#critical role readerinsert

“Mollymauk!”

Your voice reaches something that’s almost a yell, though it only needs to reach across the small clearing where the troupe had decided to camp for the evening. Since you’ve already finished in your part of the set-up, it’s but natural that you’d look for your closest companion. It’s only natural you’d want to spend time with him--it wasn’t any bit out of the ordinary.

But it feels that way when Molly meets your gaze. When your eyes meet with his you can’t help but feel a vague shiver move down your spine and, in the moment, feel as though something is off about how he looks at you. His ruby eyes, though admittedly off-putting to those unused to the likes of tieflings or their kin, have always been warm sort of comfort on dark evenings or while beneath the lights of the circus show.

But they hold something different now, something darker than his normal wit and amusement. By the time you come to your mind enough to call his name out again, the man has long disappeared from view, lost among the bustling crowd of circus folk who are all as tired and ready to bed down as you are. There's a thread of hope that Mollymauk will seek you out by the time the sun has dipped beneath the horizon, will sit beside you in front of a warm, blazing fire and join in on the jokes and stories among the crew.

But you don't see him at all that night either, and there's not a soul who seems knowing or willing to tell you what's wrong.

-

Several days come and pass in the same manner. No soul sitting beside you in the back of the wagon, no friend to keep you company in the cool evening. Worry soon starts to thread through your thoughts that you've done something to upset the man, and it must have fallen so obvious that it even caught the attention of one of the newest members of the circus troupe-

Well, you wouldn't call him a member in any official capacity. Where a member meant that they were as much a performer as a part of the dysfunctional family of misfits, Mr. Clay was more a curious wanderer who traveled alongside the group, offering his knowledge in healing magicks and natural-born remedies for much of the ills that often nipped at the heels of the troupe. Considering that the constant traveling meant a constant lack of overarching medical care, the man’s offered services were not to be overlooked lightly--which is how he found a place among the troupe, no performer but neither lacking in worth for the rest of the group’s well-being.

Besides, Mr. Clay was a rather interesting man, and you don’t end up disliking his company in the absence of another.

He sits beside you on the back of the cart come the third day of travel. Though you don’t feel comfortable enough to lean yourself against the shape of his body, you do take advantage of his attention and willingness to listen to you.

“I just-” the words tumble from your lips as you sit, feeling almost engulfed by the firbolg’s size next to you. His gentle attention like a weight over your shoulders. “-I don’t know what I did wrong! He just...stopped talking to me, suddenly, and I can’t…figure out what made him hate me.”

A moment passes as the cart rocks, the wheels rolling uevenly over the dirt and gravel trail. The air still feels cool as it rises up to brush against your cheeks, though there’s also a wetness to it that makes you wonder how far out the rain is; you’ve been able to smell it for a while.

The man beside you is equally silent, though you never once feel his gaze leave you. He is instead but contemplative in a way you’re not quite familiar with--Molly tended to play with his thoughts audibly, and you had always been nearly comforted by the simple sound of his voice as he did so. You were privy to the inner-workings of his logic, so being denied that for once almost makes you feel a shiver of worry roll down your spine.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, with a voice that reminds you heavily of a warm blanket on a cold night. Of embraces and whispers and comfort. “Have you considered the greater picture beyond that you may have done to cause his distance?”

You blink, taken aback by the question with a flick of your tail and a widening of your eyes. “We’ve been on the road for only a couple of days, I don’t know what else would make Molly avoid me unless I did something that made him angry.”

“Could it be something perhaps,” the man reaches a hand to stroke at his chin. “Something he hasn’t told you about?”

“Like what?”

When you turn your face all you see is his eyes looking at you, bright and curious and heavy . They linger, meeting your gaze unashamedly--you can feel him thinking, though it’s nearly impossible to figure out what thoughts are shifting behind his pink eyes. Has his gaze always been so pretty before?

You don’t have a chance to come up with an answer before it’s suddenly turning away, with his voice finally filling up the void of silence that your question had left.

“I have but a hunch what might be ailing your friend, Mr. Tealeaf.”

The firbolg stares out to the rolling land beyond the open cart, the road long from where the caravan had come, unhindered in view by the fact that your cart was the very last. The hills beyond looked gentler than they had felt, covered in the lush greenery of mid-spring grass. Farther beyond the hills however you could see stormclouds hanging in the sky, dark grey and intimidating; the source of the smell hanging in the air. Perhaps they are the reason for the pace of the traveling, hoping to make it through the uneven landscape to lessen the chance of damage or injury. Perhaps they are somehow connected to why Molly has been avoiding you.

