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"Daeron," A voice calls from behind, said owner of the voice casts a shadow that's closer to that of a tree over the blonde sat upon the grass patch. "Daeron Targaryen?"
Violet eyes, slightly reminiscent of a dark blue, look up at the man and immediately widen in surprise. Whatever red-tinted concoction in a clear cup Daeron seems to be drinking gets spat out. "Seven—What the fuck did they feed you?"
"Lots of oat meal," The giant, copper-headed, eyes blue like the sea and the skies above, deadpans. "You're Daeron, right? Professor Lannister shoved us together on a dual project, and since you weren't in the room when she said this she sent me out here to get you. I wanted to know—,"
"If I wanted in, if I'm going to pull my weight," Daeron finishes, smirking.
"Well, yes. That."
"Do not worry, my friend, you're talking to the God of dual projects and presentations," Daeron slurps his drink obnoxiously as he rises, clumsy on his feet, grabbing onto the man's arm for leverage. "We're gonna do just great. I just don't like that annoying tw—beautiful woman, yes."
The other's eyes study him, searching for a glimpse of honesty behind the pretense, and his words seem to be enough to make him relax. He wrings his arm out of Daeron's grasp, then shoves his hands in his bag and pulls out a sheet of papers with the contents to research and prepare for their presentation. There's… a lot, and Daeron feels himself getting sick just at first glance.
He ignores that, guessing he'll shove it down later. "What did you say your name was?"
"Duncan, but I'm Dunk to my friends," He responds, studying Daeron for a second longer. "I wrote down my number on the back of one of the papers so, yeah, text me so we can work on the project… Sooner we get it done, the better."
"Okay, Dunk," Daeron nods, pulling a face as he shows off the sheet of papers before filing them into his bag. "I'll reach out soon, hm?"
"Hm."
Daeron watches as Dunk walks away, his chest sinking as the weight of responsibility bears down on him—he needs another type of refreshment.
Tanselle walks into the living room with a charcuterie board, curated beautifully—she's been going to those classes, the ones she pays too much for—and presented for everyone to gawk at. Rowan takes a thousand pictures, Raymun claps, and Dunk… well, he hums in approbation, earning a small smile from her.
They sit down to eat and share a drink, as they do most weekends, and they've got Roman Holiday playing on the TV, due to a small tradition they've made of watching movies together.
"Have you told Raymun, Dunk?" Tanselle asks, halfway through eating a piece of cheese.
Raymun frowns. "Tell me what?"
"He's making friends with a Targaryen."
Dunk groans, he's sat on the carpet, his body too large to share the couch with the three friends, and tilts his head back. "Making friends is a reach," He says, tilting down the beer he's been nursing since the movie started. "We're paired on a project together, that's all."
Raymun, suddenly serious, mutters, "They're never good news, Dunk."
"Raymun—please, bro, you can't seriously believe those fairy tales."
"The whole damn family is cursed!" Raymun insists, leaning forward. "Being around them just brings misfortune."
Rowan sighs. "He worked the orchard the past weekend, that's why he's this grumpy," She nudges at Raymun with her shoulder, trying to soothe him. "Dunk's forced to do this, aye? Leave him alone about it."
Raymun gives it up, settling back into the couch to watch the movie in silence.
Dunk, however, can't let go of his friend's warnings—Raymun has been on the hatred train for the Targaryens since Dunk met him, apparently his family has some history with them, but mainly he's haunted by the stories people pass from generation to generation about ancestors and bloodlines and the things they've done to preserve their name, to keep themselves intact. Stories told to signify power, strength, though they make Dunk sick.
He thinks about it a few mornings down the line when, while brushing his teeth, his phone pings with a message notification from Daeron.
It's simple enough; just asking Dunk if he's free to come around the house so they can start working on the project, spewing his own words back at him about the sooner, the better. He wants to ask Daeron if they could meet somewhere more public, somewhere in the middle, but they're not at that level of friendship, nor will they ever be—Dunk's thumb hovers over his keyboard for a good minute, then he types out his response.
Duncan: sure xx send me the address?
When Daeron does he feels bad about not pushing back on the invitation.
He's located in a private estate a bit far from campus and Dunk's apartment, edging close to the country-side. Dunk didn't expect any less, truth be told, but he'd kind of hoped for Daeron to have his own place—adulthood and all, you know—in the city.
Still, he sends back a thumbs up, telling Daeron he'll come by in the afternoon.
No buses run that far, so the furthest Duncan gets is a few stations away from there, and it takes him a while to find an Uber who's operating. The ride is relatively cheap, he asks the man to just stop at the gate as he pulls his phone out to announce to Daeron he's upfront. The scent of pure oxygen mingled with the rain and the mud lingers in the air, everything is kept green, pure and well-polished. The front gate has an engraved three-headed dragon on the black metal, it sends a slight chill down Dunk's spine before it creaks open.
Daeron is waiting for him by the entrance to the house, nimble fingers wrapped around a glass of what seems to be alcohol, though it's kinda early. He's dressed like his usual wanna-be-hippie self, a stark contrast against the darkness of the mansion behind him.
"Welcome, Duncan, to the humble Targaryen home."
"I've seen better." Dunk jokes, or attempts to do so, at least. Daeron smiles, stepping aside in favor of leading him indoors.
The inside of the home is no different to the outside, save that indoors there's no vines with dark red leaves among the walls; the theme remains, though. Everything, from the walls to the carpet and then to the doorknobs, is black and red. Paintings that Dunk slightly recognizes from Rowan's posts on Instagram and her art books are strung up on the walls, making him wonder if they're original. His eyes land on Saturn eating his son perched in the corner of the living room.
"Oh, that," Daeron mumbles, mindlessly. "Father's quite the art collector."
"Is it the real one?"
"I don't think I know the answer to that. Come on, I'll show you around."
More art lines up the dark walls of the house, then come the medieval weapons, the armors perched in the corners, themed after their own home, clearly. Family pictures too, portraits and collections of medals behind glass.
There's a portrait in the hallway adjacent to the living room of a beautiful woman with sun-kissed skin and a violet dress, similar to Daeron's eyes in shade—her hair drapes across her shoulders in heatless curls, natural and dark. Dunk stares at her, her intense eyes and her high cheekbones, while his hand grips his own backpack. There's an inscription below the golden frame, Dyanna Dayne-Targaryen, it reads. Dunk feels an ache settle in his ribs at the recognition, the awareness—It's Daeron's mother, and she doesn't seem to be around anymore.
Movement from behind makes him jump a bit, and he's expecting to see Daeron, who'd ran off to get him something to drink, but that's not who's hiding behind him.
It's a boy, younger, tinier. Maybe far too tiny.
His head is colored a brighter silver than Daeron's, not quite white but something close, more so in the sunlight. It seems to be genetics, Dunk guesses, because his eyes are a brighter, more vivid lilac, his mouth curls on a smirk, fangs peeking from the pink lips. His cheeks are rosy and he's wearing a school uniform, all messed up and form-fitting, with his green tie loose and his button up out of the helm of his slacks.
Dumbly, Dunk just says, "Uh—,"
"Beautiful, wasn't she?" The boy steps forward, placing himself beside Dunk, their arms are almost brushing. "She died of cancer when I was a kid."
Dunk's about to express condolences when Daeron returns, he's holding his glass, now full again, and another with some sort of juice—his face twists into annoyance and something else as he spots the younger boy next to Dunk. "Aerion," He grumbles, rushing towards them, he eyes the portrait for a second but not too long. "What did father say about behaving around strangers?"
"Oh, he was doing nothing wrong."
The kid—Aerion, Dunk knows now—bites his lip, still smirking. "You heard him? I did nothing wrong, besides, father said that about street strangers, Daeron."
"Scram, go now," Daeron pushes him away, inching him towards the end of the hallway. "We have to work, so go to your room."
"Stop fucking touching me, Daeron! I'll tell father!"
Aerion fights him until they're out of view, then Daeron returns flushed and winded, guiding Dunk towards the other side of the house where his room seems to be.
