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He dreams of a flowering tree. Daeron can smell its fragrant leaves, tasting it on the back of his tongue if he breathes in deeply enough. Inhaling feels a bit like being underwater, suffocating in the same way. The air is honey-thick, the memory tender as it clashes with the visions of his sleep. He’s reminded of his mother’s hands. How she’d peel the rinds off oranges for him and Aerion both as they lay in the shade, then run her scented fingers through their hair and sigh,
My boys. My sweetlings. Sweeter than all the fruit in Dorne. How I love you both.
There’s a figure beneath the branches. He reaches for him.
Daeron is fighting a headache from the moment he wakes, the thrumming between his ears only worsening as he sits up on his bed. A soft moan escapes him as he stretches upon the still-made linens. His tunic laces are undone, and the top of his britches are loose under his sloppily tied sash. He drank too much without meaning to at the feast. Partially, he blames it on his cousins for goading him, though he knows he is mostly at fault. Could have said no, and didn’t. The last time he’d indulged so deeply had been many moons ago, long before Maegor’s birth.
The thought of his son lessens the ache, but only slightly. Gods, it hurts. Without looking, he touches the space beside him. It’s cold. His mouth pulls down into a deep frown. Daeron hadn’t expected his mate to share his bed with him when he’s in such a state, but it’s disappointing nonetheless.
Aerion had made clear his stance on his brother’s drinking on the night they wed. There’d been much to drink then, too, and in his nerves, Daeron had partaken more than he should. Hadn’t wanted to wake his lover in the night with his thrashing or his screaming. After the bedding ceremony, he’d reached clumsily for Aerion in the growing dark. They’d fucked many times before, stolen moments behind Summerhall’s walls, in the woods around the castle, and in the privacy of their quarters. But it was their first night as a mated pair, and his fingers had trembled. His brother was so very beautiful even in a clouded haze. Shining in the warmth, much better than anything Daeron deserved, even with the viciousness that sang through his skin.
But Aerion had recoiled away from him.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he’d hissed. He’d then grabbed his face between his hands, eyes alight, fingers pressing into Daeron’s jaw as he’d whispered in his ear, ‘If you think I’m going to let you lay a filthy hand on me while you’re drunk, you’re dead wrong. I’ll cut your limbs off myself if you even try.’
He’d taken every nightmare in stride since. An evil he is willing to suffer through if it means making Aerion glad. Can admit to himself that he does, at times, miss the oblivion drink allowed him, though there are better things in this world than peace. It only became clearer to him when Aerion told him not even a moon’s time after their wedding that he was with child. The dragon dreams abated into declawed and fangless impressions, but by then it didn’t matter to him. Would take the bad with the good if it meant-
“Fuck,” Daeron whispers.
The weight of his mistake is beginning to settle in full. He winces, about to get up and seek out Aerion and their babe, when the door to his chambers opens.
“M’lord! So pleased to see you awake and well,” says a chipper chambermaid. Her hair is graying, and her eyes are a piercing shade of blue under the stark morning light spilling from the tall windows. Daeron forgets how much brighter the Keep is than Summerhall. It does not help his headache. “Shall I fetch you some butter and bread?”
“No. Just water,” he croaks. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shutting and opening his eyes to adjust. “Bring me at least a flagon of it.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
As she turns to leave through the door that leads into the solar, Daeron stops her.
“And Prince Aerion,” he says slowly. His extended hand falls abortively on his lap. “Is he-? Is he awake as well?”
The old chambermaid’s smile drops somewhat. She wrings at the edges of her apron, gaze flickering to the floor as though trying to piece the words together before she speaks them. “That he is. Since a little after dawn, I’d say. The lovely omega prince is quite energetic, m’lord.”
Daeron almost chuckles. If only it didn’t hurt to move his face. Knows his brother enough to understand what exactly that means. Anger, ferocity. He pictures his pretty and scowling face demanding the impossible of the Keep’s humble servants. With a strange twinge of comfort, he supposes he’s not the only one in the castle who has started the morning with a headache then, the poor souls tending to Aerion are faring no better.
