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Kid Wonder

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Rehearsals have finally ended, which means that after ten gruelling hours of back-breaking practice Aiden’s body is aching in places most people won’t know exist unless they’ve been dancing since they were old enough to tie their own shoelaces.

At this point in his career, Aiden’s able to weather the worst of it; it’s just part and parcel of being one of the newest members of the corps de ballet. He’s the youngest too, and that means he’s got less to lose and more to prove and if that makes him a little competitive, well, he’s been called worse things. Competitive is practically a compliment, even if said slyly and with a sideways glance. It’s a cutthroat industry: if you want to make principal you better stand out and Aiden has a seven year plan to do just that.

He’s twenty-two now, and his goal is to make principal by the time he’s twenty-five. Easy enough if he plays his cards right and moves in the right circles and after that, he’ll set his eyes on a seat at the Paris Opera Ballet, one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the world.

The session may be winding down, but there are still people milling about in the practice room, finishing off with cool-down stretches, or chatting each other up by the barres, making plans for the evening.

Aiden tugs a shirt over his tank top and pulls sweats over his leotards, while eavesdropping like a coward. He’s not made any friends since moving to London, mostly because all his free time is taken up by sorting out his apartment situation (still a work in progress, as there are several unpacked boxes currently surrounding his mattress) and the occasional visit to his physiotherapist to work on the ever present twinge in his ankle.

Then there’s Duncan who Aiden is now on his way to see before he misses the last train home. There’s no room for friendship in the seven year plan—as evidenced by the friction between him and the other members of the corps— but there’s certainly some leg room for a little tête-à-tête on the side.

Aiden breaks into a brisk jog, up and down the halls and then further down a flight of stairs to the lower levels where Duncan’s office sits—away from the noise and the stampede of dancers trudging to and from rehearsals, and the constant hum of frenetic energy pervading the upstairs floors.

Deep in the bowels of the basement, like some monster in hiding, and that’s how Aiden sometimes sees Duncan, who remains solitary and mysterious as ever though far less monstrous than a lot of people he knows. But he’s intimidating in his own way, the way unfilled silences are in a conversation with a stranger, though Duncan knows just what to say to make Aiden’s heart swoop low in his belly.

Aiden raps on his door marked by the myriad of take-out flyers and a print-out of the academy’s business hours taped next to the little window peering into the room at eye-level. It’s an odd office for a janitor, considering its size and the fact that Duncan has it all to himself. But Duncan says he’s been working at the Academy for years and maybe that’s why he’s afforded his pick of the office.

Aiden invites himself inside after another cursory knock, but the room is empty and Duncan is nowhere in sight. There’s a half-empty mug of coffee cooling at his desk and next to it a cigarette still smouldering in an ornate ashtray. The basement window is half open to let in the night air. Aiden can hear the arrhythmic hum of crickets and the faint wash of conversation drifting in from the quad.

He finds a note written on the whiteboard hanging above Duncan’s desk: A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM — SPRING OPENING. There’s no telling who the note is meant for specifically, but he touches it with his fingers and lets his thumb smudge over the letter ‘G’.

The office is more of a mess than usual, which Aiden attributes to being in the throes of the Spring Semester, but it’s probably just a random coincidence. Aiden doesn’t think he’s ever seen Duncan doing any real work. He lingers in the periphery, smoking and taking walks and if he’s not doing either, Aiden will catch him reading The Times, parked in one of the wooden benches in the quad that’s so green with algae, you can only make out the outline of letters in the bronze plaque.

Aiden unshoulders his bag, tossing it onto the stuffed armchair in the corner, before beginning the arduous task of setting Duncan’s desk to rights. There are forests and forests worth of papers scattered on the surface, a pile of receipts among a small hill of self-help books and old newspapers.

When he rifles through them, he sees Duncan’s handwriting, identical to the note  on the whiteboard, filling up the pages in black and blue ink. Some are notes in what looks like Russian and German. One is in French with a phone number underlined twice. Legal documents, a VISA application, an unmarked envelope Aiden purposefully ignores in favour of the odd assortment of detritus populating the topography of Duncan’s desk: pens with the caps missing, a leather journal bookmarked with receipts, a polaroid of a slobbering pug Aiden recognises as Duncan’s dog Rusty. 

