20plussome

he had you pinned in the mud, your breath hitching in your throat as he loomed over you. you kicked at his shin, screaming for him to let you go, but he just gripped your arm and hauled you up. you stumbled on the wet grass as he dragged you toward the truck parked by the driveway.

"n- no please, let me go, please, please aerion!" you shrieked, thrashing against his grip. "i-i just want to go home!"

he didn't care that your nails were digging into his forearm or that you were sobbing. he opened the passenger door and shoved you inside, his hand rough on your shoulder to keep you from getting out.

you scrambled backward, pressing yourself into the seat. he slammed the door, and then, before you could do anything about it, he reached over and engaged the deadbolt with a heavy click.

you stared at the lock, your chest heaving. "w-what are you doing? unlock it!"

he didn't answer. instead, he walked around to the driver's side, his footsteps heavy and unbothered by the puddles soaking his boots. he opened the driver door momentarily to speak face to face with you calmly.

"listen to me," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "i'm going inside. i'm going to grab your stuff. then we're leaving."

he didn't wait for an answer.

he slammed the door and turned on his heel and walked around the hood of the truck. the rain soaked his hair instantly, plastering the dark strands to his forehead. you watched him go, your breath hitching in your throat, your hands gripping the leather of the door handle so hard your knuckles turned white.

your fingers scrambling to work the lock. you jiggled the handle, pulled it, pushed it- nothing. the mechanism was solid, deadlocked from the outside. you were sealed in. you were trapped.

you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to force yourself to wake up from whatever nightmare had folded itself around you, but the pressure only made the heat behind your lids worse. blood. mud. the smell of wet earth and metal and him. it clung to you in layers you could not peel away.

when the passenger door opened again, you jolted so hard your shoulder knocked against the seat.

aerion climbed back in with your bag slung over one shoulder and a bundled armful of your things held carefully against his chest as if they were breakable. his hair was dripping. water ran from the hem of his shirt in little dark streams, pattering onto the seat. he shut the door behind him with that same maddening control and set everything down between you and the dashboard without a word.

he reached for the ignition. the engine caught low and rough, a growl rolling through the truck. the windshield wipers started their slow sweep, cutting the rain into pieces.

the drive was a blur of dark roads and wet headlights and the unbearable knowledge that he had made this decision for both of you and had not once considered turning back. the city passed in smeared lights. the houses became fewer, farther apart, and then the roads narrowed into the part of town where the trees leaned close over the pavement and the pavement glistened black under the rain.

you stayed rigid the whole way, arms locked around yourself, staring ahead as if you could force your mind elsewhere by sheer refusal. but every so often, when the truck slowed for a turn or rolled over a dip in the road, you felt his hand near yours, not touching, only hovering for a second before withdrawing again as though he were reminding himself not to grip too hard.

that unsettled you more than if he had.

when he finally pulled into his driveway, the apartment rose out of the dark with its porch light burning over the steps. he cut the engine, and the sudden silence rang in your ears.

“stay here,” he said.

his jaw tightened, though the expression vanished almost at once. he opened his door, rain flooding in, and disappeared into the night. this time, he did not lock you in. the knowledge should have comforted you. instead it only made the trap feel larger, because now the choice was yours and you still had nowhere to go.

you sat there with your hand on the door handle, heart pounding so violently it made you nauseous. through the windshield, you could see him moving up the porch steps, carrying your things inside with the same careful precision he might have used with an offering. there was something almost unbearable in the gentleness of it.

then he came back for you.

he opened the passenger door and held out his hand.

you did not take it.

aerion looked at you for a long moment, rain mixed with dried blood sliding down his cheekbones, the porch light cutting gold across the sharp line of his mouth. then, instead of forcing the issue, he simply said, “come inside before you freeze.”

“i’d rather freeze.”

something flickered in his eyes at that, a brief, darkened spark, “i’ll drag you in if i have to.”

your hands were numb. your clothes clung to you in cold, miserable weight. every breath you took felt wet and shallow. but pride kept you rooted to the seat, stubborn and shaking.

aerion bent slightly, close enough that you could smell rain and iron and the faint clean bite of soap from earlier that day. “i’m not asking you to trust me right away,” he said quietly. “i’m asking you not to make this harder than it already is.”

you wanted to spit at him. wanted to scream. wanted to claw at the calm in his voice until it split open. instead you only stared, breath hitching.

he waited.

when you did not move, he leaned in, slipped one arm behind your knees and the other under your back, and lifted you out of the truck as if you weighed nothing at all.

you gasped at the shock of it, your hands flying to his shoulders on instinct, outrage and helplessness colliding so hard it left you breathless. but he did not give you time to fight him. he carried you up the steps, through the doorway, and into the warm dim of the apartment while rainwater dripped from both of you and tracked a wet trail over the polished floor.

he shut the door with his foot and kept going, not toward a bedroom, not toward anything you could have predicted, but toward the kitchen, where the overhead light glowed softly over the counters and the sink.

you stiffened as he set you down on the edge of the counter. the granite was cold beneath you. your legs swung uselessly, still not quite steady enough to support you.

aerion stepped back just enough to look at you.

for the first time since he had hauled you out of the mud, his expression shifted into something almost careful. he reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair off your face, his fingers stopping at your temple for a single, brief second. then he turned away before you could flinch.

“i’m getting a towel,” he said.

you watched him cross to the hall closet and return with one thrown over his shoulder, along with a clean shirt of his and a small first-aid kit from one of the drawers by the sink. the sight of it made your stomach twist. he noticed the movement in your face and did not comment on it.

instead, he set the kit down, folded the towel in his hands, and stepped between your knees.

the first touch of the towel against your cheek made you jerk. he paused at once, eyes lifting to yours, waiting. when you did not pull away, he resumed with agonizing patience, blotting the blood and rain from your skin, your jaw, your neck. his hands were steady. so steady. he wiped away the streaks of mud near your ear, the rain from your lashes…

you stayed silent in shock, because there was nothing in you that knew how to name what was happening.

his thumb brushed the underside of your chin, tilting your face up so he could dry the blood at your lip. you tasted copper still. he saw it too, and something unreadable tightened in his eyes.

“are you hurt?” he asked.

you swallowed hard. “don’t.”

his hand stilled. “don’t what?”

“don’t talk to me like that.” your voice broke on the last word, anger and fear made it tremble.

for a moment he said nothing. rain tapped softly at the kitchen windows. somewhere in the apartment, a floorboard creaked under the settling weight of the night.

then aerion reached for the towel again, as though he had heard you and chosen not to answer the part of it that mattered. “take this off,” he said, nodding at your wet tank top. “it’s soaked through.”

you recoiled. “no.”

his gaze moved over you, “then you’ll sit in it until it dries cold against your skin. your choice.”

he stood there unflinching, one hand resting on the counter beside your thigh, the other holding the folded shirt. not touching. not forcing. just waiting in a way that felt somehow worse than being shoved.

your fingers moved stiffly at the hem of your top. humiliation burned through you as you peeled the wet fabric from your skin, one slow, miserable motion at a time. aerion looked away immediately, sweet enough still to give you some privacy, and handed you the clean shirt without comment. it smelled just like him, it was too large, too warm, but you pulled it on with shaking hands.

“done.” you whispered when you looked up again, then he lifted the towel and began drying your hair best he could.

you had expected force. expected impatience. expected him to pin your wrists or bark at you to hold still. instead he worked slowly, section by section, which made your stomach ache with confusion.

it was too much. it unsettled the angry, defensive coil in your gut, confusing you so thoroughly that you forgot where you were for a split second. why was he being like this?

jumped off the counter before you could overthink it, your feet slipping on the linoleum, and well- you didn't go far- just three stumbling steps toward the hallway.

panic was a visceral thing, a cold spike in your veins, and you needed distance.

before you could take another breath, a strong hands closed around your waist.

his grip was iron, hot and unrelenting. you twisted, trying to pull free, but he was already hauling you back, his momentum carrying you off your feet. you let out a sharp, startled yelp as he spun you around, his arm banding across your waist to lift you effortlessly.

"no! let go!" you thrashed, kicking your legs. he was too strong.

with a grunt that sounded more like effort than exertion, he hauled you up and tossed you over his shoulder. the world tilted violently. you hung there like a sack, your stomach lurching as he turned and strode toward the bedroom.

the hallway spun by in a blur of motion. you tried to claw at his back, tried to lever yourself up, but he shifted his stance slightly, holding you firm, and the world spun again.

the door slammed against the wall with a heavy thud that vibrated through the floorboards, echoing in the small room. you were tossed onto the mattress, the springs groaning under your weight as you bounced once. the linens were cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of his body hovering over you.

he didn't step back. he stepped between your knees, looming large, blocking out the moonlight from the window. his shadow fell over you completely, a dark, suffocating blanket that made your breath hitch. he looked down at you, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"we don’t have time to play around." he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding together. he reached out, but instead of touching you gently, his hand settled heavily on your shoulder, pinning you to the mattress. “listen to me, i’m trying to protect you.”

you tried to squirm, trying to create space, but his grip was iron. "let me go," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"if you keep behaving like this," he said, his voice dropping an octave, dangerous and sweet all at once, "if you keep running from me- giving me fucking attitude when all i've been is patient, then i’ll have no choice but to correct your behavior. do you understand me?"

the threat hung in the air, thick and heavy. it was a promise of dominance, of being pinned until you submitted. and it terrified you, but there was a strange, traitorous part of you that wanted him to do it. wanted him to take control so you didn't have to think anymore.

it hurt him to see you so terrified of him. it killed him to see you flinch. but he knew he couldn't coddle you. he couldn't be sweet and soft right now, because that was what you expected, and that was what you ran from.

"i don't want to scare you," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone, the touch agonizingly gentle. "but i can't have you running away, baby."

he moved then, settling his weight between your legs, his hips pressing against yours. he felt huge, overwhelming. he looked down at you with a mixture of desperation and calculation in his eyes.

he knew he was being unfair.

but he also knew that he needed to tie you down, literally and figuratively, before you could drive yourself crazy.

“let me take care of you."

he didn't wait for a verbal confirmation, his hands already moving with that familiar, frustrating expertise to the waistband of your shorts. he pulled them down slowly, the denim rough against your skin, but his touch was reverent, almost gentle, as he stripped the wet fabric away and tossed it aside.

"let me take care of you, baby" he said again, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the mattress.

he settled lower, his chest pressing against your thighs, and you felt the heat radiating from him. he traced the line of your hip bone with his thumb, his eyes dark and focused. then he leaned in.

the first kiss landed on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just above the knee. it was so soft, tentative. but as he moved upward, he didn't miss the smear of dried blood on your skin from where you’d probably been cut earlier. his lips brushed over it, lingering.

it was disgusting. it was intimate. it was a mess.

your hands gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white.

he moved further up, his lips trailing a path of fire along your trembling thigh. when he reached the apex of your legs, he looked up at you from beneath his lashes. his eyes were dark, dilated, and filled with a hunger that terrified you as much as it excited you.

his hands slid to the elastic of your panties. he didn't pull them down all the way immediately; instead, he hooked his fingers inside them, pulling the fabric down just enough to expose you to the cool air. then, he pressed a kiss to your soft pussy lips.

your brain was fried, completely overloaded. you couldn't think, couldn't parse the situation. you were laying there with your boyfriend…ex-boyfriend's…cal’s blood drying on your skin. it was gross. it was wrong…..

he unzipped his pants, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet room, and palmed his aching hard cock through his boxers. the sight of it made your breath hitch, the sheer size of him promising a stretch that you weren't sure you could accommodate.

panic flared hot in your chest, a sharp counterpoint to the arousal thundering in your veins.

you scrambled back on the bed on pure instinct, using the last of your strength to put distance between you. but he was faster. his hand shot out, fingers hooking around your heel with a bruising grip, and he didn't hesitate—he hauled you back toward him with a rough, impatient jerk of his arm.

his dark eyes tracked you, hungry and possessive.

"some girls just need to be fucked out to relax," he murmured, his voice rough with need as he kicked his pants and boxers down, his cock springing free, heavy and thick.

you opened your mouth to protest, to say that you were tired, that you were broken, that cal's blood was still clinging to you like a reminder of what you lost, but he cut you off with a kiss pressed against your cheek, soft and apologetic.

"and i'm sorry," he whispered against your skin, his hand tightening in your hair to hold your head still. "i'm so so sorry. it hurts me more than it hurts you…."

he lined himself up, the pinkish red head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. there was no preamble, no patience left in him.

“aerion- w-wait no no-”

he pressed forward, sheathing himself inch by agonizing inch until he was buried deep inside you, stretching you wide and filling you completely. the intrusion was sharp, a burn that made you arch your back, you tried to squirm away, to escape the overwhelming sensation, but he was already there, holding you down with the weight of his body, pinning you to the mattress as he began to move.

the rhythm was fast and brutal, a desperate attempt to drive the confusion and pain right out of your system. burying himself to the hilt with a groan that sounded almost pained. the dry blood from her earlier injury was being ground into the sheets, sticky and uncomfortable, smeared across your skin and likely onto his as well.

as he moved he leaned down to kiss your cheek.

“sh sh sh,” he murmured against your skin, the sound vibrating through you as he thrust harder. “it’s okay. just breathe. i’ve got you-”

you couldn't breathe. you couldn't process the sensation of him filling you so completely while the ghost of the boy who died was still drying on your skin. it was too much. the tears finally spilled over, hot and stinging, and you tried to scramble away, to put distance between your bodies, but he anchored you down with a hand on your hip, holding you firm.

“y-you're scaring me-” you gasped out between sobs, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. “i don't want it like this-”

he didn't stop. he didn't even slow down. he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his face softening just a fraction.

“yes you do,” he growled low in his throat, his voice rough and husky, claiming the space he occupied. “i know you do. i can feel it. you still love me…always be my girl.”

he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, tasting the salt of your tears and the copper tang of his own sweat. "d-don't you feel how much i need you?" he rolled his hips again, harder this time, driving the point home with a groan that was half-pain, half-pleasure. "i know it hurts baby- but i'm here- m’right here. just relax baby…”

he laced your fingers together, forcing your hand down between your legs, guiding your fingers to the swollen bundle of nerves. "show me. make it feel good. just how you like it."

you couldn't help the small, broken sob that escaped your lips as your fingers found the slick heat between your thighs. "a-aerion, i... i can't..." you stammered.

he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, "you can," he whispered, his voice rough and commanding. "you will. you're going to feel good, and you're going to cum, and you're going to let me take care of you. you're going to let me make it all better."

you felt your fingers move on their own, following the rhythm he knew so well, the friction building up, a coil tightening in your belly that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he was looking at you, the way he was touching you, the way he was filling you up.

"god, i remember," he groaned, his hips stuttering slightly, the sensation of your tight walls milking him making his eyes roll back. "i used to watch you touch yourself through your little panties when you didn't think i was looking...watching you rub your little clit, moaning my name... i would get so hard i'd have to jack off in the car after dropping you home."

you felt a flush spread across your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and arousal. "you... you watched me?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

he nodded, his eyes dark and hungry. "fuck- i couldn't help it. i wanted you so bad. i still do." he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, his lips lingering. "i still want you, baby. i still need you. i still love you."

you felt a tear slip down your cheek, a mix of happiness and sadness and something else, something that felt a lot like hope. "i- love you too," you whispered, your voice breaking.

"shhh... i know baby" he soothed, kissing your tears away, his own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "that's it. gooood girl."

and then it happened. a sob broke free, but it morphed into a loud, wanton moan as you rubbed yourself frantically against your little pearl. the pleasure spiked, sharper than the pain, and your fingernails dug into his biceps, leaving red crescents as you held on for dear life.

the white-hot wave of your orgasm crashed through you, shattering the last of your defenses. your body went rigid for a heartbeat before going boneless, a ragdoll finally untethered from the fight.

you cried out his name, a broken sob swallowed by his mouth as he didn't stop, didn't miss a beat. he used your release to drive himself harder, faster, chasing his own climax with a frenzied rhythm that seemed determined to erase every thought, every fear, and every memory of the boy who wasn't there.

but as the intensity peaked and began to fade, aerion slowed. his movements became slower, deeper, more deliberate. he watched you, his dark eyes softening as he noticed the tension leaving your shoulders, the way your breathing evened out. you were pliant now, sleepy and loose beneath him, and he seemed to savor the change.

“there we go,” he whispered against your skin, his voice a gentle hum now, completely at odds with the roughness of moments ago. “let go, baby. just let go and fall asleep. i’ve got you. you’re safe here.”

“you’re not going to be scared and alone anymore. i’m not going anywhere….”

the steady beat of his heart against your chest, the warmth of his body surrounding you, the feeling of being completely full of him- it was a drug, a sedative that overrode the panic. the darkness in your mind crept in, gentle and tired.

“just sleep,” he murmured, his voice fading into the background as the exhaustion finally won. “i’m here.”

the last thing you felt was the weight of him, anchoring you to the earth, and then, finally, nothing but the sweet, heavy silence of sleep.

you woke slowly, surfacing through layers of heavy sleep that clung to your body like wet cloth. for a few moments, nothing made sense. the steady vibration beneath you. the low hum of an engine. the strange warmth wrapped around your shoulders.

then your eyes opened, darkness stretched beyond the windows, headlights swept across the road ahead.

you sat upright so fast the movement caught his attention immediately. he glanced over from the driver's seat before returning his eyes to the road. "easy."

you looked down at yourself. an oversized t-shirt hung off one shoulder. the sweatpants pooled around your ankles.

for a second, you simply stared then you looked back at him.

"aerion."

he already knew what you were asking. "your clothes were soaked."

you kept staring at him. "you changed them?"

his jaw tightened slightly. "i wasn't leaving you in wet clothes."

you looked away first, outside, the highway stretched endlessly through the darkness. no houses. no gas stations. no signs of life.

just road.

the realization settled over you slowly.

you had no idea where you were. "aerion..." this time your voice came out softer. "where are we going?"

one hand rested loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped once against his thigh. thinking. "we're heading west."

you stared at him. "are you tired?"

