#cabbage trash

You’re almost in awe of how beautiful, how pure his submission is, his tears and his drool and his wild, pleading eyes.

Last night, Rolan went to bed complaining of feeling unwell; not that it was any earlier than usual, because he’s always so damned stubborn about finishing his work, even when he’s ill. You stroked his hair and told him off gently for it, knowing full well that he’ll do it again next time too. He snorted in agreement, despite himself. Most likely. But why must I surrender to a blasted cold? The Tower won’t study itself.

So this morning, you expected to wake up to him coughing perhaps; or complaining of a temperature and a headache. But you awake to him a very different kind of feverish.

Squirming in the bed beside you, he writhes like a man possessed, sweat pouring down his forehead.

‘Rolan, are you alright?’

His eyes snap open, and he shoves you away.

‘Hells— don’t—’

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask, pushing back against him, pressing a hand to his forehead. No fear of disease would stop you helping him when he’s ill like this— whatever’s wrong, you would move the Sword Mountains themselves to fix. He is your Rolan, after all.

He whimpers, grasping your wrist, and as he rolls over into you, you feel it pressing against your thigh. His cock is angry. Hot and hard and throbbing, glowing like forge iron against your skin. Even when you’ve teased him until he’s sobbing, he’s never been this hard.

‘I should have told you,’ he gasps. ‘I’m sorry— I did not think it would happen— wretched Hells, I can’t—’

‘Rolan,’ you murmur softly. ‘Whatever it is. You can tell me.’ You press your thigh, very gently against his cock and he gasps. ‘Is it—’

He nods, eyes shining, conflict painted in flickering expressions on his face. At last, ashamed, he chokes the words out.

‘I am… in rut.’ Rolan grimaces, grabbing at his own wrist with his claws.

You gently prise his hands apart, holding them fast. So tight you’d worry about hurting him, but it seems to soothe instead.

‘It’s alright,’ you murmur. ‘Let me help you.’

‘No!’ he gasps, turning his head from you. ‘I don’t want to make love to you like that. I don’t want to use you. I feel… out of control. Wretched Gods,’ he sobs, and you let his hands free. ‘I am disgusting.’

Fuck. The words are like a knife through your soul. ‘You’re not disgusting.'

He only winces, his dark eyelashes blurring together with tears. The lines beside his eyes crease deeper, his lips arching higher— but he can’t stop another tear from sliding down his cheek, and you move to intercept it.

‘Please,’ you murmur, brushing it away. Rolan stares ahead, pretending not to feel it, but his sharp tooth eases a little where it digs into his lip. ‘I’ll admit, I don’t understand what makes this so different from any other time we have sex.’

‘There is…a knot, at the base, that locks the two together. Tiefling anatomy is complementary. You… would almost certainly find it uncomfortable.’

‘I like being full, Rolan. And even if I can’t fit it, I can help in other ways.’

‘You don’t understand,’ he chokes out bitterly. ‘It is more than filling, it is huge. And… rut requires more stimulation than normal, especially when— nngghh— I have come— too many times already—’

Squirming punctuates his words, his voice growing breathy. The situation is serious, you understand that, and you’re trying to stay focused but - it’s unbearably obvious that he’s aroused, more so by the second, and your cunt is growing hot and swollen in reply, demanding that you stop thinking and just take him.

‘What are you thinking?’ Rolan gasps suddenly, and you realise you’re half-growling, half-sneering with lust, your lips curled back at the sight of the desperate man beside you. Beneath you, you want him beneath you— fuck—

Wiping your mouth, you reluctantly pull yourself together. 

‘Sorry,’ you groan. ‘Fuck— do you smell different? In rut?’ You can’t be sure, but there’s just something slightly muskier about his scent. Maybe it’s just the sweat— he’s usually so scrupulously clean—

‘Yes— but—’

‘But?’

Your nose is buried in his neck, lightning bolts of need flashing through you with every gasp of him. Musk so heady your mouth runs with drool, and some of it spills as you pant beside his neck, dripping onto his skin. He whimpers, arching back, panting—

‘I’ve never heard of a human smelling it. In tieflings it— increases the intensity of— a partner’s— arousal— Zurgan!’

‘Sorry,’ you gasp, pulling back from his neck. You had only meant to bite him a little— less harshly, even, than you usually do— but something inside you snapped and now teeth marks dent his skin, deep and flushed around the edges. Insane; his scent is driving you insane.

‘Do it again,’ Rolan pleads. ‘Take me… as your mate…’

‘Your mate?’

‘Yes!’

‘You want me to fuck you? Even though—?’

