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Dunk has never been one for great imagination or fantasies. He’s a simple man that lives a relatively simple life, or at least he did up until Ashford.
His simple life has suddenly fallen by the wayside, all thanks to a spoiled princeling’s Trial of Seven.
Gone are the days of sleeping beneath the thickest and most sturdy tree he can find. He can’t remember the last time he had to pick hard salt beef out of his teeth, and he finds coin is never in short supply anymore. Dunk’s clothes are no longer sewn together rags, patched and repatched again and again until it’s unrecognizable.
Now Dunk wears Targaryen black and red, with black polished boots that shine in the torchlit halls.
Well, now he isn’t wearing anything at all, which brings him back from his agonizing back into the present.
Now, Dunk fights the urge to buck his hips beneath the pretty prince bouncing atop his cock.
“Stay still,” Aerion had hissed through a cruel smile when he first sank down, so Dunk stays still, even though he thinks it might kill him.
A strangled groan rips through Dunk’s throat as vicious nails rake down his chest, the sharp sting only made worse by the equally vicious rolls of Aerion’s hips.
Aerion’s smile is nothing but teeth. There is nothing soft or sweet about it, nothing to suggest that this act has anything to do with love or affection, not like Dunk always thought sex would.
Aerion’s cunt tightens, gripping Dunk hard enough that his vision whites out and he throws his head back against the feather mattress. The fine Dornish silk sheets strain ominously under Dunk’s grip.
“I – fuck, ah –” Dunk grits his teeth and forces his eyes to focus. Aerion will be displeased if Dunk doesn’t watch, if he takes for granted the privilege being bestowed upon him.
Just in time, as a sweat-slick and warm hand clutch at his jaw. Fingers dig into the hinge just below his ear, forcing Dunk’s mouth open.
“Open,” Aerion commands, chest heaving in exertion. His skin, so pale and smooth, is flushed and sweat pools in the sharp lines of muscle and sinew.
Dunk’s teeth ache with the need to bite. He drops his mouth open further, mindless.
Aerion’s thumb slips into his open mouth, sword-calloused and salty, and Dunk presses his tongue up to feel the swirl of his fingerprint. Aerion’s index finger slides into his mouth too, curling under his tongue before pinching and pulling hard enough to hurt.
Nails dig into the soft, spongy tissue and the urge to bite down is even greater. Dunk can picture it: the snap of his teeth and the rendering of flesh. Saliva pools in his mouth, drooling out the corners, with the phantom taste of blood.
Aerion eyes are sharp and all knowing, and he slows his pace until it’s a sickening glide. The sound makes Dunk’s ears burn and he knows that if he were to drag his gaze away, he could spot the spider web sheen of arousal leaking from Aerion’s cunt onto Dunk’s thighs.
He doesn’t.
It’s a reward and a mockery when Aerion leans forward, mouth ghosting above Dunk’s until he’s practically swallowing Aerion's sharp, hot exhales. Aerion’s jaw works until his own deep red tongue slides out of his mouth and with it –
A thick glob of spit drops onto Dunk’s tongue, sliding down to the back of his throat, and —
Aerion’s grin sharpens. “Good dog.”
“Please,” Dunk gasps, jaw and tongue fighting against the nails digging in. He wants to twist away, wants to press closer, but not as much as he wants to sit and to stay.
Like a good dog.
Aerion’s thumbnail digs in ruthlessly until Dunk can feel the split of tissue and the copper tang of blood mixes in with saliva. “Such a good dog for your master,” he coos, drawing Dunk’s tongue out further.
He leans down, hips finally ceasing atop Dunk, and drags his own tongue across the flat of Dunk’s, licking up the blood that Aerion himself has drawn.
It is not a kiss. It is perverted and depraved and Dunk’s eyes roll back in his head as the sheets finally give way beneath his grip.
The tear of silk is lost beneath the echoing groans from both of them. The sound travels straight from Aerion’s vocal chords into Dunk’s throat, absorbing into his ribcage.