The project is easy enough, so much so that they fall onto a flow that feels far too smooth for two people who've never worked together in anything before. Daeron's room is so different to the rest of the house, there's vibrant colors and a swing hung from the ceiling, posters of bands Dunk recognizes because of Arlan and a gigantic connection of vinyls. A CD rack, too, and a CRT with a few VHS thrown at random on the floor beneath it. There's guitars, a bass and a keyboard too, which makes Dunk want to ask Daeron about music.
Daeron's nice, which makes the voice in the back of Dunk's head that sounds a bit too much like Raymun grumble and complain, but he can't lie—Daeron's really nice.
He's funny, too. There's a sad expression behind his eyes he can't shake off, but he makes up for his somber looks with his quick wit and his dry one-liners. Dunk thinks he likes Daeron, and he could see himself as his friend, which feels like betrayal. But maybe they could share a pint, exchange grievances and laugh at random stuff they find stupid about their shared classed, it wouldn't have to be as deep as what he has with his friends at home.
Dunk clears his throat, somewhere along the past few hours a maid came around with a platter of bites of food, so he's full and content. "That boy downstairs," He starts, flipping through textbook pages. "He's your brother, I assume?"
"Sadly," Daeron sighs, but he's smiling. "Aerion—he's quite the problem child, which is why I got scared for a bit."
"He's too tiny to cause problems," Dunk chuckles. "How come he's so feared?"
Daeron chuckles too, but then his face changes; it turns more serious, a bit shadowed. "He can be quite the monster," He murmurs, biting his tongue to not speak too poorly of the boy, it seems like. "He's sixteen, I get it, I was sixteen once too—but just last summer he almost gave my father a heart attack with the hell he raised, and he won't calm down."
He shouldn't ask, he knows this—Dunk's better than this, but the curiosity claws at his throat, it itches. "Wh—what happened last summer?"
"I should not talk about this," Daeron puts his work down, the pencil taps against his knee in a nervous rhythm. "It can't leave this room, alright? It's a legal mess, and all that, so—not a word to anyone else."
"Not a word, mate. Promise."
Daeron nods, trusting. "Well, that school he goes to now… he had to transfer there, he used to go to Ashford, you know it?" He asks, humming as Dunk gives a weak nod—he's heard of it, a high school for rich kids, or something—then he continues, "Right, so, one afternoon my father gets a call about an urgent meeting with the school council for something related to Aerion, he panics, runs out of the house…"
Soft footsteps outside of the room make Daeron stop, he waits a few seconds until they fade away, then he resumes his storytelling, "Uh, where was I? Oh—yeah, my father runs to the school, his golden child has been harmed, he's going to kill someone. He's in that meeting for hours, genuinely, and when he comes back home it's with Aerion in tears and the family lawyer arrives shortly after. Long story short, 'cause it is fucking long, one of Aerion's teachers ended up charged with sexual misconduct and tossed into the sex offender lists over supposedly having molested my younger brother."
Dunk exhales, suddenly upset, at that monster and Daeron, who doesn't seem bothered by any of that. "And? Where's this even leading? He's a child, he was ra—assaulted, Daeron."
"Please," Daeron rolls his eyes, rising to his feet. "It's Aerion. The reason why it took an entire firm to even make a case in his favor is because he was probably upset the man didn't want to fuck him in the first place, Duncan."
"You said he was charged and put on the lists, Daeron."
Daeron puts a finger up, "Supposedly," He echoes. "That's what I said—he supposedly touched my brother. There was no actual proof of him having done it."
Dunk frowns, confused, bewildered. "Why would Aerion lie about that?"
"Because it's how he gets his kicks, how he has his cruel fun," Daeron shrugs. "Ruining people's lives, making everyone's day-to-day impossible—that's what he does, what he's done ever since our mother died. I'm surprised he didn't call the cops on you for intruding."
"It makes no sense," Dunk huffs. "Why would someone admit to something so horrid when they haven't done it?"
Daeron grins, it sends a cold shiver down Dunk's spine, he tilts his head as he looks at Dunk weirdly. "You don't know a thing about our family, do you, Dunk?"
"No," Dunk admits, swallowing past the lump on his throat. "People's people to me, I make no difference between anyone."
"Lucky man. I'm gonna go refill our cups, don't go out of the room."
Dunk takes that very seriously, he doesn't exit the room until it's time to go home.
He fights Daeron downstairs for a bit because he insists on having the family driver take him home and Dunk doesn't want to be a bother, to which Daeron just rolls his eyes and claps him on the shoulder, then he runs off with a mutter about fetching someone called Roland, leaving Dunk to his own devices right by the front door.
Aerion shows up again, much to his luck, and he's dressed down from the uniform, now sporting a white tank-top and a pair of shorts, which are maybe a tad bit too short.
Dunk doesn't mean to stare, he's no deviant, he's a grown man with tastes fitting for his age, but Aerion's hips sway as he walks, much like a model's, and he has slender legs that look soft and hairless. His stomach is pale, littered by tiny moles, and he's all slender and slim, quite fitting for someone his age. Sixteen, Dunk reminds himself, Aerion is sixteen, stop gawking. The young Targaryen doesn't seem to mind the eyes in the back of his head, though, he's got his nose buried in his phone, typing away furiously, and the things Daeron talked about upstairs all swim to the surface the moment Aerion bends over the back of the couch to reach for the remote lodged between the cushions.
Dunk glances away as the red fabric of Aerion's shorts rides up, his hold on the straps of his backpack tightens, fabric squeaking.
"Here he is," Daeron returns, pushing Duncan out of his misery, an older man follows in tow, he's dressed neatly and elegantly. "Roland will drive you home, don't worry about it, 'kay? You're a good man, Dunk, and this is nothing."
A good man. I'm ogling your underage brother, Daeron. "Right, thanks. You're too kind."
"Same time next week? We got until the end of the month, anyway."
Dunk swallows harshly, nodding stiffly. "Right, yeah. Sure, next week."
Daeron squeezes his shoulder. "Just text me and I'll send Roland."
By the time he's pressed against fine leather seats and the car begins rolling away his back is damp with sweat, Daeron watches him fade away, and then Dunk's gone.
His mind reels, he punishes himself mentally for the thoughts that flood his brain. Roland glances at him through the rear view mirror, as if he knew something, as if he could tell what's going on inside Dunk's troubled head—Dunk doesn't offer his address, unsure if he wants the Targaryens to have that, and asks to be dropped off at the train station near his flat. Roland just hums, he doesn't engage in small talk at all, and Dunk's not sure if that makes him feel any better.
The sky is dark by the time he steps into the streets that he knows too well, Roland pulls away with a nod, silent as ever.
Dunk walks home with his shoulders saggy and his hair damp from the slight drizzle that has begun to fall, he stops at the first store he sees to buy Raymun a can of Guinness and some cheap canned fish for the cat he's been trying to befriend, the one that lives in the balcony and won't come inside. He doesn't think of supple, pale flesh as he scans his items and steps back into the chilly night air. He ought to find something to do with himself soon.
It's Tuesday, Dunk's right out of the shower, slipping into his rugby clothes, when his phone pings.
Daeron Targaryen: Up for some studying, my friend?
Duncan: i've got rugby mate. i get off at six
Daeron Targaryen: That's a fine hour. Father's away on a trip, so I'm in charge. Text me when your practice is done so I can send the car your way.
Dunk sighs, over the course of the past few days it's been hard getting used to how Targaryens seem to speak as if whatever they're asking for is owed to them. Daeron's not so bad, but he can't shake the habit, Dunk guesses.
Duncan: i come off filthy and reekin of mud and sweat mate let me take a shower and go to yours
Daeron Targaryen: Pack a change of clothes. The water pressure is good up here.
It's a tug of war he won't win, nor does he feel like fighting it. Dunk sends back an okay and shuts his phone off, he can't be late to practice.
Practice is the same as always, Rowan and Tanselle are watching from the sidelines, tracking every move with their judgemental eyes. Dunk knows he's distracted, Raymun glares at him as he messes up a pass and mouths something Dunk can't make out.
