What It Means to Be Good (Patreon)

SUMMARY: Lorien approaches Dread for his assistance in battling the Demon King, Azagorath. As with anything involving Dread, however, it’ll come with a cost. Luckily, Dread is fond of pretty, shiny things. 

0“You know what I’m going to say.” 

“Not this time,” Lorien disagrees. “There’s no room to negotiate.”

Dread’s smile is sharp. “That’s where you’re wrong. If you want my help in stopping the Demon King, then you have to make it worth my while.” 

Lorien follows his gaze, eyes landing on the coin purse hanging from his belt.

“Is saving the realm not enough of a reward for you?”

“No.” The tiefling's answer is straightforward and dry. 

“You would be seen as a hero. The people would love you.”

“The people would love what I can do for them,” Dread points out. 

“That’s not—”

Dread silences him with a flat stare. Outside, the clouds part and let the sun’s rays pour through the inn’s window. The evening light at his back catches along some of his features, casting a long shadow that washes over the paladin. It creates a severity to Dread’s visage, his open indifference. There’s more to his denial than simple unenthusiasm, Lorien knows. His eyes shine with the ember of something far more personal. 

Lorien steps closer. A part of him—despite knowing Dread’s character well enough—grows apprehensive. He wishes he would have chosen to wear some armor to this meeting rather than a simple tunic for the sake of equal footing. A chill washes over him and settles low in his spine. 

Begrudgingly, Lorien notes that it isn’t entirely out of fear. His opponent is in repose, leaning back against a wooden table placed at a spot beneath the window. With curtains mostly drawn, Dread almost appears to glow with a holy light. The backdrop bathes him in an aura that clashes with his dark demeanor. He is every bit lithe and cunning personified. There’s an easy elegance to him even beyond his barbed personality and wicked tongue. 

Dread is good at what he does because he knows how to draw people in—he’s alluring in the same way a shimmer of light is in pitch dark. He can be every bit as tempting as a gold coin left out in the open, so long as the situation calls for it. 

He steps forward again without fully realizing. 

Dread holds out a hand, his other arm propping him up. His fingers graze the fabric of Lorien’s tunic, but the digits do not make contact with his chest. “That’s close enough.”

“How much do you want?”

As with most matters concerning money, he doesn’t mess around. “I’m sorry, Lori, but you can’t afford it. Not this time.” 

“What if we make a deal?” Lorien’s offer does earn him a curious quirk of the tiefling’s brow. “I’m certain there are many families who would feel indebted to a hero who helped stop Azagorath. They’d pay you handsomely.”

Dread shuts his eyes, a sigh cradling his following words. “I won’t risk my life on the vague promises of nobles. Unlike their names, their word is worthless.”

“You aren’t leaving me with many options.” 

“The feeling is mutual.” 

Lorien groans out loud. “Light preserve me.” 

A mirthless chuckle follows. Lorien knows that whatever Dread is going to say next will more than likely be at his expense. 

“You really want my help?” A taunt laces each word. “Then beg.”

He loathes that he is right. “What?” 

Dread smiles at the offense in Lorien’s voice. “You heard me. Get on your knees and pray for my help. You’re good at that, right?” 

Irritation sparks a response before Lorien can think of the meaning behind such a taunt. “You’re joking.” 

“Hardly. Now be a good boy and kneel.” 

A shiver moves through him at those words. Lorien, at the end of his rope and without much of a choice otherwise, does just that. The paladin falls to his knees as if in prayer and gazes up at Dread. A white-hot lash of mortification surges through him, his brow creasing, but he dares not tear his eyes away. 

In return, the tiefling pauses, as if taken aback at the action. All Dread can think to do is stare down at Lorien as they both wait for the other to break the silence. 

“Please, Dread.” Lorien’s plea is a whisper in the room. 

No response. Not right away, at least. So he continues on. 

