Archive of Our Own

1.

He walks past the reception wordlessly, the receptionist, who by now is keenly familiar with him and his silver white hair, knows better than to deny his entry, only throws him a wary look at the back of his head that is easily ignored. 

Duncan's boxing gym smells like cleaning chemicals, rubber, a slight metallic tinge from all the chains holding the punch bags in the air and the sour smell of children's sweat.

Aerion wrinkles his nose. 

He eyes the place disinterestedly; the black, matted floor and the white walls to the ceiling, a few posters with laughably, cringy motivational phrases glued to it. 

Duncan's doing, no question. 

Aerion distracts himself momentarily when he spots the door that takes to the bathrooms; the memory of the wood harsh on his back has he was fucked against it rousing a small flutter of arousal that he immediately squashes down, another moment being lost with him cheking himself out on the mirror before Aerion remembers why he's there in the first place. 

Aegon. His brat of a brother. 

It isn't hard to spot him; his enormous, shaved head makes him stand out between the other few kids left like a sore thumb—honestly, even if Aerion was blind, he'd be able to find him just by his high pitched, bird-like voice that echoes annoyingly loud throughout the place as he chats animatedly with another child. 

Aerion purses his lips and whistles. 

Egg turns his head to the sound, expression dramatically falling when his eyes lay on Aerion, a frown twisting his growing brows. 

“How funny that you manage to look like a wet little rat even without your hair,” he comments offhandedly, lips curling up at the sight of his sweaty bald head glistening under the artificial light as Egg walks towards him, the gym back on his shoulder as big as him, “A wet little sphynx, perhaps?” 

“What are you doing here?” he hisses angrily. Infuriating gremlin.  

“Now, where are you manners to your eldest? ‘hello brother, how are you?’ I'm sure father raised you better than that.” 

“What are you doing here, brother? Daeron was supposed to pick me up today.” 

Aerion scoffs, “Our brother was busy embarrassing himself by laying on a puddle of his own vomit in some empty alley.” Father was furious. He could've called Duncan, of course; the man wouldn't have any problem in bringing him home after his class was finished, but Aerion was feeling weirdly inspired. “Where is your daft teacher?”

“Don't call him that.” Aegon hisses.

“I call him whatever I want.”

As if summoned, Duncar magically appears, stepping out of the office on the far left.

He’s wearing a loose black shirt and a black shorts to match. It's simple, unremarkable, like most clothes he uses to work. 

It's absolutely indecent. 

The shirt's sleeves are cut out, the fabric stretched after being used so many times leaving not only his arms exposed, but his armpits down to the middle of his torso. The shorts aren't like the ugly, bright blue thing three sizes bigger that Aerion caught Duncan wearing one time and swore that if he didn't burn the cursed thing they'd never see each other again; this one is smaller, its hem ending a bit far above his knees, tight enough to show the muscled lines of his toned thighs. Any high kick and those shorts were undoubtedly bunching up to his groin. 

Aerion makes a mental note to leave the print of his teeth on his inner thighs as soon as he has the chance. Duncan is sensitive there. He'll probably look down at him with those honest, pitiful puppy eyes that makes Aerion's blood sing an entirely different tune and say that he can't bite him there, other people might see, hells, my students might see, as if that wasn't going to motivate Aerion even more. 

Duncan’s lips are moving, and Aerion is ready to jeer at him for talking to himself out loud, but then moves out of the doorway, and his gigantic bulk reveals the smaller shape of a woman. 

Aerion’s eyes narrow, “Who's that?” 

The strange woman—the strange omega—blinks prettily at Duncan like he's a noble knight in a white armour, her eyes drifting to his chest now and then before she remembers herself, a flush rising to her cheeks as she nods to every sentence to show she’s paying attention. She’s blonde—not the pale, moonlight silver like his own, not even the sandy gold of his brother’s that looks almost decent when it’s not greasy after days without showering, but a flat, plainly artificial bleach that is three washes away from turning yellow. Like a yolk. It makes his eyes hurt. The more Aerion stares, the more annoyed he gets. 

Egg follows his gaze, and then shrugs, “She's Arthur’s mother— where are you going? brother, wait—” 

Aerion pays no mind to his squeals, walking towards the alpha and his unknown company in light, quick steps. 

“He'll adapt just fine, and soon enough, your son will be—” Duncan half looks in his direction, snapping his head when he realizes who it is, “Aerion,” He breathes, straightening up his back, blue eyes wide with earnest surprise. His body shifts unconsciously, angling himself towards him, scent flaring a pleased note—his attention is so easily given Aerion has to pinch his lips not to sneer in petty victory. That’s it, something spiteful purrs inside, look at me. only me. Duncan blinks after a few seconds, clearing his throat, “What are you doing here?” 

Aerion shrugs noncommittally, “Daeron had some… matters to deal with, so I've come to pick Egg up.” 

“Oh, you should've called, I could bring him home myself,” he says, confirming what Aerion previously thought. His eyes slowly scan him up and down distractingly, humming appreciatively when he pauses on his chest, his rag of a shirt clinging to his pecs. Gods, what was he even doing today? Though perhaps it’s just his nature; Duncan runs hot as a furnace. The times they’ve shared a bed to sleep had Aerion waking in the middle of the night, uncomfortably warm, skin damp with sweat as he was swallowed by his long limbs.

But, well, he’s not even that sweaty, anyway. Aerion has seen worse. Duncan is a morning runner, after all. He makes light grey shirts turn three shades darker.                        

Something moves by his left and Aerion turns his head slowly. The omega is still there. He arches one brow, “And you are…?” 

“Oh, hm, I’m Alice. Pleasure meeting you.”

Aerion looks down at her hand, making no move to shake it. It goes long enough for the air to become awkward and she pulls her hand back, flustered, looking between his hair and face, “You’re Aerion Targaryen.” 

“That would be me, yes.” he says, lifelessly.

Duncan chimes in, curious, “Do you know him?” 

Of course she does, Aerion thinks, who doesn’t? The woman huffs a small laugh, “I’ve seen you before on instagram. It’s difficult not to recognize, the hair gives it away.” she wiggles a finger to them both, “How do you know each other?”

Aerion hates her already. 

“His brother is one of my students—” 

“He’s mine.” Aerion cuts him plainly, not bothering with pleasantries.  

