Lois

But he doesn't move away. That's the thing about your temperamental dragon. The refusal is always louder than the retreat, and the retreat never comes.

He stands exactly where he is, tension drawing his slender shoulders tight beneath his tunic, pale eyes narrowed to slits. You rise from the bed and cross the distance between you, bare feet quiet on the stone, and he watches you come the way a hawk watches an approaching hand, nostrils flaring.

You reach up without an invitation and he catches your wrist in a vicegrip. Hard enough that the bones grind.

"I said no." His voice has dropped into something serrated, all edge, no breath. "That is a whore's ornament. You will not put a whore's collar on a prince of the blood."

"I'm not putting it on a prince of the blood," you say, and your thumb finds his pulse, hammering, frantic, a traitor drumming against your skin. "I'm putting it on my husband."

His lip curls. Genuine, blistering contempt, the kind he wears like armour, the kind that has made grown men step back from him and whisper he's mad. "You've lost your mind, wife. This is beneath me. Take your Lysene filth and—"

"And what?"

You don't raise your voice. You tilt your head and watch him, patient as winter frost, while his mouth keeps shaping poison but his hand hasn't tightened, hasn't shoved you back, hasn't done any of the things Aerion is so very capable of doing when he means his refusals.

His body knows you even when his pride won't permit him.

You can see it in him, the war happening behind his eyes. Hatred and want tearing at each other like dogs. His breathing has gone uneven, the tendons in his neck taut as bowstrings. He's furious, genuinely furious, and he's half-hard already, and the combination is doing something to his expression that looks almost like anguish.

"You also haven't moved," you observe mildly, pressing a little closer.

Aerion's nostrils flare. But his grip on your wrist loosens. It's not a permission, never permission, just the muscles giving out under the weight of what he wants and won't ask for.

You step into the space he hasn't made for you and he lets you, jaw clenched so tight you can see the bone beneath that smooth pale skin, and when your fingers brush his throat he flinches like you've put a blade there, sneering down at you.

You fasten the collar with steady hands. The clasp clicks, quiet as a lock turning. Gold settles against Aerion's skin like it was poured there. Fine links pooling into the hollow of his throat, amethysts glowing dark against all that pale, furious warmth, the delicate chain trailing down his collarbone. His pulse jumps so hard beneath the metalwork you can see it in the tremor of the links.

He is, objectively, the most striking thing you've ever seen.

You let him watch you realise it. You don't hide the way your gaze tracks the gold against his jaw, the flush climbing his neck beneath the chain, the way his platinum hair glows against the gleam of metal.

You take your time with it. Look at him the way you'd look at something you own. Appraising, proprietary, openly pleased with what it's infront of you.

"My beautiful dragon," you murmur, and there's nothing teasing about it. Just a wolf admiring what belongs to her.

Aerion's whole body locks up. there's a crack in his expression and for a half-second you see the raw thing underneath, stunned and starving, before the hatred slams back down like a portcullis.

"Quiet," he warns, voice scraped thin. "Don't call me that."

"Beautiful?" You trace the line of gold with one finger, following it along the tendon in his throat. His skin is burning. "But you are. All collared up for me. All that pride and fury wrapped in gold like a gift." Your finger reaches the chain and curls loosely around it. "Like something I bought. Something I'm keeping."

"I will break your hand," he snarls, but his voice has fractured somewhere in the middle of it, gone hoarse and bitten, and his hands are fists at his sides that aren't moving, aren't reaching, aren't doing anything at all because his body has chosen you over every hateful word in his mouth.

"Look at you," you breathe, and you let your admiration sit open on your face, undisguised, almost tender. "My prince. My pretty, collared husband. Wearing a courtesan's chain because his wife asked and he couldn't say no."

"I said no—"

"Your hateful mouth said no." Your eyes drop, pointed, unhurried, to where the evidence of his body's opinion is unmistakable. "The rest of you has a different answer, husband."

The sound he makes is closer to snarl, like he's about to leap forward and throttle you.

"They tell me these are put on courtesans in the pillowhouses," you tell him, conversational, your thumb stroking idle circles against the chain at his throat. "On the loveliest ones. The ones men cross the Narrow Sea just to kneel before." You lean in, your mouth near his ear, close enough to feel the heat pouring off him. "A collar to say this one is precious, this one is wanted, this one has been claimed by someone who can afford the price of them."

Your lips brush the shell of Aerion's ear. He's shaking. Fine, continuous tremors he can't control, running through him like current through wire.

"But you're not a courtesan, are you?" you murmur. "You're a dragon. My dragon. Collared and flushed and hard for me, and all I've done is call you pretty and put gold on your throat."

His hips snap forward, involuntary, vicious, a jerk of motion so sharp the chain shivers in your grip and his breath tears out of him ragged. You feel the length of him grind against your thigh and the confirmation of what you already knew floods you with something hot and deeply, viciously satisfied.

