half-doomed--semi-sweet

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

all-time heroes featuring 1418 (in a risoprint?)

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

BOOM SHAKALAKA

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

I just remembered I hadn’t posted this here

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

on a girlypop mood so have this

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

At the Emperor’s Word -Viktor x Reader x Jayce

Summary: Sneaking around the academy after hours sounds like a good idea right up until you get caught; then, it becomes a great idea.

Pairing: Dom!Viktor x Sub!Reader x Switch! Jayce

Word Count: 6K

Warning: Explicit (PwP)

Tags: Threesome, Kissing, Handjob, Voyeurism, Obedience Kink, Praise Kink, Slight Cuckolding, Edging, Degradation, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Masturbation, Voice Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Lap Sex, Light Punishment Kink, Big Dick Viktor, Pet Names, Begging, Slight Choking, Vaginal Sex, Teasing, Rough Sex

Notes: A little fashionably late, but here is my absolutely filthy piece in celebration of Viktor’s birthday 🎉!! Viktor, my dearest, thank you for being my beloved husband and the devoted father of our many children. Glorious ovulation everyone ✌️💕.

You try to stifle a chuckle.

“Jayce, we can't-”

He's warm, so warm. You always feel yourself melt under his touch.

“C'mon, just a minute…” he insists.

You can't help but giggle breathlessly as he brings your hand into his pants, a large hand wrapping your fingers around his already half-hard cock. His body presses yours against the workbench, the firm wood digging into your lower back. His other hand slides against the fabric of your skirt, cushioning the strain, and not so subtly placing his palm over your ass.

He nuzzles his face against the top of your head, letting out a pleased groan when your fist starts moving. You suppress another laugh, trying your best to remain quiet, but you're positively enamoured of those sounds he makes when you touch him. Without even seeing his face, you know the content smile hasn't left his lips; he's so easy to please.

He's twitching under your grip, gripping your cheeks to the rhythm of the strokes. You quicken the pace, and he lets out a low moan that echoes through the empty lab.

This wing of the academy is always empty at this time of night, but there's something exciting about having to stay quiet. You can feel how close he's getting, the slight rutting of his hips a now familiar sign. His breath hitches, he's almost there, just a little more-

“I hope I am not interrupting anything.”

You yelp in surprise, pulling out your hand from Jayce's pants so fast your arm hits the wooden desk behind you. Jayce lets out a confused, frustrated shout at the sudden loss of friction as you wince in pain.

There, at the entrance of the lab, stands a looming figure, holding one of the large doors partially open. The light from the corridor obscures his face from the darkness of the lab; but there is no mistaking who this silhouette belongs to.

Viktor makes a single step forward, the metallic sound of his crutch against the tiled floor making you wince, as he lets the door close behind him. The room falls into obscurity again, the pale glow of the moon and the distant city lights only faintly shining through the windows.

“Ah, Viktor!” Jayce almost bellows in an overly cheery tone, walking backwards to put some distance between the two of you. “I- We were waiting for you! Got a bunch of interesting notes about today's experiments to show you !”

Viktor's face is blank, his eyebrows slightly furrowed in cold annoyance. He is neither amused nor does he seem the believe Jayce's jovial act. He nods curtly at the other man's pants, which are obviously, painfully unbuttoned. Jayce cringes as he quickly stumbles to reattach them, sliding the buttons in the wrong slits. You're frozen in place, eyes wide in fear, incapable of looking away from Viktor's frigid expression. But his focus is not on you; it's on Jayce.

“So,” he starts loudly, not bothering with whispers, “You barely spend any time working in the lab anymore. You have not even checked any of the upgrades I have suggested for the hexgates in the last month.” His voice is apathetic and dry, and his eyes narrow when he says the next words:

“And this is what you've been up to?”

Jayce opens his mouth like he's ready to argue, but the glare from his work partner seems to change his mind. He lowers his head silently, like a puppy being scolded. Viktor's golden pupils slide to you, and you now understand exactly why Jayce prefers looking at the floor.

“From Jayce I could expect,” Viktor remarks, the weight of his stare making you shrink, “but from you? I'll admit I'm disappointed.”

You bow your head in embarrassment. Your cheeks are burning, and you know there's no way to pretend like this is only a misunderstanding. You wish you could vanish on the spot.

Jayce, always the hero, comes to your defence quickly: “Viktor, it wasn't her idea-”

“I'm so sorry sir,” you interrupt him, stepping forward. You know Viktor well enough to recognize he's not a fan of poor excuses or avoiding accountability. “I swear this internship means the world to me. I know how many other students dream of working on hextech. It won't ever happen again.”

He seems pleased by your answer, although his expression stays perfectly stoic.

“That's good to hear,” he hums, walking closer to the both of you. He stops a few feet away, a ray of moonlight passing through a coloured beaker catching in his auburn hair. It illuminates him in an eerie, reddish glow, like he's not quite human, almost a phantom. “Well then, do not let me stop the both of you. Keep going, as you were.”

You have to assume he's joking, even if his tone sounds anything but, and you let out a confused, nervous giggle. But he isn't laughing, and neither is Jayce.

“Viktor…” there's uncertainty in the taller man's voice. It's not fear, or alarm, but he's apprehensive about something.

Viktor lets out a small sigh of lassitude, discontent evident. He looks at you again, with these amber eyes that make you feel like the world around you vanishes. Like there's nothing but him, and the words about to leave his lips.

“It would appear my partner is suddenly hard of hearing. Were my instructions unclear to you as well?”

You swallow. Your lips feel dry. Jayce is still unmoving next to you, still as a board, watching your interaction with his lab partner with an uneasy look.

“…No sir,” you mutter, just loudly enough for both men to hear. Viktor gives you the shadow of a smile.

“C'mon Viktor, you've humiliated her enough,” Jayce argues softly, raising his hand in a gesture of peace. But the other man has clearly decided Jayce hasn't gained his favour for the night, barely sparing him an icy glare.

“I do not believe I was talking to you,” he states matter-of-factly. The man of progress makes a strangled sound of protest, clearly insulted, but Viktor seems to have all but forgotten about him, now. It's back to only you and him, and the teasing smile dancing on his lips.

“He's always like this. Begging for attention,” Viktor tells you in a tone of confidence, like the topic of the conversation isn't standing less than a foot away from you with a baffled look on his face. “One has to wonder if he is compensating for something, but I figure you are in a good position to tell, right?”

You can’t prevent the corners of your mouth from lifting at the underhanded jab; Viktor seems emboldened by your reaction, voice louder when he continues:

“I certainly hope he's been more of a gentleman to you than this. Or does he only bend you over in our lab like an animal?”

The comment is enough to pull Jayce out of his stupor, and he raises his arms in protest.

“Hey, I'm not that-” he starts heatedly.

“Jayce.”

It's just his name; nothing else. You've said it to him hundreds of times. But there's something different in the way Viktor says it, the slow pronunciation of the syllables, the hardness of the accent, the deepness of the voice. Whatever it is, Jayce is compelled by it just as much as an order. He stops right in his tracks, his arms falling uselessly back to his side, like a dog listening to a command.

Viktor hums in approval, but his stare is no less punishing.

“I was not talking to you. When it is your turn to speak, you will know.”

Jayce's mouth is slightly agape, his eyes wide, an expression you can't quite read on his face; but he obeys. He stands there like a puppet, unmoving, drinking Viktor's words. You can't help but notice the still present strain in his badly buttoned pants.

The thinner man's gaze softens once more as it falls on you. He makes another step forward; close enough that you could reach him with your hand if you tried. He looks at you encouragingly: “Answer the question, sweet thing.”

The room feels like it's shrunk to barely a tenth of its size. Your breath has become shallow without you noticing. But isn't quite from fear anymore.

“T-twice in the lab before,” you stutter, the embarrassment of recounting your adventures to your direct supervisor burning your cheeks. The arousal in the air is undeniable now, and he's visibly aware of it. “And in the library. Once in my bedroom.”

Viktor hums pensively, studying your answer. It almost feels like you're passing some kind of final exam; the world's most sexually charged exam, undoubtedly.

“So he is aware of the basic notion of privacy behind closed doors, then,” Viktor concludes, the thin smirk now fully on display. “Who would have thought.”

He doesn't look away from your eyes when he finally speaks to the other man again.

“Jayce. How close are you?”

You glance at the taller engineer; he's started palming himself through his pants, his breathing irregular. His hair is dishevelled from your previous activities, and his cheeks are a bright crimson against his caramel skin. He's usually so dominating, on top of things, handling you like a chiffon doll up and down his dick with that cocky smile of his. You've never seen him like this; flustered, desperate, seeming so small despite all of his stature.

“Pretty close,” Jayce almost moans out, voice raspy for exertion. He's biting his own bottom lip so tightly it might start bleeding. “Just a little more.”

Viktor finally gives him a slight smile, though it's dripping with self-satisfaction. He's close enough to you that you can smell him now, that you could brush away the wayward strands of hair on his forehead. His face has been marked by the passage of time and countless hours of work, heavy bags under his eyes, cheeks almost gaudy. And yet, there is no sign of him ever losing control of this moment. Nothing could change the hypnotic power of his eyes, the controlling tone of his voice, or the subjugating effect of his slightly crooked smile.

“I suppose we should oblige,” he suggests lightly, his free hand brushing your cheek. His fingers are thin and lithe, cold against your skin, and you lean into the touch. He gives you a moment to pull away, if you want to; but you don't.

The kiss is slow at first, gentle, just the way little girls dream their prince charming might one day give them. He lets you decide when to pick up the speed, and you initiate after a few seconds by slipping your tongue in his mouth. It's messier, now, teeth clashing every now and then, saliva pooling where your lips meet. He tastes nothing like Jayce, his flavour of dark coffee and fresh mint; Viktor is sweet, like milk and honey, like a slice of lemon cake in the summer heat.

When he pulls away for air, you feel like time has started to move once again, as if you've just emerged from a dream. He's smirking confidently, still, but not entirely unfazed; his pale cheeks have turned pink, his breathing is slightly laboured, and there are traces of smudged saliva on the corners of his mouth.

A foreign whine makes you both turn towards Jayce, who is clearly on the edge of orgasm. He's abandoned any pretence of innocence, his cock fully pulled out of his pants as he rubs it furiously, eyes locked on the two of you.

“Stop,” Viktor only says.

Jayce groans in frantic frustration, slowing his rhythm but incapable of removing his hand. He's harder than you've ever seen him, his tip almost a painful red.

“No, no, c'mon V, don't do this. Please keep going,” he begs, looking at you with pitiful eyes, pleading silently. You want to touch him, to let him touch himself. But you know it's not your decision; it's Viktor's. And he's made his ruling, so you're not about to get on your research director's bad side again.

The head engineer offers a proud smile at your lack of answer to Jayce, the kind he usually reserves for reports submitted in advance or ingenious schematics. You recognize him more like this, strict, but never unappreciative of your efforts. He never forgets to slip a word of encouragement when you're stuck, never hesitates to reread your notes with you when the math isn't quite adding up. The cold anger seems to have fully passed, and now only the teasing, taunting satisfaction remains.

“I believe you may have forgotten that as per her contract, she is my assistant. Meaning she is under my direct command.”

He's looking at Jayce now, whose hand is still wrapped around his length, but unmoving. His cock is twitching in his grasp, desperate as the rest of him. His whole body shifts to the rhythm of his respiration, large shoulders slumped in defeat. Viktor doesn't turn to you when he asks you the following question, choosing instead to stare deeply into Jayce's citrine eyes.

“Is that not correct?”

You don't hesitate with your answer this time.

“Yes sir.”

His focus is still on the other man, but he strokes your cheek again with his left hand. He rests his weight comfortably on his crutch, like he doesn't have a single worry in the world in this moment.

“Good girl.”

You feel yourself tighten at that. That voice could tell you to find a way to harness the power of the goddamn stars before figuring out the hexcore, and you would comply.

“Jayce, could you bring the chair over here? The larger one.”

Viktor points with his chin towards a wooden chair with a flat backing, in a corner of the lab. Jayce looks back and forth between the chair and his partner, like he's unsure if he's joking or testing him. When no additional directions come from Viktor, he sighs in discomfort, clearly disgruntled, unceremoniously shoving himself back in his pants to go fetch the chair. The thinner man hums in appreciation when he brings it back and places it next to him.

“Thank you, Jayce.”

He sits, using his crutch for balance as he shifts slightly to find a comfortable position. His hand leaves the burgundy handgrip, instead settling on the metallic upper section. He looks like the king of a forgotten kingdom, resting on his wooden throne, sceptre in hand. You and Jayce, his obedient consorts, can't do anything but await his next command.

It comes in the form of a simple motion of his hand, beckoning you closer. You only stop when your legs bump against his, standing above him. His fingers caress the fabric of your skirt studyingly, like he's committing the feel to memory. They eventually catch on the waistband, tugging it questioningly. His golden eyes look up at you, the colour of the sunrise etched in his pupils. You nod earnestly in approval, and he lowers the skirt down until it reaches your knees, letting it fall to the floor. You're suddenly very thankful you dressed up this morning knowing you would see Jayce.

The design is simple, a line of flowery lace hugging your hips, and curving to the shape of your ass. It's the kind of thing Jayce loves; he'll even make you keep your panties on sometimes as he fucks you, just pushing the bottom of the fabric to the side to fit himself inside you. It's the lace he can’t resist, you think, the way it barely covers anything and rests against your skin like a present for him to unwrap.

It doesn’t seem to have the same effect on Viktor, but you can tell he’s still appreciative, cold hand sneaking under the lace to squeeze a cheek firmly.

“This is fucking torture,” Jayce groans in complaint, standing still just barely a few feet away. He's obviously aware he's not supposed to interfere with the two of you, or to touch himself for relief, but the glistening sweat on his forehead and down the prominent vein on his neck indicates how difficult this is for him.

“And you should know better than to have sex next to a table covered in explosive materials and one-of-a-kind prototypes,” Viktor retorts, sparing him a slightly displeased glance. “What if you had broken something irreplaceable?”

Jayce seems genuinely embarrassed by that; he may not show it as often these days with how busy he is, but you know he still cares about the academy's research and the state of hextech.

