it out.”

“I’m personally delighted that you did,” Molly chuckled. “After all, I would never turn down a chance to let a handsome man examine my body. What do you say to that, Mister Caleb?”

There was a beat of silence. 

And then, Caleb’s whole face went red. It was amazing, the way his cheeks suddenly matched his hair.

“I-I...wie bitte?”

“I don’t speak dwarvish,” Molly said cheerfully, elated to finally get a reaction from this man. “But yes, I’m offering a full tour. All for the sake of the case, of course.”

Caleb’s mind was lodged against the word ‘handsome.’ It had been years since someone had called him tha—

Beau coughed. Then she coughed again. Then she gave one final hack and produced a glare that declared: this is awful. 

Yes, Caleb agreed in his head. This had suddenly become very awful. He tried to stand up and knocked over his chair.

“I...ah, er...right. Oh, right. Yes. Tattoo.”

He approached Mollymauk like a man walking to his death. The tiefling’s eyes glittered like rubies.

“Where...” Caleb muttered, dreading the answer, “...where is this marking...”

“Well, since you asked—”

Thankfully, before he could be teased any further, Beau one again spoke up.

“It’s on his left palm,” she said matter-of-factly. “Looks like an eye. It’s fucking creepy.”

Molly shot her a glare, which she returned. Caleb thanked every god he could think of, then gingerly took the tielfling by the hand.

He turned it over.

The electricity of the moment instantly vanished. Caleb’s mind abruptly shifted gears and without hesitation, he sank down on his knees, poured his gaze and his fingers across the lines. This symbol...this eye...he’d seen it before...

And in that second, above him, Molly privately unraveled. Oh, yes, it was always just fun and games, until they took you by the hand, until your palms touched, your fingers brushed; also, this angle was simply unfair. Caleb’s intense, thoughtful blue eyes, unfair—

Molly liked a certain amount of attention. Now that he’d finally gotten it, well.

Unfair.

“Have any of you ever heard of ‘bloodhunters’?” Caleb muttered, tracing the shape of the eye once again. “I believe...ja, I believe I have seen almost this exact pattern before, in a book that briefly touched upon the subject. This is...it was part of a ritual, I think, to unlock a certain kind of magic.”

“Mmhm?” Molly said, which was about all he could manage. 

Beau’s grin had reached astronomical sizes. She leaned her chin into her palm. “Good magic, or bad?” she asked conversationally.

“Many say that there is no such thing as either.” Caleb absently turned the hand again. “It depends on the user, really.”

“Does the tattoo give any hints about his background?” Nott had produced her own notebook and primed her pen. “Any clues about the kind of people that’re after him?”

“Er...unfortunately, I am afraid so.”

He let go, and Molly immediately sank. Behind him, his tail did an unhappy swish, though not because of what Caleb had said.

“Who are they?” Jester asked, leaning in. “Are they bad guys?”

“Are they dangerous?” Yasha narrowed her eyes. “Should we expect more trouble?”

“Well...” Caleb sighed, “I would certainly need to check my books again. I do not want to cause undue concern—”

“A bit late for that,” Molly mumbled. He had finally regained control of his arms, and crossed them pointedly against his chest. “Spit it out, Mister Caleb. What’s coming for me?”

Caleb stood and returned to his chair.

“Danger,” he murmured. “Indescribable danger. Brought on by the kind of people unfraid of dabbling in that which they do not understand. The kind of people who break reality and are willing to take power from anywhere they can.” 

He sat back down. He picked up his mug.

“I said earlier that magic is what you make of it, Mister Mollymauk, and I stand by that statement,” he murmured. “But if your tattoo is anything to go off of, then that means the people coming after you are not people to be trifled with. They are...the magic that they practice walks a very fine line along the border of what we would call madness and abomination. You are very lucky to have escaped them, Mollymauk. Though, I am certain, they will come for you again.”

As Caleb finished speaking, silence filled the room. Everyone quietly watched him drink some tea.

And then, very slowly, their eyes turned to Molly. He was still staring at his hand, though now his dreamy expression was gone.

He turned his palm over. He stared at the center. A dark, inky pupil, matched his shaky gaze.

“Well,” he said eventually. “...well.”

A pause—

“Fuck.”

— — — — — —

(✨Ko-fi link in my bio, if you’re feeling generous!✨)

[owlespresso]

Silicon / Mollymauk Tealeaf/Reader

IDK incubus Mollymauk AU. This is smut, so be warned. My tip jar is open! I write headcanons in exchange for donations! If you’re interested, check it out HERE. I am also open for commissions, information HERE.

Your plans for Saturday had been sitting on your couch, absentmindedly scrolling through your laptop. It would have been great, fantastic to settle your weary back against the soft couch cushions, maybe shut your eyes and take a nap because you had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do.

Needless to say, that simple plan did not come to fruition. It was your fault, honestly.

Janet, a work acquaintance with an aggravatingly big heart and the puppy dog eyes of a practiced actor, had bumbled up to your door with tears running down her cheeks. Somehow, she charmed her way into your apartment and sat on your couch, telling you that the volunteer project she’d been apart of was falling apart. Her best friend cancelled last minute, the building materials weren’t being shipped fast enough, and soon, her idea to build houses for miners near the silicon-filled caves of the outskirts would be ruined!

In her desperate time of need, who else could she turn to but you? You, who always got your work done on time? You, who worked late hours and was the star of the company? Her praises were lavish and had you been in your right mind, you would have denied her, shoved her out of your apartment and onto the cold streets where do-gooders like her belonged.

But you didn’t. For a moment, something warm and idealistic seized you, and you thought “What if I could make a difference?”.

You rationalized it in your head in a split second and soon, she was giving you a tearful hug, going on and on about how great it was to have you on the project. Then, the door shut behind her and you felt like the silent, still remnants of a town that’d just been rolled over by a hurricane.

In all honesty, you could have cancelled, but Janet had friends in the decrepit hierarchy of your workplace, so you didn’t. Doing this small favor for her would be worth it if she put in a good word for you with the higher-ups.

The toe of your sneaker hits the edge of the mirror—it this close to the door—and sends you falling. Adrenaline jolts through your system and you brace for the shattering of glass, the ripping of your skin, the howling of an ambulance, stitches, the pain of recovery—but it never comes.

You open your eyes and there’s only blackness. There’s solid floor underneath you, sure. But everything else is black. The void is chilled and no sound travels through it, not even your footsteps as you begin to move forward. As much as you should be, you aren’t panicked. Your brain scrambles to rationalize the situation and does a pretty damn good job of it.

You passed out, and this is a weird dream. Eventually, you’ll wake up in a hospital bed, the glass shards picked out of your skin and organs or wherever they wound up. You really weren’t looking forward to it, but there was nothing you could do to change the situation. The darkness that swelled around you, unmoving, static, boring. The only change is that the mild chill has actually vanished, which only makes it more dull.

Maybe you should sit down and wait? Maybe lay down and try to wake yourself up? If this is a lucid dream, then you should be able to—

Something stirs in the distance, and your heart jumps into your throat. It’s the shift of something large against solid, hard ground, a subtle but voluminous noise of giant footsteps coming closer. On instinct, you shuffle back, back, back, suddenly forgetting that this is very probably a dream as your carnal, base emotions overcome your coherency.

A pair of vibrant, solid red eyes peer out at you from the dark. Each one is the size of a dinner plate. They pierce through the veil of blackness that encompasses the area, their soft glow freezing you in place. Somehow, the form behind them is completely invisible. The light they emit is only going forward, looking right at you. Your breath seizes in your lungs, heart thump, thump, thumping in your chest.

“Tripping and falling is one thing. Tripping and falling into a completely different dimension is another thing entirely.” It’s a smooth, masculine voice that rings all around you, encompasses your entire body. There’s an amused lilt to it, and if you weren’t scared out of your mind, you’d probably admire the rich sound.

The bottoms of the eyes curl upwards. You can only hope that means it’s smiling.

Despite its lack of pupils, you somehow know it’s looking right at you. Uncomfortable heat swells over your skin and pulses inside of you, making your fingers twitch.

“This is just a dream,” You take in a deep breath, trying to calm the manic pounding of your heart.

“I hate to break it to you, but it’s not. We’re real and we’re one-hundred percent right here,” It continues and its voice dips into a sneer. The fear in you is starting to settle, given how it doesn’t seem like it’s going to attack you.

“Whatever you say.” You huff, your agitation twitching, leagues above the dull fear that’d previously seized you.

The temperature of the room begins to dip, and a humid quality slowly infiltrates the air. Your eyes narrow, but you don’t mention it. Dreams are weird. The subconscious is completely possible to understand and you’re not going to try it anytime soon.

“Hey, so, what are you?” Might as well amuse yourself while you wait to wake up. You cross your arms and your posture stiffens, attempting to look assertive. You sincerely doubt that whatever is on the other side of the room respects you or is capable of being scared of you, but it’s worth a try.

“What am I?” It echoes, “Well, that’d take a lot of explaining, and believe me, it’d be boring to listen to and talk about, so—”

Suddenly, the darkness begins to ebb away to the far corners and reaches of the room like a cloud being sucked up by a vacuum cleaner. You squint against the sudden change in light—fortunately, it’s still dim, but what you do see elegant, polished wooden floors that stretch far in front of you. Shelves that reach near to the ceiling stand on either side of you, stacked with pretty, leather-bound books. They’re not just next to you, but across the room, on all sides, arranged in a square around an open area—an open area which houses a large, circular bed.

Its covered in lavish, iridescent blankets and the matching pillows look soft beyond your wildest dreams. The entire room, instead of being clouded by darkness, seems to be filled with light fog. It leaves you astonished and hot and somehow hazy, creeping arousal rolling up your spine.

It’s a hot, flushed feeling that bewilders and frightens you all at once, but dreams are known for being spontaneous, right? It can all be explained.

You take a step forward, cautiously surveying the area. There’s no evidence of the creature that’d spoken to you only moments ago. Maybe the subject of the dream shifted? That’s happened to you before?

The sound of footsteps behind one of the shelves forces your adrenaline to surge. Your wide, frantic eyes look in the direction of the noise, and you’re unprepared for the figure that emerges from behind one of the shelves.

Purple is the first thing you register. Deep, purple skin. It’s a tiefling.

Two sets of horns curl out from dark, curly waves of hair. The dim, red lighting from lanterns hung from the ceiling give the locks a vibrant sheen. His eyes are deep and red but what really attracts your focus next is the smattering of tattoos along his arm, bare shoulder and torso, that winds up his cheek. The colors are deep and vivid and you’re both surprised and impressed at your own imagination.

“Sorry for the scare,” He apologies. His grin widens the closer he gets, revealing two sharp fangs that stretch from the top lip. “But to be fair, there was no good way of introducing myself in that situation.”

“Really?” You raise an eyebrow and fix him with an unimpressed expression, absolutely not convinced.

He stops to stand in front of you. Now that he’s completely up close, you can make out the finer details of his tattoo. There’s a snake on his hand, designed so its mouth opens and closes when he moves his thumb and index fingers. There are scars all over his body, faint but still there. Two, small nipple rings catch the overhead light and gleam, held on (admittedly impressive) pectorals.

“Alright, I’m lying. But the look on your face was well worth it,” He tips his head and his smile becomes crooked, smug. “That’s all in the past, though,” He dismissively waves his hand. “My name’s Mollymauk. Molly to my friends.”

“Okay, Mollymauk.” Maybe it’s bitchy of you to emphasize that you’re not friends straight off the bat, but that’s what he gets for scaring the shit out of you! You cross your arms and cock your hip out. making sure that every inch of you oozes challenge.

“Well, I think you should at least tell me your name, seeing how I was polite enough to give you mine.” He mimics your posture, resting a hand on his hip, raising an eyebrow at you. The ridiculousness of the situation almost makes you give up, but the stubborn part of you stays firm, refuses to buckle no matter how minor the act of giving him your name is.

“I don’t see why that matters. I’ll probably wake up in a minute.” You’re actually not looking forward to that.

“You really have a bad memory, don’tcha?” The corners of his lips press into a flat line and you feel mild satisfaction at managing to wipe the grin off his face. “This isn’t a dream.”

“That sounds a lot like something a dream would say.” You retort and tilt your chin up, haughty and arrogant.

“Bless your little heart,” He takes a wide step forward, into your personal bubble and you freeze. He looms over you, suddenly so close that you can make out every single eyelash, every stroke of the tattoo that crawls up on his right cheek. He’s admittedly handsome, but the sudden pulse of arousal that strikes your lower stomach makes you shift uncomfortably. “You’re real stubborn, but I can prove that this isn’t a dream.”

One of his hands reaches forward and presses onto your hip. You can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric. The atmosphere between the two of you has been turned on its head, leaving you flailing and unsure how to react. Your voice stalls in your throat, tongue fumbling as you try to materialize some witty retort, something smart to say that’ll smack that stupid smile off his face.

But his face moves closer, and his hooded, red eyes draw you in, keep you quiet.

It’s bizarre—unreasonable—heat presses up your body with unbidden suddenness and your skin gets hotter where he grips it.

“Uh-huh.” You say, trying to find as forceful as possible to make up for the pure lack of wit. Something about him muddles your thoughts and god, he’s so close, but you don’t want him to move away. As miffed as you are, you’re also curious about this imaginary figure that your mind has conjured up. “I don’t think you can.”

Contrary to what you were expecting, his gaze softens and his eyelids dip low. His other hand reaches up and cups your cheek, so direct that you almost don’t notice the press of his hips against yours as he shuffles closer. Something hard rubs against your crotch and oh.

You’ve had lewd dreams before, but never one as intricate as this. It has a whole plot line and everything.

Just a dream, though. So anything that happens here should be fine.

A little voice in the back of your head asks, “what if it’s not?” but it is. It is because you don’t have the energy to believe it’s real.

“I can fix that.” He coos, and the honey of his voice makes another wave of heat ripple through your body. The mist seems to thicken and coagulate tight to your skin. Your clothes start to stick and the need to get out of them is sudden, but overwhelming. “Do you want that?” His voice, a slow and rich drawl, beckons and calls. Your pride swells, tells you to hold your ground, but his sculpted body is pressing against you entirely and his clothed cock rests wantonly against your cunt and god, it’s so hot. Why is it so goddamn hot?

You nod before you can think and he leans in, presses your lips together with no preamble. The kiss is soft and you tilt your head into it. The hand on your hip reaches for the buttons of your shirt and undoes them with deft, practiced fingers. The more clothing that comes off, the cooler you feel. His tongue brushes against your lips an you open them, letting him slide into your mouth. Your hand reaches for his broad shoulders. Warmth pulses under his heated skin.

Desperation takes hold as he pulls away, grabbing your sleeves to yank your shirt off. In the split second he’s not pressed against you, you notice the vibrant glow of his eyes and his grin, wild, carnal, ravenous—

And then he’s on you again, hips shoving tight against yours, forcing you backwards. You stumble and struggle to stay on your feet until your knees hit the back of the mattress.

The library rushes around you as you topple onto the bed. The silky sheets are cool against your back and your gaze draws up to the lanterns that hang from the ceiling. Mollymauk’s hands slam on the mattress on either side of your head, effectively caging you in and monopolizing your attention, holding it captive.

You focus on the splash of vibrant green against his lavender skin until he gives you a chaste kiss, before trailing a path of them along your jawline, dipping down to your neck. You give a soft keen, tilting your head to the side. Goosebumps spread over your heated skin at the low noise of approval he makes, pleased at having more skin to cover in attention. His tongue scorches over you and wow, it’s forked.

The realization jolts you, leaving you momentarily distracted and able to be surprised when he nips at the crook of your neck. You squeak and he apparently he likes the sound, because he repeats the motion and soon the amorous affection becomes rougher, more impassioned.

