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Aerion flops face-first onto his bed after shutting and locking the door. His afternoon and evening plans for the day with his friends have been cancelled, some last minute things having come up with the lot of them.
That’s the story they're spinning, anyway. Aerion knows they're more than likely pawning him off and looking to ditch him as a nuisance. He wouldn’t say it to their faces, but they don’t matter that much to him, either, so it stings less than it did in the past. His family tends to view his social circles more like servants than friends, anyway, and it would be awful to look weak in front of them. Besides, in all honestly, he needs this. Needs this quiet, this privacy.
He lies there for a long while, simply breathing in the familiar scent of fresh laundry detergent and fabric softener on the clean duvet. The soft white light of the late-afternoon summer sun streams through his large bay windows, illuminating every floating dust mote, every stray fiber on the lush carpet. His room is, as always, immaculate. Not a single thing out of place. Bookshelves arranged by color and author. No clothes on the floor. Even the posters on the walls are level and flat. The only sign of personality, the only clutter, occupies a corner of the room, near the window. A collection of stuffed animals.
Not just animals. Dragons. Dragons of all shapes and sizes, their scales crafted from every color of velvet and plush and felt, from a small finger puppet to a massive beanbag chair he uses for reading. They are piled in a chaotic, colorful heap that looks both childish and sacred. They are his only true confidants. They know him. They know all of him.
He rolls onto his back, the expensive fabric of his school shirt rumpling against his skin. The house is silent, save for the distant hum of the air conditioning and the even more distant thrum of a lawnmower down the street. His parents are out. Daeron is at a concert. Aegon is… wherever Aegon is. And Aemond is probably, probably in the public library, buried in a book as always. But Dunk is here. Duncan. The security detail, the family’s hired bodyguard, the tall, quiet giant who trails after him. That thought shouldn't send a jolt of heat through his belly, but it does. It always does. He hates it. Hates him, mostly.
“Fucking idiot,” Aerion whispers to the empty room. He shoves the thoughts of Duncan aside, but they cling like burrs.
He sits up and unbuttons his shirt with impatient fingers, letting it fall to the side of the bed. He folds the pants, lays them neatly on a chair. Underneath, all he wears are skin-tight boxer briefs, a strip of pale skin above the waistband glowing in the sunlight. He rarely bothers with more. It just gets in the way. Makes too much mess. It’s difficult enough washing this as it is.
He stalks over to his collection of plushies. Without stopping to think too hard, he lifts the biggest one, a pale gray-blue, into his arms and brings it over to the bed. It’s just a little smaller than a labrador. Soft and pillowy and firm enough to feel something against him if he straddles it.
“Sorry about this, Sargothax.” Aerion mutters. He positions the dragon between his legs, holding the base of a horn that sprouts from its head. Slowly, he grinds against the underside of its body, bracing himself with a hand on the bed. The blue-green velvet is buttery soft and cool against his skin. It is already warmed against his lower belly and groin. The plush doesn’t stop where he wants it to; it is long enough for his growing erection to slide between the thing's forelegs and catch against the plusher, corduroy-like fabric under its neck. It’s perfect.
His cock throbs between his legs. Already, his boxers are tented obscenely. With his free hand, Aerion tugs them down. The tip of his flushed, weeping cock rubs the fabric of the dragon's velvet neck, catching when he thrusts forward.
A low, guttural sound slips from him. His eyelids flutter shut. The bodyguard, that enormous brute of a man, seems to occupy his thoughts always these days. Lately, that seems to include, most absurdly and most shamefully, whenever Aerion finds time for this. For a reprieve from everything his mind won’t let go. Aerion rolls his hips back and forth again. His eyes fall closed. He should be too old for this sort of thing, for his own stuffed animals, but that feeling has never gone away.
“Oh, my fuck— ” he hisses under his breath, almost a whine, as the rougher velvet fabric rubs right up against his slit. He grinds against the dragon once more, riding it. There's already a small wet patch from where the tip of his cock brushed it.
He lies forward on top of it, legs still straddling it, pretending the plump form of the plush animal is much larger and heavier than it is, and warm with blood. Pretending the chest is lifting and falling. Pretending it’s something living. Pretending the wings are fluttering and brushing his skin. That the breath from its nostrils is heating the side of his face. As if something huge and dangerous is here, moving underneath him.
Dragons. He must have been obsessed with them since birth, it seems. To breathe fire. To possess the strength to crush trees. To leap from a cliff and fly so high above the world. To hunt, to kill, to do as he wills, beholden to nothing and nobody. He craves it more than he knows how to put into words.
