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They are on their way to the tournament when the idea comes to Valarr’s mind. Both of them are a bit apart from the group of knights and others, like their fathers. Aerion had tried several times to start rather unpleasant conversations, because really, according to Valarr, there wasn’t much worth saving from that rigid and cruel personality of his cousin’s. He was mad, truly mad, like he was missing a few planks in the bridge.
But they had history together. Tension. Desire, and that gravity that inevitably made Valarr’s body shiver softly at the thought of something impure, yet longed for.
“I’m talking to you, cousin,” he hears—that deep voice slicing cleanly through the noise around them. “Or were you not taught manners at all?”
He could keep ignoring him, or—
“My apologies. What was it you were saying?”
Aerion gives a sharp, disbelieving scoff, as though the very exchange were an insult in itself—and one he finds profoundly, theatrically offensive.
“I was telling you that I’ll bring honor to this family—by defeating any man bold enough to face a dragon in the tournament.”
Valarr stops for a moment, horse and all. Aerion notices and halts as well, genuinely confused and asks: “What?”
“You seriously said that?”
“You doubt me?”
Valarr does not answer; he simply nudges his horse’s flank with his foot, urging it forward, not even sparing his cousin a second glance as he passes him at a slow pace.
Behind him comes the sound of leather creaking, reins shifting—then Aerion’s voice, sharper now, edged with something hot and pricked. “Wait—you seriously doubt me?”
Valarr exhales through his nose, gaze fixed ahead. “I said nothing, cousin.”
“You didn’t need to, idiot.”
Valarr tilts his head slightly, his tone mild, almost curious. “Why so aggressive?”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“You don’t like a great many things.”
His gaze remains fixed on the road—and on the distant knights riding ahead—so Valarr doesn’t notice when Aerion draws up beside him, their horses nearly brushing flank to flank. He refuses to give him the satisfaction of real attention, granting him only the briefest, most meaningless glance before looking forward again.
“I could tell you what I might like,” he hears.
And he will not fall for such a cheap, transparent trick. “Cousin, don’t.”
We’re not alone, he wants to say, but it isn’t as though his cousin would care about such a warning. So he doesn’t say it.
Still, he cares.
Ahead, some five meters before them, ride two knights of the Kingsguard. A quick look back would reveal two more white cloaks about six meters behind. They are, unmistakably, not alone.
But Aerion has never been the obedient sort.
“Having my hand twisted in your hair,” Aerion murmurs, voice low and intimate, “forcing you to your knees while you choke around my—”
“For the Seven, Aerion, stop!”
The words break from Valarr sharper than he intends, heat flashing across his face the instant they’re spoken. Ahead of them, the two knights riding several paces in front turn their heads at once, white cloaks shifting with the motion, attention caught by the outburst.
Both princes smile.
Only when they’ve turned away does the silence between them tighten.
Valarr keeps his eyes ahead, jaw set, posture immaculate in the saddle. He truly does not want to hear the rest—to hear the shape of that sentence finished in that voice, that tone, that deliberate slowness. Because though he would rather choke on his own pride than admit it, heat has already begun to coil low in his stomach, spreading in slow, treacherous waves through his body. It makes his fingers tense on the reins. Makes his breath shallower. Makes him aware—painfully aware—of how close Aerion is riding.
He has been willfully blind to his own wants for years. He refuses to acknowledge them now. He refuses—
“You don’t want to imagine it,” Aerion says softly beside him, close enough that the sound almost brushes his ear, “because you’d rather live it. I understand.”
“You’re arrogant” Valarr replies, “thinking I would ever do such a thing for you. Truly.”
Aerion huffs a faint laugh. Not amused—pleased. “Don’t hold yourself in such high regard, Valarr. Behind that pretty face and title, you’re nothing but a little slut.”
Valarr’s fingers tighten once against the reins. “You always assume the worst in people, cousin.”
“And I,” Aerion says, tilting his head just slightly, eyes lingering on Valarr’s profile rather than the road, “who once held you in such—such high esteem.”
“I doubt you’ll make it past the first match you enter.”
“Valarr—”
“But if you’re so certain,” he continues smoothly, cutting him off, “let us make a bargain.”
That does it. Aerion falls silent, his attention caught at once, sharp and complete. Valarr can feel it without looking—the shift, the focus, the way the air between them seems to draw taut.
