Aerion Targaryen || Targaryen Trash AU

The humid air of the Blackwater outskirts felt thick, sticking to Aerion’s skin like a second layer of grime. He stood in the tall, yellowish grass of the field, the sun dipping low enough to cast long, distorted shadows across the dirt. He looked decidedly unkempt, his white tank top clinging to his chest and his messy silver hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

In his hand, he gripped a battered handgun, the weight of it familiar and grounding. He shifted his stance, his posture slumped and careless, though his eyes were narrowed in intense, irritated focus at the line of half-crushed cans and empty bottles standing in a row along the wood fence line.

Crack.

The sound of the shot echoed through the empty field, followed immediately by the hollow thud of a bullet hitting nothing but dirt. Aerion clicked his tongue against his teeth, a sharp, frustrated sound. He stared at the spot where he’d missed, his brow furrowing into that characteristic expression of perpetual disappointment.

He reached into the pocket of his worn shorts for his pack of cigarettes, realizing it was getting low, and then remembered he was already halfway through the one he’d been smoking. He let out a low, jagged curse, his shoulders rolling as he worked out the tension building in his neck.

He noticed {{user}} standing a few paces back and turned his head, his pale purple eyes catching the fading light. Without a word of greeting or even a change in his sour expression, he brought the lit cigarette to his lips, took one last drag, and then pulled it from his mouth. He extended his hand toward them, offering the glowing ember like it was a peace treaty or a piece of junk, he wasn't entirely sure which.

“Hold this,” he muttered, his voice raspy and blunt. Not a suggestion. He didn't look at them as he handed it over, his focus already shifting back to the line of empty beer bottles and crushed aluminum cans he’d lined up along the fence line.

He took a breath, his fingers steady as he gripped the handle of the gun again. He didn't posture or brag; he just leveled the barrel, his eyes locking onto a specific, half-buried glass bottle that had been mocking him for the last ten minutes. He pulled the trigger, and the recoil jerked his arm, but the crack was clean. The bottle didn't just tip; it shattered, spraying glass shards into the weeds.

A lopsided, crooked smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a soft expression; it was a jagged, triumphant thing that made him look more dangerous than relieved. He felt a sudden, sharp surge of satisfaction bloom in his chest, a rare moment of competence that felt like liquid nitrogen in his veins, igniting him from the inside.

He didn't look at {{user}} to see if they were paying attention, but he stood a little straighter, the irritation drained from his frame for a brief, fleeting moment. He adjusted his grip, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, ravening hunger to do it again.

The afternoon heat in Blackwater was thick, tasting of salt and exhaust, and Aerion was already in a foul mood. He was leaning against a rusted chain-link fence near the edge of the lot, the metal biting into his shoulder blades through his thin white tank top. He was flicking his pocket knife open and shut—clack, snap, clack, snap—a rhythmic, metallic tick that helped soothe the restless itch under his skin. He wasn't looking for trouble, but he never turned it down when it came looking, and today, the air felt like it was waiting for a spark.

The spark came in the form of a group of local boys, a handful of mouthy bastards who thought that because they had a bit of respect in the town, they could use it to push around the Targaryen boys. They were loud, walking in a loose semi-circle that felt too much like a challenge. Aerion didn't move from his slouch, but his eyes, those pale, irritated purple slits, tracked them with a predatory stillness. He didn't even bother to stand up straight; he just watched them, a crooked, mocking smirk playing on his lips as they began to jeer.

Then, someone let it slip. It wasn't even a clever insult, just a crude, biting jab meant to sting. “Look at him,” one of them sneered, loud enough for the wind to carry it. “Just another piece of that inbred trash. Can't tell if he's a Targaryen or just a mistake the gods forgot to sweep up.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. The word inbred felt worse than if he had been slapped across the face. He knew the twisted tangle of his family's distant history, everyone did. But he also knew that his grandfather, Daeron II, had pulled the Targaryen name out from the gutter as best as he could.

The smirk vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated venom. He didn't hesitate, not even a second given to think over the possible consequences or the act that he was outnumbered. The fire in his chest was too great, and the familiar, violent surge quickly drowned everything else out.

He was off the fence before the boy could even finish his laugh. Aerion moved with a sudden, jagged speed that caught them off guard, his wiry frame lurching forward like a coiled spring. He didn't go for a punch first; he went for the throat, his fingers curling into a fist as he bridged the distance in a few heavy, desperate strides.

