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Rev! Can I request 5, 19, 21 & 22 from the smut prompt list for Ale and Terzo, please and thank youu🖤🖤🐺

Okay. This was meant to be a short(ish) prompt fill, I swear, but this thing all but wrote itself. It also decided to add far more plot than I planned for...I've been craving some good old-fashioned hurt/comfort though, so 🤷 oops.

Lots of spicy sweetness (heavy on the spice) ahead...these two are matching each other's freak fr here ❤️‍🔥

5. "Let me take care of you, yeah? I'll do the work.", 19. "Is this okay?", 21. "Doing so good for me, sweetheart." & 22. "Shh...just a little more."

WC: 3.6k | Rating: E, 🔞 | CWs: Established relationship, self-esteem issues, depression, affirmation, bathing, body worship, hair washing, bathtub sex, hand jobs, mutual masturbation, praise kink, dirty talk, D/s, come eating, the switch energy has been brought to the function (yet again)

Steam clings to the shadows of his ensuite like dew in a cave. The air is soaked with bath salt and amber, firelight glistening off the glass: a million fae unleashed to dazzling prisms on silks and stone and skin.

It's a deep room, wide and curving in ways old chambers often are. Like most wings of the Ministry, modernity wedges itself into the cracks: a host of spotless fixtures on an ancient foundation. Crisp-cut mirrors, black iron, dark marble and seamless wood, and a claw-footed tub by the back wall, buried in a nest of shadow-loving plants.

He lays soaking in it, now: chin-deep in sudsy water like a crocodile poised to snap. A sea-captain charting the tidepools of his palm like ill omens, retreated from one storm to another.

It's been a day of storms, it seems.

He'd listened to every track of Blue twice that morning and spent his hours before lunch wearing a hole in the carpet. Dinner had come on the heels of a double espresso and a walk by the winter moon, and he'd been rotting away in that tub ever since, long enough for Ale to wonder if he'd dozed.

They'd stuck their head in, eventually: only a heavy-eyed thing there to greet them, after they'd seen his hair was half-dry, came in with their mussed clothes and second toothbrush and started talking about the finches nesting in the rafters.

That was some time ago, though. He still hasn't made a move to touch his soap.

Ale spits foam into the sink, mint stinging up their nose. "Have you worked anymore on that song?"

The mirror's too fogged to see him clearly. Something of a shadow scrunches in the glass: matches the sigh that husks through his teeth. "No time to get to the keys. Per usual."

Ale's toothbrush clatters into the cup left for it. "I could haul it up here for you."

"The piano?"

They glance over their shoulder. "What else?"

From across the room, he idles on them, a glint of fondness in the crook of his teeth. "Hm." They'd come in with their shirt undone. His eyes drop skittishly down it, as though he's forgotten he's allowed. "...Well." Ale shifts their weight on their hip, turning further—and then he's staring openly at them, slowly, appreciative as a painter to a muse. "Only if the winds will allow it, little bird," he mulls on, tipping his chin over his shoulder. "Might break a wing."

"They're stronger than they look."

His smirk creases deep, and cuts strange. "I know."

Ale watches him closely. His fingers are flitting through the water like he's trying to charm the dirt off him—or trying to charm off their leer. And that's enough to charm them closer.

He's read them poetic nonsense more than enough times in this bathroom, perched in varying degrees of dress on the stool by the tub. It rattles closer over the smooth stone floor.

"You can talk to me, you know," Ale reminds him, taking a seat.

Terzo chuffs. "Darling. My inability to stop talking is the problem."

"It's not a problem."

"Tell that to the fucking Cardinals, eh?"

They slide their hands over the tub, skirting the broad bow of his shoulders. He's tense as a spring: a skin-grafted grenade burning up from the inside. "Good thing the Cardinals aren't here," they chide back, and tap at his collarbone. "Sit up."

"Even you ordering me around, now?" His eyes reach for something like playful, even if his tone bites. He doesn't mean it to. "I don't need a massage."

