Chapter Text
Truly, Dunk never meant for it to go this far.
He was raised well by his foster father, a man who cared for him and made sure he grew up right. He was taught to treat others with respect, driving it into that thick skull of his what it truly meant to be a good man, and when he presented, a true alpha.
His father would always say that men like them must have restraint. That they, at the very least, should have the common sense to be more than their nature. Dunk believes him, and tries his best to live by it. Be a man his father could be proud of.
At seventeen, five years too late for an alpha to present, he was working a part-time job in a thrift store, sorting through boxes of donated clothes and keeping his head down. He scrunches his nose at the mix of scents. As usual, there are some rotten-sharp and unpleasant from passing alphas; there’s also the muted and plain-obvious from betas like his own. Sometimes there are the rare softer notes of omegas that are milk-sweet, burnt brown sugar candies melting on a pan, or sometimes the light, floral tea-calming scents.
He doesn’t expect anything out of the ordinary from the pile. Betas really shouldn’t be affected by scents unless faced directly with an alpha that wills them to obey.
But then, several scents reach his nostrils— and he finds himself panting, tongue lolling out, chasing flavors on the translucent fabric as he buries his nose on a scarf from the open box.
Honeyed lavender, warm candle wax, with faint ashes of burning cedarwoods in a hearth— an omega— no, it’s... it’s— his— his omega, his mate—
The box slips from his hold as his grip tightens around the scarf, suffocating himself with each lungful of his mate’s essence. The change comes on too quickly for him to think it through. His body reacting before his mind can catch up, eyes closing to savor— drawn towards something his soul has never known but somehow recognises, the pull too strong—
But he’s grabbed and forced back, calloused fingers tight at the back of his neck. Scents of elk trees, wet fur, and cheap bitter-sour booze— clashing alpha scents that never angers him before, putrid inside the thrift store, inducing bile to rise in his throat. The stench is traumatizingly disgusting.
The scarf is suddenly ripped apart from his hold. Saliva starts foaming around his mouth. His lips are bleeding from his elongated fangs as they ruin and take half of his soul away from him.
He loses himself as Arlan subdues him. He even sends three good men to the ER restraining him and commanding him down, bedridden for weeks afterward. The love and trust he holds for his father is buried under by an unknown muscle-memory of animalistic violence. Muscles and bones pushing past limits, the mind working twice as hard to keep hold of itself against a natural horror long hidden by morals and laws and societies—
A true alpha has honour, Dunk. Arlan was never surprised by what Dunk was afterwards, but he made one thing clear from the start; strength and instinct are not excuses to lose yourself.
They respect others. They are kind. They provide and protect. And most of all, they have patience and self-control.
It’s inevitable, Dunk knows. Being an alpha comes with predatory instincts. There will always be a primal rage to hunt down his omega-mate all while tearing down threats with his bare teeth. Time and time again, he has learned to keep that part of himself in check.
He knows the horror stories. He knows what happens to those with weaker biological designations, and even to alphas themselves, when one of them loses control. In the histories he has read, whether in Westeros or across the Narrow Sea, it’s always the same. Wars begin with men who give in to greed and power, men who care more for conquest than restraint, who would rather see others bow than stand beside them.
Dunk has always despised men like that. Men who choose themselves over everyone else.
Be kind, Dunk. Be more than what you are.
So he keeps himself in hand, even after Arlan passes. It has been six years since his first presentation, and he truly understands now how difficult it is not to give in. But he has learned when to ease back and when to step away before things go too far. Holding to the belief that he is human first, a man before anything else, and an alpha second.
Even so, he knows what he is. He has never pretended otherwise, nor does he set himself above the rest. Sometimes, he feels like a hypocrite whenever he’s hauling an alpha off some omega stranger, knowing full well his own body reacts the same way during a rut, cock raging hard, knot swelling as he jerks off. Desire rising whether he wills it or not. At times, he gives in to it in private, opening an incognito tab to search for omega porn videos out of curiosity at first, and later out of need. But his body still aches, dissatisfied if he’s not breathing in the barely-there scents on what’s left of the scarf. Then his thoughts will wander...
He thinks of his omega somewhere out there, waiting without knowing, fingers and knot-bulb toys not enough to quell their heat. A sweet, obedient omega longing for his cock, his knot. A hot little cunt, all wet and pliant to his touch. A womb only for him, only his, to dump his cum and breed, never to be empty—
But they remain only that, thoughts. Separate from his actions. Separate from the man he chooses, every day, to be. Arlan was right to be hard on him early on.
He was just born larger than most, stronger than most; and from a young age he was made to understand what that could mean. He has seen how men react to that kind of strength, how fear can make them do hasty things. Before Arlan took him in, he saw what alphas like that could do when they let themselves be ruled by rage and lost a childhood friend to them.
A true alpha never loses himself. Remember that.
He vowed to the deathbed of his father that he will be a good man, a good alpha. And he supposed he was, is, for years afterwards.
But that was before Aerion Targaryen.
(At twenty-three, Dunk has come to understand that no matter how honourable a man tries to be, no matter how steady his patience or how genuine his kindness, there is no erasing what runs beneath his flesh. It’s set deep within his ligaments and bone marrow, on what type of blood that runs deep within his arteries, pumping his heart—
And long by now, he no longer feels ashamed of watching his omega. From fields of grass, through the thick of trees, behind posters and the corners of buildings. Through the gaps between books and the wooden shelves. Across rows of tables and the press of the crowd...
Like now through the third pointed-arch window of St. Daenys the Dreamer’s Building, looking warm and soft, gold-touched by the setting hues of the February sun, feeling the love in the air.
Aerion sits by the window, chewing at the end of his Rotring fountain pen. The edge is pressed against the cupid’s bow of his plump lips before he toys with it using pink-knuckled fingers, circling the pen unconsciously before writing across the page of what Dunk knows in elegant cursive.
He rests his head on another hand, Dunk has to bite his lips to fight the rising aggression of seeing a cute spill of chubby cheek pressing onto the palm. Circular glasses slip low on the bridge of his nose, and Aerion pushes them back up without looking away from his work, already turning to the next page.
It has long been observed what Aerion studies—the books he carries and their contents, the ever-present, frayed-edged paperback copy of How to Train Your Dragon tucked into whatever luxury bag he brings, despite owning clothbound and leather-bound editions of the entire series. His courses are known by him too, both dual degrees accounted for, along with his clubs and extracurriculars, the hours he keeps. Even the small, telling habits when Aerion starts to get frantic and violent— the obsessive way he washes his hands for an exact full twenty seconds every time as the Citadel recommends.
His preferences have not gone unnoticed either as Dunk recalls his memories seeing Aerion’s fondness for a clear sunny-sky blue. Although he dresses almost exclusively in either soft brown and beiges or in formal events, sharp in black and Targaryen red.
Over time, all of it has been committed to memory, willingly learned all by heart.