“I'm sorry Viktor. I wasn't thinking…”

“I am aware you were not thinking. And that is exactly the issue. You forget how much of our profession relies on thinking, not talking.”

It's crystal clear that's going to be the end of the conversation, for now. Viktor's fingers slide to your hip, following the shape of the panties until your inner thigh. A small tap with a single digit tells him everything he needs to know.

“Look at this,” he smiles, taunting but affectionate, “Already so wet just from a kiss. Or was it the sound of my voice that did it, I wonder.”

Both, it's both, and every single thing that has happened in this lab since he entered it. You tremble when his finger moves slowly against the damp fabric, not quite oversensitive, but a little on edge.

“I, um-” Jayce hesitantly speaks up from the side. “I fingered her a bit earlier. I… think she should be alright?”

This time, Viktor doesn't reprimand him for talking; he seems surprisingly pleased, eyes boring into yours for confirmation.

“Is that so?” he exhales softly.

You nod breathlessly. Why is it always so difficult to talk when he's studying you like this?

The teasing finger slips under the fabric, gently making its way into you. You let out an involuntary sound of eagerness as he verifies if you've been loosened up, analyzing you with the precision of a machine. He removes the digit with a crooked grin when he judges you've passed, and you whine at the loss; it was barely anything in the first place, but it soothed the feeling of total emptiness in your core.

“Color me impressed,” Viktor declares, half genuine, half mocking. “I do not think I have ever seen Jayce do his work in advance.”

Said man groans in defeated complaint:

“You're turning her against me.”

Viktor lets out a wry snort:

“You do that well enough on your own. You touched her without even making her cum?”

He pats your pussy comfortingly, and you almost sing to the feeling. Your panties get lowered swiftly, and you discard them with little decorum. Viktor's assertive expression has softened enough that you feel emboldened enough to try to join in the banter:

“Jayce thinks foreplay is watching him get undressed. He's not exactly an expert.”

Viktor laughs at that, a charming and genuine sound, and you feel yourself glow with pride. The topic of mockery doesn't seem as pleased, his cheeks red, his lips thin:

“See? Told you. You've already worked your fucking magic on her.”

Viktor starts unbuttoning his pants, the teasing smile still etched on his angular features. His fingers work nimbly, swiftly, with the precision only the best engineer in Runeterra could muster in such circumstances.

“It is not magic, Jayce. Simply talent and practice.”

He does quick work of lowering his pants, just enough to expose his underwear. The confirmation that he is indeed not as unbothered as he still may seem is poking through the fabric. Judging by the defined outline and the sizeable tent, you can instantly confirm a hypothesis you've had since the start of your internship: the Assistant to the Dean of the Academy is packing.

He's not unaware of it either; his golden eyes follow the movement of your own, playfully examining your reaction. It's different from Jayce's endearing ego and constant need for praise; Viktor knows his worth, but he revels in the admiration, the stares filled with awe and devotion.

If Jayce needs to feel worthy, then Viktor needs to feel wanted.

He finally frees his cock from the restrive fabric, letting the member bob slightly. He's not even fully hard, and he's huge, the length imposing, the bulbous tip a pleasant shade of pink. The skin is as pale as the rest of him, blueish veins marking it like porcelain; only a few well-trimmed auburn curls at the base remind you he's not sculpted from actual marble.

Jayce lets out a low, tentatively playful whistle as the other man’s slender fingers wrap around the shaft.

“Flattery will not get you far, Jayce,” Viktor comments absentmindedly. “You and I both know this is nothing you have not seen before.”

He moves his hand in an open, loose fist, evidently without any real intent to finish himself off; not with the way he's made you stand right above him, not with how he's looking right at you. You swallow with difficulty, licking your lips for moisture. The energy between the two of you is tangible, electric, as he keeps working himself tantalizingly slow.

“Darling. Sweet thing. Do you want this?”

You nod vigorously, the words stuck in your throat again.

“Tell me, then. Please. Tell me how much you want this,” he requests, and it's hard to tell whether that's an order or a plea with the way his voice lowers, just barely louder than a whisper.

You feel like you're high, your mind a jumbled mess of adrenaline and lust. There are no sentences that could possibly express how he's got you under his spell. How many times have you imagined a scene like this, in only a year of being his assistant? The stolen glances, the passing touches, you had no reason to believe they were anything more than figments of your lustful imagination. The very idea that he could be the one doubting your interest in him is laughable, and yet his gaze is probing you for a response, his lips parted with bated breath.

“I want this. I want you,” you swear to him, staring back so deeply into the amber irises there could not be a single question left. “Please, sir.”

You bring a hand to the crook of his neck; the coolness of the skin under your palm, the sharpness of his collarbone against your fingertips, the beating of his heart below your thumb. He has to know this is real.

Viktor smiles slightly, the little mole above his lips shifting alongside his dimples.

“I would ask you to be weary of my right leg, then. It is not quite as strong as it used to be, although that is not saying much.”

You've never seen the emotion that crosses Viktor's face in that moment, gone in under a second. It's so subtle one might have missed it; bitterness, regret, defeat. The tragedy of a man brilliant enough to change the whole world, but who wouldn't live long enough to see it. If Janna truly watches over the lost children of Zaun, then she is turning a blind eye to the brightest of them all.

You could say something, try and comfort him, but you choose not to. There's nothing that can be said to change things; there’s only the present, and there are only actions.

You sink down on him slowly, the both of you moaning in unison. You can't help the array of whines escaping your pinched lips. The heat from where your bodies meet is overwhelming, the stretch delightful and filling. He's not fully inside you and you're already wondering how much more you can take. It's dizzying, the pain making you grit your teeth, but you persist, fingers clenching on the back of the chair. When you've fully bottomed out, you let out a shaky breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Viktor soothingly pats your back, and you hang on to him for dear life, wrapping both arms around his back.

“Are you alright?” he whispers softly, worry evident in his voice. You want to answer, but you're quite certain if you open your mouth you'll only get confused gibberish out, because fuck, he's filling you so much it's hard to even think. You shift your grip to his shoulder blades, trying to anchor yourself, absentmindedly noticing the cool feeling of metal under his uniform. You trace the intricate patterns with your fingers to ground yourself, recognizing the shapes of bolts and screws, as you feel your breathing slowly even out

“I’m ok,” you eventually manage to exhale. “I just- need a second“

Viktor makes an understanding hum, his hand caressing the valley of your back like you're doing with his, his strokes mellow. He moves his head slightly to look at Jayce behind you, throwing him an irritated glare.

“So much for your preparations,” he points out with irony.

Without needing to see him, you know exactly the kind of disgruntled face Jayce is making: “She only needs three to fit me, you're just stupid big.”

“I can move,” you interrupt them, the pain now only a vague tingle; all that remains is the yearning for him.

You place both hands on the back of the chair to balance your weight, being careful of Viktor's weaker leg. You bring yourself up slowly, tantalizingly, before letting yourself fall back on his length. There's no other way to describe the broken moan you release than dirty.

“Eh,” Viktor remarks slyly, groaning when you start moving again. “S-she does not seem to think it’s stupid.”

You fuck yourself on him with abandon, fast, rough, not caring of how debauched you may look. If anything, Jayce seems very appreciative if his moans and curses are any indication.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants somewhere behind you, too far to feel his warmth, but close enough to hear he's pumping himself to the same rhythm you're riding Viktor. “You're doing such a good job taking him, princess…”

He's truly begging when he calls the other man's name again, delirious from the unending edging:

“V, please, make her turn to my side, I have to see her face.”

Viktor's hooded eyes bare into yours, his raspy pants echoing through your head as you thrust up and down his length.

“Do you think he is truly sorry, now?” he asks, the ever-teasing glimmer in his pupils shining despite the clear physical effort from his body.

You can't even remember what Jayce has to be sorry for; you whimper a positive ‘huh-uh’. Viktor nuzzles his head in the crook of your neck for a moment, gently bitting the sweaty skin in a surprising hint of possessiveness, but he does finally agree to free Jayce of his torture.

“I will trust your good judgment. You can come here, Jayce.”

You yelp in surprise when two strong but familiar hands suddenly grab you at the waist and turn you around, almost pulling you off Viktor's cock and into a messy kiss. The slight tickle of Jayce's stubble is pleasantly itchy, his tongue desperately searching for more of your taste. You moan wantonly against his mouth when you feel Viktor twitch inside you, but the man under you doesn't seem fully pleased: a thinner but firm hand brings you back against his chest, and he throws Jayce an irritated glare.

“I give you an inch and you take a mile. Typical,” the older man accuses him with a bitter tone, his accent more pronounced, rigid. “You do not get to touch, and you are only allowed to cum on her.”

His lips come to your ear in the ghost of a kiss, velvety smooth:

“Would that be agreeable to you, sweet thing?”

You just know you want to keep going, really; so you do exactly that as a reply.

This position is harder for movement, since without the support of the chair’s back, you would have to rely on putting pressure on Viktor's knees. Thankfully, with Jayce’s proximity, you can use his muscled chest for balance. He certainly doesn't mind being used like this if the expression he’s wearing is any sign: his entire face is crimson, his eyes heavy, laboured breaths escaping his abused lips. He's still following your pace, pumping up and down every time your ass meets Viktor's hip bones. It has to be painful by now, with the way he's been rubbing himself raw for so long without release, but he's either too entranced to care or getting off the burning friction

“So obedient,” Viktor praises you, his free hand moving to your lower stomach, long fingers digging gently into your skin; you wonder if he’s trying to feel himself move inside you. “We might still be able to make a top student out of you. What do you think, Jayce?”

Much like yourself, Jayce seems beyond the capacity for words. He's looking at you like he wants to devour you, like he wants to take you off Viktor's lap and fuck you right on the floor. But you both know he wouldn't do that without Viktor's approval, at the risk of getting on the other man’s bad side again.

Viktor's cock hits a peculiarly sensitive spot inside you and you cry out from the sudden shock, loling out your tongue involuntarily. Jayc makes a strangled sound at the sight, and it visibly takes all his self-control to not shove himself into the warmth of your throat.

“For once, I cannot get you to talk when I actually want you to,” Viktor tsks in disapproval, but it's clear he's not frustrated; rather, he seems to enjoy the trance-like silence Jayce has been reduced to.

“F-fuck, I think this is the hottest thing I've ever seen,” the younger man sputters, delirious, his fist moving with a frenzied pace. “I can see your cock in and out of her every time she bounces like that. Her tits look so good…”

You recognize that slight pitch in his voice, the rumbling in his throat; he's close again.

“What else?” Viktor hums, not letting him have a moment of respite. You can hear ragged gasps next to your ear, parts of heaved curses indicating he too is nearing his end, but he's still firmly insistent on being the one in control of it all.

Jayce whines in struggle, but it's hard to hear with how loud the sound of your own moans echo in the room. You've been using Viktor's cock to hit that one spot over and over, chasing your high without restraint, the familiar clenching of your walls maddening.

“She looks all fucked out. Like she -fuck- like she's so close to cumming around you…”

The other man seems pleased by that if the way you feel him twitch inside you is evidence. “Good observations,” he replies in playful irony. “Perhaps there is still a scientist in there.”

The hand on your stomach leaves its comfortable position to wrap around your neck, the pressure light, just barely restricting airflow.

“Sweet thing,” he calls out to you once more. “You can pick up the pace a little. I want you to never look away from Mr Talis's eyes.”

It's a hard request to fulfill considering how badly you want to squint your eyes shut in the agonizing pleasure; but you try your very best, unshed tears of exhaustion starting to pool and blurying your vision.

The sight of you so desperately trying to obey Viktor's order to focus on nothing but him is what finally undoes Jayce, who lets out one final loud curse:

“Shit-!”

He cums all over your academy blouse with a shout, little droplets reaching as high as your chin. It barely takes three more thrusts against Viktor for you to join him, crying tears of relief as an intense wave of bliss rocks your entire body. With your limbs reduced to nothing but putty, your head falls forward in exhaustion, thankfully stopped by Jayce's strong torso; the fabric of his dress shirt feels like satin against your face, burying your sobs.

Viktor takes a moment longer to reach his peak, fucking into your exhausted body with concentration, thick eyebrows furrowed. It's too much, too rough, and you throw your head back to whine against his neck pitifully. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath before he finally unloads into you with a long groan.

“Shh, good girl,” he compliments you soothingly as his warmth settles into your core, kissing your neck leisurely in praise. “You have done so well.”

He bends your head back slightly more to catch your mouth in an open-mouth kiss, slow and tired, sloppy from your mutual exhaustion. Jayce groans, his hand somehow still on his softened cock, pumping it lazily; his stamina is utterly unbelievable.

“Okay, actually, this might be the hottest thing I've ever seen,” he comments hoarsely, absorbing the way your tongue dances with Viktor's with every inch of his capacities.

Viktor concludes the wet kiss with a small peck on your lips, smiling as your head falls back on his shoulder in fatigue, your eyes shut close.

“Because you managed to get yourself all over her?” he throws back at Jayce, as calm and confident as if he hadn't just made you go through the most intense orgasm of your life. “Your ego will never cease to impress me.”

The stars behind your eyelids are still spinning; you weakly try to move an arm, finding it almost completely unresponsive.

“Sir?” you ask, and you almost don't recognize your voice with how rough and broken it resonates in the empty lab.

“I think we have reached the point where you are allowed to call me by my name in private,” Viktor amusedly hums close to you.

“Viktor, I…”

You want to open your eyes, to look into his golden eyes again and see the way he looks right after sex, but they're sealed shut from how worn out you are. “…I don't think I can move right away.”

That earns you a content chuckle from one man and a disbelieving laugh from the other.

“Jayce,” Viktor asks, now with a tone of request rather than command, “be a gentleman for once and carry her to her bedroom. The poor thing is exhausted.”

Jayce snorts, for once tonight the one hitting back with irony:

“And whose fault is that?”

Viktor’s fingers, still loosely wrapped around your throat as lightly as feathers, slide down to massage the tender muscles at the base of your nape. You moan brokenly into the touch. You couldn't move even if you wanted to.

“Undeniably yours. I am not the one sneaking around in the academy for nefarious purposes,” Viktor retorts playfully, tiredness noticeable but skillfully hidden in his voice. “But if you were to have a bad idea like this once more… I believe I can offer you my services as her supervisor. For both your sakes.”

