Chapter Text

🩸Kinktober 2025🩸

Day 1 – Praise
Wyll Ravenguard (Baldur’s Gate 3)

Day 3 – Cockwarming
Jason Todd, reading aloud (DC Comics)

Day 5 – Foreign Language
Gambit (Marvel, French/Creole)

Day 7 – Partner Worship

Martin Septim (TES: Oblivion)

Day 9 – Breeding

Gale (BG3)

Day 11 – Mask Play

Din Djarin, The Mandalorian (Star Wars)

Day 13 – Restraints

Wonder Woman (DC Comics)

Day 15– Size Kink

Geralt of Rivia (The Witcher)

Day 17 – Authority / Dark Power

Lucien Lachance (TES: Oblivion)

Day 21 – Breath Play

Sith!Anakin Skywalker (Star Wars)

Day 23 – Intoxicated / High Sex

Hancock (Fallout 4)

Day 25 – Science Experimentation

Karl Heisenberg (Resident Evil: Village)

Day 27 – Corruption

Nightcrawler (Marvel, X-Men) (TW: Lots of religious themes, improper use of Catholic Rituals/Rosaries

Day 29 – Knife/Bloodplay

Orin (BG3)

🎃 Halloween – Monster/Not Human

Messmer, The Impaler (Elden Ring)

Chapter Text

The camp is quiet, embers glowing low, soldiers’ soft murmurs fading into the night. You slip into Wyll’s tent, finding him slouched on the edge of his cot, bruised, bandaged, chest tight, hands gripping the cot as if holding himself together could keep the weight of everything at bay.

You already know what’s pressing on him: Omellum, the Gondian, both had to be left behind in the sumbersible. His body trembled, not just from exhaustion but from guilt, from the weight of being the one who survived.

“Wyll,” you murmur, stepping close, your fingers brushing along his forearm. He flinches slightly from coming back from his thoughts, but he doesn’t pull away. “You saved your father; you broke your contract. You risked everything, and you stood strong through all of it. That is extraordinary.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight, voice rough. “I… I left them… I –”

“Shh,” you hush him, kneeling in front of him, your hands settling on his knees, thumbs brushing over tense muscles. “Stop. Listen. You were incredible, no, you are incredible. Don’t punish yourself. Not tonight. Not ever.”

He swallows hard, shivering. You trail a finger along the curve of his hip, over the bruised ribs, feeling him tremble at your touch. “So strong…so brave…so needed. Even like this… you’re perfect.”

Your hand drifts lower, wrapping fully around his cock, brushing over the sensitive ridge, teasing, stroking, coaxing shivers that ripple through his body. “You like this… don’t you? Feeling me on you… hearing how good you are…how deserving…how much I need you to let me make you cum?”

His hands grasp your wrists, weak protest, but he doesn’t pull away. His body is taut, every nerve igniting, responding to every word, every stroke, every whispered affirmation. You sink your hips down slightly, grinding against him, letting him feel your weight, your control.

You straddle him fully now, pressing your thigh against his, lips tracing over his collarbone, teeth grazing lightly, whispering praise over every shiver. “So responsive, so hard for me…doing so well. You deserve this…You deserve all of it.”

Your lips trail down his neck, over his chest, teeth grazing sensitive spots, tongue flicking and teasing, while your hands explore fully: stroking, kneading, coaxing him to the edge again and again. “So brave…so strong, so fucking perfect…so fucking mine. Let go, let me show you exactly how incredible you are…”

He gasps, hips jerking instinctively into your touch, trembling, moaning, completely undone by your praise and domination. “Yes, Wyll, just like that…oh gods…so perfect for me…”

You tease him slowly, circling that sensitive, aching spot that makes him shiver violently, hips rocking unconsciously, breath hitching. Every twitch, every groan is rewarded with your voice. “Look at you…perfect… so fucking perfect for me…”

Wyll’s first orgasm crashes over him, body shuddering, hips bucking, a desperate release of tension and guilt mingling with pure, raw pleasure. You hold him, lips brushing over his temple, murmuring praise into every gasp: “Proud of you…so proud…you are perfect…brave, strong, beautiful…”

But you don’t stop. Fingers tease him back to life, circling, stroking, coaxing another wave, driving him wild. “So good…look at you, letting me take you, trembling under my hands…yes…just like that, Wyll.”

