hate sex with tt!aerion in the 're-start' of your relationship (spitting and spanking lol) ⋆.˚
when you first begin seeing eachother again after leaving him for boarding school all those years ago, he is not yet ready to admit how much he missed you and how much you had hurt him….
he’s got you bent over the edge of the mattress, chest pressed against the sheets while he drills into you from behind. the sound of skin slapping skin echoes through the room, loud and wet, and he’s absolutely loving every second of it. he isn't holding back one bit, treating you exactly like the spoiled brat he thinks you are.
"you think you're such a princess huh?," he growls, his grip tightening in your hair as he pulls your head back. "but nah, look at you, soaking my cock like a bitch in heat.”
he smacks your ass, the sting radiating through your whole body. smack. smack. he does it again, harder this time, and you can feel the heat rising on your skin.
"you like that?" he sneers, his breath hot against the back of your neck. "you like being treated like spoiled bitch?"
he shifts his weight and wraps his arm around your throat in a tight headlock, cutting off your air just a little bit while he keeps thrusting. it’s a rough, possessive hold that leaves you gasping and clawing at his forearm. he leans in, pressing his lips right against your ear, kissing you condescendingly in wet smooches.
“prissy rich girl, always thinking you're better than everyone else huh? huh baby?" he coos, his voice dropping to a dirty, low rumble.
“better than you- dirty disgusting pig-” you manage to whimper out,
he lets out a low, guttural laugh that vibrates right against your ear, the sound mixing with the wet slap of his hips against you.
he tightens his arm around your neck, forcing your head back further and pressing his lips right against the shell of your ear. he shifts his hand down, rubbing you roughly, mercilessly, on your throbbing clit.
"you're not wrong" he hisses, "i am a dirty, disgusting pig, and i'm gonna pump my dirty disgusting spunk right up in this princess pussy-"
he snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt with a brutal thrust that makes you see stars. he feels you clenching around him, milking him, and he groans in approval.
"d-don’t you dare aerion-" you manage to choke out, your voice breathless and shaky. you reach back with one hand, digging your fingernails into his forearm,
"yeahhh, take it," he commands, his voice dropping to a sneer. “take my cum-”
you feel yourself getting closer to the edge, and it pisses you off that he’s making you feel this good when you're supposed to be hating him.
then suddenly, he pulls back, letting you out of the headlock, to spit right onto your ass, the hot, wet fluid landing exactly where he wants it. he watches it slide down with every thrust and then smacks your ass right where the glossy spit is just to smear it all over your ass cheek.
you bite your lip to hold back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction. instead, you look back over your shoulder at him with fire in your eyes and spit right back at his face.
"fuck you, aerion," your voice defiant.
he laughs, a low, dark rumble of amusement at your defiance. "oh, we're spitting at each other now?" he muses, his eyes glinting with dangerous amusement.
“you started it asshole-”
and before you can react, his hand shoots out, grabbing your jaw in a bruising grip. he stops his punishing thrusts, leaving you aching and stretched for a moment as he forces your face toward his.
without warning, he spits directly into your mouth, "swallow," he commands, his thumb pressing against your throat as if he can force the action physically. when you don't immediately comply, he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "i said swallow."
as you finally force yourself to comply, he releases your face with a satisfied smirk. "stupid girl…" resuming his brutal pace, somehow even deeper than before, each thrust punctuated by the wet sounds of your combined fluids and the sharp slap of skin against skin.
"you're just low-life trailer trash trash with no class who thinks he owns me. you're the one who's desperate for this, so stop pretending you're doing me a favor."
you want to spit back another insult, but his thumb finds your clit again, circling with merciless precision. your defiance melts into a helpless moan as pleasure builds rapidly, threatening to overwhelm you completely.
"trailer trash that popped your cherry…"
his words hit you like a physical blow, freezing the breath in your lungs. the casual, cruel reminder of a night you cherished shatters your composure completely. your body, already traitorously responding to his touch, clenches around him at the memory.
"fuck you," you choke out, but the words lack their earlier fire. they sound desperate.
aerion's smirk widens, triumphant. "already am, baby. and from the feel of it, you're remembering just how much you liked it the first time too."
his thumb presses harder against your clit, moving in relentless circles that make your toes curl. your mind screams at you to fight, to push him away, but your body arches back into him, seeking more of the pleasure only he seems able to give you.
"tell me you hate me," he demands, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that makes your stomach clench. "say it while you're cumming on my cock…”
the humiliation of his words, combined with the overwhelming sensations, becomes too much. your orgasm rips through you with violent intensity, your back bowing as a strangled cry escapes your lips.
it's pleasure and pain and shame all rolled into one devastating wave….
What about a DM modern!Daeron x ls x modern!Aerion love triangle? The two family fuck ups vying for stark!reader’s hand 👀
... let me hear you speaking (just for me.)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: aerion targaryen x f!stark!reader x daeron targaryen
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 6.7k (this is the type of greed they talk about in the bible)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ warnings/contents: modern!au, substance abuse (alcohol, drugs, smoking), explicit sexual content (18+), public sexual activity, fingering, manipulative!reader (ur honesty a baddie in this in true DM-verse fashion), toxic relationships, possessive behaviour, emotional manipulation, weird throuple power dynamics, freaks5ever.
⋆˙⟡ modern au masterlist.
“You’re going to have to choose eventually.”
Daeron’s voice cuts through the bass-heavy thrum of the club, his breath warm against your ear, his hand settling possessively on your hip. His grip tightens when you don’t answer right away, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, but you feel the tremor in them.
You turn your head just enough that your lips brush his jaw. “Why would I do that?”
The question makes him laugh bitterly, and his mouth finds yours before you can pull away. There’s hints of smoke and expensive scotch on his tongue, the pills he crushed on the bar an hour ago, all that poison he keeps swallowing in increasingly creative ways. His tongue glides against yours with practised desperation, and when he pulls back, there’s a wildness in his pale eyes that makes your pulse thrum.
“Because,” he says, thumb tracing your lower lip, coming away wet, “I’m the one who’s actually in love with you.”
“Poor baby.” You catch his thumb between your teeth, bite down gently, and watch his pupils dilate. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” he agrees, his other hand slides up your back, tangles in your hair. “You’re exhausting, but I can’t—” He breaks off, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. “I can’t stop. I’ve tried.”
“Have you?” You press closer, let him feel every curve of you against him. “Tried very hard?”
“So hard.” The words come out rough, almost cracked around the edges, and he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, one hand cupping your jaw. When Daeron pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath coming faster. “You’re mine tonight. Say it.”
You laugh faintly. “Greedy.”
“Say it,” he repeats, his hand tightening in your hair, pulling just enough to make your lips part, exposing your throat. “Please. Just—let me have this. Let me pretend.”
And there’s something needy in the request, that naked want in his voice, and you soften despite yourself. “Yours,” you murmur against the corner of his mouth. “Tonight, I’m yours.”
The sound he makes is almost a whimper, like the word is oxygen you’ve just given him. “Mine,” he breathes, hands roaming restlessly over your back. “Mine, mine, mine.”
“Yes.” You let your hands slide up his chest, feel his heart hammering beneath your palms, then up to tangle in his pale hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. “Your girl. Your mess. Your problem.”
“My everything.” He’s kissing down your throat now, teeth scraping against your pulse, one hand splayed possessively across your lower back. “God, you have no idea what you do to me.”
“Show me.”