Perhaps.

Nevertheless, not even the sublime sight of sunny day meeting ravaging storms can keep your attention from the words that left Mr. Clay’s mouth. It pulls you closer in both attention and form, until you had to gently ignore the way your bodies pressed together, side-to-side, how you are close enough to smell the faint scent of roses wafting through the air--was it from the healer himself?

“What do you think is wrong with him?” The question spills from your lips without regard to your closeness or the intimacy it holds. “Is he sick Mr. Clay?”

“No,” he murmurs, eyes still lingering on the stormclouds sitting beyond the horizon. “At least not in the form you are thinking.”

His words both comfort and worry you, but at least the man seems to know enough. You shift against him, gently, forgetting for a moment that he is not Mollymauk--and your head lays against his arm.

“...Do you know how to make him better at least?”

There’s a soft beat of silence after the question, and suddenly the air feels heavy as the firbolg’s gaze shifts back to you again. 

“Only if you trust me.”

You forget how to breathe for but a moment, feeling more than seeing the soft glint of the afternoon sun in his eyes.

It’s not as if the man intimidates you. Though like many of his kind, Mr. Clay is tall and broad, towering over many others by sheer size alone, you cannot recall a single time where you have ever been afraid of him in any capacity. The only time that his words or eyes had ever made your heart skip has been but now, though it is hardly from fear--you try not to think too hard on the way he looks like a gentle predator or how the air around him smells sweetly of roses.

You don’t move away or pull your head from his shoulder. You don’t do anything to break the moment--even taking in each breath seems dangerously close to shattering the odd, sublime peace crafted between the two of you, familiarity and foreignness twisting together as if a careful braid.

When the firbolg breathes, you can hear it rumble through his body. Deep and powerful and familiar, however faintly, though it’s not quite the same sort of sound that would purr through Mollymauk whenever he was pleased or comfortable. The sound comforts you whether the man beside you realizes it, slowly pulling at the back of your eyes in an ever-gentle call to sleep, made harder to ignore by the rocking of the cart or the soft breeze of the air 

There’s other things you’d like to say, to talk about--but none of them matter all that much when you start to gently drift off to sleep, your body still tucked against the man and enjoying his warmth.

-

The storms came faster than what most of the troupe expects, though it’s long after you’ve left the rolling landscape and instead come into the thicket of a forest, long and stretching far to the south. It offers some protection from the rain and the wind, but there’s no denying the fact that it’s near-impossible to set up any tents without a lingering fear of them getting caved-in with the force of the storm’s anger.

Most of the wagons had thick canvas to cover them, so it was within them that the troupe took shelver for the evening when it became too much of a downpour to keep going, and the sun’s last rays of light were hidden behind dark-gray clouds far above the thick treeline. 

Without the tents, many of the troupe were forced to share space within the wagons wherever they could-

Which is why, after Mr. Clay had helped you to anchor the wagon to the soft loam beneath, you expected him to simply climb back in with you. To share some more conversation before eventual sleep would take you again, or perhaps insomnia would rear its ugly head--would the firbolg be able to cure that on such a short notice? Did he have anything to help you sleep?

Perhaps it was the focus paid to your thoughts that made it easy to miss when the man slipped from the wagon. Where he had been just beside you when you were climbing your way up and inside, he is suddenly gone--you lift yourself into the dry cover to find yourself alone, which is odd in itself in how familiar you are to the idea of sharing spaces with many others.

The rain is pouring in thick sheets, a white noise that buzzes around outside while you try to change into clothes that aren’t sopping wet. By the time you have your shirt off and working to get the bra beneath, a familiar noise at the entrance to the wagon catches your attention. 

Footsteps against wet earth and splashing through puddles. Hands reaching at the wooden half-ladder and pulling it down--the gentle shift of the wagon’s body as someone pulls themselves up and inside of it.

“It would seem the other wagons are quite full!”

Recognition to Mr. Clay’s voice comes at the same moment that he climbs up and into the dry space of the wagon, just as drenched as you are but seeming plenty enthused despite how his clothes and hair clung to his skin. The wagon rocks with the movement of a second person starting to climb inside.

