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Duncan was not a man of many words.
Nor, truthfully, of many thoughts.
He’d been raised by a man of even fewer, a knight who sang in the saddle and struck him for speaking too freely. A man who drank, whored, and fought well enough to be forgiven for both. A man who had raised Duncan to be good, and to have little love for cruel men, less still for cruel princes.
And Aerion was the worst of them, beautiful and temperamental, changeable as fire. He destroyed what bored him. He prized what flattered him.
He was everything Duncan had been raised to despise: vain, unkind, dishonest, disloyal, a coward in silk. An insult to everything a knight was meant to serve.
So, to have him breathless and speechless beneath him, stripped of all bravado, was exhilarating. It was so intoxicating that it made Duncan want to talk, and talk, and never stop. Sweet, pretty thing that he was, his skin warm and flushed, pink all over from his shoulders to his smooth stomach. So beautiful, sprawled beneath him—every inch, every breath, so lovely.
Aerion gasped at his touch.
Duncan was so close he could count his eyelashes, see the dark ring around his deep, violent eyes, pupils dilating and contracting, small, then large, then small again, before he'd gasp and close them.
He always thought Aerion was beautiful.
The cruelest and prettiest omega he has ever seen.
Duncan didn't have much of an explanation as to why they ended up like this, why he kept coming back to him like he loved the taste of poison and wildfire running through Aerion's veins. He didn't want to know, did not care for it; and Gods above, did it feel good to just be here, fucking the brattiness out of Aerion Targaryen.
The skin under Duncan's rough hands was soft and flawless. Aerion melted under his touch, pushing against it, craving more and always more; it was never enough. Greedy, little brat that he was, he made this very sin look beautiful.
How could anyone blame Duncan for this? Surely, they would understand, if they saw him as Duncan did now: sweat beading at his brow, light hair clinging wet to his pale cheeks, curling at his neck, his eyes heavy-lidded, half-lost in some fevered dream, his lips parted with soft, wet gasps that came one after the other.
Always more. That was the way of it with Aerion, and Duncan—Seven save him—fed on it like a man denied bread. He told himself it was only once, but once had become twice, and twice had turned to habit. Now it was every day, and every night he could steal.
And still, it was not enough. He would come again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. And each time, he would leave with one thought in his head, coiled tight as a vow.
I will return.
"Come on," Aerion tugged at his tunic, breathless, words punched out with effort, despite the veil of irritated annoyance in each one.
Duncan smiled despite himself, pushing his fingers deeper inside his cunt while Aerion's hips attempted uselessly to rock back against his hand in erratic movements.
Aerion was so wet from slick that anyone walking past would be able to hear the obscene sound of Duncan's fingers fucking him roughly. It was messy; nothing about this was soft or neat, nothing about this was right.
"Did I already fuck you mindless, my prince?" Duncan said against Aerion's slack, unresponsive mouth.
"I-I will," Aerion breathed out at last, the words cut off by a half-gasp, half-whimper, and glared at him. "I... will have your head... ah—after this."
A thin layer of sweat covered his body, and his back arched into Duncan's touch as he added another finger, pushing all the way in until Aerion panted like he was in heat, as though he were already filled with his cock.
"You are so sensitive, my prince." Duncan felt himself grow bolder as he played with him. "So loose for me." He angled his fingers, crooking them just right, and the sound that was pounded out of Aerion's gut left his mouth open in a silent gasp.
Again.
More, more.
"T-There! Don't stop," Aerion nearly screamed. "Don't stop, don't stop, I... I command it."
Duncan did not want to stop.
He did it again, and Aerion's thighs quivered and trembled, closing around his arm reflexively, squeezing tight. But Duncan didn't relent, kept his fingers pressed right there, against that special spot, and watched with a nearly sadistic glint in his eyes as Aerion started crying.
Aerion was crying, tears streaming down, his eyelashes thick with it every time he blinked, and Duncan nearly came undone there. Seven hells, he wanted nothing more than to fuck Aerion until he couldn't cry anymore, until he was completely spent, brain foggy and incapable of coherent thought.
"Here, m'lord?" Duncan asked, though he already knew the answer, almost cooing at how pathetic Aerion looked, struggling to even speak.
His thighs squeezed his forearm harder; he could feel him shaking just from his fingers.
He was stretched wide just from Dunk's fingers.
"F-Fuck," Aerion babbled, his head lolling to the side, little moans punched out of his throat with each thrust. "Oh Gods."
"Do you wish to call upon the Gods, my prince?" Duncan said, his lips brushing lightly over Aerion's delicate nipples. He moved with deliberate slowness, kissing a path down his chest. Thud, thud, thud—the dragon prince's heart was beating so fast. "Do you want them to see? Do you want them to envy you? To crave the devotion I am about to display?"
