☆ ──꒰summary꒱ ❞ trailer trash!Aerion convinces you to let him fuck you without a condom on— he promises on his mamas grave that he’ll pull out! why wouldn’t you trust him?
contains! dubcon/coercion, unsafe sex, aerion is a meanie
authors note: let me know if there are any spelling errors…! inspired by @louloucake’s tt!aerion series!
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢 ⠀ᰋ the air inside of Aerion’s trailer tasted like stale cigarettes and grease. a rusted fan rattled in the corner, doing a pathetic job of cutting through the oppressive heat of the summer evening. you sat on the edge of his stained mattress, your floral sunday dress bunched around your hips, your knuckles white as you gripped the cheap, yellowing sheets. you don’t even know how you had gotten to this point: discussing sex with Aerion (of all people!) despite the fact that you had sworn to both your poor mama and the heavenly lord that you’d save your body for marriage.
Aerion loomed over you, his shirtless chest glistening with a thin film of sweat. he smelled of diesel and musk—all that time under his beat up pickup certainly showed. he reached down, his rough hand grabbing at your face and holding it so that your cheeks squished together, forcing you to look up into his narrow, predatory eyes.
“stop lookin’ so nervous, girl.” he drawled. “those things mess with the feeling anyways. you want me to feel every inch of that tight little pussy, don’t ya? and i reckon you wanna feel me deep inside you, real raw.”
“but… what if i get pr—”
Aerion stopped your sentence with a sharp tch. “hush now. i promise i’ll pull out. i ain’t trying to tie myself to some… church mouse like you.” he sneered, his grip tightening. “now, you gonna be a good little girl and let me have my way, or are you gonna keep on whinin’ like a bitch?” he emphasized his point by roughly pulling his hand away from your face
you swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. you looked at him, searching for a sign of kindness that you had somehow convinced yourself lived beneath all that aggression. “you promise?” you said, “you’ll pull out?”
“i swear on my mama’s grave.” he said, making a little mock-prayer motion before pushing you onto your back, the mattress groaning. he yanked your dress up and pulled your panties down with a violent tug. he didn’t waste any time with tenderness—that just wasn’t the kind of man that Aerion was—he spat into his palm and gave his cock a few half-hearted pumps to slicken himself up.
“look at you…” his eyes roamed over your half covered body like he was taking in every single detail of your nakedness and cataloguing it for later, “all holy and pure, and here you are, spread out for a piece of shit like me.” he grinned, “you’re just a little slut in her sunday best, aren’t you?”
you blushed a deep red, opening your mouth to chirp out a shaky plea: “please don’t call me that…”
“i’ll call you whatever the hell i want, girl.”
he lined himself up and drove into you with a brutal thrust. you gasped, your back arching in a mix of pain and pleasure at the sudden stretch of his thick cock. Aerion began to hammer into you, his hips slapping against you, the friction creating an intense and searing heat within you.
“god, you’re fuckin’ tight,” he groaned, his pace quickening, “squeezin’ me like a goddamned vice… does god know how much you love this? does he know how wet your pussy is for me?” he laughed, watching himself disappear into your dripping cunt over and over.
“Aerion, please…” you begged, your voice quivering.
“just shut up and take it,” he barked, his movements becoming more frantic.
the wet sound of your bodies colliding filled the small room; a pornographic symphony as he pistoned deeper and deeper into the depths of your holy cunt, stretching you out. your breath came in ragged hitches, your fingers digging into the mattress. you felt the raw skin of his shaft sliding deliciously against your sensitive walls, the sensation overwhelming and terrifying all at once.
Aerion’s breathing turned into heavy grunts. he gripped the soft flesh of your hips, his fingers bruising your skin as he gripped you tight, accelerating to an almost animalistic pace. he was bottoming out, his balls slapping against your ass with every shove. “i’m close, sugar… i’m right there,” he choked out.
you panicked, the reality of the situation rushing back to you through your haze of lusty intertwinings. you tried to shift your weight, pushing against his chest, “pull out, Aerion, you’ve gotta pull out!”
he didn’t move. instead, he surged forward, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand and burying himself to the hilt. he let out a loud, guttural moan as his body stiffened. you felt a hot, sudden explosion of his cum hitting your cervix, wave after wave of thick fluid pumping deep inside of you.
he didn’t pull away. he stayed buried within you, his chest heaving, letting the heat of his seed fill you, like he was trying to make sure it stuck.
you lay there, your eyes wide and watering. “you… you didn’t pull out,” you whispered, “you promised.”
Aerion slowly withdrew, a string of his cum and your slick stretching between you before snapping. he looked down at you, his expression devoid of guilt, he wore nothing but a smug , almost triumphant grin on his face. “well, i reckon i changed my mind,” he said, reaching for a cigarette from the pack on the side table, “now you’ve got a little piece of me inside you, sweet thing.”
pairing: trailer trash!aerion targaryen x f!stark!reader
wc: 8.3k
summary: you're sick, and aerion doesn't know what to do with any of it.
contents/warnings: aerion's pov. caretaking, class disparity, references to past drug use, brief intrusive thoughts about death/loss (not suicidal—possessive fear of losing a partner), strong language, unhealthy coping mechanisms (emotional avoidance, aggression as fear response), brief reference to sobriety/withdrawal, genuinely quite fluffy ngl.
notes: took over 2 months to finish it but certain events finally gave me enough inspo to lock in!!! hope you enjoy <3
✶ trailer trash/modern au.
You don't call him.
That's the first thing that's wrong with the whole situation. You text Daella—Daella, of all people, who's nineteen, at college three hours away, and can't do a fucking thing about it—and Daella texts Aerion. He finds out his girl is sick because a teenager in a dorm room sent him a screenshot of your message at 4:47 p.m. on a Thursday.
hey, little dragon. feeling a bit rough, might not make it to dinner tomorrow. sorry. tell your brothers I said hi. love you.
“A bit rough” in your language means dying. He's known you long enough to read the conversation between the lines.
I'm fine means you're not. It's nothing means it's something. A bit rough means you're horizontal, probably have been for hours now, and you texted his baby sister instead of him because—because what? Because you don't want him to see? Because you don't want to be viewed as weak? Because asking for help would mean admitting you need it, and admitting you need it would crack the whole facade, and cracking would kill you faster than whatever virus is eating you alive?
Aerion drives to the Stark estate.
He doesn't text first, doesn't call. Gets in the truck and drives the forty minutes from the park with his jaw tight and the radio off, a feeling rattling around in his chest he refuses to name. Because naming it would mean looking at it, and he's not fucking looking at it, he's driving.
The estate is the kind of house that makes his teeth ache. Always has, even when he first came here two years ago.
Stone and dark timber, a lawn that seems to stretch on forever in every direction you look, hedged in by old oaks family apparently planted a century ago. Your father's car is gone. Barth's away for the week, some business trip. Aerion knows because you mentioned it on Sunday when he last saw you. The housekeeper's car is gone too, her day off, which means you've been alone in this ridiculous goddamn house since noon.
