cw: explicit, creampie, whining to Zuko that youre tired of riding him.
You’re already panting, thighs burning as you bounce on his cock, it feels so good but you’re getting fkn tired. “Zuko fuck, I’m doing all the work again,” you huff, hips slowing just enough to make a point. Your hands press against his broad chest, nails digging in like that’ll make him move. “Can’t you—ngh—help a little?”
His gold eyes narrow at you as his big hands stay planted on your waist, but they don’t guide you. They just hold you there, thick cock buried deep, “That so?” He thrusts upward once. “Whining already, princess? Thought you wanted to ride me.”
You roll your hips once more, trying to prove something, but it comes out pathetic. His cock twitches inside you, fat and heavy, veins pulsing against your walls. God, it’s so good. Too good. But your legs are shaking and you’re tired and—
“Zuko, please—”
Big mistake.
In one smooth motion he flips you. Your back hits the mattress hard. Zuko looms over you as one massive hand pinning both your wrists above your head. “Princess,” he growls, free hand gripping your thigh and shoving it up toward your chest. The new angle forces his cock even deeper, the thick head bullying. “You wanna complain about doing all the work? Fine. I’ll do it.”
Zuko pulls back just enough for the fat head of his cock to catch at your pussy and then thrusts back in hard. “F-fuck—Zuko—!”
“Yeah?” He pulls back only to drive in again, hips snapping. Every thrust rocks your whole body, tits bouncing, “This what you wanted? Me doing all the fuckin’ work?”
You nod frantically, “Zuko—ahh—too much—slow down—!”
“Slow down?” He scoffs, hooking your leg over his shoulder driving in harder, “You were whining about doing nothing n’ now it’s too much? Tch.”
Sweat slicks your skin, your thighs trembling where he’s got you pinned. “Zuko—Zu—fuck, I’m—!” You whimper louder about to orgasm as the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubs against your swollen clit.
“C’mon then,” he growls, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Cum on my cock like the spoiled little slut you are. Make it loud for me, princess.”
Tears slip down your cheeks, mouth hanging open in a constant stream of loud, whimpering moans that get louder with every brutal thrust.
You’re a mess but Zuko just looks so fucking happy, that smug smirk never leaving his face. “Still wanna whine about doing all the work?” he asks, thumb brushing your bottom lip.
You shake your head weakly, utterly spent, a satisfied little whimper slipping out instead. You were a lucky girl, indeed.
a/n: ok fuck sorry I folded and I love u guys and and wrote this after work fuck bc I ACTUALLY NEED HIM TO BEND ME OVER RIGHT NOW plz plz plz Zuko I need u more than toji plz actually both of u plz at the same damn time
the first time you cuddle up with dunk, he doesn’t get a wink of sleep;
it was sudden and paralyzing. your body curled into him under the oak tree, your arms wrapping around his bicep to hold throughout the night. he was horrified—not because of your touch, but because he was sweaty. his entire body was on fire, clammy and slick from pure nerves. he didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his legs, and he refused to turn his head in your direction.
what if he stunk? what if he drenched you in himself because he had no control? by the seven, you’d wake under a warm waterfall and never look at him again.
he swore he died that very night. he swore when morning came, you’d realize your mistake and stray.
yet when the sun rose, you snuggled further, as if the warmth of the sun couldn’t compare to the heat of his skin. your head shifted onto his shoulder, and briefly, he melted for an entirely different reason.
“gods,” he choked out, hand fisting—grasping at your skirt without much recognition. gods, what am i to do?
“you’re up early, ser,” egg’s voice carried from the other side. for the first time since moonlight, dunk jerked his head to glare up at the child.
the boy simply smiled at him, and walked away to tend to the horses before dunk could sputter and become a permanent kin to apples.
dunk was a solid warmth against your back, his body a shield against the hard wall and floor. he shaped himself around you as best he could, ensuring that not for a moment you were uncomfortable under the constant changes of your body. he would take a thousand lances through his stomach if it meant keeping you content.
although, when he’d spoken the words aloud one morning, you had half a mind to throw a pan at him and demand he never say such things.
“…and the bird had asked for forgiveness,” you murmured into the darkness, the light from the lantern just enough to get through the ink upon the paper. “he had traveled day and night to reach the poppy field, but his wings were an inch too small. had he been better born, the bluebird might have made it in time.”
dunk perched his chin over your shoulder, eyes dragging against words he could speak, but could not read. it was a wretched disconnect, and you had tried to teach him. but he preferred to listen.
“is that the end?” he muttered, his hands slow to move against your rounding stomach. touching you was a simple comfort of his; to know you were truly there with him.
“aye,” your hand came to his hair, fingers wading into his growing locks. “that’s the end.”
dunk squinted, “what is that, then?”
his arm lifted, his hand coming to point at the last paragraph in the book. a smile etched onto your lips.
“i just read that, dearest.”
“ah.”
dunk’s hand returned to you, his touch firmer as you asked, “you did not like it?”
“yes,” he said before he twisted himself through a loop. “no. yeah…no. it was—it was good. i just prefer the better endings. the…happier ones.”
“the happier ones.”
dunk’s ears burned. you felt the heat creep onto your skin, and dunk was a wicked man for it. wicked for making your heart melt over the poor tale of a little blue bird.
"i do, too," you admitted to him, "life is already a sad thing...stories like this ought to be happier. make up for all the joy this world sucks out of us."
dunk snorted, stunned by your blunt honesty and strangely enamored by it, too. "what?"
"don't you think so?" you turned to him. "every tale in this book ends in disappointment, torment, or death. i do not think we've had a single one have a happy ending."
and you go to bed dejected and confused, you wanted to add. and i feel guilt for it all because you make me read it to you!
"wait, now," he kept his voice low. "the fair maiden did marry the beast of the forest."
"yes. just for her to be crushed on their wedding night."
dunk blinked, his mind crawling to remember those exact words spilling from your lips some nights before. yet he found none, and he was left bewildered. "i don't remember that."
"it was between the lines."
"that's—well, i cannot read between the lines."
"not...not literally," you groaned quietly, knowing if you continued to go back and forth, the boy sleeping on the bed would wake. "dunk..."
"aye? i'm upsetting you, aren't i?" he sighed. "i'm sorry. i don't mean to upset you or the little one."
you laid your head back. "you're not, my love...i think we should find something new to read. or something else to do."
"i like when you read to me."
you hummed.
"i enjoy it when we do other things, too," dunk followed with, just to feel his face flush. he hadn't meant it that way, or any way, really; he only wanted to agree. "what...what were you saying? something else?"
"dunk!" you scolded with a whisper, although you felt more embarrassment than irritation.
"no, i'm asking. well, i meant—“ he groaned, his arms pulling you impossibly closer to bury his face into your neck. no matter what, he'd stumble as he spoke. "let's...let's get some rest."
despite his lingering awkwardness, and perhaps his hunger, you nodded against him. "i like that idea."
summary: daeron flees his home and family, trading the privilege of his surname for the anonymity of working a dead-end diner job. his carefully crafted isolation is broken when a pretty customer starts getting close enough to notice the parts of himself he's been trying to leave behind
or
daeron works at papa's cheeseria lmaooo enjoy chapter one
The smell of frying oil was making him sick. He looked over at the clock, which rushed ever so slightly. 12:24. Minus the three minutes it was ahead. He could go out for his break in 9 minutes. Great. Just in time to finish the order.
A kid’s head popped up through the pass.
“Hey, could we have some napkins?” the teen asked with little regard to the tone of his voice. Daeron held back an annoyed sigh.
“Right there on the counter,” he replied rigidly, pointing to the napkin holder right in front of the kid, who grabbed some and went back to his table without a word. The blond’s eye twitched.
He suddenly remembered every time that he too had, as an entitled teenager, disregarded service workers, or downright mistreated them. This was his payment for that, he supposed. He finished plating the sandwich and fries, placing them on the counter and ringing the bell.
Looking around, he saw that the woman at table 4 had no intentions of getting her food herself, so he begrudgingly took the plate and exited the kitchen. The door swinged closed behind him as he carried the order, careful so as to not spill any fries this time. He hoped his boss would hire another person soon. The previous server quit early into Daeron’s time at the diner, so he had been managing all the work in his shift for the past three months.
Not that it was that hard, with how little traffic Papa’s Cheeseria got these days. Probably because of the cancer-in-processed-cheese scare among Facebook moms a few years back. He recalled his aunt Jena cutting his cousins off from store-bought pizza because of it. Valarr’s 10th birthday had these cottage cheese concoctions their personal chef had cooked up.
He knocked on the ajar door of Louie’s office, where the old man was stationed. He was snoozing at his desk, but saw when Daeron popped his head in. He motioned to the pack of cigs in his hand. “Going for the break,” he mumbled.
HIs boss frowned for a moment, frustrated that he would have to take over the dead restaurant for twenty minutes. He looked at his watch, and upon seeing that it was time for his break, waved Daeron off in approval.
He redid his man bun while stepping over the scattered boxes of Summer Luau decorations in the back room. Those would for sure qualify as cultural appropriation, he thought as he opened the door with his elbow. Fresh air, finally.
Well, as fresh as you could get in the trashed, tire-stained parking lot. Better than the smell of dirty sunflower oil and cancer cheese, anyway.
Daeron Targaryen had never considered himself a prideful or spiteful person, but there were no other explanations for his behaviour. His father was one of the wealthiest men in Westeros, his surname the equivalent to a black card in any respected institution. He had a diploma from a top University, with a job at his uncle and father’s company lined up. And he was currently smoking through a bitter pack of Iron Lungs, probably imported illegally through the Ironman’s bay, deposited at a port in the middle of the night, to end up at the sketchy corner shop in the bumfuckville town he had drunkenly settled in almost six months ago. All because of a single fight with his father.
At least that was what Maekar would say.
The truth was, Daeron would take this greasy, dead-end job and a slightly moldy studio apartment in a drive-through part of the Reach over the alternative any day.
Call it rich boy entitlement, sure. On paper, he would always have money to fall back on, if he so decided. But that would involve begging his way back into his father’s good graces, and that’s where the aforementioned pride would come into play.
He had needed an escape. At twenty-four, Daeron felt none of the freedom adulthood had promised him. He had finished the business school his father had insisted on, albeit with two years of overstay, thanks to his drinking problem.
When he declared he would be enrolling in the art school after that, a prize his father had been dangling over his head at every intervention and family event, the father and son duo got into a fight.
Daeron found the email declining his acceptance letter in the sent part of his account by accident, and far too late. He packed his bag and left without a word, leaving his bugged phone behind.
A week later, he bought a YiTish Xiaomi Mi 6, and, after equipping it with a temporary sim card, texted his little brother Egg. He let the family know that he was fine, but needed to step away from everything for a while, and asked not to be sought out until he was ready. Ready to finally do his duty of joining the company, or ready to forgive his father, he himself did not know.
He was sure they knew where he was. His great-uncle was the CEO of the most renowned security company in Westeros, and the family had ears everywhere. It rendered his seclusion to this little town useless, but he tried not to dwell on things that were out of his control.
Upon careful consideration as to what he should do with the blood money on his account, as he called it, he got drunk one night and spent it all on random GoFundMes. Down to zero. Congrats to a Pete for getting his DnD prop business off the ground!
He was worried he would start drinking again once he ran away. It didn’t turn out to be that bad. It was social, he reassured himself, arguing that the only place to meet people in towns like these was the bar. He tried limiting himself to two nights a week. It worked for the most part.
He still kept his sobriety chip. Only because he had grown used to fidgeting with it in his pocket. The memory of the while-lid, luxury AA meeting room he was forced to be in once a week for the year prior held no nostalgia. Vodka tonic did.
He took a drag of the cheap cig, the warm wind blowing the smoke back in his face. His foot was tapping repeatedly, a habit he picked up during his road to sobriety. Payday was two days away, he calculated in his head. He had enough cash for one more pack, two if he sneaked some food out of the restaurant. Though he had no desire to eat the slop they sold here, after months of making it every day.
He felt stiff, like he had just woken up. He thought about going for a run tonight. The small river that ran through the town was actually nice. A bit polluted, but beggars can’t be choosers. Then he remembered the last time he went on the run at sunset there. The view was beautiful, but the mosquitos absolutely ate him up. He would have to pick up a repellent at the pharmacy beforehand, but then he wouldn’t have the money for another pack. He opened the one in his pocket, assessing if it would hold him over for two days.
His break was quickly over, and he was back in the kitchen. Louie was bent over a sandwich, grilling it to perfection while giving unsolicited life advice, as all old men loved to do.
“This is the most important part, Darren,” he nagged. “I hope you aren’t overcooking them. That would be terrible for business.”
What business, Daeron thought, but held it back and mumbled out a, “No sir.”
The boss filled the sizzling silence again.
“What do you do outside of work, son? You got yourself a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
Daeron chuckled, “No, no girlfriend or boyfriend, sir.”
“No?” the man mused.
“Business first,” he imitated his father, unbeknownst to Louie.
“Well that’s no good,” he shook his head as he flipped the grilled cheese. “Love first, boy. Then everything else,” he scolded in good nature.
Daeron thought about ending the conversation there, but he found the old man’s advice very amusing. It reminded him of his own grandfather.
“Haven’t really met any girls in this town yet, if I’m being honest,” he confided in the man. “I feel like everyone’s either twelve or sixty four.”
True, towns like these had little to offer to young people. Teenagers usually left for university and never came back, leaving their mothers alone and sad. He felt it when he passed older ladies on his runs, the women smiling at him in surprise, happy to see a fine young man for the first time in a while.
Louie chuckled at his comment, “Of course there’s girls. You young people just have your faces glued to your phones, you walk right by each other!” Daeron rolled his eyes. Just as his boss finished the order he was making, he smiled under his mustache and pulled Daeron closer to the pass window.
“There’s a girl ‘round your age right there,” he pointed to the customer at table five waiting for her meal. “Go on,” he pushed, “Bring her her food, tell her she’s pretty. Boom, you got yourself a girlfriend!” He patted him on the back in encouragement and turned back to go to his office, leaving Daeron to deliver the food.
He wanted to scoff his brain out at the notion of flirting with a random girl who walked into the restaurant. It had the same energy as old people thinking you can just send an email to a CEO of a company and get a job there. Though he probably could, but that wasn’t the point.
The girl, he thought as he walked out with her sandwich, was far too pretty to even be eating in this shithole. He hadn’t seen her around before, and it was true that she was the only girl around his age he had seen thus far. The last thing she deserved was for him, greasy and sweaty, in his silly work uniform, to give her a side of unsolicited creepy compliments with her crappy food. He placed the plate on the table with a polite, “Enjoy your meal,” and let the thought go. She thanked him with the same practiced politeness and turned to her food. He went back into the kitchen.
That evening, he decided to fire up Tinder again. He hadn’t used it since his early days in uni. Who knows, maybe there were girls nearby and they were just hiding. Or they just didn’t congregate in the run-down diner.
He chose a few photos that would do. One selfie of him and Valarr, with the latter cut out. Sorry cuz. One photo of him painting Rhae took for a snap. He was shirtless, so what. He looked good. Though his abs weren’t that defined anymore. Three more generic photos of him, which revealed nothing about his previous way of life. He filled out the bio, going for a basic catchphrase, not much thought in it. The shirtless painting photo should speak a thousand words.
He prepared for swiping, hoping to find a date nearby. He had a free day to fill tomorrow. And, truth be told, he missed casual dating, not having done it in a while.
46 miles away, 70, 142, 64… There really are only children and old people in this town. He threw the phone to the coffee table and prepared for the run, skipping the bug repellant.
He spent his free day in the apartment he was renting, bedrotting and doomscrolling. He painted a little in the evening, accompanied by some wine. It was the first time he drank that week.
The next day, after running out to grab a pack with his delivered salary, he worked his usual tempo. One or two customers would come in an hour. Some chose their own ingredients, some asked for the daily special. Today it was the bird buster, as Louie had decided to call it. After making it once, with the help of the recipe of course, Daeron’s stomach decided that it was just what it needed to get over the slight hangover, so he decided to make it for himself when the restaurant seemed quiet.
He sat on the counter, feet dangling, probably breaking a few health regulations. Louie had gone out for the day, stating an emergency, so he could break a rule or two. It also meant no break out back, so he had to eat here.
Just as he was basking in the taste of chicken and ranch on his tongue, the door opened, snapping him out of his intimate makeout session with the sandwich. He hurried to get back down, placing the food on a napkin as the customer approached.
“Sorry, let me just-” he jittered, rounding to the door to get the order.
It was the girl from two days ago, he noticed once he took his position. He wiped the ranch he had slobbered around his mouth. Embarrassing.
“What can I get for you?” he looked at her finally, meeting her amused gaze.
“Hi, um, could I have a-” she ordered slowly, confirming his theory that she wasn’t a regular here. “Rosemary bread.” She seemed sure about that. “Swiss cheese, and sausage,” she ordered, almost as if she was asking him.
“Uhh, can you get more than one cheese?” she questioned.
“Sure,” he replied. You couldn’t.
“Okay, I’ll have swiss and gouda, sausage, tomato,” he wrote everything down, having time to scribble little drawings of the toppings with her delayed choosing. “And, um, jalapeños, with the onion sauce, please.” Fuck, that sounded good too.
“Fries?” he asked.
“No thank you. Make that to go.”
“Alrighty,” he got to work.
To his horror, she stood by the counter the entire time, essentially watching him prepare the food. He never worked well while being watched. Unbeknownst to him, she wasn’t waiting to catch an error in his sandwich-making, but was instead gathering her courage to start small talk.
He had to stand near her to add the sauce, an opportunity she took.
“Hey, um, so,” she started nervously, “I just moved here,” she paused when his eyes met hers as he worked, looking for any annoyance or judgement in them. When she didn’t find any, with a nod from him, she continued. “Are there any places you would recommend?" she asked finally.
Daeron tried not to butcher her sandwich, think of an answer for her, and not laugh at the question at the same time. The concrete wall by the creek, he wanted to joke. Instead, he tried to form a coherent sentence.
“Um, to be honest, I moved here recently as well,” he confessed. “Haven’t seen much. I’m pretty sure there’s not much to see anyway,” he chuckled, and met her eye when he felt the chuckle come off as cruel.
“Really?” she replied with genuine interest at their commonality. “What brings you here?”
His intrusive thoughts told him to stick his head into the fryer full of hot oil. Only a spoiled brat like him could complain about a pretty girl asking him questions about himself, especially after his failed attempt at Tinder. He had little time to come up with a lie, so he chose to be vague.
“I’m not really sure.” When he saw her raised brow, he decided to add, “Just always dreamed of working at a diner that only serves one type of food in a town of four thousand people, you know?”
She chuckled at that, the smile reaching her eyes. “I bet.”
He remembered small-talk etiquette, “How about you?”
“Yeah, same, for work,” she fidgeted with her keys, leaning on the counter. “I’m a teacher. English and History. Well, just English, but the school doesn’t really care about qualifications, so I got both. Fifth graders.”
Daeron pretended to shiver, thinking of all the kids from that school who would come to the diner. He made her laugh again.
“They’ve been fine so far,” she reassured, before going back to asking him about himself, feeling like she was talking about herself too much. “So, where are you from?”
He was leaning on the other side of the counter now, waiting for the sandwich to grill. He lied on instinct, though there was no reason to.
“Starfall.”
“Ooh, a Dornishman,” she mused, coming across as awfully flirty. He didn’t know if that was her intent, but he played aloof, shrugging his shoulders.
“My mum’s side, yeah,” the attention felt nice. Perhaps Louie was right in pushing him to talk to her. “You?”
“Oh, I’m from Gulltown. Not as exotic as Starfall.” He felt kinda bad for lying. “But hey, we’re both from mountainous coastal cities,” she offered. He smiled at her making comparisons, feeling his cheeks blush a little.
He didn’t know what to say next. He was usually good with women. There wasn’t an event during the past few years to which he didn’t have a date. From other students to fashion models, Daeron had definitely pulled.
But that was rich Daeron. Trust fund Daeron. Daeron who could afford to be a prick. He didn’t know how to impress a girl over a slimy counter while oil sizzled in the background. He was pretty sure there was no way to do it. That thought might’ve been influenced by his brother Aerion, who insisted that only men with money got girls. It felt right in the moment, as he stumbled over what to say.
“I’ve been so disoriented here. Everything is so… flat,” she complained, continuing to offer him opportunities to respond.
“Yeah, it’s like,” he tried to think of something clever to say, “a pancake for dinner,” fucking idiot.
