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“Dance with me?”
Zevlor’s head snaps up as you approach. He’d been standing alone beyond the firelight as if trying to blend in with the darkness, his arms crossed, staring at a random spot on the ground somewhere in front of him. Glowering, to your estimation. You had been looking for him, and the soft siren call of the tiefling’s presence drew you to him here in the dim flickering of the distant fires. He looks for a moment like a startled deer, before flinching and sketching a brief bow. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I was miles away. Did you need something?”
You laugh softly and hold out your hand. “I asked you to dance with me, Zevlor. Please?”
He looks at your outstretched fingers and swallows, staring at your hand as if it were a snake about to strike. “Oh… I do not… I am not very good at dancing. There are others who would be better for… hm.” His consternation is so adorable, you think, but you don’t let up, instead moving closer, gazing up as the flames in his eyes pulse lightly. He tenses a little, as if preparing to bolt. “You should try Ikaron. He can… or even Alfira. She’s a wonderful dancer. I am afraid I may just trip over my feet and embarrass us both.” But his hands twitch, clawed fingers briefly flexing, and you sense the heat of him rising. If his skin weren’t already a beautiful shade of deep red, you’d have sworn he was blushing.
You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “Alfira is playing the music. And Ikaron seems so determined not to enjoy himself… everyone else has a partner. I am afraid it will have to be you, Commander. Would you really deny me one little dance?” You let yourself pout a little, and risk touching him, placing your hand lightly over his where it grips his biceps.
He swallows again tightly, looking down at your hand, before allowing himself to relax a bit. “I think I could deny you nothing… I mean…” he coughs, “alright. One song. But you must forgive me if I disappoint. I am more accustomed to the battlefield and the barracks than genteel society functions.” He smiles, finally, and slips his fingers into yours. His hand is incredibly warm, and grips you firmly. His other joins, chafing lightly at the dorsal surface. “Your hands are cold.” His eyes widen as he realizes what he’s said. “That wasn’t meant to be a criticism. I know that you are… just… let’s just go.”
“I think you are warm enough for the both of us.” You giggle softly and begin to lead him closer to the fire, where groups and couples are swirling around Alfira, who is currently playing a lively number on her lute and singing gaily. You catch her eye and she nods, grinning, and shortly brings her tune to an end amidst the laughter and applause. She tunes the instrument for a few minutes, giving the dancers time to grab a drink and reset themselves. You pull Zevlor into position, placing yourself before him and smiling up into his eyes. He gulps, and then, as Alfira’s nimble fingers caress the strings in a more sedate, almost sensual melody, he bows, takes your hands, and begins to move.
His steps are not vigorous or intricate, but he has a warrior’s grace as he guides you around him, turning to keep you in his sight. Those burning eyes never leave you, even when he cups your waist and lifts you easily before turning in a quick circle and setting you down again. A soft smile spreads on his angular face, his hands more confident. A dip, a rise, a light press of his palm on your back. He mainly moves your body, keeping his feet in roughly the same spot as the dance goes on. He is certainly not tripping over himself, you note, as he twirls you once, twice, appearing to actually be enjoying himself for the moment. You feel the heat of him as he pulls your back briefly to his chest, swaying before guiding you back out again. You see his free hand curl loosely around a lock of your pale hair, letting the silver strands flow through his fingers. His tail, which curls sinuously around him, occasionally brushes against your bare ankles. As the song ends, he draws you back against him, with a hand on your lower back, and goes still.
His eyes burn into you, his hand warm on you, and he wets his lips, suddenly looking rather frightened. Your stomach flip flops as you get a glimpse of two tapered points. He usually speaks tightly, through gritted teeth, so you’ve never noticed that his tongue is forked. His gaze moves to your own mouth, and he catches his lower lip with his sharp pointed teeth. You let your hand drift up his chest, curling around his shoulder, and apply just a whisper of pressure. Inviting him to do what he so obviously wants. His grip tightens as the world fades, and you part your lips with a tiny gasp when he begins to lower his head.
A sudden, loud wolf whistle cuts through the fog, making you both jump, and Zevlor’s head jerks up, quickly smothering a frustrated snarl. Everyone is looking at the two of you, their eyes glowing with tipsy tiefling amusement. He smiles thinly, releasing you and lifting his palms in good natured surrender before taking your hand and leading you back to his previous spot, followed by laughing applause and a few catcalls.
