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Molly leans over the balcony and watches the setting sun with fondness, a contented sigh leaving her lips. She admires the rose garden of bloody pinks and oranges enveloping the great city of Baldur's Gate, welcoming in the dusk with an oasis of serenity. It's such a simple sight that many take for granted after getting used to it, herself included many years ago. There were no sunsets in the Hells. No bird songs to announce the dawn, no spring breeze to stay refreshed. It was just the never-ending heat and wrath of war.
To say she's glad to be out of the Hells would be an understatement. She's ecstatic, absolutely tickled pink to have escaped the bloodshed without losing a limb (or worse), with her lover and friend also intact. It had been a grueling few months, surviving when everything in sight wanted to kill them, never feeling fully rested for fear of an ambush. Yet against all odds, they survived—they won.
Mizora was dead, slain by the cut of her great axe, leaving behind nothing but waxy black sludge in place of organs or blood. They found the blueprints to Karlach’s infernal engine and were able to threaten a Merregon blacksmith into working on hers, so she could survive outside of the Hells without bursting into flames. Ideally, they would have taken it further, brought down Zariel herself, made the archdevil choke on the ruin she’d wrought, but Wyll, ever the realist, had urged caution. Their luck, miraculous as it had been thus far, would not stretch to slaying a creature of Zariel’s calibre. Not without a small army and several divine favours.
Molly would have loved to have taken down Zariel, to watch her fall the same way Elturel had. Karlach was especially determined, fighting with Wyll for days on the subject, but in the end they knew he was right. Determination alone wouldn’t keep them alive, not against a being forged from celestial fury and hellfire. Molly couldn’t bear to gamble everything they’d fought for, not when she had a future to share with the man she loved. Getting to live some normalcy with him after everything they'd been through was more than worth letting go of the idea of revenge.
Molly nestles her chin in the curve of her hand, releasing another long, weary sigh into the late afternoon breeze. They've been home now for a few days, which specifically is Wyll’s childhood quarters in the grand sprawl of his father’s estate. She wasn't sure what their plan would have been upon leaving Avernus, but after contacting his father, Duke Ravenguard had insisted they stay with him. He'd been eager to reconnect with his son, as well as get to know Molly, his “future daughter-in-law”; a phrase Molly had blushed at upon hearing.
The place is less a house and more a declaration to opulence, with every corner steeped in old money and even older pride. It oozes elegance, with far too much room than it knew what to do with. Long, winding hallways with marble floors, grand, spacious rooms for hosting parties, chandeliers that glitter overhead, and expensive paintings and statues Molly was afraid to even look at, for fear of damaging them somehow. It’s all so beautiful, achingly so, and it feels like a dream someone else is meant to live in.
She's not used to all this wealth. She grew up in an orphanage, survived by evoking fear, and stole what was necessary as a means to survive without disenfranchising others in need. It's beautiful being surrounded by elegance, but it's also overwhelming. She feels something akin to guilt clawing at her heart. When she walked the halls, getting a tour, every portrait watched her with an aristocratic sneer, their painted eyes sharp with judgment, as though they knew she didn't belong. A few times, Wyll had turned to her with worry, observant to the self-loathing making itself known in her eyes, in her stance, in her everything. He'd squeezed her hand reassuringly, a kind glimmer in his smile to remind her that you are worthy.
You, my love, my forever and a day, never have to worry about being unworthy, as the love I feel for you is as rich as all the gold in The Counting House vaults.
She'd been so lost in thought, admiring the setting sun, that she somehow didn’t hear Wyll creeping up behind her. She jumps in surprise when his hands come out of nowhere to capture her waist, wrapping around her adoringly with his body fitting against her back like a puzzle, and his chin slotting into the dip of her shoulder. She giggles fondly, her hands placing over his as she accepts his intimacy.
“Come to enjoy the view with me?” She asks, turning to look at him, huffing out a laugh as she feels him kissing her shoulder.
“Perhaps you are the view I wish to enjoy,” He retorts, and seamlessly spins her around so she’s facing him in his arms, leaning back against the balcony railing. “There’s nothing more beautiful in this world than you.”
