#cheriewrites

pairing: modern!aerion targaryen x fem!reader (no physical description of reader)

summary: … aerion is deeply committed to the idea that you should be wherever he is. ⟢

wc: 3.6k

content warning: fingering | aerion has never heard of personal space | probably definitely ooc aerion

The apartment was silent by the time you gave up on your coursework.

Twenty floors below, King's Landing continued moving through the night in a blur of headlights and distant sirens. Somewhere beyond the windows, traffic hummed through the city. Inside, however, the apartment felt still.

Daella had disappeared to bed hours ago, already having finished her work. The television had fallen dark. Even the music that usually drifted from the speakers in Aerion's room had gone quiet.

You sat alone at the kitchen island wearing a sweater you'd taken from Daella and one fuzzy sock, surrounded by open textbooks and a level of academic despair that felt more like a personal attack with each passing minute.

A mug of tea warmed your hands. The rubric glared from the screen of your laptop; you glared right back. With a sigh, you abandoned the paper entirely and rested your cheek against your folded arm. You'd rest only for a minute... just long enough to stop thinking about it.

Which was precisely how Aerion found you.

You heard the soft sound of footsteps crossing the hardwood floor and the scrape of a glass being set onto the counter before anything else.

"Tired? Giving up already?"

Aerion stood on the opposite end of the island, his silver hair slightly disheveled as though he'd spent the evening running a hand through it. A whiskey rested beside him. The city lights reflected faintly against the windows behind him, outlining his silhouette in gold and blue. He looked good. It made you want to roll your eyes.

"Not tired," you sighed. "Just in a hate-hate relationship with this paper."

He raised an eyebrow. "That certainly sounds productive."

"It's a work in progress."

He took a sip from his drink, his eyes moving over your books to the single sock on your foot. "Where's the other one?"

"Somewhere in the living room, probably." You made a vague gesture in the other direction. "I've been here since dinner."

"I'm aware, and yet you've made remarkably little progress. You're shit at this university thing, and I'm trying to sleep. So unless you're going to stop sighing dramatically every few minutes, you should get the fuck out of my kitchen."

Your mouth opened. It also closed just as fast. "Your kitchen?"

"Technically. You don't pay rent here. Neither does my sister. So."

You began closing your laptop, expecting him to step away and disappear back into his bedroom. Instead, Aerion remained exactly where he was, the glass now resting loosely in one hand as he watched you gather your things. Something between irritation and disbelief crossed his features before he let out a huff through his nose.

"What in seven hells are you doing?" he asked, sounding almost offended.

"Leaving?" you offered, hesitating with your arm halfway across the counter.

He looked at you like you'd just suggested setting the building on fire. "Why?"

"You told me to get out of your kitchen?"

"I didn't mean leave the fucking apartment. Have you lost your mind? It's almost midnight."

You blinked, uncertain whether you should feel annoyed, amused, or something else entirely. The feelings were all increasingly similar when Aerion was involved. "You said—"

"I was talking about your bullshit sighing. Not you."

You stared at him, searching for some trace of humor in his face. There was none. "So.. I can stay?"

He rolled his eyes so hard it should have been audible. "Obviously." The glass hit the counter with a sharp tap. "Come here."

You hesitated, stuck now between the comfort of his presence and the strange feeling suddenly tightening in your chest. You'd spent countless nights in this apartment, slept in their guest room countless times, sat across from Aerion in the kitchen countless evenings, and yet right now something felt... different.

His hand appeared on the counter, palm up, waiting. When you still didn't move, he stood a little straighter. "What?"

Truth is, you weren't entirely sure what. Just that the way he was looking at you made your heart beat a little faster, and made your breath feel shallower than it should have been. But his hand remained extended, his long fingers splayed slightly, his silver pinky ring with the Targaryen sigil catching the light, waiting patiently for you to take it.

You did.

His grip tightened as soon as your fingers met his, pulling you around the island until you stood directly in front of him. You expected a teasing remark about your missing sock or your obvious sleepiness. Instead, he studied your face in silence, his eyes darker than usual in the dim kitchen light. His other hand found your waist, where he let his fingers curl against the soft cotton of your sweater.

"You're overthinking," he murmured. "Stop it."