He lets himself in with the key you gave him eight months ago. You'd handed it over while making coffee in the enormous kitchen that could fit his entire trailer, casual, like it was no big deal to you. Here. So you stop climbing through the window like a delinquent. He'd put it on his keychain without comment. He touched it every day, and dropped his fingers away like he’s been scalded whenever he caught himself doing it.
The house is dark inside. The main hall is dead silent, cavernous with emptiness Aerion always found unsettling, like the walls here are judging him despite the eerie silence.
Your bag is on the kitchen counter with your laptop still inside, which means you came home from class and didn't even make it to the table. Your jacket is on the floor—on the floor, which is how he knows it's bad.
You don't leave things on the floor. You hang them, fold them, every surface perfectly pinned down.
The jacket is in a heap by the staircase. You must have dropped it on the way upstairs and didn't pick it up.
Aerion picks it up now, hangs it on the hook by the door, listening carefully for any signs of you. He stands there for a second with his hand on the wool, your perfume still in the collar, and the feeling in his chest goes hot and prickly.
He’s unsettled in a way he rarely gets.
He takes the stairs two at a time.
You're in bed, still in what you wore to class. Jeans, a dark sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and the small gold studs your father gave you for your birthday. The sheets are tangled around your legs like you'd been fighting them. The bedside lamp is on, but your phone is face-down on the floor, dropped mid-text, which means your hands were shaking too badly for you to hold on.
You're asleep, or close to it—that grey, restless half-place where the body can't commit to being unconscious because it's too busy being miserable. Your face is sweaty, hair damp at the temples, strands stuck to the sheen of sweat. Your breathing comes too fast, too shallow, a rattling rasp at the bottom of each exhale that Aerion doesn't like in the slightest.
He stands in the doorway of your bedroom. The bedroom he's fucked you in a hundred times, the one he's climbed through the window of.
Your childhood things still sit on the shelves alongside your college textbooks because you're still becoming whoever you're going to be. So is he. Even if neither of you seems to have any idea who that will be.
His first feeling, before anything else, before the thing he won't name, is suspicion.
Because you don't get sick. You don't do this. In two years, he's seen you sit through a migraine without telling anyone. He's seen you walk off a twisted ankle and refuse his arm. He's watched you pull all-nighters for exams and drive home on two hours of sleep. Sit through your father's dinner parties with a thin, forced smile, come upstairs and fuck him senseless, set an alarm for six, do it again. You are not a person who lies in bed with her phone on the floor. You are a person who drags herself to the bathroom, takes ibuprofen, changes into pyjamas, handles it.
That's what you do. You handle things.
So either something is really wrong, or this is some kind of—
Aerion crosses the room and puts the back of his hand against your forehead.
The heat is immediate and wrong. Hot, the kind that makes the skin feel thin, papery, burning from the inside. His hand flinches back, then presses down again, holds.
You stir at the sensation, or perhaps his proximity. Your eyes crack open, glassy and unfocused, and it takes a full three seconds for them to find him. When they do, relief moves through your face, naked and unguarded, so unlike you that Aerion feels his stomach drop.
A tiny, raspy breath. “Ari.”
Your voice is scraped down to nothing. The nickname nobody else but Rhae uses. It came out of you by accident one night in the dark months ago and stuck because he didn't stop it. The sound of it in your mouth made heat curl at the base of his spine and he couldn't bring himself to say anything about it.
Now you're saying it fever-rough and desperate, holding onto it like a rope.
“Yeah,” he drawls, and his voice comes out flat and hard. He doesn't mean it to, but his mouth is moving before he can stop. “How long have you been like this?”
“Mm.” Your face turns into his hand at your forehead, pressing into the cool of his palm, your eyes fluttering closed. “Since noon.”
“It's nearly six.”
“Mm.”
He hisses a breath through his teeth. “You've been lying here for six hours.”
You smile faintly, pressing your burning cheek into his palm. “Mm.”
“And you texted my sister.”
Your mouth twitches. Could be a smile if you had the energy to fully form one. “She's nicer than you.”
“She's three hours away,” he bites out, his words flat.
You hum low in your throat. “Didn't want to bother anyone.”
Aerion stares down at you. Your face is fully turned into his hand, eyes closed. The sweat on your face has spread down your neck, disappearing under the collar of the dark sweater that's now damp with it. It’s the same one you got from a campus shop and wear constantly, the one Aerion secretly suspects makes you feel like a normal girl instead of the Stark heir.
“You didn't want to bother anyone,” he repeats, quiet and mean. “You're burning up in this big empty house with your phone on the floor and daddy dearest away on business, and you didn't want to bother anyone.”
“Aerion—”
“Get up.”
He gets you up without waiting, hauling you to sitting with an arm hooked under your shoulders, and you make a low, miserable groan that hits him behind the ribs. You sway against him, your forehead dropping to his shoulder.
“I'm fine,” you slur, words low and mostly absorbed by his shirt.
“Yeah, you look real fine,” he snaps. “You look like a corpse with a pulse. Now shut up.”
He gets the sweater off, tugging it over your head, working your arms free when they tangle because you've gone limp and useless. Drops it on the floor. You're in your bra and jeans, and your skin is radiating heat like asphalt in July.
“Arms up.”
You blink up at him drowsily. “Wha—”
“Arms. Up.”
You lift your arms weakly, and Aerion pulls one of your sleep shirts over your head. The soft grey one that's too big for you, the one he's seen you wear on Sunday mornings. He guides it down your body, working your arms through the sleeves with a gruff care that has nothing tender in it.
He gets your jeans off next. You cooperate badly, your legs boneless and heavy, and you keep leaning into him heavily. By the time he's wrestled you into the shirt and out of the jeans and pulled the gold studs from your ears and set them on the nightstand, he's breathing hard. You're clinging to the front of his shirt with both hands, your face pressed into his chest, making those sounds again.
Small, raw, agonised sounds. A body in discomfort that has stopped performing resilience. Little moans, low in the throat, illegible, animal. The kind of sounds you would never make in front of him if you were in your right mind. They vibrate against his chest, travel through the cotton into his skin, settle in the cage of his ribs where they will live, apparently, for the rest of his miserable life.
“Hurts,” you mumble against his chest.
He feels, suddenly, like he might throw up. “What hurts?”
“Everything,” you answer, hushed with muted pain.
Aerion exhales through his nose again, slow and deep, the breath he usually takes right before he does something stupid, hits someone, or simply falls apart.
“Water,” he says, and peels your hands off his shirt.
Your fingers resist, tightening for a second, and the small desperate clutch of it nearly ends him there and then. He manoeuvres you back into the pillows, trying to keep his grip light, and goes downstairs without a backwards glance, breathing hard.
He can’t look back. His hands are shaking too hard.
He finds a thermometer in the bathroom cabinet, ibuprofen, a glass. Fills it from the filtered thing in the fridge, the fancy one with a temperature setting. He stands there in the Stark kitchen for a moment with a glass of water in his rough, scarred hand and takes it all in. The marble countertops, the row of cookbooks your mother collected before she died.
