It was only after his father had forced a horrible, gout-ridden psychiatrist on him that the dreams (nightmares, she insisted) were halting, the gaps between them stretching with frightening speed. His sleeps were becoming deeper, more restful. And he was starting to realise that his mother was not coming back.

The morning he met you he had slept for twelve hours the night before and the sun was shining a shade too bright for a world his mother was not alive in.

He had only partly scratched the sleep out of his eyes when he stumbled into the kitchen. The kids were all there. Daeron, half-baked even at the start of day. Aemon was beside him with his nose buried in an encyclopedia. Egg was pulling Daella’s hair with Rhae and Valarr was sitting, perfectly composed, amidst the roaring table as if it was the most natural thing.

Beside Valarr, pretty as a picture, sat you. Something lurched inside Aerion’s chest. It felt as if his heart, tired and unnaturally sleepy, had been shot with a bullet, kickstarting the day when he had no intention to do so.

He stood there against the door for a full five minutes before you noticed him. And then you tilted your head at him, lips pulled into a polite half-smile that was there for the whole time. Suddenly, he noticed the thing in your hand. It was a locket, his mother’s locket, with her miniature portrait of hers painted into the empty middle it. Everything warm in him left in an instant. 

“Hello, Aerion,” you said, as if you’d known him forever.

A wave of nausea welled under his skin. Your voice was light. Breathy… as if you’d just recovered from a cold. He pressed his lips, staring at the locket first and then at you. You wore a pale-blue sundress, hair down, smile open—the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. Aerion wondered, for a brief and terrible moment, what it might feel like to smile back at you.

But the moment snapped close and he squared his shoulders and answered, “Fuck you.”

You blinked. 

Aerion saw—with a burning, bruising sensation in the middle of his chest—as your cheeks lit up red. 

—--------------------

This is ridiculous. Aerion hisses at himself, which, truthfully, sounds more and more like a moan—a long overdue, aching, longing moan—than anger.

Fucking ridiculous. 

His one hand is wrapped around his cock, growing harder by the second as more undue memory flushes in, uninhibited. His other hand is clamped over his forehead, the elbow of it perched over the bathroom mirror, fogged by his breath. He sweeps his thumb over the head of his cock and a dribble of precum already sprouts from the intensity. He hisses again, a low curse. His hands work faster as the almost naked, slightly sweaty back of you comes in his mind.

Gods, he hates himself.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

—--------------

Aerion is planning to hide in the attic when he runs into you. 

Three weeks into the summer Maekar has decided that it’s time to ransack Aerion’s room for his hidden stash of weeds. As his room is getting ransacked by his father’s manager at ten am, he goes up to the attic to hide and finds you perched on one of the corners by the slim shaped window instead. His breath hitches at the sight of you. You don’t see him at first, entirely immersed in the magazine in your hand. From the short distance of the door and the window he can see your eyes scrunched in concentration, your ponytail lopsided as you slide against the wall. You look so lovely it feels as if something sharp has stabbed him in the chest.

Aerion wants to hit something. 

A sudden waft of wind from the broken window blows into the room and breezes against your hair. Your dress, a soft yellow thing with red flowers blossoming on top of the fabric, flutters. You sit with your knees to your chest, and below the dress your legs are long and smooth and naked.

It takes you fifty seconds exactly before you notice him. As your eyes snap to him, his naked feet and his short jeans and his old t-shirt, you look befuddled for a moment—just the fraction of a moment—and then the familiar knowing smile sets in.

“You missed breakfast,” you say non-committally.

Aerion feels his throat catching fire. 

“I wasn’t hungry,” he replies tightly.

Your smile persists. And Aerion doesn’t let his steps falter as he steps further into the room instead of backing down, going back to the garden or the basement or anywhere else where he might not be noticed like a peculiar insect you didn’t know if you should be interested in. It means nothing that you noticed he missed breakfast because that’s what you do, for everyone under the moon. And if he’s honest, it was infuriating, how you made simple politeness seem like a charm. Like the way your head tilted could mean that you were observing him closer, that your eyes lit at something he said could mean you listened when others scoffed.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

Aerion taps his feet on the floor. The musty old wood makes a creak. He stares at you, the lopsided ponytail, the magazine, the clip on your left toenail. The blood-red colour of your nails shine off the sunlight except for that chipped part of your left toe. Aerion wants to touch that spot.