“Is he?”
“Yes,” she says with a small nod. Her expression softens when she adds, whisper-quiet as if in conspiracy, “He and the babe are in the gardens with Prince Valarr.”
“Oh. Valarr?” That gives Daeron pause. “How long?”
“Nearly all morning, my prince.”
“All morning,” he repeats dumbly.
“Yes,” she says. She raises her eyebrows. “They seemed happy for the sun. Though, methinks they shouldn’t be out in it for long, as fair as he is. Shall I have the guards go fetch him for you, m’lord?”
The words settle like stones in his gut. The thought of Aerion spending hours with their cousin after Daeron had failed him so thoroughly sends a fresh wave of nausea through him.
“No, no,” Daeron says quickly. “I’ll go.” He swallows with great effort. “The water, please.”
“Aye, right away, m’lord.”
The maid scurries out, and Daeron forces himself to stand. The room spins for a moment before settling. He splashes his face with rosewater from the basin, the cold shock doing little to clear his head or the bitter taste of regret. He dons a fresh tunic, fingers fumbling with the silk strings, and runs a hand through his unruly hair. He looks a wreck, he knows, but waiting out his discomfort is no longer an option.
The feast was in honor of their firstborn. Valarr and Matarys had insisted on many cups of wine, clapping him on the back as he’d had his fill. It hadn’t helped matters that he and Aerion had had a spat of their own on the journey here from the Stormlands.
No. He can’t think of that now.
As the servant woman brings him water, she asks tenderly if he’d like wine as well. Tells him it might help the ache. It takes every bit of him to refuse. He shakes with the desire to say yes, as though she offers him respite from a thousand licking flames. He thinks of oranges and flowering branches, of purple silks under his hands.
(Of the thousand things he’s seen in between and refused to speak of to anyone. All except-)
“No,” he rasps with a wan smile. “I fear it does me more harm than good.”
The walk to the gardens is a torment. Every corridor seems too bright, every cheerful greeting from a passing courtier a fresh assault. The whole way, his headache is a dull roar that matches the frantic beating of his heart. He needs to see him. Needs to see them both, or he feels as though he will disintegrate like sugar in water.
He looks all over the gardens. Finds them, finally, not among the roses, but in a secluded corner near the path toward the Kingswood. There, beneath the sprawling branches of a massive white-barked tree sits Aerion on a gnarled root. He’s somewhat hidden, the yellow flowers draping around him like a shield. The sun filters through the canopy and dapples the silver-gold of his hair. He looks painfully lovely and utterly out of reach to Daeron. In his lap, cradled with a delicateness that is strange on him, is their son. Their little prince is smiling, something he’s only recently started to do. Daeron thinks with some pride that he was the first person he’d blessed with the upturn of his mouth.
(It’d been a dark evening, and they’d been beside the hearth. Aerion had fallen asleep on the settee, and Daeron had stayed awake with Maegor in his arms, and he’d been making faces at him like he used to do with the girls, with Egg, Aemon, and Aerion, too.)
Daeron stops, his breath catching in his throat. Aerion looks up, his violet eyes landing on his own without even needing to call for him. Must smell him in the air, the sharpness of him cutting through the florid sweetness. The warmth that had been there while looking at their son vanishes, replaced by a chilling stillness. His full mouth sneers upward.
“Well. Look who’s finally risen from his drunken stupor.”
“Brother,” Daeron starts, his voice still so hoarse. He takes a hesitant step forward. “Love,” he says, for what is Aerion if not both? “Let me explain.”
“Don’t,” he says, his voice low and sharp. He presses Maegor closer to his chest, the babe squirming slightly. “Don’t come nearer.”
“Forgive me, please. I was-”
“A fool?” Aerion chuckles humorlessly. “Please. I’ve heard it before. Spare me the self-pity, it’s boring, and I do not wish to hear it.”