Dunk’s grip tightens on the strap of his duffel bag. Rugby training still waits for him, yet it’s more important that Dunk is aware that in ten minutes, Aerion will leave the building and take his usual seat on the veranda near the field. From there, he remains within sight, always at the edge of Dunk’s vision as he trains.
There is an hour before Aerion’s last class at half past six. And it’s quite enough to settle that innate restless part of him to watch and make sure his omega is safe— no, to make sure others are safe from his omega—
Then after the lecture, and once Dunk is done with a quick shower after training, the distance will be kept as always, all the way back to the dormitories—)
Truly, he hadn’t meant to get it this far. But Dunk never regretted his actions, not even for a moment.
What Aerion doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Dunk has never seen a Targaryen before.
He knows little of them beyond what others say. His friends talk often about them; a child prodigy sent to the Citadel, a wedding between a Targaryen and someone from Essos, the scandals of the drunk first son of the Anvil. Now they talk about another son of the Anvil, whom they call— no, who insists on being called, as Rowan says— the Omega Brightflame, now studying at King’s Landing University at the age of his sweet sixteen, only a few weeks shy of seventeen.
Dunk has never paid much attention though, and he has enough on his plate to care for the concerns of the elite. What he does hear comes in passing as is often with Rowan.
“Seriously?” she huffs from the couch, glancing up from the nails she’s painting on her boyfriend’s hand to Dunk, who is sitting on the carpeted floor, typing an email on what is, at this point, all three of theirs’ laptop. “You don’t know the Omega Brightflame? The Aerion Targaryen? What kind of alpha are you?”
“Uh, the normal kind?” Dunk replies flatly, eyes not leaving the screen.
“So an idiot, then?” Rowan deadpans that made Raymun snort his coffee. True to that, all alphas are idiots.
“Aren’t you at least a little bit interested in omegas?”
Nope. Dunk presses his lips into a thin line.
“Leave him be, babe. The man got a true mate from a scarf,” Raymun teases which Dunk flips a finger off.
His roommate pulls his girlfriend in close, and soon enough the two of them fall into mindless gossip about elite social circles, while painting nails and flipping through magazines that feature page after page of Aerion Targaryen.
Dunk listens with only half an ear, and by morning, he doesn’t remember much of what they talked about, especially not the magazines left piled under the circular coffee table.
Beyond that, there is little Dunk truly knows about the Targaryens.
Most of what reaches him comes from daily events on the radio set placed on the porch of an old woman a block away from campus, who sometimes asks for his help fixing things around her home during his morning runs. And when he returns during semester breaks, he reads the headlines from newspapers piled by the gates of Arlan’s old property on the outskirts of King’s Landing. Even then, most of it concerns Mayor Baelor, an honourable alpha Arlan once worked with, and the troubles he handles across the city.
Back in Flea Bottom, the Targaryens are well regarded. Mayor Baelor has done much to keep order in the entirety of the Crownlands. But the rest of what he knows, Dunk learned from history books. He’s aware they were kings and queens centuries ago, ruling over the whole of Westeros. And that Aegon the Conqueror is a shit alpha and is one of those men that Dunk loathes.
That’s pretty much the extent of his knowledge.
He doesn’t follow the rumor mill or gossip, and so the excitement around a Targaryen omega on campus means little to him. It’s not something that concerns him, and he never expects it to. He doesn’t think he will ever meet who they call the Omega Brightflame.
But gods, Seven above—
—it almost feels as if the universe itself is playing tricks on him, as if all the gods, New and Old, keep placing him in these moments to test what sort of man he will be, what sort of alpha he will become—
Because he meets Aerion Targaryen when Dunk is running late from class, sticky and sweaty from all the running to and from different buildings; he hasn’t even showered. And it takes only one glimpse of him, of that boy, to change the course of his life.
The meeting lasts no more than two minutes, yet in that span, everything settles into place, into the present and the past and the future.
He remember at once, the scent of honeyed lavender, even through whatever blockers the omega wears. There’s still that faint trace of ash beneath it as he parts his lips for another deep exhale. Of cedarwood left to smoulder in a hearth, rich and sweet as it reaches down his throat, circulating inside his lungs, as Aerion Targaryen fully steps out of the driver’s seat of a red vintage car.
He sees the silhouette of Arlan in his periphery. Feels the pain on his own neck as he was scruffed before, feels the manacles around his limbs as phantom hands hold him back to claim what is his—
A true alpha never loses himself.
“Stop gaping and see to my car.” He tosses the keys at Dunk without a second thought.
Dunk catches them out of reflex, and he tries not to breathe too much or take more of an eyeful. Adamantly, he looks down at his palm, at the logo of the luxury car on the keys, the leather keychain, and the three-headed crimson dragon wrought in platinum. He digs his fingers into it, the pads pressing into the soft leather. Alpha hindbrain latches onto the thought that his omega held these same keys not a moment ago, and now they rest in Dunk’s hand.
His abdominal muscles clenches, heartbeat pounding against his ribcage. A dry heat slowly cracks down his throat, to his stomach that is hollow and empty. The hunger rises in bubbling acids, the need to devour and wet his mouth with blood, with this omega’s slick—
“I’m… I’m not a parking valet, sh-sir.” He shakily gulps down a breath, still staring at the keys, and he feels his own fangs press against his dehydrated lips.
Then he glances up, only then does he become aware of the difference in their width, their height, of the man— no, not a man, just a boy of sixteen, tilting his lovely chin all the way up. Long-lashes shadowing prettily over aristocratic cheeks tinting soft pink, hair looking like a full silver moon, big eyes a set of amethyst glinting bright, and his lips—
Mother above, have mercy on me. Please have mercy on me—
Dunk tosses the keys back, and then he clenches one hand tight around the lanyard of his ID, the other gripping the strap of his duffel to adjust the bag against his front. His glasses slide slowly down his nose as he keeps his own gaze down at Aerion, but he doesn’t dare lift a hand to fix them because he knows, he fucking knows, his instnct despite it being dormant for years. The truth of how he will undeniably reach instead for the warm-blooded flesh of this privileged omega brat and pull him closer, and closer, until their bodies have no choice but to merge as one—
“Not clever enough?” Aerion looks him up and down, a sinful pink tongue tracing the edge of his lips.
Dunk murmurs something about being a student like him, casting his eyes downward once again. His shoulders hunch as he tries to make himself smaller, feeling a bit pathetic when his cock aches hot, already half-hard against his black joggers. He gives all his strength to root his own feet on the pavement, staring at the scattered bits of dirt between the stones.
A true alpha never loses himself, he thinks over and over and over—
He’s just a boy. A sixteen— almost seventeen— he’s still sixteen, a fucking sixteen year-old boy—
You’re nothing more than a disgusting man lusting over a—
“Oh,” Aerion says one last time, voice still airy-soft, “academia has fallen on sad days.”
— brat, the alpha almost growls out loud.
Then the keys clatter against the pavement, dainty footsteps quietening into the distance. Dunk refuses to move, not even to pick the keys up. His instincts to chase overpowering all reasons. But he’s an idiot, and so he dares another glance, just in time to catch the damp heat of the boy, beads of sweat along the red-flushed porcelain of the boy’s bare nape, peeking from beneath a black oversized hoodie as he disappears into the division of dormitories.
