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Road Trip

Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU

Warnings: smut, feeling carsick.

The invitation for the road trip had arrived in the group chat with all the subtlety of a royal decree. Valarr had simply stated, Road trip. King’s Landing to Summerhall and back again. Three days. My car. Don't let me know last minute. You had stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen, calculating the potential for disaster. The cast of characters was, to put it mildly, concerning.

Valarr, the eldest of the Targaryen cousins, was the designated Responsible One, a title he wore like a slightly-too-tight crown. He was bringing his girlfriend, Kiera, from Tyrosh, a girl whose social media presence was a perfectly curated gallery of sunsets, lattes, and designer handbags, and whose personality in person was just as organised. Then there was Daeron, Aerion’s older brother, a gentle soul who possessed the supernatural ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime, as if life itself was a lullaby. And finally, there was Aerion.

Aerion Targaryen. Even his name was an ostentatious provocation. He was the designated Problem Cousin, the one who always seemed to be smirking at a private joke that involved the universe and its deep, personal failure to impress him. He was all sharp, beautiful angles and a languid grace that made your stomach do irritating, traitorous flips. You’d crossed paths with him at family gatherings Valarr had dragged you to, you were an honorary cousin by virtue of a decade of loyal friendship, and each interaction had been a minor skirmish. He’d bait you, you’d snap back, and he’d smile that slow, infuriating smile as if you’d just performed a particularly amusing trick.

Three days in a confined space with him felt like a gauntlet thrown down by a cruel and indifferent universe. Still, King’s Landing at the end of it, and a chance to see the famed music festival at Summerhall, was too good to pass up.

The morning of departure dawned bright and unforgiving over the old, grey-stone edifice of Summerhall, the Targaryen summer estate that was now more of a glorified historical monument with dodgy plumbing. Valarr’s car, a sleek, obsidian-black SUV that smelled of leather and Kiera’s expensive perfume, was idling in the gravel driveway. Valarr was naturally at the wheel, a captain surveying his ship. Kiera slid into the passenger seat with practiced ease, immediately connecting her phone to the sound system.

You and Daeron were consigned to the back, with Aerion taking the spot behind the driver. The first hour was a symphony of Kiera’s aggressively upbeat pop playlist, a synthetic barrage of bubblegum choruses and auto-tuned declarations of love. Daeron’s head was already lolling against the window, his breathing evening out into the soft, steady rhythm of the deeply unconscious. You, however, were starting to feel the familiar, queasy roll in your stomach. Reading was out of the question. Looking at your phone made it worse. You were left to stare fixedly at the horizon, a sheen of cold sweat beading on your forehead.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Aerion observing you, his purple eyes, a genuine, startling Targaryen violet, not the cheap contacts people wore on social media and debated whether it was cultural appropriation, narrowed with something that looked suspiciously like concern. He said nothing, but you felt his gaze on you.

By the time Valarr pulled into a service station for fuel and overpriced coffee, you practically fell out of the car, gulping the fresh, petrol-tinged air like a drowning woman. You were leaning against the cool metal of a petrol pump, eyes closed, when a shadow fell over you.

“You look like death warmed over,” Aerion’s voice drawled. You didn’t even open your eyes.

“Go away, Aerion.”

“Motion sickness,” he stated, as if diagnosing a fascinating disease. “Pathetic. All your bile rising because your eyes and your vestibular system can’t agree on what’s happening. I’ll drive next.”

Your eyes snapped open. “Valarr won’t let you. It’s his car.”

“Valarr is so pathologically responsible he’s been driving for longer than is strictly safe. He needs a break, he just won’t admit it. And I’m a phenomenal driver.” He smiled, a slash of white in his sharp, handsome face. “Besides, when I drive, you’re sitting in the front. The horizon is the best fix for your pathetic problem. That, and Kiera’s musical abominations will be firmly relegated to the backseat where they belong.”

The sheer, unexpected logic of it stunned you into silence. Before you could formulate a retort, he was sauntering over to Valarr, his posture a study in nonchalant authority.