"no, but we are heading to a place to stop soon."

"where?"

he sighed quietly. "motel."

you stared at him for a moment. a motel.

"how long have we been driving?"

"a few hours."

"a few hours?" you looked at him again. "and i slept through all of that?"

"you were exhausted." the ache in your body was proof enough. your throat felt raw from crying. your eyes burned every time you blinked. every muscle seemed heavy.

the adrenaline had finally left.

the truck rolled through another stretch of darkness, you watched telephone poles flash by.

one after another.

one after another.

one after another.

"aerion."

he glanced over briefly. "what, baby?"

you swallowed. now looking at him further you can see he also managed to clean himself up, the blood no longer really visible on his skin. the question had been sitting in your chest since you woke up and you weren't sure you wanted the answer.

"what happened after..." your voice trailed off, you couldn't bring yourself to finish it.

his eyes returned to the road and for a while he didn't say anything. the silence stretched long enough that you thought he wasn't going to answer. then he spoke.

"i cleaned you up and i got you into the truck." his gaze stayed fixed on the road then his jaw shifted.

the truck fell silent again. you looked down at your hands, they were clean and for some reason that nearly made you cry again.

the highway curved ahead, a green road sign appeared in the distance and aerion straightened a little. "we're close."

you looked out the window and sure enough, distant lights were beginning to appear.

a small town.

nothing more than a handful of businesses clustered around an exit. a gas station. fast food place. a convenience store. a faded motel sign glowing red against the darkness, then the motel sign passed overhead. aerion flicked on the turn signal and the truck turned into the parking lot and suddenly the road that had felt endless was over.

aerion shut off the truck and neither of you moved.

outside, the motel looked almost deserted. a few cars sat scattered around the lot. you stared through the windshield, you didn't want to get out but you didn't want to stay in here either.

everything smelled like him. the truck. the clothes. the blanket.

aerion scrubbed a hand over his face.

"what happens now?" the question came out quieter than you intended.

he looked down at his hands. "i honestly don't know. i had a plan right up until everything went wrong."

everything went wrong. that was one way of describing it. "you mean when you killed cal?"

the words hung heavily inside the truck. aerion went still. "yeah." his voice sounded rough.

eventually aerion leaned back against the seat and looked out at the motel. "when they find him, things are going to get complicated."

you swallowed hard. "when?"

"i don't know." he rubbed at his jaw. "tomorrow maybe. maybe the day after." his gaze drifted toward the office. "the point is they're going to start asking questions."

the knot in your stomach tightened. "i didn't do anything."

"i know, baby." his answer came immediately. "i know you didn't."

you looked down at your lap. "what if i just go home?"

the words slipped out before you could stop them. aerion was quiet for a long time, long enough that you almost regretted asking. when he finally spoke, his voice was careful.

"do you actually want to?"

you opened your mouth, then closed it again because the truth was complicated, home wasn't really home.

the truck fell silent again, then he sighed. "i just need you to stay with me for tonight." you looked over and his eyes met yours. "i'm serious."

for the first time all evening there was genuine tension in his voice. "if you panic and run off right now, neither of us is thinking clearly enough to fix it. i know you don't trust me."

his gaze dropped briefly. "i'm just asking for tonight." his eyes returned to yours.

then he reached for the door handle. for a second you hesitated, then, before you could think too hard about what you were doing, you followed him out of the truck.

the night air hit you the second you stepped out of the truck. the motel looked even smaller up close. the paint was peeling in places. half the curtains were drawn shut. a few yellow lights glowed behind windows on the second floor.

aerion grabbed the duffel bag from the backseat and slung it over one shoulder. you noticed the way he scanned the parking lot automatically like he couldn't stop himself.

the office door chimed softly when aerion pushed it open, warm air washed over you immediately. the woman behind the desk looked like she'd been working for twelve straight hours, she glanced up from a magazine, then her eyes moved between the two of you.

aerion was standing close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, one of his hands resting on your lower back. she leaned back in her chair. you stared. aerion stared. the woman stared right back.

"you kids look exhausted."

just two tired young people stopping for the night. aerion handed over some cash then the woman typed something into the computer, then she glanced between you again.

"one bed?"

your face immediately grew hot. aerion looked down at the counter. "yeah." the answer came naturally, without hesitation, like he hadn't even considered another option.

the woman nodded. "got it."

a few more clicks, a printer whirred, "you two married?"

aerion looked startled for half a second before recovering. "uh…"

for the first time since you'd walked into the office, aerion actually seemed caught off guard. his eyes flicked toward you, then back to the woman.

aerion cleared his throat. "recently." your head snapped toward him so fast your neck hurt.

she leaned back in her chair. you wanted the floor to open and swallow you whole. aerion somehow managed to keep a straight face, then the woman glanced at you.

"honeymoon?"

before you could answer, aerion said, "something like that." you looked at him in disbelief,

something like that?

something like what?

you were wearing your ex boyfriends clothes because he'd changed you while you were unconscious. your boyfriend was dead. you were halfway to another state.

the woman seemed somewhat delighted. "that's sweet." the printer spat out the receipt, the woman tore it free and slid it across the counter. "you know, my husband and i did the exact same thing."

aerion blinked. "what?"

"road trip." she pointed vaguely toward the parking lot. "right after we got married. no plans. no reservations. just got in the car and drove."

you physically felt aerion freeze beside you, just enough that you knew exactly what he was thinking. the story sounded like the fantasy version of what he wanted this to be. the version where none of this had happened. where cal wasn't dead. where you hadn't cried yourself sick. where the two of you had simply decided to leave together. to elope and honeymoon at any place your heart desired.

the realization made your chest tighten, the woman was still talking. "best decision we ever made."

aerion looked down at the counter then the woman handed him the room key. "second floor. room 214."

aerion accepted it. "thanks."

then she smiled at both of you tiredly, "congratulations."

aerion thanked her again, quietly this time, and stepped back from the counter. the bell above the door jingled as you pushed outside, cool air hit your face immediately. the parking lot stretched out around you.

aerion shoved the room key into his pocket. you looked at him. "recently?"

there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes now, "i panicked."

"you panicked?"

"she caught me off guard..."

aerion opened the door with the room key already between his fingers and stepped inside first, one hand still braced against the knob as if he expected something to be waiting on the other side.

the room was small. but still bigger than you expected.

a bed against the far wall, a cracked dresser, a tv bolted onto the wall above the dresser, and a bathroom door standing half open beneath the harsh yellow light of the ceiling fixture. the air smelled faintly of old fabric softener.

you lingered in the doorway while he moved farther in, setting the duffel bag down by the foot of the bed. he glanced toward the bathroom, the window, the closet, and the door again in a careful sweep.

you stayed where you were, hugging your arms to yourself while he went back to the door and turned the deadbolt with a sharp little click.

aerion finally turned around and saw you still standing there. “bathroom’s there,” he said, nodding once toward the open door. “you can shower first.”

you shook your head, though you weren’t even sure what you were refusing. the shower. the room. the silence that would come with being alone behind a closed bathroom door.

he studied you for a second, his face unreadable, then seemed to understand enough to let the rest of it go unsaid. you could tell he did because his voice changed when he spoke again. it got lower, less direct.

“you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” he said.

the motel room hummed softly around you. you suddenly did not want to be by yourself. not even for a few minutes. not even with the bathroom door between you, because if you were alone, even for long enough to strip off the clothes he gave you and stand under running water, your mind would catch up to you.

aerion seemed to understand before you said anything, his shoulders shifted subtly. then, after a pause, he asked, almost carefully, “want me to go with you?”

he rubbed at the back of his neck, looking toward the window for a second as if he needed the movement to think, then cleared his throat. “sorry. i meant, like, i can sit outside the door. just keep you company. if you don’t want to be alone.”

“i don’t need you sitting outside the door,” you said, though the words came out softer than you meant them to.

aerion nodded once, accepting that too quickly. “okay.”

you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, staring at the bathroom door, then at the bed, then back at him. the room suddenly felt too quiet again, and the thought of standing under hot water with no sound but your own breathing made your skin crawl.

aerion watched you for a second longer and then spoke before you could overthink it. “i’m not going anywhere,” he said.

“okay…” you muttered, though it sounded more like surrender than agreement.

a corner of his mouth twitched, though he seemed to catch himself before it could become a real smile. “i’ll be right here,” he said.

you hesitated another second, then reached for the bathroom door. the light above the sink buzzed faintly. you stopped in the doorway and turned back. aerion was still by the dresser, watching you like he had no intention of letting his attention drift even for a second.

“don’t leave,” you said before you could stop yourself. the words came out raw, almost embarrassed.

he nodded once, slow and certain. “i won’t.”

you finally turn away and step into the bathroom, the door shut behind you with a soft click. you stood there for a second, one hand still on the knob, listening to the muffled quiet of the room beyond it. you could hear him moving once, the faint scrape of a chair being pulled closer to the door. he really did stay nearby.

the shower took longer than it should have, eventually the hot water began to cool and you forced yourself to shut it off. for a second you just stood there wrapped in a towel, staring at nothing. then you heard aerion's voice through the door.

"there's clothes in there for you. they're clean." a pause. "i left them by the sink."

you looked down. sure enough, folded clothes sat on the counter where they definitely hadn't been before. you weren't even sure when he'd put them there.

you got dressed slowly, the sweatpants were too big again. the sweatshirt was too big. everything smelled like detergent and aerion.

when you finally opened the bathroom door, steam followed you into the room. aerion was sitting in the chair by the window. true to his word. still there.

he looked up immediately, your hair was still damp, the sweatshirt sleeves covered half your hands.

the pant legs dragged behind you until you sat on the edge of the bed and started rolling them up. you pulled one pant leg up and stuffed it into your sock. then the other. by the time you finished, the sweatpants were gathered awkwardly around your ankles, but at least they weren't dragging on the floor anymore.

aerion looked down at them. then at you. then back at the sweatpants, the corner of his mouth twitched.

you looked toward the bathroom. "do you want to shower?"

he shook his head. "nah." his gaze drifted toward the floor. "i already did."

"when?"

"back at the apartment." aerion leaned back in the chair and stretched his neck slightly. he looked exhausted. now that the adrenaline had worn off, it was impossible not to notice.

you tucked your feet underneath you on the bed, the mattress dipped slightly. "you should sleep."

he looked over. "so should you."

"yeah." you stared very hard at the television bolted to the wall, the television suddenly became fascinating. a few seconds passed, then aerion rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

"i can sleep on the floor."

you looked over immediately. "the floor?"

"it's fine."

the motel carpet looked like it had witnessed crimes. you stared at it. then back at him. then at the carpet again. aerion followed your gaze.

"okay, yeah. maybe not the floor."

despite yourself, you laughed. a short tired sound and aerion looked relieved to hear it.

after somewhat drying your hair and getting ready for bed, you sat over on your side of the bed, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like motel detergent, staring at the dark television screen across the room. and aerion was beside you.

then, before you could stop yourself, you shifted closer. your eyes burned, you were so tired, tired enough that everything hurt, tired enough that being angry felt impossible for a few minutes.

"aerion."

his voice was quiet in the darkness. "yeah?"

you swallowed, the question had been sitting inside you for months long before tonight, long before cal.

"why did you leave?"

eventually aerion rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling too, for a while he said nothing. when he finally spoke, his voice sounded somehow older…deeper. "i thought i was doing the right thing."

another long pause.

"i just didn't think you deserved to get dragged into my life."

you turned your head. "what does that even mean?"

his jaw tightened, you could see it even in the darkness. "my family life was fucked, i was angry all the time. i was getting into fights every other week..."

he rubbed a hand over his face. "and you...you were the one good thing in my life. i thought letting you breaking up with me, was me being selfless."

you felt a lump form in your throat, the tears threatening to spill over again. "you thought leaving me was being selfless?" you whispered, your voice breaking. "how is that selfless? how is that...how is that loving me?"

aerion turned his head, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, you were both suspended in the silence, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his face, highlighting the pain and regret etched into his features.

“i didn't want to hurt you. i didn't want to ruin the one good thing i had." he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “i wanted you to always look at me like i was the person you ran to, not the person you needed saving from.”

the lump in your throat grew, and you felt a tear slip down your cheek.

"you didn't want to hurt me, but you did," you whispered, your voice trembling. "i thought i was going crazy. i couldn't eat, i couldn't sleep. i just...i just wanted you…”

aerion reached up, his thumb brushing away the tear from your cheek. "i'm sorry," he said, his voice filled with a raw, aching sincerity. "i'm so sorry. i was a fucking idiot. i thought i was protecting you, i wanted to be better for you. i wanted to deserve you."

"i love you," he whispered, the words a promise, a plea, a confession. "i've always loved you. i never stopped. i'm going to make it up to you, baby, i promise.”

you felt your resolve crumbling, the anger and the hurt and the fear all melting away under the weight of his words, under the warmth of his touch, under the intensity of his gaze. you wanted to believe him. you wanted to trust him. you wanted to give in and let him love you.

and so, you did. you leaned in, and you kissed him. you felt his arms wrap around you, pulling you close, holding you tight, as if he was afraid you might slip away. and in that moment, you didn't want to be anywhere else. you didn't want to be with anyone else. you just wanted to be with him, to be loved by him, to be whole again.

you felt a sudden surge of boldness, a need to bridge the distance between you, to feel his skin against yours, to remind him that you were here, that you were real, that you were his. you pushed against his chest, rolling him onto his back, and then you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips, your hands on his chest.

you leaned down, your lips brushing against his, a soft, tender promise. "m’sorry- m’sorry i fought you so hard…i'm not going anywhere," you whispered back, your voice barely audible.

his eyes softened, and he reached up, his hand cupping your cheek, "it's okay, baby," he whispered, his voice gentle, soothing. "it's okay. i'm sorry i was so rough with you. i'm sorry i scared you. i'm sorry i hurt you. i just...i just needed you to listen. i needed you to stay. you just wouldn't listen, and i needed you to. i needed you to understand that i was trying to protect you…"

you nodded, a small, shy smile tugging at your lips. "i understand," you whispered. "i understand…"

for a moment neither of you spoke and the room had gone quiet again. aerion's hand remained against your cheek for another second before falling away. you could still feel the weight of everything sitting between you.

cal.

the future of everything.

"aerion..." something in your voice made his expression change immediately.

the softness faded and reality came back. you saw it happen, the reminder that this wasn't over. you shifted beside him, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

"what are we going to do?"

aerion looked away toward the dark motel window. you could practically see him thinking. when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

"they're going to find him."

you looked down at the blanket in your lap. "what happens when they do find him?"

"they start asking questions." you hated how calmly he said it, he'd clearly been thinking about it for hours. "they'll talk to people, they'll try to figure out who saw him last. who he was with."

"we can't just stay in motels forever."

"i know. but we need to keep moving for a little while."

your stomach dropped at that, "a little while?"

"just until things settle." his eyes stayed on yours, "right now everybody's emotional. everybody's panicking. that's when people make mistakes. so we give it time."

“what if they come looking for me?” you asked,

“if they do,” he said, “we’ll deal with it.”

“i’m still angry with you,”

aerion gave a short nod, his mouth barely moving. “i figured.”

there was no argument in his voice. no defense. no attempt to pull you into forgiving him before you were ready. he shifted lower against the pillows, one hand moving up to tug the blanket higher over both of you. the movement was careful, almost absentminded, like his body already knew what to do before his mind could catch up. then he looked at you for a long second and said, quieter now, “come here.”

you moved closer, and the springs made a soft groan beneath you. aerion’s arm settled around you almost automatically, like it had done it before, like his body remembered the shape of you even when everything else had gone wrong. there was no hesitation in the way he held you. no awkwardness.

you tucked your face against his shoulder and closed your eyes.

aerion let out a slow breath, and you could feel some of the tension leaving him little by little, the hard edge in his shoulders easing just slightly beneath your cheek. his hand rested against your back, warm through the fabric of his shirt, and his heartbeat was steady in a way that should not have comforted you as much as it did.

you listened to it for a while, letting the sound fill the empty spaces in your head.

aerion’s fingers moved once against your back, slow and absent, just to make sure you were really still beside him.

tomorrow could wait.

he had you pinned in the mud, your breath hitching in your throat as he loomed over you. you kicked at his shin, screaming for him to let you go, but he just gripped your arm and hauled you up. you stumbled on the wet grass as he dragged you toward the truck parked by the driveway.

"n- no please, let me go, please, please aerion!" you shrieked, thrashing against his grip. "i-i just want to go home!"

he didn't care that your nails were digging into his forearm or that you were sobbing. he opened the passenger door and shoved you inside, his hand rough on your shoulder to keep you from getting out.

you scrambled backward, pressing yourself into the seat. he slammed the door, and then, before you could do anything about it, he reached over and engaged the deadbolt with a heavy click.

you stared at the lock, your chest heaving. "w-what are you doing? unlock it!"

he didn't answer. instead, he walked around to the driver's side, his footsteps heavy and unbothered by the puddles soaking his boots. he opened the driver door momentarily to speak face to face with you calmly.