Does his voice, does Dunk, settle into Aerion the same way? Is his very being engraved into Aerion’s bone marrow the way Aerion is Dunk?
Aerion retracts only enough for their tongues to no longer be touching, though the heat of his mouth is radiating close enough for Dunk to still taste. There is blood smeared across his lips.
“Be a good mutt and make me come,” he commands, and the words have barely traveled from Aerion’s mouth and into Dunk’s before he’s sprung into action.
Dunk’s hands release the torn silk, knuckles and joints aching from how tightly they were clenched, and his arms wrap tight around Aerion’s trim waist.
Dunk pulls Aerion flush to his chest and bends his legs until his feet are flat on the bed. Sweat and other fluids suction them together, and the first snap of his hips are heaven.
The sound is disgusting. The wet squelch and sharp snap of skin on skin would make Dunk’s ears burn if he hadn’t already succumbed to the madness, to the depravity and lust searing through his blood.
The puff of Aerion’s breath, his airy little hah-ah’s, are a symphony to Dunk’s ears. The wet smear of an open mouth against his throat, no doubt dragging Dunk’s own blood across his skin, is greater than any champion’s laurels.
“Say it again,” he begs, pressing the words into Aerion’s temple, his hair when the snap of his hips jolts Aerion’s body like a doll, only held in place by the arms locked tight around his waist. Dunk tightens his grip, flesh spilling from between his fingers from the force of it. “Say it again, please.”
Aerion’s teeth graze his throat, and something wet slides down Dunk’s skin, though he can’t rightly tell if it is spit or tears. “Good dog,” he gasps, fingers raking down Dunk’s ribcage from where they are pinned between their chests. “My good dog.”
Dunk is wild with the praise, arms tightening until Aerion is trapped, being pulled down on every upward thrust.
Every moan ripped from Aerion’s throat, every squelch from his blessed cunt, and every sharp drag of nails down Dunk’s torso is godly because he is a good dog pleasing his master.
“I’m your dog,” Dunk babbles senselessly, sliding one hand down Aerion’s front until it finds the soaked heat of Aerion’s clit. “‘M a good dog, I am, I promise –”
His vows, in this moment more sacred than any other oath he’s declared, are drowned out by the wail that tears through the room. Aerion shoves his face deeper into Dunk’s neck, thrashing against the onslaught of pleasure.
Aerion’s cunt seizes around Dunk’s cock and his back tries its best to arch against the iron band of Dunk’s arm still around his waist. “F-uck, you animal,” Aerion pants into his skin. “Fucking beast just – ah – rutting like a mongrel, aren’t you?”
The barb is lacking heat, or at least the kind that Aerion usually infuses in his taunts.
Even so, Dunk can’t help but nod. “Yes,” he gasps, still chasing that tightening of his gut. His cock is still being milked by Aerion’s cunt, every flutter sending a bolt of lightning down his spine. “I am,” Dunk agrees, still nodding like a fool.
His legs burn and there’s a coil in his gut that threatens to snap with every aftershock of Aerion’s orgasm, and Dunk is nearly undone entirely by the too-sharp drag of Aerion’s nail down his ribcage, harder than the ones before.
Already, thin pink lines begin to well up with blood and Dunk can’t help but gasp and flinch at the sting, which must have been Aerion’s intention because he sits himself up astride Dunk’s cock like he’s a prized stallion.
One slender hand, nails tipped with the faintest trace of blood, slides up to grasp Dunk’s neck.
The fingers and thumb squeeze unkindly on the sides of his throat and Dunk is thrown into a memory.
“And here,” Aerion had said, voice low and dangerous, “is an artery. If I squeeze like this,” a hand, much softer than the one currently gripping Dunk’s neck, “it cuts off blood flow to your brain.”