You saw Valarr’s initial frown, his instinctive shake of the head, and then Aerion’s low, persistent murmuring. Finally, Valarr sighed, a long-suffering exhalation of breath, and tossed the keys to his cousin.

Kiera was less easily persuaded. “Absolutely not,” you heard her say, her voice high and sharp. “I’m his girlfriend. I sit in the front.”

“Kiera, my sweet,” Aerion purred, his voice dripping with a venomous charm. “Your dedication to aural torture is an act of war against humanity. Our dear friend here is turning the shade of a Dornish olive. She gets the front, she doesn’t get a choice, and you can deafen Daeron all you like. He’s practically comatose. It’s a victimless crime.”

Before Kiera could launch a full-scale offensive, Valarr placed a placating hand on her arm. “It’s just for a bit, love. Let’s not have anyone vomit on the leather.” Defeated, Kiera huffed and threw herself into the backseat, her perfectly glossed lips set in a mutinous pout.

You climbed into the passenger seat, still slightly bewildered. The cabin felt different from this vantage point. Aerion adjusted the seat, the mirrors. He pulled out of the service station with a smooth, controlled confidence that was, you had to admit, a stark contrast to Valarr’s more cautious, rule-abiding style. He wasn’t speeding, but he drove with a fluid grace, weaving through the slower traffic on the Kingsroad with effortless ease.

And he was right. From the front seat, the nausea receded. You could breathe.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low, not looking at you. His eyes were fixed on the road, the late-morning sun catching the silver-gold of his hair.

“Much,” you admitted, the word tasting like a surrender.

“Good,” was all he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched. From the backseat, Kiera’s pop playlist was now a muffled, tinny warble, and Daeron had, miraculously, remained asleep, his head now resting against Kiera’s rigid shoulder. She looked like a cat that had been forced into a bath.

When Valarr took over driving duties again after lunch, a sense of normalcy resumed. Kiera was reinstated in her rightful throne, her mood visibly improving as she queued up a new, even more aggressively cheerful album. You were back in the familiar, queasy territory of the backseat, with Aerion sliding in next to you.

This was when the real torment began. Not from the nausea, which was a dull, persistent throb, but from Aerion. He had an uncanny ability to fill the space he occupied. He didn’t just sit next to you; he loomed, a constant, crackling presence. He’d lean in, his breath a warm ghost on the shell of your ear, just to make a disparaging comment about a song Kiera was playing, so quiet only you could hear.

“If I hear one more synthetic drum beat, I’m grabbing Valarr to make him swerve into oncoming traffic,” he whispered, his lips almost brushing your skin. A shiver, entirely unrelated to nausea, skittered down your spine.

“Don’t do that,” you hissed.

“What? Whisper? Would you rather I broadcast my suicidal ideation to the whole car? Kiera would just play something by an artist with a name made of punctuation marks in response. It would make it worse.”

He was an incessant, maddening pest. He’d comment on the passing scenery in a running, low murmur: scathing critiques of a cow’s posture, a conspiracy theory about a lone farmhouse, a sudden, recitative poem about a particularly ugly roadside billboard. He plucked at a loose thread on your sleeve, his fingers brushing your arm with a deliberate, fleeting touch. He’d find a barely-there smudge on the window and lean across you to point it out, his scent filling your senses.

“Do you ever stop?” you finally ground out, turning your head to glare at him. Your faces were inches apart. His violet eyes were alight with mischief, a dancing, silver fire.

“No,” he said simply. “Not when something is this entertaining. Your jaw gets so tight when you’re annoyed. It’s like watching a very stubborn clam.”

“I am not a clam.”

“Prove it. Unclench.”

“I swear to the gods, Aerion…”

And yet, underneath the annoyance, a bewildering puzzle was taking shape. He wasn’t just needling Valarr, or showing off. His entire, irritating focus was trained on you.

It was in the way his eyes would find yours in the rearview mirror when you leaned forward to talk to Valarr. It was in the way he’d offer you his unopened bottle of water without a word, a silent replacement for your own warm one.

