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Aerona pressed her breasts against the tiefling man’s chest, tucking her chin into the curve of his shoulder as her palms slid down the expanse of his broad back. Her fingers brushed against the ridges on his shoulder blades as her lips pressed soft kisses to his exposed throat.
“Aerona,” the tiefling murmured darkly, nuzzling into her neck.
Aerona’s nipples hardened in response, followed by a soft moan. “Malakos, I need you to touch me,” she whined desperately, pulling him closer to her.
“As you wish, my love,” Malakos obliged easily, swiftly moving to undo the laces of Aerona’s blouse—a daring move without his sight set on the task at hand. It mattered not to Malakos, he knew Aerona and all that came with her like she was a part of himself. In a way, she was; Aerona was Malakos’ heart, standing before him in the form of the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon.
He wasted no time in pulling the blouse off her shoulders, placing his strong hands over her ribcage as he leaned down to pepper kisses over her newly-exposed chest. He took a pebbled nipple into his mouth, teasing her with his forked tongue in hopes of eliciting another sweet moan to fall from her lips.
Wyll’s breaths come in heavy as his lone eye hungrily sweeps over the sensual words before him, eager to finally finish the novel he had picked up while the party looted Moonhaven a few weeks ago. He’d always had an affinity for stories of the romantic variety but it wasn’t often he managed to find anything quite this salacious. In fact, he didn’t think he had gazed upon smut like this since he was seventeen and curiously sneaking peeks at the books hidden away in his father’s private study. The Blade of Frontiers simply didn’t have the time to indulge in such things when there were monsters to slay and innocents to avenge.
The one upside to having this tadpole in his head was that the workload he’d been taking on alone for so many years was now spread out amongst six others, leaving him with more and more time to engage in that which had been pushed to the wayside for so long; one such thing being his own pleasure.
Aerona’s hands wrapped around the base of Malakos’ horns, using them for stability as her head fell back in pleasure. His dutiful ministrations continued, urged on by every whimper and whine that escaped her.
“Malakos,” she said in a sultry tone, peering down at him with a lustful haze behind her eyes. Her hands moved from his horns to instead run her fingers through his long hair. “I want you on your knees…”
The tiefling man fell to his knees almost instantly, happy to obey her every command, gathering the bottom of her skirt in one fist while the other hand wrapped around the back of her bare thigh. He pulled her skirts up until she was exposed to him, his mouth watering at the mere thought of indulging in the taste of her. Malakos dreamed often about hiding under Aerona’s skirts, pleasuring her with nothing but his eager tongue…
Wyll’s hand twitches as it lays casually against his thigh, the urge to palm himself through his trousers becoming harder and harder to resist. Instead, his hand shakily lifts to prod at the base of his own horns, wondering what it might be like to have someone grip him there in a similar manner.
The imagery that idea evokes is enough to bring a flush to his cheeks, his mind wandering to a specific set of hands holding onto him in a desperation not unlike Aerona’s. What it would be like to have you hold him close, to whimper in his ear, to push him down on his knees and…
“Wyll!”
To Wyll’s utter horror, your head pops into his tent almost immediately, a sheepish grin tugging at your lips as you realise he’s already laying in his bedroll for the night.
With as much composure as he can muster, he closes the book and shoves it to the side of his bedroll without taking his eyes off of you, clearing his throat as he desperately wills his previous thoughts to the back of his mind.
“I’m sorry to bother you, it’s just…”
You look embarrassed, which Wyll can’t seem to wrap his mind around considering he’s the one who should be exuding shame.
“Well, the Owlbear Cub and Scratch are curled up together on my bedroll and I can't bring myself to shoo them out…”
You’re still idling outside of his tent, just your head poking in, but he can see the way you’re nervously digging the tip of your boot into the dirt as you work up the courage to ask him whatever it is you’re trying to.
Wyll tilts his head to the side, silently encouraging you to keep going.
“I suppose I’m asking if I can sleep in here tonight?” you ask, your voice significantly higher than usual.
Wyll has to resist the urge to smile with clear affection. When he doesn’t immediately respond, you begin to ramble on again.