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

A Thought™️ that I had yesterday after watching those AITA videos and babbling in the discord:

(This is also babble to be clear. I’ve been writing this throughout the morning so it might be a bit incoherent)

The 141 is shopping for a new team member, someone to round out their four person squad into five. They have a dozen candidates, pick one that looks promising, and transfer him over under the military equivalent of “probationary” status.

Pretty quickly they decide his personality alone might not make him a good fit but whatever, if he’s good at his job, they’ll suck it up. The “alpha male” posturing bullshit is kind of amusing in the meantime at least.

Well, first mission comes and goes. The guy isn’t too bad, honestly — apart from almost picking a fight with Gaz. Skills-wise he’s as advertised, so he gets to stay a bit longer while the 141 decides if they can stand him.

Post successful mission, though, they go out for drinks at the guy’s insistence. He invites his girlfriend — who he dragged along with him — to the bar to meet his new squad. (Because he thinks there’s no way they’re not making him a permanent teammate.)

And the 141 may be barely tolerant of him, but they decide almost instantly that they adore his girlfriend. She’s incredibly charming and bubbly, doesn’t even blink at Ghost’s mask. One of the first things she does is thank them for the opportunity they’re giving her boyfriend and for keeping him alive.

Which is about the time the real issue starts.

The boyfriend says some rubbish about “an alpha doesn’t need protecting, he does the protecting. He looks out for his pack.”

And you smile a bit awkwardly, looking embarrassed, and try to usher the conversation along.

It doesn’t take long for him to quickly fall out of what little favor he accrued. You’re a bright spot in their group, laughing and chatting with them all like you’ve known them for years. Incredibly sensitive to asking any hard questions and sort of forcing the conversation through the weird patches where your boyfriend interjects with some inane comment.

Eventually, your boyfriend gets sick of your chattering and tells you to fetch them more drinks. Soap instantly sits up, saying you don’t have to do that, but you gently wave him off. Chirp that you don’t mind doing it as a thank you for their service, and weave into the crowd.

The table goes uncomfortable quiet — apart from your boyfriend, who makes some ghastly comment about how you have a pretty face but an annoying laugh. When you get back, drinks expertly balanced in your hands, Ghost goes out of his way to drop puns that get you giggling like mad.

As the night ticks later, and your boyfriend gets drunker, he reaches the point you always dread.

“Garrick, le’s arm wrestle.”

“Baby, I don’t think that’s…”

“This is between us men.”

You groan a bit and sit back. Gaz looks befuddled but shrugs and agrees. It’s not even a contest; your boyfriend’s arm is flat to the table in all of ten seconds. Flustered, your boyfriend demands a rematch. And when he loses again, scoffs and demands a go with Soap.

You practically sink deeper and deeper into your seat before the secondhand embarrassment starts to weigh and you have to excuse yourself to the restroom. When you get back, the impromptu arm wrestling seems to be over, though your boyfriend is sulking in his corner of the booth.

When you gingerly slide back in, Price nudges you with his calf.

“Would you like a go, luv?”

You grin and shake your head. “I don’t fancy a broken wrist, Captain.”

“C’mon luv, you might surprise yourself,” he teases and you can’t resist the playful glint in his eye.

So you lock your thumb around his, elbow on the table, and push. And his arm incrementally goes down… down… down…

“Well would you look at that,” he muses.

You burst into laughter, flattered and endeared by his indulgence.

“That tough, eh?” Soap muses, arching an eyebrow. “Let’s see it, then.”

So you roll your eyes, fully expecting to get trounced. But just like with Price, he starts to relent when you put up resistance, making a show of straining and panting as he “loses.” When you’ve won, you finally play into the joke.

“Serves you right,” you tease.

By your side, you hear your boyfriend huff derisively. “Oh, come on.”

Before your fun can be ruined, though, Ghost is offering you his hand, dark eyes sparkling. You bite your lip, but it doesn’t hide your grin as you accept the unspoken challenge. His hand is huge around yours, but shockingly gentle. He goes down easiest of all, whistling in amazement.

“Look’it that, you’re a pro,” he says, “think we should all be buying you a drink.”

“She doesn’t drink,” your boyfriend interjects.

You huff and settle back into the booth. “Maybe some other time, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Count on it.”

You get into an argument with your boyfriend that night. He thinks you were “challenging his dominance” and “stirring the pot,” trying to sew discord and strife amongst the men to get them fighting over you. He says something about being the alpha of the group and that he would win but it’s insulting to him as your “provider” that you would question his authority.

He’s tipsy as he says it though, working himself up. You just follow the usual routine of soothing, reassuring, simpering — and then considering leaving when he’s finally asleep. But you’re far from home, don’t have the means to leave, and besides, you won’t be finding any support from your family on this front so…

Well, it’s not so bad, you remind yourself. He can be an asshole, but so can you and it takes two to fight. Besides, he only gets really bad when he’s been drinking and that’s only once a week? 1 out of 7 isn’t a bad ratio.

—

The 141 pretty much collectively decide that they adore you though. You get regularly invited to team outings, wherein your boyfriend keeps challenging (and losing) arm wrestling, while the boys coax you into “winning.”

They’ve also become rather adamant that you don’t bring them drinks anymore.

“You’re not our personal beer wench, yeah? We’re able to get our own pints,” Gaz soothes.

Your boyfriend chuckles and shakes his head, imparts his “wisdom” that it’s a female’s job to serve her man and his friends. As a sign of respect or something. You know it’s not an argument worth having and just sip at your drink in silence.

But you love going out with them. Love knowing the men keeping your boyfriend alive and they’re a good bunch. Respectful and funny and disciplined — you’re kind of hoping they snap your boyfriend out of this weird “alpha male” phase he’s been going through. On the other hand, you’re thrilled to be making something like friends. Sure, your boyfriend has made it clear that the 141 are his friends, but they’re always so conscious of keeping you involved and comfortable.

Then one night your boyfriend mentions what a “good little cook” you are and that instantly has all the boys perking up. Smiling, you offer to host during the Saturday League matches. They gleefully accept over your boyfriend’s protests about other men in his territory or something like that.

But when they do come over they’re horrified by the unspoken expectations. You tell them to sit, that you’ll bring them all drinks, with snacks on the way. They’ll be having none of it.

Ghost helps you with drinks, Gaz chops the veggies for snacks (and dinner). Soap pops in to keep you company while you babysit simmering pots. Price helps to tidy as you go, despite you’re fussing that he really doesn’t need to, he should be enjoying the games!

They end up spending more time with you in the kitchen than out in the den with their own teammate. You barely notice, swept up in the busy currents of playing hostess. When your boyfriend shouts that he needs another beer, you come back to find Price getting plates and utensils for dinner. It’s so thoughtful you could cry.

Even worse is when they help you clean up afterwards. Each of them taking and clearing their own plates. Soap on washing big dishes, Gaz on drying. Ghost is packing up leftovers. Price is turning over the dishwasher, asking you where dishes go and tutting when you insist you should be helping.

All the while, your boyfriend stands in the doorway telling you all the ways you could improve the meal next time. And how you definitely ate too much for your body size, etc.

He only stops when Price makes a pointed comment about standing around looking pretty.

When they leave, they each sweep you up in a hug and drop a kiss on your cheek, praising your home and cooking and hosting. Soap promises that he’ll get you a little souvenir on their next mission as a thank you.

And sure enough, three weeks later, the boys are coming by. Except your boyfriend is nowhere to be found — out with some other guys from the base that he says he hit it off with. The 141 insist that he agreed to a football watch again, the empty headed muppet.

And of course you’re not going to turn them away! They’ve brought you flowers, a little matryoshka set from their last mission, chocolates and wine. Not one of them is empty handed.

“Do you even like the game?” Gaz asks as you put it on.

“My favorite team isn’t playing until tomorrow but I don’t mind watching,” you answer, shrugging.

But somehow no football is watched at all. Instead they convince you to tell them your top three favorite movies, then claim none of them have ever seen any of them and they have to watch all of them.

Which is how your boyfriend finds his whole team enjoying a little movie marathon with you. You’re on the ground with Johnny (it’s Johnny now, for you) doing his eyebrows. Gaz is braiding your hair. Ghost (Simon) is sharing a bowl of candies with you. You’re sat against Price’s shins, the captain sitting in your boyfriend’s chair, lounging like a king.

When you welcome him back, telling him the boys are staying the night, he tries to throw a fit about it. How dare you let four strange men stay alone with you?! You calmly remind him that he promised he’d be home by 11 and it’s already nearly 1. And besides, he trusts them with his life, you’re allowed to trust them to be polite in your own home.

With all four of his teammates watching, tense and nearly hostile, he mutters something about being tired and storms off to bed. You end up falling asleep on the couch with ghost despite yourself.

And your boyfriend becomes absolutely haunted by his team’s (is it even his team? It feels more like yours!) affection for you.

They always invite you out even if he doesn’t plan to invite you. (When did you get any of their numbers?! Never mind Ghost’s. He doesn’t even have Ghost’s number.)

They stop by the flat constantly, sometimes dropping in. Other times staying for hours. Soap tells him that they’re all one big family; that includes you. (“Alright then why don’t we go hang out with one of your girlfriends?!” He had an actual nightmare about the laughter that gets him.)

And the fucking gifts. It’s not just soap bringing you things anymore. It’s all of them. Magnets, mugs, sweets, pretty rocks. Just garbage to your boyfriend but you treat it all like treasure. They’ve even got you sending them on hunts for specific things. Something blue, something with nuts, something with the flag.

Then there’s the base.

They bring you on one day — Price picks you up, the boys greet you at the barracks with coffee and breakfast. You’re put into a big 141 hoodie that says “Riley” on the back and toured around. You’re supposed to be “surprising” your boyfriend, but he’s busy with recruits and generally seems uninterested in being around you.

Not to worry though, the 141 is happy to show you a good time around base! Gaz and Johnny walk you through one of the obstacle courses, Simon lets you sit on his back for pushups during the last of his workout. Price takes you to the range and shows you the basics of shooting, then lets you catnap through the adrenaline drop in his office.

Your boyfriend only bothers to find you when Johnny and Simon are teaching you basic self-defense. Your boyfriend scoffs that you’re plenty protected by him, but you point out that he’s away too often to be of any real help — at which point Johnny tags you and bolts before your boyfriend can get all up in arms.

You only recognize that this little hurdle in your relationship has become a chasm when something happens. A big argument with your parents over the phone — you barely even remember what about. But instead of calling your boyfriend afterwards, your first call is to Gaz. (Because you know he’s the most likely to be free and paying attention to his phone.) You’re almost shocked when he picks up on the second ring. Your boyfriend has never answered on the first call.

When you try to explain through poorly-restrained tears, he coos at you to find a warm coffee shop and that they’ll be right there. “They” ends up being him and Johnny, since Simon and Price are locked up in an important meeting. They buy you hot chocolate and pastries while you vent to them, and end up leaving feeling better for once.

But you can’t break up with your boyfriend. Because if you do, the 141 will surely stop hanging out with you, and you value their company enough to put up with it.

At least until you come home one day to find all your little gifts gone. When you ask through a tight throat where everything is, your boyfriend says he was just making space. That you’ve been complaining that you two need a bigger flat, but now he’s solved the problem without wasting money.

You actually raise your voice for once, throwing an entire fit because this. This is the last straw. You storm into your bedroom, slam and lock the door, and call the 141.

A small part of you expects they’ll take his side or something. But nope. Simon soothes you on the other end, that the whole squad will be there in fifteen and to pack your stuff.

You do so while Price takes over and keeps you level. Reminds you of essentials to pack and explains that you’ll be coming to stay at his place, since he’s got off-base housing. It’ll be quiet and cozy and safe while you recover.

Five minutes away, they promise to be right there and end the call.

You could absolutely scream when your boyfriend — ex boyfriend — starts banging on the door. Demanding that you open the door to him. That you’re being over dramatic and blowing everything out of proportion. Using the “your emotional and irrational” line that you’ve heard a thousand times and are just about sick of.

Your heart stutters with relief when you hear the knocking at the apartment door, confused silence as your ex goes to see who it is. You take that moment to slip out, packed suitcase in hand.

You startle a bit at some commotion, round the corner to see your ex’s shirt bunched up in Johnny’s fists, looking ready kill him. No one seems inclined to pull him away; neither are you.

“How are you holding up, luv?” Gaz asks gently as Simon takes your bag.

“Been better,” you admit, sniffling as Price wraps you up in a hug.

“It was just things, luv,” he soothes, “we’ll get you a million more, if you like.”

You pull back to give him a miserable look. “But they were my things and they didn’t have to go anywhere. He just threw them out.”

Johnny snarls something out, but Gaz is already ushering you out the door. You tell your family about the break up through text and then shut off your phone, bundled into the backseat of an SUV with Gaz in the backseat. Price is in the front, all of you waiting for Simon and Johnny to come down.

“What now?” you ask quietly.

“Well, about time we cut that knob loose,” Price muses. “But that’s not your problem anymore.”

“Oh…

“And you, luv.” He looks at you through the rear view. “You get whatever you want.”

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

MDNI

Lay my burdens down (goap as Catholic priests)

Johnny always felt guilty. Just a part of being Catholic he supposes. He remembers telling his mother about stealing a candy bar when he couldn't've been more than seven. She had him kneel on rice and recite the Hail Mary until supper was ready; it was noon when he started. He prayed until his voice was shaky and hoarse, eyes puffy from tears, knees bled and were beyond the point of pain. Sometimes now when he kneels, his knees still ache. A reminder that Absolution is paid in blood.

The hassock he prays on creaks as another person settles next to him,

"Good morning, Brother MacTavish."

A soft voice greeted him.

"Good morning, Brother Garrick."

Johnny's hand grips his rosary tighter. Kyle props his arms up on the pew, his elbow touching Johnny's. They silently recite the Benedictus together, he stays next to Gaz even when he finishes his morning prayer.

The day goes by without incident, just some gardening while the priests tend to the community,

"So you are going to be a priest soon, that's exciting."

Kyle smiles while watering some tomatoes.

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it."