“Aerion.”

His nose flares. You know what he is doing. Everyone except Maekar knows he hides his Oxys in the attic when the yearly ransack happens. And it’s alright, it was how it happened. People take him for what he is—a fucked-up heir who was at most bearable when he wasn’t mostly in his senses. They stare at the sight of his Valyrian features and his Valyrian madness and the ignorance of the rest of him was the most generous thing anyone could do. 

Except, for all your charitable portfolio, you are not doing that. You never do. You aren’t ignoring him. You step in front of him and tilt your head and stare in the all-encompassing, fixed, exulted way of yours and Aerion tries very very hard to stay still. To pretend the sharp shooting pain in his chest is anger and not hunger.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps. “Where’d your prince gone off to?”

“My prince?”

“You know it’s better for you to just leave now, don’t you?” he adds, biting on the words.

“Leave the attic and ignore the hand in your pocket that’s holding drugs?”

“Leave Summerhall and realise that Valarr would’ve already fucked you if he wanted to.”

Your lips flutter. There is a fraction of a second where your face dims, and Aerion doesn’t know if the pain in his chest meant he won or lost.

“That,” you say slowly, “was really mean.”

Aerion’s chest tightens. Mean, you said, a child’s word. A word no one used at him anymore. But it hurts, for some reason, it hurts that your eyes are softening, and your lips are slack in their smile and the flush in your cheeks have grown redder and all he can wonder is how many times he’s been mean to you this summer alone. 

It irritates him. Aerion Targaryen is used to biting people, he shouldn’t have to wonder about the bleeding afterwards.

“Just go away,” he finds himself saying. “It’s not like you have anything else to do.”

It means nothing. He knows it means less than nothing because that is what you always do with each other. You pretend to be nice to him and he bites at you as if you were something poisonous and somewhere in the middle of it, sometimes, it feels as if you are breaking something in him that was so well-adjusted that even in the attempt, it seems like a violent thing.

“You know me so well,” you say, and he notices a rouge strand of hair sticking to your forehead. It’s so tiny, so small part of inconsistency with your appearance that it pulls at his lips. He bites them, and you raise your eyebrows. Your skin is softer now, a hint of flush on your cheeks. 

You say something.

“What?” he blurts out, blinking.

“I said I admire your talent to make words out of thin air just as I admire your talent to know me despite, you know, never talking to me.”

“We’re talking.”

“This is not talking. This is you using the one part of me that’s embarrassing and wielding it like a weapon. Why are you so mean to me? What have I ever done to you?”

Aerion could laugh. A question as absurd as this deserves a laugh.

You infected me, he wants to growl. The words never came out, but the scratch of them, the pitying, dizzying honesty in them, burns behind his throat. 

You come into his home and you get under his skin like mites and the feel of you on him—all over him—is a speed-rush that burns. He hates you. He hates that you have to look at him once to know when he’d spiral out of control. That even if you spared a glance at him it would lit a fire inside him lasting for days. That you would only make soft eyes for Valarr and prying eyes for him. That he’s never certain what’s the real you and the distinction, that difference shouldn’t matter to him at all yet this is all he thinks about when you’re around. Did you laugh at his joke? Were you slouching? Was he reading you wrong? You had known each other in sparse moments, in fractions between moments. One glance at him while you played badminton with Valarr, a coarse laugh at him at the breakfast table, the brush of your sundress against his calves while he rushed out of a room you entered because the sight of you with his cousin was nauseating, sometimes. Unbearable. The way you circle each other like the same ends of a magnet and how it rewires him, dizzies him, makes him want to reach out and touch you. Oh gods, he has never even touched you.

“Because you are fucking infuriating,” he growls. You flinch and the sight of it almost makes his chest inflate with pride. “Because you are so fucking afraid all the time that someone’s going to read you out. Because you pretend. You pretend to be this perfect, polite girl when all you want is someone to tear you apart. You want someone to wreck you and you’re too scared to ask for it. Too scared to do anything impulsive. When was the last time you did something impulsive, huh?