Dunk moves a full minute afterwards. He calls out to a security guard and hastily gives instructions to have the car parked somewhere safe. He hears his seniors calling after him, but he doesn’t stop even as he bumps several students to the ground, keeps sprinting to another building, through the hallways towards the nearest comfort room.
He locks himself inside a cubicle and smothers his palm over his mouth. The same hand that held the keys that Aerion owns. He envisions how big the keychain is on Aerion’s hand, but it barely is a half of the size on his own palm— Seven, help him.
Even now, he can still smell the honeyed lavender and warm candle wax clinging to the callousness of his palm despite the overpowering metallic scent left of the keys.
Dunk runs his tongue on his palm, trying to catch a taste of the scents. Pulls down his pants, ripping the zipper of his trousers with his haste, boxers around his knees, palming his cock.
Perhaps he’s still there somewhere in the fog of his brain, still with a human conscience, because he remembers working himself slowly. He grips his cock hard, imagining a much smaller hand barely able to hold him— then a sweet hole fluttering open, kissing the tip of his cock— and Dunk has to be gentle pushing inch by inch, has to be patient and slow, because his omega is small. Younger, just a boy. No doubt that Aerion’s hot little pussy will be a tight fit— and he closes his eyes to savor the scents, the barely-there taste blessing his tongue as teeth dig through his own flesh, nearly to the bones, knows it’ll scar, but it’s not enough—
It’s never enough.
It’s a disappointing peak when he paints the toilet water white. Pissing loads of wasted cum that the alpha knows should have been bloating the omega’s flat tummy.
He leaves after cleaning himself as best he can with tissues, splashing his face with cold water.
At first, he doesn’t understand— refuses to understand— why his body is acting this way, the instincts he fights so hard to control resurfacing.
He files a leave of absence immediately through his flip phone, then texts Raymun to stay at Rowan’s for a while, knowing he’s starting his rut weeks early, and that it will not be long before it begins to consume him.
Then he bars the door of his bedroom, grateful for his past self’s preparation of cheap frozen red meat and gallons of water in the kitchenette he shares with Raymun.
He takes a quick, ice-cold shower to steady himself, both hands braced against the tiled wall as the water runs over his head and down his nape, easing the heat little by little. He tries not to touch himself again, tries to keep what’s left of his control—
—but the moment he closes his eyes, he sees silver hair and a black hoodie. Plush lips opening for a sweet-pinked tongue poking through the corners, the scent of lavender, dripping honey, thick and sweet in memory— fuck, fuck, fuck— he cries at the blunt pain, gripping the swell of his knot.
By the time he’s done, the room smells only of himself, of damp air and something earthy and heavy, alphan blood clotting and dried, with no trace left of the omega that had clung to his skin before.
He stares hard at the mirror, gripping the counter, rut-warmed breath fogging the glass.
This isn’t him.
He has been trusted by omegas, friends and neighbors, hells, even his one-time happy crush, at the worst of their heat. Scents all thick and heady and mesmerizing. When they needed someone steady, Dunk was there because all of them knew he’s safe and would not take advantage. He has stood guard, provided what they needed, and all of those times, he has kept an iron grip on himself.
So he doesn’t— no, he refuses to understand why his rut starts early— the implication of who and what Aerion Targaryen is to him.
His body temperature rises again, pupils dilating wide. Grunts at the blunt ache swarming at the base of his cock. He swallows three pills of his rut suppressants, knows enough of the compounds inside that he bites another half pill, to shorten the cycle. He stays there, head bent low, for how long the fog clears his mind full of Aerion, full of his cherried-pink lips, full of his underaged omega cunt.
Then with a temporary sound mind, he follows his routines as usual, thawing the red meat slowly at room temperature, then refrigerating them besides meal prep containers supposedly for training. Then a few more precautions of adding three more locks on the doors, the windows, and closing the curtains. He secures his own needs as best as he can in a short span of time, for an imaginary heated body he yearns to have writhing on his bed. Trying his best to keep himself together before biology works against him and the days worth of suffering begins.
Because inside flooding his head, flowing inside his very blood between muscles and bones, are the primitive urges to hunt him, his mate, his omega.
I barred the door from the outside just like u asked
9:00 AM | UNREAD . [ first day ] .
Give me updates
Not that kind of updtes yuck
15:08 | UNREAD . [ second day ] .
Me n honeybunch will bring u more food
17:10 | UNREAD . [ second day ] .
(The unruly omega growls like an alpha when he slides his cock along the shape of the boy’s cunt. He sinks through the folds, feels the velvet softness of the inner labia. The alpha teases the omega by drawing his hips back, smearing his own virile seed against the omega’s tiny cock. But Mate keens— no, alpha, inside— please, please— then he slowly pressures the tip, bullying past the size into a warm, tight hole— fucking into a loose gap of a pillow folded into half. He growls and rips all the cotton with his hands and teeth. Omega, omega—)
His rut is so violent and destructive, it leaves him lying on the floor during. He groans at the thought that he has to use what little he earns to buy a replacement futon. He ruins the scarf he has of the omega. Back then, he was gentle of what’s left with it, but his instincts told him that his omega is here, he's near, and the scarf no longer matters—
Dunk, u ok
It's been five days
This is Rowan btw, Rayray is worried
15:37 | UNREAD . [ fifth day ] .
(Mate whimpers, crying in sweet ah, ah, ah’s, slobbering saliva and tears down his rosy-tinted cheeks. And the alpha growls at the sight— at the intense dream— of black-blue bruises and possessive indents of teeth marring what once was smooth porcelain of skin. He thrusts his hips, gripping the petite waist beneath him, impaling the girthy length of his cock deep and slow, pushing and pushing through the tight, velvety walls. Not even caring how he molds the shape of his mate’s cunt into his monstrous size, stretched too wide to even spasm, feels all hot and pliant and tight as he pulls back, then plunging back in— into his fist— no, no— inside Mate, inside his omega—
Bliss wracks his whole body as he grinds his pelvis against the tiny decoration of a cock, practically a girl’s clit, that leaks pitiful beads of useless semen against the coarse sandy-brown hair of the alpha. He rams the head of his cock into another opening, tearing the omega’s womb anew— such a good pussy, my good omega— and watches the omega’s part his lips for a silent scream as he milks thick ropes of his seed— my bright little flame—)
It takes a full week for the rut to pass, another two days for him to clear the fog of fantasy, of lust and rage, overpassing the usual three days he has with the suppressants.
Just like the first time.
Dunk doesn’t even like Aerion. Not then, and not after.
He is too sharp-tongued, careless with anyone who is not himself. First quarter of the semester, and the boy has already built a reputation across the campus, from students in other departments to faculty, even the maintenance staff and security knows about his true colors. He is cruel to his fellow freshmen too, even dismissive of his seniors, and bold enough to challenge his professors.
