Chapter Text
The Wyld Wyrm, the best - no, the hottest place for men on their last night of freedom before being tied down to someone for the rest of their mortal lives.
They had everything a bachelor could need on his final night, women, men, music - drugs, alcohol, rubbers and toys if that was what they required. Catering primarily to the rich, first and foremost, their prices skyrocketing during peak seasons - nothing that happened in Wyld Wyrm would make it into the papers the next day. That was how it was supposed to be.
The names of their dancers and the services they provided were kept under lock and key, no one had ever been recognised.
Most went by stage names, it was an industry standard. Most of the women chose sweet names, Kandy, Roxy, Crystal - just to name a few, whilst the men… they went with Brock and Jock, and anything that made them simply sound like a sack of meat - empty upstairs, and all of their worth being in their body.
It was a sexist job, but Daeron for one — didn’t care if people saw him as just a pretty face.
“Daeron, you’re up. Bachelor party requested you by face.”
The Madame was a — pleasant woman, a little rough around the edges but many a business owner was. She paid her staff well, offered days off without hesitation and even hired bouncers on nights that were prone to rowdiness.
Which, for them, was a Sunday.
The supposed day of rest, but in reality the day the nasty little freaks came out of the woodwork to play.
“I just love horny men who are about to be wed.” The lie rolled off of his tongue like sticky honey, he almost believed it himself it was that sweet to the ears.
Almost.
“They’re going to throw wads of cash at you, babe,” the familiarity was odd, she rarely called anyone anything besides their name, “don’t fuck it up.”
As if he could. It was dancing, ripping off his clothes and potentially giving someone a happy ending. It required very little brain power and as long as the music was good enough to move his hips, he could do it all with his eyes closed.
… perhaps one day he’d have to try that and see how far he gets.
“Remember, doors open in ten.”
Ten minutes to ready himself for a night of handsy men, and by the sounds of it, the same men for his entire shift.
At least he doesn’t work in the family business anymore, that — would’ve been enough to make any man a drunkard. At least here, the drinks were cheap and he had fun.
“At least answer me one question.” Daeron called out before the door of his dressing room could be opened. “Glittery body oil, or normal?”
He didn’t care much for the answer, they both smelled the same - of sugary vanilla and cream, but she knew more of what men liked to see on stage. He just knew what he liked to see in the audience.
“Glittery, and wear the suspenders too.”
If he was to wear the suspenders, he’d treat himself to the little black bow, too. The white rip-away shirt and black slacks hid enough of him to conceal what lay beneath. But the bow and suspenders? He had to give the boys something to remember before the fun began.
⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡
Valarr didn’t want to marry Kiera, he didn’t want to be the one to take over his fathers law business when the time comes, he didn’t want all of the responsibility thrust upon his shoulders when all he wanted was freedom.
But Valarr Targaryen couldn’t have freedom, could he?
No, of course not! He was Baelors eldest and had been given too many responsibilities from a young age, to shape him into a level headed leader - a man who did what was needed of him, not what wasn’t.
“Do we have to go to Wyld Wyrm?” Valarr whined, like a child rather than a man engaged.
His younger brother, by only three years, looked at him with a look of pure annoyance. Matarys had been charged with the position of best man, and with all of the research he’d done, he had come to the conclusion that on a man’s last night of freedom, they were taken to a strip club… he just had no idea that the Wyrm offered much more than just that.
Blessed by innocence, and charged with being a good brother, Matarys did what was expected.
He had time to learn yet, for his own wedding in a few years time. At least he was being exposed to such a scene with people that were trusted…
And Aerion.
“Yes. Yes we do, Valarr. I’ve paid already and they have a no money back if cancelled in a twenty four hour window. There’s an hour left before your time. That’s … negative twenty three hours!”
Maybe if he feigned illness? No… that hadn’t worked since he was in primary school and every time the fire alarm went off he’d be the boy who cried sickness.
“Make him wear the nice cologne, the one Uncle Baelor got him for Christmas.” Aerion called out from the bathroom, the stench of his own cologne was close to suffocating those in close range to him.
One thing that every Targaryen was, was pleasant smelling, not a single one stank of anything remotely unpleasant, and that included those who didn’t want to be associated with the rest.
“Where was it that Daeron worked, again?” Valarr asked, hoping he wouldn’t see the man who had stolen his heart as a child and had refused to give it back.
Of course, Aerion knew, of course, Steffon knew too.
They knew that Valarr wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself should he be face to face with Daeron in all of his glory. They knew that it was a risky game to play, too, they had nothing to lose.
“White Stag.” Aerion said.
“Black Boar.” Steffon said.
Two heads turned to glare, eyes carving holes into skin that was otherwise unharmed.
“He works somewhere that has an animal in the name,” Aerion covered, taking control of the conversation as he usually did, the calmness of his voice wasn’t out of necessity but to create a false sense of calm. “But not the Wyrm, cousin, I promise.”
Aerions promises cost very little to give out and were worth less than the dirt on the bottom of his shoes.