Your heart is racing as you take your position by his side. He relaxes his grip, but you do not, instead pressing his hand more firmly, and glance up at him. “I do not know what all the fuss was about. You’re a wonderful dancer. I forgot where I was, for a moment.”
He does not protest, but instead mutters thanks and allows you to remain, holding his hand and standing close enough to feel his warmth. He is gazing out at the others, who seem to have lost interest in ribbing the older man, and have returned to their merrymaking. “It is so good to see them smiling. It… all of this has been very hard on them.” His voice is casual, but when he cuts his eyes down to look at you, you see what seems to be a flicker of pain dart across the orange surface, before he tries a slightly wobbly smile and looks away. “I should go. There are still things I… you should stay and enjoy yourself. You deserve it after all you have done for us.”
You squeeze his hand tightly, sidling a bit closer and keeping your voice low. “And what of yourself, Zevlor? You’ve been through just as much. Do you not deserve a little comfort as well?” You think you already know his opinion on that, but you don’t give him a chance to start depreciating himself again. “I myself… we have all had a difficult time with things of late. But shared burdens are lighter. Will you not stay with me, for a little while?”
“It is my responsibility…” he begins, then sighs. He nods, but then his expression becomes thoughtful. He’s worrying something over in his mind, you think, and you wait, silent, giving him time to organize his thoughts. When he finally speaks, his words come in a quiet breathy rush. “I do not… they do not need a dusty old soldier glowering at them tonight. But if you are still interested in my company, I will return to my office. You may join me there if you wish. I have a map to finalize with Tilses, but then I will send her to join the party. She… sleeps with the others. I should be alone within the hour. Then we can… talk.” He glances back at you, seeming surprised by his own boldness, and you nod in agreement as he lifts your hand to his lips and presses briefly before releasing you and moving off into the shadows. You feel your cool cheeks burn with a flush, because you know he doesn’t really want to talk. Zevlor, Hellrider, former Commander of the cavalry forces of Elturel, has just invited you to his bed.
You didn’t think he had it in him, you reflect as you make your excuses and return to your tent, pleading weariness. There was a little disappointment from some of the other tieflings, who had wanted to dance with you as well, and a couple give you saucy inviting looks, but you are gently firm with your refusal. You have interest only in one. As you sit for a time in the darkness of your tent you wonder what has gotten into you. What was it about this man, specifically? He is shy, reserved, and self critical to a fault, but somehow he has ignited something within you that you believed you’d never feel, and you realize that you don’t want to talk either. His face drifts through your thoughts. His hellfire eyes, the ridges on his cheekbones and brow, his full dark mouth. His body lean, hard, powerful… The way he lifted you, so easily.
Cursing yourself for a fool, you pour some water into a bowl and splash your face and smooth your hair. You vigorously dry yourself with a scrap of linen until your cheeks are pink with the friction instead of the mad imaginings traipsing through your skull, and dig through a small crate. You hold up the wine, trying to read the label. It's a strong one. Good. Slowly you stand and put your ear to the tent flap, listening for anyone near. All the sounds are coming from the party near the fire, so you ease under the flap, look around, and steal silently into the night.
It's nearing midnight when you arrive, and you hesitate outside the back entrance to the little cave which contains Zevlor’s makeshift office. You close your eyes and inhale deeply of the cool air for a minute, trying to compose yourself. Your hand is still shaking slightly when you reach for the hidden catch, and you curse yourself again. You clench your fist, berating yourself silently, and release the catch, sliding the door just wide enough to slip through, before easing it shut. You press your fingers to the carved stone and whisper a brief spell, setting a ward that should warn you if anyone attempts to open it. Then you slowly move down the tunnel.
He is there in the firelight. Alone. His back is to you as he leans over the stone table, looking at some papers. You take the opportunity to admire him unobserved. He is out of armor, the first time you have seen him so, and his shape beneath the thin white shirt and snug dark pants makes your breath catch in your chest. He is not a big man, perhaps half a head taller than you, but his proud set of long curving horns give him height. His shoulders are broad, his hands large, his narrow waist cinched by the clasp of the pants above his thick tapering tail. The appendage wags lazily, and you can see the curve of his muscular thigh and tight bottom in the flickering light, the strain of his calves against the stretch of the linen. His hair lies thickly on his shoulders, a rich sandy blond, caught half up in a little tail. He’s the most stunning creature you’ve ever laid eyes on, and you realize that you’ve been holding your breath.