“A pancake for dinner?” she repeated with a laugh at his weird comparison. He stood by his words.
“Yeah. After work, when you’ve only got pancake mix and tap water on hand. No syrup. No butter. Rawdogging them at 10pm while you reconsider your life choices.”
She continued to giggle at his words, leaning on the counter more in bewilderment. Shaking her head, she said, “That’s the stupidest analogy I’ve-,” she tried getting her words out through the laughter, “-ever heard.”
He broke into laughter softly at the sound of her own. Her giggles were infectious. “You’ve never done it?” he asked rhetorically, tilting his head. She only managed to shake her head, clutching her chest in an attempt to silence her laughter. It only worked to entertain him more, his own cackles growing louder. Laughing like two lunatics.
She wiped her eye, which had begun to water, calming herself a bit.
“Oh my gods. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day,” she explained her fit, though he did not mind at all. It was more than welcome. It’s been a while since a girl laughed at his jokes anyway. He confirmed that she was good, flipping the sandwich.
“But for the record,” she added, “I’ve never made bad pancakes.”
He raised a brow, “Yeah? I’d love to try them,” slipped out before he could think about it. Turns out his default setting with girls was to flirt. A nice little souvenir from his bar crawl days.
She smiled, that initial shyness returning. “I’m sure you make better pancakes than I do, though,” she motioned around him, pointing out his job. He raised his brows.
“Yeah, I don’t think making sandwiches at Papa’s translates to any culinary skills.”
“You shouldn’t talk down on your abilities,” she teased.
“You’re right. I’m above this. Went to the Culinary Institute of Sunspear for this shit.”
“Really?”
“No??”
They broke out into laughter again. Two insane strangers, for sure. It was nice.
He smelled something burning and jolted out of it.
“Shit!”
They looked at the sandwich he flipped onto a paper plate, the dark brown side staring at them. Her laugh slipped through her restraint in small snorts this time, until he comically pinched the bridge of his nose. Laughter again.
“I’ll make you a new one,” he assured.
“No, it’s fine!” “I’ve gotta.” “It’s fine, trust me.” “It’s completely burnt.” “I’m in a hurry.”
They bargained, and he searched for anything genuine in her eyes, skeptical that she would want to eat this.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, 100%” she said as she opened her wallet. He raised his hand as he placed the paper bag on the counter.
“It’s on the house.”
“No.”
“I am not letting you pay for that.”
She sighed, giving him a tight-lipped, but grateful smile. She placed a bill in the tip jar instead, which he wanted to argue against as well, but failed at the certainty in her eyes. He nodded at her as she turned to leave, at a loss for words.
“Enjoy your meal,” he replied as he did last time, not knowing what else to say. She repeated her thanks as well, this time with a smile. It was a pretty smile.
When the door closed, he let his head fall against the cold counter with a grunt. Fucking loser.
bro i’ve been obsessing with the thought of riding dunk’s thigh and he’s just so infatuated with you and so so desperate.
18+ (fem!reader, dunk is so needy for you [slightly… subby? idk but he whimpers ok], thigh-riding, reader is sexy + undefined).
his hands are just so big, and his thigh is just so strong and so wide that you can’t help yourself—clambering into his lap one evening, the forest quiet around you.
and you just take what you need.
your warm core pressing to the material of his trousers, your hands squeezing at the fat of his pectorals through his tunic, or running over the muscular curves of his shoulders.
god, you’d been dripping all evening. pussy soaked, thighs clenching as you watched him tend to his sword, polishing with strong hands and flexing arms, leaning it against one thick thigh, the blade appearing impossibly small.
and now, he’s got his hands on your hips, big and encompassing, a warm pressure as he holds you down onto him. he’s panting as you rock yourself back and forth, your bare cunt rubbing over his thigh. he can feel how warm you are, how wet you are through the fabric.
he tenses his thigh and you whimper, your head falling forward as you roll your hips, puffy clit dragging across his trousers and sending bolts of pleasure into the base of your spine.
then, it’s dunk’s turn to whimper as you press hot, open-mouthed kisses to the skin of his neck. he’s flushed and tacky with sweat, and when you press your tongue to his pulse and skim your thumbs over his covered nipples, you feel him shudder beneath you, a low whine escaping him.
“ah, gods,” he mutters, eyes dropping as he cranes his head back. his cock is painfully hard in his trousers, leaking into breeches, and it twitches as you suck a mark onto the hollow of his throat.
you kiss his bobbing adam’s apple, and then kiss his jaw, finally kissing the corner of his mouth as you grind yourself down harder onto him. you moan quietly against him, pussy clenching around nothing, slick soaking his trousers. dunk’s drawn to the sound, and with a breathless groan he chases your mouth with his own. your lips slot together and he groans again, tongue unfurling along the mounds of your teeth as you continue to rock your hips.
his thigh is warm and taut beneath you, and the slight scratch of his trousers against your clit has something pinching in your lower belly. his grip on your hips is unrelenting, and he gasps into your mouth when one of your hands finds the imprint of his thick cock straining at the seams.
“you feel so good,” dunk whispers to you, head falling back as you bite your bottom lip between your teeth, whimpers trapped behind. “gods, you’re so wet and warm. can feel you soakin’ me.”
you palm his cock, your other hand finding the back of his neck as you hold his head still. you bring him down to press your forehead to his and your speed increases, hips stuttering against his thigh, pussy slick and throbbing with each movement. you breathe into each other’s space, punctuated only by your desperate panting and his airy whines.
“feels so good, dunk,” you practically purr, and you catch his cock twitching beneath your palm, warm and solid. “s’just so big—so strong, ser. you’re always so good for me. my big boy.”
dunk’s mouth drops open again, blue eyes glossing over, fingers tightening into the flesh of your hips. he forces you down harder onto his thigh, and you toss your head back to moan as the pressure sends a deep-seated pleasure spreading through your core. your toes curl, legs twitch, and something heavy builds in the base of your belly.
“come on,” he whispers his plea. “be good—be a good girl and—ah fuck—c-come on my thigh. need to feel you soak me. please.”
he tapers off in a low groan, and the sound pierces through you and pushes an involuntary moan from deep in your chest. you rock yourself on his thigh, once, twice, three more times, pussy slick and wet and hot, before the pressure inside you breaks. you come over his thigh, his name a honey-sweet mewl from your lips while you hold his shoulder and palm his thick length.
“o-oh gods,” dunk groans quietly, and as you shudder against him, your head now on his shoulder as the movement of your hips slow to a stop, you feel a wet warmth spread beneath your hand. “oh gods, oh fuck—”
he’s spilled inside his trousers.
you lift your head and pout at him, a low, languid murmur of “oh, duncan, my sweet boy,” falling easily from your lips as you continue to palm him through it, his body trembling, hands impossibly tight on your hips.
“i didn’t—“ he swallows thickly. “i didn’t mean to—”
you press a soft kiss to his lips and he melts beneath you.
“dunk,” you say quietly. “it’s okay. that, honestly, may have been the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.”
your poor hedge knight blushes a deep scarlet, hair at his temples damp with sweat as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. his large hands circle around you, his arms following, and he hugs you to him tightly, unrelenting.
“you just felt so good,” he mutters against you, and you can barely make out what he’s saying as you stroke his hair. “always feel so good… so good for me.”
— you, strange as angels (you're just like a dream) (m);
modern!ser duncan the tall x fem!reader.
summary: some headcanons of how i envision duncan as a modern-day boyfriend.
themes and genres: fluff, smut (18+, MDNI!). modern!au, boyfriend!duncan.
word count: 2.160k words
content warnings: canon divergence. mentions of unprotected sex, tit sucking, oral (female and male receiving), anal play (male receiving), sex toys.
author's note: hello hello! i was watching tiktoks while eating dinner and came across that 'breaking an egg with your muscles' trend and thought... beefy, silly boyfriend... dunk. tried the lowercase format because i think it looks nice with the headcanon vibe, too. hehe anyways, here are some silly modern!duncan musings for you all :) i hope everyone enjoys them!
modern!duncan who met you half-way through your second to last semester at university after his calculus professor suggested he find a tutor before midterms.
you were on the dean's list and he was in the rugby team, and he just needed to get a decent grade on all of his classes (yes, even the nightmare-induced math ones) because his scholarship depended on it. who knew geology would have so much math in its course curriculum, anyways?
he arrived, ten minutes early to the first session with two peanut-free protein bars, a broken calculator, and a second-hand textbook packed somewhere inside a messy backpack, and thought nothing else but a headache would come out of looking at equations for two hours straight. he left, still not knowing a damn thing about derivatives and vector fields, but holding a crush he swore felt like cupid's own arrow had lodged itself straight into his heart.
modern!duncan who asked his friends to tutor him every week before his sessions with you so you would not think he was a lost cause. they never explained the concepts correctly though, and a couple of weeks into your study plan, you had to schedule two sessions per week because he was somehow more confused with integral solving than he was when you started. so... a win in his book, either way?
modern!duncan who spiraled himself into an actual bit of existential dread at the thought of the semester ending before he could tell you how he felt. what if he never saw you again? what if you moved on, forgot all about him, and fell in love with someone that was just as smart as you, and just as dedicated, and just as beautiful—gods, what if you fell in love with someone like valarr targaryen? he would not stand a chance, not against someone like the golden boy. oh, he would just never recover! not when you held the stars in your eyes and the sun in your smile, and when your voice sounded like the angelic choir he is sure welcomes well-doers in the seven heavens, and—
modern!duncan who never thought you could ever, actually, possibly like him back.
not even when he smiled every time he saw you and looked at you like you had just hung the moon upon the midnight sky. not even when he brought a to-go cup of coffee for you every time he arrived at the booth you'd reserved in the library, exactly the way you had once mentioned you liked it. not even when he laughed at your jokes, and listened to you without paying attention to anything else, and carried your bag over his shoulder the whole way through when he walked you home after your session.
he was just being polite, anyways. anyone would do that... right?
modern!duncan who didn't believe his ears when you asked him out on a date at the end of your very last session. you had mentioned it so casually, so calmly, like your heart was not about to beat its way out of your chest. like your world had not just spun on a different axis. like your fate had not just been written into the stars.
oh... was that just him?
still, he said yes right away and never once felt ashamed at the fact of you having been the one to take the first step. he let you choose the restaurant, picked you up while holding a small bouquet of wildflowers in shaking hands, and paid the bill in full after letting you have the last bite of dessert.
he walked you home and blushed a deep red when you kissed his cheek before walking inside your apartment complex and wishing him a good night. he asked you on a second date as soon as he made it back to his place.
and then almost cried himself to sleep when you told him to pick you up the next morning.
modern!duncan who, five years into your relationship, still blushes all the way up to the tip of his ears whenever you refer to him as your boyfriend. who still get butterflies every time he wakes up by your side and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead while he tries his best to not disturb your sleep. who still feels the luckiest man whenever he's simply allowed to exist by your side.
modern!duncan who will come home to your shared apartment from work before you do, pet your cat, and get dinner started with the goal of it being ready by the time you arrive. it took him a while to learn how to cook: failed youtube tutorial after failed youtube tutorial until he eventually got somewhat decent results of your favorite dishes. he kept going, and even if his creations turned a little funky whenever he improvised (and grew really fond of simply following the recipe as it said on the page), still found satisfaction in making you happy with something he'd made.
he liked it so much, in fact, that he got himself an apron and invested in a nice set of stainless steel pans. you even got him a cooking board for christmas that he considered not using only for the sake of forever keeping it in pristine conditions. he uses it carefully, and lovingly, and really hopes it can last a lifetime.
modern!duncan who, in the same vein, packs your lunch every morning and always folds a little note somewhere inside your bag so you will "always remember how much he loves you". his writing is still as indecipherable as it was since you first met and he writes the corniest notes, but you still grin from ear to ear everytime you find a post-it that reads "you are the best part of my day :)" next to your home-made buffalo chicken wrap.
he always texts you to ask if you liked your lunch. and he always feels himself become love personified when you tell him you liked your note more.
modern!duncan who will get you flowers every single pay day without fail. who will take blurry photographs of things he sees on the way home that make him think of you, no matter how silly others may think they are: a cat that looks somewhat like yours, a trinket on a windowsill he thinks you would like, the poster of a play he'll take you to after checking both of your schedules for your next day off.
modern!duncan who refers to himself as a "cat dad" every time someone at work asks him if he has children at home. who will show them the photograph he keeps of the three of you in his wallet because, well, that is his family right there. who will blush and scratch the back of his neck when his co-workers ask him if he really let you name your cat sauron. let you... let you? what is this, the middle ages? he does not let you do things, mind you, but holds the honor of doing things with you. and, just so it's perfectly clear to dave from accounting, does think sauron is a perfectly appropriate name for a cat... duh.
modern!duncan who studies his gaming group's d&d campaigns before bed, with his glasses perched low over the tip of his nose, while you read off next to him. he will ask for your opinion and then get a little bashful at having interrupted your focus but you never mind, and he will then just recount the entire campaign to you after you've set your book down on your night table. he'll write down every single suggestion you make so he can include them in his campaigns or his character design, and always lets his group know exactly how you helped him. and yes, his charismatic paladin does have a tragically romantic backstory. and yes, it was your idea. and yes, he loves it.
modern!duncan who is only on social media to keep up with what you post. he follows a couple people on instagram that he personally knows, some gaming accounts to gain inspiration for his campaigns, and the official profiles of the sports teams he keeps up with. he only really interacts with you, though. you will post something only to be immediately flooded with duncan's reactions to it, which, yes, do include a couple comments that consist only of... emojis. he's just expressive, okay?
modern!duncan who will unknowingly participate in every single trend you want him to hop on because he can never say no to you. you'll scare him half to death calling him your "current boyfriend" only for him to kiss you silly after confessing it was only a joke for a tiktok video. you'll have him snapping an egg clean between his arm muscles, and he'll be so giddy and proud of himself while you just stare at him because god, duncan, have you even seen your own biceps before?
modern!duncan who loves practically being your plus-one whenever you have plans for the weekend. who will hold your hand in his when you navigate through the crowds and then on the small of your back for the rest of the night because he has to be touching you to feel at peace. who will have you sitting on his lap while you sip on whatever fruity cocktail he'd gotten you, only to carry your heels for you when it's time to go home because you're sleepy and your feet are tired.
modern!duncan who is really vocal during sex. who always echoes a string of "just like that, baby," while you're riding him to oblivion, with your head thrown back in pleasure and your pretty tits bouncing and rubbing against his face. who likes to take one of your nipples into his mouth as you move, sucking on the bud as he spills inside you: always way too early, and always ready to go again.
who trusts you implicitely, and is always ready to try new things. who lets you tease his ass when you blow him, with your finger caressing his rim as you run your tongue along the side of his shaft. who hisses as his entire body is overcome by goosebumps when you squirt a generous dollop of lube over his skin before beginning to play with his waiting hole. who then wears a pretty little buttplug while he's fucking you in missionary.
who really means it when he says he actually could die a happy man when his head is nestled between your gorgeous thighs. who eats your pussy for hours, mumbling and blabbing about how tasty it always is, about how wet you always are for him. who moans the loudest when he's sucking on your clit, with his big, thick fingers nestled inside your sopping hole as he makes you gush into his mouth.
modern!duncan who takes aftercare really seriously, but also deems it a practice that should never feel like it is out of the ordinary. who'll run you a bath every night without fail, hop inside with you, and hold you until the water gets cold. who will stare at you in awe as you get ready for bed, and then waste no time to hold you in his arms again once you're warm and comfortable under the covers.
modern!duncan who always looks for you first whenever he thinks something is funny. who holds your opinion as holy scripture. who is always unconsciously moving his chair ever so slightly so it's a little closer to yours.
modern!duncan who will sit in silence by your side and still know exactly what you are thinking, and exactly how you are feeling, because existing by your side has become as natural to him as drawing breath. as feeling hunger. as finding happiness in the little things and peace in the quiet moments.
and the thing is that he's just so, so in love with you, that he thanks his lucky stars every single night for having him being so close to flunking calc he had to get tutored by you all those years ago. and so he will one day get down on one knee and rely on that very same blessing in the hopes that he gets honored with spending his every waking hour making you the happiest he can.
and he saves up half of his check every month, writes his vows in his head every time he feels your skin against his, and knows that he will cross the bridge when the time is right. you're his person, and his future is yours to shape in your hand. his heart, big and bleeding and always held in his sleeve, has always been safe with you, anyways.
dunk took rafe’s hands to tuck under the quilt. he was still a toddler, and he wasn’t used to sleeping on his own just yet. before, he would sleep between you and dunk in your bed. now—with arlelle in a makeshift crib and always waking throughout the night, the boy had been moved in hopes of savoring his rest. perhaps find some independence, although that would certainly take time.
“you need to be a strong lad for her, aye?” dunk whispered. “i know it’s different, i do…but this will be better.”
“papa…”
“give it a chance.”
rafe’s arms slipped out from under the covers, his hands stretched out to grasp dunk’s tunic. he had been at this for longer than dunk was expecting, and the man was growing weary.
“i be good,” the boy promised. “please? please?”
dunk placed his hands on his hips, and he swore the boy could see the cracks begin to form with the way his little lip jutted out. as if to say, here is my last attack—admit defeat!
“one night,” dunk tried, not yet giving to his sons pleading. “just one.”
“i go to mama?”
“no.”
the boy blinked, his comprehension poorer than his fathers. dunk felt some responsibility to it. he got that certain look from him, after all.
“one night here, lad,” dunk whispered. “here. and if you truly cannot…well, suppose i’ll speak to your mother. but you must be brave.”
rafe’s eager hands returned to the covers. the promise seemed to comfort him enough, and dunk reached to tuck him back in. there was no protest, no whine as he stepped back.
“i’ll leave the door open,” he inched bit by bit away from the bed. “this one and to the room, aye? if anything happens, we’ll be here.”
rafe kept to himself, and dunk swore he must’ve fallen asleep right then and there with his eyes open. yet his little voice carried through soon enough.
“goodnight, papa.”
“goodnight.”
dunk backed out, only turning around when he was right at the door to your bedroom. he shuffled in, keeping the door wide open as he settled under the covers and wrapped himself around you. the night would be taken by piercing cries and the patter of little feet finding peace in your arms, but for now—at this moment, dunk could keep you to himself.
Summary - Jason plans out a whole proposal only to forget everything when he gets down on one knee.
Jason has always been a planner. Even when he was young he took comfort in making a plan. It makes him feel more confident in himself and in his abilities if he can make a plan and at least a dozen contingencies for said plan.
So when it came to him proposing to you he planned it out for months in advance.
You had begun dropping hints after your third anniversary, staring too long at rings in the windows of a jewelry store, making a secret wedding Pinterest board that he found open on accident on your phone, bringing up the future often.
Jason would be an idiot to not see your hints and come hell or high water he was going to make it happen.
So he started planning out the best date and time to propose to you. He probably looked a little crazy to his siblings as he set up a cork board in one of his many safe houses with ideas and dates.
Dick was the only one that thought his planning was sweet, everyone else thought he was stressing out about your answer. And maybe in a different time he would be but after three years of you staying and reassuring him that you wanted him he was sure that you would say yes.
He had the ring custom made with your anniversary etched on the inside of the band and a garnet in the center alongside two small diamonds. Dick and Roy had helped him pick it out, they argued most of the time but in they end helped, three months before he planned to propose.
There were multiple phone calls from his brother and best friend to hype him up in the two days before he planned to propose. He had outwardly scoffed at them calling him to tell him that you would obviously say yes but inwardly he appreciated the support.
When you walk out of your shared bedroom he almost gets on one knee there. You look radiant and Jason almost forgets his whole plan. He restrains himself because him proposing before dinner wasn’t planned.
First, Jason takes you to the bookshop where you met and has become a semi-frequent date spot.
It’s a small hole in the wall shop that really only people know in the upper east side know about. He knows the owner, an older woman named Meredith whose family had this shop for generations, and she was extremely excited to know that you two were getting engaged. She keeps it a secret for him but does give him a discount on the books you end up buying.
He really enjoys watching you read through the backs of books with a slight pinch between your brows. You eventually end up getting two since you couldn’t decide between them.
After you finish up at the book store he takes you a couple blocks down to an Italian restaurant that he knows is a front for the mafia but makes the best cannolis he has ever had so he lets it slide. You talk about your work, friends and anything else that comes to mind and Jason is happy to watch you talk.
When the check is dropped off by a gruff looking guy who gives Jason a knowing smile you reach for it and Jason lightly smacks your hand away from it.
“Nope.” He states simply.
“Jay-” You go to protest with a frown on your face.
