Bride of Depravity

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up on the bed, green silks pooling about your waist. “Martyn is near two and Lyonel is four. Our boys do not require my constant care, husband. They do not cry for me in the night, do not need me to hold them every second as they once did,” you said quietly, watching as Ormund continued to write on his parchment. He seemed to ignore your soft words, but you continued. “Yet the child down the hall is the one who wails through the night, who cannot seem to find comfort. His nursemaids tend to him, yes, but he needs more than mere servants.”

You shifted the blankets off of you, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Your toes met the cold stone floor first, and you straightened out the soft linen of your nightgown before slipping out of bed entirely. Ormund still ignored you, but you padded across the bedchamber to reach his desk. “Ormund,” his name was called sweetly, your hand reaching to curl around his shoulder. The fabric of his tunic was soft, the scent of lavender clinging faintly to his skin. Another wail was carried down the hall. “Do his cries not tug upon your heartstrings as they do mine?”

Ormund sighed through his nose, setting down his quill again. “You will find I lack the… delicate and emotional sensibilities of a woman, wife.”

You frowned at his words, and the way he continued to brush you off, but his hand found yours on his shoulder, warm and soft for a man like him. “You are a sweet woman,” Ormund said, lifting his head from his work to meet your gaze. “But sweetness can be a weakness. Daeron is only my ward, nothing more. He was not sent to Oldtown so that you may coddle him.”

“I won't coddle him.”

“You will.”

“Ormund-” your breath caught as Daeron continued to cry from his nursery. “If the nursemaids tend to his needs as they say you do, then they must be terrible. He has wept through every night since he arrived here off the ship. He's probably confused. And lonely. Would it be so treacherous of me to simply hold him, to see if I may bring him some semblance of comfort that a mother might bring?”

Ormund stiffened at that word. Mother. “You are not his mother.”

“I did not say that I was. I mean only to soothe him like one might.”

Ormund's jaw clenched visibly, his fingers curling tighter around your own. The thought of you consoling Daeron — though an infant he might be — was unsettling. The thought of his wife, soft and horribly naive, cradling a babe born of such tainted blood was sickening. But you were stubborn and clearly set on seeing to the infant yourself despite his efforts to distance you from him. He exhaled a slow breath, and conceded.

“Tomorrow you may go to him.”

The nursery was shrouded in soft sunlight that filtered in through the window. It was quiet save for the quiet murmurs of Lyonel and Martyn as the two brothers played with toy knights and wooden horses, a siege set out across the fur rug. It was peaceful, as your days often were when they were occupied by your sons, and the small weight swaddled in Hightower green in your arms felt like a great relief.

Since you first went to Daeron that morning, he had cried very little; only whimpering when he needed to be nursed or changed. He, too, found a quiet peace now — for the first time since arriving from King's Landing. He was small, almost pitiful, sent away at such a young age, but the babe seemed to find solace in your arms.

“You're quite sleepy now, hm, little dragon?” You hummed, gently rocking Daeron as he lay in your arms. Your fingers gently traced his rounded cheeks and button nose, gliding across his features still softened with baby-fat. He blinked slowly, wide eyes looking up at you. His hair lay in dark wisps against his head. His small lips were still parted, his skin smelling milk-sweet from his last feeding.

“You're coddling him.”

You had not noticed the door open, but Ormund stood frowning in the doorway. He glanced only briefly at Lyonel and Martyn, who seemed too preoccupied to care about their father's appearance, before his gaze settled on Daeron. The displeasure on his features was clear. The man had never been fond of Targaryens.

“I am not coddling him, I am holding him. And mayhaps coddling would not be such a bad thing. Children are meant to be spoiled.” A beat passed, filled with thought, and a soft smile graced your lips. "He looks like Alicent, doesn't he?"

Ormund stepped through the threshhold, coming to a stop by your side as you stood at the window. He leaned down to quickly kiss your temple. He did not comment on the looks of the babe. “You should not waste so much time on him or people will begin to believe you favor him over your own children.”

“I favor no one, Ormund. You speak as though my love is a finite thing,” you said softly, finally tearing your gaze away from Daeron once his eyes fluttered closed. You met Ormund's gaze, leaning subtly into his touch where he had kissed you. “It isn't. My love does not need to be split and shared, it is ever growing and changing. I have more than enough love in my heart for our boys and Daeron.”

Ormund's expression darkened slightly. He did not like the way you so freely spoke about the love you had for the boy who wasn't yours — such a thought was nearly unfathomable — but you had always been an emotional woman. Perhaps the gods had been too generous when bestowing such motherly instincts upon you. It was almost cruel how soft and ethereal you looked in the noon light, draped in fine silks with a child in your arms. But that child was not yours, and that made his stomach churn. “You are not his mother,” he said slowly, lifting a hand to cradle your cheek, “and you should do well to remember that. I have done you a great generosity by allowing you to get so close to him, but you shan't forget who you are to him.”

“I know.”

Despite what you may have said, and the acceptance you gave solely to appease your husband, it grew easy to forget that you were not Daeron's mother. He may not have grown within your womb, but blood did not define the bond between a mother and her child. The days turned into months, into weeks, into years. As Ormund's cruelty grew stronger, your love grew fiercer.

In the ways that mattered, Daeron was your son.

this is just a prelude to the longer daeron fic i'm working on (and will complete after the finale tonight). 1.2k+ words

c = cum

he comes with a broken little laugh and a full-body shudder, spilling deep while he mutters filth against your mouth. “take it… fuck, take. every. drop, my lady.” it pulses out of him in thick, drunken waves. he stays buried, hips twitching, until it starts to leak out around his cock, then he watches with half-lidded eyes and a crooked smile. or sometimes if he’s really drunk he’ll pull out to watch himself paint your skin and then chuckle about it while rubbing it in messily. “My beautiful girl..”

d = dirty secret

sometimes the dreams show him things about you. filthy things. you on your knees for him. him on his knees for you. him fucking you in the middle of a crowded hall while the court pretends not to see. he wakes up hard and aching and drinks until the images blur, but the want never quite leaves. he knows the dreams aren’t premonitions and not to be taken literal but sometimes gods above he wishes they were.

e = experience

he’s had whores and willing ladies before you, always wine-loose and a little careless. with you it’s different. he learns the exact pressure of your clit under his thumb, the angle that makes your thighs shake, the words that make you drip. he still gets flushed when you tell him what you want, but he listens. drunk or not, he listens.

f = favorite position

you riding him he loves looking up at his wife while you take what you want from him, hands lazy on your hips, letting you set the pace. but his all time favorite is just lazily spooning you sinking in deep, holding your thigh up as he slowly thrusts into you kissing your shoulder and neck murmuring into your ear how perfect you are.

g = goofy

always. even in the middle of it. he’ll huff a laugh when he nearly slips out because he’s too drunk to aim properly, then mutter “seven hells, i’m a disgrace” before thrusting back in with a groan. the humour is self-deprecating and soft and only ever for you. or when you have him on his knees eating you out like your cunt is his oxygen supply “if only my father could see me now…my wife you forget i’m a prince of the realm..” he’d joke as he looked up at you chin and lips glistening.

h = hair

dirty blond, usually a mess from his own fingers or yours. he keeps a bit of stubble that scrapes nicely between your thighs. he keeps a little trail from his belly button down to his cock, his hair down there is never clean shaven but he keeps it maintained but you do usually have to remind him.

i = intimacy

messy and honest. he holds eye contact even when he’s half-cut, blue eyes glassy and open. when it’s good he starts whispering your name like a prayer mixed with filth. “my wife… look at you taking me so well.” he kisses like a man who’s been drowning and just found air.

j = jack off

often. alone with a cup of wine he strokes himself slow and loose, thinking of your cunt, your mouth, the way you sound when you come on his cock. sometimes the dreams bleed in and he finishes with a bitten-off curse, spilling over his fist and wiping it on the sheets like the prince he is.

k = kink

being used by his wife. he gets hard and a little desperate when you push him onto his back, climb over him, and take what you want. the drink makes him pliant, but the want is real. he’ll look up at you with that crooked, self-aware smile and murmur “whatever my lady commands” and mean every word. he also likes the soft control of holding you down just enough to keep you where he wants you while he fucks you slow and deep.

l = location

wherever the wine is close and the door can be barred. your shared chambers at summerhall. a quiet inn room on the road. once against the wall of a wine cellar, your skirts shoved up, his mouth hot on your neck while he muttered about how the dreams never showed him anything half as good as this.

m = motivation

the way you look at him like he’s more than the drunken disappointment everyone else sees. the soft sound you make when he first pushes in. knowing that for a little while the dreams stay quiet and the only thing that matters is the wet heat of his wife around him.

n = no

anything that feels like real cruelty. he won’t hurt you, won’t share you, won’t leave you wanting. the second you tense the wrong way he stills completely, even if he’s balls-deep and shaking. “i’ve got you,” he says, voice suddenly clearer. “just speak to me...”

o = oral

he eats you like a man who’s been starving broad tongue dragging through your folds, wine-stained mouth messy and thorough. he likes when you thread your fingers through his hair and guide him. when you return the favour he has to grip the headboard and fight the urge to thrust. he always warns you, voice rough: “i’m close… gods, i’m—”

p = pace

starts slow and deep because the wine makes him careful. once you’re wet and rocking back on him he can turn firmer, still a little clumsy, still listening. he never forgets you’re his. he can switch between soft and insistent without warning, keeping you right on the edge until you beg.

q = quickie

he’ll take it if the chance is there skirts up, your back to the wall, one hand bracing beside your head while he sinks in with a quiet groan. he keeps it deep and controlled, mouth against your ear: “quick and quiet, my lady… i need you.” after he always looks a little guilty and offers you the wineskin first.

r = risk

the chance of being caught makes his cock twitch, but he’s careful with your name. a locked door and the possibility of servants hearing is as far as he’ll go. even then he keeps one ear open and one hand ready to cover your mouth if you get too loud. but sometimes he is just to drunk to care and gets drunkly reckless..

s = stamina

the wine steals some of it, but he can still last longer than he should once he’s inside you. after he comes the first time he’s usually soft for a while, but if you keep touching him and talking to him he’ll harden again, slower and sweeter the second round.

t = toys

none of his own anymore, he used to have phallic shaped ivory dildos to please who..? most likely himself though he won’t admit it soberly. if you press something into his hand he’ll use it on you with fascinated, half-drunk focus, watching your face the whole time. then he’ll toss it aside and replace it with his mouth or his cock the second you start to shake. “tell me how you want it,” he murmurs. “i’ll do it right.”

u = unfair

soft teasing. he’ll pull almost all the way out and make you chase the next inch, smiling that crooked smile when you huff at him. he only does it because he knows you like it.

v = volume

low, rough sound quiet grunts, harsh breaths, the occasional broken “fuck” when you clench around him. when he comes hard he groans your name into your neck, deep and shaken. he tries to stay quiet for your sake, but the wine loosens his tongue and the soft, filthy noises slip out anyway into soft groans and even whimpers.

w = wild card

his dragon dreams. more than he’d like to admit he’s woken from a dream when they finally slip through the drunken haze and startle him enough to desperately need you. he’d curl into your back and kiss your shoulder and neck mumbling about how he needs you. he’d slip into you from behind as you slept waking you up slowly “mh sorry wife…the dreams were so- surreal fuck-” he’d mumbled against your neck and then tell you about the horrors of what he’d seen as he slowly thrusts into you. needing to feel you around him to know this was real.

x = x-ray

cock average but thick enough that the first push always makes you catch your breath. when he’s hard and flushed and looking at you like you’re the only sober thing in his world, the sight alone makes you wet.

y = yearning

constant once it’s woken. he drinks to quiet the dreams, but he never drinks enough to quiet the want for you. he thinks about your cunt, your mouth, the way you sound when you come on him, the way you look at him like he’s worth something. the next time he’s alone with you he’s already half-hard before the door is even shut.

z = zzz

he falls asleep still half-inside you more often than not, arm heavy over your waist, face pressed to the back of your neck, breath slowing into the deep, wine-heavy sleep of a man who has finally found something soft to hold. sometimes the dreams wake him again before dawn and the whole cycle begins once more kisses along your spine, slow thrusts, quiet broken words until you are both spent and soft and tangled together in the dark. he does not let go even then.

⤷ ゛taglist ˎˊ˗

The doorbell rang.

You glanced toward the hallway. From where you stood you could see the edge of the entryway, the console table, the bowl for keys, the warm light of the sidelights pooling on the hardwood. The bell rang again, two short bursts, impatient.

"I'm coming," you called, already moving, bare feet quiet on the hardwood floor. You passed through the living room, past the hallway table with its fresh-cut peonies leaning heavy in their vase, and reached the door pulling it open.

Before you could say a word, before you could get out "be patient," a small body collided with your legs. Tiny arms wound around your knees. A face pressed into your thigh, white-gold hair slightly damp, smelling of chlorine and sunscreen and something warm underneath that was distinctly him.

"Mommy!"

Your hand came down to the back of his head automatically, fingers threading through the fine, silky hair, so much like his father's. "Hi, baby! Are you excited to see me?"

"I missed you." His voice was muffled against your shorts.

"I missed you too." You crouched down, knees on the hardwood, and pulled him into a proper hug. His little arms tightened around your neck as you held him close, your chin on the top of his head. He was bouncing slightly even while you held him, vibrating with the kind of energy that only children had. You pulled back, hands on his shoulders, and looked at him at eye level. "Did you have fun at daddy's house?"

He squealed, a high, piercing, delighted sound. "Yeah! Daddy let me swim every day!"

"Every day?" You raised your eyebrows, making your face wide with mock astonishment. "I bet you swam soooo fast."

"Mommy, I'm faster than a shark. Daddy says so."

You heard the chuckle before you looked up. A low sound, warm in the throat, familiar in a way that still affected you. You raised your gaze.

Aerion leaned against the doorframe, one shoulder pressed to the dark trim, the light above him throwing amber light across the line of his jaw. He was in all navy, a color he knew looked fantastic on him. He held Maegor's weekender bag in one hand, hanging from his fingers like it weighed nothing, the leather strap swinging slightly. His violet eyes moved over your face, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

Maegor turned to look at his father. "Daddy, tell mommy I'm faster than a shark."

Aerion moved forward and bent to scoop Maegor up in one fluid motion. The boy went to his shoulder like he belonged there, like there was a groove carved specifically for him. Aerion pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"That's right. You're the fastest swimmer I've ever seen."

Maegor beamed. You looked at him and then at Aerion. "You must be exhausted. Say thank you and goodbye to daddy."

The smile dropped. Maegor's lower lip came out, and he laid his head against Aerion's shoulder.

"I don't want to."

You watched the way Aerion's hand came up to cup the back of the boy's head, fingers spreading across that small skull.

Maegor turned his face toward his father. "Daddy, why don't you live here again? Then I could see you every day."

Aerion pressed another kiss to his son's temple. His eyes did not leave the boy's face. "I'll see you next weekend. We'll do whatever you want, okay?"

Maegor's head lifted. "Promise?"

Aerion nodded. "I promise."

He looked at you. Violet eyes, cloudy and unreadable. The guilt was already there, sitting heavy in your throat.

Aerion set Maegor down. The boy's sneakers hit the hardwood with a rubbery squeak. He handed him the bag. "Can you carry that on your own?"

Maegor nodded, gripping the strap with both hands, the bag nearly as big as him. He looked up at his father. "Bye Daddy. Love you."

Aerion crouched, one knee on the floor. "Love you more."

You watched him rise. You reached out and ran your hand through Maegor's hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Put your stuff away and then go wash your hands for dinner. I made lasagna."

His whole body jerked with excitement. "Lasagna!"

He spun and took off down the hall, sneakers pounding on the hardwood, the bag dragging behind him with every step. You watched him go. "What did I say about running?"

"Sorry, mommy!"

He was not sorry. You could hear him still running, the sound of his feet moving through the hall and up the stairs.

You turned back to Aerion.

He was already looking at you. His gaze started at your face and moved downward slowly. The black tank top, thin cotton, fitted enough to show the line of your waist. The white shorts, hemmed high on your thigh. Your hair was down and your makeup was done. You felt exposed.

"Thank you for dropping him off." You crossed your arms, then uncrossed them, not knowing what to do with your hands.

"That's my job." He stepped forward.

"Right." You tucked a lock behind your ear. "Well, still. Thank you. Was everything okay? Is there anything—"

"You look good, baby."

"Aerion."

He stepped forward again. You took a step back. He was fully in your doorway now, his shoulders filling the frame. "What?" Another step. "I can't tell you you look good anymore?"

He gave you a smile. The lopsided one, the left corner of his mouth lifting higher than the right, the one that had gotten you into this mess, into the marriage, into the divorce, into the bed over and over again.

"We're not doing this anymore."

He tilted his head. The violet eyes held yours. "Alright." A pause. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

He nodded, but something behind his eyes sharpened. He shifted his weight. "Can I stay for dinner?"

"Aerion."

"What?" The word came out innocent. He was not innocent. "There's no food at my house."

You stared at him. "That is concerning to me, considering you just had our child for three days."

"It would make him so happy." His voice dropped. "Dinner with daddy."

You opened your mouth to say no, but at that exact moment you heard the pitter-patter of small feet. Fast. Coming down the stairs. Maegor rounded the corner, hands washed, shirt changed, hair somehow even more disheveled than before.

"Oh, daddy, you're still here!"

Aerion looked at you. His hand came to your hip, warm, heavy, as he moved you gently and stepped past. His hand stayed on your hip for one beat longer than it needed to.

"I'm staying for dinner." He turned his head and looked down at you. Daring you to say otherwise, to be the one to disappoint your son.

Your lips pressed together, eyes narrowed. You pushed the door shut.

Maegor grabbed his father's hand and tugged him toward the dining room. "Come on, daddy, mommy made lasagna, it's my favorite—"

His voice, speaking a mile a minute, echoed down the hall. You watched them go.

"It's just dinner," you muttered to yourself.

Three hours later, you were underneath him.

His cock was buried to the root. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the way your swollen walls clung to him and then released.

"I fucking love this pussy." The words came out against your mouth, his voice wrecked. He kissed you. His tongue pushed past your lips, messy and wet, and you kissed him back. Your walls clenched around him and his hips stuttered.

"Fuck," he breathed.

You did not know what you were asking for. The words came out before you could shape them. "More! Please, Aerion, oh god!"

He pulled back enough to look at you. "More?" A breath of laughter. "You can't get enough of my cock, can you?"

He fucked into you faster. Your hips tilted to take him deeper as you tried to match his thrusts. You cried out, the sound high and uncontrolled. Your nails dug into the muscle of his back, fingers curling, leaving crescents in the skin.

His hand came over your mouth.

"You don't want to wake him, do you?" He grunted out between thrusts, his jaw tight. He snapped into you again, harder, and your eyes squeezed shut. "Is this what you want?"

You nodded. Desperately.

"Yeah, baby." His voice dropped. "So fucking good for me."

Your tongue darted out, dragging across the center of his hand. His eyes narrowed. The violet went dark, the pupil swallowing the color, and he pulled his hand back just enough to push two fingers into your mouth. They slid past your lips, pressing down on your tongue. Your cheeks hollowed, and he watched your mouth, the way you sucked him as he drove into you with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

"Dirty slut."

Your eyes went heavy-lidded, the warmth in them darkening. You moaned around his fingers. The sound vibrated through his hand.

"I've got you." The bed frame knocked against the wall. You were right on the edge. Your thighs trembled against his chest. Your walls squeezed him. "Fuck, Aerion! Fuck!" Your voice broke on the words, muffled around his fingers, and you sucked harder, your eyes rolling. "Fuck me like that—"

His thrusts went erratic. No rhythm now, just the desperate chase of his own pleasure, each stroke grinding his pelvis against your swollen clit. The friction was relentless, maddening, and you could feel it building, the tight coiling heat in your lower belly.

Aerion cursed again, said your name, and came deep. His hips slammed forward, burying himself to the root, and his body shuddered. You felt it, the hot pulse of him inside you, flooding you, the wet warmth of it spreading through your core. You followed in spasms that would not stop.

You were still shaking when he kissed you. Your hands came up and tangled in his hair, his weight settled onto you, pressing you into the mattress.

Aerion pulled out slowly, his hands still framing your waist. He rolled onto his back beside you, one arm folding behind his head, his chest rising and falling in long measured breaths.

You lay still for a moment beside him, thinking of how you had once again ended up like this. Then you pressed your palms flat against the mattress and pushed yourself upright, your arms trembling. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet finding the soft rug as you stood. Your thighs ached, your knees barely held as you made your way toward the bathroom.

You stepped into the glass-walled shower and turned the brass lever, flinching as cold water hit your skin before warming. Your hands moved mechanically, rinsing, clearing yourself of him, of the evening, of the thing you had sworn the last time would be the last time. The water ran warm between your thighs, and you pressed your forehead against the glass, breath fogging a small circle on the surface. Steam curled around you as you stepped out.

You dried yourself with a towel, wrung the water from your hair, and pulled an oversized T-shirt from a hook on the back of the door. It fell to mid-thigh, soft and worn thin from washing.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, the lamp on the far side was on, casting a low amber glow across the rumpled bed. Aerion was standing by the nightstand on your side of the bed, boxers and his shirt on. He was holding your phone, the screen's blue-white light washing across his face, catching the sharp line of his jaw and the hard set of his mouth.

You came to stand beside him, close enough to smell the salt and warmth still on his skin. Three texts sat in your notification bar, all from the same name. Looking forward to Thursday. I made reservations for 7:30. Can't wait to see you.

"Excuse me," you said, taking the phone from his hands and moving to sit on the edge of the mattress, pulling one knee up beneath the hem of your shirt.

Aerion turned to face you. His brows drew together, a deep crease forming between them, his eyes went dark. "Who the fuck is that."

You looked up at him. "A friend."

"A friend." He repeated it without inflection.

You stared hard at him and said nothing.

"How long have you been 'friends.'"

You moved away from him, rounding the foot of the bed to the opposite side, putting the wide expanse of tangled sheets and mattress between you. He reached down and pulled his pants from the chair where he had dropped them, stepping into them quickly, tugging the waistband into place.

"That's not any of your business anymore, is it?" Your arms folded across your chest.

He ignored that entirely. "I don't want all these guys here around my kid."

"Oh my god." Your head snapped toward him. "You are so ridiculous. It's one guy. He's never met Maegor."

Aerion did not blink. "Does he fuck you."

Your mouth opened, closed. "Excuse me?"

His gaze did not waver. "Are you fucking him."

"Get out."

"So that's a yes." He reached for his watch on the nightstand and buckled it around his wrist with a sharp click.

"I don't ask you about your girlfriends," you said, your voice rising despite yourself.

"I don't have any." He adjusted the watch face. "Because you are my wife."

You rolled your eyes so hard your head moved with the motion. "I'm your ex-wife."

He crossed to one of the armchairs near the window and sat down, pulling on his socks one at a time, tugging them up over his ankles. "I don't know why. This whole waste of time was your idea."

"Waste of time? Aerion, we're divorced because we're not a good couple."

"And I apologized for my shit." He stood. "What more do you want from me?"

You were momentarily too stunned to speak. Your lips parted, and nothing came.

"What more do I want from you?" You repeated it back to him, not as a question but as a kind of discovery.

Aerion stepped toward you, his hand extending, reaching for your wrist. "That's not—"

"No." You cut him off, pulling back from his reach. "That's exactly what you meant."

A hard laugh broke from your throat, ugly, involuntary, the kind that comes before tears. "You are still the same selfish, controlling, narcissistic man you were while we were together." Your voice cracked on the last word. You swallowed hard. "And I'm the idiot who keeps letting you back into my bed."

He scoffed. The sound was quiet, dismissive, a single exhale through his nose as he looked away. "Were you always so dramatic."

The tears spilled over, tracing a slow line down your cheek, before you wiped it away with the back of your hand. "I'm going to pick up and drop off Maegor at yours from now on. You're not welcome in my house anymore."

"It's actually my house." He said it without hesitation. "I pay for it. I pay for everything."

You nodded once, saying nothing further to him. What was there left to say? You walked to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and stood beside it.

Aerion stood by the bed, looking at you. His mouth opened. "Let's talk about this."

You refused to meet his gaze, your eyes fixed on a point on the wall.

He crossed the room and reached for you again, his hand settling on your hip, fingers curving over the thin cotton of the oversized shirt. "I love you," he said. His voice carrying something desperate, the thing he only showed when he was afraid you would actually close a door and mean it.

Your lips pressed together, trembling at the corners. Your eyes filled again, and you blinked, and a single tear caught the lamplight as it fell.