"You need to wash your hair."

"Who's to say I haven't given it a luxury treatment already, huh?" He shuffles back against the tub's wall, bathwater sluicing lazily off his sternum and glimmering on his tilting neck. "Perhaps I have gone off and pampered myself, sweetness. Given myself all sorts of fixings."

Ale strokes their thumb down his cheek. "Then let me give you more."

His eyes stare quietly up at them—equal parts spiting, mournful, and aching as a wound. When a kiss turns into his temple, they dart away.

Silence stews around him. Ale breathes in it, stroking his cheek again, and leans down to knead at his neck: easing strong cords of muscle that hold the heaviness of his head and the world on his shoulders.

They take their own moment to drink him in. His flickering lashes and deepening breaths; his skin flushed from the heat, half-seen and half-hidden; the curls across his body a damp, tussled pelt. There's a ruggedness about him—a counterpoint to his theatrics they've always admired. Without the black on his nails or the glitter down his silks or paint on his smile, one could assume him a butcher or a blacksmith: eyes used to death and hands used to hammering, his forearms strong and the bulk of his body stronger, but soft in ways only a wandering touch would feel.

Those images have never quite fit him. Somewhere in them, though, there's a flavor of a mechanic. His car, like his brother's before him, was a prized restoration; as much as he's spent years bent over a desk, he must have spent twice as long huffing exhaust in that splattered old garage.

Had my hands in engines since I could count, he'd groused at them once, on one cruise of countless down the old country roads. Greased up to my elbows, like this—ah! What's that look for? You do not believe this, mh? Tche! You think I cannot get these hands dirty, is that it? Too concerned with the delicacies? You offend me, Sibling, truly.

He'd been younger, then. A cardinal playing hooky with cigarettes ghosting his breath, tempting them again and again with a jingle of his keys when they should have been sorting reports.

Now, they sort through the curls at his nape. Their nails slide further, splaying into his hair. Untamed from any gels or sprays, it lays in a thicket of dark waves, sweet with pine. He'd been out for hours before they'd eaten, hunting down Hell knows what or where, and had come back with the forests on him.

He'd batted off their questions then, too.

Ale's eyes refocus. His fidgeting's turned still.

"You don't have to tell me," they mutter, a soft touch smoothed along his temples. "Not if you don't want to."

Terzo's body buoys: lungs filled and flushed. His silent languages are odd ones, but they've learned to read the sighs. This one, some version of accepting.

They brush a loose curl from his brow, brush their lips down against it. "Zio."

"Mh...?"

"Let me take care of you." His fringe glosses between their fingers, combed back again and again, behind one ear and another. "I'll do the work."

His eyes lift again: green as cloverfields and white as an autumn sky. Ale traces one fingertip against the freckle beneath his lashline, stroking down over his cheek. "You are always doing the work," Terzo mumbles.

"Since when?"

His brow wrinkles to a knot. "Since you saddled yourself with the lousiest brain of the bunch," he half-jokes, his smile pinched.

A flush of frustration builds in them—one they try their best to tamp down.

They've argued 'til they're blue that they're both worth this, no matter their scars. That they both want this. But, some days, words are only glue: sticking as much as peeling.

Their thumb traces the soft arc of his jawline. "That's not fair," they whisper.

They watch his frown twitch, wither. A wet dappling of fingertips catch on their palm, drawing their wrist down to his lips. He lays a kiss over it. Weaves their hands together and squeezes. "I know," he whispers back.

Silence bubbles, again. Oppressive and still.

Against their skin, lines of laugher and torment are carved scar-like around his mouth, deepened over the years. They turn another kiss into his temple. "Soap," they order gently.

Terzo sighs, softer this time. He lets go of their wrist, plopping the sudsy bar in their palm. "Don't scrub me too hard. Might peel this, eh...thinnish skin off with it, mh?"