He arches into you, hands clutching at your arms, breath ragged, body shivering violently, utterly yours. Praise and touch push him higher. “That’s it, mine to worship, mine to take. Tremble for me, Wyll…yes… yes!”

Another orgasm tears through him, louder, longer, hips thrusting against your hand, cock slick and twitching under your palm, every moan answered with your voice, lips, hands. “Mine, all mine…so good…look at how brave you are…perfect, Wyll… perfect…”

You slow, letting him catch a shaky breath, peppering soft kisses that trail over his temple, hair, neck, and shoulders, grounding him. “Look at me, see how loved you are, you’re mine, Wyll. Always.”

Finally, spent and trembling, he collapses against you. Your arms wrap around him, holding him close, rocking gently, soothing, fingers still stroking lightly over his chest, his shaft, over every place that’s still sensitive, smoothing away the remnants of tension and guilt. His head rests against your chest, and you press a soft, lingering kiss to the top of his hair.

“You did more than anyone could ever ask,” you murmur, voice quiet. “Saved your father. Broke your contract. You were brave, Wyll. So incredibly brave.”

His fingers clutch weakly at your tunic, still shivering from release, and you brush a hand along his back, feeling each shiver, each heartbeat. “I’m proud of you.”

He sighs, nuzzling into your chest, eyes half-lidded. You slide both hands along the horns, caressing, stroking, even lightly squeezing where the curves meet, letting your praise spill over each motion. You press a final soft kiss to his temple, resting your forehead against his, breathing together in the quiet tent.

And in your arms, Wyll finally allows himself to fully breathe, letting the praise, the touch, the intimacy, and the warmth of your presence melt away the weight of guilt, fear, and exhaustion. Safe. Worshipped. Adored. And entirely, undeniably yours.

Chapter Text

Jason Todd had the audacity to have his cock in you while reading The Sun Also Rises.

You straddled him, cunt flushed and slick around him, chest pressed against his. He didn’t move beneath you, just held you steady with one as the other turned the pages. His voice was calm, each word drawing a shiver from you.

“‘You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another,’” he read, letting his cock stay perfectly still. It had been that way for at least half an hour at this point. “‘I always think that I’m in love with something, but then I realize I’m just in love with the idea of it…’”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you listened, not realizing your hips were involuntarily rolling into his. The stillness of him inside you made every movement electric, every brush of skin against skin more sensitive than you thought possible.

“Jason…” 

He smirked, not looking up from the book in front of him. “‘Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters,’” he continued. “‘They’re the only ones who really live.’”

Even without moving, the stretch of your cunt around his cock, and the drag of your hips over him, sent a coil of tension spiraling through both of you. You whimpered softly, trying to move just a little faster, and he tightened his grip on your waist, holding you perfectly in place.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “You’re gonna make me lose my place.”

Your body trembled at the simple words, each syllable a teasing caress. You pressed down harder, rocking over him slowly, letting the pressure coil deliciously inside you. Each word from the book, each flick of his eyes, each subtle smirk became part of the torment, part of the exquisite, frustrating pleasure.

“‘Isn't it pretty to think so?’” His voice slid over you, measured and calm, almost as if nothing erotic were happening at all. “‘We could all be – shit – happy if only we weren’t so - fuck - careful…” He leaned forward slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as he set the open book down on the end table. “You just made me lose my place, and somehow I’m not even that mad about it,” he whispered, tightening his grip on your waist just enough to make you press harder against him.

You moaned, the new stimulation of your clit against his pubic bone almost unbearable, the immovable weight of him inside you leaving your cunt impossibly slick and tight. Every shallow grind, every subtle roll, every tiny shift of your hips teased you, and yet, somehow, it wasn’t enough to tip you over; he was holding you there, perfectly balanced on the edge.

You tilted your hips, rocking slower now, and allowed the pleasure coil tight in your stomach, spreading through your thighs, down to the tips of your toes. Every word from the book, every hum of his low voice, every slight smile tugged at you like a tether you couldn’t escape.

When your orgasm finally came, it was intense. You shuddered, cunt clenching impossibly around him, rocking over him as he stayed still, smug, letting you ride it out. Every shiver, every gasped breath, every tremor of your body pressed him deeper into you.

You slumped forward against him, breath shaky, forehead pressed to his chest. He finished shortly after, still inside you as his hands traced your spine as if memorizing every inch. The quiet stretched, the only sounds your ragged breaths and the faint creak of the couch.

