Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Baelor leans back and crosses one leg, ankle on his knee. The line of his pants (charcoal grey, more expensive than Dunk’s rent payment) pulls taut. 

“You’ve been doing this for three years, then?” Baelor asks, his eyes flicking up from the resume. Baelor had laughed, quietly, when Dunk handed it to him at the start of the interview. 

Dunk shifts and rests his palms on his knees. He can’t recall being this nervous in any other client meeting. He’s good at what he does, and he knows it. There’s something about Baelor, though, that unsettles him. There’s something about the meeting that unsettles him.

“Yes,” Dunk responds.

Baelor is quiet for a long moment as he scans the paper. “And you have references?”

“On the second page, sir.”

Baelor hums and flips to it. His eyebrows raise, ever so slightly, before glancing up again. “Impressive. I’ve heard the Lannister girl can be… testy.”

Dunk doesn’t answer. He doesn’t speak publicly about his clients, and, well, it wasn’t really a question anyways.

Baelor sighs and tosses the paper on the desk. “I have no interest in dragging this out. Really, I have no interest in this matter altogether, but…” he trails off. “He will be difficult. More difficult than your other clients.”

Dunk nods. He still doesn’t know the client’s identity. A Targaryen, surely. Maybe a cousin. It doesn’t matter, regardless. It’s just another job.

“You already know that discretion is required.”

“Of course,” Dunk agrees.

“Legally, that is. The firm’s attorneys will go over the documents,” Baelor says, waving a hand towards the hall.

“Of course, sir,” Dunk repeats. This is standard.

Baelor stands. “Well, that settles it. You seem suitable enough.” His gaze flickers over Dunk’s frame, where he’s wedged into the chair. “And you’ll certainly be able to match his… vigor,” Baelor settles uneasily on the word. 

Dunk doesn’t flush at the innuendo. It’s business. If he has any luck, the vigor will just make the time pass a bit quicker. His work isn’t entirely unenjoyable under the right circumstances. 

Baelor holds out his hand. Dunk rises and shakes it. He’s embarrassed, slightly, by his sweaty palms. “Sir,” he says.

“I’ll have my secretary set up a meeting with the lawyers. You can be on call?” Baelor asks.

“Yes,” Dunk answers. “One alpha, one client. That’s our guarantee.”

—

Tanselle whirls into the room, a bottle of red and two cups balanced precariously in her grip (Steffon broke their last surviving wine glass the last time he attempted to help with dishes). She flops onto the couch and burrows her feet under Dunk’s thighs.

“Your feet are cold,” he says, making no effort to move them.

“If you’d let me turn the heat up, they wouldn’t freeze,” she chastises as she pours a glass to the brim. “Now, how was it?”

Dunk takes the glass she offers him, drinks deeply, and closes his eyes. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Tanselle asks, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. “Fine… An interview to be a heat partner for a mysterious Targaryen omega was fine.” She says those last few words with clear venom. Tanselle’s dislike for the Targaryens and their Summerhall empire is entirely plain. “Sure, Duncan, leave out everything interesting.”

“It was fine!” he grumbles. “Baelor was scary.”

“Is he the,” Tanselle waves her hand, “DILF-y one?”

Dunk’s eyebrows furrow. Was Baelor hot? “He’s the Senior Vice President, I think.”

“This omega must be hot shit for the VP to be handling this.” Tanselle cocks her head and swirls her wine.

Dunk glances over. “Don’t spill that. Again. This couch is dirty enough.”

Tanselle huffs. “You do realize how much money you make now, right? And that we don’t have to live like this?”

“I’m saving,” Dunk responds, and it’s the truth. He wants to get out of the city, sick of the noise and the smell and the people. It was supposed to be temporary. Just a few months to get Arlan’s affairs settled and the apartment sold. Not four years.

Tanselle pouts. “You can’t leave me. Who am I supposed to live with?”

“You could try finding a girlfriend,” he offers.

“Ha!” she laughs. “Fucking rich coming from you.”

Dunk frowns. “I’m busy with… things…”

Tanselle tips her glass towards him. “You’re avoidant,” she replies, prescriptive.

“You’re invasive.” He holds out his glass. “And more annoying since you started grad school. Now more wine. And put Real Housewives on.”

“Your wish is my command,” Tanselle says as she turns on the TV and burrows into his side, any disagreement forgotten.  

—

“No,” Aerion says, tossing the paper on the ground without looking at it. He smacks away the man pinning his suit. “You’re poking me.”

“Yes, Aerion,” Maekar says, rubbing his temple. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

Aerion scoffs. “You don’t even sound convinced, father.”

“This is the best solution we have. You medically cannot go through another heat alone. It's not like there's a choice, here.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Aerion replies tersely. “I always figure it out.”

Maekar’s eyes narrow to slits. “Calling prostitutes to your penthouse in the middle of the night because your heat-addled brain forgot your station is not ‘figuring it out.’”

Aerion rolls his shoulders. The suit is pinned too tightly, and the feeling of the tailor’s hands on him this close to his heat has him wincing, his brain beating a refrain of wrong wrong wrong. He doesn’t add that whatever this service is, isn’t it just prostitution branded under a more palatable name? “It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t. I’m not paying off the press again because you can’t accept what you are. You’re going to meet this,” Maekar looks down at his phone, “Duncan, and you’re going to do your duty.”

“Duty,” Aerion says slowly, rolling the word through his mouth. “And what of your duty, father?”

Maekar’s gaze, already cold, turns icy. Aerion grins. So easy to get under his father’s skin. 

“Was this Baelor’s brilliant idea, then?” he asks, breaking the silence. 

Maekar hums. “He got a recommendation from the Tyrells. Supposedly he’s very… thorough.”

“Thorough,” Aerion repeats, deadpan. “Fantastic. As if I’m one of the labors of Hercules.”

“You are,” Maekar replies, equally dry. “You will call this man in a day, a week, whenever it hits, and it’ll be over like that. Really, Aerion, I’m handing you a solution. You’re making this harder on yourself.” Aerion thinks he catches a glimpse of something almost pleading in his father’s voice. It makes him flinch away like a spooked animal. Harder on yourself, like his heat is a task he puts off taking care of. 

Aerion wrenches his arm away from the tailor and steps off the platform. “I think we’re done here.” He nods in Maekar’s direction without making eye contact. “Father.”

—

The business card appears on his kitchen counter the next morning. 

“Laenah, I told you to stop delivering mail from my family!” he shouts in the direction of the stairs. His assistant is upstairs, and will, in all likelihood, ignore his request. She has a particular habit of doing as much. 

He picks up the card and scans the heavy black typeface. Duncan Pennytree, Alpha Concierge. Aerion’s lip curls in distaste. Pennytree. A painfully trite name for what is, in all likelihood, another painfully dull alpha. 

At 25, Aerion has yet to make peace with his designation, and he doesn’t plan to. He feels it chafe like a collar against his neck, as he grasps, desperately for what he knows he could accomplish if he had been born a beta or alpha like his brothers. What he wants always just slightly out of reach. His teeth ache when he thinks too much about it. 

Aerion is a terrible omega. He knows this, has been reminded of it every day by his father and brothers since he presented at age 10. He distinctly remembers Maekar’s disappointment when the doctor delivered the news.

“Let’s hope he makes a nice match, then,” Maekar had grimaced. Aerion could see him typing on his phone, likely gathering the crisis team to figure out how to solve the newest Aerion-induced emergency. But this wasn’t like the other times. This wasn’t knocking out the teeth of a boy in his class or spitting in the face of a teacher. This was who he was. There was nothing to solve. 

After his first heat, one that ended in a disaster that doesn’t bear repeating, Aerion decided that if he couldn’t be a good omega, he would be a disastrous one. 

Shocking, vile, and temperamental as a flame.

—

It’s been five days, and Dunk’s work cell hasn’t rung. He starts to check it, fitfully, in the middle of the night to make sure he didn’t switch it to vibrate on accident. 

He isn’t worried about the money. The contract stipulates he’s paid in full even if services are never initiated by the other party. Perhaps it’s his curiosity, then, that’s making him restless. He finds his mind wandering as he makes breakfast and goes on his morning runs, flipping through a mental roster of everyone attached to Summerhall. 

“Maybe it’s the party boy. The one who’s always in the tabloids,” Tanselle offers one evening while Dunk paces across their cramped kitchen. “Stop pacing, you’re upsetting Thunder.” The cat blinks at Dunk from where he’s perched, unhelpfully, on the stack of clean plates that he’s meant to be putting away. 

“No,” Dunk answers. “Daeron is a beta.”

Tanselle raises an eyebrow. Pauses. “And you know this, how?”

Dunk flushes. “Client research. It's part of the process.”

Tanselle nods, a grin splitting her face. “Right…”

Dunk spins and flops onto their only functioning barstool. He has to cram his knees under the counter. “I just–“ he begins. 

Tanselle sucks the peanut butter off the end of her spoon. After a moment she says, “You just?”

“I just don’t like the thought of it,” Dunk says softly. “Of an omega going through that alone. That’s all.”

Tanselle’s eyes soften. “Jesus, Dunk. You’re a proper romantic, you.”

“It’s common decency!” He replies, really believing it, too. He’s witnessed too many of his own clients who wait until they can’t take it anymore to dial the phone. It pulls at that innate part of him, that distressing need to look after and protect and satisfy. 