A few weeks ago, at a disastrous garden party at the Red Keep, you’d had one too many Dornish reds and lamented to anyone who would listen, which had turned out to be Daeron’s sympathetic ear, that boys were a confusing, alien species and that you were clearly broadcasting some sort of universal ‘Do Not Date’ signal. You’d been mortified to see Aerion leaning against a pillar nearby, a glass of his own wine held loosely in his hand, a strange, inscrutable look on his face. You’d assumed he was just silently judging your pathetic romantic history.

Now, in the close, quiet hum of the SUV, with the afternoon sun streaming in and Daeron’s soft snores as a soundtrack, Aerion leaned in again. But this time, his whisper wasn’t a joke.

“You know,” he murmured, his gaze intense, holding yours. “For a girl who keeps lamenting her inability to be noticed, you are phenomenally, spectacularly blind.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks. Before you could ask, before you could even breathe, he leaned back into his own seat, turned his head to stare out the window, and didn’t say another word for the next fifty miles. His silence was even louder than his whispers.

The inn Valarr had booked was a place that promised old-world charm and delivered it in the form of creaking floorboards and the faint, persistent smell of woodsmoke. The dinner was a loud, chaotic affair, with Valarr and Kiera bickering lovingly over the itinerary for the next day, Daeron valiantly trying to stay awake through his soup, and Aerion picking at his food, contributing only the occasional sardonic, devastatingly accurate observation. You were quiet, the echo of his words in the car still thrumming in your chest. Spectacularly blind. It felt like an accusation, a challenge, and a confession all at once.

Room keys were distributed. Valarr and Kiera, one room. Aerion and Daeron, another. And you, blissfully, mercifully, a single. Your room was small and cozy, tucked under the eaves, with a sloping ceiling and a window that looked out over the dark, silent expanse of woods. You went through the motions of getting ready for bed, washing your face, pulling on your softest, oldest pajama shorts and a tank top. But sleep was a distant, unreachable shore. You lay in the lumpy bed, staring at the moon cast shadows on the ceiling, replaying every touch, every whisper, every loaded glance from the day. Your back ached, a dull, persistent knot between your shoulder blades from the hours of being tensed up in the car.

It was close to midnight when the knock came. A soft, insistent rap of knuckles on the old wood of your door. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew who it was before you even got out of bed. You padded across the cold floor and opened the door a crack.

Aerion stood in the dim hallway, a picture of disgruntled misery. He was wearing a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants and a faded band t-shirt, his silver-gold hair an unruly mess. He looked nothing like the perfectly coiffed, arrogant heir. He just looked annoyed. And unfairly beautiful.

“Daeron,” he said, as if the name were a curse, “is a violent sleeper. He kicks. He’s currently executing a spinning back-kick in his dreams and has taken possession of the entire duvet. It’s a crime scene. Scoot over.”

It wasn’t a question. You were too tired, too sore, and too full of nervous, electric energy to argue. You opened the door wider, and he slipped inside, filling the small, quiet space with his restlessness. You climbed back into the narrow bed, clinging to the far edge, and pulled the covers up to your chin. He walked to the other side, and with a heavy, world-weary sigh, he lay down on his back on top of the duvet, his hands folded over his stomach, staring at the ceiling.

“My back is killing me,” you mumbled into the dark, a pathetic offering to break the tense silence. “I must have slept on it wrong in the car.”

He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, his profile etched in the silver moonlight. “Where?”

“Between my shoulder blades. It’s just a knot.”

“Roll over,” he commanded.

Your breath hitched. “What? No.”

“Don’t be a child. Roll over. I’m an expert. I have a horse,” he said, as if that explained everything.

With a defeated sigh, partly born of genuine pain and partly of a morbid, dizzying curiosity, you shifted onto your stomach, hugging the pillow. The bed dipped as he moved, and then you felt the heat of him as he sat beside you. His hands, when they landed on the bare skin of your shoulders, were warm and surprisingly gentle. His thumbs found the epicenter of the pain, a knot of pure, knotted steel right next toyour spine, and pressed.

A gasp, half-pain, half-relief, escaped you. He worked in silence for a moment, his touch firm and knowledgeable, kneading the tension away with deep, circular strokes. His fingers were long and deft, and they seemed to know exactly where to apply pressure. The pain began to dissolve, replaced by a spreading, liquid warmth that was far more dangerous.

