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The house had descended into a kind of apocalyptic chaos that sweltering Tuesday afternoon.
The heat was so unbearable that even the plants on the balcony looked like they'd given up on life. The kids were tearing through the house with enough energy to power a small town, and the dishwasher, for reasons that defied modern science, had apparently declared war.
Duncan had been kneeling there with half his body shoved inside it for nearly two hours.
Two. Whole. Hours.
One hundred and twenty minutes.
Seven thousand two hundred seconds.
The cursed thing had started with a simple, “It's making a weird noise”, and somehow escalated into a battle of pride between a man too stubborn to call a repair technician and a possessed household appliance.
“You miserable hunk of junk, son of a… toaster and a meat grinder,” he grumbled, his voice muffled from inside the cabinet, doing his best to avoid using any swear words that weren't fit for little ears. “You're not gonna beat me…”
The dishwasher answered by dripping water straight onto his face.
His cortisol levels immediately shot up to scientifically questionable heights.
Shirtless because of the heat, with a wrench tucked into the pocket of his shorts and a smear of grease across one shoulder, Dunk usually calm and endlessly patient, was being pushed to his absolute limit by the lethal combination of scorching weather, screaming children, and one very hostile dishwasher.
On the other side of the kitchen, leaning against the granite island while pretending to work on a sketch, Aerion Targaryen had completely forgotten how to breathe.
The visual artist, who usually spent his days criticizing the world's lack of symmetry, thought the sight of his husband was the greatest masterpiece of the century.
Dunk was no longer the rugby player with the impossibly sculpted muscles Aerion had fallen in love with all those years ago.
His broad frame had settled comfortably into a proper dad bod. The abs that had once been carved from stone were now hidden beneath a soft, yielding belly. His chest was still wide but no longer sharply defined. His arms remained powerful, though softened by the kind of gentle fullness that came from trading regular gym sessions for burger nights, Sunday pizza, and cartoons with the kids. Even his broad back carried the unmistakable posture of a father who hauled groceries and three children around without thinking twice.
He looked like the living definition of fatherhood: exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, grease streaked across one arm, grumbling at the dishwasher while simultaneously trying to stop his kids from tearing the house apart.
And somehow, that was even worse for Aerion's sanity.
Much.
Much worse.
Or better, depending on who you asked.
He couldn't take his eyes off his giant of a husband. His gaze stayed fixed on the curve of Dunk's back as he bit down hard on his lower lip. His hands gripped the edge of the granite island until his knuckles turned white, and he rubbed one thigh against the other, caught in a daze of pure, undeniable desire.
How could that giant possibly be so hot while looking so... ridiculously dad?
Aerion was, at the very least, hypnotized and completely undone by the sight of sweat trailing down Dunk's broad back, while those old sweatpants kept threatening to slip just low enough to reveal more than they should.
Meanwhile, in the living room, an all-out civil war was raging.
The house echoed with the nonstop soundtrack of little feet pounding across the floor, high-pitched cries of outrage from yet another childish argument, dramatic sobs, things crashing to the ground, objects breaking, and furniture groaning ominously beneath the weight of children climbing onto places they absolutely had no business being.
It was the unmistakable chaos of childhood.
Maegor was kicking a soccer ball around the living room with the enthusiasm of someone playing in the World Cup final, mercilessly destroying the living room in the process including the blanket fort, the toys scattered everywhere, the carefully arranged decorations, and even the pile of potting soil from one of the plants by the front door that Arlan was determined to turn into a construction project right in the middle of the room.
And, Saera was pulling open every drawer she could reach in search of crayons, markers, or anything else she could use to transform the walls, the couch, and, if given the chance, even the curtains into her next masterpiece.
Duncan tried to focus on his battle with the dishwasher, but it was becoming more and more impossible. Every soccer ball kicked across the room, every drawer emptied onto the floor, every indignant shout drifting in from the living room chipped away at what little patience he had left.
“Maegor, stop kicking that ball inside the house!” Dunk's exasperated voice bellowed from beneath the sink for the fourth time in the last twenty minutes. “Saera, don't you dare draw on the wall with those crayons! Arlan, stop tracking dirt all over the living room!”