Molly laughs softly, lifting her arms to link around his neck. She shakes her head. “Not to be corny, but this world is overflowing with beauty. Even if I were someone more petite and delicate like—”
“Now, Mrs Ravenguard, if you dare utter another woman’s name in my presence with the intention of putting yourself down, I will be forced to prove how ridiculously wrong you are.” He gives her hips a playful squeeze, lifting a brow. “Plus, who says petite and delicate are the definition of beautiful?”
She rolls her eyes, though there’s no real annoyance behind it. “I've a few things to point out about what you just said. Point 1, we are not yet married. I haven't officially taken your surname.”
“No harm in getting used to sharing it—”
“Point 2,” She continues, her smile growing fonder. “I wasn't putting myself down…necessarily. I’m sure there's certain angles in which I look just fine, and lighting that makes me glow—”
“You're absolutely gorgeous at every angle,” Wyll corrects, and he leans in to kiss her on the left cheek. “And all lighting.” Then kisses the right.
Molly scoffs. “And point 3, my experiences growing up have led me to believe that the most beautiful women tend to be dainty and soft,” She says with a mocking tone, “with cute features and gentle voices, and I—”
“Well, I think your features are very cute.” Wyll interrupts, and this time, he has every intention of continuing, no longer practising patience in the face of her passive self-deprecation. He brings a hand up to rest on the curve of her cheek, stroking her skin gently with his thumb, his smile rising higher as she subtly nuzzles into his palm. “Truly, Molly, there's no one else on this planet, in this plane, that I think is more beautiful than you. The standards of others throughout the Gate mean very little to me, as my feelings are well and truly my own.”
She cups his hand against her cheek and exhales heavily, staring deep into his mismatched eyes with a hopeful longing. Something unpleasant squeezes at her heart, like barbed wire piercing the tender flesh of her muscle, and she finds herself voicing a rotten anxiety before it's even fully formed in her mind.
“You don't ever wish I was less…devil-like?”
The moment the question leaves her lips, she regrets it. Wyll's adoring smile begins to sink, his eyes widening with anguish, and the look he gives her makes Molly want to crawl into a hole and perish. She's never asked him anything of the sort, and he's never said anything directly to make her think he dislikes her tiefling traits, but it's one of those stray insecurities that rears its ugly head once in a blue moon, reminding her of their differences. Sometimes she remembers the way he'd mourned his life before his own hellish transformation, or how he'd thought his horns would somehow upset others, as if she wasn't standing there before him, horns and all.
And sometimes—more often since they'd returned to Baldur's Gate, where every day folk strolled the streets and smiled in recognition as they saw Wyll—she sees the way others look at them, and she can tell they don't approve. A man of Wyll's infamy, his charm, courting a barbarian with the stink of Avernus…
She shakes her head to dismiss the spiralling anxieties, shuffling out of his hold ever so slightly. “Ugh, I didn't mean to say that, please forget—”
“I've never wished for you to be anything other than yourself, exactly as you are and who you carry yourself as.” Wyll takes one of her hands and brings it to his lips, placing a tender kiss to the jagged scars across her knuckles. “Do you think I would love you more if you were human?”
Molly winces. “I…I don't think so.”
“Then allow me to make it crystal clear, I would not. Molly, your being a tiefling is part of who you are. Your violet complexion, your midnight eyes, your ridged horns, they're all a part of who you are, and I cherish it all. I love our differences just as much as I love our similarities.” He rotates her hand and kisses the heel of her palm, lowering to pepper soft kisses along her wrist. “You're absolutely perfect exactly as you are.”
She can feel a fiery blush radiating across her cheeks as she watches him kiss her hand fondly. “To be fair, I'm happy being me, horns and all. It's just one of those dumb thoughts that wanders by every so often. I know you aren't always so confident about your own horns, so…you know…” She shrugs, laughing softly as she waves off the air, as if to dismiss the whole conversation. “Honestly, let's just forget I said anything!”