Johnny likes to keep conversations with Garrick short. Actually, he likes to keep conversations with all of the parish short. Desire runs rampant in his heart. He thought if he dedicated himself to God enough, these thoughts would quiet. That seemed to only make it worse. Being in such close quarters with these men have only made the thoughts much, much louder. There are nights he would hear soft moans coming from the next room, he knows it is Kyle and another party lost in ecstasy. He's not sure which of the two other men in the parish it was. He bit his lip, fucking his fist desperately. Groaning as low as possible when he hears Kyle finish, joining him shortly after. Guilt washes over him immediately after the act. Obsessively prays on his knees until they ache. Please please please, just make it go away. Some nights he even cries, frustrated and ashamed.

~

"Good morning, Brother MacTavish."

Johnny tensed up, squeezing his eyes tight, afraid to look up.

"Good morning, Father Riley."

He hears a grunt while the pew rocked, their bodies nearly touching when Simon finally settled in next to him. There were a few moments of hushed prayer between the both of them.

"When's the last time you've confessed, Johnny?"

Simon's voice is steady as ever, confident in himself as he is in the Lord.

"Too long Father. Much too long."

In all honesty, confession with either priest made him sweat. There were long pauses that made him uncomfortable. Words and tones always had an underlying tone that made him choke. The sound of clothes rustling on the other side that made his imagination run wild. A strong hand clasped at the back of Johnny's neck yanks him away from his train of thought, his eyes snapping open. He looks up to Simon, a towering figure doubly so now that he's standing in front of Johnny.

"C'mon."

Simon says, almost alluring. Johnny's skin prickles where Simon rubs his thumb against the nape of his neck. He stands up so quickly, he nearly knocks the hassock over. That earns a hum of approval from Father Riley,

"Good boy."

Johnny's clothes feel restricting and hot. The bench in the confessional booth too hard and uncomfortable. He crosses himself and starts,

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been... a month since my last confession."

He can hear Simon tut from the other side.

"I have..."

Johnny racks his brain, desperately trying to avoid speaking on his most obvious misdeed.

"I hold resentment in my heart for others that live...more freely than I do."

Simon hummed in acknowledgment, waiting for him to continue. Johnny's leg bounced nervously, shaking the booth slightly. It was a long moment before Simon spoke up again,

"You do know withholding a mortal sin in confession is a transgression against God himself, Brother MacTavish?"

Johnny's mouth dried up, his chest got tight. He nervously rubs the beads on his rosary,

"I have harbored hate-"

"Try again. Johnny."

Simon's voice is low and tense, a warning. Poor Johnny is shaking all over now, the wooden bench under him squeaking with each bounce.

"I've been indulging in the pleasures of the flesh, Father."

Johnny looks at the screen between him and Simon, wishing he could see his face, gauge his reaction. The sound of fabric shifting comes from the other side.

"Continue."

Father Riley replied curtly. Johnny stammered,

"I, wha-well,"

"Perissology is unbecoming of a priest, MacTavish. Excessive speech should be a sin in and of itself."

Of course Father Riley thought that. The man is laconic and enigmatic by his very nature, the complete opposite of Johnny's disposition. Johnny's mind was going a mile a minute, he wound his rosary so tightly around his fist, it would surely leave dents on his skin.

"I do not control my thoughts or imaginations. I am not chaste, I-"

His jaw locks up, the word refusing to leave his throat. Simon gives an admonitory grunt before Johnny continues,

"I stimulate myself."

"How often?"

Simon's response was quick, like he already had the question lined up for him.

"Every night."

"What do you think about?"

Johnny doesn't want to answer that. To even think of it is an affront to all he believes in. Father doesn't skip a beat,

"Johnny."

Johnny chews his lip, Father Riley was someone he held in very, very high regards. Looked up to him in a way that boarded blasphemy. If he wasn't already serving another God, he'd be at Simon's feet with no hesitation.

"Kyle...John...You..."

Each name came out slower than the last, he always thought confession as something that took a weight off his chest, but right now his heart is as the heaviest it's ever been.

"What about us?"

It was like Simon enjoyed making him suffer. It is only right, Johnny thought to himself, it's a part of his penance. In a sense, Johnny enjoyed suffering at Simon's hand, seemed like he was the only one to give him the proper punishment for his transgressions. Actually made him feel like he properly attoned for his sins.

"I think of touching them. You. This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins"

Johnny doesn't fight with himself telling Simon everything he wants to know now. Father would get the truth out of him one way or another eventually. He was nearly omniscient in that way.

"Hm."

Was all he heard from the other side of the booth. It was silent aside from the occasional sound of breathing from either side of the confessional.

"Father?"

Johnny, as untouched as a priest nowadays could be, couldn't fathom the idea of Simon, the man that he held closer to his heart than God himself sometimes, doing something as blasphemous as fucking his fist in one of the most sacred places of this church to the thought of one of the Deacons he prays with every day.

"Penance. Right."

Simon clears his throat,

"I will guide you through prayer in my office."

"Office, Father Riley?"

"Father Price has to take confession in the next 5 minutes."

The office is nothing to write home about. A little stuffy thing with a wooden desk, two chairs in front of it and a larger, plush chair behind. It doubled as the library as well, the old books permeating that signature musky, almost floral scent. Johnny stood in front of the desk, crossing himself before bowing his head.

"Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body."

Simon recited, walking around him to get to his desk. There was a pause, an indication for Johnny to start praying,

"I beseech Thee, O Lord, to grant us the pardon of my sins,"

There was the sound of a drawer opening and some shuffling of papers. Simon opened another drawer,

"Continue."

"For Thee have tried to keep the purity of my body, and to Thee have I entrusted my soul,"

Johnny was almost tempted to look up from prayer to see what the small thud from Simon was.

"If you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live."

Simon said. Johnny furrowed his brows, keeping his head down,

"Yes, Father."

There was a click, the opening of a box. Then, the unmistakable jingle of what could only be chains.

"Head down, MacTavish."

Simon always knew what Johnny wanted to do next. Sometimes it felt like Simon knew him better than he knew himself. Slow, heavy steps approached him, they stopped right behind him. As Simon reached around him, he held his breath. A cold metal pressed against his neck, it made him jolt, his eyes snapping open.

"Relax."

Johnny straightened up, the metal dug into the tender flesh of his neck.

"A cilice. Originally made of horsehair, it has evolved to be more effective in the way of mortification."

A glorified prong collar. Simon clipped it closed, giving it a gentle tug that made him gasp,

"Proceed."

"Uh- I,"

"Johnny."

Simon growled, threatening to tighten the device.

"W-wherefore, preserve Thou Thy lamb, O good Shepherd,"

Johnny nearly blacked out when Simon pushed his back, making him prop himself up by his hands on the desk in front of him.

"Do not permit-"

His voice was barely above a whisper. Simon, slipped a finger under the back of the chain and tugged,

"Do you believe in God, MacTavish?"

"Of course, Father."

"Then pray like you do."

Between the spikes digging into his neck and blood rushing to his dick, Johnny was feeling faint,

"Do not permit the beast which seeketh to devour me,"

A moan was ripped right out of his throat when Simon, grabs his hip and grinds himself against Johnny. Tears welled up in Johnny's eyes while Simon pulled at the collar harder,

"To consume me,"

Struggling to get the words out. His knees nearly gave out when Simon reached around, undoing his pants, shoving a cold hand down to grip him tightly.

"To consume me,"

Johnny repeated. A calloused thumb worked his precome over his sensitive tip. He nearly whimpered when the large hand pulled away from his shaft. He did whimper when a foot pushed one of his to move to the side, opening his legs more. Behind him there was a spitting sound before a smack to his entrance made him dig his nails into the desk that supported his weight.

"And grant me to prevail over,"

An undignified moan came from Johnny and a hiss of a sharp breath came from Father Riley while his fat, drooling tip pushed into Johnny.

"Simo-"

"Keep going."

Another tug of the collar and the dam broke, rivers of Johnny's tears rushed down his blushing cheeks. His words warbled,

"The evil desires of my flesh."

A hum of approval came from behind him while Simon's hips met his. There was an approving pat on his hip,

"Good lad."

Johnny chewed his lip; it hurt, it was hell, it was agonizing. Then Simon rocked his hips.

"Fucking hell, Simon!"

Simon kisses his teeth disapprovingly, yanking the cilice to past the point of pain. The small metal spikes threatened to break skin. Johnny's back was now pressed up against Simon's chest. By the grace of God, or Father Riley, he started off with slow strokes, letting Johnny adjust to the size of him. There wasn't really a way to adjust to Simon's size though, especially for the inexperienced. There was only enough pleasure to push through the pain and ask for more. And Father Riley, the gracious man he is, gave him more. Gave him more until Johnny's spend shot up in thick ropes, staining his collared shirt. Gave him more until Johnny's voice was hoarse from repeating his name. Gave him more until Johnny had no more tears to cry. Gave him more until Simon's spend was running down his leg. Only then did Father Riley grant Johnny the relief to breathe again. While reciting the prayer of Absolution, Simon cleaned up the scene. Cilice undone and set back in its box. Boxers pulled up and slacks buttoned up. A sigh came from Father Riley when he stepped back to look at Johnny,

"Straight to the priory, can't let anyone see you like this."

Simon straightened out Johnny's collar and ran a hand through his hair, gripping it lightly to make him look up, planting a rough kiss on his trembling lips,

"Go in peace."

"Thanks be to God."

Johnny responded, not too sure which one he was thanking.

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

When Ghost drifted to sleep on Price's bed in the room where they were all hanging out, no one really noticed for a little while.

He'd been quiet today, so no one pushed him to talk, so they didn't spot he was snoozing for another few minutes.

Gaz was the first to spot it, face splitting into a grin as he nudged Soaps leg with his foot to get his attention. “Pstt Tav. Bet ye can't cuddle up to him without waking him.”

Soap grinned ferally, “Bet, ay can totally snuggle ‘im” he stood up, sitting next to Ghost on the bed, giving an extra look over to ensure he was indeed asleep.

He then just layed down, onto one of ghosts arms that was splayed out. Holding his breath as Ghost stirred.

Luckily for him, the lieutenant did not wake, simply rolled over slightly, pulling soap closer, and cuddling him.

Gaz pulled a face in surprise. “Damn … ye reckon he'd cuddle me two?"

Soap grinned, gesturing for his mate to try, as Gaz settled against Ghosts other side, subsequently also being pulled into a cuddle.

Both sergeants had shit eating grins as the snuggled closer. Both in disbelief that this actually happened.

When price finally glanced over, he has to do a double take. “Lads… what?”

Soap grinned “Come on cap! We are gently dog piling LT, aka cuddles”

Price, after a moments hesitation, gently settled on top of them.

Within 10 minutes all of them were out. When Ghost woke, he got a little bit baffled, but simply closed his eyes and enjoyed it.

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

Weaknesses part 6: birthday present

cw: this one is nasty lol

Gaz wants to make home movies :) special lingerie for the occasion, a really nice camcorder you had no idea he had, a tripod he borrowed from someone who definitely doesn’t know what he’s using it for. And he wants to have you in literally every position you’ll let him get you in. One day, Gaz is going to get drunk and let slip that the video exists, and Soap is going to beg to see it, just so you know.

Ive mentioned what Soap wants for his birthday a couple of times, but I’ll say the more tame of my ideas again: no deodorant and he wants you to work out. Literally get as sweaty as you can with as much of your musk in your underwear as possible. Nothing to hide your natural scent. He wants to bury his face in your panties and your pits while her jerks himself off, then he’s gonna shoves his face in your cunt and spend a few hours down there.

Simon wants you to go somewhere with him wearing a skirt, and going commando. Some mid-thigh length number that he can easily slip his way under wherever you are, whenever he feels like it. Don’t worry, he’ll help you hold it down when a breeze comes by.

Price wants you collared. Who says just cause it’s his birthday, he should be the only one getting a gift? Don’t worry— he won’t have you leashed when you go out for his birthday dinner— just when you get home. Well, maybe in the car. But when you’re out, he keeps a grip on the back of the collar to lead you around, as casually as he puts his hand on the small of your back usually. And you KNOW the first thing that gonna happen when you get home is you getting on your knees, the leash wrapped in his fist while he pulls your mouth farther down his cock.

König wants heat roleplay. There, I said it. He already calls you maus, now he wants to see you wet and needy and desperate for him like a mammal in heat. Is he going to ask you to wear ears and a tail? No. Is he going to get so hard he almost passes out if you do? Yes. He loves the idea of you needing him and only him to be satisfied— that there’s a fire inside you that only he can quench. And to do so, he’s gonna have to fuck you raw until you’re dripping with him, bred the way you need to be.

Nikolai wants costumes and roleplay. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. Teacher and schoolgirl, pilot and stewardess, slasher and camp counselor, knight and princess, evil advisor and princess (and yes, he gets you a different princess dress than the one from last year), he comes up with a new one every year. Once he even managed to get what quite honestly looked like authentic uniforms from world war 2, one Russian infantry and one nurse’s uniform.

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

Can I request NSFW headcanons for Astarion, Gale, Wyll, Halsin, Dammon, Rolan, and Zevlor overstimulating his female s/o please?

Astarion

Overstimulating his partner is probably one of the things that Astarion enjoys most.

He loves watching them fall apart. Their world reduced to just him and the pleasure. Watching those pretty tears well up in their eyes.

Astarion won’t stop until they are begging, and then he finally releases them.

He whispers sweet nothings about what a good job they did and how sweet they are, as he comforts them.

Gale

Gale is into pushing limits (as we all know) and pushing his partner’s limits are one of his favorites.

Having sex corporeally again, Gale wants to re-remember everything about it, and what satisfying his partner. He is a stickler for research.

Gale will tease every part of their body and catalog the response. To the point that every touch causes a reaction and the research is moot.

He also has an arsenal of magical naughty tactics to help. Should his fingers need a rest.

Wyll

King of the Slow Burn, Wyll likes to take his time with his partner.

Whether it’s the first or the fortieth time they have had sex, Wyll always takes his time. They’ve waited long enough to enjoy.

He wants them to experience all life has to offer. Hear their moans, their gasps, their pleas for more or less.

It’s a blissful torment for him as well, as Wyll is not immune to any of this. But the waiting makes it all that much more worthwhile.