Tanselle shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.” After a moment, she adds, “Maybe it’s the pretty one.”

“Daella?” He asks, thinking of Maekar’s eldest daughter. He supposed she was pretty, if one went for that sort of thing. 

“No, the guy with the mean streak. The one who got in trouble for punching that papparazi.”

“Aerion,” Dunk supplies. “You really need to stop reading those magazines.”

“Yes, Aerion!” Tanselle grins. “That would be just your luck. Nasty piece of work."

Dunk grimaces. Aerion has a frightening reputation, even he knows that. Dunk can’t recall his designation and has always assumed that he was an alpha like most Targaryens. He does suppose, though, that Tanselle is correct in calling him pretty, albeit in an unsettling way.

Later, Duncan types aerion targaryen into his phone and swipes through the pictures. He fixates on a recent one from a feature of the family in some magazine or another. Aerion is in all black, a high collar, his light eyes penetrating as he stands slightly away from the rest of his family. The cut of his profile is severe. 

Dunk stares at it for a moment longer, then puts his phone on his nightstand. 

Better not to wonder. 

—

Aerion’s heat began to truly set in six hours ago. 

He’s at his desk, eyes narrowed as he tries, and fails, to process the report in front of him. His vision has started to swim, and there’s a distinct pulsing in his temple. 

“Laenah!” he barks. 

A few seconds later, her face enters his doorframe. “Sir?”

“Blue pills."

She drops them on his desk a minute later. He smashes three between his fist and AmEx, then cuts them into sloppy lines before inhaling, one finger pressed over his nostril. The relief is sharp and immediate. 

He blinks once, twice. Perfect. In control. This will work, Aerion thinks. 

—

This is not working. 

Aerion presses his head against the glass of the shower door. The cool glass is a temporary relief. 

“Fucking humiliating,” he growls as the water cascades down his back. 

Aerion is shaking from the comedown of the pills. He’s nauseous and sweating, and his stomach began cramping an hour ago with twisting, aching pains. When the uppers wore off, he’d tried smoking a bowl, but he’s certain his body sweated everything out before it could do anything. He couldn’t find a reputable doctor on the continent who would prescribe him suppressants anymore, nor after last year, and nothing he can get his hands on through his other channels will work. 

Aerion doesn’t touch himself, even though everything in his body cries out for it. He knows it won’t help, anyways. There’s one way to cure a heat, and that’s to give it what it wants. 

He falls in and out of a feverish twilight sleep. The light from the city filters, barely, through the thick curtains that he failed to pull closed before falling into bed. He thinks it may be snowing. There are tiny white flakes coming down, just the color of his hair. 

He wakes up at one point and realizes that he’s been subconsciously grinding into the mattress. The thin silk of his pajama pants is soaked through with sweat and slick. He’d taken his shirt off hours ago in a vain attempt to cool down but left the pants on in a last grasp at decency. 

He ghosts a hand over the fabric, wet as it molds to his hot cunt. Aerion groans painfully at the feeling. He slides his thin index finger along the seam and grazes a fingernail against his clit. A whine escapes his throat, and he wrenches his hand beneath the waistband. He cups his cunt and gasps, grinding into his hot palm. The heel of his palm digs into his clit as he slides one, then two, fingers inside himself.

It isn’t enough. His fingers are too slim. Even with three inside he feels empty. He hates the wet sound as his fingers slip in and out in a sloppy rhythm. He hates that even after he comes twice, his cunt still feels tight and throbbing. He hates that he knows how to fix this and wonders if Maekar is right that he’s just making this harder for himself. 

He passes out near dawn. When he wakes up again, the sun is low in the horizon. He picks at the blankets nested around him, groans, and blinks his eyes open. It’s worse than any hangover he’s ever had. He knows it’s a combination of heat exhaustion, dehydration, and the cocktail of substances steadily draining out of his system. 

Somehow, Aerion manages to get himself out of bed. His nose turns up at the smell of the room, overwhelmingly ripe and sweet. He’s sore between his legs, and his wrist aches. Everything feels disgusting and wrong wrong wrong. When he gets to the bathroom door, his legs nearly give out. He's actually afraid he might kill himself this time.

You’re making this harder on yourself, he thinks again, Maekar’s voice whispering. He feels humiliated and small and desperate for this feeling to go away.

So, not fully himself, he calls the number.

Chapter Text

“Hello,” Dunk says when Aerion Targaryen opens the door. Aerion’s eyes track upwards, and then further still, as he takes in his frame.

“Seven hells,” Aerion says. “Where did Baelor find you?”

Dunk blinks. He’s used to this reaction. He’s less used to being face to face with a Targaryen heir. Aerion is in a spartan black turtleneck and slacks. Dunk thinks it must be terribly uncomfortable with his heat already set in. He can smell it, although very faintly under the heavy layer of astringent cologne Aerion has layered on. There’s something else, too, chemical and chalky. 

“We have a website,” he replies and immediately blanches at the stupidity of the answer. 

“A website,” Aerion deadpans. “How modern.”

Dunk reaches into his pocket and pulls out his battered wallet. “My ID,” he offers as he holds the card out. 

Aerion glances at the card and his eyes flicker away, over Dunk’s shoulder. “Yes, well,” he says and begins to walk away from the door. 

Dunk follows after him hastily, pulling his boots off and placing them in the hall. When he enters the next room, Aerion is standing stiffly behind the kitchen counter with his arms braced on the granite. Dunk wonders if the unmovable object between them is subconscious or not. He can smell Aerion’s skittishness rolling off him in anxious, sour waves. 

“So you’re a professional…” Aerion waves a hand. 

“Concierge,” Dunk supplies

Aerion sniffs. “I was going to say alpha whore.”

Dunk likes to think that his work has a bit more honor than the description affords. “If you will, sir.”

“I will, Duncan,” he replies, caustic. “So what, you get rich by fucking high profile omegas, then? All your friends must be jealous.”

He knows with absolutely certainty that Tanselle is not jealous. “It’s just a job, sir,” Dunk responds. He hates this characterization of his work, like it’s some perverse occupation uses to satiate his own needs. “One that needs doing like anything else.”

Aerion blinks, then laughs. His tongue probes his check before he replies. “A job that needs doing. Perhaps our philosophies aren’t so different.”

Dunk shifts on his feet. Aerion’s posture remains steady, but he’s rubbing his thumb over his wrist methodically. Compulsively. Dunk thinks that surely Aerion must know that it’s agitating his scent glands and sending waves of omega distress rolling towards him. 

“I’m just here to do my job. However you’d like and would be most comfortable. You can uh, tell me what you’d like or…”

Aerion is silent. Dunk isn’t sure if he’s weighing his options or waiting to see if Dunk stumbles over any more of his words. Dunk steps forward. 

“Don’t touch me,” Aerion says icily, taking a step back.

“Okay.“ Dunk holds his palms up in front of him. “Okay. I won’t touch you.”

Silence, again. Dunk searches Aerion’s face. It’s stony, save for a flickering panic in his eyes. 

Dunk moves sideways across the room, his hands still held up. He pulls a chair out from the dining table and sits down gingerly. “I won’t touch you, but things are only going to get more difficult.”

“I know that,” Aerion nearly growls. 

They watch each other, tense, like two animals who’ve met in the woods, unsure if the other is a predator. Dunk cycles through thoughts, panicking, wondering how to fix this.

“But—“ Dunk starts, “but, maybe we uh, you, can alleviate it for a bit. Just with me being here, if you were to...”

“To what?” Aerion bites. 

“To, well, handle things yourself. With me nearby.”

“You want me to get off with you in the room,” Aerion deadpans. “You’re insane.”

“Just offering a solution,” Dunk grumbles before catching how unprofessional he sounds. “It might at least take the edge off.”

It’s like the incredulity of the situation snaps Aerion out of his spell. Aerion scoffs, then moves to sit on the couch in a swift motion. Dunk clasps his hands loosely in his lap. 

“Close your eyes,” Aerion says. “No matter what I say.” 

Dunk does as he’s told. He hears the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down. Nothing, for a while, then a soft intake of breath.

—

Aerion watches as the man—Duncan—sits perfectly still in the chair. His posture is practiced like a soldier’s. Even his scent is steady. 

There’s nearly ten feet between them. Aerion is in the middle of the couch, his knees barely apart. The leather is cool and stiff. 

He doesn’t think very highly of Duncan’s plan. Then again, he doesn’t see an alternative. He’d barely kept it together when he’d opened the door. It was like his blood started pulsing this refrain of alpha alpha alpha between his temples the second that Aerion smelled him. His hands were shaking, and he’d had to hold his wrist to stop it. 

Aerion had found a stray pill in the medicine cabinet that looked suspiciously like a discontinued suppressant from a desperate medical trial a few years back. He’d snorted that, too, in the panicked twenty minutes between the call and Duncan’s arrival. It’s only served to make his mind fuzzy, like there’s cotton between his ears. He feels both jittery and vaguely detached from his body.

Aerion unzips his pants. He’d felt mildly ridiculous putting the slacks on, but he couldn’t wear the ruined pajama pants and wasn’t sure what one wore for this sort of occasion. A negligee, likely. He’d felt like vomiting. 

He feels sick now, too. He can sense another bout of cramps about to wrack his body. The room is chilly, and the cooled sweat on his body only makes him shiver more. He’s certain that’s what it is. Not the alpha across the room from him. He’s not Aerion’s typical type. There’s something plain and a bit brutish about him. Against his will, though, something in him finds the size of the man… inviting. 