Aerion moans full-throated, with less restraint now. His jaw clenches and he begins to rut frantically grinding the entirety of his erection against the soft, nubby texture of the plush, but the feeling fades too quickly. He doesn’t want to look down, doesn't want to ruin the fantasy. As he is now, if it weren’t for the empty bed below him, he’d imagine himself mounted on a dragon, all but fucking it mid-flight. But, of course, if dragons even existed, they would never allow a human to do such a thing. So it has to be pretend.
He swipes his hair out of his face, sweaty now, before sliding it down his belly and under his balls. He begins to circle it with two fingers, just to the side of his sensitive perineum, adding just enough pressure to make his erection weep.
“S-Sargothax…” He’s too distracted to censor his words as they tumble from his mouth. “...unf— you feel so good...fuck— ”
One of Aerion’s favorite ways to spend the afternoon. Half-naked, legs spread, sweaty, whimpering into the plush neck of a stuffed dragon, desperately grinding on it as he slips the tips of his fingers under his balls to circle them, imagining a huge, violent, vicious, wonderful beast sating all his impossible wants. That is, when he’s not sprawled in a beanbag chair with a pillow or another large stuffed dragon jammed between his legs as he rubs himself to oblivion on it, watching as much fucked-up porn as he can get away with until he cums all over himself. That’s the kind of teen he is, apparently.
Maybe it wouldn't be such a big deal if his father were not who he is, and if there weren’t so many expectations. But that doesn't matter here. He’s alone. Free.
“— please let me—” He groans, bucking wildly now. He's close. He's so close. His arousal, thick and full, smears the plush's neck in slick wetness. There are already soaked patches in the fabric from it. “ —Ahn— g-gods— s’good— Sargothax, you, you want it?” Aerion slurs into the plush neck. “Yes you do, such a good, good dragon, a-a god—” He gasps and buries his face in the plush, grinding his erection roughly against its corduroy fur, pretending its tail is twitching and coiling around his thighs, teasing them. His hair falls over his face, drenching him in shade from the summer sun. He pants, hips canting forward, the pressure just right. He’s right there.
“Agh—!”
A sudden, loud click. The distinct, heavy thud of the deadbolt being turned.
Aerion freezes, a choked gasp escaping his lips. He freezes so completely he's a statue. His mind, slick and hazy with approaching release, stutters to a halt, replaced by a tide of pure, unadulterated ice. Time slows, elongates. The sound of the handle turning. The soft whisper of the door swinging inward. The silence of the person in the doorway.
Slowly, slowly, Aerion lifts his head from the plush neck, pushes the damp hair from his eyes. The silhouette in the doorway is impossibly large, a broad-shouldered giant blotting out the light from the hallway. Not any of his siblings or the cleaning staff.
It's him. Dunk.
Dunk stands there, framed in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob for support. For a second, his face is a blank mask of unreadable shock. His eyes, dark and intense, are fixed directly on Aerion. On the scene laid out before him. The half-naked teenager, flushed and sweat-slick, his hips pressed tight against a giant blue plush dragon, a clear wet spot on its neck where Aerion’s hard, weeping cock is still pressed against it. Aerion knows, he knows, with the crystalline clarity of absolute humiliation, exactly what this looks like.
His entire body goes rigid with shame. His blood, once so hot, runs cold. The fantasy shatters into a million pieces. He stares up at Duncan, the real man, the one Aerion didn't dare even consider letting his mind drift to. One breath in. Two.
“Get the fuck out!” he shrieks, a fierce, boiling rage flooding through him, cracking his voice. “I told you to fucking knock before you come in here! Can’t you get that through your stupid head?!”
Aerion is trying to cover himself, tugging down the pillow to hide his erection from view, trying to simultaneously shield himself and sit up with dignity on the bed, when Dunk shakes himself. The shock flickers away like so much smoke. In a second, he steps inside the room, closes the door behind him, and locks it. All without his gaze leaving Aerion. The blue plush dragon, his shameful secret, is still hugged to him.
There's no sound from Dunk, just a clatter and a thump of boots being kicked off as he shrugs out of the light jacket he is wearing. His clothes slip to the floor.
And then Aerion knows. There is no mistaking that look.
Aerion watches as Duncan moves to stand by the edge of the bed, at the end. The floorboards creak. He looks down at Aerion, face carefully blank. He kneels, one knee on the bed. Shadows gather and shift in the room as he crawls onto it, the mattress dipping, bowing under his bulk. The temperature drops around him. He lifts himself over Aerion. One strong, solid arm pins Aerion’s down. A meaty hand comes up, clamps around the dragon plush, and pulls it away from him, flinging it unceremoniously away.
“Wha—?!”
As if Aerion can't do it himself. As if he's nothing next to this hulking man. As if Duncan is anything like Aerion, born to be so far above everyone, a king, and Aerion needs someone else to do things for him.
Fury is one way to kill embarrassment. And a good way to deny how deeply the fear runs under his skin.
