Daeron was woken up by a commotion out of his window. The pills he had taken last night put him under a deep and dreamless slumber. He slept like a dead man, lost in the land of nothingness until a string of bells woke him up.
It took him a few seconds to realize it was not a dream. He had come to Arcadia yesterday, to revisit the memory he wished he could forget and hopefully, catch the bogeyman under his childhood bed. Daeron kept staring at the ceiling, listening to the conversation outside.
“What a lovely morning, Miss K! Did you sleep well?” A cheerful voice came. A little high-pitched, but no doubt from a young man. Daeron knew this voice as he pictured a handsome face in his mind, smooth skin, full cheeks, slight pouty lips and flirty eyes. No, not handsome. Pretty would be a better word.
“You know I sleep like a corpse.” Miss K said in an even more cheerful voice. Daeron wondered if cheerfulness was the only social etiquette acceptable in a small town like this.
“And your guest?” Joffrey asked, a subtle curiosity in his tone.
“You mean Mr. Targaryen? I think He’s still sleeping.” Miss K replied, “You met him yesterday, didn’t you? Why do your cheeky pretties always meet hot man before good old Miss K?”
“I think you are one of the cheeky pretties too, Miss.” Joffrey chuckled. There was a small pause, and Daeron heard some rustling sound before the tavern owner shrieked like a little girl.
“Joffrey!” She laughed, “Don’t think you can charm your way through everything with a kiss!”
A kiss. Did Joffrey kiss her? On the cheeks or somewhere else? Daeron felt his heartbeat began to race, his stomach clenching with curiosity, regret and anticipation.
“I can’t help it. I am just too charming.” Joffrey said, “Here, today’s newspaper. I have to deliver the rest before 6. I haven’t feed the chickens yet.”
“Thank you. Off you go then. Say hello to Gwayne for me. Tell him we miss him down here.”
“I will.” Joffrey’s voice softened, the previous cheerfulness turning into something tender, “Good bye, Miss K. Have a nice day.”
Daeron didn’t get off bed until the sound of bells on Joffrey’s bike had completely died down. He laid there, thinking about Joffrey’s cheerful smile and imagining how it would feel to have those soft, pink lips pressed against his skin. Daeron had never felt such a pull toward anyone in his whole life. He was handsome and well sought after by beautiful girls, but none of these curvy bodies and sweet perfumes could make him ache with desire so much.
Daeron slowly sat up in his bed, his pajama pants tightening around his crotch. He was hard. His erection had already made an embarrassing wet patch on the cotton, fighting to break free of the prison that was his pajamas. Shame drowned him like high tides, but did nothing to ease his unholy desire. His cock twitched uncomfortably in the pants.
He was hard thinking about Joffrey’s lips. How twisted must he be to see Joffrey in this light?
Daeron swallowed as he slowly pulled out his cock, tugging at the tender skin once, twice, three times until he brushed it down, releasing the leaking head. His cock was hard and scorching in his palm, wet with pre-cum, and pulsing with desire. Daeron closed his eyes, gave his cock a few stroke and began to pump. He worked quickly and desperately, imagining Joffrey’s lips around his cock, the brunette’s dark eyes looking at him with teasing flirtation, his curls bouncing as he bobbed his head to suck Daeron off.
He came not long after. Hot liquid ejected from his cock to his bare stomach, thick and sticky. Daeron held his breath as the orgasm hit him, squeezing his hand around his cock, pretending it was Joffrey’s mouth that enveloped his dirty desire. Masturbation in the morning was nothing new to him, but Daeron was embarrassed to admit that he masturbated to the image of Joffrey, a young man he had only met yesterday, who he knew nothing of except that Joffrey was Gwayne’s boy.
Daeron shivered after the orgasm had calmed down, the chill of late spring putting goose bumps all over his exposed skin, drying the semen on his stomach and making him shiver with cold. Daeron let out a long sigh and wiped his stomach clean with his discarded pajama pants before collecting his toilettes and went for a shower.