You smile. Wolfish. The smile of a predator who's found the exact place her teeth fit best.

Aerion's hand comes up and seizes your face. A capture, fingers digging into your jaw, your cheeks, wrenching your head so you're forced to meet his eyes. They're blown black, the pale lavender almost gone, eaten alive. His mouth is a shaking, vicious line.

"You think this is funny?" he rasps, and there's something fraying in his voice, an edge that sounds like it's being held together by nothing but spite. "You think you can play with me, collar me like some—some Lysene bed-slave and then smirk at me—"

You don't stop smiling. You let him see every inch of it. The smugness, the heat, the cool Northern certainty that you've claimed something he'd sooner die than hand over. You turn your face into his grip and press your lips to his palm, unhurried, greedy, and feel his fingers twitch against your skin.

"I think," you say knowingly against his hand, "that you liked it when I called you beautiful. I think you liked it so much your whole body told me before your mouth could catch up." Your tongue skims his palm, just barely, tasting salt. "I think my pretty husband wants to be admired. I think he always has. And I think if I told him he was good right now, he'd come apart."

His hand tightens on your face until it almost hurts. His chest is heaving, every breath hauling through him like he's physically fighting something inside him. You can feel the chain taut between your fingers, connecting your hand to his throat like a leash, like a lifeline.

Aerion stares at you and you stare back. The room is so quiet you can hear the candles gutter and the chain clink, once, with the tremor running through him.

Then he crashes his mouth onto yours.

His teeth catch your lower lip and bite, hard enough that copper blooms on your tongue, and you hiss into it, fingers tightening in the chain. He licks the blood off your mouth and comes back for more, tongue pushing past your gasp, his free hand fisting in the back of your hair so hard your scalp sings.

He's trying to take it back—every sound you pulled from him, every tremor, every helpless grind of his hips—kissing you like he can swallow the evidence of what you've done to him and burn it.

You let him have the violence of it. You open your mouth and take his tongue and bite it, feel Aerion jolt, feel the groan rattle through his teeth into yours. Your free hand comes up and grabs his jaw, holds him still, and you kiss him back with teeth and intention, licking into his mouth with the focused, unhurried authority. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth and pull, dragging it out, and the noise he makes is humiliating and so gorgeous you smile.

He breaks away panting, wild-eyed, mouth swollen and blood-smeared, and you don't let him get far.

You tug the chain.

A measured pull, the gold biting into the back of his neck.

Aerion's head tips forward, forced, the angle dragging him down toward you, and you hold him there, his mouth hovering over yours, breathing your air. The chain pressed firm against his throat. His pulse hammers against the links hard enough that you can feel it thrumming through the gold into your fist.

"Stay," you murmur against his mouth. A command. A wolf's word.

You pull again. Harder. A real pressure now, the collar snug against his Adam's apple, gold links creasing the flushed skin, and you watch Aerion's eyes go glassy and his lips part on a breath that has nowhere to go.

He moans.

Not behind his teeth. A real, wrecked, open sound, the kind of sound courtesans are trained to coax from their wealthiest patrons, obscene and helpless and utterly without dignity. The kind of sound a prince of the blood should never make. If anyone else heard it, it would ruin him, you know.

He moans like a whore with your hand wrapped in his leash, and the vibration of it travels through the chain and into your fingers and settles, hot, at the base of your spine.

You hold the chain taut. His throat works against the pressure, swallowing around gold. His mouth finds yours again. Wetter this time, messier, all desperation and no technique, his teeth clashing against yours, biting at your lips like he can punish you for this even as his body bows into you.

You kiss him back with blood on both your mouths and one hand in his hair and the other wrapped in gold links, holding his throat, keeping him exactly where you want him.

Your collared, shaking, furious, beautiful husband. Yours.

Aerion doesn't break the kiss so much as redirect it. One moment his mouth is on yours, blood and spit and the taste of his own undoing, and the next his hands are at your waist, hauling you backwards. You feel your spine hit the edge of the bed frame hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

"On the bed," he snarls against your mouth. "Now."

You could resist. He knows it. The chain is still wrapped around your fist and his throat is still collared in gold and if you pulled right now he'd have to stop, have to kneel, have to wait. You could make him beg for it if you felt like it.

You choose not to.

You let yourself fall back onto the furs and he follows you down like gravity, one knee between your thighs shoving them apart. He wrenches them apart, graceless, nothing courtly about it.

His hands find the laces of your gown and yank. Fabric tears. You hear stitching give, the soft rip of silk surrendering, but Aerion doesn't care, doesn't pause, just drags the ruined bodice down your shoulders and off your arms with the efficiency of a man stripping armour.

"Wretched thing," he breathes, and the words land hot against your collarbone. His mouth follows the words. Teeth scraping the jut of bone, tongue dragging through the hollow of your throat. "Wretched, insufferable—"

He bites the swell of your breast through your shift and your back arches off the bed. His hands are everywhere, pulling linen, shoving wool, ripping where pulling isn't fast enough. Cool air hits your skin in patches—your stomach, your ribs, the tops of your thighs—and his mouth chases every new inch of you like he's starving and you're the only thing left in the larder.