“Wait— No—” Aerion can feel his breath stutter in his chest, too shallow to be useful. In no universe, not in a million years, did he want Dunk to find out. Aerion's face burns as he watches the plush fly from Duncan’s grasp, thump to the carpet and bounce once before flopping over and going still. All he can do is glare up at him.
“So this is what you do when everyone's out, huh?” Dunk asks. His voice is coarse and deep, and a chill ripples down Aerion's spine. “You shouldn't be playing with toys if you can't keep your own door locked, kid.”
If Aerion had more presence of mind, he might be able to respond. But he doesn’t. He wants to snarl, wants to threaten, wants to shove the man away and let him know just how strong Aerion really is, not how fragile and powerless he feels right now, caught, half-naked, and desperate. All that comes out is a rush of air. If this had to happen, why did it have to be with this oaf of a man?
“Th-that is none of your fucking business!” Aerion growls, wrenching his arm from under Duncan's to push it up against his chest. A child swatting a cat, trying to force it away. “This is my room, in my house, and if you want to keep your job, you’ll leave me to it. No one wants you here.”
He immediately knows that was the wrong thing to say. Dunk just looms above him, a great, dark, muscular pillar. A dangerous expression settles on his face, a gleam in his eyes.
“You’re so cute when you’re mad,” Dunk murmurs.
“Do you fucking understand words? This is my space— my personal space— you piece of shit. If you don’t get the fuck out, I’ll scream this whole house down.”
“No one’s home.” Dunk doesn’t move. Not away, not down. And he certainly doesn’t unlock the door, which Aerion realizes is somehow worse.
Aerion freezes at that. “You— you—” he stutters, gathering words as much to convince himself as anyone else. “You wouldn’t dare— I’ll kill you, you know. I'll fucking kill you. You're not, you're not— you won't—”
“Aerion.”
Something cold slips around his wrists, tugged tightly back above his head. A belt, Duncan's belt.
Before Aerion can let out a startled shriek, a warm hand clamps over his mouth and silences him. Suddenly, he's trembling, shaking too hard to breathe normally. His thighs are forced apart, both knees pushed up against his chest, ass exposed, and all that's left is for Dunk to unbuckle his own belt, tugged a little less tightly through the belt loops this time, and get this over with.
What happens next is not what he expects. Dunk lowers himself on the bed. He stays clothed, with only a slight shift in the denim at his crotch that suggests a swelling underneath.
“Now,” Dunk begins, in a tone he’s never heard before. Not even once. “If you promise not to scream, I'll take my hand away. Can you do that?”
The question hangs in the air between them. For a moment, Aerion can only stare at him, a mix of rage and terror warring in his chest. He’s a Targaryen. He should never submit. Yet, the reality of the belt holding him, the weight pinning him, the sheer overwhelming presence of this man, leaves him with no choice.
He nods, a sharp, jerky motion.
Slowly, the hand retreats. Aerion sucks in a desperate breath. The air tastes of Duncan's leather gloves, but he doesn't care.
“Aren't you going to do it?” Aerion spits, the tremor in his voice betraying him. He tries to make it a sneer, a challenge. He needs to regain some fragment of control, even in defeat. “Going to fuck me, is that it? You're not so special. Nothing I haven't had before.”
A lie. An utter, desperate lie. But Duncan just raises an eyebrow.
“You think that's what I want?”
Aerion’s retort dies in his throat. Because Duncan doesn't unbutton his jeans. Instead, he shifts, his bulk moving with a terrifying ease. He retrieves the discarded dragon, the fallen Sargothax, from the floor. He holds it up, the wet patch on its neck gleaming in the dim light.
“You were having a good time, it seems,” Dunk’s voice is a low rumble. “Don't let me interrupt. In fact… I want to watch.”
“What?” The word is a choked whisper. This is a humiliation far beyond a simple, brutal assault. This is personal. This is intimate. This is a violation of the last, sacred place Aerion had for himself.
“You heard me,” Dunk says, settling back on his heels, his knees pinning Aerion’s legs open. He places the dragon on Aerion's chest. The cool, damp fabric presses against his skin. “Show me how you do it. Show me how you get off riding your little toys. Show me what you were thinking about right before I walked in.”
Aerion's blood turns to sludge in his veins. He was thinking about a dragon, huge and powerful, crushing him in its claws, filling him. But he was also thinking about the man now looming over him, the sheer brute strength of him, the size of his hands. He cannot admit that. He cannot give him that power.
“Go to hell.”
“I can go get my phone instead,” Dunk counters, calm and sure. “I'm sure your father would love to see this. Maybe your friends at school. Think they’d still want to pawn you off, or would they just stare at you in the halls? The Targaryen princeling and his dragon fetish. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?”
