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Daeron’s ass squeezes his cock too tightly as he enters proof that he should have stretched his ass before even thinking about penetrating him. With every thrust, his friend’s hole tightens even more, so much so that he fears at some point he won’t be able to pull out without his cock getting stuck inside.
He shakes his head to banish that unpleasant thought from his mind; if he gets distracted, his cock will go limp. He struggles to erase the unpleasant image from his mind.
He tries to focus his mind on the muffled moans the boy lets out—he tries to convince himself they’re moans and not screams—maybe that will turn him on even more. He manages it, but he has to close his eyes, and that bothers him. Daeron is embarrassed that he’s watching him while they fuck, especially when he’s lying with his legs spread wide open and a giant inside him moving so damn slowly.
He’s embarrassed to be seen like this, with his T-shirt and hood pulled up to his armpits, revealing his pink nipples; he’d rather be on all fours with his head buried in the dirty sheets to avoid this humiliation.
This kind of shit always happens whenever Duncan is around, when he shoots up and someone ends up calling him to come find him and he always finds him, which is the worst part.
Always lurking like an annoying, drooling dog harassing a female dog just to get her to submit; that’s Duncan.
Duncan’s dick—half-flaccid now, damn it—deeply regrets that its owner has developed a bad drinking habit; in Duncan’s defense, he’s just “helping” Raymun with his craft cider venture.
He’s even bought a little machine because he wants to learn how to make it, and he’s been having serious talks with Raymun’s wife about setting up a booth at the fall fair to sell his friend’s cider, because they’d definitely lose money if they didn’t.
What the hell! Is he thinking about his friend’s wife right now? Damn them all, every last one of them.
At least it’s not as horrible as when he thinks about Daeron’s dad while he’s fucking Daeron. That’s worse; like that time years ago when he fucked him silently against Maekar’s bed and came too soon the moment he caught a whiff of the man’s pillows. That day he spent wondering if he’d actually shouted the guy’s name or if it had just been his imagination.
Or like when Maekar slapped him when he caught him groping his oldest son near the kitchen sink; that same night he got slapped many more times, but because he came inside his ex-girlfriend—nothing serious happened, by the way—just from thinking about the man.
Or that time when… no.
Getting back to Daeron, it was damn tight, and when he thought about it, it wasn’t so bad. Lately, sex had become really bad and boring for him, so bad and boring that he always ended up cursing everyone because no one could get him hard.
His brain and his dick clearly preferred this: Daeron Targaryen’s cute, completely untanned ass.
He got ridiculously gay every time he thought about this, the two of them, so close, as one, like the old days. What did it matter if they were in a slum on the outskirts of town? What did it matter if the fleas from the dirty mattress in this dump had already bitten him? What did it matter if he had to give Daeron some important information: he could do that later.
Now he had him all to himself, and he’d waited a long time for this chance. He’d waited too long, perhaps, so long that when he finally managed to track Daeron’s cell phone and went to pick him up from that rat’s nest, all it took was a clumsy whisper in his ear to drive him wild. Like an animal, like a… bison.
Did Daeron know that bison mate in the summer? Summer, summer, Summerhall, gods. The first time he fucked Daeron was in the summer, and him wouldn't stop moaning so sweetly.
“You can move now,” a voice said. He lowered his head and opened his eyes only to be met with a breathtaking sight.
Daeron, his childhood crush, the boy he met in detention all those years ago, the older brother of the kid who humiliated him on Roblox, Maekar’s son—damn it, focus—, a damn adult was right there, holding one of his legs in each arm, letting him, inviting him, encouraging him to penetrate him while he hid his cute, flushed face among the old blankets of the motel they’d walked into.
“I know a place, a spot,” he whispered in his ear a while back when he picked him up to get him out of that seedy bar. “It’s a few blocks from here. Come on, let’s go.”
Come on, Duncan. It’s been so long, Duncan. Come on. Come on. Don’t be like this, please. Come on.
He slipped his hand into his pants the moment he got him into the taxi. Gods, it was glorious. He kissed him hard, letting out sighs; their teeth clattered together, and he started moving his hand, and his body reacted instantly.
So long without seeing him, and now the first thing he does is touch his cock in a taxi they haven’t even paid for yet. Daeron pulls away from the kiss and looks at him for a few brief moments, leaving a thread of saliva hanging from his lips that he tries not to let break away from his own, as if keeping them together, as if there were still a connection even so.
