Chapter Text
"Pennytree needs to move his fucking car!" Aerion’s voice crackled over the team radio, sharp enough to make the engineer wince. The Targaryen Racing garage was a flurry of motion, screens flickering with telemetry data, but all Aerion could see was the broad rear wing of Duncan Pennytree's Baratheon Racing car blocking him on the straight.
Dunk didn’t flinch. He never did. Even now, as Aerion’s scarlet-and-black machine lurked in his mirrors, Duncan kept his line steady, smooth, infuriatingly calm. That was the thing about Pennytree, he didn’t rise to the bait. Aerion had spent half the season trying to rattle him. Divebombing corners, squeezing him off-track, even that ridiculous stunt in Monaco where he’d nearly sideswiped him into the barriers. Dunk just… absorbed it. Like Aerion’s fury was nothing but rain sliding off his visor.
The final lap of Abu Dhabi was a lost cause anyway. Tybolt Lannister had already clinched the championship two races ago, his golden car practically untouchable all season. Valarr had come close, closer than anyone expected, but close didn’t win titles. Aerion gritted his teeth. If he’d started the season instead of Daeron, if he hadn’t been stuck waiting while his brother spiraled. He would have for sure won the title over Tybolt fucking Lannister
Dunk’s car wobbled slightly under braking, just enough for Aerion to lunge forward, their wheels nearly kissing as he forced his way past. The crowd roared, half in delight, half in horror, but Aerion didn’t care. He crossed the line in third, Dunk right behind him in fourth. Meaningless positions. But it wasn’t about the points.
The moment Aerion's car rolled into parc fermé, he ripped off his gloves, tossing them onto the dashboard with a force that made the carbon fiber shudder. The heat of the Abu Dhabi evening pressed against his skin, sticky with sweat and adrenaline, but all he felt was the cold, coiled tension in his chest. Fourth place in the championship. Fourth. He'd spent the second half of the season clawing his way up from the back, race after race, only to end up here, nowhere near the championship, nowhere near Tybolt's smug, gilded victory.
Dunk's car pulled in beside his, the Baratheon yellow gleaming under the floodlights. Aerion didn't look, but he didn't have to, he could feel Dunk's presence like a physical weight, the way he always did. The idiot was probably smiling that apologetic, earnest smile of his, like he hadn't just spent the last fifty-eight laps being a brick wall in human form. Aerion's fingers twitched. He wanted to slam his helmet into the concrete.
"Good fight," Dunk said, voice muffled as he tugged off his own helmet. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead in sandy clumps, and his cheeks were flushed from the heat. He looked like some kind of overgrown, sunburnt puppy. Aerion's stomach twisted.
"Good fight?" Aerion echoed, voice dripping with venom. "You call that a fight? You were a fucking speed bump."
Dunk blinked, his broad shoulders rising in a shrug that made Aerion want to throttle him. "You got past me, didn't you?" His voice was infuriatingly mild, as if they were discussing the weather instead of the way Aerion had nearly sent them both into the barriers at turn eleven.
Aerion’s pulse throbbed in his temples. "Because you braked like a fucking grandmother." He stepped closer, close enough to see the sweat beading along Dunk’s neck, the way his racing suit clung to the hard lines of his chest. The scent of burnt rubber and hot metal clung to them both, but underneath it, Aerion caught something else, salt, sweat, something unnervingly human. He hated it.
Dunk’s mouth quirked. "Funny. My grandmother could out-drive half this grid." He said it like it was a joke, like any of this was funny. Like Aerion wasn’t standing here with his hands curled into fists, his blood singing with the need to… what? Shove him? Scream? Dunk’s blue eyes were stupidly bright, stupidly earnest, and Aerion couldn’t look away.
Behind them, Valarr’s voice cut through the noise. "Aerion. Enough." His cousin’s hand closed around his shoulder, firm but not unkind. Valarr had that way about him, calm, measured, the perfect Targaryen heir. Aerion wanted to shake him off.
Aerion jerked his shoulder free, but the moment was broken. Dunk, damn him, just smiled wider, as if Valarr’s intervention had been part of some grand joke they were all in on. “See you at the podium, then,” Dunk said, nodding toward the towering structure where Tybolt Lannister was already preening under the cameras, his golden helmet tucked under one arm like a crown.
Aerion’s lip curled. “Suck my fucking dick Pennytree.”