You should probably feel something about this, his naked need for you. Guilt, maybe. And despite yourself, despite your best efforts to keep him at arm’s length, you’ve grown too fond of him. Your mouth opens, ready to tell him what he should do to you, when you feel it. The heat of another gaze burning into you from across the dance floor, platinum blonde hair catching the strobe lights and drawing your eye, and when you meet Aerion’s eyes over Daeron's shoulder, the curl of his mouth is pure venom.
You’re not surprised he’s here. Likely saw the update on your socials, followed like a monster on a hunt, just like you knew he would.
He doesn’t come to you. That’s not how Aerion works, you know—he never chases, never begs, never shows his hand until he’s already won. Instead, he leans against the bar with studied carelessness, all graceful angles and expensive tailoring, and raises his glass in a mock salute. The message is clear: your move.
“Your brother’s watching,” you murmur against Daeron’s throat, and feel him go tense against you. “Looks like he’s found us.”
“Let him watch.” But there’s something jagged in his voice now, something that wasn’t there a moment ago. His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel his heartbeat thudding against your chest. “Let him see that you’re mine.”
“Am I?” you ask playfully.
The question hangs between you, and Daeron’s jaw works repeatedly, searching your face for something he won’t find easily.
“You are when you want to be," he finally says, and kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your mouth. His hands frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and there’s something almost reverent in the gesture that makes your stomach coil. “Aren’t you, baby? You promised."
You don’t answer. You slide your hands up his chest, feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath expensive cotton, and push him back gently. His expression fractures, just for a moment—hurt and hunger and something darker—before he schools it into something cooler, more controlled. But his hand catches your wrist as you step away, holding on too tight.
“Where are you going?”
You step closer, close enough that your lips brush his ear. “To get us another drink.”
The lie tastes sweet on your tongue, and Daeron knows it for what it is—you can see the knowledge in his eyes, the way his mouth thins—but he releases you anyway. Because he’ll let you walk away every time, hoping you’ll come back, believing that his affection will be enough to keep you.
The crowd swallows you as you move across the dance floor, bodies pressing close, the music so loud it rattles your ribs. You can feel Daeron’s gaze following you, too heavy and dark, but you don’t look back. You never do.
Aerion doesn’t move when you reach him, just watches you approach with those cold mercury eyes, his expression unreadable. He leans against the bar like he owns it, like he owns everything in the world, one hand wrapped around a glass, the other hanging loose at his side. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and when you stop in front of him, close enough that your thigh brushes his, he doesn’t acknowledge you at all. The strobe lights catch on the multiple silver hoops climbing his left ear as the silence stretches.
“You’re wasting your time with him.”
His voice is flat, bored almost, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw. Aerion wears his control like armour, you’ve come to learn, layered so thick that most people never see the violence simmering underneath, but you’ve always been good at finding the cracks in him.
“Jealousy suits you, Aerion.”
“I’m not jealous.” He takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes never leaving yours over the rim. “I’m simply stating facts.”
“Right,” you drawl, stepping even closer into his space. “You’re just standing here watching me like a creep because you’re bored.”
Aerion’s lips curl back, revealing his teeth, predatory even in the shifting light. “I’m standing here watching you because you’re putting on a show. Would be rude not to appreciate the performance.”
“Careful.” You lean in close, let your lips brush his ear—the one with the piercings, cool metal grazing your mouth, and you control the urge to bite down. “Keep talking like that, and I might think you actually give a shit.”
“Perish the thought,” he says boredly, but his hand comes up to grip your hip, pulling you between his legs with casual possession, thighs caging you in. His rings—thick silver bands on three fingers—dig into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. “We both know I’m incapable of such tender emotions.”
“Mmm. That’s what you tell yourself?” Your fingers walk up his chest unhurriedly, and you can feel the heat of him even through his shirt, sense the lines of ink you know are hidden there, that full-sized dragon that stretches across his back, wings spread wide. “Must be exhausting, all that pretending.”
“Says the girl who keeps telling my brother she’s his,” Aerion fires back, his grip tightening, fingers digging into your hip hard enough for metal to bite into flesh. “How many people are you tonight, sweetheart?”
“As many as I need to be,” you answer, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, unflinching. “That’s what you like about me, isn’t it? That I’m not afraid to take what I want, just like you.”
A muscle ticks in Aerion’s jaw. “Maybe.” He pulls the cigarette from behind his ear, bringing it to his full lips with deliberate slowness, rings glinting in the low light. “Light me.”
You drop your chin against his chest. “Ask nicely.”
“No.”
You grin, slow and mean, and pluck the cigarette from between his lips. “Then do it yourself.”
You expect him to push, make this into another battle of wills between you, but then he pulls out his lighter, flicking it open with a practised snap. The flame casts shadows across Aerion’s handsome face, highlights the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the dangerous curve of his mouth, and makes his earrings glitter like captured stars. You lean in, and you can smell his cologne, something dark and woody with an edge of smoke.
“You’re a nightmare,” he says conversationally, watching you inhale, eyes tracking the movement of your lips.
“And you’re a sociopath.”
“We’re perfect for each other,” he concludes.
His free hand settles on your waist, thumb stroking small circles through fabric, rings dragging slightly with each pass, catching and releasing.
“We’re terrible for each other,” you retort with a laugh and breathe out smoke between you, watch it curl in the space separating your mouths. “That’s kinda the whole point.”
Aerion’s answering laugh is silky and dark. “Is it, though? Because from where I’m standing, the point is that you can’t decide which one of us you want to destroy more.”
“Who says I have to choose?” You take another drag, then lean in and breathe the smoke directly into his mouth, lips almost touching. “Maybe I want both.”
His eyes flutter closed for just a moment as he accepts it, platinum lashes stark against his skin, and when they open again, there’s something hungry and dangerous glittering in them. “Greedy girl.”
“Possessive boy.” You trace his jaw with one finger, feel the tension coiled beneath his skin, the way his pulse jumps. Your fingers trail down his neck, brush the collar of his shirt where you know ink begins, just a hint of scales and fire. “What’s the matter, Aerion? Afraid you can’t compete with big brother?”
“Please.” His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him in one hard movement. “We both know who you’re thinking about when he’s fucking you.”
The words should make you angry, but you find yourself smiling instead. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s never actually had me.”
“Yet,” he says decidedly, plucking the cigarette from between your fingers while his thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing there once. “But we both know it’s only a matter of time.”
“Confident, are we?”
“I’m realistic,” he corrects, taking a long drag, “because you’re not with him because you love him. You’re with him because he’s easy. Because he’ll take whatever scraps you throw him and call it love.”
“And you?” You lean in until your lips brush his jaw, feeling his breathing slow down. “What would you call us?”
“Inevitable.”
The music shifts again, something slower, heavier, and Aerion sets his drink on the bar without looking, his attention fixed entirely on you. His hand slides from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face up, and there’s something almost clinical in the way he studies you, like you’re a problem he’s trying to solve.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he notes quietly, and there’s no heat in it, no anger, just a sort of cold, appreciative assessment. “Thinking you can keep us both on the line. Thinking we won’t tear each other apart over you.”
“You won’t.”
Aerion’s laugh is humourless. “You sound very sure of that.”
“I am,” you say, leaning into him, letting your hands settle on his chest. Unlike Daeron’s frantic pulse, Aerion’s is slow, controlled. “Because as much as you want me, he’s still your brother. You’d burn the world down for dragon blood, and we both know it.”
Something like surprise shifts across Aerion’s expression, and his hand tightens on your jaw hard enough to make you gasp. For a moment, you think he might kiss you, might push you back against the bar and claim what he wants in front of everyone. Instead, he releases you abruptly, steps back, and the loss of his heat is almost shocking.
“Dance,” he says, stretching his arm toward you, and it’s not a request.