Halsin

As a purveyor of all things sexual, Halsin has tried overstimulation before with his partners. He likes the wait, the build up.

As with nature, a great passion takes time to grow like the mighty oak. And he would experience all that nature and his partner has to offer.

Halsin is open to all forms of stimulation but prefers his hands and mouth.

He would spend hours drinking their sweet honey, to the point that they and their sex was beginning them to stop. Which he does immediately if asked.

Dammon

It’s not intentional. Genuinely, that is not his goal.

Dammon just likes to cuddle and is very into frottage. Being close to his partner and just kissing & holding each other his actual preferred method of intimacy, over sex.

He’ll do it for hours if they have time. Not realizing that his partner is overstimulated until they beg him to fuck them.

Dammon will of course be surprised, blush, but happily comply.

Rolan

Much like Gale, Rolan has several magical attributes at his disposal. But unlike Gale, Rolan is not going this for ‘research’.

He abuses his powers to bully his partner. Possibly over some comment about his prowess or to get back at them for an argument.

The wizard would torment his love past the point of tears & apology. Eventually ending their torture with a mind shattering orgasm.

Rolan will apologize after. Realizing after, like with most things in his life, that he went too far. He would be apprehensive to try it again, even if asked.

Zevlor

Zevlor is less familiar with this practice. However, he is willing to try anything his partner wishes in the bedroom.

They start out slow. Calculated. Zevlor wants to make sure that he is doing it right and doesn’t want to hurt them.

He almost gives up when seeing their agony because of this. Not sure where the ‘ecstasy in agony’ comes from but continues as it is their request.

Afterwards he tells them that he enjoyed it, but Zevlor would prefer not to try it again. Maybe with him on the other end but he’s just not cut out for ‘tormenting’ his lover.

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

Synopsis: You teach Astarion a spell that allows him to speak to animals ... and unleash chaos. From building a bat army, to coaching spiders on how to have sex, there's certainly never a dull moment when it comes to your beloved.

[Astarion x Tav/Reader]

Genres: Romance, humour, fluff, crack.

Warnings: Sexual humour.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

"I've got to hand it to you, darling. You make conversing with common beasts look ever so engaging."

You glanced over at Astarion and smiled. He had volunteered to accompany you on today's hunt, probably to stretch his legs and enjoy the thrill of the chase.

As nonchalant as he always seemed, you'd noticed that he'd donned a rakish hunting cap over his curls and exchanged his regular clothing for a leather armour ensemble. Let it never be said that Astarion didn't get into the spirit of things.

Dusting off your knees, you rose to your feet.

"It's ... not always as simple as casting a spell. Each species has its own unique behaviour, traits and dialects. You've got to have a fair understanding of what makes them tick. Offend a squirrel and it may lead you to an owlbear cave instead of buried treasure."

He groaned and clicked his tongue.

"Sounds like a lot of work, if you ask me. I've only ever learned the spells and cantrips that get me out of tough spots."

Considering those words, you watched the small starling you'd recruited flit away through the treetops, ready to begin scouting your path ahead after the promise of some delectable insects.

You turned back to Astarion.

"Now that I think about it, I have heard tales of vampires being able to command beasts."

His expression soured and he waved a hand dismissively.

"Oh, that's plain old domination. All the beasts of the soil and air, at your command. Ravening wolves, infected with bloodlust, ready to tear out your enemies' throats."

Pausing, he shot you a quick look before turning away.

"It's nothing like what you do. You actually ... speak to them. Understand them. You don't try to control them, or treat them with ... cruelty."

Without waiting for your reply, he strode forward through the trees, in the wake of the starling. Staring after him, you felt a telltale surge of tenderness in your chest, the kind that you'd been feeling increasingly often in his presence.

Brow furrowing slightly, you hurried after him.

When you did manage to catch up, his equanimity seemed to be restored. Astarion's moods, once you knew him well enough, were positively mercurial.

He slowed down and walked at your side, touch occasionally grazing your wrist. You opened your mouth to speak, then closed it again.

After a few more minutes, you felt his little finger curl briefly around yours, giving a small tug.

"What's got you in such a brown study?"

You turned to him, expression serious.

"Well, I was thinking ... would you like me to teach you the spell for speaking to animals?"

He stopped dead, blinking in surprise.

"Well ... I certainly wouldn't mind. But what's this in aid of? You and Halsin have far more mastery over the skill than I do."

"It doesn't have to be for a specific purpose. Just for you to see what it feels like. You can practice on your own after I teach you the rudiments. And maybe ... then we can speak to animals together?"

You watched him, taking in his reaction.

Astarion was an exceptionally handsome man, there was no denying it. Every facial expression and gesture was an extension of his deadly charm and effortless magnetism.

It was when he looked at you like this, however, gaze trusting and guileless, hesitant, a fleeting radiance in his smile, that your heart raced and you knew, with certainty, that you'd made the right call.

"Hm. I suppose ... I'd like that. Yes. Who knows what I could achieve with a skill like that?"

His tone was flippant, cheerful, but you saw the way his eyes slid away from you, the way the tips of his ears twitched. He looked almost ... bashful.

You placed a handle gently on his arm before resuming your tracking of the starling.

"Good. I think you'd be quite talented at it."

Considering Astarion's usual attitude to such matters, you're surprised by how seriously he takes the matter of learning the simple spell.

He appears one evening at your tent, when most of your other companions have turned in for the night. It had been a fairly relaxed day, one focused on receiving deliveries of goods at camp and making sure that stores of valuable items and potions were replenished.

Astarion seats himself before you, hands placed on his knees, scarlet eyes alert and trained on you.

"Well, darling, here I am, at your disposal. It's time to don the robe of spellmaster and educate little old me."

You grinned back at him.

"Please don't let Gale hear you call me spellmaster."

"Why? It might do him a world of good."

"Right before he comes at me with a certified board exam to prove my credentials. Now, raise your hands. Like this. Perfect. I'll teach you the basic incantation first, then we'll focus on channeling the Weave."

He is a remarkably quick study. His eyes never leave your hands, your lips, your eyes, your gestures as you take him through the process. It's hard not to feel somewhat flustered by such rapt attention. You don't fancy yourself the best teacher, but you do try, for his sake.

When you feel that he's mastered the basics, you clap your hands together and rise.

"Right! It's time to put your skills to the test."

He arches an eyebrow.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Cast the spell on yourself."

He complies, eyes closing briefly, the thrum of magical power matching yours as you also speak the words and feel the slow shift in your mind. Astarion flexes his fingers, nodding slowly.

"I think I've managed it. So, where do we take the lesson from here?"

Instead of replying, you whistle loudly. Astarion sits bolt upright as the eager patter of paws approaches your tent. Scratch noses his way in, tail wagging furiously as he spots both you and Astrion waiting for him.

"Friend! And Fang Friend! Both here! What are you doing? Do you have something for Scratch? Are you doing magic like wizards?"

You watch in silent fondness as Astarion's eyes grow wider and he leans toward Scratch as if he cannot believe what he hears. His voice is low, hesitant.

"Scratch? I can ... hear you speak now. This feels ... rather odd."

The white-furred head whips in Astarion's direction and Scratch's tail stills for a minute.

"Fang Friend? You can hear me?"

Clearing his throat, Astarion seems to regain some of his composure. He offers Scratch a charming, if superior smile.

"Of course. I've just learned the appropriate spell, thanks to my sweet dove here. So, this is your voice. It does seem ... nice, I suppose."

"Oh, Fang Friend!"

Without further ado, Scratch launches himself at Astarion who lets out a decidedly undignified squawk at his actions.

"Wait! Stop at once! What do you think you're ... why are you slobbering all over ... excuse me!"

"Fang Friend learned to speak, just for me! For Scratch! Oh, great day! Happy day! Fang Friend is the best!"

"I certainly did not learn the spell just for you, you mangy little - "

Astarion pauses, one hand braced on Scratch's probing snout, as your laughter fills the tent. The dog instantly switches his attention to you, pouncing on you in delight.

"Thank you for teaching Fang Friend!"

"It's always a pleasure, Scratch."

Cradling his soft flank against you, you scrub at his belly, causing him to roll over in blissful abandon. Glancing up, you see Astarion watching you with that rare warmth, the kind that kindles his eyes to the soft hue of a sunrise over the sleeping forest.

Of course, it isn't long before Astarion's new knowledge starts to be employed in ... unique and innovative ways. You'd expected it, naturally, but he still manages to surprise, vex and amuse you at every turn.

One one such morning, you turn your tent and its contents upside down searching for your missing boot. Brow creasing in consternation (because you just knew it had been beside your bedroll the night before) you step outside, scanning the ground.

And spot Scratch, standing a few paces away, your boot clasped in his teeth. You frown, puzzled. He's never done that before.

"Scratch? May I have my boot back?"

Instead of complying with his usual obedience, he trots off, pausing at the edge of the clearing to ensure that you follow him. When he is certain that you're on his trail, he darts off into the trees.

Muttering under your breath, you push your feet into the spare pair of sandals you own, wondering what on earth had gotten into the canine.

You catch glimpses of him up ahead on the forest path, and he runs off each time you get close, leading you to something.

Eventually, you hear the rush of water up ahead. It must be the small waterfall where you sometimes go to bathe for a touch more privacy. Stepping out of the foliage, you stop dead in your tracks at the sight which awaits you.

Scratch has paused before the edge of the water, tail wagging happily now that he'd completed his task of luring you out here. Under Astarion's direction of course. That much is obvious.

Lying shirtless and seductively posed on his elbows, the vampire in question regards you with a coy smile from his vantage point on a rock. His pale skin glistens with water, the rivulets running tantalizingly over sculpted pectorals and the ridges of his taut abdomen.

"Oh, look who it is, Scratch. Our darling who'd been far too busy yesterday evening to spend time with us. Isn't it lovely that they're here?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

"Really, Astarion?"

He sits up, the razor-tipped smile exhibiting no remorse whatsoever.

"Well, you're here now, aren't you? Climb up here. The view is quite splendid."

"We have important things to accomplish today, you know."

"And Shadowheart won't be awake for another half hour. We both know that. Now hush and get up here."

Reluctantly, you clamber up beside him, Scratch following you, your boot still clutched safely between his jaws. Astarion insistently pats the rock surface where he wants you to sit, and you do, your side pressed against his rather damp one.

In spite of his provocative pose, you know that he simply wants companionship, the sweet affection only you can grant him. That much had been established during your conversation in camp, that night after encountering the drow merchant.

He turns to you, nose inches from your cheek, taking you in. You laugh and flush slightly under his intense scrutiny.

"Stop staring."

"I can't."

His voice is low, rough-edged with sincere affection. You turn your head and your lips slot perfectly against his. He draws you in, one arm curled around your waist, kissing you tenderly, softly.

The moment is broken when a furry head butts in between your forms and Scratch drops your boot into your lap.

"Fang Friend said you'd be happy, and you are!"

You lean across and pinch Astarion's side.

"Fang Friend had better watch himself. Abusing the power I've given him already is a risky business."

Surprisingly, Astarion didn't seem to mind Scratch's intrusion. His fingers drift down behind the dog's ears absently, his gaze taking in the waterfall, the sun over the treetops, you.

You decided that the little distraction was worth it, when he looked like this, like an ordinary man enjoying the morning air, the wind tousling his unruly curls, the corners of his eyes and mouth upturned in relaxed amusement.

Speaking with animals certainly had its merits.

The next time he makes use of his newfound power, it's obvious that he's been practicing without your knowledge in order to surprise you.

A convoy of Absolute cultists is making its way towards the main encampment, caravans laden with valuable supplies throwing up a cloud of dust from the road, heavily guarded on all sides.

Squinting out from your vantage point on a rise nearby, you bite your lip. You are heavily outnumbered, and the guards look like no slouches. Attacking head on would be out of the question.

Lae'zel shifts restlessly beside you, but she can clearly tell when strategy takes precedence over brawn. Astarion taps his fingers against the boulder you are crouched behind before a sly smile tugs at his lips.

He glances over at you and signals that he'd like to handle the distraction. You pause, uncertain, but he seems sure of himself, and Astarion never takes unnecessary risks in such perilous situations. Nodding, you watch as he slips into the shadows.

The caravan trundles along, undisturbed, until you begin to hear exclamations at the rear and front. Raising your head over the boulder for a quick look, you can make out many small, dark, darting shapes, pouring in a steady stream from the nearby trees.

They wheel, flap, buffet their wings against the faces of the guards who swing their weapons in wild arcs and hit nothing. Shadowheart turns to you, eyebrows raised.

"Those are bats."

Bats?

But wasn't that-

You had no further time to process that thought, because you'd spotted Astarion. The increasingly dense flock of generally nocturnal creatures had surrounded the entire caravan, preventing his passage from reaching the guards' attention. He cut the lines holding the wagons together, darting back out of sight as the heavy vehicles teetered and pitched backward, rolling down the hill towards the water below.

Shouts and desperate cries from the guards and merchants now reached your ears. They scrambled and tripped, swiping at the bats, trying to stop the passage of the errant wagons.

It was all in vain.

Astarion slipped away, into the shade of the trees once more, while Shadowheart readied the appropriate incantation. She focused, drawing on the weave, freezing the water just below the surface of the river so that the caravans would be submerged, but not so far down as to be unrecoverable.

As the team on the road below stamped, swore and made arrangements to call in assistance from the encampment to help them salavge the goods, bats streamed into the area behind the boulder where your party still remained hidden.

Dark wings took on a more corporeal form, and suddenly, Astarion was with you again. He smirked at your collective expressions.

Keeping your voice low, you hissed incredulously at him.

"How did you manage that? I thought ... that only - "

He completed your sentence, smug.

"That only full vampires could conjure animals like this? You'd be right, sweetheart. I haven't conjured any of these fine fellows."

Lae'zel was now looking supremely confused.

"But they're clearly following your lead, elf."

"Well, that's only because I've been getting to know them quite thoroughly over the past few weeks."

Now you were truly stumped.

"Getting ... to know them?"

"Why, yes! They inhabit a cave nearby. Granted, I've had to wade through my fair share of bat droppings, but it was certainly worth it."

He pointed to the bats that had perched on his shoulders and on the nearby branches.