“I guess the last time was a decade ago. You probably painted your nice beige bedroom wall with pictures of the doom of Valyria and your father looked at it and lectured you on how stupid it was instead of praising it. And you probably went on with it because you fucking worship the man. And your mum probably enlisted you into those etiquette classes girls like you join to be refined and classy and absolutely without any propriety. Yeah, darling, I’m sure it’s something like that.”

“You don’t know me,” you say. The words are flat but your voice is weak. Your voice, the springy, cool cut of it cracks.

“Why don’t you prove me wrong, then? Do something impulsive. Do something you want to.”

“I don’t—”

“I dare you.”

And the word—dare—hangs between you like insanity. He can feel the electricity in the air, static and forbidden. He can see the break in your eyes, the doubt. And beyond that, beyond the glossy uncertainty there is something else, too. Something gritter, meaner. Something like intent. It feels like getting hit with cocaine for the first time. He stares at your parted mouth and the swirl of breath that comes out, sweet-smelling and intoxicating, ensnares his senses.

You’d never looked at him like this.

With a sharp, shaken interest. Almost, almost like want.

Somewhere far away, far down from where you both stood, lightning struck. 

And Aerion can swear to the old gods and the new that he knows—knows—what is going to happen.

You step forward and kiss him. 

And everything stops.

His eyes are wide open as yours flutter shut. Your hands are two fist at the collar of his t-shirt, remaining as motionless as the rest of your body. You press your lips against his and it’s just like when you were fighting. Something shakes inside Aerion and his hands skim across your arm to rest on your throat and he presses hard. 

And it fits. Your mouth seals on top of his and there’s no Is it really happening? Or can we do this? And this? And this? There’s no split second of confusion of what to do with your hands and where to put them and you do this and this and this. You part your lips and your tongues brush and one of his hands leave their place to grab on your hair. He tilts your head so your mouths are even deeper into each other and your hands move to his hair and he feels you messing it up. 

Aerion whimpers. 

There’s a soft moan at the back of your throat that sends shivers down his spine.  Aerion could feel them tremble, could feel the desperate ache in his to be even closer, hastier, sloppier. Your whole body is enfolding in his and he wants gravity, needs it to be closer to you, to press more firmly, with more intent. So he rushes your bodies to the closest wall and you let him. You encourage him. You wrap your legs around his hips, letting him hoist you up and your back meets the dusty wall.

You let out a loud, shivering moan as he snatched his lips apart to trace the line of your throat. He leaves a trail of kisses, wet, urgent to your pulse and the slight splotch of lighter skin that had ruined his nights is here, in his reach and he takes the chance like a dog in heat. 

He finds a spot he likes and bites onto it.

Your legs shake. It’s catastrophic. It’s everything. He can feel you giving in. You fall lighter and he hikes you up more urgently, because you’ve decided, you’ve decided that there’s no gravity. Aerion is the only thing that’s keeping you straight. He smirks against the spot, licking where his teeth had been before running them again. He grinds into you, rutting his hard length in the wet hot spot between your thighs. You moan and the sound could sustain him for days.

And then…

“Valarr…” you gasp.

He stops. His entire body, the muscles and the bones and the blood stutters. His grip on you, one hand at your throat, the other at your hip tightens. Instead of backing away and staring at you, watching your face register the moment you said his cousin’s name, Aerion stops because suddenly he’s afraid. Afraid of the moment ending, afraid of making it all real.

But then you move and he feels the shift in the room. Another person standing in the vicinity. “Aerion,” you are saying now. “Aerion.”

His body is nothing. You push him and he backs away and his heart knows who would be standing in front of him even before his head did.

He turns and finds Valarr Targaryen, the young prince, the pride of his family, staring back at him as if someone had punched him. Aerion stands, bleakly fascinated at how wrong his cousin looks. Valarr in his Sunday shorts, his white shoes and his dark watch immaculately nauseating. Still, under the cool pink colour of his oxford shirt, an ugly splotch of red is there. He is livid.

Aerion still has his hand on your hip and that under that, under his hands, you are trembling. With a surprising warmth, he realises that he is shaking too.

He stared back at you to find you pulling the strap of your dress up. Something twists inside him. He doesn’t remember pulling it down.

