#dark!fic

Barely anyone else came to this gym and to you it was a miracle it managed to stay open in this small and unforgiving town. When you started working longer hours, you figured a place like this would be good to get out all your frustration from the day. It operated 24 hours, flexible enough to allow you to come and go as you pleased. 

At first the times at which you came varied but about four months ago you had come a bit later, around 10:30 pm or so. You had been alone for a while, but then she walked in. 

It’s a clear vision in your head, even now. The way she kept her head down, a tight tank top pressed against her skin. You hadn’t meant to stare but there was really nothing else to look at and it was a nice distraction from the burning within your body from pushing yourself non stop. She knew her way around, that much was apparent to you. 

Ellie’s workout routine varied each night but she never seemed to stray from the weights section, her muscles straining in a way that made your eyes narrow in her direction just to get a better look. Sometimes you would make the mistake of staring too long, her eyes catching on yours for a moment only to flicker away in an instant as if you were just a fly on the wall. 

To you, that meant she either didn’t notice your constant gazes or she just didn’t care. It physically made your heart ache, a burn so deep in your chest that you were unsure if it was from your emotions or from the irritating amount of cardio you made yourself do just to stay in her presence a while longer. 

It was a ritual by now, come in at 10:30 pm, and wait for her. Each time she has shown without fail, as you took the same rest days as her just so you wouldn’t have to be in this space without her. Sundays and Wednesdays are unbearable, your skin crawling with an insatiable need to be back near her. 

She had never uttered a word to you or even given you a smile, but maybe that is why you were so fascinated with her. Whether or not you truly knew her was insignificant because your mind and body missed the way the air around you seemed to shift whenever she came by.

Now, both hands of the clock rest on 12. Beads of sweat roll down your neck as your chest heaves, frustration mixing with confusion all at once. It’s a Saturday and she should be here, so why isn’t she? 

Ellie never came late and the quiet that surrounds you is somewhat jarring. You had stopped bringing your headphones a while ago, opting to listen to her heavy breathing and the sound of the weights slamming back into place when she finished using them. 

A hollow ache fills you now, and your muscles are begging for rest. You glance over at the front desk by the door, noticing that the one worker that was usually here at this time had disappeared into the break room. It wasn’t unusual, as no one beside you and Ellie came here at such an hour. 

Well, just you now. 

Just as you are about to call it a night, the sound of shoes scuffing against the floor catch your attention. As always, your eyes fall upon her within seconds. 

But it is so different this time because she is looking right at you. Her eyes don’t skip over you, and she doesn’t break eye contact for a second. You freeze up for a moment, the shock of it crashing over you. 

It feels wrong to look away, so your head turns to follow her footsteps, watching as she walks into the locker room towards the back of the gym. Ellie only ever went in there after she finished her workout, never once had she gone in before getting started. 

All of this was completely out of order, your mind is scrambling to try and understand why all of this is happening. The routine of your nights with her felt holy in some way, and your frustration was only building because it seemed as if she were messing everything up on purpose. 

You finish stretching, but you don’t get up because you’re unsure of which move to make next. Your purse and keys were in that locker room, but Ellie hasn’t come out yet. Minutes pass, the ticking of the clock an infuriating reminder that you are wasting time. 

It is way too late, and you’re exhausted by every last detail of today. You shake your head, scoffing slightly because you had spent so long watching Ellie that she felt somewhat beyond your reach. This slight interaction makes her all too real, and you just want to get out of here before anything else can throw you off. 

You let your body move on its own, your legs carrying you toward the locker room at a slower stride than usual. Your hesitance is evident in the way you move, even if you are curious about why Ellie is taking so long in there. 

As you move further down the dark hallway, your nose wrinkles from the overwhelming scent of smoke. Undoubtedly menthols, and you knew exactly who was responsible for it. You had seen Ellie smoke outside before, but only after she had finished her workout, never before. 

Unsurprisingly, you find her sitting on one of the benches in the locker room, the cigarette nearly burnt down to the filter. She sits casually, as if she wasn’t actively flipping your world upside down with her every action today. If she notices you this time, she doesn’t make it known, her head lowered as she stares at the grimy tile beneath her shoes. 

Your eyes linger as they always do because you were under the assumption she wasn’t taking notice of your presence and you had grown accustomed to being completely invisible to her. 

Her converse are scuffed and dirty but you can really see the details of each marking now that you are closer to her, the fabric of the shoes worn down in such a way that it makes you wonder how long she’s had them for. 

Your head tilts in the slightest as your eyes trail further up, taking notice of how she is wearing grey sweats tonight instead of a black pair as she usually did. Before you can let yourself peer at her tank top, your gaze fixes upon her lap once more, only because you see something new. 

There is a slight bulge you can just barely make out, something clearly pressing against the material. The sight is enough to make your skin tingle, curiosity mixing with a desperate need to see what lies beneath the fabric. She had never been packing before today, you were certain you would have noticed if she had done it in the past. 

It caught you off guard completely and for half a moment you forgot that not only could you see her, but she could also see you. 

You had grown so comfortable with not having to hide your constant staring that now you made no attempt to conceal your fascination with her. Even now, your hands merely rested against the locker that is holding your belongings but you made no movement to actually unlock it. Your focus is entirely on Ellie and the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. 

“You really are fuckin’ shameless” Ellie scoffs, flicking the cigarette butt down onto the floor as she leans forward with her elbows on her knees. The suddenness of her attention being directed towards you makes you instantly look back up at her face, feeling the air being suffocated out of your lungs as she stares right back. 

“I… I didn’t mean..” you begin to stutter, shaking your head slowly as if she were the one who had made a mistake. You’re convinced that your very being is caving in before her, exposing every inch of yourself against your will. 

You don’t try to explain properly, as there really was no reason for you to be looking at her. Instead you continuously fumble with the lock you usually had no issues opening in the past, although now your hands are shaking far too much to put the combination in correctly. 

Ellie doesn’t seem impressed with your response, or lack thereof, at all. She stands up, her demeanor formidable in an all consuming way. “What?” she questions, moving closer until she is taking up the space in the bubble you had placed around yourself so many years ago. She is blocking your locker now, forcing you to stand there with your eyes as wide as a doe staring straight ahead at a set of headlights. 

“Seriously, what were you going to say? What could possibly be an excuse for the way you were just eye fucking me the same way you’ve been doing every night?” she questions, her tone so gruff that you feel completely humiliated for thinking she hadn’t noticed your constant compulsion to look at her as often as possible. 

She is so close that you can pick up on the warmth of her scent, cigarette smoke mixed with a musky, almost myrrh like undertone that makes her feel undeniably real to you. 

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. You just seem so nice n’ I just like seeing you” you whisper in a tone so reverently that Ellie can’t help but feel pity. “I shouldn’t be bothering you like this. I’ll stop coming here, I’ll leave you alone” you begin to ramble, unable to hold eye contact with her for more than a split second before your eyes flicker away to soothe your nerves. 

But your efforts to console her are cut short, your voice dying in your throat as her hand grips your face. Her hand is warm, calloused from lifting weights but a soothing weight nonetheless. It isn’t hard for her to force you to hold eye contact with her now, the tips of her fingers digging into your cheeks while her palm holds your chin steady. 

The touch is sudden and intimate, knocking you out of your frantic daze as you watch a mix of frustration and amusement dance across her features. “You don’t get to just disappear on me, no fucking way” she spits, her hold on your face growing painful now but you don’t move away. 

“Do you know how hard it is to control myself when you are here? God, you really don’t know what you’ve put me through” she continues on, noticing the confusion radiating from you which only spurs her to elaborate. 

“I can feel your eyes on me all the time, but you wouldn’t speak a single word to me. I tried staying here longer just to see if you’d come up to me or just do something to let me know I wasn’t imagining all of this” 

Ellie lowers her hand now, moving towards the pulse point of your neck and feeling it frantically fluttering. It makes her smile in the slightest, although it is more akin to a smirk of satisfaction. 

“You look so pretty every time I see you” she sighs, her voice lowering as though she were telling you a secret she had kept hidden for far too long. “Your cheeks all flushed, that sweat dripping down your skin and … fuck, the way you breathe is enough to make me insane” she adds on. 

You are filled with confusion now, your mind scrambling to catch up with everything she was telling you. “Do you… do you know my name?” you question, even if it isn’t what you should be concerned about right now. 

The question makes her roll her eyes in the slightest, making you feel like an idiot. “Of course I do” she sighs, saying your name as she refuses to look away from you. “I know more about you than I should; much more than you know about me” she states with complete confidence, bearing herself to you. 

“But even after all that you ignore me. And as soon as I get you here alone, you’re apologizing and trying to get rid of me as quickly as possible” she huffs, her air of frustration filling the small space between you once more. 

“It makes me so angry, do you know that, sweetheart? It makes me want to follow you home again, just so I can watch you spend all night peering out the window because you can feel me watching you” she whispers, now using both her hands to hold your arms as she shifts your position. 

Now, your back is pressed against the uncomfortably cold lockers, your skin still burning hot from working out. She doesn’t care if it’s uncomfortable for you, cornering you completely before she spends a long moment simply holding eye contact with you, relishing in the fact that you were finally alone with her and had nowhere to run off to. 

Her words take a moment to truly sink in, the realization that she had been following you home making you tremble in the slightest. You can’t help the natural fearful reaction you have to what she is saying, even if you had been dreaming of having her attention on you. 

Ellie coos at the sight of you looking utterly terrified, taking notice of the sheen of sweat that still coats your skin. “I only did it because I care about you, doll” she hums, her voice low and soothing. 

She can’t help herself anymore, leaning down and flattening her tongue against your neck before licking upwards, moaning when she reaches your cheek and feels a salty tear melt against her taste buds. 

You should be trying to get away from her, screaming for someone to help you… but you don’t. Instead, you whimper from the relief of being close to her at last, your tears only falling because you had spent so long believing she didn’t care about your existence. 

“I didn’t want to make you angry, I promise” you say softly, whining in the slightest when she moves back down to your neck, nipping at your skin before letting her teeth really dig into the flesh. It’s painful, but it relieves the ache that has consumed your heart these past few months. 

Ellie kisses over each mark she leaves behind, her fingers now digging into your hips, fearful you would disappear if she let you go for even a moment. “I know that, silly girl. But even if it wasn’t intentional, you still hurt me. So you have to make it up to me” she says, completely certain now that you would do anything to please her. 

You can only nod, her kisses melting your brain in such a way that she now held all the power here. It felt heavenly to surrender yourself so completely to her, your eyes momentarily flutter shut as you focus on the feeling of her breath against your freshly marked skin. 

But Ellie is ravenous, desperate for the connection she had been deprived of for months. “Eyes on me” she states swiftly, pulling away to deny you the touch she knows you crave. 

It works instantly, your eyes snapping back open as your brows furrow in a way that shows her your displeasure. Although your expression smooths over when you can truly take in the details of her face, each freckle placed so perfectly upon her skin that you feel as if God had created her just for you to behold. 

Her mere presence is a blessing to you, and all you want is to belong to her in every way. 

“Do you want to come over? To my apartment, I mean” you ask, finding it hard to speak even if you knew that she wanted you the same way you wanted her. To your dismay, she shakes her head to say no and for a split second you fear that you have somehow overstepped again. 

“I can’t wait that long” she states quickly, picking up on your unease. She presses herself impossibly close and now you can undoubtedly feel her strap pressing against you through her sweats. It makes a knot form in your stomach, a frantic need to feel her inside of you, to be connected with her at last. 

You are knocked out of your daze as soon as you hear footsteps, not coming inside the locker room, but clearly passing by. It was a sudden and uncomfortable reminder that there was a possibility of being seen and it makes your cheeks burn with shame. 

Ellie hates that something can pull away your attention from her so easily, her right hand rising to firmly tap your cheek twice. It’s not quite a slap, but the sting of it is enough to put your focus back on her, albeit you now have a pout adorning your lips. 

“Not here, Ellie. They can hear us… I mean, what if someone walks in? What if someone sees?” you whisper frantically, trying to look away again to glance at the door but no one walks through. 

This time when you look away, Ellie is not so kind. A sharp pain spreads throughout your cheek now, the impact jarring you for a split second before you realize that she had slapped you with full force this time. 

And fuck, she is strong. 

The pain takes a moment to really seep in, tears brimming your eyes as it seems to worsen as seconds pass by. But your focus is centered back on her, and that is proof to her that her actions were necessary. 

She doesn’t speak right away, pleased enough to watch more tears stream down your cheeks as you stutter over your own words. 

Lowering her head a bit, she is able to really get in your face, keeping her voice low so that what she says can’t be heard beyond the space the two of you share. “You really think those employees give a shit about what we do here?” she questions with a half hearted laugh, your apprehension to all of this amusing to her, even if she is irritated. 

Ellie leaves space for you to answer but you are still sniffling and fighting back the urge to cry more just because she is being so mean to you. After a long pause you hesitantly shake your head side to side, trying to gauge if you are giving her the answer she wants to hear. 

Much to your relief, she seems pleased by the motion. “That’s right, angel. They don’t care, and no one comes to this shit hole at this hour anyways. But I’m getting real tired of you making me be so cruel. Thought a sweet little thing like you would be willing to make me feel better, but maybe I was wrong” she mutters. 

She feigns a wounded expression, slowly but surely beginning to pull away from you until you can move freely once more. The loss of pressure and warmth from her body feels suffocating to your heart, the ache between your thighs making you acutely aware of just how badly you needed her to be touching you. 

“Fuckin’ waste of time” she huffs, not looking at you as she turns away. The thought of her leaving you here makes panic crawl up your throat, the pain from her hitting you feeling akin to a distant memory as you shake your head frantically to refuse her attempts to discard you. 

“No, no, please. Ellie, I didn’t mean it like that. I was scared, I was being stupid!” you plead with her, not even bothering to whisper now as you cry out. Your shaking hands grasp at her tank top, not truly strong enough to halt her but making an effort to do so nonetheless. 

You can’t explain what you feel at this moment, as some rational part of you knows that none of this is right and yet you are willing to go to any length to make her stay here with you. 

Without overthinking it, you drop to your knees in front of her, your kneecaps colliding with the tile beneath you. The physical pain of the action is meaningless, your mind utterly engrossed with the need to please her. 

Ellie finally stops trying to leave, her green eyes taking in the pathetic sight of you. Your breaths are uneven, your cheeks still flushed beautifully from working out only a while earlier. She can see the red mark she had left behind on your cheek and she truly hopes it bruises just to ensure that you remember everything about tonight. 

“You really were being stupid, huh?” she says, her voice calm as she watches you press your cheek against her thigh. The fabric of her sweats is so soft that it soothes you, serving as a reminder that you had managed to make her stay. 

You nod your head, so pleased that she is speaking to you again that you can’t help but smile up at her. She runs her fingers through your mussed hair, treating you like a precious pet that simply needed to be trained. 

No further movements are made by you because it is finally clicking in your mind that you shouldn’t say or do anything until Ellie wills you to do so. Instead, you remain in place, your hips slightly twitching in search of friction now because the outline of Ellie’s strap is far clearer down here, and all you can think of is the relief you will feel once it is inside you. 

Her eyes rake over you, committing the sight of you like this in her memory. But since you’re behaving so well, she finally gives you directions. 

“Everything off, but stay on your knees” she commands, her voice steady amidst so much chaos. You don’t need to be told twice, yanking off your tank top along with the flimsy shorts that had been worn down after so many sessions of working out, and kicking off your shoes and socks. Next to go is your sports bra, tits fully on display for her viewing pleasure. And when you messily squirm your way out of your panties, Ellie can swear she has reached heaven. 

You freeze up when you hear footsteps near the door again, but you know better. This time, you don’t look away from her. But she can see how fearful you are, and it makes her groan in delight. 

“Atta’ girl, following directions so well” she praises, still standing above you and fully clothed. You are clay in her hands now, waiting to be molded into something perfect, something only Ellie can love. 

She glances at your discarded panties that lie on the floor, noticing the damp spot on them, the cotton  soaked with your arousal. 

“Your cunt got all sticky just from a little bit of attention from me?” she questions, although she quickly follows up before you can respond. “Or maybe you just really like it when I hit you” she wonders aloud, already knowing how to make you squirm. 

You should feel ashamed but you don’t because she seems truly pleased with you, and that is all you need to feel content. 

So you give her a bashful smile, your hand rising to gently touch over your cheek, the same spot that was now beginning to properly bruise from the unforgiving slap she had given you. 

The movement is silent and you don’t speak up to confirm nor deny what she had said, but the adoring way you stare up at her is just enough for her to continue on. 

Ellie settles on the bench in between the lockers that she had been sitting on earlier, her legs spread open. She can feel your eyes trailing her every move, just as you had done so many times in the past. She pats her thigh, beckoning you closer but you can tell she isn’t asking you to sit on her lap. 

So you crawl closer, your hands and knees pressing against the icy tile beneath you. Chills rise on your skin but you don’t falter, settling between her thighs after a few seconds. 

You can hear her muttering curses under her breaths as she takes you in, a pitiful girl so willing to bend to her every whim. She clicks her tongue, noticing the way you let your eyes trail down toward what you had been staring at since you first saw her today. 

“Awh, why don’t you give my cock some attention, sweet thing” she suggests, as if it were even an option at this point. It is more of her granting you permission to begin, her hips already rising to help you as you tug her boxers down with her sweats so that you can get what you need so badly. 

“Thank you” you mutter, the words falling from your lips naturally. And as soon as the material is down far enough for her strap to be visible, you can’t help the low whine that leaves your parted lips. 

It’s somehow better than you imagined, the same shade as her skin tone and thick enough that you feel intimidated by the mere sight of it. The tip is a pretty shade of pink that looks all too realistic, your tongue darting out to lick your bottom lip as you take in every last detail. 

“We don’t have all night to waste” she reminds you as you stare, knowing you are in a bit of a dazed state which means you need a few reminders about taking action instead of simply ogling in disbelief. 

“Get it nice n’ wet for me, doll. I’ve been dreamin’ of having those pretty lips wrapped around my cock since I first caught you staring” she confesses, groaning as she watches your hand wrap around the base ever so gently as if she were something sacred. 

All of this feels like a dream, the lights overhead buzzing as you glance up at her one more time to confirm this is what she really wants you to do. When you see the approval you seek out, your head immediately lowers. 

It’s gentle at first, your lips pressing little kisses all the way down the shaft before rising to the tip once more. You finally part your lips for her, never daring to look away from her as you take her further into your mouth. 

You make no effort to hide your desperation to take more, letting your spit coat her cock so it only gets easier for her to push further into your throat. Even if you know there are people right outside these walls, you still gag around her strap and whine whenever it hits the back of your throat. 

Ellie watches more tears take form in the corners of your eyes, your determination to please her making her nearly lightheaded. “Yeah, fuck. Look at you, taking me so well” she praises through clenched teeth, so caught up in the moment that she almost believes she can feel the tight heat of your throat. 

She guides your head further down, her fingers ruthlessly yanking at your hair with every movement. The pain of it only makes you needier, tears now fully streaming down your cheeks. It's hard to breathe, but that is the last thing you care about when you can hear Ellie’s constant praises for letting her use you. 

“I knew you’d look so precious like this but Christ, this is…” she trails off, taking notice of the way your saliva spills from the corners of your mouth and drips down onto your tits and the floor beneath you. “This is just where you’re meant to be” she finally finished her sentence, yanking you back with ease to get a good look at you. 

Your lips are swollen, spit slick and so utterly perfect. She pulls you up just enough so that your face is close to hers, still holding the back of your neck to keep her control over you. She moves slowly now, licking over your plush lips before kissing you properly. 

The way she moves her lips against your own makes you feel seen and loved. It’s all consuming, teeth clashing as she tries to memorize every detail of your warmth. Her tongue slides slowly against yours, her saliva mixing with your own as the two of you melt into one another. 

Ellie pulls you back once she is certain that neither of you will be able to breathe without taking a break, only for her to then use her thumb to pry open your mouth once more so she can spit directly into it. 

“Swallow it” she states simply, her eyes focusing on your throat as you do what she asks of you, her heart finally at ease now that she has proof that there is a piece of her inside you. 

Your heart is soaring, even if your mind can’t yet fully catch up with everything going on. All you know is that this is where you have wanted to be for so long, and that kiss was proof that you truly mean something to her. 

“I love you” 

The words leave your mouth before you can bury them back in your heart, and you are even in shock from your inability to hide your true feelings from her. It is a completely absurd thing to say because this is the first time either of you have properly spoken and you begin to tense up, bracing for rejection. 

But it never comes. 

Instead, she brings your face closer once more and presses a soft kiss to your lips this time. 

“I love you too” she says, her voice a soothing balm to your racing mind. The words aren’t forced or false, only a declaration of the way she felt for you. 

How you end up bent over the bench with her behind you is a mystery to you, your mind so hazy that you can only giggle as you look back to see her kneeling behind you. 

She uses her thumbs to spread you open, her breath fanning against your cunt enough to make you squirm in the slightest. The movement doesn’t make Ellie falter, her lips messily pressing against your sacred place repeatedly. 

“Sweeter than I could’ve imagined” she praises  against your sensitive flesh, making a mess of herself as she lets herself drown in your taste and scent. She knows taking her time right now isn’t the best idea but there was no way she was skipping over getting a taste of you, even if it has to be brief. 

She listens to every breathy moan you let out, finding it adorable that you were doing your best to keep quiet just so that no one would catch the two of you in the act. With one final kiss to your clit, she pulls away to stand back up. 

With ease in every movement, she manages to change your position yet again so that you’re facing the lockers, your hands pressing against the cool metal to keep yourself steady as she pulls your hips back toward her. 

“Can’t really take my time with you tonight, sweetheart. But I promise it’ll feel good if you stay nice n’ relaxed for me. You can do that, can’t you?” she whispers, her lips close to your ear as her chest presses against your back. 

You already know it will be a stretch to fit her without taking her fingers hurt but you nod your head, willing to take what she can give you. 

It is too hard to talk now, your brain useless when Ellie makes it so easy to just let her make every single choice for you. But your silence doesn’t bother her since she can feel you pushing your hips back in search of her cock. 

Her strap is still slick with your spit and your cunt is obscenely sticky from your own juices, so she knows it won’t be too much for you to handle. 

She lines up the tip with your entrance, feeling it catch after grinding herself against you a few times just to get you used to the feeling. “S’ gonna be a big stretch but you can take it” she breathes out as she begins to push her hips forward. 

Nothing could prepare you for the feeling of her strap sinking into you, inch after inch filling you in a way you never thought possible. It aches for a moment or two, making you cry out so suddenly that Ellie has to clamp her hand over your mouth. 

Even if the workers at the front aren’t very attentive, she didn’t want them to have a reason to burst in at this moment. She needs this, and so do you. Keeping you quiet isn’t something she wants to do, but it’s necessary to ensure that she can get you off  before the night ends. 

You have to breathe through your nose, your relentless moans muffled by her strong hand. Your eyes nearly roll back when she bottoms out, the ache dulling slowly as pleasure begins to take over. 

“Taking it so well, dove. S’ all the way in now, n’ you’re pretty pussy is still trying to get me in deeper” she coos, feeling you drool against her hand. 