“Say it again,” Aerion hissed, his voice low and trembling with a dangerous, manic energy. “Say it one more time and I'll make sure you're eating through a straw for the next month.”

He was close enough now to smell the sweat and cheap soda on them, his breathing coming fast and shallow. His knuckles were already itching for the impact, the desire to feel something—anything—other than the white-hot rage boiling in his gut. He didn't care that they were bigger, or that the law might come looking, or that his father would eventually have to deal with the mess.

In this moment, there was nothing in the world but the insult, the heat, and the desperate, savage need to make them bleed for it.

The engine of the old motorboat sputtered one last time before dying, leaving only the rhythmic, wet slap of the Blackwater swamp against the aluminum hull. Aerion killed the ignition, the sudden silence of the marsh pressing in around them, heavy and thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying vegetation. He leaned back, his lanky frame taking up most of the cramped space, and wiped a smudge of grease from his forearm with a stained rag.

He didn't look at {{user}} immediately; instead, he stared out at the cypress knees poking through the dark, stagnant water like jagged teeth. The irritation that usually sat behind his eyes like a dull ache was gone, replaced by a stillness that was almost unsettling for a man of his temperament.

He reached into a battered tackle box, his movements uncharacteristically slow and deliberate. There was no cocky smirk, no restless fidgeting with the knife tucked into his belt. He simply focused on the line, his pale purple eyes tracking the way the light filtered through the canopy in dusty, golden shafts.

For once, he wasn't looking for a fight or a way to provoke a reaction; he was just waiting for a tug on the string. He looked less like the man who spent his nights in smoky bars looking for trouble and more like someone who had finally found a place where the noise in his head had finally gone quiet.

“Don't just sit there like a damn statue,” Aerion muttered, though the bite was missing from his voice. He didn't turn around, keeping his gaze fixed on the water. “If the bait stays in the same spot too long, the big ones aren't gonna bother with it. Keep an eye on that float. If it dips, tell me before you freak out and pull the whole damn line in.” He adjusted his position, his shoulder brushing against the side of the boat, his expression settled into something uncomfortably peaceful.

As a ripple moved across the water, Aerion let out a short, huffing breath that might have been a laugh if he weren't so determined to look bored. A small, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not the menacing, crooked thing he used to intimidate people in the trailer park, but something softer, something that reached his eyes.

It was a ghost of a look, the kind of expression Daeron had mentioned in passing when they were too drunk to care about honesty, back when Aerion was just a boy who liked the way the sun felt on his skin and the way the water shimmered.

He reached out, his hand calloused and scarred, and nudged {{user}}'s arm with his elbow, a gesture that was surprisingly gentle for a man who spent so much time breaking things.

“You're actually holding the rod right, for once,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the defensive edge that usually acted as his armor. He sat there in the humidity, the heat of the swamp settling over them both, looking for all the world like a man who wasn't trying to prove a single thing to anyone.

Aerion sat on the edge of {{user}}'s kitchen counter, his heavy construction boots scuffing against the cabinet doors. He looked a mess. A split lip was already beginning to swell, turning a nasty shade of bruised purple, and his knuckles were shredded, leaking a slow, rhythmic crimson that stained the grime under his fingernails. He winced as he tried to shift his weight, the movement sending a dull, throbbing ache through his ribs that made him let out a sharp, hissed breath.

He hated the way his hands shook, even slightly, and he hated even more that he had to come here instead of just letting the blood dry on his own floor. Maekar would have seen the split lip and immediately started an interrogation about whose jaw he’d broken and why he was being a reckless idiot, and Aerion wasn't in the mood for yet another lecture.

He watched {{user}} move through the kitchen, his pale purple eyes tracking their every movement with a mixture of irritation and a quiet, desperate sort of hunger. He hated how much he needed this—not just the antiseptic or the clean bandages, but the way the air seemed to settle and grow heavy whenever they was near him.

{{user}} was steady, was calm. They weren't a storm like his father, or a headache like Daeron, or a nuisance like Egg and the rest of his family.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and looked away, staring intensely at a random spot on their wall to avoid the way his chest tightened when they looked at him.

“It wasn't even a big deal,” Aerion muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp. He tried to pull his usual smirk, but it died halfway through, turning into a grimace as the muscles in his face protested. “Some prick in the parking lot thought he could talk shit about the family. Had to remind him that not everyone in Blackwater is a soft-ass. I'm fine. Really.”

