Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shanghai International Circuit rose out of the haze like something engineered rather than built, all sharp silver curves and impossible glass facades cutting through the damp Chinese spring air. The paddock thrummed with the familiar chaos of media day, camera shutters clicking in relentless bursts, reporters weaving through clusters of engineers and drivers with microphones poised like weapons. 

Every screen in the hospitality suites replayed Melbourne’s crash on an endless loop, the collision already elevated from racing incident to legend in less than two weeks.

Aerion wanted to put his fist through every single one of them.

He stalked through the paddock with dark glasses shielding his eyes and his team jacket slung over one shoulder, expression carved into something cold and untouchable. The Targaryen media manager had spent the entire flight from Monaco drilling him on damage control, phrases like competitive incident and mutual misjudgment repeated until they lost all meaning. Aerion had ignored most of it. He knew exactly what the vultures wanted from him. Fury. Blood. Another explosion.

Unfortunately for them, he’d decided not to give Duncan Pennytree the satisfaction.

Which meant avoiding him entirely.

It should have been easy. The paddock was massive, sprawling across multiple hospitality buildings and garage entrances, packed shoulder to shoulder with journalists, mechanics, sponsors, reserve drivers, PR assistants and enough cameras to document a war zone.

 And yet Dunk seemed to exist at the exact edge of Aerion’s vision all morning, impossible to escape completely. A flash of yellow team kit disappearing around a corner. The low rumble of his laugh carrying over the crowd during some sponsor interview. Once, Aerion rounded a catering station only to stop dead at the sight of Dunk standing twenty feet away speaking with Edmure Tully, broad shoulders hunched awkwardly as photographers snapped pictures around them.

Dunk looked up at the exact same moment.

The eye contact lasted barely a second before both of them turned away with almost comical speed, as if proximity itself were dangerous now.

Aerion hated the heat that crawled up the back of his neck afterward.

“Driver briefing in twenty,” Valarr said beside him, startling Aerion enough that he nearly slammed straight into a cameraman. His cousin arched one pale eyebrow, gaze lingering just a fraction too long on Aerion’s expression. “You look murderous.”

“I am murderous.”

“Preferably not on live television this weekend.”

Aerion scoffed, snatching a bottle of water off a catering tray as they passed. “Tell the FIA to stop inviting Pennytree to races, then.”

Valarr’s mouth twitched dangerously close to amusement. “Right. Because he’s clearly the unstable one.”

Aerion shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint, but Valarr had already drifted away toward a cluster of waiting reporters, leaving Aerion alone with the pounding irritation lodged beneath his ribs. He twisted the cap off the water bottle with unnecessary force.

Unfortunately, solitude lasted less than thirty seconds.

“Aerion! Sky Sports, just one question!”

The reporter materialized at his elbow like a summoned demon, microphone already shoved toward his face. More followed instantly once they smelled blood, swarming him in a semicircle of flashing lights and eager smiles.

“Aerion, do you believe the penalties from Melbourne were fair?”

“Any response to Baratheon Racing calling the crash avoidable?”

“Have you spoken to Duncan since the incident?”

Aerion kept walking, jaw locked tight. “No comment.”

“Do you regret the move into Turn Twelve?”

“No.”

The honesty startled a laugh out of someone in the crowd.

“Aerion, many fans are comparing your rivalry with Pennytree to the Prost-Senna era. Do you think things are becoming personal?”

That made him stop.

The cameras surged closer instantly, sensing weakness like sharks scenting blood in the water. Aerion lowered his sunglasses just enough for the reporter to see the full force of his expression.

“If Duncan Pennytree stopped driving like a nervous pensioner,” he said coolly, “we wouldn’t have this problem.”

The crowd erupted into noise before he could continue, reporters shouting over one another as questions multiplied tenfold. Aerion shoved his sunglasses back on and pushed through them before security needed to intervene, pulse ticking unpleasantly behind his temples.

By the time the official FIA press conference began an hour later, the entire room already felt electrically charged.

Aerion sat at the far end of the long table beneath the glaring stage lights, one leg bouncing restlessly beneath his chair. Tybolt occupied the center seat with all the effortless arrogance of a reigning world champion, immaculate in cream colored Lannister Racing kit, while Dunk sat three seats away from Aerion in Baratheon yellow that looked almost offensively bright beneath the cameras.

Aerion hadn’t looked directly at him once since entering the room. Which was becoming increasingly difficult considering every single question seemed designed to force interaction between them.

“Duncan,” one reporter asked eagerly from the front row, “after reviewing the telemetry from Melbourne, do you still believe Aerion was predominantly at fault for the collision?”

A pause. Aerion could feel Dunk shifting slightly beside him without turning his head.

“I think emotions run high when you’re fighting hard,” Dunk said carefully. His voice carried oddly well in the hushed room, low and steady and unbearably sincere. “Aerion races aggressively. Everyone knows that. But I don’t think he was trying to hurt anyone.”

Aerion’s jaw flexed.

Another reporter jumped in immediately. “But you called the move dangerous over team radio.”

Dunk exhaled slowly through his nose. “Because it was dangerous. We both pushed too far.” He hesitated, fingers tapping once against the table before adding, “Honestly, I think sometimes Aerion gets so caught up trying to prove something that he forgets he doesn’t need to.”

Silence cracked across the room.