“Gonna pull out just a bit… and slowlyyyy go back in” she mutters, drawing out her words as she explains her every move to dumb you down further. She is kind enough to give you a few slow thrusts before she begins to revert to her natural way of being. 

Each move of her hips grows messy and forceful, your skin colliding with her own until a wet slapping can be heard throughout the locker room. You can feel your knees beginning to weaken, wanting to collapse under the weight of your own bliss. 

You try to beg her to slow down a bit, that it feels too good, but all your words are incoherent and jumbled against her palm. Ellie knows you’re getting lost in the sensation of it all but she can’t let you go for even a second. 

Instead, she changes her hold once she knows you’re too dumb to form any proper sentences. She wraps her bicep around your neck, putting you in a headlock tight enough to make it easy to keep you upright. And much to her pleasure she finds that your air flow is restricted just enough that you can only let out weak whimpers and gasps as she fucks you within an inch of your life. 

Her strength is shown in the way her arm curls around your neck with such force, the hold she has on you barely needing any real effort from her. She kisses the back of your head as her hips begin to move faster, knowing that you won’t be able to hold back your release much longer. 

“Waited so long to have this, to have you. And I’d do it all over again too. I’d wait outside your window while you sleep, I’d memorize your license plate number, I’d look through your locker… I’d do it all again, all for you” she grunts as she deepens her thrusts. 

You should be terrified to know what she has done these past few months but you aren’t, not even a bit. It's sick, the way you felt proud to be loved in such an invasive way. Never in a million years did you think she would notice you and yet you were now getting far more than that. 

Your vision starts to go hazy and whether it’s from the building pleasure or the lack of oxygen, you are unsure. So you weakly push your hips back to get her to hit that spot within you that makes your entire body tremble. 

It’s all too much, and just enough. 

“I love you, pretty dove. You’re going to be mine, never alone again. This cunt belongs to me and only me, so when I tell you to finish, that’s exactly what you’ll do” she explains, knowing that you’re listening to her even if you’re clinging to consciousness. 

After one more push of her hips, she speaks up. “Cum for me, doll” she finally huffs, granting you the permission you needed to finally let go.

The intensity of your orgasm makes your legs go weak and if Ellie wasn’t holding you in place you certainly would be falling to your knees. You try to say that you love her too, but the words are strangled until they sound like nothing more than weak gasps. 

You feel so full of her, claimed completely and loved beyond all else. Your neglected clit throbs as your cunt clenches around her strap, the ache of it feeling so perfect. 

“Jesus, I can feel you grippin’ me” she scoffs, having to put more effort into pulling out while thrusting because your pussy is clamping down around her like a vice. 

“Your poor little cunt just wants my cum, needs to be filled up till it’s leaking out of you” she adds on, wishing with every fiber of her being that there was a way for her to stuff her own cum inside you to permanently mark you as hers. 

You are unable to form any meaningful reply, only whining when her movements slow while your orgasm finishes fizzling out. It’s even more upsetting when she pulls out completely, leaving you to clench around nothing but air. 

The sadness you feel from the loss of her cock can be felt, and she is quick to chase away that feeling. She releases your neck from her hold, instead using her hands to guide you back to facing her. 

Within seconds of seeing your fucked out and sleepy expression, she embraces you in a suffocating hug. Ellie focuses on how she can feel the warmth of your bare skin, the scent of your love thick in the air surrounding the two of you. 

The contact is enough to make at least part of your mind come back, leaning into her touch to show her that you adore her as much as she adores you. 

“M’ sorry for staring” is all you can whisper, your voice raspy from the extended pressure on your neck but neither of you seem to mind it. The apology makes Ellie smile, finding it cute that even after she had confessed to stalking your every move, you still felt the need to apologize for your own insignificant actions. 

“I know, angel” is all she offers in reply, kissing your lips ever so gently to make it known that she isn’t at all upset with you. 

She helps you put your clothes back on, slipping each clothing item back onto you and even tying your shoes since she doesn’t want her sweet girl having to take on such a daunting task after all that. 

Of course she opens up your locker for you, not needing to ask for the combination since she had figured it out ages ago. How she knew it was a mystery to you but it only proves to you how much she cares about you. 

It is hard to walk out of the locker room, even with Ellie carrying your bag for you and holding your waist to keep you upright. Your head rests on her shoulder as you pass by the front desk, one of the workers muttering a casual goodnight to Ellie which she returns without any sort of hesitation. 

As the cold air hits your skin you press yourself closer to her, needing the warmth she so easily provides. She doesn’t pull away, instead she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and pauses as the two of you stand amidst the dark and quiet parking lot. 

“I should get you home, don’t you think?” she hums, glancing at you with a look you can’t quite read. You still nod, a shy smile on your lips from the idea of having her in your apartment.

Everything feels soft and distant when she is with you, the rest of the world becoming background noise as she buckles your seatbelt for you once you are in the passenger seat of your own car. She turns the key in the ignition, not needing to ask for directions to your place. 

You should be wondering about why you hadn’t seen her truck in the parking lot, but some part of you has accepted that Ellie had planned all of this out. 

All you wanted was to escape the stifling monotony of this rundown, bumfuck-nowhere town. Where time seemed to crawl and every day bled into the next. There was nothing to do except drink cheap beer in collapsing barns with the people your age you could tolerate—which, frankly, wasn’t many. Your graduating class had barely scraped together two hundred students, and most of them were already neck-deep in their great-grandparents’ conservative, redneck ideologies, content to stay trapped in the same traditional, endless loop you were desperate to escape.

Entertainment options were laughably slim, unless you counted gossiping at the diner or staring at the peeling wallpaper of your living room. The highlight of the week was usually a herd of cattle escaping or a barn dance, where everyone pretended their lives weren’t as dull as dishwater.

It was no wonder that generations before had filled their houses to the brim with children. After all, raising a family gave them something to do, a purpose to cling to in the otherwise monotonous grind of small-town life. And maybe, just maybe, it helped fill the silence that crept in at night, the kind that even wolf songs couldn’t drown out.

It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At night, the air hummed with the songs of frogs and crickets, a sound that felt almost sacred. The stars lit up the sky in a way that was impossible to see from the city, their light twinkling like scattered diamonds. Fireflies blinked alongside them, tiny, fleeting beacons in the dark. Those moments, rare and quiet, made this place almost bearable.

Almost.

But Christ on a cross, when the sun rose, it brought the same crushing realization: there was nothing for you here. Nothing except Sunday mornings at church, where people whispered behind hymnals and dissected the sins of their neighbors, the same people they'd smile brightly at as they prayed for blessings to come to them. At least they handed out free donuts. Small mercies, you thought bitterly, kicking at a loose pebble on the cracked asphalt beneath your feet.

You adjusted the straps of your backpack, the weight of it pressing uncomfortably against your spine. The highway stretched ahead in an unbroken line, a mirage shimmering in the distance, promising freedom just out of reach. All you needed was someone to pull over, just one car willing to take you somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here.

You even went so far as to wear the most revealing clothes you could find, not that your wardrobe had much to offer in that department. A perverted driver was still a driver, and at this point, you were desperate. You’d taken scissors to an old shirt, hacking it into a crop top that bared your midriff. The fabric was frayed and uneven, but it did the job. Your shorts were another matter entirely, uncomfortably tight and clearly too small, leftovers from when you were a kid. The waistband dug into your skin, and you had to keep tugging them down to avoid cutting off circulation.

God forbid any girl showed an ounce of skin in this town. The stares you got on your way out were enough to make you want to sprint out, but you were banking on that very same scrutiny to catch the attention of a passing car. Modesty might have been the golden rule here, but you weren’t above breaking it if it got you out of this dead-end stretch of nowhere.

You felt ridiculous, humiliated even, but the thought of staying here was far worse than enduring the leering eyes of some old man. You were used to that already. Men in this town had a way of looking at you like you were an object on a shelf they might pick up, inspect, and set back down when they were done. You’d learned to ignore it, to shrug off the uncomfortable heat of their stares and the muttered comments you pretended not to hear.

This was just more of the same, except now you were using it to your advantage. If showing a little skin meant one of those creeps would stop and offer you a ride out of this godforsaken town, then so be it. Dignity wasn’t exactly high on your list of priorities right now—freedom was.

If only one of these fuckers would actually stop. You’d been standing here long enough to feel the sunburn creeping across your shoulders, sweat pooling at the small of your back. You threw your arm out every time, trying to look as pitiful, or enticing, as possible, but all you got in return were waves of hot air as they sped by.

Was it just your town where men stared at women like predators? Or was that just how men were everywhere? You had no way of knowing. Your entire life had been spent here, in this suffocating bubble of prying eyes and wagging tongues. Sometimes you wondered if the rest of the world was different, or if the same lecherous glances and whispered judgments waited for you on the other side of this horizon.

Still, staying here wasn’t an option. Even if the grass wasn’t greener anywhere else, at least it would be different grass. And different was all you were asking for.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the thunderous roar of an engine, deep and rumbling, shaking the stillness of the road. A semi. Your heart leapt, both with hope and a twinge of unease. You’d heard the stories, truck drivers were lonely old men who’d fuck anything with a heartbeat, and even that was a stretch. The thought made your stomach twist, but desperation outweighed caution.

Throwing your arm out again, thumb raised high, you focused on the massive vehicle barreling toward you. The sheer size of it was almost intimidating, the largest thing you’d seen on the road. Its grill gleamed in the sunlight like a steel beast, and you could already hear the hiss of brakes as it began to slow down.

This was it. Maybe luck was finally on your side—or maybe you were about to make the worst mistake of your life. Either way, it wasn’t like you had much to lose.

The semi groaned to a stop a few yards ahead of you, its engine idling. The driver’s side door creaked open, and out stepped a man, an old man, just as you’d expected.

His hair was almost completely gray, though uneven splotches of the lighter color dotted his scruffy beard like it couldn’t decide whether to age gracefully or not.

The glare of the sun bounced off the truck, making it hard to get a clear look at him, but you could tell enough. He was much larger than you, his frame broad and solid like he’d spent his life lifting things far heavier than the backpack you hauled. His hair had a slight curl to it, messy and unkempt, like he hadn’t seen a comb in days.

He tilted his head toward the passenger side, gesturing with his chin as he spoke. His voice was deep, slow, and unmistakably southern.

"Well, don’t just stand there, girl. You need a ride or what?"

There wasn’t much kindness in his tone, but there wasn’t any malice, either. Just a bluntness that matched the heat of the day. Your hesitation lingered for a moment before you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

You all but scaled up the side of the truck, your legs shaky from a mix of exhaustion and the strain of hauling yourself up. The heat of the day clung to you, making every movement feel heavier than it should have. By the time you managed to get one foot inside, your muscles were screaming in protest.

The older man was already back in his seat, one wrist draped lazily over the steering wheel. He chewed on a wad of tobacco, the sound wet and unmannered as he watched you crawl in with a measured gaze. His eyes flickered up and down your figure, lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl. You swore you saw his hand shift subtly, adjusting himself as a low groan escaped your lips from the effort.

You settled into the passenger seat, the cracked leather sticking to your bare thighs. His stare lingered for a moment too long at the way they expanded before he finally spit into an old plastic bottle by his side.

“Where ya headin’, sweetheart?” he drawled, his lips curling into a half-smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

Now that the sun was no longer blinding you, you could finally get a good look at him. To your surprise, he wasn’t all that bad-looking. In fact, he was quite handsome in a rugged, weathered sort of way. His deep chocolate-brown eyes had a sad look to them, like they had seen more than they cared to share. His nose was prominent, giving his face a bold, defined structure that worked with the lines etched into his skin. Those wrinkles, instead of detracting from his appearance like you'd expect them too, seemed to enhance his features.

Your eyes flicked to his hands resting on the wheel. They were large, rough-looking, the scarred, calloused kind of hands that did hard labor. An old, scratched watch clung to his wrist, the leather strap worn and glass cracked, but still functional.

Practical, like him, you figured.

Despite the circumstances, you found yourself momentarily distracted by his appearance.

“Well?” he asked again, the smirk on his face still lingering as he spit tobacco into his bottle. “Where ya headed?”

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “Anywhere but here,” you muttered, your voice low but firm.

He chuckled at that, a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the cab. “Fair enough. Lucky for you, I ain’t goin’ anywhere near here for a good long while. Buckle up, sweetheart.”

You slid your backpack off your shoulders, letting it rest on your lap as your fingers found the charms hanging from the zippers. You twisted them absentmindedly, trying to occupy your mind and ignore the creeping weight of his gaze. The truck didn't move. Confused, you glanced at the gear shift, expecting to see his hand on it. Instead, his hand rested on his thigh, his fingers tapping lazily against his jeans.

Looking up, you caught him staring at you again, his dark eyes locked on yours for a moment before shifting downward. He sighed, tilting his head slightly like he was deciding what to do next. Without saying a word, he leaned toward you.

Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, his face so close you could almost feel the faint stubble on his jaw and the silver strands in his hair. His arm brushed your shoulder as he reached for your seatbelt.

"Seatbelt's stuck," he muttered, though you hadn't even tried to buckle it yourself. His large hands gripped the strap and gave it a few tugs, his breath fanning across your cheek as he grunted, the plastic clicked before the webbing slid free and he pulled it across your chest.

The motion seemed smooth at first, but you stiffened when his knuckles grazed the curve of your breast. He didn't pause or acknowledge it. His gaze wasn't on the seatbelt or even his hands, it was fixed lower, right where the strap pressed against your chest. His eyes lingered there shamelessly.

He adjusted the strap, tugging it tighter against your chest, his fingers brushing over the swell more than once. The way he moved was deliberate, too slow to be casual, like he was testing how far he could push before you said something.

It didn't feel accidental, but it wasn't obvious enough for you to call him out on it, either. Your throat tightened, and you froze, unsure whether to flinch or let him finish.

“There,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, as he clicked the belt into place. For a moment, he didn’t move, his face lingering close enough for you to see the faint lines around his eyes and the uneven streaks of gray in his beard. Then, without a word, he leaned back into his seat with a grunt, as though the small task had been a chore.

His hand moved to the gear shift, and the truck rumbled forward, pulling onto the road with a jolt. “Can’t have you flyin’ out the windshield,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You didn’t respond, your heart still racing from the unnecessary closeness. Staring out the window, you gripped the straps of your backpack tightly, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his hands, unease prickling along your skin.

Joel glanced at the cracked dashboard clock, tapping it lightly with his knuckle as if that would somehow make the time change. "We’ll probably hit a truck stop in a few hours," he said, his voice breaking the long silence in the cab.

He finally broke the silence with a grunt and a glance at the dashboard. “’Bout two ‘til we hit the next one,” he said, shifting in his seat and rolling his neck like it ached. “Gonna pull in there, grab some food. Might get a room if the lot ain’t full.”

You didn’t look at him, just nodded a little, eyes fixed on the streak of pavement disappearing beneath the truck. “Okay.”

He glanced at you then, like he was waiting for more. When you didn’t say anything, he added, “They got showers too, y’know. Clean ones. Not five-star or nothin’, but they get the job done.”

“Cool,” you murmured, trying to sound neutral, like you weren’t clocking every word.

Then he smirked a little—just a flicker, barely there, but you caught it. “Don’t worry, you can have your own bed,” he said, voice low, tone meant to be reassuring but sitting wrong in your gut. “Unless, uh... you’d rather save a few bucks.”

You turned to look at him, your expression unreadable. “I’ve got cash,” you said, flatly.

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Joel said with a chuckle, eyes flicking to your chest again, not even subtle about it this time. “Just jokin’ around.”

You looked away, jaw tightening.

He scratched his beard, shifting in his seat again. “You’re real quiet,” he said after a moment. “Kinda figured a girl like you’d be more talkative.”

“A girl like me?” you asked, without looking at him.

“Yeah,” he drawled, his tone casual as his fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “C’mon you ain't exactly dressed for church, honey.” He turned to you with a grin.

You rolled your eyes before you forced yourself to focus on the landscape outside, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows across the empty fields. But even as you tried to tune him out, you could feel his gaze darting toward you. It wasn’t constant, but it was enough to set your nerves on edge—quick, almost imperceptible glances at your legs, your chest, the curve of your neck.

Every time you caught him, he shifted slightly, like he hadn’t been looking at all. His fingers rubbed idly against his thigh, the movement subtle but deliberate.

“Don’t get too quiet on me now,” he said after a moment, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. “A guy can only handle so much quiet before he starts gettin’ lonely.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m just tired,” you muttered, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation.

“Tired, huh?” Joel’s smirk widened as he leaned back in his seat, one hand lazily adjusting his belt. “Bet you’ve had a long day, stickin’ that pretty thumb out on the highway. Lucky for you I came along. Not everyone out here’s as friendly as me.”

The way he said “friendly” made your stomach churn. You shifted in your seat, pretending to adjust your backpack as an excuse to look away. “Yeah,” you said flatly, unsure of what else to say.

He chuckled again, a deep, gravelly sound that filled the cab. “You know,” he started, his tone turning thoughtful, “truck stops ain’t so bad. Some of ’em even got little diners... Hell, if you’re lucky, you might even find a little entertainment.”

You glanced at him sharply, but he kept his eyes on the road, his expression unreadable. You gritted your teeth, damn religious upbringings, you forced yourself to be polite and dryly humor his conversation. “What kind of entertainment?”

Joel shrugged, his fingers still idly tapping his thigh. “Depends on the stop. Some got TVs, little gift shops... and sometimes, you meet interestin’ people. Y’know, folks passin’ through, lookin’ for a little... company.”

Your pulse quickened, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not really looking for company,” you said quickly.

His grin widened, and he let out another low chuckle. “Didn’t think you were, sweetheart.”

You turned back to the window, your heart pounding as the shadows outside grew longer. The truck rumbled on, the uneasy tension between you thickening with every mile.

The truck’s turn signal clicked lazily, a rhythmic tick that cut through the hum of the engine as Joel guided the semi off the highway and into the glow of the truck stop.

The lights hit first, flickering fluorescents mounted on leaning poles, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The parking lot was littered with rigs and pickups, a few scattered sedans, and the occasional figure ducking in and out of the convenience store’s heavy glass doors. Beyond that, a rundown diner and a flickering neon sign that buzzed louder than it glowed. It wasn’t much, two diesel pumps, a few bent metal benches out front, and a crooked billboard advertising pie that probably hadn’t been served fresh since the Reagan administration, and behind it, the shape of a small roadside motel slumped under a sagging roofline.

Joel shifted the truck into park with a heavy hand and let out a grunt, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracked. His faded shirt lifted just enough to reveal a strip of his stomach, leathery and scarred. He caught you looking, not at that, exactly, just observing the place, but he smirked like you’d been staring.

“Not bad, huh?” he said, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Cozy little stopover.”

You looked out at the rows of trucks and diesel pumps, trying not to fidget. The stillness inside the cab after the engine died was sudden, as if the noise from the it had been cushioning something you didn’t want to feel.

You said nothing, unbuckling your seatbelt with a quick snap and reaching for your backpack, your fingers finding those familiar charms again. You rolled one between your thumb and forefinger, grounding yourself. The tension in your chest hadn’t left since you climbed into the truck. If anything, it’d only settled deeper.

Joel opened his door and climbed out with a grunt. “Food’s better than it looks,” he said over the roar of the diesel engine cooling off. “Diner’s got burgers, eggs, hash. All the heart-attack bullshit you could ever want.”

You followed after a beat, the door heavier than you expected. He waited for you at the base of the steps, one hand resting on the open door like he was holding it open for a date. You stepped down, trying not to flinch as his eyes moved with you, tracking every inch.

You stared past him at the diner, its windows fogged and glowing yellow under too-dim lights. A man smoked on a bench by the door. He looked tired. Everyone here did.

Joel jerked his chin toward the motel attached to the back of the lot. “Gonna check if they got any rooms left,” he said, spitting a wad of his chewing tobacco into the dirt. “You hungry, or what?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice flatter than you intended. “Starving.”

He grinned at that, like it pleased him. “Go on then, I'll meet'cha.”

Inside, the diner smelled like grease and bleach, two things that didn’t mix well. The waitress behind the counter didn’t look up when you entered, too focused on a crossword puzzle. Joel slid into a booth a few minutes after you had, patting the cracked vinyl across from him.

The seat felt sticky. He leaned back, one arm stretched lazily across the backrest like he owned the place, the other already reaching for a menu he clearly didn’t need.

“Go ahead,” he said, nodding at you. “Order whatever. I’ll cover it.”

You eyed him, unsure if it was kindness or another invisible string. He caught your look and smirked.

“C’mon. Not tryna poison you. Just don’t like eatin’ alone.”

You nodded slowly, glancing down at the menu as he watched you over the top of his.

Joel leaned back in the booth, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight. One arm sprawled across the top, the other cradling his plastic cup of water. He let out a long sigh, an exaggerated exhale, like he was trying to be noticed.

“Been on the road five weeks straight,” he muttered, glancing out the window like he might spot someone he used to know. “Start talkin’ to myself if I don’t get some damn conversation.”

You looked up, cautious. He smiled, but it was thin. Forced.

“Life gets quiet when you get to my age. Too damn quiet, sometimes,” he said, fingers tapping idly against the side of his cup. “Wife gone. Kids don’t call. Truck’s about the only thing still wants me 'round.”

He chuckled softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it. More like he expected a certain reaction and didn’t care if it was genuine.

“That’s why I don’t mind pickin’ up company when I can,” he added, taking a sip and eyeing you over the rim. “Makes the road feel less... long.”

You didn’t respond, just nodded faintly. He didn’t seem to care—he’d already settled into his little performance.

“Not askin’ for much,” Joel went on, looking down at his calloused hands. “Just someone to talk to. Hearin’ a pretty voice now and again reminds me I’m still 'round, y’know?”

His eyes flicked to your mouth when he said it.

“Hell, you don’t even gotta talk if you don’t want, face's pretty 'nough on its own,” he added with a little grin, eyes crinkling like he was doing you a favor. “I’ll just ramble on till I lose my voice. You can pretend I ain’t even here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seems like you want someone to listen to you talk till your mouth hurts.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Alright, fair,” he said, scratching at his beard. “I like a little attention. Guilty as charged.”

The waitress came over, tired eyes scanning the table. Joel ordered without looking at the menu—“bacon cheeseburger, extra pickles, fries, and a Coke,” before nodding at you to go ahead.

As you gave your order, you could feel his gaze on your face, lingering just a tad too long on your lips when you spoke. When the waitress walked off, Joel leaned back again with a grunt.

“Bet you think I’m some sad old bastard,” he said, smirking.

You tilted your head slightly. “You don’t seem all that sad.”

He laughed again, low and knowing. “Don’t gotta be sad to be lonely, darlin’.”

He said it so easily, like it was the kind of thing he’d said a hundred times before. Like it worked on someone, once.

There was something off about the way he spoke—too rehearsed, maybe. Like he’d said this all before. The “poor old man” routine. Alone on the road, no family, no one to talk to. It felt... thin.

Still, something about it tugged at you.