Then, because he can’t stand a quiet moment, he muttered, “Guess Hemingway wasn’t lying about things not rising, huh?”

You groaned, half-laugh, half-exasperation. “Jesus fucking Christ, Jason.”

He grinned, that particular brand of lazy confidence only he could manage. “C’mon, you walked right into that one. Or, technically, sat on it.”

You swatted weakly at his chest. He caught your wrist, kissed your knuckles, and then let your hand fall against his sternum. The book lay open beside you, a page bent under his thumb. Jason glanced at it, then at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Y’know,” he said, “for all his talk about manhood and the futility of passion, Hemingway really just needed to get laid and not drink a fuck ton of absinthe.”

"Jason," you huffed, smiling despite yourself. “That’s your literary analysis?”

He tilted his head back against the arm of the couch. “Hey, I graduated top of my class for this kind of insight. Academia should thank me.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’m sure the entire English department mourns your absence.”

“They should,” he said, fingers tracing circles along your thigh. “I made modernist misery fun.”

You leaned in until your foreheads touched, the teasing softening without either of you meaning it to. His voice was still rough, but the smirk stayed. “You know what’s funny? Hemingway spent a whole damn book whining about not getting laid. Meanwhile, I just gave a hands-on demonstration of narrative resolution.”

You let out a low laugh against his throat. “Narrative resolution? Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, lazy grin spreading. “Climax, denouement, a strong protagonist arc. It’s practically textbook.”

“Tragic how you weaponize an English degree,” you murmured.

“Seriously, though. This is pretty much all brooding dudes and metaphors for erectile dysfunction. Couldn’t even get a solid ending out of a Hemingway plot if his life depended on it.”

“Sounds like your thesis in roasting,” you said.

“Exactly. And trust me, it’s graduate-level work.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, grin softening ever so slightly. “I may trash literature for fun, but you’re the only story I actually want to stick with.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, the room still warm with the aftermath of your heat. “You really know how to ruin a classic.”

“And yet,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw, “you’re still here.”

Chapter Text

The smell hit you the moment you opened the apartment door: cayenne, garlic, and underneath it all, the lingering sweetness of charged card smoke. You'd asked him three times this week to practice outside if he was going to smoke up the apartment.

Clearly, he hadn't listened.

You found Remy in the kitchen, and "kitchen" was a generous term for what you were looking at. Every counter was covered with cutting boards, bowls, or spice containers. He had a pot bubbling on the stove, and was that cayenne pepper dusted across the counter like some kind of spicy crime scene?

"Cher!" He looked up with that devastating grin, wooden spoon in hand. "Just in time. Gambit's making his maman's gumbo. You're gonna love it."

"Remy." You surveyed the disaster zone. "What happened in here?"

"Gambit's cookin', that's what happened." He turned back to the stove, completely unbothered. "Can't make proper gumbo without makin' a little mess."

"A little mess?" You picked up one of at least five different spice containers scattered across the counter. "Remy, it looks like a bomb went off."

"Pfft." He waved the spoon dismissively, sending a drop of roux flying. "You bein' dramatic. Besides, I’m gonna clean it up."

"When? After dinner? Because I can still smell the smoke from your cards earlier, and you said you'd –"Mon Dieu, not this again." He set the spoon down with more force than necessary. "Gambit said he's sorry 'bout the smoke, yeah? What you want him to do, stop practicing?"

"I want you to practice outside like you promised!" You crossed your arms. "And maybe not destroy the kitchen every time you cook!"

"Gambit don't destroy nothin'." His accent was thickening; it always did when he got worked up. "He make you a proper meal 'cause you can't season food to save your life, and this is the thanks he get?"

"I can season food just fine –"You think black pepper is spicy, cher. That ain't seasonin', that's sadness on a plate."

"At least I don't leave the kitchen looking like a disaster scene!" You gestured at the mess. "There's paprika on the ceiling, Remy. The ceiling."

"C'est des conneries –" He caught himself, switching back to English. "That ain't even – how you think that got there?"

"You tell me!"

"Merde, you bein' impossible right now." He turned fully to face you, eyes flashing red for just a moment. They always did when his temper flared. "Gambit's tryin' to do somethin' nice, make you a real meal, and all you do is complain 'bout a little mess, a little smoke –"It's not a little anything, you…" You stopped, because somewhere in the middle of his rant, you'd lost track of what you were actually angry about. Because when Remy got heated, when that French started slipping out, when his accent got thick and his eyes flashed…

Fuck, it did things to you.