Aerion turned before he could stop himself. Their eyes locked instantly. Dunk was already looking at him.

Not soft this time. Not hesitant. The easy awkwardness Aerion had grown used to was gone completely, burned away beneath the harsh glare of camera flashes and weeks of tension winding tighter and tighter between them. Dunk’s blue eyes were sharp now, jaw set hard enough to cut glass, his broad shoulders squared beneath the Baratheon logo.

Aerion felt heat flare violently in his chest.

Trying to prove something.

The fucking audacity.

Aerion’s stare turned glacial behind the dark tint of his sunglasses, every ounce of venom he possessed focused directly across the table. Dunk didn’t look away. If anything, his expression hardened further, something angry and stubborn flashing briefly beneath the surface.

Around them, the reporters went utterly silent.

Tybolt Lannister glanced between them with the expression of a man realizing he’d accidentally wandered into a live minefield.

Then Aerion smiled.

It wasn’t a pleasant expression.

“Careful, Pennytree,” he said softly into the microphone, his voice carrying through the room with terrifying clarity. “You almost sound like you know me.”

Somewhere near the back of the room, a camera shutter clicked loud enough to sound like a gunshot.

The silence after Aerion’s comment stretched taut across the press room.

Dunk’s stare didn’t waver. If anything, the challenge in it sharpened, blue eyes fixed on Aerion with an intensity that made something ugly and electric twist beneath his ribs. Around them, cameras clicked frantically, reporters practically vibrating in their seats as they sensed blood in the water. 

Then, from somewhere near the side of the stage, came the unmistakable sound of someone snorting with laughter.

Aerion didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Lyonel Baratheon lounged near the media coordinator’s table with all the grace of a man who had never taken anything seriously in his life. His paddock pass hung crooked around his neck, one sleeve of his team polo half rolled up, and his grin looked physically painful to contain. The moment Aerion’s gaze snapped toward him, Lyonel immediately coughed into his fist with exaggerated innocence.

“Sorry,” he managed, badly disguising another laugh. “Thought of something funny.”

Dunk’s eyes closed briefly. 

Aerion felt immediate murderous intent bloom in his chest.

Because Lyonel knew.

Not vaguely suspected. Not theorized drunkenly after Melbourne. Knew. Aerion could still remember the exact expression on Lyonel’s face when that medical bay door had swung  open, the delighted horror of someone stumbling across blackmail material beyond their wildest dreams.

And now the bastard looked one badly timed joke away from combusting.

The moderator hurriedly moved on before Aerion could commit homicide on live television. “Right. Next question.”

Unfortunately, the damage was done.

Every reporter in the room had noticed the exchange, their attention darting between Aerion, Dunk, and Lyonel with renewed fascination. Headlines were practically writing themselves in real time. Tension Explodes Between Rivals. Baratheon Driver Laughs During Heated Press Conference. Targaryen Ready to Kill Someone With Bare Hands.

Aerion crossed his arms tighter over his chest and stared straight ahead for the remainder of the conference, refusing to look at Dunk again. He could still feel him three seats away though, like body heat lingering too close in an enclosed room. Every shift of Dunk’s shoulders dragged at Aerion’s attention. Every scrape of his chair against the floor set his teeth on edge.

The second the moderator dismissed them, Aerion was on his feet. Reporters shouted after him instantly.

“Aerion! Aerion, one more question!”

“Did Pennytree’s comments upset you?”

“Are tensions worsening between you and Baratheon Racing?”

Aerion ignored all of them, stalking offstage with long furious strides, nearly shoulder-checking a cameraman hard enough to send him into the barrier wall. Behind him he could hear Dunk getting mobbed by journalists as well, his lower voice swallowed beneath the chaos.

Good.

Let him deal with it.

Aerion shoved through the backstage corridor toward the paddock exit, pulse hammering unpleasantly behind his eyes. The hallway smelled like overheated electronics and stale coffee, fluorescent lights glaring off the polished floor. He had almost made it to the stairwell when another voice called after him.

“Targaryen!”

Aerion kept walking.

“Oi, silver prince, wait up.”

Lyonel caught him near the corner, jogging badly to keep pace while trying unsuccessfully to suppress his grin. Up close, he looked even more entertained than before, dark curls disheveled from the humidity outside.

Aerion stopped so abruptly Lyonel nearly walked straight into him.

“What,” Aerion said flatly, “do you want.”

Lyonel placed a dramatic hand against his chest. “Can’t a man simply enjoy media day with his dear friends?”

“We are not friends.”

“True. Lovers is probably more accurate.”

Aerion’s vision nearly went red.

He grabbed the front of Lyonel’s shirt and slammed him lightly, but pointedly, against the corridor wall. The movement happened fast enough that a nearby PR assistant squeaked in alarm before fleeing in the opposite direction.

Lyonel, infuriatingly, only laughed harder.

“You are,” Aerion hissed, “one sentence away from needing reconstructive surgery.”

“Relax,” Lyonel said through a grin. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Honestly, this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to Dunk all year.”

Aerion released him with visible disgust.

The worst part was that Lyonel genuinely didn’t seem malicious about it. He looked delighted in the way someone looked delighted by discovering two wild animals had secretly been sharing a cage. Aerion hated that expression almost more than outright mockery.

“You should’ve seen your face in there,” Lyonel continued, straightening his crumpled shirt. “Gods, I thought you were going to climb over the table and strangle him.”