"Get home safe," you whispered.

His hand lingered, then fell to his side. He stood there a moment longer, the hallway light catching the edge of his jaw, and then he turned and walked past you through the door. His footsteps were quiet. They slowed as he passed Maegor's room. You heard him stop, push the door open a crack, long enough to see the small shape under the blanket, the stuffed shark clutched to his chest. Then the footsteps resumed, continuing down the stairs.

You stood in the doorway of your bedroom, one hand still gripping the handle of the open door, and listened to the silence that followed. The house settled around you. You closed the bedroom door, leaned your back against it, and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your knees drawn up beneath the hem of the oversized shirt.

“jay,” you’ll sigh, clawing at his forearms enough to leave a soft pink lines. “just put it in.”

a chuckle slips as he kisses your cheek. “i don’t get a please tonight ma?”

the tears in your eyes sting and roll down your cheek. you let out a frustrated groan and buck into him when he tsks. he bites his lip while he watches your face, a bead of sweat wicking down his forehead when he shakes his head.

“i wanna enjoy you.” tickling breath by your ear. “we don’t have to rush.”

though you’re practically crying and bucking up into him. “if you don’t fuck me, i’m going to fuck you jason.”

that seems to make him laugh, stopping movements and letting his tip catch at your entrance. when your breath catches, he grins down at you and holds your hip tight.

“as tempting as that sounds, i wanna do this for you.”

the feeling of his heavy length inching inside, it’s enough to ruin. overwhelming in the best way possible, you never truly get used to the way he fits and the way he understands your body than you do. his hands snake around your waist, moving up and squeezing the underside of your chest. manhandling in its gentlest form as he guides you closer to him and pushes deeper inside. your mouth falls open, but jason uses that too.

thick fingers are pushed past your lips. just as you moan around them, jason takes your hands from clawing at his back and pulls your fingers apart, putting them in his own mouth. he answers your moan with a groan of his own, his eyes unrelenting on yours as he bottoms out and chuckles. the vibrations of his voice hitting your supple fingertips as he tongues at your skin. the salty taste making the moment more intimate as you realize he tastes the same.

thrusting in a devastating pace, your eyes begin to roll. the look of him, your fingers in his mouth as his touched you all the same, it was everything all at once. he touched so deeply, everywhere.

“you can take it ma,” panting lowly as he moves.

reaching the places you could never touch, kissing your cervix in the way that drowns you because that’s always his goal—to ruin you.

the warmth of his chest on yours was searing in a way that felt like a hot shower, pulling you into the heat. the scent of his skin began to overwhelm and he pulls his fingers out of your mouth and kisses the tips of yours before your lips.

jason loves to see you like this, heaving as you desperately try to hold on for him for god knows why. he lifts your leg further on his hip, hitching it around before ultimately hiking your thigh up higher. and higher. stopping when you gape at him and the backs of your thighs are pressed against his chest. there’s a shakiness in his voice that you recognized as him holding back.

“feel good baby?” he coos in a barely restrained voice.

you nod vigorously, tangling your fingers in his lock and pulling him into a harsh kiss. teeth clashing as he soothes it with his pretty tongue, pulling back to suck on the muscle between your lips. you moan in surprise when he turns it sharp with the shift of his hips, hitting impossibly deeper at this angle now. the peak builds like a dam on the verge of flooding. jason sees it.

movements speeding up as he watches your face contort, the dark hair by his neck clings to his skin. he sighs your name as he kisses your knuckles, still so much reverence in his care.

“that’s it,” he pants. “give me everything ma.”

a whine escapes you at his action, wanting to hide from him as he holds you there. “please jay.”

“that’s not far,” a chuckle touches your ears delicately, making your eyes widen at him. “you can’t hide this part from me. it’s my favourite.”

a frustrated moan slips, “you’re being mean.”

“this is mean?” exclaiming without faltering his movements, sloppily kissing you while he sounded like he were struggling to breathe deeply. “i’m making you cum and it’s mean?”

despite how close you were, you laugh too. breath quickly hitching as he continues moving in and out of you, thrusts sloppy as he bites his plump bottom lip as trying to keep ahold of himself. when you whine his name again, he makes a breathless sound you’d wished you could replay.

though you could feel how close he was now too. how his breath faltered and his pace was sloppy beyond compare. lifting your hips to no avail as he holds you down with his weight, that’s when you can tell his resolve crumbles. he drops a had between you and makes desperate circles, letting his voice tickle your eardrum as he rasps. you cry out as he guides your head to the crook of his neck and coos.

“be a good girl, yeah? let me feel it.”

it’s embarassing how fast he got you there with just a little extra simulation and his voice. you gasp his name as you let go, clamping around him so tightly while you shake in his grips. jason’s not far behind, whispering profanities as he sighs your name back to you. driving himself impossibly deeper as he lifts his weight only to drop it back down into you. his fingers never stop against you as he does it, groaning out before you feel how he struggles.

“please,” demeanour shifting as he continues to move. “can i please ma?”

you already know what he’s asking. you’ve given him permission time and time again but still he asks. effortlessly gentleman like as he considers you before himself, you feel your limp fingers reach for his cheek. caressing as you nod.

eyes still on yours as he melts into you, leaving open mouthed kisses on your neck as he groans. you feel him drive himself a few more times before he buries to the hilt. pulse after pulse, hot against your walls, while he continues to grind into you overstimulating both of you as he does it. it’s not until tears go down your face that he looks to you and he stills, kissing you tight as he quivers into your mouth.

that’s when you notice it. it’s when you see the warm streak on his face and you pull away.

“baby are you crying?” you ask him before he can ask you.

“you are too,” he sniffles, wiping the tear from your cheek while he lets your other legs rest on his hip.

a soft chuckle slips from your lips as you take a deep breath. “yeah, for a different reason. besides, i asked you first.”

“i said it second.”

then you give him a stern look. it crumbles just as fast as it forms when you see his perfect face, sweaty and warm as evidence of your encounter.

“okay,” he says finally, “i just realized how much i love you. that’s all.”

you blink at him, the plush on his stomach still pressing on yours as he holds one arm now by your head, holding himself over you. his other hand still caressing your cheek. you give him a small, weak smile, though it didn’t lack in genuineness.

“you only just realizing that? should i be concerned?” you joked.

though jason’s expression remains serious. “no ma, i mean… i really love you.” looking from eye to eye. “more than life itself and i’m so grateful for you.”

before you knew it, your lip shook and brows furrowed as you said his name. infatuation in your tone as you spoke the truth into the air. “i love you too.”

he shakes his head. “i know that. and ive known i loved you for years now. it’s just, god, it’s overwhelming how much i feel for you.” he admits.

you gulp. the feelings he had were always heartfelt and deeply thoughtful. when jason said it, you knew he weighed it heavy on his heart before he voiced it to you. even though he told you every little thought he had, he spoke about it like it was holy. like religion and you prayer he recalled.

“you’re everything to me too jay,” you sigh. “i’m not sure i’d survive this place without you.”

a moment passes before he nudges his nose to yours, nuzzling closer as you feel his breath on your face. “i’d follow you anywhere.”

you kiss him then, pulling him tighter against you despite how close you already were. letting your tongue tangle with his as you remained connected, though only now it felt like both body and soul.

there was never a way to express it before but jason made it better. he found a way to let it out that you’d accepted now, even as words failed to find you here. only actions could accurately convey it for you now in comparison to his meticulously chosen words. jason kisses you back just as needy, pressing his lips to your jaw as you hummed in response. he kisses you like he’s fucking starving, practically devouring your mouth while you’re happily helpless to it.

the words i love you, seared into your skin as he continually says it. gentle lips on your skin as you tilt your head into the soft pillow.

“thus with another kiss,” he sighs as he presses his lips to yours again. “i seal your existence to mine.”

“that’s definitely not what he says.” giggling as he continued to pepper you with kisses meant to tickle you with the brush of his stubble. neither of you caring enough to retort.

the only thought of him on your mind as he holds you in his big strong arms. your legs aching around his waist but you hardly cared. in his arms you felt whole and he admitted that in yours he felt human.

Ormund’s cloying perfumes made your stomach turn these days and the entire household reeked of his potpourri. You kept the windows and doors thrown open all day and night. But your husband’s neck was the one thing in the world that did not make you want to retch.

So you scented him constantly. And took advantage of him as you pleased, ravishing his pretty, pale skin. Your poor husband patiently endured his fate, condemned to spend his days feasted upon, the long column of his neck bitten red and purple for the whole of court to see.

“My dragon love is attempting to eat me again,” he murmured, voice low and amused even as he tilted his head to grant you better access. “I have a meeting with the High Septon in the morning, you greedy, greedy woman.” 

You hummed against his skin, the sound making him close his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed and you attacked it. Your teeth scraped at the sensitive skin. He hissed, hand tightening on your hip. You soothed the sting at once with soft kitten licks, tongue tracing the indentations you had left.

“Sorry,” you whispered against his skin, not sounding very sorry at all. “You are just so pretty, husband. And you smell… gods, Gwayne.”

You whined as you buried your face again in the curve of his neck, just breathing him in. You felt like Ormund with his damned pomander.

“How am I to survive a whole week without this?” you asked mournfully.

“Stay.” His hand found the gentle swell of your belly and spread protectively over it. “It is far too much strain to ride in your condition.”

“The babe will be perfectly fine—"

“It is too much strain for you.”

He caught your chin and guided your face away from his throat until you were forced to look at him. Green eyes steady, serious. “You are already ill every morning. You scarcely keep anything down till midday. I worry for you.”

You hummed in reluctant acknowledgment and dipped your head again, resuming your slow, wet kisses, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Rhaenyra is with her second child already,” you murmured against his skin. “We want to go together and choose eggs for the babes to cradle with.” Your hand drifted down to rest over his on your stomach. “Oh, how sweet would it be if they were of the same clutch?”

“Very sweet,” Gwayne conceded, though his tone suggested he found the prospect considerably less charming than you did. He tried, but your husband was not born with fire singing in his blood. You could not fault him for not understanding. “But please, dearest, you should make the journey after the babe arrives and you have recovered.”

You answered him by rolling your hips.

A slow, deliberate grind that dragged your slick walls along the thick length buried inside you. Gwayne’s breath left him in a rough exhale and you felt him twitch inside of you, swelling even fuller. His hands immediately settled at your hips, large and warm.

“Again, for me,” he rasped.

You obliged. Up and down, slow at first, savoring every inch of the stretch, the way he filled you so completely even when neither of you was thrusting hard. The armchair creaked beneath you. You were dripping; his seed from the first round already spilled out with every upward slide, slicking his thighs and balls, making filthy wet sounds that filled the quiet chamber. Mixed with the quiet wash of the bay and the soft rustle of curtains, it was obscene.

You whined and he helped you without hesitation. His strong hands lifted and lowered you in a steady, generous rhythm, strong thighs braced beneath yours.

You kept your face buried to his skin, dipping to suck dark marks at his collar, breathing him in like you were starving for him, licking sweat from his skin, biting down whenever the pleasure spiked too high.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your hair, voice strained. “Have what you need, sweetling. Use me.”

You whimpered and clenched around him, his words going straight to the tight coil low in your belly. Your pace turned desperate, grinding harder, faster, chasing the friction of his cockhead against that perfect spot inside you while your sensitive clit dragged against the base of his dark curls on every roll.

“My love,” he gasped, head tipping back against the chair, his eyes fixed on you. “My beautiful love. Gods, I should keep you always like this— soft and lovely with my babe.”

Your pace quickened, hips rolling with growing urgency. The soft swell of your stomach brushed against his abdomen with every downward slide. One of his hands left your hip to cup the back of your head, holding you close so you could keep nuzzling and biting as you pleased. The other remained firm on your hip, helping you rise and sink, rise and sink, until the pleasure coiled tight and bright low in your belly.

You pulled your head back just enough to grip his chin and drag his mouth to yours. Breath mixed. Teeth clicked.

You came with a muffled cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Gwayne groaned deeply, hips lifting once, twice, grinding up into you as he followed, spilling hot and deep while you rode out every last pulse.

For a long moment neither of you moved. You stayed exactly where you were: impaled, trembling, staring into his green eyes while you stroked his hair and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his lips. His hands stayed wrapped around your back, holding you gently against him even as his cock twitched with aftershocks inside you.

“That was shameless,” he murmured.

“Was it persuasive?”

Gwayne gave you a long, unimpressed look. You smiled sweetly.

“…You are an unscrupulous woman.”

You squealed with joyous victory, peppering thankful kisses to the scar under his eye.

He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it from his face, doing poorly to hide his own smile.

“You have my blessing— provided the maesters find no cause for concern.” His gaze sharpened. “And you will rest once you arrive. You will not exhaust yourself attempting to keep pace with your sister, and at the first hint of pain— however slight— you will stay with her and send for me.”

“You make me sound so terribly fragile.”

He pressed a kiss to your left eye, then to your right. “You are what is most precious to me.”

Then he bent to your throat and began repaying your greedy attentions, one lingering kiss at a time.

HOTD masterlist

@ange0o

“My lord,” you said as you dropped into a practiced curtsy before the long table he sat behind, feeling the ache in your legs on the descent after three long days at sea. You fought to remember the words your father told you to repeat, because he’d fought alongside Lord Ormund once, and knew much of his peculiar propensities. “My family thanks you for… providing me shelter here, among family, in such… troubled times.”

“Family,” Ormund scoffed in amusement. His mouth curled into an amused grin as he rose from his chair, wooden legs screeching along the cobbles. He rounded the table in slow strides and shook his dark-auburn head. “No, child— Daeron is family.”

He motioned to the chairs behind him with a lazy, ringed hand as he approached you. It was not hard to find which men sitting there belonged to your cousin; he was the youngest of them, to be sure, and wore a slightly more masculine version of Alicent’s face upon his rounder one.

“You, my girl, are a guest,” Ormund corrected with an artificial kindness that made your stomach feel sick. 

Sicker still was the smell of candlewax and salt and sea brine stained on the walls. The scent of bathing oils and incense filled your lungs the moment Ormund planted himself before you, with two wide palms splayed on either side of your arms. His chiseled features, carved from stone, looked almost apologetic when he ducked his head into your eyeline. 

“I do this as a favor to your father, and to my nephew,” the older man confessed. “Daeron has seen little family over these years, save myself— and I will not deny him the comfort of the blood he still has left to him.”

His voice was warm with a knight’s tenderness, though there was little of it in his words. 

His fingers were tender, too, as he drew them around the hood upon your head to pull it back from your hair — but the way he examined the Valyrian-silver strands between them was far less than kind. His strong jaw clenched; his pale eyes hardened; his chest rose and fell beneath his coat with a huff.

“Mm,” he muttered in disgust.“We’ll have to do something about this.”

Your hair is dyed a shade to complement your skin tone two days later. Your wardrobe is stripped of its Targaryen silks and replaced with Hightower green and gold within a week. You study the Hightower histories, you pray to the Hightower gods, you speak the way Hightowers speak. Within a month at Oldtown, you are stripped of any remnants of your Targaryen identity — a fact which seems to please Ormund, whose praise comes more and more frequently these days.

In his own accounting of the matter, he sees it as good work. Godly work. To have tamed a wild Valyrian beast, who rides no dragon but carries the blood of one all the same. They say Targaryens are destined to destroy, never create. And yet, Ormund has made a civilized thing out of you — fit for suppers at his tables, fit for silence everywhere else.

But he does not yet know about the dreams. 

You have always had them, or at least, since you were capable of comprehending their existence. They come less like sleep and more like drowning — fires not yet lit, soldiers not yet dead, rulers not yet born. You haven’t yet found a safe way to say I dreamed it and be believed, or be forgiven in the saying. So you do not say it.

Instead, you drink.

It started as a cup of Arbor Gold to sand down the edges of a dream when it still clung to you at breakfast, the only remedy the maesters could summon to ease your temperament. That turned into silver flasks tucked into the boning of your bodice — to be snuck during lessons and meetings and dinners with middling ale, to quiet your mind whenever the dreams began to claw at it. 

That, inevitably, turned into passing out at bars and brothels only to be woken over the shoulder of a soldier carrying you back home again.

It’s how you learned of Ormund’s keen nose, when he insisted he could smell the scent of ale on your breath from a hall’s length away, and could perfectly name which wine you’d snuck from the cellar accordingly. His worry for your obvious excess comes masked as irritation — because he is the one who had built you so carefully, and still he is the one watching you come apart at every seam he had sewn so carefully for you.

When you go missing one day until sundown, and Bold John interrupts the lord’s supper with news of your whereabouts and your refusal to return, Ormund goes to get you himself. He finds you a half-league outside the city, in a half-rundown pleasure house that wreaks of smoke, sour ale, and very heavily of sex — stale air humid from golden candles and naked bodies pressed too close together.

Ormund presses an embroidered handkerchief to his nose as he weaves through the crowd, spine straight and chin level. He finds you in the very back of the den of sin, slouched alone at a table with empty mugs of ale scattered all around you. Your dyed hair is half-loose from its pins as your heavy head lolls on your fist. With your tired eyes fluttering open and closed, you don’t realize the man’s towering over your table until he slams his fists upon it, jostling the cups standing there.

“Why, in the name of the Mother, are you in a brothel?” Ormund spits in place of a greeting.

Your eyes lift slowly to meet his sharper ones. The man’s angry features are softened slightly by the haze of alcohol clouding your vision. “This is the only ale in the city that isn’t watered down…” you shrug and can’t quite tell if you’re slurring or not.

“Well,” he scoffs a not-quite laugh. “I would hate to ask how many establishments you must’ve visited to figure that one out—” 

His head whips over his shoulder when a woman wearing nothing above the waist drifts past him, trailing her manicured fingers across the curls twisting at the nape of his neck — surely mistaking him for a rich lord in want of company. He flinches from her touch as if it had burned him. His chest flares with embarrassment and rage alike when you bury your laugh behind your cup.

“This is not godly, what you’re doing to yourself. Do you know that?” he scolds lowly, features twisted in disgust. “I have given you a home, a place at mine own table, and yet you repay that gift by—” 

He cuts himself off and exhales hard through his nose before the anger can get the best of him. He tilts his chin to peer down at you from the bridge of his nose as his long fingers twitch at his sides. 

“Perhaps Oldtown was the wrong place for you after all,” he concludes in a more even tone. “Perhaps you are better suited elsewhere, somewhere more able to accommodate your… temperament—”

“It’s the dreams,” you blurt, as if the words had been pushed out of you at his disappointment — at the thought of being abandoned, again. Your features crumble as you peer up at him with glassy, wet eyes. “Drinking is the only thing that helps… I cannot stop them, but I cannot bear them sober—”

“Dreams?” Ormund repeats, chuckling with a newfound amusement. “You’ve ruined yourself over a few childish fantasies?” 

Your chest burns red hot at his laughter. The embers prickle at your skin and the backs of your eyes. “I dreamt of Rhaenyra,” you spit through gritted teeth. “Sitting the Iron Throne.” 

“There!” Ormund chuckles, shrugging with his palms splayed ahead of him. “A dream, indeed— A woman upon the Iron Throne.”

“The news of King’s Landing’s fall will come with the news of your uncle’s death,” you continue lowly, hardly audible over the bustling brothel, without once taking your eyes off of his. “Slain by Rhaenyra’s own hand… And it will not be a swift death, either, my lord…”

Ormund’s features flicker under the weight of your words — a look of distant horror gone again in a blink. He shakes his head with a smug sort of smile. “My uncle is at Highgarden. Securing the Tyrell’s loyalty. He will return, in time, with gold and bannermen, though I’m sure you will have drunk yourself to death by the time they arrive.”

Rhaenyra takes King’s Landing a month later. 

A raven is sent with haste, disclosing that her very first act as Queen was to slay the catalyst of this very war. Otto Hightower’s head sits now on a pike outside the Red Keep, the scrawled parchment says, which Ormund reads with a frightening sort of composure about him.

“Sire?” Daeron presses the other side of the desk, anxious hands trembling behind his back. “Is everything alright?”

Ormund’s eyes lift slowly to look at him. “Your grandsire is dead,” he answers plainly and without reservation. “Slain by Rhaenyra the Usurper, who now sits the Iron Throne— where is your cousin, pray tell?” 

Daeron’s wide eyes flit away and back again, pink mouth parting as he tries to make sense of the sudden news and his uncle’s strange question. “My— I’m not sure— In her bedchamber, perhaps— But why—” 

Ormund rises from his chair and storms out of the room before the boy can finish his stammering. He makes a beeline directly for your chambers; a small space near enough to the servants’ quarters where the handmaidens can keep an eye on your comings and goings. He slams the heavy door open with so much as a knock to announce himself — it strikes hard against the wall with a resounding bang that shudders the glowing candle flames beside it.

You sit up straight in the center of your bed, blanketed by quilts and already donned in your pale white nightgown. The heavy novel on your lap slides from your thighs as you lurch suddenly in fright. 

You have little time to make sense of the sudden intrusion before Ormund closes the distance between you, wrapping a firm hand around your throat to pin you back against the pillows again — he holds you not with cruelty, but with fear. And you can feel it in the way his long, cold fingers tremble around your throat.

“You knew,” he snarls. 

Your wide eyes flit back and forth between his narrow ones as your weak hands attempt to pry his calloused fingers from your neck. “Knew what—?”

“My uncle’s slaughter,” Ormund shouts over your fearful wavering. “I cannot believe I allowed a traitorous Targaryen dragon to sit at my table— to sleep under my roof—” 

“I only dreamt it, my lord,” you choke out. 

“Liar.” 

You whimper when his fist closes tighter, but you do not fight him. Instead, your pleading gaze searches within his raging one for something that feels halfway human. 

“You wept the night your mother died,” is the first thing you think to say — the first dream you had the first night you slept within these walls. Ormund falters instantly at the sudden confession. “Not at her bedside, because you didn’t want to look weak in front of your father, but after. In the Godswood. Where no one would think to go looking for a Hightower.”

Ormund’s hand slackens slightly around your throat. A look of surprise softens his features.

“That’s why you keep the Seven so close now,” you continue tearily. “Because you still feel guilty that you turned to the Old Gods, and you worry that doing so disappointed your father, even though you’re not sure he ever caught you—”

“How—” Ormund chokes on the simple word. It gets lost somewhere in his throat and turns to ash on his tongue as his wet eyes dart between both of yours. “How do you—”

“I dreamt it…” you repeat again, voice thick with tears.

His calloused hands gentle around your throat. The pads of fingers ghost along your pulse as they drift to the edge of your jaw, and up to your temple where your silver roots begin to show through the dye. He looks half-horrified and half-bewildered.

“I have… dreamt of you,” Ormund confesses distantly, breathing fanning warm along your cheek. “I thought it madness at the time, a man dreaming of his own ward, but… It was you in my head, was it not? Or— was it only mine own guilt wearing your face to taunt me?”

“I cannot help it,” you answer vaguely, voice trembling. “I’ve never been able to stop it.”

“I do not want you to stop it,” Ormund shakes his head, firm with reverence as he clasps both warm hands around your jaw. His touch is solid enough to make you tense but still achingly tender in his way. “This is the work of the gods… I thought I was doing some small kindness for Daeron’s sake, taking you in, but…”

The rough pad of his thumb smooths gently over your burning cheek as he trails off.

Your eyes widen at his words, at the madness swimming in his glittering gaze. The same man who stormed in here minutes ago with the intent to hurt you, now one confession shy of dropping to his knees and worshiping you like the gods themselves. He touches you softly now, for perhaps the first time since you set foot in Oldtown. And you, having gone so long without any gentle touch at all, almost let yourself take sanctuary in it. Almost.

“Do you have any idea what we could do with this mind of yours?” He smiles wide until his eyes squint at the edges. “We could rule the world entire if we wished.”

We, he says, and you don’t know whether to be comforted or frightened by the implication.

“I don’t want to rule the world,” you tell him in a small, shaking voice. “I just… I want to rest.”

“Then rest,” Ormund nods with a smile that creases the corners of his pale eyes as his hands slide down to rest around your neck like a collar. “But dream. For me.”

The war leads the Hightower host to Tumbleton, where the town’s ancient castle is seized for Ormund’s use alone. The army idles there in wait for Aemond’s arrival and for Vhagar’s great shadow to fly in overhead. And in that waiting, you’ve seemingly become one of Ormund’s most trusted confidants. 

He visits your chambers more nights than not now. Enough that you’ve grown used to waking with him already beside you — with his warm weight settled into the mattress and his arm heavy across your waist, prepared to hold you through the nightmares that find you more regularly these days. You spend the bulk of your days with him, too, standing at his elbow before his campaign maps and his questions of whether the visions have given you a day, a name, or a river crossing to avoid.

