Work Text:
The smell of an omega is too tempting for Baelor, ever since Jena died, which is how Baelor justifies creeping into Aerion's room. He's sleeping off the last dregs of heat exhaustion, spent alone in the Maidenvault as it was proper for an omega of his lineage.
Only a few people have the key to it, and Baelor is amidst them, as Hand of the King. Makes it all easier, really, and the Kingsguard doesn't even think anything untoward will happen as Baelor smiles and walks in.
He sits on the bed, stares at Aerion's prone body; the boy is asleep, skin glistening with sweat, covered — and that's even too much of a word to describe what is the actual situation — by the silken sheets that make up his nest.
There's no reaction from Aerion upon the shifting bed, and Baelor, already half-hard, moves slowly, opening the boy's legs, revealing his glistening, unused cunt. Baelor could spend hours eating the boy out, but this is meant to be quick.
Perhaps some milk of the poppy for Aerion's next heat, then. But for now, he just undoes his belt, and settles on top of Aerion, sliding his cock inside the boy's warm cunt. For a single, blissfull moment, Baelor stays still inside the boy.
By the Seven, he feels as divine as the Maiden, warm and throbbing around his cock as if Aerion is awake and wanting it. It's just a bodily reaction, Baelor knows — an omega being tempting towards an alpha, trying to get a pup even whilst unconscious —, but it doesn't make it feel any less good.
It's quick, because the nature of how Baelor got in there demands it be quick; not like Baelor feels he can last long. If he does, he'll knot his nephew, and that'd be terrible.
So it's fast, a few strokes and it's over: Baelor cums inside Aerion, because, really, where else is he supposed to do it? If the seed takes, even though Baelor will make sure to send moon tea amidst the selection of breakfast, then at least the bastard will be a Targaryen.
He hums to himself as he stuffs his cock in his pants again, patting Aerion's head — and being unable to not smile when Aerion, still asleep, leans against the touch, nuzzling Baelor's hand.
Perhaps he truly is not as bad as he has made himself to be.