“I understand you may have your reservations, but the Demon King poses a threat to everything we hold dear. The light guides me, and seeing as this is the path I’ve chosen, it means you’re a part of my destiny, one way or another. I cannot do this without you. So, please, I beg of you…” He stops to find his next words, head bowing. 

“Help me.”

Dread still doesn’t speak. He sits in the silence that follows Lorien’s pleas, the last echoes of trembling words in his ears. He wants to bask in the moment. After all, it isn’t everyday where someone of his character can bring a paladin of Light to his knees. Not for free, in any case. 

The moment cannot last forever, though. He can’t be too greedy. Lorien needs an answer. Dread’s tail flicks idly at the view, passively committing it to memory for a later time.  He stands up straighter, both hands perched on the desk he’s leaned back against, willowy muscles flexing as he stretches in the sun—not so differently to a common house cat. 

“No.” 

Lorien’s head shoots up to meet his eyes. “What?”

Dread shrugs. “I said no.”

He stands there, mouth agape. Enough time passes where the rogue must fill the silence.

“Honor. Glory. Such sweet promises from that mouth,” Dread sighs out. “Promises that aren’t yours to keep, Lori.” 

The paladin’s ears burn knowing that he is right. 

“Please,” he says again, “I’ll do anything.” 

“Anything?”

The tiefling’s horns stand out further as he tilts his head to the side, sun illuminating the grooves and dents, forming a false crown of light. Lorien can’t catch the expression in his eyes anymore. His own eyes, however, dart between those devilish traits and the glint of fangs he spots from a wicked grin. 

“I’m not sure you have much else left to offer me.”

“Anything.” Lorien repeats. His mouth feels dry. 

“That’s a bit of a broad stroke, Lori. Mind narrowing it down for me?” 

“That depends,” he croaks out, mouth becoming unbearably dry. 

“On?”

Sweat begins to dot Lorien’s brow. Heat floods his face, and he can only imagine how it must look to Dread; a ruddy-cheeked paladin sweating under a tiefling’s gaze. He fights to get the words out, unwilling to allow the heavy silence to linger for a second more. “On what you’ll allow. I can… demonstrate how badly I want you—” He freezes, but recovers quickly. “Your help, I should clarify. What can I do to convince you?” 

“A slip of the tongue,” Dread remarks. 

Lorien should have known he was not going to let that slide without a comment. “What can I do?” he repeats. “What must I do?” 

“I’ve already told you.” 

The paladin expects another outright rejection. However, the next words out of the tiefling’s mouth serve as both a relief and torture.

“A broad stroke,” he recalls. “A slip of the tongue…” 

Lorien swallows audibly. Dread’s shadowy smile grows. 

“Unless, of course, it’s too much for you—”

“I’ll do it. I—” He stops himself, but the urgency in his voice has given away what words did not. “I said I would.” 

“You are a man of your word. I’d hate to take that away from you.” 

He chooses to ignore the condescending lilt in those words, which is at least made easier when Dread begins to undo the admittedly more complex ties to his trousers. Lorien isn’t sure where to look in the meantime. He knows where he’d like to look—the suggestion of Dread’s own anticipation visibly straining against cloth, for example—but he hesitates with those eyes still watching him. 

The room is silent save for the odd crackle of a candle wick and the whispers of fabric as Dread continues with expert ease. In comparison, Lorien’s fingers tremble even as they clutch to the edge of his tunic. Out of nerves, perhaps? Anticipation? 

Impatience? 

No, he protests inwardly. After all, he should have more control than this. He does. 

Except once all the laces are undone, and Lorien spots the very start of a shaft peeking over his smalls, he knows that’s all a lie. He can’t help how his mouth begins to water at the sight. Their eyes meet again. Dread doesn’t say a single word and he isn’t smiling either. He’s waiting. Calm. Patient. 

In control.

For a reprieve from those eyes, Lorien removes his tunic, tossing it to the floor nearby with some force. A hint of annoyance surges through Lorien along with something else he’d rather not give a name to. But he knows it’s there, deep in his stomach and hot. 