There’s a piece of paper that’s been folded into thirds. After a moment of hesitation, Aiden opens it up.

As Artistic Director of the Royal Ballet School, I am letting you know how much your support is needed, felt and appreciated—

Aiden stops reading and quickly folds the letter up again. His heart is pounding with the knowledge of discovering something he wasn’t meant to know, and he unfolds the paper again just to make sure. There, under the Royal Ballet letterhead, is Duncan’s name in full. Duncan Vizla. Vizla, as in the Black Kaiser. The letter is addressed to him.

Duncan, of the frumpy sweaters and the perpetual cloud of cigarette smoke following him wherever he goes. Duncan of the stoic refusal to shave his moustache, of the funny eyepatch he claims brought a touch of character to his person. He purposely made it easy for people to write him off as some kind of what exactly, a nobody? Because Aiden has known him for all of two months and none of this has ever come up. 

Now that he knows, he isn’t sure whether he wants to pry more everything else up or pretend it never even happened. For a split second, Aiden feels infuriated, overwhelmed with anger but the feeling quickly simmers to an aching hurt. He trusted Duncan; he thought he was his friend. He thought they were more than that, actually, because he’s not completely oblivious to the way the man’s gaze lingers on his form whenever Aiden is doing stretches in his office. 

Aiden wonders what the point is -- not that people need explanations for their agendas, but he actually wants to hear what Duncan has to say. Duncan let him assume he was the goddamn janitor. He must have thought Aiden was an idiot, some gullible kid he could wind up like a toy with his ruse.

In the end, Aiden tosses the letter back onto the desk and leaves the room as is. He catches the last train home with a churning sensation in his belly. The past two months flash through his mind like images on a zoetrope. In hindsight, maybe it was his fault for assuming the guy lingering outside the practice room was a janitor, just because he looked too poorly dressed to be the Director of the Royal Ballet.

Back in his apartment, after a shower and a microwaved dinner just under his required number of calories, the feeling in his belly remains and he falls into an uneasy sleep.



The weekend is even worse because in addition to obsessing over Duncan being the Black Kaiser, whose body of work Aiden has heard people rave about since he was thirteen, and still practising pirouettes in his room, there’s work to do in his apartment. The IKEA shelves aren’t going to assemble themselves, but rather than tackle the challenge head on, Aiden does the touristy thing for once and actually leaves his apartment. He takes the tube to Covent Garden where he quickly loses himself in the throng of pedestrians and shoppers and buys a hoagie he eats one-handed while loitering outside of shopfronts. This goes on for a while, and his anxiety seems to be settling down remarkably until he hears a familiar voice behind him say his name—then it ratchets up again several notches.

He whirls around, eyes narrowing, because who else does he bump into on a warm beautiful day like this but Duncan? The odds of it happening shouldn’t be surprising; after all The Royal Ballet is only a few streets away. Maybe part of him had known all along this was going to happen, but it’s still jarring to see Duncan in broad daylight knowing what he knows now. He’s still wearing a shapeless brown sweater, those ugly cargo pants and his reading glasses. Aiden wonders which part of it is subterfuge and which is just a total lack of giving a fuck. He’s sure Duncan can afford to dress himself better, seeing as he’s the same man whose performance in Le sacre du printemps still has people talking about it decades later.

“No rehearsals today?” Duncan asks conversationally with a teasing raise of his eyebrow.

Aiden’s heart is pounding, but he manages to school his features into an expression of unruffled calm Easier said than done while clutching a half-eaten hoagie. “It’s a weekend. No rehearsals,” he says, trying for casual but failing spectacularly; he sounds irritable.

Duncan makes a show of looking fondly at the sky then back at Aiden. He’s got a cup of coffee in one gloved hand and is surprisingly not smoking a cigarette.

“What are you doing here?” Aiden asks.

“I was just going out for a walk.” Duncan shrugs with one shoulder, tilting his body toward Aiden like he’s sharing a secret. “I’m due back in an hour. Still have work to do.”