Aerion knows, with a certainty that settles like a stone in his gut, that Dunk would do it. This man, this simple hired security, holds all the power. For the first time in his life, Aerion is truly helpless. The rage curdles into a hot, self-loathing sickness. He closes his eyes, a single tear of pure fury and shame slipping from the corner and tracing a path through the sweat on his temple.
He can’t look at him. He can’t. He turns his face into the pillow, pretending he's alone, pretending this is just another afternoon. His hands, bound above his head, twist in the leather of the belt. He lifts his hips, awkwardly, positioning the dragon between his legs again. The motion is too clumsy. He’s not guiding it with a horn now; he’s just trying to get it right, to press himself against the damp patch, to find the rhythm he had before. But it’s gone. The fantasy is gone. The pleasure is gone. All that’s left is the pathetic reality of the act.
He grinds his hips once. The wet fabric is a cold, slimy reminder of his interrupted arousal. It feels nothing like it did before. There’s no heat, no tingle of building pressure. Just so embarrassing.
Dunk sighs, a long, gusty sound of impatience. He leans forward, crowding Aerion even more. His large, warm palm comes to rest on Aerion's bare stomach, right above his pubic bone.
“Not like that,” he rumbles, his breath hot against Aerion's ear. “You're not a dog humping a furniture leg. You were beautiful before. Lost in it. Your whole body was alive. Do that again.”
Beautiful. The word strikes Aerion like a slap, and it’s a far worse insult than any curse could be. It implies something tender, something appreciative. This is an attack. It has to be.
But Dunk’s hand is moving, rubbing slow circles on his stomach, a gesture that is almost comforting if it weren’t for the circumstances. The heat of it seeps into Aerion's skin, chasing away some of the gooseflesh. Against his will, he feels a faint stirring, a phantom echo of the pleasure he felt earlier. His body is a fucking traitor.
Dunk’s other hand reaches down and adjusts the plushie, shifting it slightly, pressing its neck more firmly against the underside of Aerion's cock. Then, with shocking gentleness, he closes his own fist around Aerion's softening length, holding it against the damp velvet.
“You were right here,” Dunk murmurs, his thumb brushing over the slit. A jolt, pure lightning, shoots up Aerion's spine. He bites back a gasp. “Rubbing right here. Let’s try that again.”
He guides Aerion’s hips with the hand on his stomach, pressing him forward. Aerion resists for a split second before the friction against his most sensitive skin forces him to yield. He rolls his hips, a choked sob catching in his throat. It’s different now. Dunk's calloused thumb, the pressure of his palm, it’s too much. He’s being guided, like a child learning to ride a bike. The humiliation burns, but so does the heat that is rapidly rebuilding in his groin.
“That’s it,” Dunk encourages, leaning close so Aerion feels the vibration in his own chest. “Just like that. Up. And down. Good boy.”
Aerion’s eyes squeeze shut. He hates that phrase. Hates it. He’s not a dog. He’s not anyone’s ‘boy’. But the heat pooling at the base of his spine intensifies. His hips begin to move on their own, finding a rhythm guided by Dunk’s hand. His body doesn't care that this is coercion. It only knows that the stimulation is exquisite. His cock hardens, thickening in Dunk's loose grip, leaking more fluid that smears onto the dragon and the guard’s fingers.
“Fuck,” Aerion whispers, the word wrung out of him. He can’t help it. His head falls back against the pillow, exposing the long, pale line of his throat.
Dunk takes that as an invitation. He leans down, pressing his hot, open mouth to Aerion’s neck. He doesn't bite, not yet, just breathes against the skin there, a wet, possessive heat. He rubs his thumb over the head of Aerion's cock again, gathering the pre-cum and smearing it down the shaft, making the glide against the plush slicker, faster. The other hand still directs the rhythm of Aerion's hips.
“What were you thinking about?” Dunk asks again, leaning close, his breath warm on Aerion’s ear. The deep cadence of his voice is almost hypnotic, an anchor to this terrible reality. “Were you thinking about how big it is? How it would feel inside you? Stretching you?”
“God, no—” Aerion gasps out, shaking his head, but the image crashes through his mind anyway. A dragon's cock, or maybe a guard's. Both are huge, both are overwhelming. The thought alone is enough to make his hips buck forward.
Dunk's grip on him tightens, stroking him in a single, slow pull from base to tip. Aerion's body goes rigid, a strangled cry escaping him.
“Liar,” Dunk growls, and then he bites down. It’s not a savage bite, but it’s hard enough to leave a mark, a sharp, stinging pressure right over the fluttering pulse in his neck.
“Will you ride it for me?” Dunk continues over the sound of Aerion’s desperate panting. “I want to watch you ride it. Pretend it’s me. Pretend it’s the dragon you really want. Use my hands. I’ll hold you.”
