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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