“Work,” Aiden repeats with a short laugh.

“Work,” Duncan affirms. He gives Aiden an unreadable look before blowing steam from his coffee and taking a languid sip. Neither of them moves away from the other until the door opens behind Aiden and he has to shuffle out of the way to let a shopper through. They watch her cross the street and disappear into the crowd.

Duncan is the first to speak. “I’d like it if you walked with me, back to my office, Aiden.”

Aiden stares at him. The words Of course you would die on his tongue the second he notices the expression on Duncan’s face. He bites back a response and instead gives Duncan a terse nod. Together they navigate the busy streets side by side while taking careful pains not to bump into each other. Aiden must be acting too obvious because as soon as the building looms into view, Duncan stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re upset,” he points out, and he doesn’t even ask the reason behind it, as if half-expecting Aiden to just come out with it. Aiden shrugs noncommittally and doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. In Duncan’s office—neat as a pin now, except for the files stacked on his desk, and really Aiden should have known he was someone important if he had important-looking files like those sitting there at any given time of day—Duncan points him to the armchair in the corner before handing him a flaky pastry from a bag.

Aiden accepts it with begrudging thanks because he hasn’t yet decided what to do. Duncan watches him out of the corner of his eye, not subtle at all, but then Aiden isn’t so subtle about watching him back either.

Duncan slurps at his coffee, gaze still fixed on him, leaning his hip against the desk behind him.

Aiden should have noticed it before but Duncan’s posture is impeccable. He has mannerisms that point to years of long practice: the way he turns his wrists when he holds a pen, how he can move seamlessly from one action to the next. He corrected Aiden’s form once, when he was doing warm up stretches in his office as a way to endear himself, and when Aiden had teased him about spending all his free time possibly spying on dancers in the practice room, he never did it again.

“You lied to me,” Aiden says.

Duncan’s expression doesn’t shift; he doesn’t even blink. “I never lied to you.”

“Oh, great! Now you’re lying about lying to me too! Jesus, did I win the lottery with you.”

When Duncan continues to give him the same blank expression, Aiden gets up from his seat to point at him. “I know who you are.” Duncan waits for him to continue, infuriatingly calm as ever. “Was this a joke to you? Was I a joke?  You let me believe you were the fucking janitor.”

“I never said I was.”

“You never gave me a straight answer either,” Aiden reminds him. “You’re—fuck. You’re the Black Kaiser.”

And Duncan may not look like he did twenty years ago, but he’s still a big deal in certain circles. The Black Kaiser’s last performance was a 1991 production of Don Quixote at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow; there’d been an accident, it was the last time anyone saw him on stage. Rumours had pointed to sabotage but in the end, there had been no conclusive evidence.

“I never liked that nickname,” Duncan says after a moment. He looks at Aiden: not doing anything else, just looks. “And it was never my intention to lie to you.”

Aiden’s lips twist. “What were your intentions exactly?”

He turns his face away when Duncan strides over and presses two fingers to his chin. The touch startles him; it’s the first time Duncan’s ever touched him in this way. They’ve been flirting for over two months, but neither of them has ever been this bold. Passing glances, furtive smiles, maybe a hand on the small of Aiden’s back in a touch that can be interpreted as entirely accidental—but nothing like this. Intimate.

“Look at me,” Duncan says. “Aiden, look at me.”

Aiden lifts his gaze. Then he changes his mind and stares at Duncan’s jaw instead, where his stubble is flecked with silver. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot, aren’t I? For not realising I was with the fucking Black Kaiser all this time.”

“I didn’t want to intimidate you. People aren’t—” Duncan sighs and his mouth thins to a grim line. “—themselves around me.”

“You didn’t want me getting starstruck?” Aiden scoffs.

“Nothing as pedestrian as that,” Duncan assures him. “I just wanted to get to know you.”

“You still lied to me,” Aiden says.

Duncan doesn’t refute that, but neither does he admit to it. Instead he cups Aiden’s face in his hands and sweeps his thumbs over his cheeks in gentle passes. This close, Aiden can smell the combination of coffee and cigarettes on his breath, and it’s his only warning before Duncan presses their foreheads together.