He could fall to his knees if there weren’t so many eyes around. That’s the terrible thing about the Red Keep. There are always people watching. Asleep or awake, hidden or open, it does not matter. Except, with an unfamiliar edge of jealousy, he thinks there is a pair missing.
“Where is Valarr?” He asks before he could think better of it.
“I sent him away.” The surge of relief in him must be obvious, for Aerions scoffs. He twirls a bit of Maegor’s downy golden hair with his ring finger, and Daeron follows the movement as a dog would follow a cut of meat. “Don’t feel overly proud,” he adds. “He was just bothering me with his incessant talk of smallfolk and coin counts.”
“He’s a snake,” Daeron says. “He wants you, you know.”
Aerion scoffs. His jaw clenches tight before he says, “I am aware.”
“You should not have been alone with him.”
“Do not attempt to lecture me after last night.”
“I am not lecturing you.” Daeron steps closer despite the dangerously withering glare Aerion is shooting at him. He puts his palms out, his vision blurring slightly as the shade of the tree envelopes him, too. “We shouldn’t stay here much longer,” he says quietly. “The feast is over. I think we should return home sooner rather than later.”
What he means is that they are happier on their own, with the only witness to their lives being their father, their guards, and their sisters. No courtly pressures or needling stares.
“Hm,” Aerion hums. His elegant brow raises up, lips quirking up at the corners. “Now you’re eager to leave, but just a few hours ago you were drowning yourself in Arbor Red.”
“It was a mistake, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He does know, though. Can’t put it to words without sounding like a coward. Can’t say, ‘I was anxious. I was afraid.’
“Tell me, since you’re returning to your old ways, did you find some Flea Bottom whore to suck your useless cock after I went to bed?”
“Of course not,” Daeron whispers. His jaw tenses, his teeth gritting at the thought. “I would never-”
“Don’t pretend to have control over your filthy urges, brother.”
Daeron is not above begging. Knows this game so well, it’s ingrained in him from childhood. Aerion likes toying with his food before eating it. He takes another cautious step, near enough now that he could touch his brother if he reached out. He doesn’t dare, of course. Knows he’d risk injury if he did. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, to tell Aerion not to be so difficult, Maegor begins to fuss in his arms.
The babe’s whimpers quickly escalate into full cries and take both their attention for himself, his tiny face scrunching up with distress.
“Oh, hush now, my little dragon,” Aerion murmurs, bouncing him gently. When the fussing only intensifies, he sighs in resignation. Says pointedly, “He’s hungry at the most inconvenient of moments, I fear he’s as infuriating as his sire.”
Daeron watches, mesmerized, as Aerion shifts their son to one arm and reaches for the laces of his tunic with his free hand. The fabric parts and reveals pale skin underneath. Aerion lifts the fabric just enough to expose his chest, uncaring as he guides Maegor to a swollen peak. The sight strikes Daeron with the force of a physical blow. His breath catches in his throat, and the throbbing in his head is momentarily forgotten, replaced by a different kind of gnawing.
Aerion refuses to allow their son to drink from wet nurses despite what propriety calls for. He says Maegor will not take milk from another, and Daeron knows it’s as much about his own pride as it is about what teat Maegor prefers. His brother has always been this way- taking what he deemed as his and keeping it close. Used to be the same with their mother’s affections when they were young, too. Would greedily eat up all the fruit she peeled for them, mouth and cheeks sugar-sticky when Daeron would kiss his face. Daeron had never even minded, could taste the sweetness on his own lips after.
It has always been enough.
Daeron’s discomfort recedes in full, replaced by a familiar heat pooling in his loins. He thinks of their slow mornings at Summerhall. How he would often wake to find Aerion already sitting up in bed, their son at his tender breast. His favorite thing is to wrap his arms around Aerion from behind, resting his chin on his brother’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of both their bodies in his palms. His own treasure to hoard, a dragon in his own right. Better than oranges and feasts, or even the finest wine.
“Let me prove to you I can be better,” Daeron says, his voice thick. “Please.”