"listen to me," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "i'm going inside. i'm going to grab your stuff. then we're leaving."

he didn't wait for an answer.

he slammed the door and turned on his heel and walked around the hood of the truck. the rain soaked his hair instantly, plastering the dark strands to his forehead. you watched him go, your breath hitching in your throat, your hands gripping the leather of the door handle so hard your knuckles turned white.

your fingers scrambling to work the lock. you jiggled the handle, pulled it, pushed it- nothing. the mechanism was solid, deadlocked from the outside. you were sealed in. you were trapped.

you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to force yourself to wake up from whatever nightmare had folded itself around you, but the pressure only made the heat behind your lids worse. blood. mud. the smell of wet earth and metal and him. it clung to you in layers you could not peel away.

when the passenger door opened again, you jolted so hard your shoulder knocked against the seat.

aerion climbed back in with your bag slung over one shoulder and a bundled armful of your things held carefully against his chest as if they were breakable. his hair was dripping. water ran from the hem of his shirt in little dark streams, pattering onto the seat. he shut the door behind him with that same maddening control and set everything down between you and the dashboard without a word.

he reached for the ignition. the engine caught low and rough, a growl rolling through the truck. the windshield wipers started their slow sweep, cutting the rain into pieces.

the drive was a blur of dark roads and wet headlights and the unbearable knowledge that he had made this decision for both of you and had not once considered turning back. the city passed in smeared lights. the houses became fewer, farther apart, and then the roads narrowed into the part of town where the trees leaned close over the pavement and the pavement glistened black under the rain.

you stayed rigid the whole way, arms locked around yourself, staring ahead as if you could force your mind elsewhere by sheer refusal. but every so often, when the truck slowed for a turn or rolled over a dip in the road, you felt his hand near yours, not touching, only hovering for a second before withdrawing again as though he were reminding himself not to grip too hard.

that unsettled you more than if he had.

when he finally pulled into his driveway, the apartment rose out of the dark with its porch light burning over the steps. he cut the engine, and the sudden silence rang in your ears.

“stay here,” he said.

his jaw tightened, though the expression vanished almost at once. he opened his door, rain flooding in, and disappeared into the night. this time, he did not lock you in. the knowledge should have comforted you. instead it only made the trap feel larger, because now the choice was yours and you still had nowhere to go.

you sat there with your hand on the door handle, heart pounding so violently it made you nauseous. through the windshield, you could see him moving up the porch steps, carrying your things inside with the same careful precision he might have used with an offering. there was something almost unbearable in the gentleness of it.

then he came back for you.

he opened the passenger door and held out his hand.

you did not take it.

aerion looked at you for a long moment, rain mixed with dried blood sliding down his cheekbones, the porch light cutting gold across the sharp line of his mouth. then, instead of forcing the issue, he simply said, “come inside before you freeze.”

“i’d rather freeze.”

something flickered in his eyes at that, a brief, darkened spark, “i’ll drag you in if i have to.”

your hands were numb. your clothes clung to you in cold, miserable weight. every breath you took felt wet and shallow. but pride kept you rooted to the seat, stubborn and shaking.

aerion bent slightly, close enough that you could smell rain and iron and the faint clean bite of soap from earlier that day. “i’m not asking you to trust me right away,” he said quietly. “i’m asking you not to make this harder than it already is.”

you wanted to spit at him. wanted to scream. wanted to claw at the calm in his voice until it split open. instead you only stared, breath hitching.

he waited.

when you did not move, he leaned in, slipped one arm behind your knees and the other under your back, and lifted you out of the truck as if you weighed nothing at all.

you gasped at the shock of it, your hands flying to his shoulders on instinct, outrage and helplessness colliding so hard it left you breathless. but he did not give you time to fight him. he carried you up the steps, through the doorway, and into the warm dim of the apartment while rainwater dripped from both of you and tracked a wet trail over the polished floor.

he shut the door with his foot and kept going, not toward a bedroom, not toward anything you could have predicted, but toward the kitchen, where the overhead light glowed softly over the counters and the sink.

you stiffened as he set you down on the edge of the counter. the granite was cold beneath you. your legs swung uselessly, still not quite steady enough to support you.

aerion stepped back just enough to look at you.

for the first time since he had hauled you out of the mud, his expression shifted into something almost careful. he reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair off your face, his fingers stopping at your temple for a single, brief second. then he turned away before you could flinch.

“i’m getting a towel,” he said.

you watched him cross to the hall closet and return with one thrown over his shoulder, along with a clean shirt of his and a small first-aid kit from one of the drawers by the sink. the sight of it made your stomach twist. he noticed the movement in your face and did not comment on it.

instead, he set the kit down, folded the towel in his hands, and stepped between your knees.

the first touch of the towel against your cheek made you jerk. he paused at once, eyes lifting to yours, waiting. when you did not pull away, he resumed with agonizing patience, blotting the blood and rain from your skin, your jaw, your neck. his hands were steady. so steady. he wiped away the streaks of mud near your ear, the rain from your lashes…

you stayed silent in shock, because there was nothing in you that knew how to name what was happening.

his thumb brushed the underside of your chin, tilting your face up so he could dry the blood at your lip. you tasted copper still. he saw it too, and something unreadable tightened in his eyes.

“are you hurt?” he asked.

you swallowed hard. “don’t.”

his hand stilled. “don’t what?”

“don’t talk to me like that.” your voice broke on the last word, anger and fear made it tremble.

for a moment he said nothing. rain tapped softly at the kitchen windows. somewhere in the apartment, a floorboard creaked under the settling weight of the night.

then aerion reached for the towel again, as though he had heard you and chosen not to answer the part of it that mattered. “take this off,” he said, nodding at your wet tank top. “it’s soaked through.”

you recoiled. “no.”

his gaze moved over you, “then you’ll sit in it until it dries cold against your skin. your choice.”

he stood there unflinching, one hand resting on the counter beside your thigh, the other holding the folded shirt. not touching. not forcing. just waiting in a way that felt somehow worse than being shoved.

your fingers moved stiffly at the hem of your top. humiliation burned through you as you peeled the wet fabric from your skin, one slow, miserable motion at a time. aerion looked away immediately, sweet enough still to give you some privacy, and handed you the clean shirt without comment. it smelled just like him, it was too large, too warm, but you pulled it on with shaking hands.

“done.” you whispered when you looked up again, then he lifted the towel and began drying your hair best he could.

you had expected force. expected impatience. expected him to pin your wrists or bark at you to hold still. instead he worked slowly, section by section, which made your stomach ache with confusion.

it was too much. it unsettled the angry, defensive coil in your gut, confusing you so thoroughly that you forgot where you were for a split second. why was he being like this?

jumped off the counter before you could overthink it, your feet slipping on the linoleum, and well- you didn't go far- just three stumbling steps toward the hallway.

panic was a visceral thing, a cold spike in your veins, and you needed distance.

before you could take another breath, a strong hands closed around your waist.

his grip was iron, hot and unrelenting. you twisted, trying to pull free, but he was already hauling you back, his momentum carrying you off your feet. you let out a sharp, startled yelp as he spun you around, his arm banding across your waist to lift you effortlessly.

"no! let go!" you thrashed, kicking your legs. he was too strong.

with a grunt that sounded more like effort than exertion, he hauled you up and tossed you over his shoulder. the world tilted violently. you hung there like a sack, your stomach lurching as he turned and strode toward the bedroom.

the hallway spun by in a blur of motion. you tried to claw at his back, tried to lever yourself up, but he shifted his stance slightly, holding you firm, and the world spun again.

the door slammed against the wall with a heavy thud that vibrated through the floorboards, echoing in the small room. you were tossed onto the mattress, the springs groaning under your weight as you bounced once. the linens were cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of his body hovering over you.

he didn't step back. he stepped between your knees, looming large, blocking out the moonlight from the window. his shadow fell over you completely, a dark, suffocating blanket that made your breath hitch. he looked down at you, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"we don’t have time to play around." he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding together. he reached out, but instead of touching you gently, his hand settled heavily on your shoulder, pinning you to the mattress. “listen to me, i’m trying to protect you.”

you tried to squirm, trying to create space, but his grip was iron. "let me go," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"if you keep behaving like this," he said, his voice dropping an octave, dangerous and sweet all at once, "if you keep running from me- giving me fucking attitude when all i've been is patient, then i’ll have no choice but to correct your behavior. do you understand me?"

the threat hung in the air, thick and heavy. it was a promise of dominance, of being pinned until you submitted. and it terrified you, but there was a strange, traitorous part of you that wanted him to do it. wanted him to take control so you didn't have to think anymore.

it hurt him to see you so terrified of him. it killed him to see you flinch. but he knew he couldn't coddle you. he couldn't be sweet and soft right now, because that was what you expected, and that was what you ran from.

"i don't want to scare you," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone, the touch agonizingly gentle. "but i can't have you running away, baby."

he moved then, settling his weight between your legs, his hips pressing against yours. he felt huge, overwhelming. he looked down at you with a mixture of desperation and calculation in his eyes.

he knew he was being unfair.

but he also knew that he needed to tie you down, literally and figuratively, before you could drive yourself crazy.

“let me take care of you."

he didn't wait for a verbal confirmation, his hands already moving with that familiar, frustrating expertise to the waistband of your shorts. he pulled them down slowly, the denim rough against your skin, but his touch was reverent, almost gentle, as he stripped the wet fabric away and tossed it aside.

"let me take care of you, baby" he said again, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the mattress.

he settled lower, his chest pressing against your thighs, and you felt the heat radiating from him. he traced the line of your hip bone with his thumb, his eyes dark and focused. then he leaned in.

the first kiss landed on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just above the knee. it was so soft, tentative. but as he moved upward, he didn't miss the smear of dried blood on your skin from where you’d probably been cut earlier. his lips brushed over it, lingering.

it was disgusting. it was intimate. it was a mess.

your hands gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white.

he moved further up, his lips trailing a path of fire along your trembling thigh. when he reached the apex of your legs, he looked up at you from beneath his lashes. his eyes were dark, dilated, and filled with a hunger that terrified you as much as it excited you.

his hands slid to the elastic of your panties. he didn't pull them down all the way immediately; instead, he hooked his fingers inside them, pulling the fabric down just enough to expose you to the cool air. then, he pressed a kiss to your soft pussy lips.

your brain was fried, completely overloaded. you couldn't think, couldn't parse the situation. you were laying there with your boyfriend…ex-boyfriend's…cal’s blood drying on your skin. it was gross. it was wrong…..

he unzipped his pants, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet room, and palmed his aching hard cock through his boxers. the sight of it made your breath hitch, the sheer size of him promising a stretch that you weren't sure you could accommodate.

panic flared hot in your chest, a sharp counterpoint to the arousal thundering in your veins.

you scrambled back on the bed on pure instinct, using the last of your strength to put distance between you. but he was faster. his hand shot out, fingers hooking around your heel with a bruising grip, and he didn't hesitate—he hauled you back toward him with a rough, impatient jerk of his arm.

his dark eyes tracked you, hungry and possessive.

"some girls just need to be fucked out to relax," he murmured, his voice rough with need as he kicked his pants and boxers down, his cock springing free, heavy and thick.

you opened your mouth to protest, to say that you were tired, that you were broken, that cal's blood was still clinging to you like a reminder of what you lost, but he cut you off with a kiss pressed against your cheek, soft and apologetic.

"and i'm sorry," he whispered against your skin, his hand tightening in your hair to hold your head still. "i'm so so sorry. it hurts me more than it hurts you…."

he lined himself up, the pinkish red head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. there was no preamble, no patience left in him.

“aerion- w-wait no no-”

he pressed forward, sheathing himself inch by agonizing inch until he was buried deep inside you, stretching you wide and filling you completely. the intrusion was sharp, a burn that made you arch your back, you tried to squirm away, to escape the overwhelming sensation, but he was already there, holding you down with the weight of his body, pinning you to the mattress as he began to move.

the rhythm was fast and brutal, a desperate attempt to drive the confusion and pain right out of your system. burying himself to the hilt with a groan that sounded almost pained. the dry blood from her earlier injury was being ground into the sheets, sticky and uncomfortable, smeared across your skin and likely onto his as well.

as he moved he leaned down to kiss your cheek.

“sh sh sh,” he murmured against your skin, the sound vibrating through you as he thrust harder. “it’s okay. just breathe. i’ve got you-”

you couldn't breathe. you couldn't process the sensation of him filling you so completely while the ghost of the boy who died was still drying on your skin. it was too much. the tears finally spilled over, hot and stinging, and you tried to scramble away, to put distance between your bodies, but he anchored you down with a hand on your hip, holding you firm.

“y-you're scaring me-” you gasped out between sobs, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. “i don't want it like this-”

he didn't stop. he didn't even slow down. he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his face softening just a fraction.

“yes you do,” he growled low in his throat, his voice rough and husky, claiming the space he occupied. “i know you do. i can feel it. you still love me…always be my girl.”

he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, tasting the salt of your tears and the copper tang of his own sweat. "d-don't you feel how much i need you?" he rolled his hips again, harder this time, driving the point home with a groan that was half-pain, half-pleasure. "i know it hurts baby- but i'm here- m’right here. just relax baby…”

he laced your fingers together, forcing your hand down between your legs, guiding your fingers to the swollen bundle of nerves. "show me. make it feel good. just how you like it."

you couldn't help the small, broken sob that escaped your lips as your fingers found the slick heat between your thighs. "a-aerion, i... i can't..." you stammered.

he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, "you can," he whispered, his voice rough and commanding. "you will. you're going to feel good, and you're going to cum, and you're going to let me take care of you. you're going to let me make it all better."

you felt your fingers move on their own, following the rhythm he knew so well, the friction building up, a coil tightening in your belly that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he was looking at you, the way he was touching you, the way he was filling you up.

"god, i remember," he groaned, his hips stuttering slightly, the sensation of your tight walls milking him making his eyes roll back. "i used to watch you touch yourself through your little panties when you didn't think i was looking...watching you rub your little clit, moaning my name... i would get so hard i'd have to jack off in the car after dropping you home."

you felt a flush spread across your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and arousal. "you... you watched me?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

he nodded, his eyes dark and hungry. "fuck- i couldn't help it. i wanted you so bad. i still do." he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, his lips lingering. "i still want you, baby. i still need you. i still love you."

you felt a tear slip down your cheek, a mix of happiness and sadness and something else, something that felt a lot like hope. "i- love you too," you whispered, your voice breaking.

"shhh... i know baby" he soothed, kissing your tears away, his own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "that's it. gooood girl."

and then it happened. a sob broke free, but it morphed into a loud, wanton moan as you rubbed yourself frantically against your little pearl. the pleasure spiked, sharper than the pain, and your fingernails dug into his biceps, leaving red crescents as you held on for dear life.

the white-hot wave of your orgasm crashed through you, shattering the last of your defenses. your body went rigid for a heartbeat before going boneless, a ragdoll finally untethered from the fight.

you cried out his name, a broken sob swallowed by his mouth as he didn't stop, didn't miss a beat. he used your release to drive himself harder, faster, chasing his own climax with a frenzied rhythm that seemed determined to erase every thought, every fear, and every memory of the boy who wasn't there.

but as the intensity peaked and began to fade, aerion slowed. his movements became slower, deeper, more deliberate. he watched you, his dark eyes softening as he noticed the tension leaving your shoulders, the way your breathing evened out. you were pliant now, sleepy and loose beneath him, and he seemed to savor the change.

“there we go,” he whispered against your skin, his voice a gentle hum now, completely at odds with the roughness of moments ago. “let go, baby. just let go and fall asleep. i’ve got you. you’re safe here.”

“you’re not going to be scared and alone anymore. i’m not going anywhere….”

the steady beat of his heart against your chest, the warmth of his body surrounding you, the feeling of being completely full of him- it was a drug, a sedative that overrode the panic. the darkness in your mind crept in, gentle and tired.

“just sleep,” he murmured, his voice fading into the background as the exhaustion finally won. “i’m here.”

the last thing you felt was the weight of him, anchoring you to the earth, and then, finally, nothing but the sweet, heavy silence of sleep.

you woke slowly, surfacing through layers of heavy sleep that clung to your body like wet cloth. for a few moments, nothing made sense. the steady vibration beneath you. the low hum of an engine. the strange warmth wrapped around your shoulders.

then your eyes opened, darkness stretched beyond the windows, headlights swept across the road ahead.

you sat upright so fast the movement caught his attention immediately. he glanced over from the driver's seat before returning his eyes to the road. "easy."

you looked down at yourself. an oversized t-shirt hung off one shoulder. the sweatpants pooled around your ankles.

for a second, you simply stared then you looked back at him.

"aerion."

he already knew what you were asking. "your clothes were soaked."

you kept staring at him. "you changed them?"

his jaw tightened slightly. "i wasn't leaving you in wet clothes."

you looked away first, outside, the highway stretched endlessly through the darkness. no houses. no gas stations. no signs of life.

just road.

the realization settled over you slowly.

you had no idea where you were. "aerion..." this time your voice came out softer. "where are we going?"

one hand rested loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped once against his thigh. thinking. "we're heading west."

you stared at him. "are you tired?"

"no, but we are heading to a place to stop soon."

"where?"

he sighed quietly. "motel."

you stared at him for a moment. a motel.

"how long have we been driving?"

"a few hours."

"a few hours?" you looked at him again. "and i slept through all of that?"

"you were exhausted." the ache in your body was proof enough. your throat felt raw from crying. your eyes burned every time you blinked. every muscle seemed heavy.

the adrenaline had finally left.

the truck rolled through another stretch of darkness, you watched telephone poles flash by.

one after another.

one after another.

one after another.

"aerion."

he glanced over briefly. "what, baby?"

you swallowed. now looking at him further you can see he also managed to clean himself up, the blood no longer really visible on his skin. the question had been sitting in your chest since you woke up and you weren't sure you wanted the answer.

"what happened after..." your voice trailed off, you couldn't bring yourself to finish it.

his eyes returned to the road and for a while he didn't say anything. the silence stretched long enough that you thought he wasn't going to answer. then he spoke.

"i cleaned you up and i got you into the truck." his gaze stayed fixed on the road then his jaw shifted.

the truck fell silent again. you looked down at your hands, they were clean and for some reason that nearly made you cry again.

the highway curved ahead, a green road sign appeared in the distance and aerion straightened a little. "we're close."

you looked out the window and sure enough, distant lights were beginning to appear.

a small town.

nothing more than a handful of businesses clustered around an exit. a gas station. fast food place. a convenience store. a faded motel sign glowing red against the darkness, then the motel sign passed overhead. aerion flicked on the turn signal and the truck turned into the parking lot and suddenly the road that had felt endless was over.

aerion shut off the truck and neither of you moved.

outside, the motel looked almost deserted. a few cars sat scattered around the lot. you stared through the windshield, you didn't want to get out but you didn't want to stay in here either.

everything smelled like him. the truck. the clothes. the blanket.

aerion scrubbed a hand over his face.