You merely blink at firbolg, more surprised that he had left than had returned.

“Why did you leave?” the words come tumbling, question innocent and curious. “If you needed a spare change of clothes, we have some tucked away over here that might be big enough for you. There was no need to get yourself wet looking for-”

Your voice stops somewhere in your throat when your eyes fall on the person who had climbed up behind him, the third person in the wagon who was equally drenched from the rain yet falling outside. Whether it’s the recognizable cloth of his exotic clothes, the softness of his damp lavender skin, or even the bright and almost hungry gaze of ruby-red eyes, the vision of him is nigh-unmistakable even in the dim light of the space around you.

Mollymauk.

He stares at you with all the same shock that you wear upon your face, eyes wide as saucers and mind rolling over the fact that you’re sopping wet, nearly half-naked, and the man who is technically your closest friend who has also been avoiding you for the last several days looks as if he is about ready to eat you.

And gods above, you would let him.

For several moments the two of you are still, frozen of movement and words while the firbolg himself seems not to notice--or perhaps, he simply doesn’t care. He steps up to you regardless, reaching one hand for the shirt you’ve just removed and hold in your hands, the fabric dripping wet. You feel a soft wave of heat come to your cheeks, more from the man’s sudden closeness than from your partial nudity--many years of being in various states of undress around the rest of the troupe did well to desensitize most feelings of shame in it.

“I’ve been under the mercy of a rainstorm a time or two in my life,” he murmurs gently, assuringly to the worry that had been in your voice before. “But you however should rightfully get out of those clothes before you catch a cold. Mr. Tealeaf, a hand with this?”

The question was thrown with a flash of his eyes in the direction of the tieflings, which did well enough to break the thick but indecipherable aura between you. As Molly met the other man’s eyes, you couldn't help but feel a thing thread of panic, wondering what unspoken meaning there was to their shared glance--had the two spoken before Mr. Clay had returned to the wagon? What was there in their eyes that you couldn't read?

The anxiety must be obvious, because you feel a sudden but gentle hand fall to your bare shoulder--when you move your eyes they find an expression of soft pink eyes and a softer smile.

“Trust me,” is all the cleric says, though it brings an echo of his similar words earlier in the afternoon.

You look at him for a few moments as a caution presses your brows together, then glance towards where Mollymauk yet stands with that look across his face--entranced somewhere between shock and interest. 

Finally your eyes move back to the firbolg standing before you.

“Okay, Mr. Clay,” the words gently murmur from your lips, though something about them brings a soft twinkle into the man’s eyes as his hands draw close to your bare shoulders.

“No need for formalities like that right now,” he says, glancing towards Molly and then back to you. You have to wonder if there is more going on than what you can merely see. “Call me Caduceus.” 

A feeling of heat starts to bloom across your cheeks, but luckily a voice cuts the moment short, keeping it and your eyes from lingering too hard on the man in front of you.

“Takes about as long to say one thing or the other.”

The third voice, though familiar in its tone, does enough to surprise that your eyes are instinctively turning towards the sound. They fall of course upon Mollymauk, who still stands drenched and awkward-looking at the entrance of the wagon, his eyes nearly glowing below the soft shadows of canvas and storm-dark clouds.

But his words seemed even to surprise himself as much as both you and Caduceus. Molly blinks, his lips suddenly pressing tight, and almost looks as if he’s about to turn away upon accidentally getting your attention.

“Perhaps it would be best if I find shelter in another wagon-”

Caduceus stops him cold with but a single word.

“Mollymauk.”

The air stills, but it doesn’t turn cold--quite the opposite in fact. Somewhere between the glances and looks and half-mumbled words it’s grown hot despite the rain outside cooling off the late-summer air. Hot, but not humid as one might expect. The heat is as physical as it is emotional, boiling through your thoughts and mind as things slowly start to piece together.

The look in Molly’s eyes is as deep and impassioned as it is striking, as if he’s only half-there, words broken from their sense of usual charm that but rolls off him like waves from the ocean.

But he does step closer.

Slowly, the tiefling moves towards where you and Caduceus stand, his motions careful and reminiscent to that of a predator moving through the underbrush. Closer and closer still, until he’s within arm’s reach.