“If you lose,” Valarr says, still watching the road ahead as though discussing the weather, “you’ll stop playing insolent with me. You’ll show me respect, whether you feel it or not.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “And if I win?”
Valarr lets the silence stretch, just enough to feel it coil.
“I’ll let you have your way with me.”
It is late at night, Valarr is nearly finished removing his armor, piece by piece, slow and deliberate, seated in one of the cushioned chairs and lit only by the low glow of candles set around him. Their light clings to the sharp edges of steel. A servant stands nearby, receiving each piece Valarr sheds and setting it carefully aside where the armor is kept, to be cleaned later with proper care.
He wasn’t expecting this.
Because the prince had not won the bargain.
And yet—still.
“Prince Aerion, Your Grace.”
Valarr’s head turns sharply toward the entrance of his room at the castle, blood draining from his face as if he’d seen a ghost.
There he stands.
His cousin, in full splendor—Targaryen colors draped easily over his frame, posture loose with confidence, as though he belongs wherever he chooses to be. A step behind him lingers the Kingsguard assigned to him, and beside that man stands Valarr’s own white cloak.
“Cousin,” Aerion greets, gaze fixed on him with the steadiness of something that has already decided what it wants.
Valarr doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes flick briefly between the two Kingsguard, noting the alertness in their stances, the interest they cannot quite mask.
“To what do I owe the visit, dear cousin?”
“You tell me.”
Silence settles over the room.
No one moves. No one breathes. Only Aerion’s crooked smile lingers in the air, edged with mockery and something more deliberate—something that presses, tests, insists. As though he means to prove a point. But he already proves to everyone once more he only is a cruel, dishonorable beast that is insane.
“This is a family matter,” Aerion announces, his gaze still fixed on him. Valarr might have called it hunger—but there is something in it that feels darker than that. “You may all go.”
The servant is the first to leave—and, perhaps, the only one with a proper instinct of survival.
Valarr’s Kingsguard looks to him, silent, waiting for command. For a reason he will not name—even to himself—Valarr gives it. A small nod. Permission.
This is dangerous.
They both know the guards will be waiting just outside, posted at the door like statues with drawn breath, listening for anything that might sound like trouble.
Inside, the air changes.
And they are alone.
And Aerion is walking closer, slow, and pace uneaven, like a dragon approaching his prey.
“Should I help you with that armor or you'd like to put on a little show for me?” He says, standing right in front of Valarr, both hands resting carefully on his belt.
Valarr doesn’t move, doesn’t look at Aerion, and hands still busy taking off his forearm armor. “You didn’t win shit, Aerion”
“Say that again” The tone is low, and calculated, anger slipping trough.
Valarr looks at him in the eye, unimpressed. “You attacked the horse, cousin. That is no win for a knight.”
“I won, Valarr. That is the fact”
Valarr does not answer, because this is unfair. Aerion did not win that fight the way he supposed to. It was clear from the beginning that his intention was win or win; Valarr saw it in his eyes when he approached just to say, “I won’t embarrass you.” That arrogant smile, that way he rode his horse, those strong hands—
“It is better for you to go,” Valarr manages, voice uneven. He’s finished removing his armor, gaze fixed on the floor because he knows that the moment he looks up at his cousin, those purple eyes will haunt him, consume him like wildfire.
“I won’t.”
“Aerion—”
“Hurry up and get your clothes off, or I’ll rip them apart.”
The way he says it makes Valarr feel like a spectacle. Or worse—a well-kept whore.
And this is the kind of history they have together: this push and pull, that way his cousin’s voice, his presence, twists something inside him, makes him feel sick for a thousand different reasons.
“A prince of the realm so eager, so desperate for a boy—his cousin, I might add,” Valarr mocks. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
“I won’t say it again.”
Get your clothes off.
And Valarr just wants to resist a little longer—to not give in so easily for a cock.
Valarr slowly begins to shift his position, the soft whisper of fine fabric the only sound accompanying the unsteady breaths shared by the Targaryen princes. He reclines deeper into the cushioned chair as he does, posture loosening with deliberate ease, like a man with nothing to prove. There is no armor left on him now — only the garments of a prince off duty: fitted dark cloth molding to his torso, linen light against his skin, throat and chest laid bare to the candlelight. The glow pools warmly through the room, settling over Aerion where he stands, gilding pale hair, sharpening the line of his mouth, catching along the edge of the dagger still hooked at his belt.