A peculiar, little thing. Just five foot below-something but weighs too much evil. An unomega-like omega that’s far too proud for his own good.
Aerion looks harmless, Dunk admits. Quite adorable with his silver curls and soft angular features. He’s beautiful, always otherworldly no matter the lighting and angles, but it doesn’t take long to see past that.
And yet, none of that changes what the alpha in him keeps insisting that Aerion is.
Mine. As Aerion pours his strawberry matcha latte over a man’s blond hair, ice clattering against his scalp, soaking through an expensive white shirt. He blinks down at him, all doe and wide-eyed innocence, before setting the empty plastic cup on the man’s head like a party hat.
Mine. As Aerion sweeps a stack of paperwork and a hardbound thesis straight out the library window, dismissing it as wasted space on the shelves. The man beside him breaks into tears, scrambling outside to salvage what remains from the mud.
Mine. As Aerion does terrible, terrible things, and not once is he punished.
My omega. Mine, mine, mine.
His alpha hindbrain growls it all low and grating his nerves, annoyingly insistent, as Dunk refuses to admit that Aerion torments mostly alphas and occasionally, some betas who dare reach above their place.
They deserve it from touching what is mine—
It honestly makes Dunk’s teeth grind at how ridiculously cringey it is, because it makes him feel like one of those dark, possessive men from the smutty fantasy books Rowan likes to read out loud just to fluster Raymun, and by extension Dunk, then Rowan laughs at how adorably innocent they both are.
Sometimes he thinks he sounds just like them. A neuron-reducing idiot of an alpha who ought to wear furskin around his hips like a caveman hunting half-naked because he cannot, for the life of him, control his thoughts even with suppressants.
But the alpha in him never shuts the hell up. It keeps telling Dunk that Aerion is his. His, and no one else’s.
Claim omega.
Breed omega.
Hunt omega.
Gods above, why? Just… just why?
Dunk doesn’t even like Aerion Targaryen.
Across the way, Aerion sneers at a group of betas who ask if they might share his table. Whatever he says sends them off at once, looking frightened, quick on their feet. But… he’s adorable with his little pouty mouth pressed tight, cheeks squishy and biteable. The boy is obviously irritated, probably spouting real death threats that Dunk never doubts Aerion will do.
“The pretty ones are always temperamental,” Crakehall suddenly says, jogging up alongside Duskendale to the resting bench where Dunk is wiping sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt.
Dunk pretends not to hear him. He pops open his water bottle and gulps down mouthfuls, trying to ease the dryness in his throat. Though it does little for the other type of hunger that he can only satiate by sending both Crakehall and Duskendale permanently to the hospital and not the campus clinic.
He keeps enough wits about him to know that Coach Rhysling will not give him the time of day when they face Winterfell State University next week. So he pours cold water over his head, letting it trickle down to cool the red-hot rage rising in his head.
“Nose still buried in those damn thick books, huh?” Duskendale says, peeling off his own shirt as he sits down on the bench beside him.
“You both know him?” Dunk asks, the words slipping out of his mouth before he can stop them. He licks his lips out of habit not to snarl, runs a hand through his hair, shaking off the droplets of water.
“Unfortunately,” Duskendale mutters. “We used to be his playmates.”
His what now?
“We’re not even playmates,” Crakehall cuts in, rolling his eyes. “More like dogs to fetch him things. Seven help us, he acts like a princeling. A spoiled little brat.”
Dunk’s body tenses, and he breathes in and out, forcing himself to remember the soft timbre of Arlan’s voice. Lessons of true alphas— they respect others, they are kind— but their familiarity irritates him. What do they know about Aerion?
He glances at the boy again, and he feels calm, somewhat. At ease that he’s there safe, and alone. Not that Dunk thinks him lonely. After all, there’s always an air about him that seems to tell everyone that no one is worthy of his attention. Dunk is almost glad of it, because thinking of the two alphas beside him trying to approach Aerion now, despite their history, makes him want to lose all his morals.
For a moment, Dunk thinks he can let the conversation slide. He knows Crakehall’s reputation with women and omegas, and he is not blind to Duskendale’s either. They are just talking shit, nothing more, and Aerion is cruel enough that most would say he brings the backstabbing on himself.
People talk, Dunk. It’s normal.
Truly, the conversation should have ended there, but—
“I knew he’d be an omega,” Crakehall adds as they walk back into position, Coach Rhysling’s shouts carrying across the field.
Dunk stops short. “W… what?”
“Well,” Crakehall continues, glancing back at him, “Look at him. He’s always been that pretty. It’s only a matter of time before it showed.”
Dunk’s jaw tightens. “Showed what exactly? That supposed to mean something?”
“It means,” he says slow, drawing out the words, “someone like that… ends up where he belongs. On his back. Getting put in place by a real alpha.” Crakehall smirks like he’s explaining it to a child.
Duskendale snorts beside him. “Ain’t that the truth. Walking around like he owns the place, someone ought to remind him what he is.”
Dunk exhales slowly through his nose, fingers curling at his sides. “You all talk like you’ve got the right.”
Crakehall laughs under his breath, shaking his head at Dunk as if he’s joking.
“Oh, but I do. All alphas do...” Alphas such as you and me, Crakehall implied.
“It’s just the law that stops us, but you know what really happens behind closed doors, no? You don’t have to pretend to us, Dunk. Nature sorts that out for us.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking toward where Aerion has his back turn around at them in the distance.
“Bet he’ll learn quick enough once I get my hands on him.”
Duskendale nudges him. “Reckon he’ll cry?”
“Oh, he will,” Crakehall says easily, that same smirk pulling at his mouth. “His heats will make him beg for an alpha’s knot. It wouldn’t be easy knowing him. But he’s basically asking for it,” He huffs. “That pride of his needs breaking…”
Dunk doesn’t hear the rest of it as Crakehall jogs off to the opposite side, taking his place for the drill like nothing had been said. Duskendale stays just long enough to casually clap him on the back, before following after the younger alpha.
Every fiber of Dunk’s being strains toward the urge to bring them both down, driving the two alphas to heel with teeth and fists. He craves to feel blood spraying, ligaments tearing from bones and muscles ripped apart under his hands. His eyes narrow around their knees, their clavicles, their necks. Vision focusing on the skin covering the jugular vein, the carotid artery.
But Arlan is right, Dunk is more than his nature. He forces himself to breathe slowly, to think past the rush of blood, past Duskendale’s laughter and Crakehall’s intentions sharply echoing in his ears.
He’ll get suspended— fucking expelled— if he acts without thought now. He has to be smart. He has to think. He has to protect his omega without the punishment of possible consequences.
Kill him.
No, Dunk answers him, himself, jaw tightening as his nails bite into his palms. Too easy. Too quick. And far too merciful.
And so, his gaze zeroes in on the smug face of Roland Crakehall, blue eyes unblinking, feeling unhinged at the plans he makes in his head. This man is a threat to Aerion— to his omega, to his mate.