“I still might.”

“Mhm.” Lyonel’s grin turned sharper. “Funny way of showing hatred, considering what I walked in on.”

Aerion took one threatening step forward.

Lyonel raised both hands immediately. “Right. Sensitive subject. Understood.”

The corridor door swung open before Aerion could respond, and Dunk stepped inside.

The atmosphere changed instantly.

Dunk halted the second he spotted them, broad shoulders tightening beneath his team jacket. His press conference smile had vanished completely, leaving behind something exhausted and wary. For one brief second his eyes flicked between Lyonel and Aerion, lingering on the way Aerion’s hands were still curled into fists.

Lyonel looked between them with the visible excitement of a man courtside at a gladiator match.

“Well,” he said brightly, “this feels tense.”

“Lyonel,” Dunk warned.

“Oh, don’t give me that voice.” Lyonel folded his arms. “I’m not the one staring at him like I want to either kiss him or kill him.”

Silence detonated in the corridor.

Aerion’s entire body went rigid. Dunk looked like someone had driven directly into his spine at two hundred miles an hour. And Lyonel, the complete psychopath, finally seemed to realize he may have pushed slightly too far.

“…Right,” he said after a beat. “I’m going to go before either of you commit a felony.”

He slipped away down the hallway with surprising speed, leaving the corridor abruptly quiet except for the distant roar of the paddock outside.

Aerion stared after him with murder in his bloodstream. Then he became aware of Dunk still standing there.

Watching him.

The silence stretched.

Dunk rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, jaw tight. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Aerion laughed once, humorless. “He’s a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah,” Dunk admitted softly. “He is.”

For some reason, that easy agreement irritated Aerion even more.

He stepped closer before he could stop himself, close enough to see the faint shadows of exhaustion beneath Dunk’s eyes, the small scar near his chin Aerion had somehow never noticed before Melbourne. “You should keep him on a leash.”

Dunk’s expression flickered dangerously. “Maybe you should stop reacting every time someone mentions my name.”

The words landed like a thrown knife.

Aerion’s pulse kicked hard.

For a moment neither of them moved. The corridor suddenly felt too narrow, too warm, tension pulling tight between them like overstressed wire. Aerion could still remember exactly how Dunk’s hands had felt gripping his wrists in Melbourne. Judging by the way Dunk’s gaze briefly dropped toward Aerion’s mouth before snapping back upward, he remembered too.

Aerion hated that. Hated him. Mostly hated the fact that he couldn’t tell where one feeling ended and the other began.

“Stay out of my way this weekend, Pennytree,” Aerion said finally, voice low enough to scrape. “I mean it.”

Dunk held his stare for a long second before answering.

“No,” he said quietly.

And somehow that single word unsettled Aerion more than if Dunk had shouted.

By Friday morning, the clip from the press conference had gone viral across the internet.

Every screen in the paddock seemed to be playing some variation of it, Aerion’s cold smile beneath the fluorescent press room lights, Dunk’s unwavering stare from across the table, the sharp little tilt of Aerion’s head when he’d said You almost sound like you know me. Someone had added dramatic music to one version. Another had slowed the moment of eye contact to an almost absurd degree, zooming in on Dunk’s expression like analysts studying race telemetry frame by frame.

The comments were worse.

Fans dissected every microexpression with forensic obsession, arguing over whether they looked ready to kill each other or kiss each other. One particularly cursed edit had already racked up several million views overnight, cutting between their Melbourne crash and the press conference glare while some breathless pop ballad played underneath.

Aerion wanted humanity extinct.

Unfortunately, Valarr found the entire thing hysterical.

“You do realize,” Valarr said over breakfast, barely holding back laughter as he scrolled through his phone, “that half the internet thinks you’re secretly in love with him now.”

Aerion looked up from his coffee with all the warmth of a firing squad. “Give me your phone.”

“No.”

“A reasonable request.”

Valarr snorted softly. “There are compilations now.”

Aerion closed his eyes briefly.

The Targaryen hospitality suite buzzed around them with the controlled chaos of race preparation, engineers moving between tables with tablets tucked under their arms, mechanics inhaling coffee like oxygen before the start of FP1. Outside the glass windows, Shanghai International Circuit sat beneath a blanket of pale grey cloud, the track still slick in places from overnight rain.

Valarr, damn him, turned the screen around anyway.

The video currently playing was titled: Enemies or Lovers? The Aerion Targaryen/Duncan Pennytree Situation Explained.

Aerion genuinely considered murder.

“Oh, this one’s my favorite,” Valarr continued, scrolling with entirely too much enjoyment. “Someone slowed down the bit where Dunk looks at your mouth.”

“He did not look at my mouth.”

“He absolutely looked at your mouth.”

Aerion snatched the phone out of his hands at last, glaring at the frozen frame on screen. Unfortunately, Dunk was looking at his mouth. Worse, Aerion looked like he was about half a second away from vaulting across the press table and doing something deeply unprofessional.

He tossed the phone back onto the table with disgust.

“I hate all of you.”

“Yes, yes,” Valarr said lightly. “We know. It’s sort of your whole thing.”

Before Aerion could formulate a sufficiently violent response, another presence settled beside the table.

Maekar Targaryen didn’t sit so much as occupy space with terrifying efficiency. Even dressed in team kit rather than tailored suits, there was something militarily precise about him, silver threaded through dark hair, broad shoulders still imposing despite age beginning to creep quietly at the corners.