You don’t argue, but you don’t take his hand, either. You push past and walk onto the dance floor, and you don’t have to look back to know he’s following, that his eyes are tracking every sway of your hips, every shift of your shoulders. The crowd parts around you like water, and when you stop, when you start to move with the music, he’s right there behind you. Aerion doesn’t touch you at first, just stands close enough that you can feel the heat of him against your back, close enough that when you lean back, your shoulders brush his chest. His hands settle on your hips, and he pulls you flush against him, his mouth at your ear.
“You think you’re in control,” he murmurs, barely audible over music, and his teeth graze your earlobe. “You think you’re the one playing us, but you're not, sweetheart. You never were.”
His hips roll against yours slowly, and the movement sends heat pooling low in your belly. Aerion moves like violence wrapped in silk, controlled and exact, every shift calculated for maximum impact. His hands slide from your hips to your stomach, splaying wide, holding you against him as you move together.
“Tell me something,” he says, and one hand trails up, fingers brushing the underside of your breast through thin fabric. “When he kisses you, do you think of me?”
You turn in his arms, press your chest against his, and tilt your head back to meet his eyes. “And when you fuck those pretty models, do you think of me?”
Aerion’s expression doesn’t change, but something dark and hungry flashes through his gaze, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. His hand comes up to tangle in your hair, yanking your head back further, exposing your throat, and he leans in until his lips brush your pulse, followed by the tip of his tongue.
“Every fucking time,” he breathes against your skin, and then his mouth is on yours, claiming and bruising in its force, like he’s trying to consume you. “And every time they fail me, when they disappoint me because they’re not you, I punish them for it.”
And then his mouth is back against yours again, and Aerion kisses like he does everything else in life, with single-minded intensity and zero mercy. His tongue slides against yours, demanding rather than asking, and his teeth catch your lower lip hard enough to make you groan appreciatively. The sound seems to satisfy something in him, monster to monster, because the pressure eases fractionally, the kiss shifting from violent to something darker, deeper, more dangerous in its want. His hands are everywhere, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the dip of your spine, like he’s memorising you through touch alone.
When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, and there’s colour high on his cheekbones, the only sign that he’s affected at all.
“You're going to destroy us,” he says, matter-of-fact. “All three of us.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t care.”
It’s not really a question, but you answer anyway. “Would you want me if I did?”
His mouth forms a lethal, pleased line. “No.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, and you can taste the smoke and expensive vodka on his tongue, can feel the barely leashed violence in the tension of his shoulders. His hand slides into your hair, tugging your head back, and the exposure makes your pulse jump. You can feel the press of him against you, all hard muscle and controlled danger, and when his teeth graze your lower lip, you gasp into his mouth.
“Aerion.”
Daeron’s voice cuts through the music, and Aerion stiffens against you. For a breath, neither of them moves, and you’re caught between them, feeling the sudden charge in the air, the shift from desire to something more risky. Aerion’s hand tightens in your hair—not quite painful, but close—and when you open your eyes, Daeron is standing three feet away, his expression dark.
“Daeron.” Aerion doesn’t release you, and he doesn’t step back. If anything, he pulls you closer, a silent claim. “Come to retrieve what’s yours?”
“She’s not—” Daeron starts, then clamps his mouth shut. His hands clench at his sides, and you can see the war playing out across his face, anger and hurt and something that might be resignation. “Fuck you.”
“Eloquent as always, brother,” Aerion mocks.
The word lands like a slap, and something dangerous flashes through Daeron’s eyes. He takes a step forward, and you can feel Aerion’s entire body coil, going taut and ready, and suddenly you’re standing between two men who are about to tear each other apart over you, because of you, and Christ, you should stop this, you should diffuse the situation before it explodes.
You turn in Aerion’s grip, press one hand to his chest, and reach the other toward Daeron. “Dance with me.”
Both of them freeze at your words. Aerion’s hand is still tangled in your hair, Daeron’s still three feet away, and for a long moment, no one moves.
“What?” Daeron blurts out.
“Dance with me,” you repeat, and pull him closer with the hand extended toward him. “Both of you. Right now.”
Aerion nuzzles briefly against the curve of your neck, his laugh soft and dangerous against your ear. “Greedy girl.”
“Always.” You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth, kiss him quick and dirty, then pull back and look at Daeron. “Well?”
Daeron’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and you can see him warring with himself, pride and desire and something more complicated tangled up together. Then his gaze flicks to Aerion over your shoulder, something passes between them—not agreement, exactly, but a kind of temporary ceasefire—and he closes the distance between you.
His hand settles on your hip, opposite Aerion’s, and suddenly you’re pressed between them. Aerion’s chest against your back, Daeron against your front, and the heat is overwhelming, just right. Daeron’s hand slides up your side, fingers splaying across your ribs, and behind you, Aerion’s grip shifts from your hair to your throat, thumb resting against your pulse.
“This is insane,” Daeron murmurs, but his hips are already moving against yours, falling into the rhythm of the music.
“Probably.”
You cup his jaw and kiss him, ignoring Aerion’s growl vibrating in your ear. Daeron kisses like he’s drowning, his tongue sliding against yours with single-minded hunger. Behind you, Aerion’s mouth finds your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse point, and the dual sensation makes you whimper into Daeron’s mouth. You can feel both of them against you, the hard press of Daeron’s body, the coiled violence of Aerion’s, and when you shift between them, grinding back against Aerion while your hips roll forward into Daeron, both of them make low sounds that go straight through you.
“Fuck,” Daeron breathes against your mouth, and his hand tangles in your hair, tugging your head to the side so he can get to your throat. Aerion allows it, his own mouth moving to your shoulder, and suddenly you’re caught between them, their mouths on your skin, their hands everywhere, moving together in a rhythm that leaves you hypnotised.
You turn your head, catching Aerion’s jaw, and he understands immediately, releasing your shoulder to capture your mouth. His kiss is different from Daeron’s—more controlled, more vicious, like he’s trying to prove something. You let him, opening for him, and his hand tightens on your throat in approval. Behind you, Daeron’s mouth is hot against your neck and your shoulder, and his hands are splayed across your stomach, holding you against him.
The three of you move together like something choreographed, like you’ve done this a thousand times before, though you haven’t, not once.
You break the kiss with Aerion, turn back to Daeron, and he’s right there, mouth crashing into yours with renewed desperation. You can taste Aerion on your tongue still, smoke and vodka and violence, and you transfer it to Daeron like a gift, like a curse. His hands frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and the tenderness of the gesture is at odds with the bruising pressure of his mouth.
“I love you,” he says against your lips, and you feel Aerion tense behind you. “God, I love you so much.”
You don’t answer—can’t answer—just kiss him harder, deeper, until he’s gasping into your mouth. Behind you, Aerion’s hands settle on your hips, grinding you back against him, and the movement pushes you forward into Daeron, creating a friction that makes all three of you groan.
“This is what you wanted, isn't it?” Aerion hisses into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Both of us. At the same time. Tearing each other apart trying to get to you.”
“Yes,” you breathe shamelessly.
You angle your head to catch his mouth again. The angle is awkward, your neck craned, but Aerion makes it work, his hand coming up to grip your jaw and hold you in place. The kiss is brutal and possessive, and you can feel Daeron watching, can feel the way his hands tighten on your waist, the hitch in his breathing.
When you break away from Aerion, you’re all breathing hard, sweat-slick and overheated despite the club’s air conditioning. The music shifts again, something even slower, more deliberate, and you turn, your hips moving in time with it, grinding back against Daeron now in a rhythm that’s absolutely obscene. You feel him hard against you, the press of him unmistakable through the thin fabric of your dress, and when you roll your hips deliberately, he groans into your neck.