Gods—he’s beautiful. The light brushes his face in something almost tender, soft, as if it were trying to smooth away that carved expression of anger, only to replace it with something worse. Desire. Because Aerion is looking at him like he’s already stripped bare, like prey caught squarely in his sights, ready for the taking. And Valarr feels the urge to test something, to remind his cousin that he, too, is a man. A prince.
Aerion is still gripping that belt as if it holds him together. Fingers tight. Knuckles pale. The other hand resting near the dagger’s hilt—not drawing it, not touching it, just there. A warning.
It pulls a faint smile from Valarr before he can stop it. And because his cousin is reactive in all the ways that matter, he sees it—the tightening jaw, the flash of irritation, the way that tiny, meaningless gesture lands exactly where it should.
He wants to test him.
“I won’t go down easy,” Valarr says at last, voice low.
But to test a dragon? Valarr knows Aerion must think he needs to be taught how to behave around him.
So the slap comes fast.
Sharp. Clean. Hard enough to snap his head to the side.
The sound cracks through the tent.
Valarr doesn’t move right away. He stays like that for a second, cheek stinging, pulse flaring hot beneath the skin where Aerion’s hand struck him. The pain blooms outward—bright, electric—and, treacherously, something in his body answers it. A spark low in his stomach, sudden and humiliating and alive. It’s as if his cheek took the pain and his cock took the pleasure of it. He shifts his hips slightly, still tender from the abrupt movement, a faint tremor running through him.
By the time he registers it, Aerion is already moving.
Dropping to his knees in front of him.
Settling there between Valarr’s legs like he belongs there. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he always has.
Valarr still hasn’t turned his head.
He lingers in the aftershock of the strike, breathing slowly through parted lips, feeling the heat spread, feeling the echo of it travel lower, coil tighter, thinking—distantly, absurdly—how a single blow shouldn’t feel like that.
Only then does he look back.
Slowly.
His eyes meet Aerion’s.
And what he finds there is not triumph.
Not mockery.
Something tighter. Hungrier. Almost pleading beneath the heat, like restraint stretched to its breaking point.
“Don’t do this, Valarr.”
Aerion’s voice comes strained, thinner than before, pulled tight as wire. He’s still there between Valarr’s legs, kneeling in the space Valarr has left open without shame, thighs spread in an unspoken dare, the posture lazy in appearance but anything except careless. The position forces Aerion close—too close—to the heat of him, to the slow rise and fall of Valarr’s breathing, to the evidence of a body that has begun, treacherously, to respond.
“Do what?”
Valarr’s hand moves before the question fully fades. His fingers slide into Aerion’s hair and close tight, not gentle, not hesitant, gripping a fistful and pulling just enough to keep him there, to keep him near, to make sure he doesn’t drift even an inch away. The hold is firm, possessive, tilting Aerion’s head where Valarr wants it, forcing his cousin to remain within the orbit of his pulse, his warmth, his control.
Aerion inhales through his nose. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t fight it. Because the tip of his nose is so close, and almost touching Valarr’s dressed cock.
“Fight it.” Aerion responds.
That nearly pulls a laugh from Valarr—because in a way, he won’t go down easy. But making Aerion surrender to him? That is the victory he wants. The thought settles slow and satisfied somewhere beneath his ribs, warm as wine, sharp as steel. His gaze doesn’t waver from his cousin’s face, watching every flicker of restraint, every fracture in that proud composure.
The words brush out of him, low, almost unsteady, his breath warm where it ghosts through the space between them. His hands hover for a moment at Valarr’s thighs like he doesn’t trust himself to place them, tension visible in the tendons of his wrists, in the rigid line of his shoulders.
Valarr’s grip tightens slightly in his hair.
“Then you should’ve won properly.” He says it softly. Calmly. Like a verdict already passed.
But his thumb presses once against Aerion’s scalp in a slow, deliberate drag, and the faint shift of his hips beneath the clothes betrays him—just enough to feel, just enough to prove that the heat coiling low in his body is no accident.