Dunk didn’t hesitate, never even second-guessed himself as Dunk brought him down to the dirt, face bruising into the grass. Makes sure his perfect white teeth bite through the soil just enough for Crakehall to feel the helplessness of being pinned, struggling, powerless—
You will never get your hands on him.
— and he repeats it again, and again— the others following his lead, that animal instinct of following the top predator to take down another. Captain Rhysling seems more than happy to see Dunk playing stronger than before and he lets Dunk slide with no warnings.
Crakehall isn’t able to play against Winterfell State University, nor any of the matches that follow. They call it a mishap, neck set in a brace, and both hands shaking a few weeks later. Says he’s too soft now for rugby anyway, no harm done as Dunk replaced him. Raymun stays by his side though, giving Dunk a sidelong look when it all plays out. Eh, Crakehall’s an ass anyway, Raymun shrugs. He doesn’t say any more words in the end.
Duskendale ends up with a knee, knees injury after slipping near the lockers. Hardying and Beesbury were with Dunk at the time, they saw nothing. Good riddance.
In the end, Dunk is made captain of the team. Nothing else lost.
After that, Dunk stops asking why it’s so easy to accept Aerion as his omega. His one true mate. It is what it is. There’s nothing he can do about it. His own biology works against him and he won’t fight it lest he become feral.
Of course, he refuses to lose control, but he’s not about to overdose himself in rut suppressants nor make himself immune to it; they cost almost half his monthly grants anyway. So he treats it like any other injury, easing up a dosage of exposure to Aerion and setting up routines to take his own fill of him. Although he’s honestly not satiated, he finds that he can settle himself watching from a distance and that he can manage himself at least.
A drug of an instinct that needs to protect and provide, mitigating the merciless ache to hunt and claim.
It’s enough for him to know that Aerion is safe, all while knowing the hypocrisy of the fact that Aerion is difficult and often the instigator of trouble. Even then, there’s a part of him he still refuses to acknowledge. A line that is far too gone if he ever dared to cross. Monstrous and primitive beyond that wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t even think, if another man so much as caught a trace of Aerion’s scent and let his mind wander where it shouldn’t—
Gods.
Dunk inhales slowly, dragging a hand down his mouth to wipe away the excess water from chugging down half a liter of water to somewhat ease the cracks in his throat and swallow two white pills of suppressants. He feels mad for it— no, downright insane, more like, for running through all these made-up scenarios in his head.
Though he understands that Aerion is still younger than him and any of his friends. But that doesn’t mean Dunk tolerates Aerion’s cruelty, especially when Tanselle complains about him being insufferable over something as small as a coffee order.
At times, Dunk wants to discipline him, to cuff him on the ear, set him straight (—bend the omega down on his stomach against the alpha’s thighs, chest bare. That slutty silky blouse bunched up on his armpits, soft puffy nipples start chafing against the fabric of his trousers. The boy struggles, defiant— count, sweetheart—and the poor omega refuses, until he does when the alpha toughen his blows, mewling the numbers with a choke, a little cry. The boy is steadfast on getting away from the force of his own calloused palms slapping against the globes of the omega’s ass but spreading him open, cotton panties sticky and soaked that it shows the undersides of his pretty cunt— be good for me—)
—Dunk shifts in his seat, sliding lower, knees knocking against the table, trying to make the thickening of his cock against his trousers less obvious. His hand goes to his neck, pressing over the scent-blocker patches, checking that it’s still there. The suppressants he just took still have a bitter taste at the back of his mouth. They should start working soon.
The professor keeps droning on about the completion requirements for their internship, but Dunk can’t seem to latch onto a single word—
Because teaching Aerion what respect even means, if he even knows it applies to other people, feels a bit… too much. Dunk heaves a sigh, frustrated at the fact that there is little guilt he has for thinking about Aerion that way.
He’s a brat. He’s mine.
Discipline him. Let him beg—
Now, he understands where the omega comes from. Aerion has to protect himself somehow (undeniably from alphas, the likes of Dunk and their unbridled thoughts); and being narcissistic and unbearably cruel that are opposite from the nature of omega traits, are ways he knows how. Or maybe that’s just what Dunk thinks, because it’s easier to bear. There’s no denying the omega can look after himself well enough.
But when he pushes too far, biting more than he can chew when he provokes the wrong— true nature of what makes them lesser than humans. Of boys being boys, of men being men… of alphas being alphas. Dunk finds himself there before he’s properly thought it through.
And he remembers the boundary that was crossed, that merciless ache of possessiveness—
(He was asking for it— the skin against knuckles rip when bone meets bone. Dunk clocks the other alpha in the jaw, hears a satisfying crack before his grip tightens. He hauls him up, feet barely touching the ground. Not minding the pain.)
(An omega should know his place— He slams another man’s head back against the alleyway wall. Fistful of faux blond hair shed from brown roots.)
(Why are you so concerned with that whore? He doesn’t even know you— And the man, rich enough to ruin Dunk, finds himself ruined in other ways instead. They all have a reputation after all, and it’s not that difficult to dig things up and let it spread with an innocent question to Rowan.)
—Dunk knows Aerion doesn’t care enough to question why those men end up beaten and bruised anyway, or why they are suspended from classes, weeks long gone with a bad reputation.
Dunk remembers the first day he made the decision to watch Aerion. He was wound tight, balancing study for prelim exams and oral revalida, then heading to five to eight hours of OJT four times a week, before going straight to rugby training until nine in the evening.
This should be easy, Dunk tells himself. He has done this before, stalked Arlan and watched him from a distance. He can keep the alpha in him quiet if he limits it to watching. That should be enough. He holds onto the fact that he gets to see Aerion Targaryen at all.
(It reminds him of Arlan finding him lying on an alleyway floor, hugging his empty stomach, before he decided to adopt him. The coincidence of them meeting, happening—)
He takes what chances he can get. But careful not to overstep; he only adjusts where he can, staying for a little bit longer, choosing certain routes; aligning his own schedule, busy as it is, where it happens to match Aerion’s.
It’s not even a difficult task to do so. As part of the student committee volunteers, Dunk helps sort through schedules. There are rules and agreements that aren’t meant to be broken. But he tells himself this is not the same since he’s not going to leak anything nor will he tell anyone lest they do what he does. He only notes where Aerion tends to be, and makes himself useful in those same places.
Throughout all four years Dunk spends at KLU, there is no doubt in his mind that Aerion Targaryen is completely unaware of someone like him, someone who spent only a few months on campus as a freshman.
It doesn’t matter anymore that Dunk believes Aerion is his omega; there is a safe distance between them that he refuses to cross, because again, he doesn’t like Aerion, and he will not allow himself to be anywhere near him— he’s young, and you’re an adult, Dunk.
You’re still an alpha.
And probably to Aerion Targaryen, one Duncan Pennytree is no one at all — no, not probably, definitely a no one at all. If anything, Aerion can take one look at him and Dunk knows what Aerion thinks of sort of man he is…
Another alpha built for the savagery of violent sports. Big, loud-mouthed, and stupidly knot-minded jock, minus the popularity and the crowds of women. Not much else to him other than his strength and one-minded goal to win as per his contract.