Duncan pauses, a dumb expression on his face as he looks between him and the other omega, shifting nervously. He starts babbling something, but his hair is slightly damp at the temples, and there’s a single drop of sweat that starts on his forehead and dangles, slowly, down the side of his cheek—

Aerion's body moves as if disconnected from his mind; he lifts his arm, gently wiping it with his thumb. Duncan stops mid word, his jaw slacked uselessly as he watches Aerion examine the bead of sweat solemnly, before taking it to his mouth, the two sides of his forked tongue wrapping lewdly around the digit, never breaking eye contact. 

Duncan flushes bright red. It makes Aerion's gums ache. 

“Right,” he almost, almost startles with the omega's hurried, panicked voice, looking as if she wants to be anywhere but there. Good. “Well, thank you for answering my questions, Duncan, they were a lot of help, I—I better get going now.” 

"Yes,” Aerion agrees, airily, lavender eyes still locked on Duncan, the sound of her steps growing farther and farther apart music to his ears. He tongues the corner of his lips, “Are you free tonight?” 

The alpha points a finger to himself, “Me? y—yeah, yes, hm, not even tonight, right now—” he stutters, managing to trip on his own foot even while not moving, “After the kids are gone. I just need to clean the place a bit and close everything.” he adds, “And take a shower.” 

“Don't,” Aerion says, a beat too fast. He juts his chin in defiance right after, daring Duncan to say something, “It's not that bad. Besides, you can shower afterwards.” 

Duncan swallows, the bob of his throat infuriatingly entrancing, before he nods. 

Aerion nods back, satisfied, whirling back to where he came from, “Time to go, little egg,” he chirps happily, “shall we?” 

Aegon gives him a judgemental look that lasts until they’re inside the car. “You’re the antichrist.” 

Aerion leans back in the headrest and closes his eyes, satisfied with the turn of events, “Lovely.”            

2.

The wispy breeze kisses his exposed back as soon as Aerion steps out of the car. 

He bought the burgundy, velvet suit just for the Baratheon's charity event, but it lacked something. A special touch. He called his family's tailor and a few hours later, his blazer had a backless cut perfect to display the dragon tattoo that runs from just below his nape down to his lower back. 

Duncan follows right behind him, and Aerion has to slap his hand away when he starts fussing with the lapel of his blazer, “Stop that,” he hisses.

“I feel weird,” Duncan stands awkwardly on his feet, “Never dressed like that before.” 

Aerion should be used to it by now, but the sight still stuns him; nearly seven feet of a man, sulking. Sulking. Like a baby. 

Gods help him. 

“Don’t worry about it, you look—” he's dressed in a three piece, full black suit, the only speck of color being the burgundy tie tucked inside his waistcoat that matches his own suit. His hair is out of his forehead for once, and Aerion regrets suggesting it deeply—it makes him look older, serious, like a man who wouldn't think twice before putting Aerion over his knee the second his mouth started running. His tummy somersaults. Aerion sighs tiredly, “perfect.” he forces out, begrudgingly 

Duncan perks up, “Really?”

“Yes. So much I can barely stand to look at you.” he scowls at the alpha’s smug face, “Now stop slouching. We all know you’re the tallest person in the room, own it.” He wraps his fingers around Duncan’s thumb and starts pulling him up the stairs. 

“I’m not slouching,” Duncan grumbles, but allows himself to be dragged. 

Despite the event surely offering invitations to journalists inside, Aerion is surprised by the absence of paparazzis; it doesn’t seem the likes of Lyonel Baratheon, being the scandalous, flamboyant mess that he is, but he can't deny he’s pleased by it—even if a small part of him is slightly disappointed that the camera flashes aren’t there to capture his grand entrance and outfit. A post on instagram will have to do. 

The great hall is vast and opulent, the golden lights reflecting the Baratheon colors decorating tablecloths and banners throughout the room. Aerion observes it all with no small levels of detachment, different from Duncan, who surveys the room full of childlike wonder. 

Aerion doesn't bother to stop to make small talk with people, skimming his way through the crowd to the bar as people step back for him to pass, Duncan obediently following after. 

“Arbor red for me,” he orders to the bartender, pointing his thumb to Duncan, “apple cider for him.” 

They don't have to wait for long. Soon the bartender returns with two pristine glasses. The wine looks dark and viscous as blood. As dark as his own suit. Aerion sips on it readily. 

While Duncan entertains himself with his drink, he leans back, elbows resting against the bar, eyeing the crowd lazily, searching for the faces of his family. 

The first one he finds is Daeron. His oldest brother already has his suit—black and red as well, likely picked by their father—slightly rumpled; one hand full of a pretty girl that seems to be a beta, and another around a champagne glass, using said beta as support to make sure not a drop of his drink spills on the floor, laughing about a joke that only makes sense to his drunk brain. 

Pathetic. 

His dad, standing behind his uncle like a shadow, wears the same color palette as well, and has been pulling faces each time he looks at the people surrounding him—even more at Daeron—that would be probably considered unachievable to anyone else.  

Aemon isn't there, probably busy with his face stuffed in a book, and neither is Aegon or his sisters, as they're too young to attend. He does recognize a head full of light pink hair in between the crowd, which means that Valarr is there as well—

Out of nowhere, something collides against Duncan’s side. It makes the giant lose his balance, his elbow hitting the closest thing around; Aerion. 

He uses a hand to support himself against the bar, irritation seething in his veins. Venom pools under his tongue, ready to spill at whoever was doltish enough not to watch where they were going—

“Duncan!” a vexing voice exclaims, enthusiastically. 

Aerion hinges his teeth until his jaw complains. 

Of course. 

It's up to debate which is worse; The way Raymun Fossoway ogles at Duncan like the bootlicker twat that he is, a ridiculous smile on his ridiculous face as he shamelessly gropes his bicep in appreciation, or the way Duncan himself greets him back warmly, smiling down bashfully like he often does when people set their eyes wholeheartedly on him. 

“Oh man, you look great!” Raymun says cheerfully. 

Duncan dismisses him, “Thank you, man, you look fine as well.” 

Aerion inspects him apathetically, “Hm, at least you have enough sense not to embarrass yourself completely. Good job, little Fossoway. I didn't know the Baratheons were letting just anyone in.” 

Raymun's smile gradually diminishes, like a flower losing all its petals, his face morphing into a surly scowl. Aerion’s lips curl in triumph. 

“Aerion,” he says, like his name is an insult in itself, “Not that's any of your business, but I'm here with my cousin.” 

Aerion hums, picking at his nails, already bored by his meaningless presence, “Doing charity during a charity ball, how touching.” 

Duncan and Raymun exchange looks, a silent conversation going back and forth that makes something pricks in the back of his neck. The beta sighs then, his shoulders sagging with it, “Anyway, I just came to say hi. It was nice seeing you here, Dunk.” 