“Nope!” His voice increases in volume as he takes the bill away from your hands.
You give him a huff and an eye roll before giving in. Jason feels particularly accomplished as he walks up to pay the bill.
Once the bill is settled Jason leads you back to your building and up to the roof.
He had some help decorating the roof since he was with you for most of the day. Steph and Cass had taken point on that because Steph had told him that his taste was tragic, Cass had agreed before pulling out Bruce’s credit card that she swiped off of him somehow.
“Jason.” You gasp softly at the lit up rooftop decorated with pillows and blankets for stargazing. “This is beautiful.”
He runs his hand over the back of his neck in embarrassment, “I just came up with the idea, Steph and Cass set everything up.”
You squeeze his hand softly, “You still thought of it and that’s what matters.”
Jason takes a deep breath, reaching for the ring box in his pocket. “I also have something else.”
You get a confused pinch between your brows that evens out into shock as Jason gets down on one knee.
He goes to say the long speech he had planned, the one where he told you how much you mean to him, how you love him the way he is, how you make him want to live again rather then just survive. Jason had pondered what to say for months.
But now as he look up into your shocked face and teary eyes his brain stutters to a stop.
“Please?” Jason breathes out, no other words in his mind.
“Yes.” You sob and throw yourself into his arms. “Yes! Oh my god Jay. Yes.”
Jason holds you with a smile on his face that’s so wide it hurts because you love him when he has a plan and even when he doesn’t.
Blue’s Notes - Late night update inspired by this post! It’s so Jason that I couldn’t not write it.
Summary: Jason’s in his feelings and he can’t get out of it.
Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1.8k
Content Warning: Angst, open-ended ending, Jason Todd wears glasses propaganda, God forbid he learns how to communicate, established situationship/relationship, Dual POV, no use of y/n
A/N: Not something for my event or requests, self-indulgent fic! The triple threat inspired and was on repeat for this fic (The Cure by Ms Olivia Rodrigo, Earrings by Malcom Todd, and Willing & Able by Noah Kahan). tell me if you spot all the references muahahaha
•───────•°•⚯•°•───────•
Jason hasn’t been able to see for two weeks.
That’s a little dramatic. He’s been using contacts for patrol but besides that, everything’s been blurry. He actually started getting used to the fuzzy edges and blobs dancing around his vision, managing his life surprisingly well.
It would be a miracle if his eyes weren’t stuck in a permanent squint after this.
It would be simple enough to mention it to Bruce. He’d have a pair by tomorrow morning, that was probably double the amount of his current frames. But he couldn’t confront it, admitting he lost his glasses would be a lie. He knew where they were.
The thin rimmed black glasses were sitting on your dresser. Hell, he could practically see them now. They were stuck in that little crevice between the dish where you display the perfumes you refuse to wear, because they were too expensive, and the jewelry box your grandmother gave you.
It’s his own fault.
It would be an easy fix, really it would be.
He was just too much of a coward to say anything, to call you back.
The last time you saw each other was still fresh in his mind. All he did was cook you dinner, and you looked at him in that way he’d always ignored before. In the way that made him think he could actually be worth something. You had a knack for that. For making him think he could be something other than who he was, to be someone he was never destined to be.
It was something that had no name. It was just full of life and the potential for more. The possibility of a love he never deserved.
It petrified him.
He didn’t stay long after dinner, coming up with some half-assed excuse that Bruce needed him.
There was no missing the way your face fell, even if it was for a fraction of a second, he saw the subtle drop of your eyebrows. Yet you recovered quickly enough, masking with an understanding smile.
That was thirteen days ago.
You’d reached out briefly, called occasionally, and hadn’t seen each other since.
The distance was obvious.
You were texting him like normal at first. Then gradually, the replies gained more hours in between, the messages shortened, hearts shrunk, and now you don’t know him anymore.
He couldn’t face the music, the selfish and guilt-ridden part of him didn’t want to. It’s too daunting to dare.
It’s better this way, easier to be unhappy and safe.
That’s what he tells himself anyway. The sentence plays on repeat while he’s on patrol. It’s what echoes behind his eyes as he passes your building. It’s whispered in his ear when he sits down on ledge across the street.
He cuts his comms for a minute. For once, he doesn’t mind how cold Gotham nights were while watching the fairly lights twinkle on your wall. You pulled the curtain but distantly, he can see the small fade and brighten of the bulbs.
The last time he was allowed in that room was a memory he’d die in if he was given the chance.
There was something so perfect about being in your bed and watching you laugh. He got lost just thinking about it. How you throw your head back onto the pillow, the way your eyes squeeze shut with a smile, the giggle you fail to hide when your hand flies over your mouth.
It’s the closest he’s ever been to an angel.
Your hair ended up in your face mid-laugh. Before you got the chance to notice it or be uncomfortable by it, two of Jason’s fingers caressed your cheek. While tracing your jawline his touch was featherlight, almost as if he was scared of hurting you. The tips of his fingers were rough, yet shockingly gentle. He moved the few strands behind your ear without being prompted to.
The rest of the night passed like that. Jason by your side, doing anything to get that sound out of you again. He was greedy, he’d take any of it and soak in it forever. The sight of your smile, the melody of your laugh, the smell of your perfume rubbing on his shirt. It was perfect.
He’d kill for the rest of his life to pass like this, to let the day die with you in his arms.
But Jason Todd was not normal. Jason Todd did not get to have a happy ending. He’d learned that much, and he’d accepted it long before you came along.
It was a momentary lapse.
Four month lapse to be specific.
That was another thing he tried to tell himself on the nights he missed you. The nights when he’d stare at the read receipt in shame. He would spend the whole day curating a message, just for the clock to strike nine and pocket his phone. Saving the humiliation for another day.
His brain hated him. It worked against him most days. When he was with you, living was as easy as breathing. You taught him how to go through life and to treat it as something more than surviving.
And with you? It was that easy.
You were his antidote. He wasn’t sure how, but somehow, you managed to dilute the poison that ran through his veins like blood.
And now here he is, two weeks later, squinting from the outside at the curtains you’d found at some thrift store off seventeenth and Park.
A deep breath fills his mouth before the exhale. Some regret escaped along with it.
You were good for him, too good. It’s why he did the only thing he knows how to do successfully.
Leave.
Maybe one day it won’t be like this. Maybe one day, you’ll dance with him in the glow of the light above the stove. Maybe one day, he’ll get to know the crevices of your life you hid behind your bookshelves.
But for now, this is reality.
And in this reality, Jason Todd was not a man who got peace in the blur of fairy lights.
•───────•°•⚯•°•───────•
Ten days later.
Your ringtone was by far the worst alarm ever.
For the first time in two weeks you’d finally managed to fall asleep at a socially acceptable time. Then, almost as if the universe was against you, your phone rings in the dead of night.
Answering without bothering to look at who you’ll be chewing out later, you bring the phone to your pillow. Your face is still buried in the cotton pillowcase when you decide on a muffled and dragged out “Hello” for your greeting.
A second passes, then two, then ten. Now, it’s been a full minute and the only sound on the other end is a shaky breath.
“Hello?” Trying again, you manage a sorry ounce of energy to turn your face to the side.
Deep down, you knew who it was. Only one person was going to call you at this ungodly hour. The knowledge however, didn’t stop the lurch your stomach gave when the number ending in 8378 shone on your phone.
You’d unsaved his number three days ago.
It was done in a moment of strength. You held this belief that his number would be easier to stomach than his name. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
“Why’re you calling me?” You shouldn’t have asked. A smarter person would’ve hung up the moment they recognized the number. The thing is, there was a small part of you that was so desperate to be loved, you indulged.
You shouldn’t have been surprised when he didn’t answer. Sighing, you flip on your back to stare longingly at the popcorned roof. There was no way you were going back to bed anytime soon. “If you don’t say something I’m hanging up.”
“Please don’t.”
That was all it took. Your eyes squeeze shut as his whisper detonates the room. He shouldn’t have this much power over you, your stomach shouldn’t churn, your eyes shouldn’t water, not over him.
It was embarrassing.
“What do you want?” There was no hiding how wrecked your voice was.
“Can we just,” his voice breaks and you hear him swallow. There’s another shaky breath you pretend to ignore, even if it was followed by your heart shattering. “Can we just stay on the phone for a bit?”
It was selfish. You both knew that. Yet neither of you stopped it.
You didn’t answer. But, you didn’t hang up either.
That was an answer in of itself
Ten minutes passed before another sound came from the speakers. Water from a faucet, he was washing his face. Then a few minutes later the ruffling of blankets gave him away as he got in his bed, the call still going.
In another life, this would have made you smile. Laying in your beds on the phone with each other. The giddy feeling couldn’t rise though. Because now, you were going to have to remember him for longer than you knew him.
“You left your glasses here.”
Your whisper was almost inaudible. For a moment, you thought he didn’t hear. Then,
“I know.” He sounded defeated.
Those were the last words spoken that night. You don’t know who drifted off to sleep first, but you do know the call was still going when consciousness found you again.
The timer was mocking you as each second passed, your phone hovering over your face. The red circle was burning into your retina. It was right there. It’d be so easy to close this chapter of your life. Your thumb hovers over it, mere millimeters from the screen.
When you hesitate for a second too long, you drop it to your chest. It lands with a thump. A groan is let out into your hands as they cover your face.
It was pathetic. You couldn’t hang up.
You couldn’t leave. Which only meant one thing.
He was going to be the one to leave you again. He was going to be the one to hang up the phone and not contact you for weeks. He was going to be the one to call you in the middle of the night when it got to be too much.
And you were going to answer. You were going to be here to help him hold it all. You would be waiting for him to come back, hoping he’ll stay. Hoping that he’ll change his mind.
Maybe one day he will. Maybe a day will come when he’ll plant his feet in a house that will be your home, and he’ll tell you he loves you.
But for now, you’ll learn how to lose.
Because losing to Jason Todd was better than winning against anyone else.
short | fluff | smut | “wiping my drink after him”
synopsis: you try a trend on jason by wiping your bottle after he takes a sip. clearly he doesn’t appreciate it.
a/n: was supposed to be fluff but i’m freaked out sorry
it’s nearly 10pm when jason comes home from patrol. he had planned to get here earlier and switched his shift with dick all because you told him you finished work.
without even asking if you wanted him to do so, he just did it.
“baby?” he calls out as he shuts the front door.
you’re sitting on your bed, practically buzzing as you’d just been scrolling on tiktok and saw a trend you just had to try on him.
“i’m in here jay,” you reply from your bed, fingers idle on the screen as you quickly place it on the nightstand.
enough to capture the both of you.
heavy footsteps approach the room and he opens the door with sweat wicking his brow. he gives a low hum as he takes on the sight of engulfed in just one of his shirts, a habit you’d taken when you missed him and wanted him home. curled up in your comforter with just your torso peaking out, jason plops right on top of you. no care in his sweat on your skin now of his weight resting on you entirely. you giggle as you run your fingers through his hair.
“don’t you think you should, i don’t know, shower before you come into bed?” no real annoyance behind your words.
he nuzzles even closer to you, shakes his head in the crook of your neck. almost like he’s motorboating your neck.
“nah, i’ll wash the sheets in the morning. they’ll need it after i’m done with you.”
the heat reaches your face and a fluttery feeling sits low in your stomach. he always knew how to throw the words back at you. but alas, the show must go on. you stroke his hair back once more, cupping his face with both hands to kiss his sweet face. jason melts into it immediately, but he shrugs like he were shy from this attention. when you pull away, a piece of him was disappointed.
“you hungry?” you ask him. “i was gonna make something to eat.”
he shakes his head, “don’t worry about it. i came home to take care of you. i’ll cook.”
you raise a brow as you reach for your water bottle, ready to play in his face. “take care of me? i’m a grown adult babe.”
he watches as you lift the bottle to your lips, his eyes trained hard on how they part and press against it. taking in how your throat swallows down the water and he gulps in anticipation as though he was drinking it too. his lips part as he leans in to kiss you again. though this time, you bring the bottle between you and put it to his lips.
“you look dehydrated,” you say like it’s the easiest thing in the world. tilting your head slightly and watching the gears turn in his head. “have you been using the bottle i bought you?”
he sighs and nods, “yeah, but i like using yours better.”
sitting up enough to take the bottle and take a long sip. probably draining your ice cold water from how thirsty he was and didn’t even realize. he makes a sound of approval and hands it back to you when you do the unspeakable.
you take the bottle from him, lift your opposing hand and wipe it with your sleeve. jason is absolutely dumbstruck. his lips part in confusion as his brows furrow. he looks to you, then the bottle and then back to you again. he scoffs softly and then points at the bottle.
“the fuck was that?”
he’s blinking hard at you and waiting for a response. you just take a long sip and furrow your brows back.
“what do you mean jay? i’m drinking water?” feigning confusion.
“you just wiped me off of it i’m some freeloader, with germs and shit.”
you can’t control your laughter and shake your head at him. “i’m just wiping your spit off of it jason. it’s not a big deal.”
he knows you have never cared about germs with him before. besides, you live in gotham, and it’s hardly the cleanliest place to be living.
then he’s stammering, pointing between you and the bottle again. “but babe you just kissed me! how is that any different! wait, does my breath smell?” before he leans back and puts his hand in front of his mouth and breathes out to sniff his breath. “i didn’t smoke or anything and i brushed my teeth i swear.”
this only makes you laugh harder, pushing this chest and grasping tightly at he bottle in your hands. jason only seems to get even more confused. he sits up completely and watches you giggle to yourself, finding this entire thing amusing. jason however, does not.
with a loud scoff, he takes the water bottle from your hands and tongues at the mouth piece. he fully lets his tongue fall out of his mouth, licks it all around before pulling back and handing it to you. you grimace a little at the wet sheen on it.
“ew jay, what the hell.” holding the bottle like something toxic.
“take a sip.” he says with the most stern expression you’d ever seen on him.
oh, he was pissed.
you decide to play along longer and shake your head in defiance at him.
he blinks at you, “i’d let you spit in my mouth and you’re sitting here telling me you won’t drink from the same bottle as me?”
“no, not until i wash your slobber off of it.”
that’s when he huffs out like a kid throwing a tantrum and grabs the bottle from your hand, mumbling under his breath. you watch him with genuine confusion while he is the one to take another sip before grabbing your chin and pulling you closer.
he squeezes your cheeks until your lips part and spits the water directly into your mouth. you make a sound of surprise the sudden intrusion makes your eyes widen but you were definitely not opposed. you swallow it down immediately. he keeps his hold on your cheeks as he squints and a small smile begins to take form on his face.
“you’re liking this,” he states rather than asks.
the contagious smile takes home on your face as you stare back at him and nod. “it’s a prank.”
“ha,” he says flatly, “now can you lay back down please?”
sighing as you lay down for him, he immediately follows after you. weight resting directly over you like a weighted blanket that wouldn’t budge if you tried. when you squirm a little, he wraps his arms over yours so you’re bracketed between him and the mattress. then he really does give you some sloppy, wet kisses that leave a trail in its wake.
he’s mumbling lowly as he starts to tug on your shirt, pulling the fabric up and huffing like he’s still annoyed. kisses getting a little rougher as he starts to bite the flesh beneath it and knead it with his teeth. you can’t help but tilt back for him.
“slobber, huh? i’ll show you slobber.” murmuring against your skin enough to tickle. he pulls his head up to look at you while you’re still giggling, “okay jokes over. was gonna do all the work but—”
jason lifts you from beneath him and places you firm onto his lap. hand tight in your hip as you straddle him and he settles his back on the pillows. he clears his throat and something behind his light eyes darken enough to tell you you were really in for it now. the thick bulge beneath you was unmistakable. you open your mouth in a gasp and say his name.
“there’s no way that turned you on.” making the horrible mistake of letting a giggle out again.
he breathes out of his nose and pinches your side to make you jolt. groaning like he’s not the cause of you shifting around and tightening his hold on you so you’d stop moving.
“i spat in your mouth. of course i’m hard.” he sighs as his fingers slide across the waistband of your underwear and tug them just to let them snap. you jolt again but he doesn’t stop you from moving or say anything about the desperate sound you make at the friction.
instead, jason smiles a little harder, “go ahead then.”
guiding your hips back and forth until your breath caught in your throat and you grip his shoulders for dear life. you breathe out his name again but it’s barely a whisper.
he tsks and bucks up into you, dragging his hard length against your clothed core. hips with a mind of its own as you chase your own release, dragging your hands down his chest and pushing him further into the mattress. you’re already a mess, panting heavily and moving desperately.
dangerously close and he’s just grinning like he’s won.
one of his hands come up to the nape of your neck and pulls you down towards him, whispering lowly in your ear.
“there you go ma, take what’s yours.”
movements getting sloppy and uneven while he’s keeping you folded against him. one strong palm kept your faces close and the other moved you in accordance what he knew got you there. he knew you were a goner before you even let go, gasping and stilling just for him to continue moving against you. even when you make a whimpering sound he continues and holds you hard against him.
you’re trying to catch your breath when he finally stops and kisses the side of your face sloppily again. his hands rubbing up and down your back like he’s soothing you. it feels like your purring against him as you come back to yourself. but this time, he’s the one laughing while he whispers in your ear like a coo.
𝟏𝟖+ 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 | he sends you a voice message while he’s away.
“hey sweet thing. missing ya’.”
his voice erupted, you could only hear the sound of his breathing, imagining the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“how have you been, mm? eating well? hydrating? you best be taking care of yourself while ’m gone.” he laughed, that squeaky one where you could tell his throat was tight from holding something in.
“wish you could feel how much i’m missing you.” you heard his breath shake at the last syllable, then the tell-tale sound of his zipper slipping down rang out. a loud zzziipp like he wasn’t even trying to hide it.
a moment of silence then a harsh hiss came from his side as he wrapped a hand around his aching member, stroking it to full mast. “shit baby, i’m so hard just thinkin’ about you.” he groaned, then a rustle of clothes came as he shoved his pants down to his ankles.
he shifted his phone so that it was placed right beneath his cock, you could hear it slap against his phone screen, hot and heavy. “listen to it. listen to what you do to me.” he panted, beginning to pump himself, every tug of his length drawing a throaty sigh from him.
“wish you were here. y’know, sucking me off.” he paused to breath, stifling a whine as he imagined the scene in his head. “gosh, you’d look so pretty, mouth full of me. choking on me.” he continued.
“or you could just sit on it. let me hump you ‘til you pass out, all dumbed out on my dick.” he rasped, voice dropping a milky octave. you could hear him spit down on his cock, smearing the glob of saliva over his length.
“if you were here, i’d bend you right over this desk and fuck—” he sped up his strokes, you could tell he was close with how whiny he got. “i’d do so much to you darling, but you’re just not here. and it’s killing me.”
“miss you, so fuckin’ bad.” his voice cracked, you could hear the lewd fap-fap-fap of him fisting his cock ruthlessly, teetering on the edge of release.
“bet you’re touching yourself too, huh?” you could hear his smirk through the phone, “bet you’re getting off at seeing me so desperate and needy. you’re evil.” he grunted.
“shit, i’m close.” he cursed through gritted teeth, you could hear his chair creak under his weight as he pumped his cock, chasing his orgasm.
“this one’s for you.” he panted, the sounds of his fist becoming slicker. after a couple more strokes, he came all over himself with a muffled groan, making a mess everywhere.
“it’s so much.” he grumbled, already regretting what he did knowing he would have to get up and clean off. “and i blame it on you.” he chuckled, you could hear him tucking himself back into his pants.
“anyway. i’ll be back soon. love you, byee.” he spoke before blowing an obnoxious kiss to the phone and cutting the voice message.
Tags: He’s being shy at first, Oral f receiving, oral m receiving, handjob, stretching *how couldn’t there be*, spanking, vibrating toys, no condom, F reader is Hornyyyy, Fucking on the couch and counter, doggy, missionary, Dunk lowkey is a deviant himself once he gets hard, plus size reader, she gets off many times and he cums once.
Summary: Bashful Duncan comes over after getting chatted up on tinder at 3am.
A/N: this is the product of my feed being full of hot pictures. Simply quick, nasty and pure smut!
“Hey,” you kept your voice down because the door was open and you knew that noise traveled in the apartment halls real easily.
Instantly you let go of the door knob and stepped back against the wall in the tiny entryway, He wasn’t going to be able to make it in the door if you didn’t give him a bit more space to step in.
“Hey,” his arm elbow bumped the doorframe as he stepped in because he had awkwardly rubbed at the back of his neck. You could tell he wasn’t sure if he should be looking at you or at the place he was entering. It seemed he had settled on taking in your appearance.