But Wyll's expression is determined. He takes a few seconds to simply admire her, his smile extending higher across his face, and then he leans in to press a longing kiss to her lips. His hands move down her figure, one finding a place on the curve of Molly’s hip, the other moving up to cup her face, anchoring them to the tenderness. Molly yields, instantly melting into the embrace with a soft sigh as her body responds eagerly. He kisses her lovingly, like a man with all the time in the world, whose only care is to cherish the love of his life.
Molly’s lips are plush, just a touch more pronounced than Wyll's own. Her lower lip is fuller and envelopes Wyll's. At first she takes him in gently, cautious, almost shy, but in no time her confidence blooms, and she deepens the kiss with a surer grace. They fall into their own familiar rhythm they’ve shaped over countless moments like this.
Wyll begins the dance as he often does, steady and deliberate, guiding her with the elegance of a gentleman and the quiet hunger of a man utterly besotted. They match each other's passion beat for beat until their kiss is less a conversation and more a song. Her fingers rise to trace the line of his jaw, her touch feather-light before curling around his neck, pulling him closer. He answers with a soft groan against her lips, and the sound sends a shiver through her chest and stirs something molten in her belly.
“Wyll…” She moans against his mouth, her voice wanton and breathless, as if he's sucked the oxygen from her lungs. She presses her forehead against his, the gentle clink of bone as their horns knock together, and Wyll lets out a breathy laugh. He gently leans her against the railing of the balcony, nuzzling his nose into the crease of hers.
“I am exhilarated to live my life by your side,” He begins, pressing longing kisses to her lips between sentences. “No more tadpoles, no more false God's, no more devils or the Hells. We can live a perfectly normal life and indulge in the romantically mundane thrills of mortal love, without any death sentences or grand battles awaiting.”
Molly laughs. “Not sure you can say our lives will be normal or mundane. Your father is a duke, for crying out loud.”
“Well, yes…but that's his business.”
“Sure, for now. I mean, I'm not trying to get you to think about the day your father will pass, but it's safe to say you'll take over eventually and become a duke yourself.”
The happiness Wyll so confidently had been wearing suddenly falters. He takes a step back from Molly, exhaling a burdensome sigh, and looks off into the distance, unable to keep her gaze.
“I must confess…I dread the very thought of taking my father's place as the Duke of Baldur's Gate.” He steps back and turns to walk back into the room they're staying in, fiddling with his hands anxiously. “I've considered telling him to pick an alternative successor to take up the mantle after he's gone.”
Molly frowns in bewilderment as she follows him. “Why?” When Wyll exhales a sorrowful laugh, her eyes widen in surprise.
“I don't feel deserving of such importance. It's so intimidating to even imagine, how am I going to possibly handle the reality? I mean—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “People are kind to my face now purely because my father has demanded I be treated with respect, but what will happen when he's gone? I'll be mocked for having made a deal with a devil, for being morphed into its plaything. I remember when I was in my preteens, when I first started going by Wyll, and people were…they were so cruel when they thought my father wouldn't find out.”
An ache grips Molly’s chest, reverberating throughout her ribcage. She can see the bitter self-loathing brewing in his eyes, growing more intense with each new thought, every remembered unpleasantry. Most of the stories Wyll had told Molly about his childhood were positive, fun antidotes of misadventures and hijinks, or beloved tales from before his father banished him. It was rare he ventured into darker territory—at least, he never lingered for long, too wounded by the memories to truly lament. She knew tip-bits and assumed there was more he kept close to his chest.
The topic of his transition is one such tale Wyll talks about in short. He'd realised his identity young, and his father had no qualms with aiding in him expressing his true self. Others however weren't as understanding. The extent of which Molly didn't know, and she didn't want to push him to reveal all the gory details. She trusted he'd tell her more when he was ready.
“I don't think people would want a leader like me. Someone who—”
“Who's kind? Passionate? Gentle?” Molly steps into his space and cups his face with her hands, stroking his cheek with her thumbs. Her lips curl into a tender smile, the kind of joy saved only for him, to let him know how much she adores him. “You think people wouldn't want a leader that sacrificed his own soul at the age of 17 just to save the city he loves? You think people don't already respect you for the wonderful man you are?”