“Suck me off, cousin,” Valarr says, voice low and unhurried, the words drawn out with the kind of control only a man on the edge can muster, every syllable thickened by heat, by want, by the slow flood of saliva gathering in his mouth like he’s starving for the taste of something he’s already decided is his.
“I did not come here to—” Aerion starts, but the words falter when Valarr’s grip in his hair tightens and shoves him closer, forcing him down until his face is really touching his dressed cock, the heat of it seeping straight through the fine layers between them, the outline unmistakable where it presses against his mouth. His breath catches there, warm against the fabric, eyes lifting despite himself—caught somewhere between defiance and something far less disciplined.
“You did,” Valarr murmurs. “You did come here to please me.”
Aerion doesn’t resist.
He just reaches for the fastening of Valarr’s trousers and begins to undo it, slow—far slower than necessary—his fingers deliberate, dragging over cloth and tension alike. Each small movement shifts the fabric, presses it, releases it, a measured torment that makes Valarr’s breath hitch despite himself. He can feel everything: the brush of knuckles, the slide of material, the promise in the pace. At this rate, he might lose patience and do it himself.
“I’ve— I’ve never done this before,” Aerion says, fingers working at the laces of Valarr’s trousers, loosening them just enough to lower the fabric the bare minimum needed to reveal that intimate sight.
Valarr stays quiet, savoring the contact and the relief of release from the pressure that had begun to feel unbearable. Aerion’s inexperience means little to him; all he wants is that warm, wet mouth—wants to be devoured, to drown him in it.
He can see Aerion’s face fully now, right above his hard, straining length—violet eyes dark and damp. He cannot tell if what he sees there is fear; he has never seen his cousin afraid.
Well. There is a first time for everything.
Aerion takes the silence as his answer, as proof Valarr has nothing to say—and nothing he wishes to hear. Slowly, he parts his lips, a soft wet sound slipping out as he does, both hands closing around Valarr to steady himself. Valarr isn’t larger than any man should be, and that alone gives Aerion a fragile thread of confidence for what he’s about to do.
At the same measured pace, he drags his tongue from base to tip, and the sensation is torturous—heat, breath, and damp softness all at once. Aerion lets out a small, helpless sound when Valarr tugs his hair, and their eyes meet, neither of them pretending now, the air between them thick with want, heavy with heat, with arousal hanging palpable and alive.
Valarr already feels as though he’s gasping for air, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling like he’s forgotten how to do it properly.
“Don’t play with me, cousin.” Valarr pleads.
And slides his hand down from Aerion’s hair to his mouth, thumb pressing lightly against his lower lip until it parts just enough. “Come on.”
Aerion shifts, adjusting his position between Valarr’s spread thighs, one hand wrapping around him while the other anchors hard at his cousin’s hip, gripping as if to keep him right there, exactly where he wants him. He presses a small kiss to the tip— and that is where Valarr’s restraint snaps.
His hand fists suddenly at the back of Aerion’s neck and pulls, guiding his cock fully into his cousin’s mouth in one abrupt motion. The only sound Aerion manages is a choked gasp around him.
Valarr feels the faint scrape of teeth and knows instantly that Aerion knows better—that this is not the proper way, The idiot must have gotten his dick sucked at least once in his miserable life. He corrects him with a sharp tap to the cheek, right where Aerion holds him. Aerion looks up at him through wet lashes, defiant, tears already spilling from the corners of his eyes.
And then he picks back up.
Slow. Down and up again. Hands free now—one still braced at Valarr’s hip, the other sliding over his chest, searching for an opening in his clothes, for skin.
Valarr has no intention of helping him undress. Instead, he keeps one hand threaded in Aerion’s hair, holding him there like a creature bound to his rhythm, while the other grips the arm of the chair as if it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. His head tips back toward the ceiling, mouth open as he tries to swallow the sounds threatening to spill out, caught between biting his lip and forcing them back down his throat.
Pleasure spreads through him—sweet, electric, unbearable—making his body shiver, tremble, stealing every trace of voluntary movement until all that remains are helpless reactions to the devotion of Aerion’s mouth.
The name he keeps repeating comes out broken between muffled groans, voice low and fraying, tangled with half-formed curses that dissolve into breath.