Duncan pats him in the arm, "Let's talk later, okay?” 

Raymun nods, “Of course. I'll leave you to…” he trails off, pointing his chin to Aerion's direction without actually looking at him, giving a final nod before disappearing just as fast as he appeared. 

Insolent. Aerion could rip him apart limb by limb with teeth alone. 

Duncan gives him a reproachful look. “Really?”

“What?” Aerion asks, sipping his wine innocently. He licks his lips after, just to see Duncan’s eyes tracking the motion. 

Fossoway is a lesser evil to deal with, at least. He's like a small pup that looks up to a wolf and yaps that his dream is to become like him one day. Is it annoying? Yes, but inoffensive. All bark and no bite. And if he does have a bite, it isn't as sharp as his own—a nip, really. If Aerion had his way with him, only the bones would be left. 

Lyonel Baratheon, on the other hand, is an entirely different beast. 

He’s older, carries himself with a confidence that Raymun Fossoway couldn't fake or have even if he was born a second time, his obnoxious presence loud like a thunder announcing the arrival of a storm. He does a decent job as host, Arion can give him that, his charm captivating enough—if not a bit overbearing—to capture people’s attention effortlessly, and they flourish under his attention like sunflowers basking beneath the sun. 

It was something he was not aware of. Aerion didn’t know Duncan knew Lyonel. He didn’t know that Lyonel knew Duncan. 

But when he catches sight of the alpha’s comically big frame, his smile looks like it will tear his face in two. 

“My, my, I’d recognize these thick bones anywhere,” Lyonel crackles, throwing himself on Duncan like he's expecting the man to put an arm under his legs and carry him around like a maid, “Dunk, my good lad, what a surprise to see you here.” 

“Lyonel,” Duncan smiles, like the stupid fool he is, using the same tone he previously used with his hamster friend, and to Aerion's disbelief, he accepts the hug. 

If Aerion was a much lesser person than he is, he'd gape openly with incredulity at audacious display as Lyonel Baratheon rubs his hand on Duncan’s chest like he's some kind of—some kind of pet. What is wrong with these people, anyway? Do they not know how to act like normal, decent beings? Do they have not a single shred of decorum? Of all the useless, brain dead alphas in the world, everyone seems to be interested in the one Aerion chooses to keep at his heel? 

It's unacceptable. 

“Aerion Targaryen,” Lyonel states, though with more bewilderment than enthusiasm. He eyes him and Duncan back and forth, sending the alpha a meaningful look and oh, how tired he's getting of these maddening stares, “Bestowing us with your ravishing presence. Thank you for coming.” 

Aerion looks at him icily, offering a tight lipped smile just as cold and a mock-courteous nod. Lyonel turns his focus back to Duncan, low murmurs that make the alpha grins boyish.

Impatience grows inside his chest like thick, venomous vines. Aerion has no time for this— this pitiable spectacle. 

“I want to dance,” he blurts, curling his hand around Duncan’s forearm, all but dragging the alpha to the dancefloor, ignoring Duncan’s fruitful attempts to apologize as they leave an astonished Lyonel behind.

The floor is actually quite crowded, a soft, melodic tune playing smoothly in the background, creating an intimate atmosphere as couples twirl around slowly.  

“I don't know how to dance,” Duncan says sheepishly, placing a hand on his back. 

Aerion snorts half-mocking, half-fond, “That much is obvious. just let your body follow mine, two steps to the right, and two to the left. Slow and steady.” 

Graceless as he is, Duncan follows his lead without much struggle—he's good at following orders, when it serves him—not stepping on his foot once. 

Aerion sweeps Duncan’s shoulder, as if cleaning invisible dust from his blazer, “Your little friends were very enthusiastic to see you,” he starts, tone carefully neutral, “I didn't know you knew Lyonel Baratheon.” 

“We've met during a party Raymun dragged me in,” Duncan snorts, “He had a crown with a rack of iron antlers, y'know, like a stag, and he was so drunk he was stumbling and forced me to dance.” 

Aerion blinks sluggishly, “Really.” 

“Not like this, though, it was all—” he makes a gesture with his head, “all over the place, and I might have purposefully stepped on his foot. Really hard.” 

The mental image of Lyonel's toes breaking, the sound of his bones cracking under the weight of Dunk’s heavy foot does tickle his brain nicely. “I see.” 

Duncan studies him, “What is it?”

“What?”

“You're making that face.” 

“What face?” 

“That one where you keep your expression blank but I can see the evil glint shining in your eyes.”

Aerion raises one brow, faintly amused. 

“What is it?” Duncan insists. 

“...They were all over you.” 

The alpha, unsurprisingly, has the gall to look confused, “They were just being friendly.” 

Aerion scoffs, incredulous, “You really don't see it, do you? Good, honorable Ser Duncan, tall and thick as a tree, honest to a fault, good with children, probably feeds squirrels in his free time, our modern Superman. They wish to feast on you.” 

“You know I don't feed squirrels,” he replies cheekily, but his eyes turn serious, “You're exaggerating.” 

“Im speaking the truth. They're foolish and empty headed, though. Only a drunk, deluded stag would think itself a worthy match against a dragon. And that fatuous little friend of yours, Fossoway, isn't it? a fucking apple? I should have him for breakfast, that might as well teach him a lesson.” 

“You'll do no such a thing,” Duncan chides, but presses his lips together, looking mildly entertained, “You need to calm down, little dragon.” 

“I'm not little,” he spits back, but oddly, this time it lacks his actual bite, “you're the one who's abnormally big compared to the rest of us.” 

The large, warm hand splayed open in the middle of his back slides slowly down to his lower back as Duncan pulls him closer, and Aerion forces down a shiver. The alpha nudges his temple gently with the tip of his nose and leans down, mouth close to his ear, “I think you're trying really hard to draw blood for someone who's not supposed to cause a scene.” 

Aerion looks up at him smugly, “A dragon is always ready to draw blood.” 

It's nice—to be this close to Duncan. Not that he'd dare to admit out loud, but his enormous presence somehow is far from being unpleasant or overwhelming. This close, his nose fits perfectly in the curve of his neck; his scent glands not covered by the collar of his shirt. He smells of sandalwood and summer rain, a tinge of something spicy in his alpha musk that speaks directly to the fire Aerion keeps within his own flesh, his mind having to fight the urge to succumb to his most based needs and do something as undignified as to rub his face all over his throat in public like he's some needy omega in heat. 

Father would talk his ears off until they bleed.