By the time he's done the sky is darker, threatening them with rain. Dunk's sat in one of the benches, squeezing water into his mouth, when he reaches into the pocket of his bag for his phone so he can text Daeron. His friends are chatting beside him, mindlessly so, and Dunk wishes he could make out any of the words they're saying mean but the mere prospect of seeing Aerion again after last week has him feeling sour, a bit down.
Twenty five minutes later Dunk spots that sleek Mercedes Benz pull up to the entrance to the field, Roland's got the window down, he's smoking, and he's spotting for Dunk.
Tanselle whistles beside him. "Moving up in life, Dunk. A few months from now and you'll be wearing all black and cussing at the innocent."
"None of that is happening," Dunk groans. "This is temporary."
Raymun laughs sardonically. "Nothing about the Targaryens is temporary."
"Then you take the damn class with me," Dunk spews, he doesn't mean to snap, doesn't mean to come off mean and dry but it flares up, like an allergic reaction to being told the same thing over and over again. "Be my partner, join me in the projects, Raymun. What the hell am I supposed to do aside from accept it and do the damn work?"
"Duncan."
Tanselle has this look in her eyes, worried, clouded, that follows him as he leaves.
Dunk wants to apologize for getting mud and grime all over the leather and the car but he can't bring himself to do so, Roland doesn't mention it, he merely pulls into the road and begins driving in silence like last time.
Daeron's not there to welcome him when they arrive, a kind woman, with an aged face and a sweet voice that asks him to take his shoes off and follow her, leads him to a bathroom that's far too large, too elegant for someone like him. When he asks she says something about feeding his younger siblings, which Dunk finds odd because they clearly have chefs and maids—Daeron doesn't need to be doing that. That's fine, though, Dunk closes the door and proceeds to strip down, making sure the water's right before stepping in.
The bathroom is quick to fill up with condensation and a thin fog. Daeron was right; the water pressure is good, better than Dunk's apartment, and the hose has many settings, one too many, Dunk thinks.
He's washing his hair, rinsing the excess shampoo off, when he notices movement out of the corner of his eye—it's a bit hard to see, his eyes sting under the bubbles and the cloudiness of the bathroom makes it harder, but he's half convinced he sees a silver-haired figure moving around. The door, which he's sure he had closed, is ajar now. Dunk gulps, trying to convince himself he's seeing things as he moves onto conditioner, everything smells floral and sharp, laced with something close to the scent of a campfire, and the body-wash makes him feel poor.
There's towels laid ready for him, he steps out, feet touching the cold tile, and wraps one of the towels around his waist.
Dunk turns to look for his bag, which he's pretty sure he left set up on the sink, ready for the clothes to be plucked and worn, but it's not there. It was there, Dunk couldn't have misplaced it, but it no longer is. His chest sinks, he grips the towel around his waist as he peeks out into the hallway.
No one's around to help him. Dunk curses under his breath, deciding to step out.
He traverses the hallway carefully, making sure not to find anyone who wouldn't be willing to see his naked form, but everyone seems to have vanished. Could the maid have taken the bag? Dunk's not sure, she didn't seem malicious. The longer he spends all wet and exposed the more nervous he gets. A room's door is slightly crooked, Dunk knows better than to peer into other people's spaces, but he needs his clothes, and if someone could help then… great. The room is dark, he can't make out anything save for the figure sat in the middle of the bed.
It's Aerion. Aerion with Dunk's bag lodged between his legs.
"You," Dunk steps inside, shutting the door behind him. Anger seeps through him, his cheeks feel heated, warm. "You took my stuff, didn't you? You were in the bathroom!"
"Keep your voice down," Aerion shushes him, rolling his eyes. "So what if I did, anyway?"
"That—That's wrong, Aerion. It's rude and weird."
Aerion ignores him, he tosses the bag toward him. "Get dressed, then."
Dunk picks the bag up, moving to go back to the bathroom before he's stopped by Aerion once again. "I didn't say leave," He says, commanding. "I said get dressed."
Dunk bites the inside of his cheek. "I'm not getting dressed in front of you, Aerion."
"Yes, you are, or else my father will be hearing about your brutish self touching me all over, Duncan," Aerion grins, like the cat who got the dream. "So, get fucking dressed."
He supposedly touched my brother. There was no proof of him having actually done that.
"That's what you do for fun? Torment others to get your way?"
"When I'm not fishing and painting? Yes, it's a hobby I'm passionate about."
Dunk weighs his choices, he doesn't have many of those, but he weighs them nonetheless.
If he goes forth with Aerion's request—demand, more like—he'll just be feeding the beast, offering his palm and then petting it behind the ears. Aerion won't stop, won't be satisfied when he learns Dunk folds easily, and that's the worst kind of weapon to give someone like him. He might be sixteen, far too young, too naive, but he clearly has the maturity of someone much older.
But risking being accused of being a pedophile? Yeah, that's not something Dunk can survive. He has no access to lawyers, no access to any sort of defense that'll save his life.
Ultimately, he has no choice at all.
The towel falls to the ground with no grace at all. Aerion's eyes widen, lilac turns a dark purple under the dim lights of the room, his cheeks are flushed, he's baring his teeth. Dunk's too uncomfortable in his own skin, a sensation he hasn't felt since, well—since he was Aerion's age. His cock is soft, heavy in between his legs, big even in its softness. Aerion's cruel gaze follows his every move, Dunk hears his breath hitch as he lowers himself to search through his bag, pulling out his briefs and the rest of his clothes.
He dresses quickly, which Aerion visibly dislikes, but Dunk doesn't care.
Aerion pouts, a faux innocence washes over his features. "You're no fun, giant."
Dunk bites his cheek. "Can I go now, Aerion? Your brother must be looking for me."
"Sure," Aerion sighs, pushing himself off the bed, rushing past Dunk. Before he flees the room, however, he turns around, "Not a word of this to Daeron, oaf."
Dunk crosses his heart, Aerion grins like the devil.
The study session is a mess, mainly because he can't concentrate at all, not a single paragraph gets through his skull. Daeron looks at him weirdly, though Dunk suspects he's slightly tipsy—He'd apologized for not being there to receive him, mumbled something about how his young siblings tend to be picky about the food and like it prepared a certain way, a way only his mother knew, so he takes care of them when his father isn't around. When Dunk asked about Aerion, trying to feign stupidity, Daeron said something about Aerion having a weird thing about food and never showing up to dinner.
While they're deep in a discussion about ancient history the loud roar of thunder jolts them out of the mood, one of Daeron's youngest siblings—Aegon, Dunk remembers because of his shaved head—comes rushing into the room yelling about Rhae crying.
Daeron makes a face, apologetic. "Sorry, mate, be right back."
The storm is merciless, raging upon the home, thunder and lightning making a duet outside. Dunk sighs, rubbing at his temple. He raises his gaze when Daeron comes back.
"Is she okay?"
"Yeah, she just gets scared—you know how kids are," Daeron says, Dunk pretends he does know what kids are like. "Listen, you should stay over tonight, can't send Roland out like this."
"Oh, no, no, don't worry," Dunk waves him off. "I'll catch an Uber, or a bus—I won't bother."
"Dunk," Daeron chuckles softly. "Just stay, don't fret. We'll ride together to uni in the morning, miss no classes. It's fine."
Dunk doesn't want to stay. He doesn't want to think about what that evil vermin is capable of when they've got a whole night ahead of them, but he bows his head in gratitude and accepts the offer. Daeron is happy, he rushes to the kitchen while telling him something about getting dinner prepared for them and then Dunk's alone again.
Alone, save for the eyes he can feel watching him from the corners.
A part of him, the side that Arlan's always told him would get him in the most trouble, feels for Daeron in a way, which is why he finds it hard to push back on the blonde's kindness, if one could call it that. Daeron seems incredibly lonely despite sharing a gigantic house with five other siblings, and his father has not showed up once since Dunk started to come around, which leaves him wondering if the man even cares for his children. Consequently, this makes him think about Aerion, too, who clearly grasps onto cruelty as a shield and a way to make himself be seen, wanted—but he's sixteen, which is what's more worrisome.
Dinner is an exaggerated event, with Daeron wishing to please Dunk, who eats microwaveable meals and the last time he had a vegetable was back in Ireland.