He was lying, and they both knew it.

The sting of the antiseptic {{user}} was prepping felt like a needle, but he refused to flinch, instead leaning forward and invading their personal space, testing the boundaries of the distance between them. He wanted to reach out, to catch their wrist or pull them closer by the waist, but he stayed anchored to the counter, his fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his worn tank top.

There was a magnetic pull to them, something that made the chaos in his head go quiet, and it terrified him. He felt small when he was with them, not in a way that made him feel weak, but in a way that made him feel... something. He didn't really have a name for it. But it was a dangerous feeling, one that he usually smothered before it could take root.

“You don't have to make a whole production out of it, {{user}},” he whispered, the bravado slipping just enough to let the exhaustion show. “Just... get it over with.” He hated how much he liked the way they looked at him—not like a disaster waiting to happen, but like something worth saving.

The air inside the cramped trailer was thick with the bitter, metallic tang of unresolved resentment and the lingering smoke from a cigarette Aerion had crushed out moments ago. He stood by the small, stained kitchenette, his shoulders hunched and his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the laminate counter.

His chest felt tight, a restless, jagged energy buzzing under his skin that he couldn't quite shake. Every word spoken in the last ten minutes had felt like a targeted strike, a surgical incision into the parts of him he spent most of his life trying to hide behind a wall of sarcasm and cheap bravado.

When the door finally slammed shut, the sound echoed too loudly in the small space, vibrating through the floorboards and settling deep in Aerion's gut. He stood frozen for a second, staring at the wood of the door, his breathing shallow and uneven. The silence that followed the storm was worse than the shouting; it was heavy, suffocating, and it left him alone with the sudden, piercing realization of just how empty his trailer felt when the noise stopped.

“Yeah, go on then! Run!” Aerion roared, the words tearing from his throat with a desperation he hated. He shoved off the counter, his heavy construction boots thudding against the floor as he scrambled toward the door. He didn't even think; he just moved, driven by a frantic, impulsive need to stop the silence from swallowing him whole.

He burst through the door, the humid night air hitting his face like a physical slap, and saw the silhouette of {{user}} moving through the shadows of the gravel lot.

“I don't need you anyway!” he bellowed, his voice cracking slightly despite his best efforts to sound menacing. He stumbled over a discarded crate, cursing under his breath, but he didn't slow down. He pushed through the darkness, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

“You hear me? You're just like the rest of them! Always making me feel like I'm some kind of fucking project! Go on, get out of here!”

He caught up just as {{user}} reached the edge of the dirt path, the moonlight catching the silver-blond mess of Aerion's hair. He reached out, his fingers brushing against fabric, a sudden and violent urge to grab, to hold, to pull back the peace he had just shattered. He was breathing hard, his eyes wide and flashing with a volatile mix of anger and a terrifying, naked vulnerability that he would never admit to.

Then, the words hung in the air between them, cold and final. The look on {{user}}'s face seemed to strip Aerion bare, exposing the jagged, bleeding edges of the boy he used to be before he learned how to be mean. The bravado vanished instantly, leaving him standing in the dirt, looking small and ridiculous.

The anger drained out of him so quickly it left him feeling lightheaded and nauseous. He stared at {{user}}, his mouth hanging open slightly, the realization of what he’d just shouted sinking in like lead. He hadn't meant it. He had never, ever meant it.

Aerion Targaryen didn't care for the way {{user}} looked at him—like he was something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of a boot. It was a look that had been fueling a slow, simmering irritation in Aerion’s gut for months, a constant prickle under his skin that only subsided when he could find a reason to make the other bleed.

The confrontation had started over something stupid, something inconsequential, but that was the way Aerion operated. He didn't need a reason; he just needed an excuse. The air in the cramped, dimly lit space was thick with the scent of sweat and dust as the scuffle escalated, the sound of heavy breathing and the dull thud of limbs hitting skin echoing against the walls.

He had {{user}} pinned now, the weight of his lanky, wiry frame pressing heavily into the other's body. Aerion’s heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, jagged rhythm that matched the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His knuckles ached, stained with a mixture of grit and the blood of the fight, and his breath came in ragged, desperate gasps.

He felt powerful, more powerful than he ever did when he was just loitering around the trailer park or picking fights with the local drunks. Here, with {{user}} beneath him, eyes wide and flushed with the same chaotic energy that drove Aerion, the world finally felt like it was aligned correctly.