Or the other sort of stereotype— him being a quiet, awkward hunchback wearing large glasses slipping down his nose, stammering over words when he has to speak. Dunk cannot quite argue with that one. He knows he’s not easy to talk to, socially-inept as he is. He lets his friends lead, loses his mind halfway through a sentence, thinking what to say next. An omega-frightened, knight-enthusiast introverted virgin geek.
Dunk knows he sort of fits both stereotypes. Mostly leaning to the latter, especially when majority of his time is off the field, nose buried in books rather than what his teammates often believed, nose buried in wet-slicked omega cunts. And he did meet Aerion wearing his glasses, although he’s wearing the official collared polo of the team with his number and last name.
But it’s not like Aerion will notice that. And hopefully, he doesn’t have to.
Dunk is in his final year as a student athlete on a Crownsland-DOST undergraduate scholarship, playing a sport Aerion has no interest in and has never once watched. He is working towards a degree in Sports Science, but it’s far from the dual degree in Biology and Literature, majoring in Literary and Cultural Studies, that Aerion takes.
So it makes sense really, that one such as Aerion Targaryen— who the gods have gifted with covetous beauty and the riches and cushioned by enough wealth and privilege to excuse his sadistic side and temper— doesn’t know him at all. As it should be.
Dunk doesn’t move in the same circles. He’s not part of Aerion’s extracurriculars, not the Theatre and Visual Arts Guild, nor the Varsity Debate Team. He doesn’t play tennis that well, or have the money to fence either, and he has never sat in on their board games of strategy like chess or GoG.
He’s also not part of any elite group that would give him a reason to speak to Aerion. Even in academics, they are far apart, despite Dunk’s good marks and his standing for latin honours. Although there was a time they were in the same hall for an annual research exposition, each recognised in different fields in the Department of Health-Allied Sciences. But even then, Aerion is a prodigy who stood on a level of his own. And Dunk, for all his height, still found himself looking up.
And in all his time working, as a barista, a cook, a librarian, and whatever else he could take on between classes and training and his OJT to earn a bit more on top of his monthly grant, Dunk adamantly refuses to speak to him because he knows too much. About the distance between them, the possibility of crossing and knowing how to insert himself, who to talk to—
He stopped pretending that Aerion is not his weeks ago; watching bit by bit alleviated the pressure of his instincts.
But it’s not right.
The stalking sits uneasily with him, and it isn’t even about the act itself or the knowledge that it’s wrong. Dunk keeps forcing that fact into his thick skull, trying to summon some sense of remorse. It’s unsettling because he feels no guilt, but he should be. He really, really should.
This isn’t right. He’s growing too attached, letting his imagination wander into a relationship that should never exist.
He knows he ought to feel it, and perhaps he’ll stop and it’ll overcome his nature as an alpha, but it doesn’t—
Just a glimpse, he tells himself. Just enough dosage to ease himself.
Just a quick glimpse—
Aerion is meant to be studying for a long examination for his combined Biostatistics lecture and laboratory, but Dunk knows he finished ten minutes ago. Now he’s reading the book of Aegon’s Conquest of Old Westeros. Dunk can see him through the narrow gap between the Westerosi history books, somewhere between F and H on the shelf, a leather-bound volume on the table. Aerion is reading with his eyes, before he reads it silently with his plush lips opening to whisper arguments and probably his own theories that Dunk can’t hear.
He has a two-hour shift rearranging books, and for one of those hours, Aerion usually has a free period— most often spent on the upper floors, occasionally at the ground level of the library, or out on the veranda near the campus gardens— (an info Dunk also makes use of by volunteering to maintain the off-limits grass field just to keep him within sight. From there, he watches Aerion idly bite at the straw of his iced, sour-sweet drinks, catches the faint flash of small fangs against plush, bow-shaped lips, and notes the way he only seems to finish books ranging from mystery thrillers or political fantasies, still with the same detached expression of reading academic books.)
Aerion heaves a sigh, running a hand through his silver curls, and Dunk can’t help but wonder what’s bothering him. Is it the test he has coming up too difficult? Is someone bothering him? Is the professor being impossibly strict? Is it a family matter?
When he accepted his fate of being Aerion’s alpha, Dunk started tuning both his ears to Rowan and Raymun whenever they started gossiping. There’s also that time where he pretends to work on the library computer, secretly searching for facts about the Targaryen family, knowing full well that Aerion is just shelves away from him. He doesn’t fully believe the gossip written in any of the articles, of course. But he reads them still, to get even scraps of what it’s like being part of Aerion’s life.
The chair scrapes against the tiles as Aerion stands up, stretching his arms above his head — gods above, he yearns to hold that waist. Dunk hears a faint gasp, pants tightening at the sound, when a shoulder blade creaks, probably the tension along his trapezius and latissimus dorsi relaxing under the stretch. Then Aerion settles back into his chair, focusing on the book again.
He watches nimble fingers line the edges of the paper, trace the serif-font printed words, circling the loops of his own writing. Pink-blushing knuckles and delicate bones in between the pages, lining the slit of the book— no— Dunk opens his mouth for a heavy breath as he imagines the pads of Aerion’s sweet-looking fingers dip inside his omega pussy.
Tracing the shape of his slit, pinching the chubby outer labia like a page on that book. His middle ringed finger slides in between, dipping inside slowly—
Then Dunk unconsciously leans over a pile of books on the cart he’s supposed to be organizing and—fuck, fuck— he knocks a few over. He crouches quickly to stack them back, heart hammering in his chest, butterfingers fumbling over the spines that keep falling from his hold.
When he straightens, he peers past the edge of the shelf, squinting, but Aerion is gone. The book lies closed on the table.
(And later that night, the book is not on the table, nor is it back on the shelf.
The faux-leather cover is damp with sweat where it lies on his stomach. Beneath its cover, inside the pocket where the checkout card sits, Dunk has written his own name. All capital letters and a touch too large that meet the lines, under the elegant cursive of Aerion Targaryen’s. The book is wide open, the same page where Aerion has stopped reading.
Dunk bites down on the hem of his undershirt as he jerks his cock off, grip too tight at the base. Where the other hand is molesting the book, thinking of softer folds, all syrupy-sweet and thick with slick. Blunt nails pressing in rough, carelessly digging between the deep crevices of the dry pages— of his omega’s wet pussy. Prying at the glue and stitches until its tightness begin to give, the binding loosening from his fingers— imagines the weight slicked and hot against his stomach is a boy, a pretty whiny omega. Aerion is spasming over the feeling of his callouses with a faint needy gasp, at the width of each digits, back arching as his palm and wrists get sprayed over a honeyed-sweet seed.
The omega whimpers his name, falling apart by mere fingers alone, but alpha can’t get enough, he needs more— he needs—)
He’s sick. He’s fucking sick.