He looked once at Valarr’s phone screen. Then at Aerion. Then sighed the sigh of a man questioning every life choice that had led him here.

“The engagement metrics are excellent,” Maekar said flatly.

Aerion blinked. Valarr immediately looked delighted.

“Excuse me?”

“The team social accounts gained nearly four hundred thousand followers overnight,” Maekar continued, taking a sip of coffee like they were discussing tire degradation instead of Aerion’s public humiliation. “Sponsors are ecstatic. Rivalries sell.”

Aerion stared at him in disbelief. “Father–”

“That said,” Maekar interrupted smoothly, pinning him with a sharp look, “if you turn this championship fight into a public melodrama, I will personally remove you from the car.”

The temperature around the table seemed to drop several degrees. Valarr wisely looked back down at his coffee.

Maekar’s voice stayed calm, but Aerion knew better than anyone what sat underneath it. Targaryen Racing had clawed itself back into title contention over years of political maneuvering, engineering brilliance, and relentless precision. One reckless season could fracture all of it. One badly timed scandal. One implosion.

“Tybolt is still the threat,” Maekar said. “Not Pennytree. Not the media. Not whatever strange psychological warfare the two of you are currently conducting in public.” His gaze sharpened further. “Understand?”

Aerion’s jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Maekar stood, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “Now try not to crash into him again before qualifying.”

Valarr made a strangled choking noise the second Maekar walked away. Aerion kicked him sharply under the table.

Free Practice One passed without incident.

Mostly.

The Shanghai circuit suited the Targaryen car beautifully through the high-speed opening sector, Aerion carving through the long right-hand corners with surgical aggression while the engine screamed behind him like something alive. By the end of the session he sat second on the timesheets behind Tybolt, less than two tenths separating them.

Dunk finished fourth. Aerion hated that he noticed immediately.

FP2 went similarly well. The balance felt cleaner on heavy fuel loads, tire degradation lower than expected despite the humidity clinging thickly to the track surface. For two blessed hours Aerion managed to lose himself completely in telemetry and braking points and apex speeds instead of blue eyes and bruised mouths and stupid fucking press conferences.

Then the checkered flag fell.

And reality returned.

Aerion climbed from the cockpit sweating through his fireproofs, mechanics immediately swarming the car as engineers fired questions at him about front-end stability. He answered automatically while pulling off his gloves, only half listening as data streamed across nearby monitors.

Across the garage lane, Baratheon Racing’s mechanics were rolling Dunk’s car back into their own garage. Aerion looked away instantly.

“Good pace on the mediums,” his race engineer said. “We think there’s another three tenths if we–”

“Aerion.”

The voice carried easily over the noise of the paddock.

His entire spine locked.

Dunk was crossing the gap between garages before Aerion could escape, still half-undressed from the session, race suit tied around his waist and dark curls damp with sweat. Cameras nearby immediately shifted direction like hunting dogs scenting blood.

Of course they did.

Aerion saw at least three cameras rise before Dunk had even reached him.

Absolutely not.

Without a word, Aerion turned on his heel and walked away. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just immediate, deliberate avoidance.

Behind him, silence rippled briefly through the garage. Then he heard Dunk stop walking.

Aerion kept moving deeper into the Targaryen motorhome, pulse beating harder than it should’ve, gloves still clenched tight in one fist. The fluorescent hallway lights blurred slightly overhead as he strode past engineers and PR staff pretending not to stare.

He made it all the way to the telemetry room before the door swung shut behind him. For one fleeting second, he allowed himself to breathe.

Then someone cleared their throat.

Valarr lounged against the back wall beside the data screens, arms folded loosely across his chest, looking unbearably entertained.

“You know,” he said mildly, “most people just text the men they’re having breakdowns over.”

Aerion threw one of his gloves directly at his head.

Qualifying day arrived wrapped in low clouds and thick Shanghai humidity, the air already heavy by the time Aerion stepped into the garage before noon. The paddock buzzed with that particular kind of tension reserved for Saturdays, sharp and restless beneath the polished professionalism, mechanics moving quicker than usual, engineers hunched over laptops with coffee growing cold beside them. Everything narrowed on qualifying. One lap. One mistake. One perfect run.

Aerion preferred it that way.

The car felt alive beneath him from the first run in Q1, balanced perfectly through the endless tightening curves of Sector One, the rear stable under braking in a way it hadn’t been during practice. By the end of the session he sat comfortably at the top of the timing sheets while midfield teams scrambled desperately for survival beneath him.

Across the garage lane, Dunk’s yellow and black Baratheon car slipped through in fourth.

Q2 only intensified the atmosphere. Cameras crowded the garages now, reporters already circling like vultures waiting for another explosion between them. Every time Aerion climbed from the cockpit, microphones materialized instantly.

“Aerion, any concern about fighting through traffic tomorrow after the penalty?”

“Do you expect another incident with Pennytree?”

“How much pressure are you under after Melbourne?”

Aerion ignored most of them with practiced contempt, visor still down as he pushed through the crowd toward the engineers’ room. Once, while turning sharply around a camera operator, he nearly collided headfirst with Dunk exiting the neighboring garage.

They both stopped dead. The space between them couldn’t have been more than a foot.