"what happens now?" the question came out quieter than you intended.

he looked down at his hands. "i honestly don't know. i had a plan right up until everything went wrong."

everything went wrong. that was one way of describing it. "you mean when you killed cal?"

the words hung heavily inside the truck. aerion went still. "yeah." his voice sounded rough.

eventually aerion leaned back against the seat and looked out at the motel. "when they find him, things are going to get complicated."

you swallowed hard. "when?"

"i don't know." he rubbed at his jaw. "tomorrow maybe. maybe the day after." his gaze drifted toward the office. "the point is they're going to start asking questions."

the knot in your stomach tightened. "i didn't do anything."

"i know, baby." his answer came immediately. "i know you didn't."

you looked down at your lap. "what if i just go home?"

the words slipped out before you could stop them. aerion was quiet for a long time, long enough that you almost regretted asking. when he finally spoke, his voice was careful.

"do you actually want to?"

you opened your mouth, then closed it again because the truth was complicated, home wasn't really home.

the truck fell silent again, then he sighed. "i just need you to stay with me for tonight." you looked over and his eyes met yours. "i'm serious."

for the first time all evening there was genuine tension in his voice. "if you panic and run off right now, neither of us is thinking clearly enough to fix it. i know you don't trust me."

his gaze dropped briefly. "i'm just asking for tonight." his eyes returned to yours.

then he reached for the door handle. for a second you hesitated, then, before you could think too hard about what you were doing, you followed him out of the truck.

the night air hit you the second you stepped out of the truck. the motel looked even smaller up close. the paint was peeling in places. half the curtains were drawn shut. a few yellow lights glowed behind windows on the second floor.

aerion grabbed the duffel bag from the backseat and slung it over one shoulder. you noticed the way he scanned the parking lot automatically like he couldn't stop himself.

the office door chimed softly when aerion pushed it open, warm air washed over you immediately. the woman behind the desk looked like she'd been working for twelve straight hours, she glanced up from a magazine, then her eyes moved between the two of you.

aerion was standing close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, one of his hands resting on your lower back. she leaned back in her chair. you stared. aerion stared. the woman stared right back.

"you kids look exhausted."

just two tired young people stopping for the night. aerion handed over some cash then the woman typed something into the computer, then she glanced between you again.

"one bed?"

your face immediately grew hot. aerion looked down at the counter. "yeah." the answer came naturally, without hesitation, like he hadn't even considered another option.

the woman nodded. "got it."

a few more clicks, a printer whirred, "you two married?"

aerion looked startled for half a second before recovering. "uh…"

for the first time since you'd walked into the office, aerion actually seemed caught off guard. his eyes flicked toward you, then back to the woman.

aerion cleared his throat. "recently." your head snapped toward him so fast your neck hurt.

she leaned back in her chair. you wanted the floor to open and swallow you whole. aerion somehow managed to keep a straight face, then the woman glanced at you.

"honeymoon?"

before you could answer, aerion said, "something like that." you looked at him in disbelief,

something like that?

something like what?

you were wearing your ex boyfriends clothes because he'd changed you while you were unconscious. your boyfriend was dead. you were halfway to another state.

the woman seemed somewhat delighted. "that's sweet." the printer spat out the receipt, the woman tore it free and slid it across the counter. "you know, my husband and i did the exact same thing."

aerion blinked. "what?"

"road trip." she pointed vaguely toward the parking lot. "right after we got married. no plans. no reservations. just got in the car and drove."

you physically felt aerion freeze beside you, just enough that you knew exactly what he was thinking. the story sounded like the fantasy version of what he wanted this to be. the version where none of this had happened. where cal wasn't dead. where you hadn't cried yourself sick. where the two of you had simply decided to leave together. to elope and honeymoon at any place your heart desired.

the realization made your chest tighten, the woman was still talking. "best decision we ever made."

aerion looked down at the counter then the woman handed him the room key. "second floor. room 214."

aerion accepted it. "thanks."

then she smiled at both of you tiredly, "congratulations."

aerion thanked her again, quietly this time, and stepped back from the counter. the bell above the door jingled as you pushed outside, cool air hit your face immediately. the parking lot stretched out around you.

aerion shoved the room key into his pocket. you looked at him. "recently?"

there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes now, "i panicked."

"you panicked?"

"she caught me off guard..."

aerion opened the door with the room key already between his fingers and stepped inside first, one hand still braced against the knob as if he expected something to be waiting on the other side.

the room was small. but still bigger than you expected.

a bed against the far wall, a cracked dresser, a tv bolted onto the wall above the dresser, and a bathroom door standing half open beneath the harsh yellow light of the ceiling fixture. the air smelled faintly of old fabric softener.

you lingered in the doorway while he moved farther in, setting the duffel bag down by the foot of the bed. he glanced toward the bathroom, the window, the closet, and the door again in a careful sweep.

you stayed where you were, hugging your arms to yourself while he went back to the door and turned the deadbolt with a sharp little click.

aerion finally turned around and saw you still standing there. “bathroom’s there,” he said, nodding once toward the open door. “you can shower first.”

you shook your head, though you weren’t even sure what you were refusing. the shower. the room. the silence that would come with being alone behind a closed bathroom door.

he studied you for a second, his face unreadable, then seemed to understand enough to let the rest of it go unsaid. you could tell he did because his voice changed when he spoke again. it got lower, less direct.

“you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” he said.

the motel room hummed softly around you. you suddenly did not want to be by yourself. not even for a few minutes. not even with the bathroom door between you, because if you were alone, even for long enough to strip off the clothes he gave you and stand under running water, your mind would catch up to you.

aerion seemed to understand before you said anything, his shoulders shifted subtly. then, after a pause, he asked, almost carefully, “want me to go with you?”

he rubbed at the back of his neck, looking toward the window for a second as if he needed the movement to think, then cleared his throat. “sorry. i meant, like, i can sit outside the door. just keep you company. if you don’t want to be alone.”

“i don’t need you sitting outside the door,” you said, though the words came out softer than you meant them to.

aerion nodded once, accepting that too quickly. “okay.”

you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, staring at the bathroom door, then at the bed, then back at him. the room suddenly felt too quiet again, and the thought of standing under hot water with no sound but your own breathing made your skin crawl.

aerion watched you for a second longer and then spoke before you could overthink it. “i’m not going anywhere,” he said.

“okay…” you muttered, though it sounded more like surrender than agreement.

a corner of his mouth twitched, though he seemed to catch himself before it could become a real smile. “i’ll be right here,” he said.

you hesitated another second, then reached for the bathroom door. the light above the sink buzzed faintly. you stopped in the doorway and turned back. aerion was still by the dresser, watching you like he had no intention of letting his attention drift even for a second.

“don’t leave,” you said before you could stop yourself. the words came out raw, almost embarrassed.

he nodded once, slow and certain. “i won’t.”

you finally turn away and step into the bathroom, the door shut behind you with a soft click. you stood there for a second, one hand still on the knob, listening to the muffled quiet of the room beyond it. you could hear him moving once, the faint scrape of a chair being pulled closer to the door. he really did stay nearby.

the shower took longer than it should have, eventually the hot water began to cool and you forced yourself to shut it off. for a second you just stood there wrapped in a towel, staring at nothing. then you heard aerion's voice through the door.

"there's clothes in there for you. they're clean." a pause. "i left them by the sink."

you looked down. sure enough, folded clothes sat on the counter where they definitely hadn't been before. you weren't even sure when he'd put them there.

you got dressed slowly, the sweatpants were too big again. the sweatshirt was too big. everything smelled like detergent and aerion.

when you finally opened the bathroom door, steam followed you into the room. aerion was sitting in the chair by the window. true to his word. still there.

he looked up immediately, your hair was still damp, the sweatshirt sleeves covered half your hands.

the pant legs dragged behind you until you sat on the edge of the bed and started rolling them up. you pulled one pant leg up and stuffed it into your sock. then the other. by the time you finished, the sweatpants were gathered awkwardly around your ankles, but at least they weren't dragging on the floor anymore.

aerion looked down at them. then at you. then back at the sweatpants, the corner of his mouth twitched.

you looked toward the bathroom. "do you want to shower?"

he shook his head. "nah." his gaze drifted toward the floor. "i already did."

"when?"

"back at the apartment." aerion leaned back in the chair and stretched his neck slightly. he looked exhausted. now that the adrenaline had worn off, it was impossible not to notice.

you tucked your feet underneath you on the bed, the mattress dipped slightly. "you should sleep."

he looked over. "so should you."

"yeah." you stared very hard at the television bolted to the wall, the television suddenly became fascinating. a few seconds passed, then aerion rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

"i can sleep on the floor."

you looked over immediately. "the floor?"

"it's fine."

the motel carpet looked like it had witnessed crimes. you stared at it. then back at him. then at the carpet again. aerion followed your gaze.

"okay, yeah. maybe not the floor."

despite yourself, you laughed. a short tired sound and aerion looked relieved to hear it.

after somewhat drying your hair and getting ready for bed, you sat over on your side of the bed, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like motel detergent, staring at the dark television screen across the room. and aerion was beside you.

then, before you could stop yourself, you shifted closer. your eyes burned, you were so tired, tired enough that everything hurt, tired enough that being angry felt impossible for a few minutes.

"aerion."

his voice was quiet in the darkness. "yeah?"

you swallowed, the question had been sitting inside you for months long before tonight, long before cal.

"why did you leave?"

eventually aerion rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling too, for a while he said nothing. when he finally spoke, his voice sounded somehow older…deeper. "i thought i was doing the right thing."

another long pause.

"i just didn't think you deserved to get dragged into my life."

you turned your head. "what does that even mean?"

his jaw tightened, you could see it even in the darkness. "my family life was fucked, i was angry all the time. i was getting into fights every other week..."

he rubbed a hand over his face. "and you...you were the one good thing in my life. i thought letting you breaking up with me, was me being selfless."

you felt a lump form in your throat, the tears threatening to spill over again. "you thought leaving me was being selfless?" you whispered, your voice breaking. "how is that selfless? how is that...how is that loving me?"

aerion turned his head, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, you were both suspended in the silence, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his face, highlighting the pain and regret etched into his features.

“i didn't want to hurt you. i didn't want to ruin the one good thing i had." he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “i wanted you to always look at me like i was the person you ran to, not the person you needed saving from.”

the lump in your throat grew, and you felt a tear slip down your cheek.

"you didn't want to hurt me, but you did," you whispered, your voice trembling. "i thought i was going crazy. i couldn't eat, i couldn't sleep. i just...i just wanted you…”

aerion reached up, his thumb brushing away the tear from your cheek. "i'm sorry," he said, his voice filled with a raw, aching sincerity. "i'm so sorry. i was a fucking idiot. i thought i was protecting you, i wanted to be better for you. i wanted to deserve you."

"i love you," he whispered, the words a promise, a plea, a confession. "i've always loved you. i never stopped. i'm going to make it up to you, baby, i promise.”

you felt your resolve crumbling, the anger and the hurt and the fear all melting away under the weight of his words, under the warmth of his touch, under the intensity of his gaze. you wanted to believe him. you wanted to trust him. you wanted to give in and let him love you.

and so, you did. you leaned in, and you kissed him. you felt his arms wrap around you, pulling you close, holding you tight, as if he was afraid you might slip away. and in that moment, you didn't want to be anywhere else. you didn't want to be with anyone else. you just wanted to be with him, to be loved by him, to be whole again.

you felt a sudden surge of boldness, a need to bridge the distance between you, to feel his skin against yours, to remind him that you were here, that you were real, that you were his. you pushed against his chest, rolling him onto his back, and then you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips, your hands on his chest.

you leaned down, your lips brushing against his, a soft, tender promise. "m’sorry- m’sorry i fought you so hard…i'm not going anywhere," you whispered back, your voice barely audible.

his eyes softened, and he reached up, his hand cupping your cheek, "it's okay, baby," he whispered, his voice gentle, soothing. "it's okay. i'm sorry i was so rough with you. i'm sorry i scared you. i'm sorry i hurt you. i just...i just needed you to listen. i needed you to stay. you just wouldn't listen, and i needed you to. i needed you to understand that i was trying to protect you…"

you nodded, a small, shy smile tugging at your lips. "i understand," you whispered. "i understand…"

for a moment neither of you spoke and the room had gone quiet again. aerion's hand remained against your cheek for another second before falling away. you could still feel the weight of everything sitting between you.

cal.

the future of everything.

"aerion..." something in your voice made his expression change immediately.

the softness faded and reality came back. you saw it happen, the reminder that this wasn't over. you shifted beside him, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

"what are we going to do?"

aerion looked away toward the dark motel window. you could practically see him thinking. when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

"they're going to find him."

you looked down at the blanket in your lap. "what happens when they do find him?"

"they start asking questions." you hated how calmly he said it, he'd clearly been thinking about it for hours. "they'll talk to people, they'll try to figure out who saw him last. who he was with."

"we can't just stay in motels forever."

"i know. but we need to keep moving for a little while."

your stomach dropped at that, "a little while?"

"just until things settle." his eyes stayed on yours, "right now everybody's emotional. everybody's panicking. that's when people make mistakes. so we give it time."

“what if they come looking for me?” you asked,

“if they do,” he said, “we’ll deal with it.”

“i’m still angry with you,”

aerion gave a short nod, his mouth barely moving. “i figured.”

there was no argument in his voice. no defense. no attempt to pull you into forgiving him before you were ready. he shifted lower against the pillows, one hand moving up to tug the blanket higher over both of you. the movement was careful, almost absentminded, like his body already knew what to do before his mind could catch up. then he looked at you for a long second and said, quieter now, “come here.”

you moved closer, and the springs made a soft groan beneath you. aerion’s arm settled around you almost automatically, like it had done it before, like his body remembered the shape of you even when everything else had gone wrong. there was no hesitation in the way he held you. no awkwardness.

you tucked your face against his shoulder and closed your eyes.

aerion let out a slow breath, and you could feel some of the tension leaving him little by little, the hard edge in his shoulders easing just slightly beneath your cheek. his hand rested against your back, warm through the fabric of his shirt, and his heartbeat was steady in a way that should not have comforted you as much as it did.

you listened to it for a while, letting the sound fill the empty spaces in your head.

aerion’s fingers moved once against your back, slow and absent, just to make sure you were really still beside him.

tomorrow could wait.

You remembered those years with a clarity that still ached. The hours spent at Valarr's side. The way your heart had leapt when he sought you out, when he smiled at you, when he trusted you with his fears and his uncertainties. You had thought, foolishly, desperately, that proximity would breed something more. That devotion would be rewarded. That he would look at you one day and see what had always been there, waiting.

He had not.

Aerion was wrong about one thing, at least. Valarr had not deflowered you. He had not even come close. There had been only one kiss, years ago, when you had wondered aloud what it felt like and he had offered to show you.

"To satisfy your curiosity," he had said. "And soothe your fears. That is all."

That was all. A single kiss, chaste and brief, and you had spent years afterwards lying awake at night wondering if he had ever wanted to kiss you again. If he had ever thought about it. If it had meant anything at all.

"What a dreadful waste."

Aerion's voice cut through your thoughts, and you realized he had been watching your face.

"All those years," he continued, shaking his head slowly. His tone sharpened with something that might have been disgust, though it was not directed at you. "Wouldn't you rather have fun with me?"

Before you could answer, he dragged his tongue along your parted mouth, an obscene gesture, and then pulled back entirely. The loss of warmth was jarring.

You heard the click of the lock.

He had crossed the room while you were still in a daze, and now he stood by the door with his hand still on the bolt, surveying the chamber with a new expression. Thoughtful. Calculating. The look of a man who had just conceived of something and was already deciding how to execute it.

"Change," he said.

You blinked. "…what?"

He was already moving toward your trunks and flipping them open. He rummaged through the folded gowns with the carelessness of a man who had never had to pack his own belongings in his life, tossing aside silks and velvets until he found what he was looking for.

"Put this on." He straightened, holding up a dress. It was the plainest thing you owned, wool, not silk, a muted grey-brown. Serviceable. Unremarkable. He found a cloak as well, dark and heavy, and thrust it toward you. "Quickly."

"Aerion..."

"I have decided," he said, as though that explained everything, "to show you something you have not seen before."

"What would that be?"

His mouth curved. "A life outside these walls."

You stared at him. "You are mad."

"Possibly." He did not seem troubled by the assessment. "But you are going to put on that dress and that cloak, and you are going to come with me, and for one night you are going to see what it is like to not be a lady in a cage."

"A cage I am only still in because of you," you pointed out.

"Yes," he agreed, entirely unrepentant. "So you may consider this my penance. Now change. Unless you would prefer I stay and watch?"

You snatched the dress from his hands and pointed toward the door. "Turn around."

He turned, though not before you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

You changed quickly, pulled the cloak around your shoulders and drew the hood over your hair. The woman who looked back at you from the mirror was not a Baratheon lady. She was not a prince's betrothed. She was simply a woman in a plain dress, indistinguishable from a hundred others in the city below.

Aerion turned back at the sound of your movement, and his eyes swept over you with an approval that made something in your stomach tighten.

"Passable," he said. "Come."

He did not take your hand. He simply opened the door and waited, and after a moment's hesitation, you followed.

The passages he led you through were not the ones you knew. They were narrower, darker, clearly meant for servants or for those who did not wish to be seen. Aerion moved through them with the ease of long familiarity, and you wondered, not for the first time, what sort of prince spent so much time in hidden corridors.

The city beyond the Red Keep was another world entirely.

You had seen it before, of course: from windows, from carriages, from the high walls that separated royalty from rabble, but you had never walked through it. Not like this. Not on foot, with the press of bodies around you and the smell of cooking meat and unwashed skin and something sour that might have been spilled ale.

The market was still alive even at this hour, torches flickering in iron sconces, vendors calling out prices in voices hoarse from use. Aerion guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back, a light pressure that steered you away from the worst of the press without ever seeming to direct you.

"Keep your hood up," he murmured against your hair. "Your face is too memorable."