“Fuck, fuck,” Daeron chokes out, holding you against him as he grinds forward. “You’re killing me. You’re actually killing me."
Aerion watches with hooded eyes, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up again, and he kisses you slow and deep while Daeron rocks against you.
Aerion’s tongue presses against yours, his teeth catching your lower lip, tugging and biting, while Daeron’s hips roll against your ass in a rhythm that’s more fucking than dancing. You can feel him getting harder, can hear the desperate little sounds he’s making against your shoulder, and when Aerion’s hand slides down your throat, over your collarbone, down to cup your breast through the thin fabric, you gasp into his mouth.
Your palm presses flat against Aerion’s chest, and you can feel it—the hard metal of his nipple piercing through his shirt, a small resistance that makes you want to tear the fabric away and put your mouth on it, on him. The knowledge sends heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs trembling.
“That’s it,” Aerion hisses against your lips, feeling where your hand has stilled, knowing exactly what you’ve found. “Let him feel what he does to you.”
You break the kiss, turn your head to capture Daeron’s mouth, and his kiss is frantic, messy, all tongue and teeth and desperate need. Behind you, you can feel him thrusting against you, grinding hard enough that you know he’s close to losing control completely. His hand slides around to your stomach, pressing you back against him, and you can feel every inch of him, hot and hard and wanting, and you can’t bring yourself to care who sees you like this.
“Please,” Daeron whispers against your mouth. “Please, I need—”
You pull back just enough to reach for his drink that he’s somehow managed to keep hold of through all of this, fingers white-knuckled around the glass. You take it from him, swallow a mouthful of whiskey that burns all the way down, then capture his mouth again. Your tongue slides against his, transferring the liquid, and Daeron groans as he swallows, his throat working. Some of it escapes, running down his chin, and you chase it with your tongue, licking up the line of his jaw, following the trail back to his mouth.
“Fuck,” Daeron gasps, and his hands are shaking now, gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. “You’re going to kill me.”
Behind you, Aerion lights another cigarette, the click of his lighter distinct even over the music. He takes a long drag, and you feel his hand on your shoulder, turning you slightly. You break away from Daeron to find Aerion right there, close enough that you can see the darkness glittering in his eyes, the way his pupils have blown wide.
He doesn’t ask permission, just grabs your face, your lips parting and leans in to breathe smoke directly into your mouth, his lips barely brushing yours. You accept it, let it fill your lungs, feeling the intimacy of shared breath, shared air, shared poison. When you exhale, you turn back to Daeron, and he’s already there, mouth open and waiting. You breathe the smoke into him, watch his eyes go hazy, and when you kiss him after, you can taste Aerion and whiskey and smoke all tangled together on his tongue.
Aerion takes another drag, and this time, when you turn to him, he pulls you into a proper kiss, all teeth and spit, smoke curling between your mouths as his tongue slides against yours lazily. His free hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your throat, and when he pulls away to exhale, the smoke billows across your skin.
“Open,” he says after another drag, and you do, parting your mouth, and he leans in until your foreheads touch, breathing smoke directly onto your tongue. You close your mouth around it, feeling it curl down your throat, and when you breathe it back out, Aerion catches it with his own mouth, inhaling deep, his face loose with raw pleasure.
The exchange becomes hypnotic, your mind going fuzzy at the edges, passing smoke back and forth between you and him, between you and Daeron, until you can’t tell whose breath is whose anymore. Aerion’s fingers find your mouth between drags, tracing your lower lip, and you catch his index finger between your teeth, bite down gently before sucking it into your mouth. His rings are cool against your lips, metal sliding against your tongue, and his breathing goes ragged.
“I could fuck you right here,” he says, and you know he means it, pulling his finger free only to replace it with his mouth, kissing you thoroughly while Daeron’s lips nibble against your neck, teeth scraping repeatedly.
It’s only when Aerion pulls back, flicking his half-finished cigarette away, that you yank Daeron by the hair and back towards your bruised mouth, wanting more of him on your tongue.
Aerion’s hand is still on your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple through the thin fabric, and his other hand starts a slow journey down your side, over your hip, to the hem of your dress. His rings drag against your body, cool metal leaving trails of sensation.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Aerion says, and his fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding up your naked thigh with deliberate slowness.
You should stop him. Should stop both of them. You’re in the middle of a crowded club, bodies pressed close on all sides, but no one’s paying attention; everyone is lost in their own world of drugs and music. Aerion’s fingers creep higher, and when they brush against the edge of your underwear, your breath catches.
“Aerion—”
“Shh.” He presses his forehead against yours, silver eyes boring into you. “Just feel.”
His fingers slide beneath the lace, and when he touches you—finally, properly touches you—your knees buckle. Only Daeron’s arms around your waist keep you upright, his grip tightening as Aerion’s fingers move in slow, devastating circles. His rings are cold against the inside of your thigh, the sensation tearing through your body.
“Oh god,” you breathe.
Daeron’s making broken sounds against your neck, still grinding against you, and Aerion’s touching you like he owns you, like he’s mapping every response, memorising what makes you gasp, what makes you whimper and how sweet it feels to finally touch you like this after weeks of your back and forth.
“You’re soaked,” Aerion says conversationally, like he’s commenting on the weather, but you can hear the strain in his voice, can see the strain in his throat. “Is this for him, or for me?”
“Both.” The word comes out strangled. “Both of you, you arrogant—”
The words dissolve into a moan as Aerion presses harder, fingers sliding through your wetness, and Daeron’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down hard enough to mark. You’re caught between them, burning, Aerion’s fingers working you with clinical precision while Daeron grinds against you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.
“Kiss me,” Daeron demands, and you turn your head, capture his mouth.
The kiss is sloppy, desperate, and you can feel him trembling against you, can feel how close he is to coming. His hand slides up to your throat, holding you in place while he devours your mouth, and Aerion’s fingers never stop moving, relentless, almost punishing.
When you break the kiss, gasping for air, Aerion's right there, claiming your mouth hungrily. You can feel yourself getting close, heat coiling low in your belly, and when Aerion curls his fingers just right, you cry out into his mouth.
“That’s it,” he breathes against your bruised mouth. “Let go. Let us feel it.”
“Can’t—”
You’re shaking now, caught between them, Daeron grinding against you, Aerion touching you, and it’s too much, it’s not enough, you need them inside you, both of them—
“Yes, you can.” Aerion’s thumb finds your clit, circles it with devastating precision, pressing and flicking. His rings press cold against your heated skin, making you jerk, your thighs clamp closed, only trapping him closer. “Come for us. Right here. Let everyone see who you belong to.”
The command breaks something in you, and you shatter, pleasure crashing through you in waves. Daeron holds you through it, his arms tight around your waist, breathing hard, and Aerion keeps working you, his eyes glazed and fixed on your face, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive and completely wrecked.
When you finally come back to yourself, you’re boneless between them, held upright only by their hands, their bodies. Aerion withdraws his hand slowly, deliberately, and when he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean while maintaining feverish eye contact, Daeron makes a choked sound.
“Jesus Christ,” Daeron breathes. “You’re both insane.”
“And you love it,” you manage, still trying to catch your breath.
“I really fucking do.” He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. “I love you. God help me, I love you so much.”
Aerion’s expression flickers at that—something animalistic and possessive crossing his face—but he doesn’t comment. He leans in and kisses you again, slower this time, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. The three of you stay like that, swaying together in the dim light, and you can feel Daeron still hard against you, can see the dangerous glimmer in Aerion’s eyes. The air between you is charged, electric, and you know—all three of you know—that this can’t end here, can’t stop with just this.