He hears him say something, a strange address, the taxi makes a turn, and Daeron closes the window so the driver won’t see them.
He kisses him again, harder, and wraps a leg around him; his golden hair still glistens, tied in a small bun with strands escaping. Daeron tucks one behind his ear as he catches his breath.
They should be on their way to the train station, not in some damn cheap motel, one with fleas. How does Daeron even know about places like this?
Seven fucks, Kiera is going to kill him, Egg is going to kill him, and Maekar is part of the equation because he always finds one more reason to keep him away from his son and kill him.
Maekar.
Shit.
“You must be joking,” that voice said then. “Damn precocious kid!” said mocking him
He figures about two hours have passed—maybe an hour and a half, maybe less than an hour—but after a while he finishes fucking Daeron, for now.
They didn’t last long; he definitely didn’t last long, but that doesn’t stop him from cumming inside Daeron about three times.
Three glorious times, take note of that.
It’s almost mesmerizing for him to watch his cock slide out of his dear friend Daeron’s hole; seeing the semen slowly trickle out of that little pink hole fills him with tenderness. Daeron hates it when someone cums inside him, but he’s never gotten mad at him for doing it.
He would dare to think, being a bit naive and romantic, that he was the only one Daeron allowed to ejaculate inside. He’s almost certain of it because after they pull apart, Daeron doesn’t scold him, but instead pulls him in with a kiss while wrapping his legs around his waist.
He smiles at him as they kiss, and he can’t help but think back to the past. The first time he saw him.
When he first met him at that school for rich kids where he’d won a scholarship, Arlan had been so happy that when he came back with his first black eye, he hugged him and told him that fights were okay as long as he was fighting to defend someone’s honor or his own.
That time he hadn’t defended anyone’s honor; he’d just gotten into a fight with a friend because the guy had insulted his taste in music and because, honestly, he was sick of seeing his face in class. He ran into Daeron in detention before heading home; Daeron had also gotten into a fight, but he’d done it to defend his younger brother’s honor.
Little—well, not so little anymore—Aerion had a black eye that matched his own. Maybe he was still little.
Daeron was a few years older than him; he was almost done with school, while he was just a teenager who had fallen in love with the first tough guy he’d ever met. Now that he thought about it, Daeron was the only guy with long hair there; the rest of the guys were required to keep their hair neatly trimmed.
Always standing out, his beloved Daeron.
He’d never seen a boy with hair as yellow as his before; it was so beautiful that when he invited him over, Arlan caught them making out because Duncan couldn’t resist the urge to smell his hair while explaining how to solve physics problems.
In the darkness of Duncan’s room, Daeron kissed the Adam’s apple of the kid who was sniffing his hair with as much passion as if it were fresh wildflowers. Arlan almost hit him, he was only four years older, but at that moment, it was scandalous to see his godson compulsively touching a boy so much older.
“Dunk.”
“What?”
“Why are you here? My father send you?”
Oh, right! There was a reason, at least there had been before he decided to sleep with Daeron.
Kiera, an old schoolmate, had contacted him; she told him he had to bring Daeron home because the damn kid had run away again. Did Kiera and Daeron know each other? he wondered instantly.
Kiera had been a very pretty girl—she surely still was; he’d find out today—and she always wore her school uniform: a plaid skirt and a clean, ironed shirt. She was the daughter of the calmest geography teacher, but that didn’t stop her from going through her typical “rebellious” phase and dyeing her hair pink.
He remembered laughing at her a lot back then.
He hadn’t been in touch with her in a long time, so he couldn’t help rambling on the phone about how time seems to fly by faster and faster and how expensive apartments are in his neighborhood.
All the bad news reached him in the early morning; the good news came at night or at 4 p.m. by the sea, but Kiera decided it was a good idea to give him good news in the early morning. “You have to help me find Daeron.” Gods, he started laughing like a fool when he heard that name.
“It was actually Kiera… I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“She’s my cousin’s wife.”
“Matarys is dating Kiera?” Duncan burst out laughing. Kiera was dating a damn Targaryen? HA.
“Valarr, you idiot. She’s dating Valarr.”