Dunk had gasped softly, the first squeeze already making him light headed. He jerked, cock sliding between the slicked folds of Aerion’s cunt, where the prince had positioned him so he would slide through and never into. It was a maddening glide, just enough of a tease to make Dunk’s head swim even without the grip on his throat.
“But you do not use your brain much anyways,” Aerion cooed softly, grinding wet and mean against Dunk’s cock, “so what does it matter?”
In the present, Aerion’s hand is more firm and commanding. The headrush is worse or better or both at once, and Dunk knows the grip for what it truly is at this moment: a collar.
The knowledge makes his head spin even more and his thrusts grow erratic, shameful even. He’s chasing his own pleasure now, mind solely on his cock and the coil tightening even further and the drowning need to come.
Through the dangerous fuzz creeping at the edges in Dunk’s vision, he can make out the way Aerion’s eyes roll in the back of his head. It’s a sight at odds with the cruel smile on his face.
“You’re going to breed me, aren’t you, mutt?” Aerion hisses, grip loosening for just a moment before returning even tighter than it was before. “Fuck me full of your half-blood litter?”
Dunk gasps sharply, hands spasming where they’ve settled against his hips.
It’s obscene. It’s vile and ignoble and liable to get Dunk sent to the wall or worse, but he can’t stop the groan from tearing through his lips, vibrating against the grip on his neck.
Aerion squeezes, his hand and his cunt and the combination would be enough to undo Dunk if it weren’t for the fact that he was a mutt, but a trained mutt.
He peers up at his prince, cruel and beautiful above him, through teary eyes. Dunk’s mouth works wordlessly, pleading for absolution he knows is still just out of reach.
“Speak,” Aerion taunts, the command crackling through Dunk’s spine.
“Please,” he gasps, hips stuttering in rhythm. He’s so close, and the mess of fluids leaking out of Aerion and down Dunk’s thighs makes him all the more wild for it.
Aerion’s eyes narrow and his wicked fingers dig in further. “Speak,” he commands again, and Dunk is awash with understanding and shame.
Dunk barks, a broken and craggly woof that will humiliate him until his dying day, but he doesn’t think on that because he is just so grateful when Aerion says —
“Come for me, dog,”
The brutal grip on his throat vanishes, but release steals the oxygen from his lungs again. The coil that has been tightening in his gut snaps, and the feeling is ruinous.
Dunk pulls Aerion back down to his chest, his hands moving on their own to crush the prince against him while his hips drive forward one final time, sealing the two together in a feral mash of limbs.
Aerion gasps through another release, his walls clenching against Dunk again, and his fingers scrabble for purchase against Dunk’s chest as they both ride out their climaxes.
Dunk blinks vision back into his eyes and finally feels his lungs expand with oxygen. He can feel Aerion move with his ribcage as it inflates and compresses with each breath, his lithe body still shaking through the aftermath.
Like a fool, Dunk can’t help but smile.
“We can do that again, yes?”
Aerion's smile is more teeth than softness against Dunk’s bruised throat. “Obviously.”
***
There are not many moments in Dunk’s life where he feels truly, single-mindedly powerful. Most of his life is ruled by emotions like fear and hunger and obligation.
This is one of them.
He has a prince of the realm on his knees before him, in that same prince’s featherbed and silk sheets.
Aerion Targaryen’s face is pressed down into sweat and other fluid-soaked sheets, hands crossed neatly at the small of his back.
Just one of Dunk’s hands, large and clunky and not meant for such fine things, wrap around both of those thin-boned wrists with ease.
Aerion writhes beneath him, hips pushing back in search of a cock and then forward in anger when there’s nothing there. “Fuck me,” he seethes, and he is elegant enough for it to be a command instead of a plea.
Dunk’s eyes fall in rapture to the prince’s gleaming cunt.
It drips with wetness, arousal and saliva and release, after Dunk brought him to peak no less than twice with just his mouth, which still drips even now. It is red and puffy and —
“Still so greedy, my prince,” Dunk murmurs as he slides a reverent finger through the folds. He doesn’t linger, not on Aerion’s weeping entrance nor his swollen clit, though he can feel his mouth well up with drool at the sight.