Dunk is disgusted with himself, with how desperate he is to claim even the smallest things Aerion has touched. But he can’t seem to stop, the alpha within him is never satiated— he, himself, is not satiated—
(The sounds his omega will make, the tears the omega will give as he begs and begs— the alpha doesn’t stop, will never stop until he gets his fill— until the omega has a cute warm knot-belly, skin marked and bruised— evidently, undeniably from the inside and out, his—)
As long as he doesn’t hurt Aerion, he reasons with himself. As long as he keeps the safe distance. Aerion doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t have to know…
But when will it end? When will he stop?
Aerion is seventeen now. Dunk realises it when the clock strikes twelve. He’s still awake, taking a break from studying for a long test. Seventeen. He ignores the tightening in his chest at the number, at the age, thumping his head against the pages before burying himself back into studying.
The day comes and goes. Dunk has a full schedule, and Aerion is absent from all his classes.
When the day ends, he got his fill by watching reels and stories from Aerion’s mutuals of a gala, an after-party, using Raymun’s laptop. Then he finds himself stalking accounts of other family members, their official page, chuckling at the cute dragon-themed decorations in their hotel chains, for Aerion’s birthday and Halloween.
Daeron posted a picture of him. A toddler grinning wide, probably eight to nine. Aerion is missing a tooth, hugging a stuffed-toy fish. A happy little thing.
Dunk takes a screenshot before it’s deleted two minutes after it was posted, then he saves it to a hard-drive and prints it. Just a small four-inch picture he slips behind his cards and a few old memento-receipts in his wallet.
It’s been a month and a half since Dunk met him, though it feels like years. He learned a lot about him.
Aerion is an October Scorpio, he read from a page he tore out of one of Rowan’s magazines. Dunk acts like he doesn’t know when Rowan mentions the date to Raymun yesterday in the living room and how extravagant the celebration would be.
He thinks about giving him something for his birthday. Leave it on the parcel lockers, but decide against it. A booknook with dragons from famous Old Valyrian stories. Dunk isn’t really thinking when he’s making it all by hand. Aerion would probably throw it away, maybe even insult him for daring to carve them inaccurately. Dunk won’t give it to him anyway since it wouldn’t be right. Creepy of him to even make a gift from someone Aerion barely knows.
Gods. He’s seventeen now.
Seventeen. Seventeen.
A six-year gap, Dunk mulls over.
“So,” Rowan says, drawing the word out as she drops down beside him on the carpet and tosses a stack of magazines onto the table. “Anything you want to say about these coming back with pages missing?”
Dunk keeps his eyes fixed ahead, refusing to look at her because he can already hear the smirk in her voice. “You said you didn’t need them,” he mutters, fidgeting with a loose thread on his sock, winding it tight around his finger.
“I did,” Rowan agrees easily, leaning backward against the couch. “Did I say you could butcher them?”
Dunk shakes his head.
“You’re lucky I get these for free at work. They cost a lot, you know.”
He mumbles an apology and tries to stand, but Rowan catches his arm and yanks him back down.
“Ah, ah—sit,” she says, nudging his shoulder. “I’m not done yet.” She tilts her head, watching him a little too closely with her eyes squinting suspiciously.
“You got something to tell us?”
Dunk glances across the table where Raymun also sits on the floor, a book open in his hands, nodding along like he’s deeply invested. It’s a damn book about Analytical Chemistry. Raymun doesn’t even have any chemistry courses. Faker. His damn friend has no intention whatsoever of saving his so-called best bud, his words, from the interrogation of his own girlfriend.
“Look at me, Dunk,” Rowan says sweetly. “Rayray’s not gonna rescue you.”
Dunk sighs and finally meets her grin with a wary look, shifting on the carpeted floor and tugging at his pajama pants, at his socks, at the carpet.
“I thought you’re not interested in him?” she asks.
“About who?” Dunk replies too quickly, and his voice cracks just slightly.
Rowan hums, exaggeratedly rolling her eyes. “Oh, don’t be thick. You know exactly who I mean.”
Damn it, Dunk, he thinks, cursing himself for giving it away.
“Where did you put them, hm?” Rowan leans forward, wagging a finger. “Did you cut them up? Do some First Men voodoo shit with it? A little love spell, maybe?”
Dunk groans, flopping a hand over his face. “Rowan, really—”
“No, no, I know exactly what you did,” she interrupts, shaking her head dramatically.
“Let the alpha have a crush, babe,” Raymun finally chimes in, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s doing his friend a favor. Bit too late for that— wait, Dunk swishes his head at him, eyes narrowing. How did you know that?
“You hear that?” Rowan snaps her fingers at Raymun, grinning. “Even my love-bun knows what I’m talking about.”
Raymun snorts, finally looking up from his book. “Please, he’s been admitting it. Just not out loud. Seven, Dunk, of all people— you fall for a twink who’s a basically evil reincarnate.”
Dunk frowns, cheeks heating. “I… I don’t! I have not!”
“You literally growled his name in your sleep,” Raymun says, grinning now. “Loud enough I thought you were dying. Turns out you were just—” He motions his hand up and down vulgarly, jerking the air off.
Unbelievable.
Dunk stares at him, incredulous. “You’re one to talk. I’ve heard everything through the walls. My ears are violated, Raymun. Violated.”
Dunk vaguely remembers Raymun screaming from whatever Rowan is doing to him, inside their room. A room next to his. He scrunches his face, recalling the blunt punching ache of the bruise on his own thigh from bumping into something, he wants ice the bruise but he doesn’t want to stay further, pivoting too quickly and bumping himself again at the edge of the kitchenette counter.
“Don’t try to change the subject, Dunk.”
“I’m not.” Rowan clicks her tongue, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I’ll not let you leave until you tell us,” she warns and Dunk does nothing but heave a long, tired sigh.
He leans back against the foot of the couch, glancing at Raymun who’s smirking over the rim of his book, shaking his head in mock pity.
“Come on, man.”
You’re not going to like this, Dunk thinks.
“Alright… let’s start from the beginning,” Dunk mutters finally, bracing himself. “Back when I was seventeen…”
They’ve got drinks set on the table, mostly the cheap teas and black coffees Rowan gets for free from her internship.
Dunk watches Raymun’s expression shift, from grinning to horrified disgust, while Rowan simply nods at him, urging him to go on. She shoots her boyfriend a sharp look when he starts to fake a gag when Dunk mentions how he’s losing himself over every little thing Aerion touches.
But Dunk knows his friend enough that his teasing stops and Raymun gives him a look of genuine disbelief.
“So… Crakehall and Duskendale wasn’t about justice then, it was about… your own possessiveness?” he says more as a statement.
“Yeah,” Dunk admits.
He does care about anyone speaking vilely about an omega, but it just happens to be Aerion that he’s gone to the extreme with. He knows he could have handled it better, thought things through like he usually does. He wants to explain, but the words won’t come.
“I have nothing to say—” Raymun cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s just… it’s fucked up, man. I mean, wow— just wow. Jerking off is private, but Seven, Dunk, you… you’ve hurt people.”
