Aerion Targaryen | Trailer Trash!au

The three sharp, impatient bangs against your apartment door sound less like a knock and more like a demand.

When you pull it open—keeping the safety chain firmly latched—Aerion is standing in the dim, flickering light of the hallway, looking like a storm that just blew in off the highway. His bleached, overgrown shag is a messy, wind-blown wreck, and he’s missing his leather jacket. His jaw is set tight, sharp features fixed in that familiar, infuriating smirk meant to cover up the fact that he is entirely out of options.

You don't unhook the chain. You just lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms and staring at him in silence.

Aerion immediately plants a palm against the wood to keep you from shutting it. "Unchain the damn door," he snaps, his voice laced with that grating arrogance, though a raw, humiliated edge bleeds through the cracks. "Some low-life state trooper had a tow truck drag my trailer off the lot an hour ago. Whole damn thing is at the county impound."

When you don't give a reaction, his smirk twitches, dropping for a split second before he scoffs loudly, rolling his shoulders back in his stained white tank top. "And don't look at me like that—Maekar’s just playing hardball. Thinks holding out on the impound fee is gonna make me crawl back to his garage and grease axles. He’ll fork the cash over by Tuesday. He always does when he realizes I’m not playing his stupid games."

He leans his forehead against the crack of the door, invading your space, trying to hold your gaze with those volatile eyes. "So open up. I'm crashing here until my cash clears."

You give him a slow, flat head-shake and start to push the door closed. "We're still fighting, try Daeron's backseat." You deadpan.

"Daeron's backseat smells like stale beer and vomit, and I am not sleeping in a backseat like a dog!" Aerion snarls, his proud posture cracking just enough to show the panicked, bitter animal underneath. He flicks his scratched silver lighter open and shut—clack, clack—his knuckles white against the metal.

He steps closer against the chain, his tone dropping from pure spite to something hot, desperate, and pleading. "Come on. Don't do this. You're really gonna leave me out in the hallway? Make me beg you in front of the whole damn building?"

The lock on your window gives a low, agonizing scrape, followed by the quiet, heavy thud of a boot hitting your bedroom floor.

You don't even have to open your eyes. You know the smell of stale menthols, cheap cologne, and damp night air anywhere.

After you turned him away at the door earlier, Aerion had apparently exhausted every other pathetic option he had. Now, at three in the morning, he’s creeping across your floorboards with all the stealth of a bruised, bitter cat. The bed dips heavily under his weight as he crawls over the mattress, cold air clinging to his clothes, completely unbothered by the fact that you two are still mid-fight.

He slides under the covers, smelling of rain and smoke, and immediately wraps a long, heavy arm around your waist. He pulls himself flush against your back, burying his face into the crook of your neck with a deep, shuddering exhale. His overgrown, bleached hair is damp, cold against your skin, and his grip on your shirt is almost painfully tight—possessive, desperate, and completely unrepentant.

"Don't start," he mutters into your skin, his voice thick with exhaustion and leftover pride, though his chest expands tightly against your spine. "It's freezing outside, the backseat was locked, and I'm not sleeping on the damn fire escape."

You shift, annoyed, but he just tightens his arm, locking you in place and pressing a hard, stubborn kiss to the side of your neck, refusing to let you pull away.

"Don't you wanna take care of me?" he murmurs against your pulse, his breath warm, flicking his scratched silver lighter open and shut once under the blanket—clack—before dropping it onto the nightstand. "I'm your man....it's your job."