Duncan rarely raised his voice at his children. Most of the time, he was the patient, understanding, fun dad, the kind who usually let the occasional bit of mischief slide. Unfortunately, the combination of relentless heat, zero peace and quiet, a dishwasher with a mind of its own, and three children actively destroying the living room in real time was putting that reputation to the test.
Normally, Aerion was the first line of defense when it came to discipline. One icy look from the Targaryen was enough to make all three kids sit down in silence and seriously reconsider their life choices. He was, without question, the household's ultimate bad cop.
Today, though? Aerion wasn't hearing a single thing. If the house had been on fire, he probably would've just asked the flames to cast a little more light on Duncan's softer but no less irresistible body.
And since it wasn't Mom marching in to scold them and start handing out threats, the three kids ignored the warning with the remarkable skill only small children possess.
If anything, Dunk's yelling seemed to have accomplished the exact opposite.
The giant closed his eyes for one long second and let out the heavy, resigned sigh of a father who'd already repeated the same lecture five times and was beginning to suspect his children were completely immune to authority.
Since, apparently, no one had any intention of cooperating, the only battle he still stood a chance of winning was the one against the damn dishwasher.
Dunk ducked back beneath the sink, clenching his jaw in an almost heroic effort to keep what little patience he had left.
The heat had sweat constantly running down his face. The dishwasher stubbornly kept dripping water onto his forehead. And in the background, the symphony of childhood chaos seemed to grow louder by the minute. Shouts. Running footsteps. A soccer ball bouncing through the house. Things hitting the floor...
It was too much noise for anyone, even someone with Duncan's legendary patience.
Then, right in the middle of that auditory torture, the deafening crash of shattering glass echoed through the living room, followed by a chorus of high-pitched shrieks.
Judging by where the sound had come from, it could only be the living room window. The very same one he'd replaced less than two weeks ago after Maegor had broken it "by accident."
The sound of glass shattering was the final straw.
Every last ounce of patience Duncan had been squeezing out of himself for the past two hours vanished in an instant.
He shot to his feet so abruptly that he smacked the top of his head against the cabinet. Which only made him even angrier.
He marched over to the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room, his fists clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling with every breath, his face flushed from the heat and hours of mounting frustration.
“That's enough!” His voice thundered through the house in the commanding tone Dunk rarely used, but when he did, it was enough to intimidate even grown adults. “I've warned you five times already! The next person who breaks something or makes another mess is going straight to their room and getting a spanking! I'm not kidding. Do you hear me?!”
The silence that fell over the living room was immediate.
All three children froze.
Everyone knew that when Dunk used that voice and made threats that direct, things had gotten serious. The fun dad had officially reached his limit.
Dunk wasn't the kind of man who made promises he didn't intend to keep.
Up until that moment, Aerion had been completely hypnotized by the sight of his husband, mentally planning exactly what he intended to do with him later that night.
Then Dunk's words snapped him right out of his trance.
The Targaryen felt his brain short-circuit as he processed the sentence.
The next person... is getting a spanking.
That threat... that deep, rough, authoritative voice making that promise hit him like a bolt of lightning, sending a rush of heat straight down his spine.
A dangerous spark lit up the artist's violet eyes, and a sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The hypnotic trance instantly transformed into pure initiative.
With perfect composure, never taking his eyes off Dunk's back, Aerion gracefully reached across the kitchen island. Using nothing more than the tip of one finger, he nudged one of Saera's brightly colored plastic cups.
It hit the floor with a loud clatter.
Still facing away from the kitchen, Dunk frowned as he started to turn around, confusion written all over his face. “What the...?”
Before his husband could even process what had happened, Aerion took a step to the side. Then, with a deliberate, swift, and thoroughly theatrical sweep of his arm across the kitchen island, he sent everything sitting on the countertop crashing to the floor.
A small knife, a spatula, a container of sliced strawberries, a roll of paper towels, and several large serving spoons hit the floor in a deafening clatter.
Dunk blinked, utterly dumbfounded, staring at the mess before slowly looking up at the Targaryen.
Aerion didn't so much as twitch, save for the outrageously audacious smile spreading across his lips. He had created exactly the amount of chaos necessary to get precisely what he wanted.
Tilting his head, he rested both hands on the countertop with his back to Dunk and glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes blazing as he bit his lower lip once again, making no attempt whatsoever to hide it this time.