And he knew it.

His expression shifted, that cocky grin sliding back into place. "Oh, cher. You got that look."

"I don't have a look."

"You do." He leaned back against the counter, all lazy confidence now. "That look you get when Gambit start speakin' French. When he get all passionné." He drew the word out, making it sound absolutely obscene.

"I'm still mad at you," you insisted, but your voice had lost its edge.

"Mmm." He pushed off the counter, stalking toward you with predatory grace. "You mad? Or you just want Gambit to make it up to you? 'Cause he can do that, cher. He's very good at makin' things up to you."

"The kitchen is still a mess…"

"Gambit's gonna clean it." He was in your space now, hands finding your hips. "Later. Right now, he got somethin' else on his mind."

"Remy…"

"Tu me rends fou, you know that?" His voice dropped lower, lips brushing your ear. "The way you get all fired up, yellin' at Gambit in his own kitchen…"

"Our kitchen," you corrected breathlessly.

"Oui, our kitchen." His hands slid around to your lower back, pulling you flush against him. "Where Gambit's gonna bend you over that counter and make you forget all 'bout bein' mad."

Heat pooled low in your belly. "That's not…you can't just…"

"Can't what, cher?" His lips found your neck, teeth grazing. "Can't make you feel good? Can't make you scream his name? You gonna tell Gambit he can't do that?"

"Je te déteste," you muttered, one of the few phrases you actually knew.

He laughed against your skin. "Non, you don't hate Gambit. You love him even when he make a mess. Even when he smoke in the apartment." His hands slid under your shirt, callused fingers warm on your skin. "Especially when he talk to you like this, ouais?"

"Shut up," you said, but you were already arching into his touch.

"Make me." It was a challenge, issued with that infuriating smirk.

So you kissed him. Hard. All the frustration from the mess and the smoke and the way he could derail your anger with a few French words channeled into the press of your mouth against his.

He groaned, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. When he pulled back, his eyes were fully red now, charged with kinetic energy and want.

"Merde, cher, you gonna kill Gambit." He lifted you effortlessly onto the counter, right into a pile of spilled flour, but neither of you cared. "Can't kiss him like that and expect him to behave."

"Since when do you ever behave?" You pulled him closer, legs wrapping around his waist.

"Fair point." His hands made quick work of your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him slide them off. "But you love that 'bout Gambit too, non?"

"Maybe," you admitted, and gasped when his fingers found you already wet. "Putain, look at you." He circled your clit with devastating precision. "All worked up from arguing with Gambit. From hearin' him speak French. Tu es tellement mouillée pour moi."

You had no idea what he'd just said, but the tone of it made you clench around nothing.

"Please," you breathed, and he groaned.

"S'il te plaît quoi, cher? Use your words." His fingers slipped lower, teasing your entrance.

"Touch me. Fuck me. Something…"

"Impatiente." But he was already working his belt open, shoving his pants down just enough to free himself. "Gambit gonna give you what you need. Always does, yeah?"

He lined himself up and pushed inside in one smooth thrust, and you both gasped at the sensation. He was thick and hard and perfect, stretching you just right.

"Fuck, fuck –" He dropped his forehead to yours, breathing hard. "Tu me sens si bien. So tight, cher. Always so perfect for Gambit."

He started to move, hips snapping against yours, and the angle had him hitting deep. One of his hands braced on the counter beside you, knuckles white with kinetic energy that made the air around you crackle. The other gripped your thigh, holding you open for him.

"Remy, oh god…"

"Ouais, that's it. Say Gambit's name." He adjusted the angle, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. "Want the whole building to know who make you feel this good."

"Someone's – ah – confident," you gasped out.

"Someone's earned it, non?" He punctuated the words with a particularly deep thrust that had you crying out. "Make you come every time. Make you forget your own name. Make you forget why you was even mad."

He wasn't wrong; you could barely remember what the argument had been about, too focused on the drag of his cock inside you, the crackle of energy dancing across your skin wherever he touched.

"Touch yourself," he ordered, voice rough. "Want to feel you come on Gambit's cock."

You obeyed, hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit. The added stimulation made you moan, clenching around him.