Duncan ignored Aerion's muttered comment, continuing to speak “Team championship,” Dunk reminded him, and Aerion wanted to punch the hopeful lilt out of his voice. “You Targaryens pulled it off. That’s something.”
Something. As if Dunk had any idea what it meant. The years of Maekar’s relentless engineering revisions, Baelor’s diplomatic maneuvering to secure new manufacturers, Valarr’s flawless consistency race after race. Aerion turned away before he said something he’d regret, or worse, something that would make Dunk’s infuriatingly understanding eyes soften even more.
Las Vegas - Championship Ceremony
The cigarette glowed cherry-red in the darkness, a pinprick of heat against the endless sprawl of Las Vegas below. Aerion Targaryen exhaled through his nose, watching the smoke curl upward before vanishing into the desert air. His suit jacket was draped over the railing, his tie long discarded. The awards ceremony had been unbearable, endless handshakes with sponsors who smelled like expensive cologne and cheap ambition, photographers shouting his name like he was some prize stallion to parade.
Behind him, the rooftop door groaned open, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone tripping over their own feet. Aerion didn’t turn. He knew that particular brand of clumsiness.
Duncan Pennytree's shoes scuffed against the concrete, his breath hitching audibly when he realized he wasn’t alone. Aerion could feel the weight of that stare, like a physical pressure between his shoulder blades, before Dunk finally managed to stammer out, "Oh. Sorry, I didn’t–"
Aerion took another drag, letting the silence stretch until it bordered on cruelty. "Spare me," he said, flicking ash over the railing. "If you’re going to hover, do it quietly."
To his surprise, Dunk didn’t leave. Instead, the massive frame of Baratheon Racing’s golden boy shuffled closer, his dress shoes clicking with the hesitant rhythm of a man walking toward a lit fuse. Aerion could smell him now, something stupidly wholesome like cedar and vanilla, undercut by the sharp tang of champagne. Dunk leaned against the railing, his knuckles white where they gripped the metal.
"You’re not supposed to smoke," Dunk blurted, then immediately winced.
Aerion turned his head just enough to catch Dunk’s profile, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, the ridiculous sweep of his lashes against his cheek.
"And you’re not supposed to exist," he said, voice low and deliberate, "yet here we are."
Dunk exhaled through his nose, shoulders tightening. "Right. Sorry."
The wind picked up, carrying the distant pulse of bass from the party below. Aerion watched the neon lights of the Strip flicker across Dunk’s jawline. He hated how the man’s discomfort looked like vulnerability, how his stupidly broad shoulders seemed to fold in on themselves under the weight of Aerion’s disdain.
"You should go," Aerion said, crushing the cigarette under his heel. "Your team will be looking for their golden charity case."
Dunk's fingers twitched against the railing, his jaw working silently for a moment before he spoke. "I didn't come up here to fight," he said, voice softer than Aerion expected. There was something infuriatingly earnest in his tone, like a child presenting a mudpie as if it were a delicacy.
Aerion scoffed, turning fully to face him now. The city lights haloed Dunk's unruly hair, catching the gold strands like a bad Renaissance painting. "Then why did you come?"
Dunk opened his mouth, closed it, then, with the same stupid courage that made him brake too late into corners, blurted, "I wanted to see if you were okay."
The laughter that tore from Aerion's throat was sharp enough to draw blood. "How fucking noble." He stepped closer, close enough to see the way Dunk's pupils dilated. "You spend half the season trying to run me off the track, and now you’re playing concerned teammate?"
Dunk’s shoulders squared, his hands clenching at his sides. "I never tried to run you off," he said, voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck. "You’re the one who keeps diving into gaps that don’t exist."
Aerion’s lip curled. "Gaps exist when you’re slow enough to leave them." He took another step forward, close enough to count the faint freckles scattered across Dunk’s nose. The idiot didn’t back down, just held his ground, breath warm against Aerion’s cheek.
The rooftop door banged open again, spilling laughter and the tinny echo of pop music into the night. Lyonel Baratheon’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with amusement. "Dunk! You’re missing your own bloody celebration…oh." His grin faltered as he registered Aerion. "Shit. Didn’t realize this was a Targaryen-only pity party."
Dunk stiffened, but Aerion was already stepping back, his smile glacial. "By all means, take your stray." He flicked a dismissive hand toward Dunk. "He was just leaving."