They share a few drinks, Daeron sips more than he should and ends up quite tipsy by the time the maid comes around to pick up the table, her eyes disapproving of the empty bottle of wine next to Daeron. After they're done digesting Daeron drags him to one of the guest rooms, where his things lay on the bed, and shows him to the panel beside the door while slurring his words a bit.
"You need anything, you press this," Daeron instructs, then he toys with the light settings in the room, the AC, even a humidifier, somehow. "Got it? But not too late 'cause the servants sleep, too. I'll be down the hall, so… holler, I can't promise I'll answer, tho."
Great. "Okay, thanks, Daeron. Have a goodnight."
"Lock the door, will you?" Daeron mutters, giving him a look that makes him feel like he's been found out from what had happened earlier. Dunk nods silently, stiff, and then he retreats into the room.
He just has to make it through the night, then he can make an excuse, tell Daeron they can meet in his apartment and finish the project there instead.
He shoots a quick text to Tanselle to inform her he'll be staying over at the Targaryen household, which gains a weird response from her, Dunk guesses she must have shown it to Raymun—He doesn't wish to pay it much mind, already bothered, and just shuts the phone off then fishes for his charger inside his bag. Dunk sets it to charge in the bedside table, turning every light off and slipping under the covers, his shorts still on, which is atypical of him.
Dunk swims in a sea of strange, bizarre dreams and pleasant ones, much too pleasant, his mind drifting from shore to shore as he's haunted by visions of a white-haired siren, whose call he can't help but swim towards to. It turns bizarre as he glances down in the dream and said siren's cunt is protruding from its tail front, with him humping it—fucking it—like a rabid dog. Lilac eyes stare into his very own, the name slips out of his mouth.
Aerion.
That gorgeous, tear and salt-water stained face turns wrecked, utterly fucked. He's small, too small, beneath the bulk of Dunk's body and yet it feels so right. Like they belong together, always like this, pressed like conjoined twins.
Dunk wakes before his alarm, startled, gasping. No sunlight seems to ever creep into the household, save for the living room area, so Dunk's awake in the stark darkness while reaching for his phone. It's further away from him than he'd left it, but he guesses he must have smacked it in between dreams. He cancels the alarm, rising to his feet and cringing at the dry pre-cum sticking to his boxers, his head hangs low in shame and he takes himself to the bathroom, a small mercy after all.
Breakfast is shared with Daeron's youngest siblings, who, out of all of them, Dunk finds Aegon quite brilliant and entertaining. His head is shaved clean, when asked about it Daeron mutters something about rebellion while Aegon's gaze tells another story.
They're rounded up by one of the maids, she takes them all away to prepare them for school, and that's when Aerion makes his entrance into the kitchen.
Daeron regards him with half a glance, sipping his coffee. "Amalia made French toast, Aerion. She left some for you."
"She's a fool, I told her I'm on a diet," Aerion groans, the set of his brows knitted into a deep frown, unashamed in his anger. "Fucking useless, all of them."
"A diet? You're going to disappear, Aerion."
The silver-haired teen turns, a wicked smirk tilts his lips upwards. He looks cute, almost shaken out of bed, with his hair messy and his uniform half-undone—Dunk's thoughts steer back to last night's dream, an uncomfortable heaviness settling inside his chest. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Daeron?"
With a sigh and a shake of his head, Daeron denies such accusations. "I'm worried for you, that's all. Despite it all, you're still my baby brother."
Something flickers in Aerion's gaze—shame, sadness? Dunk can't quite tell, his cheeks turn a soft pink and he scurries out of the kitchen, without having glanced at Dunk once.
He doesn't know why that disappoints him.
Roland does chat with Daeron, they're engaged in a deep conversation about the upcoming summer and Daeron's planned trip to Italy. Dunk can't engage, his upcoming summer will most likely be spent playing and teaching rugby for a few dimes while getting by through life, so he sits stiffly in the leather seat and stares out the window.
Dunk asks to be dropped off near his apartment, not quite in the right street but around the corner, just so he can gather his things and go to class.
No one's home when he bursts in, everyone's probably at uni or at work by this hour, so he just grabs his backpack and shoves his textbooks inside it, his laptop too, and then he's out the door just as he came. He did, however, have the decency to change out of his soiled boxers before leaving his home, but that's as far as he went with the self-care. During class he doesn't glance at Daeron, who's too lost in his own world and trying to flirt with the girl sat next to him to realize the professor is talking about the project, and he hurries out of the classroom before he can be invited to sit with Daeron's hippy friends.
At mid-morning his stomach begins rumbling, he makes his way towards one of the vending machines and punches in the numbers, giving it a good smack so it will deliver his protein bar and not get stuck.
He tears at the metallic wrapping with his teeth, grabbing his phone from his pocket to text Tanselle to ask where they are when he realizes something is different—his chest sinks, his steps slow, and he opens his gallery out of mere curiosity. His lungs feel hollow, he bites down a gasp of horror as he ducks into the bathroom, rushing to hide inside one of the stalls.
It's Aerion. His gallery is full of pictures of the teenager.
They're all different but with the same vague theme to them; provocation, sensuality, as much as a boy his age can muster up while posing awkwardly. Aerion in various states of undress, with his pale, mole-soaked chest in the focus, Dunk swallows down past the rock in his throat as he realizes Aerion's wearing his uniform in the pictures where he's still somewhat dressed. He bites back the swell of bile in his throat as his cock stirs in interest while the pictures only grow more bold, downright becoming criminal evidence—Aerion's slipped out of his slacks by picture number then, that narrow, sinful waist of his angled as he shows off his cherub-like nudity.
Black lace hugs his hips, Dunk's legs give out, he flops backwards onto the closed toilet lid and heaves, hoping no one's thinking of bursting in.
Aerion is such a small thing. So tiny in his young years, but not only height wise—his body is lithe, far too skinny, or maybe Dunk's not well informed into how normal boys look like at that age, given that he's always been tall and broad. He thinks back about Daeron's mention of how weird Aerion is about food, that morning's conversation and Aerion's anger at his needs being ignored. His ribs are showing, half because of the pose but also just because he's that small weight-wise. He's already dwarfed by Dunk standing next to him, but Dunk wonders what it would be like if he were to be above him, shadowing him entirely with his bulk, his hands would expand and cover Aerion's waist until they met in the middle—
A pathetic whimper abandons him when he swipes again. Aerion's panties are pulled to the side, the dark fabric darkened by the dampness, and his pretty, puffy cunt is on display for Dunk's eyes only.
He stands abruptly, opening the toilet lid and tossing the protein bar into it then flushing, he can't think, sweat coats his face and his neck as he goes to wash his face and hands. No, I won't be his next victim, Dunk thinks to himself as he shakes his hands to dry them, then swipes them over the fabric of his pants. He goes to gather all the pictures to delete when when he notices one he hadn't seen, Dunk, dumbly, clicks on it.
Aerion's posing in front of a mirror inside his bedroom, Dunk's phone in between his nimble fingers, and there's some words written out with the drawing option.
Open your contacts :)))
Dunk does, and there, at the top of the list, is what he doesn't want to see—Aerion's number punched in, his name bold, staring at Dunk right in face.
Aerion 💕.
By their penultimate study session Dunk feels like he's going crazy.
The project is almost done, almost perfect, and he can taste the freedom that'll come by the end of the month but it isn't coming quick enough.
After last week's findings he has laid restless in his bed every night, every time he closes his eyes he thinks of Aerion, of his body and his nakedness and his sharp tongue, so he lies awake until restlessness claims him and forces his body into an exhausted slumber which he wakes up from groggy and snappy. He did not delete the pictures, instead they're in a folder he hasn't dared open again and he's been clutching his phone more than ever before, often finding himself just staring at Aerion's contact.
Dunk doesn't text. He convinces himself he does not want to text Aerion.
He's drying plates Tanselle hands him over after washing them, lost inside his head, when she speaks up, "Rohanne asked about you the other day."
"Hm? Did she?" Dunk asks, rubbing the ceramic mindlessly.