Valarr... the name rang a bell, but he couldn’t picture a face. The one he did remember was Matarys; he’d caught a strange illness that made him run to the bathroom during class. He’d caught it at a party he wasn’t invited to. From what he’d heard, he’d passed the same illness on to his brother.
Was Valarr that brother, or did Daeron have another uncle with kids?
Valarr, Valarr, Valarr.
“Matarys's brother. He went to night school, which is why you don’t know him.” “That makes sense.”
“Yeah… Kiera, did she tell you anything specific? Did she say she wanted to see me, or did she just call you to come pick me up?”
“Both. She told me something had happened and that I had to help her find you. She sounded really worried. I tried to get her to tell me what happened, but she said it was a surprise. Her voice has changed, it’s deeper now.”
“That’s not the only thing that’s changed about her” said the blondie as he stepped aside to start getting dressed, looking a bit sluggish.
He tied his hair back with a speed he found charming; even after all this time, he still wore his hair the same way. He had changed a lot. He had grown up and matured just like any other man, but there was something different about him.
Daeron is a nomad!
It turns out that this run-down motel is actually one of the many rooms Daeron lives in. He has several scattered around the city, and this is the cleanest one, he doesn’t even want to imagine what the rest look like.
They rush down the steps; the older one almost falls headfirst when he tries to skip a step because “he’s bored of going down stairs,” but Duncan is there to help—Duncan is always there, always. He carries him like a princess and sits him down on the benches at the bus stop while they wait.
The first bus passes by, and he forgets to raise his hand to flag it down; the second one speeds past even though he has raised his hand this time. By the time the third one arrives, his patience has run out, and he runs out onto the road to make the driver stop.
As he walks inside looking for available seats, he gets yelled at and insulted by all the passengers because the bus stopped so suddenly when it saw him and the momentum did its job.
In the back there are two seats, side by side, so he tugs at Daeron’s hand—Daeron was just starting an argument with a woman and her young son—and pulls him over a little; Daeron turns to look at him with his huge, confused eyes.
“Come here, there are seats for both of us,” he says quietly. Daeron nods silently and turns to see if it’s true; he smiles instantly.
As they walk, careful not to fall because the bus is speeding like crazy, curiosity gnaws at his brain, and he dares to ask, taking advantage of the fact that they haven’t reached their seats yet and Daeron probably won’t pay much attention to his questions.
“Do you have any idea why Kiera calls you?”
“Maybe it’s because of Aerion.”
Shit. Aerion. He hadn’t seen him in a long time.
A few moments ago, he remembered him while still lying on the mattress next to the boy’s brother, but the post-orgasmic haze kept him from thinking clearly. “Did something happen with him?”
“No.”
“Then…?”
“I think he’s back from his trip.”
They reach the seats and sleep overcomes them both, Duncan first.
Duncan tries to relax his mind and rests his head on his older brother’s shoulder, falling asleep as he inhales Daeron’s expensive cologne. Damn the Targaryens, hey have money to buy expensive perfumes whose scent lingers on their clothes, but they don’t have money to pay for a group therapy session.
Did AA charge an entrance fee? Duncan was going to find out.
Fortunately for both of them, the bus arrives in less than an hour and stops a few blocks from Maekar’s house. As they stroll leisurely through the streets, they hear dogs barking and the leaves rustling in the trees, a sound that puts them both at ease; they take their time.
“This is awkward,” Daeron says, pulling a face and shoving his hands into the pockets of his black hoodie.
“Don’t say that. It’s your family.”
“I’m not talking about my family, Duncan,” he says, and a strange sensation runs through his body. Did he know something about…?
Daeron leans close to his ear without stopping, presses his mouth to his ear, and whispers, “What makes me uncomfortable is your cum coming out of my ass, you fucking disgusting bastard. You never know when to stop, do you shameless brat?”
Shit! His ears flush red as a chill runs down his spine. While they were making love, Daeron never leaned in to moan in his ear or say anything to him; he just lay there on his back, letting himself be taken as always as sensitive and devoted as ever.
“Shut up.”
“Why? Are you afraid you won’t be able to control yourself?” he says, but this time not in her ear. “We can still run away. No one would know you found me. Let’s go on a trip.”
It’s a tempting offer. Duncan is unemployed, and there’s no one waiting for him at home. He can leave whenever he wants, going wherever he pleases. He’s done it once before—it went wrong, very wrong—but maybe this time will be different. Maybe with Daeron, it will be different.