"I'm not—"

His thumb brushed against your hip, and you cut yourself off. "Yes, you are." He tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction. "It's fucking exhausting."

Before you could respond, he bent down and pressed his forehead against yours. The contact was sudden, warm, and surprisingly tender for someone who usually expressed affection in sharp comments and mockery. His breath ghosted over your lips, smelling faintly of whiskey.

Your free hand came up instinctively, fingers digging into the fabric, and you could almost feel the steady beat of his pulse against the side of your hand.

"Aerion.." you started, not sure what you were going to say.

"Stop talking." He shifted his weight as his hand moved from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Just... stop."

The space between you disappeared completely as he leaned in, his nose now ghosting against the corner of your mouth.

The thing about Aerion was that he just wanted to be near you. More than anything else. Closer. Wherever that happened to be at any given moment. His face moved down the side of your cheek, across your jaw, the tip of his nose trailing warmth against your skin.

He was like this sometimes—touching you just to... feel you. No real intention behind it other than closeness, as though the world made more sense when you were within arm's reach.

Your breath caught in your throat as his mouth grazed your neck. The hand still holding yours tightened, his thumb now stroking the back of your hand in circles.

"You're always in my fucking head," he murmured against your skin, his voice tight with something that might have been frustration or desire, or both. "It's fucking impossible to think straight when you're here."

You didn't know what to say to that, or if there was anything to say at all. Instead, you tilted your head slightly to give him better access, letting him stay there as long as he wanted needed.

His lips found your pulse point, warm and soft, and you felt him inhale against your skin like he was trying to breathe you in. The hand at your back pressed harder, pulling you flush against him until you could feel his chest against yours.

Your eyes slipped closed. It would have been easy to blame the late hour or the exhaustion pulling at the edges of your thoughts, but the truth was that you simply liked this. You liked him. You liked the way his arms felt around you, and how he always seemed to reach for you without thinking. A small part of you wanted to stay wrapped up in him with nowhere else to be and nothing else to think about all night.

You let out a soft sigh when one of his thighs slipped between yours as he shifted; it made him go completely still. He pulled his mouth from your neck, now hovering just below your ear.

"Go to bed. You're exhausted."

"You don't want me to stay here?" you whispered.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You know I want you to stay." He pulled back just enough to look at you, violet eyes searching your face. "But you're half-asleep already, and I'm not fucking you like this."

Your cheeks flushed, but he was already moving, his arm sliding around your waist as he guided you toward the hallway. You didn't resist, too tired and too engulfed in the warmth of his body to argue.

At the door to the guest room, he stopped, turning you to face him again. He brought his hands up to push your hair away from your face, resting his fingers against your temples.

"Good night," he said quietly.

Before heading inside, you leaned forward to press a kiss to his collarbone. "Good night," you mumbled against his skin.

He didn't move until the door closed behind you, leaving you to collapse onto the bed in a daze. Your mind replayed the moment, his touch, his presence so solid and consuming it made your heart ache in the best way.

You fell asleep with the ghost of his fingers still lingering on your skin.

Friday evening finds you in the middle of a last-minute university event that's consuming far more time than expected. You were over it, so over it. Too much 'networking' for your liking when all you truly wanted to do was go home. Or do... literally anything else. Your phone buzzes in your bag as you hurriedly pack up supplies, the soft chime cutting through the noise of chattering students and clattering chairs.

When you check the lockscreen, you're not surprised to see Aerion's name. What does surprise you is the sheer number of messages. Seven. The last one was sent only a minute ago, and it's not even nine yet.

Are you busy tonight?

Are you still on campus?

Never mind. How long does this thing take?

Is it a real event or one of those fake ones they host to make people feel important?

Don't ignore me.

Are you even reading these??

Answer your fucking phone.

Before you can type a reply, the phone vibrates in your hand, Aerion's contact photo flashing across the screen. You hesitate only briefly before swiping to answer, pressing the phone to your ear as you step away from the others.

"Are you done?" he asks, no greeting, just his voice carrying that familiar tone of impatience that somehow always sounds fond when directed at you.

"Almost," you reply, balancing your bag on one shoulder. "We just have to clean up and—"

"I'm outside."

You stop walking, blinking in surprise. "Outside where?"