Dunk hesitated, his broad frame caught between Lyonel’s expectant grin and Aerion’s icy dismissal. For a heartbeat, Aerion thought he might say something, something stupidly brave or pathetically earnest, but Dunk just exhaled sharply through his nose and turned toward Lyonel. "Yeah. Coming."
The rooftop door swung shut behind them with a metallic clang, leaving Aerion alone with the city’s electric hum. He flexed his fingers against the railing, the ghost of Dunk’s warmth still lingering in the air like a challenge.
The winter break passed in a blur of simulator sessions and sponsor obligations. Aerion trained like a man possessed, weights at dawn, laps until his vision blurred, every movement calibrated to erase the memory of Dunk’s pitying stare.
The press speculated endlessly about the upcoming season, their rivalry already mythologized in headlines: ‘Fire and Ice: Targaryen’s Heir vs. Baratheon’s Underdog.’
Aerion ignored them all, burying himself in telemetry data until his father yanked the tablet from his hands with a growl. "You’ll burn out before Melbourne," Maekar snapped, though his grip was gentler than his tone. Aerion shrugged him off, but not before catching the flicker of concern in his father’s eyes.
The season opener in Melbourne was a baptism by fire. Aerion’s gloves were slick with sweat inside his cockpit, the roar of the engines vibrating through his bones like a second heartbeat. From his grid position, he could see Dunk’s helmet, bright as a warning, three rows ahead. The lights counted down. Aerion exhaled through his teeth.
He took the first corner like a blade through silk, slicing past two midfield cars before they could blink. Dunk was already pulling ahead, his Baratheon yellow car cutting through the pack with infuriating ease. Aerion’s engineer crackled in his ear: *"Valarr’s holding P4, you’re gaining on Pennytree–"*
He ignored the words from the channel. He didn’t need commentary. He needed Duncan’s throat under his tires.
By lap twelve, they were bumper to bumper through the chicane, Aerion’s front wing kissing Dunk’s rear diffuser. The crowd’s gasp was audible even over the engines. Dunk held the inside line, his tires screeching protest as Aerion forced him wider. Yield, Aerion thought savagely. Dunk didn’t.
They collided in a shower of carbon fiber.
The impact rattled Aerion’s teeth, his helmet slamming against the headrest as their cars pirouetted in a grotesque ballet of twisted metal. For a heartbeat, the world was reduced to the scream of tearing aluminum and the acrid stench of burning rubber.
Then. Silence. Aerion ripped off his steering wheel before the marshals could reach him, his pulse hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Dunk was already climbing from his cockpit, his visor flipped up to reveal eyes wide with fury. Aerion didn’t wait for the accusations, he was across the gravel trap in six strides, gloves fisted in the front of Dunk’s fireproofs.
"You absolute fucking–" Dunk’s voice was raw, his hands coming up to shove at Aerion’s shoulders. The contact sent a jolt through them both, their helmets knocking together with a dull clunk. Aerion could see the sweat beading along Dunk’s hairline, the way his lower lip trembled, not with fear, but with the same incandescent rage boiling in Aerion’s gut.
"Me?" Aerion snarled, tightening his grip. "You brake-checked me like a fucking amateur–"
Dunk’s laugh was jagged. "You dive bombed from three car lengths back! Stewards will butcher you for that–"
The medical bay smelled like antiseptic and adrenaline. Aerion sat on the edge of the examination table, fingers drumming against the thin paper sheet as the team doctor prodded at his neck. The man’s touch was clinical, impersonal, nothing like the searing pressure of Dunk’s grip on his suit earlier. Aerion’s pulse hadn’t slowed since the crash. His skin still burned where Dunk had shoved him, phantom heat lingering like a brand.
"You’re clear," the doctor said, stepping back. "No concussion. Just bruising."
Aerion barely heard him. His mind was still replaying the crash frame by frame. Dunk’s car holding the line, the way his tires had locked up just enough to force Aerion wide. Deliberate. It had to be deliberate.
The door burst open before he could voice the thought. Dunk stood in the threshold, still in his race suit, the top half tied around his waist. Sweat-darkened curls clung to his forehead, his chest rising and falling like he’d run here. Aerion’s throat went dry.
Dunk’s knuckles were white where they gripped the doorframe. "We need to talk," he said, voice low and rough. The medical staff exchanged glances before discreetly slipping out, leaving them alone in the sterile glow of the examination lights. Aerion didn’t move, just watched as Dunk stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.