They pat his neck teasingly, and he smiles, small but there. When they kiss him, they can taste the salt on his lips. "Lean forward."

He's skittish around slowness, and they're skittish around quickness—but, Saints willing, they've found something of a middle ground. They take their time: their hands scooping up water and soap, washing it down, down the rolling length of his body: warm skin and muscle sloping beneath their palm, his breath expanding through his back. They drag their nails through the sheen, scratching softly at the places he likes—the dip in his spine, the wings of his shoulders, the base of his neck.

His next breath rumbles, a pitch lower than before. Ale coaxes it further with a squeeze over his nape. "Lean back."

He's part alleycat and part couch-hugging hound when he slumps into them again. His skin wets theirs: their chest kissed to his shoulders. The slick slide of it leaves their head foggy—brainless off the thought of his body, wet and molten over their own; on the sight of their hand, gliding down the front of his throat, palming the pulse in his veins; their fingers, nestling through the damp hair that darkens his chest.

They can't help but indulge. His skin burns beneath their fingertips, arched ever so slightly into the lay of their palm. Squeezing, sliding, circling.

Some half-brained part of them feels his chest swell and dip like a sail. Soft here, supple, his pulse battering against their palm. When they thumb over one nipple, he bites his lip.

"You're beautiful, you know," Ale whispers to him.

Terzo licks his lips, crooking a brow. "Sweetening me up, now?"

"Can't I?"

He tips his head back further, enough to toss them a half-lidded look. The smile pulls so faint at the corner they nearly miss it. "You're always sweet to me," he hushes.

"Oh, not always."

He stretches, letting his nose brush their neck. "Mh." He has a hand at their arm, tangled through their sleeve, and purrs, "Most times," before he pulls them closer.

They let him. Let his belly fill their palm, soft and firm in turns; the dark river of his hair a delectable path down, down.

Their fingers skirt lower. His breath shivers. His other hand jumps against the tub, squeaks on the lacquer.

Ale leaves the soap buoyed on his chest. "Finish up, for me," they kiss into his cheek. The glare he shoots them only earns a cocked brow. "You can do that."

Terzo ticks his tongue. "I suppose," he grumbles.

While he tends to his legs, they start on his hair. It's unruly on most days and half-tamed on others; today, a mix of both. They wet it down and smooth it flat, as much as it will permit them.

The scent of it—Ale breathes in deep, feeling a shiver simmer through their bones. A comfort and a fire, in one.

His shampoo, like all his things, is more extravagant than they would ever dream of having: some custom-made concoction of oils and extracts that smells like a night in early spring. It's divine, at any time. Nuzzled, or wind-swept, or gasped into.

They clear their throat, trying to stay focused. The lather twists his waves into a black pool, slippery and smooth between their fingers. They work it through from scalp to end, circling gently, enough to leave his head heavy in their hands.

"Feels alright?" they hush.

Terzo's eyes are closed: long lashes dark and wet against his skin. Something of a twitch stirs in his brows. "More than alright," he purls, slowly.

They hum. Skip their eyes down to his own hands, hung like carved stone against the tub's edges; to the shoreline of sudsy water kissing his stomach. "Did you finish?"

"Mh...?"

"Washing."

"Ah—yes, yes."

They try to finish up, as well. More water through his hair, more twisting nails, the runoff coursing down in fire-licked rivulets. Conditioners then, herbal-sweet beneath their hands. His chest shivers and sinks again, the tides licking up the valleys of his body.

"Darling," he purrs, dangerously low, after they've washed that through too, combed through the ends of his hair twice, just to let the scent stick on them. They smooth fingers slick with oil against the side of his neck: feel his throat ripple and his head tilt. "You do anymore of that, you're not going to get me out of this damned bath."

They slide one finger down his jugular. The pulse skips, throbs, aches. "I think we'll work something out."

"Heave me out by the ropes, no...?"

Ale chuckles. "Maybe another time," they say coyly.

