signs and wonders;

you learn where the line is between play and play, and you get mean with it on purpose.

you bite harder. you scratch. you lean up and hiss something sharp against his ear, a taunt, a challenge, and you feel it happen… the shift. that low rumble replacing the purr. the frequency dropping from amused to older and heavier, the vibration changing texture in his chest. and the loving softness melts off his expression like frost off a window and underneath it is that predator shine, that flat black-edged stare, the grin pulling too wide.

there you are, you think, and it thrills you. every time.

you two wrestle through the nest like animals. blankets everywhere. pillows destroyed. he lets you win for a few seconds at a time, lets you pin his wrist or straddle his chest, crow about your victory snugly before he flips you like you weigh nothing and pins you flat with both wrists above your head, his body heavy on yours. his face is inches away. and the mockery on his tongue is soft, that low, amused murmur: “oh, you almost had me that time. so close. very scary.”

and you lift your chin. wrists pinned, chest heaving, completely trapped. and you stretch up and press the softest, sweetest kiss to his mouth. barely a brush. just your lips on his and the grin dissolves and the black bleeds out of his eyes and BB flooding back in, all warmth and want. that needy, desperate rush of tenderness crashing through the predator like a wave through a sandcastle.

his grip on your wrists goes slack. his breath stutters. his whole body softens against yours because you kissed him and the kissing is always his undoing, every single time, the gentleness after the roughness short-circuiting every ancient instinct he has. because you’re his love, and your mouth makes all the loving, protective instincts flare to life.

and in that half-second of melted composure you twist free. roll out from under him. hit the floor running top speed.

you’re through the apartment door and sprinting down the corridor barefoot, cackling before he’s even lifted his head, and behind you there’s a beat of silence, just one, and then that low, dark chuckle rolling down the hallway after you like smoke. pleased. impressed. delighted.

“oh,” he says, and you can hear the grin in it. “oh, that was good.”

his footsteps start. slow. unhurried. that casual lethal stroll.

you’re not going to make it far. you never do. but the chase is the whole point and you both know it, and somewhere in the nest behind you there’s a pile of destroyed blankets and a dent where you were pinned and this, this, this stupid silly reckless game of bite and shove and run and catch…. this is the happiest he’s ever been.

not the quiet adoration or the worship. this. you choosing to play with the thing in the dark. you teaching it that teeth can be gentle and fighting can be a love language and the corridor doesn’t always have to end in fear and death.

he’s going to catch you in about thirty seconds and the catching is going to involve pinning you to the nearest wall and kissing you until your knees give out, then he’s going to carry you back to the nest like his greatest prize.

He comes inside you hard enough that his vision whites out at the edges, his mouth gaping open against your neck, your name chewed up between his teeth.

You follow him few breaths later, clenching around him so tight it hurts. Your nails rake four bright lines down his back that he’ll feel under his shirt at work on Monday, and think about until he has to excuse himself to the bathroom.

For a minute Aerion just stays there. Hips flush against yours, softening inside you, his forehead pressed to the damp curve of your throat. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair, and he hates how good it feels. Hates that he’s panting like he ran a marathon. Hates even more that his hands are shaking where they grip the sheets on either side of your head. Because sex with you is always cataclysmic and he can’t find his way back to anything else after having you.

Clenching his jaw, he pulls out, and watches the glossy length of him slip out.

His cum leaks out of you. The slow, obscene spill of it, pearly white gushing from your swollen cunt, pooling on the ruined sheet beneath you. His. That’s his. Inside you for six hours on the highway, you were thinking of this, and now here it is. Evidence. Proof that you came back. That you always come back. That for all your college friends and your bright future and your Stark name, you still drive six hours to let him ruin you on a shitty mattress with no headboard.

Something hooks behind his ribs. Greed so thick it sits on his tongue like an after taste.

He kicks back and drops between your thighs.

You make a sound. A startled, bitten-off thing that rumbles at the back of your throat, your hand flying to his shoulder. “Aerion, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up.” He snarls it with his mouth an inch from your cunt, his breath ghosting over the mess he left. “I want to.”

He licks into you and the taste hits him like a fist to the throat

Salt and copper and you, the dark sweetness he’d know blindfolded, and underneath it, threaded through, himself. His come mixed with your slick, smeared across his tongue, filling his mouth. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting, objectively, by the standards of anyone who isn’t Aerion Targaryen at ten p.m. on a Friday with his face buried in the cunt of the only woman he has ever loved.

He groans against your heat. A real sound, pulled from somewhere low and primitive inside him. The vibration makes you jolt, your fingers fisting in his hair, and he feels your thighs twitch against his ears.

You’re oversensitive because you just came. Every lick makes you flinch and gasp and try to close your legs. He holds you open with both hands, thumbs pressed into the crease of your thighs, forcing you open, and keeps going.

He’s greedy about it, lapping at you sloppy and wet, his tongue dragging through the mess of them both, and the taste gets thicker the deeper he pushes. Aerion fucks his tongue into you, and feels the slick heat of his own come coat his chin. Pulls back and sees it glistening on his mouth and doesn’t wipe it off.

You’re peering down at him. Mouth parted, swollen. Your hand is still in his hair, gripping hard enough to sting, and your chest is heaving. The skirt is bunched around your waist. One shoe is still on. You look like a wrecked perfect princess, so very expensive, and completely fucking his.

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, a laugh rumbling in your throat.

Aerion grins against your cunt, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollows his cheeks around it until you arch off the mattress, a sharp cry punched out of you.

Yeah. He is.

He’s disgusting and he’s starving and you taste like coming home, and the thing about him is that he’s never known when to stop.

Not with pills, not with fights, not with you. Especially not with you. He slides two fingers back into you alongside his tongue and crooks them forward, and the sound you make is close to a snarl.

Good. He wants the snarl. He wants you leaking and so overstimulated you forget your own name. He wants to lick every trace of himself out of you and swallow it down and then fuck you again so he can do it twice.

The closed circuit of it is what gets him.

His come, your cunt, his mouth. The ouroboros of it, the consuming.

He put himself inside you and now he’s taking it back and the taste will live on his tongue for days. He’ll be under a car on Monday licking his lips and tasting you still, tasting you both, and no one will know. The mechanics, the customers, the whole decent world going about its business. And him walking through it with the taste of his own come and your in his mouth like communion wine.

You come a second time with a sound he’ll replay until he’s dead. A broken, shuddering thing, your back bowed, both hands in his hair pulling hard enough that his eyes water.

Your cunt pulses against his tongue, and he tastes the fresh wave of you, sharper now, headier, less of him and more of you. Aerion chases it with his mouth until you’re pushing at his forehead, gasping stop, stop, I can’t—

He doesn’t stop. He gives you one more lick, slow and hungry, root to clit, sucking, and feels your whole body shudder.

Only then does he pull back. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Glances at you.

You’re destroyed. Boneless against his pillow, eyes glassy, skin shining with sweat. Your skirt is still scrunched up around your hips. The shoe finally fell off at some point. There’s a bite mark on your thigh he doesn’t remember leaving and a bruise forming on your hip from his thumb.

Aerion crawls up your body, settles his weight on you, pins you beneath him. Drops his mouth to your ear.

“Miss me?” he murmurs, hot breath tickling your ear.

You laugh. Weak, breathless, almost fond. Your arms come around his neck, fingernails scratching at the nape of his neck.

“You’re vile,” you tell him.

He kisses you. Deep and open, letting you taste it. Both of you. The whole filthy circuit on his tongue, pushed into your mouth, and you kiss him back without hesitating, equally as starved. Your tongue slides against his, one hand against his face, and you taste what he tastes and neither of you flinches.