You make fucking sure that the pictures on your profile were a solid representation of yourself. You didn’t need any uncomfortable situation where some guy shows up and sees you looking different from what your tinder showed. Then nobody would be happy and you’d be embarrassed.
It was best to save everybody the trouble and be straightforward about things.
“ya can put your shoes over there.” You pointed to the matt next to the door and walked past the cracked open coat closet trying to shove it closed with your hip discreetly as you stepped into the common space of the apartment. It was small. Looking back at him as he nudged his shoes off his feet you realized he hardly fit down the hall, shoulders touching each wall.
You were really glad his profile hadn’t been exaggerating things. Seeing 6’11 legitimately had you instantly wet. So much so that you had completely ignored the ick you normally got when a guy sent you a super like. It’d always seemed desperate in the past-or it was always just straight up freaks. But him-Duncan? Dunk… you vaguely remembered him saying his name was Duncan but he had orginally put in Dunk and now he couldn’t change it on his profile. 6’11 made it really easy to look past a super -like.
“Did you bring a condom?” You asked fucking with the bottom of your shirt a bit. You’d been in sweats and a sports bra the entire day, head first in your books for finals but when you got the notification on your phone and saw him you got ready fast. It was probably the fastest you’ve ever gotten in the shower, shaved every inch of your body and got dressed. It was only pajamas but still, it was a cute matching button up shirt and frilly short set. Blue with little yellow flowers all over it. No bra, no panties. What was the point in either of them given the situation?
“M’sorry, what?” He looked at you wide eyed as he stepped into the living room after quite easily nudging his hand against the closet you had attempted to shut. The door sealed Instantly under his arms instance.
Your brows raised up and you blinked. “Condoms-I’m not going to fuck raw.” You remark as if that was a crazy.
“You said to come over for a movie.” He laughed and looked at the small living room. TV pointedly off.
“it’s three twelve in the morning…you really thought I wanted to meet you for the first time in the middle of the night to watch TV?”
“it’s-that’s what you said.” He defended and went back to nervously itching the back of his neck.
I mean you had said that but nobody would ever think that’s what this was. Idiot. But his bewildered smile had been regrettably, very fucking hot so you glanced at the couch and then back at him.
“I’m sure I can find something for us.” You motioned for him to sit down and you grabbed the remote. He was slow to lumber over so you still sat first. Choosing to seat yourself pretty directly in the middle of the sofa so he would wind up close to you regardless of which side he ended up on.
“you take classes?” He asked as he got down, big leg brushing against your, actually displacing you slightly because of how broad he was. Your eyes reached mid bicep.
Fuck.
“oh-ah yeah. Sorry the end of the semester had me scatter brained if I’m being honest.” Really he had your mind going way more dumb that that hours of reading tiny print had.
“What are you studying?” He asked as you flipped rapidly through channels trying to find something, anything, to stick on the screen. It was all crime shows and you didn't feel like SVU or Criminal Minds was going to set the mood right.
“maths.” You didn’t look up at him until he laughed.
“Jesus fucking Christ that must be horrible. I couldn’t imagine.” He shook his head sitting back a bit. “I’d lose my bloody mind.”
“it’s not that bad!.” You chuckled at his overreaction. “Let me guess….you are in exercise science?”
That shut him up real quick because you had read him right.
“perfect, you’ll be content with rugby then.” You sighed putting the remote down and sitting back, his arm literally had nowhere to go when you sat back so he raised it up between your shoulders and the backrest of the couch.
He nodded, confirming sports were an excellent choice. You were not paying any attention to the screen. I’d be asked who was playing you’d have zero clue-wouldn’t even be able to tell him what colors the uniforms were!
“sorry…” he mumbled through the silence “this games from last week.” He said it like he was breaking some hard news to you.
It was three in the morning…did he think this game was occurring live right now?
You leaned forward hands rubbing against your face and your sighed deeply. “I don’t want to watch anybting I wanted to have makeout and have sex.” You admitted as plainly as you possibly could. Hands shielding your face but he could probably still see the flush that making that comment had created on your upper cheeks and forehead.
He cleared his throat and sat forward slightly hand coming out to touch your currently curved back. His hand covered half the length of your spine and it made you want him even more despite this going unwell.
“stressed?” His fingered moved slightly against you feeling the knots under your skin. You nodded and pulled your hands down.
“I just need something to take my mind off of finals.” You spoke softer this time because his hand did ‘t move even after you sat back upright. “And you’re really…really cute.” You added voice getting breathy because his eyes were looking at your mouth as you spoke. It had you nervously rubbing your lips together. Before you could say anything else Dunk had reached his hand on your back around your waist and his other hand found the back of your thigh pulling you into his lap.
No man had ever moved you like that. Manhandled you. You moaned without thought and it made him smile as he kissed you. It was a peck first, then another and then he seemed to get over that initial giddy charm from hearing you squeak and his lips softened so they could melt against yours.
Sitting on his lap didn't quite make reaching his mouth easy your neck was still straining and so his hands grabbed your ass. In all of its abundance and hoisted you up so you were knelt and smushed against his chest. He groped at you, a few fingers resting under the bottom of your sleep shorts and whimpered into his mouth when he rubbed at the dimpled flesh.
“I didn’t want to assume,” he breathed out when you both parted for a bit of air. He grinned seeing your lips were already swelling a bit. Your finger rubbed at the tip of his nose because it was red from the eager makeout. “When I first got here I didn't want to assume you just wanted sex.” He exclaimed.
“I just want sex-promise.” You giggled and pecked his bottom lip. “Preferably lots of sex-uh!” You gasped at the end because Dunk had leaned forward hit the TV off and climbed overtop of you since he’d laid you out on your back. It did make kissing a lot easier and you found that the weight of his limbs against your own was a comforting suppression. Like a big, warm, sexy weighted blanket. A weighted blanket that had very clearly gotten hard while you were kissing because you could feel something strange poking against your thigh.
You were trying to maneuver your arm down as your lips continued to seal rhythmically with his. Moaning each time his tongue grazed yours and then he began to suck a bit at your mouth. Your arm couldn’t reach past the end of his shirt and so you opted to pull at it successfully able to get his arms out of it and your whined as he bit at your bottom lip some when your attempted to pull your head back so you could get his shirt off his head.
“Get your belt off.” You begged, legs wrapping around him to keep him sort of close when he lifted up on his knees and cracked open the window letting some of the cool night air into the room because things were getting quite warm between you two.
He undid his belt before he leaned back down over you but his hands diddnt hold to your jaw and cheek this time. They grabed your side. Hands grazing up and down your waist feeling how you narrowed in the middle and then widened as he got lower or higher.
You arched your back when his thumbs spread out across your upper stomach and cupped the underside of your heavy tits. Pushing them up some and making the buttons of your shirt pull.
“we can take this off.” You laughed as his eyes seemed to oggle at the little bits of skin he could see. You whined when his hands came up to fully over your tits. They were large, and normally a spilling handful for most men but with him? He covered them fully with his palm and spread fingers. Squeezed greedily at your chest and kissing you again. Which was quite the challenge because you just kept moaning and muttering about wanting your top off. You wanted to actually feel his skin against yours without the fabric getting in the way.
“I’m not in a rush-gonna enjoy you.” He said letting go of one soft breast and grabing your cheek making your hungry needy eyes look at him.
The truth was Duncan knew he was very well endowed and that this build up stuff was important. She was going to need to be quite wet if he was even going to consider fucking her like she clearly wanted.
You kissed his jaw, sucking a train down his neck and settling at his shoulder. “It’s just a few buttons.” You whisper hands able fo sneak up to your top and undo them because he seemed completely powerless to not grabbing at the side of your hips and ass when you were marking his neck. He was a bit sweaty and so your skin stuck right to his when the top was gone and you grinned knowing he’d be able to feel your currently hard nipples drag up and down his chest.
“You’re gorgeous.” He breathed long fingers tucking your hair back. “Perfect.” He gave your side a pointedly hard squeeze and you moaned looking up at him. Legs opening a bit more beneath him and he kissed your swollen lips smiling at how reactive you were. He could feel you getting damp and warm between your legs. You always got so incredibly wet. Sometimes you wondered if it made you seem overeager-or desperate? But it was clear that those concepts did not even enter this man mind. His buldge was growing the moment he cupped you between your thighs. Actually it spurred him to pull your shorts off entirely and hunch over so he could kiss the expanse of your lower stomach and down towards your puffy mound.
“ahh!” You gasped at the suddenly feeling of fingers dancing at your folds. You moaned as his fingers slide between your lips and found your clit instantly. “Oh fuck.” You groaned as he began to circle your clit a few times. Sending warmth shooting up your spine from your core. You needed him. Badly!
“gonna stretch you a bit” he mumbled against you just before his lips sealed where his fingers had been. Sucking and flicking your clit with his tongue.
Your arm quickly reached down to grab at his scruffy hair. Grabing a rather large handful and pulling a bit. Half because it felt really good and you needed something to hold onto and half because you wanted his efforts focused up a tad higher. Then it would feel really really fucking good.
“another-I can take it. Please.” You whined but he denied your beg, just gently making a scissoring motion inside of you to show that even just a bit of expanding with his two fingers was plenty for you at the moment.
“don’t need ya to do anything.” He mumbled into your dripping folds, nose nuzzled right against your mound and you could feel how he took in deep breaths through his nose so his mouth could focus solely on you. He was clearly committed to this cause. Giving. You weren’t necessarily used to that. It was a refreshing change. One Duncan had seemed to tell you deserved-or maybe he was just the type of guy who always went down on women? The sort of man that got enjoyment from it and didn't see it as a task or payment for entry to full on penetrating sex?
“you taste so good.” He groaned hands gripping at the meaty part where you ass and hips met. “Fucking great.” He mumbled looking up and kissing your inner thighs watching with an adoring look as you squirmed from the tickle that caused. It had been the perfect moment for him to tease you with his third finger. You giggle slowlt turning into a low groan as you focused back at the intense sensation.
“stay relaxed,” he pecked over your clit. Your eyes fluttered and you nodded though he likely could not see because he instantly began to lap at your clit when you have a mild wince of discomfort. He apparently diddnt stand for that. He diddnt like an unintentional pain, he wanted to make you feel good, thrilled, stimulated, not uncomfortable. Never uncomfortable.
“F-fuck-oh fuck I’m gonna come!” You gasped suddenly hands grabing for his at your hips. You needed something to hold onto. He quickly let you wrap your fingers around his one hand, eyes cast up as his tongue circled your throbbing clit and his fingers coaxed the orgasm right out of you.
“Ohmygod,” you slured out legs fighting to close. “Thank you…that was-fuck.” You were beyond satisfied by just that release alone. But it was clear when Duncan sat up on his knees again and wiped at his sloppy mouth and jaw that he was no where near finished with you.
That wasn’t a problem. Not at all!
You recovered for a moment and then reached up palming at him and smirking as you stood up. He was taller than you still, with your feet on the floor and him just kneeling ontop of the couch cushions.
“let me go grab a condom and then I can make sure you feel just as good as I did.” You hummed into his ear while his hands ran up and down your sides. He nodded with a dopey smile and you smirked turning away to scurry to your room but his long arm had successfully reached you and landed a hard spank to your ass before you were fully out of reach.
when you glanced back at him, rubbing the already reddening butt cheek and you flushed because his eyes were locked on the spot. He had watched how you ass jiggles against the force of his hand and clearly he had liked it…quite a bit given the expression he held right now.
“bring your v-vibrator.” He told you, a sliver of the shyness slipping through. You stopped feeling a bit called out that he felt confidence enough that you had one to ask for it so blatantly. He wasn’t wrong. You had three a rose, a bullet and then a silicon dildo. You suppose you had basically attempted to jump his bones the moment he entered the apartment, it was fair enough to make an assumption like this.
He was sat back on the couch knees set wide and he was fully undressed now so you saw ever single inch of him….and his cock…which from your visual estimate seemed a few inches shy of matching a damn ruler! The regular sized condom in your hand felt comical now. It was never going to fit. You wanted some time to enjoy him though before that struggle started so you joined him on the couch and Instantly began to stroke his cock. Your fingers couldn’t close around the thickness of him but you still attempted it. Opting instead to circle your wrist back and forth so the entire width of him was getting some contact as you rubbed him up and down.
“can i suck on it?” You were practically drooling and both of you were so turned in that neither of you even lingered on how silly that statement probably sounded.
“yes-“ he eagerly responded and then rubbed your cheek. “Don’t think I’d ever say no to that.” He admitted sheepishly, his thumb rubbing over your bottom lip as you lowered down to lick up the length of him first and then you began to suck. He was warm and pulsing, mildly salty in taste but mostly flavorless. He wasn’t shaved but there had clearly been some effort taken with scissors to trim a bit, especially mar the base of his cock, which you appreciated.
“I need you to fill me.” You groaned tongue out of your mouth swirling his cockhead before taking him into your mouth again and you bobbed you head. You gaged when you got halfway down and Duncan instantly pulled you back up by your hair.
“easy-just sucking feels good” he didn't really need her to challenge herself, this felt fucking fantastic to him!
You modded tongue licking right over the slit of his cock where he was dripping a bit of precum. You moaned when his hand flexed in your hair a bit and when you settled down against the sofa, content to just suck on him and not do any advance throat fucking activities. His warm big hand trailed down over your shoulders, spine and down to the small of your back. Fingertips just barely inching onto your ass. You wanted them there. Kneading the skin, rubbing it, spanking-fucking anything. You just liked when his hands were on you.
Duncan moaned from a particularly enjoyable hallowing of your cheeks and he closed his eyes for a moment before looking down at you.
“put that bullet just under you, make sure you stay flat so it keeps against your clit and the sofa.” He guided you and you nodded, mouth still full. He watched as you slipped one arm under yourself to position the toy and he nodded encouragingly waiting to hear the buzzing noise.
“ahh-“ you whine against his shaft and pulled your hips back because the vibrating felt way to good and you were close to finishing just seconds into your clits contact with the sensation. “Fuck!” Your ass raised up and his hand smacked down. Forcing you back down flat.
“stay down like i told y’to.” He breathed. You felt his cock pulse when he had gave you ass a swat. He enjoyed it. A lot clearly.
“it’s gonna make me cum again-making me sensitive.” You whimpered hips canting backwards and your ass came up to avoid the bullet nestled against your clit. His hand was promptly down giving your other ass cheek a spank.
“That’s the bloody point!” He laughed and held your ass down with one hand keeping you settled over the little toy until you were a panting mess. Face hiding against his hip as your hips struggled between the toy and his hands pressure. You had given up on sucking him off for the moment because you lip had cracked in the corner and you couldn’t stop babbling about how overwhelming this felt. How you were going to cum. Duncan just made sure you remained there, not running from the pleasurable contact. He grunted occasionally because your hand had remained around him pumping him valiantly as you had another climax rip through you.
He’d gotten you off twice now and you were a tingly mess. Face flushed, mouth parted and stomach in knots as you rolled onto your side balling up a bit.
“My ass stings.” You mumbled finally when you calm down a bit. He was leaning towards you, hand running from your head down to your marked bottom.
“I did warn you.” He remarked while reaching for the little bullet that was still vibrating against the cushion. It was quite wet and for a moment he considered sticking it in his mouth and sucking it clean but he thought better of it. He was careful to not do anybting he thought you might find off putting in any way. He worried desperately licking your relaease off of a vibrator might make you pause.
it wouldn’t have. It’d probably endear you even more to him.
“put this on.” You reached over lazily and grab the condom you brought out and push it into his hand. You wanted to be fucked. Needed it. He needed it too if his throbbing cock was any indication!
Duncan looked at the small square that was now in his hand. Regular, was the size indicated on the front of the packaging. He wasn’t being egotistical, not at all, but his dick was not really in the regular size range. Looking from the condom to you, leaned back all warm and stimulated on the sofa, he had to give it a try. He really did want to fuck you. Your mouth has been so lovely, and you felt so warm…so soft and he loved how your body gave out under his grip. He knew your pussy would feel like the most inviting squeeze ever.
He fumbled with getting the package open and then began to try and roll the thing on overtop his dick. Pinching the top as he attempted to roll the thing down over his head.
You watched, still catching your breath a bit and finally sat up when he started to grumble about this not working. “Just need to unroll it down slowly.” You mutter leaning over to help. But your so called patient approach still resulted in the lining ripping and giving away to his flesh.
“fuck.” You groaned and pull the broken condom off and stuff it back into the package. He picked up on the frustration that spread all over your face.
“Hey-it’s fine…I should have brought some, I don’t know why I was so nervous.” He stuttered and kissed your shoulder. “I’m more than happy to make you cum however many more time you want.” He explained hand rubbing up and down your back.
“I want to feel you.” You breathed out looking from his lap to his face. He had such an earnestly sorry expression. “Are you clean?” You asked suddenly, chewing hard at your lip.
“Uh-yeah but-I’m alright really it’s fine. I’ll still cum tonight.” He assured you. He didn’t want you putting aside any moral or safety decision you might of made with yourself.
“are you lying?” You asked blinking up at him. “I swear if you are lying I’m going to report you-to the school…or somebody.” You mutter on.
“Jesus-no. Fuck I’m not lying. I wouldn’t do that to somebody.” He said seriously. He did not want to cause anybody trouble.
You swallowed looking at him for a moment longer to see if any guilt crept in across his face. When it did not you turned over onto your knees and forearms and you bent yourself so your tits were against the cushion and you ass was up in the air.
He wasted no time getting behind you, one hand pushing down against the small of your back, making the arch even more pronounced. You whinned at the feeling of it but soon the muscles of your back were completly forgot. He felt hot pushing against your folds. Hand steady at your ass pulling you open a bit so he could see what he was doing better. He wanted to be careful. Entering slow was important, he’d learned that.
“fuck me-“ he moaned head tossed back as he reigned himself in.
“I’m trying to.” You squeak out with a dry laugh, face burried against a pillow and your hands were gripping the armrest as he put a bit more pressure behind his cock and suddenly you felt the entirety of his tip slot it.
“ahh!” Both of you seemed to lose the air in your lungs at the feeling.
“So tight-so wet.” He groaned thumb pushing against your flesh enough tou’d have a little bruise mark there. He needed to grip something, anybting to keep him away from fufilling the real urge he had. Pounding you hard from behind. It’d feel so good, but he knew that shock of it and your bodies unlikely chance at accommodating him so rapidly would mean it wouldn’t feel so good for you.
“mmm…more. Please I can take it. I want all of you.” You groaned. Trying to push back towards his frame some. It earned your another inch before he took both his hands and set them on your waist making it so he controlled how much you moved.
“you’re gonna make me cum to quick…easy.” He was panting, voice a bit rough probably from the groaning.
“I want you to cum dunk-then I get to suck you off till you’re hard again.” You smirked looking back over your shoulder a bit.
the remark sent his head spinning and he couldn’t help but push in some more and begin to thrust. Shallowly, probably half of him in you but you certinly had no idea because his tip was pressing so deeply into you that you were sure you had successfully taken his entire giant cock.
he let you believe it.
it felt fucking amazing for him, feeling how your clenched and pulse around him and for you-it was already feeling like you were overwhelmingly filled.
“oh my god!” You nodded against the sofa fingers clenching against the fabric as you two began to find a good pattern. He was helping guide your motions, getting an eye full of how your ass shook and your soft sides waved with the forward and backward motion that his hands were guiding you through.
For a moment it got so loud between your cries and Duncan’s grunts that you felt a bit sorry for your neighbors. You prayed they were asleep and weren’t light sleepers or of they weren’t that they were curious freaks themselves who did not mind listening in!
“You’re cuming?!” He suddenly asked because your moans had turned into more of a whine and you had started to get tense and your cunt felt like a vice suddenly.
“mhm-y-yes!” You nodded panting through your nose as you came against his dick. It was the first time you’ve ever come from penetration. You wondered if he’d like knowing that? Like being showered with praise. But before you could say anything as the climax subsides he was babbling.
“fuck-no…no I don’t want to come like this.” He groaned pushing his palm into your lower back and forcing you down flat. You gave out an exhausted whine when that motioned made his cock drag out of you. A good bit of wetness spilling out onto your ass and thighs.
“well I want you to come.” You groaned looking over your shoulder at him. He’d had his way with you from behind. Clearly he had enjoyed slapping at your bottom because you could feel how he pulse each time your gasped and squirmed from the impact.