The cool sheets are a striking juxtaposition against the sear of his body, and your hands eventually find his shoulders, caught up in the picturesque stretch of colors that make up his being.

“Lovely.” He praises, voice a balmy whisper. He raises a hand and light catches off his ring finger and pinkie, nails both akin to sharp talons while his pointer and middle are perfectly manicured.

There’s the tearing or fabric. The middle of your bra snaps, jolting you from your stuptor. The garment is haphazardly tugged off your body before you get the chance to scold him, and you suddenly realize how exposed you really are.

His hands run down your sides to perch on your hips, slow and tender, like he’s really taking time to savor you. The right comes back to cup your breast, his thumb rolling over your nipple, teasing the nub to full hardness. His eyelids droop as his face looms over your other breast, lavishing the soft skin with kisses. They’re the short, teasing kind that make your insides feel all hot and hooey, the kind that make you arch your back for more, more, more, the slightly wet kind that chill your skin and make you squirm.

“Mollymauk, stop teasing!” The ache between your thighs swells and you rub them together.

“It’s cute that you think you’re in charge here.” He punctuates his statement with a harsh squeeze to your breast, earning a gasp. His palm brushes tight against your nipple. “You should at least say ‘please’ when you ask for something.

His dexterous tongue curls around your untouched nipple and makes you wiggle against the covers, swathes of sticky warmth making your cunt wet, before he finally slides down the bed. His lithe body wiggles to rest in between your knees, and the visual makes your cheeks hotter. He grabs your thighs and tugs you down the bed with surprising ease. The suddenness of the motion jolts your inebriated system, but the unexpected strength behind it sends another pulse of warmth to your core.

“Mollymauk,” You breathe as his thumbs hook under the waistband of your shorts and panties, bringing them down in a single, swift movement. For as inconsiderate as he was with your bra, he has the decency to set your bottoms aside. You instinctively close your legs but he snaps his grip to them, pulling them apart, pushing passed the soft cotton of your sheepishness like a wolf’s teeth through the hide of a lamb.

The gentle press of his inner thigh makes the muscle twitch. You can’t see his pupils but can somehow feel the heat of his gaze. It pins you in place, keeps you pliant as he trails kisses towards your cunt. Arousal thuds in your body and sloshes in your veins, makes your fingers curl into the sheets.

His teeth catch on your skin and you jolt with a gasp. A velvety chuckle rumbles against your thigh as he continues to trail up, up, up. Trepidation trembles deep in your chest and promptly vanishes at the drag of his tongue over your slicked folds. A squeal flies from your lips and he responds with an eager moan.

Your hips instinctively roll off the bed, into his mouth, desperate for more.

“Stay still, alright?” His arms wind around your thighs and squeeze as if to remind you who’s in charge. “I can’t work my magic if you’re wiggling all over the place.” His lips pill away from your cunt and you whine at the chill that settles in his absence. Impatient, wet kisses spider up your other thigh and his tongue again rasps a single stripe up your slit. Your hips roll again and the muscles in his arms flex briefly as he holds you in place, not lifting his face away for even a moment.

Delight sears up your spine as one of his fingers dips against your entrance. God, please, please—your need boils deep and smothers you. The slender digit teases you for what feels like years, time stretching until he slides one finger inside. It’s impossible to stop your thighs from trying to clamp back together, but he holds you open still.

Knowing he can keep you pinned to the bed as long as he likes terrifies and exhilarated you at the same time.

The broad of his tongue swipes at your bundle of nerves, the forked tips delving deep and making you squirm with each steady thrust of his finger. One of your hands flies down to grip hid horn and he snarls, the vibration making you shake.

Another finger slips in alongside the first. You jolt—it’s covered in something slippery and wet, but the realization melts like flimsy sea foam as he moans again.

The stretch of your walls doesn’t feel like much of a stretch, but the slow pace is agonizing. You suppose you should have expected this, especially after the haughty way he’d presented himself. Such a lascivious creature probably couldn’t resist the temptation to tease and torture you. You want to tell him to go faster, harder, but you’re inevitably enraptured by the flutter of his eyelashes and the sheen of his sweaty bangs pressed against his forehead. His expression is set into something fascinated and so thoroughly concentrated that it makes you feel like a specimen under a microscope, like an insect under the heel of a god,

He keeps the fingering slow as you start to whine, thighs tensing, legs trying to wrap around his head. The sweet mist swells around you and sticks to your skin, another sensation to add to the pile.

“Mollymauk!” You hug his horn again, try to wrench him away, but he stayed affixed to you, fingers tilting at a new angle that makes your shoulders slam back against the mattress, pleasure dancing up your spine and jumbling the words off your tongue.

And then you cum against his face, voice pitching into something pathetic and akin to a sob, a loud noise that sounds alien to even yourself. He groans in unison, tongue continuing to lave over your cunt until your thighs go limp. Finally, he lets them collapse onto the mattress. Your body feels like fucking jello.

Your sweat-slicked chest heaves up and down. Your unfocused gaze jostles down to him as he gets back to his feet, lean abdomen sleek with sweat or moisture from the air. The smirk he levels you with brings you back to your initial meeting.

“Good?” The bed creaks under his weight, knee dipping onto the covers. He drops onto his side next to you, elbow pressing against one of the many puffed pillows, cheek idly resting against his hand. His other hand reaches over and combs through your hair and fuck it, this feels so fucking nice. Your eyes shut and your head lolls against the pillow. “Mhm.” You’re too tired to pretend it wasn’t absolutely phenomenal, not when you feel so nice and sated. It’;s been ages since you’ve had such a great dream, but your consciousness begins to yawn and lull.

“Go to sleep.” His voice purrs in your ear. “We can play again, later.” Sure we can, you think sarcastically. As though your brain will ever let you have something this nice ever again. It’s going to suck to wake up. The memory of your plummet into the mirror almost makes you stir, but the afterglow sedates your mind and body, sending you into inky, black unconsciousness.

---

You don’t know how long you sleep, but when you wake up, you first notice the gross taste of sleep in your mouth and a plush bed against your back. Your eyes open and a vaguely familiar ceiling greets you, the lighting dim and purple—but wait—

You shoot into an upright position, urgently blinking the sleep from your eyes. Alarm shoots through you as you behold the same library from your dream.

No, no, no! Numb horror assaults you as you roll out of the warm bed. The ground is cool against the bottoms of your feet.

This is still a dream. It has to be—shit, shit, shit, it’s not. It’s really not, huh? But where are you? Were you kidnapped by that purple bastard?

Your frantic gaze snaps at the sound of heels clicking against the polished wood and air constricts in your lungs as he rounds the corner. He blinks briefly, looking surprised at the sight of you, before he gives you a grin, warmer than it is smug.

“I told you it wasn’t a dream.”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

“I don’t care if they’re watching. I’m not done with you yet.” is giving me some serious Courtesan AU vibes

@soft-bram requested this too, so a fic for two lovely people

I call this fic, Caleb Realises He Has An Exhibitionist Kink

***

The inside of Marion’s brothel was a whole other world.

It was as if the whole place were made of light alone, barely tangible, always shifting and changing and dancing teasingly before Caleb’s eyes, crooking it’s finger to beckon him forward. He knew it was because Marion kept a flotilla of hanging glass lamps suspended at different lengths from the rafters. In fact, he’d sourced the resin glass for her in every colour he could produce in his lab and calculated the exact lengths at which to hang them to get the best effect. But even knowing this, the otherworldly beauty of it still stunned him, made him feel half cut before even a sip of the thick, molasses coloured ale he liked so much here had passed his lips. It made him forget everything beyond the heavy oak doors that muffled the sounds of song and laughter and love so well, bland and plain on the side that faced the street but carved into a vast scene of many lovers entwined around each other on the other face.

It made him feel like he could do something truly insane. Something wild and crazy and beautiful as falling in love for an hour.

Frumpkin had followed him in tonight. He did that sometimes, disappearing and reappearing as he willed, sometimes over in Jester’s lap, sometimes sat atop the bar, glaring at Marion’s cat Sune, sometimes with Marion herself, lying at her elbow as she scratched his ears, sometimes wherever he went in the fae realm when Caleb didn’t need him close by.

But now he was around Caleb’s shoulders, tail swaying lazily back and forth and paws drooping sleepily. Caleb petted his flank idly as he sipped from his tankard and turned the pages of his book.

His appointment with Mollymauk didn’t start for a while yet but he liked to sit in the brothel beforehand, enjoy the drinks and the atmosphere, so he always came early. It was probably good for him to spend some time around people, he reasoned, rather than staying sequestered in his lab with nothing but conical flasks of sulphurous powers and flickering flames for company. He’d gotten some odd glances at first, treating a brothel like a library, sat there with his drink and a different book every night, like he was some deranged lunatic who’d wandered in off the street and mistaken this pleasure house for a lovely, homely tea shop.

But now, of course, they were used to him and he got smiles and hellos and winks as the workers walked past. None attempted to proposition him, they all knew who he was here to see. Just the usual good-natured flirting; it was always a good idea to stay on the good side of an archmage. Even one as unconventional as Caleb.

He came upon him as he always did, almost like it was accidental. Like there was no rhyme or reason why someone as bright and bold and alive as Mollymauk Tealeaf could possibly have stumbled into Caleb’s grey little life. And yet here he was, in defiance of the way things should be. As if daring everything that held Caleb down to try and kick him out, flitting in and out too fast for it to right itself. One moment absent, the next suddenly appearing in the booth next to Caleb, his smile as bright as the sun.

“My little stray cat comes wandering back once again,” Molly hummed, practically whispering in his ear. That was how he always teased Caleb, comparing him to a ragged ginger tabby, always returning hopefully at the same time each evening, begging with wide, wheedling blue eyes for some milk.

Caleb grinned, blushing a little as he always seemed to do in Molly’s presence, setting his book down on the table. He kissed his companion’s cheek in greeting, noting how it was always soft and perfect without the need for any kind of make-up, “Good evening, Mr Tealeaf.”

The tiefling wrinkled his nose at the formality, “I’ve told you, sweetling, just let me know when you get here and I’ll come fetch you, you don’t have to wait around.”

“But I like it here,” Caleb reassured him, taking his hand, “And I don’t want to make you work when you don’t have to.”

His expression softened, less playful, “It doesn’t feel like work when I’m with you.”

It never failed to strike him, how easy it was being around Mollymauk. Everything that was always tight and tense everywhere else relaxed in an instant, he no longer scrutinised every single word before it left his mouth. Everything else was so exhausting, being with Mollymauk was freedom.

He looked nothing short of stunning tonight. The tiefling moved between dresses and trousers as if it was the most natural thing in the world, expectations and established roles less than a vague amusement to him, always managing to look gorgeous in whatever he chose. Tonight it was tight, clinging leggings made of a dark, silk like material that looked like it would be so nice to touch, a dark diamond pattern on one half and pinstripes on the other. His shirt was billowy and white with a black leather waistcoat over the top, high boots of the same material all the way up to his thighs, the whole outfit making Caleb think of a roguish pirate with a dangerous grin, come to claim him as treasure and steal him away. And, as always, he was wearing enough jewellery and precious metal to make a dragon envious.

“You look wonderful,” Caleb murmured, his words feeling muddy and clumsy as he tried to fit them together in such a way that they’d even come close to describing something as otherworldly as Mollymauk.

“You’re always so sweet, darling,” Molly smiled, resting a hand on the side of Caleb’s face, as generous with touch as he was with everything else, “You do know how to make a boy feel wanted…” His eyes, wide and red and demonic looking to people who didn’t know him, studied his companion’s face, an adorable little crease forming between his eyes, “Long day?”

Caleb bit his lip, there was no hiding anything from Mollymauk. He read faces, open or closed, as easily as he himself read books.

To call it a long day would be putting it mildly. He had come into the lab that morning to find a letter- not even a face to face conversation, a bloody letter pinned to the door- informing him that funding for his work was to be reduced yet again and all of his requests for new equipment from the last month had been denied. Bitterly, he knew it was retribution for the way he’d spoken out at the last meeting of the council. He always tried to keep his head down and say as little as possible, knowing anything he did say would be ignored or ridiculed, but when the Grand Mage had proposed his new cripplingly high tax on all non-human beings wanting to enter the city to live and work and escape the fighting in the empire, Caleb’s fury had overtaken his good sense. And of course, it had been for naught. The tax would be implemented anyway, the poor would continue to suffer, and now he was to be punished as well.

But he didn’t want to bore Molly with all of his woes, so he just sighed and nodded, “Yeah. A long day.”

The tielfing stroked his thumb across Caleb’s cheekbone, tilting his head as if to admire the view better, like Caleb was actually something worth looking at, “Well…you’re here with me now, sweetling. Nothing’s going to hurt or upset you here, not if I have anything to say about it.”

He had to swallow hard to clear the tightness in his throat. To most the words would sound foolish, the kind of thing you said to soothe a child who’d had a nightmare, not a grown man who’d paid for your time. But somehow Molly knew that it was exactly what Caleb needed to hear. And he said it without hesitation, with no judgement, making it clear that Caleb was allowed to want to hear it.

“Now…” Molly’s attitude shifted, lightened, turned back to his usual boyish, playful brevity, “It’s been far too long since I had you to myself.”

“It’s only been two nights,” Caleb chuckled, feeling better already.

“As I said, far too long. Practically criminal.”

He moved over, settling on his knees so he could seat himself comfortably in Caleb’s lap. Now he was so wonderfully close, his breath warm against his skin, smelling of coffee and sugar, his hands now both on his face, stroking back into his hair. His lips ghosted across his jaw, every so lightly, deliberately to make Caleb moan and want more which, of course, he did. Molly sniggered, delighted with himself, continuing to brush his fingers through his lover’s coppery hair and give him the most delicate, teasing kisses along his neck.

Messing around in the bar was far from uncommon, it was where the workers interacted with clients who hadn’t made appointments with a specific individual, so there would nearly always be at least one pair, or more than a pair, getting things started in one of the booths with gossamer curtains, or hell, even on one of the tables or up against the bar. At this point, the poor bartender just worked around them.

But Caleb had always been swept safely up to Molly’s suite, all the times he’d visited before. All the many times, at this point. The more Molly toyed with him, delicately, giving him just enough to wake up all those places inside him, those deep wells of want, but not enough for him to get anything but hot and bothered, Caleb began to notice. There were eyes watching them, mouths curving up into appreciative little smiles, eyebrows rising in interest.

And he liked it.

By now his blush had become a full-blown conflagration, probably looking ridiculous against his hair. Molly’s deft fingers had found the leather band that kept it tied away from his face when he was working, undoing it within a second so his hair fell loose like a curtain of wild, tangled fire. Caleb had realised very quickly why he’d been warned against ever playing cards with Mollymauk. His hands could be everywhere at once, fingers moving like they had minds of their own.

Caleb’s cock was like an iron bar, straining against the lacing of his trousers, well aware of the closeness between it and the heat rolling off the sweet valley between Molly’s thighs. It was just how he liked it, somewhere between pleasure and pain, the desire so strong it was too bright to look at, too burning hot to touch, like a scream bit between teeth.

“Molly…” he began, his voice strained and shivery. The request for them to move upstairs hovered at the back of his throat. Molly would do it within an instant if he asked, he knew that for a certainty, but…

“Hmm?” Molly tilted his head. Again, he’d read the thoughts behind Caleb’s eyes, pulling them free without any struggle. He saw the desire there, the way those eyes were making him feel, only increasing the fire in his chest. But also, the uncertainness, “My love?”

The offer was there, the willingness to let him choose.