He lets go of Aerion's cock, moving both hands to grip Aerion’s narrow hips. He positions him directly over the dragon's neck. With a final, small nudge from Dunk, Aerion is left to do the rest. He hesitates for a second, torn between the screaming instinct to fight and the deep, biological urge to chase the pleasure that’s so close he can taste it.
The decision is made for him. He sinks down. The full length of his cock presses against the wet, velvety corduroy. His body remembers. The friction is immediate, electrifying. His bound hands clench into fists above his head. He starts to move. It's tentative at first, a slow, shameful rock, but the need quickly takes over. The coil in his belly tightens.
He tries to summon the fantasy back—the leathery wings, the heat of a beast, the feeling of flight—but it’s no use. The only thing that feels real is the man holding him, the strong, sure grip on his hips, the heavy presence between his legs where Dunk kneels. The only heat he feels is from Dunk's body. He is riding the plushie, but Dunk is riding him with every thrust.
“Look at you,” Dunk murmurs, the words a vibration against Aerion’s back as he leans in, his chest pressing against Aerion’s bound arms. “Taking what you need. So fucking pretty like this.”
The word ‘pretty’ is worse than ‘beautiful’.
“Stop it,” Aerion grits out, but his hips snap down harder, grinding against the dragon, seeking the delicious friction. He’s building a pace, frantic and messy. The wet sounds of his movement, the ragged tear of his own breathing, fill the silent room. “Don’t—don’t call me that—”
“Don’t call you what?” There’s a dark amusement in Dunk’s voice. “Pretty? Because you are. You are when you’re angry, and you’re fucking divine when you’re desperate. Look how hard you are for your little toy. Look how hard you are for me watching you.”
One of Dunk’s hands slides from Aerion’s hip, tracing a path down the cleft of his ass. Aerion flinches, a startled cry catching in his throat. The finger doesn’t enter him, just presses against the furl of his hole, a teasing, maddening pressure.
“Does the dragon do this for you?” Dunk whispers, the words hot and wet against his ear. “Does it press against you here? Make you wonder what it would feel like to be taken by something so big you couldn’t walk for a week?”
Aerion sobs. It’s a sound of pure, wretched pleasure and humiliation. He pushes back against that single teasing finger, an instinct he can’t control, then grinds forward against the dragon. The dual stimulation is overwhelming. His mind goes blank, white-hot with sensation. He is lost in a sea of shame and a rising tide of an orgasm so intense it scares him.
“Answer me,” Dunk commands, and the finger presses harder, not breaching, just promising.
“Y-yes…” The confession is torn from him, a ragged whisper. “Gods, yes—”
“Good boy.” Dunk presses a kiss to the bite mark on his neck. It’s a strangely tender gesture in the midst of this violation. “Keep going, then.”
Aerion does. He has no choice. His body is no longer his own. It’s a vessel for this humiliating pleasure. He rides the plushie with a reckless abandon, spurred on by the pressure against his ass and the deep, encouraging rumble of Dunk’s voice in his ear. He can feel the tension in his thighs, the knot tightening in his groin, the tell-tale tingle at the base of his spine.
“Right there, that’s it,” Dunk says, reading his body perfectly. “I can feel you. You’re so close. You’re going to make a mess all over your little dragon, aren’t you? Go on. Let go for me. Let me see it.”
The permission breaks him with a raw, hoarse cry, Aerion’s hips stutter and still. His back bows in a sharp, elegant arc. His bound fists press into the headboard. The climax that tears through him is violent and all-consuming. Pulse after pulse of hot, slick cum spills from him, painting the blue-gray velvet of Sargothax’s neck in stripes of pearly white. He rides it out, grinding through the waves of pleasure until he’s spent, collapsing boneless onto the damp, messy plushie, panting into its fabric.
The room is silent save for the sound of their breathing—Aerion’s ragged gasps and Dunk’s own, slightly quicker inhales. For a long moment, Dunk just holds him, a warm, heavy presence. The finger against his hole finally retreats. The hands on his hips remain, grounding him.
Slowly, Dunk shifts back. He’s lying in his own mess, bound, sweaty, and utterly destroyed. He keeps his face buried in the plush, unable to bear the thought of looking at the man who just did this to him. Who watched him and made him enjoy it.
Then, the jingle of a belt buckle. The rasp of a zipper. The soft thud of denim hitting the floor.
“Turn over,” Dunk says, his voice flat, devoid of the coaxing softness from before.
“No,” Aerion mumbles into the pillow. It’s a reflex, a final flicker of defiance.
Dunk doesn’t argue. He simply flips him like he’s nothing. One strong hand on Aerion’s shoulder, another on his hip, and he’s rolled onto his back. His bound wrists dig uncomfortably into the mattress beneath him. He finally looks up.