So he pulls back. Just a little. Aerion can scarcely see over the wall that is Duncan’s shoulder, but with the little sight he has, as he appraises the room half heartedly, Aerion ends up locking eyes with someone.

Not just someone. 

Little Raymun Fossoway. 

How interesting.

“I have an idea.” 

Duncan stills, “That's never a good sign.” 

“Listen to me very carefully, you giant oaf,” Aerion ignores the comment and, with his eyes still locked with little Fossoway, he presses their bodies together, draping his arms around Duncan's thick neck as he rises to his tiptoes, lips a breath away from his ear, “We will go to the bathroom, or perhaps the closest room we can find with a lock, so you can be on your knees, and you'll put your mouth on me.” 

He feels Duncan’s chest falters, strangling a gasp.

Aerion continues, ecstasy pooling low at the pit of his stomach as he watches with fascination the way Raymun's face twitches and he manages to look both red and green. Truly like an apple.

“You will eat me out like the hungry, messy alpha you are, and when we're done, you'll not wash your face. You'll let my slick dry on your cheeks, and after we leave, after every single soul in this goddamn party knows exactly who you belong to, I might return the favor and let you fuck me. Perhaps even knot me, if you're good.” he finishes with a shy lick and nibble on his earlobe,throwing a wink to a horrified, sickly-looking Raymun. 

When he pulls back, his chest roars triumphantly at the alpha’s state: strong chest heaving, two red spots high on his cheeks, his bright blue eyes engulfed by the black of his pupils. 

Aerion would let Duncan fuck and knot him either way, but the other doesn't need to know that. 

“Your dad is right here.” Dunk points out, his voice thick and raw with something. Aerion’s skin pebbles. 

“Yes.” he agrees easily.

“He'll kill me if we get caught!”  

“Undoubtedly so.” 

“He likes to see me squirming,” Duncan grumbles, his eyebrows doing something complicated, “Guess I know where you got that from.”

Aerion flutters his eyelashes, but the smile he gives is full of teeth. “Are you coming or not?” 

Once again, he has Duncan obediently trailing after him, like a dog. 

Aerion has trained him well.

3.

Aerion takes his eyes away from his phone for a second to stare at the TV, face scrunching in disgust. 

He wriggles his feet on Duncan’s lap, poking his thigh with his big toe, “What's so interesting about this sport? a bunch of alphas throwing themselves on the mud and on each other like pathetic and violent hounds after a ball.” 

Duncan pats his ankle, “C'mon, It wasn't that bad when we tried.” 

“That was completely different,” Aerion sniffs, “I was teaching you a lesson.” 

“Teaching me? Funny, that's not how I remember.”        

As if boxing wasn't enough, Duncan used to be a rugby player during his youth. Aerion has seen some photos, as the alpha himself made sure to show them to him during one of his visits to the miniscule cubicle he calls an apartment; most of them were just frozen shots of Duncan’s younger face in twisted, unflattering expressions—except for one. One that both he and his green uniform were completely covered in mud, his hair a shade darker, soaked in sweat, somehow all that brown dirt making eyes bluer, his lips—hanging slightly open in a way that shouldn't be enticing—pinker than normal. He was looking directly at the camera. 

It was really not unflattering. Not at all. That one, Aerion didn’t laugh. As a matter of fact, he couldn't look away. Instead, he waited until Duncan got minimally distracted and tucked the photo in his pocket. Now it rests between the pages of one of his spell books, safe from unworthy eyes but his own. 

When Duncan decided it was a good idea to try to teach Aerion how to play, he might have gotten a bit too competitive, too enthusiastic. It resulted in Duncan with a purple cheek, his arms painted with thin, red lines that made him look like he was mauled by a cat, Aerion himself with a split lip, his shorts ripped clean into two, and an achingly delicious limp. 

Aerion smirks, but doesn't say anything, turning back his attention to his phone. 

That proves to be a mistake as well. 

In his burn account, his screen reflects back a carousel of multiple photos of his cousin in his newest Vogue campaign, including an exclusive interview. Valarr talks about his Targaryen legacy, the weight of the responsibility of being the heir of an heir, and his wish to work hard so he can earn his position in the family business. He even shares a bit about his personal life; small glimpses of his long term relationship with beautiful, pink haired Kiera Tyrosh, his favorite food, the story of when he adopted his calico cat. 

Aerion is yawning by the end of it. 

The internet, though, seems to be enjoying knowing more about his boring cousin. 

He scrolls down through the comments absentmindedly. 

@valarrAndI: i cant believe hes not single ughhhhh @kieratyrosh you lucky woman please be careful when you're holding him bc you're holding my world

@allybrie: he's so cute and sexy at the same time i need to jump from a bridge FUCK 

@targstan: the valyrian gods knew exactly what they were doing when they gave valarr that fucking silver streak 

@sansastark: he's so handsome and kind…. like a prince that came out straight of a fairy tale 

@valarrsbf: spare a horse ride the dragon or whatever the saying says

@sapphictwt: his dimpled chin and heterophobic eyes have bewitched me 😍 

@alismith: @valarrtargaryen one chance JUST ONE CHANCE PLEASEEEEEEEE

Fools, all of them. Most of the comments are like that, screaming and crying and slobbering all over his cousin's balls as if he didn't have the personality of a wall. Aerion is about to leave the tab when a specific comment catches his eyes. 

@valarrism: he's not even a model and yet he's so photogenic?????? that's who [redacted] thinks he is!!!! 

His nose twitches; that little itch he gets every time he senses someone is talking about him tingling in alert. 

There's more replies below the original comment. He clicks to see more. 

@swiftsun: girl that's who he wishes he was

@targprincess: dont try to compare that evil twink with my beautiful valarr, its like comparing princess diana with fuck ass wrench camilla

@princesspeach: hydrogen bomb vs coughing baby type shit 

@maydelrey: guys i mean yeah valarr is beautiful and photogenic but like… yall might not like aerion but to say he's not a great model is a big fat lie… he's not a professional model for nothing

Aerion likes the comment. 

@valarrism: girl what professional model??? daddy bought him a whole career and now he gets paid to do nothing, he's lazy as hell

@maydelray: and isn't valarr the same? they’re both nepo babies 

@swiftsun: at least valarr isn't a cunt

Aerion sneers. Only someone who doesn't know Valarr would think that. The beta is a Targaryen, after all, is within their blood to be a cunt in some way or another. 

@supremaerioncy: bro who cares about valarr yall sound jealous as fuck!!!! aerion has a beautiful silver white hair an otherworldly face card pretty lips thin waist and a fat ass!!!! the cuntiest omega to ever walk on earth!!!!!!! stay mad!!!!!!! 