He worshiped the smooth expanse of Aerion's stomach, his free hand following the trail his lips blazed, feeling the warmth and the rise and fall of each breath. Then his hand fell to Aerion's knees, easily pushing them apart, exposing his gaping, fingers-hungry pink hole. He looked so full already, Duncan could have easily thought he could not take any more, but he knew Aerion was eager for another, or two.
"Even your cunt is pretty," Duncan murmured, thrusting his fingers harder, another flush spreading across Aerion's pale body despite the scowl he gave him. "You take me so well, my prince." Aerion practically sucked him in at the praise, so eager. "Are you going to come from my fingers alone?"
Aerion shook his head. "Get... inside, I need you, inside," he gasped, and Duncan tilted his face to the side. "Or I swear—ah—I will have you killed, you stupid oaf!"
"I already am inside, m'lord," Duncan feigned ignorance.
"You know what I mean!" Aerion glared, though the flush across his skin rendered him soft and pliant.
Duncan ran a finger under his jaw, tilting his head closer, without kissing him, even as Aerion reached as a puppet moved by strings to claim his lips, driven solely by the urges that consumed his soul and body.
"I do not," Duncan smiled as he withdrew in a manner he knew would provoke Aerion.
True enough, the beautiful prince bared his teeth. Adorable, Duncan simply thought while he pushed a third finger inside, and Aerion's mouth fell open, all of his bite gone.
Filthy was the best word Duncan could find to describe it—the way Aerion frowned, rocked back against him desperately, and how the flush spread across his entire body was simultaneously obscene and pure. Aerion was heaven-sent, Duncan was sure of it. If Targaryens were closer to gods than they were to men, then Aerion was a fallen angel who turned even the crudest sins into beautiful paintings.
"Duncan," Aerion said his name for the first time that night, "D-Duncan, fuck, take me, just do it!"
"Why should I?" Duncan dared, meaner than he knew himself to be. "You have been nothing but cruel to me tonight, my prince."
Then Aerion looked at him, and there was something in his eyes Duncan had never seen before, unsettled, almost feverish. He pressed his lips together, hard enough that the skin split, and painted his tongue a darker shade of red.
He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Duncan’s gaze when he next spoke.
“Please,” he said, so softly Duncan almost missed it. After a pause, testing the word for weakness and blood in his mouth, he said again, “Please.”
Seven hells.
If Duncan were a lesser man, he might have come in his pants just from the sight alone—Aerion stuffed full with his fingers, and still insatiable enough to beg for his cock.
The laces of his breeches were already undone. He pulled himself out, heavy in his hand, and stroked his cock once, twice, before Aerion's ridiculously pale legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him forward until Duncan was between his legs.
"Hurry up," he made it sound like a warning.
An incredulous laugh left Duncan's lips. Of course, Aerion could not be sweet for long.
"Such an impatient brat, hm?" he teased, but could not deny him any longer, sinking in at an agonizingly slow pace. Aerion was tight, eagerly taking him in, sucking in every inch. "Fuck, m'lord," he barely managed to breathe out. "You're too tight, it is as though the Gods made you for me."
Aerion whimpered, clawing at the rough skin of Duncan's back possessively. Duncan gave a shallow thrust, not even half of him buried in the intoxicating heat, when Aerion's eyes widened suddenly, and he took a deep, desperate intake of breath.
"W-Wait!"
Duncan stilled, but it was too late.
He was pretty sure Aerion had stopped breathing; limbs gone stiff, voice dying in his throat as his entire body trembled in a fit of barely concealed pleasure. Duncan pressed his fingers against his most sensitive part, and watched Aerion shudder as he rubbed and worked him through it until he settled down.
For a few seconds, neither moved.
Then realization dawned on him.
Fuck.
Seven hells, Aerion Targaryen had just come untouched, just from his cock.
"I-I hate you," Aerion breathed out. "I... hate you, I hate you, I hate you," he repeated like a mantra, whispers barely audible, but Duncan listened to each word and drank them eagerly.
"You hate me?" he repeated, without any real heat, hands firmly clasped around the fair, milky smooth skin of Aerion's naked thighs. He rocked into the heat of his body and Aerion shook in his hold, utterly spent.
"Yes," Aerion nodded, brows pinched together. "Do not stop."
Duncan laughed, a small, mocking snicker, downright mean but so soft to the ears that it made Aerion lean closer, impossibly closer. Touch me, touch me, be mean to me, ruin me, his eyes seemed to say, but don't you ever dare stop touching me.
Duncan never stopped touching him. His grip was firm, sure to leave bruises, his carousel fingers running across that pretty face of his, pulling at his hair, settling around his throat. He always applied just enough pressure so Aerion knew he was being held down, at some lowborn knight's mercy, and the simple act of it would make him let out a breathy, needy moan.
“I wonder what your father would make of you now.” Duncan thrust harder when the body under him tensed at the mention. "So pliant and docile, so unlike yourself," he thrust again, watching with satisfaction as another crystal-clear, salty tear rolled down Aerion's cheek. "Like a whore..."