"Merde, just like that." His rhythm was getting erratic, control slipping. "Tu es si belle comme ça. So beautiful, takin' Gambit so well. Made for this, made for him –"Remy, I'm…I'm close…"

"Allez, cher. Come for me. Let Gambit feel it." He leaned down, lips against your ear, and dropped into pure French. "Jouis pour moi, mon coeur. Show Gambit how good he make you feel. Viens sur ma queue –"

The combination of his cock hitting that perfect spot, your fingers on your clit, and that rough Cajun-accented French in your ear pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry, clenching around him, and felt him follow moments later with a string of French profanity that would probably be obscene if you understood it.

He stayed buried inside you, both of you breathing hard, the kitchen still a disaster around you. After a moment, he huffed a laugh.

"What?" you asked, still dazed.

"There's flour everywhere now." He gestured at the counter, at your flour-dusted shirt, his pants. "And gumbo's probably burnt."

You looked at the stove where the pot was indeed starting to smoke. "Shit."

He pulled out, reaching over to turn off the burner with lazy efficiency. "It's fine. Gambit make more. After he clean up the kitchen."

"And open a window?"

"Oui, and open a window." He helped you down from the counter, steadying you when your legs proved unreliable. "Gambit's sorry 'bout the smoke earlier, cher. And the mess. He just get excited when he cookin', yeah?"

"I know." You leaned into him, suddenly exhausted and satisfied. "I'm sorry for yelling."

"Non, don't be sorry." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Gambit like when you yell at him. Get you all riled up. Make the makin' up more fun."

"You're impossible."

"Tu m'aimes comme ça." You love me. That one you knew.

"Yeah," you admitted. "I really do."

He grinned, bright and genuine. "Come on, cher. Help Gambit clean up, then he make you a sandwich while he start the gumbo over."

"I thought I wasn't allowed to help cook?"

"You’re not. But you can hand Gambit things, and look pretty. You good at both those things."

You swatted his arm, but couldn't help smiling. "Je te déteste."

"Non, you don't." He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips. "You love Gambit. Say it proper."

"Je t'aime," you murmured, and watched his expression soften.

"There it is." He pulled you close, swaying slightly like you were dancing to music only he could hear. "Gambit love you too, cher. Even when you complainin' 'bout his cookin' mess."

"And I love you. Even when you make that mess. And smoke in the apartment. And seduce me in the kitchen instead of cleaning up."

"To be fair, the seducin' was mutual."

"Was not."

"Cher, you kissed Gambit first."

"After you started with the French!"

"So Gambit's French made you do it?" His grin was insufferable. "Good to know."

You groaned, but you were smiling. "Just clean the kitchen, LeBeau."

"Oui, mon coeur." He pressed another kiss to your forehead. "But first, Gambit gonna make you that sandwich. Can't have you wastin' away while he clean."

As he moved around the kitchen, already chattering about what he'd do differently with the gumbo this time, you couldn't help but think that the mess was worth it. The smoke was worth it. All of it was worth it, for this, for him, for the life you were building together, one disaster at a time.

Even if that disaster did include paprika on the ceiling.

Chapter Text

Cloud Ruler Temple’s wrought iron and oak doors had never felt heavier. You shouldered through them; your pack felt like the entire weight of Cyrodiil was on your back, and you nearly collided with Martin as soon as you entered the main hall. 

"You're late." His voice was controlled, but his hands shook slightly as they reached for you, hovering like he wasn't sure he had permission to touch. "Three days late. I thought…"

"I'm fine, Martin." Your voice came out rougher than intended, exhaustion pulling at every syllable. "I have the Welkynd Stone right here." The relief that flooded his expression made your chest ache. Then, his jaw set in that particular way that meant he was about to be stubborn about taking care of you.

"Bath. Now." He was already steering you toward his chambers. They were your chambers, really, given how many nights you'd spent there lately. "I've kept the water hot."

You wanted to protest, but the thought of hot water made your muscles weep with gratitude. Martin's hands were gentle but insistent as he helped you out of your travel-stained armor, his fingers carefully working buckles and ties. There was something almost ritualistic about it, the way he focused on each piece, and you didn't miss how his breath hitched when he peeled away the last layer, leaving you bare before him.

"Beautiful," he murmured, almost unconsciously, then caught himself. Color flooded his cheeks. "The bath. Yes."

The water was perfect: just shy of scalding with herbs floating on the surface that made the room smell like peace itself. You sank into it with a groan that would have been embarrassing if you'd had the energy to care.