Rohanne is one of Tanselle's co-workers down at the café she works part-time at, Dunk has met her a couple times, she's delightful—with a head of bright red hair, a face for the magazines, and an attitude that makes Dunk feel stupid when he's near her. She's just slightly older, mature and refined, with a sharp sense of humor and a wit that matches Dunk's quite easily, though she's far too smart for him.
She's too much of a woman for Dunk, he's always said so.
Yet now, as he finds himself in this predicament, he feels like he should not think like that at all. Rohanne is what Dunk should seek, what he should want and desire.
"Yes, she said she misses seeing you stumble on your feet," Tanselle smiles. "We're going to the pub on Friday, actually—she'll be there. Maybe you could join us?"
Dunk bites his lip. "If I'm free, I'd love to."
"And, uh," Tanselle throws the worn rag over her shoulder, she leans in, quieter then, "Don't tell Raymun I said this, but if you wanna bring Daeron around, I won't be as mad as him."
Dunk nods, watching her turn to wipe the wooden counter. It's the least he could do after all, after everything Daeron's done for him and his comfort, and the man's not responsible for the thing his brother does—Dunk gives one last hum before he goes back to his room.
Duncan: hey daeron my mates and i are hitting the pub on friday. youve a formal invitation from my friend tanselle herself xx no pressure. its fine if u cant come
Ten minutes pass, he's catching up on the last episode of Survivor when his phone pings.
Daeron Targaryen: Sounds delightful Dunk. Just send me the pub's address, I'll be there.
Duncan gives the message a thumbs up, and he doesn't know why but his stomach sinks, it feels like a mistake, like he should take it all back, but he can't.
Friday arrives after a lengthy week, everyone breaths a sigh of relief as night begins falling and they're free to go about their way without the academic pressure crushing their shoulder blades. They make a quick stop at the apartment to freshen up and get ready before hitting the streets together, climbing into the back of an Uber and chatting the whole way through. Their usual pub welcomes them warmly, and when they step inside they immediately spot Rohanne by one of the booths.
Dunk pulls out his phone before going to greet her, sending Daeron their location.
Rohanne is quick to her feet as she spots him, engulfing him in a hug that has him leaning down, his nose pressed to her neck. Her scent is sharp, floral with an undertone of citrus, like blood oranges, and Dunk breathes it in before they separate. She pulls him to sit beside him, their shoulders touching, her warmth bleeding into him, and for a moment he completely forgets about Aerion, about the folder in his phone and the contact and the torment.
They're chatting over drinks, vividly, when the front door to the pub opens.
"Fuckin' hell," Raymun groans, rubbing the pads of his fingers against his eyes, "What the fuck is he doing here?"
Dunk spots Daeron, dressed far too sharply for a place like this, his hair bunched into a messy ponytail and his eyes raking over the room. Violet lands on blue, Dunk nods, motioning for him to come to them.
"What happened to looking like a vagabond, mate?"
Daeron smiles sharply, chewing on his bottom lip. "Ah, duty called, I was on a meeting the whole day—you know how it is. My father returned and immediately tossed me into the torture chambers, Dunk."
"Well, I'm glad you're free now. Daeron, this is Rohanne, Tanselle, Rowan and Raymun."
Dunk points to his friends, smiling tightly, keeping his composure.
"Fossoway? Raymun Fossoway?" Daeron asks, slightly surprised.
Raymun glances up at the blonde. "Aye, that very one."
"I'm sorry about the land ordeal, Raymun. I did really try to have my father back out of that, my uncle as well, but they wouldn't budge."
Raymun seems to go through the five stages of grief at once, his mouth hangs open, a fly could sneak in at any minute, and he swallows harshly as he tries to come up with something to say that isn't the litany of insults he was thinking of throwing at Daeron minutes earlier. He merely scoots aside, shrugging.
"Nothin' we can do to fight them sometimes, eh."
"Nothing at all, indeed."
Dunk exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding in, relaxing against the faux leather of the booth, and the night continues on.
Drinks come and go, flowing easily, Daeron's pumped and more content the more alcohol he shoves in his system, telling everyone to just get whatever 'cause he'll cover the tab. Tanselle sends a glance his way across the table, smiling wide, Dunk just rolls his eyes and hopes this doesn't become a habit.
He forgets himself and everything else that's happened, at some point he agrees to do shots, and Rohanne's there pushing tequila into his mouth and then wiping the corners, squeezing lime right after. He's warm under the collar, flushed crimson as the alcohol in his system settles, and her hand in his thigh. She's quite forward, which Dunk finds refreshing and terrifying at the same time, and at some point she pushes past him after whispering in his ear that she's going to the bathroom. Dunk's dumb, yes, but he's no idiot—he knows she wants him to follow, so he gulps down the last of his Guinness and sneaks off, with Daeron's eyes on the back of his head.
Rohanne is quick to pull him into one of the stalls, their mouths crashing together like raging tides. She's all hard liquor and cherry lip-gloss, which Dunk quite likes.
He kisses her neck, swallows her moans and her whines, maps out her body over her clothes with his broad hands. Rohanne unhooks his belt, takes him in her hand, and Dunk's eyes flutter closed which ends up being a grave mistake—instead of focusing on the fatal beauty in front of him his mind reels back to Aerion. He doesn't want that. Dunk fights it, willing his brain to come back to the present, but he doesn't realize that in his struggle he seems to have messed up his ability to get hard. His cock is soft even after minutes of stroking, Rohanne is silent, wallowing in her own shame.
"I'm sorry," Dunk croaks, breathless, defeated. "I'm so sorry, Rohanne."
She shakes her head, pulling up the strap of her shirt, fixing her clothes as she forces a small smile. "It's fine, Dunk. Don't worry."
"No, I'm—," Disgusting. Sick. I should show her the photos, have her call the police on me. "I have to leave."
Dunk flees, just like that. The night breeze is chilly, biting him where his skin is exposed, and there's no one around to watch him break—He supports himself on the exposed brick, heaving, retching, but nothing comes. His hands shake as he reaches for his phone, which now feels like a weapon of mass destruction, and he nervously searches for that contact.
Duncan: you're fuckin sick adn twisted . tiny vixen trying to provoke me eh ? youve no idea what ure even asking for u little slut
His fingers work faster than his head, he knows, deep down, that this is no way to speak to a kid. But Aerion's no saint, he's unholy, tainted.
The response is immediate, because of course it is.
Aerion 💕: It's not provocation if it's working, Duncan.
Aerion 💕: And it is, isn't it? You wanna come teach me a lesson?
Duncan: tell me ur at least smart enough to know how to sneak out aerion
After he sends that the door to the pub opens to reveal Daeron's stumbling form, Dunk pockets his phone out of panic, their eyes meet and the blonde walks up to him.
"You didn't go that far."
Dunk laughs, exhausted, drunk. "Was about to call a cab."
"Ditch that thought," Daeron slurs. "Let's go back to mine, we finish the project in the afternoon when we wake up."
This time, Dunk doesn't fight him. He watches as Daeron calls for Roland, both standing in the wet sidewalk just staring at nothing while they wait. Dunk opens Aerion's message box again, ignoring the flurry of insults the teenager has sent his way about not being some common whore who can just walk out of her home in favor of announcing he'll be arriving at the Targaryen residence soon.
Through the ride he listens to Daeron's mumbling until he grows quiet, Dunk realizes he's fallen asleep the moment they pull into the gate.
Roland murmurs something about getting Maekar, to which Dunk says it won't be necessary as he lifts Daeron in his arms, impressing the older man. Knowing Maekar Targaryen is home makes him feel like he's walking into his own demise as a maid welcomes them inside, stepping aside so Dunk can take Daeron upstairs, where he lays him on his bed and tucks him in after removing his shoes.
He's led to the same guest room he'd stayed in last time, the door closes behind him, Dunk sits at the edge of the bed, pulling out his phone.
Duncan: im here
Aerion 💕: Just wait until my father falls asleep. I might have snuck in a tiny little sedative in his tea.
Duncan: which ones ur rom
Aerion 💕: Can't miss it, the one with the dragons on the door.
Dunk waits, he goes to the bathroom to freshen up, washes his face and uses some of the mouthwash that's there to get rid of the taste of alcohol stuck to his mouth. The minutes pass by slowly, much too afraid to fall asleep, he doesn't dare laying down, and eventually he feels like the house is silent enough.