You did not know whether that was a compliment or a warning.

He bought you food from a stall, fried and greasy dough, wrapped in paper that grew translucent with oil, and laughed when you hesitated to eat it.

"It will not kill you," he said. "Probably."

You ate it. It was, against all expectation, delicious.

He showed you the stall where a woman sold ribbons dyed in colors so vivid they seemed to glow in the torchlight. You saw the corner where a man with no teeth told fortunes for a copper penny, and the alley where a boy no older than ten was teaching a dog to dance on its hind legs. The blacksmith's forge, dark now but still radiating heat, the weaver's shop with its shuttered windows, and the fountain in the small square where the water ran clean and cold.

You stopped when you saw the play.

It was being performed on a makeshift stage at the edge of the market, boards laid across barrels, a painted curtain fluttering behind the players. The actors were not skilled, their voices too loud, their gestures too broad, but there was an energy to the performance that drew you in. You grabbed Aerion's sleeve without thinking and pulled him toward the crowd that had gathered.

He came willingly, standing close behind you as you watched.

The play, as it turned out, was not the sort of thing performed in the Red Keep.

It was vulgar. Obscenely, unapologetically vulgar. The plot, such as it was, seemed to revolve around a milkmaid, a travelling merchant, and a donkey, and the jokes grew progressively filthier with each passing minute. The crowd around you roared with laughter. You scrunched up your face.

You turned sharply, intending to leave, and found Aerion already watching you. He had not been watching the play at all. His grin was half-hidden against your hair, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, and when he saw your expression he only laughed harder.

"Not to your taste?" he murmured.

"You knew what this was."

"I had my suspicions." He tugged on your hand, drawing you away from the crowd. "Come. Before the donkey returns for the second act. It does not improve."

You were laughing by the time you reached the Red Keep.

You could not remember when the laughter had started, somewhere between the market and the gates, somewhere between the grease-stained paper crumpled in your hand and the way Aerion had nearly slipped on a pile of something unspeakable in the alley, but it had not stopped. Your sides ached with it. Your cheeks hurt. Aerion was no better, his composure utterly shattered, his hair disheveled from where you had shoved him in retaliation for a joke you refused to repeat.

The laughter died the moment you stepped through the doors.

Maekar Targaryen was waiting.

Beside him stood Baelor Breakspear, his expression troubled but composed, and beside Baelor...Valarr.

Your stomach dropped.

"Where," Maekar said, his voice carrying the particular calm of a man who was restraining himself only with great effort, "have you been?"

Aerion straightened, the last traces of mirth fading from his face. "Sightseeing."

"Sightseeing."

"The city is quite lovely at night, father. You should try it sometime."

"Do not play games with me, boy." Maekar's gaze moved to you, taking in the plain dress, the cloak. "You took your betrothed out into the streets. Alone. At night. Unchaperoned. Without guards. Without so much as a word to anyone."

"We did nothing inappropriate," Aerion said, and there was an edge creeping into his voice now. "We merely walked. I only wished to show her the city, she obliged me."

"She wished..." Maekar cut himself off, visibly struggling for control. "You are a prince. She is a lady of a great house, newly betrothed, and you thought it appropriate to drag her through the filth of the city like a common..."

"Like a what?" Aerion's voice sharpened dangerously.

Baelor raised a hand, stepping between them with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years mediating Targaryen tempers. "Enough. The question is not what was done, but what will be perceived. Aerion, you must understand how this looks. An unchaperoned outing, in secret, at night...it invites speculation. It invites scandal."

"There is no scandal," Aerion said flatly. "There is only a man showing his betrothed the city she will one day help rule."

"And there will be time enough for that after the wedding," Maekar snapped. "When she is your wife, not your..."

He stopped. The word hung unspoken in the air, and you felt your face heat for an entirely different reason.

"She is my betrothed," Aerion said, very quietly. "And I will thank you not to imply otherwise."

Valarr spoke for the first time.

"This is reckless, even for you." His voice was controlled, but there was something simmering beneath it, something that made Aerion's head turn slowly toward him. "She deserves better than to be dragged into your whims."

"Who asked your opinion?" Aerion's hostility flared so suddenly that even Baelor looked taken aback. "Who asked you to weigh in on this, cousin? You, who could not be bothered to notice her when she was right in front of you? You, who..."

"Aerion." Baelor's voice was sharp now. "That is enough."

"Is it? Because I find myself quite interested in why Valarr has suddenly developed such a concern for my betrothed's welfare. A year ago he could not see her beside himself. Now he cannot stop looking."

Valarr's jaw tightened. "I have always cared for her."

"Have you?" Aerion tilted his head, and his smile was not pleasant. "How convenient that you discovered this only after she was no longer available."

"Enough!"

This time it was Lyonel Baratheon who spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a war horn. He had been standing near the back of the hall, silent until now, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes moved between Aerion and Valarr with a calculation that made you nervous.

"You," he said, pointing at Aerion, "will learn to control your tongue and your impulses, or I will teach you myself. I have no objection to a man showing his betrothed the city. I have done worse in my youth, and I will not play the hypocrite. But I do object to a man whose every action threatens to dishonor my niece and my house through sheer carelessness."

Aerion opened his mouth, saw the look in Lyonel's eyes, and closed it again.

"You will not be alone with her without a witness until the wedding," Maekar said, seizing the opening. "That is not a request. It is a command. I will not have this alliance jeopardised by your inability to exercise restraint."

"Father..."

"You are dismissed."

Aerion stood motionless for a long moment. Then he turned, and his eyes met yours. There was frustration, defiance, and something else that you could not quite name, and then he bowed, stiffly, and strode from the hall.

You did not watch him go. You did not look at Valarr, though you could feel his gaze on you like a weight. You simply inclined your head to Maekar, to Baelor, to your uncle, and retreated to your chambers with as much dignity as you could muster.

You barely slept.

The morning came gray and cold, and you rose with the first light, your head aching from too little rest and too much wine the night before. Your maids had not yet arrived. The castle was quiet.

You did not hear him enter.

One moment you were alone, standing before the mirror in your shift, and the next his arms were around you from behind, his mouth pressing hot against the curve of your neck.

"Aerion..." you gasped, trying to twist away. "The command...there must be a witness..."

"There is no one here to witness the lack of witness," he murmured against your skin, "and I will be gone before anyone knows I was here. Turn around."

You turned.

He kissed you.

This time, you kissed him back.

Your hands rose to grip the front of his tunic, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. Your mouth moved against his with an enthusiasm that surprised you both. The taste of him was familiar now, and you chased it, rising onto your toes to press closer, closer, until there was no space left between your bodies.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, his breathing uneven. He looked at you for a long moment.

"Well," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your swollen lower lip. "That is more like it."

Then he was gone, slipping through the door as silently as he had come, leaving you standing alone in the morning light with your heart pounding and your lips still tingling.

part 5: pending...

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“Be wary of that one, my friend.”

You sit up straighter, startled out of your lazy lean against the wall. Door Thing sounds different today. Maybe the change has been gradual and you just haven’t noticed, but its voice seems a little bit smoother and stronger. It doesn’t wheeze as much as it used to. It still gets quiet sometimes, still speaks haltingly, pausing to breathe like all the talking tires it out, and in the quiet you hear chains rattling, but your conversations are longer and easier now. You tell it about the last few nights and it has more to say than thoughtful hums and unsettling laughter. 

“Lost. Oh, yes, he’s lost. And lost children don’t know how to behave,” it chitters when you complain about Orion.

“What a waste. What a shame,” it sighs when you wonder where you stand with Renaud.

But when Mihai comes up, it gets stern with you. You’re so surprised you don’t answer right away, and the silence makes it caution you again, “That one. Young but old. Be wary.”

“Mihai?” you echo. That’s who you were talking about. Last night continues to haunt you. You had no idea there were two elders living in the convenire, and one of them has been right under your nose. “Yeah, I know. But he’s afraid of me, too. Like, really scared. I didn’t know elders felt fear.” 

“Hhhaaa. Haha. They don’t.” 

“How do you know?” you ask.

“Oh, my friend. You think I’m lying. But I’m not. I see. I see it all. Through the bars of my cage.” 

The dark plays tricks on your eyes. Sometimes, you think the shadows in the hallway are alive and squirming. The charred door with the butterfly looks the same whether you shine your flashlight at it or not, always wreathed in a smothering, smoky gloom. Sometimes you think it’s getting bigger, chafing against its hinges. You think about walking away but you’re afraid to turn your back on it. 

“Elders,” it hisses. “True elders. They don’t know fear. They know, hhhhh. They know. Birth by burial. We know it, too. Don’t we?” 

You push yourself to your feet and watch the door warily. It’s strange that you keep finding yourself here. You’ve tried to come up with reasons but they all seem flimsy when you’re looking right at it, gripped by fear again. You feel some sense of camaraderie and morbid curiosity, a vicious possessiveness over any secrets you can maintain, but none of that really matters. This thing is dangerous. It knows things it shouldn’t.

Like birth by burial. You trace the carvings in the wood with your eyes and wonder about it again, like you always do before you inevitably forget. “Who taught you that phrase?” you ask it.

“Those who came before us. Who taught you, my friend? ”

“Then what does it mean?” you press. 

“It means. Hhhh. It means that one. Elder who isn’t. It means he knows you. And your darkness. And your cruelty. Almost as well as I do.” It pauses to inhale, and then it laughs quietly. “No one knows you the way I do, friend.”

“My cruelty?” you echo incredulously. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not the one who—”

There’s a noise. A sudden, rhythmic click click click! It’s shockingly loud the way any small sound is at the edge of sleep, amplified by your groggy brain. You startle, knocking your head back against the wall and wincing at the bruise you feel forming there. There’s a hand in front of your face. Fingers snapping to get your attention.

It’s Mihai. He stepped between you and the—

the…

You blink a few times. Did he use mesmerism? Your mind is full of fog. You’re in the upstairs hallway again, for some reason. He’s watching you carefully through long, unruly bangs.

“Awake?” he asks. 

You blink again. “Was I asleep?” you say.

“Hm.” He frowns. You feel the passing sweep of psychic connection, and then an unpleasant scraping sensation like something’s licking the inside of your skull with a sandpaper tongue. You shudder. Mihai lets out a quiet huff of disappointment. “You were called. You didn’t respond.” 

“Oh. What does Athanasius want?”

“Not Athanasius,” Mihai says tersely. He crosses his arms over his chest but he looks more uncomfortable than angry, shoulders tense and jaw clenched in a grimace. “I called you.”

“Oh,” you say again. 

He doesn’t elaborate. For a solid minute, you stand in uncomfortable silence, shifting nervously as he stares you down. He’s wearing a plaid jacket and blue jeans, everything fitting noticeably better than his usual overly loose hand-me-downs from the other hatchlings. You wonder if he’s going somewhere. 

And he still hasn’t said anything. “Uh. Okay. So…?” you say.

He starts pacing. Your pulse skyrockets because you’re suddenly reminded that he’s got more in common with Athanasius than he does Orion or Renaud. There’s something about the way elders move, an animalistic grace that makes it seem like their human skin is just a thin, ill-fitting layer stretched over their hunting forms. You watch him stalk down the hall, wandering all the way to the dead end with one of his hands grazing the wall. Then he comes back along the other side. He pauses beside every single door, grazing his fingertips over the wood and leaning in to…

Is he sniffing them? You can just barely hear quick, little inhales whenever he angles his head towards the hinges. You have to cover your mouth or he might see you grinning. You have no idea what he’s doing but you’re reminded of a dog again, snuffling around in the bushes looking for squirrels. He returns to you looking even more frustrated. 

“We shouldn’t be here,” he says. “Follow.” 

“We shouldn’t—what? Why? What’s wrong with—”

He sighs and starts to hum softly. You remember what that means just a moment too late, your thoughts slipping away and your eyes fluttering shut.

You’re in the forest again. That soft, pretty, perfect place without hot, unpleasant concrete, without blinding headlights, without skyscrapers and city haze and humans or any kin at all. Just trees. Just streams and hills. Birdsong and skittering and the creak of branches. Soil below and the canopy above and the moon peering down from a velvet throne of night. You feel at peace here among the wildflowers and spiderwebbed hollows. The breeze is cool against your cheeks and sounds like a song. 

The grass rustles. Mihai makes himself known. You hold still and you sense that this intrigues him, his cautious curiosity reverberating through your emptied mind. But why would you do anything else? He asked for your stillness so you give it eagerly. Fingers ghost up your arm to your shoulder. A thumb strokes your pulse. He draws closer, wrapping his arms around you, and takes in your scent from the crook of your neck. You are fragile. Still tender. Fresh from your chrysalis. This worries him; entices him. You will only grow stronger with time. Will you also grow vengeful? Kin are not content to live in cages. 

But you are content, here, for now. He strokes your neck and you lean into the touch, expectant, baring your throat. Oh, you are tempting, but he will not have you like this. He nuzzles against your pulse and relishes your pleased shudder, how easily you yield to him. Poor, delicate thing, so weak to the sweet whispers of your hunter. It is good you are here where he can watch you. Better that you are here where the ancient can keep you from harm. All will be well a while longer. All will be well, if you let it be.

“…a particularly troublesome spot. It might be best to arrange another cleansing. Ah, welcome back, sacrament.” 

You blink the blurriness from your eyes, not that it does you any good. You’re in the dark. The parlor, you assume, from the vague angular shapes you can barely make out. All the light you get is from the hallway, one of innumerable lamps that glow like lighthouse beacons throughout the mansion, just enough to trace the edges of furniture and gleam in the eyes of the two nightbound leering at you. The taller one is Athanasius. You don’t have to see him clearly to recognize his quiet chuckle. The shorter one is definitely Mihai because the second you glare at him, he retreats several steps.

“You can’t just put me under mesmerism because I don’t do what you say fast enough,” you say.

He blinks. “Yes, I can,” he says.

“No, you can’t,” you insist. “I don’t like it, and—”

“Yes, you do.” The look on your face makes him shrink back further, half-hiding behind Athanasius. “You like the forest,” he says quietly. 

You’re not quite sure how to respond to that. Complete violation of your autonomy aside, the forest itself isn’t unpleasant. You wonder what makes Mihai’s mesmerism so different from the others. Can they all take you somewhere else rather than just drag you into a peaceful void?

“Mihai wanted to ask you something,” Athanasius says. They look at each other. Subtle movements and titled heads tell you they’re conferring telepathically. 

Mihai clears his throat. “I have business in the city. You can come with me.”

You’re awkwardly staring at each other. All this, just to ask if you want to go somewhere? He’s lucky you’re desperate to get away from the mansion every chance you get. “You can’t use mesmerism on me while we’re out there,” you say.

His eyes narrow. “Nevermind. You’ll stay here.” 

“Mihai,” Athanasius says, lightly chiding. They look at each other again, the silent exchange shorter this time. Mihai sighs like the world-weariest, most put upon nightbound that has ever lived and you think of a dog again; a dramatic puppy plopping down in the middle of the floor after a tiring day full of nothing in particular.

“Barring emergencies,” Mihai says begrudgingly, “I’ll try not to.” 

Your brows furrow. “What kind of emergency—”

“Forgive me, sacrament, but this is not negotiable.” Athanasius steps forward and rests a hand on your shoulder. “I cannot foresee every possible danger you might face beyond the estate, but I will not forbid Mihai from using every tool at his disposal to ensure your safety. Mesmerism is not only about control.”

Not negotiable, he says. So this is one of those inviolable limits he’ll let you poke and prod but never fully cross. Part of you wants to make more of a fuss, but this isn’t the right hill to die on. Before Edmund plucked you out of comfortable anonymity, nightbound were far from your only concern. 

“Fine,” you relent. “Emergencies only.”

Athanasius rewards you with an affectionate caress to both body and mind, rubbing your shoulder and sending a sensation of warmth and gratitude through your connection. He walks you both to the door and, to your surprise, lets you walk out with a collar. Only when you’re making the long trek down the hill do you realize you have no idea what you’re in for. You’d heard some of Orion’s unflattering secrets before he hunted you in the woods and Renaud opened up a bit after you came to an understanding, but Mihai is a complete mystery. 

You steal glances as the outdoor lights of the mansion dim with distance and the moon falls across his shoulders. He stays just out of arm’s reach. You can tell when his eyes glitter that he’s looking at you, too, trying to be discreet about it. The direct approach worked best with the hatchlings, but would it help here? You have no idea what he thinks of you, except that he’s even more afraid than the others. By now, Orion would’ve struck up a conversation. Renaud might’ve urged you to get all the questions out of your system so you could both move on with your night. You think Mihai is perfectly content to say nothing and stare.

“So,” you say. “Where’re we going?” 

He looks you over, a quick flick of his eyes down and then back up like he’s trying to find something you’re hiding. “Council headquarters,” he says.

“Because…?” 

“Because I have business there.” 

You stand on opposite ends of the bus shelter. He watches you for a while before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cell phone—

A cell phone? You can’t help but stare. You haven’t seen one in a while. You were starting to think they weren’t allowed in the convenire for anyone, not just you. Mihai clearly isn’t used to it, holding it awkwardly in one hand and prodding at the screen with his index finger. You have no idea what he’s doing because the screen brightness is turned as low as it can possibly go, but whatever’s happening seems to be annoying him. 

“Do you need help?” you ask. 

His eyes dart to your face. You regret asking. Is he going to be mad? Does he think you’re insulting him? To your surprise, he grunts a low, “Hm,” and nods, then waves you over. He flinches when you move closer but he stays still and doesn’t turn into a pile of leaves, so you slowly slide into the space beside him. “I want to send a message,” he says.

You have to squint at the screen until you can brighten it. Mihai reels back in dismay but stays surprisingly close, peering over your shoulder to see what you’ll do. He’s texting someone, an unsaved number without any name listed. Whoever it is texts very formally, everything properly punctuated and capitalized. The most recent message says, “Yes, I am still available. You have a bit of a commute from the convenire, correct? What time should I expect you?”