Caleb swallowed hard, “Nothing…it’s just…people are watching.”

Mollymauk saw the decision made and grinned, his eyes sparking like two fires, devilish but still Caleb felt the sudden urge to put his hand in it.

“I don’t care if they’re watching,” he purred, voice low and carrying, no doubt audible to some of their closer audience, “You’re mine, Caleb Widogast. And I’m not done with you yet.”

Caleb could have melted then and there.

Molly’s hips began to roll, a long, slow movement like he was dancing, though to something certainly more risqué than the enchanted piano that played sprightly bar tunes of its own accord. The friction built slowly but surely, an agonising climb that had Caleb squirming and panting within seconds.

“They’re looking at you, y’know,” Molly whispered in his ear in a voice like thick red wine, “Seeing how glassy your eyes are getting…seeing the moans you’re trying to hold back…seeing how your fingers are digging into my shoulders…they all know.

“Oh gods…” the sound was strangled and fractured as it burst from Caleb’s chest. He could feel the slow, regular throbbing in his trousers, his own pulsing heartbeat.

“They’re only jealous,” the tiefling continued, not even breathless as he rutted against Caleb, all while keeping him pinned, “And who could blame them, sweetling? You’re nothing short of delicious but you’re mine, aren’t you? No one else’s. I can keep you dangling like this all night long if I choose.”

Caleb gave a loud keening noise, one that echoed a little further than he’d intended. The embarrassment wasn’t its own entity, it was one with the intense pleasure, the smoky edge of the heady cloud in his mind, inseparable, inextricable.

“I won’t, sweetling, I won’t,” Molly soothed, grinding down hard to make Caleb give a muffled shriek then pulling back, “I want to see your face when you finish. I want to see you make a mess of your nice palace clothes.”

“Trying…” Caleb groaned through gritted teeth, “Can’t…can’t get there…oh fuck, Molly…”

He wanted it so badly but it was just out of reach, it was maddening.

Molly bent closer, nipping his earlobe tightly, “Yes you can, sweetling. You can do it for me, I know it.”

And suddenly, just because Mollymauk said, it was so. Caleb pressed his face to the front of his shirt, toes and fingers and teeth clenching as he trembled his way through a sharp, hard won orgasm, just about managing not to scream.

There was a ringing in his ears as he came back down, a dizziness behind his eyes. But Molly was beaming at him, holding his face again with his thumbs stroking his cheekbones in that lovely way, and that was all that mattered.

Vaguely, Caleb reflected that he probably wouldn’t be able to sit here and read his book on evenings any more.

“Look at you,” Mollymauk simpered, grinning in sheer delight, “Naughty little thing, couldn’t even wait until we got upstairs. Come on, we’re going to have to get you out of those clothes and you’re going to have to make this up to me somehow…” He winked.

Caleb had never shot up the stairs faster in all his life.

[circusglass]

@mightynope, let’s get this party started.

“So?” Molly presses as Shakäste turns his face towards the tinkling of his agitated charms. The Grand Duchess is the softest, jeweled glimmer near the heavy wooden beams crossing the ceiling of the lounge. “Who are they?”

“I’ve never heard you more impatient, Molly.” 

There’s no heat to the older man’s words, humor, if anything, and Molly huffs, rubbing the periapt between his fore and thumb. He doesn’t apologize. He can’t remember who Beau and Yasha had spoken to, it’s been two years and that information had meant very little to him when war loomed on the horizon like a great, black shadow, but he remembers the shape of the words he’d ushered them off with: human faces tend to blend into the crowd.

“You alright, friend?” Shakäste presses, and Molly—he smiles, it’s easier this time around, to smile and bounce on the balls of his feet.

“Oh, I’m a peach.” He waves a hand, tail swishing a wide arc. Shakäste gives his goatee a stroke, hums softly. “Did you catch their names?”

“Well, the first man with the dark hair, that’s Oremid Hass...,” he offers with a slow nod. “They were both at the—well, you know.”

“Right, right,” Molly murmurs. He glances over his shoulder, spies the short, stocky man in question when Yasha shifts her weight to her other foot. She blocks the second figure. The Grand Duchess flutters from the wall, swooping to nestle inside of Shakäste’s hood. He lifts a finger to her, as if to stroke her glittering back to thank her for her return.

“The second,” he says, “Is a Caleb. Caleb Wido-something or the other. Didn’t catch it fully. Our Yasha, she’s...well, being herself, if you know what I mean.”

The world tilts underfoot. Molly’s heart is no longer below his sternum, shifts from throbbing in the hollow of his clavicle, to the top of his stomach, drumming in his long ears. Molly turns to look, but Yasha’s body hasn’t moved again, and he can’t see.

“I should go, uh. Save her then,” he says with a manic little giggle. “Save them both actually. Have you ever seen Beau put the moves on someone? Bet it's the same level of skill.”

Shakäste’s smile is a serene one, and though he looks beyond Molly—at the merchants from Marquet, no doubt—the Duchess’s black eyes shimmer in the folds of his rich green cloak. Molly flashes her a smile, all pointed teeth.

“You do that then,” he says in a way that makes Molly want to bolt, and not for the first time. Instead, he buries his swallow in his tankard, abandons it on a side table with a salute.

“Wish me luck.”

Caleb was dead. Molly had pronounced Caleb dead days after meeting Nott, alone, days after keeping his ears attuned to grief, to nostalgic memory for a man she may have known, but he picked up nothing. Molly wanted to hope, the way he had for each of the Nein every day after Yasha had stormed back into his life ( an absolute vision when his last memories of her were cast with grief, lost in Shady Creek Run ), but each leg out from Trostenwald made the likelihood that they’d meet Caleb again shrink to something the size of a dandelion seed.

Before he hears his voice, he hears its soft, low timbre, and he knows with the faintest shiver in his gut that he’s alive.

He’s alive and a bloody Archmage.

“Hope they aren’t embarrassing themselves,” Molly calls out with a jaunty little skip fueled by nervous energy, tucking between the two women with a beaming smile. He wraps an arm around Yasha’s waist and ducks beneath the startled lift of her arm. His eyes are trained on Oremid, who nods in greeting, smiles, amused—but in his periphery there’s red—

“Mollymauk. Hello,” Yasha murmurs, giving his shoulder a pat. He beams up at her and finally drops his gaze, only for the world to sharpen imperceptibly at the edges. 

Caleb is clean. He’s well-dressed, looks as though he doesn’t shave with a bloody broadsword, like he lives comfortably, like maybe he sleeps more than he used to, and Molly—it makes him ache, his breath curling tight in his chest until it’s burning. He desperately wants to look between Beau and Yasha, beg them to remember, but he crushes that all down like he has been ( there’s no time, there’s no time ), and thrusts a ringed hand out for him to shake instead.

( It isn’t shaking, no more than usual, no more than can’t be blamed on a hard fought victory and alcohol, but beneath the panels of his coat the arrowhead of his tail ticks back and forth, back and forth. )

“Mollymauk Tealeaf,” he declares unblinkingly. “Charmed.”

[wulfiestired]

              In response to { @circusglass‘s lovely drabble }

If people are made from their experiences then Caleb Widowgast is a byproduct of his many mistakes. They litter behind him like blood on the snow, bright as jewels, glaring in the morning sun and shimmering under star light. He can’t put them behind him. They follow still, a scent on the air, a chill in the earth. He is haunted by his past and it nips at his heels, never to let him forget. 

Furthermore he is weak. Caleb likes to run. The weight of his mistakes is too heavy and it is easier to cast it aside and move. He doesn’t have to dwell so fully, can disassociate and function enough to stay alive. But this one is different. His skin burns where the metal of the talisman Beau handed him touches his skin. He meant to tuck it in a pocket, to keep it safe but not to dwell on it but... At some point it wound up around his neck, cold under the fabric of his shirt. 

He wonders if it is what ties him to that place in the crossroads. They don’t pass by it often. It seems rude not to, if they are in the area, to make the extra couple hours to see their friend. On their first return Caduceus had cast decompose on their friend. It was a finality, a last good bye. The earth would remember him, would take of him. It felt too final, under the glittering of his many color coat. 

On the third return they brought a seed. Or rather, the seed had come with them. Caleb had found it tucked in the feathers of a temporary hawk-bodied Frumpkin. Caduceus had called it a good omen. “Further to remember. What was it he would do?” His words were steady, kind, as he pulled the earth back. The  branch Caleb had pressed into the ground so long ago had broken in two and there were no other signs that anything had ever been there but the all knew, they all remembered. 

                 “To leave everything better,” Beau mumbled, eyes somewhere off in the distance so she wouldn’t cry. I was still fresh on all of them, even half a year later. 

Caduceus smiled as his fingers glowed and then he placed the seed in the earth like a promise. “To leave the world better, yes.” He covered the seed then murmured something more song than word. Green peaked out from the earth in the form of hungry leaves searching for the sun. “I think he will be a haven in an otherwise desolate place.” 

                          It was somewhat poetic but Caleb hated it. He stared down at the sapling and tried to force the burn out of his eyes. It felt ridiculous to boil their friend down to a plant. Just another form to die at the whims of the world around it. This time unremembered, no name, no breath nor words to give. His fingers smoothed over his shirt where metal burned against skin but he said nothing. Eventually they moved on. 

Years passed and their work for the gentleman continued and brought them all over the country. Some places were dicier than others, often interwoven with the politics of an ongoing war. Still, their paths crossed by the grave time and time again. The tree Clay had planted grew unnaturally fast. It grew upward and outward in a manner that would have normally taken a decade in the space of two years. It brought with it other forms of life. Flowers, berry bushes, a spot of precious life on a desolate road. Perhaps Clay hadn’t been wrong about Mollymauk being a haven but Caleb still felt the bitterness in his chest. 

It felt wrong to call the man dead.   He always lingered longer than his friends. Needing the silence he would say. They would set up camp nearby but far enough away that no sparks from the campfire risked sparking the tree. Near enough that they could see the shock of red hair as the evening light dimmed and waned. He sighed, a hand resting heavy over the wood that thrummed warmly with magic. It was unnatural for a tree, yes, but Caleb hadn’t given it much thought. The seed had been magicked after all. It was set deep into the wood, to promote growth and resilience and health. Surely. 

“Of course we would have found a willow tree,” the wizard huffed. Frumpkin gave a little grousing churr from where he slept around Caleb’s neck as if in reply. “It is eccentric, ja?’ The familiar huffed in response and tucked his face into the wizard’s collar. “I suspect he would want us to hang sea glass from the branches so they would glitter in the sun. Or something else ridiculous.” He glanced down at the cat who had nestled completely into a doze now, purr weak. Just as well. The only thing worse than rambling to a cat was rambling to himself and he was stuck somewhere in the middle.  “Maybe I should turn you into a peacock and steal your feathers,” he huffed half-heartedly. He would never use Frumpkin like that but the threat felt good. The cat did not deign him with a response beyond one ear twitching in it’s sleep. 

“Mhh.... Hang them up with silver twine,” he scratched at the cats neck with his free hand before his fingers wandered to rest over his shirt, the press of metal just below the fabric. It was in that moment that the tree beneath his under hand shuddered. Shuddered. Caleb blinked and stared at the tree before it trembled again and he jerked his hand back in reaction.

It reminded Caleb of the time in his childhood that he found a silken cocoon threaded to a low hanging branch. He had happened upon it at just the right time. It has fissured through the belly and a damp looking creature with beautiful pale green wings had emerged. It was much like that now except tree bark was not silk. It splintered and cracked as if it had been struck by lightning and wooden fingers came from the crack, pealing the bark back as if it were warmed leather. The tree molded around the figure as if it were always meant to do so, to cradle and wrap around it.

And there.. there, stepping from the warped bark was Mollymauk. Or at least, a caricature of him. A dryad, his mind supplied weakly. It certainly looked like one with its bar like skin, branch like tail, its blossoming flowers in its hair. It pitches forward into the blackberry bushes below and Caleb can do nothing but step back and stare at in shock. The dryad doesn’t seem aware of him at first and Caleb had to wonder if this is it’s birth. He knows very little about dryads beyond folk lore of fae trapping spirits into trees but Caduceus is no fae and though the dryad looks like Molly, Caleb imagines it used his bones as inspiration. There was no way it could be him.

Mollymauk Tealeaf was dead and had been for near three years now.

Yet Caleb finds that doubt withering as it- no, him- stares at him, The voice that follows undoubtedly belongs to the tiefling. “I uh..mh...” Caleb tries to reply but finds his own voice lost to him. Frumpkin lifts his head at the new voice and blinks at the dryad but shows no alarm but instead an easy familiarity as he churrs at the newcomer. “Mollymauk?” Caleb finally tries with less spoken clarity than he has ever fumbled with before. 

[lengthy-artery]

Hanging State

Fandom: Critical Role Relationship: Caleb Widogast/Mollymauk Tealeaf Tags: PWP, Explicit Consent, D/s dynamic, Light Dom/sub, Blowjobs, Dom!Molly, sub!Caleb, Safewords, Fluff, Aftercare, Fluff and Smut, caleb widogast deserves nice things Word count: 10447 Rating: Explicit AO3 Link: Here

Caleb is the one who caves first, because he has to be.

It’s been several months since the incident at the mine in Alfield, and Caleb has come to realise that he has never met anyone as good and kind and gentle as Molly. He’d thought he’d discovered the depths of it then, when Molly had sat with him in his room and spoken with him and distracted him and helped him as best he could until Caleb felt like himself again, but he hadn’t known then, or even when they moved from allies into their careful, tentative relationship, just how far Molly’s goodness went.

Molly’s so careful with him, for all that he never treats Caleb differently to how he would any of the others. He never pulls his punches, never avoids confronting problem, never treats Caleb like he might shatter under the wrong word or the wrong event but at the same time he’s so, so careful that it makes Caleb’s heart ache.

Molly never does anything without Caleb’s consent. Ever. It doesn’t matter what it is – even if he’s just reaching out to take Caleb’s hand under the table at an inn he’ll make sure to brush his fingers against the back of Caleb’s hand first, glance over at him with a raised eyebrow and a curious, questioning look that asks as clearly as any words are you okay with this?, and will only proceed when Caleb gives his own nearly imperceptible nod back. It’s a tiny thing, but Caleb appreciates it more than he knows how to put into words – he feels safe with Molly, safer than he does with anyone else, and he’s knows it’s in no small way due to how Molly treats him. There’s never the concern of something he doesn’t want to happen happening, there’s never the worry that Molly will do something that will in some way draw attention to him. There’s just Molly, patient and understanding and respecting of every single one of Caleb’s numerous strange, overlapping boundaries, and Caleb doesn’t think he’s ever felt this comfortable around someone.

It’s nice.

It’s definitely extremely, very, undeniably nice.

It is also a tiny bit of a problem.

Caleb knows himself, and he knows that he is not a brave man. He’s always at the back of the party in combat, is always the one to suggest doing anything possible to avoid confrontation and conflict, and even now with Molly he is… afraid. Afraid of what he doesn’t know, but the worry is there all the same, lingering under his skin and along the lines of his bones. It is only really because of Molly and Molly’s gentle, quiet questions and suggestions and actions that they’ve even gone further than a few quick kisses traded safely out of sight of the others, and Caleb knows that this is already more than he has ever deserved but he wants more all the same.

He wants a lot of things. In the darkness and silence and safety of his tent he’s let himself imagine, has wrapped a hand around himself and imagined that it was Molly’s hand or Molly’s mouth, has brought himself to completion with thoughts of the tiefling’s sharp smile and soft hands and clever tongue. Lying in the silence afterwards he’s wondered time and again if it truly is so hard, if it really is so very difficult for him to find Mollymauk and tell him what he wants, but every time the sun has risen and brought with it the one trump card of his anxiety and fears:

You do not deserve this.