"You cost us both the race," Aerion said, cool and controlled, though his pulse jumped when Dunk took another step closer.
"You rammed me off the track," Dunk countered, his accent thickening with anger. He was close enough now that Aerion could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the way his jaw flexed when he ground his teeth. "Again."
Aerion smirked, leaning back on his palms. "And yet here you are. Not with the stewards. Not with your team." He tilted his head. "What do you want, Pennytree? An apology?"
Dunk's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Aerion's wrist with enough force to bruise. The contact seared.
Too hot, too close. Aerion could feel the calluses on Dunk’s palm, the way his pulse hammered against his own skin.
"You think this is funny?" Dunk growled, leaning in until their noses nearly touched. His breath smelled like energy drinks and something inexplicably warm, like sunlight on asphalt. "You could’ve killed us both."
Aerion didn’t pull away. Instead, he twisted his wrist just enough to dig his thumb into the tendon of Dunk’s hand, relishing the sharp inhale it provoked. "Would’ve been worth it," he murmured, watching the way Dunk’s pupils dilated, half fury, half something else entirely. The air between them crackled with unspent voltage, the kind that preceded a storm.
Dunk exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening. For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then, like a switch flipping, Dunk surged forward, crushing their mouths together in a clash of teeth and desperate, bruising pressure. Aerion tasted blood, metallic and bright, before realizing it was his own lip splitting under the force of it. He didn’t hesitate. He bit back, hard enough to draw a muffled groan from Dunk, his free hand fisting in that ridiculous golden hair to yank him closer.
The examination table groaned under their combined weight as Dunk shoved him backward, his hips slotting between Aerion’s thighs with terrifying precision. Aerion arched into the contact, his spine bowing off the table as Dunk’s tongue traced the cut on his lip, apology and punishment in one.
Aerion’s fingers dug into Dunk’s shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of his race suit as Dunk’s mouth trailed down his throat, hot, open-mouthed kisses that burned like exhaust fumes on bare skin.
The bright white lights of the medical bay painted everything in harsh relief, turning Dunk’s flushed cheeks into something molten, his pupils blown wide with want. Aerion hated him.
Hated the way his body arched into Dunk’s touch like a goddamn plea, hated the choked-off noise that escaped him when Dunk’s teeth scraped over his collarbone.
“Fuck–” Aerion gasped, his hips jerking up as Dunk’s knee pressed between his thighs. The friction was maddening, the layers of their suits doing nothing to dull the heat. Dunk growled against his throat, one broad hand sliding under Aerion’s back to haul him closer, the other yanking at the zipper of his fireproofs with rough, impatient tugs.
The sound of the fabric parting was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Aerion’s breath hitched as cool air hit his sweat slicked chest, but Dunk’s mouth was there before he could shiver, tongue flicking over a nipple with deliberate, teasing precision. Aerion’s head thudded back against the exam table, his fingers twisting in Dunk’s hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him there, to keep him. Dunk chuckled, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat straight to Aerion’s cock.
“Always knew you’d be loud,” Dunk murmured, his lips brushing Aerion’s sternum as his hands worked lower, peeling the suit down his hips.
Aerion’s skin burned where Dunk’s fingers dug into his hips, dragging the fireproofs down his thighs. The fabric caught around his knees, trapping him, and the helplessness of it, being spread open like this under Dunk’s hungry gaze, made his stomach twist with something sharper than want.
Dunk’s breath hitched as he took him in, his thumb brushing the inside of Aerion’s thigh, rough and deliberate. "Fuck," Dunk muttered, low and reverent, as if he hadn’t expected Aerion to be this responsive, this wrecked already.
Aerion sneered, though it faltered when Dunk’s palm cupped him through his underwear, the pressure just shy of cruel. "Shut up," he hissed, hips jerking into the touch despite himself. Dunk’s answering grin was feral, all teeth and no mercy.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Aerion’s briefs and yanked them down in one swift motion, exposing him to the sterile air. Aerion’s breath stuttered, half from the cold, half from the way Dunk’s gaze darkened as he took him in, like a starving man staring at a banquet.
Then Dunk dropped to his knees.
The first swipe of his tongue was slow, teasing, dragging from base to tip with agonizing precision. Aerion’s fingers scrabbled against the exam table, his back arching off the surface as Dunk’s mouth closed around him, hot and wet and perfect. Dunk hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks up Aerion’s spine, and Aerion couldn’t stop the gasp that tore from his throat.