Aerion looks at Duncan’s hands and begins to wonder. Perhaps…

Aerion knows that he’s striking. He knows how to make anyone want him, alpha or otherwise. He wonders how far this Duncan’s professionalism will take him. It’s not the first time he’s fucked an alpha for hire. And he thinks, then, why can’t he have some fun?

Aerion lets his hand hover over his stomach. He gasps, breathy, oh-so like an omega, brushes his knuckles over his hip bone, and gods, yeah, he may even get off on his own performance. He can feel himself getting wet and flushing with warmth even with the suppressant drifting though him.

Duncan hasn’t moved, hasn’t even breathed out of time. He just sits there, steady, steady. Even his scent is balanced and calm. It irritates Aerion. 

Aerion kicks off his slacks. His boxers are a dark wine against his pale skin. He didn’t want to dress up, but he’s not totally lacking in vanity. Aerion dances his fingers along the opening. He wonders how much he reeks, if needy omega is drowning the room.

Gods, he’s wetter than he thought he could be when he finally touches himself. It’s only half performance, or perhaps the performance is what makes it feel so good. His gaze drills into Duncan’s blank face. Then, he moans. 

“Fuck,” he whines, dragging two fingers along his folds. His skin is so warm. 

Duncan’s face is impassable. 

Look at me, Aerion thinks furiously. You idiot alpha, look. 

Aerion doesn’t like when his plans don’t work. Fine, then. He’ll adjust. 

“Please,” he whispers. Slick leaks out around his fingers. He feels hot, feverish everywhere. Gods, his cunt is pulsing with want. The alpha’s hands are so big. Aerion thinks they’d feel—

He circles his clit with his thumb as enters two fingers, just up to the knuckle, then lets out a keening moan. “Please, I—“

Duncan’s jaw twitches. Yes, Aerion thinks, and the victory is sweet in his throat. It only makes him wetter. He presses his fingers in fully.

“Duncan,” he says quietly, sweetly, “please.”

A beat passes, and Duncan doesn’t open his eyes but—“Sir?”

Ah-ha! Victory, victory. It isn’t omegas who are weak, he thinks. It’s alphas, so driven by their bestial nature. Pathetic. 

“Open your eyes,” he says. “I think… I think it’ll be better, if you open your eyes.”

He enters another finger then, three pressed tightly in his cunt. His legs are splayed open. The wet sound of his fingers is obscene. 

“You’re sure that you—that you’ll feel better?” Duncan asks, and his voice is still maddeningly steady. 

Aerion nearly groans, the victory is that sweet. “Yes.”

Duncan shifts in his chair, placing both palms on his knees. Aerion feels delicious. He’s so close it’ll take almost nothing to make him come. He can’t believe he’s even capable of getting to this state after the drugs.

“Alright, sir.”

When Duncan’s eyes open, Aerion feels so overwhelmed with desire that he can’t be ashamed at the state that he’s in. He’s right—it is better, so much better with the alpha’s gaze trained on him. Duncan doesn’t look down at his cunt, messy and held open by Aerion’s pale hand. 

Ever the gentleman, Aerion taunts in his head. Try being a fucking gentleman. 

“Look at me,” Aerion says. 

“I am looking at you,” Duncan replies, voice low. 

“No,” Aerion corrects, voice stern. “You aren’t.”

Duncan grunts, nods. Aerion watches as his gaze moves down the plane of his lithe body. 

Duncan’s scent spikes so strongly, then, in a betrayal of his carefully controlled front. And Aerion, he leans back further into the couch, his legs opening wider unconsciously, keeps pressing his fingers in deeper until his hips cant upwards. He’s so close, so—

“That’s good,” Duncan murmurs, and Aerion’s fingers freeze. Duncan’s eyes meet his in a flash. “I’m sorry, did I—“

Faster than he can think, Aerion removes his hand even though he’s shaking and his body is saying please please more alpha please. He will not allow this situation to get out of control. 

“Get out,” he says. 

Duncan moves to stand before sitting back down. “I only thought… that maybe it would help. That it would be better for you.”

“Better for me,” Aerion spits. “Yes, because I need my big strong alpha to tell me how to get off.”

Duncan winces. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Well you have.” Aerion stands. “Get out.”

Duncan’s eyes are pleading. “I don’t feel right leaving you in this condition.”

Aerion walks towards the bar. He ignores the slick dripping slowly down his thighs.“My condition doesn’t concern you.” 

“It does,” Duncan begins quietly, like he’s coaxing an animal, “concern me. Look, you’re shaking.”

Aerion looks at his hand where it grasps the decanter. Duncan’s right. He’s trembling. 

“Just let me stay for an hour, until I know that you won’t go into shock.”

Aerion knows that this can happen all too well. He’s gone into shock twice from delaying his heats. The last time that he was hospitalized, Maekar didn’t even visit. 

A beat passes. A dozen thoughts war in his head.

“Fine,” Aerion says. He pours two glasses, replaces the stopper, and holds one out in front of him. “Come on, then.” He shakes the glass so the ice rattles. 

Duncan looks at him warily, then stands. “You’re not going to bite me, are you?”

Aerion grins. “Let’s wait and see.”

—

When Dunk takes the glass, he’s careful not to touch Aerion’s skin. It doesn’t escape his notice that the hand he’s holding out is the same one that was just inside of him.

Aerion’s expression is steely, but Dunk can tell that his delayed heat has him on edge. A muscle in his neck keeps twitching, and a sheen of sweat is gathering on temples. He’s sure that whatever Aerion took earlier (closer now, Dunk can decipher the chemical smell of drugs) isn’t playing well with his system. 

He isn’t quite sure how to handle Aerion’s mercurial moods. He immediately feels bad after thinking it, knowing already that Aerion would detest being characterized as a thing to be handled. So, he decides he’ll follow Aerion’s lead even if it seems against his best interest. 

“Sit,” Aerion says, still grinning, as he sweeps a lazy hand towards the couch. His canines gleam sharply when he smiles like that.

Dunk sits as far as possible from the spot Aerion that was previously in. He’s not sure even his well-trained constitution could handle being that close to the smell. Even being near Aerion has him slightly unsteady. The omega smells downright indecent, even if it’s soured by his anxiety and the drugs. 

Aerion leans against the bar and crosses his legs. Dunk refuses to look at the wet stain that smears across his boxers. 

“Drink,” Aerion says. “It’s good.”

There’s no rule against it, but he typically doesn’t drink on the job. He prefers not to invite trouble, although it seems unavoidable this time. He takes a drink. It tastes the same as any scotch he’s ever had.

“Thank you,” Dunk says, politely. He puts the glass down on the coffee table.

Aerion turns and walks to look out the window. It’s snowing. Dunk studies the lines of his body and his hair so starkly white against the black sky. There’s a strength to his frame that’s unusual for omegas. Aerion paces along the window, and Dunk has the distinct impression of a predator walking the lines of its cage.

“How long have you been doing this, then?” Aerion asks.

“Three years.”

“And how does one find themselves in this line of work?”

“LinkedIn, if you’d believe me,” Dunk huffs a laugh. “I was looking for temporary work. It’s a good contract position. Lots of flexibility.”

“Huh,” Aerion answers. He still hasn’t touched his drink. “And you enjoy it?”

“Yes. Not for the reasons you probably think.” Dunk rubs a hand along his jaw. “I mean, yes, for that sometimes, but mostly because I like knowing I’m helping people.”

“Gods,” Aerion glances at him, his lip curled. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Dunk defends. 

“You think omegas are waiting around for you all to save us? That we like being this way?”

Dunk’s worked with many omegas who enjoy their heats. “Some do.”

“Well they’re fucking idiots, then,” Aerion sneers.

“Maybe you’ve just never had a good alpha take you through one,” Dunk says. He knows, immediately, that he’s spoken out of turn. “Sir.”

Aerion gapes at him. “You certainly have lots of opinions.”

Dunk awkwardly picks up his glass again and takes a drink.

“I presume that you’re the good alpha in this scenario?” Aerion steps towards him. Dunk feels like prey being stalked.

“I should like the chance to try,” Dunk replies, testy. “You may even enjoy it.”

Aerion is a few paces away, now. His scent makes Dunk’s head swim. “You wouldn’t know how to handle me if I walked you through every single touch.”

Aerion’s in front of him now. Dunk wouldn’t even need to fully extend his arm to touch him. His eyes are level with the band of Aerion’s boxers. Dunk exhales shakily, and Aerion sways, almost imperceptibly, towards him. Aerion leans down, his mouth close to Dunk’s ear.

“I think I’m feeling better now,” Aerion says.

Dunk’s instincts flare. The alpha in him growls No. Overwhelmed and maybe a bit desperate, he turns his head towards Aerion, lips almost brushing his jaw, and says, “Let me try. I’ll show you that it can be good.”

Aerion tuts. He’s crowding into Dunk’s space, and it takes extreme resolve not to touch him. “Why should I let you?”

“Because I think,” Dunk replies slowly, “that you deserve it.”

—

When Duncan says those words—that you deserve it—Aerion wavers.

Aerion doesn’t know what he deserves. Aerion isn’t sure that he even knows how to be an omega. He’s always felt awkward and stiff in this body. 25 years, and it’s still a mystery to him. Aerion’s more tempted by this offer than he really understands. He’s trying to maintain his resolve, but his body is aching and he’s shaking and the alpha in front of him is big and real. He’s overcome, in a sudden rush, with exhaustion.