You have told him of your limits far more than once, though he seems to forget in his unrelenting hunger for victory. “I cannot see everything, my lord,” you told him in the bath, as his gentle fingers smoothed fresh dye into your silver roots. “It only comes to me in sleep, and I cannot— summon an answer from them at command the way a maester can summon an answer from his books.”

“And yet…” Ormund crooned, dipping his stained hands into the warm water beside your bare chest, and washing the swirling dye from his fingertips. “You have given me more than any maester I have ever paid for in gold.”

You peered up at him with teary eyes. “I fear you place too much faith in me, my lord.”

“And I fear you place too little,” he grinned.

You spend a slow morning hunched over a chessboard with Daeron — the only true companion you’ve managed to find in all your time away from home, other than Ormund perhaps. The morning sun spills in silver-gold rays from the narrow windows, falling over the carved pieces ahead of you and turning the boy’s long hair a more flaming shade of Hightower red. 

“You’ve cornered my king again…” you croon within a feigned sigh of defeat, head lolling on one hand while your other drifts lazily over the wooden board. “You’re getting rather good at this, cousin.”

Daeron glares playfully at you beneath his lashes, green eyes glinting with amusement as his lip twitches with the hint of a smile. “You moved your bishop away from my king last turn. And now you’ve sacrificed your queen to a pawn.”

“Have I?” you hum in faux-puzzlement, brows lowered and lips jutted.

“If you’re going to let me win, you could at least be convincing about it—”

The door swings wide with a rusted screeching sound. Ormund’s shadow falls over the board like a cloud crossing the sun. “Leave us,” he tells his nephew in lieu of any actual greeting and leaves little room for argument as his broad form lingers at the entrance.

Daeron tenses instantly at the man’s sudden presence and rises from his seat without a word. He flashes you a quick glance that looks almost like trepidation at leaving you alone with him, but obeys his uncle nonetheless. The door shuts behind the boy with a quiet click. The remaining oxygen in the room goes with him.

Ormund flashes you a polite smile from across the room, though you aren’t looking at him to see it. “You weren’t in bed last night,” is all he says.

“I fell asleep in the library,” you tell him and hope he doesn’t notice how the words catch briefly in your throat. You reset the board ahead of you with anxious hands and hear the soft scrape of his boots along the cobbles as he approaches you.

“And what of your dreams?”

You shake your head, gaze averted. “Nothing of importance, my lord.”

“But you have seen something?” he presses.

You inhale sharply through your nose. “I saw a… a village in the Riverlands— burned down to its bones— women wailing over children with no faces left to grieve over,” you confess, more of a half-truth than a whole lie. “It concerns no war of yours, my lord.”

Ormund says nothing as he descends into the seat Daeron had left warm and watches you arrange the bone-carved pieces into their proper squares. His eyes crease at the edges with a quiet sort of tenderness. “Tell me, then,” he hums with an airiness you see rarely from him. “Will I win this round?”

Your eyes lift finally to his narrowed ones. “You will,” you answer, but do not tell him how.

He makes the first move, plucking his pawn between two fingers and moving it to the center. You answer with your pawn of dark onyx. “Have you ever heard of Meria Martell? The Yellow Toad of Dorne?” he asks as he pushes his knight forward.

“No,” you hum and advance your bishop, a fine move but admittedly not the best one. “I don’t believe I have.”

“Shame…” Ormund sighs and ponders his next move, pale fingers drumming lightly over the table. “She was the only woman ever to have been gifted with a truly military mind… Though the gods divested her of beauty in turn— hideous, hairless, thick of waist, blind.” He advances his knight again, claiming the territory undefended by your bishop. “She does not sound so formidable, but when Aegon the Conqueror claimed her lands, she swore that Dorne would ever be unbowed, unbent…”

Your fingers push your rook a square shy of where it ought to go. You swallow hard and look at Ormund through your lashes, wondering if he’d noticed. But he’s too deep in his ramblings to realize.

“Then a great host descended from the Red Mountains— us Hightowers regrettably among them,” he explains and claims your rook from the board, setting it to the side with a satisfied click. His quiet pride at himself eases the unrelenting panic in your chest. “Meria poisoned her own wells, hid her soldiers in the sand. Her castle, when they found it, was empty. The thought she was vanquished, but… She rose from the darkness and slaughtered them all in their beds.”

You meet Ormund’s amused smile with a wearier one. “Was she a hero, then? Or a villain?”

You move a pawn forward instead of the knight that would’ve threatened his king.  A flicker of hesitation crosses his strong features at the tactless move, but he dismisses the oversight a second later and plucks his ivory queen forward two squares.

“The Targaryens knew nothing of our civilization— the Faith, the Citadel,” Ormund answers, and seemingly forgets that you, yourself, are Targaryen by blood in his ramblings. A smile sits loosely on his mouth as he watches you consider your next move. “What they had, what they still have is strength. Their armies, the… obscenity of their dragons… But Meria outwitted her enemy. Because a cunning mind can resist the most savage of…”

You advance your remaining undefended piece, opening a path across the board for Ormund’s taking. His features screw in confusion a second later.

“What are you doing?” he scolds, brows lowered over his narrowed eyes.

You blink owlishly at him. “What do you mean, my lord?”

“That piece,” he spits and points a ringed finger at the board. “Why would you move it there when you very well could’ve taken my queen?”

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat, which feels like it’s tightening more and more by the second. Daeron was right, you think to yourself. You could stand to be a bit more convincing. 

“I-I’m sorry, my lord,” you stammer. “I didn’t notice—”

“Oh, don’t patronize yourself by playing the fool,” Ormund scoffs. “You are letting me win— Like I’m some child who cannot stomach the thought of losing.”

“We can start again, my lord,” you assure him, fingers trembling as you reach across the board. 

Your body jolts when he catches your wrist in a blink, quick like a snake going in for the strike. The sudden sweeping motion sends pieces from the board scattering to the cobbles below. Fear flashes hard across your face. Ormund softens at the sight of it, with a practiced breath in and out through his nose. His long fingers loosen slightly around your wrist, but they do not yet draw back.

“You should always want to win,” the man lectures you firmly, but without the bite in his voice from before. “Never hand a victory to anyone. Not even to me. The gods did not grant you that gift of yours so that you might spend it sparing another man’s pride.”

You shake your head, features crumbling at words. “It is not a gift,” you tell him in a tiny voice.

Ormund softens for you instantly. He rises slowly from his seat and pulls the adjacent one nearer to you. His knees brush your dress skirts when his hands again find yours. All the anger from before is gone from his touch now, as he warms your cold fingers between his warmer ones. 

“You’ve seen something,” he says — not quite a question, but not an assured statement either.

You shake your head and turn back towards the table. “It was nothing—”

Ormund watches you for a long moment. A fond smile twitches at the corners of his mouth as he ducks his head to catch your averted gaze. “You always look away when you lie. Did you know that?”

Your eyes snap to his on instinct. Your chest flares with a mixture of embarrassment and something that feels like intimacy, at the thought of being so noticed in such a small, simple way.

“Tell me,” he coaxes gently. “Tell it plain, however brutal it may be.”

You inhale deeply through your nose and try to will the words past the invisible hand around your throat. “I saw your death,” you waver and watch as his broad shoulders inflate with a breath he forgets to let go. “Here. At Tumbleton. Against a northern army— a bleeding man missing one arm.”

For a long moment, Ormund just looks at you. The edges of his eyes soften slightly just before his pink mouth curls into a slow smile. A laugh sputters from his lips all at once, more disbelieving than unkind.

“A one-armed man?” he repeats, aglow now with amusement. “I have fought hundreds of whole men and lived to tell it over supper afterward— I’m sure I can manage a rogue short one limb.”

When your weary look doesn’t soften to match his own ease, Ormund gentles again with a more sincere answer. “But… now that I know it, I can simply… step around it now. Can’t I?” he mutters. “Is that not the true use of your gift?”

You’re not all the way certain that’s how the “gift” works — if a dream can ever be undreamt — but you don’t tell him as much now. You’d much rather go on believing his truths over anyone else’s

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?” Ormund wonders quietly, brows lowering over his glimmering eyes. “Because of what you’ve seen?”

You nod once.

“And now… looking at me… do you see it still?”

You nod again, slower this time. 

For one blink, Ormund’s features go grey and slack before your eyes — his curls are matted to his forehead with blood, and his throat is cut open and weeping from a blade. Then you blink once more, and he’s Ormund again; whole and breathing and alive. The constant change is disorienting. You can never quite be sure, from one blink to the next, which face is truly his.

His broad hands rise to your face, cupping your jaw between his calloused palms with a gentleness that threatens to undo you completely. “I am here,” he tells you sternly, though his thumb smooths along your cheekbone much sweeter in comparison. “I am still whole, and I plan to stay that way for a great while yet— especially now that I know precisely what’s coming.”

You feel your hands reach up towards his own. You fold your fingers around his wrists and clutch him hard by the sleeves of his coat. You try hard to feel the steady thrum of his pulse under your touch, to remind yourself that his heart’s still beating.

“See?" he mutters. “I’m still here."

He draws you in and presses his forehead against yours. A whimper swells in the back of your throat at the foreign act of tenderness, though it turns into a stuttered breath on the way out.

Your eyes flutter shut as you breathe him in — the sun-fresh linen of his clothes, the sweet soap from his bath, the mint leaves on his breath. 

Ormund shifts slightly and turns his head until his nose brushes your hair, smelling of earthy dye and bathing oils. His eyes drift towards the narrow window and the sliver of blue sky beyond it; where Vhagar has not yet come, and where Rhaenyra’s dragons could appear at any moment.

“We could sit that throne,” he breathes suddenly into the quiet. “Daeron, as the rightful heir... Myself as his Hand… And you, at my side…”

You go very still against him.

“Think of it," Ormund presses. “A king who need not gamble at war the way every other fool king before him has— Rhaenyra sits a throne she cannot see one single day into. But we— We could sit together and never once be surprised by anything the world sends our way ever again."

Ormund draws back just far enough to look at you properly. His calloused hands are still tender on your cheeks, but something much more mad in comparison swims in his eyes now.

“We would bring the realm a peace it has not known since its creation. We could stop a war before it’s ever started— famine before the granaries empty— rebellions before the first man raises his sword.” The words tumble quickly from his mouth, as if he were seeing the future unfold behind his own eyes. “Daeron is kind; he’s righteous. He’d be the first king to sit that throne in a hundred years and truly deserve it… And we could help him restore peace to the Seven Kingdoms… Is that not what you want?"

“I don’t know what I want,” you waver, features crumpling under the weight of your burning tears as his face turns corpse again. “I just want it to stop—”

His expression gentles past his wonder, twisting sympathetically as he draws you back into him again. 

“Then let me make it stop,” Ormund mutters, tracing the bridge of your nose with the tip of his. “And if I cannot make it stop, at least let me carry it… So that you will never have to bear the weight of it alone again—”

He turns his head to swallow your mouth into a searing kiss. You sigh through your nose at the firm weight of it, and at the sweet-mint taste on his tongue when it finds yours in a long, languid lick. 

You hold him hard by the wrists and kiss him back even harder, burying all your withheld fears and desires into his mouth. His hands drop to your waist, and yours settle behind his neck on instinct, fingers toying at the auburn curls coiled at the nape of his neck.

Ormund guides you up from your seat and against the table’s edge without taking his lips off yours. The last of the scattered pieces fall to the ground as he urges you upon it, bending down over you until your back is flush against the cool oak below. Then he kisses down, down, down your body — smearing his lips along your jaw and neck and chest and the lace of your corset. 

You hear his knees hit the cobbles with a quiet thud, and feel his cold hands pushing your skirts up your warm inner thighs, right before his wet mouth kisses the most sensitive part of you. 

Your back arches off the table as your hands dart immediately to his curls, keeping him pressed against you there. A broken moan tumbles gracelessly from your mouth. It’s the first time in your life that you’ve ever felt almost human — held — whole.

"What do you think you're doing?" a familiar, young voice whispered just as you were about to sneak away in your disguise.

You gasped and turned to face who it was, "Seven Hells, Daeron, you don't sneak up on people like that," you scold your brother. Daeron looked you up and down and realized what you were up to, "you're going to the festival, aren't you? Even when your lord husband has expressly forbidden it."

You sigh, almost annoyed that you had been caught so easily by your young half-brother of all people. "I'm well aware of my 'lord' husband's orders," you said with an eye roll, "I know how he feels about the festival of indulgences. I still want to go." "Why? If Ormund discovers you've snuck out, he'll be angry."

"And how would Ormund ever find out, Daeron? Huh?" you challenge, "it's not like he has eyes on me or any of us every day and night...unless you have intention to inform the Lord of Oldtown yourself and risk facing his wrath?"

You noted the hesitant look on Daeron's face when you asked that. Much as your brother admires your husband for some reason, you both know how Ormund can get when he loses his temper. He has yet to take his wrath out on you (though you suspect Daeron has been on the receiving end of said wrath), but he could still be frightening during those times.

You know the risks you are taking just venturing out of this keep, but this is something you've wanted to participate in since your first called Oldtown your new home. It was a risk you were willing to take, if it meant having a taste of the freedom you've been craving since exchanging vows in the Starry Sept and being practically placed under the authority of your lord husband.

"You still haven't answered my question," Daeron brings up, "why this wanton desire to partake in this...nightly orgy? When we would be better off preparing for the morrow when the Great Fast begins?" "Pfft, Daeron, really, I've never known anyone to eagerly observe the Fast as much as you have," you scoff, "have you truly never wondered what goes on during this time at festival? Even once? Have you never imagined what the streets are like during this one time of the year? What the vendors are selling in terms of food and memorable trinkets? We could go together, just the two of us. Make it a night to remember, wouldn't that be fun?"

Daeron looked away as if he were ashamed, "I have no desire to participate in such sinful vices." "We wouldn't even be doing anything!" you insist, "we'll just watch, nothing more. Maybe have a cup of wine here and there, what's the harm in that?" "That's not the point," Daeron insists back, "Ormund is certain to find out. I won't risk it, and neither should you."

You roll your eyes at Daeron's warning, "fine, I'll just go by myself," you decide to goad your brother, hoping he might take the bait and actually cut loose for once in his life, "I mean, there's no telling what kind of trouble a lone women such as me could get into out on the streets at this hour. Not like I could ask my husband even if he wanted to come; he is quite sensitive to the stenches of the street. He wouldn't last one hour....but my half-brother on the other hand..."

Daeron turned away, refusing to give into the temptation you were offering.

You turn and make for the exit, hearing Daeron sigh almost reluctantly. "Wait," he called out, running up to catch up with you, "if you insist on going...you shouldn't leave without an escort."

Smiling wide, almost victoriously, you and Daeron quietly leave the confines of the keep, fully expecting to have the time of your life.

--------------------------

It was never your intention to lose Daeron in the crowd, but given you didn't have the boy constantly breathing over your shoulder anymore and you could move around more freely, it ended up being a happy accident.

You had nothing against Daeron, but in some ways he could behave similar to his lord cousin even if he was as frighten of the man as you if not more so.

You didn't feel terrified about being on your own; the streets were alive with festive lights, floating candles, and vendors selling various wares and street food. Just now, you were snacking on a skewer of charred meat while watching a street performance that appeared to be dedicated to the Seven.

Additionally, you were disguised in your hooded cloak, which concealed your silver blonde hair, you were not concerned that anyone would recognize you as a princess of the realm or as Lady Hightower.

It felt so good to be outside, far from prying eyes, gossipy nobles, and the ever sharp, watchful eye of your pious, self-righteous husband.

You'll never understand why your father King Viserys thought this been a good match. Upon the passing of the late Lord Hightower- when Ormund assumed the mantle- a letter had arrived at the Red Keep, courtesy of Otto Hightower, proposing a match between yourself and his nephew. There had been no real reason you could think for this arrangement, given Ormund already had secured his line with heirs from a previous marriage. Part of you had suspected it had been Otto's way of getting back into the good graces of the king after being dismissed as Hand (which did coincidentally coincide with the sudden passing of the previous Hand and his son back in Harrenhal).

You also suspect it may have been Viserys' misguided way of keeping peace with his family and the Hightowers given the rift between his wife and oldest daughter, but why did you have to be involved? That reasoning made no sense to you as you and Rhaenyra were the only children from Viserys' first marriage and had been quite close despite the difference in age. Viserys had tried to assure that you wouldn't be alone as Daeron had already been living in Oldtown for years as a ward, but that brought you little comfort as you hardly even knew the boy the way you knew his older full blooded siblings.

Nevertheless, you had been sent to Oldtown within a fortnight of receiving that letter that would ultimately seal your fate to a man who seemed to be more dogmatic than actually faithful to his ancestors' religion. You had expected Ormund to be a devout follower to some extent, given that Oldtown has been the historical seat of the Faith of the Seven with its Citadel and Starry Sept, and the Hightowers being the high born guardians to that faith, but this was something else entirely.

Something insidious and domineering lurked below the surface and seemed to constantly radiate from Ormund's being, whether he was saying his prayers in the Sept alongside his ward or tending to his duties as lord of his domain.

Whatever that something was, you would come to see it more during the brief courtship with Ormund prior to exchanging vows before the High Septon. Ormund had made it clear from beginning that the moment you exchanged your Targaryen cloak for his family's symbol, you would belong to him, and you must take care to present yourself before the people- both noble and smallfolk- as his dutiful, subservient wife.

You initially took it as a jest, though in hindsight, such a response had been foolish on your part.

In the course of your marriage, Ormund had never laid a hand on you, nor violently forced you to perform your marital duties against your will...but he could be frightening in other ways.

Very early on, you had come to discover your husband is something of a perfectionist... a highly controlling perfectionist, much so to the detriment of everyone around him, yourself included. Everything needed to be a certain way, according to his worldview; the letters on his desk need to be organized neatly, the sheets of his bed needed to be tightly tucked with nary a wrinkle in sight, the oils and perfumes he cherishes deeply needed to be arranged in a specific way, and every order and direction he gave needed to be carried out to the very T.

Anything less could result in an overturned table, a broken arm, a bruised face, and everything in between that could occur from his explosive temper.

And when it came to you, his supposedly obedient wife, you were not exempt from his expectations. nor his wrath. Actually, it seemed worse for you not because you are Ormund's lady wife, but also because you are a Targaryen, and behind closed doors, your lord husband never made secret his contempt for your family's...queer customs. Most days, you could keep your head down, but much of your life revolved around Ormund's orders that came to you either by way of him or the servants, from the duties you needed to tend to during the day, the times you needed to be up and when to go to bed, and even down to the clothes, perfume, and jewelry you were expected to wear. You were also expected- to no one's surprise- to attend services in Sept alongside your husband which included joining him in prayers to the Seven.

To be Ormund's wife felt like a misnomer...from your point of view, you may as well be a doll, one with no agency in her life other than what the man allows you.

It was suffocating to say the least, which is why you were so happy to be out on your own right now, enjoying the festival of indulgences. Ormund, unsurprisingly, has rather strong opinions of this holiday, believing it to be nothing more than an excuse for the smallfolk to partake in various vices and sins before repenting before the Seven at the start of the Great Fast, before being expected to kneel before the gods and confess their sins as they forgo various meats and wines and sweets for the next seven weeks.

You've always wanted to go, seeing it as little more than some harmless fun, but alas Ormund had forbidden it each time you asked every year, believing it to be unbecoming for the Lady of Oldtown to be seen partaking or even spectating on this annual orgy (his words, not yours). You've learned after the first three attempts to not to bring it up as it resulted in him losing his temper, followed by you being on the receiving end of his passive aggressive comments and cruel words for the next seven weeks.

After the show, you wonder about the streets a little more. It was getting late, and as much as you wanted to stay out a little longer, you know you will need to go back eventually.

Venturing around several corners, you notice something peculiar going on down one street; men and women were flocking- rather excitedly- to this part of town, dressed rather colorfully and wearing strong perfumes and oils.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you sneak passed over to investigate what all the fuss was about. The moment you take the first steps down that road, a powerful incense-filled scent hits your nose. You were not familiar with this smell, even Ormund wasn't know for possessing such a peculiar scent in his vast collection. Nevertheless, you found it to be surprisingly intoxicating.

Venturing further down, you start to hear pleasuring sounding moans and grunts coming from the participants. You look around to see alleyways and small tents with thinly veiled doors that were lit in such a way that highlighted the specific acts these people were doing. Your eyes widen in realization to what was going on.

This might be the orgy portion of the festival both Ormund and Daeron had been referring to.

You should go, you think to yourself. This is sinful and wicked, you shouldn't be anywhere near this. But seeing the way that one couple was interacting, seeing the man with his head between the woman's legs, seeing the woman moan in pleasure, it made you feel things between your own legs. Ormund's never gone down on you like that before; maybe if he did, you'd enjoy his visits to your bed more often and vice versa.

Being distracted, you began to lose sense of your other surroundings. Much that the moment you feel a hand wrap around your mouth and another wrap your waist to drag you away, you panic and began to make muffled screams for help. You feel the figure turn you around, still keeping hand over your mouth, to reveal the one face you dreaded to see tonight.

Ormund Hightower, it seems, had figure out you were not in the keep this evening, and had gone out in a disguise of his own for the purpose of hunting you down and dragging you back.

Judging by the look on his face, he was not the least bit happy that you had defied his orders.

You dared not to speak a word the moment he took his hand away. You merely allowed him to escort you back to the keep, your head hanging down in shame.

------------------------

The moment you crossed the threshold into your chambers- or shoved in more like- Ormund slammed the door shut behind you with enough force to startle you.

You dare not turn around, knowing the mood the man was in right now. He clearly was trying to keep himself from exploding in anger judging from the deep, shaky breaths he was taking to keep his temper in check. He hasn't laid a hand on you before, but at this point, there may as well be a first time for everything.

He called for the maids who were recently roused from their serving quarters, and had them prepare your bath. There was tension in the air, palpable enough that one could cut through it with a knife. No one dared to speak a word or even so much as make a sound as the maid carried out their task.

During this time, Ormund kept a tense hand around your arm, as if you were intending to leave again. As if you were some kind of animal who would take off at the first opportunity.

Once the bath was prepared, Ormund then dragged you to the washroom, having the maids dismissed. He stripped you of your cloak and commoner's clothes with erratic movements until you were bare before him. You attempt to cover yourself with your hands, unable to avoid his intense gaze.

"Don't do that," he warns in a low tone, grimacing from the smell you emanating from your body and your clothes from being out in the streets. He turned, covering his nose as he didn't have his smelling oils with him on hand. Upon Daeron returning to confess where he had been- and informing of your whereabouts- Ormund had left the keep in haste with intention of finding you before you disgraced yourself in some way that would bring shame to his family's name. He didn't exactly have time to pack the things he usually had on hand for his own outings, not when his reputation was at stake.

"Get in the bath," he quietly demands. You do as he says, not wanting to his wrath any further. Though the steaming heat and sweet aroma of the oils would usually bring you some comfort, you found you could not relax at the moment given the circumstances.

Ormund stepped out, slamming the door once again. Outside, you could hear the man shouting certain profanities and tossing various objects against the wall. You grimace and gasp out each time you hear a banging sound or glass shatter upon making contact with the wall. Though it only lasted a minute or two, to you it felt like an eternity. You could only hope to the Seven that no passing servant was nearby to get caught in your husband's rage-filled rampage.

You hear the door slowly open this time around. Your now calm husband walked in, though the tension was no less palpable. He grabbed a bar of soap, a pitched already filled with water, and a washcloth before he knelt behind you.

"Do you have any idea what consequences you have unleashed with your reckless actions this night?" he asks as he wet your hair with the pitcher, "the lengths I had to go through to find you before word could get out that the...Lady of Oldtown was out gallivanting on the streets like some feckless, wanton creature?

He then lathered the soap and worked it roughly into your hair and into your skin as if he intended to scrub every perceived impurity that lingered on your body from your night at the festival, "What would the smallfolk say if they recognized your face on the street of fleshly pleasures, if they saw you participating in such wicked acts? What would that say about me that I allowed my wife to carry on in this manner?"