Everywhere he looks, there are reminders of one indisputable fact: I don't belong here.
And then, under it, quieter: she texted Daella. She didn't text me.
Aerion knows why. He'd have given you shit for being sick. He'd have called you dramatic, said you've got a cold, princess, you'll live. You know that, know his first language is cruelty, know tenderness doesn't come out of him clean but barbed and wearing mask of an insult. So you didn't call.
You didn't call because he's trained you not to need him for this.
The realisation wells in his stomach like acid.
He takes the stairs back up, two at a time.
You've curled onto your side while he was gone. Knees drawn up, arms wrapped around yourself, face shoved into the pillow while your shallow breaths fan the pristine cotton. The sleep shirt has ridden up in his absence, and there's a strip of bare skin at your hip, gleaming with moisture and heat. You're shivering. Burning and shivering at the same time.
“Sit up.”
You groan and don't move.
“Sit up.”
You drag yourself upright. He places the thermometer in your mouth. You look at him with glassy, fever-bright eyes. Your face is open and young, stripped of every hard thing he's used to seeing there, and Aerion has to look away. Has to stare at the wall and breathe, and remind himself it’s just a goddamn cold and you’re going to be fine in no time.
The thermometer beeps. He takes it. 39.6.
“Christ,” he mutters.
He gives you the ibuprofen. You take it obediently for once, and that alone sets his teeth on edge. You take the water next, drink half the glass, and then your hand starts shaking; he catches the glass before you drop it and sets it on the nightstand with a small huff. You look at him with those glassy, unseeing eyes.
“Thank you.”
Aerion stops breathing for a moment. Just one.
Because you say it softly, without armour, your middle-of-the-night voice, the one that comes out when the dark has stripped away whatever you wear during the day, and you're just you. The hidden creature underneath the wolf he rarely glimpses. The thing that needs him and won't say so.
“Go to sleep,” he orders gruffly, and it comes out rough and scraped from his throat. Aerion drops on the edge of the bed, and he doesn't touch you because if he touches you right now, something in his chest is going to crack open, and then what? Then what does he do with that?
You lie down, more clumsy than he’s ever seen you, and close your eyes.
And then you reach for him.
Your hand comes up, blind, and finds his forearm. The bare skin below his rolled sleeve, the tendons and veins and calluses that you trace sometimes when you're sitting together and you think he's not paying attention. Your fingers close around his forearm and hold on. A tether. You're lashing yourself to him against a current.
“Stay,” you say quietly.
One word, bare and stripped of every qualifier you'd usually wrap around it, all the if you want to, the you don't have to. Now there’s only stay.
Aerion glances at your hand on his arm.
He kicks off his boots without a word.
He sits against the headboard with his back to the wall, legs stretched out on top of the covers, and you curl—immediately, without a second of hesitation—into his side.
You press your face into his ribs.
The heat of you bleeds through his shirt immediately. Your arm comes across his stomach, your hand finding the fabric at his opposite hip and fisting there. Your leg hooks over his thigh, and you pull yourself into him, too sick to perform independence and too tired to pretend you don't want exactly this. The sound you make against his ribs is a low, aching moan of pure relief. Six hours of burning, and you've finally found something to press against.
Aerion sits still.
His hands rest at his sides, and he feels utterly useless. He sits against your headboard in your childhood bedroom, work jeans and boot socks, the boy from the trailer park in the heiress's bed. Your burning face against his ribcage, your arm locked across his stomach, your leg thrown over his thigh. He stares at the far wall and thinks: I am going to lose my fucking mind.
Because you don't do this.
You don't cling, don't burrow, don't make needy, aching sounds and press your face into someone.
You're the steadiest thing in any room. You're the one who holds him together—who drove two hours in the middle of the night when Rhae was in the hospital, who sits on the bathroom floor while he comes down. You look at the wreckage of his life with those calm eyes and never flinch away when any other girl would run for the hills.
And right now you're curled against him like a small, hot, miserable animal that wants its person close and doesn't care about dignity.
“Ari,” you mumble into his ribs.
His jaw flexes.
“Ari.”
Your mouth shapes the name against his shirt. He can feel the movement of your lips through the cotton, the damp heat of your breath. The nickname no one else gets to use. The name you carved out of his real name, smaller and softer, private. A version of him that only exists when you say it. Awake, you ration it, save it for the dark, for the moments when the armour is off, and you're both just bodies in a bed. You say it after sex when you're too ruined to be careful.
You say it when you mean I need you, but the words I need you are too big for either of you to voice.
In the fever, you say it like it's the only word you know.
Aerion puts his hand on the back of your head.
It happens without his permission, without him consciously deciding to move; his hand simply comes up to settle against your hair, fingers curling into the damp strands at your nape. The weight of his palm against your skull is proprietary, possessive. A man holding something that belongs to him and suddenly, terrifyingly, becoming aware of how breakable it really is.
You make a small, subdued, grateful sound. A lock turning. You press harder into his ribs. Your arm tightens across his stomach, fingers twisting in the fabric at his hip, pulling, pulling, trying to close the last inch of air between you.
“Easy,” he says quietly. “Easy.”
His voice has changed. He can hear the difference in the rumble at the back of his throat. The hard, cruel edge is gone and what's underneath is—
He doesn't want to think about what's underneath. Because the thing in his chest has been banging on its cage for two years and he keeps it locked because if it gets out, he'll never get it back. If you see the full scale of it, you’ll know, and if you know, you can use it, and if you can use it, you can break him by leaving just like his mother did.
But you’re not using anything right now. You’re not thinking strategically or managing the dynamic between you. You’re sick and scared, clinging to him because he's what you got. The animal simplicity of that is more terrifying than anything you’ve ever done to him with your full faculties.
This is the thing about you, he knows, the thing he circles and circles and never lands on: everything between you is friction.
Everything is contested ground. You fight about his drugs. He fights about your need to fix him. You say I'm trying to help and he hears I'm trying to manage you. He says I don't need your money and you hear I don't need you. Round and round, cutting each other on the same edges, bleeding from the same places, and neither of you stops, neither leaves. Two years deep in something everyone says is doomed, and you keep showing up. Keep fighting and fucking and finding each other in the dark.
And right now there's no friction. There's nothing to fight. Just you, burning and miserable, saying his name in a voice stripped down to the studs. Him, sitting in the wreckage of every wall he's ever built. And the horrible, luminous truth behind it: when you're both too sick to fight, what's left is a girl who needs a boy, and a boy who'd burn the world down to be needed by her.
“Ari,” you breathe a third time, and there's a crack in it, a splinter of misery you'd never let through if you knew it was there, and Aerion—
Aerion wraps both arms around you and pulls you in tighter.
The fever gets worse in the hours that follow.
At eight o'clock, you're shaking so hard the mattress vibrates. Aerion holds you through it, one arm banded across your back, his hand clamped over your shoulder, pressing you into his chest as though he can physically hold you together. His jaw is set, his breathing forcibly even. He's been in this posture before—holding someone through something bad, riding it out, waiting for the worst to pass—but it's always been himself. His own shakes, his own sweats, his own body betraying him in the dark while he waited for it to stop.