"This is Balthazar, that's Bella and here's Brissinger. They were the first to approach me. And over here is Hilda, their second cousin, once removed. Here's Gerald, Jarvis and Phillip. They're triplets, would you believe. And this one is Laila. She's awfully shy, but she's partial to berries."

A silence followed this introduction. You coughed slightly.

"Astarion ... did you ... get to know each and every one of these bats? You befriended them?"

"But of course! Isn't that a lot better than commanding them to do what I want? We're all happy acquaintances and they'll help when we're in a pinch."

Shadowheart was staring at him a little less politely.

"And you keep telling me that I'm touched in the head."

Lae'zel snorted.

"Seems like you've found a work-around for vampire powers. Useful, if somewhat laborious."

She peered down towards the road, where the remaining Cultists were slowly trekking further away towards the encampment to obtain the help they'd been speaking about. The smaller guard that remained would be easily dealt with. She patted her sword and grinned.

"We can take them. Let's move."

As she descended the slope, Shadowheart following closely, you turned abruptly to Astarion, gripped him by the collar and pulled him into a swift kiss. One of the bats gave what was, unmistakably, a hoot.

Parting with him, you spied his pleased, if confused expression.

"What was that for, my sweet?"

"For being marvelous."

"Ha! Just wait until you see my bat cave."

After most battles, Astarion could generally be found at his tent, having cleaned up and tended his wounds. It was during these more relaxed evening hours that he would bring out his special spark lantern, burning brightly with a near-blue flame, to illuminate the repairs he effected to his clothes and armour.

Even though you'd assured him that you could afford to replace damaged items, he insisted on darning the torn edges of cloth, mending the split segments of leather, fixing metal plates into position. The activity seemed to provide him some means of relaxation.

When you sought him out, you certainly weren't expecting him to have company. And yet, there it was.

The sound of voices, engaged in what seemed to be a most riveting conversation.

"Well, how very rude of them!"

That was Astarion's voice. The reedy-sounding answer caused you some confusion. You didn't recognise the speaker. 

"Rude! Rude! Rude humans!"

"But you must have done something about it, surely?"

"Pecked holes in all her pumpkins, I did."

"You didn't! How wicked!"

A raucous laugh sounded from within his tent. You sidled closer, now infinitely curious. Astarion was speaking again, tone low and confidential.

"You know, I heard from Titchwittle that she doesn't even maintain the thatching on her roof. All kinds of vermin nesting in there."

"Ooh, he's right! He's right! We won't go near it! It's crawling with nasty things."

"I suspected so. I saw her haggling the life out of the vendors at the market, so one would think her husband's managed to save up enough by now to mend things, but there we go."

"Have you been on any roofs? Ingis said he saw you! Saw you! Sneaking at night!"

"Well, how very perceptive of him. As a matter of fact, we did raid an arms dealer last week. He must have seen me then."

"He did! Ingis did! Said your hair looked like a wet cat's fur in the rain, he did."

Astarion gasped, scandalized.

"He said what?"

"Wet cat! Wet cat!"

"Oh, I'll give Ingis a piece of my mind when I see him next. Who is he to judge? His feathers look as healthy as a zombie's scalp."

Unable to resist the burning curiosity, you pushed the flap of Astarion's tent aside.

There he was, surrounded by the paraphernalia of his sewing kit, the fluorescent light from the lamp illuminating his pale features and the ... companion he was clearly enjoying a fruitful gossip session with.

A raven.

It was perched on a nearby wooden stand, eyes bright and watchful. Astarion looked up at you as you entered, expression mildly outraged.

"Darling, did you hear that? Can you believe someone would call me anything other than beautiful?"

Perhaps, the most memorable occasion during which Astarion had put his animal speaking ability to use had been the time he'd attempted to tutor the spiders.

On the subject of how to have sex.

You'd returned from the city one evening, having purchased some supplies, expecting a hearty meal to sate your ravenous appetite.

What you found instead was a cooling cook pot and Gale hunched over in despair, begging Astarion to stop, please stop, for the love of all things good in the world and didn't he even care about Gale's appetite?

Hands on hips, aspect stern, Astarion was firmly ignoring the wizard's pleas. He rapped the stick he held against one palm.

"Gale, stop your whinging. Just look at them. Such poor form! No finesse, no stamina, a series of anaemic in-and-outs and they're done! How atrocious! This isn't acceptable."

"They're spiders, for the love of - "

"You there! That isn't how you hold your mate! Wrap your legs around her further. Yes, that's it. Now reach. Yesssss. You can do it. Put your back into it, fellow."

"Oh Gods, please, someone make it stop - "

"And you! Do you think I can't see exactly what you're doing? Keep your fangs away from him until he's done. Hells, control yourself. Bite off his head and his pedipalps won't reach your opening, I can tell you that."

Gale's haunted gaze met yours and he hurried over. You tried your best to control your features as he grabbed you by the elbows to steady himself.

"Can you ... do something about this? He's got these... spiders lined up over here doing mating drills."

Patting Gale's arm reassuringly, you made your way over to where Astarion was watching his eight-legged disciples with a critical eye.

He spotted you and beamed, walking over to plant a sweet, searing kiss on your lips. One the spiders couples, having witnessed this, promptly went into overdrive. Astarion tutted fondly at them before wrapping his arm around your waist and gesturing to the spiders arranged before you in ... various stages of copulation.

"I saw a few of them going at it in the woods and darling, I was appalled. No wonder their population is dwindling. Their courtship rituals and mating strategies are deplorable."

"I'm certainly not complaining," muttered Gale, who was busying himself with the stew again to blot out the sight of the writhing arachnids.

You nodded earnestly.

"Oh, I understand. Without balance, an ecosystem cannot function."

Behind you, Gale whipped around, ladle pointing at you accusingly.

"Gods, you're no better than he is."

Astarion took you by the hand and led you closer.

"And now, my sweet, it's time to lavish these ignorant souls with your own knowledge. Go on, tell this one here how it's done."

You knelt and observed the attempts of the much smaller male, scrambling to find purchase on his chosen mate's back. Shaking your head, you raised a hand.

"Now, listen here. Sometimes roles must be reversed during mating. Sometimes one partner must be dominant, and other times, they should switch. Try a new position, maybe with you behind and under, instead of on top. That way, your pedipalps can reach her better."

Astarion clapped his hands, expression positively ecstatic.

"Oh, did you hear that, students? That's my darling for you! Always so perceptive. They knows exactly how to undulate their sweet waist when they're being dominant too - "

Gale had well and truly had enough. He strode over to the two of you, energy crackling along one finger as he pointed it at you like a weapon.

"I'm going to count to three. And this class had better be dismissed by the time I'm done."

Astarion hurriedly scattered his ardent pupils, calling after them.

"Same time next week. But we'll meet in the forest. Wouldn't want any of you getting singed by a certain someone while you're in the throes -"

"Astarion."

"There. They're gone. Not a single trace of them, Gale."

Gallantly offering you his elbow, Astarion escorted you to your tent with an air of wounded dignity. As soon as Gale was out sight, you both collapsed, wheezing with laughter.

"Did you see his - "

"Oh hells, his face."

"And the way he looked when those two spiders really started going at it - "

"Shhhh, he's making stew. And I'm starving. Don't distract him any more!"

Astarion straightened and swayed a little from side to side, expression playfully miffed.

"My treasure, all that teaching has worked up an appetite in me too."

"Come here."

You wrapped your arms around him, cradling him against you. It had been a long day, and you hadn't been with him for most of it. You did miss him, even though you'd only been away for such a relatively short time.

Burying your nose into his shoulder, you spoke, voice slightly muffled.

"First bats, then ravens, and now spiders?"

"I'm a vampire, darling. I must cultivate a certain ... aesthetic."

He bit down gently on the side of your neck, fangs scraping across the surface of the skin.

"But before I drink my fill, you need to eat. As hungry as I am, I can hear your stomach rumbling loud and clear."

You leaned back and regarded him mischievously. 

"Not as hungry as some of your pupils, it seems."

"Oh, they're hungry enough to eat each other, my love. And not in the nice way, either."

The corner of his mouth curved as you laughed, that devastating smile now filled with a warmth that had been glaringly absent when you'd first known him.

How far you both had come, how much faith you'd placed in this blossoming love that somehow continued to raise its delicate head through the crushing weight of peril and conflict.

As with all his endeavours, Astarion had taken your gift and made it his own. Be it gregarious ravens, or lustful spiders, you knew that nature would answer Astarion's call.

How could it not?

It had watched him struggle, despair, overcome and flourish, and if your years in the wild had taught you anything, it was that nature rewarded its most glorious survivors.

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

SKIN SCRATCHES AND HORN BALM

wyll ravengard x gn!tav ✧ 5.4k words

summary: Wyll has a difficult time adjusting to his new form. You make it your mission to help him.

tags: immense amounts of fluff, wyll has severe body image issues, two nerds fall in love, undescriptive tav, a hint of body worship (listen the horns are sensitive)

notes: very very proud of this one so lets pretend it was posted for wyllvember!! also there are a lot of lore headcanons here

→ read on ao3

Wyll copes surprisingly well with his transformation. Until he doesn’t.

He’s the stalwart type, a do-gooder, swallows down conflict and coughs up martyrdom. Owns a cleaner soul than all the rest of your ragtag, dysfunctional group combined. Deserves so much more than what this world has thrown at him, than the shackles Mizora holds the key to.

He’s selfless and kind and it’s difficult to watch him adjust.

The slow descent begins when he wakes that next morning, having pierced his pillow sometime during the night. He’s a good sport about it. Shares a laugh with Karlach, says something about sleeping on the ground from now on, pleads with Astarion to sew up the hole for him.

But you see it. The drained light from his good eye, the sag of his shoulders as he picks through his coin purse to uphold his end of the deal.

When he thinks nobody is looking, he observes himself. The wretched thickness of claws where fingernails once grew; the sharp, jutting edges of high cheekbones; the weight of those horns, an ever-reminder of what his gallant sacrifice so kindly gifted him in return: mockery.

On the surface, between epidermis and soul itself, not much has changed. He’s still him, but lesser now. More prone to wayward thought, to silence than before. Such is the bane of resolve, of unfair consequence, you suppose.

From your place by the fire, you watch him at his tent, engrossed in some dusty adventure novel he found in the last dilapidated ruin. The night’s gone on long enough, yet your companions fail to sleep. Thoughts plague each of you, unique in their manifestations, but you feel them. Every sharp strike of fear, the simmer of anger, the cool wash of dread.

The tadpole squirms inside your head, and the sticky spill of alcohol coats your lap as your hands shoot to both throbbing temples. Its presence always consumes you, the midnight loom of death. Inevitability.

Perched nearby on the log, Karlach calls out, an outsider’s worry licking up the back of your skull. “Alright, soldier?”

A few moments of eye-gouging pain before relief finds you with a weary huff. “Nothing more than a headache,” you say, sitting your emptied tankard on the packed dirt at your feet.

“No, I get it.” Her gaze shifts to the sopping wet state of your robe, head tilting in pity. “Waste of a good pint, though.”

You like Karlach. She’s strong and skilled, could light up a pitch-dark room with her commentary. And she cares, in a way none of your other companions do. Without all the flimsy strings attached. Craves connection in a way that none of you can fathom: the physicality of existence itself.

You glance at Wyll once again to find his fingers tracing the base of a horn, almost subconscious in their slow trek over the jagged skin as his eyes focus on the page. The temptation to delve into his mind, his thoughts in particular, proves tantalizing. You could do it. Finding your shared connection is easy as breathing, as the beat of your heart, as tugging loose a knot, but you don’t.

Instead, you stand, legs tacky from the drying ale.

He looks upon you at your approach, greets you with a stretch of pretty lips then a flash of worry in the furrow of his brow. Knows your mind-state better than you do. Privacy is nonexistent and boundaries mean nothing when you’ve effectively synced brains, and when you think about it, you’ve lived six different lifetimes. Comforting in its own way. No hiding like this, understanding at its most potent. The telepathic intimacy is nice, given the otherwise hopelessness of the situation. But it’s something you struggle to normalize.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, voice a soothing lull to the noise rooting around inside your brain matter.

“I just wanted to check on you, considering…” you motion with your hands to the world around you, unable to find the best phrasing.

He offers a once-chuckle in response then sets his book aside. “I understand.” A hand rises, possibly to motion for you to settle beside him, before he catches the darkened fabric of your—

“I’m an absolute mess right now,” said before he can open his mouth to comment.

“As we all are.” He breezes past the subject of your appearance—no doubt you took some souvenirs of the forest in your hair, and the kohl around your eyes has long-since smudged, and Gale commented far earlier about the state of your robes—

Your thoughts must echo too loud, because a sharp ring cuts through your head and his face twists up as he shares in your sheepishness.

“Don’t worry. I’m no judger of appearances, especially as of late.”

He’s charming in a way that would make some younger, more idealistic version of you swoon. A sickly-sweet feeling that coats your ribs in thick honey, and he looks at you as if to look inside you, through you. A mourning type of sadness, a touch of grief.

“I meant what I said a few nights ago. Although, you’re more handsome than devil to me.”

He laughs. “And as I said a few nights ago, I’ll pretend you aren’t fooling me.”

Yesterday morning, while on the road to Waukeen’s Rest, utterly bathed in goblin blood, Astarion asked you a simple question (which companion’s blood would you rather taste?) then found your answer amusing (Wyll? I always thought he’d taste too sweet). Now, looking at the man-turned-devil, at the crinkle of his eyes and display of pretty teeth, you’re inclined to agree.

You crave him, in the way that Lae’zel craves blood upon her sword, or Astarion craves a living pulse, or the druids crave the expanse of the wild. It’s a carnal longing that you’re sure the tadpole must facilitate. No better explanation for it.

“How are they?” you ask, settling in beside him.

“More sensitive than I imagined. Quite itchy.” His hand follows the curve of a horn, claws twitching.

“I wouldn’t mind helping, if you need.” You blink. “To scratch them, I mean.”

He searches your face for any sign of a jest and, upon finding a calm sincerity, he looks away. Picks up his book with a slow smile. “I’ll consider it.”