The song ends, shifting into something faster, harsher, and the spell breaks. You step back, putting space between you and them, and immediately feel the loss like a physical thing. Both of them are staring at you, chests heaving, eyes dark and wanting, and the air between you is so charged it practically crackles.
Daeron reaches for you first, his hand catching your wrist. “Wait—”
“What?”
You’re still breathless, still feeling Aerion’s fingers on you, in you, still feeling the press of Daeron hard against you.
“Leave.” His grip tightens. “Not yet. Please.”
“Come home with me,” you say, and watch both of them react. “Both of you.”
Silence. The music pounds around you, bodies moving, but the three of you are frozen in this moment, this decision point.
“What?” Daeron’s voice comes out rough, uncertain, his hand still wrapped around your wrist.
“You heard me,” you say firmly, looking between them. “Both of you come home with me tonight, or neither of you gets me at all.”
Aerion’s laugh spills out as a jagged, half-animal snarl rather than amusement, his whole body going rigid. “Fuck that.”
You step closer to him, let your hand settle on his chest, and feel his heart racing beneath your palm. “You’re going to say yes.”
“The fuck I am.” But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t shove you back, every muscle coiled tight. “You think I’m going to share? With him? That I’m going to—”
“Yes,” you cut him off, turning to Daeron. “Both of you. Together. Or I walk out of here alone, and you can both go fuck yourselves.”
Daeron’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, a few blonde strands falling over his forehead, his eyes wide and stunned. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m completely serious.” You pull away from both of them, creating space, crossing your arms. “I’m done with this back and forth. Done pretending I can choose between you when I don’t want to.” You meet Aerion’s eyes, then Daeron’s. “So you both come home with me, or this ends right here, right now.”
“This is crazy,” Daeron blurts out, but you can see the want in his eyes, the desperate hope bleeding through his shock. “We can’t—he’s my brother, I can’t just—”
“Jesus, Daeron. I’m not asking you to touch each other.” Your words come out edged with indignation. “I’m asking you to share me. To stop tearing each other apart over me and just—” You break off, swallowing over the want stuck in your throat. “Both of you, or neither of you. That’s the deal.”
Aerion’s jaw sits rigid, his hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white. You can see the war playing out on his face—pride and possession and want all tangled together, violence simmering just beneath the surface. When he speaks, his voice is dangerously soft. “And if I say no?”
“Then I walk.” You hold his gaze, refusing to blink, chin lifted. “And I don’t come back.”
“Bullshit.” But even as he spits the word out, his shoulders coil, sensing the depth of your threat. Just like him, youre not someone who throws your words around easily. “You always come back to me.”
“Try me.”
The silence stretches between you, taut and terrible despite the music and the dancing people around you. Daeron looks between you and his brother, his expression agonised, and Aerion’s staring at you like he’s considering strangling you, or preferably, killing Daeron. You can see his throat working, see the muscle ticking in his jaw.
Finally, Daeron speaks, his voice barely audible over the music, hand reaching out toward his brother. “Aerion—”
“Shut up.” Aerion doesn’t look at him, eyes still locked on you, burning. “I’m thinking.”
“What’s there to think about?” you challenge, stepping closer, until you’re right in front of him, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. “You want me. He wants me. I want both of you. It’s simple math.”
“Nothing about this is simple.” But his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with surprising gentleness that belies the tension in his frame. “I should kill him, and you’re asking me to share you with him. To watch him touch you, kiss you, fuck you.”
“Yes.”
“That’s—” He breaks off, laughing softly, and the sound would normally chill you because you’ve seen the violence he’s unleashed when he gets like this. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”
“I know exactly what I’m asking.” You lean into his touch, watching something dangerous move in his eyes. “I’m asking if you want me badly enough to have me on my terms instead of yours for one night.”
His grip tightens on your jaw, just shy of painful, fingers pressing into your skin, rings digging in cool and unyielding. “You play dirty.”
You lean into the pressure. “I learned from the best.”
Behind you, Daeron makes a choked sound. “This is insane. We can’t—” But when you turn to look at him, you can see the want written all over his face, the desperate hope that you might actually mean this, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Can’t we?” You pull away from Aerion, move to Daeron, and place your hands on his chest. “You said you loved me. Prove it. Prove you want me more than you want to keep playing these games.”
“I do want you more,” he admits softly, hands coming up to frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones again, and you nuzzle into his touch, making his expression crack open. “God, you know I do. But this—us—all three of us—”
“Yes or no, Daeron,” you insist firmly, “both of you come home with me tonight, or I leave.”
His eyes search yours, looking for something—doubt, maybe, or uncertainty—but you keep your expression clear, determined. Finally, he nods, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes.” He kisses you, quick and hard, pulling back breathless. “Yes. Fuck. Whatever you want. Always.”
You turn back to Aerion, who’s watching you both with an unreadable expression, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscles jumping. His hands are still fisted at his sides, but there’s something wild in his eyes now, something barely leashed, like he can feel you slipping from him and is just barely controlling himself.
“Well?” you prompt.
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulls out another cigarette, lighting it. When Aerion speaks, his voice comes out flat, but you can hear the strain beneath. “You’re going to ruin us all."
You smile at the echo of his earlier words. “I know.”
“This won’t last,” he concludes knowingly, “and it’s going to explode. Spectacularly.”
You nod. “Probably.”
Another drag. “And you don’t care.”
“Would you want me if I did?”
Aerion’s smile answer smirk is downright lethal, but there’s something else there too—something raw and wanting that he can’t quite hide. He takes a step toward you, then another, moving like a predator on a prowl, until he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him. “No.”
His hand comes up to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse jump beneath his fingers. You can see the war in his eyes, the need to possess warring with the need to destroy anyone who dares touch what’s his. His thumb strokes over your pulse point, and you feel him trembling with the effort of control.
“I should walk away,” he says quietly, and his voice has gone rough, gravelly. “I should tell you to fuck yourself and find someone who’ll crawl on all fours and suck me off for breakfast if I tell her.”
“But you won’t,” you say knowingly.
“No.” The word is almost a growl, his hand tightening fractionally on your throat. “You want both of us? Fine. We’ll play it your way. For tonight.”
“For tonight,” you agree, though you both know it’s a lie.
Tonight will become tomorrow, will become next week, will become this impossible thing that none of you can walk away from.
“We’re all going to regret this,” Daeron says, but his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together, holding on tight.
“Almost definitely,” Aerion agrees, and his hand slides from your throat to your lower back, yanking you closer still.
You look between them—these two beautiful, dangerous men who’ve been destroying each other over you—and smile. “Then let’s make it worth it.”
ls spitting in aerions mouth...their kisses always being so wet because aerion wants to drown himself in anything to do with her. ughhhh subby aerion we tell stories abt u
OH IF WE'RE TELLING STORIES ABOUT SUBBY AERION... BUCKLE UP.
The thing is Aerion is greedy. Insanely, pathologically, obscenely greedy. Regardless of what verse, regardless of circumstance, regardless of what he's actually getting from you in any given moment—it's never enough. Can never be enough. He's a dragon and dragons hoard, and he's spent his entire life hoarding you in every form he can access: memories, dreams, stolen glances, the scent of you lingering on clothing you left behind, photos of you he's screenshotted from social media in modern verse and has saved in a folder labelled something innocent like "references" so no one stumbles onto his shrine. And once he actually gets to have you (physically have you) his greed goes nuclear. He doesn't just want sex, doesn't just want physical contact, no. He wants your souls merged, wants to crawl inside your skin and live there, wants to consume you so completely and be consumed in return until the line between you is utterly dissolved.