"You think you can collar me," he hisses, dragging the shift over your head and throwing it somewhere behind him. His eyes rake down your body, naked now, spread beneath him on the dark furs, and for one raw second the hatred in Aerion's face cracks and what's underneath is so hungry it looks like pain. "Think you can put a leash on a dragon and smile about it? You smug, superior—"

"Beautiful," you interrupt softly, admiring. Your eyes trace the collar at his throat, the way it catches candlelight as his chest heaves.

His jaw locks so hard you hear the teeth grind.

"—vicious little wolf," he finishes, and his voice has gone thick with something that isn't anger anymore.

He's still dressed. His tunic is rucked, his breeches straining, and when you glance down you can see the dark stain spreading at the front of the linen where he's leaking, where his body has been ahead of his pride since the moment you fastened the clasp.

You let your gaze settle there. Deliberate. Hungry.

"You know," you say conversationally, tracing one finger down the chain at his throat, "in the Lysene houses they auction the prettiest ones. The patrons bid all evening. Wine and silks and perfumed halls, and the courtesans walk among them, collared just like this—" your nail taps a single amethyst "—so everyone knows the goods are spoken for."

Aerion's nostrils flare. A muscle jumps in his cheek.

"They'd have bid high for you." You tilt your head, considering him. That platinum hair mussed, mouth bitten raw, gold at his throat, cock straining wet against his laces. "Very high. A prince with a face like that? Those eyes? That mouth?" You smile, slow and wolfish, briefly dragging your thumb over his full bottom lip. "I'd have outbid them all. Every merchant prince and magister in the room. I'd have bought you for myself and taken you home in your collar and kept you exactly like this. Hard, and furious, and all mine."

A sound rips from Aerion, rumbling through his frame.

His hand shoots to his laces, fumbling, tearing at the ties with shaking fingers, and you watch him strip his breeches down his hips with none of the control he prides himself on. His cock springs free flushed and dripping, slick at the head, twitching with his pulse, and the evidence of what your words have done to him is obscene and unmistakable.

He doesn't give you time to admire it.

His hands seize your thighs and wrench them open. Wide, wider, until the stretch burns and your hips cant off the furs. He settles between them and you feel the blunt, wet head of him drag through the slick mess of you once, catching at your entrance, and then he drives in.

One stroke. All of him. No preamble, no patience, no tenderness.

Your head snaps back. The sound that leaves your mouth is half gasp, half snarl. He's thick and hard, furious inside you, every inch of him a declaration, and your body seizes around him in a clench that makes Aerion's shoulders shudder.

"There," he grits out, teeth bared, hips already pulling back for the next thrust. "Is this what you wanted? Your collared whore between your legs?"

He snaps forward. Hard. Your body jolts up the bed, furs bunching beneath your spine. His hands pin your hips, thumbs digging into the hollows, holding you open, holding you still while he fucks into you with furious, punishing strokes. The narrow cant of his hips drives a rhythm that's all fury and no mercy.

"Spoiled—" Thrust. "—conniving—" Thrust. "—wolf—"

Aerion bites the junction of your shoulder and your neck. Sucks the skin between his teeth hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark, and the sound you make is shameless, back bowing, your fingers scrabbling at his ribs.

He bites lower. The top of your breast. The ridge of your collarbone. Everywhere his mouth lands he leaves evidence. Welts, teeth-marks, the wet shine of his tongue, mapping you like territory he's conquering even as the collar at his throat says otherwise.

You let him have it. The fury, the pace, the bruising grip. You let him think he's reclaiming himself.

Then you wrap the chain around your fist and pull.

The collar bites into his nape. Aerion's head jerks forward, forced, and the angle changes, drives him deeper, and the sound he makes is guttural and broken, so far from princely it would make his father weep.

"My pretty whore," you murmur up at him, and your voice is steady even with him buried to the hilt inside you, even with your thighs shaking around him. "My beautiful, expensive, collared—"

Aerion's hand closes around your throat.

His fingers find the column of your windpipe with the precision of a man who's t done this before, who knows the anatomy, who's imagined the give of it. Real pressure follows his grip and your airway narrows to a reed.

You lean into it.

Your chin tips up, back arching. You press your throat harder against his palm and moan. Open-mouthed, loud, the kind of sound that fills a room and stains the air. The look on Aerion's face when he realises you're not afraid, that you like it, that the compression of your breath is making you clench tighter around his cock, is something you will keep behind your teeth for the rest of your natural life.

"You," he manages, and his hips haven't stopped, punishing rhythm gone ragged at the edges now, his voice husky. "You're the whore of the two of us. Acting like this. Taking my cock like this. Listen to the mess of you. Moaning with my hand on your throat like a—a dockside—"

You yank the chain. Harder than before. Hard enough that the gold bites welts into his skin, hard enough that Aerion's breath cuts short and his eyes roll and his next thrust goes so deep you feel it in the back of your teeth.