Aiden blinks at him, having steeled  himself for a kiss that feels like it’s been a long time coming. Instead, Duncan breathes along with him in an effort to calm him down, and it’s only then that Aiden realises he’s been clenching his teeth all this time, that his spine is tense, all his muscles locked.

Duncan slides the fingers of his right hand down to Aiden’s neck, thumb rubbing at the ball of his throat.

Aiden swallows, shivering, suddenly dizzy, from the proximity if nothing else. His heart is racing; he can feel his insides trembling and he’s breathing hard like he’s just finished a dozen pirouettes. If this were  a movie or a television show, he would be fawning all over Duncan’s feet, but he’s still pissed at him so he untangles himself if a little reluctantly from his grip.

“Stop it, just stop,” Aiden says. He stands to his full height and shoves Duncan’s shoulder. “I know what you’re trying to do—“

“Aiden,” Duncan says. He catches Aiden around the waist with a frown and then somehow between Aiden trying to pull away and Duncan trying not to let him, they’re suddenly kissing.

It hits them at the same time, sharp as a lightning bolt. At first Aiden tries to jerk away, but then Duncan’s hand comes up to curve around his neck and all his defenses unspool like a thread. He’s so fucking easy and he hates himself for it. What will Duncan think, what will other people think? Jesus, this is so embarrassing. He came to London to escape his past, his dad, to build a career, but what he’s doing instead is slutting it up at the Royal. Great job Galvin. You’ll make your mother proud for sure!

Duncan’s mouth moves against his, his tongue coaxing a gentle rhythm, the weight of his chest pressing Aiden into the wall.

He’s surprisingly solid—his arms, his chest, his shoulders underneath Aiden’s hands. He smells like aftershave and tastes like coffee and it’s so familiar that Aiden whimpers in protest when Duncan pulls back without warning.

“Aiden,” Duncan says, his other hand flat on Aiden’s heaving chest.

Aiden, gasping, gropes for him, his fingers catching on the material of Duncan sleeve. “This was your plan all along?” His lips feel damp from kissing, tingling and swollen. “To what, seduce me?”

“I didn’t plan anything,” Duncan says evenly, and for once Aiden believes him.

Duncan takes a step back, but not before flicking at a curl dangling over Aiden’s forehead. His smile is faint when the curl bounces back into place, stubborn just like Aiden himself. Then he frowns again and steps back even farther.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says.

“Which part? The part where you kissed me or the part where you lied to me?”

Duncan drags his gaze back to meet Aiden’s. “Both.”

“Right,” Aiden says, shaking his head with a huff. “Of course.” He feels his ire returning, souring the short-lived goodwill he was feeling towards Duncan. Hurt wells up in his chest, crawling up his throat and making his next words sound scratchy. “Guess I better go then.”

But Duncan’s hand shoots out to grab his elbow before he makes it halfway to the door. “I didn’t say you should.”

“What?” Aiden says, scowling down at Duncan’s hand. “What do you want?”

This time, Duncan’s hands cup his chin, forcing Aiden to look at him. “People are going to talk,” he says, steady and low-voiced. “If we go any further, your reputation will be ruined.”

“You say that like I have a reputation at all.”

“You’re still young.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“If word gets out that the Black Kaiser is fucking some upstart ingenu, the critics won’t take kindly to you, Aiden.”

Aiden can’t help but laugh, meeting Duncan’s steely gaze without blinking. “I’m just some dumb American kid from Jersey. You wanna know who my worst critic is? It’s my dad.”

And that’s the truth of it. He may be popular in his little no-name ballet company in Jersey, looked up to by his peers and the darling of the stage, but this is London, the big leagues, and it’s not like he was special enough to make a name outside the pond. Duncan rubs his thumb over Aiden’s jaw, the touch so light Aiden thinks he must have imagined it. Then his words from earlier ping something in Aiden’s mind, and Aiden blinks, flushing, as he backtracks and lets the realisation settle.

“You want to fuck me,” he states, half in shock and half in giddy relief.

Duncan looks pained, like the mere thought troubles him. “See, I’m not so noble after all.”