Your camp lay quiet the following morning, the grasses of the surrounding woods still wet with dew, the sun not yet bright enough to rouse those shielded by tent fabric.

Karlach joins you, restless and excited, the skin-deep burn of her beating heart lighting the way forward.

“Think we can make it back before the others wake up?” she asks, peering down at you as an arm lifts away a mess of vines.

You pass easily through the brush, spotting the dirt path that continues on toward the grove.

“If they have what we’re looking for,” you say. “By the way, what are we looking for?”

“We have the rogue’s morsel. Just need poison ivy berries. I’d say Nettie’s our best bet.”

“Poison ivy? Seems a bit counter-productive.”

“Good thing we won’t be rolling in it.”

A favor for a favor, she had said. Overheard your conversation with Wyll and offered a solution based on her own horned experience.

“Did yours itch like that?”

She takes a moment to give a hearty laugh. “I drove my mum crazy when they started growing. We’re born with tiny little nubs that grow with us, so you eventually get used to it.”

She glows as she speaks of her family, shimmers beneath the orange rays of sunrise, and you listen, enraptured, as she recalls her time as a young tiefling. The growth spurts and the teething and the unyielding love of her parents.

By the time she asks the inevitable, the sun has risen in the sky and the surroundings spark familiarity. A cut of the landscape here, an oddly-shaped rock there. Close to your destination.

“So, what’s your deal with him anyway?”

“Who?”

“Wyll.”

You stumble over a broken-off branch at the mention of his name, and Karlach moves to catch you—such burning heat—before recoiling back. Your face twists in a show of empathy as foreign frustration gnaws between the cage of your ribs.

She huffs. “Don’t give me that look. You’re trying to change the subject.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. He’s just,” you gesture wildly, magic sparking from your fingertips. She takes a step away from you, “nice.”

“Just nice? Oh, you have it bad, soldier.”

The breath empties from your lungs in a long, heaving sigh. “I know.”

Nettie is quick to gift you what you need, nice enough to crush the ingredients into a smooth balm. No coin needed. Something about being grateful that your group saved the grove from impending goblin invasion.

Look at what being nice gives you in return. Astarion would be fuming.

“We made a bunch’a these for the little ones running about.” She scoops the ointment into a jar then seals the top with a stretch of hide and a piece of twine. “Should take care of all your itchy-horn needs. Just keep it somewhere dark. The berries will spoil otherwise.”

The trip back passes quickly, and soon Karlach is waving you over to Wyll’s tent, jar held tight between your hands.

You feel much like a child, front tooth missing, knobby-kneed and veiled to the horrors of the world. Wrought with butterflies by a flourishing crush. Doubly so when you spot him knelt by his bedroll, struggling to finesse his shirt over his horns. It’s adorable yet so utterly, horrifically sad. The latter wins out by a large margin.

“Fancy some help?” you ask, mouth twitching into a frown when his body tenses.

Helplessness and Wyll stand on opposite sides of one very large spectrum. But that’s it, isn’t it? Part of Mizora’s punishment? The valiant hero, left to roll in the dirt due to his golden, crumbling heart. Becoming the very thing he fought against.

How much can he take from himself to better those around him? How much more can he lose, can he give sans recompense?

“Never, in my wildest dreams, could I have imagined that putting on a shirt be this damned difficult.” He turns toward you in silent resignation, and humiliation rolls off him in assaulting waves.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone needs help sometimes.” The issue is his arm, specifically the clump of sharpened bone-teeth protruding from his elbow that catch the fabric. His other arm twists up, unable to reach. “Straighten this arm for me.”

With a big of finagling, the shirt gives just enough for you to tug it down over his head.

At the reveal of his face, you breathe out a heavy sigh. “You might need to invest in larger sleeves from now on.” You meet eyes as your fingers smooth down the collar. “A wider neck, perhaps.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You may be right.” Upon glancing down, he spots the jar sat atop his bedroll, head tilting. “What’s this?”

You pick it up and begin to unwind the twine. “It’s horn balm. Supposed to help with the itching.”

There it is. That smile blooming warmth across his face, and that warmth settles like a fresh cup of tea in your chest. “Where did you…”

“Nettie was kind enough to make some.”

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have—“

“Just try it.”

He’s slow, hesitant to reach for the jar you offer, claws curling inward as they near your palm. Careful to avoid grazing the skin.

The first pass of ointment around the base of a horn leaves his skin shiny, rips a relieved sigh from his throat.

“How does it feel?”

He hums. “It’s numbing, both hot and cold. A wonderful relief nonetheless.”

“You have Karlach to thank. I just carried the jar.”

He looks up at you, good eye blood-red and piercing. Softened at your sheepishness. “Well, I’d rather thank both of you. So,” a simple nod, “thank you.”

A simple nod unravels you at the seams, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. He feels it.

Godsdamn it, you do have it bad.

But things get worse, as things are wont to do.

As a child, you possessed quite odd thoughts: hypotheticals, what-ifs, fantastical daydreams of the innocent variety. While amongst the crowds in town, you wondered—feared—sometimes if those around you could hear your inner monologue.

There was a boy a year your senior, pretty with his freckles and expressively pointed ears who utterly enamored you. But you let your fear consume your mind (don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it), and the boy thought you aloof, uncaring. You couldn’t listen when he talked, failed to play like the other children. Eventually, he stopped talking to you altogether.

History tends to repeat itself. Except the fear now manifests into the realm of rationality.

With mortality looming, a taunt in every wriggle amongst the folds of your brain, you can’t afford attachment. This won’t end well, but Wyll’s presence lingers. Your tadpoles find companionship in each other. He is the boy and you are ten years old again, and in your effort to appear normal, you make one great, big fool of yourself.

Such as tonight. Gale falls ill with chest pain (you suspect the increasingly-erratic orb, but he waves off your worry with a weakened hand and a jest) and a newly-joined Halsin tends to him, which leaves the rest of your group scrambling to find a cook for tonight’s dinner.

Sticks are drawn and, during an unfortunate bout of unluck, you choose the shortest one.

Wyll tends to hover when food is about. He requires no sustenance, but his human body still craves the experience of eating: the smell of garlic, the chopping of vegetables, the bubble of broth.

He sits just over your shoulder as you prepare ingredients for soup, and you lock your mind behind a wrought-iron cage to keep away all the prying fingers sat in wait.

Blue skies. Dead goblins. Boars. The river looked beautiful yesterday—a nice time to swim.

He leans forward to smell the cooking meat, eyes closed, and the leash on your thoughts pulls taut.

Red. Such a beautiful color. The smell of jasmine and iron and ozone is quickly becoming your favorite. Just a little further, and he’ll be—

Your cut of a particularly stout carrot grows sharper, more heavy on the knife’s downswing.

Stupid tadpole. Stupid pretty warlocks. Stupid cultists. Stupid—

Pain lances through your hand and you recoil back, dropping the knife with a dull clatter onto the cutting board. Blood pools in your cupped, uninjured palm, fingers numbing.

Your humiliation sings to the farthest reaches of camp, and you refuse to look up. You crave to outrun it, into the forest where your thoughts are your own and though you experience no peace nowadays, the chittering of the woods drowns out the hum of the tadpole.

The creek muddies red as you rinse away the blood, well on your way to self-pity. Perhaps… hm. Perhaps you haven’t been coping as well as you assumed. At its core, the issue isn’t your child-like crush on Wyll at all. It’s everything. Your mind is not your own. Your body is soon to forsake you as well. Your enemies sit in wait, and those who align themselves to you worship the very cause of this mess. A mysterious visitor haunts your dreams, neither friend nor foe.

Your fingers ache, and the blood slows.

A short while after, the crunch of footsteps echo throughout the area, almost purposeful in their heaviness. You feel him before he pushes past the tree line, a striking shiver that licks up your spine.

“I know you need time alone, and I’ll give you that, but I just,” he stops himself with a sighing breath, kneeling beside you on the muddy bank. “I’m worried about the state of your hand. That knife was quite sharp.”

You lift it from the water, fingers half-curled to keep the wounds calm. On fore and middle finger, a deep gash just below each fingernail. Deep enough to reveal the white of bone.

He makes a noise deep in his throat then outstretches a hand, palm up in invitation.

Against your better judgement, you accept and oh, gods, he tends to you so delicately, cradling your injured fingers, skin warm as the Hells. Like a stream of midday sunlight, or a thick blanket, or a loving hug. Despite horns and claws and ridges and all (despite nothing—he need not change for anyone, specifically you), his touch feels a little like home.

Don’t cry.

“I’m no Shadowheart, but I have an extensive knowledge of first aid.” With a grin, he tilts his head to showcase the long scars bisecting his cheek before centering his attention on your injury. “I believe I also owe you for the horn balm.”

“We didn’t do it so you could owe us, Wyll.”

In a moment his face falls, and he stays silent, deigns to focus on the cloth that he weaves around each finger.

“I’m serious,” you say. “There are still people in the world who do nice things for the ones they care about. To make their lives a little easier.”

“I think you deserve a bit of care every once in a while.”

He’s deflecting, you know this, but you’ll allow it this time. Allow him to aim some of that characteristic kindness your way.

But that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it.

“Well, you should prepare for reciprocation.” Your lips spread into a smile. “Karlach has a very big heart.”

He laughs, and the sun burns brighter.

You realize only when he’s finished that your fingers feel no pain, and something intimate—more intimate than mind-reading or shared emotion—thrums between you. It tastes of ozone in your mouth. Of peace and bonding and hope: a future that lingers just beyond the horizon.

He squeezes your hand, ever-gentle, careful with his claws, and a piece of you crumbles. That burgeoning stubbornness you’ve tried so hard to cling to, ever since you were ten years old, slowly being chiseled away. “This should suffice until Shadowheart’s free to help.”

Dread gnarls in your stomach. “Shit. The soup.” You wince. “How mad is she?”

“I think I saw some steam wafting from her ears as I left.”

Your laugh bubbles up with ease. Happiness is always easy where he’s concerned. “That’s just fantastic.”

Your grumpy Shadow gives you an earful before patching you up until two thin scars are left behind, and you suffer no failure to your range of motion. To repay her, you agree to wash her clothing for the next month.

Soon after, you learn that Wyll loathes mirrors—his comment about not having one to look into is a lie. Most everyone in camp tucks one away in their bag to ready for each day ahead. Easier to fix hair, to trim beards, to straighten clothes.

But not him. He works on muscle memory.

His avoidance becomes apparent the farther you venture on the road. Even the deepest tombs contain mirrors, dusty and filth-ridden as they might be, and he skirts around them like they seek to carve through his flesh.

The first incident comes by way of your own vanity—Astarion’s, actually, you swear. A speck of blood on your face that he comments on yet makes no effort to help remove. Not even a simple on your cheek, to the left, the asshole.

Which is how Wyll finds you: crossed-legged on the ground by the fire, curled in on yourself, mirror in hand.

He sticks close most days. Settles in next to you for meals, spends each evening at your tent, impresses you with flourishing tricks of his rapier (as if you need be more taken with him—you’ve seen the man tear his way through hordes) in the clearings nearby.

Your tadpoles are smitten with each other, no doubt a result of your own emotional influence. Though you like to think that maybe, possibly, hopefully—

You spot him in the mirror just as he spots himself, and unrecognizable horror—bone-striking, heart-rending, earth-shattering horror—seeps deep into your marrow.

It’s his turn to flee, to hide behind the flaps of his tent.

To your left, Gale sighs, lowered brows casting a shadow over sunken eyes, veins a pronounced shade of blue against the sickly shade of his skin. “I know what that’s like.” His hand rises to his chest, a subconscious act, and you wish to comfort him. “A part of you ever-changed, never to be made whole again.”

Your worm-brain flits through a chaotic flurry of emotions: horror then fear then melancholy then rage then grief. So much grief nowadays.

How malignant, how spiteful, how rotten must one world be? Filled with tormentors so sadistic in nature?

Like the evening by the creek, you grant him the time and space needed to process his emotions. Only when your connection fades a bit, when the tide begins to wane, do you go to him.

You loiter outside his tent, just long enough for him to sense your presence. And then you call to him, the simple sound of his name, and a hand pulls aside a flap. His head peeks out a moment later, bathed in the blooming orange of the fire.

“Do you feel like talking?” you ask. “Or maybe you would just like to sit together?”

He nods and you settle in beside him, and the small space is bathed in darkness once again. Your knee thumps against his, but he makes no effort to move it. Small victories.

The tadpole lurches and your vision shifts until you stare through unseen eyes, your own figure seated on the ground, the mirror blurring as you see it—yourself. A you that is there but not. The thick horns that curl away from your forehead, that settle a heavy weight upon your neck. The chasmic darkness of your one good eye, blotted in the center by a hellfire-red iris. That same horror you felt before surges, devours the brittle bones of your ribs.

You blink and the vision ends. All you feel from him now is… acceptance. How very Wyll of him.

“Well,” he says. “I’ve seen myself. The worst part is over.”

The mirror scorches the pocket of your trousers.

“And what did you think?”

“I’m not sure. It was a shock to say the least, but… well, I can learn to live with it.”

“How do you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re so positive. You get knocked down and get right back up. It’s almost infuriating.”

He laughs, and it sounds like warm tea, like the chirping of birds, like the glow of a campfire. “I admit, it isn’t easy, but you eventually must accept what’s happened and hopefully move on from it.”

“So it’s about hope.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You sound like Karlach. A good thing, by the way.”

A moment of silence passes between you, the space warm and inviting. You wish to lean into him—some gnawing, aching part of you that craves his touch. Instead, you find his shoulder and squeeze.

“I’d like to try again, if that’s alright.” He reaches forward to peel back a tent flap, and light engulfs the small space. “The mirror, I mean.”

You pull it from your pocket and raise it until his face centers in the glass.

He sits a moment, peering at the reflection, turning his face to view himself from every angle. “Hm. Not that bad.”

You look over at him, eyes squinting. “You know what I see?” You lean forward, searching features old and new. Handsome. “Someone courageous and capable and kind. Anyone who sees your horns above all else has proven themselves unworthy to know you in the first place.”

“You flatter me.”

“I’m telling the truth.” Your heart lodges in your throat, thick as tar, hellsbent on pulling you under. “And I’ll prove it.”