His mouth splits to a grin. "Oh, another time," he parrots. "I see."

His eyes are still closed; he doesn't see the glide of their palm, only feels it, his body rolling lazily into its weight: down across his collarbone, his chest, his belly flinching and the bath burning, and his groin a velvet haven beneath it.

His brain has caught up with him by the time they find his cock, but his mouth hasn't—only a huff flees him, fingers aimless. He fills their palm and then some, silken and slick.

Their hand wanders lower, and sinks, squeezes.

A choke flees him. The water flinches at his waist.

Ale's lips crest the shell of his ear. "Is this okay?" they hush. The heavy weight of his package burns beneath their hand, delicious—firming further, on a dime.

His tongue flicks at his lips again. "Mn-hm."

"Yeah?" They circle their fingers around him, letting their thumb find the vein that rolls thickly up one side. It's been a guide to them many times, and they follow it again, up every inch, every rippling pulse, to nestle at his head.

Terzo swallows. "Yes," he puffs.

Their hand falls, again. His lashes fall with it. And on the wall of the tub, his fingers squeak.

"Relax," Ale lulls, nosing further down his ear. "I've got you."

The firelight's glistening on his puffing chest, on his neck, his head tipping back farther. They'll get conditioner on their shirt and soak their sleeve clean through, but the thought is lost on them—hawk-eyed on the sight of his other hand clawing at his stomach, just out of reach from their own. It twitches like a livewire, dimples deep and squeezes as they squeeze him, breached from the bath with his tilting hips and a flush of steam.

"I," Terzo pants. His fingers flinch again. "Oh."

"Go ahead." They chance a nip at his neck. His head falls limp. "It's alright."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

His hand darts snake-like under their own. For a moment, their fingers are tangled, directionless. Needy and raw. They find his knuckles, urge him down against himself, guiding him: up and down and his sighs shivering at their neck, his thighs twitching. His palm slides lower, cups himself and curls; lets his touch roam farther, and tease gently, while their fist works him to a coil ready to snap.

"That's right," Ale coaxes on, his ear warm on their lips.

His pants pitch higher; fluttering, fawning. Water sloshes across his thighs, filling greedy fingerlakes up the ravines in his belly.

It's his arm that does them in. Something about the sight of him, skin wet and flushed, hair slicked as ink. That tendon flexing, flexing up his wrist: a lazy, coaxing rhythm, veins full from the heat.

That, and the gravel puffing by their neck. Saints, gristling.

They lick at their own lips. Memory plants a barb in them—his teeth on them, growling into their skin—and, in its thought, their words morph to his own.

"You're doing so good, for me," they murmur. Some part of them notices how his neck pebbles, how his ear tilts. "Such a good boy for me."

Terzo's hand jolts. The water jolts around it. Off his tongue, the start of a whimper.

They twist their palm the way they've watched him before, and it's noisy as Hell in this crypt of a room, but they can't find the mind to care: not with his hand splatting against the lacquer, his palm flattening against himself, his head craning hard into their shoulder.

"Ah—Al—"

"Just a little more."

Air gusts through his teeth, echoing. "Oh." His palm collapses. "Mnh—"

Ale twists, again: a satined slide up, up—

"C-ah—can—" His brow is coiled to a knot. "Fuck," he hisses. His hips bow up into their hands like a prayer. "Can I—?"

They weigh down on him wickedly, thumbing slow along his slit. He startles like a man shocked. A fizzling little whine that plummets.

"Yes."

His hand claps on the edge of the tub. His head slumps forward and clunks back into them, gritting out a groan, and his cock kicks beneath their palm. Spilled water across his hips and spilled milk across his chest, shuddering and breathless.

They ease him through it. Squeeze out every drop he can give; every cavernous sigh and quiver. The sight enraptures them—a Michelangelean thing panting with bliss, brushed with glaze, moonlit against the heaving valleys of his skin.