Aerion wishes he could like the comment twice. He replies with a bunch of exclamation points instead. 

“What is it?” Duncan asks without taking his eyes from the TV, his stocky fingers kneading the sole of his foot. 

He gives him his phone, “Can you believe this?” 

Duncan takes it, face twisting in confusion as he scrolls down the comments, “The post is about Valarr, why are they bringing you up?” 

Aerion tsks, “That's what happens when you're too popular, people can't hold their tongues when it comes to you for one second. Well, in this case, I suppose, hold their fingers,” a thought makes him snort, “Perhaps it makes sense, in a way. Valarr is so dull that people cannot help but feel the need to compare him to me to make him look minimally stimulating.” 

“This photo looks good,” Duncan points out. It's a close up of Valarr's face, his mismatched eyes and freckled cheeks in high definition, his head angled in a way that manages to show his white streak, “His eyes make him look like a cat.” 

He's expressionless, but his scent spikes so strongly in the air its sparks could strike a match and start a fire. Duncan flinches, his shoulders hitching close to his ears. 

“A cat,” Aerion repeats softly. He dares. This imbecile, foolish man that fears no death dares to make such a comparison. To his face, even. Not once, willingly, Duncan has ever made a comment about dragons, never gushed about their grandiosity and ferocity and mightiness. He called his dragon figurines impressive and called Aerion himself his little dragon with that mushy voice that made his insides melt from cringe, even worse, satisfaction. But Duncan didn't talk about them in the same way he did with cats; how small and cute they looked, their ears twitching to all directions and how they looked like breads when they tucked their paws and tail underneath their bodies to sit.    

“So you find him cute, is that it?” 

Duncan stares at him densely, before his eyes widen slightly, “That's not what I meant—”

“You said he looks like a cat and you love to watch those silly cat compilations videos. So that means you find him cute as well. In fact you seem to find a lot of my family members cute.” 

“What.” 

“You called Aegon ‘egg’ as if it was a compliment,” Aerion accuses bitterly.

Duncan gawks, “Of course it was a compliment, I'm fond of him. He's a child, Aerion, for god's sake!”

“Have you seen the size of his head? It should've been an insult!” 

The alpha sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You're impossible.” 

“Everybody seems to have a lot to say about Valarr's eyes these days, do you have any comments on his hair as well?” 

Duncan doesn’t say anything, because regardless of Aerion’s multiple jabs at his intellect, he still has a minimal shred of survival instinct—still, his ultimate weakness are his vivid, exasperatingly honest blue eyes. 

He can't lie to save his life.

“Oh,” distantly, he swears there’s streams of smoke fuming through his nostrils, “So you think his silver streak is charming?” 

“It reminds me of you, actually.” Duncan says, sounding so painfully sincere Aerion's mouth clunks shut.  

He groans, then.

“Come here, you insufferable idiot,” Aerion orders, laying down on the couch and opening his arms and legs in invitation. Duncan comes immediately, his knees sinking on the cushion beneath his rear as his hips force Aerion’s thighs wide open to accommodate the massive shape of his body. 

Aerion makes a small, content sound, and unceremoniously nuzzles at his throat, inhaling his scent deeply enough his eyes roll to the back of his head. 

Duncan gives a low chuckle, happily offering more of his neck to him, “You're the most jealous omega I know.”  

Aerion pulls back. His left eye twitches. “Do you know other omegas?”

+1. 

“Is this really necessary?” Dunk asks no one in particular.  

He stares, incredulously, at the car in front of him. It isn't exactly a limousine—at least not in the traditional sense of the world—it's a stretched SUV, tall, wide and sleek black, the front grille so well polished Dunk has to look away, the silver burning his eyes when the sun hits its surface. 

Still, it's a goddamn limousine. 

Egg has been mouthing grumpily, like the eleven year old boy he is, about the Targaryen's family dinner since it was announced, a month ago. Dunk gave him a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder, but other than that, he didn't think much of it. 

Aerion took him by surprise with the invitation—not much of an invitation, as the omega never asks for things, but an ultimatum. A statement. You're going with me, oaf, and that was it. No explanation whatsoever. The good news is that Egg will be elated, and the bad news is that Aerion’s father will probably rip his heart out with his fist and have it as dessert, and Dunk can't even blame him for it. What would a father think of seeing his son—his only omega son—with the alpha that also teaches his youngest son and who he already doesn't like? 

Don't take it personally, Egg said once, patting his forearm, too short to reach his back, Father doesn't like anyone. 

I really hope so, Dunk thinks, trying to shake the anxious thoughts off. Aerion said it would not be something big, to dress casually, but what is considered casual to a Targaryen? Those two words don't go together, and looking at the spaceship the omega calls a car, he wonders if he's underdressed. 

Aerion likes when he wears leather, and the full-length mirror photo he was forced to send to Raymun that showed his dark pants, white shirt and dark brown leather jacket got him multiple thumb up emojis, so hopefully he won't embarrass himself. Much. 

“The boss’ orders,” a voice chimes in, shocking him out of his thoughts. One of Aerion's drivers, Roland, gestures to the car, “you know how he is.” 

It takes Dunk a few seconds to understand what he's talking about, but when he does, he snorts, nodding in agreement. 

The alpha checks his watch and frowns. He looks up, cupping both hands around his mouth “Aerion, c'mon, we're going to be late!” he shouts. 

From the balcony, only a head of shockingly silver white hair pops out. Funnily, it reminds Dunk of a disheveled baby bird peering out of its nest, “You cannot rush the dragon, Duncan!” he shouts back angrily, before disappearing inside. 

Perhaps not as cute as a baby bird. Dunk sighs. 

Roland shakes his head with a small chuckle, slapping Dunk on the back as he passes, walking to the driver's door, “The pretty ones are always temperamental.” 

Dunk frowns. What? 

Sure, the observation is true, a straight up fact; Aerion is pretty and temperamental. It could be the most accurate way to describe the omega while still being somewhat tactful, but it’s the way that is said that lingers in Dunk’s mind—the way it lacks the habitual scorn people usually use when talking about Aerion. 

Ever since they started this.. thing they have going on, from friends to acquaintances to strangers, all looked at Dunk with a mix of disbelief and pity, like they’re trying to solve a puzzle in their heads to understand how someone like Dunk would get involved with someone like Aerion.

And it was not just looks, no, some didn’t bother with that courtesy—they made sure to let him know how unfortunate he was, a poor soul wrapped around the devil's fingers. 