He keeps his steps as quiet as possible, roaming the hallway, feeling himself buzz under his skin.
Aerion's right; one can't miss his bedroom door.
It's matte black, with a red dragon painted in the middle, the knob is silver and soft in Dunk's hand as he turns it. Aerion's room is quite the space; the walls are stocked shelves full of books, red and black carpeting across the floor, there's some art pieces he sort of recognizes but does not want to bother in looking at for too long. Dragons, as in multiple of them, litter a corner of the room; plushies, statues and tiny figurines, all ranging in size. There's one that's too big, clearly some kind of collector's piece, and serving as a gigantic pillow for Aerion to lay in. Dunk's nostrils flare. God, the whole room reeks of innocence, of someone who's too young, so young that he's still obsessed with dragons, for fuck's sake.
And, sure, it might be a family thing, but no other corner of the house looks like this.
Posters of bands are hung on the wall, from Blur to Oasis then to Pulp—There's one of a young Tom Cruise posing seductively, too. Dunk swallows.
"Close the door," Comes the room that slips out of what seems to be the bathroom, Dunk does as he's told. "Is everyone asleep?"
"Think so."
Aerion rushes out of the bathroom. He's still wearing that damned uniform, with his tie loose and his slacks hugging his swell bottom nicely, he rushes past Dunk and locks the door behind them. "You think so? Seven, you're an idiot."
Dunk looks at him—really looks at him, with eyes wide, intense—and his chest soars with the need to bite, to devour. His teeth clench when he thinks of how he'd embarrassed Rohanne, how he probably made her feel like she wasn't enough, Dunk's beyond furious. Aerion's berating him about not being careful enough, talking of his father, probably scared to be found out as the sad, teen aged whore he is, yet Dunk can't pay a sliver of attention to that.
He grabs Aerion's wrist, pulling him close despite the offended scoff he gets.
"Duncan."
Dunk's lost on how his grip swallows Aerion's wrist, his whole hand dwarfed, eyes hazed over as he turns to look into those lilac ones, "Hm?"
"We go at my pace, you brute." Aerion snarls, trying to wring his arm free, but Dunk doesn't let him.
"No," Dunk groans, twisting Aerion around as he pleases, ridding him off that flimsy jacket with that horrid logo, tossing it aside. "I'll teach you how grown ups play, Aerion."
"Wha—No, wait, you've no right—,"
"I have all the rights, Aerion. You've given me them, haven't you? You want this."
Aerion gasps as he's pushed forward, bent over the edge of the bed, over his cashmere blankets and embroided covers and silk sheets, he's far too small to fight back. Dunk watches as he pales, even more than usual, under the low lights of the room, his eyes widening in horror. "Not like this, you oaf—Just, I'll give you it, let me—,"
"I said no."
Dunk can't recognize the sound of his own voice, not really, it comes off as half a bark and half a growl, animalistic.
Aerion kicks his slender legs under him as Dunk approaches him, ridding himself of his jacket, unbuckling his belt. He doesn't free his cock just yet, though, it's merely to relieve the pressure the denim is providing against the hardness. Aerion's shaking, slender frame like a leaf during a storm, and he's crawling up the mattress just to be pulled back by the ankle by Dunk's forceful grip.
Dunk slots himself in between Aerion's legs, bending him forward, one hand pressed in between his shoulder blades, almost taking up the entire space of his wingspan.
He rolls his hips forward, clothed cock, hard as a rock inside his briefs, pressed against the swell of Aerion's small ass, punching a delighted groan out of Dunk. Aerion gasps, too aware of their size difference now—which he'd been, yes, but now it's dawning on him that there's no way he'll get out of Dunk's grasp if the man doesn't let him go—as Dunk casts a whole shadow over him while rutting into him like a desperate dog. Aerion can smell the alcohol in him, the cheap cologne and the aftershave, combined with the scent of the rain and the mud, it makes for a dangerous cocktail.
Despite his own horror and fear he feels himself growing wet in between his legs, pussy dripping, cock twitching with interest as it rubs against the seam of his slacks.
Dunk presses a wet kiss to the side of his head, loud, sloppy. "Do you like playing the helpless victim, Aerion? Hm? You like takin' other people's pain and mocking it?"
"I don't," Aerion gasps, biting back a moan. "I'm not helpless, you bastard."
"You are not? Then you'll be able to break free just fine."
He tries, to no avail. It hurts when he says his next words, "I can't."
"Poor Aerion," Dunk coos, thrusting into him. "Such a sad, whorish victim you are."
Dunk seems to grow tired of the childish rutting, which is an ironic thing, given that he's got a child underneath him, but Aerion bites his tongue from making a remark as he's once again twisted around by those strong, brutish hands, forced to face his assaulter.
Funnily enough, Dunk's fingers work his button up open quite carefully, then he's going for his slacks, undressing him with the precision of someone who's going to operate on him.
It really sinks in that this is happening, whether Aerion wants it or not, whether they go at his rhythm or not, the moment he's just left in his panties, trembling from the cold and the fear, while Dunk remains fully dressed. Dunk, half-drunk and driven by the kind of anger Aerion's only seen in his father before, dives in to clash their mouths together in a kiss that feels more like a claiming bite, like he's trying to suck Aerion into his body somehow. Aerion tries to reciprocate, really, but he's kissed very few times before and Valarr's no good at it. He's clumsy with his movements, and when Dunk's fingers find his pebbled nipples his mouth opens with a moan, the older man's tongue sneaking into it to lick around the toothpaste and the flesh.
He tries pulling at Dunk's hair, tries scratching at his neck, but Dunk can't be moved. The giant's hands are on him, on his waist, on his breasts, all over him.
"Get on the bed," Dunk pulls back, a string of saliva connects them still, it breaks off the moment Aerion peels himself away. "Against the pillows, Aerion."
Aerion goes, watching from his spot as Dunk undresses. His body is large, broad, with arms the size of Aerion's torso and his chest wide, toned yet pudgy around the edges and his stomach. He hates that he finds him madly attractive, hates that his cunt clenches around nothing the moment Dunk's hands rest on the band of his briefs, pulling the elastic and cupping his bulge.
Dunk climbs up with him, creeping up, grabbing his calf to press a kiss to the sole of his foot.
The kisses trail up his leg, from his toes to his knee, Dunk's stubble tickles against the inner side of his thighs as the man forces him to spread wide so he can sneak in. Dunk presses his nose to Aerion's clothed cunt, sniffing, huffing, like a dog in heat, and his teeth catch onto the lacy edges of Aerion's panties. Slick gushes out of him, staining his underwear, making him feel as equally aroused as he feels sick, tightening his stomach as he braces against a pillow for what's to come. Dunk's pulling his panties away then, stripping him until he's as bare as the day he came to the world.
Like this; splayed upon his dark colored bedding, with the light catching on the button eyes of his dragons, his chest rising heavily, Aerion's reminded of his own disadvantages in this world. Dunk rejoices in them, Aerion can only try to think about it passing.
The first lick to his cunt makes him gasp, hand immediately shooting out to be placed atop Dunk's head, where he grips the copper-colored hair and can't decide whether to push the man away or flushed against him. He doesn't have much of a choice, anyway. Dunk's hands are gripping his hips, sure to bruise and leave him all marked in the morning, and he's holding Aerion down against the mattress as that rough, feverish tongue of his licks around the outer edges of his folds, over his cock and then back down, all the way until he's poking his tongue against Aerion's hole.
It's quite maddening, Aerion can't help the way he finds himself lost in the waves of pleasure that wreck through him, desperate, fearful.
He starts rolling his hips, trying to please the man, that way maybe he'll sate him and he'll leave, but Dunk doesn't seem to care one bit. He's eating out Aerion like he's starving, chin dripping with his own saliva and Aerion's slick, nose bumping against Aerion's growth—He brings up a finger, which he pushes inside of the boy with no preamble, making him whine and gasp as it is already too much. Dunk's fingers are thick, big, and he's pushing it in and out, trying to stretch him, while still licking around the intrusion.