You let out the pent up air in a sigh of appreciation, which makes him jump and spin with a growl, reaching for the sword that isn’t there. Old as he may claim to be, his soldierly reflexes haven’t diminished with the years. You hold up your hand and smile. “Only me,” you call softly as you continue down the incline, noticing that the view from the front is just as nice. Flat stomach, strong chest, his shirt collar unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of the little ridges on his collarbones. Your eyes move up his sharp jaw and full, soft, enticing lips and finally meet his gaze.
His nostrils flare slightly and he leans back against the table with a shaky sigh. “I thought you were a spirit. You are so quiet. And you gleam in the dark. I didn’t… I did not think you would come.” He is obviously very nervous, his hands clenching reflexively, his eyes wide, breath rapid and shallow. “I do not know… why you would.” He turns back around and leans on the table as you grab two cups from an open crate and hop up beside him, working the cork out of the deep red bottle. You don’t argue. There are better replies than words.
The Luskan blend is at war with itself. Sharp, heavy, and shockingly dirty. Perfect to challenge the sensibilities of a reserved older gentleman. As you hand him the cup, you look into his hellfire eyes and drift your finger lightly across his. The fire momentarily flares brighter, and he clears his throat before looking away. You feel the rising heat from his crimson skin and sidle closer. His hand shakes minutely when he raises the cup in salute before touching it to his full lips. No words are necessary. You both know what you desire. What treasures might this night hold? As those burning eyes meet yours once more, the desperate need etched plainly on his angular features, you realize you'll soon find out.
The air in the underground chamber is cool, the stone table cold against your bottom, but Zevlor burns with the heat of his infernal heritage. You feel the radiance of him against your bare arm, your linen clad thigh, as he turns and sits, not quite touching you. He draws a shaky breath as he lifts his hand, hesitates, and then draws one knuckle slowly down the soft exposed skin of your arm. His hand splays, long fingers covering your own hand where it rests on your leg. There is a hint of hopeful inquiry in his eyes, his body shifting closer, his hot flesh burning against you as he inclines his head incrementally toward you. His hard body thrums with tension, breath hitching, broad shoulders shifting. The forked tongue darts out and moistens those soft lips, the resulting sheen causing your thighs to flex in response. There is an answering squeeze from the large hand, curved claws barely indenting your skin. He rests there, breathing you in, eyes fluttering closed. He will wait for you to answer his invitation, deny his instinct until he is certain that your desire mirrors his own. You wait, letting the moment hang, breath mingling, enjoying the suspense for a few more fraught seconds before you let your eyes drift closed and, ever so slowly, lean toward him.
The soft brush of your cool lips makes Zevlor flinch slightly, as if he didn't really expect you to kiss him. Still, he remains motionless for a moment, like he's trying to avoid frightening you. His hand soon tightens on yours once more, nails pricking briefly before releasing and slipping the arm around your back. He returns your kiss gently, gently but with a tightly restrained passion, a trembling need, and pulls you closer to his heat. You set down your wine cup and reach up to caress his face, your thumb stroking the ridges beneath his eye. You probe the seam of his lips with your tongue, tasting, testing. He opens for you with a soft gasp and a light brush of that forked tongue on your own. He is vibrating now, breath coming faster, his stillness now more akin to a hunter attempting to avoid spooking his prey. Arm around you tightening by minute degrees. A little moan escapes you, and he tries to put his own cup down but misses the table.
At the loud crash of pewter on stone, something snaps in him, and he growls, wrapping his other arm around you and covering your mouth with his. He lifts you, pulling you up and around until you are on his lap, facing him, your knees either side of his narrow hips on the stone table. His tongue dances against yours, sharp teeth pricking your lips, his kiss becoming deeper, more demanding. Hands roaming your back and sliding up into your hair, pulling you tightly against his chest, shifting your seat until you are flush against him. You fist your own hand in his sandy hair, flexing your thighs against his hips and letting another little moan into his mouth. An almost feral snarl accompanies an upward roll of his hips, his obvious erection igniting a fire in your core, drawing from you a surprised little squeak. Gods, you think, he is hard already. He immediately stops and pulls away, gasping. He's beautiful, hair falling into blazing eyes, breath ragged. There is a brief, breathless, fumble of words,
"Ah, forgive me. Got carried away"
"No. No need. I like it."
"Do you want..."
"Yes, please."
"How?"
"Inside me."
Another low growl, and he flips you over, pressing you to the table, leaning over between your spread thighs. His mouth reclaims yours, hungry with want, his hands strong, kneading your breasts, tearing fabric, sliding under your clothes. You've wanted him like this since the moment you first laid eyes on him, and now it seems you're getting your wish. But his power and passion are surprising, and you wonder if you're in over your head.