“I will,” he leaned down against you kissing your jaw and reaching for your lips as his hands grabed you from under your arms and easily, pussy drippingly easily, lifted you right up into the air and against his chest. “Just need to look at you when I do.” He breathed out clearly on edge. You squirmed a bit, unsure how to help him carry you as he walked but then you just hung down because you realized he did not need you to wrap a leg around him or hold to his shoulders. You were easy for him to move as he pleased.
“I wouldn’t have looked down on missionary if you had suggested that before.” You informed him as he put you down on the kitchen island and you shifted from your knees to your back and pulled your knees back quickly so he could settled between the open space. This was probably a much easier height for him. He didn't have to bend over now because you were almost perfectly alighted with his pelvis now.
“I know-but I liked seeing your ass shake.” He told you shamelessly and squeezed your soft dimpled thighs as he pulled you right to the edge and began to feed his tip into you.
“ahhh fuck.” You groan lowly laying back flat and hand covering your lower stomach where you slowly felt thing get displaced as he got himself into you beyond his cockhead. Each shutter of his hips forward had you gripping the edge of the counter and when he saw how white your knuckles were Duncan stroked your side.
“good girl…you want all of me?” He breathed, voice on edge of how wonderful you felt wrapped around him.
“yes! Yes like before.” You whine nodding as your hand let go of the counter to grab harshly at his arm.
“no…no please tell me that was all of you before?” You pleaded when he gave you a sort of funny and apologetic look. He hadn’t been fully honest with you before on the couch. You couldn’t actually see how much of him was making it into you with his thrust so you only had his word to go off of.
“you were doing so good, I wasn’t going to push you.” He explained and kissed your cheeks lightly. “It’ll be easier like this…and I can play with your clit from this angle better. That’ll help.” He assured. You only gave him a disgruntled nod of agreement one hand coming up to half cover your face because it was beat red as he leveled his hips again and began to push into you.
You gripped at him with your other nodding as he mumbled encouragement while pumping slowly in, out, and then in a little deeper.
“fucking hell!” He moaned, chest vibrating from the force that made it drone out of his mouth.
“oh my god-d-Duncan!” You cried out able to feel for sure now that he was entirely within you. His hand was moving frantically over your clit trying to help your clenching cunt relax but the stimulation felt so good that you began to squeezed at his dick and suddenly your whines were outright moans. Your face was burried into his neck, your stuttering remarks all slurred against him and muffled by his skin. And his panting. He was panting something crazy. Hairline damp, chest red, hands shaking as one tapped against your throbbing clit and the other gripped your hip.
“I’m gonna-I need t’pull out.”
You grabbed hard at his hair pulling him down against you as best as you could manage. “No-fuck finish in me…please.” You were on birth control, the condom earlier hadn’t been for contraception.
“I-in me…please.” You whined eyes rolling back a bit as your legs went tense and you became a vice around him. Your legs had his sides, your hand in his hair and now your pussy around his dick. Not part of you relaxed even slightly until your climax had came and went!
“ugh-“ it was a shaking groan, honestly it was closer to a growl, that was made right against your ear as the big guy rutted once more into you and then his hips stuttered keeping him inside as he came.
“Fuck…that was really nice.” He finally said exhaling a held breath and standing upright again, gently rubbing the fold around your hip as he pulled out of you and you nodded, legs limp against the counter now still trying to remember how to breathe normal.
“really really nice” you smiled hazily and before you could sit yourself up he was scooping you up and making sure you wound up in your bedroom instead of back on the couch or back at your desk. It was almost 4, he knew you needed sleep, not more studying.
He was exactly that you had need tonight. Well this morning.
Tags: Pregnancy, Daeron being a bigggg liar, references to them sleeping together/ loss of maidenhead but not explained in detail, blood and bruising (labor related), fluffy and sweet in the flashbacks, another child being attached to him (the 3-10 year olds just flocks to his messy ass), mention of parents death in the past, angst for the 2nd half.
Word Count: 2.8k
Summary: Daeron’s been going by the name Dayne since he met you a year ago after waking up in your garden. Keeping you in the dark about his identify as a prince. That secret is quickly revealed when your labors go awry and he must use the resources associated with his standing
A/N: this idea got wedge into the soft tissue of my brain and I couldn’t do anything else until it was finished. (Like i legitimately have less then 200 words of another fic to finish but nooooo, this had to be ejected from my brain) Nothings ever been edited less than this, sorry guys!
You were leaning over the small counter, gripping the sides of it, trying to keep yourself somewhat stable and in front of the window so the breeze reached you. It was a beautiful day…sunny and warm but not so balmy that people sweat the moment they were out of the shade.
“I’ll just be outside.” You muttered quickly when the pain passed finally. Sighing when you heard the wooden feet of your sister’s chair squeak as she stood up. “It’s alright-I just need some fresh air.” You hoped that settled her back down, she was mending some of the bed linens and you had a feeling you’d need a great deal of that quite soon as much of what was drying on the line right now would be ruined.
She had just had her fifth name day. You’d managed to make a sweet bread for her and some present came a day later. From him of course, you’d asked him to bring something for her during his trip.
He’d gotten her candied fruits, a doll and because he knew by this point that you could not provider her with knew ones , he also had shoes to present her with. A necessity disguised as a gift.
Your hand brushed down the fabric of the gown you were wearing. He’d left it on your bed to discover after he left. It was light; so you wouldn’t overheat, and the skirt had been pre bustled up so you didn’t putting holes in the bottom of it within the first week.
“Please, please wait.” you exhaled as slowly as you could, eyes closing as you titled your head towards the sun and let your hand rest at the bottom of your bump.
Dayne, would be here soon. He’d promised to come with some help for you when he realized during his last visit that your stomach hung low and the movement within your womb had increased substantially. You did not question how he knew the signs of a labor approaching. From your understanding he traveled all around the seven kingdoms, a merchant of sorts, finding peculiar items rich lords longed for. That was why he could see you sparingly, sometimes weeks or moons between the encounters.
“Your father will be here soon enough, just wait.” You begged your unborn child as if you were making some request of the gods to spare you laboring alone.
Your sister was to little, you did not want to scar her and your mother had been dead since she was born. You did not dwell on that situation, not while your stomach as swelled and you knew the birth was close. Father had lost his mind after that, the sadness of losing your mother and the lingering trauma from the rebellion. It was probably better for you both that he had just left.
It had just been you and her for years, tending to the garden, collecting the chickens eggs. It was not glamorous but you could make do fine between the two of you.
You hadn’t even had a visitor to the little farm in over a year because of how tucked away from the nearest village you were. Until a year ago when your sister shrieked suddenly. You’d just end her out to the coop to fetch some eggs and so you went running out, assuming a wolf might of gotten to the hens. But there wasn’t a bloody massacre, just a man. He was laid face down in some of the hay, one hand holding a hen to his chest and the other was stuck under him somewhere.
Drunk, you could smell it in him quite clearly.
“Ser, don’t think your s’pose to be er.” You nudged him with your foot. Eventually have to give him a kick to the side to actually wake him. The birds going flying when he grunted out and flopped over onto his back.
He asked for wine, you had none and told him he’d have to settle for the eggs he’d already scrambled. Stopping down to pick the scattered things up and collect them in your apron. He had helped you…which you found charming despite knowing he had been the one to make the mess of the coop in the first place.
Eventually you got it out of the blonde that he was a merchant, that he strayed mostly in the stormlands and the reach for his work. That his name was Dayne and he had family but they didn’t bother with him much. He was kind to your sister…willing to answer her questions about things and it was because of her that he returned back to your small farm a week later.
Or his visit was under the guise of coming to bring her a map he apparently traded for in the markets. She had wanted him to show her specifically where he had gone before. You found yourself putting the washing down and coming over to watch over his shoulder as he pointed out little spots in the map and told her about the people there, the foods they ate, always having some remark about the quality of the wine or ale as well.
He hadn’t just brought her a gift either…there was one for you but he kept it in his bag until sleep had taken your sister away from the conversation.
It was a cask of cider. You’d not really drank before and so the liquid had gone straight to your head and made you putty beside him in the field. He was warm, and smelled of an intoxicating mix of ash and ale. He thought you smelled like fresh bread and grass and neither of you could get enough of one another! He was gentle, despite the setting, most girls did not lose their maidenhead in the field. Though most girls also did not reach their climax more times than fingers they had on one hand and so you felt quite special.
The gods must of thought it all special as well because you were swollen the next time he came to the farm! His seed had taken, despite his delayed attempt as pulling himself out of you.
You had not realized, in the mist of the nostalgias that you had walked all the way out to chicken coop but you had. You felt close to him here, you needed him here.
Gripping at the wooden fence you bent a bit to get your hand under your skirt and instantly your fingers met a sticky wetness in your thigh. Your waters had broken. He’d brought you a book on the matter, babies and labor and the ramblings of how a women’s body changed when a babe grew inside it. You had told him it was normal, that women brought children into this world constantly…but that you needed him. You needed help. Your mother wasn’t around and there wasn’t anybody in the countryside that was close enough by that you could get to for help when the time came. When this moment started.
He insisted you needed a midwife, a nursemaid, a maester. Which you found odd because none of those people were truly needed from what you understood. But he said he had the coin, claimed he knew one that would come out here for you. He’d told you that six days ago while kissing your temple and rubbing your cheek before going to do just that.
“you should be back-“ you groaned out having to find your way to the ground because your legs felt weak as a sudden jolt of pain appeared low in your pelvis. Frustration, and slowly cursing his name got you through the first hour of the ordeal and then things got far worse and all you could do was tremble against the side of the coop and cry, pray that he was coming back, that Dayne would be here when the next labor pain presented.
“I thought you’d hear the horses and come running” Daeron smirked as he opened the small door to the cottage and put a few things down. He was comfortable here, evident by the way he waltzed into the home and instantly ruffled your sisters braided hair. He knew she was attached to him…knew the pressure that came with that and the disappointment that would eventually one day follow. But for now she still found his interesting and exciting and so he would savor it.
“where’s your sister?” He had a maester waiting outside on the steps and wanted to warn you before just bringing a stranger in.
“outside, she told me not to follow her.” The little girl shrugged as she stood up on the chair to peak in the bags the brought with him.
Daeron’s hand fell from her head at once and he barely had time to fully open the door before he was rushing through it.
“it’s started-“ he was looking around the yard trying to see where you were. Then his eyes fell on the coop, and the hens that were outside of the fence they normally remain within. “Come, now!” He snapped at the maester and dashed ahead. A bit dizzy by the time he made it there, physical activity wasn’t something Daeron was used to.
You had this wild expression in your eyes, like you were fighting with ever shred of your being to remain conscious and in control of the situation.
“my love,” he dropped down at once touching your tense belly, your dress was pulled up and there was a substantial amount of bruising on it. You’d been attempting to push the babe out of you using your hands as well as the normal pushing methods.
You had sweat caked all over you and hay stuck to your legs and arms as while you attempted to turn into him and hide. He was rubbing your cheeks with both hands looking down between your legs. The sight almost made him as pale as you were.
“D-Dayne, I need help. Need you to get it out…” you stuttered gripping his shoulder as you pleaded. It felt like you were being torn in two and blood made you certain that that was exactly what was happening!
“my prince-“ the maester arrived huffing out and when he took in the sight before him he sighed. “Daeron you-“ this was not what he had been told was the purpose of this trip. He’d not been told much wt all, it was really just Daeron demanding the man accompany him down the road a few hours.
The maester was a smart man though, he realized quickly that the oldest of Maekar’s sons had found himself a paramour. Clearly there was affection here or he’d not of gone through the trouble of brining help for the birth.
“you should of brought the lady to Summerhall, this would of been easier there-more comfortable for her.” He scolded. Daeron could take a comment or two before acting out unlike his lord father or fiery brother so the man knew he was safe to make it.
“Go-boil water and find clean cloth. As clean as you can find it!” He directed the Prince.
You were blinking the confusion of the words they were saying and were making you think that you were losing quite a bit of blood.
“Dayne?”
The old man had said Daeron, had said Prince, had mentioned Summerhall.
“Quickly now My Prince!” The man snapped. You gripped to his tunic until your very last finger could not reach and you had to lay back.
“Dayne?” Your fingers flexed. Soft silk squishing between them and that sensation made your eyes blink open faster than they would have otherwise. You’d been expecting hay…expecting maybe Daynes hand or the crocheted blanket that laid over your bed. Not silk.
“easy” a deep voice that sounded a bit distance called out. A voice you did not know.
“Mm-gods” you shifted some wanting to sit up but the pain, and bandages holding fabric between your legs prevented that motion and you were resigned to remaining on your back. The ceiling was red, there was a real window, with blown glass and heavy black curtains with red trim. This was not your home…nor any home you imagined would be located in the nearest village. “Where is Dayne?” You called out again your hand moving to your stomach and you winced at the pain that even that slight weight caused.
“your sister is safe,” the voice stated and you could hear heavy footsteps nearing you. You had to stop yourself from asking after the babe. You feared the answer may not be one you wished to hear.
“The babe is with a wetnurse, she would not cease crying.” You couldn’t see him yet but it sounded at if he had pinched the bridge of his noise in annoyance. The wailing had woken half the bloody hall as well as himself. That was how he found the nightmare of the a scene, his oldest trying to sneak you in with the fucking maesters help. A random little girl holding a shrieking, very clearly, freshly born babe.
He had reached the bedside, close enough how to hear your slurred thanks to the gods as you finally exhaled in relief. You were alive, your child was alive. Clearly both of you in some strange setting but at least you were not dead beside a chicken coop!
“Dayne? That is what he called himself?” Yoh pulled your hands down from your face and looked towards the man who scoffed.
He was large, imposing in a way that older men were, Dayne was similar height but his shoulders were not nearly as far streching as this man’s. He was dressed in a robe, one more intricate than any gown you’d owned let alone seen!
“Can Dayne be brought here?” You asked quickly. The unease of being alone in a room with this clearly very frustrated man finally dawning on you now that you knew your sister and child were okay.
“Dayne is not his fucking name.” His silver beard did not shift at all despite his jaw clenching and you watched as he turned his back to you. “Daeron is the name I gave the fool.” His hand gripping the edge of the table he was stood before. Thumb tapping at the wood as he breathed steadily.
Dayne was his son’s mothers name.
Maekar had heard the little girl use it and assumed it was an uneducated child’s mistake…but when you had been murmuring it in your state of utter exhaustion he realized what Daeron had been doing. He did not want to be a prince? Did not want to do as he must, be apart of this house? He was galavanting and pretending as if he was the same age as Rhae! It was fucking make believe!
”Prince Daeron did you a disservice,” Maekar looked back at the bed, so he could see you over his shoulder.
Prince….Dayne was a prince. Dayne was Daeron. Prince Daeron. You were processing all of this just, slowly.
“I’ll not apologize on my son’s behalf,” he stepped back to the bed. “But I’ll find you a position here.” He eventually told you as he headed away from where you were laid towards the door and opened it.
“bring the babe.” He ordered to somebody you could not see in the hall.
“I-I’ve a cottage” you began to explain, as if to say you could just return there but the prince was as not really listening he’d always figured out what he was going to do about all this while you’d been asleep.
“not as his bride, of course.” Maekar rolled his eyes and your hand tightened as much as it could against the slick silk blanket. “But something…he said you bake well. Likely the kitchens.” You were informed and your jaw shook as this man decided your fate. You didn’t even know his name and he was deciding for you?
Your eyes were watering, from a mix of things, when the door opened and you saw her…bundles up in a silk and held in his, in dayne, no, Daeron’s arms.
“I’m sorry…” Daeron whispered coming to the side of the bed and sitting. He looked pitiful-guilty and worried and also greatful that you were alert again. He was the one that insisted they load you into the carriage when you went limp after the babe was born. At the moment he had not cared about the consequences he just wanted to see you open your eyes again.
He had not anticipated seeing how betrayed you were when you looked at him.
“forgive me.” He begged you as you reached for your child. His child and pulled her up to your neck clutching her there and kissing her chubby red cheeks. She’d quite the difficult welcome to this world and despite the burning anger you felt in your gut towards Daeron you also knew that he would be the only way that all this was navigated.
“Thank you…for getting me help.” You finally say, not able to look at him. You didn’t think you’d be capable of that for a while yet.
Taglist (lmk if you want to be added): @imsonotweird, @xyahx, @starkleila, @winkymar, @uroborosvirus, @faelinda, @rporter19, @niceforcum22, @qardasngan, @galactict3a, @mylcvemineallmine, @megan-mars
~{Ser Duncan the Tall x Traveling Companion!Reader}~
author’s note: short traveling companion reader x dunk lolzzz it’s the only fic ive been able to finish in a while i’m low on inspiration
plot description: after traveling with Dunk so long, you’d think that he’d want to return your friendship. But the man will hardly talk to you, and you begin to wonder if the foolish knight even wants you around at all.
warnings: none, lil suggestive as always
word count: ~1,600
enjoy!
Silence with Duncan was easy and familiar. Sitting across the fire, taking turns sparing glances at the other, that was the language you two communicated in.
Ever since he and Ser Arlan had found you alone on the road and let you join their party, Dunk had always been reserved in his interactions with you. Polite, impersonal greetings and necessary dialogue. You reasoned that he felt awkward around women, or found you difficult to converse with. But as the years passed and he still seemed to find no peace in your presence, you believed him to despise you for intruding upon his life. Perhaps his silence was a punishment, and he resented you. Nevertheless, Duncan never said a mean word, so you supposed his sullenness should be a relief if hatred was really what he felt for you.
Sometimes, when you caught his eyes on you, the softness made you think that it wasn’t hatred. When he gave you the larger portion at supper, or mended your cloak without request, or looked after you on nights when Arlan went to the brothel. Maybe he just couldn’t figure you out. After so long, perhaps he simply didn’t want to, because despite these small kindnesses, he never engaged with you beyond pleasantries.
His impassivity was exacerbated by fact that you were harboring an unfortunate crush on him, but how could you help it when the man was gentle and good and soft-spoken?
When Arlan passed, you were terrified that Dunk would leave you, but he said nothing to indicate he wanted you gone. Ashford nearly killed him, which made you eager to get on the road again. Even though you were unsure how the knight felt about you, the prospect of losing him had terrified you. When he lay recovering, you hardly left his side. He still said nothing; but he’d watched you through a swollen eye, and never asked you to leave, nor did he pull away when you held his hand for comfort.
Finally, a new trio rode out on Chestnut and Thunder, you sharing a saddle with Egg. Having someone to converse with was a welcome change, and Egg had plenty of knowledge of Westeros to keep you entertained on long days of riding. Duncan often listened in, sometimes chiming in. Something about the boy eased the quiet that had always settled between the two of you.
The three of you set camp upon a hill overlooking a nearby town, and Dunk had allowed Egg to go off and play with the children in the village, with the promise that he’d return before sunset. Watching him run off excitedly, you’d turned towards Dunk.
“He really brightens things, doesn’t he?” you inquired. Duncan had pressed his lips together in a thin line, humming in response.
Your heart had tugged with the realization that he still wouldn’t engage with you. The disappointment simmered as he moved to tend to the fire absently, and his nonchalance caused the sensation in your stomach to bubble with a vengeance until you were storming after him. You yanked the stick from his hand that he used to poke the coals and pointed it at him accusingly.
“I’ve been perfectly helpful and pleasant for all these years I’ve traveled with you,” you seethed, “and yet you snub me at every opportunity. If you find me so insufferable, I might as well just branch off here and leave you to enjoy conversation with Egg, since you won’t have one with me.”
With that, you stomped off, barely gathering the courage to look him in the eye as you blew past him. His brow was furrowed in what looked like fear, or confusion. It didn’t matter to you.
Down by the river you tried to cool off by pacing along the bank, muttering to yourself angrily. How could he still refuse your friendship after so many years of trust built between you? It had you wondering what could possibly be wrong with you that made him hate you. Still holding the stick from earlier, you poked at the soft mud beneath your feet. The rustling of leaves signaled the emergence of Duncan from the woods a few minutes later, and he approached you.
“I don’t want to talk now,” you huffed, refusing to meet his gaze. You looked across the water, but could feel his presence a few feet behind you. The warmth of his body shielded you from the late afternoon breeze.
“Aye, I know, so just let me talk.” he requested. You heard the man take a breath and murmur out a curse before beginning. “I’ve been a fool. A cowardly fool. All these years, I never found the courage to say it, and so I said nothing. It’s on the tip of my tongue whenever I speak to you, and so it’s easier… it’s better to say nothing. Fuck, I didn’t want to ruin anything. But now I’ve gone and ruined it anyways.”