In a decision that makes him flush with shame when he remembers it later, Aerion ducks his head and grits out the words, “I don’t know how.”

“I’ll show you.” Duncan’s voice is a low rumble. “I’ll show you what you need.” Duncan is looking up at him now, and the kindness that Aerion sees in his gaze makes him want to shy away.

“Beg,” Aerion says instead.

Duncan bows his head and leans forward until his forehead rests against Aerion’s stomach. Aerion almost whines. He’s hot everywhere. “Let me. Please, let me.” Duncan’s breath is warm against the fabric of his shirt. Aerion raises a hand, hesitant, and places it on the back of Duncan’s neck. Duncan shudders against him and nuzzles his head into Aerion’s stomach. Duncan’s hands are grasping his knees, turning his knuckles white. 

Aerion’s blood is buzzing, furiously. He wants to run. He wants to sink his teeth into the tendons of Duncan’s neck. Taking his time, he digs his fingers into the alpha’s hair and cradles the back of his head. Duncan is breathing so heavily now, and Aerion feels drunk. 

He pushes Duncan’s head down until the alpha’s mouth hovers over the opening of his boxers. Duncan groans. “Can I touch you?” 

“Yes.” The word feels painful as Aerion says it.

Duncan moves slowly, like he’s terrified that he’ll spook Aerion. He places his palms on either side of Aerions’ waist. Gods, his hands are so big. Aerion’s knees feel weak. 

Duncan leans back, then, and Aerion wants to cry out what are you doing, no, please, before Duncan says, “If we do this, you have to listen to me.”

Aerion can’t think straight with Duncan’s hands spanning his waist. “Yes, fine,” he says hurriedly, “just–”

Duncan grins. “Will you beg?”

“Targaryens don’t beg,” he growls in reply.

“Okay,” Duncan coaxes. “Okay. Come here.”

Duncan pulls him forward until his face is against Aerion’s boxers again. He inhales deeply before he opens his mouth and presses his tongue against the fabric. One hand is cupping Aerion’s ass while the other reaches under Aerion’s shirt to hold onto his bare waist. It’s so much, too much, and Aerion doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

Duncan buries his nose in the opening of the boxers. “You smell…” he groans. “Gods, you smell amazing.” Aerion whines. The praise feels so good. It goes straight to his head. “I’m going to take these off.”

Aerion nods. Duncan digs his thumbs into the waist band and pulls down. Aerion kicks them away and stands there, his face burning. There’s something both mortifying and wicked about Duncan still being fully clothed.

Duncan reaches back out for him. He turns Aerion around and pulls him down until Aerion’s back is flush with his chest. Duncan leans back into the couch and hooks his hand under Aerion’s left knee. Duncan pulls his leg and opens him up. It’s humiliating. Aerion tries to close his legs, but Duncan doesn’t let him.

“No.” Duncan’s voice is a low rumble. “Stop.”

Duncan’s unoccupied hand skates over Aerion’s stomach. The muscles jump under his palm. His fingers graze the outside of Aerion’s cunt, and Aerion twitches.

“You’re so wet.” Duncan’s entire palm covers him. Aerion’s hips move forward involuntarily, and Duncan murmurs, “Calm down.”

Any other time, Aerion would bare his teeth at Duncan’s insolence. Right now, though, his head is completely clouded with desire, with the scent of alpha, with Duncan’s huge body holding him. He’s never felt so—

Duncan presses his legs further open, and it burns. He can feel slick dripping out of his hole, and Duncan hums in approval. He presses his middle finger into Aerion, just up to the first knuckle. Aerion nearly convulses at the feeling. Duncan presses inside until his finger is all the way in before screwing it slowly. Aerion whines. It isn’t enough.

“More,” he pants. Aerion reaches down to grab at Duncan’s hand.

Duncan removes the hand from his cunt and captures Aerion’s wrist. Aerion nearly sobs. “I say when you need more. Put your hands behind my neck.” Aerion presses his eyes closed, ashamed, and reaches behind himself to do as he’s told. It pulls his shirt up to expose his stomach.

Duncan’s hand returns, and he inserts two thick fingers into Aerion so fast that he gasps. “Is this what you needed?” Aerion doesn’t know how he can feel so full already. His clit feels tight and hot, and he gushes more slick. “I know what your body needs. Let me take care of you,” Duncan says this last phrase more softly. “Say yes.”

Aerion presses his eyes closed tighter. “Yes.”

“Good. Keep your legs open.”

Duncan lets go of his knee and uses his free hand to touch Aerion’s clit. He rolls it under a calloused fingertip, and Aerion moans.

“Can you take another?” Duncan asks.

“Yes.” He doesn’t think he can, actually, but he wants it so badly.

Duncan uses the hand playing with his clit to press his folds apart. It’s so dirty. Aerion can’t imagine what it looks like. Duncan enters a third finger, and Aerion’s vision whites out. 

“Oh gods,” he sobs. He presses his hands on his knees to keep them open.

“That’s so good, Aerion,” Duncan says, and Aerion’s so far gone that he doesn’t protest at the use of his name. His hips fuck forward.

Duncan is touching his clit again. It’s tingling, and his cunt is throbbing as he fucks himself on Duncan’s fingers. He feels like—he feels like his body is made for this. It’s that thought that pushes him over and has him spasming on Duncan’s hand. Aerion can feel himself soaking the crotch of Duncan’s pants as the slick pulses out of him. 

“Oh,” Duncan groans, and he uses his left hand to press down on Aerion’s lower stomach as he keeps screwing his fingers in, deep and messy. It’s too much, and Aerion whines as he tries to pull away. “No. You can give me another.”

“I can’t,” Aerion cries, but even as he says it, his hips move forward on their own accord. He thinks, ridiculously, that he wants Duncan’s entire hand inside of him. He wants Duncan’s cock inside of him. He can feel it under his ass, startlingly large.

Duncan spits on his thumb and rubs it over Aerion’s clit, faster. It’s a ridiculous thing to do when Aerion is already so wet. His head spins, and Aerion thinks he may be mumbling, saying feverish words like yes and please. He clamps his legs together, trapping Duncan’s hand. It increases the pressure, and he’s coming hard, harder than he has in years. 

“Oh my god,” he sobs. Duncan wraps a hand around his waist and pulls Aerion into his chest. 

“Good, Aerion,” he soothes. Aerion's cunt aches when Duncan removes his hand “You did so well.”

Aerion’s floating. “Oh shut up.” He blinks a few times and pushes himself off Duncan.

“Was that good?” Duncan asks, seeming half in jest and half sincere.

Aerion stares at the dark stain on Duncan’s crotch. He feels an uncharacteristic wave of pleasure, thinking I did that and, more mortifying, my alpha. Instead, he says, “You look like a mess.”

Duncan quirks an eyebrow. “I do?”

Aerion closes his eyes. He feels unbelievably relaxed. “I’m tastefully disheveled.”

“You look like you’ve been fucked to seven hells and back.”

“Careful. When I recover my strength, you won’t get away with saying things like that.”

Duncan smiles. He wipes his hands on his pants. A minute later, Aerion hears the tap running before a cold glass is pressed into his hand.

Aerion wrinkles his nose. “There are bottles in the fridge.”

“Just drink it.”

Aerion almost enjoys this. The parry of conversation. The relaxed moment of silence when Duncan sits back down while he drinks. He feels almost normal, with the wave of nausea that  comes with his heat at bay.

“Do you want to shower?”

Aerion scoffs. “I’m in heat, not an invalid.”

“It’s just, well,” Duncan falters, gesturing a hand towards Aerion’s lower half. 

Aerion sniffs. “Fine, then.” He stands, rolls his shoulders, and walks to his en-suite. He doesn’t check if Duncan is watching.

Aerion spends ten long minutes under the water, shampooing his hair and wicking the sweat off of him. He thinks of the man standing in his living room and waiting for him.

Away from Duncan, now, his head clear, he’s not sure what happens next.

He’s not sure what he wants to happen next.

It’s cold when he steps out.

Chapter Text

Dunk sits on the couch for a minute before growing restless. He takes Aerion’s empty glass and places it in the sink, then washes his hands. He looks around the condo—boring shades of black and steel, no personal affects—and straightens his clothes. 

He thinks, or hopes, that this is going well. He finds Aerion both confusing and exciting. The man is striking, certainly, and he’s not like any omega that Dunk’s been with before. There’s something untamed about him.

Dunk flushes, unconsciously, thinking about the past hour.

It was good, unbelievably good. Dunk got a bit carried away in a way he wouldn’t typically allow of himself. It’s a job, after all. It’s not about him. 

Dunk is standing by the windows, hands clasped behind his back, when Aerion comes back. He’s wearing a dark green dressing gown that catches on his hips. It’s the first time Dunk has seen his neck exposed—well, in real life, that is. He’d very quickly opened and closed a set of pictures of Aerion taken at some beach holiday. Somehow, Dunk finds those few inches of skin more arousing than Aerion’s previous state of undress. 

“Are you alright?” Dunk asks. Aerion seems far calmer than he was an hour ago. 

Aerion stares at him for so long that he grows restless, then says. “Take off your shirt.”

Dunk pauses for a moment, then begins undoing the buttons of his white dress shirt. It’s cheap. His standard, replaceable uniform. When he’s done, he pushes it off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. 