“Astarion offered to share his tent, which was sweet of him, but if I’m being honest I’d much rather share a bedroll with you. Can’t say I’ve ever gotten over waking up to his fangs at my throat…”
Wyll tries not to think about the intentions behind Astarion’s offer, focusing on what you said instead. He chuckles under his breath and sits up properly. “I’m flattered,” he admits with an easy smile, “and understand. Of course you can stay here, you’re always welcome to.”
You perk up immediately, finally stepping fully into the tent. He notices you’re already in your sleep clothes, but tries not to openly stare at the way they leave little to the imagination. He swallows hard, shifting to the side of his bedroll to make room for you.
You settle next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, making yourself comfortable under the already-warm cover before he can fully comprehend the fact that your body is pressed against his side. His skin prickles in response, a strange anxiety bubbling in the pit of his stomach that he hadn’t felt since his days of dancing in ballrooms and sweet-talking the noble maidens of Baldur’s Gate.
“Thank you for this, Wyll,” you say in a soft voice, peering up at him.
He’s immediately endeared by the gentleness in your tone, so used to seeing you in more dire circumstances, a fierce determination to survive hidden behind a hardened stare and commanding voice. This side of you felt like a privilege to see.
“There’s no need for thanks,” he assures you with another smile, before reaching over to dim the light emanating from the nearby oil lamp. “It’s always a pleasure to be of assistance to our daring leader,” he adds on playfully.
You roll your eyes, but smile in response. “I’m not sure I would consider myself our leader. After all, what do I know of leadership?” you ask rhetorically. “More likely, it’s just my impulsive nature that has led our group to where we are now.”
“I happen to think we’re in a rather good place at the moment, all things considered,” he says assuredly. “Besides, better you than Lae’zel. Hells know where we’d all be if she were at the forefront of decision-making.”
You laugh, and it’s like music to his ears. He wishes he could listen to its sweet melody all the time, especially on the nights when he lay alone in this tent, with only his thoughts to keep him company. All too often it was your visage that appeared to him in moments of loneliness, only deepening his affection for you.
“I’ll be sure not to tell her you said that,” you tease him lightly.
He releases a good-natured laugh as he slides back down under the cover of his bedroll, ignoring the way his shoulder brushes against yours. “I should hope so, unless you wish me dead.”
“I would never wish you dead,” you reply with clear amusement in your voice. “Certainly not by Lae’zel’s hand. I wouldn’t wish such a thing on my worst enemy.”
Wyll grins. “Ah, ever the merciful leader.”
You release a sound of mild disapproval, but there’s something warm in your tone when you respond. “You give me too much credit, Wyll. If anyone is leading us to salvation, it’s you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you do for all of us.”
The sincerity in your words catches him off guard, and for a moment he doesn’t know how to reply. He’s used to being praised for his deeds, for his title as the Blade of Frontiers, but this feels different—more personal.
“Well,” he says after a beat, his voice softening, “I can’t let this rabble fall apart now, can I? Besides, I only do what I can to make things easier for you.”
You smile, your head turning to look at him briefly before aimlessly gazing back into the darkness. “You do more than you realize, you know.”
He’s silent for a moment, letting your words settle. Warmth blooms in his chest, a feeling he rarely lets himself dwell on but finds impossible to ignore when you’re near.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost shy. Then, as if to lighten the mood, he adds, “Though if I snore tonight, I hope it won’t undo all the goodwill I’ve built.”
You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “I think I can endure it. For now, anyway.”
“Generous as always,” he replies with a soft chuckle, shifting to get comfortable.
As the quiet of the night settles around you, Wyll feels a rare sense of peace. He closes his eyes, but not before stealing one last glance at you.
The silence that follows is thick but not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of quiet that allows thoughts to drift and settle, where the weight of unspoken words hangs in the air like the stars overhead. Wyll finds himself listening to the soft rhythm of your breathing, matching it with his own as his mind wanders.
He wonders if you’re already asleep or if you, too, are caught in this rare stillness. The warmth of your presence, so close yet just out of reach, is enough to make the tent feel smaller. He can hear the faint crackle of the campfire outside, the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze, but it’s your nearness that holds his attention.
A quiet sigh escapes him, unbidden but honest. He closes his eyes, willing himself to let go of the day and the lingering thoughts of you that always seem to follow him into the night.