You listened to his words carefully, turning slowly so that you could read his expression. He was finally looking you in the eye. Cerulean pools searched yours for a reaction. His chest was heaving with effort, or fear, or something of the like. But certainly not hatred. Now that you looked at him, he stepped closer. Closer than he’d ever willingly come to you, unless he was helping you from your mount.
“I want to speak to you, more than anything, only I cannot without risking telling you how I feel. And I’ve been afraid. But I am more afraid of losing you.”
You stared at him, a challenge. He accepted willingly, reaching out to grasp your hand. After so long holding back, he couldn’t help but tremble at the contact.
“Why have you been afraid of me?” You needed him to say it, out loud.
“Because every time I open my mouth around you, I chance spewing out how I want you to come closer.” he blurted, “be near me. I want to hear you laugh — I want to be the cause of it.”
“You’ve done a piss-poor job of making an effort to jest with me.” you bit back. And yet, you obliged his request for you to be nearer, and leaned into the warmth of his towering figure.
He laughed at that, an exhale of slight relief as he felt you squeeze his hand, an encouraging gesture that softened his shaking. “I feared you’d never return my affections so I stayed quiet.” he admitted earnestly. “But… I cannot have you interpret my silence as indifference. That is the furthest thing I feel for you.”
“Then what do you feel for me? I want you to tell me. I deserve that.” you urged him.
His jaw tightened. “It’ll change things.”
“Duncan.” you begged. He pulled your hands, enclosed in his giant ones, towards his lips.
“I love you,” he murmured, whispering the ghost of a kiss into your knuckles. “Gods, I love you. Every day I wish you were mine to hold, but I couldn’t imagine a world where I was worthy of ye. So I stayed quiet. I’m sorry for that, I’m sorry for the misery I’ve caused.” He searched your eyes. “Please forgive me. Please. I’ll be yours however you want me, even if it’s to be your manservant.”
“My manservant.” you said blankly. He flushed, thinking he’d gone too far. Until finally, finally, the smile he constantly sought to catch sight of crossed your lips. “I’ve never had one of those.”
“I’ll wash your clothes, and cook your meals, and protect you from harm.” he promised shyly.
“You already do those things, Dunk.”
“Well then… suppose I already am your manservant,” he pondered, the grin on your face emboldening him to push further into your space, enclosing you in his massive arms. “Maybe it’s time we became something else.”
“Have something else in mind?” you tugged at his shirt, pulling him towards your lips.
“I’ll be yours. I’m already yours. And if you want to be mine…”
“I’m already yours too, Duncan.” you swore, blinking at him expectantly. The way you pressed into his chest on the tips of your toes was enough permission for the man. His fingertips grazed up your spine and tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head up properly. His hands were so large and warm, cupping around your entire head, encompassing your in a delicate hold that felt so right.
When Dunk’s lips finally closed over yours, the kiss came suddenly, like he couldn’t hold himself back any longer, thumbs stroking the apples of your cheek fondly. In your dreams, you’d imagined him to be timid — the reality was that he moved with practiced care, so tenderly did he find the seam of your lips waiting to be opened by his tongue. His boldness made you gasp and he hastily pulled away.
“Too much?” He apologized, examining your flushed face with concern. You shook your head and surged upward, throwing your arms around his thick neck. It was his turn to grunt with surprise as your weight fell into him, although he caught it without effort. His arms found the crook of your waist and lifted you with ease, allowing the kiss to deepen. Instinctively, your legs encircled his back to draw him closer. Duncan was slower to pull away this time, but he eventually sought air. “We ought to have enough to talk about now that we’ve cleared the air,” he smiled at you, pecking your lips a few more times. “Do you think?”
“I think I’m still a bit angry at you,” you teased, licking at his jaw. “I’m still not sure I want to talk.” Duncan suppressed a groan as you pressed yourself even closer against his body.
“Aye, I was never so good with words anyhow.” You took a moment to look at the way his eyes sparkled with a new emotion you’d never seen him show so freely. He watched you examine him and raised a brow, grinning contentedly. “Enjoying the view?”
“Just kiss me, foolish knight."
Your knight wasn’t foolish enough to refuse that order.
contents (sfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!reader, inspired by HCA's The Little Mermaid, switching POVs (indicated with dividers), medieval rom-com, love at first sight, witchcraft, body horror, transformation, romantic and sexual tension, mutual pining, yearning, caretaking, non-sexual nudity, there was only one bed(roll), sword of chastity, protective!Dunk, virgin!Dunk, soft!Dunk.
part two ->
synopsis: A mermaid falls in love with a knight praying on her riverbank. A witch gives her legs and three days to make him love her back.
word count: 13K
a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @strangergraphics and @honeyluvsw! Thank you lovely humans for giving it a read before publishing (@lateknightbites and @siliceousooze). My last-minute mermay offering :') There will be two parts of this story!
The feeling of driving his sword through someone’s chest is entirely wretched. Duncan remembers the cause and what it carries, but every time he takes a life his jaw locks tight and his breath stops in a naïve surge of compassion.
The man pierced with Dunk’s iron says his mother’s name. It comes out thin and astonished, as though he had expected to die louder. Duncan hears it over the din. He watches the man’s eyes go queer in his face—film creeping over them, the pupils dulling, the whole wet look turning flat, the way dead fish do when they rise in poisoned water and the sun gets at their bellies.
An apology pushes up hard against Duncan’s teeth. He keeps it there. There is something mean in begging pardon of a man you have already run through. It makes him answer for your sorrow besides his own death. When the body sags and quits at last, Duncan braces a hand to the fellow’s shoulder, eases him off the blade, and lowers him onto his back with what care he can manage in a field full of screaming men. Then he pulls his sword free and breathes.
The stream is only a little way off. Sun has had all morning to work on his armour. The plates burn through his surcoat. The mail at his throat rubs raw and holds the heat there. Under it, the blood trapped in the quilted cloth has already begun to turn.
He knows he ought to go back. He knows the work is not done. His knees strike the bank before the thought is finished. He drags off one glove and then the other, drops them in the grass, and thrusts both hands into the current so fast the cold hurts. Water ropes round his fingers and under his nails and takes the blood by threads at first, then by clouds, until the stream runs pink, then weak as watered wine, then clear again as though the thing had never happened anywhere but inside his own skull.
He bows his head over it. His breath goes in rough through the nose and leaves slower. For a moment he can do nothing but look at his hands—broad things, nicked over the knuckles. Then he cups water to his face. The shock of it lifts the worst of the heat. He does it again. Lets it run from his brow and nose and mouth. Somewhere behind him men are still shouting. Steel still rings out, thin with distance now.
Duncan shuts his eyes. He has never been much for prayer, nor for finding the right words for it, but there are not many disbelievers in a foxhole. He opens his mouth.
“Mother, take him. He called your name. Forgive me for it. Mind his mother, too.” Breath shudders out of him. “Warrior, make me brave enough. Keep my hand true.”
Beyond the bank where the water deepens and the weeds grow long as hair, something has gone perfectly still to watch him.
When you see him kill your heart flutters strangely. Clean slice, straight for the heart. Merciful and cold in the same breath.
You know violence as the sharp white turn of a fish’s belly before your teeth close round it. The panic-kick of things that fit in your hands and things that do not, the times your own blood has gone stringing loose in the water because something bigger thought to make a meal of you first. Death below the surface is ugly, but it serves. Something eats. Something lives another day. Here, men spill one another open for reasons that do not end in hunger. The body falls in the grass and feeds no one. The waste of it catches at your mind.
Yet the great one uses his strength well. Joyless, he puts the blade where it must go and gets it done. Warrior, your thoughts supply at once, though he is younger than the word makes him sound.
Then, he stays. Only for a breath long enough to ease the dead man down from his sword and keep him from crumpling into the dirt like a sack split at the seams, but it is enough to draw you closer under the current. Almost as if he cannot bear for the man to go wholly alone. Almost as if being the hand that kills makes him answerable for that last small stretch between breath and none.
You slip nearer the bank, slow as weed-drift, and brace your fingers between the stones. The stream is clear here. It lets you see him drop to his knees. Lets you see him strip off his gloves with hands gone clumsy from heat. Blood clouds into the water when he thrusts his fingers in. He bends and sluices his face.
Your tail gives a hard, involuntary twitch. Until now he has been iron and leather and bright mail and the broad set of shoulders that belong to grown creatures who know their force. Then the water takes the blood and the grime from him and what rises from beneath it stills your breath clean out of you.
A boy. A beautiful boy. Young in the face despite the size of him. Wet lashes spiked dark. Mouth parted. Water running from brow to cheek to jaw, then slipping under the collar at his throat and down his neck. Your nails bite into the stones. Your gills flare wide and fast. You drag in more water through them without meaning to, as if the stream has suddenly thinned and left you short.
He opens his mouth and your eyes shut. The shouting from the field dulls. Stream keeps on at your shoulders. Wind moves somewhere high in the crowns of the trees. All of it goes faint around the shape of his voice. It reaches you blurred by distance, scant and earnest, with none of the grand sound men use when they want the world to think them holy. He asks for the dead man first. For the mother of the dead man. Forgiveness for what his own hand has done. Then he asks for bravery enough to return and do more of other men’s bidding before the sun goes down.
Nothing for himself. No glory. No protection. No rich spoil. Not even life.
Your grip slips and tightens again. Something deep in you, old as tide-pull, gives way. You have seen handsome things before. Fast things. Dangerous things. You have wanted and hunted and fed.
This is worse. This is a hurt that blooms sweet through the middle of you. By the time he lowers his head and the last of his prayer leaves his mouth and goes nowhere you can see, you love him so completely it feels less like being struck and more like sinking.
He rises and leaves, and the place he was at is empty as if it were bitten. The bank looks wrong without him on it. The water goes on over the stones as though nothing has happened. Your heart has no such manners. It follows him at once, crude and greedy, as though wanting were a hand with fingers on it. You part your lips with half a mind to call after him. Men can be called. Men can be coaxed to the water with the right note laid soft over the surface. You know how to turn the voice sweet enough to draw a neck forward, a foot wrong, a whole body into your keeping. The sound gathers under your tongue and dies there. To put a spell on him feels foul. It seems to you that a creature like that ought to come of his own will, or not at all.
You do not know by what rules men choose their maidens. You know only the old shapes from song and tale, the women with hair to their waists and wreaths at their throats, the ones led from halls by the hand, kissed before witnesses, warmed by fires built on dry land. Even the plainest of them has what you have not.
Legs.
By the time the sun tilts lower you are stern in the mind and weak in the heart, which is a poor way to go to a witch and the only way you have.
You gather what seems dear. Round pebbles from the streambed, the ones worn smooth as eggs. A white one with a milk-pale seam through the middle. A twist of yarrow and sage stolen from the bank where the roots drink deep. A handful of hazelnuts, though you have never eaten one and do not know if witches do. Three rowan berries bright as pinpricks of blood. One swan feather gone loose among the rushes.
Childish things, perhaps. Bride-things from the mind of a fool. You keep them all the same, tucked close in the fold of weed and river-grass you knot for carrying. Then you force yourself into one of the narrow runs that leaves the stream and threads the dark places inland. Mud slicks your sides. Roots comb your hair. The water grows warm and still and brown. It narrows to veins and then opens without warning into the bog pool, black at the middle, with a hut crouched on the shore as if it had grown there meanly from the peat.
You wait a long while with only your eyes above the weed. Nothing stirs but a gnat-cloud and the slow shake of sedge in the wind. At last you take one of the little stones from your hoard and throw it. It clicks against the wooden door. The sound is small; it still seems to carry everywhere. You sink lower, heart drumming hard, and hide among the pondweed with the offerings clutched to your breast, as if the right gifts and a brave face might yet make you into something a beautiful boy could love.
The door opens. The woman who steps out is bent nowhere and old everywhere. Her hair hangs in ropes the colour of drowned straw. Her shift is the grey of mushroom flesh. She peers toward the water as if she has smelt you already.
“Well,” she says. “What pretty thing noses at my threshold?”
You rise through the skin of water and push the bundle of gifts towards her. “I brought—”
“Did you.” She stoops and takes it between two fingers, as if it is something small and dead. “Then speak. A wish is no good to me till it has a mouth.”
You blink at her. Try to find the words for something prettier than a blunt girly whim, but they come out as they are. “I want legs.”
The witch looks at you for a moment. Then, she laughs. “That is not what you want.”
Mud stirs under your tail with the force of your annoyance. You dig the tip of it down into the black silt.
“Ah,” she coos, seeing it. “There is no shame in wanting, child. Only folly in pretending. You want a lad to love you.” You remain silent long enough for her eyes narrow with delight. “No. Not a lad.” She leans closer over the bank, and her smile turns terrible with it. “A knight.”
The scales along the back of your tail prickle. “Can you help me?”
“Likely.” She reaches down without warning, crooks one finger beneath your chin, and turns your face first one way, then the other. “You are fair enough for mortal work. Fairer than many that walk on two feet and think well of themselves besides. Why not sing to him? Why not call him into the water? Earth has given you gifts enough. Why do you not use them?”
You pull away from her hand. “I do not wish to lure him.”
Her mouth rounds. “Oh.” The sound is soft, but curdles your stomach all the same. “It is true love, then,” she says. “Pure as springwater. You would not stain your dear knight with a spell.” Her voice thins to a hiss. “What do you think you are doing here, if not spell-work?”
“The spell is not for him,” you say, and hear the weakness in it. “It is for me. I only need legs.”
“A spell is a spell all the same.”
She turns your bundle and lets the things fall. The pebbles, the berries, the herbs, the feather—all of it drops into the bog with a series of small, insulting plops. One hazelnut floats a moment before the water takes it.
“You may keep your trinkets,” she says. “I am not a hedge-wife to be bought with rowan and sage.”
Heat rises through you against the coldness of the bog. “Then why hear me?”
“Because I am curious.” She smiles again. “And because I can give you what you want. Under a condition,” she says.
Of course. Again, you keep still and say nothing. She seems to like that better than if you had begged.
“I will give you legs, and all that comes with them. You will wake with feet to stand on and knees to bend. You will go where he goes if you can keep pace. You will have three nights to win what you came for.”
The reeds whisper in the wind. Somewhere behind her hut a bird cries once and stops.
“If by the third night the knight loves you, the bargain is spent. If not, a soul is owed me.”
Your fingers tighten on the mud-bank. “Mine?”
“If you are dull enough.” The witch reaches into the fold of her garment and brings out a dagger. It is old and grisly, with a hilt of dark wood worn smooth by long handling. The blade is dark as well, but moonlight catches on it in a thin wet line. It looks hungry. “Or his.”
You stare at it.
“He may be given in your stead,” she says mildly. “A thrust under the rib. Upward, if you are weak in the arm. Bring him to me warm and I shall count us square.”
“Why would I do that?”
She lifts one shoulder. “Because hearts turn vicious when they do not get their fill. Because death is easier than longing for some creatures. Because on the third night you may find you love yourself a little more than him. I make room for all outcomes.”
The dagger gleams in her hand. You cannot stop looking at it. At last you whisper, “How shall I know if he loves me?”
The witch’s brows rise. “Were you not certain of it a moment ago?”
A pout blooms on your face unbidden.
She crouches at the bank then, bringing her face close to yours. Her breath smells of peat and old roots.
“When mortal men love their maidens,” she says, almost kindly, “they do not keep their hands to themselves. They part those fine legs you hunger after. They open the flesh between and put themselves there.”
A cold shiver runs the length of you.
Her smile returns, pleased and wicked. “There. That is plain enough even for a love-addled little fish.” She straightens. “Well? Do you accept?”
The word catches in your mouth. You sweep the dagger, the dark bog, the hut with your eyes. Then, her face, which has no mercy in it and no patience either. Because you have already loved him enough to come here, you say, “Yes.”
“Of course you do.” She puts the dagger down on the bank within your reach, then slips her hand somewhere inside her sleeve, deeper than the cloth ought to allow. When she draws it out again there is an egg in her palm, black-speckled and oddly warm.
You frown at it.
“Eat.”
“What is it?”
“An egg,” she says. “Do not go witless on me now.”
You take it from her. The shell is warm indeed, almost hot. “And then?”
“Then you sleep. Then you wake altered. It need not trouble you beyond that.”
It turns in your hand. “Raw?”
The witch gives you a look of withering contempt. “No, child. Put it in a silver cup and take it with honey.” She bares her teeth. “Yes, raw.”
Your eyes lower, ashamed of the question. The shell cracks easily. The inside slides thick and strange over your tongue. You swallow twice to get it down. The witch watches every motion.
When it is done, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and say, “How shall I find him?”
At that, something shifts in her face. Too rotten to be kindness, but it is the brief look of someone hearing a tune they know well.
“His blood is in the water,” she says.
Then she steps back, pulls the door open, and goes inside. It shuts between one blink and the next, leaving you in the bog with the dagger on the bank and the taste of the egg still clinging at the back of your throat.
You swim the way you came slowly. Moonlight makes the water mean and every root below look like a hand with the shape of something waiting. Above, the moon itself has thinned to a sickle near fine enough to seem a cut laid across the sky. It tells you that on the night of your judgement it will be gone altogether. You will hear it in the dark. His blood is in the water, the witch had said, and the current takes you at her word, carrying you through the narrow runs and back toward the broader stream where you first saw him kneel.
By the time you reach it, the bank is empty. You keep to the deeper part and let yourself drift there, belly turned uneasy by the egg, heart sore with a want that has already learned absence.
Sleep comes badly. Even so, it comes. The river rocks you. In the first fold of dreaming he leans over the bank again, all shadow and wet lashes, and this time when he opens his mouth it is not prayer that leaves it but your name. He reaches for you with a careful hand and thumb wedging under your chin. He bends and kisses you as though he has been thinking on nothing else.
Then the dream turns. Above you, something vast opens. The eye of god, grey and pale and lidless, hanging in the dark where the moon had been. Its patience is so complete the age of it exceeds the feeling of pity. Below, a pair of shears glints, iron-black and long as oars. The water thickens around you into a fat-like jelly, holds you fiercely, as the blades close with a sound no louder than a crab-shell snapping, and fire races you clean through.
Scale after scale dulls and loosens. Webbing parts. Bone groans as if gripped and wrung by unseen hands. Your tail splits where no living thing ought to split and your flesh draws apart. New joints wrench themselves into being with a wet internal crack that never seems to finish. You open your mouth to scream and swallow black water instead. Heat tears through you from spine to hip to the new-made lengths of you, all the way to ten small, useless ends where your body has never ended before. Hair roots burn. Teeth ache. Even your fingertips feel changed, as though the whole of you has been dragged through too narrow an opening and forced to come out other.
You wake choking while dawn creeps into the sky. Half on the bank, half in the wash of the stream, naked to the chill, with the dagger clutched to your breast. Air rasps into you thinly through mouth and nose, making panic strike at once. You paw at your ribs and find only smooth skin where your gills ought to flare. Sealed. Gone. You drag another breath and another, each one scant enough to frighten. The water at your side offers no help. It laps your hip stupidly, as if it does not know you.
When you look down, you see them. Legs.
Two of them, long and bare and wrong as peeled roots. Knees knuckled sharp. Feet splayed in the mud with their blunt little toes. They belong to you no more than the moon belongs to the bog. The sight turns your stomach. You put a hand to one thigh. The skin there is soft and strange, without scale or sheen or the strength of a tail built to drive through current. When you try to draw the limb in, the knee folds with a hideous ease and the whole thing jerks sideways. It feels loose. Breakable. Made badly.
Still, you have asked for them. You plant both palms in the earth and try to rise and pain bites through your middle. Your legs buckle, each seeming to choose a different direction. One foot slides out from under you. The other catches on nothing and twists. You go down hard on your hands, palms full of mud. For a while you can do nothing but crouch there trembling, hair hanging round your face, breath coming sharp and ugly through a body that no longer knows its own shape.
Morning hones itself as you kneel in it. The scent of his blood has thinned almost to nothing. In its place comes the rest: men everywhere, dead and living both. Sweat gone sour in gambesons. Split guts, horse piss, iron and smoke. The field beyond the trees breathes out ruin by the lungful.
You have three days. Three days to find the knight, make him love you, and keep your soul out of a witch’s hand. You cannot even stand. Water clouds your vision and you laugh bitterly at how it won’t let you go entirely.
On the morrow, Dunk sweeps through the edges of the battlefield after the worst of it, checking for men still breathing whose bodies might be saved or those who need a merciful hand to help them pass. His side aches badly where someone slashed him, one ear hears less than it did before the fight, and one of his sockets throbs with excess blood, but at least he’s not the one gasping his last. He keeps his eyes peeled for movement, yet when he notices a particular creature trembling at the very shore where his inept prayers were heard, he stills.