Holding you through it is far worse.
You make a thin, grinding whimper against his chest, joints aching, skin crawling, and Aerion's hand moves before he tells it to. His thumb drags along the nape of your neck, firm, pressing into the knot of tension at the top of your spine. He presses and your sound changes, the whimper dropping, rounding, becoming closer to relief. He does it again, working his thumb in slow circles against the base of your skull. Each time the pressure eases something in you; he feels it, the gentle surrender.
He doesn't think about what he's doing. If he thinks about it, he'll stop. So he keeps his thumb on your neck and listens to the sounds shift from harsh to faint, lets his other hand spread flat between your shoulder blades and hold.
He changes the flannel on your forehead an hour later. He doesn't know if he's doing it right. When the kids got sick, Maekar said drink water, stay in bed, and stop whining, and that was that because they couldn’t afford anything else. But the cool cloth makes you sigh and press into it, so he does it again. Stalks to the bathroom and runs the cloth under the tap and wrings it out. Sets it on your forehead with steady hands.
If his hands shake, his chest will shake, and if his chest shakes, everything comes apart. He can't come apart right now. For once, you’re the one who needs him.
He thinks about the fight on Sunday. Stupid fight. The same fight, really, just dressed up in different snide bullshit.
He'd been high again. The soft chemical blur at the edges, enough to make everything tolerable, but not enough to send him spiralling. Yet. And you'd known. Because you always know. You'd looked at him with that expression again, one that’s worse than anger. I see what you're doing to yourself, and I can't stop it, and the not-stopping-it is killing me. He'd said, vicious and bitter: Don't look at me like that, princess. You'd said, quiet and flat: Like what? He'd said: Like I'm your pet project. And you'd said nothing, because the nothing was louder than words, and he'd left, because that’s what he does. He says something cruel, he fucks it up.
He drove home too fast, sat in the trailer smoking for hours, staring at the wall, knowing he'd done it again. Pushed you away because being close was too terrifying to sustain.
And now you're in his arms, your burning face against his chest, and there's no wall. No princess spat like a barb. No chemical blur between him and the feeling drumming inside his skull and chest. Just you needing him, and the fact, raw and unmediated, that he wants to be needed by you more than he has ever wanted anything, including the high.
Aerion presses his mouth against the top of your head. Holds it there. Breathes.
At nine o'clock, you wake up enough to be audibly miserable.
“I feel like shit,” you croak, blinking owlishly.
“Yeah,” he says with a snide snort to mask the fact his voice is gentler than usual. “You look it.”
Your mouth twitches. “Thanks, Romeo.”
He pushes the hair off your face, too rough, too fast. His fingertips drag against your damp temple, callused and graceless, but you tip your head into it anyway, leaning into the scrape of his palm against your cheek. The trust of it makes his throat burn.
“You came,” you say, your lashes fluttering.
“Didn't have a choice, did I?” His voice has flattened back to have its usual bite, furious at the edges. “Can't trust you to keep yourself alive for six fucking hours.”
“I didn't want to bother—”
“Yeah, you mentioned. And if you say that shit to me again I'm going to lose my temper.” His voice is sharp. Then, quieter, staring at your curtains across the room, at the same window he always climbs in through to find you on your bed and kiss you, “Don't ever do that again.”
You blink up at him, fever-slow. “Do what?”
“Not call me.” The words fly out of him, spat out and clipped. “When something's wrong, you call me. Not my sister. Not anybody else. I don't give a shit what time it is. I don't give a shit if we're fighting. You call me.”
The if we're fighting saturates the room, filling it with a thousand unspoken things.
Aerion can feel you looking at him, but he doesn't look back. He stares at the far wall. The bookshelf crammed with your mother's old novels and your college textbooks.
The photograph of Barthogan with his arm around you at fifteen, a smaller, fiercer version of yourself. And next to it another photo of you with his siblings taken during Rhae’s 11th birthday. He remembers that day. It was one of the few, rare good ones. He was sober. There was cake. He still remembers the sound of Egg's and Rhae's laughter while they chased each other. Daeron, completely hungover but still standing vigilant over the grill, groused about all the ruckus but was still smiling despite it.
And right next to the beaming faces of his siblings, there’s a photo of you with your arms wrapped around that ridiculous wolf-dog of yours, black as night and twice as mean.
“Okay,” you say quietly, bringing his attention back to you. “Next time, Ari.”
His name again, the soft one, the private one. He feels it land against the inside of his chest like a palm pressed flat.
He nods, once, jerky. This conversation is over. It has to be. He's given you more than he meant to, and the exposure burns like someone poured gasoline over his skin and lit a match.
You close your eyes, curl back into him with a faint sigh, a relieved little exhale following. Your face finds the hollow under his jaw, the one where his pulse lives, the one you always seek in the dark. You press your mouth against the beat of him and breathe deeply.
“Ari,” you mumble against his throat.
His arms tighten around you. “Go to sleep.”
“You're warm.”
“And you're a fucking furnace,” he says snidely. “Go to sleep.”
Your hand comes up and finds his chest, palm flat against his sternum, fingers spread. He can feel you tracking his heartbeat, orienting around it. You do this after sex too, find his heartbeat and hold it, checking it's still there, claiming it through contact.
Aerion has never mentioned it. Because doing so would raise the question of why the fuck he allows anyone to touch him like that instead of breaking their wrists for even trying to. That he is, to you, the fixed point, the one constant thing. Which is insane, because he's the least steady thing in any room, always the most volatile, the most likely to burn everything around him down, and you chose him to anchor to.
You nuzzle—actually nuzzle, something small and stupid and trusting—into the tendon of his throat. Aerion stares at the ceiling, tightens his arms around you, and thinks: If you tell anyone about this, I'll deny it. I'll deny all of it. I'll deny it till I'm dead.
And then, underneath, so quiet even his own mind barely catches it: Don't stop. Don't stop saying my name. Don't stop holding me like this. Don't ever fucking stop.
By ten o'clock, you start talking in your sleep.
Fragments mostly. Words that surface and dissolve like bubbles in dark water. Your father's name. Your mother’s. Something about an exam. Blackwind. A string of words that might be a quote from a textbook or a bit of lecture.
Then, “Ari.”
His hand stills on your back midstroke.
“Ari.” Again, softer, dragged out, the vowels long and aching. You shift against him, pressing closer, your arm tightening across his ribs with a strength that shouldn't be possible from someone running 39.6. Awake, you guard this name, ration it. Until there's nothing between you but skin and breath.
In your sleep, you spend it freely. You say it like it's the only safe place you know.
He presses his mouth against the crown of your head and breathes and doesn’t make a sound.