Dunk is kneeling between his splayed legs, and the sight steals the air from Aerion’s lungs. He is huge. Everywhere. Muscles corded in his arms and chest, dusted with dark hair. And between his legs… He’s half-hard, but already thicker and longer than any man Aerion has ever seen, not that he has much to compare it to. The reality of him is a thousand times more potent than the fantasy. It’s not a plush toy or an abstract idea of a dragon. It’s Duncan.
And it’s terrifying.
“I-It won’t fit,” Aerion hears himself say, the words small and breathless.
“I’ll make it fit,” Dunk says, simple and absolute. He reaches over to Aerion’s nightstand, yanks open the top drawer. There’s a half-empty bottle of lube, a concession to some lonely, fumbling nights with his own fingers. Dunk grabs it.
The first touch of the slick, cool lube makes Aerion flinch. Dunk’s fingers are coarse, calloused, and impossibly large as one presses against him. He doesn't tease this time. He pushes one finger in, a slow, unyielding pressure that steals Aerion's breath. It’s uncomfortable and invasive, but it’s not agonizing.
Dunk moves it, in and out, a deliberate rhythm. Then a second finger joins the first, stretching him, the burn sharper now. Aerion clenches his jaw, a pained whine escaping him. His spent cock lies limp against his belly. He wants to fight, to scream, to kick this brute off him, but he feels heavy, liquid. He can only lie there and take it as Dunk scissors his fingers, opening him up.
“You have no idea,” Dunk rumbles, looking down at where his fingers disappear into Aerion’s body. “No idea how pretty you look like this.”
Aerion squeezes his eyes shut. He hates that word. But the heat in Dunk’s voice, the sheer, undisguised hunger… something twists in his gut.
A third finger presses in, and this does hurt. A sharp, stretching burn. Aerion cries out, arching his back, trying to pull away, but Dunk’s other hand holds him firm against the mattress.
“Shhh,” Dunk murmurs, almost gently. He leans down, presses a kiss to Aerion’s inner thigh. A brand. “You can take it. For me.”
His fingers curl inside him, stroking a place Aerion didn’t know existed. A blinding bolt of pleasure shoots through him, so intense it borders on pain. He sobs, his body convulsing. His cock gives a weak, interested twitch.
“What was that?” Aerion gasps.
“Your sweet spot,” Dunk says, a smug satisfaction in his tone. He strokes it again. And again. Playing him like an instrument. The pain melts into a deep, throbbing ache that is pure pleasure. Aerion is helpless. He is lost. His bound hands twist uselessly in the belt. He is being dismantled, piece by piece, and his body is reveling in it.
He hears the click of the lube bottle cap again, the slick sounds as Dunk prepares himself. The fingers withdraw, leaving Aerion feeling hollow, achingly empty. He feels the blunt, wet head of Dunk’s cock press against his entrance.
He is so much bigger than the fingers. So much bigger. The pressure is immense. Aerion’s body tenses automatically, a last-ditch attempt at defense.
“Breathe,” Dunk commands. One of his hands comes to rest on Aerion’s stomach, pressing down, a strange, grounding weight. “Push out a little. Let me in.”
Aerion shakes his head, but he does it. He obeys as he takes a shallow breath and pushes.
The head of Dunk’s cock breaches him. The stretch is an inferno. A tear leaks from the corner of Aerion’s eye, tracking a path through the sweat on his temple. He lets out a strangled sound, something between a gasp and a whimper.
“So tight,” Dunk grunts, his hips pushing forward in a slow, relentless slide. “So fucking perfect.”
It goes on forever. An endless, burning invasion. Aerion feels split in two. He tries to thrash, but he’s pinned. All he can do is take it.
“Fucking bastard,” he sobs, the words barely intelligible.
“I know,” Dunk says, a dark amusement in his voice. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. He sounds pleased.
He sinks all the way in until his hips are flush against Aerion’s ass. He holds still for a moment, letting Aerion adjust. The pressure inside is immense, a fullness that is both agony and a strange rightness happening. He is filled with this man, completely owned by him. It feels so fucking big.
Dunk begins to move. Slowly at first, a torturous drag against his oversensitive walls. Each inward press sends a jolt through him, a reminder of his vulnerability. But then he shifts, finding that spot again, and the pain blurs into an indescribable pleasure that has Aerion arching his back, a desperate keen torn from his throat.
The hands that were pinning him now move. One slides up his chest, thumb finding a nipple and rolling it, sending another sharp spark of sensation through him. The other wraps around Aerion’s half-hard cock, coaxing it back to life with firm, slick strokes.
“Look at me, little prince,” Dunk rasps, his rhythm picking up speed, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper.