Dunk’s hands gripped his hips, holding him down as he took him deeper, his nose pressing into the thatch of pale white hair at the base. Aerion’s thighs trembled, his toes curling against the cold floor as Dunk worked him with ruthless efficiency, like he’d mapped out every weak spot in Aerion’s body on the track and was now exploiting them with devastating accuracy.
The exam table rattled against the wall with every thrust of Dunk’s head, the sound sharp and rhythmic under the hum of the overhead lights. Aerion’s fingers clawed at Dunk’s shoulders, the fabric of his race suit rough against his palms as Dunk pressed him harder into the table, their bodies flush. Every movement was a battle, Dunk’s teeth at his throat, Aerion’s nails raking down his back, neither willing to yield even here, in this.
Dunk’s hand slid between them, calloused fingers wrapping around Aerion’s cock with a grip that bordered on painful. Aerion hissed, hips jerking into the touch, his breath coming in ragged bursts against Dunk’s collarbone.
“Fuck– harder,” he snarled, biting down on Dunk’s shoulder to stifle the noise threatening to escape his throat. Dunk groaned, low and broken, his hips stuttering as he obeyed, practically dry humping Aerion while he stroked him, his strokes rough and uneven.
Aerion could feel him shaking, Dunk, solid and unshakable Dunk, trembling against him like a rookie on their first grid start. It was intoxicating. He arched up, dragging his nails down Dunk’s spine, reveling in the way his body tensed, the way his breath hitched.
“Pathetic,” Aerion breathed against his ear, voice dripping with venom and something else entirely. “You’re – ah – falling apart over me.”
Dunk’s laugh was ragged, his lips brushing Aerion’s temple as he adjusted his grip, his thumb swiping over the head of Aerion’s cock in a cruel, teasing circle. “You’re one to talk,” he murmured, his voice rough with want. “Look at you.”
The words barely registered before Dunk’s teeth sank into the juncture of Aerion’s neck and shoulder, sharp enough to draw blood, rough enough to make Aerion’s vision white out.
He came with a muffled snarl, his back arching off the table as Dunk’s head moved to Aerion’s cock again and swallowed every twitch, every pulse, his grip tightening until it bordered on pain. Aerion’s fingers twisted in Dunk’s hair, yanking hard enough to make him gasp, but Dunk didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed closer, his tongue lapping at the oversensitive skin, the flat of his thumb rubbing slow, torturous circles along Aerion’s hipbone.
Aerion’s breath came in ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling under Dunk’s weight. The air smelled like sweat and antiseptic, the sterile white walls of the medical bay suddenly too bright, too much. Dunk’s lips were red and swollen when he finally pulled back, his chin glistening. Aerion wanted to wipe that look off his face, wanted to ruin him.
With a growl, Aerion flipped them, sending Dunk sprawling onto the exam table with a startled grunt. The paper sheet tore under their combined weight, crumpling beneath Dunk’s broad shoulders as Aerion straddled him, knees bracketing his hips. Dunk’s pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving under the ruined remains of his race suit. Aerion’s fingers found the zipper, yanking it down with a sharp tug, exposing the sweat-slicked planes of Dunk’s abdomen.
"You’re insufferable," Aerion hissed, dragging his nails down Dunk’s chest, relishing the way his muscles twitched under the touch. Dunk’s breath hitched, his hips jerking up instinctively, seeking friction. Aerion smirked, pressing him back down with a palm to the sternum. "Desperate," he added, leaning down to lick a stripe up Dunk’s throat, tasting salt and adrenaline. Dunk shuddered beneath him, his hands gripping Aerion’s waist hard enough to bruise.
Dunk’s fingers dug into Aerion’s hips, blunt nails biting through the thin fabric of his undershirt. “You talk too much,” Dunk growled, voice rough with arousal and frustration. He bucked up, grinding against Aerion with enough force to make them both gasp. Aerion retaliated by sinking his teeth into Dunk’s lower lip, drawing another bead of blood. The metallic tang filled his mouth, sharp and electric.
The exam table groaned ominously as Aerion shifted, his thighs tightening around Dunk’s waist. He could feel Dunk’s cock straining against his own, hot and insistent through the layers of fabric still between them. Aerion rolled his hips deliberately, watching with satisfaction as Dunk’s eyelids fluttered, his breath stuttering in his chest.