Caleb Widogast is not a brave man, and Molly is determined to take things exactly at Caleb’s pace. All of which means, of course, that Caleb has come to the realisation that nothing is going to happen unless he himself initiates it.

Which is a bit of a problem, really, because while he would very much like for something to happen, he is also incredibly skilled at denying himself the things he wants. And he wants this, he really does; he’s woken half-hard to thoughts of it on more than one occasion, but every time he thinks he’s ready to ask Molly, to tell him that he wants to take things a little further, he looks at Molly’s beauty and Molly’s gentleness and Molly’s effortless, easy confidence, and thinks to himself again I do not deserve this.

Anxiety and desire can only battle for so long, though, and eventually one of them has to give.

It’s several months down the line when Caleb finally caves. They’re sitting with the party in a tavern somewhere, still riding the post-battle high, and Caleb can still feel his magic fresh and lightning-sharp in his veins when he looks over at Molly and sees the shadows clinging to his collarbones and the light shining off his jewellery, watches as he throws his head back and laughs uproariously at something that Beau just said, and thinks now.

And thinks I want him.

They’re not sitting next to each other but it’s the work of a moment for Caleb to figure out where Molly’s legs are under the table and reach out to nudge Molly’s foot with his own. Molly doesn’t look over at him immediately, still maintaining his conversation with Beau, but under the table Caleb feels Molly’s leg shift until their calves are pressing together, creating a single point of contact and warmth, and after a few more seconds Molly glances in Caleb’s direction, one eyebrow slightly raised as punctuation to his unspoken question; What is it?

Caleb doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to respond, even at the best of times, and while he is for once feeling uncommonly brave he still doesn’t know how best to convey to Molly what exactly he wants without the rest of the party hearing it as well, which would definitely not be a good thing. Caleb can hardly bear being the centre of attention now – he doesn’t dare to imagine what it’d be like if they knew what was going on between him and Molly. He’s sure they’d be respectful, and he’s sure Molly would be as seemingly carefree and comfortable as he always is, but Caleb… Caleb would suffer, and he knows it.

So he catches Molly’s eye, flicks his gaze upwards in the direction of their rooms, and says nothing.

Across the table from him Molly’s mouth curves in a knowing smile, and Caleb feels heat start to settle in his gut.

He is doing this. He is going to do this. His magic feels bright and sharp beneath his skin and he feels almost at the edge of confidence for once, buoyed up by the delight and confidence and success he can practically feel radiating off Nott and Jester and Beau and Fjord and Yasha. They are strong and powerful and he may not be of the same calibre, may not be half as brave as they all are, but he is brave enough.

He is brave enough.

He is going to do this.

“I’m going upstairs to bed,” he says, and stands abruptly. He knows that from any of the others his brusqueness could be considered rude, but by now they’re all well accustomed to his social uncertainties and after a quick round of them all wishing him a good night he’s free to leave the table and retreat upstairs with no further questions.

He doesn’t look at Molly when he leaves, but he feels the tiefling’s red eyes through the heavy fabric of his coat all the same.

It doesn’t take long for Molly to join him. To Caleb, pacing nervously behind the shut door of his room it feels close to an eternity, though he knows it to be no longer than ten minutes. He hears Molly’s approaching footsteps before he sees him and when the door slowly opens a moment later Caleb is standing facing it, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Hey,” Molly says, stepping inside and quietly shutting the door behind him, “You alright?”

Caleb nods. He can’t speak. He knows that Molly knows, if not what he actively wants then at the very least what he’s implying, but Molly, being Molly, isn’t going to act on it until Caleb says or does something. And Caleb cannot speak right now.

So he acts instead.

He steps forwards, and presses his lips to Molly’s. His hands rise, one settling on the curve of Molly’s hip as the other moves to gently cradle Molly’s face, and there is no hesitation before Molly starts kissing him back.

“Hey,” Molly murmurs again, and the word is muffled against Caleb’s mouth but it sounds warm all the same, sounds warm and comforting and so wonderfully, wonderfully familiar. Their lips slide together, all effortless and easy, and it only takes the tentative press of Caleb’s tongue to the seam of Molly’s lips for Molly’s mouth to open under his.

It’s easy.

Kissing Molly is easy now, and familiar. They’ve been going slowly but they’ve kissed often enough that Caleb knows how best to tilt his head to get the best angle, knows just how to stroke his tongue across Molly’s for Molly to give those sweet, quiet little gasps that he loves, knows that he loves nothing better than the feeling of Molly’s hands settling on his waist, keeping him close and stable and grounded. Caleb is a quick study, and it has been no hardship on his part to study Molly.

“Hey,” he breathes, and when Molly’s hands tug at his waist he steps closer instantly.

“Hey there, handsome,” Molly replies, and leans back just enough so that he can look at Caleb and give him a curious smile. “You gonna tell me why you wanted me up here?”

“I wanted to kiss you,” Caleb replies. It would be a lie to say that he feels no shame in admitting that, but he feels little enough that he can push it away and ignore it for now. Kissing Molly is okay. Wanting to kiss Molly is okay. Kissing Molly is familiar and easy and Caleb will not let his own self-loathing take it away from him.

In front of him Molly tilts his head, and Caleb watches as his soft smile turns into something more akin to a knowing smirk.

“I think you wanted to do more than just kiss me,” Molly says, and grins wider when he sees Caleb flush.

“I-“ I did.

“I mean, I’m definitely not opposed to that, if that’s what you want. Or, y’know, or not. That’s fine too.”

“No,” Caleb says quickly, “No, no, I wanted…”

Molly looks at him, lifts an eyebrow curiously.

For a few moments, Caleb can only stammer. “I had- I wanted-“ His throat is dry, and he can’t get the words out. Molly waits for a few moments, but when it becomes clear that Caleb isn’t going to be saying much more he speaks up.

“What did you want me to do, Caleb?” There’s no judgement in his tone, no force or pressure to answer – the question is presented simply, and it’s so, so easy for Caleb to think ahead to the next few seconds and know exactly what he wants Molly to do.

“Just kiss me,” he says, “please.”

“Well how can I say no when you ask so prettily?” Molly teases, and Caleb feels himself flush red and hot under his gaze. He tilts his head up, says nothing more, and is rewarded shortly after by Molly’s lips on his own. Caleb melts into the contact, loses himself to the slick slide of Molly’s lips and tongue against his own, and doesn’t know how much time passes before Molly speaks again, the words soft and muffled against his mouth.

“What do you want?” Molly asks, and Caleb’s answer is immediate.

“You.”

Molly laughs against his lips. “You’ve already got me, love, but I’m pretty certain you want more than just kisses.” He pulls away, glances down, glances up, and Caleb didn’t think it was possible for his face to grow hotter but apparently it is. He’s not fully hard yet but he’s getting there, and it’s clear that Molly can feel the length of him starting to press against his hip. “What do you want right now?” Molly continues, and Caleb swallows.

“I- I want-“ Caleb feels the words cut themselves off in his throat, and suddenly he feels cold all over. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. He doesn’t deserve any of this, has no right to be asking Molly even for kisses, let alone anything else, has no right to even be this close to Molly, and he should not be doing this.

But it seems like the rumours Caleb once heard about tieflings being psychic may actually be true, because the thoughts have only a few moments to twist through his mind before Molly kisses him again, swift and warm, and Caleb feels them start to quieten.

“Caleb,” Molly says softly, “Love. It’s alright.” He leans in, presses a fleeting kiss to Caleb’s lips, and Caleb chases after the contact. “Whatever you want, I’m here. I want to be here.”

“But I-“ Caleb starts, and Molly quickly cuts him off again.

“You’re allowed to want nice things, Caleb,” he says, and starts kissing a constellation against the curve of Caleb’s jaw.

One sentence should not have such an effect on him.

It shouldn’t, and yet it does, because no longer are the words out of Molly’s mouth than Caleb’s thoughts quieten even further. He may not believe he’s allowed to want this but it seems that Molly does, and by now Caleb trusts Molly more than he trusts even himself.

And if Molly thinks that Caleb is allowed to want this, then perhaps, just possibly, he really is.

“What do you want?” Molly asks again, his words a murmur pressed to Caleb’s throat, and Caleb can feel his lips against his skin when he swallows.

“You.”

“Mm, you said that already. I need more detail here, love.”

“I want-…“

“What?”

“…”

“You can say it, sweetheart.”

“I can’t.”

Caleb cannot see Molly’s grin, but he can feel it. “Say it, Caleb. Tell me.” There’s power under his words; an undercurrent of command that kindles the fire slowly building in Caleb’s gut, but it’s not enough. It feels- it feels wrong to say the words he wants to say, to admit to himself what he wants, and Caleb grits his teeth together and presses his head back against the wall of the room and doesn’t let his thoughts linger on how Molly’s teeth scrape sharp and harsh and perfect over his jugular.

“I can’t, Molly.”

“Why not?”

Scheiße. “I can’t- I shouldn’t-“

“You shouldn’t want this? Is that what this is?”

“No.” Yes. He shouldn’t want this. Not because he thinks it to be sinful or wrong – and Caleb doesn’t think that, he never could, he has loved men for as long as he has known love – but because it is not something that he deserves.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve to have Molly pressed up against his front like this, doesn’t deserve to hear all the soft, absent pet-names that Molly keeps casting his way. He doesn’t deserve the care and the affection and the endless, endless patience that Molly seems to have for him, for his hold-ups and his issues and everything, and yet…

And yet, here Molly is all the same.

Caleb can feel tears start gathering at the corners of his eyes, and does nothing to try and stop their escape. Molly, stars bless him, does not comment.

“What do you want, Caleb?” he asks again, and his voice is achingly, heart-breakingly soft.

“I can’t.” It’s barely a sentence, barely a whisper, but Molly hears it all the same. He hums, flickers his tongue out and tastes the salt on Caleb skin, and Caleb sobs. “Please, bitte, Molly…”

“Tell me, Caleb.”

He can’t. He can’t. But Molly will not let him be till he does.

Caleb pulls in a breath and feels it rattling around his lungs. He’s still trembling, is still caught on the cusp of tears, and he has to draw several more half-formed, shattering breaths before he feels like he can speak fully.

When he does, the words are so faint he can barely hear them himself.

“I want you to suck my cock…”

He can’t look. He squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head up, trying not to focus too hard on the pressure that lifts from his throat. He can feel no more warm breath there, can feel no more sign of Molly’s presence against his neck, but barely a moment passes before there’s a hand cupping his cheek, and Caleb opens his eyes again entirely on instinct.

Molly stands before him still, grinning and sharp-eyed and delighted. Caleb can see it, can feel it in the gentle way that Molly’s cupping his face, and thinks he might dissolve into his magic at any moment just from the feelings that are clawing under the surface of his skin.

“Good boy,” Molly says, and presses a searing kiss to Caleb’s lips.

And Caleb feels himself start to come undone.

He reaches for Mollymauk with blind, trembling hands, and curls them in whatever bits of fabric are nearest. Molly’s lips on his own are hot and slick and perfect and it is not the first time Caleb has felt them but he feels like it may as well be because he no longer knows how to think. All he knows is Molly, and Molly’s warmth and Molly’s lips and oh, Molly’s clever hands, skating down his chest and brushing over his nipples with a contact that’s almost too light to be felt but that makes Caleb whimper into Molly’s mouth all the same. Molly catches the sound, grins against Caleb’s lips, and repeats the action, does it again and again until Caleb’s gasping, trembling against him from that simple touch alone.

“You like that?” Molly murmurs, and it’s all Caleb can do to nod desperately before he leans back in to kiss Molly some more.

Molly’s kisses are addictive. The tiefling is talented with his tongue in more ways than one, and to have all of his attention focused solely on Caleb only seems to enhance that skill. Molly kisses him deep, open-mouthed and hot and burning and it’s all Caleb can do to remember to breathe, to keep his hands twisted up in the fine material of Molly’s shirt and hold him close and try, occasionally, to reciprocate somewhat. Molly’s tongue is forked and it only adds to the sensation, pushing things damn close to overwhelming from these kisses alone – it doesn’t take long until Caleb is shaking against Molly, pressing as close as he can while still leaving space for Molly’s hands to run along his chest and sides and down over the curve of his ass, tugging him in closer and grinning against Caleb’s lips when Caleb’s hips grind up to meet him.

“Molly,” Caleb gasps, tightening his hands in Molly’s shirt. He knows he will likely leave wrinkles in it come morning, but he cannot bring himself to care.

“Patience,” Molly hums in reply, “All in good time. Let me look after you.” He presses a kiss to Caleb’s lips, another when he feels Caleb chase after the contact, and then in one swift, fluid movement he sinks down to his knees before Caleb and curls his hands around Caleb’s thighs.

Suddenly, it all becomes very real.

This is happening, Caleb thinks, and has to stifle a bubble of manic, nervous laughter. This is happening. I was brave and I asked and now – oh, Gods – now this is happening. He watches as Molly leans in closer, his breath ghosting over the bulge of Caleb’s erection, and Caleb thinks that the reverent look in Molly’s eyes would be enough to tempt any cleric to sin.

“Well, hello there,” Molly murmurs, and after the briefest of glances back up at Caleb he reaches out and presses his hand to Caleb’s still-clothed dick.

Caleb groans.

It’s a tiny touch, but already Caleb can feel all of his thoughts start to orbit it like a star. At the sound of his groan Molly glances up again, a smile curving at the corners of his mouth, and he runs his hand along Caleb’s cock, leans in closer so that Caleb can feel the warmth of his breath even through the layer of fabric that separates them. It’s tantalising, a teasing hint of what’s yet to come, and Caleb feels his mouth grow dry as he watches Molly’s fingers flex and curl around his cock to start rubbing him through his breeches.

And then, quiet abruptly, things shift from good to awful.

“Molly,” Caleb says suddenly, before he can stop himself, “Molly, stop, stop stop stop, please-“

It’s too much. It’s too much and it’s too good and Caleb doesn’t deserve any of it, hasn’t done anything to earn something this good and this nice, but all the same when Molly pulls back, dropping his hands to his lap, Caleb feels himself whine from somewhere deep in his throat.

“You alright?” Molly says, all soft and concerned, and Caleb doesn’t know how to respond. He nods, because he is, he really is, he wants this is and it’s so damn good, but then a moment later he shakes his head as well.

Molly’s expression, faintly worried but still so, so gentle, doesn’t waver at all. “Do you need me to slow down?”

Caleb shakes his head again. “No,” he mutters, “No, that’s not it, I-…“

“Do you still want this? It’s alright if you don’t anymore, Caleb – you can always change your mind.”

Caleb groans. “Nein, no, I want this, I’m- I just- I-…” He doesn’t know what to say. How is he meant to encapsulate everything that’s happening inside his skull and deliver it to Molly in neat little packages of words when even he doesn’t fully understand what’s happening? He knows that he wants this, that he really, truly does, knows that he cares for Molly and that Molly cares for him and that this is fine, that everything is fine, but he just can’t seem to stop himself from saying what he does.

He can’t seem to stop trying to get Molly to stop, even if it’s the very opposite of what he wants.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and lifts a hand to brush tears from the corners of his eyes.

“It’s alright,” Molly replies easily, “We can make this work. Let me just- we’ll figure this out.” There’s a pause, and then Molly asks again, “You want this, right? You want me to blow you? Just nod if you don’t feel you can say it.”

Caleb nods, and Molly smiles up at him.

“Alright,” Molly says, “Good. So we know that everything’s above-board and consensual here. But for some reason – and we can talk about it later if you want, or not if you don’t want to – for some reason, your actions and your wants seem to be on… well, they seem to be on different pages at the moment. Would you say that’s a fair way of putting it?”