"Outside the fucking university."

"You're here?"

"Yes, I'm here. Where else would I be?"

"I didn't know you were coming to get me," you say, still trying to process the fact that he's waiting somewhere nearby.

"I didn't know I was either. Until about an hour ago." There's the sound of a car door closing on the other end. "You didn't answer your messages."

"I was working."

"Okay." His voice softens slightly. "Are you coming out soon?"

You glance toward the others still gathering supplies. "Yeah. Give me ten minutes."

"Fine." He pauses, then adds, "I brought you something."

"What did you bring?"

"Come outside."

The call ends, and you're left staring at your phone with an odd warmth spreading through your chest. Ten minutes later, you emerge from the building, scanning the sidewalk until you spot him leaning against his car.

He's wearing dark jeans and a black jacket, hands shoved into his pockets, his hair catching the glow of the streetlights. When he sees you, he straightens up, pushing off the car and opening the passenger door before you even reach him.

"Aerion," you say, smiling as you approach.

"Hi." He holds the door open, waiting for you to slide into the seat before closing it behind you. He moves around to the driver's side, slipping in beside you and starting the engine without another word.

"So," you begin, fastening your seatbelt, "what is it?"

He reaches into the backseat and retrieves a paper bag, placing it into your lap. "Thai. You were upset when Aegon ate your leftovers last time."

You laugh, peeking inside the bag at the familiar containers. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." He pulls into traffic, glancing at you briefly only to glare at you. "I just don't want to hear you complaining about your stomach all night."

"Because you care so much," you tease.

His lips twitch. "Shut up."

The drive to the apartment is comfortable; you watch the city lights blurring past the windows as you both relax into the silence of the car. When you arrive, he parks and follows you inside, watching as you set the bag on the kitchen counter.

"Daella's at this gallery thing tonight," he says, leaning against the island. "She won't be back until late."

You nod, unpacking the food. "You could’ve just driven me to my own place then, you know."

"Didn't want to."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

You give him a look, but there's no real bite behind it. You don't mind being here. You like being here, especially when it's just the two of you.

And Aerion will never admit it in so many words, but he likes it too. He likes having you around, likes the way you fill the space. He isn’t affectionate. Not truly. He hates it, believes it's unnecessary— would rather die than be caught fawning over someone. But he always finds excuses to stand just a little closer than he should, or to let his hand linger anywhere on your body.

He's subtle about it. Never obvious to anyone else. Just enough that you can feel it, that you know it's there.

He’ll tell you it's just habit, just his hands wanting something to do.

And you’re no better, honestly.

You're drawn to him the same way. You like the way his hand fits against your neck, the way his fingers curl around your wrist when he pulls you close, how solid and warm he feels when he lets you lean into him. And he’s always warm, hot even, like a heater set too high. You like the way it feels to press your cheek against his chest, the way you need him. How he lets you need him.

You sit together at the island, the containers of food spread between you as you eat. He picks at his noodles, watching as you take a bite of your curry.

"Good?"

You nod, swallowing. "Perfect."

"Good," he repeats, quieter now, and there's something in his tone when he says it this time that makes you glance up. He's already looking at you, his eyes softer than usual. He reaches out to brush some strands of hair from your forehead before trailing his fingers down the side of your face. "You're tired."

"Yeah, long week," you admit, leaning into his touch without thinking.

His hand lingers as his eyes search your face. "Come."

You move before he even finishes the word, sliding off the stool to stand between his legs. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in until your face is tucked against the side of his neck. You let out a hum, resting your hands on his shoulders as you breathe him in.

"This is nice," you whisper.

"Hmm." His hands move up your back, tracing patterns against your top. "You say that like it's a surprise."

"It is," you admit, smiling against his skin. "Kind of. You're usually so grumpy."

"Only with other people." His voice is low, and you feel his breath against your ear. "Never with you."

You don't know if that's entirely true—Aerion's moods can be unpredictable—but you appreciate the sentiment. You let your eyes close, relaxing into him as he continues to hold you.

Minutes, maybe hours, pass like this. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of the ice maker inside the freezer and the cars on the street below. His hand slips under the hem of your top, fingers brushing against the bare skin of your lower back. The touch is light, almost absentminded, but it sends a shiver through you nonetheless.