Dunk feels too ashamed to answer.
“I think it’s sweet. Aerion has a protector he doesn’t even know.” Rowan comforts Dunk, patting him on the shoulder. “But Rayray is right, Dunk, what you did is really fucked up.”
Don’t I know that?
“You need to get laid, man.” Raymun shakes his head. “Like actual sex… with an actual woman, or man, or beta or whatever the fuck you fancy.” Then he leans forward, hands all over the place. “You have to burn off some of those alpha instincts somewhere else. You can’t just lurk over an underaged omega like some creep, and punch people for having the same thoughts as you— gods, Dunk—”
“I can’t,” Dunk says, his voice low, almost thin at the thought of touching someone else. “It feels like I’d be betraying him.” He winces at how that sounds, even to his own ears.
Raymun rolls his eyes. “Betraying him? You’re fucking serious? Aerion doesn’t even know you, mate. And for God’s sake, he’s seventeen—!”
“I know that!” Dunk exclaims. “I know.” He drags a hand over his face. “God… he’s seventeen, and I’m…”
He trails off, then drops his head into his hands with a rough groan.
“So you’re saying that you’re still a virgin?” Rowan asks. Dunk doesn’t answer, but the silence already speaks volumes.
Raymun sputters, “You’re still a virgin? What the hell do you even do when Tans asks you to come over for her heat?”
“That kinda makes sense,” she continues, ignoring Raymun. “Virgin alphas tend to be more possessive, you know? The lack of experience amplifies the need to control, to protect, even when it’s not rational. It’s like the brain thinks, if I can’t have them yet, I’ll guard them obsessively because no one can touch what’s mine grrrrrr, and all that alpha growling stuff. It’s more biological, you know better than me when it comes to that, more psychological though. But completely natural.”
Natural. Dunk looks at his healed knuckles. He recalls the untethered violence. His fascination with weak points, of arteries and veins flowing with blood, muscles attached to bones. The hunger afterward, the peak of lust, his possessiveness. There’s even a push to better himself, to study harder, the spike of inspiration… a never-ending ego that all alphas have, beating every part of his head that he truly tries to humble—
Is he still himself?
Is this natural?
Is it natural to want a mate over someone so young?
Why does it have to be him?
Why couldn’t it be Tanselle? Or Rohanne?
Why does it have to be Aerion?
“Are you waiting for Aerion to at least be twenty?” Rowan adds.
“Well, that’s a bit predatory, no? Waiting for him—”
“I’m not waiting for him!” Dunk cuts Raymun off, growling. But then he backs off just as quick. “I just… I just want to ease the alpha within me.” Though every fiber of him screams the opposite. Waiting and waiting for Aerion, for something. He presses his palms to his thighs, digging his fingers into the fabric, trying to ground himself. “It’s not like I’ll pursue him.”
“We,” Rowan glares at Raymun, “know you have good intentions, Dunk,” she consoles.
“Psh, good intentions. He literally jerks himself off at a seventeen-year old.”
“Raymun!”
Dunk is looking down at his hands, jaw tightening. He honestly doesn’t really know what to say, he’d already done what he did and he already said what he said. The two continue to argue, they rarely do... Dunk feels guilty somehow for being the cause of it, but he still doesn’t find it in himself to feel any guilt for what he has done.
“I… I don’t regret it.” Truly, he doesn’t. “I know you probably think I’m a creep— a big, dumb alpha obsessing over an omega. Fine. Call me that. But he’s mine. And I’ll do what I have to… to keep him protected, and safe… even from…” he stops, blinking his eyes, “…from myself.”
Then silence.
Thoughts are just thoughts. He’s not doing anything untoward to Aerion, he wills himself not to every day. He can control himself. He’s not a—
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Dunk,” Rowan says softly, easing his fists open like she’s trying to pry apart a bear trap. “We… I know you have enough control to stop yourself. You’re not like other alphas…”
Not like other alphas…
“I know you feel guilty for what you’re doing, and I know you’ll continue to manage yourself without harming Aerion. You don’t have to prove to anyone that you’re a good person,” she continues, holding both his hands gently. “Omegas trust you for a reason, Dunk. They asked for you to guard their doors during their heat, deliver their food— so I know, I do know you won’t cross any lines.”
Rowan gives a knowing look at her boyfriend. Raymun raises both his hands in defeat before sighing.
“Look, Dunk… I’m sorry. You know how I get with… you know,” Raymun adds, rubbing the back of his neck, sheepish.
“I know you’re a good person too,” he says, and Dunk meets his friend’s eyes. He can’t tell if Raymun is trying to convince him or himself. “It’s just… I’ll need time to process this, but… yeah, we’re good.”
Dunk breathes in heavily through his nose.
Raymun excuses himself, heading straight for his room, leaving Dunk alone with Rowan. She stays for a moment, chatting about how her tea has gone cold, mostly talking at him about anything. She tries to lighten the mood, teases him. Dunk appreciates but he honestly still feel shit. Rowan smiles, pats his arm reassuringly, then follows Raymun to their room afterwards.
Dunk stays a little longer, methodically cleaning the mugs left on the table. He lathers the dish soap carefully, scrubbing each one before setting them aside to dry.
A glance at the wall clock tells him it’s ten-thirty. He retreats to his room, changes his pajama pants for running ones, slips on his hoodie, and takes his keys and phone. He closes the door softly behind him and locks it, then takes the stairs instead of the elevator.
The November night air bites at his cheeks as he runs, tracing the perimeter of the dormitory complex then leaving to run around the sports division. The campus is quiet, almost empty, save for a few other students jogging along their routes. Dunk keeps to the pavements leading towards the gardens, mind numbingly empty and alert, pacing himself.
He did a few laps around the gardens, tracing the oval path around the pitch, then circles back toward the dormitory complex. Dunk doesn’t bother counting kilometers or measuring how often he takes the longer routes. Eventually, his run eases into a jog, then slows further until he comes to a stop beneath a familiar oak tree.
He tilts his head back, eyes fixed on the top floor, the heavy black curtains of the fifth window drawn close.
Don’t think too much about what Raymun says, he’s not an alpha, so he doesn’t understand that it’s different for you.
Aerion must be studying, Dunk thinks. He doesn’t really know what goes on behind those closed quarters— he never ventures inside the building where students pay extra for a bit more comfort and privacy. Even though he’s technically allowed in as a student committee volunteer, able to make excuses about checking for repairs or sorting papers—
You’re a good alpha, Dunk. It’s okay that you let yourself indulge a little bit.
— but he doesn’t, doesn’t need to see; just knowing Aerion is there, safely tucked away in that little private world Dunk refuses to abuse, is enough. He turns away, knowing he can get his fill tomorrow, when Aerion takes his usual hour on the veranda near the pitch, likely with another new book—he just finished The Woman in White earlier, after all…
You’re genuine to what you want, Dunk. Do what your heart tells you to.
Because he’s a good man. A true alpha.