Which is why the making out goes dumb.
You both spend obscene amounts of time just kissing. Not as prelude to sex or as foreplay. Just as its own devouring, consumptive, hours-long act. You'll climb into his lap in his solar or his chambers or his penthouse or the backseat of his ridiculous car, and you won't leave for hours, and neither of you will be any closer to actual fucking by the end of it because the making out itself is the point. Is the reward. Is the drug he keeps chasing.
And you know exactly how to torture him.
You trace his full mouth with your thumb first—slowly, deliberately, outlining the shape of his lips while he watches you with those bright eyes that have gone hazy and unfocused. He tries to catch your thumb between his lips and you pull back, make him wait, make him earn it. When you finally let him he sucks on it greedily, tongue sliding along the pad of your thumb, and you watch the flush climb up his throat, watch his eyes flutter. "Greedy," you murmur, brushing your nose against his, and he groans around your finger.
You add another finger. Two. Push them against his tongue, test the weight of it, feel him try to pull you deeper. Sometimes you use this to keep him quiet when he's being insufferable. Sometimes you use it just to make him squirm. Either way he's gone pliant and needy, making these soft desperate sounds, his whole body leaned into you like he's waiting to be claimed.
Sometimes you lean in like you're about to kiss him and then stop just short, watching him strain toward you, watching his breathing go ragged. "Open your mouth," you'll order coldly, and he obeys instantly, lips parting for you. Or sometimes you don't give him the chance to obey. You just pry his mouth open with your thumb against his chin, a little rough, a bit mean, and he'll glare at you with those fever-bright eyes even as the flush works its way up his throat, even as his pupils blow wide, even as his cock twitches visibly in his trousers (or jeans—those obscenely expensive designer jeans he wears that hide absolutely nothing when he gets hard for you).
The glare is performative. The shame of being manhandled is real but so is the desperate arousal of it. He loves when you're rough with him. Loves when you take without asking. Loves when you make him feel your strength.
Then you spit in his mouth.
And he moans.
This long, broken, devastated sound that tells you exactly how much he needed it, how much he wanted it, how much he's fantasised about you doing precisely this. You lean down and kiss him while your spit is still on his tongue, claiming what you just gave, licking into his mouth possessively, and he makes sound after sound into the kiss, groans and growls that have no words attached.
The kiss is wet. Obscenely wet. Aerion kisses like he's trying to drown in you, tongue and teeth and saliva mixing until you're both slick-mouthed and panting. You bite his lip hard and he gasps. You suck on his tongue and he whines. You pull back to catch your breath and he chases your mouth with such pathetic desperation that you have to laugh, which makes him flush darker and try to look dignified, which makes you kiss him again just to watch him fall apart.
Sometimes you're in his lap during this, straddling him fully dressed, and you grind against him deliberately while you kiss. Slow circles of your hips that make him groan into your mouth. The friction through layers of fabric is nothing like real contact but his body responds anyway, arching up against you, desperate for more pressure, more heat, more anything. In modern verse you do this on his absurdly expensive leather couch, or in the back of his car.
You let your nails drag across the tendons in his throat—gentle, threatening, possessive—and he tilts his head back to give you more access, exposing his neck to you like an offering, baring his pulse point while you keep grinding into his lap and kissing him devouringly. In modern verse his throat is often covered in small chain necklaces (Cartier, Tiffany, custom pieces he's collected) and you'll catch them with your teeth, pull them taut, use them as makeshift leashes, a pretty collar, while you work him over. He's never taken them off since you started doing this. Can't bring himself to. They're marked by you now and he tugs on them alone sometimes and gets hard remembering you yanking on them.
You can feel him getting close through the fabric. Can feel the way his rhythm starts to stutter, how he pulses, the way his hips are chasing yours desperately, the way he's making those high broken, furious sounds against your mouth. And the best part (the part that destroys him) is that you don't stop.
You grind harder. Kiss deeper and meaner, claiming. Let your nails dig into his throat just shy of drawing blood and put your other hand in his hair and tug, sharp and quick, and that's what does it. He comes in his pants with a sound of absolute devastation, his whole body shuddering, his hips snapping up helplessly against you, spilling inside his own trousers like a teenager, like an untrained squire, like someone who can't even survive a kissing session without disgracing himself.
He hates you immediately.
Immediately.
Pushes you off his lap with burning humiliation, his face flushed from hairline to collarbone, his breathing ragged, his eyes glassy with shame and residual, raw pleasure. "Fuck you," he'll spit, swiping at his mouth. "Fuck—fuck you—how could you—I'm not—" He can't even finish sentences because the shame is so thick, because the knowledge that you just made him come in his pants like a child is unbearable, because his dragon pride is in shreds on the floor between you. In modern verse he's standing in his penthouse in ruined Tom Ford trousers, staring at the obvious wet spot spreading at his crotch, and the cognitive dissonance of the infamous Targaryen problem-child—the one society pages love to speculate about, the one whose rehab stints make tabloid headlines, the one who gets to be dangerous because the family money makes him untouchable—being reduced to this by his Northern girl is enough to make him want to scream.
And then, of course, he has to fuck you mean and proper to prove himself.
Throws you onto the bed, rips your skirts up. (In modern verse: shoves you against the massive windows of his penthouse, the city glittering twenty floors below, doesn't care who might see because nobody can see clearly enough to matter and also he wants them to see, wants the whole fucking city to witness him taking you.) Doesn't bother with most of the preliminaries because he's still half-hard despite having just finished, and his refractory period when you're involved is basically non-existent. Fucks you with brutal purpose while muttering increasingly filthy things about what you did to him, how dare you, how you're going to pay for making him come in his own trousers, how he's going to ruin you so thoroughly you'll never recover.
But deep down (and you both know it) he'll take the humiliation. Has taken it a dozen times before and will take it a dozen times again. Because pleasure with you is unlike anything he's ever experienced with anyone else. Because coming in his pants from a makeout session with you is still better than coming from proper fucking with literally anyone in the world who isn't you.
He's tried. In his worse years, in the dark periods during your time apart, he tried to fuck you out of his system with every available body. Whores in Lys. Courtiers at court. Models in modern verse. Pretty boys and pretty girls and anyone who'd have him. He could bed a thousand of them and not feel a drop of what one makeout session does with you. It's not even close. It's not in the same category. Sex with other people is barely scratching an itch; this thing with you is a transcendent drug that reshapes his entire nervous system.
Which is why he keeps letting you do it. Why despite his rage at being made to come in his pants, despite the humiliation and the damaged pride and the way you so clearly get off on reducing him to that state, he always comes back for more. Always lets you crawl into his lap again. Always lets you trace his mouth and push fingers past his lips and spit into his mouth and grind him to completion through his clothes like the pathetic hungry creature he is for you.
Because he's greedy. Because he wants every version of this, every variation, every possible way you'll touch him. Because even the humiliating versions are yours, marked by you, claimed by you, and that makes them sacred in ways he can't fully articulate.