In the rush of heat and desire, you've almost forgotten what kind of man you're seducing. As he moves his burning mouth down to kiss your neck, the brush of horns against your jaw, and a glimpse of movement from the corner of your eye brings you back to that realization. A tapered red object, whipping back and forth above you. His tail. Sinuous and curling, the flexible appendage drops from your sight and you soon feel it slither around your calf like a snake. Your leg is pulled up, opening you further as his hips flex once more, pressing himself against your center. Thin as it is, the cloth between you is maddening, and you arch against him, reaching up tentatively to grip his horn as he traces scalding kisses down your tender throat. A groan of pleasure escapes him. "Yessss like that," he hisses, squeezing your leg tightly with the surprisingly strong tail.
He raises his head, gazing at you with undisguised lust in his eyes. His hips jerk forward, eliciting a small cry from your swollen mouth as his linen draped manhood rubs against you. He smiles and then watches your face, sliding his hand down your belly. Careful now of his claws, he dips his fingers under the waist band of your trousers, sliding further down until the tips of his fingers find the soft folds between your legs. His smile widens to a grin, flashing sharp teeth, when he feels the slick wetness against his hand. Carefully he begins to rub you there, fingers moving in light circles against you as he watches your face intently. The stimulation draws a whimper from you, and his mouth covers yours once more as his hand moves faster. He plunders your mouth, leaving you gasping and wriggling when he breaks the kiss. He kisses your neck, then pushes up your shirt so he can use that damnable tongue to trace your chest, breasts, flicking at your nipples before moving lower. His hand withdraws from your pants, and you moan in disappointment. He chuckles, releasing your leg from his tail and plucking at the drawstring of your thin trousers. But you have other ideas.
You sit up on the stone table and pull him into a searing kiss, running your hands over his horns, his remarkable body, curling your fingers around his thick tail and squeezing lightly. His groan is delicious and you want to hear more before he takes you to pieces. You slide off the table and tug the appendage, trying to turn his body. He goes willingly enough, his gaze bemused but hungry as he allows you to switch places with him. You release his tail and start unbuttoning his shirt, wanting to see more of his hot carmine flesh. His hand covers yours to stop you, apprehension in his eyes.
"You... you might not like... there are... scars..."
Gently you move his hand aside, opening his shirt and looking at his chest. There are many scars. Some were just ghosts of long healed scratches, but some are deep, puckered, and angry looking. There are also lovely symmetrical ridges on his chest and ribs. Beneath that, he is all hard muscle and sharp angles. He is glorious. You sigh in appreciation before meeting his eyes again.
"Gods, you're beautiful," you breathe, kissing him softly. "Let me admire your body. Please."
His eyes widen at your words, and he swallows thickly, but then nods, once, letting you pass your hands over his chest and stomach, gently feeling each scar and bump, before replacing your questing fingers with your lips and tongue. This man deserved to be adored, to be made to feel desirable and worthy of that admiration, to be loved. A shudder passes through him as your mouth finds the soft juncture between his belly and his hip, your tongue sliding over his hot skin, his salty taste setting your nerves alight. He groans, leaning back against the table as you sink to your knees and reach your arms around behind him to unclasp his pants.
You slide the linen down his hips, freeing his surprisingly large, thick, red manhood and wrapping your fingers around the shaft. This is ribbed too, and your insides clench, imagining what that might feel like inside you. You look up at him inquiringly, stroking lightly. He makes a soft sound, a breathless word that may have been please, his eyes blazing, muscles tense and trembling with need. He nods once more, gasping as you flick your tongue along the tip of him, gathering the pearly drop of liquid. Then a hoarse cry as you let your mouth sink down his length as far as you can take him, letting him touch the back of your throat.
The ridges are pleasant bumps against your tongue as you start a slow lingering rhythm, keeping time with your hand around the thick base. You hear moans and whispered prayers fall from his lips, exhortations which sound almost like sobs. It has been a long time since someone did this for him, you think. His legs are already trembling, his hands fisted at his sides. You feel his hips begin to buck tightly, trying not to shove himself into your throat, but that's what you want. He moans some incoherent words, half heartedly pushing at your head, trying not to finish in your mouth, but you ignore him and redouble your efforts. You reach around and grip the base of his tail with your free hand, and it sends him over the edge.
"I... I'm going to... ah!"