“I never thought you were,” Aiden says, with raised eyebrows. “I thought you were a pervert, watching me in the practice room all the time. Should have known you were there to criticise my technique.”

“If it counts for anything, I just like to scope the practice room for new talent.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

Duncan’s other hand closes over his hip. “More than that. I found you.”

Aiden swallows. The bastard, trying to charm him, he thinks hotly. Well, it’s not gonna work. “Are you going to fuck me?”

Now it’s Duncan’s turn to blink, but his expression is open, almost fond. “Not so close to opening day. You’re going to be so sore afterwards. You’ll hate me.”

“I’m already sore,” Aiden snorts. “I’ve been dancing since I was nine. And I still hate you. Well, a little bit. I haven’t decided if I should forgive you yet.”

“How do I make it up to you then?” Duncan asks, amused.

“I want you to fuck me,” Aiden says, without inflection, or pause. He does want it, badly. He hasn’t had sex in close to two years because he hates most people and likes to compare himself to other dancers, never able to look at them lustfully again after seeing their technique. He gets too hung up on how badly they perform, how sloppy their en point looks, or the fact that their hands  are at the wrong angle during a port de bras that he ends up inevitably bringing it up in conversation and causing the eventual demise of what would have been the start of a relationship.

But Duncan is different, on all accounts. He’s the Black fucking Kaiser. He’s a better dancer than all of Aiden’s exes put together. Between all of them, they wouldn’t have a third of Duncan’s talent.

“I will,” Duncan promises, “After the Spring production.”

“Fuck.” Aiden curls his hand into a fist, tugging at Duncan’s sweater petulantly. “Really? That’s in six weeks. Are you fucking kidding me?”

Duncan just gives him a level look.

“You’re not,” Aiden realises with disappointment.  “Fuck.”

“Aiden,” Duncan sighs. “You’re going to thank me later. Anytime before then would  be a bad idea.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Aiden mumbles. “Because I’m gonna be sore.” He rolls his eyes, catches Duncan smiling at him, with a crinkle in the corners of his eyes. Bastard.

“How are you gonna do it?”

“Fuck you?”

Aiden nods. He bites his lip, because he knows how that makes him look, then slides both hands up Duncan’s shoulders to loop behind his neck. He presses their bodies together, breath hitching when Duncan’s hands come up to hold him by the waist.

“Go on,” Aiden says, nudging his hips forward meaningfully. “How would you do it?”

It takes Duncan half a minute to answer, mostly because he looks at Aiden like some interesting piece of machinery he wants to take apart. “I’d do it here first. In my office.”


“I wouldn’t be able to stop after the first time. I’d let you have it everywhere, any time of day. The washroom. My flat. The practice room, in front of the mirrors, bent over the barres.”

Aiden barely manages to suppress a whimper. “You’d fuck me here first?”

Duncan lets his gaze sweep over the room, lingering at some point behind Aiden’s shoulder. “On the armchair, maybe. I’d hold you open by the ankles. Let you keep your toes pointed upwards and hold that position while I fuck you.”

Fuck, Aiden thinks, swallowing. “And?”

Duncan pauses to think. “Hands on the desk, with your back arched and your ass up. I’d give it to you like that; I won’t wear a condom.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Aiden hisses, harder than he can remember ever being in his life; the blood rushing south of his body at full speed almost makes him lightheaded and he nearly squeaks in surprise when Duncan gropes his ass with both hands, kneading the muscles until Aiden relaxes in his grip.

Aiden peers up at him through his curls, flushing up to his ears when probing fingers reach behind the waistband of his sweats and start to rub at his ass crack. Duncan doesn’t push inside—his finger is too dry for that—but god does Aiden want him to, even just a little. He pants, trembling against Duncan’s chest, clutching the fabric of his sweater in fistfuls, as Duncan glides the pad of his finger in steady, circular motions. His dick is starting to leak in his underwear, and he tries his best not to rut shamelessly against Duncan’s hip, even with a finger teasing his hole.

Aiden lurches forward when Duncan presses in—slow, experimental, no more than a half inch deep, until Aiden is uncomfortably full and clenching up. He meets Duncan’s gaze, mouth hanging open in a silent gasp.