In modern verse there's a specific flavour to this that's almost worse. Because he doesn't have a job to anchor him, doesn't have meetings to run, doesn't have the CEO-level responsibilities that could provide dignity or structure like Baelor. He has nothing but you and his money and his bad habits, which means you're essentially his full-time occupation. Which means he's available for you to reduce him like this at literally any hour of the day or night. Which means he has nowhere to rush off to afterward, no suit to pull together, no board to face—just endless hours of you, and hours of him recovering from you, and hours of him hoarding you again, over and over. The rich trust-fund prince with nothing to do but obsess over his Northern girl. The dangerous playboy with a reputation for violence and recklessness reduced to coming in his designer pants because you spit in his mouth and called him greedy. He posts cryptic things on his tastefully-updated Instagram (black-and-white photos of a hand gripping his hair, lipstick marks on his throat, his own reflection in a mirror looking wrecked and too content, almost feline in his satisfaction) and his followers speculate about who's got Aerion Targaryen this whipped, not knowing it's been you all along, not knowing it'll always be you. Sometimes he jerks off in his car between meetings and family functions just thinking about it all, texts you photos of himself wrecked in the back seat, hand covered in cum, asks you what you'd do to him if you were there (you always answer: come home and find out).
So the wet kisses are their own occupation. The devouring sessions where you trade spit and bite each other bloody and he comes in his pants and has to rally to prove himself. The greedy dragon finally getting to drown himself in his obsession, the Northern wolf finally getting to play with her favourite toy.
Dropping the latest Sketch-a-Wish, voted on by my lovely Patreon members for December! Featuring Katniss and Peeta from Catching Fire when they take a day off on the roof of the Capitol training center.
It's been a while since I've seen the Hunger Games movies, and working on this whetted my appetite, so I jumped straight from Catching Fire. It was sad that they skipped this scene though, I could tell the exact moment it was cut. Y'all know how I like symbolism, and I wanted to think that Peeta was a bit more optimistic finding an opportunity to spend some downtime with Katniss (hence, why he's cast in the sunset light), where as I feel like Katniss was just taking solace in the afternoon bubble they carved out for themselves, resting in the shade.
pairing: valarr targaryen x cousin!reader x aerion targaryen
warnings: dark fic. future non con. future dub con. dark aerion. dark valarr. underlying sexual tensions. arguing. abandonment issues. dub con. violence. aerion slapping reader. heavy kissing. biting. spitting. blood kink. borderlining on non con. MDNI 18+ angst. 18+ MDNI
a/n: rereading this chapter just now, can't lie i hated it. honestly was thinking of scrapping the whole thing together but then reminded myself this is just fanfiction and it isn't that deep. so sorry.
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
It’s not that you're trying to avoid them.
If you’re being honest you wish things could fall back into the way things were last summer. But things are different, you understand that now. You’re older and hiding true affections behind heated gazes and gentle brushes of your finger tips over their skin isn’t going to work anymore. It can’t.
It’s been three days since your arrival, three days since you all had been alone together, three cold nights alone in your bed.
You’re not used to this, to walking along different paths to avoid passing them out on the ranch or using other people as a buffer to keep them at bay. You don’t like it and you can tell they don’t like it either.
You feel their eyes on you everywhere. They’re on you at family dinners, on days when you’re walking through the fields, and on the heated afternoons when you’re sitting on the porch with him.
They’ve never been accustomed to your father, nor have you really. You do remember the time when it had just been the both of you, younger distant memories but time makes it feel that bit strange all the same. He’s trying and that’s all you’ve ever wanted really. He also acts like a great distraction, an object that keeps a good bit of space between you and them, something for you to pour all your attention into.
But just because they can’t get you alone doesn’t mean they won't try other methods to get your attention.
It’s Valarr that attempts at first, bold as ever, sitting beside the empty seat next to you at the dinner table. He doesn’t say anything at first, no real action to move until mid dinner conversations, your father talking about your plans after summer. His hand finds yours under the table, it’s nothing out the ordinary for you two, his fingers slipping into yours. He doesn’t need to say anything, a gentle squeeze to your hand brings you to look at him and you can see it written all over his face.
Don’t go.
You can feel your heart beating erratically under your rib cage and you wonder if he can hear it too.
Your head snaps around at your name and you try to feign a laugh, eyes peering around the table cluelessly.
“Something got your attention,” your father asks, looking between you and Valarr with a puzzled brown.
“Don’t mind them,” Your Uncle Baelor chimes in, a knowing smile gracing his lips. “She’s always been so easily distracted by her cousins.”
Your father nods but doesn’t seem so assured as he looks between you two and it makes you feel caught out like it’s written all over your face. But then he turns, looking towards his own brother with a forced smile.
“Thought you could reassure your uncle about our plans after summer.” Your father almost snorts, pushing the food around his plate with his fork before looking up at his own brother with a pointed glare. “He thinks I mean to kidnap you.”
“I just want to know my niece is going to be safe,” Your uncle says, eyes falling onto you with a certain warmth that gives you comfort.
Your hand slips from Valarr’s under the table, coming around you as you come to your father’s defence.
“Well Dad has told me so much about the world.” You turn to him, the word ‘dad’ still falling flat on your tongue even after months of saying it but you still muster a smile, placing a hand on his shoulder for comfort. “About his travels and I think it will be a great way for us to get closer.”
Aerion’s fork comes down hard against his place, shaking the table in the process as he stabs a piece of pork with his fork. He puts in his mouth before peering up, a devilish smile on his table as he gathers nearly everyone’s attention.
“Well isn’t that nice,” Aerion says, before staring directly at you for a moment and then at your father.
“Aerion,” Valarr whispers, a warning no doubt.
But Aerion is far too gone to come back, you can already tell with the way he’s staring your father down with a smirk.
Your father may not know that look but you know it so well.
“Let’s just hope you don’t abandon her through the trip.”
Others start to gasp around the table, even Valarr drops his face into his hand but Aerion continues.
“It would be hard for us to come get her halfway across the world.”
“Enough,” Your Uncle Baelor snaps, twisting his gaze to turn to Aerion.
Your Uncle Maekar does the same but Aerion only shrugs at his father amused, and says, “You agree with me though.”
“Boy-” Maekar can barely get his own words out before your father abruptly stands.
“I know I may not have always been the best father,” He begins to say, staring your cousin down. “But I’ve been trying and I will take care of my daughter. You may not like the idea and you don’t have to support it but you’ll find your dear cousin is firm in her decision and will be leaving here this summer with me.”
The dinner table falls silent after that, your father storming off somewhere and everyone else aimlessly begins to look around.
You don’t expect what comes next and your eyes fall on your Uncle Maekar as he clears his throat.
“If it’s any constellation, we just want the best for you-” he begins to stay, but Baelor stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Brother,” Baelor simply says, before shaking his head. It’s not the time, you think he means to say.
***
You can’t stop thinking about it in the comfort of your bed, the heated conversation still replaying in your head. You knew your cousins would be against this but you didn’t expect this from your uncles as well.
Sleep barely finds you most nights but with the tensions from dinner still simmering under your skin, it seems entirely impossible and you give up on even trying to force your eyes to close, only seeing their vivid faces behind them, angry and wanting. You opt for the cool night air instead.
You don’t get far out the door before you feel someone following you, steps hot on your trail. It doesn’t take a genius to know who it is, footsteps heavy like he wants to be heard, like he wants you to know he’s right there.
When his pace quickens, so does yours sprinting before you can even think about where you’re going, just lost in the midst of the thrill of being chased.
It doesn’t last long before you can feel the heat of him behind you, footsteps right behind yours, hands reaching out to snatch you. He doesn’t pull you into him though, that’d be too kind, he only grabs your frame for a second before he throws it to a heap on the ground, having you almost land on your face.
You should scream, kick and hit him but the fall knocks the wind right out from you and you struggle just to turn yourself on your back.
Aerion is on top of you, knees either side of you. It’s a pathetic struggle, your wrists falling into his hands with ease, pinning them above your head. He leans down and for once he’s not smiling, rather a deep frown that sits on his lips.