He exhales a laugh, bringing a hand up to hold onto her forearm. “I'm sure there are some people who think kindly of me—”
“No, not just some, Wyll. Many. You're a hero! You've saved this city twice, you've survived things many couldn't even comprehend! You are undeniably worthy of being the Duke one day, and anyone who thinks otherwise, well…they can fuck off, to be honest!”
Wyll lets out an abrupt laugh, shaking his head playfully as he rests his hands on Molly’s hips to hold her close. “You certainly know how to flatter me.”
She takes a second to simply absorb the moment, cherish the subtle relief filling his features, and then she pulls him in for another kiss. She feels him melt into the moment, smiling against her lips, and all too easily waltzing backwards as she gently leads him towards their bed. He drops when the backs of his legs meet the mattress, and Molly leans in to keep their faces close. She rests her hands either side of him, keeping him in place.
“I'll do more than simply flatter you, Wyll Ravenguard,” The mischievous grin that spreads across her lips is wicked as her fingers trail down, finding the fastening of his trousers to work the buckle loose. Wyll's eyes blow wide, a mix of surprise and anticipation, and he lifts his hips helpfully so she can pull the clothing down his legs, trousers and underwear in tandem. “I'm going to remind you just how wonderful you are…”
He laughs softly as she pushes his shoulders to force him flat on his back. “Ooph! Do I not get a say in this?”
Molly’s already on her knees between his legs. She pauses where she's about to lift one over her shoulder to raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, if you're not interested, obviously I'll stop. Would you rather I didn't eat you out?”
Wyll inhales sharply at her words, and a sweet spring-toned blush colours his cheeks. “Oh Molly, it's not that I wouldn't want that, I just…you've sprung it upon me, is all!” He sits up on his elbows to look down at her, an eager grin lifting one corner of his mouth as he meets her ravenous stare. “You don't need to pleasure me just to give me a confidence boost.”
Molly purses her lips in thought, more for show than anything, and shrugs. “Maybe, but I'd like to pleasure you…is that okay?”
She already knows the answer before he's said anything, it's written in the glimmer of his eyes, in the crooked joy of his smile. He quirks a brow curiously and tilts his head, looking her up and down for a few seconds, as if he's thinking it over—like there's anything to even be thinking over—and then he clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth.
“I couldn't possibly deprive my lovely lady of what her heart desires.”
With that, Molly doesn't waste another second. She hikes one of Wyll's legs over her shoulder so his thigh is against her cheek, and kisses the softness of his inner thigh. The sight is breathtaking, her darling Wyll spread out before her, patient and perfect, his pussy mere inches away from her face.
He's already glistening from arousal, the pubes at the edge of his lips wet from just Molly’s suggestion of pleasure. His cock, already engorged, begging for attention, shines equally from his slick. Molly hasn't had very many partners in her life, but the few she has had don't hold a candle to Wyll. Even before she's had a taste of him, before she's enjoyed the sweetest nectar known to man, her mouth already waters like a starved dog, just at the prospect of pleasuring him.
Molly growls as she kisses the crease between Wyll's thigh and pussy lip, eyes looking up to gain his own. “Mind spreading yourself for me?” She asks bluntly, nuzzling against the fleshy fat of his leg. There's a hairsbreadth of trepidation before Wyll huffs out an incredulous laugh. He lowers his hand down between his legs and takes his two forefingers to make a V shape, spreading open his pussy lips to give Molly a better look at his hole and tantalising dick.
“Better?” He asks, though his voice is dripping with a smugness unique to Wyll. It's not self-aggrandising or pretentiously cocky, but rather has a gentle humour to it. He's confident for her, with her, and eager to impress.
Molly flicks her lips unconsciously, a devious smile curling the corners of her mouth, creasing her eyes. She presses a kiss to Wyll's thigh, lingering like her lips can stain the dark skin if she tries hard enough. “Much better. Now lay back and enjoy, my handsome man…”
Then without another word, Molly closes the gap between them, experimentally flicking her tongue over Wyll's clit. The contact makes him jolt suddenly, as if he wasn't anticipating the warmth and subtle moisture of Molly’s open mouth. Immediate sparks ignite; dull and soft, but there all the same, shocking against the nothing that he had seconds prior. He flinches forward, gasping, hands falling to the bed as he fists the sheets in a tight grip.