A girl. Mud-caked, naked, and—Gods—crying.
He hauls the reins on Sweetfoot at once, dulling an instinct to charge forward and holding her in a rushed trot instead. “M’lady!” he calls from horseback. “M’lady, be not afraid!”
Your eyes lift, but the rest of you dwindles immediately. Arms come to cover your head and Duncan notices you’re stricken with grime wrists to elbows as if you were trying to make your way uphill on all fours. He dismounts with a small grunt and hunches on instinct. His arms spread wide and gentle, and before he knows it he’s murmuring as he would to a skittish thing. “Easy now,” he whispers. “Easy. I vow this to you—I am no threat. My name is… Ser D-Duncan The Tall. I won't hurt you.”
The title sits oddly in his mouth when he’s half-shrunken and on bent legs. As he comes closer, his cheeks begin hoarding warmth despite him, for the shape of you is visible and evident even at this angle. Breasts plastered to your thighs billow with each frightened breath. Your belly creases in the middle and clay tears and crumbles off your knees when you shudder. He sees nothing else, but in his chest an unbearable instinct to cradle you almost overcomes him.
His head turns to the side, so he watches you only with his eye’s corner. When he’s close enough, he undoes his cape, spreads it gently over your back and lets it fall over you. He has a fleeting thought on what kind of smell it must carry and whether that matters.
Only then does he see the dagger. It is clutched in your fist, half-hidden by mud and the hunch of your body, but iron is iron. His hand stills on the edge of the wool. For a breath he says nothing. A crying maid with a blade is still a maid with a blade, and fear can make a body quicker than training.
“Easy,” he says again, lower. “You needn’t use that on me.”
You stop trembling enough to lift your face. The blade drops. Then all at once you are on him, hands closing round his waist with such force Dunk rocks back on his heels. Something reaches him through wool and shaking breath. Unintelligible mutter. Then—found me. And again, softer, urgent with respite. Knew you would. Knew you’d find me.
For a moment he does nothing but stand there with his own arms half-raised, startled clean through. Then they come round you, shy and boyish. One hand settles between your shoulders. He rubs once, then again, broad and slow, as though you are a frightened colt and his hand might smooth you into sense. “There now,” he says, because it is what comes. “There now.”
Beneath the mud and the cold reek of the stream there is a smell to you he cannot place. Something green. Something sweet. It cuts strangely through blood and horse and churned earth.
He lets you cling till your breathing eases enough to stop catching. When it eases, he gives your shoulders one careful squeeze and tries to look at your face without looking full at your face.
“M’lady,” he says. “Have you been hurt?” You shake your head against him. He swallows. “And your clothes—were you robbed?” There is a pause to that. Then you nod.
“Ah.” Dunk shuts his mouth on all the things that might follow that and does not ask them. “Well. I’ll take you to the village,” he says. “We’ll find something to put on your back, and someone to look you over.”
You do not let go, and he finds he does not much mind that. By now he is holding most of your weight besides. He means to set you back a little then, only enough to walk you to Sweetfoot, but the moment he loosens his hold your legs betray you. They fold queerly with the loose, witless give of limbs that do not know their own business. Dunk catches you fast under the arms before your knees can strike earth.
Some hurt in the low back, he thinks. Or the spine knocked wrong. He has seen men go slack in the limbs from less.
“Easy,” he says again, lower now. “I’ve you.”
Your head comes up. There is mud on your cheek, tears dried in bright tracks through it. Up close the sight of you lands worse on him than it did before. Such beauty in such a place. Such beauty at all. If someone asked him later, he would have no better answer than that.
“May I carry you?” he asks.
You nod.
He gathers the cape tight first, fingers making poor work of it. Then he crouches so you may put your arms round his neck. When you do, your face comes so near he feels the warmth of your breath on his mouth. His own has gone dry. “I will lift you now,” he says, for want of anything wiser.
One arm behind your back, the other under your knees. He brings you up. The pull in his side is vicious enough to whiten his sight for a blink, but he only grunts and holds you the tighter for it. You are light to him. Light should not be so difficult.
Sweetfoot turns her head and blows at the sight of you in Dunk’s arms. “Mind yourself,” Dunk mutters, and means the horse, and himself, and perhaps the day entire.
Getting you into the saddle proves ugly work. There is no good way to manage a naked maid wrapped in a cloak when one hand is wanted for decency, the other for balance, and his side seems set on parting company with him. He stands a moment with his jaw shut hard, then does it the only way such things ever get done—awkwardly.
“M’lady,” he says, hot-faced, “I must set you before me.” You only look at him with those wide, strange eyes and make no complaint.
He gets one boot to stirrup, hauls himself up enough to raise you after, and nearly fumbles you when the cloak slips and his forearm feels the bare warmth of your back through the wool. Heat runs through him so fast it feels wrong. He gets you right the second time by sheer stubbornness, settles you before the saddle-bow, then adjusts behind with a grunt he prays sounds like effort.
It does not improve matters.
There is no room worth speaking of. You sit before him with your hair damp and knees thrown to one side, and Dunk must put an arm round your middle the moment Sweetfoot moves or see you slide clean off. He has no notion what one does with a girl in such a fix. Horses, boys, wounds, armour, hard roads, those he understands. A maiden fair as vision and shaky in the limbs, is another matter. He finds himself hoping there is some widow in the village with a stern face and capable hands who might take one look at you and know everything he does not. Then he may ride on to Riverrun with peace in his mind.
The thought sits well enough till you lean back. A little more weight at each step, whether from weariness or trust he cannot tell. Soon your back is to his chest and your hair keeps straying under his chin. He has to look somewhere, so he looks at your hands on Sweetfoot’s neck.
Mud is dried in the lines of your palms and packed black beneath your nails. The nails themselves are pale in a way he mislikes. A drowned sort of blandness, as though the blood had only lately remembered to leave them. His hand closes harder on the reins.
What befell you? Robbed, you had said—no, nodded. Robbed of clothes and the strength in your legs. Robbed near of your wits, to be found bare and weeping on the skirts of slaughter. His mind offers up answers and every one of them is ugly.
“You are safe enough for now,” he says, because the words come and because he wants them said. “We’ll have you among decent folk directly.”
You say nothing. Perhaps doze. Perhaps you only listen. When Sweetfoot steps through a rut, your head tips back against him for an instant, and Dunk’s arm goes firmer round your waist.
Riverrun can wait an hour. Even a day, if it must. First the village. Clothes. Food. A woman to tend you. Then he will know what ought be done.
He keeps his eyes ahead and rides. When the road begins to thicken with huts and kitchen smoke he turns Sweetfoot toward the first cottage with a swept patch of yard and washing strung on a line. A hen darts from underhoof squawking. Dunk reins in, slides down, and reaches up for you.
The door opens before he can knock. A broad woman with red wrists and a face like a hatchet stands in the threshold, takes in Dunk, the horse, the cloak-wrapped girl in his arms, and narrows her eyes. “I can explain,” Dunk says, which is a poor beginning and sounds like one besides.
“Can you?” she says.
Heat climbs his neck. “I found her by the stream yonder. She’s been robbed, I think. She’s got no clothes, and her legs are none too steady. I thought—” He falters, then tries again. “I thought a woman might better see to her.”
The woman looks past him to your face. Something in hers shifts, not softer exactly, but less sharp. “Well, I am a woman,” she says. “Bring her in, then, you great oaf, and stand there bleeding on my threshold no longer.”
Dunk ducks his head and does as he’s bid. The cottage is low-ceilinged and close with the smell of onions and wool. He sets you down where the woman tells him, though not without trouble, for your legs go queer under you again and your hand catches in his sleeve with sudden force. “You are safe,” he says under his breath.
Your fingers tighten. “Please,” you whisper. “Do not leave.”
That near aches him more than the clinging had. “I’ll be just outside,” he says, for the woman is already flapping a hand at him to get out and because there is no fitting place for him in a room where a maid must be dressed. “Only outside. I vow it.”
A beat. Then, you let go. The door shuts on him. Dunk stands in the yard with a hand pressed to his side. Through the wall come the dim sounds of women’s voices, yours low and strange, the older one brisk and practical. Once there is a clatter. Once a silence long enough to make him straighten from the fence-post he had leaned on. He is thinking whether it would be madness to knock when the woman steps out at last, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Well?” Dunk asks.
“Well, nothing’s broke,” she says. “No fever that I can feel, no wound worth speaking of. She’s frightened half witless and weak in the legs, that’s all. Hungry, too, I’d say. May be she took some knock to the head. May be she was born a little moon-touched. Hard to say.”
Dunk blinks at her. “She knows her own name?” he asks.
The woman gives him a look. “She knows enough.”
That does not answer much, but before he can find a better question the door opens and you come out.
The clothes hang on you as they would on a child dressed from a dead woman’s chest: a coarse shift, a faded gown, sleeves a touch too short, hem uncertain, boots big enough to host toes twice as long as yours. Your hair has been pushed back from your face with damp hands. Your legs still look unsure of themselves. Dunk moves before thinking and takes you by the elbows when you waver on the step. “There now,” he murmurs. “Steady.”
You look up at him with such plain relief that his grip gentles.
The woman snorts softly behind you. “Take her home, then.”
Dunk clears his throat. “Aye. That is—” He looks down at you. “Where is your home, m’lady?”
Your hand comes up and closes over his forearm. “There is nothing for me there,” you say. Your fingers tighten. “Please.”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. “I am bound for Riverrun,” he says at last. “I’ve business there. I cannot—”
“That is where I am going,” you say quickly. “The last place where I have anything. Please. Take me with you.”
Dunk stares. It may be nonsense. It may be the plain truth. It may be only the talk of a girl too frightened to be left among strangers. He cannot tell. What he can tell is the feel of your hand on his arm, the look of you trying not to sway where you stand, and the knowledge that if he leaves you here, he will think on it all the road to Riverrun and probably every road after.
The woman folds her arms and watches him make a misery of the choice. “Well?” she says.
Dunk lets out a breath. “I can take you as far as Riverrun,” he says, still looking at you. “No farther promised than that.”
Your smile is answer enough. Later, when doubt gets into him, it will be one of the things he reaches back for.
Soon after the village, Duncan finds himself about a number of tasks he had not meant to take on. He accepts the pity bundle of more garments from the woman, all of them light. He lifts you to the saddle, then goes back for Chestnut and Thunder. He loses the mark of his back, gathers his scant belongings, counts them, and thinks of the trouble of one bedroll. Riverrun lies four nights off, and his purse is too light for inns along the way. He shifts the saddle on Chestnut till it will hold you steady enough, then goes through the poor store of cloth he owns to see whether there is anything fit to spare you. At last he finds a blanket little better than rough army issue and ties it round your shoulders with a length of string.
When he is done, he steps back to look at you and nearly laughs for the misery of it. A strange girl with no place to go, less worldly goods than he has, a queer way of speaking, and legs that seem only half-convinced by land—and here he is, setting his road to her pace as though this were a sensible thing. Duncan knows well enough what sort of fool he is. Dunk the Lunk, thick as a castle wall, slow as an aurochs. Still, his mouth pulls into a shy half-smile.
“Ready?” he asks.
The world of men continues to bewilder. They kill each other relentlessly and let the bodies rot out in the fields until crows find them. They speak oddly. They wear clothes. Rough things that scratch the skin round armpits and knees, and make their beasts wear clothes too. They walk on two imbalanced legs that have less sense to them than you would ever think they have, which end with feeble little things that need the most woeful instrument imaginable to stay protected—shoes.
The pain comes on you late. At first everything is so strange that the cuts in your feet barely matter. Then, just as you get the first grasp on how to walk on those fleshy stilts, an old woman gives you a shift, a skirt that wedges itself between your thighs, stockings that roll beneath your knees, and a pair of disgusting animal-skin things that make the wound across your sole press and bleed, press and bleed. You could fit another set of those ugly little toes into them and still they’d knock your ankles raw. Duncan seems to think your wits were rumbled sideways by whatever befell you, and sighs through his nose each time you try a few wobbling steps before giving up and tossing you from one place to another. From doorstep to horseback. From horseback to ground. From ground back to horseback again. Then, the horse takes over the carrying.
None of this matters greatly. None of it rubs you wrong in any way, because your knight has found you and agreed to take you to Riverrun, of which you know only that it is overrun with rivers and mean spirits, and you want nothing to do with either. You want everything to do with him, though, so you let the beast called Chestnut carry you toward it and knock your newly acquired arse against the hard leather of her saddle.
You glance at him often, only to make certain you were right to choose him, but Duncan proves worth every bruise on your buttocks. He is prettier close by. Washed of blood, his face goes almost holy at moments—too open and clean in the look of it—then a shift of shade will catch under the brow and jaw and make a man of him again so suddenly it gives you pause. His arms are strong enough to carry a girl like you. His heart, plainly, is soft enough to help one and trust one within the space of a single hesitant breath.
That softness lives in him in sly places. Not only in the face, though the face does its share. In the stammer that catches him when he is too aware of himself. In the way he asks leave before he touches you, as though a thing may be both necessary and solemn. In how he handles even his own size like it might alarm somebody if set down too hard. You begin to see that the boyishness in him is not only a matter of smooth cheeks and dark lashes and that honest mouth. It lives deeper. Some tender piece of him has made it to his great age uncrushed.
You have no notion what he knows of love. His lips look unkissed, which strikes you at once as improbable and agreeable. Kissable all the same. So are his cheeks, if it comes to that, and the hollows under his eyes look made for the brushing of thumbs in acts of pity or fondness or whatever human girls do when they mean to soothe a man. You think, in the stupid way of girls, that it may be just as well if he knows nothing. You know very little yourself. The males of your kind are greedy, quarrelsome creatures who would bite the shine off a scale if they thought it theirs by right. The tenderest kiss you have ever given in all your life was to a trout, and that was mostly because it was dying.
Still, you know enough to know this: there is something dear in a creature so large keeping such a breakable heart inside him. Duncan feels safe to you in the way deep water once did. Not because he could not drown you if he wished, but because every part of him seems arranged against wishing it.
The road, of course, is another matter. It goes on and on, pale and hard beneath the horses, made by men for reasons men must have found clever. When there is no canopy the sun comes down bare and mean, scorching your face, your scalp, the tender tops of your hands. Dust lifts and settles in your throat. The saddle knocks under you with a steady, sour persistence, and after a while even wonder thins into boredom. You cannot understand why anyone would choose such a path. Roads have no give. They hold the day’s heat. They are full of stones and wheel-ruts and the old droppings of beasts. Water, at least, takes your shape when it carries you.
But then, toward evening, the land alters. Light begins to bleed richer colours over everything. It gathers in the grasses and tips the hedges. It slicks itself along the backs of flies until the air is full of brief, burning specks. The trunks of trees grow black on one side and warm on the other, and the far fields seem to have been brushed by something molten and low. From the height of Chestnut’s back, you see land from its own heart for the first time: furrow, ditch, thorn, moss, little stones shining in the road, the long back of the world lifting itself toward dark.
The dying sun finds Duncan too. It catches in his hair until the auburn of it wakes with red-gold hidden under it, banked fire stirred by a stick. All of him brightens: cheek, ear, the blunt line of his nose, the great slope of shoulder under travel-stained cloth. When the sun begins to go, his colours come alive. It seems unfair that a thing may grow more beautiful just when the light is going, as if it was never meant to be kept.
“M’lady?” His voice pulls you from the sky. You turn your head and find him watching you from Sweetfoot’s back. “Are you tired?”
You consider this. “Tired of what?”
He blinks.
“Sitting on a beast?” you ask.
A sound leaves him then, low and huffed through his nose. “Aye. Riding can weary a body. We should make camp soon. It will be dark before long.”
You look him over for signs of weariness, but he shows none that you can read. He sits tall enough, broad enough, with the reins easy in one hand and the dust on him as if it has been there all his life. “The road is hard,” you allow. “The beast is delightful.”
At that you lean forward and wrap both arms around Chestnut’s neck. Chestnut blows out a pleased breath and dips her head as if she agrees with you entirely.
Duncan stares for a moment. Then his mouth presses itself into a line and he looks back to the road.
“Do people always choose paths this hard?” you ask.
“This?” he says. “This is no hard road. It’s straight, and flat enough, and there’s no great wind to cut at us. There are harder paths than this.”
You frown. “Why would anyone take a harder path?”
“Sometimes they must.”
You consider that gravely. Men do seem fond of arranging misery into rules and then obeying them.
After another little while, Duncan says, “Keep your eyes peeled for a place to camp, if there is one you like.”
Your hand lifts before he has finished speaking. “There.”
He follows the line of your finger. There is only a thick tangle of trees and bramble ahead, with sun lying through the branches. “There?” he says.
“By the water.”
He looks again, slower this time, as if water may show itself out of courtesy. “There ain’t water there, m’lady.”
“There is.”
His gaze comes back to you. It is a look you dislike before you understand it. Careful. Mild. The look given to a creature who has said something foolish and might be frightened if the foolishness is named aloud. Pity sits in it, thinly covered.
Heat pinches under your ribs. “Beyond those trees,” you say. “Where the sun takes aim. There is water.”
Duncan shifts in the saddle. For a moment it seems he means to answer. Instead he only draws a breath and turns Sweetfoot’s head. “All right, then.”
The gentleness of it makes the pinch in you flare hotter. The males of your own kind speak so when they wish to make you small. Little thing, pretty thing, witless thing. They forget how quickly a little thing can open a throat when she has teeth and a mind to use them. How a male may reach for you in the weeds, grinning, and only know himself dead when his fingers will no longer close because all the blood has run out of them.
You say nothing. Chestnut follows Sweetfoot off the road and into the green press, Thunder trots close behind with all of the belongings clinking at his sides.
Branches drag over your shoulders. Leaves brush your face and catch in your hair. The ground grows softer almost immediately, darkening underhoof. You hear it before he does, of course: the low, glassy talk of water over stone, hidden under bird-call and the rasp of insects. A moment later Duncan hears it too. His head lifts. Sweetfoot’s ears prick forward. He urges her on a little faster without looking back.
The trees thin, and beyond them lies a small bed of grass pressed close to a clear stream running lazy under evening light. A willow grows at the bank with its long hair fallen into the water, making a green chamber beneath it. The surface holds the last of the sun in broken pieces and lets them go again.
Duncan reins in. At first, he only looks. “Well,” he says at last, quiet and baffled. “Gods be good.” You sit straighter on Chestnut’s back when he turns to you. “How did you know?”
Your chin lifts, because even though he has no right to know, you are a proud creature. “I am not so witless as you think me, knight.”
At that his face changes. The bafflement stays, but something troubled comes into it too. “I never thought you witless,” he says.
Instead of dignifying that with a response, you begin getting off Chestnut. It seems simple enough. One leg must go somewhere, then the other after it, and the ground waits below with its usual bad intentions. You slide halfway down the saddle and there the business collapses. Your skirt catches, one foot finds nothing. Your hands clutch at leather and mane, and you are left hanging from the side of the beast in a deeply humiliating fashion, breathing hard through your nose.
Duncan is there before you make a fool of yourself entire. His hands span your waist through the shift, large and warm and terribly sure. He lifts you down as if the effort costs him nothing, though you have seen the way his side catches sometimes when he thinks you are looking elsewhere.
“I only meant,” he says, setting you on the grass with more care than the world deserves, “you keep surprising me.”
You say nothing to that. Only look at him from close by, and shamelessly so. He is shy for a lad this big. It pleases and worries you in equal measure. It makes you wonder, briefly and without comfort, whether he will know what to do with you at all. Whether he knows how men put themselves between the legs of women who want them so dearly. Whether, third night from this one, the witch will have the soul she grinned for.
Before you can ask, Duncan looks away. “You may bathe, if you like,” he says. “Under the willow there. I’ll start a fire. See to some food. Water the horses after.” Then he turns from you with the haste of a sailor escaping a sinking ship.
The first thing you lose is the shoes. You wrench them off and drop them in the grass with hatred. The cut across your sole still presses when your foot meets earth, but at least it is no longer trapped against leather, forced to bleed and bleed in its own little prison. The stockings go next, or try to. They roll and cling beneath your knees like pale eels. Then, the blanket. You tug at the ties and laces and strings, cross with their stubbornness, then only angrier. Human clothes are full of tricks and no kindness. At last, with a tired grunt, you pull the shift up over your head.
Behind you, wood clatters. You look round.