"I wasn't doing anything, Ormund," you say in a meek voice, to which Ormund scoffed, "I swear," you insisted strongly this time, "I swear before the light of the Seven, I didn't even know, I wasn't aware of the acts that were taking place, I was-" "Only watching?" Ormund asked as a challenge. "No, I wasn't, I-" "Don't lie to me," Ormund warned, now having a grip on your hair and giving it a slight pull, causing you to let out a gasp, "I saw the way you let your gaze linger. I saw that lustful look, (y/n). Is that what you want? To act in similar ways like some woman of the night in some filthy brothel? Like some wanton whore? Like...like your bitch sister Rhaenyra?" "What? No, I wouldn't-" "Oh, but you would if given the chance," Ormund insisted, tugging your hair again, harshly this time, eliciting a painful sound out of you, "if I hadn't shown up, who's to say you wouldn't have spread your legs for that man you were watching? Perhaps you would have allowed his seed to take root and produce his bastards, as your own sisters has." "I have been faithful to you all these years, Ormund!" you exclaim, "I made vows in the Starry Sept, before gods and men to be your lady wife, I would never do such a thing! I was a maiden when you took me to your bed on our wedding night, you know this! No doubt the Septon had confirmed this to you when you sent him to ensure my maidenhead was still intact."

"Can you really blame me for that?" Ormund asked with a sneer, "your family's reputation for degeneracy knows no bounds. I had no need for another wife when my uncle first made the proposition, yet he insisted it was necessary to secure long term peace throughout the realm...but it seems I can't even maintain peace in my own household if my wife insists on acting like some savage wildling! You know how I feel about the Feast of Indulgences, you know why it was forbidden to attend." "You were there earlier today as you are every year-" "Because I am Lord of Oldtown, I must attend during the day, but I do NOT enjoy one moment of it! Seeing the dregs of society indulging in such base acts is disgusting to me. If I could avoid it altogether I would, but alas I have my duties...and you have yours, and you will do good to remember that...wife."

Ormund then released his grip on your hair and took the pitcher to rinse out the soap. He then took a towel and tossed it to the side of the tub, "dry yourself and get dressed," he ordered as if you were one of the servants and not his wife, to which you reluctantly obey.

"...how did you even know I was gone?" you ask, but you have a feeling you knew the answer, "was it Daeron? Did he tell you? I told him not to tell." "Fortunate that he didn't listen," Ormund said, handing you your nightgown, "Daeron is a good boy. He was apparently concerned for your well-being when he lost you in the crowd, as any good brother would. He was not wrong to worry. The streets are no place for a lady, especially one without an escort. Who knows what raping cutthroats linger in the darkest corners, especially at night. It's a wicked world out there, (y/n), but you seem too naive to accept that."

Ormund placed a hand against your cheek, a gentle manner this time, once you were dressed in your nightgown, "You don't seem to understand that I do these things for your own good. Every order I give you is for your own protection." "My protection..." you turn your gaze upwards to look Ormund in the eye, "protection for me or for your reputation?"

You could've sworn you saw Ormund's eye twitch briefly before he pulled away and turned his back on you. He looked to be in a state of contemplation.

You stand there awkwardly, not knowing what you should do next. You walk back to your chambers to brush out your hair before your vanity mirror. There were considerably more tangles in your hair from the vigorous scrubbing on your husband's part.

You were halfway done when Ormund entered your chambers. Part of you assumed he was fixing to leave for his own. By the time you worked out the last knot, you feel his hands on your shoulders, causing you to suddenly tense.

"I have assigned guards outside your chambers," he tells you, "you will not leave without an escort for the next seven weeks, and you will not venture outside except to go to the Sept to say your prayers. Perhaps it was a godsend that the Great Fast begins on the morrow, that should give you time to reflect on your reckless choices from tonight." "Seven weeks? Ormund, you can't be-" "I will also make a habit to visit your chambers more frequently than I have in the past. Nightly if I must...until I ensure that my attempts will be fruitful and my seed will take root."

Upon hearing those words, you turn your head over your shoulder. The dark expression on Ormund's countenance made you realize he was serious. "I...I don't understand. You have no need for more heirs, you've said so yourself."

Ormund grabs your arms and roughly yanks you to your feet, "I have no need for more heirs, that much is true," he agrees, "but it appears my wife is easily distracted from her duties that she must seek out fleeting pleasures in other places. Perhaps if I made you a mother, a real mother, it would temper that rebellious attitude within you."

You began to stammer your words in response to Ormund's declaration. He intends to use a baby to trap you in this keep, so you wouldn't disobey him and venture outside again.

Ormund pressed a finger to your lips to quiet your protests, "now, now, wife. You'll do well to remember the vows we made before the Seven. It would be a slight to the gods to refuse your wifely duties. Is that what you want?"

There was a wildness in Ormund's own eyes when he spoke. He wouldn't lay a hand on your, nor force you to open your legs for him...but there were other ways he could 'persuade' you to do his bidding. He wouldn't hurt you...but he has a temper, one that rivals that of the dragons he despises, and people could get hurt when caught in his wrath.

So, looking down, you quietly shake your head.

Darkly smirking in triumph, Ormund leads you to the bed to carry out your marital duties. You take a deep breath and look to the ceiling as Ormund hikes the skirts of your gown to your waist.

Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.

Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.

Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.

He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.

With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.

Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.

“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.

You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.

And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.

Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.

“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.

“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—

“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”

Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.

“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.

He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.

However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.

“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”

One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?

And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.

“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”

You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.

“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”

Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”

You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.

What a fool he was.

He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.

He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.

Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.

“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.

“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”

“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”

“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”

The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.

He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.

“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”

You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”

So he had failed, again. Sigh.

What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?

Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.

Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.

With Criston Cole.

The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.

It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!

A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.

“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”

“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”

What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?

“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.

“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”

He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.

But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.

“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”

The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.

“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”

His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:

“May the best knight win, ser.”

Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”

Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.

You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.

Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?

“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”

That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.

He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.

You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.

Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.

However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.

Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.

Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?

Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.

Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.

The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.

And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.

With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.

Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.

Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.

The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.

“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”

“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.

Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.

But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—

“Do not touch me,” he rasped.

The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.

. . .

Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.

It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.

He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.

“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”

It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.

He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.

The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.

But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.

So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.

You are in love with him.

You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—

But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.

“Mrawgh...”

“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.

To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.

Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.

Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.

A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.

“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—

“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”

“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”

Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—

From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.

“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”

This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—

His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.

“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”

This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.

Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.

“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”

Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.

Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?

“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”

He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.

When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:

Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?

As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.

You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.

He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.

“Ser Gwayne!”

Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—

But then he heard you sob.

“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.

He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.

“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”

Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.

As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:

Has she... returned my feelings?

When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.

He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.

Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—

—and pressed your lips to his.

Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.

He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.

“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”

Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.

Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—

His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.

In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.

Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.

He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.

“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”

“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.

“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.

Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.

Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.

“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.

“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”

In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.

Florida is different in all the right ways.

The city teems with possibility as its glittering beaches and tropical nights offer a welcomed fresh start.

You found your way here without much surprise. Dancers always seem to drift toward Miami eventually. 

A quick message to a promoter you’d met during a wild weekend in South Beach was all it took to get you here. 

Now you’re at Velvet Tide, one of the city’s more snazzy, modern clubs with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water and a strict no-touch policy that actually gets enforced. 

For the first time in years, you just dance.

The money is good. Not Vegas good, but enough to keep you comfortable without having to sleep around.

You pass through the beaded curtain into the dressing room, dropping into the first open chair in front of a mirror, thighs sticking to the cracked vinyl.

With a little hum, you start fishing crumpled bills from your thong and bra, the paper slightly damp from body oil and sweat. A green apple lollipop rolls around the inside of your cheek, the sugar sinking into the numbness at your gums.

You’re halfway through counting your stack when a deep voice breaks your attention.

“Last time I saw hands move that quick, someone was trying to steal my tips.”

You glance up in the mirror and meet Frankie Morales’ reflection. 

He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, the black Velvet Tide staff shirt stretched nicely across his broad shoulders. 

Curls peek out from under his cap and his scruffy facial hair makes him look like he just rolled off a fishing boat and right behind a high-end bar.

You arch a brow, not missing a beat as you keep counting, rolling the candy around in your mouth with your tongue. “If I was trying to steal your tips, Francisco, you’d never see me coming. I’m too slick.”

“Don’t I know it.” He tilts his head, eyes on you through the mirror. “Explains why you’ve got more cash tucked in your tits than I’ve made all night. Good set?” His gaze drops momentarily to the three hundreds sticking out of your chest.

“I always have a good set,” you reply in typical conceited fashion, plucking the bills free and adding them to your hand.

“Shouldn’t you be behind the bar mixing overpriced drinks instead of loitering back here?”

Frankie shrugs, pushing off the frame to walk over, leaning against the counter you’re sitting at.

“Got tired of staring at some drunk Wall Street guy crying into his whiskey and thought to myself: why be out here when there’s a much better view back there?”

You roll your eyes playfully, but your lips twitch into a reluctant smile as you finish counting, setting the cash aside. “That was corny as hell.”

“Give a guy a break. How am I supposed to flirt with a woman who’s heard every line in the book?”

“Not like that.”

He feigns offense with a heavy sigh. This is how you two banter and you won’t lie and say you don’t find it fun. 

“Has the ‘ruggedly handsome bartender with excellent taste in beautiful women who keep rejecting him’ thing lost its charm? Not into underdogs?”

“I should start keeping a tally of your rejections on the mirror. We’re getting dangerously close to double digits.”

“What if I’m into being humiliated? You’re too gorgeous to be playing with my feelings like this, sweetheart.”

You laugh despite yourself and lean back in the chair to eye him up and down, popping the lollipop out of your mouth, waving it at him like a magic wand.

“Still not getting that date, Francisco.”

“I know, I know,” he says, raising his hands with a soft laugh, watching you reach down to readjust your heels.

“You’re not looking for anything right now. Practicing abstinence is what you said. If I remember correctly.”

Frankie is sweet. The kind of guy who actually means it when he says he just wants to get to know you.

You’re attracted to him, there’s no denying that. He’s hot and competent. But that’s about it. It’d be a waste of both of your times and definitely not something you’re trying to get into.

It also doesn’t help that Javier’s face haunts you when you least expect it to. As if can’t move on from how he said he loved you like it physically hurt him.

The best lover you’ve had, doomed to be nothing but a bittersweet memory.

“I’m just here to dance and get my bag,” you say more seriously, but not mean. “That’s it.”

He nods, no bitterness in his expression, just understanding. “You workin’ tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but not here. At a party at one of those private beaches further south.”

“Do you need a ride there?”

“No, they’re sending a car to my place.” Moving off the seat and swiping your money off the counter, you walk over to your locker to change into your second outfit of the night.

He lets out a whistle. “Damn, must be a good gig if you’ve got a private escort.”

“Fingers crossed,” you mutter, spinning the combination on the lock. The metal door creaks open, revealing the mess inside.

Frankie watches as you scoop a bump onto the tip of your pinky nail, bring it straight to your nose, and snort hard.

The burn hits instantly and you sniff loudly, wiping the underside of your nose with the back of your hand aggressively, and let out a soft, satisfied moan as the frost spreads through your sinuses.

“How long have you been using?”

The question lands heavier than you expect it to.

You pause for a second, then shrug, licking at the lollipop and spritzing on some perfume, double checking your appearance in the small mirror hanging in the locker.

“Long enough.”

You haven’t been able to shake the vices. They followed you all the way to the coast like loyal, starving dogs.

The inner crises scream without the buffer, echoing between your ribs and around your skull.

Sobriety makes everything feel hollow. You can’t fucking stand it.

So you’ve convinced yourself that ‘managed use’ is fine. Like how it used to be.

You peel off your bikini top and slip into the mint colored poster girl dress. Frankie is still watching you, concern etched deeper into his face now as you lock up your things.

He is very familiar with the vicious cycle of addiction (having dealt with it himself) so his next words are offered with nothing but good intentions.

“If you ever want to talk—”

You cut him off by stepping closer, removing the candy from between your lips and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his.

It’s very much deliberate, enough to kill the conversation. You’re not trying to hear it.

His mouth is warm, surprised for half a second, before he kisses you back. You can’t help but moan softly at the feel of it. Not bad, Morales.

When you pull away, his eyes are a little darker

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you whisper against his mouth, offering a pretty smile. “Go keep an eye on your tips. I’ll see you around.”

The DEA has hit the Valentine empire like a wrecking ball.

They’ve been cutting The Ivory Saints off from suppliers and associates, weakening the entire organization.

All it took was multiple raids in one coordinated night. Workshops and warehouses out in the middle of nowhere.

They even took down notable players from the Mexican cartel in the process.

The press is calling it one of the biggest takedowns in Nevada history, yet Javier feels none of the satisfaction he once expected from such a pivotal accomplishment.

Not with Leon still hiding behind his affluent lawyers and staying out of the spotlight completely. They don’t know where the fuck he is.

Javi stands at the head of the conference room table, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, staring at the latest batch of arrest reports and seized assets like they might rearrange themselves into something that imitates victory. 

He should be filled with triumph over the fact that millions of dollars worth of drugs and weapons were confiscated—but he isn’t.

His eyes are bloodshot, and there’s a newfound tension pressing down on his shoulders that wasn’t there before you left.

You changed your number. Deleted every social media account. Cut off Soleil and anyone who knew you here without a single word.

Classic tactic—disappearing like smoke the second things got too real. 

Expected, yet it still fucking hurts.

Steve pushes open the door, looking wired in that particular Murphy way.

“You’re not gonna believe this shit.”

Javier doesn’t even look up from the file in his hand. “Try me.”

Steve snatches the folder from him and throws it on the table, getting his full attention. “I just spent three hours with Monica Valentine.”

Javier’s posture straightens. That’s your mother. “You what?”

“She showed up here with her kid. Said she had information on her husband.”

“Why the hell didn’t you call me?”

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” Murphy rubs a hand over his chin, suddenly more serious. “She’s been sitting on some info for years, man. Leon really had Lionel killed.”

Javier’s jaw tightens out of annoyance. “We already knew that.”

Steve shakes his head. “Monica had an affair with Leon and got pregnant. She was terrified to tell her then-husband, so she lied and said it was his. Leon wanted nothing to do with the kid at first… until he saw how good his brother was with her. How much he genuinely loved her and wanted her to take over the family business. That jealousy turned into pure fuckin’ poison.”

Steve pauses, letting the revelation settle. Javier remains stoic, brows pinched together. 

“She’s Leon’s daughter,” Javi says quietly, almost to himself. His fingers twitch out of nervous habit.

“The truth comes out during a particularly nasty fight—and now one’s dead and the other’s fuckin’ hiding.”

He stares at Steve, the pieces clicking together with clarity.

The venom in every single one of Leon’s actions towards you. How his personal resentment burns so hot, the entire city can feel it.

Murphy continues, “What pushed Monica to come forward? She overheard him planning a setup to have the Valentine girl killed. Bastard really only has one play, huh?” 

Javi’s ears begin to ring, almost drowning him out.

“... didn’t get many details, was too scared of getting caught so she grabbed her son and fled. Came straight to us because she figured if her daughter trusted us enough to work with us… maybe she should too.”

Javier is quick on his feet, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair.

“Where is she now?”

“My office with the boy. She’s got nowhere to go.”

“Get Van Ness and Feistl,” Javier orders with purpose. “Take her to my place. Stay with her until I can arrange proper protection with people I trust. Leon’s got too much pull and I’m not risking something happening to either of them.”

Steve sizes him up for a long moment, then nods.

“What are we going to do about her?”

“We need to find her before Leon gets to her. Fuck!” He slams his fist down on the table, molars grinding together. He feels himself getting hot all over.

“Cool it before you do something stupid and irrational. We’ll find her.” Murphy reassures him sternly.

Peña doesn’t say anything… and he doesn’t need to. Steve knows how to decipher his silence. So he leaves the room and Javier uses the solitude to calm himself down.

He can’t let this end with you dead. He just can’t. 

The blacked-out Tesla pulls up to the sprawling property just after midnight. The ocean crashes against shore somewhere nearby, making you realize how secluded this place really is.

The driver doesn’t say a word as they pull away, leaving you standing alone in front of the mansion with its opulent silhouette and swaying palm trees.

Something feels off, but you shake it away, your senses heightened from the uppers you took on the ride over.

You walk up to the large doors, ringing the doorbell a few times, adjusting your tits in the dress, fidgeting with your hair.

It opens to reveal the last person you’d expect to see: Soleil. Her eyes are wide with a mix of surprise, relief, and anger.

Behind her, Amala, Bailee, and Nayeli are clustered in the foyer, all dressed for a high-end night, confusion written across their faces as a pop song filters through the open floor layout of the house. 

“What the fuck?” The words splutter out of you.

“What is she doing here?” Nayeli questions with a wary glare, taking another drag of the joint pinched between two fingers.

“This has to be the wrong address or some shit. I’m supposed to be working a party tonight.”

“So are we.”

Tension fizzles underneath your skin the longer you stand in front of your best friend. Or, well, ex-best friend?

“I thought you were dead.” Soleil wastes no time in vocalizing her gripes. “Last time I saw you, you had gone way off the deep end and then you just… disappeared. Now you’re here living a new fucking life—as if the shit we’ve been through together never happened.”

Her anger is warranted, you understand that, especially with how shitty you treated her at the tail end of your crashout.

“I needed to get out before it got me killed,” you answer, looking past her shoulder into the house.

No one else is here except the five of you.

“Do you know who’s hosting?” 

“Wait wait wait,” Nayeli intervenes with a puff of smoke, “Are we just supposed to let her join in like she didn’t crash out at Ace? Or how she talked to Itziri and basically told all of us to get fucked?” She crows out a laugh and you cringe at the sound of it. “Wow, are you really that desperate for attention?” 

You roll your eyes but keep your cool by ignoring her, smacking your lips and brushing past Soleil to get inside.

“Gerardo flew us out for the weekend!” Amala exclaims enthusiastically. “He’s paying us good money, too. So it’s probably his party. No need to freak.”

Bailee nods with a sweet grin, clinking her champagne flute against her friends. “Yeah, Miami is insane! No wonder you brought your pretty ass down here. Is the pay good? You still hookin’? I might have to relocate.”

Your stomach twists. There are too many coincidences happening, especially when you realize that these are the girls Javier’s team had approached before you decided to help.

You glance around with a shake of your head. You’re trusting your intuition and right now it’s telling you to get the fuck out of here.

“This isn’t right,” you reach into your purse to grab your phone. Fuck, it’s not on you. You must have left it in your other bag. “It feels like a setup.”

Nayeli rolls her eyes. “Of course you’d say that.”

You don’t have the time nor the desire to sit here and bicker with a bitch you do not like. You take Soleil’s wrist in your hand and walk her down the narrow corridor into a more private area, leaving the other girls up front.

“Those three lack common sense, but not us.” You tell her, but all she does is roll her eyes. “This shit is sketchy and you know it. I’m not sticking around to find out what it is.”

“So you’re leaving again?”

The hurt in Soleil’s voice makes you pause. You look at her—your only real friend in this mess—and feel your chest ache.

“It’s for the best, Sol. I need to distance myself from that place. You know how fucked up the situation is with my family.”

“Yeah—I do,” she snaps. “I was gutted that you didn’t come to me with what you were dealing with. I would have helped you.”

You shake your head. “I’m better off on my own. No one else needs to be dragged into this bullshit. Which is why I think we should leave.”

She opens her mouth to rebuttal when suddenly you hear loud crashes followed by screaming coming from the foyer.

You peek around the corner just in time to see two armed men storming in, their faces cold and professional. You recognize them instantly: grunts who work for the Ivory Saints.

“I fucking knew it,” you hiss, feeling the acidic burn of panic bubbling up your throat. “We have to leave. Now!”

Gunfire erupts suddenly. Amala and Bailee don’t even have time to react. Their bodies hit the marble floor with sickening thuds, blood spreading fast across the white stone.

You and Soleil sprint through the mansion in search of a clear exit (to no avail), heels abandoned behind you.

Nayeli is somewhere in this sprawling hellscape, scrambling in blind panic.

Your name is shouted, bouncing off the opulent walls, and a chill strikes up your back when you hear the loud noises of them rummaging through the house—looking for you.

You and Soleil crouch low behind the massive leather couch in the darkened library, hearts hammering so violently you can feel them in your teeth.

“What’s going on?!” She whispers. Her body shakes next to yours.

You don’t answer because you can’t. Any response feels like tightened barbed wire around your neck.

Then you hear Leon’s familiar, cruel voice from the hallway outside.

“I gave you a chance to walk away, but you had to keep messing around and now everything this family has built is crumbling.”

Footsteps are amplified, and in the state you’re in, you can’t tell if they’re getting farther or closer. 

His voice climbs higher. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out where you hid away?” He continues, tone laden with mock disappointment. “My own daughter running around like a common whore for the government then scurrying away like a rat.”

You bite down on your lip until it bleeds. You can’t even fully process what that means, not when you’re this scared and still feeling the effects of the drugs.

Soleil’s hand finds yours, squeezing hard, sensing the trepidation she too is currently experiencing.

Leon’s laugh is condescending. “Come out now and I’ll take it easy on you girls. It’ll be cleaner that way.”

What are we going to do? Soleil mouths.

You scan the room desperately, eyes darting through the shadows. Then you see it—a heavy antique candlestick on the console table nearby.

Silently, you crawl across the floor to grab it and return to her side. Your hands are shaking so badly you almost drop it.

“I’ll get him in here,” you whisper, lips right against her ear. “You hide with this.”

You press the heavy object into her hands. Soleil clutches it tightly, tears cutting fresh tracks through her makeup.

“Wait for my signal,” you breathe, “then hit that fucker in the back of the head with everything you’ve got.”

She grits her teeth and nods. You wipe away her tears, knowing things can go to shit in a matter of seconds.

With a tight lipped smile, she slips away into the deeper shadows between the tall bookshelves.

You take a shaky breath, sniff hard to clear the coke drip in the back of your throat, and force yourself to stand. You creep to the archway that leads into the library, heart in the pit of your stomach.

Leon is standing at the far end of the long hallway, the low glow of the wall sconces make him look like a villain stepping out of your worst nightmare. 

“Okay,” you say, steadier than you feel. “I’m here. Just fucking kill me and get it over with. You don’t have to hurt the girls—”

His head snaps to the side at the sound of your voice, then he turns fully, eyes locking onto you.

“It’s too late for that.” He’s eerily calm as he starts closing the distance with slow, measured steps.

Your throat tightens painfully, but you fight to keep your face composed. You can’t let him see how fucking terrified you really are.

“They didn’t do anything—!”

“Collateral,” he responds flatly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You take a careful step backward into the library, luring him in. He follows, step for step, like a predator scenting blood.

“So now what? You kill your daughter and four prostitutes and what happens next? All your problems just go away?” you ask with venom in your voice, maintaining eye contact.

“Yes,” he answers with unnerving certainty, stepping fully into the room. “No one gives a shit about some hookers from Ace. But you…” He raises the gun, pointing it directly at your chest.

“Killing you will send a very clear message to everyone who’s been questioning me: I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the Valentine’s in power. That includes killing my own family.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears. “Why are you doing this?” The question slips out with terrifying sincerity. You need to know.

Leon doesn’t answer right away. Instead he studies you, his fondness twisted with cruelty.

“I watched Lionel parade you around like you were his while I had to stand there pretending I didn’t hate every minute of it.”

His voice drops lower.

“Your mother was too ashamed to tell him the truth. So she lied. And I let it happen… until the resentment ate me alive. Until I couldn’t stand it anymore. So I got rid of him. Then I got rid of the lie. You.”

He takes one final step closer, gun steady.

“Now I have the wife and son I always deserved. And you… you were never supposed to be alive this long.”

Your chest heaves and you gasp sharply—that’s your signal.

Soleil slinks from behind him with a feral cry and swings the heavy candlestick roughly. It connects with a crack against the back of Leon’s head.

He drops like a sack of bricks, gun clattering loudly to the floor.

You lunge forward and snatch the weapon, fingers wrapping around metal. For one wild second, you consider emptying the entire clip into his body.

But rapid, heavy footsteps thunder up the main staircase: more of Leon’s men, shouting orders you don’t comprehend.

Soleil grabs your arm, yanking hard. “We have to leave!”

“N-No I need to d-do this.” Your vision blurs and you can’t get a good grip on the damn weapon from how unstable you are.

Blood pools slowly from the gash in Leon’s head, dark and glistening on the hardwood.

You should feel relief. Closure. Something.

Instead, you just feel hollow, furious, and so fucking lost.

“We don’t have the time,” she says your name sternly.

Soleil’s right: there’s no time to get tragically melancholic right now.

You let her pull you toward the back staircase that leads down to the zero-edge pool glowing turquoise under the crescent moonlight.

You’re about to bolt for the beach when a dark, wet trail catches your eye—blood smeared across the stone patio. It leads from the shattered backdoor.