He stops dead for a moment to think about it, analyzing the probabilities and possible outcomes of this getaway.
"Forget it."
She turns to see her surroundings and spots two silhouettes in the distance, one with crossed arms and dark hair, and the other with pink hair. Kiera Tyrosh! From a distance, she looked beautiful; if he wanted to see her better, he had to get closer, so he jogged over to where she was standing next to that guy.
The guy greeted Duncan politely, gave him a smile, and called him by name, briefly turning to make eye contact. Who was he? It didn't matter much because Kiera didn't greet him; instead, she brusquely pushed him aside just to start running after that guy. Who was he? Perhaps a family friend? A friend of Daeron? Impossible, he didn't have friends. He only had him. Maybe a distant cousin?
"Valarr, no!" he heard her say, no, he heard her scream, to be more precise.
He ran over to where she was and found himself facing a terrible scene. The mysterious Valarr had pinned his sweetheart to the ground; Daeron was kicking his legs back and forth, trying to break free from that grip while struggling with little success to dodge the fists raining down on his beautiful face. He froze for a few moments, torn between intervening to rescue Daeron and intervening to punch Valarr.
He chose the second option when he saw that Daeron’s pretty nose had a small red streak. Blood. The bastard had made his friend bleed.
“Duncan, no!” someone shouted behind him seconds before grabbing Valarr by the waist; the sensation of carrying him reminded him of when he used to carry his cat after it fought with the stray cats that lived outside.
That reminded him that he had to go bring flowers to his little cat’s grave.
Duncan isn’t stupid; if he has to hit someone who belongs to Maekar’s family, it must be for a good reason, and he must remember not to go too far because the man might hold a grudge against him even more than he already does. Once he pulled Egg away from his sister because they were both fighting like rabid dogs, and in fact, Maekar thanked him with a charming smile.
On the other hand…
Arlan once told him that fights were okay as long as he was fighting to defend someone’s honor or his own. That’s how he met Daeron, and that’s how he won a smile from Maekar.
Being stupid wasn’t so bad at times like these.
Duncan held Daeron’s blond hair as he listened to him vomit, his head buried in the trash can outside their house.
They had to run out because both cousins’ parents had appeared out of nowhere to yell at each other too; he recognized Valarr Broken-Nose Targaryen’s father just by looking at him—they had the same hair and the same gaze.
Maekar, on the other hand, had let his beard grow out, and it suited him really well. Very well, in fact.
He didn’t get a chance to properly greet Kiera because the poor girl had fainted amid the screams of her fiancé’s family. What the hell was Daeron thinking when he got her pregnant? Didn’t he know how to control his base instincts? Finding that out gave him a feeling he still couldn’t understand.
In the past, Daeron had been quite the ladies’ man. He was handsome; if he’d been born with the same looks, he probably would have turned into a wicked, conceited person, but Daeron wasn’t like that. He was always willing to go out with everyone, to give everyone a chance. Thanks to that, Duncan had the chance to kiss him and now take care of him; otherwise, he probably still wouldn’t know what his lips taste like.
“Okay, I’m done.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, gently rubbing his back in soft circles with his hand.
“Yes, Duncan.”
He stood up properly this time, straightened himself, and cracked his joints as he stretched his neck and arms. He carefully guided him to the building’s entrance, making sure he didn’t trip, whether because he couldn’t see the path clearly or because he was still stiff. Duncan cherished these moments of tranquility with him; they were almost magical.
They climbed the stairs; he owned a small apartment on the third floor. For a moment, he thought about carrying him again, but he knew that if he did, Daeron would scold him for treating him “like a child.” His hands itched to help him, to take care of him, and to hug him affectionately, truly.
They ran into several students who were renting rooms as they made their way down the narrow hallways. Arlan had left him this little place before moving out; this was where he’d grown up, and this was where he’d once invited Daeron over. Arlan would die all over again if he saw who he’d brought home. He’d kill them both and die of rage all over again.
The old man wasn’t exactly modern; he had old-fashioned ways and even older ways of thinking, but he would never do anything to make Duncan sad. Maybe he would if he realized who was bringing happiness to Duncan, his beloved godson, his Dunk.