Your hips snap up to meet him—deliberate, brutal, grinding him into the deepest, most sensitive part of you—and the wet sound of it is filthy, unmistakable, the slick drench of your body taking his echoing off the stone walls.

His composure shatters.

What's left is animal, narrow hips pistoning, the obscene slap of his skin against yours, his fingers spreading you wider, thumbs hooking your thighs and pulling until you're split open around him in a way that's almost too much. The stretch burns. The fullness borders on pain. You're going to ache tomorrow, going to feel every brutal inch of this for days, and the knowledge of it—the phantom soreness already gathering in your hips—makes you wetter, makes you greedier, makes you tighten around him until he chokes.

"Fuck—"

He hooks your legs over his shoulders. The angle goes deeper, filthier, the wet sound of his cock working in and out of you loud enough that you can hear every thrust, every slick drag, the rhythmic slap of his balls against you keeping time like a drumbeat.

You reach up and wrap both hands in the chain and haul him down toward you, bending yourself nearly in half, pulling him deeper by his collar until Aerion's forehead presses against yours and you're breathing the same ragged air.

"Come in me," you tell him. An order, a wolf's command.

"Do not order me—"

But his hips stutter, his jaw going slack. The muscles in his neck cord tight against the gold links and you feel him break. The first hot pulse of him inside you floods you, thick and sudden, and Aerion's whole body seizes above you like a man struck by lightning.

He spills in deep, wrenching surges, hips grinding against yours with each gush, and there's so much of it—gods, so much—you feel it flood the space where you're joined, feel it overflow, feel the hot trickle of it escape around his cock and drip in slow rivulets onto the sheets beneath you.

The heat of it, the sight of your pretty dragon shaking apart above you, collared, spilling himself into you, desperate and greedy, pushes you over.

You come snarling. Your back arches off the bed, your teeth bared, your fingers coiled in the chain. The pleasure tears through you in savage waves and your body clenches around him. A vice-grip that wrenches a shocked, gutted noise out of his chest.

Aerion's hips slam forward on instinct, burying himself as deep as he can go, and both hands grab your backside, full handfuls, fingers sinking into the flesh, dragging you onto him like he can crawl inside you.

"Fuck—fuck, you're—gods—" Greedy and petulant even now, grinding into your contractions, chasing the squeeze of you. His cock pulses and you feel the fresh hot leak of him, not a full release but close, dangerously close, his body trying to spend itself again just from the clench of yours. "Take it—take all of it, you greedy—perfect—fucking —"

The filth spills out of him unchecked, half-words and fragments, praise tangled up in profanity. His arms lock around you, both hands still full of your ass, and he folds over you, curling, coiling, a dragon wrapping around his mate with his face buried in your throat and his hips still rocking in small, helpless pulses.

Burrowing into you. Trying to get closer when closer doesn't exist.

You hold him through it. Chain slack in your fist now, your other hand in his silver hair, your legs still trembling where they're hooked over his shoulders.

He stays inside you through every aftershock, twitching, half-hard, refusing to pull out even as the mess between you gets obscene. His spend leaks around his cock, dripping in slow pearly rivulets down through your folds, pooling beneath you on the sheets.

You reach between your bodies and touch yourself, fingers sliding through the slick ruin of his release and your own, spreading it over your core, your navel, the trembling plane of your stomach. Painting yourself with the evidence of him.

Aerion watches you do it. His chest heaving, his mouth open, his eyes tracking your fingers with the dazed, shattered focus.

You bring your fingers to your mouth. Hold his gaze. Taste.

His cock twitches inside you. He makes a low, growling sound.

Then, slowly, as if his bones have turned to water, he collapses. Aerion's weight comes down on you in a controlled fall, his face dropping into the curve of your neck, his breath coming in long, shuddering pulls against your pulse. The chain goes slack between you. The collar shifts, warm against your collarbone where his throat presses.

For a long moment there's nothing but breathing. The guttering candles. The cooling sweat between your bodies. His heartbeat thuds against your ribs, gradually slowing.

You burrow into him. Turn your face against his chest and press your mouth there. Teeth grazing his sternum, his collarbone, the smooth skin over his ribs. You nip. Suck a patch of skin between your lips and release it flushed. Your tongue drags through the salt-sheen of his sweat, tracing the cut of muscle, and your hand drifts up to stroke his chest, his throat, fingertips trailing the chain at his collar, the ridge of his Adam's apple, the hollow beneath.

Petting him. Mapping the territory you've claimed.

Aerion's hand comes up and cradles the back of your head. His fingers thread through your hair, and he shifts, angling his neck, tilting his shoulder down, offering you more skin. Easier access.