Aerion leans against the door frame with his arms crossed. “How tall are you?”

“Six-six, sir,” 

“Your poor mother,” Aerion tuts. “Your pants.”

Dunk nods. He unbuttons the slacks and steps out of them. “And these?” he asks, toying the hem of his briefs. 

“Did I ask you a question?” Aerion responds, sharply. Gone is the playful sparing from before. Dunk wonders if this is what Aerion does to regain control. Very well. “Crawl.”

Dunk laughs, then realizes that it isn’t a joke. He gets on his hands and knees and immediately feels ridiculous. He’s not a horse. Dunk starts moving across the room, face burning. The fucking situations I get myself in, he thinks. If he wasn’t ready to leave the city before, he certainly is now, Tanselle and the cats be damned. 

When he reaches Aerion, he keeps his head bowed. Aerion smells like citrusy soap and arousal. “You may touch me,” he says. 

The permission sends a delirious spike through Dunk regardless of everything else. He looks up and catches Aerion’s grey-violet eyes before wrapping a hand around Aerion’s calf. He traces his fingers along the corded muscle of his leg until reaching the back of his thigh. With his other hand, Dunk slips undone the tie holding the robe closed. 

Aerion’s body–gods–it’s this lethal combination of lean and muscular. His flat stomach is toned and dusted with hair so fair it’s nearly invisible. Dunk grazes his teeth on Aerion’s hip bone, then drags his tongue along the skin. He tastes clean and sweet like syrup.

Hands gripping Aerion’s thighs, Dunk noses at Aerion’s clit. He could stay like this, smelling him for hours and be satisfied. Aerion’s staying so still with his hands on the wall, surely not without effort. Fine, Dunk thinks, do your worst, you prick.

Dunk licks a long stripe up the seam of his cunt. Aerion’s hips stutter forward. Dunk hums and feels the vibrations against Aerion’s flushed skin. He mouths a wet kiss, then slides his tongue repeatedly through his folds. Aerion’s dripping onto his tongue, candy-sweet and salty. There’s a shine of sweat on Aerion’s heaving chest. His head is tipped back and resting on the wall.

“Should you like to go a bit faster?” Aerion asks, eyes closed.

Dunk pulls back. His face is wet. “Should you like to be quiet and enjoy?” He replies, then adds, “Sir.”

“Sir,” Aerion mocks.

“Sir,” Dunk draws out the word, voice low. In a mirror of Aerion’s earlier command, he says, “Look at me.”

Aerion does. His eyes are a stormy grey. Dunk uses one hand to spread Aerion’s cunt and spits.

“You are obscene,” Aerion says, and his voice is strained.

“And you are a brat,” Dunk answers. He feels like he can get away with it in this temporary space they create when they’re touching.

“Insolent,” Aerion answers. He digs his hands into Dunk’s hair and wrenches his face deeper. The taste of himself combined with Aerion is almost too much for Dunk to bear. So what if it’s a bit unprofessional, this display of alpha claiming? Aerion needs to be brought to heel.

He nips at Aerion’s clit, then drives his tongue into his core. Aerion lets out a deep sound and pulls tightly on his hair. His hips begin moving involuntarily as he fucks himself on Dunk’s tongue. Aerion’s hand travels down to touch his clit, and Dunk pushes it away.

“No,” he growls, and Aerion whines. Dunk grips hard on his ass, digging his fingers into the flesh, and drives two fingers from his other hand into Aerion’s cunt. He’s drenched. Dunk’s tongue swipes against his clit in a punishing rhythm.

Aerion slips down the wall, unable to hold himself up. Dunk grabs one of Aerion’s legs and throws it over his shoulder. 

“Oh, seven,” Aerion exhales. 

Aerion’s slick is dripping down Dunk’s wrist. Aerion grinds harder onto his face. Everything is Aerion, everything he smells, sees, tastes. It’s an onslaught to his senses. Dunk doesn’t notice his own knees painfully digging into the hardwood or how hard he is. It’s just Aerion, Aerion, Aerion. He wants to knot him. He wants to take him into the bedroom, lay Aerion down on whatever ridiculously large bed he sleeps in, drown himself in the smell, and fuck him for a week.

“I need–” Aerion starts.

Dunk looks up at him, slows the motion of his fingers. He’s so pleased with the thought of Aerion feeling comfortable enough to express this. “Yeah?”

Aerion screws his eyes shut. “I don’t–I don’t know–I just–”

Dunk exhales a hot breath over him. “It’s okay, Aerion. I know.” He takes his fingers out, and groans at the sight of the string of slick that still connects them. “You’re unbelievable. Never seen an omega this wet.”

“I don’t like false flattery,” Aerion says faintly. 

Dunk pushes Aerion’s leg down gently and wraps his hands around his trim waist. When he lifts Aerion up, his legs wrap around him.

“Put me down, beast,” Aerion complains, but his ass is pressed against the hard line of Dunk’s cock and he starts moving against it. “Oh, that’s nice.”

Dunk smiles. “You’re heat-drunk.”

“I’m fine,” Aerion says, but he’s grinding against him and grasping urgently at Dunk’s back.

“Bedroom?”

“Last door,” Aerion pants.

Dunk pushes the door open with his foot when he reaches it. The smell of Aerion’s stress entrenched in the room is suffocating. Dunk’s chest is tight. He approaches the bed and lets Aerion fall back onto it.

“Do you need anything?” Dunk asks, even though all he wants is to climb on top of the omega.

“No,” Aerion says, opening his eyes. “Yes. I think I need to fuck you.”

Dunk smiles, “Oh?”

“Yes,” Aerion says, as he props himself on his elbows. The robe is slipping off his shoulders. Every inch of skin is lewd.

“Very well,” Dunk agrees, and he moves forward to hover over Aerion’s body.

–

Aerion looks up at Duncan and realizes this is the closest their faces have ever been. The sense of intimacy is startling. He thinks, Does he expect me to kiss him?

Aerion is suddenly afraid. It’s an unfamiliar emotion. He knows anger and spite and even worry, but fear is alien to him. He’s overcome, again, by that awful vulnerability forced upon him by his nature. 

Duncan notices whatever emotion must cross his face. A furrow appears between his brows. “Do you want to stop, sir?”

Aerion doesn’t know. His eyes dart across Duncan’s face, then around the room. He feels trapped by Duncan’s arms. 

“Get off,” he barks, and Duncan moves away. Aerion immediately feels the loss. Even the foot of distance between them is painful, his body screaming out for the alpha to come back as if it can’t tell the difference between an alpha rejection and his own choice. 

Duncan stays silent as he watches him. He can't believe how quickly things have soured. Aerion leans forward, trembling. He’s furious, he’s so unimaginably furious at himself. 

“I cannot—“ he grits, clenching his fingers in the sheets. “I cannot think straight.”

“That’s alright,” Duncan says, and it’s not coaxing or patronizing this time. “You don’t need to do anything.”

“We do!” Aerion shouts, and his eyes are a bright flame. “We must! I don’t have the luxury of a choice.”

“I’m sorry,” Duncan says, and his face twists, like he’s never considered this. “Did you not… did you not like what we did earlier?”

“You’re an idiot, that isn’t the point!” His whole body is shaking. He’s vacillating between hot and cold. 

Duncan is the one who looks afraid now, like he thinks something terrible may happen. “Aerion you need to calm down, your body—“

“My body! My wretched fucking body!” he growls and rises to his knees. “Yes, I liked it. Of course I liked it. Being an omega, I have no choice but to like it.”

“I’m sorry,” Duncan says. “That must be a terrible way to feel.”

It is, Aerion thinks. It’s an awful way to feel. And in thinking it, he realizes it’s the first time he’s ever spoken of this with another person. It may be the first time he’s thought it in so many words. 

His chest is heaving, and there's a tight ball of pain in its center. “I simply want,” Aerion says, each word measured, “to know that I’m the one who wants this. Not the omega.”

Duncan nods. “That seems very reasonable.”

Aerion gives a short laugh and then stops, like it’s painful. “Reasonable. I don’t think I’ve ever been described as reasonable.” With the anger gone, he’s tired again. He sits back on the bed and scrubs his palms over his eyes. 

It’s quiet for a minute before Duncan speaks. “We’ll only do what you like, then,” he says, like it’s simple. 

Aerion rolls his eyes. “Of course. How did I fail to think of that?”

Duncan’s brow furrows deeper. “We’ll go slow. You can think and give a reply to everything.”

“You’re truly ridiculous,” Aerion replies, incredulous. 

“And when you feel like it’s your—omega instinct—or whatever taking over, we’ll pause.” Duncan is nodding now like he thinks it’s a brilliant idea. 

“What interest do you have in this?” Aerion asks, confused at his persistence. “Does the contract require you to knot me for full payment?”

“No,” Duncan frowns. “It’s just what’s right. It’s my—my duty.”

“Your duty!” Aerion laughs, pained. “Absurd.”

“Fine if you don’t understand,” Duncan grumbles. 

Aerion feels relief at the levity of the moment. Even in his frustration, he feels the pleasure of their dance beginning again. He’s comfortable like this, when they’re parrying their words. Delightful and simple like roughhousing as a boy. 

“I don’t. Ideas like that are for children and idiots.”

Duncan moves gingerly toward the edge of the bed. When Aerion doesn’t startle, just looks warily towards him, he sits. “I suppose I’m the latter then.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Aerion glances at the man again before falling back fully to lay on the bed. He stares up at the ceiling. What now, what now, he wonders. 