He takes him out of his pants. The length is flush, almost burning against Lorien’s palm. A faint, sharp inhale hits the paladin’s ears. He can’t help watching the expression on Dread’s face as he wraps a hand around the shaft and gently thumbs the head. 

He gets a narrowing of eyes as a response. Nothing else. 

“Is this alright?” 

Dread trails a finger down the tip of Lorien’s ear down to the lobe, thumb caressing the pliable skin there. The touch is as light as a feather. He nods once. “Go on.”

The two-word sentence is spoken in a whisper, but Lorien can hear the taunting in it. A challenge. With it, a new burst of heat spreads underneath his skin. 

Lorien chooses not to waste any more of their time. He moves his thumb away and replaces it with a single pass of his tongue. He watches as Dread’s shoulders roll in a shudder, both hands darting to hold onto the table he’s leaning against. 

Lorien does it again. 

This time, a shadow is cast by a swishing tail, no longer able to keep still. Dread adjusts his hips, a mix of a sigh and a curse leaving his lips. There’s a new intensity when their eyes lock next and a sneaking hint of satisfaction courses through Lorien’s veins. It isn’t the break he wants, but it’s a taste, and he wants to see more. 

Slowly, he begins to stroke along the length of him. His tongue flattens against the underside before passing over the head once more. There’s no moans throughout this—only the glimpse of heavier breaths as Dread’s chest rises and falls. Even now, the exchange feels more akin to a challenge than a bargain. Such is the way of him. 

When the paladin does take him into his mouth, it’s deliberate and slow. He first presses his lips against the leaking tip. Then, taking his time, he gently wraps his mouth around the head. He watches as the rogue begins to sink into the heat of it all. Eventually, he starts to push further along, tongue dragging underneath the tiefling’s cock. He pauses once his mouth is comfortably full. And for a moment or two as no one makes a move, Lorien believes he’s finally the one to take charge. 

Honestly, he should have known better. 

“So eager to please.”

Claws rake along his scalp, down the back of his head, and find easy purchase along the scruff of his neck. Slowly, and with every ounce of control shown thus far, Dread uses that hold to thrust deeper into Lorien’s mouth. It isn’t rough, but it doesn’t need to be. He’s doing this as a reminder that he’s still the one calling the shots.

Even so, he nearly gags from the shock before he wills his throat to relax.  

The rose-haired paladin can almost set aside the embarrassment—there’s some awe in how even as the tiefling begins to lose himself more and more with every thrust, he still manages to hold back. To him, it’s impressive. Beautiful, even. 

Someone most perceive as a devil maintains total composure as he, one given such grace, throws it all away for the chance to get on his knees for him. The thought makes him moan around Dread’s stiff cock. 

“Moved to tears, are we?” Dread coos, his clawed hands parting the paladin’s golden locks in a slow drag along his scalp. “The state of you, Lorien. You’re as pretty as a painting.” 

A soft whine comes out muffled as Lorien’s eyes flutter shut at those words of praise, lashes glittering with unshed teardrops. For a moment, Dread thinks about a field of flowers and their petals littered with morning dew. The image does not last long. A slow, languid pass of Lorien’s tongue on the underside of his cock wipes away every single thought. It snatches the wind from his lungs with a deftness that impresses the tiefling rogue. A breathy laugh breaks free from his lips. 

Right then, Lorien turns his gaze upward, and their eyes meet. 

“Shit—” 

He gives a shallow thrust into the other elf’s mouth. Lorien grabs a hold of Dread’s still-clothed thigh, fingers pressing firmly into the fabric and leather. He rocks his hips forward again, and again. The choked moans vibrate against him in a way that sends his eyes rolling back. Dread’s other hand, unoccupied, grips the edge of the desk until his knuckles grow pale from the strain. His head falls to the side as he goes back to observing Lorien. 

“If only you could see yourself now,” Dread moans. 