After a moment, his heat still aching into their palm, they slide their hand up: nestle through the tussle of hair down his stomach, drag carefully through the glitter and the slick, and lift higher.

His head sways like a hooked fish into their fingers. They skim their thumb at his lips. Watch, with a knot in their gut, as he opens them, obedient.

Oh, his mouth is sinful. Molten. His tongue, even more so.

He sucks them clean like an art form, a treat worth savoring. And when they slide free from the heat of it—their nose bumping at his, and his eyes blinking dazedly up at them—they only have a moment to steady themselves before his hand is in their hair and his mouth crushed to theirs.

It's a mesh of teeth and tongues: a mess of salt and spice. They can't hold back a groan of their own, their touch slippery at his shoulder, squeezing at his neck.

Terzo bites at their lip, veins throbbing beneath their nails. Ale chuckles, wheezing. The air's stolen from them. "Baby," they gasp.

"Mnh."

"Zio, please—"

His mouth turns feline, a testing curl at the corners. It takes them two more kisses before he sinks back. Amber and florals and musk cling to his breath, fanning huskily into theirs. "Sorry," he puffs, licking his lips.

Ale strokes their palm over his cheek, grinning, and kisses him again. "It's alright."

They feel his mouth turn into their palm. His sigh quiet and warm. Cherishing, now; adoring. His heart and mind laid in their hands, and his body laid with it, like a grave unearthed: crawled free from the roots, back to the hearth of a lover.

His voice turns to gravel on their skin. "You get in this tub, now."

"You're a prune."

Terzo teethes at their palm, nipping at the heel of it. "Then you'll be a prune too, no?" he reasons, and flicks his tongue over their pulsepoint. "Come on."

Ale lifts their hand from him, giggling. "Saints, you are—no."

"Why not?"

"I already showered."

"Well. We will change that."

"Terzo."

"Lilith's own, you tease me." He twists around in that water like an eel, the gleam in his eyes deadly. "So I must get out then, eh?" he wonders, sliding his arms over the edge of the tub. His words chance at a whisper: as much an offer as a beg. "Be at your whim? A wet little dog waiting for its leash, that is it?"

Ale's brain feels heavy, heavier than their hand, tracing the brushwork of black down his skin. "Yes," they breathe back. "Get out."

He chuffs, smirking. "So demanding." The purl in the words leaves them shivering. "Yes, sir."

Ale has to steel themself to stay still, to not bite their lip, let their hands disobey them, when he slides free from the water. In the lowlight, he gleams like a selkie transformed; a fae himself, devilish and enchanting.

He drinks in their eyes as much as he drinks in them, half-bare and wet and wanting.

Terzo looms closer, mussing a hand through the slick mop of his hair. "No more orders for me, darling?" he tests.

Their eyes sit somewhere on his thighs. The lazy shift in his hips, the dripping ravine down his chest, sidling closer. "What," they try, swallowing, "what do you want?"

"What do I want?" Terzo makes a thoughtful burr, settling his hands at the small of his back. Another step, near enough for them to touch. "...I want you on your feet."

Ale lifts their eyes from his sternum, find green and white on them, dark and light. "And?"

His mouth crooks: a hairline-sliver of teeth. He leans closer, the heat of his breath skirting their cheek. "I want you on that counter."

"Oh."

He's more than close enough to touch, now. "I want to fuck you," he says huskily, and tilts his head, his lips chaste at their temple. "If you'll let me."

They've bitten their nails into the stool. Water is dripping off his hair, his body, a warm-wet kiss on their chest. Their mouth is too dry: their pulse too loud in their head. "Is that all?"

His nose skims theirs. "Mh...I think we'll work something out."

Always twisting their words back onto them, like a deck of cards shuffled and spread.

Your move.

Their lips catch. Ale's lashes lift: find the smoked-out heat of his eyes on them. "Then what are you waiting for?"

His smirk snatches the breath from them—and steals another kiss, with it.

He hoists them up like they don't weigh a thing.