You can finally see that there’s heat on his face, darkening his cheeks in a look that’s more than a mere blush--he has seen you nearly naked on several occasions previous so it’s hardly as if your shirtless state should have been the only reason for it. But given the heavy, heated look simmering in his ruby gaze, perhaps there is something more that you've not yet been privy to know--something that the firbolg in front of you seems to know more about, given the way his lips twitch with amusement at Molly’s slow approach.

“How long have you and Molly known eachother?” Caduceus asks, having dropped your sopping shirt somewhere in the silent moments, his hands instead upon your shoulders and stroking up and down our arms while Molly but softly watches on. 

The question gives you gentle pause, but it’s not a hard one to answer.

“Several summers,” the words are soft, curious but unsure why he has need to ask in this specific moment. “Why?

“Do you recall a time when he’s been like this before?”

You stare at Caduceus for a few moments, brows knitted and mind rolling with confusion. Why does he ask the question as if Molly isn’t standing right there beside you--could he have not asked the question at any other time? Could he not have simply asked Mollymauk himself?

“Yes,” you say regardless, if only because you can recall one time before that the tiefling had avoided you with such seeming disdain. The answer almost comes with shame in the tone, because it brings memories of worry and woe, wondering desperately if you had done something to upset him in much the same way you do now.

A touch draws your eyes away from Caduceus and instead to the man beside you--the very one you’re talking about. It’s no more than fingertips against the curve of your waist, but that is more than enough to make your heart skip a beat and your breath feel frozen for several moments.

Even as your eyes meet with the gentle, hungry glow of rubies, the firbolg’s words pierce through it all.

“Do you remember when it last happened?”

“It was...last year, the beginning of the fall,” you can’t find the strength to draw your eyes from Molly’s own. His face looks flushed and his eyes wanting, hungrier than you have ever seen them before. “...I...thought I said something to him. He didn’t...talk to me for a few days.”

It’s strange how you speak, talking as if Molly can’t hear you when he’s right in front of your eyes. Though it makes no sense, there’s something distinctly enticing about it--how you’re speaking to the tiefling and your dearest friend through the attention of Caduceus himself. It makes the moment oddly intimate, the true depth of its heat beginning to dawn starkly over you despite the cool nip of the air and constant white noise of the rain still hitting the canvas tarp above your heads.

“Mollymauk,” the sound of the firbolg’s gentle voice pulls you from your own thoughts, gaze finally breaking when you turn towards him. “Would you help in getting her trousers off?”

Even if you hadn’t managed to catch the mischievous glint in the man’s pink eyes, the tone was hardly subtle. Where you would have expected Molly to offer a playful and witty quip, the man merely nods, swiftly dropping to his knees as Caduceus tugs at your arms until you turn to face where Molly now kneels in front of you.

Oh?

Fingers touch at the clasp of your bra before you hear the firbolg speak again. The words are soft and husky, drifting into your mind like a suggestion and revelation soaking into your mind like the rain had into your clothes.

You can feel his lips tickling softly against the fur of your ear, making them flick and pin back against your head. It’s hard not to be ticklish, and the man chuckles.

“Did you know that tieflings go through estrus cycles? Well, most folk seem to call them heats--not entirely accurate but gets the point across one way or another.”

Oh.

You blink, knowing not what to answer, eyes slowly widening at the words dripping sweetly from the man’s mouth behind you while careful claws curl around the hem of your pants. The fact that he speaks with a nearly-conversational tone almost makes the moment all the worse, bringing forth an allure to how Molly tugs at your pants, a deepening heat to his eyes when he looks up at you-

Wanting.

Hot.

Needy .

With Caduceus' words almost ringing in your ears, it all suddenly makes so much sense. Questions that have been months-long in the making finally seem to have an answer, even though it leaves you with but dozens more in their wake.

“Apparently they’re seasonal occurrences, but don’t usually become a bother until someone has their attention.”

For all the desperation in Mollymauk’s eyes, he pulls your pants down with a surprising amount of care, being wary of making sure your tail doesn’t get pinched or yanked on as your trousers fall around your knees. Equally-gentle fingers finally unclasp your bra.

“It would seem to me that there is someone who has dear Mr. Tealeaf’s rather apt attention for him to have gone into heat but a day or so ago, don’t you think?”

It would be about this time that you’d find comfort in a gentle quip, but instead all you can find on the kneeling tiefling’s face is want . Even though you’ve still one more layer hiding your bareness from his ruby gaze, you already feel naked.