‘Yes!’ he sobs. ‘Please. I don’t care anymore just— just—’

‘If I fuck you like this, I’m going to be as mean as I always am. I’m going to bite you and choke you and fuck your hole when I’m finished with your cock, and you’re going to come for me, do you understand?’

‘Of course,’ he whimpers. ‘I will be your mate. Do anything to me— I am yours—’

‘How long does this last?’ you groan, summoning the last vestiges of your sense, your hand already closing around his neck.

‘Three days at least, or— until I have nothing left—’

‘And how many times have you come already?’

‘None!’ he whispers, his eyes streaming with tears. You’re astride him, rutting on his cock, and you can tell it’s taking every inch of his resolve not to desperately buck up into you.

‘One last question, before I take you. Have you ever been fucked in rut before? Have you ever had a mate before?’

‘No!’ Rolan groans. ‘No— I have never—’

She murmurs a prayer to Sharess over the salve, made with a slightly different recipe this time. She says an incantation, too, to hold back the burning effect of the ingredient within.

‘What is that?’ Rolan asks. Ever-impatient. The cleric allows herself a brief eye roll whilst her back is to him, the corner of her lip curling with amusement. 

‘On all fours,’ she orders, ignoring him. Sharess, it is hard not to grasp the perfect peach of his ass, presented to her so firm and ripe every time. Blushing such a pretty coral by nature that the faintest kneading of it would make it red, and a punishment the deepest crimson. His raised tail frames the offering— temptation— perfectly.

As her finger sinks in, and Rolan cants up needily in response to it, she thinks yet again of how little she wants to see him go. How much there still is to know about him.

She rubs the new salve deep, not allowing herself even a wistful moment’s lingering over his pleasure. There is far too much to think about, to let herself act on impulse now.

‘There,’ she murmurs, ringing his entrance too. Rolan issues a low groan, sharply cut off, and tenses his thighs around his new cage. His cock is swelling inside it, despite the recent orgasm. His first taste of captivity. 

It must be rather distracting, because he forgets to ask if he can pull his trousers back up; and when she orders him to, he takes a moment to remember what he was asking about.

‘What have you just applied to me?’ he asks, flushing as he spreads his thighs a fraction and then closes them again. 

‘Is the cage noticeable?’ she asks.

He sets his teeth and nods, reddening further. 

‘It should only need to be a temporary solution.

Together with the ginger paste—’

‘Ginger?’ 

‘Yes.’

Rolan flashes her a look, half-affronted, half-nervous. He scowls, swallows, and straightens. 

‘It won’t be necessary anyway. I suppose… that enchantment was delaying the effect somehow.’

‘Yes. You will only feel it if you insert something larger than a finger. However, I have to warn you, once it starts burning, it may take some time to end.’

‘How does that work with—’ he scowls— ‘normal bodily processes.’

‘You are a mage too. You know that magic works on intent. Only your deliberate self-pleasuring will result in pain.’

His tail twists tight around his ankle. ‘I see.’

‘You’ll need to apply the serum to your hole every day, following the same pattern I did. If you follow my previous instructions to the letter, then no further consequences should arise.’

‘I understand. I… will visit you again?’

Hesitation flickers across his face, the gold sunbeams of his eyes shifting in search of something new: permission.

She smiles, and nods. ‘Two tendays from now, to check your progress, and two tendays’ more after that. Unless—’

Rolan’s brow furrows. He’s waiting. 

‘Unless— ?’

‘There’s some kind of emergency. But I doubt there will be now. You understand the importance of following the regimen to the letter.’

She lets her voice be closed off. No room for bad behaviour, no hook of hope for him that misbehaving will get him somewhere he wants to be. If there is something he would like, more than this, he will have to search deep and find the words within himself. 

Rolan frowns, his hand hovering over the jar. Abruptly, he takes it up, and thrusts it in his pocket, nodding to her.

‘Until then,’ she says.

His cheek twitches. ‘Indeed.’ 

To her almost-disappointment, he arrives at the next appointment quietly pliant, without the lashing tail or tensed jaw that would tell her he’d broken the rules. If he had disobeyed her, he would have flushed far harder; and then she could have revelled in the thought of him squirming all day and night, burning up with her punishment. The prayer to Sharess was to make it last, and to fruitlessly swell his cock with it until he knew what true denial felt like.

But as it is, he has been entirely well-behaved, and so she is professional with him. She can still feel his yearning for her touch. He disrobes quickly, looking to her for approval; presses his ass to her fingers, not seeking more depth than she will give, but offering himself earnestly, without the awkward ceremony that accompanied his first visits. She feels his want, rising beneath the surface of his skin to meet her fingers, the warmth that spreads over his cheeks when she glances at his face. But he doesn’t say it. 

She pulls her finger free.

‘Two more tendays.’