"May I?" Martin asked quietly, already rolling up his sleeves. You nodded, too tired to question it. His hands found your shoulders, working at knots of tension with surprising skill. 

Not surprising, you corrected yourself: Martin had been a great deal of things before he chose Akatosh. "You worried me," he murmured, thumbs working up the back of your neck in a way that made you bite back a moan. "I tried to pray, but every prayer became your name."

Your breath hitched. His hands stilled for just a moment before continuing their ministrations, sliding lower, working down your spine.

"I should…" he started, but you caught his wrist.

"Stay."

The word hung between you. Martin's throat worked as he swallowed, and you watched his pupils dilate, his breathing quicken. Then, slowly, he began unlacing his shirt. The water rose as he slid in behind you, still wearing his underclothes, but bare from the waist up. His arms came around you, pulling you back against his chest, and you could feel his heart hammering against your spine. His lips found your temple, your cheek, the curve of your neck. Each kiss was respectful, but with an edge of hunger that made your core clench.

"Let me," he breathed against your skin, and his hands began to move.

They were scholars' hands, you'd always thought, but now they mapped your body like he was memorizing scripture, sliding soap over your shoulders, your arms, down to your fingertips. Each touch lingered just long enough to make you aware of everywhere you were tired, everywhere you were sore, and everywhere you were suddenly, acutely awake.

When his hands slid forward to cup your breasts, you gasped. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, circling, testing, and the sound you made echoed off the stone walls.

"Is this…" His voice was strained. "Tell me if I should stop."

"Don't." You arched into his touch. "Don't stop."

His groan vibrated against your back. His hands grew bolder, one staying at your breast while the other slid down your stomach, between your thighs. Not quite touching where you wanted him, just stroking the sensitive skin there, making you squirm.

"I forget, sometimes," he murmured, lips against your ear, "that you're real. That you keep coming back to me." His fingers dipped lower, brushing through your folds, and you both shuddered. "That I get to touch you like this."

"Martin…" Your hand covered his, pressing him firmer against you.

"I'm not –" He stopped, jaw working, fingers still teasing. "I haven't been a priest my whole life. I wasn't always..."

"I know."

His laugh was strained, breath hot against your neck. "I'm trying to be better. With you. For you. But sometimes I remember," his fingers finally, finally found your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Sometimes I remember exactly how to touch someone. How to make them feel…"

"Worshipped?" you gasped out, and watched his reflection in the rippling water.

"Yes."

You turned in his arms, water sloshing over the edge of the tub, to face him properly. His lips were parted, breathing hard, and when you leaned in to kiss him, he met you with a desperation that stole your breath. This kiss was different from the others you'd shared; his tongue swept into your mouth, and you opened for him with a moan that made him groan in response. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you against him, and you could feel how hard he was even through the wet fabric of his breeches.

You rocked against him, drawing another strangled sound from his throat, but even as you reached for his laces, he was pulling back.

"Not yet," he panted. "You're exhausted. Let me…let me take care of you properly."

Before you could protest, he was standing, water cascading off his body, reaching for you. He wrapped you in linen, dried you with gentle efficiency that still somehow felt sensual, and guided you to the bed.

You expected him to join you, but instead, he stepped back, eyes roaming over your naked form.

"Sleep," he said, voice rough. "I'll be here when you wake."

"Martin…"

"Please." His hands were fists at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself. "Let me do this right."

You were too exhausted to argue. Sleep pulled at you, and the last thing you saw was Martin settling into the chair beside the bed, watching over you.

You woke to morning light streaming through the windows and the smell of tea. Martin sat on the edge of the bed, a tray balanced on his lap, watching you with an expression that made heat pool between your thighs.

"Good morning," he said softly, offering you a cup. "I thought you might be hungry."

The tea was perfect, the bread was still warm, and Martin's questions about your journey were gentle, more concerned with whether you'd been hurt than with the artifact you'd retrieved.

"I'm fine," you insisted, setting the cup aside. "Better than fine, now."

"Good." His hand found your knee through the blanket, thumb stroking in a way that seemed absent but made your nerves sing. "I'm grateful you're back. Grateful you succeeded. But mostly…" His voice dropped, hand sliding higher. "Mostly I'm just grateful you're here."

The touch was innocent enough, but the way he was looking at you wasn't. Neither was the way your body was responding, suddenly very aware that you were naked under these blankets and that Martin's hand was very warm, very close to where you wanted it.