“You’re the one who started this,” Aerion murmured against his jaw, scraping his teeth over the stubble there. “Don’t whine now.”
Dunk’s grip tightened, his broad palms spanning Aerion’s waist as he flipped them again, pinning Aerion to the table with his full weight. The impact knocked the air from Aerion’s lungs, leaving him gasping, but before he could recover, Dunk’s mouth was on his, swallowing every sound. Their kiss was all teeth and tongue, messy and desperate, neither willing to yield even now.
Aerion arched up, his nails raking down Dunk’s back, dragging over sweat-slick skin and the ridges of old scars. Dunk hissed, his hips jerking forward in response, the friction sending sparks up Aerion’s spine. “Fuck – Aerion –” Dunk’s voice broke around his name, raw and undone in a way that made Aerion’s stomach clench.
The overhead lights flickered, casting erratic shadows across Dunk’s face as he pulled back, chest heaving. His lips were slick and swollen, his pupils blown wide, a look Aerion had never seen on him before, not even in the heat of a race. It unsettled him, the way Dunk’s thumb traced the arch of his hipbone with something dangerously close to reverence.
"You’re staring," Aerion muttered, twisting his wrist free from Dunk’s grasp.
Dunk exhaled sharply, his breath warm against Aerion’s throat. "You’re bleeding."
Aerion wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing crimson across his knuckles. "Your fault."
Dunk’s fingers hovered over the cut on Aerion’s lip, his brow furrowing, not with pity, but with a kind of baffled irritation, as if Aerion’s blood offended him on principle. Aerion swatted his hand away, but Dunk caught his wrist mid-air, their fingers tangling like rival wires sparking against each other.
“You could have died,” Dunk said, voice low and rough, not from anger now, but something knotted and unspoken beneath it.
Aerion laughed, sharp and brittle. “Death would be quieter than your driving.”
Dunk’s grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to make Aerion’s pulse jump traitorously under his thumb. The overhead light buzzed like a dying hornet, flickering over Dunk’s face, illuminating the sweat damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.
Dunk’s grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away. His thumb traced the pulse point at Aerion’s wrist, slow and deliberate, as if mapping terrain. “You’re an idiot,” he said, voice scraped raw.
Aerion smirked. “And you’re still here.”
A muscle jumped in Dunk’s jaw. He opened his mouth, likely to spit some honorable, infuriating retort–
When the door handle rattled.
The door swung open before Dunk could react, before either of them could untangle limbs or fabric or the mess of breath and bruises between them.
Lyonel Baratheon stood framed in the doorway, his customary smirk freezing mid-expression as he took in the scene, Aerion pinned beneath Dunk, their fireproofs half-shredded, mouths swollen and smeared with blood.
Aerion saw the exact moment Lyonel processed it, the widening of his eyes, the slow, incredulous curve of his lips, and reacted before thought.
He shoved Dunk off with a snarl, rolling off the examination table in one fluid motion. The cold floor bit into his bare feet as he snatched up his discarded undershirt, wiping his mouth with deliberate roughness. Dunk staggered upright, his face flushed crimson from collar to hairline, fingers fumbling with his ruined race suit.
Lyonel whistled, long and low. "Well. This explains why you two keep crashing into each other."
"Fuck off," Aerion spat, yanking his fireproofs back up with jerky movements. His hands shook, from adrenaline, from fury, from the lingering heat of Dunk’s mouth on his skin, and he hated it. Hated himself.
The medical bay’s fluorescent lights buzzed louder than Lyonel’s smirk. Aerion didn’t look at Dunk, couldn’t, not with the phantom press of teeth still burning his throat. Instead, he focused on the tear in his fireproofs, the way the fabric split like a wound over his ribs.
"Stewards are asking for both of you," Lyonel drawled, leaning against the doorframe like this was the best entertainment he’d had all season. His gaze flicked to Dunk, who was hastily retying his suit with fingers that trembled. Dunk, who never flinched under 5G corners. "Though I’m guessing you’ve already debriefed."
Aerion’s knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. "Say another word," he hissed, "and I’ll shove your teeth through the back of your skull."
Lyonel held up his hands in mock surrender, but his grin widened. Dunk finally spoke, voice roughened like tires after a burnout: "Lyonel. Don’t."