"You're an animal," he informs you, voice scraped raw and dry as bone. His thumb traces the curve of your skull. "A feral, uncivilised creature who should have been left in the kennels at Winterfell."

You suck a bruise into the ridge of his collarbone. He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and tips his chin higher, baring the collared line of his throat to your mouth with an ease that contradicts every word coming out of it.

"Disgusting habit," he adds, as you nip the tendon below his ear. His fingers card through your hair, untangling, smoothing. Stroking, greedy and possessive. "Gnawing on your husband like a bone. Do they teach you that in the North? Is it in the wedding vows, hm?"

You hum against his skin. Your teeth graze his pulse point and his breath catches—just barely, just enough—and his hand gentles at your nape, cradling rather than holding.

You can feel him preening under it. The commentary is armour but his body is liquid, angling into every scrape of your teeth, every press of your lips. Offering himself up piece by piece while his mouth pretends outrage.

You press a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. Soft. Almost sweet.

Then you pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

"My pretty whore," you murmur fondly.

The reaction is instantaneous.

His eyes flash, pale lavender burning through the blown-black aftermath, and his hand snaps from the back of your skull to the nape of your neck, gripping hard, fingers digging into the tendons. He drags you up and kisses you. Bruising. All teeth, his tongue pushing into your mouth, tasting himself on you, tasting everything on you.

His other hand slides down your body. Between your thighs. Through the mess of his own spend. He pushes two fingers into you easily, so wet you barely feel the stretch of him, just the sudden fullness and the obscene sound of it, his seed squelching around his knuckles as he curls deep.

"Whore," he repeats against your mouth, low and dangerous, his fingers pumping into you with a rhythm that's already building toward something. "You want a whore, wife? I'll fuck you like one." His teeth catch your lip. His fingers twist and you gasp. "Over and over. Till you can't walk. Till the whole Red Keep knows what I've done to you. Till you're dripping with me for days."

You laugh. Breathless, warm, the sound vibrating between your mouths. Your hand finds the chain and you pull him closer—not hard, just a steady pressure, a reminder of what's still fastened at his throat—and your legs wrap around his hips, drawing him in, fitting your body against his like a key turning in a lock.

"Good," you say.

His fingers curl inside you, his mouth finds yours again. The collar gleams between you in the candlelight.

he blushes pink at the thought. your words are enough to relight the fire licking at his groin. he watches you for a moment; tries to discern whether or not you're only saying what might please him, but ultimately nods.

you don't throat him immediately, though. instead, you duck your head down and press a few messy kisses to his balls. his hips twitch upwards at the contact, his breath hitching in his lungs. you smile, dart your tongue out to lick at the source of his hesitation.

"god, that's dirty," he groans. "you like this?"

"i like you," you hum, mouthing at his balls with spit-covered lips. you're making a mess of him, though that only gives you an excuse to suggest showering together later. "like your balls too."

"i... shit, i see that."

he's so sensitive, knitting his brows together as you suck and lick and kiss his balls with a feverish sort of worship you didn't know you had in you. his cock rests against your face, throbbing as it hardens even more. he could cum like this.

but you aren't quite done with him.

when you pull back to take his cock back into your warm mouth, all the way down to the base, kento swears he must've been a saint in his previous life to deserve such pleasures in this one. you trace the vein that tracks the underside of his length with your tongue, and then hollow your cheeks out to suck.

he cums all too-quick and with a loud and uncharacteristically whiney moan that makes you wonder how he'd sound tied up and begging. it feels almost wasteful to take his load anywhere other than deep inside of you, but you're sure you'll have plenty of opportunities for that in the near future.

he tastes good. salty. you want to keep sucking, see if you can milk him for more, but he's already overstimulated and panicking a little at the sensation he's feeling. although you think he likes it, you know it'll be too much for his first time. you pull off, careful to spill as little of his release as possible, and sit back on your heels.

and kento is a mess. his lips part as he watches yours pull into a greedy smile. he's eager to watch you spit it out, perhaps just to see the visual reminder that he came in your mouth. but you meet his eyes, let him sit on your tongue a moment longer, and then swallow.

oh. he wonders how he'll ever lead a normal life again after a sight like that. his mouth is dry, cock still wet with your spit, heart beating out of his chest...

still, he manages to stop you when you move to get up and start on his aftercare. "wait."

you raise your brows. "yes, ken?"

tt!daeron who smells like gasoline, marlboro reds, and the cheap pine scented soap from the garage bathroom

tt!daeron who has knuckles that are perpetually scraped raw and a collection of faded tattoos done by his brother aerion, during a questionable apprenticeship phase—a dragon on his bicep, a crooked crown on his forearm, your initials added later, hidden on his rib cage where only he (and you) can see.

tt!daeron who drives a pickup truck with a mismatched door and a cassette deck that only plays one album: a battered copy of appetite for destruction.

tt!daeron who fixes things. your car. your sink. the wobbly leg on your kitchen table. the ache in your chest after a bad day.