Or perhaps that’s because you feel wet cloth finally peel away from your breasts, skin cool to the touch from how the rain had left you cold and wet. You want to cover them with your hands, nakedness suddenly feeling all the more intimate when you are being looked at by not one, but two men. Nevertheless you aren’t fast enough to move before a pair of ginger palms already press warm and flat over the curves of your breasts, arms wrapping around your torso and lips still tickling against the shape of your ears.

“He wants you.”

There’s neither shame nor doubt in the statement. Breath stills in your throat as you take them in, each syllable with a power beyond anything as your eyes finally settle back onto Molly’s own. He looks up at you with parted lips and slow but heaving breaths. Where he had been trying to hide it so desperately in every interaction prior, you can now see it so plainly.

The man’s unfiltered arousal makes your stomach twist with a pleasing heat.

Despite your tail being squished between you and Caduceus, it still gently twitches and thrashes in a constant tell to your emotions. Perhaps the firbolg realizes as much, judging by how he chuckles as his hands knead against the softness of your chest.

“Will you let him taste you?” he asks, sultry and warm. “He’s been wanting this for a long time.”

Your eyes never leave the soft glow of Molly’s gaze. Though his fingertips curl and pull lightly at the waistline of your panties he doesn’t make the motion to tug them off; he’s waiting for permission first.

A permission you’re all-too willing to give, though silent, with a bounce of your chin.

In the span of half a breath, you only feel the sudden feeling of cool air against your hips and inner thighs and everywhere in between. It takes a moment longer for you to catch sight of the ruined cloth in one of Molly’s fists, and a moment more to realize that he hadn’t the lingering patience to slowly tug them down as he had your pants.

His eyes remain on yours in the entire motion, even as he drops the tattered remnants of your underwear to the floor of the wagon.

It’s just a blur of motions and heat and pressure after that--all you can do is idly follow along as your legs are gently spread as much as your pants will allow. Despite the number of times you’ve been naked before one of your fellow troupe members, the moment feels nothing short of intimate; you feel vulnerable beneath Molly’s gaze. He looks at you as more than another member of the group, moreso than even as your dearest friend. With passion burning as bright and hot as the color of his eyes, you can’t help but shiver once the man’s interest finally dropped from your face and down your body to where you feel the most exposed of all.

Luckily, he doesn’t let the moment linger for too long into awkward nervousness. As soon as he seems settled on his knees, the man merely presses his face forward and his lips to the meeting of your legs. The touch is rather chaste and gentle, but with his hands quickly finding purchase upon the curve of your hips and Caduceus' palms still pressed warmly against the supple curves of your breasts, it’s hard not to let out a soft gasp of surprise.

And the firbolg simply laughs at that.

“He’s wanted to do this for a long time.” 

The words drift into your ear with all the same softness as the sweet lips that trace over one, and then the other. A soft moan falls from your lips just as a tongue starts to dip between your folds, slow and explorative, flicking once against your clit before tracing downward.

“Was a little shy about admitting it,” Caduceus continues, his hands starting to roll and squeeze the sensitive curves against them. “It’s obvious he cares about your friendship, but...well, obviously it seems to be a little different than that now.”

The tongue presses deeper, harder against you as if tracing the shape of your sex and trying desperately to commit it to memory. It’s made all the worse when the restraint of your own trousers around your knees leave you hardly able to spread your legs any wider--though Molly’s tongue seems to have little issue in pressing close, lapping between your labia and back up to flick the pointed tip against your clitoris for a second time.

Somewhere in the rising heat of pleasure you can feel his eyes on you, watching each twitch of your lips and eyes and brows. It wouldn’t be long for an observant bastard like him to figure out which parts of you adore his oral attentions the most--how the tease of his tongue against your clit had you sucking in a breath, how each press of it between, teasing against the rim of your entrance would make your hips start to shake and rock against his face.

“Does his mouth feel good?”

Deep and husky, Caduceus’ voice makes the moment even more filthy than it would have been otherwise. Between almost narrating the moment and speaking for the tiefling kneeling between your half-spread legs, it’s hard not to let yourself nod stupidly at his question

It does feel good. Too good, in fact, and you let out a whine to the fact that the two men have you positioned in a way where you can hardly even move to get more of it. Molly still has his hands gripped tight to your hips while Cad has his arms around your torso and his hands groping needily at your chest--whether the positioned was planned or not, you’re left shaking like a leaf in the wind against their attention.