Caleb nods again. It’s the perfect way of putting it.

“Alright,” Molly mutters, seemingly more to himself than to Caleb, and falls silent.

For a moment, there’s no sound in the room beyond Caleb’s ragged breaths.

“Do you know the colour system?” Molly asks suddenly, and then continues the moment he sees Caleb’s expression. “Well, it’s a simple little thing you can use during sex – or at other times, really – to make sure that you and your partner are both on the same page, you know? Some people will tell their partner to stop a lot without actually wanting them to, so if their partner knows that if they actually want them to stop they’ll use another word it makes things much easier. All things considered, it seems it could be pretty handy for us here. You following?”

“…Yeah.”

“Alright, good. So, it’s really simple – green means ‘I’m great, keep going, everything’s fine’, yellow means ‘I need to slow things down a little but I don’t want to stop yet’, and red is full-on ‘stop everything right now.’” Molly looks up Caleb, eyes glinting in the light, and smiles. It’s a soft smile, far gentler than many of the ones he’s cast Caleb’s way recently, and it makes whatever tension or worry is left over in Caleb’s body dissipate entirely. “You got that?”

Caleb nods. It’s a simple system to understand, and he completely sees why Molly thinks it’s necessary for them – he’s sure that if he were in Molly’s position, all roles reversed, watching Molly shake and tremble and cry would be more than enough to convince him that something was truly, desperately wrong and he should stop everything now. Really, he’s somewhat surprised that Molly hasn’t stopped things entirely yet, but he’s certainly not complaining – for all that he is shaking and crying and telling Molly to stop and generally giving the impression that he’s not enjoying things it really couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Because he is enjoying things. Very much. And if he’s going to keep on crying because he still feels, very quietly and very certainly in the depths of his heart, that he doesn’t deserve this, well… the colours will definitely come in handy then.

“Red for stop, yellow for pause, and green for go,” he murmurs to himself, and the smile he gets from Molly in return is swift and happy and brighter than the sun.

“You’ve got it,” Molly says, and after a moment’s pause he adds, “What are they in Zimnian?”

Caleb frowns. “…Why would you need to know that?” He has no issues in telling Molly the translation, of course, but he is undeniably curious as to why the tiefling would need it.

Molly shrugs. “People revert back to their mother tongue when they’re being fucked sometimes. It happens. And while it really is quite unspeakably sexy, it doesn’t actually help me understand how you’re doing.”

Caleb contemplates this. He’s not aware if it’s something he’s likely to do but he knows it’s definitely possible – he slips back into Zimnian all the time, and although a lot of it is intentional there have definitely been instances when it hasn’t been. If this is something that they’re going to be doing – and, part of his brain supplies, hopefully doing again – then he understands the reasoning behind Molly’s request.

He clears his throat. “Red is, uh, rot.”

Molly nods. “Rot,” he says, his accent distorting the word atrociously, and Caleb fights back a bubble of laughter. “Got it. What’s yellow?”

“Gelb.”

“And green?”

“Grün.”

Molly smiles. “Rot, gelb, grün,” he repeats, and Caleb cannot help but smile back at him. His Zimnian accent is awful but it’s endearing all the same, because in a way it shows how much he cares.

And Molly very clearly cares a lot. He cares about their friends and their companions and other people not going cold or hungry, and he cares about Caleb. He cares about Caleb so much that sometimes it genuinely catches him by surprise, because to say that Caleb is not accustomed to pleasantness is the understatement of the century.

Molly cares so much it makes Caleb’s heart hurt. He cares enough to want to make sure that no matter what happens, he’ll still be able to know when Caleb actually wants to stop things, regardless of what language he’s speaking in.

The thought makes something warm curl around Caleb’s heart, but it’s no longer an unfamiliar feeling. It’s one he’s come to recognise well, ever since that night after the mines, but much like he has every time he’s felt it before he does his level best to push it aside. It is something he can deal with later.

“Rot, gelb, grün,” Caleb repeats again, and nods when Molly murmurs them back to himself. His accent’s improved a little bit even in this short space of time, but it’s still a far cry from convincing anyone he’s a fluent – let alone native – speaker. But it’s enough. He knows what he’s listening for, and that’s more than Caleb ever would have expected.

“Okay,” Molly says, giving a sharp nod that makes the jewellery adorning his horns jingle quietly, “I’ve got them. Could I get a colour from you now, love? In Zimnian, if you wouldn’t mind. I want to challenge myself.”

“Grun,” Caleb replies instantly. He doesn’t have to think to answer that – for all he’s been sobbing and sniffling and generally giving the impression that he’s not enjoying the situation he’s really been more than delighted – more than ecstatic – at everything that’s been happening so far. He wants it to continue. He wants Molly to keep kissing him and touching him and looking at him like he’s precious, like he’s worth something, and while he still cannot say those thoughts aloud it is much, much easier to translate them all into a single colour.

“Grun. Green,” Molly translates, “Wonderful.” He looks up at Caleb, smiles sharp and bright and hot, and turns his head to press a kiss to Caleb’s thigh. Even through the fabric of his breeches the contact burns. “Remember,” Molly continues, “anytime you want to stop, any time, no matter what’s going on or how far we’ve gone, you just say ‘red’ or ‘rot’, alright? You’re in control.”

Caleb swallows. “Yeah,” he says, “Got it.”

“That’s my good boy,” Molly says, and Caleb feels the words settle warm around his heart. “You ready to get back to it?”

“Yeah.”

“No time like the present,” Molly quips, and reaches for the ties of Caleb’s breeches. He unlaces them with deft, clever fingers, the contact fleeting and light but still enough for Caleb to just barely feel it, and Caleb cannot make himself look away. It still feels wrong to have this, still feels wrong to be looking down at Mollymauk and at the light that catches off the jewellery that adorns his horns and know that everything Molly is doing he is doing for Caleb.

Because Molly is… Molly is better. He’s better than Caleb, braver and kinder and softer and gentler and simply better in every way. He presents himself as brash and loud and, frankly, a little obnoxious, but beneath it all he has a heart as golden as any of the bands that adorn his fingers and horns.  And for some absurd, unthinkable reason, he has decided to open his heart to Caleb.

It’s baffling. There’s no good reason that Caleb can think of for Molly to still be here, to still be wanting to be close to Caleb, to be actively wanting to kiss him and hold him and encourage him to do all these things that he has absolutely no right to ask of him, and yet… and yet Molly is still here, kneeling on the floor as he undoes the last ties of Caleb’s breeches with a look on his face like he’s opening a gift, and then his fingers slip inside Caleb’s smallclothes and all Caleb’s thoughts leave his mind in a rush.

“Oh,” Molly says, smirking, “Someone’s happy to see me.”

Caleb groans. “Don’t say that…” he mutters, and Molly laughs.

“Why not?” he asks, “You saying that isn’t the case?”

“I- well- no…”

“So what’s the issue?”

“It just sounds bad,” Caleb says, and Molly laughs again.

“It does,” he agrees.

“So why did you say it?”

“Oh, y’know. To see you squirm.”

Caleb groans again, and leans his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes.

“’Course,” Molly continues, “There are other ways to see you squirm. Like this.” And with that he withdraws his hand from Caleb’s smallclothes, licks a long stripe along his palm, and wraps his hand back around Caleb’s cock in a matter of seconds.

For a moment, Caleb feels his knees threaten to give out.

“Oh,” he gasps, “Oh.” Molly’s hand is sliding slick and tight along Caleb’s cock, and it’s all he can do to remember to breathe. After a few moments Molly leans in closer, his forked tongue flicking out to trace circles on the head of Caleb’s cock, and Caleb feels his knees threaten to buckle.

“Caleb,” Molly murmurs, pausing in his ministrations to instead start pressing kisses to Caleb’s cock, his hips, the soft skin on the inside of his thighs, “Love. You’re stunning.” His tongue swipes over the head of Caleb’s cock again and Caleb whimpers, lifts a hand to muffle the sound before dropping it to Molly’s shoulder. He needs to touch, needs to give himself something to physically, tangibly hold onto, but he doesn’t know where. He takes Molly’s shoulder because it’s close and safe, but Molly seems to take the touch as guidance, because Caleb’s hand is only resting there for the space of a breath before Molly chuckles a little under his breath and turns all of his attention back towards Caleb’s cock. He tongues over the slit, traces the thick vein with his tongue, and right when Caleb is about to start begging for him to stop teasing and do something he parts his lips and takes Caleb’s cock into his mouth.

It’s so much better than any fantasy.

Caleb had thought that his active imagination would’ve been able to at least somewhat estimate what a blowjob from Molly would be like, but what he’d come up with in the twilight hours has nothing on the reality of it. Molly’s mouth is slick and hot and so good it almost hurts, in a bone-deep way that has nothing at all to do with actual pain, and he’s got his hand curled around what bit of Caleb’s cock isn’t in his mouth, palm slick enough with spittle and precum to remove any friction.

Molly dips his head lower, takes Caleb’s cock until Caleb thinks he can feel himself nudging against the back of Molly’s throat, and he groans. It’s so good. It’s too good. It’s too good and it’s too much and it’s not enough and when Molly peers up at him from between his eyelashes, tongue swirling along the length of Caleb’s cock, Caleb shuts his eyes and sobs. He lifts a hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at the skin as he fights to keep himself quiet, and he holds it there for barely a handful of seconds before Molly is pulling off his cock and reaching up to pull his hand back down.

“Hey now,” Molly says, and he would look innocent were it not for the precum and spittle smeared across his lips, “None of that, alright? I want to hear you. Can you do that for me, love?” The aura of control is still woven throughout his voice, is still clear in his eyes, but somehow, this time, it’s not enough.

Caleb wants to do what Molly tells him to. He truly does, but to be so open, to be open and on display and to be making noise where anyone could hear him... it’s too much for Caleb, and he shakes his head before he realise he’s doing it.

“I can’t,” he whispers, and feels the tears rolling down his cheeks.

He wants this. He really, really wants, this and he doesn’t know why his brain won’t just let him have this one nice thing for once. Molly is before him, patient and understanding and wonderful and Caleb knows that he is safe, knows that Molly is looking out for him and that the rest of the party wouldn’t care at all if they found out about the two of them, and they fought a beast earlier and none of them even came close to dying and they got more reward money than Caleb has ever seen in his life and he doesn’t know why his brain is so insistent that he shouldn’t having this and he hates it.

He lifts his hand again, muffles a sob against his palm, and only opens his eyes when he feels Molly’s hand settle in his.

“Hey,” Molly says, and suddenly the thread of command in his voice is gone, leaving him entirely soft and gentle again. “You with me?”

Caleb pulls in a heaving, gulping breath. “…Ja.”

“Good. Can I get a colour?”

“Green.” Green, green, green. Gods, Caleb never wants this to end.

Kneeling on the floor before him, Molly smiles. “Good. Are you going to do what I say now?”

Caleb doesn’t know. He wants to, he really does; he desperately wants to give in and give up and forget himself and follow Molly’s words and Molly’s voice and Molly’s commands forever because they make things so easy but he can’t.

He has never let himself have simple things.

He glances down at Molly, glances up, fixes his gaze somewhere on the distant wall, and shakes his head.

From somewhere on the floor Molly squeezes Caleb’s hand, just once, and Caleb feels himself start to settle on it like an anchor point. “Caleb,” he says, “Sweetheart. Look at me. Can you look at me?”

He can do that. He does. His eyes sting from tears but Molly is still clear in his vision, purple and lilac and resplendent and beautiful.

“Hey,” Molly says, and his thumb brushes against the back of Caleb’s hand. Caleb, unthinkingly, turns his hand in Molly’s, laces their fingers together, and gets a soft smile in return. “Caleb. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Unquestionably.

“So you trust me when I say that I’m gonna look after you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, good. Does this mean that you trust me when I say that I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you?”

It does. Stars help him, but it does. It’s that accursed tiefling intuition he’s heard about getting right to the heart of the issue, because that’s it. Of course that’s it. Even now, even in this room in this inn with his friends a floor below and Molly himself, who has more than proven himself in combat, right there in front of him Caleb is still afraid. Afraid of what he doesn’t know, but the fear is there all the same. It has been for a long time.

The fear, though, has never had a Mollymauk to combat it.

Caleb pulls in another breath, and tries to tell his heart to settle. “…Yeah,” he says, “I trust you.”

Molly squeezes his hand again, and Caleb can’t stop the weak smile that crosses his face. “Good. You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Feel better?”

“Yeah.”

“Ready to get back to it?”

“…Yeah.”

“That’s my boy,” Molly says, and between one breath and the next Caleb can see the commanding presence slip back in under Mollymauk’s skin, and he shivers. “Caleb,” Molly says, and his gaze is serious and burning and directed entirely at Caleb, “I want to hear you. Can you do that for me?”

He can. For Molly, he can. “…Yes.”

Molly’s resulting grin is almost blinding in it’s brilliance. “Good boy,” he says, and takes Caleb’s cock down to the root.

This time, Caleb lets himself groan. It feels a little strange at first, feels a little false and a little faked even though it really isn’t, but it doesn’t take long for him to start losing himself to the pleasure again because Molly’s mouth around his cock is more than enough to drive any lingering thoughts from Caleb’s head. He swears a little, mumbling the words under his breath, and then lets himself say them again louder. He’s not shouting, is barely even speaking at a normal conversation volume, but for him it’s far, far more than what he normally does.

He thinks he feels Molly smiling around his cock. Everything is heat and warmth and pleasure, and Caleb is drowning in it. It’s all simultaneously too much and not enough and Caleb can feel himself sobbing from how overwhelmed he is, can feel the tears rolling down his face and does absolutely nothing to stop them. He feels like he can’t pull enough air into his lungs and the heat in his gut is burning hotter and brighter, coiling in on itself and reaching tendrils of burning flame through his entire body until Caleb is trembling with want.

And then Molly does something downright sinful with his tongue, and Caleb throws his head back against the wall and moans.

“Oh,” he gasps, “Oh, oh, Molly.” He reaches out one hand, aims for hair but finds a horn instead, and holds on as best he can. “Molly, bitte, bitte…” His fingers feel too weak, grasping desperately at the ridges and grooves of Molly’s horn and tangling in the golden chain that hangs from it and his legs are trembling now, thighs shaking so much that it feels as if Molly’s touch, warm on his hip, is all that’s still keeping him standing.

“Molly,” Caleb gasps again, and when Molly pulls back and wraps his mouth only around the head of Caleb’s cock, his hand still stroking along the shaft, Caleb’s entire body jerks. His hand tightens around Molly’s horn, yanking his head forwards, and his hips buck forwards of their own volition, thrusting his cock back into Molly’s mouth.

For one horrifying, heart-stopping second Caleb thinks he’s done something wrong, because no sooner does his hand relax around Molly’s horn than Molly slides off his cock, wipes a hand across his mouth, and looks up at him.

Thankfully, it takes less than a second for Molly to correct this concern.

“You can pull, you know,” Molly says, and he reaches up, moves Caleb’s hand from his horn to his hair in one quick, easy motion.

Caleb gapes. “But- you-“

“If you’re worried about hurting me,” Molly adds, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Would it help if I said I like it?”

It… would. It definitely would. Maybe not enough to convince Caleb to start tugging like a madman, but it’s enough for him to at least be tempted to consider it. He reaches out tentatively, and curls one hand through Molly’s hair. It feels silky-fine against his fingers, light and soft, and it twists his heart to know that he could hurt Molly with this touch, but at the same it feels… good. Caleb presses his fingertips to the curve of Molly’s skull, curls his fingers slightly, pulls his hand back, and Molly groans.