Maybe it was the way he sighed after every sentence, like he didn’t expect you to care. Maybe it was the worn in look behind his eyes.

You glanced down at your lap, your fingers twisting the zipper of your backpack until it bit into your skin.

You knew better. You really did. People didn’t get like this for no reason. Men didn’t hand out kindness for free. But even as your gut whispered caution, another part of you, smaller, quieter, felt bad for him.

He wasn’t pushing anything. Not yet. And you were tired. Not just from standing on the side of the road, but from months of going nowhere, of waiting for someone, anyone, to see you.

Joel caught your eye again, that half-smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t mean to lay it on thick,” he said, almost sheepish now. “Guess I don’t talk to people much these days. Gettin' rusty.”

You tried to smile, but it came out just as performative as his. “It’s fine. I get it.”

He tapped a finger against his glass, his tone softening. “You runnin’ from somethin’?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

You hesitated. “Not really. Just… done with where I came from.”

Joel nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ out. Some places don’t give you much reason to stay.”

His voice was quieter now, less performative. For a second, it felt more real. Or maybe you just wanted it to.

You studied him for a beat longer—his hands, his eyes, the worn creases in his skin. You could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers pulling your seatbelt earlier, still see the way his gaze had lingered a second too long.

But right now, he looked tired. Lonely. And something in you, despite everything, softened just a little.

“I appreciate the ride,” you said quietly. “Really.”

Joel looked at you for a second, then nodded once and leaned back again. “Ain’t no trouble,” he said. “Like I said, road gets real damn quiet.”

You both fell into silence after that, the kind that wasn’t entirely comfortable.

He’d tried to make small talk over greasy plates and chipped mugs of diner coffee—asked about your favorite music, your family, whether you had a boyfriend “waitin’ around somewhere.” He framed it as harmless banter, chuckling over his fries, talking with his mouth half full like it wasn’t meant to mean anything.

You mostly nodded, gave short answers. Your appetite had all but vanished the longer his eyes lingered on you.

They didn’t wander constantly, Joel wasn’t that obvious. But every so often, as you cut into your food or brushed hair out of your face, you’d catch him watching you instead of eating. His gaze would always drop quickly, back to his plate or the tabletop, but the silence between those glances felt thicker each time.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were tired, overthinking.

But by the time he paid the bill and motioned for you to follow him outside, your stomach had twisted into something tight and uneasy.

The air had cooled a little with the setting sun. Crickets had started their nightly hum, and the truck lot buzzed quietly with the sound of engines cooling and the occasional burst of laughter from inside the diner. But your ears were filled with the sound of your own footsteps following Joel’s.

He led you past the edge of the lot, toward a squat, single-story row of motel rooms behind the diner. Faded numbers were bolted onto each door, and the porch lights above them flickered weakly, as if unsure whether to bother staying lit.

Joel stopped in front of one, jingling a key in his hand. “Only had one left,” he said, turning the knob. “Told the guy it’s just for a few hours’ shut-eye. Not like I’m settlin’ in.”

Your heart skipped. Just one?

The room door creaked open. Joel stepped inside first, tossing the key on the nightstand and flipping on the light. A yellow glow filled the room, bouncing off stained wallpaper and a twin bed with a faded comforter. The A/C unit in the window rattled weakly.

The moment you stepped into the room, something felt different.

Not in the air itself, the motel room still smelled like bleach and dust, but Joel’s presence had changed.

He didn’t say much after unlocking the door. Just let it swing open, stepped inside like he owned the place, and gave the room a lazy once-over. Gone was the exaggerated sighing, the talk of loneliness, the half-hearted chuckles meant to make you feel bad for him. Now he moved slower, more comfortably, like someone who’d settled into something.

You weren’t sure what.

He let the door close behind you with a click that made your pulse hitch. He didn’t bolt it, he didn’t need to. The message was already clear.

Joel walked over to the table near the bed and dropped the room key with a soft clink. His hand hovered for a second, then he sat in the chair near the window, stretching out with a tired grunt. One arm slung over the backrest like he was getting ready to stay awhile.

“Not bad,” he muttered, adjusting the waistband of his jeans before running a hand through his graying hair. “Could be worse.”

You didn’t answer. You were still standing near the door, backpack hugged to your chest like a shield.

Joel’s eyes flicked up to you. Slower now. Less polite. Like he didn’t feel the need to pretend anymore.

"You can sit, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t gonna bite.”

He grinned at his own joke, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were darker now. Not cold, just… sure. Like whatever this was, it was already decided in his head.

You moved slowly, choosing the edge of the bed farthest from him—you wished the separate beds calmed your nerves, they didn't. The springs creaked as you sat, and the sound felt too loud. You kept your backpack in your lap, your hands gripping the strap.

Joel let his gaze linger for a moment longer, then leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Y’know, most folks would be grateful by now,” he said idly, like he was commenting on the weather. “Free ride, free food, place to rest. Ain’t a bad deal.”

Your spine stiffened slightly. There was no edge in his voice, no threat. But there was something underneath it. Something that made your stomach coil.

“I am grateful,” you said carefully.

“Mm.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced. “You’re just real quiet is all. Hard to read.”

You didn’t reply.

Joel scratched at his jaw. “Guess it’s just been a while since I had company.” He looked at you again, head tilted, lips just barely curved. “It’s nice. Real nice. You're nice.”

You felt your shoulders tense. He wasn’t doing anything, not really, but you could feel it building. The shift. The subtle way he took up more space now, like just getting you through that door had changed everything.

Joel stood up, stretching again with a low groan, and walked toward the mini fridge. He bent to open it, empty, but lingered there a second longer than needed. When he straightened, he looked at you again. Still that same expression. Casual. Relaxed. Like this was just the natural next step in whatever he thought was happening here.

“I’m gonna go grab us some drinks,” he said, voice lighter now, maybe even cheerful. “You want soda, water, somethin’ stronger?”

You blinked. “Coke’s fine.”

He nodded, already halfway to the door. He paused, hand on the knob, then turned back.

“You lock that behind me if it makes you feel better,” he said, his voice quiet. “But I’ll be back in five. Don’t go disappearin’ on me.”

He winked. Not playful. Not mean. Just… like a joke he thought you were in on, even if you didn’t know the punchline yet.

Then the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone.

The silence returned.

You sat still, backpack clutched to your chest, heart pounding a little faster than before. You weren’t sure what Joel thought this was. But for the first time, you were sure of one thing:

He thought he was owed something.

You weren’t sure why you stayed.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the weight of your backpack digging into your spine for hours that made you too tired to run again. Maybe it was something worse, something harder to admit. That small, scared voice that told you: This is what you asked for, isn’t it? A ride. A room. A way out.

You told yourself it was fine.

But when Joel came back a few agonizing minutes later, holding a single room-temperature soda like it was some kind of gift, that thin illusion started to crack.

"Vending machine’s shot to hell," he said, tossing it onto the end of the bed like he expected you to jump at it. “Still good, though. S'just warm.”

You nodded, reaching to take a grab the bottle. You tried not to acknowledge the way your heart sped up as you leaned closer to him, your hand shaking.

Joel didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. He kicked off his boots, grunted as he lowered himself into the creaking chair near the TV, and grabbed the remote from the armrest.

The television flashed on, its speakers crackling as static fizzled into some old cable rerun. The volume was too loud for the tiny room, but Joel didn’t adjust it. He just leaned back and settled in, letting the laugh track fill the silence like white noise drowning out your thoughts.

You nerves were so shot, you hadn’t noticed the bottle hadn't hissed when you twisted the cap.

When your leg started to shake it was just a tremor at first, barely noticeable. But it spread, up your thigh, into your stomach, into your chest. Your heart fluttered under your ribs, fluttered wrong. Your throat was too dry. The lights were too yellow. The TV too loud. His breathing, even and steady from across the room, was the only rhythm that didn't match your panic.

You stood quickly, too quickly.

“Bathroom,” you muttered, grabbing your bag without really knowing why. Just needing it close.

Joel gave a vague nod, his eyes barely lifting from the screen. “Take your time.”

The bathroom was even smaller than you expected. Dim light. Cracked tile. A fan in the ceiling that buzzed faintly behind the walls. You closed the door and leaned against it, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands.

Your reflection stared back at you, paler than before. Eyes wide. Lips dry.

You didn’t even notice you were crying until the first drop hit the sink.

You weren’t scared, not exactly. But something inside you was twisting tight, something old and instinctive that didn’t care about politeness or gratitude or second chances. Something that whispered, Leave. Now.

You splashed water on your face. Once. Twice. The cold shocked your nerves, grounding you just a little, enough to breathe. But your hand trembled as you reached for the towel, and you had to brace yourself before you looked in the mirror again.

You stared at your own eyes for a long time.

You could still leave. You hadn’t unpacked. Your legs worked fine. The door wasn’t locked.

But outside that door, Joel waited. Not a stranger anymore. Not really. And that was somehow worse.

You dried your face, turned off the faucet, and in front the door of the bathroom for a beat, staring at the crack under it, the yellow-lit room shared the space of flickering blue light from the TV.

“You alright in there, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice warm again, sounding gentle despite how he'd had to hollar over the TV.

You took a breath. Then another. You told yourself you were overreacting.

People were weird, sure. Joel was… weird. But maybe that’s all it was. Maybe your nerves were shot from being on the road, from standing in the sun for hours, from not eating enough. You were tired. That made everything feel worse.

One night. Get some rest. Ditch him in the morning.

That was the plan. Simple. Safe.

You pushed open the door and stepped out into the dim light of the room again, trying to slide your expression back into something neutral. Something nice.

You gave him a polite, too-sweet smile in return, it was automatic, from that church-girl buried deep in your gut. You didn't owe him anything, but you still felt like you had to at least perform gratitude. Like that was part of the deal.

It was tight-lipped, polite, instinctual. The same smile you’d been trained to give since you were a kid, the smile that didnt reach your eyes, that said I’m fine, thank you, don’t worry about me.

He smiled back.

Not kindly. Not broadly. Just this thin, smug little thing tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He tried to play it off like nothing. Reached for the remote. Adjusted his posture. But it didn’t go unnoticed, not by you. Joel looked over at you from the chair, his arms resting behind his head now, relaxed.

You crossed the room, easing yourself onto the top of the bed. The blanket was old and dusty and reeked of stale detergent. Still, it beat the side of the highway. You opened the Coke and took a sip. Flat. Warm. Still, it gave your hands something to do.

On the TV, that same crusty sitcom was still going. Joel had turned the volume up since you'd gone. The laugh track punched through the tiny speakers like a drill to the temple. The jokes came rapid-fire—loud, overacted, dated.

You weren’t really listening until one of the characters—a middle-aged man with a gut and a mustache—joked about slipping a woman something to make her “act with less prudence.” The studio audience howled. His female co-star gave him a fake slap on the shoulder with an annoyed glare. The scene moved on.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t even smile.

Joel did.

Not loud. Just a low huff of a chuckle, amused. Right in time with the laugh track. Like it had hit a nerve in him. The wrong nerve.

You stiffened. Your spine straightened just a little more. You didn’t look at him.

It was the type of joke that made men laugh in bars when they’d already had too much and weren’t watching their tone anymore.

Joel’s laughter stopped as quickly as it came. But when you risked a glance, you saw it, that same smug curl at the edge of his mouth, his tongue poking briefly at the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on something he wasn’t going to say out loud.

You looked away.

It’s the show, you told yourself. It’s the show. He’s just laughing because it’s on.

But the hairs on your arms were standing up anyway.

You shifted around on the stiff mattress for what must’ve been the better part of an hour. The bed creaked with every movement, the scratchy comforter brushing against your skin like old sandpaper. You kept changing positions—legs folded under you, then stretched out, then pulled back in. Nothing felt comfortable. Nothing felt settled.

You kept reaching for the bottle of Coke on the side table, fingers brushing it absentmindedly before pulling back. The ritual repeated over and over until finally, you just brought it into your lap. The half-full bottle had lost what little fizz it had, but you held onto it anyway. The weight of it in your hands was something solid, something to focus on. It gave your fingers something to do besides twist the hem of your shirt or pick at your skin.

Joel hadn’t said much. The flicker of the TV lit up his face in little bursts. Every so often, he’d glance over at you. Not long enough to say anything. Just enough to make your body flare up with heat as your blood rushed.

You tried to focus on the show, but your brain had gone fuzzy. Not foggy, exactly, but distant. Like your thoughts were moving through syrup. Your limbs felt a little heavy, your eyes dry.

The Coke sat in your lap like a small weight. When you went to take another sip, you hesitated, your hand lifting slower than you expected. The bottle felt heavier than before. Not by much. Just enough for you to notice.

You frowned a little, blinked once, then twice. Maybe it was exhaustion. Your nerves had been running hot all day, your body could just be crashing. That had to be it.

Still… something felt off. You gripped the bottle a little tighter.

Your head rolled slightly on your shoulders as you tried to blink the haze away. You gave a small shake, like maybe you could rattle the exhaustion out of your skull, but it clung to you—draped heavy over your limbs like a damp blanket.

You weren’t that tired.

At least, you hadn’t been.

You blinked again. The TV was still flickering, the show’s punchlines rolling out like clockwork. Joel chuckled along with the laugh track, low and content. Like nothing was wrong. Like everything was exactly the way he wanted it.

You didn’t look at him. You just focused on the bottle in your hands.

It wasn’t spinning, but it felt like it could be. Your fingers curled a little tighter around it as if that might tether you to the present. You told yourself again that you hadn’t eaten properly. That this was just your body protesting the long day. That the motel room was warm, and Joel’s TV was loud, and your senses were frayed.

But still… your skin was buzzing. Not panic, just static. An edge.

You reached for your phone without thinking, fingertips fumbling slightly with the zipper of your bag. You didn’t even know who you’d text if you needed help, but the need to do something was rising in your chest, your instincts growing louder, like background noise you could no longer ignore.

“Feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” Joel asked suddenly, not looking at you.

You jumped slightly at his voice, your fingers freezing over your backpack. You glanced at him.

His eyes were still on the screen, but his smirk was back. Not wide, not obvious, just there. Subtle, like he was hiding something behind it and didn’t care enough to try hard.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Joel made a little humming sound, like he didn’t quite believe you, but he didn’t press. Just leaned back further in his chair, exhaling like a man pleased with how the day turned out.

You turned your eyes to the bathroom door again.

It wasn’t far. You could go in, close the door, lock it. Just for a minute. Just to breathe.

You planted your hands on the edge of the bed and pushed yourself up. Your legs didn’t respond the way you expected.

For a split second, it felt like they weren’t even attached. Your knees nearly gave out as you stood, a sharp, disconnected jolt rushing through your lower body like the numbness you get from sitting too long in one position, but worse. There was no familiar prickle of circulation returning, no tingling promise of sensation coming back. Just absence.

And something about that absence made your chest tighten.

You reached out, grabbing the wall for balance. The Coke bottle in your hand slipped from your fingers.

Behind you, Joel’s chuckle drifted lazily through the static of the television. Not loud. Just enough to make the air feel thinner.

“You alright there?” he drawled, voice a little too casual. A little too slow.

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Just, stiff legs.”

Your voice sounded strange even to your own ears, it was muted, distant. You could feel his eyes on your back now, tracking your movement more attentively than before.

You didn’t turn.

Didn’t say anything else.

You pressed your hands against the rough motel wall, the chipped paint cool against your skin. Your legs felt weak beneath you, shaking softly, and you couldn’t seem to make them move.

Your breath came fast and shallow, chest tightening with each inhale. The vintage chair creaked faintly nearby, a reminder that Joel was still in the room, still watching.

You didn’t look over.

Your eyes darted to the flickering TV, its pale light casting long shadows on the cracked wallpaper. It buzzed softly, filling the silence with pointless noise.

Maybe not so pointless.

You could hear him settle out of his chair, the scrape of fabric on denim. Joel’s footsteps shuffled behind you, slow and deliberate.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” His voice was low, smooth, and far too casual. Almost mocking. It didn't sound like a question.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Instead, you pressed your palm harder against the wall, willing the tremors in your legs to stop. But the more you willed it, the worse it felt, like your body was betraying you, leaving you trapped between fight or flight, but doing neither.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, biting your lip to keep from shaking or crying. Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it.

You wanted to run. To scream. To disappear.

But you stayed still.

You didn’t realize he was approaching again until the floor creaked just to your left. A soft sound, but close. Too close.

“Hey, c’mon now,” Joel said, voice gentle in a way that made your stomach twist. “You don’t look too good. Maybe you should lie back down.”

His hand reached out, palm warm and rough as it hovered near your arm. Not yet. The faux tenderness in his tone didn’t sit right with the look in his eyes. They were too alert, too interested.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your voice was hoarse and small. You hated how it sounded.

“You sure? ‘Cause you’re swayin’ a little.” His hand landed on your arm this time, solid and steady. But he didn’t grip.

That should have made it better. It didn’t.

It was the stillness in his hand that made your skin crawl, how his thumb pressed, then circled slowly, like he was mapping out your pulse.

“C’mon,” he said again, guiding you gently, not forcing, but not offering space to resist. “Just for a minute. You’ll feel better when ya do.”

When... not if.

You let yourself be led. Partly because your legs still felt unsteady. Partly because you didn’t know what would happen if you pulled away.

He walked you the few steps to the bed, hand never leaving your arm, and helped you sit. His other hand reached for your shoulder, too familiar now, the way it rested there a beat too long.

You flinched.

Joel paused, then gave a soft chuckle under his breath. “Easy now. Ain’t tryin’ to scare you."

But when he leaned in to adjust the pillow behind you, his knuckles dragged against your collarbone. His other hand hovered lower on your side, not quite touching your hip—but close enough that the heat of it made you recoil inside.

“You’re all tense,” he murmured, gaze slipping down your frame like a slow leak. “Just breathe, alright? You’re safe.”

The worst part was how convincing his voice sounded.

But you knew better.

Your body knew better.

You sank down against the bed with a strange sort of heaviness, like your own limbs no longer belonged to you. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, a dry, musty scent rising up from the sheets.

You tried to sit upright, to keep your spine straight, but your body leaned without permission, your muscles slackened under the weight of your own breath.

Joel didn’t go back to the chair.

You heard the soft groan of the mattress again, felt the subtle shift beside you before your eyes caught up. He sat on the edge of the bed now. Right next to you.

Not touching, but close.

You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes trying to focus. Your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, every thought dragging through molasses.

“Why…” you started, but the rest of the sentence didn’t come.

Your tongue felt thick. Heavy. Wrong.

He smiled, small, faint. You might've miss it if you weren’t looking. But you were looking. Because watching him felt like the only thing tethering you now.

“You okay, sugar?” he asked again, quieter this time. Closer. He didn’t sound worried. Not really.

You tried to speak, but your words came out slurred, barely above a whisper. “M’fine…”

It took all your strength just to swallow the lump in your throat, even that felt like work. You could feel your pulse behind your eyes now, slow and sluggish.

Joel didn’t move away.

His arm rested across his lap, hand curled on his thigh. The same hand that had guided you here. The same hand that lingered too long.

His eyes weren’t on your face anymore.

You saw that.

You felt that.

Still, you couldn’t quite pull your body back. Couldn’t seem to make your limbs respond.

You were here. And so was he.

And something deep in your gut told you the space between you wouldn’t stay empty much longer.

Joel's calloused hands reached toward the strap of your bra that had peaked out from your shirt. He lifted it in his fingers almost carefully, letting it lead up to the top of your bra. Your mumbled incoherently at his touch. He shushed you softly.

He didn't speak anymore, he didnt need too. He brought his fingers back up to your collarbone before laying his palm across it, the strap caught between his fingers as he pushed it down your shoulder. His body leaned forward to press his lips to your collarbone. His beard was scruffy and sharp against your soft skin, like needles.

His lips were dry and cracked, the wetness from his saliva being the only softness. He pecked at the bone a few times before his mouth wrapped around it, sucking.

Your hands weakly moved to his shoulders, but his hands patiently wrapped around your wrists, pushing them to sit by your head. The bed dented down. Your writhed weakly. He continued sucking and nipping at the spot till a dark mark appeared.

The knot in your stomach churned as he licked over where he bit to soothe your skin, his beard felt like a hundred tiny needles digging into you. Red appeared around the purple. His thumbs pressed into your wrists, feeling your pulse as you whimpered. His mouth lifted for a moment, his breath hot on your irritated skin.

"Your hearts finally slowin' down sweetheart, ain't losin' ya am I?" He huffed with a humor only he had. His mouth wrapped around the mark again, his tounge tracing your collarbone as he hummed.

He hadn’t lied, your heart finally slowed, but the panic stayed lodged in your chest. Each beat hammered against your ribs, like it was trying to tear its way out and leave you behind. The thump in your chest spread your blood throughout your body, heat rising on your skin.

His hands weren’t tight on your wrists, his thumbs traced slow circles on your pulsepoints before sliding into your palms. His mouth kept defacing your shoulder. There was no violence in it, if anything, he almost seemed to be comforting you.

You couldn’t decide if that made it better, or worse, or if it changed anything at all.

Your knees dragged upward in another weak attempt to slip free, but your bones felt like wet cement, heavy and useless. You turned your head away with a thin whine, your body mustering what little control it had to spill tears that slid into your ears. Your chest heaved as you writhed.

Joel shushed you without cruelty, his hum low and pitying, the vibration running from his throat into your collarbone. His mouth scattered pecks over the marks fresh on your neck and shoulders before he propped himself on an elbow, still looming above you. One calloused hand smeared the tears across your right cheek while his lips caught the ones on the left—and you swore his tongue slipped out to taste the salt straight from your skin.

“Don’t cry, sugarpie… I ain’t gonna hurt you, promise. Didn’t mean to upset you none. I just get real lonely out on the road, is all.”

He looked and sounded so genuine, like he truly believed every word he spoke. His lips brushed your ear when he talked, his voice almost swallowed by the blare of the TV—and now you understood why it was so loud. Not that it mattered. The only sounds you could make were thin, mousey whines, easy to mistake for the creaks of the old bedframe or an actual mouse.

Your lips trembled as you turned your face from his hands, eyelids pressed tight. The only refuge you had was to pretend, if only for a moment, that none of this was real.

“Hey now… look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes, baby.” His voice stayed soft, but there was an edge of annoyance beneath it.

When you didn’t obey, his hand closed around your face, squeezing your cheeks until your lips puckered. He tilted your head toward him, but your eyes stayed shut. He clicked his tongue, then used his other hand to peel one eyelid open. Your iris was barely a ring around your blown pupil, whatever he’d given you was already winding through your blood, sinking heavy into your bones.

He smiled softly. “There she is…” he whispered, letting your eyelid flutter shut as his hand slipped into your hair, fingers combing slow like he meant to soothe. “Pretty, pretty girl.”

His lips met your forced pout in a mockery of a kiss, his tongue brushing gently against them, coaxing for a response you never gave. When you didn't reciprocate, he nipped at your lips gently.

He pulled back just enough to watch your face, your eyes still screwed shut, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of his touch. His hand hovered at your shoulder, and he grinned at the weak tremors rippling through your body. Slowly, he let his fingertips trail down to your hip, slipping beneath the hem of your shorts to trace the waistband, his blunt nail dragging a cruel line across your pelvis.