“Fuck,” he breathes, whining. “Please, I want it. Just—just a little bit. I can take it. Please.”

Duncan squeezes his hip with his free hand before gesturing to the armchair. “Take your pants off. Put your legs over the armrests. Show me how much you want it.”

Aiden nods. He stumbles towards the corner where the armchair is situated, kicking off his sweats and letting his underwear pool around his ankles before stepping out of it. He’s glad he doesn’t have practice today; the last thing he needs is for Duncan to see how inelegant he can be while taking off a pair of sweaty skin-tight leotards with holes in them. 

He manuevers himself into position, easy enough because he’s been a dancer all his life, able to twist his body to whatever form a performance requires. But the new position puts an awkward pressure on his pelvis and he’s never felt so embarrassingly exposed in his life: his cock and balls on full display, fat with blood, his hole clenching at the thought of whatever Duncan has in store for him. Fuck. He spreads his thighs wider when Duncan approaches with a bottle of essential oil, which he uses to coat his fingers. It smells like vanilla, sweet and cloying.

Aiden whimpers when Duncan starts rubbing at his hole, ignoring his cock entirely, which twitches anew at each tender touch to his rim.

“Just fuck me already, come on. Just do it, please.” Aiden is not above begging. Not if it’ll get him what he wants.

Duncan just looks at him mildly. It’s hard to read him sometimes, especially when he’s wearing his glasses. “No,” he says. “Not yet. Now are you gonna behave for me, Aiden? I don’t want this to hurt.”

Aiden has to hold back a full body shiver. He behaves, as much as he can behave, with two fingers curled up inside his ass and pushing against his prostate. Duncan finger-fucks him with the kind of admirable patience of a seasoned veteran; each slide of his fingers make Aiden’s cock jolt and he stretches Aiden just shy of the point of pain. His fingers are long and huge, deft when they tease Aiden’s prostate in tight circles. He’s up to three fingers when Aiden whines and squirms, thrusting his hips forward for a semblance of friction on his neglected cock. “Just touch me. Touch my cock. Come on.”

“No,” Duncan says again, this time with a pointed look. “I like you like this.” And he punctuates his point by shoving all three fingers inside Aiden all at once, not stopping till they’re buried to the last knuckle, even though Aiden just about wails.

“Fuck you,” Aiden sobs breathlessly, and it seems to be all he’s able to say for the next few minutes, face wet with tears. “Fuck you, God— that’s so good. Fuck.”

Duncan hums. Then, just when Aiden thinks he can’t take it anymore, a broad hand closes over his cock. He blinks one wet eye open and moans at the sight; Duncan’s hand all but swallows him whole. His grip is firm and ungentle and Aiden can feel the ridges of callouses in his palms, catching on the sensitive skin of his cock where there isn’t enough oil coating it. He’s panting again, making embarrassing noises, watching with fevered eyes as Duncan pumps his cock in time with the push-pull of his fingers.

It’s absolutely dirty. Aiden’s toes curl tightly on each upstroke and the armchair creaks in warning underneath him when he shifts on the cushion,clutches the headrest for traction with one hand first and then the other because he can’t stop riding Duncan’s fingers.

“Is this what you need, boy?”

The last person who called him boy had been his dad and Aiden had socked him right on the nose before jetting off to London for good. But coming from Duncan, ‘boy’ doesn’t feel so much like an insult but an endearment that makes his cock give another sharp throb.

“No,” Aiden chokes out, just to be cheeky. “I need your cock.”

“Do you always get what you want?”

Aiden manages a grin, in between open-mouthed pants. “Yeah. Most of the time.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Duncan pulls out his fingers, and Aiden moans at the loss of fullness in his ass. He doesn’t have much time to complain though because Duncan is settling easily on his knees, pressing his hands flat against the insides of Aiden’s thighs to keep them spread open. Then he’s licking into Aiden with relish, mouthing at his hole and pressing his stiff tongue inside his ass, his stubble and moustache leaving goosebumps across Aiden’s skin.