“Ngh, yeah, that’s it.”

“This is okay?”

“Yeah,” Molly gasps, and he twists his neck, leans away from the touch slightly until Caleb can feel the tension starting to pull at the strands between his fingers, “Mm, yeah, sure is. Just like that.”

“You like this?” Caleb asks before he can stop himself, and Molly looks up at him with a lazy grin.

“Yeah,” he says, “Do you?”

“…Yes.” He does. He knows he shouldn’t, feels he shouldn’t, but he does. It’s- nice, grounding in a way that Caleb hadn’t expected, and now that his hands are in Molly’s hair he can’t seem to stop himself from running his fingers through it over and over again, twisting strands between his fingers and tugging just until he can feel they have no more slack left for him to pick up.

He runs his hands through Molly’s hair, does it again, and every time his fingers catch and he tugs just a little bit more Molly makes more soft, delighted moans and hums that send heat right down into Caleb’s cock.

It’s… truth be told, it’s almost insanely hot.

Caleb gathers strands between his fingers and tugs again, lightly. He hears Molly’s soft moan, feels it where his palm brushes against Molly’s skull, and when he applies a little more pressure Molly moves without hesitation, following the direction that Caleb cautiously takes him.

“Is this..?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper, and Molly gives the slightest of nods.

“This is good,” he says, “I’ll let you know if anything changes, alright?”

“…Alright.”

“You gonna let me get back to looking after you now?”

Caleb doesn’t say anything, but after a while he lightly, cautiously, twists his fingers to gently nudge Molly’s head back towards his cock. Just as before Molly goes easily, no hesitation or resistance anywhere to be seen, and when his lips seal around the head of Caleb’s cock and he starts sliding down the shaft Caleb does his very best to follow Molly’s earlier instructions and lets himself moan.

This is no gentle build-up anymore; Molly’s sucking his cock like he’s desperate for it, taking him as deep as he can until he starts to gag and then pulling off just enough to catch his breath before he starts the cycle all over again. He still has one hand wrapped around the base of Caleb’s cock, slick with a disgusting mix of spittle and pre-cum but it’s good, it’s filthy and it’s slick and it’s hot and it’s so, so damn good that Caleb can’t seem to catch his breath anymore, can’t seem to do anything except gasp and moan and watch the shape of his cock pressed against Mollymauk’s cheek.

He frees a hand from Molly’s hair and brushes it along the curve of his jaw until it’s resting over Molly’s cheek, and the moment Molly realises what he’s doing he glances up at Caleb with a truly wicked gleam to his eyes and smirks as best he can around his cock. He tilts his head slightly, angles himself so that Caleb can feel his cock pressing against his own palm separated only by Molly’s cheek, and when Molly ducks his head back down, tongue skating maddening patterns along Caleb’s cock, Caleb can feel the very shift of it beneath his palm and it drives him mad.

“Molly,” he gasps, and feels his fingers in Molly’s hair curl and pull of their own volition. “Molly, I- please…” He’s no longer entirely sure what he’s asking for – he just knows that he wants, wants more and wants Molly and wants to come, wants to finish riding this wave of pleasure and sensation towards its peak. “Molly, I- I need, I’m going to-“

Molly pulls off his cock with a wet pop, and Caleb sobs at the loss.

“Caleb,” Molly says, his voice rough, “Do you want to come in my mouth? Because you can, if that’s what you want.”

Caleb nods immediately. He’s too close now, too far gone to think about things like shame and what he thinks he deserves – he can feel the fire coiling in his gut and knows that he won’t last much longer, and with Molly on his knees before him, openly asking, openly allowing him to do this unspeakable thing, even Caleb’s own shame and self-doubt is not strong enough to stand in the way.

“Ja,” he whispers, “Ja, yes, please.”

Molly smiles, and runs his tongue along his lips. “Good boy,” he says, “Now come for me.”

It’s exactly what Caleb needs. The fine undercurrent of control and command is still hanging beneath Molly’s words, and when he sinks back down around Caleb’s cock all that’s left in Caleb’s mind are those words, that instruction.

That order.

“Gott,” he whispers, “Gott, Molly, Molly, ah-“

Caleb doesn’t come with a shout, but it’s the loudest he’s ever been. He comes with a muffled whimper instead, the sound bitten off somewhere in his throat, and he feels Molly’s throat convulsing around his cock as he comes. He feels his hands tightening in Molly’s hair, knows that he is pulling too hard, but finds himself unable to do anything about it; every muscle in his body is locked tight in pleasure, his vision turning white as the sensation of his orgasm overtakes him. It feels like he’s drowning in it, lost to sensation and heat and white, burning-hot pleasure, and for a moment he can think of nothing else at all.

When he comes back to himself he finds he’s sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him with a softly smiling lavender tiefling kneeling between them.

“Molly,” Caleb whispers, and reaches out. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s reaching for, and he doesn’t care. He just wants; he wants Molly, and he wants him close, and he wants him now. “Bitte, Molly…”

“Hey,” Molly says, his voice hoarse, and he instantly moves in closer. Caleb manages to curl one hand in the fabric of Molly’s shirt but the contact feels weak and insufficient for what he wants. “Hey there, love.” One of Molly’s hands lifts and settles around the back of Caleb’s neck, and Caleb’s eyes flutter shut at the warmth of it. “How you doing? You alright?”

“Mm…”

Molly laughs quietly and the sound feels distant, despite how close Molly is. Molly is so close – he’s right there, right against Caleb’s skin, and Caleb feels himself sway and start to lean forwards and only smiles to himself when Molly catches him, pulling him in to tuck Caleb’s head against his shoulder. “Hey, dozy,” Molly says, and Caleb smiles a little more, breathes in and smells Molly and comfort and safe. “Can I get a colour?”

A what? Caleb frowns a little, uncertain for a few seconds before he remembers again. Oh. “…Grün,” he manages, and the word is muffled against Molly’s shoulder. Thankfully, Molly seems to hear it all the same.

“Grün,” Molly repeats, “Green. See now why I had you translate them for me?”

“Mm…”

“Feel like speaking at all, love?”

“Mm-mm…”

Molly laughs softly, and it sounds like sunlight in crystals. “Alright then. How about we just stay like this for a bit and then we’ll get you a drink and into bed? Sound good?”

It does. It sounds brilliant. Caleb very much doesn’t feel like moving – or speaking – at the moment, and opts instead to show his delight at Molly’s genius idea by pressing closer to him and loosely wrapping an arm around Molly’s waist. He feels Molly’s arm slip down to wrap around his own shoulders, feels his other arm come to settle about his waist, and basks in the sensation when Molly starts running a hand up and down his back in slow, easy strokes. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. He doesn’t know if he ever has felt like this.

He doesn’t try to hunt the possibly non-existent memory down. He lets his thoughts drift, lets the last tiny traces of tension drain from his body, and loses track of time until Molly speaks again.

“Caleb,” Molly says what could be minutes or hours later, “I’m going to go for a moment, alright? I’m - it’s alright, you don’t have to squeeze me like that, love, I’ll be back soon – I’m just going to grab a waterskin for you from my pack and have you drink some, okay? That’s it. I’ll be gone for five seconds, ten tops. Count them out. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Caleb frowns, and doesn’t let go of Molly. He doesn’t want Molly to go, even if it is just for a few seconds like he claims. He wants Molly here, wants Molly’s arms to stay wrapped around him like they are currently, and he doesn’t want Molly to go.

But he knows that he has to, because, as much as he hates to admit it, he is feeling sort of thirsty, and he knows that if he leaves it like this the feeling will just get worse, and so after a few more seconds of clinging to Molly as best he can he reluctantly loosens his grip and drops his arms.

Molly grins at him.

“Five seconds,” he promises, and stands up. “Start counting… now.”

Caleb does. Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf-

It’s on the end of the fünf that Molly returns, dropping to his knees in front of Caleb with the promised waterskin in hand. “See?” he says, opening the waterskin and pressing it gently into one of Caleb’s open hands, “I told you I’d be back. Now have a drink. Doesn’t have to be all of it, just enough that you feel-… well, hydrated, I suppose.” He watches as Caleb obediently lifts the skin to his lips and drinks. Even know, even when he knows he no longer actually has to follow Molly’s orders it’s still so, so easy to do just that; Caleb is aware of himself, yes, but only vaguely. He’s not sure he could tell himself to do anything. But he can do what Molly tells him to do. He can always do that.

He drinks as much of the water as he feels like, and feels better for it. When he’s done he silently passes the skin back to Molly and gets another swift kiss and a quiet ‘Good boy’ before Molly moves away to put the waterskin back in his pack. He returns a moment later and crouches down on the floor before Caleb, still smiling softly.

“Come on,” he says, and takes both of Caleb’s weak, shaking hands in his own, “Come on, let’s get you into bed and settled, alright?” He tugs, and eventually manages to get Caleb to his feet, but it’s only by supporting his weight with an arm around his waist that Molly is actually able to move him to the bed. Caleb feels weak, wrung out and exhausted and absent, but not in the way he’s used to feeling. When his flashbacks leave him feeling absent it’s different to this; his flashbacks make him feel untethered and unsettled and like the whole world has gone greyscale. This is… different.

For starters, he feels good. He’s absent, yes, but it feels nice for once – it feels like he’s floating, soft and warm and comfortable and so, so damn content he thinks he could drown in it. Everything around him feels gentle and fuzzy, warm like sunlight on skin and soft like mist and fog and the touch of Molly’s fingers on the back of his hand. Like the touch of Molly’s hand on his waist now, as he guides him towards the bed at whatever pace Caleb’s worn-soft body is willing to go.

Caleb’s not sure how long it takes, but between one thought and the next he finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, Molly still standing before him with Caleb’s hands still held in his own. He blinks, frowning a little, and manages to make himself look up at Molly, who smiles the moment he manages to catch Caleb’s eye.

“Hey, love,” he says softly, and Caleb smiles back. He doesn’t feel like speaking but he wants to show Molly that he heard him somehow, and after a few moments thought he settles on giving one of Molly’s hands a quick squeeze. Molly’s skin is warm against his own, and in the flickering light of the candles the snake tattoo that slinks across the back of his hand almost looks as if it’s alive, coiling across skin and bones and muscle. It’s pretty. Molly’s pretty. Molly’s pretty and he’s looking at Caleb like he wants to say more, and so Caleb forces himself to pull his attention away from the gorgeous, gorgeous tattoo on Molly’s hand and instead focus on the tiefling before him.

“I’m going to get you comfortable, alright?” Molly asks, and Caleb nods. Comfortable sounds nice. Comfortable sounds good. “But I can’t do that if you’ve still got your boots and coat on. Can you take them off yourself?”

Probably not. Caleb’s limbs still feel heavy, weighed down with lead and honey and milk, and the thought of having to move more than he already has makes him want to curl into himself all over again. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug and then shakes his head a moment later, and when his gaze resettles on Molly he can see that Molly’s still smiling before he leans in to press a quick kiss to Caleb’s forehead. The kiss makes Caleb smile too. It’s nice. Molly is nice, and his kisses are nice, and Caleb actually feels nice in himself for the first time in… in a very long time.

“Alright,” Molly says, and his voice is so soft and kind and caring that Caleb wants to wrap himself up in it, wants to discard his coat and replace it with Molly’s voice instead and fall asleep in the safety of his words. “Is it okay if I take them off for you then?”

“Ja.” Yes, definitely.

“Oh!” Molly says, and he sounds surprised and delighted all at once. “Well, would you look at that. I thought that cat had got your tongue there.”

Caleb frowns. “Frumpkin is… Frumpkin is not here,” he says, and Molly laughs. Molly’s laugh is wonderful.

“I know,” he says, “It’s a figure of speech, sweetheart.” Molly kisses Caleb’s forehead again and then kneels down, still laughing quietly, and starts untying the laces of Caleb’s boots.

It doesn’t take long for Molly to get Caleb sufficiently stripped for bed, which is honestly a bit of a miracle considering how absolutely useless Caleb’s being. He still can’t find it in himself to move and instead just watches, shifting a little as needed but beyond that doing nothing to help the disrobing process. It’s of little matter, though – Molly doesn’t seem to mind, instead offering quiet praise as he methodically removes the outer layers of Caleb’s clothes, and by the time he’s finished to his liking Caleb is feeling soft and floaty and absolutely boneless. He’s swaying a little where he sits on the edge of the bed, gazing absently at the opposite wall, and when Molly pushes on his shoulder he goes easily, lying back on the bed and curling up on his side. Molly reaches out to tug the blanket over him, wrapping it safe and secure around Caleb’s shoulders, and when his hand brushes Caleb’s cheek Caleb turns his head into the contact.

He feels safe, more than anything. He’s warm and content and happy and all of those are very nice feelings, but most of all he just feels safe, secure in a way that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. He feels safe with Molly, in Molly’s presence or by Molly’s side or most of all in Molly’s arms, and it doesn’t take more than few seconds of dwelling on those thoughts for Caleb to come to a decision.

“Molly?” he asks, lifting his head off the pillow a little so that he can see the tiefling in question, “Could you… would you stay with me?” His voice is hoarse and quiet, but it’s enough – Molly looks over at him from where he was folding Caleb’s clothing into neat bundles, and Caleb watches the smile spread across his face.

“I was going to offer anyway,” Molly replies, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how cuddly you are after a few mugs of ale.” He wastes no time in shucking off his coat and boots and shirt and breeches, and when he climbs into bed in just his smallclothes Caleb is quick to roll over and press himself against Molly’s side. He feels no shame now in tucking himself under Molly’s arm and burying in closer – he wants Molly, and he trusts him, and he knows that if he were to do anything that Molly wasn’t happy with that Molly would let him know. It seems though that Molly is completely fine with Caleb latching onto his side like a limpet – if anything he actively seems to enjoy it, lifting his spare hand to start playing with Caleb’s hair the moment Caleb’s sufficiently settled, and it feels- it feels-

It feels goddamn amazing.

Caleb thinks he understands now why cats purr.

“You were very good for me tonight,” Molly says, and Caleb can’t stop the happy little smile that spreads across his face in response to the praise, “Did you know that?”

He didn’t, but he does now. He feels more than he hears Molly’s quiet laugh.

“Very good,” Molly repeats, and Caleb squirms a little in delight, turns his head to hide his smile against Molly’s chest. “Really, darling – you were exemplary. I’m very proud of you.”

Proud. There aren’t many people in the world who are proud of Caleb, and he knows that only too well. He hasn’t done much in his life to be proud of, not with- well, not with everything his past entails, but right now it’s so, so easy to forget that, because Molly is proud of him. Molly thinks he did well. Molly thinks Caleb was wonderful and good and exemplary, and the quiet praise makes Caleb feel warm all over.

Molly is proud of him, and that’s all that matters.

Caleb takes the word and tucks it close to his heart. Proud.

Beneath his cheek, Molly is still talking. “Wonderful,” he’s saying, his voice quiet and soft like he’s not sure if Caleb’s awake or not, and Caleb only realises then that at some point his eyes had slipped shut. He doesn’t open them. He’s too comfortable, too relaxed and happy and content, and for once he doesn’t feel like he has to sleep with one eye open, doesn’t feel like he has to stand and wind his silver thread about the room. It’s unspeakably nice. Molly is unspeakably nice. Scratch that- Molly is wonderful, for all he keeps on saying that Caleb is; Molly is wonderful and patient and so much kinder than Caleb has ever deserved.

He still doesn’t feel like he deserves this kindness, not really, but in his sleepy, exhausted, worn-out and utterly relaxed state he feels a tiny bit closer to it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and turns his head to press a sleepy kiss to Molly’s collarbone. He feels Molly’s quiet chuckle through his chest, and smiles a little wider when he feels Molly’s hand tuck a few stray strands of hair behind his ear.