He thrusts once, twice, his hips shaking as he spills inside your willing mouth, finishing with a sharp cry. His seed is hot and salty-sweet with a hint of sulfur, and you take it all, coaxing him through it with more gentle licking and caresses until he's whimpering, having obviously reached his limit.
You look up at his face, his sharp features softened with release, and smile.
"Hells..." he breathes, shoving a spray of hair from his face, "it has been... I have not felt that since..." he can't finish his thought, but gripping your arms pulls you up to kiss you, his hands shaking, his mouth fierce. You hold him close, letting his ragged breathing slow until he comes back to himself a bit.
"Now." He growls, recovered enough to lift you again and spin you until he has you back on the table. He pulls off your shirt and kisses you, kneading your breasts and lightly drawing his claws over your nipples until he has you panting with desire. He growls low and pushes you back, resuming his attempt to untie the lace of your pants. Eventually he just snaps the string, and leans forward for a rough, but brief kiss. His fingers find the edge of the trousers, and he looks at you for permission. Biting your lip, you nod.
Soon he's sliding them down your hips, the cool air of the chamber on your soaked petals making you gasp. Seizing your wrist he replaces your hand around his horn, pins your other wrist with his tail, and uses his hands behind your knees to spread you for him. Then he lowers his head.
You are desperate, writhing, aching to be filled as he slowly dips his hot tongue inside you. He moans as he draws the separate points of the fork through your folds before settling on the swollen nub and giving a playful flick. He alternates between tormenting the turgid little knot and plunging that tongue deep into you. Soon the teasing is too much and you cry out in frustration, using his horn to pull him closer. With a growl of satisfaction he wraps his lips around the source of your agony and sucks sharply, rapidly flicking his tongue, over and over, until you quickly fall apart. Holding you open as your cries fill the stone chamber. Pushing you past pleasure into something sharper, until you're shaking and crying and trying to push his head away. He continues a few more seconds, his strength irresistible, before finally withdrawing and leaving you a trembling, panting mess.
He gives you a moment to recover, slowly letting your legs drop and running his talons down your inner thighs. He licks his lips, eyes fluttering and purring with pleasure at the lingering taste of you. He draws a hand down his chin, collecting the last drops and licking his fingers clean while his eyes burn into your soul. You slowly sit up for a kiss, tasting yourself on the points of his tongue, and reach between his legs to find him rock hard again. Or, perhaps, still.
Zevlor's breathing doesn't slow this time. He's burning as hot as the Hells under your hands, your mouth, as he kisses you with barely restrained fury. His own calloused fingers glide over your skin, knuckles flexing, tense, the occasional bite of claws and prick of teeth showing how ragged his command of himself has become. The low growl, the deep vibration in his powerful chest, is almost constant now. He shifts from between your thighs and slips a hand behind your knees, his arm moving around your back and lifting you as easily as if you were made of straw. Cradling your still quivering body as a few quick steps take you around a corner to where his bedroll waits in a small alcove. Crouching, he lays you down on the thin wool blanket, the meagre padding reinforcing your suspicion that this is a man too accustomed to denying himself even the most basic of life's pleasures. His kit is clean and meticulously kept, but painfully spartan. He kneels above you, regarding your supine form with undisguised trepidation. Brushing a lock of the unruly flaxen hair from his eyes again, his tone is rough, apologetic.
"I wish it was softer. You deserve..."
"Fear not, I like it hard," you smile, running your nails down his abs.
His nostrils flare and those long hands clench, fighting himself for mastery. Incrementally, he lowers himself over you, careful to avoid laying his full weight upon you, easing between your spread legs, supporting his body on his elbows until he is pressed against you fully, manhood sliding against the junction between your thighs. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead on yours and letting his hair curtain your faces. A gentle kiss, and another, precedes the fire of his eyes reigniting an inch from yours. He draws a deep shaking breath.
"I want... I need to be inside you. I have never felt anything like... please, I do not want to hurt you. I will go slow. Let me know if it is too much. Say 'Paladin'."
Your heart almost breaks, knowing he chose that word because it was guaranteed to wrench him from any loss of control and cool his lust like a dash of icy water. You know you'd never be able to do that to him, to remind him of everything he hates about himself, to bring awareness of his perceived dishonor to your bed. You shower kisses over his face, his eyelids, gripping him almost fiercely, wanting to feel his full weight on you. He's heavy for his size, but you adore the pressure, wanting to be as close to him as possible. You flex your hips with a needy whimper, dragging him back from the brink and igniting that flaming passion once more. You nibble his pointed ear and he groans, shifting his hardness against your center.