Duncan stands a few feet away with firewood scattered at his boots. His mouth has parted. For one suspended moment he simply gapes. Then flush climbs fiercely round his ears, up his neck, into his face, and he drops into a crouch to gather the sticks as if they have become suddenly precious.
“M-m’lady,” he says, strangled. “You oughtn’t—Seven save me—you oughtn’t undress before a man you scarce know.”
You stare at him.
“I thought you meant to go beneath the willow,” he goes on, still looking hard at the twigs. “Out of sight. I thought—what are you doing? Have you never been on the road? Or near men? Or near folk at all?”
An instinct pinches you, strange and unwelcome, to cover your chest. You do, though slowly, and with no clear idea why. He looks as if you have done him some harm. “It is only flesh,” you say. “You have flesh too. What is so wicked about mine that you cannot look?”
He makes a small, suffering sound and bends lower over the firewood. “My flesh is—” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “It is different.”
You glance down at yourself, then at him. “How?”
His hand closes on a stick so tightly the bark cracks. “M’lady, I beg you.”
“For what?”
“For pity,” he says, so miserably that your brows lift. “It is improper, is all. A maid shouldn’t—And I don’t mean to have you think I’m that sort of man. I am trying to do good by you.”
He sounds so nervous your annoyance falters. Only for a moment.
You pick up the shift and hold it to your chest, then begin toward the bank. Walking still feels like being made to argue with the earth. Each step must be planned, lowered, endured. Too much pressure and the pain flares white-hot. Too little and your knee goes soft. Your feet seem stupidly far away from the rest of you, little traitors sent ahead to ruin your dignity.
You stop beside him. Duncan bows his head even lower, as though your bare ankle might strike him blind.
“Do you dislike women’s bodies?” you ask.
The sound he makes then is very nearly a whine. “Please, m’lady. Spare me. I am only a hedge knight. I am trying—please.”
You huff at him. “Forgive me for tormenting you with some skin.” Then you limp on beneath the willow’s hanging hair.
There, hidden by the long green fall of it, you strip with more temper than grace and lower yourself toward the stream. This is going poorly. Your knight does not seem at all like the men you have watched from the shallows, those shore-men who seize their lovers round the waist and press them down laughing in the dark, bodies gleaming, mouths so sinful your tail once twitched hard enough to stir silt. Duncan behaves as though the sight of you is a trial set by cruel gods.
At least there is water.
The stream receives you kindly, though changed skin and sealed ribs make even kindness strange. You lie back over its cool sheet and drift where it is deep enough to hold you, looking up through the willow leaves as they sieve the last gold from the sky. The current slips beneath your new body, uncertain around the parts it no longer knows, and you let it carry what little of you it still can.
Duncan remains crouched over the scattered firewood long after you limp beneath the tree, ears burning as though someone has boxed them both. The stream talks quietly behind him. The horses crop at the grass.
He has no answer for what has just happened. None he likes, anyway.
You are strange. Stranger than any girl he has known, though known is too large a word for the few girls that ever had cause to look twice at him. Your face is strange too, in how open it is. He has not seen one so plain and easy to read since he was a boy looking down into still puddles and finding his own there. He can tell when you are baffled. When you are tired. When you are pleased. When you are angry.
Now you are angry. Likely under the willow still wearing that fierce little frown, cross with him because he turned his eyes away. That is the oddest part. Most maids, he thinks, would be angry with a man for gaping. You seem wounded that he did not gape longer.
He did gape. Only a heartbeat, maybe, before sense struck him like a thrown stone, but a heartbeat can be a mean long while when a girl stands bare in afternoon light. He saw the lift of your breasts before your arms came up, full where the borrowed shift had hidden them, and prickling with river-cool air. He saw the narrow give of your belly, the line where ribs fell into waist, the dark crease of shadow beneath. Enough. More than enough. Too much for a man meant to be gathering sticks and doing honourable things with his hands.
You asked how your flesh was different from his. The terrible thing is he would only need to stand up to show you.
That thought near makes him groan aloud. He jams another stick into the small pit he has scraped clear with his boot and starts arranging kindling with far more care than kindling deserves. Fire. Food. Horses. Bedroll. Those are proper troubles. Those can be solved with hands and a bit of sense.
The bedroll is the worst of them. Four nights to Riverrun. A purse too light for inns unless he means to arrive there hungry and horseless. He pokes at the kindling and gives himself over to a hard, practical anguish.
When the fire catches, he goes to see to the horses. Sweetfoot accepts his hand with her usual calm. Chestnut, traitor that she is, blows warm air straight into his face and tosses her head toward the willow.
“Oh, have you a new favourite?” Duncan mutters. Chestnut chews at nothing, looking pleased with herself. “Aye. Good. All of you against me, then.”
He returns to the fire with what food he has: one mangy rabbit still fit for roasting, a clutch of withered potatoes that have begun trying to become more potatoes, and bread gone hard enough to argue with a knife. He has had worse meals. Many worse. Still, he finds himself worrying whether it will be enough for a tender-mouthed creature like you, whether you are used to finer things, softer things, things served by hands that have never been black with battlefield mud.
The whole day sits oddly in his skull. Morning had found him still full of war. Blood from the day before. The sour stink of men opened for no good reason. Boys felled in the grass with their eyes gone milky and their mothers’ names drying on their tongues. He had been angry then, in a slow thick way, at killing and lords and banners and all the great heavy wheels that roll over little bodies until no one can tell what shape they had.
Then he found you by the stream, naked, half-wild with fear, concussed or close enough, begging him without quite begging to take you with him. Now you are angry because he would not stand there and leer at your tits.
Duncan understands horses better than people. Dogs too. Even mules, ugly-hearted beasts though they can be. A horse gives warning before it kicks. A dog shows teeth before it bites. People smile, weep, lie, ask strange questions, go hurt in places a man cannot see. You escape even the small customs he has managed to learn.
He lifts his eyes from the rabbit just as the wind moves the willow’s hanging hair aside. Through the green gaps, he sees you.
You are floating on your back where the stream broadens under the tree, arms spread loose on either side, legs moving slowly beneath the skin of the water. The last light scatters over you in pieces. A knee and a hip. The small rise of your belly. Water darkens and brightens as it crosses you, breaking your shape and making it whole again. Your hair fans out around your head. Your eyes are closed, mouth parted, and the stream slips between your lips as though you have invited it.
Duncan ought to look away, but the boy he is, he doesn't.
There is enough of you on display to shame a septa dead in her robes. Breasts, thighs, the place between them blurred and shown by water in turns. Yet your face holds him worst. The peace of it, the ease of it. Stripped of cloth and terror and all the hard rules that seem to trouble you, you look newly made and older than the earth together. Not human, he thinks. Then he feels wicked for it, because you are a girl, and hurt, and under his protection.
Still, you look like one of those goddesses men carved in old stones before the Seven came, the kind Duncan knows nothing about except that a wiser man would kneel or run. You look pleased to have the world off your skin. No wonder you shed clothing like a snare.
The willow falls back into place. Green covers you again. Duncan looks down at the rabbit, jaw tight, and turns it over the flame before it can make it to coal. He scolds himself too, keeps muttering Ser Arlan's little knightly preachings to tear his mind away from what boys think about, and back to what sworn swords should think about.
The stream sloshes and plops with the sound of a body being dragged out of it. There, Dunk wonders what exactly to do, because he knows well enough you are no good at walking yet, but finds himself in the grip of a strange preference. He would rather let the stumble happen and rush to help than prevent it outright, if prevention means enduring another comparison of flesh.
Soon enough, he catches you limping from the corner of his eye to the heart of his vision. You come to sit beside him much too close for his peace. The cold of the river comes off you plainly, running against the heat of his shoulder where yours nearly touches. Damp has darkened your hair and set loose drops along your neck. Before he can shift away without making it an insult, you arrange yourself with great importance and announce, “There. Modest.”
Dunk looks. Stupidly, but he does. He has never known cloth to be a thing worthy of praise. Cloth is only cloth. A courtesy. A barrier. A way for decent folk to go about the world without setting fire to one another’s ears. Yet in his want to tell you that you have done well, he stabs his own foot clean through.
The linen has clung to you everywhere it ought to have had the manners to hang loose. Breast, belly, the small inward draw of your waist—all made plainer by water and the thinness of the shift. The blanket lies in a heap too near the fire, abandoned as though wool has somehow offended you.
He holds the lump in his throat from becoming a sound. Then he reaches for the blanket, shakes the worst of the grass from it, and puts it over your shoulders with as much solemn care as if he were robing a queen. He draws it close beneath your throat and tucks one edge over the other.
“You’ve not dried yourself off,” he says. “Cold, aren’t ye?”
You look at him for a moment. Then, there's a nod, and, thank the Seven, your hands take over the keeping of the blanket at your breastbone. The lump in Dunk's throat loosens.
He busies himself with the food. The rabbit has given what it can to the pot, which is less than a rabbit ought to give and more than nothing. The potatoes have softened. The bread will have to be chewed with conviction. He ladles the thin pottage into one of his wooden bowls and passes it to you.
You take it in both hands and eye it with open suspicion. “What is this?”
“Supper,” he says.
You smell it.
“It ain’t much,” Dunk goes on, because the look on your face begins to trouble him. “Only rabbit and some potatoes, and the bread’s gone hard. Still, you ought to eat. There’s a day on the road ahead, and you’ve had naught in you since—” He stops, because he does not know since when. “A while, I’d wager.”
He expects disappointment, perhaps. Revulsion, if you are some lord’s daughter after all, though what lord’s daughter finds herself naked and half-drowned by a stream is beyond him.
Instead, you look bewildered. “You made this?”
Dunk blinks. “A-aye, m’lady.”
You dip your fingers in before he can offer a spoon. The first bite goes into your mouth carefully, as though supper may have sharp bits within it. Then your face changes.
It is a small thing, merely a lifting of brows and mouth pausing round the taste. Then you take another bit, and another, hotter than is wise, huffing through it and laughing once under your breath as though the whole notion of cooked rabbit has played some clever trick on you. Grease shines at the corner of your mouth. You lick it away with no shame at all.
“This is good,” you say, and sound surprised by your own gladness. “This is very good.”
Dunk is bewildered. It is one kind of cruelty to tease him and huff at him for trying his best at decency and failing, another to make a jest out of him and his hedge-ridden status. He looks down into his own bowl.
“Must you mock me?”
You stop chewing at once. The mouthful is too large to swallow cleanly, but you do it anyway and wince as it goes down. “Mock you?” you ask. “Why would I?”
“It’s only rabbit,” he mutters. “And mangled potatoes. You needn’t make a show of it.”
The hurt that comes into your face lands in him badly.
“I did not mean to hurt you,” you say. “Forgive me. I only meant—I would not be able to make this.” A pause. “Or start a fire, for that matter.”
Dunk lifts his head. “You do not know how to start a fire?”
You look at him a moment too long, then back into the bowl. “I’ve never needed it.”
That answer is another strange stone set on the growing pile of you. He gives a low hum and scrapes at his own supper with the spoon. “Well,” he says after a moment, rough with regret. “I beg your pardon, then. If you truly enjoy it, I am glad.”
Your eyes lift. “I do. Truly.”
Knowing it is true does something worse than the praise did. It catches him off guard and warms him under the breastbone, soft and dangerous. He leans back on one hand, taking you in. Half-smile, bare feet peeking from beneath the blanket, bowl clutched as though it contains some small wonder.
“So,” he says, because his mouth is safer when it is trying to crack an unresolvable riddle, “you’re a lady who cannot cook, cannot start a fire, and despises garments and shoes, but has some queer prescience when it comes to finding a body of water. Hm?”
Silence only, then a wide-eyed glance.
“Peculiar,” Dunk says.
“I do not understand why men wear so much cloth anyway,” you say, picking at the blanket where it sits under your chin. “What is peculiar is to have skin so feeble—”
There, your voice dies. Dunk has gone very still with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Men?” he says.
You blink.
“You are people too,” he says, after a beat.
The words are gentle enough, but they come with a puzzled furrow between his brows, as though he is trying to set you in the proper place and cannot find the shelf. He takes another mouthful and chews it slowly. “Have you worn lighter cloth before, then? Before… all this?”
Before the stream, he means. Before the mud. Before the village woman and the borrowed gown. Before whatever thing he has decided happened to you.
Your fingers tighten round the bowl. “Lighter, yes.”
“How light?”
You give him a careful look.
Dunk seems to understand his mistake before you answer. Red returns to his ears with comic speed. “Never mind. You needn’t— That was no question to ask a maid.”
You consider him. “Do you not often see women naked?”
He chokes. It is only a little choke, but enough to make him turn his face and thump one fist against his chest. “Gods,” he says when he has breath again. “M’lady.”
“I am only asking.”
“Aye, well. Some questions ought to be asked with more care.”
“Why?”
“Because they—” He looks at you, then away, then helplessly down to his lap. “Because they put thoughts in a man’s head.”
“What thoughts?”
His mouth opens. Shuts. You lean closer, interested so plainly Dunk near suffocates on air that suddenly feels chewable in his mouth. “Do women’s bodies trouble all men so badly, or only hedge knights?” you ask.
He makes the suffering sound again. Quieter this time, but telling all the same. “I've seen women,” he says, with the grave misery of a fool walking barefoot over hot coals. “Some. A few. In bathhouses, once or twice by mistake. On the road, folk are not always private as they ought be. And, uh—” He clears his throat so hard it sounds painful. “And in places where women are paid to be looked at.”
You stare. “Paid?”
“Aye.”
“To be looked at?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
Dunk puts his bowl down. You wait. He looks into the fire as if the flames might take pity on him and leap high enough to swallow his face. “Things between men and women.”
“What things?”
“Married things,” he says, too quickly.
“Only married people do them?”
His eyes close briefly. “No.”
“Then why call them married things?”
“Because I am trying to keep this talk decent,” Dunk huffs.
You frown into your supper. “Have you done them?” you ask.
It is such a rude and forthright question it strikes bone in him, though somehow it does not quite offend. His face pulls tight. The flush burns hotter, but something under it draws inward, shy and sore and young.
“N-no,” Duncan says, small.
You lean closer, as if trying to match him in secrecy lest his horses suddenly recognise human tongue. “Never?”
“No.”
“Why?”
He gives a small, helpless shrug. “I’ve had no wife.”
“But you said folk do these things without wives.”
“Aye, some do.” He groans then, low and exasperated, dragging one hand over his mouth. “Gods.”
“But you do not.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His thumb moves over the rim of his bowl. There is dirt under the nail, a split at the knuckle, the hand of a man who knows fire and reins and sword-hilts and very little of where to put himself when a girl asks him plain questions in the dusk.
“Seemed wrong, most times,” he says. “Or costly. Or I was too young. Or too big and stupid and slow to know what was wanted till the chance had gone.”
He goes quiet after that, hoping it is enough of a confession to satisfy you. Another part of him wonders what business he has entertaining the whim at all. A puzzle of a girl you are, that is for certain. Strange in your questions, in your frowns, in the careless tilt of your head when you hear a thing you cannot place.
Then a thought comes on him, tender and stupid enough to shame him: is this another chance he cannot recognise while it is being given? He lifts his face to check yours for some sign of what he imagines a lustful glance might be, though he has no real notion what he expects to find there. Heat? Mischief? Some womanly knowledge he would know when he saw it? Before he can make any proper fool’s study of you, you ask another question.
“Do you like kissing?”
You might as well have picked up a knife by the blade. “I—” His throat works. “I suppose I might.”
“You suppose?”
He breathes heavy. His skin surely can’t get any hotter, so he answers, “I have kissed.”
Your eyes brighten at that, keen enough to make him regret the disclosure at once. “How many times?”
Duncan laughs then, though there is little mirth in it. Nerves, mayhaps. Or the pure severity of you sitting there with rabbit grease on your mouth, asking after his kisses as if counting apples in a basket. He has admitted to being green and now sounds greener still. “Seven save me,” he whines.
“How many?”
“Enough to know a man should not count in front of a lady.”
“Was it good?”
The fire pops. Somewhere behind the pair of you one of the horses tears grass with its teeth. Dunk sits in deepening blushing silence.
You eat another bite. Hum, as if the flavours have managed to marry into something more delicious during the interrogation. “At the shore,” you say then, “men kiss women as if they are hungry.”
Dunk’s gaze snaps to you.
“I have seen it,” you add. “They hold them by the waist and put them down in the grass. Sometimes the women laugh. Sometimes they make sounds as if they are being bitten, but they keep their hands in the men’s hair, so I think they must like it.”
Duncan feels himself go past blushing into something worse. Stricken, feverish, and too aware of the place where his belly has kicked tight under your words. He cannot have you thinking him that sort of knight. Cannot sit here in the dark with you speaking of women pressed into grass and let his mind go where it has already begun to go.
“M’lady,” he says, and hears the plea in it himself. “I think we ought to try and get some sleep.”
“It is barely dark,” you say.
“It will be darker soon.”
“That happens whether we sleep or not.”
“Aye,” he says faintly. “So it does.”
You lick a bit of grease from your thumb. His eyes move there and away so fast he prays you miss it. “Do you want more supper?” he asks.
You smile into your bowl. “You are changing the subject.”
He smiles back, weakly. Hopes there is enough begging in it, though judging by your curiosity about every cursed thing under the moon, falling to his knees would only give you more to ask about. “I am… trying to save my soul.”
Your laugh comes out small and surprised, and it spills warm through his chest in a way that has no business being so pleasant.
“Eat,” he says. “Then sleep. There will be more road on the morrow, and you already hate the road.”
“I hate the shoes more,” you tell him.
“Aye. I had gathered.”
“And the stockings.”
“A terrible foe,” Dunk says, standing up.
“And the laces.”
“Cruel little beasts.”
You glance at him, something sharp and pleased on you. It is very difficult to keep thoughts from his head, foul thoughts, when you look like this. His heart softens a notch while the other parts of him harden, and before he is forced back to sitting, Dunk turns and tells you, “I’ll water the horses and prepare the bedroll for us.”
He does so. You follow him soon after, quiet-footed for once, and stop to eye the splay of oilcloth and old wool on the ground as if it is another human custom laid out for judgment.
Dunk clears his throat. “You should lie down. You’ve had a long day.”
That much, at least, you obey. You lower yourself carefully, one knee bending wrong at first, then righting with a frown that makes him look away before fondness can show too plainly on his face. He waits until you are settled, then pulls the blanket up over you and tucks it in at your shoulder. Only a little. Only enough to keep the night air off. His hand stills there for half a heartbeat before he draws it back.
Then he turns, draws his sword, and lays it down between the two sides of the bedroll.
It makes a good enough line. Honest steel. Cold steel. A better man than he is, perhaps, lying straight-backed where honour ought to be.
You watch him do it, and Dunk pretends not to notice.
Getting himself down beside you is less graceful than he would like. He lowers carefully, trying to favour the slash in his side, but the wound pulls anyway and a wince catches him regardless. He settles on his back at last with a breath through his teeth, one arm tucked behind his head, his body held a proper distance from the blade.
For a while there is only the fire. The horses. The soft working of water under the willow. But, of course, you must ask. “What is the sword for?”
Dunk shuts his eyes and opens them again. “For sleeping.”
You turn your face toward him. He can feel it without looking. “Are you afraid of me?”
“No,” he says quickly. “No, m’lady. It is only—” He searches for the words and finds only poor ones. “It is a boundary, like. For your honour.”
“My honour?”
“Aye.”
“Does it need steel?”
Dunk rubs a hand over his brow. “Mayhaps mine does.”
That comes out wrong enough to make him go still. He tries again before you can catch hold of it.
“I mean, it is proper. A man and a maid should not lie close without vows between them. Or kinship. Or—” He thinks of hedge knights, camp followers, drunk squires, road wives, all the world as it is rather than as septons pretend it to be. “Or some understanding.”
You hum. It is only a small sound, but it slips soft through the dark and goes straight into his groin. Pretty. Gods help him, even that is pretty. Your voice has no need of song to work on a man.
Dunk fixes his eyes on the sky. “I do not wish you to think ill of me,” he says, lower. “That is all.”
Another stretch of quiet. The fire clicks and collapses inward on itself.
“Do husbands and wives sleep like this too?”
Dunk's lids squeeze shut so hard they hurt.
He ought to answer. He knows he ought. It is a simple question, mayhaps, though no question of yours has proved simple yet. But he has no answer fit to give without inviting ten more behind it, each worse than the last. His side aches. His head aches. His body is a foe beside a sword that suddenly seems no wider than a blade of grass.
So Dunk lies very still and does his worst pretending to be asleep. After a moment, you hum again, as if you know perfectly well he is awake and have decided to let him keep the lie.
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