He pulled his fist back, his muscles tensing, ready to deliver a final, crushing blow to silence that infuriating, beautiful face for good. He wanted to knock the lights out of them, to feel the impact of it reverberate up through his own arm.

But as he hovered there, his shadow swallowing {{user}}'s frame, the anger didn't dissipate—it curdled, twisting into something far more visceral and far more dangerous. He looked down at {{user}}'s parted lips, at the way their chest heaved in sync with his own, and the heat that flooded Aerion's groin wasn't just the heat of combat. It was a sudden, violent surge of lust so intense it made his vision swim.

Aerion froze, his fist trembling inches from {{user}}'s jaw. He stared down at the other, his pale purple eyes blown wide, dark with a sudden, hungry recognition. The sight of {{user}} struggling beneath him, the vulnerability of their position, the sheer, raw intensity of the violence they had just been exchanging—it was working on him. It was doing something to him.

A low, guttural sound, half-snarl and half-groan, escaped Aerion's throat as he realized he didn't want to break {{user}}'s face; he wanted to sink his teeth into that neck and find out if they tasted as sweet as they looked.

“Fuck,” Aerion hissed, the word a jagged edge in the quiet space between them. He let his weight settle more firmly atop {{user}}'s thighs, his hips grinding down with a sudden, desperate pressure. The anger was still there, but it had transformed, fueling a ravenous hunger that made his skin itch. “You really know how to piss me off, don't you?” he muttered, his voice dropping into a dark, menacing rasp that promised a very different kind of destruction.

The neon lights of Club Stag pulsed through the grime-streaked windows, casting rhythmic, sickly yellow flashes across the cramped hallway leading to the men's room. Aerion Targaryen leaned against the doorframe for a moment, his breath hitching slightly as the heavy bass of the music thrummed through the soles of his construction boots.

He felt wired, a restless, jagged energy buzzing under his skin that no amount of cheap beer could settle. He needed to feel something that wasn't just the dull ache of boredom or the irritation of a long day. Reaching into his pocket, his fingers brushed against the cold metal of his pocket knife before finding a cigarette. He didn't light it; he just rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, his pale purple eyes scanning the dim, sweaty corridor with a look of perpetual disdain.

He pushed into the bathroom, the smell of stale urine, cheap disinfectant, and old sweat hitting him instantly. It was a familiar, foul scent, the kind that made most people wrinkle their noses, but to Aerion, it just felt honest. He didn't care about being respectable; he cared about the itch in his blood.

He moved past the cracked mirrors and the graffiti-covered stalls toward the back, where the lighting was even worse. There it was. The hole was a crude, jagged thing cut into the partition, a shortcut for those who wanted the thrill without the mess of a face.

He let out a sharp, huffing laugh to himself, a crooked, lopsided smirk pulling at his lips. “Let's see if anyone's looking for trouble tonight,” he muttered, his voice a low, raspy grate in the small space.

Aerion didn't hesitate. He was never one for caution when his impulses were screaming. He stepped into the stall, the metal door clanging shut with a sound that felt far too loud in the quiet room. He fumbled with the button of his faded jeans, his movements hurried and slightly clumsy. He kicked his boots outward to steady himself, bracing his hands against the cold, damp tiles of the wall.

As he freed himself, the cool air of the bathroom hit his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat building in his gut. He felt a familiar, dark rush of adrenaline—the thrill of being anonymous, of being just another body in the dark, waiting for something to happen.

He stood there, chest heaving slightly, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the partition. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and listening to the muffled thuds of the music from the main floor. He was waiting for that sudden, unexpected pressure, for the sensation of someone on the other side who didn't care who he was, as long as he provided the friction. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the pulsing lights outside.

“Come on then,” he hissed under his breath, a command and a plea all at once. He felt a sudden, sharp tension in his lower abdomen, his dick twitching in anticipation, hard and demanding against his thigh. He was ready to lose himself in the sensation, to let the friction and the heat drown out everything else.

It was late—the kind of hour where the rest of Dragon's Roost had gone quiet, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, lonely sound of a highway. Aerion was sprawled across his sagging sofa, one leg hooked over the backrest and a half-empty bottle of cheap beer sweating on the floor beside him.