The air is starting to smell like sex as your cunt grows wet with arousal and from Molly’s eager mouth, but moreso than that is the cloying smell of pure heat that begins to fill your mind. Not as much as the concept of temperature, but in the raw concept of what one might think passion smelled like--needy, hot and wild. It smells of earth and flowers you can’t identify, of pheromones that flicker keenly in your brains despite being different from that of your own kind.

Claiming. Needing. Marking. Mating .

It’s only through persistent close proximity that you finally realize that they’re coming from Molly himself.

A pinch of Cad’s fingers over one of your nipples pulls your thoughts back to the moment and your eyes whipping around to try and shoot him a half-pained glare. Despite it though, you can’t deny how your hips roll forward into Molly’s mouth from the pleasure-pain. The firbolg does it again to the opposite breast, getting all the same reaction as heat floods across your cheeks.

“You’re quite sensitive,” he murmurs gently, playfully taking the tip of your ear between his teeth for a nip. “And I wonder if you taste as good as you sound.”

“She does.”

The second voice catches both of your attentions. Half-lidded eyes drift down to where Molly happily kneels before you, his mouth glistening from your arousal and tongue but tracing over his lips. His face looks dark with heat, a beautiful flush of dark mauve over his cheeks--he looks of a parched man who is finally getting a drink.

“Delicious,” he murmurs, voice soft and words drunk with pleasure. “I want to drink every last drop of you if you’ll let me.”

“And you-” the words catch behind your teeth as you watch the tiefling lean his face into your hip, nuzzling against your skin with no shortage of intimate, warm joy in even the simple motion. “You want to...do this? With me?”

It feels almost odd to talk to him directly at last, how much Caduceus had done to be the middle party of it all--how much had he helped with? What did he say to Molly? What things were going through his mind right now as he played but the third wheel between you?

With how his gentle hands yet grope and roll your breasts against his palms, how you can feel a growing pressure press firm and shapely against the swell of your ass, it’s not that hard to figure out where his own desires lay.

The sound of your question, awkward and soft, seems to pull Molly back to his ministrations of before--with almost renewed mirth his face presses once more to the join of your thighs, only now his hands shifted in such a subtle way that it takes a moment to realize that he’s pressing his thumbs and spreading your labia apart.

It’s hard not to whimper when his warm breath ghosts over your sensitive, wanting flesh. Legs still quiver from the restraint of movement, but it makes the pleasure peak all the higher in the same breath. 

It’s hard not to shake when Molly’s tongue starts to trace against your cunt, up and down between your spread lips, flicking playfully at your throbbing clit--a sob almost drips from your mouth when attention starts to lack upon such a sensitive spot.

You finally let out a sob, unmuted and unashamed in the fact that you want more .

“Please.” your legs shake as pleasure grows tight in your stomach, Molly’s tongue sinful and hot as it dips deeper into the folds of your pussy. “Muh-Molly-” your hands finally move to reach out and dip into the still-wet locks of his hair. There’s little you can do to try and pull his attention upward, but you try regardless with several hard tugs, hoping he would understand.

Or worse, hoping he would be merciful .

A pinch of your nipples, a roll of your breasts, a press of Mollymauk’s tongue--

You’re so close to the edge that it’s hard to think , let alone speak. And even still the rain hammers on outside, the noise thick and haunting and leaving the moment to twist and drift with an odd sort of intimacy only ever brought on by the sound of rain and the soft chill of the air. You can smell a blissful mix of sex and need around you, from all three of your bodies as want grows too raw to ignore.

“Close,” the sound comes out of your mouth as little more than a breath. “S-so cluh-close...please...please…!”

“Please what?”

The sound of Caduceus’ voice is right next to your ear. You can feel how he moves against you now, his hips up against the curve of your ass, so tight that your tail can barely squirm between the pressure and heat of your bodies--though the firbolg is still wearing his soaked clothes, though they press against your bare skin, there’s something hot and alluring about how there’s but one layer left of cloth between his throbbing cock and your body.

But you don’t get to think long on what-ifs, as he whispers the question once more into your ear.

“You have to tell us what you want,” the cleric murmurs, coy and rough as if he too is nearing some form of tight, hot completion. “Do you want Mr. Tealeaf to make you cum on his tongue? Does it feel good like that?”