A second finger joins shortly after, Aerion's head snaps up, tears bunching at the edges of his eyes, "No more, no more—It's too much,"
"'S not enough, kiddo," Dunk grumbles, nosing at his thighs, biting marks and sucking hickies into the pale skin that Aerion will have to hide, he has gym class tomorrow. "You're too tight, my cock won't fit."
"Please,"
"Can you feel that?" Dunk's accent is thicker now, lost in the pleasure and the haziness of his drunken state, he adds a third finger and Aerion feels positively debauched by then—his cunt gaping, wide and puffy, raw. He pushes into that sweet bundle of nerves that makes Aerion gasp, legs kicking underneath him as his stomach revolts. "Doesn't it feel good?"
"Y—yes, oh, Seven above—Duncan, enough!"
Dunk ignores him entirely. His three digits pump in and out of Aerion's abused cunt, stretching him, gaping him, Aerion comes unceremoniously around the fingers and he feels like he's lost the ability to control his own body as he's wrecked by pleased sobs. Dunk doesn't stop there, though, he brings his mouth to Aerion's peeking cock and begins suckling. Aerion, overly sensitive from the testosterone and his hormonal years, begins wailing at that—Dunk's fingers fucking him open while he sucks his cock. It's too much.
Aerion can smell the copper in the air, he knows he's bleeding, Dunk doesn't seem to mind.
Overstimulation settles like tiny rocks lodged around his bone structure, Aerion grips onto Dunk's scalp, nails raking over it, as his cunt spasms. He can't take any more of it, but he will, he will because he has to.
Another orgasm comes, this time stronger, forcing slick and liquid to gush out of him like never before—Dunk makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat as he taps Aerion's cunt, helping him release to the last drop of his mess, he stands back, watching in awe as he realizes he's made a mess of Aerion's tiny cunt. Dunk looks up, blue eyes, once as blue as the sky on a cloudless day, have now darkened.
"Taste yourself, baby."
He brings his soaked fingers up to Aerion's mouth, who fights back a retch, his tongue darts out, licking around the digits until Dunk, fed up, shoves them inside his mouth.
Aerion gags, his jaw is gripped by a bruising hand, and he's forced to lick his own cum and blood of Duncan's fingers before the man is satisfied enough. Spit dribbles out of him as Dunk pulls his fingers free, he's a ruined mess, and he takes a second to catch his breath before he's being attacked by another kiss, this one rougher than the last.
Dunk licks into his mouth like a madman, pulling back to rid himself off his briefs; when his cock springs free Aerion makes a sound, half-surprised, half-horrified.
He's big, obscenely so, too big to even believe it to be real. Aerion's eyes widen, watching as the cockhead weeps pre-cum and he's all red, flushed violently. It's going to kill him, he's going to break and bleed for days if that goes inside him, worse than a period, worse than—well, anything else, really. Dunk smiles, dark and aware of what's going through Aerion's mind, then he cups his face and kisses the tip of his perfect nose, a sweet thing to do while you're in the middle of assaulting someone. Aerion melts into the touch, though, wishing to be held, to be contained, even if it'll end all wrong.
Dunk leans in, lips grazing Aerion's ear, "Wanna give it a taste, baby?"
"I don't know how." Aerion gulps, his hand caressing Dunk's wrist, pleading.
"I'll guide you, let me lay back."
Dunk takes over his spot, sprawled on the bed like he belongs there, while Aerion crawls to him in all fours, like a prostitute. He takes Dunk's cock in his hand, then in both hands, as he finds his too small to hold the weight of it in its entirety.
He tries with a lick around the head, eyes focused on Dunk's, seeking for approval.
The silver locks of hair are grasped by Dunk, who moves his head as he pleases, teaching him how to lick, how to suck, and egging him on to swallow him down as far as he can—Aerion tries his best, but his mouth is small, his gag reflex is easily triggered, so he doesn't get very far. Dunk, however, doesn't let this stop him; the man begins pumping his length, as much of it as possible, into Aerion's hot mouth, fucking his face happily.
The sounds Aerion's making are disgusting, the side of him that's not consumed by fear is grateful he'd given that sedative to his father. He's gawking, swallowing, gagging.
It's wet, everything is. His cunt drips, still aching, and his mouth drips too. Dunk's pre-cum is salty and tangy against his tongue, forced into his throat by each thrust of the man's hips, and he's suffocated by that length as Dunk shoves his head down and keeps him there for as long as he can take it. Aerion taps his thigh, oxygen loss blurring his vision, making him lightheaded, and only when he feels the bile rise up does Dunk let go of him. This repeats, again and again, until he's a mess of saliva, pre-cum and heat, shivering in the bed while his skull is fucked to completion.
Dunk doesn't spill down his throat, he brings himself closer to his orgasm and then pulls Aerion away—he goes on like that for a good while, until Aerion's knees ache.
"Good," Dunk purrs, pleased, as he slips his cock free. "That's a good boy, Aerion."
The praise sends shivers down his spine. "Thank you, sir," Aerion mumbles out, his jaw aches, his lips are swollen.
"Sit on my lap, little dragon."
The nickname makes Aerion's eyes widen, like a deer in headlights. His father calls him that, his brother sometimes, he's never heard it from anyone else.
He scrambles, climbing up Dunk's body on weak knees and placing himself on the man's thighs, both completely naked and emanating melting heat. Those hands roam across his body, far too big, and map out every corner of it, tracing the scarring beneath his pecs and flicking his nipples, forcing a whine out of him.
Dunk's cock is lodged in between his legs, the man grabs him by the waist, moving him as he pleases so that Aerion's pussy is grinding down against him, drawing noises out of the two of them, moans and whines and sobs.
"You're so thin," Dunk murmurs, eyes raking over Aerion's body, drinking in every detail. "So small—fuck, Aerion, you were made to be someone's fleshlight."
Aerion's mind reels. You're so thin. "Do you like my body, Duncan?"
"Aye, I do," Dunk nods, pressing their foreheads together, leaning in to kiss him as he lazily rolls his hips, pushing against Aerion's soaked folds. "I know you starve yourself. You just wanna look good for me, eh? Wanna make me crazy with that waist?"
"Wanna look good. Wanna be perfect—oh, oh, Duncan,"
"You look perfect like this, my love, you're so gorgeous, I love your body."
No one's ever spoken to him like this before. Aerion feels his eyes bunch up with tears again, now feeling bad for feeling rejection against Dunk, who's being so nice, so kind to him—He cups the man's face in between soft, small hands, brings him in for a passionate kiss that only breaks as Dunk's cock catches at his entrance.
"It won't fit," Aerion sniffles. "It's going to break me apart."
"I'll make it fit."
"Duncan—Dunk, please,"
"I'll make it fit," Dunk parrots, he grabs a hold of Aerion's wrists, seizing his hands behind his back and grabbing him by the hip with the other, angling his thrusts better. "Don't be scared, Aerion. You've done this before, haven't you?"
With normal men, yes, Aerion wants to say, but he doubts taunting the beast will get him anywhere. "None of them were as big as you, Duncan, I beg you."
"Then you don't know what it's like getting fucked by a real man."
Aerion feels himself panicking. They're not using condoms, he has no lubrication aside from his own wetness, and Dunk seems determined to show him what he's been asking for—He tries to break free, maybe he can run downstairs, alert one of the maids and be saved, but that's a foolish thought.
All of this had been foolish from the very beginning.
The tip of Dunk's cock pierces in, already proving to be too much as Aerion's body jolts, his teeth jittering as he gasps in discomfort. It's so big, too big, much too big for his starved body and small frame. Dunk has half the mind to go slowly, at least, feeding him inch by inch but it never gets better. The burn is constant, ranging from his cunt to the base of his spine, all the way to his throat, where he feels that cock lodged right next to his larynx. Dunk's not even halfway inside and Aerion's already spent, crying his eyes out, worn down from his previous orgasms and the pain that blooms across his body.
"Breathe, Aerion," Is the only warning he gets before Dunk lifts him softly, only to drop him down, meeting him with a thrust—his cock sheathed inside Aerion's body to the fullest like a sword piercing through skin, goring him, violating him.