“Oops…” Aerion purred, his voice low enough to send a shiver down anyone's spine, yet still perfectly audible to the children in the living room. “I made a mess. I guess I'm next, Daddy.”
Dunk blinked in confusion for half a second… until it clicked.
Every ounce of frustration over the dishwasher evaporated, replaced by a mixture of utter disbelief and a sudden jolt of electricity that shot up the back of his neck before settling uncomfortably lower.
He glanced toward the living room, where Maegor, Saera, and Arlan were watching the entire scene with wide eyes, utterly baffled by whatever bizarre thing their parents were doing now.
Then he looked back at Aerion, who hadn't moved an inch.
Still in the exact same pose.
Still waiting for his “punishment.”
Dunk let out a slow breath, covering his face with one hand to hide the smile threatening to break free.
Aerion held his husband's gaze, his violet eyes gleaming with the same hunger that had never faded, not even after all these years.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Aren't you going to keep your promise?”
Tilting his head, Aerion put on a picture of innocence, even as his eyes shamelessly drank in every inch of his husband's body.
“Aerion, for the love of God... the kids are in the living room”, Dunk whispered, his voice failing miserably at sounding authoritative as heat flooded his face.
Then again, in a way, he really was standing in front of a dragon.
“Then send all three of them to their rooms, put a movie on, hand them some ice cream, make up a treasure hunt…” Aerion replied without shifting so much as an inch from the outrageously provocative pose he'd struck against the kitchen island. “I don't care. Figure it out.”
A satisfied smirk played on his lips.
“I'm waiting for my spanking. You promised, Dunk. And a man of his word doesn't go back on his promises... especially a family man who needs to set a good example and maintain his authority.”
Dunk swallowed hard.
His body was completely on board with Aerion’s indecent proposal. Unfortunately, his brain kept cruelly reminding him that they had three mini-versions of themselves who had just trashed the living room, a probably broken window, and a dishwasher that still seemed determined to win the battle.
Fatherhood was an endless streak of worst possible moments to get horny.
Dunk took two long strides, closing the distance between him and his husband. He stared him down, but Aerion just held his gaze, a wicked grin on his face.
“You really want to do this right now?”
Aerion slowly licked his upper lip, completely shameless.
“I’ve spent the whole afternoon staring at that body of yours... And you're still using that authoritative tone? Are you trying to turn me on to death?”
Aerion’s smirk widened as he saw Dunk’s jaw clench, knowing he had hit the exact right spot.
He stepped out of his position and boldly closed the remaining distance between them, pressing both palms against Dunk's broad chest, feeling the rapid beat of his husband's heart beneath them.
The Targaryen wasn't looking for a verbal answer. He wanted action.
“You'd better hurry up and keep your promise”, he murmured. “Or I'm going to dump the bag of flour all over the floor…”
Dunk let out a soft chuckle, resting his forehead against Aerion's. He gently cupped his husband's chin.
“You really do love pushing my buttons, don't you?” he said with a fond smile. “All right, you win. The dishwasher can wait for now... But after I'm done with you, you're helping me clean up this mess and the living room too.”
“Gladly…” Aerion murmured against his lips.
After sharing one more lingering kiss, Aerion pulled away with a look full of promise before heading upstairs toward their bedroom, the unmistakable sway of his hips leaving anticipation hanging in the air.
Dunk didn't waste a single second. With a mixture of desperation and sheer determination, he practically scooped up all three kids into his arms and marched straight to the house next door.
Leaving them to play with the neighbor's son was the perfect solution. He could finally have some uninterrupted time with Aerion, his own house would stop being demolished, and for a few precious hours, the chaos would become somebody else's responsibility.
Maegor, Saera, and Arlan loved the idea. Raymund Fossoway was a wonderful neighbor, and his son was one of their favorite playmates. Besides, Raymund was so kindhearted he could barely project any authority over his own child, let alone someone else's.
In other words, the three little dragons had just been granted unofficial permission to continue spreading chaos only now in a brand-new territory.
Dunk took a deep breath as he headed back home, a victorious smile spreading across his face.
It was finally time to enjoy a little time alone with Aerion and make good on his promise.
After all, a Dad's promise was sacred.