Duncan lays back, too. They’re a few inches apart from each other. Aerion wonders if Duncan can feel the feverish heat still rolling off his body. 

“My first omega client went terribly,” Duncan says into the dark.

“Worse than this?” Aerion jokes, no humor in his voice.

Duncan huffs. “This is going fine. Yes, much worse than this. I was completely unprepared. Do you know the Ashfords?”

The name sounds familiar. Aerion hums.

“Absolute disaster. I was in the bed and suddenly couldn’t do anything. I was so nervous. You should have seen her face.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Aerion asks, disbelieving.

“Yes,” Duncan answers. “I couldn’t even knot her. I nearly got fired. I thought it would come naturally to me. I mean, it’s the most natural thing in the world, right?”

Aerion doesn’t know. Not one thing that’s ever happened in his body has felt natural or right.

“It took a while, that’s all I’m saying.”

Duncan’s story doesn’t make him feel better in the slightest. He just feels embarrassed, for the both of them.

“And now I’m very good at what I do," Duncan adds.

“Oh shut up.”

He can feel Duncan's gaze on him. “I think you could be a good omega, too. I mean, you’re beautiful.”

A hot flush of something like mortification cover's Aerion's face. “Yes, I’m aware.”

 “More than that. I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it. You’re very overwhelming,” Duncan says. Their arms are barely touching.

A long moment passes. The need to touch the alpha crawls over his skin.

“Okay,” Aerion says. “I’m ready.”

He can see Duncan looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “You’re sure?”

Aerion exhales. “Yes.” He turns his face. They look at each other. It feels so… it feels immense. Duncan’s eyes flicker to his lips. 

“Okay.” Duncan’s voice is rough. He props himself on one elbow. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Aerion stares at him, face like a placid lake. Waits. Duncan shifts over the space separating them. The rustle of the sheets is the only sound in the room. He places a hand on Aerion’s jaw, and his eyes are so blue. Aerion thinks of the water in Côte d’Azur where he spent summers as a boy. 

Duncan’s mouth is warm on his. His hand is so large on Aerion’s face. He feels enveloped by the man. Aerion wants to sigh into his open mouth. Duncan’s fingertips are nestled in his hair. When Duncan’s tongue slides across the part of his lips, he opens his mouth without thinking. Aerion doesn’t know the last time he kissed someone sober. 

“Do you like this?” Duncan asks, breath warm on his lips. 

“Yes,” Aerion says softly. He does. 

A pleased sound rumbles in Duncan’s chest. Aerion is beginning to understand the alpha’s desperate need to take care.

Duncan deepens the kiss, a hand on the back of his neck. Slick, wet tongues sliding over each other. Aerion is getting wet again. He tries not to think about it. 

“I think you should be on top,” Duncan murmurs. Aerion considers this. 

“Okay.” He’s certain Duncan is offering this because of what happened earlier. To be handled with such care makes part of him annoyed, part of him warm. Is it such a terrible thing to be adored, worshipped? he thinks. 

Aerion shifts and pushes Duncan into the bed, hands on his broad shoulders. Duncan’s hands go to his waist. 

“Good?” Duncan asks. 

“Yes,” he answers honestly. It does feel nice. His thoughts are slow and ponderous like moving through honey. Duncan rubs a hand up and down his back. The callouses on his palms make Aerion shiver. 

Duncan's hand is on Aerion’s shoulder under the robe. “Do you want me to take this off?”

“Yes.”

The feeling of the silk slipping over his skin makes him shiver. Duncan’s brushes a thumb over Aerion’s nipple.

“Yes,” Aerion says before Duncan can ask. He begins to close his eyes.

“Keep your eyes open,” Duncan says gently. “Stay here.”

Again, the flush of shame. Maybe not shame. Unease at facing this with a clear gaze.

Duncan’s thumb keeps moving. His other hand is possessive on the back of Aerion’s neck. Possessive? Cradling. Guarding. 

Aerion is so still, inside and out. He’s wet. It’s pooling between his legs and Duncan’s chest. Aerion watches Duncan’s face. He wants to kiss him. He wants to.

Aerion leans down, and their lips meet. Duncan is so sturdy under him. Broad and real. Aerion feels like it’s the first real thing he’s touched in a long time. He spends so much time moving between counterfeit objects.

Aerion shifts his hips, and his clit drags, momentarily, on the plane of Duncan’s stomach. He exhales shakily into the kiss. He does it again. The feeling of his slick on Duncan’s skin makes him delirious. Duncan deepens their kiss. Aerion wants more.

He leans back, breaks their kiss, and moves his hips. It’s not enough to make him come, but it feels so nice. He looks down at Duncan. His pupils are blown, mouth barely open. Aerion puts a hand on his jaw, then slides his thumb into Duncan’s mouth. The alpha nods. Aerion holds the hinge of his jaw open, lets Duncan’s tongue swirl around his finger. Duncan grazes his teeth over the knuckle. 

“That’s good,” Aerion says quietly. Gods, it’s good. “I want to. Now.”

Duncan closes his eyes for a second, then nods. “Alright.”

Duncan sits up and arranges Aerion in his lap. He’s still wearing his briefs, and the fabric meets Aerion’s cunt. Duncan grabs his hips and moves him slowly. Aerion touches the waistband. “Take these off.”

An awkward shuffle, and then they’re back in the same position, this time with nothing between them. 

“Your cock is obscenely large,” Aerion says, looking down at it. 

Duncan smiles, wolfish. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Aerion corrects without malice. 

Duncan’s cock slides along his folds. Oh. “Do you need more…”

“No,” Aerion answers. “No, I think I’m ready.”

“Alright,” Duncan says, and it’s almost a whisper. “Relax.”

Aerion tries. His chest is tight, again, but not like before. Anticipation, maybe. He lifts up, and Duncan slides the tip of his cock along his entrance. Aerion pushes down. He feels so full already. After a pause, he starts moving up and down over the first few inches.

“Is this good?” Duncan asks. His voice is strained, but he stays relaxed and unmoving, letting Aerion take control.

“Yeah.” Aerion pushes down further. Duncan groans, involuntarily.

“Sorry,” Duncan says. “You just feel…”

“How do I feel?” Aerion asks. It’s not goading or searching for flattery. He feels like he needs the truth, desperately, from someone, just this once.

Duncan’s hands grip his waist with a touch that feels like he’s trying not to dig his fingers into the muscle. “Really good, Aerion. Perfect. Like you want it.”

“Yeah,” Aerion agrees. “I want it.” He pushes himself down all the way. Duncan makes a sound deep in his throat, and his hips move up to meet Aerion’s. 

“Gods, Aerion,” he murmurs. “Can I move?”

Aerion nods. He’s too overwhelmed to speak. Duncan fucks him slowly. Aerion looks at him until he can’t take the sincerity in his expression anymore. He kisses Duncan’s neck, his shoulder, bites into the skin there. It makes Duncan growl.

He feels his–what did Duncan call it? omega instinct?–rise up, but it's like a companion voice alongside his own. Manageable. Malleable to his will. He breathes methodically. Duncan’s chest is sweaty, and the smell of alpha musk is rolling off of him. Aerion inhales deeply. It’s like a hit of valium. 

Aerion’s so wet that Duncan’s cock is slipping out of him. The sound of their breathing and their skin moving together breaks the quiet of the room. Aerion feels his orgasm building, even though Duncan hasn’t touched his clit. His whole body is thrumming. Duncan moves, and this time his cock hits a deep, soft spot inside of him. 

“Oh gods,” Aerion says, and his visions swims. “Oh.”

Duncan looks at this face. “Yeah?” He does it again. Aerion can feel his heart beating in his temples, between his legs. It’s never been like this. Duncan thrusts Aerion up and down, screws his hips deeper. Aerion is panting against his shoulder, and finally, finally, Duncan moves a hand between them to touch his clit. Suddenly, one, two strokes of his thumb, and it’s too much. Aerion is coming, his entire body spasming as heat prickles his skin. He’s gushing around Duncan’s cock. He feels so open, like Duncan is reaching every part of him.

“Aerion, baby, gods,” Duncan whines. His hips fuck faster, and Aerion realizes, mind hazy, that Duncan is going to knot him. “Can I–Aerion, please, can I–”

“Yeah,” Aerion exhales. He’s here, in his body, but he’s also somewhere detached, floating. 

Duncan groans, two more strokes, and then Aerion can feel him coming. He’s fuller than he thought possible. Duncan’s knot expands, presses into that spot again. Aerion whines, digs his nails into Duncan’s back, as Duncan keeps moving, grinding into him. Aerion thinks he’s going to come again, this time washing over him in this blurred warmth like the hot flash of a fever. 

Duncan wraps his arms around Aerion and buries his face in the crook of his neck. Duncan smells him, a deep inhale. “Perfect,” his words rumble on Aerion’s skin. He presses his tongue against the scent gland behind Aerion’s ear, and Aerion chokes. 

“Can I make you come again?” Duncan asks, his finger hovering over Aerion’s cunt.

Aerion wants it. He wants the power to say no, more. “No.”

“Okay,” Duncan says, pained. His hips move again involuntarily. “Gods, I’m sorry. You feel really good.”

“That’s alright,” Aerion says faintly. “Usually I hate this part.”

