aerion “why did you stop?” targaryen
like when you’re playing with his hair. late at night, in your chambers—
your fingers root themselves into the white, almost silver strands delicately. as if you’re afraid he’ll run if you rush into it. you wait until he completely melts on top of you to gently drag your nails over his scalp. his face presses into your chest, nestled between your breasts and nosing at your sternum like he’s been reduced to basic instincts. he seeks out more of your touch once your hand stills. he needs your nails teasing him in the softest ways, he needs your fingers twisting and tugging at his hair in a manner that comforts him. a whine crawls up his throat, raspy and unguarded. your other hand raises, just so you can swipe your thumb over where his brows furrow in the middle. his lashes flutter in response, his lips move— “why did you stop?”
or when you’re kissing him. somewhere you shouldn’t be at all—
the stone is cold against your back. aerion’s hands are traveling everywhere and anywhere he can manage. squeezing your waist beneath his palms, rubbing your hips, even daring to grab your ass through your silk and linen. you gasp quietly against his lips, eyes falling shut as you realize your prince is feeling you up in an abandoned hall. you can hear footsteps. they’re faint but present enough to coax you to turn your head as if that helps by any means. your lips are already kiss swollen, you’re already struggling to keep up. and his own remain connected to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. they’re murmuring against your skin— “why did you stop?”
especially when you’re in his lap. in the bath, after a long day of duties and requirements—
the warm water has you hazy and aerion needy as you settle against him, sinking down until you feel complete again. you both release a broken breath, sticky foreheads pressed together and lips slick with shared saliva. his nails bite at your hips under the water, the sting is dull but there’s more than enough pressure to leave small indents behind as he urges you to rock your hips. once, and then twice, despite your trembling and the way you smush your cheek against his shoulder. you still, huffing out another breath. your hands rest on his chest for a second and he grabs them, thumbs pressing into your palms and rubbing in little circles. he hisses— “why did you stop?”