“Go to sleep, Caleb,” Molly says fondly, and even with his eyes shut Caleb can hear the smile in his voice.

“Mm, okay...” Caleb mumbles in reply, and feels the fond kiss that Molly presses to the top of his head.

“Sweet dreams.”

“Yeah…”

“We can talk more tomorrow.”

“Yeah…”

Caleb snuggles in closer, and lets sleep take him.

[brownstonearmy]

2021-01-08: Duck Tales (A Commemorative Tale About Ducks And Religion)

Tuesday Aug 18th (Tuesday Morning)

Two faces from Spleenifer's past arrived in Brownstone the previous night, seeking to assist Spleenifer and Brownstone in rebuilding after the recent flood. First up is Glarmp Glorious, Spleenifer's adopted twin Brother. He's a pious paladin practicioner of the same religious order as Spleenifer, spreading the gospel in the name of St. Squatzalot, and he's barely half the height his sister. The other new face is Tweazle Tealeaf, a halfling who Spleenifer babysat once upon a time. Tweazle's didn't take as readily to the dogma of the particular sect of Lathander practiced by his parents, Glarmp, and Spleenifer, and took off in search of a life of adventure (Like Tweazle's brother Milo before him).

When the adventure begins, Spleenifer wakes up much later than usual: after sunrise. Normally the cacophony of ducks she keeps wakes her up while it's still dark. It's too quiet, and Spleenifer looks outside to an empty duck pen. A note is stuffed into the door jamb.

"Dear Resident: The Reformed Church of the Dragon recently commandeered some of your poultry. Due to meat shortages, we will compensate you 2SP for your troubles. Thanks."

The news hits Spleenifer hard; she falls to the ground in sobs. Glarmp is awakened by the sound of Spleenifer's plight and immediately offers assistance and prayer to her. The emotional commotion also wakes Tweazle, who tries to go back to sleep after offering to procure some bats to replace the ducks. Ultimately the current situation requires Tweazle to remain awake.

Moments later, Lucky and Q (who goes by Raven today) arrive at Spleenifer's place to meet the guests Spleenifer mentioned would be coming. It's not the happy meeting they anticipated; not only does a Lucky have the aftereffects of a wild magic surge where words appear in peoples' mouths like a comic book, but a friend is in need of assistance! And thus the seeds of a plan begin to germinate.

A steady stream of people are out on the streets today, and they all seem to be headed in the same direction. Lucky suggests making a detour to the Fighter's Guild to check in with Hilaria and perhaps watch a sparring match or two. While Lucky and Hilaria are catching up, Tweazle's boar (named Melboarn, which contrary to societal expectations, is a perfectly fine name for a female boar) starts encroaching in Hilaria's personal space. Lucky polymorphs the boar into a mouse, and then asks if Hilaria would mind accompanying her on an "adventure date" to rescue Spleenifer's ducks. Hilaria agrees and Tweazle casts Locate Animals to find pinpoint Spleenifer's feathered companions. The ducks located due south not far from here, and thus the party sets out for a rescue!

The ducks seem to located at the Temple of the Reformed Church of the Dragon. Of course. The party lurks in the back of the church as Jrr'all Oshtreeth says a blessing at the altar. Glarmp isn't fond of the Reformed Church of the Dragon because of it emphasizes profit over the well-being of its adherents, and Tweazle isn't fond of the church because Jrr'all the Dragonborn has hair. Is that hair even real?

Lucky and Tweazle want to find out. Tweazle whispers instructions to Melboarn the Boar-Mouse and sends her skittering up the aisle toward Jrr'all. Lucky's contribution to the shenanigan is to make Melboarn invisible. While this is going on, Spleenifer hears a voice like that of Lathander telling her that allow the sacrifice of her ducks for the betterment of other people. However, this particular voice seems to be coming from one of the numerous dragon statues in the sanctuary, and not from Spleenifer's conscience. Perhaps this voice is that of an idolator!

Jrr'all notices the party hanging out at the back of the church and implores them to donate to the recovery efforts. Lucky and Tweazle volunteer to help cook duck soup, which is really important because there are Halfling Kosher Laws that must be followed before any of the Fair Folk are able to eat food prepared by someone else. Raven even volunteers to be the soup supervisor... The Soupervisor, if you will. But when the party declines to proffer a monetary donation, Jrr'all casts Command at Spleenifer to compel her to donate. Spleenifer's faith in true will of Lathander is too much for Jrr'all's command.

By this time, Melboarn has scampered up Jrr'all's gleaming armor and absconded with the Dragonborn's hairpiece. The congregation is in an uproar, but Lucky casts Mass Suggestion on them. Everyone in the congregation except Jrr'all now believes that Spleenifer is the chosen one of the Dragon Mother.

Raven does some epic level persuasion (without magic!) to convince Jrr'all that this is a clear indicator that Spleenifer has been chosen by divine decree to lead the Reformed Church of the Dragon. Melboarn the Boar-Mouse climbs Spleenifer's armor while still inside the hairpiece and clambers atop Spleenifer's head. THE HAIR HAS SPOKEN! SPLEENIFER IS IN CHARGE AS JRR'ALL RELUCTANTLY CONCEDES.

Lucky and Tweazle go to the temple's kitchen to prepare the duck soup according to Halfing Kosher Law. Of course, it won't actually have duck in it; they're going to be making mock duck soup instead. After emptying any leftover zombie guts out of the portable hole, she sneaks the flock into it for transport. The soup has been cooked successfully, though each bowl comes with a puppy that may or may not be magical, thanks to a wild surge that occurred during the cooking process.

Tweazel hauls the soup out to a wagon destined for the athletic fields to serve the hungry masses, and then excuses himself to water the bushes, if you understand Halfling slang. While all this is happening, Spleenifer summons a divine steed to carry her to the athletic fields for a dramatic duck rescue. Lucky happens to be near the steed when it suddenly appears, so she takes it for a ride across town to get the ducks to safety. She casts a quick "I love you!" message to Hilaria to prevent any miscommunication about Lucky's sudden disappearance. The whole thing is basically the plot of the 1996 film, Fly Away Home.

Anyway, Spleenifer also receives a message from Lucky indicating that the ducks are safe. But Spleenifer is an attentive duck mother and can tell from the dull chatter in the background of the message that some of the ducks don't seem to be present. Fear grips Spleenifer as she realizes who's missing: T'Pam, Prongle, and the five ducks all named Matthew.

Glarmp sees a big forehead vein bulge out on Spleenifer's face and tries to calm her down. But Spleenifer marches over to Jrr'all and demands the last seven ducks. Jrr'all, who is trying unsuccessfully to load a large dragon statue onto a wagon to accompany the procession to the fairgrounds, tells the pair they are welcome to take the remaining ducks from the temple's tower (right past the door leading to the temple's casino), but Jrr'all isn't going to help them retrieve the missing ducks.

The party (and Hilaria) make their way up to the top of the temple's disused belltower. It looks like someone's been living here, and the upper floor is covered in nests of hay. The seven missing ducks are all standing in a row up there and looking vaguely terrified. And the source of everyone's terror seems to be a goose that's in the room.

Tweazle casts Speak With Animals and talks first to Matthew #3 to get a handle on the situation. Mattew #3 relays the tale of how someone kidnapped all of them in the middle of the night, and these seven ducks were specifically picked out by the goose (named Almora) to participate in some sort of goose-duck hybrid breeding program. The other ducks corroborate Matthew #3's story, but the speech is interrupted by the angry goose announcing the next phase of the program.

Spleenifer is beside herself with worry about the situation unfolding with the ducks, and Tweazle tries make things better for the ducks by doing a spinning dragon kick at Almora the goose. Unfortunately for everyone, Tweazle whiffs on both kicks. But Melboarn's polymorph has since worn off and she charges the goose and sends it slamming into the wall with a satisfying smack.

But the moment the moment the goose hits the floor, it turns into an Elf woman. Spleenifer tries to play the woman like a bagpipe and extract a tithe on behalf of her beloved ducks, but only manages to get a low gurgling toot. Spleenifer picks up her dazed duck husband harem and takes off down the stairs. Glarmp casts Banishment on Almora to buy some time to flee, and then casts Find Steed on the stairway to block the Almora from using the stairs.

In another moment stolen directly from the 1996 film, Fly Away Home, Almora reappears after her banishment and screams an oath of vengeance against Jrr'all for allowing her duck test subjects be stolen. She crashes through the window of the tower and flies through the air like Superman, looking for a fight. Almora sees Spleenifer on the ground with all the ducks and begins combat in earnest. Tweazle casts Hunter's Mark on the flying wizard to track her in case she escapes, while Glarmp dispels the magic powering Almora's flight, causing the wizard to crash into the ground and eat dirt.

Tweazle casts a Wind Wall around Almora to box her in, but the dragon statue Jrr'all was struggling to load up earlier provides an opportunity for Almora to strike back. She channels her arcane magic into the statue, causing it spin around and spit lightning in random directions. Everybody on Team Anti-Almora starts bringing the pain. Glarmp cleaves great chunks out of the statue with his mighty axe, but before the statue and Almora can be destroyed, there's another complication:

Several rock worms burrow to the surface and burst forth from the ground. Lucky casts Xear's Chaotic Command, and ends up selecting the Crown of Madness option on Almora. Raven casts Vicious Mockery on Almora, but the unfolding chaos weakens the impact of their insults. Tweazle casts Lightning Arrow on the statue, causing it to crumble and kill Almora (Just like in the climax of Fly Away Home!).

The larger rock worm flees after its tremorsense is impacted by the thunder damage in the fight. The two smaller rock worms aren't that lucky. Lucky unleashes a potent chaos bolt that leaps between enemies, though it does result in an severe case of dandruff followed by leaves sprouting from her head. A few tense seconds later, the remaining enemies are dispatched and the adventure concludes for the night with Spleenifer's ducks safe and sound.

Stay tuned next time for more!

[princessamericachavez]

*****

They don't get a chance to explain much. After the first couple sentences exhaustion seems to catch up with Molly's (Lucien's) body and he nearly collapses on them. Between Fjord and Beau they lay him back on the bed, then the remaining five head downstairs and talk and drink, trying to process what this means. For weeks, getting Molly back has been their sole focus, redoubled when they got a chance to free Yasha, Jester and Fjord fron the bastar that'd bought them. Now, finally, they've succeeded... And yet they failed. Even the prospect of revenge against Lorenzo anf his crew seems like a bitter price compared to what they lost.

They are still debating when a lavander figure emerges from the stairs, clad only in his leather pants and boots and a white dress shirt.

"Don't get me wrong, this is much better than clawing my way out of the dirt, and it's not like I was expecting a party, but I don't really fancy waking up alone after that," Molly says.

And it's him. His voice, his movements, the playful smirk on his face.

"Also, has anyone seen my thi-"

Before he can even finish the sentence, he finds himself with an armful of Jester and Nott, squeezing him into a tight hug.

"Oh, god, Molly. You're back!" Jester cries.

"Seems like it," Molly chuckles softly, running his fingers through her hair. He pulls back a little to look at her pale face, readorned with scars and dark circles under her eyes. "Are you alright, darling?"

"I am! I am, now!" Jester laughs, burrowing her head against his chest again.

"I stole your things!" Nott blurts out, her chin pressed against his stomach. "I mean- I took them, for safe keeping... You know, for when you came back."

"Clever girl," Molly snorts.

He looks up to see Beau standing by his side and his face twists into a snarky smirk. Beau looks pissed, just like the last time he saw her. She opens her mouth, ready to yell, then instead throws herself at him and wraps her arms around his neck. He feels her sob against his shoulder.

"Oh, woah, hey," he mumbles in shock, patting her back awkwardly. "It's okay. I'm sorry."

"You asshole!" Beu sobs, pulls back and punches him hard on the shoulder. "You dick! Never fucking do that again!"

"I'm... Sorry?"

Fjord's heavy hand falls on his shoulder and Molly, still a little dazed by the affective displays, blinks up at him.

"It's so good to see you again, partner," he says with a sincere smile.

"Like wise," Molly sighs. "Last I knew, you guys- wait," his face falls and twists into child-like worry, "where's Yasha."

"She's alright," Fjord assures him. "She just... left, when it seemed like we'd lost you for good."

Molly pouts.

"We don't know where she went," Nott sighs, stepping out of the hug. "She didn't left a note or anything. It didn't seem like she planned on coming back, without you around."

"Then we need to find her!" Molly jumps, and his energy seems to return the color to the broken group, give them back some of the strength and drive they'd lost.

"Yes, yes!" Jester jumps, arms still wrapped around Molly. "I have a spell. I can track her and then we can show her that everything is good now!"

"It's so good to have you back, Jess," Molly grins and presses his forehead against hers.

"Here!" Notr announces, running forward with a small package in her hands.

Jester steps back to let Molly unwrap it. Inside there's his coat, carefully folded, his scimitars and his jewelry. With practiced movements, Molly swiftly puts everything back into place, finishing by the colorful coat of which someone either washed or charmed away the blood stains. Once everything is back in place, Molly sighs and smiles, feeling more like himself.

Suddenly, a pair of warm and steady hands hold his face by either side and force him to look forward at Caleb's tired and stern face.

"Mollymauk Tealeaf," he says, as his blue eyes pierce him, every syllable of his name spoken deliverately as it held a secret magical meaning.

All Molly can do is stare back, holding his breath. Who would've thought his own chosen name could sound so foreign and wonderful in someone else's lips? Caleb smiles, then, gentle and bright like never before.

"You are a sight for sore eyes, mein freund," he sighs, then pulls Molly in and presses a kiss to either of his cheeks.

The tieflings face turns a deeper shade of purple as the wizard retreats back, leaving behind the ghost of his callous hands and his lips against Mollymauk's skin.

The others start talking around him, telling hin to eat and drink andnrecover strength for their next adventure. Molly thinks this is, by far, the best way to wake up from death. It even makes the whole ordeal worth it.

A voice, familiar and strange, whispers in the back of his brain, trying to demand this lofe back. Molly ignores it. This is his life, his friends, his family. The Nonagon can fuck off for all he cares.

Molly wins.

Existentialist angst prompt: The nein try to bring Molly back but end up only getting Nonagon

Once the ritual is done and he’s breathing again, the Nein pay what they owe the cleric and take their fallen friend to the nearest Inn. After weeks of carrying his body around, suspended in time at the moment of his death, to have him actually breathe and stir every so often is odd in the most wonderful of ways. Then, they wait.

As soon as his eyes open, a sigh of relief crosses the room. They wait in silence as he groans and sits up, then all restrain is gone.

“Molly!” Jester and Beau shout with unreserved glee. They throw themselves at him with arms wide open and tearful eyes.

He reacts in a blink, grabbing the scimitars laid by his side and swinging at them fast as lightning. Beau, swift and dexterous, dodges instinctively. Jester gets caught by the blade, that cuts a thin line across her arm. It’s bareky a nick (nothing compared to what she’s been through the past weeks) but she’s still weak and recovering and the strength of the hit sends her to the ground.

“Easy, man,” Beau huffs.

“It’s alright, Molly, it’s over. You’re with friends now,” Fjord replies in that calming matter of his, though even as he speaks he’s placing his body between the blade and Jester. He’s not doing much better than the girl sitting behind him, but after being through so much shielding her from harm is more second nature than a conscious choice.

“Mollymauk,” Caleb says softly, letting out a wuiet laugh that’s half happiness and half sob. “It’s so good to see you standing again, mein freund.”

Molly drops his blades and looks at them, the frown still deep on his face.