The silence in the medical bay was thick enough to choke on. Aerion could feel Lyonel’s gaze darting between them, parsing the wreckage, the torn fireproofs, the bloodied lips, the way Dunk’s fingers lingered near Aerion’s wrist like he was resisting the urge to reach out. Aerion jerked his arm away, the motion sharp enough to make Dunk flinch.
"Stewards," Lyonel repeated, dragging the word out like he was savoring it. "Unless you’d rather I tell them you’re indisposed."
Dunk’s jaw tightened. "We’ll be there."
Lyonel’s grin was a blade. "Oh, I’m sure you will." He pushed off the doorframe with a lazy shrug, tossing a look over his shoulder as he left. "Try not to kill each other on the way. Again."
The door clicked shut behind Lyonel, but the silence he left in his wake was worse, thick with unsaid things, with the weight of what they'd done. Aerion's pulse roared in his ears, his skin still buzzing where Dunk had touched him. He refused to look at the other man, focusing instead on the torn fabric of his fireproofs, the way his fingers trembled as he zipped them up. Pathetic.
Dunk cleared his throat, rough like gravel under tires. "Aerion–"
"Don't." Aerion's voice was a blade, sharp enough to draw blood. He finally looked up, meeting Dunk's gaze, those stupidly blue eyes, darkened now with something Aerion refused to name. "This never happened."
Dunk's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, to argue, to apologize, but Aerion was already turning away, snatching his helmet off the medical bay counter. The visor was cracked from the crash, a spiderweb of fractures obscuring the view. Fitting.
The walk to the stewards’ office was a blur of fluorescent lights and muffled voices from the paddock outside. Aerion kept three paces ahead of Dunk, his shoulders rigid, the torn edges of his fireproofs flapping with each step. The taste of blood lingered in his mouth, Dunk’s or his own, he couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to tell.
Behind him, Dunk’s footsteps were unnervingly steady. Aerion could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, hot and irritating between his shoulder blades. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Focus. The stewards would tear them apart for the crash, dissect every millisecond of their collision like vultures picking at a carcass. He needed his wits, not the memory of Dunk’s teeth on his throat.
The door to the stewards’ office loomed ahead, guarded by a pair of FIA officials in stiff blue blazers. One of them, a weasel-faced man with a clipboard, eyed Aerion’s disheveled state with raised eyebrows. “You’re late.”
“Concussion scan,” Aerion deadpanned, shouldering past him.
The stewards’ office smelled like stale coffee and printer toner, the air thick with the hum of muted televisions replaying their crash from every angle. Aerion slouched into the chair they pointed him toward, legs sprawled, fingers drumming on his kneecaps.
Dunk took the seat beside him, too close, always too close, his massive frame making the plastic creak ominously.
“Gentlemen,” Steward Selmy began, fingers steepled on the polished table. His smile was all veneer. “Let’s discuss your little dance on Turn 12.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened. Onscreen, his car spun in slow motion, tires screeching as Dunk’s Baratheon yellow livery filled the frame. The impact looked even worse from this angle, carbon fiber splintering like matchsticks, both cars careening into the barriers in a shower of sparks.
Dunk shifted beside him, his knee brushing Aerion’s. The contact burned through the fabric of their suits. Aerion didn’t pull away.
The stewards’ verdict came down like a hammer, mutual fault, grid penalties for the next race, and a lecture about "reckless endangerment" that Aerion tuned out halfway through. The only thing that mattered was the replay still looping onscreen. The exact moment Dunk’s car had swerved, the way Aerion had reacted a fraction too late, their tires locking in a spray of rubber and fury.
Dunk’s knee pressed against his again under the table, deliberately this time, a challenge. Aerion’s fingers twitched toward his own thigh, where Dunk’s teeth marks still burned beneath his fireproofs.
Outside the stewards’ office, the paddock buzzed with the aftermath of their crash. Engineers from both teams shot them venomous looks as they passed, Aerion ignored them, marching straight for the Targaryen motorhome. Behind him, Dunk’s heavy footsteps paused, probably getting accosted by Lyonel’s loudmouth commentary. Good. Let him suffer.
The motorhome was blissfully empty except for Maekar, who stood by the data screens with his arms crossed, the set of his shoulders telegraphing displeasure before he even spoke. "You’re lucky the car’s salvageable," he said, voice flint-sharp.