Dunk looked overheated from the car, curls damp against his forehead, chest still rising hard beneath half-unzipped fireproofs. Aerion became violently aware of the exact shape of his mouth before jerking his gaze upward again.

For one suspended second neither moved.

Then Dunk stepped aside first.

Aerion walked past without a word.

By Q3 the entire paddock felt feverish. The final runs began under a sky streaked pale gold by the setting sun, floodlights flickering to life around the circuit as engines screamed down the main straight. Aerion sat in the garage with his helmet resting against the wall beside him while engineers crowded around timing screens, waiting for the final push lap window.

“Tyres are peaking perfectly in Sector Two,” his race engineer said into his ear as Aerion rolled out of the pit lane. “This is the lap.”

Aerion flexed his fingers once around the steering wheel.

Then he drove.

Everything after that blurred into instinct. The car carved through the opening corners like it was on rails, tires biting hard into the asphalt while the engine shrieked behind him. Purple first sector. Then another. By the final straight the entire lap felt almost unnaturally clean, every apex clipping perfectly beneath him as he crossed the line.

Silence. Then… “Pole position. Pole position, Aerion.” The radio erupted around him.

Aerion exhaled sharply through his nose, pulse hammering against his ribs as he slowed on the cooldown lap. Beneath the visor, a vicious grin dragged briefly across his mouth.

Not enough to erase Melbourne. Not enough to erase Dunk. But enough to remind everyone exactly who he was.

Back in the garage, the Targaryen team exploded into celebration the moment he climbed from the cockpit. Mechanics slapped his shoulders, engineers talking over each other while timing screens flashed his name at the top in brilliant white lettering.

P1.

Across pit lane, Dunk had qualified third. Ordinarily, it would have put them side by side near the front. Instead, the Melbourne penalties hung over both of them like ghosts waiting in the dark. 

Aerion’s pole would become sixth on the grid by race start. Dunk’s third would become eighth. Close enough to become a problem. Again.

The media pen after qualifying was unbearable.

Every interview circled back to the same thing, Melbourne, penalties, rivalry, tension, Dunk. Aerion answered through clenched teeth while cameras flashed relentlessly in his face. Somewhere nearby, Dunk was doing his own round of interviews beneath the FIA backdrop, his voice carrying occasionally through the noise around them.

Once, while shifting positions between reporters, their elbows brushed accidentally. The contact lasted less than a second. It still hit Aerion like a live wire.

By the time he finally escaped the media crowd, the Shanghai sunset had turned the paddock molten orange beneath the floodlights. Engineers and mechanics moved through the fading heat carrying equipment cases while generators hummed low in the background.

Aerion stalked toward the Targaryen motorhome with his jaw tight enough to ache, the weight of cameras still prickling between his shoulder blades.

Every journalist had asked about Dunk. His driving. His penalty. His opinion. Like they were magnets dragged helplessly toward something ugly and electric neither of them seemed capable of shutting down anymore.

He was halfway across the paddock when a grip closed around his wrist, calloused fingers, broad palm, unmistakable even through the fireproofs. Dunk’s touch burned like a spark on dry tinder, sending a jolt up Aerion’s arm that stalled his breath mid-step. He whirled, yanking his arm free with a snarl.

Dunk’s hand hovered between them, suspended in the space where Aerion’s skin had been, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and stubbornness. The paddock noise faded to a dull roar as Aerion registered the flush creeping up Dunk’s neck, the way his throat worked before he spoke.

"We need to talk," Dunk muttered, voice pitched low, almost lost under the whine of a nearby generator.

Aerion scoffed, crossing his arms tight enough to feel his own pulse thudding against his ribs. "About what? 

“You know what”

Aerion scoffed. “Nothing happened."

Dunk’s laugh was a rough, breathless thing. "Bullshit." His eyes flicked to Aerion’s mouth, just for a heartbeat, long enough for Aerion’s skin to prickle with remembered teeth. "It happened, and we–"

"Shut up," Aerion hissed, glancing past Dunk’s shoulder where a group of engineers loitered near the Tully garage. His cheeks burned. Dunk’s ears were red.

Dunk exhaled through his nose, fingers flexing like he wanted to reach out again. "Fine. Not here." He stepped closer, lowering his voice further. "I’ll text you. Somewhere private."

Aerion scoffed. "Don’t bother." He turned away before Dunk could reply, shoulders rigid as he strode toward the Targaryen motorhome. Behind him, Dunk didn’t follow.

The motorhome’s cool, dim interior was a relief. Aerion slammed the door harder than necessary, startling Valarr, who was sprawled on the couch scrolling through his phone. "Who pissed in your drink?"

Aerion ignored him, yanking open the fridge. The bottle of water was cold enough to numb his fingers. He pressed it to his forehead, willing his pulse to settle.

Valarr’s smirk was audible. "Ah. Pennytree."

"Shut up."

"Did he finally confess his undying–"

Aerion hurled the water bottle at his head. Valarr caught it effortlessly, laughing. "Twitchy."

The phone buzzed in Aerion’s pocket. He didn’t reach for it. Didn’t need to. He knew it was probably Dunk. Aerion clenched his jaw and strode towards his driver room.

By the time he emerged, the motorhome was empty save for Valarr’ and his discarded protein bar wrapper. Aerion toweled his hair roughly, staring at his phone where it lay face down on the counter. The screen lit up. Another buzz. He flipped it over.