"Aerion," you murmur, shifting slightly.

He stills. "What?"

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding up to cup his face.

"Touch me," you whisper, and you mean it in every way possible. You're asking him to touch your skin, your soul. All of it.

He lets out an exhale that seems to go on for ages. "I am touching you."

"More."

He doesn't hesitate; you've never had to ask twice. His hands move down to the backs of your thighs, lifting you onto the counter so you're eye-level with him, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as his lips find yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, almost tentative. But it grows more heated as his palms press against your ribs and his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. You moan into his mouth, tugging him closer by his hair.

"I missed you," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with emotion.

"I'm right here," you reply, though you understand what he means. You know it costs him something to say it. And honestly, you've missed him too.

He kisses you harder, bringing one of his hands to the back of your neck to hold you in place as his tongue slides against yours. It's wet. More teeth and saliva than anything else, but you respond eagerly, your body arching into his, wanting more, needing more.

His other hand moves lower, tracing the waistband of your jeans before slipping beneath the fabric to touch you directly. You moan softly, breaking the kiss to press your forehead against his as his fingers find your clit.

"Fuck, Aerion," you whisper, your hips rutting against his hand.

"Look at me— fuck, just look at me," he commands, and you do, lifting your head to meet him.

It’s like this every time. You need to see his face. You need to see how you make him feel. You need to know that he wants this as much as you do. Because he’ll never say it, you can count on that. But here, like this… when his pupils are blown so fucking wide his eyes look black, when his mouth is swollen, his breaths coming in short pants, his hands gripping you like you’re the only thing holding him to earth… you know. You know he’s just as consumed as you are. Maybe even more.

He watches you with such intensity that it makes you feel like you're being set on fire from the inside out. His fingers press harder, moving in circles that have your hands clutching at his shoulders for support.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he says. "Every time. I can't— fuck, I can't get enough of you."

You whimper, the pleasure building rapidly under his touch. "Aerion, please..."

"I know," he's kissing you again, tangling his tongue with yours as his fingers continue their assault on your senses. "I've got you."

It doesn't take long before you're trembling, your orgasm coming over you in waves that leave you gasping his name. He holds you through it, keeping you steady as you ride out the pleasure.

When you finally come down, you're both breathing heavily. So you rest your head against his shoulder until your breath returns to normal. He gently strokes you through the aftershocks before he slips his hand out of your jeans.

"You alright?" he asks softly.

You hum, smiling as you press a kiss to his lips. "More than alright."

"Perfect." He kisses you again, slower this time, before pulling back slightly. "Now, go to bed."

You raise an eyebrow. "You're not coming with me?"

He smirks, lifting you off the counter and setting you on your feet. "I didn't say that."

He takes your hand, leading you down the hall to the guest room, where he gently nudges you onto the bed before pulling off his jacket and shirt. You watch him, admiring the way the moonlight highlights the lines of his body and the way his muscles shift under his skin.

"Can I sleep in your room instead?" you ask as he joins you on the bed.

He looks at you for a moment, his expression somewhat guarded, before nodding. "Yeah… Okay.”

He should say no. He wants to say no. He has his own shit to deal with; nightmares that come and go, insomnia that keeps him up far too late. But, he can't seem to refuse you, not when you're looking at him like that. So, he stands, pulling you up with him.

You follow him quietly across the hall to his bedroom, where the air feels cooler, the sheets are softer too. He throws a shirt in your direction, and you catch it, watching as he climbs into bed, patting the space beside him.

You slip out of your clothes, leaving only your underwear on, then pull his shirt over your head. It hits mid-thigh, the fabric soft against your skin, and it smells good. Clean. Like him. You crawl into bed beside him, immediately wrapping yourself around his body.

He sighs. Sighs as though he hates it. But the arm that comes around your shoulders to pull you closer says otherwise. His lips press against the top of your head, and you feel him start to relax beneath you.

"Sleep well," you murmur, already half-asleep.

He doesn't respond, but his fingers trace soothing patterns against your back, lulling you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

And in the morning, when you wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and Aerion still holding you close—and he hasn't had a nightmare—you realize that this is exactly what he needed. Exactly what you needed.