Raymun once caught Aerion in his apartment in one of their escapades, and after the omega left—not without looking down his nose at his friend—he gave Dunk a look akin to someone who just lost their mom, his lips turned downwards with an unfocused gaze swiping through his living room like he was transported to a different universe. 

“You have to be fucking kidding me, Duncan,” he lamented, sitting down his couch with his head on his head, “of all, all the omegas in the world, you had to go after the incestuous alien?” 

Well. Aerion certainly didn't make things easy. He was ruthless as he was beautiful, but to most people, such a cruel personality wasn't worth the price of his beauty. Even Dunk himself wasn't fond of him when they first met, and he does admit that sometimes it's hard not to lose his patience with him, especially because Aerion enjoys to purposefully push his buttons just to see what he'll do next, and if they fight like a cat and a dog every so often, that was no one's business but their own, but somehow something still churns unpleasantly in his stomach when those words are thrown at his face. 

He's so used to folks being repelled by Aerion's wicked tongue and hideous attitude that it left him unprepared for the thought, the possibility, of someone feeling lured by those exact same traits. Like Dunk does. 

It's one thing for Aerion to start playing a game he didn't agree to participate and try to make him jealous—and he did, more than once, until Duncan snapped and forced his legs open to take him against the wall—it was another thing entirely for a stranger, one of Aerion’s employees, who are mostly known for hating his guts, to slap Dunk in the arm like they're old friends chatting about a pretty thing they both have shared. As if Dunk is like most of the alphas who think with their cocks instead of their brains. 

The thought keeps running laps inside his head, like a hamster in a wheel, so much he almost misses the clicking sounds on the stoned stairs. 

“I’m done, see?”

Dunk turns around. The words get stuck in the back of his throat. 

The short sleeved, crimson velvet shirt clings to Aerion's body like a second skin, mapping perfectly the width of his shoulders down to his narrow waist, his calves covered by one of those black, knee-high boots with red soles that Dunk always forgets the name, but that barely serves any purpose to make him taller when they stand side by side. However, what captures his attention like a moth to the flame, is the black mini skirt. Seriously, to call it mini is an euphemism—it's the tiniest piece of cloth Dunk has ever seen in his life; it lays flat on his hips and falls pleated on three inches down his thighs, a small, golden dragon pendant dangling from one of its belt loops. Two thick, silver chain mail bracelets on each wrist that matches his sparkly earrings. 

Aerion is not usually one for heavy make-up, but underneath the late afternoon light, the smoky shadow that contours his eyelids makes the purple of his eyes glimmer like a molten amethyst. 

“Don't gape, beast.” Aerion pokes, as if he wasn't visibly pleased by the staring. Devious thing that he is, he even gives Dunk a twirl, “See? I'm ready. We can go now.” 

How can he dress like that to go meet his family?

Sure, Aerion is naturally an unabashed person, confident in each step he walks and each breath he takes as if the world was made for his existence alone, and has no qualms about exposing his body for the sake of “art” hence why he made sure to choose the career where he could explore that in full. Hells, Aerion has made a campaign for omega lingerie before; there’s multiple photos of him all over the internet in different positions, in different levels of undressing, with different types of laces covering his chest and hips—to Dunk’s absolute terror and torment, there’s even a special one that haunts him each time he remembers its existence: of Aerion laying on his stomach, dressed only in a pair of dark purple panties, its fabric hooked on the heel of his stiletto boots mid air, exposing the the pert, sinful curve of his ass—so it’s not a misconception that his family is aware that Aerion is way past modesty. 

Still. The skirt is obscene. And Dunk can’t say anything about it, if he wants to keep his tongue. 

Inside the car, an unwanted thought hits him like a ball bouncing in the walls of an empty room; Roland has probably seen Aerion before they entered the car. And even if he didn’t, he will, eventually, when they arrive at their destination—did he like what he saw? Will he keep the sight of him fresh in his mind so he can share it later through filthy gossip with his fellow colleagues? Tell them how pretty he looked, all dolled up and—

“What.” Arion says flatly, eyes never straying from his phone. 

“What?”

“You’re being loud.”

Dunk frowns, “I’m not saying anything.” 

“Up there,” he wriggles his index in the air, “In your head. I can hear the gears turning from here.” 

“Hm,” Dunk licks his lips, sending a nervous glance to the back of Roland's head. 

Aerion follows his gaze rolls his eyes, shifting around to press a button on his side of the door, and soon a privacy partition rises up automatically, separating the car in two. The omega gives him an expectant look.

“He called you pretty.” Dunk murmurs at last. 

Aerion looks at him like he's stupid, “Who?” 

“Your driver.” 

“Roland?” he turns to the driver's direction, as if he can see the exact shape of the man's head even with the panel obscuring his view, and turns his attention back on him, purple eyes studying him for a moment, “And what are you going to do about that?”

“What do you mean?” Dunk asks, confused. What is he supposed to do? If Dunk were to fight every person who thought Aerion to be pretty he’d have to face ninety nine percent of the world. 

The omega tilts his head to the side, the elegant curve of his throat exposed, and crosses his legs. One naked thigh over the other. The tip of his boot touches Dunk’s leg, his cheeks pinching as he smirks—

Oh. 

Dunk tenses. He already knows that nothing good will come out of it.  

Aerion doesn't disappoint, “Oh you know.. he's quite handsome. I have no doubts that if I asked he'd—” 

Dunk lunges, his brain hardly processing the instinctual wave of possessiveness that cuts deep through his body, the omega's breath catching as the words get lost in the knot of Dunk’s fingers skimming down, wrapping around his pale, unblemished neck. Aerion’s lips are parted, pink tongue peaking out, those lovely, orchid eyes wide with surprise, eyelashes fluttering slowly as the black of his pupils swallow the violet. His eyebrows furrow in that way that drives Dunk to madness—the mask of his indestructible persona shed and all there’s left is that pleading, distraught look that makes his eyes look bigger than what they are when he blinks prettily at him. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Aerion asks, too breathless to sound angry.

“You're intolerable, an absolute menace,” Dunk forces through his teeth, “Is that why you have dressed like this? To have everyone's eyes on you like the little attention seeker you are?” 

Aerion opens his mouth, undoubtedly with an insolent rebuke on the tip of his wicked tongue, but Dunk doesn't give him the chance; he forces a thumb inside, its pad touching where the wet muscle is still one. Aerion grunts with the invasion; if this was one year ago, perhaps by now he'd be without his finger—but whatever he sees in Dunk's face makes him quietens, lips closing around the digit dutifully as he starts sucking. 