"I can take anything you are willing to give me, Zevlor. I want everything that you are. Take me. Now. Please. I..."
Your last words are swallowed by his frantic kiss as his amazing body flexes, lining up the thick blunt crown of his manhood with your slick, quivering folds. He lifts his head slightly, the fire raging in his eyes the only thing you can see within the silken curtain of his hair as, ever so slowly, with as much gentleness as his lust will allow, he lets the weight of his hips and thighs relax downward.
You cling to him, keeping your breathing controlled as the hot length of him nudges you, gradually parting your swollen petals, opening you around him like a flower welcomes the heat of the sun. You tilt your hips upward, matching his angle to ease the delectable intrusion. He feels even larger here than he did in your mouth or hands. He laces his fingers with yours, both holding you down possessively and watching you closely for any sign of discomfort. An inch. Two. An intense stretch, the ridges slipping inward as he moves, fluttering your sensitive labia and rippling against your walls. His shaft widens further as he approaches halfway inside you, challenging you to keep your expression from betraying the shock of the acute ache he is causing in your body. Something on your face betrays you anyway, and he stops, brushing your hair back with his other hand and looking at you with concern.
"Is it painful?" He asks huskily, biting his lip.
"In a good way." You admit, letting out a shaky breath. "Do not stop. I want it all."
You shift slightly, wrapping a leg around his upper thighs and pulling him deeper into you. His groan is ragged, his body quivering with the effort to avoid sheathing himself completely in one hard thrust. You lean up and kiss him deeply, running the nails of your free hand down his back. He grunts, struggling with himself as your fingers find the delicate rayed bones of his vestigial wing. He endures your kisses down his jaw and throat, but when you moan and sink your teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, he loses the battle. With a feral snarl, his hips drop and he hilts inside you, dragging a breathless cry from you and a tearing gasp from him. He freezes. Motionless except for his rough breathing, the light in his eyes pulsing with the same throbbing rhythm of his manhood buried impossibly deep in your body.
"Am I hurting you?" He asks, breathlessly, "I can stop, you do not have to..."
You hush him with a kiss. "Quit fussing. You feel marvelous. It is just... a little more than I anticipated." You hope your stare matches the intensity of his own, though you know that's hardly possible. Even less possible is disguising the plaintive wobble in your voice. "I said I wanted all of you, and I meant it." You draw a shuddering breath. "Don't hold out on me, Hellrider. Give me everything you have."
He stares for a moment, amazed, but then he chuckles softly and kisses you with an aching sweetness. His fingers tighten on your hand, his other curling under your shoulder to grip you firmly. "Very well." He leans down and his voice is a dark, heavy whisper in your ear, "I will, but you may regret it, my dear."
He's still moving slowly as he withdraws from you, dragging those infernal ridges along your straining walls until you are nearly empty, only the tip of him holding you open. You whimper, partly with the loss of his heat, but partly with relief, and bite your lip, watching him with a nervous flutter in your chest. He pauses there, regarding you with a mysterious little smile, savoring the anticipation in your eyes. Your only warning is the quick clamp of his strong hands, talons indenting your shoulder, before he flexes his hips and plunges deep, hollowing your core and battering against the very end of your tight tunnel, filling you to the limit and beyond in one powerful stroke. You arch against him, a shocked little scream erupting from your lips. He quickly captures your voice with his mouth, drinking your cries and grinding against you until you’re frantically clawing at his back, your shaking legs dropping to the sides, unable to wrap around him anymore.
He raises his head and gives you what can only be described as a devilish grin, flashing sharp white teeth.
“More?” He inquires, his voice rough and low, still smiling as he jerks his hips forward a few times, not withdrawing, only stretching you further. Unable to trust your voice you nod frantically, panting with the intensity of the sensations he’s wringing from your body.
“Hold on,” he growls as he releases your shoulder and hand to capture one of your legs behind the knee and bring it up to open you further, supporting his weight with his other hand. You grip his arms tightly, but he shakes his head, giving another quick thrust, obviously enjoying your gasp. "You know where," he growls, dipping his head slightly to show you what he wants. You release his arms and move your trembling hands up to curl around his horns, simultaneously feeling his tail lash around your free leg, holding firmly. He’s not going to let you escape who he is, what he is, and what you’ve so brashly gotten yourself into.