Rolan’s frown is inscrutable, a glimpse of feeling stiffened to nothingness before she can read it. He sweeps up his spellbook, and leaves, and for a moment she watches the door, wondering what it is that truly drives him most, lust or caution, which will win out— 

Seventeen days later, she gets her answer, a frantic hammering on the door as she attends the chafed nipples of a nursing patriar.

Her patient is interrupted mid-flow, expressing how good the salve feels, what a relief it is to get a moment to herself—

‘Please!’ shouts the voice from beyond the door, before commanding itself again. ‘It is urgent— I— Gods!’

It is almost sobbed, and yet still disguised— but she would recognise that cadence anywhere.

‘One moment,’ she tells her patient reassuringly, and stalks out of the door, slamming it behind her. 

This time, he has not chosen to disguise himself as a Dragonborn, but as an elf, and the illusion is flickering in and out as he clings to the post outside her house, a tear trickling down his cheek.

‘Please!’ he gasps. ‘Let me in— ’

‘You will have to wait until my appointment is finished,’ she tells him. The mere act of denying him mercy makes her cunt slick and her tongue wet— and so too does the way he lunges for her as she shuts the door once more between them, unsuccessfully seizing at her sleeve.

Fuck, it is almost impossible to concentrate, hearing his gasps of pain from beyond the door; even such a well-worn set of instructions as for a nursing mother’s salve becomes suddenly block-like and obstructive on her tongue. She enunciates them carefully still, hiding a quickening pulse and fast-deepening lust behind her professional demeanour. 

‘Twice a day, or as needed,’ she murmurs, opening a drawer just for a brief second to check that another salve entirely is where she remembered putting it. ‘Come again after the next full moon; I’ll be able to get you some stronger ingredients after a fresh Tearblossom harvest.’

‘Thank you,’ says the patriar gratefully, gathering up her embroidered robes. ‘Is all well outside? I hope I have not interrupted an emergency—’

‘Not at all,’ the cleric says smoothly. ‘But if that is all—’

As the patriar hurries out, Rolan stumbles in, catching her roughly with his shoulder as he goes. She shoots the cleric a glance of annoyance as she leaves, that the cleric returns with a set jaw and a nod of recognition, seizing him by the collar when he’s safely inside.

The last of his disguise falls off him like ripped silk, showing the mess beneath. Sweating and dishevelled, Rolan claws at his collar buttons, buttoned hastily into the wrong holes.

‘Thank the Gods,’ he gasps. ‘I could not wait–’

‘No matter how desperate you are, you will not take it my other patients,’ she interrupts. The glow in Rolan’s eyes is melting with tears, his lips flushed and wet, arched in agonising pain. 

Rolan’s settled into the Tower; theoretically he has everything he wants. Apart from Tav, that is; he nursed a sore crush on them for a long time— ever since they saved his siblings— and has only just come to accept that they’re never coming back from Waterdeep. (… Several months after their wedding to Gale). Tav’s presence, however, awoke a very long-neglected (and repressed) part of him, and now though he thinks less often of them when he handles himself… he still handles himself often. Could it be the Archmage still needs something in his life beyond the Tower and his siblings?

He finds it, with some shame, behind the counter at Sharess's Caress. In disguise, of course; he doesn't want the city to know he's buying toys... especially not toys of this size. Rolan doesn't start with the largest ones, but as his hopes of Tav grow fainter, he finds himself seeking more and more challenge, more punishment for his aching, gaping hole. He loves to imagine them stretching him, taunting him for pining over them - claiming him as their own. And now that's receding, he still finds himself addicted to the sensation, barely able to come unless he's struggling on a cock far thicker than his own.

The figure that the cleric sees, coming through her door, is stiff with embarrassment, a violently crimson flush revealed on his cheeks as he casts off his Dragonborn disguise to show the tiefling underneath. Not just any tiefling.

‘Archmage,’ she says in recognition, keeping the note of amusement she feels hidden. She’s a professional, after all… although whatever ailment he has come to her with must be rather delicate, especially when his title makes him flush further and insist on being called by his name only. After a fair amount of evasion, and the confirmation that she is as discreet as every one of her previous clients has said, she at last pries out his problem: he fears he has stretched himself.

‘Using what implements? What are the symptoms?’

‘What other symptoms do you need?’ he hisses, before catching himself. ‘I know how it is supposed to feel.’

‘Is this immediately after use of toys, or…?’

‘I am not an idiot— I know to expect it after—but this feeling persists near-constantly.’ His voice drops, and she sees the true mortification and worry behind his bluster. It’s… more than professionally interesting. Poor man. She will make his embarrassment worthwhile.

‘Remove your trousers, and get on the bench. I need to examine the situation.'