"It's okay, hun." He whispered as he slipped another finger into the waistband.

You felt his hand turn in your shorts, the pads of his fingers now touching you. You tensed but made no move to resist, not that you could. His hand slowly, painstakingly, moved deeper into your shorts. You quietly cried as his middle and pointer finger dragged across your clothed clit before it was quickly replaced by his palm, fingers down to your slit. Your heard a gravelly groan reach out of his throat.

"Fuck sweetie, you're soaking through your panties." He chuckled near the end of his words before exhaling heavily.

Your eyes wanted to shoot open, but only managed to lift with a furrowed brow. His eyes met yours, his bottom lip between his stained teeth. Confusion was painted on your features.

"Yeah baby, you're panties are fucking ruined." He huffed, his palm pressing onto your swollen clit.

A humiliating gasp was ripped from you as more tears fell from your eyes. No, no no no...

"Mhm, shit baby, see? Your body knows I'm not hurting ya, what was all that fuss about?"

The pads of his fingers brushed over your clothes slit, the wetness became more obvious as you heard a sickening squelch when he pressed them into your sopping hole over your panties.

"Ah... Joel.." you cried, your voice never felt smaller.

His hot breath fanned your face with a pant, "Yeah, baby, say my name."

You shook your head weakly, your eyes traveling down to where his hand disappeared into your shorts. You remembered you had hands as you tried to push his hand away. In your haze, you accidently pushed him closer, letting his palm rub harder into your clit.

You wanted to puke when your felt a shot of pleasure crack through you, you wanted to die when you felt your hips roll into his hand. Your voice cracked with a wordless 'No'.

Joel beamed, "You got such a needy pussy, baby... look at her, she wants so bad. She knows whats best for you... she just wanna feel good."

You grit your teeth as your hips rolled again, his hand meeting it with a circle of his own. Your nails dug into his forearm, but they barely made an indent. You felt his leg cross over yours as he hummed your thigh. His cock was hard in his jeans, the bulge large and visable despite your brain fog and the dark room.

His hand left your shorts for a moment, and you felt a wave of relief before you felt them fall straight to the button on them.

He unbuttoned them with one hand as he groaned, lifting himself to his knees. He grabbed at the waistband at both your hip bones and tore them down. You tried to cross your legs but one of his hands met your thigh and shoved it to the side, just long enough to get your shorts off.

He brought both hands to the back of your knees, dragging you down for his thighs to meet the back of yours. He spread you open and stared down like he was holding his fridge open, deciding what he wanted to feast on. He barely felt the tug of you trying to close them. In a last ditch effort you moved your hands to cover your crotch, and that's when you felt it.

You were completely soaked through, the wet spot making your white panties transparent. It was like something inside you broke at that moment. Your body had decided to completely betray you.

As if he noticed you resolve falter, he brought his hands to the side of your panties and ripped. One side, then the other. Throwing them across the room to land somewhere on the carpet. You bit into your hands as you stopped pulling away. Eyes distant but open, he would take it.

His hands lifted your shirt over your bra before he shoved that up too. It squeezed over the top of your breasts almost painfully.

"God bless you, baby... perfect fucking pussy," his hand slapped it as he leaned forward, "and perfect fucking tits."

His mouth wrapped around your nipple, tounge circling it wildly as he sucked the nub between his teeth. Your body reacted how it wanted, and you could only whimper and whine pathetically. He rested above you on one forearm while his other hand met your leaking slit again. His thick middle finger dragged up and down it, your wetness coating the pad. He brought it to you clit, circling slowly before he flicked it.

He moaned around you nipple when you jumped with a cry. The more your body reacted the more he seemed to lose it. He switched to the other nipple, "Gotta give her some lovin' too." He chuckled.

The actions repeated for a few minutes you think, your perception of time got foggy with each circle, flick, and switch.

The vibration from his groans tickled your breast, making your back arch further into his mouth. He was almost fucking drooling, copious amounts of spit shined your chest like you'd been rubbed down in oil.

He abruptly moved down, his hand leaving to grip your hips, holding them down as he settled between your legs. He licked a long stripe across your slit, shaking his head side to side as the muscle circled your clit before he sunk it into your organ. His hands moved to your chest as he tounge fucked you, fast and unrelenting. He only lifted from you to spit on you pussy before he flattened his tounge across your entire slit and diving back in.

Every groan and moan from his vibrated against your clit and the inside of you. You felt breathless and violated. And when a knot formed in your stomach that you couldn't decipher at first due to the sinking dread that had settled there, it was too late.

With a broken cry, you threw your head back as your legs shook around his head. His voice raised over the tv for a moment with how loud he growled against your pussy.

He detached from you before appearing in front of your eyes and shoving his hot tounge down your throat. You grimaced as you tasted yourself, your pussy still throbbing from your orgasm.

"Sweet as cherry pie, baby." He mumbled against your mouth. His tounge dragged along the inside of your mouth, just another hole to him. Along the ridges of the roof of your mouth to the back of your teeth.

He sucked on your tounge harshly before unlatching, raising back on his knees again with a hushed 'Fuck...' undoing his belt. The clink of metal echoed, as he stood. He didn't bother taking his jeans off, just shoved them down enough to release his raging cock.

He walked to the side of the bed, grabbing your arm and dragging you closer. His dick hung heavy as it twitched, face level with you. You closed your mouth tightly and turned your head, only to met with a gentle but forceful tap from the back of his hand. The same hand grabbed your jaw as he leaned down to meet your eyes.

"I'm only gonna say this once, you don't fucking bite. I don't wanna hurt you, sugar, but you bite my fucking dick and I'll knock your teeth out." He said it sternly with raised brows.

You only looked at him fearfully before he spoke again, "Do you understand?" You nodded.

He loosened his grip and brought his thumbs to the sides of your mouth, forcing it open. "Relax your throat, sweetheart. Be good for me, m'kay?"

What else could you do other then what you were told?

The tip leaked as he dragged it across your lips before he got an idea, backing up and manhandling you to lay with your head upside down on the edge. He returned to your lips, a couple heavy slaps of his cock landed on your cheek before he told you to stick your tounge out, and he slid into your warm waiting mouth.

He groaned as he moved till his balls touched your nose, stilling there for a moment as you suffocated. You whimpered around him as you brought your hands up, "Breath through your nose, sweetheart." He instructed.

He pulled out leaving just the tip in your mouth before he slowly bottomed out again. He didnt waste time changing the pace, his hips thrusted steadily. Drool dripped from your mouth as he fucked it, his heavy, twitching balls smacking your nose each time. He brought his hands to take your wrists, settling them on your stomach as he leaned forward so he could thrust harder. He panted and groaned, cursing occasionally inbetween.

One of his hands left your wrist to smack your pussy once before he lifted himself. Bringing one knee to the mattress, he stood as he thrusted downward into your throat. His hand enveloped it with a growl when he saw the shift inside of it. His eyes were locked on the bulge that appeared in your throat when he shoved it down.

His thrusts became sloppy as he got louder. He lean forward again, fully pounding your throat before hot seed filled it. You felt it hit your uvula in bursts, forcing you to cough and gag, your body desperately trying to suck in air through your filled neck. He stilled at the deepest point, his tip twitching to hit the back of your throat as you felt his balls tighten against your nose. He exhaled roughly before giving you one more slowly thrust, pulling out.

You gasped desperately, veins bulging in your face and neck. Your eyes were pink and your head was swimming due to it hanging upside down for so long. Spit and snot leaked down from your face along with his cum.

Kneeling next to you, he nuzzled your head with his own with soft shushing. "That's it, breath, honey... You did so good, took it so good. Made me feel so good, baby..." he muttered, kisses moving across your temple.

When your coughing subsided you breathed a sigh of relief that it was over, mumbling incoherently as your brain struggled to process. The fog lifted when you felt his hands around your ankles from the other side of the bed, dragging you to lay on it again. He crawled to join you before twisting you back around so your head was at the pillows.

Cries came more freely now as you saw his still hard cock scoot closer to your pussy. You head turned before narrowing in on a sheet of tablets sitting on the side table he'd been sitting at. Two blue pills missing.

Your throat burned as a weak cry tried to crawl out, but he'd abused it to the point of you loosing your voice. Pathetic squeaks falling from your mouth instead. You felt his cock slap against your pussy, it instinctively pulsed at the pressure. He pressed the tip to your clit, thrusting against it. Your back arched as your hips rolled with his, your brain was so fuzzy you didnt even register the noises spilling from your lips.

The stretch was sudden as he pushed into you. Your lips trembled around him as he slid inside easily. Your spit and already soaked his cock immeasurably, but the lube that leaked from you without permission added to it ease of which he came inside you without friction. You felt impossibly full when his hand came down to push on your lower stomach as he began working.

There was no build up, the speed was set from the jump as he hauled himself over you. His hips met yours with heavy thrusts, pounding into you without thought. The only time he let you breath was when he kneeled again, only to grab the back of your knees and shove them next to you head as he somehow fucked you harder. He felt no need to speak anymore, only occasion growls of how wet you were, which you hadn't needed verbal acknowledgement of. It was clear from the wet slaps that echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and into your ears as you laid limp and took it.

Your mouth hung open as noises continued to force themselves from your throat, you had been so gone that you didnt flinch when you spit into your mouth, your throat instantly tensing as you swallowed it. You had lost almost all feeling, your hearing muffled, you took no notice of the impending release.

"Fucking shit baby... pussys so fucking tight 'round me... you gonna cum again? Hmm? You love this fucking cock, you know you do. You're body knows you do."

It went in one ear and out the other, you were reduced to a whimpering hole.

You didnt react when he pulled out to flip you onto your stomach, shoving one knee hip while the other stayed straight. He laid atop your seemingly lifeless body as he shoved himself back in and quickly resumed his previous pace. The cupped smacking sound reverberated with his pounding, your voice now muffled by the pillows you faced.

You felt his weight as his chest met your back and he rutted into you. Your fingers twitched with a mix of exhaustion, pleasure, and anxiety. He swiped your hair from your shoulder as he sucked another mark onto you from behind. Your voice raised a pitch as he thrusts began sloppy again.

"You're gonna make me cum again, honey... fuck yeah that's it, you can take it, knew you could." You whimpered as he lifted your hips, shoving you onto him just as harshly as he was fucking you. But you tightend around him all the same.

"Come on, cum with me, baby! Want your pussy to clamp down and suck my cum right out of my cock... milk me fucking dry, baby... lemme fill up that sexy fucking pussy!"

A scream was at the back of your throat as your body jumped like you were electrocuted. It came out as a broken cry as you shook violently. He didn't stop even after your orgasm run its course, only fucked you faster. Your hips pulled away as you mindlessly scrambled away from his unrelenting ones, but you were still under the influence of his roofie, and he was still so much stronger.

And so for another agonizing few minutes you shook and writhed and cried till he bottomed out. Cumming deep inside your abused cunt. You felt the warmth fill you as his tip hit your cervix, it spread quickly down to your opening where it leaked down onto the bed. He let himself to thrust a handful more times as he drained his balls inside of you.

And then he stayed there, his hand lifting your hips to keep it from leaking out. But there was so much, it filled your entire cunt. You felt his hands reached and pinch your slit closed around his cock. His mouth came to your ear as he whispered.

"Gotta make it stick... make sure you get nice and full."

You have nothing left in you to protest, only tears slipping by. You're so fucking dirty, cum and spit and snot and tears and sweat. The blanket your sprawled on feels like got left out in the rain.

You feel his cock soften inside you of before he pulls out. Two fingers immediately replace it, stuffing the little that leaks out back into your brushed pussy. You begin to lose your senses, your body unable to force itself to fight awake anymore.

"Egg," she murmured, bringing the boy closer to her as they sat in front of the fire. "Might you tell me more of your family?"

Egg looked up at her, taking in her expression. When they had been on the road together, she was often full of joy, widely smiling and sharing laughter with Egg and Dunk. She had made him feel warm and safe inside. Now, he noticed, she hadn’t smiled in days. Her eyes seemed duller, as if someone had stolen the light out of them.

Egg nodded.

“Well, there is Prince Baelor, my uncle. He is the Hand of the King and the heir to the Iron Throne. He is good and just and a better man than most in my family,” Egg determined. The healer nodded, his words aligning with the other descriptions she’d heard of the man, though her mind recalled the way he’d gazed at her days ago — far less honourable than he supposedly was.

“Then there is my father, Prince Maekar. Some people call him 'The Anvil' after his win during the rebellion. He can be mean to me… and to my brothers, but I think he does like us sometimes.” She nodded again at that. Maekar seemed like a scary man, and she wished to spend as little time in his presence as possible.

“I have my older brothers and then my younger siblings. Daeron was once very happy and glad, my father says, but now he is no fun. He has dreams of the future… and they always seem to come true. It saddens him,” Egg stated. Things made more sense to the healer now, with the events of the previous night tracking now that she learnt of his dreams. He’d literally dreamt of their attempt to escape.

The healer spoke quietly next, almost fearful for what she might learn. “And Aerion?”

Egg paused, a decisive mix of rage and pity filling his visage.

“Aerion is a monster! He killed my cat! And he has threatened to hurt me. He is evil, and – and I wish he were dead!”

The healer was stunned — she hadn’t expected such an outburst from her sweet little Egg, though from his words, she understood his fury. Dragging the boy into her arms, she soothingly rubbed at his back, letting him cry into her chest as she whispered sweet reassurances to him. The shudders that wracked his frame slowly lessened after a few moments until the boy pulled away.

“There’s also Valarr,” Egg added after a silent pause. She hummed in acknowledgement, her curiosity prompting him to continue. “Valarr is much like Baelor. He is good and kind, and the people like him. He is strong and brave, and he fights well too! Aerion becomes jealous of all the praise and attention he gets.”

She could tell by his tone that Egg greatly admired Valarr and likely wished for him to be his older brother instead. He sounded like a good man, and in her mind, she filed away his name in case she needed assistance. He’d already confronted her at the wine station and was alert to her presence in the Red Keep, but maybe he could be persuaded against Aerion one day. He didn’t seem to like him much anyway.

“It seems the crown is in good hands with Baelor and Valarr then," she acknowledged.

The pair talked for a short while longer before finally parting ways — Egg had been commanded to sleep in his own rooms that night, much to his chagrin. As she slept alone that night, her emotions returned to the surface, and she felt hot, wet tears sliding down her cheeks once more. During the day, she was strong enough to compose herself and hide her pain. But at night? With the silence and the darkness? She couldn’t hold it in any longer, and her choked sobs echoed around the room.

Dunk stood inside the grand dining room as his duty demanded, watching silently as the Targaryens ate dinner together for the first time since returning from the tourney. He had expected an uneventful evening, but the tension in the room had been high once Aerion had arrived, bringing his mistress –Dunk's healer – on his arm. To bring a mistress to a family dinner was against protocol, and yet no protest could be heard. Dunk had stiffened in shock, unable to stop the anger coursing through his body as Aerion directed a mocking glance his way. Dunk wished he could throttle the little cunt.

He'd had to endure a mix of false pleasantries, taunting jokes, and tense conversations between the family all night. Even Baelor seemed fed up as the hour grew long, letting his eyes unabashedly roll as he heard another squabble between Daeron and Aerion begin. But for Dunk, the worst part of his evening had been witnessing how the men at the table treated his healer. He couldn't be certain, but it seemed like all the men at the table had been letting their eyes linger on her, giving her long, appreciative looks. Some were more obvious, but he swore even Baelor had paused for a moment too long. Aerion had dressed her in a deep red gown — one clearly befitting a woman far above her station, and she sat adorned with heavy gold jewellery and rings. And yet, no one could deny that it suited her. Dunk struggled to reconcile that this was the same woman he had spent a year on the open road with, sharing stew and ale at taverns and sleeping under the stars.

Dunk's reminiscing was interrupted by a sharp screech, all attention falling towards Aerion. The prince was now upright, the healer firmly pressed against his side. Dunk's hands curled into fists at the sight of the prince's hands firm against her waist – he could see from her face that she was uncomfortable.

"Well, I shall take my leave from tonight's... titillating conversation," Aerion proclaimed. "I believe I have far more interesting things to attend to."

Aerion's meaning was clear as day to anyone in the room.

"Very well, nephew. Do be careful," Baelor said, dismissing the pair with a grunt. With a firm tug, they started towards the door, only for Aerion to halt suddenly. All watched on, curious for the delay. When he turned to look at Dunk, the healer knew it couldn't be anything good. Aerion winced slightly as he felt her fingers dig into the muscle of his upper arm in protest but ignored her.

"Ser Duncan," Aerion drawled. His tone was menacing, much like that when he had asked for the healer, back when he thought she was the knight's wife. It was clear he took great pleasure in taunting the knight.

"I do believe you should guard my mistress's chambers tonight. I would feel most..." A pregnant pause. "Pleased to know you would be close by if she needed assistance."

You could hear a pin drop with the silence of the room. The Targaryens were stunned. The weight of his actions was clear, as were the supposed outcomes. Dunk was horrified – how could he even suggest such a thing? Though, when Dunk looked for assistance from Baelor, or maybe even Maekar, he found none. The older men returned only blank stares, hands folded in their laps. He would not be saved from this, he realised. Dunk felt like a man waiting for his death, knowing the fate he was to face.

Dunk finally looked at his healer, only to quickly avert his eyes. Her face – he had never seen that look from her before. Not even when she had told him to leave the council chambers at Ashford. Pure devastation sat on her features, eyes shining with unshed tears. Aerion shrugged off the soft words she pleaded in his direction, dropping her expression more. She had already been stripped of all her dignity and control, and now he wished to humiliate her like this? To permanently alter how her truest friend saw her? To debase her as such?

"Please, my prince... do not do this, I beg of you."

Unceremoniously, Aerion shoved her through the open doors and directed her to her chambers, demanding Dunk follow them lest he grow mad. He trailed behind them, watching as they arrived at the chamber. Dunk could only get a glimpse of her disappearing into the rooms before Aerion slammed the door in his face. The knight stood still in disbelief, going to stand in his assigned spot, when the door suddenly opened again.

Aerion poked his head into the hall, landing on Dunk's frame, and grinned.

"Be good, Ser Duncan. You wouldn't want me to hurt her now, would you?"

Dunk instinctually lunged towards the prince, catching sight of his grin as he ducked back inside her chambers. He swore to himself and promised that one day he would rescue his healer and take her some place quiet and peaceful, where they could forget about everything that had happened in this wretched place.

Inside the room, the healer studied Aerion silently. In the few days she had known him, she struggled to understand what he was thinking. He seemed to switch from irritability to excitement instantaneously, and his anger and rage were well known. So far, she had managed to avoid his bad side. Maekar had kept him occupied for most hours of the day since they returned, and thus, he'd not been able to get his hands on her properly, though, she supposed, her luck had run out now.

"Hello, pretty dove," Aerion mumbled, making his way towards her. "How I've been waiting for this... for you."

His hands made their way to her waist, feeling the curves of her body under his palms, slowly exploring her body. He was so close to her now that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin and smell the Dornish wine on his breath. The scent of him overpowered her, oud invading her senses as he leant towards her neck, placing a tender kiss at the junction of her neck and shoulder. She couldn't help but shudder as he pressed up against her, continuing his warm, open-mouthed kisses across her decolletage. He was so close to her, and it made her uneasy, and yet she felt her body yearn for more.

The healer let out a sharp gasp as she found herself suddenly flipped around, Aerion's fingers impatiently tugging at her laces intent on baring her to him. He continued his kisses, occasionally nipping at her skin just enough to have her gasp and flinch at the sensation. She was left only in a delicate shift, the hands at her waist returning her to face the prince once more. Aerion's body pushed up against her, his chest pressing against hers, and at the first touch of his hand against her breast she couldn't help but let out a soft whimper. She felt warm all over, and her body began to tingle as his fingers toyed with her flesh, groping at her breast and placing a heady kiss on her lips.

After his first kiss at the tourney, she had sunk into a deep pit of shame. She hadn't enjoyed it, but she hadn't disliked it. She didn't know which was worse, but the prince was skilled with his mouth and tongue, and he knew how to draw out sweet sounds with each drag of his tongue against hers. Of course, Aerion wished for her to enjoy this – the louder her noises, the more torment the knight standing at the door would endure. She felt her hands make their way over the prince's body, letting them press against his firm chest as he continued to crowd against her body. She didn't even notice Aerion smiling into the kiss as she let out another whimper, his hands having reached down towards the fat of her ass and delivering a sharp squeeze. Part of her was shocked that he had not simply thrown her on the bed and had his way with her, and the other part of her almost wished that had been so. Maybe then she would not feel so guilty for sinking in to his kisses more than she should have.

Aerion pulled away first, and the sight in front of him – gods. She was divine. Her previously done-up hair was now loose and tousled and accompanied by swollen lips that let heavy breaths pass through them. He'd barely even touched her, and she was like this, he thought to himself. He'd wreck her one day, no doubt about it.

"Kneel," Aerion commanded. For a moment, she hesitated but swiftly let her knees meet the carpet after she met his fiery gaze. Aerion took in the sight before him, groaning lowly at her wide eyes staring up at him.

"You're going to suck my cock, do you understand?" She nodded. She felt Aerion tangle his fingers in her hair, dragging her closer to his breeches.

"Take it out, pretty dove," he ordered.

With hesitant hands, she reached for the button at his waist, slowly peeling at the fabric until his smallclothes were visible. Looking up at the prince, he only hummed, directing her to continue. His hands were still stroking her hair as she removed his cock from his smallclothes, surprise flitting across her features as it sprang free from its confines. Aerion's cock was pretty, she thought, much like him. It was currently a deep shade of red, the tip visibly darker than the rest of the length, and the precum that weeped at his tip shocked her. He had been enjoying this much more than she thought.

It seemed Aerion had little patience for her appreciation of his length as he was soon shoving her head towards his tip, commanding her to open up. She could only oblige, and she quickly found her mouth full of the prince's cock.

Aerion groaned in ecstasy as he felt the warmth of her mouth envelop him. She struggled around him, spasming as he insistently shoved himself further down her throat before pulling back slightly, only to push further on his next thrust. He revelled in the grunts and gags that she emitted as he began a punishing rhythm, feeling her hands meet his thighs, pushing against the muscles. He wondered if she thought such a display would make him slow down, pull back and let her breathe. She would be sorely mistaken if she did. Instead, he was pushing deeper, grabbing at her hair to hold her down on his cock. She struggled as her nose met the base of his cock, her face smushed in coarse silver hair that surrounded his cock. Aerion grinned as she tried to pull back, only to find herself unable to move. Her palms slapped at his thighs now, a desperate attempt to gather air into her lungs once more.

"Look at me, dove."

Aerion watched her eyes meet his, tears streaming down her cheeks as he pulled her back a fraction, only to push her right back into his pelvis. A loud gag echoed around the chamber, and Aerion laughed loudly. He knew the sound of her gagging on his cock would've made it past the door and out to Ser Duncan. Finally pulling from her warm mouth, Aerion watched in glee as she slumped forward, heaving as she tried to fill her lungs. Drool ran down her face, sliding down her chin and onto the floor below. She looked like a filthy brothel whore, and yet none of those men could ever be worthy of her affections. Only a prince. Only him.