“Who the bloody hell are you, people?” He let’s out, and everything about his voice feels wrong. Too hoarse, too deep, too heavy. There is no trace of the accent and flourish that so often accompanied his sugar coated words.

“Oh, no. He’s forgotten everything again!” Nott blurts out, looking at the others.

The Nein share a solemn look. They knew this was a possibility, a risk to take, but they also knew deep down, somewhere within this man, they could find the Molly they all know and love. It was a risk worth taking to save his life.

“Your name is Mollymauk,” Yasha says gently, stepping forward. “Everything is going to be alright, I promise.”

Molly’s face twists, he looks up at her with something resembling a feral smile.

“My name is not Mollymauk,” he spits out the word like it’s an insult. “I was Lucien, once. Now, I am the Nonagon. And I demand to know who you are and what is going on? Where is Cree? Where are the others? And who put me in this ridiculous clothes?!”

Jester lets out a heavy sob, hiding her face against Fjord’s chest. Nott hides behind Caleb’s leg as the wizard summons Frumpkin around his neck.

“Oh, Molly, no,” Beau’s voice is quiet and filled with sorrow.

Yasha doesn’t say a word. She turns around and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.

“It’s alright,” Fjord says, rubbing circles on Jester’s back as she cries against his ribs. “We’ll explain everything.”

[lushthemagicdragon]

I wrote this for an x-mas exchange, and it is REALLY fucking dark. Which, admittedly, seems to be my MO as the last fic I posted had child death in it.  CW: Suicide attempts and death in this one. 

Back To The Worms Where You Belong No ship, Caduceus Clay and Mollymauk Tealeaf Critical Role Rated M CW WARNING FOR SUICIDE ATTEMPTS AND DEATH-BASED THINGS.

Here @ AO3

By the time that Mollymauk pushed his way through the packed dirt of his frigid grave, he had died four times. The first time, so far away from here in a world of colour and fancy, his will to live and the drive of whatever force had breathed a second chance into his body had him clawing through the fresh, warm dirt until he was gasping for breathe with no words or name to claim as his own. The soil had not been packed well by cat or man. It was soft, and while brown flecks had remained embedded in his teeth and nails for weeks, the effort had not broken skin.

The second and third times Molly woke up in his grave, the earth was frozen from the northern winter chill. It had frozen so solidly that it did not fill his mouth when he gasped for air and tried to cry out. He couldn’t make it out.

The fourth time that Molly woke from the dead the winter snow had melted, sinking into the soil that had trapped him months earlier. He woke up feeling damp, with a trickle of water against his ears. The nails that he could not remember scratching and breaking against the frozen dirt pulled and tugged him out into the open air. He wheezed and he wept, scrambling away from the near frozen tomb. He couldn't remember what had scared him so severely, but the crunch of ice under now bruised knees, palms, elbows and bloodied fingers sent his stomach turning and his throat retching up nothing but newly thawed stomach acid in lingering panic.

Mollymauk came back with no memory each time. The first he had been left with nothing. The second and third found him trapped. The fourth came with panic, a pounding headache, and then a soft voice nearby.

“I was wondering when you would come out of there. It’s been a few months, but your friends really hoped that you would.”

“Here you go, this should warm you up.” The tea cup in Molly’s hands was the first truly warm sensation that he could recall. It seeped in through the crevices of his fingerprints like the coat wrapped around his body couldn’t. The tall man that found him, that had hefted him into a cart and took Molly to the warmth of his home had wrapped the thing around Molly’s body like it mattered. He said something about that coat being Molly’s.  It rang no bells in Molly’s ears, sounded no alarm. All that it was was not warm enough.

“My names Caduceus. Caduceus Clay.  Do you remember your name?”

Silence. Molly opened his mouth. Closed it. There was nothing. The emptiness was dizzying.

“Well that’s no good.”

The scraping of a chair on the ground broke the silence and, finally sitting, Caduceus nodded, and he smiled. He spoke slowly, like the words themselves took time to carry.

“You’ve got some friends out there who think you’re dead, but after what they told me...Well, I’m not really a fan of anyone raising from the dead like you did but I’ll admit, you had me curious, and I needed to make sure. They said your name’s Molly. Can you say Molly for me?”

He opened his mouth again. He tried to speak, and all that passed through his lips was a weak rasp. Molly.  The sound of it couldn’t find his tongue. The back of his eyes prickled, and he just couldn’t grasp it.

“That’s alright.  We’ll get you there. Drink that tea, it’ll help.”

Caduceus smiled with such gentle surety that Molly believed him, and he drank.

Grief is a funny thing. Sometimes, it creeps up without anyone knowing it’s there at all. It can come out screaming, or sink you deep into a void where nothing moves for miles and miles. Caduceus had seen grief in its many forms. He had seen it in the living, the dying, and the dead. The dead, he’s found, grieve in stunned silence more often than not. They grieve viscerally, because they are in all senses of the word no longer attached. For his whole life Caduceus had worked with death and its griefs, and for five days Caduceus Clay worked on Molly. For five days he sat with him, talked with a practiced softness about nothing, with all the care he had worked his whole life to perfect. They picked leaves and vegetables from the garden, and Molly was alright. They dried out mushrooms and kept the dead company at their graves, and Molly was alright. Molly was alive, slowly finding words on his tongue, remembered nothing, but he was alright.

He was alright until he wasn’t, but that’s always the way with grief.

Caduceus stitched up the wounds on his wrists with a steady hand, the ones that had made the knife in Molly’s hand glow and caused him to call out in surprise.  The wounds whose whole purpose of being was to bleed, and whose blood alerted Caduceus to their presence in the night. The stitches were perfect, masterfully done Molly imagined, with no frame of reference beyond how even they look in his skin.  Big, gentle hands wiped the blood away with a warm cloth, and that prickle in the back of his eyes came again at the sensation. His eyes were wet but there were no tears. No pain, no numbness, only the warmth of Caduceus’ hand that seemed that it could never reach his insides at that magnitude.

You shouldn’t be alive and you know it. a voice had spoken into Molly’s ear off the wing of some black-feathered bird passing ahead in the dead of night. It rang through straight to his core where the emptiness sat. No memories, no life, no connection to the names he was supposed to know, the people he was supposed to care for. Covered in scars he couldn’t recall or identify, what would one more set do?

“I don’t want this.” Molly’s voice didn’t shake. It darted out past his tongue like a scared snake, and receded again.

“I know.”

“Why won’t you just let me die?”

Caduceus sighed, took a beat before sitting down on his haunches and looked at Molly from his position of care on the floor.

“I’ve been in this house my whole life, taking care of those graves and the people who belong to them. All of my family have gone looking for some way to save this place, but I stayed here, because the Wildmother needed me to. I’ve been looking for a sign from her for what to do next, for something important that I need to do. If you excuse what uh, might sound a little crass...Well, I think you might be it.”

“I don’t care that you think I’m important. I shouldn’t be alive.”

The void pricked at the back of Molly’s eyes again, and it echoed inside his stomach. His voice wavered like it could crack. There was nothing. He was grasping at straws to find any reason at all to exist and all he that he found is nothing.

“No, you shouldn’t be.”

“What?”

“Death should be a natural thing. Everything dies eventually, and they go back to the earth where they came from. Death is...random, and a lot of the time it comes when maybe it shouldn’t, but it comes anyway. Now I don’t know how you died the first time, or if it even was the first time. This time you died badly, but you still died. You should have stayed dead, and I think that because you didn’t, something else must have taken your place. That...That's not a good thing at all. You won’t die if you kill yourself like this. You’ll only make all of whatever this is worse, and who knows what will happen to you if you keep coming back from the dead. This, how you are right now, is unnatural. Going back into the dirt right now, the way you are, is even worse. Stay alive. Something is taking your place, surely.”

Grief, Caduceus has found over the years, takes many forms. It shows it’s soft underbelly and pretends that it wants the gentle caress of comfort.  It curls into a ball with it’s spikes and points pointing outwards, threatening, wanting no touch at all, as if getting on the defensive means that all it has to do is wait until the danger has passed. More often than not though, he’s found that a gentle caress, or simply walking away from the defensive barbs doesn’t help. It isn’t, at the end, what grief always needs. Sometimes it needs honesty, a grounding in reality that feels safe. Grief is terribly afraid of what comes next, if anything at all. The truth hurts enough to uncurl the defensive barbs and expose the stomach to the care it needs, and Mollymauk felt alone when he began to cry.  He clutched at his own wrists like he could tear the good stitching out, and the words he couldn’t find didn’t come. The hollowness bled and filled, remained hollow, bled and filled again to the brim and drained its excess.

“Hey, come here now,” Comforting words came with the strong embrace of Caduceus’ arms as he pulled Mollymauk into his chest, caressed his hair, let that very alive dead thing empty his fear into Caduceus’ chest. “You’re going to be fine. I’ve got you. Well get you back in the ground later but right now, you get to live.”

[mollymauk-teafleak]

“Nobody has ever fucked me like you do.” absolutely gives me some serious Courtesan au Widomauk vibes

Under the cut for sex happenings

Marion would often make a point of saying that she’d given Mollymauk the topmost of all the apartments in the brothel not because he was her favourite or most profitable employee but because he made so much noise when he was entertaining clients. Whenever she said so, Molly would laugh and shrug and flick his tail at her. What better advertisement for a brothel, he would insist, than for his screams of pleasure to be echoing through the place, right as patrons walked through the door? Or, for that matter, from the street outside?

But if the other workers had teased him about his volume control problems before Caleb Widogast, the shyly smiling archmage who looked more bookkeeper than high lord, walked past their ruby red lantern, they quickly realised that, up until then, they’d had it easy.

Caleb was slowly warming to the rest of the workers, when before he’d been near white with nerves and shaking so bad he spilled more ale than he’d drank. Now he nodded and smiled at Marion when she emerged from behind her beaded curtain to greet every guest, shared a few words with Jester at the table where she usually did her homework while nursing a virgin Pina Colada, took whatever Beau hollered at him across the bar with a wink and a laugh, chatted with whoever was behind the bar as they poured his drink. Or at least, he tried to, if Molly hadn’t plucked him and whisked him upstairs as soon as he’d hung up his coat and scarf, as he’d done tonight.

The attic suite had other charms, aside from muffling Mollymauk doing what he did best. It offered a level of privacy; as soon as the door shut behind them, it could almost seem as if they were in their own little world. One that was scented by a set of tall incense sticks, gently billowing waves of warm spice and vanilla, one that was never quite silent as homemade charms and chimes sung with each gust of cool night air from the window. One that made Caleb wonder just how many colours were contained in the small space, how many patterns, how many fabrics.

He wasn’t given long to wonder, not tonight. In a heartbeat, Molly was kissing him, grasping at his shirt, leg hitching up to his hip.

“Eager…” Caleb sighed against his painted lips, hoping some of the dusky plum colour would linger on his own mouth and wherever else it cared to wander.

“I was thinking about you earlier,” Molly shrugged between heavy kisses, short snatches of words all he was willing to give while Caleb’s lips were waiting, “Wanting you. Left me in no mood to wait.”

Caleb could tell himself that it was just standard brothel patter. Some small, bitter part of him tried to. But, spoken in such a low groan, as Molly’s fingers wound into his hair and Caleb felt the heat from between his legs through the thin material of his skirts, they felt so real.

He was a fool. But he could afford to be a fool for an hour or two, he’d paid for the privilege.

Molly pulled Caleb’s shirt open with such force that a button or two went flying to clatter on the hardwood floor. The lacing of his pants was given near the same treatment as Molly dropped to his knees, after a few heated kisses to his chest, leaving purple marks on the rust red hair there.

The tiefling flashed him a sharp smile when he found him hard, “I’m not the only one who’s eager?”

“I guess I was thinking about you too,” Caleb flushed pink, which he knew always looked ridiculous with his hair. But that smile, the brush of his fingers, the heady scent in the room making him feel almost drunk, brave and bold and daring to want.

Molly laughed, a charm coming into his eyes. He wrapped one hand around the base of Caleb’s cock, tangling his fingers in the thicket of coarse red hair there in much the same way he’d held his head. The other stayed splayed on the floor to balance him, as his tail swept broad, lazy strokes across the floor.

As soon as Molly’s lips touched him, Caleb was lost. While his hand pulled and yanked roughly, his mouth moved so gently, kissing and lapping and humming low in his chest. Caleb’s head hit the door and his hands scrabbled against the walls, foot drumming on the floor. He didn’t make a lot of noise but Molly knew by now to read the intense pleasure in the set of his face and the soft, whimpering moans he made. He knew he was doing a good job.

And, a bare second before said job was about to be done, Mollymauk drew back.

Caleb gave a strangled sob at the sudden rush of cool air and the absence of a certain hot, forked tongue, “Molly, no, please…”

Back on his feet effortlessly, Mollymauk just chuckled and kissed Caleb softly, letting him taste the salty bite of his own pre. Then he gave him a playful tap on the cheek, “Nope. I want to feel you come inside me first. I think I’ve earned that, no?”

“Yes,” Caleb breathed, “Fuck, you can have all you want…”

“And I will,” Molly reassured him, letting his lips brush Caleb’s lightly in a soft promise, “But for now. This.”

The tielfing showed a remarkable amount of strength as he whirled Caleb and dropped him to the bed, strength Caleb never would have guessed hid in his wiry arms. If anything, it only brought his orgasm achingly closer.

Molly whipped his robe over his head, leaving him utterly naked but for the bangles on his wrists, the rings on his fingers and horns and the piercings that winked in his ears, nose and nipples. Not even bothering to take off Caleb’s shirt or leggings, leaving them hanging off his arms and rucked halfway down his thighs, he climbed on top of him and sank down with a shudder and a sigh. After a moment to enjoy the feeling, a moment that could have lasted forever as far as the two men were concerned, the tiefling raised his arms above his head with a wanton moan and began to roll his hips.

The place where their bodies joined was so slick and hot, the very small part of Caleb’s mind that was still rational worried he’d fall off and made his fingers dig hard into the tiefling’s hips to try and keep him steady. But he needn’t have worried; Mollymauk made an art out of this. Knowing it wouldn’t be long until his human couldn’t hold on, he made the most of what they had, using every trick he knew, letting his thumbs graze Caleb’s nipples until they stiffened, tightening his muscles around Caleb’s cock in time with his thrusts, letting moans and cries and screams fall from his lips indiscriminately, increasing in volume until his throat was raw.

“Molly, I gotta…” Caleb panted, fingers leaving marks on Molly’s lower belly, “Please…”

“Fuck, yes, now, Caleb, now, let me feel it,” Molly howled, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

He hadn’t meant to use thaumaturgy, honestly, but as Caleb’s heat flooded into him and he heard the man’s strangled shout of release, what came out of his mouth had more power in it than he’d intended and suddenly every window in the brothel was flying open and the floorboards were rattling. Enough that he heard the unmistakeable crash of pictures falling off their frames and a vase or two smashing down in the lobby.

“Oops…” he panted hoarsely, falling forward onto Caleb’s chest, caught in his arms.

Almost perfectly in time, he heard Marion shout from below.

“Mollymauk Tealeaf, if you can’t control yourself, I’m putting you on laundry duty for a week!”

Caleb winced, making his trembling limbs move to cradle Molly, “Should we stay up here for a while,” he whispered furtively.

“That would be best, yeah,” Mollymauk grinned coyly, burying his face against his lover’s chest.

“Does that happen every time someone fucks you?” Caleb asked after just a moment’s pause, “That would mean a lot of replacing windows…”

The tiefling chuckled fondly, he knew his bed mate couldn’t abide having a question on his tongue for long before he asked it.

“No,” Mollymauk answered truthfully, “Not every time. No one fucks me quite like you do.”