Molly doesn't waste another second as she gets straight to devouring Wyll's beautiful cunt with the single-mindedness of worship. Her tongue works him with relentless purpose, as though the act is her sacred duty, her very livelihood. She parts her lips wide, desperate to consume every drop of his wet heat, swirling her tongue over the swollen knot of nerves that pulses like a heartbeat. She wants to become thoroughly equated with Wyll's pleasure like it's their first time all over again—relearning him, rediscovering every shiver and gasp, charting the terrain of his pleasure with patience and determination. She savours the exploration, every lick and press of her mouth a step towards his bliss.
Her own arousal coils tight, drawn from the intoxicating ecstasy of making Wyll writhe around her, and she growls against him. Wyll's thighs quiver, the vibration from her sound reverberating against his skin. Molly’s hands slip up around his legs and hook onto the inside of his thighs, forcefully pulling Wyll closer, as if there's even any space left not already taken up by her determination and lust. Wyll squeezes his thighs around Molly’s face, crushing her lightly. She nuzzles her face deeper against the warmth of Wyll, plunging her tongue into his pussy repeatedly. She moves the muscle only to play with his clit, lathering it with her saliva.
Molly is well equated with what drives him nuts. She closes her lips over his clit, sucking gently while her tongue flicks and circles the throbbing nub, torment and delight in equal measure. Wyll answers with a strangled whine, hips snapping against Molly’s face with desperate vigour. His moans come unchecked, breathy and urgent, his hand flying down to tangle in Molly’s hair. He uses the grip as leverage, grinding harder against her mouth, lost in the pulse of his own need.
“Molly,” Her name slips past his lips like a forbidden secret, each letter dripping in seduction and bliss. He pulls at her hair, cautious even in the blaze of lust—she’s told him she can take it, but still he fears hurting her. He gives just enough sting, and it only fuels his pace, hips grinding fervently to meet her tongue. He throws his head back harder against the mattress as he loses himself to the delicious pleasure. “Gods almighty—you…you're perfect.” He's so close, his core is burning up ready to explode.
For Molly, this is paradise itself, and she’s willing to surrender everything just to gift Wyll a fragment of bliss. If it means her last breath is spent drowning in the molten heat of his cunt, so be it. Her fingers dig possessively into the firm curve of his thighs as she holds him close, a low, guttural moan spilling from her throat while her tongue plunges deep, coaxing him towards oblivion. She seals her mouth against him, lips puckering to kiss and suckle at his slick folds before parting wide to dive back in with ravenous intent. The vibration of her groans continue to reverberate through his clit, a decadent tremor that only drives him higher.
But then at the height of it all, when Wyll starts to feel that familiar tightening pressure throughout his gut, spreading to his chest, when his moans become desperate prayers—Molly abruptly stops.
Wyll gasps like a man who's inches away from the pearly gates, and his head snaps down to look at her, confused, offended.
“Why have you stopped—”
Molly silences him with a sudden, hungry kiss, her mouth claiming his before he can draw another breath. His own taste lingers on her tongue, sharp and unmistakable, akin to a faint tang like sea-salt, earthy and intimate. His hands reach for her hips to hold her close, and he moans into her mouth, his desperation having overshadowed any kind of shame he may possibly possess.
“I have a few of those scrolls Gale gave us as an engagement present.” She says, breathy and eager, inches from his lips so she can kiss him after every sentence. “You remember? We used one after the reunion party?”
Wyll's eyes widen as the memory comes to mind, clear and vivid as the day itself. He'd seen Gale speaking with Molly earlier that night, catching up on one another's adventures, exchanging stories post-Absolute. Gale had handed her a small bag of scrolls, and his expression while doing so was that of mild embarrassment, smiling but seeming coy all the same. Molly looked delighted. Wyll had been curious but forgot to ask at the party as he found himself wrapped up in hearty conversation. It wasn't until they were alone together that he found out what Gale had gifted them.
A specially made scroll of his own creation, something for them to use during their more intimate moments alone.