Aerion’s eyes flutter open. He’s forced to meet Dunk’s gaze, to see the raw, unadulterated lust there, the dark satisfaction. This isn’t just about power or punishment. This is desire. He is desired by this brute. By this giant. The thought is dizzying, intoxicating.
His hips begin to move on their own, lifting to meet Dunk’s thrusts. The belt digging into his wrists is a constant, stinging reminder of his submission, a price he pays for the pleasure building in him once more, hot and impossible. His cock is fully hard now, leaking in Dunk’s grip.
“Are you going to come for me again?” Dunk asks, pumping him in time with his thrusts. “All over my hand this time?”
“Yes,” Aerion gasps, the confession ripped from him. He has no defenses left. “Fuck— yes—”
“Ask me for it,” Dunk commands, a final, ultimate humiliation.
“Please,” Aerion whimpers, a shattered thing. “Please, Duncan. Let me come.”
The use of his full name seems to be the key. A groan is ripped from Dunk’s chest, and he slams into him, once, twice, a brutal, possessive rhythm. He strikes Aerion’s prostate with each thrust, and Aerion shatters, a scream tearing from his throat as his orgasm washes over him, hotter and more intense than the last. Spurts of cum paint his own stomach and Dunk’s hand. His body convulses, clenching down tight around the cock inside him.
“Fuck—” Dunk grunts, and shudders, burying himself to the hilt. Aerion feels a hot, flooding warmth deep inside him as Dunk spends himself. The weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer reality of it, is overwhelming.
For a long while, they just lie there. Dunk collapses onto him, careful not to crush him completely, but the weight is still immense. It’s suffocating and strangely comforting all at once. Aerion can feel the frantic beat of Dunk’s heart against his back. His bound hands ache. His ass is a dull, throbbing burn. His own chest is sticky with cooling cum.
Slowly, Dunk pushes himself up. He reaches up, his fingers fumbling with the leather belt around Aerion’s wrists. The binding falls away after a moment of tugging, the leather rough against Aerion’s already abraded skin.
Aerion doesn't move. He lets his arms fall to his sides, a dull ache in his shoulders. He’s still, waiting. For the contempt, the mocking laughter, for this brutish guard to dress and leave, leaving him to his ruin.
But the laughter never comes.
Dunk shifts off the bed. Aerion hears him move, the soft pad of his bare feet on the carpet. A drawer opens and closes. Then the gentle sound of running water from the en-suite bathroom. Aerion just lies there, a mess of limbs and tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't know what to do. He has never been less in control of a situation in his life. The anger is gone, burned away, leaving only a hollow, humiliated ache.
The bathroom door creaks open. Dunk returns, a warm, damp washcloth in his hands. He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping. He doesn't say a word. He just gently cleans Aerion’s stomach, the movement slow, methodical. Then he parts Aerion's legs and gently wipes away the mess of lube and cum from between his thighs and from his sore, stretched hole. The touch is clinical, yet not unkind. It’s a grotesque parody of care, and a tremor runs through Aerion’s body. He flinches away from the touch, a small, involuntary recoil.
Dunk stops, his hand hovering in the air. For a second, the two of them just exist in the silence, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall. Aerion expects him to sneer, to say something cruel, but he doesn’t. He simply stands, drops the cloth into a laundry hamper in the corner, and begins to dress. He pulls on his jeans, the worn denim whispering. Then his shirt. He doesn't bother tucking it in. He looks as disheveled as Aerion feels, but on him, it looks right.
He turns back to the bed. Aerion has curled onto his side, pulling a corner of the duvet over himself, a small, useless shield. His gaze is fixed on the plushie on the floor. Sargothax. Lying on its side, neck stained with the evidence of his shame.
“Hey,” Dunk’s voice is quiet, all the harshness gone. “Come here.”
Aerion doesn’t move.
Dunk sighs. He walks over, bends down, and picks up the plush dragon. He smooths the fabric with one large hand, then places it on the bed, right next to Aerion’s pillow.
“It’s just a thing, Aerion,” he says. “It’s okay.”
The words are so simple, so unexpectedly normal, that they are more disarming than any threat could be. Aerion’s control finally snaps. A harsh, ugly sob tears from his throat. He buries his face in the pillow, hiding. Hiding from the man who saw him, who broke him, who cleaned him up and is now… what? Comforting him? He feels a large, warm hand settle on his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles between his shoulder blades. The same hands that held him down, that bruised him, are now offering solace.
“You’re safe,” Dunk murmurs, the words a low vibration that seeps into Aerion’s bones. “No one will know. It’s our secret.” He hesitates. “I was just… saying some shit. To… make it easier for me. I’m sorry.”
Aerion’s sobs quiet, though the tremors still wrack his body. He feels exhausted, hollowed out. Dunk’s hand remains a steady, warm presence on his back. After a long moment, he feels the weight shift as Dunk sits on the very edge of the bed.