“Tell him, ‘in about twenty minutes,’” Mihai says. He watches your fingers as you type it out. “Also tell him, ‘the sacrament will be there, too.’”

“This isn’t going to be weird, is it?” you ask, scrolling up in curiosity. “I haven’t been in that building in a while, and I didn’t like it much the first time.” The messages before are vague smalltalk. Something about the other nightbound’s schedule—

Mihai snatches the phone out of your hands with a sour expression. “You’ll be fine,” he says tersely.

Just like that, the truce is over and you’re back to silence. Mihai hears the bus coming long before you see it, head cocked, staring into the night a while before headlights come around the corner. He nods sharply, urging you to get on first. You don’t say anything to each other for the whole ride. 

Your stop lets you off across the street from your destination. It’s your first time seeing the Council’s administrative buildings clearly. Edmund herded you inside before you could get a proper look at these looming monuments of the nightbound’s authority. Every structure that shares this plaza is imperious and grandiose but the Council headquarters is in a league of its own. Both hulking and fortress-like yet elegant, it’s adorned with pointed arches and windows of intricate stone latticework.

The exterior is lit by lanterns nestled on railings and along buttresses, and that strikes you as particularly arrogant. They don’t need them. Those are for humans, to ensure they can properly see and admire what they’re looking at in the dark.

Winged figures are carved above the doors. These aren’t the angels that might be found upon a cathedral. They’re depicted sensuously, posed to entice the eye and evoke temptation. Smaller figures are depicted kneeling beneath them, arms raised in supplication. A chosen few are embraced with frozen expressions of bliss. 

What an eyesore. Who builds something like that? you think bitterly.

You hear a choked sound beside you, something like a cough, and catch Mihai staring. He’s covering his mouth but you can tell he’s smiling underneath it, his eyes arched in amusement. Was that a chuckle? Did you make him laugh? “You don’t hide your thoughts well,” he says.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you eavesdropping? I thought we agreed on no mesmerism.” 

“I don’t need to. What you’re thinking shows on your face.” He nods ahead, towards the doors. “Follow,” he says and starts walking. Maybe it’s your imagination, but he sounds slightly less guarded.

It looks just the way you remember inside. Your footsteps are loud on the stone floor and echo all the way up to the high, arched ceiling. There are no lights, no invitation for humans to gaze upon the majesty of the Council’s inner workings, just streetlights filtered through stained glass. You stick close to Mihai. The only people in here are nightbound and you’re getting a lot more looks than last time, gleaming eyes turning to follow as you pass by. 

You’re led to a heavy wooden door that groans when Mihai pushes it open. There are no windows inside. You can’t see anything but several pairs of nightbound eyes all looking up at the same time, only barely catching the light from the hallway.

“Be calm,” Mihai murmurs. 

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you; trying to reassure you. His hand settles on your lower back, the pressure not enough to push you forward, just enough to feel. You take a deep breath. You didn’t even realize your pulse had gotten so fast. He waits a moment longer before he moves and you move with him, his hand never leaving your back. You’re guided by his touch to what feels like a table. There’s a wooden scrape and then he taps your shoulder, urging you to sit in the chair he pulled out for you. Panic seizes you when he vanishes, but there’s another scrape, a creak, and then one of his bony knees presses against your leg.

“Good evening, sir,” says a nightbound seated across from you. “And hello again, sacrament.” You hear a smile in that voice. 

Of course it’s Edmund. 

“Hm. Evening,” Mihai says.

You hear a briefcase click open. Papers rustling. Clicks and clatters and something sliding across the table. “I’ve brought everything. Please do let me know if you have any questions, I’m more than happy to help however I can.” Another quiet click, and then the slow scratch of writing. Across the room, a chair creaks. Someone coughs. Pages flutter. You wonder if this is some kind of office space or a meeting room. “It’s very nice to see you again, sacrament. I hope you’ve been well,” Edmund says. 

You stare into the void. 

“I suppose I don’t need to ask if you’re still holding a grudge against me.” He chuckles. “That’s alright. We can’t rush these things. Did you have any questions while you’re here?” 

If you did, you wouldn’t ask him. You keep up your stubborn silence and hear him let out the softest sigh, shifting in his seat. There’s a pause in the scribbling beside you.

“This part,” Mihai murmurs. “Something about turning.”

“Ah. ‘Circumstances of turning,’” Edmund reads. “I would also indicate the time period, sir. That’s just as pertinent in your case.” 

“Hm.” A pause. Hesitant penstrokes. Then a chuckle. “You’re doing it again. Wearing your thoughts on your face.” His knee nudges your leg. The gesture feels almost playful.

“I’m just curious,” you admit.

“I’m probably around three hundred years old. Maybe a little less,” Mihai says absently.

Probably? Maybe? “You’re not sure?” you ask.

“It was the Century of Nightmares. The early part, but that’s just a guess. There’s no one left to—”

You’re engulfed in movement and noise. Mihai’s chair scrapes back so abruptly it topples over and the air around you shifts, something large streaking past with staggering speed and strength. There’s a heavy thud; something slamming into the wall. Dust kicked up. Stone cracking. An awful squelching wrench of flesh and blood gushing. A scream choked and silenced. Instinct makes you bolt out of your chair, needing to be on your feet and ready to run even without knowing where to go. 

“Sir!” Edmund exclaims. You hear more chairs moving. People leaving, muttering. Footsteps quickly cross the room. “Mihai, sir, stop. Put him down. He’s not a threat to your sacrament. He hasn’t done anything.” 

Something rumbles in the dark and you break out in a cold sweat. You’ve heard the cries of hunting forms before. Orion chitters when he’s excited. Renaud snarls and shrieks like an angry hawk. This is nothing like either of them. Not bird-like. Not the squeaks of echolocation. It’s a deep, guttural bellow. A venomous hiss and a vicious growl, a lower sound than you knew any animal could make. And it’s loud, filling the room and scraping unpleasantly against your eardrums. 

“Elder, please,” Edmund begs. He sounds afraid. You turn towards the direction all the noise is coming from. You can’t tell if your vision has adjusted or if the churning shadows are just your eyes playing tricks on you, struggling to make sense of anything in the dark. You can hear more people in the room now, a crowd gathered in front of you. Hurried footsteps race down the hallway. You get the feeling something bad is about to happen, one way or another.

“Mihai?” you call. 

The rumbling softens but doesn’t stop. You feel your way forward, sliding your hand across the surface of the table. The crowd parts for you, whispering nightbound backing away nervously.

“Stop, please, sacrament.” Edmund laces his voice with mesmerism but he doesn’t have a good grasp on you yet. It’s easy to push through it.

“Where is he? What’s happening?” you ask.

“A hatchling walked behind you. Please don’t move, please. I can’t restrain you. He’ll kill me if I try. Stay there. It’s alright. Someone should be here soon to subdue him.”

His mesmerism tugs at your thoughts but it’s his desperate insistence that makes you hesitate. You reach the edge of the table and stop. In the silence, you hear a frightened wheeze and flailing. The slow trickle of blood. The growl, rising again. 

“A hatchling walked by? And then what?” you ask.

“He looked at you and sniffed the air to catch your scent. He must’ve been too close. Mihai thought he meant you harm.”

You struggle to imagine what might be happening. Mihai is the smallest of everyone in the convenire. Shorter than Renaud, his build lean and narrow, it’s hard to imagine him posing much of a threat. Most nightbound, especially the young ones, take on their hunting form when they’re afraid but Mihai usually makes himself smaller and harmless around you. Retreating; turning into leaves. Yet here he is, throwing himself at a stranger for walking a little too close. There’s something you’re missing. 

“Mihai, were you protecting me?” you say. The growl softens again but he makes no other indication that hears or understands you. “You did it. I’m safe, I’m alright. But I think you’re in trouble, so stop doing…whatever you’re doing right now. Please?”

Nothing happens for a moment. You take a deep breath. Then something heavy drops and crumples on the floor and you hear someone—the unlucky hatchling, probably—gasping, coughing and moaning in pain. More movement. More frightened murmurs. There’s something big standing right in front of you. Its breath, reeking of blood, fans across your face.

“Sacrament, listen to me,” Edmund whispers. He sounds further away, behind you now. “Hold very still. He shouldn’t hurt you, but it wouldn’t be good to startle him right now.” 

The room falls utterly silent. All you hear is your own pounding heartbeat and the beast in front of you, its rumble changing. The hiss dies down. The growl gets rougher, less smooth, a rhythmic chuff that makes the air vibrate. Purring. You raise your hand, ignoring Edmund’s frantic begging to, “stop, stop, STOP!” You move slowly. You hear Mihai’s purr rise curiously in pitch. You reach up and out, into the dark, and find a snout.

It’s long. Dog-like, like so many other things about him. And it’s massive, you realize, stroking as far as you can reach. Teeth jut from either side even with his jaw closed. He feels like a cross between a borzoi and an alligator. There’s fur in mangy patches and tough hide beneath. Rough lines of scar tissue loop all the way around his snout like—

Like rope, you think. Like somebody wrapped it around and around and tied it so tightly it dug into his skin and left a permanent mark. You graze the edge of those crisscrossed marks with your thumb and he shudders, an uneasy exhale gusting across your face, but he doesn’t pull away. He nuzzles into your hands.

Then he collapses. You make a sound of surprise and clamor back but your reflexes aren’t fast enough. The only reason you’re not crushed beneath his weight is a hand wrapping around your forearm, yanking you out of the way. You’re hurriedly dragged out of the room.

Edmund stands beside you in the colorful shadow of the moon through stained glass. He’s in uniform but missing his coat. The sleeves of a white button-up are rolled up to his elbows and his tie is slightly askew. He looks frazzled in a way you’ve never seen before, running a hand through his hair with his gaze fixed on the room you just left. 

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” he says. “That was unprecedented. Mihai has exhibited that sort of extreme overprotective behavior before, but only for the hatchlings of your convenire. We should take this as a sign of progress.”

You spot a few elders coming down the hall. A couple are Councilmembers. You remember their faces. The Lord Regent isn’t with them. They slip into the room you just left, disappearing into the dark. A moment later, several younger nightbound leave. One of them is the hatchling Mihai attacked, leaning against the others for support. His sleeve is nothing but bloody shreds, his shoulder mangled. His arm hangs limp and crooked at his side.

Edmund sighs. “Well. Healing is much like a steep, difficult hike, I suppose. Some stumbling is to be expected.”

“That was a good thing, just now? Really? I think he tried to kill that guy.” 

“He would have gone for the throat. It was only a warning bite, although he did seem keen on escalation.” You feel him staring. Edmund studies your face in silence for a moment. “I must admit, I’m surprised that you’ve become so close. I like and respect Mihai, but he is difficult to get to know. And his feelings about witches are, ah…understandably complicated.”

You frown in confusion. “That’s news to me. I hadn’t had a full conversation with him until last night.” You don’t like how he worriedly glances towards the room again. “And, wait, what do you mean, ‘understandably complicated?’” 

Edmund looks around uncomfortably. You can tell he’s trying to decide what to say, and if he should say anything at all. “You should know,” he admits. “But I don’t know if I’m the one who should tell you. And really, I don’t have all the details. I know what his paperwork says and I’ve been present for several of his testimonies to the Council, but there are many things we simply do not know and can never know. Strategic turnings of his era went unrecorded because most conscripts were not expected to survive.”

“So he was turned to fight in a war?” 

“In a way,” Edmund says hesitantly. “Most of the Century of Nightmares was not a single, unified conflict. There were many skirmishes happening on many fronts. Territorial battles, for instance. Battles between nightbound as well as battles with humans. And, of course, lemure outbreaks the likes of which we’ve thankfully not seen since—”

“And witches,” you add.

Edmund clenches his jaw. You know you’ve caught him trying to change the subject. Begrudgingly, he admits, “Yes. There was bloodshed between kin, as well, though this was before we recognized you as such. They were perhaps the most grueling conflicts of the Century.” 

Mihai emerges into the hallway flanked by elders, no longer in hunting form. They’ve given him a coat but he’s naked otherwise. The scars you’ve spotted on his chest before don’t stop there. They’re everywhere. Even more extensive than Edmund’s and far more severe, they cover him from his collarbones to his toes. Small punctures and dragging scrapes, haphazard slashes and deliberate designs, nothing but his face is unmarked and you’ve never seen what’s behind his bangs. He walks right past you without looking up, plodding along like a sleepwalker.

He’s mesmerized, you realize. The elders on either side of him maintain physical contact, grasping his shoulders. You watch them lead him away.

“Athanasius has been notified. He’ll be here to retrieve you shortly,” Edmund says, sounding like you’re meant to be reassured. 

“What was Mihai turned to fight?” you ask.

He looks pained. “I really don’t think I should—” 

“It was witches, wasn’t it?” You feel that you already know the answer but you have to ask. It all makes sense. His fear of you, his insistence that you’re dangerous, the way he keeps constant watch but never comes too close. The only piece you can’t fit into the puzzle is what you saw here tonight. “He seems strong. He was probably good at it.” 

“He was just a hatchling,” Edmund says.

“So?”

Edmund glances at you and, for the first time you can ever recall, looks upset with you. Then he shakes his head. “Ah. Yes. I suppose you wouldn’t know. Suffice it to say that witches are capable of extraordinary destruction and even cruelty, when so inclined. Even more capable than most, considering the tools at your disposal.”

Cruelty. Why does that word make you feel queasy? “So he lost that fight, is what you’re saying?” 

“Are you familiar with the term ‘cloister-breaker?’” You’re not. Edmund looks dismayed that he has to explain. “A cloister is—or perhaps I should say, was—a particular type of witch community. One in which they live openly.” 

A cloister. You didn’t know there was a word for it. They’re urban legends. Every witch knows a witch who heard through the grapevine about a place where nobody has to hide. They find old, empty places, you’ve heard, abandoned farmhouses and rural towns left to rot. The moss and ivy move in and so do the witches, and they make it home. They’re not like you in cloisters. They know their magic. And swarmed together like that, gathered tens or dozens strong, they become untouchable. 

But he said cloister-breaker. “You used to attack those?” you say. You’re more incredulous than upset. If there’s one place that a witch doesn’t have to fear nightbound, it’s in a cloister. “That’s a stupid idea.”

“It was,” Edmund agrees. “It never ended well. At best, annihilation was mutual. The hatchlings rarely knew their true targets until it was too late.”

“That’s like shoving a bunch of kids into a wolf’s den. Why couldn’t you just leave them alone?” 

Edmund smiles sadly and then he looks away. He doesn’t say anything else, and your curiosity is extinguished by a sick feeling. You’re relieved to see Athanasius coming down the hall, but the sight of Mihai glassy-eyed and swaying lightly on his feet beside him makes you swallow a lump in your throat. 

“He didn’t mean it,” you insist. “He was just scared.” 

You can’t quite read the expression on Athanasius’ face. He’s smiling but it’s strained. “I know, sacrament. Come, I will not feel settled until you are both safe at home.” 

It had been nothing. That was the thing he could not explain, even to himself — it had been nothing, a moment of no particular significance, something that would not have registered to anyone observing it from outside.

You and Baelor in the solar. Evening light. You had fallen asleep over a book with your feet tucked beneath you and your head listing sideways, and Baelor had come in and found you like that and had done nothing more remarkable than sit beside you and draw the book from your hands without waking you and set it aside, and then stayed. Simply stayed. His shoulder against yours, his attention moving to his own correspondence, the two of you sharing the quiet of the room with the ease of people who had been doing exactly this for decades and needed nothing more from the evening.

Maekar had been in the doorway.

He had not announced himself. He had looked at the scene — the low gold light, the particular quality of your sleeping face, Baelor's hand resting near yours on the cushion without quite touching, the whole atmosphere of uncomplicated domesticity — and had felt something move through him that he did not examine and turned and walked away.

He came to your chambers two hours later.

You had been awake when he arrived — the book finished, the solar long vacated, the evening settled into its quieter hours. He came in without particular announcement, the way he always did, and you looked up from the window and read him the way you always did and found something slightly off in the quality of his stillness.

Not anger. Not the charged pre-argument tension that had its own recognisable signature. Something quieter than that, and less legible.

"Maekar," you said in a somewhat pleading tone, sensing that something was clearly amiss.

"Come to bed," he requested. You obliged.

He undressed you with his usual efficiency — not rough, not ceremony, the systematic approach of a man who has done this many times and knows the geography. His hands were certain. His mouth found your throat and your collarbone and the curve of your shoulder with the focused attention of someone who had mapped the places that worked and went directly to them, no preamble, no patience wasted on territory that didn't require it.

It worked. It always worked — that was the thing about Maekar, the directness of him, the complete absence of uncertainty in how he touched you. You arched into his hands and felt the familiar heat of him and the slightly unfamiliar texture underneath and filed the texture away for later.

He settled between your thighs and pushed into you without particular prelude and the sound you made was immediate and unguarded — the specific completeness of him, the stretch and heat of it, and his answering groan low against your neck.

He began to move.

Hard. Purposeful. The driving rhythm that you knew and wanted, each thrust full and deep and carrying the weight of him, his cock ramming into you with the relentless focused certainty that was his particular register. His hands on your hips. His mouth at your throat. The mechanics of it were exactly right — exactly the way you liked it, exactly the way he knew you liked it, calibrated with the accuracy of years.

And something was still off.

You felt it in him — not in the physical, which was precisely what it always was, but in the quality of his attention. Something slightly removed. Something doing the motions with the competence of a man whose body knew its work and whose mind was somewhere adjacent to it, not absent but not entirely present either. A texture you had felt in the yard when he was working through something difficult. The texture of a man fulfilling a function he has assigned himself.

His hips drove forward. Your breath left you. Your hands found his shoulders.

"Maekar," you caressed them through a moan.

"Mm." Not stopping.

"Stop."

He stopped. Lifted his head. Those violet eyes finding yours from close range — dark, pupils blown, his cock buried in your cunt and his breathing uneven and his expression doing the complicated thing it did when he was caught between the body and the mind and couldn't locate a clean resolution.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked somewhat worried.