Aerion glances up, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. Mayhaps it’s mercy. Must see the hunger in Daeron’s gaze. “Go,” he says harshly, though his cheeks glow pink. “I do not wish to look upon you for a moment longer.”
“What about later?” Daeron asks. Seven, his mouth is dry. Not enough water in the world to quell his thirst.
Aerion looks down at Maegor when he makes a soft sound, his tiny hand curling against his chest. Their babe is still drinking from him, some milk leaking out his little mouth. Has Daeron licking at his own lips.
“We’ll see.”
Daeron nods. Does not trust himself to speak. His brother does not say yes, but he does not say no. That is as good an answer as any.
On his way back to his chambers, Daeron runs into Valarr. His cousin is watching him from an alcove in the halls that lead toward the center of the castle, his mismatched eye boring holes into him.
“How do you feel this morning, cousin?” He asks him, voice cheerful though his countenance betrays him. “Hopefully not too awful.”
“No,” Daeron lies, uncaring if it’s obvious in the tiredness he carries over him like a shroud. Can not feed the spineless parts of him now that he knows Aerion is willing to allow him back into his bed despite everyone’s efforts. He’s thinking of Maegor, of the gentle pink of his brother’s skin under the sun. Dreams, and nightmares, and all the prying looks fade into nothing in comparison. “Not at all.”
He falls into a deep sleep.
When he closes his eyes, alone in his rooms, he does not dream again of orange trees. Instead, he dreams of Aerion, warm and smiling as he rests against his chest. Can hear his heart beating against his ear, his brother’s skinny fingers running through his hair.
Sweet, he hears him say. His voice sounds odd, as though it’s combined with their mother’s. Two in one, entwined like vines.
Daeron is trembling when he lets himself into Aerion’s rooms at evenfall. It’s ridiculous, he knows. He is almost double his size, older and his alpha, has seen terrors beyond comprehension since he was old enough to speak, and still he cowers. In his hands, he carries a small gift. It’s more of a peace offering, really, and he’s unsure if Aerion would even accept it. He runs his thumb along the uneven rind of the orange. He’d asked the chambermaid to bring him the ripest she could find in the kitchens.
“It’s late,” Aerion says from beside the hearth, a book on his lap. He does not look up when the door opens.
“I overslept.” In truth, Daeron was working up the courage to make his way over. His shame was almost too great to swallow. “I’m afraid I must beg your forgiveness for that as well.”
Aerion does not answer. Instead, he sighs deeply and shuts his book before looking up at him with a bored expression. “Maegor is asleep. You didn’t even get to say goodnight to your own son.”
“You said that you didn’t want me near him after I upset you.”
“Ugh,” Aerion groans. “Just get out, Daeron. I’ve changed my mind.”
“I-” Daeron stops. He fidgets, his hands behind his back. “I’ve brought you something.” He wants to say that he was thinking of him all day, of his scent and the way his expression melts when their babe drinks from him. Instead, he holds out the orange in both hands like a tithe at the sept, falling forward onto his knees as he presents it.
“An orange?” Aerion’s eyes narrow. He takes in the sight of Daeron kneeling there, the fruit cradled in his hands, and something in his expression softens despite the contempt that burns in his gaze. “Why?”
“They’re your favorite.”
“You look ridiculous,” Aerion says, not acknowledging his words in full, though his voice has lost its edge. He sets the book aside, careful with the pages. “Get up. You’re too large to be groveling on the floor, it makes me ill.”
Daeron rises, relief flooding through his veins as he crosses the room and settles onto the settee beside his brother.
“I was thinking of Mother,” he says quietly and begins to peel the orange, his fingers working the rind. The scent bursts forth immediately, sharp and bright. It fills the space between them with the ghost of summers long past, of a woman’s loving hands and laughter ringing through Summerhall. “How she would peel them for us.”
Aerion is watching his hands as they move. The firelight plays across his fine features, casting shadows beneath his cheekbones, gilding him in pretty hues. He looks otherworldly in the dim light, a creature too beautiful and cruel for the likes of him.