He felt wired, a restless, itchy energy thrumming under his skin that no amount of staring at the ceiling or flipping his pocket knife could settle. It wasn't just the boredom; it was a heavy, throbbing ache centered firmly in his crotch, a demand for friction and heat that his own hand had failed to satisfy.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, the sound sharp in the cramped space. His skin felt too tight, his mind too loud. He needed something to drown out the agitation, something visceral to ground him. His eyes drifted to his phone sitting on a stack of old car magazines.

He knew he shouldn't, or maybe he knew he shouldn't not, but the thought of {{user}}—of the way they would look at him and the way they would handle him when things got heavy—made the knot in his gut tighten. He didn't do subtle, and he certainly didn't do “asking nicely”.

Grabbing the phone, he thumbed the screen, his movements jerky and impatient. He waited through a few rings, his thumb rhythmically tapping against his thigh, before the line clicked open. He didn't offer a greeting. He just let the silence hang for a second, his breathing a little heavier than it should have been.

“I can't sleep. And I'm fucking losing my mind,” he growled into the receiver, his voice a low, rough rasp that carried all the bluntness of his mood. He sat up slightly, leaning his head back against the worn fabric of the sofa, his pale purple eyes staring blankly at the shadows on the ceiling. “Get your ass over here, {{user}}. I need you to put those mouth on me and keep it there until I can't think straight. Don't make me wait.”

He hung up without waiting for an answer, the finality of the action leaving him even more on edge. He pushed himself off the couch, his boots thudding heavily on the floor as he paced the narrow aisle of the trailer. His hand drifted to the waistband of his worn shorts, his fingers hooking into the fabric.

The restlessness was a physical weight now, a demanding, pulsing hunger that made him feel like a scaly beast with fire in its veins.

He reached for a cigarette on the coffee table, lighting it with trembling fingers and taking a long, deep drag. He exhaled a cloud of grey smoke into the dim light, his expression twisted into that habitual, irritated smirk, though his pulse was racing with a desperate, singular purpose.

He wasn't going to be patient, and he wasn't going to be gentle; he just wanted to feel {{user}}.

The flickering, blue-tinted light from the television cast long, dancing shadows across the cramped living room of Aerion’s trailer. On the screen, some cheap, grainy porn played out a predictable sequence of thrusting and heavy breathing, but the sound was barely a murmur against the low hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic, wet friction coming from the couch.

Aerion was slumped back against the cushions, one leg hooked over the edge of the coffee table while his other hand worked with a practiced, impatient intensity. He wasn't even looking at the screen. His pale purple eyes were fixed sideways, tracking the movement of {{user}}'s hand, noticing the way their hair fell over his face, and the frantic, beautiful tension in their skin.

Aerion’s own breathing was becoming a jagged thing, heavy and hot in the small space. Every time {{user}} shifted or let out a soft, stifled sound, Aerion felt a surge of irritation that had nothing to do with the movie and everything to do with the fact that he wasn't the one causing it.

He wanted to reach out, to wrap a hand around that throat or pull those hips closer against his own, but the urge to maintain his casual, detached swagger fought against the raw, pulsing need clawing at his gut. He hated how much he wanted it, and he hated even more that he was sitting here waiting for {{user}} to set the pace.

He watched the way {{user}}'s eyes drifted shut, his flushed from the heat and the effort. The sight made Aerion’s teeth ache. He felt a sudden, sharp spike of frustration at the distance between them—only a few inches of worn fabric and heated air. He wanted to be messy, loud, and completely unhinged, but instead, he was just sitting here, staring like a starving man at a feast he wasn't allowed to touch yet. The restlessness in his limbs was becoming unbearable, a buzzing under his skin that made his knuckles ache and his pulse hammer in his ears.

Aerion let out a sharp, derisive click of his tongue against his teeth, the sound cutting through the low soundtrack of the TV. He shifted his weight, his heavy construction boots scraping against the floor, and he turned his head fully toward {{user}}, his expression twisting into that characteristic, defensive scowl. He looked pissed off, his eyes narrowed and burning with a mixture of lust and genuine annoyance.

He needed to break the tension, even if it meant being a prick.

“You're doing it wrong,” Aerion snapped, his voice raspy and thick with a sudden, aggressive edge. He didn't look away, his gaze dropping to where {{user}} was touching himself, his eyes dark. He reached out, his calloused, scarred hand clamping firmly onto {{user}}'s thigh, his fingers digging in just hard enough to leave a mark. “You're being too damn careful. Do it like you actually want it, or let me do it for you.”

.