He casts an anxious look at the door before he disrobes, and she asks if he'd like it locked; his shoulders drop a little when it is.

'Have you cleaned up, or should I—'

Rolan conjures a Prestidigitation faster than she can finish the sentence.

'Do not misunderstand,' he disclaims. 'I came prepared— I am merely being cautious—'

She can hear the irritable sound of him swallowing his nerves, and pats his bare ass gently. There's a slight hitch in Rolan's breath.

'Don't worry about it. Now.' She takes the base of his tail in his hand, and he draws another sharp intake of breath. If she had to label his affliction as anything, she would be inclined to say it was starvation. He is so hungry for her touch, that the slightest movement makes him shiver... and between his legs, his cock is beginning to stiffen.

Rolan clenches his thighs as she moves his robe out of the way, drawing his tail up so she can get a good look at his hole.

'Are you wearing this every day?' she asks, tapping the plug in his entrance.

It is rather basic, compared to the rest of him. His hair is beautifully twisted, and his elegant silk robes are drenched in expensive silverwork. But the plug is plain; not a jewel or crest in sight. Perhaps he is too ashamed of this hobby to let himself truly indulge in it. (A shame in itself, when the plug sits so prettily between his lovely, pert cheeks).

'Yes,' he admits.

'Mmm.'

'I have to!' he protests irritably. 'Otherwise, I can think of nothing else but the sensation of it. Being open—'

'I understand,' she says soothingly. 'I'll have to remove it for now.'

'Of course,' Rolan whispers, tensing his thighs even harder.

She puts a hand on one. 'Relax. Otherwise this will be more difficult.'

He lets out a choked whimper— but he does as he's told, and he keeps relaxing, with the utmost effort, until the plug is drawn from his hole.

There's no denying he's hard now. The cleric oils her fingers, presses one easily inside to begin the examination.

'One easy,' she murmurs, pushing it further up until she finds his pleasure spot. It feels healthy; in fine working order, if Rolan's gasp is anything to go by. She curls her finger a little more.

'Fuck!' Rolan whimpers. 'I mean— Zurgan— excuse me.'

‘Don’t worry about it. Just stay relaxed. I’m going to see how easily you accommodate wider objects.’

She presses another finger in, appreciating the heat inside him. Tieflings always run hotter than other humanoids. The lack of hair is very pleasing too— perfect for someone as neat and ordered as Rolan clearly is. The oil slicked on her fingers spills down his taint; she pauses for a moment, and takes a washcloth to wipe him clean.

Rolan’s asshole might be a little stretched, but she still feels it tense urgently around her. He lets out a short whimper, stifling it unsuccessfully with a cough.

‘Keep your tail up,’ she murmurs, as if she hasn’t noticed.

‘Yes— ’

Three fingers. Rolan shakes. She didn’t encounter much resistance, but clearly the act of being probed is rather stimulating for him, stretch or not.

‘Let me see.’ She gathers all four fingers, pressing them against his entrance— now, there is a little resistance— and checks to see how Rolan is taking it.

The moment he realises she’s looking at him, his cock twitches, and he panics, pulling away from her examining fingers.

‘Surely that’s enough,’ he gasps, dragging at the tails of his robe to hide his cock.

‘I need to determine the extent of the problem, if you want me to treat it properly.’

His tail flicks as he looks back at her. ‘Wretched Hells. Just how much are you going to put up there?’

The attempt at nonchalance comes out thin, breathy instead of confident. She can’t help but find him a little fascinating; easily embarrassed and yet pretending to be bold. And all over something so mild; she has treated people with far stranger ailments. Once again, she wonders if he perhaps only needs somebody else to make him feel that this is alright. Not that it matters at the present.

‘I’m going to find your limit,’ she says. ‘When it hurts, say now.’

Rolan pauses, and cedes, raising his tail once more to reveal his worked hole. His claws curl anxiously into the bench leather. ‘I am ready— ah— ah— ah— now!’

All four fingers and thumb, but not even close to the knuckle. Whatever monstrous girths he thinks he’s been stretching himself with, she is sure he could take quite a lot more— with practise and encouragement of course.

‘That’s the examination finished then,’ she tells him. ‘Let me clean you up.’

Again, she presses a gentle cloth to his skin— all the way down to his balls this time. He shivers, whimpering at her touch and not even trying to hide it this time. Too far gone, perhaps.

She notices a drip from his cock beneath him on the bench, and cleans that up too. Not the cock that it came from, though; that is his concern, even if he seems to anticipate it when she reaches beneath him.

‘Now,’ she murmurs, washing her hands off. ‘I’ll just consult my notes, and make you up a treatment salve.’

‘It is curable?’ Rolan asks.

‘Oh, certainly. I’ll explain what you have to do.’