tt!daeron who pushes you against the cool, grease-smudged metal of a car hood in the empty garage after hours, his work roughened hands hiking up your skirt, “been thinkin’ ’bout this all damn day,” before his mouth crashes down on yours, tasting of coffee and grit.

tt!daeron who doesn’t ask, he directs. a firm hand on the back of your neck to guide you where he wants you. a low, “c’mere,” as he sits on the edge of the worn couch and taps his thigh. he knows what he wants, and he knows you want it too.

tt!daeron who keeps a blanket in the cab of his truck, folded behind the seat, just in case. he’s a planner when it comes to this. he knows all the secluded turn offs on backroads where the only light is the moon and the glow of the dashboard.

tt!daeron who loves the contrast. the way your soft, clean skin looks against his stained hands. the way your pretty lace panties look tangled around his steel-toed boots on the trailer floor. he gets a dark, possessive thrill from marking up what’s clean with what’s his.

tt!daeron who is brutally efficient when he’s turned on. no frills. the button on your jeans is a problem to be solved, your bra clasp a puzzle he undoes with one flick of his fingers. he gets what he wants with the same sure hands he uses in the garage, leaving you scrambling to keep up

tt!daeron who talks dirty in a low, raspy voice that goes straight to your core. “that’s it. take it.” “you gonna come for me?” it’s never flowery, always direct, and it makes you feel owned in the best, most terrifying way.

tt!daeron who loves it from behind, one arm wrapped possessively around your waist to pull you back onto him, his face buried in your neck. it feels less intimate for him that way, lets him get lost in the sensation without having to meet your eyes—until he can’t help it and turns your face to kiss you, messy and desperate.

tt!daeron who gets a specific, dark gleam in his ocean-like eyes when you wear his clothes—his old t-shirt, his hoodie. it’s not just cute to him. he’ll take you harder, like he’s trying to erase the fabric and get back to his skin on yours.

tt!daeron who is obsessed with your mouth. not just for kissing. his thumb will brush over your bottom lip, his gaze heavy. “look at you,” he’ll murmur.he likes to watch. he likes to be watched.

tt!daeron who is unexpectedly, devastatingly tender after. when he’s spent and sweaty, he’ll pull you into the shower with him and just hold you under the weak spray, washing your hair, his touch softer than it ever is any other time. it’s when he’s most vulnerable.

tt!daeron who leaves bruises in the shape of his fingertips on your hips and doesn’t apologize for them. he traces them the next morning with a sort of grim satisfaction. proof. of him. of this.

tt!daeron who gets jealous of inanimate objects. if you curl around a pillow in your sleep, he’ll yank it away in the dead of night and drag you into him, your back against his chest, his arm a heavy band across you. “you don’t need that,” he’ll mumble, half-asleep, into your hair.

tt!daeron who fucks you like he’s trying to outrun something—his past, his name. it’s all frantic energy and clenched teeth until he finally breaks, collapsing with a shuddering groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from the deepest part of him. and for a moment, whatever he’s running from, he’s won.

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Hockeyplayer!Aerion  who fights like a man possessed every time someone on the opposing team so much as looks at you in the stands. He doesn't care if it costs his team a power play. The moment some defenseman checks you through the glass, accidentally or not, Aerion drops his gloves and goes for blood. The refs have to pull him off. He'll sit in the penalty box with his knuckles split, breathing hard, and the only thing that calms him down is your hand pressed against the glass. He doesn't look at the coach. He doesn't look at the scoreboard. He looks only at you.

Hockeyplayer!Aerion  who has your name written inside his shoulder pads, right over his heart. You discovered it by accident, rummaging for a clean towel in his gym bag, and found the lining of his pads marked with a silver Sharpie. Mine, he'd written next to it. When you asked him about it, he just shrugged, but his ears went red. "Superstition," he said.

Hockeyplayer!Aerion  who smells like ice, sweat, and something sharp, like winter air and cedar. But after a shower, he smells like your shampoo. He uses it on purpose. When you confronted him, he said, "If I can't have you on the road, I'll have you in my hair." He travels with a tiny travel bottle of your conditioner. His teammates tease him relentlessly. He threatens to break their kneecaps. They stop teasing.

Hockeyplayer!Aerion  who keeps every ticket stub from every game you've ever attended. They're in a box in the back of his wardrobe, rubber-banded in chronological order, along with the first napkin you ever wrote your number on. You found them once when you were looking for a spare hoodie. He caught you with the box open and, for the first time in your relationship, looked genuinely embarrassed. "Don't," he said, voice rough. "Don't look at those." You looked anyway. You saw your handwriting on a crumpled bar napkin from two years ago. You kissed him so hard he forgot to breathe.

