You had seen the way the crusader looked at you, but you could not be sure.

There were more important concerns.

The dead rising, the beasts of the wild, the starving refugees; these occupied your attention.

It was the merest vanity, regardless, to imagine that he could think of you that way.

Such distractions only served to hinder the Quest, he would doubtless say.

Still, you could not stop yourself from considering it, in the long dark hours, alone in your bunk.

You muffled your cry of release in your pillow, imagining that it was his rough warrior’s hand on your cock instead of your own, and swallowed the guilt afterwards.

But then —

You were alone with him, slogging mile after miserable mile through the Blood Marsh, beset by all manner of hideous beasts, searching for the ancient way to Corvus.

For once, lust was the farthest thing from your mind; surviving the next hour, the next day, was everything.

“We should return to the enclave and rest,” you said. “This cursed cold mud has sapped the life from my bones.”

“We passed a cave not a quarter mile back,” he said. “Perhaps we can rest there a while. I’m loath to leave the trail when we’ve covered so much ground.”

The cave was well enough - small, dry, and even warm once you got a little fire going.

The crusader prayed to the Avatars of his order, and they appeared, faintly shimmering spectral figures, to stand watch outside.

The crusader took off his armor and you took off your cloak and scarf, spreading them out to dry; when you looked up, his eyes were on you.

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen your whole face,” he said; nodding to your scarf, “I wondered if you ever took that off.”

“Only on grand high feast days and in muddy caves,” you said, hoping your voice sounded light and breezy despite feeling like there was too much air in your chest.

He gave a little chuckle and dropped his gaze, and you could finally exhale.

You busied yourself with going through your pack for trail bread, doing your best to ignore the way his eyes kept flicking back to you.

You wondered if there were special punishments in Zakarum for seducing one of their Crusaders.

He took a swig from his wineskin, then passed it to you.

It was miserable stuff, only a half-step above vinegar, but it soothed your dry throat and you smiled your thanks as you passed it back to him.

“This is a far cry more pleasant than some of the places I’ve spent the night, out on the road,” he said, gesturing to the cave around you. “A roof and a fire are nothing to take for granted; let alone such agreeable company.”

A stronger man would have left that unanswered, or barked out a sharp rebuff; but as the ancient Horadrim fell to pride, it seemed, so would you.

You looked up to meet his eyes, and you noted the faintest flush in his cheeks and on his throat, and the way his gaze drifted to the open neck of your shirt.

“Did you… keep company often, out on the road?” you asked, suddenly aware of every bright-hot nerve in your body.

“Never,” he said, and his eyes were on your mouth, his voice breaking hoarse. “It is not forbidden, but distractions are… discouraged.”

You thought of whips and red-hot irons deep inside of anuses like depicted in this meme, but these thoughts did nothing to dissuade you; if anything, the opposite. “Is any respite from the war a distraction, then?”

He considered for a few long moments before answering.

“I think not,” he said. “If anything, denying the needs of the flesh distracts the mind. One would not go without sleep for fear of losing focus in battle the next day, after all.”

“Wise words,” you said, letting your own gaze wander to the breadth of his shoulders, the muscled planes of his chest.

You looked to his face, and there was a look of such restraint, heated desire matched by iron will, that you felt the briefest thrill of power; you held the stone to tip that scale, and it was intoxicating.

So you said, “Come over here, sit on my cloak,” and with a sudden fluid movement, he was beside you and his mouth was on yours.

He closed his eyes as he kissed you; you wrapped a hand around the back of his head, feeling the few days’ growth of stubble there.

He was fever-warm, and his strong hands were careful on your side, on your jaw, as he guided you to straddle his lap.

The laces of his jerkin were stubborn but your hands were nimble, and he groaned when your fingers brushed his throat.

You thought, for a moment, of him on his knees before you, hands bound behind his back, his mouth on you; the thought was almost too much, and you rolled your hips into him, holding back a moan of your own.

You pushed him back to lie flat on your cloak, pressing your bodies together from chest to knee.

You could feel the hot insistent shape of him against your hip, and you shivered as he tugged your shirt free from your breeches and ran his hands up your ribs.