But just as he begins to drift off, he feels you shift at his side, now facing him with your chest brushing against his bicep.
“Wyll?” you ask quietly, tentatively.
Wyll groans softly in response, unsure if he wants to wake himself further by forming proper words. Surely you’re just making sure he’s comfortable in this new position—which of course he is, if it means being this close to you.
With confirmation that he is still awake, just barely, your voice raises ever so slightly. “What were you reading earlier?”
All at once, he feels a cold chill spike through his veins, his skin prickling with anxiety. What in the Hells would prompt you to ask such a thing? He isn’t sure if he should pretend to have suddenly fallen into slumber or risk answering with a lie—falling asleep could urge you to go looking for the answer yourself, but outright lying would open a dialogue he isn’t sure he could keep up with. The thought of answering truthfully didn’t even occur to him as an option.
Wyll swallows hard, his mouth suddenly as dry as the Anauroch desert. “Nothing,” he finally responds after clearing his throat. “Just… just some book I found on our travels.”
“Just some book?” you repeat back to him, a hint of amusement in your tone. “What’s it about? I’ve seen your nose buried in its pages more nights than I can count on both hands.”
Wyll resists the urge to groan in dismay. He knew he shouldn’t have been reading so openly amongst the camp, lest they start asking questions like this. Truthbetold, Wyll didn’t think anyone would be watching him so closely to take note.
He clears his throat again, shifting onto his side so that his back faces you, hoping it might deter any further questioning. “It’s… just a simple romance; knights, princesses, dragons, the lot.”
Another brief silence ensues, but Wyll would hardly know it. The thumping of his own heart in his eardrum overtakes the sound of anything else around them.
“Is that so?” you say, your voice suddenly sounding a lot closer than before. “Do you think I could borrow it once you’re done?”
Wyll isn’t a man of faith, but he finds himself sending off prayers to the Triad for some form of respite anyway. Surely they weren’t so cruel to make him suffer the embarrassment of what was to come should you make him confess the truth.
“Truthfully, I don’t think you would like it much,” he tells you, his words only slightly muffled by the pillow he now leaned into.
As you speak, it almost feels like your lips are brushing the shell of his ear, making him shiver. “How would you know what I like?” you question him, your breath hot against the back of his neck.
Wyll tries to stammer out a response to redeem himself, but all words seem to fail him, leaving him a stuttering mess. He’s never felt so pathetic in his life, certainly not in front of you.
Unbeknownst to Wyll, you have the most devious-looking expression on your face, knowing exactly what you’re doing to him and having no intention of stopping anytime soon. This is exactly where you want him; exactly what you’ve dreamed of at night with your hand down your pants and his pretty little face on the back of your eyelids to keep you company.
You prop yourself up on your elbow and, slowly, with your other arm you reach out to place a hand against his hip, your palm searching for the sliver of exposed midriff his top doesn’t cover. You immediately notice how warm his bare skin is, almost hot to the touch.
“What’s the name of the book, Wyll?” you ask, not acknowledging where your hand now lays. Still, you don’t go any further, giving him the time to push you away or tell you to stop if he so wishes.
In truth, Wyll is in a bit of a shock, not expecting this from you. He has no intention of making you stop, but he’s a bit embarrassed to admit that it’s taking a moment for his head to catch up with what’s going on. So much so, that he answers your question without thinking. “It’s… it’s uh… called A Tiefling’s Temptation .”
“Sounds steamy,” you purr, gazing down at him. “Tell me about it.”
Your hand begins a slow, maddening descent, the pads of your fingertips brushing lower and lower down his abdomen until they come in contact with the waist of his breeches. Wyll’s muscles clench beneath your touch, his body betraying his growing arousal.
He’s already struggling to find words, but he tries his best to concentrate on your question rather than where your hand is heading, certain that he will lose his mind if he thinks about it too much. “A forbidden romance,” he manages to get out between heavy breaths. “A roguish mercenary, finding the object of his desire in his Guildmaster’s innocent daughter…”
A smirk twitches at your lips. “So no knights and princesses?”
Wyll releases a light chuckle. “No knights or princesses in sight.”
