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.”