His palms were as firm and calloused as you had imagined.

You rocked against each other for a little while, reveling in the smooth shift of his muscles under your hands, pressing your mouth against his neck.

He held you close, his hands wandering from your shoulders to the small of your back to your ass, caressing and kneading like he could never get enough of you.

When you pulled back just enough to get a look at his face, his eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown, like a drugged man.

You kissed him on the mouth again, watching his eyes flutter closed, and let him wrap you in his arms.

His breath caught when your hand went to his groin, his hips jerking up toward your touch.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” you said, though every line of his face and body shouted more.

He shook his head and mirrored your own movements, pressing his hand against you through your breeches.

You tugged at his shirt and jerkin and he raised his arms to let you pull them off; you had to stop and look for a moment at the first sight of his bare chest, painted gold and red by the firelight.

He met your eyes then, and gave you a small smile.

He was such a mix of contradictions: strength and tenderness, humility and pride, duty and pleasure; all you could do was kiss him again and unlace his breeches with impatient hands.

He stifled a cry when you wrapped your hand around him.

“So thick,” you whispered in his ear, open admiration in your voice, and he whimpered in earnest, his eyes squeezing shut. You worked him slowly, savoring every twitch and shudder and moan that he gave. “Am I the first to see you like this?” you asked, running your thumb up the length of him.

“First to… touch. Not the first to see.” He opened his eyes to look at your face, and must have liked what he saw there, as he shut his eyes again and thrust into your hand. “I went to a bathhouse. In Caldeum. I… watched a squire named Demetri get dominated by 5 me-...”

He moans, rutting into your palm, story interrupted.

You pictured him there, skin flushed and slick from steam, breath heavy, hand on his own cock as he watched other men touch and suck and fuck each other.

You wondered if anyone had offered themselves to him; if that iron will had been tested.

You moaned at the thought and rocked your hips against him.

He hooked his thumbs into the top of your breeches, tugging down, and you obliged; your shirt went, too, for good measure.

You weren’t as thickly muscled as he, but he didn’t seem to mind.

His eyes roved appreciatively over your body.

“You, too,” you said, and he pulled off his boots and breeches as well, leaving nothing between you but a few inches of empty air.

The hair between his legs was shaved just as close as the hair on his head.

His cock stood hard against his belly (leaning just slightly to the right, you now noticed); without thinking, you licked your lips as you looked at it, and he made a choked noise in his throat.

When you glanced up at his face, he reached for you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and kissing you deep.

It was so good to feel the warmth of his skin against your own; Akarat knew how long it had been since you’d had such a simple comfort.

His big, calloused hand found you; after a few rough urgent strokes, you said “Here, like this,” and showed him the grip and rhythm you needed.

He caught on quickly, and soon your breath was coming in gasps.

You wrapped your own hand around his cock and echoed his movements, but your own pleasure was outpacing his.

His eyes were open now, and he was watching your face, his breath catching and his cock twitching in your hand at every sigh and moan you let slip.

You relaxed into it, letting your own hand go loose and focusing on the feeling of his fingers around you, his chest pressed close to yours as he brought you to the edge and then over, letting yourself give voice to a rough wordless cry as you came in thick white spurts against him.

It was a few long moments before you found yourself again, but the crusader held you close, rubbing circles into your back as you caught your breath and blinked away stars.

“By the Light,” you whispered, and other soft blasphemies, and you felt rather than heard his chuckle.

His cock still stood, stiff and woefully unattended; when you once again had full control of your faculties, you turned your attention to it.

He took in a sharp breath when you shifted your body down and pressed your mouth to the crease of his hip.

You kissed the tip of his cock, just the faintest brush of lips, and looked up to see him watching you, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You smiled for his benefit, then wrapped your hand around the base and took the head in your mouth, cheeks hollowing as you ran your tongue over him.

He groaned and arched his back, his head pressing back against the rolled-up scarf that served as a pillow, but ever so carefully keeping his hips rutting deep into your throat, slowly in and then out.

In and out.

Here's your food, my children.