“I thought about it too,” Dunk says, so quietly Aerion almost doesn’t hear. “Before I came in. I was standing outside your door, and I heard… something. I tried to tell myself to walk away. To just do my job. But I couldn’t. I imagined what you were doing in here. Alone.” He pauses, and Aerion can hear the unspoken words in the silence. And I was jealous of a stuffed toy.
Aerion slowly turns his head. His face is blotchy, tear-streaked, a ruin of its usual haughty beauty. He looks at the bodyguard. He’s not leering now, he just looks conflicted. Guilty even, but still a little hungry. That last emotion sends a weak residual shiver through Aerion’s spent body.
“Why?” Aerion’s voice is a raw, scraped whisper.
Dunk meets his gaze. His dark eyes are serious. He reaches out, but doesn’t touch him. “Because I see you every day. All that fire, that pride. I see you hate me, and I want to see what happens when all that fire burns out. I wanted to be the one to make it happen. And when I saw you like that… I lost my goddamn mind.”
His brain reels, trying to process it.
“You’re fucked up,” Aerion breathes, but the words sound strange, not the insult they should be.
“Yeah,” Dunk agrees, a grim smile touching his lips. “I’m so sorry.”
The smell of sex still hangs in the air, mingled with the clean scent of laundry. The clock ticks in the hall. Outside, the world continues, oblivious.
“We have to…” Aerion starts, then stops, unable to finish. What do they have to do? Forget this? Never speak of it again? He knows it’s impossible. Everything has changed. Even the air in the room has changed.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Dunk says, as if reading his mind. He finally stands, his movement pulling the seams of the quiet moment apart. He moves with an easy grace that belies his size. He walks over to the desk, picks up his discarded jacket from the floor. The gesture is mundane, a return to normalcy that feels completely alien. “Tomorrow, I’ll be outside your door. You’ll ignore me. You’ll go to school. I’ll drive you. It’ll be the same as it was.”
Aerion watches him, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. He wants that. He wants to go back to hating the quiet giant from a safe distance. But he knows it’s a lie. Nothing will ever be the same. He can feel the phantom pressure of the belt on his wrists, the echo of the burn as he was stretched open. He can see the look in Dunk’s eyes as he watched him come undone.
“No,” Aerion says, the word surprising them both. “It won’t.”
Dunk pauses by the door, his hand on the knob. He looks back. “Then what do you want it to be, Aerion?”
The question hangs there, a challenge and an offering. Aerion has never been asked what he wants, not really. His life is a series of obligations and expectations. Even this, this sick, twisted thing that just happened, was done to him. But now…
He looks from Dunk’s unreadable face to the plush dragon lying beside him. Sargothax, the confidant who is now a piece of evidence in this strange, new landscape. He touches a claw, made of stiff, white felt.
“I don’t know,” he whispers, and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. “It wasn’t—” He struggles, the words failing him. “I didn’t want it. But—”
“But you liked it,” Dunk finishes for him. He leans forward, holding eye contact. His shoulders do not move. He’s just stating a fact.
Aerion’s face burns. He can’t bring himself to deny it. The pleasure was real, more real than anything he’d ever felt.
“It wasn’t so bad.” he says, and Dunk smiles.
The last thing Aerion sees before the door clicks shut is the soft look in his eyes, and the way the muscles of his neck pulled taut as he turned to leave. He wants to throw a book at the door and leave an enormous, scuffing dent.
Alone again. The silence that was once a sanctuary is now a judgment. He can hear the hum of the air conditioner, the ticking of the clock, but they sound different now. He is raw and exposed, even in the empty room. He slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing at the dull ache in his muscles, the tender throb between his legs. His hands hover over the duvet, feeling the phantom restraint of the belt around them. The urge to throw something, to break something, to scream, surges through him. He needs an anchor, a focus for the roiling chaos in his chest.
His eyes land on the stained plushie. Sargothax. It stares back with its shiny, plastic button eyes. With a cry from his chest, Aerion grabs it. His fingers twitch over the seam, a prelude to tearing it, to scattering the stuffing. But he does not. He holds it tight, his face pressed into the velvet neck. The scent is different now. Clean laundry and fabric are overwritten. Smell of semen. Smell of Dunk. Sweat and leather and the sharp, metallic tang of his deodorant have soaked the threads. He pulls the air deep into his lungs.
That night, he doesn’t sleep. He lies in the dark, staring at the ceiling. He hears the sound of the lock from the hallway as Daeron stumbles in at some ungodly hour, but it’s a distant noise, from another world. He is caught between the memory of being pinned and held, of the terrible pleasure, and the quiet, gentle way Dunk cleaned him up. He’s caught in a trap of memory.
And it's so lovely.