“It was nothing,” he tells you, voice almost cracking like he’s pulling apart at the seams. You’ve never heard him like this, sad and angry all at the same time. “Not even a mere infatuation.”
It hurts the thought of it. Just the idea that he could let himself for a moment belong to someone else— It’s wrong. A twisted vile thing inside of you, that has your heart beating like a drum against your ribcage, so loud you think he can feel it as he lowers himself further down on top of you.
You can’t give into it. You won’t allow yourself to.
Yet his forehead is pressing against yours, breath against your face, making you feel things you shouldn’t. Things you’re not allowed.
“Don’t do this,” he breathes out, his voice so pained it almost sounds like he’s begging. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you do this.”
“Get off of me,” you heave out, wriggling your hips to move underneath him but he doesn’t budge.
He calls your name, a warning and yet you keep struggling until his hand comes down on your face, pushing it into dirt and holding it there. It’s mean. It’s meant to be. It’s all he knows. He loosens his grip on your wrists and as he does so your hands escape his clutches, coming up to scratch at his face and pushing him back.
You’re fighting then, hands hitting against him, his face, his chest, all while he tries to seize them and take them in his grip again. It doesn’t work though, and he has one last resort.
It stings. He’s hit you before, but this is different, it fucking hurts, ears ringing from how hard his hand came across your cheek.
You’re crying, not from the pain though. Thick tears rolling down your cheeks and you can’t help but look up at him through your wet lashes, wanting him to see how distraught you are. To see how he’s made you feel.
“I’m sorry.”
You barely even hear it but it falls from his lips just the same and you wish he never said it, because it ruins you all over again.
He’s usually all smiles, revelling in your pained expressions.
Not tonight.
You can’t stop looking at him, your cold stare softening at the edges at the way he eyes you with a deep frown, leaning into you so slowly like he’s waiting for you to turn away. You don’t, you let his forehead touch yours, wet lashes brushing his as he closes the space between you. His mouth falls against yours in a heated kiss, teeth clashing against each other like he’s been waiting forever to do this.
It’s everything you always expected it to be and more.
He doesn’t ask for permission, forcing your lips open with a nasty bite that has you gasping into him. His tongue delves right in, plush against yours and you honestly can’t tell if you’re kissing him back or just letting it happen, all you know is you’ve completely given in.
Aerion pulls away for a second, breathless, a string of saliva still connecting you two and you don’t know what takes over you but it’s you leaning in for more. You’re desperate for it.
When your lips connect this time, you’re more than eager to accept his tongue into your mouth, sliding your own against it. You can hear yourself over the shared noise of swapping spit, you’re sighing into it, moaning even.
And you can’t help but let those thoughts sink in, ones that you’re trying to bury.
Did he kiss her like this? Did she moan pitifully into his mouth like this? Did she feel this intoxicated just from his lips?
You bite down hard and Aerion retracts from you in an instance, yelping out in pain.
It doesn’t last long, his tongue swiping across his lips as blood trickles out his mouth and at the mere taste of it, he’s laughing again, realising what you’ve done. He leans down all too quickly, one hand coming to hold your chin tightly in place while the other pries your mouth open.
“You’re going to taste this,” he tells you, like it wasn’t up for debate in the first place.
He doesn’t kiss you, he spits into your mouth before slipping his tongue inside once more and then gliding it over your lips. You taste it, taste him and there’s a part of you that craves more, a part of you that you think will always be kept wanting.
“Taste good?” He retorts, leaning further in.
“Was it like this with her?” You respond before he can kiss you again.
He groans, rolling off of you and falling to the side. His smile has gone and you can tell he’s tired. That this isn’t the game for him.
“I think you know the answer to that.” It’s all he gives you before he’s walking back into the house, leaving you with all the reassurance he knows how to offer. And you’re not quite certain that it is enough.
***
Valarr doesn’t need to seek you out, as much as a part of you hopes he does, he’s too patient for that.
It’s like he knows you’ll eventually play into his hands.
It’s your father that tells you he misses riding, that he hasn’t ridden since he was a child. You want to see him happy, that you don’t even really think before telling him you’ll get one of the stable hands to saddle you up two horses so you can show him around the ranch.
He can barely get on the horse and when he does manage, the horse bucks under the tight grip of his legs, throwing him off.
He’s fine, getting up and telling you to ride on without him and again you don’t really think, you just listen.
You ride slowly through the fields, down the forest lines, almost two miles out before you realise he’s riding behind you. He’s only a small spec from this distance and if you wanted, you could try and escape him, riding fast and hard away. But the ranch is vast miles of land, some desolate of life and the truth is, you’d probably just be putting yourself in greater danger.
It’s a conversation that’s inevitable.
You can’t even look at Valarr as he dismounts his horse, only finding cover in the trees as you try to think of all the words you wish to say. Nothing feels right. You want to question him, scream at him, smash your fists into his chest. Yet what right do you have?
You hear him behind you before you can really react, quick footsteps that don’t give you a moment to act and as you step to turn around, he descends on you.
One hand falls to your hips, while the other cups the back of your head, snatching you to him. You gasp as his lips cover yours, parting your lips for his tongue to sink into your mouth. He takes his time, tongue sliding across yours, like he’s willing you to move against him… and it does.
You gasp when you’re pushed back against a tree, thighs parting so he can press his body tightly against yours. You can feel him, even through the material of his jeans and it makes you breathless, all thoughts dissipating from your mind.
It’s for you, all for you. It’s the only thing you can tell yourself to stop yourself from going insane.
“It was never about them,” Valarr mutters in between kisses, catching you off guard. “It was always about you.”
“Don’t,” you shakily say, hands coming up against his shoulders. You can’t help it, feeling the tears clinging at your throat like cement. You hate feeling like this. “Stop.”
He doesn’t let up though, mouth descending to your throat when you tear your own mouth away to the side. As much as you try to push him away, he doesn’t give and you can’t help but moan at the way he thrusts himself against your hips.
“Valarr, please.” You can’t do this, not like this.
And before you know it, he’s letting you go.
You fall against the tree, barely able to look at him as you try to steady your own breathing. You barely can, tears sliding out of your eyes that you desperately try to wipe away.
“You don’t want to do this,” Valarr says, and you feel him behind you, breathing against your neck and chest on your back. “He’ll leave you like he always does-”
You slip out of his grasp, pushing him away and you can’t help but snap at him, “That is so unfair. He’s clean now and he’s trying.”
“How long is that going to last?” He responds, shrugging his shoulders, carelessly biting with his words. “Two more months. Three more weeks. A day? Before he’s searching the cabinets of the house for any bit of money that he can use. You know why he came here.”
“Can’t you just let me be happy?” You question, fresh tears stinging at your waterline. He just doesn’t understand.
“You’re not happy though.” He lunges for you again, backing your frame against another tree, trapping you there. “I make you happy.” He lowers himself, nose nudging yours as he whispers into your skin, “We make you happy.”
The feel of him against you makes it hard to think, to piece the words together. You feel every part of your resolve crumbling as he draws closer in, lips trailing against the side of your face, against your wet cheeks.
“And yet you’ve only made me miserable since I got here.” you feel the words escape you before you even think them and when he pulls away, you wish you can take them back.
Just like Aerion he’s given up, walking away and leaving you there.
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Have you ever thought about an alternate universe where Jason leaves the criminal world and becomes a virtuoso drummer, growing his hair long and embracing anarchy?
Being a girl is: wanting to go to bed early but deciding to just get on tumblr/wattpad/Ao3 for a little bit and then end up finding a fic series that you really like and read until well past your usual bedtime then keeping on because it’s already past your bedtime. Then being mad when you wake up in the morning because you overslept your timer.