Wyll was amazed when he first watched Molly perform the spell. From the cradle of her hips came a radiant magenta light, shimmering like liquid starlight, dusting her skin in glimmering sparks. The glow coalesced until it formed into a semi-transparent, deep violet cock, perfectly matching the dusky hue of her flesh. It pulsed faintly, alive with arcane power, as though it had been breathed into existence by the very heartbeat of magic itself.
Wyll had many questions (most of them for Gale to answer, really), but experiencing Molly inside him, watching as she unravelled at the seams, able to feel the magical appendage as if it were real flesh and blood, his curiosity melted away. Why Gale thought to give them these scrolls, and why he'd been practicing magic in such a way to begin with, it really didn't matter. Wyll was just grateful for the gift, full stop.
Before he can say anything to her, Molly is stepping away from him. She moves to where she'd left her rucksack yesterday, sat upon a chair like a voyeur to their romance. She digs through the bag, and, in a comically triumphant style, pulls out a scroll. Wyll sits up on his elbows and watches as she unravels the spell.
“You may wish to remove your clothing, my lady,” Wyll reminds with a humorous grin. “Otherwise said magical appendage will appear on top of your garments…and we don't need a repeat of that event.”
Molly looks down at herself, as if shocked to see she's still wearing the breezy, elegant dress she had slipped into before dinner. Without hesitation, she grasps handfuls of fabric, hiking it up around her waist before stripping it off in one smooth, resolute sweep. The dress sails across the room, landing unseen in some neglected corner as her attention remains fixed on him. Her fingers work with impatient need to unclasps her bra. Her underwear follows suit in a brisk wiggle, discarded thoughtlessly.
She faces Wyll, unclothed and unabashed, her body a sculpture of strength and determination, carved from desire itself. Not a hint of self-consciousness touches her, nor should it, when his eyes have always cherished every part of her, viewing her like a deity made mortal. The candlelight bathes her, turning each line of her body to liquid amber.
She unravels the parchment and holds it up to read, ancient symbols catching the candlelight like fish scales in a shallow stream. Her voice finds the words, not commanding them but coaxing them forth, each syllable a caress against the silence of the room. The air thickens. Magic awakens, first as goosebumps across her skin, then as heat pooling low in her belly. Magenta light spills from within her, liquid and alive, flowing up along her curves and settling at her hips with purpose. The glow pulses, concentrates, hardens into form as the spell completes its transformation.
Wyll stares almost impolitely at the magical appendage shimmering between her thighs. Just as he remembers it from previous times, a deep, violet, translucent cock, glistening as though sculpted from crystal alive with breath. It's a humble size, not obnoxiously large, not intimidating, and as if real flesh, it twitches, tuned to Molly’s own arousal, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat, an extension of her desire.
The conjured length juts out proudly, and Wyll reclines onto the sheets, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He parts his legs in silent invitation, eyes blazing with the reverence of a worshipper beholding divinity. His fingers clutch at the bedding, betraying the restraint it takes not to beg her to claim him completely.
She thinks about teasing him, pointing out how adorable he looks, flustered and eager as if the world might end lest they make love—but her own needs are just as fragile right now, and desperation wins out. She moves over him with purpose, settling between his thighs and guiding one leg to wrap around her waist. The cock gleams as she positions herself, the head of her length pressing against his entrance before she eases forward, his slickness welcoming her inside.
A low sound escapes Wyll as his body yields. The pleasant sting of being opened mingles with waves of delight. His spine curves upward of its own accord, his knees pressing against her sides as he tightens around her, drawing her in until they're completely joined.
Fullness, at last…
Their voices blend in primal harmony. Wyll remains taut beneath her, back bowed and breath suspended. In this moment of surrender, he feels the exquisite fragility of his form, the beautiful vulnerability of being filled. He takes a deep inhale until his lungs are fit to burst and then exhales slowly, eyes taking focus on the woman above him. Her gorgeous lavender skin, her glimmering midnight eyes, her grounding presence that keeps him tethered to the world around them. She's his eternity.
Molly exhales a short laugh as she adjusts her hips, nudging deeper into Wyll and making him groan pleasurably. “Feeling good?” She asks, giving his thigh around her waist a squeeze.