You tsk him playfully. “Here I thought you were a man of honor, Wyll Ravengard.” Your hand descends even further, smoothing over the fabric of his trousers towards the growing bulge in his pants. “But you enjoy a little corruption as much as the rest of us.”
Wyll’s hips buck involuntarily, his manhood twitching with anticipation. He groans softly at his own desperation to be touched, but still replies in a shaky voice. “Only… only in fiction.”
You hum in acknowledgement. “Only in fiction?” you ask curiously, finally letting your palm settle on his bulge, giving it an exploratory squeeze, which elicits a low groan from the depths of his throat. “When was the last time someone touched you like this, Wyll?”
“It’s… been a while,” he admits, though not shamefully. Wyll had never been one for detached bedroom escapades; he’s always sought out emotional connection over anything else, and in a perfect world he would have courted you properly before anything like this happened, but he was happy to do things a little out of order this time, for he knew whatever emotions were floating between the two of you now were deeply felt on both sides.
“Does that mean I’m corrupting you?” you reply teasingly.
“Maybe a little,” he relents. “I must admit, if the sound of Gale shrieking or Lae’zel and Shadowheart fighting started up right now, it would take a lot of coaxing for me to leave this bedroll and investigate…”
You laugh. “I’m sure the kids can handle themselves for the night.”
He looks at you over his shoulder, smiling. “I certainly hope so.”
His expression is so endearing that you almost forget what it is you’re doing, only brought back to reality when you feel him shift slightly under your touch. You hadn’t anticipated being this bold when you first entered his tent, but now you were intent on making him moan your name before the night turned to day again.
Your voice grows soft, almost whispering. “Do you want more?”
Wyll nods his head, his eyes fluttering closed. “Yes. Yes please.”
With just one skilled hand, you manage to undo the laces of his breeches and tug them down his legs until the waist rests just above his knees. Your hand briefly moves back to his lower belly as you reposition yourself, pressing your chest right up against his back as your chin settles just behind his shoulder, before your palm follows the trail of thick, coarse hair that leads down to where you both want it most.
Your hand wraps around his aching cock, already weeping with anticipation. Slowly, you begin stroking him from base to tip, feeling him stiffen further under your touch. As your thumb teases the head of his length, he releases a series of breathy moans that make your skin prickle with goosebumps.
“Tell me more,” you say suddenly, your lips brushing against the skin of his shoulder. “About the book you were reading, tell me more.”
“What… what do you want to know?” he manages to respond with, clearly struggling to concentrate on his words with his mind so fixated on your warm hand stroking him so sensually.
“Tell me what happens when the mercenary finally gets his hands on the Guildmaster’s daughter.”
Wyll’s mind races back to the vividly erotic passages he had been engrossed in before your interruption. The words are seared into his memory, the graphic descriptions stirring a hunger deep within him. He swallows hard, his voice strained as he speaks.
“W-well,” he begins, his voice shaken as your thumb swipes over the sensitive head of his cock again. “The mercenary, Malakos , he… he bursts into the Guildmaster’s chambers, startling the daughter. Aerona , she’s alone, in nothing but a thin silk robe that clings to her body.”
Wyll’s breaths come in short, sharp gasps as your hand works tirelessly along his throbbing length. He can feel every bump and prong that had shown up after his transformation against your palm as you milk him, suddenly making him like them a lot more.
“Go on,” you encourage, your voice low and sultry. “Don’t leave out any details.”
“Malakos grabs her, unable to resist running his hands over her curves. He… he tears at her robe, exposing her c-creamy skin. Before he can act, Aerona… she grabs his hand and places it on her breast, encouraging him…”
Wyll slowly begins thrusting into your fist, riled up by the retelling of Malakos and Aerona’s story, desperately seeking more of his own pleasure. Both your hand and his shaft are slick with his arousal; the wet sounds of your stroking and his bucking make your own body react in pleasure, an ache building between your legs.
You lean in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whisper, “be a good boy and tell me what happens next, Wyll. Don’t hold back now.” Your voice is sin itself, dripping with lust and desire.
“Ahh, gods,” Wyll gasps, chancing a glance downwards to see for himself what it looks like to have your hand stroking him, hoping to file the memory away for later. The sight alone is almost enough to make him prematurely release, having to shut his eyes tightly to keep from doing so.