You blink at him, your face flushed all over. Your eyes are dazed, glossy as if you can’t quite believe where they were. And your lips… your lips are wet. He can see his spit on you.

“Oh,” you breathe, glancing at Valarr. 

Oh, indeed.

He can’t look away, offer any explanation, or even blink. His eyes—he hates himself—falls to your breasts straining against the bust of the dress. Momentarily. Unnoticeably. Aerion takes a gulp to find his voice again, bite back some explanation, anything really, but you’ve already turned back, feet unsteady as you left both him and Valarr without a word. It takes  you exactly two seconds to reach from the middle of the room to disappear through the door.

It takes Aerion ten seconds to find his voice at all.

“What the fuck did you do?” Valarr hisses.

Aerion runs his tongue over his lips and tastes the orange in your chapstick.

“You mean what we were doing, cuz? Because I sure as hell wasn’t making out with myself.”

Valarr takes a step to him, the wood creaks devastatingly loud in Aerion’s ear. “What did you do?”

Aerion tilts his head defiantly. “She kissed me. On her own will.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Why?” Aerion growls. “Because she’s so busy wanting you?”

Valarr looks as Aerion struck him. Aerion can see an answer, twisted and feral, simmering on his lips. But it never comes out. “Fuck you,” his cousin spits out finally. “She’s important to me and if you think you can just—”

“What?” Aerion takes a step, the rush from your kiss is unbearable. It’s the most alive he’s felt in years. “She doesn’t need your permission to kiss me.”

Valarr’s face twists in disgust. His mismatched eyes darkening, possessive. There is nothing soft in him at this moment, none of that pretty-boy bullshit he pulls at family gatherings. There’s only hate. “Why would she want someone like you?”

Aerion is pretty sure he won’t quite remember what happens after that. There’s no perfect, linear narrative in his head. He shoves Valarr and Valarr punches him and after the white in his head dims down and he registers that he’s at the bathroom bleeding from his nose, he realises that he’s also still hard.

So here he is now, groaning as his palm stretches along his length. Trying hard, so hard to not think about just how the fuck everything lead him to this. He looks at the mirror, exasperated, and dejected and—horny. He snaps his eyes to his jeans and—oh Gods— the outline of his dick through the fabric makes him want to gouge his eyes out. It’s impossible to get rid of it, because even as he pursed his lips in exasperation, he could taste your chapstick again. And the taste lit inside whatever embers you’d left open.

So he pulls down the zipper, brings it out, letting out a moan of relief as his fingertips brush over the head of his dick, almost red now. He fists himself to quickly do it over, and the image of your knees flash before his eyes. And even though his cock twitches in his hands, even though he can’t help but think about sliding his hand up your knees, your thighs and then your—

And then the image of something else entirely comes to his mind. Scenarios. What if you are also in another bathroom? What if the argument and the warm attic and the bloody kiss that you started affected you as well? What if you are thinking about him? Thinking about his hair and how you clutched it, your hand on his chest—

His hands are sticky, he is trying so so hard to get it done as fast as he can.

He whispers your name into his smudged reflection, stares at the darkened violet of his own eyes before he screws his eyes shut. His hand works faster. 

He can’t think straight enough, blood rushes to his ear. All he has in his head is you. Breasts straining against the bust, the straps he’d moved. Just how strong were they, he wonders. Were they keeping the dress hoisted up on your body? If he snapped them off with his fingers, hooked below one of the yellow stripes, or used his teeth instead, would it fall at once? Aerion imagines his mouth on your shoulder, smooth, inviting shoulder, one hand on your stomach and—lower and lower and he could wrench out the half echoed moan from your throat if he dipped his fingers into

Oh god yes yes Aerion, baby, yes.

Faster.

He could do that. Get you off while standing. He could fall to his knees, he could taste you. And something, something about the way you’ve watched him curse and pillage for ten summers—the dark in your eyes, the steady attention—makes him sure that you’ll like that too. You could like that. He could do that. Make your squirm for more of it, more of him. He could push your thighs apart to get more of you, as much as he’s ever wanted.

With a choking moan, he comes to the image of you getting off.

Aerion is my tormented noodle. love him love him,, let me know if you liked the update..

tagging: @mary-1237 @sunshineandarrows @autumnevanescence @pixel-pixie-xo

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