You shook your head slightly, a frown appearing on your brow. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is—"

"My love."

His jaw tightened. He held himself very still, and you felt the specific effort of that — all of him suspended, the wanting and the discipline both present simultaneously. "I'm in the middle of—"

"I know where you are." You held his gaze. "Tell me."

A long pause. His weight over you, his cock still buried deep, the intimacy of the position making the conversation simultaneously more difficult and more necessary. You watched him locate and discard several responses.

"It's nothing," he said. "It's—"

"It's not nothing. You've been somewhere else since you walked in."

His eyes moved away from yours. The tell — Maekar, who held eye contact through everything, looking at the middle distance with the specific quality of a man who has been asked to account for something he has not prepared an accounting for.

"I saw you," he said finally. "Earlier. With Baelor."

You waited.

"In the solar." His voice carefully even. "It was — nothing. You were asleep. He was just—" The sentence didn't finish. His jaw worked. "It was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing to you."

Silence.

"Maekar." Your hand finding his face. He let you turn it back toward yours, which was itself information — Maekar permitting redirection. "Tell me."

The silence stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn't. Long enough that he began to move again, slightly, as though the motion might serve as substitution — his hips beginning their rhythm and his eyes finding the middle distance and the whole managed machinery of him reassembling.

"I want—" He stopped. His hips stilled again. The words seeming to cost him in some specific way that the physical had not. "I don't know how to—"

"Try."

Another long pause. His forehead dropped to yours. His cock still buried in you, motionless, and the specific quality of Maekar suspended between the body and something more frightening than the body.

"I want to make you feel—" Rough. Halting. Nothing like his usual speech. "The way he makes you feel. When he—" He stopped again. "I know what I am. To you. I know what this is. What I'm — useful for." The word arriving with a flatness that had something painful underneath it. "I know it isn't—"

"Stop." Your hands cradling his face. Both of them. Holding him where he was, close range, no looking away permitted. "Stop right there."

His eyes — violet and dark and stripped of their usual armour, the severity entirely absent, something younger and more uncertain looking out of them.

"You think," you said carefully, "that you are something practical. That Baelor gives me something and you give me something else and the something else is this." Your thumb across his jaw. "That you are useful in bed and he is useful everywhere else?"

He said nothing. Which was confirmation.

"Oh, my heart." The fondness in your voice was not something you tried to manage. "You absolute idiot."

Something shifted in his expression.

"You already make me feel cared for." Holding his gaze. "Every time you end the sparring session when my shoulder is hurting before I ask you to. Every time you put yourself between me and a door when we walk into a room with people you don't trust. Every time you wake up before I do and stay anyway because you know I sleep better with your weight there." Your thumbs against his cheekbones. "That is care. That is you, caring for me, in the language you have."

His throat worked.

"And this—" a slight movement of your hips, deliberate, feeling him twitch in response and a sigh coming from his mouth— "does not have to be only one thing. You do not have to ram into me like you're making a point every time." A pause in which you smiled teasingly. "Unless I want that. In which case, please continue."

The breath that left him was almost a laugh. Almost.

"You can be careful," you said. "You can be slow. It will not make you less — it will not make you anything less. Do you understand me?"

He looked at you for a long time. The violet eyes doing their reading, the assessing quality of them turned entirely inward, arriving somewhere that cost him to arrive at.

"Show me," he said quietly. Not a command. Something considerably less certain than a command. "How to — show me, please."

Your hands still cradling his face.

"Move," you said softly. "Slowly."

He moved.

The difference was immediate — not the driving rhythm but something else, his hips drawing back and returning in a long rolling motion, deep and full, his cock pressing into you in a way that was less about friction and more about presence, about the specific completeness of him seated in you and the slow deliberate drag of each stroke. A sound left you that was different from the sounds before — lower, less urgent, the sound of someone being thoroughly and unhurriedly filled.

He made a sound against your forehead that had nothing controlled in it.

"Again," you moaned, eyes already closing in pleasure.

He did it again. And again. The rolling depth of it building something that had no urgency to it, only accumulation — his cock moving in you with the slow certain weight of a man discovering a different kind of intention, his hands shifting from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer rather than holding you in place. His mouth finding your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your jaw. Small careful things, landed without announcement, the vocabulary of tenderness accessed clumsily and therefore more honestly than if he'd known what he was doing.

His thumb found your clit. Not with the urgent efficiency of earlier — slowly, tracing, learning it in this register the way he had learned everything else about you, with the thoroughness that was always his even when everything else changed.

"Maekar." His name in your mouth on an exhale.

The sound he made at the sound of his own name said was undone and immediate. His face pressed to your hair. His hips rolling deeper, finding the angle that made your breath catch and staying there, working it with patient repetition, the focused attention of Maekar directed entirely at this — not at the end of it but at the thing itself, the sustained specific fact of your bodies together, the warmth of it.

"I've got you," he said. Into your hair. Rough and quiet and sounding faintly surprised by the words, as though they had arrived without being summoned.

Something in your chest cracked open cleanly.

"I know," you said. "You always have."

His arms tightened around you.

The thing building in you had none of the sharp competitive urgency of other nights — it was slower than that, deeper, a tide rather than a wave, and when it finally broke it moved through you in long sustained pulses that had you gripping his shoulders and saying his name with your face against his neck and he held you through every second of it with both arms and his cock still moving in those slow rolling strokes, drawing it out, thorough even in this.

He followed you with his face buried in your hair — quieter than usual, his whole body shuddering once and then settling, the sound he made low and sustained and nothing like triumph. Nothing like a point won.

Something else entirely.

For a long time he didn't move. His weight against you, his arms still around you, his breathing slowing against your neck. The silence had a different quality than the silences that usually followed — not the satisfied stillness of a man who has won something but something more open than that. Something that had been set down.

His arms tightened once, briefly, before relaxing back to their usual looseness. The closest thing to thank you in his vocabulary. You received it as it was meant.

At your throat, the mark from earlier had darkened to something unmistakable — the specific evidence of Maekar, who had come to you tonight trying to be useful and had ended up, without entirely meaning to, being known.

You held him in the quiet and let him have it.

It had started, as these things sometimes did, with Maekar's mouth.

Not directly. Not in the room. But the evidence of it was there when Baelor found you — the mark at the join of your neck and shoulder, dark and unmistakable, the specific calling card of a man who did not think twice about leaving them because it had never once occurred to Maekar that thinking twice about this specific fact was ever required.

Baelor thought twice about everything. In fact, he had been thinking about that mark for days.

You came to find him in his study at the evening hour, when the castle had quieted and the correspondence had thinned to its final pages, and he looked up from his desk and took you in — the looseness of you, the specific quality of ease that you carried, the way you moved through the doorway with the unhurried certainty you possessed — and his eyes found the mark and stayed there for a moment before returning to his correspondence.

The quill continued its work.

You settled into the chair across from him and reached for the wine and watched him not react with the particular attention of someone who knew exactly what not-reacting cost him.

"You are quiet," you said.

"I am working."

"You are always working." You tilted your head. "You are also quiet in a specific way."

The quill paused. Resumed. "I do not know what you mean."

You looked at him. At the careful composed line of him behind the desk — the dark hair with its threads of white, the mismatched eyes tracking the correspondence with the focused attention of the Crown Prince who always had something requiring his focus, the set of his jaw which was slightly more deliberate than usual, the controlled quality of a man who has decided something is not worth his attention and is finding that the decision requires more maintenance than anticipated.

"Baelor."

He set the quill down. Aligned it with the inkwell. Looked up.

The mismatched eyes — one brown, one pale blue — found yours and then, with the slight deliberateness of a choice being made, moved to the mark on your neck.

He looked at it for a moment.

"That has been there for days," he said. Mild. Observational. The tone of a man noting weather.

"You know he does that."

"Yes." A pause in which something moved beneath the composure, briefly, before being managed back into order. "I am aware."

"Baelor—"

"I am fine." The words precise and immediate and carrying the specific quality of a statement that is technically accurate and entirely beside the point.

You looked at him across the desk. At the careful patient man who had been told since childhood that his gift was his composure, his diplomacy, his capacity for reason — the man who had built an entire identity around the architecture of thinking before acting, of attending carefully, of being the one in any room who kept his head. The man who was currently keeping his head with visible effort while looking at his brother's mark on your neck.

"Say it," you said.

"There is nothing—"

"Baelor." You held his gaze. "Say it."

The composure held for another moment. His hands flat on the desk. The mismatched eyes doing their reading — of your face, of the mark, of the specific distance between you that suddenly seemed to require addressing.

"I heard you," he said quietly. "With him."

The room went still.

"Through walls," he continued, with the even tone of a man delivering a report he has not enjoyed compiling. "On more than one occasion. The sounds you make." A pause. "The sounds I do not — that I have not—" He stopped. His jaw tightened. "I know what I am. I know what he is. I know that we give you different things and I have never — I am not a man who begrudges—"

"Baelor."

"The mark," the word arriving with more weight than the mild tone had prepared for. "He marks you and you come to me wearing it and I am supposed to — I am looking at it and I cannot—" Another stop. The composure making a final effort and failing quietly. "I want to know," he finally said, "what it sounds like. When he does that. I want you to tell me what he does that I don't."

The silence that followed had considerable texture.

You stood.

He tracked you with his eyes as you came around the desk — those mismatched eyes doing something that was not their usual quality of attention, something with more heat and less management in it — and you stopped in front of him and looked down at him where he sat and the expression on his face was the one he kept for private rooms and private hours, the one that had no diplomatic function whatsoever.

"Lock the door," you said.

He rose and walked to it. Locked it. Turned back.

You were already undoing the lacing of your gown. He watched you with those eyes and the composure was present but costing him now, visibly, the effort of it written in the slight tension of his shoulders and the deliberate quality of his stillness — a man holding himself in place through the application of will.

When the gown fell his breath left him audibly.

He crossed to you. His hands found your face — both of them, the grip of them more urgent than his usual careful touch — and he kissed you with none of his customary patience, none of the reverent architecture he usually brought to this. The kiss was searching and immediate and had the weight of carefully managed feeling behind it, the composure finally stepping aside, and you kissed him back and felt the shape of what had been sitting behind his eyes all evening.

When he drew back his breathing had changed.

"Tell me," he said. Close range. His hands still framing your face. "What does he do."

"Baelor—"

"Tell me." Not a plea. Not yet. The quiet command of a man who has decided he wants something and is done negotiating around the wanting. "I want to know. Everything he does that makes you—" his eyes moving to the mark, back to your face— "that makes that sound."

You held his gaze. "He doesn't ask."

Something moved through his expression. "He doesn't—"

"He does not ask what I want or how I want it. He reads me and takes what he finds and—" You watched Baelor's jaw tighten— "he doesn't stop to check."

"I check because—"

"I know why you check." Your hand at his chest. "I am not criticising it. I am answering your question."

His hands dropped from your face to your hips. The grip of them different from usual — more certain, less asking. "What else."

"He's rough."

A breath, his voice almost a growl. "How rough."

"Rougher than you've ever let yourself be."

The flush that moved through him was slow and complete, throat to jaw to the tips of his ears, and the mismatched eyes darkened in a way that had nothing diplomatic left in them. His hands tightened on your hips. "And that's what makes that sound."

"Part of it."

"What's the other part."

You looked at him. "That he doesn't think about whether he should."

The silence.

"Turn around," he said.

Your breath caught.

His voice had changed register entirely — not raised, Baelor never raised his voice, but stripped of every careful softness, carrying the quiet certainty of a man who has located something he has been looking for and intends to stop being tentative about it.

"Turn. Around," he insisted.

You did. His hands found your hips from behind and the grip of them was nothing like his usual touch — both hands, certain and possessive, pulling you back against him, and the evidence of how the conversation had been going for him was immediate and considerable against your back.

His mouth found the unmarked side of your neck.

Not gently. His teeth, deliberate, the scrape of them followed by his mouth working at the skin with a focused intent that was going to leave something — was already leaving something, you could feel it, the specific heat of it — and you made a sound that surprised you slightly and felt him exhale hard against your throat at the sound.

"He marks you," Baelor said. His voice against your neck, low and stripped of its usual considered quality. "So will I."

His hands moved — one spread flat across your stomach holding you against him, one sliding lower, finding you without preamble, and the sound he made when his fingers met slick heat was almost reverent before it became something else entirely.

"You're already—" He stopped. His fingers moving with a purpose that had abandoned his usual thoroughness for something more direct. "How long have you been—"

"Since you started talking," you said.

The groan that left him resonated through his chest and into yours.

"Tell me more." His fingers working, two of them now, curling in a way that found something immediately useful and stayed there. "Tell me what else he does."

"He—" The words unsteady. "He doesn't build up to it. He finds what works and he—"

Two of his long digits entered you without warning, the metal of his rings cool against your core. "Like this?"

"Harder."

The sharp intake of his breath. His fingers adjusting — harder, deeper, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit in a way that made your knees want to do something unhelpful — and the specific quality of Baelor asking and then executing the answer with perfect attention was its own devastating thing, different from Maekar's wordless reading but no less effective.

"And then," he said, his free hand working at his own laces with the focused efficiency of a man who has decided — "he doesn't wait."

"No," it came almost as a breath rather than a word.

"He just—"

He pushed into you in one deep, smooth thrust.

The sound you made echoed off the walls of the study and Baelor groaned against your shoulder — low and long and entirely stripped of composure — and for a moment neither of you moved, the fullness of it, the specific thickness of him seated in you completely, his hands gripping your hips and his mouth at your neck and the whole careful architecture of Baelor Targaryen temporarily and thoroughly dismantled.

Then he began to move and every remaining fragment of careful was gone.

He fucked you against his desk with a single-mindedness that had nothing diplomatic in it — deep driving thrusts that walked you forward against the wood, that made the inkwell migrate across the surface, that forced sounds from you with the mechanical certainty of someone who has identified the objective and intends to pursue it without deviation. His cock ramming into you hard and certain and relentless, each stroke full, nothing tentative about any of it, and you braced against the desk and gave him everything he was taking and felt the specific revelation of Baelor without his composure, Baelor wanting something badly enough to stop being careful about the wanting.

You moved a hand to your back to steady yourself by gripping him while the other one was set firmly against the opposite edge of the desk. Baelor, instead, caught your wrist and pressed it to your lower back, immobilizing it. The rough action drew a high-pitched moan from you.

His free hand found your clit.

Not tentatively. Directly, with the accuracy of a man who knew exactly where to go and had decided that patience was no longer a virtue he was interested in, his thumb working in a rough insistent rhythm while his cock drove into you from behind and the combination of it built something immediate and non-negotiable.

"Tell me—" His voice against your ear, wrecked, the careful diction entirely gone— "that he does this better."

The laugh that left you was genuine — and then his hips rammed against yours with sudden force, as if he almost wanted to reprimand you, and the laugh became a sound entirely unlike laughter.

"Tell me." Harder now, his hips snapping forward with an urgency that was new on him, that had none of the patience he usually rationed himself to. His cock buried in your cunt to the hilt and his thumb on your clit and his mouth at the mark he'd been leaving on your neck. "Tell me I am as good as him. I need to hear you say it."

"That is—" the sentence losing its shape entirely— "that sounds like competition—"

"I know how it sounds like." A thrust that punched the breath from your lungs. "Fuck what it sounds like." Another. "Tell me."

"You—" the words coming apart, reassembling, coming apart again— "Gods, Baelor, you are— you're—"

"Say it properly." His voice demolished and demanding and still, underneath it all, precisely him, the exactness of Baelor present even in this, even here, wanting the specific words and nothing approximate.

"You are as good as him!" You cried out. Each word punctuated by his cock driving into you, by your hand scrabbling at the desk's edge, by the thing building in you that had passed the point of no return some time ago and was now simply a matter of when. "T-too much— Baelor— please."

The sound he made when you said it resonated through his chest and into yours — not Maekar's triumphant certainty but something rawer than that, something that had needed the words badly enough to ask for them directly, the composed careful Crown Prince entirely absent and something more fundamental in his place, something that had been sitting beneath a decade of patience and management waiting for permission to exist.

His thumb moved faster. His cock drove into you harder. His mouth at your neck worked at the mark with an intent that had abandoned subtlety entirely, and the thing building in you crested and broke open completely — your nails against the wood, his name leaving your mouth in the specific register he had been working toward, and it was different from the sound he'd heard through walls, it was not that sound, it was its own thing entirely, Baelor's sound, the one he had earned specifically and no one else had — and you felt him understand that in real time, felt it move through him.

He followed you over with his face pressed to your neck and his hips losing their rhythm entirely, burying himself as deep as he would go and holding there while he spent himself in long shuddering pulses, a sound against your skin that was nothing like anything you had ever heard from him — cracked open, and human, and entirely specific to this room and you and this evening.

For a long moment neither of you moved.

His breathing slowed against your neck. His hands released you by degrees — the grip easing, the gentleness returning in increments, the composure beginning its quiet reconstruction.

He pressed his lips to the mark he'd left. Held them there for a moment. Then, with great deliberateness, he turned his head and pressed them to Maekar's mark as well.

Both. Acknowledged. Claimed.

You turned in his arms. Looked at his face — flushed and thoroughly undone, the mismatched eyes still dark but softening now, the whole of him coming back to himself by careful degrees.

"Well," you said, a faint smile creeping up your face.

A pause in which Baelor conducted a quiet internal search for his dignity and located it somewhat mislaid. "Well."

You looked at him. At the inkwell, which had reached the far edge of the desk. Back at him.

"You've been thinking about that," you said, "for considerably longer than this evening."

He redid the lace of his breeches in silence. Smoothed his doublet and ran a hand through his hair backwards. The gestures of a man restoring order to a room that had seen some weather. "I have absolutely no idea," he said, with the measured composure of the Hand of the King, "what you are referring to."

"Baelor."

A pause.

"Some time," he admitted.

You laughed — the unguarded kind, the easy kind — and watched something move through his expression at the sound of it, something warm and private and specifically responsive to that laugh in a way that had nothing to do with the last half hour and everything to do with the more than twenty years before it.