You mumble his name a third time, a fourth. Each time quieter, more dissolved, more resigned. Each time his arms tighten around you a fraction, and each time the thing in his chest strains harder against its cage, and each time he doesn't let it out. Aerion holds it behind his teeth, behind his eyes, behind the flat, hard, don't-touch-me surface that is the only thing between Aerion Targaryen and the terrifying truth of how much he fucking loves you.
Christ. He’s so fucked he wants to laugh, then maybe smash his fist into your perfect, pristine wall.
You shift again, a small, restless movement, your body trying to find a position that doesn't hurt. A croaking, high sound escapes you, barely more than a breath, and Aerion's hand moves again. Down your back, the heel of his palm dragging along your spine with firm pressure, pressing into each knot of tension he finds.
He can feel you hurting under his hand, can feel the fever in the heat of your skin through the cotton. He works it silently, finding the problem, leaning into it, not stopping until it gives.
Your sounds change. The agonised sounds soften, round, and become a low grateful hum against his chest. Your body goes heavier against him again, the tension dissolving under his palm. You sigh—a long, shuddering sigh that comes from somewhere deep—and press your face harder into his throat and go still.
Aerion keeps stroking. He keeps his hand moving on your back long after you've gone quiet, because his hand doesn't want to stop. The feeling of you going soft under his palm is something he doesn't have a word for. You hurt, and he made it stop. You were in pain, and his hands knew what to do. For once, the rough, scarred, working-class hands that can't hold a wine glass right and don't know which fork to use were the exact right instrument for the job.
It makes him want to put his fist through the wall. It makes him want to lie here forever.
Around eleven, you get worse.
Aerion feels it before the thermometer confirms it. Your breathing changes again, goes shallow and fast and ragged, a torn-paper sound at the edges. The shivering comes back, harder than before, and your skin, which had begun to cool under his hands, flares hot again. Hotter. Your face against his throat is a brand.
He gets the thermometer. 40.1.
“Fuck,” he says aloud, to the empty room, to your father's ceiling, to no one. “Fuck.”
He grabs his phone and googles it, one-handed, because you're still clinging to him and he can't pry you off and he's not going to pry you off. The screen tells him 40 is high, 41 is an emergency. He stares at the number. His thumb hovers over Barth's contact. Hovers over the emergency number.
You make a sound again.
A thin, reedy, lost sound, like an animal caught in a trap, and your body curls tighter against him, knees drawing up, and your hand at his chest claws into a fist, bunching the shirt, and your face presses into his throat so hard he can feel the ridge of your teeth through your lips. You're panting. Short, hot, shallow pants against his neck, and between them, syllables. Fragments of words that aren't words. His name, maybe. Or your father's. Or nothing. Just the noise a body makes when the fever has taken it somewhere language can't follow.
“Hey.” His voice comes out snappish, almost snarling. He grips your shoulder and shakes, once. “Hey. Look at me.”
Your eyes crack open, and they're wrong. Glassy and too wide, the pupils blown, and they find him but don't focus. You look through him, past him, at something that isn't in this room.
“Ari,” you breathe, and it comes out cracked and slurred. “'S cold.”
“It's not cold,” he snaps, his heart beating too loudly in his ears. “You're burning up.”
“Cold,” you insist weakly, your teeth chattering, your whole body seizing against him in a long, wrenching shudder, and Aerion's heart goes from beating to hammering so hard it physically hurts.
“You're fine,” he says, and his voice is vicious, furious, the voice he uses when he's terrified and has nowhere to put it. “You hear me? You're fine. This is a fever, it's a fucking virus, you're not allowed to—you're not—”
He can't finish the sentence. The word he can't say is leave. The word is sitting at the back of his throat like a goddamn rock, and he can't push it past his teeth because if he says it, if he acknowledges even the possibility of this, the floor will open up under him and he'll fall and he'll never stop falling.
You mumble something against his throat. Fever-babble, consonants gone soft, nothing coherent for him to follow. Your hand loosens and tightens on his shirt, clenching and unclenching, a slow desperate pulse.
“You're not allowed to leave,” he bites out, low and mean, the words shaking in his mouth. “Do you hear me? You don't get to do that. You don't get to text my sister and then—you don't get to leave.”
You whimper in response, your fingers clawing at his shirt as you shiver.
“If you left—” His voice cracks right down the middle, and he hates it, hates the sound of himself breaking, hates that you've made him into someone who can break. He hates you so much. “If you left, I'd follow you. You hear me? Wherever the fuck you went. I'd follow you there, and I'd drag you back with me. You don't get to leave me.”
He's holding you too tight. He knows as much. His arms are banded around you like shackles, his grip fierce, bordering on painful. His fingers dig into the muscle of your back, into the sharp peaks of your shoulder blade, and you should be flinching, should be squirming away, but instead you press closer. You push into the hurt of his grip like the pain is an anchor, like the bruising pressure of his arms is the only thing keeping you afloat.
“Ari,” you breathe against his skin. “'M here. 'M not going.”
“Shut the hell up,” he hisses, and his voice is ragged, too thick. “Shut up. You're delirious. You don't know what you're saying.”
“'M not going,” you repeat, stubborn even in the fever, stubborn even now, and your arm tightens across his ribs and your face burrows deeper into his throat, and you hold on.
Aerion presses his face into your hair.
He breathes through it. In and out. In and out. The tremor in his arms, the sick, spinning panic in his chest, the raw animal terror of losing you—he breathes through all of it, his mouth against the crown of your head, and the sounds that come out of him are low and ugly and helpless. Half-words. Fragments. Things he'd cut his own tongue out before saying in the daylight.
“Hate you,” he mutters into your hair. Thick, rough, barely audible. “Fucking hate you. Hate what you do to me. Hate that I'm here, hate that I can't—hate that you're the only thing, the only—fuck.”
His hand finds the back of your skull and holds. His grip in your hair is too tight, and you make a small sound against his throat that could be pain or could be comfort, and he loosens it, just barely, just enough, and hates himself for both the tightening and the loosening.
Because this is what you've done to him, this is the scope of the damage. Aerion Targaryen, Maekar's son, the boy from the single-wide, the boy who's never had anything worth being afraid to lose. You've given him something to lose, and the having of it is worse than every withdrawal he's ever clawed his way through.
He was fine before you. He was cruel and empty, a good and proper fuck up with nothing to his name, but fine. Nobody could touch him because there was nothing to touch. And then you came along, with your Stark money and your father's house and your mother's books and your wolf's composure that he couldn't crack, couldn't dent, couldn't provoke past the point of that quiet patience—
He hates you.
He hates you for being the Stark heir, for living in this stupid house, for the marble countertops and the filtered water and the key on his chain. He hates the gulf between your world and his, the forty-minute drive that's also a thousand miles, the fact that your father's wine collection is worth more than his whole life combined. He hates your poise and your patience and those eyes that look at him like he's salvageable, like he's worth something, like underneath the drugs and the rage and the trailer park misery, there's a man worth keeping.
He hates that you're right.
And underneath the hatred, coiled at the base of it, feeding it, the real thing: he would kill for you. He would kill without hesitation and without regret. If someone hurt you, if someone touched you, if someone were the reason you were lying in this bed instead of a virus, Aerion would take them apart with his bare hands and feel nothing but the satisfaction of it.