In the far corner, half-hidden by shadows and tall hedges, Nayeli is dragging herself across the ground like a broken doll. One leg is twisted at a grotesque angle, bone jutting through torn skin. Blood soaks her pink dress, pooling beneath her with every labored pull forward.

You and Soleil spot her at the same time.

“Is that…” 

“Yeah.”

You both rush over silently. Nayeli’s face is pale and slick with sweat, her breathing wet and ragged. She’s covered in cuts and deep bruises, one eye already swelling shut.

When she sees you, her lips part, but all that comes out is a wet, gurgling cough. 

You drop to your knees beside her, the cold stone biting into your skin. The metallic stench of blood is overwhelming, making your own stomach turn.

“There’s no fucking way she’s getting out of here,” Soleil whispers in panic as she helps you move Nayeli behind a tall hedge for cover. “Not like this.”

Nayeli whimpers a broken sound and you press a hand over her mouth gently, trying to muffle it so that you’re not caught.

The men are still inside, but it’s only a matter of time before they come looking for the three of you.

“Then what the fuck do we do?”

“One of us has to go for help,” Soleil reasons. “The other stays with her.”

“Split up? Fuck no, that’s the dumbest thing we could do—”

“Then what do you suggest?” she snaps. “We couldn’t carry her between us if we tried. Our phones are inside so we can’t call anyone. The nearest house god knows where…”

Nayeli lets out another wet cough, blood flecking her lips. Her hand weakly grabs yours, nails digging in with what little strength she has left.

You swallow hard. The weight of the decision presses down on your chest.

“Okay… okay, fuck,” you concede in a whisper. “I’ll go. I’ll find help. I swear I’ll come back.”

Tears burn your eyes as you pull Soleil into a tight, desperate hug over Nayeli’s body. Her arms wrap around you just as fiercely. She presses a quick, salty kiss to your tear-streaked cheek before you pull away.

“We’ll be here.”

You look down at Leon’s gun still clutched in your hand. You press it into Soleil’s palm.

“Aim and shoot,” you tell her, staring hard into her eyes. “Don’t fucking hesitate. No matter what.”

She nods, gripping the weapon tightly like she had before.

You squeeze Nayeli’s hand, bringing it to your lips for a quick kiss. Her skin is clammy and cold.

“Hang in there, Nayeli. We’re going to make it out of this.”

You force yourself to peel away and look back at them one final time; two terrified girls huddled behind the hedge, blood on the ground, the mansion looming behind them like a slaughterhouse.

Then you turn and run.

You take the steps down to the shore two at a time, bare feet against cold stone before sinking into the soft, uneven sand.

It shifts and gives way beneath you, making every stride feel like you’re running in place. The ocean roars to your left, spraying cool saltwater against your heated skin as waves crash against the shore.

You look around frantically, trying to get a sense of direction. Everything looks the same, just an endless stretch of the dark coast. It’s like purgatory.

“Fuck… fuck…” you gasp, body filled with panic.

You pick a direction, west, and run.

Warm sand punishes you with every step, slipping between your toes, cutting into the soft soles of your feet. 

The Florida night air is oppressive, wrapping around your throat like a wet cloth, choking you as you push forward.

Sweat pours down your face, mixing with your tears. Your dress is suddenly restrictive, the fabric rubbing raw against your thighs.

You run until your mind starts to fracture.

The world narrows to the stinging in your lungs and sharp pain at your feet.

Time loses meaning. The drugs and adrenaline clash together, making your vision tunnel and your thoughts scatter like confetti.

Leon’s voice keeps echoing in your head, twisting the knife deeper with every ragged breath.

Your stomach revolts without warning.

You stumble to a stop, doubling over as violent heaves rip through you. 

Nothing but bitter bile and the remnants of whatever pills and powder you took earlier come up, burning your throat and splattering onto the sand.

You cough and gag, strings of spit and vomit dangling from your lips, knees sinking into the sand as your body tries to purge the substances and terror all at once.

The sky slowly lightens from black to bruised purple to a hazy dawn gray by the time you finally stagger onto a boardwalk.

Your feet are blistered and bleeding, caked with sand. You’re completely out of it.

The boardwalk leads to a busy block just waking up. Early morning joggers and delivery trucks move around you. You must look crazed with your disheveled appearance and bloodied dress.

You spot a payphone up the street and rush to it, hands shaking so badly that you can barely dial the number.

Please deposit one dollar for the first three minutes

Of course. You have no fucking money.

“God fucking damnit!” you scream, smashing the plastic handset against the metal box again and again and again. The sharp crack of plastic echoes down the street. “Fuck you! Fuck all of this!”

The 24-hour laundromat in the same parking lot is nearly empty. The attendant behind the counter, an older man with tired eyes, looks up and freezes at the sight of you coming in.

You limp to the counter. “Do you have a phone I can borrow? Or some change for the one outside? It’s an emergency.”

He stares at you for a long second then silently slides a few quarters across the counter.

“Get out.”

You snatch the change without another word, push back through the doors, and practically sprint to the payphone again, avoiding some broken glass that litters the banged up parking lot.

Your hands continue to tremble. It takes three tries to get the coins in.

You dial the only number you still remember by heart.

The line rings once…twice…

On the third ring, he picks up.

“Peña.” His greeting is rough, like he hasn’t slept in days.

The sound of his voice widens the gash on your heart. You choke on a sob, gripping the receiver so hard your knuckles ache.

“Javi… I—I need help.”

A beat of silence as your voice registers.

“Where are you?” he demands, you can hear the heavy emotion in his tone. “Talk to me. Are you hurt?”

“I’m in Miami,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut as the neverending tears continue to spill down your cheeks.

“Leon found me. He killed them, Javi. Amala and Bailee are dead. Soleil’s still there with Nayeli—she’s hurt bad. I barely got out. He told me everything and then tried to kill me too.”

Your voice breaks completely on the last word. You slide down the side of the payphone booth until you’re sitting on the filthy ground, knees drawn up, the handset pressed to your ear.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Stay where you are,” he says, “I’ll arrange for you to get picked up and taken somewhere safe until I get there—but you have to tell me exactly where you are.”

You give him the information, curling tighter into yourself as people walk by and stare at the bloody, barefoot girl sobbing into a payphone.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I was so scared of—”

“Don’t,” Javier cuts in. “Don’t do that. Not now. You’re going to be okay. I’m coming to get you. Just hold on.”

You close your eyes, inhaling a shaky breath. “I’m so tired of this, Javi,” you whisper.

“I know, baby. I’m on my way.”

You stay on the line with him until the operator cuts in for more money. You don’t have any left. The call drops.

The flight from Vegas to Miami is the longest five hours of Javier’s life.

He arranged what he could before departing, getting in contact with a former partner from his early DEA days down south who agreed to take you in. He runs a quiet motel at the edge of the city, and it’s the safest place Javi could think of on short notice.

Carrillo has been nothing but helpful, keeping him updated on how you’re doing.

You’re unresponsive and refusing to let him tend to the wounds on your feet. You’ve locked yourself up in the room he placed you in since the moment you arrived, also refusing to eat.

By the time Javier gets to the motel, the sun is already setting, painting the sky in oranges and pinks. A duffel bag containing clothes and basic toiletries is gripped tightly in his hand.

He stands outside the door of your room and knocks softly, being met with silence. 

“It’s me,” he announces, “I’m coming in.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, instead using the keycard Carrillo gave him and letting himself in.

The room is freezing. The AC is blasting on high, raising goosebumps on his arms even through his jean jacket. The curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the dimming sunlight.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the same ruined dress from the night before.

Nayeli’s dried blood is flaked across your arms and chest like rust. Sand and dirt cake your bare calves and shredded feet, leaving dark smears on the cheap carpet where blood from burst blisters has soaked through. 

Your arms are wrapped tightly around your trembling body, nails digging viciously into your own skin, leaving fresh scratches.

You’re staring blankly at the floral wallpaper across from you, leg bouncing rapidly, barely registering that he’s there.

Javier’s chest caves in at the sight.

He closes the door behind him and drops the bag. Slowly, carefully, he crouches in front of you.

“Hey,” he says your name gently, reaching out to carefully unfurl your arms. “I’m here.”

His hands are warm as he takes yours, stopping you from clawing yourself any deeper. 

Javi says your name again and your eyes finally shift to his; wide, dilated, swimming in shock.

“Where are they?”

He swallows thickly, thumbs stroking the backs of your hands. “You should shower first so I can clean up your—”

“Where. Are. They.” Your grip tightens painfully on his hands, nails sinking in as you lean forward until your faces are inches apart, erratic breath gusting from your nostrils against his face. “Sol and Nayeli. Tell me.”

Javier holds your gaze, conflicted. He knows you won’t let it go.

“They’re recovering at the hospital,” he answers quietly.

A small, trembling smile quivers at the corner of your chapped lips. You let out a deep, shaky exhale as some of the crushing weight lifts from your shoulders.

But the relief is fragile. It shatters almost immediately.

Your face crumples. A pained cry tears out of you as you collapse forward into his arms. Javier catches you instantly, pulling you tight against his chest as he lowers both of you to the floor, arms banding tight around you as he rocks you gently.

He lets you cry until the heaving slowly fractures into sniffles, not saying anything for a long time. He just breathes with you, holds you.

Eventually, his voice rumbles low against your temple.

“There’s a jet waiting to take us back to Vegas.”

You pull away just enough to look up at him. Your eyes are swollen and bloodshot, makeup and glitter smeared in dark streaks down your cheeks. Snot drips from your nose.

You feel disgusting.

“I-I want to stay here. With Sol and Nayeli. I can’t just leave them.”

Javier’s mustache twitches and his jaw ticks hard, the muscle jumping beneath the skin.

You can see the conflict tearing through him—the need to protect you battling against the knowledge of how much this will hurt.

“You can’t,” he tells you carefully. “Not right now.”

Your brows pull together, fresh, angry tears spilling over. “Why not?”

“After what happened, your safety is at serious risk,” he explains slowly, thumbs brushing away tears from your cheeks. You can feel the tension vibrating through his touch.

“Leon is still out there. And he’s more dangerous now than ever. I can’t let him get to you again.”

Your head spins.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you whisper, glaring at him incredulously. “We killed him. Soleil hit him in the back of the head with the candlestick. There was blood everywhere—”

Javier’s frown deepens, concern flickering across his face.

“The property was searched top to bottom. There was no sign of Leon. He’s gone.”

You close your eyes tight, trying to block out the impact of the news, but it hits you anyway.

A fresh wave of panic surges up, choking you. You curl into yourself, folding forward as cries start spilling out again.

Javier pulls you back into his chest without hesitation. He presses his lips to your hair, murmuring low, steady words you can barely hear through the roaring in your ears.

You stay tangled on the ruined carpet for what feels like hours, his heartbeat steady against your ear while yours races wildly.

Eventually the sobs ease again, leaving you even more drained and empty.

Javier pulls back just enough to look at you, stroking his thumb against your jaw.

“I’m gonna get the shower started for you, okay?” 

You nod weakly, too exhausted to argue. He helps you sit up against the bed, then moves quickly around the small room—turning on the shower and laying out fresh clothes and toiletries Connie packed for you on the counter.

When he comes back, he crouches in front of you again and carefully helps you stand. Your feet scream in pain as weight hits the injured soles, but you lean into him, limping the few steps into the bathroom.

“I got it from here,” you tell him when you reach the doorway.

Javier hesitates, eyes searching your face. “You sure? I don’t mind helping—”

“I know you don’t… but I need this. Just… for me.”

He studies you for another long second, then nods reluctantly.

“Okay. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

You close the door between you and Javier leans back against the wall, letting out a long, exhausted breath, rubbing both hands over his face.

Things are about to get a lot more complicated.

Heavy steam rolls out of the bathroom as you step into the room once you finish, wrapped in a bathrobe. 

You feel more grounded than you have in hours. Still raw and aching, but somewhat present in your own body again.

It doesn’t help that you’ve also been coming down roughly. Your body is craving an oxy to put you straight to sleep.

Javier is leaning against the small desk in the corner of the room, phone still in hand after ending his call with the team.

Everything has been finalized. All they need is the two of you on that jet and back in the city.

He looks up the moment you appear, brown eyes softening.

“Hey… how are you feeling?”

You manage a weak, tired smile as you limp over and lower yourself into the unoccupied chair, wincing when your feet graze the carpet.

“As good as I can,” you murmur.

Javier doesn’t push further. He simply moves efficiently—grabbing the first aid kit from the duffel, kneeling in front of you on the carpet.

His large hands are gentle as he lifts your foot into his lap, examining the torn, blistered soles with a furrowed brow.

The antiseptic stings sharply as he cleans the wounds, but his touch stays reverent. He works in silence, wrapping each foot in soft gauze carefully, thumbs brushing lightly over your ankles like an apology for the pain.

You watch him the entire time, the sight of this hardened man on his knees for you stirring complicated feelings in your chest.

When he finishes and starts to stand, you stop him—pressing your bandaged foot gently against his chest.

He looks up, those beautiful brown eyes locking onto yours, enchanting you wholly.

“Do you really love me, Javier?”

His tongue rolls across his teeth.

“Of course I do.”

“And you’d do anything for me?”

“Anything,” he says without hesitation.

You lean forward slightly, eyes never leaving his.

“Then kiss me.”

The request hangs between you for half a second.

Javier surges up, one hand cupping the back of your neck as he captures your mouth in a desperate kiss.

You moan into him, fingers twisting into the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. 

You’re not thinking straight and you don’t want to. The only thing you crave right now is him and all the ways in which he can deliver exactly what you need.

Javier braces his hands on the arms of the chair, still on his knees between your legs, letting you control the kiss.

His breathing grows ragged as you rut your hips against the edge of the seat, seeking friction.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing yours.

“We can’t… not after everything you’ve been through tonight—”

You shut him up by grabbing his wrist and guiding his hand between your thighs.

His fingers meet the slick, swollen heat of your pussy, already dripping for him. You press his palm firmly against your slit, gasping at the contact.

Javier groans when he feels how wet you are. His fingers slide through your folds instinctively, rubbing slow circles over your aching clit.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your mouth, totally wrecked.

You whimper, hips rolling shamelessly against his hand, chasing the pleasure only he seems able to give you.

He lifts you into his arms effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as your hands cling to his shoulders while he carries you the few steps to the edge of the bed, laying you down on the mattress.

You prop yourself up on your forearms, robe slipping open, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as he drops between your spread legs. 

His mouth trails down your body in a wet, open-mouthed path, licking the valley between your breasts, biting the soft skin just below your navel. 

Every touch sends sparks shooting through your overstimulated nerves.

He throws your legs over his broad shoulders, the coarse scratch of his mustache dragging across your sensitive skin.

A broken sigh escapes your lips once his tongue parts your slick folds, licking a slow stripe from your entrance to your swollen clit.

You taste right in all the wrong ways. He could drown in this. He wants to.

His tongue is relentless, flat and broad one moment, pointed and teasing the next. He groans into your cunt like he’s tasting lotus right from its source.

Your head falls back, eyes rolling shut as pleasure crashes through you in waves. Tears slip from the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of how passionate he’s being.

The euphoria clouds everything ugly.

He fucks you with his tongue, deep and messy, nose grinding against your clit while he drinks down every drop of your arousal.

His hands are desperately gripping onto you, afraid you’ll disappear again if he eases up.

Javi pulls back for a second, breathing hard, lips and mustache shiny with your release.

He looks up at you already looking down at him, teary-eyed with your pretty lips parted, and possessiveness bleeds out of every single pore on his body.

“I can’t lose you,” he rasps, nuzzling his head against your inner thigh.

You don’t say anything, instead guiding him back to your pussy.

He dives back in, sucking your clit while two thick fingers slide into you, curling instantly against that spot that makes your thighs shake around his head as you orgasm embarrassingly fast. 

This kind of need is destructive. He’s losing himself in you more than you’re losing yourself in him. 

Javier keeps licking you through it, selfishly prolonging your pleasure because he can’t bear to pull away from the taste of you.

“More,” you chant deliriously, pawing at his shoulders. 

He rises quickly, shedding his clothes with impatient movements. You shrug off the robe and toss it aside, sitting up on your knees at the edge of the mattress as he stands in front of you, cock hard and leaking. 

You pull him close by the nape of his neck.

“When we first met,” you whisper against his lips, “you told me you don’t do gentle.”

You cup his jaw, thumb brushing his mustache. “I’m hoping that’s still true.”

Javier’s hands slide to your hips, kneading the soft flesh the way he knows drives you crazy, getting lost in the way you’re looking at him.

“I don’t want to think about anything except your cock inside me, Javi,” you purr, nipping at his bottom lip.

With the grip on your waist, he spins you around and bends you over the edge of the bed, pulling you back until your ass is perfectly arched for him.

You brace yourself on shaky arms, turning your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder with that signature look—defiant even now.

He strokes his cock a few times then lines himself up and sinks into you.

You yelp at the stretch, fingers clawing into the sheets as he bottoms out.

The fullness is overwhelming, no matter how many times he’s split you open so perfectly.

He sets a dizzying pace immediately, hips snapping forward hard enough to make the bed creak and your breasts bounce with every thrust.

It feels like he’s trying to imprint himself inside you. The wet, filthy sound of sex fills the room, mixed with your desperate cries and his deep grunts.

Your arms give out and you fall face-first into the pillows, adjusting the angle so that he’s somehow deeper.

You clench around him greedily, sucking him deeper, smearing your mixed arousal where your bodies connect.

He leans over you, one hand keeping you pinned by the back of the neck, the other gripping your hip. His chest presses against your back, his breath labored against your ear.

“This what you wanted?” he growls, biting down on your shoulder.

“Yesyesyes—” you pant deliriously, pushing back against him desperately. “Harder. Oh my god—make me forget everything.”

He gives you exactly what you ask for.

The sex is toxic for a lot of reasons.

It feeds the worst parts of each other. You both know it.

But neither of you has ever been good at quitting.

Javier reaches around, fingers finding your throbbing clit, rubbing tight circles as he pounds into you. 

You come again with a high pitched whine, leaking around his cock. Javier follows right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you in hot pulses as he grinds against your ass.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the hum of the AC.

His forehead is pressed to your shoulder, lips brushing the damp skin there with every heavy exhale. You can feel his heartbeat thundering against your back, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

The words slip out before you can stop them, muffled against the crumpled sheets.

“I don’t know if I can be alone again…” you slur, sounding so defeated. “Tell me I won’t be.”

Javier’s eyes squeeze shut tighter. He can’t look at you right now. If he does, he’ll see the vulnerability in your knowing stare and it will destroy him more than it already has.

So instead of doing the right thing, he tightens his arms around you, pressing his lips to the back of your neck.

“You won’t be.”

The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, but he says it anyway, and you choose to believe it.

You sleep curled against Javier’s side the entire flight back to Vegas. Your body is heavy with exhaustion and the strong painkillers he gave you during your only meal before boarding. 

Every mile closer to the city tightens the knot in his stomach, knowing what waits for you.

He should have been honest back in the motel room, but you were already barely holding on.

Javier couldn’t bring himself to break what little was left of you.

Selfish. He’s so fucking selfish.

When you arrive, he wakes you gently, hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing across your bottom lip.

“Hey… we’re here.”

You grumble, eyes fluttering open, heavy and unfocused.

The painkillers have dulled the screaming agony in your feet to a throbbing ache, but your body still feels like lead.

You sit up slowly, wincing as the movement spreads throughout your sore body.

Murphy, Van Ness, and Feistl are waiting on the tarmac when you descend the stairs.

Steve leans against the hood of his truck, arms crossed.

You trail a few steps behind Javier, hood pulled up over your head, hands shoved deep in the pockets of the hoodie.

The dry desert wind whips around you and you keep your eyes on the ground, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Steve steps forward and hands Javier a thick manila envelope without a word. Their eyes meet in a long, loaded look, sharing a silent conversation only years of partnership can create.

Javier opens it, flipping through the contents with a grim expression.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Steve nods once, leaning back against the truck. 

Javier turns to you, holding out the envelope.

You take it with numb fingers, rubbing the sleep from your swollen eyes before opening it.

Inside: a thick wad of cash, a shiny new credit card, a passport with a name that isn’t yours, and a stack of legal documents.

Your brows pull together in confusion. “What’s this?”

“You’re going into witness protection until we find Leon.”

A nervous laugh bubbles out of you. You slap a hand over your mouth, but it keeps spilling out, edged with hysteria.

Van Ness and Feistl share an uneasy glance.

“Here in Vegas?” 

His throat bobs. “No.”

“Then where?”

“I don’t know,” Javier admits. “That’s the point. No one is supposed to know where you go or who you are. Not even me.”

You stare at him, the envelope trembling in your hands. Then you shove it back against his chest, hard.

“No. I’m not letting you ship me off to the middle of nowhere for who knows how long.”

He sighs deeply and starts to say your name, but then Steve cuts in.

“Are you serious right now? You’re refusing protection because what—you won’t be able to party anymore? Shove your nose full of coke?”

Anger flares hot and ugly through your veins, mixing with the lingering shock still in your system. It makes your skin crawl.

“Who the fuck asked for your input, you little blonde bitch?” you spit, stepping closer, eyes wild despite the lack of rest that weighs down on the bags under your eyes.

Javier moves between you instantly.

“I don’t know why he keeps putting his ass on the line for you, meanwhile you couldn’t give a shit about anything that isn’t yourself.”

“Murphy—enough.” Javier raises his voice, turning around to look at his partner, shoving an exasperated finger into his chest. “Back off.”

Steve holds his hands up in mock surrender, but his eyes stay hard on you. “Fine. It’s voluntary anyway,” he says over Javier’s shoulder. “You don’t gotta do it. Might end up like your friends, though.”

Javier curls his fists into Murphy’s shirt and shakes him roughly. “What the fuck did I just say?” He spits out but Steve couldn’t look intimidated even if he tried.

“Wait…” The throbbing in your head intensifies. “Soleil and Nayeli… are they being offered this too? Leon’s after them because he thinks they helped you.”

Javier doesn’t answer right away. His hands remain tense against Steve.

Murphy meets his gaze, then looks back at you with a pitiful expression.

“Holy shit. You didn’t tell her.”

“Tell me what?” You step closer to Javier, voice rising. “Javier. Tell me what?”

He finally lets go of Steve and turns to face you fully.

The look in his eyes is something you’ve come to know from everyone else except him. 

He’s been lying to you.

“If I had told you in Miami, you wouldn’t have come back.”

You blink rapidly, tears welling up as the pieces come into place.

“Just fucking say it.”

Javier’s jaw works, the words clearly choking him, but he forces them out anyway.

“Soleil and Nayeli… they were killed at the mansion.”

Your world flips violently.

With an almost audible crack, your heart shatters. The air leaves your lungs in a painful whoosh.

They’re dead. You failed them and he lied to you.

“You lying bastard!”

You lunge at him without thinking, fist cracking hard across his jaw. The impact splits his lip instantly, blood blooming bright against his mouth.

Van Ness and Feistl move to pull you off, but Murphy stops them with a raised hand.

“Not yet. Let it happen.”

You hit him again, knuckles cracking against his sternum repeatedly. He doesn’t block nor fight back. He just stands there and takes it, which only pisses you off even more.

“I’m sorry—” he starts to apologize like a fucking idiot.

“You’re sorry?” You laugh manically, ribbons of tears streaming down your face as you kick his shin hard enough to make him hiss.

“I’m the one getting fucked over and you’re sorry?!”

When he doubles over, you drive your knee into his shoulder as hard as you can.

“You lied to me!” you scream splinters into cries. “You looked me in my eye and told me they were recovering—that they were alive—and then you had the audacity to fuck me knowing what you did!”

Your vision blurs completely. Grief and betrayal make you blackout, your aggressions towards him fueled by pure anguish.

You claw at his shirt, nails scraping across his neck and drawing thin lines of blood.

“I hate you,” the sentiment tumbles out between gasping breaths. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you—cheating, deceiving motherfucker—just like the rest of them! You’re the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever met in my entire fucking life!”

Your legs start to quiver as the adrenaline drains out of you all at once. Feistl and Van Ness move in, grabbing your arms gently but firmly, pulling you back.

Javi’s jaw is already bruising, his lip bleeding freely, a thin cut above his eyebrow stinging where your nails caught him.

The physical pain is nothing compared to the shame carving deep into his chest.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, bending down to grab the folder he dropped. 

“I thought you were different…” you go limp in the agents’ hold, all the fight draining out of you like blood from an open wound. “I thought you were different, Javi…”

There’s nothing left in you. No anger. No strength. Just an empty, aching void.