“H-he can’t hold back, not with her writhing against him, so he… he lifts her up and lays her back on the bed, tearing off the remnants of her robe…” He swallows hard, almost babbling nonsense at this point, saying whatever comes to mind first to keep you from stopping. “Then he’s on her, between her thighs, lining himself up– ah! ”
You’ve wrapped your hand around just the swollen tip of his cock, pumping rapidly. This makes Wyll lose all coherence, his body writhing in a similar manner to the character in his story, desperately chasing more of your touch.
At this point, Wyll has given up on forming any other word besides your name, moaning it over and over again. Anytime you allow your fist to venture down to the base of his shaft again before returning to the head, you hear him whimper into his pillow, having reduced him to a wanton mess.
“I’ve dreamed of you like this, often,” you confess to him, propping yourself up on your elbow again, hoping to gaze upon him without obstruction. “With your cheeks flushed, your chest heaving, and my name tumbling from your lips.”
Wyll wants to tell you that he’s dreamt of the same things, wished to pleasure you just as much as he’s wished to be pleasured by you, but all he can manage to get out is another breathy whimper and a brief warning. “I’m close.”
With your other hand, you reach up to gently stroke the side of his face. “Come for me, Wyll,” you say softly, almost lovingly. The sheer amount of tenderness in your tone is what ends up setting Wyll off, not the words themselves.
His body tenses, a long guttural moan ripping from his throat as thick, hot ropes of seed spill from his cock, painting your hand and parts of his stomach in his release. He continues to thrust into your fist to prolong his orgasm, your palm working him through every pulse and throb, your name spilling from his lips once again.
With a spent sigh, Wyll finally collapses against the bedroll, rolling onto his back as his chest heaves with every intake of air. His eyes are still shut, clearly needing a moment to thoroughly come down from his high.
You shift above him, giving him more room as you reach to pull the covers over his partially-naked form, attempting to maintain his dignity.
As if he were reading your mind, his mismatched eyes suddenly snap open, remembering himself as he gazes up at you. A shy expression settles over his features, his head immediately turning with his body in some feeble attempt at hiding from you.
You reach out to stop him, your hand lingering on his flushed cheek. You don’t say anything, but he understands your meaning and forces himself to turn onto his back again.
You don’t embarrass him further by naming what just happened, instead moving to settle in next to him again, allowing him a moment to mentally gather himself. You aren’t sure if he regrets it all, if it was too much too soon, so you don’t rush him.
After a few moments of careful silence, he clears his throat and follows it with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I suppose I should thank you–”
You laugh, turning your head to look at him. “No need for thanks,” you tease him, using his own words against him. Your response elicits a more genuine laugh from him, which makes you beam in delight.
You’re happy to leave the more serious side of this conversation until morning, figuring a good night’s sleep will allow for a more productive dialogue, but right when your eyes begin to finally succumb to sleep, a noise has them snapping open again.
Cutting through the silence of the night, you both hear shuffling outside of the tent, followed by a defiant bark that could only belong to Scratch. A moment later, a familiar voice hisses in response. “ Tchk! That is the last time you rest in my tent, creature. I will not have you defile Vlaakith’s teachings with your slobber.”
It’s your turn to blush, as you realize your deception has just been exposed.
Wyll turns to you with a playful glare. “I thought Scratch was resting in your tent.”
“He was…” you begin to explain, “...but then he went to visit Lae’zel, and I got bored…”
Wyll laughs goodnaturedly, shaking his head at your absurd fabrication. “Aren’t I lucky that you got bored.” He reaches out for your hand in the darkness, squeezing it lightly, as if silently telling you that he was actually being sincere. “Perhaps it’s time to pick up a hobby. May I suggest reading a book?”
You smirk. “I’m certainly interested in the book you were reading,” you tell him. “Even if you’ve spoiled the best part.”
He hides his face in the pillow between you both, groaning softly. Pulling away again, he fixes you with an enticing look. “Believe me, there are better things to come.”
Amused, you laugh at his attempt to sell the book to you. Then, endeared by this fact, you lean over and press a soft kiss to his cheek, pulling back only to look him in the eye. “I sincerely hope so.”