“More than good.” Wyll responds, nodding. “I am all yours, my beloved.”
Molly arches a brow and smirks, fangs catching briefly on her lip before she presses forward, sliding into Wyll with a deliberate, steady rhythm. Her conjured length glides in and out with considerable ease.
Their sounds mingle, low, guttural, rasping like gravel ground in their throats. Wyll arches against the mattress, his body curving in surrender. The stretch bites sweetly, aching in theory but melting into pure pleasure, like a reminder of his fragility that carries no fear.
She leans forward, hands sliding to his hipbones and digging her fingers into flesh as she drives deeper. Her rhythm shifts from measured to ravenous, each thrust more urgent than the last. The conjured length between her legs pulses with an inner light that seems to flare brighter with every gasp she draws from him, every moment Wyll yields and welcomes her inside.
Wyll's voice fractures into jagged fragments, each cry torn from deep within. His fingers twist in the bedsheets before scrambling for purchase against Molly's skin, seeking anchor in the storm.
"Gods—Molly," he breathes, the words splintering between his lips. His spine curves like a drawn bow as he takes her in, his flesh yielding even as it quivers. He hangs suspended in that space where breaking and becoming are one and the same, his eyes never leaving hers. What she finds there, that naked, unflinching faith, sears through her more deeply than any physical hunger.
She lowers her mouth to his and swallows his cries. Her hips snap harder, urgent now, her breath ragged. Each thrust wrings another gasp from him, and their pace builds into frenzy, the air thick with heat and the slap of bodies. She watches every quiver of him, the way he yields without hesitation, as though their union is more than pleasure—and truthfully, it is. It's a vow.
“You look…” Molly racks her brain for the perfect word to describe Wyll, a compliment worthy enough to be spoken. She keeps thrusting, and the focus of driving her hips deeper, making him moan over and over again, takes away from her brain's ability to excel. With an awkward scoff, she settles on “beautiful”, and Wyll blushes in return.
“You're too kind, my lady.” Wyll's voice is laboured, but his sweetness comes through all the same, never wavering from his character. He flexes his neck and growls deep from the base of his chest. “I'm close, love.”
Molly nods and picks up the pace, hiking his legs up further around her waist so she can thrust with more vigor. The shift causes Wyll's angle to change, and he lets out a startled moan, a pleasurable bolt of lightning firing up his spine suddenly. Wyll's thighs lock around Molly’s hips like a vice. Between the heavy panting is a litany of incoherent sobs, swearing and dazed begging. Molly grins.
She closes the space between them with a soft kiss—gentle enough to be tender, reassuring the intimacy of their shared love, while also being wild and daring, like forbidden lovers throwing caution to the wind. Wyll kisses back like he's replying, “yes, my beloved, I am yours until the end of time itself”.
It takes only moments before Wyll is crying out against her lips, his body trembling as he cums around the magical cock. His hips jerk helplessly with each wave of pleasure, curses tumbling into Molly’s mouth, and she only kisses him deeper, cradling his face as she keeps thrusting, carrying him through the shuddering peak.
Gradually, she slows, hips pressing deep as she stills inside him. They remain entwined, breathing together in the quiet afterglow of their post-orgasm bliss. Wyll threads his fingers through her hair while she wraps him in her arms and lowers herself over him. The urgency fades into tenderness, a warmth like lavender or firelight—and in that calm, both of them wish the moment could last forever.
Their breathing is laboured, the second loudest sound only to their own heartbeats. Molly gently pulls out of Wyll and flops onto her back beside him. They lay side by side in perfect silence for a few serene seconds before Wyll rolls onto his side to look at her. He sighs dreamily when she meets his gaze, and they smile in unison.
“You're truly perfect, Mrs Ravenguard.”
Molly scoffs, reaching out to take one of his hands in her own, squeezing it fondly. “It takes one to know one.”
He laughs in response, and shuffles closer, pulling her into his arms to embrace. She accepts gladly, nuzzling into the warmth of his collar. She closes her eyes and lets out a heavy breath. She never thought she'd get a happy ending, and the promise of a life with Wyll is so much better.