“Take me away,” you whisper, “please. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Feistl helps you stand, guiding you toward their car. Van Ness takes the manila envelope from Javier without a word.

“The sooner she gets out, the better,” is all Javier says.

Van Ness nods, completely sidestepping the ass-beating his boss just got. “We’ll let you know when we’re on the way back.”

Javier watches the car pull off with bleary eyes. You disappear down the private road toward the highway, red taillights fading into the dark.

Steve stands beside him, arms crossed, shaking his head slowly.

“You fucked this one up big time, Peña.”

Javier doesn’t answer.

He just stares at the empty road with a tense jaw, blood still slowly from his split lip and the scratches on his neck.

He deserves every bit of this pain. He just doesn’t know how he’ll live with it.

A/N: guys... prepare yourselves for an unhappy ending.... If you are involved in sex work and need support, confidential help is available:

National Human Trafficking Hotline (U.S.): 1-888-373-7888 or text 233733 (BEFREE)

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (U.S.): call or text 988 for emotional support, 24/7

SWOP (Sex Workers Outreach Project): local chapters offer advocacy and resources

RAINN (for sexual violence support): 1-800-656-HOPE (4673)

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Over the last two weeks, he had gotten really good at talking to you through your DMs. So good that he had no issues falling into that playful bickering you both did when you were in front of him. But now, the locker room was buzzing with the echoes of cleats shuffling across tile and the occasional bark of laughter bouncing off the metal lockers. It was far too much noise for him to think straight.

Before his shower, he managed to find the right words to ask if you were going to the game this weekend. He had thought about it all week, but now, with only a few days until Saturday afternoon, he suddenly couldn’t manage to form a coherent sentence.

Your reply seemed pretty open-ended, a yes with the added:

Only the tailgate though. I usually watch the game at my apartment with my roommates.

Theoretically, this could be an easy layup, a simple, straightforward proposition. He typed, deleted, then retyped the message three times before finally sending: 

You should come watch me for real.

His thumb hovered over the screen, heartbeat thudding in his ears louder than the locker room chaos. Before he could overthink it, he tapped send and immediately flipped his phone face-down on the bench, as if the message might bare its teeth and nip him. The buzz of a reply came quicker than expected. He turned it over slowly, like lifting a bandage.

I could. Hypothetically.

That was his go-ahead.

Hypothetically, if I score, you think I could get your number?

Despite having known you for a month and a week, you still hadn’t given Colston your phone number. He stared at his phone, watching as the typing indicator appeared. His gut twisted as he imagined you rolling your eyes at his audacity, lips pursed in that way they did when you were deciding whether he was more amusing or annoying. Finally, your reply popped up:

Hypothetically you could.

Colston’s fingers twitched against his phone screen, the corners of his mouth betraying him as they lifted into a grin he couldn’t suppress. He typed:

Hypothetically, I like those odds. You need tickets?

Depends. My dad’s coming to this one so if my mom stays home this week, I’ll be with him.

Colston froze mid-read. You hadn’t spoken much about your families. At most, he could comfortably say that you had two brothers, an older one who graduated from Michigan the previous Spring, and a younger one who was still in middle school. But beyond that, he really didn’t know anything about your parents. He hadn’t known that your parents seemingly attended games, regularly enough that you could casually mention your mom staying home this week specifically.

Your dad went to Michigan?

The text sat unanswered for a full minute, long enough for Colston’s stomach to knot itself into a knot, worried he was overstepping.

He played outside linebacker for Michigan in the 90s.

You replied, followed by a second message:

So yes, he’ll have tickets.

You think I could meet him?

You could.

Colston’s breath caught in his throat when he read the words—not just the offer, but the casual confidence of it. Like you already knew he’d say yes. Like you wanted him to say yes. 

I’m down. Tell me where to meet you.

[ . . . ]

When you told Colston you didn’t usually attend games past the tailgates, you were being truthful. Growing up with a Michigan alum father meant you’d spent your childhood drowning in maize-and-blue Saturdays, sometimes glued to the couch, sometimes tucked into stadium seats, fingers numb from cold soda and colder November winds. By the time you enrolled and attended a few games in the student section, the magic of Saturdays at the Big House had dulled into simply a socially acceptable opportunity to drink before noon.

Your dad did his best to attend most home games in person. He had access to great seats, tailgates with the brothers of Kappa Alpha Psi—both your father and older brother pledged during undergrad—and most importantly, you had spent your entire childhood watching him cheer on the Wolverines with the same fervor he had when he was suited up in the nineties.

“It’s gettin’ close to kickoff,” your father mused, nudging your elbow as you adjusted the navy blue pullover, rolling the sleeves to keep your hands from drowning in them. Your father’s gaze flickered between you and the stadium gates ahead, his mouth quaking at the corners. “We’re about to head in. Are you headin’ back with Dakota? I could get y’all’s Uber—”

“Actually,” you said, hesitating just long enough for your father’s brow to arch, “I was gonna watch with you and Elijah.”

His smile deepened as he adjusted his Michigan cap covering the shine of his bald head. “Elijah’s already inside,” he said, nodding toward the stadium, both of you starting toward the entrance. “But I ain’t heard you volunteer to sit through four quarters since you were sixteen and tryin’ to impress that linebacker’s kid.” He paused, tilting his head. “So who is it this time?”

You rolled your eyes, tugging at the hem of your long-sleeved navy blue baby tee. “I just wanted to keep you company,” you lied. He chuckled low in his throat, the sound rumbling like distant thunder in his chest. It was a sound you knew meant he wasn’t buying it for a second.

“I got your brother to keep me company,” he said, fishing his phone from his pocket as you walked through the gates, flashing his digital pass to the attendant. “Didn’t know I’d need another.” He swiped to a second ticket, thumb hovering.

“Mind you, Elijah left you to ‘go get drinks’ twenty minutes ago,” you pointed out, nudging your father’s shoulder as you navigated the crowded concourse. The scent of salted snacks clung to the air, mingling with the distant roar of the marching band. He hummed, sliding his phone back into his pocket after being waved through the metal detectors.

The stadium seats groaned beneath your father’s weight as he settled in, elbows resting on his knees, eyes already scanning the field as players warmed up. You perched beside him, suddenly hyperaware of every jersey number streaking across the turf below.

“What do you miss most?” you asked, buying yourself some time to locate Colston’s number among the blur of helmets and padded shoulders. Your father exhaled through his nose, eyes tracking the defensive line drills below.

“The hitting,” he said after a beat. “That feeling of nailing the other guy. Not the waking up feelin’ like I got hit by a truck though.”

You laughed softly, scanning the sidelines until finding him. Colston crouched near the bench, adjusting his gloves. Even from this distance, you could see the wired focus emanating from him. He was much more rigid with this anticipation than the playful ease he wore around you, much more serious than the teasing tone that would accompany a raised eyebrow tossed your way.

“You see number 18 down there? By the bench,” he reached out a hand, pointing toward Colston’s crouched frame before glancing sideways at you. His fingers lingered mid-air, then slowly curled back.

“Freshman tight end from the middle of nowhere Idaho,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, eyes narrowing in appraisal. You took the opportunity to stare at him a little while longer. “Good hands. Nice height. Needs to work on his blocking. But he’ll be great. I can see it. He’s gettin’ drafted in a couple years. I’m callin’ it.”

Though Michigan’s passing game had been under question all season—and this game wasn’t too different, as your father loudly pointed out—you found yourself tracking Colston’s every move. It was hard not to. His towering frame cut through defenders like a blade through wheat, his strides long and purposeful.

The first time he was thrown the ball, your father leaned forward, muttering, “Watch him bring it down,” as Colston pivoted mid-air, twisting just enough to keep his toes inbounds before crashing onto the sideline. “Told you. Good hands.”

Walking away with a 34-3 victory, Colston had managed to snag two catches, nothing flashy, but enough to make you reconsider your stance on giving him your number. As the stadium emptied, you lingered near a player exit with your father, the crisp October air biting at your cheeks.

Your father crossed his arms, watching you with that same knowing amusement. “You have someone you want me to meet?” he echoed, sharing a glance with Elijah who shook his head with a deep chuckle.

You didn’t get a chance to respond before the exit doors swung open, releasing a flood of players still buzzing with post-win adrenaline. Colston emerged halfway through the pack, his jersey swapped for a crisp navy blue Michigan zip-up hoodie, hair a bit mussed from the towel he used to dry it after his shower. His eyes locked onto yours instantly, that same electric focus from the field softening into something warmer, more familiar. Then they flicked to your father and brother standing on either side of you.

Colston hesitated for only a heartbeat, enough for you to notice the way his fingers twitched where they held onto the strap of his university-issued backpack, before striding forward with that easy confidence you'd come to expect. Up close, the adrenaline still hummed beneath his skin.

His gaze flicked to your father’s outstretched hand before clasping it firmly. “Sir,” he said, deep voice roughened by the constant need to project his voice during the game. The respectful tilt of his chin made you bite your lip to hide a smile.

Colston’s grip lingered a second longer than necessary when he shook his hand. It wasn’t a challenge, but something deeper. You watched your father’s eyebrows lift in silent recognition, snapping his fingers when they finally released their hold. “Loveland,” he said, pointing at Colston’s chest.

Colston nodded, dapping up Elijah next with an effortless familiarity that you wouldn’t necessarily say you weren’t a fan of.

“Did you play here too?” Colston asked, his voice dipping into that easy curiosity he reserved for moments when he genuinely wanted to listen.

Elijah grinned, clapping him on the shoulder with a laugh. “Nah, man, I didn’t get the athleticism for real.”

Your father snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t let him fool you, he could’ve walked on if he’d bothered to try.”

Colston’s gaze flicked to yours mid-conversation, catching the way you were subtly rubbing your arms against the chill. Without breaking his stride in recounting his 4th and 15 catch to your father, who nodded approvingly at the technical details, Colston shrugged off his zip-up and handed it to you. The fabric was still warm from his body, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the smell of body wash. You hesitated, fingers brushing against his as you took it, feeling your brother’s eyes dart between you with amused suspicion.

The zip-up swallowed your frame, sleeves pooling past your fingertips as you tugged it closer, selfishly taking a moment to indulge in the scent of him so close to your nose.

Your father’s voice cut through your distraction.

“So... you know my daughter?”

Colston’s chuckle was low, rolling through the space between you like honey over gravel. “Yeah,” he said, hands dipping into his pockets, shoulders loose but not slouched. “She’s been putting up with me for a while now. Been helping me a lot with my psych class.” His gaze slid back to yours long enough for Elijah to elbow their father pointedly.

The corner of your father’s mouth twitched as he studied Colston’s profile. His broad shoulders stayed squared even in ease. His voice was gentle but self-assured. His eyes kept wandering back to you while you pretended not to notice the drifting focus.

“Psych class?” Your father mused, rubbing his chin. “She’s real smart, ain’t she?”

Colston’s grin curled slow and deliberate, his eyes finding your face again, “Smart enough to help me get an ‘A’ on my midterm.” The statement made him chuckle, deep and approving, before he turned to Elijah, muttering something about needing to find a restroom. Elijah smirked, dapping Colston again before following their father, tossing you a wink that made the heat of embarrassment crawl up your neck.

“I think he likes me,” Colston murmured as your family disappeared into the crowd, finally turning to face you head-on. “You know what that means.” He raised both eyebrows this time.

You scoffed, tugging the sleeves of Colston’s hoodie further over your hands as if they could hide the uneasy shift of your weight. “What does that mean, Colston?”

“Means I could get your number now,” Colston said, his voice dropping into that low register that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. His thumb brushed against the side of his phone where it sat in his pocket. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

Quietly you held your hand out to him, palm upturned, fingers flexing impatiently. He handed over his unlocked phone with a smile, watching as your thumbs flew across the screen.

“You didn’t even score tonight,” you teased, pressing his phone back into his palm slowly. The stadium lights flickered overhead, casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face as he pocketed the device, his grin widening.

“Didn’t need to, apparently,” Colston shrugged, releasing a deep laugh. “You should come to more games.”

You tucked your hands deeper into the sleeves of Colston’s hoodie, your fingers brushing against the lining still warm from his body heat. “I’ll think about it,” you said, rocking back on your heels just enough for the platform of your sneakers to lift off the pavement.

An easy silence settled over you with the added background chatter of lingering fans and stadium staff packing up. You curled your fingers into the cuffs of Colston’s hoodie, thumbs brushing the soft fabric absently. You could feel his eyes on you like he had nowhere else to be.

Out of the corner of your eye you spotted your brother emerging from the restroom first, his gait deliberately sneaky as he approached. The way Elijah’s mouth curved into a smirk told you everything you needed to know. Colston cleared his throat beside you, catching the hint and straightening his posture slightly just as your father rounded the corner behind Elijah, arms crossed with a knowing smile on his face.

“I gotta head home. Will’s about to blow my phone up,” Colston announced, nodding to your father as he adjusted his backpack strap higher on his shoulder.

“Oh, your jacket—” you started, fingers already fumbling with the zipper, but Colston waved you off with a dimpled smile.

“Keep it,” he said, his voice softening. “I can get another one if I want.” Your fingers paused on the zipper, your nails catching the metal for a second before you let your hands drop back to your sides. You didn’t argue, mostly because you didn’t want to, but also because Colston was already stepping back, his broad frame casting a shadow over you.

“Text me when you get home,” he added, holding a hand out to your father one last time. “Sir.”

You knew the quiet that settled over your father and brother as they watched Colston saunter off wouldn’t last. Elijah broke first, elbowing your ribs before you could dodge. “Smart enough to help him get an ‘A,’ is crazy work,” he drawled, pitching his voice into a poor imitation of Colston’s distinctive twang. You shoved him hard enough to make him stumble, ignoring your father’s chuckle as he flagged down a rideshare.

“Didn’t I tell you not to get involved with athletes?” He mused as you piled into the Uber, his voice laced with amusement rather than reproach.

You rolled your eyes, shrugging deeper into Colston’s hoodie. Elijah snorted from the seat closest to the left-hand side window, twisting to shoot you a look that got him a middle finger and a guffaw from your father.

“He’s just my friend. Like barely,” you muttered into the collar of Colston’s hoodie, pressing your forehead against the cool glass of the Uber’s window.

[ . . . ]

Calling what you had going on “just being friends” proved to be a convenient excuse. You could feel the lie settle uncomfortably between your ribs every time you repeated it—to Aditi’s raised eyebrows, to Dakota’s knowing smirk, to your father’s hum of disbelief when you told him that Colston did indeed attend your office hours every single week.

Your texting had taken on a rhythm that felt increasingly normal. Both of you were busy so there wasn’t an unnatural pressure to feign waiting or pretend you weren’t checking your phones. You found yourself sending Colston snaps between classes. Sometimes it was a quick glimpse of your face, sometimes of something that reminded you of something you had spoken about days earlier, sometimes just to prove you weren’t dead after a particularly busy day when you couldn’t text him back much. Colston responded in kind. Often photos of himself making dumb faces, videos of his teammates wrestling in the locker room, blurry selfies in the mirror. It was comfortable, easy, and yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was teetering dangerously close to something much deeper entirely.

In all honesty, you wouldn’t say that you were entirely opposed to the idea of dating Colston specifically. As he had made sure to point out during your post-game rendezvous: your dad liked him despite his student-athlete status. That wasn’t insignificant either; your dad hated your ex (though he wasn’t an athlete), and you spent much too long attempting to write off your father’s distaste as overprotectiveness.

Beyond your father’s amused approval, you could write a full page’s worth of the Idahoan’s ‘pros’. If you hadn’t been busy with your job, the BSU’s fall events, your classes, and studying for upcoming exams, you probably would’ve taken the time to write such a list. You did, however, find the time to consider some of the most obvious pros in your head.

Number one: He was attractive.

Tall and broad with dark features that contrasted well from his tanned skin that was gradually growing lighter now that Ann Arbor was firmly experiencing the lowering temperatures of autumn. He was cute, with deep dimples in both cheeks that were always accompanied by a boyish grin that made your stomach flip every single time you saw it. He was tall too, tall enough that your head tilted back when you spoke to him, tall enough that you had to crane your neck to meet his chocolate brown eyes, tall enough that you had an excuse to press your palms against his bicep to steady yourself whenever you stumbled in his presence—something which happened frequently for reasons you refused to acknowledge aloud.

Number two: He was kind.

Kindness was a trait that you couldn’t say you paid much attention to in previous romantic experiences. But with Colston it was impossible to ignore exactly how kind he was—how kind he always was. He was the guy who held the door for other girls, even when they batted their eyelashes and made your jaw tighten involuntarily. He was the guy who carried the professor’s heavy briefcase up three flights of stairs when the building’s elevator broke down without complaint. He was the guy who paid attention to the way you shivered in cold lecture halls and always remembered to bring an extra hoodie just for you, slipping it over your shoulders with a quiet, “Here, you look cold,” like it wasn’t the most devastating thing in the world.

Number three: He was good company.

All too often you found yourself dumbing yourself down for the benefit of the men you spoke to. There was always a nagging voice formed of a worrying amalgamation of every draining, toxic, insecure man you had ever spoken to. It was the guys who told you you intimidated them. Or the guys who told you you needed to stop thinking so hard about things that absolutely needed to be considered deeply. It was definitely the guys who seemed to be obsessed with humbling you for the sake of their own egos. Colston wasn’t like that. He listened to you ramble about things you learned in your much more advanced psychology classes. He asked questions—intelligent ones—ones that had you scrunching your nose as you attempted to answer him in a way you knew would best resonate with him.

When Colston wasn’t letting you ramble, and watching you do so with those deep chocolate brown eyes, he was talking to you in a way you couldn’t say didn’t make you completely giddy either. He never hesitated to tell you how smart you were, how capable you were, how funny you were, how much he liked talking to you. You’d never been with a man who spoke to you so earnestly, with such deliberate, warm intention in every word. It was addicting in a way you didn’t think you’d be able to articulate even if you tried.

So, it was really unsurprising to anyone paying attention that you were spending more and more time outside of your office hours with the guy who had the easy kindness and intentional attention.

Colston was starting to know you really well, too. It had become a given that almost any time you found yourself alone with Colston, food was involved. When he came to loiter during your office hours in the psychology building, he brought snacks. When you studied together, he’d eventually ask if you wanted something from the vending machine, make a quick trip downstairs, and bring you something you liked in addition to the request you made.

Though October was second to November in terms of its busyness, you managed to find vignettes of time to slip in opportunities to be around Colston. It was predictable of you to smile softly to yourself when, three hours into studying at the library, a text from Colston popped up asking you:

You down for food?

You barely gave yourself a second to think before your thumbs were typing.

Depends on what you’re getting.

The light push you gave was met with a confident pull from Colston who replied:

Anything you want.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. You glanced at the clock, realizing you had been pretty good on time, working through several assignments over the course of three hours in this spot. You figured you could use a break, and if you were being honest, you felt somewhat giddy at the prospect of seeing Colston.

I’m at Dude. What time are you going?

It was obvious that he was eager at the green light from the heart reaction that materialized next to your report on your location.

I’ll pick you up. Gimme 10.

Always a man of his word, sure enough, 10 minutes later Colston texted you that he had arrived and was parked outside waiting for you. You took your time gathering your things, smoothing your hands over your leggings, and adjusting your cream-colored sweater.

It was an oddly warm week for October in Ann Arbor. Though it wasn’t t-shirt weather, you hadn’t needed your coat since last Thursday. Today it was just the oversized sweater over your tank top.

You stepped out of the library into the fading daylight, scanning the parking lot for Colston’s Silverado. The truck sat idling near the curb, its windows not close to thick enough to mask the bass from his playlist thumping faintly against the pavement. Colston sat in the driver’s seat, his gaze focused on his phone, his left index finger tapping absently against the steering wheel.

You crossed the paved lot, your tote bag swinging gently against your hip, the sound of your sneakers nearly lost beneath the low rumble of Colston’s engine. He glanced up just as you reached the passenger side, his face splitting into that easy grin before he leaned across the console to pop the door open for you.

“Hey,” you murmured as you climbed into the truck.

The cab of the truck smelled faintly of pine air freshener and something warm and earthy, probably Colston’s cologne lingering in the fabric of his sweatshirt. You settled into the seat, your legs stretching long in front of you, knees brushing the underside of the glovebox as you pulled the door shut.

“Where’re we headed?” Colston asked, shifting the truck into reverse to pull out from the curb, his upper body twisted as his right arm reached behind your seat to allow him to look back.

Colston ran hot. That was something you figured out very early on. Anytime he wore a hoodie it was only a matter of time before he was tugging at the neckline, his shoulders shifting under the fabric as if his own body heat was too much to contain. Most of the time he slipped the hoodie off entirely, revealing a snug t-shirt underneath—one that did nothing to hide the way his shoulders filled the space between the fabric.

Today was no different. His hoodie lay in a tiny heap on the backseat, the sleeves of his fitted black tee pulling taut across his biceps as he maneuvered the truck. You watched his forearm flex when he shifted gears, the veins standing stark against his skin.

You were staring.

You were staring hard.

You blinked, tearing your gaze away from Colston’s forearm just as he settled back into his seat, his fingers curling loosely around the steering wheel. The music dipped into something slower, the bass pulsing low and steady around a Miguel song you vaguely recognized.

“Umm…” you cleared your throat. “What about Culver’s?”

Colston nodded, tapping the steering wheel twice before flicking his blinker on. “Culver’s it is.”

There was that country drawl. Sticky sweet like molasses, oozing over your skin with each syllable. You kept your hands folded in your lap, the pads of your thumbs pressing into your knuckles as if you could anchor yourself with the dull pressure.

Colston drove like he spoke, unhurried and deliberate, steering with one hand while the other rested lazily on the gearshift. You caught yourself watching the way his fingers drummed absently against it, the rhythm syncing with the song’s bassline. You swallowed and forced your gaze out the window, where the October dusk painted the campus in gold and violet. The trees lining the road blurred past, their leaves clinging stubbornly to branches despite the season’s insistence on letting go.

“You were studying?” He asked, glancing over at you before returning his gaze to the road.

You nodded, your fingers twisting the hem of your sweater. “Yeah, just psych stuff. Nothing exciting. I have an exam next week. I’m a little behind though.”

He scoffed. “You? Behind? Doubt that.” The corner of his mouth hitched up, revealing one of the dimples you’d caught yourself staring at more than once.

You rolled your lips together, urging yourself to focus on the conversation instead of the way his throat moved when he swallowed, how the muscles flexed beneath his skin, how his Adam’s apple bobbed slightly.

“Yes, I’m behind. I wanted to start studying for this test the other day when you came to my office hours. But you and that big ass head of yours were so distracting that I didn’t get shit done,” you said, grinning as you turned to look at him.

Colston’s laugh burst from him, deep and resonant, filling the cab of the truck with a warmth you felt in your chest. “My bad,” he said, shaking his head. His free hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, the fabric of his shirt straining against his shoulder as he moved. “Didn’t realize my big ass head was such a problem for your education.”

The Culver’s drive-thru line stretched longer than you expected for a Tuesday evening. Colston’s truck idled behind a beat-up sedan. You shifted in your seat, your knee brushing the center console as you pretended to scroll through your phone. You could feel the heat of him beside you, the way his presence seemed to take up more space than physically possible.

“Don’t look at my phone, Loveland,” you scolded, feeling his eyes flick toward your screen before you angled it away.

“What you hidin’ in that phone? Why can’t I look?” he leaned further over the center console, his shoulder pressing into yours. You could see the edge of his grin from your periphery, not wanting to look at him this close, knowing you’d get lost in the flecks of amber in his brown eyes.

Your hand reached to push his face away, laughing. “Personal shit, nosey. Back up. They don’t teach manners in Idaho?”

Colston’s grin only widened as he leaned back into his seat, though his shoulder lingered against yours for a heartbeat longer. “I was taught to share,” he said, his voice a lazy rumble. “You’re real stingy right now.”

“You’ll live,” you shot back.

The line inched forward, and Colston turned his eyes back to the drive-thru line. “What if I don’t?” he asked, the tease in his voice making your stomach tighten.

“You will.”

“I won’t.”

Your lips pursed into a straight line, attempting to tame your expression into something unimpressed. Colston grinned back at you.

“Colston.”

“I like when you say my name like that,” he murmured, licking his lips.

“I can’t stand you…” you muttered, your fingers gripping the phone tighter just as the vibration of an incoming text caught your attention. You angled the screen away again, catching the message from Aditi.

Are you with that freshman again?

You released a short puff of amused air through your nose, thumbing a quick reply while Colston inched the truck forward in line.