Lorien is sure those words are meant to be mocking, but they lose their sting with the tremble in Dread’s voice. He gives a particularly strong suck that makes the rogue’s back arch that makes the paladin’s stomach tighten deliciously. Following that, he brings a hand to stroke whatever his mouth can’t take, head bobbing back and forth. 

From then on—though he quickly stops thinking on how much time is passing—every moan, heavy breath, every shudder sends jolts of pleasure down Lorien’s spine. He’s painfully hard and is far too aware of the fact. In fact, he is so deeply drawn in that he barely feels pride when he notices Dread becoming a complete mess at his attention. The dark-haired man is close to melting, knees weak, his normally sharp tongue only capable of incoherence. His hand in Lorien’s pale locks bounce between a firm grip to feathery, almost dotingly, soft strokes. 

And he’s coming undone with each second that ticks by. 

“Right there—” 

Lorien sees those red eyes pinch shut, thighs tensing up. His hips stutter into shallow thrusts against the back of his throat, against his face. Fingers dig into the tiefling’s thighs to hold him in place. He tightens the circle of his lips and keeps going. Those claws thread tighter into his hair. 

Even as the tiefling fights to maintain some semblance of poise—bitten back moans, stopping short of fucking Lorien’s mouth without abandon—Dread’s tail is another story. It whips behind him, slamming into the table, the floor, Lorien’s legs and side. In response, Lorien catches it the next time it brushes a bit too closely to the area between his legs. The tail wraps tightly around his wrist. 

No complaints from Dread. That’s how Lorien knows he’s completely lost in it. 

After another strong suck on the tip, he speaks up. “S-slow down, Lori.” 

With an audible pop, he pulls away. 

“Will you show me?” The question is cradled in a moan. He doesn’t need to elaborate. 

Lorien agrees with an affirmative whine that sends electricity up Dread’s spine.

“Then you know what to do.” Claws lightly scrape against his scalp once more as Dread takes hold of his hair, guiding him to lock eyes. “Open up.”

He does so. 

Dread takes his cock, glistening with spit in the candlelight. “Ready?” “I can handle it.” 

“Careful,” the tiefling warns, but not earnestly. “I might take you up on that.” 

“Do it, then.”

Gentle fingers cradle the paladin’s face. In comparison, the fiery, lustful gaze that met his stand at complete opposites. With his free hand, Dread sets the head of his cock against Lorien’s tongue before cupping his other cheek. That’s where any hint of softness stops. 

With a single push, the tip hits the back of the other man’s throat. Dread brings Lorien’s mouth down onto him again and again. In return, Lorien explores as much of his cock as his tongue can reach even as his jaw begins to ache. He barely feels it. In fact, he barely registers how he can only breathe through his nose—all that matters is making sure that he—

Lorien sees Dread’s head fall back as he cums. His thighs tremble and then tense up, his moans no longer quiet as he spills into the elf’s mouth. Claws dig into his cheeks as the tiefling rides it out, harsh breaths rattling his lithe frame all the while. 

Eventually, Dread releases him, trembling hands settling back on the table. His head falls back forward as he settles half-lidded eyes on him again. 

“Open up.”

A cloudy bead of spit and cum drips from Lorien’s tongue and pools onto his bottom lip in an erotic semblance to a shining pearl. The sight is so sinful even Dread finds it to be an indulgence with how long he stares at the kneeling, dewy-eyed paladin at his feet. 

“Good boy.”

He shivers pleasantly at the praise. 

“Don’t swallow yet.” Dread’s hand drifts along to cup Lorien’s cheek. Then, his chin. “Now come here. Stand up.” 

An impatient tap to the underside of his jaw gets him moving. Lorien uses the edge of the table Dread is still leaning against to help him get back onto his feet. 

His head is swimming as he gets back on his feet, but he isn’t given much time to recover before lips meet his own. Somehow, that makes the dizziness swirl further—he knows Dread can taste himself, he has to. The thought makes him moan into the kiss. And from the groan that sounds almost like a purr, Dread is more than happy about it. 