“She always said oranges reminded her of Dorne,” Aerion whispers.
“And you would eat them all, would scarcely leave me any,” Daeron protests softly, though he can feel himself smiling, a little sad. He separates the orange into neat segments, the juice sticky on his fingers. “You have not outgrown your greed, brother.”
He lifts a segment to Aerion’s lips. He hesitates for a moment, searching Daeron’s face for something only he knows the answer to. Then he opens his mouth. The alpha watches, entranced, as Aerion’s lips close around the fruit, as his teeth sink into the flesh. Juice spills over, glistening on his lower lip, and Aerion, deliberately, torturously, runs his tongue along his mouth to catch it. His eyes never leave Daeron’s.
“You’d complain about it plenty,” Aerion murmurs, voice dropping to a register that makes Daeron’s blood run hot. He takes his hand in his own, the one that fed him, and brings sticky fingers to his mouth. His tongue darts out, pink and obscene, and licks the juice from Daeron’s index finger, then the middle one. He takes each fully into his mouth, sucking gently and swirling his tongue under the pads, and Daeron feels the sensation shoot straight to his groin.
“Aerion,” he gasps, his free hand gripping the edge of the settee.
His little brother releases his finger with a wet sound. “You came here to beg your omega for forgiveness, did you not?” He leans forward, his breath hot against Daeron’s ear. “Go on, then. Heel for me. Grovel like a dog.”
There is no controlling it. Daeron surges forward, catching Aerion’s mouth with his own, tasting orange and salt and the unique flavor that is purely his own. Sorry, he sighs. I’m so very sorry. Aerion accepts him eagerly, arching into the kiss with an equal hunger. His hands fist in his silk tunic, pulling him closer, climbing into his lap with the grace of a cat. He’s always been so quick where Daeron is slow.
“You’re more eager than usual,” Aerion tells him, positioning himself so he straddles Daeron’s thighs on the settee. He grinds down, and he can feel him already slicking through the fabric of his breeches. Whispers, “Calm. I’ll let you fuck me, even though you don’t deserve it.”
“I don’t, not at all-” Daeron starts, but Aerion cuts him off with another kiss, biting at his lower lip until he tastes the tang of blood.
“You made me so angry on the way here,” Aerion hisses. He begins unlacing his own tunic with shaking fingers, impatient. “All you do is infuriate me.”
It was an ugly argument. Daeron feels stupid for it now and wonders why he’d even attempted to command anything of Aerion. An impossible task. He’d been wrong for telling him to control his affections in front of the wagging tongues of their grandsire’s court. Presumptuous is the word Aerion had used.
‘They know we’ve fucked, you idiot,’ Aerion had hissed. ‘The whole point of the feast is to celebrate the birth of our son.’
Daeron had only been thinking of himself. His own itching discomfort, as he always is. Mayhaps a part of him still feels unworthy after all this time.
‘Doesn’t it feel strange?’ He’d asked. ‘To be so open in front of others?’
“Let me have you,” he begs, now. “I don’t care if all the Keep can hear.”
He hopes they do. Especially Valarr, that cunt.
“Yes. Let them hear us. Let them know what we are.” He bares his chest, and Daeron’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him- his swollen breasts, nipples pink and leaking, his body still lush and full from carrying their son.
Daeron groans, burying his face in the curve of Aerion’s neck, inhaling the scent of him. He’s all fruit and milk and that sharpness that screams that he’s his, had taken it on after he’d bit his throat. He’s a fool. Of course everyone knows just what they are. Why should it matter? Why did he try to drown it out? He was imagining sourness where there should have been sweetness. His hands come up to cradle the circle of his waist, thumbs stroking the soft skin beneath his ribs. He presses a kiss to his collarbone, then another at his pulse.
“Does all of you belong to me?” Aerion asks, pulling at the hair at the base of his neck. Keeps him flush against him. “Tell me.”
“Yes. Always,” Daeron vows, the words muffled against heated skin. “Only yours.”