“Do you hate it now?” A furrow of concern on Duncan’s brows. His eyes search Aerion’s.

“No,” he admits. “You’re very sweaty, though.”

Duncan’s grin is wicked. “A sign of hard work.”

“Maybe you’re out of shape.”

Duncan frowns and looks at his clearly visible abdominal muscles. “No… I mean, I suppose I could be a bit more–”

Aerion rolls his eyes. “I’m joking. Idiot.”

“Oh,” Duncan says. He tips his head back, eyes closed. “I think it’s going down.”

Aerion can feel the pressure relieving. He almost, almost, doesn’t want it to. He doesn’t want the moment to break, when Duncan will pull away from him. A few minutes later, when Duncan slips out of him, Aerion looks down at the slick and cum that spills out. It’s filthy. Duncan’s pupils are blown and he mutters, “Seven,” under his breath.

Aerion lays back on the bed. His body is sore and warm and quiet. Duncan puts his briefs back on and brings a washcloth from the bathroom. Aerion takes it from him. He has some pride, still. Duncan disappears into his closet and returns with a sweatshirt that Aerion forgot he owned and black sweatpants. He tosses them onto the bed, and Aerion puts them on.

Duncan stands awkwardly in front of him. Aerion sits, crosslegged, on the bed. The air between them is still like a baited breath.

“There’s a guest bedroom two doors down,” Aerion says hesitantly.

“Okay,” Duncan nods. His face is impassable.

“There is also… this bed,” Aerion adds. He doesn’t even want to acknowledge what makes him say this. “Which may make it easier if we need to…”

“Take care of things again,” Duncan supplies. 

“It’s the logical choice.”

Duncan nods. “Logical. Of course.” Duncan has the grace not to call him on his bullshit. “Alright then.”

Aerion slips under the cover. Their scents mingled in the room, on the sheets, envelopes him. Duncan exits the room and returns again with a duffle bag. 

“Is that your bag of tricks?” Aerion asks.

Duncan scoffs. “Don’t get your hopes up.” He pulls out a pair of grey sweatpants and puts them on. Aerion notices that he doesn’t change his briefs. “You’re taking up the entire bed.”

“It’s my bed,” Aerion retorts. Duncan huffs and climbs in. He looks comical on the foot of the mattress that Aerion’s left him. Aerion feels both calm and buzzing with unsettled energy with the alpha this close. He turns his body to face away and watches the snow continue to come down.

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Aerion’s first heat comes when he’s seventeen. He’s certain it’s beginning when the betas on the house staff stop making eye contact and the alphas in the Executive Team suite start staring unashamedly. 

His father’s assistant sends him an email with the subject line: Heat assistance options. The list is bizarre and infuriating. He deletes the email immediately. 

Instead, Aerion does what he always does on a weekend. There’s a party at the Baratheon house. Aerion doesn’t particularly like the family, and Maekar turns his nose up at the mention of them, but it’s a way to pass the time nonetheless. This is what his life consists of—the aimless time wasting of a second son. Daeron comes with him but quickly disappears into the throngs of people in the kitchen. 

Lyonel is back from university for the weekend and has brought all of the debauchery with him. He clamps a hand on the back of Aerion’s neck when he sees him, too rough to be friendly, and smiles before pulling him down on the couch. The pile of coke in front of him is obscene. Almost as obscene as the flat, tanned stomach of the girl they snort it off of. She’s an omega, like him, and the sickly sweet smell of her skin makes his stomach turn. 

Lyonel sits back on the couch and rubs a finger of powder into his gums. The acrid drip stings down the back of Aerion’s throat. He needs a drink to even out the high.

“You smell pornographic,” Lyonel says, unaffected. Lucky beta bastard. “Are you here alpha hunting?”

“Something like that,” Aerion drawls while glancing around the room. His skin is prickling with heat, senses oscillating between the dizzying sluggishness of his heat and the frantic clarity of the drugs. 

“I can find you someone. That lovely Arryn boy is here.”

Aerion grimaces. “Don’t insult me.”

Lyonel grins. “So picky. Suppose you can afford to be.”

Can he? he wonders. Mostly, he wants to fuck someone and get it over with. It’s not like he’s a virgin. That happened long ago with a forgettable boy at boarding school. But there’s something about a heat partner that makes his stomach turn. 

“Then again, you don’t strike me as an easy omega to knot.” Lyonel cocks his head. “I’ve heard you have a  temper.” The statement is accurate and annoying. 

Aerion downs a tumbler of scotch, then another, and goes outside for a cigarette. The coke is making his entire body buzz. He notices immediately when the alpha steps onto the balcony. His scent smothers everything else in the air.

Aerion looks at him, and that’s when the terrible thing begins. 

—

Dunk comes to, stuck in the place between twilight sleep and waking. There aren’t any clocks in the room (too middle class, he thinks), but it’s still dark outside. Aerion’s body is molded against his, one leg slung over Dunk’s hip, and his face is pressed against Dunk’s bare chest. He’s startlingly hot. 

Aerion is grinding into Dunk’s thigh. Seven, Dunk thinks, give me strength. He doesn’t quite know what to do. Should he push him off? Make space between them? He thinks Aerion would be mortified if he knew what he was doing.  

Then again, Aerion invited him into his bed. Not without hesitation, but he did it nonetheless. 

Every decision he makes is a step in a minefield. Aerion is like a wounded animal, swiping his claws at anything that approaches. Dunk tries not to lie to himself, but he’s uncomfortable facing the truth that the more Aerion pulls away, the more desperately he craves his favor. He’s trying to keep Aerion’s best interest in mind. It’s increasingly difficult when he finds himself distracted by his smell, his touch, the pink shine of his tongue. 

Dunk puts a hand on Aerion’s face. “Aerion,” he whispers. The omega doesn’t wake, instead pressing himself closer to Dunk. Dunk swallows a groan. He can feel Aerion dripping through his sweats. Dunk kicks off the sheets. It’s sweltering in the room. 

“Aerion,” he repeats, deeper. Aerion murmurs something and puts his hand on Dunk’s neck. He inadvertently presses his fingers into the spot behind his ear. 

Dunk gasps. He’s certain, now, that Aerion would be horrified. Dunk places a hand on his shoulder and shakes it. Aerion’s eyes blink open. “What—“

“You’re— I think you’re uh,” Dunk looks down. 

“Oh,” Aerion’s voice is thick with sleep. Dunk wishes he could see if Aerion was blushing. He blushes very prettily. “Gods, I’m really hot.” Aerion pulls his sweatshirt off. Dunk can’t take his eyes off of his pale chest. Like the marble statues when Tanselle dragged him to the museum. 

“Oh gods, it hurts,” Aerion murmurs, his hand flexing over the lower part of his stomach. 

“Yeah,” Dunk says, concerned. “It’s probably why you were…”

Aerion’s gaze is foggy. “I can’t…”

“That’s okay.” It’s almost ridiculous, the tightness in his chest at seeing Aerion in distress. He wishes that they had talked more last night about what Aerion would want when the fog of heat overtook him again. 

Aerion slips a hand into his waistband, and then he’s touching himself. Another wave of heat rushes over Dunk. Seven, he can smell how wet Aerion is. Aerion shifts almost fully onto his stomach, his face and chest pressed into Dunk’s. Dunk can hear the sound of his fingers. Aerion is making these halting whines in the back of his throat. 

He has to—gods, he has to do something. Dunk places a hand on the back of Aerion’s neck, and smooths his thumb over his scent gland, hoping that it’s grounding. 

“Alpha,” Aerion groans quietly, and he shifts up, pressing his face into Dunk’s neck. 

“Yeah,” Dunk chokes. Hearing Aerion say the word sends a flood of pleasuregoodomegasafe through him. “That’s good, Aerion.”

“Want you to knot me,” Aerion says, and his breath is so warm on Dunk’s neck. 

“No,” Dunk answers, pained. He can’t be sure Aerion actually wants it. 

“Please,” Aerion groans. 

“No, Aerion,” he repeats, firm even when his control is slipping, fighting back the desire to flip them and pin the omega under him. Aerion lets out something almost like a growl and sinks his teeth into Dunk’s neck. Seven hells, he thinks, teeth gritted. 

Dunk grips the back of Aerion’s neck and presses his thumb and forefinger into his pressure points. “Stop,” he says, voice steady. Aerion whines sharply before melting into him. “Breathe.”

Aerion inhales. He’s shaking. Dunk drops his hand and wraps his arms around Aerion. He takes deep, slow breaths for Aerion to match and resists the urge to smooth down Aerion’s hair. It shines like snow in the dark room. 

Aerion’s breathing evens, and he stops trembling. There is a blissful minute where they lay there, Aerion’s cheek on his chest, and Dunk remembers—

Aerion pulls away. He pushes himself off of Duncan to lay on his back. “I apologize,” he says in a clipped tone, “That was unbecoming.”

Dunk blinks. The swiftness of Aerion’s changing moods disorients him again. He feels momentarily exhausted. “That’s alright. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Aerion answers. 

Dunk’s chest, tight again. He’s overcome with the strange urge to cry. 

Instead, he reaches out and touches his fingertips to Aerion’s arm. Aerion flinches imperceptibly. “Come here,” Duncan says. Slowly, so slowly, he closes his hand around Aerion’s arm and pulls Aerion’s back to press against his chest. Aerion is stiff. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not, but thank you.” Dunk folds his knees behind Aerion’s, puts his cheek against his hair. “I think it’s passed now.”

