Chapter 7 War Council #3
“Yes—there—gods, there—” Aerion gasped, half-scream, half-prayer. His hips bucked helplessly against the relentless rhythm, chasing it, meeting it, surrendering to it.
Clyde bent lower, mouth crushing Aerion’s again, swallowing every moan, every broken plea. His tongue was rough, insistent, as if he could devour the sounds straight from Aerion’s throat. Their sweat slicked bodies slid together, skin to skin, heat to heat, until nothing separated them.
“Fuck—you feel—” Aerion choked out, voice wrecked, “—you feel like you’ve been inside me forever—”
Clyde’s answer was a guttural snarl against his lips, his pace quickening, his thrusts slamming harder, rougher, branding Aerion from the inside out. The mattress creaked and shifted beneath them, the sheets tangling around Aerion’s shaking legs.
Aerion clung to him like a drowning man, body undone, gasping, sobbing, begging. “Don’t stop—please, don’t—”
Clyde drove into him with brutal precision, every stroke deeper than the last, until Aerion’s cries dissolved into raw, incoherent sound. His cock jerked against his stomach, leaking, untouched, his climax building sharp and unbearable with every thrust.
“Clyde—” he screamed, his voice breaking, “I can’t—I’m—”
Release ripped through him, violent, overwhelming, his body arching off the bed as he spilled hot across his stomach and their chests. His vision went white, every nerve aflame.
Clyde followed with a shuddering groan, driving into him hard, burying himself to his balls as he spilled deep, his body seizing, his breath hot and ragged against Aerion’s ear.
For a long moment they stayed locked together, Clyde pulsing inside him, Aerion trembling around him, both of them gasping, shaking, undone.
The chamber was silent but for their breathing.
Clyde lay heavy against him, sweat cooling, lips pressed to the curve of Aerion’s throat. Aerion’s fingers traced the line of his scar absently, reverently, as if afraid to let go.
“Dangerous man,” he whispered into Clyde’s hair, softer this time.
Clyde said nothing.
But his arm tightened around him.
And Aerion, for once, was content in silence.
Morning came with the cruelty of sunlight.
Aerion woke alone.
The sheets were still warm where Clyde had lain, the pillow faintly indented, carrying the scent of smoke and steel that clung to him no matter how the world tried to wash it away. Aerion reached out, hand splaying across the emptiness, dragging through the linen as if he could summon him back.
But the chamber was hollow.
Clyde was already dressing.
Aerion sat up, bare-chested, hair tangled, the robe he had shrugged off at midnight draped useless across the bedpost. He watched in silence as Clyde fastened the last strap of his armour with careful, measured precision. Each movement carried a finality Aerion could taste like ash.
“You should stay,” Aerion said, voice rough from the night before.
Clyde’s back remained to him. “I can’t.”
Aerion swung his legs to the floor, the cool stone shocking against bare feet. “You can. You just won’t.”
That earned a pause, but not a turn. Clyde slid his gauntlet into place, flexed his hand, tested the grip. His silence was a wall, his body a fortress.
Aerion rose, robes falling open, pale skin marked with bruises Clyde had left there. He crossed the floor, touched Clyde’s shoulder, fingers pressing into steel. “After last night—after this—you’d still walk away?”
Clyde finally turned. Grey eyes locked onto Aerion’s, heavy and unreadable. His jaw tightened as if he were swallowing every word that wanted to escape.
“This,” he said, voice low, “is why I leave. Because I’d stay.”
Aerion’s breath caught. The words cut sharper than any blade.
But Clyde didn’t move for the door. Not yet.
Instead, his eyes dropped, down Aerion’s bare chest, down the line of his stomach, to where the robe hung loose over his hips. His gauntleted hand flexed once at his side before he stripped the steel away and let it fall to the floor.
Slowly, deliberately, he sank to his knees before Aerion.
Aerion’s breath stuttered. “Clyde—”
Clyde’s hands, rough and calloused, pushed the robe apart, baring him fully to the morning light.
Aerion’s cock, half-hard from sleep and memory, twitched under that dark gaze.
Heat flared up his spine at the sight of Clyde kneeling—his knight, his shield, his impossible, unyielding man—kneeling before him.
Clyde’s voice was rough when he spoke, low enough it trembled against Aerion’s skin.
“My lord.”
Aerion nearly collapsed at the sound of it. His knees trembled as Clyde’s mouth brushed the tip of his cock, warm breath ghosting over sensitive flesh before his lips closed around him.
Aerion gasped, fingers tangling in Clyde’s hair as the knight took him deeper, slow, steady, the wet heat of his mouth searing. His tongue pressed along the underside, deliberate, reverent, until Aerion’s hips jerked forward helplessly.
“Gods—Clyde—” he moaned, head falling back, eyes squeezing shut. “Yes, please—”
Clyde’s hands anchored him, one braced on his hip, the other curling tight around his thigh. He set a rhythm, deep strokes, tongue swirling at the head each time he pulled back, lips sucking hard enough to make Aerion’s breath falter into curses.
Aerion looked down, vision swimming: Clyde’s broad shoulders bowed between his thighs, lips stretched around him, eyes locked upward, unflinching. The sight undid him.
“Clyde,” Aerion gasped, voice breaking, thrusting shallowly into that hot mouth. “You’re—fuck—”
Clyde answered with a groan that vibrated through him, sending sparks up Aerion’s spine. His control shattered. He fucked Clyde’s mouth in short, desperate thrusts, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet chamber, his cries spilling unguarded into the air.
The heat coiled fast, sharp, unbearable.
“I—Clyde, I’m—” Aerion’s warning dissolved into a cry as he spilled down his knight’s throat, body shaking, thighs clamping around Clyde’s head.
Clyde swallowed everything, not a drop wasted, not a word spoken, only his eyes steady on Aerion’s as he pulled back, lips glistening.
Aerion sagged against the wall, chest heaving, hair wild, one trembling hand still buried in Clyde’s hair.
Clyde rose slowly, his hand cupping Aerion’s face.
“I will return, my lord,” he whispered, placing his lips against Aerion’s.
The horns sounded in the courtyard, long, mournful notes summoning him to war.
He adjusted his sword. Turned once at the door, grey eyes unreadable.
Then he left.
Aerion stood barefoot in the silence, robe fallen open, tasting his own release on Clyde’s lips still burning against him.
And he knew, with a certainty sharper than steel, that the war had already stolen him.