Aerion’s hand travels between them, to the laces of Daeron’s breeches before freeing his cock. He spits into his own palm. Daeron watches, fascinated, as he licks at his fingers, as he did to his, making them wet before wrapping his small palm around his length. It is a perfect fit around him, his grip firm and sure after so many years. Daeron bucks into his touch, his breath catching in his throat. The orange scent still lingers between them, mixing with the heady smell of his brother’s arousal.
“Do you remember the first time I did this to you?” Aerion murmurs, his thumb smearing a bead of clear spend over Daeron’s tip. “You couldn’t keep your eyes open. You kept telling me how wrong it was, how it wasn’t proper. And now you can’t look away.”
Daeron can only whine in response, his hands tightening on Aerion’s skin. Will leave bruises, he thinks. He watches, transfixed, as Aerion shifts position, rising slightly on his knees. With his free hand, he hikes up his open tunic and lowers his own breaches, revealing the wetness already drenching his smallclothes.
“Touch me,” he commands, and Daeron obeys without hesitation.
His fingers brush against the damp fabric, then slip beneath to find the hot, slick folds of Aerion’s cunt. His brother gasps in response, his hand faltering on Daeron’s cock.
“And do you remember the first time I did this to you?” Daeron asks, voice wrecked already. Can’t look away from the open expressions his omega is making.
“Yes,” Aerion sighs, his head falling back, eyes heavy. “I do.”
“You used your heat against me, you wicked thing.” Daeron adds another finger, curling them just so, finding that spot that makes Aerion’s whole body shake. He could feel his own cock leaking, desperate for the same heat his fingers are wrapped in. “You were hardly older than five and ten. I could have devoured you whole.”
“You did,” Aerion reminds him with a sharp smile. “Many times over. Defiled me in full until father had no choice but to betroth us.”
Suddenly, he pulls away, rising, his feet planted on the cushions. Before Daeron can protest, Aerion strips off his smallclothes and climbs up over him, his cunt hovering just over Daeron’s face. It’s prettier than any flower, he thinks to himself. Pink and glistening with slick like morning dew. A thought he dares not speak aloud, lest he be met with mockery.
“I’d do it all again,” Daeron confesses, half-horrified, half-enthralled.
“Then it’s a good thing I quite like it when you devour me,” Aerion says, his voice thick as he braces his hands against the back of the settee. “I should be the only thing you indulge in.”
Daeron nods, doesn’t- can’t - wait a second longer. He wraps his arms around Aerion’s thighs, pulling him down until his mouth is flush with his soaked heat. The first taste is lovely, sweet like honey, with just a little salt underneath. He laps at him with the same greed he reprimanded his brother for just moments before, his tongue delving into him, savoring every drop of slick that coats his chin.
His taste has changed since giving birth. It’s not as light as it once was when they were boys, but Daeron almost prefers it. Likes the thickness of it, how it sticks to his stubble when it’s over. Can still savor his brother on his tongue long after. Aerion trembles like a leaf when Daeron rubs at the little nub above his entrance with his thumb, has his breath coming out in ragged pants.
“Gods, yes,” he moans, grinding down against Daeron’s mouth. He reaches down, raking his sharp fingernails against his scalp. “Just like that. This is all you’re good for, isn’t it? Disappointing me and then tongue-lashing me until I’m too much of a mess to care.”
In response, Daeron gives him a light smack on the padded part of his flank. He doubles his efforts and is rewarded by a litany of bewitching little noises, the gushing of his brother’s slick down his throat. He shakes as he reaches his first peak, and Daeron chases him when he tries to lift away. Is glad for his advantage in size in moments like these. Doesn’t like wasting a single drop of Aerion’s release.
He collapses against him, after. Daeron is patient, holds him close as the tremors subside. He thrusts up, his still-hard cock rubbing up against the wet, loose mess of him, catching on his folds, pressing slightly. Doesn’t go in fully, waits for Aerion to arch his spine and reach back and do it himself.