Hockeyplayer!Aerion  who, after a win, pulls you into the empty locker room before the press gets there. The team knows to give him five minutes. He's still in his gear: sweating, flushed, adrenaline humming through his veins and he lifts you onto the equipment table like you weigh nothing. His hands, still wrapped in sweaty tape, grip your thighs. His forehead presses to yours. He doesn't say anything. He just breathes. And then he kisses you deep, hungry, tasting of Gatorade and victory. "This is what I play for," he whispers against your mouth.

Hockeyplayer!Aerion  who has a very specific ritual after particularly brutal away games when he comes home at 2 AM. He finds you in bed, half-asleep, and peels off his clothes in the dark. He slides under the covers and pulls you against his chest, his body still cold from the ice, his skin smelling of arena air. He buries his face in your hair and holds you so tight you can barely breathe. "Need you," he mumbles, already half-gone. His hand slips under your shirt, not grabbing, just resting flat against your stomach, feeling your warmth. He falls asleep like that, his palm pressed to your skin, his thumb stroking slow circles. You've never felt more wanted in your entire life.

Hockeyplayer!Aerion  who, on nights when you're both restless, pins you against the mattress with his body, not aggressively, but deliberately, like he's settling into the only place he belongs. His weight presses you into the bed, his thighs bracketing yours, his forearms planted on either side of your head. He looks down at you with those sharp violet eyes, still half-feral from practice, his silver hair falling across his face. "Say my name," he whispers. You do. He shudders. He lowers his mouth to your neck not biting, not yet, just breathing against your pulse point. "Again." And when you do, he smiles against your skin. That slow, dangerous, possessive smile. The same one he wears right before he scores. Only this time, you're the goal he's been aiming for all along.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who plays Centre like a ghost: silent, precise, almost invisible until he isn't. He doesn't fight. He doesn't trash-talk. He just reads the ice better than anyone, steals pucks with surgical precision, and threads passes through defenders like he's weaving thread through a needle. He leads the league in assists three years running. The announcers call him "the Silver Shadow." His teammates call him "the quiet king." He doesn't correct them. He just skates to the faceoff circle and wins another draw.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, before every game, finds you in the crowd, section 112, row C, your seat and holds your gaze for exactly three seconds. No wave. No smile. Just a look. He doesn't need to say anything. You know what he's telling you: I see you. Thank you for being here. Then he turns away, taps his stick twice, and drops into position. His coach has learned to give him those three seconds. His team has learned to wait. It's not a ritual. It's a lifeline.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who never asked you to wear his jersey. He just left one in your closet one day, folded neatly, with a note that said: Only if you want to. You wore it to the next game. He saw you from the tunnel and, for the first time all season, missed his pre-game stretch because he was staring. He didn't mention it. But you caught him tracing his name on your back during the post-game hug, and you felt his heart hammering under his pads. He doesn't need you to wear it. He needs you to choose to wear it.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who has anxiety before big games but handles it with quiet composure. He doesn't tremble. He doesn't hide. He sits in the corner of the locker room, eyes closed, breathing slow and measured, running through every play in his head. He doesn't ask you to calm him down. He doesn't need you to. But when you brush your fingers over his knuckles, he relaxes , just a fraction, and he opens his eyes to look at you. "Thank you," he says, and nothing more. He doesn't need you to save him. He just needs you to remind him he's not alone.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, after a loss, processes it in silence. He doesn't disappear. He doesn't break down. He sits in the locker room, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling with a stillness that unnerves his teammates. His coach tries to talk to him. He listens, nods, takes responsibility for the missed assignments. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't blame anyone else. "I should have been faster on the backcheck," he says, voice level. He carries the weight because that's who he is. Later, when he finds you waiting outside, he pulls you into a quiet embrace and presses his forehead to yours. "One more game," he says. "I'll fix it." And he always does.

 Hockeyplayer!Valarr who has a pre-game routine he doesn't break: black coffee, no sugar, exactly seventeen minutes before warmups; a specific playlist he never shares with anyone (mostly classical, some ambient); and a five-minute phone call with you, no matter what time zone he's in. He doesn't tell you he loves you. He doesn't need to. He just asks, "How was your day?" and listens to you talk about something mundane, traffic, your boss, what you had for lunch. He takes that sound, that grounding, ordinary warmth, and carries it onto the ice with him. It steadies his hands more than any superstitious ritual ever could.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, on road trips, texts you one thing before bed every night: Goodnight. Be careful. I'll call tomorrow. It's not clingy. It's not desperate. It's matter-of-fact, steady, like a man who knows he has something good and doesn't need to overcomplicate it. Sometimes you reply with a photo, your face, a cute animal, something silly. He saves every one. He doesn't tell you that, either.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, when he comes home from away games at 2 AM, finds you in bed and slips in behind you without waking you. He doesn't pull you close. He just lies there, one hand resting on your hip, feeling the rise and fall of your breathing. He doesn't need to talk. He doesn't need to be held. He just needs to be near you. In the morning, you'll wake up to him already up, making coffee, looking at you with those tired, steady eyes. "Morning," he says, and it sounds like home.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, when you initiate intimacy, responds with quiet intensity. He's never rough. He's never demanding. He's simply present, completely and utterly present, his hands on your body like he's memorizing the shape of you. He looks at you like you're the only real thing in a world of noise and speed and bright lights. He just breathes your name, once, like it's a prayer he's been saving. And when it's over, he doesn't fall asleep immediately. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes open, watching you. "You're still here," he says, not a question. You kiss him. "Still here." He closes his eyes. He finally lets himself rest.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, at the end of every season, gives you something small, a puck from his first goal, his A from the alternate captaincy, a necklace with a silver skate charm that he had custom-made. He doesn't make a speech. He doesn't get emotional. He just hands it to you and says, "I don't keep much. But I keep you." That's all. That's everything.

Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, on the rare nights when he has anger from a game left over, rolls you onto your back and hovers over you with that tired, wondering look, like he can't quite believe you're real. He doesn't rush. He never rushes. He takes his time undressing you, kissing each inch of skin as it's revealed, murmuring your name like a prayer. His hands shake, they always shake, but his touch is so gentle it almost hurts. "You're the only thing that quiets my head," he whispers against your collarbone. "The only thing." He makes love to you like he's apologizing for every game he lost, every night he kept you awake, every time he came home too exhausted to hold you properly. And when it's over, he curls into your chest, smaller than a man his size should be, and sleeps for ten hours straight. You don't move. You wouldn't dare.

Notes:

GUYS I'M BACKKKK!!!! Exams had me so damn drained but I missed writing SOOOOO MUCHHH UGHHHH

I'm literally so excited to continue PR Stunt and Chivalry, I've also finished the sequel for Hung by a Thread, just editing it now and I'll post it later td!!

Alsoooo I'm writing some more headcanons but for Vampire! Aerion & Valarr which i might make into a series but I want to finish PR stunt and Chivalry first :)))

-Sage

Dividers by: @diviniyae <3

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Inner thighs: for when he's feeling particularly possessive. These are the ones he saves for your most intimate moments, the ones that make you arch off the bed and cry out. He'll spend hours there, biting and soothing with his tongue, until you're trembling and incoherent.

Wrists: for when he wants to be reminded of you during the day. He'll catch your hand, turn it over, and press sharp kisses to the sensitive skin there. You'll feel the marks for days, every time you move.

Shoulder: for when you're facing away from him. He loves these best, the way you gasp when you don't expect it, the way you shiver when you feel his breath hot on your back.

But don’t blame him, he can't help himself! Not when you look so pretty all ruined and marked for him <3

He’s such a teasing bastard too. During council meetings, he'll lean over to whisper something in your ear, and then nip at your earlobe. You have to hide your blush behind your hand while Lords drones on about grain taxes.

In the throne room, when you're standing at his side as his lady, he'll catch your hand and press his mouth to your knuckles, teeth scraping slightly. The courtiers exchange glances. Aerion doesn't care.

He likes to do it when you're distracted. That prat…when you're reading, when you're writing letters, when you're gazing out a window. He'll come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and bite. Predatory. He likes to see you as his prey. Damn that dragon blood.

When you're annoyed, you try to push him away, but he just laughs and holds you tighter. "You love it” he accuses, and you can't deny it because your heart is racing and your skin is burning where he marked you. Also, you just ruined your undergarments. Clean up aisle!

Also, when you're embarrassed: He'll find the worst possible moments, in front of his brothers, in front of the maester, in front of anyone, and mark you where they can all see. "Let them look” girl they are looking. And they’re calling a trusted adult.

There’s two sides:

Sometimes, after a nightmare or a hard day, you seek him out. He knows without being asked. He gathers you in his arms, holds you close, and presses soft, gentle bites to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Soothing bites. Reminding you that you're safe.

Also sometimes, when you argue, when you fight, when you push back, that's when the fire in his eyes catches. Scary as fuck. He'll back you into a corner, grip your jaw, and mark you deeply, bruising. "You're so beautiful when you fight me” he'll whisper. "But you'll always yield."

He gets jealous of the marks fading. When a bruise starts to yellow, he'll re-bite the spot, fresh and new. It becomes a cycle you're never without a mark from him.

By the way, he thinks of himself as a dragon when he does it. "Dragons mark their hoards." Gods help you.

When you try to hide them, you learn quickly that you can't. He'll find you, peel away the high collar or the scarf, and let it roam freely.

On rare occasions, he bites too hard. Breaks skin. He's immediately apologetic, don’t let those puppy eyes fool you like they fool poor Maekar! He'll clean the wound himself, gentle and careful, and press soft kisses around it. "I'll be gentler” Lying Aerion said. You don't want him to be gentler anyway.

Bonus: His favorite thing is to mark you while you're asleep, just barely aware. You'll feel his teeth on your shoulder, your hip, your breast, and you'll let out a sleepy sound, and he'll laugh softly, and mark you again.