"Fuck!" Aerion screams, a ragged sob punched out of him, he's a mess of tears and saliva and pain, no longer sporting that Targaryen smugness. "Pull it out! Duncan, get the fuck off me!"
"Shh, shh," Dunk quiets him softly, kissing his face, licking his tears. When Aerion looks down he feels his chest sinking at the sight of the distended bulge in his belly, right where Dunk's cock is lodged against his womb. He can see his own blood in Dunk's thighs, too, a mixture of crimson with the clearness of his slick. "You're blooming beautifully, my angel, just breathe with me."
"It hurts," Aerion weeps. "I won't say a word—I won't tell, I'll be quiet, please, please just stop."
Dunk ignores him, which only makes him cry harder. His cunt squeezes, painfully, throbbing around that girthy cock and spasming, Aerion's pretty sure he had another orgasm but could barely feel it above the weight of his pain.
His fingers are buried into the meat of Dunk's shoulders, drawing blood, and his lungs burn as he gulps oxygen in an attempt of soothing himself via breathing exercises.
Dunk slowly bounces him on his lap, testing out the waters, groaning as Aerion's cunt remains too tight, too wounded to be able to fully take what he wants—He grows tired of waiting, of being patient with the boy. Dunk, in the blink of an eye, pulls out of Aerion to a quivering sigh and flips the boy on his hands and knees over the mattress. Aerion complains, begs, asks him to stop again, but Dunk can't. He watches as Aerion's gaping cunt drips, blood and slick and his own pre-cum slipping through, and bites back a snarl before driving his cock inside him once again.
He's deeper like this, with his hand hooked around Aerion's thigh and pressed balls-deep to Aerion's taint, it grants him a better access to Aerion's cervix, too.
After what feels like years of trying to get him to relax, he feels Aerion slicking around his cock once again, his breathing evening out as he buries his face against the pillows. Dunk groans, pleased with how warm and velvety Aerion's insides are, and gives his firsts thrusts into the boy's body—immediately it feels different, he can feel Aerion opening up for him, stretching and welcoming him in. He knows Aerion can feel it too, because his sobs have turned to quiet whimpers which break into moans every now and then whenever Dunk bumps against his sweet spot. Dunk bullies his way into Aerion's womb, reaching in between their bodies with his free hand, placing it upon the bulge in Aerion's stomach.
"Seven help me," Dunk grunts. "I fuckin' love your cunt, Aerion."
Aerion's hand joins his over the bulge caused by his cock, he hears that sweet gasp, the surprise in it, and places his own over it.
Aerion's voice trembles, "You're in my womb, Duncan, I can feel you so deep inside me."
"I know," Dunk presses a kiss to Aerion's shoulder, intimate, warm. "You'll feel me for days, won't take a single step without remembering how it felt to have my cock in you."
Aerion nods, he's soaked in his own sweat, skin glimmering beautifully, as if he were made of diamonds in the rough. His Targaryen beauty is incomparable, truly, and he'll grow to be quite popular with the male crowd, Dunk thinks, for he has all the qualities a man who's not a dumbass looks for in a boy. The thought alone, of Aerion being someone else's, makes a jolt of jealousy spread down his back.
The older man grows tired of the leisure. Dunk's pace picks up, skin slapping against skip, cock rearranging Aerion's insides.
The weight of him just moves Aerion as he pleases, basically shoving him back against his cock as he thrusts into him with unmeasured violence. Aerion's gone mindless, limp in Dunk's arms as he allows him to use him as a cocksleeve—allow him being a humble way of saying he can't do anything else—and he's babbling nonsense under him, sentences that don't string together and cut-off mentions of Dunk's name. He's fucked the boy stupid, positively so, and Dunk takes advantage of that. He pile-drives into Aerion's body like he won't get to fuck another cunt ever again, one hand in Aerion's nape, scruffing him, the other placed against his womb.
His orgasm is building up, it's been building up since the sorry excuse for a blowjob Aerion gave him, and Dunk can seel his sanity slipping, escaping him as if he were holding it like water in between his fingers.
His balls ache, his thighs burn, the more he works toward it the less of a grip he has in how he's treating Aerion—his hivemind begs for him to just find release, to take what he wishes, but Aerion is still young and soft, he does not want to hurt him that badly. Dunk grits his teeth, slowing down his thrusts, turning them into rolls of his hips instead, as he reaches down to find Aerion's cock, tugging and flicking it to bring the boy towards another orgasm. It's not as explosive as his last, but he squeezes beautifully nonetheless.
"Aerion," He leans forward, towering over the boy, shrinking him. "I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna fuckin' come inside you."
Aerion shakes his head, his tongue heavy, infused with lead, inside his mouth. He drifts in and out of a blissful state, thrust back into the pain on his sex, in his spine, the way he's been used like he's worth nothing. "No," He manages to whimper. "Please—No, don't do that, Duncan."
"You're scared you'll get pregnant?" Dunk asks, cruelly. "You don't wanna be a teen mom, Aerion?"
"I don't!" Aerion tries pushing back, but he's caged, utterly helpless. "I beg, I'll do anything—I'll, aah, suck your cock, swallow it—Don't cum inside me."
"You're mediocre at sucking cock," Dunk spits, his thrusts begin speeding up again with the man clearly chasing his own high, tasting his own climax in the tip of his tongue. Aerion can't do anything to avoid this. "And you'd look so cute full of my child, Aerion. The cutest little bride, just mine."
"My father will kill you."
"I'll steal you away," Dunk exhales. "Take you back home with me."
"Please, just pull out."
His cries go unheard, as they have gone since they started. Aerion buries his face in the pillows, bracing for it, muffling his cries and his pained sounds.
When Dunk cums it feels like being lit on fire, and not like the tales told about his family members who've walked into the flames and made it through, no. It feels like the solid proof that Aerion, as much as he loves to flaunt it, does not have what it takes to consider himself a dragon like them—It breaks him apart, his sobs raging through him as he accompanies Dunk with a final orgasm that feels like letting go of his metal-solid dignity, and he can't stop crying as his womb is flooded by that warm, plentiful seed.
Dunk fucks it into him, unwilling to get any of it go to waste, pleasures himself until he's hissing like a bad cat and then he pulls out, admiring his handy work.
Aerion's cunt, totally ruined, is swollen, bloody and leaking Dunk's cum. Dunk moves him, flipping him onto his back so he can crawl into the boy's arms, which wrap around the bulk of him instinctively. He soothes Aerion as he cries into his hair, offering quiet apologies he knows mean nothing to either of then, and kisses him until Aerion's fast asleep in his arms.
"That was beautiful," Professor Lannister softly claps, smiling at the two men upfront, their presentation having just finished. Daeron glances back at Dunk, his smile wide like the sun, proud of each other. "Well done, you two."
Outside of the classroom they celebrate, Daeron hugs Dunk with no hold-backs, laughing brightly as they pace the corridors while reading our their punctuations. The project was a success, so was their presentation of it. They go towards the cafeteria, where they grab two sandwiches and some drinks from the vending machine to go sit out, now that spring has fully sunk in they can just sit on the grass.
Daeron's laid on the grass, his arms beneath his eyes, violet eyes focused on the tree leaves and the shadows the sun makes.
He glances over at Dunk, who's eyes are buried in his phone, "Wanna come over to mine to celebrate? Father's in Germany, something about a summit—We can ransack the wine cellar."
Dunk hums, he's reading out the texts he's been sharing with Aerion since that morning.
Duncan: aced that presentation. how was school?
Aerion 💕: Boring as ever, economics class has me going mad.
Aerion 💕: And I'm proud of you. Are you coming over tonight?
Duncan: depends on if u wnt me there
Aerion 💕: Does it really?
Duncan: no, but i like teasing you
"Dunk," Daeron calls, then again, "Duncan."
"Uh?"
"Are you coming or not? Seven, you're pussy-whipped, control yourself."
Duncan bites back a chuckle, "Yeah, sure. I'll come by."
Aerion 💕: I hate you. Bring condoms.
Duncan: i'm allergic to rubber, doll
Aerion 💕: Yeah, and I'm a fucking dragon, Duncan.