“Don’t make me wait,” he demands breathlessly, shakily lifting himself up on his knees. Daeron helps him, feels dizzy with want. “Not after letting me sit with that fool Valarr all morning while you slept.”
“Don’t- ah- Don’t say his name, not now,” Daeron chokes out as Aerion sinks down onto him, finally, taking him in one smooth slide.
Then it is hard to think at all. They both cry out, and Daeron can’t help but bury his face in his brother’s soft chest.
Aerion gives no respite. He rolls his hips in tight circles that make stars explode behind Daeron’s eyelids. He’s overwhelmingly tight, gripping Daeron like a fist slicked with oil, and Daeron has to hold still, has to let Aerion set the pace, or he’ll spill inside him like a green boy.
“Look at you,” Daeron breathes, gazing up at his brother, at the flush spreading across every inch of him, the way his mouth hangs open in pleasure, the sweat beading at his temples. “So beautiful. So perfect. Taking your big brother so well, sweetling.”
At the pet name, Aerion whines a high, desperate sound that goes straight through Daeron like a spear. He rides him harder, faster, almost bouncing on his lap. His small breasts jostle with the motion, and Daeron can not resist. He’s always been as greedy as his brother, just better at hiding it. He leans forward, catching one furled peak in his mouth.
Sweet, warm milk floods his tongue immediately, and Aerion cries out, his movements faltering as he clutches Daeron’s head to his chest. He keens out something indecipherable, rocking his hips even as he holds him there. The taste of his milk is buttery and rich, strangely tart, too, like young cherries. He suckles at him, swirling his tongue around the skin, drawing out more as he continues thrusting up into Aerion’s leaking cunt. It’s making these terrible noises every time their hips meet. His brother’s body was made for this- for him.
“Leave some for Maegor,” Aerion hisses, his hand wrapping around Daeron’s throat. He squeezes lightly but makes no real effort to pull him off.
Already, he can feel his traitorous knot catch against Aerion’s entrance.
“‘M close,” Daeron laments, releasing Aerion’s breast with a wet sound. Milk streaks his chin, and he doesn’t bother wiping it away, letting Aerion see what he does to him. Makes him more of a rake than ever previously imagined. Their gazes lock. Teary, half-lidded, vision blurring, but Daeron doesn’t think he’s ever seen things so clearly.
What ultimately undoes him is a blistering moment where Aerion bends forward and plants a kiss on his forehead in a rare show of tenderness.
“Daeron, ah! There- brother-” A hitching sob, and then Aerion squeezes around him as tight as a snake. He screams and bites into the meat of his shoulder. It’s a ferocious display. Nothing delicate about it. Must be frightening to any other person looking in, but to him, there’s nothing more familiar or beautiful.
With a pathetic groan, Daeron follows, spills inside him, and floods him full. Can feel his spend overflow around where they’re connected and onto the velvet. His knot can only contain so much. He continues thrusting through it, drinking down Aerion’s moans and protests as his brother shudders against the onslaught.
They are pressed together when it is over. Aerion goes boneless in Daeron’s arms, his face tucked into the hollow of his neck. He holds his brother close, running trembling hands down his sweat-slick back, pressing gentle kisses to any spot he can reach.
“I should feed you fruits more often,” he mutters weakly.
Aerion is silent for a long while, his breath humid against Daeron’s skin. When he speaks, he sounds empty. “Take me to bed,” he says, sounding almost surprised by his own softness. “Do not speak any more, I beg you.”
“Did I do well?” Daeron presses, quiet, needing to hear it.
Do you feel loved and cared for? Am I needed by you after all? Did Mother do well in leaving you to me?
Aerion lifts his head, and his violet eyes are shining with something that looks dangerously like affection. He kisses Daeron gently. “You did well,” he whispers. “Now do as I say. I’m sore and sticky, and I want to sleep before we return home in the morrow.”
Daeron chuckles, the sound full as an open sun, and lifts his brother- his mate, his heart -in his arms, carrying him toward the bedchamber with the orange forgotten, crushed between the cushions of the settee where they had come back together.
Two halves of a rotten whole.