“You must be talking about me,” Colston said, his voice low and amused as he leaned over again, trying to catch a glimpse of your phone. “Lemme see.”

You jerked your phone away, pressing it against your chest. “No,” you said, drawing the word out with a whine. The corners of your mouth twitched despite your best efforts to keep a straight face. “Find something else to do.”

The menu board appeared a bit further in front of the hood of Colston’s truck, its bright letters glowing against the darkening sky. You tucked your phone into your lap, pressing your thighs together to keep it hidden as you studied the options. You didn’t need to look, you always got the same thing, but the act gave you an excuse to avoid Colston’s lingering gaze.

“You don’t need to look,” he said as he continued to openly stare at you, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw before flickering down to where you were pressing your thighs together.

“I do,” you insisted through the clearing of your throat.

Colston’s gaze was almost a physical thing, warm as direct sunlight, heavy as a loaded touch. You could feel it tracing the line of your throat, the dip of your collarbone where your sweater slipped just slightly off one shoulder. The truck was too small suddenly, the A/C blowing the scent of his cologne toward you. You inhaled, then immediately regretted it when the smell lodged itself in your lungs, almost forcing your eyes to flutter with a roll of pleasure before you caught yourself.

“You always get the same thing,” Colston pointed out, the knowing dismissiveness in his voice pulling your attention back to him. His fingers tapped the steering wheel again, that same lazy rhythm. “Butterburger, two patties, with pickles, lettuce, no onions, extra cheese, and bacon. You want a large side of fries and a small vanilla concrete mixer with Snickers pieces.”

Your breath caught. The precision of it, the way he rattled off your order without hesitation, without even glancing at the menu, sent a pulse of heat straight to your core. You blinked at him, your lips parting slightly before you pressed them together, willing your face not to betray the way your stomach had just flipped.

He was rolling forward and easing his window down before you had time to recover. The sharp metallic click of his seatbelt unlatching made you realize you hadn’t even noticed him unbuckling. Colston leaned out slightly, his deep voice effortlessly rattling off both his order and yours, exactly as he’d recited it, without missing a single modification.

You slowly reached for your phone while Colston ordered, texting Aditi.

That freshman just told me my entire order from memory… please come pick me up off the floor.

Is she purring…?

And is. 

Real loud.

Colston pulled forward again after hearing his total. His fingers reached for his phone to pay. “Talking about me again?”

“Are you gonna let me pay this time?” you challenged, though you already knew the answer.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ with a soft smile.

“Then yes. I am talking about you.” Your voice came out lighter than you intended, the tease softening the words as you tucked your phone between your thighs again. Colston’s chuckle was low, reaching through to tap his phone against the card reader held out to him by the cashier.

The truck filled with the scent of salted fries and caramelized meat as the bag of food was handed through the window, Colston’s large hand curling around the bag with an ease that made your throat tighten. It was becoming evident that damn near everything this man did—twisting a cap off a bottle, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel, breathing—had an effect on you.

It wasn’t a secret that these hangouts were thinly veiled excuses to orbit each other. You knew Colston was interested. You knew it from the way he angled his body toward you whenever you spoke, from the way he openly flirted with you, from the way his gaze lingered on your lips when you spoke.

But they hadn’t gotten around to talking about it. And you weren't the type to push. Not when you could savor the delicious tension, the slow burn of anticipation curling low in your stomach every time he looked at you like that.

“This is… yours,” Colston said, handing you the burger and fries after pulling into an empty parking space. But the tease on his tongue couldn’t be held back. “Did I do good?”

You took the warm bag from Colston’s hands, your fingers brushing against his knuckles. “Mhmm…” you hummed quietly, avoiding his gaze. You could feel Colston watching you, his eyes tracing the way your fingers pinched a fry between them before popping it into your mouth.

“I see how it is,” Colston murmured, unwrapping his own burger with a slow, even nod. The crinkle of paper sounded obscenely loud in the confined space of the truck cab. “Took my perfect order and won’t even thank me.” He took a bite, his lips wrapping around the burger, his eyes still focused on your face.

You finally lifted your eyes to meet his gaze, chewing on another fry slowly just to watch his jaw tighten. The dim glow from the parking lot lights cast shadows across his face, deepening the hollows beneath his cheekbones, making the curve of his lips seem fuller.

“You want a thank you?” You arched an eyebrow, plucking a fry from your own bag and holding it out to him.

Colston leaned in, his breath warm against your fingers as he took the fry from you. He chewed slowly, never breaking eye contact. “That wasn’t a thank you,” he said, swallowing. “You can do better than that.”

“I don’t thank men,” you stated simply.

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips as the two of you continued to stare at each other. Colston stopped his chewing, lowering his burger slowly to the wrapper spread across his lap. You broke after a few seconds, giggling quietly when Colston’s fingers brushed against your thigh and snatched another fry from your bag.

“I’m takin’ this one,” he muttered under his breath, snagging the fry and popping it into his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t stop him.

“And next time, I’m snatching that phone,” Colston added, taking a large bite of his burger.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I’ll have you arrested for theft.”

You stole a glance at him as you unwrapped your burger, the crinkle of paper mingling with the steady hum of the truck’s engine. Colston grinned, his teeth sinking into another bite, his jaw working with a rhythm that you couldn’t help but track.

“Deadass?” he laughed out loud, receiving a humored glare from you.

“Dead the fuck,” you confirmed with a grumble.

Colston wiped his fingers on a napkin, crumpling it into a tight ball before tossing it into the empty bag at his feet. You watched the movement then forced your gaze away just as he turned his attention back to you.

“Can I have your fries?” Colston’s voice dropped.

Your brows furrowed. Your glossed lips formed a pout, angling your body away from him. “Absolutely not,” you said. “I gave you one and then you stole from me.”

His fingers twitched toward your fries again, and you swatted his hand away with a sharp little smack that did nothing to deter the amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Hands to yourself,” you warned.

The tight end persisted with a repeated, “Lemme get one,” met with your repeated, “No.” Colston leaned across the console, his arm brushing against your sweater as he made a grab for your fries again. You twisted away, pressing your back against the passenger door, your thighs tightening around the bag of food in your lap.

“You’re so greedy,” you accused, your voice lilting with laughter despite your feigned indignation.

“You won’t let me get none,” Colston rumbled, his voice dipping into that honeyed drawl.

Your fingers tightened around the paper bag as Colston made another playful lunge for your fries, his bulk shifting the entire truck with the movement. You shrieked at the feeling, laughing out a comment about his weight making them tip over while your free hand shoved at his chest.

“I’m gonna find your mother on Facebook and tell her about this,” you muttered with narrowed eyes once Colston prevailed, triumphantly plucking a fry from your bag now in his hands.

Colston shrugged. “These’ll be digested by then.”

“Whatever…” you muttered, reaching across to snatch his phone from the center console.

He watched as you skipped through his playlist, eventually landing on a song you recognized. You swiped to his camera without unlocking the phone, flipping it to face him before snapping a series of pictures. First of Colston mid-bite, two fries inches from his mouth. The flash illuminated the cab for a brief second, casting shadows that made his cheekbones look sharper, his jawline more pronounced. Then several of yourself, angling the phone to best capture the golden light of the sun setting hitting your skin. You made sure to snap one last photo of both of you, not before scolding him to smile normally instead of just blinking “like a serial killer.”

“There’s your thank you,” you hummed pleasantly, setting the phone back onto the center console. “My face in your phone.”

“Your face in my phone,” he muttered, rough fingers dragging down his thigh like he needed somewhere to put the restless energy suddenly humming under his skin. “That’s all I get?”

“Don’t be like that. I know you like my face,” you teased, leaning back against the seat with a satisfied smile.

“I’m takin’ you home. Gettin’ out of hand, young lady,” Colston shook his head, chewing the last of your fries before crumbling up the paper and throwing it into the bag with the rest of the discarded wrappers.

[ . . . ]

The warmth from that Culver’s outing, which under slightly different circumstances would’ve qualified as a full-blown date, carried you through a tough midterm exam, two papers, a weekend cold front, and all the way to another Wednesday spent sitting next to Colston during your empty office hours.

He had some work to do for another class so you hadn’t spoken much aside from the occasional glance whenever he paused to think, fingers tapping his pencil against his notebook. You focused most of your attention on notetaking for a paper you would be asked about on your second midterm of the semester.

His sudden question of, “What are you doing for Halloween?” prompted you to lift your head and meet his eye.

“Couple parties with my friends,” you shrugged, leaning your head against your palm. “BSU is hosting a Karaoke Night tomorrow, too. What about you? Isn’t this your Bye Week?”

The smile that appeared on his face grew slowly, spreading Grinch-like and punctuated by the famous twin dimples.

You groaned out loud, letting your head fall.

“You remembered it’s my Bye Week,” Colston murmured, tilting his head to get a good look at your face. You pressed your pen harder against your notebook, leaving a mark you'd get annoyed with later.

“I have a good memory. We know this,” you muttered with a shrug, avoiding his eyes by flipping a page in your notebook. The corner of the paper bent under your fingers. “Don’t let it go to your already massive, square head.”

Colston’s chuckle vibrated through the small office space. “Square head?” He reached up to rub at his buzzed hair, fingers tracing the sharp angle of his fade. “Where did you hear that at? You talk to other guys on the team?”

“Why? I can’t talk to other guys?” You challenged, though you still couldn’t look at him.

Colston’s fingers stilled against his notebook, his teasing grin softening into a more serious tone. “You can,” he said, voice dropping to that low, graveled register that always made your pulse stutter. “That’s just the first thing they say about me when they talk about me. ‘Square head ass.’” His lips quirked again, but his eyes held yours.

“That’s the first thing they say about you because it’s the first thing people notice once they get over the height,” you laughed quietly, matching the intensity of his gaze.

“So you finally got over the height?” Colston leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight.

He was teasing you, openly dropping hints that he was aware of your lingering glances and your inability to ignore the sheer size of him.

You fought the urge to flip your hair over your shoulder defensively. “The height was never an issue,” you lied smoothly. “I just felt bad for you. Six-five and constantly hitting that head on doorframes, must get old.”

Colston’s laughter filled the tiny office, deep and rich like slow-poured maple syrup. “Doorframes? Baby, I duck. But since you’re so concerned about my wellbeing—“

“I’m concerned about your Halloween plans,” you interjected, twirling your pen between your fingers. The plastic squeaked under the pressure of your grip. “Since you asked about mine first.”

“I was thinking about hittin’ a party on the 29th. A couple guys on the team know the hosts. But all my people are booked. Mason is rehabbing his shoulder, Will’s at home this whole week, and Alex has some exam he’s been cryin’ about for some days now.” Colston shrugged, the broad line of his shoulders stretching the fabric of his Michigan hoodie. He tapped his pencil against the notebook absently, eyes flickering over your face like he was waiting for something.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the pen still spinning between your fingers as you studied the way Colston stared back at you. There were a lot of ways you could play this. You could be bold, invite yourself along. But you weren’t that girl. You could be coy, make him beg you to come. But you weren’t that girl either.

Instead, you let the pen still and shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t have plans for the 29th,” you said, voice casual, like it didn’t matter either way.

Colston’s pencil stopped mid-tap. The silence between you stretched just long enough for you to regret speaking at all, until his mouth curved into that slow, knowing grin that always made your stomach flip. When the clock ticked by three seconds, you finally broke, dropping your head to laugh aloud at how predictable you were, how predictable you both were.

“We could meet up at the party,” Colston suggested, trying to be nonchalant as he rubbed his palms over his jeans. You recognized it immediately, the same way you recognized the way his eyes flickered to your lips when you giggled again. “If you’re down.”

[ . . . ]

You tried to assure your nervous system over and over that there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. This was just another Halloween party. This was just another hangout. This was just another time where you would be spending time with Colston in a platonic, casual way. But the way you kept adjusting your green corset in Aditi's full-length mirror suggested otherwise.

Considering this was a house party and you wouldn’t know who you might run into, you decided you needed to come up with another costume specifically for this party. You’d scrolled TikTok for at least 45 minutes before you finally settled on a Tinkerbell-inspired costume that you could throw together with items already in your possession. The green corset was Aditi’s, Dakota gave you a pair of sparkly, flimsy Party City fairy wings, and—conveniently—the shortest skirt you owned was white to match the clear platforms you bought on an impulsive online shopping trip a few months ago.

You smoothed your hands over the snug corset one last time, twisting to check the back in the mirror. The wings fluttered precariously, the cheap glue already peeling at the edges, but the overall effect was whimsical enough.

You flipped the light switch on Aditi’s wall as you exited, releasing a small yelp when your heel caught in Aditi’s rug and almost sent you sprawling onto the hardwood. The sound drew Aditi’s attention away from her textbook, her brow quirking as she took in your precarious balancing act.

“Are you trying to snap your ankle before the party even starts?” Aditi asked dryly, tossing a highlighter onto her notes. “That’s not cute.”

You shot her a glare, steadying yourself against the doorframe. “I’m fine. Just breaking in these death traps,” you muttered, bending to adjust the strap on your left heel before straightening.

Aditi’s eyes flicked over your costume, lingering on the way the corset cinched your waist, the way the white skirt barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.

“You look good as fuck, girl,” Aditi conceded, though her approval came with an asterisk. “Too good for a ‘just friends’ hangout. No man deserves all this.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving your phone into the tiny purse hanging from your wrist. “It’s Halloween. Everyone looks good as fuck.”

Aditi hummed, unconvinced, but let it drop as you checked your reflection one last time in the hallway mirror, smoothing a hand over your hair. You had added a glittery body oil to your brown skin on a whim that seemed to have paid off from the way Aditi’s eyes roamed over every inch of your exposed skin.

The corset pushed your breasts up just enough to make the neckline feel daring without crossing into indecent territory—not that you thought you would care much about that line once you were at the party. Not when you daydreamed about Colston’s hands mapping the dip of your waist if the opportunity showed itself.

“Check me?” You prompted your best friend who was already taking in your makeshift costume.

Aditi nodded without saying a word, watching you turn in a slow circle to ensure there were no tags, stains, or wardrobe malfunctions waiting to happen. You caught your own reflection seeing the corset pulling your posture straighter, the glitter on your collarbones catching the overhead light, the way your lashes fluttered when you glanced at your phone to check the time.

“I gotta go,” you murmured, leaning over the back of the couch to offer your best friend a loose hug. “He said he’s there already.”

“How are you coming back?” Aditi questioned, fingers turning the page of her textbook.

“He said he wasn’t planning on drinking much so we’ll Uber back together,” you replied.

“Okay,” Aditi murmured with a nod. “Have fun, stay out of stupid shit, and make good choices.” She reached out to adjust your wings where they were already starting to slip. “Say no to drugs. Nancy Reagan is looking up at us. Make her proud.”

You laughed at that, squeezing her once more before turning over your shoulder to head downstairs where your Uber driver was just a minute out from arriving. The crisp October air bit at your bare legs the moment you stepped outside, sending a shiver up your spine as you opened the front door of your building. Your Uber arrived right on time, the driver eyeing your wings skeptically as you folded yourself into the backseat without snapping them.

The Uber pulled up to a house pulsing with bass, orange string lights zigzagging across the porch where clusters of costumed students spilled onto the lawn. You adjusted your wings one last time before stepping out, the cold air pricking your skin as you navigated through laughing groups holding red cups. You paused to text Colston, fingers hovering over your screen, then jumped when someone shrieked your name.

The shriek belonged to Willow, a Business major from your Business Calculus class you frequently crossed paths with around campus. The girl’s red devil horns wobbled as she lunged forward to squeeze your arm, already slurring compliments about your costume between giggles. You laughed, squeezing her back but scanning the crowd over Willow’s shoulder as the girl rambled about how she’d just been talking about the class you had attended together earlier.

Your fingers tightened around your phone as Willow’s group pulled you into a whirlwind of compliments and blurry selfies. You laughed when someone shouted that Tinkerbell needed a Peter Pan, but your eyes kept flicking past them, searching the crowd. Then you finally caught sight of him. Colston’s broad shoulders cut through the partygoers like a ship through waves, a red plastic firefighter hat slightly askew as he navigated toward you with two drinks clutched in one hand, his phone in another.

You waved, breaking out into a shy smile, waiting for him to make his way over to you.

Somehow, in between the time it took for you to experience that frenzied conversation with Willow and your eyes finding Colston, someone had managed to slink over to you. You felt fingers curl around your forearm, tugging you slightly off balance. The guy, some frat-looking dude in a Superman T-shirt, was already too close, his breath warm and sour against your ear as he slurred something about dancing. You tried to pull your arm away, your laugh tight and polite, but his grip tightened like he didn’t even register the discomfort in your posture.

Your polite laugh turned sharp as Superman’s fingers dug into your forearm. “I’m good,” you said, louder this time, twisting your wrist in his grip.

The guy, reeking of cheap beer and cologne, just grinned wider, his other hand landing on your waist like they were already mid-dance. Your platform heels wobbled dangerously as you tried to step back, the crowd pressing in around them.

Your pulse kicked up as Superman’s fingers tightened on your waist, your platform heel catching on uneven pavement. The world tilted until a large palm slid around your ribcage, steadying you with effortless strength. The scent of cedar enveloped you before you even saw him.

Colston’s grip was firm against your waist, his fingers splaying possessively as he pulled you upright against him. His voice, usually warm with laughter, dropped into something low and edged with warning.

“My man…” his eyes drifted over the state of the guy, disdain crossing his expression. “You good? Can I get you something?”

The guy’s grip slackened instantly, his smirk dissolving into slack-jawed recognition. “Oh shit—my bad, bro, I didn’t—” His words tangled into drunken mumbles as he stumbled back, hands raised like Colston had drawn a weapon instead of just leveling him with a look. You exhaled sharply, your shoulder blades pressing into Colston’s chest as he shifted you behind him without breaking eye contact with the guy, who was already vanishing into the crowd with a muttered apology.

Colston’s fingers stayed pressed against your lower back, warm even through the corset’s stiff fabric as you turned to face him. His thumb brushed your spine, just once to make sure you were set on your feet, before he pulled back slightly, scanning your face.

“You good?” His voice was quieter now, the edge smoothed over like river-weathered stone.

Your hand traveled down the length of his bicep before settling on his forearm where you squeezed, a silent affirmation slipping from your fingers before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice steadier than you felt. “Just caught me off guard.” Your fingers lingered before you forced them back to your side, pretending you didn't notice the way his pulse jumped beneath your touch.

“He’s an asshole. Don’t let him ruin your night.” Colston’s words were quiet, just for you, his palm still warm against the small of your back as he guided you toward the drinks clutched in his other hand. You blinked at the seltzers before glancing up at him.

He shrugged, that slow grin creeping back. “Figured you’d want something when you got here. Didn’t want you to be waiting in line.”

He offered you the drink with a tilt of his head, plastic firefighter hat slipping further askew. You took it. The seltzer was cold, condensation dripping onto your wrist as you popped the tab and lifted it to your lips. Colston watched the movement, throat bobbing when you licked a stray drop from your thumb.

Colston popped the tab on his drink, taking a step back as he downed a slow sip, letting his eyes trace down your body. The corset cinched your waist, the white skirt hid nothing, your thighs subtly flexed from the height of the heels. His eyes crawled back up to meet your gaze.

You felt the heat crawl up your neck as you shifted your weight onto one foot, biting your lip when he finally hummed, “Can I be that guy and ask for a hug?”

You exhaled through your nose, lips quirking as you reached up to adjust his crooked plastic hat. “You already are that guy,” you murmured, fingers brushing the buzzed hair at his temple before you let your arms loop around his neck. Colston’s hands settled at the dip of your waist, thumbs pressing into the corset’s boning as he bent down just enough to compensate for the height difference, just enough to make your brain fill with static.

The hug seemed to last forever, neither one of you quite ready to let go of the feeling of your bodies pressed together. You inhaled deeply, the scent of Colston’s cologne filling your lungs. When you finally pulled apart, Colston’s fingers lingered at your waist, his fingers brushing against the satin edge of your corset absently.

“You look good,” Colston murmured, his voice a rough twang beneath the party’s bassline.

“So do you. I like the hat,” you teased, tapping the cheap plastic brim of his firefighter costume. “And the shirt.” Shamelessly, you let your hand run over his bicep, feeling the muscles flex underneath your palm.

“Are you cold?” he asked, clearing his throat after another long moment of intensely charged eye contact.

You nodded, “A little,” your fingers flexing around the cold seltzer can. Colston’s gaze flickered to the goosebumps rising along your arms before he offered to head inside, where the crush of bodies would at least provide some warmth.

You followed him, or rather, you tried to follow him. Typically you had some issue following behind him when you would walk side-by-side. With your platforms, that small issue was becoming much more pronounced. Colston was three steps into the crowd before he realized you weren’t keeping up, turning back to see you struggling to navigate the uneven ground in your heels. He laughed with that deep, warm chuckle and doubled back, extending his hand toward you.

You hesitated for half a second, just long enough for Colston’s grin to widen, before sliding your fingers between his. His palm engulfed yours completely, threading his fingers through yours as he adjusted his grip. The contact sent an electric current up your arm, settling somewhere between your ribs where your heart hammered against the corset’s stiff boning.

“This okay?”

You nodded, unable to bring about the right words with his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. The crowd pressed in around them, forcing Colston to pull you closer as he navigated toward a quieter corner where a few teammates lounged on couches. You recognized an athlete from one of your business classes who wolf-whistled at your intertwined hands before Colston shot him a look that had him practically falling over himself with laughter.

By the time you had a few more drinks in your system, any shyness that had influenced the giggles and shock you experienced when Colston had pulled you into his body was completely gone. The alcohol warmed your cheeks, your thighs pressing against his as you swayed to the music, the bass vibrating through the couch beneath you. You were grinding on him shamelessly, your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck while his hands stayed planted firmly on your waist keeping it respectful, warming your body, but not venturing lower, no matter how much the corset pushed your body into his line of sight.

Your back pressed to his chest, you could feel the steady flutter of Colston’s breath against your shoulder blade. The music pulsed around you, bassline vibrating through the couch cushions, through the soles of your platforms where they hooked around his ankle. You arched into him just to hear his breath hitch, just to feel the way his hands tightened reflexively before easing again, holding himself back.

You had already danced on him plenty throughout the night, felt his hands gripping your waist tight when the music dropped and you rolled your hips back against him. You knew you were heading toward something irreversible. You had felt it in the way his breath hitched against your neck when you ground against him, in the way his lips just slightly hovered over your neck, in the way he spun you around to dance face to face when a Bad Bunny song came on—his fingers digging into your hips, eyes dropping to your lips—only for him to pull back at the last second.

You pouted, letting your hands shift from where they pressed against his chest to drape over his shoulders. “I really don’t mind,” you spoke over the music, letting one hand drift into the short dark brown hairs at the nape of his neck, tracing patterns there. You didn’t miss how his breath shuddered at the touch before he released a sharp exhale through his nose, forcing his grip to relax.

“I know…” he had murmured then, but didn’t continue any further, just turned you back around with his grip on your waist so you were facing away from him again, pressing your back flush against his chest as you danced. You rolled your eyes, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. Colston grinned against your neck, pressing a fleeting kiss to your pulse point, so quick you wondered if you imagined it.

You raised the issue again when you stood outside, pressed together after you whined about feeling cold, waiting for the Uber he had ordered to pull up. The autumn air bit at your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your collarbones as you leaned into Colston’s warmth, feeling his fingers rub warmth into your bare shoulders.

“So…” you hummed with a start.

You tilted your head back against Colston’s shoulder, the plastic firefighter hat long discarded somewhere in the party’s chaos. “So,” you repeated, softer now, your breath curling in the crisp air between you. “You’re really not gonna kiss me tonight?”

Colston’s hand stilled against your arm, his exhale warm against your temple. “Nah, not tonight,” he murmured. The streetlight caught the lighter areas in his brown eyes when he tipped his head down. “Not like this.”

You turned fully in his arms, your platform heels bringing you just high enough to meet his gaze without straining. The alcohol softened your edges, but the question in your eyes was sharp. “Not like what?”

Colston’s fingers traced idle patterns along your bare shoulder, his thumb catching the strap of your corset. “Not drunk,” he said quietly. The words vibrated through you where your bodies pressed together. “Not when I’ve been waiting to do it right.” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, heavy-lidded. “You deserve a date first. Some flowers. Maybe a sunset.”

You scoffed, breaking into a gentle smile when he drew you back into his arms, pressing your cheek against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear. “Corny…” you drew out the word with playful exasperation, letting your arms wrap around his center, relaxing when you felt him do the same for you.