Wyll inspires some courage within you as well. After all, you owe him for his transparency, how he flays himself open to reveal the turmoil that lay within.

You open your soul, muscle and artery and blood dissected, laid out for him to witness:

The skip of your heart upon your first meeting.

The nights you dreamt of his voice.

The warmth of your affection, almost unbearable in its weight, in all its vulnerability.

How you’ve thought of kissing him, sharing a dance, crafting horn balm dozens of times.

The weight of your dilemma—this won’t end well, don’t think about it, you’re losing sight of what matters.

You blink back to the present, a bit dizzy, nausea brewing in your belly. “Well, there it is. The way I see you.”

His eyes soften, the fire sated within. “I knew… to an extent. However, I never could have imagined something like this.”

You can be embarrassed later at the revelation about his suspicions. For now, he pulls you into a hug, chest tight against yours, skin so so warm, hands ghostly as they trail over your spine.

It is here that you cry. A product of both bone-softening relief (no need to hide away) and the tender touch of another. None of your companions are particularly generous with their affections, and you’ve grown exhausted with the recent trend of enemies laying claim to your body via injury.

His hand curls around your nape and you almost purr.

“Finally,” you say, sniffling.

He chuckles and you feel it against your chest and you sink into him. It feels natural, a healing kind of tenderness.

After leaving, you find that there was no speck of blood to begin with, and you thank Astarion for his antics on the way back to your tent. (Nose-deep in a book, he grins.)

On your journey to Baldur’s Gate, Wyll kisses you after a night of woodland dancing. The birds and the bugs your music, the stretch of dead grass your ballroom. He leads you in a circular arc that spans the clearing, hand in hand, eyes crinkled with a wide smile.

Wyll is proficient in pretending. He does it quite often. Hides his sadness, his frowns, his weariness behind singsong words and the lilting tone of a man who still believes in inherent goodness.

But he doesn’t have to pretend here, never with you. He pulls you close, one arm a cage around your shoulders, the other at your waist. (What is a flighty bird that loathes the thought of freedom? your mother had asked you once, just before she died.) He laughs into your hair, a sound that carries on a gust of wind, and you think you understand now.

(A bird that knows where home is.)

You share a kiss mid-laugh, and for this little moment in time, the world akins to a place that shelters happiness and peace, if only temporary. Nothing hurts, the forest lay quiet, your companions leave you be. The night is perfect. So is he.

You find comfort on a bed of moss nearby and observe the shimmering stars overhead. He's warm against your side, smells of earth and tree bark, the taste of ozone so thick it cloys on the back of your teeth. A gust of wind whispers between the leaves, carrying with it the smell of Gale's cooking from camp nearby. You would know that mixture of herbs from anywhere.

“We should head back,” you say, sprawled out beside him, your head heavy on his shoulder.

A long moment of silence before he exhales an amused breath. “Yet we're still here.”

“Well, I didn't say right this second.”

He laughs and the sound brews a fire in your chest, hot enough to melt your insides yet spewing an estranged comfort you once thought lost. Returned like an old friend, an ex-lover, a happiness rekindled anew.

This is different, the tadpole a wretched thing by all accounts except for its state as catalyst behind connection and companionship. You feel so deeply these days, emotions and memories birthed by the ether. The curse then the blessing. The sprinkle of rain upon a budding flower, the bloom of something… more. An intimacy you never expected.

The two of you connect far beyond tangible form, sometimes forgoing spoken language in favor of mind speak. Thought reading. Sometimes you forget that the others can't hear such conversations, but you're grateful. Your own little secret, tucked away between the folds of your brain.

However, good things must end, and the journey back to camp is fraught with trudging feet and moments of pause to enjoy your final moments alone.

You sleep in his tent, spend the day resting off the small battles you've faced, and the next evening he hands you a jar, half-filled with—

Oh.

“You were kind enough to offer all those months ago,” he says, grin a bit too smug on his face. “Just be careful. They're still a bit sensitive.”

You adjust to sit before him, knees crinkling the blanket you cuddled beneath the night before. His presence shrouds you much like that: astral fingers prodding at your skull, reading thought and memory and urge; the warmth from his new form seeping into your pores. Inside this tent, Wyll is everything. Consumes your current perception of the world.

The ointment pinpricks your fingertips, a juxtapose of hot and cold meant to numb-soothe whatever it touches. He tilts his head down in offering, a special brand of trust and vulnerability that sucks the oxygen from your lungs. Nobody has ever touched his horns, and nobody has ever asked. You're the first.

The fingers upon each of his knees tighten their grip as you spread that ointment around the base of a horn, carefully painting a thick layer up the rough texture and down the smooth of his skin to coat a wider area. His eyes close, mouth parting to exhale a relieved sigh.

“Good?” you ask, more breath than whisper.

“A great relief.”

“Is it… too much?”

“No. It never is with you.”

You think back to your childhood crush, when you feared the state of your own thoughts. And now, baring yourself so completely to a man you definitely do not deserve. A man who allows you to touch the parts of himself he once despised.

How did you get so lucky? What have you done in your life to warrant such companionship?

“Your thoughts are very loud.” He looks up at you, eyes crinkling at the edges, and you busy yourself with the other horn.

If your brain was a normal one, it would promptly shrivel up and die. “Sorry.”

You attempt to sever the connection, a strain that crinkles your brow, and he stops you with a clawed hand curled about your wrist.

“I like them.”

He shines upon you an eye crafted from the finest jewels, blood red and glittering. The other captivates you just as much.

You kiss him then, smearing leftover ointment through the prickly fuzz along his jaw. He hums against your lips, beckons you closer with a strong arm cradling your back. Just outside, Gale argues with Astarion about clothing choices, Karlach laughs until she chokes, Lae'zel sharpens her sword with a grating clang. But none of that matters. Nothing, not even the end of the world. Nothing but the ghost of your fingers down the rough bark of his horns and his shuddering sigh into your mouth.

He tastes of ash and the berries from Gale's wine and something otherworldly. He is no incubus—an inconsequential fact. You wish for him to consume you all the same.

And then you remember the dying rays of sun that pierce the opening of the tent. You pull away from him to look outside and spot Karlach leaning back on her log. Watching you with a bone-white display of teeth.

Oh, you'll definitely be hearing about this later. Especially when her call of, “About damn time, soldier!” echoes throughout camp.

Wyll sighs, reaching over to close the tent flaps. Yells back, “Can't a devil get some privacy?”

You laugh, thumbs following the jut of spikes upon the skin of his neck as the world conforms to darkness.

Two hands settle upon your waist, claws teasing the flesh beneath your layer of clothing. “Now. Where were we?”

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

MALE BG3 CHARACTERS EATING OUT F!READER +18

characters included: gale, astarion, wyll, gortash

FEMALE BG3 CHARACTERS

a/n: HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY YALL!!!! your bg3 pookies have a present for you !!!! (hint: it’s head)

ASTARION

you guys already know i’m a pleasure dom astarion truther 😹😹 at the end of the game he is WHIPPED for you. so he enjoys every minute of giving you head

and he’s so good at it. and he knows he’s good at it

well— he’s good at it as long as he has the patience. sometimes he’d just rather make you finish on his cock and you know how he is when he wants something

ANYWAY……. he’s obsessed with the way you taste. and smell. especially when you’re close to/on your period. will literally BEG you to let him eat you out then

can be a little rough when you’re bleeding though. he gets a bit overexcited 😹😹 sometimes he has to stop and bite your thigh to regulate himself, which honestly hurts worse LMAO

will look you in the eyes while he kisses your clit

he basically never breaks eye contact. eye contact is HUGE for him. he’s mostly watching how you react so he can adjust accordingly, but he also loves how intimate it is

SO much praise if you react the way he wants— “thaaat’s it... that’s my girl”. he loves hearing you whimper his name, he could literally get off to that alone. your voice is as sweet as you taste

secretly loves when you reach out to hold his hand lol. he thinks it’s so cute

also loves having to hold your legs open when you start to squirm/try to close them. your thighs will be so bruised after

when you tell him how good it feels he goes “i know, i know” in the sweetest, faux-sympathy tone. he’s cocky with it lmao

immediately goes “come give me a kiss, darling” after you finish and he hasn’t wiped his face off yet. half of him is doing it to tease you and the other half genuinely wants you to kiss him lol

WYLL

i’m going to be honest i think you’re his first

he’s a little nervous to try it but he’s also SO eager. he’s just worried he’s not going to be good at it lol

he needs a lot of praise and reassurance. he’s constantly watching your expressions to see if you like it, but at the same time he doesn’t really know what to do if you don’t 😹

at first he’ll need some direction but he learns so fast. will start out slow and hesitant but eventually just loses himself in the pussy LMAO

gets rock hard from eating you out. the sounds and faces you make drive him crazy, mostly because he’s so eager to please. LOVES to know when he’s doing good

the type to moan into your pussy. probably because he’s grinding into the bed 😹😹

i think he could probably finish just from eating you out

when he gets more confident, he can be a bit of a tease. sometimes he’ll stop to pepper kisses on your thighs so he can hear you beg for him to keep going

he feels bad making you beg for too long though so he gives in pretty quick lol “anything for you, my love” or “your pleas are so beautiful— how could i say no?”

also i think he’ll eventually try to fuck you with his fingers while he eats you out too. once he gets the hang of balancing both it’s MAGICAL

likes to eat you out while you’re standing. something about having your leg propped over his shoulder while looking up at you from his knees does something to him BAD

he usually doesn’t want to overstim you because it feels mean 😹😹 but he will absolutely keep going if you want him to

GORTASH

i don’t think he really ate pussy before he met you LMAO

he seems like he can be a pretty selfish lover— if there’s nothing in it for him then what’s the point?

BUT……….. there’s something about you…….

he feels a little weird the first time he gets the urge to do it. he sticks his fingers in his mouth to clean them after they were inside you…… and when that creamy taste hits his tongue….. boom……. his third eye opens

he’s not super adept at it to start, but he’s got the spirit 😹😹

he literally eats it like he’s STARVING. i’m talking lickin’ and suckin’ on ANYTHING he can put in his mouth. nothing is safe. clit? assaulted. lips? sucked on. hole? tongue-fucked

even when he’s eating you out it’s like he’s doing it for himself LMAO. he just disappears into his own little world

he DOES love your praise though, so that kind of encourages him to try to work it out of you. he needs to hear you tell him how good it feels or it’ll bruise his ego

reaches up to knead a titty while he’s doing it

LOVES to do a bunch of hungry, flat sweeps with his tongue. will also press and hold it against you like that to get you to grind on it. he wants to see how needy you are

will say nasty shit into your pussy. “you taste so fucking good, baby”, “daddy loves this pretty little pussy of yours”. you can feel every vibration from his voice

will want to spit in your mouth after

GALE

i feel like gale is the greatest pussy eater there is. like he basically has no vices when it comes to eating you out

he’s extremely sensitive and receptive so he always knows what to do. sometimes you don’t even have to say anything. he just figures it out

his FAVORITE position is facesitting. eating pussy is a literal hobby to him

he’s SO good with his tongue. he has such good control of it and uses it to absolutely destroy your clit. his switching between circling and flicking will make you finish embarrassingly fast

will overstimulate you if you let him. he’ll keep making you cum on his tongue until your whole body is shaking

also the way his beard feels against your inner thighs/lips…………… magnificent……

since he’s a thigh man he loves to knead/bite/rub on your thighs too. will legit almost bust when you try to close your legs around his head. it’s that serious 😹😹

LOVES when you grind on his face. will grab you by the hips and encourage you to do it. you using his face to get off is so hot to him

likes to stimulate your g-spot with his fingers while simultaneously sucking on your clit. also gets off to all the lewd, wet sounds he creates while he does this

moans and groans like he’s eating a five star meal LMFAO

talks A LOT but it somehow doesn’t get in the way of what he’s doing. most of it is incoherent mumbling along the lines of “so good, so good”— but other than that he tells you how gorgeous/perfect your pussy is. i’m not joking when i say he worships your pussy

he WILL try to make you squirt. he’s in the splash zone for a reason baby

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐎𝐍𝐄: Wall Sex w/ Steve Rogers

a/n: y'all are gonna watch as i absolutely fuckin' grind to get caught up with kinktober because i physically, mentally and psychologically REFUSE to continue posting for this challenge in november.

masterlist | kinktober masterlist | AO3

One thing that came with being thicker than others for the majority of your life, you often doubted people's ability to be able to carry you. 

Maybe it was a skill issue regarding them, but each time without fail, the men in your life had asked and failed to pick you up, which ended up just embarrassing both parties. 

That was before you had met Steve. Steve was so ridiculously strong, and he loved to show off, especially after you'd told him about the others' past failures.

"Ah! Steve!" You yelped in surprise.

You went from riding your boyfriend on the bed to being raised up into the air and walked backwards until your back hit the wall. 

His mischievous laugh rang out in your ear as he continued to fuck you from below, your body dangerously shooting up the wallpaper. Your grip on his shoulders tightened in fear, but that fear manifested itself along with your arousal, adding to your pleasure.

"You're gonna drop me!" You whimpered. He just smirked at you.

"You're fine, sweetheart." He cooed, pulling your body slightly off of his cock before slamming back. "Fuck! Stevie, 'm serious." You said, but your words were weak and lacked any bite behind them. He knew you had given up when he felt the roll of your hips against his pelvis.

"No," He started, "You're not." He finished, pulling out once more only to slam back into you, his cock kissing your g-spot.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @murdadixon @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @alixwriter @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

Finally at the mindflayer colony and Naadja is unimpressed

Also im literally shaking someone give her red contacts pls

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

Are you fucking kidding me

[half-doomed--semi-sweet]

i like how wyll thinks the fact that gale is even Considering following through with mystra’s orders to explode himself for the the greater good sounds like “nonsense,” and in the very next act he drops that he sacrificed his freedom and his autonomy and his SOUL for his city without even a second of deliberation. at seventeen. okay. wyll “i’ll risk eternal lemurehood or worse for this woman i just met because it’s the right thing to do and never regret it for a second” ravengard and gale “sure i’ll kill myself just because my manipulative groomer ex told me to that sounds perfectly reasonable” dekarios need to slow the hell down and stop trying to sacrifice themselves at every turn please and thank you