Without realizing it, somewhere in the middle of that drowning rush of pleasure, Valarr becomes aware that Aerion has managed to slip a hand inside his clothes. He pieces it together slowly, hazily, as his cousin’s touch drifts upward from his lower stomach to his chest—what he’s looking for, what he intends.
He tries to push him away with words, because his body is no longer reliable for anything else.
“Don’t you dare.”
Aerion answers by sucking harder, sudden and merciless, and Valarr’s whole body folds inward on itself with a broken sound, spine curving, muscles tightening, making it easier for him—easier for Aerion to do exactly what he wants.
“Aerion, I’m not a wom—” he tries, the protest collapsing when Aerion’s hand closes over his left pec, gripping it like it’s something vital, something he means to keep. Then, abruptly, he pinches—twists—his nipple in time with the slow pull of his mouth, and the sensation shoots through Valarr like lightning, sharp and molten all at once.
“I’m clo— fuck, Aerion.”
It comes out as a whisper, barely breath, because he’s gone—truly gone—lost somewhere inside the pleasure flooding his veins. His body spasms in uneven jolts, heat coiling low between his thighs, language abandoning him entirely until all that remains is his cousin’s name, slipping out again and again in broken fragments.
He’s gasping now, lungs dragging for air that won’t come fast enough, his whole frame moving helplessly with each pull of Aerion’s mouth. Both hands find his cousin’s head, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there, pressing him closer without meaning to, hips shifting forward in instinct instead of thought.
Close. Too close.
“Aerion— stop.”
Aerion twists his nipple harder, and the pain shoots down his spine like a live wire.
At the same time, slowly, he draws Valarr’s cock from his mouth, keeping a firm pressure around it so that when it slips free there’s a soft, obscene pop.
His cousin swallows, gaze unfocused, and wipes the excess saliva from his mouth where it had gathered and trailed toward his throat in a thin, glistening thread. The sight alone nearly undoes Valarr — his cock jerks as if it might finish on its own just from looking at him.
“Bed” Aerion says, still on his knees, holding his gaze with something dangerous in his eyes.
“Aerion—” That’s all Valarr manages. His breathing is still uneven, pleasure draining from his body like cold water poured over skin, yet his cock remains hard, expectant, a restless heat stalking through his veins that demands to be answered.
“You don’t get a say in this.”
He rises as he speaks, looming over him, one hand braced against the wall behind the chair, the other gripping Valarr’s chin, forcing him to look up.
And then Aerion spits on his cheek.
“Ah-ah,” he murmurs, like Valarr has done something wrong by receiving it.
Valarr says nothing.
“Open your mouth.”
He doesn’t. His jaw tightens instead, lips pressing together in refusal. Aerion’s fingers clamp harder around his face, thumb forcing at the seam of his mouth, trying to pry it open.
Valarr struggles — turns his head, shifts his shoulders, tries to pull back — but he can’t break free. Aerion has him pinned in place. Breath coming heavier now, Valarr finally stops fighting. Both hands grip the arms of the chair, knuckles pale. Eyes closing, he parts his lips slowly, like yielding is its own kind of humiliation.
He hears the wet sound first.
Then he feels it.
“Swallow,” Aerion commands, punctuating the order with light taps to his chin, still holding him there in a firm grip that keeps his mouth from opening.
And with a defiant look heavy with too many emotions to name, Valarr swallows.
Aerion watches it happen.
Watches the movement of his throat. Watches the way Valarr’s lashes flutter once, slow, like something in him has short-circuited and restarted wrong. For a moment neither of them breathes. The air between them feels thick, charged, stretched so tight it might snap.
Then Aerion moves.
Not back. Not away.
Down.
He lowers just enough to be level with him, close enough that their noses nearly brush, close enough that Valarr can feel the heat of his breath against his mouth. There’s no warning — only the sudden shift in his eyes, that sharp, hungry decision —and then Aerion surges forward and crashes their mouths together.
The kiss is not gentle.
It lands like impact. Like collision. Teeth grazing, lips parting on instinct rather than permission. Aerion’s hand tightens in Valarr’s jaw to hold him there, to keep him from turning away, and the other grips the back of the chair as if he needs something to anchor himself while he devours him.
It is heat and breath and want, all at once.