She thought maybe it had been over then, but when his fingers tightened in her hair once more, she found his cock back in her mouth with an unceremonious shove. She knew she was not doing it properly, or gracefully, and yet Aerion didn't seem to care. He didn't even seem to care whether or not she had done this before, only that her tongue was on his length and her throat was tight. She winced as she was once more dragged up and down his length, this time with Aerion's fingers clasping at her cheeks, hollowing them around his length. She heard him groan deeply and felt his hips pick up speed, now jackhammering into her mouth. He was close to his peak, and she desperately hoped he would pull her off him soon. It seemed her prayers would not be answered when the prince's hips began to stutter and he pulled her even closer, groaning loudly.

"Stay still and take it, pretty dove. Take it all down your throat. Swallow the seed of the dragon," he rambled loudly, growing closer to his peak. "If you – ugh, if you let a single drop go to waste, I'll make you lick it up."

She couldn't even nod as her face was suddenly pressed to his pelvis a final time, and she began to gag at the feeling of his warm, salty cum spurt down her throat. He only seemed to enjoy that, grinding himself deeper into her. She felt her nails dig into his thighs harder now and knew that she had broken skin. If he felt it, he didn't show it. He kept her there for a moment until he was sure all of his cum had been swallowed, and she was sure her face crinkled in disgust at the taste.

Unceremoniously, Aerion pulled his softening cock from her mouth. He looked down at her, seemingly pleased at her efforts. She let him drag his finger to the side of her mouth, swiping at the drop of his seed that had begun to dribble from her lips. He tutted, slowly pushing his finger into her mouth and raising his brow, signalling to her to suck it from his digit. As she did, he spoke.

"It seems you know how to worship your god, dove. You did well," Aerion praised. She did not know if she wished for his praise, but she supposed it beat facing a slap to her cheek if she had not. The healer watched as Aerion tucked his cock back into his breeches, humming to himself lowly. During the ordeal, her shift had slipped off her shoulders, baring her smooth skin to his eyes – which he lapped up greedily. She truly was beautiful.

Aerion moved towards the door, leaving her weakened frame kneeling on the floor. She knew she would have bruises the next morning.

"I will come find you again tomorrow night," he decreed, his hand resting on the door handle, "though perhaps I will not be so gentle then." With that, he disappeared behind the door, leaving her to stew over his words in the silence of the room. Gentle? If that had been gentle, she wondered whether throwing herself from the balcony of the keep would be a kinder fate than the one that awaited her. Would he make her bleed? Beat her black and blue? Or would he just fuck her until she was a shell of herself?

It was only the low murmurs behind the door that snapped her back into reality, realising with a gasp that Dunk had been outside her door the whole time. Her tears returned, thinking of the pain he must have been in while listening to the wretched prince defile her as such. She froze, waiting for the sound of voices to stop – she needed to speak to Dunk, but Aerion could not catch her. She knew he must have been taunting him, recounting the way he had filled her mouth in ghastly detail and made her swallow his seed like a common whore.

Feeling filthy, the healer quickly rid herself of the now sweat-soaked shift, replacing it with a nightgown and covering herself with a heavy velvet night robe before inching towards the door tentatively. She felt the rapid beating of her heart in her chest, its beat reverberating in her skull, as she worried that Aerion would be standing in the hall. She thought that perhaps he would, just to see if she would seek out the knight. Ever so quietly, she tugged at the handle and let her head inch forward, peeking into the hallway. However, to her dismay, it was not Dunk, nor Aerion, who stood in the hallway. Instead, the hallway was empty, not even a guard in sight.

Where had they gone? She needed to talk to Dunk desperately. With a look back at her chambers, she slipped into the hall, lightfooted as she made her way down towards what she believed was the main wing of the Red Keep. Wandering through the Red Keep at night was eerie, with flames casting shadows on the walls that made her skin crawl, always feeling like someone was watching her every step. It was deathly silent as she ventured further into the Keep. With every step, she felt the panicked feeling inside her grow – she needed to find Dunk. He had to hear her out. He had to know that she never wished for him to hear that. The healer didn't even notice the way her hands had been trembling since Aerion left her chambers or how her pace had started to pick up as she began to curve around the corners of the Keep. It seemed the adrenaline had not worn off yet.

The sound of a rat scurrying somewhere behind her had the woman whipping around, catching only the tail of the rat as it disappeared down another corridor. With a start, she continued on her journey, now somewhat distracted as she rounded another corner.

"Oh!" The healer exclaimed as she collided with a hard body, only to become speechless at the prince before her – Valarr.

He looked down at her curiously, and she supposed it made sense; Aerion's mistress running around the halls alone at night in a state of improper dress was a sight to see. She'd look at herself oddly, too.

"Hello, my lady," Valarr began, pausing as he caught her taking a step back.

"Might I ask what you're doing?"

When Valarr found her in the halls, he recognised what an opportunity he had been presented with. He could tell by her ragged breathing and tousled hair that Aerion had done something to her, but to what extent? That he didn't know. But her guard was down, and with a sweet word or two, he'd managed to get her into his chambers. Now here she was, sitting timidly on his chaise, waiting for him to speak – to realise why she was brought here.

Valarr looked at her, taking in the sight of her. He needed to tread carefully. He'd let his annoyance take over at their first meeting, and he didn't want her to be scared of him – the opposite, in fact.

"Your position in this court is not safe, my lady," Valarr stated plainly, though not unkindly. "Aerion could change his mind in an instant, and you will be cast out onto the streets. Though he is... enamoured with you now, you must think ahead."

The healer was still, taking in his words. They had all heard stories of the women chewed up and spat out by the royals of times past, but for it to now be her facing this fate? Her whole body felt tense, confused and scared. She just wanted to be on the open road again, selling her tonics and sharing bread with Dunk.

"Think ahead? How – what could I do? I have no power here, my prince," she lamented.

Valarr directed his attention to his wine glass to hide the small smirk that tugged at his lips involuntarily. He knew that she had no power, obviously. She was going along with his plan so far.

"You must become useful to someone else, my lady."

"Useful?" she questioned. "As a healer, you mean? I could do that!"

Valarr quickly cut her off. He looked at her, still curled up on the chaise, her previous tremors having subsided. Gods, she was beautiful, he thought.

"Not quite... You see, my father came to me today with an interesting proposition. He spoke of the future of our house and of our line. Tell me, my lady, do you know of your family?" Valarr questioned.

She thought for a moment, pondering why he had begun such a line of questioning. She grew up in a small village in the Vale – nothing remarkable. She had lived with her family until she joined Dunk and Ser Arlan on the road.

"Yes, my prince. My mother was a healer as well, and my father a blacksmith."

"And do you have siblings?" he probed. She nodded in agreement.

"Many, my prince." That seemed to please Valarr, and he hummed lowly. She watched as the prince slowly ambled over to where she sat, setting himself down by her side. She felt her breath hitch, now being able to see the prince up close – even closer than in the council chambers. Here, she could see his mismatched eyes, the furrow of his brow, and the weariness that seemed to show in the bags under his eyes. Having him in such close proximity made her body feel alive, a warm heat spreading across her in such a pleasant way that made her inch ever so much closer to the prince.

Valarr reached out gently, letting his fingers trace the fabric of her nightgown. He had been a gentleman since he found her in the halls, but now he finally let his eyes run over her body. Aerion's doing, certainly, for the nightgown was truly indecent. Scraps of silky white fabric and lace covered her body, a low plunge highlighting her figure to him. In that moment, Valarr felt thankful to his cousin for gifting him such a pleasant sight.

"You should not have to live at the mercy of my cousin's temper, my lady."

His hand reached up to her jaw, his fingers lingering for a moment before finally cupping her face softly. His fingers brushed tenderly over her cheek, and the softness of his touch momentarily disarmed her, allowing Valarr to lean in close and press his lips to hers.

The soft gasp that escaped her lips was music to Valarr's ears, and he found himself invading her space, crowding his body closer to hers. To his satisfaction, he felt her practically collapse into his frame, limp and plush in his arms. Valarr supposed that, compared to the grunt and brutality of Aerion, he was a welcome respite, allowing her guard to drop (even if it shouldn't have). He let his other hand move lower, finding her thigh and pulling her even closer into him, feeling her own hands reach for his shoulders as if to grasp onto. The healer was eagerly kissing him back now, letting him push his tongue into her mouth with surprising agility. He could taste the need on her lips, like a desperate ache to be cared for, loved – cherished. It was when Valarr felt the first minute grind of her hips – something that he was sure she hadn't even realised she had done, against his own hardening cock – that he sharply pulled away, panting.

Valarr thought he might break then at the sight of the woman in front of him, her lips swollen from their kiss and chest rising and falling as she tried to gather spare air into her lungs. The movement only highlighted her hardening nipples to the prince, and he held back a groan that threatened to escape his chest.

He watched her open her mouth, then, as if thinking better of it, purse her lips tightly together.

"What is it?" He asked, kind and sweet as he reached to brush her cheek. He saw her hesitate again, but it seemed she finally gathered up the courage to speak.

"Did I...did I do something wrong, my prince?"

Oh, gods. She was so precious, Valarr thought. "No, my sweet girl," he reassured her, moving her off his lap gently, "it is only that I wish to move us somewhere more comfortable."

At that, she seemed relieved and let the prince lead her to his bed – a large, four-postered thing covered with deep velvet covers and plush pillows. As he lay her down, she could only think of how magnificent it was, though she quickly found her thoughts growing fuzzy once more as Valarr climbed on top of her, his warm, soft lips back on hers. Hands finding his shoulders once more, she barely noticed that he'd shed his tunic and now only his blouse remained.

The healer sank into the bed, growing more entranced by the brunette prince atop her: the way he felt and moved and how he touched her. Compared to Aerion, his touch was soft and gentle – like he revered her. It was the first moment that felt soft since she'd first met the Targaryens, and she never wanted the feeling to end. Valarr pulled away, slower this time, so as not to startle her, and looked softly down at her.

"I—gods... I promise to protect you, always. I will claim you as my own, give you a title, whatever I must do to keep you here, just like this, and far, far away from my cousin," Valarr stated, taking her in once more. The prince went to kiss her again but paused only a fraction away from her face, close enough that she could count every eyelash on his perfect eyes with him this close. She swore she saw a flicker of something in his eyes for a second – perhaps hesitation? But as soon as she put a name to it, it was gone, and he was leaning closer, moving to kiss down her neck. He mouthed at the soft skin, leaving small red marks and nipping in a way that made her gasp, tilting her neck to the side to give him better access. Valarr, pleased, let his hands wander to her thighs, pushing the silky nightgown higher until he had access to the bare skin. He groaned into her neck and slotted himself between her legs, letting his fingers wander higher and harshly gripping the flesh of her thigh as she began to wriggle under his body, the sensation of his tongue laving across her upper chest causing her to whine breathlessly.

"But there is one thing I need from you, my sweet girl," Valarr mumbled lowly, coming to rest his chin on her breastbone. It allowed him a clear view of the mindless nod she gave him in response, her body desperate for him to continue his ministrations.

"I need an heir."

That made her pause. Valarr felt her legs drop slightly, no longer practically wrapped around him. The fingers that had been tangled in his hair froze, and Valarr managed to hold back a whimper at the loss of sensation. He thought his heart might break at the sight of her face – crestfallen. Instantly, Valarr was dragging her up, gathering her face in his hands and wishing to know what she was thinking, rather than the silence he was getting.

After a moment, she spoke. "An heir? But – but should that not come from your wife, my prince?"

"Please, it is Valarr... not my prince. Not here," he requested, staring up at the woman now sitting in his lap. "My wife and I are not a love match. She has a duty, and at that she has failed. It is time I must consider other options."

The healer looked at him, stunned, still unsure of the proposition. A child was not a small ask. To give him a child would change her entire life, and in ways she could not predict. Never had she really thought too deeply of the possibility of a family, aside from knowing it would be expected of her one day, but for a long time she had been content with travelling on the open road. And now, Valarr came to her with such a proposal. A future King’s bastard to grow in her belly — surely it would not be well received by the smallfolk.

"Surely, you jest?" She asked.

"Your mother was fruitful," he began, returning his hands to her thighs, "and I see no reason you would not be too. Otherwise, perhaps I have misread this."

She looked at him in confusion, offhandedly noting the way Valarr's fingers had crept under her nightgown once more, the fabric now pushed up to bare the full expanse of her bare leg.

"Perhaps you wish to return to Aerion's side... I am certain he would be glad for it," he continued, watching as she flinched at the suggestion, almost imperceptibly. "I do not doubt he would be pleased to fill you with his monstrous child in my stead."

At that, he saw the flash of fear in her eyes, and he knew – he had her. The notion of being tied in eternity to a man like Aerion could convince even a Septa to take up his offer. Valarr let his fingers move once more, slowly inching towards her core. At the first swipe of his fingers through her slick folds, she was falling into his arms again, whimpering at the pleasure coursing through her body. He moved lower, slipping a finger inside of her cunt and cupping his hand just so to let it press against her sensitive bundle of nerves, watching as this time, she cried out. When she began involuntarily grinding into his hand, Valarr felt his own cock harden even more. Pulling her head back from its now slumped position on his shoulder, he sought an answer.

With Valarr letting his finger be joined by another, curling and rubbing against her ribbed inner walls, she spoke in between moans. "I – are you sure? You – oh! You will protect me? You swear it?"

Valarr nodded, letting his free hand squeeze tenderly at her breast, fingers rolling her nipple just so to make her squirm. With the dual stimulation, she was finding herself growing hazy with the pleasure.

"Give me a son – even a daughter would suffice, to start, and I will make sure no one ever dares to wish you harm. You would not stand to wonder whether your days would be filled with kindness or pain. You would be mine."

Valarr watched the last shred of sense leave her head and, with a sense of sheer unbridled victory, witnessed the moment she nodded in agreement. He saw the hesitancy still lingering, and yet he could not find it in himself to care. Surging forward with a passionate kiss, Valarr removed his hand and pushed the nightgown up and fully off her body, baring her entirely to him. Gently dropping her back into the mattress, he hovered over her and took in her bare frame. She was The Maiden herself, lying there for the taking.

"Oh, my sweet girl," he whispered whilst finally freeing himself from his breeches, "you will be so loved."

A sharp knock drew Valarr from his slumber, though it seemed it had not woken the woman curled up at his side. Tenderly removing himself from under the covers, he made his way to the door. Behind the wood stood Baelor, still and stoic as ever.

Baelor took in the sight of his son, bare except for linen sleep shorts. Valarr's neck and chest bore signs of a pleased woman, with splotchy red marks and scratches scattering his skin. Looking past his son, he laid eyes on the woman sleeping in his bed, tangled up in sheets and as bare as the day she was born. Baelor took in the sight, tracing his eyes upon the pieces of exposed skin available to him, and pretending that the slight stir of his cock was simply an inconvenience. That the sight of a well-fucked woman was not spurring envy in his chest.

"I see that she agreed to the proposition, then?" Baelor questioned, still not drawing his attention from her figure.

Valarr's head tilted slightly, watching his father's lustful gaze. He noted to keep an eye on that.

"She did," Valarr agreed, "though she was hesitant at first."

"Good. I suppose I shall speak to Aerion on the morrow, then," Baelor grimaced. His nephew would not take well to losing such a precious gem, least of all to the cousin he despised. The cousin with the title, the reputation, and the power that he craved.

"He will not take the news kindly, Father," Valarr uttered. He, too, turned back to look at the healer in his bed, grumbling in expectation of the new day. She was too alluring, her form too enticing – he almost wished she'd been plainer; that way, he wouldn't have had to compete with his cousin. But knowing that he could soon flaunt her in front of Aerion sent a sick shiver of satisfaction down his spine. Maybe he'd let Aerion watch next time – make his cousin fist his cock in his own hand while Valarr thrusted into her, making her cry out in pleasure. He'd probably like that, Valarr thinks.

Baelor interrupted his darkening train of thoughts with a firm grip on his shoulder. "You have done well, my boy. Return to bed, and we will speak soon."

Valarr nodded, watching his father leave with one last glance at the healer, before he himself returned to the bed, slotting in by her side. Subconsciously, her body found his, pushing herself into his willing arms and snuggling closer to his chest. She felt safe with him; that was clear. She stirred ever so slightly as he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, a pleased hum ever so quiet escaping her lips.

Tomorrow would bring chaos, but for now, Valarr sank back into sleep with his healer in his arms, content at the thought of the life they would bring into the world together.

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Prince Valarr’s fingers twine with yours under the table as you behold the Bravoosi dancers’ performance. They are dotting bright costumes and makeshift dragon masks, twirling and leaping while juggling daggers several feet in the air that somehow always land back in their hands.

The wondrous feat mesmerizes you. It ought to be sorcery, you conclude, which coaxes a tender chuckle from the prince when you suggest it to him.

“It is a dance,” he explains.

“A dance aiming to kill. How…peculiar.”

Yet the spectacle holds a beauty that cannot be dismissed. Ancient. Ethereal.

It is your first time attending a name day feast. One in the honor of King Daeron at that.

You had assumed you were to stay in the Maidenvault, where Valarr often bids you to remain when you are apart. It was a delightful surprise when he appeared in your bedchamber earlier today, with a splendid red dress for you to wear at the feast and a bright grin etched on his boyish features.

It requires great effort to maintain poise, feign disinterest like the other guests. But today is your first time seeing the Great Hall. Sizzling curiosity compels you to steal secret glances at the dragon skulls mounted on the walls, the vermillion dragon of the Targaryen house bleeding on black tapestries, the noble ladies draped in expensive Myrish lace and silk brocade, their unblemished necks sparkling with gold and expensive stones.

You wager one such dress could pay the yearly earnings of any of the girls back at the pleasure house. Perhaps even two.

While you share the same hall as those ladies from renowned houses, the chasm between you and them is as wide as the Shivering Sea. Instead of the accident of good birth and breeding, the gods saw fit to bestow you with a room in an orphanage and a childhood in a pleasure house.

“I long to slip away from this tedious pageantry so I may feast on you instead of these dull treats,” Valarr coos along your earshell, his grip on your hand loosening to engage on a dangerous journey below the hem of your dress and up your thigh. His mismatched irises are ablaze with mischief.

Tingles bloom across your skin below his daring touch.

A smile creeps upon your lips…One that vanishes as Lord Baelor’s gaze draws yours across the long table. He does not approve. He never has. Yet it was him who brought Valarr to you in the pillow house you used to reside in. You were untouched, a flower whose petals had yet to be plucked. The price of your maidenhead was steep but in Valarr’s eyes it had made you even more precious and invaluable. A name day gift befitting a Targaryen prince. A rare pearl as Prince Baelor put it that day. But courtesans, however comely, well dressed and poised, are meant to be a fleeting distraction. An ephemeral infatuation mayhaps.

Not a year-long…entanglement. And entangled to Prince Valarr you have become. His pleasure, his contentment, his fulfillment...they are the delicate thread upon which your life in the Red Keep hinges, a thread that could snap any day your gentle prince’s eyes wander. As men’s eyes tend to do. Your body is his temple, one he’d worship at the altar of every night if he could. But men are fickle with their faith.

Still, appearances matter, however thin the veil of pretense between you and the prince. Hence you nudge his fingers away with practiced gentleness.

“Not here. Your father is watching,” you whisper.

A war wages on your prince’s taut features. Between his unwavering sense of duty and his boundless devotion to you.

He brings your hand to his lips.

“My Lord Father may watch as he likes. It matters not, jorrāeliarzys.”

It does matter. You know from the way Valarr dodges his father’s scrutiny when you are near. His heart may be yours, but his allegiance is to his family first, his father, the throne. That truth remains embedded inside you like a dagger. One no feverish promise may dislodge.

You suck in a nervous breath.

“Valarr, I hear he has found a worthy match-”

“I will not hear of it.” His thumb traces your cheek, his touch reverent. “What need have I of some maiden I do not know when I have you?”

A fond smile tugs your lips.

“You are reckless.”

“No, I am in love,” he states, holding your eyes.

Eternity cradles this moment as the seconds stretch, seemingly infinite. Words clog your throat. While he calls you ‘beloved’ often, whether in Valyrian or the common tongue, that word has never left his lips before. That daunting, thrilling word. Love. To utter it here, at his grandsire’s feast, with so many eyes upon him, robs the very breath in your lungs.

Before you can craft an answer, a deep voice disrupts the storm of your thoughts.

“May I have this dance, my lady?”

You lift your head, your eyes growing wide. You get lost in a deep violet sea.

“Cousin,” Valarr greets. His stiff tone does not elude you.

“Do not fret, cousin. I simply wish to borrow your…guest for one dance.”

A pale hand remains outstretched before you. Cropped silver locks. Sharp, angular features. You had seen him from afar through your arched window in the Maidenvault. Even at a distance, he reeked an arrogance that was singular even for a Targaryen. An innate dislike for the silver-haired prince sparked within you at that moment.

“Prince Aerion Brightflame.” Word has reached your ears of Prince Valaar’s infamous cousin. His cruel, volatile nature is no secret. A dragon made flesh, or so the princeling believes himself to be. “It is an honor, my lord.”

You bow your head, your genteel manner belying your true feelings. You take the blond’s hand and Valarr’s hand squeezes around your fingers under the table, reluctant to yield.

Heart in your throat, your focus shifts between Valaar and Prince Aerion.

He gives a belated reply.

“You may have one dance,” Valarr relents, an animosity that startles you bleeding through his voice.

Though you cannot be sure in the dim candlelight, you catch a glimpse of mirth swaying in Prince Aerion’s violet gaze.

The blonde escorts you amidst the nobles, the merry hymn of the fiddle and harps marking their steps. His grip on your waist is firm as he takes the lead. You follow him with ease, having practiced the steps since you were young. The pillowhouse taught you everything. How to smile, how to laugh, how to dance, how to recite poetry and how to…please royalty.  

Aerion’s scrutiny never strays, a hot brand on your skin. Every inch of you is unpeeled by the prince’s violet gaze. Your motions, your attire, your very expression. You feel assessed though you’re uncertain for what purpose.

“I must say, it is more than I expected from my cousin’s whore.”

The abrupt words ignite flames in your cheeks.

“I’m not a whore,” you retort, despising how the crude word sinks under your flesh.

He spins you and when you face him again, he is closer. Close enough for his warm breath to flow over your cheek.

“You are no lady either.”

Indignation burns in your gut.

“From the tales I hear of you, my lord, I doubt you’d know the difference.”

His jaw clenches, his grip on your hand growing painful. You grind your teeth, holding his stare.

“Quite the mouth you have on you, wench.” His tone lowers, his tongue darting out briefly. “I wager it has many uses.”

You glare at the prince, your lips parting to respond. But before you can retaliate, Prince Valarr’s familiar timbre ripples at your back.

“I believe that dance has lasted long enough, cousin.”

Relief floods your chest.

Valarr tugs your hand, nudging you to his side. Aerion still holds your other hand in his steely grip. A tense, quiet skirmish ensues between the two princes, with you in the middle.