"Martin," you breathed, and his eyes darkened with that same hunger from last night.

"Tell me to stop," he said quietly, but his hand kept moving, sliding higher, pushing the blanket down. "Tell me you're too tired, and I'll leave you to rest."

"Don't stop." You kicked the blanket away entirely, baring yourself to him. "Please don't stop."

The sound he made was almost pained. The tray disappeared, set aside with shaking hands, and then he was kneeling beside the bed, hands on your thighs, looking up at you with something like worship in his eyes.

"I want…" He stopped, swallowed hard. "Let me worship you. Properly. The way I've been wanting to since the first time you kissed me. The way I know how."

"Yes," you breathed, and watched that careful mask finally slip away entirely.

His hands started at your ankles, thumbs pressing into arches, working up your calves with firm pressure. By the time he reached your thighs, you were breathing hard, and when he pressed them apart, spreading you open for his gaze, you felt exposed in the best way.

"Look at you," he murmured, his thumbs stroking up your inner thighs, so close but not close enough. "Do you know how many times I've imagined this? How many prayers I've ruined thinking about tasting you?"

"Then taste me," you demanded, and his answering groan was practically feral.

He didn't waste time. His mouth found your center with unerring accuracy, tongue dragging through your folds in one long, devastating lick. You cried out, hips jerking, and his hands gripped your thighs to hold you in place.

"Stay still," he murmured against you. "Let me worship you properly."

And then he devoured you.

There was no other word for it; his tongue circled your clit, flicked over it, sucked it between his lips until you were gasping. When he slid two fingers inside you, crooking them to find that spot that made you see stars, you nearly came apart right then.

"Not yet," he said, pulling back just enough to watch you clench around his fingers. "I want to savor this. Savor you."

He built you up slowly, methodically, like he was conducting research. Every gasp, every moan, every twitch of your hips, he catalogued it all, learned what made you writhe. And when he added a third finger, stretching you, filling you, his mouth sealing over your clit with perfect suction, you broke. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, making you arch off the bed with a cry. Martin worked you through it, fingers still moving, tongue still lapping at you until you were oversensitive and trembling.

But he didn't stop.

"One more," he murmured, kissing your inner thigh. "Give me one more."

"I can't…"

"You can." His fingers curved inside you, finding that spot again, and his voice dropped to something dark and commanding. "You will. Come for me again."

His mouth returned to your clit, and the combination of his skilled fingers and relentless tongue pushed you over the edge again, this orgasm somehow even more intense than the first. You came with his name on your lips, thighs shaking around his head.

This time, when you tugged at his hair, he came willingly, crawling up your body to kiss you deep and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You could feel him hard against your thigh, still fully clothed, and when you reached down to finally, finally unlace his breeches, he caught your wrist.

"This was for you," he said, voice wrecked. "Just you."

"Martin, you're…" You rocked your hips against him, making him hiss. "You're hard. Let me –"No." He pinned your wrists above your head, gentle but firm. "Let me have this. Let me worship you properly. There will be time for the rest later, I promise. But right now," he released one of your wrists to cup your face. "Right now, I need to make you feel how grateful I am. How precious you are to me."

He kissed down your body, stopping to lavish attention on your breasts; sucking your nipples until they were hard and sensitive, leaving marks on the soft flesh that would bloom purple by mid-afternoon. You threaded your fingers through his hair, not sure if you were pulling him closer or trying to push him away from the overwhelming sensation.

He worked lower, kissing down your stomach, your hips, the crease of your thigh. And then his mouth was on you again, tongue delving inside you, fucking you with it while his thumb found your oversensitive clit.

"Martin, I can't…too much –"

"Shh." He gentled his touch but didn't quite stop. "One more. Give me one more and I'll let you rest."

You didn't think you could, but he proved you wrong. With his tongue inside you and his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, he built you up again. Slower this time, gentler, but no less devastating.

When you came the third time, it was with tears streaming down your face from the intensity of it, your whole body trembling. Martin gentled you through it, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your hips, working his way back up to capture your mouth in a tender kiss.

"By the Nine," he whispered against your lips. "You're so beautiful when you fall apart for me."

You pulled him down beside you, suddenly needing him close. He went willingly, gathering you against his chest, still hard against your hip but seemingly content to ignore it.

"Next time," you murmured, already feeling sleep pulling at you again, "next time I worship you."

His laugh was soft. "I look forward to it."