“I’m deadass,” he murmured into your hair, voice rumbling through you where your bodies pressed together. You felt his fingers flex against the small of your back, pulling you closer as a gust of wind sent autumn leaves skittering across the pavement. “You got a problem with sunsets?”

You laughed into his chest, sniffling against the cold. “I have a problem with you being so sure of yourself,” you muttered, but your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt.

The Uber’s headlights cut through the darkness then, painting you both in a temporary glow as it pulled to the curb. Colston didn’t let go, not even when his phone buzzed to alert him to the driver’s arrival. He just held you there, his palm warm against the curve of your spine, until you finally tipped your head back to meet his gaze.

“You better kiss me after our date,” you whispered softly.

He nodded. “I will.”

[ . . . ]

One of the pros that stuck with you when you finally sat down with Jeremy and Dakota at a small table in the corner of the Union between classes was that Colston, “Always did his best to keep his word.”

In the two months that you had gotten to know the tight end, it was increasingly harder to ignore how intensely Colston stood behind his word. He meant every word he said. There were no empty promises, no lies of omission. You were growing to know better than anyone how much his word meant to him.

When he texted you with details of a potential first date you could go on, you weren’t surprised.

You drove up a few miles to an apple orchard on the outskirts of town, Colston’s truck windows rolled down to let the crisp November air swirl between you. You picked apples, shared cider and donuts, and you laughed so hard you snorted when Colston tried and failed to befriend a wandering goat. The whole thing felt like something out of a movie with the golden afternoon light painting Colston’s profile in amber, his deep laughter rumbling through the cab of his truck as he stole glances at you between bites of the donut you held out for him between your fingertips.

By the time you made it back to your apartment, your cheeks hurt from smiling and your fingers were sticky with sugar. The sun had dipped low, painting the pavement in streaks of gold as Colston walked you to your door, your fingers loosely tangled between you. You swung your hands slightly, watching the way his thumb absently stroked the back of your knuckles as he talked about an ill-received prank pulled on one of the strength coaches.

Your apartment door loomed ahead, a Thanksgiving-themed doormat set out to match the red, brown, and orange wreath Jeremy chose to hang last week. A comfortable silence settled between you when you finally stopped in front of your door.

Just as Colston didn’t move to wish you a good night, you didn’t move to reach for your keys in your purse. Instead, he quietly murmured, “I really did have a good time today.”

You smiled, lacing the fingers of your free hand through his free hand, completing the circle between you. “Me too,” you admitted, taking in the way his eyes fluttered between yours. The air between you felt charged, heavy with all the things left unsaid, the same things that had been simmering beneath the surface since that first football game, since every lingering touch, every stolen glance.

He took a step closer to you, your feet almost touching on the welcome mat, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body even through your thick sweater. He dropped your hands gently, tugging you closer by your waist instead while his right hand tested a cup of your cheek.

You swallowed hard as his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, the calloused pad catching slightly on your skin. His pupils swallowed the warm brown of his irises when his gaze dropped to your mouth. “Can I?” he murmured, already leaning in, already breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning.

You didn’t trust your voice when your pulse was hammering loud enough to drown out all coherent thought, so you nodded, pressing up onto your toes as his head dipped down. The first brush of his lips was tentative, almost questioning, as if he was memorizing the feel of your mouth. Then your fingers fisted in the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer, and whatever hesitation existed dissolved into something hotter, hungrier.

Your lips molded together perfectly, moving in perfect harmony with your softness yielding against Colston’s firmness, the faint taste of sweet cider lingering between you. You sighed into the kiss, fingers tightening in the fabric of his hoodie as his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you could feel the hard planes of his body through your layers. His thumb brushed the hinge of your jaw, coaxing your mouth open just enough to deepen the kiss, and you melted against him, your pulse thrumming wildly beneath your skin.

You pulled back first, your breath shaky against Colston’s lips, your laughter bubbling up when you noticed the faint smudge of your berry-colored lip gloss transferred onto his mouth. His lips looked unfairly good stained with your shade. Soft pink turned deeper kiss-swollen, and you reached up instinctively to wipe it away with your thumb. Colston’s cheeks took on a pinkish hue under your touch, but he didn’t flinch, just grinned when your thumb lingered at the corner of his mouth.

“I can’t let you walk around like this,” you murmured, thumb still tracing the bow of Colston’s lip where your gloss shimmered. His breath hitched when your nail grazed the sensitive skin there, his grip tightening reflexively at your waist.

Colston’s lips twitched beneath your thumb, his voice dropping to that deep, honeyed timbre. “You sure?” His fingers flexed against your waist, pressing into the dip of your spine. “I don’t mind wearing your colors.”

“Maybe another time,” you whispered. The hallway lights were harsh, casting shadows that made his eyelashes look impossibly long where they brushed his cheeks. He hummed, leaning into your touch before you finally pulled away.

“I’m lookin’ forward to that.” His drawl seemed even lazier than normal, thick with subtle satisfaction. You could feel the way his breath warmed your face before he finally released your waist, stepping back, but not too far. Just enough to make you realize how much you immediately missed the heat of him.

Your fingers fumbled with your keys, the metal jangling louder than usual in the quiet hallway. Colston’s shadow stretched long across your welcome mat, his hands shoved into his pockets like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you again. The door finally gave way with a click, and you turned to face him, one hand still gripping the knob as if it could steady you.

“Text me when you get back to yours,” you murmured, leaning against the doorframe to prolong the moment.

He nodded eagerly and promised he would, then took a final step back, turned over his shoulder, and walked down the hall. You watched until the elevator doors swallowed him whole before you finally stepped inside, locking the door behind you.

“What the fuck…” you thought to yourself.

You floated to your room in a daze, the ghost of Colston’s lips still burning against yours. Kissing was an art you considered yourself proficient in. Until him. His hand had cradled your face delicately, his breath hitched deliciously, and when you nipped at his lower lip, he took control so naturally.

None of your past experiences compared and you knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep well until you got to kiss him again. In the back of your mind, you knew you should be more frightened than you were at how easily you were accepting the fact that you were already falling for him. You flopped onto your bed face first and groaned into your pillows, kicking your feet slightly against the mattress. For now, you would ignore the thought passing through your consciousness telling you:

Saving the world from pollution was a noble act, it should be commended, but the line was drawn when biological warfare started to poison intentions. Tim had uncovered radiation signals from the mountains in Alaska, further reconnaissance uncovered a small camp where men in white hazmat suits conducted unknown experiments.

Naturally, Bruce wanted you and Dick to destroy said camp immediately.

The mission had been fine, routine, clean-cut, a trudge into unknown waters when the tent revealed mini-greenhouses, glass cages three holes poked into the top, incubating small, pulsating, glowing flowers, sticky pollen floating, clinging to tendril, stem and petal.

Yeah, they were strange, and supposed to be a passing thought after the charges went off, the tents going up in smoke and flames. After you’d dragged all unconscious personnel out of harm’s way.

“That’d been easy,” Dick had remarked. Oh, if only.

Your cells caught fire within the hour, so had his. Sweat dripped down his neck, his suit felt like a fucking greenhouse by itself, the ends of his hair stuck to the back of his neck, his knees fought against surrender. Your throat dried up, muscles ached, waves of saturated need riddled a heat-addled brain.

This was worse than your luteal.

You needed him, like needed him. It was the only thing your stupid brain could focus on, not Bruce’s hurried voice on comms during the flight home, it was secondary. Call his body the primary.

He wasn’t sleazy. Despite his screaming body, he kept as much distance from you as he could. Distanced himself. Shut himself in his room in Wayne Manor to get away from you, advised you to do the same. Your brain just accepted it, the walls of the guest room closing in on you.

Your hand had slipped past your panties a million times. You’d circled your clit in the way Dick used to, hand moving by itself in the rhythm he’d built into your mind. It was what worked best, but it was just surface shit, it did nothing. Honestly, felt like you were touching hot water, with how flushed your skin was and wet your fingers were but never once did it make a difference with how you felt.

Life was out to fucking get you.

Dick had tried everything too. Swallowing to push saliva down a throat rubbed with sandpaper. Taken off his clothes to feel cold air. He’d run his body over with beating cold water from a shower head. He wrapped his hand around himself and rubbed, but it made no difference, his body still burned, burst into fire for you. Water. He needed water.

The breakup had happened for a reason, ok? Your relationship was chasing you, but work was faster. It was all consuming, the stakes, dangers were running high, something else that crashed and burned with a heated argument and ‘we’re over’s thrown like punches.

Bruised knuckles blanched against the counter, other hand clutching a very full glass of water. His shirt stuck to his skin, even his baggy Calvin Klein sweats constricted him. Everything was claustrophobic, chipping at him with a chisel.

He lifted the glass to his lips. Water dripped past his lips, sliding down his chin, landing next to the sweat stains from his chest clinging to his shirt. It did shit all, his mouth was as dry, throat as scratchy, temperature high as Vesuvius.

You at the door, you stared. Watched, observed, droplets of sweat and water sliding across his collarbone your tongue’s calling, jaw begging for your lips, his lips themself soft, parted, pliable. You could lick up his neck. Shove him down onto a bed, position yourself above his face, he’d let you, probably. He did love eating pussy—

Wait, what?

You shouldn’t have gone into the kitchen, looking for a glass of water to soothe your mouth. Spectacular luck, ending up in the same place as the object of your thoughts right now. Your navel tugged, attempting to drag you closer to him. Your navel succeeded easily.

“Hey.” He rasped, the back of his hand dragging across his forehead. He could see his outline in the sweat when he looked at it. “This— fuck, it feels shitty, huh?”

You hung your head, any chance you grasped to look at him was dangerous.

“Tell me about it.” You mumbled. You couldn’t recognise it, it’d been roughed up by the fucking pollen shoved down your throat. Hay fever had permission to shove itself up your ass at this point. You itched the back of your neck, horniness addling your pussy.

You felt it when you walked, every word, every breath, it was desperate to its core, screaming for Dick. And his dick. Both of them. “I— I don’t know how much longer I can go like this, Dick.” You forced, swallowing (ow). The wince was clear as fucking day.

He started. “It hurts that much? Shit, I—” You felt the jolt in your navel again when he stepped closer, hands flying up, stopping short of your cheeks. He couldn’t. He couldn’t touch you, it would make the coil winding in his brain snap. His hands dropped, sighing, head bowed. “I can’t do anything, sweetheart, not ‘till Tim gets back with a cure to this thing.”

A cure to a reanimated thousand year old plant that was used during Ancient Egypt to encourage procreation. Right.

You turned away from him, dissociated from your body as it reached to grip the jug of water, filling the same glass he’d drank from once again. Taking a long sip, water sliding over the burn in your mouth, no relief, no dissipation. “I don’t wanna be a pessimist, but the plant’s centuries old. I doubt Tim can find a cure.”

“Have more faith in the little guy.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s pulled miracles out of his ass before.” Tim probably had more brains than Einstein.

The glare he got in return was venomous. "I'll have faith when my knees aren't Jello." Faith wasn't much of an option when you'd had five failed orgasms. At least when you were with other one nights after Dick, you felt something. Even if it wasn't as satisfying.

"Touche." The silence beat on your ears, his breath in punctured that. "Look, we can hold out a little longer—" You vehemently shook your head.

Your voice came out unintentionally as a snap. "Can't you see? We're stuck like this. For — I don't even fucking know how long — and this hurts and burns and you're telling me that we can hold out a little longer?" Your fist banged the marble counter. All this frustration stemmed from the intense sexual frustration, so he didn't take it to heart. "I call bullshit."

It was unhelpful that he was also sexually frustrated. "Oh, I'm sorry." He hissed sarcastically. "I'm sorry that I'm working to protect your dignity here and keep the bit of autonomy we have left. I don't know if you want this— shit, sweetheart, do you even think about me?"

Of course you did. You thought about him every day cause your brain was obligated to think about him during every resting moment. Hot sweat plagued your midnights, imagining his lips on your neck in your dreams. The pinch in his brow when he hit the spot. Shameless, loud moans that his neighbour gave him a dirty look for the next morning.

"Of course I do." You said stiffy, spine rigid, need crawling up your back. This seemed like the type of argument which used to end in make up sex. "You're my coworker, I have to see you every day—"

Your sentence was cut off with a scoff. "That's not my question." He pressed, straight, perfectly trimmed brows furrowing. "You know that's not my question."

"Do we need to have this discussion when an aphrodisiac is eating us alive?" You hissed, shrinking into yourself. This discussion was always taboo, you both took the breakup like a brick with your lipstick print and his lip balm on it. "This hurts, ok? I don't have the energy to argue."

His eyes melted on hearing it, it hurt your heart more than it already was pained. "We don't." Folding his arms, a breath puffed from his nose, shoulders slumping. Broad shoulders your nails needed to dig in and break skin. "This sucks balls." I hate seeing you hurt, was the ulterior message.

"It really does." You looked at your feet. Maybe you could drop to your knees, undo his drawstring, suck on him for desperate clarity.

Maybe that would work.

You could feel it oozing off him; the half-baked thoughts of what you’d look like over him. You could take the chain around his neck with your finger and tug him towards you. Or his waistband. All while pain struck your abdomen. “Is it hurting— well, yeah, it’s hurting, but is it too much?” He asked softly, his chest, his broad chest connecting to an unfairly slutty waist calling your name. Despite the sweat adorning his temple, his eyes were locked on you. Out of horniness or concern, though? It was impossible to tell.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. It was concern.

You hesitated, then your head bobbed. Loosely, in what you thought was a nod. You wiped sweat off your neck, white noise pumping into your brain. “Yeah.” You rasp, taking in as much oxygen as you could to avoid delirium.

“I can help. If you want.” He was too close. His voice too gentle, hands raised like you were a fucking wild animal, even then, his eyes searched yours for a sign to stop. “I can kiss you, it might— it could take some of the pain for a second.”

This was the pollen talking, not him, you had to remind yourself. You were broken up.

“You sure?” Your breath came out in a whoosh, your body singing the closer he got. He needed to get closer. Closer. So close he was inside you.

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what I want, you’re in pain.”

“So are you—”

“Just listen.” He said, your vocal cords forgetting their function. “If I kiss you, you could stop hurting. Even if it’s for a short while, it could work.” But if he did, he didn’t know if he could stop.

You frowned. “Weren’t you the guy preaching about autonomy?”

“Do you want to feel better or not—” Your lips sealing over his answered that question. Pretty fucking well.

Fuck.

He’d have let you pull away, but the coolness dousing his head had his lips chasing after yours when your head reared back, the gap you made between your lips closed again when he kissed you hard. Hand gripping your jaw, one coming to grip the back of your thigh, locking it around his hip. Good grief.

Could you pull away? Did you have the strength to pull away? You only had the strength to yank him closer by his sweat-weighted shirt, pushing your hand in his hair, yanking at the strands. Normally pulling that hard with the danger of ripping out chunks of hair would have a man hissing and running for the hills, he just moaned. Loudly enough for you to wonder if he was faking it.

He wasn’t. Every kiss pressed to your lips by his starving mouth went straight to his dick. His hand on the back of your thigh sent signal after signal to your pussy that switched off your rational thoughts. Talk about a downstairs brain.

The ripping of fabric was followed by his shirt flumping onto the floor, a heap of cotton that was torn by the seams at the side. Hot kisses to the side of your neck paired with him massaging your thigh with strong fingers made your pussy clench— you’d never felt close to coming from a hand on your thigh before.

His tongue flattened. And dragged, all the way up your neck, to take your earlobe in his mouth and suck. Suck enough so your nails dug into his shoulders, breaking skin. Pain translated into pleasure, pleasure translated into euphoria, the sick fucking cycle that had your panties clinging to your legs.

“Shit, gorgeous.” His breath pulsed against your ear, tip of his tongue following the shell of your ear. “You gotta use me. Fuckin’ use me, honey.”

“Dick, maybe we should—” Wait, why were you about to preach autonomy?

Jesus H. Christ. Your hands moved forward on instinct, thigh dropping, shoving him in the direction of his bedroom, laving over his pulse, forcing him to bury his hand in your hair, his eyes rolling back, hips jolting forward to grind on your thigh. His body was on autopilot, hooked on a feeling, on the lack of pain, or fire burning his nerve endings.

His back hit the bed. Head sunk back into the pillows, rosy lips dropping open when your pussy dragged over his dick, through thick sweatpants, of course, didn’t stop the aphrodisiac from making him think it was heaven. His voice cracked as he whimpered, he fucking whimpered, grabbing your ass and grinding you back down, so you obliged again, and again, to the point where you were humping him. To the benefit of both of you.

He was muttering nonsense, brain not connected to his mouth of vocal cords, stammering. “So close— shit, shit, sweetheart, stop,” He stilled you, tugging at both your waistbands, five seconds later those garments, sweats and panties, were chucked across the room. He beckoned you with two fingers, flushed cheeks betraying breathlessness. “C’mere, baby.” He mouthed at your pussy over your sweats, it wasn’t enough. Who was he kidding? It would never be enough.

His tongue swiping over his bottom lip told you everything. “Classic.” You scoffed, but your pussy throbbed. It was typical of him, to put you first. He shouldn’t put you first. “We don’t have time for this—”

“Yes, we do.” He said sharply, taking your wrist and shoving your hand in his hair. “I said use me.” His lips burned down your stomach, holding himself up off the bed without his hands. Curse him and his insane ab strength. “You had no problem with that before.”

You rolled your eyes. Your pussy reminded you to get a move on, prompting you to roll your hips over the muscle of his thigh. Without thinking, he encouraged that. Literally without thinking, his hand moved of its own accord. “You can survive without eating pussy.” It wasn’t like you didn’t want him to eat you out, he did a stellar job. Always to the point where you had to go nonverbal. You were just being a jerk.

He fake-gasped. “Wow. That’s offensive.” He pulled you onto his face without further hesitation, his tongue sliding up the length of your cunt— oh. Your hand in his hair gripped tightly, a curse-string rolling past your tongue. Was it meant to feel like you were ascending into some ninth heaven? Was that him or the aphrodisiac?

Maybe just him.

“Mm, Dickie, fuck—” You gasped, even better was his tongue slipping inside you, his thumb rolling your clit, circling, circling, larger, larger, expanding, legs shaking, eyes rolling back, pussy jolting to grind on his nose and lips.

His tongue pulled out, replacing it with his fingers, two slender digits curling, stretching you out till his knuckle pressed on that spot he always managed to find. How did he always find it? It felt unfair. “That’s it. C’mon, honey, that’s it, make yourself feel good.” He breathed, muffled by your cunt, kitten licking whatever juices didn’t drip onto his fingers.

Maybe it was the failure of every one night stand since you two broke up. Maybe it was the aphrodisiac, but you were barrelling towards a high he was making you addicted to. This shouldn’t even be happening. A part of you whispered that this would send you into an impossible-to-leave rabbit hole of yearning and fucking year-long pining.

You shut that part of you up.

“Dickie,” You moaned, a white-hot coil in your core winding up, ticking down — ten, nine, eight — “baby, m’close.” You called him baby. Against all reason, you called him a pet name. That’s it, you were what everyone called ‘in deep’.

He really needed to hear that. His fingers pumped, curled, tongue rubbed your clit, all he could do to help you get there. “Mhm?” He mumbled, drinking you up. Every fucking drop, aching, sandpaper-esque throat soothed. “Yeah, gorgeous girl, give it to me, ok? I’ve got you, m’here.”

Fuck him and his sweet talking. It had you shaking as you came, he didn’t waste a drop, licking everything up like anything wasted was the loss of a billion dollars.

He was honest to himself. Any drop of you wasted was the loss of ambrosia. Can’t put a price on that.

He withdrew his fingers, placing them in his mouth, licking the digits clean with a moan. As if the image couldn’t get more erotic, you smeared all over his mouth, the tip of his nose and his chin. “You get better every time.” He grinned, but, to ruin the mood, his dick gave him a less than welcome reminder that it existed. Pain lanced through his body, making him wince, blunt nails pressing into your thighs. “Sorry, sorry, I—”

You got it. Like hell you wouldn’t. The last of your high ebbing away caved to let aching settle in your bones once again, screaming for you to actually, you know, have his dick in you. No two ways about it.

“No, I know.” You yanked at his drawstring, helping him out of the unnecessary layers of his sweatpants and his boxers, both of them disappearing into a corner of the room. He sat up, finger lifted, tilting your chin so your lips tenderly met his. Like there wasn’t an aphrodisiac making you both desperate. “Condom?”

“I didn’t anticipate this happening.”

“Even better.” You breathed, kissing him, the taste of you flooding your tongue. He groaned, grabbing your tit, squeezing, swinging your leg so your pussy was nestled at the tip of his cock. A millimetre away from bliss.

His nose bumped yours, fighting off his flush, blown-out eyes darting to your lips then back up. Like you were Aphrodite’s gift to men. “We can stop.” He murmured, lips brushing yours again, his lashes fluttering, lids closing. “Just tell me to, and we’ll stop.”

You laughed. Quietly. “We’re kind of beyond asking.”

“Stop that, stop fucking arguing, just tell me if you want to stop.” He moaned in frustration, mouthing at your pulse. “I won’t let you do anything till I hear it. Tell me, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want to stop.” You murmured so he could hear you, grabbing his chin to kiss him, muffling the moan you both let out in that sloppy exchange as you sank down onto his waiting cock. No resistance, just slip, giving way to euphoria that clouded your brain. “Oh, fuck.” You whimpered, clawing at his back.

His eyes rolled back, if he’d been deeper than his balls in this pollen, he’d already be coming. “O—Oh, baby.” He stammered, squeezing your hip to encourage you to move.

This was what the pollen wanted. You feeling full, snug on him, lifting yourself so only the tip of him was in you before sinking down entirely. His lip caught between his teeth, propping one leg up to roll his hips up, matching each and every lift and fall of those glorious hips. This alone was euphoric, this alone sent you spiralling, nails raking down his abs, through his hair, talking dirty into his ear so you could drag him down with you.

Where did the lines blur? When did the line between aphrodisiac and emotion blur, maybe with the whisper of “Shit, baby, I love you” that he whined into your ear? It was hidden by the cacophony of pornographic moans the two of you were surprising yourselves with.

Never in his life had he sounded like that. He wanted to sound like that more often, it told you how irreplaceable you were.

He was holding out, gripping restraint, his high here and approaching fast, his head bowing down. Taking your tit into his mouth, sucking, other thumb flicking and essentially bullying your clit. Telling you to get a goddamn move on.

A cry tore from your throat, your entire being giving way, clutching his hair, his arm, as you came, the constricting of your pussy around his dick making him follow straight after, his low moan humming against your skin, pleasure rolling, wracking, wrecking, voices cracking, words disintegrating into whimpers and indiscernible sounds. His mouth coaxing more, burning up your chest, your neck, your jaw, your lips, tugging your bottom lip down with his thumb.

“I think we’re gonna need to go a few more.”

Around seven rounds of sex, sucking dick and eating pussy later, burning need faded into a pleasant hum of your weary bones. You were never going to go into an environmental terrorist’s biohazard camp ever again.

The pillows were unusually soft, but maybe your sex-exhausted brain was making you think so. So far, all you’d done is stare at the ceiling, as if this was a Tuesday where you hadn’t, y’know, slept with your ex due to an aphrodisiac.

Dick padded out from the bathroom, sweats slung low like in his jeans in that stupid Polo Ralph Lauren ad. Warm, wet, soft towel in his hand, he gently coaxed your legs apart, running the towel between your legs to clean you up.

You rolled your head to look at him. “What are you doing?” You mumbled.

“Taking care of you.” The answer was, apparently, so simple. He pushed the glass of water on your his beside table towards you. “Drink. You’ve had it rough.”

“What about you?” You took the water, letting it slide down your throat. Finally soothing it. That’s how you knew the pollen was out of your system.

He sat down beside you on the bed, tucking his legs under the covers. “Well, my legs feel like pudding, my dick’s been worked nine ways till Sunday, and my kneecaps feel creaky from the backshots.” He shrugged, lips curving into a lopsided smile. “Exactly how I wanna be.”

“You’re weird.”

“I love you too.” He chuckled, your world regaining its footing when he said that. You leaned towards him, kissing him again, this time without lust or motive or anything, just feeling him. Feeling the way he melted, like he always did.

His eyes blinked open when you pulled away. “Can we give us another shot?” He asked, shy. That was new. “Uh, only if you want to. No pressure.”

You took a breath in. This could fail. Crash and burn again, leaving you to thirst over his modelling gigs and all of him. But it’d never be worse than not trying at all.

“Sure.” You nodded.

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