After a while, the silver-haired prince slackens his grip.

Valarr gives a curt nod to his cousin and stomps away, his fingers clasping yours. Your cheeks burn. The sizzling attention of the nobles in attendance needles your back. Tongues will wag. Prince Baelor will not be content. Neither will their grandsire King Daeron you presume.

Valarr takes hasty, long strides towards Maegor’s Holdfast, the furious thumping of his boots echoing against the stone walls. You attempt not to trip over your own feet as you’re forced to follow his brisk pace.

When he reaches his bedchambers, he drags you inside, slamming the door shut. Before you can open your mouth to speak, Valarr cradles your face, his lips colliding with yours. He devours your mouth, holding you as if afraid you might disappear. The ardent kiss is hardly more than a clash of teeth and tongue, his desperate longing coating the air. You moan, tugging on his doublet.

Once he’s had his fill of you, Valarr rests his forehead against yours. His rushed breaths mingle with yours.

Your focus bounces between his lilac eye and his brown one, finding the same bright embers of fury. The eyes of a dragon, you muse. He has seldom looked so very Targaryen.

He takes a deep breath.

“He aims to provoke me. Aerion has made a game of taunting me since we were boys.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, his hands pulling yours until you stand between his legs.

“He resents me for being second in line to the throne. He believes me…unworthy.” His jaw tenses.

“You are not unworthy,” you say, your tone firm.

His palms settle on your hips. The ire carved on his boyish features melts as his fingers trace an idle path along your sides.

You place your hand on his shoulder, stroking the snowy streak on the back of his head with your other.

The tension woven in his frame loosens further.

“Your father is heir and the seven kingdoms are better for it,” you say. Nibbling your lip, you weigh your words before uttering, “Your cousin is far too… impetuous, my prince.”

A soft smile lights his features.

“You are too kind.”

Kind, you ponder. Speaking ill of a prince is tantamount to treason. Even in the safety of Valarr’s arms, you cannot forget your station. Although at times you ache to do so. To shatter the shackles of rank and birth and allow that sense of certainty, of safety engulf you.

But the truth remains. Valarr is a prince, an heir. You’re a mere courtesan.

A heavy sigh escapes his lips.

“By the gods, I longed for peace the entire evening.” He presses his head against your belly, his eyes fluttering shut. “You are my peace.”

Warmth fills your chest. He basks in your touch, his arms clutching your waist. The quiet respite lingers. Valarr’s soft breaths flow through the silk of your dress. You stroke his brown strands, the tender silence comforting you both.

And if a glimpse of violet eyes invades your thoughts, you are swift to quell the pesky memory.

His poise now restored, the prince rises.

“I have a gift for you.”

You tilt your head sideways.

“A gift, my prince?”

A glint of excitement dances in his eyes.

“Turn around.”

You do as he commands, joining your hands in front of you. You face the full length gilded mirror. There’s a rustling noise at your back. Valarr’s warm breath tickles the nape of your neck as cool metal and stone kisses your skin. Amazed, your fingers trace the necklace he clasped around your neck. The gold and rubies match your dress, sparkling in the moonlight spilling inside the room.

You admire the sight of you and Valarr in the tall mirror.

For a brief moment, you conjure a chimeric fantasy. One where you are more than a girl from a pleasure house. One where you and the prince are bound by more than a clandestine affair.

You let the fantasy recess in a hidden corner of your heart. A place where you’ll find it if one day you need to dream again.

“How pretty,” you chime. “You spoil me, my lord. You shouldn’t-”

“Nonsense. I recall you pointing it to me at the market square.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks. The prince is overly generous. Mayhaps you had hoped for a new necklace, but not so soon.

“Thank you, your grace. I shall cherish it.”

His brows furrow.

“Valarr. You know I don’t want titles or rank to cast a shadow over us.” His knuckles sweep down your arm. “It will soon mark a year since I brought you to the Keep. You needn’t be so formal.”

“Forgive me…Valarr.” A knot loosens in your chest. He smiles at you in the mirror.

“You need not ask for forgiveness either. Nothing you do could ever sway my devotion.”

He kisses your shoulder and your gut sinks, the weight of your lies sitting heavy.

The aching truth is that one day Valarr will marry.

You’ve heard the maids whisper about it in the kitchens, some girl from Tyrosh his father wishes to arrange a match with. Or worse, another maiden will draw his eye.

Someone younger, prettier.

Each moon turn will paint deeper lines on your face.

He might even dismiss you on a mere whim.

As fond as you are of Valarr, you can never trust his tenuous promises. It’s why the fact that every piece of jewelry, every pearl, every gift he bestowed upon you has been kept in a safe in preparation for your inevitable departure from the Red Keep…is a secret you cradle close to your chest. The prince would be displeased.

It is mere precaution, for the day his favor will wane, his devotion waver. You do not wish to leave him. But you must keep your wits about you. You have witnessed countless girls at the pillow house fall for noblemen’s grand promises of a better life. Their hopes are always crushed. You cannot be so foolish.

There is enough in that safe to buy you safe passage across the Narrow Sea. Enough to buy your eventual freedom.

Valarr strokes the column of your throat.

“Henceforward, you are forbidden to say ‘your grace’...” His voice shifts into a low rasp. “Lest I bend you over my knee and remind you of my true name, again and again…”

Blood rushes to your lower parts.

“You are wicked, my prince, to say such filthy things with such a sweet face.”

His smile turns devious in the mirror.

“Remove your dress,” Valarr mumbles near your ear.

You oblige, squirming out of the red silk until it falls into a heap on the floor. His mismatched gaze darkens as he soaks your bare form in the mirror.

As you reach for the clasp of the necklace, he nudges your hands down.

“No. Keep it on. I want to remember you this way.”

“Which way, my prince?”

His hold on your hips tightens.

“Utterly and undeniably mine.”

His fingers make a slow journey along your navel, lingering on your exposed flesh. He scatters soft kisses along your throat, his other hand grasping your chest. He teases your breast and your peak pebbles beneath his touch. Your pulse quickens under his palm.

His chest presses against your back, the hand on your stomach traveling lower. He finds the swollen nub above your center. His deft fingers trace slow circles over the sensitive part, sending warm tingles down your legs.

Your eyes flutter, the sensation growing in your lower body. You arch your body, seeking more friction. But his fingers retreat before you can reach your pinnacle, pushing, teasing, but denying you release.

He is enthralled by the sight of your body's response to his touch in the mirror, every shift of your expression, every slight shiver.

He buries one finger inside your cunt. Your thighs clench, a muffled gasp leaving your lips.

“You are torturing me, my prince,” you mumble between jagged breaths.

“Yet we have just begun, beloved.”

He punctuates his words by sinking a second finger, pumping inside you at a maddening pace. Your back arches, your head falling back against his shoulder. His familiar scent and solid presence at your back fogs your senses. You lose yourself in the feeling, your hips undulating to meet his languid thrusts.

He grazes that special spot inside you, the one that makes your knees wobble and obscures your sight. Your breaths grow more laborious. You clench around him.

He plays with your nipple, his fingers continuing to drag in and out of you. You tense, feeble fingers grasping at his arm.

You are close. So close. Your chest heaves, the tide of pleasure mounting in your belly.

Then his fingers retreat, leaving you in sheer agony. Feverish. Breathless.

Valarr tuts his disapproval. “Not yet.”

He smiles at your little pout in the mirror, making a smug display of licking your essence off his fingers. A treacherous thrill shoots up your spine.

He seizes your hips, leading you to the edge of the bed. You plop down on the plush linens, peering up at him.

“Must you control everything, my prince?”

He parts your legs, plummeting to his knees between your thighs. A prince, kneeling before a courtesan. Before you. It is a singular sight. One you cannot help but relish.

“When it comes to you, jorrāeliarzys, I fear I must,” he says, his eyes ensnaring yours.

Without warning, he dives between your thighs. Your chest seizes. The prince’s wicked tongue explores you with abandon.

Your head tosses back, your fingers gripping onto his silky locks.

Once again, he gives and he takes, driving you to the brink of madness. You float along the delightful waves as long as he allows before he withdraws.

“You are cruel, your grace.”

He peels off his doublet and chainmail, baring his smooth, muscular chest. As he tugs on his belt and rises, pressing you down on the bed, he murmurs, “Valarr. ‘You are cruel, Valarr.’ Say it.”

He tugs down his breeches, discards his belt. His long, veiny length is freed, glistening at the tip. Your contemplation of the prince in all his glory is abridged when he sheathes himself inside you. A feeble moan climbs up your throat.

“You are…” He enters you to the hilt. “cruel..” His head falls against your chest. “…Valarr.”

Your cunt tightens around his cock and the prince unleashes a throaty whine.

He moves inside you, each thrust slow and deep. Desperation bleeds in the way his hands cling to you.

And as he claims you for the rest of the night, he makes sure his name spills from your lips every time you come apart.

The next few days are spent in near solitude. Per Prince Valarr’s request, you dwell in your chambers in the Maidenvault throughout the day. Meanwhile King Daeron’s name day celebrations continue. Knees tucked against your chest, you sit at your window. You watch dawn shift into evenfall, bright orange skies fade into purple hues. Day in and day out. You get a glimpse of the ladies draped in their best silks pour through the gates, the knights heading to the tourney. You hear the music, ballads and laughter from the Great Hall every night.

Around you, the Red Keep doesn’t just exist. It lives and breathes, while you’re withering away in your room.

You keep busy, of course. There is a vast library in the Maidenvault. Most of the books and parchments on the shelves were curated by Princess Elaena Targaryen herself during her imprisonment. Although your body is confined within these walls, your mind is free to wander. To imagine yourself far away, in the golden sands of Dorne or amidst the snowy mountains in the North. Each story offers an escape, albeit fleeting, from the Keep.

You also embroider, enterprising to stitch rose patterns on your worn dresses out of sheer boredom. You prick your fingertips so many times that you renounce the task altogether.

At night, Prince Valarr summons you. It somewhat eases the forlorn thoughts but you are restless.

You used to roam the King’s Landing as you pleased a few moons ago. It seems lifetimes away now.

By the eighth sunrise, the isolation grows maddening. Sombre thoughts creep inside your head, nightmares conquer your nights. Frustrated, you toss your blanket aside and get dressed with haste. You take a deep breath, settling on a decision. You will make a small journey to the kitchens today. It should do no harm, you surmise. You will grab some bread and cheese, make small talk with the maids and return to your room right away. It will be quick, unnoticed. The prince never has to know.

Still, guilt wrenches your bowels as you scurry through the halls, your gaze darting behind you as if the prince might appear from a dark corner. You fiddle with your ruby necklace, taking a long breath as you approach the kitchens.

But a commotion from inside the room halts your hasty stride. A frown wrinkles your brow. You shudder at the sound of broken dishes and irate shouts. Your breath hangs still in your lungs, your back flattening against the wall.

“You impertinent halfwit! Are you trying to poison me?”

“N-No, my lord. I swear. We made it as you requested.”

Careful to remain hidden, you steal a glance inside the kitchen.

Your heart leaps. Prince Aerion Brightflame.

The silver-haired prince looms over one of the cooks. The man is crouched on the floor, shivering. There are shattered pieces of a dish amidst what seemed to be a stew of some kind, spilled across the stone floor. Your mouth waters at the scent but it’s clear the prince holds a different opinion.

He kicks the cook in the stomach, causing the poor man to cough and crumple to the floor.

Your stomach lurches.

Putting your hand over your mouth, you recede further across the wall to remain unseen.

“Eat it then, since you’re so proud of it,” you hear Aerion bark. A wave of cold travels up your spine.

“My prince, I…there are broken shards on the floor,” the man stammers.

Another kicking sound reaches your ears. You freeze, your pulse quickening.

“I said eat it!”

“Y-Yes, my lord…”

Unshed tears fill your eyes. You decide you have heard enough and make a discreet exit, your steps quiet as you walk away from the kitchens.

Still aching for fresh air, you head to the gardens. At least there you will have peace. You will be far away from monstrous princes and unfortunate cooks.

You find a stone bench under a weirwood tree. As you sit, you realize your hands are shaking. You clasp them together in your lap, willing the tremors to cease. You focus on the birdsong in trees, the blue sky, the blinding sun, the blushing leaves and bone-white bark. You breathe the warm air, thankful for this respite, however ephemeral. Soon, you will be compelled to return to the Maidenvault. So you relish this moment while it lasts.

Yet, in spite of your efforts, your thoughts stray. Towards the poor cook…and the vicious prince. How could one be so wicked? Heartless?

You wonder if it was wrong to flee, if there is anything you could have done. No. You are as powerless as this man was. Mayhaps even more. It’s a sour realization. How justice and decency means little to one with a title. How vows of knighthood may be discarded if one’s rank is high enough. They are dragons and we are ants, waiting to be crushed under their feet.

“Hm, pretty necklace. A gift from my besotted cousin, I presume?”

The warm finger on your nape and eerily familiar voice have you bolting upright.

You spin, your heart bouncing to your throat.

The object of your dire musings stands before you, his violet stare pinned to your frame. You suck a deep breath, stiffen your spine.

You give a hasty, clumsy bow.

“Prince Aerion, my lord. Apologies. I-I did not hear you.” Your attempt to quell the quiver in your voice is for naught. A lump forms in your throat. You did not hear him somehow, too absorbed you were in your thoughts.

You give another bow and try to sidestep him.

“I shall leave you be. Good day, my lord.”

His imperious timbre impedes your escape.

“Have I done something to offend you?”

Ice scatters in your veins. You shake your head swiftly.

“N-No, my lord. Of course not.”

“Then stay. Sit with me awhile.”

He takes an idle seat on the bench.

“I believe I should…”

“Do not be silly, wench,” he says, impatience dripping in his tone. “Are you dismissing an order from your prince?”

As you hesitate, he clicks his tongue in rising annoyance.

“Dragons aren’t patient creatures.” He pats the empty space beside him. “Sit.”

You yield, tremulous steps leading you to the bench.

He leans back on the bench, his relaxed posture a clear contrast to the taut way you sit.

A few moments of heavy, uncomfortable silence fly by before he speaks.

“You were watching earlier weren’t you…” Your heart skips a beat. “when I was punishing that insolent dimwit?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, nudge a placid smile on your lips.

“I know not what you speak of, my prince.”

The weight of his violet gaze is as rocks on a thin thread. One in imminent state of snapping.

He hums, as if musing aloud, “You’re a clever one, aren't you?” He sniffs, his tone turning derisive. “I mean…as clever as a woman can be.”

You don’t flinch. You’ve heard worse insults hurled at the girls at the pillow house, worse insults whispered behind your back.

“You have my cousin eating every word out of your deceitful mouth like a starved bird.”

This creates a crack in the armor you’ve built around yourself.

Your eyes narrow.

“I’m not deceiving him.”

He sizes you up and scoffs, “You are a whore. Lies and deceit are your trade.”

Your chest flares, indignation mounting within you.

“I really must return to my chambers, my lord.”

“Your chambers…or my cousin’s?” he taunts.

You rise, your motions stilted and hasty.

“Good evening, my lord.”

But Aerion’s hand latches around your wrist. He gets to his feet without hurry, his proximity unnerving you.

“What is your fee?”

Your pulse soars. You blink, thinking perhaps you heard wrong. Surely the wind distorted his words.

The silver-haired princeling sighs, as if you were a dimwit he was losing patience for.

“Your wage, your price…how much?” he asks, his tone dismissive. “Fifty golden dragons? A hundred?”

You gape at him.

Aerion rolls his eyes, “Just give me your fee and I will meet it, wench.”

It takes you a while to retrieve your ability to speak.

“My fee…for what, my lord?”

His fingers dig into your wrist.

“To bury myself in your sweet cunny, of course.” Flames swallow your face. “You must be more than a pretty face for my sanctimonious cousin to act like such a lovestruck fool.”

Your hammering heart sings an uproar in your ears.

There is no thought, no intent, no plan. It is raw anger that causes your hand to fly right into Prince Aerion’s cheek. The harsh slap echoes across the garden.

Time stands still, the prince’s eyes widening.

His utter shock grants you precious seconds.

You gather your dress and race out of the gardens, losing a shoe in your haste. The icy stones burn the sole of your bare foot.

Your thoughts race. You struck a prince.

Your hurried escape is half a run, half a hobble across the Red Keep’s halls. You must return to the Maidenvault. It was a mistake to ever leave it. You were safe.

Your lungs are on fire but fear drives your feet forward.

When your head is slammed into a nearby wall, you cry out. The pain rings inside your head, blurring your vision.

Prince   Aerion’s haughty voice pierces through the haze.

“You impudent little harlot! How dare you lay a hand on me?”

His hand circles your throat, squeezing hard enough to crush your windpipe.

He bends close to your face, sneering, “You have fire, I concede, but fire cannot burn a dragon.”

The silk of your dress is bunched upwards. A palm creeps up your thigh. Panic seizes your chest and you reach for his face. He snatches your wrists before you can strike him again, shoving you against the wall. A groan of pain leaves your lips.

“Must you be so difficult?” he hisses.

Warm fingers slip under your dress. Dread wrenches your insides, your heart threatening to burst inside your chest.

Cruel digits bury inside your dry walls. A cry of pain tears from your throat. Tears collect in your eyes. You tug at your wrists, struggling to free yourself, desperation clawing at your chest.

His hot breath tickles your throat. His musky scent coats your senses as he presses his body against yours, trapping you against the wall.

“Please,” you say, loathing how pathetic you sound.

His crude exploration tears more broken wails from you.

He grunts. “You are so tight…like a maiden. Are you sure my cousin has properly bedded you?”

As you brace yourself for more discomfort, the weight of the prince vanishes. Air rushes back to your lunges all at once. You pat your bruised throat, staggering to your feet.

Your glassy eyes swing upwards.

Dazed, you soak the scene before you.

Valarr holding Prince Aerion by the collar of his doublet, rage twisting his boyish features. This is an uncanny sight. The prince is usually so even-tempered.

“How dare you touch her?” he roars.

Disbelief paints the silver-haired prince’s features.

“You would fight your own blood, cousin…over some whore?”

Valarr’s gaze narrows.

“She’s not a whore.”

Silence stretches between the two princes.

Aerion tilts his head, studying Valarr like a riddle he pained to solve.

“By the gods, you genuinely think you love her. Astounding.”

Valarr’s jaw ticks. He gives Aerion a harsh shove, causing the blond prince to stumble backwards.

“Leave her be, cousin. I shall not repeat myself.”

Leaving his slack-jawed cousin behind, the prince grabs your hand and leads you away. You are numb, your hand quivering in his.

Your heart hasn’t settled yet, fear still clutching you tight.

The haze engulfing you is so thick that you are startled to realize you are in the prince’s chambers, and not the Maidenvault, when you return to yourself.

Valarr bids you to sit on his bed. He seems to assess you for injuries. You flinch when his fingers graze the bruise on your neck.

His brows furrow.

“Are you well?” His voice is soft again, the ire he displayed earlier dulled.

You hug your frame. “I…do not know.”

A deep sigh ripples from his throat.

“Apologies for this…unpleasantness. It brings me shame that Aerion and I are kin.”

You cloister yourself in silence for a while. Thoughts storm in your head, each angrier and louder than the other. Words scald your tongue but you keep your lips sealed.

After some time, Prince Valarr unleashes a long exhale.

“Speak, I beseech you.”

“Is that all, my prince?”

Befuddlement creases his brow.

“All?”

You nibble on your lip, gulping your tears.

“Prince Aerion hurt me, tried to…” The word snags in your throat. “Is there to be no justice?”

His frown deepens.

“I am sorry that he touched you. It will never happen again.”

He attempts to cradle your cheek but you recoil, turning your head. Valarr’s jaw clenches but he doesn’t touch you again.

He retreats and lets out a frustrated groan.

“I have done all that I could.”

“Allow me to doubt that, my prince.”

Shadows flicker in his mismatched gaze.

He sinks to his knees in front of you.

“The Targaryens of Summerhall leave in a few days when my grandsire’s name day celebrations end. Remain in my chambers until then.”

“So I am to hide?”

He reaches for your hands, his fingers firm on yours. You tense at his touch but he doesn’t let go.

“Only for a few days, beloved. You shall be safe here.”

“I do not feel safe.”

His face shifts, as if the mere idea that you wouldn’t be safe besides him was ludicrous.

“You will in a few days. I swear it,” he says. He pauses before announcing, “I will call for a maester.”

“I have no need of a maester,” you retort.

The last thing you wish at the moment is to be poked and prodded by a man again.

“I insist upon it, my love. You are hurt.”

You open your mouth and close it, resigned as you note his resolute expression. Your objections mean nothing to the prince. His mind is made.

Valarr gets to his feet, stomps out of the room, locking it behind him.

You lie on your side, willing yourself to stop shaking. You stare at your tremulous hand. Stop shaking, hand. You focus on this single task, clenching and unclenching your quivering fingers. Hoping it will chase the violet gaze creeping at the edge of your thoughts.

A maester indeed comes. He examines you and gives you an ointment for your bruise. During the entire ordeal, you don’t utter a word. Not even when the maester asks about the cause of the injury and Valarr gives a blatant lie.

When evenfall comes, you curl on your side of the prince’s large bed.

“Please, just allow me to hold you,” he pleads behind you.

You shrink when his palm grazes your waist.

“I do not wish to be held.”

He sighs and retreats.

“As you wish then.”

His tossing and turning is impossible to ignore besides you, making it clear your stubbornness is robbing him of sleep. The prince’s frustration clogs the room, rousing a trickle of guilt in your chest.

You shift closer to him.

“You may hold me,” you relent.

The prince studies your face in the dark, his brows colliding.

“I fear that I'm forcing my will upon you.”

You ache to scream that he is, but smile instead.

“I want you to hold me, Valarr.” You reach for his hand, place it against your bosom. “Please.”

He doesn't hesitate to tug you into his embrace, nestling your back against his chest. The prince’s body sags, his breaths growing calm and steady. The air shrinks in your lungs. Your stomach tightens.

For the first time, the prince’s arms around you are like shackles.

As Valarr instructed, you stay in his chambers for the next few days. The first two nights, the prince simply holds you, allowing you space to recover. Though you are stiff at first, you grow to relax in his arms. On the third night, he makes his urges clear, his urgent need pressing against your rear.

“Valarr, I do not-”

He plants tender kisses in the crook of your neck. Your skin tingles beneath his lips but it’s less pleasant than usual. You curl over the linen sheets. His arms drape around your waist, his soft brown strands brushing against your neck.

“Please, I crave you.” Desperation and longing bleed through his voice. “I miss you.”

You hesitate, your insides knotting. The thought of being touched so soon after Aerion’s impropriety stirs your discomfort.

But the prince is unrelenting.

“Do you not miss me?” he asks, hurt tinging his soft inflection.

“I do. Of course I do.”

Valarr’s face brightens at your response.

The rest is a blur. The prince’s soft lips on your skin. His familiar hands gliding over your curves. His hips slamming into yours as you cry out against his shoulder.

He cradles you like he always does, whispering gentle promises of love and devotion. He isn’t careless or rough. He is slow, careful, handling you as if afraid you’ll shatter in his arms.