“It will happen again. We should talk—“

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Aerion bites. 

Dunn presses, “Aerion we have to—“

“I never gave you permission to use my name.”

The statement wounds him more than it should. It falls between them like a heavy object thudding on the floor of a quiet room. “Right, sir.” Dunk’s voice is thick. He doesn’t know what he thought was happening here. Aerion is right, anyways. “I can go to the guest room, then, and you can call.” Dunk moves to extricate himself. 

“No,” Aerion says quickly, pressing back into him. “No, just—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Dunk says nothing. Even if he wanted to, he can’t think of a single thing to say. 

“You have to understand that this is very embarrassing for me,” Aerion says carefully. “I’m not trying to be unkind.”

Well you are, Dunk thinks. In fact, you’re being cruel. 

“I don’t know how to be any other way,” Aerion admits, as if he’s peered into Dunk’s thoughts. Still, Dunk can’t bring himself to soften. He’s angry, he feels rightful to be angry. 

“Well the contract doesn’t say you have to be kind to me, so you’re well within your rights,” Dunk replies stonily. 

A beat passes. With Aerion’s face turned away, he can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

“Stay,” Aerion says finally. His voice is toneless. “Wake me if it happens again.” He turns away, his back still pressed against Dunk. 

They’re skin to skin, Aerion’s chest rising in time with his, but it’s as if they’re strangers. Whatever rapport or trust or, dare he say it, affection that had been built before, shattered again. 

Dunk wraps an arm around Aerion anyways. He hopes, despite himself, that it’ll help him sleep more soundly. 

—

Aerion wakes alone. He has a splitting headache, but there’s no fever. His mind is clear—so clear that he remembers flashes of last night: coming in Duncan’s lap, Aerion, baby, his leg slung over Duncan’s as they slept, his teeth in Duncan’s neck, alpha, alpha, alpha. The bed stinks with their mingled scents. 

Stupid fucking idiot, he thinks. He doesn’t know which one of them he’s referring to.

Aerion finds his sweatshirt at the end of the bed and pulls it on. It’s bright outside, no clouds in the sky. The sunlight is glittering off the snow. 

Duncan is in the kitchen cooking at the stove. He’s wearing a shirt now. Mother and Maiden, he thinks. 

“Morning,” Aerion says, watching him from the doorway. 

Duncan glances at him. Gods, there’s even a towel tossed over his shoulder. “Good morning, sir.”

Aerion grimaces, then corrects his face. He pads over to the stove. “What are you doing?”

“Making eggs.”

“Eggs,” Aerion says, peering down at the pan. 

Duncan frowns at him. “Surely even rich people eat eggs.”

“I didn’t even know I had eggs here. I don’t cook.” He turns around to rest against the counter and watch Duncan cook. “I have a brother called Egg. Ridiculous name.”

“Aegon?”

“Yes,” Aerion answers, pleased despite himself. “Do you know everything about my family?”

“Client research,” Dunk answers. He clicks off the burner. “Where are the plates?”

Aerion stares at him blankly. 

“Rich people,” Dunk mutters. He opens and closes a few drawers before pulling two plates out. He divides the eggs, pulls six pieces of bread out of the toaster (four on his own plate, two on Aerion’s), and locates some orange juice. 

“Eat,” Duncan says, sliding the plate towards him. 

Aerion looks at the food. “I haven’t had scrambled eggs since…” He can’t remember. “Since ever, I don’t think.”

Duncan blinks. “Just eat.”

Aerion huffs, picks up his fork, and takes a bite. He hasn’t eaten in a day, maybe more. The drugs and dread of his heat suppress his appetite. The food sits heavily in his empty stomach. Duncan, meanwhile, shovels huge forkfuls of eggs onto his toast. Aerion watches with mild disgust. 

“Did you make coffee?” Aerion asks. 

“I’m not your butler,” Duncan answers between bites. “Anyways, you don’t have a coffee maker. Or at least I couldn’t find one”

“Huh,” Aerion answers. He supposes a coffee does just appear on the counter every morning without him ever making it. Maybe his assistant deserves a raise. 

“Caffeine isn’t good during heat. Makes the cramps worse.”

“Oh come off it.” Aerion rolls his eyes. “May as well become an ascetic if I have to give everything pleasurable up.”

Duncan chews. “Right.” 

Their conversation lapses into silence. Aerion shuffles the food around his plate. He feels awkward in his own kitchen, and it annoys him. He wants a cigarette or a bump of coke and wonders if Laenah threw out the emergency supply he kept hidden in the third bathroom. 

He pushes the plate away. Duncan glances at it, then at Aerion with disapproval. Aerion glares back. He resists the childish urge to stick his tongue out. 

“If you say I need to eat to keep my strength up or something equally irritating, I’ll call security to escort you out,” Aerion complains before Duncan can. 

Duncan looks like he’s considering his words, and finally decides not to answer. Aerion is almost disappointed. Instead, Duncan gets up, places his plate in the sink, and riffles under the sink. When he finally finds a bottle of dish soap, he tosses the towel to Aerion and gruffly says, “You dry.”

Aerion sniffs but walks over to the sink anyways. Duncan methodically washes the plates and glasses. The water is steaming, and his fingertips are warm as they touch when Duncan hands him the dishes. Their shoulders are grazing, barely, and Duncan smells good, clean and oaky. He must have showered. Aerion feels a strange satisfaction at seeing the clean white plates stacked. 

When they’re done, Duncan crosses his arms. Aerion looks at him, then looks away.

“What now, sir?” 

Aerion falters. “Well what do you usually do with clients in between fucking them?”

Duncan’s mouth is a thin line. “There usually isn’t much time in between.”

Aerion is struck again by that cramp in his stomach that has nothing to do with his heat. Another reminder of how terrible he is at this. “Well.” There’s a tension to the conversation, no longer biting and flippant. How quickly the mood turns. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Maybe it’s passed.”

Duncan looks down at him disapprovingly. “That would be a medical miracle.”

He’s right. These things last two days minimum, if not three or four. The thought of dancing around Duncan for three more days sets his teeth on edge. 

“You’re just in a lull,” Duncan continues. “It’ll be worse the next time it comes since we didn’t during the night.”

Didn’t what? Aerion wants to challenge. Are you too shy to call it what it is now?

“That’s unfortunate,” he answers drily instead. 

They’re at an impasse. Aerion refuses to be the one to crack first. He doesn’t care if it’s childish. Finally, Duncan runs a hand through his hair, visibility frustrated. “I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Shame and anger bloom in Aerion and overtake his body. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what to do either, and the not-knowing upsets him. He feels everything in him draw taut like a bowstring. The surge of panic, of fear, the need to fight—

Duncan’s eyes fix on him, and his gaze is so clear that it slides right through him. Aerion thinks he knows, he knows, he must know everything. 

“Go to the couch,” Duncan says, and the command is firm and grounding. “Just sit down, please.”

His two sides war, the side that wants to resist resist resist and the side, exhausted, vulnerable, that is tired and wants to be cared for. Aerion wavers, and then moves to the couch. Duncan follows and sits next to him. 

“I want you to have what you want,” Duncan starts, with his hands clasped loosely in his lap. “But you need to meet me halfway. I mean,” a short, unfunny laugh, “I really can’t do it without you. I thought we—well, you—got somewhere yesterday. You seemed satisfied.”

Aerion was satisfied. He had enjoyed the sex tremendously, but it was sex that happened when he felt somewhat in control of his faculties. 

Duncan looks at him. Those eyes. Blue blue blue. Duncan’s sandy blonde hair. His broad shoulders and gentle fingers. Aerion thinks about the first time, then he thinks about Duncan, and the two situations are so obviously, starkly different that, in looking at him, something snaps or softens or disintegrates altogether. 

Aerion wants. He blindly, purely, consumingly wants. 

“Okay,” Aerion answers. “We can negotiate.”

“Negotiate.” Duncan smiles. “You’re a Targaryen after all.”

Aerion feels both pride and misery at this statement. 

“I can accept that we,” his jaw works, “have to do this. And you’re… nice enough.” It’s a mischaracterization. Duncan is painfully nice. He’s so nice it makes Aerion’s teeth ache.

“Thank you.” That smile again. Heat creeps up his neck. The proximity of the alpha is setting him off kilter. “We’ll take it slow again. If that’s what you want.”

Aerion nods. “I give you permission, if what happened last night happens again, you can,” he waves a hand, “continue.”

A concerned look passes across Duncan’s face. “Are you sure?”

“It’s the only way. Or else this will go on for weeks.” Aerion is resigned to this fact, but there’s also a part of him that wants to give in. Is it the omega? Is it him? Are the two one and the same?

Duncan’s face splits into a crooked grin. “You don’t want me around for weeks?”

The question makes him dizzy, even if it’s in jest. He has a momentary vision of Duncan in his bedroom or kitchen or balcony, waiting for him to come home. 

“Clearly not,” he says. 

After a moment, Duncan’s face grows serious, and he leans forward. “Aerion, I do promise I’ll do everything I can to make sure you enjoy it.” 

He’s so sincere that Aerion is embarrassed. The flush on his neck creeps onto his cheeks. “Yes, alright.”

“Do you want to come here?” Duncan asks. His legs are spread slightly. Inviting. Saliva pools in the back of Aerion’s mouth. 

Despite himself, Aerion goes.