Valarr makes a low sound into it —startled, swallowed, half-breath and half-groan— because Aerion kisses like he fights: relentless, insistent, as though yielding has never existed in his vocabulary. Their mouths slide, press, clash again; Aerion tastes like spit and salt and something sharp that makes Valarr’s pulse kick hard against his throat.
For a prince so composed in daylight, Valarr kisses like a man starving.
Suddenly, Valarr feels a hand wrap around his cock, squeezing, firm pressure closing tight around him. A muffled moan slips from his lips, torn out before he can stop it, and it makes his grip on the chair falter. His hands leave it entirely, sliding instead to the sides of Aerion’s face, fingers bracing there as if he needs something living to hold onto while Aerion’s right hand begins to move — fast, deliberate strokes up and down his length that send wave after wave of heat rolling through him, sweet and dizzying, pleasure cresting so sharply it almost hurts.
Aerion slips his tongue into his cousin’s mouth, deepening the kiss, turning it wetter, softer, more dangerous all at once. The sounds between them grow quieter but heavier — breath catching, lips dragging, the slick shift of mouths that don’t want to part.
“Fuck, fuck— Ae—Aerion,” he manages, the name breaking apart as it leaves him, voice strained and uneven, like it’s being pulled straight from his lungs instead of spoken.
Just when Valarr feels he’s about to reach that longed-for, aching release, Aerion presses his thumb hard against the tip of his cock. It tears nothing from him but a strangled cry and a relentless trembling that takes over his entire body; he wants to protest, to snap something sharp back at him, but he is wrecked — completely undone — tears slipping hot and helpless down his face, breath breaking apart as he tries to drag air into lungs that won’t steady.
“You’ll come when I’m inside you,” Aerion whispers against his ear.
The words jolt him slightly out of that drowning haze of pleasure. Taking Aerion’s cock had always been somewhere in the back of his mind, a possibility, an inevitability even — just not this soon. He should have known better. Should have seen it coming.
His body feels heavy.
Aerion pulls back a little, as though admiring his work, that arrogant curve of a smile tugging at his mouth. Valarr’s gaze drops despite himself, drawn to the hard, insistent line between his cousin’s thighs. The motherfucker must be eager—no, desperate to fuck someone, or to be touched.
Gripping his forearm, Aerion tugs him up, guiding one of Valarr’s arms behind his own neck, draping it there so he can bear his weight, half-holding him upright. When Valarr reaches his feet his legs barely feel like they belong to him, still dazed from everything that’s been done to him, but somehow he manages to walk the short distance toward the bed.
His heart pounding hard, lungs at full capacity—anxious air clawing its way in and out of his chest.
Fuck. How did he get himself into this?
Aerion helps him sit on the bed with care, allowing Valarr to lower himself back on his own, a silent sign that he still wants this, that he agrees. Reclined, he lets Aerion settle between his legs, watching as his cousin’s hands move with slow intent, beginning to undress him starting from his lower garments.
Trousers gone, Valarr is left only in his shirt. He props himself slightly on his elbows from that half-reclined position, just enough to watch as, in front of him, Aerion pulls his own shirt off, revealing a sculpted body that makes Valarr’s mouth go dry, makes him want to trace it inch by inch with his tongue.
“Do you have oils with you, cousin?” Aerion asks, still in his trousers, gaze sweeping the tented chamber as if measuring the space for anything useful.
Fuck, he thinks he does.
And as Aerion straightens, Valarr can’t help but look—can’t stop himself from staring at the rigid outline pressing against the front of his cousin’s pants, thick, long, something almost threatening in the way it strains there, something that makes heat pool low in his body at the mere thought of feeling it force its way inside him. The image drops into his mind like molten metal, heavy and consuming, and his own cock, already aching, twitches sharply in response.
“There should be enough in the bag over there,” Valarr says, pointing toward the one near the chair they had occupied moments ago.
Aerion follows the direction, silent, purposeful. He finds it quickly. And as he tosses the oil flask onto the bed beside Valarr, he never once takes his eyes off him—not for a second. That hunger stays fixed in his gaze while his hands move to his own waistband, undoing it with steady fingers, pushing his trousers down his hips and off in one smooth motion, as if stripping is nothing more than an afterthought, as if the only thing that matters in the tent is the man watching him.
“Get on all fours,” Aerion commands.