He knows this about himself. Has known it since the first year, since the first time someone at your father's table looked at him with that smile. The one that said trailer trash, poor boy, charity case, and you'd looked at the man and said, pleasant and arctic, “I'd be careful,” and the table had gone dead silent.
He'd known then. He'd kill for you. He'd die for you. You could ask him for anything—his hands, his body, his name, the last clean thing left in him—and he'd give it. Without a second of negotiation. Without performing the reluctance that a man with any self-preservation would perform.
And he hates it. He hates that you have that power. He hates that you've never once asked him to use it. He hates that you hold the leash so gently he can pretend it isn't there.
He can't help it, then; the thought surfaces, fever-hot and bitter. What if he'd been born into it? What if his last name still opened doors instead of closing them?
What if he'd met you at one of your father's dinners, wearing a suit that fit and a name that didn't make people's smiles go thin with pity. How easy it would be then. How clean. He'd have pulled you onto a terrace and said something charming, maybe a tad provocative, and you'd have looked at him, and there'd be no gulf between you, no forty-minute drive between his world and yours. Just two heirs. A boy and a girl and a future that didn't require one of them to bridge a canyon on hands and knees.
But that boy wouldn't be him. He knows that too. That boy wouldn't have the scarred hands or the mean mouth or the hunger.
That boy wouldn't know what it costs to hold someone this tight. That boy would hold you lightly, easily, carelessly. Rich boys hold things carelessly, because there's always more to go around.
Aerion holds you as if there will never be more. Because for him there won't be.
A sound builds in his throat. Low, involuntary, burning the back of his throat. A growl, a snarl, something that belongs in the chest of a creature guarding a kill. He presses his mouth against your hair and lets it vibrate there, felt and not heard, and his arms lock tighter around you, and the message is older than language: mine, mine, mine, you're mine and you're going to live because I said so, because I won't allow anything else, because the universe does not have my fucking permission to take you.
He checks the thermometer again. 39.9. Dropping.
The snarl dies in his throat. His grip loosens by a fraction, his breathing slowing.
He holds you, and waits, and doesn’t let go.
At half past eleven, the fever finally breaks.
He knows because the sweat changes. The burning, miserable kind becomes the drenching, good kind. Your skin goes from dry-hot to damp-cool in twenty minutes, your breathing evens and deepens, the rasp goes, and the shaking dies down.
You go heavy against him. Your arm loosens across his ribs, your fist unclenches from his shirt. Your face is still pressed into his throat, your breathing slow and warm and even against his pulse. For the first time in hours, you’re still.
Aerion doesn't move.
He sits against the headboard and holds you. The house is quiet, old-Stark-estate quiet. A different silence than the trailer park, where sirens wail through the walls, and Daeron's music thumps through the partition and Rhae's laughter and Father’s heavy tread fill the gaps. In this house, there's only the tick of the old clock in the hallway downstairs and the sound of your breathing paired with his own heart.
Because you haven't let go.
The fever's broken, you're cooling, the crisis is past, and you haven't let go of him. Your face is still in his throat. Your leg is still hooked over his. Your hand is still on his chest, palm flat over his heartbeat, and even in sleep you haven't pulled away, haven't rebuilt the steel, haven't become the wolf again.
You're just a girl in a too-big sleep shirt, fever-damp and exhausted, holding onto him because he's the thing you reached for when the armour came off.
Aerion tips his head back against the headboard, stares at the ceiling. He's not going to make the sound sitting at the top of his chest, the raw, cracked, embarrassing sound that would tell the empty room exactly how fucked he is. He swallows it, buries it in the place where he buries everything. The deep, locked place where he keeps the truth about you. That you are the only good thing in his life. That you are the only thing he has ever been afraid to lose. That the thought of you, sick and alone in this house for six hours, makes him want to throttle every force that made you think you had to handle it alone. Including himself.
He tightens his arms around you.
He presses his face into your hair and breathes in. You smell like sweat and the fading ghost of perfume from this morning, when the day was still normal, and you didn't know you'd end up here. In his arms. Soft and broken open.
“Stupid girl,” he whispers into your hair. “Stupid, stubborn, impossible wolf.”
You don't hear him. You're asleep. His voice is barely a vibration, less than a breath—the kind of thing that wouldn't hold up in court, the kind of thing he can deny tomorrow and will.
He shifts down slowly, easing himself from sitting to lying without dislodging you. You adjust in your sleep with him like an invisible force is moving you when he moves. A small, boneless reshuffling, your body finding his in the new position without waking, your face sliding from his throat to his chest, your ear over his heart.
Aerion yanks the sheets over you both, adjusting them so they cover you properly. His hand finds the curve of your back, fingers spreading there. His palm covers the space between your shoulders, and beneath it he can feel the calming pull of your breathing.
He stays all night.
He stays with his boots on the floor beside your bed and his jeans still on, his phone buzzing in his pocket with texts from Daeron asking where the fuck he is. He doesn't answer, doesn't move, holds you while you sleep with your ear over his heart and your hand on his chest and your mouth still shaped, faintly, around the ghost of his name.
In the morning, you wake up first.
You're cool, washed out, the kind of exhausted that comes after a fever. Hollow and fragile and strangely clear, like the world's had its contrast turned up. You become aware, in stages, of where you are and who's holding you.
Aerion's asleep.
He's beneath you, on his back, one arm slung across your waist, his other hand still spread between your shoulder blades. His face is turned toward you, and in sleep the hardness has gone out of it. The jaw unclenched, full mouth soft, the permanent tension between his brows dissolved. What's left is younger, tired, gentle in a way he'd gut you for saying so. His pale hair has come loose, and it fans across your pillow, catching the early light. There's a smudge of grease at his jaw from whatever he was working on before Daella's text pulled him out of his day and sent him here to you.
You gaze at him for a long time.
You remember pieces. The ibuprofen. The flannel. His rough hands getting you out of your clothes. The gruff, clipped voice doing something it didn't want to be caught doing. The arms that held you through the worst of it. The thumb working slow circles at the base of your skull until the pain softened to bearable. His mouth against your hair, whispering something you couldn't quite hear.
You press your lips to the hollow of his throat. Light, barely a touch, a thank-you in the only language he'd accept.
He stirs at the contact. His eyes flutter open, pale and colourless, grey now in the morning light, the early sun catching the faint ring of lavender at the edge of the iris. He looks at you. You look at him. The soft, post-fever openness is still on your face, still in how you're pressed against him. You can see him register the unguarded quality, the girl underneath. You can see the exact moment he decides to handle it the only way he knows how.
“You look like shit,” he says, his voice rough from sleep and lower than usual, deeper at the edges.
You almost smile. “I know.”
“And you snore when you're sick.”
“I do not,” you sniff.
“Yeah, you do. You talk in your sleep, too.” He shifts, sits up, rubs his face with one hand. The other stays on your back. He doesn't remove it, and you bite your tongue to stop yourself from pointing it out. “Kept saying some guy's name. Should I be worried?”