Dunk has noticed how the omega likes having something in his mouth. He's still a bit skittish with sucking cock, lazy and whiny and with a horrible gag reflex, complaining that his throat wouldn't hurt every time after he tries to give him a blowjob if he didn't have a cock the size of a horse—but Dunk is nothing if not patient when it comes to his dragon, letting him have his fun with only suckling languidly at the tip, the two sides of his split tongue lapping impiously each side of the crown of his dick, his two hands squeezing his knot, all but purring while Dunk gently rubs his fingers through his chopped hair appreciatively.  

It's hypnotizing; the way his cheeks hollow each time he sucks, pink lips shiny with his own spit as he shyly moves his head back and forth. It makes him dizzy. 

Dunk leans down and licks the shell of his ear, savoring the way his body trembles, “Or have you dressed like this for me?” 

Aerion pushes his thumb out out of his mouth with his tongue, “Don’t flatter yourse—” 

Aerion enjoys thinking himself unyielding and impenetrable; both the unstoppable force and the unmovable object, hiding behind layers and layers of sharp words whispered by his sweet voice like countless dragon scales overlapping each other, covering the fragile skin beneath. But Dunk, unintentionally, learned how to read him with a kind of enthusiasm and expertise he never had for books back in school. He sees the petals and the poisonous thorns. Has bled numerous times already while attempting to reach the softness. 

Nowadays, it’s easier to make Aerion break—all it takes is a hand around his neck. 

Dunk squeezes his throat once; a warning. “Be honest, my prince.” 

Aerion closes his eyes shut, his thighs pressing together as the heavy, cloying scent of his slick makes itself known. Dunk's own alpha musk sparks up and he smiles, all knowing. The omega would rather cut his own tongue than to admit such weakness for a mere nickname that was born out of Dunk’s contempt towards him. 

“Answer me.”

Aerion opens his eyes, pale lilac eyes shimmering like glass, “Yes,” he whispers. 

“Why?”

“Easy access,” he licks his lips, trying to shrug as nonchalantly as he can, “To see if it would inspire you.” 

“To do what? bend you over the closest surface, fuck you raw, and see how long you can keep my come inside until it starts dripping down your legs?” 

Aerion swallows thickly, eyelids trembling just like the erratic heartbeat of his pulse against Dunk's palm. Perhaps he's truly doomed; an alpha destined to madness, to be so in tune with the body of such devious, treacherous omega like the one in front of him, the thin hairs of his arm standing up as he registers with uncanny precision when a thick, syrupy glob of Aerion’s slick seeps past his panties and trickles down the leather seat—

Dunk growls; a deep, low, guttural sound from the back of his throat that rumbles through the inside of the car. He wraps one arm around Aerion's waist, ignoring his squeal of shock, and lifts him from the seat, manhandling his lithe body until he has the omega settled over his lap. 

Usually, when he initiates their kisses, Dunk likes to take his time it with; likes to answer Aerion's impatience with a firm hand and low, gentle, reassuring sounds until the omega grows lax in his hold and opens himself beautifully to Dunk’s mouth, allowing himself to be devoured thoroughly as Dunk swipes his tongue slowly against his, kissing him until Aerion is too weak to pretend he doesn't enjoy the way his lips and chin glisten with their shared spit. 

There's nothing of that patience now—Dunk holds him by the jaw, demands to be let in, their kiss more teeth than tongue, the tangy, coppery taste of blood makes him groan. 

“What do you think you're doing?” Aerion asks breathlessly when they pull apart, his pebbled nipples peaking through his shirt.   

“Isn't this what you wanted? Inspiration?” his hands fumble to unbutton his jeans. Aerion supports himself on his knees so Dunk can raise his own hips and pull his pants and underwear down past his knees, “There you have it, my prince, I'm inspired.” 

Dunk grabs Aerion by the ass, hiking the pathetic excuse of a skirt up. He doesn't have the mind to appreciate the equally small, black panties; he hooks one finger to put the soiled fabric to the side harshly, exposing his trimmed, sparse blond hair and mouth watering cunt Dunk has shoved his face in countless times. He guides his thick cock to where he knows Aerion’s entrance is, and when the tip catches, Dunk forces him down.  

The wet, tight hotness envelops him as the omega cries distressfully, squirming like he wants to escape from his grip, but Dunk is relentless, bringing their hips together until his folds are squished against his groin. 

“Fuck,” he pants, shakily. Aerion is so fucking warm on the inside, the clench of his walls almost painfully around his shaft and the base of his knot. 

Aerion hisses through his teeth, “Ngh— you and your stupid, b–big cock,” his blunt nails leaving half moon shaped kisses on his biceps. 

Dunk isn't one for taunting—even when justified, as for most of his life, people have mocked him; for his height, his clumsiness, his slow brain—that's Aerion’s especiality. But the feverish heat that licks at his spine, spreading through his body like he's burning with a fever stops him from thinking rationally. 

Aerion is a dragon, and the only match for a dragon is another beast. Dunk can afford himself the indulgence of showing teeth too. 

“Is it too much for you, my prince?” he grunts, anticipation thrumming down his bones, “If it is, don't worry, I'm sure I'll find someone who can take me.” 

It's ridiculous. They both know that even though what they have doesn't have a name, Dunk hasn't done as much as look in someone else's direction since the first time they slept together. Just the thought of putting his hands on a body that isn't Aerion’s makes his skin crawl, as no one strikes the match that makes the blood on his veins burn quite the same as the omega does. Aerion himself knows that, whispering wickedly his teasing words in Dunk’s ear like the snake who tempted Eve about how he couldn't stay away, no matter how hard he tried. 

Even so, the reaction is instantaneous—Aerion tenses, his body worn taut not unlike a feral cat with a curled spine and stiffened tail, his sharp teeth on display as if he's ready to rip a chunk of Dunk’s flesh. He has to stifle the laugh that bubbles up his throat. 

“You dare,” he grips Dunk by the hair in the back of his head until it stings, clenching down his cock purposefully, making him hiss, “to speak of other people while being inside me, you— you cretin! I should cut your cock off for that— Ah!” 

Dunk smirks, pointedly hoisting his hips up once more, his tip nudging that tight little spot of Aerion’s womb by the way he writhes above him, swallowing down a moan as he supports himself on Dunk’s shoulders, “But then who else would fill you up like this, hm?” He pulls Aerion's shirt up, crumpling the fabric under his armpits and chin to reveal his chest.