Valarr does not object. He does it—heat creeping up his neck despite himself, a flicker of embarrassment at the exposure he’s offering, at how open he is like this. But how could he run when he’s this close to more, when the promise of pleasure hangs thick in the air and this man is so dangerously skilled at giving it? He bites his lip.
He hears Aerion move behind him. The faint sound of a bottle opening. Everything stretches into something slow and unbearable, a drawn-out kind of torment.
“Breathe correctly, Valarr.”
The intrusion is cold—the oil Aerion must have chosen— Fuck, it doesn’t matter, a sharp chill that makes Valarr’s back arch at once, a shudder rippling through him as sensation settles deep and unfamiliar. Two fingers, deliberate and unhurried, easing in with a patience that feels almost cruel, preparing him with slow precision, pressing, pausing, letting him feel every inch of it.
The more time passes, the worse it feels—or better, which is the problem. His spine bows with every measured movement, every place Aerion finds as if he already knows the map of him by heart. It comes in waves, unbearable and sweet, the kind that builds instead of breaking, holding him right at the edge and keeping him there. His hands clutch the sheets; his teeth sink into the pillow, leaving it damp with breath and spit, his mouth dry despite it. His whole body trembles. His legs tremble.
“Aerion—” Valarr tries, voice fraying. “Please, I’m ready— please, please.”
“I told you from the beginning what you are,” Aerion mocks softly. “A pathetic, needy little slut. At your back again.”
And Valarr doesn’t hesitate, not even for a second—because he needs something there, needs the emptiness gone. He wants to please him, to feel him lose control, to be the one who draws that out of him, to be filled and chased straight into that fever-bright climax he’s already half lost inside.
Now they’re face to face, Aerion lifting Valarr’s legs onto his shoulders so that, when the moment comes, he can go as deep as possible.
Valarr feels the tip and his hands fly above his head, clutching the pillow beneath it like the thread his life is hanging from. Both their chests rise and fall with the rush of it, lungs working at full capacity, thoughts blurred and scattered.
With a single thrust that makes stars burst behind Valarr’s eyes, Aerion buries himself inside him. No warning. No softness. Just raw instinct.
“Fuck, Valarr, you feel—” thrust. “So good.” thrust. “Why d’you never let me do this—” thrust “—sooner.”
And Valarr feels so full, his mind gone white with it. His own cock bounces against his stomach, unattended yet flooded with sensation all the same.
“Valarr,” Aerion grunts.
And the boy is lost—nothing but a tangle of muffled moans, broken words, curses, and Aerion’s name spilling out whole, half-formed, again and again each time Aerion drives into him like he means to split him open. Aerion catches Valarr’s wrists from where they clutch the pillow and pins them gently but firmly to either side of his head, deepening the connection between them. He doesn’t pull out; he stays seated deep inside him, thrusts slow but striking true, hitting that precise place that unravels Prince Valarr until he is no longer himself at all.
Aerion leans in to kiss him, catching him in a clumsy, heated, desperate kiss that still manages to make his body tremble harder.
He doesn’t know when it happened, but when his gaze drops slightly—forehead resting against Aerion’s—he catches sight of it: his own spend streaked across his stomach. A breathless laugh slips out of him, soft and wrecked, only for Aerion to answer with a sharper thrust that knocks the sound from his chest while his hands release Valarr’s wrists and move to tug his shirt off, dragging the fabric away so he can reach his chest.
“Aerion— Aerion, don’t mark me,” Valarr begs.
But Aerion doesn’t seem to hear. His mouth is already working its way down, leaving a trail of bites and bruised kisses from his throat to his nipples, one hand gripping his hip firmly to keep him there, pinned, held.
“I’m not going to last much longer,” Aerion admits between breaths.
His right palm slides down and presses against Valarr’s lower stomach, right where his cock keeps driving into him again and again, and the pressure sends the young prince reeling—makes him feel it all over again, deep and dragging, inch by inch forcing its way through him.
And then something hot spills inside.
They’re both a mess afterward—sweat-slick, breathless. Aerion shifts carefully, easing Valarr’s legs down from his shoulders and settling beside him on the bed, half draped over him, one arm laid across his chest as he leans close enough to murmur into his ear,
“I won the bet, cousin.”
And Valarr can feel the trace of Aerion’s release slipping warm between his thighs.
Yeah, he did.