****************************************************
Daeron met Gwayne Hightower at the town square that afternoon. He spent the whole morning going through his investigation notes, flipping through the newspaper that was delivered by Joffrey today, and resisting the urge not to bury his nose into the pages and try to pick up Joffrey’s smell over the stinking ink. Still nothing in the papers. This village seemed to be ignorant of the bodies that were being excavated, as if no evil could possibly come to this place.
He saw a small crowd in the square, mostly idle famers who had already finished the day’s work. Daeron spotted Gwayne almost immediately even though Gwayne’s outfit didn’t stand out among his peers, khaki pants and loose-fit blue shirt paired, as normal as a farmer could get. However, there was something about the man that set him apart, his nicely combed hair and pale complexion, the way he carried himself as if he was a cold observer of the world, his thinly pursed lips and dull eyes. Daeron didn't need to be a genius to notice him.
“I haven’t seen you around, lad. New here?” Someone offered his hand for Daeron to shake, “Are you the visitor staying at K’s tavern?”
“I am.” Daeron replied as he gave the stranger a firm handshake, “It seems like everyone has already known me.”
“Gwayne was just telling us about you.” The man laughed, “It’s not like we will have a visitor every day, especially not a young man like you. I think you and Joff have lowered the average age of this village for at least five years.”
The joke wasn’t the cleverest one, but Daeron laughed along nonetheless. The name Gwayne intrigued him to no end, and Daeron was surprised to find the other man so casual and so normal. But then again, what did he expect a man who lived in a farm house to be, if not normal?
Everyone seemed to know Joff. Daeron wondered if Joffrey was just another safe topic to start a conversation with, like the weather.
“What are you coming here for, Daeron?” Gwayne asked, his voice soft and gentle, a sharp contrast to his indifferent eyes.
“I am a journalist.” Daeron replied, realizing belatedly that Gwayne had called him by name, “I write for magazines sometimes. I am here to write about small town life.”
“There is not much to write about.” Gwayne shrugged, “We do our work and gossip for entertainment.”
Daeron wanted to ask where Gwayne knew his name from, but he wasn’t sure if he would like the answer. Gwayne probably heard it from Joffrey, which made Daeron wonder just how much Joffrey shared his daily life with this man. Gwayne looked like he was in his mid-thirties, while Joffrey was barely twenty, and Daeron had never known a young adult who would share his life completely with his custodian.
“We spit at the shitty performance of our local football team too!” Someone shouted from the crowd, making every one laugh at the same moment.
Gwayne didn't laugh; he only smiled. Just as Daeron was about to ask if anyone had heard of the gruesome news of excavated bodies, a string of bells interrupted his thoughts and made his breath stop for a second. It was the same sound he had heard out of his window this morning.
“What are you old men chatting about?” Joffrey asked in his usual cheerfulness. He stopped his bike and jumped off it in one smooth move and walked straight to Gwayne, “I couldn’t find you in the farm.”
There was a subtle desperation in Joffrey’s tone, so subtle that Daeron feared he was imagining it.
“I went down to hang out with the lads.” Gwayne replied, brushing a patch of dirt off the sleeve of Joffrey’s grey hoodie like a caring father, “Have you checked the potato field?”
“Of course I have.” Joffrey offered his other sleeve for Gwayne to check, “The chickens have laid some eggs this morning. I am thinking omelet for tea.”
Gwayne finished checking Joffrey’s hoodie for dirt and let his palm slide down Joffrey’s back, resting just above the boy’s hip. The gesture was intimate, too intimate for a custodian and his ward, but the crowd made no comment.
Daeron’s mouth went dry while his palm began to sweat. He couldn't help but remember Miss K’s words. Joff is Gwayne’s boy.
Could she mean it literally?
yousharknotpass
andulkaphoto
blakekathryn
dailybridgerton
tangentwithtanner
vaporwave
kianamaiart
titsay