Dunk

storage unit 12B. 11pm. There'll be no cameras.

Aerion’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. The shower’s residual heat clung to his skin, but his fingers were cold. He typed one letter. Deleted it. The phone buzzed again.

Dunk

come or don’t. but we both know you will.

Aerion chucked the phone onto the couch. It bounced once before Valarr snatched it mid air, eyebrows climbing as he read the screen. "Storage unit? How very serial killer of Pennytree."

"Give that back." Aerion lunged, but Valarr twisted away, holding the phone high above his head.

Footsteps sounded behind them and then a quiet sigh, Aerion didn’t have to turn to know it was Baelor. "Focus you two. You're worse than children" he said "Tomorrow will be difficult enough as it is. Don’t waste energy on fighting like animals"

Valarr flushed slightly, smiling awkwardly at his father as he handed Aerion his phone back and mumbled an apology. Aerion pocketed the phone without reply. The screen burned against his thigh like a brand.

By 10:45pm, the paddock had quieted to a murmur of night-shift engineers and the occasional clatter of tools. Aerion slipped out under the guise of checking the car’s setup, his hood pulled low despite the humidity clinging to his skin. Storage unit 12B was tucked behind the hospitality suites, a relic of Shanghai’s older layout, its metal door streaked with rust.

Dunk was already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, the dim light from a flickering overhead bulb casting shadows across his jaw. He straightened when Aerion approached, his boots scraping against concrete.

"You came," Dunk said, voice rough like he’d been silent too long.

Aerion didn’t dignify that with an answer. He shoved past Dunk, shouldering the unit’s door open wider. The interior smelled of dust and old tires, stacked with crates of outdated team merchandise. A single folding chair stood in the center, its metal legs warped.

Dunk exhaled sharply behind him. "You’re bleeding again."

Aerion swiped at his lip absently, the cut reopened from where he’d bitten it during the press conference. "Your point?"

Dunk’s fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out, but he shoved them into his pockets instead. "This isn’t just–" He gestured between them, frustration tightening his voice. "You know what it is."

Aerion’s pulse roared in his ears. He turned, deliberately slow, until they were toe to toe. Dunk’s breath hitched, barely audible, but Aerion caught it. "Say it," he dared.

Dunk’s jaw worked. His throat moved when he swallowed. The storage unit’s dim light caught the sweat-damp hair curling at his temples, the flush creeping up his neck. Aerion cataloged every reaction like ammunition.

"There’s something going on between us" Dunk muttered, so low Aerion almost didn’t catch it.

Aerion scoffed, stepping closer until their chests nearly touched. "And what would that be?"

Dunk’s hand shot out, gripping Aerion’s wrist hard enough to bruise. "You tell me." His thumb pressed against Aerion’s racing pulse. "Your body’s honest, even if you’re not."

Aerion yanked free, fury and something hotter coiling in his gut. "Fuck you." He shoved past Dunk, sending a crate of old trophies clattering. The noise echoed like gunshots in the cramped space.

Dunk caught his shoulder, spinning him back. "Damn it, Aerion–"

The kiss was sudden, messy, teeth clashing, Dunk’s fingers digging into Aerion’s hips hard enough to leave marks. Aerion bit down on Dunk’s lip in retaliation, tasting copper, but Dunk only groaned, pulling him closer until the folding chair screeched sideways.

Aerion broke away first, panting. "We’re not doing this again."

Dunk’s pupils were blown, lips swollen. "Liar," he breathed, thumb brushing Aerion’s pulse point. "You want to."

Aerion shoved him off, wiping his mouth. "I want to win tomorrow."

Dunk laughed, low and knowing. "Same thing."

Outside, footsteps echoed on concrete. They froze, inches apart, until the sound faded. Dunk’s gaze flicked to Aerion’s throat, where his carotid hammered visibly. "Eleven-thirty," Dunk murmured. "We're in the same hotel. Right?"

Aerion doesn't say anything, and his silence seems to be enough of an answer to Dunk. "I'm room 1221. Come"

"Fuck you," Aerion hissed, but his pulse jumped when Dunk’s thumb brushed his wrist.

Dunk grinned, wild and reckless. "If you insist."

The night air was thick with humidity, clinging to Aerion’s skin as he stalked back through the paddock. His lips still burned from Dunk’s teeth, his pulse refusing to settle no matter how deep he breathed. The Targaryen motorhome glowed like a beacon ahead, its sleek lines a contrast to the chaos inside his head.

Valarr lounged on the steps, twirling a wrench between his fingers. "Well?" he drawled. "Did you two kiss and make up?"

Aerion kicked his boot. "Move."

Valarr rolled aside with a laugh, letting Aerion shoulder past. Inside, Maekar stood over the telemetry screens, his silhouette sharp against the blue glow. He didn’t turn. "Race strategy in twenty."

The hotel clock blinked 11:29 in mocking red numerals. Aerion’s knee hadn’t stopped bouncing for the last seven minutes, his heel tapping rhythmically against the carpet. He should’ve been asleep, should’ve been hydrating, reviewing telemetry, anything but sitting here with his pulse thundering in his throat like a rookie before his first race. Dunk’s room number burned in his mind.

1221. One floor up. A terrible idea.

He stood abruptly, the bed creaking under his weight. His reflection in the darkened window was a stranger, chest rising too fast, fingers twitching at his sides. Concussion protocol, he told himself. Adrenaline crash. Anything but the truth clawing up his throat.