Then, his touch changed. It was no longer therapeutic. His hands stopped their firm, purposeful kneading and began to wander. A slow, exploratory slide of his palms down the sides of your ribcage, just over the thin cotton of your tank top. The pads of his fingers traced the knobs of your spine, one by one, in a slow, reverent descent. The air in the room thickened, charged with an unspoken question.

“Aerion…” you breathed into the pillow, your voice a shaky, muffled thing. It was meant to be a protest, but it sounded like a plea.

His hand stilled on the small of your back. Then, he shifted his weight. You felt him move, leaning over you, his body a wall of heat along your side. One hand came up to gently brush the hair away from your neck. His lips, when they pressed against the sensitive skin just below your ear, were searing.

“You are,” he murmured against your skin, punctuating each word with a soft, deliberate kiss along your jawline, “the most. Infuriatingly. Blind. Woman. I have. Ever met.”

And then he was kissing you. Properly. He turned your head with a finger under your chin, and his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t a gentle, tentative first kiss. It was demanding, a kiss that had been waiting to happen all day, maybe for years. It tasted of frustration and sharp, silver fire.

You melted into it, a gasp swallowed as your lips parted, your body betraying every sensible thought you’d ever had. You twisted around to face him, your arms snaking up around his neck, your fingers tangling in the fine, soft hair at his nape.

The kiss deepened, a frantic, desperate tangle of tongues and breath. He made a low sound in his throat, a sound of pure triumph, and his body pressed you down into the mattress.

His hand, which had been resting on the curve of your hip, began a slow, torturous migration downwards. It slid over the flimsy material of your pajama shorts, his fingers tracing the crease where your thigh met your hip, and then, with a devastating pressure, he ground the hard, unmistakable length of his erection against your thigh.

A choked moan was lost in his mouth. He swallowed it greedily, his body a delicious, heavy weight against yours. He was all heat and hard muscle, and the friction of the thin layers of clothing between you was a sweet, agonizing torment. He rocked against you, a slow, sinuous rhythm, his mouth never leaving yours, his tongue emulating the motion of his hips.

His hand slipped from your hip to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers teasing the bare skin of your stomach just above it. A question, a final, silent request for permission. You arched your back in answer, a silent, desperate yes. His hand slipped inside, his long fingers delving through the thatch of curls to find your slick, aching core. You were soaked, embarrassingly, gloriously wet, and the knowledge of it only seemed to inflame him further. A ragged groan tore from his chest.

He swallowed the sound of your sharp cry as one deft finger, then two, slipped inside you, curling upwards to stroke a spot that made stars detonate behind your eyes. All the while, the heel of his hand ground against your clit, a steady, brilliant pressure.

He drank down every whimper, every frantic, half-formed moan, as if they were fine wine. He played you like an instrument he’d mastered a lifetime ago. The world shrank to the feel of his hand, his mouth, his heavy, wanting weight. You were climbing, hurtling towards a shattering peak, when he suddenly tore his mouth from yours and his hand stilled.

His forehead was pressed against yours, his chest heaving, his violet eyes black with dilated pupils in the dim light. His expression was a mask of agonized frustration.

“Fuck,” he swore, the word a ragged, desperate whisper. “I don’t have…they’re in my backpack. In the other room.”

A half-hysterical laugh bubbled up in your throat at the sheer, ridiculous, Aerion-like nature of the problem. “Go,” you commanded, your voice thick and unfamiliar to your own ears. “Quickly.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He was off the bed and out the door in a second, leaving a cold, aching void in his wake. You lay there, breathless, trembling, your body a riot of unfulfilled sensation. The seconds stretched into an eternity.

And then he was back, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. He didn't speak. He just shed his clothes, the moonlight painting the long, lean lines of his body in shades of silver and shadow.

He was a masterpiece of pale skin and taut muscle, and his arousal stood proud and demanding from a nest of pale curls.

He was on you in a heartbeat, the foil packet discarded on the nightstand, his naked body a searing, perfect weight.