When they’re standing in front of the door, Duncan starts rummaging through his pockets and realizes the humiliating truth. In the early morning, he’d rushed out to meet his old love and forgotten to bring his keys with him. Stupid, idiot, where the hell is his head?
“Give me a moment,” he says, embarrassed, and runs down the stairs, leaving the blond man standing in the middle of the hallway.
He runs to where the elderly building owner lives and asks to borrow the keys she has to all the doors. “Silly boy,” she says, laughing weakly. He has to convince her to agree, since she thinks the set of keys won’t be returned to her.
He climbs the stairs two steps at a time, taking advantage of his long legs. Daeron likes his legs; he told him so once in private when he managed to get into a position that would be nearly impossible for the average person. He also compliments him on his careful strength, few men could muster that much strength, even when his penis seemed to never want to respond to him.
When he returned, he saw the door was already open; the clever boy had asked his neighbor for a knife and opened the door with an old trick he never knew how to replicate.
He was lying on his couch; his skin looked shiny in contrast to the bright red. A sense of satisfaction washed over him for having compulsively cleaned that armchair during one of his manic episodes of withdrawal.
He closed the door behind him and walked carefully, in case the boy was sleeping, so as not to wake him. As he got closer, he discovered that he was still awake, only staring wearily into space.
A feeling of guilt settled in his chest. He was hurt because of him, he had bruises on his cheeks because of him, he had bled because of him.
Damn Valarr! He deserved that broken nose.
“Duncan.”
“What?” he replied as he walked away to look for the small first-aid kit he’d bought but never had a chance to use.
“You broke my cousin’s nose.”
“He deserved it.”
“Duncan, I got his fiancée pregnant. I deserved it.”
“You’re not a bad person.”
“Getting a woman I don’t love pregnant isn’t bad?”
“No.”
In the distance, Duncan opens the first-aid kit and looks for sterile gauze, saline solution, and band-aids. He knows a few things because he took a short nursing course with Raymun when he stopped drinking beer. Now he drank cider.
In the distance, Daeron lets out a strange sound, like a muffled groan, a lazy, off-key pant. It sounds like a bellow. Bison bellow; they do it during mating season to attract females. Does Daeron perhaps want to attract Duncan? Does the current distance bother him?
He carefully closes the first-aid kit and carefully gathers everything he could find.
He crouches down in front of the armchair where Daeron is sitting while Daeron smiles wearily at him; he opens the bottle and sprays a little onto the gauze, being careful not to soak it completely.
He begins to wipe away the dried blood from the small cuts on his cheekbones and the one on his little pink nose. When he finishes cleaning that area, he gives the tip of his nose a little tap, a “Boop”, which makes the man chuckle softly.
“Where are you going after this?”
“You already want to kick me out of your house?”
“Not at all, you can stay as long as you want.”
“But I eat too much… I’m going to eat all the food in your fridge.” “There’s no food in there.”
They both laugh. “Damn, what am I paying for?” Daeron jokes, looking up at the ceiling and raising his hands slightly. He immediately remembers that the religion he now professes is the same one Daeron and his family practice. Gods! It’s so embarrassing. He remembers Rafe’s face when he found him reading "The Seven-Pointed Star" to impress Maekar and his sons.
“But she’s going to have an abortion, right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. Valarr is sterile, infertile… that’s one reason why I did it; I thought I’d done him a favor by giving him a son. I was drunk and sad and alone… I don’t know what came over me.”
“Drunk as a skunk.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I don’t think you’d be a good father.”
“I know.”
“The only good thing you could do for that kid would be to walk away.”
“I know.”
“You’d look pretty funny pregnant.”
“I know.”
Daeron was still a bit out of it, so he didn’t catch that last part; if both he and Duncan had been fully sober, it would have been cause for mockery. But not now, life was granting him a few moments of peace; the Mother took pity on them and bestowed warmth upon them, and the Maiden gave them tenderness.
Daeron manages to say something he can’t make out; he may not be as high or drunk as Daeron, but that doesn’t make him the most lucid person in the room. On the contrary, he’s the one in the worst shape. He left his house at dawn to go look for him; when he found him, he fucked him on a dirty mattress, beat up Maekar’s nephew to defend him, and now he was taking care of him on his red sofa.
Duncan checked the time. It was 4 p.m. He’d left 12 hours ago, and now he was back.