Neither of them thinks to pull away.  Yes, they part for air when necessary, but even then, it is seconds before they’re back to being a mess of mouths, tongues, and in one’s case: fangs. 

Lorien can admit that he is the first one to set hands on the other. Though, Dread doesn’t hesitate to return the favor, roughly pulling the paladin in by his undone breeches. He doesn’t wait long to let him hands travel further south. 

“Seduced by a devil?” Dread teases as he begins to palm at the straining fabric of Lorien’s trousers. “How blasphemous of you.” 

Lorien’s eyes drift to the side as his face burns anew. 

“I can help with that.” 

“Help with what?” He question carries another needy whine. 

Dread again presses at the clear outline of his clothed cock. “I don’t much care for the idea of owing someone. You know that.” 

The gasp he lets out morphs into a breathy moan once lips meet the hollow of his throat. 

He only notices Dread touching him again once the grazing of a clawed finger catches his skin. The sensation is a mild respite to the cloying heat building inside. One hand caresses his ribs and chest, the other settling along his waist, guiding him forward until their hips are plush. Lorien’s brows pinch together as he feels Dread’s tongue catch a bead of sweat from his jaw. He can even feel the devilish grin that follows it. 

But he has no time to dwell on it for long. The damn tail—he’d almost forgotten it. 

Lithe and confident as its owner, Dread’s trail wraps around Lorien’s thigh right where it needs to be. One squeeze sends his eyes rolling back. Rose-colored locks are all he sees before both eyes fall shut. Without even thinking, he’s pushing his body closer to the tiefling, and he moans out a plea. 

His hands scramble for purchase. One lands on Dread’s arm. The other, perhaps subconsciously to bring those hips ever closer, grabs onto his tail. He doesn’t even realize it at first until he gets a sharp reminder. 

Dread nips at his ear in warning. “Watch the tail.”

“Be gentle.” Lorien despises having to make such a request, but if anyone were to know… “No bite marks.”

“Hm… That wasn’t a part of the deal,” he taunts, smiling against the paladin’s neck. 

“Dread,” he chides, pulling away to glare at the other man. He knows the scathing stare isn’t effective, not with ruddy cheeks and lust clouding his eyes.

Nevertheless, Dread pulls him into another kiss, and whispers against his lips: “I’ll be careful. No one will see.” 

“Do you swear?” 

“Your dirty secret’s safe with me, Lori.”

It’s hard to tell how honest he’s being, but Lorien chooses to seal the next deal with another, more desperate kiss in reply. 

There’s more heat in the exchange, more ferocity. His lips feel swollen and are possibly bruising by the time Dread’s moving on to attack his collarbone instead. He barely cares. In fact, there’s a rush in knowing he did, in fact, hold up against his comrade’s challenge. But it still isn’t over. He knows this, too. 

That is why—he is sure of it—the cunning rogue chooses then to deftly undo his pants and take his hard cock in hand. Bite marks already litter the paladin’s neck and chest. Dread is careful to only leave evidence behind in areas that will be covered by armor and cloth, but other than that point of caution, he is relentless. Lorien’s skin stings from the onslaught. He means for him to remember this with each movement, every breath. 

“I will get you back for this,” Lorien vows. His words almost match in pace with his shallow thrusts. 

“Is that so?”

“I swear upon it.”

Again, Dread sinks his fangs into perfect skin, this time with a noncommittal hum. This earns him another sharp moan from Lorien, fingers grasping desperately at the table, along with another sloppy roll of his hips. The languid pass of a tongue follows into the curve of Lorien’s throat. Fangs scratch at the corded muscle before he moves on, lips brushing against the paladin’s jaw. Lorien hears and feels Dread’s words when he speaks next. 

“Oh, I’m counting on it, Lori. I haven’t even shown you half of my tricks yet.” 

The idea is both tempting and intimidating all at once. 

Dread chuckles, breath fanning over his cheek. “I felt that. Did the thought alone make you twitch? I expected you’d tell me to be quiet.”