Zevlor is as inexorable as the tide when he finds his rhythm. He is giving you no quarter, rolling his hips like ocean swells, crashing into you as breakers crash against high cliffs. His pace is slow at first, but deep and hard, jerking your whole body upward with each thrust despite his hold on your legs and your desperate grip on his horns. Still, he knows what he’s doing and maintains just enough control to tilt his hips at the perfect devastating angle to batter over and over at a particular spot inside you that sends arcs of pleasure racing through you. You cry his name, the friction threatening to tumble you over the edge of sanity, and he shifts, infuriatingly, angling down, deeper, keeping you on the brink for a desperate time, wanting you to lose yourself when he does and not a moment sooner.
The only sounds in your world are your harsh panting, his bestial growls, and the sharp slapping of flesh as he picks up the pace. The only sights his blazing eyes, gritted teeth, and rippling torso. He consumes you. There is nothing else in existence but this glorious force of nature pounding himself into you, the ridges of his shaft igniting every nerve in you, dragging his name from your swollen lips over and over until you’re hoarse with pleading. You feel him start to shudder, his movements becoming more erratic, his hot skin dripping sweat. He gives one more agonizingly delicious thrust and stops, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing in shuddering gulps. You think he’s finished, but he manages to hold back his release. You stare at him in amazement and he laughs, leaning down to flick the points of his tongue teasingly against your slack mouth. His voice is a rumble, a low animal sound, a thrilling vibration against your chest.
“Not yet.”
You’re still gasping for breath, desperate, writhing, dragging on his horns and willing him with every fiber of your being to continue. You exhort him not to stop, not now. You were so close and the sudden stillness is almost unbearable.
He releases your leg and drags himself erect on his knees, seizing you to bring you with him to keep himself inside you, and then, hooking his elbows under your thighs, cups your bottom. You hang there, impaled on him still, your whole body in the air, desperately clinging to his horns. His grin is feral as his glowing eyes pierce you, and he spits one gravelly demanding word.
“Beg.”
Your mouth falls open as you stare at him, wide eyed. You wonder what happened to the shy, self deprecating man that it took you so much patience and effort to even convince to be alone with you. He holds you easily, keeping you stretched around his shaft, head lowered and devouring you with his smoldering gaze. Waiting. He tilts his head, still with that wicked little smile.
His hands tighten on your flanks, claws digging into your flesh, and growls low. He’s magnificent. Terrifying. Shaking, you lean forward and press your lips to his and he returns your kiss with needy fervor, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. You realize that he needs this. Needs to know how desperately you want him. How utterly overwhelming his presence is. Your mouth wags for a moment and soon a confusion of breathy pleas tumbles from your lips.
“Please…” you gasp “I need you to make me come. I need to feel you… please finish… come inside me. Fill me with your seed, mark me and make me yours. Please, Zevlor, I need you.” You finally manage to pry your hands from his horns as you urge him, wrap your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer, wriggling on him and flexing your thighs.
He starts to tremble as you beg for him. As you speak, he grits his teeth with a snarl and lifts you. His nostrils flare as he spreads his knees and leans back toward his heels. At your last words his face contorts with surprise, he gasps, and seems to come back to himself a little. But it’s too late for both of you.
“Fuck!”
The first colorful word you’ve ever heard from him erupts as his hips surge upward and slam into you. You scream as he does what he shouted, no longer teasing or trying to perform, but rutting up into you as hard and fast as he can. He lowers his head and sinks his fangs into your shoulder, drawing another sharp cry from you as you desperately cling to him, wrapping your legs around him. This doesn’t slow him, and he’s bouncing you against his hips, claws pricking into your flesh.
Perhaps it’s the taste of your blood or the sensation of his talons rending your flesh. You are certainly far beyond caring about a superficial wound on your shoulder or hindquarters. But he quickly changes his grip on you, wrapping one arm around your hips and sliding the other hand into your hair. His mouth moves, biting the side of your throat, drawing blood again. His pace doesn’t slow, holding you tight against him as his breath becomes ragged and his rhythm begins to break. At the last moment he shifts you both so he can spear directly against the aching knot of pleasure inside you. You thrash and shake as your vision blurs and your walls clamp and contract around him. One more quick thrust and you come apart, and it’s enough to bring him with you.
His moans into your neck become more desperate as he chases his release, quickly becoming ragged whimpers. He crushes you to him, stuttering to a shaky halt as his hot seed spurts deep within you. His hips twitch a few times as he empties himself completely, holding firmly for a few delicious moments before pulling back to look into your eyes, gasping for breath and shaking like a leaf in the wind. Slowly he lowers you both back to the bedroll, collapsing on top of you, his arms still tightly around you, softening member still burning inside you. You hold him close, trying to slow your own hammering heart, your legs quivering still on either side of him with the aftershocks of your climax.