“Shit, shit,” Aiden gasps. He wants to grab Duncan’s hair but he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “No one’s ever—oh god. Don’t, it’s—” It’s what? He’s never felt this good. His whole body buzzing, his skin electric and tight. His cock is leaking harder, making a mess on his stomach, and Duncan pulls away briefly, spit trickling in runnels down his jaw, to regard it with a nod.

“Touch yourself. Go on.”

Aiden takes this as permission, but now his own grip feels wrong in comparison to Duncan’s—clumsy, eager, his palm smaller and more delicate. His whole body quakes when Duncan pulls him apart with the pads of his thumbs to lick a long luxurious stripe across his rim. Aiden feels wet inside—from spit and oil and Duncan’s tongue, pushing in, bullying past any resistance. He feels filthy, but only in the way that great sex can make you feel filthy. Briefly, he notices that he’s missing his left shoe; he must have dropped it at some point because he still has the other one on.

He’s not fully naked, and somehow that makes the whole thing even filthier; Duncan hasn’t told him to take his shirt off and his nipples feel stiff under the cotton, over-sensitive and aching to be touched. Anyone could walk in on them; Aiden can’t remember if Duncan locked the door behind him.

“Just fuck me already!” Aiden begs. “I’ll be good. Come on. Please.”

“I have no doubt that you will be good,” Duncan says. “But I don’t want to hurt you. You’ll need to be patient, Aiden.”

“Patient my ass,” Aiden huffs.

Duncan gives his thighs a flick of the fingers.

Aiden squirms.

“When I fuck you,” Duncan says, squeezing Aiden’s knees to get his attention. “You’re going to feel it for days. You’ll miss practice. And you’ll keep thinking about when I’ll fuck you next. You’ll get distracted. I don’t want you distracted.”

“Sounds like you just don’t want to fuck me.”

“Aiden,” Duncan sighs. “Don’t be a brat.”

Aiden’s cock throbs violently in his own hand at that, his breath picking up.

“What are you gonna do? Bend me over your knee and spank me?”

“I could do that, but I have a meeting in…” Duncan tugs at his sleeve and checks his watch. “Twenty minutes.”


Duncan smiles at him; it’s barely perceptible, but Aiden recognises the telltale twitch in the corner of his lips. Aiden gets the distinct feeling he’s being made fun of but that feeling is short-lived because Duncan’s mouth is back on his ass and he’s eating Aiden out like he’s in a competition where both enthusiasm and technique count: sloppy but steady drags of his tongue, each move calculated to make Aiden’s spine sing. When he hums, Aiden can feel each reverberation crawl up his thighs like electric currents. 

Aiden doesn’t last long. He jerks his cock so hard it almost hurts when he comes. His muscles contract tight around the tongue in his ass, his vision blurring and going white as he lets out a whine that sounds like it’s been punched out of him. It feels like it goes on forever.  On and on and on. When he opens his eyes, Duncan’s unzipping his fly and taking out his cock, and Aiden doesn’t even blink before swaying forward and propping himself on his knees on the cushions, wrapping his hand around Duncan’s dick. His fingers barely close over the base, Jesus.

Duncan’s hands frame his face, covering his ears, as Aiden begins a slow suck at the tip of Duncan’s cock. It’s going to hurt when Duncan fucks him for the first time because fuck, the man is huge, no joke, long and thick and uncut and Aiden whines when he tries to cram a third of it down his throat. He starts gagging because he’s out of practice, drooling all over his chin with his eyes welling with tears when the head of Duncan’s dick touches the back of his throat.

It’s too much, he can’t breathe, but he still wants it. God, does he want it. He’s always loved sucking cock; one of his exes used to joke that he had the perfect lips for it. Maybe he’s right; maybe Aiden is just that depraved, offering his ass and his mouth to none other than the Black Kaiser himself who’s at least twice his age, if not older;  the man notorious for his connections to the Russian mob, and his unmatched skill on the stage. If Aiden’s dad could see him now, he’d laugh and say he was right all along: that he’d raised a good for nothing cocksucker whose only lot in life was to bend over for any man who showed him even an ounce of attention.

Aiden chokes when Duncan pulls out, his mouth brimming hot with Duncan’s precome and his own spit. It trickles down the sides of his lips, wet and messy. 