His hand found your face. His thumb at your jaw. Those mismatched eyes finding yours with the quality they kept for private hours — undivided and specific and entirely his.

"Both of them," he said quietly, looking at the marks on your neck. "Mine and his."

"Both of you," you said.

The expression that settled over his face was not triumph. It was something quieter and more lasting than triumph — the particular peace of a man who has, for once, stopped being careful about something, and found that the thing he was being careful around was never going anywhere.

He pressed his lips to your forehead. Slow. Deliberate. Entirely, specifically Baelor.

"Don't tell him," he said against your skin, "that I asked you for that."

You laughed again, knowing exactly what he was referring to.

"You know he will eventually find out," you teased.

"I know." A pause, and the warmth of him fully restored. "I will deny it comprehensively."

A.N.: I am obviously not well in the head and have a complete ted talk about the psychology of how and why these men are jealous while entirely sure about themselves (within this AU, of course). I will probably upload that too next to this work, because I need to get it out of my brain and put it into words.

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna @mongrelcryptid @sacha1slytherin @faithfullyvigilantsliver @alternarabuda @jjubilee-fluff @a-sunflower-in-bloom @heieufh @karakatitsa-sonya @eleventhboi

You’d been walking for scarcely 15 minutes when a sudden gust of wind shook the trees, followed by the first hesitant splats of rain onto the leaves overhead, and in seconds, a true tempest of a storm was upon you. You began to sprint, heels clacking, slipping while you ran for any sign of shelter. The rain blurred the streetlights overhead, casting a yellow haze over the street. Your hair was soaked, clinging to your face in clumpy tendrils. Up ahead, you spotted a haven, a sanctuary from the bulk of the rain– a shop awning underneath a dim lamp.

You skidded to a stop, your breath coming in gasps, your knees wobbling from the exertion. Under the awning, the rain was certainly more peaceful, but there was no way you’d be able to get home without getting soaked down to the skin. Damn it all, today just had to be the day you’d left your umbrella at home. You crossed your arms over your chest, the wool of your coat weighing you down even heavier than your already leaden spirits. Why you? Why was it always you? Be it rude customers, irritating bosses, or now the devilishly cold wind and rain that shot right through you. The anguish of the day clawed its way up your throat, stinging your eyes, and before you knew it, your lip had begun to tremble. Your cries began with an open-mouthed sob that tore from your lips, and soon your body shook with silent tears that poured down your cheeks and mixed with the rainwater. You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to will the world away from you.

You were so preoccupied with your tears that you almost didn’t notice a deep, mechanical hum in the distance until it was vibrating the pavement below you. Two golden orbs beckoned you from your respite, and out of the haze, a sleek black beast of a car emerged, sliding towards the curb with a predatory grace. The wheels didn’t so much as graze a puddle, and it halted right in front of you, the engine idling with an expensive purr you had a feeling you’d never be able to afford.

The passenger window rolled down with a hiss, and you could just make out the silhouette of a man behind the wheel. Sharp cheekbones and the unmistakable brim of a flat cap illuminated by the streetlamps overhead and the cherry red glow of a cigarette between his lips.

“Need a ride?” the man asked. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that made your fingers twitch and your chest flutter.

“I… I’m fine, sir, thank you,” you stammered, clutching your lapels with white-knuckled fingers. Your teeth chattered, betraying the lie. “I’m nearly home. Just waiting for the rain to let up.”

"You’re a mile from anywhere," he countered smoothly, finally turning his head. His eyes were a piercing, icy blue, even in the shadows. "And the soles of those shoes weren't made for swimming."

You bristled at the edge of jest in his tone and pressed your lips tight. You were about to open it again to offer another polite, panicked refusal when the heavens settled the debate for you. A white-hot, jagged streak of lightning fractured the dark clouds overhead with a crack, followed immediately by a roll of thunder so violent it felt like the atmosphere would shatter. The wind shrieked, throwing a fresh wave of frigid water against your face. You gasped, your resolve shattering along with the clouds. With fumbling, frozen fingers and clumsy footsteps, you reached for the heavy silver handle.

The door closed with a solid, dampened thud, instantly sealing out the roar of the storm. The silence inside was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the dashboard and the soft hiss of the heater.

"Better?" he asked. He didn't wait for an answer before shifting the car into gear.

"Thank you," you whispered, huddled against the door, feeling the glorious heat begin to soften your frozen skin. "I... I really shouldn't have... It's very kind of you, Mr–"

"Shelby," he provided, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Thomas. But most people around here just call me Tommy." The name was notorious. You’d heard it before, whispered in the market or at work, amongst hushed gossip over tea and cigarettes, in quiet warnings from your landlady.

He reached into his breast pocket and produced a crisp, white silk handkerchief, holding it out without looking at you. "Dry your face. You’re dripping on my leather."

You startled a bit, realizing that despite the warmth of the car, you truly looked like a cat out of a bath. Your hair, once soaked, was starting to dry and frizz, but your face and neck were still dripping with rainwater.

 “Oh– oh!” you quickly began patting the droplets from your skin and frantically attempting to sop up the liquid around your seat. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, I didn’t mean–”

Tommy chuckled, angling his head slightly to observe your reflection in the glass. “Only teasing. I’ve had much worse than rainwater in this car,” he uttered. “And please, just Tommy is fine.”

“Right. Tommy,” you whispered.

The name hung in the air, heavy and significant. Tommy didn't elaborate and simply took another slow drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling of the car in ghostly ribbons. The silence that followed wasn't awkward by any means, but it was certainly weighted. Although the car’s engine hummed a comforting rhythm, your chest squeezed with anticipation.  Outside, the world was a frantic, blurred mess of grey and black, but inside the car, the ticking of the dashboard clock felt like the only time that mattered.

As the car glided toward a major intersection, you leaned forward slightly, peering through the rhythmic sweep of the wipers.

"Oh– actually, you can turn left here," you said, pointing toward the street that led to the main thoroughfare. "It’s a bit of a drive, but it’s the most direct way to my flat."

Tommy didn't slow down. He didn't even glance at the turn.

"Don't worry," he said, his voice smooth and effortless. He turned the wheel in the opposite direction, banking the heavy car into a narrow, cobbled side street you rarely used. "The main road is flooded by the canal. I know a shortcut. It’ll keep the water away from my engine and get you to your fire ten minutes faster."

"Oh. I didn't know the canal had burst," you murmured, sinking back into the plush leather. You felt a flush of embarrassment– of course, a man like him would know the state of the city better than you.

"The city has a way of falling apart when it rains," he remarked, casting a brief, sidelong glance at you. The blue of his eyes softened just a fraction. "And you look like you’ve had quite enough of things falling apart for one day."

You found yourself letting out a small, exhausted laugh, the tension in your shoulders beginning to dissolve under the influence of the heater and his steady presence. "Is it that obvious?"

"You have the look of someone who’s worked twelve hours for eight hours' pay," he said. "And spent most of those hours dealing with people who don't deserve your tenderness."

You began to relax then, the reputation of the Shelby name fading behind the reality of the man sitting next to you. He was being... kind. In his own rugged, unsentimental way, he was looking after you. You found yourself talking–really talking–about the demanding customers, the way the cold seemed to seep into your very soul, and the sheer exhaustion of trying to keep your head above water in a city like Birmingham.

Tommy listened with a stillness that was unnerving yet magnetic. He didn't interrupt; he simply hummed in agreement or offered a short, dry observation that made you feel like he truly understood the grind of your daily life.

By the time the car slowed to a crawl, you were feeling a strange sense of disappointment that the ride was over. The car came to a seamless halt, the engine cutting out with a soft sigh. You looked out the window and realized with a start that you were right in front of your building.

The car had barely settled into its park before Tommy was out. You’d expected him to simply wait, or perhaps even shoo you out into the street, but the driver’s side door closed with a heavy clack, and a moment later, your own door was being opened from the outside.

The wind was still howling, but as you stepped out, Tommy moved with a deliberate precision, positioning his body to block the worst of the gale. You tripped forward a bit as you exited, stumbling and landing your palms on the broad expanse of Tommy’s overcoat. You were about to jerk away, flustered, when he took hold of your wrist– a firm, proprietary grip that felt more like a claim than a steadying hand.

"I can make it from here, really," you said, squinting against the rain. "You’ve done more than enough."

"The streetlamps are out on this block," he noted, his eyes scanning the dark windows of the surrounding buildings with a chilling focus. "I like to see things through to the finish. Lead the way."

You quickly made your way toward the threshold of your building. The brick overhead offered a reprieve from the rain, but the air between you and Tommy suddenly felt as charged as the lightning around you. You turned to him, clutching the damp silk of his handkerchief, your heart doing a strange, fluttering dance in your chest.

"Thank you, Tommy," you said softly, your voice a little breathless. "For everything. I don't usually... well, I'm glad it was you who pulled over."

Tommy stepped into the dry shadow of the doorway with you. His presence radiated a firm, yet warm authority. He reached out, not to touch your skin, but to gently pull the collar of your coat a little tighter around your throat. His knuckles brushed your chin– a fleeting, ghost of a touch.

"A woman like you shouldn't be a stranger to a warm hearth," he said, his voice dropping into a low, private murmur that made the back of your neck prickle. He looked at you then– really looked at you, for the first time since the car– with a gaze that felt like it was memorizing every lash, every shiver. "This city has a habit of losing things that aren't looked after. I'd hate to see that happen to you."

He offered a ghost of a smirk, one that didn't quite reach his eyes but softened the hard lines of his face just enough to be dangerous. "Get inside. Dry your hair. And keep the handkerchief– consider it a standing invitation."

With a short, respectful tilt of his cap, he turned and stepped back into the downpour. You watched his silhouette as he retreated, steady and unhurried, until the door of his car clicked shut and the red taillights vanished into the fog.

You hurriedly turned your key in your lock and shut the door behind you. The flat felt fragile compared to the cavernous luxury of the car, but the quiet was a mercy. You moved through your nightly routine in a daze, the ghost of Tommy’s gravelly voice still vibrating in your ears. You shed your sodden clothes, watching the steam rise from your skin as you scrubbed the day away with warm water. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw those piercing blue eyes and the way the light of his cigarette had carved out the sharp angles of his face.

Once dried and dressed in your softest nightgown, you knelt before the hearth. You stoked the embers until they roared into a cheerful, crackling orange, the heat finally coaxing the last of the chill from your limbs and joints.

You curled up on the sofa, a heavy quilt pulled up to your chin, clutching a mug of tea. You couldn't help it– a small, giddy smile tugged at your lips. You thought of the way he’d leaned into your space at the door, the weight of his gaze, and the way he’d said “Tommy is fine.” It felt like a secret shared between the two of you, a brush with a world far more dangerous and exciting than your own mundane one. You let out a soft, breathless giggle into the quiet room, feeling like a girl in a serial novel. Thomas Shelby. The most powerful man in Birmingham, whose name people trembled under in fear and awe, had seen you shivering under a shop awning and decided you were worth the detour.

You replayed the drive again, savoring every detail. The smell of the leather. The way he’d navigated the flooded streets with such ease. You remembered leaning forward to tell him where to turn, and him stopping you with that calm, knowing, "Don't worry, I know a shortcut."

Your smile faltered, just a fraction.

The fire popped, a spark jumping against the grate, but the sound felt suddenly violent in the stillness. You set your tea down on the table, your brow furrowing as you traced back the timeline of the evening.

You’d begun walking home. You had been crying when he pulled up. You had been startled by the lightning. You’d climbed into the car, huddled against the heater, and talked about the rain and the shop...

Your heart, which had been fluttering with excitement only moments ago, suddenly gave a sickening thud against your ribcage.

You hadn't told him you lived on this street. You certainly hadn't pointed out your building. You hadn't even given him a general direction. He had simply driven, navigating through the labyrinth of the city with a quiet, terrifying certainty, and stopped exactly where you belonged.

You sigh and feel along the seams of your jacket. You miss your brother, you always were, but there’s new peace in the thought of him. There is honour in his memory.

“You’ve a gift for attracting beasts,” Mr. Shelby remarks.

You stop and Sergeant kicks at your heels as he does too. You turn as the horse nuzzles your cap. You touch his thick neck.

“He’s not a beast. He is only… a creature who reserves himself.” You stroke Sergeant’s short hair. “He does not hate people, only the chafe of a bridle.”

“Mm,” Shelby hums as he approaches. He rubs his gloved hands together. “Or he longs for the spring as I do.”

“I don’t mind the cold so much.” You say.

“Ah, you mustn’t. Or at least, you bear it well.” He comments.

You stare at him. You think his words carry more than one meaning.

“Is there something on your mind, Mr. Shelby?”

His brows flick as he stops close to you. “Mr. Shelby,” he echoes decisively.

“Husband,” you touch his sleeve.

He watches you. His lips part slightly as his forehead creases. He's measuring his words carefully. Before he can begin, there's a pinch at your elbow.

You face Sergeant as he raises his head and kicks his hooves. He shakes his mane and snorts. You back up and stare as the horse makes a small circle then bends his knees, lowering to his stomach before you.

Mr. Shelby steps up beside you and sighs. “It seems you've an even more demanding man than I at your beck and call.”

You laugh, “what a strange creature you are, Sergeant.”

“Do not leave him wanting. I know how you can have a man bound up in patience.” Shelby tuts. “Go on.”

You look at your husband.

“He's tossed a dozen different rides, myself included. Yet he welcomes you. I think he has made claim to his rider.” Shelby goads with the tilt of his hand. 

You near Sergeant. Gently, you touch his mane and back. The horse is immense even upon his stomach. Carefully, you lift your leg over him and settle on his bare back.

You cry out as he sets his hooves and stands with a jerk. You lean forward and hug his neck. Sergeant sets his posture and you sit up, squeezing with your thighs.

He begins a soft pace across the dirt. You laugh again as the rhythm fills you with delight. It is a soothing rock though a bit hard upon your bottom and thighs. You brace his shoulders and lean in to keep your balance.

“Another wild animal tamed, Hen,” Mr. Shelby calls after you.

🚬

You are as reluctant to leave the stable as Sergeant is to have you go. Still, you must. The day out was a welcome respite, unexpected too. Now, you are tired and the sky setting.

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby, that was lovely.” You say as you walk beside your husband.

“I should've brought you sooner. Well, some events delayed us,” he replies.

“It must be nice in the warmer weather.”

“It is. Lively. Flowers, gamblers, riders, and foaming pints all around.” He regales.

As you approach the car, you circle around and meet him at the driver's door. You pause and recoil as he gives you a keen look. His mouth twitches.

“Hen…”

You smile. “Apologies, I wasn't thinking…”

You avert your eyes guiltily. What would he think if he knew of your little lessons? You shift back on your heel.

“Should you like to drive? I could show you.” He offers as he taps the car with his knuckles.

“Me? Drive?” You feign surprise. “Well, is it safe, sir?”

He laughs. “I trust you, wife. You will keep us on the road. As you have thus far.”

He turns and opens the door. You hesitate but accept the invitation. You have this blooming in your chest. A bit of mischief. As you would feel as a child when you hid acorns in your father's pockets.

You settle into the seat and he closes the door. He comes around to the other side and slips in. As the door snaps shut you grab the wheel. He clears his throat.

“So yes, keep your hands on the wheel like that,” he points. “Turn where you want to go…”

Before he can continue his lesson, you turn the fuel valve and flip the spark. You turn the choke and press your foot down on the starter. The engine chugs to life as you smile and replace your left hand on the wheel.

“Hen?” Shelby utters. “How did you…”

You look at him and grin. His brows furrowed and you shift into gear. You pull away from the stables and follow the beaten road. You peer over the wheel as the tires spit up cold dirt.

“I'll only need you to tell me if I miss a turn,” you say.

“Hen? How?”

“I'm not entirely helpless, sir,” you shift again, picking up speed.

“Hen, you should slow down.”

“I've got my foot on the brake.”

“Yes, but are you engaging it?”

“I don't mean to stop.” You grin even bigger.

He braces the back of the seat and the door. “Hen…”

“Mr. Shelby, I am a rather capable driver.” You assure him. “And the road is clear.”

“What have you been up to?” He grits.

“Oh, don't worry so.” You chide.

“Wife, you are careless. Nonchalant. As never I've seen.”

“I rather enjoy to drive,” you shrug. I never saw a car before I came to Birmingham. I was afraid at first but I see now how fun they are.”

“Mm, certainly they are quite the invention. But as dangerous as they are useful.”

“Suppose if you don't know what you're doing.” You preen.

“Hen, are we in such a hurry –”

“You doubt me, Mr. Shelby.”

“Not at all.” He rocks with the momentum. “It is only my duty to keep you… safe.”

“Well, sir, you will find I am not to be doubted.”

You push your foot down and speed ahead. He gasps and grabs your arms. You twist the wheel as you pump the accelerator and the brake, cranking the wheel as you slice a circle with the wheels. Mr. Shelby hollers and reaches up to slap his hand against the roof.

He calls you by your proper name as he squeezes your arm. You cackles and bring the car to a stop in a cloud of dust. He falls back and gulps.

“Bloody hell, Hen, what are you about? Do you still seek to torture me?”

“Sir, this is no punishment. It is a touch of fun.” You set your sights and step down again. “Is that not what you've been seeking?”

“Christ,” he growls as you speed ahead. “Not quite what I had in mind.”

You beer around the curved road and slow as you come in sight of a farm truck. You pass patiently but as you go to rev, Mr. Shelby grabs your knee. He squeezes.

“Hen, stop.”

You sense the tension in his tone. You hate to push the mood too much. You let up your foot and engage the brake. You look at him.

He stares at you. You lift your brows innocently and pout. His blue eyes blaze as they search you.

You gasp as he frames your face and pulls you to him. He smothers you with a hungry kiss, pushing his tongue into your mouth as he snarls. He devours you as his fingers curl into your skull.

He releases you with a heave and sits back. His lips glisten as his spot clings to yours. You taste it as you puff out shallowly.