Eventually, he recovers enough to slowly ease out of you and lift his weight from your bruised body, rolling onto his back next to you and gathering you against his heaving chest. The two of you simply lie there for several minutes and breathe, basking in the afterglow. You finally lift your head to look at his face, and you see that familiar little crinkle between his brows that means he’s stewing in consternation over something or other. You kiss his cheek.
“Everything alright?” You ask softly. You suddenly fear he is already feeling regret over your liaison, or else telling himself he doesn’t deserve you. But he turns to you and smile.
“Yes,” he says, turning himself onto his side facing you and propping his head on his hand, his elbow on the mat. His eyes flutter, and he takes a deep breath. “Gods yes, you were… that was… you, my dear, are the most incredible lover I’ve ever known and… and you have given me a night I never dreamed I would experience. I am sorry that I lost control for a… moment. It just felt so right with you. I have always feared frightening… and I am sorry I hurt you. I can heal these.”
His fingers trace the claw marks on your body, the punctures on your flank, shoulder, and neck. You shake your head, catching his hand and kissing it, wanting to keep his marks, but there’s still something brewing in his skull so you keep your peace. He draws a quick breath and pauses, then speaks again.
“I want you to know that I would never seek to compromise you. We can keep this as secret as you wish. I know relations with tieflings can be… looked upon unfavorably… by some. But, even so, I would be very pleased if I could see you again, when we get to the city. Not because of the lovemaking, or… at least, not only because of that, I mean, I just…”
He’s stuttering and you silence him with a kiss. You don’t care about the pinpricks in your rump or the soreness between your legs. You enjoy the sting of the bites. You definitely don’t give a damn about his heritage. You brush your lips against his, trying to put all of your feeling and your intention into the kiss. Finally you withdraw and gaze into his eyes.
“You did not do any real damage and I heal fast. Please, I am proud to wear your marks. I wanted you to let go and be in the moment. I pushed you. You have done nothing I have not wanted and enjoyed.” You caress his cheek. “Zevlor… you think I would be ashamed of you? I like that you’re a tiefling, I do not care what other people think. And I will meet you in Baldur’s Gate. In the bright of day surrounded by people. I feel no guilt or shame for being with you. On the contrary, I am proud to know you and I will be glad to walk the city on your arm. You need not keep this a secret, unless… unless you want to.”
He's staring with wide eyes, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He chuckles and then sighs, flopping onto his back once more.
“Very well. You make a convincing case. The Gate, then,” another soft huff of amusement as he closes his eyes, “it matters not. No one would believe me anyway.”
You wrinkle your nose. You’ll see about that.
The night is getting old, and both of you have much yet to prepare, so with regret you draw on your clothes, give him one last lingering kiss, and depart on slightly unsteady legs to seek a wash and a few hours of rest.
In the morning, you finish your preparations and wander over to see the tieflings in the midst of their final bits of packing, hitching oxen, and rounding up children. Your eyes find Zevlor as he stands, arms crossed, obviously annoyed at the flailing and hollering around him but too restrained to reprimand civilians. He likes these people too, you know, and respects their grit and will to survive. A few of the men stand near him, huddled in conversation. Some of these you had heard speaking of Zevlor, with affection, but also as if he were a washed up old martinet who couldn’t pay to have a woman, and who wouldn’t know what to do with one in any case. You smile and move to stand before the man himself, noting the other tieflings’ eyes following the sway of your hips with appreciation.
“I came to wish you safe journey,” you say to Zevlor in a conversational tone. He looks at you curiously. You had said your goodbyes last night. This is just for show. “I take the route through the Underdark, but all roads lead to the Gate, and we shall meet again. I bid you farewell, for now.”
You extend your hand for him to grasp, and lean forward, continuing in a stage whisper, “I also wanted to thank you again for last night. You were amazing, though I may be sitting carefully for a while. I can hardly wait for an encore”
You leave him flustered and blushing, but trying to hide a smile, making your way past the group of tieflings. Their attention was on both you and Zevlor now, noticing the bite mark on your neck, looking from him to you with surprise and a bit of envy, and maybe a touch more respect for the quiet, meticulous, unprepossessing gentleman then they’d had before. You grin as you depart from the hollow, heading to rejoin your party for the next stage of your journey