“We’ll work on that, don’t worry about it,” Duncan promises him in a low rasp, thumbing a tear out of the corner of Aiden’s eye. Then his hips jerk forward, pushing in part of the way, and his head tilts back and he’s coming down Aiden’s throat with a grunt. Aiden keeps himself still, doing his best to take it, but he starts gagging again when he closes his throat on an unconscious swallow.

Duncan does pull out eventually, pumping the remnants of his orgasm all over Aiden’s face, spurts of come catching on his cheeks and in his hair.

They’re both panting, catching their breaths in the aftermath when there’s a knock on Duncan’s door.

Duncan grits his teeth before tucking himself back into his pants. He thumbs gently at the corner of Aiden’s mouth before bending down to kiss him—sweet, tender, making Aiden’s chest clench up with a surge of something he tries not to pin down just yet because to do so would be dangerous.

“I’ll call you when my meeting’s over.” He tucks Aiden’s hair behind his ear, grasping the side of his neck. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take so you better go home and enjoy the rest of your weekend. Take a hot bath. Eat something—not street food, please, that shit’s not good for you. Wait for my call.”

“And then?” Aiden asks, lips catching on the thumb pressed between his teeth.

“And then if you’re good, I’ll tell you all about how I plan to fuck you.”

Jesus, Aiden thinks, tamping down on a whimper. He hates how quickly he’s getting hard again.

But he waits—obedient— until the coast is clear before slipping out of Duncan’s office on quiet feet. He takes the Tube home, runs himself a bath and tries his best not to touch himself, even though he’s got a hard-on the entire time. He makes himself dinner—actual food not heated in the microwave with all the food groups present—and then crawls into bed at 8PM with his tablet in his lap.

He pulls up a video of Duncan on YouTube, some grainy video someone took on a camcorder some twenty or so odd years ago: a Malakhov production of La Bayadère from 1987 in which Duncan had played the warrior Solor sworn to love and protect their lover Nikiya. He can barely make out Duncan’s face with the stage lights and the bright makeup, but he can recognise the shape of it, those sharp cheekbones and that impeccable stance. His hair is longer, darker, his jaw shaved completely clean.

Duncan moves effortlessly, his rhythm never breaking, like a coiled spring that’s pushed and pulled. He’s beautiful in both his solo performances and dancing with accompaniment. Aiden’s never seen a pas de deux that smooth before, where both partners move so effortlessly as one.

When Aiden’s phone buzzes on his bedside table, Aiden startles out of his daze. He picks up the call on the third ring. It’s Duncan, of course. He can’t help but grin immediately.

“Are you in bed?” Duncan asks.

“Yeah.” Aiden laughs as he puts his tablet away. “And I did everything you told me to.”

“Everything?” Duncan sounds impressed.

“I’m a dancer; I can follow a little instruction you know.”

“I never doubted that.” There’s a pause, then Duncan asks, in the same serious tone, “Did you touch yourself at all?”

Aiden hasn’t, but something about the question makes him hot all over, like he’s done something bad already. “No, I was good, I didn’t touch myself.” He rolls onto his stomach, hitching one knee up to the side, so his dick is pressed against the mattress with the barest of pressures. Then he thrusts down, rolling his hips and biting his lip.

Duncan’s voice in his ear sounds good, velvety smooth like a caress.

“Good,” Duncan says, his tone pleased. “Are you comfortable?”

“Sure,” Aiden says, heart hammering in his throat as his hips stutter to a stop. He flushes, his arms prickling in goosebumps as he stuffs a free hand down his underwear and gives his erection a squeeze. He sighs, once, twice. He wishes Duncan were here with him, in bed, in his shitty apartment, not even touching him, but just sitting down with him. A little company would be nice, and Aiden won’t mind if he does all the work— he’ll take what he can get, spread his legs on the bed and show Duncan how he likes to touch himself. 

“Aiden,” Duncan says. “Are you with me?”

“Yes,” Aiden breathes, still dazed and a little hard from that fantasy. “Yeah.”

He nods into his pillow and Aiden can hear the smile unfurl in Duncan’s voice when he says, “Then let’s begin.”