The hallway was mercifully empty. Aerion took the stairs two at a time, his socked feet silent on the concrete. Room 1221’s door loomed at the end of the corridor, its brass numbers gleaming under the sconce light. 

He hesitated, palm hovering an inch from the wood. Fuck this. Fuck him.

He knocked anyway, three sharp raps that echoed louder than he’d intended.

The door swung open almost instantly. Dunk stood there, hair damp from a shower, wearing sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His grin was all teeth. "Knew you’d come."

Aerion scoffed, pushing past him into the room. The lie was obvious, Dunk’s fingers trembled where they gripped the doorframe, his pulse visibly jumping in his throat. The room smelled like cheap hotel soap and something warmer, muskier. Aerion’s skin prickled.

They stood inches apart, the silence thick with unsaid things. Then Aerion moved, prodding a finger against Dunk’s sternum, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric. "I despise you," he said, voice low.

Dunk caught his wrist, thumb pressing into the racing pulse there. "Yeah," he breathed, eyes dark. "I know."

Aerion’s gaze flicked to the rumpled bed. "Fine.” he said and was silent for a moment. "Just sex." He yanked his hand free. "I’m fucking horny, and you’re clearly desperate."

Dunk’s laugh was rough. "No strings attached," he agreed, stepping closer until their chests brushed. "Just sex."

"Just sex," Aerion repeated, tilting his chin up in challenge.

Their kiss was less teeth, this time, more heat. Dunk’s hands mapping the ridges of Aerion’s ribs through his shirt before dragging it up and over his head. Aerion retaliated by shoving Dunk’s sweatpants down his hips, hissing when the rough fabric grazed his half-hard cock. 

Dunk kicked them off and pulled off his shirt, backing Aerion against the wall with a thud that rattled the cheap hotel art. Their bare chests pressed together, sweat slick and frantic, Dunk’s thigh slotting between Aerion’s legs to grind against him in a slow, filthy rhythm.

"Fuck–" Aerion arched, nails biting into Dunk’s shoulders as their cocks slid together, precome smearing between them. Dunk’s mouth found his throat, sucking bruises over the old ones he made last week, his breath hot and uneven.

Dunk hauled him onto the bed with a grunt, their legs tangling as they scrambled for leverage. Aerion’s back hit the mattress, Dunk looming over him, all broad shoulders and heaving chest. His cock jutted thick and flushed against his stomach, veins standing stark under the flickering bedside lamp.

"First time?" Dunk rasped, palming himself lazily.

Aerion kicked his thigh. "Shut up."

Dunk grinned and reached for the lube on the nightstand, making a show of slicking his fingers. "Tell me if I hurt you."

"Like you could." Aerion spread his legs wider, defiance burning through the flush creeping down his chest. Dunk’s expression darkened, something hungry and possessive flashing across his face, before he pressed a finger against Aerion’s rim, circling slowly.

"Christ, you’re tight," Dunk muttered, more to himself than Aerion. The first knuckle slipped in, and Aerion hissed, back bowing off the bed. Dunk’s free hand pinned his hip. "Easy–"

"Shut up and move." Aerion clenched around the intrusion, toes curling when Dunk crooked his finger just right. His cock twitched against his stomach, leaking onto his abs. Dunk smirked.

"Someone’s eager."

Aerion kicked weakly at his shoulder. "Fuck you–ah!" His protest dissolved into a gasp as Dunk added a second finger, stretching him with slow, deliberate thrusts. The burn was sharp at first, but Dunk’s thumb rubbed soothing circles into his hipbone, easing the tension until Aerion’s breathing evened out.

Dunk’s fingers scissored inside him, twisting until Aerion’s thighs trembled. "There?" he murmured, pressing again, and Aerion’s vision whited out, a punched out moan escaping before he could bite it back. Dunk chuckled darkly. "Found it."

"Shut your mouth," Aerion snarled, but the effect was ruined when Dunk crooked his fingers just right, dragging another broken sound from his throat. His cock leaked against his stomach, untouched and aching.

Dunk withdrew his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them on the sheets. Aerion barely had time to miss the fullness before Dunk was looming over him, lubing his cock with slow, obscene strokes. 

The sight of it, thick and flushed, precum beading at the tip, made Aerion’s mouth water. He hated him.

"Ready?" Dunk asked, voice rough.

Aerion bared his teeth. "Do I look fucking fragile to you?"

Dunk’s grin was all challenge. He dragged the head of his cock against Aerion’s rim, pressing in just enough to make him gasp. "Tell me to stop."

"Don’t flatter yourself," Aerion hissed, but his fingers dug into the mattress when Dunk pushed in further, the stretch bordering on pain. Dunk’s hands trembled where they gripped his hips, sweat dripping down his temples as he sank deeper, inch by torturous inch.

"Fuck," Dunk breathed when he bottomed out, hips flush against Aerion’s ass. His thighs shook. "You’re–"

Aerion kicked his calf. "Move or get off."

Dunk’s laugh was ragged. He pulled out slowly, watching Aerion’s face as he did, then snapped his hips forward in one sharp thrust. Aerion’s back arched off the bed, another punched out moan escaping before he could bite it down. Dunk’s fingers dug bruises into his hips, his rhythm rough but measured, like he was holding back, barely.