Aerion grins, sharp and wild, into the sheets. His legs thrash where they lay pinned against the outside of Dunk’s knees. “Of course I’m greedy,” he tips his hips back and holds them there, clenching and unclenching on nothing in a mesmerizing rhythm that almost makes Dunk forget his plans. “I’m a dragon.”
Dunk blinks hard and tears his gaze away from Aerion’s leaking pussy. He drags his finger across the back of the prince’s thigh, smearing the gathered wetness against his skin. “I don’t know much about dragons,” Dunk swallows down his nerves.
“But I know something about dogs, Your Grace.” Dunk leans down until his chest is flat along the sinuous line of Aerion’s back and his cock is close enough to tease against Aerion’s clit. “And I think you’re as much of a dog as me.”
The words leave Dunk’s lips and hang in the air, as if waiting to be received.
Dunk’s pulse pounds in his ears because there is every chance in the seven kingdoms that he’s overstepped greatly in this moment, that the prince will have him gelded and hung from the ramparts before the hourly bell tolls.
But it is not rage that escapes from Aerion’s lips. It is a whine, high and breathy, and thin enough that Dunk almost missed it.
His face falls into a grin as he stares down at the prince at his mercy.
Aerion turns his cheek into the mattress as if stifling the noise, but it can’t be ripped from Dunk’s memory. His face, what little Dunk can see of it now, is flushed a beautiful pink.
“Nothing but a spoiled pup, aren’t you?” Dunk traces a lazy finger down the dip of Aerion’s spine, enjoying the goosebumps that chase the digit down to the wrists held at the base. “Too good to mix with the mongrels of Flea Bottom?”
He notches the blunt head of his cock at Aerion’s weeping entrance that only leaks more with every work falling from his lips. Dunk has to grit his teeth as Aerion clenches down hard, as if trying to suck in the rest of his cock by force.
With the hand wrapped around both of Aerion’s wrists, Dunk gently swipes his thumb across one of Aerion’s pulse points. It pounds, rabbit-quick, against his touch and Dunk can’t help the soft laugh that escapes him.
“Yet here you are, my prince. Nothing but a bitch to be mounted, isn’t that right?”
Not even the sheets can muffle Aerion’s moan. His whole body shivers in delight and Dunk is willing to bet if the prince had a tail, it would be wagging.
So would Dunk’s.
“Just a pedigree dog in desperate need of attention, even the bad kind,” Dunk presses himself forward, watching in abject amazement as Aerion’s tiny body is bullied into opening up for his cock, before pulling his hips back and slipping out. “Just need a firm hand, is that right? Someone to be good for?”
Aerion thrashes, face turning to glare balefully at him over his shoulder. “You fucking mutt,” he sobs, flush high on his cheeks. “I’ll have your head for this.” His hips tilt backwards, searching for relief that Dunk cruelly withholds.
It’s almost endearing, Dunk thinks, the way he barely has to steel his grip against Aerion’s wrists. The prince is well and truly pinned, presented up for Dunk to do with what he pleases. To deny what he pleases.
Dunk pets his flank soothingly, the way he’s done to countless animals countless times. The skin trembles beneath his touch and Dunk hums quietly. “You know what I want, don’t you?”
When Aerion doesn’t answer, too stubborn or too lost in the sensation of denial, Dunk slides the hand petting his side up until it rests gently around the front of his neck.
Aerion’s throat bobs sharply against his palm. “No,” he whispers in delighted refusal.
Pleased, Dunk abandons the front of his throat for the back, until his fingers close gently around the scruff of Aerion’s neck. “Yes.”
“I won’t,” Aerion whines even as his body betrays him, every coiled muscle one breath from giving Dunk what he wants.