His words and their tone can’t be hidden in how debauched they sound. Thick with arousal and shamefully filled with lust. Even if the firbolg had taken a very precarious standing on helping you and Molly, he doesn’t seem ashamed in the fact that he is aroused and needing--nearly as needing as yourself.

But you nod, furious and bouncing, fingers gripping tighter still in the tiefling’s wet hair.

“Make me-” you sputter. “Make me cum, please, please make me c-cum Molly I need-” Another sputter, a sob of sounds and moans mixing until words are hard to pull from it all. 

“-I need you so much.”

It’s as if something snaps. Like an old rope pulled too taut and fraying at the edges, something snaps hard and fast and it leaves you gasping for air when Molly’s mouth almost feels as if he swallows you all down. Suddenly his lips are clamped tight around your throbbing clit and his tongue is pressing, flicking, swirling around the center of your aching need and it’s all so much-

Orgasm hits you like a wave, warm and powerful and flooding every inch of your skin. It’s good that Cad is there to hold you up because the force of it leaves you nearly trembling.

“Good,” he murmurs, nuzzling his lips to the top of your head. “That’s so good, it’s alright now…”

Somehow, the soothing tone of his hushed words make the moment feel all the more pure despite the cloying heat and smell of sex that swirls around the three of you. It makes it intimate and sweet, lingering as Molly’s lips tighten and suck for but a few moments more over you, until you are boneless and overstimulated and unsure whether to try and pull your hips away or press them clothes to his mouth.

But eventually the tiefling lifts away, his achingly hot gaze staring up at you through half-lidded eyes. His chin and lips glisten from your arousal--despite the fact that you can still feel the gentle thrums of afterglow, there’s something beautiful about how debauched the man already looks. Your hands have left his hair a mess and his face looks hot and flushed dark, the colors complimenting everything else about him at the moment.

“Was that good?”

Somehow, for all the charm and confidence that you’ve grown to know within the man’s voice, he seems, in this moment, honest and vulnerable. He looks up at you with eyes that want for so much--starting with your approval, your pleasure.

Your lips twitch into a smile as the words of soft praise already press against the back of your lips before you can mentally try to form them into proper sentences.

“So good Molly,” you murmur, shivering as the man moves to stand on his feet again--all of you seem a little wobbly in the moment, whether it be from arousal or post-orgasmic exhaustion. “You’re just as dangerous with your mouth in your words as everything else it seems.”

“You’ve only felt it once,” the tiefling says in a half-hearted jest, licking the slickness from his lavender lips before leaning in close to you. “I’ll be happy to let you feel it as much as you want if you….”

He pauses, that look of vulnerable honesty moving over his expression. It takes a moment through the haze of warmth to recognize the look, if only because it’s so subtle and mixed so deeply into the cloying air of ongoing lust--neither he nor Caduceus seem to have found their end just yet.

With shaking hands you manage to find a grip on the man’s clothes and tug him close, so close, until the three of you are pressed together, until Cad’s hands are squished between your chest and Molly’s in much the same way your tail is pressed between your ass and the firbolg’s hips.

Soft. Hot. Comfortable. Safe .

But when Mollymauk tilts his hips, you feel something else press against you, aching against the still-wet cloth of his trousers. How he’d managed to give you so much attention while being so bothered by his own throbbing need--it makes your heart give a gentle twist in your chest. He’s wrapped up in lust and want and positively doused with pheromones of heat, and still the man cares enough to make sure that you want him in the same way.

He just brought you to orgasm with his mouth on your clit and his tongue nearly fucking you, and still he has the gall to look so cute about it.

It’s Caduceus that pulls you out of your thoughts again with his gentle chuckle.

“Will you have him?” he says, nipping at one of your ears. “Will you let him make you his mate?”

It’s odd, the way the other man speaks, somewhere between speaking for Molly and speaking about Molly, whom still stands against your front--he who has found interest in mouthing gently against your pulse point in a way that makes every inch of you almost start to shiver all over again.

But despite it all, it doesn’t change your answer. It doesn’t change how you’ve always felt about him, how you’ve wanted your friend in all the ways he was willing to give his heart to you.

“Yes,” you whisper, soft and needy with hands gripping tight to the cold folds of the man’s shirt, keeping him from moving away even an inch. “Please make me yours, Mollymauk.”

Even with his lips pressed against the sensitive expanse of your throat,