Aerion stiffened, color rising to his face. "Do not forget yourself,” he said, trying for menacing, though his voice faltered mid-breath. "I am… a prince. The blood of the—"
"The dragon, yes," came the reply, flat and unimpressed. "All the more reason he’d be ashamed."
Aerion opened his mouth, then shut it again. His hands curled in the sheets, pale-knuckled and trembling. Pride was a fragile thing, and his had always been thinner than he liked to pretend.
Duncan hummed with little interest, raised Aerion's legs, and bent them so close to his chest he was almost folded in half. "You're pretty like a girl, you moan like a girl, and you take my cock better than a whore," he raised an eyebrow. "And you still fancy yourself the blood of the dragon?"
“Stop talking,” Aerion hissed, rushed and strained, and then a whimper escaped him, and his back arched despite himself. His lips were flushed, parted, wet with want or rage. “I will…” he gasped, “…have your tongue. Your head. With or without it.”
It was wrong. Filthy and wrong, and the gods would not forgive it. Duncan knew that much. He had told himself a hundred times, prayed after the act was done, or before, but when Aerion lay beneath him, pale and proud and unyielding even then, all such thoughts burned away. They left nothing but heat, and hunger, and a want that seemed to hollow him out from the inside.
He was never sated.
The more he had, the more he needed, like a man dying of thirst who drinks seawater and finds himself thirstier still.
Every time he saw him, all he could think about was his lips bruising his skin, his thick cock that seemed to be the only thing that could keep the prince full and satisfied and content. Duncan was addicted to the sight of Aerion's face being held down into the tear-stained, sweaty pillows, his hair in disarray, his eyes foggy, his voice loud, his breath cut short as though he was fucking the very life out of him.
He hated it. He hated it. He hated it. He hated it.
He hated him.
"No," Duncan finally said, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he saw the panic cross the prince's eyes when he pulled his cock out. "I think you rather enjoy when I talk." He thrust back in, so deep and hard that for a moment, both of them were left gasping for breath.
"I think you like it when I'm cruel to you." He brought his lips to Aerion's ear, whispering, "Don't you, little dragon?"
Aerion's breath hitched.
“Go to hell,” he glared with eyes bright as flames. “Seven damn you. I hate the sound of your voice.”
Duncan only smiled.
"Liar."
Aerion's next attempted denial died in his throat. Instead, he just shook his head, eyes squeezed shut.
"You still deny it?" Duncan grabbed his chin, forcing his mouth open and dragging his thumb along his wet bottom lip. Aerion eagerly took it into his mouth.
His tongue traced the ridge of skin, rough beneath the salt and sweat, and still Aerion held his gaze.
The blood of the dragon, Duncan thought. Eyes like twin coals, lit from within. Pride carved into every line of that pale face, as if he would not yield even here, even now, when no crown rested on his brow, and no sword was in his hand.
Fire ran in their veins, they said. And fire did not kneel.
Duncan laughed. “Go on, then,” he muttered. “Be proud. Be cruel. You wear it well, my prince.”
He pressed his fingers past Aerion’s lips, deeper this time, until the prince choked on them, eyes watering. When Duncan pulled back, Aerion coughed for breath, his hands instinctively clung to Duncan's shoulder blades, nails digging into the rough, scarred skin.
His head wobbled back and forth with each thrust, eyes glossy with tears as he began to plead, "Please... P-Please—" His words stumbled and faltered, never completing a full sentence.
The new pace was anything but gentle.
The burn of nails dragging down his back made Duncan wince, barely suppressing a groan when Aerion clenched impossibly tight around him.
"Fuck, you are so good, m'lord," he laughed breathlessly. "I should keep you here forever." Aerion nodded, too eager by half, and the sight of it near undid Duncan. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I wager your uncle would send his finest knights to fetch his precious little dragon back—white cloaks, gold cloaks, every bloody cloak in the realm.”
“I do not need my uncle,” Aerion managed through clenched teeth. “I will—ah—I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you myself.”
Duncan only smiled.
“Aye, you may try, little prince. But not tonight.”
Later that evening, beneath the striped canvas of the puppet tent, Duncan sat with the rest, watching Tanselle ply her trade with paint and string. The dragons danced, and the knight slew the beast with a wooden sword, to the delight of the children clustered near the front.
He was smiling when he saw Aerion.
The prince stood near the edge of the tent, half in shadow, arms folded beneath the rich fall of his cloak. His mouth curled, as it always did, the same faint sneer he wore when looking on something beneath him, commoners, mud, or Duncan the Tall.
Their eyes met, and Aerion’s lingered.
Then he tilted his chin, just so, toward the tent flap.
And if Duncan followed the glance, then he rose and slipped out into the night, leaving puppets and painted dragons behind—
Then that was no business of any man’s but their own.