Your mouth twitches. “What name?”
“Couldn't make it out. Something short, started with an A. Sounded like a real asshole.”
You chuckle weakly, a grin tugging one side of your mouth upward. “Sounds about right.”
The corner of his mouth lifts a fraction, too, then flattens. You watch him kill the smile, stuff it back behind the mask. You let him because the glimpses you remember…
He did things for you neither of you is ready to examine, not without a fight, and you’re too drained for one right now. Right now, you simply want his warmth here, with you.
Aerion swings his legs off the bed. Sits on the edge with his back to you, elbows on his knees, head hanging forward. You examine the line of his spine through his shirt, each knob, the silver hair falling forward past his jaw. He's quiet for a beat too long, and in the quiet you can feel him reassembling himself, little by little, putting the walls back up and killing whatever nursed you.
The boy who held you through the fever is gone. The boy who whispered into your hair is being sealed behind concrete again.
“I'm making coffee,” he announces, and stands, stretching lazily. His shirt rides up, and you can see the flat, toned plane of his stomach, the narrow slant of hip bones, and he catches you looking and smirks. Him again, the regular him, the hard-edged, smirking bastard who breaks your heart on a weekly basis.
“Keep staring, princess,” he drawls. “Least the fever didn't kill your priorities."
You throw a pillow at him. It misses by a mile because your arms are still limp and useless, and it hits the bookshelf instead. He laughs—a real laugh, short and jagged, surprised out of him—and then he's out the door and strolling unhurriedly down the stairs, one at a time, never in any hurry anywhere. Typical. You can hear him in the kitchen a few minutes later, opening cabinets he already knows from two years of sneaking into this house.
The coffee machine hisses to life first, the sound floating upstairs. The fridge opens next, then closes, a cupboard shuts too hard, almost pointedly so. And then a pause, a stillness that lasts a beat too long and makes you listen intently.
There’s a sound of him exhaling, deep, shallow, and the quiet thunk of his forehead dropping against some surface you can’t see.
Then the coffee machine hisses, and he's moving again. Aerion comes back upstairs with two mugs a few minutes later, hands you one without a word. His face gives nothing away. “Drink it. And text your father back. He's probably losing his damn mind.”
“Ari—”
“Coffee,” he repeats, and drops down next to you, his knee touching yours, and he doesn't move it, and neither do you.
A:n : Idk what to think about it… not my best work but hope you guys will still like it 😣🫶🏻
Tw : SMUT, kitchen sex (obvs) unprotected sex (don’t do that), oral (f!Receiving) mdni or you will be blocked 💗
Wc : 2567
Aerion had just passed his worst day at work.
It had been long, exhausting, and just downright miserable from the moment he’d walked through the doors that morning. His colleagues had been so fucking loud all day, constantly talking, laughing, and getting on his last fucking nerve. Every little thing seemed to piss him off more than usual, and by the time he’d finally clocked out, he was already running on the last bit of patience he had left.
And, of course, as if his day couldn’t get any fucking worse, the traffic on the way home had been absolute hell.
Cars were backed up for what felt like miles, people were honking for no damn reason, and some asshole had nearly cut him off at an intersection. Aerion had spent most of the drive gripping the steering wheel, jaw clenched, muttering curses under his breath while impatiently tapping his fingers against it.
By the time he finally pulled into the driveway, he was fucking done.
All he wanted was to get inside, kick his shoes off, throw himself onto the couch, and forget that the outside world even existed for a few hours.
More than anything, he couldn’t wait to have a cold beer in one hand and hold your waist with the other while some football match played on the television. That was all he needed. No work. No annoying coworkers. No traffic. No fucking bullshit.
Just you.
But the moment Aerion stepped through the front door, he was surprised to find the house completely silent.
There were no rapid little footsteps pattering across the floor, no familiar sound of Maegor scrambling to get to the door because Daddy had finally come home when the boy was supposed to be asleep by the time Aerion got back, but that had never stopped him from trying to be the first one to greet him anyway.
Aerion almost expected him to come barreling around the corner, probably half-asleep and rubbing his eyes, just because he’d heard the front door open.
But there was nothing.
And there was no sign of you either.
No smug little smile waiting for him from the hallway. Not a single tease remark coming out of your pretty lips and no kiss pressed against his cheek while you asked him how his day had been, even though you both already knew he was probably going to complain about it.
But none of that.
Instead, the first thing that caught his attention was the smell roaming the room.
Something that smelled very good was coming from the kitchen.
Aerion paused for a moment, breathing it in as his stomach immediately reminded him that he hadn’t eaten properly all day. Whatever you were cooking smelled incredible, and suddenly the exhaustion weighing down his body didn’t seem quite as bad.
He followed the smell toward the kitchen, already expecting to find you there.
And there you were.
Aerion stopped in the doorway.
You were standing in front of the stove, completely distracted by whatever you were cooking, dressed in nothing but a shirt—his shirt, judging by the way it hung loosely around you—and a pair of cute panties that barely covered your ass.
Such a tease.
His tired eyes slowly traveled over you, and a crooked little grin appeared on his face. You looked so damn good and, somehow, the fact that you were cooking for him too was making him so hard.
Such a good girl. His good girl.
After the day he’d had, coming home to that sight was probably the best fucking thing that could have happened.
He didn’t announce himself.
Instead, Aerion quietly crossed the kitchen, taking advantage of the fact that you were too focused on cooking to notice him approaching. Once he was close enough, he slipped both arms around your waist from behind and pulled you gently against his chest. You startled with a small gasp.
Aerion chuckled under his breath.
Before you could even turn around, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth against your neck, kissing his favorite spot. His lips lingered there for a moment, right where the faint mark he’d left several days ago was still visible beneath your skin.
He kissed it again, almost possessively, before resting his chin against your shoulder.
“Hi, baby.” You relaxed almost immediately, realizing who had finally come home.
“Aerion…” He smiled against your neck, tightening his arms around your waist.
“Missed me?” You could practically hear the smugness in his voice. And judging by the way he was holding onto you, he’d definitely missed you too.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He already knew you’d missed him. But there was something else he was wondering about.
Where was Maegor?
Usually, his boy was following you everywhere like your little shadow. He was still too young to go to school, so most days, Aerion barely saw one of you without the other. And whenever he came home, Maegor would somehow hear the front door and come running, despite very clearly being supposed to be asleep.
Daddy was home, after all. That was apparently more important than bedtime. But tonight, there had been no little footsteps rushing toward him.
“Where’s Maegor?” he finally asked, his chin still resting near your shoulder.
“At your dad’s,” you answered easily. “I asked him to come pick him up about two hours ago.”
Aerion hummed, slowly nodding as if that explained the strange silence he’d noticed the moment he walked through the door. Then you added, “told him we haven’t really had any time for ourselves lately.” You laughed softly at your own words making Aerion’s eyebrows lift as a slow, smug grin spread across his face.