He nudged your thighs apart with his knee and settled between them. He guided himself to your entrance, and then he was pushing inside you, a single, deep, merciless thrust that filled you completely. A gasp, torn from the very core of you, was smothered by his mouth. The feeling was overwhelming, thick, hot, and impossibly deep. He gave you only a moment to adjust, a single, shuddering pause as he looked down at you, his eyes burning with a fierce light. And then he began to move.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a thorough, devastating fucking, a frantic, driving rhythm that was a direct physical manifestation of all the day’s frustrations and teasing. The headboard knocked against the old wall with a rhythmic thud. He fucked you on your back, your legs hitched high over his hips, his mouth a frantic, hot brand on your throat, your collarbone. He swallowed your cries, your litany of broken syllables that might have been his name.

You shattered with a broken scream, the climax tearing through you with the force of a storm, inner muscles clenching around him in a furious, fluttering rhythm.

The sensation pushed him over the edge. He followed you with a guttural, shameless groan of your name, buried deep inside you, his body going rigid, every muscle a corded line of tension, before he collapsed, a delicious, trembling weight.

But he wasn’t finished with you. Not nearly.

He pulled out, and the loss was a sharp bereavement. But before you could even catch your breath, his hands were on your hips, guiding you, flipping you onto your stomach.

“Up,” he murmured, his voice still husky with sex, his palm smoothing over your spine. “On your knees.” You complied, limbs pliant and

obedient, sinking onto your forearms, presenting yourself to him.

He ran a proprietary hand over the curve of your arse, squeezing, kneading the soft flesh as if he owned it. He pressed a kiss to the small of your back, a surprisingly tender gesture amidst the carnality.

Then you heard the rip of another foil packet, and a moment later, he was blanketing your back with his chest, his body pressing you into the mattress. One arm snaked around your waist, pulling your hips up to meet his. He notched himself at your entrance from behind and thrust home again, a single, slick, deep stroke.

This angle was deeper, more primal. He wasn’t just fucking you, he was surrounding you, his chest a warm, solid wall against your back, his breath a hot, ragged pant in your ear.

His hips found a slower, more devastating rhythm, a deep, circular grind that had you whimpering into the pillow.

His hands were everywhere, one still a tight band around your waist, holding you steady, the other kneading the flesh of your arse, his fingers digging in with a perfectly balanced edge of pain and pleasure.

He was speaking in your ear, a low, continuous stream of filth and praise that you could barely process, the meaning lost to the overwhelming sensation of him.

“So fucking perfect…been wanting this…have no idea, do you?…the things I want to do to you…”

The second climax hit you like a wave, gentler but deeper than the first, a slow, full-body shudder that drew a long, keening moan from the depths of your soul.

He felt it, a deep, guttural groan escaping him as your body milked his. His pace stuttered, his fingers digging into your hip, and with a final, desperate, beautiful shudder, he spent himself again, his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath a hot, humid storm against your skin.

For a long time, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. He was still buried inside you, his weight a comforting, monumental presence. Finally, he stirred, pressing a slow, soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder before carefully withdrawing and dealing with the condom. He cleaned you up with a warm, damp washcloth from the tiny ensuite, his touch now gentle.

He tossed it aside and crawled back into the narrow bed, pulling the duvet over both of you and wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

The silence was different now, a warm, drowsy cocoon. Your mind was a blissful, static blank. Then, a thought, mundane and hilarious in its inappropriateness, bubbled up.

“If Daeron kicks in his sleep,” you murmured into the dark, your voice hoarse, “won’t he notice you’re gone?”

Aerion’s chest vibrated with a silent laugh against your back. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I could go back and give him a few more kicks, just to cover my tracks. But he wouldn’t notice a dragon landing on the bed. The boy sleeps like the dead. Besides,” he said, his arm tightening around you, his voice dropping to a low, serious murmur, “I’m exactly where I’ve been trying to be all day. I’m not moving. Now, for the love of all the gods, stop overthinking and go to sleep. We have another whole day of Kiera’s playlist to endure tomorrow, and I intend to spend the entire night thoroughly wearing you out.”

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

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