“You will,” Dunk asserts softly. “Because you’re going to be a good dog for me, and good dogs get rewarded.” He squeezes the scruff of Aerion’s neck, nowhere near the same grip that Aerion himself had around his throat which has only just healed from the bruises.
Still, the grip is enough to make Aerion lose some of the tension in his shoulders, his hips. His body sags against Dunk’s, no longer straining for something not willing to be given yet.
His jaw works soundlessly, not searching for breath like Dunk’s had those days ago when the tables were turned, but for courage.
Dunk doesn’t rush him, only holds his grip firm and brushes a thumb across the thin skin of his wrist.
Finally, beautifully —
“Woof,”
Heat flushes through Dunk’s entire system and he can’t help the groan that escapes him. “Good boy,” he breathes reverently before finally pushing into Aerion’s pliant form.
Aerion whines, high and reedy, when Dunk is fully seated within him. His knees knock against Dunk, fighting in vain to close despite Dunk’s bulk between them. “Please,” he gasps, and the sound makes Dunk lightheaded, “fuck me, please.”
What is Dunk to do?
He draws back, watching as arousal clings and stretches between them before snapping his hips back in.
Until now, it has been almost easy to put aside his own need, his own straining cock, in the face of playing this game with Aerion. Now that he’s won, faced with nothing but the submission line of Aerion’s spine and the sound of a bark echoing in his ears, Dunk can’t stop himself from setting a punishing pace.
Aerion's body jolts into the feather mattress in time with each thrust, face still held down by the hand at his scruff so that all Dunk can see is one rolled back violet eye and a violent blush. His mouth is open, drooling onto the bed the way his pussy drools around Dunk’s cock.
Dunk releases his grip around Aerion’s wrists in favor of bringing his fingers to circle around Aerion’s already abused clit. A heady feeling washes over him when he notices Aerion doesn’t move his hands from the base of his spine.
At the first touch of his calloused fingertips, Aerion gasps raggedly and jerks his hips away.
“Sensitive?” Dunk coos, soft tone at odds with how his fingers chase after him. “‘S okay, you can just give me one more, can’t you?”
Between the cock battering at his cunt and the circles being drawn against his oversensitive clit, Aerion howls. He clenches around Dunk tightly enough that his rhythm falters, or maybe that’s the impending release building at the base of his spine.
Dunk grits his teeth and presses deeper, hitching Aerion’s hips higher and watching in awe as his spine dips beautifully. His muscled back, a warrior’s body usually but now just a dog to be mounted, gleams with sweat.
Aerion is drunk on it, his one visible eye glassy and far away while his mouth lets noises escape unchecked.
“Ah,” Aerion pants, too fucked out to strangle the sounds before they escape his throat. “Ah-hah-please,”
Dunk is much the same, grunting like the brute Aerion claims him to be as his hair falls in his eyes, sweat dripping onto Aerion’s prone form and mixing with the rest of the fluids smeared across his skin.
“Come for me,” Dunk begs, fingers pressing tighter to Aerion’s battered clit while his hips start to stutter. “Be a good dog and come,”
Aerion shatters.
With a howl, his body seizes beneath Dunk, convulsing and spasming in his grip while his cunt begins milking Dunk’s cock for all it’s worth, like he’s trying to be bred.
Something splashes against Dunk’s thighs, pooling and dripping down their legs but it only makes the slap of their hips more crude.
Dunk presses in one final time, as flush as he can, and squeezes Aerion’s scruff as he finally comes.
The two of them come back together piece by piece. Dunk handles Aerion’s body until he is lying flat on his stomach instead of kneeling into the bed. He massages the red from the prince’s wrists, from the tender skin at the back of his neck. Aerion’s fingers trace the lines scratched into Dunk’s shoulders from what seems like a lifetime ago, when he was licking into Aerion’s cunt with a hunger to shame all beggars.
“I see why you liked that,” Aerion finally speaks into the still room.
Dunk laughs breathlessly. “I thought you would, my prince.”