All Aerion and Steffon needed was a little ounce of blind familial faith to get Valarr through the door and quick hands to pull Matarys out of there before he saw too much of his elder cousin Daeron.
“Okay- fine, fine! I’ll stop… complaining?”
Valarrs words fell on deaf ears as the four men piled into the rented four door Porsche. Matarys had wanted a limousine and Valarr wanted to drive himself there and back so the Porsche was a compromise.
Not a very good one, but a compromise nonetheless.
⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡
As the lights dimmed, Daeron - or rather, Brock as other dancers knew him as, made his way into position. The thick black curtain that would come tumbling down in mere seconds was like a security blanket, wrapping him in a false sense of comfort. He was used to this, the feeling of anticipation. He was used to feeling his heart in his throat and the music where his beat should be.
He wasn’t used to not knowing who sat behind the curtain though. The Madame had said the gentlemen had been running late, and he wasn’t able to catch a glance as he walked past the one gap in the curtain.
The others, Daeron knew, would be talking about this for days to come. It wasn’t often that people were chosen weeks in advance, the rarity seemed to only be attached to the veteran dancers, those who had put in the work to earn such a feat but Daeron? He just did this for fun money, and to be gawked at for an hour or six every night.
As the air gushed around him at the same time the curtain fell, he began his dance. Hips swaying - no - gyrating, thrusting occasionally, in time to the beat, it was like the music had taken over his body and left his mind behind.
Perhaps it was a good thing that his back was still to his watchers, he was warming up as much as he was warming them up, too.
Whistles and cheers spurred him on, giving him the encouragement he needed to turn around, and as he did - he momentarily froze.
In the front four seats, sat his brother Aerion, Steffon Fossoway and his two cousins.
One of which, had hands covering his eyes the moment he realised who was dancing before them.
”Shake that ass Daeron! Hell yeah!”
Of course, Aerion found humour in everything, he was probably the one who had set them all up, Daeron just knew it.
A few bills were thrown in his direction as Aerion got up to leave, dragging a still blind Matarys along behind him.
“Shows not over yet, keep going!”
Daeron seriously didn’t know what he had done to deserve such a thing. Steffon and Valarr still remained but he wasn’t sure for how much longer.
His hands went to his knees, his mind trying its hardest to blur out the face of his cousin who moaned so beautifully into his ear all those years ago, but it wasn’t working. It was having the opposite effect.
All he could picture was his cousin moaning beautifully into his ear and it was evident in his hardening cock.
The slacks went flying behind him, leaving him in a dark red jockstrap which… truly left very little to the imagination. Next, came his shirt- which made the most wonderful ripping noise as clasps broke, the sound of the suspenders snapping against his skin broke through the music.
“Is… he wearing nipple covers?”
Black x’s hid the pinkness of his nipples, but did nothing to hide the hardness of them.
Valarr found it strange, the room was suffocatingly hot but Daeron looked cold. Goosebumps must’ve covered his entire body, head to toe — until he noticed how said goosebumps shifted every time Daeron moved.
It was glitter, it had to be. It was the only thing that made sense.
”He’s wearing glitter the little slag. Oh, Valarr you are one lucky man.”
Daeron barely registered Steffon Fossoway leaving, he was too focused on his job, on the music, on not trying to internally implode and ruin a nice outfit, if it could even be called that.
He knew he needed to descend the steps and straddle Valarr soon, he knew he needed to touch his hair, caress his face- feel him beneath so very little clothing, he needed to get it over and done with so he could shower and leave early.
He knew…
The strength in his legs had not yet left him like it had his mind, they moved on their own, navigating the mess of the bills scattered so carelessly on the stage with practiced ease.
It was as if he’d done this before.
One step, two steps- three steps later, he could smell Valarr’s smoky cologne, he could almost feel the heat radiating off of him like a freshly stoked fire.
This whole thing was real and Valarr didn’t seem to be fighting it at all.
”Are you ready, baby?” Daerons sultry tone shocked even him as the words came from his lips with ease.
Daeron watched as Valarr gave him a meek, barely noticeable nod of the head, yet again allowing his legs to move on autopilot, straddling him as if there wasn’t a wedding in a few days, as if their history was merely a blip in time, as if —
As if Valarr hadn’t been his first and only love.
”Hard for me already? I haven’t even touched you yet.” This time, it was Valarr who spoke, lighting a fire beneath Daerons soul.
Yet he didn’t touch. His hands remained glued to the armrests, his eyes did all the searching he needed and when he could no longer search Daerons face with it buried into his shoulder, he searched the mirror in front of him - watching as the best night of his life played out in full view.
Grinding had once come easy to Daeron, but now he was self conscious. His movements were slow and purposeful, he didn’t want to do a single thing that made him look like one of the horny men he was complaining about before.
… But he was, just another horny man when it same to Valarr.
”Fuck this.” A near silent whisper came from Valarr, whose hands had found their way to Daerons hips, fingers pressing into his skin - hard enough to leave bruises come morning.
“I want to fuck you, Daeron. One last time.”