“You forget your place, Duncan, I—” He squeaks, grinding down reflexively when Dunk latches his mouth on his tight, tiny rosy bud, his tongue twirling around, soaking it with saliva. The fist on his hair loosens, slender fingers stroking through the strands almost tenderly, as if to pull him closer as Dunk sucks vigorously. His hips draw small little circles, trying to coerce his cock deeper, even if Dunk is filling him up to the brim and there's no space left between their bodies. 

The omega hiccups wetly when Dunk worries the nub, pulling it back with his teeth until it slips free, “Yes,” Aerion mewls, “yes, bite them,” with his other hand, Aerion cups his other tit, guiding Dunk’s head and feeding him his neglected nipple. 

It's all oddly calming; the repetitive movements his lips does as he slurps on Aerion’s nipple, the faint, toe-curling whimpers he keeps letting out close to his ear that shakes him down to the bone, his own hands rubbing invisible patterns up and down Aerion’s back to the fat globes of his ass, thick fingers kneading the flesh mercilessly. 

Dunk pulls away, a thin string of saliva connecting his lips to Aerion's nipple, now puffy red by the assault. Firming the heels of his feet down, he holds him by the waist—maybe his hands are too big or Aerion’s waist is too small, or a combination of both, but his his fingertips are one inch away from touching and fully enclosing around his middle—and thrusts his hips again, watching with perverse delight as Aerion’s body jolts easily, one of his hands flying to the car ceiling to avoid hitting his head, using his cunt as if it's nothing but a flashlight. 

A spark of fury snaps through the pleasure in his violet eyes—a promise of fire that leaves his own body thrilling in anticipation—and he sets his jaw, gripping Dunk by the chin, “See if you get this through your thick, empty skull,” he mutters low, rocking down deliberately, tightening his walls sporadically around his cock, “You're mine, your body is mine, your cock and knot are mine. Only I get to s–sit on it and come all over it.” 

“Yeah?” Dunk heaves, eyes half lidded.

Aerion nods solemnly, “Say it. Say it is mine.” he demands, but it comes out small, helpless in a way that Aerion wouldn't allow himself to be anywhere else. Perhaps he doesn't even realize it, eyes too glassy and foggy with haziness to notice the brittleness in his tone. 

Not that Dunk would ever call him out on it, no. Each of these moments are rare and special like shooting stars; when Aerion’s voice cracks and his spine of steel shifts into something softer, more malleable between Dunk’s fingers. He simply welcomes it. Let it pour over his hands and try his best not to let it spill it down. 

“It's yours.” Dunk says at last. Swears it like an oath. 

Aerion moans, throwing his head back. “Again.” 

“It's yours. my cock it's yours, so am I.” the omega jerks in surprise when Dunk, without warning, smacks a hand on his ass, his moan as loud as the sound of his palm striking the skin, “Just like you are mine, right?” 

Aerion bites his lip and nods, “Another,” he pants, his head hanging loosely on his shoulders, the hairs close to his temple sticking with sweat. 

“Greedy little thing,” Dunk teases, but obeys happily, laying a second slap on the same place, and the next one on his other asscheek, the area ablaze beneath his touch, “C'mon then, little dragon, ride your beast.” 

Aerion shifts his weight to his knees, adjusting himself, and starts bouncing properly on his cock. It's vulgarly loud; Aerion is too wet, leaking copiously down his balls to the leather seat, thick threads of slick connecting their groins each time he bounces, making the sounds of their skin slapping against each other even more lewd. 

There's no way Roland doesn't know what they're doing by now, with all that shamelessly moaning and groaning coming not just from Aerion, but Dunk as well—they skip past his tongue without his permission, deep and hoarse like the wild, brutish animal Aerion often says he is, his back clammy with sweat under the two layers of clothing. 

Dunk knows that when he comes down from it and the fog of arousal finally disappears, he'll feel mortified with the notion of his actions, will fantasize about digging a hole big enough where he could hide and never be found again, but another part of him—the one ruled by his alpha instincts, the one that could drool just just by thinking about the cunt hidden in between Aerion’s legs if he sat with the thought for too long, the one that could annihilate any and every man that would dare to stand between him and the ashen, sweetly citrus scent that at this point was engraved in the wires of his brain—that part doesn't mind the audience. 

On the contrary, it absolutely relishes it. Dunk wants Roland to listen. Wants him to hear all the pretty, sweet sounds that Aerion makes, wants him to remember every moan and every cry and every gasp, wants him to compare to every other memory he has of Aerion with his bratty, temperamental attitude, as the mean and despicable omega that he is, and understands that only Dunk gets to have the whimpers and the tears.

That Dunk is the only one who can reduce him to that. 

“Duncan,” Aerion cries warningly, his brows furrowed pitifully and his chin wobbling as his rhythm starts to get sloppy. Duncan nods, and instinctively embraces him with one arm, the other skating down to flicker his thumb over his clit. 

The vision never really gets old; Aerion tenses, his mouth open but no sound coming out, his spine arching, head thrown back as he comes, squirt splashing all over Dunk’s thighs. 

The way Aerion clamps down on his cock is ruthless; his walls throbbing erratically like a second heartbeat, demanding for his knot as if it's his right. It's almost unbearable, and his body, previously pavloved by the demon above him, responds in its kind—his balls tighten, that pin prick feeling voraciously running through his body. When the coil in his stomach finally snaps, Dunk brings Aerion closer and bites his covered shoulder, his vision going white behind his eyelids as his knot pops just past his entrance, emptying himself inside with a long groan while the omega trembles in his arms. 

“You've bit my shoulder, ogre,” Aerion slurs, smacking his lips, a blissed look on his face, “Coward.”

Dunk rests his forehead on Aerion’s chest, trying to catch his breath. 

As expected, the tip of his ears burn with the sudden, relentless wave of embarrassment that washes over him, “Gods,” he groans, “I can't believe we did that.”

Aerion's face is red all over, his hair mushed and his make up is slightly smudged—he looks beautiful. So beautiful Dunk feels like he could throw up. He smirks, “Who would've thought a good boy like you capable of such things.” 

Dunk’s flushes brighter, “That's your fault. You're a bad influence.” 

The omega just hums, clearly skeptical. 

“I don’t think I'll be able to look Roland in the eye ever again.” he says after the knot goes down. 

Aerion laughs—not one of his sardonic sneers, full of mocking disdain, but a high, breathless and honest thing that makes his heart twinge inside of Dunk’s ribs, “The panel is soundproof, you silly man.” 

“Oh,” Dunk sags with a relieved laugh, “Good, good. That would be really embarrassing.” 

Mischief gleams in Aerion's gaze, “He can definitely smell us, though.”