"Harder," Aerion demanded, nails scraping down Dunk’s shoulders. "Or are you scared you’ll break me?"

Dunk’s eyes flashed. He hauled Aerion’s legs over his shoulders, bending him nearly in half, and drove into him with a force that knocked the breath from both their lungs. Aerion’s vision whited out, his cock leaking untouched between them.

"Like that?" Dunk gritted out, pistoning into him with brutal precision.

Aerion’s mouth fell open, no words, just a strangled groan as Dunk’s hips snapped forward again, hitting that spot inside him with unerring accuracy. Dunk’s thumb swiped over Aerion’s leaking tip, smearing precum down his shaft.

"Shit–" Aerion arched off the bed, thighs trembling around Dunk’s waist. His fingers tangled in the sheets, knuckles whitening. Dunk’s grin was feral, sweat dripping from his brow onto Aerion’s chest. He lifted Aerion’s hips higher, angling deeper, and Aerion saw stars.

"Say it," Dunk growled, dragging his teeth over Aerion’s nipple.

Aerion snarled, bucking up against him. "Fuck you–"

Dunk thrust hard, cutting him off with a gasp. "Lie to me," he challenged, palm pressing against Aerion’s sternum to pin him down. "Tell me you don’t feel this."

Aerion’s nails raked down Dunk’s back, leaving angry red trails. "I feel your – ah – your ego crushing me."

Dunk laughed breathlessly, hips snapping forward again. The bedframe slammed against the wall with each thrust, the rhythm brutal and perfect. Aerion’s thighs burned, his calves hooked over Dunk’s shoulders, but he wouldn’t relent—wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging. Not yet.

Dunk’s thumb brushed the head of Aerion’s cock, smearing precome down the shaft, and Aerion’s hips jerked. "Fuck – don’t–"

"Don’t?" Dunk repeated, mockingly innocent, even as he twisted his wrist on the next stroke. Aerion choked on a moan, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Dunk’s breath was hot against his throat, lips dragging over the racing pulse there. "You’re shaking."

"Shut up," Aerion hissed, but his voice broke when Dunk angled deeper, hitting that spot again with terrifying precision. His toes curled, thighs trembling around Dunk’s waist. "Fuck–"

Dunk hauled Aerion’s hips up higher, driving into him with a force that knocked the headboard against the wall. Aerion’s back arched off the mattress, a strangled noise escaping his throat as Dunk’s cock dragged over his prostate again. Sweat dripped from Dunk’s forehead onto Aerion’s chest, their skin sticking where they pressed together.

Dunk laughed breathlessly, tightening his grip. "Just observing." He stroked once, twisting his wrist at the tip, and Aerion’s hips jerked off the bed. "Fuck, you’re pretty like this."

Aerion snarled and bucked up, wrapping his legs tighter around Dunk’s waist. "Shut up and–" His words dissolved into a gasp as Dunk thrust deep, hitting that spot again with terrifying precision. The stretch burned, but the pleasure coiled tighter with each snap of Dunk’s hips, their sweat-slick skin sticking where they pressed together.

Dunk’s fingers dug into Aerion’s hips, his rhythm faltering as he neared the edge. "Gonna–" he gritted out, dragging Aerion harder onto his cock.

Aerion’s nails raked down Dunk’s back, leaving angry red trails. "Don’t you dare–" His threat died as Dunk’s hand closed around his cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. Aerion’s back arched off the bed, his thighs trembling as pleasure crested sharp and sudden. He came with a bitten off groan, spilling over Dunk’s fingers and his own stomach.

Dunk followed with a rough groan, hips stuttering as he spilled inside Aerion, his forehead dropping to Aerion’s shoulder. They stayed like that for a moment, chests heaving, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the hotel’s air conditioning.

Dunk pulled out slowly, wincing at the oversensitivity, and rolled onto his back beside Aerion. They lay side by side, staring at the ceiling, the silence thick with unspoken words. Aerion’s skin still tingled where Dunk’s hands had been, his pulse slow and heavy.

"Towel," Aerion muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom.

Dunk huffed a laugh but pushed himself up, padding naked across the room. Aerion watched him go, the muscles of his back flexing under the dim light. He returned with a damp towel and tossed it at Aerion’s chest.

"Clean yourself up, princess," Dunk said, his tone teasing but his eyes dark.

Aerion wiped himself off with quick, efficient strokes, then chucked the towel back at Dunk’s head. Dunk caught it effortlessly, grinning.

"You’re insufferable," Aerion said, rolling off the bed. His legs felt shaky, but he’d die before admitting it.

Dunk watched him gather his clothes, his expression unreadable. "Same time tomorrow?" he asked, voice rough with exhaustion but still carrying that infuriating smirk.

Aerion paused mid step, his shirt halfway over his head. He yanked it down with more force than necessary. "Dream on, Pennytree."

The walk back to his room was too long. Every step felt like a concession, every heartbeat a betrayal. The hotel hallway stretched endlessly, the patterned carpet blurring under his feet. His body hummed with the aftershocks of pleasure, his skin still tingling where Dunk’s hands had been. He hated it. Hated him.

His phone buzzed the second he closed his door. Aerion ignored it, tossing it onto the bed as he stalked into the shower. The water was scalding, but it did nothing to erase the memory of Dunk’s mouth, his hands, the way he’d looked at Aerion like he knew exactly what he was thinking.