Yet you cannot dismiss that peculiar ache in your chest as you writhe beneath him.

The Targaryens of Summerhall’s departure the next day is a relief. Air returns to your lungs as you watch Prince Aerion, his father and his brothers cross the gates astride their horses. You lean your cheek against the window, the tension of the last few days leaking out of you. Finally. You may return to your own chambers. As soon as the gates shut, you are on your feet, ready to head back to the Maidenvault.

A bare-chested Valaar wraps his arms around you from behind. He kisses your shoulder.

“Must you leave so soon?”

“It is the morning. I must bathe and dress, my prince.”

His lips tug upwards against your skin.

“We can bathe together,” he says. His tone turns husky, “As for dressing, perhaps that can wait…”

Another trail of soft kisses is left on your neck.

“My prince,” you mumble, your skin tingling beneath his lips.

Words wither in your throat. The truth is you crave the isolation you ran from before, a few precious moments to yourself. Moments where you are not touched, held or craved. The prince’s eagerness to touch you hasn’t wavered in the last few days.

“Stay, I beg of you,” Valarr whispers into your hair.

“Is this an order, your grace?”

The moment the words spill from your mouth, you realize your mistake. The prince scowls, his hold loosening.

“It need not be one,” he says tonelessly.

You fiddle with your hands.

“I merely wish to go back to my chambers.”

Valarr cups your cheek, his voice sweet as honey.

“Is anything the matter, beloved?”

As you cloak yourself in silence, the prince heaves a deep sigh.

“You are wroth with me still.”

Your gaze strays, your fingernails digging into your palm.

He takes your hands in his.

“May you forgive me one day?”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Though the words echo false as they roll off your tongue.

His thumbs sweep over your cheeks, his expression mellowing.

“I have been excessively demanding.” He lets go of your face. “Apologies. I just ache for your presence, day and night.” His forehead creases. “The burden of my name, my father’s expectations…all of it vanishes when I’m with you.”

Warmth spreads in your chest.

You give a feeble smile. “I am simply in need of rest, my prince.”

Concern paints his features.

“Of course. You may have all the rest you require, jorrāeliarzys.”

Your eyes widen. “Truly?”

He chuckles, stroking your hair.

“Truly. You have been my comfort and my peace for so long.” He pauses, soaking your features. “It is the least you deserve.”

He drops a chivalrous kiss on the back of your hand.

“I will not call on you until you are fully rested.”

A knot loosens in your chest.

“Thank you, your grace.”

“Valarr,” he gently corrects.

You smile and bow. “Valarr,” you repeat.

There is a lightness to your steps as you head back to the Maidenvault. You grab a book from the shelves and settle on the window that has become your refuge. You pat the dust off the cover, lean against the window. You sink into the yellowed pages, basking in the first respite you have enjoyed in days. After countless hours, your eyes sting. Your gaze strays beyond the window. Stars are dotting the darkening hues of the sky. You rise and put the book on your night table. You light the torches on the walls and the room warms with a dim glow. Gulping a lungful of air, you kneel on the stone floor near your bed. You lift two stones, revealing your hiding space, You inspect the inside of the chest with all the jewelry you own. All the prince’s gifts. An errant, mad thought lurks inside your head. Mayhaps it is enough now. Enough to flee far from here. It could buy you the fare across the Narrow Sea, passage to the Free Cities, Lys, Dorne….wherever you wish.

For a few minutes, you dare to entertain it. A life outside the Red Keep. Away from Prince Valarr. Your heart wrenches. No. You slam the small chest shut and lock it. You place the stones back into place, return to your bed.

The prince is fond of you. He loves you. And, you believe, mayhaps you love him as well.

You claw at your chest. But this ache that bloomed since Prince Aerion…

You shudder as a sea of purple drowns your thoughts.

Will it ever fade?

You shake your head, tugging the blanket over yourself. You must cease these endless musings. You are hovering right over the brink of madness. You are safe now. Prince Valarr said so himself. The Targaryens of Summerhall are gone. It’s just you and your prince. And once you are rested and your mind cleansed, you will be back in his arms.

So you close your eyes and allow sleep to engulf you.

For the first time in days, you find a modicum of peace.

Your thoughts fall silent. Your heart settles. The tension woven through your body loosens.

For some time, your rest is sound and undisturbed.

Some hours later, a tingling in your lower body impedes your sleep. You groan and stir, groggily kicking your legs but you find your movements restrained.

The trail of warm tingles continues over your legs, spreading outwards. You tug but are once more shackled to the bed.

Confused, your eyes quake open. Your heart stumbles inside your chest.

The sight of silver hair and purple eyes crowd your sight. The blanket has been discarded, your night shift lifted, and Prince Aerion’s long fingers are hooked around your knees.

Horror twists your insides as you watch him kiss and bite his way up your legs, scattering marks on your skin. You open your mouth to scream.

But Prince Aerion is swifter.

The icy kiss of a sharp blade on your neck ensnares your voice. Your throat bobs and you feel the metal pierce your skin slightly. Unspilled tears swim in your eyes.

The silver-haired prince shushes you. He places one finger over his lips while his other hand holds the dagger to your throat. The knowledge that with one flick of his wrist the prince could end your life has your heart racing.

“Quiet. Why ruin our fun when it’s just begun?” he whispers.

He drags the tip of his knife down your neck, his violet gaze glued to the motion of your throat. A sadistic joy sways in his eyes when the tip of his weapon lands on your pulse.

Your breath freezes in your lungs.

“Please,” you croak.

He lets the blade travel along your collarbone, right over your breast, where your heart threatens to burst out of your chest. With a shallow pressure, he nicks you. You whine as blood pearls over your skin. A small crimson stain forms on your night shift. The prince’s pupils inflate at the sight.

Aerion lifts your chin with his dagger.

“Please what?” he asks, his tone imperious.

“P-Please, d-don’t kill me,” you say, your chest heaving rapidly.

He tilts his head, tracing the hollow of your cheek with his knife.

“I will consider it…if you do not bore me.” He sighs. “Starting with this wretched sniveling. Cease it.”

It’s a relief when he lowers his knife. Wiping your eyes, you force yourself to suppress your tears.

“Now…” He grips the top of your night shift, pulling until the fabric rips. The tattered pieces hang on your arms, baring your chest. Aerion’s leering gaze sweeps over you, his scrutiny heating your skin. He sneers, “No wonder my cousin keeps you to himself.”

Your breath hitches as he palms one of your breasts. He pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tearing a whimper from you. Your cheeks heat as your peak hardens.

“Well, he will have to learn to share.”

His lips then collide with yours. The silver-haired prince swallows your moans, his teeth grazing your lip, his tongue tangling with yours. The press of his lips on yours is greedy, feverish. He rips more of the flimsy fabric of your shift, exposing more of you to his hungry gaze.

He reaches for an object besides the bed. You squint, struggling to see in the darkness. Your eyes widen when you catch the glint of a flask. The prince takes a large gulp, wiping the crimson trail on his chin. To your shock, he then holds it to your lips.

“Drink,” he orders.

When you hesitate, his patience snaps. He presses the rim against your lips, forcing you to swallow the wine. You cough as you struggle to swallow the alcohol. It’s a mess. A lot of it drips down your chin and chest.

Lust flares in Aerion’s eyes. He bends over your chest, licking the stray wine and sucking on your skin. Goosebumps bloom in the trail of his wicked tongue. He hums in pleasure and the sound goes straight to your core.

Aerion forces more wine down your throat, kissing you and licking the remnants coating your chin. Your head spins, the wine starting to wear on your senses.

He bunches your torn night shift around your hips, parting your thighs.

The room blurs around you.

A haze settles over your mind.

Faintly, you feel the bulge in Aerion’s pants. He rubs himself against you, his teeth grazing your neck. His weight is heavy between your legs, pushing you down against the soft bed.

You claw feebly at his face and he grips your wrists, clasping them above your head. Your bones are crushed in his steely grip. You squirm beneath him and his teeth pierce your neck. You cry out, tears rushing to your eyes. You catch a glimpse of the crimson staining his teeth. Your blood. A chill travels up your spine.

Aerion’s tongue darts out to lick the blood on his lip.

“You will learn to bow to your dragon,” he says. His warm breath ghosts over your ear. “To obey. To serve. To worship.”

A cool sensation creeps between your legs. The sensation drags across your inner thigh. You shiver. As it lands at the apex of your thighs, prodding your wet entrance, you whimper. It’s uncomfortable, foreign. You steal a glance downwards and your stomach clenches with dread as you realize what the prince is doing. He draws torturous circles with the handle of his dagger over your wet cunt. Shameful moans climb up your throat, treacherous tides of pleasure swelling in your belly.

A crooked smirk blooms on Aerion’s lips. You have never seen him smile before. It chills your blood. He gathers your arousal with the knife’s handle, rubbing your swollen tangle of nerves until you cry out over the linen sheets, the sensations hitting their peak. You collapse on the sheets, you face hot with an embarrassment you've never felt before. You pant, warmth prickling your skin.

When Aerion withdraws the knife, he makes a show of licking your essence off the handle, his violet gaze never straying from yours.

He unleashes a raspy moan. “Only a filthy whore would get this wet from a knife.” He sinks his finger inside your dripping cunt, tearing a ragged whimper from your throat. His finger drags along your walls and your legs tremble. He bends over you, his breath melding with yours.

You whine as he keeps dragging his finger inside you, adding a second one and stretching you even more. Your back arches on the sheets.

His taunting voice pours inside your ears. “And that is what you are. A filthy whore made for a prince’s cock. A perfect offering for a dragon.”

Your vision darkens as Aerion keeps thrusting his fingers inside you. He releases your wrists, his hand drifting to your chest. He pinches your pebbled nipple, drags his teeth down your neck. It’s clear the prince wishes to leave no part of you unmarked, unclaimed.

He twists his wrist while still inside you. You quiver around him.

His expression is smug as you shatter on his fingers. Self-loathing flares inside you.

The silver-haired prince yanks the pitiful remainder of your shift off your panting frame, tossing it on the floor. He shifts between your legs, pulling his breeches down.

As the head of his cock prods at your slick entrance, you wrestle your drunken fog. You poke at his face with desperation, nails scraping against his cheek. The prince wrenches your wrist off his face in a painful angle. Pain shoots up your arm and it falls limp.

“What a stubborn little thing you are,” he scoffs. He grabs a fistful of your hair and jerks your head back. Your scalp sears with agony. “So pretty yet so defiant.”

Aerion slams his cock inside you to the hilt. Your body jolts, the pain knocking the breath from your lungs.

He grunts as he begins to move, your hair still in his fist. His hips meet yours in a frantic rhythm. Beads of sweat pearl along his brow. The places inside you he touches make you spasm around him. Broken whimpers leave your throat.

“By the gods, you are tight,” he rasps. He pushes you further into the bed, his chest pressing against yours. Your eyes roll back. Your fingers dig into the linen sheets. A strangled moan climbs up his chest.

As your head lolls to the side, Aerion takes firm grasp of your jaw. His gaze dives into yours as each thrust turns more slow and pointed.

“Keep your eyes on me.” His hoarse timbre is imperious. You glare at him with hatred.

He hums, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb.

“I shall make you an obedient little whore, just as you ought to be.”

In the morning, sunlight sears your eyelids, stirring you awake. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your bare frame. You catch a glimpse of the bruises and bite marks Aerion left on your body. A shudder ripples through your frame.

Your eyes dart to the rumpled sheets nearby. Relief floods you. At least you are alone. As you inspect the room, you note there is no sign of the silver-haired prince. You rise from the bed, a feat on its own with how sore you are.

You peer at the window that used to be your refuge, your shelter amidst any storm. You doubt there is any place in the Red Keep where you’ll ever feel safe again. Even your window.

The brightness of the sky seems to mock you. For a few minutes, you are numb, unmoving. Then you keel over the edge of the bed, sobbing. For some time, you let yourself weep. How easily the prince shattered that illusion of safety you harbored.

The salty trails on your cheeks soak the sheets. Your despair clogs the room. When the crying subsides, you make a decision. You study the inside of the Maidenvault. The lavish canopy bed, the shelves brimming with books, the carved wardrobe. At times you have been happy here, other times you have been sad…but you were never free.

You wonder if you could be beyond these walls. If you could have a life that didn’t teeter on the blade-thin edge of a prince’s fickle moods.

You rush to your wardrobe. You rummage through the clothes until you find the plainest dress and cloak you own. Once you are dressed, you walk to the stones concealing your chest. You collect all the jewelry and stones and place them inside secret pockets sewn into your clothes. You asked a septa to help you do it some time after moving into the Keep.

Your heart wrenches.

Perhaps, somewhere deep within your soul, you always knew this day would come.

You pull the hood over your head and stroll to the stretch of wall besides the bookshelves. You pat the cool stones until you find what you are searching for. A small indent in the wall about a foot from the floor. You hook your fingers inside the indent and push. Hope flares inside you when the wall shifts with a quiet thud, revealing a pitch black path behind it.

A while ago, you found the passage Daena the Defiant used to sneak out of the Keep when she and her sisters were imprisoned. It was pure luck. One day you dropped a book near the wall… and there was that strange part of the wall, slightly darker than the rest. You never dared venture through it however. It felt forbidden. It felt like betrayal. But the secret passageway lingered in your mind since the day you discovered it. Your pulse hammers in your ears as you wade through the narrow tunnel, pushing away the cobwebs in your way.

Guilt gnaws at you. A stubborn piece of you wishes to turn back, tell Prince Valarr everything.

But then what? Princes are above the law. Any matter that would tarnish the Targaryen name would be swiftly quelled. Would he protect you from his own kin? After the way he handled Aerion’s first misdeed, your faith falters. What weight does the word of a courtesan carry in this world, particularly against a prince? You wrestle another surge of tears, blinking them back. You knew you’d have to leave the prince’s side one day. But you nurtured the naive hope that you'd have more time.

I shall make you an obedient little whore, just as you ought to be.

You shiver. Based on Aerion’s ominous promise, last night was just the beginning of his torment.

Time is scarce now. All you can do is run.

So you keep weaving your way through the darkness, hoping light awaits you at the end of the long tunnel.

Your feet ache. Your legs beg for mercy. You lean against the dusty wall, thoughts racing. What if you are caught by a kingsguard, noticed by a servant? Would you be mistaken for a spy, tossed into the dungeons? Certainly there can be no good intention behind someone skulking through the Red Keep in a frayed cloak. You stifle the fearsome musings.

It is too late to turn back now.

After what seems like an eternity, a dot of light peeks at the end of the tunnel. You wipe the sweat off your forehead, smiling. Victory pulses through your blood.

Your steps quicken. Your heart bursts with joy.

Finally, you reach the light.

…And your smile dies.

“My prince?”

Valarr and Aerion turn to you simultaneously, as if interrupted amidst a lively conversation.

Your gaze widens as you realize you are in Prince Valarr’s chambers. You want to deny it but, as this room is uniquely familiar to you, you cannot. There is no escape from the horrifying truth. Your knees tremble. You’re on the cusp of collapse. Sheer will alone is what keeps you upright.

The tunnel leads to…Prince Valarr’s room? How is that possible?

The prince’s voice seems far away, distorted by the blood rushing to your head.

You only hear the tail head of his sentence.

“...despite what my cousin said. I refused to think you would ever betray me.”

You blink, startled as you come back to yourself.

“I don’t understand…”

Valarr stalks towards you. The gaze he sweeps over you turns your blood to ice. He has never looked so furious. Even after Aerion touched you in the garden.

“I had this passage sealed after moving you into the Keep.” He unleashes a dry chuckle. “I did it to keep you safe and I thought…” He trails off, flames dancing in his violet eye. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

A scream threatens to unfurl from your throat. So your flimsy chance at escape never existed? The prince built your gilded cage all too well. He clipped your wings before you could fly away.

You approach him and put your hand over his arm.

“My prince, I simply wished to roam the village,” you stammer, clinging to the desperate lie. “It has been so long since I breathed fresh air.”

Valarr wrenches your hand off his arm, squeezing your wrist. You whimper, your bones grinding together in his unforgiving grip.

“Do you think me a fool?” he roars.

“My prince-”

“Silence,” he hisses, sounding more dragon than human.

You lips quiver.

He stares at your cloak for an unnerving stretch of time. He then rips it open, causing all the jewelry to clatter across the stone floor. Your chest seizes. Time seems to stretch into a thousand years. Valarr tilts his head, his gaze pinned to the floor. He stares at the stones with chilling impassiveness.

The prince’s jaw clenches.

“Aerion was right.”

Tears swell in your eyes, blurring your vision.

“My prince, it is not-” Your voice peters into a sob.

Aerion strolls to Valarr, his expression smug.

“Do you see now, cousin? A whore should be treated as such,” he whispers in the brown-haired prince’s ear.

The hand around your wrist twists, tearing a cry of pain from your throat.

“You intended to leave me,” he accuses.

“No, I…Valarr, please…”

“It's ‘Your Grace’,” he snaps, his tone like a whip. Your eyes go wide. You feel as if you were struck. In fact, you might have preferred it. Especially when Prince Valarr looks at you like he would a stranger. No. Like an enemy. His grip on your wrist slackens. You clutch your broken wrist against your chest.

“You used me. You lied to me. You pretended.”

Your cheeks come ablaze.

“Your Grace…Perhaps I have lied, but so did you.” His expression turns murderous. You shudder but continue, “You swore to protect me and you didn’t.”

The last shred of restraint dwelling in the prince seems to shrivel.

His hand clamps around your throat, his eyes glazing over with unshed tears.

“How dare you? I gave you everything.” He shakes you and you claw at his fingers, gasping for air. “Despite your low birth, your station…I loved you.” His voice shatters in the end.

A brief smirk hovers on Aerion’s lips before fading.

He hums, clasping Valarr’s shoulder.

“I believe you should teach her a lesson. We…should teach her a lesson about disobedience, cousin.”

You can practically see the gears turning in Prince Valarr's head, the moment your sweet prince becomes someone else entirely. Someone you do not know. Seeds of madness bloom in his eyes. His face goes taut.

He lets go of your neck and you sputter, sucking air back into your lungs.

Valarr's fingers creep under your chin, angling it upwards.

There’s a cruelty etched in his mismatched gaze now. One that matches Aerion’s. Dread settles deep in your bones.

He strokes your cheek. A perversion of his former tenderness.

Prince Valarr sighs.

“Perhaps, I have been far too lenient with you. I thought it a kindness but evidently not.” Goosebumps erupt at the base of your spine, spreading outwards.

His thumb sweeps over your cheek.

“I shall remind you of your station.”

The prince’s hand squeezes around his jaw, his face hardening.

With just one word, Prince Valarr shatters any flimsy hope for mercy you may have held.

The house was quiet in that heavy way it got after everyone left. Rafe had made sure the door was locked behind the last person out. You'd felt it, the shift in him all night. The way his eyes tracked you from the corner of the room, jaw locked, fingers drumming restless on his knee while you talked to friends. He hadn't said much then. Just drank. Watched. Waited.

Now the bedroom door clicked shut behind you both. The lock turned slow, deliberate. The lamp on his dresser cast a dim yellow glow, catching the sweat on his neck, the flush creeping up from his collar.

Whiskey breath mixed with the faint chemical bite of coke still lingering on him. His shirt hung open at the top buttons, sleeves shoved up, arms tense like coiled wire.

He didn't speak right away. Just stood there, back to the door, staring at you like he was deciding something. You stayed near the bed, arms loose at your sides but ready, heart already picking up speed. The carpet felt rough under your bare feet, the air thick and stale.

"You had fun tonight," he said finally. Voice low, slurred just enough to show the liquor had settled deep. No question in it. Statement. Accusation.

"I talked to people. That's what parties are for."

He pushed off the door. Slow steps toward you. "Yeah. You talked. Laughed. Let that Pogue asshole get right up in your space. Smiled at him like he was funny. Like I wasn't standing ten feet away."

Your throat tightened.

"It was nothing. He made a joke. I laughed. End of story."

Rafe stopped close. You could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the sharp edge of his anger under the booze. 

"Nothing," he repeated. Soft. Almost thoughtful. Then his hand came up, slow, like he had all the time in the world, and wrapped around your throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Fingers warm, thumb resting over your pulse. You felt it jump under his touch.

"You think I'm stupid?" he murmured. Eyes locked on yours. Pupils blown wide. "You think I don't see how you light up for them? How you pull away from me the second someone else is around?"

"Rafe." Your voice came out small. You hated it. "You're drunk. Let go."

His thumb pressed in a little. Just enough to make breathing feel deliberate. "Nah. We're talking now. You wanted to act like everything's fine all night? We're talking about why it's not."

You tried to step back. His other hand shot to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise tomorrow. He pulled you forward instead. Chest to chest, his heartbeat thudding fast against yours.

"You always do this," he said. Voice dropping lower. Rougher. "Act like I'm the crazy one. Like I imagine shit. But I don't. I see it. Every time."

His grip on your throat tightened fraction by fraction. Air got thinner. Your hands came up instinctively, pushing at his wrist. He didn't budge.

"Stop," you rasped.

He tilted his head. Studied your face like he was memorizing the fear there. 

"You know what happens when you push me like this. You've known for a while."

The words hung heavy. He wasn't yelling. Wasn't frantic. Just calm. Cold. Like this was inevitable. Like you'd walked into it on your own.

You shoved harder at his chest. He let go of your throat only to grab both your wrists instead. Twisted them behind your back in one rough motion. Pain flared sharp up your arms. You gasped. He used the momentum to force you back until your legs hit the bed. You fell onto it, him following, knee between your thighs, pinning you down.

He loomed over you. Breathing steady now. Controlled. His free hand came back to your face, cupping your cheek almost gently. Thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

"You think you can leave?" he whispered. Not mocking. Not angry. Just stating fact. "You think you walk out that door and this ends?"

His weight pressed heavier. You felt every inch of him, solid, unmovable. The hand on your wrists tightened until your fingers went numb.

"You don't get to decide that," he continued. Voice soft. Almost tender. "Its not just your choice."

Tears burned hot in your eyes. You blinked them back. "You're hurting me."

"I know." Simple. No apology. Just acknowledgment. Like it was part of the conversation.

He leaned down. Lips brushing your ear. "And you'll still be here in the morning. Won't you?"

You didn't answer. Couldn't. The room spun slowly, fear, pain, the sick twist of knowing he was right about the pattern. The bruises he'd left before. The apologies that came too late. The way you'd always gone back.

His mouth moved to your neck. Not kissing. Just breathing there. Hot. Possessive. "Say it."

You shook your head. Small. Defiant.

His hand slid from your cheek to your hair. Gripped hard. Yanked your head back until your throat arched. "Say you'll be here."

The words stuck in your chest. You swallowed against the ache. "Fuck you."

He laughed once, low, quiet. Lacking humor. "Yeah. But you're still here."

He released your wrists suddenly. Rolled off you. Stood up. Backed toward the door like nothing had happened. "Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

You stayed curled on the bed. Breathing shallow. Wrists throbbing. Throat raw. Face wet from the tears you hadn't let fall until he turned away.

He didn't look back. Just flipped the lamp off. Darkness swallowed the room.