You were about to turn back toward the stove to stir the vegetables in the pan when Aerion suddenly pushed you gently against the counter beside you, catching you completely off guard.
His lips quickly found your ear, his voice dropping into that low, teasing tone he knew drove you crazy.
“You’re such a smart girl, aren’t you?” he whispered. “Being so perfect for me, cooking me dinner like a good little wife, huh?”
You whimpered softly at his words, your cheeks already burning as his hips shifted against you. You could feel the unmistakable hardness straining against his jeans as he pressed closer, his body practically molding itself against the curve of your ass.
“Want me to put a ring around your finger, huh?” he continued, his voice full of that smug amusement. “Ya want me to wife you up, hm?”
His words were working far too well.
Your thoughts were already becoming a blur, your body reacting to every filthy little thing he whispered against your ear. You could feel yourself getting wetter, especially as he rolled his hips against you, a quiet groan escaping him every now and then.
You tried to hold onto whatever little bit of common sense you still had.
“Aerion— th-the dinner’s gonna burn… I—”
He cut you off with a quiet snort, clearly not giving a single shit about the vegetables anymore.
Instead, he turned you around and helped you sit on the counter, positioning himself between your legs as he looked at you with that hungry gaze.
“I think I’m craving the dessert first,” he murmured.
His eyes dropped briefly toward you before returning to your face.
“The cream is to die for.”
You immediately felt your entire face heat up, your cheeks turning red as a tomato at his dirty words.
The issue with Aerion was that he clearly was aware of the effect he had on you
The corner of his mouth lifted into another smug grin because he knew exactly what his words were doing to you. He reached for your thighs, slowly pushing them apart before settling himself between them, his eyes dropping for a moment as he took in the wet patch on your cute panties.
You didn’t realise you were holding your breath until his hands reached your soaked underwear, simply pushing it aside. The groan that escaped his lips unconsciously made something flutter in your chest, and the way he was licking his lips, his gaze fixed on you with unmistakable anticipation, clearly showed that he intended to savour this moment.
There was something almost predatory in the way he looked at you, yet beneath it was the familiar tenderness that made it impossible to look away. He dove into your warm heat without giving you time to understand what was happening, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all.
He was putting all his emotions into the task. Every movement seemed charged with everything he had been holding back, rough but still gentle enough to remind you that he knew exactly how far he could push you, or rather your body.
The intensity of it made your thoughts blur, leaving you struggling to focus on anything but him. Your thighs were closing around his head while your hand was pushing him closer, almost instinctively, as though you were afraid he might stop if you didn’t reached for him. Your hips had started to roll on their own, betraying every attempt you had made to regain control.
The sob that left you made him smirk as he rubbed his nose against your clit. There was a flicker of satisfaction in his expression —even though you weren’t able to see it— as if your reaction was precisely what he had been hoping for.
Your eyes were closed but your mouth was wide open, every thought disappearing beneath the overwhelming feeling. Only the sweetest sounds, he had ever heard were leaving your lips, and judging by the look on his face, he was engraving every one of them to memory.
“That’s right, baby. You’re being so good for me.”
His voice was low and so dirty, so him, as his words sent another shiver through your whole body. He was talking straight into your core, and you could already feel your peak coming. Your fingers tightened instinctively, your breathing becoming uneven as you struggled to hold yourself together and accommodate the vibrations he was sending to your cunt.
You finally opened your eyes to find something even hotter: the way his eyes were fixed straight on you while he was jerking off with his hand, using your sounds and the spectacle you were offering as a way to get himself off. And with how his jaw was clenched and the way his cock was red and throbbing with all the friction it had received, you could tell that he was close too. The sight made your cheeks burn, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. There was something intensely intimate about the way he was watching you.
And It was enough to make you peak as you came on his tongue, your legs shaking around him and sobs escaping from your pretty lips. For a moment, everything seemed to fall away. You could barely catch your breath, your body was trembling beneath the intensity of it, while Aerion’s attention remained focused entirely on you.
He continued to flick his tongue gently before finally getting back to you to kiss you, forcing you to taste your own release. The kiss was messy and breathless, neither of you quite able to slow down. His hands moved hurriedly as he took off his jeans and boxers, ready to fuck you.
“M’gonna put a baby in ya… gonna give Maegor a lil sibling, huh? Gonna breed this pussy so good.”
The words only made your breath catch. There was something reckless about the promise in his voice, something that made the already dangerous situation feel even more intense.
He had pushed inside you as he spoke so dirtily, knowing you were already prepared for his dick as he quickly pushed in and then out. The familiarity of him made the moment feel almost unreal, especially after everything that had almost occured last time.
“Aerion—!” You moaned when you felt your walls clinging around him.
It had been a while since you had had any sexual intercourse because the last time, sweet maegor had almost walked in on you both. The memory flashed through your mind for only a second, enough to remind you of the trauma you almost gave to your sweet baby before getting back to your senses when Aerion drew your attention back to him.
You couldn’t stop yourself from grabbing him by the nape before colliding your lips together. Your tongue dancing with his own while your fingers tangled against the back of his neck as you tried to pulled him closer, desperate for the distraction of his presence. His hips were thrusting into your cunt, and the rhythm of your movements were filling the room with pornographic sounds.
The slapping sounds combined with your moans and Aerion’s grunts, resonating throughout the house. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the stillness, making the thought of the someone hearing you flash through your mind again. Yet neither of you would have been able to stop anyway. For those few moments, the rest of the world seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you caught up in something neither of you were willing to resist.
The way his cock was brushing against your folds, hitting all the right spots and making you see stars, was only sending waves of euphoria through your body. He suddenly lifted your leg so he could get even closer, wanting to fill you even more with himself. You were desperately trying to search for somewhere that could help you anchor your fingers somewhere, until you finally decided that his hair will do, gripping and tugging at it each time his tip was hitting that particular spongy spot that made your entire body jolt.
“Fuck—baby, I missed you,” the words escaped with a breathy groan, his voice so rough but so him.
He settled his head against your neck while his hips continued to thrust into you faster. You were so completely lost in the overwhelming feeling that, for a moment, you barely registered what he had just sayed. All you could focus on was the sensation consuming you, the heat of his body against yours, and the way your fingers remained tangled tightly in his hair.
You finally orgasmed around him in one final, desperate clench, your body trembling as your release covered him, followed by his own as he came against your walls, leaving them warm and sticky.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved.
You were still trying to catch your breath when he finally pulled out of your still-clenching hole. An overstimulated whimper escaped you at the sudden emptiness, your body instinctively tensing from the lingering sensitivity.
Aerion gave you a gentle peck on the head before helping you down from the counter. Your legs, were unsteady beneath you, and you had to grip his arm for a moment until you could properly find your balance. Then, slowly, reality seemed to return. You blinked, as you looked around the kitchen. And the smell finally reached your nose..
Something smelled horribly burnt.
Your brows furrowed as you turned toward the stove.
You stared at it for a second before your eyes widened in panic at the sight of the vegetables, completely blackened and smoking.