Instead, it’s Lorien who remains speechless, save for his grunts. He needs more. If only Dread would move his hand—even a little. Lorien’s head falls onto his shoulder, the rhythm to his movements growing messier in his desperation. 

“Really, Lori?” He chastises gently. “I’m beginning to think this transaction is leaning more towards your favor than mine.” 

That’s not enough, he thinks. The only sign of his thoughts trickling out is a needy whine, which is muffled by Dread’s shoulder. It’s not nearly enough. The end of Dread’s tail starts to tease along trembling thighs once more. Between his legs, it grazes a feather-light touch to the base of his shaft before beginning the torturous cycle all over again. 

“Please,” he begs. 

Dread swears it sounds eerily similar to his earlier pleas, only much sweeter. 

“Please, what? Mind narrowing it down for me?” He, too, repeats himself, grinning all the while. He can feel more than hear the broken moan in how Lorien shudders against him. 

“Please let me cum.” 

“I’m not stopping you.”

“I can’t—Please!” 

The cry is especially loud in the small inn’s room. Dread guesses someone must have heard it, but he barely spares it a thought. Let them hear their honorable, upstanding Lorien in such a state. Let them know he is the cause. The dreadful devil corrutping their paladin. The idea is almost laughable. 

Meanwhile, Lorien continues to beg under his breath. A stream of pleading and cut off words being replaced by needy moans. He’s a mess. Sweat plasters normally neat locks onto his forehead. His lips are parted, blood red from all the worrying he’s done to them with his teeth as well as Dread’s sharp fangs. Lorien’s eyes are shut tight, the grooves of fabric from Dread’s clothing leaving indents on his cheek as he pants away. But he still can’t—

Despite his general reputation, Dread is not an entirely selfish man. And even he—as much as he thinks himself immune to Lorien’s unwitting charms—knows when to relent. He gives the swollen cock in his hand a slow, deliberate stroke. Then another. Lorien practically sobs with gratitude, rutting away with abandon, breaths hot and humid as it hits the tiefling’s throat. He thumbs the leaking head with his next stroke. 

Lorien knows he isn’t going to last long at all. Between the minor friction he got from shifting on his knees again and again, desperate for something to relieve that pressure while Dread writhed and moaned above him, because of him—The memory alone makes him lose pace with his thrusting. He thinks about that damned tail and how it’s teased him for most of the evening, and how he shamefully wishes it would do more. Lorien pictures a sharp grin, red eyes watching him as he gives in to his desires. 

In the end, when Lorien cracks open his eyes, it’s the sight of Dread’s arm muscles tensing as he works his cock that sends him over the edge. The mix of moonlight and warm candle’s glow covers him in a halo that leaves him breathless. Though, most of that breathlessness also comes from how he suddenly begins to spill all over Dread’s hand. 

His moans are not soft or quiet. He sobs out with each wave of ecstasy and pure relief as nimble fingers continue to stroke him through the aftershocks. The elf clings to the other man until his hands grow white, sweaty forehead pressing into sharp collarbones and cloth. 

In a room where their breaths fill the air, reality sets in slowly. 

Lorien returns to his senses and steps back, face burning hot as he struggles to put himself back into his pants. Dread, without a single word, walks past him to the connecting wash room, but not before unceremoniously tossing the paladin’s tunic over his head, blocking Lorien’s vision completely. 

He stands there, thankful for the moment of privacy. 

For lack of a better term, he is dreading going back downstairs. 

Lorien scrambles to put his clothes back on when he hears Dread’s footsteps approaching—Though he figures the sound is entirely for his benefit. His head pokes through the top and catches a smirk on the tiefling’s lips.  

“Here.” Dread holds out a cool, damp cloth to him. “Since you held up your end, I suppose I can meet with this noble.”  

“Thank you.” Lorien straightens out his tunic before accepting it, wiping at his brow and face now sticky with sweat and... “Do try being polite when you do.”

“That costs extra.” 

He really should know better. “By the light,” he sighs.