You waited until his breathing evened out on the couch across the room. He never slept in the bed after nights like this, like he needed distance to cool off. 

Then you moved.

Quiet. Careful. Slipped off the bed. Grabbed your shoes. Keys. Didn't bother with anything else.

The front door opened without a sound. Cold night air hit your face. You didn't run. Just walked fast to your car. Started it. Pulled out slowly so the engine wouldn't wake him.

Drove home in the dark. Locked every door behind you. Went to your room. Sat on the floor against the wall. Felt the bruises forming on your wrists, the ache in your throat, the hollow pit in your stomach.

Three days.

You stayed inside. Curtains closed. Phone off. Ignored the rumble of his truck outside, once, twice, then nothing.

On the third day, when the marks had turned deep purple and the fear had hardened into something colder, you turned your phone on.

Typed: We're done.

Sent.

Turned it off.

The silence after felt different this time. Sharp. Final.

You didn't cry. Just sat there. Breathing. Waiting for the fallout you knew was coming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beach house was already alive when you arrived. It felt warm and forgiving after weeks of hiding in your room. Music drifted out the open doors, vibrating up through the deck planks. The air carried bonfire smoke, spilled tequila, and the faint coconut of someone's sunscreen even though it was dark.

You walked in through the side gate like you always did. Sophia and Avery had texts you earlier.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 GROUPCHAT 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

(6:30 pm)

Sophᥫ᭡: girl pls come out ;(

Sophᥫ᭡: just us girls seriously we need u here!!!

Averyʚɞ: mias margaritas r actually insane tn… come save me

Mia spotted you first. She waved you over with both hands, red cup already in one. "There she is! Finally." Her smile was bright, genuine enough that the knot in your chest loosened a fraction. She pressed the cup into your hand without asking. The glass was cold and slick with condensation. You took a sip…tart lime, too much tequila, the burn sliding smooth down your throat.

"Sit, sit," Sophia said, patting the wicker chair next to her. "We’ve been dying without you."

You sat. The chair creaked under you. The fire pit crackled a few feet away, heat licking at your shins. Avery leaned in on your other side, shoulder bumping yours.

 "You look good. Like, really good. We missed your face."

Conversation flowed easily at first. Safe. School gossip. Someone’s new internship. A story about Topper wiping out on his board last weekend that had everyone laughing. You laughed too. The margarita helped. You finished the first one faster than you meant to. Mia was right there with the pitcher, topping you off before you could protest. 

"Lightweight rules don’t apply tonight," she teased.

The second drink went down smoother. The third even easier. Your limbs felt loose, the edges of the night blurring just enough that the ache in your wrists, the faint ghosts of bruises, was easier to ignore. You let yourself lean back. Let the fire warm your face. Let the laughter wrap around you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you were cold without.

You didn’t hear the truck pull up. Didn’t notice the shift in the air until Topper’s voice cut through the chatter. "Yo, look who decided to grace us."

Your head turned slowly. The alcohol made everything lag half a second.

Rafe stepped onto the deck from the side stairs. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched against the breeze. Hair messy from the wind. He looked worse than you remembered, sunken under the eyes, skin pale in the fairy light. But when his gaze found you across the fire, it sharpened. Locked. Held.

Your stomach flipped. The cup in your hand suddenly felt too heavy.

You started to stand.

Sophia’s hand landed lightly on your wrist. Not grabbing. Just resting there. "Hey. Stay."

Mia leaned in close. Voice soft, almost conspiratorial. "He’s not here to start shit. He’s been quiet all week. Like, really quiet. Just… give it a minute?"

Avery nodded on your other side. "We all miss how things used to be. One night. That’s it."

You looked around the circle. Faces lit orange by the fire. Eyes on you,concerned, hopeful, a little pleading. No one was forcing you. No one was blocking the gate. But the weight of their quiet expectation pressed in anyway. Saying no now would mean explaining why. Would mean ripping the fragile normalcy they’d all been clinging to.

You sat back down.

Rafe didn’t come straight over. He drifted instead. Slow. Casual. Grabbed a beer from the cooler near Topper. Cracked it open. Taking a long pull. Then another. He laughed at something Kelce said, low, forced, but enough to make the group relax a notch.

You kept your eyes on the fire. Flames snapping. Sparks drifting up into the dark. The tequila hummed warm in your veins, dulling the sharp edge of panic. Your head felt fuzzy. Pleasant fuzzy. The kind that made bad decisions feel distant.

He moved closer eventually. Sat on the low bench across the pit from you. Knees spread. Elbows on his thighs. Beer bottle dangling between his fingers. He didn’t look at you right away. Just stared into the flames like everyone else. But you felt it, the pull of his attention. Steady. Unavoidable.

After a while, it had been long enough that another round of drinks had been passed, and he spoke. Voice low. Rough around the edges from the alcohol or the week or both.

"You’re here."

Two words. Simple. No accusation. No demand. Just observation.

You swallowed. The margarita now tastes worse on your tongue. "Yeah."

He nodded once. Slow. Took another drink from his beer. "Good."

The group kept talking around you both. Laughing. Teasing. Pretending the tension wasn’t there. But it was. Thick. Electric. Every time someone shifted, every time the fire popped, you felt his eyes flick to you. Quick. Careful. Like he was afraid that if he stared too long, you’d bolt.

Mia leaned over again. Whispered so only you could hear. "See? He’s chill. Just stay a little longer. For old times’ sake."

You nodded. Small. Automatic.

The fourth margarita appeared in your hand somehow. You didn’t remember asking for it. But you drank anyway. Let the burn chase away the last of the clarity.

Rafe finally stood. Walked around the pit. Slow steps. Stopped a few feet from your chair. Hands still in his pockets. Head tilted just enough that the firelight caught the sharp line of his cheekbone.

"Can we talk?" he asked. Quiet. Almost careful. "Just for a second. Down by the water."

You looked up at him. The world tilted soft from the drinks. His face looked different in the low light, less angry, more… lost. The same face you’d seen in the dark of his room weeks ago, right before everything went wrong.

Sophia touched your shoulder lightly. "Go. We’re right here if you need us."

Avery smiled slightly. "Five minutes. Then come back and make fun of Topper with us."

You stood. Legs wobbly but holding. The sand was cool under your feet as you followed him down the steps, away from the fire, away from the lights. Waves rolled in steady. White foam hissing against the shore.

He stopped near the waterline. Turned. Didn’t crowd you. Just stood there. Waiting.

"I fucked up," he said. Voice rough. Low. "Bad. I know it."

You crossed your arms. The wind tugged at your hair. Salt stung your lips. "Yeah. You did."

He looked down at the sand. Kicked at a shell. "I’ve been trying to fix it. Therapy. Cutting back. All of it. Doesn’t make it right. Just… means I’m trying."

Silence stretched. Waves filled it.

"I don’t expect you to believe me," he continued. "But I’m sorry. For real."

You searched his face. The tequila made it hard to read him. Or maybe it made it easier. He looked wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed. Jaw tight like he was holding something back.

You didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Letting the words settle.

He stepped closer. Slow. Careful. "Can I…?" He opened his arms a little. Not grabbing. Just offering.

The drinks had softened everything. The fear. The anger. The memory of his hand on your throat. It all felt farther away. Muted.

You stepped into him.

His arms closed around you. Tight. Familiar. One hand cradling the back of your head. The other low on your back. He smelled like smoke and salt and him. His heartbeat thudded fast against your cheek.

"I missed you," he whispered. Barely audible over the waves.

You didn’t hug back. But you didn’t pull away.

Behind you, up on the deck, the group watched. Faces glowing in the firelight. Smiling soft. Relieved.

You stayed like that longer than you planned.

When you finally stepped back, his hands slid to your arms. Lingered a second. Then dropped.

"Stay?" he asked. Quiet. No demand. Just a question.

You glanced back at the house. Sophia raised her cup. Mia gave a small nod. Avery mouthed please.

The net was soft. Warm. Almost comfortable.

You nodded once.

Walked back with him.

Sat down again.

Took the next drink when it was handed to you.

Let the night keep pulling you under.

Slow.

Subtle.

Inevitable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three weeks later, your period was late.

You bought the test at the small pharmacy on the Cut because no one there would recognize you. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The cashier didn’t look at your face. You sat in your car in the parking lot with the plastic bag in your lap, heart hammering so hard you felt it in your teeth. 

The two pink lines stared back at you from the bathroom counter like they had been waiting there all along.

You had taken the test twice. Same brand. Same result. The first time you sat on the closed toilet lid for twenty minutes, knees drawn up, staring at the stick until the plastic felt warm from your grip. The second time you did it in the shower, water running cold, hoping the steam would blur the lines or wash them away. It didn’t.

Your period was nine days late now. You had never been this late. Not once.

The night at the beach house came back in fragments. Not clean memories. Just flashes. The margaritas tasting stronger than they should have. Mia’s hand on your arm, refilling your cup again. Rafe’s arms around you by the water, the group watching from the deck like it was some kind of movie moment. Then the guest bedroom. His mouth on your neck. His hands sliding under your shirt. You remembered saying “wait” once, maybe twice, the word slurring into the music thumping through the floor. You remembered his weight pressing you into the mattress. After that the edges went soft and dark. You woke up the next morning in his bed upstairs, sheets tangled, head pounding, no clear memory of how you got there or what happened between the guest room and waking up.

You had asked him once, days later, casual, testing the water.

“Do you remember… that night? Like, after we talked on the beach?”

He had looked at you with those tired eyes, thumb brushing your cheek. “Yeah. You were drunk. We both were. You wanted it. We both did.”

You had nodded because pushing felt dangerous. Because the alternative meant admitting you didn’t remember consenting. Or not consenting. The lines were too blurry to touch.

Now the lines weren’t blurry anymore.

You drove to his house that afternoon because the nausea had started and you couldn’t keep pretending it was stress or bad takeout. Your hands shook on the wheel the whole way. The Cameron driveway felt longer than usual. The house loomed white and quiet under the late sun.

Rafe answered the door shirtless, hair damp like he had just showered. He smiled when he saw you, small and hopeful, the way he had been smiling lately. Careful. Like he was afraid the wrong expression would make you bolt.

“Hey. You okay? You look…”

You didn’t let him finish. You stepped inside, closed the door behind you, and held up the test. The plastic trembled in your fingers.

His eyes dropped to it. Then back to your face. Everything in him went still.

“Is that…”

You nodded once.

He took the stick from you gently, like it might break. Stared at the lines. His breathing changed. Shallow. Fast. Then his face cracked open in a way you had never seen before. Not anger. Not smugness. Something raw and bright and terrifyingly real.

“Holy fuck.” His voice broke on the last word. He looked up at you, eyes wet, shining. “We’re… we’re having a baby?”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat closed tight.

He pulled you into him suddenly, arms wrapping around you so hard it hurt a little. His face buried in your hair. You felt his chest shudder against yours. He was crying. Quiet, ragged breaths. Not the dramatic kind. The kind that came from somewhere deep and broken.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is us fixing everything. You and me and… fuck, a kid. Our kid.”

You stood there frozen. His heartbeat hammered against your cheek. Too fast. Too loud. You felt the nausea roll again, sharp and sour.

“Rafe. I don’t… I don’t remember us having sex without… a condom. That night. I don’t remember any of it clearly.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands stayed on your arms, thumbs stroking slow circles like he was trying to soothe you.

“You were drunk. We both were. But you wanted me. You pulled me down there. You said my name like…” He swallowed. “Like you needed me. We didn’t use one because… shit, I don’t know. It happened fast. You were on top at one point. You didn’t stop me.”

The words landed heavy. You searched his face for a lie. Couldn’t find one. But the memory still wouldn’t come clear. Just heat. Pressure. His voice in your ear. Your own hands on his back. Had you pulled him down? Had you said his name?

“I said wait,” you whispered.

His expression flickered. Pain. Guilt. Something darker underneath.

“I know. I heard you. But then you kissed me again. You wrapped your legs around me. I thought… I thought that meant yes. I’m so fucking sorry if I got it wrong. I swear to God I thought you wanted it.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. Eyes closed. Breathing shaky.

“I would never hurt you like that on purpose. You know that. Right?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He took your hand. Led you to the couch. Sat you down. Knelt in front of you like he was praying.

“This baby… It’s not an accident. It’s us. It’s proof we’re supposed to be together. After everything I put you through, after I almost lost you… This is how we make it right. Ward’s gonna be so fucking proud. The girls are gonna lose their minds. They already love you. They’ll love this.”

He reached for your stomach. Hesitant. Palm flat against the flat plane. His hand shook.

“Our kid won’t grow up like I did. No yelling. No bullshit. Just… us. Safe. Together.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. Silent. You didn’t wipe them away.

He saw them. Misread them, maybe. Or didn’t care.

“I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But we can do this. I’ll take care of everything. Doctor’s appointments. Money. All of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words stuck.

“What if I don’t want…”

He froze. Hand still on your stomach.

“Don’t say that.” His voice cracked again. Not angry. Pleading. “Please don’t say that. Not yet. Just… think about it. Think about how good this could be. How much better I’ll be. For you. For them.”

He leaned in. Kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even when I fucked it all up. This… this is our second chance.”

You sat there. Numb. 

He stood up. Pulled out his phone. Already texting.

“I’m telling Ward. And our friends. They need to know. They’ll be so happy for us.”

You watched him type. Watched the messages send. Watched the little dots appear almost immediately.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t look.

You just sat there.

Staring at the spot on the floor where his knees had been.

Feeling the weight of something you couldn’t name settle deep in your chest.

Something final.

Something you hadn’t chosen.

But something you were already carrying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You met them at Sophia’s house because it felt safer than anywhere public. The living room smelled like vanilla candles and fresh coffee. Sunlight cut through the big windows and landed in sharp rectangles on the white couch. Mia had brought muffins. Avery kept refilling your water like that would fix anything.

They were smiling when you sat down. Real smiles. The kind that made your stomach twist worse.

“So,” Mia started, tucking her legs under her, “how are you feeling? Like, actually feeling? The group chat is already losing it over baby names.”

You stared at the muffin on your plate. The blueberries looked too bright. Your throat felt tight.

“I’m not keeping it.”

The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.

For a second, nobody moved. Sophia’s hand froze halfway to her coffee cup. Avery blinked slowly, like she was trying to replay what you just said.

“What?” Mia laughed, nervous. “Come on. You’re joking, right?”

You shook your head. Your hands were shaking, so you pressed them between your knees. “I’m not ready. None of this… none of it feels right. Rafe and I are still so messed up…And now there’s a baby? I can’t bring a kid into this. I feel so guilty even thinking about it, and I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

Sophia leaned forward. Her voice was soft, careful, the way people talk to someone on the edge. “Babe, I get that you’re overwhelmed. Pregnancy hormones are crazy. But this is a good thing. Rafe’s been trying so hard. He’s different now.”

“He’s not different,” you said. Your voice cracked. “He’s the same. And I’m not ready to be someone’s mom. I can barely take care of myself when he’s… when things get bad.”

Avery reached over and touched your arm. “We’re all here for you. We’ll help. The whole group will. This baby could be what finally makes him stable.”

You pulled your arm away. The touch felt too heavy.

“You don’t get it.” Your heart was pounding now. The vanilla candle suddenly smelled sickeningly sweet. “I don’t even remember that night clearly. I was so drunk. I said wait. And now I’m pregnant, and everyone’s acting like it’s this beautiful second chance. It’s not. It’s a trap. I feel trapped.”

Mia’s face changed. The soft concern hardened into something sharper. “Okay, that’s not fair. Rafe told us what happened. You were into it. You went to the guest room with him. You can’t rewrite it now just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not rewriting shit!” Your voice rose. You hated how loud it sounded in the bright, pretty room. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m terrified of raising a kid with him. He’s literally a drug addict!”

The word exploded out of you.

The silence after was worse than the shouting.

Sophia’s eyes went wide. Avery looked away, cheeks flushed. Mia stared at you like you had slapped her.

“Jesus,” Mia whispered. “You really just said that?”

You were breathing hard. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

 “It’s true. He does coke all the time. He gets paranoid. And now you all want me to bring a baby into it? What kind of mother would that make me?”

Sophia’s voice was quiet but edged. 

“He’s been clean for weeks. He’s going to therapy. Ward even said he’s proud of him. You’re acting like he’s so fucked up when he’s trying to be better for you. For the baby.”

“He’s not fucking clean,” you snapped. “He just hides it better when you’re watching.”

Avery stood up suddenly. 

“This is fucked up. We all saw how broken he was when you left. He was crying to us. And now you’re pregnant, and you want to… what? Get rid of it? After everything we did to get you two back together?”

The words hit like ice water.

You looked at each of them. The people who had lied about Rafe not being at the party. The ones who kept pushing drinks on you that night. The ones who told you this was fate.

Guilt and rage and fear tangled so tight in your chest you couldn’t breathe.

“I can’t do this,” you said, quieter now. Voice raw. “I can’t bring a child into this. I’m not ready. And I don’t think I ever will be with him.”

Mia shook her head. Tears in her eyes. “You’re being selfish. That baby is innocent. And Rafe… he’s going to be devastated. You have no idea what this will do to him.”

The room felt too small. The sunlight too bright. The vanilla candle cloying.

You stood up on shaky legs.

“I need to go.”

None of them tried to stop you.

But as you walked to the door, you heard Sophia’s phone buzz. Once. Twice. Then three more times in quick succession.

You didn’t have to ask who it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your phone started exploding the second you left Sophia’s house.

It vibrated nonstop in your pocket the whole drive home. You didn’t look. You already knew. By the time you pulled into your driveway, the screen was flooded with missed calls from Rafe, Mia, and Avery. Text after text.

Rafe: answer ur fucking phone (4:56 pm)

Rafe: you told them you want to kill my kid???

Rafe: after everything ur really doing this to me???

You turned it off and went inside.

The knocking started softly at first. Polite. Almost hesitant. Your mom answered, voice muffled through the door.

“Rafe? Honey, what’s going on?”

You heard the low rumble of his voice, calm, measured. “Can I talk to her? Please. It’s important.”

There was a pause. Your dad appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, watching. Your mom stepped aside. Rafe walked in slowly, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes were red, his hair damp with sweat, but his face was composed. Polite smile for your parents. The perfect Kook boy.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N. Sorry to show up like this. I just… need a minute with her. If that’s okay.”

Your dad glanced at you. You stood frozen in the living room doorway, arms wrapped tight around yourself. He nodded once. “Upstairs. Door open.”

Rafe gave a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”

He followed you up the stairs without touching you. The hallway light buzzed overhead. Your bedroom door creaked when you pushed it open. He stepped inside after you. Closed it most of the way, not all the way, respecting the “open” rule, but enough that voices wouldn’t carry downstairs clearly.

The second he faced you, the mask slipped.

He turned. Locked eyes with you. The polite smile vanished.

“You told them,” he said. Voice low. Controlled. Barely above a whisper. “You told our friends you want to get rid of my kid. And you called me a fucking drug addict.”

You backed up until your calves hit the edge of your bed. “Rafe-”

“Shh.” He held up a hand. Not aggressive. Just firm. “Keep your voice down. Your parents are right downstairs. We’re not doing this loud.”

He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. You could smell the faint chemical edge on him, coke, fresh. His eyes were glassy but focused. Calculating.

“You have no idea what you just did,” he continued, still quiet. “The girls are blowing up my phone. Telling me you’re scared. Telling me you’re not ready. Telling me you think I’m gonna be a shit dad because I’m… what? A drug addict?”

He laughed once. Soft. Bitter. No humor.

“I’m trying. Every day. For you. For this.” His hand moved toward your stomach, not touching, just hovering. “And you go behind my back and tell them you want to kill it? That’s cold. That’s really fucking cold.”

You swallowed. “I said I’m not ready. I didn’t say I was-”

“You said it.” His voice dropped even lower. Almost a hiss. “You said the words. And now they’re all texting me like I’m the problem. Like, I forced this on you. Like I’m the one who’s dangerous.”

He took another step. Close enough, you felt the heat coming off him.

“I didn’t force anything,” he whispered. “That night? You wanted me. You pulled me into that room. You kissed me back. You wrapped your legs around me. Don’t try to spin it now just because you’re scared.”

His hand finally touched you, palm flat against your stomach. Gentle. Possessive.

“This is ours,” he said. “God gave us this. You think He makes mistakes? You think He’d put a baby in you if it wasn’t meant to be?”

You tried to step back. He didn’t let you. His other hand came up to the side of your neck. Fingers curling lightly into your hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Keeping you there.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “Not like that. Not with our kid inside you. But you need to understand something.”

His thumb brushed your jaw. Slow. Almost tender.

“If you try to take this away from me… if you go to a clinic, if you make an appointment behind my back… I will lose it. Completely. And I won’t be quiet about it. I’ll tell everyone. Your parents. Ward. The whole fucking island. I’ll tell them you’re unstable. That you’re trying to kill my baby because you hate me. That you’re the one who’s dangerous.”

His eyes searched yours. Wet. Pleading. But the grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.

“And Ward?” He leaned in. Breath hot against your ear. “Ward already knows. I told him the second your friends did. He’s furious. Not at me. At you. He said we’re handling this the right way. He’s already talking to lawyers. Prenatal custody stuff. Visitation. Support. He can make your life hell without ever raising his voice.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again.

“But I don’t want that,” he whispered. “I want us. I want our family. I want to be good. For you. For the baby.”

His hand slid down to cup your cheek. Thumb wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized was there.

“So here’s what’s happening,” he said. Still quiet. Still calm. “Tomorrow you’re coming to the house. Ward wants to talk. He’s already got the guest house ready. Full doctor coverage. Money for whatever you need. But you’re staying there. With me. Until the baby comes. After that… we’ll figure it out. Together.”

You opened your mouth.

He pressed his thumb over your lips. Gentle. Shushing.

“Don’t say no yet,” he murmured. “Think about it. Think about what happens if you fight this. Think about your parents downstairs. They already let me in. They already know about the baby. They’re not gonna let you do something stupid.”

He leaned in. Forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you hate me. Even when you want to hurt me. I still love you. And I’m gonna love this kid so much it scares me.”

His hand stayed on your stomach. Warm. Heavy.

“But if you try to take it away… I won’t survive it. And I won’t let you walk away clean.”

He stepped back slowly. Dropped his hands.

“I’ll be outside in the truck,” he said. Voice back to normal volume. Polite again. “Whenever you’re ready to talk. No rush.”

He turned. Opened the door wider. Walked downstairs as if nothing had happened.

You heard him thank your parents again. Heard the front door close softly.

You sat on the edge of your bed. Breathing shallow. Scalp stinging. Stomach churning.

Downstairs, your mom called up quietly.

“Honey? Rafe said… he said you’re pregnant?”

The silence stretched.

You didn’t answer.

Your phone buzzed once.

Rafe: I meant what I said. I’ll wait. (5:31 pm)

Then another.

Ward: We’ll see you tomorrow at 10. Don’t be late.

The screen went dark.

You stared at it.

The house felt smaller than ever.

And the weight in your stomach, the one you hadn’t chosen, felt heavier than Rafe’s hand ever could.

…….